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THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD. 


MONTHLY   MAGAZINE 


OF 


GENERAL  LITERATURE  AND  SCIENCE, 


VOL.  XLII. 
OCTOBER,  1885,  TO  MARCH,  1886. 


NEW   YORK: 
THE  CATHOLIC   PUBLICATION   SOCIETY   CO., 

9  Barclay  Street. 

1886. 


Copyright,   1885,  by 
I.  T.  HECKER. 


H.  J.    HEWITT,    PRINTER,    2/   ROSE   STREET,    NEW    YORK. 


CONTENTS. 


American  Catholic  University,  The.— Rev.  A . 

F.  He-wit, 223 

American  Congress  of  Churches,  The.—*  *  *  .  409 

American  Philosophy. — R.  M.  Johnston,  .  gi 

Answered  at  Last.— A.  M.  Clarke*  .  .  765 
Apology  for  John  Brown,  The.— J.  R.  G. 

Hassard,      .......  515 

Baron  of  Cherubusco,  The. — Rev.  J.  Talbot 

Smith, 35 

Bergamo,  The  Fair  of. — John  Augustus 

O'Shea 756 

Cablegram,  A,  and  what  came  of  It. — Nugent 

Robinson,      .......  458 

Cardinal    McCloskey,    Archbishop    of    New 

York.—  Rev.  A .  F.  Hewit,  .        .         .367 

Celebrated  and  Common  Friendships. — R.  M. 

Johnston, 783 

Chat  by  the  Way,  A..—Conde  B.  Fallen,        .  270 

Churchman,   The.—*  *  *          ....  831 

Correction,  A, 570 

Dicky  Doyle's  Diary  .—Helen  A  tteridge,  .  825 
Divine  Authority  of  the  Church,  The.— Rev. 

A.  F.  Hewit, .158 

Doctor's  Fee,  The.— Christian  Reid,  .  608,  732 
Domenico's  New  Year. — Thomas  F.  Galwey,  528 
"Dude"  Metaphysics. — Rev.  Henry  A. 

Brann,  D.D., 635 

Eleven  General    Elections    of   the   Reign  of 

Queen  Victoria,  The.— A .  F.  Marshall,  .  666 
Emperor  Julian  the  Apostate,  the  Great 

Spiritist    of   the  Fourth   Century. — Rev. 

John  Gmeiner, 721 

Emperor  Maximilian  I. — Rev.  William 

Stang, 658 

•'  English  Hobbes  ! "  —  u  Irish  Dogges  !  " — 

Charles  de  Kay,  .....  794 

English  Voices  on  the  French  Revolution. — 

Agnes  Repp  Her, 116 

Extremity  of  Satire,  The.—-./?.  M.  Johnston,  685 

Fair    of     Bergamo,    The. — John    Augustus 

O'Shea, 756 

Fault  of  Minneola,  The.—  William  Seton,       .  488 

Francis  of  Guise,  The  Death  of.— J.  C.  B.,      .  254 

French  Problem,  The.— P.  F.  de  Gournay,     .  416 

French  Radicals,  The,  and  the  Concordat,      .  135 

French  Reformatory,  A. — Louis  B.  Binsse,     .  169 

Hawthorne's  Attitude  toward  Catholicism. — 

Rev.  A .  F.  He-wit, 21 

Human  Authority  in  the  Church. — Rev.  A.  F. 

Hewit, 324 

In  the  Adirondacks  with    Rod    and    Rifle.— 

Martin  Burke,  ....         .10 

Ireland,    The    Prospect  for.—  T.   M.   Healy, 

M.P., 302 

Irish  Names,  The  Metamorphoses  of. —  Thos. 

P.  Galwey,  .        .        .        .        .        .        ."674 


Irish      Schoolmaster     before     Emancipation, 

The.-C.  M.  O'Kee/e,        .        .        .        .243 


Joost  van  den  Vondel. — Agnes  Repplier, 


595 


Katherine. — E.  G.  Martin,       ....     103 
Knickerbocker  Ghost,   The.— E.  L.  Dorsey,    555 

Light   of  Asia,  The,   and    the  Light  of  the 

World. — Rev.   John  Gmeiner,          .        .        i 

Maximilian  I.,  Emperor. — Rev.  William 

Stang, 658 

McCloskey,  Cardinal,  Archbishop  of  New 

York.— Rev.  A.  F.  He-wit,  .  .  .367 

Metamorphoses  of  Irish  Names,  The. — 

Thomas  F.  Galwey,  ....  674 

Much  Ado  about  Sonnets. — Appleton  Mor- 
gan,   212 

Negro,  The— How  Can  we  Help  Him  I—Rev. 

C.  A .  Oliver,        ......       85 

Normans  on  the  Banks  of  the  Mississippi, 

The.— C.  Gayarre,  .  •  .  .  .  .808 
Novel-Writing  as  a  Science. — R.  /*.,  .  .  274 


Old  Galway.— J.  B.  Killen,  M.A., 


546 


Plea  for  the  Indian,  A.—//.  V.  J?.,  .  .  848 
Priest  at  Castle  Garden,  The.— Rev.  John  J. 

Riordan, 563 

Prospect  for  Ireland,  The.—  T.  M.  Healy, 

M.P., 302 

Protectory  for  Prodigal  Sons,  A.— Louis  B. 

Binsse, 577 

Reign  of  Queen  Victoria,  The  Eleven  General 

Elections  of.— A.  F.  Marshall,  .  .  666 

Relations  between  the  English  and  Scotch  Pi- 
rates and  the  "Reformation  Move- 
ment.1'— Sarsfield  Hubert  Burke,  .  124 

"  Saint      Thomas      of      Canterbury  "      and 

'"  Becket."— Maurice  F.  Egan,  .  .  382 
Satire,  The  Extremity  of.—R.  M.  Johnston,  685 
Slaughter  of  the  First-Born,  The,  .  .  .589 
Solitary  Island.— Rev.  J.  Talbot  Smith,  63,  185, 

340,  496,  645 
Some    Recent    Italian   Novels.— Maurice  F. 

Egan, 52 

Stamp  of  the  Guinea,  The.—  Charles  de  Kay,  395 
Still  Christmas,  A.— Agnes  Repplier,  .  .  434 

Tour  in  Catholic  Teutonia,  A. — St.  George 

Mivart, 443  ^  695 

Trinity  in  Simple  English,  The. — Rev.  C.  A. 

Walworth, 289 

Twins,  The:  A  War  Story.—  Thomas  F.  Gal- 
wey,   227 

Venerable  Mary  of   Agreda  and  Philip  IV., 

King  of  Spain,  The.— M.  P.   Thompson,    836 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


POETRY. 


A  Dewdrop  on  a  Cobweb.— Marian  S.  La 

Puy, .        .381 

A  Legend  of  Judea.— M.  H.  Z,.,  .        .     554 

By  Summer  Seas.— Wm.  D.  Kelley^  .  .  763 
Islam.— Rev.  M.  W.  M.,  .  ?.if.  .«  .  710 
Rose  of  the  Sacred  Heart. — Mary  C.  Croivley,  20 

Sonnets.— J.  B.  K., 62 

Sonnet— To  St.  Cecilia.—  Louis  Mallory,  .  588 
St.  Winifred's  Well.— Agnes  Repplier,  .  .  184 

The    Days  of   Genesis. — Rev.    Clarence    A. 

Walworth^  .        .        .         .         .         .         .641 


The  Christmas  Rose. — M.  F,  E.t     ,        .        .     433 
The  Legend  of  St.  Alexis.—  A  ubrey  de  Vere,    145, 

3i3i  474 
The  Satyrs.— Edward  Mclntyre,    .        .        .339 

To-Morrow.—  P., 242 

Translations.—/?^.  J.  Costello,  .  .  .  364 
The  Waltz,  from  the  German  of  J.  G. 
Seidl— Childhood,  from  the  French  of 
Victor  Hugo— Immortality,  from  the 
Italian  of  G.  Prati— A  Fable,  from  the 
Spanish  of  Samaniego. 

What  Earth's  Traveller  said  to  his  Heart.— 

Edith  W.  Cook, 9 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 


Age  of  Lead,  The,      .        .        .        .        .        .283 

Almanach  des  Families  Chre"tiennes  pour  1'an- 

nee  1886 425 

America,  and  other  Poems,  .  .  .  .428 
Art  McMorrough  O'Cavanagh,  Prince  of 

Leinster, 575 

Boy  Travellers  in  South  America,  The,        .  431 

Carols  for  a  Merry  Christmas  and  a  Joyous 

Easter, 713 

Catholic  Directory,  Ecclesiastical  Register, 
and  Almanac  for  the  Year  of  Our  Lord 

1886,  The 718 

Catholic  Home  Almanac  for  1886,  The,  424 

Catholic  Family  Annual  for  1886,  The,  .  423 
Catholic  Life  and  Letters  of  Cardinal  New 

man,      .......  423 

Chair  of  Peter,  The, 714 

Charles  A.  Giliig's  New  Guide  to  London,      .  860 

Child  of  Mary,  A, 856 

Cleopatra, 858 

Clotilde, 720 

Cremore :  A  Village  Idyl,          .        .        .        .857 

Daemon  of  Darwin,  The,  .  .  .  .282 
Decreta  Quatuor  Concihorum  Provincialium 

Westmonasteriorum,  1852-1873,          .         .716 

De  Deo  Disputationes  Metaphysics,  .  .  281 
Defender  of  the  Faith,  The,  .  .  .  .715 

Der  Hausfreuad, 717 

Effects  of  the  Abuse  of  Alcohol  on  the  Circu- 
latory and  Respiratory  Organs,  The,  .  144 

Elizabeth  j  or,  The  Exiles  of  Siberia,        .        .  576 

Examination  of  Conscience,  for  the  use  of 

Priests  who  are  making  a  Retreat,  .  .  288 

Exiled  from  Erin,        .        .        .        *        »        .  575 

Fabiola .        .        .  717 

Facts  of  Faith,    ...                 ...  432 

Father  Hand,  Founder  of  All-Hallows,     .        .  143 

Geschichtsliigen, 286 

Histoire  des  Persecutions  pendant  la  Premiere 

Mpiet^  du  Premiere  Siecle,         .        .        .  571 

Historical  Notes  on  Adare,         ....  572 

History  of  the  Catholic  Church,  etc.,       .        .  281 

Italian  Popular  Tales, 573 

Keys  of  the  Kingdom,  The,      .        .        .        .854 

Life  of  Anne  Catherine  Emmerich,  .  .  286 
Life  and  Letters  of  John  Brown,  Liberator  of 

Kansas  and  Martyr  of  Virginia,  The,         .  282 
Life  of  Father  Isaac  Jogues.  The,     . 
Life  of   Jean -Jacques  Olier,    Founder  of  the 

Seminary  ot  St.  Sulpice,  The,     .        .        .  285 

Life  of  Father  Luke  Wadding,  The,        .        .  283 


Life  of  St.  Philip  Benizi,  of  the  Order  of  the 

Servants  of  Mary,  1233-1285,      .         .         .     714 
Life  of  the  Very  Rev.  Thomas  N.  Burke,  O.P., 

The 854 

Life  and  Adventures  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  The,    859 
Literary  and  Biographical  History,  A  ;  or,  A 
Bibliographical    Dictionary  of   the   Eng- 
1  sh  Catholics  from  the  breach  with  Rome 
in  153410  the  present  time  (Vols.  I.-Ii.)  142,  856 
Little  Dick's  Christmas  Carols,        .        .        .     720 
Little  Month  of  the  Souls  in  Purgatory,          .     432 
Lives  of  the  Irish  Saints,  The,        .        .        .     144 
Lives  of  the  Saints  and  Blessed  of  the  Three 

Orders  of  St.  Francis,        .        .        .        .<?7i8 
Lost, 720 

Mad  Penitent  of  Todi,  The,  .  .  .  .716 
Mary  Burton,  and  other  Stories,  .  .  .  720 
Matilda,  Princess  of  England,  .  .  .  859 

Meditations  on   the    Mysteries  of   the   Holy 

Rosary, 432 

Narratives  of  Scottish  Catholics  under  Mary 

Stuart  and  Jsimes  VI.,          ....  283 

Nativity  Play,  The, 716 

Nine  Months,  The, 571 

Odile :  A  Tale  of  the  Commune,       .        .        .     720 
On  the  Study  of  Languages,  considered  in  their 
bearing  on  the  Pastoral  Office,  and  the  es- 
tablishing of  Graded  Catholic  Schools,      .     715 


One  Angel  more  in  Heaven, 


287 


Poet1?  of  America 425 

Practical  Instruction  for  New  Confessors,        .  288 

Principles  of  Expression   in  Pianoforte-Play-  . 

ing, 430 

Prophet  of  the  Great  Smoky  Mountains,  The,  426 

Sadliers'   Catholic  Directory,   Almanac,   and 

Ordo  for  the  year  of  our  Lord  1886,    .        .  719 

Secret  of  Plato's  Atlantis,  The,         .        .        .  144 

Sixth  Centenary  of  St.  hhilip  Benizi,        .        .  717 

Stories  of  Duty, 576 

Summa    Ph  losophica   juxta    Scholasticorum 

Principia,     .......  280 

Thirty  Years,  The.  Our  Lord's  Infancy  and 

Hidden  Life 853 

Thought  for  Each  Day  of  the  Year,  A,     .     425,  288 

Troubled  Heart,  A,  and  How  it  was  Com- 
forted at  Last, 287 

Truth  about  John  Wyclif,  The,        .        .        .425 


.*   432        Under  the  Pine, 


576 


Waifs   of  a   Christmas    Morning,  and  other 

Stones,         ...  ...    859 


THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD. 


VOL.  XLII.  OCTOBER,  1885.  No.  247. 


THE    LIGHT    OF    ASIA   AND    THE    LIGHT   OF   THE 

WORLD. 

IN  more  than  one  respect  Buddhism  deserves  our  attention  ; 
probably  more  so  than  any  other  now  existing  pagan  religious 
system,  the  Mohammedan  not  excepted.  In  the  first  place,  pro- 
bably about  500,000,000  *  people — that  is,  at  least  one-third  of  all 
living  mankind — are  claimed  to  be  followers  of  Buddha.  Sec- 
ondly, that  branch  of  Buddhism  which  is  called  Lamaism  has  a 
hierarchical  organization  and  religious  institutions  remarkably 
similar  to  those  of  the  Catholic  Church.f  The  Grand  Lama,  or 
Dalai-Lama,  is  the  supreme  head  of  the  hierarchy  of  the  greater 
portion  of  the  adherents  of  Lamaism.  Next  in  rank,  Chambers 
Encyclopaedia  states,  are  the  Khutuktus,  who  may  be  compared  to 
the  Roman  Catholic  cardinals  and  archbishops.  The  next,  resem- 

*John  Caird,  S.T.D.  (Oriental  Religions,  chap,  ii.),  says:  "Buddhism  is,  nominally  at 
least,  the  religion  of  500,000,000  of  the  human  race." 

It  is  impossible  to  give  exact  statistics  on  this  point.  Dr.  Hettinger  (Apologte  des 
Christenthums,  3d  edition,  vol.  ii.,  3d  division,  p.  350)  estimates  the  number  of  Buddhists  at 
more  than  300,000,000  ;  Chambers'  Encyclopedia,  published  at  Philadelphia,  1883  (see  article  on 
"Religion"),  assumes  that  there  are  about  483,000,000  Buddhists.  F.  Max  M  filler,  in  1869 
(Lecture  on  Buddhist  Nihilism),  even  asserted  that  "  Buddhism  in  its  numerous  varieties  con- 
tinues still  the  religion  of  the  majority  of  mankind." 

t  Edward  Clodd,  F.R.A.S.  (The  Childhood  of  Religions,  chap,  ix.),  observes:  "When 
the  Roman  Catholic  missionaries  first  met  the  Buddhist  monks  they  were  shocked  when  they 
saw  that  their  heads  were  shaven,  that  they  knelt  before  images,  that  they  worshipped  relics, 
wore  strings  of  beads,  used  bells  and  holy  water,  and  had  confession  of  sin.  .  .  .  The  Tibetans, 
on  the  death  of  the  Grand  Lama,  who  is  their  high-priest  and  regarded  as  infallible,  like  the 
pope,  elect  his  successor.  .  .  .  Monasteries  for  men  and  nunneries  for  women  still  exist, 
and,  especially  in  Tibet,  vast  numbers  of  monks  are  found." 

Copyright.    Rev.  I.  T.  HBCKBE.    1885, 


2  THE  LIGHT  OF  ASIA  AND  [Oct., 

bling  somewhat  Catholic  bishops,  are  called  Khubilghans,  whose 
number  is  very  large.  Besides  these  higher  orders  Lamaism  pos- 
sesses also  a  numerous  lower  clergy.  All  these  make  the  vow  of 
celibacy,  and  by  far  the  greater  number  of  thena  are  said  to  live 
in  convents.  At  the  head  of  every  convent  is  an  abbot,  who  is 
chosen  by  the  chapter  of  the  respective  convent,  and  appointed 
either  by  the  Dalai-Lama  or  by  the  proper  provincial  Khubil- 
ghan.  There  also  exist  numerous  convents  for  nuns  among  the 
adherents  of  Lamaism. 

No  doubt  the  resemblance  these  Buddhist  institutions  bear 
to  some  of  the  Catholic  Church  is  both  striking  and  of  interest 
to  us.* 

Still  more  we  are  surprised  on  learning  that  the  followers  of 
Buddha  relate  of  him  facts  strikingly  similar  to  those  related  in 
the  Gospels  of  Christ,  the  Saviour.f  Besides,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, Buddha  lived  about  six  centuries  before  Christ. :): 

Edwin  Arnold  is  said  to  have  given  in  The  Light  of  Asia  an 
essentially  correct  account  of  what  the  followers  of  Buddha  relate 
of  him.§  The  following  quotations  from  the  poem  will  show 
how  strikingly  similar  some  facts  related  of  Buddha  are  to  facts 
related  in  the  Gospels  of  Christ. 

The  Gospels  relate  the  Son  of  God  descended  from  heaven 
to  assume  human  nature.  His  followers  relate  of  Buddha  : 

"Thus  came  he  to  be  born  again  for  men. 

...     On  Lord  Buddha,  waiting  in  that  sky, 
Came  for  our  sakes  the  five  sure  signs  of  birth 
So  that  the  Devas  knew  the  signs,  and  said, 
'  Buddha  will  go  again  to  help  the  World.'  " 

The  Gospels  relate  that  the  Saviour  was  of  the  royal  house 

*  Mr.  Clodd  (1.  c.)  observes  that  monastic  institutions,  "which  had  been  thought  to  belong 
to  Christianity  only,  had  formed  part  of  Buddhism  two  thousand  years  ago."  And  Dr.  John 
Wm.  Draper  (History  of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe,  revised  edition,  vol.  i.  p.  68), 
commenting  on  Buddhism,  remarks  :  "The  singular  efficacy  of  monastic  institutions  was  re- 
discovered in  Europe  many  centuries  subsequently." 

t  Bishop  Bigaudet,  Vicar-Apostolic  of  Ava  and  Pegu,  quoted  by  F.  Max  Muller  in  the 
lecture  mentioned,  observes  in  his  life  of  Buddha  :  "  In  reading  the  particulars  of  the  life  of  the 
last  Buddha  Gaudama,  it  is  impossible  not  to  feel  reminded  of  many  circumstances  relating  to 
our  Saviour's  life,  such  as  it  has  been  sketched  out  by  the  Evangelists." 

J"  All  religions,  like  the  suns,  have  arisen  from  the  East,"  is  a  sweeping  remark  of  Mfr. 
M  filler's— perhaps  intended  to  convey  the  idea  that  also  Christianity  is  but  a  stream  from  the 
great  fountain  of  religions  near  the  Himalaya  Mountains. 

§  Rev.  George  C.  Lorimer,  of  Chicago  (Isms  Old  and  New,  sd  edition,  p.  170),  who  has 
given  this  subject  a  careful  study,  says  :  "  The  account  .  .  .  given  by  Mr.  Arnold  is,  in  all  (if 
its  essential  features,  verified  by  recognized  authorities,  and  may  be  accepted  as  substantially 
correct." 


1885.]  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD.  3 

of  David   and   conceived  by  the  overshadowing  power  of   the 
Most  High.     Of  Buddha  is  related  : 

*'  '  Yea  ! '  spake  he,  'now  I  go  to  help  the  World. 

I  will  go  down  among  the  Sakyas, 

Under  the  southward  snows  of  Himalay, 

Where  pious  people  live  and  a  just  King.' 

That  night  the  wife  of  King  Suddhddana, 

Maya,*  the  Queen,  asleep,  .  .  . 

Dreamed  a  strange  dream  :  dreamed  that  a  star  from  heaven — 

Splendid,  six-rayed,  in  color  rosy-pearl,  .  .  . 

Shot  through  the  void,  and,  shining  into  her, 

Entered  her  womb  upon  the  right.    Awaked, 

Bliss  beyond  mortal  mother's  filled  her  breast." 

We  read  in  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke  that  angels  rejoiced  at  the 
birth  of  Christ,  and  that  the  aged  Simeon,  enlightened  by  a  divine 
revelation,  came  to  worship  the  Infant  Saviour.  It  is  related  that 
many  came  to  worship  the  new-born  Buddha : 

"  'Mongst  the  strangers  came 
A  gray-haired  saint,  Asita,  one  whose  ears, 
Long  closed  to  earthly  things,  caught  heavenly  sounds, 
And  heard  at  prayer  beneath  his  peepul-tree 
The  Devas  singing  songs  at  Buddha's  birth. 
Wondrous  in  lore  he  was  by  age  and  fasts  ; 
Him,  drawing  nigh,  seeming  so  reverend, 
The  King  saluted,  and  Queen  Maya  made 
To  lay  her  Babe  before  such  holy  feet ; 
But  when  he  saw  the  Prince  the  old  man  cried, 
'Ah,  Queen,  not  so  ! '  and  thereupon  he  touched 
Eight  times  the  dust,  laid  his  waste  visage  there, 
Saying,    O  Babe  !  I  worship.    Thou  art  He  ! 

.     .     .     Thou  art  Buddh, 

And  thou  wilt  preach  the  Law  and  save  all  flesh 
Who  learn  the  Law,  though  I  shall  never  hear, 
Dying  too  soon,  who  lately  longed  to  die  ; 
Howbeit  I  have  seen  Thee.     Know,  O  King ! 
Thtfs  is  that  Blossom  on  our  human  tree 
Which  opens  once  in  many  myriad  years. 

.    .    .    Ah,  happy  House  ! 
Yet  not  all  happy,  for  a  sword  must  pierce 
Thy  bowels  for  this  boy." 

Whoever  will  compare  these  lines  with  what  we  read  in  the 

*  Maya,  the  name  attributed  to  the  mother  of  Buddha,  is  evidently  very  similar  to  the  name 
of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  Mother  of  Christ,  the  only  difference  being  that  there  is  an  r  in  the 
name  of  the  latter.  Omitting  this  r  in  the  Greek  or  Latin  name  of  the  Blessed  Virgin — Maria — 
we  have  Maia,  or  Maya,  as  spelled  by  Mur.  Arnold.  Dr.  Draper  (1.  c.  p.  73)  calls  the  mother  of 
Buddha  "  Mahamia"  ;  but,  as  on  many  other  points,  Dr,  Draper  is  no  great  authority  on  this. 


4  TH/ LIGHT  OF  ASIA  AND  [Oct., 

Gospel  of  St.  Luke,  ii.  25-35,  cannot  fail  to  find  a  striking  resem- 
blance between  the  two  narratives. 

Yet  other  passages  could  be  quoted  to  show  how  the  wor~ 
shippers  of  Buddha  relate  of  him  similar  facts  to  those  we  find 
recorded  in  the  life  of  Christ ;  I  will  quote  only  one  passage 
more. 

We  read  in  the  Gospel  of  St.  Luke,  ii.  46-48,  of  the  wisdom 
the  Child  Jesus  showed  before  the  doctors  of  the  law  in  the 
Temple. 

Of  Buddha  it  is  related  that  his  teacher  fell  prostrate  on  his 
face  before  the  Boy. 

"  *  For  thou,'  he  cried, 
•  Art  Teacher  of  thy  teachers— thou,  not  I, 
Art  Guru.    Oh  !  I  worship  thee,  sweet  Prince  ! 
That  comest  to  my  school  only  to  show 
Thou  knowest  all  without  the  books,  and  know'st 
Fair  reverence  besides.' " 

These  passages  will  suffice  to  show  that  the  Buddhists  claim 
several  important  facts  for  their  Buddha  which  bear  a  striking 
resemblance  to  what  we  find  related  of  the  Saviour  in  the  Gos- 
pels. 

Whence  these  strange  resemblances  between  some  institu- 
tions of  Lamaism  and  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  between  the 
narratives  of  the  life  of  Buddha  and  of  Christ?  Did  the  Catholic 
Church  model  some  of  her  institutions  after  those  of  Lamaism  ? 
Is  perhaps  the  history  of  the  life  of  Christ,  to  a  great  extent,  but 
an  imitation  of  what  was  centuries  before  related  of  Buddha 
along  the  slopes  of  the  Himalaya  Mountains  ? 

At  first  sight  this  might  seem  quite  plausible,  as  Buddha  lived 
about  six  centuries  before  Christ ;  and  the  enemies  of  Christian- 
ity and  the  church  are  not  slow  in  taking  advantage  of  such 
seemingly  significant  facts. 

II. 

The  first  missionaries  who,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  pene- 
trated into  Buddhist  countries  were,  as  Father  Hue  relates,*  "  not 
a  little  surprised  to  discover  in  the  centre  of  Asia  numerous  mon- 

*  Christianity  in  China,  Tartary,  and  Thibet,  vol.  ii.  p.  13.  Father  fivariste  Regis  Hue 
is  no  doubt  one  of  the  most  reliable  authorities  on  Buddhism.  For  three  years  he  labored  as 
missionary  in  northern  China  ;  he  studied  the  Tartar  dialects,  remained  for  some  months  in  a 
Buddhist  monastery,  and,  after  having  learned  to  some  degree  the  Thibetan  language,  he  made 
his  way  even  to  Lassa,  the  capital  of  Thibet  and  the  residence  of  the  Grand  Lama.  Besides, 
he  most  carefully  studied  the  history  of  Christianity  in  Buddhist  countries,  as  the  learned  work 
mentioned  above  amply  testifies.  (See  Chambers'  Encyclopaedia,  vol.  v.  pp.  445-6.) 


1885.]  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD.  5 

asteries,  solemn  processions,  religious  fttes,  a  pontifical  court,  col- 
leges of  superior  Lamas  electing  their  ecclesiastical  sovereign 
and  the  spiritual  father  of  Thibet  and  Tartary — in  a  word,  an 
organization  closely  resembling  that  of  the  Catholic  Church." 

The  antichristian  philosophers  Voltaire,  Volney,  Bailly,  and 
others  seized  upon  these  striking  resemblances  with  eagerness, 
to  show  that  the  religious  beliefs  and  institutions  of  Europe 
had  originated  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Himalaya  Mountains, 
whence  they  were  gradually  introduced  into  India  and  Egypt, 
from  Egypt  into  Judea,  and  from  Judea  throughout  the  Catholic 
Church.  According  to  this  view,  Christ  was  but  an  ideal  Jewish 
fac-simile  of  Buddha,  and  the  Catholic  Church  an  occidental  copy 
of  Eastern  Lamaism. 

No  doubt  there  are  still  enemies  of  Christianity  and  the 
church  who  endeavor  to  propagate  such  views ;  hence  the  mat- 
ter deserves  to  be  examined  more  closely. 

Cardinal  Wiseman,  in  his  famous  lectures  on  Science  and  Re- 
vealed Religion  (lecture  xi.),  has  shown  that  Lamaism  was  unknown 
in  Thibet  before  the  thirteenth  century  after  Christ.* 

But  how  was  it  introduced  ?  It  is  well  known  that  Nestorian 
missionaries  had  penetrated  early  into  central  or  eastern  Asia.f 
About  the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century  they  even  succeed- 
ed in  converting  a  Tartar  prince  and  his  people  living  north  of . 
China.J*  From  this  time  Christianity  seems  to  have  retained 
some  hold  on  eastern  Asia.  Pope  Clement  V.  in  1307  appointed 
John  of  Monte  Corvino  Archbishop  of  Kambula,  the  present 
Peking,  or  capital  of  the  Chinese  Empire.§  Thus  we  see  that 

*  Wetzer  and  Welte's  Kirchenlexikon,  latest  edition,  1883,  vol.  ii.  p.  1431,  states:  "The 
Grand  Lama  institution  of  Thibet  is  of  comparatively  recent  date,  and  by  no  means  an  essential 
institution  of  Buddhism.  The  use  of  mitres,  dalmatics,  incense,  and  bells,  as  also  genuflections 
and  the  reciting  of  prayers,  as  Catholic  monks  do,  are  certainly  late  innovations  and  imitations. 
That  Christianity  has  exercised  a  powerful  influence  on  the  external  development  of  the  pre- 
sent religious  system  of  Lamaism  is  historically  established.  Public  confession  and  the  prac- 
tice of  continency  confirm  the  former  existence  of  Christian  institutions." 

t  Father  Hue  (1.  c.  vol.  i.)  calls  attention  to  the  following  facts :  The  Jews  were  dispersed 
throughout  Asia  before  the  coming  of  Christ.  They  were  not  only  scattered  throughout  the  Assy- 
rian and  Babylonian  empires,  but  also  proceeded  in  numerous  caravans  to  Persia,  India, 
Thibet,  and  even  to  China.  Everywhere  the  Jews  retained  their  religious  traditions,  and 
could  thus  disseminate  throughout  Asia  the  doctrine  of  a  coming  Redeemer.  After  the  founda- 
tion of  Christianity  the  Apostle  St.  Thomas  preached  in  India.  Again,  Pantenus  of  Alexandria 
went  to  India  in  189  to  propagate  Christianity  there.  A  Hindoo  bishop  was  present  at  the 
Council  of  Nice  in  325,  and  put  his  signature  to  its  acts.  Another  Hindoo  bishop  was  present 
at  the  General  Council  of  Constantinople  in  381.  Between  714  and  728  the  metropolitan  sees  of 
Samarcand  and  of  China  were  founded. 

J  This  Tartar  prince  and  his  successors  became  well  known  in  Europe  under  the  common, 
mysterious  name  of  Priest  John  (Presbyter  Joannes).  See  Dr.  Johannes  Alzog,  Universalge- 
schichte  der  christlichenkirche,  7th  edition,  p.  640  ;  and  Father  Hue,  1.  c.  vol.  i.  pp.  91-104. 

§  Dr.  Alzog,  L  c.  p.  641. 


6  THE  LIGHT  OF  ASIA  AND  [Oct., 

Christian  and  Catholic  institutions  were  well  known  in  eastern 
Asia  about  the  fourteenth  century.  As  to  the  origin  of  the  in- 
stitutions of  Lamaism,  Father  Hue,  who  has  carefully  investigated 
this  subject,  states  that  the  office  of  Grand  Lama  did  not  exist  in 
the  days  of  Tchinguiz  Khan,  or  Genghis  Khan,  who  died  August 
24,  1227.  Kublai  Khan  *  adopted  Buddhist  doctrines  which  had 
made  considerable  progress  among  the  Tartars,  and  in  the  year 
1261  he  raised  a  Buddhist  priest  named  Mati  to  the  dignity  of 
head  of  the  faith  in  the  empire. 

Such  was  the  origin  of  the  Grand  Lamas  of  Thibet.  It  is 
quite  likely  that  the  Tartar  emperor,  who  no  doubt  had  frequent 
communications  f  with  Christians,  or  Catholics,  wished  to  or- 
ganize the  religious  system  of  his  empire  after  the  model  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  which  then  predominated  over  all  western 
Europe,  and  had  there  organized  the  Christian  nations  into  one 
great  brotherhood  in  their  struggle  against  the  threatening 
hordes  of  Islam.  No  doubt  the  Tartar  emperor  could  find  no 
more  perfect  religious  organization  which  might  serve  him  as  a 
model  in  organizing  the  religious  system  of  his  empire. 

To  establish  his  dominion  more  firmly  Kublai  Khan  divided 
it  into  provinces,'  which  were  to  be  ruled  by  an  ecclesiastic,  who 
was  again  subject  to  the  Grand  Lama  appointed  by  the  emperor. 

A  hundred  years  later  J  Buddhism  underwent  other  impor- 
tant changes,  and  then  the  forms  of  worship  were  introduced 
which  present  such  a  striking  resemblance  to  Catholic  liturgy. 
The  conquests  of  the  Mohammedans,  especially  in  the  fourteenth 
and  fifteenth  centuries,  gradually  interrupted  the  communica- 
tions between  eastern  Asia  and  western  Europe,  and  Lamaism 

*  Although  Kublai  Khan  favored  Buddhism,  perhaps  for  political  reasons,  he  was  probably 
at  heart  as  much  a  Christian  as  a  Buddhist.  "  On  the  days  of  Christian  festivals  he  ...  de- 
voutly kissed  the  book  of  the  Gospels,  after  having  perfumed  it  with  incense.  He  said  that  there 
were  four  great  prophets  revered  by  all  nations— Jesus  Christ,  Mohammed,  Moses,  Chakia-Mouni 
(Buddha) — and  that  he  held  them  all  in  equal  honor,  and  equally  invoked  their  celestial  assist- 
ance "  (Father  Hue,  1.  c.  vol.  i.  p.  283). 

Kublai  Khan  evidently  tried  to  select  what  he  considered  best  in  all  religious  systems  ;  as  to 
organization,  he  could  certainly  find  no  more  perfect  model  than  that  of  the  Catholic  Church. 

+  The  famous  Venetian  brothers,  Nicolo  and  Matteo  Polo,  visited  Kublai  Khan  in  Khan- 
balik,  or  Kambula— according  to  Dr.  Alzog  the  present  Peking.  Among  other  things  KuWai 
Khan  "questioned  them  about  the  pope,  the  general  arrangements  of  the  Roman  Church,  and 
the  customs  of  the  Latins"  (Father  Hue,  1.  c.  vol.  i.  p.  284). 

The  fact  deserves  to  be  especially  mentioned  that  soon  or  immediately  after  this  interview 

with  the  Venetian  travellers,  in  1261,  Kublai  Khan  raised  the  Buddhist  priest  Mati  to  the  dignity 

i  head  of  the  faith  (Buddhist  pope)  in  his  empire  (Father  Hue,  1.  c.  vol.  ii.  p.  14).     Father 

c  adds  (p.  15)  :  "  Such  was  the  origin  of  the  Grand  Lamas  of  Thibet,  and  it  is  not  impossible 

that  the  Tartar  emperor,  who  had  frequent  communications  with   the  Christian  missionaries, 

may  have  wished  to  create  a  religious  organization  after  the  model  of  the  Roman  hierarchy,  with 

which  he  was  well  acquainted." 

J  Father  Huc.l.  c.  vol.  ii.  p.  15. 


1885.]  THE  LIGHT  OF  THE  WORLD.  7 

was  for  a  while  forgotten  in  Europe.  The  first  missionaries 
who  again  became  acquainted  with  it  in  the  seventeenth  century 
were,  of  course,  greatly  surprised  "  to  discover  in  the  centre  of 
Asia  a  hierarchy  and  religious  institutions  so  strikingly  similar 
to  those  of  the  Catholic  Church." 


III. 

Having  seen  that  Lamaism  is  but  an  imitation  of  the  hierarchy 
and  institutions  of  the  Catholic  Church,  we  may  expect  that  the 
story  of  the  life  of  Buddha  also  was  gradually  adorned  with 
legends  copied  from  the  real  life  of  Christ  and  adapted  to  Ori- 
ental taste. 

As  far  as  reliable  history  reaches,  little  is  known  of  Buddha 
personally.  There  is  even  still  a  great  variety  of  opinion  re- 
garding the  exact  time  of  Buddha's  life.*  Mr.  Arnold  observes 
in  the  preface  to  his  poem  :  "  The  Buddha  of  this  poem — if,  as 
need  not  to  be  doubted,  he  really  existed — was  born  on  the  bor- 
ders of  Nepaul  about  620  B.C.,  and  died  about  543  B.C.  at  Kusina- 
gara,  in  Oudh."  Mr.  Arnold  also  intimates  that  "  extravagances 
.  .  .  disfigure  the  record  and  practice  of  Buddhism."  From  all 
this  we  see  that  the  author  of  the  poem  believes  that  Buddha 
really  existed  ;  but  as  to  the  record  of  Buddha's  life,  probably 
even  he  will  admit  that  it  has  been  "  disfigured  "  by  "  extrava- 
gances," and  adorned  with  legends  taken  from  the  history  of  the 
life  of  Christ,  f 

It  seems  probable,  and  perhaps  certain,  that  there  was  a 
widely-honored  Hindoo  sage,  called  Buddha,  living  about  six 
centuries  before  Christ.  Gradually,  after  the  history  of  the  life 
of  Christ  became  known  in  India,  such  portions  of  it  as  especially 
struck  the  Oriental  fancy  were  incorporated  in  the  legends  con- 
cerning Buddha  ;  and  thus  finally  emerged  from  a  chaos  of  le- 
gends that  life  of  Buddha  which  Mr.  Arnold  has  so  poetically  de- 

*  Dr.  John  Wm.  Draper  (History  of  the  Intellectual  Development  of  Europe,  revised  edi- 
tion, vol.  i.  p.  66)  remarks  :  "  Buddhism  arose  about  the  tenth  century  before  Christ."  Al- 
though there  exists  some  diversity  of  opinion  as  to  the  exact  time  of  Buddha's  life,  yet  no  well- 
known  authority  at  present  claims  that  Buddha  lived  about  a  thousand  years  before  Christ.  On 
this  point  also  Mr.  Arnold  is  a  by  far  better  authority  than  Dr.  Draper. 

+  It  will  be  seen  from  Cardinal  Wiseman's  seventh  lecture  on  the  Connection  between  Sci- 
ence and  Religion  that  the  Hindoos  relate  similar  legends,  taken  from  the  real  life  of  Christ,  of 
their  Krishna,  or  eighth  incarnation  of  the  Hindoo  god  Vishnu.  (See  Chambers*  Encyclopedia, 
vol.  v.  p.  822,  and  vol.  ix.  p.  468.)  Dr.  David  Haneberg,  the  German  translator  of  Cardinal 
Wiseman's  works,  observes  that  Mr.  Weber,  in  his  Indische  Studien,  vol.  i.  p.  400,  etc.,  has 
proved  that  already  at  the  time  of  the  first  propagation  of  Christianity  legends  taken  from  the 
life  of  Christ  were  attributed  to  Krishna.  Mr.  Weber  is  inclined  to  consider  the  whole  Hindoo 
Avatara,  or  Incarnation,  system  as  an  imitation  of  the  Christian  dogma  of  the  Incarnation. 


8  THE  LIGHT  OF  ASIA.  [Oct., 

scribed  more  than  1,850  years  after  the  appearance  of  the  real 
Christ.  But  no  one,  before  the  coming  of  this  real  Christ,  ever 
thought  of  writing  a  life  of  Buddha  similar  to  that  depicted  by 
Mr.  Arnold. 

IV. 

What  will  be  the  future  of  Buddhism  ?  Who  knows  whether 
the  remarkable  Lama  hierarchy,  and  its  monastic  and  liturgic 
institutions,  as  also  the  narratives  taken  from  the  life  of  Christ 
and  incorporated  in  the  legends  concerning  Buddha,  may  not  be 
means  in  the  hands  of  Providence  to  facilitate  the  victory  of 
Christ  and  his  church  over  Buddhism  ? 

The  following  may  be  a  dream,  but  it  is  a  dream  that  may 
some  day  be  realized :  The  Russians  are  yearly  gaining  greater 
influence  over  countries  in  which  Buddhism  prevails.  If  they 
continue  to  do  so  for  the  next  fifty  years  as  they  have  done  dur- 
ing the  past  fifty,  they  may  then  control  the  greater  portion  of 
the  followers  of  Buddha.  Moreover,  the  Russian  Church  could 
easily  be  reunited  with  the  Catholic  Church,  for  the  differences 
which  separate  both  are  comparatively  slight  and  could  easily  be 
settled  by  the  czar,  the  so-called  Holy  Synod  of  Russia,  and  the 
pope.  The  pope  is  certainly  always  most  willing  to  make  all 
reasonable  concessions  possible  to  reunite  Russia  with  the  Catho- 
lic Church.  The  so-called  Holy  Synod,  being  but  one  of  the  de- 
partments of  government,  would  no  doubt  obey  the  czar.  The 
czar,  finally,  might  some  day  be  compelled  or  induced  by  politi- 
cal or  other  circumstances  to  reunite  Russia  with  the  Catholic 
Church. 

Stranger  things  have  happened  in  the  past:  after  Diocletian 
came  Constantine ;  and  the  northern  barbarians  who  destroyed 
the  Catholic  Roman  Empire,  and  as  Arians  at  first  bitterly  perse- 
cuted the  Catholics,  became  zealous  Catholics  afterwards.  Be- 
sides, the  Russian  people  have  been  separated  from  the  Catholic 
Church  without  fault  of  their  own.  We  have,  therefore,  good 
reason  for  hoping  that  Providence  may  grant  them  the  grace  of 
reunion. 

Both  Russia  and  the  Catholic  Church  would  gain  immensely 
by  such  an  event.*  The  Russians  could  then  more  easily  reunite 

*  I  do  not  claim  originality  for  these  ideas.     They  will  be  found  substantially  in  La  Russie 

ra-t-elle  Catliolique,  a  work  published  in  Paris,  1856,  by  the  Jesuit  Father  J.  Gagarin    who 

is  a  descendant  of  the  noble  Russian  family  of  Prince   Gagarin,    already  well  known  in  the 

eter  the  Great.     Father  Gagarin,  no  doubt,  understood  the  relations  between  Russia 

the  Catholic  Church  eminently  well,  being  both  of  Russian  descent  and  a  learned  Catholic 

priest.    Hence  these  ideas  are  well  worth  reflecting  on. 


1885.]   WHA  T  EARTH'S  TRA  VELLER  SAID  TO  HIS  HEART.         9 

all  Slav  nations — an  object  they  most  earnestly  desire.  The 
czar  would,  like  the  Roman-German  emperor  of  the  middle 
ages,  at  once  stand  at  the  head  of  all  Catholic  nations  and  gain 
the  sympathy  of  the  whole  Catholic  world.  And  St.  Peters- 
burg might  indeed  become  what  its — perhaps  prophetic — name 
implies. 

The  effects  of  such  a  reunion  of  Russia  and  the  Catholic 
Church  would  not  only  be  powerfully  felt  throughout  all  Chris- 
tian nations,  but  they  might  also  greatly  accelerate  the  triumph 
of  Christ  over  Buddha,  and  the  victory  of  God's  one  true  church 
over  that  caricature — Lamaism. 


WHAT  EARTH'S  TRAVELLER  SAID  TO  HIS  HEART. 

DOST  lose  thy  courage,  heart  ?    The  way  is  long, 

The  tangle  deep  : 
Ere  on  the  mountain  height  thou  canst  breathe  free, 

The  path  most  steep. 

Behind  thee  lies  the  music  of  sweet  birds 

That  sing  in  spring? 
Above  thee  soon  shall  cleave  the  unshadowed  air 

The  eagle's  wing. 

With  each  step  fainter  grows  the  voice  of  streams — 

Art  thou  athirst  ? 
By  the  clear  springs  that  shine  on  Alpine  slope 

Their  life  is  nursed. 

Seem  unto  thee  the  great  woods  sadly  filled 

With  loneliness  ? 
Above  the  tree-line  shall  their  silence  deep 

No  more  oppress. 

Art  tired,  poor  heart  ?  and  find'st  it  hard  to  breathe 

The  rare,  strong  air  ? 
It  feeds  the  frailest  flowers  of  the  heights 

And  keeps  them  fair. 

Do  the  gray  mists  that  sweep  the  barren  peaks 

Thy  warm  blood  chill  ? 
In  heaven  the  sun,  above  the  wind-blown  wrack, 

Is  shining  still. 


jo          IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.      [Oct., 

Beat  softly,  heart:  not  swiftly  to  the  east 

The  shadows  creep  ; 
Patience,  not  less  than  strong  desire,  shall  win 

What  great  heights  keep. 

Take  courage,  heart :  the  night  will  come  at  last 

And  thou  canst  rest- 
Soft  is  the  pillow  of  the  moss  that  lies 

On  high  hill's  breast. 

And  when  morn  comes  it  shall  be  earth  no  more : 

Softly  shall  shine 
The  Paradise  thy  tears  so  long  have  dimmed — 

Its  glory  thine. 


IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE. 

WE  were  four — General  Criss,  Fred  Bailer,  a  stock-broker, 
Bulger,  a  Danish  chemist,  and  myself.  We  met  at  the  New 
York  Central  Depot  at  6.30  P.M.,  and,  taking  train,  we  were  to 
be  at  Port  Kent,  upon  Lake  Champlain,  next  morning.  From 
this  point  we  were  to  ride  fifty  miles  and  plunge  into  the  wilder- 
ness at  Martin's,  upon  the  Lower  Saranac.  Bulger  was  the 
hunter,  and  he  carried  his  new  repeating-rifle  with  a  military  air. 
Fred  B.  was  the  Walton  of  the  party,  loaded  with  rods  and 
landing-nets,  and  learned  in  flies  and  leaders  and  subtle  ways  to 
lure  the  fish. 

General  Criss  and  I  were  to  be  instructed  in  woodcraft.  We 
bundle  into  our  seats,  the  gong  sounds,  and  we  are  moving  up 
the  Hudson  in  the  twilight.  At  the  Highlands  our  game  of 
whist  is  interrupted  by  a  most  sublime  thunder-storm.  The 
clouds,  big,  black,  and  swiftly  tumbling  in  mid-air,  seemed,  as 
they  rushed  down  the  river,  to  crush  the  everlasting  hills  ;  but, 
passing,  they  left  but  a  pale  moon  and  a  breeze  rich  with  fra- 
grance of  new-mown  hay  and  wild  flowers. 

Five  A.M. — We  awake  to  find  the  train  two  hours  late  ;  but  we 
are  compensated  by  the  noble  view  of  Lake  Champlain,  along 
the  shore  of  which  the  train  is  swiftly  winding.  We  sat  upon 
the  back  platform  and  silently  drank  in  the  cool,  beautiful  land- 
scape. It  was  to  us  a  period  of  intense  delight.  To  all  it  was 
calm  and  rest  after  toil,  and  never  did  men  enjoy  it  more. 


1885.]     IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.  n 

We  reach  at  last  Port  Kent,  where  the  misty  further  shore  of 
the  lake  seems  like  a  cloud-bank  miles  away.  It  is  a  lovely  spot, 
but  scarce  had  we  time  to  look  around  us  when  we  were  crowd- 
ed into  a  primitive  stage  and  rolled  away  through  a  barren 
country  to  Keeseville,  five  miles  beyond.  We  passed  Ausable 
Chasm,  but  so  intent  were  we  on  going  forward  at  once  that  we 
refused  to  stop  and  view  closely  this  wonderful  gorge.  We 
took,  however,  a  flying  view  from  a  bridge  above  the  chasm,  and 
wonderfully  beautiful  must  the  scene  appear  from  below.  At 
Keesevilie  we  are  served  with  a  good  breakfast,  and  then  off 
again.  The  road  winds  along  the  Saranac  River,  now,  alas !  a 
mere  stream  compared  to  what  it  once  was.  The  scenery  is 
bleak  and  the  soil  is  not  very  productive,  but  the  mountains  in 
the  distance  seemed  to  compensate  for  the  immediate  poverty  of 
the  landscape. 

At  Mountain  Fall  we  dine,  and  in  a  pelting  rain  we  onward 
drive,  winding  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mountains.  The 
country  as  we  advance  becomes  more  picturesque,  but  we  all 
look  with  disgust  at  the  frequent  barren  hillsides,  either  covered 
with  blackened  stumps  or  else  so  denuded  of  timber  that  the 
dry  brush  made  poor  compensation  for  the  loss  of  these  primi- 
tive forests.  Talk  as  some  writers  may,  the  loss  of  forest  must 
tell  in  time ;  and  as  I  looked  at  the  brawling  river  beside  me, 
whose  broad  bed  was  dry  on  each  side  for  twenty  feet,  I  felt 
that  the  loss  of  trees  was  the  sole  cause  of  the  withering  of  this 
stream. 

We  smoke,  we  chat,  we  sing,  we  try  to  make  the  time  pass 
easily  ;  but  driving  in  a  narrow,  ill-swung  vehicle  in  a  furious 
rain  for  forty  miles  is  no  pleasure.  As  we  drew  up  at  Miller's 
the  clouds  were  dissipated  for  a  moment's  sun,  and  we  descended 
from  our  perches  pretty  stiff,  but  hungry  as  hawks  and  ready  for 
any  sport.  Miller's  is  finely  situated  upon  the  Lower  Saranac, 
and  is  a  lovely  place  to  idle  away  a  few  weeks.  The  genial  pro- 
prietor met  us  on  the  broad  piazza,  and  after  a  hearty  supper  of 
trout  and  venison,  the  first  we  had  eaten,  we  met  our  guides,  who 
were  awaiting  our  arrival. 

Simple,  kindly  men  are  the  guides,  always  ready  to  oblige, 
never  surly,  and  as  keen  for  the  sport  which  you  enjoy  as  if  they 
themselves  shot  or  threw  the  fly.  Stores  are  collected,  guns  are 
handled,  fly-rods  looked  over,  and  after  these  important  affairs 
are  settled  we  go  to  an  early  bed. 

A  cold,  gray  morning.  Four  picturesque-looking  travellers 
are  standing  in  group  upon  the  boat-house  steps  while  the  guides 


12          IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.      [Oct., 

pack  the  boats.  Rough  we  look :  old  hats  and  coats  have  been 
resurrected,  and  our  boots  come  above  the  knee  and  are  most 
fearfully  oiled.  Four  whimpering  hounds  are  secured  to  the 
boat-house,  and  when  loosed  make  a  rush  for  the  boats.  We  are 
in__we  are  off— and  abreast  we  head  up  the  lovely  lake.  There  is 
a  feeling  of  rest  and  happiness  in  being  swiftly  pulled  through 
the  Adirondack  waters  which  I  have  felt  in  no  other  place.  It 
may  be  the  high  altitude  of  these  lakes  or  the  peculiar  buoyant 
feeling  of  the  boat  in  which  you  ride,  and  which  so  readily  yields 
to  every  motion  of  your  body  ;  the  cause  I  cannot  explain,  but  the 
sensation  is  delightful  and  never  tiresome.  It  is  a  morning  of 
alternate  showers  and  sunshine,  and  this  gives  us  an  opportunity 
of  viewing  the  changing  landscape  in  all  its  varied  beauties.  The 
forests  sweep  away  from  these  rocky  shores  until  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance. To  me  the  hush  of  the  noble  woods  was  more  majestic 
than  the  lonely  murmur  of  the  ocean  upon  a  barren  sand-hill. 
The  variety  of  nature  in  a  forest  is  infinite,  and  the  different 
shades  of  green  to  my  wearied  eyes  seemed  like  a  glimpse  of 
paradise.  In  the  distance  dim,  high  mountains,  ever  changing 
from  deep  black  to  light  green  as  the  clouds  obscured  the  sun ; 
beside  me  the  rolling  waters,  over  which  the  light  boat  floats 
like  a  sea-bird.  We  pass  through  a  brawling  rapid,  and  after 
winding  through  a  narrow  river,  fringed  with  alder-bushes  and 
lined  by  lofty  hemlocks  and  pine-trees,  we  reach  a  broad  sheet  of 
water  called  Round  Lake.  Here  the  wind  has  rolled  the  lake 
into  great  billows,  and  a  driving  rain  prevents  us  from  seeing 
shore ;  but  on  we  toil,  and  when  we  had  reached  the  upper 
waters  the  sun  burst  forth  again.  We  fall  in  line,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  boats  strike  the  beach. 

The  first  portage,  or  carry,  is  about  a  half-mile  in  length,  and 
while  we  walk  along  the  river-bank  our  boats  are  carried  over 
upon  a  huge  wagon.  On  we  go  again  across  another  lake,  and  at 
a  primitive  lakeside  inn  we  are  served  with  a  good  dinner.  And 
although  a  misty  rain  is  falling,  we  can  enjoy  the  distant  view  of 
mountain  and  forest  that  stretches  away  from  our  very  feet.  An 
hour's  row  has  brought  us  to  another  three-mile  carry  ;  and 
after  a  muddy  walk,  at  which  even  the  general  complains,  old 
campaigner  that  he  is,  we  come  to  the  Racquette  River.  You 
all  remember  a  scene  in  Gustave  Dor6's  Wandering  Jew  where 
the  wretched  wanderer  is  passing  through  a  forest  of  dead  trees, 
and  one  could  scarcely  imagine  such  a  spectacle  of  desolation. 
Yet  the  Racquette  River  is  lined  for  miles  with  such  a  forest,  and 
of  all  the  depressing  scenes  I  ever  viewed  this  is  the  most 


1885.]     IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.  13 

gloomy.  A  dam  which  has  been  built  miles  away  to  float  timber 
is  the  cause  of  this  ruin.  The  overflowing;  waters  covered  the 
roots  of  the  trees  lining  the  river- banks,  and  for  miles  you  see 
nothing  but  mud  and  dead  trees.  I  could  scarcely  believe  that 
in  years  gone  by  the  Racquette  River  was  the  pride  of  the 
Adirondacks.  While  I  am  speaking  here  of  the  destruction  of 
trees,  let  me  remark  that  the  whole  Adirondack  region  is  a  vast 
bed  of  mountainous  rock,  covered  with  a  thin  superstratum  cf 
soil  which  is  held  in  place  by  the  forests.  To  denude  the  rocky 
mountain-sides  of  these  forests  is  practically  to  have  this  soil 
washed  down  into  the  valleys  by  spring  rains,  where,  mixed  with 
stone  and  gravel,  it  is  unfit  for  cultivation.  The  outskirts  of  the 
Adirondack  region  prove  this.  The  desolation  of  the  cut-timber 
tract  on  the  edge  of  the  wilderness  is  something  to  lament.  A 
twelve-mile  row  brings  us  out  of  this  river  and  into  Big  Trout 
Lake,  and  at  a  sporting  inn  some  few  miles  up  the  lake  we  halt 
for  the  night.  We  have  come  thirty  miles  and  we  feel  both 
hungry  and  tired.  A  good  supper  puts  us  in  good-humor,  and 
then  to  dreamless  slumber. 

Big  Trout  Lake  contains  no  brook-trout ;  the  savage  pickerel 
or  equally  relentless  bass  have  driven  poor  salmo  fontinalis 
from  these  lovely  waters.  Lake-trout,  however,  are  caught 
weighing  as  much  as  twenty  pounds ;  but  with  the  departure  of 
the  speckled  trout  all  interest  in  the  lake  is  lost  to  me. 

A  long  morning  row  brings  us  to  another  carry  five  miles 
long.  The  general  and  I  now  push  ahead,  leaving  Bulger  and 
Fred  Bailer  to  have  some  lunch  at  a  wayside  sporting-house. 
We  have  reached  the  last  carry — and  what  a  carry !  The  general 
loses  his  temper  for  the  first  and  only  time,  for  his  dog  wishes  to 
go  under  trees  when  the  general  has  to  climb  over  them,  and  the 
conflict  of  opinion  is  slightly  energetic. 

Another  long  row  and  we  pass  from  a  winding  river  into  a 
lovely  little  pond,  near  the  mouth  of  which  was  killed  the  last 
moose  ever  seen  in  the  Adirondacks. 

Beside  a  little  rapid  our  camp  is  made,  and  soon  the  woods, 
the  silent  woods,  resound  to  the  axeman's  blows.  The  day  is  al- 
most spent,  and  as  the  shadows  deepen  Frank,  my  guide,  rows  me 
out  on  to  the  silent  pond.  Where  a  small  brook  runs  into  the  lake, 
by  a  quick  stroke  of  his  paddle  the  boat  is  held,  and  from  my  rod 
is  flung  the  artificial  lure.  The  flies  gently  strike  the  water  and 
are  pulled  towards  us  with  a  trembling  hand,  leaving  a  long  wake 
behind.  A  splash  ahead !  A  trout  has  jumped,  and  the  boat, 
like  a  thing  of  life,  moves  slowly  forward.  I  cast  across  the  bub- 


14          IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.      [Oct., 

ble  on  the  water  and  draw  it  in.  A  tug— I  strike— and  away 
glides  my  line. 

"  Play  him  gently,"  said  Frank,  who  has  skilfully  kept  the 
boat  away  from  the  lily-pads.  Soon  the  fish,  slowly  reeled  to  air, 
rises  gasping  to  the  surface,  when,  with  a  sure  sweep  of  the  land- 
ing-net, he  is  secured.  How  brilliant  his  coat,  how  firm  his  flesh, 
his  bold  eyes  how  staring  !  We  take  five  more,  when,  night  com- 
ing on,  the  trout  refuse  to  rise.  Home  to  camp.  The  general 
comes  down  to  see  my  catch.  Fred  B.  calls  from  the  bank  to 
Bulger,  who  is  walking  around  the  camp,  proud  in  the  possession 
of  his  new  gun.  Suddenly,  while  we  are  laughing,  comes  the 
sharp,  sudden  bark  of  a  deer  from  across  the  pond.  Listening, 
we  hear  it  again,  once,  twice,  thrice,  and  it  is  lost  in  the  dis- 
tance. "  He  was  coming  to  feed,"  said  Ernest,  Bulger's  guide, 
"  but  the  noise  scared  him."  This  sound  of  wild  animal  life  elec- 
trifies me.  I  go  down  in  the  darkness  to  a  point  running  out 
into  the  lake,  and  look  out  upon  the  black  waters.  The  stars 
twinkle  over  me,  and  the  great  trees  lift  themselves  aloft  until 
they  seem  to  reach  out  of  sight ;  behind  me  the  camp  with  its 
glare  of  burning  logs  shining  through  the  spectral  trees.  Bulger 
is  going  out  to  shoot  a  deer,  and  the  boat  with  its  headlight, 
under  which  he  sits,  gun  in  hand,  is  balanced  in  the  stern  by  the 
guide  who  paddles  him.  The  canoe  moves  out  until  nothing  but 
the  great  eye  of  the  jack-light  comes  to  the  view.  It  turns,  and 
all  is  dark  again.  We  sit  and  smoke  and  pile  on  more  logs ; 
loath  are  we  to  leave  the  enchantment  of  the  fire.  The  general 
tells  tales  of  army  life  and  "  fights  his  battles  o'er  again."  Fi- 
nally we  all  retire.  The  tent-flap  is  closed.  I  see  the  fire-light 
flare  up  and  sink.  Shadows  come  and  go,  and  then  I  sleep. 

Morning,  six  A.M. — Bulger  has  returned  with  a  yearling  deer. 
He  tells  us  wondrous  tales,  but  we  see  but  one  small  deer— a 
poor  thing  with  not  much  meat  upon  its  little  body. 

Bailer  and  I  are  paddled  out  to  the  spring-hole.  The  sun  is 
overcast  and  the  morning  fog  still  hangs  over  the  woods.  Bailer 
has  begun  casting,  and  his  split-bamboo  rod  is  sending  the  flies 
hither  and  thither.  Light  as  eider-down  do  they  alight  and  with 
a  gentle  motion  are  drawn  across  the  dark  water.  A  slight 
breeze  fans  the  lake.  It  is  enough.  A  fish  jumps,  and  with  an 
oily  gurgle  down  goes  the  leader.  Fly-fishing  is  the  poetry  of 
motion.  He  who  has  fished  with  artificial  flies  prefers  it  to  all 
other  kinds  of  fishing,  and  he  who  has  never  swung  a  fly-rod 
knows  not  the  highest  type  of  angling.  We  take  a  few  more  fish, 
and  then  back  to  camp.  Our  menu  is  varied — venison,  trout, 


1885.]     IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.  15 

potatoes   roasted  in  their  jackets,  and  cakes  with  maple-syrup. 
We  eat  like  "  low  churchmen,"  and  then  to  smoke  and  loaf. 

"  We  loaf  and  invite  our  soul,"  as  sings  Walt  Whitman.  We 
all  sit  idly  around  and  drink  in  the  lovely  breeze.  I  must 
not  say  all,  for  the  general  is  busily  engaged  in  catching  frogs. 
A  stout  pole  and  line  armed  with  a  hook  is  all  the  general  de- 
mands. A  worm  is  the  bait.  From  having  a  weakness  for  frogs' 
legs  I  encourage  the  general,  and  my  larder  is  always  supplied. 

To-night  I  am  to  seek  a  deer,  and  my  guide  is  busy  arranging 
his  jack-light.  A  jack-light  is  simply  a  reflector,  in  front  of  which 
a  lamp  burns.  It  is  secured  in  the  bow  of  the  boat  to  a  stout 
pole,  and  under  and  in  front  of  this  reflector  the  hunter  sits.  He 
is  in  darkness,  but  the  lamp  throws  a  lane  of  light  in  front  of 
the  canoe  and  enables  him  to  shoot  a  deer— that  is,  if  the  deer 
stands  until  he  is  near  enough  to  shoot. 

It  is  considered  by  hunters  that  jack-shooting  is  unsportsman- 
like;  but,  to.  one  who  knows,  jack-shooting,  where  the  deer  are 
wild — and  they  soon  become  so— is  as  exacting  as  deer-stalking, 
and  gives  the  animals  as  much  chance  for  their  lives  as  they  can 
ever  have  if  you  hope  to  secure  one.  Deer,  where  they  are  much 
hunted,  will  not  stand  until  the  light  comes  to  them.  Sometimes 
they  hunt  "  dark,"  and  this  requires  not  only  coolness  upon  the 
part  of  the  hunter,  but  extraordinary  skill  upon  that  of  the 
guide. 

To  hunt  "  dark  "  is  to  cover  the  jack-light,  and,  merely  by  the 
guide's  sense  of  hearing,  depend  upon  coming  close  to  a  feeding 
deer,  and  then,  turning  down  the  lantern-slide,  to  shoot  at  once 
before  the  deer  can  jump  into  the  alders. 

To  paddle  down  a  dark  river  without  a  light  requires  great 
knowledge  of  the  course  of  the  stream,  and  not  one  guide  in  five 
can  do  it  successfully. 

I  am  a  novice  in  hunting,  and  so  take  a  shot-gun.  '  It  is  ten 
o'clock  and  raining  a  soft,  misty  spray.  The  wind  is  blowing  in 
the  tall  pine-tops.  I  cannot  see  the  lake  from  the  camp-fire,  but, 
guided  by  Frank,  I  reach  the  boat.  The  boys  wish  me  luck,  and 
we  are  off.  Darkness,  stillness,  and  rapid  motion.  Not  a  sound 
from  the  guide.  I  cannot  hear  the  paddle-stroke.  The  falling 
rain  ahead  seems  like  snow.  The  weird  sense  of  unreality^  about 
it  all  is  almost  painful.  I  long  to  cry  out.  We  are  in  a  little 
lake  and  carefully  skirt  the  shore.  The  reeds  about  us  are  as  of 
silver,  and  outside  of  the  light  thrown  by  the  lantern  is  a  darkness 
such  as  I  never  knew  before.  A  splash  in  front  makes  me  start,  so 
that  the  light  boat  rocks.  A  dark  head  swims  away  in  the  track 


1 6  IN  THE  ADIRONDACK'S  WITH  ROD  AND  RlFLE.        [Oct., 

of  light.  "  What's  the  matter  ?  "  whispers  Frank—"  only  a  rat ;  sit 
still !  "  I  obey,  but  that  rat  made  me  quiver.  "  I  hear  a  deer," 
again  whispers  the  voice.  The  boat  stops.  I  listen,  and  faintly 
in  the  distance  I  hear,  or  think  I  hear,  a  splashing.  I  tremble  as 
if  in  a  chill.  The  boat  flies  through  the  water.  It  halts,  turns, 
and  the  broad  light  revolves  ;  but  though  the  lily-pads  are  bruised 
and  the  reeds  are  broken,  we  see  no  deer.  He  may  be  watching 
now  from  the  bank ;  but  useless  it  would  be  to  remain,  and  with- 
out a  sound  the  boat  moves  on. 

A  slow,  trembling,  rocking  movement  has  the  boat ;  it  fairly 
quivers  under  the  paddle.  We  have  left  the  lake  and  are  bearing 
down  the  river  amid  the  many  voices  of  the  night,  the  waving 
trees  calling  from  the  high  banks  and  the  rustling  reeds  answer- 
ing from  the  river.  Sometimes  a  winged  shadow  falls  across  the 
streaming  light,  like  the  wild  bird  with  human  soul  that  Renan 
says  he  will  be,  seeking  the  church-door  and  finding  it  not.  The 
rain  is  now  falling  heavier,  yet  still  it  is  not  much  worse  than 
mist.  The  river  bends  and  we  come  to  a  broad,  shallow  bay. 

"  A  deer!  a  deer!  "  whispers  the  guide.  I  feel  my  heart  beat- 
ing like  a  trip-hammer,  yet  my  head  is  cool  and  I  know  that  my 
hands  will  obey  my  will.  I  strain  my  sight,  and  surely  ahead  a 
gray  mass  is  moving  through  the  water.  It  springs  forward, 
then  turns,  rushing  quickly,  and  moves  noiselessly  yet  rapidly  for 
the  shore.  I  cover  my  quarry  steadily ;  the  boat  is  held  fast ;  I 
pull  the  trigger— a  flash,  a  report,  and  something  is  struggling  in 
the  water,  but  only  for  a  moment,  for  as  we  reach  the  deer  he  is 
dead.  The  wild  stag  will  speed  no  more,  and  in  spite  of  my  tri- 
umph I  can  feel  a  sorrow  for  the  death  of  this  noble  deer.  We 
lift  him  in  the  boat  and  then  to  camp.  No  longer  expectant,  I 
sit  dreamily  in  bow  and  listen  to  wind  rushing  down  the  river ; 
for  the  rain  has  ceased  falling,  and  the  wind  has  risen  and  is  roar- 
ing through  the  black  trees.  A  dull  gleam  breaks  out  of  the 
darkness  as  we  cross  the  lake.  The  camp  is  hushed,  yet  back  of 
the  fire  the  gleaming  eyes  of  the  awakened  dogs  gleam  outsat  us. 
Not  a  whimper  escapes  them  as  we  drag  the  dead  deer,  past  them 
into  the  forest.  I  pile  more  wood  upon  the  fire,  and  then  to  a 
dreamless  sleep.  So  pass  the  days.  Now  a  float  is  built  and  we 
plunge  into  the  lake,  and  again  we  take  long  rows  upon  the  beauti- 
ful riveV.  At  night  we  sit  around  the  camp-fire  and  hear  the  guides 
tell  of  deer  and  wolves  and  panthers.  The  guide  loves  to  tell  of 
the  discomforts  of  men  who  come  into  the  woods  knowing  every- 
thing, and  who  leave  it  more  ignorant  than  when  they  entered. 
For  without  a  good  guide  a  man  might  be  a  month  in  the  woods 


1885.]     IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.  17 

and  never  see  a  deer  or  catch  a  trout.  To-day  Frank  and  I  go  up 
the  river.  We  carry  the  light  canoe  around  the  rapids  at  whose 
outlet  we  are  encamped,  and  are  soon  miles  away.  Pool  after 
pool  I  fish,  sometimes  with  success  and  again  catching  nothing. 
How  cool  the  morning!  How  lovely  the  dark  green  forest-trees, 
rising  from  the  river-banks  and  almost  meeting  above  your  head  ! 
At  places  the  lilies,  white  and  yellow,  almost  fill  the  stream,  the 
beautiful  white  lilies  looking  like  stars  and  filling  the  air  with 
their  fragrance.  Here  is  the  place  for  contemplation.  This  is 
the  true  spot  to  read  De  Imitatione  Christi  and  feel  the  spirit  of 
the  book.  Thus  dreaming  I  do  not  perceive  that  we  have  left  the 
river  and  have  entered  a  little  lake  heavily  wooded,  and  are 
drawing  near  to  a  deserted  camp.  More  in  idleness  than  sport  I 
cast  my  flies  even  as  the  boat  has  almost  reached  the  camp.  A 
splash,  and  before  I  can  change  hands  the  line  is  out  forty  feet. 
A  large  fish  and  a  strong  one  ;  but,  alas  !  my  leader  is  frayed,  and 
after  a  gallant  struggle  the  gut  parts  and  I  lose  my  prey.  I  have 
killed  thirty  fish,  however,  and  I  am  satisfied.  'Tis  the  selfish 
desire  to  kill  more  than  enough  that  betrays  the  false  sports- 
man. To  kill  fish  or  shoot  game  merely  for  the  pleasure  of  doing 
so  I  have  always  refrained  from,  and,  like  other  things  in  life,  the 
sooner  one  can  become  contentus  parvo  the  happier  he  will  be  for 
this  resolve.  The  fire  is  kindling,  and,  having  nothing  to  do,  I  sit 
and  watch  a  merry  squirrel  who  sits  chattering  above  my  head. 
The  day  is  warm,  but  under  the  pines  I  feel  it  but  little.  A  shout 
below,  and  Fred  B.  -mounts  the  bank,  rod  in  hand,  and  hungry  as 
a  hawk.  Soon  the  trout,  on  green  and  slender  branches,  are  broil- 
ing over  the  red  embers.  We  had  finished  lunch  and  are  enjoy- 
ing a  smoke  when  a  noise  in  a  deserted  hut  caused  me  to  look  in. 
A  little  animal,  which  I  recognized  at  once  as  a  hedgehog,  is  try- 
ing to  crawl  beneath  some  logs.  The  guides,  at  my  alarm,  rush 
in  to  kill  the  creature,  but  in  the  confusion  it  escapes.  The 
hedgehog  is  the  pest  of  the  woods,  as  they  eat  anything  contain- 
ing th~  least  suspicion  of  salt  or  grease.  After  a  happy  day  the 
sun  is  sinking,  and,  as  old  Virgil  sings,  "  the  lengthening  shadows 
fall  from  the  high  mountains." 

So  down  the  quiet  river  float  the  boats.  We  drink  in  the 
beauty  of  the  red  sunset  behind  the  tall  tree-tops.  The  quiet 
waters  are  black  beneath  the  shelving  banks,  and  a  bird  who  only 
sings  at  nightfall  is  piping  from  the  forest.  The  stream  flows 
smoothly,  save  where  it  strikes  a  rock,  and  there  it  gurgles  a  soft 
music  sweeter  in  its  gentle  murmur  than  any  other  sound  in  na- 
ture. We  are  met  upon  the  bank  by  the  general  and  Bulger, 

VOL.  XLII.—2 


i8  IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.      [Oct., 

who  have  spent  a  quiet  day.     Then  to  the  mess-tent,  where  a 
steaming  pot  of  venison-tea  exhales  a  fragrant  smell.     Two  cups 
apiece   and  we  are  content.     The  general  and   Bulger  bid  us 
adieu,  and,  as  the  night  has  grown  cold,  we  brew  a  milk-punch 
beside  the  roaring  fire.     A  storm  is  gathering,  and  the  flames  of 
the  great  pine  logs  are  flung  hither  and  thither  in  the  growing 
breeze.     A  pipe,  a  chat,  and,  exclaiming  with    Sancho   Panza, 
"  Blessed  be  the  man  who  invented  sleep,"  we  leave  the  night-fire 
just  as  the  rain-drops  commence  to  fall.     Two  hours  later  the 
general  and  B.,  drenched,  come  in,  and,  after  making  lament  for 
a  lost  deer,  are  soon  at  rest.     There  is   whispered  among  the 
guides  a  rumor  of  a  magic  lake  in  woods  where  the  trout  grow 
to  a  monstrous  size.     Fred   B.  is  fired  with  enthusiasm,  and  he 
and  I  are  to  seek  it.     So  in  the  early  gray  of  the  morning  we  set 
out.     The  lake  is  only  five  miles  away,  but  the  difficulties  of  that 
trip  make  me  ache  still  on  thinking  of  them.     This  is  the  picture 
we  present :    Frank,  a  guide,  leading,  carries  a  canoe  upon  his 
shoulders  ;  I  follow  with  shot-gun,  landing-nets,  and  rods.    Fred 
B.  has  an  axe  and  fly-rod ;  Robbins,  his  guide,  with  an  eighty- 
pound  pack  on  his  back  and  rifle  in  hand.     I  think,  as  we  tear 
through  the  brush,  of  Strain's  march  across  the  Isthmus  of  Pana- 
ma, and  can  imagine  how  men  can  be  lost  in  trackless  woods  un- 
til they  sink  from  exhaustion  and  die.     A  five-mile  trip  that  takes 
almost  an  entire  day.'    What  pulling  and  hauling!     What  hills  we 
climb,  what  swamps  to  wade  !     We  cross  two  lakes  and  have  to 
cut  down  many  trees  that  prevent  the  boat  from  passing.     Poor 
Fred  is  tired,  and  I,  who  am  accustomed  to  walking,  feel  like  rest- 
ing.    We  are  nearing  the  famous  lake,  when  suddenly  the  first 
guide  stops,  holds  up  his  hand,  and  whispers,  "Partridges."     I 
rush  forward,  dropping  rods  and  nets,  and  get  a  fine  double  shot 
at  some  quiet,  tame  birds  who  go  too  slowly  to  avoid  their  fate. 
At  last  the  lake — a  noble  sheet,  and  the  scenery,  of  course,  very 
wild.     As  we  cross  the  water  to  the  spot  selected  for  our  camp 
some  wild  duck  fly  across  the  boat.     One  in  particular  circles 
with  painful  anxiety  around  the  canoe  until  her  little  brood  are  be- 
yond our  reach,  when  she  quickly  rejoins  them,  and  then  the  cries 
of  delight  are  laughable.     The  camp  is  made  beside  a  cool  brook, 
the  ground  being  almost  clear  of  brush,  and  with  huge  old  trees 
rising  grandly  about  us.     Here,   while   the   guides   were   busy 
building  a  shelter,  Fred  B.  and  I  sat  and  smoked,  and  watched 
the  gleaming  waters  of  the  silent  lake  not  twenty  feet  away. 
The  stillness  was  delightful;  not  even  a  bird  sang  in  the  woods. 
Surely  I   can  imagine  now  the  stillness  of  African  forests  of 


1885.]     IN  THE  ADIRONDACKS  WITH  ROD  AND  RIFLE.  19 

which  Du  Chaillu  speaks.  There  is  an  enchantment  in  these 
woods,  and  all  kinds  of  quaint  fancies  seem  born  in  this  solitude. 
The  guides'  task  is  done,  and,  evening  coming  on  apace,  we  take 
our  rods  and  are  paddled  out  upon  the  lake.  Around  us  the  fish 
are  rising.  We  have  taken  three,  each  averaging  a  pound,  when 
poor  Fred  breaks  his  rod,  and  so  we  are  confined  to  one  rod. 
The  fish  here  fight  much  better  than  the  trout  below,  and  we  en- 
joy the  taking  of  fifteen  fine  fish,  none  weighing  under  three- 
quarters  of  a  pound.  Having  resigned  my  rod  to  Bailer,  I  can- 
not fish,  but  am  content  to  look  at  lake  and  sky  and  winding 
shore.  What  can  be  more  lovely  than  the  silence  of  evening  ? 
The  smoke  of  our  camp-fire  is  the  only  sign  of  life,  save  where 
the  rising  fish  sometimes  breaks  from  the  lake.  The  shadows 
•  deepen,  and  now  the  faint  reflection  of  the  western  sky  alone  il- 
lumines the  lake.  Quietly  we  glide  past  the  solemn  rocks,  crested 
with  tall  pines.  How  weirdly  outlined  against  the  evening  sky  ! 
No  rustling  wind  comes  from  the  shores.  Nature  is  at  rest,  save 
that  mass  of  yellow  that  moves  like  some  unreal  thing  from  the 
dark  woods  down  to  the  silent  lake.  Breathless  and  expectant 
we  watch  until  the  slow-moving  boat  draws  near  enough  to  see 
the  motions  of  the  deer.  How  queerly  it  moves  among  the 
rocks !  So  silent  does  the  guide  paddle  that  we  are  coming  close 
to  it,  and  still  it  gives  no  sign  of  alarm.  Fred  has  taken  the  rifle 
and  holds  it  across  his  knees.  Nearer,  we  drift.  "  Thy  end  has 
come,  poor  thing!  "  I  think.  But  no ;  for  as  it  lifts  its  pretty  head 
and  the  watchful  Bailer  is  raising  his  rifle  a  duck  starts  from  the 
lake  and  with  a  doleful  cry  flies  right  at  the  deer.  That  wild 
creature  takes  the  hint,  and  with  a  few  graceful  bounds  the  dark- 
green  alders  close  about  it  and  all  is  still  again.  Poor  Fred 
smiles  dolefully  at  me  and  sighs.  Frank,  the  guide,  neither 
smiles  nor  speaks  ;  he  has  resumed  his  paddle,  and,  with  that 
quiet,  slow  movement  of  his  head  peculiar  to  guides,  and  which 
we  cannot  imitate,  he  is  scanning  the  shore,  dimly  lit  by  the  twi- 
light. The  silver  moon  has  now  come  out,  and  the  air  is  cooler, 
but  yet  no  breeze  ruffles  the  dark  surface  of  the  lake.  The  west- 
ern sky,  in  which  the  moon  has  risen,  is  streaked  with  a  few  pur- 
ple clouds,  whose  old-gold  setting  is  the  last  sign  of  the  dying 
day.  A  moment,  and  the  moon  alone  shines  in  the  sky,  save 
where  a  dim  star  commences  to  twinkle  in  the  east.  Back  to 
camp  again,  where  around  the  camp-fire  we  huddle ;  for  the  night 
is  cold,  and  warm  tea  is  in  great  demand.  Then  I  go  out  night- 
shooting  on  this  great  lake,  with  the  vapor  rising  from  the  waters 
in  misty  wreaths;  the  solemn  stars  shining  above  me,  and  the 


2O  ROSE  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART.  [Oct., 

great  blackness  of  the  lake  are  thing's  to  be  remembered  and  trea- 
sured for  ever.  Too  soon  had  the  days  sped  by,  when,  early  one 
morning,  Fred  Bailer  and  Bulger  stood  upon  the  bank  and  watch- 
ed the  general  and  myself  pass  from  their  view.  Thus  did  the  trip 
end,  but  the  memory  is  still  recalled.  To  those  who  love  nature 
the  Adirondacks  seem  delightful ;  but  let  no  one  go  who  cannot 
endure  fatigue,  for  the  toil  and  rough  life  would  suit  but  poorly 
the  delicate  or  weak.  The  cost  of  this  trip  is  another  considera- 
tion, not  to  mention  the  long  journey  before  you  reach  a  suitable 
camp.  However,  I  was  satisfied,  and  I  even  think,  with  a  few 
weeks  and  a  good  guide,  I  would  venture  into  the  wilderness 
alone  and  there  seek  a  summer's  rest. 


ROSE  OF  THE  SACRED  HEART, 

THUS  the  sweet  legend  saith— 
As  Jesus  hung  in  death 
Upon  the  holy  rood, 
By  crimson  drops  bedewed 
The  briers  of  Calvary's  height 
Did  blossom  in  man's  sight. 
O  peerless,  'priceless  bud, 
Dyed  in  the  Precious  Blood  ! 
Thy  ruby  fires  do  shine 
Like  to  the  Heart  Divine  ! 
Love's  symbol  true  thou  art, 
Rose  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 

The  briers  of  sin  and  care 
O'ergrow  the  mount  of  prayer 
Contrite  'mid  suffering, 
If  to  the  Cross  we  cling, 
As  clung  the  thorny  vine, 
Round  it  our  lives  entwine  ; 
Bathed  in  the  blessed  flood 
Of  Jesus'  Precious  Blood, 
All  human  joys  and  woes 
Shall  blossom  as  the  rose. 
Love's  symbol  true  thou  art, 
Rose  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


1885.]  HAWTHORNE 's  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.      21 


HAWTHORNE'S  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM. 

EMINENT  literary  men  whose  works  are  morally  pure  are  de- 
serving of  great  honor,  and  much  gratitude  is  due  to  them.  The 
mischief  of  that  stream  of  literature  made  turbid,  nauseous,  and 
noxious  by  the  moral  filth  mingled  with  its  better  elements  is 
more  directly  and  efficaciously  counteracted  by  wholesome  liter- 
ature than  by  any  other  natural  and  ordinary  influence.  Besides 
the  very  great  innocent  pleasure  which  such  writers  furnish  to  a 
multitude  of  persons,  they  do  a  great  deal  of  positive  good  to 
the  readers  of  their  works,  in  ways  which  it  is  needless  to  speak 
about,  they  are  so  plain  to  the  sight  of  everybody  who  has  any 
taste  for  letters. 

We  Americans  may  congratulate  ourselves  that  writers  of  the 
first  rank  in  our  literature,  those  who  may  be  called  its  authors 
and  chiefs,  have  been  so  refined  in  their  imagination  and  pure  in 
their  moral  sentiments.  In  the  walk  of  the  lighter  prose  compo- 
sition, it  is  enough  to  mention  the  names  of  Washington  Irving 
and  James  Fenimore  Cooper,  and  then  to  fix  our  attention  ex- 
clusively upon  their  worthy  successor,  the  subject  of  our  present 
remarks,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne.  Hawthorne  has  been  a  growing 
favorite,  as  a  writer,  both  in  America  and  in  England,  for  the  last 
forty  years.  His  personal  character,  and  the  way  in  which  his 
own  individual,  domestic  and  social  reminiscences  delightfully 
blend  with  the  texture  of  his  writings,  have  made  him  likewise  a 
favorite  and  a  common  friend,  as  a  man.  Even  the  members  of 
his  family  have  shared  in  this,  and  now  that  Mr.  Julian  Haw- 
thorne, whom  everybody  had  known  as  a  boy,  his  father's  con- 
stant companion,  and  who  in  his  manhood  had  earned  fame  by 
his  own  writings,  has  given  us  the  charming  biography  of  Na- 
thaniel Hawthorne  and  his  wife,  the  universal  regard  for  the 
great  writer  and  all  his  family  with  him,  has  been  re-awakened 
and  increased. 

For  the  first  time,  we  have  presented,  in  this  biography,  a 
true  and  authentic  picture  of  this  illustrious  literary  man  as  he 
was  in  himself,  an  authentic  history  of  his  lije  from  childhood  to 
old  age.  Romantic  but  incorrect  legends  have  been  heretofore 
current  about  his  early  life  and  its  events.  We  are  glad  to  have 
the  truth  about  all  these  things,  in  place  of  distorted  facts  or  fic- 
tions. It  is  not  only  more  satisfactory  as  being  the  truth,  but 


22 


HA  WTHORNE'S  A  TTITUDE  TO  WARD  CA  THOLICJSM.  \  Oct., 

also  much  more  interesting.  Admiration  of  the  genius  which  is 
shown  forth  in  excellent  works,  pleasure  in  contemplating  beau- 
tiful ideals  set  before  the  imagination  in  their  pages,  complacency 
in  the  artist  as  an  artist,  and  in  his  productions,  are  much  en- 
hanced when  we  learn  to  know  the  artist  as  a  man,  and  find  in 
his  personal  character,  in  his  moral  conduct,  in  his  whole  life,  a 
counterpart  of  his  works.  In  the  case  of  Hawthorne  there  is  a 
daily  beauty  in  the  character  and  life  of  the  man  from  his  youth 
up,  an  idyllic  charm  about  his  household  with  its  domestic  rela- 
tions, filial,  fraternal,  conjugal,  and  parental,  which,  in  the  opinion 
of  the  writer  of  these  lines,  surpasses,  in  a  poetic  as  well  as  in  a 
moral  aspect,  any  one  of  his  romances  taken  as  a  whole,  and  pre- 
sents individual  characters  and  events  equal,  perhaps  even  su- 
perior, to  the  best  of  their  imaginary  scenes  and  persons. 

Hawthorne's  life  and  writings  have  one  particular  aspect 
which  makes  them  especially  interesting  to  Catholics,  and  also  to 
those  Protestants  who  sympathize  more  or  less  with  him,  but 
most  of  all  to  those  among  these  classes  of  his  admirers  who  are 
of  New- England  origin..  It  is  the  aspect  of  the  religious,  moral, 
and  aesthetic  ideal  in  his  mind  toward  the  human  side  of  Catholi- 
cism. Turning  away  from  Puritanism,  yet  not  turning  his  back 
on  Christianity,  he  was  during  his  residence  and  travels  in  Eu- 
rope brought  face  to  face  with  Catholicism,  having  his  mind 
freed  to  a  considerable  extent  from  Protestant  prejudices.  He  is 
a  good  representative  of  a  large  class,  and  it  is  an  interesting 
study  to  examine  his  attitude  as  he  stands  midway  between  his 
ancestral  religion  and  the  ancient  religion  of  Christendom,  to 
make  an  estimate  of  that  which  attracted  him  and  that  which 
repelled  him  in  Catholicism,  as  he  viewed  it,  chiefly  in  its  moral 
and  aesthetic  human  side.  The  strictly  religious  idea  is  not  ex- 
cluded from  his  theory  of  the  natural  and  spiritual  fitness  and 
order,  symmetry,  harmony,  and  splendor  which  are  the  elements 
of  the  physically,  intellectually,  and  morally  beautiful.  It  lies  in 
the  background,  and  veiled  in  obscurity,  yet  it  appears  in  the 
history  of  Hawthorne's  life,  and  in  his  works,  as  a  belief  and  a 
predominant  sentiment,  even  to  a  certain  extent  distinctively 
Christian.  Here  is  one  passage  which  may  serve  as  an  illustra- 
tion and  a  proof  of  what  has  just  been  said : 

"  In  her  present  need  and  hunger  for  a  spiritual  revelation,  Hilda  felt  a 
vast  and  weary  longing  to  see  this  last-mentioned  picture  once  again.  It 
is  inexpressibly  touching.  So  weary  is  the  Saviour,  and  utterly  worn  out 
with  agony,  that  his  lips  have  fallen  apart  from  mere  exhaustion  ;  his  eyes 
seem  to  be  set ;  he  tries  to  lean  his  head  against  the  pillar,  but  is  kep«- 


1885.]  HAWTHORNE* s ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.     [23 

from  sinking  down  upon  the  ground  only  by  the  cords  that  bind  him. 
One  of  the  most  striking  effects  produced  is  the  sense  of  loneliness.  You 
behold  Christ  deserted  both  in  heaven  and  earth ;  that  despair  is  in  him 
which  wrung  forth  the  saddest  utterance  man  ever  made  :  '  Why  hast  Thou 
forsaken  me  ? '  Even  in  this  extremity,  however,  he  is  still  divine.  The 
great  and  reverent  painter  has  not  suffered  the  Son  of  God  to  be  merely  an 
object  of  pity,  though  depicting  him  in  a  state  so  profoundly  pitiful.  He 
is  rescued  from  it,  we  know  not  how — by  nothing  less  than  miracle — by  a 
celestial  majesty  and  beauty,  and  some  quality  of  which  these  are  the  out- 
ward garniture.  He  is  as  much,  and  as  visibly,  our  Redeemer,  there 
bound,  there  fainting  and  bleeding  from  the  scourge,  with  the  cross  in 
view,  as  if  he  sat  on  his  throne  of  glory  in  the  heavens  !  Sodoma,  in  this 
matchless  picture,  has  done  more  towards  reconciling  the  incongruity  of 
Divine  Omnipotence  and  outraged,  suffering  humanity,  combined  in  one 
person,  than  the  theologians  ever  did.  This  hallowed  work  of  genius 
shows  what  pictorial  art,  devoutly  exercised,  might  effect  in  behalf  of  reli- 
gious truth  ;  involving,  as  it  does,  deeper  mysteries  of  revelation,  and 
bringing  them  closer  to  man's  heart,  and  making  him  tenderer  to  be  im- 
pressed by  them,  than  the  most  eloquent  words  of  preacher  or  prophet."* 

In  another  place,  describing  a  Martyrdom  of  St.  Sebastian, 
by  Domenichino,  he  writes  : 

"  I  was  a  good  deal  impressed  by  this  picture — the  dying  saint,  amid 
the  sorrow  of  those  who  loved  him,  and  the  fury  of  his  enemies,  looking 
upward,  where  a  company  of  angels,  and  Jesus  with  them,  are  waiting  to 
welcome  him  and  crown  him  ;  and  I  felt  what  an  influence  pictures  might 
have  upon  the  devotional  part  of  our  nature.  The  nail-marks  in  the  hands 
and  feet  of  Jesus,  ineffaceable  even  after  he  had  passed  into  bliss  and  glory, 
touched  my  heart  with  a  sense  of  his  love  for  us.  I  think  this  is  really  a 
great  picture."  t 

There  are  some  similar  remarks  in  his  notice  of  the  impres- 
sions he  received  from  Raphael's  Transfiguration : 

"  The  face  of  Jesus,  being  so  high  aloft  and  so  small  in  the  distance,  I 
could  not  well  see  ;  but  I  am  impressed  with  the  idea  that  it  looks  too  much 
like  human  flesh  and  blood  to  be  in  keeping  with  the  celestial  aspect  of  the 
figure,  or  of  the  probabilities  of  the  scene,  when  the  divinity  and  immor- 
tality of  the  Saviour  beamed  from  within  him  through  the  earthly  features 
that  ordinarily  shaded  him.  As  regards  the  composition  of  the  picture,  I 
am  not  convinced  of  the  propriety  of  its  being  in  two  so  distinctly  sepa- 
rated parts — the  upper  portion  not  thinking  of  the  lower,  and  the  lower 
portion  not  being  aware  of  the  higher.  It  symbolizes,  however,  the  spirit- 
ual shortsightedness  of  mankind  that,  amid  the  trouble  and  grief  of  the 
lower  picture,  not  a  single  individual,  either  of  those  who  seek  help  or  those 
who  would  willingly  afford  it,  lifts  his  eyes  to  that  region,  one  glimpse  of 
which  would  set  everything  right.  One  or  two  of  the  disciples  point  up- 
ward, but  without  really  knowing  what  abundance  of  help  is  to  be  had 
there."  \ 

*  The  Marble  faun,  vol.  ii.  c.  12.          f  Passages  from  Note  Books  in  Italy,  Feb.  15,  1858. 
\  Ibid.     Notes  on  April  25. 


24      HA  WTHORNE'S  A  TTITUDE  TO  WARD  CA  THOLICISM.    [Oct., 

Again  he  writes  : 

"Occasionally  to-day  I  was  sensible  of  a  certain  degree  of  emotion  in 
looking  at  an  old  picture;  as,  for  example,  by  a  large,  dark,  ugly  picture  of 
Christ  bearing  the  cross  and  sinking  beneath  it,  when,  somehow  or  other, 
a  sense  of  his  agony  and  the  fearful  wrong  that  mankind  did  (and  does)  its 
Redeemer,  and  the  scorn  of  his  enemies,  and  the  sorrow  of  those  who  loved 
him,  came  knocking  at  my  heart  and  got  entrance  there.  Once  more  I 
deem  it  a  pity  that  Protestantism  should  have  entirely  laid  aside  this  mode 
of  appealing  to  the  religious  sentiment.1'* 

Hawthorne  belongs  to  that  class  of  whom  Kenelm  H.  Digby 
says : 

"  Ethereal  subjects  they  would  not  reject, 
As  if  theology  did  not  reflect 
The  one  thing  needed  by  the  poet's  song— 
That  type  for  which  he,  too,  on  earth  must  long — 
Of  beauty  absolute,  the  poesy 
Of  that  which  still  invisible  must  be."  t 

Hawthorne's  natural  temperament  and  his  early  education  led 
his  thoughts  and  imaginations  toward  the  region  of  the  preter- 
natural. At  the  beginning  of  his  literary  career  Puritan  ideas 
and  associations  furnished  the  theme  to  his  musing,  contemplative 
spirit,  which  his  imagination  wrought  into  those,  weird,  fascina- 
ting forms  which  crowd  his  earlier  fictitious  works.  His,  assthetic 
sense  is  not  earthly,  sensuous,  and  immersed  in  the  material,  phy- 
sical embodiment  of  the  ideal  of  beauty.  It  is  a  vehicle  of 
thought  and  speculation,  and  all  Hawthorne's  imaginative  works 
which  have  themes  taken  from  New-England  life  and  history  are 
essentially  in  their  inmost  character  and  meaning  a  presentment 
of  the  old  Puritan  religious  idea  of  the  visible  and  the  invisible 
world,  of  the  present  world  and  the  world  to  come.  This  is  a 
common  characteristic  of  modern  New-England  literature.  Pu- 
ritan theology  has  been  judged  and  condemned  in  the  literature 
produced  by  the  children  of  the  Puritans.  They  have  been, 
however,  generally  unwilling  to  abandon  rational  and  Christian 
theology  and  to  plunge  into  the  abyss.  After  leaving  the  worst 
dogmas  of  Puritanism,  most  have  been  desirous  of  seeking  for  a 
more  reasonable,  a  brighter,  a  better  Christianity.  It  seems  to 
us  that  this  was  the  case  with  Hawthorne,  and  that  the  beautiful 
passages  quoted  above  from  his  writings  show  how  the  Christian 
belief  which  he  had  retained  was  brightened,  his  religious  views 
and  sentiments  made  more  vivid  and  elevated,  by  the  influence 

*  Ibid.     Notes  on  June  8. 
\The  Supernatural,  in  Last  Year's  Leaves.      London:  Longmans,  Green  &  Co.  1873.  P.  15. 


1885.]  HAWTHORNE' s ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.      25 

of  Catholic  art,  and  by  the  pervading  atmosphere  of  faith,  in  Italy 
and  Rome. 

These  impressions  were  not  limited  to  that  part  of  the  Catho- 
lic religion  which  has  been  imperfectly  retained  in  the  theology 
of  New  England,  but  they  came  also  with  considerable  power 
upon  his  mind  from  the  general  system  of  Catholicism  and  those 
parts  of  it  which  are  wholly  unlike  and  opposed  to  Protestant- 
ism, particularly  in  the  naked  and  gaunt  form  of  Puritanism. 
This  ugly  counterfeit  presentment  of  the  lovely  religion  of  Christ 
appears  especially  unlovely  and  repulsive  in  Hawthorne's  de- 
lineations, and  he  everywhere  shows  his  natural  repugnance  to 
those  features  in  it  which  are  distorted.  The  symmetry,  beauty, 
harmony,  and  reasonableness  of  Catholicism,  its  adaptation  to  the 
wants  of  the  human  heart,  the  superhuman  quality  of  its  ideal, 
and  the  conformity  to  nature  of  its  outward  environment,  though 
only  dimly  discernible  to  him  through  a  mist,  found  something 
in  his  mind  akin  and  responsive,  awoke  an  echo  in  his  heart, 
charmed  to  a  certain  degree  his  imagination. 

This  comes  out  very  distinctly  in  that  beautiful  romance  The 
Marble  Faun.  Hilda  is  the  most  charming  of  all  Hawthorne's 
creations.  Correggio  is  said  to  have  taken  his  wife  and  child  as 
models  for  his  pictures.  We  cannot  help  thinking  that  some 
features  of  Sophia  Peabody  and  Una  Hawthorne,  of  whom  Mr. 
Julian  Hawthorne  has  given  such  a  loving  and  attractive  deline- 
ation, reappear  in  the  young  artist  from  New  England,  surround- 
ed by  doves  and  trimming  the  lamp  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  in  her 
high  tower.  That  fine  type  of  New-England  girlhood  and  wo- 
manhood of  which  Longfellow's  Priscilla  is  an  early  specimen  is 
represented  as  it  has  become  modified  by  the  lapse  and  the 
changes  of  time,  under  another  sky,  amid  different  surroundings, 
in  Hilda.  The  religious  reverence,  the  fidelity  to  conscience, 
the  moral  purity,  the  feminine  loveliness  inherited  from  the 
olden  time  have  doffed  the  garb  of  gloomy  color  and  homespun 
texture  in  which  they  were  formerly  clothed  for  brighter  and 
more  costly  raiment.  The  repressed  aesthetic  faculty  has  awoke. 
Old  prejudices  have  passed  away.  Instead  of  Priscilla  spinning 
on  week-days  and  walking  demurely  to  meeting  on  Sunday  with 
her  Bible  and  hymn-book  wrapped  in  a  white  pocket-handker- 
chief in  one  hand  and  a  bunch  of  fennel,  sole  solace  of  the  senses 
during  the  dismal  service,  in  the  other,  we  see  Hilda  copying  the 
old  masters  in  Roman  galleries,  and  hanging  wistfully  about  the 
Catholic  confessional  when  her  conscience  is  perplexed  and  her 
heart  heavy. 


26      HAWTHORNE'S  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.  [Oct., 

One  extract  from  The  Marble  Faun  has  been  already  given. 
Short  extracts  cannot,  however,  suffice,  after  the  manner  of 
proof-texts,  as  the  basis  of  a  comment  which  shall  be  a  satis- 
factory exposition  of  the  ideas  embodied  in  this  unique  product 
of  Hawthorne's  genius.  Only  one  who  remembers  distinctly  or 
will  read  attentively  The  Romance  of  Monte  Beni  can  fully  appre- 
ciate the  view  we  are  taking  of  Hawthorne's  attitude  toward 
Catholicism.  The  paragraph  which  comes  nearest  to  a  summing 
up  of  his  estimate  of  the  Catholic  religion  is  the  following  pas- 
sage, extracted  from  The  Marble  Faun  : 

11  Hilda  was  anew  impressed  with  the  infinite  convenience — if  we  may 
use  so  poor  a  phrase — of  the  Catholic  religion  to  its  devout  believers. 

"  Who,  in  truth,  that  considers  the  matter,  can  resist  a  similar  impres- 
sion ?  In  the  hottest  fever-fit  of  life,  they  can  always  find,  ready  for  their 
need,  a  cool,  quiet,  beautiful  place  of  worship.  They  may  enter  its  sacred 
precincts  at  any  hour,  leaving  the  fret  and  trouble  of  the  world  behind 
them,  and  purifying  themselves  with  a  touch  of  holy  water  at  the  threshold. 
In  the  calm  interior,  fragrant  of  rich  and  soothing  incense,  they  may  hold 
converse  with  some  saint,  their  awful,  kindly  friend.  And  most  precious 
privilege  of  all,  whatever  perplexity,  sorrow,  guilt,  may  weigh  upon  their 
souls,  they  can  fling  down  the  dark  burden  at  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  go 
forth — to  sin  no  more,  nor  be  any  longer  disquieted  ;  but  to  live  again  in 
the  freshness  and  elasticity  of  innocence. 

*'  Do  not  these  inestimable  advantages,  thought  Hilda,  or  some  of  them, 
at  least,  belong  to  Christianity  itself?  Are  they  not  a  part  of  the  blessings 
which  the  system  was  meant  to  bestow  upon  mankind  ?  Can  the  faith 
in  which  I  was  born  and  bred  be  perfect,  if  it  leave  a  weak  girl  like  me  to 
wander,  desolate,  with  this  great  trouble  crushing  me  down  ?  "  * 

Taking  Hilda  as  a  representative  of  a  class  of  persons  which 
we  have  already  sufficiently  described,  we  ask  why  she  does 
not  answer  these  questions  with  a  decided  affirmation  for  the  first 
two  and  a  negation  for  the  third.  What  is  the  repulsive  force 
counteracting  the  attraction  of  the  Catholic  religion  ? 

In  so  far  as  the  attraction  is  aesthetic,  it  is  an  aesthetic  repul- 
sion which  resists  its  influence.  This  is  expressed  in  a  very  sin- 
gular manner  by  Hawthorne  when  he  is  describing  Hilda's  vacil- 
lating moods  of  feeling  while  she  was  visiting  the  shrines  and  lin- 
gering before  the  images  of  the  Blessed  Virgin.  "  Here,  per- 
haps," he  writes,  "  strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  delicate  appre- 
ciation of  art  stood  her  in  good  stead,  and  lost  Catholicism  a  con- 
vert."  Her  ideal  was  not  fully  satisfied,  she  looked  for  some- 
thing more  than  she  found.  We  find  the  same  factitious  discon- 
tent and  craving  after  an  ideal  of  perfection  in  the  outward 

*Vol.  ii.  c.  14. 


1885.]  HAWTHORNE'S  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.      27 

environment  of  religion  everywhere  in  those  writings  of  Haw- 
thorne in  which  he  gives  his  impressions  from  what  he  saw  in 
Catholic  countries.  Wherever  he  finds  that  which  corresponds 
to  his  high  and  refined  sense  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  gratifies 
his  love  of  beauty  and  order,  he  is  profuse  and  eloquent  in  the 
expression  of  delight  and  approbation,  and  his  pages  glow  with 
prismatic  colors.  But  he  cannot  abide  shortcomings,  he  is  dis- 
gusted with  the  obtrusion  of  the  commonplace,  shocked  and  dis- 
appointed by  the  juxtaposition  of  vulgar,  mean,  and  sordid  ob- 
jects to  things  which  are  pleasing  to  the  aesthetic  sense. 

"  The  second  observation  is  not  quite  so  favorable  to  the  cleanly  cha- 
racter of  the  modern  Romans ;  indeed,  it  is  so  very  unfavorable,  that  I 
hardly  know  how  to  express  it.  ...  They  spit  upon  the  glorious  pavement 
of  St.  Peter's,  and  wherever  else  they  like;  they  place  paltry-looking 
wooden  confessionals  beneath  its  sublime  arches,  and  ornament  them  with 
cheap  little  colored  prints  of  the  crucifixion ;  they  hang  tin  hearts  and 
other  tinsel  and  trumpery  at  the  gorgeous  shrines  of  the  saints,  in  chapels 
that  are  encrusted  with  gems,  or  marbles  almost  as  precious ;  they  put 
pasteboard  statues  of  sainte  beneath  the  dome  of  the  Pantheon  ;  in  short, 
they  let  the  sublime  and  the  ridiculous  come  close  together,  and  are  not  in 
the  least  troubled  by  the  proximity," 

Mr.  Hawthorne  expresses  here  quite  mildly  the  sentiment 
common  to  Englishmen  and  Americans  in  which  the  writer  of 
these  lines  shares  fully.  Yet  he  makes  an  excuse  for  all  the  dis- 
order and  incongruity  which  disgust  him  in  a  tolerant  and  phi- 
losophical spirit  which  is  very  uncommon  : 

"  After  a  while  the  visitant  finds  himself  getting  accustomed  to  this 
horrible  state  of  things ;  and  the  associations  of  moral  sublimity  and  beauty 
seem  to  throw  a  veil  over  the  physical  meannesses  to  which  I  allude. 
Perhaps  there  is  something  in  the  mind  of  the  people  of  these  countries 
that  enables  them  quite  to  dissever  small  ugliness  from  great  sublimity  and 
beauty.  ...  It  must  be  that  their  sense  of  the  beautiful  is  stronger  than  in 
the  Anglo-Saxon  mind,  and  that  it  observes  only  what  is  fit  to  gratify  it."  * 

In  the  notes  of  his  visit  to  the  cathedral  of  Amiens  the  temper 
of  mind  we  are  speaking  of  comes  out  quite  in  a  characteristic 
manner : 

"  While  we  were  in  the  cathedral  we  saw  several  persons  kneeling  at 
their  devotions  on  the  steps  of  the  chancel  and  elsewhere.  One  dipped  his 
fingers  in  the  holy  water  at  the  entrance  ;  by  the  by,  I  looked  into  the  stone 
basin  that  held  it,  and  saw  it  full  of  ice;  could  not  all  that  sanctity  at 
least  keep  it  thawed  ?  [Certainly,  by  all  means  !]  Priests — jolly,  fat,  mean- 
looking  fellows,  in  white  robes — went  hither  and  thither,  but  did  not  inter- 
rupt or  accost  us." 

*  Italian  Note-Books^  Feb.  15,  1858. 


28       HA  WTHORNE'S  A  TTITUDE  TO  WARD  CA  THOLICISM.    [Oct., 

This  provokes  a  smile,  and  is  not  very  good  manners.  Per- 
sons walking  about  in  a  cathedral  in  cassock  and  surplice  are  not 
ahvays  priests,  but  may  be  sacristans.  Some  priests,  however, 
in  France  and  elsewhere,  are  fat  and  jolly,  which,  it  appears,  is 
bad  form.  They  should  be  tall,  thin,  grave-looking  men  to  suit 
the  New-England  taste. 

However,  Mr.  Hawthorne  was  open  to  more  favorable  im- 
pressions, and  when  he  went  in  to  see  a  solemn  requiem  Mass 
celebrated  at  the  Madeleine  of  Paris  he  was  quite  well  satisfied : 

"  Glorious  and  gorgeous  is  the  Madeleine.  .  .  .  The  organ  was  rumbling 
forth  a  deep,  lugubrious  bass,  accompanied  with  heavy  chanting  of  priests, 
out  of  which  sometimes  rose  the  clear,  young  voices  of  choristers,  like 
light  flashing  out  of  the  gloom.  .  .  .  All  the  priests  had  their  sacred  vest- 
ments covered  with  black.  They  looked  exceedingly  well ;  I  never  saw  any- 
thing half  so  well  got  up  on  the  stage.  Some  of  these  ecclesiastical  figures 
were  very  stately  and  noble,  and  knelt  and  bowed,  and  bore  aloft  the  cross, 
and  swung  the  censers  in  a  way  that  I  liked  to  see.  The  ceremonies  of  the 
Catholic  Church  were  a  superb  work  of  art,  or  perhaps  a  true  growth  of 
man's  religious  nature  ;  and  so  long  as  men  felt  their  original  meaning, 
they  must  have  been  full  of  awe  and  glory."  * 

Stately  and  noble-looking  ecclesiastics  satisfied  his  ideal  of 
sacerdotal  dignity.  And  in  the  priest  to  whom  Hilda  opened  her 
griefs  in  the  confessional  Hawthorne  has  given  a  picture  of  a 
spiritual  father  with  "  a  mild,  calm  voice,  somewhat  mellowed  by 
age,  ...  a  venerable  figure  with  hair  white  as  snow,  and  a  face 
strikingly  characterized  by  benevolence.  It  bore  marks  of 
thought,  however,  and  penetrative  insight;  although  the  keen 
glances  of  the  eyes  were  now  somewhat  bedimmed  by  tears, 
which  the  aged  shed,  or  almost  shed,  in  lighter  stress  of  emotion 
than  would  elicit  them  from  younger  men."  Hilda  went  into  the 
confessional  without  knowing  what  the  visage  or  figure  of  her 
ghostly  adviser  might  be.  What  would  have  been  her  disappoint- 
ment if  he  had  been  fat,  or  unprepossessing  in  countenance  ? 
Probably  she  would  have  bidden  him  a  civil  good  morning,  but 
not,  as  she  actually  did,  "  with  a  sweet,  tearful  smile  "  ;  nor  would 
she  have  "  knelt  down  and  received  the  blessing  with  as  devout 
a  simplicity  as  any  Catholic  of  them  all." 

Yet  Hilda  was  not  a  merely  artistic  soul,  having  nothing 
deeper  than  aesthetic  sensibility.  She  had  a  conscience  also,  and 
a  moral  sense,  a  religious  belief  in  which  the  bent  it  had  received 
from  Puritan  education  was  strong  enough  to  resist  the  gentle 
pressure  of  the  venerable  priest's  persuasion.  When  he  asked, 

*  French  Note-Books,  Jan.  9,  1858. 


1885.]  HAWTHORNE'S  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.      29 

"  On  what  ground,  my  daughter,  have  you  sought  to  avail  your- 
self of  those  blessed  privileges,  confined  exclusively  to  members 
of  the  one,  true  church,  of  confession  and  absolution?"  Hilda  re- 
plied :  "Absolution,  father?  Oh!  no,  no.  I  never  dreamed  of 
that !  Only  our  heavenly  Father  can  forgive  my  sins ;  and  it  is 
only  by  sincere  repentance  of  whatever  wrong  I  may  have  done, 
and  by  my  own  best  efforts  towards  a  higher  life,  that  I  can  hope 
for  his  forgiveness.  God  forbid  that  I  should  ask  forgiveness 
from  mortal  man !  "  Yet  this  did  not  hinder  her  from  saying 
also :  "  Surely,  fcather,  it  was  the  hand  of  Providence  that  led  me 
hither  and  made  me  feel  that  this  vast  temple  of  Christianity,  this 
great  house  of  religion,  must  needs  contain  some  cure,  some  ease 
at  least,  for  my  unutterable  anguish.  And  it  has  proved  so.  I 
have  told  the  hideous  secret ;  told  it  under  the  sacred  seal  of  the 
confessional ;  and  now  it  will  burden  my  poor  heart  no  more  !  " 

Hilda  stood  at  the  threshold  oof  the  church  looking  in  wist- 
fully, but  there  she  stopped,  and, "  Father,"  she  exclaimed,  moved 
but  resolute,  "  I  dare  not  come  a  step  farther  than  Providence 
shall  guide  me.  Do  not  let  it  grieve  you,  therefore,  if  I  never 
return  to  the  confessional,  never  dip  my  fingers  in  holy  water, 
never  sign  my  bosom  with  the  cross.  I  am  a  daughter  of  the  Puri- 
tans. But,  in  spite  of  my  heresy,  you  may  one  day  see  the  poor 
girl,  to  whom  you  have  done  this  great  Christian  kindness,  coming 
to  remind  you  of  it,  and  thank  you  for  it,  in  the  Better  Land." 

Hilda's  reasons  for  resisting  the  persuasions  of  the  good  father 
to  step  over  the  threshold  into  the  church  are  extremely  weak 
and  founded  in  ignorance.  Any  one  of  her  intelligence  and  sin- 
cerity could  be  easily  convinced  of  their  futility  by  an  instruction 
of  half  an  hour  from  a  competent  teacher.  And  Mr.  Hawthorne 
appears  to  be  aware  of  this.  For  he  says  that,  "  had  the  Jesuits 
known  the  situation  of  this  troubled  heart  (i.e.,  before  she  found 
relief  by  telling  her  secret),  her  inheritance  of  New  England  Pu- 
ritanism would  hardly  have  protected  the  poor  girl  from  the 
pious  strategy  of  the  good  fathers.  Knowing,  as  they  do,  how 
to  work  each  proper  engine,  it  would  have  been  ultimately  im- 
possible for  Hilda  to  resist  the  attractions  of  a  faith  which  so 
marvellously  adapts  itself  to  every  human  need." 

We  must  not,  however,  identify  Mr.  Hawthorne  with  Hilda. 
His  language,  when  speaking  in  his  own  .proper  person,  proves 
that,  although  he  appreciated  the  attraction  of  the  Catholic  reli- 
gion for  such  a  person  as  Hilda  was,  he  thought  he  had  reason 
to  deny  that  it  can  "  satisfy  the  soul's  cravings  "  and  vindicate  its 
claim  to  a  divine  origin  and  authority.  Searching  for  this  reason 


30      HAWTHORNE 's  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.  [Oct., 

below  the  aesthetic  surface  of  Mr.  Hawthorne's  mind,  we  still  find 
it  in  that  idealism  of  which  we  have  before  spoken.  It  is,  name- 
ly,  his  moral  and  spiritual  ideal  which  he  does  not  find  satisfied 
by  a  corresponding  actual  realization  in  existing  Catholicism  as 
he  sees  it.  There  are  a  few  passages  in  his  writings  where  this 
sentiment  finds  explicit  expression,  and  these  give  the  clue  to  an 
understanding  of  the  attitude  of  his  mind  toward  the  Catholic 
Church. 

"To  do  it  justice,  Catholicism  is  such  a  miracle  of  fitness  for  its  own 
ends,  many  of  which  might  seem  to  be  admirable  ones,  that  it  is  difficult  to 
imagine  it  a  contrivance  of  mere  man.  Its  mighty  machinery  was  forged 
and  put  together,  not  on  middle  earth,  but  either  above  or  below.  If 
there  were  but  angels  to  work  it,  instead  of  the  very  different  class  of  engineers 
who  now  manage  its  cranks  and  safety-valves,  the  system  would  soon  vindi- 
cate the  dignity  and  holiness  of  its  origin."  * 

The  words  we  have  italicized  are  the  most  significant  ones, 
and  they  let  us  see  that  the  one  paramount  argument  against  the 
Catholic  Church,  in  Mr.  Hawthorne's  mind,  was  just  what  has 
been  designated  in  a  former  paragraph. 

He  says  the  same  thing  in  simpler  terms  in  his  account  of  a 
visit  to  Siena : 

"  I  heartily  wish  the  priests  were  better  men,  and  that  human  nature, 
divinely  influenced,  could  be  depended  upon  for  a  constant  supply  of  good 
and  pure  ministers,  their  religion  has  so  many  admirable  points.  And 
then  it  is  a  sad  pity  that  this  noble  and  beautiful  cathedral  should  be  a  mere 
fossil  shell,  out  of  which  the  life  has  died  long  ago."  t 

We  are  not  going  to  make  a  plea  against  Mr.  Hawthorne's 
view.  Something  which  his  biographer  has  said  about  his  dis- 
appointment in  respect  to  art  can  be  applied  to  the  matter  of  re- 
ligion as  well : 

"He  looked  for  the  achievement  of  the  impossible,  and,  not  finding  it, 
failed  to  give  due  credit  to  what  was  actually  accomplished."  { 

Mr.  Hawthorne's  judgment  of  the  character  of  the  Roman 
and  Italian  clergy  and  of  the  Papal  system  has  not  much  weight. 
On  the  same  page  of  his  biography  from  which  the  last  quota- 
tion has  been  taken  we  are  told  that 

"  On  the  Continent  he  had  neither  felt  nor  known  anything  of  the 
national  social  life.  Always  inclined  even  in  his  own  country  to  be  rather 
a  spectator  of  society  than  an  active  participant  in  it,  he  had  been  more  so 
than  ever  in  England,  while  in  Italy  his  estrangement  had  been  absolute  ; 
'and  consequently  he  had  been  forced  to  confine  himself  almost  exclusively 
to  the  companionship  of  art  and  archaeology." 

*  Marble  Faun,  vol.  ii.  c.  13.  ^Italian  Note-Books,  October  10,  1858. 

%  Biography,  vol.  ii.  p.  220. 


1885.]  HA  WTHORNE'  s  A  TTITUDE  TO  WARD  CA  THOLICISM.      3  T 

His  residence  and  travels  on  the  Continent  were  limited  to 
eighteen  months.  As  he  was  leaving  Rome  he  says  : 

"  I  looked  at  everything  as  if  for  the  last  time  ;  nor  do  I  wish  ever  to 
see  any  of  these  objects  again,  though  no  place  ever  took  so  strong  a  hold 
of  my  being  as  Rome,  nor  ever  seemed  so  close  to  me  and  so  strangely 
familiar.  I  seem  to  know  it  better  than  my  birthplace,  and  to  have  known 
it  longer ;  and  though  I  have  been  very  miserable  there,  and  languid  with 
the  effects  of  the  atmosphere,  and  disgusted  with  a  thousand  things  in  its 
daily  life,  still  I  cannot  say  I  hate  it,  perhaps  might  fairly  own  a  love  for 
it.  But  life  being  too  short  for  such  questionable  and  troublesome  enjoy- 
ments, I  desire  never  to  set  eyes  on  it  again."  * 

Hawthorne  was,  and  remained  to  the  end,  the  child  of  his 
New-England,  Puritan  ancestry,  a  genuine,  thoroughgoing  son 
of  the  soil  of  Massachusetts,,  and  he  was  at  home  nowhere  else 
on  this  earth,  which  was  much  less  his  real  dwelling-place  than 
the  ideal,  ethereal  realm  of  his  own  imagination.  And,  although 
"  the  superb  incarnation  of  religious  faith  which  St.  Peter's  pre- 
sented .powerfully  fascinated  him,"  f  there  is  no  sign  of  his  hav- 
ing attained  a  perception  of  the  historical  and  theological  evi- 
dence that  the  Catholic  Church  is  the  one  only  church  of  Christ 
and  way  of  salvation  for  all  men. 

He  says,  in  one  place  : 

"  Generally,  I  suspect,  when  people  throw  off  the  faith  they  were  born 
in,  the  best  soil  of  their  hearts  is  apt  to  cling  to  its  roots."  f 

He  had  no  doubt  that  the  Catholic  religion  was  one  form  of 
Christianity,  good,  and  even  the  best  for  many  who  believe  in  it 
and  practise  its  precepts.  But,  in  his  own  case,  although  he  was 
a  member  of  no  church,  he  appears  to  have  clung  to  the  roots  of 
his  own  hereditary  belief  as  a  descendant  of  New-England  Puri- 
tans, and  to  have  remained  to  the  last  what  is  called  a  Liberal 
Christian,  although  his  language  does  not  indicate  that  he  was  a 
Unitarian. 

In  Una  Hawthorne  the  effect  and  fruit  of  the  education  she 
received  from  her  father  and  mother  appeared  in  the  manner  of 
her  religious  and  practical  life  during  the  last  few  years  pre- 
ceding her  death.  After  a  period  of  doubt,  questioning,  and  in- 
vestigation her  brother  tells  us  that  "the  lofty  religious  bias  of 
her  nature  triumphed  over  all  doubts,  and  she  was  confirmed  in 
the  Church  of  England."  * 

After  her  mother's  death  in  1871,  she  devoted  herself  to 
works  of  active  charity  in  London,  until  her  own  death  in  1877, 

*  Italian  Note  Books,  May  29,  1859.  t  Julian  Hawthorne,  Biog.  vol.  ii.  p.  178. 

\  Italian  Note-Books,  October  10,  1858.  §  Biog^  vol.  ii.  p.  378. 


32       HAWTHORNE" s  ATTITUDE  TOWARD  CATHOLICISM.  [Oct., 

which  occurred  in  a  Protestant  convent  at  Clevver.  The  inscrip- 
tion on  Mrs.  Hawthorne's  tombstone  shows  whither  her  mind 
and  heart  were  turned :  "  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life, 
saith  the  Lord."  Hawthorne  had  died,  away  from  home,  and 
alone,  thirteen  years  before  the  death  of  his  daughter,  the  last 
of  this  trio  of  rare  and  choice  souls. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne,  with  his  wife  and  daughter  beside  him, 
presents  a  specimen  in  some  respects,  indeed,  unique  and  uncom- 
mon in  its  beauty,  but  still  typical  and  representative  of  a  great 
number  of  his  immediate  countrymen  in  New  England,  of  other 
Americans  and  of  their  English  kindred.  This  is  true  of  the  one 
particular  aspect  we  have  been  considering-,  his  attitude  toward 
Catholicism.  For  ten  who  have  been  converted  to  the  Catholic 
faith  there  are  a  hundred  who  have  come  near  enough  to  it  to 
exchange  the  old-fashioned  notions  and  sentiments,  once  almost 
universal  among  Protestants,  for  a  certain  respect,  admiration, 
and  sympathy,  varying  indefinitely  from  the  liberal  views  of 
Unitarians  to  those  of  that  considerable  class  of  high-churchmen 
or  ritualists  who  are  free  from  the  anti-Roman  venom  with 
which  some  are  infected.  Yet,  they  go  no  further  than  a  certain 
point,  where  they  stop,  and  frequently  it  cannot  be  perceived  that 
they  ever  seriously  deliberate  on  the  question  of  becoming  mem- 
bers of  the  Catholic  Church.  Those  who  have  been  bred  up 
Catholics  from  childhood  seldom  understand  what  keeps  such 
people  standing  aloof.  They  ask  in  surprise  why  they  do  not  at 
once  believe  and  obey  the  teaching  of  the  church.  In  order  to 
know  how  wide  and  deep  the  chasm  is  which  separates  them,  it 
is  almost  necessary  to  have  been  on  the  other  side  and  to  have 
crossed  over.  The  prejudice  which  had  its  origin  in  the  violent 
passions  of  the  English  and  Scottish  schism  and  the  polemics  of 
heresy  during  the  disastrous  period  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
combining  with  and  intensifying  the  spirit  of  nationalism,  has 
isolated  the  Protestant  people  of  the  British  isles  and  their  off- 
spring in  the  colonies  which  they  founded  from  the  great  com- 
monwealth of  Christendom.  Elizabeth  Hawthorne  says  of  the 
English  people,  that  for  them  "  there  is  no  right  or  wrong,  only 
English  and  un-English."  *  There  is  a  measure  of  justice  in  this 
severe  judgment.  The  people  of  New  England  and  their  kin  in 
other  parts  of  our  republic  have  inherited  a  full  share  of  English 
pride  and  all  the  prejudices  of  Anglicanism.  Separated  from  the 
mediaeval  Christendom  by  a  local  tradition  centuries  old,  isolated 
from  modern  Catholic  peoples  by  prejudices  of  race  and  reli- 

*  Biog.,  vol.  ii.  p.  325. 


1885.]  HA  WTHORNE'S  A  TTITUDE  TO  WARD  CA  THOLICISM.       33 

gion,  nurtured  in  the  belief  that  pure  Christianity,  morality,  en- 
lightenment, principles  of  good  government,  reasonable  liberty 
both  intellectual  and  political,  all  the  motive  forces  of  genuine 
progress  and  improvement  in  all  directions  toward  the  general 
well-being  of  mankind,  have  their  second  fountain-head  and 
source  in  the  Protestant  Reformation — the  Catholic  Church  and 
religion  appear  to  them  as  antiquated  and  foreign.  This  is  their 
view,  after  being  freed  from  their  darker  and  more  extreme  pre- 
judices. People  are  always  more  blind  and  insensible  to  evils 
prevalent  in  their  own  country,  to  which  they  are  habituated, 
than  they  are  to  those  of  foreign  countries.  They  have  also 
partly  an  artificial  standard  of  measurement  which  is  national 
and  peculiar,  and,  in  the  case  of  Protestants,  sectarian.  Thus, 
even  after  their  eyes  are  opened  to  some  of  the  external  beauties, 
which  are,  so  to  speak,  in  the  periphery  of  the  Catholic  religion, 
they  are  still  repelled  from  it  as  something  alien,  they  fail  to 
make  a  correct  estimate  of  its  concrete  reality,  and  their  ideal  is 
unsatisfied. 

A  deeper  cause  of  alienation  lies  in  the  fundamental  altera- 
tion which  the  original,  genuine  idea  of  Christianity  has  under- 
gone in  the  minds  of  Protestants.  The  idea  of  the  church  as 
the  primary  and  immediate  recipient  of  the  doctrine,  law,  and 
grace  of  Jesus  Christ,  the  medium  of  their  transmission  to  indi- 
viduals, has  been  changed  into  that  of  a  mere  auxiliary  to  the 
subjective  faith  and  piety  by  which  the  individual  Christian,  in 
his  own  private  capacity,  comes  into  an  immediate  relation  to 
God.  All  questions  about  the  constitution  of  the  church  are 
therefore  relegated  to  a  secondary  place.  The  true  notion  of  the 
unity  of  the  church  is  obscured,  altered,  or  entirely  lost.  It  is 
no  more  a  question  of  primary  and  practical  importance,  Which 
is  the  one,  true  church  established  by  Jesus  Christ?  because  it  is 
not  perceived  that  in  this  church  one  must  find  the  faith,  the  law, 
the  sacraments  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  thus  the  way  of  everlasting 
salvation.  That  one  may  find  them,  that  many  have  found  and 
do  find  them  there,  even  that  some  cannot  practically  find  them 
anywhere  else ;  the  admission,  even,  that  the  Catholic  Church  is 
the  best  and  most  perfect  form  of  Christianity,  and  that  it  were 
desirable  to  have  all  Christians  reunited  under  the  pastoral  pre- 
sidency of  the  Pope,  does  not  of  necessity  and  always  bring  a 
person  to  the  conclusion  that  one  must  walk  in  the  road  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  Some  who  were  far  more  learned  in  history 
and  theology  than  Mr.  Hawthorne,  whose  convictions  and  sym- 
pathies were  to  a  greater  degree,  in  respect  to  a  greater  num- 
VOL.  XLII.— 3 


34       HA  WTHORNE'  s  A TTITUDE  TOWARD  CA THOLICISM.  [Oct., 

her  of  subjects,  in  harmony  with  Catholic  doctrine,  than  his  half- 
formed,  imaginative  perceptions,  have  finally  stopped  short  of  the 
conclusion  which  was  necessary  to  clinch  and  complete  their  in- 
tellectual conversion.  Besides  recent  instances  of  English  and 
American  Protestants  of  this  sort,  there  are  the  signal  examples 
in  Germany  of  Leo  in  the  present  century  and  Leibnitz  in  the 
eighteenth.  There  have  been  and  are  numbers  among  the 
Greeks  and  Orientals  who  would  wish  to  see  the  schism  healed 
which  has  cut  them  off  from  the  body  of  the  church,  but  who 
have  remained  in  the  state  of  separation.  All  these,  in  pro- 
portion as  they  recede  from  the  true  Catholic  idea  of  the 
unity  of  the  faith,  the  law,  and  the  church  of  Christ  into 
subjectivism  and  individualism,  are  affected  by  that  alteration 
of  the  genuine  idea  of  Christianity  just  now  defined — some 
more,  others  less.  The  individual,  it  is  supposed,  may  work  out 
his  salvation  for  himself,  or  by  the  aid  of  any  one  among  several 
churches.  All  are  looked  upon  as  being  included  in  a  kind  of 
universal  Christianity.  But  if  one,  catholic  and  apostolic  church 
is  acknowledged,  it  is  one  which  tolerates  great  variations  in 
faith,  and  can  subsist  in  separated  parts.  Holding  such  inade- 
quate notions  of  the  nature  and  office  of  the  Church,  persons  who 
have  quite  enlarged  and  enlightened  opinions  respecting  Catholi- 
cism, and  warm,  generous  sympathies  with  all  in  it  which  they 
can  appreciate,  may  continue  to  live  apart  from  any  church  com- 
munion, or  within  the  communion  of  any  church  they  have  been 
bred  up  in  or  may  select,  never  acknowledging  any  obligation  in. 
conscience  to  become  members  of  the  Catholic  Church.  It  is 
this  conviction  and  sense  of  obligation  which  alone  furnishes  the 
adequate  and  victorious  motive  for  surmounting  obstacles  and 
repugnances  lying  in  the  way  of  conversion.  Experience  proves 
that  the  generating  and  maturing  of  this  conviction  is,  in  the 
case  of  the  majority,  no  easy  process.  The  reconciliation  of  the 
whole  body  of  professing  Christians  to  the  true  church,  so  that  all 
become  one  flock,  in  one  fold,  under  one  shepherd,  is  a  great 
work,  a  divine  work,  which  must  be  gradual,  and  requires  time. 
We  may  hope  for  its  ultimate  accomplishment,  and,  in  the 
meanwhile,  even  remote  and  indirect  and  slow  movements  tend- 
ing  in  that  direction  are  to  be  welcomed.  We  feel  grateful  and 
friendly  toward  Mr.  Hawthorne,  and  take  pleasure  in  express- 
ing our  high  esteem  of  his  character  and  works,  and  our  ap- 
preciation of  the  biography  which  his  son  has  made  a  worthy 
memorial  of  parents  who  deserve  the  best  tribute  which  could 
be  rendered  to  them  by  filial  piety. 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  35 


THE   BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO. 

'.      BY  THE  TOWN-CLERK. 

IN  some  doubtful,  untraced  way  history  has  left  upon  me  the 
impression  that  a  baron  of  the  early  ages  when  barons  began  to 
be  was  a  hard,  tyrannical,  ignorant  man,  who  drank  great  quanti- 
ties of  spirit,  beat  his  wife  and  his  daughters,  was  envious  of  his 
growing  sons,  had  a  few  streaks  of  generosity  in  him,  and,  above 
all  things,  hated  and  oppressed  the  poor.  Whether  the  ancient 
average  of  barons  justified  this  impression  I  have  not  yet  had 
time  to  discover.  So  much  that  was  history  twenty  years  ago 
has  since  become  fable  that  he  would  be  an  imprudent  man  who 
would  venture  to  defend  the  historical  impressions  of  his  youth 
before  examining  the  latest  authorities  ;  but  I  always  acted  on 
the  impression  when  speaking  or  thinking  of  Mr.  Turnham,  of 
Cherubusco,  the  principal  citizen  of  our  village,  and  the  gracious 
friend  who  had  appointed  me,  a  struggling  lawyer  and  a  pugna- 
cious Catholic,  to  the  position  of  town-clerk.  It  was  not  a  very 
high  distinction,  to  be  sure,  to  be  principal  citizen  of  Cherubusco 
— a  hybrid,  nondescript  village  on  Lake  Champlain — but  to  the 
people  who  dwelt  there  it  was  a  deeply  interesting  position,  and 
had  a  considerable  deal  to  do  with  their  personal  comfort,  occa- 
sionally also  with  their  material  prosperity ;  and  it  was  one  rea- 
son why  I  looked  upon  my  patron  as  a  modern  type  of  ancient 
baron  that  he  made  the  common  people  of  the  town  as  miserable 
as  possible  when  the  fit  seized  him,  and  sold  them  comfort  at  the 
price  of  a  degrading  vassalage.  It  wquld  not  be  charitable  to 
detail  all  the  enormities,  private  and  public,  personal  and  distri- 
butive, which  he  practised  in  a  year.  He  was  not  such  a  monster 
'  as  I  considered  an  old-time  baron.  He  drank  spirits  in  quantity 
and  enjoyed  an  occasional  "  toot,"  as  my  neighbors  name  a  pe- 
riod of  intoxication,  but  it  was  not  a  matter  of  scandal  for  any 
one  ;  he  swore  in  his  office,  among  his  cronies,  and  promiscuous- 
ly in  the  absence  of  children  and  clergymen  ;  he  had  no  religious 
belief  of  any  definite  character — in  his  own  expressive  language 
being  "  a  free  nigger"  ;  and  his  morality  was  of  a  pattern  with 
his  religion — clouded,  uncertain,  wavering,  leaving  him  no  better 
than  he  should  be ;  but  he  was  the  kindest,  most  indulgent  house- 


6  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Oct., 

holder  that  ever  lived,  was  deservedly  loved  by  the  members  of 
his  family,  and  had  an  amiable  wife  and  rather  handsome  chil- 
dren in  spite  of  a  discouraging  personal  appearance.  For  Turn- 
ham,  briefly,  had  a  stiff  leg  and  a  face  all  hair  and  spectacles.  So 
much  of  his  skin  as  was  visible  above  the  tide  of  glass  and  hair 
was  either  muddily  pale  or  fiery  with  an  erysipelas  affection, 
always  shaded  by  the  wide  brim  of  a  homely  felt  hat.  A  more 
malignant-appearing  face  I  had  never  seen  ;  a  fiercer  expression 
no  piratical  pirate  ever  wore.  As  he  walked  the  street,  dragging 
his  stiff  leg  after  him  like  an  evil  genius  or  a  familiar  spirit,  and 
bowed  to  the  passing  villagers,  I  interpreted  the  looks  he  gave 
them  to  mean,  "  Be  careful,  now  ;  you  know  me  :  at  any  minute  I 
might  cut  the  earth  from  under  you  "  ;  and  the  same  look  seemed 
to  say  to  strangers,  "  You  don't  know  me ;  but  I'm  a  terror,  and  I 
might  cut  the  solid  earth  from  under  you  if  you  said  a  cross 
word."  He  had  cut  happiness  out  of  so  many  persons'  lives  that 
my  interpretation  was  reasonable,  and  the  title  of  baron,  so  far 
as  it  represented  my  idea,  was  clearly  applicable  to  him. 

Still,  barons  are  men  in  spite  of  their  odd  characteristics  and 
noble  title,  and  are  as  apt  to  cry  when  pinched  as  better  men. 
Mr.  Turnham  had  his  good  points.     One  of  his  best  was   the 
fancy  he  took  for  me  ;  for  this  fancy,  while  not  doing  me  much 
good,  brought  him  much  annoyance  from  his  brother-barons.     It 
was  urged  against  my  appointment  that  I  was  a  Catholic,  that  I 
was  too  young,  that  1  could  not  be  trusted  to  keep  business  se- 
crets from  the  priest,  that  better   men  wanted  the  position   of 
town-clerk  ;  to  which  objections  he  replied,  with   his  malignant 
grin,  that  he  loved  Catholics  more  than  hypocritical  Protestants, 
that  he  hated  old  men,  that  no  secrets  were  entrusted  by  him  to 
any  one,  and  that  he  didn't  care  a  button  if  Bishop   Potter  was 
after  the  office  of  town-clerk — no  one  should  get  it  that  year  but 
me.     By  this  declaration  he  unflinchingly  stood.     Furthermore, 
he  made  me  his  confidant  in  most  matters  of  business  and  poli- 
tics— a  position  which  I,  being  a  very  young  fool  and  having  fif- 
teen years  before  me  in  which  to  make  up  for  present  blunders, 
accepted  with  confidence  and  courage.     Behold  me,  then,  on  a 
fine  morning  in  the  month  of  June,  seated  in  confidential  dis- 
course with  my  patron,  our  heels  elevated  in  a  fashion  plainly  in- 
tended to  keep  our  brains  from  scattering,  and  he  fairly  glaring 
upon  me  for  the  opposition  which  I  offered  to  his  plans  concern- 
ing the  coming  village  election. 

"  So  you  don't  believe  in  buying  votes,"  said  he.     "  On  prin- 
ciple ?    Or  are  you  one  of  these  Young  Men's  Christian  Associa- 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  37 

tions,  that  shout  for  C.  S.  Reform  in  chorus,  and  in  side-street, 
dark-night  solos  buy  up  all  the  votes  they  can  git?" 

I  omit  the  baron's  profanity. 

"  On  principle,"  I  answered  benignantly.  "  It's  wrong.  It's 
against  the  constitution  and  the  law.  It's  un-American.  It's  an 
injury  to  the  poor  fellows  who  are  tempted.  George  Washing- 
ton wouldn't  approve  of  it.  Neither  will  I." 

After  sending  the  venerable  Washington  to  a  part  of  the 
other  world  in  which  the  baron  seemed  to  have  a  vested  interest, 
judging  from  the  authoritative  way  in  which  he  assigned  lots 
there,  and  glaring  at  me  several  moments,  he  said : 

"  Do  you  mean  to  hold  that  principle  all  your  life  ?  " 

"  I  hope  I  shall,"  I  replied,  with  the  proper  humility  of  man- 
ner and  an  interior  conviction  that  hope  was  utterly  crushed  by 
certainty.  I  was  only  twenty-one. 

"  Then  let  me  tell  you,"  said  he  viciously,  "you'll  never  git  a 
bigger  office  than  town-clerk.  You  might  as  well  git  out  now  as 
wait  till  yer  kicked  out  to  make  way  for  men  that  have  purer 
principles." 

"  That's  good  !  "  said  I.  "  I'll  wait  till  I'm  kicked  out,  and  it 
won't  be  the  men  with  purer  principles  that'll  do  all  the  kicking." 

"  And  what  do  you  propose  to  do  at  the  election  ?  "  irritably. 
"  Sit  'round,  an'  talk,  an'  stare,  an'  have  old  Whiting  an'  Stacy 
an'  the  rest  of  'em  askin'  what  you're  doin',  and  all  the  rest 
of  it?" 

"  Don't  mind  me,"  I  said.  "  Let  me  have  my  own  way,  and 
I'll  do  as  much  work  as  the  best  man  among  'em,  in  my  own 
fashion.  If  they  find  any  fault  after  election,  I'll  resign." 

"  Well,  it's  a  satisfaction  that  all  Catholics  are  not  so  strict  in 
their  way  of  thinkin'." 

"  If  they  aren't  they  ought  to  be.  They're  not  Catholics.  It 
must  be  a  satisfaction  to  you  to  see  most  Protestants  acting  as 
you  do.  I  suppose  you  will  have  the  usual  whiskey-barrel  on 
tap  in  this  room  for  the  poor  Frenchmen  and  the  thirsty  gentry 
of  the  town.  I  can  read  the  future  of  America  in  election 
whiskey." 

He  glared  for  a  few  minutes  and  closed  the  conversation  with 
a  laugh,  muttering  some  indistinct  thunders  concerning  papists 
and  flinging  his  books  and  papers  through  the  room  savagely. 
I  lost  myself  presently  in  a  sad  meditation  on  vote-buying  as  a 
means  of  political  promotion.  There  was  little  doubt  of  my  in- 
ability to  hold  even  so  inferior  a  position  as  that  of  town-clerk 
long  while  my  principles  remained  at  variance  with  the  uni- 


38  THE  BARON  OF  CHERVBUSCO.  [Oct., 

versal  practice  of  Cherubusco  politicians.  If  Catholic  morality 
were  not  quite  so  stern  on  that  and  some  other  points  of  political 
and  business  life,  how  rapid  would  be  the  rise  of  ambitious  Ca- 
tholic lawyers  with  a  good  stock  of  principle  and  little  cash  on 
hand  ! 

I "  I  think/'  said  Turnham  after  a  time,  "  you  had  better  hint 
to  Joe  Miron — he's  a  papist,  you  know — that  I  don't  like  his  talk 
around  town.  He's  restive.  It  looks  as  if  he  wanted  to  bolt  the 
straight  ticket." 

"  He  has  a  right  to  bolt." 

"  And  if  he  does,"  continued  the  baron,  "  let  him  understand 
that  he'll  get  no  more  work  in  this  town,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"  He  has  a  big  family,"  I  said — "a  good  wife  and  five  children. 
They  are  not  the  kind  to  be  left  to  starve  on  account  of  a  vote." 

"  Just  let  him  know  how  it  will  be,"  he  replied  indifferently. 
"They  won't  starve,  you  kin  bet,  but  they'll  suffer  some  trouble. 
That's  good  for  papists.  It's  the  only  thing  keeps  the  critters 
down." 

Two  persons  entered  the  office  in  succession,  transacted  some 
business,  and  departed.  One  was  a  feeble,  sickly  woman  in  rags 
pathetically  clean,  the  other  a  nervous,  well-dressed  business  man. 

"Well,  Henriette!  Good-morning,  Sol  Dotler!  Come  to 
pay  the  rent,  Henriette?" — he  knew  very  well  the  day  would 
never  come  when  the  poor  woman  would  be  able  to  pay  it.  "  Six 
months  due  to  date — eighteen  dollars.  I'll  let  you  off  for  ten, 
seein*  it's  a  hard  time  for  the  poor." 

Henriette  looked  at  the  spectacles  and  whiskers,  fumbled  ner- 
vously with  her  rags,  and  began  to  tremble. 

"  The  same  old  story,"  he  said  after  she  had  made  a  few  vain 
efforts  to  speak.  "  No  money,  not  able  to  work !  Well,  let  it 
go  for  this  time,  Henriette!  I'll  make  it  up  out  o'  Sol  Dotler." 

The  woman  went  out  shedding  grateful  tears.  The  nervous 
business  man  cursed  the  baron  in  a  friendly  fashion,  and  was 
cursed  in  turn,  as  he  asked  for  the  note  which  he  intended  to 
take  up  that  morning.  It  was  a  small  sum,  one  hundred  dollars, 
for  the  use  of  which  one  month  the  baron  received  the  sum  of 
thirty-five  dollars. 

"  Not  a  bad  job,"  he  said  to  me  a  moment  later.  "  A  little 
business  o*  that  sort  would  help  you  along,  my  boy,  if  you  have  a 
few  hundreds  to  loan." 

"  Thus  runs  the  world  away,"  and  a  heavy  heart  carries  the 
young  Catholic  who  tries  to  run  after  it  in  our  time,  and  I  sup- 
pose in  any  time.  He  must  strip  himself  of  every  principle  of 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  39 

his  faith,  if  he  wishes  to  keep  up  with  it,  of  love  of  his  neigh- 
bor, love  of  his  country,  and  love  of  religion,  carrying  only  in 
his  grip-sack  the  shirt  of  convenience  and  expediency,  and  the 
trunks  and  hose  of  pharisaical  morality.  So  the  baron  had  often 
told  me  ;  nor  could  I  doubt  his  word  after  a  thorough  examina- 
tion of  his  and  the  wardrobes  of  all  the  other  barons  of  the  coun- 
ty !  The  items  mentioned  were  not  always  to  be  found  in  their 
entirety  among  these  nobles,  but  I  observed  that  when  their 
destruction  left  them  morally  naked  public  opinion  drove  them 
either  into  retirement  or  into  business  in  the  city  on  a  large 
scale.  The  baron,  being  a  family  man,  still  held  his  scanty  ward- 
robe together  by  dint  of  much  patching  and  darning,  and  with 
the  help  also  of  a  class  of  clients  whose  leader  and  mouthpiece 
was  just  entering  the  office  on  the  heels  of  the  reflections  which 
had  passed  through  my  mind  after  the  last  remark  of  Mr.  Turn- 
ham. 

He  was  a  small  man  in  working-clothes,  wrinkled,  rudely 
jointed,  and  old.  His  thick  gray  hair  was  cut  straight  across  his 
neck  by  the  domestic  scissors.  His  whole  appearance  had  the 
home  like  finish  peculiar  to  old  brooms  and  well-used  furniture  ; 
so  that  the  natural  dignity  of  his  manner  was  the  more  remark- 
able by  contrast,  and  left  an  agreeable  impression.  His  wrin- 
kled face  was  weighted  with  an  expression  of  sorrow.  He  bowed 
to  us  both  in  a  grave  way,  and,  turning  to  the  baron,  opened  his 
mouth  to  speak,  but  the  under-lip  trembled  so  much  that  he  sat 
down  suddenly  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand  to  hide  the 
tears  that  fairly  spurted  through*  his  fingers.  The  baron's  face 
grew  a  shade  paler  at  this  sight. 

"  Dupuy,"  said  he,  "  your  boy's  dead." 

"  An'  little  gell,  too,"  moaned  Dupuy.     "  Bot'  die  las'  night." 

The  baron  started  up  with  a  groan,  and  hopped  up  and  down 
a  few  times  in  real  distress.  He,  too,  was  the  father  of  boys  and 
girls. 

"  It's  too  bad,  too  bad  !  "  he  said.  "  This  diphtheria  is  the 
worst  thing  in  creation.  How  did  it  happen,  Cyriac?  I  thought 
they  were  gittin'  well  yesterday.  I  could  swear  the  girl  was  all 
right." 

He  came  to  the  Frenchman's  side  and  sat  down  to  listen  to  a 
father's  details  of  his  children's  death-struggle. 

"  M'  ole  'oman,"  said  Cyriac,  with  a  visible  effort,  "  watch 
Leah ;  I  tek  care  o'  Joe,  me.  I  clean  de  t'roat  one,  two,  tree, 
much  taime.  She  git  bettair,  poor  Joe  ;  mais  lit'le  gell  he  no  git 
bettair.  Vary  weak  all  de  taime — choke.  O  seigneur,  c'est  ter- 


40  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Get, 

rible !  "  as  the  memory  of  her  suffering  came  back  to  him. 
mek  him  to  dhrink  de  wine  et  de  bif-tea,  you  see.  All  de  sem 
ma  little  gell  no  git  vary  sthrong — weaker,  weaker,  'n'  I  tink,  me, 
his  bre't'  stop,  raight  up.  Two  o'clock  d'  ole  'oman  cry  loud, 
'  O  mon  Dieu  !  Leah  die.'  I  run  to  him.  It  is  so.  Leah  die, 
easy,  easy,  easy,  laike  go  to  sleep — no  pain,  no  scream,  no  not'- 
ing,"  finishing  the  description  with  a  gesture  of  falling  easily  to 
sleep.  "  Poor  Joe  hear  her  moder  say  he  die,  'n'  git  frightened, 
you  see,  'n'  call  me  raight  off.  '  Wot's  de  madder  wid  you,  Joe? 
You  'fraid  ?  ' ,  *  No,  p'pa,  no  'fraid  me.  Mek  de  pr'ers  fo'  de  soul. 
I  go  after  Leah.'  *  You  go  after  Leah,/^V  fou?  Leah  no  die. 
Moder  'fraid  laike  you,  'n'  scream.  You  stay  wid  Leah,  Joe.' 
Mais  no  fool  Joe.  She  say  all  de  taime,  '  Mek  de  pr'ers,  p'pa, 
mek  de  pr'ers.'  Purt'  soon  she  go  after  Leah — easy,  easy,  too, 
comme  de  raison.  Ah  !  seigneur,  tout  est  perdu." 

He  spoke  in  broken  tones,  and  with  the  last  words  burst  into 
a  fit  of  sobbing.  The  baron  pressed  his  hand  and  turned  his 
face  away  to  hide  the  tears  that  moistened  his  fierce  eyes. 
When  his  eyes  were  dry  again  he  turned  to  me, 

"  Mighty  hard,  isn't  it  ?  "  said  he.  "  An*  they  were  alone,  too  ; 
no  one  with  children  'ud  go  near  'em.  It's  the  black  diphtheria. 
Did  you  git  any  one  to  lay  the  children  out,  Cyriac  ?  " 

"  I  fix  'em  tout  seul,"  said  Cyriac  briefly,  with  an  expressive 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Well,  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped,  Cyriac.  I'm  sorry  for 
you — very  sorry.  It's  hard  to  lose  your  children  after  bringin' 
'em  to  that  age  ;  but  it's  the  way  things  are  done  in  this  world, 
an'  we  can't  help  ourselves." 

"  Mes  enfants  se  reposent  dans  les  bras  du  bon  Dieu,"  said 
Cyriac,  clasping  his  hands  tightly  with  a  sincere  but  painful  effort 
at  resignation.  I  translated  the  sentence  for  the  baron,  and  was 
rewarded  with  the  usual  glare.  He  could  not  presume  to  dis- 
pute the  existence  of  Heaven  at  that  moment,  and  raged  to  have 
me  find  him  temporarily  muzzled.  Old  Dupuy  informed  us  that 
the  children  would  be  buried  that  evening  at  sundown,  and  was 
made  happy  at  Mr.  Turnham's  promise  to  attend,  as,  owing  to  the 
malignity  of  the  disease,  the  ceremony  would  be  private  and  no 
services  held  in  the  church  until  the  next  morning.  The  baron 
here  saw  fit  to  mention  a  little  matter  of  business.  It  would  have 
been  in  better  taste  to  leave  poor  Cyriac  to  his  heavy  misfortunes, 
only  that  Mr.  Turnham  was  not  to  be  held  back  from  any  mea- 
sure by  the  mere  dictum  of  good  taste.  And,  to  tell  the  truth,  the 
matter  was  not  calculated  to  interfere  with  Cyriac's  sorrow.  It 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  41 

was  as  if  one  had  said  to  him,  Your  hat  is  awry,  or,  Button  your 
coat  and  it  will  sit  better,  while  he  was  wiping  away  his  tears. 

"  To-morrow,  Cyriac,  if  you  don't  mind,"  said  the  baron 
casually,  "  we'll  talk  over  that  bolt  of  the  Duquette  boys.  It 
looks  as  if  they  mean  to  hold  off  till  the  other  party  buys  'em." 

A  deeper  shade  settled  on  Dupuy's  face,  and  I  saw  that  he 
looked  at  his  horny  fingers,  as  if  a  new  and  startling  difficulty  had 
sprung  suddenly  from  the  deformed  brown  joints. 

"  I  t'ink,  me,  it  is  de  pries',"  he  said  slowly,  with  a  long-drawn 
sigh.  The  baron  stared  at  him  with  his  mouth  open,  and  Cyriac 
met  the  stare  with  a  cringing  smile. 

"  Purt'  bad  boy  dem  Duquettes,  M'sieu'  Tu'n'am,"  he  said 
gravely,  seeing  that  the  baron  did  not  or  would  not  understand 
the  smile,  whose  meaning  was  perfectly  clear  to  me.  "  Bad  Cat'- 
lique,  no  go  t'  churc',  all  taime  drunk,  no  spik  French — French  no 
nice,  f'r  dem.  Las'  mont'  big  change.  Dey  mek  de  confession, 
tek  pew  in  de  churc',  no  drink  no  more — big  change.  I  think,  me, 
it  is  de  pries'." 

Now  the  baron  understood,  and  his  face  showed  some  such 
expression  as  must  have  rested  on  the  face  of  the  first  Roman 
emperor  who  discovered  the  presence  and  the  power  of  the 
pope  in  Rome. 

"  That's  the  new  priest,"  he  said  briefly.  Cyriac  nodded. 
"  Has  he  said  anything  to  you  ?  " 

Cyriac  shrugged  his  shoulders  doubtfully. 

"  Tell  me,"  shouted  the  baron,  bringing  down  his  fist  with  a 
crash  on  the  desk,  "  did  he  speak  to  you  ?  " 

"  Turnham,"  I  suggested  gently,  "  let  me  remind  you — " 

"You — "  But  it  will  not  do  to  record  his  answer.  Had  I 
said  simply,  Remember  his  dead  children,  and  left  myself  out  of 
the  suggestion,  its  effect  would  have  cooled  him  instantly.  Cy- 
riac was  frightened,  but  calm  and  polite. 

"  She  say  some  word,"  he  replied,  "  an'  I  t'ink,  me,  she  no  say 
word.  '  Cyriac  Dupuy'  " — imitating  the  tone  and  manner  of  the 
priest — "  *  'f  you  see  de  mans  to  buy  'n'  sell  de  vote,  tell  me,  tell 
me  all  taime.'  ' 

"  That's  all  ?  "  said  the  baron,  holding  his 'wrath  in  check  until 
he  was  bursting  like  a  boy  in  smothered  laughter. 

"All,"  replied  Cyriac  briefly,  standing  up  to  make  his  low, 
old-fashioned  bow,  with  his  hat  describing  a  circle  in  his  hand. 

"It's  just  as  well,  Cyriac,"  drawing  a  paper  from  his  open 
safe  and  shaking  it  at  him  with  a  most  baronial  air.  "  When  the 
priest  comes  foolin'  around  you  an'  talkin'  o'  the  wickedness  o* 


42  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Oct., 

buyin'  votes,  just  think  o'  that  an'  you're  safe."  An  extra  shade 
of  humility  lodged  in  Cyriac's  wrinkles.  "  I  won't  stand  no 
cure's  nonsense.  He  may  keep  you  from  voting  as  I  want  you 
to,  but  he  can't  stave  off  a  mortgage.  I'll  squeeze  you,  my  boy— 
I'll  squeeze  you." 

"  Turnham,"  I  said,  disgusted,  "  remember  his  children."  The 
baron  blushed.  No  one  unacquainted  with  him  would  have  no- 
ticed the  purple  current  stealing  behind  his  hat,  whiskers,  and 
spectacles.  He  hopped  over  to  Cyriac,  going  out  of  the  door, 
and  slipped  a  bill  into  his  hand  while  gently  patting  his  back. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said  gently;  "we'll  settle  this  another 
time,  and  I'll  surely  be  at  the  funeral." 

My  youth  alone  excused  the  antics  in  which  I  indulged  after 
the  door  closed  on  the  Canadian.  I  gravely  jumped  over  several 
chairs,  walked  around  them,  stood  on  my  head,  and  turned  a 
boyish  cartwheel  to  the  musical  accompaniment  of  the  baron's 
profanity.  On  this  occasion  he  swore  more  like  an  emperor  than 
a  baron,  if  we  suppose  that  felicity  and  fluency  follow  a  person's 
rank.  If  verbal  electricity  could  be  stored  in  a  material  atmos- 
phere, the  office  would  have  exploded  on  the  spot. 

"That  accounts,"  said  he,  "for  the  Duquettes  "—the  only 
words  which  were  not  pure  exclamation  in  a  five  minutes'  dis- 
course. 

"  I'm  glad  of  it,"  said  I ;  "I  rejoice  in  it.  I  don't  know  much 
about  Father  O'Shaughnessy — " 

"  What !  "  cried  he,  "  is  that  his  name  ?  " 

"  What's  in  a  name?"  said  I.  "Wait  till  you  see  the  man. 
He's  so  small  that  it  seems  ridiculous  he  should  have  so  powerful 
a  name.  I'll  tell  you  what  he  did  in  Buckeye  County  two  years 
ago."  The  baron,  who  had  been  stupefied  at  the  name,  looked 
interested.  "  A  Democratic  judge,  who  lived  across  the  way 
from  him,  had  a  sewer  which  emptied  into  the  priest's  garden, 
and  because  it  was  cut  off  brought  the  matter  into  court,  meanly 
preferring  that  his  neighbor  should  die  of  typhoid  than  to  dig  a 
way  for  his  sewerage.  The  judge  was  the  county  head  of  his 
party.  An  election  was  near ;  the  priest  went  into  it,  and  the 
county,  for  the  first  time  in  sixteen  years,  went  Republican.  I'm 
glad  he's  here.  You  won't  buy  any  more  Frenchmen.  You 
won't  shake  mortgages  at  them  when  they  talk  of  voting  as  they 
please.  You  won't  see  them  running  like  chickens  at  the  cluck 
of  a  hen  whenever  you  crook  your  finger.  Best  of  all,  you  will 
now  need  me  and  my  methods  to  hold  these  people  on  your  side. 
Influence  now  is  more  than  money.  I  can  coax  where  you  can't 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  4^ 

bribe  or  threaten.  Do  you  see  ?  Do  you  understand  your  posi- 
tion ?  Father  O'Shaughnessy  will  skewer  you  like  a  fly  on  a 
pin,  and  I  say  again  I'm  glad  of  it." 

"  Oh !  you  air"  snapped  he,  with  his  most  intense  nasal 
drawl.  "  You  air  glad  of  it,  you  son  of  a  wild  Irishman,  you 

ignorant  papist,  you !     Well,  I'll  show  you  just  what  that 

priest  amounts  to !  I'll  buy  more  Frenchmen  than  I  ever  did. 
I'll  buy  your  Irishmen  ;  I'll  buy  the  hull  town,  if  I  need  it.  And 
the  barrel  of  whiskey  '11  stand  jest  where  you  re,  standin'  ;  and  I'll 
set  every  p'isonous  Kanuck  's  drunk  as  Noah,  and  I'll  march  'em 
up  to  the  polls  jest  as  usual,  an'  have  'em  vote  under  my  eye ; 
an*  if  they  don't,  the  niggers  ! — if  they  cut  and  run,  the  sinners  ! — 
I'll  cut  the  earth  from  under  'em ;  I'll  fling  'em  out  of  the  town 
into  Canada  as  poor  as  they  came  into  it.  An'  as  for  you  an' 
your  notions,  if  you  want  to  stand  by  Father  O'Shaughnessy — " 

"  That's  my  name,  sir,"  said  a  thin,  precise  voice  at  the  door. 
The  baron  had  been  hopping  about  the  office,  and,  being  close  to 
the  door  when  it  opened,  fairly  bawled  the  name  into  the  visi- 
tor's face.  The  little  man  was  not  as  much  surprised  as  the 
baron,  and  his  keen  gray  eyes  studied  the  stupid  expression 
on  Turnham's  face  as  calmly  as  though  it  were  a  brass  door- 
knocker. 

"  Come  in,"  said  Turnham  feebly,  as  he  hopped  to  his  desk 
and  mechanically  struck  a  business  attitude.  "Won't  you  sit 
down  ?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  precise  voice.  "  I  want  a  ton  of  coal 
sent  up  to  the  house  this  afternoon,  if  possible." 

"  I'll  send  it  up,"  said  the  baron  briskly.  At  this  point  T 
ventured  to  introduce  the  two  magnates. 

"  You  have  a  good  work  to  do  here,"  said  Turnham  roughly, 
as  a  salve  to  his  recent  confusion,  "  in  sendin'  the  children  to 
school.  They  don't  go,  the  half  of  'em." 

"  Pay  their  fathers  decent  wages,"  said  the  priest,  "  and  the 
children  will  attend.  Can  a  dollar  a  day  eight  months  of  the 
year  support  five  persons  decently  ?  If  the  school  is  all  they  say 
it  is,  I  don't  blame  them  for  remaining  away." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  said  the  baron  angrily,  for  the  school  was  his 
pet  device  and  chief  diversion. 

"  Another  time  I'll  explain,  sir.  Briefly,  do  you  believe  in 
teaching  Latin  and  physiology  in  a  town  whose  people  are  born 
to  labor  hard  all  their  lives?  I  wonder  you  never  asked  your- 
self the  question  before.  Excuse  me  now,  as  I  am  in  a  hurry. 
I'll  give  you  a  chance  to  answer  in  a  day  or  two." 


44  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Oct., 

He  bade  us  good-morning  and  went  out  hurriedly,  leaving 
the  baron  to  chew  his  pen-holder  and  to  confide  to  me  his  im- 
pression that  the  priest  was  a  vain  busybody  and  needed  a  good 
fright  in  order  to  settle  him  in  his  proper  position. 

"  Does  he  think,"  ,said  he,  "  that  priests  only  should  study 
Latin  ?  " 

"  Between  you  and  his  reverence,"  I  replied,  "  Cyriac  Dupuy 
will  be  torn  to  shreds  at  election-time." 

Poor  Cyriac!  As  he  stood  looking  into  the  double  grave 
which  held  the  two  bodies  dearest  to  him  in  this  world,  the 
fabled  America  of  his  childhood  seemed  as  desolate  and  bleak  as 
Anticosti,  and  he  sighed  in  his  quiet  and  polite  way  over  the 
peace  enjoyed  in  his  native  Canadian  village,  where  death  was 
never  so  violent  and  unkind,  where  great  disasters  by  land  and  sea 
were  heard  of  but  once  in  a  lifetime,  where  mortgages  were 
practically  unknown,  and  where  votes,  voting,  bribery,  and 
barons  were  institutions  that  concerned  only  the  rich  and  had 
little  concern  with  the  sorrows  and  joys  of  the  poor.  The  peace 
that  Cyriac  dreamed  of,  although  he  thought  it  a  Canadian 
possession,  was  really  the  natural  peace  of  careless  childhood  ; 
but  because  he  had  left  Canada  a  child,  to  begin  his  apprentice- 
ship to  labor  and  sorrow  in  the  States,  it  seemed  to  him  happi- 
ness was  a  growth  of  his  native  soil— as  it  seems  to  all  of  us, 
indeed,  whether  success  or  sorrow  meets  us  in  the  last  days. 
And  Cyriac,  had  he  been  compelled  to  return  to  Canada,  would 
have  looked  for  it  as  naturally  as  for  the  roses  which  grew  in  the 
front  yard  and  the  delicious  peas  that  covered  the  paternal  acre. 
Candidly,  America,  in  the  person  of  the  baron,  had  been  kind, 
and  yet  unjust,  to  him.  He  had  reached  Cherubusco  in  his  fif- 
teenth year,  when  the  baron  was  a  baby  almost;  but  the  baron's 
father  had  given  him  work  and  encouragement  and  favor,  and 
had  urged  him  to  learn  English  well  and  to  become  a  citizen  of 
the  country.  He  did  not  succeed  with  the  English,  and,  because 
party  spirit  was  not  very  warm  in  earlier  days,  was  not  hurried 
to  the  other.  As  a  matter  of  business,  Turnham,  junior,  on  suc- 
ceeding his  father,  pointed  out  to  him  that  were  he  naturalized 
he  might  make  a  few  dollars  on  his  vote  at  each  election  ;  where- 
upon  Cyriac  went  through  the  usual  formalities,  and,  on  receiv- 
ing a  certain  sum  for  depositing  a  bit  of  paper  in  a  box  one  elec- 
tion-day, began  to  think  that  the  American  Constitution  was  a 
great  thing.  He  spread  the  news  among  his  fellows,  and  imme- 
diately after  it  became  the  French  fashion  to  haggle  on  election- 
day  with  politicians,  and  to  return  home  in  the  cool  midnight  a 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  45 

few  dollars  ahead  of  the  world  or  full  to  the  brim  with  bad  whis- 
key. You  can  fancy  the  astonishment  with  which  I  first  heard 
an  honest  and  virtuous  Canadian  openly  grumble  on  receiving 
for  his  vote  a  dollar  less  than  his  neighbor,  and  the  deeper  aston- 
ishment with  which  I  listened  to  a  committee  of  barons  bemoan- 
ing the  treacherous  designs  of  Catholics  on  the  bulwarks  of 
American  freedom.  Yet  this  moral  turpitude  really  existed,  and 
the  defenders  of  the  aforementioned  bulwarks  were  deepening 
it  daily,  adding  to  it,  in  fact,  and  were  bound  to  hold  the  igno- 
rant, innocent  Canadians  to  their  attack  on  the  bulwarks,  if  they 
had  to  send  half  their  forces  to  the  enemy's  rear  and  bayonet 
them  into  battle. 

How  it  happened  that  Cyriac  became  the  scapegoat  of  his 
countrymen  amid  his  bitter  misfortunes  is  accounted  for  by  two 
circumstances :  that  he  marshalled  the  hosts  of  bought  voters  for 
the  baron,  and  that  he  one  day  brought  out  the  goose-pimples 
of  patriotic  honor  on  Father  O'Shaughnessy  by  artlessly  men- 
tioning  how  much  he  sold  his  vote  for  each  year.  From  that  un- 
guarded admission  dated  Cyriac's  woes.  He  had  the  duties  of 
citizenship  sharply  explained  to  him,  and  was  made  acquainted 
with  the  criminality  of  his  acts.  The  priest  and  the  baron  both 
threatened  him,  the  one  with  the  terrors  of  the  law,  the  other 
with  the  mortgage  ;  and  as  he  looked  at  the  steady  alternatives 
he  thought,  with  the  poet,  "  In  truth,  how  am  I  straitened !  " 
However,  the  mortgage  was  such  a  fixed,  dread  certainty,  and 
Father  O'Shaughnessy 's  temper  being  a  still  unknown  quantity, 
Cyriac  determined  to  appeal  to  the  priest  for  a  milder  interpre- 
tation of  the  law.  He  spoke  to  him  after  the  funeral  service  was 
over. 

"  M'sieu'  le  Cure."  said  he  with  grave  politeness,  "  I  laike  to 
spik  de  few  word  wid  you,  m'sieu',  'bout  de  vote." 

Monsieur  le  Cure  bowed  with  a  very  cold  face — so  cold,  in 
fact,  that  Cyriac  hastened  to  say : 

"  I  know,  me,  you  spik  thrue,  m'sieu'.  I  mek  mysel'  vary  sorry 
dat  I  sell  de  vote,  mats  I  know  nottin'  f  r  de  counthry,  'n'  M'sieu' 
Tu'n'am  say,  *  All  raight,  all  raight,  Cyriac ;  you  mak'  some  monay, 
I  git  some  vote — all  raight,  all  raight,  ALL  raight.'  I  no  t'ink,  me, 
all  wrong.  M'sieu'  Tu'n'am  big  man  fr  de  counthry,  m'sieu', 
vary  big  man.  Mek  de  work  f  r  poor  pipple,  mek  de  house, 
len'  de  monay,  git  de  job — vary  good  neighbor,  oh !  vary  good 
neighbor." 

After  this  prologue  Cyriac  twisted  his  hat  and  waited  for  a 
reply  which  might  give  him  a  chance  to  declare  the  object  of  his 


46  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Oct., 

visit.  Monsieur  le  Cure  O'Shaughnessy,  however,  was  as  dumb 
as  if  he  were  born  so.  Cyriac  came  to  the  point  then  desperately. 

"  Purt'  soon,  m'sieu',  dey  mek  de  vote  f  r  'lection.  Some 
buy,  some  sell.  No  mattair  fr  de  raight  or  de  wrong ;  buy,  sell 
all  same.  I  t'ink,  me,  no  harm  " — he  hesitated  for  the  right  words 
to  express  a  delicate  and  embarrassing  thought,  and  then  said 
in  tumultuous  patois  :  "  If  all  others  can  buy  and  sell,  why  not  I, 
for  this  one  time— only  for  this  one  time  ?  "  It  was  his  last  chance, 
his  last  hope,  and  Monsieur  le  Cur6  knew  it  and  laughed  rather 
heartlessly  in  his  face.  Not  for  that — oh  !  no— but  at  his  reason- 
ing. He  caught  the  emphasis  on  the  last  words  and  their  piteous 
eagerness. 

11  Why  for  this  one  time,  Cyriac  Dupuy  ?  "  he  asked,  and  saw  at 
once  by  the  expression  on  the  man's  face  that  it  was  the  proper 
question  to  put.  "  Why  for  this  one  time,  Mr.  Dupuy?" 

More  hat-twisting  and  hesitation  !  It  was  so  dead  a  certainty, 
that  mortgage,  why  need  the  priest  be  made  acquainted  with  its 
existence  ?  Cyriac  looked  out  sadly  on  the  green  lawn  where  to 
his  mournful  fancy  the  document  which  the  baron  had  menaced 
him  with  stalked  like  a  sheriff  outside  Congress  awaiting  his 
noble  prey  ;  and  as  his  gaze  wandered  up  to  the  new-made  graves, 
and  he  compared  the  grief  of  that  day  with  the  new  griefs  that 
priest  and  baron  were  making  for  him,  a  few  resistless  tears 
streamed  over  his  face.  He  was  a  man,  and  therefore  ashamed 
of  them ;  and  because  Father  O'Shaughnessy  took  his  emotion 
coolly,  being  used  to  tears,  he  sat  down  and  in  mingled  English 
and  patois  explained  his  straitened  position. 

"  It  is  too  bad,"  said  the  priest  when  he  had  finished,  "  and  I 
consider  Turnham  a  cruel  man.  But  if  worse  were  to  happen 
you,  Cyriac,  if  you  were  to  be  thrown  out  naked,  you  could  not 
engage  in  this  detestable  traffic  in  votes.  You  must  let  your 
fellows  alone.  You  can  vote  as  you  please.  But  to  sell  your 
vote,  to  buy  others,  to  do  this  dirty  work — no  !  no !  no  !  Let 
your  house  be  sold,  let  everything  go;  but  be  honest,  Cyriac, 
and  true  to  the  teachings  of  your  church." 

Cyriac  knew  somewhat  of  those  teachings,  but  saw  no  connec- 
tion between  religion  and  voting,  and  was  minded  to  tell  the 
priest  that  the  catechism  said  nothing  about  it.  Yet  why  dis- 
pute ?  The  priest,  had  pointed  out  the  law  and  the  right,  and  he 
was  bound  to  follow  both  at  any  cost.  If  there  were  no  mort- 
gage the  cost  would  be  trifling ;  now  it  included  his  little  posses- 
sions, the  savings  of  a  lifetime.  He  rose  to  depart  in  silence, 
with  his  despair  and  his  resolution  written  on  his  seamed  face. 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  47 

"  You  will  do  as  I  have  advised  ? "  said  the  priest  kindly. 

"  Purt'  hard,  m'sieu'  ;  mais,"  shrugging  the  shoulders,  "  I 
must." 

"  And  if  you  suffer  for  it,"  added  the  priest,  "  never  fear  but 
that  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  you." 

Which  was  small  consolation  to  Cyriac,  whose  business  eye 
saw  the  immense  disproportion  between  his  poverty  and  the 
baron's  wealth. 

"I  lose  de  house,"  he  said  briefly,  and  his  reverence  felt  the 
implied  reproach  without  anger. 

"  Better  to  lose  that  than  your  honest  name,  Mr.  Dupuy. 
Better  to  be  poor  and  to  lose  your  dear  earnings  than  to  be  a 
shame  to  Canada  and  a  danger  to  this  country.  Better  to  have 
no  house  than  to  own  one  at  the  price  you  are  to  pay  for  yours." 

His  tone  impressed  the  poor  man,  if  his  words  did  not. 
Cyriac  could  not  see  the  relation  of  vote-buying  to  shame  and 
danger  and  dishonesty,  and  felt  no  emotion  on  hearing  these 
stately  sentences  ;  but  he  knew  "  f  r  sure  "  that  the  priest  and  the 
church  regarded  it  as  a  great  crime  and  was  therefore  tied  to  the 
necessity  of  avoiding  it  for  ever.  What  a  dull  pain  beat  against 
his  heart  all  that  day  !  He  thought  with  mournful  satisfaction 
that,  while  himself  and  his  old  wife  would  lose  their  home,  the 
children  were  never  again  to  be  in  danger  of  losing  theirs.  Who 
held  a  mortgage  on  a  graveyard,  or  who  would  throw  the  dead 
from  their  shelter  ?  Cyriac  had  riever  read  the  annals  of  the 
Gironde. 

The  baron  had  been  present  at  the  funeral,  and  had  noted 
sourly  the  interview  with  the  priest.  Was  it  that  circumstance 
which  tightened  his  nervous,  vicious  grasp  on  Cyriac's  arm  at 
their  next  meeting  ?  He  dared  not  look  in  the  baron's  face,  and 
would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to  forget  the  many  favors 
father  and  son  had  heaped  on  him.  They  weighted  him  heavier 
than  the  mortgage.  Turnham  was  breathing  hard,  and  the  beads 
of  sweat  started  out  on  his  forehead,  as  he  came  face  to  face  with 
his  henchman  and  with  a  terrible  thought  which  Cyriac's  sad 
face  suggested. 

"  Cyriac  " — his  voice  shook  like  a  leaf — "  my  two  boys  have 
the  diphtheria.  What  if  they  should  die  ?  " 

"  Mon  Dieu  !  "  cried  Cyriac  as  the  remembrance  of  his  own 
suffering  rushed  upon  him,  "  c'est  effrayante.  Git  de  bes'  doc- 
tor. Clean  the  t'roat  vary  much,  V  pray  on  de  bon  Dieu." 

Pray  to  the  good  God!  It  was  the  very  last  remedy  which 
would  enter  the  baronial  mind  ;  but  in  his  excited  state,  recalling 


48  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Oct., 

the  number  of  faith-cures  which  had  taken  place  in  certain  parts 
of  the  country,  and  knowing  the  depth  and  strength  of  Cyriac's 
faith,  he  said,  and  to  this  day  denies  that  he  said  : 

"  Dupuy,you  pray  for  'em.  If  faith  an'  pra'er  kin  save,  you're 
the  man  for  that  business." 

And  his  voice  broke  into  a  wail  pathetic  enough  to  veil  the 
ridiculousness  of  the  remark  from  the  humorous  eye. 

Cyriac  volunteered  his  services  in  nursing  the  boys,  and  was 
brought  to  the  house  by  the  grateful  baron.  In  a  village  which 
had  suffered  much  from  the  ravages  of  diphtheria  it  was  difficult 
to  secure  the  steady  services  of  a  neighbor.  The  baron,  indeed, 
would  not  have  asked  so  great  a  favor.  He  was  rather  anxious 
than  otherwise  that  friends  with  children  in  their  family  should 
remain  away,  and  never  opened  his  door  to  a  knock  until  the 
visitor  was  made  acquainted  with  the  fatal  presence  within.  His 
haggard  face  would  then  be  thrust  through  the  barely-opened 
door  and  business  transacted  briefly.  In  four  days  he  did  not 
once  come  to  the  office.  Day  and  night  he  and  Cyriac  haunted 
the  sick-rooms  of  the  children,  sleeping  fitfully,  talking  mourn- 
fully of  life's  chances,  working  with  might  and  main  to  fight  off 
the  disease.  In  the  critical  moments  when  man  and  medicine 
could  do  no  more,  and  nature  had  hard  work  to  assert  itself,  he 
stood  in  silent  agony,  squeezing  the  old  man's  rough  hand  and 
muttering : 

"  I  know  now  what  you  suffered,"  with  his  hard  eyes  fixed  on 
the  young  faces.  Meanwhile  Cyriac  was  praying  "  on  de  bon 
Dieu,"  and  the  baron  was  solicitous  to  know  if  he  prayed  still. 

Occasionally  pressing  business  of  an  unusual  nature  made  it 
necessary  for  me  to  intrude  on  his  grief.  I  was  struck  with  the  in- 
tensity of  anguish  and  anxiety  expressed  in  his  face,  never  having 
credited  him  with  a  human  feeling  so  deep  and  sincere.  He  heard 
my  account  listlessly,  and  in  like  fashion  gave  me  my  directions. 

"  How  are  the  boys  ?  "  I  asked  when  about  to  go. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  them  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  gesture  of 
hopelessness.  It  was  the  fourth  day— the  day  of  the  crisis. 
"  But  I  forgot.  You  have  brothers  and  sisters.  It  is  not  the 
place  for  you." 

And  although  I  protested,  he  would  not  permit  me  to  enter 
the  sick-room. 

11  I  don't  want  any  human  being  to  suffer  this  way,"  said  he, 
unconsciously  laying  his  hand  on  his  heart,  while  his  eyes  wan- 
dered drearily  towards  the  inner  chambers.  He  was  suffering 
in  all  truth,  and  I  thought  it  best  to  defer  some  information  con- 
cerning the  election  until  another  time.  Such  tenderness  !  such 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  49 

affection  !  I  could  not  believe  it.  And  yet  in  how  many  in- 
stances of  his  life  had  I  seen  the  baron  as  charitable  and  human- 
hearted  as  he  was  often  hard  and  cruel !  Ten  minutes  after  I  left 
his  house  four  day-laborers  presented  themselves  before  him  to 
protest  against  a  wage  of  ninety  cents  a  day. 

"  How  much  do  you  pay  for  your  board?  "  said  he. 

"  Three  dollars  a  week,"  said  the  laborers. 

"  That  leaves  you  a  hundred  dollars  a  year,  boys,  to  dress  on 
and  spend.  If  you  had  any  more  you'd  drink  it.  You're  all 
single,  an'  it's  quite  enough  for  you.  If  you  had  women  an' 
children  to  look  after  I  might  raise  you  twenty  cents." 

Vainly  they  pleaded,  argued,  threatened.  After  cursing  him 
heartily  for  a  stingy  devil,  and  being  cursed  uproariously  in 
turn,  they  departed.  It  was  my  good-fortune  to  encounter  him 
later  in  the  day.  The  information  I  held  could  not  be  longer 
kept  from  him,  humiliating  as  it  was  to  my  pride.  The  election- 
eering processes  were  all  disordered.  Father  O'Shaughnessy, 
in  a  quiet  way,  had  sat  on  vote-buying  among  the  Canadians, 
and  there  was  a  general  break  along  the  line.  Nor  could  I,  with 
all  my  persuasiveness,  after  all  my  boasting,  induce  even  a  hand- 
ful to  promise  their  votes  for  the  baron.  I  humbly  explained  the 
situation  to  him.  Cyriac  happened  to  be  in  the  room  looking 
for -a  medicine-bottle. 

"  Do  you  hear  that? "  said  the  baron.  The  old  man  shrugged 
his  shouklers  and  smilingly  shook  his  head.  He  was  out  of  poli- 
tics this  year. 

"  You've  got  to  straighten  things  out,"  said  the  baron  boldly. 
"  I'll  let  you  off  duty.  Go  an'  see  the  boys.  Promise  'em  any- 
thing they  ask.  Git  'em  all  into  line,  an'  after  they  vote  we'll 
settle  with  'em." 

Cyriac  listened  to  these  directions,  given  with  old-time  free- 
dom and  directness,  as  the  condemned  listens  to  the  sheriff's 
legal  reasons  for  taking  away  his  life ;  then  he  shook  his  head  and 
continued  his  search  for  the  bottle. 

"  Cyriac,  sit  down  here,"  shoving  a  chair  towards  him.  Cy- 
riac sat  down  seriously.  "  What  nonsense  has  the  priest  been 
stuffin'  ye  with  now  ?  You  an't  goin'  back  on  us  at  the  last 
minnit  without  warnin',  be  you  ?  If  you  were  goin'  to  do  that, 
why  didn't  you  let  us  know  days  back  when  we  could  have  filled 
yer  place?  Oh  !  no;  you've  got  to  come  to  time  this  onct,  an* 
next  year,  if  you  say  so,  we'll  count  you  out." 

"  Counting-in  is  the  fashion  this  year,"  said  I,  referring  to  a 
recent  political  event. 
VOL.  XLII. — 4 


50  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  [Oct., 

"  Just  so."  And  a  smile  glimmered  for  a  moment  on  the  waste 
of  beard.  "You've  got  to  count  me  into  office  this  year,  Cy- 
riac," patting  his  knee  kindly,  "and  after  that  stay  at  home. 
Your  priest  is  foolin'  you.  Everybody  buys  and  sells  votes. 
It's  the  custom  of  the  country.  It  may  be  wrong  where  the 
priest  comes  from  ;  it  is  not  wrong  here.  I  won't  ask  you  to  buy 
a  vote.  Go  an'  talk  to  the  boys.  Square  'em  up ;  straighten  'em 
out.  Git  'em  to  promise  their  votes ;  see  that  they  vote  right, 
an'  I'll  do  the  rest.  An't  that  fair?" 

It  looked  fair,  but,  as  we  all  knew,  the  looks  did  not  here  in- 
dicate the  disposition. 

"  No  use,"  said  Cyriac  nervously.  "  I  no  more  buy  de  vote, 
me." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  baron,  with  a  patient  sigh  and  a  curi- 
ous inspection  of  the  wrinkled  face  whose  owner  so  stubbornly 
defied  him.  "  You  don't  see  what  I  mean.  You  needn't  buy. 
Talk  to  the  boys.  Why  won't  you  do  that  ?  " 

"  To  talk  is  to  buy,"  answered  Cyriac,  with  shrewdness  and 
dignity. 

"  It's  the  last  time  I'll  ask  you  to  do  it,  Cyriac.  We  can't  do 
without  your  influence  now,  an'  if  you  go  back  on  me  I'm  fixed 
for  this  year.  You  won't  be  able  to  stand  this  town  if  I  lose  an' 
the  boys  know  I  lost  through  you.  The  place  '11  git  too  hot  for 
you." 

Cyriac  felt  the  force  of  this  statement,  which  the  baron  pro- 
ceeded to  amplify,  and  his  distress  and  anguish  were  evident. 
He  brushed  his  hair  and  fidgeted  wofully,  and  once  or  twice  I 
thought  he  was  about  to  surrender,  for  this  year  at  least.  So  did 
the  baron,  who,  when  he  had  worked  up  the  old  man's  feelings 
to  a  proper  pitch,  pushed  him  gently  towards  the  door,  saying, 
as  if  the  matter  were  settled : 

"  Do  your  best  with  the  boys,  Cyriac,  an'  the  hull  thing  '11  be 
forgotten  to-morrow." 

Houseless,  childless,  friendless,  driven  from  the  town  which 
had  given  him  a  home  for  forty  years !  A  more  violent  tempta- 
tion was  never  thrust  upon  any  man,  and  Cyriac  was  not  to  be 
blamed  for  the  momentary  yielding  before  these  terrible  conse- 
quences. He  walked  to  the  door  in  a  dream,  seeing  on  one  side 
his  poverty  and  exile,  his  defiance  of  Monsieur  le  Cur6  on  the 
other.  The  thought  of  crime  did  not  occur  to  him,  for  he  could 
see  no  crime  in  vote-buying.  Nor  did  he  know  how  wildly  con- 
sequences had  been  exaggerated  by  the  baron,  and  how  deter- 
mined a  friend  he  had  in  Monsieur  O'Shaughnessy.  His  tempta- 
tion was  real,  if  its  circumstances  were  not,  and  so  he  turned 


1885.]  THE  BARON  OF  CHERUBUSCO.  51 

submissively  away,  put  on  his  hat,  turned  the  knob,  and  hesi- 
tated. It  was  a  flash  of  baronial  genius  which  prompted  Turn- 
ham  to  supplement  that  hesitation  as  he  did.  He  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  mortgage  on  Cyriac's  house,  showed  it  to  him  silently, 
and  tore  it  into  bits  so  small  that  no  art  could  ever  make  it  again 
a  legal  instrument.  The  old  man  shook  as  if  with  an  ague, 
stretched  out  his  hand  to  protest,  while  the  unwilling  tears 
streamed  over  his  pallid  face. 

"  M'sieu'  Tu'n'am,"  said  he  brokenly,  "your  fader  vary  good, 
you  bettair.  Me  go  back  on  Kennedy  [Canada].  You  'ave  de 
house  raight  off,  but  no  more  buy  de  vote." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  room,  and  the  baron  stood  gaz- 
ing now  at  the  door,  now  at  the  litter  of  torn  paper  on  the  car- 
pet, while  the  clock  ticking  on  the  shelf  seemed  hammering  the 
dead  stillness  into  the  very  furniture. 

"  Beaten  by  a  damned  Frenchman!"  hissed  my  patron  as  he 
threw  himself  and  his  leg  out  of  the  room. 

Beaten  !  Yes,  the  baron  was  beaten,  routed  horse,  foot,  and 
artillery,  by  the  same  power  which  had  beaten  imperial  Cassar; 
and  he  felt  very  sore  over  it.  Being  a  shrewd  politician,  how- 
ever, he  was  determined  to  make  the  most  of  altered  circum- 
stances, and  my  mock  regrets  at  being  compelled  to  rank  him 
with  the  judge  of  Buckeye  County  were  received  with  equa- 
nimity. His  children  were  getting  well,  and  when  the  election 
came  off  matters  went  so  very  smoothly  and  prosperously  that 
he  could  afford  to  be  chaffed  about  sacerdotal  influence.  Cyriac 
came  to  the  polls,  deposited  a  vote  for  his  some-time  master,  and 
returned  home  to  finish  the  packing  of  his  household  goods. 
Quite  enough  votes  for  any  purpose  were  still  to  be  purchased  in 
Cherubusco,  and  the  baron  was  elected  by  a  reduced  but  still 
handsome  majority.  Father  O'Shaughnessy  voted  for  him  on 
my  recommendation — a  fact  which  made  his  first  visit  of  cere- 
mony to  the  baron's  office  an  agreeable  occasion.  He  talked 
cordially  on  the  questions  of  the  day,  read  the  baron  a  lecture  on 
bribery  with  a  general  application,  and  asked  him  to  prevent 
gentlemen  who  held  mortgages  on  the  property  of  the  poor  from 
using  said  mortgages  improperly ;  which  my  patron  promised 
to  do,  and  consequently  Cyriac  did  not  go  to  Canada.  He  re- 
sumed in  time  the  old  affectionate  relations  with  Turnham,  but 
no  word  was  ever  spoken  to  him  of  vote-buying.  The  baron 
was  content  with  legitimate  service  from  him,  and  to  this  day 
falls  into  a  deep  melancholy  when  reminded  of  the  occasion  of 
his  henchman's  victory  over  him. 


52  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  [Oct., 


SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS. 

IN  a  recent  article  in  the  North  American  Review  "  Ouida  " — 
the  most  popular  and  meretricious  of  living  English  novelists- 
brings  the  charge  against  English  fiction  that  it  does  not  describe 
what  she  calls  "  life."  It  is  realistic,  she  admits,  but  its  realism 
is  merely  the  faithfully-depicted  interiors  of  the  country  hall,  the 
vicarage,  or  the  doctor's  house.  "  Ouida  "  thirsts  for  something 
more.  She  wants  the  intrigues  and  the  shameless  double-mean- 
ings of  a  certain  portion  of  English  high  society  put  into  print. 
She  has  tried  to  do  this  herself.  But  she  labors  under  the  dis- 
advantage of  writing  in  a  language  in  which  thought,  according 
to  her  opinion,  is  hypocritically  and  habitually  concealed  ;  there- 
fore she  points  to  the  modern  French  literature  of  fiction  as  the 
realization  of  her  ideal.  She  points  with  admiration  to  the  fact 
that  the  modern  French  novelist  does  not  write  for  young  girls. 
It  is  evident  that  he  writes  for  a  class  of  females  of  whose  exist- 
ence young  girls  are  expected  to  be  ignorant.  M.  Renan,  how- 
ever, regards  French  fiction  in  somewhat  the  same  spirit  in 
which  "  Ouida  "  looks  on  English  fiction.  He  sums  it  up  in  the 
words,  '*  endless  stories  of  middle-class  life." 

The  realism  which  "  Ouida  "  finds  refreshing  does  not  satisfy 
M.  Renan.  Nevertheless  realism  is  the  order  of  the  day — so 
-much  the  order  of  the  day  that  an  appearance  of  reaction  to- 
wards the  romantic  and  preternatural  has  become  visible  of  late. 

The  fashionable  realism  is  not  the  realism  of  fine  art,  but  the 
realism  of  photography.  Here,  Mr.  Howells  has  achieved  it  in 
A  Modern  Instance  and  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham  without  bring- 
ing a  blush  to  the  cheek  of  any  young  person.  Anthony  Trol- 
lope  achieved  it  in  most  of  his  novels.  In  The  Warden  and  Bar- 
chest  er  Towers  he  went  above  the  limits  of  this  soulless  art.  But 
in  all  his  photographs  of  life — many  of  them  are  more  like  faded 
daguerreotypes  now — we  find  none  that  would  satisfy  "  Ouida's  " 
demand  for  the  mention  of  the  unmentionable. 

English  daily  life,  according  to  Trollope,  is  a  stupidly  mate- 
rialistic  life,  in  which  to  be  "  nice  "  and  rich  are  the  best  rewards 
for  the  living  of  it.  The  soul  is  as  utterly  left  out  of  it  as  it  is 
out  of  De  Goncourt  and  Zola's  photographs.  It  is  the  boast  of 
modern  realists  that  they  do  not  recognize  the  soul.  Our  Ame- 
rican realists  do  not  make  this  boast ;  they  simply  leave  out  the 
soul  altogether.  Mr.  Henry  James'  people  have  no  souls. 


1 885.]  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  53 

They  have  nerves — plenty  of  quivering  and  sensitive  nerves, 
always  ready  to  respond  to  petty  emotions  ;  but  as  our  novelists 
have  never  seen  the  soul,  they  leave  it  out  of  their  work. 

English-writing  novelists  give  us  very  good  photographs  of 
life,  choosing,  according  to  "  Ouida's  "  standard,  only  discreetly- 
draped  figures  in  their  landscapes,  though  their  photographs  are 
shadows  of  truth.  From  the  advanced  realistic  point  of  view 
they  are  ridiculously  pure.  It  must  be  admitted  that,  whatever 
be  the  ethical  faults  of  the  modern  American  novel,  it  hardly 
ever  contains  an  allusion  which  may  be  construed,  even  by  the 
most  evil-minded,  to  be  licentious.  The  English  novel  sometimes 
touches  the  line  over  which  the  impatient  "  Ouida"  urges  it  to 
step.  But  decency  is  very  seldom  outraged.  This  reticence  is 
due  to  the  fact  that  the  great  army  of  readers  of  English  novels 
is  made  up  of  young  girls.  The  free  language  of  dissolute  men 
in  gambling  clubs  is  not  reproduced  ;  the  coarseness  of  vice  is 
delicately  touched  up  by  the  photographer  with  water-colors  ; 
and  so,  among  English-speaking  people,  the  novel  lies  near  the 
prayer-book  or  Thomas  a  Kempis  on  the  sitting-room  table,  and 
when  young  girls  take  it  up  it  is  not  torn  from  them  and  thrown 
into  the  fire. 

We  hope  that  the  judicious  Spanish  or  Italian  parent  makes 
bonfires  frequently  of  the  popular  light  literature  which  finds  its 
way  into  his  house.  The  works  of  Seiiores  Galdos  and  Valera 
are  favorites  in  Spain.  It  is  a  sad  commentary  on  Spanish  lite- 
rary progress  that  the  religious  school  of  great  writers,  like  Fer- 
nan  Caballero,  Zorrilla,  and  Antonio  de  Trueba,  should  be  follow- 
ed by  imitators  of  Sand  and  the  De  Goncourts  and  apologists 
for  sensuality  and  heresy. 

If  novels  have  come  to  be  what  comedies  used  to  be — the 
mirrors  of  society — Italian  society,  as  reflected  by  Italian  novel- 
ists, is  in  the  last  stage  of  decadence  and  corruption.  The  novel- 
ists themselves  have  brooded  so  much  over  various  "  isms,"  psy- 
chical, physiological,  and  physical,  and  over  the  novels  of  Zola, 
that  their  morbid  indecency  and  immoral  audacity  might  please 
"  Ouida  "  herself. 

A  search  for  popular  novels  written  in  Italian — for  Manzoni 
first  made  it  possible  to  write  in  Tuscan  and  not  in  dialects,  and 
there  are  now  novels  written  by  Genoese  and  Venetians  in  a  lan- 
guage understood  of  all  Italy — brought  to  light  the  books  of  a 
woman.  She  is  as  well  known  to  novel-readers  in  Italy  as 
"  Ouida  "  is  to  novel-readers  in  America ;  and,  in  proportion,  her 
works  are  read  by  as  many.  She  has  been  named  "  the  little  Ital- 


54 


SOME  XECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  [Oct, 


ian  George  Sand."  She  is  the  leader  of  the  Neapolitan  school 
of  realists,  which,  by  the  way,  has  the  characteristics  of  our  own 
Milwaukee  school  of  poetry.  It  is  sensuous,  sensual,  emotional, 
and  morbid. 

Circumstances  rule  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  this  novelist — 
Matilda  Serao;  they  know  only  a  blind  fate  which  takes  the 
place  of  God.  God  and  the  devil  and  the  soul  went  out  with 
the  old  order  of  things,  and  the  deification  of  human  passions 
and  the  new  dogma  that  no  human  being  can  resist  sin,  if  it 
tempts  him  alluringly,  came  in.  Matilda  Serao  tries  to  teach 
that  what  the  old-fashioned  believers  in  Christianity  call  virtue 
is  a  mere  lack  of  opportunity  or  the  result  of  a  combination  of 
circumstances.  Her  people  do  not  ask,  with  one  of  William 
Black's  heroines,  What  is  the  use  of  temptation,  if  one  doesn't 
yield  to  it?  They  emphatically  assert  it  in  their  lives.  She  ana- 
lyzes every  little  feeling  of  her  characters  with  tedious  minute- 
ness. Mr.  Henry  James  himself  could  not  divide  the  results  of  a 
suppressed  sneeze  on  one  of  his  hero's  nerves  more  fractionally 
than  Matilda  Serao — presumably  Signora — does.  The  mania  for 
microscopic  analysis  of  character  and  emotion  is  found  in  mod- 
ern writers  of  fiction  side  by  side  with  the  cynical  and  pessi- 
mistic philosophy  of  unbelief ;  in  the  works  of  the  Italian  writers 
there  is  evident  an  affectation  of  scientific  physical  knowledge  by 
which  all  phenomena  are  explained.  The  editor  who  first  brought 
Matilda  Serao  before  the  Italian  reading  public  was  De  Zerbi,  a 
journalist  whose  novels  are  elaborately  "  scientific."  Matilda 
Serao,  like  most  of  her  school,  has  not  escaped  the  influence  of 
Darwin,  softened  by  De  Zerbi.  The  moral  tone  of  this  writer, 
of  whom  foreign  critics  say  Italy  ought  to  be  proud,  is  below 
that  of  any  English  female  novelist — even  of  Rhoda  Broughton. 
One  of  her  most  widely-circulated  stories  is  called  The  Virtue  of 
Che  c  china. 

Checchina  is  intended  to  be  a  study  of  the  modern,  emanci- 
pated Italian  woman.  She  has  no  scruple  about  vice,  except  the 
slight  fear — which  the  members  of  a  more  scientific  and  progres- 
sive society  will  soon  laugh  away — that  she  may  be  found  out. 
Following  the  effete  traditions  that  enslaved  Italy  before  Gari- 
baldi et  aL  liberated  it,  Checchina  had  foolishly  bound  herself  in 
marriage  to  a  poor  Roman  doctor.  A  certain  Marchese  d'Ara- 
gona  dines  with  her  husband.  Pleased  with  her,  and  knowing 
the  character  of  the  scientific  and  liberated  Italian  women,  he 
hints  that  he  is  a  much  richer  man  than  her  husband,  and  that  it 
would  be  to  her  advantage  to  change  her  abode.  She  thinks 


1885.]  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  55 

about  it.  She  weighs  the  pros  and  cons  in  a  "  scientific  "  way. 
None  of  the  scruples  which  the  novelists  of  the  past,  believing  in 
Christianity,  would  have  put  into  his  heroine's  mind  trouble 
this  enlightened  woman.  Finally,  assisted  by  an  invitation  in 
writing  from  the  marchese,  she  concludes  to  change.  But  she 
finds  a  porter  in  the  door  of  the  marchese's  house.  She  feels  the 
awkwardness  of  the  position,  for  the  porter  may  have  the  preju- 
dice in  favor  of  virtue  formerly  entertained  by  society  and  still 
held  by  ultramontanes.  Checchina  does  not  like  to  go  in.  She 
passes  the  door  twice.  The  porter  is  still  there.  She  is  asham- 
ed to  enter  and  she  goes  home.  Thus  "  virtue  "  conquers  ! 

The  writer  tries  hard  to  be  natural,  but  she  succeeds  in  what 
the  assthetes  in  Punch  used  to  call  "  intensity."  She  is  often 
coarse  and  sometimes  clever.  She  has  talent,  which  she  misuses 
in  the  interest  of  that  handmaid  of  the  devil — modern  realism. 
She  is  fond  of  what  her  admirers  call  physiological  studies.  One 
of  these  is  called  Fantasia.  It  has  had  a  great  success.  It  is  the 
story  of  a  woman  called  Lucia,  who  is  worthy  of  the  most  scrofu- 
lous of  the  French  realists.  The  only  substitute  for  religion  in 
this  novel  is  a  kind  of  spiritistic  superstition  ;  and  this,  next  to  the 
morbid  sensuality  of  it,  is  saddening  and  disheartening.  What 
hope  is  there  for  readers  of  books  like  Fantasia,  who  turn  from 
the  pure  model  of  Manzoni  to  plunge  into  the  fetid  air  of  dis- 
secting-rooms and  the  enjoyment  of  "  realism  "  which  might  be 
the  dream  of  a  morphine  drunkard  ?  The  literary  father  of 
Matilda  Serao  seems  to  have  been  Flaubert.  Not  having  read 
his  Madame  Bovary,  we  take  the  statement  of  an  Italian  critic, 
Giovanni  Boglietti,  that  Fantasia  is  an  imitation  of  that  French 
novel.  It  is  one  of  the  worst  examples  of  that  progressive  Italian 
school  which  some  critics  are  hailing  as  the  happy  first-fruit  of 
"regenerated  Italy." 

Lucia  and  Catarina  are  pupils  in  a  Neapolitan  convent-school. 
Lucia  is  a  thoroughly  "  progressive  "  creature.  She  longs  to  find 
all  the  harmonies  of  the  universe  most  congenial  to  her  nature. 
She  is  all  nerves — one  of  the  heartless,  soulless,  feverish  worship- 
pers of  Venus  taken  from  the  French  stage  and  transplanted  to 
Italian  soil ;  a  creature  whose  idea  of  heaven  is  partly  the  Mo- 
hammedan idea  and  partly  that  of  the  victim  of  opium,  whose 
idea  of  hell  is  the  absence  of  excitement.  No  doubt  such  women 
exist  like  gorgeously-colored  fungi  on  the  rotting  trunk  of  an 
irreligious  civilization,  but  they  are  probably  more  often  met 
with  in  the  literature  of  fiction  than  in  real  life. 

Catarina  is  represented  as  a  simple  and  confiding  girl.     She 


56  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  [Oct., 

adores  her  friend's  mock-heroics,  and  when  the  latter  tries  to 
commit  suicide  she  interferes  to  save  her.  Lucia  then  breaks 
her  rosary  of  lapis-lazuli  and  gives  part  of  it  to  her  friend.  Ca- 
tarina  and  she  promise  to  be  faithful  unto  death.  The  adroit 
Signora  Serao  makes  a  great  deal  out  of  this  school-girl  promise. 
The  fantastical  Lucia  leaves  school,  and  later  we  find  her  and 
her  friend  again  together.  Catarina  has  married  Andrea,  a 
healthy,  genial,  honest  man,  with  no  sympathy  with  Lucia's  ego- 
tistical ranting.  He  jeers  privately  at  her  affectation  of  peculiar 
mysticism.  Catarina  resolves  to  make  her  husband  and  her 
friend  like  each  other.  She  succeeds  only  too  well.  Lucia  fas- 
cinates Andrea,  deceives  his  wife,  and  writes  this  charming  para- 
graph to  her  friend  of  the  lapis-lazuli : 

"  My  father  would  not  consent  to  my  becoming  a  nun,  although  I  de- 
sired it.  I  prayed  to  God,  and  one  day,  like  St.  Paul  upon  the  road  to 
Damascus,  a  light  dazzled  me.  The  voice  of  the  Lord  spoke  to  me  : 
•There  is  close  by  thee  a  sacrifice  to  be  made,  a  work  'for  thee  to  accom- 
plish. Thy  cousin,  Alberto  Sanna,  loves  thee.  He  is  half-dead  of  consump- 
tion. Marry  him  ;  you  will  be  his  sister  of  charity." 

Lucia,  after  her  sacrifice  to  this  exalted  duty,  takes  her  hus- 
band to  visit  her  friends,  Andrea  ^and  Catarina.  Catarina,  who 
is  very  domestic,  devotes  herself  entirely  to  the  comfort  of  Al- 
berto, who  is  an  invalid  wrapped  up  in  himself.  The  "  slave  of 
duty,"  Lucia  devotes  herself  to  Andrea,  and  suddenly  elopes  with 
him.  She  leaves  a  note  for  Catarina.  What  could  she  do  ?  she 
asks;  how  could  she  resist  her  fate?  She  takes  off  with  her 
an  image  of  the  Madonna,  which  she  holds  fast  to  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, and  which  she  regards  without  any  religious  feeling. 

Catarina,  so  good,  so  devoted,  so  confiding,  sees  Alberto  die 
comfortably,  and,  crushed  by  circumstances,  does  not  resist  her 
fate.  She  recalls  her  vow  to  Lucia.  She  promised  to  die  for 
her  happiness,  if  necessary.  There  is  no  religion  in  the  world  that 
Signora  Serao  creates.  As  an  example  of  what  the  world  would 
be  in  a  time  of  "  perfect  progress  "  Signora  Serao's  Fantasia  is  as 
horrible  as  it  is  instructive.  Catarina  arranges  her  household 
affairs.  She  shuts  herself  into  a  room  with  a  pan  of  charcoal,  and, 
clasping  the  lapis-lazuli  rosary,  she  dies,  suffocated,  true  to  her 
school-girl  friendship.  Nobody  could  help  it  all.  "  In  my  time," 
says  one  of  the  personages  in  a  play  of  Augier — "  in  my  time  we 
had  God !  " 

In  Signora  Serao's  time  they  do  not  have  God.  They  have 
fate,  which  is  one  word  for  the  flesh  and  the  devil.  English  crit- 
ics have  treated  Signora  Serao's  Fantasia  very  leniently.  A 
writer  in  Blackwood's  Magazine  recently  said  of  it :  "  The  whole 


1885.]  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  57 

book  is  written  with  great  care,  fine  psychological  perception 
and  poetic  intuition,  and  is  faithful  to  nature  even  in  those  por- 
tions in  which  the  writer  brings  a  morbid  complacency  to  bear 
upon  the  descriptions  of  sensual  gratifications/' 

This  is  a  damning  verdict  from  a  complacent  critic.  It  might 
be  used  to  show  that  the  Italian  femme-auteur  does  not  differ 
from  the  French  femme-auteur,  and  that  the  English  femme-auteur 
of  the  "  Ouida  "  and  Broughton  kind  is  prevented  only  by  the 
"  hypocrisy  "  of  the  English  language  from  going  as  deep  into 
the  morbid  imaginings  of  corrupt  minds  as  either  of  her  sisters. 
Another  "  great "  novel  of  Signora  Serao  is  Cuore  Infermo.  It  is 
unhealthy,  noisome,  intense,  and  physiological — above  all,  phy- 
siological. The  heroine  is  the  Duchessa  di  Sangiorgio,  who,  of 
course,  does  not  love  her  husband.  If  there  were  no  connection 
"  between  the  physical  and  moral  heart  "  she  would  love  ;  but,  as 
she  has  inherited  heart-disease  from  her  mother,  she  hesitates  to 
put  her  life  in  danger  by  unduly  exciting  her  heart.  She  dis- 
covers, to  her  horror,  that,  after  having  made  a  marriage  of  rea- 
son, her  husband  actually  adores  her.  Signora  Serao  excites  the 
sympathy  of  her  readers  for  the  afflicted  woman.  The  duchessa 
tells  her  husband  that  she  must  not  be  agitated.  Since  he  loves 
her,  they  must  live  apart.  Marcello,  her  husband,  still  insists  on 
loving  her.  Beatrice — her  name  is  Beatrice — has  no  understand- 
ing of  any  duty  to  her  husband.  Her  duty  is  to  her  heart.  She 
naturally  feels  that  her  husband  has  behaved  very  badly  in  mar- 
rying the  woman  he  loves.  In  the  society  depicted  by  the  author 
of  Cuore  Infermo  this  is  really  the  only  unpardonable  sin.  Mar- 
cello,  however,  makes  her  love  him.  In  the  olden  times,  before 
Italian  progress  was  glorified,  Beatrice's  confessor  would  have 
had  something  to  say  about  the  duty  of  a  wife.  But  that  has 
been  changed ;  Beatrice  astonishes  Marcello,  who  has  found  con- 
solation in  the  society  of  other  ladies  less  careful  of  their  hearts, 
by  appearing  to  him  in  her  wedding-dress.  "  I  am  thy  wife,"  she 
says  ;  "  I  have  on  my  white  dress  ;  I  love  thee."  But  she  is  pun- 
ished for  loving  her  husband  and  breaking  the  rules  of  realistic 
life  in  this  school  of  fiction.  Her  heart  avenges  itself.  "  The 
physical  and  psychic  heart  fought  a  battle,"  to  use  Signora  Serao's 
words,  and  the  psychic  heart  triumphed.  Beatrice  died,  and  the 
reader  is  expected  to  curse  fate  and  weep  over  a  maudlin  and 
sentimental  episode  which  could  only  have  occurred  because  of 
selfishness  and  disregard  of  duty  on  the  part  of  the  heroine. 

Another  naturalistic  novelist  who  counts  many  readers  is  the 
Sicilian,  Verga.  Verga  has  a  theory,  like  most  of  these  novelists 
of  "progress,"  who  do  not  tell  a  story  for  the  love  of  it,  but  who 


58  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  [Oct., 

are  propagandists  and  preachers  of  materialism.  Verga  holds 
that  materialism  is  at  the  root  of  modern  civilization.  Art,  he 
says,  is  the  luxury  of  the  rich  and  of  the  idle.  The  idle  in  Italy 
are  not  necessarily  rich.  There  are  several  thousand  titled 
young  men  in  Italy  who  are  too  proud  to  beg  and  too  honest  to 
steal.  The  prevalence  of  baccarat  at  the  clubs  under  the  rule  of 
the  Quirinal  opens  new  pitfalls;  when  the  popes  ruled  Rome 
games  of  chance  were  forbidden  in  the  resorts  of  the  young  no- 
bility. Verga  writes  for  the  new  Italian  society,  for  the  rich  or 
the  idle,  for  the  new  men  of  commerce  who  work  that  they  may 
enjoy  animal  pleasures.  These  pleasures,  Verga  teaches,  are  the 
Alpha  and  Omega  of  civilization.  He  does  not  say  that  this 
ought  to  be  so,  but  he  insists  that  it  is  so,  and  draws  his  pictures 
accordingly.  Like  Matilda  Serao,  his  novels  are  hopeless  and 
pessimistic. 

Signora  Serao  is  about  thirty-five  years  of  age ;  Verga,  who 
was  born  in  Catania,  is  about  six  years  older.  It  would  be  hard 
to  find  more  trash,  and  vicious  trash,  than  in  his  Tigre  Reale  and 
other  stories  like  it.  His  Sicilian  novels  have  been  declared 
equal  to  Bret  Harte's  in  some  qualities  ;  the  critic  who  ventured 
this  assertion  did  not  deign  to  mention  the  qualities.  He  is  a 
lineal  descendant  of  Theocritus,  and  has  the  love  of  that  exquisite 
singer  of  idyls  for  the  life  of  herdsmen  and  tillers  of  the  soil. 
Malaria  and  Nedda  are  well-known  stories  in  his  pastoral  manner. 

In  Liberia  he  gives  a  picture  of  the  wretchedness  of  the  Ital- 
ian peasants  under  the  new  rule  which  Mazzini  and  Garibaldi 
claimed  for  the  people.  The  peasants,  in  Liberia,  fought  for  the 
boon  promised  by  the  Revolutionists  ;  but  it  did  not  bring  them 
meat,  wine,  or  bread.  Verga's  /  Malavoglia>  a  social  study  of  pro- 
vincial life,  has  been  compared  with  the  great  I  Promessi  Sposi.  I 
Malavoglia — the  name  of  a  family — is  an  analysis  of  the  restless 
discontent,  born  of  doubt  and  materialism,  which  makes  "  pro- 
gress." Verga  tells  us  that  "  progress,"  as  a  whole,  is  a  magnifi- 
cent thing.  But  there  are  some  who  are  crushed  in  the  race  for 
it.  He  describes  the  brutality  of  the  conquerors,  the  wretched- 
ness of  those  who  have  failed.  The  heroes  of  the  book  have  been 
infected  by  the  prevalent  diseases — the  wish  to  become  rich  with- 
out exertion,  and  the  feverish  desire  to  rise  above  their  fathers 
that  they  may  eat  the  fruits  of  luxury.  The  rich  have  fine  wines, 
white  bread,  and  flesh-meat  every  day,  says  Verga's  young  fisher- 
man; life  is  not  worth  living  unless  I  can  have  these  things. 
Verga  announces  that  he  does  not  point  a  moral  or  even  adorn  a 
tale.  He  observes  and  depicts ;  he  says  that  he  has  no  right  to 
judge  or  to  criticise  the  spectacle  before  him.  He  pretends  to 


1885.]  SO  ME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  59 

be  a  dispassionate  observer,  but  his  bias  is  always  towards  the 
materialistic  side. 

De  Zerbi,  a  Neapolitan,  like  Matilda  Serao,  and  a  fashionable 
novelist,  is  highly  thought  of  by  the  Italians  who  delight  in 
superficial  science.  A  late  novel  of  his  is  L }  Avvelenatrice.  The 
Poisoner  is  a  Darwinian  romance.  This  phrase  seems  like  a  para- 
dox ;  it  is  not :  romance  and  hypothesis  are  not  really  so  far 
apart.  Tout  passe p,  tout  lasse,  tout  casse,  is  De  Zerbi's  motto.  Peo- 
ple are  made  up  of  atoms ;  given  certain  conditions,  and  the 
atoms  will  certainly  take  certain  positions,  which  the  scientific  and 
Darwinian  observer  can  infallibly  forecast.  If  people  are  bad — 
although  De  Zerbi,  strictly  speaking,  does  not  acknowledge  the 
existence  of  goodness  or  badness — it  is  because  nature  wills  it. 
Human  nature  is  a  kaleidoscope.  Circumstances — or  fate — holds 
it.  It  is  turned,  and  behold  !  you  have  a  combination,  which 
may  be  good  or  bad  according  to  the  law  of  change.  Evolution 
is  immutable ;  evolution  obliges  human  nature,  under  certain  con- 
ditions, to  sin — as  the  Clericals  call  a  certain  unhelpable  combina- 
tion. This  is  the  philosophy  of  De  Zerbi.  Fuchsia,  in-  L  Avve- 
lenatrice, has  chemical  germs  in  her  nature  which  her  husband, 
who  is  "  scientific,"  wants  to  develop.  He  does  so  by  letting 
her  participate  in  all  the  excitements  of  gay  society. 

Giovanni  Boglietti,  an  Italian  critic  not  blinded  by  the  sickly 
glare  of  the  sensualists  who  cover  their  corruption  with  the 
rhetoric  of  "  science,"  says  of  L  Avvelenatrice :  u  The  truth  is 
that,  so  far  from  being  a  scientific  work  at  all,  it  is  the  merest 
work  of  imagination.  Its  people  are  nothing  but  vapor,  flesh- 
less,  bloodless,  bodiless." 

Boglietti  is  inclined  to  consider  De  Zerbi  brilliant.  It  is  hard 
to  look  at  this  novelist  from  his  point  of  view,  and  therefore  we 
are  unable  to  discover -why  he  is  held  to  be  brilliant.  He  pos- 
sesses all  the  nastiness  of  Matilda  Serao  and  more,  without  her 
talent  or  anything  approaching  the  talent  of  Verga. 

A  master  of  sensuous  word-painting  is  Gabriele  d'Annunzio — • 
a  Neapolitan  and  a  painter  of  animals,  like  Matilda  Serao,  Verga, 
and  De  Zerbi.  He  makes  the  fourth  of  the  novelists  most  widely 
read  in  Italy.  He  resembles  Zola.  He  delights  in  showing  how 
brutal  men  may  seem  when  their  souls  are  forgotten.  He  wal- 
lows in  filth.  He  reduces  his  characters  to  sensuous  idiocy  and 
surrounds  them  with  nightingales  whose  marvellous  notes  float 
afar  over  azure  seas  and  beneath  skies  of  lapis-lazuli  gilded  with 
a  softly-glowing  sun.  He  is  a  dangerous  apostle  of  voluptuous 
animalism. 

Naples  is  unfortunate  in  having  produced  writers  whose  self- 


60  SOME  RECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  [Oct., 

imposed  mission  is  to  make  their  countrymen  hopeless,  sensual, 
morbid.  The  "  progressive  "  world  considers  her  fortunate  be- 
cause they  are  read  and  praised. 

It  is  pleasant  to  turn  to  Salvatore  Farina,  the  chronicler  of 
domestic  life,  whose  name  is  making  itself  known  abroad.  His 
short  stories,  delicate,  humorous,  a'rtistic,  and  natural,  but  not 
naturalistic,  are  charming.  //  Signor  lo,  a  delightful  study,  will 
one  day  make  him  famous.  It  recalls  Mr.  Marion  Crawford's 
Roman  Singer,  although  the  latter  is  an  excellent  imitation  of  the 
Roman  dialect,  while  the  former  is  Tuscan  speech  in  a  Sardinian 
mouth. 

Farina  was  born  at  Sorso,  in  Sardinia,  in  1846.  He  married 
happily.  He  at  first  attempted  to  imitate  the  worst  class  of 
highly-wrought  French  romances,  but  happily,  through  his  wife, 
he  found  his  metier.  His  Tesoro  di  Donnina  was  brought  out  in 
1873.  It  was  a  promise  of  better  things  which  has  been  steadily 
kept  until  the  latest,  Corporal  Silvestro,  appeared.  Farina  is  nei- 
ther naturalistic  nor  sensational ;  he  does  not  paint  hideous  things  ; 
he  is  in  love  with  beauty,  the  serene  beauty  of  peaceful  life.  On 
this  he  likes  to  dwell.  His  material,  taken  from  real  life,  gets  the 
color  of  his  mind.  And  a  joyous,  pleasant  mind  it  is,  if  one  may 
judge  of  it  by  the  delicious  and  naive  Mio  Figlio. 

Corporal  Silvestro  is  not  read  by  Italians  who  adore  the  An- 
teros  of  the  Neapolitan  school.  It  is  too  fresh  and  pure  for 
them — too  much  like  the  every-day  life  of  honest  people  in  the 
open  air.  They  want  the  scent  of  noxious  drugs  and  the  gleam 
of  absinthe.  Farina  does  not  give  these.  His  husbands  and 
wives  are  always  true,  although  in  one  of  his  novels,  Amore  Ben- 
dato,  a  tempter  is  introduced,  but  the* reader  is  not  led  to  suppose 
that  Ernesta,  the  wife,  although  her  husband  neglects  her  for  his 
clubs,  will  for  a  moment  forget  her  duty  or  be  led  away  by  the 
cynical  and  infidel  talk  of  Agenore.  Agenore  in  the  hands  of  De 
Zerbi  would  probably  have  committed  suicide  under  the  most  re- 
pulsive circumstances  that  the  novelist  could  evolve  from  his 
scientific  inner  consciousness.  Ernesta,  too,  who  has  longed  for 
the  attention  which  her  husband  pays  to  his  bachelor  suppers, 
and  listened  with  amusement  and  curiosity  to  Agenore's  plati- 
tudes of  "  progress,"  would  have  been  killed  by  remorse  for  hav- 
ing been  virtuous.  Altogether  Italian  literature  would  have 
been  enriched  by  one  of  those  studies  like  the  Fidelia  of  Colantti, 
another  naturalistic  star.  Of  this  book  a  friend  whose  literary 
duty  as  critic  compelled  him  to  read  it  said  :  "  You  notice  I  always 
smoke  a  great  many  cigars  when  I  have  to  read  such  books  as 
these  ?  It  is  to  kill  the  stench  of  the  dissecting-room." 


1885.]  SOME  XECENT  ITALIAN  NOVELS.  61 

Farina's  art  is  healthy.  His  books  would  not  please  "  Ouida  "  ; 
they  are  without  violence  or  sensuality.  He  is  poetical,  with,  at 
the  same  time,  a  gentle  irony.  One  turns  in  delight  from  the 
horrible  pessimism  of  Verga  to  the  delicious  humor  and  the 
careful  and  artistic  strength  of  Farina,  who  recognizes  duty. 

Farina,  like  the  Venetian  Castelnuovo,  protests  against  the 
"  sensuous  quarter  of  an  hour*'  that  the  mockers  of  God  enjoy. 
These  two  are  not  religious  novelists ;  but  their  very  faults  seem 
like  virtues  in  comparison  with  the  bestialities  of  their  successful 
rivals — the  "  animalists."  Signer  Boglietti,  in  a  recent  article, 
gives  a  graphic  sketch  of  Farina's  delightful  Corporal  Silvestro. 
Here  it  is : 

"  Corporal  Silvestro  is  a  retired  fencing-master.  He  and  his  wife  Lucia 
have  a  little  house  on  the  coast  near  Genoa,  and  they  sell  it  to  a  certain 
Dr.  Massimo  for  a  fixed  pension  of  a  few  pounds  per  month — which,  to 
them,  means  ease,  not  to  say  opulence.  Apart  from  the  many  charming 
pictures,  delightfully  fresh  and  vivid,  which  embellish  the  book,  the  in- 
terest of  the  story  lies  in  the  contrast  between  the  feelings  and  interests  of 
the  doctor,  who,  though  not  a  bad  fellow  at  bottom,  naturally  does  not 
expect  his  pensioners  to  live  unnecessarily  long,  and  those  of  the  lively 
and  cheerful  old  couple,  now  quit  of  all  care  and  able  to  live  on  a  more 
liberal  scale  than  heretofore,  who  go  on  growing  haler  and  heartier  than 
ever,  and  bid  fair  to  last  out  a  good  many  prosperous  years.  It  is  even 
worse  than  this,  for  as  they  grow  better  the  doctor  grows  worse  ;  and  as 
the  two  parties  live  in  close  proximity,  the  state  of  the  case  becomes  abso- 
lutely obtrusive.  The  good  old  people  get  positively  uncomfortable  at 
being  so  well  ;  they  would  be  glad  to  disappoint  the  doctor's  just  expecta- 
tions a  little  less  roundly,  to  look  just  a  little  infirm  ;  while  the  sickly  doc- 
tor, considerably  3'ounger  than  themselves,  feels  something  like  a  personal 
taunt  in  the  irrepressibly  buoyant  health  of  his  pensioners.  The  intrinsic 
whimsicality  of  the  situation — the  irony  of  fate  in  thus  upsetting  the  well- 
founded  calculations  of  the  doctor — is  brought  out  by  the  author  in  the 
most  natural  and  amusing  way.  Nevertheless,  the  story  is  not  simply 
humorous.  It  has  an  element  of  pathos." 

There  are  other  novelists  in  Italy,  good,  bad,  and  indifferent. 
We  have  tried  to  give  a  sketch  of  the  tendency  of  the  novels 
most  in  vogue.  For  the  present  in  Italy,  as  in  other  countries 
once  Christian,  the  literature  of  hopelessness,  of  unbelief,  of 
materialism  has  its  day.  It  is  almost  a  misnomer  to  speak  of 
"  Italian"  novels.  There  is  nothing  Italian  in  Italy.  There  is 
yet  no  Italian  language,  in  spite  of  Manzoni.  There  is  Tuscan 
and  Genoese  and  a  dozen  dialects.  These  the  novelist,  each  ac- 
cording to  his  own,  strives  to  weave  into  Italian  with  the  help  of 
the  dictionary  of  Fanfani.  A  writer  in  Blackwood's  Magazine, 
who  is  rather  too  complacent  to  the  pseudo-realistic  school  of 


62  SONNETS.  [Oct., 

fiction  in   Italy,  says  of  Farina  that  he  may  .be  regarded  as  the 
lineal  descendant  in  Apollo  of  Manzoni. 

It  is  too  true  that  in  Italy  the  devil  seems  to  have  possessed 
the  cleverest  writers.  But  there  is  hope  that  the  taste  fostered 
by  Farina  may  lead  to  a  reaction — perhaps  a  Catholic  reaction — 
in  literature  after  the  "  sensuous  quarter  of  an  hour  "  has  passed. 


SONNETS. 


WHY  should  we  fear  that  Death  whose  kingly  power 

Will  make  us  brethren  with  those  great  of  old 

Whose  thoughts  and  deeds  are  time's  most  valued  dower, 

Whose  names  are  with  Eternity  enrolled  ? 

Him,  Wisdom's  prince,  who  made  his  dying  hour 

God-like  by  his  great  virtue  ;  him,  of  mould 

More  than  heroic,  who  in  th'  immortal  Pass 

Gave  his  high  soul  to  Heaven  ;  him  who  was 

The  last,  the  brightest,  purest  star  of  all 

That  o'er  their  falling  country  shone  divine, 

And  made  its  ruin  splendid — Hannibal ; 

And  many  more  whose  names  it  is  not  mine 

To  tell  aright,  whose  noble  virtues  died 

In  unknown  graves,  or  live  to  be  belied. 

II. 

Why  should  we  fear  thee,  Death  ?     Yet  though  I  long, 

With  rev'rent  yearning,  to  behold  their  face 

Whose  names  the  world's  philosophy  and  song 

Have  turn'd  to  holiest  altars  for  their  race, 

Yet  rather  should  I  see  the  face  of  Him 

Who  o'er  Judaea's  plains  with  feet  unshod, 

Veiling  a  light  that  awed  the  cherubim, 

For  man's  dear  sake  'mid  thorns  and  thistles  trod ; 

And  rather  than  the  hero's  battle-cry, 

Grand  though  it  be,  I'd  hear  the  voice  that  gave 

Mercy  to  her  who  wept  so  lovingly 

At  His  bruised  feet,  and  from  out  the  grave 

Call'd  forth  the  four  days'  dead,  that  He  might  prove 

The  power  and  grace  of  God's  redeeming  love. 


1885.]  SOLI  TAR  y'  ISLAND.  63 


SOLITARY  ISLAND. 

PART  THIRD. 
CHAPTER  XIII. 

Ontario. 

FATHER  AND   SON. 

NOWHERE  as  in  quiet  Clayburg  did  the  coming-  election 
excite  such  interest  that  fall.  In  the  various  parts  of  the  State 
the  Democracy  was  considered  to  have  it  pretty  much  its  own 
way,  and  such  doubts  of  Florian's  success  as  were  expressed 
were  of  a  shady  and  disreputable  kind  and  rarely  took  an  in- 
jurious form.  Clayburg,  however,  was  enthusiastic.  Florian's 
anti-Catholic  utterances  had  been  extensively  circulated  by  the 
squire,  much  to  the  candidate's  advantage.  Mr.  Buck  was  used 
as  a  living  illustration  of  his  liberal  ideas  on  the  subject  of  reli- 
gion, and  the  fact  of  his  being  a  Clayburg  boy  was  strenuously 
insisted  on. 

"  I  tell  you,"  said  the  squire  to  Ruth,  "  ten  years  make  a  big 
change  in  a  man.  You  ought  to  see  Pere  Rougevin  grin  when 
he  read  Florian's  letters,  and  snort  as  he  took  in  the  meaning. 
'  That  man,'  says  he,  *  would  sell  his  soul  for  a  big  place.'  *  All 
talk,  pere,'  says  I  ;  '  he's  got  sense  and  liberality  now,  which  he 
hadn't  before.  The  boy  is  sharp  for  the  main  chance,  and  he's  just 
as  good  a  Catholic  as  you  are.'  '  Oh  !  '  says  the  pere,  '  no  one 
should  be  afraid  to  vote  for  him  on  account  of  his  religion.  He's 
a  Catholic,  of  course,  but  he  is  a  greater  thorn  in  our  side  than  if 
he  were  an  out-and-out  Protestant.'  Do  you  know,  Ruth,  I  was 
prouder  to  hear  him  say  that,  under  the  very  noses  of  Hubbard 
and  Simmons  and  those  fellows,  than  if  I  was  governor  myself. 
It  just  floored  them.  And  the  pere  was  so  worked  up  against 
him  that  it  was  as  good  as  an  argument." 

"  The  pere  was  right,"  Ruth  said,  flushing.  "  Florian  is  a 
Catholic  at  heart,  but  he  would  sell  his  soul  for  place.  He  will 
not  be  a  Catholic  much  longer." 

"  Of  course  you  must  side  with  Pere  Rougevin.  That's 
natural.  You  belong  to  his  church,  and  his  word  is  law.  I've 
seen  the  day,  Ruth,  when  it  would  take  a  good  deal  to  make  you 
turn  on  Florian." 

"  That  was  at  a  time,"  said  Ruth  slyly,  "  when  it  would  have 


64  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  {Oct., 

taken  more  to  make  Florian  turn  on  his  own  as  he  did  in  that 
last  open  letter.  As  you  say,  ten  years  make  a  great  change  in  a 
man." 

"  And  just  as  much  in  a  woman.  You've  swung  round  con- 
siderably, Ruth — gone  back  completely  on  your  training." 

"  There  isn't  as  much  expected  of  a  woman,  papa.  Men  say 
we  are  naturally  fickle.  Miss  Standage  said  the  other  day  she 
hadn't  a  doubt  but  I'd  swing  another  way  in  ten  years  more." 

"  Miss  Standage  be  hanged  !  If  I  was  her  papa  I'd  padlock 
her  tongue.  Anyhow,  shell  not  live  to  see  you  change,  and  I'll 
tell  her  so  the  next  time  I  meet  her." 

The  squire  was  assorting  the  morning  mail,  and  he  came 
across  a  New  York  postmark. 

"  Now,  who  can  that  be  from  ?"  he  said.  "  I  don't  know  that 
I  ever  saw  that  handwriting  before." 

Ruth  suggested  that  he  should  open  it.  He  did,  and  read  the 
name  subscribed  with  a  shout. 

"  Carter,  by  all  that's  amiable !  Wants  another  invitation,  I 
suppose."  And  he  tossed  the  letter  aside,  while  Ruth  blushed  furi- 
ously. The  squire  looked  at  her,  puzzled.  "  That  reminds  me, 
Ruth.  Did  that  young  fellow  ever  turn  up  that  you  were  look- 
ing for?  I  kept  a  sharp  lookout  for  him,  but  never  heard  of  any 
strangers  in  the  vicinity." 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  of  him,"  said  Ruth  faintly. 

"  Now,  this  letter,"  said  the  squire,  taking  up  Peter's  epistle, 
"  might  have  something  about  him.  It's  pretty  short  for  a 
spouter  like  him  to  write  :  *  Dear  Squire  '  (just  so;  we're  deeply 
in  love  with  each  other),  '  I  have  the  honor  to  announce  my  suc- 
cess in  breaking  off  the  match  between  Florian  and  Frances.' 
Ha  !  ha  !  he's  at  that  business  yet." 

Ruth  trembled  with  apprehension. 

"  '  It's  a  clean  break/  "  the  squire  continued  to  read,  "  '  and  I'm 
proud  of  it ;  but  I'm  sorry,  too,  for  I  let  the  blackguard  off  too 
easily.  The  divine  Barbara  had  a  hand  in  the  game.  But  for 
her  I  don't  think  it  would  have  been  such  a  success.  She  want- 
ed him  pretty  bad,  and  I  hear  they  are  going  to  make  a  match  of 
it.  She  has  tight  hold  of  him,  anyhow,  and  a  worse  pair  never 
walked.  So  the  thing  is  done  at  last,  and  I've  kept  my  word 
almost  to  the  letter.  Of  course  he  will  not  marry  your  daughter, 
but  since  he  marries  a  Clayburg  girl  it's  the  next  best  thing. 
What  do  you  think?'" 

The  squire  said  "  um  "  two  or  three  times  after  reading  this 
remarkable  bit  of  news,  looked  it  over  once  or  twice  in  a  dazed 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  65 

sort  of  way,  and  then  walked  around  the  house  to  the  stable, 
where  he  could  indulge  in  such  liberty  of  expression  as  was  con- 
sistent with  his  feelings.  He  found  Billy  there,  and  sat  down  in 
front  of  him  with  a  face  of  such  awe  and  astonishment  that  the 
old  gentleman  trembled  involuntarily. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  the  squire  slowly  and  in  an  impres- 
sive tone,  "  Harry  Spelman's  daughter — old  Harry,  who  always 
forgot  a  story  before  he  got  to  the  end  of  it,  and  earned  his  liv- 
ing by — " 

"  Pshaw,  man  !  "  Billy  interrupted,  "  I  can  go  back  further 
than  that.  He  never  earned  an  honest  penny,  the  divil !  It  was 
cheat  from  night  till  morn  with  him.  Why,  I  mind — " 

"  Just  so,"  the  squire  said.  "  You  mind  his  girl — a  bold,  pret- 
ty piece  that  married  a  fellow  from  Brooklyn  ?  " 

"  Pretty  !     There  wasn't  any  prettiness  about  her." 

"  Not  then,  but  afterwards  she  got  to  be  the  prettiest  woman 
in  Brooklyn.  Billy,  you're  her  father-in-law ;  you've  got  the 
whole  Spelman  tribe  into  your  family.  She's  nabbed  Florian, 
and  they  are  to  be  married,  let  us  say  to-morrow." 

But  Billy  would  not  believe  this  misfortune  until  he  was 
taken  to  the  veranda  and  shown  the  letter,  which  Ruth,  with 
moistened  eyes,  was  studying.  As  usual,  he  tore  his  hair  until 
occurred  to  him  the  consoling  thought  that  Florian  was  not  his 
son. 

"  Let  him  go  on,"  said  Billy  ;  "  I  don't  care." 

"  I  can't  get  over  it,"  said  the  squire,  still  dazed.  "  It's  worse 
than  sunstroke.  She  was  always  so  smart,  I  know,  and  so  deep ; 
but  I  had  an  idea  Flory  was  deeper  and  smarter.  We  mustn't 
let  this  get  round  the  town ;  it  would  ruin  the  boy's  chances  in 
this  county.  O  that  smiling,  darned  Barbara!  She  turned 
Catholic  just  to  snare  him,  and  she's  got  him,  she's  got  him  !  I 
tell  you,  Billy,  she's  got  him  body  and  soul,  for  that's  her  way." 

Ruth  had  slipped  away  sick  at  heart  and  ran  out  into  the 
open  air.  She  saw  very  clearly  the  meaning  of  Fiorian's  new 
alliance  and  his  reason  for  rejecting  Frances,  and  her  heart  was 
filled  with  a  sort  of  loathing  for  the  man  who  could  play  so  poor 
and  shabby  a  part.  Against  Barbara  her  soul  rose  up  in  horror. 
She  dared  not  think  of  her  at  all,  and  turned  her  thoughts  upon 
the  sweet,  gentle,  and  pious  woman  who  had  been  made  the 
victim  of  this  unscrupulous  pair.  The  day,  though  cold,  was 
clear  and  beautiful.  There  was  a  soft  murmur  from  the  long 
beach  where  she  stood,  and  the  shores  all  about  were  aflame  with 
the  colors  of  autumn.  A  single  canoe  was  visible. on  the  bay, 
VOL.  XLII.— 5 


66  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

and   she   recognized   as   its   occupant   Scott,  the  solitary.     She 
waved  her  hand  to  him,  and  he  came  ashore. 

"  I  have  news  for  you,  Scott.  Florian  is  to  be  married  to  Bar- 
bara Merrion." 

The  hermit  looked  unusually  old  and  worn  as- he  stood  beside 
her  in  his  averted,  slouching  manner,  and  there  were  deep  lines 
of  care  or  age  on  his  brown  face  which  had  escaped  her  observa- 
tion. He  received  her  information  with  his  ordinary  indiffer- 
ence. 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  he  quietly,  and  waited  silently  for  her  to 
speak  again. 

"  You  are  looking  old,"  she  ventured  to  say  in  sympathy. 

"  I  am  old,"  he  replied  curtly,  and  started  when  a  swallow  .flew 
close  to  his  face  with  a  sudden  whirr  of  its  wings. 

"  Have  you  lost  all  interest  in  Florian?"  she  said,  nettled  by 
his  manner. 

"  He  has  lost  so  much  interest  in  that  part  of  him  which  I 
best  liked,"  he  answered  gently,  "  that  I  can  see  no  use  in  think- 
ing or  talking  about  him.  I  suppose  this  woman  is  no  honor  to 
him." 

"  Not  much.     He  threw  up  one  that  would  have  been." 

" So,  so—  every  step  is  down.  God  help  him,  and  us!"  he 
added,  with  a  long,  weary  sigh  that  surprised  and  touched  her. 
It  was  plain  to  see  that  he  was  suffering,  and  less  stoically  than 
usual.  A  closer  look  at  his  red  curls  showed  that  they  were 
thickly  twined  with  gray  ;  there  were  circles  around  his  keen 
eyes,  and  the  bearded  mouth  was  tremulous  from  hidden  feeling. 
She  longed  to  comfort  him,  and  knew  not  how  to  begin.  It  was 
a  new  and  astonishing  phase  in  his  character  to  see  in  him  such 
evidences  of  the  weaker  man. 

"I  thought  perhaps,"  she  said  hesitatingly,  " that  you  might 
do  something  for  him.  He  always  thought  so  much  of  you,  was 
ever  so  willing  to  do  as  you  recommended.  I  would  dare  to  say 
that  in  the  beginning  you  might  have  saved  him." 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mean  that,"  he  said.  "  I'm  sure  you  don't. 
I  wouldn't  think  for  a  fortune  I  hadn't  done  my  share  in  keepin' 
a  man  from  evil.  I  knew  him  well.  I  saw  there  was  no  use. 
Don't  you  think  I  would  have  tried  hard  if  there  was  ?  You 
know  I  would." 

He  was  so  vehement  that  the  astonished  Ruth  could  hardly 
believe  it  was  Scott  who  talked  to  her,  but  she  dissembled  her 
amazement. 

"  I  suppose  you  would  have  helped  him  if  you  knew,  Scott. 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  67 

But  people  see  farther  than  you  know — simple  people,  I  mean. 
And  he  talked  so  much  of  you  that  we  saw,  Linda  and  I — poor 
Linda! — that  you  had  great  influence  over  him.  You  did  not 
use  it — at  least  we  thought  you  did  not.  He  spoke  with  pain  of 
your  indifference.  Now  he  is  almost  lost ;  this  last  act  has  com- 
pleted his  fall.  I  do  not  think  you  could  benefit  him  any,  yet  it 
might  do  to  try." 

"  We  are  all  fools,"  said  Scott,  with  self-bitterness.  "  I  thought 
I  did  my  best ;  you  had  better  eyes.  No,  there  is  no  use  now  ; 
but  if  you  think  it  would  do  any  good  I  will  see  him  when  he 
comes  again." 

"  Thank  you,  Scott.  He  needs  friends  now,  if  he  ever  did, 
and  he  has  but  you  and  me  and  Frances." 

"  And  one  other — never  mind  who.  But  he  is  driving  his  best 
friends  from  him." 

He  fell  into  a  reverie,  and  they  both  stood  silent,  with  the 
plash  of  the  water  mingling  with  their  thoughts.  The  hermit 
was  excited  more  than  ordinary,  and  had  permitted  it  to  be  seen  ; 
but,  as  if  regretful  for  his  mistake,  the  old  reserve  began  to  settle 
over  him  again.  He  picked  up  his  paddle  suddenly  and  entered 
the  boat  without  a  word. 

"  I  shall  see  you  again  ?"  she  said,  knowing  he  could  not  be 
detained. 

"  I  s'pose — I  dunno,"  he  answered  absently,  and  pushed  off 
from  the  shore. 

With  a  sigh  Ruth  returned  to  the  house,  where  Billy  and  the 
squire  still  wrangled  over  Barbara  Merrion  and  Peter's  letter. 
Pere  Rougevin  was  now  one  of  the  disputants,  and  rapped  squire 
and  politician  over  the  knuckles  with  indiscriminate  zeal. 

"  His  career  from  first  to  last,"  said  the  pere,  "  reminds 
me—" 

"Just  so,"  the  squire  interrupted;  "you  are  always  reminded 
of  a  story  by  any  ridiculous  trifle  that  a  man  mentions.  But  you 
won't  tell  that  story  on  this  verandah  nor  in  my  presence  if  you 
lived  for  forty  years." 

The  pere  laughed  softly  and  called  Ruth  to  his  assistance. 

"  I  saw  you  talking  with  Scott  a  moment  ago.     How  is  he  ?  " 

"  There  is  something  strange  about  him,"  Ruth  said.  "  He 
seemed  worried  or  disturbed,  and  acted  queerly  for  him." 

"  He's  probably  just  learned  the  alphabet,"  said  the  squire. 
"  Talk  about  women  learning  nothing  from  experience — I  don't 
believe  it.  But  that  man,  dull,  placid,  stupid  as  a  pine-tree, 
hasn't  learned  anything  in  twenty  years.  If  he's  getting  worked 


68 *  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

up  now  it  must  be  because  he's  found  out  that  he's  alive,  or  that 
Florian  is  running  for  governor,  or  some  other  new  fact." 

"Oh!  he  knew  about  Florian,"  said  the  pere;  "and,  more- 
over, he  foretells  his  utter  defeat." 

"  Oh  !  he  does,  does  he?"  snorted  the  squire  in  leonine  mock- 
ery. "Do  you  hear  that,  Billy?  This  muskrat  of  the  islands, 
this  wild  squash,  this  unhatched  egg,  stands  up  and  tells  me  and 
all  the  men  who  know  anything  about  politics  in  this  State  that 
the  old  ticket  will  go  down  because  he  knows  it  will."  • 

"  Papa,"  suggested  Ruth,  "  Scott  was  a  good  friend  of  yours 
at  a  time  when  you  needed  one." 

"  And  I've  paid  him  back  all  I  owed  him,  my  girl,  long  ago. 
I  let  him  live.  I  never  said  anything  about  his  foolishness  to 
strangers.  I  upheld  him  in  his  idea  of  living  alone  when  he 
ought  to  have  been  married.  But  let  him  keep  his  place.  I 
can't  stand  ignorance,  and  when  he  shows  it  before  me  I'm  going 
to  stamp  it  out  every  time." 

"  He  has  a  right  to  his  opinion,"  said  the  pere,  "  and  I  rather 
think  you  wouldn't  dare  to  wager  a  very  large  sum  on  yours." 

"  I'll  put  my  best  horse  against  your  ancient  cob,"  said  the 
squire,  "  that  Florian  is  governor  of  this  State  on  the  5th  of  No- 
vember. Come,  now.  You're  pretty  obstinate  on  your  own 
side  ;  let's  see  you  stand  up  for  it." 

Pere  Rougevin  laughed  and  said  nothing. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  continued  the  squire.  "  You 
are  ready  to  swear  that  these  Methodists  and  their  kind  will 
scratch  his  name  on  the  ticket.  I  don't  believe  it.  Our  people 
have  religion  enough,  but  they're  not  so  mean  as  to  do  that. 
What  do  you  say,  Ruth  ?  You've  known  both  parties,  for  you 
belonged  to  'em." 

But  Ruth  shook  her  head  dismally,  and  he  appealed  to  Billy. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  said  Billy,  who  rarely  deserted  his  friend  in  an 
argument,  "there'll  be  some  of  it  done,  but  not  enough,  of 
course,  to  beat  him — oh  !  no,  not  enough  for  that." 

"Precisely;  that's  what  I  mean.  Of  course  there  will  be 
some  mean  enough  to  do  it.  I  believe  Buck  will,  and  I  mean 
to  watch  him.  He's  awfully  disappointed  to  think  Sara  wasn't 
the  prince's  daughter  as  well  as  Linda,  so  that  he  might  come  in 
for  a  share  of  the  money." 

"  Florian,  I  suppose,"  said  the  priest,  "  has  said  nothing  about 
paying  you  a  visit  after  the  election." 

"  I  mean  to  invite  him.  He  hinted  it  in  his  last  letter,  and 
the  fatigue  of  a  campaign  will  drive  him  here  to  rest." 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  69 

"  I  wish  he  would  think  it  worth  his  while  to  call  on  me 
when  he  does  come,  or  shall  I  meet  him,  at  your  invitation,  here  ?  " 

"You  can  come  with  the  crowd,  I  suppose,"  the  squire  re- 
plied jokingly,  "and  make  what  you  can  out  of  him.  He's  away 
beyond  you,  pere,  now.  My  !  but  he's  a  smart  lad." 

"  Too  smart,"  murmured  Billy,  in  spite  of  Pendleton's  frown. 

"  Lemme  see,"  said  the  squire,  "  this  is  the  2/th  and  Wednes- 
day is  the  3Oth.  Yes,  exactly.  Now,  pere,  you  come  over 
Wednesday  evening1,  and  I'll  see  you  through  a  little  game  of 
checkers  or  block  until  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  if  you  want 
to.  I'm  not  going  to  sleep  from  now  till  after  election." 

Pere  Rougevin  accepted  and  was  going  down  the  steps  when 
an  after-thought  stopped  him.  The  pere  always  had  an  after- 
thought of  this  kind,  and  it  was  usually  as  important  as  Padgift's 
postscript  in  Armadale. 

"  By  the  way,  Pendleton,"  he  said.  "  you  have  not  seen  or 
heard  anything  of  that  Russian  lately — the  fellow,  you  remember, 
who — " 

"  Oh !  I  remember  him,"  said  the  squire,  "  and  he'll  remember 
me  should  I  lay  hands  or  eyes  on  him.  What  would  he  be  doing 
in  this  town,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  It's  hard  to  say,"  the  pere  replied  lightly  as  he  started  off ; 
"  but  he  has  been  seen  as  late  as  yesterday  in  this  vicinity,  and 
means  mischief." 

The  squire  swore  a  little  at  this  information,  but  Pere  Rouge- 
vin was  beyond  hearing. 

Wednesday  night  was  boisterous  and  stormy  and  had  a  win- 
try odor  when  the  three  old  gentlemen,  under  Ruth's  superin- 
tendence, sat  down  in  the  cosey  parlor  to  a  game  of  dominoes. 
"  The  wind  was  howling  in  turret  and  tree,"  and  there  was  a 
mighty  roar  from  the  waves  on  the  beach,  while  the  distant  light- 
houses twinkled  weakly  through  the  thick  darkness.  But  these 
evidences  of  an  ugly  night  without  made  the  scene  within  only 
the  more  delightful,  and  the  party  prepared  to  pass  a  merry 
evening. 

"  It  would  be  just  like  some  old  grandmother  to  take  ill/' 
said  the  squire,  "  and  call  you  away.  There's  one  thing,  though — 
no  mortal  man  can  cross  the  bay  to-night,  and  you're  safe  from 
that  direction.  It  puzzles  me  " — and  he  looked  at  Pere  Rouge- 
vin's  round,  cheerful  outline  humorously — "  to  know  what  there 
is  in  you  that  sends  people  rushing  after  you,  at  all  hours  and 
under  all  circumstances,  to  doctor  their  sick  souls.  Can't  a  man 
die  comfortably  and  quietly  without  you,  and  is  it  necessary  that 


70  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

you  must  shout  him  into  heaven  or  pray  him  in,  or — what  do 
you  do,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Why,  papa — "  Ruth  began  deprecatingly. 

"  Just  so,  girl.  It's  a  fair  question,  and  he's  going  to  answer 
it ;  and  you  needn't  look  daggers  at  me  for  asking  it." 

"  He  reminds  me — "  said  the  pere,  smiling. 

"  No,  I  don't!  "  the  squire  roared.  "  Keep  clear  of  your  anec- 
dotes. You  don't  spin  any  more  yarns  on  me.  Why,  Ruth,  he 
has  me  posted  all  over  the  county  at  the  tail-end  of  forty  stories." 

Pere  Rougevin  was  silent  for  the  moment,  fairly  weighed 
down  by  the  force  of  Pendleton's  lungs,  and  before  he  could 
speak  there  was  a  knock  at  the  outside  door. 

11  There  it  is,"  said  Billy—"  the  sick-call." 

The  servant  brought  Pere  Rougevin  a  card  with  a  few  pencil- 
marks  upon  it.  He  jumped  up  without  much  ceremony  after 
reading  it,  and  ran  out  into  the  hall.  They  heard  a  few  hurried 
remarks  from  him  and  the  stranger,  and  immediately  he  returned, 
bringing  his  visitor  with  him.  His  face  was  quite  pale,  but  no 
one  save  Ruth  noticed  it,  for  all  eyes  were  turned  on  the  new- 
comer. The  latter  bore  a  curious  resemblance  to  Scott,  the  her- 
mit. He  was  dressed  in  the  hermit's  manner,  had  much  of  his 
silent,  stern  reserve,  and  wore  his  light  beard  in  the  same  fashion  ; 
but  over  his  eyes  the  peaked  cap  threw  such  a  shade  as  to  leave 
his  face  a  mystery.  He  stood  quietly  at  the  door  and  neither 
removed  his  hat  nor  took  a  chair. 

"  Pendleton,"  said  the  pere  in  some  excitement,  "  I  have  a  bit 
of  bad  news  for  you.  Scott  has  disappeared.  This  man  lives 
near  him  and  says  he  has  not  been  home  since  Friday.  That 
Russian  has  been  in  the  neighborhood,  and  foul  play  is  feared." 

Only  Ruth  saw  the  revelation  that  lay  behind  the  p&re's 
words  and  manner,  and  she  burst  suddenly  into  a  fit  of  uncon- 
trollable sobbing.  A  thousand  insignificant  incidents  of  the  past 
ten  years  rushed  before  her  mind. 

"  Oh ! "  she  cried,  "  I  see  it  all  now.     It  is  terrible  !  " 

Her  father  stared. 

"  If  any  harm  has  come  to  Scott,"  said  he,  "  that's  enough. 
We'll  avenge  him.  But  what's  the  use  of  being  frightened?  If 
a  man  stays  from  home  three  or  four  days  there's  no  harm  in  it. 
So  dry  your  tears." 

" O  papa!  don't  you  see?    Scott  is  Floriari's  father." 

"  Yes,"  said  Pere  Rougevin  with  emotion,  "  he  is  the  lost 
prince,  and  we  fear  this  Russian  has  been  hired  to  injure  him, 
and  may  have  done  it." 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  71 

The  silence  which  transfixed  the  squire  for  a  half-minute  was 
so  deep  that  the  ticking  of  the  clock  sounded  like  the  strokes  of 
a  hammer.  The  roar  of  the  storm  beat  up  against  the  house. 
He  sat  there  with  his  heavy  face  void  of  expression,  his  eyes 
turned  on  the  priest  in  a  vacant  stare,  while  he  tried  to  realize 
all  that  those  astonishing  words  meant. 

"  Good  God ! "  were  his  first  hushed  words.  Billy  could  say 
nothing,  and  Ruth  was  still  sobbing.  Pere  Rougevin  and  the 
stranger  grew  impatient  for  practical  suggestions. 

"  I'm  beat,"  said  the  squire  ;  "  but  I've  got  my  breath  again.  I 
suppose  it's  so,  and  I  don't  doubt  but  that  if  we  had  our  eyes 
open  we  might  have  known  it  before.  And  now  when  he's  most 
wanted  he's  gone,  and  that  sneak  is  after  him  and  means  him 
harm.  Well,"  said  the  squire  ponderously,  rising,  "  we'll  look 
for  'em  both,  and  deal  with  'em  according  to  law.  Young  man, 
what  have  you  to  say  about  it? " 

"  The  islands  ought  to  be  searched,"  said  the  stranger,  "  and 
a  watch  set  on  the  waters,  so  that  if  foul  play  has  done  away  with 
him  his  body  may  be  found." 

"  And  word  should  be  sent  immediately  to  Florian,"  said 
Ruth. 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,"  Pendleton  remarked.  "  To-mor- 
row will  be  a  busy  day  for  him,  and  he  can't  do  any  more  than 
we  can  do." 

"  Not  the  slightest  need  of  sending  for  him,"  Pere  Rougevin 
said  hastily.  "It  will  be  time  enough  to  notify  him  when  we 
have  found  Scott  or  what  has  happened  to  him." 

Ruth  said  no  more  on  the  matter,  but  when  the  squire  had 
put  on  his  great-coat  she  was  in  the  hall  ready  to  go  with  them 
and  prepared  to  put  in  action  some  ideas  of  her  own.  They 
raised  no  objections  to  her  company,  and  all  rode  up  together  to 
the  village,  where  the  squire  began  his  search  for  a  boat  able  to 
stand  the  fury  of  a  southwest  wind.  Ruth  in  the  meantime  had 
sent  to  Florian  the  following  telegram  :  "  Come  at  once,  if  you 
would  save  your  father's  life."  By  the  time  she  reached  the  pier 
again  Pendieton  had  engaged  a  tug  for  the  search,  and  the  vessel 
was  getting  up  steam.  A  crowd  stood  about,  curious  to  know 
the  reasons  of  a  water-journey  on  so  tempestuous  a  night;  but 
the  squire  sailed  away  with  his  party  in  lofty  silence,  giving  only 
a  hint  to  his  hungry  neighbors  that  it  was  concerned  with  the 
coming  election.  Once  on  the  water  he  called  a  council  in  the 
small  cabin. 

'i  We're  going  this  thing  rather  blind,"  said  he,  "  and  I  would 


72  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

like  to  hear  your  opinions  and  get  a  little  more  reason  and  cer- 
tainty into  it.  I  suppose  we  can  search  all  the  small  islands  to- 
night by  ourselves  with  lanterns ;  but  if  we  don't  find  him  we 
must  get  help  to-morrow,  if  we  mean  to  do  the  business  tho- 
roughly." 

"  There  are  certain  places,"  said  the  stranger,  "  which  Scott 
frequented,  and  it  might  be  worth  the  trouble  to  examine  them. 
I  know  them  all.  But  it  is  more  likely  that  he  avoided  them  when 
pursued  by  the  Russian.  You  must  know  that  Scott  expected 
his  identity  to  be  some  day  discovered,  and  had  provided  hiding- 
places  among  the  islands.  The  principal  of  these  was  under  his 
own  house  ;  but  its  secret  the  Russian  discovered  a  few  days  ago, 
and  he  abandoned  it.  If  he  fancies  that  the  others  are  known  he 
will  not  go  near  them." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  squire,  "  now  you  have  given  us  a  fair  start, 
young  man.  We  must  begin  with  his  own  house  and  island  first, 
then  take  the  others  in  succession." 

He  went  out  to  the  pilot-house  and  the  pere  followed  him, 
leaving  Ruth  and  the  stranger  alone  in  the  cabin.  The  boat 
rocked  and  plunged  uncomfortably  in  the  heavy  sea  and  the 
great  waves  dashed  against  the  windows.  Nothing  was  visible 
outside  save  the  twinkling  lights  on  the  shore. 

"  You  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Rossiter,"  she  said,  giving  to  the 
stranger  her  hand  after  a  moment's  awkward  silence,  "  that  I  did 
not  recognize  you  until  you  spoke  this  evening.  I  am  very  glad 
to  meet  you  and  to  see  that  you  are  well." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Paul  nervously,  and  was  silent.  Not  a 
word  was  uttered  concerning  his  long  and  mysterious  absence 
from  the  world,  and  both  were  glad  of  it,  for  the  greatness  of  the 
calamity  which  seemed  to  threaten  them  overshadowed  minor 
things  completely.  A  sudden  quieting  of  the  waves  and  the 
rushing  of  wind  through  tree-tops  signified  that  they  had  enter- 
ed the  tortuous  channel  leading  into  Eel  Bay,  and  in  a  half-hour 
more  they  were  sailing  opposite  the  hermit's  cabin.  All  went 
ashore  save  Ruth,  who  felt  that  she  would  be  a  hindrance  in  the 
search,  and  she  remained  leaning  against  the  deck-rail,  watching 
the  movements  of  their  lanterns  as  they  walked  over  the  small 
island.  They  returned  to  the  boat  unsuccessful  and  steamed  to 
another  spot,  which  was  searched  with  the  same  result ;  and  so 
through  the  whole  stormy  night  they  continued  their  vain  pur- 
suit of  the  lost  prince,  returning  to  Clayburg  by  sunrise  for 
breakfast  and  additional  help. 

By  this  time  a  great  portion  of  male  Clayburg  had  begun  to 


1885.]     •  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  73 

take  a  deep  interest  in  the  squire's  mysterious  proceedings.  The 
crowd  which  had  gathered  the  preceding  evening  on  the  wharf 
to  see  him  depart  re-collected  itself  in  the  morning  to  see 
him  return,  and  was  swollen  to  treble  size  by  new  recruits  from 
the  curious  of  the  town.  As  they  could  get  no  information  from 
the  party,  the  pilot  and  the  engineer  were  assailed  by  a  shower 
of  questions  as  numerous  and  irritating  as  mosquitoes;  but  here, 
too,  curiosity  was  baffled,  for  these  knew  no  more  than  that  their 
employers  had  sought  among  the  islands  for  somebody  or  some- 
thing they  knew  not  what  and  did  not  care.  When  the  squire 
and  his  friends  had  breakfasted  and  made  ready  for  another  start 
by  bringing  loads  of  provisions  to  the  boat  and  fitting  it  out  for 
as  long  a  stay  as  possible  on  the  water,  a  mob  of  men  and  women 
were  standing  on  the  dock  in  the  cold  November  morning,  fairly 
eaten  by  curiosity.  From  among  them  the  squire  made  a  selec- 
tion of  ten  good  fellows  to  aid  him  in  the  search.  They  went  on 
board  indifferent  to  the  direct  and  indirect  questions  fired  at 
them,  and  sailed  away  mysteriously,  to  the  utter  disgust  of  the 
crowd.  Ruth  did  not  accompany  them.  She  had  been  over- 
come with  weariness,  she  said,  and  did  not  feel  equal  to  the 
fatigue  of  a  twelve  hours'  journey — which  was  strictly  true,  but 
her  real  reason  for  remaining  was  the  telegram  which  Florian 
sent  her  that  morning  announcing  his  arrival  in  Clayburg  for 
that  evening. 

It  was  a  dull,  stolid  day.  The  winds  had  died  away,  and  the 
sun  was  buried  in  thick  clouds  before  he  had  been  two  hours 
shining,  and  such  a  bitter  suspicion  of  snow  was  in  the  cold, 
heavy  air  !  At  ten  it  began  to  rain,  and  the  thick  mists  shut  out 
the  river  and  brought  a  deeper  chill  to  the  atmosphere.  Time 
hung  the  heavier  on  her  hands.  She  could  not  read,  and  thought 
was  distressing.  A  few  old  gossips  came  in  to  hear  the  news  of 
the  day  and  discover  the  cause  of  so  much  mysterious  running 
about  in  the  quiet  town,  and  she  replied  in  dark  and  secret  lan- 
guage, with  many  hints  of  greater  surprises  yet  in  store  for  them, 
and  sent  them  away  satisfied  and  yet  unsatisfied.  In  the  stores 
and  saloons  and  kitchens  that  day  the  squire's  movements  were 
thoroughly  canvassed.  A  mystery  so  important  as  to  require  a 
tug  and  fifteen  men  to  carry  it  out  was  a  delightful  morsel  in 
dull  November,  and  the  peaceful  citizens  enjoyed  it ;  but  when 
the  telegraph  messenger  passed  the  word  that  a  special  train  was 
due  in  Clayburg  at  four  o'clock  that  afternoon,  nearly  three 
hours  ahead  of  the  regular  train,  the  excitement  spread  to  the 
highest  grades  of  town  society,  and  even  the  ministers  trotted 


74 


SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 


down  to  the  depot  under  the  same  umbrella  to  examine  into  this 
second  wonder  of  the  day.  But  Florian  knew  his  native  village 
well.  Half  a  mile  from  the  depot  Ruth  met  him  with  the  car- 
riage,  and  the  train  moved  into  the  station  without  a  soul  save 
the  employees  on  board.  So  with  every  disappointment  the 
mystery  grew. 

A  more  wretched  man  than  Florian  Ruth  had  never  seen. 
His  proud  bearing  was  gone,  his  proud  self-possession  had  melted 
from  him  like  snow,  and  his  pale,  drawn  face  and  listless  manner 
showed  what  he  had  suffered  since  receiving  her  telegram  and 
what  he  was  suffering.  He  took  her  hand  gratefully  as  he  enter- 
ed the  carriage.  She  tried  to  speak,  but  her  own  sobs  were  too 
powerful. 

"  You  need  not  tell  me,"  he  said.  "  We  are  too  late.  I  know 
that,  and  I  might  have  saved  him ;  I  -might  have  known  long 
ago." 

He  repeated  the  last  words  over  and  over  like  one  in  deli- 
rium. When  she  had  grown  calmer  she  told  him  all  the  circum- 
stances of  the  last  few  days,  beginning  with  her  last  talk  with  the 
hermit,  and  he  sat  with  his  head  bowed,  listening,  nor  made  any 
comment  for  a  time. 

"  Where  were  our  eyes,"  she  said,  crying,  "  that  we  did  not 
see  through  this  loving  imposture  long  since  ?  A  spy  could  dis- 
cover him,  and  we  could  not." 

"  The  spy  had  exceptional  resources,"  he  answered  ;  "  and  yet 
it  would  have  been  so  easy  to  have  reasoned.  You  remember 
the  interest  he  took  in  me,  and  I  recall  the  dreams  I  had  of  him 
kissing  me,  poor  father  !  in  my  sleep  ;  and  how  in  the  graveyard 
here  one  night  he  held  me  in  his  arms  with  his  cheek  against  my 
own  ;  and  the  time  he  came  to  New  York,  risking  so  much  for 
love  of  me.  Then  his  behavior  towards  Linda  on  her  death-bed. 
I  believe  she  knew  it,  for  she  looked  from  him  to  me  so  strangely — 
I  see  it  now ;  I  could  not  see  it  then.  And  my  mother's  behavior 
when  he  was  present  or  spoken  of.  What  a  life !  "  and  he  added 
after  a  pause,  with  a  shudder  of  horror  and  grief,  "  and  what  a 
death,  after  so  much  self-denial  and  love  !  "  . 

"  Oh,  be  patient !  "  said  she,  attempting  cheerfulness.  "  They 
are  searching  for  him  bravely,  and  he  is  so  cunning  and  active 
that  it  will  take  an  expert  woodman  to  overmatch  him." 

"  His  pursuer,"  said  Florian  gloomily,  "  is  by  profession  an 
assassin.  He  has  but  one  instinct,  that  of  death,  and  he  will  fol- 
low, follow,  follow  like  a  hound,  never  wearying,  never  stopping, 
cunning  as  a  devil,  pitiless  as  hell,  until  his  victim  is  dead.  I  can 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  75 

see  him  now  crawling  through  some  lonely  patch  of  timber  in 
the  rain  with  that  white  face  of  his  shining  in  the  gloom." 

She  had  to  admit  that  the  picture  was  not  overdrawn,  and 
they  came  to  the  house  in  silence. 

"  I  will  not  go  in,"  he  said  ;  "  I  must  get  a  boat  and  join  in 
the  search.  I  am  going  mad,  I  think." 

"  But  there  is  no  wind,  Florian,  and  you  can  get  no  tug,  for 
there  is  none  here.  Better  wait  until  the  rain  stops ;  there  will 
be  a  wind  then  strong  enough  to  make  the  boat  of  use." 

He  held  up  his  hand  in  the  air. 

"  There  is  wind  enough,"  said  he.     "  I  could  not  stay  ;  I  must 

go." 

She  went  into  the  house  and  brought  out  some  oil-cloths  for 
him  to  put  on  as  a  protection  against  the  rain.  With  a  servant 
to  manage  the  boat  they  started,  taking  a  course  straight  down 
the  river  in  order  to  meet  the  tug  j  but  the  wind  soon  died  away 
almost  entirely  when  they  were  opposite  the  well-known  channel 
leading  into  Eel  Bay,  and  Ruth  proposed,  seeing  how  impatient 
he  grew,  that  they  would  go  to  the  hermit's  cabin  and  wait  there 
for  a  favorable  wind.  It  was  done,  and  for  the  first  time  in  years 
he  entered  his  father's  house. 

"  What  a  palace  for  a  prince ! "  he  said,  and  a  great  bitterness 
filled  his  heart  as  memory  after  memory  connected  with  the  old 
cabin  rose  before  him. 

Darkness  came  on,  and  the  servant  lighted  the  old  candle,  and 
the  fire  was  started  in  the  fire-place.  He  sat  reading  Izaak  Wal- 
ton or  wandering  uneasily  to  the  shore,  while  Ruth,  wearied,  lay 
down  to  sleep  in  the  inner  room.  The  night  passed  in  a  dead 
calm.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  morning  the  clouds  parted  in  the 
northwest  and  the  first  suspicion  of  a  wind  stirred  the  water. 
He  waked  her,  saying  gently :  "  We  must  be  going." 

It  was  cold  and  unpleasant  in  the  damp  morning  air,  but  a 
few  stars  shone  faintly  overhead.  As  before,  they  went  straight 
down  the  river,  taking  the  wider  channels  in  order  to  intercept 
the  tug  if  she  should  be  returning.  At  daylight  they  had  reach- 
ed Alexandria  Bay,  and  in  the  distance  later  on,  as  the  sun  was 
rising,  they  saw  the  tug  steaming  farther  down  the  river. 

"  They  have  not  found  any  trace  of  him  yet,"  said  Ruth. 
"They  are  searching  still,  or  they  would  be  returning." 

"  Why  do  they  take  the  islands  below  instead  of  those  above  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  believe  they  have  a  guide  on  board  who  lived  for  some 
time  with  your  father,"  she  replied,  "  and  he  thinks  he  must  have 


76  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

fled  in  that  direction.     When  I  last  saw  him  he  was  going  down 
the  river." 

They  sailed  on,  the  wind  still  cold  and  feeble  as  before,  and 
in  two  hours  had  reached  the  island.  Florian  would  not  go 
near  the  tug  or  make  himself  known  to  any  one,  but  went  ashore 
in  his  oil-cloths  and  silently  joined  in  the  search,  while  Ruth 
sailed  to  the  tug  for  information.  No  success  yet  and  no  clue  ! 
When  she  returned  Florian  was  waiting  for  her  on  the  shore. 

"  They  will  never  make  anything  of  this,"  he  said.  "  It  is  too 
wild  and  they  will  have  to  cover  too  much  ground.  Let  us  go 
back  and  search  the  islands  above." 

To  Ruth  this  seemed  even  a  more  hopeless  task,  but  she  did 
not  feel  it  necessary  to  tell  him  so.  The  wind  was  freshening 
from  the  northwest,  and  with  frequent  tacking — for  the  channel 
in  places  was  narrow — they  arrived  at  Solitary  Island  a  little 
after  noon.  On  the  Canadian  shore  stood  a  farm-house,  where 
they  ate  dinner,  and  afterwards  they  landed  at  Grindstone  and 
began  preparations  to  search  that  island  through  its  entire  length 
of  seven  miles  or  more.  Florian  seemed  unwearied,  but  Ruth 
was  half-dead  from  fatigue.  Obstacles  of  every  sort  began  to 
fall  in  their  way.  They  had  endeavored  to  secure  horses  from  an 
island  resident  and  help,  which  he  was  disposed  to  give  only  for 
enormous  pay,  and  his  petty  delays  wasted  the  precious  time 
until  half  past  three.  When  at  last  they  were  almost  ready  Ruth, 
with  beating  heart,  pointed  out  to  Florian  a  canoe  with  a  single 
occupant  making  for  Solitary  Island ;  and  he,  pale  as  death, 
watched  it  for  a  moment,  and  then,  seizing  her  hand,  ran  down 
to  the  boat  and  bade  the  servant  hoist  the  sail.  His  eyes  did  not 
for  an  instant  leave  the  figure  in  the  canoe,  and  a  flush  of  deep 
excitement  and  tender  feeling  spread  over  his  face  as  Scott 
stepped  leisurely  from  his  boat  and  walked  slowly  to  his  cabin. 
He  had  taken  the  pains  to  pull  up  his  canoe  on  the  beach,  and 
after  entering  the  house  closed  the  door.  Evidently  no  harm 
had  happened  to  him,  and  the  noise  which  had  been  made  over 
his  accidental  disappearance  was  premature.  It  was  a  few  min- 
utes past  four  when  their  boat  touched  the  shore.  Four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon  of  the  ist  of  November  was  a  moment  which 
had  scarred  Ruth's  memory  years  back  so  badly  that  the  hour 
never  struck  without  bringing  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  At  that 
hour  on  that  day  Linda  died.  She  wept  now  with  a  violence 
that  surprised  Florian  as  he  handed  her  from  the  boat  and  led 
her  joyfully  to  the  cabin.  He  pushed  open  the  door  with  some 
difficulty  because  of  a  heavy  movable  obstacle  on  the  other  side. 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  77 

When  he  saw  and  recognized  the  object  he  stood  quite  still  for  a 
moment,  then  pushed  Ruth  gently  back  and,  calmly  as  might  be, 
knelt  beside  the  fallen  form  of  his  father  and  put  his  hand  over 
the  heart.  It  was  for  ever  stilled.  The  pallid  face  and  half- 
closed  eyes  were  evidence  enough  without  the  bullet-wound  and 
the  blood-stains  on  his  garments.  Scott  was  dead.  In  his  hand 
he  held  a  small  crucifix,  and  the  tears  which  he  had  shed  in  his 
last  moment  still  lay  on  his  cheek. 


PART  FOURTH. 

CHAPTER  I. 
THE  GRAVE  ON  SOLITARY   ISLAND. 

IT  was  a  rare  day  in  Clayburg — rare  for  November.  The  air 
had  a  golden,  fine-spun  clearness,  and  the  blue  river  was  bluer 
than  ever,  although  the  islands,  no  longer  green,  showed  their 
gray  sides  over  the  sparkling  waters  like  faded  tombstones  in  a 
spruce  forest.  The  village,  busied  with  its  usual  routine  of  la- 
bor, was  not  one  whit  less  dull  than  usual.  Villagers  shook  their 
heads  over  the  burst  of  unexpected  sunshine.  It  was  like  a  gold- 
miner's  dream  and  foreboded  a  bitter  awakening.  The  late 
tragedy  which  had  taken  place  in  their  midst,  and  now  lent  a 
dark  and  melancholy  interest  to  the  romantic  islands,  had  ruffled 
for  a  few  hours  the  placid  stream  of  existence.  The  affair  was 
nobody's  business  in  particular.  There  was  no  widow,  no  chil- 
dren, no  property,  no  relatives.  Scott  had  lived  and  died  a  lone- 
ly man,  and  the  violence  of  his  taking-off  concerned  only  society 
in  general  and  the  officers  of  the  law.  Had  he  been  a  popular, 
sociable  fellow  there  might  have  been  great  excitement ;  but  it 
being  a  case  of  nobody's  funeral,  nobody  minded  it  after  the 
shock  was  over  and  all  had  been  said  about  it  that  could  pos- 
sibly be  said.  Clayburg  had  a  public  calamity  to  grieve  about 
without  troubling  itself  with  small  misfortunes.  Florian's  defeat 
had  hurt  it  to  the  quick.  It  could  not  understand  the  counties 
lying  to  the  south  and  southwest.  Were 'they  or  were  they  not 
dreadfully  ignorant  of  the  merits  of  the  candidate,  or  had  they 
been  practised  upon  by  designing  rivals  or  office-seeking  Whigs? 
The  Democrats  had  deserted  their  candidate  by  hundreds.  The 
rest  of  the  ticket  had  been  elected.  Florian  alone,  the  pride  of 
Clayburg,  had  been  "  scratched  "  by  his  supposed  friends  and 


78  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

left  a  total  ruin  upon  the  battle-field.     What  was  the  murder  of  a 
solitary,  sour  fisherman  to  such  a  crime  ! 

However,  the  villagers  did  not,  in  their  deep  grief  for  their 
candidate,  forget  neighborly  duties  to  the  dead.  On  the  second 
day  after  Scott's  death  a  fair  number  of  the  fathers,  in  blue  swal- 
low-tails, black  chokers,  and  white  felt  hats,  stood  on  the  dock 
awaiting  the  vessel  which  was  to  carry  them  to  Solitary  Island. 
A  few  roughly-dressed  fishermen  and  a  scattering  of  young 
folks  and  idlers  made  up  the  crowd.  The  conversation  was 
evenly  divided  between  the  late  murder  and  the  late  election. 

"  Not  but  whut  I  edmit  Flory  wuz  a  Ketholic,"  an  ancient 
supporter  of  the  defeated  candidate  was  saying  with  mournful 
slowness  and  resignation ;  "  but  I  swow  ef  rz/ligion  is  to  take  the 
fust  place  in  a  country  made  on  pu'pose  for  ail  on  us,  it's  abeout 
time  we  wuz  emigratin'.  Whut  say,  Sam  ?" 

"  Ruther  tew  late  fer  us  to  think  o'  movin',"  Sam  replied  ; 
"  but  gosh  be  derned  ef  I  don't  feel  like  p'ison  every  time  that 
'lection  's  mentioned.  I've  cussed  more  'n  the  last  two  days  then 
I  hev  in  my  hull  life.  Them  fellers  whut  cut  an*  run  over  to 
t'other  side  ken't  hev  many  lookin'-glasses  this  mornin'." 

"  How's  that,  Sam  ?  "  said  a  curious  one. 

"'Cos  no  decent  lookin'-glass  'ud  stand  the  sight  o'  ther 
derned  faces  more  'n  once  'thout  bustin' ;  thet's  heow,"  said  Sam, 
with  some  heat.  "  Twouldn't  be  a  bad  speculation,  Israel,  fer 
you  to  trot  daown  thar  with  forty  thousand  glasses,  more  or  less — 
more,  I  reckon,  fer  thet  must  hev  been  the  number  of  the  derned 
crew.  I'd  like  to  hev  the  buryin'  on  'em.  I'd  put  'em  daown  so 
deep  thet  none  o'  ther  idees  'd  ever  sprout  on  this  side  o'  the 
globe." 

11  They  say  Flory's  goin'  to  be  et  the  funeral,"  said  one  of  the 
fathers. 

"  Ya-as,"  drawled  Sam  ;  "  he  an't  got  nawthin'  else  to  do,  an' 
he  allus  hed  a  likin'  fer  Scott,  though  whut  enny  one  saw  in  the 
red-headed  curmudgeon  I  never  could  find  out." 

"  Hev  we  all  got  to  wait  fer  you  to  find  somethin'  in  us—" 

"  No,"  said  Sam,  turning  sharply  on  the  speaker ;  "you  an't. 
You've  been  found  out,  an'  sold  out,  an'  shut  up  long  ago." 

"  Mighty  queer,  the  shootin'  o'  Scott.  He  wasn't  one  to  hev 
many  enemies,  fer  he  hed  so  few  friends,"  said  the  first  speaker. 

"Who  knows  what  he  was  'fore  he  got  this  far?"  said  Sam, 
about  whom  the  group  had  gradually  clustered.  "This  may  be 
the  doin'  o'  some  feller  thet's  been  a-follerin'  an'  a-follerin'  him 
fer  years  like  a  spy,  waitin'  for  a  square  chance  to  git  even  with 


i88sJ  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  79 

him.  Some  folks  wuz  mighty  frightened  fust  an'  took  to  loadin' 
guns  an'  double-barrin'  doors.  All  nonsense.  S'long's  ther  an't 
no  odd  strangers  abeout  town  ther  won't  be  a  murder  here  in  the 
next  fifty  years." 

"  She's  comin'  round  th*  island,"  yelled  a  small  boy  suddenly. 

"  It's  the  Juanita"  said  an  observant  one ;  "  but  she  won't  git 
here  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  'N'  so  you  think,  Sam,  ez  how 
this  shootin'  might  be  an  old  matter  ?  " 

"  Thet's  my  idee,"  said  Sam.  "  Scott  was  an  odd  critter.  I 
took  to  him,  an'  I  didn't  take  to  him.  One  o'  thet  kind  hez  allus 
a  page  in  his  diary  thet  nobody  reads,  but  wed  like  to  read  it." 

"The  squire  hez  the  charge  o'  the  funeral,"  said  a  white  hat 
shrewdly.  "  Mebbe  he  found  papers  'n'  things." 

"  Ef  he  hez,"  said  Sam  dogmatically,  "  it  '11  all  come  out  in 
time.  Squire  Pen'l'ton  can't  keep  a  secret  no  more  'n  he  kin  keep 
from  eatin'." 

"  It  jest  depends  o'  what  size  the  secret  is,"  said  the  white 
hat.  "  I  mind  when  Minister  Buck  wuz  married,  'n'  Billy  Wal- 
lace wuz  a-tellin'  us  all  how  he  went  for  the  minister  on  his  own 
stoop,  'n'  nobody  could  believe  it,  'n'  we  all  went  fer  the  squire 
on  the  p'int,  we  couldn't  git  a  word  from  him.  Nor  he  an't 
spoken  to  this  day  nuther." 

Sam  defended  his  expressed  opinion  of  the  squire  until  the 
Juanita  was  steaming  up  to  her  moorings,  with  Pendleton  him- 
self seated  in  majestic  prominence  and  funereal  gloom  on  her  sin- 
gle deck.  Billy's  wrinkled  features  were  visible  in  the  cabin. 

"  Good-morning,  neighbors,"  said  the  squire  solemnly.  "  Just 
make  haste  in  gettin'  aboard,  for  the  folks  are  waiting  on  the 
island  to  proceed  with  the  ceremony." 

"  Whut  folks? "  said  Sam,  taking  a  seat  beside  him. 

"  Neighbors,"  said  the  squire  indifferently. 

"  Is  there  to  be  services  'n'  a  minister  ? " 

"  We  don't  bury  people  nowadays  without  both." 

"  Who's  the  offish -e-a-/z;/£  parson  ? "  said  persistent  Sam. 

"  There's  no  parson  present." 

"  No  parson  present  ?    Then  whar  air  your  services  ?  " 

"  Wait  till  you  get  there  and  you'll  see." 

"  Jes'  so,  squire.  Thank  you  for  remindin'  me  of  it,"  said 
Sam,  with  an  irony  intended  to  smoothen  the  sense  of  his  own 
humiliation;  but,  in  spite  of  the  satisfaction  it  gave  him,  he  felt 
some  doubts  as  to  the  strength  of  his  late  remarks  on  the  squire. 

The  passengers  of  the  Juanita  made  the  pleasant  journey 
across  the  river  and  through  the  islands  with  a  deep  sense  of  the 


80  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

favor  they  were  conferring  on  the  dead  man  in  taking  so  much 
trouble  to  pay  him  funeral  honors.     They  were  severely  taken 
aback  on  finding,  when  the  boat  landed  them  on  Solitary  Island, 
that  they  formed  a  very  respectable  minority  of  the  people  there 
assembled.     Boats  of  all  kinds  lay  along  the  shore.     Their  owners 
were  scattered  about  the  island  in  holiday  clothes  as  fresh  and 
stylish  as  those  which  came  from    Clayburg.      The  old   white 
hats  walked  up  to  the  cabin  with  muttered  "  I-had-no-idees,"  and 
paid  their  respects  to  the  man  whom  living  they  had  rarely  pre- 
sumed to  address.     He  lay  in  the  little  kitchen  which  for  twenty 
years  had  been  his  living  room.     The  brown  habit  of  the  scapu- 
lar was  his  shroud  and  was  the  source  of  much  speculation  to 
the  Protestants  and  of  some  wonderment  to  the  Catholics.     For 
no  one  had  been  precisely  aware  that  Scott  had  held  any  religious 
opinions.     The   serene,  meditative   face   had   a  new   expression 
which  few  had  ever  before  seen.     The  close-fitting  cap  was  gone 
and  the  bushy  whiskers  trimmed  neatly.     Was  this  really  the 
face  of  the  common  fisherman  ?    Around  a  reverential  forehead, 
white  as  snow,  clustered  the  yellow   locks.     The  regular   and 
sweet  features  were  Florian's  own,  but  less  stern,  more  exalted, 
more  refined   in  their  expression.     The  people   looked   at  this 
unexpected  countenance  in  astonishment  and  awe,  feeling   ob- 
scurely that  there  was  more  in  this  man  than  they  had  fathomed. 
Izaak  Walton  was  in  his  place  on  the  table.     Candles  burned 
there  around  a  crucifix.     An  altar  stood    beside  the  bed-room 
door,  and  on  it  lay  the  black  vestments  for  the  Mass.     Scott  was, 
after  all,  a  Catholic ;  and  while  the  neighbors  owned  to  a  sense 
of  disappointment  at  this  discovery,  they  also  acknowledged  a 
deeper  respect  for  the  character  of  the  dead.     Beside  the  coffin 
sat  Ruth  weeping,  her  veil  down,  her  hands  clasped  in  prayer, 
her  eyes  rarely  turning  from  the  face  of  Linda's  father.     Thus 
had  she  sat  since  with  her  own  hands  she  had  prepared  him  for 
his  rest.     Linda's  father  !     Oh  !  the  wasted  years  which  had  been 
spent  in  ignorance  of  this  rich  treasure.     Now  she  knew  why 
her  heart  had  gone  out  to  him,  and  she  wept  again  and  again  as 
every  old  incident  of  memory  showed  the  father's  love  for  his 
children  and  his  children's  friend.     She  could  not  understand  it ! 
How  could  any  one  have  been  so  blind  ?     How  could  love  have 
felt  no  thrill  from  this  magnetic  presence,  when  hate  discovered 
and  destroyed  it?    A  rough  costume,  a  tight-fitting  cap,  a  silent 
manner  had  hidden  him  from  his  own  and  not  from  his  enemies. 
She  wrung  her  hands  and  wept  anew  as  this  sharp  reflection 
pierced  her  heart.     But  what  need  to  trouble  the  mind  now  with 


1 88 $.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  81 

conflicting  thoughts?  It  was  all  over.  In  a  strange  land,  among 
a  strange  people,  the  exile  had  died  !  In  a  poor  hut  the  Russian 
prince,  dead  and  cold,  received  from  the  hands  of  plain  citizens 
those  rites  which  kings  would  have  been  proud  to  give !  In  a 
free  country  he  had  fallen  as  helplessly  as  in  the  land  of  the  czars ! 
Its  laws  had  been  no  protection  to  him.  Little  he  cared  now, 
indeed,  for  what  had  been  or  for  ail  his  wrongs ;  what  he  asked 
was  a  grave  and  a  prayer  for  his  soul ! 

In  the  closed  bed-room  reclined  the  lately  defeated  candidate 
for  the  chief  magistracy  of  the  State.  His  costume  was  not  one 
of  mourning,  but  such  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  wear,  cor- 
rect and  gentlemanly,  with  a  smack  of  over-polish.  His  face  was 
a  trifle  pale  and  wearied.  No  evidence  of  any  deep  disappoint- 
ment for  his  defeat  or  of  any  shock  at  the  violent  taking-off  of 
his  father  was  visible.  For  a  man  in  his  unique  position  he  bore 
himself  very  well.  His  philosophical  disposition  was  nearly  per- 
fect in  its  stoicism.  He  had  not  exempted  himself  from  the 
chances  of  defeat,  and  had  long  since  prepared  himself  to  meet'it 
in  such  a  way  that  he  would  not  lose  more  than  a  week's  sleep. 
He  had  lost  more  owing  to  the  sudden  discovery  and  death  of 
his  father,  and  was  likely  to  suffer  still  longer ;  but  the  facts  them- 
selves were  too  recent  to  make  much  impression  on  him.  Look- 
ing at  the  dead  hermit,  and  saluting  him  as  his  father  after  they 
had  followed  him  to  his  cabin,  Florian  accepted  the  hard  condi- 
tions which  Providence  had  placed  upon  him,  as  he  had  taught 
himself  to  accept  all  welUestablished,  unchangeable  facts.  He 
did  not  suffer  uneasy  thoughts  or  tumultuous  feelings  to  rack  his 
brain,  nor  did  he  repel  them,  holding  himself  as  a  sort  of  neutral 
ground  where  they  might  wander  free  from  any  restraint.  Had 
he  the  power  he  would  have  that  day  despatched  his  dinner  and 
slept  at  nine  o'clock ;  but  the  control  of  those  natural  appetites 
was  beyond  him,  and  he  was  fain  to  be  content  with  broken 
sleep,  capricious  appetite,  and  absent-mindedness.  Yet  people 
said  how  well  he  bore  his  defeat,  admiring  his  pluck  and  prophe- 
sying great  things  for  him  in  the  next  election,  while  those  who 
knew  the  secret  of  his  life — the  squire,  Ruth,  Paul,  and  Billy — 
inwardly  wondered  at  his  manner.  No  tears,  no  excitement,  no 
curious  questions,  but  a  complete  acceptance  of  the  state  of 
affairs  that  was  marvellous.  There  was  a  show  of  irritation  occa- 
sionally against  two  persons,  Paul  and  Pere  Rougevin — so  faint 
that  only  the  latter  perceived  it  because  he  suspected  its  exist- 
ence. These  two  men  had  been  favored  with  the  hermit's  inti- 
macy. They  had,  as  it  were,  supplanted  the  heir  in  his  father's 
VOL.  XLII. — 6 


82  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

affections,  being,  as  Florian  well  knew,  better  conformed  to  his 
father's  ideas  of  what  men  should  be.  Almost  mechanically  the 
irritation  showed  itself.  Pere  Rougevin  kept  himself  and  the  un- 
conscious Paul  out  of  the  great  man's  way.  For  this  reason  they 
were  rarely  seen  in  the  dead-room,  whither  Florian  often  came 
to  gaze  quietly  on  the  prince's  face. 

Paul  was  an  object  of  curiosity  to  the  neighbors.  His  re- 
semblance to  Scott  was  not  so  marked  as  to  attract  attention,  and 
his  city  costume  lessened  it  to  nothing.  He  had  been  heard  of 
as  a  young  man  staying  with  the  hermit.  In  the  hope  that  he 
knew  something  about  the  hermit  many  plied  him  with  questions, 
which  he  answered  very  indifferently.  The  sharper  ones  thought 
he  might  be  arrested  as  the  murderer  of  Scott,  with  a  good 
chance  of  proving  the  charge  against  him.  He  was  very  silent 
and  moody  on  many  accounts.  The  longing  eyes  which  he  often 
cast  at  the  dead  man  showed  that  Scott's  death  had  wounded 
him.  With  Pere  Rougevin  and  the  squire  he  had  charge  of  the 
funeral  arrangements  ;  but  the  latter  left  him  nothing  to  do,  save 
to  stand  at  the  cabin-door  and  see  that  order  was  kept  in  the 
death-room.  Occasionally  there  was  a  consultation.  There  had 
been  a  series  of  them  in  the  last  two  days.  It  had  been  decided 
to  bury  Scott  on  the  island,  as  he  had  often  desired  to  be  buried, 
and  that  all  concerned  would  show  no  signs  of  mourning  which 
would  lead  the  neighbors  to  suspect  anything  like  the  real  state 
of  affairs.  The  grave  was  dug  among  the  pines  on  the  highest 
point  of  land  on  the  island,  and  Pere  Rougevin  had  brought 
over  the  requisites  for  the  Mass  of  requiem.  Ruth  had  gently 
hinted  the  propriety  of  laying  the  prince  beside  Linda,  but 
prudence  forbade.  It  was  never  to  be  known  save  to  the  few 
who  this  poor  lonely  fisherman  had  been. 

Near  noon  the  crowd  assembled  in  the  room  and  about  the 
door  at  a  signal  from  the  squire.  The  singers  from  the  Clay- 
burg  choir  were  intoning  the  first  notes  of  the  "  Kyrie  Eleison," 
and  those  at  the  window  looking  in  could  see  Florian  sitting  be- 
side Ruth  at  the  coffin.  Their  proximity  looked  suggestive. 

"  That  match  '11  be  a  go  yet,"  said  one  unguardedly. 

The  squire  turned  an  awful  look  on  the  offenders,  and  there 
was  silence  for  an  indefinite  while.  The  singing  rose  and  fell  on 
the  clear  air  in  that  beautiful  solitude  like  the*sound  of  weeping. 
The  incense  floated  through  the  door,  the  holy  water  was  sprin- 
kled, and  the  tones  of  the  pere  were  heard  delivering  the  sermon. 
Then  came  the  shuffling  of  feet  and  the  outpouring  of  the  peo- 
ple. The  squire  gathered  them  all  before  him  in  order  to  select 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  83 

the  bearers,  but  in  reality  to  give  the  mourners  time  for  an  un- 
observed parting1  with  their  dead.     It  was  done  very  quickly. 
The  pere  and  Paul  and  Billy  looked  for  the  last  time  on  the 
handsome  face.     Ruth  kissed  the  forehead  with  an  involuntary 
moan.     For  a  moment  as  the  son  pressed  his  cheek  to  his  father's 
his  features  were  twisted  by  an  internal  anguish  more  intense 
than  physical  pain.     It  was  a  premonition  of  what  was  to  come ! 
They  screwed  down  the  coffin-lid,  and,  the  bearers  entering,  a 
procession  was  formed.     Fiorian  offered  his  arm  to  Ruth.     To 
the  singing  of  the  psalms  they  moved  down  the  slope  in  front  of 
the  house  and  up  the  opposite  hill.     Here  was  the  grave.     All 
around  were  the  islands,  with  no  human  habitation  in  view.     Be- 
low were  the  placid  waters.     The  voice  of  the  priest  blessing  the 
tomb  arose :  "  Lord,  in  the  bosom  of  whose  mercy  rest  the  souls 
of  the  faithful  dead,  bless  this  grave  and  give  it  into  thy  angels' 
charge.     Loosen  the  bonds  of  sin  which  press  the  soul  of  him 
whose  body  is  here  buried,  that  for  evermore  with  thy  saints  he 
may  rejoice  in  the  possession  of  thee,  through  Christ  our  Lord. 
Amen."     The  clods  rattled  on  the  coffin  with  a  sound  familiar 
both  to  Ruth  and  Fiorian.     Ten  years  ago  that  very  day  they 
had  buried  Linda ;  sooner  or  later  the  world  would  listen  to  the 
same  sound  on  their  coffins !     The  crowd  broke  up  respectfully 
and  yet  with  relief,  and  were  not  down  to  the  shore  when  the 
laugh  followed  the  joke  and  the  healthy  concerns  of  life  banished 
the  mists  of  death.     Thank  God,  the  world  on  this  gloomy  day 
was  not  all  gloom  !     The  white  hats  and  blue  coats  boarded  the 
Juanita  with  hilarity,  a  fleet  of  skiffs  and  sail- boats  fluttered  out 
into  the  bay,  and  very  soon  the  island  was  left  to  the  squire  and 
his  party. 

An  awkward  restraint  was  in  the  air.  The  squire  had  no  one 
to  praise  him  for  the  glorious  manner  in  which  he  had  carried 
out  the  programme,  and,  warned  by  the  preoccupation  of  the 
others,  dared  not  sound  his  own  trumpet. 

"  I  think  we  had  better  be  going,"  he  said  to  Ruth. 

"  Wait  until  Pere  Rougevin  speaks,"  said  Ruth.  "  He  is  to 
return  with  us." 

Thus  rebuked,  the  squire  turned  to  Fiorian. 

"  You'll  stop  around  for  a  few  days,  Flory  ?  You  can  have 
the  run  of  the  house,  and  I'll  take  it  upon  my  shoulders  to  keep 
off  the  crowd,  unless  you  go  to  Buck's." 

"  I  shall  stay  here  for  a  time,"  said  Fiorian.  They  all  looked 
at  him,  and  a  glance  from  Ruth  kept  the  squire  silent.  "  My 
lawyer  can  attend  to  whatever  business  there  is  in  New  York. 


$4  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Oct., 

Let  me  thank  you  all  for  your  kindness  during  these  few  days. 
I  am  deeply  grateful." 

The  priest  came  in  from  the  bed-room  with  a  serious  face  and 
eyes  that  rested  anywhere  but  on  Florian.  Neither  did  the  latter 
turn  towards  him  when  he  spoke. 

"  I  presume,"  said  the  priest  rather  hurriedly,  "  you  prefer  to 
remain  here  until  you  return  to  New  York?"  Florian  nodded. 
"  There  are  some  matters  which  you  would  probably  like  to  be 
acquainted  with  before  your  departure.  When  you  find  it  con- 
venient I  am  ready  to  tell  you  all  that  I  know  concerning  your 
father.  Mr.  Rossiter  can  furnish  you  with  some  facts,  perhaps — " 

"  I  am  the  bearer  of  a  message  from  the  prince  to  his  son," 
said  Paul.  "  It  is  best  to  defer  its  delivery  for  a  few  days,  how- 
ever. Whatever  I  know  about  him  I  am  most  willing  to  tell." 

The  faintest  irritation  showed  itself  in  Florian's  manner,  and 
his  eyes  blazed  with  some  hidden  feeling  which  the  pere  alone 
observed. 

"  I  thank  you  both,"  said  Florian.  "  In  a  few  days  I  shall 
hear  you  ;  not  now,  if  you  please — not  now." 

"  Mr.  Rossiter,  you  are  my  guest  for  the  present,"  said  the 
pere,  "  and  you  will  accompany  us  to  the  village.  There  is  no 
need  to  delay  longer." 

The  squire  went  out  to  get  ready  the  yacht  in  a  dazed  way, 
for  he  could  make  nothing  of  all  these  arrangements.  They  were 
not  down  in  the  programme,  and  he  could  not  see  what  would 
keep  Florian  alone  on  the  island. 

"  The  boy  has  less  nonsense  about  him  than  the  common,"  he 
said  to  Billy,  "  and  it's  no  sickly  sentiment  that  keeps  him  here. 
Who'd  think^to  see  him,  that  he  was  defeated  in  a  'lection  two 
days  ago,  and  lost  his  father  before  he  found  him?" 

"  I'm  glad  he's  not  my  son,"  said  Billy,  with  a  snuffle.  "  I'd 
rather  have  nobody  at  my  grave,  nobody,  than  such  a  stick. 
He's  worse  than  Sara." 

This  assertion  led  to  an  argument,  during  which  the  whole 
party  came  down  to  the  boat. 

"  It  seems  like  the  old  times,"  Ruth  said,  smiling  sadly.  "  Are 
you  going  on  another  retreat  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  Florian  answered  absently.  "  See  that  my 
letters  are  sent  over  by  a  safe  messenger." 

The  yacht  sailed  out  of  his  sight  and  left  him  sitting  on  the 
boulder  over  the  spot  where  Linda  had  received  the  fatal  wet- 
ting. He  thought  of  that  and  of  many  other  incidents  of  the  time. 
He  felt  on  his  hot  cheek  the  cool  breezes  of  that  first  night  on 


1885.]         THE  NEGRO— How  CAN  WE  HELP  HIM?  85 

the  island,  when  his  dreams  awoke  him  and  sent  him  rambling 
along  the  shore.  Those  dreams  of  his  had  been  a  wonderful 
reality.  His  father  had  really  kissed  him  in  his  sleep.  It  was 
pleasant  to  recall  those  kisses.  He  was  first  in  his  father's  heart 
in  spite  of  his  sternness  and  secrecy.  Then  there  was  the  night 
in  the  graveyard,  when  for  a  moment  he  lay  in  his  arms  and  felt 
his  cheek  lovingly  against  his  own.  Accident  then,  now  the 
purpose  was  visible.  And  Linda  knew  it  before  she  died.  Hap- 
py Linda,  whose  innocence  merited  such  a  reward,  and  to  whom 
it  was  not  given  to  know  him  first  when  death  had  claimed  him, 
and  to  suspect  that —  Again  that  spasm  of  mental  agony  twist- 
ed his  features  shapeless  for  an  instant,  but  passed  away  beneath 
his  wonderful  self-poise.  "  That  way  madness  lies,"  was  the 
thought  which  shaped  itself  in  his  mind.  He  sat  there  all  the 
afternoon,  and  when  night  came,  heedless  of  the  change,  he 
walked  up  the  hill  and  sat  down  on  the  grave — the  first  grave  on 
Solitary  Island  ! 

TO  BE  CONTINUED. 


THE  NEGRO— HOW  CAN  WE   HELP  HIM? 

THE  negro  question,  already  an  important  one  before  the  elec- 
tion of  Mr.  Cleveland,  has  been  unprecedentedly  agitated  since 
the  triumph  of  the  Democratic  party.  Whether  this  be  due  to 
the  growing  interest  of  the  question  itself,  or  to  a  kindly  spirit  of 
warning  on  the  part  of  those  who  feared  that  party  might  be  un- 
just to  the  negro,  we  are  not  able  to  answer.  We  would  not  toe 
greatly  mistaken,  we  think,  were  we  to  assign  it  to  both  causes  at 
once;  and  perhaps  less  mistaken  should  we  assign  it  primarily 
to  the  Democratic  triumph,  and  secondarily  to  the  question's 
continued  growth.  Undoubtedly  among  the  negroes  themselves 
the  fear  was  strong  and  wide-spread  that  a  Democratic  victory 
meant  their  re-enslavement.  We  have  heard  instances,  from  un- 
questionable sources,  of  former  slaves  approaching  their  one-time 
masters  and  begging,  if  slaves  they  must  be,  a  renewal  of  the  old 
ownership.  The  greater  part  of  this  impression  was  due,  no 
doubt,  to  the  efforts  of  political  demagogues ;  yet,  in  a  certain 
measure,  it  must  be  ascribed  to  the  negro's  long-standing,  deeply- 
rooted  mistrust  of  his  former  master  whensoever  there  is  ques- 


86  THE  NEGRO— How  CAN  WE  HELP  HIM?        [Oct., 

tion  of  his  freedom.  Let  the  white  man— I  mean  the  former 
slave-holder — inveigh  with  howsoever  much  of  sincerity  against 
the  institution  of  slavery,  his  most  vehement  protestations  will 
be  received  by  the  negro  with  only  an  incredulous  smile.  More 
intelligent  friends  of  the  negro  knew  perfectly  well  the  absurdity 
of  such  fears,  yet  were  they  none  the  less  apprehensive,  not  so 
much  for  the  rights  as  for  the  untrammelled,  free  exercise  thereof, 
and  the  full  enjoyment  of  whatsoever  social  privileges  the  negro 
might  thence  acquire. 

But  whatever  line  of  policy  may  be  wisest  to  nurture  and 
perpetuate  amicable  feelings  between  the  two  races  in  the 
South,  there  still  remains  a  question  of  much  greater  impor- 
tance— one  in  which  Catholics  bear  a  tremendous  responsibility. 
It  is  the  question  of  religion,  and  particularly  of  the  negro's  re- 
ligion. Shall  the  negro  ever  come  to  the  light  of  the  true  reli- 
gion, or  shall  he  continue  for  ever  in  the  night  of  error?  Protes- 
tantism, a  kingdom  divided  in  itself  and  never  commissioned  to 
preach  the  Gospel  of  Christ,  has  signally  failed,  from  its  very 
cradle,  in  the  conversion  of  peoples.  By  the  great  perversion  of 
the  sixteenth  century  nations  did  not  gain  but  lost  the  true 
faith,  until  the  continued  centrifugal  force  of  schism  and  heresy 
to  our  day  has  left  them  little  beyond  scattered  and  shattered 
remnants  of  the  integral  faith.  What  they  have  not  they  cannot 
reasonably  be  expected  to  give.  Since  the  first  importation  of 
the  negro  into  the  United  States,  wealth,  position,  power,  and 
education,  as  an  overwhelming  majority,  have  been  favorable  to 
Protestantism.  With  such  resources  and  the  most  reasonable 
amount  of  zeal  every  slave  in  the  land  at  the  close  of  the  war 
might  have  been,  we  will  not  say  a  literary  public-school  gradu- 
ate,  but  at  least  a  Christian,  well  informed  in  the  articles  of  his 
faith  and  the  obligations  of  his  duty  towards  God,  his  neigh- 
bor, and  himself.  Yet  what  has  Protestantism  actually  done  for 
them  ?  To-day,  according  to  Father  Slattery's  computation, 
there  are  six  and  a  half  million  negroes  in  the  United  States,  of 
whom,  in  round  numbers,  six  million  are  in  the  Southern  States. 
How  many  are  there  who  make  even  no  profession  of  religion  ? 
About  three  million.  Excepting  a  small  percentage,  what  kind 
of  religion  have  the  other  three  million  ?  Let  the  reader  remem- 
ber these  are  professed  members  of  the  Baptist,  Methodist,  or 
some  other  Protestant  sects.  Father  Slattery  tells  us,  and  from 
actual  observation  we  know  it  to  be  true : 

"  They  have  but  the  vaguest  notions  of  the  most  fundamental  truths, 
such  as  the  Trinity  and  Redemption.    Not  seldom  we  meet  them  with 


1885.]         THE  NEGRO— How  CAN  WE  HELP  HIM?  87 

scarcely  any  idea  of  God  at  all,  and  ignorance  of  even  the  Ten  Command- 
ments may  in  many  districts  almost  be  called  general."  * 

In  a  recent  number  of  the  Century  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Bishop  of  Kentucky,  Right  Rev.  Dr.  Dudley,  uses  much  stronger 
language : 

"  Their  religion  is  a  superstition,  their  sacraments  are  fetiches,  their 
worship  a  wild  frenzy,  and  their  morality  a  shame." 

This,  we  hold,  is  a  sad  showing  for  Protestantism.  We  do  not 
contend  that  Protestants  are  now  doing  nothing  for  the  negro : 
we  give  all  praise  to  their  latter-day  zeal  displayed  in  his  behalf. 
But  this  we  do  maintain :  that,  considering  the  length  of  time  and 
number  of  opportunities  it  has  had,  Protestantism  in  evangeliz- 
ing the  negro,  if  weighed,  would  be  found  wanting.  True,  it 
has  built  numerous  churches  for  the  negro  since  the  war;  but 
to  give  him  a  church,  and  afterwards  to  leave  him  to  practise 
therein  a  species  of  Voodooism  miscalled  Christianity,  would 
seem  to  us  like  offering  him  a  stone,  whereas  he  asked  for  the 
bread  of  life.  And  for  our  public-school  system  to  enlighten  his 
intellect  whilst  allowing  his  moral  nature  to  drivel  in  a  nutshell 
we  cannot  but  consider  criminal.  These  are  the  two  greatest 
evils  with  which  the  negro  is  threatened — godless  education 
and  such  a  knowledge  of  Christianity  as  to  make  enlightened 
Christians  blush. 

But,  it  may  be  asked,  what  have  Catholics  of  the  South  done 
for  the  negro?  We  reply  that  before  the  war,  in  Maryland, 
Louisiana,  Kentucky,  wherever  they  had  Catholic  masters,  full 
spiritual  care  was  bestowed  upon  them.  In  those  States  were 
then  to  be  found  numerous  well-instructed  negroes,  and  their 
falling  away  from  the  church  since  has  been  the  effect,  not  of 
dislike  to  their  holy  mother,  but  of  the  political  antagonism 
between  white  and  black  developed  since  the  war.  This,  of 
course,  should  not  have  been  so,  yet  such  is  the  fact.  They  were 
estranged  from  the  church  and  from  Mass  on  Sundays  by  what 
was  then  an  extraordinary  temptation  to  the  negro — politics  as 
expounded  on  Sundays  by  recently-liberated  preachers  of  his 
own  race  and  color.  Negligence  on  the  part  of  the  parents  left 
to  their  children  the  bane  of  ignorance  and  indifference  in  regard 
to  matters  religious,  and  the  Catholics  of  the  South  and  the 
Catholic  Church  in  the  South  had  now  become  too  much  impov- 

*  Rev.  J.  R.  Slattery,  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  for  April,  1885,  •'  Facts  and  Suggestions  about 
the  Colored  People." 


88  THE  NEGRO— How  CAN  WE  HELP  HIM?        [Oct., 

erished  to  supply  the  defect.  Even  for  the  whites  many  missions 
would  have  been  abandoned  but  for  the  charitable  donations  of 
the  Propagation  of  the  Faith.  Yet  we  would  not  create  the  im- 
pression that  the  church  in  the  South  is  doing  nothing  for  the 
negro  at  present.  Let  us  see.  The  various  Protestant  denomi- 
nations, holding  the  wealth,  numbers,  and  influence  of  the  South, 
aided  entirely  and  powerfully  by  well-organized  bodies  at  the 
North,  were  educating,  in  1880,  fourteen  thousand  colored  stu- 
dents ;  whereas  Catholics,  having  as  a  body  neither  wealth  nor 
influence,  with  a  membership  of  only  one-tenth  of  that  of  their 
separated  brethren,  receiving  scarcely  any  aid  from  the  North, 
were  then  educating  about  one-fifth  that  number.  This,  we  con- 
tend, is  comparatively  a  commendable  showing  for  the  church  in 
our  States.  We  do  not  mention  the  fact  as  a  matter  of  self-com- 
placency, or  as  if  we  are  satisfied  with  what  has  been  thus  far 
done  or  is  now  doing,  but  that  our  brother  of  the  North  may 
judge  it  is  not  zeal  but  means  we  lack  in  evangelizing  the 
negro.  Besides,  an  assurance  of  this  fact  may  prompt  generous 
friends  to  be  more  liberal  in  their  donations. 

Compared  with  the  entire  negro  population,  it  cannot  be  de- 
nied that  this  result  is  lamentably  small.  The  church  in  the 
South  has  been  censured  for  this.  Yet  in  the  conversion  and 
education  of  the  negro  we  must  contend  with  difficulties  of 
which  our  critics  can  have  little  idea.  We  have  already  spoken 
of  those  arising  from  our  impoverished  state ;  on  the  part  of 
the  negro  there  are  also  serious  difficulties.  Thrown  in  contact 
with  a  superior  race  and  holding  no  social  status,  morality  in  the 
female,  as  a  rule,  is  not  so  much  as  expected.  And  even  more 
rigorously  must  this  be  said  of  all  those  who  have  congregated 
in  the  towns  and  cities.  At  least  in  this  respect  we  have  found 
the  influence  of  the  white  for  worse,  not  for  the  better.  Besides 
—whether  it  be  the  effect  of  his  former  condition  or  long  neglect 
since,  we  are  unable  to  say— the  negro  seems  lacking  in  stability 
of  character,  and  is  consequently  more  easily  influenced  by  bad 
example.  And  then,  too,  by  association,  by  early  prejudice  and 
ignorance,  he  is  strongly  inclined  to  Protestantism,  and,  unfortu- 
nately, to  that  lower  type  which  places  the  essence  of  religion  in 
mere  animal  emotionalism.  And  again  must  we  repeat  the  utter 
inability  of  the  church  in  the  South,  unaided,  to  do  any  conside- 
rable work  among  the  negroes. 

We  shall,  therefore,  in  suggesting  what  appears  to  us  the  best 
method  of  evangelizing  the  negro,  advance  two  propositions  by 
way  of  axiomata : 


1885.]         THE  NEGRO— How  CAN  WE  HELP  HIM?  89 

First,  that  we  must  commence  with  the  young  in  the  school- 
room. 

Second,  that  for  this  end  a  large  amount  of  money  is  neces- 
sary, which  we  expect  from  the  charity  of  the  North. 

Let  teachers  well  trained  be  distributed  here  and  there,  prin- 
cipally in  the  country,  where  morality  is  at  a  higher  ebb ;  both 
school  and  teachers  to  be  under  the  supervision  of  a  priest,  who 
should  visit  them  regularly.  On  such  occasions  the  school-room 
could  serve  as  chapel.  Few  negroes  would  object  to  their  chil- 
dren learning  catechism,  and  thus,  by  thoroughly  instructing  the 
children,  both  they  and,  through  them,  their  parents  might  with 
the  grace  of  God  be  prepared  to  receive  baptism.  In  order  to 
cope  with  the  public-schools  such  schools  should  be  free,  the 
teacher  drawing  his  salary  from  a  general  fund  collected  for  this 
purpose. 

Now,  very  naturally  it  may  be  asked,  Whence  are  the  teachers 
to  come  ?  We  reply,  From  the  colored  people  themselves.  If 
we  wish  to  do  something  permanent  for  the  negro  we  must  com- 
mence with  a  permanent  foundation.  We  must  not  look  upon 
the  negroes  as  wards  of  the  nation,  as  mere  children  ever  to  be 
treated  as  such,  but  as  a  self-existing,  independent  race,  under- 
standing its  own  value,  and  with  laudable  aspirations  to  all  the 
higher  positions  of  education  and  religion.  In  the  beginning  it 
will  be  difficult  to  have  such  teachers,  yet  daily  experience  shows 
that  the  public-schools  of  the  South  are  in  a  very  great  and  in- 
creasing measure  taught  by  colored  men  and  women.  Religious 
orders  are  strongly  in  demand  for  white  congregations,  and  con- 
sequently  could  not  (we  doubt  whether  all  of  them  would  be 
willing  to)  devote  themselves  to  the  service  of  colored  schools. 
The  nature  of  the  work,  as  well  as  its  magnitude,  preclude  the 
hope  of  our  getting  a  sufficient  number  of  white  teachers,  reli- 
gious or  secular,  for  the  undertaking.  Certainly,  by  the  ties  of 
association  and  race-kinship,  negro  teachers  may  be  well  pre- 
sumed to  understand  better  than  the  white  the  characteristics  of 
their  own  race,  its  qualities  good  or  bad ;  or  at  least  such  work 
would  be  more  congenial  to  them.  Such  teachers  (we  assume 
that  they  are  good,  well-instructed  Catholics)  should  be  well  re- 
munerated. By  thus  creating  a  new,  ennobling,  and  lucrative 
field  for  the  rising  colored  Catholic  youth  we  feel  they  would 
not  be  long  in  availing  themselves  of  the  opportunity. 

Should  an  immediate  call  for  such  teachers  be  made  we  are 
unable  to  say  how  many  might  apply,  and  still  less  how  many 
upon  examination  might  be  found  competent.  Still,  presuming 


90  THE  NEGRO— How  CAN  WE  HELP  Hiri?        [Oct., 

the  Accessary  fund  to  have  been  established,  a  sufficient  number 
might  be  found  to  make  a  beginning.  And  this  leads  us  to  the 
most  important  and  vital  suggestion  we  beg  leave  to  submit — 
the  founding  of  a  normal  institute  for  the  training  of  Catholic 
colored  teachers  (and  why  not  priests  ?)  to  aid  us  in  this  work. 
It  will  be  at  least  ten  years  before  a  colored  seminarist  could  be 
ordained  to  the  priesthood.  In  the  twenty  years  since  the  war 
many  race-prejudices  have  disappeared.  This  diminution  will 
certainly  continue.  Negro  and  slave  are  ceasing  to  be  synony- 
mous terms.  In  ten  more  years  a  generation  will  have  sprung  up 
which  never  knew  the  negro  as  a  slave,  and  to  which,  therefore, 
this  association  of  ideas  will  be  unknown.  If  well  educated  and 
grounded  in  piety  (who  can  deny  the  reasonable  hope  of  this?) 
he  may  do  more  good  among  his  own  race  for  the  very  fact  that 
he  is  of  their  own  kith  and  kin. 

Maryland  seems  to  us  the  most  propitious  field  for  such  an 
institution.  Nurtured  in  faith  and  morality  for  generations,  the 
Maryland  negro  offers  better  hope  of  perseverance  and  devotion 
to  duty.  Not  unfrequently  have  we  been  edified  at  the  stanch- 
ness  of  his  faith  and  the  purity  of  his  morals,  even  where  for 
years  he  had  been  far  from  church  and  priest. 

Such,  then,  according  to  our  idea,  is  the  best  practical  man- 
ner of  aiding  the  negro — a  normal  school  to  train  the  Catholic 
African  youth  as  teachers  and  catechists  for  the  negro  ;  such 
teachers  to  be  located  within  a  circuit  not  too  vast  for  super- 
vision of  missionary  priest,  and  both  priest  and  teachers  to  de- 
rive support  from  a  uniform,  regular,  and  voluntary  fund  coming 
principally  (for  reasons  already  assigned)  from  the  Catholics  in 
the  North. 

The  elevation,  moral  and  intellectual,  of  the  negro  is  so  plainly 
demanded  by  every  argument  of  reason,  patriotism,  and  religion 
as  to  make  their  repetition  useless.  An  intelligent  being  no  less 
than  we,  his  very  nature  pleads  for  the  cultivation  of  his  nobler 
faculties ;  unlike  the  Indian,  who  has  disappeared  before  the  on- 
ward tread  of  the  white  man,  the  negro  is  already  a  citizen,  will 
remain  a  citizen,  and  consequently  must  the  national  progress  be 
indissolubly  linked  with  his  ;  and,  lastly,  our  Blessed  Lord  died 
alike  for  all  men,  wishing  all  to  come  to  the  knowledge  of  truth 
and  share  the  blessings  of  divine  grace,  without  distinction  of 
Jew  or  Gentile,  Greek  or  Roman.  The  negro  has  been  freed 
from  the  shackles  of  temporal  slavery,  but  those  of  ignorance 
and  sin  are  as  fast  as  ever. 


1885.]  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  91 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY. 

AMERICA  has  been  in  the  possession  of  civilized  man  for  three 
hundred  years.  Among  its  numerous  varied  products  is  one 
philosopher.  His  influence  upon  the  generation  that  was  con- 
temporary with  him  and  with  some  that  succeeded  was  very 
great.  Of  his  life,  private  and  public,t  the  world  knows  more 
than  of  those  of  any  of  his  predecessors.  His  public  belongs  to 
the  history  of  his  times ;  his  private  has  been  recorded  by  him- 
self with  a  circumstantiality  that  shows  how  important  he  re- 
garded it  that  the  world  should  see  to  what  vast  heights  a  man 
can  rise  from  lowest  beginnings  with  no  other  helps  than  his  own 
energy,  thrift,  and  sagacity.  When,  not  long  ago,  we  read  over 
again  his  Autobiography,  we  would  have  thought  that  we  should 
regard  this  curious  work  as  a  record  of  confessions  but  for  the 
evidence  of  the  pride  that  he  took  in  inditing  it. 

In  the  article  named  "  Pre- American  Philosophy  "we  referred 
to  the  modesty,  the  earnestness,  and  the  sometimes  sadness  that  for 
the  most  part  characterized  the  wise  men  of  old.  We  saw  that, 
however  various  were  their  speculations  upon  human  happiness, 
they  believed  it  to  be  made  mainly  of  intellectual  and  moral  ele- 
ments that  were  noble  and  pure.  Some  of  them  went  to  the 
length  of  despising  the  pleasures  that  result  from  the  possession 
of  material  benefits ;  others,  not  despising,  disregarded  them ; 
while  others  yet  pursued  them  with  moderate  quest  and  indulg- 
ed only  in  their  temperate  use.  Even  the  gay  Horace,  favorite 
at  the  greatest  court  of  the  world,  wrote  to  the  opulent  Pompeius 
Grosphus : 

"  He  who  enjoys  nor  covets  more 
Than  lands  his  father  held  before 

Is  of  true  bliss  possessed  : 
Let  but  his  mind  unfettered  tread 
Far  as  the  paths  of  knowledge  lead, 

And  wise  as  well  as  blessed." 

The  acrimonies  among  the  various  sects  were  often  pronounc- 
ed. By  the  Stoics  the  garden  of  Epicurus  was  called  a  pig-sty, 
while  by  many  Diogenes  and  his  associates  were  saluted  Cynics. 
Nevertheless  all  of  them  had  aims  and  counsel  for  the  noble  and 
pure,  and  not  one  of  them  taught  that  the  way  to  happiness  lay 
through  prosperity  that  comes  from  the  mere  possession  of 


92  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  [Oct., 

wealth.  This  precept  had  been  reserved  for  the  philosopher  of 
the  New  World. 

It  was  said  of  Diogenes  that  while  but  a  youth,  having  been 
suspected  of  complicity  in  the  crime  of  his  father,  a  banker  of 
Sinope,  who  had  been  convicted  of  debasing  the  coin,  he  fled  to 
Athens,  where  Antisthenes  was  teaching  the  virtue  of  poverty, 
and  thereupon  became  his  disciple.  Franklin  began  his  philo- 
sophic career  much  younger,  even  at  the  age  of  ten  years.  The 
question  was  argued  between  himself  and  his  father  whether  the 
utility  of  a  "  wharff  "  which  had  been  constructed  by  himself,  at 
the  head  of  a  band  of  urchins,  on  the  edge  of  a  quagmire  at  the 
margin  of  a  mill-pond  in  which  they  were  wont  to  angle  for  min- 
nows, was  greater  or  less  than  the  crime  of  stealing  the  stones 
for  its  construction.  The  old  gentleman  got  the  best  of  the  argu- 
ment with  the  help  of  a  rod  of  sufficient  firmness.  The  conces- 
sion then  made,  that  "  nothing  was  useful  which  was  not  honest," 
had  to  be  deviated  from  some  time  afterwards  in  the  case  of 
what  he  admitted  to  be  one  of  the  errata  of  his  life — his  availing 
himself  of  a  fraudulent  change  in  the  indentures  by  which  he  had 
been  bound  to  a  brutal  elder  brother,  and  running  away  from 
him. 

One  of  Franklin's  ancestors  had  been  a  poet,  a  specimen  of 
whose  verse  here  follows  (written  in  behalf  of  liberty  of  con- 
science) : 

"  I  am  for  peace  and  not  for  war, 

And  that's  the  reason  why 
I  write  more  plain  than  some  men  do 

That  used  to  daub  and  lie. 
But  I  shall  cease,  and  set  my  name 

To  what  I  here  insert, 
Because  to  be  a  libeller 

I  hate  it  with  my  heart. 
From  Sherburne  town,  where  now  I  dwell, 

My  name  I  do  put  here  ; 
Without  offence  your  real  friend, 

It  is  Peter  Folgier." 

While  apprenticed  to  his  brother,  who  was  a  printer,  he  be- 
stowed temporary  attention  to  the  cultivation  of  the  hereditary 
vein,  at  the  instance  of  his  brother,  who  sent  him  around  hawking 
(in  Boston,  their  native  place)  his  Lighthouse  Tragedy  and  a  sailor's 
song  on  the  capture  of  Teach,  the  pirate.  But  his  father  again 
diverted  him  by  telling  him  that  "  verse-makers  were  generally 
beggars." 

It  is  curious  to  follow   the  youthful   philosopher  along  his 


1885.]  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  93 

career  of  endeavors  after  what  were  the  best  things  ;  his  eager- 
ness for  the  knowledge  to  be  gotten  from  books;  his  debating 
with  himself  about  whether  or  not  he  ought  to  spare  the  time  he 
had  for  reading  on  Sundays  by  going  to  church,  and  deciding  for 
the  negative  ;  his  adopting  a  vegetable  diet  in  order  to  save  both 
time  and  money,  and  other  employments  judged  likely  to  be  use- 
ful after  a  while.  Let^us  hear  some  of  his  comments  on  dispu- 
tation : 

"There  was  another  bookish  lad  in  the  town,  John  Collins  by  name, 
with  whom  I  was  intimately  acquainted.  We  sometimes  disputed,  and 
very  fond  we  were  of  argument,  and  very  desirous  of  confuting  one  an- 
other, which  disputatious  turn,  by  the  way,  is  apt  to  become  a  very  bad 
habit,  making  people  often  extreamly  disagreeable  in  company  by  the  con- 
tradiction that  is  necessary  to  bring  it  into  practice  ;  and  thence,  besides 
souring  and  spoiling  the  conversation,  is  productive  of  disgusts,  and  per- 
haps enmities  where  you  may  have  occasion  for  friendship.  I  had  caught 
it  by  reading  my  father's  books  of  dispute  about  religion.  Persons  of  good 
sense,  I  have  since  observd,  seldom  fall  into  it,  except  lawyers,  university 
men,  and  men  of  all  sorts  that  have  been  bred  at  Edinborough." 

The  harm  of  disputatious  reasoning  appeared  to  him  quite 
early,  as  we  notice  in  the  following : 

"And  being  then  "  (after  studying  Greenwood  s  English  Grammar  and 
Xenophon's  Memorable  Things  of  Socrates),  "  from  reading  Shaftesbury  and 
Collins,  become  a  real  doubter  in  many  points  of  our  religious  doctrine,  I 
found  this  method  safest  for  myself  and  very  embarrassing  to  those  against 
whom  I  used  it ;  therefore  I  took  a  delight  in  it,  practisd  it  continually, 
and  grew  very  artful  and  expert  in  drawing  people,  even  of  superior  know- 
ledge, into  concessions  the  consequences  of  which  they  did  not  foresee, 
entangling  them  in  difficulties  out  of  which  they  could  not  extricate  them- 
selves, and  so  obtaining^  victories  that  neither  myself  nor  my  cause  always 
deservd.  I  continud  this  method  some  few  years,  but  gradually  left  it, 
retaining  only  the  habit  of  expressing  myself  in  terms  of  modest  diffidence, 
never  using,  when  I  advancd  anything  that  may  be  possibly  disputed,  the 
words  certainly,  undoubtedly,  or  any  others  that  give  the  air  of  positiveness 
to  an  opinion  ;  but  rather  say,  I  conceive  or  apprehend  a  thing  to  be  so 
and  so ;  It  appears  to  me,  or  /  imagine  it  to  be  so,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  This 
habit,  I  believe,  has  been  of  great  advantage  to  me  when  I  have  had  occa- 
sion to  inculcate  my  opinions  and  persuade  men  into  measures  that  I  have 
been,  from  time  to  time,  engagd  in  promoting,"  etc. 

The  escape  from  his  brother  by  means  of  the  false  indentures 
troubled  him  little  to  remember,  especially  since  that  brother,  by 
his  representations  concerning  the  fraud,  hindered  him  from  get- 
ting  other  business  in  that  community  : 

"  It  was  not  fair  for  me  to  take  this  advantage,  and  this  I  therefore 
reckon  one  of  the  first  errata  of  my  life  ;  but  the  unfairness  of  it  weighd 


94 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  [Oct., 


little  with  me,  when  under  impressions  of  resentment  for  the  blows  his 
passion  too  often  urgd  him  to  bestow  upon  me,  though  he  was  otherwise 
not  an  ill -naturd  man  ;  perhaps  I  was  too  saucy  and  provoking." 

The  fugitive,  now  a  boy  of  seventeen,  was  landed  in  Phila- 
delphia with  a  cash  capital  of  a  Dutch  dollar  and  about  a  shilling 
in  copper.  The  philosopher  develops.  "  The  shilling,"  he  says, 
"  I  gave  the  people  of  the  boat  for  my  passage,  who  at  first  re- 
fusd  it  on  account  of  my  rowing ;  but  I  insisted  on  their  taking 
it.  A  man  being  sometimes  more  generous  when  he  has  but  a 
little  money  than  when  he  has  plenty,  perhaps  thro'  fear  of 
being  thought  to  have  but  little." 

We  cannot  but  feel  much  of  some  sort  of  respect  for  a  phi- 
losopher of  seventeen  years  who,  with  his  Dutch  dollar — less 
three  pennyworth  spent  for  bread — confident  and  cool,  strolled 
along  Market  Street,  gnawing  away  at  one  of  the  huge  loaves, 
while  the  other  two^were  tucked  beneath  his  arms,  looking  about 
him  leisurely  for  the  living  that  he  was  sure  would  come,  not 
minding  the  while  the  smiles  of  Miss  Read  at  his  awkward  and 
ridiculous  appearance,  who  is  to  think  so  much  better  of  him  ere 
long.  Employment  with  one  Keimer,  one  of  the  pretended 
prophets  from  the  Cevennes  who  "  could  act  their  enthusiastic 
agitations,"  but  was  very  ignorant  of  the  world,  gave  opportuni- 
ties to  the  thrift  and  cunning  he  possessed.  That  was  an  event- 
ful day  when  Governor  Keith  called  at  the  printing-office,  and, 
instead  of  stopping  with  the  French  prophet,  who  ran  down  to 
meet  the  distinguished  visitor,  asked  for  the  workman,  whose  mas- 
ter "  stard  like  a  pig  poisoned  " ;  and  it  was  a  day  of  triumph  of 
its  kind  when,  six  months  afterwards,  full  of  promises  from  the 
governor,  whose  letter  he  bore  to  his  father  bespeaking  the  lat- 
ter's  help  to  set  up  his  son  in  business  so  that  he  could  realize 
these  promises,  "  having  a  genteel  new  suit  from  head  to  foot,  a 
watch,  and  my  pockets  lind  with  near  five  pounds  in  silver,"  the 
brother  from  whom  he  had  run  away  "  receivd  me  not  very 
frankly,  lookd  me  all  over,  and  turnd  to  his  work  again."  It 
did  seem  hard,  however,  when,  the  brother  "  still  grum  and  sul- 
len," he  spread  a  handful  of  silver  before  the  wondering  eyes  of 
the  printing  boys,  and,  going  to  the  length  of  giving  them  "  a 
piece  of  eight  to  drink,"  thereby  "insulted  him  in  such  a  manner 
before  his  people  that  he  could  never  forget  or  forgive  it."  Yet 
from  the  fond  parent  he  could  get  nothing  but  a  promise  to  help 
him  when  he  should  reach  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  and  ad- 
vice to  "  endeavor  to  obtain  the  general  esteem,  and  avoid  lam- 


1885.]  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  95 

pooning  and  libelling,  to  which  he  thought  I  had  too  much  incli- 
nation." 

It  reads  like  a  moderately  good  novel  when  the  philosopher 
tells  of  how,  on  the  voyage  back  to  Philadelphia,  he  soothed  the 
qualms  of  conscience  for  the  "  unprovoked  murder  of  taking 
fish,"  when  a  cod  came  "  hot  out  of  the  frying-pan,  smell- 
ing admirably  well "  ;  of  how  he  rose  in  Keimer's  estimation  by 
his  adroit  use  of  the  Socratic  method,  and 

"Trepannd  him  so  often  by  questions  apparently  so  distant  from  any  point 
we  had  in  hand,  and  yet  by  degrees  lead  to  the  point  and  brought  him  into 
difficulties  and  contradictions,  that  at  last  he  grew  ridiculously  cautious, 
and  would  hardly  answer  me  the  most  common  question  without  asking 
first,'  What  do  you  intend  to  infer  from  that?''  However,  it  gave  him  so 
high  an  opinion  of  my  abilities  in  the  confuting  way  that  he  seriously  pro- 
posd  my  being  his  colleague  in  a  project  he  had  of  setting  up  a  new  sect. 
He  was  to  preach  the  doctrines,  and  I  was  to  confound  all  opponents. 
When  he  came  to  explain  with  me  upon  the  doctrines  I  found  several 
conundrums  which  I  objected  to,  unless  I  might  have  my  way  a  little  too, 
and  introduce  some  of  mine." 

It  is  proper  to  note  here  that  the  philosopher  was  not  yet 
fully  prepared  to  originate  and  propound  theological  doctrines. 
They  must  remain  in  abeyance  until  those  more  important  for  the 
government  of  this  mere  mortal  existence  were  sufficiently  ascer- 
tained and  settled.  For  the  present  he  would  content  himself 
with  a  temporary  quasi-coalescence  with  the  prophet  from  the 
Cevennes,  destined  to  be  snapped  suddenly  by  the  latter's  vio- 
lation of  one  article  of  their  creed  (the  abstaining  from  animal 
food)  by  eating  the  whole  of  a  roast  pig  at  his  own  table  before 
the  time  of  dinner,  to  which  his  colleague  and  "  two  women- 
friends  "  had  been  invited.  Yet  he  admits  to  have  unsettled  the 
faith  of  Charles  Osborne  and  James  Ralph,*  two  young  men  of 
his  acquaintance,  "  for  which  they  both  made  me  suffer  "• — in  his 
pocket.  As  for  Ralph,  who  was  destined  to  be  kept  from  ob- 
livion by  the  Dunciad  of  Pope,  the  philosopher's  advice  to  him 
reminds  one  of  the  chiding  of  Xenophanes  upon  Homer,  and 
Plato's  exclusion  of  poets  from  his  Republic  :  "  I  approvd  the 
amusing  one's  self  with  poetry  now  and  then,  so  far  as  to  improve 
one's  language,  but  no  farther."  The  recollection  of  his  father's 
criticism  upon  the  Lighthouse  Tragedy,  and  his  name  for  the  fol- 
lowers of  the  gat  science,  doubtless  assured  him  of  the  whole- 
someness  of  this  counsel. 

*  Ralph  went  back  to  England  and  became  somewhat  noted  as  a  political  pamphleteer. 
Pope  silenced  him  as  a  poet  with  the  following  in  the  Dunciad: 
"  And  see  !  the  very  Gazetteers  give  o'er, 
'  Ev'n  Ralph  repents,  and  Henley  writes  no  more." 


96  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  [Oct., 

All  varieties  of  philosophers,  excepting  probably  the  Cynics, 
and  certainly  those  bound  by  celibate  obligations,  have  not  been 
insensible  to  the  goods,  real  and  imaginary,  of  married  life. 
Even  Socrates  must  have  a  wife,  selecting,  as  some  said,  the 
most  shrewish  he  could  find,  not  with  the  hope  of  taming  her, 
like  Petrucchio,  but  of  subjecting  his  patience  and  endurance  to 
perennial  tests.  But  for  the  printed  words  from  his  own  manu- 
script it  would  be  incredible  that  Franklin,  then  old,  rich,  and  re- 
nowned, should  have  written  with  such  shocking  indelicacy  re- 
garding the  woman  whom  he  was  to  marry,  and  some  of  the  in- 
centives that  drove  him  thereto.  Some  love-passages  had  been 
between  him  and  the  Miss  Read  before  mentioned,  with  whose 
parents  he  took  his  first  board,  but  on  his  sailing  for  England 
these  (though  he  was  confident  of  her  reciprocation  of  his  feeling) 
were  suspended.  Stung  by  her  lover's  long  neglect,  she  had 
married  a  potter,  whom,  having  found  him  to  be  a  worthless  fel- 
low and  reputed  to  have  another  wife,  she  had  forsaken.  He 
confesses  to  the  shame  he  felt,  upon  his  return  from  England,  on 
meeting  the  forlorn  woman,  his  treatment  of  whom  he  names  an- 
other of  his  errata — one,  however,  which  several  conditions  (some 
not  to  be  repeated  by  us)  rendered  capable  of  correction.  We 
can  afford  to  give  the  following  specimen  : 

"  I  pitid  poor  Miss  Read's  unfortunate  situation,  who  was  generally  de- 
jected, seldom  cheerful,  and  avoided  company.  I  consider*1  my  giddiness 
and  inconstancy  when  in  London  as  in  a  great  degree  the  cause  of  her  un- 
happiness,  tho'  the  mother  was  good  enough  to  think  the  fault  more  her 
own  than  mine,  as  she  had  prevented  our  marrying  before  I  went  thither, 
and  persuaded  the  other  match  in  my  absence.  Our  mutual  affection  was 
revived,  but  there  were  now  great  objections  to  our  union.  The  match  was 
indeed  lookd  upon  as  invalid,  a  preceding  wife  being  said  to  be  still  living 
in  England ;  but  this  could  not  easily  be  provd,  because  of  the  distance ; 
and  tho'  there  was  a  report  of  his  death,  it  was  not  certain.  Then, 
tho'  it  should  be  true,  he  had  left  many  debts,  which  his  successor  might 
be  calld  upon  to  pay.  We  venturd,  however,  over  all  these  difficulties,  and 
I  took  her  to  wife  September  ist,  1730.  None  of  the  inconveniences  hap- 
pen4 that  we  had  apprehended  ;  she  proved  a  good  and  faithful  helpmate 
assisted  me  much  by  attending  the  shop  ;  we  throve  together,  and  have 
ever  mutually  endeavord  to  make  each  other  happy.  Thus  I  corrected 
that  great  erratum  as  well  as  I  could." 

The  principal  element  in  the  being  of  Franklin  as  a  man  and 
as  a  philosopher  was  selfishness.  It  was  the  magnitude,  it  was 
the  scope,  it  was  the  cool  imperturbability,  it  was  the  never-sleep- 
ing watchfulness  towards  what  would  gratify  this  selfishness  that 
carried  him  to  such  a  height.  His  great  doctrine  was  that  the 


1885.]  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  97 

road  to  human  virtue  and  happiness  was  wealth.  This  doctrine 
was  already  in  his  mind  when  he  was  a  child  in  his  father's  house, 
grown  stronger  when  he  went  about  the  streets  of  Boston  hawk- 
ing his  own  ballads,  and  living  upon  vegetables  in  order  to  have 
money  with  which  to  purchase  books.  Whatever  came  within 
view  of  that  spirit,  the  most  watchful  and  persistent  of  mankind, 
was  appropriated  or  rejected  according  as  it  was  found  or  be- 
lieved to  be  a  help  or  a  hindrance  in  the  way  of  the  kind  of  happi- 
ness that  he  sought.  The  disputes  he  had  had  with  his  father 
about  the  need  of  the  wharf,  that  he  held  with  himself  a  little 
later  upon  the  question  of  attending  religious  services  or  stay- 
ing home  with  his  books  on  Sundays,  were  prophetic.  It  was 
utility,  personal  utility,  that  he  was  to  study  and  to  take  wherever 
he  could.  The  consequences  of  the  wharf  business  convinced 
him  that  dishonesty  was  not  useful.  Therefore  he  will  practise 
it  no  more,  at  least  after  just  such  a  style  as  pilfering  another's 
goods.  But  the  world  must  not  expect  from  him  delicate  balanc- 
ings along  the  border-line  between  the  questionable  and  the  un- 
questionable things  in  'human  conduct.  Some  of  the  things  that 
he  tells  us  exhibit  an  audacity  of  vanity  that  none  except  a  very 
great  man  could  feel  or  dare  to  avow.  One  has  learned  to  rather 
pity  the  poor  crazy  prophet,  so  unthrifty,  so  friendless,  so  unapt 
in  hiding  his  poverty  and  his  numerous  infirmities — in  fine,  so 
much  of  a  child,  an  orphan-child  at  that.  Yet  for  years  the 
employee  has  been  foreseeing  the  end  of  a  sure  decline  and 
silently  counting  upon  rising  upon  his  fall.  It  was  at  the  time 
of  beginning  the  famous  The  Universal  Instructor  in  all  Arts  and 
Sciences,  and  Pennsylvania  Gazette -,  the  intention  of  whose  estab- 
lishment, long  concealed,  was  made  known  to  Keimer  by  another 
workman,  one  Webb,  that  the  failing  printer»tried  to  improve  his 
own  sheet  so  that  it  might  compete  with  the  one  now  projected. 
The  friends  Franklin  had  made  had  assured  him  often  that  it  was 
only  a  question  of  time,  ever  rapidly  diminishing,  when  the  thrift- 
less creature  must  get  out  of  his  way.  Now,  this  last  spasmodic 
effort  was  too  much  for  the  man  who  had  been  waiting  "  long, 
too  long  already."  Let  us  listen  to  what  he  says: 

"  I  resented  this,  and  to  counteract  them,  as  I  could  not  yet  begin  our 
paper,  I  wrote  several  pieces  of  entertainment  for  Bradford's  paper,  under 
the  title  of  Busy  Body,  which  Breintnal  continud  some  months.  By  this 
means  the  attention  of  the  publick  was  fixd  on  that  paper,  and  Keimer's 
proposals,  which  were  burlesqud  and  ridiculd,  were  disregarded.  He 
began  his  paper,  however,  and,  after  carrying  it  on  three-quarters  of  a  year, 
he  offerd  it  to  me  for  a  trifle  ;  and  I,  having  been  ready  some  time  to  go 
VOL.  XLII. — 7 


98  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  [Oct., 

on   with   it,  took   it  in  hand  directly,  and  it  provd   in  a  few  years  •  ex- 
treamly '  profitable  to  me." 

The  poor  insolvent  got  away  somehow  and  emigrated  to  the 
Barbadoes.  Now  Franklin,  taught  by  the  results  of  the  quagmire 
"  wharff  "  and  other  experiences,  doubtless  would  have  regard- 
ed it  verv  unwise  to  have  practised  on  the  "  novice,"  as  he  some- 
times named  him,  actions  bold  as  the  stealing  of  a  builder's 
stones;  for  such  conduct  had  been  proven  at  least  not  useful. 
We  may  not  reach  forth  and  pluck  with  our  hands  the  fruit, 
though  overripe,  that  hangs  upon  another's  tree ;  but  we  may 
eagerly  watch  the  bough  upon  which  it  hangs  leaning  over  our 
side  of  the  wall,  and  receive  it  when  fallen  into  thankful  laps. 
The  useful,  the  useful  is  that  for  which  we  must  seek  in  order  for 
the  obtainment  of  the  happiness  we  desire.  Dishonesty  is  bad, 
honesty  is  good  policy.  Let  us  consider  how  the  argument  was 
carried  into  religion.  After  telling  of  how  he  once  became  a 
deist  he  thus  proceeds : 

"  My  arguments  perverted  some  others,  particularly  Collins  and  Ralph  ; 
but  each  of  them  having  afterwards  wrongd  me  greatly  without  the  least 
compunction,  and  recollecting  Keith's  conduct  towards  me  *  (who  was  an- 
other free-thinker)  and  my  own  towards  Vernon  t  and  Miss  Read,  which  at 
times  gave  me  great  trouble,  I  began  to  suspect  that  this  doctrine,  tho'  it 
might  be  true,  was  not  very  useful." 

That  conclusion  must  settle  the  business  with  deism.     Deism  had 
to  go  out  of  his  creed,  and  it  went. 

But  a  religion  of  some  sort  was  necessary  to  man  in  the  long 
run,  and  in  emergencies  it  must  even  be  pronounced  and  clamor- 
ous, and  sometimes,  for  a  desired  purpose  of  utility,  put  on  sack- 
cloth and  sit  amid  ashes !  There  is  an  undertone  of  humor  in  his 
account  of  the  fast — "  the  first  ever  thought  of  in  the  province  "— 
whose  proclamation  he  had  advised.  As  no  precedent  could  be 
found,  the  mover  had  to  draw  up  the  document. 

"  My  education  in  New  England,  where  a  fast  is  proclaim4  every  year, 
was  here  of  some  advantage.  I  drew  it  in  the  accustom*  stile  ;  it  was 
translated  into  German,  printed  in  both  languages,  and  divulgd  thro' 
the  province.  This  gave  the  clergy  of  the  different  sects  an  opportunity 
of  influencing  their  congregations  to  join  in  the  association,  and  it  would 
probably  have  been  general  among  all  but  Quakers  if  the  peace  had  not 
soon  intervenV 

*  Keith  had  broken  his  promise  of  letters  of  introduction  to  persons  in  London. 

t  He  had  collected  some  money  for  Vernon,  used  it,  and  been  tardy  in  its  payment.  ' '  Mr. 
Vernon  about  this  time  put  me  in  mind  of  the  debt  I  ow*  him,  but  did  not  press  me.  I  wrote 
him  an  ingenuous  letter  of  acknowledgment,  cravd  his  forbearance  a  little  longer,  which  he  al- 
lowd  me,  and  as  soon  as  I  was  able  I  paid  the  principal  with  interest  and  many  thanks  ;  so  that 
erratum  was  in  some  degree  corrected." 


18850  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  99 

But  the  vanity  of  Franklin  becomes  gigantic  when  we  see  him, 
after  become  illustrious  throughout  the  world,  meditating  the 
foundation  of  a  new  sect.  In  his  old  age  he  indulges  in  charita- 
ble regret  that  his  other  engagements  kept  putting  off  and  finally 
hindered  so  benign  an  intention.  In  the  history  of  mankind  we 
believe  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  found  in  its  kind  equal  to  the 
following : 

"My  ideas  at  that  time  were  that  the  sect  should  be  begun  and  spread 
at  first  among  young  and  single  men  only ;  that  each  person  to  be  ini- 
tiated should  not  only  declare  his  assent  to  such  creed,  but  should  have 
exercisd  himself  with  the  thirteen  weeks'  examination  and  practice  of 
the  virtues,  as  in  the  forementiond  model;  that  the  existence  of  such 
a  society  should  be  kept  secret  till  it  was  become  considerable,  to  pre- 
vent solicitations  for  the  admission  of  improper  persons,  but  that  the 
members  should  each  of  them  search  among  his  acquaintance  for  in- 
genuous, well-disposd  youths,  to  whom,  with  prudent  caution,  the  scheme 
should  be  gradually  communicated;  that  the  members  should  engage  to 
afford  their  advice,  assistance,  and  support  to  each  other  in  promoting  one 
another's  interests,  business,  and  advancement  in  life  ;  that  for  distinction 
we  should  be  calld  The  Society  of  the  Free  and  Easy?'  etc.,  etc. 

Herein  have  we  put  down  a  few  things  in  the  career  of  the 
one  philosopher  whom  the  New  World  has  produced  thus  far. 
They  are  taken  from  his  own  writing,  recorded  when  he  had  -be- 
come old  and  the  world  was  filled  with  his  fame.  Other  things 
are  in  this  curious  book  which  could  not  be  reproduced  without 
offending  others  as  well  as  ourselves,  and  others  yet  were  decent- 
ly suppressed  by  the  editor  from  the  author's  manuscript.  That 
Franklin  was,  in  some  respects,  what  is  usually  known  in  the 
name  of  a  great  man  is  undeniable.  His  confidence  in  his  own 
powers,  his  patient  biding  of  his  times,  his  sagacity  in  the  pursuit 
and  compassing  of  the  ends  which  he  proposed,  his  ready  percep- 
tion and  self-satisfactory  corrections  of  the  mistakes  he  had  made 
from  time  to  time,  his  steady  endeavors  for  the  possible,  his  keep- 
ing his  eyes  away  from  the  visionary,  his  calm  lead  of  mankind, 
his  freedom  from  temptation  for  the  quest  or  indulgence  of 
whatever  would  injure  his  health  or  his  name,  or  would  retard 
the  projects  he  had  extended — all  these  show  him  to  have  been 
what  is  generally  understood  in  the  name  of  a  great  man. 
But  remembering  of  what  sort  of  men  were  the  wise  of  an- 
cient Greece,  can  we  justly  style  a  philosopher  such  a  man  as 
Franklin?  The  wise  men  of  ancient  Greece,  heathen  though  they 
were,  made  their  aim  for  the  highest  good  that  was  possible  to 
human  nature.  That  highest  good  was  virtue.  Whatever  else 
that  word  might  include  within  its  meaning,  neither  wealth  nor 


ioo  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  [Oct., 

mere  utility  was  among  them,  but  the  fear  of  God  and  kindness 
to  mankind  were,  and  were  chiefest  constituents.  Some  despised, 
many  disregarded,  but  none  ever  sought  riches  as  the  means 
of  leading  to  happiness,  and  especially  to  virtue.  The  wisest 
among  them  did  not  withhold  becoming  respect  for  those  who 
had  become  rich  by  industry  or  inheritance,  whenever  these  did 
not  magnify  the  importance  of  their  possessions  in  the  sum  of  hu- 
man existence.  Industry,  frugality,  temperance  they  counselled, 
because  they  were  promoters,  to  the  extent  of  their  importance, 
of  virtue  by  the  health  of  body  and  the  peace  of  mind  which 
they  induced,  not  by  the  mere  accumulation  of  lands  and  goods. 
Franklin  was  the  first  to  exalt  Plutus  among  the  superior  gods — 
indeed,  to  put  his  throne  at  the  summit.  With  him  wealth  was 
both  virtue  and  happiness.  In  the  pursuit  of  wealth  a  man's  con- 
stant aim  must  be  to  search  for  the  things  that  will  be  useful  for 
his  purpose,  and  evade  everything  that  will  not.  He  must  not 
steal,  nor  lie  (that  is,  on  a  very  great  scale),  nor  be  debauched, 
nor  gluttonous,  nor  intemperate,  nor  be  a  deist.  Why  ?  Because 
these  and  their  likes  will  be  found  useless  in  the  matter  he  has  in 
hand.  For  the  first  time  in  lexicography  honesty  is  defined  or 
made  synonymous  with  policy;  rather,  good  policy.  As  for  reli- 
gion, that  is  a  harmless  thing  in  general,  of  which  a  leader  of 
men,  on  occasions  of  great  perturbation  of  the  public  mind,  may 
avail  for  the  end  of  inducing  the  clergy  of  all  sects  (except 
Quakers,  who  are  comparatively  weak)  to  incite  their  congrega- 
tions to  co-operation  in  action  necessary  to  the  common  weal. 
But  a  distinct,  definite,  reasonable,  true,  unerring  creed  the  phi- 
losopher, in  the  multifold  engrossments  with  public  and  private 
business,  could  never  obtain  leisure  to  propound.  In  the  retire- 
ment of  age  he  kindly,  yet  without  pain,  regrets  that  a  scheme 
so  generously  conceived  was  hindered  in  its  execution  because  of 
so  many  matters  of  more  importance  having  devolved  upon  him. 
It  would  have  been  curious  to  see  the  poor,  the  weary,  and  the 
heavy-laden  knocking  at  that  church  from  which  were  specially 
to  be  denied  admittance  all  who  owed  money.  Such  as  these 
could  not  be  expected  to  keep  themselves  in  view  of  that  standard 
of  virtue  which  in  the  "Almanac  by  Richard  Saunders,  Philomat, 
printed  and  sold  by  B.  Franklin,"  was  exalted  as  high  as,  even 
above,  the  Labarum  of  Constantine. 

"  I  therefore  filled,"  he  says  in  the  fulness  of  the  sweetness  of  remem- 
bering Richard's  prodigious  success  in  his  venture—"  I  therefore  filled  all 
the  little  spaces  that  occurrd  between  the  remarkable  days  in  the  calendar 
with  proverbial  sentences,  chiefly  such  as  inculcated  industry  and  fru- 


1885.]  AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  101 

gality  as  the  means  of  procuring  wealth,  and  thereby  securing  virtue ;  it 
being  more  difficult  for  a  man  in  want  to  act  always  honestly,  as,  to  use 
here  one  of  those  proverbs,  it  is  hard  for  an  empty  sack  to  stand  upright" 

It  would  have  been  curious,  we  repeat,  to  see  the  result  of 
a  poor  man's  application  for  membership  in  a  church  whose 
founder  had  assembled  and  formed  such  proverbs  "  as  the  ha- 
rangue of  a  wise  old  man  to  the  people  attending  an  auction." 
We  imagine  the  applicant  to  be  dismissed  with  some  such  words 
as  lago  employed  with  the  rejected  Roderigo : 

"Put  money  in  thy  purse  :  .  .  .  I  say,  put  money  in  thy  purse.  Defeat 
thy  favor  with  a  usurped  beard.  Put  but  money  in  thy  purse.  .  .  .  Fill 
thy  purse  with  money.  .  .  .  Traverse  !  go  ;  provide  thy  money." 

How  fallen  such  a  creed  below  not  only  the  behests  of  Chris- 
tianity, but  of  the  very  ancientest  and  crudest  philosophies!  To 
say  nothing  of  what  Franklin  thought  of  Christ,  how  he  must 
have  imagined  himself  to  compassionate  all  others  who  had  pre- 
ceded him  in  quest  of  the  true  paths  of  wisdom  !  How  useless 
to  him  must  have  seemed  their  solemn  meditations  on  God  and 
the  best  good  of  mankind,  their  yearnings  for  immortality,  their 
despondent  searchings  for  truth,  destined  never  certainly  to  be 
known  not  to  be  a  phantom  until  her  hiding-place  should  be  dis- 
covered by  the  great  philosopher  of  the  West !  That  a  man  with 
such  views  and  maxims,  with  extraordinary  powers  for  their  en- 
forcement, should  have  exerted  an  immense  influence  upon  a 
heterogeneous  people  in  their  formation  of  a  government  in  a 
country  so  new  and  so  vast,  may  not  be  wondered  at,  but  only 
deplored.  No  other  philosopher  ever  had  so  numerous  a  follow- 
ing. With  Poor  Richard s  Almanac  in  his  hand,  and  with  his  own 
persistent,  tireless,  endless  commentings,  he  made  himself  an 
apostle  to  the  multitudes  whose  minds  he  led  away  from  concern 
for  spiritual  things  and  directed  to  the  pursuit  of  the  one  impor* 
tant  material.  The  dullest  understanding  comprehended  his  doc- 
trine as  well  as  the  brightest.  Reduced  to  logical  form  it  would 
read  thus : 

All  virtuous  men  are  happy ; 

But,  none  but  the  rich  are  virtuous ; 

Therefore,  none  but  the  rich  are  happy. 

In  such  a  discipline  how  many  thousands  upon  thousands  in 
our  country  have  spent  lives  of  varying  lengths  in  that  search  for 
happiness!  What  contrivances  have  been  invented  for  that  end  ! 
What  simulations  of  justifiable  means  that  were  often  but  the 
"  index  and  obscure  prologue  to  the  history  of  foul  thoughts  " ! 


102 


AMERICAN  PHILOSOPHY.  [Oct., 


Alas !  how  many  have  been  led  away  from  Christianity,  and  even 
from  the  development  of  manhood!  How  many  have  been  de- 
stroyed whilst  endeavoring  to  reconcile  those  two  proverbs  so 
vastly  apart,  Honesty  is  the  best  policy  and  It  is  hard  for  an  empty 
sack  to  stand  upright. 

Of  all  teachers  whom  the  world  has  yet  produced,  Franklin, 
to  us,  seems  least  like  Christ  and  most  disrespectful  to  him. 
Christ  ennobled  poverty  by  being  born  into  its  estate.  In  it  he 
chose  his  mother,  his  brethren,  his  friends.  In  it  he  lived  and 
died.  He  had  said,  "  Blessed  are  the  poor."  Franklin,  rejecting 
this,  elected  some  others  of  his  precepts,  and  cunningly  diverted 
them  from  the  chiefest  purposes  for  which  they  had  been  pro- 
pounded by  the  Great  Teacher.  Yet  he  hesitated  not  to  advise 
the  weaker  in  his  school  and  those  outside  to  call  upon  Christ  on 
occasions  of  public  emergency,  in  order  to  obtain  universal  co- 
operation in  endeavors  of  pressing  public  importance.  In  his 
old  age,  while  retrospecting  his  long  career,  the  full  gratification 
of  his  mind  must  express  itself  in  the  words  of  that  Autobiogra- 
phy, a  thing  unique  in  its  kind.  Too  wise  to  lament  in  vain  the 
dwindling  of  strength  and  desires,  he  yet  professed  his  willing- 
ness, if  such  could  be,  to  live  over  his  life,  even  including  the 
errata,  all  of  which  he  had  moderately  regretted,  and  of  some  of 
which  he  had  been  ashamed. 

Had  Franklin  been  a  Christian,  or  had  he  not  sought  to  med- 
dle with  and  pervert  Christian  ethics,  and  kept  his  speculations 
within  the  fields  of  legitimate  philosophical  inquiry,  the  great- 
ness of  his  career  would  have  been  far  more  excellent.  We 
would  not  subtract  from  his  renown  in  these  fields,  wherein  we 
endorse  the  praise  of  Jeffrey :  "  He  was  the  most  rational,  per- 
haps, of  all  philosophers.  No  individual  perhaps  ever  possessed 
a  juster  understanding,  or  was  so  seldom  obstructed  in  the  use  of 
it  by  indolence,  enthusiasm,  and  authority.' 


1885.]  KATHARINE.  103 


KATHARINE. 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

Louis  GIDDINGS  went  slowly  up  the  stairs  after  his  friend's 
departure,  and  entered  a  private  sitting-room,  beyond  which  lay 
the  nursery.  The  door  between  the  two  was  slightly  ajar,  and 
he  could  see  the  crucifix  hanging  on  the  wall  and  hear  the 
splashing  of  water,  the  crowing  of  baby  in  his  bath,  the  voices 
of  Katharine  and  the  nurse,  and  the  childish  laughter  of  Lilly 
Kitchener,  who  had  begun  to  divide  her  allegiance  between  the 
father  and  the  son,  and  was  the  latter's  most  devoted  subject. 
At  any  other  time  he  would  himself  have  passed  on  into  the 
farther  room,  as  Katharine  doubtless  anticipated  now ;  for  though 
she  heard  his  step  she  neither  spoke  nor  rose  to  go  and  meet 
him.  But  to-day  the  familiar  scene  was  more  than  he  could  bear. 
He  stood  a  moment  near  an  open  window,  and  then  dropped 
into  an  easy-chair  beside  the  table  and  buried  his  face  on  his 
folded  arms.  The  night  had  been  a  bitter  one,  and  the  thought 
of  what  yet  lay  before  him  taxed  his  strength  almost  beyond 
endurance. 

Katharine,  approaching  the  open  door  a  moment  later  and 
seeing  his  unusual  attitude,  shut  it  behind  her,  and,  coming  close, 
knelt  down  beside  him.  She  slipped  her  arm  beneath  his,  and 
kissed  the  hand  which  was  nearest  her  and  then  the  cheek 
against  which  she  nestled  her  own.  He  neither  moved  nor 
spoke,  and  presently  she  began  half- whispering  in  his  ear. 

"  It  is  hard,  Louis,  but  I  think  God  will  be  good  to  us.  It 
will  not  be  for  very  long."  / 

"  No,"  he  answered,  with  a  sigh  that  was  almost  a  groan ;  "  at 
worst  life  is  not  endless." 

"  We  did  well  to  ask  for  fortitude  this  morning,"  she  went  on 
after  a  little,  seeing  that  she  had  failed  to  rouse  him  from  his  de- 
spondent mood  ;  "  but  why  did  you  tell  me  to  beg  the  fear  of  the 
Lord  as  well?" 

He  turned  at  that  and  took  her  in  his  arms.  "  I  did  you  an 
injustice,  dear.  It  has  penetrated  all  your  bones,  arid  I  know  it." 

Then  for  a  while  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  without 
more  words;  a  vague  dread  slowly  rising  in  hers  to  meet  the 
anguish  and  tenderness  and  exceeding  pity  that  were  in  his. 


104  KATHARINE.  [Oct., 

"  You  stayed  up  too  late  with  Richard,"  she  said  at  last,  try- 
ing to  shake  off  her  new  anxiety,  yet  going  straight  to  its  occa- 
sion by  an  unerring  instinct.  "  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  but  I  wish 
he  had  not  come  just  now." 

But  he  could  not  force  himself  to  take  the  opening  she  gave 
him. 

"  Do  you  remember,  love,"  he  said,  closing  her  eyes  with  a 
caress,  "the  day  we  saw  each  other  first?  Such  a  little  time  to 
count  up  by  years,  and  yet  it  seems  to  stretch  back  into  eternity 
and  go  forward  to  it.  Do  you  know  what  you  have  been  to  me 
since  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  for  I  know  what  you  have  been  to 
me." 

"  The  life  of  my  life,"  he  went  on,  "  the  heart  of  my  heart, 
even  before  you  became  all  to  me  that  you  are  now.  If  we  were 
to  be  torn  utterly  apart  it  seems  to  me  that  my  soul,  too,  would 
languish  and  die  within  me.  Come  what  may,  that  can  never 
be,  I  think  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  softly ;  "  could  we  let  each  other  go 
even  for  a  little,  if  we  did  not  know  that  for  us  there  is  no  such 
thing  as  parting?  As  it  is  I  can  hardly  bear  it.  What  shall  I 
do  without  you?  When  I  know  you  are  in  danger  I  shall  die 
daily." 

"  And  yet  death  would  be  so  easy,  and  I  am  so  great  a  cow- 
ard that  I  am  tempted  to  pray  for  it  on  the  first  battle-field. 
Don't  look  at  me  like  that !  You  unman  me,  and  I  need  all  my 
courage." 

Presently  he  began  again,  seeing  that  she  kept  silence. 

"  Think  how  much  I  need  it  when  I  say  that,  seeing  what  lies 
before  us,  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  be  sorry  that  we  ever 
met  or  loved  each  other.  Do  you  know  what  I  have  done  to 
you,  poor  motherless  little  mother,  whom  I  must  leave  to  bear 
her  burdens  and  her  sorrows  all  alone?" 

She  burst  out  then,  speaking  with  a  quick,  vehement  passion, 
and  drawing  back  from  his  encircling  arms. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  "  you  have  made  life  sweet  to  me  and  holy ! 
You  opened  the  way  to  God  for  me  !  You  gave  me  your  child  ! 
You  have  given  me  infinite  happiness  and  but  one  single  pain, 
and  that  you  give  me  now  when  for  any  reason  you  can  say  you 
regret  that  it  has  ever  been !  What  have  I  done  to  deserve  a 
stab  like  that?  " 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  said,  "  I  don't  regret  it — not  one  hour  of  it, 
not  one  minute  !  I  can  give  you  up,  and  know  you  suffer,  and 


1885.]  KATHARINE.  105 

live  to  feel  the  sharpest  sting  of  every  pain  that  you  will  have  to 
bear,  but  I  can't  be  sorry  that  you  have  been  mine  !  I  shall  re- 
joice in  it  till  the  day  I  die." 

Then  he  told  her.  The  blood  surged  up  to  her  temples  as 
she  began  to  comprehend,  and  then  sank  back  again.  He  saw 
the  life  going  out  in  her  eyes  and  on  her  lips ;  she  grew  cold,  and 
for  the  first  and  last  time  she  fainted  outright  and  lay  in  his  arms 
like  one  dead.  He  rose  and  laid  her  down  upon  a  sofa,  and  for 
a  little  while  made  no  effort  to  revive  her.  The  thrust  of  a  pain 
which  was  half-pleasure  smote  him. 

"  My  God !  "  he  said  beneath  his  breath,  "  how  sweet  it  would 
be  to  kill  her  with  a  blow  like  that,  and  die  myself  in  giving  it !  " 

Once  afterwards  in  the  course  of  the  interrupted  day,  broken 
by  the  pressure  of  so  many  imperative  duties,  he  told  her  that 
for  months  he  had  been  dimly  conscious  that  some  heavy  grief 
awaited  them. 

"  Not  this  one,"  he  said.  "  As  God  sees  me,  the  possibility  of 
it  has  never  once  crossed  my  mind  in  all  these  years.  What  I 
feared  I  did  not  know,  but  the  dread  followed  me  like  my  shadow. 
That  is  what  lay  at  the  bottom  of  my  enlistment.  There  were 
other  reasons,  sound  enough,  plausible  enough  to  offer  even  to 
you,  and  yet  I  have  wondered  many  times  how  you  could  accept 
them  as  sufficient.  Did  you  think  me  made  of  stone  that  I  could 
leave  you,  suffering  still  from  your  mother's  death,  with  the 
child  still  hanging  at  you*  breast,  to  assume  a  duty  not  absolute- 
ly laid  upon  me  ?  I  must  have  been  trying,  with  a  vain  instinct, 
to  avert  one  evil  by  going  to  seek  another." 

"  It  is  better  as  it  is,"  she  said,  lifting  her  sad  eyes  to  his.  "  I 
can  be  more  reconciled  to  lose  you  this  way.  *The  other  cut  me 
deeper  than  I  could  ever  bear  to  show  you.  I  am  glad  you 
thought  to  tell  me  that." 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  stopped 
again,  looking  at  her  in  silence. 

"  Good  God ! "  he  groaned,  "  how  close  you  are,  and  yet  how 
far  away ! " 

"  We  never  can  be  far  away  from  each  other  now,"  she  an- 
swered. *'  Don't  you  feel  how  this  blow  which  has  sundered  us 
outwardly  has  welded  our  souls  together  once  for  all  ?  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  have  passed  out  of  myself  and  become  you." 

"  You  are  an  angel,"  he  said.  "  The  dross  is  burned  clean 
out  of  you,  but  the  leaven  of  humanity  works  still  in  me." 

The  baby  was  sleeping  in  its  mother's  arms,  and  he  took  up 
the  little  hand  which  lay,  relaxed  and  with  limp  fingers,  at  its  side. 


106  KATHARINE.  [Oct., 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  "  one  chief  ingredient  in  my  bitterness. 
What  will  you  tell  him  on  the  day  when  he  asks  why  he  has  no 
father?" 

"  Poor  little  lad !  "  she  said,  looking  down  at  him  with  infinite, 
tenderness.  "  I  think  he  feels  it,  too.  He  has  not  been  like  him- 
self since  I  nursed  him  after  his  bath.  There  is  no  bitterness  in 
him  for  me.  He  is  the  one  treasure  which  has  no  alloy.  I  shall 
never  tell  him  he  has  no  father.  He  is  yours,  and  he  is  mine. 
Do  you  think  he  will  not  be  proud  of  his  lineage  the  day  he 
comes  to  know  and  understand  it?" 

"  You  put  me  to  the  blush,"  he  said.  "  I  might  have  known 
— I  did  know— that  there  is  no  room  in  you  for  pride,  or  shame, 
or  anything  but  pure  and  perfect  love.  You  are  not  sorry  to 
have  known  it  ?" 

"Ah!  no,"  she  said,  with  a  smile  that  filled  his  eyes  with 
tears.  "I  am  glad — I  am  glad  from  my  heart!" 

"  Tell  me,  then,  if  you  know — and  yet  I  know  so  well  myself 
that  I  need  not  ask  you  but  for  the  bitter  pleasure  of  hearing  it 
from  your  lips — would  anything  but  the  one  Cause  which  parts 
us  have  sufficed  to  do  it?" 

"  No,"  she  answered,  "  there  was  no  need  to  ask  that  ques- 
tion. What  but  God  could  have  lifted  us  to  the  height  where 
we  can  see  nothing  but  him  beyond  us,  and  feel  nothing  but  that 
all  sweetness  comes  from  him  and  can  be  fulfilled  in  him  only?" 

"  It  is  worth  while  to  lose  you,  love,"  he  said.  "  I  never 
should  have  known  you  wholly  but  for  that." 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

• 

DOUBTLESS  the  least  to  be  envied  of  these  three  was  Richard 
Norton.  He  had  been  unable  to  resist  the  gibe  with  which  he 
parted  from  his  friend,  but  no  one  could  be  more  sensible  than 
he  of  the  self-regarding  irony  of  such  a  taunt  issuing  from 
his  lips.  Sympathy  gave  him  understanding  concerning  the 
inaction  and  silence  of  Giddings  in  the  past;  there  were  al- 
ready moments  when  he  had  no  regret  more  intense  than  that 
arising  from  the  fact  that  circumstances  forbade  his  thorough 
imitation  of  them.  For  more  than  one  substantial  reason  he 
would  have  been  glad  never  to  see  again  the  woman  who  had 
duped  him,  and  to  content  himself  with  dismissing  her  from  his 
life  with  a  warning  which  he  felt  sure  she  would  not  disregard. 
As  he  turned  the  matter  over  in  his  mind,  recoiling  alike  from 
every  aspect  it  presented,  he  reflected  often  that  the  facts  proba- 


1885.]  KATHARINE.  107 

bly  tallied  with  his  friend's  understanding  of  them  ;  that,  at  least, 
he  was  not  imperatively  called  upon  to  doubt  it,  and  that  there 
was,  therefore,  no  necessity  for  his  further  interference.  Nothing 
could  be  more  simple  than  the  case  would  become,  so  far  as  he 
was  concerned,  if  Giddings  not  only  persisted  in  his  incompre- 
hensible determination  to  sacrifice  himself  and  Katharine,  but 
showed  no  intention  of  bringing  the  woman  to  justice.  If  they, 
who  were  the  chief  sufferers,  chose  to  remain  passive,  why  should 
he  also  not  wash  his  hands  of  it  and  disclaim  all  responsibility  ? 

Motives  are  very  mixed,  even  with  the  least  selfish,  the  least 
complex  of  us,  and  Richard  Norton  belonged  to  neither  cate- 
gory. If  his  first  emotion  had  been  the  horror  excited  by  his 
friend's  position,  his  second,  lasting,  and  more  natural  feeling 
had  been  that  of  relief  concerning  his  own.  Nothing  disturbed 
it  but  the  uneasy  suspicion  that  Giddings  lay  under  a  mistake, 
which,  having  once  entered  his  mind,  stubbornly  resisted  every 
attempt  he  made  to  dislodge  it.  But,  having  suggested  it,  was 
it  obligatory  on  him  to  go  further,  in  the  face  of  his  friend's  well- 
reasoned  incredulity  ?  He  knew  that  he  would  be  willing  to  ex- 
tricate him  in  that  way,  and  even  more  than  willing,  since  it 
would  untangle  complications  which  did  not  exist  in  his  own 
case.  But  he  knew  also  that  he  had  good  reason  to  shrink  from 
further  personal  investigation.  He  knew  it  by  the  very  strength 
of  the  impulse  which  urged  him  to  make  it — an  impulse  which 
he  sometimes  looked  at  obliquely  and  called  quixotic,  and  half- 
persuaded  himself  to  be  proud  of,  but  which  at  others  he  ex- 
amined coolly  and  put  down  at  its  just  value.  His  knowledge 
of  the  woman  he  had  married,  incomplete  before,  yet  rounding 
to  completion,  seemed  to  have  suddenly  expanded  into  fulness 
under  the  light  just  thrown  upon  it.  He  felt  persuaded  that  he 
knew  what  she  would  do  if  pushed  to  an  extremity,  and  the 
thought  excited  him  much  as  the  prospect  of  a  skilful  vivisection 
might  have  done.  Were  he  in  a  position  like  that  of  Giddings, 
he  was  certain  he  would  be  unable  to  resist  the  temptation,  since 
it  attracted  him  so  almost  irresistibly  already.  And  yet  it  had 
an  undeniably  ugly  look.  He  cursed  his  friend's  passivity,  which 
in  a  manner  challenged  his  own  sense  of  justice  to  undertake  the 
task.  Why  should  not  Giddings  share,  at  least,  in  the  responsi- 
bility by  facing  the  whole  situation  ? 

He  passed  the  day  in  solitude,  torn  by  a  violent  internal  con- 
flict from  which  he  emerged  at  last  a  conscious  victor.  He  as- 
sured himself  that  his  questionable  impulse,  having  matched  its 
full  strength  against  a  better  prompting,  had  given  way.  There 


io8  KATHARINE.  [Oct., 

remained,  of  course,  the  possibility  that  Giddings  had  found  his 
self-imposed  burden  too  heavy  for  him,  and  in  that  case  he  would 
still  be  ready  to  assist  him  in  the  way  he  first  proposed;  but  if 
not,  he  would  simply  notify  the  woman  by  letter  that  her  game 
was  up  and  drop  out  of  the  affair  entirely.  Some  further  steps  it 
might  be  necessary  to  take  hereafter  ;  he  would  be  obliged  to 
give  his  parents  some  inkling  of  the  real  facts  when  he  returned 
after  the  fighting  was  over,  but  even  that  unpleasantness  time 
and  circumstances  might  possibly  smooth  away  unaided.  It  was 
a  dismal  episode  in  his  life,  but  one  that  would  be  quickly  ended. 
He  should  doubtless  look  back  upon  it  in  future  as  the  source  of 
some  not  otherwise  attainable  and  extremely  useful  experience. 

At  the  station  he  met  Louis  Giddings  and  found  opportunity 
for  a  few  words  with  him.  He  saw  at  a  glance  that  his  friend 
had  adhered  to  his  determination,  but  could  not  refrain  from  put- 
ting the  direct  question  and  following  it  with  another  which  re- 
garded Katharine. 

"  Don't  speak  of  her !  "  Giddings  answered.  "  She  is  alive, 
and  so  am  I.  There  is  not  much  more  to  be  Hiid  about  either 
of  us." 

"  You  are  suffering  frightfully  and  are  not  fit  to  start.  Can  I 
do  nothing  to  relieve  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  well  enough  physically,"  Giddings  answered,  with  a 
rather  dreary  smile.  "  You  don't  look  over-cheerful  yourself.  I 
know  of  nothing  you  can  do,  unless  you  will  undertake  either  to 
verify,  or  to  put  me  in  a  position  to  dismiss  entirely,  the  sugges- 
tion you  made  this  morning.  It  persists  in  recurring  to  me 
within  the  last  hour  or  two  in  spite  of  my  better  judgment.  I 
can't  help  hoping  for  a  reprieve,  you  see,  even  after  the  drop  has 
fallen.  If  I  live  to  come  back  I  shall  look  it  up  myself,  unless 
you  have  previously  done  so.  You  seem  to  be  in  a  better  posi- 
tion than  any  one  else  to  undertake  it.  It  is  not  necessary  to 
question  her,  or,  at  all  events,  to  rely  upon  her  testimony.  There 
must  be  a  record  of  her  marriage  with  Lloyd,  and  you  have  all 
the  particulars  in  reference  to  mine." 

"  Have  you  mentioned  it  to  Kitty?  " 

"  No  ;  the  chance  is  too  slender  to  build,  a  hope  on.  To 
speak  the  truth,  it  never  took  even  the  slightest  consistency  in 
my  mind  until  after  I  left  her." 

"  Very  well.  In  case  the  result  is  unsatisfactory  to  you,  will 
you  empower  me  to  act  for  you  in  the  manner  I  proposed  ?  " 

"  No ;  all  I  can  do  in  either  event  is  to  instruct  you  to  have 
criminal  proceedings  instituted  against  her  on  my  behalf.  Under 


1885.]  KA  THARINE.  1 09 

the  circumstances  that  would  be  a  necessary  preliminary  even  to 
a  civil  action  for  divorce.  The  latter  I  will  not  take,  but  the 
former  I  cannot  in  conscience  dispense  myself  from  taking." 

"  My  own  predicament,  if  I  have  to  assume  the  other  horn  of 
the  dilemma,  is  a  pleasant  one  to  consider,"  said  Norton  grimly, 
and  yet  with  a  look  of  relief  which  his  friend  saw  and  misinter- 
preted. "  If  you  are  not  her  husband,  I  am.  Have  you  no  sug- 
gestion to  make  with  regard  to  that  contingency  ?  " 

"  You  are  a  good  fellow  ! "  Giddings  said,  taking  the  other's 
hand.  "  No;  I  have  none,  except  the  one  I  made  just  now.  It 
is  as  applicable  to  your  case  as  to  my  own.  Neither  of  us  wishes 
to  punish  the  woman,  of  course,  but  I  am  not  quite  so  oblivious 
of  my  duties  to  society  as  your  rebuke  this  morning  showed  you 
to  suppose  me." 

"  I  was  a  fraud  this  morning,"  the  doctor  answered  as  he  re- 
turned the  pressure.  "  You  ought  not  to  need  telling  that  I 
recoil  from  the  whole  thing  with  an  utter  loathing,  and  would 
be  only  too  glad  to  turn  my  back  upon  it  without  more  words. 
I  have  been  considering  the  possibility  of  doing  so  ever  since  I 
left  you.  You  are  very  sure  it  will  not  answer  ?  " 

Giddings  shook  his  head. 

"  There  are  some  crimes  and  some  criminals,"  he  said,  "  that  one 
may  safely  leave  to  go  scot-free  of  human  justice,  or  may,  at  least, 
absolve  one's  self  from  denouncing  to  it.  This  is  not  one  of  them. ' ' 

"  All  right !  I  had  been  halting  between  several  inclinations, 
but  I  see  my  way  at  present.  When  I  have  anything  definite  to 
say  I  will  let  you  know." 

Dr.  Norton  started  for  Montreal  that  night  and  arrived  there 
an  hour  or  two  after  noon  the  following  day.  Entering  a  car- 
riage at  the  station,  he  drove  to  Mr.  Rector's  office,  where  he 
passed  some  time  in  consultation,  and  then  went  on  to  the  bureau 
of  registration.  He  found  some  little  trouble  in  getting  at  the 
marriage  records  of  nine  years  back,  but  they  were  finally  pro- 
duced on  the  payment  of  double  fees,  and  a  certified  copy  of  the 
one  he  wanted  made  out  and  given  him.  He  forwarded  this  at 
once  by  mail  to  Giddings  at  Washington,  and  preceded  it  by  a 
telegram.  One  other  business  call  he  made,  and  then  went  into 
a  hotel  and  ordered  a  dinner,  for  which  he  had  small  appetite,  and 
during  which  he  drank  more  wine  than  was  his  custom.  Then 
he  set  forth  to  interview  his  wife.  He  was  conscious  of  a  cer- 
tain trepidation  of  the  heart  which  made  his  gait  somewhat  less 
brisk  than  usual,  but  he  assured  himself  that  his  brain  was  cool 
and  his  determination  like  a  rock. 


no 


KATHARINE.  [Oct., 


Mrs.  Norton  was  within,  the  clerk  informed  him,  and,  refusing 
to  be  announced,  he  passed  up  the  stairs.  The  thought  crossed 
his  mind  that  he  would  have  preferred  to  enter  in  her  absence 
and  let  her  find  him  unexpectedly  on  her  return.  That,  how- 
ever, was  a  mere  detail ;  he  even  reflected  further  that  the  pres- 
ence of  the  young  man  in  the  office  below  would  naturally  have 
taken  off  the  edge  of  her  surprise  in  that  case.  Then  he  hesi- 
tated whether  or  not  to  rap  at  her  door  before  entering,  and 
finally  concluded  to  try  the  handle  first.  It  yielded  to  his  pres- 
sure and  he  went  in.  The  room  was  a  long  one,  connecting,  at 
the  end  furthest  from  the  door,  with  a  chamber  which  also  stood 
open.  She  was  in  the  latter,  sitting  with  her  back  to  him  before 
a  mirror,  apparently  about  to  fasten  up  her  hair.  It  nung  to 
the  floor  beside  her,  a  dark  auburn  mass,  rippling  in  loose  waves 
from  the  crown  to  the  extremities,  and  shining  like  burnished 
copper  against  her  white  peignoir  where  the  afternoon  sun  fell 
on  it. 

He  closed  the  door  softly  and  turned  the  key.  The  carpet 
was  thick,  and  the  sound  of  his  steps  did  not  attract  her  atten- 
tion, though  he  made  no  special  effort  to  tread  lightly.  '  But  be- 
fore he  reached  the  entrance  of  the  room  where  she  was  sitting 
she  caught  sight  of  his  reflection  in  the  mirror,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment they  looked  at  each  other  before  she  turned.  He  said  to 
himself  that  if  fear  were  unmistakably  written  in  her  dilated  eyes 
and  on  her  parted  lips,  it  yielded  almost  instantaneously  to  an- 
other emotion  not  less  genuine.  On  one  point  at  least  she  had 
not  duped  him.  So  much  the  worse  for  both  of  them  ! 

As  for  her,  her  heart  stood  still  an  instant.  Her  thoughts, 
which  for  days  had  been  concentrated  on  the  same  subject  as  his, 
scattered  suddenly  and  left  nothing  but  a  blank.  She  was  con- 
scious only  of  the  present.  What  it  held  for  her  was  a  mystery 
to  which  Richard's  impenetrable  face  gave  her  no  clue.  What- 
ever it  was,  he  was  there  .to  administer  it  in  person.  She  rose 
and  cany  toward  him,  seeing  that  he  made  no  movement  to  ap- 
proach her,  and  offered  a  kiss,  which  he  accepted. 

"  How  you  startled  me !  "  she  said.  "  Is  anything  the  matter  ? 
Is  your  father  worse  ?  Is  he  dead  ?  " 

11  No,"  he  answered,  "  he  is  much  the  same  as  when  we  left 
him.  I  came  back  to  make  some  inquiries  which  I  had  stupidly 
forgotten,  and  which  require  exact  answers  before  I  can  make 
the  necessary  legal  arrangements  for  you.  I  might  have  written, 
I  suppose,  but  I  still  had  a  little  time  at  my  disposal  and  pre- 
ferred to  come." 


1885.]  KATHARINE.  in 

"  That  is  pleasant,"  she  said,  dimpling  into  a  smile  of  relief 
and  satisfaction.  "  You  don't  need  to  put  them  right  away,  do 
you  ?  Sit  down  and  ask  your  questions  at  your  leisure.  Why 
are  you  so  stiff  and  cool  ?  " 

"  Suppose  we  get  our  business  over  first.  I  want  simply  the 
date  of  your  first  marriage.  Have  you  got  a  certificate  ?  " 

'•'  I  think  it  is  in  my  desk  there  by  the  window.  Do  you  want 
to  see  it,  or  will  it  be  sufficient  to  tell  you  the  day  ?  " 

She  named  it  as  she  ended.  It  was  that  which  he  had  learned 
already. 

"  The  certificate  will  be  the  proper  thing,  I  fancy.  Shall  I 
look  for  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  unless  you  want  me  to  save  you  the  trouble.  The  key 
is  in  the  lock." 

He  went  over  to  the  desk  and  sat  down  in  front  of  it,  and  pre- 
sently she  followed  and  stood,  half-fronting  him,  between  the 
window  and  the  chimney-piece.  The  desk,  which  stood  on  a 
small  table,  had  little  in  it :  a  tiny  bundle  of  notes  he  had  written 
her  in  London  before  their  marriage,  packets  of  envelopes  and 
paper,  a  large  photograph  of  himself — apparently  nothing  more. 

"  It  is  not  here,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  her. 

"  There  is  a  false  bottom,"  she  answered,  showing  him  the 
trick  of  it.  Like  the  upper  part,  it  was  nearly  empty.  The 
paper  he  sought  lay  there,  folded  into  small  compass,  and  beside 
it  was  that  she  had  received  in  London.  There  was  a  small  dag- 
ger also,  in  a  sheath,  with  a  fine,  thin  blade,  which  he  pulled  out 
and  looked  at  with  a  curious  smile,  and  did  not  replace.  He 
picked  up  a  tiny  vial,  too,  with  a  tightly-fitting  stopper,  which 
being  opened  gave  out  a  pungent,  familiar  odor.  He  laid  it  back 
again  without  a  comment  and  without  refitting  the  false  bottom, 
and  bent  his  head  over  the  certificate.  Then  he  took  up  the  other 
and  read  it  over.  She  was  still  nearly  fronting  him,  and,  finding 
he  did  not  speak,  she  asked  him  after  a  little  interval : 

"  Well,  is  that  all  right  ?  " 

"  Not  quite,"  he  answered,  speaking  slowly  and  as  it  consid- 
ering, his  eyes  bent  upon  the  papers  in  his  hands  ;  "your  collec- 
tion does  not  seem  to  be  complete."  He  lifted  his  head  now  and 
looked  straight  at  her.  "  Did  you  not  get  one  the  day  you  went 
over  into  New  York  with  Louis  Giddings  ?  It  ought  to  come 
between  these  two,  I  think." 

She  turned  deathly  white  and  sick,  and  would  have  fallen  if 
he  had  not  caught  her.  He  saw,  nevertheless,  that  she  was  not 
fainting,  and  took  no  further  pains  than  to  put  her  in  an  arm- 


112  KA  THARINE.  [Oct., 

chair  that  stood  nearly  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  before  the 
mantel,  against  which  he  placed  himself  and  stood  looking  at  her 
in  silence. 

"  Before  God,"  she  said  at  last,  speaking  in  a  thick,  agitated 
voice,  "  I  have  been  trying  to  get  my  courage  up  to  tell  you.  If 
you  do  not  believe  me  you  may  look  in  my  portfolio  for  the 
letter  which  I  began  writing  you  last  night." 

"  I  don't  think  I  care  to  see  it.  Your  repentance  comes  a 
little  late.  The  fact  is  that  you  mistook  your  line  in  life,  my 
dear.  You  put  too  high  a  value  on  your  charms.  The  market 
rate  is  lower  than  that  represented  by  these  papers."  He  had 
them  still  dangling  between  the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  as  he 
stood  with  both  elbows  resting  on  the  low  chimney-piece.  She 
turned  scarlet,  but  said  nothing. 

"  What  I  don't  quite  understand,"  he  went  on  again  after  a 
pause,  "  is  your  motive  for  exacting  one  from  Giddings  also. 
You  were  quite  aware,  doubtless,  that  you  had  no  right  to  do  it. 
Wouldn't  he  take  you  otherwise  ?  "  « 

"I  was  not  certain  I  had  no  right,"  she  said,  speaking  in  the 
same  smothered  voice.  "  I  married  Burton  Lloyd  the  very  day  his 
ship  sailed,  and  news  came  that  it  was  lost  and  nearly  all  on  board 
with  it.  I  thought  he  might  be  one  of  them — I  hoped  he  was." 

"  Yes  ?  You  must  have  been  a  comfort  to  him.  You  seem  to 
have  a  genius  for  confession,  if  I  -may  take  your  word  about  the 
letter  yonder.  Did  you  ever  tell  Lloyd  about  your  little  esca- 
pade in  his  absence?  " 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  The  trouble  with  your  confessions,"  he  went  on,  "  seems  to 
be  that  they  are  not  sufficiently  complete.  When  you  owned  up 
to  Giddings,  why  did  you  not  tell  him  the  whole  truth?  " 

;<  So  I  did,  and  more  than  really  was  true.  I  have  been  sorry 
for  it  ever  since,  but  I  thought—"  She  stopped  again. 

Dr.  Norton  gave  a  bitter  little  laugh. 

"  More  than  the  truth  is  less  than  the  truth.  You  might  at 
least  have  put  him  out  of  the  torture  of  supposing  that  he  had 
first  been  swindled  into  marriage  and  then  deserted.  Do  you 
know  what  an  honest  man  does  in  such  a  case?  If  he  cannot  find 
the  woman  and  wring  her  neck,  he  waits  for  her  death  to  release 
.him  in  some  less  satisfactory  way.  You  ruined  five  years  of  his 
life  for  him,  and  now  your  lie  has  well-nigh  broken  it  again,  and 
with  it  the  heart  of  a  woman  whom  your  ears  are  not  fit  to  hear 
named.  Why  did  you  not  have  the  honesty  to  tell  him  you  were 
not  his  wife  ?  Why  did  you  pretend  to  marry  him  at  all  ? " 


1885.]  KATHARINE.  113 

"  Because  —  for  the  same  reason  that  I  married  you.  You 
know  very  well  what  that  was." 

"  You  flatter  me  immensely,"  he  said,  mocking1.  "  I  think  I 
do.  What  I  don't  know,  and  should  like  to  hear,  is  your  motive 
for  not  releasing-  him.  Why  did  you  not  tell  him  you  had  never 
been  his  wife?  " 

"  I  thought  I  did.  I  don't  know  what  I  said  to  him  —  more 
than  was  true,  as  far  as  Lloyd  was  concerned.  I  meant  to  go 
away  and  say  nothing  at  all,  and  then  the  thought  of  him  came 
over  me  just  at  the  last,  and  what  misery  he  would  be  in,  and  I 
could  not  bear  to.  I  did  tell  him  he  was  entirely  free.  How 
could  he  be  if  he  were  married  to  me  ?  I  should  think  he  would 
have  known  that  any  way." 

She  was  speaking  the  truth,  and  Norton  knew  it. 

"  God  !  "  he  said,  "it  is  a  pity  that  your  lying  is  not  as  clumsy 
as  your  truthtelling.  Do  you  mean  that  the  thought  never 
crossed  your  mind,  then  or  afterwards,  that  your  little  addition 
to  the  truth  —  a  sweet,  fragrant  invention  it  was  to  occur  to  the 
mind  of  a  young  girl  !  —  would  have  the  effect  of  shutting  his 
mouth,  and  that  it  might  be  just  as  well  that  he  should  consider 
himself  bound?  " 

She  was  silent. 

"  Come  !  "  he  said  roughly,  "  I  want  an  answer  and  a  straight 


one." 


"  Yes,"  she  said,  hardly  above  her  breath,  "  it  did,  but  not 
then." 

"  But  after  you  learned  the  fact  from  me  it  did  ?  What  cal- 
culations did  you  base  upon  it?  You  thought,  perhaps,  that  you 
might  ring  him  into  your  present  little  game  and  blindfold  me 
completely?"  He  laughed  unpleasantly.  "Jove!  it  was  a  pro- 
found, deep-witted  scheme  that  does  credit  to  your  knowledge 
of  human  nature  !  I  should  like  to  have  been  by  and  overheard 
you  broach  the  subject  to  him  !  " 

"  I  did  not  mean  to,"  she  said,  flashing  into  resentment  at  his 
scoff.  "  I  meant  to  throw  myself  upon  his  mercy,  if  I  appealed 
to  him  at  all  ;  and  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  done  so  !  He  is  not 
like  you  !  He  is  a  man,  at  all  events,  and  would  have  put  me 
out  of  my  misery  without  taunting  me  into  desperation  first  !  " 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  watching  her  with  a  cool,  scientific  interest, 
as  if  taking  note  of  how  many  nerves  were  writhing  beneath  his 
scalpel,  "  he  is  a  man  —  you  are  quite  right  —  and  a  singularly  up- 
right one  into  the  bargain.  I  am  grateful,  for  my  own  part,  that 
you  fell  into  the  hands  of  such  a  one  as  he,  and  not  of  a  wiser 

VOL.  XLII.—  8 


ii4  KATHARINE.  [Oct., 

one  who  would  have  taken  you  at  his  own  valuation  and  not  at 
yours." 

"  As  you  did  ?  " 

The  veins  stood  out  like  cords  on  her  tormentor's  temples  and 
along  the  sides  of  his  neck. 

"  You  are  a  wise  woman  !  "  he  said  in  a  voice  that  betrayed,  in 
despite  of  him,  some  heat  of  passion.  "  Just  as  I  did,  if  you  like  -f 
Nothing  could  be  better,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned,  since  it  places 
us  in  the  only  position  where  we  could  put  a  stop  to  your  career. 
Do  you  know  what  I  came  here  for  to-day  ?  To  determine  which 
one  of  us  should  have  the  satisfaction  of  sending  you  to  pick 
oakum  for  the  next  ten  years.  Your  merciful,  high-minded  man, 
who  stands  so  much  above  me  in  your  estimation,  was  the  first 
one  to  suggest  it,  and  I  am  merely  carrying  out  his  instructions." 
She  rose  from  her  chair,  her  eyes  dilated,  and  made  a  step 
toward  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  What  I  say.  He  proposes  to  indict  you  for  bigamy,  and  I 
intend  to  aid  him.  When  you  come  out  into  free  air  again  there 
will  be  no  fear  of  your  betraying  more  men  into  the  trap  where 
you  put  him  and  me.  You  will  have  been  branded  dangerous." 

He  had  relapsed  again  into  apparent  composure,  although  the 
flush  had  not  yet  quite  faded  from  his  face.  She  came  nearer  to 
Jhim,  her  eyes  wild,  like  those  of  a  hunted  animal,  her  clasped 
hands  raised,  her  voice  thick  and  half-suffocated  with  the  panting 
of  her  heart, 

"  For  God's  sake,  Richard,  don't  do  that !  Take  a  man's  re- 
venge on  me,  at  least.  Kill  me  and  be  done  with  it.  God  knows 
I  am  tired  enough  of  living!" 

"  I  thought  it  would  come  to  that,"  he  said  in  a  cutting,  de- 
liberate voice.      "  You  think,  then,  that  it  would  be  worth  an 
honest  man's  while  to  get  his  neck  stretched  for  you  ?  " 
He  drew  out  his  watch  and  looked  at  it. 

"  If  I  were  you,"  he  said,  his  eyes  running  over  her  carelessly 
from  head  to  foot,  "  I  would  put  up  all  that  hair  and  change  my 
dress.  I  have  had  a  warrant  made  out,  and  left  word  at  the 
police  station  as  I  came  up  to  have  an  escort  sent  to  attend  you  to 
your  temporary  quarters  until  permanent  ones  can  be  found  for 
you.  It  can't  be  long  now  before  they  are  here." 

She  came  close  up  to  him  and  put  both  hands  upon  his  shoul- 
ders. He  stood  immovable. 

"  Have  pity  on  me!"  she  begged.  "  If  not  on  me,  take  pity 
on  your  child  !  Will  you  let  it  be  born  in  prison?" 


1885.]  KATHARINE.  11-5 

His  face  underwent  a  sudden  change,  and  she  saw  it  and  took 
hope  again.  His  lips  trembled  and  he  hesitated.  She  dared  not 
risk  another  word,  so  evenly  poised  did  she  feel  the  balances  to 
be  in  which  her  fate  was  hanging.  She  only  turned  again  and 
looked  in  his  eyes  with  an  appealing  gaze  under  which  his  own 
sank  for  a  moment.  There  came  along  the  long  corridor  at  the 
'end  of  which  the  apartment  was  situated  the  tread  of  heavy  feet, 
and  the  voice  of  an  attendant  giving  directions  about  the  number 
on  their  door.  Norton  bit  his  lip  and  then  sighed  heavily. 

"  Poor  little  wretch  ! "  he  said  in  a  voice  penetrated  with  a 
bitter,  unavailing  anguish,  "  it  must  bear  the  penalty." 

At  that  moment  he  had  forgotten  alike  his  purpose  and  his 
premonition.  Nothing  spoke  in  him  but  the  instinct  of  pater- 
nity. He  saw  himself  in  the  near  future  rescuing  what  was  his 
from  this  wreck  of  humanity,  and  perhaps  finding  in  it  hereafter 
some  compensation  for  the  broken  dreams  of  his  young  manhood. 
He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  full  of  compassion,  but  she  read  in 
them  that  his  resolution  was  unshaken. 

He  left  her  standing  near  the  chimney-piece  and  went  to  the 
door,  which  had  resounded  twice  already  under  the  knuckles  of 
the  officers.  She  retreated  further  toward  the  window  with  the 
cowering  gesture  of  a  creature  which  feels  itself  at  bay  and  seeks 
hopelessly  for  a  refuge  or  some  instant  of  delay.  Her  eyes  fell 
on  the  open  desk,  and  she  put  her  hand  out  toward  it.  Her  hus- 
band had  his  back  to  her.  He  stood  at  the  half-open  door,  be- 
yond whose  aperture  she  saw  the  faces  of  the  men,  and  she  heard 
with  distinctness  the  words  in  which  he  instructed  them  as  to 
their  duty.  Suddenly  one  of  the  officers  made  a  quick  move- 
ment forward,  as  if  to  rush  past  him  into  the  room  ;  but  the  doc- 
tor, whose  right  hand  was  already  resting  on  the  jamb,  tightened 
his  hold  upon  it  and  resisted  the  impetuous  pressure. 

"  No  violence  1 "  he  said.  "  There  is  no  occasion  for  it.  You 
will  remain  here  at  the  door  while  she  changes  her  dress,  and 
then  she  will  go  with  you  quietly." 

There  was  a  fall  behind  him,  and  at  the  same  instant  the  man's 
efforts  ceased.  He  seemed  to  grow  suddenly  flaccid. 

"  She  won't  go  at  all,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  low,  horror-stricken 
voice.  "  You  shouldn't  have  stopped  me.  I  saw  she  was  going 
to  do  for  herself." 


THE    END. 


ii6      ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  [Oct., 


ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

IF  the  capricious  Muse  of  History  wears  as  many  colors  as  a 
chameleon  and  as  many  shapes  as  Nereus,  it  is,  perhaps,  because 
we  are  so  seldom  able  to  view  her  from  a  proper  distance.  Either 
we  stand  too  far  off  and  find  her  vague  and  misty  of  outline,  or 
we  venture  too  close  and  her  vast  proportions  looming  up  before 
us  refuse  to  be  contracted  into  the  necessary  coup  d'ceil.  During 
the  onward  rush  of  events  there  are  few  visions  large  enough  to 
embrace  the  whole  area  of  action,  and  fewer  minds  serene  enough 
to  record  an  impartial  verdict  for  the  benefit  of.  posterity  ;  and 
when  the  struggle  is  over  and  the  combatants  vanished  the  field 
of  their  exploits  becomes  a  wrangling-ground  for  ever.  Caesar, 
indeed,  could  both  make  history  and  write  it ;  but  the  force  by 
which  he  bound  the  world  in  fetters  was  no  rarer  than  the  skill 
with  which  he  tells  us  how  he  did  it.  Generally  speaking,  we 
who  look  back  with  a  certain  degree  of  equity  are  amazed,  not 
so  much  by  the  character  of  events  as  by  their  influence  over 
those  who  lived  and  wrote  during  the  tangle  we  are  seeking  to 
unravel. 

Especially  is  this  the  case  when  we  read  the  records  of  those 
Englishmen  who  from  1789  to  1794  watched  with  intentness  the 
storm  that  gathered  and  broke  over  dissolute  and  profligate 
France.  We  who  judge  the  French  Revolution  by  the  light  of 
its  wanton  cruelties,  its  savage  blunders,  and  its  pitiful  failure 
can  hardly  realize  the  superb  promise  with  which  it  sprang  into 
its  career.  It  seemed  to  those  who  looked  and  listened,  as  well 
as  to  those  who  bore  a  helping  hand,  that  the  time  had  come  at 
last  when  humanity  would  raise  itself  from  the  dust  and  upon 
the  grave  of  a  dead  tyranny  would  lay  the  strong  and  sure 
foundations  of  freedom  and  fraternal  love.  When  the  Bastile 
fell  there  rang  throughout  all  Europe  a  cry  of  joy  and  exulta- 
tion, and  good  men  drew  a  long  sigh  of  relief  that  this  monu- 
ment of  shame  was  wiped  from  the  face  of  God's  earth.  Words- 
worth,  then  young  and  impetuous,  crossed  over  to  France  and 
gathered  from  its  ruins  a  fragment  of  fallen  stone  as  a  precious 
relic  of  liberty  ;  Blake  walked  the  streets  of  London  wearing  the 
bonnet  rouge,  and  Godwin  and  the  coterie  of  younger  men  who 
listened  to  him  as  to  an  oracle  lent  their  voices  with  one  accord 
to  swell  the  paean  of  applause. 


1885.]  ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  'FRENCH  REVOLUTION.      117 

Then  followed  in  quick  succession  those  acts  that  proved  too 
plainly  what  manner  of  power  this  was  that,  born  of  violence  and 
oppression,  avenged  the  past  by  drenching  a  land  with  blood.  His- 
torians like  Taine  have  stripped  from  the  Revolution  every  shred 
of  glamour  and  have  laid  it  bare  before  our  eyes  in  all  its  moral 
hideousness ;  but  at  that  time,  when  the  devotion  of  the  Gironde 
and  the  undaunted  courage  of  the  Republican  army  could  not 
fail  to  awaken  some  responsive  enthusiasm  in  the  breasts  of  Eng- 
lishmen, the  guillotine's  grim  work  was  apt  to  be  forgotten. 
When  the  September  massacres  thrilled  the  world  with  horror 
Blake,  in  despairing  fury,  tore  from  his  head  the  emblem  of  lib- 
erty ;  but  Wordsworth,  agitated  and  a  trifle  dismayed,  yet  con- 
ceived the  visionary  plan  of  uniting  himself  with  the  Girondists 
and  working  hand-in-hand  with  them  for  the  regeneration  of 
France.  He  even  appears  to  have  imagined,  this  young  enthu 
siast  of  twenty-two,  that  they  would  receive  him  in  some  sort  as 
a  leader — a  fancy  which  reminds  one  irresistibly  of  Maggie  Tul- 
liver's  youthful  ambition  to  figure  as  queen  of  the  gipsies. 
With  this  purpose  in  view  he  went  to  Paris,  and  remained  there, 
a  witness  of  its  daily  terrors,until  his  relatives  in  England,  not  shar- 
ing either  in  his  sympathies  or  his  hopes,  concluded  very  wisely 
to  stop  his  allowance,  and  so  compelled  him  to  reluctantly  return 
home. 

Dowden  explains  this  curious  phase  in  Wordsworth's  career 
by  assuring  us  that  while 

"  As  a  concrete  historical  movement  the  Revolution  could  not  justify  it- 
self in  his  eyes,  it  was  through  a  haughty  ideality  of  youth,  to  which  mere 
pain  and  blood-shedding  seemed  worthy  of  slight  regard,  that  he — Words- 
worth— for  a  time  sustained  his  courage  in  presence  of  the  dark  facts  of 
contemporary  history.  .  .  .  Coleridge,"  he  adds,  "  was  in  possession  of  a 
philosophical  doctrine  which  enabled  him  to  accept  the  same  facts  with  a 
certain  equanimity.'' 

This  "  haughty  ideality  "  is  aptly  manifested  in  the  Apology  for 
the  French  Revolution,  where  we  find  Wordsworth  singularly  un- 
moved either  by  the  king's  execution  or  by  the  humbler  trage- 
dies that  preceded  it. 

"  It  is  to  be  lamented,"  he  says,  "  that  any  combination  of  circum- 
stances should  have  rendered  it  necessary  or  advisable  to  veil  for  a  mo- 
ment the  statues  of  the  laws,  and  that  by  such  emergency  the  cause  of 
twenty-five  millions  of  people,  I  may  say  of  the  whole  human  race,  should 
have  been  so  materially  injured.  Any  other  sorrow  for  the  death  of  Louis 
is  irrational  and  weak." 

When  England  took  up  the  gauntlet  thrown  by  France  to  the 


ii8       ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  [Oct. 

world,  and  declared  war  in  1793,  Wordsworth  regarded  his  coun- 
try's action  with  horror  and  humiliation  : 

"  No  shock 

Given  to  my  moral  nature  had  I  known 
Down  to  that  very  moment." 

It  was,  in  his  eyes,  a  deed  which  tore  away 

"  By  violence  at  one  decisive  rent 
From  the  best  youth  in  England  their  dear  pride, 
Their  joy  in  England." 

And  though  it  may  seem  to  most  of  us  that  the  events  which 
had  transpired  in  France  during  the  past  three  years  might  have 
afforded  a  series  of  shocks  to  any  tolerably  sensitive  nature,  yet 
we  cannot  overlook  the  fact  that  the  Revolution  furnished  Words- 
worth with  the  one  passionate  outbreak  in  his  evenly-regulated  life, 
the  one  overmastering  impulse  to  join  hand  and  heart  with  his 
struggling  fellow-men.  That  his  sympathy  was  in  a  great  mea- 
sure speculative,  and  the  result  of  study  and  meditation  rather 
than  of  enforced  conviction,  made  the  inevitable  reaction  less 
painful  in  his  case  than  with  many  others  who  had  flung  them- 
selves into  the  cause  of  liberty,  only  to  recoil  from  the  excesses 
committed  in  her  name.  It  was  his  calm  common  sense  more 
than  his  love  for  justice  or  humanity  that  finally  opened  his  eyes 
and  weaned  his  heart  away  from  its  early  enthusiasms.  He 
looked  to  France  for  the  new  laws  which  should  enfranchise 
mankind  and  usher  in  the  reign  of  universal  equity  ;  and  all 
that  he  saw  was 

"  Perpetual  emptiness  I  unceasing  change  ! 
No  single  volume  paramount,  no  code, 
No  master-spirit,  no  determined  road  ; 
But  equally  a  want  of  books  and  men." 

So  he  settled  down  without  much  trouble  into  a  tranquil, 
healthy  English  life,  and  Nature  took  him  to  her  heart  and 
comforted  him.  Instead  of  dying  on  the  guillotine  with  Dan- 
ton  and  Herault  de  Seychelles,  he  wisely  lived  to  enrich  the  world 
with  "  The  Excursion "  and  the  "  Ode  on  Immortality/'  Yet 
there  is  a  regretful  pathos  in  the  lingering  look  he  casts  back 
on  those  days,  when  even  his  cool  blood  was  fired  with  heroic 
and  unselfish  aspirations  : 

"  Bliss  was  it  in  that  dawn  to  be  alive, 
But  to  be  young  was  very  heaven  !    O  times 
In  which  the  meagre,  stale,  forbidding  ways 


1885.]  ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.      119 

Of  custom,  law,  and  statute  took  at  once 

The  attraction  of  a  country  in  romance  ! 

When  Reason  seemed  the  most  to  assert  her  rights, 

When  most  intent  on  making  of  herself 

A  prime  enchantress,  to  assist  the  work 

Which  then  was  going  forward  in  her  name." 

Coleridge,  the  happy  possessor  of  that  serene  philosophy 
which  enabled  him  to  look  unmoved  on  violence  and  bloodshed, 
took  the  revolutionary  fever  after  a  fashion  befitting  his  charac- 
ter— that  is,  with  very  alarming  symptoms,  but  no  great  depth  of 
disorder.  He  truly  says  of  himself: 

"  My  feelings  and  imagination  did  not  remain  unchanged  in  this  general 
conflagration  ;  and  I  confess  I  should  be  more  inclined  to  be  ashamed  than 
proud  of  myself  if  they  had.  I  was  a  sharer  in  the  general  vortex,  though 
my  little  world  described  the  path  of  its  revolution  in  an  orbit  of  its  own." 

He,  too,  when  war  was  declared, 

"  Hung  my  head,  and  wept  at  Britain's  name," 

and  he,  too,  reacted  suddenly  and  violently,  without  much  of 
Wordsworth's  real  sorrow,  not  being  in  the  habit  of  feeling  any- 
thing with  great  strength  or  persistence.  With  him  it  was 
happily  but  a  matter  of  "  feelings  and  imagination  "  ;  deep-rooted 
convictions  of  any  sort  were  foreign  to  his  loosely-strung  moral 
nature.  Robespierre,  the  "  arch-chemist  of  liberty,"  presently 
became  Robespierre  the  arch-enemy  of  mankind;  a  growing 
hatred  of  Bonaparte  swept  from  his  soul  every  vestige  of  sym- 
pathy with  France,  and  Coleridge,  always  ready  for  fresh  emo- 
tions, turned  his  thoughts  to  love  and  matrimony.  Yet  at  least 
his  fitful  dream  has  left  us  as  a  heritage  the  exquisite  "  Ode  to 
France,"  in  which  he  tells  us,  with  a  melody  unsurpassed,  the 
story  of  his  aspirations  and  their  downfall : 

"  Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not  flee ; 
'And  soon/  I  said,  '  shall  Wisdom  teach  her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan  ! 
And  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone, 
Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  earth  their  own.' " 

When  France,  instead  of  compelling  the  nations  to  be  free, 
submitted  to  the  authority  of  Napoleon  and  contented  herself 
with  wearing 

"  The  name 
Of  Freedom  graven  on  a  heavier  chain," 

Coleridge  regarded  her  with  sorrow  and  anger,  and  Shelley 
poured  forth  his  indignation  in  torrents  of  melodious  but  rather 


120      ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  PRENCH  REVOLUTION.  [Oct., 

bewildering  verse.  It  is  a  curious  thing-  that  the  latter  poet, 
born  and  bred  in  the  days  of  reaction,  should  have  been  one  of 
the  few  who  kept  alive  within  his  soul  the  dying  spark  of  revolu- 
tionary fire,  and  who,  while  deploring  the  excesses  of  the  Com- 
mune, maintained  to  the  end  that  these  excesses  were  but  a  pass- 
ing phase,  out  of  which  would  have  risen  in  due  time  the  fair 
fruit  of  universal  liberty. 

"The  panic/'  he  writes  in  1817,  "which  like  an  epidemic  transport 
seized  upon  all  classes  of  men  during  the  evils  consequent  upon  the 
French  Revolution,  is  gradually  giving  place  to  sanity.  It  has  ceased  to 
be  believed  that  whole  generations  of  mankind  ought  to  consign  them- 
selves to  a  hopeless  inheritance  of  ignorance  and  misery  because  a  nation 
of  men,  who  have  been  dupes  and  slaves  for  centuries,  were  incapable  of 
conducting  themselves  with  the  wisdom  and  tranquillity  of  freemen  so  soon 
as  some  of  their  fetters  were  partially  loosened.  That  their  conduct  could 
not  have  been  marked  by  any  other  characters  than  ferocity  and  thought- 
lessness is  the  historical  fact  from  which  liberty  derives  all  its  recommen- 
dations, and  falsehood  the  worst  features  of  its  deformity." 

This  is  a  logical  setting  of  a  profound  truth  ;  but  Shelley,  be- 
ing one  to  whom  all  law  savored  of  oppression  and  all  constraint 
of  tyranny,  could  but  ill-appreciate  the  feelings  of  those  who, 
after  tossing  for  years  on  the  billows  of  anarchy,  were  ready  to 
welcome  any  rock,  however  sterile,  that  might  afford  them  a 
secure  footing.  He  himself  had  cast  aside  the  just  restraints  of 
social  life,  and,  writhing  under  its  inevitable  reprisal,  took  refuge 
in  a  vague  sympathy  for  "  the  people,"  while  writing  at  the  same 
time  for  a  purely  esoteric  audience.  His  revolutionary  poems, 
richly  imaginative  and  fantastically  unreal,  bear  about  the  same 
relation  to  the  grim  law-makers  of  La  Montagne  as  did  the 
Jacobin  principles  to  the  wants  and  needs  of  'the  English  popu- 
lace, who  manifested  their  horror  of  French  excesses  by  the 
anti-revolutionary  riots  in  Birmingham,  in  which  the  house  of 
the  "  philosophic  Priestley  "  was  razed  to  the  ground. 

There  is  not  lacking  a  certain  irony  in  the  fact  that  while 
France  declared  war  against  the  rulers  only  of  Europe,  and  an- 
nounced herself  at  peace  with  the  people,  the  lower  and  middle 
classes  in  England  were  precisely  those  who  regarded  the  Re- 
volution  with  unmixed  terror  and  aversion.  From  the  begin- 
ning its  appeal  was  successful  only  with  statesmen,  thinkers,  and 
literary  men  ;  the  toiling  millions  declining  with  one  accord  to 
be  delivered  from  their  burdens  after  so  radical  and  sweeping  a 
fashion.  The  English  "  Revolutionary  Society,"  a  club  which 
applauded  to  the  echo  each  new  report  from  France,  was  com- 
posed, Morley  tells  us,  of  Dissenters,  with  a  sprinkling  of  church- 


1885.]   ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.      121 

men,  a  few  peers,  and  a  good  many  members  of  the  House  of 
Commons.  Southey,  who  in  after-years  became  the  most  sober 
and  contented  of  Tories,  figures  in  his  youth  as  an  ardent  sup- 
porter of  the  Girondists.  It  was  the  judicial  murder  of  Brissot 
more  than  any  other  act  of  violence  that  drove  him  sorrow- 
stricken  from  the  cause.  "  I  am  sick  of  the  world,"  he  writes 
soon  afterwards,  "  and  discontented  with  every  one  in  it.  There 
is  no  place  for  virtue."  Holcroft,  a  less  scrupulous  adherent, 
embodied  his  views  in  the  now  almost  forgotten  novel,  Anna  St. 
Ives  ;  and  Arthur  Young,  in  his  Travels  in  France,  laid  before  his 
readers  a  plain,  unvarnished  statement  of  the  intolerable  wrongs 
beneath  which  the  French  peasants  had  groaned  through  cen- 
turies of  oppression. 

On  the  other  side  one  resonant  voice  was  lifted  to  predict  the 
speedy  downfall  of  law  and  order.  Burke,  who  from  the  begin- 
ning  had  looked  across  the  Channel  with  ever-deepening  mistrust, 
published  in  1790  his  Reflections  on  the  Revolution  in  France — a 
book  which  was  received  with  a  perfect  tornado  of  abuse  and 
praise.  Its  circulation  was  something  unprecedented  for  the 
times  ;  high  dignitaries,  from  George  III.  to  Catherine  of  Russia, 
lent  it  their  unqualified  approval,  and  sober-minded  Englishmen 
found  voiced  in  its  pages  a  clear  expression  of  their  own  growing 
doubts  and  apprehensions.  Morley,  while  frankly  confessing  his 
regret  at  Burke's  determined  hostility  to  France  and  the  cause 
she  represented,  ranks  him  with  Sir  Thomas  More  as  the  two 
great  and  logical  conservatives  in  history,  and  admits  that  his 
mournful  predictions  were  fulfilled  to  the  letter.  "  What  is  still 
more  important,"  he  adds,  "for  the  credit  of  his  foresight,  is 
that  not  only  did  his  prophecy  come  true,  but  it  came  true  for 
the  reasons  he  had  fixed  upon."  "  When  a  separation  is  made 
between  liberty  and  justice,"  wrote  Burke  as  early  as  1789, 
"  neither  is,  in  my  opinion,  safe";  and  in  answer  to  a  storm  of 
reproaches  he  stoutly  maintained  that  he,  too,  loved  "  a  manly, 
moral,  regulated  liberty  " — a  phrase  which  might  have  fallen  from 
Ruskin's  lips,  and  which  breathes  the  spirit  of  Tennyson's  most 
pointed  utterances : 

"  Some  sense  of  duty,  something  of  a  faith, 
Some  reverence  for  the  laws  ourselves  have  made, 
Some  patient  force  to  change  them  when  we  will, 
Some  civic  manhood  firm  against  the  crowd." 

If  the  Reflections  were  hotly  supported  on  one  side,  they  were 
bitterly  denounced  upon  the  other.  Sir  James  Mackintosh  re- 
plied with  much  ability  in  his  Vindicice  Gallica,  and  Paine  in  his 


122      ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.  [Oct., 

•Rights  of  Man  declared  that  "  at  a  time  when  neither  the  people 
of  France  nor  the  National  Assembly  were  troubling  themselves 
about  the  affairs  of  England  or  the  English  Parliament,  Mr. 
Burke's  conduct  was  unpardonable  in  beginning  an  unprovoked 
attack  upon  them."  In  fact,  the  vehemence  with  which  Burke 
sustained  his  views  divided  him  for  ever  from  many  of  his  former 
associates,  noticeably  from  Charles  Fox,  who  nevertheless  con- 
ceded that  it  was  a  lucky  thing  his  old  friend  took  the  royalist 
side,  inasmuch  as  his  violence  would  certainly  have  gotten  him 
hanged  had  he  undertaken  to  flaunt  the  less  popular  standard  of 
the  Revolution. 

In  sharp  contrast  to  the  figure  of  Burke,  with  his  practical 
foresight  and  his  love  of  moderation  and  order,  stands  that  of 
William  Godwin,  the  father-in-law  of  Shelley,  and  the  man  of 
whom  Mr.  Leslie  Stephen  says  that  "  he  resembles  more  than 
any  other  English  thinker  those  French  theorists  who  represent- 
ed the  early  revolutionary  impulses.  His  opinions  were  rooted 
too  deeply  in  abstract  speculation  to  be  affected  by  any  storms 
raging  in  the  region  of  concrete  phenomena.  .  .  .  He  remained 
a  Republican  Abdiel  throughout  the  long,  dark  winter  of  reac- 
tion." But  then  Godwin's  views  were  peculiar  to  himself  and 
provided  liberally  for  the  destruction  of  all  that  society  is  prone 
to  consider  of  most  value.  Every  form  of  government  was  alike 
objectionable  in  his  eyes.  He  abjured  a  despotism,  hated  consti- 
tutional monarchies,  and  largely  mistrusted  republics.  He  op- 
posed himself  vigorously  to  all  law  and  constitution,  yet,  theo- 
retically at  least,  declined  to  put  faith  in  any  species  of  revolt. 
He  condemned  all  forms  of  punishment,  yet  emphatically  disap- 
proved of  pardons.  He  advocated  the  freest  sexual  intercourse, 
and  regarded  the  marriage-tie  as  a  selfish  bar  to  happiness  ;  ob- 
jected vehemently  to  wealth,  rank,  and  titles,  and  thought  it 
radically  wrong  that  any  government  official  should  be  paid  a 
salary  or  receive  any  compensation  for  his  services. 

"  Bottled  moonshine  which  does  not  improve  with  keeping  " 
is  the  verdict  of  a  modern  critic  on  Godwin's  misty  philosophy  ; 
but  at  least  it  explains  to  us  why  the  Reign  of  Terror  should 
have  had  no  particular  significance  in  his  eyes.  Life  was,  with 
him,  not  worth  the  preservation.  "  Human  society,"  he  assures 
us,  "  is  a  rank  and  rotten  soil,  from  which  every  finer  shrub 
draws  poison  as  it  grows."  Kings  and  priests,  as  Mr.  Stephen 
acknowledges,  represented  to  him  the  incarnation  of  evil ;  reli- 
gion was  not  worthy  even  of  respect ;  and  while  regarding  the 
Catholic  Church  as  the  embodiment  of  selfish  tyranny,  he  likens 
the  Anglican  clergy  to  "  the  victims  of  Circe,  to  whom  human 


1885.]  ENGLISH  VOICES  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION.      123 

understanding  was  preserved  entire,  that  they  might  more  ex- 
quisitely feel  their  degraded  condition."  "  We  can  scarcely 
hesitate,"  he  writes  again,  "  to  conclude  universally  that  law  is 
an  institution  of  the  most  pernicious  tendency  "  ;  and,  like  Shelley, 
he  was  prepared  to  include  almost  every  condition  of  moral 
restraint  in  this  sweeping  denunciation.  The  steady  and  con- 
sistent adherence  of  such  a  man  to  the  principles  of  the  French 
Revolution  is  as  explicable,  in  its  way,  as  the  short-lived  enthu- 
siasm of  Coleridge  or  the  flame  of  generous  sympathy  that  burned 
in  Wordsworth's  breast. 

One  more  famous  Englishman  is  connected  with  this  stormy 
period,  after  a  fashion  so  harmless  and  amusing  that  it  is  cheer- 
ing even  to  contemplate  it.  On  the  list  of  a  forgotten  revolu- 
tionary club  in  Normandy  appears  the  name  of  "  Citoyen  Smit, 
Membre  Affilie  au  Club  des  Jacobins  de  Mont  Villiers";  and 
we  draw  a  long  breath  in  trying  to  realize  that  this  is  Sydney 
Smith.  Sent  to  France  by  his  parents  to  study  the  language,  he 
was,  for  his  better  safety,  enrolled  in  a  Jacobin  club,  and,  from  all 
that  we  can  gather,  made  no  other  use  of  his  position  than  to 
once  extricate  Captain  Drinkwater  and  his  brother  from  the 
likelihood  of  being  hung  on  the  next  lantern-post  when  those 
gentlemen  persisted,  against  his  advice,  in  sketching  the  fortifi- 
cations of  Cherbourg.  What  he  thought  of  the  fast-withering 
hopes  that  fell  one  by  one  beneath  the  Revolution's  burning  fin- 
ger it  is  hard  to  say.  Doubtless  to  him,  as  to  Byron,  it  seemed  a 
huge  political  failure.  Practical  judgment  and  a  delicate  humor 
were  his  great  gifts  through  life,  and  both  were  conspicuously 
absent  from  harried  and  desperate  France.  No  men  with  even 
the  smallest  sense  of  the  ridiculous  could  have  sat  gravely  down 
amid  the  wreck  of  social  life  and  the  fierce  pangs  of  a  frenzied 
nation,  and  solemnly  ordain  that  a  week  should  henceforth  hold 
ten  days  instead  of  seven  ;  that  Primidi,  Duodi,  and  Tridi  should 
take  the  place  of  Monday,  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday  ;  and  that 
even  the  very  months  should  change  their  names  to  prove  to  all 
mankind  that  the  new  era  had  dawned  upon  the  earth.  Frimaire, 
Nivose,  Floreal,  Messidor,  words  that  the  Convention  bestowed 
so  proudly  on  the  world,  have  by  the  world  been  most  ungrate- 
fully forgotten.  When  the  great  wave  of  the  Revolution  had 
washed  over  France,  Liberty,  its  offspring,  base-born  and  nursed 
on  blood,  submitted  tamely  to  a  new  dictatorship  ;  and  they  who 
had  watched  the  promise  of  its  youth  and  its  inglorious  fall  with- 
drew their  eyes  in  shame  and  sorrow,  and  turned,  like  Words* 
worth, 

"  To  measure  back  the  steps  which  they  had  trod." 


124     RELA  TIONS  BETWEEN  THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTCH  [Oct., 


RELATIONS  BETWEEN  THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTCH 
PIRATES  AND  THE  "REFORMATION  MOVEMENT." 

THE  ARMADA  PROVOKED   BY  PIRACY. 

IT  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that  barbarous  punishments  were  in- 
flicted in  Spain  upon  English  sailors  and  travellers.  Some  were 
hanged  and  others  sent  to  the  flames  as  heretics.  The  prison 
discipline  of  Spain  during  Philip's  reign  was  marked  by  a  species 
of  scientific  cruelty.  The  Spanish  government  at  that  period 
cannot,  however,  be  wholly  condemned  for  their  conduct  to 
English  prisoners,  many  of  whom  were  pirates  of  the  worst  class 
that  infested  the  Spanish  waters.  Whenever  it  suited  their  pur- 
pose those  daring  men  traded  upon  the  name  of  Protestantism  in 
Catholic  countries,  and  frequently  raised  difficulties  for  Elizabeth's 
ambassadors  as  to  how  they  should  act  in  relation  to  such  per- 
sons when  seeking  protection  as  English  subjects.  The  position 
of  affairs  may  best  be  understood  from  the  candid  statement  of  a 
distinguished  advocate  of  Elizabeth's  and  Cecil's  policy. 

The  needy  sons  of  Lord  Cobham,  who  had  earned  some  no- 
toriety in  Wyatt's  rebellion,  had  grown  up,  after  the  type  of  their 
boyhood,  irregular,  lawless  Protestants.  One  of  them  at  this 
time  (1563)  was  roving  the  seas,  half-pirate,  half-knight-errant  of 
the  "  Reformation,"  doing  battle  on  his  own  account  with  the  ene- 
mies of  the  truth  wherever  the  service  to  God  was  likely  to  be  repaid 
with  plunder. 

Thomas  Cobham  was  one  of  a  thousand  whom  Elizabeth  was 
forced  to  condemn  and  disclaim  in  proclamations,  and  whom 
she  was  as  powerless  as  she  was  probably  most  unwilling  to  in- 
terfere with  in  practice.  What  Cobham  was,  and  what  his  com- 
rades were,  can  be  gathered  from  a  brief  narrative  of  his  ruthless 
exploits. 

Here  is  one  instance.  A  Spanish  ship  was  freighted  in  Flan- 
ders for  Bilboa.  The  cargo  was  valued  at.  eighty  thousand 
ducats.  There  were  also  on  board  forty  prisoners,  who  were  go- 
ing  to  Spain  to  serve  in  the  galleys  for  various  crimes.  Thomas 
Cobham,  who  was  cruising  in  the  Channel,  caught  sight  of  the 
vessel,  chased  her  down  into  the  Bay  of  Biscay,  fired  into  her, 
killed  the  captain's  brother  and  a  number  of  men,  and  then  board- 
ing, when  all  resistance  had  ceased,  sewed  up  the  captain  himself 


1885.]  PIRATES  AND  THE  "REFORMATION MOVEMENT"       125 

and  the  survivors  of  the  crew  in  their  own  sails  and  flung  them  over- 
board. 

The  fate  of  the  unfortunate  prisoners  who  were  intended  for 
the  galleys  is  not  related  ;  but  it  is  supposed  that  they  were  de- 
spatched by  the  dagger,  or  perhaps  thrown  overboard.  The 
ship  was  scuttled,  and  Thomas  Cobham  sailed  away  with  the 
booty,  which  the  English  ship-agents  admitted  to  be  worth  fifty 
thousand  ducats,  to  his  retreat  in  the  south  of  Ireland. 

Eighteen  bodies,  with  the  main-sail  for  their  winding-sheet, 
were  washed  up  on  the  Spanish  shores.* 

"  This  fierce  deed  of  young  Cobham,"  writes  Mr.  Froude, 
"  was  no  dream  of  Spanish  slander.  The  English  factor  at  Bil- 
boa  was  obliged  to  reply  to  Sir  Thomas  Chaloner's  eager  in- 
quiries that  the  story  in  its  essential  features  was  true,  and  he 
added  another  of  the  audacity  of  those  English  pirates.  A  Span- 
ish ship  had  been  cut  out  of  the  harbor  at  Santander  by  an  An- 
glo-Irish pirate  and  carried  off  to  sea.  The  captain,  more  merci- 
ful than  Thomas  Cobham,  spared  the  crew,  kept  them  prisoners, 
and  was  driven  into  another  Spanish  port  for  shelter,  having 
them  at  the  time  confined  under  hatches.  They  were  discover- 
ed ;  the  pirates  were  seized,  and  quickly  met  the  fate  awarded  to 
people  of  their  desperate  mode  of  life." 

Thomas  Cobham  was  tried  for  piracy  in  London,  but  ulti- 
mately escaped  punishment.  In  fact,  the  queen  and  her  council 
merely  coquetted  with  the  prosecution  against  the  "  roving  Re- 
former." A  terrible  sentence  was,  however,  passed  upon  him, 
which  is  thus  described  by  De  Silva,  the  Spanish  ambassador : 

"Thomas  Cobham  being  asked  at  his  trial,  according  to  the  form  used 
in  English  law,  if  he  had  anything  to  say  in  assent  of  judgment,  and  an- 
swering, nothing  whatever,  the  English  judge,  with  awful  solemnity,  con- 
demned the  said  Thomas  Cobham  to  be  taken  to  the  Tower,  and  to  be  there 
stripped  naked  to  the  skin,  and  there  to  be  placed  with  his  shoulders  resting  on 
a  sharp  stone,  his  legs  and  arms  extended,  and  on  his  stomach  a  stone  too  heavy 
for  him  to  bear, yet  not  large  enough  immediately  to  crush  him.  There  he  is  to 
be  left  till  he  die.  They  will  give  him  a  few  grains  of  corn  to  eat,  and  for 
drink  the  foulest  water  in  the  Tower"  f 

This  sentence  was  terrific  enough,  but  it  would  have  been  far 
worse  for  the  exemplary  Cobham  if  it  had  been  executed.  The 
words  of  the  judge  were  truly  "  winged  words,"  for  Elizabeth 

*  Sir  Thomas  Chaloner's  Despatches  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  I  may  here  remark  that  Chaloner 
was  the  first  ambassador  appointed  by  Elizabeth.  As  a  diplomatist  he  was  prudent  and  con- 
ciliatory. 

t  See  De  Silva's  Despatches  to  King  Philip,  August  16,  1565. 


126      RELA  TIONS  BETWEEN  THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTCH  [Oct., 

set  her  roving  subject  free  to  plough  the  seas  again  after  his 
olden  mode.* 

Mr.  Froude  denies  that  the  above  sentence  was  ever  passed 
against  Cobham — "  The  description  of  which,"  he  observes, 
"  might  have  been  brought  from  the  torture-chamber  of  the  In- 
quisition, but  which  was  never  pronounced  in  an  English  court  of 
justice."  There  may  never  be  a  correct  record  extant  of  the  judg- 
ment delivered  by  a  sanguinary  judge  of  Cecil's  creation  against 
Thomas  Cobham  or  many  others  of  the  condemned  in  Eliza- 
beth's reign.  I  have  seen,  however,  amongst  the  list  of  punish- 
ments ordered  to  be  inflicted  in  the  Tower,  one  instance  exactly 
similar  to  that  of  Cobham — namely,  the  case  of  Father  Wake- 
field,  an  old  "  seminary  priest,"  who  was  entrapped  by  the  agents 
of  Walsingham.  The  unfortunate  priest  died  during  the  opera- 
tion. He  was  eighty-three  years  of  age  and  an  eminent  Greek 
scholar.  The  old  traditions  of  the  "  priest-hunting  days  "  fur- 
nished many  extraordinary  cases,  the  records  of  which  have  long 
since  disappeared.  Some  fifty  years  ago 'the  ancient  Catholic 
families  of  Kerry  possessed  many  curious  documents  concerning 
the  English  priests  who  found  an  asylum  in  the  Galtee  Moun- 
tains in  the  terror-stricken  days  of  Queen  Elizabeth. 

The  Cobham  family  rendered  much  service  to  Elizabeth  in 
the  previous  reign  ;  and  it  is  probable  that  the  severe  sentence 
was  passed  upon  Cobham  to  pacify  the  Spanish  government,  who 
were  loud  in  their  complaints  against  English  pirates.  Lord 
Pembroke  and  other  influential  Englishmen  were  engaged  in 
the  traffic  of  negroes — "on  foreign  waters."  It  is  stated  that 
Pembroke  cleared  sixty  per  cent,  on  one  cargo  of  black  slaves. f 

Occasionally  Mr.  Froude  expresses  his  indignation  at  the 
conduct  of  English  mariners  in  "  Spanish  waters."  Here  is  a 
remarkable  passage :  "  English  Protestants,  it  was  evident,  re- 
garded the  property  of  papists  as  a  lawful  prize  whenever  they  could 
lay  hands  on  it ;  and  Protestantism,  stimulated  by  these  inducements 
to  conversion,  was  especially  strong  in  the  seaport  towns."  \ 

"  Your  mariners,"  said  the  Spanish  ambassador  to  Elizabeth, 
"  rob  my  master's  subjects  on  the  sea  and  trade  where  they  are 
forbidden  to  go  ;  they  plunder  our  people  in  the  streets  of  your 
towns ;  they  attack  our  vessels  in  your  very  harbors  and  take 
our  prisoners  from  them  ;  your  preachers  insult  my  master  from 

*  The  real  name  of  the  Cobham  family  was  Brooks,  once  an  honored  old  stock  in  Kent, 
who  gave  to  the  church  several  distinguished  clerics  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
i  Helps  on  the  Spanish  Conquest  of  South  America. 
J  Froude's  History  of  England,  vol.  viii.  p.  467. 


188$.]    PlRA  TES  AND  THE  "REFORMA  TION  MO  VEMENT."          1 2/ 

their  pulpits  ;  and  when  we  apply  for  justice  we  are  answered 
with  threats.  We  have  borne  with  these  things,  attributing 
them  rather  to  passion  or  rudeness  of  manners  than  to  a  delibe- 
rate purpose  of  wrong ;  but,  seeing  that  there  is  no  remedy  and 
no  end,  I  must  now  refer  to  my  sovereign  to  know  what  I  am 
to  do."  * 

Elizabeth  affected  utter  ignorance  of  what  had  been  a  noto- 
rious fact,  and  pledged  "her  honor"  to  make  an  immediate  in- 
quiry into  the  conduct  of  English  mariners  and  all  others  of  her 
subjects  who  had  violated  the  laws  of  nations  and  brotherly  love 
against  her  kinsman,  ally,  and  friend,  the  King  of  Spain. 

Notwithstanding  the  queen's  "regrets  and  promises,"  Haw- 
kins and  men  of  his  occupation  pursued  their  felonious  courses 
unmolested  by  the  English  council.  Whatever  might  have  been 
the  despotism  of  Philip  of  Spain — a  despotism  partly  forced  upon 
him  by  circumstances — it  is  certain  that,  like  his  great  father,  he 
was  not  inclined  to  tolerate  free  trade  in  negroes.  True,  many 
of  the  commercial  communities  of  Spain  carried  on  a  traffic  in 
slaves  on  the  coasts  of  Africa  and  South  America,  but  were  never 
sanctioned  therein  by  their  sovereign.  During  the  reigns  of 
subsequent  monarchs  Spain  entered  freely  into  the  abominable 
slave-trade,  and  only  now  prepares  for  the  manumission  of  her 
slaves  in  Cuba. 

The  causes  which  ultimately  led  to  the  Spanish  Armada  were 
at  work  for  many  years.  The  connection  between  the  queen, 
her  council,  and  the  English  pirates  was  as  plain  as  noonday. 
It  has  been  contended  by  a  few  admirers  of  Sir  William  Cecil 
"  that  his  high  sense  of  honor  made  these  transactions  odious  to 
him,  and  that  he  was  only  able  to  protest  against  them."  I 
have,  however,  searched  in  vain  for  this  "  marvellous  protest." 

In  the  year  1575  the  spy  system  was  carried  on  to  a  fearful 
extent  by  Elizabeth.  From  the  pages  of  Mr.  Froude's  work  we 
learn  the  history  of  several  of  Cecil's  "  honorable  correspondents 
on  the  Continent — men  who  were  quite  willing  to  assassinate, 
poison,  plunder,  or  entrap  honest  men,  provided  they  were  sup- 
plied with  money  to  live  in  luxury  and  profligacy." 

The  foreign  traffic  in  slaves  was  also  carried  out  under  the 
management  of  men  .like  Hawkins,  who,  by  his  conduct,  disgraced 
the  naval  character  of  England — nay,  its  reputation  for  the  com- 
mon code  of  honesty  which  is  supposed  to  exist  between  man 
and  man  in  civilized  states.  Hawkins,  however,  became  the 
hero  of  the  day.  He  is  represented  as  "  brave,  pious,  and  God- 

*  De  Silva,  the  Spanish  ambassador,  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  October  6,  1567. 


128      RELA  TIONS  BETWEEN  THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTCH  [Oct., 

fearing" — as  respectable,  indeed,  as  any  sea-robber  could  well 
be.  With  truth  it  may  be  added  that  he  was  the  legalized 
pirate  of  the  Queen  of  England,  holding  his  predatory  commis- 
sion from  the  Sovereign  Lady,  who  shared  plentifully  in  his 
plunder.* 

The  love  of  adventure  attracted  many  young  Englishmen  in 
those  times.  A  navigator  named  Thomas  Cavendish  sailed  from 
Plymouth  on  the  2ist  of  July,  1586,  and  it  is  stated  that  he  ac- 
complished a  voyage  round  the  world  "  in  two  years  and  three 
months.  He  plundered  without  much  resistance  the  towns  on 
the  coast  of  Chili  and  Perue.  On  his  return  home  he  visited  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope."t  The  plunder  made  by  Cavendish  was 
publicly  boasted  of  in  Plymouth  and  Bristol,  so  his  name  may  be 
ranged  amongst  the  English  pirates  of  those  days.  The  strong- 
est evidence  connecting  Elizabeth  and  her  council  with  the  law- 
less pirates  of  England  is  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of  her  most 
enthusiastic  biographers — writers  that  can  in  nowise  be  suspect- 
ed of  attributing  any  dishonorable  action  to  their  heroine,  unless 
when  an  overwhelming  sense  of  truth  compels  them  to  do  so. 
Here  is  a  passage  which  I  commend  to  the  admirers  of  a  mon- 
arch whom  English  history  has  hitherto,  almost  without  excep- 
tion, described  as  bordering  upon  perfection:  "Great  interest 
was  excited  by  the  arrival  in  Plymouth  harbor  in  November, 
1580,  of  the  celebrated  Francis  Drake  from  his  navigation  of  a 
great  portion  of  the  globe.  National  vanity  was  flattered  by  the 
idea  that  this  Englishman  should  have  been  the  first  by  whom 
this  great  and  novel  enterprise  had  been  successfully  achieved  ; 
and  both  himself  and  his  ship  became  in  an  eminent  degree  the 
objects  of  public  curiosity  and  wonder.  .  .  .  The  wealth  which 
Hawkins  had  brought  home  from  the  plunder  of  the  Spanish 
settlements  awakened  the  cupidity  which  in  that  age  was  a  con- 
stant attendant  on  the  daring  spirit  of  maritime  adventure,  and 
half  the  youth  of  the  country  were  on  fire  to  embark  in  expedi- 
tions of  pillage  and  discovery.  .  .  .  Drake's  captures  from  the 
Spaniards  had  been  made,  under  some  vague  notion  of  reprisals, 
whilst  no  open  war  was  subsisting  between  England  and  Spain. 
The  Spanish  ambassador,  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  without  some 
reason,  branded  the  proceedings  of  Hawkins,  with  the  reproach 
of  piracy,  and  demanded  restitution  of  the  booty.  Elizabeth 
wavered  for  some  time  between  admiration  for  Drake  mixed 

*  On  one  occasion  the  Spanish  government  seized  upon  and  confiscated  a  cargo  of  negroes 
which  Hawkins  valued  at  forty  thousand  ducats, 
t  Thomas'  Historical  Notes,  vol.  i. 


1885.]    PlRA  TES  AND  THE  "REFORM A  TION  MO  YEMEN  T."          1 29 

with  a  desire  of  sharing-  in  the  profits  of  his  expedition,  and  a 
dread  of  incensing  the  King  of  Spain.  At  length  the  queen  de- 
cided on  the  part  most  acceptable  to  her  people — that  of  giving  a 
public  sanction  to  the  action  of  Drake."  * 

In  a  few  months  subsequent  Elizabeth  accepted  a  banquet 
from  this  double-faced  pirate.  The  entertainment  was  given  on 
board  his  ship  off  Deptford,  on  which  occasion  the  queen  con- 
ferred the  order  of  knighthood  on  her  naval  freebooter.  These 
proceedings  took  place  some  seven  years  before  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada sailed  from  Lisbon.  Meanwhile  the  English  pirates  be- 
came more  daring,  and  the  amount  of  wealth  plundered  from 
Spanish  ships  was  immense.  The  truth  is  that  the  Spanish  Ar- 
mada owed  its  birth  to  the  cruel  wrongs  inflicted  by  English 
corsairs  upon  the  people  of  a  state  then  at  peace  with  England, 
and  whose  sovereign  had  been  a  generous  friend  to  that  queen 
who  now  so  treacherously  and  ungratefully  abetted  those  out- 
rages. Here,  again,  the  reader  must  recognize  the  truth  and 
aptitude  of  Mr.  Froude's  description  of  Elizabeth's  "  honor  " — 
11  a  stained  rag." 

The  history  of  the  English  pirates  whom  Elizabeth  sustained 
is  now  very  imperfectly  known.  The  silent  ocean,  it  may  well 
be  judged,  holds  many  of  their  secrets,  and  will  continue  to  re- 
tain them  till  the  great  accounting- day. 

PURITAN  PIRATES   IN  SCOTLAND. 

In  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth  Scotland  produced  some  des- 
perate pirates,  who  fought  under  the  assumed  flag  of  the  Re- 
formation when  it  suited  their  purpose.  One  of  the  most  re- 
markable of  those  men  was  James,  Earl  of  Bothwell.  He  was 
born  with  those  perverse  and  unruly  instincts  which  drive  men 
from  exploit  to  exploit  or  from  crime  to  crime,  "  to  a  throne  or 
to  a  scaffold."  Impetuous  in  every  impulse,  in  ambition  and  in 
enterprise,  Bothwell  was  one  of  those  desperadoes  gifted  with 
superhuman  daring  who  in  their  developments,  and  as  their  de- 
sires expand,  seek  to  burst  the  social  bounds  within  which  they 
exist,  to  make  room  for  themselves,  or  perish  in  the  attempt. 
When  some  seventeen  years  of  age  Bothwell  commenced  a 
wandering  life.  In  Denmark  he  joined  a  band  of  pirates  who 
became  the  terror  of  the  Northern  seas  ;  robbery  and  murder 
quickly  followed.  This  young  noble  assumed  various  names — 
sometimes  a  Stuart,  a  Graham,  or  a  Macpherson.  His  fierce 

*  Aikin's  Court  of  Elizabeth^  vol.  ii. 
VOL.  XLII.— 9 


130      RELA  TIONS  BETWEEN  THE  ENGLISH  AND  SCOTCH  [Oct., 

courage  in  boarding  ships  soon  made  him  "  a  man  of  mark" 
amongst  the  pirates.  The  "  Pirate  Council "  elected  him  to 
the  command  of  a  ship.  The  pirates  had  a  well-fortified  place 
of  retreat  to  conceal  plunder ;  they  had  also  an  arsenal  for 
their  vessels  in  a  rocky  fortress  on  the  coast  of  Denmark. 
The  crimes  of  Bothwell  and  his  exploits  among  those  murder- 
ous pirates  'lie  hidden  in  the  shadow  of  the  past.  Amongst  sea- 
men his  name  struck  terror  along  the  shores  of  the  Northern 
seas.  Goodchylde,  his  lieutenant  and  faithful  follower,  relates 
that  he  thought  little  of  life  and  soon  disposed  of  his  victims. 
Joshua  Morgan,  a  Welsh  doctor,  who  knew  him  for  many  years, 
represents  him  as  "  humane  and  kindly."  But  such  a  character  is 
quite  inconsistent  with  the  calling  of  a  pirate  chief  of  those  times. 
Some  years  having  been  spent  in  this  dreadful  occupation,  the 
death  of  his  father  recalled  him  to  take  possession  of  the  family 
estates  and  to  govern  the  unruly  and  half-wild  clans  who  pro- 
fessed allegiance  to  the  house  of  Bothwell.  He  now  joined 
the  political  adventurers  of  Edinburgh.  He  appeared  as  a  Re- 
former, but  was  more  feared  than  respected  by  the  Kirk  con- 
gregations. When  Mary  of  Lorraine  (the  regent)  was  surround- 
ed with  difficulties  Bothwell  came  forward  to  aid  her.  With  all 
his  crimes  he  was  chivalrously  attached  to  the  Stuart  dynasty. 
On  more  than  one  occasion  Bothwell  and  his  followers  played 
the  part  of  highwaymen  in  carrying  off  large  boxes  of  gold  which 
were  sent  by  Queen  Elizabeth  to  Lord  Moray  and  the  Scotch 
rebels.  This  incident,  as  a  matter  of  course,  tended  to  embar- 
rass Moray.  It  is,  however,  uncertain  whether  Bothwell  retained 
the  gold  himself  or  sent  it  to  the  queen-regent.  His  conduct  in 
the  districts  of  Spynie  Castle  proves  him  to  have  been  a  heartless 
plunderer.  He  robbed  the  aged  bishop  of  Moray  and  took  pos- 
session of  his  house,  after  which  he  instigated  his  followers  to 
murder  two  of  the  bishop's  domestics.  He  soon  became  a  terror 
on  land  as  well  as  on  sea.  His  bodyguard  were  well  mounted  and 
a  reflex  of  their  master.  For  many  years  Bothwell  kept  up  a 
system  of  plunder.  Still  his  popularity  remained  unchecked.  .  .  . 
The  assassination  of  the  Earl  of  Darnley,  the  husband  of  the 
Queen  of  Scots,  became  the  turning-point  in  the  life  of  Lord 
Bothwell.  Many  innocent  persons  were  accused  of  the  murder 
of  Darnley  and  paid  the  death-penalty  for  it.  Such  was  one  of 
the  results  of  the  large  rewards  offered  by  the  queen's  admiring 
friends.  It  is  now  well  authenticated  that  the  Earl  of  Bothwell 
had  in  his  possession  the  bond  which  was  signed  by  the  ma- 
jority of  the  Scotch  peers  for  the  assassination  of  Darnley.  One 


I885-]    PlRA  TES  AND  THE  "REFORM A  TION  MO  VEMENT."          I  3 1 

of  the  assassins  (Archibald  Douglas),  writing  in  after-years, 
says :  "  None  of  us  hesitated — there  was  neither  fear  nor  con- 
science to  interpose.  The  *  boy-man  '  was  the  enemy  of  the  Pro- 
testant cause  ;  so  either  party  should  soon  perish."  It  is  certain 
that  Bothwell  and  Moray  arranged  the  murder;  yet  neither  was 
present.  This  was,  perhaps,  a  matter  of  accident.  The  evidence 
to  connect  Lord  Moray  with  the  murder  of  Darnley  is  now  be- 
yond question. 

Whilst  the  public  mind  was  agitated  by  the  assassination  the 
Earl  of  Bothwell  entertained  at  a  supper  the  "  nobles  who  had 
recently  attended  the  convention  of  the  Three  Estates  of  Scot- 
land." The  supper  took  place  at  a  celebrated  inn  known  as 
Ainsby's  Tavern,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Edinburgh.  Lord 
Bothwell  was  the  most  jovial  person  at  this  memorable  gather- 
ing. He  entered  the  supper-room  half  an  hour  before  his  guests. 
His  dress  was  suited  for  knights  or  peers  of  the  first  rank.  His 
doublet,  of  cloth-of-gold,  glittered  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  ; 
his  ruff  buttoned  by  diamonds,  his  shoulder-belt  and  mantle  stiff 
with  gold  embroidery  ;  while  his  sword,  dagger,  and  plumed 
bonnet  were  flashing  with  precious  stones. 

Lord  Morton  appeared  next.  His  sinister  eyes,  his  long 
beard  and  fashionable  English  hat,  his  black  velvet  cloak  and 
silver-headed  cane,  all  appeared  neatly  arranged,  and  his  jewelled 
hand  was  several  times  put  prominently  forward  with  an  air  of 
studied  affectation. 

Lord  Huntley  entered  the  dining-hall  playing  with  his  dag- 
ger and  in  a  dull  humor. 

Maitland,  with  his  bland  smile  and  flute-like  voice,  sauntered 
into  the  room. 

Lord  Cassilles,  who  once  half-roasted  an  abbot,  marched 
into  the  supper-room  "  armed  at  every  point,  from  head  to 
foot." 

It  was  evident  that  the  company  feared  one  another  or  ex- 
pected an  enemy  from  without,  for  they  were  all  fully  armed,  and 
beyond  doubt  there  were  several  "red- handed  men"  amongst 
them.  At  this  gathering  a  bond  was  executed  and  signed,  de- 
claring "that  the  Earl  of  Bothwell  had  no  knowledge  whatever 
of  the  murder  of  Darnley  ;  that  Lord  Bothwell  was  a  pious,  God- 
fearing man  "  ;  and  again,  "  that  they  would  espouse  his  cause 
against  all  slanders."  This  bond  was  signed  by  the  Earl  of  Mor- 
ton, who  held  the  office  of  chancellor  at  the  time  of  Rizzio's  mur- 
der. Then  followed  the  names  of  the  Earls  of  Huntley,  Argyle, 
Glencairn,  Cassilles,  Rothes,  and  eight  other  earls,  also  eleven 


r 3 2      RELA  TIONS  BE r WEEN  THE  ENGLISH  AND  Sco TCH  [Oct., 

barons  who  were  peers  of  Parliament.*  The  declaration  of  the 
peers  assembled  recommended  the  Earl  of  Both  well  as  a  suitable 
husband  for  their  widowed  queen;  whilst  all  present  were  at 
that  moment  aware  of  the  fact  that  Both  well  was  a  married  man 
at  the  period  named. 

In  the  English  State  Papers  of  the  time  Both  well  was  charged 
with  the  murder  of  the  queen's  husband,  and  he  was  also  pub- 
licly  accused  of  aiding  in  the  murder.  And,  more  strange  still, 
Lord  Moray  was  entertaining  Bothwell  at  his  house  in  Edin- 
burgh and  "  advising  his  marriage  "  with  the  Queen  of  Scots. 

From  the  highest  to  the  lowest  circles  there  was  nothing  but 
venality  and  wickedness  of  the  foulest  description.  "  Honor 
among  thieves "  was  a  sentiment  never  entertained  by  the  as- 
sassins of  Henry,  Earl  of  Darnley  .f 

The  space  allotted  to  the  contributors  of  a  magazine  will  not 
permit  the  student  of  history  to  go  into  many  important  details. 
I  therefore  refer  the  reader  for  minute  proofs  of  Lord  Moray  s 
forgeries  against  Queen  Mary  in  the  case  of  the  "  Casket  of  Let- 
ters" to  Goodall's  Examination,  1574;  Tytler,  Sr.'s,  Inquiry, 
1560-70;  Whitaker's  Vindication,  1789-90.  I  further  refer  the 
reader  to  Mr.  Hosack's  two  volumes,  for  which  the  lovers  of 
fair  play  and  historical  truth  must,  in  the  present  and  future 
generation,  feel  grateful.  .  .  . 

Bothwell  was  soon  deserted  by  his  former  friends,  and,  after 
a  career  of  infamy,  he  again  put  to  sea  as  a  pirate.  Many  terri- 
ble crimes  have  been  attributed  to  him  upon  the  high  seas,  and 
his  companions  were  red-handed  robbers  who  destroyed  life  and 
property  without  compunction  or  one  grain  of  pity  for  youth  or 
beauty  when  in  their  power.  Time  rolled  on,  and  the  pirates 
and  their  fearless  chief  still  continued  upon  the  troubled  waters  ; 
but  a  dreadful  storm  arose  which  caused  the  pirate  bark  to  be 
driven  into  a  Danish  port,  where  the  authorities  inspected  the 
"  ship's  papers,"  which  they  justly  suspecte.d  to  be  forged.  The 
king  of  Denmark  ordered  Bothwell  to  be  detained  a  prisoner  at 
Copenhagen  Castle.  \ 

Bothwell  offered  to  purchase  his  liberty  and  to  procure  ships 
for  the  service  of  Denmark,  but  the  king  would  not  hear  of  such 
propositions.  Bothwell  renewed  his  statement  with  regard  to 
the  murder  of  Darnley  and  the  "  part  he  had  taken  in  arranging 

*  The  nobles  assembled  at  the  supper  in  question  had  all  signed  the  bond  for  and  in  ap- 
proval of  the  murder  of  Darnley. 

t  Secret  Despatches  of  Sir  Henry  Killefreud,  the  English  ambassador. 

J  Report  of  Bothwell's  examination  at  Bergen  as  signed  by  the  mayor  and  magistrates. 


188$.]    PlRA  TES  AND  THE  "REFORM A  TION  MO  VEMENT"          133 

it."  He  avowed  that  the  queen  had  no  part  whatever  in  the 
doings  of  the  terrible  night  at  Holyrood.  The  king  of  Den- 
mark caused  Bothwell  to  be  removed  to  Melmoe  Castle.  In  this 
fortress  Bothwell  was  closely  confined  for  many  years,  and  it  is 
stated  that  "  his  friends  and  kindred  knew  not  of  his  where- 
abouts." He  was  allotted  "  the  well-barred  and  locked  chamber 
where  the  deposed  tyrant  Christian  II.  of  Denmark  had  been 
placed  to  reflect  upon  the  past  and  the  present." 

It  is  stated  that  long  sickness  reduced  Bothwell  to  a  misera- 
ble condition,  and  his  mind  was  frequently  affected  by  it.  The 
Lutheran  bishop  attended  him,  and  "  he  made  confessions  to  him, 
but  declared  at  the  same  time  that  the  queen  and  her  immediate 
friends  knew  nothing  of  the  murder  of  Darnley." 

Bothwell  died  in  1577  and  in  his  *'  perfect  senses."  A  true 
copy  of  his  death-bed  confession,  witnessed  by  four  officials  of 
the  Danish  government,  was  specially  sent  by  the  King  of  Den- 
mark to  Queen  Elizabeth,  who  suppressed  it  in  the  same  manner 
as  she  caused  the  confession  of  George  Buchanan  to  be  removed 
from  the  shops  of  the  London  booksellers.  Buchanan  wished 
posterity  to  know  that  he  had  returned  to  the  religion  he  had 
abandoned,  and  "  hoped  that  God  Almighty  might  forgive  him 
for  all  the  deliberate  injury  he  had  inflicted  upon  the  Queen  of 
Scots." 

Buchanan  has  been  styled  a  "  literary  dagger-man."  And,  to 
make  his  conduct  more  sad,  it  is  affirmed  by  Fraser  Tytler  that 
he  was  "  the  most  remarkable  genius  of  the  age  in  which  he 
lived."  He  was,  indeed,  the  most  intelligent  man  amongst  the 
slanderers  of  Mary  Stuart. 

A  Scottish  writer  who  visited  the  last  resting-place  of  James, 
Earl  of  Bothwell,  observes:  "  Bothwell's  grave  lay  under  the 
castle- wall. of  Malmoe,  in  a  lonely  little  dell.  It  was  shaded  by 
the  light  leaves  of  the  dwarf  birch  and  the  purple  flowers  of  the 
lilac-tree ;  the  blue  forget-me-not,  the  white  strawberry,  and  the 
yellow  daisy  were  planted  there  by  some  kind-hearted  Swedes 
in  memorial  of  the  stranger." 

It  is  traditionally  related  that  in  1577  an  old  Scotch  friar 
visited  Bothwell  in  his  dungeon,  but  the  wretched  man  was  near 
the  death-agony  at  the  time.  The  confessor  held  up  the  crucifix 
before  him,  when  he  wept  and  sobbed  and  became  excited.  .  .  . 
The  priest  is  supposed  to  have  been  Roger  Bolton,  an  early 
friend  of  Bothwell's  family  and  his  sister's  confessor.  The  good 
father  was  not  able  to  induce  the  outlaw  to  return  to  the  faith  of 
his  family.  So  he  died  as  he  had  lived,  varied  only  by  a  suppli- 


ENGLISH  AND  SCOTCH  PIRATES.  [Oct., 

cation  with  uplifted  hands  to  heaven,  crying  out  for  "  Mercy  ! 
mercy  ! "  He  referred,  in  pathetic  words,  to  his  mother  and  the 
sunny  days  of  childhood.  Perhaps  in  the  solitude  of  Bothwell's 
heart  he  had  some  intervals  of  feeling  which  carried  him  back 
to  the  long-forgotten  piety  of  boyhood,  when  his  good  mother, 
Agnes  Sinclair,  taught  him  first  to  raise  his  tiny  hands  in  prayer 
before  the  high  altar  in  Blantyre  Priory,  where  she  daily  knelt 
and  prayed  to  the  Virgin  Mother  to  protect  her  little  children 
from  the  world's  temptations.  To  a  troubled  spirit  such  reflec- 
tions were  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Perhaps  another  Scotch  tradition  is  near  the  fact : 

"  The  outcast  Bothwell  died  repentant,  and  listened  seriously  to  the  ad- 
monitions of  an  old  priest  who  travelled  far  to  change  his  heart  and  bring 
him  once  more  within  the  ancient  fold.  It  is  alleged  that  the  dying  man 
addressed  the  friar  in  these  words  :  '  Old  friend,  I  am  dying  !  Oh  !  let  me 
think  that  you  will  stand  by  my  grave  and  say  one  prayer  for  my  wretched 
soul,  and,  in  memory  of  the  happy  days  of  my  early  youth,  you  will  re- 
member me  with  pity  and  forgiveness.'  " 

The  following  passages  are  of  some  interest : 

"On  St.  Bothan's  Eve,'for  many  a  returning  year,  a  wandering  priest 
was  seen  to  kneel  beside  that  lonely  grave,  with  eyes  downcast  and  a 
crucifix  in  his  clasped  hands,  and,  after  praying  for  a  time,  he  departed, 
but  no  one  knew  from  whence  he  came.  He  was  uncommunicative  and 
sad-looking.  Year  after  year  the  priest  came  and  departed  again.  His  last 
visit  was  paid  in  1622.  His  form  was  then  bent  With  extreme  old  age  (about 
ninety-three) ;  he  leaned  upon  a  staff ;  his  hair  was  white  as  snow,  his 
cheeks  hollow,  and  he  wept  as  he  repeated  the  Catholic  prayers  for  the 
dead.  Giving  a  farewell  look  at  the  grave,  the  unknown  priest  departed, 
never  to  return  again." 

In  1624  the  grave  of  Bothwell  was  visited  by  a  Scotch  gentle- 
man. It  was  then  flattened  and  effaced,  and  its  whereabouts  was 
with  difficulty  pointed  out  by  the  "  finger  of  tradition." 

No  hand  ever  raised  a  stone  to  mark  where  that  strange  in- 
stance of  uncontrolled  ambition  and  turbulence,  the  last  earl  of 
the  old  line  of  Hailes  and  Bothwell,  lay  commingled  with  the 
dust  of  a  foreign  clime. 


1885.]    THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.        135 


THE   FRENCH    RADICALS   AND   THE   CONCORDAT. 

ONE  of  the  principal  planks  in  the  platform  of  the  French 
Radicals  is  the  separation  of  church  and  state.  As,  with  the  aid 
of  the  Bonapartists  and  other  irreconcilable  enemies  of  the  re- 
public, they  are  likely  to  return  a  majority  of  their  candidates 
and  to  control  the  policy  of  the  government  more  openly  than 
they  have  done  heretofore,  it  may  be  interesting  to  study  the 
difficult  problem  they  have  undertaken  to  solve. 

The  advantage  accruing  to  either  party  from  the  contemplat- 
ed measure — if  we  look  only  at  the  principle  of  separation — 
would  be  in  favor  of  the  church.  She  is,  undoubtedly,  more  free 
and  independent  where  she  is  not  subsidized  by  the  stale,  and, 
judging  from  her  condition  in  the  United  States,  one  would  say 
that  her  prosperity  is  only  the  greater.  It  is  quite  natural,  then, 
that  Americans  should  look  on  this  question  as  one  of  minor  im- 
portance and  which  should  not  alarm  the  Catholics.  But  the 
case  is  very  different  in  the  two  countries  :  to  declare  that  there 
shall  be  no  union  between  two  parties,  and  to  proclaim  that  the 
union  already  existing  shall  be  dissolved,  is  not  at  ail  the  same 
thing.  That  union  must  have  been  made  upon  certain  condi- 
tions ;  certain  interests  must  be  involved  which  it  is  difficult  to 
adjust,  even  with  the  mutual  consent  of  the  parties — still  more  so 
if  it  be  the  will  of  one  party  only,  with  total  disregard  for  the 
rights  of  the  other.  Now,  in  France  such  a  compact  exists,  and 
the  charges  or  responsibilities  assumed  by  the  state  are  of  such 
a  nature  that  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  it  can  cancel  them  without 
making  compensation,  or  how  it  can  make  such  a  compensation 
as  is  demanded  by  justice  and  equity.  This  compact  is  what  is 
known  (by  name,  for  its  character  is  little  understood)  as  the 
Concordat.  Ere  we  examine  the  origin  and  provisions  of  this 
instrument  let  us  first  do  away  with  certain  false  impressions 
that  exist  in  the  minds  of  many  people  who  have  not  given  the 
subject  serious  attention.  Catholicism  is  represented  as  the 
state  religion  of  France — that  is,  a  religion  possessing  exclusive 
privileges  and  whose  clergy  is  supported  by  the  government  out 
of  the  national  treasury.  The  learned  leaders  of  the  anti-church 
party  strive  to  impress  this  last  point  on  the  popular  mind,  and 
protest  indignantly  against  the  iniquity  of  compelling  people  to 
pay  taxes  for  the  support  of  a  religion  they  don't  profess.  Now, 


136       THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.    [Oct., 

the  truth  is  that  the  Catholic  Church  enjoys  no  exclusive 
privilege  in  France ;  she  is  merely  the  oldest  and  consequently 
the  first  among  the  five  religious  denominations  recognized  by 
the  state  and  which  receive  government  aid.  The  others  are 
the  Reformed  Church,  or  Calvinists,  the  Lutherans,  the  Israelites, 
and  the  Mussulmans  of  Algeria.  Furthermore,  the  Catholic 
Church  is  the  only  one  which  does  not  receive  gratuitous  aid. 
She  is  a  creditor  of  the  state,  and  the  infidel  taxpayers,  like  all 
other  citizens,  are  bound  to  help  pay  the  public  debt. 

In  the  early  ages  of  the  Christian  Church  the  name  Concordat 
was  given  to  the  articles  of  agreement  by  which  differences  aris- 
ing between  the  bishops  or  the  superiors  of  monasteries  were 
adjusted.  Subsequently,  and  until  the  present  time,  it  has  been 
used  exclusively  to  designate  the  treaties  made  by  the  popes 
with  the  various  governments  of  Christendom,  for  the  purpose 
of  determining  the  respective  rights  of  each  in  the  organization 
of  the  clergy  and  the  ecclesiastical  discipline.  No  questions  of 
faith  could  be  or  have  been  involved  in  these  transactions. 
They  were  intended  to  define  clearly  the  relations  of  the  church 
with  civil  authority,  so  as  to  avoid  any  clashing  of  interests  or 
power.  Four  Concordats  have  been  passed  between  the  Holy 
See  and  France.  The  first  was  signed  in  1516  by  Leo  X.  and 
Francis  I.  to  settle  the  differences  arising  from  the  Pragmatic 
Sanction  of  Bourges — an  edict  of  Charles  VII.  rendered  in  1438 
with  the  sanction  of  an  assembly  of  prelates  and  nobles,  and 
against  which  Popes  Eugene  IV.  and  Pius  II.  had  protested  with 
varied  success,  the  edict  having  'been  alternately  repealed  by 
Louis  XL  and  revived  by  Louis  XII.  at  the  instance  of  the 
French  parliament.  By  this  act  the  French  king  undertook  to 
settle  the  following  important  points:  the  authority  of  general 
councils  in  matters  of  faith  was  held  to  be  superior  to  that  of  the 
pope,  and  the  latter  was  bound  to  call  a  general  council  once  at 
least  in  every  ten  years  ;  the  churches  and  chapters  were  given 
the  exclusive  right  to  elect  the  bishops  and  other  great  benefi- 
ciaries ;  and,  lastly,  the  king  assumed  the  right  to  correct  certain 
abuses  alleged  to  be  committed  by  the  court  of  Rome,  especially 
the  taxation  of  the  French  clergy.  Francis  I.  gave  up  the  pre- 
tension of  making  the  popes  subordinate  to  the  councils  and  of 
dictating  when  and  how  these  assemblies  should  be  held.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  King  of  France  obtained  from  Leo  X.  the 
right  to  appoint  the  French  bishops,  subject  to  the  canonical  in- 
vestiture, which  could  only  emanate  from  the  spiritual  power. 
The  question  of  taxation  was  settled  by  a  compromise,  the  Sove- 


1885.]     THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.       137 

reign  Pontiff  conceding  some  points  that  had  been  in  dispute  for 
a  long  time.  The  French  parliament  raised  many  objections  to 
this  solution  of  a  vexed  question,  and  some  of  the  clergy  were 
dissatisfied  ;  yet  the  Concordat  of  1516  remained  in  full  force  un- 
til the  Revolution  of  1789. 

The  National  Assembly  of  1790  assumed  the  right  to  establish 
a  new  ecclesiastical  organization  in  France.  It  gave  the  election 
of  the  bishops  and  parish  priests  to  the  laymen,  abolished  all 
benefices  and  fees,  and  charged  the  state  with  the  expenses  inci- 
dental to  religious  worship.  An  annual  sum  of  77,000,000  francs 
was  voted  for  this  purpose.  The  salaries  of  the  clergy  were 
based  on  the  population  of  the  sees  and  parishes.  The  bishop  of 
Paris  was  allowed  50,000  francs  ;  the  bishops  of  cities  of  50,000 
inhabitants  or  more,  20,000  francs ;  those  of  less  important  sees, 
12,000  francs;  the  parish  priests  in  Paris,  6,000  francs;  those  in 
the  departments,  from  4,000  to  1,200  francs,  according  to  the  size 
of  the  parish.  The  great  majority  of  the  French  clergy  refused 
to  recognize  the  right  of  the  National  Assembly  to  interfere  with 
the  discipline  and  organization  of  the  church.  They  were  dis- 
possessed, but  continued  to  discharge,  in  secret,  the  duties  of 
their  sacr.ed  office  until,  tracked  by  the  Jacobins  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, they  forfeited  their  lives  on  the  guillotine,  were  massacred 
in  the  prisons,  or  sought  safety  in  exile.  The  few,  the  very  few, 
who  accepted  the  situation  and  took  the  oath  of  fidelity  to  the 
constitution  were  known  as  the  constitutional  clergy.  The  radi- 
cals of  the  present  day  should  remember  that  the  first  republican 
government,  while  it  took  upon  itself  to  dispossess  the  church 
and  to  regulate  her  affairs,  saw  the  justice  and  necessity  of  mak- 
ing compensation,  at  least  for  the  material  damage  inflicted. 
They  cannot  call  themselves  faithful  to  the  "  immortal  "  princi- 
ples of  1789,  which  were  carried  into  effect  in  1790,  and  repudiate 
such  acts  of  the  founders  of  the  republic  as  do  not  suit  their  pur- 
pose. Their  alternative  is  to  denounce  those  patriots,  as  they  do 
the  moderate  republicans  of  to-day,  and  date  their  own  republi- 
canism from  1793. 

They  should  also  learn  from  that  first  experiment  of  a  free 
church  what  a  hold  the  Catholic  religion  had  upon  the  French 
people,  notwithstanding  the  efforts  of  the  demagogues  to  eradi- 
cate every  vestige  of  the  hated  cult  from  the  land.  No  sooner 
was  the  Reign  of  Terror  over  than  the  voice  of  afflicted  France 
called  aloud  for  the  consolations  of  religion.  As  early  as  1796 — 
that  is,  during  the  Directory — 32,214  parishes  had  resumed  public 
worship  and  4,571  were  claiming  the  right  to  do  likewise.  And 


138        THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.    [Oct., 

a  fact  worthy  of  note,  which  M.  Thiers,  among  other  historians, 
has  observed,  is  that  the  religious  services  held  by  the  unsworn 
priests  who  had  returned  from  exile  or  left  the  places  of  conceal- 
ment where  they  had  abided  near  their  suffering  spiritual  chil- 
dren, during  the  era  of  persecution,  were  far  more  largely  at- 
tended than  those  conducted  by  the  "  constitutional"  priests. 
So  true  is  the  popular  judgment  when  left  free  to  follow  its  in- 
stinct. Whether  the  braying  of  the  modern  apostles  of  infidelity 
will  have  more  influence  on  the  people  than  the  terrorism  of 
their  Jacobin  predecessors  remains  to  be  seen. 

In  1801  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  then  First  Consul,  but  dreaming 
already  of  the  imperial  purple,  saw  what  an  important  card 
would  be  to  him  the  solemn  and  complete  restoration  of  the 
Catholic  religion  in  France.  Besides  the  prestige  it  would  give 
him  in  the  eyes  of  Europe  and  the  claim  on  the  gratitude  of  the 
French  Catholics,  would  not  such  an  act  secure  to  him  an  influ- 
ence on  the  Sovereign  Pontiff  that  could  be  turned  to  account 
when  the  time  came?  Such  may  have  been  the  motives  of  Bona- 
parte ;  at  all  events,  in  making  overtures  to  Pope  Pius  VII.  for  a 
new  Concordat  he  did  an  act  of  sound  statesmanship.  He  saw 
that  the -social  edifice,  terribly  shaken  by  the  revolutionary  earth- 
quake, needed  to  be  reconstructed,  and  he  knew  that  the  only 
cement  that  will  give  strength  and  cohesion  to  society  is  religion. 
He  therefore  called  religion  to  his  aid  ;  but  his  conduct  through- 
out the  negotiations  shows  clearly  that  he  was  not  prepared  to 
do  anything  for  the  sake  of  religion.  He  wished  to  have  every- 
thing his  own  way,  and  even  threatened  to  detach  France  from 
the  church  if  the  project  of  Concordat  he  had  sent  to  Rome  was 
not  signed  within  a  stated,  brief  delay.  The  pope,  of  course, 
could  not  submit  thus  to  the  will  of  the  First  Consul,  whose 
object  was  apparent  enough.  On  the  other  hand,  the  sufferings 
of  the  French  church  commanded  his  earnest  solicitude.  The 
French  ambassador  was  instructed  to  return  to  Paris  if  the  Con- 
cordat was  not  signed  within  the  period  assigned — five  days.  The 
Sovereign  Pontiff,  unwilling  to  see  the  negotiations  broken  so 
suddenly,  yet  determined  to  not  surrender  the  rights  of  the 
church  and  his  own  dignity,  sent  Cardinal  Gonsalvi  to  accom- 
pany the  ambassador  to  Paris  and  there  to  resume  negotiations. 
The  history  of  the  diplomatic  comedy  that  followed,  and  in  which 
Bonaparte  showed  his  wiliness  and  arrogance  alternately,  cannot 
be  told  in  the  limits  of  an  article.  It  will  be  found  in  the  works 
of  Thiers  and  other  historians,  and  with  still  greater  details  in 
the  Memoirs  of  Cardinal  Gonsalvi.  In  short,  the  cardinal  made 


1885.]     THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.    -  139 

the  best  bargain  he  could  without  sacrificing  principle  and  the 
spiritual  authority  of  the  pope.  That  it  was  but  a  lame  compro- 
mise and  not  very  favorable  to  the  interests  of  the  church  is 
generally  admitted,  but,  such  as  it  is,  it  has  remained  in  force 
until  the  present  day.  The  second  Concordat,  signed  by  Pius 
VII.  while  a  prisoner  at  Fontainebleau,  was  null  and  void,  the 
Holy  Father,  as  soon  as  he  was  free,  having  protested  against 
a  document  wrested  from  him  through  fraud  and  violence.  The 
fourth  Concordat  was  signed  by  the  same  pope  and  King  Louis 
XVIII.  in  1817.  The  French  Chambers  rejected  it  and  it  never 
became  a  law.  The  document  which  binds  the  republic  of  1885 
is  therefore  the  Concordat  of  1801,  hemmed  in  as  it  is  by  the 
Organic  Articles—- an  act  to  regulate  the  ecclesiastical  policy  of  the 
various  denominations  then  existing,  and  which  the  wily  Bona- 
parte caused  to  be  promulgated  simultaneously  with  the  Con- 
cordat, as  though  it  were  an  integral  part  of  that  instrument. 
The  pope  protested  in  vain.  The  Organic  Articles  were  not  re- 
pealed, but  in  course  of  time  they  were  greatly  modified  in  their 
application. 

The  Concordat  of  1801  (promulgated  in  April,  1802)  contains 
seventeen  articles.  We  shall  only  quote  here  the  most  impor- 
tant. The  preamble  reads  as  follows : 

"  The  government  of  the  French  Republic  acknowledges  that  the  Ca- 
tholic, Apostolic,  and  Roman  religion  is  the  religion  of  the  great  majority 
of  French  citizens.  His  Holiness  acknowledges  likewise  that  the  said  reli- 
gion has  received  and  still  expects  to  receive  the  greatest  good  and  the 
greatest  lustre  from  the  establishment  of  Catholic  worship  in  France,  and 
from  the  particular  profession  made  of  it  by  the  consuls  of  the  republic. 
In  consequence  thereof,  after  this  mutual  acknowledgment  which  is  for 
the  good  of  the  church  and  the  preservation  of  interiorttranquillity,  they 
have  agreed  upon  what  follows  : 

"  i.  The  Catholic,  Apostolic,  and  Roman  religion  shall  be  freely  exer- 
cised in  France  j  its  worship  shall  be  public,  by  conforming  with  the  police 
regulations  which  the  government  may  deem  necessary  for  the  public 
peace." 

Nos.  2  to  1 1  provide  for  the  new  organization  of  the  dioceses, 
nominations,  etc. 

"  12.  All  the  churches,  metropolitan,  cathedral,  parochial,  and  others 
not  previously  alienated,  that  are  required  for  worship,  shall  be  placed 
again  at  the  disposal  of  the  bishops. 

"  13.  His  Holiness,  for  the  good  of  peace  and  the  happy  restoration  of 
the  Catholic  religion,  declares  that  neither  he  nor  his  successors  shall  in 
any  manner  disturb  the  purchasers  of  alienated  ecclesiastical  property,  and 
that  in  consequence  the  ownership  of  the  said  property,  and  the  rights  and 
revenues  thereto  attached,  shall  remain  incommutable;  in  their  hands  or 
those  of  their  assigns. 


140  .      THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.    [Oct., 

"  14.  The  government  shall  provide  suitable  salaries  for  the  bishops  and 
priests  whose  dioceses  and  parishes  are  comprised  in  the  new  circum- 
scription. 

*'  15.  The  government  shall  also  adopt  measures  to  enable  French  Ca- 
tholics, if  so  inclined,  to  make  foundations  in  favor  of  the  churches. 

"  16.  His  Holiness  concedes  the  same  rights  and  prerogatives  to  the 
First  Consul  of  the  French  Republic  as  the  former  government  enjoyed. 

*'  17.  It  is  agreed  by  the  contracting  parties  that,  in  case  any  of  the  suc- 
cessors of  the  present  First  Consul  should  happen  to  be  a  non-Catholic, 
the  rights  and  prerogatives  hereinabove  mentioned,  and  the  right  to  ap- 
point bishops,  shall  be,  so  far  as  he  is  concerned,  determined  by  a  new  con- 
vention." 

In  principle  the  pope  wished  to  have  the  Catholic  religion 
recognized  as  the  religion  of  the  state.  This  he  could  not 
obtain,  but  had  to  be  content  with  the  declaration  embodied  in 
the  first  article,  that  it  was  the  creed  of  "  the  great  majority  of 
French  citizens."  The  second  article  stands  in  the  way  of  those 
who  wish  to  close  the  Catholic  churches.  A  frail  barrier,  cer- 
tainly ;  for  the  religious  orders,  Sisters  of  Charity,  and  Christian 
Brothers,  who  have  been  driven  away  by  a  government  which 
must  appear  benevolent  by  the  side  of  the  anarchists,  were 
simply  exercising  a  right  implied  in  this  second  article. 

But  Articles  13  and  14  establish  clearly  the  claim  of  the  Ca- 
tholic Church  in  France  against  the  state.  We  have  seen  that 
the  National  Assembly  of  1790,  having  confiscated  the  church 
property,  had  deemed  it  but  just  to  make  compensation  by 
voting  a  liberal  allowance  to  the  despoiled  clergy.  Bonaparte's 
first  project  of  a  Concordat  was  simply  the  revival  of  the  decree 
of  1790  and  its  recognition  by  the  court  of  Rome.  This,  of 
course,  the  Holy  Father  could  not  consent  to ;  for,  leaving  aside 
this  question  of  spoliation,  most  of  the  provisions  of  that  decree 
were  an  encroachment  upon  the  spiritual  authority  of  the  church. 
In  the  Concordat,  as  finally  agreed  upon,  the  questions  of  disci- 
pline and  prerogative  were  adjusted,  if  not  to  the  entire  satisfac- 
tion of  the  church,  at  least  with  due  regard  for  her  spiritual 
authority.  That  of  the  temporal  interests  was  likewise  settled 
by  the  two  articles  referred  to.  The  pope  renounces  all  attempts 
to  recover  the  unjustly-confiscated  property,  and  in  consideration 
of  this  renunciation-  the  French  government  pledges  itself  to 
provide  a  suitable  maintenance  for  the  Catholic  clergy  of  France. 
That  the  words  we  have  italicized  do  not  appear  in  the  document 
is  of  little  importance.  Common  sense  and  common  equity  both 
tell  us  that  the  two  articles  are  to  be  taken  together,  the  one 
being  but  the  consequence  of  the  other.  A  fifth-rate  lawyer 


THE  FRENCH  RADICALS  AND  THE  CONCORDAT.       141 

would  win  a  case  like  this  between  private  individuals  before 
any  court  in  the  land.  The  French  government,  therefore, 
simply  pays  a  perpetual  annuity  for  a  capital  sunk  (unwillingly) 
by  the  clergy.  The  ecclesiastical  property  was  sold  as  national 
property ;  the  government  pocketed  the  proceeds,  and  was  there- 
fore responsible  for  all  future  claims.  Upon  the  same  principle 
the  government  of  Louis  XVIII.  voted  the  indemnity  of  a  thou- 
sand million  francs  to  the  absentees  whose  estates  had  been  con- 
fiscated by  the  republic.  It  mattered  not  that  this  confiscation 
was  the  act  of  a  government  which  he  did  not  recognize,  and 
that  the  majority  of  the  purchasers  were  revolutionists ;  the 
choice  was  between  numberless  prosecutions  disturbing  the 
peace  of  the  kingdom  and  affecting  the  prosperity  of  the  nation, 
or  paying  a  just  debt — so  far  as  the  creditors  were  concerned — 
out  of  the  finances  of  the  state.  But  the  case  of  the  church  was 
stronger  than  that  of  the  dmigrts ;  the  confiscation  decreed  by 
the  National  Assembly  was  not  intended  as  an  act  of  persecution, 
but  as  a  measure  of  reform  dictated  by  a  mistaken  spirit  of  jus- 
tice ;  some  ecclesiastics  cumulated  several  benefices  and  rolled  in 
wealth,  while  others  had  barely  enough  to  live  on  ;  the  Assembly, 
by  adopting  the  relative  population  of  the  various  dioceses  and 
parishes  as  a  basis  to  calculate  the  salaries,  showed  a  desire  to 
deal  fairly  with  the  clergy.  Its  mistake  was  that  it  had  no 
right  to  reorganize  the  ecclesiastical  circumscription. 

Now,  how  will  the  anarchists  settle  this  vexed  question  ? 
Will  they  tell  the  Catholic  clergy  :  "  Here  is  a  sum  of  money, 
a  tithe  of  the  capital  taken  from  you  in  the  years  past ;  take  it, 
take  your  churches,  and  manage  your  own  affairs ;  we  will 
have  nothing  more  to  do  with  you  "  ?  It  would  be  a  sensible  and 
honest  move,  of  which  they  are  incapable.  They  don't  want 
to  get  rid  of  the  alliance  of  church  and  state  ;  they  want  to  get 
rid  of  the  church,  of  the  priests  who  preach  a  code  of  ethics  dif- 
ferent from  their  own,  of  everything  that  keeps  awake  that  trou- 
bled conscience  of  theirs.  What  then?  Refuse  all  subsidies? 
wipe  out  the  name  of  religion  from  the  French  code  ?  refuse  the 
church  that  mere  "  right  of  way  "  that  Bossuet  claimed  for  her? 
add  another  disgrace  to  the  shame  they  have  already  heaped  on 
that  once  proud  France,  and  make  her  name  a  by-word  among 
nations?  Have  Messieurs  Clemenceau,  Paul  Bert,  Rochefort, 
and  others  of  that  ilk,  who  so  industriously  put  their  shoulders 
to  the  wheel  of  radicalism  and  infidelity,  pondered  over  this  prob- 
lem ?  Have  they  found  the  ways  and  means  to  carry  out  their 
programme,  and  have  they  calculated  the  consequences? 


142  NEW  FUBLICA TIONS.  [Oct., 

The  Catholic  religion  cannot  be  driven  out  of  France.  Since 
Voltaire,  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  gave  the  war-cry,  // 
faut  dttruire  finfame  !  what  persecutions  the  church  has  suffer- 
ed in  that  fair  France  with  whose  history  her  name  is  so  closely 
linked!  Mockery,  slander,  violence,  every  weapon,  has  been 
used  against  her.  As  a  crowning  glory  she  was  selected  to  give 
martyrs  in  this  highly-civilized  nineteenth  century.  What  more 
can  her  enemies  do  ?  Other  sufferings  may  be  in  store  for  her — 
we  know  not  the  secret  designs  of  Providence — but  even  though 
infidelity  should  prevail  in  the  present  struggle,  and  we  should 
see  every  French  priest  take  up  the  pilgrim's  staff  and  turn  his 
steps  sorrowfully  towards  another  land,  we  would  think  of  La- 
cordaire's  prophetic  words :  "  France  is  Catholic  by  the  triple 
force  of  her  history,  her  spirit  of  self-sacrifice,  and  the  clearness 
of  her  genius  ;  she  will  only  cease  to  be  so  when  the  grave  opens 
for  her." 


NEW    PUBLICATIONS, 

A  LITERARY  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL  HISTORY;  or,  A  Bibliographical  Diction- 
ary of  the  English  Catholics  from  the  breach  with  Rome  in  1534  to  the 
present  time  (A-C).  By  Joseph  Gillow.  London  :  Burns  &  Gates  ; 
New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.  Vol.  L 

This  is  one  of  the  most  important  and  valuable  works  which  has 
issued  from  the  Catholic  press  in  England  for  many  years,  and  should  find 
a  place  in  the  libraries  not  only  of  all  English  Catholics,  but  of  all  who 
take  an  interest  in  the  ecclesiastical  or  secular  history  of  the  post-Refor- 
mation period.  It  will  surprise  many  to  see  how  great  is  the  number  of 
those  who  were  faithful  to  the  church  in  all  positions  in  life,  and  the  record 
of  the  sufferings  so  many  underwent  for  the  faith  is  of  the  deepest  interest. 
The  work  is  not  confined,  however  (as  the  motto  on  the  title-page  would 
lead  one  to  conclude),  to  recording  the  lives  of  those  who  have  done  honor 
to  their  faith,  but,  while  giving  the  first  place  to  these,  it  embraces  within 
its  plan  all  who,  in  spite  of  legislative  restrictions,  rose  to  eminence  in  the 
legal,  medical,  military,  naval,  and  scientific  professions  and  as  statesmen. 
Artists  of  any  renown  find  also  a  place — painters,  sculptors,  architects, 
musicians,  and  actors.  Booksellers  and  printers  are  included,  who  in  past 
times,  and  indeed,  in  some  instances,  in  our  own  days,  have  rendered  such 
great  services  to  religion.  And,  of  course,  the  schoolmasters  who  at  the 
peril  of  their  lives  devoted  themselves  to  the  education  of  the  young  are 
not  only  included,  but  special  care  has  been  taken  to  make  the  list  and 
account  of  them  complete.  But  lives,  of  course,  in  a  work  of  this  kind,  must 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  143 

be  brief,  and  consequently  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  the  most  valuable 
feature  of  the  work  is  the  bibliographical  portion.  Appended  to  each  of 
the  lives  of  those  who  have  written  at  all  is  a  list,  with  full  titles  and  place 
and  date  of  publication,  of  all  the  works  they  wrote.  This  list  will  form,  as 
far  as  possible,  a  complete  catalogue  of  all  the  works  written  by  Catholics 
since  the  Reformation.  At  the  end  of  each  life  the  authorities  on  which  it 
is  based  are  given,  and  so  it  will  be  easy  for  any  one  wishing  for  a  more 
detailed  account  to  learn  where  to  go  for  it.  In  some  cases  we  would  wish 
that  a  fuller  list  of  these  authorities  had  been  given  ;  for  example,  in  the 
life  of  Edmund  Campian,  where  the  only  authority  is  Mr.  Simpson's  work. 
Another  fault  we  have  to  find  is  that  there  is  a  want  of  uniformity  in  the 
references  to  the  lives  of  noblemen  ;  sometimes  their  lives  are  given  under 
their  titles,  as  the  Earls  of  Arundell  and  Lord  Castlemaine,  and  sometimes 
under  their  family  names,  as  the  Earl  of  Arlington  under  Bennet  and  Lord 
Baltimore  under  Calvert.  Are  there  not  also  too  many  paragraphs  ?  Mat- 
ters which  have  involved  much  controversy  and  caused  much  trouble 
have  had  to  be  gone  into,  but,  so  far  as  we  can  judge,  Mr.  Gillow  has 
approached  these  heart-burning  questions  in  a  fair  and  judicious  spirit,  and 
has  given  none,  even  though  they  may  differ  from  him,  reason  to  com- 
plain of  his  way  of  treating  them.  We  notice  that  the  life  of  Charles  II. 
has  not  been  included  in  this  volume;  is  it  because  Mr.  Gillow  is  not  con- 
vinced of  his  reception  into  the  church  ? 

OF  ADORATION  IN  SPIRIT  AND  TRUTH.  By  John  Eusebius  Nieremberg,  of 
the  Society  of  Jesus.  With  a  Preface  by  Peter  Gallwey,  of  the  same 
society.  London  :  Burns  &  Gates  ;  New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publica- 
tion Society  Co.  1885. 

The  translation  of  this  little  book  appeared  first  in  1673  and  was  re- 
printed in  1871.  This  is  a  new  edition  of  the  same  work.  Of  a  work 
which  has  been  so  long  before  the  world,  and  which  has  held  its  own  so 
well,  the  verdict  of  those  competent  to  judge  has  already  been  formed 
and  enunciated  with  sufficient  clearness  to  dispense  us  from  giving  here 
any  opinion  at  all.  We  must  say,  however,  that  the  old  translation  is 
delightful,  although  the  pleasure  we  take  in  it  is  somewhat  diminished  by 
the  inharmonious  newness  of  the  print,  paper,  and  spelling. 


FATHER  HAND,  Founder  of  All-Hallows  Catholic  College  for  the  Foreign 
Missions.  The  story  of  a  Great  Servant  of  God.  By  the  Rev.  John 
McDermott,  D.D.,  All-Hallows  College,  Dublin.  Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill 
&  Son  ;  New  York  :  Fr.  Pustet  &  Co. 

There  is  scarcely  any  place  where  the  life  of  the  founder  of  All-Hal- 
lows will  not  be  eagerly  read.  For  throughout  the  English-speaking 
world  priests  may  be  found  who  have  received  from  him  and  his  teaching 
more  than  they  can  ever  say.  To  these  the  life  of  Father  Hand  will  be 
more  than  interesting,  and  to  their  flocks,  we  have  no  doubt,  no  less  so 
than  to  themselves. 

This  "  faithful  servant  "  was  indeed  a  martyr  to  his  zeal ;  he  sacrificed 
his  life  for  the  good  of  the  institution  he  founded.  And  when  we  consider 
the  great  amount  of  good  the  college  of  All-Hallows  has  been  instrumen- 


144  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Oct.,  1885. 

tal  in  doing,  when  we  recall  that  it  has  sent  out  eleven  hundred  priests, 
we  cannot  but  rejoice  that  the  patience,  the  labors,  the  virtues  of  Father 
Hand  have  received  even  in  this  life  a  reward,  but  a  reward  bearing  no 
proportion  to  that  his  Heavenly  Father  has  bestowed  upon  him. 

THE  SECRET  OF  PLATO'S  ATLANTIS.  By  Lord  Arundell  of  Wardour. 
London:  Burns  &  Gates.  1885.  (For  sale  by  the  Catholic  Publica- 
tion Society  Co.) 

Lord  Arundell  has  undertaken  to  refute  a  theory  proposed  by  Mr. 
Ignatius  Donnelly  respecting  what  has  been  generally  regarded  as  a  fable 
or  legend  respecting  Atlantis  which  is  found  in  Plato's  Critias.  He  also 
proposes  a  theory  of  his  own  concerning  the  foundation  of  this  myth  of 
Plato's.  His  conjecture  is  that  Plato  made  a  relation  of  a  voyage  of 
Hanno  which  took  place  about  B.C.  500  the  basis  of  an  idealized  narrative 
— that  is,  of  his  Atlantis.  His  reasoning  is  ingenious,  and  in  this,  as  all 
Lord  Arundell's  works,  there  is  much  curious  erudition. 


THE  LIVES  OF  THE  IRISH  SAINTS.  By  the  Rev.  John  O'Hanlon,  M.R.I.A. 
(For  sale  by  the  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.) 

THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  has  again  and  again  called  the  attention  of  its 
readers  to  the  Lives  of  the  Irish  Saints  by  Rev.  J.  O'Hanlon.  If  it  had  not 
done  so  it  would  have  been  gravely  remiss  in  one  of  its  chief  duties.  And 
now,  since  a  good  thing  cannot  be  done  too  often,  it  calls  attention  to  this 
important  work  once  more.  The  traditions  of  a  race,  whether  natural  or 
supernatural,  should  never  be  lost  or  forgotten  either  by  those  of  the  same 
race,  or  by  their  descendants,  or  by  mankind.  How  much  men  toil,  dig, 
and  labor  to  rescue  the  traditions  of  the  Egyptians,  the  Grecians,  the 
Latins,  and  others  of  past  history  !  Father  O'Hanlon  is  engaged  in  a  simi- 
lar noble  work.  We  bid  him  God-speed,  and  earnestly  recommend  his 
work  to  the  sympathies  and  support  of  all  men.  What  we  learn  from  the 
agents  of  this  work  in  this  country,  however,  is  most  astonishing  and  re- 
grettable— namely,  that  there  are  not  more  than  five  copies  sold  by  them  in 
the  United  States. 

THE  EFFECTS  OF  THE  ABUSE  OF  ALCOHOL  ON  THE  CIRCULATORY  AND  RE- 
SPIRATORY ORGANS.  A  paper  read  before  the  meeting  of  the  American 
Institute  of  Homoeopathy,  Session  of  1884.  By  J.  W.  Bowling,  M.D., 
Professor  of  Physical  Diagnosis  and  Diseases  of  the  Heart  and  Lungs, 
and  Dean  of  the  New  York  Homoeopathic  Medical  College.  Pittsburgh, 
Pa. :  Press  of  Stevenson  &  Foster. 

The  above  pamphlet  of  sixteen  pages  contains  much  valuable  informa- 
tion. Dr.  Dowling  states  very  clearly  the  symptoms  which  are  produced 
by  excessive  drinking,  and  takes  special  care  to  give  satisfactory  proofs  for 
his  conclusions. 


THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD. 


VOL.  XLII.  NOVEMBER,  1885.  No.  248, 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS. 

IN  Rome  long  since  upon  Mount  Aventine 
There  stood  a  marble  palace  vast  and  fair, 

'Mid  gardens  rich  in  mulberry  and  vine, 
With  columned  atrium  and  Parian  stair, 

Statued  by  godlike  forms  at  either  side, 

Ancestral  chiefs,  a  Roman  noble's  pride. 

That  stock  was  ancient  when  great  Csesar  fell ; 

Ancient  when  Hannibal  with  gloomy  brow 
From  Zama  rode,  till  then  invincible  ; 

Ancient  when  Cincinnatus  left  his  plough  ; 
Ancient  when  Liberty  in  crimson  dyed 
Leaped  forth,  re-virgined,  from  a  virgin's  side — 

Virginia's  bleeding  'neath  her  father's  knife  : 
And  when  the  state  in  days  of  Gracchus  reeled, 

By  rapine  torn  or  fratricidal  strife 
111  fruit  of  that  Licinian  Law  repealed, 

And  Rome's  free  peasant,  famed  in  peace  and  war, 

Gave  place  to  slaves,  base  scum  from  realms  afar, 

Then  too  the  Euphemian  race  held  high  its  head 
Above  the  custom  new  and  mist  of  error ; 

The  native  husbandmen  with  freedom's  tread 
Walked  still  its  fields  ;  in  gladness  not  in  terror 

Their  young,  fair  daughters,  rising  from  the  board, 

Greeted  the  entrance  of  an  unfeared  lord. 

Copyright.    Rev.  I.  T.  HECKER.     1885. 


146  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Nov. 

He  came  not  only,  when  the  flocks  were  shorn 
To  claim  his  half;  when  corn-clad  slopes  grew  fat; 

When  russet  sheaves  to  golden  barns  were  borne ; 
When  olives  bled,  or  grapes  made  red  the  vat: 

He  stood  among  them  when  the  son  was  wed ; 

He  followed  to  his  grave  the  grandsire  dead. 

Centuries  went  by ;  they  brought  the  great  reward : 

That  Senate-order  of  a  later  day, 
Fooled  by  their  flatterers,  by  their  slaves  abhorred, 

Reaped  as  they  sowed  each  upstart  anarch's  prey, 
Successively  proscribed.     'Mid  seas  of  blood 
The  Empire  by  the  dead  Republic  stood. 

In  time  that  Empire  tottered  to  its  fall ; 

Awhile  the  princely  hand  of  Constantino 
Sustained  it.     Faithful  to  a  heavenly  call, 

He  linked  its  glories  with  that  Conquering  Sign 
Inscribed,  "  Through  me  is  Victory."     But,  within, 
Still  lurked  that  empire-murdering  poison — Sin. 

The  Christian  Truth,  held  truly,  had  sufficed 
Even  then  to  save  that  Empire  :  naught  "availed 

The  Name  invoked  but  not  the  Faith  of  Christ, 
Or  Faith  that  made  its  boast  in  words,  but  failed 

To  rear  on  Pagan  wrecks  of  sense  and  pride 

The  Christian  throne  of  greatness  sanctified. 

The  imperial  sceptre  to  the  East  transferred 

Left  prouder  yet  the  West.     More  high  each  day 

The  pomp  up-swelled  of  Rome's  great  Houses,  stirred 
By  legendary  lore  and  servile  lay, 

And  hungry  crowds  contented  long-  to  wait 

The  bread-piled  basket  at  the  palace-gate. 


"  My  Lord  receives  his  clients."     In  they  throng, 
Freedman  and  slave,  Greek  cook  and  Syrian  priest, 

Wizard  and  mime,  adepts  in  dance  or  song  ; 
The  perfumed  patron,  recent  from  the  feast, 

Or  drunken  slumbers  reddening  still  his  eyes, 

Enters  ;  and  plausive  shouts  insult  the  skies, 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  147 

Startling  a  score  of  scriveners,  forms  grotesque 

That  bend  lean  foreheads,  seamed  by  fevered  veins, 

Across  the  ledger's  breadth  or  mouldering  desk; 
For  then  each  Roman  noble  held  domains 

By  Rhenus,  Rhodanus,  and  every  shore 

That  hears  or  viol's  sigh  or  panther's  roar. 


Those  nobles  seldom  rode  to  battle-fields ; 

They  steered  to  distant  ports  no  ships  broad-sailed ; 
But  well  they  knew  that  gain  which  usury  yields ; 

Or,  borrowing  oft,  when  tricksome  fortune  failed 
Pawned  their  best  plate  and  many  a  gem  beside, 
Knee-crooked  to  soothe  some  upstart  lender's  pride. 

The  gilded  barge  is  launched :  a  score  of  slaves 
Drag  back  the  flashing  oars ;  a  second  score 

With  incense  charge  each  wind  that  curls  the  waves, 
Or  harmonize  blue  Baise's  sea-washed  shore 

With  strains  that  charmed  Calypso's  halls  ere  while, 

Or  lured  Ulysses  f  ward  the  Siren's  isle. 

They  trod  the  marbles  of  the  Thermae  vast, 
Their  skirts  aflame  with  legend-broideries  ; 

Bull-born,  Europa  here  the  Bosphorus  passed, 
The  Idean  shepherd  there  adjudged  the  prize ; 

Or  Venus,  fisher  turned,  with  bending  rod 

Landed  a  wet-winged  Cupid  on  the  sod. 

Their  litters  borne  by  sweating  slaves,  they  clomb 
On  August  noons  Soracte's  steepest  ridge  ; 

Or,  pinnace-cradled,  pushed  the  creamy  foam 
Onward  through  dusk  Avernus'  waving  sedge; 

They  turned  not  there  great  Maro's  page,  yet  oft 

Alike  the  Poet  and  his  Sibyl  scoffed. 

Temples  and  shrines  adorned  their  palaces ; 

Syrian  the  rite,  once  Roman,  later  Greek : 
Old  libraries  remained :  they  sought  them  less 

For  song  heroic  than  for  tale  lubrique  ; 
There  sophists  warred  in  turn  on  body  and  soul  ; 
There  dust  lay  thick  on  Plato's  godlike  scroll. 


148  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Nov., 

Travelling,  a  troop  Numidian  cleared  their  way ; 

Their  carrucse  were  silver,  gold-embossed ; 
In  festal  barge  they  coasted  Cumae's  bay  : 

If  there  a  keener  gust  the  ripple  crossed 
They  shook  like  some  sick  child  that  sees  in  dream 
Ixion's  doom  or  rage  of  Polypheme. 

Harp,  lyre,  and  lute  for  ever  dinned  their  bowers ; 

But  witless,  loud,  or  shrill  was  every  strain : 
They  feared  the  incense-breath  of  innocent  flowers, 

Yet  quaffed  their  wine-cups  near  the  uncovered  drain ; 
Feared  omens  more  than  wrath  divine,  and  fled 
The  fevered  child,  the  parent's  dying  bed. 

The  poison  root  of  those  base  ways  was  this  : 
Self-love  had  slain  true  love.     Each  human  tie 

Was  hollowed.     Sense  had  smirched  the  nuptial  kiss  ; 
Child-birth  was  tribute  paid  to  ancestry  ; 

Rottenness  reigned  :  the  World,  grown  old,  stripped  bare, 

More  ruled  than  when  the  Witch  was  young  and  fair. 

Need  was  there  that  the  Lord  of  Love  should  burst 
Once  more  on  man  as  in  man's  prime  estate, 

And,  teaching  that  the  "  First  Command  "  is  first 
The  "  Second  "  second  only,  vindicate 

For  human  ties  that  greatness  theirs  alone 

When  Love's  far  source  and  heavenly  end  are  known. 

Ages  of  Sin  had  heaped  on  high  a  debt 

Heroic  abstinence  could  alone  defray : 
The  limb  ill-joined  could  never  be  reset 

Till  broken  ;  Love,  till  cleansed,  resume  its  sway. 
Conventual  cells  that  seemed  to  spurn  the  earth, 
And  hermit  caves,  built  up  the  Christian  Hearth. 

Fire-scorched  Thebais,  lion-tenanted  ! 

'Twas  in  thy  lion's  abdicated  lair 
Ascetic  Virtue  laid  its  infant  head  ! 

The  heart,  dried  up,  found  waters  only  there  ! 
That  Faith  burnt  in  upon  it  from  above 
By  pain  sent  up  at  last  Faith's  offspring — Love. 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  149 

Rome  caught  the  sacred  flame.     Brave  men,  and  those 
Infected  least  with  wealth  and  popular  praise, 

Could  walk  in  strength,  in  dignity  repose, 
In  part  were  faithful  to  the  old  Roman  ways : 

Matrons  there  were  on  whom  Cornelia's  eye 

Had  dwelt ;  and  youths  well  pleased  like  Regulus  to  die. 

Pagan  were  these,  most  part,  but  less  revered 

Venus  than  Pallas,  Plutus  less  than  Pan  : 
The  Gods  "  Pandemian"  they  nor  loved  nor  feared  : 

In  nobler  Gods  the  noblest  thoughts  of  man 
Looked  down,  so  deemed  they,  from  the  Olympian  throne, 
Or  types  or  delegates  of  that  God  Unknown. 

Others,  incensed  at  priestly  conjuring  trick, 

Reluctant  bade  the  fane  profaned  adieu, 
But  with  the  Sophist's  godless  rhetoric 

Their  own  hearts  wronged  not.     Far  as  truth  they  knew 
They  lived  it ;  wrought  for  man  and  peace  ensued, 
Shunning  the  111,  and  cleaving  to  the  Good. 

An  exhalation  of  celestial  grace 

Moved  o'er  the  Empire  from  the  Martyrs'  tombs : 
Christians,  oft  slaves,  were  found  in  every  place ; 

Their  words,  their  looks,  brightened  the  heathen  glooms: 
Such  gleams  still  hallow  Antoninus'  page, 
The  saintly  Pagan  and  Imperial  Sage. 

Prescient  of  fate  the  old  worship  lay  in  swoon, 
Helpless  though  huge,  dying  and  all  but  dead ; 

The  young  Faith  clasped  it  as  the  keen  new  moon, 
A  silver  crescent  hung  o'er  ocean's  bed, 

Clasps  that  sad  orb  whose  light  from  earth  is  won : — 

Its  youthful  Conqueror  parleys  with  the  sun. 

The  Poor  came  first,  and  reaped  the  chief  reward  ;      j 
Old  Houses  next:  Truth  loves  Humility: 

Humility  is  humblest  when  most  hard 
To  reach — the  lowliness  of  high  degree : 

Such  bowed  to  Christ:  in  turn  He  gave  to  them      , 

The  stars  of  Truth's  whole  heaven  for  diadem. 


150  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Nov., 

The  thought  of  greatness  in  them  long  had  dwelt : 
The  difference  'twixt  the  greatness  counterfeit 

And  genuine  greatness  plainly  now  they  felt : 

Eyes  had  they ;  and  they  saw  it.     Henceforth  sweet 

Was  every  sacrifice  that  Vision  brought : 

No  wish  had  these  to  purchase  heaven  for  naught. 

They  knew  'twas  sense  and  valor,  not  the  hand 

In  unguents  drenched,  that  won  the  world  for  Rome : 

Sublimer  ends  sublimer  pains  demand  : 
A  spiritual  kingship,  country,  hope,  and  home 

Shone  out  and  hailed  them  from  the  far-off  shore — 

"  To  sea,  though  tempests  rage  and  breakers  roar  I  " 

Piercing  remorse  was  theirs  whene'er  they  mused 
On  all  which  God  to  Rome  in  trust  had  given ; 

The  majesties  profaned,  the  rights  abused  : 
What  help  to  earth,  what  reverence  to  heaven, 

Had  these  bequeathed  ?    What  meant  her  realm  world-wide  ? 

Injustice  throned,  and  Falsehood  deified  I 

Through  all  that  boundless  realm  from  East  to  West 
Had  Virtue  flowered  ?     Had  Wisdom  come  to  fruit  ? 

Had  Freedom  raised  to  heaven  a  lordlier  crest? 
Had  household  Peace  pushed  down  a  deeper  root  ? 

More  true  were  wives,  were  maids  more  pure  that  day 

Than  Portia,  Clelia,  or  Nausicaa  ? 

Behold,  the  flowering  was  of  vices  new  ; 

The  fruitage  fruits  of  hate  and  self-disgust ; 
Knowledge  had  bathed  her  roots  in  lethal  dew  : 

If  higher  now  her  branching  head  she  thrust 
The  Upas  shade  spread  wider  than  of  old  ; 
And  wealth  had  bound  man's  heart  in  chains  of  gold. 

The  Christian  noble  spurned  the  old  Roman  pride  ; 

Whatever  the  Christian  prized  the  Pagan  hated, 
And  clasped,  his  zeal  by  wrath  intensified, 

Rome's  basest  boasts  with  passion  unabated  ; 
Their  homes  stood  near :  for  that  cause  further  still 
Their  inmates  were  estranged  in  thought  and  will. 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  151 

The  Christian  ofttimes  sold  his  all,  and  gave 
The  poor  its  price;  another  kept  his  lands, 

But  spent  their  increase  freeing  serf  and  slave, 
Himself  sustained  by  labor  of  his  hands  : 

Thus  each  renounced  himself,  for  others  wrought, 

Yet  found  that  personal  good  he  never  sought. 

Married  were  some,  and  reverently  to  Christ 
Upreared  a  race  to  Him  obedient.     Some 

For  His  sake  hearth  and  household  sacrificed ; 
Others,  in  that  fresh  dawn  of  Christendom, 

Though  wedded,  lived  in  vestal  singleness, 

Young  chastity's  severe  yet  sweet  excess. 

Of  Christian  homes  the  noblest  and  the  first 
Was  that  huge  palace  on  Mount  Aventine. 

Fortune  and  Pagan  spite  had  done  their  worst : 

They  maimed  it,  yet  not  marred.     The  time's  decline 

Made  it  but  holier  seem.     The  Christian  Truth 

Shone,  starlike,  from  its  breast  in  endless  youth. 

Three  hundred  freemen  served  there  as  of  yore, 
Bondsmen  whilom.     The  clients  of  old  time 

Walked  there  as  children,  parasites  no  more  ; 
Mastery  and  service,  like  recurrent  rhyme, 

Kissed  with  pure  lip  :  for  one  great  reverence  swayed 

Alike  their  hearts  who  ruled  and  who  obeyed. 

The  beast  that  drew  the  water  from  the  well 

In  the  near  stream  had  earlier  quenched  his  thirst, 

Nor  labored  over-burdened  :  placable 

Was  each  man  :  vengeance  there  was  held  accursed  : 

By  the  same  altar  knelt  the  high,  the  low  ; 

Heard  the  same  prayer  :  it  rose  for  friend  and  foe. 

Euphemian  was  the  name  far-known  of  him 

The  lord  of  all  those  columned  porticoes, 
Those  gardens  vast  with  ilex  alleys  dim, 

Those  courtways  lined  with  orange  and  with  rose : 
Happy  in  youth  ;  thrice  happier  since  his  bride, 
Aglae,  paced  those  halls  her  lord  beside. 


152  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Nov., 

f  She  was  a  being  beautiful  as  day, 

Tender  and  pliant  to  her  husband's  will 
As  to  the  wind  that  flower  each  breath  can  sway 

While  branch  and  leaf  and  blade  close  by  are  still, 
And  therefore  "  wind-flower"  named.     On  her  Christ's  Poor 
Looked  ever  with  moist  eyes  and  trust  secure. 

One  thing  alone  was  wanting  to  this  pair — 
The  sound  of  children's  feet  patting  the  floor, 

The  ring  of  children's  laughter  on  the  air, 
Their  clamorous  joy  at  opening  of  a  door 

To  see,  to  clasp  their  parents  newly  come 

Once  more  from  Ostia  or  from  Tusculum. 


The  Poor  pray  well :  at  last  the  prayer  was  heard 
From  countless  hearths  ascending  eve  and  morn — 

From  countless  hearts.  The  joy  so  long  deferred 
Was  sent  at  last ;  the  longed-for  boy  was  born. 

That  day  all  Rome  kept  festival ;  that  night 

Each  casement  shone,  and  every  face  was  bright. 

The  months  went  swiftly  by :  the  Seven-Hilled  City 
Well  loved  that  Babe ;  the  poor  man's  boast  was  he, 

The  theme  of  poet,  and  the  minstrel's  ditty : 
Maiden  and  matron  clasped  him  on  her  knee : 

And  many  a  saintly  mother  said — and  smiled — 

"  Christ  died  a  Man :  but  came  to  earth  a  Child  !  " 

Once  as  he  slept  his  mother  near  him  knelt : 
She  prayed  as  never  she  had  prayed  before, 

And,  praying,  such  an  inspiration  felt 

As  though  some  breeze  of  hope  o'er  ocean's  floor, 

Missioned  from  Bethlehem's  star-loved  crib,  came  flying 

O'er  her  and  him  in  that  small  cradle  lying. 

It  passed :  then  in  her  memory  rose  that  word 
Simeon  to  Blessed  Mary  spake  erewhile, 

"  Also  through  thine  own  soul  shall  pierce  the  sword  "  ; 
She  mused,  like  those  who  weep  at  once  and  smile, 

"  The  Mother  of  a  Saint — how  great  soe'er 

Her  joy — in  Mary's  sacred  grief  must  share  !  " 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  153 

Years  passed :  a  Monk,  that  child  at  vespers  singing, 
Stood  silent  long;  then  down  a  tear-drop  stole  : 

He  spake,  while  still  with  song  the  roofs  were  ringing, 
"  That  voice  is  music  of  a  singing  Soul ! 

That  child  shall  live  on  earth  as  lives  a  spirit; 

When  dead,  some  crown  seraphic  shall  inherit !  " 


The  child  became  the  boy,  but  never  lost 

That  charm  which  beautified  his  childhood's  ways 

Skilful  the  most  of  those  the  quoit  who  tossed 
Or  chased  the  boar,  he  nothing  did  for  praise, 

Nor  e'er  in  feast  or  revel  sought  a  part ; 

Rome  was  to  him  pure  as  a  forest's  heart. 

Raptured  he  read  her  legends  of  old  time — 
The  Father-Judge  who  doomed  his  sons  to  die; 

The  Wife  that,  sentencing  another's  crime, 

Pierced  her  own  heart,  then  sank  without  a  sigh. 

High  deeds  were  all  his  thought :  not  then  he  knew 

That  oft  Endurance  wins  a  crown  more  true. 

A  youth,  the  meditative  wore  for  him 

Greatness  than  action's  ampler  and  more  dear  : 

In  musings  while  he  walked,  unmarked  or  dim 
Were  ofttimes  flower  and  tree ;  all  objects  near 

Lost  in  far  lights  of  sunset  or  sunrise : 

His  chief  of  passions  was  Self- Sacrifice. 

His  guides  in  Christian  as  in  classic  lore 
Boasted  untired  the  youth's  intelligence  : 

Ere  long  he  marked  these  twain  were  still  at  war, 
The  prophets  one  of  Spirit,  one  of  Sense  : 

"  I  will  not  serve  two  masters,"  thus  he  cried, 

And  pushed  the  flower- decked  pagan  scroll  aside. 

Was  it  that  sacred  moment  shaped  his  life, 

Keeping  it  flawless  ?    Thousands  safeliest  pace 

Faith's  lower  roads,  dusty  and  dinned  with  strife ; 
Not  so  the  man  elect  to  loftier  place, 

For  sins  in  others  small  are  great  in  him 

Whose  grace  is  large — that  grace  least  stains  bedim. 


154  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Nov., 

Thenceforth  his  "  eye  was  single."     Loss  was  gain 
To  him,  since  Suffering  had  the  world  redeemed  ; 

For  that  cause  still  he  sought  the  haunts  of  pain  ; 
Still  on  the  sufferer's  couch  like  morning  beamed, 

And  in  his  father's  house  with  wine  and  bread 

Served  still  God's  Poor,  or  with  them  sat  and  fed. 


He  lived  a  life  all  musical,  for  still 

Discords  of  earth  in  him  grew  harmonized  ; 

He  lived  in  a  great  silence,  spirit  and  will 

Hushed  in  his  God.     Because  naught  else  he  prized 

Loud  as  that  first,  great  world-creating  word, 

God's  "  small,  still  voice  "  within  him,  still  he  heard. 

Nothing  in  him  was  sad,  nothing  morose  ; 

The  serious  face  still  tended  to  a  smile, 
As  when,  'mid  climes  where  eve  and  morn  sit  close, 

Twilight  and  dawn  meet  in  some  boreal  isle. 
Bad  actions  named,  sad  looked  he  and  surprised  ; 
But  seldom  strove,  rebuked,  or  criticised. 

There  were  who  marvelled  at  his  piercing  thought ; 

There  were  who  marvelled  at  his  simpleness: 
High  Truths,  and  Inspirations  rapture-fraught, 

Came  to  his  mind  like  angels :  not  the  less 
Where  lesser  men  walk  well  his  foot  oft  erred  ; 
He  heard  the  singing  spheres,  or  nothing  heard. 

His  father  loved  the  boy  with  love  and  pride  ; 

There,  and  there  only,  pride  regained  a  part ; 
He  who  had  spurned  the  world,  its  scorn  defied, 

Now  gladdened  that  his  son  had  won  its  heart. 
He  smiled  when  kinsmen  said :  "This  boy  shall  raise 
Waste  places  of  his  House  in  later  days." 

"  All  that  is  ours  Alexis  must  inherit/' 

He  answered.     Then  the  mother,  "  Who  is  she 

Worthy  by  race,  by  beauty,  and  by  merit 
To  be  to  him  true  wife  as  I  to  thee  ?  " 

Such  maid  they  sought  long  time  ;  when  hope  was  o'er 

They  found  her — found  on  earth's  most  famous  shore. 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  155 

Her  race  had  dwelt  in  Athens  ere  it  wrestled 
With  Sparta  for  the  foremost  place  in  Greece  ; 

Earlier,  in  Colchian  vales,  less  known  had  nestled 
Ere  Jason  thence  had  filched  the  Golden  Fleece. 

Thus  to  his  mates  on  wintry  nights  her  sire 

Had  boasted  oft,  beside  the  fir-cone  fire. 

Euphemian  and  that  sire  were  ancient  friends 
So  far  as  Greek  and  Roman  friends  might  be, 

Friends  in  their  youth  ;  but  though  unlikeness  blends 
Natures  cognate  with  finer  sympathy, 

So  diverse  these,  men  said  'twas  memory's  tie, 

Not  love's,  that  held  them  still,  through  severance,  nigh. 

Not  less,  ere  died  the  Greek,  that  friend  of  old 
Had  sought  him  out,  and,  standing  by  his  bed, 

Had  vowed  to  nurture  in  his  own  fair  fold 
His  daughter,  lonely  left.     Her  father  dead, 

And  sacred  mourning  days  expired,  the  twain 

Spread  sail  for  Rome  across  the  wine-dark  main. 

At  sea,  to  please  the  maid,  her  guardian  took 

The  sweet  and  venerable  name  of  Sire  ; 
Her  winsome  grace,  her  wit,  her  every  look — 
V  But  few  could  witness  such  and  not  admire  : 
Sadly  Euphemian  marked  them,  sadly  smiled, 
Yet  loved  her  as  a  father  loves  his  child. 

Likewise,  as  up  and  down  his  musings  swayed, 

This  thought  recurred  :  "  The  girl  is  light  of  wing ! 

What  then?     Alexis  is  too  grave  and  staid : 
Christian  she  is ;  to  each  the  years  must  bring 

Fit  aid  by  friendly  difference  best  supplied  : 

Ere  three  months  more  Zoe  shall  be  his  bride/' 

Zoe,  the  loveliest  of  Athenian  girls, 

Was  prouder  thrice  to  bear  the  Athenian  name 

Than  if  the  East  had  rained  its  gems  and  pearls 
Knee-deep  about  her  path.     To  Rome  she  came 

Curious,  yet  spleenful  more.     The  world's  chief  site 

To  her  was  sceptred  dulness,  brainless  might 


1 56  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Nov., 

The  ship  that  bore  her  thither  smiled  to  waft 

Creature  so  bright;  smooth  seas  revered  their  charge: 

Cythera's  uplands,  as  she  passed  them,  laughed  : 

The  ^Etnean  heights,  Trinacria's  wave-washed  marge,        • 

Gladdened;  they  sang,  "  Our  Proserpine  again 

Is  come  to  gather  flowers  on  Enna's  plain  ! " 

She,  as  she  neared  the  soft  Campanian  coast, 
Where  Pestum's  roses  redden  twice  a  year, 

Reddened  for  joy — its  valleys  seemed  almost 
As  Tempe  soft,  its  streams  as  Dirc6  clear — 

But  frowned  on  tawny  Tiber  with  raised  fist, 

Mocking,  half-Maenad  and  half- Exorcist. 

When  Zoe  entered  Rome,  she  turned,  heart-sick, 
From  arch  and  column  flattering  regal  pride, 

From  cliff-like  walls  up-piled  of  sun-burned  brick,  . 

From  courts  where  beasts  had  fought  and  martyrs  died, 

From  alien  obelisks,  hieroglyph-o'ergraven, 

Long  centuries  glassed  in  Egypt's  stillest  haven. 

That  mood  went  by  :  sudden  the  cloud  she  spurned, 
And,  shaking  from  lashed  lids  an  angry  tear, 

To  that  grave  man  beside  her,  laughing,  turned 
And  spake:  "  The  trophies  of  all  lands  are  here  ! 

Rome  conquered  earth  :  but  why  ?     Too  dense  her  brain 

For  better  tasks,  the  victories  which  remain ! 

"  They  boast  their  Heroes :  but  they  love  them  not ! 

Lo,  there !     An  Emperor  stands  yon  column's  crown  ! 
What  Greek  would  strain  his  eyes  to  scan  a  spot 

Jet-black  in  sun-bright  skies  ?     No  Attic  clown ! 
There  Trajan  towers,  and,  eastward,  Antonine  : 
O  brains  Beotian,  fatter  than  your  kine  !  " 

Lightly  thus  spake  that  beaming  creature  hard, 

Nor  noted  that,  as  one  in  still  disdain, 
Her  comrade  silent  rode.     A  fixed  regard 

He  bent  upon  a  cross-surmounted  fane : 
A  Grecian  temple  near  it  stood :  his  eye 
Saw  but  that  small,  low  church,  that  sunset  sky. 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  157 

The  Roman  spake  :  "  Your  Grecian  pride  of  Art, 
Daughter,  and  Rome's  old  pagan  pride  of  arms, 

Alike  stand  sentenced  here.  For  Christian  heart 
No  greatness,  save  of  heavenly  birth,  hath  charms. 

In  Rome  the  Faith  found  martyrs  three  long  ages : 

She  won  but  audience  from  the  Athenian  sages !  " 

The  beauteous  one  looked  up  ;  her  sensitive  lip 
And  tender  cheek  asked  leave,  it  seemed,  to  smile  ; 

Then,  as  a  bud  that  frosts  of  April  nip, 

That  smile,  discouraged,  died.     Pensive  awhile 

She  rode  ;  her  palfrey  nearer  drew  to  his  : 

She  raised  his  hand,  and  pressed  thereon  a  kiss. 

"  Forgive,"  she  said,  "  the  petulance  of  youth  ! 

Wisdom  serene,  and  Virtue  proved  by  years, 
Note  not  its  freaks."     She  wept ;  but  soon  in  sooth 

Her  penitence  was  drowned  in  its  own  tears, 
And  livelier  than  before  her  critic  tongue 
This  way  and  that  its  shafts  of  satire  flung. 

At  times  the  unbending  Roman  smiled  perforce ; 

At  times  the  patriot  stern  essayed  to  frown  : 
She  noted  either  mood  ;  and  her  discourse 

Accordant  winged  its  bright  way  up  or  down 
Like  those  white-pinioned  birds  that  sink,  then  soar 
O'er  high-necked  waves  that  shake  a  sandy  shore. 

The  sun  had  set ;  they  clomb  Mount  Aventine, 

That  Augur-haunted  height.     There  stayed,  she  saw 

Old  Tiber,  lately  bright,  in  sanguine  line 

Wind  darkening  t'wards  the  sea.     A  sudden  awe 

Chilled  her.     She  felt  once  more  that  evening  breeze 

Which  waves  that  yew-grove  of  the  Eumenides 

Where  Athens  fronts  Colonos.     There  of  old 

Sat  Destiny's  blind  mark,  King  CEdipus ; 
And,  oft  as  she  had  passed  it,  shudderings  cold 

Ran  through  her  fibred  frame,  made  tremulous 
As  the  jarred  sounding-board  of  lyre  or  harp  : 
So  thrilled  the  girl  that  hour  with  shiverings  sharp. 


158          THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.      [Nov., 

"  I  know  it !     This  is  Rome's  Oracular  Hill ! 

Dreadful  it  looks  ;  a  western  Calvary  ! 
A  sacrificial  aspect,  dark  and  still, 

It  wears,  that  saith,  '  Prepare,  O  man,  to  die !' 
Father !  you  house  not  near  this  mount  of  Fate  ?  " 
Thus  as  she  spake  they  reached  his  palace  gate. 

There  stood,  still  fair — tenderer  than  when  more  young — 
She  who  had  made  her  husband's  youth  so  bright : 

Long  to  her  neck  the  Athenian  Exile  clung, 
Wearied  and  sad.     Not  less  that  festal  night 

The  gladsomest  of  the  radiant  throng  was  she, 

Centre  and  soul  of  Roman  revelry. 

END  OF  PART  I. 


THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH. 

THE  authority  which  is  the  theme  of  the  present  exposition  is 
not  jurisdiction,  but  power  to  teach  truth  in  such  a  way  as  justly 
to  command  assent.  The  predicate  "  divine  "  distinguishes  this 
authority  of  the  church  from  all  lesser  authority  such  as  is  no 
more  than  human.  It  denotes  the  source  whence  the  church  as 
a  medium  receives  the  truth  it  teaches,  and  the  ultimate  motive 
justifying  and  commanding  assent,  which  is  the  authority  of  God. 
The  power  of  God  to  teach  truth  so  as  to  give  the  human  mind 
a  motive  justifying  and  commanding  assent  is,  essentially,  his 
absolute  truth,  in  being,  in  knowing,  and  in  making  known  his 
true  being  and  true  knowledge.  These  are  combined  in  the  one 
expression — the  veracity  of  God,  which  is  the  motive  of  belief  in 
divine  revelation,  or  assent  to  truth  on  divine  authority. 

It  is  plain  that  all  divine  authority  in  the  church  is  the  autho- 
rity of  the  revelation  which  God  gives  through  the  church  as  the 
organ  which  he  has  chosen  to  make  the  ordinary  (though  not  the 
only)  medium  of  teaching  to  men,  by  a  supernatural  mode  of 
communication,  truths ;  which  they  are  commanded  to  believe  by 
faith  on  the  divine  veracity.  The  divine  authority  of  the  church 
is,  therefore,  correlated  to  the  contents  of  the  divine  revelation 
of  which  it  is  the  medium.  It  is  also  correlated  to  the  assent  of 
the  intellect,  which  is  justified,  made  obligatory,  qualified,  and 


1885.]       THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.  159 

determined  by  the  motive  of  the  divine  veracity  in  revealing. 
That  is,  whatever  the  faithful  are  commanded  by  God  to  be- 
lieve, when  proposed  by  the  church,  for  reasons  which  rest  ulti- 
mately on  his  own  divine  veracity,  the  church  has  power  to 
teach  by  divine  authority.  And  the  whole  sum  of  such  truths 
which  the  faithful  could  possibly  be  bound  to  believe  with  an 
assent  of  this  kind,  on  the  proposition  of  the  church,  are  contain- 
ed in  the  divine  revelation,  or  at  least  made  certain  by  virtue  of 
a  necessary  and  evident  relation  to  revealed  truth. 

The  church  herself  declares  that  the  divine  revelation  com- 
mitted to  her  was  bequeathed  by  her  founders  the  apostles,  to 
their  successors,  in  a  complete  and  perfect  state.  This  is  the 
"  deposit  of  faith  "  which  the  church  has  received,  to  be  kept 
intact,  without  taking-  from  or  adding  to  it  anything.  The  divine 
authority  of  the  church  consists,  therefore,  in  a  power  received 
from  God  to  preserve,  to  bear  witness  to  by  preaching,  to  expli- 
cate, define,  and  defend  by  censure  against  all  errors,  this  divine 
and  Catholic  faith,  contained  in  the  revelation  of  the  written  and 
unwritten  Word  of  God.  The  canonical  Scripture  and  divine 
apostolic  tradition  are  its  exterior,  local  depositories  ;  the  belief 
and  profession  of  all  the  faithful  and  the  perpetual  doctrine  of 
the  teaching  church  are  the  living  act  and  form  by  which  the 
organic  Christian  body  is  vivified. 

The  church,  having  been  founded  by  God,  and  instituted  to 
be  and  to  remain  until  the  end  of  the  world  the  medium  of  the 
divine  revelation,  having  moreover  its  life  and  subsistence  in  the 
Catholic  faith,  must  necessarily  be  indefectible  in  its  belief  and 
profession  of  the  faith.  The  multitude  of  the  faithful  being  de- 
pendent in  this  respect  on  the  teaching  church,  this  chiefest  por- 
tion of  the  church,  the  hierarchy,  and  its  supreme  head,  must  be 
indefectible  in  teaching.  That  it  may  be  indefectible — that  is, 
that  it  may  not  be  liable  to  fall  into  any  defection  from  the  office 
of  keeping,  bearing  witness  to,  and  proclaiming  the  faith,  by  fail- 
ing to  teach  any  part  of  it,  by  adding  something  which  is  not 
contained  in  the  revelation,  or  by  teaching  what  is  false  and 
noxious — the  teaching  church  must  be  infallible  as  a  whole,  and 
in  its  head  upon  which  its  unity  depends.  Moreover,  because 
God  has  sanctioned  in  advance  all  its  teaching  in  matters  of  faith 
and  morals  as  divine,  has  delegated  to  it  his  divine  authority,  has 
commanded  all  men  to  give  an  undoubting  and  irretractable 
assent  to  all  which  it  defines  and  proclaims  in  his  name,  his 
veracity  is  pledged  to  the  unerring  truth  of  all  the  testimonies, 
declarations,  and  judgments  which  emanate  from  the  church 


160          THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.      [Nov., 

when  it  is  exercising  its  divine  authority.  The  motive  of  the 
assent  of  faith  must  always  be  the  veracity  of  God  ;  therefore 
this  assent  can  only  be  justifiable  and  due  to  dogmas  proposed 
through  the  church,  by  the  certainty  that  the  divine  veracity 
always  underlies  and  sustains  them. 

The  divine  authority  of  the  church  resides  in  a  supreme  man- 
ner in  the  Roman  Church,  the  Mother  and  Mistress  of  churches, 
to  be  exercised  by  the  head  of  that  church,  who,  as  the  successor 
of  St.  Peter  and  the  Vicar  of  Christ,  is  the  supreme  head  of  the 
universal  church  on  the  earth.  When  he  exercises  that  divine 
authority,  by  decreeing  what  all  the  faithful  to  the  end  of  the 
world  must  believe  as  Catholic  doctrine  founded  on  the  divine 
revelation,  or  reject  as  an  error  opposed  to  some  revealed  truth, 
in  the  name  of  God  and  by  virtue  of  the  supreme  power  given 
by  Jesus  Christ  to  St.  Peter,  he  is  said  to  teach  ex  cathedrd. 
That  is,  he  teaches  from  the  chair  or  throne  of  Peter — a  metapho- 
rical expression  denoting  that  he  exercises  the  plenitude  of  power 
which  resides  in  him  as  the  successor  of  Peter,  the  Supreme 
Head  and  Doctor  of  the  church,  including  the  pastors  as  well  as 
their  flock. 

It  is  the  same  when  an  oecumenical  council  makes  its  defini- 
tions of  faith.  It  is  convoked,  sits,  deliberates,  pronounces  its 
judgments,  formally  and  avowedly  as  the  supreme  tribunal  of 
the  church,  intending  and  professing  to  act  by  divine  authority, 
to  make  irreformable  decisions,  and  to  command  the  assent  of  all 
the  faithful  through  all  time.  The  bishops  who  compose  it  rep- 
resent the  entire  episcopate,  which  pronounces  through  them 
its  judgment,  made  final  and  valid  by  the  concurrent  or  subse- 
quent judgment  and  ratification  of  the  supreme  bishop.  These 
dogmatic  decrees  are  therefore  made  ex  cathedrd  Petri,  and  are 
the  most  solemn  and  important  acts  in  which  the  infallibility  of 
the  collective  church  and  of  its  head  is  exercised. 

It  is  the  prerogative  of  the  supreme  power  possessing  divine 
authority  to  determine  the  extent  of  its  own  infallibility  and  the 
objects  upon  which  it  is  qualified  to  exercise  it.  Whenever  it 
actually  makes  a  judgment  it  implicitly  determines  that  the 
object  of  the  same  is  within  its  province.  Being  supreme,  there 
is  no  appeal  from  it,  and  no  lawful  way  of  refusing  submission 
to  its  authority.  Mr.  Mivart  has  well  said:  "  What  is  or  is  not 
within  the  supreme  authority's  province  to  decide  must  be  known 
to  that  authority.  An  infallible  authority  must  know  the  limits 
of  its  revealed  message.  If  authority  can  make  a  mistake  in  de- 
termining its  own  limits,  it  may  make  a  mistake  in  a  matter  of 


1885.]      THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.  161 

faith."*  One  effect  of  the  gift  of  infallibility  is  to  make  the 
church  unerring  in  respect  to  the  province  within  which  it  can 
exercise  its  divine  authority.  We  must  look,  therefore,  to  the 
church's  own  explicit  definition,  or  to  its  implicit  definition  in  its 
acts  and  judgments,  for  a  correct  notion  of  the  object  of  its 
infallible  teaching  authority. 

.It  is,  moreover,  the  office  and  the  duty  of  the  pope,  when  he 
intends  to  promulgate  dogmatic  decrees  and  judgments  ex  cathe- 
dra, whether  with  or  without  the  concurrence  of  an  oecumeni- 
cal council,  to  make  known  to  the  universal  church,  in  a  suffi- 
cient and  sure  manner,  that  such  is  the  purport  and  quality  of 
these  acts  of  supreme  power.  God  does  this  when  he  makes  a 
revelation.  He  does  not  exact  the  assent  of  the  human  mind  to  a 
doctrine  which  must  be  believed  on  his  own  divine  veracity,  with- 
out giving  certain  signs  and  evidences.  In  this  supernatural  mode 
of  teaching  truth  to  mankind  by  revelation,  he  acts  by  the  same 
law  which  regulates  the  natural  mode  of  giving  understanding 
and  knowledge  by  the  light  of  reason  and  the  book  of  nature. 
Those  truths  which  compel  assent  do  not  exert  a  physical  coer- 
cion, but  determine  the  intellect  and  reason  by  evidence.  Other 
truths  which  are  known  with  certitude  are  known  by  their  evi- 
dence. That  which  is  true  in  itself,  but  not  certain  in  respect  to 
us,  because  of  obscurity  in  the  object  or  a  deficiency  in  the  fac- 
ulty of  apprehension,  does  not  legitimately  determine  the  mind 
or  the  conscience  to  an  absolute,  unqualified  assent. 

In  like  manner  God  gives  evidence  that  he  has  made  a  reve- 
lation, that  he  has  committed  it  to  the  Catholic  Church,  that  all 
the  dogmas  of  Catholic  faith  are  really  contained  in  the  revela- 
tion. He  does  not  require  any  one  to  receive  his  revelation  un- 
til he  has  a  reasonable  certainty  that  it  is  God's  revelation  ;  or  to 
receive  any  truth  contained  in  it,  and  therefore  in  itself  pertain- 
ing to  the  sphere  of  divine  faith,  until  he  has  a  reasonable  cer- 
tainty that  it  is  revealed,  and  it  is  brought  into  the  sphere  of  di- 
vine faith  in  respect  to  himself. 

The  most  perfect  criterion  of  certainty  respecting  matters  of 
divine  faith,  the  ordinary  and  the  best  means  of  attaining  a  rea- 
sonable and  sure  faith  in  revealed  truths,  is  the  authority  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  God  has  made  the  church  infallible,  and  has 
commanded  us  to  hear  and  obey  the  church.  In  doing  this  he 
has  acted  according  to  the  law  which  regulates  the  natural  and 
the  supernatural  order.  He  has  made  the  testimony  and  the 

*  Article  on  "  Modern  Catholics  and  Scientific  Freedom,"  in  the  Nineteenth  Century r,  July, 
1885. 

VOL.  XLII.— II 


162          THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.     [Nov., 

teaching  of  the  church  credible  to  us  as  reasonable  beings.  The 
dogmatic  decrees  of  the  church  do  not  proceed  from  the  will  of 
ecclesiastical  rulers.  They  find  and  proclaim  the  truth,  but  do 
not  make  it,  and  they  are  as  completely  subject  to  it  and  bound 
by  it  as  are  children  in  a  catechetical  school.  Since  they  do  not 
receive  any  new  revelation,  are  not  inspired,  and  cannot  declare 
the  sense  of  the  Scripture  and  the  apostolic  tradition  by  imme- 
diate revelation  of  this  true  sense  directly  given  to  them  by  the 
Holy  Spirit,  they  must  ascertain  it  by  evidence  which  makes  it 
certain,  and  thus  qualifies  them  to  decide  in  a  reasonable  man- 
ner, from  motives  which  are  sufficient  and  conclusive.  God 
fulfils  his  promise  of  giving  infallibility  to  the  church  by  fur- 
nishing the  means  of  keeping,  proclaiming,  defining,  and  defend- 
ing the  deposit  of  faith,  by  providing  rulers  and  teachers  who 
are  sufficiently  intelligent  and  conscientious  to  make  use  of  these 
means,  by  a  supernatural  providence  which  secures  the  due 
execution  of  this  office,  and  by  a  supernatural  and  efficacious 
assistance  in  its  fulfilment  which  secures  it  from  failure  or  error. 
The  great  facts  of  the  Christian  religion,  its  fundamental 
articles  of  faith,  its  essential  moral  laws,  its  substantial  princi- 
ples of  organization,  its  written  and  unwritten  code  of  doctrine 
and  order,  its  divine  and  perpetual  sacraments,  have  been  mat- 
ters of  testimony  so  clear,  certain,  and  abundant  that  the  first 
solemn  and  formal  acts  of  infallible  authority  in  the  church, 
those  on  which  all  subsequent  acts  have  been  based,  were  a  col- 
lective utterance  and  promulgation  of  this  testimony  by  wit- 
nesses from  all  parts  of  the  Christian  world.  The  famous  rule 
of  St.  Vincent  of  Lerins,  Quod  semper,  quod  ubique,  quod  ab  omnibus, 
sufficed  for  the  detection  and  condemnation  of  every  uncatho- 
lic  error,  and  was  so  easy  of  application  that  it  was  enough  to 
make  a  simple  appeal  to  it.  When  authority  proceeded  further, 
to  make  formulas,  explicit  and  minute  definitions,  to  explicate 
and  evolve  the  implicit  sense  of  revealed  doctrines,  the  method 
followed  was  scientific  and  accurate.  It  was  the  collective  judg- 
ment of  the  wisest  and  most  learned,  founded  upon  an  intimate 
knowledge  of  Scripture  and  tradition,  supported  by  proofs,  and 
sustained  by  conclusive  arguments ;  a  concurrence  and  agree- 
ment of  the  most  competent,  with  all  the  means  for  arriving  at 
certainty  ;  which  was  the  source  from  which  proceeded  the  dog- 
matic decrees  of  the  great  councils  of  antiquity.  The  same  is 
true  also  of  later  councils,  and  of  similar  judgments  of  the  Holy 
See — for  instance,  in  the  definition  of  the  Immaculate  Concep- 
tion. The  judges  in  the  supreme  tribunal  of  doctrine  judge, 


1885.]       THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.  163 

therefore,  upon  evidence  by  which  they  are  convinced  before 
proceeding  to  make  a  judgment.  They  are  determined  by  testi- 
mony and  by  reasons.  Any  well-instructed  Catholic,  especially 
any  competent  scholar  in  history,  Scripture,  and  theology,  can 
understand  and  be  convinced  by  the  same  motives  which  have 
determined  tHe  decisions  of  popes  and  councils.  But  since  error 
is  an  accident  to  which  men  and  bodies  of  men  are  more  or  less 
liable,  from  various  causes,  the  authority  of  the  church  is  secured 
in  immunity  from  error  by  a  supernatural  assistance,  making  it 
infallible,  by  virtue  of  which  the  faithful  are  enabled  to  believe, 
on  the  divine  veracity,  ail  the  dogmas  proposed  to  them  as  re- 
vealed truths  by  the  teaching  church. 

Facts  and  truths  which  are  outside  of  the  sphere  of  revelation 
and  are  purely  objects  of  natural  knowledge  are  not,  as  such, 
within  the  scope  of  the  divine  authority  of  the  church,  and  cannot 
be  denned,  on  their  natural  evidence,  as  dogmas  of  Catholic  and 
divine  faith.  God  has  not  made  the  church  a  medium  for  teach- 
ing in  his  name  mathematics,  physics,  or  history,  and  therefore 
has  not  given  to  her  infallibility  in  respect  to  these  matters,  or 
any  others  in  respect  to  which  a  similar  reason  runs.  On  the 
supposition  that  some  things  naturally  knowable  or  known,  by 
philosophical  reasoning,  monuments  of  history,  or  scientific 
observation  and  investigation,  are  also  explicitly  or  implicitly 
contained  in  divine  revelation,  they  are  in  the  domain  of  faith  by 
reason  of  this  inclusion  and  so  far  as  they  are  included,  and  then 
they  come  within  the  scope  of  the  divine  authority  of  the  church, 
which  is  the  final  and  infallible  judge  of  the  fact  of  their  being  so 
contained.  The  church  is  the  custodian  and  interpreter  of  the 
canonical  Scriptures;  it  is  her  province  to  judge  and  define  in 
questions  concerning  the  nature  and  extent  of  their  inspiration, 
and  to  declare  what  it  is  which  the  Holy  Spirit  intended  to  teacK 
through  the  inspired  writers  as  truth  credible  on  his  own  divine 
veracity.  Within  this  common  domain  of  divine  and  human  in- 
telligence the  human  is  necessarily  subject  to  the  divine,  human 
testimony  must  cede  the  precedence  to  divine  testimony,  human 
reasonings  and  opinions  to  the  divine  reason.  The  divine  au- 
thority of  the  church  being  co-extensive  with  the  domain  of 
divine  revelation,  and  infallible,  whatever  she  proposes  to  belief, 
by  her  teaching  €x  cathedrd  on  the  authority  of  this  divine  tes- 
timony or  divine  reason,  is  certainly  known  and  credible  as 
actually  verified  to  us  by  the  divine  manifestation  of  the  truth. 
That  is,  we  know  that  this  is  not  only  ostensibly  but  actually  the 
word  of  God, 


164          THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.      [Nov. 

But,  more  than  this,  some  things  which  come  under  the  de- 
nomination of  facts  or  theories,  though  not  the  object  of  even  an 
implicit  revelation,  can  be  known  to  be  true  or  false  by  virtue 
of  the  light  which  some  revealed  truth  casts  upon  them.  The 
divine  revelation  being  true,  these  particulars  must  be  thus  or 
otherwise,  as  the  case  may  be.  If  not,  then  the  revealed  truth 
must  logically  be  denied. 

'I  can  know  with  certainty  that  I  have  baptized  the  newly- 
born  infant  John.  It  is  of  faith  that  every  baptized  infant  is  re- 
generate. I  can  know  with  certainty  that  John  died  within  the 
hour.  It  is  of  faith  that  every  regenerate  soul,  entirely  pure 
from  sin,  attains  immediately  upon  its  separation  from  the  body 
the  beatific  vision.  I  know,  therefore,  by  the  light  of  faith  that 
John  is  regenerate  and  has  gone  to  heaven.  I  cannot  deny 
either  proposition  without,  by  logical  conclusion,  denying  the 
Catholic  faith.  My  affirmation  of  John's  regenerate  and  beati- 
fied state  is  a  logical  conclusion  from  the  faith.  That  is  to  say,  it 
is  virtually  though  not  formally  contained  in  it,  in  the  way  that 
all  logical  conclusions  are  virtually  in  their  major  premise. 

When  matters  of  this  kind  involve  general  and  important  in- 
terests, doctrinal  and  moral,  in  such  a  way  that  divine  authority 
in  respect  to  truth  formally  revealed  would  be  nugatory  or 
grievously  deficient,  unless  the  same  authority  were  delegated  in 
respect  to  what  is  virtually  revealed,  we  must  affirm  the  exten- 
sion of  infallibility  to  these  matters  also. 

For  instance,  the  church  must  be  infallible  in  respect  to  the 
fact  that  the  Council  of  Nicsea,  the  Council  of  Trent,  the  Coun- 
cil of  the  Vatican  were  oecumenical,  and  that  she  possesses  their 
authentic  acts;  in  respect  to  the  fact  that  Pius  IX.  was  the  law- 
ful successor  of  St.  Peter,  and  actually  defined  the  dogma  of  the 
Immaculate  Conception.  Otherwise  there  is  a  fatal  flaw  in  the 
solemn  definitions  which  make  a  large  part  of  the  rule  of  Catholic 
faith. 

It  may  be  also  of  great  importance  to  define  a  truth  deduced 
from  a  dogma  by  a  theological  conclusion,  either  directly  by 
affirming  its  certainty  as  virtually  revealed,  or  indirectly  by 
condemning  an  error  which  is  its  contrary  or  its  contradictory. 
The  truth  is  necessary  as  a  support  or  bulwark  of  the  faith  ;  the 
error  is  dangerous  as  undermining  or  threatening  some  part  of 
the  fabric  of  Catholic  doctrine  or  morals.  The  church  needs  in- 
fallibility in  determining  the  truth  in  questions  of  this  kind,  in 
order  that  she  may  efficiently  exercise  her  office  of  teaching  and 
defending  the  faith.  In,  point  of  fact,  popes  and  councils  have 


1885.]       THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.  165 

decided  that  they  possess  this  authority  by  exercising  it  fre- 
quently and  without  hesitation,  and  the  church,  in  the  ordinary 
magistracy  which  she  perpetually  exercises,  proceeds  on  it,  as  a 
maxim  and  principle  universally  admitted  and  reduced  to  prac- 
tice. 

The  whole  sum  of  the  solemn,  ex  cathedrd  doctrinal  decrees  of 
popes  and  councils  is  contained  within  a  very  moderate  compass ; 
it  is  known  and  received  by  universal  and  notorious  consent  of 
all  bishops  and  doctors,  and  easily  to  be  ascertained  by  the  in- 
structed clergy  and  laity.  If  any  individual,  in  his  private  capa- 
city as  a  theologian,  claims  infallibility  for  any  official  acts  of  the 
teaching  authority  which  are  not  certainly  and  clearly  authenti- 
cated as  ex  cathedrd  judgments,  he  is  only  expressing  a  private 
opinion  which  does  not  make  law.  The  opinions  of  single  theo- 
logians, or  of  entire  schools  of  theology,  do  not  make  Catholic 
doctrine.  The  dogmas  of  divine  and  Catholic  faith  can  be  easily 
ascertained  by  consulting  any  one  of  the  best  and  most  approved 
text-books.  Let  any  look  for  the  propositions  which  are  noted 
as  de  fide  catholica,  and  he  will  obtain  a  complete  summary  of  all 
the  solemn  judgments  and  definitions  on  the  matter  of  revealed 
truths  which  the  teaching  church  has  ever  made. 

It  is  true  that  what  the  church  dispersed  through  the  world 
teaches  by  her  ordinary  magistracy  as  of  divine  faith  has  an 
equal  authority  with  her  solemn  teaching.  Active  infallibility  is 
always  in  the  teaching  church,  passive  infallibility  in  the  body  of 
the  faithful.  The  principal  dogmas  defined  by  the  solemn  acts  of 
the  church  were  explicitly  taught  and  believed  as  of  divine  faith 
before  the  first  oecumenical  council  was  convoked ;  and  all  the  dog- 
mas defined  or  definable  have  been  objects  of  implicit  faith  from 
the  days  of  the  apostles.  But  the  definitions  which  have  been 
promulgated  during  the  long  series  of  Christian  centuries  have 
so  comprehensively  embraced  the  totality  and  the  component 
parts  of  the  deposit  of  faith,  that  it  is  difficult  to  say  what  the 
church  now  actually  teaches  by  her  ordinary  magistracy,  as  of 
faith,  which  is  not  more  formally  and  clearly  declared  and  de- 
fined by  her  solemn  judgments.  That  which  still  remains  in  an 
implicit,  undefined  state,  obscurely  contained  in  Scripture,  tradi- 
tion, or  the  decrees  of  councils,  in  fact  the  whole  contents  of  the 
divine  revelation  down  to  its  minutest  details  and.  most  remote 
consequences,  though  it  all  in  itself  pertains  to  faith,  is  not  of 
faith  in  respect  to  us.  It  must  be  made  explicit  in  order  that  it 
may  be  understood  in  its  true  and  certain  sense  as  revealed 
truth,  and  this  cannot  be,  in  an  unerring  manner,  by  a  universal 


i66          THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.     [Nov., 

and  sufficient  criterion,  unless  the  infallible  authority  makes  new 
explications  and  definitions. 

A  Catholic  fulfils  his  whole  duty  in  the  matter  in  hand  when 
he  holds  explicitly,  by  an  undoubting,  unreserved  assent,  what- 
ever the  supreme  authority  of  the  church  proposes  to  him  ex- 
plicitly and  clearly,  under  the  sanction  of  her  infallibility.  He 
must  also  implicitly  believe  all  that  is  worthy  to  be  defined,  be- 
cause it  is  contained  in,  or  follows  from,  that  which  is  certainly 
and  explicitly  manifested  by  the  church  as  revealed  doctrine. 
He  must  hold  his  mind  and  will  in  readiness  to  receive  any 
future  definitions  in  matters  of  faith  and  morals  which  the  church 
may  promulgate  to  the  faithful,  even  if  he  have  to  give  up  private 
opinions  or  tenets  of  some  school  which  he  is  at  liberty  to  hold 
on  probable  reasons  at  present,  and  until  the  church  has  pro- 
nounced her  infallible  judgment. 

There  is  no  hardship  in  this,  because  a  Catholic  is  certain, 
a  priori,  that  the  church  can  never  lead  him  into  error,  but  may 
lead  him  out  of  error,  if  he  is  in  it,  and  will  always  lead  him  into 
the  truth. 

Moreover,  there  is  no  such  thing  possible  as  subversion  or 
weakening  of  natural  knowledge,  of  science,  of  certitude  acquired 
by  the  exercise  of  the  faculties  of  cognition,  of  the  authority  of 
reason  or  conscience,  by  supernatural  faith  and  knowledge. 
God  cannot  contradict  himself,  truth  cannot  contradict  truth. 
The  human  intellect  participates  in  the  light  of  the  divine  intel- 
lect ;  sensible  and  intelligible  objects  within  the  realm  of  nature 
are  works  of  God,  conformed  to  his  ideas,  expressing  his  thought 
and  intention.  He  manifests  truth  to  the  human  mind  by  the 
natural  revelation,  and  it  is  he  who  has  written  the  book  of 
nature,  and  by  his  providence  directed  the  course  of  history. 
There  is  a  criterion  of  truth  in  the  mind  of  man  and  in  evidence. 
Error  is  an  accident,  a  defect,  a  result  of  some  disorder  or  misuse. 
Ignorance  is*  a  limitation.  There  is  a  certitude  resulting  from 
the  right  use  of  the  criterion.  These  are  prior  to,  and  concomi- 
tant with,  the  certitude  of  faith  and  the  use  of  the  supernatural 
criterion.  They  are  not  either  ousted  by,  or  held,  as  tenants  at 
will  of,  revelation  or  ecclesiastical  authority.  There  they  are, 
holding  inalienable  possession  by  endowment  of  the  Creator. 
They  not  only  subsist  harmoniously  together  with  revelation  and 
faith  ;  they  are  their  preamble  and  school  of  preparation.  Facts 
and  truths  in  the  realm  of  nature  are  the  constituents  of  the  soil 
on  which  the  foundations  of  faith  are  built  and  rest.  Undermine 
this  soil  ai>d  you  endanger  the  whole  edifice  which  has  been. 


1885.]       THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.  167 

raised  upon  these  foundations.  Sink  it  into  the  abyss  of  scepti- 
cism, and  the  whole  building  is  crumbled  and  submerged  in  the 
same  catastrophe. 

An  authentic  revelation  can  never  teach  anything  which  is 
absurd  or  which  contradicts  a  known  fact.  If  any  such  evident 
falsehood  is  proposed  under  pretence  of  revelation,  there  is  an 
illusion  in  the  case.  Either  the  professed  revelation  is  no  reve- 
lation or  its  sense  has  been  misrepresented.  Such  notions  as 
these :  that  human  nature  is  essentially  depraved,  that  human 
acts  determined  by  an  intrinsic  necessity  in  the  will  are  imputa- 
ble  for  demerit,  that  the  souls  of  deceased  infants  may  justly  be 
condemned  to  everlasting  torments  for  Adam's  sin,  that  the 
moon  slid  down  through  Mohammed's  sleeve,  that  the  sun  is  a 
hundred  miles  from  the  earth,  could  not  reasonably  be  received 
as  divine  revelations. 

It  is  one  negative  criterion  of  the  true  religion  which  distin- 
guishes it  from  false  ones  that  it  does  not  contradict  either  rea- 
son or  facts.  Its  written  and  oral  tradition  may,  nevertheless, 
be  so  misunderstood  and  misinterpreted  that,  in  the  sense  which 
is  ascribed  to  the  Scripture,  or  in  that  which  is  ascribed  to 
divine  tradition,  there  may  be  in  plain  view,  or  lurking  in  con- 
cealment, something  contrary  to  reason  or  to  facts.  Neither  one 
by  itself,  not  even  the  two  taken  together,  are  completely  suffi- 
cient as  a  rule  of  faith,  without  the  living  voice  of  the  church. 
Private,  purely  human,  fallible  interpreters  of  Christian  doctrine 
are  liable  to  mistakes  and  errors,  which  can  be  detected  and 
proved  to  be  incredible  or  so  extremely  improbable  as  to  be  un- 
tenable, by  human  science,  by  history,  by  conclusive  reasons  of 
various  kinds. 

Here  lies  the  great  advantage  which  Catholics  derive  from 
the  possession  of  an  infallible  criterion  in  the  divine  authority  of 
the  church.  They  may  be  left  in  doubt  or  in  a  merely  human 
probability  about  many  matters  which  are  not  essential.  But  if 
the  progress  of  knowledge  justifies  or  requires  their  laying  aside 
their  doubt  for  a  reasonable  conviction,  or  changing  their  opin- 
ions, they  are  free  to  do  so,  and  may  take  advantage  of  all  means 
for  the  acquisition  of  new  science,  and  even,  through  science,  ob- 
taining a  better  understanding  of  the  inspired  documents  of  Holy 
Scripture.  In  respect  to  the  essential  and  the  most  important 
matters  which  pertain  to  faith,  they  are  secured  from  all  error 
and  fully  instructed  in  the  truth. 

Just  at  present  the  most  practical  and  momentous  aspect  of 
the  question  concerning  the  relation  between  the  authoritative 


168          THE  DIVINE  AUTHORITY  OF  THE  CHURCH.      [Nov., 

teaching  of  the  church  and  the  domain  of  natural  science  relates 
to  some  parallel  but  hostile  theories  founded  respectively  on  the 
interpretation  of  the  book  of  nature  by  scientists,  and  of  the 
Bible  by  some  theologians.  Thus  far  there  has  been  no  decision 
of  ecclesiastical  authority  on  these  recent  controversies.  Neither 
has  there  been,  in  the  past,  any  judgment,  ex  cathedra,  which 
brings  the  divine,  infallible  authority  of  the  church  into  conflict 
with  anything  which  can  be  called  with  justice  by  the  name  of 
human  science.  It  is  not  every  official  act  of  the  Holy  See 
which  is  a  judgment  ex  cathedra.  There  is  an  authority  in  the 
church  which  is  not  identical  with,  but  inferior  to,  the  divine 
authority  of  the  church,  and  although  possessed  jure  divino, 
like  the  power  of  jurisdiction  and  discipline,  may  be  called 
human  authority.  Questions  about  mistakes,  errors,  misuse  of 
power,  which  make  matters  of  controversy  relating  to  this 
kind  of  ecclesiastical  and  even  papal  authority,  are  wholly  irre- 
levant to  the  subject  of  the  infallibility  of  the  church  and  the 
pope.  Infallibility  is  not  claimed,  in  this  extension,  by  the  Holy 
See  or  oecumenical  councils.  A  tribunal  not  infallible  may  err  ; 
and  if  it  is  proved  to  have  erred  in  certain  cases,  no  prejudice 
can  accrue  against  the  inerrancy  of  a  higher  tribunal. 

Pope  Honorius,  acting  in  his  ordinary  official  capacity,  wrote 
letters  of  direction  to  the  other  patriarchs  concerning  their  con- 
duct in  respect  to  a  matter  of  faith,  which  incurred  for  them- 
selves and  their  author  severe  censure  by  oecumenical  councils 
and  by  his  own  successors  in  the  see  of  St.  Peter.  His  infalli- 
bility is  in  no  way  compromised  by  this  censure,  because  he  gave 
no  ex  cathedra  judgment.  A  tribunal  of  the  Holy  See  con- 
demned Galileo  and  the  Copernican  system  by  an  erroneous 
judgment,  which  was  not  only  erroneous  in  respect  to  astronomy, 
but  also  in  its  interpretation  of  Scripture.  This  decision  was 
first  allowed  to  become  a  dead  letter,  and  finally  erased  from  the 
statute-book  by  Pius  VII.  Honorius  erred,  and  the  congrega- 
tion erred  ;  and  if  there  are  other  errors  in  official  documents  of 
popes,  then  they  have  erred.  Infallibility  shines  out  in  bolder 
and  brighter  relief,  its  necessity  is  made  more  clearly  evident,  by 
the  exhibition  which  has  been  made  in  some  few  cases  of  the 
liability  of  the  highest  human  authority  in  the  church  to  err  in 
its  decisions.  It  is  manifest  that  in  their  judgments  ex  cathedra 
popes  and  councils  have  been  guided  and  assisted  by  a  super- 
natural, divine  gift.  If  they  had  been  destitute  of  this  divine 
gift  of  infallibility  they  might  and  probably  would  have  erred, 
and  the  fact  that  they  had  erred  would  be  patent  to  the  world  by 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  169 

the  contradictions  into  which  they  would  have  fallen,  and  the 
changes  to  which  the  doctrine  of  the  church  would  have  been 
subjected. 

For  the  present  we  have  only  barely  indicated  the  broad  in- 
terval which  divides  the  divine  authority  of  the  church  from  all 
grades  of  human  authority  in  the  church.  This  is  a  matter 
which  needs  to  be  handled  separately.  What  are  the  obligations 
and  what  is  the  freedom  of  good  Catholics  in  respect  to  ecclesi- 
astical decrees  which  are  excluded  from  the  category  of  infallible 
judgments  ;  in  respect  to  patristic  tradition;  and  in  respect  to 
the  common  teaching  of  theologians?  These  are  questions  of 
great  and  pressing  interest  at  the  present  moment. 


A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY* 

SEVERAL  years  ago  a  very  dear  friend,  who  had  a  country 
residence  in  the  department  of  Indre-et-Loire  (which  is  in- 
cluded in  what  was  formerly  the  province  of  Touraine),  invited 
me  to  pay  him  a  visit,  offering  the  inducement  of  a  tour  among 
the  historic  chdteaux  of-  that  fertile  and  lovely  country,  deserved- 
ly called  the  garden  of  France.  I  gladly  availed  myself  of  his 
hospitable  offer,  and  went  with  him  first  to  Blois  and  afterwards 
to  Chambord,  Chenonceaux,  Loches,  Amboise,  and  Chaumont. 
After  showing  me  these  interesting  monuments  of  the  past  he 
insisted  that  before  separating  we  should  visit  the  reformatory 
for  boys  at  Mettray,  near  Tours,  which  has  been  a  great  suc- 
cess and  is  known  as  the  "  Colonie  Agricole  de  Mettray,"  to 
which  the  "  Maison  Paternelle  "  has  since  been  added.  When 
we  arrived  there  we  were  informed  that  the  venerable  founder 
of  the  institution,  Mr.  de  Metz,  was  sick  in  bed  ;  but  nevertheless, 
after  learning  that  I  was  from  the  United  States,  he  expressed  a 
desire  to  see  me  in  his  room,  and,  after  I  had  been  shown  very 
completely  through  the  establishment,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a 
short  conversation  with  him.  What  I  saw  impressed -me  so 
favorably  as  the  result  of  the  union  of  intelligence,  excellent 
judgment,  and  a  spirit  of  the  most  devoted  charity  that  I  pro- 
mised myself  to  write  an  account  of  Mr.  de  Metz's  excellent 

*  The  facts  stated  in  this  narrative  that  have  not  come  under  the  writer's  personal  observa- 
tion have  been  obtained  from  four  published  pamphlets  :  Colonie  Agricole  et  Maison  Paternelle 
de  Mettray,  par  M.  Berlin,  Avocat  a  la  cour  d'appel  de  Paris  ;  Une  Visite  a  Mettray,  par  Ch. 
Sauvestre,  Paris,  and  the  triennial  reports  for  1880  and  1883,  published  at  Tours. 


i/o  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

work  as  soon  as  I  could  find  time  and  a  good  opportunity  for 
publication,  and  thereby  do  what  lay  in  me  to  spread  a  know- 
ledge of  it  at  home.  Mr.  de  Metz  died  on  the  2d  of  November, 
1873,  several  years  before  my  friend,  who  was  also  his,  and  who 
appreciated  him  highly.  I  feel,  in  writing  the  following  lines, 
as  if  I  were  discharging  a  duty  which  I  owe  to  the  memory  of 
both. 

Mr.  de  Metz  was  bred  to  the  law,  and  in  due  course  admitted 
to  the  French  bar.  His  talents  and  industry  were  such  that,  on 
the  2ist  of  August,  1821,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-four  years, 
he  was  appointed  to  the  initiatory  judicial  position  oijuge  supptt- 
ant,  or  assistant  judge,  of  the  Tribunal  de  la  Seine  ;  and  in  less 
than  fourteen  years  afterwards  he  was  promoted  through  all  the 
higher  grades  of  the  judicial  hierarchy,  and  in  1835  attained 
the  elevated  one  of  conseiller,  or  consulting  judge,  of  the  Cour 
Royale.  He  was  a  man  of  remarkable  intelligence,  most  delicate 
feelings,  and  a  chivalrous  spirit ;  and  having  achieved  what  is 
so  very  difficult  in  France — the  attainment,  early  in  life,  of  great 
professional  success  and  the  wealth  following  from  it — there 
seemed  to  be  every  human  inducement  for  him  to  enjoy  his 
present  prosperity  and  distinguished  social  position,  and  work  to 
make  both  greater. 

But  besides  his  other  qualities  Mr.  de  Metz  had  also  the  spirit 
of  devoted  charity.  The  grave  questions  involved  in  the  differ- 
ent penitentiary  systems  had  taken  an  early  and  strong  hold  of 
his  ardent  imagination.  He  resolved,  after  he  had  been  first 
appointed  to  the  bench,  to  devote  himself  to  the  criminal  branch 
of  his  judicial  functions,  in  order  to  study  practically  the  causes 
of  crimes  and  delinquencies  and  the  different  degrees  of  crimi- 
nality, and  also,  what  was  of  the  highest  importance  in  his  eyes, 
to  seek  to  strengthen  the  weak  and  rescue  the  perverted  from 
the  possession  of  the  spirit  of  evil. 

Under  the  French  penal  code  any  minor  under  sixteen  years 
of  age,  who,  after  having  been  tried  and  convicted,  is  declared 
by  the  judge  that  presided  at  his  trial  to  have  acted  in  the  of- 
fence sans  discernement,  may,  according  to  circumstances,  either 
be  restored  to  parental  care  and  authority  or  be  committed 
to  a  house  of  correction  for  a  term  of  years  named  in  the  sen- 
tence, but  not  in  any  event  extending  beyond  his  twentieth 
year  of  age.  Prior  to  1850  this  law  worked  very  badty.  The 
delinquent  minors  not  restored  to  their  parents  were  sent,  not 
to  special  reformatories,  but  to  prisons,  where  they  mingled  with 
adults  either  accused,  awaiting  trial,  or  even  convicted.  The 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  RE  FORM  A  TOR  Y.  171 

natural  consequence  of  these  deleterious  influences  upon  youth- 
ful first  offenders  was  that  seventy-five  per  cent,  relapsed  into 
crime.  Mr.  de  Metz's  solicitude  and  investigating  efforts  were 
specially  directed  towards  finding  out  the  best  means  to  reform 
this  class  of  minor  delinquents ;  and,  being  a  man  of  deep  reli- 
gious convictions,  he  had  got  the  fundamental  idea  that  what  he 
sought  was  to  be  found  in  a  system  of  training  both  religious 
and  paternal,  having,  moreover,  an  agricultural  character.  This 
last  feature  he  had  defined  in  a  maxim  publicly  expressed  by  him 
in  1839:  amttiorer  la  terre  par  I'komme,  et  fhomme  par  la  terre  ("  to 
better  the  soil  by  means  of  man,  and  man  by  means  of  the  soil "). 
In  1838  he  was  sent  by  the  French  government  to  study  the 
various  penitentiary  systems  followed  in  the  United  States. 
Thence  he  went  to  England,  Germany,  Belgium,  and  Holland 
to  see  what  he  could  discover  in  those  countries,  looking  par- 
ticularly for  the  pattern  of  an  agricultural  reformatory  institu- 
tion such  as  he  had  conceived  the  idea  of.  He  first  came  across 
the  agricultural  reformatory  established  in  1835  on  Thompson's 
Island,  in  the  harbor  of  Boston.  This  institution  was  connected 
with  a  House  of  Refuge  for  vagrant  and  destitute  children,  and  to 
it  were  sent  such  of  these  as  it  was  judged  would  be  benefited 
by  a  transfer  from  the  latter.  Mr.  de  Metz  ascertained  that  the 
moral  and  material  results  had  both  been  successful  and  better 
than  what  had  been  expected.  In  England  he  visited  the  Park- 
hurst  Agricultural  Reformatory  in  the  Isle  of  Wight,  established 
by  act  of  Parliament  in  the  second  year  of  the  present  reign,  for 
the  reception  of  young  delinquents  in  whose  case  either  sentence 
had  been  suspended  or  sentence  to  transportation  had  been  com- 
muted.  Here  the  labor  of  the  inmates  had  proved  satisfac- 
tory, and  there  had  been  numerous  instances  of  reform  among 
them.  Mr.  de  Metz  found  a  very  different  state  of  things  in  the 
institutions  of  a  similar  character  which  he  visited  in  Holland 
and  Belgium.  In  the  former  country  they  were  getting  along 
poorly,  showing  mediocre  results  obtained  at  an  enormous  cost ; 
and  in  the  latter  they  were  as  badly  off  as  they  could  be.  But, 
as  he  afterwards  stated  at  the  Reunion  Internationale  de  Charite, 
he  never  expected  to  learn  from  either  aught  but  lessons  of  ex- 
perience, which  proved  so  useful  in  pointing  out  to  him  where 
the  dangers  of  failure  lay  that  he  considered  himself  almost  as 
much  indebted  to  the  Dutch  and  Belgian  establishments  as  to 
that  one  by  which  he  was  directed  to  the  right  path,  which  he 
found  at  last  in  the  Rauhen  Haus  agricultural  colony  established 
at  the  village  of  Horn. 


172  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

At  this  spot,  in  a  fertile  and  picturesque  country,  on  the  slope 
of  a  hill  overlooking  the  beautiful  valleys  of  the  Elbe  and  the 
Bill,  Mr.  Wichern,  a  man  of  most  respectable  character,  had 
founded  in  1833  a  reform  school  for  reclaiming  children  either 
perverted  or  in  danger  of  becoming  so  from  previously-acquired 
vicious  habits.  This  enlightened  founder  had  sought  his  saving 
moral  forces  in  good  family  influences,  and  his  method  was  to  ex- 
cite in  the  young  hearts  the  sweet  and  salutary  emotions  pro- 
duced by  a  good,  kind  home,  which  these  unfortunate  waifs  had 
either  never  known  or  from  which  they  had  become  entirely 
estranged.  The  colonists  were  divided  into  groups  of  twelve 
persons,  designated  as  families.  Each  family  was  separated  from 
the  others  by  gardens  or  orchards,  and  was  under  the  direction 
of  a  head-man,  or  rather  a  guide,  called  "  father  "  by  the  children  ; 
the  whole  forming,  as  it  were,  a  little  hamlet.  The  discipline  of  the 
colony  was  firm  and  severe,  but  tempered  by  paternal  tenderness, 
aiming  at  moral  reform.  Mr.  de  Metz  was  deeply  impressed  by 
what  he  saw  at  Horn  and  by  the  excellent  results  realized  from 
the  plan  followed  there,  which  he  studied  attentively,  and  which, 
he  became  convinced,  derived  its  efficacy  from  the  principle  upon 
which  it  had  been  founded,  of  reviving  sound  family  influences 
and  surroundings.  Having  thus  discovered  the  practical  realiza- 
tion of  his  idea  of  reforming  juvenile  delinquents  by  means  of  a 
system  paternal  and  religious  in  its  character,  he  returned  home 
determined  to  found-there  an  agricultural  reformatory,  to  which 
he  would  devote  all  the  resources  of  his  intelligence,  his  wonder- 
ful  activity,  a  part  of  his  fortune,  and  the  remaining  years  of  his 
life.  Being  convinced  that  the  setting  on  foot  and  organizing  of 
such  an  undertaking  would  be  incompatible  with  a  proper  atten- 
tion to  his  judicial  duties,  he  sent  in  his  resignation,  with  an  ex- 
planation of  his  reasons  therefor,  to  the  Minister  of  Justice,  who 
at  first  refused  to  accept  it,  but  subsequently,  after  a  personal  in- 
terview, consented.  Mr.  de  Metz  had  a  schoolmate,  Mr.  de  Cour- 
teilles,  who  had  entered  the  army,  and  who,  from  a  similarity  of 
tastes  and  sentiments,  had  become  later  in  life  his  close  friend. 
The  magistrate  and  the  military  man,  sympathizing  with  each 
other  in  their  deep  interest  in  penitentiary  systems,  had  kept  up 
an  active  correspondence,  in  which  they  exchanged  ideas  on  the 
subject.  On  his  return  to  Paris  Mr.  de  Metz  informed  Mr.  de 
Courteilles  of  what  he  had  seen  at  Horn,  of  his  design  to  estab- 
lish in  France  a  similar  agricultural  colony  large  enough  to  ac- 
commodate three  hundred  children,  and  proposed  to  him  to  take 
part  in  the  undertaking.  At  first  Mr.  de  Courteilles  hesitated  ; 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  173 

but,  overcome  at  last  by  the  ardent  and  clearly-demonstrated 
convictions  of  his  friend,  he  too  resolved  to  give  up  the  world  and 
devote  his  life  and  energies  to  the  foundation,  development,  andv 
perfecting  of  the  contemplated  work.  Both  proved  true  and 
steadfast,  both  struggled  courageously  to  overcome  the  difficul- 
ties of  their  task,  and  both  died  superintendents  of  Mettray. 

After  thirteen  years  of  incessant  toil  Mr.  de  Courteilles  died 
on  the  loth  of  September,  1852.  Although  his  strength  had  been 
failing  for  some  time  before,  he  would  not  allow  his  labors  to  be 
lightened  in  the  least,  and  fell,  in  consequence,  into  a  long  and 
dangerous  illness.  Just  as  it  seemed  he  was  getting  convalescent 
he  happened  to  hear  that  one  of  the  inmates  was  about  to  undergo 
an  operation.  He  promptly  requested  to  be  taken  to  the  infirmary. 
There  he  found  the  patient  under  the  influence  of  chloroform 
and  insensible  to  pain  ;  nevertheless  tears  were  trickling  down  his 
cheeks.  This  sight  reminded  Mr.  de  Courteilles  of  a  passage 
from  Lacordaire,  quoted  in  a  work  of  his  own,  Condamnts  et 
Prisons.  He  asked  to  have  the  book  brought  him,  and  read  as  fol- 
lows aloud  :  "  Prenez  un  homme  qui  ait  passe"  par  tous  les  degre"s 
du  crime.  ...  Eh  bien,  un  jour,  sans  cause  apparente,  il  se  for- 
mera  dans  ce  coeur  d6sespere  une  seule  larme ;  elle  remontera  le 
long  du  coeur ;  elle  passera  par  les  chemins  que  Dieu  a  faits,  pour 
aller  jusqu'a  ses  yeux  fletris  ;  elle  tombera  sur  ses  joues  et  lavera 
en  une  minute  toutes  les  souillures  de  cette  ame."  *  The  last  of 
the  above  poetically  eloquent  words  had  scarcely  left  his  lips 
when  the  book  dropped  from  his  hands  and  his  voice  was  hushed. 
To  the  assistants,  who  hastened  to  him  and  asked  what  was  the 
matter,  he  made  sign  that  the  trouble  lay  in  his  heart.  Then  he 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  with  a  look  of  hope,  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments breathed  his  last.  He  was  buried  in  the  humble  cemetery 
at  Mettray,  in  accordance  with  his  express  desire,  referred  to  in 
the  following  last  words  of  his  will :  "  J'ai  voulu  vivre,  mourir,  et 
ressusciter  avec  eux."  f  More  touching  in  their  simple  and  over- 
flowing expressions  of  grief  and  gratitude  than  the  eloquent 
funeral  orations  delivered  at  his  grave  were  in  particular  two, 
out  of  many,  letters  of  condolence  received  by  his  colleague  from 
former  inmates  of  the  institution.  His  young  and  fondly  at- 
tached wife,  the  Countess  of  Courteilles,  after  his  death  entered 
the  convent  of  the  Dames  de  la  Presentation  at  Tours. 

*  "  Take  a  man  who  has  gone  through  every  stage  of  crime.  .  .  .  Well,  some  day,  without 
any  apparent  cause,  a  single  tear  will  be  formed  in  his  despairing  heart,  and,  rising  through  it 
and  upwards  through  the  ways  which  God  has  provided,  will  reach  his  dishonored  eyes  ;  then  it 
will  fall  down  his  cheek  and  wash  out  in  an  instant  all  the  defilements  of  his  soul." 

t  "  I  have  chosen  to  live,  die,  and  arise  from  the  grave  with  them." 


i74  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

Mr.  de  Metz  survived  him  twenty-one  years,  and  bore  alone 
during  that  entire  period  the  burden  of  responsibility  of  the 
management.  He  displayed  wonderful  activity  and  energy  in 
the  discharge  of  his  duties  and  of  the  good  works  necessarily  con- 
nected with  them.  He  found  time  to  attend  to  everything,  even 
to  frequently  call  on  his  friends,  but  he  rarely  allowed  his  visits 
to  exceed  five  minutes.  He  founded  another  institution,  which 
grew  out,  as  it  were,  of  the  first  one — the  Maison  Paternelle  de 
Mettray  for  the  reclaiming  of  wayward  and  disobedient  sons  with 
whom  nothing  can  be  done  at  home  by  their  parents  or  guar- 
dians. Even  in  his  seventieth  year  he  dictated  to  his  secretary 
reports  and  letters  which  he  was  no  longer  able  to  wrtie  himself. 
He  frequently  travelled  long  distances  solely  to  be  of  service  to 
former  inmates  either  of  the  Colonie  or  of  the  Maison  Paternelle  ; 
and  the  time  spent  in  railw a)7  -carriages  he  devoted  to  reading 
pamphlets  and  reports  sent  him  and  to  noting  his  remarks  on  them. 
His  friends,  and  relatives  in  vain  entreated  him  to  consider  his 
advanced  age  and  to  spare  ^is  strength.  On  the  2d  of  Novem- 
ber, 1873,  ne  died,  after  an  illness  of  only  a  few  days  and  nearly 
thirty-four  years  of  incessant  toil.  Great  honor  was  rendered  to 
his  memory  at  the  funeral  services,  which  took  place  at  Mettray, 
Dourdan,  and  at  Paris.  The  Court  of  Appeals  there,  of  which 
he  was  an  honorary  member,  happened  to  be  at  that  time  open- 
ing a  term  ;  the  Avocat  Gen6ral,  Benoist,  in  the  usual  discours  de 
rentrte,  paid  a  most  eloquent  tribute  of  homage  to  the  worth  of 
his  deceased  colleague ;  the  Chief-Justice,  Gilardin,  felt  himself 
called  upon  to  add  to  the  solemnity  of  the  occasion  by  express- 
ing most  forcibly  in  behalf  of  the  court  similar  feelings  of  regret 
and  admiration,  and  reminded  his  hearers  that  an  illustrious  Eng- 
lish chancellor  had  pronounced  the  deceased  to  be  a  glory  to 
France.  Numerous  letters  of  condolence  and  of  strong  affection 
and  gratitude  were  received  from  former  colonists  reformed  by 
his  care. 

For  the  sake  of  convenient  arrangement  I  have  made  a  bio- 
graphical sketch  of  these  two  heroes  of  charity  precede  a  de- 
scription of  the  work  which  they  founded,  which  I  shall  now 
designate  as  "  the  Colony,"  and  its  juvenile  inmates  as  "  the 
Colonists." 

Mr.  de  Metz,  in  a  pamphlet  published  in  1839,  gave  an  account 
of  the  institutions  abroad  which  he  had  visited,  and  announced 
his  design  to  copy  their  best  features  in  the  one  which  he  was 
about  to  establish,  and  which  was  to  be  not  a  prison,  but  a  re- 
forming asylum.  In  it  the  children  were  to  be  brought  under 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  175 

family  influence ;  religion  was  to  be  made  the  basis  of  their  edu- 
cation,  having  as  its  constant  aim  to  develop   in  their  young 
hearts  correct  sentiments,  love  of  country,  family  affections,  hab- 
its of  order,  and  a  relish  for  labor.     He  selected  a  site  at  Met- 
tray,  about  five  miles  from  Tours,  and  in  a  country  where  the 
soil  is  fertile  and  easily  cultivated.     On  the  4th  of  June,  1839,  a 
board  of  managers  was  appointed,  in  which  some  of  the  most 
prominent  men  of  that  time  consented  to  serve.     Mr.  de  Metz 
and  the  Vicomte  de  Courteilles  were  appointed  superintendents. 
Both  were  perfectly  aware  that  the  success  of  their  undertaking 
would  entirely  depend  on  what  kind  of  men  they  could  get  to  be 
head-men  over  the  families  ;  these  had  to  be  intelligent,  devoted 
men,  that  could  be  relied  upon  to  take  a  parental  care  of  the  chil- 
dren confided  to  them.     Accordingly,  on  the  28th  of  July  of  that 
same  year,  seven  months  before  any  boy  was  admitted,  they  es- 
tablished a  training-school  for  head-men,  and  twenty-three  young 
men,  respectably  connected,  applied  to  be  trained  in  it.     Mr.  de 
Metz  explained  to  the  applicants  his  plans,  what  was  needed  to 
carry  these  out  successfully,  and  what  co-operation  he  expected 
to  find  in  them.     He  pointed  out  the  difficult  and  laborious  na- 
ture of  the  position  which  they  had  applied  to  fill,  and  advised 
such  as  did  not  feel  possessed  of  the  self-denial  and  devotedness 
needed   for  the  task   not  to  undertake   it.      Out  of   the   whole 
number  only   a   few    were   found   suitable ;    one   of  these,    Mr. 
Blanchard,   was  appointed,  after   Mr.   de   Metz's   death,  super- 
intendent, and  another,  Mr.  Arnould,  was  made  inspector-general. 
This  training-school  has  been  kept  up  ever  since  and  has  done 
very  well.     During  1839  f°ur  cottages  for  the  future  colonists 
were  built,  and  in  one  of  them  is  to    be  seen  the  room,  with 
white-washed  walls,  which  for  five  years  served  Mr.  de  Metz  as  a 
bed-room  and  office.     By  the  /th  of  June,  1840,  the  colony  had 
taken  in  eighty-two  boys ;  after  the  lapse  of  two  years  it  had 
overcome  the  great  difficulties  in  the  way  of  inception.     In  the 
years  following,  gifts  of  money  and  in  other  shapes  flowed  in  and 
enabled  the  managers  to  build  a  church  and  enough  more  cot- 
tages to  accommodate  at  first  four  hundred,  and  later  on  eight 
hundred,  colonists,  together  with  the  numerous  employees  need- 
ed to  provide  for  their  wants.     On  the  2ist  of  January,  1853,  the 
then  imperial  government  by  decree  conferred  on  the  institution, 
as  a  mark  of  appreciation  and  sympathy,  the  title  of  "  Establish- 
ment  of  Public  Interest,"  in  virtue  of  which  it  became  legally 
authorized  to  receive  gifts  and  legacies. 

The  buildings  of  the  colony  lie  in  the  midst  of  a  field,  and 


176  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

form,  as  it  were,  a  quadrangle  enclosing  a  large  open  square, 
with  a  basin  in  the  centre  and  four  large  lawns  around  it.  There 
are  no  walls  and  no  enclosures  other  than  live  hedges.  In  front, 
on  each  side  of  the  entrance,  is  a  house  standing  separate ;  in  the 
one  to  the  left  the  superintendent  resides,  the  other  is  the  train- 
ing-school for  head-men.  Behind  these  buildings  are  two  rows 
of  cottages  facing  on  the  quadrangle,  five  in  either  row  ;  each 
cottage  being  12  metres  long  by  6.66  broad — say  40  feet  by  22 — 
and  isolated  from  those  next  to  it.  Each  is  the  habitation  of  a 
family  of  about  fifty  boys  under  the  direction  of  a  head-man,  called 
chef  de  famille,  who  has  under  him  a  foreman  and  two  subordi- 
nates, called  "  eldest  brothers,"  who  belong  to  the  family  and  are 
elected  by  its  vote.  The  ground-floors  of  the  cottages  are  used 
as  workshops,  and  the  two  stories  above  for  refectory  and  dor- 
mitory purposes,  which  are  managed  in  this  wise :  There  are 
three  supporting  wooden  pillars  in  a  row  on  each  side,  and  be- 
tween these  and  the  side  wa'lls  hammocks  to  sleep  in  and  tables 
to  eat  on  are  set  up  and  taken  down  in  no  time.  Crucifixes  are 
on  the  walls  of  the  two  stories  above  mentioned,  as  also  of  the 
school-rooms.  The  cottages  are  respectively  named  after  the 
donors  who  have  paid  either  the  whole  or  a  large  part  of  the 
cost  of  erecting  them.  Five,  accordingly,  bear  on  their  fronts 
the  names  of  the  cities  of  Paris,  Tours,  Orleans,  Poitiers,  Li- 
moges;  and  four  the  names  of  Count  d'Ourches,  Benjamin  De- 
lessert,  Madame  Hebert,  of  Rouen,  Mr.  Giraud.  The  last- 
named  was  a  payeur,  or  government  paymaster,  with  a  large 
family,  who,  having  faithfully  completed  his  full  term  of  years  of 
service,  had  been  placed  on  the  retired  list.  But  rather  than  rest 
from  his  labors  he  chose  to  serve  the  institution  as  cashier  with- 
out pay.  He  seems  to  have  thought  that  his  children  would  be 
as  much  benefited  by  the  blessing  which  his  gift  would  draw 
down  on  them,  and  by  the  good  example  set  them,  as  by  getting 
the  money  in  his  estate.  The  tenth  cottage,  which  is  inhabited 
by  the  youngest  children,  is  placed  under  the  protection  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin,  whose  statuette  is  to  be  seen  over  the  front  door, 
adorned  with  flowers  and  foliage,  which,  as  they  become  faded, 
are  renewed  by  the  inmates.  In  the  rear,  and  in  the  centre  fac- 
ing the  entrance-gate,  is  the  church,  and  on  either  side  of  it  the 
school-rooms  and  lodgings  of  the  numerous  employees.  Be- 
tween the  residence  of  the  superintendent  and  the  training-school 
for  head-men  there  have  been  erected  the  fore,  main,  and  mizzen 
masts,  completely  rigged,  of  a  square-rigged  vessel ;  these  were 
presented  by  the  Minister  of  Marine.  The  discipline  adopted  at 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORM  A  TOR  Y.  1 77 

Mettray  is  somewhat  of  a  military  form,  which  has  been  found 
by  experience  best  conducive  to  regularity  and  order.  The  time 
for  rising,  going  to  bed,  to  meals,  to  work,  and  all  other  occupa- 
tions whatsoever,  is  made  known  by  sound  of  bugle.  The  boys 
sleep  in  the  hammocks  and  eat  off  the  movable  tables  of  which 
mention  has  been  already  made.  After  rising  each  family  stows 
away  its  hammocks,  forms  in  two  rows  to  say  prayers  in  com- 
mon,  and  afterwards  files  out  by  sections,  and  in  silence,  into  the 
yard  to  attend  to  the  morning  ablutions.  Then  they  return  to 
their  cottage,  and  after  the  roll  has  been  called  they  march  off  in 
silence,  and  led  by  their  head-man,  to  the  workshops  or  elsewhere, 
as  the  case  may  require.  When  the  bugle  sounds  for  bed-time, 
after  family  prayers  have  been  said,  each  boy  stands  by  his  ham- 
mock, at  a  signal  slings  it,  undresses  himself,  puts  away  his 
clothes  carefully,  and  turns  in.  The  infirmary,  kitchen,  and 
clothes  departments  are  under  the  care  of  Sisters  of  Chanty. 

The  colonists  are  mainly  trained  to  agriculture,  horticulture, 
the  raising  of  vegetables  of  all  kinds,  with  and  without  irrigation  ; 
they  are  taught  farm- work  and  how  to  take  care  of  horses,  cattle, 
live  stock,  and  poultry.  They  are  besides  taught  those  trades 
which  are  in  demand  in  the  country,  such  as  carpentering,  black- 
smithing  in  all  its  branches,  framing,  wooden-shoe  making,  tool- 
making,  horseshoeing,  stone-cutting,  house-painting,  tailoring, 
shoemaking,  and  baking  ;  the  colonists  also  assist  in  the  laundry, 
the  bakery,  the  kitchen,  and  the  infirmary.  There  is  also  a  sail- 
making  loft  for  the  instruction  of  boys  born  in  seaports  and  who 
have  a  taste  for  a  seafaring  life ;  these  are  exercised,  under  the 
direction  of  a  boatswain,  on  the  masts  referred  to  above. 

The  colony  has  also  several  outlying  farms,  each  inhabited  by 
a  family  of  forty  boys,  subject  to  the  same  discipline  under  the 
direction  of  a  head-man,  who  is  morally  responsible  for  their  man- 
agement, and  who  has  a  foreman  under  him  to  direct  all  the  farm- 
work.  Since  the  institution  was  started  five-sixths  of  the  colo- 
nists have  taken  to  agricultural  pursuits,  and  the  trained  ones  are 
much  sought  for  by  farmers.  In  the  school,  which  is  held  daily 
and  which  all  must  attend,  the  colonists  are  taught  reading,  writ- 
ing, spelling,  elementary  arithmetic  and  its  application  mentally 
and  practically,  the  principles  of  the  French  language,  weights 
and  measures,  an  elementary  knowledge  of  geography,  geometry, 
sacred  history,  and  the  principal  facts  in  the  history  of  France. 
Linear  drawing  is  also  taught  in  cases  where  it  is  thought  it  will 
be  required  in  after-life. 

Lessons  in  vocal  and  instrumental  music  also  form  part  of  the 

VOL.  XLII. — 12 


178  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

course,  and  are  given  twice  a  week;  the  colony  is  thereby  pro- 
vided with  a  band  of  musicians,  which  performs  on  Sundays  and 
feast-days,  plays  marches,  and  helps  to  add  to  both  the  solemnity 
and  cheerfulness  of  the  occasion.  The  privilege  of  belonging  to 
the  band  is  eagerly  sought  for,  but  is  conferred,  as  a  reward,  only 
on  those  who,  besides  being  fully  qualified,  have  earned  it  by  as- 
siduity to  their  duties  and  by  good  conduct. 

As  Mr.  de  Metz  was  deeply  convinced  of  the  essential  efficacy 
of  religious  teaching  and  practice  in  all  moral  reform,  he  would 
have  as  co-operators  in  his  work  only  moral  and  religious  men 
faithful,  as  he  was,  to  the  practice  of  their  religious  duties. 

Mr.  de  Tocqueville,  in  his  work  on  penitentiary  systems,  says : 
"  Nulle  puissance  humaine  n'est  comparable  a  la  religion  pour 
op6rer  la  r6forme  des  criminels,  et  c'est  surtout  surelle  que  re- 
pose 1'avenir  de  la  reforme  p£nitentiaire  "  ;  and  another  writer 
on  the  same  subject  has  tersely  expressed  the  idea  in  these 
words :  "  Sans  la  religion  on  pourra  arriver  a  la  r6forme  des 
prisons ;  mais  on  ne  parviendra  par  a  la  reforme  des  prison- 
niers."  * 

An  ingenious  contrivance  is  in  use  at  Mettray  for  the  return, 
secretly  and  to  avoid  disgrace,  of  stolen  articles.  At  an  appro- 
priate spot  affording  facilities  for  the  purpose  is  a  large,  square 
box  with  an  opening  to  it.  On  this  box  is  written,  Lost  Articles. 
If  the  article  found  missing  turns  up  the  next  day  in  the  box,  no 
one  is  permitted  to  scrutinize  how  it  got  there. 

The  discipline  at  Mettray  is,  of  course,  severe.  Every  infrac- 
tion of  the  rules  of  the  colony,  be  it  ever  so  slight,  is  punished. 
Punishments  consist  of  a  reprimand  in  private  or  publicly  ;  depri- 
vation of  recreation ;  confinement  in  the  punishment-room ;  dis- 
missal from  an  employment  of  trust  or  the  loss  of  the  grade  of 
elder  brother,  if  the  offender  holds  either;  having  one's  name 
stricken  from  the  tableau  cT honneur ;  confinement  in  a  light  or  a 
dark  cellar,  with  or  without,  as  the  case  may  call  for,  the  addi- 
tional penalty  of  being  fed  on  bread  and  water  only ;  and,  last  of 
all,  being  transferred  to  a  correctional  colony.  In  each  cell  the 
cross  is  hung  on  the  wall  over  the  inscription,  Dieu  vous  voit— 
"  God  sees  you  " — and  these  others  invite  the  culprit  to  reflection 
and  a  purpose  of  amendment :  "  Dieu  est  bon  pour  ceux  qui  es- 
perent  en  lui  "  (God  is  good  for  those  who  hope  in  him) ;  "  Dieu 
ne  veut  pas  la  mort  du  p6cheur,  mais  sa  soumission  et  sa  vie  "  (God 

*  "  For  bringing  about  the  reform  of  criminals  no  human  power  is  to  be  compared  with  re^ 
ligion,  and  on  it  specially  rests  the  future  of  penitentiary  reform."  "  The  reform  of  prisons, 
but  not  of  the  convicts  confined  in  them,  maybe  accomplished  without  the  means  of  religion." 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  179 

wishes  not  the  death  of  the  sinner,  but  his  submission  and  his 
life);  "  II  est  toujours  temps  de  bien  faire  "  (It  is  always  time  to 
do  well) ;  "  La  priere  est  la  ressource  de  toutes  nos  miseres ** 
(Prayer  is  our  resource  in  all  our  troubles). 

Punishments  are  never  inflicted  on  the  spot,  but  only  after 
very  careful  and  deliberate  inquiry,  during  which  the  offender 
remains  in  a  room  called  the  Salle  de  Reflexion,  where  the  super- 
intendent has  a  talk  with  him  ;  excited  feelings  have  thus  oppor- 
tunity to  cool  down,  and  the  boy  to  feel  that  he  is  in  the  wrong. 
Confinement  in  a  cell  is  never  entirely  solitary.  The  culprit  has 
to  learn  his  lessons  for  the  teacher,  who  calls  to  see  him  every 
day  ;  he  receives  frequent  visits  from  the  head-man  of  the  family 
to  which  he  belongs,  from  the  chaplain  and  the  superintendent, 
and  he  is  made  either  to  break  stones  or  split  wood.  Some 
boys  have  said,  if  they  were  allowed  to  have  their  choice,  they 
would  rather  take  a  flogging  than  do  that  work.  Good  conduct 
and  obedience  to  rules  are  rewarded  as  follows:  The  colonist 
who,  by  his  exemplary  conduct  during  three  months,  has  incurred 
neither  reprimand  nor  punishment  gets  his  name  placed  on  the 
roll  of  honor,  called  tableau  tTJwnneur.  The  banner  of  the  colony 
is  confided  to  and  borne  by  that  family  which  for  a  week  has  had 
none  of  its  members  reprimanded  or  punished.  Boys  who  dis- 
tinguish themselves  by  their  good  conduct  and  assiduity  to  their 
work  receive  small  sums  of  money,  which  are  invested  for  them 
so  as  to  earn  interest,  and  they  get  the  aggregate  sum  when  they 
leave  Mettray.  There  are,  moreover,  good  marks,  represented 
by  little  squares  of  pink  pasteboard,  which  in  the  institution  are 
the  equivalent  of  five  centimes,  or  one  cent,  and  are  available  for 
the  purchase  of  the  articles  allowed  to  be  sold  in  the  can  teen, 'or 
to  offset  punishments  incurred  by  the  owner  or  by  a  comrade. 
Statistics  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  insert  here  have  demon- 
strated the  steadily  progressive  good  results  derived  from  the 
above-explained  system  of  rewards. 

On  Sundays,  after  Mass,  which,  with  an  instruction  on  the 
gospel  of  the  day,  lasts  only  three-quarters  of  an  hour,  at  which 
the  choir-singing  and  accompaniment  on  an  orgue-harmonium  are 
both  performed  by  colonists,  the  latter  are  all  assembled  in  the 
large  study-room  to  hear  read  aloud  an  account  of  the  work  done 
in  the  week  just  ended,  and  the  roll  of  rewards  and  punishments. 
The  superintendent  takes  his  place  on  a  platform  at  one  end  of 
the  room  and  reads  aloud  the  reports  of  the  head-men  about  the 
labors  and  behavior  of  their  respective  families  during  the  past 
week.  Then,  after  making  general  remarks,  if  the  occasion  calls 


i8o  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

for  any,  he  recites  aloud  the  rewards  and  punishments  due,  and 
who  have  deserved  them.  The  proceedings  are  closed  by  award- 
ing the  banner,  on  which  is  inscribed  "  Colonie  de  Mettray — Hon- 
neur  &  la  famille"  to  the  family  which  has  become  entitled  to  it, 
and  which  immediately  delegates  its  elder  brother  to  receive  it. 
He  advances  to  the  platform,  ascends  the  steps,  and,  after  the 
superintendent  has  placed  the  banner  in  his  hands,  the  band  out- 
side strikes  up  a  martial  and  victorious  air.  The  flag-family  files 
out  first  and  forms  by  platoons  behind  the  band,  and  the  other 
families,  with  their  different  colored  guidons  next  in  order.  The 
family  of  youngest  boys,  from  six  to  ten  years  old,  bring  up  the 
rear.  (I  regret  not  to  find  in  my  sources  of  information  how  con- 
flicting claims  are  settled  if  it  happens  that  more  than  one  family 
have  deserved  to  have  the  banner.)  Then  the  band  strikes  up  a 
march  and  the  column  marches  through  the  walks  on  the  grounds, 
the  very  juvenile  rearguard  having  all  they  can  do  to  keep  up  and 
in  line.  After  this  review  comes  dinner,  then  recreation,  after- 
wards Vespers,  and  next  in  order  games  and  gymnastic  and  other 
exercises.  The  colony  has  a  fire-brigade  of  its  own,  of  which  those 
alone  can  become  members  who  have  distinguished  themselves 
by  exceedingly  good  conduct.  At  six  the  families  belonging  to 
outlying  farms  who  have  come  to  spend  their  Sunday  at  Mettray 
leave  for  home.  In  winter,  when  the  days  are  short,  the  colo- 
nists spend  Sunday  evening  in  the  school-room,  drawing,  and  on 
week-days  they  attend  evening  classes. 

Mr.de  Metz's  heart  overflowed  with  gratitude  to  God  for 
having  blessed  his  labors  with  so  great  success,  and  given  him 
on  this  earth  so  much  happiness  in  its  attainment.  So  conscious 
was  he  of  this  that  he  used  pleasantly  to  say  :  "  Lorsque  Dieu 
me  rappellera  a  lui  je  n'aurai  rien  a  lui  demander,  il  m'a  pay6 
comptant."  *  Feeling  the  need  of  means  to  watch  over  and  as- 
sist the  colonists  after  their  return  to  the  outside  world,  he  or- 
ganized the  patronages,  which  are  of  two  parts,  one  for  the 
departments  and  the  other  for  Paris.  The  former  consists  of 
associations  of  honorable  men  who  have  in  charge,  to  look  after, 
direct,  and  personally  assist,  the  boys  put  under  their  supervision. 
They  report  every  six  months,  and  are  reimbursed  for  their  ad- 
vances.  In  Paris  this  business  is  attended  to  by  a  salaried  agent. 
Before  going  into  statistical  figures  to  show  how  successful  Mr. 
de  Metz's  work  has  proved,  a  few  general  facts  and  one  or  two 
isolated  anecdotes  demonstrating  it  are  in  order. 

*  When  God  will  have  summoned  me  to  him  I  shall  be  without   claim  for  any  reward 
from  him,  for  he  has  paid  me  in  cash. 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  181 

There  are  no  walls  and  no  way  to  prevent  boys  from  escaping, 
and  yet  of  4,500  boys  admitted  from  the  beginning  only  one 
eloped.  The  attempts  to  elope  were  only  1.8  per  cent,  in  1877, 
1.75  per  cent,  in  1878,  and  .69  per  cent,  in  1879. 

After  the  revolution  of  1848  a  band  of  insurgents  came  to 
Mettray  and  urged  the  boys  to  leave,  but  could  not  get  a  single 
one  to  join  them. 

The  fire-brigade  is  always  expected  to  run  to  fires  occurring 
in  the  neighborhood,  and  they  always  do  so  upon  the  first  alarm, 
with  great  celerity,  and  render  valuable  assistance.  One  mem- 
ber caught  his  death  from  exposure  in  winter,  cutting  a  hole  in  a 
frozen  pond  to  get  a  supply  of  water. 

The  colonists  turned  out  during  the  inundations  of  the  Loire 
in  1856,  worked  for  two  days  and  one  night,  and  rendered  such 
valuable  services  that  the  city  of  Tours  had  a  gold  medal  struck 
in  honor  and  commemoration  of  the  event.  It  bears  this  inscrip- 
tion :  "  A  la  Colonie  de  Mettray,  la  ville  de  Tours  reconnaissante. 
Inondations  de  1856." 

One  of  the  colonists  employed  on  a  farm  in  the  vicinity  was 
kicked  by  a  horse  and  felt  that  he  was  going  to  die.  Although 
in  great  pain,  and  certain  to  suffer  greater  from  the  fatigue  and 
jolting  of  the  journey,  he  asked  to  be  carried  immediately  to 
Mettray.  Two  days  after  his  arrival  he  died,  having  received 
the  last  sacraments  and  edified  his  comrades  by  his  fervor  and 
resignation.  He  feelingly  told  Mr.  de  Metz :  "  I  know  I  have 
put  you  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble  by  coming  here,  but  I  was 
loath  to  die  among  strangers." 

A  boy  was  sent  to  the  institution  who,  at  the  instigation  of 
his  step-mother,  had  killed  his  own  sister  by  a  blow  with  a 
wooden  shoe.  Neither  prayers  nor  threats  seemed  to  have  any 
effect  on  his  obdurate,  sullen,  and  violent  disposition.  One 
night  ^n  alarm  of  fire  was  heard,  and  Mr.  de  Metz  assembled  all 
those  strong  enough  to  be  of  assistance,  and  led  them  off  to  the 
fire,  having  first  ordered  the  tough  case  to  be  locked  up  because 
he  could  not  be  trusted.  After  a  little  while  he  returned,  went 
to  the  boy's  cell,  and  gently  reproached  him  for  being  unworthy 
to  accompany  his  comrades.  The  poor  fellow  burst  into  tears 
and  said  he  would  gladly  go  with  them,  if  allowed.  "  Well,  then, 
come  along  with  me/'  said  Mr.  de  Metz;  "  we  shall  see  how  you 
will  behave."  And  off  they  started  across  the  fields  to  the  fire. 
Next  morning,  after  the  fire  had  been  put  out  and  the  colonists 
had  returned  home,  the  boy  was  missing.  Everybody  at  once 
took  it  for  granted  that  he  had  improved  the  opportunity  to  run 


1 82  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  [Nov., 

away  ;  but  all  were  much  surprised  to  see  him  brought  back  on 
a  stretcher,  very  severely  hurt  in  consequence  of  his  bold  en- 
deavors, regardless  of  danger,  to  be  of  service.  He  recovered 
from  his  injuries  and  underwent  a  complete  moral  transforma- 
tion ;  was  a  model  boy  while  in  the  colony,  and,  after  leaving  it, 
became  an  honorable  man  and  a  worthy  father  of  a  family.  He 
often  visited  the  institution  with  his  wife  and  child,  and  was  pro- 
fuse in  his  expressions  of  grateful  remembrance  of  his  stay  there. 

The  board  of  twenty  managers  of  the  colony  reports  to  the 
membres  fondateurs,  or  subscribers  contributing  100  francs — say 
$20— only  once  every  three  years.  In  their  latest  report,  made  in 
April,  1883,  I  find  no  general  statistics;  so  that  I  am  obliged  to 
take  them  from  another  source  made  up  to  a  much  earlier  date. 
From  1839  to  tne  Ist  °f  January,  1880,  5,300  boys  were  taken 
care  of  in  the  colony,  the  average  during  1879  having  been  722. 

Up  to  the  31  st  of  December,  1872,  covering  a  period  of  32 
years,  4,396  boys  were  sent  to  the  colony.  What  their  parental 
influences  had  been  may  be  judged  from  the  following  statistics : 
859  came  from  parents  found  guilty  of  crimes  or  misdemeanors  ; 
380  came  from  parents  living  together  in  concubinage ;  689  were 
illegitimate;  293  were  foundlings  or  abandoned  children;  584 
were  born  from  a  second  marriage;  831  were  whole  orphans. 
Many  of  the  children  belong  to  more  than  one  of  the  above  clas- 
sifications. 

The  statistics  of  reform  foot  up  as  follows :  Up  to  December 
31,  1872,  3,104  boys  had  been  discharged;  1,593  became  agricul- 
turists, 707  mechanics,  694  soldiers,  no  seamen.  Four  have 
earned  the  decoration  of  the  Legion  of  Honor ;  24  have  earned 
the  military  medal ;  5  have  become  officers ;  very  many  have  be- 
come non-commissioned  officers  or  leading  privates— premiers  sol- 
dats  ;  344  have  married,  and  nearly  all  of  these  have  families  to 
support. 

During  the  first  years  after  Mettray  was  opened  the  cases  of 
relapsing  juvenile  delinquents  fell  from  75  per  cent,  to  14  per 
cent.,  and  afterwards  successively  to  12, 10, 9,  6,  and  5^  per  cent. ; 
in  1871,  as  the  criminal  statistics  of  that  year  show,  it  was  as  low 
as  4^  per  cent. 

The  daily  average  cost  of  maintenance  per  capita  was  1.44 
francs  in  1877,  1.35  francs  in  1878,  and  1.32  francs  in  1879,  to" 
wards  which  the  government  contributes  70  centimes — about  14 
cents.  The  certificate  for  a  high  degree  of  proficiency  in  pri- 
mary studies  must  not  be  very  easy  to  obtain  in  France,  since 
at  the  examinations  which  took  place  at  Tours  in  1877,  out  of  33 


1885.]  A  FRENCH  REFORMATORY.  183 

candidates  from  the  canton  to  which  Mettray  belongs,  only  17 
were  successful,  and  of  these  12  were  from  the  colony,  and  3  of 
same  highest  on  the  list.  The  excellence  and  success  of  Mr.  de 
Metz's  work  seem  to  have  been  duly  appreciated  in  the  United 
States,  for  in  the  report  of  1880  are  quoted  words  of  strong 
praise  written  by  a  Mr.  Randall,  Vice- President  of  the  Inter- 
national Penitentiary  Congress  ;  and  from  Mr.  White,  President 
of  Cornell  University.  The  Reform  School  near  Amboy,  in  New 
Jersey,  is  managed,  as  I  am  informed,  on  the  family  system.  At 
Studzeniec,  near  Warsaw,  in  Poland,  a  colony  has  been  estab- 
lished On  the  Mettray  plan,  is  doing  very  well  and  turning  out 
good  results.  The  Emperor  of  Brazil,  while  in  France  some 
years  ago,  went  from  Paris  purposely  to  Mettray  to  visit  the 
colony,  and  expressed  great  satisfaction  with  what  he  saw  there.* 
In  December,  1882,  a  committee  of  the  Conseil  General  of  the 
department  of  the  Seine  visited  Mettray,  in  order,  by  a  de  visu  in- 
spection, to  be  better  enabled  to  report  on  the  expediency  of 
making  it  an  appropriation,  which  they  recommended  after  they 
had  seen  with  their  ,own  eyes  that  the  management  deserved 
naught  but  the  warmest  praise.  But  they  were  somewhat  sur- 
prised at  finding  crucifixes  on  the  walls  of  the  school-rooms  and 
dormitories,  and  were  specially  struck  at  the  sight,  in  each  cell,  of 
the  cross  and  the  inscriptions  mentioned  in  a  preceding  page. 
The  committee  concluded  their  report  by  observing  that  al- 
though the  Conseil  Gen6ral  had  on  several  occasions  expressed  a 
desire  for  the  removal  of  the  sisters  who  have  charge  of  certain 
departments,  and  the  employment  of  laypersons  in  their  stead, 
yet  the  request  had  not  been  complied  with.  They  seemed  not 
to  comprehend  that  the  managers,  who  have  had  experience 
of  those  services  for  so  many  years,  are  better  than  outsiders 
able  to  appreciate  their  worth  and  the  inexpediency  of  substi- 
tuting others  ;  the  change  being  without  any  reason  other  than 
to  carry  out  the  plan  of  turning  out  religious  whenever  and 
wherever  possible,  without  regard  to  consequences. 

*  In  the  lists  of  foreign  correspondents  published  in  the  reports  for  1880  and  1883  appear  the 
names  of  several  persons  in  the  United  States  either  very  well  known  or  in  some  honorable  public 
capacity. 


184  ST.  WINIFRED'S  WELL.  [Nov., 


ST.  WINIFRED'S  WELL. 

'*  There  sprang  up  on  the  spot  a  crystal  stream,  with  sweet-smelling  mosses  around  it,  and 
red  stones  beneath  the  water."— Legend  of  St.  Winifred. 

CARADOC,  son  of  Alen,  the  king, 

Hath  loved,  and  loved  in  vain. 
He  planneth  a  day  of  reckoning : 
"  Give  heed,  O  maid !  till  thy  death-knell  ring ! 

Short  shrift  ere  thou  be  slain." 

Winifred's  hair  is  yellow  as  corn, 

Her  eyes  as  the  corn-flower  blue ; 
She  stood  erect  in  the  windy  morn, 
Baiting  her  lover  with  words  of  scorn, 

Her  heart  to  its  kingdom  true. 

A  prince's  bride,  or  the  bride  of  Death  ? 

Scant  time  to  make  reply — 

She  hath  flung  his  pearls  on  the  bare  brown  heath, 
And  offered  to  Christ  her  latest  breath, 

And  knelt  on  the  sward  to  die. 

The  blow  is  cruel,  and  the  blade  is  keen : 

Her  pure  white  soul  hath  fled. 
By  Bruno's  altar  on  the  green, 
A  blood-stained  strip  of  moss  between, 

The  martyr-maid  lies  dead. 

Swift  gurgled  from  the  holy  ground 

A  stream  all  silver-clear ; 
While  whispering  grasses  gather  'round, 
And  strange-hued  flowers  bedeck  the  mound, 

And  song-birds  hover  near. 

And  still  above  the  water's  breast 

Lingering  the  grasses  wave, 
And  still  beneath  in  tranquil  rest 
The  blood-red  pebbles  closely  pressed 

Reveal  a  martyr's  grave. 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  185 


SOLITARY  ISLAND. 

PART  FOURTH. 
CHAPTER  II. 

A  PRINCE  OF  THE  BLOOD. 

THREE  days  passed — days  of  some  anxiety  to  the  friends  of 
Florian.  What  was  he  doing  on  the  island  ?  His  letters  were 
sent  to  him  daily,  and  there  were  many  of  them,  while  the  mail 
sent  back  by  him  was  voluminous  enough  to  show  that  his  idle 
hours  were  few.  Yet  Ruth  was  apprehensive.  About  what  she 
could  hardly  say  ;  but  she  fidgeted  until  the  squire  from  the 
depths  of  his  serenity  called  out : 

"  Ruth,  will  you  give  me  some  peace?  Will  you  stop  your 
demd  fixin'  and  movin'?  What's  the  matter  with  you,  any- 
way?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Florian." 

"I  wish  you'd  think  to  some  advantage,  then,"  he  growled. 
"  It's  a  round  dozen  of  years  since — " 

"  Now,  papa,  don't  be  bearish.  I  pity  the  poor  fellow,  alone 
with  his  sorrow  on  that  island.  I  was  afraid — what  if — of  course 
I  suppose — " 

"  Keep  right  on,"  said  the  squire,  with  comfortable  irony. 
"  You  dassent  say  it,  you  know  you  dassent.  I  pity  him,  too ; 
but  he'll  get  over  it.  He's  just  the  boy  to  stand  Such  knocks 
like  a  wall.  No  give  to  him.  I  don't  see  what  you're  afraid  of, 
unless  that  he'd  go  and  drown  himself;  but  his  head's  too  level, 
too  valuable  to  do  that,  even  if  there  was  need.  He's  worth 
more  than  his  father  ever  thought  o'  being,  and  there  wouldn't 
be  any  sense  in  having  the  family  die  out  so  sudden.  Gosh'l- 
mighty  !  "  said  the  squire,  suddenly  straightening  up,  "  what  am  I 
talking  about  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Ruth  absently.  "  I  think  I  will  go  up 
to  Pere  Rougevin's  and  see  him  about  Florian." 

"  You  needn't,"  acrimoniously  ;  "  Flory  don't  want  nothin'  at 
all  to  do  with  that  party.  They've  completely  busted  the  part- 
nership. You  might  see  him,  though,  about  the  other  feller." 

A  burning  flush  rose  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 


1 86  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

"  He's  the  gentleman,  I  suspect,  that  you  and  Peter  Carter 
were  looking  after.  You  see,  Ruth,  the  old  man  isn't  dead  yet. 
He's  got  eyes.  I  don't  admire  your  taste.  He  looks  like  Flory 
with  the  starch  and  the  color  knocked  out  of  him.  Another 
washing  would  leave  him  like  chalk.  However,  you're  in  the 
thirties,  and  I  han't  got  nothing  to  say  or  do  in  the  matter." 

"  In  what  matter,  papa?"  said  Ruth,  with  recovered  self-pos- 
session. 

"  Oh  !  in  this  matter  of— well,  you  know  what.  I  don't  care 
to—" 

"  Keep  right  on.  You  dassent  say  it,  you  know  you  dassent," 
she  broke  in,  mimicking  him.  "  There  is  no  matter  to  be  dis- 
turbed about,  and  your  hints  are  all  misplaced.  Will  you  walk 
up  with  me  to  see  the  pere?  It  is  nearly  dark,  and  we'll  surely 
find  him  at  home." 

"  Don't  care  if  I  do.  I'll  shame  you  right  to  his  face."  But 
the  threat  did  not  frighten  her. 

They  found  the  priest  comfortably  reading  in  his  study,  his 
easy-chair  between  the  table  and  the  stove. 

"You  haven't  got  any  masculine  furniture  here,  have  you," 
said  the  squire,  after  a  glance  round,  "  with  which  to  furnish  a 
young  but  rather  stiff  lady's  parlor — something  portable,  pere, 
and  protective ;  something  that  will  wash  the  dishes  while  she 
goes  visiting,  and  hold  an  umbrella  over  her  when  it  rains,  and 
something,  above  all,  that's  masculine  and  warranted  not  to  run 
away?  Ruth's  looking  for  just  such  an  article,  and  we  heard  you 
had  one  to  sell  cheap." 

"  He's  not  in  now,"  said  the  pere,  "  but  you  can  see  him  later." 

"  Don't  attend  to  his  nonsense,"  said  Ruth  calmly.  "  Have 
you  heard  anything  from  Florian  ?  " 

"  He  will  be  here  to-night,  probably.  I  received  a  note  from 
him  to  that  effect.  He  is  coming  to  learn  what  I  know  of  his 
father." 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  squire,  "  that  must  be  a  good  deal." 

"  I  am  so  glad  that — well,"  and  she  stopped  abruptly,  "  after 
all,  I  do  not  know  that  he  is  well." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  disturb  him  particularly,"  said  the  priest, 
with  the  faintest  touch  of  scorn,  which  the  squire  took  for  praise. 
"  He  remained  on  the  island  partly  to  investigate  the  cabin  where 
his  father  lived,  and  partly  to  enjoy  quiet  and  retirement  after 
an  arduous  campaign.  Sentiment  does  not  enter  largely  into 
Florian's  make-up." 

"  He's  too  much  of  a  Yankee    for  that,"  said  the  admiring 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  187 

squire.      "  There's  nothing  in  this  world   can  put  Flory  down, 
unless  death.     I  just  dote  on  that  boy." 

The  sharp  ring  of  the  door-bell  sounded  at  the  moment. 

"  This  is  he/'  said  the  pere.  "  I  invite  you  both  to  remain 
and  hear  what  I  am  to  tell  about  this  so-called  Scott.  It  is  a 
curious  history  and  contains  nothing  that  you  may  not  know." 

"  If  Florian  does  not  object — " 

"  Don't  you  fret,"  said  the  squire,  cutting  off  Ruth's  polite 
remarks,  for  he  was  eager  to  stay.  "  Don't  you  fret,  I  say. 
Flory  has  no  family  secrets  from  me — us,  I  mean." 

When  Florian  entered  the  squire  saved  any  one  the  trouble 
of  replying  to  his  grave  salutation  by  at  once  taking  the  position 
of  chairman  of  the  meeting.  Ruth  was  satisfied  to  note  in  silence 
the  changes  which  a  few  days  had  made  in  the  politician's  face. 
It  was  paler  than  usual,  and  the  eyes  seemed  sunken  and  weary. 
The  evidences  were  that  Florian  had  not  passed  as  quiet  a  time 
at  the  island  as  the  pere  believed,  but  in  the  hurry  and  gentle 
excitement  of  an  animated  conversation  the  paleness  and  hollow- 
ness  disappeared  to  a  great  degree. 

"As  you  intend  to  return  to-night,"  said  Pere  Rougevin  by 
way  of  preface,  "  I  suppose  you  are  willing  to  have  me  begin  my 
narration.  I  wish  that  Miss  Ruth  and  her  father  should  hear  it, 
if  you  have  no  objections." 

Of  course  Florian  had  none,  and  the  squire  was  delight- 
ed. The  room  was  comfortable,  curiosity  was  sharp,  and  the 
pere's  story-telling  powers  were  above  the  average.  To-night 
he  had  no  intention  and  no  desire  to  do  more  than  tell  a  brief 
tale. 

"  I  became  aware  of  the  facts  which  I  tell  to  you,"  he  said, 
"  not  by  any  favor  on  your  father's  part,  but  through  an  accident. 
In  the  ordinary  course  of  my  parish  business  the  prince  found  it 
necessary  to  confide  in  me.  If  he  was  more  precise  in  his  ac- 
count of  his  life  to  me  than  to  any  other,  it  was  because  I  insisted 
on  knowing  the  whole  story,  with  every  shade  that  time  had  cast 
upon  it. 

"  You  know  the  title  which  belonged  to  him,  and  how  he  lost 
it.  He  was  a  Catholic  and  favored  a  poor  relation  of  no  princi- 
ple. He  lost  his  position,  and  almost  his  life,  through  this  relation, 
who,  by  intrigues  quite  possible  in  Russia,  convinced  the  czar  that 
his  relative,  your  father,  was  conspiring  against  him.  A  friend 
laid  before  the  unfortunate  prince  the  state  of  affairs.  He  saw 
at  once  that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  could  save  him.  He  was 
young  and  practically  friendless,  for  a  Catholic  noble  of  the  blood 


i88  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

royal  was  unique  and  stood  alone.  With  his  two  children  he 
hurried  into  France. 

"  The  fate  of  his  wife,  the  princess,  was  particularly  sad.  She 
was  a  woman  of  mind  and  will.  When  the  prince  spoke  of  exile 
she  refused  to  leave  her  country.  On  good  and  reasonable 
grounds,  however.  Her  family  was  powerful.  She,  at  least,  was 
safe,  and  she  was  bent  on  doing  her  utmost  to  save  her  husband's 
estates  and  name.  But  for  safety's  sake  she  urged  the  prince  to 
depart  with  the  children,  which  he  did,  without  misgivings,  yet 
without  hope.  His  brave  wife  returned  to  the  home  of  her 
father,  made  many  efforts  to  save  the  estates,  and  gained  so  many 
important  favors  from  the  emperor  that  the  scheming  relative 
saw  his  plotting  in  danger  of  coming  to  naught.  In  her  father's 
house  the  princess  died  suddenly,  of  poison. 

"  There  was  no  crime,  it  seems,  at  which  this  relative  would 
stop.  The  prince  and  his  children — his  name  was  Florian,  like 
your  own,  sir — shortly  felt  the  sting  of  his  unscrupulousness. 
Tracked  to  Paris,  to  Madrid,  to  Genoa,  to  London,  they  had 
many  narrow  escapes  from  death  at  the  hands  of  his  agents.  The 
wilds  of  America  offered  him  a  refuge,  and  to  them  he  fled. 
Hope  was  dead  in  him.  Henceforth  his  one  effort  was  to  hide 
himself  and  his  children  from  the  assassin.  He  could  not  do  it, 
as  you  have  seen,  but  all  that  man  could  do  he  did,  and,  if  he  fell 
himself,  probably  saved  you.  The  rest  you  know." 

It  was  abrupt,  concise,  unsympathetic,  this  recital  of  an  unfor- 
tunate man's  life,  and  it  left  as  many  points  unsettled  as  if  it  had 
not  been  told.  Florian,  however,  was  prepared  with  a  bristling 
array  of  questions.  He  burned  to  discover  the  spirit  of  his  father's 
strange  life,  and  could  not  be  content  with  these  dry  bones. 

"  Much  of  this  information  was  contained  in  the  letters  and 
documents  held  by  Mrs.  Wallace,"  said  Florian. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  replied  the  priest.  "  I  never  saw  the  let- 
ters. Your  father  fondly  preserved  them  as  mementoes  of  a 
time  for  ever  gone.  Mrs.  Wallace  removed  them  to  her  secret 
closet  without  his  permission." 

"  I  thought  my  father  of  no  religion,"  said  Florian.  "  I  had 
never  seen  about  him  in  all  the  time  that  I  knew  him  a  single 
evidence  of  his  faith.  Was  he  a — " 

"  No,"  said  the  pere,  with  a  touch  of  generous  feeling,  "  he 
was  a  fervent  Catholic,  such  a  Catholic  as  misfortune  makes ;  but 
it  was  part  of  his  plan  to  let  little  be  known  about  him.  In  an 
obscure  village  miles  eastward  from  here  he  went  to  Mass  and 
confession." 


1885.]  •       SOLITARY  ISLAND.  189 

"  Yet  his  whole  speech  had  a  certain  coloring,"  Ruth  said 
earnestly — "  a  spirituality  which  only  a  Catholic  could  feel  and 
show.  We  thought  it  was  philosophy — backwoods  philosophy." 

"  He  was  a  great  philosopher,  too,"  said  the  pere.  "  His  edu- 
cation had  been  thorough.  He  was  a  finished  scholar." 

"  Then  the  Izaak  Walton  was  a  blind,"  blurted  out  the  half- 
indignant  squire,  "  and  his  talk  about  governments  meant  more'n 
/thought." 

"  It  was  his  deep  and  sincere  and  simple  piety  that  thrilled 
me  most/'  Ruth  said,  with  glowing  eyes.  "  However  else  he 
deceived  us,  he  could  not  hide  that,  and  I  loved  him  for  it.  He 
was  like  a  child." 

"  Of  that  there  is  no  doubt.  Suffering  of  the  severest  sort 
had  chastened  him  beyond  belief.  For  one  so  tossed  about  and 
so  brought  up  as  he,  his  simplicity  was  as  sweet  as  unexpected," 
the  priest  said  feelingly. 

To  this  compliment  Florian  gave  no  apparent  heed. 

"  Before  Linda  died,"  he  said,  "  I  suppose,  from  what  I  recall 
of  that  time,  that  he  told  her  his  secret." 

"  On  the  very  day  of  her  death  he  told  her.  He  found  it  hard 
to  make  her  see  the  wisdom  of  keeping  it  a  secret  still,  from  you 
at  least ;  but  with  my  aid  he  succeeded." 

"  Poor  Linda !  poor  child  !  " 

Ruth  glanced  from  the  priest  to  the  politician  regretfully. 
There  was  very  little  in  the  manner  of  either  to  warrant  a  suspi- 
cion of  mutual  dislike,  but  the  p&re's  deliberate  mention  of  his 
connection  with  the  task  of  keeping  Linda  silent  was  a  simple 
declaration  of  war.  Passing  over  the  hermit's  visit  to  New 
York,  he  came  to  the  events  immediately  preceding  the  late 
tragedy. 

"  The  letter  which  I  received  from  an  unknown  friend  warn- 
ing me  of  the  Russian's  designs  against  me  was  probably  penned 
by  my  father  ?  " 

The  pere  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  He  did  not  know  of  the 
letter,  nor  had  the  hermit  told  him  of  it." 

"  Was  he  apprehensive,  after  the  visit  of  the  spy,  that  trouble 
was  coming  upon  him?" 

"  Well,  yes,"  said  the  priest  slowly;  "yes,  he  was.  But  he 
had  so  much  confidence  in  his  disguise  that  he  feared  only  for 
you.  When  he  heard  how  you  arranged  the  matter  he  was  thor- 
oughly satisfied,  and  said,  '  Now  the  danger  is  over.'  " 

"  Did  he  have  any  occasion  to  lose  this  confidence  after- 
wards ?  " 


igo  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

"  Not  until  two  weeks  ago,  when  a  heavy  sadness  disturbed 
him  which  he  could  not  shake  off.  At  that  time  he  was  not 
aware  of  the  presence  of  his  murderer.  He  must  have  discov- 
ered it  suddenly  and  frightfully,  for  his  usual  prudence  and  sa- 
gacity seem  to  have  deserted  him  at  the  critical  moment  His 
end  is  wrapped  in  mystery,  as  was  his  life,  and  I  believe  he  pre- 
ferred to  have  it  so." 

There  was  for  a  short  space  a  little  solemn  thinking. 

"  I  found  a  handkerchief  in  the  old  cabin  the  time  the  Count 
Behrenski  and  I  were  here  together,"  said  Florian.  "  It  had  a 
faint  monogram,  '  W  ' — " 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Wallace's,"  interrupted  the  priest.  "  She  stole  to 
the  island  that  night  to  warn  him  of  the  presence  of  the  count, 
and  to  bid  him  beware  of  meeting  your  friend." 

"  And  there  is  nothing  further  known  of  this  hidden  life  ; 
no  letters,  no  scraps,  no  familiar  insights,  nothing  to  show  what 
the  man  was  under  all  his  misfortunes,  to  make  one  feel  that  he 
was — a — father." 

The  last  words  came  hesitatingly,  and  were  answered  by  a  curt 
nod  from  the  pere. 

"  I  have  his  last  letter,"  he  replied ;  "  it  was  written  for  you 
to  read  in  the  event  of  his  death.  And  Paul  Rossiter  may  tell 
you  things  which  he  has  not  told  to  me.  More  than  that — " 

A  shrug  of  the  shoulders  finished  the  sentence. 

"  Linda  had  some  idea  of  it,"  continued  the  pere,  "  and  it 
made  her  very  happy  in  dying.  Perhaps  his  old  confessor  might 
be  able  to  give  you  a  glimpse  of  his  interior  life.  I  doubt  it, 
however.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  sanctuary  into  which  angels 
only  could  enter." 

"  You  have,  then,  so  high  an  opinion  of  his  life,"  said  Ruth 
gratefully.  The  pere  bowed  and  said  nothing  for  a  few  minutes, 
but,  as  if  regretting  his  moroseness,  he  went  on  to  say : 

"  He  was  a  martyr  to  his  religious  convictions,  of  course.  He 
could  have  easily  won  the  favor  of  his  emperor  by  embracing 
the  Greek  religion,  and,  had  he  been  a  less  tender  father,  might 
have  lived  in  comparative  comfort.  The  fear  of  bringing  upon 
his  children  the  Bufferings  he  had  endured  made  him  self-for- 
getful." 

"  If  you  will  let  rne  have  the  letter  you  spoke  of,"  said  Florian, 
who  had  been  indulging  in  a  reverie,  "  1  will  be  going.  The  hour 
is  late,  and  the  island  is  a  good  distance  off." 

The  pere  silently  handed  him  a  thick  package,  and  rose  as  if 
to  end  a  rather  distasteful  interview. 


I885.J  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  191 

"  I  hope,"  said  Ruth,  "  that  you  are  not  going  to  bury  your- 
self in  that  dreary  solitude.  Before  you  return  to  New  York 
we  would  be  happy  to  have  you  stop  with  us  a  few  days." 

"And  now  that  the  cold  weather  is  here,"  said  the  squire, 
who  felt  himself  on  familiar  ground  for  the  first  time  that  even- 
ing, "  you'll  be  apt  to  stick  there  if  the  ice  came  on  too  thin  to 
bear  ye  and  too  thick  for  a  boat.  So  you  had  better  make  a 
move  on  the  double-quick.  And  now  see  here,  Flory,  you  an't 
doing  the  right  thing  by  the  party  and  by  yourself.  You  ought 
to  be  in  New  York  making  cover  for  what's  left  of  your  hay. 
Your  father  was  a  good  man,  but  the  best  man  that  ever  died 
wasn't  quite  worth  half  the  fuss  made  over  him." 

Florian  received  this  lecture  as  pleasant  badinage,  nor  did 
he  make  any  reply  to  Ruth's  kindly  invitation,  but,  wishing  them 
all  a  good-night,  politely  withdrew.  The  squire  snorted  as  the 
door  closed  after  him,  and  looked  severely  at  nobody. 

"  The  idea  of  a  dead  man  having  such  influence  over  a  living 
one!"  he  said  angrily.  "  I  believe  you're  all  to  blame  for  it,  too. 
He'll  die  on  that  island,  poking  over  the  remains  of  that  red- 
headed prince,  and  persuading  himself  of  nonsense  of  all  sorts. 
And  if  he  doesn't  his  affairs  in  the  city  will  all  go  to  smash. 
Now,  Ruth,  see  here.  We  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing  any 
longer,  and  to-morrow — to-morrow,  I  swear  it  and  I  vow  it — we'll 
go  over  in  a  body  ;  we'll  advance  on  that  island  like  an  army, 
and  we'll  forcibly  remove  him  to  the  village.  Come  on  home. 
There's  no  use  in  talking  to  the  pere.  I  suspect  he  would  be 
glad  if  Flory  took  a  dose  of  poison." 

"  It  might  not  do  him  as  much  harm  as  he  has  done  hun- 
dreds of  people  since  he  came  into  the  world,"  said  the  pere  with 
some  heat.  "  Do  you  know  what  he  sat  in  front  of  the  whole 
evening,  Ruth?  A  framed  copy  of  his  famous  letter  sent  out  in 
the  campaign." 

"  Go  it,  you  infernal  papists  !  "  said  the  squire  fiercely  ;  "  the 
whole  American  people  defies  you,  the  Constitution  of  these 
United  States—" 

"  Papa,"  said  Ruth  gently,  "  you're  not  on  the  stump  now. 
You're  in  the  priest's  study,  and  I  think  we  had  better  go." 

"  Jes'  as  you  say,"  the  squire  murmured  as  his  voice  sank 
out  of  hearing  under  this  reproof.  "  I  forgot,  Ruth.  But  how. 
about  that  young  Mr.  Ross?  " 

Ruth  arose  with  some  haste  and  bustled  the  squire  through 
the  door,  promising  the  priest  to  call  again,  and  fighting  down 
her  father's  voice  until  she  had  forced  him  into  the  street. 


192  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

Florian  made  his  way  across  the  river  in  a  dreamy,  unsettled 
way,  as  if  he  had  started  for  no  place  and  forgotten  the  harbor  he 
had  left.  He  was  very  eager  to  know  something  of  the  real  life 
of  his  father,  and  somewhat  bitter  at  finding  himself  left  out  so 
regularly  in  the  cold.  This  one  knew  and  that  one  knew  some 
trait  or  incident  of  the  hermit,  and  Linda  had  received  a  full 
measure  of  knowledge  at  the  last  moment.  He  alone  knew 
nothing.  His  thirst — and  it  increased  every  day— was  always 
unsatisfied.  His  father  spoke  to  him  only  through  the  cold,  un- 
sympathetic channels  of  dead  letters  or  of  outsiders  who  cared 
little  for  him.  It  was  a  hard  condition.  He  accepted  it  in  his 
usual  matter-of-fact  way,  but  it  hurt  him  nevertheless. 

When  the  island  was  reached  and  the  door  closed  on  all  the 
world — on  all  his  cares  and  disappointments,  on  all  his  ambitions 
— he  pulled  the  curtains  over  the  window,  replenished  the  fire, 
and,  with  Izaak  Walton  at  his  elbow,  sat  down  to  read  his  father's 
last  communication  to  him.  Just  as  his  father  had  sat  often  dur- 
ing the  nights  of  twenty  years !  The  old  charm  of  the  place  was 
not  yet  lost  to  him  ;  it  had  increased,  rather,  because  of  its  pa- 
thetic associations.  Here  he  had  slept  and  dreamed  that  his  fa- 
ther kissed  him  ;  here  the  hermit  had  made  a  last  attempt  to 
keep  him  in  Clayburg ;  here  he  had  tried  to  discover,  without 
much  if  any  help  from  God,  what  his  vocation  in  life  might  be. 
The  warning  which  the  prince  had  given  him  still  haunted  his 
memory,  but  he  had  not  gotten  over  his  old  scepticism  on  that 
point,  and  recalled  it  with  a  smile.  By  the  light  of  the  old  tal- 
low candle  he  opened  his  father's  letter  and  read  it  reveren- 
tially : 

My  son,  my  most  dear  son :  I  have  little  time  to  speak  to 
you.  I  fear,  I  am  sure,  our  enemy  is  on  my  track.  I  thought 
you  had  for  ever  averted  the  danger.  It  is  not  so.  These  peo- 
ple will  not  be  satisfied  until  they  have  killed  me.  God's  will 
be  done !  When  you  read  this  I  shall  be  dead.  Much  ob- 
scurity hangs  over  my  life.  It  will  never  be  removed  in  this 
world.  It  will  pain  you,  but  it  was  ordered  so  for  your  good. 
Believe  me,  your  father,  every  moment  of  my  life  was  a  study 
to  save  you  from  what  will  befall  me,  every  word  that  I  have 
said  to  you  dictated  by  the  strongest  love.  Be  content  with 
what  you  may  learn  of  me  from  strangers.  I  give  you  my  love 
and  bid  you  adieu.  I  return  to  you,  according  to  promise,  a 
well-known  document.  My  most  dear  son,  a  stranger  to  me  all 
my  life,  your  father  hopes  and  prays  to  meet  you  in  heaven. 

FLORIAN.     " 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  193 

He  read  it  over  three,  four,  ten  times,  with  a  more  vivid  pic- 
ture each  time  of  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  written, 
until  the  long-suffering  of  his  father's  life  and  the  condensed 
agony  of  that  farewell  was  tearing  his  own  heart  into  shreds, 
until  sobs  and  tears  came  to  shake  to  its  foundations  his  infernal 
stoicism  and  eternal  self-analysis,  and  to  show  him  that  he  was 
no  more,  after  all,  than  a  son  of  man.  He  felt  humiliated,  but 
only  before  himself.  When  self-possession  returned  he  glanced 
idly  at  the  other  document — a  bit  of  writing  signed,  as  his  fa- 
ther's letter  was,  "  Florian  "  ;  but  the  handwriting  was  his  own, 
and  a  more  careful  scrutiny  discovered  the  manuscript  to  be  that 
famous  declaration  of  his  views  on  everything  which  the  hermit 
had  received  from  him  ten  years  ago.  He  read  it  with  a  sad  yet 
tender  curiosity.  His  father  had  preserved  it  so  carefully,  had 
read  it  many  times,  no  doubt,  and  pondered  as  a  father  would 
over  the  workings  of  the  young  soul  which  God  had  given  to 
him  ;  had  kissed  it  many  times,  and  wept  and  prayed  over  it  for 
him,  and  besought  a  daily  measure  of  blessings  on  his  son. 
Therefore  he  read  it  considerately,  smiling  at  the  boyish  en- 
thusiasm which  every  line  displayed,  and  frowning  at  the  decla- 
ration of  beliefs  and  practices  some  time  discarded.  The  con- 
trast which  it  showed  to  exist  between  the  boy  and  the  man  he 
did  not  see,  or,  seeing,  did  not  take  heed,  but  put  it  away  between 
the  leaves  of  the  Izaak  Walton  and  gave  himself  up  to  hours  of 
profitless  thought.  In  these  moments  of  meditation  that  pe- 
culiar twisting  of  the  features  took  place  which  had  been  noticed 
during  the  funeral,  as  if  his  very  vitals  had  been  seized  by  the 
grasp  of  intolerable  pain.  With  his  strong  will  he  reasoned  its 
cause  down,  but  still  the  shadow  haunted  him  night  and  day. 


CHAPTER   III. 
A   WOMAN   SCORNED. 

AFTER  a  defeat  the  vanquished  naturally  hides  his  head  for  a 
short  time,  the  quicker  to  restore  his  bruised  features  to  their 
natural  shape  and  color.  This  very  just  reflection  did  not  at  all 
soothe  the  anxiety  of  Barbara  over  her  dear,  devoted  Florian's 
absence.  Twenty  times  a  day  she  tried  to  read  between  the  lines 
of  the  passionate  letters  he  sent  her  from  Clayburg,  and  because 
she  found  nothing  her  anxieties  increased  tenfold.  Ruth  was 
there,  and  who  could  tell  what  would  happen?  He  had  deserted 
VOL.  XLII.— 13 


194  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

one  woman.  Such  a  man  was  not  to  be  trusted  ;  and  if  the  old 
love  were  still  strong  after  ten  years  of  absence  from  its  object, 
what  would  it  not  be  in  her  presence,  what  might  it  not  dare  if 
Ruth  said,  I  am  willing  ?  Finally  Barbara  packed  her  trunk  and 
started  for  Clayburg  to  pay  her  old  friends  a  visit.  She  was  a 
little  fearful  of  the  effect  of  her  appearance  upon  Florian,  but 
trusted  to  luck  and  her  own  charms  to  allay  his  anger. 

No  one  in  Clayburg  knew  of  her  engagement  to  Florian,  but 
the  sight  of  her  stepping  from  the  train  sent  a  cold  chill  along  the 
squire's  spine,  and  Ruth's  first  glimpse  of  her  coming  up  the  walk 
to  the  house  produced  a  serious  misgiving  in  that  lady's  heart. 
She  was  going  to  stay  with  them,  of  course.  The  city  was  so 
dull  that  she  could  no  longer  endure  it,  and  it  was  so  long  since 
she  had  been  to  Clayburg.  While  she  was  removing  her  bonnet 
and  preparing  to  make  herself  comfortable  the  squire  found  op- 
portunity to  whisper  to  Ruth  : 

"  Not  one  word  about  Flory.     That's  who  she's  after." 

And  Ruth,  now  that  her  obtuse  father  shared  her  suspicion, 
became  more  than  ever  certain  of  the  object  of  Barbara's  visit. 
Barbara  was  unusually  entertaining  and  very  frank. 

"  And  you  have  had  that  very  god  among  men,  Mr.  Wallace, 
with  you,  and  you  let  him  go  so  easily  !  What  happy  mortals,  to 
be  the  favored  friends  of  so  charming  a  man  !  " 

"  Barbery,"  said  the  squire  solemnly,  as  he  sat  down  before 
her,  "  don't  you  attempt  to  tell  me  you  came  all  the  way  from 
New  York  jest  to  see  your  old  friends.  You  don't  care  two  cop- 
pers for  us.  You've  got  an  object  in  coming  here,  and  I  want  to 
know  it.  Because  if  you're  after  me  I  may  as  well  give  in  at 
once  and  save  the  trouble  of  a  long  courtship.  If  you're  not, 
then  I  can  rest  satisfied  and  you  can  stay  here  as  long  as  you 
wish  to." 

"  The  vanity  of  an  old  fellow,"  said  Barbara,  "  is  as  violent  as 
it  is  curious.  Now,  what  could  I  possibly  want  with  an  antique 
like  you  ?  " 

"  An  antique  ! "  said  the  squire,  dazed.  "  Ruth,  can  you  sit  by 
and  hear  your  father  called  an  antique  by  a  mere  strip  of  a 
widow  ?  If  you  can  you  have  no  more  notion  of  your  duty  than 
any  other  woman." 

"  Well,  papa,  you  are  the  sheriff — put  Barbara  in  *«41c" 

11 1  wish  I  could,"  said  he  gloomily.  "  She's  not  safe  even  in 
jail,  though  :  she'd  bewitch  the  jailer,  the  chief  of  police,  lawyers, 
judges.  There  an't  nothing,  in  fact,  to  hold  her.  Barbery,  speak 
right  out.  Are  you  after  me  ? " 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  195 

And  the  squire  groaned  in  mock  anguish  of  spirit 

"  No,  I'm  not  after  you,  you  poor  man  ;  I  have  nothing  to  do 
with  you,  except  to  eat  your  dinners  and  make  myself  expensive 
and  troublesome  for  a  few  days/' 

"  The  hull  house  is  yours,  my  girl,  and  all  that's  in  it.  If  you 
say  the  word  you  can  have  any  man  in  the  town  that  you're  fish- 
ing for  brought  right  here  into  the  parlor,  and  I'll  help  you  do 
the  courting.  I  will,  by  Jupiter!  "  shouted  the  squire  joyfully. 

"  Thank  you ;  but  I  am  engaged  already,  squire." 

"  Jes'  so/'  said  Pendleton  dubiously  ;  "  but  you're  not  safe,  en- 
gaged or  married." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  me,  please ;  and  do  go  away,  like  a  good 
man,  until  I  have  a  chat  with  Ruth.  You  need  not  fear  any 
trouble  from  me.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you  will  die  un- 
bound by  matrimony." 

"  I'm  really  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  squire,  going  out,  with  a 
warning  look  at  his  daughter. 

"  And  so  Florian  Wallace  was  here  again,"  said  Barbara,  with 
an  arch  look  at  Ruth.  "  O  Ruth  dear !  was  there  ever  a  man 
more  faithful  to  the  love  of  his  youth  ?  And  tell  me,  tell  me  truly, 
did  you  refuse  him  a  second  time — why,  no,  a  third  time,  is  it  not  ? 

"  Barbara,"  said  Ruth  sternly,  "  you  have  sense  enough  to 
know  the  bad  taste  and  impertinence  of  your  question.  Florian 
has  long  ago  given  up  his  intentions  with  regard  to  me,  and  is 
engaged  to  a  noble  woman  in  the  city.  You  do  him  wrong  in 
talking  thus  of  him  and  me." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  a  great  wrong,"  said  Barbara  scornfully,  "  to 
him  in  particular,  for  he  is  the  soul  of  honor.  If  you  said  '  Come ' 
to-morrow,  no  woman,  no  honor  could  hold  him  from  you,  and 
you  know  it.  That  is  just  what  Florian  Wallace  amounts  to." 

"  I  would  be  sorry  to  know  that  any  one  could  say  that  of  him 
with  the  appearance  even  of  truth." 

"  Well,  have  patience  and  you  will  see.  When  did  the  great 
luminary  leave  here?" 

"That  I'could  not  say,"  Ruth  replied  evasively.  "  I  saw  him 
for  the  last  time  at  the  priest's  house  five  nights  ago.  I  bade  him 
good-by  and  urged  him  to  remain  with  us  a  few  days  before 
leaving.  He  declined.  I  have  not  seen  him  since." 

"  He  had  not  arrived  in  New  York  when  I  left,  so  that  I  must 
have  passed  him,  or  he  may  have  stopped  at  Albany.  How  did 
he  seem  to  bear  his  late  defeat?" 

"  It  did  not  seem  to  trouble  him  much,  but  he  was  very  som- 
bre in  his  manner.  I  felt  sorry  for  him." 


196  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

"  Did  he  not  say  that  he  was  going  to  New  York  direct  ?  " 

"  He  left  us  that  impression." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  knows  anything,"  Barbara  thought,  "  and, 
suspecting  my  errand,  is  hiding  it?  Never  mind;  there  are  a 
hundred  places  to  inquire." 

She  changed  the  subject  to  other  matters,  but  it  required  all 
Ruth's  watchfulness  to  avoid  the  traps  which  the  cunning  witch 
laid  for  her  in  the  most  unexpected  places.  But  for  her  aid  the 
squire  could  not  have  helped  giving  her  the  information  she  so 
eagerly  sought,  and  it  intensified  Barbara's  anger  to  see  how  tho- 
roughly she  was  kept  in  the  dark. 

"  I'll  get  even  with  Miss  Prim,  if  I  can,"  she  said  bitterly, 
"and  I  shall  not  spare  her  when  my  time  comes.' 

She  went  up  to  visit  the  pere  the  next  afternoon  towards 
evening,  but,  owing  to  the  squire's  foresight,  failed  to  get  any 
information  from  him.  In  fact,  no  one  knew  anything  concern- 
ing Florian,  and  the  towns-people  believed  he  had  returned  to 
New  York  the  day  after  Scott's  funeral.  She  had  received  letters 
from  him  later  than  that  date,  so  that  during  the  intervening  time 
he  was  actually  in  hiding.  Intense  alarm  now  seized  her,  and  she 
came  to  the  determination  to  force  the  truth  from  the  Pendletons 
by  any  means  that  came  to  hand.  Sitting  quietly  in  the  parlor 
after  dinner  with  the  squire  and  Ruth,  she  flung  down  her  gage 
of  battle  to  them  with  disconcerting  suddenness. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  both  aware  of  the  object  of  my  visit  here," 
she  said  ;  "at  least  your  manner  shows  that  you  are." 

"  Well,  Barbery,"  said  the  squire  coolly,  "  Flory's  high  game, 
and  I  don't  blame  you,  but  you'll  never  get  him  ;  mark  my  words — 
you'll  never  get  him." 

'*  You  know  where  he's  hiding,  both  of  you.  Why  do  you  not 
tell  me  what  I  want  to  know  ?  "  she  snapped,  and  all  her  evil  self 
displayed  itself  in  her  coarse  manner. 

"  'Tisn't  fair,  my  dear.  Flory  must  have  a  show,"  the  squire 
said,  with  much  gravity  ;  "  and  as  he's  somewhat  cast  down  now, 
it  wouldn't  do  to  let  you  go  cooing  around  him.  You'd  have  him 
married  to  you  in  a  wink.  Your  cooing  doesn't  suit  as  well  after 
marriage  as  before,  and  I'm  going  to  save  him  from  you,  if  1  can." 

"  At  least  you  might  have  some  gratitude,"  turning  suddenly  on 
Ruth.  "  When  your  love-affair  was  hanging  fire  I  assisted  you." 

"  Without  any  wish  on  my  part,"  said  gentle  Ruth,  flushing 
painfully.  "  Your  interference  was  of  more  harm  than  benefit, 
I  never  knew  you  were  what  you  now  show  yourself  to  be." 

"You  didn't?  "snorted  the  squire.     "Then  you've  had  your 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  197 

eyes  shut  since  you  were  born,  girl.  You  didn't  know  Barbery  ? 
She  isn't  one  bit  different  from  what  she  was  twenty  years  ago, 
for  all  her  turning  papist  like  yourself!  Do  yqu  know  what  I 
said  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  yes,  squire,"  with  a  charming  smile.  "  Every  one  knows 
what  you  say,  and  even  what  you  think,  or  are  going  to  say  or 
think.  You're  a  dear,  soft-headed  old  idiot !  " 

"  Jes'  as  you  say,"  murmured  the  squire,  for  lack  of  words 
to  express  his  feelings,  while  Ruth  listened  in  amazement. 

41  You  might  as  well  know,"  she  said,  with  heightened  color, 
"  that  I  am  Florian's  promised  wife.  Will  you  tell  me  now  where 
he  is  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  do  it,  Ruth,"  gasped  the  squire.  "  It's  quite 
likely  she's—" 

"  O  papa !  "  said  Ruth,  "  don't  insinuate  that.  If  you  are 
what  you  say,  Barbara  Merrion,  what  has  become  of  Frances 
Lynch  ?  " 

"  Thrown  aside  like  a  toy.  What  did  Florian  want  with  her 
— a  dainty  nonentity  ?  "  And  she  laughed. 

"  I  think — I  fear  you  are  a  bad  woman,  Barbara,"  said  Ruth, 
with  the  courage  peculiar  to  her  on  such  occasions.  "  If  he  has 
wronged  that  sweet  girl  it  was  because  of  you  and  at  your  in- 
stigation. How  could  you,  a  Catholic,  think  of  such  a  wicked 
crime?  " 

"  She  donned  the  Catholic  rig  to  catch  Flory,  as  I  said  at  the 
time,"  said  the  angry  squire.  "  You  did,  Barbara.  Your  face 
confesses  it." 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  these  things.  Can  you,  will  you 
tell  me  where  is  Florian?" 

"  If  you're  engaged  to  him,"  the  squire  remarked  wickedly, 
"  you  ought  to  know  where  he  is." 

"I  have  a  batch  of  letters  which  he  has  written  to  me  every 
day  since  he  came  here,  and  I  know  that  he  is  here,  and  that  is 
all." 

"  You'll  have  to  find  him  yourself,  then/'  said  the  squire ; 
"  and,  as  we  don't  care  to  mix  ourselves  up  in  your  doings,  per- 
haps you  wouldn't  mind  going  to  stay  with  your  friends  in  the 
town." 

"  I  have  already  decided  on  that,  you  funny  old  man,  for  it 
would  be  too  much  to  accept  of  your  hospitality  farther." 

Ruth  rose  and  left  the  room  without  a  word,  hurt  beyond 
measure  at  the  vulgarity  and  wickedness  of  Barbara's  character. 
That  it  was  light  and  insincere  she  well  knew,  but  she  had  always 


198  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

given  her  credit  for  a  certain  refinement  and  natural  pride  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  prevent  such  behavior  as  she  had  just  shown. 
It  was  bitter  for  her  to  recall  that  she  had  confided  the  tenderest 
secret  of  her  heart  to  this  woman,  and  that  nothing  might  hinder 
her  from  publishing  it  to  the  world.  Barbara  looked  after  her 
with  light  scorn,  and  the  expression  in  her  face  stung  the  squire 
into  a  rage. 

"  You've  done  enough  for  one  day,"  he  said,  purpling,  "  to 
give  you  a  chance  at  a  ten  years'  penance.  That  good  girl  sees 
what  you  are  to  the  core,  and  if  she  doesn't  make  it  known  I  will." 

"  That  good  girl ! "  said  Barbara,  with  a  sneering  laugh.  "  She 
was  always  so  good !  Yet  she  encouraged  Florian  into  offering 
her  marriage,  and  then  threw  him  off.  She  went  to  a  convent  in 
a  streak  of  gushing  piety,  and  when  the  gush  stopped  came  run- 
ning down  to  New  York  after  a  dandy  little  poet  upon  whom  her 
heart  was  set,  and,  if  she  had  found  him,  would  have  proposed  to 
him  and  married  him.  That  modest  girl !  I'll  make  her  modesty 
known  through  this  town  !  " 

"  And  if  you  do/'  roared  the  squire,  "  I'll  publish  your  char- 
acter to  Flory  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  How  will  he  like 
to  know  that  the  woman  he's  going  to  marry  came  up  to  Clay- 
burg  and  made  a  circus  of  herself  and  him  to  everybody,  run- 
ning here  and  there  with  a  story  of  an  engagement  ?  O  Bar- 
bery !  you're  a  bad  one,  and  I  always  knew  it,  in  spite  of  your 
dainty  ways  and  your  perfumed  trickery." 

The  dainty  one  burst  suddenly  into  a  fit  of  sobbing,  and  left 
the  squire  with  his  anger  suddenly  congealed  in  his  swollen 
veins.  The  last  threat  had  struck  home.  More  than  once  the 
fear  of  such  an  event  had  chilled  Barbara's  confident  heart,  but 
she  had  persuaded  herself  that  if  it  came  to  Florian's  ears  a  few 
charming  sentences  would  smooth  the  matter  over.  Now  that 
the  idea  was  put  into  speech  by  another,  and  that  other  the 
stupid,  go-ahead  squire,  the  enormity  of  her  conduct  burst  upon 
her  like  a  storm.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  propitiate  the 
great  dragon  into  silence,  and  this  was  her  method.  Pendleton 
was  disarmed  instantly.  He  looked  at  her  suspiciously,  coughed, 
twisted,  and  finally  began  to  implore. 

"  I  can't  help  it,"  said  Barbara,  with  a  sob  for  every  word. 
"  I  know  I've  made  a  fool  of  myself,  but  who  could  help  it  ?  I 
was  dying  to  see  him,  and  you  would  not  tell  me,  and  I  grew 
angry  and  impertinent.  And  now  you  threaten  me,  to  calum- 
niate me — you,  my  own  father's  relative,  and  to  do  such  dreadful 
things.  Why  wouldn't  I  cry  ?  " 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  199 

"Jes  so,  Barbery;  you  have  a  right  to.  I  don't  blame  you. 
But  let  up  now,  and  let  us  call  bygones  bygones.  You  haven't 
done  anything  awful,  not  any  more  than  I  would  expect  from 
you,  and  I've  been  rather  hard  in  looking  for  you  to  act  like  my 
Ruth.  There,  now,  do  stop,  and  I  swear  you  can  marry  Flory 
twenty  times  over  before  I  open  my  mouth.  Oh !  tarnation, 
this  is  terrible.  See  here,  Barbery,  jes'  hear  me  one  minute,  will 
you?" 

But  Barbara  would  not  hear,  and  her  sobs  increased  in  vio- 
lence until  the  squire  was  temporarily  insane.  Peeping  out  from 
her  handkerchief,  she  saw  that  she  had  brought  him  to  the  proper 
point. 

"  I'm  going,"  she  said,  rising,  "  dishonorably  ejected  from  the 
house  of  my  own  father's  relative — " 

"No,  no !  "  moaned  the  squire. 

"  Threatened  with  disgrace  and  shame — " 

"  O  Lord,  no  !  "  moaned  the  squire. 

"  Then  what  do  you  propose  to  do,  squire?  "  turning  sudden- 
ly upon  him  with  her  tearful,  imploring  face. 

"  I  propose  to  do  nothing,  say  nothing,  think  nothing,  see  and 
hear  nothing  in  your  connection  now  and  for  evermore." 

"  You  dear  old  fellow  !  is  it  possible  you  will  be  so  kind  ?  And 
I'll  go  home  this  very  night,  and  wait  like  a  good  girl  until  Flo- 
rian  comes  to  me." 

"  That's  sensible,  Barbery.     You're  not  a  bad  girl,  after  all." 

"  And  you're  the  sweetest,  dearest  old  man,"  putting  her  lips 
to  his  rough  cheek  and  patting  his  shaggy  head.  "  Good-by, 
squire.  Be  at  the  depot  and  see  me  off.  Now  I'll  go  make  peace 
with  Ruth." 

.The  squire  sat  in  his  chair  a  long  time,  thinking  profoundly. 
There  was  the  coming  or  going  of  light  feet  all  around  him  for  a 
long  time,  and  the  banging  of  many  doors,  but  he  never  moved 
from  his  thoughtful  position  until  Billy  came  to  bring  him  out 
for  the  usual  constitutional.  Then  the  squire  arose  with  a  solemn 
disgust  written  indelibly  on  his  face,  and  looked  first  at  himself, 
then  at  his  crony. 

"  You're  not  tall  enough,"  he  said  mournfully,  "  or  I  would 
give  you  permission  to  kick  me  back  into  my  senses." 

"What!  kick  you,  you  divil  ?  "  said  Billy.  "I  can  do  that, 
tall  or  short.  What's  the  cause  of  it  all  ?  " 

"  A  woman,  old  boy.  She  kissed  me  and  petted  me,  and  I 
caved  in.  A  woman,  and,  I  may  add  it,  a  widow." 

Barbara   transferred  her  effects  and  herself   to  the  hotel  in 


200  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

much  distress  of  mind,  although  forced  to  laugh  often  over  her 
supreme  conquest  of  the  squire.  She  had  gotten  herself  into  a 
difficult}7,  and  saw  no  easy  way  of  escape  as  long  as  she  held  to 
her  determination  to  discover  Florian.  To  it  she  was  bound  to 
hold  in  spite  of  fate,  confident  that  her  old  luck  would  not  de- 
sert her.  But  matters  had  a  gloomy  look,  and  her  orders  to 
the  landlord  that  she  be  taken  to  the  depot  for  the  night  train 
was  a  sort  of  submission  to  fate  which  might  not  come  amiss 
later.  Sitting  in  the  shabby  hotel  parlor  idly  touching  the  keys 
of  the  consumptive  piano,  to  her  entered  Paul  Rossiter.  He 
was  not  aware  of  her  presence.  A  wild,  glad  sparkle  lit  up  her 
eyes  at  sight  of  him.  Here  was  a  chance  to  attain  her  object ; 
here  was  an  opportunity  to  stab  Ruth  Pendleton  to  the  heart. 
She  stood  up  shaking  her  finger  at  him  as  Lady  Teazle  would  at 
Sir  Peter,  and  the  amazed  poet,  astonished  first  at  such  behavior 
in  a  stranger,  was  next  overcome  with  sudden  delight. 
"  Mr.  Rossiter — O  Mr.  Rossiter  !  is  it  really  you  ?  " 
"  It  is,  Mrs.  Merrion,  and  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you." 
"  And  where  is  Florian — Mr.  Wallace?  Why  are  you  in  the 
same  town  and  not  together?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  is  loafing  on  his  island  still,"  said  the  thought- 
less poet.     "  He  spends  most  of  his  time  there  and  rarely  comes 
to  the  village.     And  may  I  ask  what  fate  has  cast  you  at  this  un- 
happy season  on  the  shores  of  the  St.  Lawrence?" 
"  My  native  place  receives  me  at  any  time." 
"  Ah  !  your  native  place?  " 

"  You,  I  suppose,  are  soon  to  make  your  home  here  ?  " 
"  I  return  to  New  York  in  a  week,  Mrs.  Merrion." 
"  Where  you  are  hopelessly  unknown   by  this  time,  as  most 
people  think  you   have  drowned  yourself.     And  is   Ruth  to  "go 
with  you  ?" 

"Ruth  !  "  stammered'the  poet.  "  What  has  Ruth  to  do  with 
me?  Do  you  mean  Miss  Pendleton?  .1  have  not  addressed  her 
twice  since  I  came  to  the  town.  For  a  long  time  I  was  not 
aware  she  had  left  her  convent." 

"  And  yet  she  left  the  convent  for  your  sake." 
He  flushed  a  little,  ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  motive  of  her 
boldness.     She  had,  as  she  thought,  an  opportunity  for  belittling 
Ruth,  and  if  the  poet  could  not  suspect  it  he  could  feel  an  un- 
easiness at  her  frank  communications. 

"  Do  you  remember  a  bit  of   bristol-board,"  she  continued, 
"scribbled  upon  by  you  in  the  convent-grounds  last  year?  " 
He  did  remember  something  of  the  sort. 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  201 

"  It  was  found  and  given  to  Ruth.  Romantic,  wasn't  it  ?  They 
could  no  longer  hold  her  in  the  convent.  *  She  went  by  hill,  she 
went  by  dale,'  until  she  came  to  me  in  the  city,  showed  me  the 
card,  and  implored  me  to  aid  her  in  finding  you.  When  you 
were  not  to  be  found  she  was  nearly  frantic,  and  fled  to  the  se- 
clusion of  Clayburg  to  hide  her  grief.  Worse  than  a  convent", 
isn't  it?  And  I  thought  you  had  settled  the  matter,  and  would 
take  Ruth  with  you  to  the  city  !  Well,  there's  bashfulness  for 
you  !  And  so,  Flo — Mr.  Wallace  is  on  the  island.  Which  island, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?" 

"  Solitary  Island  I  think  they  call  it,"  said  Paul  absently,  his 
whole  body  hot  with  mingled  feelings  of  shame  and  delight. 

"  Mr.  Rossiter,"  she  said  suddenly,  "  you  must  do  me  a  favor. 
I  want  to  see  Florian.  I  must  see  him  to-night.  The  last  train 
leaves  at  ten,  and  I  must  be  on  that  train.  Will  you  take  me  to 
Solitary  Island?" 

"  I  have  to  go  there  myself,"  the  poet  said,  surprised  some- 
what, "  and  you  may  come  with  me." 

"  Thank  you — thank  you  a  hundred  times  !  "  so  earnestly  that 
Paul  had  a  sudden  misgiving  as  to  the  prudence  of  granting  the 
favor. 

"And  now,  Mr.  Rossiter,"  pleadingly,  with  sweet  confidence, 
"you  will  not  go  without  speaking  to  Ruth?  You  will  not 
leave  her  and  yourself  to  pine — " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Paul  hastily.  "  Please  do  not  say  any 
more  about  that.  I  will  call  for  you  at  seven  o'clock.  Three 
hours  will  be  more  than  sufficient  to  take  us  to  the  island  and 
back  again.  With  your  permission  I  will  go  now,  as  I  have 
some  business  to  attend  to." 

The  look  of  triumph,  of  delight  on  Barbara's  countenance  as 
he  left  the  room  was  spoiled  by  the  baser  feeling  of  satisfied  re- 
venge. She  had,  in  spite  of  her  enemies,  discovered  Florian, 
and,  at  the  least,  wounded  Ruth's  sterling  modesty,  if  not  alto- 
gether destroyed  its  existence  in  the  mind  of  the  sensitive  Paul 
Rossiter.  Paul  went  out  into  the  open  air  in  a  daze  of  happi- 
ness. Ruth  loved  him  ;  his  fate  was  no  longer  uncertain,  but 
he  was  sorry  that  her  tender  secret  had  found  a  resting-place 
in  Barbara's  bosom.  He  could  not  see  the  motives  of  the  latter's 
coarse  revelation  of  it  to  him.  He  was  sure,  however,  that 
malice  prompted  both  the  coarseness  and  the  revelation,  and  he 
had  a  dim  suspicion  that  something  might  have  happened  since 
Barbara's  arrival  in  town  to  bring  it  to  pass.  Perhaps  Ruth 
knew,  and  dreaded  that  Barbara  would  do  something  of  the  kind. 


202  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

How  would  she  ever  look  in  his  face  again,  suspecting  that  Bar- 
bara had  so  ruthlessly  exposed  her  ?  The  more  the  poet  looked 
at  the  matter  the  stronger  his  suspicions  grew,  and  alongside  of 
them  grew  the  determination  to  leave  Clayburg  that  night  as 
quietly  as  he  had  entered  it  months  before.  Ruth  would  then 
feel  easier  in  the  belief  that  her  shame  had  not  been  made  public, 
or  even  whispered  to  him.  In  time  he  could  come  himself  to 
press  the  suit  in  which  he  had  altogether  despaired  ;  and  if  it 
was  hard  to  forbear  flying  to  her  then  and  soliciting  a  surrender 
of  the  secret  which  rightfully  belonged  to  him,  its  compensation 
was  that 'the  delicacy  of  his  wife-to-be  would  not  be  so  cruelly 
injured.  She  loved  him  and  had  sought  for  him,  and  was  grieved 
at  his  absence.  He  did  not  want  more ;  but  he  walked  near  the 
house  just  after  twilight,  and  saw  her  sitting  at  one  side  of  the 
parlor-table,  with  the  squire  at  the  other,  her  calm,  peaceful  face 
as  sweet  in  its  repose  as  if  the  nun's  veil  hung  about  it. 

After  all,  revenge  is  not  so  sweet.  Barbara  began  to  have 
misgivings  directly  the  first  glow  of  triumph  faded.  What  if  her 
behavior  should  reach  Florian's  ears?  And  how  would  he  take 
her  appearance  on  the  island  ?  She  had  confidence  in  her  ability 
to  do  many  things,  and  one  of  them  was  not  to  wind  him  about 
her  finger.  She  might  wind  occasionally,  but  not  always.  One 
thing  was  certain  as  death  :  that  if  she  made  but  one  misstep  the 
lost  point  could  never  be  recovered.  Still,  she  set  her  face 
against  all  obstacles.  When  seven  o'clock  came  she  stood  shiver- 
ing, not  from  cold,  on  the  veranda.  It  was  a  sharp  and  gusty 
November  night,  but  the  wind  was  not  strong  and  the  bay  was 
quiet. 

"  One  hour  to  go,  one  to  come,  one  to  stay,  is  the  programme," 
said  Paul,  as,  with  her  on  his  arm,  he  made  his  way  to  the  wharf; 
"  but  that  allows  no  time  for  unforeseen  delays." 

She  did  not  speak,  and  he  was  glad  she  did  not,  for  he  had 
taken  a  natural  disgust  for  her.  At  the  dock  the  Juanita  was  bob- 
bing on  the  water,  all  steam  up.  A  yacht  was  stealing  carefully 
in  to  her  moorings  at  the  stern  of  the  steamer,  and  drew  Paul's 
attention  for  an  instant. 

"  What  are  you  waiting  for?  "  she  said  impatiently. 

He  led  her  to  the  yacht,  and  they  came  face  to  face  with 
Florian  just  stepping  from  it  in  a  secret  way,  as  if  he  wished 
none  to  recognize  him. 

"  Here  is  a  lady  wishes  to  see  you,  sir,"  said  Paul  simply. 

Barbara  gasped  as  she  pulled  up  her  veil  and  held  out  her 
hand. 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  203 

"  Is  it  you,  Mrs.  Merrion  ?  "  said  the  great  man  indifferently, 
not  able  to  refuse  the  offered  hand.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you." 

But  the  calm  words  were  belied  by  the  look  of  his  face,  which 
Paul  would  have  understood  had  he  known  of  his  new  engage- 
ment to  Barbara,  and  which  made  the  woman's  stout  heart  beat 
with  terror.  She  was  too  frightened  to  utter  a  word. 

"  I  am  going  to  New  York  to-night,"  he  continued  ;  "  do  you 
journey  that  way?  I  shall  be  glad  of  your  company,  if  you  do." 

"  Yes,"  said  Barbara  feebly,  and,  strive  as  she  would,  she  could 
not  speak. 

"  If  you  are  going  away,"  said  Paul  then,  "  I  have  something 
connected  with  the  island  which  you  might  like  to  know.'' 

The  great  man  waved  his  hand  impatiently. 

"  Thank  you.  I  can  save  you  any  trouble.  I  know  all  I  need 
to  know,  and  were  I  looking  for  information  I  would  scarcely 
apply  to  you.  Are  you  going  to  the  hotel,  Mrs.  Merrion,  or  are 
you  at  Miss  Pendleton's  ?  " 

Paul  did  not  hear  the  mumbled  reply,  having  retired  modestly 
out  of  range  of  the  great  man's  heavy  guns. 

Two  villagers  passing  along  the  sidewalk  some  distance  off 
were  shouted  at  by  the  pilot  of  the  Juanita. 

"  I  say,  Sam,  what  are  you  in  for  to-night  ?  " 

"  Inquest,"  returned  Sam  lightly,  "  over  the  murder  of  old 
Scott.  It's  goin'  to  be  at  the  hotel.  Twelve  on  us  air  goin'  to 
sit  on  the  body." 

"  Keep  Squire  PenTton  off,"  replied  the  pilot,  "  or  he'll  not 
leave  any  corpse  for  the  rest  o'  you  to  sit  on." 

There  was  a  laugh  from  both  parties  at  this  joke,  and  Paul 
saw  the  two  he  had  just  left  stop  suddenly  and  turn  away  in  the 
opposite  direction. 

"  Warnings  everywhere,"  he  said  aloud,  "  and  all  unheeded. 
God  help  him,  for  man  can't." 

All  three  took  train  a  few  hours  later  for  New  York. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
THE  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER. 

IN  the  whirlpool  of  city  life  again !  Paul  realized  it  with  a 
sense  of  delight  as  unexpected  as  it  was  pleasant ;  for  he  had 
never  a  great  love  towards  the  metropolis,  and  his  many  sorrows 
there  had  embittered  him  against  it  for  ever.  Not  quite  for  ever, 
as  he  now  felt.  He  had  the  secret  of  his  misfortunes  in  his 


204  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

grasp,  and  nevermore  could  Russian  spies  go  about  whispering 
slanders  and  bribing  the  managers  of  theatres  because  of  his  like- 
ness to  the  Prince  of  Cracow.  There  was  a  fair  field  before  him. 
He  would  haunt  the  old  dens  of  misery  where  his  poor  lived, 
without  being  compelled  to  live  in  them,  and  the  aristocratic 
seclusion  of  the  famous  boarding-house  would  open  to  him  again. 
A  few  months'  absence  had  banished  the  mists  that  once  hung 
round  him.  One  manager  was  glad  to  have  him  back,  and  an- 
other, and  a  third.  Then  the  mighty  Corcoran  was  extremely 
cordial,  and  had  so  far  forgotten  being  called  a  "  dim  my  John  "  by 
Peter  Carter  as  to  invite  him  to  send  in  a  series  of  articles.  In 
fact,  a  few  calls  in  the  course  of  the  day  filled  the  poet  with  in- 
ordinate vanity ;  and  it  was  with  a  very  light  head  that  he  en- 
tered a  restaurant  to  have  an  early  supper.  It  was  a  cheap 
place,  cheap  even  for  that  time,  but  the  eatables  were  plain 
and  good,  with  a  country  sincerity  in  the  bread  and  meat  and 
potatoes  and  butter.  An  immense  quantity  was  served  to  each 
customer.  Paul  was  intoxicated  enough  to  have  withstood  a 
weightier  meal  t'han  was  set  before  him,  and  was  half-way 
through  it  when — 

"  It's  his  ghost !  Lord  be  merciful  to  me  that  sees  it !  "  cried  a 
stout  but  shaking  voice  at  a  distant  table;  and,  looking  up,  Paul 
saw  the  rubicund,  rotund  Peter,  red  in  the  face  from  weakness 
and  fright — even  in  physicals  Peter  was  contrary — staring  at  him, 
fascinated  and  groaning  deeply. 

"  O  God,  help  me !  "  cried  Peter  again  and  again,  beating  his 
breast.  "  Mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa  !  O  Lord !  " 

Paul  cruelly  proceeded  with  his  meal,  while  astonished  waiters 
gathered  around  the  suffering  man  in  wonder  and  sympathy. 

"  There  he  is.  Don't  you  see  him  ?  "  said  Peter  in  answer  to 
their  inquiries — "  the  boy  that  went  and  drowned  himself  be- 
cause of  my  folly.  You  can't  take  him  away.  He'll  be  always 
before  me,  and  eating  like  that.  It's  awful !  " 

To  prevent  the  waiters  taking  Peter  for  an  idiot  the  poet, 
laughing  at  the  fun  arid  delighted  to  meet  this  rarest  of  old 
friends,  came  forward  to  the  journalist's  table.  The  start  which 
Peter  made  as  he  saw  the  apparition  moving  towards  him  scat- 
tered the  waiters  in  a  twinkling,  and  his  tragic  grasp  of  the 
table-cloth  would  have  ruined  the  crockery  but  for  the  restraining 
hand  of  Paul. 

"  I  am  real  flesh  and  blood,  Peter,"  said  he ;  "  drop  your  non- 
sense, and  shake  hands  in  memory  of  old  friendship." 

"  Paul,"  said  the  old  boy,  with  a  little  soprano  squeal  of  de- 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  205 

light—"  Paul,"  squeezing*  and  wringing  the  young  boy's  hand  un- 
til it  became  a  shapeless  ache  at  the  end  of  the  poet's  wrist,  while 
the  tears  chased  one  another  over  the  round  cheeks — "  O  Paul, 
Paul,  Paul!" 

And  that  was  the  only  word  which  the  gentleman  could  speak 
for  three  minutes.  The  memory  of  all  he  had  endured  since 
Paul's  departure,  and  the  joy  of  seeing  his  favorite,  were  too  much 
for  the  excitable  Bohemian, 

"  Let  us  go  home  to  the  famous  attic,"  said  Paul  as  he  pock- 
eted a  flask  for  Peter's  benefit,  "  and  we  shall  review  old  times 
through  the  flashing  of  the  tears  of  Erin." 

Peter  shook  his  head  and  uttered  a  groan  of  such  agony  as 
really  touched  the  poet's  heart. 

"  I'll  take  you  to  an  attic,  me  b'y,"  said  Peter,  when  his  voice 
appeared;  "but  it's  me  own — yes,  yes,  me  own,  and  no  other's." 

"  You  are  not,  then,  at  De  Ponsonby's?"  said  Paul. 

"Oh!  that  heaven  of  delights,"  squealed  Peter.  "No.  I've 
been  kicked  out  of  it  by  me  own  hand,  like  the  first  Adam  out  of 
paradise.  Here  I  am,  in  me  old  age,  eating  cabbage  and  pork 
when  roast  fowl  or  lamb  would  suit  me  better.  Did  ye  order 
lamb,  b'y  ?  They  do  it  well  here/' 

"Never  mind  the  lamb,"  said  Paul,  "  but  come  on  to  your 
lodgings.  I  have  much  to  say,  and  something  to  give  you." 

"  I  hope  it's  what  I  need,  then.  Come  along  and  hear  the 
woes  of  a  gentleman  of  rank  elevated  to  the  sky — bad  cess  to  it ! 
I  never  knew  how  close  it  was  till  I  lay  next  to  it.  There  I've 
been,  I  don't  know  how  long,  because  of  a  rascal  wid  a  gizzard 
instead  of  a  heart,  and  the  lovely  Merrion — oh !  that  dainty  crea- 
ture, that  butterfly.  Twice  she  deceived  me.  I  don't  know  as  she 
did  the  last  time,  but  anyway  it  was  the  next  thing  to  deceiving, 
which  is  worse  than  the  real  out-and-out,  since  it  has  a  better 
appearance  of  truth.  Well,  here  we  are,  b'y,  at  the  door.  Up, 
now,  and  don't  stop  as  long's  there's  a  stair  to  be  climbed,  till  ye 
hit  your  head  against  the  rafters  or  the  sky.  This  is  my  Pegasus, 
this  stairway.  Are  ye  writin'  poetry  yet,  Paul  ?  Ye  are,  of 
course  ;  it's  good  to  have  all  the  nonsense  out  of  ye  while  ye're 
young,  not  be  carryin'  it  like  poor  old  Peter  in  his  fifties." 

A  poky  room  was  the  philosopher's  garret,  tossed  and  turn- 
bled  out  of  all  semblance  of  order,  ridiculously  small  and  badly 
furnished.  The  single  bed  boasted  a  silk  counterpane. 

"  That's  pretty,  now,"  said  Peter,  jerking  it  into  the  chilly 
sunlight  and  wrapping  it  about  him,  while  he  took  a  turn  to  the 


206  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

window  and  back;  "come  here  and  tell  me,  Paul,  do  ye  know 
where  we  are  ?  " 

"  That  row  of  houses  yonder  has  a  familiar  look,"  said  Paul, 
gazing  thoughtfully  at  them,  "  and  there  is  one — why,  if  it  isn't 
De  Ponsonby's,  sure  enough !  And  there's  the  old  garret,  and 
that's  Frances,  as  I  live,  at  the  window,  and  she's  making  signs 
to  me.  I'm  sure  she  knows  me." 

"  Back  !  "  yelled  Peter  suddenly,  as  he  tossed  the  poet  aside 
and  took  his  place  at  the  window,  where  he  began  to  answer  the 
signals  of  the  lady  opposite.  When  he  was  done  he  closed  the 
window  and  sat  down,  suddenly  moody,  the  silk  counterpane  in 
his  lap. 

"  She  made  it,"  he  said  sadly.  "  Oh !  God  help  me,  Peter.  I 
know  what  Adam  felt  in  looking  over  the  paradisial  fence." 

Paul  was  brushing  himself  after  an  accidental  tumble  over  all 
the  furniture  in  the  room. 

"  Couldn't  you  manage  to  toss  a  visitor  out  of  the  window 
once  in  a  while  to  vary  the  thing?  "  he  asked.  "  It  would  be 
more  simple  for  him  if  other  people  had  the  trouble  of  picking  up 
the  pieces  and  putting  him  together." 

11  Just  so,"  said  Peter,  with  an  unrestrained  roar ;  "  but  ye  had 
no  right  interfering  wid  my  girl." 

"  Peter  Carter—" 

"  Not  Peter  Carter,  but  Parker  Charles.  Never  mind  me ; 
go  right  on,  b'y,  and  say  your  word.  I  haven't  looked  at  ye 
since  I  came  in.  My  3  but  your  pretty  face  is  prettier  than  ever. 
Your  clothes  are  not  in  style,  though,  and  have  a  hang-dog  look 
about  them.  And  are  ye  comin'  back  to  stay  ?  And  so  ye 
didn't  drown  yerself,  after  all  ?  Well,  well,  and  all  me  tears 
wasted  for  nothing !  And  sure  Frances  and  her  mother  wept  for 
ye  like  two  cherubs;  and  I  tell  ye,  b'y,  people  don't  always  like 
to  see  people  that  ought  to  be  dead  alive  again.  Suppose  ye  had 
left  a  will,  now,  and  I  got  five  hundred  dollars  ;  d'ye  think  I'd 
hand  it  back  to  ye  now  ?  Not  at  all,  man.  It  would  be  all  spent 
anyway.  Oh!  God  help  me,  Peter.  It's  little  I  made  out  o'  me 
intriguing." 

"  So  you've  been  intriguing?  "  said  Paul. 

"  Yes,  I  tried  a  bit  of  it  here  and  there,"  Peter  answered  so- 
berly, as  if  the  recollection  might  have  been  more  pleasant. 

"  And  how  came  you  to  leave  De  Ponsonby  ?  " 

"  Put  out,  of  course.  What  more  could  an  old  fool  expect? 
Isn't  it  a  shame  to  think  an  old  gray  head  hasn't  more  sense  than 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  207 

mine  ?  It  was  Barbara  began  it — the  sweet,  entrancing  Barbara. 
Ye  didn't  know  I  was  Frances'  father,  did  ye,  Paul?" 

"  No,"  said  Paul,  who  understood  this  only  as  the  usual 
vagary. 

"  Did  ye  ever  hear  them  talk  of  old  Lynch  that  was,  b'y  ? " 

"  Somewhat.  I  believe  he  was  a  disreputable  bummer,  and, 
though  of  a  good  family,  had  no  instincts  but  for  a  bar-room. 
De  Ponsonby  was  well  rid  of  him." 

"  Mea  culpa,  mea  maxima  culpa ! "  groaned  unhappy  Peter. 
"  I  am  the  man — Parker  Charles  Lynch,  known  to  bis  journalistic 
brethren  as  Peter  Carter,  a  gentleman  once,  and  now  a  jolly  old 
reprobate  waiting  for  a  taste  of  what  you  have  in  your  pocket, 
me  b'y.  Come,  out  with  it." 

"  Not  until  I  hear  an  explanation  of  those  words,"  said  Paul, 
across  whose  mind  a  thousand  remembrances  flashed  the  truth 
which  Peter  had  declared.  "Are  you  in  earnest  in  what  you  say  ?  " 

"  Let  us  drink,  Paul,  to  the  reinstatement  of  a  gentleman  in 
his  rights.  I  spent  an  estate  on  De  Ponsonby,  and  now  she 
wouldn't  spend  the  tenth  of  the  boarding-house  revenues  on 
her  husband — me,  Peter  Carter,  alias  P.  C.  L." 

Here  Peter  executed  the  inevitable  single  step.  Paul,  in  hope 
of  having  the  mystery  explained,  filled  up  a  glass  for  him.  which 
the  journalist  glanced  through  with  watery  eye.  There  was  a 
vast  change  in  him  from  that  distant  night  when  in  Florian's 
rooms  he  had  saluted  the  liquor  as  the  tears  of  Erin. 

"  The  sunlight  never  looks  so  warm  as  when  I  see  it  through 
this  color,"  said  Peter  huskily.  "  Here's  joy  to  me  own  Frances, 
and  confusion  to  all  boarding-house  mistresses  !  " 

"  Ye  see,"  he  began,  without  any  invitation,  "  I  was  bound 
the  man  wid  a  gizzard  would  never  marry  Frances,  and  so  I  let 
out  on  madame.  I  told  Wallace,  right  to  his  face,  and  madame 
was  present  and  Frank,  that  I  was  the  only  and  original  Lynch. 
Madame  didn't  deny  it,  and  Frank — ah !  she's  the  dear  little  crea- 
ture— threw  her  arms  about  me  and  hugged  me  as  if  I  was  the 
most  aristocratic  Lynch  in  Ireland." 

"  What  did  Merrion  have  to  do  with  it  ?  "  said  Paul  shrewdly. 

"  Wasn't  she  after  Florian  " — Paul  gave  a  great  start — "  and 
wasn't  Florian  after  her,  the  mean  hound,  taking  her  to  operas 
and  balls  while  his  promised  wife  was  left  at  home  ?  " 

The  shock  of  this  information  was  very  great  to  the  poet,  but 
it  did  not  prevent  him  from  observing  how,  in  the  flush  of  feeling, 
Peter's  speech  insensibly  lost  its  oddities  of  brogue  and  expres- 
sion. 


208  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

"  I  wasn't  sorry  to  know  he  was  anxious  to  be  rid  of  the  girl," 
Peter  went  on  drily,  "  and  I  made  it  up  with  Barbara  to  give 
him  this  excuse  of  leaving  Frances.  Of  course  he  couldn't  marry, 
the  daughter  of  a  bummer.  I  tell  ye,  b'y,  I  never  felt  prouder  of 
being  disreputable  than  I  did  standin'  beside  the  low  fellow  with 
Frances'  arms  around  me.  He  felt  his  own  meanness,  and  show- 
ed it." 

"  Peter,"  said  the  poet  earnestly,  "don't  for  a  moment  think 
that  I  share  in  the  opinions  which  the  world  has  had  of  P.  C. 
Lynch.  I  have  always  seen  through  the  veneer  which  fate  and 
his  own  oddities  put  upon  him,  and,  in  spite  of  his  errors  and 
blunders,  I  am  convinced  that  a  truer  gentleman  than  he  never 
breathed.  Frances  will  bear  me  out  in  that." 

"Just  so,"  said  Peter,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 
After  a  little  he  went  on. 

"  I  tried  hard  to  make  a  match  between  you  and  the  dear  girl, 
but  I  see  I  can't.  She  will  never  love  any  one  but  him,  and  you 
are  claimed  in  another  quarter.  I  was  commissioned  to  look  for 
ye  by  Miss  Pendleton,  the  foolish  squire's  daughter.  I  bothered 
her  some  in  doing  it,  but  I  hope  she'll  forgive  me  and  invite  me 
to  your  wedding." 

"  And  how  does  Frances  bear  it?  " 

"  Poorly,  poorly,"  said  Peter  moodily;  "  her  heart  was  so  set 
on  the  man.  And  then  madame  would  have  me  in  the  house  no 
longer,  and  that  grieved  her  ;  and  threatened  to  get  a  public 
divorce  if  I  made  myself  known,  which  grieved  her  more.  So 
you  mustn't  speak  of  me  other  than  Peter  to  her  when  you  go  to 
see  her." 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  will  go  to  see  her." 

"Oh!  you  must,  because  she  is  sorry  to  think  of  the  wrong 
she  did  you,  and  I  rather  think  she  wouldn't  object  to  you  for  a 
son-in-law,  now  that  she's  lost  her  great  politician.  Oh!  Maria 
has  a  heart  in  the  right  place,  for  all  the  style  she  puts  on.  The 
tears  ot  Erin,  b'y." 

"  And  are  you  not  allowed  in  the  house  at  all  ?  " 

"  Not  allowed  in  the  house !  Indeed  I  am — once  a  month  to 
see  Frances  ;  and  sure  I  see  her  every  day,  for  that  matter.  It 
was  I  she  was  signalling  when  you  saw  her.  Oh !  God  help  me, 
Peter—" 

"  No,  P,  C.,"  interrupted  the  poet,  laughing. 

"  The  old  name  '11  stick  to  me,  you  may  be  certain,"  Peter 
growled,  with  a  fond  recollection  of  his  right  to  the  family  cog- 
nomen. "  What's  the  use,  though,  of  bothering  one's  brain  about  it  ? 


I885-J  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  209 

With  a  smile  banish  sorrow, 
Have  no  thought  for  to-morrow. 

Hoop-la  !  " 

And  the  genial  eccentric  rose  to  pirouette  and  bow  with  his 
old  vivacity,  but  his  heart  failed  him,  even  while  the  laugh  was 
bursting  from  his  throat,  and  he  sank  gloomily  on  the  bed. 

"  Oh !  I  can't  raise  it,  this  sadness,"  he  groaned ;  "  it'll  never 
be  raised  till  Frances  is  happy  again." 

Paul  could  say  nothing,  for  Peter  was  really  suffering,  and  his 
lively  spirits  were  unable  to  cope  with  his  sorrow. 

"  I'll  go  over  and  see  Frances  and  her  mother,"  said  he. 
"  Have  you  any  message  to  send  to  either?" 

Peter  waved  him  off  loftily  and  in  silence,  and,  with  only  a 
light  intimation  that  he  would  call  again,  the  poet  went  away. 
He  had  only  closed  the  door  when  the  Bohemian's  face,  like  a 
purple  cloud,  appeared  in  the  doorway. 

"  Paul,  b'y,"  said  Peter  slowly,  "  if  you  see  Frances  don't  mind 
telling  the  poor  thing  how  cast  down  I  was.  But  if  she  asks  ye — 
well,  ye  might  hint  at  it  slyly,  so  as  not  to  disturb  her  too  much ; 
that  is,  if  ye  think  it  wouldn't  be  botherin'  her,  for  ye  see — oh  ! 
God  help  me,  Peter,"  he  concluded,  with  a  groan,  as  he  slammed 
the  door,  without  extricating  himself  from  the  muddle  in  which 
he  was  involved.  Paul,  half-laughing,  went  down  the  stairs  with 
some  serious  thoughts  about  Peter's  dealings  with  his  daughter. 
It  might  have  been  that  money  was  at  the  root  of  Peter's  troubles 
— for  he  was  still  a  spendthrift — and  that  Frances  was  supplying 
him  from  her  own  resources,  which  the  poet  felt  was  an  imposi- 
tion, since  the  journalist  made  quite  enough  out  of  his  profession 
to  support  him  in  comfort. 

Madame  De  Ponsonby  Lynch  gave  him  a  generous  welcome. 
She  was  still  madame,  reserved,  exclusive,  and  good-hearted,  and 
very  handsomely  apologized  for  her  treatment  of  him,  nor  did  the 
faintest  trace  of  feeling  appear  on  her  smooth  face  at  mention  of 
an  incident  which  brought  her  exiled  lord  to  her  mind.  Frances, 
she  said,  was  probably  about  the  house  somewhere — most  likely 
in  the  famous  attic  which  he  had  so  queerly  deserted — and  she 
begged  him  not  to  be  surprised  at  anything  in  the  young  lady's 
manner  or  appearance,  for  she  had  lately  met  with  a  severe  dis- 
appointment. The  disappointment  he  had  probably  heard  of, 
since  it  was,  in  a  quiet  way,  the  talk  of  metropolitan  society.  The 
poet,  after  engaging  his  old  attic  from  madame,  climbed  the  stairs 
to  look  for  Frances.  There  was  a  burning  indignation  in  his 
breast  against  the  heartlessness  of  the  man  who  could  inflict  so 

VOL.  XLII.— 14 


2io  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Nov., 

cruel  an  insult  on  a  woman  so  gentle  and  good  as  his  promised 
wife. 

"  For  promised  wife  she  is  yet,"  thought  the  poet,  "and  not 
at  all  deprived  of  her  rights  by  his  treachery.  It  would  be  a 
deserved  punishment  to  have  him  suffer  at  Merrion's  hands  what 
she  has  suffered  from  him." 

She  came  to  the  door  in  answer  to  his  knock,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  there  was  a  hush  of  astonishment  as  the  two  met  face  to 
face.  "  Mr.  Rossiter,  or  his  ghost !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"  And  the  substantial  Miss  Lynch,"  said  he,  offering  his  hand. 
"  I  have  engaged  the  garret  for  a  long  term,  and  am  not  likely  to 
lose  it  by  any  more  misunderstandings." 

"  How  can  I  ever — " 

"  Your  mother  has  done  it ;  don't  say  a  word." 

"  And  my  poor  father,  that  made  all  the  disturbance — " 

"  I  just  came  from  him,"  said  Paul,  smiling,  "  so  do  not  let 
bygones  trouble  you.  I  know  you  have  enough  of  unhap- 
piness." 

Her  lip  trembled  and  she  could  tiot  trust  herself  to  speak. 
While  talking  the  poet  took  a  quick  inventory  of  the  changes 
sorrow  had  made  in  her.  She  was  still  the  gentile,  sprightly  girl 
of  a  year  past,  but  his  practised  eye  noted  the  trembling  lip, 
the  melancholy  shadows  around  the  mouth  and  eyes,  and  the 
nervousness  of  her  manner. 

"  I  have  seen  him  so  late  as  yesterday,"  Paul  said,  "  and  I 
thought  you  ought  to  know.  There  have  been  so  many  strange 
things  happening  in  his  life.  Who  has  a  better  right  than  you  to 
know?  " 

"  I  gave  up  all  my  rights  to  him,"  she  said  bravely,  while  the 
memory  of  his  shame  brought  a  flush  to  her  cheek  and  an  angry 
sparkle  to  the  poet's  eye. 

"  But  he  had  no — well,  never  mind.  I  was  in  Clayburg,  and 
he  was  there.  He  discovered  his  father  in  the  person  of  an  old 
fisherman  that  he  had  known  for  years.  Think  of  it — a  prince  of 
royal  blood,  with  a  Yankee  dialect  and  a  Yankee  look,  leading  a 
solitary  life  on  an  island  of  the  St.  Lawrence !  " 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  said  Frances  ;  "  his  happiness  will  now  be  com- 
plete." 

"  I  suppose,"  the  poet  said  cynically,  but  recollected  himself 
in  time.  "  Alas!  Frank,  there  never  was  a  more  unhappy  meet- 
ing of  father  and  son.  The  father  was  dead,  shot  fatally  by  a 
sneaking  assassin,  and  it  was  only  a  corpsejwhich  death  handed 
to  Florian." 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  211 

"  Oh  !  "  she  murmured,  with  clasped  hands,  and  the  tears  be- 
gan to  fall. 

"  I  think  it  was  a  punishment  on  him,"  said  Paul  calmly, 
"  No,  don't  look  at  me  so.  We  only  buried  the  prince  two  weeks 
ago,  and  in  telling  you  all  about  him  I  must  say  some  hard  things 
of  Florian.  You  know  I  met  him,  Florian's  father,  by  a  mere 
accident.  He  took  me  into  his  cabin,  made  a  favorite  of  me,  and 
let  in  some  light  not  only  on  his  own  life  but  on  mine,  Frank, 
he  was  a  saint.  I  never  believed  our  country  could  produce 
such  a  miracle  of  holiness  and  penance.  Florian  was  unworthy 
of  him.  He  deserved  to  lose  him,  and  to  lose  him  as  he  did,  for 
he  died  as  much  from  a  broken  heart  as  from  a  bullet-wound.  I 
wanted  Florian  to  know  that,  but  he  suspected  me  and  kept 
away." 

"  Paul,"  said  she  through  her  sympathetic  tears,  "  what  has  he 
ever  done  to  you  that  you  should  talk  of  him  so?" 

"  Nothing  more  than  he  has  done  to  any  true  man  in  his  treat- 
ment of  you.  God  sent  him  one  punishment,  and  he  got  no  sense 
or  grace  from  it.  I  doubt  very  much  if  he  will  gain  anything 
from  another.  But  I  shall  present  the  fact  for  his  conside- 
ration." 

"  You  will  not,"  she  said  sharply,  in  her  excitement.  "  My 
wrongs  are  my  own,  and  I  do  not  look  for  any  knight-errantry 
from  you  or  any  one.  Paul,  you  must  promise  me  that  you  will 
never  mention  to  him  that  suspicion  of  yours.  He  has  enough 
to  bear  now  without  that." 

"  I  won't  promise,"  said  the  poet  stoutly. 

"  O  Paul  Rossiter !  what  have  they  been  doing  to  you  in 
Clayburg  to  change  you  into  so  hard  and  cruel  a  man?  '' 

"  They  gave  me  a  great  longing  for  justice,"  was  his  reply. 

She  began  to  weep  again,  and  he  pretended  to  enjoy  it ;  but  no 
man  can  endure  woman's  tears  long. 

"  I  can't  see  why  it  makes  you  uneasy,"  he  said,  "  but  I  will 
promise.  No,  you  needn't  thank  me.  It  is  not  a  great  favor, 
since  I  suspect  he  knows  it  partly  already.  I  only  wished  to 
make  his  knowledge  emphatic  by  showing  him  how  it  looks  to 
strangers.  He  needs  to  have  his  soul  taken  out  and  held  up  to 
him  in  a  good  strong  light.  If  he  saw  it  so  I  fancy  he  would  see 
his— excuse  me,  but  I  am  too  talkative  and  too  personal;  but  in 
the  joy  of  return,  in  the  hope  of  so  cheery  a  future  as  I  look  for, 
in  my  anger  at  his  ill-treatment  of  you,  I  am  excited.  So  you  all 
thought  I  had  committed  suicide  ?  " 

That  remark  brought  the  smiles  to  her  face. 


212  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  [Nov., 

"  Well,  you  know  what  a  despairing  poet  is  apt  to  do,"  she 
replied.  "  But  we  hoped  you  had  merely  changed  your  residence. 
Grief  does  not  drive  a  good  Catholic  to  suicide.  It  makes  him 
better.  But  let  me  ask  you,  Did  you  meet  in  Clayburg  that 
lovely  Ruth  Pendleton?" 

It  was  more  than  the  poet  could  do  to  keep  the  blood  from 
his  fair  face.  It  rose  to  his  collar,  over  it,  to  his  ears,  to  his 
eyes,  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  nor  could  his  glib  chatter  hide  it 
from  her  eyes. 

"  It  is  more  than  I  expected,"  said  she,  ignoring  his  talk  and 
fixing  her  eyes  on  the  tell-tale  blush.  "  How  did  you  get  so  well 
acquainted  with  Ruth  Pendleton  ?  " 

"  You  know  how  it  is  with  some  acquaintances,  Frank.  Yet 
I  loved  her  for  eight  years,  and  I  haven't  spoken  a  word  of  love 
to  her  yet.  But  I  hope,  at  least  I  think—" 

"  She  couldn't  resist  a  poet,  the  dear  girl,  and  I  believe  you 
two  were  assuredly  made  for  each  other." 

"  Thank  you  for  that,"  said  he,  "  but  not  more  so  than  you 
and  Florian." 

"  And,  by  the  nine  gods,"  he  added  in  secret,  "  this  thing  shall 
be  accomplished  yet !  " 

TO  BE  CONTINUED. 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS. 

WHATEVER  the  date  of  its  first  appearance,  it  is  very  evident 
that  when  the  idea  that  the  Shakspere  sonnets  were  expressions 
of  hidden  and  cipher  meanings,  of  unique  or  interwritten  phi- 
losophy, mystic  or  erotic  relations  between  personages  contem- 
porary with  their  composition  (were  anything,  in  fact,  but  some 
one  hundred  and  fifty-four  desultory  rhymes  in  sonnet  form), 
came  into  English  literature,  it  came  to  stay.  For,  often  as  it  has 
been  dismissed  and  discarded,  it  is  still  to  the  fore ;  and  even 
now,  within  this  current  year  of  enlightenment,  when  most  other 
mundane  things  not  responding  to  the  touchstone  of  nineteenth- 
century  scrutiny  have  been  discarded  as  rubbish,  when  even  on 
the  stage  and  in  decorative  art  the  romantic,  rococo,  and  purpose- 
less have  disappeared — even  here  are  one  stout  volume  and  two 
ponderous  essays  in  as  many  phlegmatic  reviews,  which  thresh 
the  old  floors  once  more,  reread  once  more  the  alleged  crypto- 


1885.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  213 

gram  of  these  everlasting-  sonnets,  and  construe  it  a  different  way 
each  time. 

In  following-  these  hermetic  essays  ordinary  criticism  is  im- 
pressed not  so  much  with  their  ingenuity  (for  there  is  no  limit 
to  human  ingenuity)  as  with  the  facility  with  which  not  only 
Shakspere's  sonnets,  but  any  other  literary  matter  not  historical, 
scientific,  or  didactic,  may  be  so  hermetically  and  allegorically 
treated.  After  all,  what  poem  or  prose  romance  exists  which 
cannot  be  tortured  into  a  set  of  symbolic  types  or  allegories  ? 
Up  to  date  there  has  not  been  lavished  .upon  these  sonnets  any- 
thing like  the  literature,  for  example,  once  so  popular  with  what 
we  Americans  call  "  cranks,"  devoted  to  that  most  ominous  co- 
significance  between  the  names  Apollyon  and  Napoleon,  and  the 
consequent  danger  to  this  planet  of  ours,  of  which  almost  any  old 
book-shop  will  be  sure  to  yield  plentiful  treatises.  The  last  Na- 
poleon, however,  has  passed  out  of  sight  without  leaving  so 
much  as  a  sulphurous  aroma  in  the  ether,  and  it  is  just  among 
the  possibilities  that  even  these  tremendous  sonnets  are  not  her- 
metic, allegorical,  or  even — to  what  base  uses  may  we  come  ! — 
biographical  at  all ! 

The  really  surprising  thing,  when  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  in 
Mr.  Gerald  Massey's  immense  octavo,*  is  that  he,  a  poet  him- 
self, should  have  insisted  on  referring  these  Shakspere  sonnets  to 
an  identified  love-affair  of  the  Elizabethan  day,  when  an  ideal 
love-affair  would  have  answered  just  as  well.  If  Mr.  Massey  had 
not  been  a  poet  before  he  became  a  Shaksperean  commentator 
we  should  have  perhaps  wondered  why  he  selected  Southampton 
as  the  lover  instead  of  Pembroke  (for  whose  name,  by  grace  of 
baptism  and  good  nature,  "  W.  H."  might  perhaps  have  stood). 
But,  being  a  poet,  why  should  not  any  one  man — for  love-affairs 
are,  after  all,  pretty  much  alike,  and  involve  a  good  many  sec- 
ondary rivalries  and  friendships — have  done  as  well  as  any  other, 
or  why  should  we  not  consider  the  sonnets  as  representing  the 
uneven  and  tortuous  course  of  any  ordinary  love-affair,  when, 
to  a  poet,  ideals  are  so  much  nearer  and  nicer  than  actual  hap- 
penings ? 

Supposing  that  it  should  only.be  granted  for  argument's  sake 
that  these  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  sonnets  are  just  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty-four  anonymous  poems  of  the  Elizabethan  era — a 
catena  (to  borrow  George  Eliot's  irreverence  anent  the  Faerie 
Queene]  in  which  "  you  see  no  reason  why  it  should  not  go  on 

*  Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  never  before  Interpreted  :  The  Secret  Drama  of  Shakespeare's 
Sonnets  unfolded^  with  the  Characters  identified.  By  Gerald  Massey.  London  ;  Longmans. 


214  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  [Nov., 

for  ever,  and  you  accept  that  conclusion  as  an  arrangement  of 
Providence  rather  than  of  the  author," — granted  that,  what 
would  be  first  to  strike  a  critical  eye  ?  We  think  it  would  be— 
could  hardly  fail  to  be — THE  EXTREME  INEQUALITY  OF  THE  SON- 
NETS THEMSELVES. 

I.  Could  anything  be  more  marked,  more  apparent,  than  this 
inequality  ?  Here,  for  example,  against  the  tenderness  and 
pathos  of  sonnets  xxx.  and  cvi.,  in  which  scarcely  a  quaint  or 
archaic  phrase  marks  them  of  their  century,  we  must  offset  son- 
net Ixxxvii.,  in  whose  every  line  occurs  an  old  term  of  court  or 
musty  chancery  catchword,  making  it  altogether  about  as  signal 
an  adaptation  of  old  saws  and  modern  instances  to  complimentary 
purposes  as  one  can  find  in  the  Law  Burlesques  : 

*'  Whereas,  in  sundry  boughs  and  sprays 
Now  divers  birds  allege  to  sing, 
And  certain  flowers  their  heads  upraise, 
Hail,  as  aforesaid,  coming  spring  ! " 

Is  this  burlesque  any  worse  than — 

"  Farewell !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  .estimate : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing ; 
My  bonds  in  thee  are  all  determinate  "  ? 

Or  still  more  extreme  example  of  this  law-letter  pedantry,  the 
cxxxiv.: 

"And  I  myself  am  mortgaged  to  thy  will,    ] 
Myself  I'll  forfeit,  so  that  other  mine 
Thou  wilt  restore  or  be  my  comfort  still. 

He  learned  but  surety-like  to  write  for  me 
Under  that  bond  that  him  as  fast  doth  bind. 
The  statute  of  thy  beauty  thou  wilt  take  .  .  /' 

And  so  on,  with  "patent/*  "  misprision,"  "  judgment,"  and  the 
like,  employed  as  a  lover's  symbols  to  his  mistress.  Mr.  Casau- 
bon  might  have  written  something  in  this  strain  had  he  been  a 
Chancery  practitioner  and  attempted  a  sonnet  to  Dorothea ;  or 
old  Tulkinghorn,  or  Mr.  Vohles.  But  is  it  not  rather  hard  to 
imagine  merry  Will  Shakspere  scribbling  this  sort  of  thing  on 
the  banks  of  Avon,  among  the  primroses  of  sunny  Stratford, 
and  with  the  bibulant  temptations  of  Bidford,  Pebworth,  and 
Marston  within  easy  hailing  distance  ? 

Then,  again,  we  have  the  "  though  rotten,  not  forgotten  '"  of 
the  Ixxxi.  Sonnets  cxxxv.  and  cxxxvi.  are  plays  upon  the  word 


1885.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  215 

"  Will,"  the  name  recurring  once  or  twice  in  about  ever)'-  line 
of  them.  This  is  another  mood.  Whether  the  name  refers  to 
*'  Will  Shakspere,"  or  to  "  W.  H.,"  or  to  a  "willy"  (which  is 
said  to  have  been  the  slang-  for  "  poet "  in  those  days)  is  what 
nobody  can  find  out.  But  how  it  has,  in  any  case,  anything  to 
do  with  Lord  Southampton's  particular  love-affairs  only  Mr. 
Massey  knows. 

Is  it  not  a  fact  to  go  without  cavil  that  the  sonnet  form  in 
which  most  of  these  are  written  (for  cxlv.  appears  to  be  the  only 
one  not  in  that  form)  is  the  principal  reason  for  binding  them 
up  together?  Has  any  other  reason  been  discovered,  or  any 
other  relation  between  them  not  purely  visionary  and  fanciful  ? 
Most  of  us  have  smiled,  we  suppose,  to  fancy  what  Shakspere 
would  say  could  he  rise  from  his  seventeen-foot  grave  (it  was  too 
deep  for  a  well,  even  if  not  wide  enough  for  a  church-door)  and 
encounter^ some  of  the  "readings"  which  have  been  assigned  to 
him  during  these  last  one  hundred  and  fifty  years.  Mr.  Bouci- 
cault  said  lately — with  more  asperity,  perhaps,  than  the  subject 
demanded — that  he  thought,  on  revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the 
moon  and  being  asked  which  of  certain  "readings"  best  ex- 
pressed the  thoughts  in  his  mind,  Shakspere  would  have  an- 
swered: "  What  on  earth  does  it  matter?  Either  interpretation 
will  serve.  I  cannot  remember  which  I  intended.  My  dramas 
were  written  under  the  spur  of  necessity,  to  meet  the  crying 
need  of  the  theatre  of  which  I  was  one  of  the  managers.  They 
will  be  found  to  contain  errors  and  blemishes.  Let  them  be  so, 
and  do  not  encourage  infatuated  worshippers  to  turn  defects  into 
beauties.  Nature  is  full  of  imperfections  ;  and  if  it  pleased  the 
great  Author  to  leave  his  work  so  to  eternity,  why  seek  to  find 
perfection  in  every  miserable  little  heap  of  dust?  These  trivial 
details  you  bring  to  my  notice  do  not  affect  the  purpose  and 
shape  of  my  play ;  and  if  they  concern  neither  the  action  nor  the 
passion  nor  the  characters,  why  make  so  much  ado  about  no- 
thing ?  I  am  neither  honored  nor  flattered  by  the  blind  worship 
bestowed  on  my  works  by  some  writers.  If  my  existence  had 
depended  on  these  text-grubbers  I  should  have  been  shelved  two 
centuries  ago  between  Ben  Jonson  and  Massinger,  or  buried  with 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  I  owe  my  existence  to  the  stage,  to  the 
actor.  No  dramatic  poet  has  any  existence  in  the  closet."  And, 
the  dramatic  dialogue  and  purpose  removed,  h  fortiori,  what 
would  the  author  of  these  sonnets  say  to  the  guesses  of  their  sot 
disant  interpreters  ? 

As  to  the  rage  to  find  in  earlier  or  contemporary  literature 


216  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  [Nov., 

the  sources  whence  Shakspere  procured  this  or  that  or  the  other 
phrase,  some  hint,  perhaps,  of  William  Shakspere's  own  treatment 
of  that  feature  of  commentary,  could  he  only  come  back  again, 
may  be  gathered  from  a  case  quite  in  point.  Last  year  a  Cana- 
dian gentleman,  a  Mr.  S.  E.  Dawson,  wrote  a  little  essay  upon 
Baron  Tennyson's  Princess.  Mr.  Dawson  sent  a  copy  to  the  poet 
and  received  a  reply,  a  portion  of  which — as  showing  how  a  liv- 
ing poet  must  feel  towards  voluntary  and  dilettante  commentary 
upon  his  work — is  worth  reprinting.  Says  Baron  Tennyson: 

"  I  do  not  object  to  your  finding  parallelisms.  They  must  always  recur. 
A  Chinese  scholar  some  time  ago  wrote  me  that  in  an  unknown,  un- 
translated Chinese  poem  there  were  two  whole  lines  of  mine  almost  word 
for  word.  Why  not  ?  Are  not  human  eyes  all  over  the  world  looking  at 
the  same  objects,  and  must  there  not,  consequently,  be  coincidences  of 
thought  and  impressions  and  expressions?  It  is  scarcely  possible  for  any 
one  to  say  or  write  anything,  in  this  late  time  of  the  world,  to  which,  in  the 
rest  of  the  literature  of  the  world,  a  parallel  could  not  somewhere  be  found. 
But  when  you  say  that  this  passage  or  that  was  suggested  by  Wordsworth 
or  Shelley  or  another,  I  demur;  and,  more,  I  wholly  disagree.  There  is,  I 
fear,  a  prosaic  set  growing  up  among  us,  editors  of  booklets,  book-worms,  index- 
hunters,  or  men  of  great  memories  and  no  imagination,  who  impute  themselves 
to  the  poet,  and  so  believe  that  he,  too,  has  no  imagination,  but  is  for  ever  pok- 
ing his  nose  between  the  pages  of  some  old  volume  to  see  what  he  can  appropri- 
ate. They  will  not  allow  one  to  say  '  ring  the  bells  '  without  finding  that 
we  have  taken  it  from  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  or  even  to  use  such  a  simple  ex- 
pression as  that  the  ocean  '  roars  '  without  finding  the  precise  verse  in 
Homer  or  Horace  from  which  we  have  plagiarized  it  (fact !)  .  .  .  Here 
is  a  little  anecdote  about  suggestion  :  When  I  was  about  twenty  or  twenty- 
one  I  went  on  a  tour  to  the  Pyrenees.  Lying  among  these  mountains,  be- 
fore a  waterfall  that  comes  down  one  thousand  or  twelve  hundred  feet,  I 
sketched  it  (according  to  my  custom  then)  in  these  words : 
"  '  Slow-dropping  veils  of  thinnest  lawn.' 

When  I  printed  this  a  critic  informed  me  that  '  lawn  '  was  the  material 
used  in  theatres  to  imitate  a  waterfall,  and  graciously  added:  'Mr.  T. 
should  not  go  to  the  boards  of  a  theatre,  but  to  Nature  herself,  for  his  sug- 
gestions.' And  I  had  gone  to  Nature  herself." 

Is  it  speaking  too  harshly— would  the  commentators  have  any 
warrant  to  themselves  complain  of  the  harshness  of  the  charac- 
terization— to  apply  the  sentence  we  have  italicized  in  the  lau- 
reate's criticism  of  his  critics  to  the  legions  who  advertise 
themselves  as  Shaksperean  cicerones?  The  trade  began  about 
the  days  of  Malone — 1780-1790.  Of  those  ten  years  Sir  James 
Prior  *  writes  vividly :  "  Editors  and  commentators  appear  at 
every  turn  in  all  societies.  In  the  club-house  we  meet  three  or 

*  Life  of  Edmund  Malone.     Lor.don :  Smith,  Elder  &  Co. 


1885.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  217 

four  of  a  morning :  in  the  park  see  them  meditating  by  the  Ser- 
pentine or  under  a  tree  in  Kensington  Gardens  ;  no  dinner-table 
is  without  one  or  two  ;  in  the  theatre  you  view  them  by  the  dozens. 
Volume  after  volume  is  poured  out  in  note,  comment,  conjecture, 
new  reading,  statement,  rnisstatement,  contradiction.  Reviews, 
magazines,  and  newspapers  report  these  with  as  little  mercy  on 
the  reader  and  give  occasional  emendations  of  their  own."  And 
if  this  was  true  one  hundred  years  ago,  how  much  truer  is  it  of 
these  days  !  Mr.  White  was  ";:cently  able  to  show  that  an  inci- 
dent in  "Romeo  and  Juliet" — which  some  of  our  most  superses- 
thetical  modern  editors  had  pitched  upon  as  displaying  Shak- 
spere's  "  deep  moral  purpose  " — was  about  the  only  one  in  the 
play  that  happened  to  be  taken  without  the  slightest  alteration 
or  embellishment  from  the  prior  story.  If  this  sort  of  thing  is 
not  "imputing  one's  self  to  the  poet,"  it  would  be  hard  to  find  a 
name  for  it.  But  the  process,  which  requires  considerable  inge- 
nuity and  periphrasis  when  applied  to  the  plays,  is  clear  sailing 
and  simplicity  itself  when  worked  on  the  sonnets,  which  stand 
alone,  sui  generis,  with  no  ancestors,  antitypes,  or  prototypes, 
with  no  sources  to  reconcile  and  no  references  to  be  consulted. 
Anybody  can  do  it.  There  is  not  a  rock  in  the  channel.  All  we 
have  to  do  is  to  forge  ahead  ! 

II.  In  the  second  place,  I  think  the  student  of  these  sonnets 
would  very  quickly  become  satisfied  that  they  are  not  either 
autobiographical  of  their  author  or  biographical  of  anybody 
else.  The  proposition  that  certain  lines  in  sonnets  ex.,  cxi.,  and 
cxii.,  such  as — 

"  And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view, 
Gored  mine  own  thoughts — made  cheap  what  is  most  dear  " — [ex.] 

"  That  did  not  better  for  my  life  provide 
Than  public  means  which  public  manners  breeds. 
Thence  comes  it  that  my  name  receives  a  brand, 
And  almost  thence  my  nature  is  subdued 
To  what  it  works  in,  like  the  dyer's  hand  " — [cxi.] 

"Your  love  and  pity  doth  the  impression  fill 
Which  vulgar  scandal  stamped  upon  my  brow  " — [cxii.] 

"  So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite  " — [xxxvii.] 
"  Speak  of  my  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt" — [Ixxxix.] 

and  others,  when  torn  from  their  context,  are  autobiographical 
of  William  Shakspere,  or  make  the  whole  bewildering  series 


218  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  [Nov., 

autobiographical,  cannot,  in  my  judgment,  be  supported  by  the 
facts.  Those  facts  are  that  William  Shakspere  was  far  too 
manly  a  man  to  be  ashamed  of  his  chosen  calling;  that,  if  he 
penned  these  lines,  he  penned  them  long  before  he  had  been 
enough  of  a  public  character  to  have  imagined  himself  as  being 
"  branded  " — to  the  extent  of  some  thousands  a  year — by  popu- 
larity, or  to  have  been  in  a  position,  barring  his  theatrical  con- 
nections,  for  something  illustrious  in  the  state.  I  leave  again 
to  Mr.  Massey  the  task  of  weaving  any  such  autobiographical 
matter,  should  it  be  proved  to  be  so,  into  Southampton's  af- 
fairs ;  or,  if  already  biographical,  to  Mr.  Massey  or  anybody  else 
choosing  to  assume  it  the  labor  of  bringing  them  to  bear  upon 
the  author's  career,  be  he  Shakspere  or  anybody  else.  Shak- 
spere may  have  been  lame.  We  have  no  means  of  knowing 
whether  he  was  or  not,  but  we  must  remember  that  the  mean- 
ing of  words  has  changed  since  his  day.  I  doubt  if  "  lame " 
then,  when  applied  to  the  writer,  meant  anything  more  than 
any  other  of  a  hundred  words  used  in  the  course  of  these 
sonnets  in  self-disparagement;  or,  least  of  all,  had  any  refer- 
ence to  any  such  physical  disability  as  we  understand  to  be  re- 
ferred to  by  the  word  to-day.  Similarly,  Shakspere  was  fami- 
liarly known  among  his  comrades  of  the  theatre  by  the  sobri- 
quet "gentle,"  in  allusion  to  his  weakness  for  being  considered 
of  "  gentle "  birth  (as  shown,  among  other  things,  by  his  ex- 
travagance in  bribing  the  officers  of  the  Heralds'  College  to  issue 
a  grant  of  arms  to  his  father).  I  think  the  word  "  lame  "  had,  in 
Elizabeth's  day,  no  more  reference  to  physical  deformity  or  acci- 
dent than  the  word  "  gentle  "  had  to  a  man's  temperament,  dis- 
position, or  social  qualities.  And  yet,  so  far  as  I  can  discover,  no 
student  of  the  sonnets,  however  much  he  may  insist  that  they  be 
read  as  a  whole,  but  has  felt  at  perfect  liberty  to  isolate  lines 
anywhere  and  apply  them  as  he  pleased.  What  commentator 
yet  has  failed  to  take  from  sonnet  Iv.  the  first  lines, 

'*  Not  marble,  nor  the  gilded  monuments 
Of  princes,  shall  outlive  this  powerful  rhyme," 

or  the  next, 

"  Since,  spite  of  him  [Death],  I'll  live  in  this  poor  rhyme  '' — [cvii.], 

and  quote  them  as  evidence  that  William  Shakspere  believed 
that  the  sonnets  were,  either  as  a  whole  series,  or  this  or  that 
one  in  particular  was,  to  make  him  immortal  ?  Exegi  monumentum 
cere  perennius  ! 


1885.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  219 

I  am,  I  hope,  not  insensible  to  the  delicious  poetry  which,  in 
lines  or  couplets,  is  scattered  here  and  there  among  these  son- 
nets, and  which  in  some  (like  the  vii.,  xviii.,  1.,  lx.,  Ixxi.,  and 
others)  predominates  and  readers  the  disappointment  at  sudden 
relapses  into  commonplace  all  the  more  dreary.  But  I  feel  less 
and  less  confident  that  the  best  and  most  satisfactory  way  to  re- 
gard the  sonnets  is  the  unitary  method  of  Coleridge,  Armitage 
Brown,  and  Massey,  and  have  a  surmise  amounting  to  a  strong 
suspicion  that  we  will  yet  hark  back  to  consider  them  as  frag- 
ments merely  (as  Meres  did),  whether  Shakspere's  or  somebody 
else's. 

Mr.  Halliwell  Phillipps  formulates  the  resultant  of  an  entire 
lifetime  of  Shaksperean  research  when  he  says :  "  Those  who 
have  lived  as  long  as  myself  in  the  midst  of  Shaksperean  criti- 
cism will  be  careful  not  to  be  too  certain  of  anything."  And,  in- 
deed, not  only  the  most  wonderful  theories  but  the  most  as- 
tounding of  facts  pass  without  comment — seem  to  be  taken  as 
matter  of  course — if  only  translated  to  a  Shaksperean  vicinity. 
The  Rev.  Francis  Gastrell — not  a  billionaire — who  once  lived  in 
New  Place,  instead  of  selling  out  and  leaving  Stratford  town 
when  annoyed  by  relic-seekers,  actually  demolished  stone  by 
stone  that  substantial  tenement  (the  first  case  on  record,  we  be- 
lieve, of  a  man  wilfully  demolishing  his  own  real  estate  in  a 
pique  at  a  handful  of  rustic  neighbors  !)  They  dug  a  grave 
seventeen  feet  deep  (deeper  than  most  Stratford  wells)  under  the 
pave  of  Trinity  to  receive  William  Shakspere's  coffin  !  *  These 
and  a  hundred  other  remarkable  tales,  that  in  any  other  connec- 
tion would  be  accounted  "  yarns/'  seem  to  be  reasonable  and  pass 
without  question  because  pertaining  to  Shakspereana!  But  of 
them  all,  surely  the  most  wonderful  story  is  that  a  village  lad,  of 
scant  training  in  a  country  grammar-school,  engrossed  in  London 
in  theatrical  pursuits,  should  rewrite  into  hermetic  English  verse 
an  entirely  original  system  of  Platonic  philosophy,  as  the  author 
of  the  New  Study  f  proposes  to  demonstrate,  or  exchange  halluci- 
nations and  premonitions  with  Dante,  as  the  Blackwood  paper  £ 

*The  particular  absurdity  of  this  story  is  that  the  Avon  runs  close  to  the  walls  of  Trinity, 
and  at  the  lowest  its  surface  is  scarcely  two  (or,  at  the  most,  three)  feet  lower  than  the  pave- 
ment of  the  church ;  so  that  to  dig  a  hole  to  that  depth  strong-  pumps  must  have  been  used  in- 
side the  edifice  itself. 

t  A  New  Study  of  Shakespeare  :  An  Inquiry  into  the  Connection  of  the  Plays  and  Poems 
with  the  Origins  of  the  Classic  Dramas,  and  with  the  Platonic  Philosophy  through  the  Mys- 
teries. London  :  Trubner  &  Co.  1884. 

{"New  Views  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets;  The  'Other  Poet'  Identified."  Black-wood's 
Magazine,  June,  1885, 


220  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  [Nov., 

insists,  or  compose  a  nuptial  poem  to  Southampton  in  cipher,  as 
Mr.  Mackay  *  would  have  us  believe ! 

As  to  the  group  of  sonnets  Ixxviii.,  Ixxxvi.  (from  which  the 
existence  of  a  rival  poet  to  Shakspere  is  evolved),  it  seems  to  me 
more  involution  than  evolution — as  if  this  "  other  poet  "  was  con- 
jured into,  instead  of  being  conjured  out  of,  the  text.  Would  an 
average  reader — that  is,  an  average  of  those  who  read  these  son- 
nets all — notice,  in  passing  to  that  group,  a  sudden  change  in  the 
"you"  addressed?  that,  whereas  it  has  been  a  "dark  beauty," 
a  "  lovely  boy,"  a  patron,  a  successful  rival  in  his  lady's  favor,  it 
all  of  a  sudden  becomes  a  "rival  poet"?  Why  not  test  it? 
Would  this  average  reader  ever  extract,  for  example,  from  the 
lines  (Ixxxii.), 

"  I  grant  thou  wert  not  married  to  my  Muse, 

And  therefore  may'st  without  attaint  o'erlook 
The  dedicated  words  which  writers  use 

Of  their  fair  subject,  blessing  every  book," 

that  this  poet  had  "  dedicated  a  book  to  Shakspere's  patron,"  or 
pick  out  of  other  lines  in  the  group  such  clues  as  that  this  poet 
"  had  a  familiar  spirit,"  was  "  visited  by  a  ghost,"  and  the  like  ? 
We  urge  once  more,  why  not  test  it?  For,  while  commentators 
might  quarrel  with  the  proposition  that  the  less  one  studies  writ- 
ings as  isolated  as  these  sonnets  are  (of  which  we  cannot  find 
author,  subject/  date,  circumstance,  or  occasion)  the  more  one 
knows  ;  it  appears  to  be  yet  scarcely  a  figure  of  speech  to  so  assert 
in  this  particular  instance.  To  the  myriads  of  other  suggestions 
as  to  the  study  of  these  sonnets  I  respectfully  add  this  one.  The 
reverse  has  led  to  all  sorts  of  theories.  The  particular  theory  ad- 
vanced in  that  ponderous  paper  in  Blackwood's  appears  to  me 
no  more  extravagant  than  hundreds  that  have  preceded  it.  If 
any  poet  is  alluded  to  in  the  course  of  thirty-nine  of  the  sonnets 
and  then  abruptly  dismissed,  it  is,  to  my  mind,  quite  as  likely  or 
unlikely  to  be  Dante  as  to  be  Chapman  or  Spenser.  (Why  not 
Tennyson  or  Longfellow? — for  we  must  remember  Shakspere's 
"  prophetic  soul.")  Perhaps  Dante  may  have  written  these  very 
sonnets.  Somebody  must  have  written  them.  Perhaps,  if  these 
sonnets  are  a  record  of  Southampton's  love-affairs,  his  lordship 
himself  may  be  the  "  poet  "  meant.  The  language  of  compliment 
is  always  rather  under  than  over  guarded.  To  be  a  poet  one 
need  not  write  verses  (or  perhaps  Southampton,  like  most  noble- 

*A  Tangled  Skein  Unravelled:  The  Mystery  of  Shakespeare's  Sonnets.  By  Charles  Mac- 
kay. The  Nineteenth  Century^  August,  1884. 


1885.]  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  221 

men  of  his  day,  did  write  verses).  Southampton  may  have  had  a 
"  Beatrician  Shade  "  to  visit  him  in  the  night-watches,  as  well  as 
Dante.  Anyhow,  most  lovers  and  poets  have  dreams.  And 
while  it  is  never  unsafe  to  poetically  accuse  a  poet — or  a  lover — 
of  being  visited  by  familiar  ghosts,  isn't  it  very  nearly  the  height 
of,  shall  we  say,  craziness,  or  only  zeal,  to  identify  the  particular 
poet  or  lover,  or  the  visiting  ghost,  from  the  use  of  the  hyper- 
bole? But,  for  all  that,  this  very  laborious  writer  of  the  Black- 
wood  paper  will  have  it,  not  that  these  sonnets  are  a  record  of 
Southampton's  love-life  or  dedicated  to  him,  but  that  they  are 
"  the  song  of  William  Shakspere's  new  life  "  !  A  right  to  charac- 
terize the  Blackwood  paper  can  only  be  earned  by  laborious  pe- 
rusal. But,  having  earned  that  right,  we  forbear  its  exercise. 
Perhaps,  however,  we  may  venture  the  hope  that  another  name 
is  not  to  be  enrolled  in  our  Shakspereana  Lunatica. 

If  only  William  Shakspere  could  have  had  a  Boswelf  or  a 
Moritz  Busch !  We  are  getting  to  appreciate  those  worthies  in 
days  when  most  men  are  too  lazy  to  write  biographies,  even  of 
their  own  ancestors,  justifying  themselves  instead  with  empty- 
ing chests  full  of  old  letters  upon  a  shuddering  and  book-ridden 
age.  But  so  it  is  that  of  the  man  concerning  whom  we  query 
most  we  have  neither  letters  nor  Bos  wells.  Libraries  of  theo- 
rems as  to  the  madness,  the  "subjection,"  the  "lassitude,"  and 
even  the  sex  of  his  Hamlet ;  acres  of  ambling  and  exasperating 
minutiae  as  to  Shakspere's  indebtedness  to  earlier  bards  for  such 
wild  extravagances  as  "  the  roaring  sea,"  the  "  ringing  bells," 
"  the  lashing  waves,"  etc.,  we  have  in  plenty  (and  it  is  wonder- 
ful how  cheaply  they  can  be  picked  up  at  the  old  book-stalls  and 
how  uniformly  they  are  found  with  uncut  leaves).  The  copy- 
righted commentator — he  of  crux  and  ending,  "  period  "  and 
"group,"  who  stands  the  comma  of  distortion  eternally  between 
the  amities  of  commentary  and  common  sense — is  always  on 
hand  with  his.  wheelbarrow-load  of  dusty  and  archaic  notes. 
Large  attention  is  paid  to  the  dramatist's  political  and  moral 
purposes  in  the  plays,  and  to  their  chronological  order  of  com- 
position (as  if,  granted  the  purpose,  the  order  is  of  any  conse- 
quence ;  or,  granted  the  order,  the  purpose  would  suffer),  and  all 
these  things  somehow  get  themselves  into  print. 

There  is  more  of  English  that  to-day  is  a  dead  language  than 
of  Greek  and  Latin  put  together.  There  are  long  rolls  of  names 
which  the  compilers  of  our  literature  manuals  get  into  the  habit 
of  including,  but  which  are  mere  echoes  ;  which  may  have  repre- 
sented readers  once,  but  represent  them  no  more,  nor  any  mate- 


222  MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  SONNETS.  [Nov., 

rial  for  which  readers  have  any  use.  But  among  these  names 
that  of  the  man  we  call  Shakspere  does  not  occur.  There  is  a 
glamour  about  that  name  like  the  whisper  of  the  spell  which 
bound  the  Lady  of  Shalott  to  an  ever-weaving  and  an  ever-grow- 
ing web.  Those  to  whom  it  speaks  cannot  choose  but  weave  and 
speak  in  turn,  passing  ever  and  always  onward  the  message  they 
themselves  have  heard.  O  terque  quaterque  beati  who,  reading 
by  sunlight  instead  of  rushlight,  can  so  prolong  the  legend  that, 
like  the  wedding  guest,  .the  world  cannot  choose  but  stop  to  lis- 
ten !  And  yet,  blessed  as  these  are,  it  is  not  to  be  forgotten  that 
that  way  also  madness  lies.  Among  the  names  mentioned  in 
Mr.  Wyman's  diligent  bibliography  of  one  minor  branch  of 
Shaksperean  controversy  (aside  from  the  alleged  innocuous  lu- 
nacy of  all  the  protagonists  participant  therein)  are  those  of 
two  who,  by  means  of  the  controversy  itself,  have  been  driven 
mad,  besides  that  of  one  suicide  ! 

It  behooves  everybody,  then,  to  guard  himself  vigilantly 
against  excessive  and  exclusive  poring  over  any  material  where- 
in no  bank  or  basis  of  solidified  fact  exists  upon  which  to  cast  a 
kedge  whereby  to  draw — when  all  bearings  have  been  lost  in 
foggy  and.  bewildering  space — back  to  moorings.  One  of  the 
seven  wise  men  of  Greece  bases  his  credentials  entirely  upon  his 
saying,  "  Let  there  be  too  much  of  nothing."  To  his  sentiment 
let  us  add  the  rider,  "  even  of  Shaksperean  criticism." 

But,  heeded  or  not,  of  one  thing  we  may  be  sure.  We  may 
open  William  Shakspere's  grave.  We  may  find  the  inventory 
of  all  the  world's  goods  of  which  he  died  possessed — the  cata- 
logue of  his  library,  the  disposition  of  his  first-best  bed.  We 
may  even  dispose  for  ever  of  the  Bacon-Shakspere  controversy. 
But  neither  with  any  nor  with  all  of  these  may  we  lay  the  ques- 
tion as  to  what  these  sonnets  mean.  That  catena  will  go  on  for 
ever !  As  to  every  other  human  tangle  there  is  somebody  some- 
where to  be  subpoenaed.  We  can  dive  to  find  the  submerged 
Atlantis ;  trace  the  successors  of  the  lost  tribes  ;  supply  the  mat- 
ter of  the  stolen  books  of  Livy  ;  we  can  import  experts  from 
Siam  to  testify  as  to  the  color  of  white  elephants  ;  but  the  son- 
nets will  yet  and  for  ever  remain  mere  sibylline  leaves.  As  to 
the  thread  that  will  tie  these  together  neither  ghost  nor  Daniel 
shall  ever  rise  to  depose ! 


1885.]          THE  AMERICAN  CATHOLIC  UNIVERSITY.  223 


THE   AMERICAN    CATHOLIC   UNIVERSITY. 

An  Appeal  to  the  Catholics  of  the  United  States  in  behalf  of  the 
University  which  the  late  Council  of  Baltimore  resolved  to  create. 
New  York:  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 

THIS  Appeal  is  signed  by  the  archbishops  of  Baltimore,  Mil- 
waukee, Boston,  Philadelphia,  and  Petra;  the  bishops  of  St.  Paul, 
Richmond,  Peoria,  and  Dakota  ;  Mgr.  Farley,  the  Revs.  J.  S. 
Foley,  D.D.,  T.  S.  Lee,  and  P.  L.  Chapelle,  D.D.,  and  Messrs. 
Eugene  Kelly,  Michael  Jenkins,  Bernard  N.  Ferren,  Thomas  E. 
Waggeman ;  who  constitute  the  Board  of  Trustees  of  the  new 
university.  We  learn  from  their  Appeal  that  Washington  has 
been  selected  as  the  site  of  the  university,  and  sixty-five  acres  of 
land  bought  for  the  location  of  the  buildings,  at  the  head  of  Lin- 
coln Avenue,  opposite  the  eastern  gate  of  the  Soldiers'  Home. 
Miss  Caldwell's  munificent  donation  of  $300,000  has  been  paid 
over  to  the  board,  and  it  is  announced  that  the  work  of  the  con- 
struction of  the  first  buildings  is  likely  to  be  begun  in  November. 

The  first  department  of  the  university  to  be  inaugurated  will 
be  the  School  of  Philosophy  and  Theology  for  advanced  clerical 
students.  It  is  proposed  to  establish  eight  professorships  in  this 
department,  some  of  which  will  be  given  to  laymen.  We  infer 
that  two  or  three  of  these  will  have  physical  sciences  as  the  object 
of  their  teaching.  The  necessary  endowment  of  each  chair  to  be 
filled  by  a  layman  will  amount  to  $100,000,  and  of  each  one  to  be 
filled  by  an  ecclesiastic  to  $50,000,  requiring,  for  the  first  eight 
chairs  to  be  founded,  at  least  $500,000.  It  is  also  desired  that 
scholarships,  each  having  a  fund  of  $5,000,  may  be  founded.  We 
suppose  that  a  much  greater  sum  than  one  million  of  dollars  will 
be  required  in  order  to  place  even  this  first  department  of  the 
university  on  a  sufficiently  ample  and  solid  foundation.  We  trust 
that  the  example  given  by  one  young  lady  will  not  lack  imitators 
among  those  who  are  able  to  emulate  it,  and  that  a  much  larger 
number  will  prove  themselves  to  be  generous  contributors  in 
proportion  to  their  means. 

We  are  glad  to  see  that  the  Appeal  repudiates  the  comment 
of  those  who  have  taken  occasion  to  cast  a  slur  on  the  actual 
state  of  education  among  the  Catholic  clergy.  The  very  least 
that  is  required  for  ordination  is,  thus  far,  besides  the  most 


224  THE  AMERICAN  CATHOLIC  UNIVERSITY.         [Nov., 

essential  part  of  an  undergraduate  course,  three  years  of  strictly 
professional  studies.  Hereafter  the  course  of  philosophy  and 
theology  will  be,  by  an  ecclesiastical  law,  extended  to  six  years. 
Young  men  who  have  been  admitted  to  the  bar,  or  who  are 
nearly  or  quite  ready  for  ordination  as  Protestants,  are  some- 
times obliged  to  study  for  five  or  six  years  before  they  are  ad- 
mitted to  holy. orders.  Those  who  have  bee^n  admitted  to  orders, 
and  who  may  have  been  rectors  of  parishes,  as  Protestants,  are 
always  obliged  to  study  three  years  before  receiving  Catholic 
ordination.  There  are  many  grades  of  education  as  well  as  of 
talent  among  the  Catholic  clergy,  between  the  minimum  on 
which  a  bishop  can  prudently  ordain  a  candidate  and  the  op- 
posite extreme.  We  must  say  that  some  of  the  best  and  most 
efficient  priests  we  have  known  nave  had  only  the  minimum  of 
learning,  and  that  others,  who  have  had  the  best  advantages  and 
attained  distinction  in  the  seminary,  have  turned  out  to  be  of 
little  or  no  worth  in  the  sacred  ministry.  It  is  not  necessary  or 
possible  that  in  any  profession  the  majority  should  rise  above  a 
respectable  mediocrity.  Inequality  in  respect  to  accidental  en- 
dowments is  a  law  of  nature  and  of  every  human  society.  An 
education  as  much  above  the  average  as  can  be  attained  is 
requisite  for  a  certain  number,  some  in  one  branch,  others  in  an- 
other, so  that  every  one  may  have  its  adepts,  and  a  learned  body 
be  formed  which  cultivates  the  complete  encyclopaedia  of  science. 
The  school  of  philosophy  and  theology  in  the  new  university  is 
for  this  purpose  ;  it  is  intended  to  furnish  a  post-graduate  course, 
to  be  a  school  of  higher,  more  advanced  studies  for  students  who 
have  finished  the  ordinary  curriculum  of  college  and  seminary. 

We  suppose,  therefore,  that  instruction  will  be  given  of  the 
most  thorough  kind  in  metaphysics,  dogmatic  theology,  pa- 
tristics,  canon  law,  the  Oriental  languages,  and  some  departments 
of  physics.  Modern  languages,  the  arts  which  subserve  religious 
purposes,  history,  archaeology,  etc.,  certainly  all  deserve  a  place 
within  the  circle. 

We  may  remark  here  that  the  improvement  of  the  ordinary 
course  in  seminaries  is  quite  as  much  an  object  of  attention  in 
the  highest  ecclesiastical  quarters  as  the  provision  for  extraor- 
dinary studies.  In  order  to  effect  this  a  corresponding  improve- 
ment in  the  course  of  colleges  and  minor  seminaries  is  necessary, 
which  again  exacts  great  care  in  providing  for  the  instruction 
given  in  preparatory  schools  for  boys.  Deficiency  in  the  educa- 
tion which  properly  belongs  to  the  period  of  boyhood  and  early 
youth  is  one  of  the  greatest  practical  hindrances  to  the  due  edu- 


1885.]          THE  AMERICAN  CATHOLIC  UNIVERSITY.  225 

cation  of  young  ecclesiastics  in  the  higher  studies.  The  founda- 
tion must  be  well  laid,  if  the  superstructure  is  to  be  well  built. 
The  sugar-cane  is  thrown  in  on  the  lower  story  of  the  factory  ;  in 
the  upper  stories  the  molasses  runs  and  the  sugar  rolls  out.  Put 
a  boy  of  twelve  into  a  good  school,  and  promote  him  regularly 
through  college  and  seminary,  he  will  be  twenty-five  or  twenty- 
six  years  old  when  he  is  prepared  for  ordination,  and  thirty  or 
more  when  he  has  finished  his  course  at  the  university.  Life  is 
short,  and  art  is  long. 

It  is  obvious  that  even  those  who  take  the  longest  and  most 
thorough  course  can  be  well  grounded  and  fully  instructed  in  all 
branches  only  which  are  of  common  necessity  for  all  members  of 
the  clerical  profession.  In  the  more  advanced  and  collateral 
studies  a  selection  must  be  made.  We  do  not  speak  of  those 
rare  exceptions  which  are  prodigies,  such  as,  e.g.,  was  Leibnitz. 
The  rule  must  be  to  learn  thoroughly  all  the  common  branches; 
in  special  studies,  to  prosecute  one  or  two,  and  at  most  to  aim  at 
a  rudimental  knowledge  of  others  in  so  far  as  that  belongs  to  a 
liberal  education  in  general,  or  to  one  which  is  professional. 
Just  here  the  wisdom  and  tact  of  directors  of  studies  need  to  be 
specially  exercised,  both  in  colleges  and  seminaries.  The  ar- 
rangement of  obligatory  and  optional  studies  is  no  easy  matter. 
The  proportion  to  be  kept  between  different  studies — for  instance, 
classics- and  mathematics — is  a  serious  problem.  To  attempt  too 
much  and  too  many  things  is  to  hinder  the  attainment  of  the  end 
— education  and  instruction  in  view  of  a  particular  state  in  life — 
just  as  surely  as  it  is  so  to  attempt  too  little.  More  depends  on 
quality  than  on  quantity.  Some  common  things  are  the  most 
necessary  and  useful  in  themselves,  and  are,  moreover,  requisite 
for  excellence  in  those  which  are  special.  For  instance,  with  all 
the  time  and  attention  bestowed  on  foreign  languages,  it  is  most 
important  that  all  pupils  should  be  taught  the  knowledge  and 
use  of  the  English  language.  It  is  equally  important  that  they 
should  not  be  overtasked  or  hurried,  but  led  along  at  a  moderate 
pace,  having  leisure  enough  for  exercise,  play,  eating,  sleeping, 
and  growing  up  strong  and  healthy  as  well  as  studious  men. 

This  is  rambling  from  the  direct  subject  of  the  university. 
But  the  whole  matter  of  education  is  one  general  subject,  and 
its  parts  are  closely  connected.  Students  who  are  prepared  to 
profit  by  a  university  course  must  be  prepared  by  the  lower 
schools,  and  each  one  of  the  series  depends  on  the  one  next  be- 
low it  for  the  due  preparation  of  its  pupils,  so  that  the  requisite 
improvement  in  its  course  can  be  gradually  and  successfully 
VOL.  XLII. — 15 


226  THE  AMERICAN  CATHOLIC  UNIVERSITY.          [Nov., 

effected.  It  is,  therefore,  for  the  advantage  of  the;,university,  as 
well  as  for  more  general  interests,  desirable  t5  liaVe  a  revised 
and  uniform  Ratio  Studiorum  for  all  the  schools,  from  the  pre- 
paratory grammar-school  up  to  the  seminary.  And  then,  what 
is  more  difficult  and  more  practically  necessary  than  this  deter- 
mination of  a  theoretical  scheme,  the  instruction  and  training  of 
the  pupils  must  be  carried  on  in  a  thorough  and  solid  manner ; 
free  from  everything  like  a  patent  process,  a  method  of  quick 
and  easy  learning,  which  makes  a  school  resemble  a  shop  where 
wood  is  painted  and  varnished  into  a  poor  resemblance  to 
marble. 

The  remarks  upon  the  due  cultivation  of  the  physical  sci- 
ences, as  well  as  those  upon  literature,  which  we  find  in  the  Ap- 
peal, are  especially  to  be  recommended  to  the  perusal  of  all 
thoughtful  readers.  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  all  the  bishops 
in  the  world  would  endorse  them,  and  they  but  echo  the  voice  of 
the  Sovereign  Pontiff,  Leo  XIII.  They  are  worthy  of  attention 
not  only  for  their  sound  and  enlightened  wisdom,  but  also  for 
the  extreme  beauty  of  the  language  in  which  they  are  expressed. 
The  whole  pamphlet,  indeed,  is  redolent  with  eloquence  similar 
to  that  with  which  the  cause  of  higher  education  was  advocated 
before  the  late  Plenary  Council. 

As  for  objections  and  forebodings,  they  are  only  the  refrain 
of  an  old  song  we  heard  thirty  years  ago  when  the  project  of 
a  university  was  first  talked  about,  and  which  we  then  feared 
would  result  in  nothing  else  but  talk.  The  time  for  action  has 
come  at  last,  and  the  prospects  are  favorable  for  the  inauguration 
of  a  great  work,  which  we  hope  will  command  universal  sym- 
pathy and  general  co-operation.  Waiting  for  absolute  unanim- 
ity, for  the  cessation  of  all  objections,  for  the  removal  of  all 
difficulties,  would  bring  us  to  doomsday  with  nothing  done.  We 
do  not  expect  that  a  great  university  can  be  brought  to  its  full 
development  and  perfection  in  a  day  or  a  year.  The  work  will 
be  arduous  and  gradual ;  but  a  beginning  must  be  made,  in  fact 
has  been  already  made  in  such  a  promising  way  as  to  surprise 
and  delight  all  who  have  been  wishing  to  see  founded  a  great 
American  Catholic  University.  The  highest  and  most  universal 
ecclesiastical  authority  in  the  country,  the  Plenary  Council,  has 
decided  the  question  ;  and  it  is  now  the  part  of  all  the  clergy 
and  laity  to  follow  up  and  make  successful  the  initiative  action  of 
the  hierarchy  by  their  hearty  support  and  co-operation. 


TWINS:  A  WAR  STORY.  227 

T*jfj-  ' 

iiiarto 

THE  TWINS:   A  WAR  STORY. 

I. 

THE  day  in  St.  Louis  had  been  extremely  warm  for  the  month 
of  March.  As  evening  fell  the  round  moon  hanging  in  the  sky 
over  the  east  bank  of  the  Mississippi  cast  a  splendor  on  the  Pres- 
byterian church  at  the  corner  of  Fifth  and  Walnut  Streets  such 
as  that  structure  had  never  known  by  day.  Crowds  swarmed 
about  the  corner,  and  the  merry  chatter  and  husky  laughter  of 
the  negroes  showed  that  these  were  caring  little  for  the  hopes 
that  might  be  founded  on  the  civil  war  that  was  believed  to  be 
at  hand.  A  wedding  was  to  take  place,  the  bride  a  beauty,  and 
a  favorite  of  the  whole  city,  and  the  groom  an  active,  genial 
young  man,  who  was  deemed  a  fitting  partner  for  the  bride. 
The  marriage  of  Phcebe  McCutcheon  and  Tom  Jeminy  was  of 
more  immediate  importance  to  the  colored  folk  of  St.  Louis  than 
the  possible  outcome  of  Lincoln's  recent  inauguration. 

The  negroes  flocked  up  the  hill  from  Frenchtown  and  down 
from  the  region  about  the  Calaboose,  while  carriages,  open  and 
spacious  most  of  them,  made  their  way  with  much  cracking  of 
whips  and  let  out  their  loads  of  handsome,  well-dressed  men  and 
women.  Men  on  horseback,  followed  by  their  grooms,  added  to 
the  vivacity  of  the  scene.  A  stout,  fair-haired  gentleman,  unat- 
tended, rode  up  and  dismounted  in  the  shadow  of  the  trees  across 
the  way.  AH  was  expectancy  as  a  group  of  little  darkies  on  the 
lookout  scampered  up  through  the  middle  of  the  street  shouting, 
"  H'yer  dey  comin',  right  now !  "  and  the  crowd  opened  a  pas- 
sage. The  bridal  party  alighted  from  their  carriages,  mounted 
the  church-steps,  and  disappeared  through  the  wide-opened 
doors. 

"  Dey  an't  no  use  talkin',"  earnestly  argued  an  old  house- 
keeper in  a  flaming  bandana  to  her  dignified,  grizzle- woolled  hus- 
band, "  strikes  dis  chile  Missy  Phoebe  'd  a  heap  better  marry  boff 
o'  dem  Jeminys,  or  not. marry  nudder  o'  dem." 

"  Yo'  des  better  take  car'  o'  one  ole  man.  Dat's  'bout  all  yo' 
got  to  do,"  was  her  husband's  rebuke.  But  the  old  negress'  re- 
mark was  the  means,  nevertheless,  of  setting  the  tongues  around 
her  wagging. 

For  a  neat-looking  mulatto  girl  declared  it  to  be  her  opinion 
that  before  Tom  Jeminy  had  been  long  married  something 


228  THE  TWINS:  A  WAR  STORY.  [Nov., 

dreadful  would  happen,  as,  according-  to  her  honest  belief,  it  was 
unlucky  for  a  twin  to  marry  unless  the  other  twin  married  at  the 
same  time.  "  Den,"  she  went  on  to  remark,  "  w'at's  Mars'r  Jack 
Jeminy  to  do?  He  'fused  to  come  to  de  weddin'.  Dem  two 
brudders  an't  done  been  away  f 'om  one  anudder  befo'  sence  dey 
was  nussed.  Tell  yo'  w'at,  Aunt  Rachel's  got  a  heap  o'  sense 
in  her  ole  head.  Yo'  don'  cotch  me  marryin*  a  twin  brudder,  on- 
less  de  udder  brudder  marry  my  sister ;  an'  I  an't  got  no  sister 
fo'  him  to  marry/'  And  she  burst  out  into  a  loud  guffaw. 

The  front  of  the  edifice,  the  eager,  merry  throng  filling  the 
pavement  adjacent  and  scattered  in  knots  beyond,  and  the  entire 
street  on  that  side  were  bathed  in  the  white  moonlight.  In  the 
shaded  strip  under  the  line  of  trees  opposite,  the  yellow  glare  of 
the  gas  that  beamed  out  from  the  church  lit  up  one  spot,  where 
the  fair-haired  man  all  alone  stood  behind  his  horse.  His  elbows 
rested  on  the  animal's  back,  and  he  was  peering  over  the  saddle 
up  the  aisle  of  the  church.  Everything  was  hushed,  and  then 
the  triumphant  notes  of  the  wedding-march  reverberated  from 
the  doors  and  all  the  windows  of  the  church,  and  raised  the  wait- 
ing crowd  on  tip-toes. 

The  bridal  procession  slowly  issued  from  the  vestibule  and 
descended  the  steps.  The  groom  was  a  strongly-built  young 
man  of  medium  height  and  light  complexion,  with  an  amiable  ex- 
pression of  countenance,  though  his  eyes  now  had  a  singularly 
intense  regard  as  they  searched  the  upturned  faces  to  the  right 
and  left.  One  glance  at  the  bride  explained  the  affection  with 
which  she  was  scanned  by  all  there,  black  and  white.  t  There  was 
no  mistaking  the  mixture  of  strong  will  and  kindness  of  heart  in 
her  nature.  Her  beautiful  gray  eyes  were  modestly  downcast 
now,  but  whenever  they  rose  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  some  fa- 
miliar black  face  her  mouth  would  be  wreathed  in  a  smile.  After 
the  newly-married  pair  came  the  bride's  father,  giving  pleasant 
nods  of  recognition  in  all  directions.  The  well-dressed  company 
followed  two  by  two  down  the  steps. 

Near  the  curb-stone  there  was  a  jostle,  a  piercing  shriek  came 
from  the  midst  of  it,  and  then  a  mass  of  white  lay  on  the  pave- 
ment at  the  carriage-door,  in  danger  of  being  trampled  by  the 
feet  of  the  surging  crowd.  What  a  minute  before  was  an  orderly 
assemblage  of  friends  and  well-wishers  had  become  an  excited 
mob.  Part  gathered  around  the  swooning  bride,  but  the  rest 
pressed  over  the  curb  into  the  street  as  a  horseman  in  full  even- 
ing dress  galloped  off  towards  the  north.  It  was  the  bridegroom 
fleeing. 


1885.]  THE  TWINS:    A  WAR  STORY.  229 

The  bride's  father,  having  seen  his  daughter  placed  in  the 
carriage,  broke  his  way  through  the  yielding  throng  into  the 
street. 

"  Mars'r  McCutcheon,"  spoke  a  negro,  pointing  to  where 
the  fair-haired  man  stood  under  the  trees,  gazing  after  his  disap- 
pearing brother,  "  dar's  de  udder  Mars'r  Jeminy  ober  dar." 

"Jack  Jeminy,  what  does  this  mean?"  asked  McCutcheon  in 
a  voice  shaking  with  anger.  "  Where  has  Tom  gone  ?  " 

"  I  declare  to  God,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  don't  know  any 
more  about  this  strange  affair  than  you  do.  But  the  man  that 
harms  my  brother  is  a  dead  man."  And  the  speaker,  talking  to 
McCutcheon  but  eyeing  the  exasperated  mass  that  was  consult- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  street,  put  his  hand  to  his  pocket. 

"But  you  brought  the  horse  here  for  this  purpose,"  per- 
sisted McCutcheon,  laying  his  hand  heavily  on  Jeminy's  arm. 

11 1  tell  you  again,  sir,  on  the  word  of  a  gentleman,  I  don't 
know  anything  more  about  this  than  you  do,"  said  Jeminy, 
loosening  himself  from  McCutcheon's  grasp.  And,  as  he  saw 
that  the  crowd  was  pressing  in  upon  them,  he  went  on  hurriedly  : 
"  I  came  to  take  a  last  look  at  my  brother  after  his  marriage,  in- 
tending to  ride  off  then  out  of  St.  Louis  and  go  back  to  Ken- 
tucky. I  am  not  sure  that  I  realize  it  all  yet.  When  Tom  broke 
through  that  crowd  yonder  and  galloped  away  on  my  horse  I 
thought  I  must  be  dreaming." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  honesty  of  the  Kentuckian's 
words.  He  sat  down  on  the  strip  of  grass  that  grew  at  the  edge 
'of  the  sidewalk  and  sobbed  aloud. 

Phoebe  in  the  carriage,  surrounded  by  friends,  revived.  She 
looked  at  the  anxious  faces  about  her,  but  as  her  hands  played 
with  her  bridal  dress  the  disappearance  of  the  groom  flashed 
across  her  mind  and  she  fell  back  fainting  again  into  the  arms 
of  her  father,  who  had  just  returned  to  her. 

"  Drive  home,"  he  called  out  to  the  coachman,  and  the  car- 
riage rolled  away  toward  Olive  Street. 

There  was  a  rumbling  of  disappearing  vehicles,  and  the 
mystified  crowd  dispersed. 


II. 

St.  Louis  in  1861  was  a  very  different  place  from  the  enter- 
prising "Future  Great"  familiar  to  this  generation.  It  was  then 
distinctively  a  Southern  city,  not  in  latitude  only,  but  in  the 
character  of  its  citizens  and  their  manners  and  institutions. 


230  THE  TWINS:  A  WAR  STORY.  [Nov., 

The  houses  generally  were  low,  seldom  more  than  two 
stories  in  height,  except  in  the  more  ambitious  neighborhoods 
in  and  about  Olive,  Chestnut,  Pine,  and  Walnut  Streets.  The 
oldest  settlers  and  richest  inhabitants  were  either  of  French 
origin  from  Louisiana  or  Canada,  or  were  from  the  Southern 
States,  with  a  sprinkling  of  Pennsylvanians.  They  were  an  af- 
fable, off-hand,  hospitable  people,  free  from  affectation,  but  in- 
stinctively polite.  An  insult  was  resented  on  the  spot,  and  in- 
sults were  consequently  rare.  Horse-racing  and  gambling  were 
very  popular,  and  a  bet  was  paid  with  as  much  promptness  as  a 
commercial  debt. 

Of  the  solid  men  who  used  to  gather  in  the  Planters'  House 
at  mid-day  for  refreshment  Sam  McCutcheon  was  one  of  the  best 
known.  He  was  tall  and  raw-boned,  with  a  well-formed  head 
poised  on  a  strong  neck.  His  gray  eyes  were  set  under  bushy 
brows,  and  shone,  in  spite  of  his  sixty  years,  with  keen  intelli- 
gence. He  was  dreaded  in  a  bargain,  and  had  the  reputation  of 
liking  to  "squeeze'*  an  enemy  when  opportunity  offered.  But 
he  could  be  very  generous  on  the  rare  occasions  when  the  im- 
pulse seized  him.  He  was  emphatically  a  hard  man,  but  not  a 
narrow  one,  and  some  of  the  great  speculations  he  had  originated 
and  successfully  carried  through  pointed  to  the  Celtic  imagina- 
tion derived  from  an  Irish  ancestry  of  which  he  was  wont  to 
speak. 

It  was  a  boast  of  his  that  he  had  come  to  St.  Louis  from  his 
native  Tennessee  when  he  was  a  stripling,  without  a  picayune  to« 
his  name.  Just  how  he  had  accumulated  his  wealth  was  no- 
body's business  but  his  own.  The  public  generally  were  satisfied 
to  know  that  he  had  a  great  deal  of  money,  and  that  he  kept  a 
tight  grip  on  whatever  came  to  his  hand.  He  was  a  widower, 
and  idolized  his  only  child,  Phcebe,  but  he  was  ready  at  any 
time  to  meet  a  party  of  friends  for  a  game  of  cards  where  there 
was  a  good  stake.  There  was  a  story  that  a  fine  row  of  houses 
known  as  the  "  McCutcheon  Block  "  was  won  by  him  years  be- 
fore at  a  game  of  poker  on  a  Mississippi  River  steamer.  Sam 
and  the  captain,  so  the  story  went,  were  having  a  friendly  game 
in  the  cabin,  surrounded  by  an  interested  circle  of  gentlemen, 
when  the  betting  began  to  be  worthy  of  these  two  determined 
men.  Sam  owned  the  steamer,  and  the  captain  ran  it  for  a  salary 
and  a  percentage  of  the  profits.  The  captain  had  shortly  before 
invested  the  earnings  of  his  lifetime  in  the  erection  of  a  row  of 
houses  that  was  the  wonder  of  the  St.  Louis  of  that  day.  The 
game  became  exciting  and  Sam  raised  the  captain's  bet  with  the 


1885.]  THE  TWINS:    A   WAR  STORY.  231 

steamer.  The  captain  called  with  the  new  row  of  houses.  Sam 
held  the  better  hand  and  won,  and  on  the  arrival  of  the  boat  at 
St.  Louis  the  captain  loyally  executed  the  transfer  of  the  row  to 
McCutcheon.  But  the  next  day  the  captain's  body  was  found 
floating  in  the  river  near  Carondelet.  He  had  paid  his  "  debt  of 
honor,"  yet  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  live  as  a  poor  man 
again. 

The  "  McCutcheon  Block "  was  to  have  been  Phoebe's  wed- 
ding gift  from  her  father. 

Tom  Jeminy  was  regarded  as  having  been  very  lucky  indeed 
in  this  match.  He  and  his  twin-brother  had  come  from  Kentucky 
only  a  few  months  before,  and,  besides  taking  a  good  deal  of  in- 
terest in  horse-racing,  the' two  had  in  the  meantime  been  reading 
law.  They  were  of  a  good  family,  but  were  orphans,  with  barely 
money  enough  to  pay  their  modest  board  to  a  widow  from  their 
own  part  of  the  Blue  Grass  region. 

Tom  had  met  Phoebe,  had  made  love  to  her,  been  accepted, 
had  married  her — and  now  where  was  he? 

Phoebe  ranked  among  the  beauties  of  St.  Louis,  and  those 
who  knew  her  best  said  there  was  not  a  better  girl  either.  Her 
goodness  was  so  superabundant  as  to  suffice  for  some  of  her 
flinty  father's  shortcomings  in  the  popular  estimation,  and,  indeed, 
the  old  man  always  softened  whenever  his  daughter  was  near. 

The  days  went  on  and  the  months.  Since  the  night  of  the 
wedding  nothing  had  been  seen  or  heard  of  the  twin-brothers. 
Phoebe's  lovely  eyes  seemed  to  grow  larger.  She  could  have 
died  cheerfully ;  but  death  avoided  her.  Her  father,  the  very 
impersonation  of  restless  energy  formerly,  became  listless,  and 
would  sit  by  the  hour  at  a  window  of  his  house,  playing  solitaire 
and  keeping  anxious  watch  over  his  daughter. 

III. 

There  were  lively  times  along  the  Rappahannock  in  the 
spring  of  1863.  The  battle  of  Chancellorsville  had  been  fought, 
and  the  pickets  had  grown  tired  of  shouting  taunts  about  it 
across  the  river.  The  long,  severe  winter  had  broken  up  into 
the  soft,  balmy  season  of  buds.  When  the  early  morning  hours 
were  past  the  sun's  rays  freshened  the  blankets  which  the  sol- 
diers spread  out  to  dry  on  the  grass  in  every  glade  near  their 
picket-line.  Woodpeckers  hopped  vertically  up  the  tali  trunks 
of  the  trees,  and,  high  over  all,  mocking-birds  were  making  fools 
of  themselves  and  of  all  the  feathered  tribe.  Across  the  sky 


232  THE  TWINS:    A   WAR  STORY.  LNov-» 

thin  streaks  of  cloud  passed  from  north  to  south  and  from  south 
to  north,  resting  now  above  the  Confederate,  now  above  the 
Union  encampments.  All  out-doors  was  as  gay  as  a  picnic.  The 
quarters  of  the  armies  were  a  mile  or  more  back  from  the  river 
on  either  side,  and  a  turn  at  picket-duty  was  looked  forward  to 
with  great  pleasure,  for  the  off-reliefs  could  lounge  in  the  woods 
arid  play  cards,  write  letters,  or  stretch  themselves  out  at  full 
length  on  the  turf  with  a  satisfaction  none  but  tired  soldiers  in 
active  service  have  ever  enjoyed. 

The  peaceful  haze  of  the  atmosphere  had  so  settled  into 
men's  minds  that  there  gradually  came  to  be  a  tacit  truce  be- 
tween Federals  and  Confederates.  Both  sides  ceased  firing. 
Songs  were  sung  on  one  bank  and  the  chorus  answered  from 
the  other.  Trading  went  on.  Odd  little  craft  were  rigged  and 
their  sails  trimmed  so  as  to  carry  them  to  and  fro  across  the 
river  loaded  with  coffee  or  tobacco,  each  plentiful  on  one  side 
but  sadly  lacking  on  the  other.  Strict  orders  from  the  head- 
quarters of  both  armies  had  been  issued  against  this,  but  Ameri- 
can soldiers  understand  everything  and  hate  formality.  So  mat- 
ters went  on,  in  spite  of  orders,  in  the  same  free-and-easy  way  as 
before. 

Banks'  Ford,  a  fe  w  miles  above  Fredericksburg,  was  picketed 
by  cavalry.  About- the  ford  on  the  northern  shore  the  ground 
was  open,  and  rose  in  a  gradual,  grassy  slope  to  a  wood  in  which 
the  horses  of  the  Federal  outposts  were  secured  under  cover. 
Within  a  few  yards  of  the  ford  a  strong  post  of  dismounted 
Federal  cavalry  usually  kept  themselves  out  of  sight  behind  an 
earthen  redan.  But  the  Confederates  had  the  advantage,  for  on 
their  side  the  woods  came  clear  to  the  river's  edge,  so  that  they 
had  been  able  to  make  it  very  dangerous  for  the  "  Yankee " 
cavalry  at  the  redan.  But  now,  with  the  tacit  cessation  of  hos- 
tilities, the  Union  reliefs  came  as  jauntily  down  the  hill  to  the 
little  earthwork  as  if  they  were  not  in  range  of  Southern  rifles. 

The  Illinois  cavalrymen  who  held  the  ford  for  the  Union  this 
afternoon  were  nearly  all  lying  down  on  the  shady  side  of  the 
redan,  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  the  preceding  night's  vigil. 
The  sentinel  on  guard,  however,  and  the  lieutenant  commanding 
the  post  were  awake  keeping  good  watch.  The  sentinel,  with 
his  carbine  clutched  in  both  hands,  rested  his  elbows  on  the 
parapet,  and  his  eyes  systematically  swept  the  opposite  bank  of 
the  river  from  right  to  left  and  from  left  to  right.  He  could  see 
the  gray  and  butternut  uniforms  of  the  Confederates  moving 
about  in  the  woods,  and  could  plainly  hear  the  tread  of  their 


1885.]       .  THE  TWINS:  A  WAR  STORY.  233 

horses'  feet.  The  lieutenant,  too,  standing  beside  the  sentinel, 
was  curiously  watching-  the  "  graybacks."  Their  voices,  which 
sounded  thicker  and  softer  than  Northern  voices,  evidently  inte- 
rested him. 

"  I  reckon  the  Confeds  over  there  are  Kentuckians,"  he  re- 
marked to  the  sentinel. 

"  I  reckon  they  are,"  answered  the  man,  a  Kentuckian  him- 
self. "  I  tell  you,  lieutenant,"  he  continued  musingly,  "  you  and 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  two  or  three  years  ago  that  we'd  be 
fighting  old  Kaintuck  now." 

"Yes,  but  we  are  not  fighting  Kentucky,"  was  the  officer's 
somewhat  absent-minded  reply  ;  "  we  are  fighting  for  her,  to 
preserve  her  from  secession  and  ruin.  But  what's  this?"  he 
muttered,  as  a  Confederate  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rappahan- 
nock,  carrying  on  a  rapid  conversation  with  the  sentinel  there, 
spurred  his  horse  into  the  ford  and  made  straight  through  the 
stream  for  the  Union  earthwork. 

The  Confederate  sentinel  discharged  his  carbine  at  the  man 
on  horseback,  and  a  dozen  other  Confederates  along  the  river- 
bank  did  the  same,  all  immediately  after  seeking  the  shelter  of 
the  trees  that  hung  their  boughs  over  the  water.  The  shots 
aroused  both  sides. 

"  Fall  in  !  "  shouted  the  lieutenant,  and  the  dozen  men  of  the 
redan  sprang  to  the  parapet  and  aimed  their  pieces  at  the  ap- 
proaching horseman,  who  came  on  at  a  furious  speed,  though  his 
horse  was  floundering  dangerously  through  the  stony  bottom  of 
the  ford.  The  lieutenant,  who  had  been  restraining  his  men, 
now  raised  his  sabre  and  cried  out :  "  Fire  ! "  But  he  had  no 
sooner  spoken  the  word  than  an  exclamation  of  astonishment 
from  him  caused  them  to  hesitate. 

In  a  second  the  air  about  the  ford  was  full  of  flying  bullets. 
The  Federals,  who  at  first  supposed  that  the  horseman  they  saw 
was  leading  an  attack  upon  them,  now  perceived  that  in  reality 
he  was  trying  to  make  his  escape  from  his  own  side,  and  that  it 
was  upon  him  particularly  that  the  Confederate  fire  was  directed, 
though  many  of  the  shots  began  to  fall  around  the  redan. 

The  truce  was  at  an  end,  for  the  time  at  least.  The  alarm 
spread.  On  the  ridge  behind,  where  the  Union  reserve  pickets 
were  stationed,  as  well  as  in  the  woods  on  the  Southern  side  of 
the  river,  the  bugles  were  sounding  "  Prepare  to  mount !  " 

The  horseman  came  on.  His  hat  had  fallen  off,  and  his  long 
hair  streamed  down  his  back  as  he  pushed  his  horse  through  the 
foaming  water.  He  was  bent  forward,  with  his  head  almost  touch- 


234  THE  TWINS:    A  WAR  STORY.  [Nov., 

ing  the  animal's  neck,  and  he  held  up  his  right  hand  to  the  Union 
men  in  token  of  amity. 

The  fight  became  general.  The  puffs  of  smoke  which  shot 
out  from  the  ground  were  now  almost  the  only  sign  of  a  human 
being  from  one  side  to  the  other,  except  the  Confederate  horse- 
man plashing  through  the  ford  and  the  Federal  lieutenant  crouch- 
ing at  the  river's  edge.  With  every  plunge  of  the  horse's  fore- 
hoofs  the  spray  rose  up  in  front  so  as  nearly  to  hide  the  rider. 
The  friendliness  that  had  for  several  days  prevailed  between  the 
lines  was  gone ;  the  blood  was  stirred  now,  and  the  air  was  full  of 
hatred  and  death. 

As  the  horseman  came  nearer,  the  lieutenant,  with  a  wild  yell, 
began  to  wade  out.  "  Dismount,  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  Jack !  " 
he  cried,  as  he  struggled,  against  the  current,  into  the  river  up 
to  his  waist. 

"  My  God ! "  exclaimed  the  gray-jacketed  horseman,  sliding 
down  from  the  saddle  into  the  water.  "  O  Tom !  I  didn't  ex- 
pect to  see  you  so  soon."  As  the  two  embraced,  the  shells  of 
the  Federal  battery  whirred  across  the  river  to  explode  at  the 
Confederate  side  of  the  ford.  The  Confederate  artillery  behind 
the  wood  awoke  at  the  sound  of  the  Yankee  guns,  and  the  valley 
was  wrapped  in  a  broad  scarf  of  chalky  white  smoke.  The 
crack  of  rifles,  the  hiss  of  musket-balls,  the  roar  of  cannon,  the 
rush  of  shrapnel  through  the  air,  and  the  cheers  and  shouts  of 
Federals  and  Confederates  took  the  place  of  the  peaceful  tran- 
quillity of  an  hour  before. 

Out  from  the  cloud  of  bursting  shells  emerged  the  men — the 
lieutenant  and  the  Confederate  whose  flight  across  the  river  had 
brought  about  this  renewal  of  hostilities.  The  Federal  officer 
limped,  but  was  supported  by  his  brother,  around  whose  neck  his 
arm  was  entwined.  With  much  exertion  the  two  climbed  up  the 
steep,  gravelly  bank.  Nothing  but  the  smoke  which  interposed 
saved  them  from  a  more  accurate  aim  of  the  Confederate  bullets 
that  whizzed  spitefully  near  them.  Lieutenant  Jeminy  could  go 
no  further  and  sank  upon  the  grass. 

What  agony  was  here  !  Without  help  it  would  be  impossible 
for  the  Confederate  to  remove  the  long  boot  from  his  brother's 
leg  so  as  to  stanch  the  wound  ;  and  the  flying  missiles  made  it 
necessary  to  act  without  an  instant's  delay.  Stooping  down  he 
gently  raised  Tom  until  he  was  in  a  sitting  posture. 

The  sun  had  just  set  behind  the  ridge,  and  the  dark  forms  of 
the  Federal  cannoneers  stood  distinctly  out  against  the  red  west- 
ern sky,  for  there  was  breeze  enough  at  that  height  to  carry  off 


1885.]  THE  TWINS:   A  WAR  STORY.  235 

the  smoke.  But  down  in  the  hollows  the  shadows  were  deep,  so 
that  at  every  discharge  of  the  carbines  at  the  redan  a  streak  of 
fire  was  seen  to  issue  from  the  muzzles. 

After  several  endeavors  Jack  succeeded  in  raising  his  brother, 
and,  taking  him  on  his  back,  he  toiled  up  a  ravine  towards  the 
redan,  balancing  with  difficulty  his  precious  load.  A  Federal  ser- 
geant and  private  from  the  earthwork  came  to  his  assistance. 
The  firing  gradually  ceased  on  both  sides  with  the  disappearance 
of  its  cause  from  the  sight  of  the  Confederates,  and  the  crippled 
lieutenant  was  tenderly  laid  on  the  ground  in  the  shelter  of  the 
redan. 

The  Federal  outpost  were  amazed.  Between  their  wounded 
officer  and  this  Confederate  deserter  they  could  nowise  distin- 
guish except  by  the  uniform.  Word  was  sent  to  the  reserve  post 
behind  the  ridge  for  a  surgeon  and  stretcher-bearers,  and  mean- 
while the  boot  was  cut  off  from  the  injured  limb  and-  the  hurt 
was  bathed  and  temporarily  dressed.  The  officer,  comforted  by 
the  skilful  treatment  of  the  rough  but  intelligent  cavalrymen,  fell 
into  a  healthy  sleep,  which  was  npne  the  less  refreshing  for  a 
mouthful  of  stimulant  from  a  ready  canteen. 

To  the  inquiry  of  the  sergeant,  now  commanding  the  outpost, 
the  Confederate  explained  in  whispers  who  he  was  and  how  he 
came  to  be  a  deserter.  "  You  can  imagine  how  I  love  my  bro- 
ther," he  said,  "  when  I  have  deserted  from  the  cause  I  believe 
in,  in  order  to  see  him.  When  I  learned  some  time  ago  that  he 
was  in  an  Illinois  cavalry  regiment  attached  to  this  army  I  deter- 
mined to  find  him  or  die  in  the  attempt." 

.  The  sound  of  the  speaker's  voice  came  gratefully  to  the 
wounded  officer's  ear  ;  he  heaved  a  long  sigh,  expressive  of  great 
relief,  opened  his  eyes  for  an  instant,  and,  closing  them  again, 
stretched  out  his  feet  towards  the  watch-fire  and  slept  once  more. 

As  the  Confederate  sat  by  his  sleeping  brother's  side  his 
countenance  seemed  to  be  rapt  in  contemplation  of  a  far  distant 
vision. 

"  Why  !  the  risk  I  have  just  taken  is  nothing  to  the  sacrifice 
he  made  for  me,"  he  continued,  half  to  himself  and  half  to  the 
group  of  cavalrymen  who  sat  about  the  fire,  nursing  their 
sheathed  sabres  across  their  laps.  "  Poor  Tom  !  I  lost  sight  of 
him  for  a  while,  and  when  the  war  came  on  I  didn't  reckon  I'd 
see  him  soon  again.  But  the  Lord  is  good,  I  tell  you,  boys,  to 
bring  us  together,  after  all."  And  he  watched  with  a  loving  so- 
licitude his  brother's  face,  now  pale  from  the  loss  of  blood. 

The  Union  men  were  still  perplexed,  even  after  Jack's  narra- 


236  THE  TWINS:    A   WAR  STORY.  [Nov., 

tion.  But  with  soldierly  hospitality  they  forced  him  to  eat  of 
their  hard-bread  and  salt  pork,  and  to  drink  a  big  tin  cup  of 
their  coffee — a  treat  such  as  the  Confederate  had  not  had  for 
many  a  day. 

An  officer  from  the  reserve  arrived  to  take  command  of  the 
redan,  and  with  him  came  men  and  a  stretcher  to  bear  the  wound- 
ed lieutenant  back  to  the  camp,  where  he  could  have  the  proper 
surgical  attendance.  The  Confederate  was  allowed  to  accom- 
pany his  brother,  and  the  little  procession  disappeared  up  the 
ridge  into  the  darkness,  the  group  around  the  fire  at  the  redan 
gazing  after  it  in  silence. 


IV. 

"  I  tell  you,  Phcebe,  Tom  Jeminy  is  dead,  and  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  you  wasting  your  life  any  longer  for  him." 

"  But,  father,  he  cannot  be  dead,  or  we  would  have  had  some 
account  of  it,"  was  Phoebe's  languid  reply  to  this  suggestion, 
which  she  was  accustomed  of  late  to  hear  often  repeated. 

Old  McCutcheon  stood  at  the  window  of  his  residence  drum- 
ming against  the  glass  pane,  watching  the  loiterers,  many  of  them 
soldiers,  that  sauntered  along  Olive  Street.  He  was  still  a  rug- 
ged man,  but  his  hair  was  whiter  than  it  was  three  years  before 
when  he  led  his  daughter  to  the  church  to  marry  Tom  Jeminy. 

"  He  had  better  be  dead  than  ever  to  fall  into  my  hands,"  he 
growled,  and  the  angry  set  of  his  determined  features  was  in  har- 
mony with  his  thoughts.  "  Halloo !  there  goes  another  lot  of 
prisoners,"  he  went  on,  as  a  squad  of  forty  or  fifty  sunburnt, 
long-haired  fellows,  with  hollow,  hungry-looking  cheeks,  but  still 
sufficiently  stalwart  frames,  marched  with  a  defiant  bearing  along 
the  middle  of  the  street,  surrounded  by  a  single  line  of  Federal 
soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets.  "  There  is  no  use  in  my  spending 
more  time  hanging  around  Gratiot  Street  prison,"  McCutcheon 
continued.  "  We  have  heard  all  we  are  going  to  hear  about  Tom 
Jeminy.  He  must  have  gone  to  his  reckoning  long  ago." 

"  Even  if  he  was  unable  to  reconcile  himself  at  the  last  mo- 
ment to  be  separated  from  his  brother,  I  shall  always  believe 
that  he  loved  me,"  mildly  protested  Phoebe,  who  sat  between  the 
windows,  a  beautiful  young  woman  still,  as  she  smoothed  her  be- 
coming garb.  "  But,  father  dear,"  said  she,  noticing  that  the 
old  man's  sorrow  was  deepening  at  her  words,  "you  have  not 
told  me  what  Captain  Dudley  said." 

"  Those  Union  soldiers  don't  give  a  man  a  chance  to  have  a 


1885.]  THE  TWINS:   A  WAR  STORY.  237 

satisfactory  talk  with  the  Southerners.  But  as  the  prisoners 
were  halted  on  Gratiot  Street  in  front  of  the  prison,  I  recognized 
Dudley,  though  he  didn't  look  quite  so  spruce  as  when  he  and  I 
used  to  make  deals  in  cotton  together  at  Napoleon.  He  had  a 
seedy  old  blanket  wrapped  around  his  shoulders.  The  only 
thing  that  looked  bright  about  him  except  his  buttons  was  the 
gold  lace  on  his  collar.  I  concluded  he  was  an  officer,  so 
I  called  out,  'How  are  you,  general?'  to  attract  his  atten- 
tion. And  as  the  Union  fellows  were  beginning  to  be  uneasy 
at  people  talking  to  the  Southern  prisoners,  I  made  up  my  mind 
what  to  say  and  to  get  an  answer  before  they  could  interfere.  So 
I  shouted  :  '  General,  what  about  the  Jeminys  ?  Have  you  seen 
or  heard  of  them  ?'  Dudley  knew  me  at  once  and  he  sang  out: 
"  I  am  Captain  Dudley,  of  the  Third  Kentucky  Infantry,  C.  S.  A. 
Two  years  ago  I  saw  Jack  Jeminy  in  Virginia.  He  was  a  pri- 
vate in  a  Kentucky  cavalry  regiment.  I  have  not  seen  or  heard 
of  him  since.  He  told  me  then  that  he  had  not  seen  his  brother 
Tom  for  a  long  time,  but  had  heard  that  "he  was  in  the  Yankee 
army.  There  seemed  to  be  something  wrong,  but  I  couldn't  tell 
what  it  was.'  Just  then  the  Union  officer  ordered  4  Forward  !  ' 
and  the  Southerners  were  marched  into  the  prison.  But  I  am 
glad  there  is  one  man  of  my  acquaintance  who  does  not  know 
about  that  affair  of  yours.  But  then  Dudley  scarcely  ever  did 
read  the  newspapers,  and  down  there  at  Napoleon  they  wouldn't 
have  heard  of  it  for  an  age,  and  he  was  always  a  hot-headed  fel- 
low, and  probably  joined  the  army  right  at  the  first." 

Phoebe  was  as  lovely  as  ever,  and  all  the  more  so  for  the 
melancholy  that  dwelt  in  her  eyes.  During  the  war  she  had  been 
active  in  good  works.  Her  father  was  a  Southerner,  through 
and  through,  and  she  herself  resented  any  interference  with  what 
she  believed  to  be  the  rights  of  the  Southern  people.  She  knew 
slavery  well,  or  thought  she  did,  and  she  had  never  been  able  to 
understand  why  the  Northerners  should  want  to  come  between 
the  Southerners  and  "  their  black  people/'  Her  own  colored 
servants  were  always  kindly  treated,  and  so  were  those  of  her 
friends  and  neighbors.  Her  father,  too,  rough  and  imperious  as 
he  was  by  nature,  had  never  been  known  to  abuse  a  slave,  and, 
in  fact,  like  many  other  Southerners,  was  more  tolerant  of  a 
negro  than  of  a  poor  white  person. 

But  if  Phoebe  did  not  like  the  Abolition  idea,  she  had  no  ill- 
will  for  the  "  Abolitionists,"  as  she  called  those  who  supported 
the  Union  cause. 


238  THE  TWINS:    A   WAR  STORY.  [Nov., 

She  found  plenty  to  occupy  her  in  helping  to  look  after  the 
comfort  of  the  great  numbers  of  refugees  who  flocked  into  St. 
Louis  from  the  interior  of  Missouri,  leaving  burning  homes  and 
devastated  fields  behind  them,  the  work  of  guerrillas  and  strag- 
glers from  both  armies.  With  other  women  of  her  acquaintance 
she  had  lightened  the  sorrow  of  many  families  whose  men  were 
in  the  field  wearing  the  blue  or  the  gray. 

The  old  medical  college  at  the  corner  of  Gratiot  and  Cerre 
Streets,  which,  almost  from  the  beginning  of  the  war,  had  been 
used  as  a  military  prison,  had  a  curious  fascination  for  her. 
Often  she  would  find  herself  passing  the  prison,  or  standing 
among  the  concourse  that  was  always  gathered  there  when  Con- 
federate prisoners  were  arriving  from  the  battle-field.  She  would 
scan  the  faces  of  the  captives,  and  then  turn  hurriedly  away. 
She  was  brave  enough  even  to  visit  the  Charity  Hospital  when- 
ever there  was  a  new  arrival  of  wounded,  and  the  sweet- faced, 
patient  Sisters  of  Charity  were  always  glad  to  see  her  and  to  have 
her  assistance.  What  s.he  had  lost  of  her  former  gayety  she  had 
gained  by  gentleness  of  manner.  A  few  weeks  after  her  father's 
conversation  with  Captain  Dudley  the  exhausted  South  surren- 
dered and  the  war  was  at  an  end. 

It  was  a  time  in  the  Border  States  for  counting  losses,  for  as- 
certaining the  fate  of  the  missing. 

Jack  Jeminy,  it  was  learned,  had  deserted  from  the  Southern 
army,  and  there  were  various  conflicting  stories  as  to  the  end  of 
his  adventure,  though  a  belief  prevailed  in  St.  Louis  among  the 
former  friends  and  acquaintances  of  the  brothers  that  Tom  had 
joined  the  Union  side  and  been  wounded,  and  had  resigned  his 
commission,  and  that  somehow  he  and  Jack  had  met  and  must  be 
together  now.  But  where?  No  one  knew. 

Poor  Phoebe !  The  hope  she  had  harbored  in  silence  during 
four  long  years,  and  that  had  occasionally  put  color  into  her 
cheeks,  grew  fainter  as  she  listened  to  the  rumors  about  her  miss- 
ing husband  which  her  father  daily  brought  home  to  her. 

Lost  friends  were  found  again,  lost  loves  restored — but  not  for 
her. 

v. 

The"  Vegetable  Sure  Cure  "did  a  thriving  business  in  a  small 
territory.  That  territory  was  the  interesting  part  of  New  York 
extending  from  University  Place  to  Hudson  Street  and  Eighth 
Avenue,  and  from  Bleecker  Street  up  to  Fourteenth.  The  capital 


1885.]  THE  TWINS:    A  WAR  STORY.  239 

of  the  Sure  Cure  territory  was  at  Jefferson  Market,  or  there- 
abouts— that  is  to  say,  wherever  the  inventors,  proprietors, 
and  manufacturers  of  the  potent  remedy  happened  to  take 
their  stand.  But  they  were  not  often  seen  far  from  Jeffer- 
son Market,  and  most  of  their  sales  of  the  Sure  Cure  were 
made  directly  from  their  pockets.  The  Herb  Doctors,  as  they 
were  called,  were  sometimes  seen  together,  and  it  was  very 
seldom  that  they  were  far  apart.  If  one  of  them  were  observed 
at  the  market  in  close  consultation  with  a  possible  old  lady 
customer  amid  the  fragrance  of  her  cabbages,  carrots,  and 
parsnips,  the  other,  perhaps,  was  in  Bleecker  Street  "  talking 
up  "  the  remedy  to  an  active  young  sidewalk  dealer  in  cheap 
glass-ware. 

The  Herb  Doctors  were  not  at  all  particular  about  their 
dress,  yet  somehow  they  always  dressed  alike,  from  the  "  plug  " 
hats — which  were  of  that  form  that  is  always  in  fashion  with 
decent  mediocrity,  without  ever  having  been  in  any  prevailing 
style — down  to  the  solid,  flat-heeled,  broad-soled  boots.  They 
took  a  vacation  during  the  heated  term  of  the  year,  though  it 
was  uncertain  where  they  went ;  and  their  customers  never  saw 
them  without  overcoats,  of  a  dingy  black,  threadbare  and  shabby, 
the  ample  side-pockets  sagging  down  and  bulging  out  with  the 
load  of  little  cubical  packages  that  contained  the  Sure  Cure. 
The  doctors'  full  beards  and  their  hair  were  dyed  of  the  same 
purplish  brown,  showing  the  venerable  gray  at  the  roots.  They 
were  so  much  alike  that  a  market  woman  seeing  one  of  them  for 
the  first  time  and  then  the  other  would  be  perplexed  between  her 
wonder  "  which  was  which,"  and  a  superstitious  dread  of  the 
four  pale,  faded  blue  orbs  which  looked  out  upon  her  from  the 
Herb  Doctors.  They  spoke  always  in  a  low  tone,  and  seemed  to 
have  no  friends.  Even  the  sociable  policemen,  who  knew  every 
one  on  their  beat,  and  loved  to  have  a  bit  of  badinage  with  who- 
ever was  not  too  dignified,  were  not  on  intimate  terms  with  them, 
though  some  of  the  force  in  that  precinct  had  used  the  remedy, 
they  said,  with  complete  satisfaction,  and  were  always  ready  to 
recommend  it  to  the  ailing.  It  was  good  for  coughs,  colds,  and 
rheumatism  ;  a  weak  decoction  of  it  was  a  splendid  liniment  for 
sprains,  sores,  or  bruises.  A  saloon-keeper's  wife  on  Varick 
Street  had  repeatedly  mixed  a  little  of  it  with  her  husband's  own 
" constitutionals" — unknown  to  him — until  "  the  old  man  "  began 
to  have  less  and  less  relish  for  the  toddy.  It  was  perfectly  harm- 
less, too,  for  a  child  in  McDougall  Street  had  one  day  swallowed 


240  THE  TWINS:    A   WAR  STORY.  [Nov., 

a  whole  package  of  it,  all  but  the  wrapper,  without  any  visible 
deleterious  effect. 

The  Herb  Doctors  were  well  thought  of  in  a  general  way,  as 
they  never  meddled  with  any  one  else's  business  and  never  told 
anything  about  their  own.  Their  modest  apartment  of  not  more 
than  two  rooms  was  on  the  second  floor  of  a  house  on  Bleecker 
Street  that  in  old  times  was  the  residence  of  fashionable  people. 
The  front  was  stuccoed  in  imitation  of  stone,  but  the  stucco  was 
cracked  now  and  blistered.  The  basement  floor  was  occupied  as 
a  Neapolitan  restaurant,  and  its  odors  of  garlic  and  Parmesan 
cheese  were  sniffed  with  desire  by  the  hungry  sons  of  sunny  Italy 
who  passed.  The  stone  steps  that  led  up  from  the  hall-door  fell 
off  a  little  to  one  side,  so  that  the  doctors,  on  going  or  coming, 
were  careful  where  they  set  their  feet,  especially  when  there  was 
ice  on  the  steps,  for  the  iron  guard-rails  had  long  ago  disappeared 
into  a  junk-shop. 

Above  the  second-floor  windows  a  long  signboard,  black  with 
white  letters,  announced  "  Vegetable  Sure  Cure,"  and  a  small 
upright  sign  at  the  jamb  of  the  hall-door  gave  the  list  of  ills,  al- 
phabetically arranged,  which  the  Sure  Cure  assuaged.  A  paint- 
ed hand  at  the  top  of  the  sign  pointed  the  way  up  to  the  doctors' 
office,  where  a  slate  hung  at  the  door  to  "  leave  orders."  But 
most  of  the  "  orders  "  were  facetious  ones  written  by  the  sharp- 
faced  youngsters  whose  families  had  the  rooms  above.  The 
office-hours  of  the  doctors  were  not  many,  as  they  negotiated 
most  of  their  sales  in  the  open  air,  and  their  prescription  was 
uniformly  the  Sure  Cure. 

It  was  dusk,  and  the  fine  drizzle  of  rain  was  beginning  to  make 
the  sidewalks  and  roadways  in  South  Fifth  Avenue  black  and 
shiny.  Drivers  were  whipping  up  their  horses  to  get  home  after 
the  day's  work,  before  the  storm  should  grow  worse.  Men  and 
women  trudged  hurriedly  along  under  umbrellas  to  the  elevated 
station  at  the  Bleecker  Street  crossing.  Under  the  staircase  of 
the  uptown  side  stood  the  Herb  Doctors,  who  never  carried  um- 
brellas. They  were  dividing  the  shelter  with  the  burly  news- 
woman,  who  was  calling  out  her  papers  and  industriously  chang- 
ing her  pennies  for  nickels  and  silver  dimes. 

The  doctors  were  communing  together  in  their  usual  low 
tone,  when  one  of  them  grew  suddenly  pale  and  fell  face  forward 
on  the  wet,  hard  flag-stones. 

"  Tom  !    Tom!    O  God,  Tom  !  what   is  it?"   murmured  the 


1885.]  THE  TWINS:    A   WAR  STORY.  241 

other  as  he  stooped  beside  the  fallen  man  and  tried  to  lift  him 
up.  The  newswoman  flung-  her  papers  down  in  the  slush  and 
gave  him  the  help  of  her  brawny  arms. 

"  Lave  go  of  him,  docthor  dear,"  said  she  ;  "  the  cop  and  me'll 
take  care  of  him.  Ye  don't  look  well  yourself."  And  she  called  to 
a  policeman  who  stood  close  by,  in  a  doorwa}7  of  a  neighboring 
building,  watching  the  throng  that  surged  on  towards  the  stair- 
case. "  It's  the  heart  that's  throubling  him,"  she  said. 

Before  the  ambulance  could  come  in  answer  to  the  police- 
man's summons  the  glare  of  the  electric  light  suspended  in  front 
of  the  cigar-shop  on  the  corner  showed  that  a  ghastly  tinge  was 
settling  around  the  mouth  and  nostrils  of  the  sick  man  as  he  re- 
clined in  the  newswoman's  arms.  Beside  him  knelt  the  other 
doctor,  chafing  his  hands. 

"  Good  people,"  he  sobbed,  "  this  is  my  brother.  Don't  let 
him  die." 

"  What's  this  he  has  in  his  pockets  that's  hurting  him  ?  "  the 
policeman  remarked,  as  he  began  to  remove  the  hard  little  pack- 
ages of  Sure  Cure  that  were  pressing  against  the  patient's  side. 

The  ambulance  surgeon,  after  a  hasty  examination,  shook  his 
head  significantly  at  the  policeman.  At  the  hospital  the  ailing- 
man  was  gently  carried  out  of  the  ambulance  and  laid  on  a  cot. 
He  still  breathed.  A  sweet-faced  Sister  of  Charity  tried  to  ad- 
minister a  draught  ordered  by  the  ambulance  physician,  but  in 
vain.  The  man  was  too  far  gone.  Dr.  John,  who  knelt  by  the 
side  of  the  cot,  bent  down  his  head  and  murmured,  "  Don't  leave 
me,  Tom." 

The  sister  touched  him  kindly  on  the  shoulder  and  whispered  : 
"  Pray  for  your  brother.  He  is  in  the  hands  of  God  alone  now." 
And  the  glazing  eyeballs  of  the  motionless  form  confirmed  what 
she  said. 

But  Dr.  John  would  not  believe.  "  Give  me  a  spoon  and  some 
water,  sister,"  he  demanded;  "the  Sure  Cure  will  revive  him." 
The  attendants  looked  at  one  another  and  understood.  With 
much  difficulty  he  was  led  away  to  another  room.  What  skill 
and  Christian  charity  could  do  was  done.  A  week  later  the 
twin-brothers  were  together  once  more,  in  one  grave. 

From  Tom  Jeminy's  pocket  the  sisters  took  out  a  letter  ad- 
dressed and  ready  for  an  emergency,  and  they  forwarded  it  to  its 
destination. 

Dear  Mrs.  Jeminy,  whom  every  one  loves,  still  lives.     Her 
hair  is  snowy  white,  and   her  countenance  beams  with  affection 
for  all  humankind,  but  there  is  a  note  of  sadness  about  her  that 
VOL.  XLII. — 16 


242  TO-MORROW.  [Nov., 

strikes  even  the  passer-by.  Sam  McCutcheon  went  to  his  rest 
long  ago.  Her  husband  she  has  never  seen  since  her  marriage, 
but  she  learned,  from  the  almost  indecipherable  letter  that  reached 
her  from  him  through  the  sisters  of  St.  Vincent's  Hospital,  that 
he  had  always  loved  her  and  that  he  hoped  to  see  her  again,  not 
in  this  life,  but  where  he  might  be  near  her — and  Jack. 

She  is  one  of  those  who  believe  firmly  in  another  life  after 
this.     And  then?     In  heaven  do  we  know  our  own? 


TO-MORROW. 

IF  I  but  thought  to-morrow 
Would  never  come  for  me, 

My  heart  were  crushed  with  sorrow, 
My  soul  in  misery. 

For  all  my  life's  endeavor 

Is  but  to  live  for  ever — 

To  find  a  rest  that  never 
Shall  pass  away  from  me. 

To-morrow,  O  to-morrow, 
Oh,  come,  come  soon  to  me ! 

It  is  of  thee  I  borrow 
The  present  joys  that  flee. 

To-morrow,  never  ending, 

0  day  of  perfect  blending, 
When  ceaseth  all  heart-rending, 

Oh,  how  I  long  for  thee ! 

Oh,  sweep  me  on,  wide  ocean ; 

Thou'rt  speeding  me  from  night ! 
Give  me  my  heart's  devotion, 

Give  me  to-morrow's  light. 
Oh,  haste,  ye  lagging  hours ! 

1  breathe  the  breath  of  flowers, 
I  see  the  gleaming  towers  : 

The  land— the  land's  in  sight ! 

P. 


1 88 5 .]    IRISH  SCHOOLMA  s TER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  TION.          243 


THE  IRISH   SCHOOLMASTER   BEFORE   EMANCI- 
PATION. 

PREVIOUSLY  to  Catholic  Emancipation  the  state  of  popular 
education  in  Ireland  was  the  most  extraordinary  in  the  world. 
At  least  the  Continental  countries  of  Europe  contained  nothing 
like  it.  The  novelist,  dramatist,  and  popular  song-writers  of 
England  found  in  the  Irish  schoolmaster  of  that  period  ample 
material  for  popular  amusement.  He  was  sui  generis,  a  most 
astonishing  phenomenon ;  and  if  Emancipation  rendered  no  other 
service  to  the  Irish  except  to  relieve  them  from  the  presence  of 
those  impostors,  they  could  never  be  too  grateful  to  their  eman- 
cipators. A  remarkable  feature  in  the  character  of  the  school- 
master of  that  period  was  that  he  could  often  read  and  even 
write  Latin  without  knowing  English,  and  it  was  hardly  an  exag- 
geration to  say  that  he  often  taught  the  best  of  Latin  in  the 
worst  English  ever  pronounced.  Gerald  Griffin  gives  us  an  in- 
stance of  this  which  is  very  amusing. 

On  one  occasion,  he  says,  two  rival  teachers,  who  regarded  one 
another  with  mutual  and  "  mortal  mislike,"  happened  to  meet  at 
a  social  gathering — a  wedding  or  christening — celebrated  in  the 
thatched  mansion  of  a  "  strong  farmer.'*  In  the  early  part  of  the 
evening  the  rivals  prudently  avoided  one  another ;  but  as  the 
night  wore  on,  one  of  them,  stimulated  by  strong  drink  and  the 
whispered  suggestions  of  mischief-loving  cronies,  suddenly  called 
on  his  rival  in  a  loud  tone  to  translate  a  quotation  from  Horace, 
which  he  repeated  with  little  regard  to  prosody.  The  other, 
who,  for  a  schoolmaster,  was  rather  a  modest  man,  deemed  it  in- 
cumbent on  him  to  uphold  his  character  in  the  presence  of  the 
guests  by  translating  the  quotation. 

"  That's  purty  well,"  exclaimed  the  challenger,  "  that's  purty 
good ;  but  you're  no  more  to  me — you're  no  more  to  me"  he  re- 
peated, while  dipping  his  finger  into  his  tumbler  and  holding  up 
to  the  light  the  drop  which  pended  from  its  extremity — "  you're 
no  more  to  me  nor  that  drap  is  to  the  ocean  !  " 

The  vulgarity  and  impudence  which  distinguished  this  man 
were  characteristic  of  the  whole  tribe.  The  still  greater  igno- 
rance of  the  peasantry  who  surrounded  them — their  only  asso- 
ciates—filled them  with  indescribable  conceit  and  arrogance. 
They  regarded  no  man  as  their  equal,  and  were  prodigies  of 


244        IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPATION.    [Nov., 

learning  in  the  estimation  of  their  indigent  patrons.  The  fact 
that  they  had  been  prohibited,  as  Catholics,  from  keeping 
school,  by  the  laws  of  England,  endeared  them  to  the  hearts  of 
the  peasantry  by  associating  them  in  some  degree  with  their 
priests,  who  were  still  more  cruelly  persecuted  : 

"  When,  crouched  beneath  the  sheltering  hedge 

Or  stretched  on  mountain  fern, 
The  teacher  and  his  pupil  met 
Feloniously  to  learn." 

^  Not  content  to  delineate  the  Irish  schoolmaster  with  these  in- 
separable characteristics,  O'Keeffe,  in  his  Agreeable  Surprise,  goes 
a  step  farther.  To  make  him  supremely  ridiculous  the  dramatist 
converts  him  into  a  lover !  He  terms  his  schoolmaster  Lingo — a 
very  appropriate  name.  "  A  more  comic  creation  than  Lingo/" 
says  Cumberland,  "  never  issued  from  the  storehouse  of  modern 
wit  His  pedantry  is  exquisitely  ludicrous,  his  misquotations 
sublime.  His  courtship  of  Grace  Cowslip  has  no  parallel  for 
quaintness  and  humor  "  ! 

Horace  Walpole  affirms  that  O'Keeffe,  in  the  chorus  which  he 
has  attached  to  Lingo's  song,  "  has  got  beyond  the  limits  of  non- 
sense." But  Lord  Thurlow  vindicated  him  by  affirming  that 
Shakspere  placed  similar  choruses  in  the  mouth  of  his  clowns, 
and  that  what  "  the  learned  counsel  might  deem  nonsense  was  in 
fact  character."  Lingo  is  well  described  by  his  master  in  the 
play,  who  says : 

"  Lingo  has  been  a  schoolmaster  here  in  the  country  ;  taught 
all  the  bumpkin  fry  what  he  called  Latin,  and  the  droll  dog  so 
patches  his  own  bad  English  with  bits  of  bad  Latin,  and  jumbles 
the  gods  and  goddesses  and  heroes,  celestial  and  infernal,  to- 
gether at  such  a  rate,  that  there  is  nothing  like  it  in  the  world." 

"  The  man  who  can  preserve  his  gravity,"  he  adds,  "  when 
this  Irish  schoolmaster  makes  his  appearance,  should  have  the 
privilege  of  appearing  surly  and  morose  all  the  days  of  his  life." 
The  following  are  verses  of  Lingo's  song,  which  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, when  the  originals  were  still  in  existence,  has  "  made  the 
welkin  roar  "  a  thousand  times  : 

"  Amo,  amas, 

I  love  a  lass, 
And  she's  both  tall  and  slender ; 

Sweet  Cowslip  Grace 

Is  her  nom'native  case, 
And  she's  of  the  feminine  gender. 


1885.]    IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  TION.         245 

"  Chorus — Rorum,  corum,  sunt  divorum, 

Harum,  scarum  divo ! 

Tag-rag,  merry-derry,  periwig  and  hatband. 
Hie,  hoc,  horum  genitive. 

"  Can  I  decline 

A  nymph  divine? 
Her  voice  as  a  flute  is  dulcis, 

Her  oculus  bright, 

Her  manus  white, 
And  soft,  when  I  tacto,  her  pulse  is. 

"  Chorus — Rorum,  corum,  sunt  divorum, 

Harum,  scarum  divo! 
Tag-rag,  merry-derry,  periwig  and  hatband, 

Hie,  hoc,  horum  genitivo,"  etc. 

One  of  these  pedagogues,  when  a  respectable  visitor  entered 
his  "  noisy  mansion,"  was  found  in  a  prodigious  hurry,  with  his 
pupils,  equally  hurried,  swarming  round  him  in  a  mob,  all  busily 
engaged  in  putting  up  the  shutters  and  barring  the  windows. 
They  were,  one  and  all,  unable  from  their  breathless  haste  to 
make  any  reply  except  that  they  were  going — master  and  all — to 
witness  a  prize-fight  which  happened  to  take  place  somewhere  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  which  all  were  solicitous  to  see. 

"  We'll  be  late  for  the  fight— we'll  be  late  for  the  fight !  And 
it's  what  I  have  no  time  to  discoorse  you  till  it's  over,"  exclaimed 
the  accomplished  teacher,  as  he  hurried  with  his  pupils  out  of  the 
house  to  witness  the  demoralizing  spectacle  of  a  pugilistic  en- 
counter. 

In  engaging  such  men  to  instruct  their  children  the  people 
were  not  to  blarne.  The  enormous  wealth  of  the  Protestant 
clergy  and  the  landed  proprietors,  extorted  from  their  misery, 
brought  them  so  near  the  nadir  of  existence  that,  unable  to  lift 
their  heads,  they  could  not  look  around  them  and  estimate  the 
incapacity  of  their  pedagogues.  They  had  no  standard  by  which 
they  could  measure  them.  They  were  only  certain  of  one  thing 
— that  these  pedagogues  were  not  Protestants.  They  might  not 
enlighten  the  mind  by  their  learning,  but  they  certainly  would 
not  imperil  the  soul  by  heretical  teaching.  This  was  a  consola- 
tion in  the  midst  of  unexampled  wretchedness. 

To  this  consolation  they  clung  in  the  darkest  hour  of  their 
national  martyrdom  while  cherishing  the  memory  of  the  past  and 
hoping  for  better  days  in  the  future.  For 

"  Still  beside  the  smouldering  turf 

Were  fond  traditions  told 
Of  heavenly  saints  and  princely  chiefs, 
The  power  and  faith  of  old." 


246        IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  TION.    [Nov., 

When  America  had  shaken  off  the  yoke  of  England,  and 
while  the  ruling-  classes  of  that  country  stood  cowed  and  morti- 
fied by  their  discomfiture,  the  penal  laws  of  Ireland,  "  calculated 
for  the  meridian  of  Barbary,"  were  feebly  enforced  or  partially 
neglected.  Taking  advantage  of  this  twilight  of  freedom,  a 
swarm  of  educational  impostors  arose  and  pawned  themselves 
on  the  credulity  of  the  rural  classes  as  capable  of  expatiating  de 
omnibus  rebus  quibusdam  aliis. 

At  the  same  time  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  the  govern, 
ment  failed  to  supply  the  people  with  means  of  education. 
Schools  were  invitingly  opened  in  nearly  every  part  of  the 
island,  in  which  an  education  was  given  free.  The  only  draw- 
back was  that  the  stream  of  knowledge  in  these  schools  was 
mixed  with  an  element  that  rendered  it  more  abhorrent  than 
poison  to  the  main  body  of  the  people.  Each  child  in  those 
schools  was  required  to  study  a  catechism  containing  such  pas- 
sages as  the  following  : 

"  Q.  Is  the  Church  of  Rome  a  sound  and  uncorrupt  church  ?  A.  No  ; 
it  is  extremely  corrupt  in  doctrine,  worship,  and  practice. 

"Q.  What  do  you  think  of  the  frequent  crossings  on  which  the  papists 
lay  so  great  a  stress  ?  A.  They  are  vain  and  superstitious.  The  worship 
of  the  crucifix  is  idolatrous." 

Animated  by  an  irresistible  desire  to  see  their  children  edu- 
cated in  a  proper  manner,  and  "  loving  learning  to  a  fault,"  as  an 
English  writer  expresses  it,  some  Catholic  parents  allowed  their 
offspring  to  frequent  these  proselytizing  schools,  but  always 
with  the  palpitating  terror  with  which  the  Asiatic  traveller  draws 
water  from  fountains  frequented  by  robbers,  over  whose  limpid 
spring  the  startling  words  are  inscribed  :  "  Drink  and  away." 

Owing  to  all  this,  but  above  all  to  their  indigence,  the  Catho- 
lics saw  themselves  obliged  to  be  satisfied  with  such  teachers, 
whose  system  a  popular  song  thus  delineates  : 

"  The  master  by  the  fireside, 

And  Paudeen  on  his  knee, 
All  roaring  out  together 

Great  big  A  B  C." 

(Spoken  :)  "  C  a  n — agus  a  Con  ;  s  t  a  n— agus  a  Constan  ;  /  £— agus  a 
Constanti ;  n  a— agus  a  Constantino  \p  I  e—  agus  a  Constantinople,  the  great 
Turk.'* 

In  this  song  the  master  is  seated  by  the  fireside.  The  fire  has 
its  history,  the  fuel  being  accumulated  on  what  may  .be  termed 
the  co-operative  principle — each  boy  bringing  a  turf.  But  this 


1885.]    IRISH  SCHOOLMA  STER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  TION.         247 

teacher,  thus  luxuriously  seated  by  the  fire,  enjoys  an  enviable 
lot  compared  to  the  teacher  of  the  "  hedge-school,"  who  has 
no  fire  at  all.  The  hedge-school  was  an  institution  peculiar 
to  Ireland,  which  originated  in  a  passion  for  learning  on  the 
part  of  the  people,  and  a  mania  for  oppression  on  the  part  of 
the  government.  Assembled  under  the  hedge,  with  the  lark 
carolling  above  them  and  the  hawthorn  bushes  waving  play- 
fully in  the  wind,  they  studied  their  Reading  Made  Easy,  their 
"  Gough,"  or  "  Voster,"  or  Latin  Grammar,  with  an  assiduity 
which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  poverty  they  were  plunged 
in.  To  pursue  learning  under  greater  difficulties  would  be  well- 
nigh  impossible,  and  perhaps  no  other  race  in  the  world  ever 
adopted  more  desperate  expedients  to  gratify  the  thirst  for 
knowledge.  One  thing  is  certain,  however — the  academies  of 
the  Grecian  philosophers  were  held  in  the  open  air,  and  in 
this  respect  the  hedge-school  resembled  the  Grecian  academies. 
The  hedge-school  was  often  enriched  with  a  library  of  lighter 
literature — a  collection  of  books  more  select  than  improving. 
Foremost  was  The  Irish  Rogues  and  Rapparees,  a  book  which  de- 
tailed with  great  appreciation  the  ingenious  expedients  adopted 
by  knaves  and  swindlers  in  the  last  century.  Then  there  was 
the  Life  of  Freney,  the  Robber,  an  Irish  highwayman,  written  by 
the  highwayman  himself,  in  which  he  describes  with  undisguised 
satisfaction  his  success  in  compelling  mail-coaches  to  halt  in  the 
highway,  and  forcing  the  trembling  passengers,  with  cocked  pis- 
tol and  loud  threats,  to  deliver  up  their  watches  and  purses.  The 
chivalry  of  rapine  was  embodied  in  this  highwayman,  as  he  rob- 
bed the  rich  to  lavish  gifts  upon  the  indigent.  He  gives  a  pic- 
turesque description  of  the  long  line  of  cars  creaking  along  the 
narrow  roads  which  he  repeatedly  stopped  and  plundered. 
Thackeray,  in  his  Irish  Sketch-Book,  dwells  with  much  gusto  on 
this  curiosity  of  literature.  It  sometimes  happened  in  the  hedge- 
schools,  as  in  the  palaces  of  kings,  that  pale  death  penetrated  and 
carried  away  the  schoolmaster.  In  that  contingency  the  pupils, 
silent  but  not  despairing,  sometimes  took  counsel  together,  and 
breathlessly  determined,  if  a  schoolmaster  was  to  be  had  in  the 
county,  they  should  procure  him.  In  short,  they  resolved  to  steal 
a  preceptor.  With  this  view  the  pupils  have  been  known  to 
assemble  in  the  dead  of  night,  to  appoint  a  leader  and  form  a 
phalanx,  and  set  out  in  military  order  and  surround  a  cabin  which 
contained  a  pedagogue.  They  carried  him  out  cautiously,  si- 
lenced him  by  alternate  threats  and  promises,  and  finally  bore 
him  away  in  triumph  to  the  residence  of  their  former  teacher, 


248        IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPATION.    [Nov., 

where  he  was  installed.     Moore,  in  his  Life  of  Captain  Rock,  tells 
the  following  story : 

•"A  few  miles  from  our  village,  at  the  other  side  of  the  river,  there  was 
a  schoolmaster  of  much  renown  and  some  Latin,  whose  pupils  we  had  long 
envied  for  their  possession  of  such  an  instructor,  and  still  more  since  we 
had  been  deprived  of  our  own.  At  last,  upon  consulting  with  my  brother 
graduates,  a  bold  measure  was  resolved  upon,  which  I  had  the  honor  to  be 
appointed  leader  to  carry  into  effect. 

"  One  fine  moonlight  night,  crossing  the  river  in  full  force,  we  stole 
upon  the  slumbers  of  the  unsuspecting  schoolmaster,  and,  carrying  him  off 
in  triumph  from  his  disconsolate  disciples,  placed  him  down  in  the  same 
cabin  that  had  been  occupied  by  the  deceased  Abecedarian.  It  is  not  to  be 
supposed  that  the  transfluvian  tyros  submitted  peacefully  to  this  infringe- 
ment of  literary  property  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  famous  war  for  the  rape  of 
Helen  was  but  a  skirmish  to  that  which  arose  on  the  enlevement  of  the 
schoolmaster,  and,  after  alternate  victories  and  defeats  on  both  sides,  the 
contest  ended  in  peaceable  possession  of  the  pedagogue,  who  remained 
contentedly  among  us  many  years,  to  the  no  small  increase  of  Latin  in 
the  neighborhood." 

In  one  of  his  tales  Gerald  Griffin  describes  perhaps  the  very 
best  of  the  schools  of  which  rural  Ireland  could  boast  before 
Catholic  Emancipation.  He  says : 

"  The  school-house  at  Glendalough  was  situated  near  the  romantic  river 
which  flows  between  the  wild  scenery  of  Drumgoff  and  the  Seven  Churches. 
It  was  a  low  stone  building,  indifferently  thatched;  the  whole  interior  con- 
sisting of  an  oblong  room,  floored  with  clay  and  lighted  by  two  or  three 
windows,  the  panes  of  which  were  patched  with  old  copy-books  or  alto- 
gether supplanted  with  school-slates. 

"  The  walls  had  once  been  plastered  and  whitewashed,  but  now  partook 
of  that  appearance  of  dilapidation  which  characterized  the  whole  building. 
In  many  places  which  yet  remained  uninjured  the  malign  spirit  of  satire  (a 
demon  for  whom  the  court  is  not  too  high  nor  the  cottage  too  humble)  had 
developed  itself  in  sundry  amusing  and  ingenious  devices.  Here,  with  the 
end  of  a  burnt  stick,  was  traced  the  hideous  outline  of  a  human  profile  pro- 
fessing to  be  a  likeness  of  Tom  Guerin,  and  here  might  be  seen  the  '  woful 
lamentation  and  dying  declaration  of  Neddy  Mulcahy,'  while  that  worthy 
dangled  in  effigy  from  a  gallows  overhead.  In  some  instances,  indeed,  the 
village  Hogarth,  with  peculiar  hardihood,  seemed  to  have  sketched  in  a 
slight  hit  at  '  the  master,'  the  formidable  Mr.  Lenigan  himself.  Along 
each  wall  were  placed  a  row  of  large  stones,  the  one  intended  to  furnish 
seats  for  the  boys,  the  other  for  the  girls  ;  the  decorum  of  Mr.  Lenigan's 
establishment  requiring  that  they  should  be  kept  apart  on  ordinary  occa- 
sions— for  Mr.  Lenigan,  it  should  be  observed,  had  not  been  furnished  with 
any  Pestalozzian  light.  The  only  chair  in  the  whole  establishment  was 
that  which  was  usually  occupied  by  Mr.  Lenigan  himself,  and  a  table  ap- 
peared to  be  a  luxury  of  which  they  were  either  ignorant  or  wholly  regard- 
less. 


1885-1    IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPATION.         249 

"On  the  morning  after  the  conversation  described  in  the  last  chapter 
Mr.  Lenigan  was  rather  later  than  his  usual  hour  in  taking  possession  of  the 
chair  already  alluded  to.  The  sun  was  mounting  swiftly  up  the  heavens. 
The  rows  of  stones  before  described  were  already  occupied,  and  the  babble 
of  a  hundred  voices  like  the  sound  of  a  beehive  filled  the  house.  Now  and 
then  a  schoolboy  in  frieze  coat  and  corduroy  trousers,  with  an  ink-bottle 
dangling  at  his  breast,  copybook,  slate,  voster, ,and  'reading-book'  under 
one  arm,  and  a  sod  of  turf  under  the  other,  dropped  in  and  took  his  place 
upon  the  next  unoccupied  stone.  A  great  boy  with  a  huge  slate  in  his 
arms  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  apartment,  making  a  list  of  all  those  who 
were  guilty  of  any  indecorum  in  the  absence  of  'the  masther.'  Near  the 
door  was  a  blazing  turf-fire,  which  the  sharp  autumnal  winds  already  ren- 
'dered  agreeable.  In  a  corner  behind  the  door  lay  a  heap  of  fuel,  formed  by 
the  contributions  of  all  the  scholars,  each  being  obliged  to  bring  one  sod  of 
turf  every  day,  and  each  having  the  privilege  of  sitting  by  the  fire  while  his 
own  sod  was  burning.  Those  who  failed  to  pay  their  tribute  of  fuel  sat 
cold  and  shivering  the  whole  day  long  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room, 
huddling  together  their  bare  and  frost-bitten  toes,  and  casting  a  longing, 
envious  eye  towards  the  peristyle  of  well-marbled  shins  that  surrounded 
the  fire. 

"  Full  in  the  influence  of  the  cherishing  flame  was  placed  the  hay-bot- 
tomed chair  that  supported  the  person  of  Mr.  Henry  Lenigan  when  that 
great  man  presided  in  person  in  his  rural  academy.  On  his  right  lay  a 
close  bush  of  hazel  of  astounding  size,  the  emblem  of  his  authority  and  the 
instrument  of  castigation.  Near  this  was  a  wooden  'stroker,' that  is  to 
say,  a  large  rule  of  smooth  and  polished  deal,  used  for  '  sthroking  '  the  lines 
in  the  copybook,  and  also  for  '  sthroking'  the  palms  of  refractory  pupils. 
On  the  other  side  lay  a  lofty  heap  of  copybooks,  which  were  left  there 
by  the  boys  and  girls  for  the  purpose  of  having  their  copies  set  by  the 
'  masther.' 

"About  noon  a  sudden  hush  was  produced  by  the  appearance  at  the 
open  door  of  a  young  man  dressed  in  rusty  black  and  with  something 
clerical  in  his  costume  and  demeanor.  This  was  Mr.  Lenigan's  classical  as- 
sistant; for  to  himself  the  volumes  of  ancient  literature  were  a  sealed  foun- 
tain. Five  or  six  stout  young  men,  all  of  whom  were  intended  for  learned 
professions,  were  the  only  portion  of  Mr.  Lenigan's  scholars  that  aspired  to 
those  lofty  sources  of  inspiration.  At  the  sound  of  the  word  '  Virgil ! '  from 
the  lips  of  the  assistant  the  whole  class  started  from  their  seats  and  crowd- 
ed round  him,  each  brandishing  a  smoky  volume  of  the  great  Augustan 
poet,  who,  could  he  have  looked  into  this  Irish  academy  from  that  part  of 
the  infernal  regions  in  which  he  had  been  placed  by  his  pupil  Dante,  might 
have  been  tempted  to  exclaim  in  the  pathetic  words  of  his  own  hero  : 

"  '  Sunt  hie  etiam  sua  premia  laudi, 
Sunt  lachryma  rerum  et  mentem  mortaliatangunt.' 

"  'Who's  head  ?  '  was  the  first  question  proposed  by  the  assistant  after 
he  had  thrown  open  the  volume  at  that  part  marked  as  the  day's  lesson. 
"'Jim  Naughton,  sir.' 
"  '  Well,  Naughton,  begin.     Consther,  consther*  now,  an'  be  quick.' 

*  Construe. 


250        IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  TION.    [Nov., 

"  '  At  puer  Ascanius  mediis  in  vallibus  acri 

Gaudet  equo ;  jamque  hos  cursu,  jam  preterit  illos  : 
Spumantem  dari — ' 

"  '  Go  on,  sir  !    Why  don't  you  consther  ?  ' 

"'At  puer  Ascanius' — the  person  so  addressed  began — 'but  the  boy 
Ascanius  ;  mediis  in  vallibus,  in  the  middle  of  the  valley  ;  gaudet,  rejoices — ' 

"  '  Exults,  ara  gal — exults  is  a  better  word.' 

"  '  Gaudet,  exults ;  acri  equo,  upon  his  bitther  horse — ' 

"  '  Oh,  murther  alive  !  his  bitther  horse,  inagh  ?  Erra  !  what  would  make 
a  horse  be  bitther,  Jim  ?  Sure  it's  not  of  sour  beer  he's  talking !  Rejoicin' 
upon  a  bitther  horse  !  Dear  knows,  what  a  show  he  was  !  What  raison  had 
he  for  it?  Acri  equo,  upon  his  mettlesome  steed  ;  that's  the  construction.' 

" Jim  proceeded  : 

"  '  Acri  equo,  upon  his  mettlesome  steed  ;  jamque,  and  now  ;  preterit,  he 
goes  beyond — ' 

" '  Outstrips,  achree.' 

" '  Preterit,  he  outstrips  ;  hos,  these  ;  jamque  illos,  and  now  those  ;  cursu, 
in'  his  course  ;  que,  and  ;  optat,  he  longs — ' 

"  '  Very  good,  Jim  ;  longs  is  a  very  good  word  there.  Did  any  one  tell 
you  that  ? ' 

"  '  Dickens  a  one,  sir ! ' 

"  '  That's  a  good  boy.     Well  ?  ' 

"  '  Optat,  he  longs  ;  spumantum  aprum,  that  a  foaming  boar  ;  dari,  shall 
be  given  ;  votis,  to  his  desires  ;  aut  fulvum  leonem,  or  that  a  tawny  lion — ' 

"  '  That's  a  good  word  agen.     Tawny  is  a  good  word,  betther  nor  yallow.' 

"  '  Decendere,  shall  descend  ;  monte,  from  the  mountain.' 

"  '  Now,  boys,  obsarve  the  beauty  of  the  poet.  There's  great  nature  in 
the  picture  of  the  boy  Ascanius.  Just  the  same  way  as  we  see  young 
Mister  Keiley  of  the  Grove,  at  the  fox-chase  the  other  day,  leadin'  the  whole 
of  'em  right  and  left ;  jamque  hos,  jamque  illos — an'  now  Misther  Cleary  an" 
now  Captain  Davis  he  outstripped  in  his  course.  A  beautiful  picture,  boys, 
there  is  in  them  four  lines  of  a  high-blooded  youth.  Yes,  people  are  always 
the  same  ;  times  and  manners  change,  but  the  heart  o'  man  is  the  same  now 
it  was  in  the  days  of  Augustus.  But  consther  your  task,  Jim,  an'  then  I'll 
give  you  an'  the  boys  a  little  commentary  on  its  beauties.' 

"The  boy  obeyed,  and  read  as  far  as pratexit nomine culpam,  after  which 
the  assistant  proceeded  to  pronounce  his  little  commentary.  Unwilling  to 
deprive  the  literary  world  of  any  advantage  which  the  mighty  monarch  of 
the  Roman  epopee  may  derive  from  his  analysis,  we  subjoin  the  speech 
without  any  abridgment : 

" '  Now,  boys,  for  what  I  towld  ye.  Them  seventeen  lines  that  Jim 
Naughtin  consthered  this  minit  contains  as  much  as  fifty  in  a  modhern 
book.  I  p'inted  out  to  ye  before  the  picture  of  Ascanius,  an'  I'll  back  it 
agin  all  the  world  for  nathur.  Thin  there's  the  incipient  storm  : 

"  '  Interea  magno  misceri  murmure  coelum 
Incipit  : ' 

Erra !  don't  be  talkin',  but  listen  to  that !    There's  a  rumblin'  in  the  lan- 
guage like  the  sound  of  comin'  thundher. 

"  '  .  .  .  insequitur  commista  grandine  nimbus.' 


1885.]    IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  TION.          25 1 

D'ye  hear  the  change  ?  D'ye  hear  all  the  s's?  D'ye  hear 'em  whistlin' ? 
D'ye  hear  the  black  squall  comin' up  the  hill-side?  That  I  mightn't  sin, 
but  whin  I  hear  thim  words  I  gather  my  head  down  betune  my  showldhers 
as  if  it  was  hailing  a-top  o'  me.  An*  thin  the  sighth  of  all  the  huntin' 
party !  Dido  an'  the  Throjans,  an'  all  the  great  coort  ladies,  and  the  Tyrian 
companions,  scatthered  like  cracked  people  about  the  place,  lookin'  for 
shelther,  an'  peltin'  about  right  an'  left,  hether  an*  thether,  in  all  directions, 
for  the  bare  life,  an'  the  fluds  swellin'  an'  comin'  an'  thundherin'  down  in 
rivers  from  the  mountains,  an'  all  in  three  lines  : 

"  '  Et  Tyrii  comites  passim,  et  Trojana  juventus 
Dardaniusque  nepos  Veneris,  diversa  per  agros 
Tecta  metu  petiere  :  ruunt  de  montibus  amnes.' 

"  *  An'  see  the  beauty  o'  the  poet,  followin'  up  the  character  of  Ascanius  ; 
he  makes  him  the  last  to  lave  the  field.  First  the  Tyrian  comrades,  an 
effeminate  set  that  ran  at  the  sighth  of  a  shower,  as  if  they  were  made  o' 
salt,  that  they'd  melt  undher  it ;  an'  thin  the  Throjan  youth,  lads  that  were 
used  to  it  in  the  first  book  ;  an'  last  of  all  the  spirited  boy  Ascanius  him- 
self. (Silence  near  the  doore  !) 

"  '  Speluncam  Dido,  dux  et  Trojanus  eandem 
Deveniunt.' 

"  Observe,  boys,  he  no  longer  calls  him,  as  of  ould,  the  pius  dEneas,  only 
dux  Trojanus,  the  Throjan  laidher,  an'  'twas  he  that  was  the  laidher  and 
the  lad.  See  the  taste  of  the  poet  not  to  call  him  the  pious  ^Eneas  now, 
nor  even  to  mintion  his  name,  as  if  he  were  half-ashamed  o'  him,  knowin' 
well  what  a  lad  he  had  to  dale  wid.  There's  where  Virgil  tuk  the  crust  out 
o'  Homer's  mouth  in  the  nateness  of  his  language,  that  you'd  gather  a  por- 
tion o'  the  feelin'  from  the  very  shape  o'  the  line  an'  turn  o'  the  prosody. 
As  formerly,  when  Dido  was  askin'  ^Eneas  concernin'  where  he  corned  from 
and  where  he  was  born,  he  makes  answer : 

"  '  Est  locus  Hesperiam  Graii  cognomine  dicunt : 
Terra  antiqua,  potens  armis  atque  ubere  glebae. 
Hue  cursus  fuit.' 

"  '  An'  there  the  line  stops  short,  as  much  as  to  say,  Just  as  I  cut  this 
line  short  in  spakin'  to  you,  just  so  our  coorse  was  cut  in  goin'  to  Italy. 
The  same  way  when  Juno  is  vexed  in  talkin'  o'  the  Throjans,  he  makes  her 
spake  bad  Latin  to  show  how  mad  she  is.  (Silence !) 

"  '  — Mene  incepto  desistere  victam 
Nee  posse  Italia  Teucrorum  avertere  regem  ? 
Quippe  vetor  fatis  !     Pallasne  exurere  classem 
Argivum,  atque  ipsos  potuit  submergere  ponto  ? ' 

"  '  So  he  laves  you  to  guess  what  a  passion  she  is  in  when  he  makes  her 
lave  an  infinitive  mood  without  anythin'  to  govern  it.  You  can't  attribute 
it  to  ignorance,  for  it  would  be  a  dhroll  thing  in  airnest  if  Juno,  the  queen 
of  all  the  gods,  didn't  know  a  common  rule  in  syntax  ;  so  that  you  have 
nothing  for  it  but  to  say  that  she  must  be  the  very  moral  of  a  fury.  Such, 
boys,  is  the  art  of  potes  an'  thQJam'us  o'  languages. 

"  '  But  I  kept  ye  long  enough.  As  for  ye,'  continued  the  learned  com- 
mentator, turning  to  the  mass  of  English  scholars,  *  I  see  wan  comin'  over 


252        IRISH  SCHOOLMA STER  BEFORE  EMANCIPA  now.     [Nov., 

the  river  that  will  taich  yez  how  to  behave  yerselves,  as  it  is  a  thing  ye 
won't  do  for  me.' 

"  The  class  separated,  and  a  hundred  anxious  eyes  were  directed  toward 
the  opening  door.  It  afforded  a  glimpse  of  a  sunny  green  and  a  brawling 
stream,  over  which  Mr.  Lenigan,  followed  by  his  brother  David,  was  pick- 
ing his  cautious  way.  At  this  apparition  a  sudden  change  took  place  in 
the  disposition  of  the  entire  school.  Stragglers  flew  to  their  places,  the 
impatient  burst  of  laughter  was  cut  short,  the  growing  bit  of  rage  was 
quelled,  the  uplifted  hand  dropped  harmless  by  the  side  of  its  owner,  merry 
faces  grew  serious  and  angry  ones  peaceable  ;  the  eyes  of  all  seemed  poring 
over  their  books,  and  the  extravagant  uproar  of  the  last  half-hour  was 
hushed  on  a  sudden  to  a  diligent  murmur.  Those  who  were  most  profi- 
cient in  the  study  of  '  the  masther's '  physiognomy  detected  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  eyes,  as  he  entered  and  greeted  his  assistant,  something  of  a 
troubled  and  uneasy  character.  He  took  the  list  with  a  severe  counte- 
nance from  the  hands  of  the  boy  above  mentioned,  sent  all  those  whose 
names  he  found  on  the  fatal  record  to  kneel  down  in  a  corner  until  he 
should  find  leisure  to  '  haire  '  them,  and  then  entered  on  his  daily  func- 
tions.'' 

From  these  quotations  the  reader  can  gather  some  idea  of  the 
nature  of  the  schools  which  previously  to  Emancipation  formed 
the  mind  of  Irish  youth.  And  it  is  right  to  say  that  the  remark- 
ably fine  criticism  of  Mr.  Lenigan's  assistant,  above  given,  was 
characteristic  of  very  many  of  the  better  class  of  Irish  school- 
masters of  that  day. 

These  educational  straits  were  not  the  effect  of  chance,  but 
the  result  of  deliberate  design.  "  By  the  seventh  William  III. 
no  Protestant  in  Ireland  was  allowed  to  instruct  a  papist.  By 
the  eighth  Anne  no  papist  was  allowed  to  instruct  another  pa- 
pist. By  the  seventh  William  III.  no  papist  was  permitted  to  be 
sent  out  of  Ireland  to  receive  instruction.  Owing  to  these  acts 
the  darkest  and  most  profound  ignorance  was  enforced  under  the 
severest  penalties  in  Ireland  "  (Jonah  Barrington's  Rise  and  Fall 
of  the  Irish  Nation,  p.  132). 

The  moment  Emancipation  was  granted  an  educational  revo- 
lution took  place  in  Ireland.  "National  schools"  supported  by 
government  grants  were  established  in  every  parish — not  from 
love  of  the  Irish  people,  but  from  fear  of  the  Catholic  clergy. 
The  ruling  class  in  England  feared  lest  the  education  of  the 
entire  population  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  Chris- 
tian Brothers  and  religious  orders.  This  is  what  they  most 
dreaded.  The  religious  orders,  during  ages  of  persecution,  had 
saved  money  in  their  several  convents.  For  when  a  friar  died 
his  little  savings — whatever  their  amount — went  into  the  com- 
mon fund,  and  swelled  it,  slowly  and  gradually,  into  something 


1885.]    IRISH  SCHOOLMASTER  BEFORE  EMANCIPATION.         253 

considerable.  The  Augustinian  friars  of  John's  Lane,  Dublin, 
were  said  to  have  £80,000  when  Emancipation  took  place,  which, 
of  course,  was  a  gross  exaggeration.  The  Jesuits,  too,  possessed 
a  considerable  sum,  which  Father  O'Callaghan  bequeathed  to 
Father  Kenny — a  sum  which  enabled  the  latter,  even  before 
Emancipation,  to  purchase  Mount  Brown,  which  is  now  known 
as  Clongdwes  College.  Sir  Robert  Peel,  astonished  at  his  au- 
dacity, sent  for  the  Jesuit.  "  Don't  you  know,"  said  the  Irish 
secretary,  "  that  we  can  confiscate  your  money?"  "  Yes,"  said 
Father  Kenny,  who  had  consulted  Catholic  lawyers,  "  but  I  also 
know  that  Lord  Chatham  said,  '  If  the  devil  put  money  in  the 
English  funds  it  should  be  held  sacred.' ' 

The  government  were  apprehensive  lest  in  such  resolute 
hands  the  education  of  the  Irish  should  become  the  most  Cath- 
olic in  the  world,  and  this  dread  opened  the  public  purse  and 
founded  the  "  National  "  schools.  These  schools  were  at  first 
the  admiration  of  American  travellers  who  happened  to  visit  Ire- 
land. The  school-books  were  excellent  and  the  teachers  regu- 
larly trained.  But  the  Catholic  religion  was  carefully  eliminat- 
ed at  this  time — cast  out  of  doors.  Hence  the  vehemence  with 
which  Dr.  MacHale  denounced  the  system,  Unable  to  inculcate 
Protestantism,  Lord  Stanley  was  determined  that  no  religion 
should  be  taught  in  "  National  "  schools — which  assuredly  were 
not  national.  The  history,  the  topography,  the  name  of  Ireland 
were-  likewise  shut  out.  Maps  of  every  country  in  the  world 
were  found  hanging  on  the  walls  of  the  "  model  schools  "  in 
Marlborough  Street,  Dublin,  but  you  would  search  in  vain — as 
we  have  searched — for  a  map  of  Ireland,  while  each  pupil  was 
taught  to  sing  a  song  in  chorus  in  which  he  declared  himself 
"  a  happy  English  child."  Archbishop  Whately  was  to  be  seen 
in  the  lecture-room  seated  beside  Archbishop  Murray,  who 
equally  patronized  the  schools.  Whately  was  persuaded  that 
the  cultivation  of  the  popular  intellect  would  be  fatal  to  the 
claims  of  the  Catholic  Church.  Hence  the  system  was  emi- 
nently intellectual  and  aimed  at  the  evolution  of  the  reasoning 
powers  rather  than  the  memory.  He  hoped  that  the  pupils 
would  not  only  become  Protestants,  but  renounce  their  nation- 
ality and  become  Englishmen.  In  his  Life  and  Correspondence -, 
by  his  daughter,  Jane  Whately,  this  hope  takes  the  form  of 
expectation  and  is  openly  avowed.  Hence  that  secular  excel- 
lence in  the  "  National "  system  of  education  which  elicited 
the  admiration  of  foreigners. 

Nothing  was  more  extraordinary  than  the  sudden  revolution 


254  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

of  feeling  which  the  government  of  England  exhibited  on  this 
subject  so  soon  as  Emancipation  was  wrung  from  their  grasp. 
That  government  which  for  ages,  in  the  most  tyrannical  manner, 
sternly  suppressed  education,  made  it  a  legal  offence  to  teach,  a 
misdemeanor  to  learn,  and  placed  Catholic  education  under  its 
heel  and  exerted  every  legal  means  to  eradicate  it,  became  sud- 
denly the  most  energetic  of  all  governmental  educationists.  Its 
zeal  in  promoting  education  in  recent  times  can  only  be  equalled 
by  the  fury  with  which  it  crushed  it  a  few  centuries  ago.  Not 
only  did  it  labor  to  surpass  the  Christian  Brothers  by  its  "  Na- 
tional "  schools  ;  it  sought  to  nullify  or  supersede  the  Catholic 
University  by  means  of  the  "godless  colleges."  As  informer 
times  it  had  no  object  so  much  at  heart  as  to  degrade  the  Irish 
into  ignorant  barbarians,  it  seemed  now  to  desire  nothing  so  ear- 
nestly as  to  make  them  learned  philosophers.  This  was  owing  to 
its  profound  consciousness  that  the  Catholic  Church,  the  benefac- 
tress of  the  world,  is  the  greatest  of  all  educationists ;  that,  in 
strict  compliance  with  Christ's  command,  "  Go  teach  all  na- 
tions," it  not  only  imparts  a  knowledge  of  divine  truth,  but 
spreads  human  learning  wherever  it  prevails.  It  was  this  con- 
viction that  stimulated  the  government  to  found  "  National " 
schools  in  every  parish  and  "  godless  colleges "  in  every  pro- 
vince in  Ireland,  and  to  labor — a  labor  that  has  happily  been 
in  vain — to  make  a  monopoly  of  education  and  get  it  alto- 
gether into  its  own  hands. 


THE  DEATH   OF  FRANCIS   OF  GUISE. 

THE  year  1563  opened  with  bright  hopes  for  France.  Co- 
ligny's  reiters,  who  had  been  promised  the  plunder  of  the  capital, 
were  forced  back,  baffled,  and  had  to  content  themselves  with 
pillaging  and  murdering  the  inhabitants  of  the  villages  in  the 
neighborhood,  according  to  a  custom  that  had  almost  a  religious 
sanction  in  their  eyos,  consecrated  as  it  was  by  the  tacit  permis- 
sion of  the  austere  hypocrite  who  led  them.  At  Dreux  the  Duke 
of  Guise  had  set  the  crown  on  his  splendid  military  qualities, 
plucking  victory  out  of  the  very  bosom  of  disaster,  and  driving 
the  ambitious  traitors  who  claimed  to  impose  their  will  on  the 
immense  majority  of  Frenchmen  pell-mell  into  the  city  of  Or- 
leans, If  the  Huguenot  leaders  were  not'to  surrender  all  their 


1885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  255 

hopes  of  dismembering  France  and  partitioning  it  again  among 
the  great  houses  from  whose  grasp  it  had  been  rescued  by  pain- 
ful and  laborious  efforts  of  consolidation,  they  should  make  a 
stand  now.  Coligny  and  his  brother  Dandelot  threw  themselves 
into  Orleans. 

But  the  bulk  of  the  rebel  army,  now  as  always,  was  composed 
of  German  soldiers  of  fortune.  The  reiters  were  clamorous  for 
their  pay.  He  calmed  them  for  a  time  by  the  assurance  that  the 
money  for  which  he  had  sold  the  towns  in  the  north  of  France  to 
the  English  would  shortly  arrive,  and,  as  a  slight  satisfaction  of 
their  demands,  they  were  allowed  to  massacre  and  pillage  the 
people  of  Sully  and  other  little  Catholic  towns  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Orleans.  But  they  were  insatiable.  This  English  gold 
had  been  dangled  before  their  eyes  so  long  that  they  were  begin- 
ning to  doubt  of  its  existence.  They  threatened  to  desert  if  the 
admiral  did  not  make  good  his  engagements.  So  Coligny  saw 
there  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  lead  them  into  Normandy  and 
join  his  English  friends  at  Havre,  leaving  Dandelot  to  defend 
Orleans. 

This  march  of  Coligny's  reiters  was  long  remembered  in  the 
north  of  France.  It  was  as  if  a  column  of  locusts  had  swept 
over  the  land.  The  rich  country  between  Caux  and  La  Beauce 
was  a  desert  after  their  passage.  Writing  after  the  event  to 
Elizabeth,  the  Earl  of  Warwick  says  that  those  who  survived  the 
swords  of  these  murderous  fanatics  would  have  perished  of  fam- 
ine but  for  the  efforts  of  the  people  of  Picardy,  who  supplied 
them  with  provisions. 

The  austere  virtue  of  Coligny  has  been  as  much  celebrated  by 
a  certain  school  as  that  of  Robespierre  was  during  the  Terror. 
The  admiral  on  one  occasion  had  the  hand  of  a  soldier  struck 
off  for  swearing,  and  we  know  that  Robespierre  resigned  a  judi- 
cial office  because  his  functions  compelled  him  to  sentence  a  mur- 
derer to  death.  But  necessity  is  inexorable,  and  just  as  the  gen- 
tle nature  of  Robespierre  found  itself  confronted  by  a  crisis  that 
left  no  alternative  except  copious  blood-letting,  the  rigid  severity 
of  Coligny  was  tempered  by  lack  of  money,  and  he  was  forced  to 
let  his  followers  rob  and  murder  at  their  ov^  sweet  wills. 

But  the  appetite  of  the  reiters  grew  by  what  it  fed  upon. 
When  they  reached  the  sea  at  Saint- Pierre-sur-Dive  there  were 
no  English  ships  in  sight.  Coligny  could  only  point  in  eloquent 
dismay  to  the  Channel,  tempest-tossed  with  winds.  Clearly  no 
English  vessel  could  put  to  sea  in  such  a  storm,  and  the  hopes  of 
the  German  mercenaries  were  again  dashed  to  the  ground,  to  be 


256  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

revived,  however.  For  was  not  the  coast  lined  with  splendid 
churches  enriched  by  the  piety  of  the  simple  Norman  sailors  ? 
And  were  there  not  abbeys  in  the  neighborhood,  wealthy  and  de- 
fenceless, capable  of  recompensing-  a  pious  free-lance  for  his  suf- 
ferings in  the  cause  of  the  Gospel  ?  The  plunder  of  the  churches 
and  monasteries  of  Normandy  amply  consoled  them  for  their  dis- 
appointment, at  least  for  the  time. 

But  the  money  so  long  delayed  arrived  at  last.  Elizabeth 
had,  for  a  wonder,  been  liberal,  and  Coligny  was  able  to  glut  the 
avarice  of  his  followers  to  the  fullest  extent.  He  set  out  on  his 
return  march  with  high  hopes,  for  Elizabeth  had  promised  that 
if  the  Huguenots  would  recognize  her  as  their  sovereign  she 
would  recognize  him  as  her  lieutenant-general.*  Indeed,  to  such 
want  of  patriotic  spirit,  to  such  degradation  had  fanaticism  and 
ambition  brought  the  once  proud  houses  of  Chatillon  and  Conde 
that  there  was  nothing  they  would  not  promise  Elizabeth  to  at- 
tain their  ends.  They  had  already  surrendered  Havre  and  Caen 
into  her  hands.  Calais  and  Boulogne  were  to  follow.  The  pub- 
lic spirit  and  patriotism  of  the  Catholic  aristocracy  of  England 
when  the  Armada  of  Spain  threatened  their  shores  forms  a  plea- 
sant contrast  to  the  disloyal  treachery  of  the  Huguenot  nobility 
of  France. 

However,  while  using  every  effort  to  get  the  English  to  in- 
vade France,  Coligny  did  not  neglect  to  avail  himself  of  another 
aid  to  his  own  ambition  and  his  country's  ruin.  He  had  written 
to  Elizabeth  in  January  that  he  had  given  three  strong  places  of 
safety  on  the  Cher  into  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  and  he  eagerly 
pressed  her  for  the  money  to  pay  them.  France  was  to  have  a 
semicircle  of  fire  closing  in  on  her,  the  English  on  the  north  and 
the  Germans  on  the  east.  So  in  February  the  Duke  of  Holstein, 
who  had  been  taken  into  the  pay  of  Elizabeth,  was  to  invade  the 
country  from  the  Rhine,  while  an  English  army  co-operated  in 
Normandy. 

But  there  was  one  drawback  in  the  reckoning  of  Coligny. 
The  armies  might  not  arrive  in  time,  for  Guise  had  Orleans  al- 
most in  his  clutches,  and  with  the  capture  of  the  last  refuge  of 
the  Huguenots  thegr  cause  was  hopeless.  And  it  looked  as  if 
Guise  would  carry  Orleans  and  take,  as  he  tersely  expressed  it, 
the  foxes  in  their  burrow. 

But  years  before  there  had  been  sinister  prophecies  in  the 
temples  that  at  the  moment  when  the  fortune  of  Lorraine  would 
be  highest  his  fall  would  be  lowest.  Occidite  nobis  vitulum  was  a 

*  Instructions  to  Throckmorton,  izth  of  February,  1563.     Record  Office. 


1885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  257 

text  often  on  the  lips  of  the  ministers  and  had  ominous  signifi- 
cance when  pointed  at  the  great  commander  who  troubled  Israel. 
It  was  no  secret  among  the  Huguenot  leaders  that  if  all  failed 
they  would  better  their  fortunes  by  assassination.  His  death  had 
been  decreed  by  a  secret  tribunal  in  Germany.  According  to 
Chantonnay,  it  was  at  Heidelberg  that  a  meeting  of  Protestant 
princes  determined  on  his  murder,  but  the  disapproval  of  the 
Duke  of  Wiir  tern  berg,  a  loyal  gentleman  whose  simple  and  down- 
right honesty  of  character  forms  a  pleasant  relief  to  the  baseness 
of  the  age,  was  an  effectual  bar  to  the  success  of  the  conspiracy. 
In  London  his  death  by  violence  was  reported  again  and  again, 
months  before  it  took  place,  showing  that  the  statesmen  of  Eliza- 
beth were  not  strangers  to  the  crime  mooted  among  the  fol- 
lowers of  Coligny.  Guise  had  already  been  a  mark  for  the  as- 
sassin's  bullet.  After  wresting  Rouen  from  the  English  a  month 
before,  a  Huguenot  fired  a  pistol  at  him  as  he  was  walking  along 
the  ramparts,  and  missed  him.  Bonnegarde  was  the  name  of  the 
would-be  murderer.  He  was  an  enthusiastic  Calvinist  intimately 
associated  with  Coligny. 

"  Did  I  ever  do  you  wrong  that  you  should  attempt  my  life?" 
said  the  duke  when  Bonnegarde  was  brought  before  him. 

"  No,"  he  replied.  "  But  you  are  the  deadly  enemy  of  my  re- 
ligion, and  my  zeal  for  the  Gospel  justified  me  in  killing  you." 

"  Well,"  said  the  duke,  "  if  your  religion  teaches  you  to  kill 
one  who  never  did  you  harm,  mine  orders  me  to  forgive  you. 
Begone  !  I  give  you  your  liberty.  Judge  from  this  which  of  our 
religions  is  the  better." 

But  Guise  had  to  do  with  enemies  who  were  not  to  be  dis- 
armed by  generosity  or  heroism. 

The  ministers  were  especially  vigorous  in  calling  down  the 
vengeance  of  Heaven  on  the  great  leader  who  had  smitten  the 
army  of  the  Lord  at  Dreux.  Beza  had  taken  part  in  the  battle, 
and  "  dared  to  preach  Christ,"  exclaims  Ronsard  indignantly,  "  all 
blackened  with  smoke,  bearing  a  morion  on  his  head,  and  in  his 
hand  a  broadsword  red  with  human  blood."  His  fury  was  not 
lessened  by  the  failure  of  his  warlike  efforts  in  the  field.  He  gave 
full  scope  to  it  in  his  sermons  after,  and  thundered  forth  impious 
demands  that  Heaven  should  find  a  way  of  relieving  the  people  of 
God  from  the  Lorraines.  Theodore  de  Beza  was  a  choice  speci- 
men of  the  Renaissance.  He  could  turn  from  inditing  lays  mark- 
ed by  an  elegant  Latinity  and  an  ineffable  grossness  worthy  of  his 
model,  Catullus,  to  dabble  his  effeminate  hands  in  blood,  with 
easy  grace. 

VOL.  XLII.— 17 


258  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

There  was  murder  in  the  air,  and,  as  often  happens,  the  object 
of  it  was  the  last  person  to  have  a  clear  perception  of  his  danger. 
Francis  of  Guise  was  fond  of  saying  that  the  blade  was  not  yet 
tempered  which  would  slay  him.  But  the  Huguenot  leaders 
knew  better.  There  was  one  among  them  who,  notwithstanding 
a  whole  life  stained  with  profligacy  and  treason,  still  entertained 
some  sentiments  worthy  of  his  birth.  Conde  shrank  with  horror 
from  participation  in  the  criminal  designs  of  his  confederates. 
When  taken  prisoner  after  the  battle  of  Dreux  he  frequently 
wrote  to  his  brother,  the  Cardinal  of  Bourbon,  begging  him  to 
warn  the  Cardinal  of  Lorraine  that  an  attempt  would  be  made  to 
assassinate  the  Duke  of  Guise.  Conde  was  sent  to  the  strong 
castle  of  Louches,  and  his  first  words  to  his  attendant  every  morn- 
ing for  a  fortnight  were,  "  Has  not  the  Duke  of  Guise  been  killed 
or  wounded?  " 

But  the  Duke  of  Guise  is  besieging  Orleans  with  the  same  en- 
ergy with  which  he  besieged  Rouen  ;  indeed,  with  prospect  of 
such  success  as  must  for  ever  ruin  the  future  of  the  Reformation 
in  France.  With  Dandelot  sick,  with  the  admiral  at  such  a  dis- 
tance that  no  relief  can  be  expected  from  that  quarter,  the  only 
dread  of  Guise  is  that,  in  spite  of  his  moderation  and  personal  ef- 
forts, he  may  not  be  able  to  repress  the  ardor  of  his  soldiers,  and 
that  the  assault,  which  is  to  take  place  during  the  night-time,  may 
be  followed  by  pillage.  "  You  see,"  he  said  to  Castelnau,  who 
had  been  sent  by  Catherine  to  watch  him — Catherine,  whose  sole 
interest  in  these  weary  wars  was  a  purely  selfish  one,  and  who 
declared  she  was  as  ready  to  sit  under  the  preachers  as  to  go  to 
Mass,  if  thereby  the  authority  of  herself  and  her  children  could  be 
kept  intact — "you  see,"  he  said,  "  Dandelot  is  sick,  and  I  have  a 
good  medicine  to  cure  him.  A  part  of  the  garrison  is  beaten ; 
they  have  not  four  hundred  good  soldiers.  I  will  shut  up  the 
river  so  well  that  all  the  country  up  to  Guienne  must  remain  safe 
and  free,  and,  with  the  help  of  God,  we  shall  bring  about  some 
good  pacification  in  this  realm." 

Clearly  the  attempt  that  failed  at  Rouen  must  be  renewed,  if 
the  money  scattered  so  lavishly  by  the  miserly  hand  of  Elizabeth 
is  to  have  any  result,  if  Coligny  be  not  forced  to  loosen  his  grasp 
on  the  throat  of  France.  But  who  is  to  be  the  Judith  who  is 
ready  to  smite  this  Holofernes  and  free  the  church  of  God  from 
its  oppressor?  The  sermons  of  the  preachers  and  the  songs  of 
the  Huguenot  soldiers  teem  with  allusions  to  the  Jewish  heroine 
and  her  victim,  both  before  and  after  the  death  of  Guise. 

The  hour  had  arrived  and  the  man  was  ready.     The  spirit  of 


1 885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  259 

Judith  had  become  incarnate  in  the  breast  of  a  fiery  young  strip- 
ling, scarcely  nineteen,  named  Poltrot,  Lord  of  Mere.  He  had 
been  a  page  of  Catherine  and  had  served  in  the  army  of  Philip  of 
Spain.  A  true  type  of  the  fanatic  he,  brown  and  dark-eyed,  fa- 
miliar with  bloodshed  already  in  these  cruel  wars,  and  ready  to 
take  desperate  risks  if  thereby  he  could  free  the  cause  he  had  at 
heart  from  an  enemy.  The  sincerity  and  constancy  of  the  poor 
boy  was  manifested  afterwards  under  the  awful  strain  of  torture, 
when  abandoned  by  his  high-placed  accomplices  to  the  horrors 
with  which  the  barbarous  judicial  system  of  the  age  visited  such 
crimes. 

He  served  in  the  bands  that  acknowledged  the  Vicomte 
d'Aubeterre  for  their  commander,  and  his  boyish  animosity  to 
Guise  was  often  a  subject  of  raillery  to  his  fellow-soldiers.  He 
was  frequently  heard  to  exclaim,  "  Oh  !  if  I  could  only  kill  him  !  " 

But  the  Vicomte  d'Aubeterre  saw  in  the  boy  something  more 
than  the  extravagance  of  a  youthful  boaster.  He  believed  he  had 
found  a  useful  instrument  to  accomplish  the  crime  which  he  and 
others  had  long  premeditated.  He  sent  Poltrot  to  his  brother- 
in-law,  the.  Sieur  de  Soubise,  who  had  already  had  some  experi- 
ence in  training  assassins.  If  anything  could  add  to  the  pathos 
that  surrounds  the  death-bed  of  the  great  Catholic  chief,  it  would 
be  the  damning  ingratitude  of  his  murderers.  D'Aubeterre  had 
been  an  accomplice  in  the  plot  of  La  Renaudie  at  Amboise ; 
Soubise  had  been  prosecuted  for  peculation.  Guise  saved  the 
life  of  the  one  and  the  honor  of  the  other.  He  rescued  Coligny 
from  death  at  Montmedy,  and  Poltrot  he  treated  as  a  son  while 
the  young  assassin  was  living  in  his  tent  and  watching  for  an 
opportunity  to  slay  him.  In  his  kindly  nature  and  generous 
graciousness  his  enemies  found  the  aids  to  his  murder. 

Soubise  sent  Poltrot  to  Coligny.  "  I  have  been  informed," 
said  the  admiral,  "  that  you  have  a  great  desire  to  serve  the 
religion.  Serve  it  well,  then." 

This  was  the  countersign  agreed  on  between  Coligny  and 
Soubise  to  show  Poltrot  that  his  design  was  known  and  his  offer 
accepted.  For  the  admiral  was  true  to  his  reputation  for  pru- 
dence, and  was  careful  to  adopt  the  least  compromising  methods 
to  attain  his  ends.  He,  however,  gave  him  three  hundred,  crowns 
on  this  occasion,  we  are  told  by  Smith,  Elizabeth's  ambassador, 
and  bade  him  seek  the  Duke  of  Guise  and  offer  him  his  services. 
"  Then,"  says  Etienne  Pasquier,  who  was  very  unfriendly  to  the 
house  of  Lorraine,  "  Poltrot  came  to  Orleans  to  find  Monsieur  of 
Guise,  and,  having  made  a  profound  reverence  to  the  said  lord, 


260  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

declared  that,  being  ill-advised,  he  had  followed  Monsieur  the 
Prince  of  Cond6,  but  that,  being  moved  by  a  just  repentance,  he 
was  come  to  surrender  himself  into  his  hands,  with  a  firm  pur- 
pose  of  doing  good  service  to  the  king.  Monsieur  de  Guise, 
esteeming  that  these  words  came  from  the  depths  of  his  heart,  did 
receive  the  said  Poltrot  with  a  favorable  eye,  and  even  gave  him 
such  access  to  his  house  that  oftentimes  they  drank  and  ate  at 
the  same  table.  They  say  that  the  gentleness  of  this  prince  had 
such  power  that  for  the  time  Poltrot  lost  heart  and  returned 
quite  abruptly  to  the  admiral,  much  less  resolved  than  before,  and 
would  have  even  abandoned  the  enterprise  had  he  not  been  con- 
firmed in  his  purpose  by  a  minister  full  of  understanding  and  per- 
suasion." 

The  minister  "  full  of  understanding  and  persuasion  "  was 
Beza.  It  was  true  that  Poltrot  felt  for  the  moment  the  influence 
that  Guise's  greatness  of  heart  and  soul  exercised  on  every  one 
who  came  within  its  sphere,  and  surrendered  to  it.  His  heart 
failed  him  and  he  returned  three  times  to  Coligny,  begging  to 
be  discharged  from  his  task.  The  admiral  was  at  a  loss  how  to 
deal  with  the  scruples  that  had  suddenly  sprung  up  in  this  ten- 
•der  conscience.  What  annoyed  him  most,  he  had  to  shoiv  his 
ihand  too  plainly.  Here  was  a  case  where  he  would  have  some 
difficulty  in  planning  an  assassination  and  afterwards  discarding 
his  instrument.  It  was  a  case  which  he  could  not  deal  with  alone. 
He  sent  Poltrot  to  Beza.  Beza  was  an  adept  in  casuistry,  and 
such  troubles  of  soul  presented  no  difficulty  to  his  keen  spiritual 
insight.  He  assured  his  young  disciple  that  such  scruples  were 
suggestions  of  the  devil,  and  he  could  act  with  safety  of  con- 
science. "  The  angels  would  assist  him,  and  if  he  died  he  would 
go  straight  to  paradise." 

Poltrot  was  no  match  for  the  subtlety  and  persuasiveness  of 
the  great  Reformer.  He  returned  to  Coligny.  What  passed  at 
this  interview  we  do  not  know.  We  dp  know  that  the  admiral 
gave  the  assassin  one  hundred  crowns  with  which  to  buy  a  horse, 
that  he  promised  to  reward  his  zeal  and  make  him  "  the  richest 
man  of  his  lineage  "  if  he  should  succeed. 

Meanwhile  Guise  was  pressing  the  siege  of  Orleans.  His 
dread  of  the  sufferings  to  which  the  inhabitants  might  be  exposed 
from  a  night  assault  led  him  to  change  his  purpose  of  carrying 
the  city  on  the  night  of  the  i8th  of  February,  and  he  deferred  his 
attack  to  the  next  day.  It  was  the  noble  and  womanly  habit  of 
the  Duchess  of  Guise,  whenever  she  heard  her  husband  was  likely 
to  capture  a  city,  to  visit  his  camp  with  the  object  of  moderating 


1885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  261 

the  horrors  of  war  and  saving-  the  inhabitants  from  the  fury  of 
the  soldiers.  She  was  now  at  Corney,  a  village  situated  on  the 
other  bank  of  the  Loire,  and  the  duke  prepared  to  visit  her. 

But  he  was  delayed  in  the  camp  later  than  usual.  He  had 
sent  the  bishop  of  Limoges  and  the  Sieur  d'Oyselles  to  Orleans 
to  try  to  bring  about  some  accommodation  with  Dandelot  which 
would  save  the  city  and  put  an  end  to  these  fratricidal  wars,  and 
now  awaited  their  return  anxiously,  perhaps  hoping  that  he  would 
be  the  bearer  of  tidings  to  his  wife  that  would  rejoice  a  devoted 
heart  saddened  by  the  horrors  of  civil  strife.  Seeing  that  it  was 
growing  late,  his  friend,  De  Crenay,  left  him  with  the  object 
of  reassuring  the  duchess,  who  would  naturally  be  alarmed  at 
the  delay,  knowing  that  the  animosity  of  the  Huguenots,  exas- 
perated by  defeat,  would  shrink  from  no  means  of  compassing 
the  destruction  of  her  husband.  De  Crenay  crossed  the  Loire  in 
a  little  boat.  He  could  discern  the  dim  outline  of  a  figure  walk- 
ing slowly  up  and  down  the  opposite  bank.  The  stranger,  whose 
features  were  hidden  from  him,  addressed  him  :  "  Is  it  long  be- 
fore the  duke  passes?"  he  said.  "  He  is  coming,"  returned  Cre- 
nay, and  continued  his  journey. 

A  boat  containing  the  duke  and  his  two  constant  companions, 
Rostaing  and  Villegomblain,  put  off  from  the  bank  immediately 
afterwards  and  glided  rapidly  to  the  opposite  shore.  The  duke 
found  a  horse  ready  for  him  on  landing,  and,  with  Villegomblain 
in  front  of  him  and  Rostaing  mounted  on  a  little  mule  behind 
him,  he  proceeded  on  his  way.  Some  distance  before  them  two 
walnut-trees  showed  their  outlines,  blurred  by  the  thick  fog. 
Behind  a  hedge  that  lay  between  them  stood  Poltrot,  cold  and 
resolute.  He  had  prayed  to  God  that  day  to  tell  him  if  it  was 
the  time  to  strike,  and  the  answer  from  heaven  had  been  satisfac- 
tory. He  stepped  forward  until  he  was  within  seven  paces  of 
the  duke,  and  then  fired.  The  assassin,  who  had  calculated  every 
chance,  aimed  at  the  arm-pit,  judging  that  Guise  would  wear  a 
coat  of  mail  on  such  an  occasion.  Three  balls  of  copper  shat- 
tered the  duke's  shoulder,  and  he  fell  forward  on  the  neck  of  his 
steed.  He  straightened  himself  and  tried  to  grasp  the  hilt  of  his 
sword,  but  his  arm  fell  lifeless  by  his  side.  Rostaing  pursued 
Poltrot,  who  disappeared  rapidly  in  the  darkness,  brandishing 
his  sword  and  acting  as  if  he  was  himself  riding  after  the  assas- 
sin. The  Spanish  horse  which  he  had  bought  with  the  gold  of 
Coligny  soon  outstripped  the  mule  of  Rostaing.  He  was  not 
fated  to  escape,  however.  He  rode  all  night,  dazed  and  stupefied 
by  the  magnitude  of  his  crime,  to  find  himself  at  dawn  near  the 


262  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

very  camp  from  which  he  was  flying-.  He  turned  rein  and 
spurred  his  horse  furiously,  but  flight  was  hopeless.  He  took 
refuge  in  a  peasant's  cottage,  offering  the  owner  all  the  money 
he  possessed  if  he  would  hide  him  from  his  pursuers.  The  pea- 
sant either  feared  or  scorned  to  become  his  accomplice,  and  de- 
livered him  up  to  the  soldiers  who  were  searching  for  him. 

Meanwhile  the  Duke  of  Guise  was  being  carried  to  the  pre- 
sence of  his  wife  and  son,  who  little  imagined  that  they  were  to 
meet,  pale  and  blood-stained,  the  great  leader  who  an  hour  ago 
had  expected  that  another  day  would  set  the  seal  on  his  achieve- 
ments for  France  and  be  the  crowning  triumph  of  his  own  glori- 
ous career.  Rostaing's  cry  for  help  was  the  first  intimation  the 
duchess  received  of  the  fate  of  her  spouse.  Followed  by  her 
son,  the  Prince  of  Joinville,  she  rushed  into  the  hall,  pale  with 
horror  and  despair,  and  threw  herself  half-fainting  into  his  arms. 
"  Ah  !  my  God  !  my  God! "  she  stammered,  *'  I  am  the  cause  of 
his  assassination  !  " 

Amid  the  sobs  of  the  young  prince  and  the  cries  of  the  pages 
and  soldiers  Guise  preserved  the  same  serenity  he  was  accustom- 
ed to  display  on  the  field  of  battle. 

"  They  have  long  been  preparing  this  stroke  for  me,"  he  said, 
"  and  surely  I  have  deserved  it  for  not  having  been  more  on  my 
guard."  Then,  turning  to  console  his  wife  in  her  anguish,  he 
continued :  "  Truly  I  bring  you  piteous  news,  but,  such  as  it  is, 
you  must  receive  it  from  the  hand  of  God  and  comply  with  his 
holy  will.  As  for  me,  little  regret  I  have  in  dying,  but  much  that 
one  of  my  nation  should  have  done  such  a  deed." 

Addressing  the  Prince  of  Joinville,  who  was  weeping  by  his 
side,  he  said:  "God  grant  you  the  grace  to  grow  up  a  good 
man,  my  son  !  "  All  night  the  castle  was  surrounded  by  the  offi- 
cers of  the  royal  army  anxiously  awaiting  news  of  their  leader's 
condition.  Those  who  were  admitted  to  his  presence  had  fresh 
cause  to  admire  the  elevation  of  soul  that  never  deserted  him. 
Worse  than  physical  pain,  worse  than  the  agony  of  his  wife  and 
son,  was  the  thought  that  a  Frenchman  had  done  this  thing. 
This  haunted  him  to  the  last.  "  Great  is  my  grief  that  such  an 
act  should  be  committed  by  a  Frenchman,"  he  said  to  the  officers. 
"But  do  you  serve  loyally  God  and  your  king." 

At  first  the  surgeons  hoped  that  the  wound  would  not  be 
mortal.  The  balls  had  pierced  the  shoulder,  but  without  break- 
ing any  bone.  And,  indeed,  it  seems  impossible  to  explain  the 
iatal  termination  which  resulted  from  a  mere  flesh-wound,  and 
that  not  very  deep,  except  on  the  theory  that  the  balls  had  been 


1 885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  263 

poisoned.  This  method  of  warfare  was  not  unknown  to  the 
Huguenots,  and  was  believed  to  have  been  adopted  by  them  at 
the  battle  of  Dreux.  All  the  efforts  of  medical  skill  to' save  the 
illustrious  victim,  however,  proved  unavailing,  and  his  family 
had  to  resign  themselves  to  see  the  faint  hopes  vanish  that  at 
first  upheld  them. 

When  all  chance  of  human  aid  failed  it  was  proposed  to  call 
in  the  service  of  the  occult  arts  in  which  the  age  believed.  An 
adept  in  cabalistic  science  was  summoned,  who,  in  the  opinion  of 
even  the  most  enlightened  minds  of  the  time,  could  effect  a  cure 
by  the  application  of  certain  cabalistic  forms  and  words  handed 
down  in  Jewish  tradition.  Guise  was  not  in  advance  of  his  age, 
and  believed  that  his  life  could  be  saved  by  methods  which  God 
and  holy  church  condemned.  But  even  in  his  terrible  agony 
he  rejected  the  offer  with  horror.  "  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  do  not 
doubt  your  science,  but  your  science  is  diabolic.  Rather  than 
be  saved  by  sorcery  I  prefer  to  die  uprightly,  as  I  have  lived. 
God  is  the  master ;  be  it  done  according  to  his  will." 

At  length  the  hour  approached  when  the  Christian  soldier 
was  to  complete  a  noble  life  by  the  most  heroic  of  deaths.  The 
touching  simplicity  and  humility  which  had  never  deserted  him 
in  all  the  temptations  of  his  magnificent  career  remained  with 
him  to  the  end,  shedding  a  tender  light  on  his  last  moments. 
The  Cardinal  of  Guise  approached  the  bedside  of  his  brother  and 
told  him  that  he  must  now  prepare  for  death. 

"Ah!"  the  duke  returned,  with  a  glad  smile,  "  you  do  me  a 
true  brotherly  turn  in  urging  me  to  think  of  the  salvation  for 
which  I  long.  I  love  you  the  better  for  it."  Then  he  confessed 
to  the  Bishop  of  Riez  and  received  the  last  sacraments  from  his 
hands. 

He  had  not  always  escaped  the  temptations  to  which  his  rank 
and  the  dangers  of  a  voluptuous  court  exposed  him,  and,  in  the 
final  scene  of  all,  the  errors  of  his  youth  drew  from  him  touching 
expressions  of  repentance  and  regret.  His  fever  increased  dur- 
ing the  night  to  such  a  degree  that  he  could  not  expect  to  live 
many  more  minutes.  The  duchess  and  her  son  were  summoned 
to  hear  his  last  words. 

"  My  dear  companion,"  he  said  to  the  afflicted  lady,  "  I  have 
always  loved  and  esteemed  you.  I  do  not  wish  to  deny  that  bad 
counsels  and  the  fragility  of  youth  have  led  me  sometimes  to  do 
things  which  must  have  offended  you.  But  for  the  last  three 
years  you  know  with  what  respect  I  have  lived  with  you,  care- 
fully avoiding  every  occasion  of  causing  you  the  least  annoyance 


264  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

in  the  world.  I  leave  you  of  my  goods  the  part  you  may  wish 
to  take.  I  leave  you  the  children  whom  God  has  given  to  us.  I 
pray  you  be  always  a  good  mother  to  them." 

"  And  now,  my  son,"  he  continued,  looking  at  the  Prince  de 
Joinville,  who  was  mingling  his  sobs  with  his  mother's,  "you  have 
heard  what  I  said  to  your  mother.  Always  have,  my  darling  boy, 
the  love  and  fear  of  God  principally  before  your  eyes  and  in  your 
heart.  Walk  ever  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path  according  to 
his  voice,  avoiding  the  broad  and  crooked  road  that  leads  to  per- 
dition. Never  abandon  yourself  to  vicious  society.  Seek  not 
advancement  by  bad  courses,  such  as  court  gallantry  or  the  favor 
of  women.  Hope  for  honors  from  the  generosity  of  your  prince 
and  from  your  own  labors ;  and  do  not  seek  for  great  charges,  for 
they  are  hard  to  administer.  Nevertheless,  in  those  that  you  may 
hold,  employ  your  power  and  life  wholly  in  acquitting  yourself 
worthily,  according  to  your  duty,  to  the  satisfaction  of  God  and 
the  king.  If  the  goodness  of  the  queen  permits  you  to  share  in 
any  of  my  governments,  do  not  attribute  this  to  your  own  merits, 
but  rather  to  my  laborious  services.  And  do  not  neglect  to  con- 
duct yourself  with  moderation  in  all.  Whatever  good  fortune 
may  happen  to  you,  be  careful  not  to  trust  to  it;  for  this  world  is 
deceitful,  and  better  assurance  you  cannot  have  of  this  than  seeing 
me  lying  here.  And  now,  my  dear  son,  I  bequeath  to  you  your 
mother,  whom  you  will  honor  and  obey  as  God  and  nature  di- 
rect. Love  your  brothers  as  if  they  were  your  children,  and 
preserve  union  amongst  them,  for  that  will  be  the  bond  of  your 
strength ;  and  may  God  give  you  his  blessing,  as  I  give  you 
mine!"  The  little  prince  knelt  beside  the  bed  weeping,  and, 
clasping  his  hands,  said,  with  a  firmness  that  was  the  harbinger  of 
his  future  greatness  rather  than  what  might  be  expected  from  a 
boy  of  his  years  : 

"  Father,  I  will  obey  you  ;  I  swear  it." 

The  duke  took  him  in  his  arms,  clasped  him  to  his  bosom,  and 
kissed  him  tenderly.  Then,  resting  his  hand  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  child,  he  addressed  his  brothers,  the  Cardinals  of  Guise  and 
Ferrara : 

4<  And  you,  messieurs  my  brothers,  who  have  always  loved  me 
vSO  much,  I  have  received  many  and  great  benefits  at  your  hands, 
which  I  desire  that  my  children  may  return  by  obeying  you  and 
doing  you  service  ;  I  beg  you  to  have_them  in  your  care,  and  be 
a  father  to  them  and  protectors  of  my  wife  and  house." 

"  Messieurs,"  continued  the  duke,  addressing  his  friends  and 
dependants,  who  stood  around  listening  in  mingled  admiration 


1885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  265 

and  grief,  "  when  God  calls  me  to  the  other  life,  remember  to 
have  all  my  family  recommended  to  the  queen's  protection.  As 
to  me,  you  see  the  state  to  which  I  am  reduced  by  the  wound  of 
a  man  who  knew  not  what  he  did.  1  conjure  you  to  persuade  the 
queen  to  pardon  him  in  honor  of  God  and  for  love  of  me.  And  I 
am  greatly  obliged  to  those  who  have  been  the  cause  of  what  has 
happened  to  me,  whatever  be  their  part  in  it,  for  I  am,  through 
their  means,  near  the  hour  when  I  hope  to  approach  God  and  en- 
joy his  presence.  It  is  the  time  when  I  should  think  of  the  of- 
fences I  have  committed  and  recollect  the  faults  of  my  past  life." 

Then  he  spoke  of  the  great  offices  he  had  held,  and  solemnly 
protested  his  honesty  in  the  administration  of  his  charges.  He 
expressed  his  heartfelt  sorrow  that  he  sometimes  had  been  forced 
to  use  severity  in  time  of  war.  In  the  campaign  which  he  had 
just  nearly  conducted  to  a  brilliant  close  he  declared  that  no  pri- 
vate interest,  no  ambition  or  thought  of  revenge,  influenced  his 
actions.  "  I  desire  peace,"  he  declared,  "  and  he  who  does  not 
desire  it  is  no  honest  man  nor  faithful  servant  of  the  king.  Shame 
on  him  who  does  not  wish  peace  !  And  you,  my  friends,  who 
have  done  so  much  for  my  sake,  I  have  not  done  much  for  you. 
Anger  has  sometimes  moved  me  to  show  you  a  want  of  consider- 
ation. Forgive  me." 

These  devoted  friends  had  very  little  to  forgive  to  a  master 
who  rewarded  their  passionate  attachment  with  the  sympathetic 
interest  of  a  father  and  friend.  Their  very  affection,  however, 
led  them  to  thwart  him  in  one  of  the  most  anxious  wishes  of  his 
heart.  He  wished  to  see  Poltrot  before  he  died,  to  exhort  him  to 
repentance,  to  assure  him  of  his  forgiveness,  and  then  dismiss 
him  in  safety — to  treat  him,  in  fine,  just  as  he  had  treated  the 
Huguenot  gentleman  who  attempted  his  murder  at  Rouen.  But 
a  natural  desire  of  vengeance  on  the  part  of  his  family  eluded 
the  satisfaction  of  the  generous  impulse  that  would  have  softened 
the  dying  agony  of  the  hero. 

The  grandeur  of  this  death  has  inspired  many  great  writers, 
but  never  did  the  last  moments  of  Guise  find  a  more  eloquent 
eulogy  than  that  from  the  pen  of  the  rigid  Calvinist,  Guizot.  His 
lofty  and  impartial  narrative  is  worthy  of  the  author  and  of  the 
hero.  "  I  make  it  a  duty,"  he  says,  "  to  retrace  with  fidelity  that 
pious  and  sincere  death  of  a  great  man  at  the  term  of  a  brave  and 
glorious  life,  mingled  with  good  as  well  as  with  evil,  but  without 
the  evil  ever  stifling  the  good.  ...  It  is  a  spectacle  worth  gaz- 
ing at  in  an  age  in  which  doubt  and  moral  weakness  are  the  com- 
mon diseases  even  of  good  minds  and  honest  men." 


266  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

The  duke  had  entered  on  his  forty-fourth  year  at  the  time  of 
his  death. 

Crime  calls  for  punishment.  The  assassination  of  Guise,  so 
coldly  plotted  and  so  darkly  accomplished,  was  to  have  bloody 
reprisals.  "A  day  shall  come,"  wrote  Elizabeth's  ambassador 
from  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  "  when  Coligny,  in  his  turn,  shall 
be  assassinated  to  expiate  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of  Guise." 

Meanwhile  Coligny  was  calmly  awaiting  events  in  the  Hu- 
guenot camp  at  Blois  in  company  with  Beza  and  Throckmorton. 
A  letter  came  to  him  from  Dandelot  on  the  28th  of  February,  in- 
forming him  of  the  murder.  Coligny  treated  the  matter  coldly, 
and  transmitted  the  note  to  Elizabeth,  accompanied  by  a  letter  in 
which  the  event  was  mentioned  casually,  as  if  an  incident  of 
slight  importance.  He  thought  his  absence  from  Orleans  at  the 
time  would  remove  any  distrust  that  his  relations  with  Poltrot 
might  have  excited.  Thus  by  his  crafty  removal  from  the  city 
he  would  accomplish  two  important  objects — he  would  receive 
into  his  own  hands  the  gold  which  Elizabeth  had  sent  through 
Throckmorton,  and  he  would  divert  suspicion  from  himself.  His 
anticipations  of  the  good  results  that  would  follow  his  politic 
attitude  were  deceived.  When  the  news  reached  the  camp  there 
was  an  explosion  of  joy  among  the  soldiers.  They  did  not  care 
to  dissemble  their  delight  at  a  murder  that  freed  them  from  the 
terror  with  which  the  invincible  leader  of  the  Catholic  army  in- 
spired them.  Coligny  was  alarmed  and  indignant  at  finding  that 
he  was  admiringly  pointed  at  as  the  assassin  of  Guise.  Then 
came  the  confession  of  the  unhappy  boy  whom  he  had  corrupted 
and  made  the  instrument  of  his  own  fanatic  hate.  And  then 
came  his  defence. 

Stripped  of  its  plausible  affectation  of  rigid  principle — for  this 
Pecksniff  of  the  sixteenth  century  overflowed  with  virtuous  sen- 
timents  on  every  occasion,  or  had  them  manufactured  for  him  by 
his  biographers — this  defence  would  hardly  commend  itself  to  a 
jury  of  the  present  day,  accustomed  to  weigh  the  details  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence.  Those  of  his  admirers  who  dismiss  the 
subject  contemptuously  with  some  such  platitude  as  "  The  whole 
life  of  the  man  is  against  it,"  as  Mr.  Besant  does,  exhibit  a  dis- 
cretion which,  if  disingenuous,  is  at  least  prudent. 

In  spite  of  his  protestations,  or  rather  because  of  them,  there 
does  not  remain  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  that  he  was  an  accom- 
plice in  the  murder.  No  one  heard  him  give  the  order  to  Pol- 
trot  to  slay  his  enemy,  but  he  supplied  him  with  the  means  of 
executing  the  crime,  furnished  him  with  a  horse,  arms,  and 


1885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  267 

money,  and  never  made  any  concealment  before  him  and  others 
of  his  feeling  that  whoever  would  kill  the  Duke  of  Guise  would 
confer  the  greatest  benefit  on  the  cause  of  religion.  All  the  ad- 
vantages of  the  deed  were  his,  and  just  as  he  abandoned  the  vic- 
tims of  his  ambition  to  the  cruelty  of  Catherine  after  the  failure 
of  the  conspiracy  of  Amboise,  so  this  felon  knight,  dead  to  all  the 
instincts  of  chivalry,  surrendered  to  torture  and  death  the  poor 
wretch  whom  he  had  trained  to  murder  his  enemy.  The  three 
lengthy  and  awkward  pleas  in  which  he  attempts  to  maintain  his 
innocence  swarm  with  proofs  of  his  complicity.  Well  does 
Etienne  Pasquier  remark  regretfully :  "  Coligny  defends  himself 
so  badly  that  those  who  wish  him  well  have  much  sorrow  there- 
at." 

Coligny  drew  up  his  first  memoir  at  Caen  on  the  I2th  of 
March.  It  bore  the  joint  signatures  of  himself,  Beza,  and  La 
Rochefoucauld.  It  commences  with  a  protest  in  the  name  of 
God  and  his  conscience  against  the  assertions  of  "'the  soi-disant 
seigneur  of  Mere."  "  Without  doubt,"  says  the  admiral,  "  I  was 
acquainted  with  him  and  employed  him  to  discover  secrets.  I 
confess  that  since  that  time  when  I  heard  him  say  he  would  kill 
my  Lord  of  Guise  in  his  camp  if  he  could,  I  did  not  dissuade  him 
from  it ;  but,  on  my  life  and  honor,  I  neither  urged  nor  approved 
the  crime  of  the  sieur  of  Mere." 

There  was  no  need  for  Coligny  to  be  more  explicit  with  the 
desperate  young  fanatic.  When  he  sent  Poltrot  into  the  camp 
of  the  duke,  all  aflame  with  religious  excitement,  after  his  pas- 
sionate threats  of  murder,  it  is  mockery  to  assert  that  he  was 
ignorant  of  the  intentions  of  his  agent. 

But  he  did  not  deny  that  on  several  other  occasions  he  had 
also  given  Poltrot  money,  sometimes  a  hundred  crowns  and  some- 
times twenty.  He  acknowledged  that  at  one  of  their  interviews 
"  he  remembered  that  Poltrot  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  him  that 
it  would  be  easy  to  kill  the  Duke  of  Guise,"  but  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  the  proposal,  "  deeming  it  quite  frivolous." 

All  this  time  Poltrot  was  living  in  the  camp  of  the  duke,  din- 
ing at  his  table  and  the  object  of  his  special  affection.  Yet  when 
he  proposed  to  assassinate  his  unsuspecting  host  the  admiral 
thought  it  a  proposal  "  quite  frivolous."  Such  innocent  simpli- 
city was  by  no  means  a  characteristic  of  the  sour  and  gloomy 
Calvinist  leader.  It  was  more  like  the  artful  scheming  of  a  con- 
spirator who  did  not  wish  to  show  his  hand. 

Beza  is  more  reserved  in  his  admissions.  He  confesses  that 
he  had  "  an  infinite  number  of  times  desired  and  prayed  God  to 


268   v  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  [Nov., 

change  the  heart  of  the  said  Lord  of  Guise,  or  rid  this  realm  of 
him,  but  had  never  spoken  to  the  said  Poltrot."  However,  he 
applauded  the  crime  itself,  recognizing  that  "  it  is  a  just  judg- 
ment of  God,  menacing  with  like  and  greater  punishments  all  the 
sworn  enemies  of  his  holy  Gospel." 

Taken  in  connection  with  admissions  and  half-hearted  denials, 
the  depositions  of  the  gloomy  and  desperate  but  sincere  and,  in 
a  sense,  honest  fanatic  who  murdered  Guise  have  a  convincing 
significance.  In  the  interrogatories  which  he  underwent  before 
his  torture  he  declared  firmly  that  Coligny,  Rochefoucauld, 
Theodore  de  Beza,  and  another  Protestant  minister,  whose  name 
he  refused  to  mention,  urged  him  to  the  deed.  He  had  sought 
the  will  of  Heaven  in  prayer.  The  voice  of  God  in  his  heart 
told  him  the  time  to  strike.  Why  should  he  not  admit  the  ad- 
miral and  the  minister  to  a  share  of  the  glory,  which,  in  his  over- 
wrought enthusiasm,  he  thought  awaited  the  slayer  of  an  enemy 
to  God  and  the  Gospel?  It  was  in  no  spirit  of  hostility  that  Pol- 
trot  proclaimed  their  participation.  And  in  his  testimony  he 
never  varied.  In  the  hour  of  hideous  torture,  with  his  poor  body 
racked  and  mangled,  he  persisted  in  his  statements.  His  torturers 
could  not  wring  from  him  the  names  of  Conde  or  Dandelot,  but 
with  his  dying  breath  he  accused  the  admiral. 

The  contemporaries  of  Coligny  would  have  laughed  at  the 
notion  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  with  sowing  the  seed  from 
which  he  and  his  party  reaped  such  a  rich  harvest.  There  is, 
however,  a  kind  of  grim  though  unconscious  humor  in  the  way 
in  which  his  eulogists  of  to-day — at  least  such  of  them  as  do  not 
embrace  the  whole  problem  in  a  few  vague  generalities — deal 
with  this  damning  blot  on  the  fame  of  their  hero. 

Explaining  how  it  was  that  the  admiral  did  not  try  to  dis- 
sijade  Poltrot  when  the  latter  informed  him  of  his  intention  of 
murdering  the  duke,  Dargaud  gives  this  singular  solution  of  the 
difficulty  : 

"  Coligny  did  not  doubt  that  (Guise  was  plotting  against  his 
life,  and,  in  this  persuasion,  he  did  not  believe  himself  bound  to 
save  one  who  wished  to  kill  him.  Under  the  obsession  of  his 
resentments,  he  heard,  without  reproval,  Poltrot  declare  that  he 
would  sacrifice  the  duke  as  soon  as  opportunity  should  offer. 
Perhaps  Coligny  thought  they  were  idle  words,  the  mere  boast- 
ing of  a  soldier.  But  it  cannot  be  contested  that  he  was  dumb. 
This  is  his  fault.  His  fault  was  his  silence.  He  did  not  encour- 
age the  crime,  but  neither  did  he  discourage  it.  This  is  a  stain 
on  the  renown  of  Coligny." 

The  account  given  by  Sismondi,  in  his  Memoires  de  Cond/, 


1885.]  THE  DEATH  OF  FRANCIS  OF  GUISE.  269 

is  interesting,  if  only  for  the  curious  moral  obliquity  that  marks 
the  writer's  ethical  position.  An  act  which,  done  in  the  nine- 
teenth century,  would  bring-  the  perpetrator  to  the  scaffold,  did 
not,  in  the  sixteenth,  interfere  with  a  man's  title  to  be  considered 
"one  of  the  most  virtuous  and  religious  of  men." 

"  The  Catholics,"  he  says,  "named  the  murder  of  the  Duke  of 
Guise  assassination  ;  the  Huguenots,  tyrannicide.  Theodore  de 
Beza  declared  that  he  recognized  in  it  a  just  judgment  of  God, 
menacing  with  a  like  or  greater  punishment  the  sworn  enemies 
of  the  Gospel.  Poltrot  in  his  deposition  had  formally  accused 
Coligny  of  having  urged  him  to  commit  this  murder,  and  of  hav- 
ing furnished  him  with  money  for  this  purpose.  In  our  actual 
ideas  we  cannot  conceive  how  a  great  man,  one  of  the  most  religious 
and  virtuous  men  that  France  has  ever  possessed,  should  descend 
to  an  action  so  base  and  criminal.  Lacratelle  declares  that  history 
should  not  hesitate  to  acquit  him  ;  a  more  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  spirit  of  the  times,  however,  does  not  confirm  this  de- 
cision. Private  war  was,  as  much  as  public  war,  among  the 
habits  of  the  gentlemen  of  the  time.  Murder  was  one  of  those 
acts  to  which  he  believed  himself  called  by  his  rank  and  which 
did  not  inspire  him  with  any  repugnance.  Coligny,  in  his  reply, 
article  by  article,  to  the  deposition  of  Poltrot,  tries  to  establish 
that  he  did  not  seduce  him,  that  he  did  not  entrust  him  with  a 
mission  of  assassination ;  but  he  lets  it  be  understood  that  he  was 
aware  of  all  of  the  threats  of  Poltrot,  that  he  gave  him  the  means 
of  fulfilling  them,  and  that  their  mention  did  not  inspire  him 
with  any  horror." 

The  question  of  Catherine's  connivance  at,  or  participation  in, 
the  crime  would  form  an  interesting  subject  of  discussion.  The 
attitude  of  this  terrible  woman  to  the  men  and  movements  of  her 
time  has  baffled  even  the  analytical  genius  of  Balzac  to  solve. 
Undoubtedly  she  hated  Guise,  as  she  hated  Coligny  and  Mont- 
morency  and  Cond6,  as  she  hated  every  one  who  seemed  likely 
to  be  a  danger  to  the  authority  of  herself  and  her  children.  She 
was  a  tigress  possessed  by  one  instinct — the  desire  of  saving 
her  cubs  at  any  expenditure  of  cruelty  and  craft.  Some  say  she 
wrote  letters  to  the  admiral,  encouraging  him  in  his  project. 
Poltrot  had  once  been  a  favorite  page  of  hers,  and  there  was  rea- 
son to  suppose  that  she  did  not  lose  sight  of  him  after  he  left  her 
service.  Two  years  later  she  said  to  Tavannes,  "  Those  Guises 
wished  to  make  themselves  kings,  but  I  kept  them  from  that  be- 
fore Orleans."  Tavannes,  at  least,  does  not  conceal  his  belief 
that  Catherine  was  a  consenting  party  to  the  crime. 


270  A  CHAT  BY  THE  WAY.  [Nov., 


A  CHAT  BY  THE  WAY. 

THE  most  awkward  moment  of  an  acquaintance  is  when  you 
first  make  it.  What  are  you  going  to  say  ?  Nine  cases  out  of 
ten  you  take  refuge  in  the  "  weather,"  and,  hav-ing  launched  the 
ship  of  conversation  upon  those  familiar  and  ordinary  waters, 
you  begin  to  steer  into  less-frequented  channels.  At  its  best, 
however,  I  believe  there  is  not  one  out  of  every  thousand  people 
who  knows  what  a  conversation  should  be.  Some  talk  altogether 
with  their  mouths ;  these  I  would  call  inflationists.  They  are  all 
words,  lip-movement,  and  lingual  oscillation.  Some  talk  with  their 
hearts  in  their  mouths,  and  bespatter  you  regardlessly  with  all  the 
sympathies  of  human  nature  until  your  weak  nerves  tingle  under 
the  irritation.  There  are  jesting,  smiling  talkers,  serious,  frowning 
talkers  ;  but  the  most  exasperating  of  all  conversationalists  is  the 
perpetual  listener.  A  simple  "yes"  and  "no"  is  the  substance 
and  refrain  of  his  converse.  You  begin  to  feel  as  if  you  were 
giving  a  lecture  to  a  very  stupid  audience.  A  pause  comes 
about.  What  in  the  world  shall  you  next  say  ?  You  set  about 
cudgelling  your  brains  for  some  topic  to  fill  up  the  breach  without 
seeming  to  force  matters.  You  wait  for  some  reply,  some  little 
suggestion,  that  may  open  a  loophole  of  escape;  you  are  as 
anxious  for  this  reinforcement  as  Wellington  was  for  Bliicher  at 
Waterloo.  If  you  could  only  rouse  the  slightest  little  flame  to 
set  the  fire  burning  and  kindle  the  slowly-dying  embers  once 
more  into  a  glow  !  But  in  vain  you  forage  through  the  fields  of 
memory,  art,  science,  and  literature.  Your  dumb  companion 
blows  the  chilly  breath  of  silence  over  the  warm  glow  of  enthu- 
siasm which  you  have  just  managed  to  excite  in  your  own  mind. 
His  apathetic  "yes  "  or  "  no,"  like  a  gust  of  cold  wind  in  a  dreary 
passage-way,  extinguishes  your  dimly  flickering  candle  and 
leaves  you  once  more  in  the  dark.  A  conversation  like  that  is  as 
bad  as  the  rack  and  thumb-screw.  Not  so  bad,  but  bad  enough, 
is  the  infliction  of  the  perpetual  talker,  who  glibly  and,  it  seems, 
conscientiously  pours  forth  an  uninterrupted  stream  of  perennial 
converse.  You  manage  to  edge  in  a  remark,  such  as  "  Well,  I 
do  not  altogether  think— "  when,  at  a  leap  displaying  a  verbal 
and  vocal  agility  which  might  do  credit  to  an  acrobat  were  it  in 
the  physical  order,  our  friend  jumps  into  your  remark,  topples  it 
over  with  a  few  hasty,  well-delivered  epithets,  and  is  off  at  a 


1885.]  A  CHAT  BY  THE  WAY.  271 

break-neck  speed  a  hundred  yards  ahead,  not  even  deigning  to 
look  back  to  see  if  you  are  hurt  by  the  fall.  If  he  talks  well  and 
intelligently,  this  sort  of  thing  can  be  tolerated  once  in  a  while, 
for  excellence  is  admirable,  even  at  your  own  disadvantage;  but 
if  he  be  flippant  and  of  little  weight  I  close  my  ears  and  dream 
of  pleasanter  things  afar  off. 

A  conversation  in  its  proper  meaning  is  a  mutual,  equal  inter- 
change of  ideas  and  opinions,  one  successively  suggestive  of  the 
other.  Conversation  should  be  a  ball,  tossed  from  hand  to  hand 
gracefully  and  without  violence,  neither  endangering  the  players 
nor  the  object  of  their  play.  I  say  something  which  throws  a 
spark  into  your  imagination  or  memory,  and  then  you  deliver 
yourself  according  to  your  calibre,  which  in  turn  suggests  some- 
thing else  to  me  ;  and  so  a  conversation  is  generated,  whereby 
you  and  I  become  better  acquainted  and  maybe  stancher  friends. 
A  good  conversationalist  is  one  who  talks  suggestively ;  he  does 
not  cover  the  whole  subject  in  a  single  peremptory  sentence,  nor 
does  he  appropriate  all  the  time  to  his  own  vocabulary.  He 
likes  to  hear  you  as  well  as  himself;  you  are  fuel  to  his  fire. 
He  likes  to  shake*you  mentally  by  the  hand,  and  feel  what  sort 
of  grip  you  have,  and  he  neither  runs  away  nor  intrudes  upon 
you.  He  neither  talks  much  nor  little.  If  a  man  must  have  one 
of  these  faults  let  it  be  the  first;  for  man  was  made  to  be  a 
social  being,  to  communicate  his  thoughts  and  not  hide  them. 
If  a  great  talker  bore  you,  still  you  have  refuge  in  his  very 
loquacity  by  remaining  heedlessly  silent  to  what  he  is  saying  ; 
whereas  with  one  who  does  not  talk  at  all  or  very  little  the 
burden  of  the  whole  conversation  is  thrown  upon  your  own 
shoulders. 

Speaking  of  conversation  calls  to  my  mind  a  kindred  subject. 
Have  you  ever  accurately  noticed  voices?  I  think  the  voice  is 
an  epitome  of  the  whole  character.  It  is  a  sort  of  abridged  edi- 
tion of  the  man,  in  which  he  is  summed  up  in  little,  at  least  to 
one  who  has  had  any  practice  in  estimating  voices.  Of  course  it 
requires  a  good  and  a  skilled  ear  to  do  this,  just  as  it  requires  a 
musical  ear  to  determine  the  quality  of  an  instrument  from  its 
tone.  The  voice  is  the  tone  of  the  character,  whose  quality  is 
made  known  by  it.  This  I  would  call  the  moral  philosophy  of 
the  voice.  There  is  as  much  difference  in  voices  as  in  faces,  and 
for  the  same  reason — the  complexion  of  both  results  from  the  cha- 
racter. I  never  heard  two  voices  exactly  alike,  just  as  I  never 
saw  two  faces  exactly  similar.  Even  if  the  features  be  built  on 
the  same  model,  you  will  always  find  that  indefinable  difference 


272  A  CHAT^BY  THE  WAY.  [Nov., 

of  expression  which  flows  from  the  individuality.  Individuality 
always  diversifies  even  common  matter.  The  voice  is  the  speak- 
ing expression.  The  difference  will  as  surely  be  found  there  as 
in  the  face.  There  are  high,  shrill  voices;  deep,  full  voices; 
harsh  and  smooth  voices  ;  abrupt  voices  ;  staccato  voices  ;  flow- 
ing, well-modulated  voices  ;  voices  whose  syllables  snap  out  like 
the  crack  of  a  whip ;  voices  that  drawl  their  words,  and  4<  like  a 
wounded  snake  drag  their  slow  length  along  "  ;  cheery  voices ; 
sad  voices ;  serious  and  flippant  voices ;  passionate  and  cold 
voices ;  dissipated  and  fresh  voices  ;  vigorous,  hearty  voices  ; 
weak  and  frightened  voices — in  short,  as  many  voices  as  indi- 
viduals. There  is,  however,  a  certain  kind  of  voice  which  I 
never  heard  except  in  two  people.  It  was  a  voice  velvety,  soft, 
and  caressing ;  it  seemed  to  put  arms  around  about  you,  stroke 
you  gently,  and  fondle  you  as  a  mother  does  her  child.  Strange 
to  say,  one  of  these  two  was  the  most  uncouth,  shock-headed, 
cross-eyed,  ungainly-looking  individual  I  ever  had  the  fortune  to 
come  across.  He  was  a  child  of  Hibernian  parentage,  a  college 
mate  of  mine,  and  went  under  the  generic  name  of  "  Pat "  amongst 
his  companions.  Well  do  I  remember  the  first  time  these  eyes 
looked  upon  that  wild  visage.  I  had  just  entered  upon  my  uni- 
versity course,  and  was  one  day  standing  in  the  mam  entrance  of 
the  class  buildings,  in  doubt  whether  to  enter,  for  I  was  uncer- 
tain if  my  recitations  were  being  held  there  at  that  hour  or  not. 
As  I  stood  hesitating  "Pat"  emerged  from  the  interior.  His 
mouth  was  a  wide,  straight  cut  above  the  expanse  of  a  heavy, 
bony  jaw  ;  above  it,  turned  upwards  poking  towards  the  stars, 
curled  a  determined,  broad,  snub  nose,  on  either  side  of  which 
two  little,  piggy  eyes,  decidedly  crossed,  gleamed  from  under 
huge,  shaggy  eyebrows,  and  over  all  straight,  coarse,  unkempt 
brown  hair  straggled  down  a  forehead  bulging  and  low.  I  was 
startled  at  this  apparition,  which  I  scarcely  believed  human. 
What  a  bloodthirsty  villain  he  would  make !  Such  a  man  would 
not  hesitate  to  blow  up  two  or  three  parliaments,  a  dozen  czars, 
and  murder  babes  for  sport.  No  doubt  this  was  the  college 
bully.  I  made  up  my  mind  to  avoid  him.  "  Are  you  looking  for 
anybody?  Can  I  assist  you?"  These  words  came  intoned  in 
the  sweetest  and  gentlest  voice  that  ever  struck  my  ear.  To  my 
utter  astonishment  they  issued  from  the  cavern  beneath  that 
ascending  nose  !  For  a  moment  I  could  not  reply,  but,  recover- 
ing myself  as  quickly  as  possible,  I  told  him  what  I  wanted,  and 
he  conducted  me  to  my  class-room.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  been  gently 
caressed,  petted,  soothed,  and  consoled.  Pat  and  I  afterwards 


1885.]  A  CHAT  BY  THE  WAY.  273 

became  fast  friends,  and  the  many  sallies  of  true  Hibernian  wit 
which  I  have  heard  issue  in  those  gentle,  velvety  tones  from  his 
lips  yet  echo  in  the  memory  and  bring  back  the  hearty  laughter 
and  those  happy  college  days  of  old.  As  I  call  up  that  face,  which 
seemed  to  me  so  monstrous  at  first  sight,  it  becomes  invested 
with  the  beauty  of  a  voice  whose  sounds  are  sweeter  music  than 
symphonies  and  nocturnes.  Where  art  thou  now,  soft  voice  ? 
Many  years  ago  didst  thou  leave  me  far  back  in  the  vistas  of 
time,  and  the  shadows  have  closed  around  thee,  as  fainter  and 
fainter  thy  sweet  sounds  grow  in  the  distance.  Peace  be  with 
thee  !  and  mayest  thou  find  this  world's  hard  way  full  of  all  gen- 
tleness and  softness,  even  as  thou  thyself  wert  in  the  days  gone 
by  when  thou  and  I  were  boys  together. 

Who  was  the  other  person  with  that  peculiar  voice?  I  will 
tell  you  if  you  promise  never  to  speak  of  it  to  anybody  else.  It 
was  a  woman's  voice,  and  I  fell  madly  in  love  with  it.  I  never 
heard  such  a  voice  before  or  since,  and  never  again  expect  to, 
even  to  that  time  when  the  soul  shall  be 

"  On  the  low,  dark  verge  of  life, 
The  twilight  of  eternal  day." 

It  was  low  and  soft  and  tender,  yet  full  and  clear,  and  as  mel- 
low as  an  autumn  day  golden  with  the  yellow  wheat  and  all 
the  glories  of  the  turning  leaf.  It  had  to  a  wonderful  degree 
the  caressing  quality.  When  she  spoke  I  felt  that  I  was  like  a 
child  being  caressed  and  soothed.  If  you  have  ever  thrown  a 
pebble  into  very  deep  water,  and  followed  it  in  imagination  as  it 
sinks  down  into  the  quiet  depths,  very  far  down,  until  it  rests 
on  the  bottom  peacefully  and  serenely,  far  below  the  tumultuous, 
riotous  waves  above,  you  may  form  some  idea  how  the  tones  of 
her  voice  sank  into  my  soul.  What  became  of  her?  Married 
now,  I  believe.  It  is  some  years  since  I  have  seen  or  heard  of 
her.  It  is  strange  how  we  meet  people,  learn  to  love  them,  and 
then  Fate  snatches  them  away  from  us.  As  we  sail  down  the 
stream  of  Time  we  meet  with  many  a  craft  in  whose  company  we 
would  like  to  make  the  voyage  of  life.  But,  alas  !  they  are  swifter 
or  slower  sailers  than  we  are,  and  we  have  only  time  to  smile  a 
greeting,  wave  a  hand  in  farewell  over  the  broadening  waters, 
and  then  pass  on,  for  ever  lost  from  the  parted  ones,  only  know- 
ing them  as  memories,  mere  phantoms  of  the  past,  which  bring  a 
purple  pain  into  the  heart  and  a  sigh  for  the  good  we  have  lost. 
"We  are  such  stuff  as  dreams  are  made  of."  I  once  watched  a 
thistledown  as  it  was  borne  along  on  the  currents  of  air — now 
VOL.  XLII.— 18 


274  NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE.  [Nov., 

here,  now  there ;  now  in  the  sunshine,  now  in  the  shadow ;  at  one 
moment  falling  to  the  earth,  and  then  borne  lightly  and  swiftly 
upward  as  a  fresh  puff  of  wind  would  catch  it — and  it  occurred  to 
me  how  like  this  thistledown  is  our  life,  blown  hither  and  thither 
on  the  breath  of  circumstance ;  how  the  winds  of  fortune  carry  us 
around  and  around  in  their  eddies,  now  letting  us  down  to  earth, 
now  lifting  us  aloft  into  the  sunshine  of  prosperity,  and  mean- 
while we  are  drifting,  drifting  on  to  the  portal 

"  Where  sits  the  Shadow  feared  of  man." 


NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE. 

MR.  HOWELLS,  in  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham*  takes  several  oc- 
casions to  give  vent  to  his  theory  of  novel-writing.  He  does 
well.  What  he  and  his  kind  are  really  driving  at  when  they 
write  novels  is  something  that  many  people  have  been  puzzling 
to  find  out.  It  is  a  good  thing  that  at  last  he  should  formulate 
his  purpose  in  more  or  less  plain  black  and  white.  In  the  fol- 
lowing conversation  about  novels  Mr.  Howells  gives  us  many 
hints  of  his  belief : 

" '  It's  astonishing,'  said  Charles  Bellingham,  *  how  we  do  like  the  books 
that  go  for  our  heart-strings.  And  I  really  suppose  that  you  can't  put 
a  more  popular  thing  than  self-sacrifice  into  a  novel.  We  do  like  to  see 
people  suffering  sublimely.' 

"'There  was  talk,  some  years  ago,'  said  James  Bellingham,  '  about 
novels  just  going  out.' 

"'They're  just  coming  in  ! '  cried  Miss  Kingsbury. 

'"  Yes,'  said  Mr.  Sewell,  the  minister,  'and  I  don't  think  there  ever  was 
a  time  when  they  formed  the  whole  intellectual  experience  of  more  people. 
They  do  greater  mischief  than  ever.' 

'"  Don't  be  envious,  parson,'  said  the  host. 

"  '  No,'  answered  Sewell,  '  I  should  be  glad  of  their  help.  But  these 
novels  with  old-fashioned  heroes  and  heroines  in  them — excuse  me,  Miss 
Kingsbury — are  ruinous!  .  .  .  The  novelists  might  be  the  greatest  possible 
help  to  us  if  they  painted  life  as  it  is,  and  human  feelings  in  their  true  pro- 
portion and  relation  ;  but  for  the  most  part  they  have  been,  and  are,  alto- 
gether noxious.' 

"This  seemed  sense  to  Lapham;  but  Bromfield  Corey  asked:  'But 
what  if  life  as  it  is  isn't  amusing  ?  Aren't  we  to  be  amused  ?  ' 

" '  Not  to  our  hurt,'  sturdily  answered  the  minister." 

*  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lapham.    By  William  D.  Howells.     Boston  :  Ticknor  &  Co.     1885. 


1885.]  NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE^  275 

We  cannot  help  fancying — the  similarity  of  the  names  Sevvell 
and  Howells  seems  to  favor  the  notion — that  in  the  character  of 
this  minister  Mr.  Howells  himself  aspires  to  enact  the  part  of 
Greek  chorus  to  his  story.  At  any  rate,  it  is  plain  from  the 
above  passage  that  Mr.  Howells  regards  the  profession  of 
the  novelist  as  quite  missionary ;  and  his  minister  confirms  this 
conclusion  by  several  other  dogmatisms.  In  fact,  he  uses  a  crisis 
of  the  story  to  point  the  moral  of  his  theory,  and  one  of  the  most 
vivid  impressions  taken  from  The  Rise  of  Silas  Lap  ham  is  that  of 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Sewell,  with  the  air  of  a  Boston  Chadband,  de- 
livering a  severe  homily  to  a  pair  of  old  people  on  the  part  play- 
ed by  the  novels  of  the  old  fashion  in  creating  the  love-tangle  be- 
tween their  children  that  they  have  come  to  consult  him  about. 

It  is  really  very  commendable  of  Mr.  Howells  to  take  this 
high  and  severe  view  of  his  mission  in  life.  And  there  are  many 
reasons  why  it  is  important  that  we  should  watch  with  interest 
how  he  proceeds  when  he  sets  out  to  teach  the  world  the  way 
novels  ought  to  be  written.  There  is  no  use  denying  it,  light  lite- 
rature forms  an  enormous  share — perhaps,  with  the  newspapers, 
the  entire  amount — of  the  reading  done  by  a  large  mass  of  our 
people ;  and  it  is  useless  to  pretend  that  such  constant  dropping 
does  not  wear  an  impress  on  the  minds  and  consciences  on  which 
it  falls.  The  fact  may  be  deplored,  but  it  is  a  fact  nevertheless 
and  should  be  recognized.  And  since  it  is  ever  the  aim  of  the 
church  to  seize  the  weapons  of  the  enemy  and  turn  them  against 
himself,  there  is  no  reason  why  light  literature  should  form  an  ex- 
ception. The  novelist  who  can  handle  his  art  so  as  at  the  same 
time  to  delight  and  to  better  his  readers  performs  a  mighty  and  a 
good  work.  Mr.  Howells'  minister  is  almost  right  in  placing  his 
influence  as  next  to  that  of  the  clergyman. 

Mr.  Howells  has  never  hesitated  to  roundly  express  his  con- 
tempt for  the  methods  of  all  the  novelists  that  preceded  him. 
It  is  not  very  long  ago  since  he  wrote  that  he  and  Mr.  Henry 
James,  Jr.,  were  the  only  novelists  who  understood  their  busi- 
ness ;  all  others,  even  Thackeray  and  Dickens,  were  only  tinkers 
at  the  art  as  compared  with  these  accomplished  craftsmen.  He 
goes  still  further  now,  and  declares  in  effect  that  what  the  others 
wrote  were  not  novels  at  all.  "  Novels  are  only  just  coming  in," 
says  one  of  his  characters,  meaning  the  novels  of  Mr.  Howells 
and  Mr.  James. 

This  is  a  great  deal  to  undertake  ;  but  Mr.  Howells  means  what 
he  says.  His  method  of  writing  novels  is  certainly  revolutionary,, 
and  we  have  seen  that  he  writes  them  with  the  hope  of  serving 


276  NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE.  [Nov., 

a  praiseworthy  end.  Let  us  take  a  glance  at  Mr.  Howells' 
method,  and  see  whether  it  is  calculated  to  serve  the  end  he 
has  in  view. 

The  revolution  attempted  by  Mr.  Howells  is  as  simple  as  it 
is  great.  He  regards  novel- writing  as  science  and  not  as  art. 

This  is,  perhaps,  a  natural  outcome  of  what  Mr.  Spencer  would 
call  heredity  and  environment.  The  Puritan  mind  is  scientific, 
analytical.  It  is  too  severe  and  cold  and  suspicious  to  fuse  into 
the  constructive  enthusiasm  of  art.  And  the  last  thing  it  would 
dream  of  would  be  to  pursue  art  for  art's  sake,  or  even  science 
for  the  sake  of  science  alone.  It  must  have  an  object  in  view, 
some  useful  end  to  serve.  Thus  it  is  curious  to  note  how  the 
Puritan  mind  in  Mr.  Howells,  finding  itself,  by  a  freak  of  circum- 
stance, working  at  an  art,  takes  it  strongly  in  its  hands  and 
transforms  it  into  a  science,  and  a  science  intended  to  have  a 
useful  application. 

Two  men  study  some  object  in  nature,  say  a  plant.  One  of 
them  will  drink  in  with  his  eye  all  its  visible  beauty,  its  form, 
its  color,  the  stirring  of  the  wind  and  the  delicate  play  of  light 
.and  shade  among  its  leaves.  He  seizes  a  brush  and  with  a  few 
bold  strokes  reproduces  all  these  traits  upon  a  canvas.  That  is 
Art.  The  other  observer  plucks  up  the  plant  by  the  roots  and 
brings  it  home  to  his  herbarium.  There  he  makes  minute  and 
careful  diagrams  ot  it,  probably  with  the  aid  of  a  camera.  He 
measures  it  and  weighs  it.  He  cuts  it  up  into  sections  and 
makes  drawings  of  the  sections.  He  analyzes  the  clay  at  its 
roots,  he  counts  its  juices  and  tests  for  acids  in  them.  That  is 
Science  ;  and  therein  lies  the  difference  between  the  novel-writing 
of,  say,  Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and  novel-writing  as  Mr.  Howells 
pursues  it. 

?-  In  this  way  Mr.  Howells  has  produced  the  most  scientifi- 
cally realistic  novel  that  has  yet  been  written.  M.  Zola's  books 
are  as  the  awkward  gropings  of  an  amateur  compared  with  this 
finished  treatise.  The  field  that  Mr.  Howells  takes  for  his  inves- 
tigation is,  he  tells  us,  "  the  commonplace."  By  studying  "  the 
•common  feelings  of  common  people  "  he  believes  he  "  solves  the 
riddle  of  the  painful  earth/' 

P.--S?  Silas  Lapham  is  a  type  of  the  self-made  American.  He  has 
.grown  rich  through  the  instrumentality  of  a  mineral  paint  of 
which  he  is  the  proprietor.  He  lives  in  Boston  and  entertains 
social  ambitions  for  his  wife  and  two  daughters.  Bromfield 
Corey  is  a  Boston  aristocrat  with  a  wife,  two  daughters,  and  a 


1885.]  NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE.  277 

son.  The  Laphams  and  the  Coreys  are  thrown  together  in  con- 
sequence of  a  contemplated  misalliance  between  young  Corey 
and  one  of  the  Lapham  daughters  ;  and  in  the  contrasts  and  de- 
velopments that  appear  among  all  these  "  types  "  is  supposed  to 
consist  the  main  interest  of  the  story.  There  are  no  incidents 
that  are  not  sternly  commonplace,  but  everything  connected 
with  these  incidents  and  their  psychological  effect  on  the  actors 
is  analyzed  and  detailed  with  microscopic  accuracy. 

The  realism  of  Mr.  Howells  has  been  compared  to  photo- 
graphy, it  is  so  exact  and  so  minute.  We  do  not  think  this  is  a 
fair  criticism.  Exactitude  and  minuteness  are  not  to  be  quar- 
relled with  on  the  score  of  art.  They  are  admissible,  and  have 
been  admitted,  into  the  finest  art.  No  photograph  can  be  more 
exact  and  minute  than  the  little  canvases  of  Meissonier,  and  the 
undue  rendering  of  detail  does  not  offend  critics  in  the  works  of 
pre-Raphaelite  artists.  If  Mr.  Howells  adhered  to  the  principles 
of  art,  placing-  the  details  in  their  proper  perspective,  and  so 
forth,  we  think  he  should  be  welcome  to  as  many  of  them  as  he 
pleased.  Tourguenieff,  in  some  of  his  scenes,  manages  not  to 
omit  a  single  detail,  but  he  manages  it  with  such  artistic  feeling 
and  skill  that  the  effect  is  like  that  of  a  picture  by  Meissonier. 

Photography  is  too  near  akin  to  art — even  though  it  be  a 
relationship  by  the  left  hand — to  be  used  as  a  comparison  for 
any  work  of  Mr.  Howells'.  Photography,  as  generally  under- 
stood and  practised,  aims  first  of  all  at  the  picturesque.  Art 
is  the  sun  that  warms  its  horizon ;  to  be  as  close  an  imitation 
of  art  as  possible  is  its  highest  aspiration.  Now,  Mr.  Howells, 
though  a  mechanic — an  anatomist,  shall  we  say  ? — of  exquisite 
skill,  despises  art.  Therefore  his  work  should  be  compared  rather 
to  a  series  of  scientific  diagrams  than  to  photographs.  It  is  not 
Mr.  Howells'  details  that  offend  the  artistic  eye  ;  it  is  the  plans, 
the  sections,  the  front  elevations,  the  isometric  projections  he 
gives  of  his  subjects. 

He  studies  men  and  women  as  a  naturalist  does  insects.  We 
read  his  book  on  the  manners,  habits,  sensations,  nerves  of  a  cer- 
tain set  of  people  as  we  might  a  treatise  on  the  coleoptera.  And 
he  investigates  and  expounds  his  theme  with  the  same  soulless- 
ness  and  absence  of  all  emotion.  Even  Mr.  Henry  James,  beside 
this  chilly  savant,  appears  quite  a  child  of  sentiment.  He  is  capa- 
ble of  receiving  "  impressions  "  —which,  in  Mr.  Howells'  eyes, 
would  be  a  most  unscientific  weakness — and  he  manages  to  retain 
some  smack  of  art  about  the  work  he  does. 

Is  this  kind  of  novel-writing  an  elevating  pursuit?  and  is  the 


278  NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE.  [Nov., 

reading-  of  it  beneficial?  To*  these  two  queries  the  answer  must 
be  emphatically,  No. 

Novels  like  Silas  Lapham  mark  a  descent,  a  degradation.  Of 
course  art  is  debased  when  it  has  fallen  so  low  into  realism.  Art 
is  ever  pointing  upward,  and  the  influence  of  true  art  upon  man 
is  to  make  him  look  upward,  too,  to  that  vast  where  his  Ideal  sits, 

" — pinnacled  in  the  lofty  ether  dim," 

where  all  is  beautiful,  but  where  all  .is  immeasurable  by  him  until 
he  beholds  it  with  his  glorified  intelligence.  Science  points 
downward,  and  when  science  is  unguided  by  religion  it  leads  its 
followers  lower  and  lower  into  the  mud  beneath  their  feet.  And 
even  as  we  see  some  scientists  making  a  distinct  "progress" 
downward  from  the  study  of  the  higher  to  that  of  the  lower 
forms  of  animal  life,  so  in  the  novel-writing  of  Mr.  Howells  we 
can  already  mark  this  scientific  decadence.  He  began  with  peo- 
ple who  were  not  quite  commonplace,  whose  motives  and  acts 
and  ideas  were  a  little  bit  above  the  common.  He  now  declares 
that  nothing  is  worthy  to  be  studied  but  the  common  feelings  of 
common  people ;  and  having  begun  Silas  Lapham  with  people 
who  were  inoffensively  commonplace,  he  was  unable  to  finish 
the  book  without  falling  a  stage  lower.  Towards  the  end  he  in- 
troduces a  young  woman  who  speaks  thus  of  her  husband  :  "  If  I 
could  get  rid  of  Hen  I  could  manage  well  enough  with  mother. 
Mr.  Wemmel  would  marry  me  if  I  could  get  the  divorce. 
He  said  so  over  and  over  again."  He  introduces  a  scene 
in  which  this  young  woman,  her  tipsy  sailor-husband,  her 
drunken  mother,  and  Silas  Lapham  as  the  family  benefactor, 
figure — a  scene  that,  for  hopeless  depravity  both  in  the  author 
and  subject,  out-Zolas  Zola.  The  old  woman,  who  has  a  bottle 
in  her  hand,  complains- of  her  son-in-law  not  giving  the  daughter 
an  opportunity  to  obtain  a  divorce.  "  '  Why  don't  you  go  off  on 
some  them  long  v'y'ges?'  s'd  I.  It's  pretty  hard  when  Mr. 
Wemmel  stands  ready  to  marry  Z'rilla  and  provide  a  comfortable 
home  for  us  both — I  han't  got  a  great  many  years  more  to  live, 
and  I  should  like  to  get  more  satisfaction  out  of  'em  and  not  be 
beholden  and  dependent  all  my  days — to  have  Hen,  here,  blockin' 
the  way.  I  tell  him  there'd  be  more  money  for  him  in  the  end  ; 
but  he  can't  seem  to  make  up  his  mind  to  it."  Again  says  this 
old  harridan  :  "  Say,  Colonel,  what  should  you  advise  Z'rilla  do 
about  Mr.  Wemmel  ?  I  tell  her  there  an't  any  use  goin'  to  the 
trouble  to  git  a  divorce  without  she's  sure  about  him.  Don't 
you  think  we'd  ought  to  git  him  to  sign  a  paper,  or  something, 


1885.]  NOVEL-WRITING  AS  A  SCIENCE.  279 

that  he'll  marry  her  if  she  gits  it  ?  I  don't  like  to  have  things 
goin'  at  loose  ends  the  way  they  are.  It  an't  sense.  It  an't 
right."  Before  Mr.  Howells  reaches  the  end  of  the  book  he 
makes  even  the  worthy  Mrs.  Lapham  suspect  her  husband  of 
infidelity  and  make  a  scene,  accusing  him,  in  the  hearing  of  her 
children.  It  has  seldom  been  our  duty  to  read  a  book  whose 
moral  tone  was  so  unpleasantly,  so  hopelessly  bad  ;  it  is  a  book 
without  heart  or  soul,  neither  illumined  by  religion  nor  warmed 
by  human  sympathy.  This  is  all  the  more  astonishing  that  Mr. 
Howells  seems  convinced  that  he  is  fulfilling  a  high  moral  pur- 
pose in  writing  it.  It  might  be  explicable  on  the  theory 
that  it  was  the  legitimate  outcome  of  the  doctrine  of  total  de- 
pravity ;  but  it  is  more  probably  the  logic  of  the  downward 
progress  of  godless  science.  We  shall  not  be  surprised  if  the 
next  book  of  Mr.  Howells  deal  with  characters  and  feelings  that 
shall  be  so  far  below  the  commonplace  from  which  he  has  already 
fallen  that  even  M.  de  Goncourt  will  not  enjoy  reading  about 
them.  It  is  the  progress  from  man  to  the  apes,  from  the  apes 
to  the  worms,  from  the  worms  to  bacteria,  from  bacteria  to— 
mud.  It  is  the  descent  to  dirt. 

But  the  consolation  in  regarding  Mr.  Howells'  work  is  that  it  is 
bound  to  sicken  of  its  own  poison.  It  cannot  do  any  appreciable 
damage  to  the  novel-reading  public,  for  the  very  good  reason  that 
the  novel-reading  public,  when  the  present  access  of  curiosity  has 
subsided,  are  not  likely  to  read  it.  The  force  of  the  novel  consists 
in  its  popularity,  and  the  popularity  of  the  novel  depends  on  cer- 
tain well-defined  elements,  all  of  which  Mr.  Howells  discards  from 
his  work.  Dramatic  action,  surprising  plot,  thrilling  and  unusual 
incidents,  interesting  and  uncommonplace  characters,  breadth  of 
scene — all  of  these,  among  many  other  things,  people  look  for  in 
their  novels,  for  they  look  to  their  novels  to  take  them  out  of  them- 
selves, out  of  their  everyday  lives,  and  to  lead  them  into  other 
worlds  for  the  time  being.  In  these  and  similar  things  lies  the 
novel's  mighty  and  subtle  spell ;  and  the  only  way  the  reformer 
can  succeed  in  this  field  is  by  snatching  this  spell  from  the  hands 
of  the  evil-worker  and  using  it  himself  as  a  beneficent  power. 
Mr.  Howells  seems  to  have  as  great  a  horror  of  such  sorcery  as 
his  Puritan  forbears  had  of  the  arts  of  the  witches  of  Salem. 
Therefore  he  can  never  hope  to  reach  the  class  he  expects  to 
benefit  by  his  new  style  of  literature.  People  read  novels  to  be 
amused,  and  he  hotly  repudiates  the  intention  of  amusing  them. 
People  read  novels  because  they  are  "  light  literature."  Mr. 
Howells  offers  them  heavy  literature.  Instead  of  reforming  the 


280  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Nov., 

novel  he  has  transformed  it,  so  that  what  he  produces  is  not  a 
novel  at  all.  Consequently  the  people  who  want  novels  will  not 
want  Mr.  Howells' ;  and  this  is  surely  a  relief  to  know.  Mr. 
Howells  will  be  read  only  by  a  species  of  scientific  and  hard- 
minded  people,  which  we  are  led  to  understand  flourishes  best 
in  Boston ;  and  this  species  is  past  harming.  But  such  a  class 
of  readers  would  be  just  as  well,  if  not  better,  satisfied  if  Mr. 
Howells  called  his  work  by  its  right  name — a  treatise — and  not 
by  its  pseudonym  ;  and  it  would  simplify  matters  if  the  scientific 
school  generally  were  to  label  their  books  "  Treatise  on  Com- 
monplace People,"  "  Treatise  on  Drabs,"  "  Treatise  on  Drunk- 
ards," and  so  on,  as  they  went  through  the  catalogue. 


NEW    PUBLICATIONS, 

SUMMA  PHILOSOPHICA  JUXTA  SCHOLASTICORUM  PRINCIPIA.  Complectens 
Logicam  et  Metaphysicam.  Auctore  P.  Nicolao  Russo,  S.J.,  in  Bos- 
toniensi  Collegio  Philosophic  Lectore.  Bost.:  Apud  T.  B.  Noonan  et 
Soc.  1885. 

It  is  very  difficult  to  make  a  good  compendium,  especially  so  in  philoso- 
phy. Such  a  compendium  is,  however,  necessary  as  a  text-book  for  stu- 
dents who  must  complete  their  course  in  one  year.  Father  Russo's  reason 
for  preparing  his  new  compendium  is,  that  he  has  not  found  any  one  of  the 
existing  ones  to  suit  him  in  teaching  his  class.  Some,  he  says,  are  only 
the  large  text-book  of  some  author  condensed,  so  that  in  respect  to  matter 
and  method  they  are  equally  ill-adapted  to  the  juvenile  mind  with  the 
uncondensed  work  ;  we  should  add,  even  more  difficult  and  unsuitable. 
Others,  again,  do  little  more  than  make  an  index  of  questions  treated  in 
text-books — an  analytical  abstract,  from  which  the  pupil  learns  what  topics 
should  have  been  but  are  not  treated  of  in  his  little  philosophical  sum. 

Father  Russo's  plan  is  to  treat  of  the  topics  of  greater  moment  and  ne- 
cessity in  a  somewhat  diffuse  manner,  in  a  style  made  as  plain  and  simple 
as  possible,  omitting  or  barely  noticing  others.  Thus  he  has  made  a  text- 
book which  can  be  finished  in  one  year,  containing  the  results  of  his  own 
personal  experience  as  a  teacher.  We  think  he  has  succeeded  very  well  in 
accomplishing  what  he  wished  and  intended.  His  philosophical  doctrine 
is  in  most  respects  the  same  with  that  of  the  famous  and  admirable  text- 
book of  a  three  years'  course  by  Father  Liberatore.  Directors  'of  studies 
in  colleges  where  a  course  of  one  year  in  philosophy  is  made  with  a  Latin 
text-book  will  do  well  to  examine  carefully  this  compendium. 

An  English  compendium  of  the  same  kind  is  very  much  needed.  A 
mere  translation  of  a  good  Latin  compendium  would  not,  however,  perfect- 
ly answer  the  purpose. 

We  must  not  omit  to  praise  the  excellent  and  creditable  manner  in 
which  the  publishers  of  Father  Russo's  book  have  fulfilled  their  work,  so 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  281 

as  to  add  much  to  its  value  as  a  text-book  for  practical  use.     There  are, 
however,  some  errors  of  the  press  needing  correction. 

DE  DEO  DISPUTATIONES  METAPHYSICS.  Auctore  J.  M.  Piccirelli,  S.J.,  in 
Urcesiensi  Coll.  Max.  ejusdem  Soc.  Theol.  Dogm.  Prof.  Lut.  Paris. : 
Lecoffre.  1885. 

Father  Piccirelli  has  prepared  this  text-book,  not  as  a  part  of  the  course 
of  theology,  but  for  the  third  year  of  philosophy.  It  is  a  bulky  octavo  of 
nearly  six  hundred  pages,  laying  out  very  heavy  work  for  a  class  which  is 
to  master  its  contents  in  one  year.  The  reason  for  thus  amplifying  the 
treatise  on  natural  theology  is  that  more  time  may  be  gained  for  certain 
abstruse  and  difficult  questions  in  the  class  of  theologians.  The  author's 
treatment  is  very  rigidly  logical  and  scholastic.  A  dissertation  on  St.  An 
selm's  argument  in  the  Prologium,  in  which  he  takes  a  different  view  of  it 
from  the  common  one,  is  the  part  of  the  work  which  will  first  awaken  the 
attention  of  a  reader  of  theological  treatises,  and  be  looked  at  with  the 
greatest  curiosity  and  interest.  The  author  maintains  that  St.  Anselm  did 
not  intend  to  present  his  argument  as  a  pure  and  independent  a  priori 
demonstration  of  the  existence  of  God,  but  as  a  supplement  and  completion 
of  the  argument  which  proceeds  from  data  given  either  by  faith  or  by  a 
conclusion  of  natural  reason  from  effects  to  the  First  Cause.  The  author 
seems  to  have  laid  himself  out  especially  to  discuss  thoroughly  the  ques- 
tion of  the  Concursus  Divinus.  The  volume  is  one  which  we  think  will 
prove  to  be  of  great  utility  to  teachers  of  theology  and  to  those  students 
who  can  read  it  understandingly. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH,  ETC.  By  Dr.  H.  Briick.  Translated 
by  Rev.  E.  Pruente.  Vol.  II.  Benzigers.  1885. 

We  have  noticed  the  first  volume  of  this  history,  now  complete.  It  is  a 
compendious  manual  intended  as  a  text-book.  The  Right  Rev.  Mgr.  Cor- 
coran, in  an  introduction  prefixed  to  this  second  volume,  says  of  the  his- 
tory "  that  it  fulfils  all  the  conditions  of  a  good,  substantial  church  his- 
tory, which  will  be  satisfactory  both  to  students  and  to  ordinary  readers." 
There  is  no  more  competent  judge  of  such  matters  in  this  country  than  Dr. 
Corcoran,  and  his  opinion  may  safely  be  taken  as  final  and  conclusive.  We 
concur  in  it  after  having  made  a  sufficient  examination  to  warrant  a  de- 
cided judgment  of  our  own  on  its  merits,  and  recommend  it  to  students  and 
to  readers  in  general  as  the  best  book  of  its  kind  thus  far  published.  Dr. 
Corcoran's  introduction  is  admirable.  He  presents  some  very  just  views 
on  the  requisites  and  qualities  of  a  truly  impartial  and  trustworthy  histor- 
ian, with  a  refutation  of  the  calumny  against  our  best  Catholic  historians 
that  they  have  not  written  history,  as  it  ought  to  be,  with  truth  and  know- 
ledge. In  that  connection  he  alludes  to  Janssen  and  the  advantage  which 
would  accrue  from  an  English  translation  of  his  History  of  the  German 
People.  We  are  glad  to  be  able  to  state  that  a  translation  is  in  course  of 
preparation  in  England. 

We  note  among  the  good  features  of  Father  Pruente's  edition  of  Dr. 
Briick's  history  the  convenient  chronological  table  of  popes,  emperors, 
kings,  and  important  events,  the  separate  tables  of  popes  and  councils,  and 


282  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Nov., 

the  index  of  titles.  We  are  pleased  to  see  that  the  Pisan  popes  are  rele- 
gated to  their  proper  position  as  intruders— a  matter  in  which  some  respect- 
able Catholic  writers  have  fallen  into  mistakes.  So,  also,  we  like  the  ac- 
count given  of  the  scholastics  and  mystics  much  better  than  the  one  given 
in  some  other  histories.  In  respect  to  the  much-disputed  question  of  the 
Templars,  the  author  leans  very  decidedly  to  the  side  which  in  great  mea- 
sure exculpates  them,  although  he  is  not  very  positive  in  his  judgment. 
In  respect  to  recent  ecclesiastical  persons  and  events  in  Germany,  this 
book  is  an  authority  of  the  greatest  weight,  because  of  its  author's  minute 
knowledge  and  his  very  clear  and  correct  statements.  We  look  to  see  it 
very  soon  universally  adopted  as  a  text-book. 

THE  D^MON  OF  DARWIN.  By  the  Author  of  Bzogen.  Boston  :  Estes  & 
•Lauriat.  1885. 

We  are  obliged  to  confess  that  we  have  been  very  much  disappointed 
in  this  little  essay  of  Dr.  Coues'.  His  former  brochure,  Biogen,  contained 
much  that  was  of  value  and  importance,  and  was  besides  pleasant  reading, 
written,  as  it  was,  with  brightness  and  strength.  The  Dcemon  of  Darwin,  on 
the  contrary,  is  verbose,  grandiloquent,  even  bizarre,  both  in  its  diction  and 
its  form  ;  and  it  has  called  into  exercise  all  our  patience  and  all  the  respect 
due  to  Dr.  Coues'  name  to  induce  us  to  read  it  through.  And  when 
we  have  read  it  we  do  not  find  in  all  this  cloud  of  words  anything  more 
than  a  statement  of  the  theory  of]  evolution  developed  so  as  to  include 
spiritual  substance.  Verily,  to  use  the  author's  expression,  we  have  here 
"  homuncular  vibratiunculations  "  with  a  vengeance,  offering  nothing,  so  far 
as  Dr.  Coues'  contribution  goes,  to  criticise,  argue  with,  or  refute.  The 
Third  Part  is  the  only  one  which  has  any  value,  and  that  but  little.  If  all 
propagators  of  erroneous  notions  in  theology,  philosophy,  or  science  would 
wrap  them  up  in  diction  similar  to  this,  the  Congregation  of  the  Index 
might  cease  to  exist,  for  such  works  would  do  no  harm. 

THE  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  JOHN  BROWN,  LIBERATOR  OF  KANSAS  AND 
MARTYR  OF  VIRGINIA.  Edited  by  F.  B.  Sanborn.  Boston :  Roberts 
Brothers.  1885. 

John  Brown  had  worked  himself  up  to  the  idea  of  absorbing  the  au- 
thority of  the  state  and  the  church  in  himself.  Thence  and  then  his  career 
in  Kansas,  and  "  the  foray  in  Virginia,"  and  the — gallows.  John  Brown 
was,  in  other  words,  a  logical  Puritan— a  fanatic.  And  this  man  is  held  up 
by  a  certain  class  of  New-Englanders  as  the  ideal  American  !  And  why 
not,  if  one  has  been  trained  to  give  up  or  deny  all  standard  of  right  and 
wrong  except  his  own  interpretation  of  things?  It  is  only  a  question  of 
disposition  or  temperament  whether  such  a  training  will  turn  out  a  John 
Brown,  or  a  Freeman,  or  a  Guiteau,  or  a  free-lover  Bennett.  By  this  it  is 
not  meant  that  the  soul  may  not  become  the  true  interpreter  of  the  Holy 
Spirit.  To  become  this  interpreter,  however,  requires  a  training  which 
these  folks  ignore  and  pretend  to  contemn.  These  men  were  logically 
consistent ;  they  drew  the  practical  conclusion  from  the  premise  furnished 
them  by  Puritanism.  No  wonder  John  Brown  was  praised  by  the  logical 
descendants  of  the  Puritans — by  such  men  as  Emerson,  Thoreau,  and  Al- 
cott,  and  that  F.  B.  Sanborn  edits  his  life  and  letters. 


1 885.]  NEW  PUBLICA TIONS.  283 

THE  AGE  OF  LEAD  :  A  Twenty  Years'  Retrospect.  In  three  Fyttes.  "  Vse 
Victis."  Second  edition.  Edinburgh  :  David  Douglas.  1885.; 

In  form  this  is  a  poem.  Some  of  it  is  poetry,  and  certain  parts  are  very 
good  poetry ;  but  it  is  carelessly  written  and  occasionally  borders  too 
closely  on  doggerel  rhyming.  It  is  a  clever  and  ingenious  jeu  d' esprit,  as 
a  whole*;  as  an  historical  retrospect  extremely  interesting  and  instructive. 
We  quote  the  closing  lines  as  an  average  specimen  of  the  style  of  the  poem, 
and  because  we  heartily  concur  in  their  sentiment : 

"  To  strike  the  fetters  off  the  slave, 

To  soothe  and  succor  the  distressed, 
More  heartfelt  joy  to  Gordon  gave 

Than  all  his  triumphs  East  and  West. 
Weep  not  for  him,  for  he  sleeps  well, 

Entombed  by  yonder  mighty  river, 
The  dwellers  on  whose  banks  will  tell 

Of  his  heroic  deeds  for  ever. 
But  weep,  ye  Britons,  one  and  all, 

Weep  on  ;  your  tears  are  shed  in  vain. 
You  never  can  the  past  recall, 

You  ne'er  shall  see  his  like  again. 
Intent  alone  on  place  and  power, 

You  left  your  hero  to  his  fate, 
Wasting  away  each  precious  hour 

In  never-ending,  dull  debate. 
And  can  you  for  the  past  atone 

By  heaping  honors  on  his  name  ? 
Vain  monuments  of  brass  or  stone 

Will  but  perpetuate  your  shame. 
And  when  the  records  of  the  age  "  j 

Are  writ  in  blood,  as  they  must  be, 
Their  brightest  and  their  blackest  page 

Shall  still  be  Gordon's  history." 

These  last  four  lines  are  fine,  and  show  ^what  the  author  could  do  if  he 
would  take  more  pains. 

NARRATIVES  OF  SCOTTISH  CATHOLICS  UNDER  MARY  STUART  AND  JAMES 
VI.,  now  first  printed  from  the  original  manuscripts  in  the  secret 
archives  of  the  Vatican  and  other  collections.  Edited  by  William 
Forbes-Leith,  S.J.  Edinburgh  :  William  Paterson.  1885.  (For  sale  by 
the  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.) 

It  was  Always  a  puzzle  to  us  how  a  people  so  tenacious  and  clear- 
sighted as  the  Scotch  should  become  Protestant,  having  been  once 
Catholic.  Books  such  as  the  above-named  give  us-  insight  and  help 
greatly  to  solve  this  riddle.  We  thank  both  editor  and  publisher  of  this 
and  similar  volumes.  Let  us  hope  this  will  be  patronized  and  give  encour- 
agement for  more.  By  and  by  we  shall  have  the  material  to  write  what 
is  indeed  a  desideratum,  a  true  and  complete  history  of  religion  among  the 
Scots. 

THE  LIFE  OF  FATHER  LUKE  WADDING,  Founder  of  St.  Isidore's  College, 
Rome  ;  author  of  Scriptores  Or  dints  Minorum,  Annales  Minorum.  By 
the  Rev.  Joseph  O'Shea,  O.S.F.  With  portrait.  Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  & 
Son.  1885.  (For  sale  by  the  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.,  New 

,       York.) 

It  is  rather  strange  that  Irishmen,  who   are  exceptional  in  the  honor 


284  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Nov., 

they  pay  their  heroes  and  martyrs,  should  appear  to  have  neglected  the 
memory  of  Father  Luke  Wadding.  No  good  biography  of  him  exists, 
nor  indeed  any  book  devoted  especially  to  his  life  and  work,  except  the 
volume  under  notice.  A  monograph  by  D'Arcy  McGee  in  his  Gallery  of 
Irish  Writers,  and  an  obituary  by  his  nephew,  Harold,  are  the  only  publi- 
cations dealing  expressly  with  the  career  of  this  illustrious  Irish  ecc"lesias- 
tic  and  patriot,  who  died  more  than  two  hundred  years  ago.  True  Mr. 
Gilbert  and  Father  Meehan,  in  their  histories  of  the  Kilkenny  Confedera- 
tion, have  given  Luke  Wadding  his  proper  place  in  connection  with  that 
event,  but  they  illustrate — and  that  not  entirely — but  one  episode  of  his 
life,  and  one  side  of  his  character. 

«  r  Luke  Wadding,  born  in  Waterford  in  1588,  of  a  good  old  family,  became 
one  of  those  Irish  exiles  who,  on  the  persecutions  of  Elizabeth,  transferred 
the  lustre  of  Irish  genius  to  the  pulpits,  courts,  and  armies  of  the  European 
continent.  After  an  excellent  early  education  in  Kilkenny,  on  the  death 
of  his  parents,  he  entered  the  Irish  College  at  Lisbon,  Portugal,  where 
he  spent  a  few  years.  His  brother  Matthew,  a  man  of  wealth  and  ranked 
as  a  grandee  of  the  Spanish  court,  then  took  Luke  to  live  with  him,  and 
sought  to  make  a  match  for  the  brilliant  young  Irishman  with  one  of  the 
daughters  of  the  Spanish  nobility.  But  Luke  discovered  a  pronounced  voca- 
tion for  the  religious  state,  and  insisted  on  joining  the  order  of  St.  Francis. 
After  a  severe  training  at  Salamanca  and  at  Rome  he  was  duly  ordained.  His 
superior  had  early  noticed  in  him  the  signs  of  remarkable  genius  and  piety, 
and  he  was  not  many  years  on  the  mission  before  his  renown  had  spread 
over  Italy  and  Spain  as  the  foremost  preacher  and  confessor  of  the 
Franciscan  Order.  He  became  a  profound  scholar,  and  he  was  one  of  the 
first  in  Europe  to  point  out  the  paganizing  tendency  of  the  renaissance 
that  was  then  in  bloom  in  Southern  Europe,  and  was  extending  its  witche- 
ries in  all  directions  from  the  palaces  of  cardinals  to  the  courts  of  kings. 
Luke  Wadding  was  overwhelmed  with  honors  at  Rome,  but  he  modestly 
shrank  from  them.  He  set  himself  to  establishing  a  college  for  the  training 
of  Irish  Franciscans  in  the  Eternal  City  and,  with  the  liberal  aid  of  the 
Holy  Father,  he  succeeded  in  founding  the  celebrated  college  of  St.  Isidore 
on  the  site  of  the  villa  of  Lucullus,  on  the  Pincian  hill.  This  college  be- 
came the  seat  of  his  dearest  labor,  and  here,  in  addition  to  devising  and 
carrying  out  a  masterly  curriculum,  he  completed  several  important  lite- 
rary works,  the  best  known  being  the  Scriptores  Ordinis  Minorum  and 
Ann  ales  Minorum. 

But  the  side  of  his  career  that  will  most  attract  the  secular  historian 
was  that  in  which  he  manifested  his  extraordinary  devotion  to  his  native 
land.  In  fomenting  and  aiding  the  Catholic  rebellion  of  1641  in  Ireland 
no  one  took  a  more  active  or  efficient  part  than  the  exile  Father  Luke 
Wadding.  The  bishops  and  clergy  of  Ireland  having  in  synod  declared 
that  the  war  the  Irish  people  were  engaged  in  was  justified,  it  was  Luke 
Wadding,  their  agent,  who  obtained  for  the  cause  the  blessing  and  aid  of 
the  pope.  But  he  was  not  content  with  rendering  spiritual  and  platonic 
assistance.  He  set  forth  on  a  mission  through  the  great  cities  of  Italy  and 
Spain,  like  another  Peter  the  Hermit,  preaching  an  Irish  crusade,  exhort- 
ing Irish  officers  and  soldiers  in  the  service  of  foreign  armies  to  go  to  the 
rescue  of  their  mother  country,  and  begging  aid  in  money  and  arms  from  the 


1885.]  NE  w  PUB LIC A  TIONS.  285 

merchant  princes  of  Venice  and  the  grandees  of  Madrid.  There  is  hardly 
in  history  a  more  touching  episode  than  this  tour  of  Father  Wadding's. 
He  comes  to  Florence  ;  for  days  the  people  have  been  flocking  in  to  hear 
this  great  preacher  whose  renown  is  on  every  tongue  and  whose  magic 
words  have  thrilled  them  more  than  once  before.  What  does  he  come  now 
to  say  with  such  special  emphasis  ?  In  front  of  the  grand  Duomo,  where 
Savonarola  stood,  he  stands,  the  cardinal  bishop  and  his  gorgeous  re- 
tinue by  his  side,  and  with  the  pathetic  foreign  burr  upon  his  speech  he 
tells  the  mighty  multitude  of  the  wrongs  and  woes  of  the  island  of  his 
birth!  Qn  Pentecost  Sunday  the  doge  and.  municipal  council  of  Ve- 
nice, with  deputations  from  all  the  public  bodies,  societies  and  confraterni- 
ties, assembled  around  him  to  listen  to  a  similar  story  on  the  square  of  St. 
Mark.  In  this  way  was  Father  Luke  Wadding  able  to  send  thousands  of 
crowns  to  the  Irish  treasury,  with  arms  and  munitions  of  war  under  the 
charge  of  expert  officers  who  had  won  their  spurs  in  Flanders  and  France. 
The  pope  himself  contributed  sixty  thousand  dollars  and  sent  a  nuncio, 
John  Baptist  Rinuccini,  Archbishop  of  Fermo,  to  represent  him  at  the  Con- 
federation of  Kilkenny.  One  of  the  last  acts  of  that  Confederation  was  in 
its  great  gratitude,  at  the  suggestion  of  Lord  Ormond,  to  pass  a  resolution, 
which  the  Catholic  prelates  and  nobility  signed,  petitioning  the  Holy  Fa- 
ther to  create  Father  Wadding  a  cardinal.  But  Wadding  at  Rome  inter- 
cepted the  messenger  bearing  this  petition  and  bade  him  return,  wishing,  as 
he  said,  to  die,  as  he  had  lived,  in  the  habit  of  St.  Francis.  How  the  Kil- 
kenny Confederation  failed  of  its  object  history  tells,  but  its  failure  detracts 
nothing  from  the  lustre  of  the  services  Luke  Wadding  so  heroically  ren- 
dered it. 

He  died  a  most  saintly  death  in  1657,  in  the  college  of  his  own  founda- 
tion, St.  Isidore's,  Rome,  surrounded  by  the  priests  of  his  community. 
The  book  under  notice  will  be  read  with  avidity  by  all  who  cherish  the 
memory  of  this  noble  Irish  priest,  although  it  is  rather  a  glowing  eulogy 
than  the  exact  and  detailed  biography  that  yet  remains  to  be  written.  It 
is  adorned  with  a  fine  engraving  of  the  portrait  of  Father  Wadding  painted 
by  Carlo  Maratti. 

THE  LIFE  OF  JEAN-JACQUES  OLIER,  FOUNDER  OF  THE  SEMINARY  OF  ST. 
SULPICE.  By  Edward  Healy  Thompson,  M.A.  New  and  enlarged 
edition.  London:  Burns  &  Oates  ;  New  York:  The  Catholic  Publica- 
tion Society  Co.  1885. 

In  these  days,  when  holy  church  is  casting  about  for  efficient  means 
wherewith  to  ennoble  and  sanctify  her  priests,  it  is  fortunate  that  the 
labors  and  words  of  a  great  authority  should  be  published  for  their  im- 
provement and  consolation.  There  is  a  pernicious  notion  prevalent  that 
interior  perfection  concerns  only  religious,  and  that  seculars  living  in  the 
world  are  in  a  measure  bound  to  adapt  themselves  to  their  surroundings  in 
order  to  be  the  more  agreeable  and  useful  to  those  under  their  charge. 
This  is  an  error  that  has  wrought  grievous  harm  to  the  church  of  God.  It 
is  not  necessary  for  us  to  prove  that  the  piety  of  the  people  depends,  if  not 
entirely,  yet  to  a  very  large  extent,  on  the  personal  holiness  of  every  pastor, 
and  where  it  is  a  case  of  the  blind  leading  the  blind  the  result  is  always  un- 
desirable. We  have  read  this  fascinating  volume  with  genuine  pleasure, 


286  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Nov., 

and  judge  it  inferior  to  none  of  the  author's  other  deeply  interesting 
biographies.  The  style  is  fresh  and  buoyant,  and  it  is  written  in  easy  and 
idiomatic  English. 

Its  subject  is  the  life  of  a  man  who,  from  his  conversion  to  his  death, 
spent  himself  in  the  task  of  correcting  abuses  by  founding  institutions 
where  young  men  could  be  suitably  trained  for  the  solemn  offices  of  the 
altar.  In  our  opinion  the  clergy  would  do  well  to  make  this  book  a  vade 
mecum.  Mr.  Healy  Thompson  states  that  any  profits  that  may  be  derived 
from  the  sale  of  this  work  will  be  applied  in  aid  of  ecclesiastical  seminaries. 

LIFE  OF  ANNE  CATHARINE  EMMERICH.  From  the  German  of  Very  Rev. 
K.  E.  Schmoger,  C.SS.R.  (2  vols.)  New  York  :  Pustet  &  Co.  1885. 

This  carefully-edited  and  well-published  edition  of  Sister  Emmerich's 
Life  is  the  first  complete  account  of  her  life  and  revelations  in  English. 
The  whole  is  so  extraordinary  that  it  requires  the  most  satisfactory  attesta- 
tion and  the  highest  sanction  to  make  it  worthy  of  credit.  It  has  these,  as 
the  reader  may  satisfy  himself  by  consulting  the  work  itself.  The  original 
author  of  the  Life  was  the  celebrated  Clement  Brentano,  and  the  German 
editor  was  a  highly  respectable  priest  of  the  Redemptorist  congregation  in 
Bavaria.  A  fine  portrait  by  Steinle,  from  sketches  taken  by  Brentano,  is 
prefixed  to  the  first  volume. 

Anne  Catharine  Emmerich  was  one  of  the  ecstatic  virgins,  like  Maria 
Mori  and  Louise  Lateau,  who  received  the  stigmata  and  other  singular  su- 
pernatural graces.  The  narrative  of  her  life  and  visions  is  one  of  wonder- 
ful fascination,  and  in  remarkable  contrast  to  the  mimetic  phenomena  of 
spiritism,  which  are  anything  but  celestial  in  their  character  and  origin. 
Perhaps  the  greatest  general  utility  of  such  a  biography  is  to  be  found  in 
its  counteracting  effect  to  the  baleful  influence  of  mesmerism  and  spiritism. 
The  predominant  effect  and  impression  which  it  produces  in  the  mind  is 
cheerful  and  pleasing.  It  is  safe  and  wholesome  reading,  interesting  in  the 
highest  degree  to  all  who  have  any  love  of  the  marvellous,  and  can  be 
made  profitable  and  edifying  by  those  who  will  endeavor  to  get  some  good 
out  of  it  beyond  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  imagination. 

GESCHICHTSLUGEN.  Eine  Widerlegung  landlaufiger  Entstellungen  auf 
dem  Gebiete  der  Geschichte,  mit  besonderer  Beriicksichtigung  der 
Kirchengeschichte.  Aufs  Neue  bearbeitet  von  drei  Freunden  der 
Wahrheit.  Vierte  Auflage.  Paderborn  :  F.  Schoningh.  1885. 

Whoever  can  read  this  title  will  find  this  small  duodecimo  of  six  hun- 
dred pages  to  contain  as  many  items  of  valuable  information  as  it  has  sen- 
tences. The  authors  are  learned  men,  though  they  write  briefly  for  a  class 
of  readers  who  could  not  make  use  of  a  more  extensive  work.  We  per- 
ceive from  it  that  the  non-Catholic  portion  of  the  German  people  are  be- 
hind the  English-speaking  world  in  knowledge  of  Catholic  history  and 
liberality  of  sentiments  toward  the  Catholic  Church.  Numbers  of  the  his- 
torical falsehoods  which  it  appears  are  still  current  in  Germany  no  longer 
need  exposure  among  ourselves.  Another  thing  is  plain,  that  German  in- 
fidels, rationalists,  and  violent  anti-Catholics  of  all  sorts  expend  a  great 
deal  of  energy  in  Schtmpf-,  Schmdh-  imd  Spott-Reden.  Not  only  do  they  pour 
them  out  upon  Catholics,  Christians,  and  all  others  who  believe  more  than 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  287 

they  do,  but  also  upon  one  another.  Their  vituperation  would  make  a 
Dublin  fish-wife  weep  more  bitterly  than  the  one  who  was  called  by  O'Conj 
nell  a  parallelopipedon. 

We  found  the  first  section  of  the  book,  entitled  "  Das  Christliche  Alter- 
thum,"  the  most  interesting  and  valuable.  The  others  are  excellent  and 
satisfactory,  but  we  have  already  what  they  contain  in  other  books.  The 
first  section  gives  us  such  a  thorough  though  succinct  account  of  the  va- 
rious theories  of  the  destructive  school  of  criticism  on  the  New  Testament 
and  the  earliest  documents  of  Christian  history,  that  we  esteem  it  to  be,  as 
we  have  said,  of  peculiar  value  and  interest. 

This  volume  is  one  well  adapted  for  circulation  among  our  German 
population. 

A  TROUBLED  HEART,  AND  How  IT  WAS  COMFORTED  AT  LAST.  Notre 
Dame,  Ind.  :  Joseph  A.  Lyons.  1885,  (For  sale  by  the  Catholic  Publi- 
cation Society  Co.) 

This  sweet  little  prose-poem  tells  the  story  of  a  conversion.  There  is 
no  argument  in  it,  and  only  a  slender  thread  of  narrative.  It  is  an  unveil- 
ing of  a  heart,  a  psychological  history^of  dim,  painful  struggles  out  of  dark- 
ness into  the  light  of  Catholic  faith.  The  subject  of  it  was  an  innocent, 
sensitive,  dreamy  boy  of  a  poetical  temperament.  His  spiritual  experiences 
were  among  New  England  Puritans,  Univ&rsalists,  various  other  kinds  of 
Protestants,  Spiritists,  and  Nothingarians.  Those  who  have  had  some  simi- 
lar experience  will  recognize  the  truthfulness  of  his  delineations,  and  others 
will  find  them  curiously  interesting.  It  is  a  volume  which  addresses  itself 
rather  to  the  imagination  and  feelings  than  to  the  logical  understanding. 
Primarily  Christianity  addresses  itself  to  man's  intelligence,  to  reason,  be- 
cause it  is  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  his  destiny,  which  all  other 
religions  have  sought  after  in  vain.  But  the  imagination  and  feelings  are 
also  guides  to  truth,  and,  when  pure,  as  sure  as  the  logic  of  the  under- 
standing. Is  not  this  what  the  Incarnate  Truth  said  when  he  promised, 
"  Blessed  are  the  pure  in  heart,  for  they  shall  see  God"?  Christianity  is 
primarily  addressed  to  man's  intelligence,  but  its  ethical  side  is  equally 
legitimate,  and  this  must  not  be  forgotten.  It  must  be  said  that  the  book  is 
very  sentimental,  but  it  is  not  silly  or  sickly.  Many  readers  will  be  charmed 
by  it,  especially  young  people.  The  description  of  an  ideal  private  sanctuary 
which  the  imaginative  religious  boy  was  preparing  to  arrange  when  he  un- 
expectedly found  his  true  sanctuary  in  the  Catholic  Church,  reminds  us  of 
a  similar  incident  in  Goethe's  boyhood.  There  are  a  great  many  of  our 
young  friends  to  whom  we  would  like  to  send  this  little  book  as  a  present. 
We  hope  it  will  get  to  them  somehow,  and  that  it  will  have  a  wide  general 
circulation. 

ONE  ANGEL  MORE  IN  HEAVEN.     With  Letters  of  Condolence  and  of  Con- 
j^solation,  by  St.   Francis  de  Sales   and   others..      Translated   from   the 
French  by  M.  A.  M.     Benziger  Brothers.     1885. 

There  is,  perhaps,  no  greater  los.s  than  that  of  the  first-born  child.  In- 
deed, the  bereavement  of  children  is  one  of  the  deepest  and  keenest  pangs 
Almighty  God  can  in  his  wisdom  inflict  upon  parents  of  an  affectionate  dis- 
position. And,  therefore,  such  parents  need  a  spiritual  consolation  that 


288  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Nov.,  1885. 

comes  from  above.  They  must  be  convinced  that  the  divine  Hand  which 
strikes  belongs  to  One  who  knows  how  to  mingle  the  sweetness  of  honey 
with  the  gall  of  bitterness.  They  must  be  taught  to  recognize  the  ador- 
able will  of  God  in  the  separation  by  death  of  children  from  their  parents. 
They  must  learn  how  to  bow  their  heads  and  to  humble  their  hearts  in 
submission  to  their  Creator  and  Father.  They  must  be  ready  to  say  with  a 
heartfelt  sincerity,  "Thy  will  be  done."  And  these  lessons  of  a  humble 
obedience  to  the  decree  of  God  in  visiting  parents  with  so  hard  and  trying 
a  cross  as  the  loss  of  children  could  not,  we  think,  be  exposed  with  more 
simplicity  and  encouragement  than  they  are  in  the  little  book  entitled  One 

Angel  more  in  Heaven. 

* 

EXAMINATION  OF  CONSCIENCE  FOR  THE  USE  OF  PRIESTS  WHO  ARE  MAK- 
ING A  RETREAT.  From  the  French  of  Gaduel,  Vicar-General  and 
Superior  of  the  Ecclesiastical  Seminary  at  Orleans,  France.  Translated 
and  adapted  by  Rev.  Eugene  Grimm,  C.SS.R.  Benziger  Brothers. 

The  title  of  this  little  book  seems  to  indicate  that  it  is  of  utility  only 
during  the  few  days  of  a  retreat.  But  the  perusal  of  it  is  a  sufficient  proof 
that  it  is  at  all  times  highly  profitable.  For  besides  pointing  out  the  duties 
which  have  an  application  to  all  priests  generally,  and  the  vital  necessity  of 
their  attending  to  their  own  progress  in  virtue  as  well  as  to  that  of  the 
people  entrusted  to  their  care,*  it  specifies  briefly  the  particular  obligations 
of  pastors  and  curates,  and  enumerates  in  order  the  books  which  should 
form  the  library  of  every  priest.  Its  hearty  reception  and  wide  circulation 
in  France  and  Germany  are  evidence  of  its  merits,  and  cannot  but  recom- 
mend it  to  the  consideration  of  the  priests  of  our  own  country. 

PRACTICAL  INSTRUCTION  FOR  NEW  CONFESSORS.  By  Father  Philip  M. 
Salvatori,  S.J.  Edited  by  Father  Anthony  Ballerini,  S.J.,  and  trans- 
lated from  the  Italian  by  William  Hutch,  D.D.,  President  of  St.  Cole- 
man's  College,  Fermoy,  etc.  London :  Burns  &  Oates ;  New  York  : 
The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.  1885. 

Dr.  Hutch  has  done  good  service  to  English-speaking  priests  by  trans- 
lating this  excellent  little  work.  It  is  full  of  instructions  and  suggestions 
which  cannot  fail  to  be  profitable  not  only  to  new  priests  but  to  all  who  are 
employed  in  the  sacred  tribunal  of  penance.  The  instructions  are  not 
taken  up  with  abstract  speculations,  but  are  plain,  practical  suggestions  of 
how  to  deal  with  such  penitents  as  commonly  come  to  our  confessionals 
every  day.  We  warmly  commend  it  to  all  the  reverend  clergy,  feeling  con- 
fident that  each  one  will  find  in  it  much  that  is  useful. 


A  THOUGHT  FOR  EACH  DAY  OF  THE  YEAR.  By  P.  Maria  de  Boylesve,  S.J. 
Translated  from  the  French.  London:  Burns  &  Oates;  New  York: 
The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.  1885. 

This  is  an  excellent  book  of  meditations,  well  translated,  and  published 
in  good  style.  These  meditations  are  well  adapted  for  persons  living  in  the 
world  who  can  spare  but  little  time  for  mental  prayer.  Besides  making  us 
familiar  with  Holy  Scripture,  they  point  out  for  us  exactly  the  fruits  which 
are  to  be  derived  from  it. 


THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD 


VOL.  XLII.  DECEMBER,  1885.  No.  249. 


THE   TRINITY   IN   SIMPLE   ENGLISH. 

THE  doctrine  of  the  Trinity  is  generally  regarded  as  the  most 
mysterious  of  Christian  mysteries,  as  drawing  the  most  severely 
upon  the  Christian's  confidence,  as  one  which  for  these  reasons  it 
is  best  to  pass  over  with  little  explanation,  leaving  the  popular 
faith  to  struggle  with  it  as  best  it  can.  I  do  not  share  in  this 
opinion.  To  my  mind  it  presents  itself  as  a  nearer  view  of  God, 
and  one,  moreover,  so  dear  to  the  loving  heart,  so  inwrought  with 
necessary  daily  devotion,  so  fruitful  to  contemplate,  that  it  is  an 
unwise  and  ungenerous  economy  to  lock  up  any  part  or  point  of 
it.  Of  course  it  is  a  mystery.  No  mystery  can  be  loftier  or 
deeper.  But  it  seems  to  me  that,  if  simply  treated,  if  divested  of 
all  mere  show  of  learning,  if  stripped  of  all  unnecessary  techni- 
calities of  language,  it  is  a  mystery  which  of  all  others  offers 
the  least  difficulty  to  an  intelligent  faith.  It  is  a  mystery  the 
rational  grounds  for  which  can  be  so  far  explained  as  to  be  per- 
fectly intelligible,  and  to  render  the  doctrine,  even  to  the  nak- 
ed reason,  more  tenable  than  the  contrary. 

Profoundly  convinced  of  this  as  I  am,  and  considering  how 
much  the  literature  of  our  age  is  disposed  to  discard  all  that  it 
cannot  immediately  and  thoroughly  comprehend  in  religion,  I 
hazard  this  new  atterhpt  to  develop  a  time-honored  belief.  I 
approach  it  on  the  rational  side.  I  found  no  argument  upon 
revelation,  and  shall  only  refer  to  Scripture  authority  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  how  reason  and  faith  agree.  I  use  thank- 
fully the  experience  of  Christian  philosophers,  but  adopt  as 

Copyright.    Rev.  I.  T.  HECKER.     1885. 


290  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  [Dec., 

much  as  possible  the  forms  of  expression  which  are  familiar  to 
the  unprofessional. 

In  point  of  fact,  the  less  we  deal  in  abstract  terms  the  more  in- 
telligible the  argument  becomes,  and  the  sounder.     It  is  the  very 
trick  of  modern  infidelity  to  avoid  the  name  of  God  and  take 
refuge  in  abstractions.     But  there  can  be  no  abstract  God.     An 
abstract  being  is  no  being  at  all.    When  we  talk  about  the  infinite, 
the  absolute,  etc.,  we  may  mean  God,  but  we  are  only  talking 
sideways.     Why  is  it  necessary  to  skirmish  around  the  real  sub- 
ject of  our  discourse,  especially  when  dealing  with  those  who 
already  believe  in  God?     Why  should  we  thus  vaguely  feel  our 
way  when  a  straight  path  is  before  us?     By  this  kind  of  language 
we  only  perplex  the  minds  of  readers  whose  intelligence  is  un- 
trained  to  it.     They   become   wearied  and  discouraged.     They 
begin  to  think  themselves  unable  to  grapple  with  the  argument. 
Perhaps  they  distrust  the  value  of  it.     Perhaps  they  suspect  us  of 
not  understanding  our  own  words  any  too  well.     In  any  case  they 
give  it  up,  and  so  we  lose  our  labor.     But  when  we  change  our 
mode  of  speech  from  the  abstract  to  the  concrete  ;  when,  like  the 
Bible,  we  speak  of  God  directly  as  a  being  belonging  to  actual 
life,  having  intelligence  and  will,  and  using  and  enjoying  both — 
why,  then    the  difficulty  vanishes ;  we  are  understood  at  once. 
And  why?     Because  our  language  now  is  true  to  the  subject. 
What   we   speak   of  now   is   no  longer  an   intangible  attribute 
stripped  from  the  life  to  which  it  belongs,  but  a  real  being  who 
is,  and  lives,  and  is  full  of  action.     What  child  is  unable  to  seize 
and  retain  my  meaning  when  I  tell  him  of  an  all-powerful  God, 
who  knows  all  things,  who  always  was  and  always  will  be,  who 
sees  us  at  all  times,  who  reads  our  very  thoughts,  who  loves  us 
more  than  tongue  can  tell  ?     The  merest  infant  will  brighten  with 
intelligence  at  such  discourse.     My  language  is  no  longer  difficult 
or   dry.     It  responds  to  something  which  always  underlay  his 
thoughts  from  the  beginning,  the  greatest  and  earliest  endow- 
ment of  his  soul. 

Let  this,  then,  be  our  first  station  in  the  argument.  God  is  no 
abstraction.  He  is  a  real  being,  actually  existing,  and  holding  all 
that  belongs  to  his  being  in  full  and  conscious  possession.  Such 
a  being  must  necessarily  be  made  up  of  certain  elementary  con- 
stituents or  principles  of  life  which  make  him  what  he  is.  The 
search  after  these  constituent  principles  will  lead  us  to  the  Trinity. 
Now,  when  inquiring  after  the  constituents  of  anything,  we  do 
not  mean  all  that  goes  to  characterize  it,  all  its  properties,  facul- 
ties, or  attributes,  not  even  all  those  which  are  inseparable  from 


1885.]  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  291 

it.  We  mean  those  characteristics  only  which  are  so  essentially 
identified  with  it,  so  constitute  it,  so  compose  it,  so  unite  to  make 
it  up,  that  if  taken  away  there  is  nothing  left.  With  this  in  view 
let  us  begin  first  with  man.  Let  us  analyze  the  human  soul. 
What  are  the  constituent  elements  of  a  soul  like  ours?  And  what 
are  the  relations  which  these  constituents  bear  to  each  other? 
Since  man  is  made  in  the  image  of  his  Maker,  being,  like  him,  a 
spiritual  and  rational  being,  these  inquiries  are  most  pertinent. 
So  far  as  natural  reason  can  go,  such  inquiry  ought  to  lead  towards 
the  end  and  aim  of  this  article.  A  philosophic  poet  tells  us — and 
there  is  more  than  poetry  in  what  he  says — 

"  There  was  never  mystery 

But  'tis  figured  in  the  flowers ; 
Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers.'' 

Such  analogy  runs  through  all  life.  Surely,  then,  we  may 
hope  to  find  in  rational,  loving,  and  so  far  godlike  man  some 
shadow  of  that  great  mystery  of  life  which  constitutes  the  being 
of  God. 

The  human  soul  is  endowed  with  various  intellectual  faculties. 
These,  however,  are  only  secondary  gifts  or  powers,  and  not,  like 
the  intellect  itself,  fundamental.  The  soul  is  also  characterized 
by  various  moral  qualities,  passions,  or  faculties,wwhich  cannot  be 
regarded  as  its  primary  constituents.  Under  them  lies  the  will, 
which  is  something  more  elementary,  in  which  they  have  their 
seat  and  centre.  We  may,  then,  as  well  at  once  select  the  intellect 
and  the  will  as  constituent  principles  of  the  soul.  But  do  these 
two  complete  the  number?  Do  they  embrace  all  there  is  of  it,  or 
is  there  still  something  wanting  to  make  up  the  concrete  whole? 

Call  it  what  you  please,  there  is  in  the  human  soul,  there  must 
be  in  every  rational  spirit,  something  which  thinks,  something 
which  is  prior  to  thought  and  parent  to  it.  It  is  the  primary 
principle  of  all.  It  goes  necessarily  before  thought,  as  thought  in 
turn  precedes  desire.  Before  its  action  thought  can  have  no  ex- 
istence, nor  can  .there  be  any  act  of  will.  Whether  you  say  that 
the  soul  itself  begets  the  thought,  and  that  directly,  or  that  it  is 
born  out  of  the  soul's  mind  or  consciousness,  I  care  not.  Let  each 
one  choose  his  own  philosophy.  Let  conscious  mind  (or  memo- 
ry *),  reason,  and  will  be  three  constituent  faculties  of  the  soul,  or 

*  That  faculty  by  which  man  is  conscious  or  mindful  (mentor)  of  himself,  and  of  the  move- 
ments of  his  own  life  as  a  whole,  is  obviously  the  memory.  Philosophically,  a  poor  analysis  of 
the  soul  is  that  which  narrows  the  memory  to  a  mere  power  of  recalling  its  former  acts,  making 


292  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  [Dec., 

say  that  there  are  only  two  ;  in  either  case  we  shall  arrive  at  the 
point  I  seek.  In  either  case  we  shall  have  the  example  of  a  mul- 
tiple life  in  a  single  soul.  In  either  case  we  shall  find  the  soul 
productive.  In  either  case  three  distinct  factors  or  agents  are 
shown  in  that  activity  which  constitutes  its  life.  For  the  moment 
I  confine  myself  to  the  production  of  reason,  or  reflective  thought. 
The  production  of  thought  is  a  true  generation.  The  soul  is 
essentially  intelligent,  and  out  of  its  own  intelligence  it  produces 
offspring  in  the  likeness  of  itself.  And  here  comes  in  a  mystery 
which  all  must  admit  as  a  fact,  but  none  of  us  can  explain.  When 
thought  is  born  it  takes  its  place  as  something  distinct  from  the 
parent  mind — not  apart  but  distinct.  It  is  the  soul's  interior  word, 
spoken  within  itself  and  to  itself,  and  secluded  from  all  that  is 
outside  of  itself.  The  soul,  the  conscious  principle,  the  mind,  or 
whatever  that  is  which  begets  thought,  is  able  to  contemplate  its 
own  child  when  begotten,  to  discuss  it,  criticise  it,  handle  it,  fondle 
it,  love  it.  And  thought  in  turn,  by  a  wonderful  reaction,  is  able  to 
examine  and  contemplate  the  parent  from  which  it  springs.  We 
think,  and  then  we  use  our  new-born  thoughts  to  examine  the 
thinker.  Within  the  soul  a  child  is  born  to  companionship  with 
its  father.  It  challenges  him  to  discussion.  It  says  to  him  : 

"  I  am  thy  spirit,  yoke-fellow  ; 
Of  thine  eye  I  am  eyebeam." 

A  poem  which  appeared  in  the  Century  magazine  for  May  last 
was  entitled  "  My  Thought  and  I."  This  title  is  no  wild  fancy, 
nor  does  it  involve  anything  difficult  to  apprehend.  In  an  earlier 
composition  by  another  writer,  entitled  "  Night- Watching,"  the 
same  plurality  in  one  spirit  is  indicated  with  still  greater  distinct- 
ness : 

"Already  three  !    Ah,  well-a-day, 

Myself  and  I  here  meet  at  last 

After  estrangement,  and  the  past 

Has  much  to  say." 

The  discord  so  constantly  coming  in  from  the  soul's  fickleness, 
and  her  entanglement  with  things  outside  herself,  confuses  but 
does  not  break  up  this  plurality  and  unity  of  which  we  are  speak- 
ing. It  always  exists.  We  must  accept  the  fact  as  unquestion- 
able ;  but  who  can  account  for  it  ?  Does  not  this  enigma  of 
thought  and  thinker,  word  and  speaker,  child  and  father,  all  com- 
prised in  one  human  life,  already  make  luminous  that  mysterious 

it  thus  later  in  action  than  thought  and  will.  Rightly  considered,  the  memory  is  the  principal 
and  parent  faculty.  It  argues  simply  a  feebleness  of  this  faculty  in  us  that  we  are  obliged  to 
recall  any  part  of  our  lives  by  new  acts  of  consciousness. 


1885.]  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  293 

fact  in  the  great  life  of  God  so  simply  and  sublimely  presented  to 
our  faith  by  John  the  Evangelist :  "  In  the  beginning  was  the 
Word,  and  the  Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word  was  God  "  ? 

We  find,  then,  in  that  part  of  our  nature  which  is  spiritual  a 
unity  in  which  reflection  can  distinguish  a  multiplicity  or  plu- 
rality. That  plurality  does  not  consist  of  parts,  for  a  spirit  is 
simple  and  has  no  parts.  It  does  not  consist  of  mere  faculties 
which  if  taken  away  from  the  soul  would  impair  its  powers  but 
still  leave  it  what  it  was,  a  soul.  It  is  a  necessity,  without  which 
we  could  not  conceive  of  it  as  the  same  being.  By  a  mystery  of 
life  two  constituent  factors  reveal  themselves  within  the  soul, 
and  yet  are  all  one  with  it.  They  do  not  rise  to  the  dignity  of 
distinct  personalities  like  the  Father  and  the  Son  in  the  mystery 
of  the  Trinity ;  but  they  are  really  distinct,  and  really  one.  If, 
examining  my  own  reason,  I  call  upon  the  inborn  thought  to 
show  me  the  Father,  it  might  well  answer  in  the  words  of  our 
Saviour  to  Philip  :  "  Have  I  been  so  long  a  time  with  you,  and 
have  you  not  known  me?" 

Unity,  plurality,  paternity.  Within  its  deepest  life-chamber 
each  single  human  soul  develops  an  activity  which  is  plural. 
This  plurality  is  due  to  a  certain  productiveness  or  fruitfulness 
which  is  an  essential  quality  of  all  rational  life.  Intellect  begets. 
Ideas  are  begotten.  The  nativity  of  thought  is  a  true  generation, 
a  reproduction  of  one  thing  by  another,  and  within  the  limits  of 
its  own  kind.  "  Increase  and  multiply  "  is  a  blessing  which 
reaches  beyond  the  physical  world.  It  is  the  universal  law  of 
life.  It  governs  souls.  It  governs  mind.  Fecundity — that  is, 
productive  activity  in  the  order  of  its  own  being — is  a  characteris- 
tic necessity  of  everything  that  lives,  and  the  highest  act  of  life. 
Is  it  not  also  a  characteristic  of  the  living  God?  Since  the 
power  to  reproduce  itself  is  a  perfection  in  every  creature,  since 
we  can  trace  out  its  action  in  the  deepest  movement  of  our  own 
souls,  shall  we  not  look  for  a  corresponding  perfection  in  that 
great  Spirit  who  is  both  Creator  and  Archetype  of  all  things?  Is 
God  alone  childless?  Can  he  produce  nothing  in  his  own  kind, 
nothing  but  what  is  infinitely  beneath  himself?  A  longing  after 
offspring  in  the  childless  Rachel  wrung  out  that  desolate  wail : 
"  Give  me  children,  or  I  die  !  "  Is  there  no  longing  like  this  in 
the  infinite  Breast  which  must  be  met  ? 

Of  course  God  cannot  produce  outside  of  his  own  life  another 
being  equal  to  himself  or  in  all  respects  like  himself.  That  would 
suppose  two  gods,  two  infinities,  two  eternities,  two  lives,  both 
supreme  and  independent.  But  within  the  circle  of  his  own  life, 


294  THE  TRINITY  JN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  [Dec., 

and  constituting  the  very  circulation  of  that  life,  such  a  genera- 
tion involves  no  absurdity,  but  only  a  mystery.  We  have  seen 
already  existing  as  a  fact  a  like  mystery,  inferior  in  dignity  but 
not  in  difficulty.  The  rational  spirit  in  man  can  generate  thought, 
which,  although  assuming  a  distinct  status  of  its  own,  yet  remains 
within  the  mind  which  conceives  it,  and  goes  to  constitute  its 
life.  Is  there  nothing  in  the  infinite  mind  like  this?  Is  there  no 
interior  Word  generated  there,  no  infinite  Child  "  the  express 
image  "  of  the  Father  ?  Is  it  only  the  utterance  of  a  wild  dream, 
or  is  it  revelation  speaking  the  language  of  true  philosophy,  when 
the  Evangelist  tells  us :  "  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word,  and 
the  Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word  was  God  "  ? 

But  the  activity  of  a  rational  spirit  is  not  perfected  by  the 
generation  of  thought.  The  soul  breathes  a  twofold  atmosphere 
of  thought  and  will.  Both  these  are  necessary  to  make  its  in- 
terior life  complete.  First  we  know,  and  then  we  love.  After 
having  brought  to  light  irom  its  own  womb  an  object  of  contem- 
plation the  soul  is  drawn  to  it  by  a  second  act  of  love  or  desire. 
The  will  is  an  essential  constituent  of  our  spiritual  being,  and  its 
presence  must  be  shown  in  every  analysis  of  the  soul's  life-action. 
We  love  by  necessity  that  which  is  good  or  seems  good.  But,  in 
addition  to  this,  by  a  parental  instinct  the  soul  loves  especially 
that  which  itself  has  generated.  It  is  a  law  of  life.  The  father 
loves  his  own  child,  and  is  loved  by  it  in  turn.  In  fine,  a  second 
movement  thus  takes  place  in  the  soul  between  the  two  terms  of 
the  first.  Mind  and  thought  Stand  face  to  face  in  close  relation- 
ship. They  become  objects  of  mutual  desire  each  to  the  other, 
and  kindle  a  fire  which  we  call  love,  but  the  proper  name  of  which, 
when  considered  as  an  abiding  constituent  of  the  soul,  is  Will. 
The  product  of  this  second  act  becomes  a  third  term  of  interior 
relationship.  It  owes  its  origin  to  the  other  two,  and,  though 
something  distinct,  is  essentially  the  same  thing  with  both,  consti- 
tuting one  same  life.  It  proceeds  from  the  mind  of  which  it  is 
clearly  the  act.  It  proceeds  also  from  the  thought  without  which 
the  mind  would  not  see,  and  so  would  fail  to  find,  an  object  for 
its  love.  And  yet  the  same  living  spirit  includes  all  three,  and 
they  are  its  components.  Behold  in  our  own  souls  faintly  but 
truly  foreshadowed  to  reason  the  great  mystery  of  heaven,  a 
threefold  life  in  one  divine  Being ! 

I  do  not  wish  to  claim  too  much.  The  marvels  of  thinking 
and  loving  which  develop  within  our  own  souls  cannot  ade- 
quately represent  the  parallel  mysteries  in  an  infinite  Spirit. 
But  do  they  not  suggest  them  ?  Do  they  not  throw  upon  them 


1885.]  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  295 

some  additional  light?  Does  not  the  morning  begin  to  break? 
Can  we  not  already  catch  a  glimpse,  albeit  faint,  of  those  neces- 
sary interior  relations  which  constitute  in  God  a  single,  but  never 
solitary,  life  ?  Have  we  not  here,  furnished  by  our  own  natural 
reason  analyzing  our  own  souls,  a  light  which  harmonizes  won- 
derfully with  the  light  of  revelation  ?  Cannot  a  loving  and  hun- 
gering spirit  find  here  unveiled  to  contemplation  a  God  who  is 
one,  not  by  any  vague  and  barren  conception  of  unity  in  the 
abstract,  but  a  single,  active,  moving,  living,  life-breathing  Being, 
a  Being  whose  self-consciousness,  thoughtfulness,  and  will  are  as 
real  and  as  really  distinct  as  they  are  infinite  and  eternal?  If 
so,  we  have  only  one  task  left.  We  have  only  to  learn  how  to 
assign  to  each  constituent  principle  of  the  divine  life  a  true  per- 
sonality of  its  own,  and  then  we  shall  have  the  Christian  Trinity. 
Come,  let  us  now  advance  to  this. 

Hitherto  I  have  endeavored  to  establish  an  analogy  between 
the  rational  creature  and  that  rational  life  which  is  infinite  and 
uncreated.  Both  being  spirits,  man  must  have  on  his  spiritual 
side  some  characteristics  in  common  with  his  Maker.  It  is  now 
time  to  consider  how  they  differ  in  these  very  characteristics  ; 
that  is,  how  and  where  the  analogy  fails.  By  doing  this  I  shall 
not  destroy  but  fortify  and  develop  my  argument.  Much  that  is 
hitherto  obscure  will  be  cleared  away  ;  and  that  trace  of  trinity 
which  in  man  is  imperfect  and  perplexing  will  grow  up  in  our 
view  of  God  to  a  distinctness  and  perfection  which  shall  show  a 
threefold  divinity  in  one  life,  and  make,  perchance,  even  the  cold 
bosom  of  philosophy  give  forth  a  rhythmic  hymn,  the  Christian 
trisagion  :  "  Glory  be  to  the  Father,  and  to  the  Son,  and  to  the 
Holy  Ghost!" 

In  the  first  place,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that  ours  is  a  mixed 
nature.  We  are  spiritual,  but  we  are  also  animal,  physical, 
material.  By  force  of  this  degrading  alliance  our  spiritual  na- 
ture, which  would  otherwise  be  angelic,  is  so  interlocked  with 
the  material  world  that  we  cannot  even  think  without  material 
help.  We  think  by  means  of  images  supplied  by  the  senses,  pre- 
sented to  the  mind  in  material  mirrors,  and  stored  away  in  mir- 
rors for  after-remembrance.  The  process  of  thought,  therefore, 
in  us,  although  spiritual,  is  not  purely  so,  as  it  is  in  the  angels. 
It  is  only  partially  or  imperfectly  an  interior  act  of.  the  soul. 
Even  before  being  uttered  to  the  air,  before  being  spoken  or 
written  to  our  fellows,  it  is  already  a  spoken  and  pictured  lan- 
guage to  ourselves.  It  has  passed  beyond  its  native  realm  and 
become  embodied.  The  mind  surveys  it  as  an  object  which  is  at 


296  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  [Dec., 

once  interior  and  exterior  to  itself,  and  has  no  independent  sub- 
sistence without  or  within.  This  to  all  analysis  of  thought  is 
confusing.  In  order  to  make  our  argument  from  analogy  more 
clear  and  complete  we  must  endeavor  to  discriminate  between 
what  is  spiritual  and  physical  in  the  process  of  thinking.  We 
must  try  to  conceive  what  would  be  the  operation  of  our  minds 
if,  like  the  angels,  we  were  pure  spirits,  or  if  we  could  disencum- 
ber them  from  the  body.  Thought  would  then  generate  in  the 
parent  womb  in  a  more  perfect  likeness  to  the  mind  itself,  and 
more  nearly  equal  to  it.  It  would  subsist  in  a  more  perfect 
seclusion  within  it.  It  would  be  held  permanently  by  it  in  a 
possession  which  no  weariness  of  the  brain,  no  necessity  of  sleep, 
no  crowding  or  distracting  images  from  the  material  world,  could 
ever  disturb. 

Again,  another  difference  must  be  noted  between  the  human 
mind  and  the  divine  where  our  analogy  fails.  This  difference 
would  still  exist  even  were  we  bodiless  spirits  and  perfectly 
capable  of  reflection  without  clothing  our  thought,  as  now,  in 
forms  supplied  by  the  imagination.  All  created  minds  must 
think,  so  to  speak,  by  piecemeal — that  is,  by  a  succession  of 
mental  efforts  or  acts.  Each  thought  begotten  is  only  one  of  a 
multitudinous  brood.  The  mind  must  go  on,  step  by  step,  in  its 
progressive  reflection  ;  and  could  it  for  ever  retain  all  it  acquires, 
still  will  it  never  be  able  to  advance  so  far  that  all  truth  possible 
to  it  will  lie  at  once  within  its  grasp.  Not  so  with  the  mind  of 
God.  No  deficiency  of  knowledge  is  ever,  was  ever,  can  ever 
be  there,  and  consequently  there  can  be  with  him  no  such  thing 
as  thinking  by  successive  acts.  One  thought  in  his  mind  com- 
prises all  that  can  be  known,  and  comprises  it  all  in  one  act.  His 
first,  his  last,  his  only  thought  is  all  one  great  infinite  birth. 
The  eternal  mind  cannot  beget  more  than  one  interior  word. 
That  word  is  an  only,  an  eternal  child.  That  word  always  was, 
always  is,  and  endures  for  ever.  Even  this  language  is  incorrect 
and  does  injury  to  that  word.  We  may  represent  it  to  ourselves 
as  something  that  is,  and  was,  and  is  to  be ;  but  this  is  only  our 
feeble  and  incorrect  expression  of  the  reality.  In  speaking  of 
things  which  are  eternal  it  is  necessary  to  borrow  our  expres- 
sions from  the  vocabulary  of  time,  always  inadequate,  sometimes 
misleading.  The  incarnate  Word  himself,  when  on  earth  and 
walking  in  two  worlds,  seemed  sometimes  to  think  and  speak  in 
both  at  once.  He  spoke  the  language  of  both  worlds  when  he 
said :  "  Before  Abraham  was  I  AM."  This  little  sentence  begins 
in  time,  but  closes  in  eternity. 


1885.]  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  297 

Following  up  the  differences  already  noted,  we  are  brought 
to  a  third  which  is  the  pivotal  point  of  our  argument.  By  means 
of  it  the  imperfect  type  of  trinity  which  we  find  in  our  own  souls 
is  made  to  assume  in  the  soul's  divine  Archetype  that  perfection 
of  threefold  life  in  unity  which  the  Christian  revelation  claims. 
The  mind  of  man  (as  we  have  seen)  produces  a  thought  which 
is  something  distinct  from  itself.  Yet  this  distinction  is  imper- 
fect. The  mind  can  contemplate  its  own  thought  as  an  outstand- 
ing object  of  regard,  and  by  a  wonderful  process  of  introspection 
it  can  change  places  with  that  thought,  and  become  to  it  in  turn 
an  object  of  contemplation.  But  this  distinction,  though  real 
and  wonderfully  suggestive  of  greater  perfection,  can  be  carried 
no  further.  The  child  in  such  case  is  a  true  image  of  its  father, 
but  not  in  all  respects  commensurate  nor  co-equal.  It  has  no  real 
subsistence  of  its  own.  If  it  had,  being  rational  it  would  be,  like 
the  soul  itself,  a  person. 

It  is  not  so,  however,  when  the  infinite  mind  of  God  generates. 
A  true  child  is  there  begotten  in  the  full  likeness  of  the  father. 
This  single  life-act,  this  thought,  this  interior  word  of  God,  is, 
like  God  himself,  infinite,  eternal,  and  self-subsisting.  It  is  dis- 
tinct from  the  womb  which  gave  it  birth,  with  a  perfect  distinc- 
tion. It  goes  so  far  as  to  assume  a  subsistence  of  its  own.  It 
lives  with  a  true  activity  which  belongs  to  itself,  distinguishable 
within  the  parent  life,  although  moving  ever  in  the  same  life- 
current.  It  is  no  subordinate  power,  quality,  or  attribute.  It 
takes  to  itself  all  the  characteristic  powers  and  attributes  of  that 
personal  Godhead  to  which  it  belongs,  and  within  which  it  is  fully 
qualified  to  hold  its  place  as  an  aboriginal  life-constituent.  It  is 
itself  a  true  Person,  to  whom  a  personal  Father,  speaking  in  eter- 
nity, speaks  thus  :  "  Thou  art  my  son  ;  to-day  have  1  begotten  thee.' 

The  same  reasoning  by  which,  in  the  divine  nature,  we  show 
thought  elevated  to  a  divine  personality  must  have  a  like  force 
when  applied  to  the  divine  will.  In  man  the  will  (or  heart)  acts 
by  a  succession  of  impulses,  all  finite,  and  all  partial  and  feeble. 
Therefore  love  in  us  is  short-lived,  changeable,  fickle,  and  even 
when  truest  must  be  maintained  by  a  repetition  of  the  same  acts 
of  desire  which  constitute  its  flame,  and  the  same  motives  of  rea- 
son which  first  called  that  desire  into  existence.  It  is  the  imper- 
fection of  our  finite  nature  which  makes  this  so.  But  in  the  in- 
finite will  of  God  no  such  feebleness  or  imperfection,  no  such 
successive  action,  can  take  place.  Our  New  England  poet  Lowell 
draws  largely  on  poetic  license  when  he  sings  of 

" — the  next  beating  of  the  infinite  heart." 


298  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  [Dec., 

The  first  beat  of  that  heart  is  eternal  and  knows  no  second  beat- 
ing. Love  in  God  is  one,  single,  eternal,  and  exhaustive  life-act. 
It  cannot  die  away.  It  cannot  be  diminished.  It  cannot  be  aug- 
mented. It  cannot  be  reinforced.  It  cannot  be  renewed.  It 
cannot  be  repeated.  It  succeeds  to  no  other  desire.  It  can  have 
no  successor  to  itself.  In  fine,  it  is  in  all  respects  commensurate 
to  that  infinite  mind  and  its  infinite  thought  which  are  the  joint 
sources  of  its  own  being.  It  rises  thus  with  both  to  the  dignity 
of  a  distinct  personality.  It  becomes  that  Holy  Ghost,  that  liv- 
ing breath  of  love,  whose  home  lies,  like  that  of  the  eternal  Son, 
"in  the  bosom  of  the  Father." 

What  have  we  gained,  then,  by  this  analysis  of  the  human 
soul?  It  has  furnished  us  an  analogy  by  means  of  which  we 
have  been  able  to  study  to  some  extent  that  great  Soul  which  we 
call  God.  We  find  in  the  latter  what  we  found  in  the  former — 
namely,  a  trinity,  or  three  terms  of  interior  relationship.  These 
three,  in  God  as  in  man,  belong  essentially  to  his  life.  We  can- 
not rightly  conceive  of  a  rational  life  without  them.  They  are 
consubstantial  with  him,  being  indeed  his  constituents  by  his 
very  nature  as  a  concrete,  living,  active,  intelligent,  moral  Being. 
I  do  not  profess  to  have  carried  out  this  argument  to  an  actual 
demonstration  by  reason  alone,  unaided  and  unguided  ;  nor  do  I 
think  that  it  can  be  so  carried  out.  Nevertheless,  receiving  with 
faith,  as  we  do,  the  New  Testament  revelation,  and  finding  there 
the  account  of  a  wondrous  being  clothed  in  humanity  but  claim- 
ing also  divinity;  who  styles  himself  the  Son  of  God;  who 
speaks  at  the  same  time  of  another  personage  distinct  from  him- 
self and  from  the  Father,  but  proceeding  from  one  and  both,  and 
whose  very  name  of  Holy  Ghost  is  divine;  who  unites  together 
the  authority  of  all  three  in  the  great  commission  to  teach,  bap- 
tize, and  rule  given  to  the  apostles — I  say,  when,  thus  compelled 
by  testimony  from  heaven,  our  faith  accepts  the  Trinity  as  a  fact, 
then  true  philosophy  steps  in  also  with  a  graceful  contribution 
to  the  same  truth.  She  subscribes  to  the  Catholic  creed,  and 
repeats  with  us  now  in  language  which  long  ago  she  furnished 
to  Catholic  faith  :  "  I  believe  in  God  the  Father  almighty ;  and  in 
Jesus  Christ  his  only  Son  our  Lord ;  born  of  the  Father  before  all 
worlds;  true  God,  of  true  God;  begotten,  not  made;  consub- 
stantial with  the  Father  ;  and  in  the  Holy  Ghost,  who  proceeds 
from  the  Father,  and  together  with  the  Father  and  the  Son  is 
adored  and  glorified." 

Gentle  reader,  in  this  article  we  have  canvassed  two  trinities. 
Both  are  mysteries  too  deep  to  be  sounded.     Both,  however,  are 


1885.]  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  299 

facts  which  we  cannot  wisely  deny.  The  first  fact  is  revealed  to 
us  by  our  experience  in  the  world  of  nature.  The  second  has  been 
revealed  to  us  by  God  himself,  but  accords  well  with  what  we 
find  in  nature.  Have  I  failed  to  show  this  ?  Then  I  have  failed 
in  my  argument.  You  may  be  already  learned  in  this  matter, 
more  learned  than  I.  If  so,  do  not  criticise  too  closely  the  Ian- 
guage  used,  if  from  the  argument  honest  reason  may  gather 
light. 

"My  principal  object  in  this  article  has  not  been  to  prove  the 
doctrine  of  the  Trinity  to  non-believers.  I  have  had  more  espe- 
cially in  view  a  Christian  public  of  believers  and  worshippers. 
These  receive  the  dogma,  but  practically  are  familiar  only  with 
that  side  of  it  which  looks  out  upon  the  dealings  of  God  with 
man.  Their  view  of  the  Trinity  extends  to  a  horizon  within 
which  lie  the  Creation,  the  Incarnation,  the  Redemption,  with 
grace  and  the  sacraments.  In  all  these  the  Persons  of  the  sacred 
Trinity  take  a  various  part,  an  especial  prominence  being  given 
sometimes  to  one,  sometimes  to  another.  When  we  think  of  the 
creation  and  of  divine  providence,  our  thoughts  are  most  natur- 
ally turned  to  the  Father,  though  we  must  not  exclude  the  sec- 
ond and  third  Persons  of  the  divine  Family.  The  Son  of  God 
moves  to  the  front  when  we  dwell  upon  that  scheme  of  grace 
which  is  developed  in  the  Incarnation,  the  Atonement,  and  the 
foundation  of  the  church.  The  sanctification  of  the  soul  through 
the  sacraments,  and  all  those  secret  inspirations  which  prompt 
to  prayer  and  duty  and  fill  the  heart  with  divine  love,  we  at- 
tribute especially  to  the  Holy  Ghost. 

But  it  is  good  sometimes  to  go  behind  all  this.  It  is  fruitful 
to  lift  up  our  thoughts  above  all  this;  to  remember  that  all  this, 
important  and  dear  as  it  is  to  us,  is  but  a  by-play  in  a  great 
drama;  that,  in  point  of  fact,  it  all  takes  place  outside  of  God's 
own  true  and  proper  being.  We,  and  all  this  world  of  which  we 
form  a  part,  are  but  creatures  of  yesterday,  while  behind  that 
yesterday  lies  eternity.  It  is  good  to  ask  ourselves  betimes  : 
What  was  God  doing  before  he  created  the  world?  Was  God 
alone  in  eternity,  a  giant  hermit  in  a  vast  solitude?  Was  he 
without  society  there  ?  Was  he  without  occupation  there  ? 
And  at  this  present  is  the  care  of  the  world  his  only  or  chief 
occupation?  The  study  of  this  great  primary  doctrine  of  the 
Trinity  gives  us  the  answer.  It  presents  us  with  the  idea  of  a 
divine  Family  dwelling  in  a  home-circle  of  its  own.  There  a  Fa- 
ther and  Son  are  always  together.  And,  sprung  from  the  mutual 


3oo       •          THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  [Dec., 

gaze  and  love  of  both,  but  distinct  from  either,  another  august 
inmate  there,  the  Holy  Ghost,  makes  his  abode  with  both.  These 
three  cohabit  in  one  life.  In  that  life  they  maintain  a  busy  inter- 
communication which  is  simply  infinite.  These  three  are  drawn 
together  by  the  ties  of  a  kinship  inconceivably  close,  for  they  con- 
stitute one  being.  How  happy  is  such  a  life,  how  sweet  such  a 
love,  where  all  the  attractions  which  can  hold  heart  to  heart  are 
infinite  in  each  ! 

Such  a  circle  as  that  can  never  be  a  solitude.  Time  can  never 
hang  heavy  there.  It  needs  no  outside  world  to  furnish  occupa- 
tion to  it.  On  the  contrary,  the  world  outside  can  never  suffice 
to  occupy  it.  What  can  give  employment  to  mind  ?  Is  it  not 
thought?  In  that  lively  circle  the  field  of  thought  is  unlimited 
and  inexhaustible.  What  can  ravish  the  gazing  sight?  Subli- 
mity, beauty,  order,  variety?  In  each  and  every  member  of  this 
divine  Family  are  seated  all  these  attractions.  And  they  can 
never  fail  to  furnish  joy,  for,  being  infinite,  they  are  equal  to  the 
infinity  of  desire. 

Such  a  life  is  not  a  rest  from  action.  It  is  a  boundless  activity, 
a  rush  of  ceaseless  motion,  a  whirl  of  circulation  which  only  in- 
finite thought  can  follow.  The  church's  doctrine  of  circumin- 
cession  teaches  that  each  divine  Person  of  the  Trinity  dwells,  and 
dwells  actively,  within  the  other.  They  act  together  as  one 
being.  They  are  only  distinct  from  each  other  in  respect  to 
their  mutual  relations  within  that  being.  The  thoughtful  Father 
alone  generates  a  Son.  Only  the  Father  and  Son  breathe  that 
productive  breath  of  love  whose  evolution  is  the  Holy  Ghost. 
The  Holy  Ghost,  taking  form  and  life  in  that  breathing,  reacts 
upon  both  breathers  in  a  flood  of  joy.  But  such  mutual  relations 
in  an  infinite  life  imply  an  infinite  activity  which  can  have  no  rest. 
This  mutual  indwelling,  therefore,  is  not  by  way  of  repose.  It  is 
beyond  conception  stirring  and  glows  with  life.  It  is  the  main- 
tenance of  an  intimate  tie  of  kinship  which  admits  of  no  relaxa- 
tion. It  involves  a  mutual  recognition  and  conversation  which  is 
always  constant,  an  expression  of  love  which  can  never  expend 
itself,  never  weary.  Does  all  this  intensity  of  inner  life  seem  to 
us  like  something  at  rest?  It  is  because  our  limited  minds  can 
only  follow  motion  by  its  progress  from  station  to  station.  A 
movement  which  is  infinite  must  needs  seem  to  our  loping  con- 
ception like  a  halt,  as  a  top  seems  motionless  and  is  said  to  sleep 
when  its  rotation  is  too  rapid  for  the  eye  to  follow.  It  is  our 
mind  that  halts,  or  moves  by  little  leaps.  These  little  leaps  mark 
time,  but  cannot  mark  the  life  of  God,  which  is  spaceless  eternity. 


1885.]  THE  TRINITY  IN  SIMPLE  ENGLISH.  301 

To  me  it  seems  that  any  mind  once  become  accustomed  to  the 
idea  of  a  God,  so  single  in  his  being  and  yet  so  rich  in  the 
interior  relations  which  constitute  that  being,  should  never  again 
be  able  to  accept  any  other.  What  sort  of  a  God  is  he  who  out- 
wardly is  productive  and  inwardly  barren  and  desolate?  The 
mind  revolts  at  the  -thought  of  a  lonesome  God,  a  God  who  can 
have  no  society  in  his  own  degree,  nothing  to  love  but  what  is 
infinitely  beneath  himself,  and  who  can  receive  no  love  that  is  an 
adequate  return  to  the  outpouring  of  his  own  great  heart.  Love 
has  been  well  defined  as  Ens  extra  se  in  alio  vivens — the  dwelling 
outside  of  one's  own  life  in  that  of  another.  Strip  God  of  his 
trinity,  and  where  can  such  love  find  place?  What  love  worthy 
of  himself  is  then  left  but  self-love?  Such  a  God  could  not  feel 
the  joy  of  parentage,  or  of  filial  piety,  or  of  friendship  in  any 
sufficient  sense  of  these  words.  To  my  mind  the  Christian  doc- 
trine removes  an  oppressive  difficulty.  What  matter,  then,  if  it 
develops  a  deeper  mystery  ?  The  mystery  neither  distresses  my 
reason  nor  weighs  upon  my  faith.  I  delight  to  think  of1  God  as 
one  who  leads  an  inner  life  all  worthy  of  himself;  who  had  no 
necessity  to  create  the  world  that  he  might  no  longer  be  alone  ^ 
whose  love,  necessarily  seeking  for  an  equal,  finds  something  more 
than  self  to  love.  Is  the  injunction  laid  upon  us  to  love  each  one 
his  neighbor  as  himself  ?  This  is  no  new  virtue  invented  to  fit 
our  condition  as  creatures.  It  existed  from  eternity  in  the  fel- 
lowship of  Heaven.  We  find  its  supreme  and  sublime  type  in 
the  dear  Master  who  enjoins  us,  in  the  mutual  love  of  the  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost.  And  so  a  sweet  and  holy  light  is  thrown 
upon  that  earnest  prayer  of  Jesus  for  his  disciples :  "  Holy  Fa- 
ther, keep  them  in  thy  name  whom  thou  hast  given  me  ;  that  they 
all  may  be  one,  as  thou,  Father,  in  me,  and  I  in  thee ;  that  they 
also  may  be  one  in  us." 


302  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  [Dec., 


THE   PROSPECT   FOR  IRELAND. 

To  American  readers  who  depend  on  their  morning  paper  for 
information  as  to  the  Irish  movement  and  the  policy  of  the  Irish 
leaders  the  situation  with  us  is  not  easy  to  explain.  The  cable- 
man  hashes,  jumbles,  and  distorts  everything  Irish  in  a  style 
which  presents  about  as  accurate  a  picture  of  our  affairs  as  the 
scenes  in  a  pantomime  bear  to  the  realities  of  the  world  outside. 
For  instance,  one  day  the  New  York  Herald  announces  that  Mr. 
Shaw,  the  Munster  Bank  wrecker,  is  a  leading  Parnellite  M.P., 
and  that  in  consequence  of  his  conduct  Mr.  Davitt  has  been 
obliged  to  fly  hastily  from  Dublin  in  order  to  escape  the  infu- 
riated depositors ;  while  the  next  he  tells  you  that  a  deadly  war 
is  raging  between  Mr.  Davitt  and  Mr.  Parnell,  which  is  smashing 
up  the  entire  National  movement.  Daily  driblets  of  poisonous 
untruths  and  half-truths,  cabled  with  incessant  vigor,  leave  the 
American  mind  in  a  state  of  bewilderment,  and  it  is  almost  as 
hopeless  to  try  to  counteract  continuous  falsehood  by  isolated 
statements  of  fact  as  it  would  be  to  get  a  European  to-day  to  un- 
derstand from  a  magazine  article  the  merits  of  the  Cleveland- 
Blaine  campaign,  which  occupied  the  thousands  of  your  newspa- 
pers last  fall.  Such  knowledge  of  the  doings  and  objects  of  the 
Irish  leaders  as  Americans  possess  through  their  daily  instructors 
they  have,  therefore,  acquired  mostly  from  prejudiced  sources. 
The  telegraph  is  in  the  hands  of  English  correspondents,  who,  of 
course,  only  present  their  own  side  of  the  story,  and  take  care,  as 
Dr.  Samuel  Johnson  observed  of  his  own  Parliamentary  reports, 
that  they  do  not  "let  the  Whig  dogs  get  the  best  of  it"!  Any 
one  who  will  engage  in  the  task  of  piecing  together  such  scraps 
of  the  history  of  Ireland  as  have  been  allowed  to  reach  America 
by  telegraph  since  the  Atlantic  cable  was  laid  will  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  daily  business  of  the  Irish  nation  consists  in 
the  commission  of  murder  and  outrage.  Most  persons,  therefore, 
would  be  greatly  surprised  to  hear  that  statistics  prove  Ireland  to 
be  one  of  the  least  criminal  countries  on  the  face  of  the  globe. 
The  system  by  which  this  defamation  is  promoted  is  easily  ex- 
plained. The  Irish  news  that  is  sent  by  the  Associated  Press  to 
America  is  taken  either  from  the  London  papers  or  is  supplied  by 
the  London  press  agencies.  The  London  Times  is  purveyed  to 
from  Dublin  by  the  editor  of  an  Orange  newspaper,  the  Express — 


1885.]  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  303 

an  organ  so  unscrupulous  that,  having  some  time  ago  invented 
the  murder  of  a  landlord,  it  refused  to  insert  a  contradiction  of 
the  "  outrage"  from  the  person  it  assassinated  until  driven  to  do 
so  by  the  threat  of  legal  proceedings.  The  London  Daily  News, 
the  Liberal  paper,  has  for  its  Dublin  correspondent  a  Tory  Scotch- 
man, who  never  loses  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  hatred  to  the 
country  by  which  he  earns  his  living.  His  veracity  may  be 
judged  from  the  fact  that  when,  in  July,  1883,  some  twenty  labor- 
ers were  poisoned  in  County  Wexford  by  eating  the  flesh  of  a 
diseased  cow  which  their  landlord  had  slaughtered  and  given  to 
them,  this  truthful  chronicler,  without  a  shred  of  evidence,  at  once 
telegraphed  the  calamity  as  a  Land  League  outrage.  So  it  sped 
all  over  the  world,  and,  though  the  facts  were  fully  established  at 
the  inquest,  no  one  outside  Ireland  was  ever  informed  of  the  truth. 
The  correspondent  of  the  Tory  Standard  is  a  Freemason  em- 
ployed in  Dublin  Castle,  which  is  saying  sufficient  for  his  impar- 
tiality ;  while  the  Dublin  representative  of  the  principal  news 
agency  is  an  Englishman  who,  like  his  confederates,  is  in  bitter 
enmity  to  the  National  cause.  From  such  sources  comes  the  news 
on  which  the  ordinary  reader  of  American  newspapers  is  obliged 
to  form  his  opinions,  and  it  would,  therefore,  be  remarkable  if  a 
very  favorable  view  were  taken  of  the  character  and  proceedings 
of  the  Irish  agitators.  Once  in  a  way  an  enterprising  journal 
keeps  a  "  special "  on  this  side  of  the  water  who  is  independent 
enough  to  think  for  himself.  At  present  the  New  York  Times  is 
brilliantly  served  by  its  famous  "  cholera  "  correspondent,  a  gen- 
tleman of  whom  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  he  knows  Ireland, 
as  well  as  England,  by  heart,  and  is  only  anxious  conscientiously 
to  state  the  facts  on  both  sides  of  the  account.  The  work  of 
the  others  speaks  for  itself.  But  it  must  be  admitted  that  it  is 
extremely  hard  for  a  foreign  journalist  in  London  not  to  be  anti- 
Irish.  If  he  wishes  to  be  "in  the  swim  "  where  news  is  going,  he 
must  belong  to  the  Savage  or  one  of  the  press  or  artistic  clubs; 
and  there  the  slightest  expression  of  sympathy  with  the  Irish 
movement  would,  of  course,  get  him  quickly  boycotted. 

Engaged  as  we  now  are  in  the  midst  of  an  electoral  struggle 
more  momentous  than  any  this  generation  has  known,  the  tales 
that  reach  the  United  States  from  Ireland  will  probably  be  more 
lurid  than  usual.  For  anything  I  know,  the  Irish  party  as  I 
write  is  being  for  the  hundredth  time  smashed  to  fragments  by 
the  devoted  cableman,  just  as  its  failure  has  been  a  thousand  times 
foretold.  Following  the  cue  of  the  English  press,  Mr.  Parnell's 
recent  speeches  have  no  doubt  been  represented  as  being  a  revo- 


304  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  [Dec., 

lutionary  demand  for  complete  separation  from  England,  and  the 
replies  of  Lord  Hartington,  Mr.  Chamberlain,  and  Mr.  Gladstone 
will  have  been  triumphantly  quoted  as  showing  the  hopelessness 
of  his  tactics.  Let  me  therefore  explain  in  a  few  words  the  posi- 
tion, policy,  and  prospects  of  the  Irish  movement. 

Ireland's  demand  for  a  separate  legislature  is  as  old  as  the 
destruction  of  Grattan's  Parliament  in  1800.  It  was  started  by 
O'Conneli  the  year  after  the  Union,  was  renewed  by  Butt  later 
on,  and  is  continued  in  our  own  day  by  Parnell.  The  struggles 
of  the  present  Irish  leader,  however,  are  backed  up  by  forces 
which  none  of  his  predecessors  could  command.  O'Conneli, 
surrounded  one  day  by  half  a  million  men  at  Tara,  could  not  the 
next  day  control  the  election  of  a  member  of  Parliament  for  a  sixth- 
rate  borough  ;  while  the  men  who  acknowledged  his  leadership  in 
the  House  of  Commons — elected,  as  they  were,  under  a  limited 
franchise — were,  for  the  most  part,  a  gang  of  knavish  place-hun- 
ters whose  sole  idea  was  personal  advancement.  Mr.  Butt  was 
more  fortunate  in  his  Parliamentary  following,  but  he  neglected 
to  secure  the  indispensable  support  of  an  out-door  agitation.  The 
franchise,  however,  had  been  slightly  extended  before  his  move- 
ment was  started  ;  but,  above  all,  the  Ballot  Act  of  1872  freed  his 
supporters  from  intimidation,  and  voters  were  no  longer  driven 
like  sheep  to  the  polls  by  the  landlord's  armed  guards,  and  could 
cast  their  suffrages  against  his  nominee  without  the  fear  of  being 
expelled  from  their  homes.  Nevertheless,  Mr.  Butt's  timidity  in 
organizing  the  country  behind  him  led  to  the  backsliding  of  many 
of  the  representatives  on  whom  alone  he  had  taught  the  people  to 
rely.  The  masses,  moreover,  had  been  left  entirely  unacquainted 
with  the  forces  which  Parliamentary  action  can  bring  into  play. 
They  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  constitutional  agitation  de- 
nounced by  the  Fenian  leaders  as  the  game  of  a  number  of  dis- 
honest tricksters  ;  and  this  for  a  long  time  it  undoubtedly  was. 
At  first  sight,  therefore,  the  difficulty  of  getting  that  game  hon- 
estly played  seemed  one  which  they  could  not  hope  to  over- 
come.  Even  supposing  that  reliable  candidates  could  be  found, 
what  hope  was  there  of  returning  them  in  a  majority  of  the 
representation?  The  corrupt  condition  into  which  many  of  the 
limited  electorate  had  fallen,  and  the  despair  of  the  remainder 
that  any  good  could  be  done  by  a  constitutional  movement, 
were  a  formidable  obstacle.  Still,  Mr.  Butt  succeeded  in  1874 
in  electing  for  the  first  time  a  majority  of  the  Irish  members 
pledged  to  Home  Rule,  and  in  subsequently  inducing  these  gen- 
tlemen to  promise  to  remain  aloof  from  English  parties  and  to 


1885.]  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  305 

form  an  independent  Parliamentary  organization  of  their  own. 
The  country  then  recognized  how  much  could  be  effected  by  an 
honest  representation  which  could  neither  be  bribed  nor  bullied. 
Few  of  Mr.  Butt's  party,  however,  remained  sternly  faithful, 
and  though  a  number  of  them  were  re-elected  in  1880,  after  his 
death,  their  conduct  has  been  such  that  the  Irish  people — the  mass 
of  whom  will  for  the  first  time  exercise  the  franchise  at  the  gen- 
eral election — are  determined  to  return  men  of  a  different  stamp 
to  act  upon  the  policy  which  Mr.  Parnell  has  so  successfully  car- 
ried out.  The  Irish  cause,  therefore,  will  soon  have  the  dual  ad- 
vantage of  being  represented  in  Parliament  by  an  overwhelming 
majority  of  the  total  number  of  members  returned,  and  of  having 
a  vigorous  organization  kept  up  behind  them  in  the  country  to 
strengthen  their  hands  in  the  House  of  Commons.  Moreover, 
the  province  of  Ulster  will  now  be  able  under  the  extended  fran- 
chise to  return  a  majority  of  Nationalists,  and  this  will,  to  a  large 
extent,  dispose  of  the  cry  that  this  province  stands  aloof  from  the 
popular  movement.  The  change  wrought  in  the  north  by  the 
reduced  suffrage  may  be  gathered  from  the  fact  that  at  present 
out  of  twenty-nine  Ulster  members  only  two  are  Nationalists  ; 
whereas  we  calculate  that  out  of  the  thirty-three  seats  allotted  to 
the  north  by  the  Redistribution  of  Seats  Act,  at  least  eighteen 
will  be  won  by  the  Parnellites.  From  end  to  end  of  Ireland,  ex- 
cept in  the  four  counties  of  Antrim,  Down,  Derry,  and  Armagh, 
no  candidate  opposed  to  the  Home  Rule  demand  will  be  elected, 
and  in  three  of  these  Nationalists  will  be  returned  in  certain  dis- 
tricts. The  two  members  for  Trinity  College,  however,  whose 
graduates  are  still  absurdly  allowed  to  constitute  a  pocket  bor- 
ough, will  remain  Tory.  The  three  southern  provinces— Lein- 
ster,  Munster,  and  Connaught — will  not  return  a  single  opposef 
of  Nationalism,  and  five  out  of  the  nine  Ulster  counties  will 
follow  suit.  The  only  county  which  will  remain  solid  against 
the  Nationalists  is  Antrim,  which  is  in  future  to  elect  four  mem- 
bers ;  but  in  Belfast,  which  is  situated  in  that  county,  the  Parnell- 
ites will  capture  a  seat.  The  other  three  seats  in  Belfast  will  go 
to  the  Tories ;  but  with  this  exception  all  the  boroughs  will 
elect  Nationalists.  Had  the  boundary  commissioners  appointed 
to  redistrict  the  constituencies  under  the  Seats  Act  behaved 
honestly,  several  additional  seats  in  the  north  could  have  been 
won ;  but  the  most  shameful  gerrymandering  was  carried  on  by 
the  Castle  officials,  and  the  surprise  is  that  it  will  be  possible  for 
the  Nationalists  to  return  a  majority  in  Ulster  at  all.  The  single- 
member  system,  universal  throughout  America,  has  for  the  first 
VOL.  XLII. — 20 


3o6  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  [Dec., 

time  been  adopted  for  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  a  few  borough  constituencies,  and  in  the  division  of  the 
northern  counties  for  that  purpose  the  government  gave  every 
advantage  to  the  Orange  and  Whig  parties.     Again,  in  the  revision 
of  the  voters'  lists  in  the  north  the  most  notorious  opponents  of  the 
franchise -were  appointed  to  play  havoc  with  the  Nationalists,  as 
we  suffer  from  a  cumbrous  and  intricate  registration  law  which  not 
one  man  in  a  million  understands.     Despite  all  these  disadvantages, 
the  Irish  party  expect  to  carry  a  majority  of  the  Ulster  constitu- 
encies, and  when  registration  work  is  better  understood  further 
gains  in  that  province  can  be  made.     In  England  two  seats  only 
are  expected  to  be  won  by  the  Nationalists,  as,  though  the  num- 
ber of  Irishmen  in  large  centres  like  London,  Glasgow,  Birming- 
ham, Manchester,  etc.,  is  sufficient  to  entitle  them  to  a   much 
larger  representation,  their  strength  in  all  these  towns  is  so  scat- 
tered that,  under  the  new  single-member   system,  they  do  not 
command  an  absolute  majority,  and  outside  Liverpool  no  Par- 
nellite  will  be  elected  from  Great  Britain.     The  highest  estimate 
of  the  strength  of  Mr.  Parnell's  party  in  the  next  Parliament  puts 
it  at  eighty-eight  men  ;  but  it  will  certainly  number  eighty-five, 
and  such  a  force  properly  handled  will  be  practically  irresistible. 
It  is  not,  however,  merely  the  formidable  numbers  which  Mr. 
Parnell  will  command  that  make  English  politicians  anxious.     It 
is  the  character  of  the  men  who  are  likely  to  be  elected  that 
gives  them  pause.    If  the  new  party  consisted  of  eighty  or  ninety 
amiable  gentlemen  of  the  ancient  school,  neither  Mr.  Gladstone 
nor  Lord  Salisbury  would  care  very  much  about  them,  as  they 
would  soon  be  either  bribed  or  frightened  into  quiescence.     Mr. 
Parnell's  influence  will  depend  on  the  fact  that  he  will  control 
a  party  utterly  contemptuous  of  British  opinion,  British  conve- 
nience, and  British  traditions,  and  that  he  himself  is  the  most 
coolly    determined,    implacable,    and    tenacious    Parliamentary 
leader  that  has  appeared  at  Westminster  since  the  Union. 

The  Irish  constituencies  are  now  looking  out  for  the  stamp 
of  candidate  likely  to  be  most  obnoxious  to  the  English  Parlia- 
ment ;  and  every  British  politician  knows  that  unless  conces- 
sions are  granted  they  will  have  to  face  inside  Parliament  the 
constant  warfare  of  a  number  of  men  who  are  prepared  to  be 
just  as  "  ugly  "  as  the  occasion  requires,  while  outside  an  angry 
agitation  must  be  dealt  with.  To  guard  against  treachery  and 
desertion,  every  candidate  for  a  popular  constituency,  from 
Mr.  Parnell  downwards,  will  be  required  to  sign  a  declaration 
pledging  himself  to  "  sit,  act,  and  vote  "  with  the  Irish  party,  and 


1885.]  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  307 

to  resign  his  seat  should  a  majority  of  his  colleagues  declare  that 
he  had  failed  in  his  duty.  Few  of  the  new  representatives  will  be 
wealthy ;  and  as  members  of  Parliament  receive  no  remuneration 
from  the  state,  and  are  not  even  allowed  for  railway  fares,  their 
expenses  will  be  defrayed  by  the  subscriptions  of  their  country- 
men. The  procedure  of  enabling  the  constituencies  to  select  can- 
didates in  conventions,  as  the  Irish  counties  are  at  this  moment 
doing,  is  an  entirely  novel  one  with  us,  and  very  probably  the  ex- 
ample which  Ireland  has  set  in  this  respect  of  adopting  the  Ame- 
rican system  will  before  very  long  have  to  be  imitated  in  Eng- 
land. This  in  itself  would  greatly  democratize  the  British  repre- 
sentation and  would  lead  to  a  minor  but  useful  reform  in  our 
electoral  practice — viz.,  the  abolition  of  the  absurd  custom  which 
obliges  each  candidate  to  issue  an  individual  address  to  his  con- 
stituency, for  advertising  which  a  fancy  rate  has  to  be  paid  to 
the  newspapers. 

In  addition  to  all  this — to  the  purification  of  the  Parliamen- 
tary  representation,   the   organization  of   the   people,  and  their 
growing  strength  of  purpose — the  movement  headed  by  Mr.  Par- 
nell  has  another  element  of  strength  the  importance  of  which 
cannot   be   exaggerated.      This   is   the   formal   adhesion  of   the 
Catholic  hierarchy   and   clergy  to  the  National  cause.     It  was 
natural    that   the   heads  of  the  church  in   Ireland  should   have 
watched  with  jealousy  and  apprehension  the  growth  of  a  move- 
ment whose  leader  was  not  of  the  national  faith.     Coincidental 
with  the  introduction  of  democratic  ideas  into  Ireland   by  the 
Land  League,  democratic  ideas  in  France,  for  example,  seemed 
to  be  taking  the  form  of  hatred  of  religion.     And  on  the  Conti- 
nent of  Europe  generally  democracy,  in  place  of  being  the  whole- 
some thing  it  is  known  to  be  in  America,  seemed  only  a  synonym 
for  infidelity  and  anarchy.     Was  this  to  be  the  outcome  of  those 
new   movements  in   Ireland   which  did  not  offer  to  the  church 
even  the  guarantee  of  a  Catholic  leader  ?     That  the  bishops  of 
Ireland  should  have  so  long  hesitated  before  making  up  their 
mind,  that  they  should  have  narrowly  watched  the  progress  of 
agitation  for  more  than  four  years  first,  gives  their  sanction  now- 
all  the  more  value.     Their  first  formal  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  religion  had  nothing  to  fear  from  the  National  movement 
took  the  most  significant  shape  possible.     The  Irish  bishops  as- 
sembled in  council  resolved  to  entrust  to  the  Irish  Parliamentary 
party  the  entire  conduct  of  a  certain  question  in  which  they  were 
interested — and  that  question  was  no  other  than  the  Education 
Question.     This  confiding  to  the  hands  of  Mr.  Parnell  such  vital 


308  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  [Dec,, 

interests  as  those  concerning  the  education  of  the  Catholic  youth 
was  an  announcement  not  merely  that  Catholicity  had  nothing  to 
fear  from  the  growth  of  Parnellism,  but  that  the  growth  of  Par- 
nellism  was  to  be  reckoned  a  distinct  gain  to  the  cause  of  the 
church.  A  further  notable  assurance  of  this  is  to.be  found  in  the 
fact  that  the  Irish  party  have  invited  the  clergy  to  attend  the 
conventions  for  nominating  Parliamentary  candidates  as  dele- 
gates ex  officio,  and  that  the  clergy  are  responding  gladly  to  the 
call,  thus  insuring  that  Mr.  Parnell's  next  party  will  be  the  choice 
not  only  of  the  people  but  of  the  priests  and  people.  There  is 
no  country  in  the  world  to-day  where  such  a  spectacle  could  be 
witnessed.  From  the  see  of  the  metropolis  to  the  remotest 
chores,  bishops  and  clergy  are  solid  for  the  National  movement ; 
priests  and  people  are  knit  together  as  they  never  were  before — 
not  even  in  O'Connell's  day.  Indeed,  the  solidification  of  the 
people  could  hardly  be  more  complete  ;  for  the  fact  that  Mr. 
'Parnell  is  a  Protestant  is  a  sign  to  our  Protestant  brethren  that 
their  interests  will  not  be  jeopardized  by  the  success  of  the  Na- 
tional cause. 

As  to  the  prospects  of  Home  Rule  being  speedily  won,  much 
will  depend  on  whether  the  English  electors  return  a  majority, 
be  it  Whig  or  Tory,  large  enough  to  prevent  Mr.  Parnell  from 
wielding  the  balance  of  power.  That  the  Tories  should  get  such 
a  majority  even  their  most  sanguine  supporters  dare  not  hope. 
They  will  lose  something  like  twenty  seats  in  Ireland  alone, 
they  will  be  practically  obliterated  in  Scotland,  and  in  Wales 
they  do  not  expect  to  return  more  than  one  or  two  candidates. 
England  remains,  and  there  the  counties  which  had  hitherto 
been  their  great  strongholds  will  in  future  be  turned  by  the  vote 
of  the  laborers ;  but  no  one  can  as  yet  forecast  whether  this  class 
will  continue  to  be  influenced  by  the  squire  and  the  parson,  or 
whether  they  have  been  dazzled  by  Mr.  Chamberlain's  promises. 
The  calculation  of  the  Liberals  is  that  Scotland  and  Wales  may 
be  paired  off  against  Ireland,  and  that  they,  in  England,  will  have 
a  majority  of  twenty.  If  so,  this  would  enable  them  to  form  a 
government  against  any  combination ;  but  how  long  would  it 
last  against  the  shock  of  Irish  opposition,  unless  concessions  were 
made  ?  Moreover,  we  must  not  leave  out  of  count  the  effect  of 
the  dissensions  which  have  been  caused  by  Mr.  Chamberlain's 
insistence  on  his  programme,  and  his  declaration  that  he  will  not 
go  into  a  cabinet  with  Whigs  who  refuse  to  accept  it.  If  he 
persists  in  his  threat,  either  himself  or  Lord  Hartington  must  be 
sacrificed,  and  the  retirement  of  one  or  the  other  would  greatly 
hurt  the  party.  Sir  Charles  Dilke,  of  course,  could  not  take 


1885.]  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  309 

office  until  acquitted  of  the  charge  that  has  been  made  against 
nim ;  and  therefore,  if  only  a  small  Liberal  majority  is  obtained, 
Mr.  Gladstone  would  decline,  on  the  plea  of  age,  to  connect  him- 
self with  it.  The  absence  of  Gladstone,  Dilke,  and  Chamberlain 
from  a  Liberal  government  would  make  it  impossible  for  it  to 
hold  together,  fronted  by  a  venomous  Tory  Irish  opposition.  A 
large  majority,  however,  if  such  a  thing  is  possible,  would  float 
Whigs  and  Radicals  together  over  all  their  difficulties  ;  and  this 
is  not  impossible.  Yet,  near  as  we  are  to  the  dissolution,  neither 
side  seems  inclined  to  boast  about  the  chances,  and  it  is  only  in 
Ireland  that  calm  and  .confidence  prevail. 

For  both  countries  admittedly  the  result  of  the  ballot  will 
have  consequences  more  important  than  those  which  have  ac- 
crued from  any  previous  dissolution  in  this  century.  For  Ireland 
it  will  decide  whether  Home  Rule  is  or  is  not  to  be  quietly  con- 
ceded, or  whether  we  must  once  more  repeat  the  weary  round  of 
agitation  and  outcry,  to  be  followed,  perhaps,  by  repression  and 
imprisonment  instead  of  by  conciliation  and  reform.  For  Eng- 
land it  will  determine  whether  the  masses  are  prepared  to  trust 
themselves  to  the  new  class  of  Radical  statesmen  who  offer  the 
establishment  of  free  schools,  the  destruction  of  the  state  church, 
the  taxation  of  the  land,  the  compulsory  acquirement  of  ground 
by  local  bodies,  a  graduated  income-tax  to  hit  the  rich,  and  the 
simplification  of  the  laws  affecting  real  estate,  or  whether  they 
will  continue  to  place  confidence  in  the  hereditary  ruling  power 
of  the  aristocratic  classes.  It  is  only  out  of  the  necessities  and 
weaknesses  of  English  parties  that  we  can  ever  hope  for  justice. 
Neither  Whig  nor  Tory  statesmen  have  ever  attempted  anything 
for  Ireland  until  it  became  inconvenient  for  them  to  turn  a  deaf 
ear  to  Celtic  clamor.  Catholic  Emancipation  was  granted  in 
1829,  as  Wellington  confessed,  "  for  fear  of  civil  war."  The 
Tithes  were  abolished  in  1832  after  the  massacre  at  Carrickshock 
and  the  open  resistance  of  the  people  everywhere.  The  Pro- 
testant Church  was  disestablished  in  1869  because,  as  Mr.  Glad- 
stone declared,  the  mind  of  England  had  been  opened  by  the 
Clerkenwell  explosion.  The  Land  Act  of  1881  was  passed  be- 
cause, in  the  words  of  the  same  statesman,  the  "  chapel  bell "  ot 
the  Land  League  had  been  rung  throughout  a  fiery  agitation. 
Tame  demands  are  met  by  insolent  refusals,  and  powerless  prayers 
by  mocking  sneers.  O'Connell  for  fifteen  years  before  his  death 
kept  up  a  vast  and  imposing  movement  which  ended  in  nothing, 
because  he  missed  no  opportunity  of  convincing  his  enemies  of 
the  sincerity  of  his  opinion  that  "  the  liberty  of  mankind  was  not 
worth  a  single  drop  of  blood."  No  human  explanation  is  possi- 


3io  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  [Dec., 

ble  of  that  extraordinary  ingredient  in  the  British  character  which 
refuses  to  yield  anything  except  to  violence  or  power.  It  is  as 
strongly  developed  to-day  as  it  was  in  the  days  of  George  Wash- 
ington, and  none  of  the  correctives  that  have  been  applied  in  the 
meantime  have  produced  the  smallest  effect.  The  Irish  party 
regard  the  declarations  of  English  statesmen  refusing  Home  Rule 
as  mere  surplusage.  They  were  absolutely  unnecessary,  for 
certainly  it  will  not  be  granted  so  long  as  they  can  help  it. 
Only  a  lunatic  Irishman  could  suppose  that  an  Englishman 
would  surrender  any  right  or  power  exercised  by  him  so  long 
as  he  is  able  safely  to  hold  on  to  it.  So  far  as  Ireland  is  con- 
cerned, appeal,  argument,  or  logic  is  entirely  thrown  away  on 
the  ruling  classes ;  for,  as  Sydney  Smith  declared,  the  moment 
one  of  his  countrymen  hears  the  very  name  of  the  "  sister  isle  " 
he  immediately  acts  as  if  he  had  lost  his  reason.  These  things 
being  so,  what  hope,  then,  have  the  Irish  party  of  achieving  the 
objects  which  they  have  set  themselves  to  win?  If  it  were  simply 
a  question  of  four  millions  against  thirty-four  millions,  as  Mr. 
Chamberlain  declared,  no  doubt  the  minority  would  get  only 
"Drogheda  quarter."  It  is  too  late,  however,  at  the  end  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  to  talk  about  extermination  as  a  specific  for 
the  settlement  of  the  Irish  difficulty,  and  Mr.  Chamberlain, 
besides,  would  make  a  very  poor  Cromwell. 

But  the  real  safety  and  hope  of  Ireland  is  the  dishonest  sys- 
tem of  party  government  by  which  the  British  Empire  is  ruled. 
Whatever  incident  occurs  throughout  the  world  affecting  British 
policy  or  possessions,  the  party  out  of  office  endeavors  to  wrest 
it  to  the  discredit  of  the  government,  without  the  smallest  re- 
gard to  candor,  patriotism,  or  decency,  so  that  it  is  absolutely 
impossible  for  England  to  sustain  a  united  front  on  any  ques- 
tion for  any  length  of  time.  The  moment  it  suits  the  ambition 
or  the  convenience  of  one  of  her  numerous  statesmen  to  start 
a  new  policy,  that  moment  he  will  cut  athwart  the  lines  of 
all  his  predecessors.  Success  in  "dishing"  opponents  is  the 
only  test  by  which  his  actions  will  be  tried ;  and  no  matter 
how  obliquely  they  may  stray  from  the  path  of  justice  or  pa- 
triotism, a  copious  vocabulary  will  be  always  ready  to  deck 
them  out  in  the  guise  of  morality  and  lofty  statesmanship.  Of 
course  the  effect  of  party  government  in  every  country  is  much 
the  same,  but  England  is  the  only  one  in  whose  parliament 
there  will  in  future  be  a  powerful  and  determined  band  of 
outsiders  absolutely  indifferent  to  the  issues  raised  by  either 
party,  except  in  so  far  as  they  can  be  turned  to  their  own  advan- 
tage, and  determined  to  watch  every  opportunity  for  the  purpose 


1885.]  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  311 

of  playing  off  one  side  against  the  other.  The  knowledge  of  this 
has  already  induced  Mr.  Gladstone  to  offer,  like  Col.  Crockett's 
'coon,  to  "come  down"  on  the  Home  Rule  question.  With  him 
the  principle  of  the  demand  of  Ireland  to  manage  her  own  af- 
fairs— much  as  an  American  State  within  the  Union — has  already 
been  conceded,  subject,  he  announces,  to  the  preservation  of  the 
integrity  of  the  empire  and  the  supreme  authority  of  Parliament. 
When,  before  1800,  Ireland  possessed  a  native  legislature,  neither 
the  "  integrity  of  the  empire  "  nor  the  authority  of  the  English 
Parliament  over  it  was  at  all  impaired  any  more  than  is  the  unity 
of  the  American  Republic  by  a  couple  of  score  of  independent 
assemblies.  The  next  stage  in  the  controversy,  therefore,  so  far 
as  Mr.  Gladstone  is  concerned,  will  turn  on  the  extent  to  which 
the  concession  of  this  or  that  detail  of  the  Irish  claims  would  in- 
fringe  the  "authority  of  the  Imperial  Parliament "  or  threaten 
the  "integrity  of  the  empire."  The  Tories,  on  the  other  hand, 
keep  more  or  less  "  on  the  fence  "  in  the  matter.  They  profess 
themselves  anxious  for  an  extended  system  of  "  local  self-govern- 
ment "  for  the  kingdom,  but  neither  from  their  speeches  nor  their 
silences  can  it  be  inferred  whether  they  are  prepared  to  go  as  far 
as  the  Liberal  leader  in  this  direction.  Indeed,  it  may  well  be 
supposed  that  they  only  refrain  from  denouncing  Mr.  Gladstone's 
"  truckling  to  rebellion  "  because  they  cannot  afford  to  alienate 
the  Irish  before  the  elections.  Without  the  help  of  the  Parnell- 
ites  in  the  English  towns  at  the  polls,  and  the  help  of  the  Irish 
party  in  Parliament  afterwards,  they  have  no  hope  whatever  of 
obtaining  a  majority.  They  are,  therefore,  "on  their  good  beha- 
vior" at  present.  No  doubt  also,  whatever  their  secret  enmity 
may  be,  if  the  Tories  should,  with  the  aid  of  Mr.  Parnell,  be  able 
to  form  a  ministry  in  the  next  Parliament,  they,  too,  would  be 
willing  to  take  a  "generous"  view  on  Home  Rule. 

Americans,  however,  will  naturally  inquire  why,  if  it  is  admit- 
ted that  Mr.  Gladstone  goes  further  towards  Home  Rule  than 
Lord  Salisbury,  the  Irish  leaders  should  have  any  hesitation  in 
recommending  their  followers  in  the  English  cities  to  support 
him  at  the  elections  and  in  co-operating  with  him  in  Parlia- 
ment themselves.  The  answer  to  this  is  that  the  existence  of 
the  House  of  Lords  with  its  standing  Tory  majority  forbids  any 
such  alliance,  and  makes  it  much  more  the  interest  of  Ireland 
that  a  Tory  administration  should  be  in  power,  provided  it  is  de- 
pendent for  its  existence  on  Irish  support.  The  reason  is  clear. 
Grant  Mr.  Gladstone  a  majority,  and  while  he  would  have  no 
trouble  in  carrying  out  a  coercion  policy  or  in  further  muzzling 
debate  in  the  House  of  Commons,  should  he  wish  to  do  so, 


312  THE  PROSPECT  FOR  IRELAND.  [Dec., 

he  could  only  carry  just  as  much  beneficial  Irish  legislation 
as  the  second  chamber  chose  to  allow ;  and  once  the  Tories 
had  failed  at  the  election,  they  would,  for  party  reasons,  de- 
nounce the  smallest  measure  of  self-government  for  Ireland  as 
a  plot  to  disintegrate  the  empire.  When  the  Lords  take  up  an 
obstructive  attitude  on  English  questions  they  are  easily  reduced 
to  reason,  after  a  session  or  two,  by  a  vigorous  agitation  in  Eng- 
land or  the  threat  to  dissolve  Parliament ;  but  how  is  similar  pres- 
sure to  be  applied  on  the  rejection  of  Irish  reforms  ?  The  English 
masses  do  not  care  what"  Hirish  "  bills  the  Lords  throw  out;  and 
as  for  dissolving  Parliament,  the  Tories  would  then  have  the  great 
advantage  of  going  to  the  country  on  an  anti-Irish  cry  which  is 
also  an  anti-Catholic  one — and  nothing  more  potent  could  be  in- 
vented to  rally  ignorant  voters  to  their  side.  Whether  Mr. 
Gladstone,  therefore,  promises  a  big  or  a  little  Home  Rule 
scheme,  his  power  to  carry  it  through  the  Lords  will  be  exactly 
the  same.  If,  however,  the  Tories  came  into  power,  their  Lord- 
ships would  become  most  complaisant,  and  would  pass  whatever 
measures  the  necessities  of  their  party  in  the  Lower  House  in- 
duced them  to  send  up.  For  these  reasons,  if  the  two  British 
parties  are  left  nearly  equal  by  the  general  election,  policy  would 
seem  to  incline  the  Irish  to  promote  the  formation  of  a  Conserva- 
tive ministry.  Were  we  to  help  the  Liberals  to  office  the  Lords 
would  at  once  declare  that  the  fact  that  the  government  was 
only  kept  in  power  by  the  "  rebel  "  vote  disentitled  its  proposals 
to  any  consideration.  The  existence  of  the  hereditary  chamber, 
therefore,  must  exercise  a  continual  influence  on  the  course  of 
Irish  policy,  and,  on  the  principle  that  it  is  wise  to  "  make  friends 
with  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness,"  it  would  be  more  prudent 
to  coalesce  with  the  party  which  could  control  the  action  of  the 
Peers,  in  case  the  choice  rests  with  Mr.  Parnell  as  to  whether  a 
Whig  or  a  Tory  administration  is  to  be  formed.  Of  course,  if  the 
Liberals  gain  a  majority  over  both,  the  Irish  party  would  have  to 
play  another  game,  and  the  Tories  would  instantly  revert  to  their 
traditional  policy  of  opposition  to  every  measure  of  Irish  reform. 
Both  parties  are  so  utterly  dishonest  in  their  dealings  with  Ire- 
land that  principle  will  never  be  allowed  to  influence  them,  and 
on  this  account  much  that  will  be  obscure  to  Americans  in  Mr. 
Parnell's  policy  is  certain  to  arise.  He  has,  however,  behind  him 
in  Ireland  a  practically  united  country,  and  in  Parliament  he  will 
control  a  force  hitherto  unknown  in  British  politics  ;  and  I  am 
much  mistaken  if,  whatever  happens  at  the  polls  in  England,  he 
does  not  before  long  succeed  in  winning  the  full  recognition  of 
his  country's  rights. 


1 835.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  313 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS. 

PART  II. 

"  ALL  hail  to  Rome!     She  lords  it  o'er  the  world 
From  Ganges'  flood  to  Atlas'  snowy  crown  : 

Heavenward  from  cape  and  coast  her  praise  is  hurled  : 
She  lifts  the  nations  up  and  casts  them  down  : 

Like  some  great  mountain  city-thronged  she  stands, 

Her  shade  far  cast  eclipsing  seas  and  lands. 

"  She  flings  that  shade  across  the  tracts  of  Time 
Not  less  than  o'er  the  unmeasured  fields  of  space  ; 

Processional  the  Empires  paced  sublime; 

Her  heralds  these  ;  they  walked  before  her  face  : 

Assyrian,  Persian,  Grecian — what  were  they  ? 

Poor  matin  streaks,  wan  preludes  of  the  day  ! 

"  The  Pyramids  that  vault  Egyptian  kings 
When  near  her  legions  drew  bowed  low  their  heads; 

Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  mountain  springs 
Whispered,  '  She  cometh.'     Dried-up  river-beds 

From  Dacian  plains  to  British  cried  aghast, 

'  This  way  but  now  the  Roman  Eagles  passed  ! ' 

"  She  fells  the  forest,  and  the  valley  spans 
With  arch  o'er  arch :  the  mountain-crests  she  carves 

With  roads,  till  Nature's  portents  yield  to  Man's  : 
Wolf-like  the  race  that  mocks  her  bleeds  or  starves ; 

Alike  they  lived  their  lives,  they  had  their  day  : 

Her  laws  abide  ;  men  hear  them  and  obey. 

"  Beyond  the  far  sea-limit  of  old  Tyre 

Her  gold  fleets  waft  earth's  harvest  through  the  storm 
Carthage,  Tyre's  daughter,  crossed  her  path  :  the  fire 

Went  o'er  her  walls;  in  blackening  heaps  deform 
Her  league-long  ruins  ridge  the  desert  grey  ; 
Above  them  pard  and  tiger  chase  their  prey. 


3 H  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Dec., 

"  All  hail  to  Rome  !     Her  mighty  heart  serene 

Houses  at  will  all  nations  and  their  gods 
Content  to  know  herself  of  all  the  Queen. 

Who  spake  that  word  ;  '  The  old  Religion  nods '  ? 
Ah  fools  !  at  times,  but  gathering  heat,  the  levin 
Sleeps  in  Jove's  hand.     Yet  Jove  reigns  on  in  heaven." 


Such  was  the  song  that  from  beyond  that  wall 
Girdling  the  palace  pleasaunce  swelled  what  time 

Zoe  awoke,  till  then  sleep's  lovely  thrall, 

And  marked  the  splendors  of  the  dewy  prime 

Brightening  the  arras  nymphs  beyond  her  bed  ; 

Upright  she  sat,  and  propped  a  listening  head. 

She  listened  as  the  choral  echo  rang 

Lessening  from  stem  to  stem,  from  stone  to  stone  ; 
Then  rose,  and,  tossing  wide  the  casement,  sang 

In  briefer  note  a  challenge  of  her  own : 
"  Ye  honor  still  the  old  Faith—when  dead  condole  it — 
That  Faith  was  Greek,  my  masters !     Rome  but  stole  it ! ' 

That  Faith  was  hers  in  childhood  ;  threads  thereof 
Still  gleamed  'mid  all  those  golden  tissues  woven 

Which  decked  her  fancy's  world  of  thought  and  love : 
Her  conscience  clung  to  Truths  revealed,  heart-proven 

Her  fancy  struck  no  root  into  the  true, 

A  rock-flower  fed  on  ether  and  on  dew. 

She  had  a  pagan  nurse  and  Christian  mother : 

That  mother  taught  her  girl  the  Christian  Creed  ; 

She  learned  it,  she  believed  :  yet  scarce  could  smother 
Memories,  first  learned,  of  heathen  race  and  breed 

Which,  claiming  to  be  legend  only,  won 

Perchance  more  credence  as  exacting  none. 

Circled  by  pagans,  she  their  rites  derided : 
The  Christian  Faith,  that  only,  she  revered  ; 

Yet  oft,  at  Christian  hearths,  with  sceptics  sided  : 
Sacred  Religion  less  she  loved  than  feared, 

Still  muttering  sadly  ;  "  Easy  'tis,  I  wean, 

To  dread  the  Unknown,  but  hard  to  love  the  Unseen." 


1 885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  315 

Stronger  she  was  in  intellect  than  spirit ; 

In  intellect's  self  less  strong  than  keen  and  swift : 
Immeasurable  in  beauty,  interest,  merit 

To  her  was  Nature's  sphere  ;  but  hers  no  gift 
To  roam  through  boundless  empires  of  the  Soul : 
She  craved  the  definite  path,  not  distant  goal. 


Seldom  the  girl's  unlovelier  moods  looked  forth 
When  first  she  housed  in  that  Euphemian  home 

So  rich  in  loftiest  reverence,  lowliest  worth  : 
The  stately  ways  of  Apostolic  Rome 

Still  met  her  there,  and  steadied  and  upraised: 

A  part  of  heaven  she  saw  where'er  she  gazed. 

And  deeplier  yet  her  better  spirit  was  moved 
When,  by  Aglae  led,  she  trod  those  spots 

Where  bled  the  martyrs.     Oft,  torch-lit,  they  roved 
Those  dusky  ways,  like  sea-wrought  caves  and  grots, 

Rome's  subterranean  city  of  the  tombs, 

This  hour  her  noblest  boast — the  Catacombs. 

The  soundless  floors  with  blood-stains  still  were  red  : 

Still  lay  the  martyr  in  sepulchral  cell, 
The  ensanguined  vial  close  beside  his  head, 

"  In  pace  "  at  his  feet.     Ineffable 
That  peace  around:  the  pictured  walls  confessed 
Its  source  divine  in  emblems  ever  blessed. 

Here  the  "  Good  Shepherd  "  on  His  shoulder  bare 
The  sheep  long  lost.     The  all-wondrous  Eucharist 

Was  symboled  near.     Close- bound  in  grave-clothes,  there 
Lazarus  stood  up  beneath  the  eye  of  Christ: 

Below  his  gourd  the  Prophet  bowed  his  head, 

Prophet  unweeting  of  the  Three-days-Dead. 

Among  the  Roman  martyrs  two  there  were 
Whom  most  the  Greek  in  wonder  venerated, 

Cecilia  and  her  spouse,  that  wedded  pair 

Who  lived  their  short,  glad  life  like  spirits  mated 

And,  hand  in  hand,  passed  to  the  Crucified: 

"  Oh,  how  unlike  Aspasia!  " — Zoe  cried. 


3i6  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Dec., 

Yet  to  her  heart  dearer  Saint  Agnes  was, 

That  lamb  immaculate  of  the  Roman  fold, 
So  happy  to  her  Lord,  so  young1  to  pass, 

By  Him  so  fenced  from  stain !     Ah  !  meek  as  bold, 
With  fleece  of  lambs  before  thine  altar  blessed 
The  shepherds  of  God's  flock  this  day  are  dressed  ! 

One  morn,  from  these  returned,  Aglae  spake  ; 

"  Husband,  bestow  this  maiden  on  thy  son  ! 
She  loves  our  martyrs:  that  high  love  will  make 

Their  marriage  blest  and  holy  !  "    It  was  done  : 
By  parents  at  that  time  were  bridals  made 
In  Rome.     Alexis  heard  them  and  obeved. 


Zoe  at  first  felt  angry  :  thus  she  mused : 

"  Unsued,  and  scarce  consulted,  to  be  wed  !  " 

She  mused  again  ;  this  marriage,  wisely  used, 
May  lift  once  more  my  country's  fallen  head  : 

That  was  my  dream  since  childhood :  till  I  die 

There  stands  my  purpose  :  now  the  means  are  nigh." 

Such  was  the  leaning  of  her  deeper  nature  ; 

To  some  she  seemed  a  Muse  :  to  sterner  eyes 
A  Siren  to  be  dreaded  :  but  the  creature 

Beneath  her  sallies  gay  and  bright  disguise 
Was  inly  brave  and  serious,  strong  and  proud  : 
A  child  of  Greece,  to  that  sad  mother  vowed. 

Betrothed  they  were  what  time  the  earlier  snows 
Whitening  Soracte's  scalp  were  caked  with  frost : 

The  marriage  was  postponed  till  April's  close, 
Then  later  till  the  Feast  of  Pentecost. 

Meantime  they  met  not  oft.     The  youth  had  still 

High  tasks — he  loved  all  duties — to  fulfil. 

Zoe  thenceforth  was  welcomed  more  and  more 

In  all  the  Roman  houses  of  old  fame  ; 
Welcomed  by  pagans  most :  they  set  great  store 

Upon  her  thoughtful  wit  and  Attic  name, 
And  learned,  with  help  from  her,  to  read  with  ease 
The  songs  of  Sappho  and  Simonides. 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  317 

Among-  them  ranged  a  dame  right  eloquent 

On  all  the  classic  myths  of  ancient  days  : 
In  each  she  found  unrecognized  intent 

Occult,  and  oft  her  jetty  brows  would  raise 
Much  wondering  how  a  child  of  Academe 
Could  slight  Greek  wisdom  for  a  Hebrew  dream. 

Her  spouse  had  been  a  Flamen  sleek  and  soft, 
Rome's  chief  of  heathen  priests.     "  His  prison-bars 

Are  burst  at  last !  "  that  widow  clamoured  oft : 

"  Released,  that  great  one  walks  among  the  stars  !  " 

Light-fingered  thus,  the  well-trained  Sophists  stole 

From  Truth  a  part; — assailed  therewith  the  whole. 

With  her  the  Athenian  strove  that  perilous  season, 

Most  confident  belike  when  certain  least. 
A  perilous  staff,  for  such,  is  boastful  reason ; 

On  that  whene'er  she  leaned  her  doubts  increased  ; 
The  Catacombs  propped  best  a  faith  unstable  : 
She  said,  "  Those  dear  ones  died  not  for  a  fable." 

A  help  beside  'gainst  unbelieving  sin 

Illumed  her  pathway.     'Twas  the  heaven-lit  face 

Of  him,  her  destined  husband.     None  therein 
Might  gaze  nor  gather  thence  a  healing  grace  ; 

Round   him    he  breathed  Faith's   sweet  yet   strengthening 
clime, 

Like  sea-winds  sent  o'er  hills  of  rock  and  thyme. 

He  spake  :  at  once  the  girl  with  instinct  keen 
Felt  that  he  told  of  things  to  him  well  known, 

And  for  an  hour  through  God's  high  worlds  unseen 
She  walked  as  one  who  sees.     But  when  alone 

Faith  lacked  what  Love  Divine  alone  can  lend  her: 

Her  nature,  though  impassioned,  was  not  tender. 

Her  mental  powers  were  wide  and  far  of  gaze  ; 

Ardent  her  heart,  profound,  but  yet  confined  : 
Her  sympathies  walked  firm  on  solid  ways 

But  cast  no  gladsome  pinions  on  the  wind, 
Felt  not  the  gravitation  from  above  : 
The  depths  they  knew,  but  not  the  heights  of  love. 


318  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Dec., 

Not  less  huge  powers  of  love  in  her  had  dwelt 

Unknown,  long  checked  like  tarns  on  hillsides  stayed 

By  bars  of  ice  no  April  airs  can  melt : 
In  vain  her  country's  sons  their  court  had  paid  : 

She  spurned  them :  Greece  lay  bound,  a  spoil,  a  jest ; 

They  in  her  degradation  acquiesced. 

Her  Roman  suitors  she  had  spurned  yet  more, 
Save  one :  she  saw  in  each  her  country's  foe. 

That  one,  strange  nurseling  of  a  mystic  lore, 
Was  brave  as  wise,  and  just  to  high  and  low: 

The  ice  had  burst :  the  torrent  took  its  way  : 

"  How  slowly  comes,"  she  thought,  "  this  marriage-day  !  " 

She  loved  Alexis  well :  he  loved  her  better  ; 

Better,  not  more.     She  loved  with  all  her  heart ; 
He  with  a  portion,  for  he  brooked  no  fetter 

That  bound  his  spirit  to  earth.     To  her  a  part 
He  gave  in  his  large  being — not  the  whole  ; 
'Tis  thus  they  love  whose  love  is  of  the  soul. 

Ofttimes  when  most  she  loved  she  scorned  to  show  it, 

Deeming  her  love  repaid  by  his  but  half: 
Ofttimes  she  wept ;  but,  fearing  he  should  know  it, 

Drank  down  her  tears,  or  praised  with  petulant  laugh 
What  least  he  loved  ;  or  curtsied  in  her  spleen 
Passing  the  fane,  still  thronged,  of  beauty's  Queen. 


Sometimes,  approaching  Constantine's  huge  piles 
That  lifted  o'er  vast  courts  their  shadowing  span 

As  o'er  dusk  waters  frown  Egean  isles, 
The  Lateran  Mother-Church,  or  Vatican, 

She  seemed  to  see  them  not;  but  stooped  and  raised 

A  violet  from  the  grass,  and  kissed  and  praised. 

He  judged  her  not,  yet  mused  in  boding  thought: 
"  This  marriage — will  it  help  this  orphan  maid?" 

The  answer  followed  plain  :  "  I  never  sought 
The  tie.     My  parents  willed  it:     I  obeyed  : 

If  they  have  erred,  in  time  a  hand  more  high 

Will  point  my  way.     Till  then  no  choice  have  I." 


1 83$.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  319 

More  seldom  still  they  met :  but  when  they  met 
Airs  as  from  heaven  played  on  her  spirit's  chords  ; 

And  seldom  if  he  spake,  with  eyes  tear-wet 

She  sighed  :  "  A  man  is  he  of  deeds,  not  words  !  " 

Poor  child !     She  guessed  not  'twas  her  wayward  will 

Slighting  the  themes  he  loved  that  held  him  silent  still. 


She  knew  him  not ;  his  parents  but  in  part : 

They  wist  not  this,  that,  though  to  seats  divine 

Great  Love  at  times  can  lift  the  earthly  heart, 
To  hearts  enskied  as  oft  it  means  decline. 

Their  course  was  well-nigh  run,  their  heaven  nigh  gained  ; 

One  sole  temptation — and  its  cure — remained. 

The  marriage  morn  had  come.     At  faith's  high  call 
Ere  sunrise  yet  the  dewy  groves  had  dried 

The  youth  was  praying  in  a  chapel  small 

That  stood  retired  by  Tiber's  streaming  tide  ; 

Though  dull  the  morn,  the  boats  with  flags  were  gay: 

A  pagan  Feast  they  kept — Rome's  natal  day. 

Returning  from  that  church,  the  youth  observed 

That  'mid  these  boats  white-winged,  and  by  the  bank, 

A  bark  lay  moored  where  Tiber  seaward  curved  ; 
It  bore  no  flag  ;  its  sails  were  black  and  dank— 

A  stern  sea-stranger,  silent,  sad,  alone  ; 

A  raven  'mid  bright  birds  of  dulcet  tone. 

Down  from  that  sable  bark  there  moved  a  man 

With  sun-burnt  brow,  worn  cheek,  and  sad,  dark  eyes  : 

He  to  the  youth  made  way,  and  thus  began  : 
"  A  sailor  I,  and  live  by  merchandise : 

I  seek  Laodicea  :  from  her  shore 

Edessa  may  be  reached  in  three  days  more. 

"  There,  in  her  church  who  bore  the  Lord  of  all, 

Abides  for  aye  that  '  Venerable  Face  ' 
Which,  like  those  shadows  Apostolical 

That  healed  the  sick,  fill  all  that  land  with  grace. 
Thou  know'st  not  of  that  mystery.     Give  ear ! 
Elect  are  they  who  hold  that  picture  dear. 


320  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Dec., 

"  When  Christ,  Who  died  for  Man,  by  slow  degrees 

Bearing  His  Cross  ascended  Calvary, 
O'er-spent  at  last  He  sank  on  both  His  knees : 

Then  of  the  Holy  Women  clustering  nigh 
One  forward  stept.     Above  that  Face,  bedewed 
With  blood,  she  pressed  her  veil,  and  weeping  stood. 


"  Since  then  abides  upon  that  Veil  all-blest 

The  Sacred  Image  of  that  Face  Divine 
Thereon  that  hour  by  miracle  impressed  : 

Some  see  it  not.     Who  see  it  never  pine 
Thenceforth  for  earthly  goods.     True  merchant  he 
Who  all  things  sells  for  one.     This  night  embark  with  me  ! ' 

"  This  is  my  wedding-day,"  the  youth  replied  : 
Then  round  them  closed  seafarers  loud  of  cheer, 

And  severed  was  that  Stranger  from  his  side : 

Through  all  their  din  thenceforth  he  seemed  to  hear 

Sad  memory's  iteration  wearisome, 

"  Wedded  am  I :  therefore  I  cannot  come." 

Entering  his  ancient  home  in  troubled  thought, 

Once  more  he  heard,  "  He  who  great  wealth  hath  won, 

Let  that  man  live  as  pilgrims  who  have  naught; 
The  wedded  man  as  he  who  wife  hath  none  " — 

Words  heard  at  Mass  the  morning  of  that  Feast 

Whereon  that  bride  had  landed  from  the  East. 

He  raised  his  eyes:  changed  was  his  Father's  house: 
Euphemian  thus  had  sworn  :  "  For  one  day  more 

Let  vanished  times  return  ;  the  frank  carouse  ; 
The  harps  and  dances  of  our  Rome  of  yore. 

Rome  reverenced  marriage  once:  this  marriage  long 

Shall  record  boast  in  Roman  tale  and  song." 

Where  was  it  now,  that  rust  which  long  had  covered 
The  arms  of  Consuls  famed  in  days  that  were  ? 

Banners  as  old  as  Cannae  swung  and  hovered 
Shifting  with  gusts  of  laughter-shaken  air; 

And  on  the  walls  hung  faded  tapestries  old 

Still  Greek  in  thought  though  dimmed  by  moth  and  mould, 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  321 

Here  shone  the  Huntress  Maid :  the  crescent  gleam 
Brightening  her  brow,  the  Radiance  disarrayed 

Whitened  with  imaged  shape  the  forest  stream  : 
There  Galatea  with  sea-monsters  played  * 

The  self-same  breeze  that  landward  o'er  the  rocks 

Waved  the  dark  pine  blew  far  her  refluent  locks. 

Not  far  stood  Pallas  wrought  in  stone.     That  eye 
Levelled  beneath  strong  brows  and  helmed  crest 

Though  stern,  looked  forth  in  wisdom  clear  and  high : 
The  Gorgon  Mask  lay  moveless  on  a  breast 

That  ne'er  had  heaved  with  love  or  shook  with  fear; 

High  up  her  hand  sustained  that  steadying  spear. 

The  art  was  Christian  oft.     The  Martyr  Boy 
Blessed  Sebastian,  pierced  by  arrows,  stood 

In  maid-like  and  immaculate  beauty.     Joy 
Illumed  his  front,  though  dying,  unsubdued : 

And  well  those  lifted  eyes  discerned  in  heaven 

That  Face  the  Proto-Martyr  hailed— Saint  Stephen. 

Tables  there  were  of  sandal-wood  carved  quaintly 

By  fingers  .lean  of  cedar-shaded  Ind, 
Embossed  with  emblems,  shapes  grotesque  yet  saintly; 

And  gods  Egyptian,  taloned,  winged  or  finned  ; 
And  ivory  cabinets  with  ebon  barred, 
Musk-scented,  pale  with  pearl,  and  opal-starred. 

Here  glittered  caskets,  gifts  of  Afric  kings; 

Gold  goblets,  pledge  from  satraps  of  the  East; 
Huge  incense-burning  lamps  on  demon  wings 

Suspense,  for  rites  of  funeral  or  feast ; 
And  shells  for  music  strung  and  bows  for  war, 
Fantastic  toys,  tribute  from  regions  far. 

Mosaic  pavements  glistened,  deftly  studded 
With  Sphinx,  or  Zodiac-Beast,  or  Hieroglyph, 

As  oft  with  Lotos  blossom.     Leaned,  new-budded, 
The  April  Almond  from  his  shaggy  cliff, 

Or  rained  red  flakes  on  Ocean's  blameless  daughters 

Oaring  their  placid  way  o'er  purple  waters. 
VOL.  XLII. — 21 


322  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Dec., 

The  nuptial  rite  was  brief;  the  banquet  long, 
For  many  a  gray-haired  noble  told  his  tale, 

And  many  a  youthful  minstrel  sang  his  song ; 

Some  marked  a  trembling  in  the  bride's  white  veilr 

But  on  her  long-lashed  lids  there  hung  no  tear ; 

Flushed  was  her  cheek  ;  her  voice  was  firm  and  clear. 


Within  a  tent  upon  that  bowery  level 

Whose  tallest  palm  grove  crowned  Mount  Aventine, 
Hour  after  hour  rang  out  that  ardent  revel, 

While  flashed  above  it  many  a  starry  sign ; 
Untired  that  Bride  danced  on  ;  beneath  the  shade 
The  night-bird  sang  to  listening  youth  and  maid, 

Alexis  moved  amid  the  throng,  heart-sore, 
Yet  courteous  to  each  guest.     Pastimes  like  these 

His  eyes  had  never  looked  upon  before  ; 
Now  seeing,  he  misliked  them.     Ill  at  ease, 

One  voice  he  heard  'mid  all  that  ceaseless  hum  ; 

"  I  have  a  Wife  ;  therefore  I  cannot  come." 

Far  down,  where  Tiber  caught  the  white  moonshine, 
He  heard,  though  faint,  that  hymn  at  morning  sung. 

More  near,  the  opprobrious  verses  Fescennine 
Trolled  by  boy  pagans  as  their  nuts  they  flung : 

He  sought  the  house,  passed  to  its  farthest  room, 

Lit  by  one  lamp  that  scarcely  pierced  the  gloom. 

Within  that  room  was  one  sole  occupant  j 

He  stood  beneath  that  lamp  ;  its  downward  shade 

Clasped  the  tall  form,  and  on  him  seemed  to  plant 
A  dusky  cowl.     Half-wondering,  half-dismayed, 

The  youth  gazed  on  him  :  recognized  at  last 

The  Stranger  seen  that  morning  near  him  passed. 

Alexis  stood  as  stands  a  man  in  trance  :— 
Then  dawned  on  him  a  vision  sad,  sublime  : 

No  more  the  marriage  pomp,  the  feast,  the  dance, 
No  more  that  sable  bark  and  matin  prime  : 

Centuries  rolled  back ;  there  hung  before  his  eye 

The  Saviour,  crowned  with  thorn,  and  Calvary. 


1885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  323 

That  Saviour  looked  upon  him.  In  his  heart 
Plainly  he  heard  :  "  Edessa — meet  Me  there  ; 

There  bide  with  Me  alone ;  and  thence  depart 
When  I  that  sow,  My  harvest  home  shall  bear. 

Those  three  thou  lov'dst  on  earth  in  days  of  old 

Shall  then  be  thine — and  Mine — in  love  tenfold." 


The  Vision  faded  ;  lightest  steps  he  heard, 

And,  wreathed  with  rose,  the  Bride  before  him  stood 

Warm  from  the  dance,  and  blithesome  as  a  bird. 

He  spake  :  "  Fear  naught !     What  God  decrees  is  good." 

Within  her  hand  he  placed  a  ring,  and  said  : 

"  Farewell !     Wear  this  till  many  years  are  fled. 


"  Farewell !     Live  thou  in  Faith  and  Innocence  : 
Farewell !     God  calls  me  to  a  far-off  land  ; 

But  He  will  lead  me  back  Who  bids  me  hence, 
And  draw  us  near;  and  yet  between  us  stand. 

Farewell,  poor  child  !  "     He  passed  into  the  night, 

And  soon  was  hidden  wholly  from  her  sight. 


When  the  next  morn  had  changed  dark  skies  to  grey 
They  found  her  with  wide  eyes  and  lips  apart 

Standing,  a  statue  wreathed,  in  white  array  ; 

One  wedded  hand  was  pressed  against  her  heart ; 

One  clasped  a  ring.     "  'Tis  time  to  sleep,"  she  said ; 

"  Lay  the  poor  Bride — 'tis  late — upon  her  bed." 

END  OF  PART  II. 


324  HUMAN  A  UTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec., 


HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH. 

UNDER  the  term  "  human  authority  "  we  include  everything 
of  the  nature  of  testimony  or  doctrinal  teaching  not  covered  by 
the  divine  warrant  of  infallibility,  co-existing  and  subordinate  to 
her  divine  authority,  in  the  church  ;  and  worthy,  in  some  sense, 
to  determine  in  accordance  with  the  dictates  of  reason  and  faith 
the  mental  assent  of  the  individual  believer  and  the  common 
assent  of  the  faithful. 

The  authority  is  human,  because  the  credibility  which  belongs 
to  it  is  founded  on  human  testimony  and  other  reasons  lying 
entirely  within  the  scope  of  human  faculties  of  cognition.  It  is 
authority,  not  because  of  a  legitimate  dominion  over  free  voli- 
tions and  outward  acts,  but  because  it  furnishes  a  criterion  to  the 
judgment  of  an  individual  mind  on  the  truth,  which  criterion  is 
external  to  the  individual  himself  and  superior,  in  some  respects, 
to  any  interior,  private  criterion  of  his  own.  It  does  not  sup- 
plant the  interior  criterion,  but  in  certain  respects  supplements, 
extends,  gives  increased  sanction  to,  and  liberates  from  many 
accidents  causing  error  in  the  use  of,  this  inward,  personal  rule 
of  judgment  and  intellectual  assent.  The  trustworthiness  of  the 
external  criterion  is,  however,  dependent  from  the  unerring  ac- 
curacy of  the  interior  criterion,  considered  as  it  is  in  ideal  human 
nature,  and  in  individual  men  so  far  as  their  condition  and  opera- 
tion are  natural  and  normal. 

This  criterion  is  a  principle  of  certitude  according  to  which 
the  intellect  operates  in  making  judgments.  It  is  evidence — that 
is,  the  intrinsic  intelligibility  of  truth  apprehended  by  the  mind. 
"  Objectively,  it  is  the  universal  criterion  of  truth."*  Being  uni- 
versal, necessary,  infallible,  in  itself,  when,  and  in  so  far  as,  it  is 
apprehended  by  an  intelligent  subject,  it  is  in  him,  an  infallible 
rule,  and  judgments  made  by  its  exact  measure  are  unerring, 
^niay  be  known  to  be  true  without  any  fear  of  error.  Subjec- 
tively, it  is  a  criterion  of  truth  universal  in  respect  to  the  think- 
ing individual — that  is,  an  actual  measure  of  all  the  truth  he  does 
know,  and  a  possible  measure  of  all  he  can  know,  in  a  natural 
way  Ignorance  of  some  truths  may  affect  the  minds  of  men,  as 
a  limitation  or  as  a  defect.  In  such  case  the  criterion  is,  so  far, 
unavailable.  But  error  is  an  accident.  It  is  true  that  the  human 

*Russo,  S.J.,  Summ.  Philos.,  p.  112. 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  325 

mind  is  fallible,  in  this  sense :  that  being  limited,  and,  in  respect 
to  things  whose  evidence  does  not  necessarily  determine  its  as- 
sent, subject  to  the  influence  of  the  will,  which  may  pervert  its 
action,  it  can  in  some  things  err  by  making  imprudent  and  false 
judgments.*  But  judgments  based  on  sensible  cognition,  when 
the  senses  are  in  a  due  condition  and  rightly  used,  cannot  be,  of 
their  own  nature,  erroneous.  The  intellective  faculty  is  exempt 
from  all  error  in  immediate  judgments,  in  strictly  logical  deduc- 
tions from  known  truths,  and  in  acts  of  reflective  consciousness. 
There  is,  therefore,  a  kind  of  immunity  from  error  which  is  a 
proper  quality  and  perfection  of  the  human  mind,  giving  it  a 
limited  participation  of  the  limitless  infallibility  of  God,  yet  not 
excluding  an  accidental  liability  to  error,  which  often  results  in 
actual  errors  of  many  kinds. 

It  is  not  altogether  incorrect  to  call  this  limited,  human  par- 
ticipation in  the  divine  infallibility  by  the  name  of  human  infalli- 
bility. It  is,  however,  better  not  to  use  this  epithet  excepting  in 
respect  to  the  supernatural  immunity  from  all  accidental  error 
within  the  sphere  of  divine  revelation,  which  is  a  grace  and  gift 
of  the  Holy  Spirit. 

Such  as  it  is,  and  by  whatever  name  it  is  called,  it  breeds 
science,  in  the  strict  and  proper  sense  of  that  term.  From  science 
proceeds  human  faith,  which  is  an  assent  of  the  mind  crediting 
what  is  attested  to  it  as  the  science  or  knowledge  of  other  minds. 
Authority  is  something  resulting  from  the  science  and  veracity 
of  those  to  whom  credence  is  given,  which  conciliates  the  assent 
of  those  who  give  this  credence.  All  society  rests  on  this  sort  of 
credence  given  to  credible  attestation  of  facts  and  other  verities, 
knowable  in  themselves  and  known  to  some  directly,  but  received 
on  their  authority  by  others,  even,  to  a  great  extent,  by  mankind 
generally.  The  physical  sciences,  among  other  things,  rest  on 
this  basis.  It  is  in  respect  to  facts  and  truths  which  are  disclos- 
ed by  the  testimony  of  God  that  the  highest  and  most  absolute 
belief-worthiness  is  justly  and  necessarily  to  be  affirmed,  and 
these  are  the  objects  of  divine  faith. 

We  may  here  repeat  what  has  been  already  once  said  :  that 
the  belief-worthiness  of  God  springs  from  his  essential  truth  in 
being,  knowing,  and  making  known  as  much  as  he  chooses  to 
testify  by  revelation.  The  criterion  of  truth  in  God  is  evidence. 
His  infinite  being  is  in  itself  intelligible  in  an  equal  ratio  to  its 
real  existence,  in  the  act  of  infinite  intelligence.  That  is,  God, 
who  is  the  origin  and  measure  of  all  the  knowable,  is  evident  to 

*  Ibid.  p.  102. 


326  r  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec., 

himself,  and  this  evidence  includes  all  the  real  and  the  possible, 
the  truth  of  which  has  its  foundation  in  the  divine  essence  and 
intelligence.  That  which  God  makes  evident  to  a  created  mind, 
by  giving  it  an  intellect  after  the  likeness  of  his  own  intelligence, 
and  setting  it  face  to  face  with  its  proper  object,  is  not  received 
by  faith  in  God's  veracity,  but  by  a  light  which  gives  a  certain 
participated  vision  of  truth  in  the  eternal  divine  reasons  them- 
selves.  Here,  also,  the  criterion  of  truth  is  evidence.  That 
which  God  discloses  by  revelation  is  apprehended,  first,  by  the 
motives  of  credibility,  then  by  evidence  of  the  true  sense  of  the 
revelation,  finally  by  perception  of  the  truth  of  what  is  revealed, 
not  in  itself,  as  self-evident,  but  in  the  veracity  of  God.  In  this 
case  the  rational  motive  for  the  judgment  that  it  is  reasonable  to 
give  absolute  assent  to  a  truth,  even  though  in  itself  it  be  inevi- 
dent  to  the  mind,  is,  that  it  is  certainly  known  to  be  evident  to 
God  who  reveals  it. 

In  the  case  of  human  faith,  the  belief-worthiness  of  the  human 
witness,  whether  an  individual  or  a  collection  of  individuals  con- 
sidered as  a  moral  person,  consists  in  the  qualification  of  the  wit- 
ness as  one  who  has  evidence  of  something,  which  he  is  known 
to  attest  veraciously. 

That  evidence  is  the  criterion  of  the  truth  which  the  mind 
knows  by  the  operation  of  its  own  faculties  of  cognition,  is  a 
statement  needing  no  further  explication. 

The  point  we  make  is,  that  evidence  is  always  the  criterion  of 
truth,  in  respect  to  every  kind  of  undoubting  assent.  It  is  evi- 
dence, either  immediately  to  the  mind  which  assents,  or  mediate- 
ly by  the  appropriation  of  the  evidence  which  is  immediate  to 
one  or  more  other  minds,  human  or  divine.  In  the  latter  case, 
that  of  mediate  evidence,  the  appropriation  of  the  science  of  an- 
other mind  is  by  evidence  that  the  science  exists  in  its  own 
proper  subject  and  is  truly  communicated.  Evidence  is  there- 
fore, objectively,  the  universal  criterion  of  truth,  and  it  is  the 
subjective  criterion  either  immediately  or  mediately.  In  the 
last  analysis  it  is  the  interior  criterion  which  is  the  measure  and 
test  of  subjective  truth — that  is,  of  the  correspondence  of  the  in- 
tellectual concept  to  the  objective  reality. 

The  object  of  all  this  reasoning  is  to  show  how  all  the  kinds 
of  knowledge  we  possess  are  indissolubly  bound  together,  and 
must  stand  or  fall  in  company.  It  is  to  show  how  dangerous  the 
diminishing  or  questioning  of  the  certitude  of  either  the  direct 
and  immediate  knowledge  of  the  mind,  or  its  knowledge  through 
human  testimony  or  through  divine  testimony,  is  to  the  certi- 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  327 

tude  of  the  other,  terms ;  how  science,  human  faith,  and  divine 
faith  are  all  shaken  and  undermined  when  any  one  of  them  has 
its  foundations  weakened.  At  whatever  point  the  principle  of 
scepticism  is  applied,  it  is  evidence,  the  universal  criterion  of 
truth,  which  is  attacked  ;  and  if  this  rule  is  weakened  or  broken 
in  any  part  it  has  lost  its  value,  wholly  or  partially,  throughout. 
Scepticism  logically  tends  to  become  from  partial  universal,  and 
to  subvert  everything  in  the  order  of  pure  reason,  of  human  and 
of  divine  faith.  Reason  and  revelation,  science  and  faith,  human 
testimony  and  divine  testimony,  cannot  therefore  be  dissociated, 
set  in  mutual  opposition,  separately  established  and  defended,  or 
separately  assaulted  and  overthrown,  as  if  their  causes  were  in- 
dependent of  each  other  or  in  conflict  one  with  the  other.  An 
effort  to  demolish  rational  science  and  leave  faith  standing  is  a 
chimerical  project.  For  reason  is  the  soil  or  rocky  substratum 
on  which  the  foundations  of  the  whole  structure  of  faith  rest. 
An  endeavor  to  overturn  the  Cyclopean  edifice  of  faith,  and  leave 
rational  science  immovably  secure,  is  an  equally  futile  purpose. 
For  its  foundations  are  so  vast  and  solid  that  a  force  mighty 
enough  to  dislodge  them  could  only  be  a  subterranean  convul- 
sion, rending  in  pieces  and  submerging  the  strata  of  science  and 
history,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest. 

Evidence  and  authority  cannot,  therefore,  be  set  in  absolute 
contrast  to  each  other  as  two  perfectly  separate  and  different 
criteria  of  different  kinds  of  truth. 

Authority,  in  the  sense  in  which  we  are  using  the  term,  is  not, 
we  must  repeat,  a  right  of  command  proceeding  from  dominion, 
but  "  that  which  conciliates  faith  to  the  witness  is  called  author- 
ity, which  results  from  the  knowledge  and  veracity  of  the  wit- 
nesses, otherwise  expressed,  from  the  fact  that  the  witnesses  know 
and  speak  the  truth."*  God  is  the  author,  and  his  intellect  is 
the  measure,  of  all  our  intellectual  and  rational  cognitions.  He 
gives  the  law  to  our  minds  by  giving  them  light,  and  vision  of  intel- 
lectually visible — that  is,  intelligible — objects.  He  is  the  author 
and  the  giver  of  our  faith,  and  he  makes  the  objects  of  our  faith 
belief-worthy  by  giving  light  to  the  intellect.  This  light  makes 
the  objects  of  faith  sufficiently  intelligible  for  an  act  of  rational 
assent.  Morale  est  omnibus •,  ut  qui  fidem  exigit  fidem  astruat. 
Whoever  exacts  faith  must  furnish  a  reason  for  faith.  God  ob- 
serves this  rule,  and,  of  course,  men,  whether  divinely-commis- 
sioned witnesses  and  teachers  or  not,  must  observe  it. 

*  Russo,  p.  117.  This  compendium  is  referred  to  in  respect  to  this  whole  matter,  as  the 
latest  and  most  convenient. 


328  HUMAN  A  UTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec., 

But  how,  then,  are  intellectual  and  rational  beings  responsible 
to  God  for  any  mental  acts  of  assent  or  dissent?  For  those 
which  are  involuntary  and  necessary  they  are  not,  since  these 
have  no  moral  quality.  But  for  those  which  are  voluntary  and 
not  necessary — that  is,  in  some  way  depend  from  free  acts  of  the 
will — the  creature  is  responsible  to  the  Creator,  by  reason  of  his 
absolute  dominion  over  him.  He  may  be  responsible  also  to 
men  who  have  a  delegated  and  limited  dominion  over  him.  The 
will  is  directly  subject  to  dominion,  and  indirectly  the  intellect, 
within  the  sphere  of  the  moral  order  and  moral  law.  There  are 
many  obligations  and  duties  respecting  the  right  use  of  the  in- 
tellect, and  in  relation  to  truth  which  is  known  or  knowable, 
springing  from  the  natural  law,  and  others  springing  from  posi- 
tive divine  law.  Those  which  are  terminated  to  the  divine,  in- 
fallible authority  of  the  Catholic  Church,  and  to  every  other 
authority  lawfully  constituted  in  the  same,  begin  with  the  first 
proposition  of  the  church  to  the  mind  which  suffices  to  make 
inquiry  into  her  claims  obligatory  on  the  conscience.  They  are 
perfected  when  an  individual  has  a  sufficient  rational  motive  for 
the  judgment  that  the  church  has  the  divine  authority  which  she 
claims.  As  soon  as  the  rational  motive  is  perceived,  the  recogni- 
tion of  the  infallible  authority  becomes  strictly  obligatory,  even 
by  virtue  of  the  natural  law.  When  the  infallible  authority  is 
recognized,  it  is  plain  that  assent  to  everything  which  it  is  cer- 
tainly known  to  propose,  within  the  sphere  of  its  authority,  is 
demanded  by  reason  and  conscience,  and  is  instantly  obligatory, 
without  any  further  examination  of  the  reasons  and  grounds  of 
credibility  which  is  dubitative ;  though  examination  for  the  con- 
firmation of  belief  and  clearer  understanding  of  its  objects  may 
be  pursued  indefinitely. 

Our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  is  the  only  human  Teacher  who  is  in- 
fallible in  all  things,  without  limitation,  by  reason  of  his  divinity. 
One  who  knew  him  to  be  so  would  want  no  other  reason  for  as- 
senting to  whatever  he  might  affirm  in  regard  to  any  matter 
whatsoever,  other  than  his  simple  word.  To  refuse  or  suspend 
assent  would  be  foolish  as  well  as  morally  wrong.  He  did  not, 
however,  make  use  of  his  universal  knowledge  in  teaching,  ex- 
cept to  a  limited  extent,  in  accordance  with  the  intention  and 
scope  of  his  divine  mission.  He  it  is,  present  by  his  Holy  Spirit 
in  the  church,  who  is  the  source  of  her  infallibility,  given  and 
brought  into  exercise  in  a  certain  measure  determined  by  his  own 
wisdom.  Enough  for  our  present  purpose  has  been  said  in  a 
former  article  respecting  this  infallible  authority  of  the  church. 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  329 

At  present  we  are  only  paving  the  way  to  a  consideration  of 
authorities  not  infallible.  In  view  of  this  it  is  important  to  ob- 
serve that  infallibility  is  not  always  and  absolutely  necessary  to 
belief-worthiness.  It  is  not  necessary  to  the  certitude  of  imme- 
diate judgments  or  rational  conclusions  that  the  mind  should  be 
endowed  with  such  a  perfection  of  intelligence  and  knowledge  as 
to  secure  its  immunity  from  all  limitations  of  ignorance  and  every 
accident  of  error.  Neither  is  it  necessary  to  possess  this  immu- 
nity in  order  that  an  individual  person,  or  a  collective  moral  per- 
son, may  be  a  belief-worthy  witness.  In  certain  instances  we 
can  know  that  we  are  not  ignorant  and  not  in  error.  Others 
may  be  sure  of  the  same  in  respect  to  our  knowledge,  and  may 
also  be  sure  of  our  veracity,  and  thus  sure  of  our  belief-worthi- 
ness and  secure  in  their  assent  to  the  truth  which  we  attest. 
Thus  we  can  be  sure  of  the  primary  truths  of  natural  theology,  of 
the  motives  of  credibility  of  Christianity,  of  the  divine  institu- 
tion and  authority  of  the  church,  of  the  actual  contents  of  the 
creed,  of  the  purport  of  the  decrees  of  the  Council  of  Trent.  We 
may  be  sure  that  the  church  teaches  infallibly,  and  sure  that 
she  teaches  certain  doctrines  as  articles  of  faith,  without  being 
ourselves  infallible. 

Revelation  is  not  absolutely  necessary  for  teaching  doctrinal 
and  ethical  truths  which  are  not  above  and  beyond  reason  ;  but 
only  morally  necessary  for  teaching  them  completely,  easily,  and 
to  all  men  ;  and  in  respect  to  some  truths,  either  in  general  or  in 
respect  to  some  persons,  with  more  certainty.  Revelation  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  the  knowledge  of  mysteries,  or  truths 
above  and  beyond  reason.  The  original  source  of  revelation 
must  be  an  absolutely  infallible  authority.  The  revelation  itself 
must  be  attested  and  accredited  in  such  a  way  that  those  to 
whom  it  is  proposed  can  have  a  certitude  excluding  all  reason- 
able doubt  or  fear  concerning  all  which  they  are  required  to  be- 
lieve on  the  veracity  of  the  divine  testimony. 

It  is  not  essentially  and  absolutely  necessary  that  dogmas  ol 
faith  should  be  received  through  the  medium  of  a  teaching 
church  which  is  known  to  be  infallible.  The  infallibility  of  the 
Catholic  Church  is  morally  necessary  for  the  fulfilment  of  the 
purposes  for  which  it  was  established.  Its  infallible  teaching  is 
the  ordinary  medium  through  which  the  minds  of  men  are 
brought  into  contact  with  the  veracity  of  God,  which  is  the  for- 
mal motive  of  assent  to  revealed  truths  as  revealed. 

The  entire  contents  of  God's  word  to  men,  as  contained  in 
Scripture  and  tradition,  are  not,  however,  explicitly  declared,  de- 


330  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN-  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec., 

fined,  and  taught  by  the  teaching  church — either  by  her  ordinary 
magistracy  or  by  her  solemn  decrees  and  judgments — as  they 
exist  in  their  formal  essence  of  revealed  truth,  or  a  fortiori  as 
they  are  virtually  a  criterion  of  doctrinal  and  moral  truths  of  an 
inferior  order.  God  has  made  his  revelation,  from  the  time  of 
Adam  to  the  time  of  the  Apostle  St.  John,  in  such  a  way  that 
the  manifestation  of  the  truth  which  is  either  necessary  or  highly 
important,  according  to  the  difference  of  times,  in  respect  to  the 
chief  end  of  man,  has  always  been  clear.  Some  parts  of  it,  how- 
ever, which  did  not  become  matters  of  general  explicit  faith  dur- 
ing the  pre-Christian  period,  remained  obscure  until  Christ  and 
the  apostles  made  them  clear.  The  clearly-revealed  truths  have 
been  in  certain  respects  more  distinctly  and  in  others  more  con- 
fusedly manifested,  but  never  so  fully  as  to  give  an  adequate 
knowledge  of  all  that  is  explicitly  and  implicitly  contained,  much 
less  of  what  is  virtually  contained,  in  the  entire  word  of  God. 
This  divine  word,  which  received  continual  augmentations  until 
the  series  of  inspired  prophets  was  completed,  is  in  part  a  dis- 
tinct but  inadequate,  in  part  a  clear  but  confused,  in  part  an  ob- 
scure testimony  of  God  to  men  in  respect  to  a  vast  system  of 
truth,  whose  lower  portion  is  within,  while  its  higher  region  is 
above  the  scope  of  natural  knowledge  and  reason.  It  is  all,  to  its 
minutest  parts,  in  itself,  of  faith — that  is,  worthy  of  absolute,  un- 
doubting  belief,  on  the  veracity  of  God.  But  it  is  of  faith,  in  re- 
spect to  us,  only  in  so  far  as  its  meaning  is  understood  and  known, 
or  may  and  ought  to  be  understood  and  known,  with  certainty. 
That  which  the  church  teaches  and  imposes  upon  all  the  faithful 
as  of  faith,  and  that  alone,  is  of  Catholic  faith.  If  one  be  other- 
wise certain  respecting  some  part  of  it  which  is  not  of  Catholic 
faith,  it  is  to  him  of  divine  faith,  though  it  is  not  so  to  others  who 
are  not  certain.  Beyond  the  region  of  certitude  there  is  another 
more  extensive  domain  of  probability,  whose  outermost  bounds 
insensibly  fade  away  into  the  conjectural  and  the  unknowable. 

It  would  be  impossible  that  the  magnificent  concepts  given 
to  the  human  intellect  by  revelation  should  remain  in  it  as  mere 
formulas,  propositions  closed  by  their  own  terms,  and  handed 
down,  like  precious  heirlooms,  from  generation  to  generation. 
The  light  which  Jesus  Christ  cast  upon  the  mind,  and  the  sparks 
of  divine  fire  which  he  dropped  into  the  heart,  of  regenerated 
humanity,  awakened  the  Christian  intellect  and  inflamed  the 
Christian  will  to  a  superhuman  activity.  Faith  informed  by  love 
was  a  vital,  energizing  principle,  rousing  up  the  soul  to  pursue 
wisdom  and  virtue  with  untiring  ardor.  Faith  seeking  under- 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  331 

standing,  for  the  sake  of  the  knowledge  itself,  and  for  the  sake  of 
convincing,  persuading,  enlightening  mankind,  vindicating  and 
defending  the  truth,  refuting  error  and  overcoming  unbelief,  has 
made  the  church  and  a  great  number  of  her  members  quick  with 
intellectual  life.  This  vitality  has  produced  growth,  develop- 
ment, progress  in  faith  and  science.  The  original  principles, 
articles,  dogmas  of  the  faith,  clearly  revealed  and  explicitly  be- 
lieved, always,  everywhere,  and  by  all,  have  developed  into  more 
distinct  formal  concepts,  or  at  least  more  precisely-defined  ver- 
bal expressions.  Implicit  doctrines  of  divine  faith  have  been  de- 
fined as  dogmas  of  Catholic  faith.  Determinations  of  Catholic 
doctrine  in  matters  connected  with  and  related  to  the  faith  have 
been  made  as  a  protection  to  its  dogmas.  Thus  the  great  struc- 
ture of  the  solemn,  infallible  teaching  of  the  church  has  been 
erected  and  augmented,  and  is  capable  of  still  greater  augmen- 
tation, under  the  direction  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  controlling  and 
assisting  successive  popes  and  councils  in  the  exercise  of  their 
supreme  office. 

All  this  is  to  be  said  of  Catholic  faith  and  doctrine  as  taught 
and  held  through  the  ordinary  infallible  magistracy  of  the  dif- 
fused episcopate  under  its  supreme  head,  so  far  as  this  is  identi- 
cal with  that  which  is  taught  and  held  through  solemn  declara- 
tions and  judgments  of  the  same  authority,  or  preceding  and  giv- 
ing rise  to  them,  or  being  more  extensive  and  comprehensive 
than  they  are.  Active  infallibility  in  teaching,  passive  infalli- 
bility in  holding  and  professing,  either  explicitly  or  implicitly,  all 
truth  manifested  through  divine  revelation,  under  the  guidance 
of  the  Holy  Spirit,  are  perpetual  and  universal  endowments  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  always  in  exercise,  producing  continual 
progress  and  development  in  the  divine  wisdom. 

We  come  now  to  the  principal  question  of  discussion  and  its 
principal  difficulty.  For,  namely,  as  the  teaching  church  in  its 
diffusion  has  no  universal  organ  distinct  from  the  Cathedra  Petri 
in  the  Roman  Church  and  oecumenical  councils,  its  ordinary  in- 
fallible magistracy  has  only  the  medium  of  particular  organs 
through  which  it  can  be  exercised.  These  are  not  endowed  with 
infallibility.  Particular  churches,  among  which  the  great  apos- 
tolic sees  are  pre-eminent;  bishops,  each  of  whom  is  pastor, 
teacher,  and  judge  in  his  own  diocese  ;  provincial  and  still  larger 
particular  councils  ;  the  Fathers  and  Doctors  of  the  church — none 
of  them,  singly  and'by  themselves,  are  infallible.  It  is,  therefore, 
necessary  to  admit  that  there  are  authorities  in  the  church,  sub- 
ordinated to  the  divine  authority  of  the  church,  to  which  not 


332  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec., 

only  exterior  respect  but  interior  submission  of  the  mind  is  due. 
We  have  already  said — and  the  saying-  is  borrowed  from  theolo- 
gians and  philosophers  of  the  highest  character — that  the  media 
through  which  the  mind  apprehends  with  certainty  the  teaching 
of  infallible  authority,  even  the  teaching  of  God  himself,  and 
bases  its  assent  finally  on  the  divine  veracity,  need  not  be  infal- 
lible— that  is,  exempt  from  all  liability  to  the  accident  of  error. 
It  is  enough  that  we  know  by  faculties  which  do  not  err  by  their 
own  nature,  and  which  we  can  know  in  particular  cases  not  to 
err  actually  from  accidental  causes,  or  through  the  testimony  of 
witnesses  evidently  competent  and  veracious  and  therefore  be- 
lief-worthy, that  the  infallible  church  teaches  some  doctrine,  that 
God  has  revealed  some  truth.  The  individual  judgment  can  be 
unerring,  the  testimony  or  judgment  of  the  witness,  or  collec- 
tion of  witnesses,  can  be  unerring  and  known  to  be  so  ;  so  that 
reasonable  doubt  or  fear  of  the  contrary  is  excluded  by  the  ex- 
clusion of  the  causes  and  occasions  of  error.  I  am  not  exempt 
from  all  liability  to  fall  out  of  window.  But  I  am  not  in  danger 
of  falling  out  while  I  sit  here.  I  am  not  exempt  from  all  liability 
to  error,  but  there  are  many  things  in  respect  to  which  I  know 
there  can  be  no  danger  that  I  may  be  in  error  in  respect  to  my 
judgments.  Some  of  these  are  wholly  or  in  part  beliefs  on  testi- 
mony— that  is,  on  authority.  It  has  been  said  above  that  the  ex- 
terior criterion  of  truth  found  in  authority,  in  some  respects  and 
in  relation  to  some  things,  liberates  the  mind  from  accidents 
causing  error  in  the  use  of  its  interior  criterion  ;  which  is  equiva- 
lent to  saying  that  we  sometimes  have  better  evidence  from  au- 
thority than  we  can  have  in  these  cases  from  our  personal  cog- 
nizance of  the  thing.  The  accidental  causes  of  error  are  differ- 
ent in  separate  individuals,  in  diverse  times  and  circumstances. 
Some  one  person,  for  particular  reasons,  may  be  a  witness  who 
cannot  be  supposed  to  be  deceived  or  to  practise  deception,  in 
such  a  way  that  his  testimony  is  better  evidence  of  truth  than 
that  of  a  crowd  of  witnesses  not  so  competent  and  credible,  or 
any  evidence  which  can  be  had  by  personal  investigation. 
Generally  speaking,  a  collection  of  such  credible  witnesses  makes 
a  stronger  authority  than  one,  an  authority  more  entirely  belief- 
worthy. 

To  apply  this  to  the  matter  of  the  authority  of  the  Fathers 
and  Doctors  of  the  church.  One  of  them  may  have,  as  a  witness 
to  the  Catholic  faith  and  teaching,  in  some*  respects,  a  kind  of 
dominant  authority,  exceeding  that  of  a  number  of  others.  In 
general  their  concurrence  in  testimony  gives  it  the  greatest  pos- 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  333 

sible  weight.  For  it  cannot  have  any  other  cause  and  sufficient 
reason  except  the  universally-diffused  teaching  and  belief  of  the 
church.  It  is  based  on  the  infallible  doctrine  of  the  prophets 
and  apostles,  contained  in  the  Canonical  Scriptures  and  in  Catho- 
lic tradition.  In  it  the  teaching  of  the  church  by  her  ordinary 
magistracy  finds  a  voice  and  an  expression  which  takes  a  scien- 
tific form  in  the  writings  of  the  great  Doctors  and  of  the  eminent, 
standard  theologians  who  elaborate  and  arrange  in  systematic 
order  the  matter  which  is  furnished  by  the  Fathers  and  Doctors. 
The  science  of  theology  draws  also  from  every  natural  source  of 
knowledge,  from  philosophy  in  particular  ;  it  makes  inferences 
and  deductions,  constructs  arguments  and  theories,  investigates 
all  the  traces  of  truth  in  every  direction ;  and  on  the  basis  of  faith 
it  erects  a  vast  structure  which  is  continually  enlarging  its  di- 
mensions, finishing  more  minutely  its  details,  and  decorating  its 
spaces.  It  is  a  human  work,  having  a  human  authority.  Its 
authors,  even  though  they  be  popes  and  bishops,  are  private  doc- 
tors, not  having  the  infallibility  of  prophets,  apostles,  popes 
teaching  ex  cathedra,  and  the  collective  episcopate,  or  even  a  di- 
vine commission  to  teach  in  this  particular  way.  Their  works 
have,  however,  the  approbation  of  the  Holy  See  and  the  church 
in  general,  or  at  least  some  official  approbation  which  suffices  to 
give  them  less  or  more  credit  up  to  the  very  highest  which 
uninspired  human  writings  can  deserve.  They  have  also  as  their 
substance  the  doctrines  of  divine  revelation  contained  in  the 
written  and  unwritten  word  of  God.  Catholic  theology  is  not 
the  word  of  God,  but  it  may  be  called,  to  use  a  rabbinical  expres- 
sion, "  the  daughter  of  the  word."  We  cannot  accommodate 
the  rabbinical  saying,  "  Water  is  all  Bible-lore,  but  Mishna  is 
pure  wine,"  to  Catholic  theology  ;  but  we  may  say  that  Bible- 
lore  and  apostolic  teaching  are  pure  wine,  and  Catholic  theology 
wine  and  water.  There  is  divine  and  there  is  human  doctrine  in 
it.  The  divine  doctrine  is,  of  itself,  of  faith.  The  human  has 
certitude  or  probability,  and  a  proportionate  authority. 

The  doctrinal  teaching  of  bishops,  of  particular  councils,  of 
the  Roman  congregations,  of  the  Sovereign  Pontiffs  when  they 
are  not  judging  or  teaching  ex  catktdrd,  may  be  only  a  repetition 
and  an  inculcation  of  that  which  is  manifestly  pertaining  to  faith 
or  Catholic  doctrine.  Or,  especially  in  the  case  of  decisions 
emanating  from  the  Holy  See,  such  official  doctrine,  though  not 
manifestly  beforehand  pertaining  to  the  infallible  teaching  of  the 
church,  may  become  manifested  as  such  by  tacit  or  express  con- 
sent and  adhesion  of  the  universal  church. 


331-  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec., 

Of  themselves  these  dogmatic  decrees  are  not  final,  irreform- 
able,  infallible  judgments,  though  they  are  authentic  and  possess- 
ed of  official  authority. 

The  duty  of  all  Catholics  in  respect  to  these  ecclesiastical  de- 
cisions is  thus  explained  by  Hurter,  who  follows  in  the  main  the 
leading  of  Cardinal  Franzelin  : 

"  The  assent  to  be  rendered  to  a  judgment  either  of  an  infallible  teach- 
ing authority  which  nevertheless  is  not  exercising  its  infallibility  (for  some 
one  who  possesses  some  kind  of  power  does  not  and  need  not  always  use 
it  according  to  its  whole  intensity},  or  of  an  authority  not  infallible,  is  not 
required  to  be  absolutely  undoubting  and  in  the  highest  degree  firm.  But 
it  does  not  therefrom  follow  that  it  is  lawful  for  the  faithful  to  indulge  at 
pleasure  an  interior  doubt,  to  withhold  interior  assent,  to  observe  merely  a 
respectful  silence  ;  for  unless  we  wish  to  subvert  the  entire  moral  and  so- 
cial and  even  the  rational  order,  we  must  admit  several  kinds  of  internal 
assent  which  can  hold  a  position  between  the  assent  which  is  indubious, 
firm  above  all  things,  infallible,  and  the  state  of  doubt. 

"  Of  what  kind  the  assent  ought  to  be  cannot,  however,  easily  be  generi- 
cally  defined,  for  this  depends  from  various  adjuncts  and  the  form  of  the 
judgment.  ...  It  is  the  duty  of  good  children  of  the  church  not  to  speak 
openly  against  the  judgment  of  this  authentic  but  not  infallible  tribunal, 
but  to  preserve  a  respectful  silence  ;  it  is,  secondly,  their  duty  to  render  an 
internal  assent  and  conform  their  own  judgment  to  it ;  and,  thirdly,  the  firm- 
ness of  the  internal  assent  will  depend  from  the  greater  or  lesser  official 
authority  of  the  teaching,  and  from  the  greater  or  lesser  presumption  of 
the  consent  of  the  supreme  and  infallible  authority  with  the  teaching  is 
question.  But  if  grave  and  solid  reasons  should  occur  to  the  mind  of  a 
Catholic,  especially  such  as  are  theological,  which  tend  to  the  contrary  side, 
it  would  be  lawful  for  him  to  suspect,  to  doubt,  to  make  his  assent  condi- 
tional, and  even  to  hold  it  in  suspense,  until  the  consent  of  the  universal 
church  or  of  the  Roman  pontiff  should  become  manifest;  hence  also  it  is 
lawful  to  appeal  to  a  higher  tribunal — viz.,  either  to  a  council  or  to  the  Roman 
pontiff.  Yet,  although  the  judgment  of  such  an  authority  not  infallible 
may  not  always  furnish  objective  security,  it  furnishes  in  general  subjective 
security,  inasmuch  as  it  is  safeio  all  to  embrace  it ;  and  it  is  not  safe,  neither 
can  violation  of  the  duty  of  submission  toward  a  divinely-constituted  mag- 
istracy be  avoided  if  it  is  done,  to  refuse  to  admit  the  decrees  of  such  an 
authority.  This  can  be  so  much  the  more  readily  admitted  since,  on  ac- 
count of  the  entire  subjection  of  the  faithful  under  the  authority  of  the 
infallible  magistracy,  all  assent  given  to.  judgments  and  declarations  of  a 
fallible  authority  is  habitually,  equivalently,  or  interpretatively  conditioned, 
although,  so  long  as  no  grave  and  prudent  reason  for  doubting  occurs,  it 
puts  on  an  absolute  form."  * 

A  thorough  elucidation  of  all  this  would  take  too  long-.  We 
will  only  pick  out  one  or  two  points,  so  that  by  the  help  of 
these  we  may  bring  our  discussion  to  a  distinct  term  and  a  prac- 
tical conclusion. 

*  Compend.  Theol.,  torn.  i.  tr.  iv.     De  Fid.  Reg.,  Num.  468. 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  335 

One  point  is,  that  judgments  of  an  authority  not  infallible,  like 
individual  judgments,  are  not  of  their  own  nature  uncertain  or 
erring,  yet  are  liable  more  or  less  to  the  accident  of  error.  In 
point  of  fact,  these  human  authorities  in  the  church  have  some- 
times erred. 

As  our  own  private  and  individual  judgment  furnishes  ordi- 
narily a  secure  subjective  and  practical  rule,  much  more  these 
judgments  of  authority  ;  and  as  in  many  cases  we  can  be  certain 
that  our  private  judgments  are  actually  unerring,  we  can  be  cer- 
tain generally,  even  in  all  but  a  few  exceptional  cases,  that  these 
ecclesiastical  judgments  are  unerring. 

A  second  point  is  that  the  surest  and  best  protection  against 
errors  of  any  fallible  human  authority  through  encroachment  on 
private  liberty  by  extending  itself  ultra  vires,  going  beyond  its 
sphere,  or  by  decisions  against  truth,  is  found  in  a  more  univer- 
sal, or  a  higher,  but  especially  in  the  divine  authority ;  control- 
ling, if  necessary  rectifying,  the  action  of  inferior  magistracies  ;  in 
the  Catholic  Church. 

Qui  fidem  exigit  fidem  astruat.  One  who  exacts  the  assent  of 
belief  if  he  gives  a  sufficient  reason  does  not  encroach  on  our 
liberty.  If  the  reason  be  insufficient,  the  exaction  of  belief  is 
unjust  so  far  as  the  reason  falls  short  of  the  assent  and  submis- 
sion demanded,  and  our  liberty  is  encroached  upon  if  hindrances 
are  put  in  the  way  of  our  freedom  of  dissenting. 

It  is  absurd  to  speak  of  any  diminution  of  true  and  rightful 
intellectual  liberty  by  any  declaration  of  truth,  or  any  precept 
concerning  our  moral  duty  in  respect  to  it  which  emanates  from 
legitimate  power  and  does  not  transcend  the  preceptive  authority 
of  the  power.  The  mind  is  enchained  when  error  is  forced  upon 
it,  or  truth  of  which  it  has  no  evidence,  and  when  it  is  unjustly 
hindered  from  the  pursuit  of  truth. 

No  Catholic  can  maintain  or  even  think  that  the  authority  of 
the  church,  as  it  is  in  itself  and  of  divine  institution,  correctly 
understood,  lawfully  and  justly  exercised,  infringes  upon  the 
reasonable  liberty  of  the  minds  of  her  children,  or  opposes  the 
reasonable  liberty  of  the  human  sciences  to  expatiate  at  large, 
each  one  in  its  own  domain. 

There  are  differences  and  discussions  at  the  present  time  be- 
tween some  Catholic  scientists,  ecclesiastics  as  well  as  laymen, 
with  whom  are  associated  theologians  of  name  and  position,  on 
one  side  ;  and  other  theologians  of  standing  and  repute  on  the 
other  side ;  in  which  one  main  point  is  the  delimitation  of  the  ter- 
ritory which  is  open  ground  for  discussion.  The  questions  in 


336  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  [Dec., 

dispute  mostly  take  their  rise  from  physical  sciences,  history, 
archasology,  the  criticism  and  interpretation  of  the  Scriptures 
in  regard  to  these  aforementioned  matters,  and  cognate  topics. 
Now,  those  who  claim  the  larger  domain  of  liberty  may  accuse 
those  who  concede  only  a  smaller  domain  of  encroaching  on  their 
free  territory,  by  exacting  too  much  in  the  name  of  authority. 
Certain  matters  are  asserted  by  them  to  be  still  open  questions, 
and  they  claim  for  Catholics  the  liberty  of  deciding  on  these  re- 
spective theories,  adopting  them  if  they  see  reason,  discarding 
them,  if  at  all,  on  purely  scientific  grounds,  but  at  all  events  keepr 
ing  them  intact  from  any  theological  censure. 

In  these  controversies  those  writers  who  give  a  greater  exten- 
sion to  the  boundaries  of  Catholic  faith  or  doctrine  do  not  appeal 
to  the  solemn  but  to  the  ordinary  magisterium  of  the  church,  and 
they  derive  their  arguments  against  opinions  or  theories  which 
they  oppose  from  an  interpretation  of  Scripture  supported  by 
the  patristic  and  theological  tradition.  When'  they  go  so  far  as 
to  say  that  a  particular  theory  contradicts  a  Catholic  dogma  and 
is  therefore  altogether  untenable,  it  is  because  they  find  some 
respectable  theologians  affirming  that  the  contradictory  of  the 
said  theory  is  a  dogmatic  truth,  on  the  authority  of  a  consent  of 
Fathers  and  Doctors,  but  not  on  that  of  a  definition  of  pope  or 
council.  In  general  they  do  not  go  so  far  as  this  in  maintaining 
their  own  particular  doctrine,  but  are  content  to  claim  for  it  only 
a  theological  certainty  or  a  greater  probability. 

There  is  no  need  that  we  should  make  any  specification  under 
this  generic  statement,  and  none  whatever  that  we  should  proffer 
any  advice  to  theologians,  who  understand  perfectly  well  how  to 
manage  their  own  cause.  But  to  scientists,  and  those  who  are 
specially  interested  in  scientific  questions,  if  they  feel  themselves 
obliged  to  be  on  the  alert  against  real  or  supposed  efforts  to 
abridge  their  liberty,  we  recommend  confidence  in  theology 
itself  as  a  safeguard  against  any  unjust  aggressions  of  theolo- 
gians, trust  in  the  wisdom  of  the  church  and  her  supreme  doctor 
and  ruler  as  a  sure  protection  against  any  infringement  of  the 
reasonable  liberty  of  the  children  of  the  church,  and  of  science. 

Father  Wai  worth,  in  an  article  which  appeared  last  year  in  this 
magazine,  has  stated,  succinctly  and  very  ably,  the  impossibility 
of  separating  the  sciences  into  little  independent  principalities, 
and  theology  among  them.*  The  attempt  ought  not  to  be  made, 
and  Catholic  scientists  will  violate  their  duty  if  they  attempt  it. 
But,  besides  this,  the  thing  cannot  be  done.  If  particular  theolo- 

*  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD,  October,  1884,  pp.  u,  12. 


1885.]  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.  337 

gians  contravene  genuine  and  sound  science,  or  condemn  any 
Scientific  theories  as  heretical  or  erroneous  in  faith  which  are 
probably  not  so,  they  will  be  opposed  by  other  theologians.  If 
the  authority  of  the  Fathers  and  Doctors  and  of  tradition  is  un- 
duly applied,  and  stretched  beyond  legitimate  bounds,  by  writers 
whose  opinions  can  be  probably  regarded  as  only  doctrines  of  a 
school,  or  as  belonging  to  the  incidentals  and  merely  human 
elements  of  traditional  belief,  such  opinions  will  not  be  allowed 
to  pass  unquestioned  as  Catholic  doctrine.  They  will  be  tested 
and  tried  in  the  most  severe  manner,  and  their  quality  and  value 
ascertained.  The  disciplinary  authority  of  the  church  may  be 
exercised,  if  it  seem  good  to  the  Holy  See  to  intervene  in  the 
discussion.  No  class  of  Catholics,  even  scientists,  can  claim  ex- 
emption from  this  disciplinary  authority.  There  may  be  even 
future  judgments  ex  cathedrd  by  which  the  Sovereign  Pontiff, 
either  with  or  without  an  oecumenical  council,  will  define  more 
clearly  and  distinctly,  in  reference  to  some  matters  of  contro- 
versy, what  is  of  divine  and  Catholic  faith,  or  certain  by  deduc- 
tion from  revealed  truths,  and  therefore,  in  technical  language, 
de  fide  ecclesiasticd.  If  this  is  done,  intellectual  liberty  will  be  in- 
creased, not  diminished,  by  the  liberation  of  the  mind  from  a  part 
of  its  liability  to  error,  which  is  no  privilege  of  liberty,  but  a 
defect  in  it.  Theologians  and  the  cultivators  of  other  sciences 
have  one  common  cause  and  one  common  interest — the  cause  of 
universal  truth.  There  should  be  harmony  and  concurrence 
among  them  all.  The  progress  of  human  science  is  an  object  of 
great  importance  and  interest  in  the  view  of  all  who  have  an 
enlightened  zeal  for  the  advancement  of  the  kingdom  of  Christ 
on  the  earth  and  the  highest  temporal  and  spiritual  welfare  of 
humanity.  The  reigning  Pontiff  and  the  bishops  in  concurrence 
with  him  have  exhibited  their  sense  of  the  great  value  of  human 
science  by  their  solemn  declarations  concerning  philosophy,  and 
their  united,  universal  efforts  to  secure  its  thorough  cultivation 
in  all  Catholic  institutions  of  learning.  Philosophy  is  a  human 
science,  and  the  queen  of  sciences.  Physical  science  is  one  of  its 
provinces,  and  the  cultivation  of  this  part  of  the  general  domain 
has  been  specially  recommended  and  encouraged.  There  are 
particular  reasons  for  this  at  the  present  time,  and  on  account  of 
these  same  reasons  Catholic  scientists  who  are  thoroughly  versed 
in  their  branches  and  are  distinguished  masters  in  them  are  to  be 
held  in  high  honor  and  esteem  and  their  labors  to  be  estimated 
as  of  extreme  value. 

The  founding  of  new  or  augmenting  of  already  existing  Ca- 

VOL.  XLII. — 22 


338  HUMAN  AUTHORITY  IN  THE  CHURCH.          [Dec. 

tholic  universities  is  a  kind  of  grand  and  noble  undertaking 
which  is  engaging  at  the  present  time  the  attention  and  calling* 
forth  the  energy  of  the  rulers  and  leading  members  of  the  church 
to  a  remarkable  degree.  The  very  idea  of  these  universities  re- 
quires that  all  branches  of  knowledge,  both  sacred  and  secular, 
should  be  cultivated  within  their  precincts.  Laymen  must  be 
and  will  be  associated  with  ecclesiastics  in  their  academic  boards 
and  faculties.  Harmony  and  concurrence  of  all  toward  one  end, 
which  is,  in  respect  to  the  work  of  instructing  pupils,  the  forma- 
tion of  good  and  well-educated  Catholic  clergymen  and  laymen, 
require  that  order  should  prevail  throughout  the  whole  system. 
There  is  a  rational  order  reducing  the  sciences  themselves  to  a 
harmonious  system.  There  are  distinct  provinces  and  realms 
with  their  own  autonomies,  but  there  is  one  empire,  over  which 
Philosophy  reigns  as  empress  in  the  natural  order,  subject  herself 
to  the  spiritual  supremacy  of  Theology.  This  subordination  does 
not  hamper  the  lawful  liberty  or  true  progress  of  philosophy  or 
any  of  the  inferior  sciences.  Father  Liberatore,  one  of  the  emi- 
nent philosophers  of  this  half-century,  a  pioneer  in  the  great 
work  of  restoring  scholastic  philosophy  to  its  ancient  and  right- 
ful dominion,  well  expresses  the  truth  in  regard  to  this  point : 

"  Legitimate  liberty  does  not  reject  all  subjection  ;  otherwise  God,  who 
alone  is  altogether  possessed  of  self-dominion  and  subject  to  no  other, 
would  alone  be  free.  But  the  freedom  of  created  beings,  and  of  whatever 
is  related  to  them,  demands  only  that  the  dominion  of  every  foreign  prin- 
cipality to  whose  control  they  are  not  subject  by  the  order  of  nature  should 
be  excluded.  Now,  what  is  more  agreeable  to  the  order  of  nature  than 
that  fallible  reason  should  obey  infallible  reason,  and  that  speculations 
which  can  by  the  occasion  of  human  infirmity  be  affected  by  falsehood 
should  be  aided  by  the  light  of  those  truths  which  admit  no  fellowship 
with  anything  whatever  which  is  false  ?  The  subjection  of  which  we  speak 
imports,  however,  only  so  much  as  this.  For  it  is  not  exacted  that  philo- 
sophy should  want  its  own  proper  principles,  or  be  deprived  of  a  sphere 
of  the  merely  natural  order  in  which  it  may  expatiate  without  let  or  hin- 
drance. Nevertheless,  it  is  bound  to  expatiate  within  that  sphere  in  such 
a  way  as  never  to  contradict  the  truths  of  the  faith  or  the  conclusions 
which  are  thence  deduced.  If  it  should  do  this  it  would  embrace  false- 
hoods as  being  truths,  since  nothing  but  falsehood  can  ever  be  contrary  to 
truth.  Wherefore  it  is  evident  that  the  subjection  of  which  we  speak,  so 
far  from  hindering,  very  much  aids  the  advancement  of  philosophy,  there 
being  no  progress  conceivable  which  is  not  in  and  for  the  truth. 

"This  is  illustrated  by  the  facts  of  experience,  for  philosophy  has  never 
received  greater  augmentations  than  when  it  has  faithfully  ministered  to 
theology;  never  has  it  fallen  into  more  degrading  errors  than  when,  allured 
by  the  desire  of  an  unwholesome  liberty,  it  has  withdrawn  itself  from  her 
light  and  guardianship."* 

*  Inst.  Philos.)  Prolegom.,  sec.  iii. 


1885.]  THE  SATYRS.  339 

All  this  is  specifically  true  of  the  physical  sciences,  as  well  as 
of  philosophy  in  general.  Instruction  in  all  branches  must,  there- 
fore, be  subject  to  ecclesiastical,  disciplinary  control,  especially 
that  of  the  supreme  authority,  the  Holy  See.  Otherwise  chaos, 
disorder,  and  the  thwarting-  of  the  end  for  which  universities  are 
intended  will  be  the  result.  In  like  manner  the  less  formal,  un- 
official teaching  of  the  doctors  in  natural  philosophy  and  science, 
as  well  as  that  of  doctors  in  theology,  must  be  subject  to  the  dis- 
ciplinary control  of  the  authority  divinely  constituted  in  the  Ca- 
tholic Church.  A  disturbance  of  this  order  shakes  the  founda- 
tions not  only  of  faith  but  of  science.  For  there  is  but  one  uni- 
versal objective  criterion  of  truth,  and  the  subjective  criteria 
are  all  closely  associated  and  intimately  joined  with  each  other 
and  with  the  objective  criterion. 


THE  SATYRS. 

THERE  lived  a  hermit  in  a  lonely  land, 
Who,  though  he  saw  the  luscious  forest  growth 
And  meadow  verdure  on  all  sides  expand, 
Seemed  solitary  there,  a  world-lost  child, 
Dwelling,  as  man's  soul  in  his  body  doth, 
Lone  in  a  lonely  wild. 

At  night  the  tall  grass  in  the  haunted  field 
Was  trampled  by  brute-hoofs  ;  a  shadowy  throng, 
With  foreheads  horned,  obscured  the  moon's  broad  shield, 
That  glimmered  low,  from  misty  depths  arriving; 
Rude  cries  with  purer  voices  mingled  long — 
Angels  with  satyrs  striving. 

At  sunset  once,  across  the  meadows  dim, 
Untinged  by  traces  of  the  sunset  fires 
Still  glowing  far  away  beyond  the  rim 
Of  twilight  and  its  dusky  peace  divine, 
He  saw,  with  glittering  domes  and  glimmering  spires, 
A  golden  city  shine. 


340  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 


SOLITARY  ISLAND. 
PART  FOURTH. 

CHAPTER  V. 
THE  TRUTH   AT    LAST. 

FLORIAN  resumed  professional  labors  with  a  zest  somewhat 
keen  after  his  long  and  odd  confinement  on  Solitary  Island.  It 
had  been  a  trying  time  for  him,  but  he  felt  that  he  had  come  out 
of  those  hard  circumstances  a  victor.  They  had  left  little  trace 
on  him,  and  he  had  put  th'e  incident  of  his  father's  death  out  of 
his  life  as  thoroughly  as  he  had  shelved  the  death  of  his  sister, 
the  loss  of  Ruth,  and  the  late  election.  Life's  busy  round  was 
gone  over  as  evenly  and  as  hopefully  as  if  these  tragedies  had 
never  been.  Yet  he  could  not  deny  that  his  real  self  had  been 
held  up  to  him  in  the  quiet  of  his  late  retreat  more  minutely  than 
at  any  time  in  the  last  ten  years.  He  had  even  come  close  to  ad- 
mitting the  truth  of  the  portrait  which  nature's  mirror  presented 
to  him.  But  it  was  a  little  too  ghastly  for  truth,  he  thought,  and 
he  put  off  an  inspection  of  it  until  such  time  as  his  discerning 
mind  had  recovered  its  nice  balance.  When  that  time  came  he 
had  forgotten  it.  And,  besides,  he  had  to  admit  to  himself  that 
these  out-of-the-way  events  threw  a  shadow  long  enough  to  reach 
the  pleasantest  of  his  days.  They  were  shelved,  indeed,  but  not 
annihilated.  He  was  human,  after  all,  he  said,  when  a  protracted 
period  of  restlessness  troubled  him.  With  another  man  it  would 
have  been  the  "  blues  "  or  lonesomeness;  with  him  it  was  an  indi- 
gestion, or  a  phenomenon  independent  of  the  will.  He  bore  it  as 
evenly  and  placidly  as  he  bore  a  rainy  day  or  a  vexatious  lawsuit. 
There  would  be  an  end  to  it  some  time.  A  calm,  steady  glance 
on  the  road  ahead  was  enough  to  neutralize  the  effect  of  depres- 
sion. It  could  not  be  said  that  he  had  a  habit  of  dreaming  in 
the  daylight.  In  studying  a  political  or  legal  problem  he  occa- 
sionally wandered  into  unpractical  speculations  on  the  incidents 
or  personages  of  a  suit.  Not  often.  Nowadays  he  fell  into  a 
habit  of  reviewing  events  connected  with  his  father's  mournful 
history,  and  of  studying  those  points  at  which  his  own  and 
Linda's  life  had  come  in  contact  with  the  life  of  the  solitary 


1 885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  341 

prince.  These  reveries  had  always  one  unvarying1  conclusion. 
Over  his  face  passed  that  spasm  of  anguish  which  twisted  the 
body  like  the  rack,  and  which  had  attacked  him  many  times  on 
the  island.  He  blamed  the  pictures  and  mementoes  in  his  room 
for  this  weakness.  There  was  the  painting  of  the  yacht,  and 
Ruth's  portrait,  and  a  score  of  pretty  things  belonging  to  that 
former  time.  A  glimpse  of  any  one  of  them  disturbed  him,  but 
he  had  not  the  heart  to  put  them  away.  He  was  content  to  await 
the  time  when  all  these  things  would  stand  in  his  memory  like 
distant  mountains  wrapped  in  a  heavenly  mist.  He  had  lost 
none  of  his  political  standing  by  his  defeat,  and  the  Senate  was 
open  to  him.  He  had  resolved  to  accept  the  office.  It  would  be 
a  very  quiet  affair,  and  its  dulness  would  be  a  safe  refuge  for 
a  vessel  without  any  definite  harbor.  His  love-affairs  were  not 
going  smoothly,  which  did  not  surprise  or  ruffle  him.  Barbara 
was  acting  oddly.  He  had  said  to  her  a  few  short,  polite  words 
on  the  general  character  of  her  Clayburg  visit  which  were  cer- 
tain to  put  an  end  to  escapades  of  that  sort.  She  had  a  stock  of 
other  annoyances,  however,  and  dealt  them  out  carelessly.  At 
an  assembly  she  had  chatted  much  with  Rossiter  and  the  count 
in  turn.  When  he  gave  her  his  impressive  reasons  why  she  should 
do  these  things  no  more  she  had  laughed  at  him  and  done  them 
again.  Finally  the  climax  was  capped  when  he  encountered  the 
insidious  Russian  in  Barbara's  reception-room.  It  was  certainly 
an  odd  thing  for  Florian  to  show  his  feeling  strongly,  but  he  did 
so  on  this  occasion.  His  face  paled  slightly  and  a  light  sweat 
burst  out  on  his  forehead,  while  the  hands  hanging  at  his  side 
shook  as  if  with  an  ague.  He  stood  in  the  doorway,  unable  to 
move  for  an  instant,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  count  with  an  expres- 
sion which  frightened  Barbara  into  a  faint  scream.  Vladimir 
smiled  with  deep  satisfaction,  and,  bowing  politely  to  the  lady, 
bade  her  good-morning  and  withdrew.  The  scream  brought 
Florian  to  his  senses,  and  Barbara's  pretty  and  anxious  inquiries 
were  met  with  his  usual  self-possession. 

"  My  dear,"  said  he — and  the  little  lady  recognized  the  tone 
very  well ;  it  always  reminded  her  of  the  late  visit  to  Clayburg — 
"  the  count  is  obnoxious  to  me  for  the  very  best  reasons.  I  do 
not  wish  to  see  you  and  him  together  again  on  any  occasion.  As 
for  coming  to  your  house,  it  must  be  his  last  visit." 

"And  you  were  such  friends!"  pouted  she.  "  But  I  don't  care 
two  pins  for  him,  and  I  think  it  annoys  him  so  to  see  us  together. 
You  are  just  a  little,  a  very  little,  hard,  Flory.  Confess,  now,  are 
you  not?  " 


342  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

"  Not  hard  enough  for  him,"  the  great  man  said  savagely, 
"  there  is  so  much  of  the  devil  in  him." 

Barbara  was  both  curious  and  venturesome.  What  was  the 
secret  of  their  mutual  dislike?  It  was  something  more  than  mere 
jealousy,  and  she  would  like  to  know  it.  Until  she  found  out  the 
cause  her  intentions  were  to  keep  on  terms  with  the  count.  It 
would  require  caution  and  secrecy.  What  of  that?  She  was  too 
clever  to  be  caught  by  such  a  mass  of  dignity  as  her  beloved 
Florian,  who  was  unacquainted  with  short  cuts  in  life's  path, 
would  not  take  them  if  he  was,  and  fancied  his  promised  wife 
fashioned  after  his  ideas.  Barbara  and  the  count  became  quite 
friendly  once  more  on  the  understanding  that  he  was  to  keep 
out  of  Florian's  way.  Every  art  known  to  the  fair  widow  was 
used  to  win  from  the  count  the  secret  of  his  broken  relations 
with  Florian — which  he  never  told,  of  course,  but  amused  and 
revenged  himself  instead  by  filling  Barbara's  mind  with  wild 
longings  for  the  title  and  grandeur  to  which  Florian  had  so 
lately  resigned  the  right.  He  made  her  believe  it  quite  possible 
that  these  things  could  yet  be  obtained,  and,  by  picturing  the 
glories  of  the  Russian  court,  made  the  life  of  a  senator's  wife  in 
Washington  appear  by  contrast  a  tedious  bore.  The  astute  Bar- 
bara was  caught  fast  in  the  trap,  and  from  that  moment  Florian 
was  beset  with  artifices  and  entreaties.  She  began  by  pretended 
delight  in  Washington  life.  ' 

"  To  move  in  elegant  costume  at  the  most  select  entertain- 
ments, leaning  on  your  arm,  Florian,  will  raise  me  to  the  topmost 
height  of  my  ambition.  I  will  be  the  star  of  society,  the  bright, 
political  shrine  before  which  the  little  men  and  women — little  be- 
cause of  my  greatness — will  fall  and  adore.  And  I  shall  affect  the 
title  of  princess,  you  know,  in  a  quiet  way,  of  course,  until  people 
will  talk  of  me  by  no  other  name.  O  Florian !  after  all,  how 
very  tawdry  our  Washington  court  must  be  to  that  gorgeous  one 
where  by  right  you  should  be." 

"  And  if  I  were  there,"  said  he,  smiling,  "you  would  still  be 
nothing  more  than  the  widow  Merrion.  The  prince  of  the  blood 
would  be  too  far  above  you  to  think  of  marriage." 

"  How  very  true  !  "  she  said,  with  a  pretty  sigh.  "  Florian,  I 
have  a  secret  to  reveal  to  you." 

"  I  thought  you  kept  your  pretty  secrets  for  Father  Baretti." 
And  there  was  a  faint  touch  of  scorn  in  his  voice.  She  pouted. 

"  That  odious  man  !  It  is  no  longer  he,  but  Father  Simplicius, 
who  hears  my  stories  about  you  and  other  people." 

11  So  you  really  do  believe  in  what  you  practise,"  said  Florian 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  343 

in  a  cold,  indifferent  way  that  would  have  almost  killed  Linda  to 
see. 

"  You  will  never  believe  in  my  sincerity,"  she  replied  re- 
proachfully. 

"  When  you  dropped  the  pharisaical  sentiment  I  thought  you 
would  drop  the  religion,  too.  Weil,  you  are  a  great  improve- 
ment on  Ruth  and — "  He  could  not  quite  bring  himself  to  utter 
in  cold  blood  that  other  name  which  he  had  covered  with  so 
much  shame.  Barbara  did  it  for  him  maliciously. 

"  And  the  secret,"  said  she,  "  was  connected  with  your  great 
title,  my  prince.  I  dreamed  for  a  time  that  I  might  induce  you 
to  give  up  this  tawdry,  muddy  life  in  a  backwoods  country  and 
to  go  back  to  Russia.  I  did  so  long  to  be  a  real  princess !  But 
I  am  sorry  for  it,  and  I  beg  pardon  for  it  a  hundred  times." 

"  I  have  felt  it  a  pity  myself,"  he  said,  to  her  intense  astonish- 
ment,  "that  the  thing  could  not  be  done.     I  am  tired  of  the  re* 
public,  worn  out  with  disgust — moth-eaten,  in  fact.     Before  I  re^ 
signed  my  rights  the  matter  was  a  dangerous  possibility  ;   now  it 
is  absurd  to  think  of  it.    Yet  I  do  dream  of  it  sometimes,"  he  add- 
ed meditatively,  "and  there  is  a  legal  quibble  which,  apart  from 
justice,  renders  it  feasible.     Yet  it  is  absurd." 
Her  whole  body  trembled  with  eagerness. 
"  What  is  the  quibble?"  she  said,  with  assumed  indifference. 
"  Oh!  you  would  not  understand  it,  perhaps,  if  I  told  you." 
"  Try  me,  Florian — oh  !  do  try  me.     I  love  quibbles." 
"  As  you  love  sweets,  without  exactly    knowing  what  they 
are." 

"  Florian,"  she  said  as  her  eagerness  burst  bonds, "  do  take  ad- 
vantage of  that  quibble  and  try  to  win  your  title.  We  were  not 
made  for  this  horrid,  home-spun  American  life.  I  shall  just  die 
thinking  of  what  might  have  been,  if  you  do  not  make  the  attempt 
at  least." 

He  mistook  her  eagerness  for  satire  and  showed  her  a  case- 
knife. 

"  Take  that,"  said  he,  "  and  stab  me  to  the  heart.  It  is  as 
well  to  do  it  now  as  to  wait  for  a  Russian  spy  to  do  it  for 
you." 

She  looked  at  him  and  the  knife  for  a  few  moments,  until  the 
meaning  broke  upon  her  mind  and  with  it  the  full  malice  of  the 
count's  late  suggestions. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  my  dear,"  he  said,  amused  at  her  astonish- 
ment, "  that  if  there  were  a  chance  of  obtaining  my  title  and 
estates  I  would  hesitate  ?  I  got  what  was  possible,  and  with 


344  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

that  we  must  be  satisfied.  An  American  prince  is  an  oddity. 
Let  us  enjoy  what  glory  we  may  from  it." 

"  Hard  fortune,  my  prince,"  she  replied,  with  a  bitter  sob. 
He  was  troubled  no  more  with  these  longings. 

Barbara  did  not,  however,  give  up  her  pleasant  dealings  with 
the  count.  She  enjoyed  a  petty  revenge  upon  him  by  allowing 
him  to  continue  his  lectures  on  the  glories  of  the  Russian  court, 
and  in  return  described  to  him  imaginary  scenes  with  Florian  in 
which  the  latter,  for  patriotic  motives,  utterly  refused  to  leave 
America.  It  did  not  take  the  shrewd  Russian  long  to  discover 
that  she  was  playing  with  him.  Was  he  always  to  be  the  sport 
of  this  woman  and  the  politician? 

*'  You  are  a  clever  inventor,"  he  said  one  evening,  "and  I  see 
that  you  have  discovered  me.  You  are  bound  to  remain  in  poli- 
tics, Yankee  politics,  when  it  lies  in  your  power  to  enjoy  the 
refined  pleasures  of  a  civilized  court.  There  is  no  accounting 
for  tastes." 

"  Is  Florian  any  the  less  a  prince  in  America  ?  "  she  asked. 
"  According  to  your  doctrines  his  blood  is  as  blue  and  his  title 
as  good  as  any  in  Europe.  With  that  I  am  satisfied." 

"Always  Florian,"  he  said,  unable  to  hide  his  fiery  jealousy. 
"  If  you  should  lose  this  manly  paragon,  what  then  ?" 

"  If!"   And  she  laughed  in  her  exasperating  way. 

"  You  are  playing  with  fire,  dear  lady.  You  do  not  know 
me.  I  have  not  given  you  up.  I  never  will.  I  can  destroy  him 
in  a  breath,  and  if  you  do  not  take  care  I  will  destroy  him.  My 
mother's  prayers  have  kept  me  from  nothing  so  far,  and  I  do  not 
suppose  they  are  yet  more  powerful." 

"  You  are  charming,  count,  when  you  talk  and  look  like  that. 
How  many  times  have  you  made  the  same  protestations  ?" 

"  Believe  me,  never  before.     Barbara,  Barbara,  you  are — " 

"  There,  there,  count,  do  not  be  unfair.  I  know  all  that  you 
would  tell  me  and  sincerely  believe  it.  Let  us  talk  of  something 
— well,  interesting." 

He  ground  his  teeth  in  silence  and  asked  himself  how  much 
longer  he  would  be  the  scorn  of  this  butterfly. 

"  If  the  door  opened  now  to  admit  your  Florian — " 

"Always  Florian,"  she  interrupted  reproachfully. 

"  In  what  a  position  you  would  be  after  his  commands  to  you 
concerning  my  visits  !  " 

"  But  he  will  not  open  the  door,  and  if  he  did  you  would  not 
be  found  here.  The  window,  these  curtains,  your  honor — 
what  a  number  of  happy  circumstances  I  trust  to !  " 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  345 

"Pshaw  !  what  is  the  matter  with  me?  I  have  never  allowed 
myself  to  be  led  by  a  string  so  with  any  woman.  And  my  hand 
holding  the  winning  card !  One  word  and  Florian  would  look 
on  you  with  horror.  What  is  the  matter  with  me  that  I  do  not 
utter  it?" 

"  The  matter  with  you,  count,"  said  she,  looking  at  her  watch 
to  hide  a  faint  apprehension,  "  is  that  you  have  stayed  too  long. 
Now  take  yourself  off  while  the  door  is  open  to  you,  or  you  may 
have  to  go  by  the  window." 

"One  word,  one  little  word,"  said  the  count,  half  to  himself, 
"  and  you  are  assured  to  me.  I  swear  my  belief  that  Florian 
would  never  wish  to  see  your  face  again." 

"  If  you  will  not  go,"  she  said,  rising,  with  a  trembling  voice, 
"  I  must  leave  you.  You  have  always  treated  rne  with  honor — " 

"And  I  am  bound  so  to  treat  you  always,"  he  exclaimed,  at 
once  jumping  to  his  feet.  "  You  shall  not  be  compromised  on 
my  account,  even  to  satisfy  my  hate  for  your  lover.  My  time 
will  come,  and  this  hand  which  now  I  embrace — will  you  per- 
mit me — "  He  kissed  her  hand  while  she  stood  laughing  at  his 
foolish  devotion  ;  and  this  was  the  tableau  which  greeted  the  cold, 
steady  gaze  of  Florian  entering  at  that  moment  by  the  softly-open- 
ing door.  There  was  an  awkward  pause.  Barbara  grew  pale  to 
the  last  degree  of  pallor,  and  the  count  felt  a  thrill  of  delight  leap 
along  his  veins.  The  great  man  alone  was  equal  to  the  occasion, 
for  he  strode  into  the  room  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  and 
made  his  politest  bow  to  the  two  guilty  ones.  The  count  took 
his  hat  and  retired  towards  the  door  until  Florian  detained 
him. 

"  You  may  leave  here  with  a  wrong  impression  of  my  rela- 
tions to  Mrs.  Merrion,"he  said  as  blandly  as  was  possible,  "  which 
I  wish  to  correct.  I  once  presented  her  to  you  as  my  promised 
wife.  It  was  a  pleasantry  which  now  merits  explanation.  The 
lady  herself  will  assure  you  that  henceforth  she  is  less  to  me  than 
to  you  or  any  other  man." 

The  count  bowed  with  a  sardonic  smile,  but  Barbara  rushed 
to  Florian  and  threw  both  her  arms  about  him  amid  a  storm  of 
sobs.  In  vain  he  endeavored  to  loosen  her  hold. 

"  He  threatened  you,  Florian  !  "  she  cried.  "  He  said  you 
were  in  his  power.  I  did  it  for  your  sake.  Oh  !  do  not  be  cruel, 
do  not  be  hasty.  A  little  time,  my  love — time,  time,  time  ! " 

Florian  was  staggered  out  of  his  stoical  calm  by  this  plausible 
explanation,  and  looked  at  the  count  inquiringly. 

"It  is  true,"  said  the  latter  proudly,  "and  if  you  will  come 


346  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

with  me  I  can  show  you  the  truth  of  what  madame  is  pleased  to 
assert  of  me." 

"  I  will  go,"  said  Florian  in  a  voice  which  made  her  heart 
quake. 

"  Remember,  sir,  that  the  truth  will  bring  a  heavy  penalty  on 
your  head." 

"  You  must  not  go  to-night,  Florian,"  she  sobbed — "  oh  !  not 
to-night,  my  dearest.  Wait  until  you  are  recollected.  Appear- 
ances are  against  you  and  me,  and  this  man  is  your  sworn 
enemy." 

He  flung  her  off  almost  rudely. 

"  You  are  under  suspicion  also,"  he  said  in  that  same  awful 
voice,  the  voice  of  suppressed  rage  or  fear.  "  Be  silent  until  I 
come  again.  Not  a  word  !  " 

She  fell  back  among  her  cushions  as  the  doors  closed  on  the 
two  men  and  their  footsteps  died  gradually  away.  But  in  an 
instant  the  sharp  sense  of  danger  revived  her  fainting  senses,  and 
with  all  her  strength  she  began  to  cast  about  for  means  to  pre- 
vent a  catastrophe.  They  were  going  to  the  count's  residence, 
probably,  and  some  one  must  follow  them  and  interfere  in  Flo- 
rian's  behalf.  Paul  Rossiter !  He  was  at  Madame  De  Pon- 
sonby's,  without  doubt,  and,  though  hateful  to  Florian,  the  very 
man,  her  instinct  told  her,  to  save  her  lover.  Quick  with 
cloak  and  out  with  the  carriage,  and  fly,  horses,  at  your  best 
speed  to  the  street  where  the  poet  lives !  The  servant,  opening 
the  door  to  a  hasty  and  violent  ring,  is  struck  with  terror  at  sight 
of  the  wild  figure  which  silently  rushes  past  her  and  up  the  broad 
stair;  and  Frances,  tranquilly  passing  across  the  hall,  comes  face 
to  face  with  the  one  woman  in  the  world  whom  she  has  most 
cause  to  dislike. 

"  Mr.  Rossiter  !  "  gasps  Barbara.  "  Quick — oh  !  quick,  where 
is  he?" 

"  Mr.  Rossiter  is  not  in,"  Frances  replied,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"  I  must  find  him,"  wringing  her  hands  ;  "  it  is  a  matter  of  life 
and  death.  It  concerns  Mr.  Wallace." 

The  pale  face  becomes  paler  still,  and  a  question  forms  itself 
on  her  lips,  but  her  pride  will  not  permit  her  to  utter  it.  She 
writes  the  address  of  Mr.  Peter  Carter  on  a  card  and  hands  it  to 
her. 

"  If  you  do  not  find  him  there  return  here,  and  perhaps  I  can 
help  you." 

Barbara  is  half-way  down  the  stairs  before  the  last  word  is 
uttered,  and  in  a  moment  the  carriage  is  flying  round  to  the  next 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  347 

street  at  full  speed,  but  not  as  fast  as  her  mind  travels  to  terrible 
consequences.  Paul,  seated  on  the  bed  in  Mr.  Carter's  warm 
room,  hears  the  light  step  on  the  stair  in  wonder,  but  relights 
Peter's  pipe  and  reclines  lazily  to  enjoy  the  philosopher's  small- 
talk  and  gaze  at  him  through  half-closed  eyes.  Peter  is  in  what 
he  calls  undress  uniform,  his  shirt-sleeves  rolled  up,  while  his 
face  glistens  in  the  firelight  and  his  hair  stands  up  like  an  in- 
verted broom. 

"  It  is  just  the  time  me  lady  admirers  call  on  me,"  Peter  says, 
placidly  drawing  long  puffs  from  the  pipe ;  "  and,  strangely 
enough,  they  are  not  disenchanted  by  this  deshabille." 

"  You  do  not  look  much  worse  than  usual,"  says  fun-loving 
Paul.  And  at  that  moment  the  steps  outside  are  close  to  the 
door ;  there  is  a  knock,  and  close  upon  it  enters  Barbara,  in  her 
excitement  more  lovely  to  bewildered  Peter  than  she  has  ever 
been.  Both  men  jump  to  their  feet,  and  Peter  makes  a  desperate 
rush  for  his  best  coat. 

"  It  is  of  Florian  !  "  Barbara  cries  out,  exhausted.  "  He  is 
going  to  fight  a  duel  with  Count  Behrenski.  You  can  stop  it. 
You  can  save  him,  Mr.  Rossiter.  There  is  no  time  to  be  lost. 
There  is  the  count's  address,"  pushing  a  card  into  his  hand,  "and 
no  time  to  lose.  For  Florian's  sake  !  " 

Then  she  sinks  down  in  utter  helplessness  and  begins  to  sob 
weakly,  while  the  two  men  stand,  in  their  first  astonishment, 
looking  blankly  at  the  unexpected  vision. 

It  was  the  first  moment  of  pause  since  the  scene  between  the 
count  and  Florian.  Peter  slowly  grasped  the  meaning  of  her 
words,  and,  disgusted,  laid  down  his  coat,  thought  of  Frances, 
and  took  it  up  again ;  finally  put  it  on  with  a  vicious  jerk,  and 
glowered  with  determined  indifference  upon  the  weeping  beauty. 
The  poet  grasped  the  situation  almost  before  Barbara  spoke,  and 
he  stood  looking  down  at  her  without  much  pity,  and  with  a 
half-formed  resolution  not  to  interfere.  Better  thoughts,  and  the 
recollection  of  Frances,  and  of  the  hermit  too,  dismissed  that  un- 
formed hard-heartedness.  He  poured  a  few  drops  of  brandy  into 
a  glass  and  gave  it  to  her. 

"  Before  I  can  do  anything,"  said  he  gently,  "  I  must  know  in 
detail  what  has  happened  and  what  is  expected  of  me." 

Barbara  told  her  story  without  a  break. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  power  the  count  may  have  over  him/* 
Barbara  whimpered,  "  but  I  fear  it's  something  dreadfully  real.'* 

"  The  power  of  a  greater  divil  over  a  lesser,"  Peter  said  sourly. 
But  neither  noticed  the  words,  and  Paul  went  on  to  say  that  he 


348  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

thought  he  could  understand  it,  and  that  perhaps  a  duel  would 
be  less  fatal  than  the  interview  which  the  count  proposed. 

"  I  shall  take  your  carriage,"  said  he,  "  and  go  after  them, 
doing  what  I  can." 

Paul  had  not  a  great  sorrow  for  the  mess  into  which  Florian 
had  got  himself,  but  for  Frances*  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  the 
dead  prince,  and  partly  out  of  pity  for  Florian  himself,  he  felt 
anxious  to  prevent  the  revelations  which  the  count  might  pos- 
sibly make.  He  had  a  very  strong  suspicion  as  to  what  they 
might  be ;  nothing  certain,  but  even  the  possibility  was  dire 
enough  to  be  avoide'd. 

"  It  would  make  him  a  saint  or  drive  him  insane,"  was  the 
current  of  his  thoughts,  "  unless  he  is  made  of  material  alto- 
gether inhuman  " — words  that  had  a  curious  resemblance  to  Flo- 
rian's  quotation  while  on  the  island  :  "  That  way  madness  lies." 

The  poet  was  destined  to  be  late  in  his  charitable  mission. 
The  two  rivals  in  the  affections  of  Barbara  had  lost  no  time  in 
reaching  the  luxurious  quarters  of  the  count,  and  about  the  time 
when  Barbara  reached  Peter's  garret  a  momentous  conversa- 
tion had'  begun.  Each  raged  with  sincere  hatred  of  the  other, 
and  each  was  sufficiently  destitute  of  principle  to  use  any  means 
to  compass  the  other's  destruction.  The  successful  rival  saw  his 
success  smirched  and  befouled  by  his  jealous  opponent.  The 
count  could  not  forgive  the  deception  which  had  been  practised 
on  him,  and,  thoroughly  unscrupulous,  had  little  pity  for  the  de- 
ceiver. With  courage  and  bitterness  they  sat  down  to  their 
weighty  conversation.  The  count,  having  the  advantage,  could 
afford  to  be  slow  and  sarcastic. 

"  An  odd  change  this,"  he  said,  "  for  us  who  were  friends." 

"Spare  your  sentiment,"  Florian  replied,  "and  come  to  the 
point.  And  let  us  understand  each  other.  You  said  I  was  in 
your  po'wer,  and  you  used  that  assertion  to  intrude  yourself  on 
my  promised  wife.  I  do  not  think  the  first  true,  and  the  second 
merits  a  punishment  which  you  shall  certainly  receive — on  con- 
ditions." 

"A  capital  phrase — on  conditions,"  sneered  the  count. 
"  There  are  many  conditions,  then,  why  I  shall  never  receive 
the  merited  punishment.  First  of  all,  Madame  Merrion  is  clever. 
I  never  made  use  of  any  threats  to  induce  her  to  receive  me. 
She  has  permitted  my  visits,  secretly,  of  course,  since  you  for- 
bade her  the  pleasure  of  my  company.  At  my  instigation  she 
urged  you  to  make  an  attempt  to  regain  the  title  you  lately  sold. 
She  does  not  care  for  me  as  she  does  for  you,  I  know.  You  out 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  349 

of  the  way,  I  foresee  what  would  happen.  Of  course  I  have 
left  no  means  untried  to  put  you  out  of  the  way.  This  interview 
is  one  of  them.  It  is  my  trump  card." 

He  looked  into  Florian's  set  face  with  the  old,  gay,  devilish 
look  that  the  great  man  had  often  admired.  There  was  anything 
but  admiration  in  his  soul  then.  Even  the  count  awed  a  little 
under  the  intense  purpose  expressed  in  his  frowning  face. 

"  Your  father  is  dead,"  said  he  suddenly.  "  I  know  that,  you 
see,  and  also  who  did  it.  Have  you  never  suspected?" 

"  Your  spy,"  said  Florian,  with  a  shudder  and  a  groan. 

"  He  sent  the  bullet,"  the  count  said,  "obeying  in  that  an- 
other's will.  But  there  were  circumstances,  remote  and  proxi- 
mate, which  led  to  the  crime.  I  mean,  have  you  never  suspected 
them  f  " 

"  Is  that  the  secret  of  your  power?  "  asked  Fiorian,  shading 
his  face  for  an  instant  to  hide  its  contortions  of  pain  and  horror. 
His  voice  was  very  low  and'  quavering,  almost  pitiful.  From 
that  moment  until  the  count  had  finished  speaking  he  uttered  not 
a  word. 

"  Ah  !  you  do  suspect  it,"  said  the  count  wickedly,  "  and  you 
see  I  do  not  spare  you.  But  you  have  not  gone  into  the  secret 
so  deeply  as  I.  You  and  1,  my  Florian,  are  a  dangerous  and  bad 
pair.  The  prayers  of  your  father  and  my  mother  have  only 
made  us  worse,  and  it  is  lucky  that  our  faces  and  wills  are  set 
toward  the — well,  best  not  to  mention  it,  perhaps." 

Florian  said  nothing  when  he  paused.  He  was  listening  like 
one  in  a  terrible  dream  for  the  one  point  of  this  discourse  which 
concerned  him. 

"  I  will  do  you  the  honor  of  believing  that  had  you  foreseen 
the  circumstances  arising  from  your  manner  of  life  for  years 
past  you  would  have  changed  it.  I  would  not,  I  fear.  You 
might  not,  for  your  ambition  has  always  been  strong  enough  to 
blind  you  to  truth  and  right.  Pardon  me  for  moralizing,  but  I 
wish  you  to  understand  me  fully.  You  are  a  man  I  have  never 
trusted  since  I  knew  you,  and  never  could  trust.  Had  you  not 
dropped  your  faith  " — Florian  started  as  if  struck — "  to  become 
a  politician  it  would  have  been  different.  With  a  man  who  has 
once  been  a  firm  Catholic  it  is  dangerous  to  deal.  You  went 
looking  for  your  father ;  so  did  we.  You  were  afraid  to  find 
him  ;  we  were  also,  or  at  least  I  was,  for  I  foresaw  his  taking- 
off.  You  were  afraid  his  appearance  would  lose  to  you  the 
title-sale  money.  The  motives  of  each  of  us  compare  to  the 
son's  disadvantage,  do  they  not  ? " 


35o  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

It  was  of  little  use  for  Vladimir  to  fix  his  mocking-  eyes  on 
the  averted  face.  The  great  man,  face  to  face  with  the  spectre 
which  had  so  long  stood  at  his  side,  had  only  its  horrid  features 
in  his  gaze. 

"  Well,  you  begin  to  comprehend,  my  Florian  ;  you  begin  to 
recognize  your  own  soul  in  this  mirror  of  mine.  You  were  false 
to  a  son's  instincts  because  of  your  ambition  ;  you  were  false  to 
a  lover's  instincts  because  of  your  unprincipled  passion.  What 
folly  it  was  to  expect  you  would  be  faithful  to  your  friend  when 
he  stood  in  your  way  !  You  fooled  us  all  very  cunningly — alas  ! 
only  in  the  end  to  shame  yourself.  You  left  your  princely  father 
exposed  to  the  bullet  of  the  assassin  when  a  little  honesty  and 
patience  would  have  saved  him.  How  could  you  suppose  I,  the 
libertine,  the  unprincipled  one,  would  have  borne  your  insults  in 
quiet  ?  We  continued  to  look  for  the  father  you  deserted,  and 
we  found  him.  Your  ambition  left  him  exposed  to  our  fury. 
But  I  was  merciful.  I  had  no  taste  for  blood,  for  the  blood  of 
an  unfortunate,  a  countryman,  a  co-religionist,  my  friend's  father. 
I  would  have  saved  him  but  for  you." 

Again  the  great  man  started,  and  his  face,  hidden  from  the 
count,  was  twisted  shapeless  from  that  inward  agony.  The 
Russian's  face  had  assumed  a  stern,  malignant  expression  as  he 
bent  his  fierce  eyes  on  his  foe  and  sometime  friend.  The  last 
words  he  uttered  as  one  would  thrust  the  knife  into  a  man's 
heart. 

"  I  would  have  saved  him  but  for  you.  You  left  the  honored 
woman  whom  you  had  solemnly  promised  to  marry,  to  deprive  me 
of  the  one  woman  of  my  life — a  woman  far  below  your  standard, 
hypocritical  but  charming;  a  woman  to  further  your  ambitions, 
but  not  to  be  the  mother  of  Catholic  children.  As  your  desire 
for  money  exposed  your  father  to  danger,  so  your  desire  for  this 
woman  destroyed  him.  You  remember  that  day  which  revealed 
to  me  your  love  for  Barbara  Merrion — a  selfish,  cruel  love,  doing 
no  honor  even  to  her.  How  you  triumphed  over  me !  You 
sent  me  home  mad  !  I  shall  never  forget  that  day  on  which  I 
sealed  my  own  damnation,  if  there  be  damnation,  because  of  you! 
The  spy  had  found  your  father  !  What  shall  I  do  with  him  ?  he 
asked  ;  and  I  said,  Kill  him  !  " 

There  was  still  no  need  to  look  at  Florian,  now  plunged  into 
the  depths  of  shame  and  agony.  He  uttered  no  moan  even  !  Out- 
side there  was  a  roll  of  carriage-wheels,  and  presently  the  servant 
was  knocking  at  the  door  with  Paul's  card.  The  count  re,ad  it, 
and  upon  second  thought  declined  to  see  the  gentleman,  but  the 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  351 

poet  was  already  in  the  room  making  his  apologies.  One  look  at 
Florian  convinced  him  that  he  had  come  too  late. 

"  There  is  no  need  for  me  to  say  anything,  count,"  he  explain- 
ed, "  since  I  see  you  have  done  the  mischief  I  wished  to  prevent." 

The  Russian  smiled,  although  he  too  was  pale  from  emotion 
and — triumph.  He  rejoiced  in  his  success,  in  the  humiliation 
of  his  rival,  in  the  joy  of  once  more  possessing  Barbara,  even  if 
it  had  been  accomplished  through  a  dreadful  crime.  Low  as 
Florian  was,  he  was  yet  a  degree  lower.  He  whispered  his 
last  accusing  words  in  the  great  man's  ear  with  something  like 
a  laugh. 

"  The  bullet  of  Nicholas  slew  your  father,  and  I  permitted  it ; 
but  you — you — "  He  broke  off  abruptly  and  turned  to  Paul,  his 
hateful  feelings  almost  bursting  from  his  worn,  evil  face,  his  finger 
pointed  at  Florian. 

"  Behold  the  murderer  of  his  father  ! "  he  cried. 

Florian  rose  and  his  face  came  into  the  light.  A  dumb  animal 
would  have  pitied  its  woe,  and  the  poet  gave  a  cry  of  anger  and 
sorrow  which  the  politician  did  not  hear.  He  bowed  mechani- 
cally to  the  two  and  walked  out  gravely  and  steadily  as  a  man 
proudly  going  to  execution. 

"  If  I  were  his  friend,  sir,"  the  poet  said  in  his  simple, -truthful 
way,  "or  had  the  slightest  claim  upon  him,  I  would  feel  happy  in 
the  right  to  punish  you  for  what  you  have  done." 

"  Mr.  Rossiter,"  replied  the  Russian  courteously,  "  I  would  be 
sorry  if  you  had  a  claim.  He  deserves  no  pity.  It  will  do  him 
good,  the  knowledge  which  he  has  of  himself.  You  will  excuse 
me." 

He  offered  his  hand,  which  the  poet  did  not  take,  and  the 
look  which  he  cast  at  the  shapely  member,  as  if  he  saw  its  bloody 
stain,  brought  an  instant's  flush  to  the  brazen  cheek.  Paul  went 
out  to  his  carriage,  and  as  he  entered  it  he  heard  the  gay  voice  of 
Vladimir  humming  a  joyous  tune. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE   HIDDEN    LIFE. 


SMALL  consolation  Paul  had  for  Barbara  when  he  returned  to 
Peter's  attic,  Every  thought  flew  from  her  mind  but  one  when 
he  entered  in  a  thoughtful  yet  satisfied  mood. 

"  I  think  you  can  go  home,"  he  said,  "  and  give  yourself  no 
uneasiness.  There  will  be  no  duel — at  least  to-night.  The  gen- 


352  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

tlemen  were  excited  but  courteous,  as  far  as  I  could  discover. 
Florian  went  off,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him."  Her  countenance 
fell. 

"  Is  it  all  so  very  well?"  she  asked  dolefully.  "  Your  words  are 
doubtful." 

"  They  should  not  be,"  he  replied,  "  for  the  affair  between 
them  passed  off  in  rather  dull  style.  I  can  assure  you  there  will 
be  no  duel.  If  you  see  Mr.  Wallace  to-morrow  no  doubt  he  can 
explain  everything  to  your  satisfaction." 

"  I  must  be  satisfied,"  shaking  her  head  sadly,  while  the  tears 
began  to  fall.  "  Oh  !  what  a  wretched  woman  I  am,  and  to  know 
that  my  folly  has  caused  it  all." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  silent,  and  perhaps  unsympathetic. 
Her  empire  was  gone  in  more  than  one  quarter.  She  gave  Paul 
her  hand  and  asked  to  be  led  to  her  carriage.  Peter  held  the 
lamp  as  they  descended  the  stairs,  standing  in  stolid  dulness  like 
a  podgy  Fate,  while  his  butterfly  passed  out  of  the  circle  of  light 
into  the  lower  darkness — passed  out  of  his  life  altogether,  and  out 
of  the  life  of  every  one  with  whom  she  had  been  connected  in 
these  pages,  and  that,  too,  without  a  single  salute  from  the  gallant 
Bohemian  whom  she  had  so  often  deceived. 

" '  Fare  thee  well !  and  if  for  ever,  still  for  ever,  fare  thee  well/  ' 
hummed  Peter  in  mingled  sorrow  and  disdain.  "  Ye're  the  last 
woman  I'll  ever  bother  me  old  head  over.  The  world  is  no 
longer  Arcadia  or  Paradise.  Eve  is  still  the  betrayer  of  Adam. 
Oh !  the  groans  these  beauties  have  drawn  from  my  aching  heart. 
It's  not  aching  much  now,  though,  considering.  Is  she  gone, 
Paul,  b'y  ?  Has  the  fairy  taken  flight  ?  I'm  bowed  down  with 
grief  entirely  this  evening." 

"  She's  gone,"  said  Paul  thoughtfully  as  he  took  his  old  place 
on  the  bed,  while  Peter  resumed  his  undress  uniform. 

"  Gone  !  O  mournful  word !  Gone  out  of  my  life  for  ever- 
more, b'y.  I  did  adore  that  woman  in  a  Platonic  way ;  her 
smiles  alone  were  divinities,  and  her  eyes — it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  had  they  squinted  instead  o'  bein'  the  loveliest 
jewels  in  a  woman's  head.  Poor  thing !  if  she  had  a  heart,  and  I 
had  met  her  before  Maria  charmed  me  with  her  dignified  ways, 
who  knows  what  might  have  happened?  Who  knows?" 

Peter  went  off  into  a  reverie  while  speculating  on  the  might- 
have-been,  and  Paul,  diverted  from  annoying  thoughts  by  the 
picture  which  he  presented,  amused  himself  with  sketching  the 
poky  garret  and  its  odd  central  figure  wrapped  in  a  cloud  of 
smoke. 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  353 

"  Who  knows,"  mumbled  Peter — "  who  knows  ?  I  was  a  hand- 
some  fellow  once  before  my  nose  was  flattened  in  an  American 
duel — with  fists,  d'ye  see !  But  the  fellow  wore  copper  knuckles, 
I  could  swear.  Poor  little  treacherous  Barbara !  no  more  a  Cath- 
olic than  the  man  wid  a  gizzard.  Yet  a  sweet  soul,  if  she  wasn't 
so  deceivin'.  O  Peter,  old  b'y ! — no,  not  Peter,  but  Parker — ye 
are  forever  done  with  females  now,  until  ye  meet  the  sympathetic 
heart  ye  have  always  looked  for.  God  help  ye,  me  fine  old  gen- 
tleman !  it's  hard  lines  have  come  to  ye  at  last." 

To  this  melancholy  strain  Peter  mumbled  himself  asleep,  and 
the  poet,  leaving  him  to  struggle  with  a  ponderous  snore,  stole 
quietly  back  to  the  attic  on  the  opposite  street.  It  was  after  mid- 
night, and  yet  she  was  waiting  for  him  with  her  heart  in  her  eyes 
and  every  beat  of  it  sounding  Florian's  name.  She  did  not  need 
to  ask  him  for  his  information. 

"  I  am  troubled  for  his  sake  as  well  as  yours,"  he  said,  and 
the  kindly  words  brought  a  smile  to  her  lips.  "  He  has  heard 
what  I  threatened  to  tell  him,  from  no  very  gentle  lips,  and  he 
looked  when  he  left  us  as  if  his  heart  had  been  cruelly  wrung.  I 
do  not  know  if  the  truth  will  make  him  ill  or  bring  him  to  his 
senses.  It  is  better  that  you  should  not  know  it  yet.  I  shall 
watch  him  and  keep  guard  over  him  for  your  sake  and  his  father's 
until  any  possible  danger  is  passed." 

She  thanked  him  gently  and  went  to  her  own  room.  The 
poet  climbed  to  his  attic,  sadly  haunted  by  Florian's  despairing 
face. 

"  That  time  truth  struck  home,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  and 
pretty  sharply.  If  it  does  not  drive  him  to  any  extreme  it  may 
have  a  healthy  effect  on  him.  But  his  eyes  looked  bad." 

He  did  not  like  to  utter  the  thought  which  troubled  him. 
Florian's  mental  balance  was  remarkable,  but  the  events  of  a 
few  months  past  were  of  a  kind  to  shake  the  reason  of  strong 
souls. 

Neither  Florian  nor  Barbara  were  to  be  seen  the  next  day,  or 
the  day  after,  nor  the  third  day.  The  papers  had  a  curious 
rumor  then  of  the  sudden  departure  for  Europe  of  the  accom- 
plished Barbara  and  a  well-known  attache  of  the  Russian  em- 
bassy, but  Paul  would  not  believe  it  until  a  perfumed  note  in 
Barbara's  handwriting  reached  him.  Every  one  seemed  to  make 
him  their  confidant : 

DEAR  MR.  ROSSITER  : 

Try  to  believe  everything  people  say  of  me  in  the  next  two 
VOL.  XLII.— 23 


354  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec,, 

weeks.  My  word  for  it,  it  is  all  true.  I  was  married  to  Count 
Behrenski  this  morning1.  He  convinced  me  it  was  all  over  be- 
tween me  and  Florian ;  and  if  it  almost  broke  my  heart  to  know 
that,  it  did  not  cloud  my  senses  to  my  own  advantages.  I  am  a 
Russian,  at  all  events.  I  wish  you  luck  in  your  love-affair.  With 
the  count's  permission,  I  send  a  kiss  to  that  dearest  of  old  idiots, 
Mr.  Maria  De  Ponsonby  Lynch.  Au  revoir  ! 

BARBARA,  COUNTESS  BEHRENSKI. 

Paul  read  this  soberly  to  Peter,  who  received  it  with  his  ac- 
customed roar. 

"  Be  George,  b'y,  that's  good  now,  an't  it  ?  "  examining  the 
paper  critically.  "Maria  ought  to  see  it.  It  would  give  her  an 
idea  of  the  way  outsiders  look  at  her  treatment  of  me.  I'll  show 
it  to  her.  It's  a  fine  writer  ye  are,  Barbara.  Oh  !  the  dainty 
little  es  and  r's,  wid  curls  as  pretty  as  her  own.  Mr.  Maria  ! — ha ! 
ha!  but  that's  sharp,  now.  I  like  sharp  things.  An  old  idiot,  hey? 
What  the  divil  did  she  mean  by  that?  An  old  idiot!  Me,  P.  C. 
Lynch,  the  dearest  of  old  idiots  !  That  for  the  huzzy  !  "  snapping 
his  fingers  in  sudden  rage.  "An' if  that's  the  kind  of  company 
you  keep,  Paul  Rossiter,  who  vilify  your  friends  in  notes  and 
letters—" 

"  Now  see  here,  Peter,"  said  the  poet  impressively,  "  do  you 
mean  to  insinuate  that  in  calling  you  an  idiot  Barbara  did  not 
come  as  near  to  the  truth  about  you  as  any  one  can  come  ?  " 

"  Well,  may  be  so,"  growled  Peter  less  furiously,  "  but  I  don't 
like  to  see  such  things  in  writing.  It's  next  to  libel.  It's  all  well 
enough  in  words,  that  come  an'  go,  but  not  in  writing.  I'll  burn 
this." 

The  news  of  Mrs.  Merrion's  departure  in  the  r61e  of  countess, 
after  exciting  the  usual  wonder  of  the  town,  settled  out  of  sight. 
It  did  not  reflect  on  Florian,  whose  broken  engagement  to  the 
widow  was  not  known ;  and  still  it  would  have  mattered  little  to 
him,  under  present  circumstances,  if  that  disgrace  had  been  flung 
upon  him.  He  was  not  to  be  found  in  his  office  nor  in  his  board- 
ing-house, but,  with  his  usual  careful  foresight,  he  had  left  writ- 
ten instructions  for  his  clerk,  without  hinting  at  any  date  of 
return.  Paul  grew  more  and  more  uneasy  when  a  week  had 
passed  and  there  was  no  news  of  him.  Frances,  with  her  wistful 
eyes  and  a  dread  in  her  face  which  he  alone  understood,  came  to 
him  daily  for  information.  That  he  could  not  give  it  frightened 
both,  and  vainly  the  poet  cudgelled  his  brains  to  discover  some 
clue  to  Florian's  motives  for  suddenly  disappearing.  Had  he 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  355 

gone  to  the  island  ?     What  could  bring  him  there  in  the  early 
days  of  March  ?     If  he  were  repentant — 

a  There,  that  will  do,"  said  the  poet ;  "that's  not  a  sensible 
thought,  and  I  don't  know  as  I've  had  any  sensible  thoughts 
about  this  whole  matter.  I  think  I'll  turn  to  the  unexpected  for 
a  change." 

"  What  can  we  do?  "  was  Frances'  daily  cry. 
"  I  can  go  to  Clayburg,"  he  said,  almost  with  a  blush.     "  I 
have  a  silly  idea   that  perhaps  great  misfortune  has  made  him 
penitent,  and  he  has  gone  to  do  penance  over  his  father's  grave." 
"  That  is  it,"  said  Frances  eagerly.     "  I  knew  it  would  come 
to  that.     Mercy  is  not  beyond  him,  Paul.     Oh  !  go,  like  his  good 
angel." 

"  I  feel  it  is  a  nonsensical  thing  to  do,"  said  he,  u  but  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be  done.  And  if  I  find  him,  and  everything  should 
be  favorable,  what  could  we  say  to  him  about — well,  your  mother 
and  father,  for  instance  ?  " 

He  examined  the  paper  on  the  wall  attentively,  while  she 
looked  at  him  with  a  puzzled  face. 

"  If  he  is  safe,  that  is  enough,"  she  answered  simply. 
"  Well,  let  it  go,"  said  Paul,  smiling.     "  He  doesn't  care  very 
much  for  any  of  us,  I  fear,  much  as  we  are  interested  in  him. 
And,  Frank,  as  long  as  you  live  let  no  one  know  that  I  made 
myself  such  a  goose  for  your  sake  and  his  father's." 

The  poet  proposed  a  trip  to  Clayburg  that  evening  to  his 
friend  Carter  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  the  journalist's  company, 
and  Peter  received  it  with  enthusiasm. 

"  I'll  go  incog.,"  said  he,  "  arid  stop  at  the  hotel ;  and  when  I 
meet  Pendleton,  dearest  of  old  idiots  No.  2,  I'll  not  pay  him  the 
slightest  attention,  the  poor  old  simpleton  !  " 

"  That  suits  me  very  well,"  said  Paul.  "  I'll  travel  incog, 
also,  and  we'll  arrive  there  in  the  evening.  Next  day  we'll 
bloom  on  them  like  roses  or  turnips  in  the  snow." 

They  started  the  next  morning  and  went  by  way  of  Utica, 
reaching  their  destination  at  a  late  hour  of  the  evening,  when 
rheumatism  kept  the  sturdy  squire  in  his  warm  parlor.  Peter 
was  weary  enough  to  retire  to  bed  immediately  after  fitting  on 
a  nig-ht-cap  of  hot  punch,  and,  the  coast  thus  cleared,  Paul  went 
quietly  to  the  priest's  residence,  and  suffered  the  disappointment 
of  not  finding  him  at  home  ;  but  his  knowledge  of  the  people  of 
Clayburg  was  large  enough  to  make  this  mishap  a  trifle.  He 
found  a  close-mouthed  fisherman,  after  a  few  minutes'  search,  who 
for  a  reasonable  sum  agreed  not  only  to  take  him  to  Solitary 


356  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

Island,  but  also  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  about  it  until  eternity, 
and  the  journey  was  made  in  successful  secrecy.  Arrived  at  a 
spot  overlooking  the  well-known  cabin,  Paul  dismissed  his  guide 
and  crossed  the  ice  on  foot  to  the  opposite  shore.  It  was  now 
midnight.  The  lonely  island  lay  three  feet  beneath  the  snow,  and 
was  singularly  tranquil  under  the  dim  stars.  A  faint  wind  added 
to  the  gentle  loneliness,  and,  stirring  the  trees  on  the  hill,  brought 
Paul's  eyes  to  the  grave  beneath  them.  No  light  or  sign  of  hu- 
man presence  anywhere !  No  tracks  in  the  snow  save  his  own 
until  he  reached  the  cabin-door,  and  there  began  a  pathway 
which  led  down  the  slope  and  up  the  opposite  hill  to  the  grave — 
the  path  marked  out  by  the  funeral  procession !  Even  while  he 
looked  a  figure  came  staggering  from  the  grave  and  along  the 
path  to  where  he  stood— a  figure  stooped,  uncertain  in  its  gait, 
moaning  less  like  a  man  than  an  animal,  without  words  or  prayer, 
and  stopping  rarely  to  swing  its  arms  upwards  in  impotent 
despair.  Paul  trembled  with  dread,  and  the  tears  sprang  to  his 
eyes.  Was  he  to  find  the  mental  wreck  he  had  once  pictured  ? 
Florian  gave  no  sign  of  surprise  when  he  saw  him,  but  adopted 
at  once  his  usual  reserve.  He  was  not  insane. 

"  You  here  ?  "  he  said  calmly,  but  the  voice  quavered.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  were  there  that  night,  and  I  remember  you  said  you 
had  a  message  for  me.  Will  you  come  in,  if  you  care  to  ?  " 

A  cheerful  fire  burned  in  the  hearth  of  the  single  room,  and 
the  tallow  candle  showed  Izaak  Walton  in  his  usual  place, 
with  every  other  circumstance  of  the  room  undisturbed.  Paul 
said  nothing  until  he  had  scanned  his  old  friend  keenly.  The 
great  man  sat  down  before  the  fire  placidly  and  submitted  to  the 
inspection  with  an  indifference  so  like  his  father's  own  that  Paul 
drew  a  breath  of  delight.  In  ten  days  he  had  changed  wofully. 
His  clothes  hung  upon  shrunken  limbs,  and  his  face  was  wasted 
to  a  painful  hollowness.  Hollow  cheeks,  hollow,  burning  eyes, 
and  wide  nostrils  !  The  hand  which  rested  on  the  favorite  book 
showed  its  cords  and  veins,  the  shoulders  were  rounded,  and 
his  whole  attitude  one  of  physical  exhaustion.  The  tears  again 
sprang  to  the  poet's  eyes.  Here  was  a  penitent  surely,  and  there 
was  something  boyish  or  childish  about  him  that  appealed  to  the 
heart  wonderfully,  as  if  misfortune  had  stripped  him  of  all  the 
years  since  he  was  a  boy,  and  of  all  his  blushing  honors. 

"  I  have  a  message  for  you,"  the  poet  said,  "  but,  with  your 
permission,  I'll  put  it  off  till  to-morrow.  I  am  going  to  remain 
here  for  to-night,  with  your  permission  also.'* 

"  Oh  !  certainly,"  Florian  replied  in  the  same  uncertain  voice ; 


188$.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  357 

"  there  is  a  good  room  yonder  where  he  slept.    You  can  have  the 
bed.     Have  you  had  supper?  " 

"  I  would  like  something  to  eat,"  the  poet  said  out  of  curi- 
osity. In  a  shambling,  shuffling  way  Florian  took  down  a  loaf  of 
bread  from  the  cupboard,  poured  some  water  into  a  cup,  and  sat 
down  again  without  any  apology  for  the  scanty  fare — just  as  his 
father  would  have  done.  Paul  ate  a  slice  or  two  of  the  bread 
and  drank  the  water,  while  a  pleasant  silence  held  the  room.  He 
did  not  know  how  to  open  a  conversation. 

"  This  was  his  favorite  book,"  said  he,  touching  Izaak  Walton 
tenderly.  "  I  remember  often  to  have  seen  him  reading  it  in  this 
room." 

"  Yes,"  said  Florian,  with  interest,  "  and  it  is  one  of  my  earliest 
memories  of  him.  I  was  very  unfortunate  in  not  knowing  more  of 
him.  The  world  fooled  me  out  of  that  treasure — and  of  many 
another,"  he  added,  partly  to  himself.  Paul  was  surprised  more 
and  more.  This  pleasant,  natural  manner  of  speaking  offered  an 
odd  contrast  to  his  woebegone  looks.  It  was  something  like  the 
Florian  of  years  past.  He  deliberated  whether  it  would  not  be 
better  to  defer  his  communication  until  he  understood  his  mo- 
tives better. 

"  I  came  from  New  York  to-night,"  he  ventured  to  say.  "  I 
was  anxious  about  you,  and  so  were  others." 

"  There  was  no  need  to  be  anxious,"  said  Florian  cheerfully. 
"  I  am  quite  happy  here.  It  is  a  pleasant  residence  winter  and 
summer.  I  shall  never  regret  the  city,  which  will  certainly  not 
regret  me." 

"  You  may  not  have  heard  of  Mrs.  Merrion,"  Paul  remarked 
helplessly,  so  astounded  was  he  by  the  last  remark. 

"  No,"  said  the  other  without  curiosity.  "  Some  scandal  con- 
nected with  a  Count  Behrenski,  probably." 

"  No.  She  married  him  and  went  to  Europe  last  week  quiet- 
ly." And  after  that  the  poet  said  no  more,  for  he  was  in  a  maze 
and  knew  not  what  to  think  or  do. 

"  I  shall  retire  now,  with  your  permission,  Florian,"  he  said 
finally,  using  the  old  familiar  name.  "  I  hope  I  am  not  troubling 
you  too  much  or  driving  you  from  your  own  bed." 

"  Not  at  all,  Rossiter,  not  at  all.  I  never  sleep  there.  Good- 
night; and  if  you  should  not  find  me  in  the  morning  have  no  un- 
easiness. I  shall  turn  up  again  assuredly." 

Paul  fell  asleep  without  settling  the  vexed  questions  which 
Florian's  odd  manner  and  words  suggested.  The  great  man,  left 
to  himself,  behaved  in  a  simple,  matter-of-fact  fashion  at  once 


358  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

pathetic  and  amusing.  He  snuffed  the  candle  with  a  face  as 
earnest  as  if  snuffing  candles  was  the  one  duty  of  his  life,  put 
away  the  remnants  of  Paul's  supper  carefully  after  washing  the 
cup  and  drying  it  neatly,  stirred  the  fire,  opened  much-handled 
Izaak,  and  settled  himself  for  a  quiet  hour's  reading.  Ten  days 
had  fixed  him  in  the  solitary's  groove  as  firmly  as  if  he  had  been 
in  it  for  years.  On  the  night  of  Vladimir's  revelations  he  had 
driven  to  his  own  apartments  in  a  state  of  mind  not  to  be  de- 
scribed. He  had  long  suspected  his  own  share  in  his  father's 
death,  but  the  lurid  color  in  which  Vladimir  painted  his  guilt 
was  a  fearful  shock  to  him.  He  fled  from  the  count  in  a  sort  of 
daze  which  his  firm  will  could  not  dispel,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
that  madness  or  delirium  was  prevented  only  by  the  persistency 
with  which  he  beat  off  the  tumultuous  thoughts  that  crowded 
upon  him.  His  grand  self-possession  was  entirely  gone.  The 
life  which  he  had  led,  the  ambitions  which  he  had  cherished,  the 
woman  whom  he  had  loved,  all  circumstances  connected  with  his 
father's  death,  filled  him  with  wild  horror  when  he  recalled  them. 
He  could  not  think  of  anything  with  method.  He  could  only 
feel,  and  his  feelings  threatened  to  drive  him  into  insanity,  so 
sharp,  so  bitter  were  they,  so  confused  yet  active.  It  was  instinct 
more  than  reason  which  sent  him  to  Solitary  Island.  It  was  a 
mechanical  effort  of  the  will  which  produced  the  instructions  for 
his  clerk;  but  once  on  the  journey,  with  people  moving  about 
him,  and  scene  after  scene  bringing  peace  to  his  distracted  mind, 
Florian  was  able  to  cry  like  a  child  hour  by  hour  of  his  sorrow- 
ful flight.  He  scarcely  knew  why  he  wept,  unless  to  ease  the 
burden  pressing  upon  his  heart,  which  seemed  to  flow  away  with 
his  tears.  Like  Paul,  he  reached  Clayburg  in  the  night,  and  un- 
seen fled  away  on  foot  across  the  ice  over  the  well-known  course 
which 'he  and  Ruth  and  Linda  had  often  taken  in  the  yacht ;  past 
Round  Island  with  a  single  light  for  the  ice-waste,  leaving  Grind- 
stone to  the  left  as  he  ran  along  the  narrow  strait  with  two  islands 
rising  on  each  side  of  him  like  the  walls  of  a  coffin ;  through  the 
woods  to  the  spot  overlooking  the  old  cabin ;  across  the  bay  and 
up  the  slope  to  the  lonely  grave  on  the  summit,  where  he  cast 
himself  with  a  long,  sad  cry  of  grief  and  despair. 

Five  days  passed  before  anything  like  calm  and  systematic 
thought  returned  to  him.  One  idea  stood  before  him  like  an  in- 
habitant of  the  island,  with  a  personality  of  its  own— the  words 
of  the  count:  "  Behold  the  murderer  of  his  father!  "  He  mut- 
tered those  accusing  words  many  times  in  the  day  and  night, 
sitting  on  the  grave,  regardless  of  the  cold,  and  whispering  them 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  359 

to  himself;  weeping,  sobbing-,  raving,  moaning,,  silent  by  times, 
as  the  fit  took  him  ;  never  sleeping  two  hours  at  a  time  ;  haunted 
always  by  a  dreadful  fear  of  divine  or  human  vengeance.  Phan- 
toms of  past  incidents  and  people  were  floating  around  him  sleep- 
ing and  waking,  causing  him  constant  alarm.  Even  the  sweet 
face  of  Linda  frowned  upon  him,  and  that  was  hardest  of  all  to 
bear.  At  the  close  of  the  fifth  day  his  delirium  suddenly  left  him 
and  he  enjoyed  a  long  and  refreshing  sleep.  When  he  woke  the 
hideous  nightmare  of  sorrow  and  remorse  and  dread  had  van- 
ished. He  was  himself  again,  but  not  the  self  which  had  fled 
from  New  York  to  hide  its  anguish  in  the  icy  solitude.  There  was 
another  Florian  born  of  that  long  travail,  and  a  better  Florian 
than  the  world  had  yet  known.  He  was  not  aware  of  any  change. 
He  had  lost  his  habit  of  self-consciousness,  and  he  was  to  be- 
come aware  of  what  was  working  within  him  only  when  others 
pointed  it  out  to  him.  Kneeling  in  the  snow  at  the  foot  of  the 
grave,  he  said  his  morning  prayers,  promising  the  father  of  his 
love  that  never  again  would  he  have  occasion  to  grieve  for  him, 
and  that  what  man  could  do  to  atone  for  murder  he,  with  the 
help  of  God,  would  do.  His  breakfast  he  made  on  fresh  fish 
and  meal  found  in  the  larder,  travelling  many  miles  that  day  in 
the  snow  to  obtain  flour  and  meal  and  necessaries  at  a  distant 
village.  He  was  very  weak,  but  it  troubled  him  not  at  all.  He 
had  no  regard  for  his  own  sufferings,  so  firmly  were  his  eyes 
fixed  on  the  martyrdom  his  father  endured  for  his  sake.  Every 
available  moment  found  him  at  the  grave  in  deep  thought  or 
prayer.  The  priest  of  an  obscure  village  heard  with  wonder  his 
strange  confession  rof  ten  years  of  life,  marvelling  what  manner 
of  man  this  man  could  be;  and  his  communion  was  simple  and 
fervent,  as  became  a  penitent.  Thus  began  the  eighth  day,  and 
at  its  close  he  was  sitting  calmly  before  the  log-fire  in  the  kitchen, 
and  Izaak  Walton  was  in  his  hands,  with  the  famous  paper  lying 
open  before  him.  He  had  placed  it  between  the  leaves  and  for- 
gotten it  during  the  time  he  remained  on  the  island  after  his  fa- 
ther's funeral.  He  read  it  again  with  a  better  insight  into  the 
contrast  it  afforded  with  his  political  career.  Scarcely  a  line  in 
the  statement  but  he  had  openly  or  implicitly  contradicted 
within  ten  years,  and  the  ideal  of  Christian  manhood  penned  by 
a  boy  had  been  lost  to  the  maturer  mind  of  the  man.  He  put 
it  away  carefully,  and  in  so  doing  noticed  the  famous  campaign 
letter  which  he  had  once  thought  an  evidence  of  his  liberal  feel- 
ings and  his  independence  of  Italian  church  domination.  It  hung 
in  a  frame,  and  must  often  have  pierced  his  father's  heart  with  its 


360  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

uncatholic  sentiments.  He  did  not  disturb  it.  Much  as  it  had 
increased  his  father's  anguish,  it  must  complete  another  work 
before  its  usefulness  was  ended. 

What  was  he  going  to  do  ?  His  period  of  uncontrolled  grief 
was  over  and  his  long  penance  begun.  Where  was  it  to  end  ? 
He  had  many  injuries  to  repair — his  scandalous  life,  his  rejection 
'of  Frances,  his  treatment  of  all  his  friends.  Not  for  one  moment 
did  he  think  of  returning  to  New  York  or  to  public  life.  He 
saw  clearly  the  precipice  from  which  Providence,  by  means  of 
great  misfortunes,  had  snatched  him.  He  had  entered  the  great 
city  a  pure-hearted  boy  to  whom  sin  was  almost  unknown, 
whose  one  desire  was  to  preserve  the  faith,  in  spirit  and  in  word, 
incorrupt  in  himself.  How  gradually  and  how  surely  he  fell ! 
Careless  intercourse  with  all  sorts  of  people  and  the  careless 
reading  of  all  sorts  of  books,  with  the  adoption  of  all  sorts  of 
theories  and  ideas,  brought  upon  him  an  intellectual  sensuality 
only  too  common  and  too  little  noticed  in  the  world.  Then  came 
the  loose  thought  and  the  loose  glance  and  the  loose  word,  the 
more  than  indifferent  companions,  the  dangerous  witticism,  the 
state  which  weakened  faith  and  practice  and  prepared  the  soul 
for  its  plunge  into  the  mud.  Thank  God  !  he  had  escaped  the 
mud,  at  least.  But  who  had  saved  him  ?  And  was  he  to  go  back 
to  it  all  ?  "  There  are  some  men  whom  politics  will  damn." 
Wise  words  for  him,  at  whom  they  seemed  to  point.  What  was 
he  to  do  ?  He  thought  over  it  that  night  and  the  next  morn- 
ing. His  resolution  formed  itself  slowly  ;  finally  it  was  made. 
He  would  take  his  father's  place  on  the  island,  and  remain 
there  until  death  released  him  from  his  penance.  Was  it  a  hard 
thing  to  do?  No,  he  said,  not  with  the  graves  of  father  and 
sister  so  near  him.  And  thus  was  he  situated  when  Paul  found 
him. 

The  poet  made  his  morning  meal  in  silence  and  constraint. 
It  reminded  him  forcibly  of  many  meals  he  had  eaten  in  the 
same  room  while  sharing  the  hermit's  hospitality.  The  circum- 
stances were  little  changed.  Although  the  day  was  cold,  the  sun 
shone  through  the  red-curtained  window  with  a  summer  bright- 
ness, the  log-fire  glowed  in  the  hearth,  the  savory  smell  of  broiled 
fish  pervaded  the  little  room,  and  Florian,  a  wonderful  likeness 
of  his  father,  sat  eating  sparingly,  silent  but  not  gloomy,  save 
for  the  sad  shadows  occasionally  flitting  over  his  face.  The  con- 
trast between  the  placid  manner  and  the  feverish  countenance 
was  odd,  but  not  so  forcible  as  the  difference  between  this  silent 
man  and  the  ambitious  politician.  Paul  gave  up  speculation  as  a 


i88s.J  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  361 

hopeless  task,  and,  rightly  judging  his  present  temper,  plunged 
abruptly  into  the  matter  of  his  visit. 

"  You  may  be  aware  of  the  circumstances  which  led  to  my 
stay  on  Solitary  Island,"  said  he  for  a  beginning.  Florian  re- 
garded him  placidly,  without  a  trace  of  the  old  feeling  in  his 
looks.  Paul  thought  it  pretence  ;  but  it  was  real.  The  great 
man  had  no  feeling  towards  him. 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  them,"  he  replied. 

u  Strangely  enough,  our  resemblance  was  the  cause  of  it,"  said 
Paul.  "  The  spy  who  pursued  you  because  of  your  resemblance 
to  your  own  family  pursued  me  for  the  same  reason,  drove  me 
out  of  all  employment,  and,  with  the  aid  of  injudicious  friends, 
brought  me  to  the  verge  of  poverty  and  death.  Not  far  from 
this  island  a  deliberate  attempt  was  made  to  murder  me.  Your 
father  saved  me,  and,  for  reasons  quite  plain  to  us  both,  took  me 
in  and  earned  my  everlasting  gratitude  for  himself  and  his  son." 

A  faint  flush  spread  over  Florian's  face  in  the  pause  that  fol- 
lowed. 

"  I  must  ask  your  pardon,"  he  said  humbly,  "  for  my  guilty 
share  in  your  sufferings.  I  was  your  friend,  and  should  have 
aided  you  ;  but  I  was  led  to  believe  you  stood  between  me  and 
Ruth,  and  again  between  me  and  Frances  Lynch.  I  was  glad 
you  suffered.  I  regret  it  sincerely  now.  I  trust  you  will  forgive 
me." 

It  was  the  poet's  turn  to  blush  furiously  at  this  humility. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  he.  "  Peter  Carter  was  the  cause  of 
all  these  troubles.  You  are  not  to  blame.  I  am  not  sorry  for 
them.  They  brought  me  in  contact  with  your  father." 

"  And  I  hated  you  for  that,"  Florian  went  on  in  the  same 
tone, "  because  your  worthiness  won  a  privilege  which  my  crimes 
deprived  me  of.  I  spoke  to  you  once  under  that  impression  in  a 
manner  most  insulting.  I  ask — " 

"  Hold  on  ! "  said  Paul,  jumping  to  his  feet  with  a  red  face. 
"  No  more  of  that,  Florian.  I  cannot  stand  it.  If  you  are  really 
sincere  in  this  awful  change  that  has  come  over  you,  keep  your 
apologies  for  Frances  and  others.  But  I  do  not  understand  it. 
I  expected  something  like  this,  but  not  so  complete  and  astound- 
ing a  revolution." 

Florian  offered  no  remonstrance  to  this  blunt  suspicion,  but 
after  a  little  pointed  out  to  the  grave  with  such  a  look  in  his 
face  !  then  back  to  himself. 

"  '  Behold  the  murderer  of  his  father,'  "  he  said  in  a  sudden 
burst  of  wild  sobs,  as  he  repeated  the  count's  telling  words.  "  If 


362  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Dec., 

I  could  apologize  to  him  as  I  do  to  you,  my  friend,  as  I  shall  do 
to  all  the  others  !  Alas  !  what  humiliation  is  there  greater  than 
that  ?  " 

"  He's  on  the  right  tack,"  said  the  satisfied  poet,  wiping  his 
eyes  in  sympathy  and  thinking  joyfully  of  Frances. 

"  It's  all  cleared  up  between  us,  then,  Flory,"  said  he  cheer- 
fully, as  he  clasped  the  great  man's  hand.  "  My  business  is  made 
the  easier  for  that,  and  it  will  send  me  back  to  New  York  with  a 
light  heart.  Come,  I  have  some  spots  of  interest  to  show  you 
about  the  old  house.  Your  father  loved  me,  Flory.  How  proud 
I  am  of  that  honor!  But,  ah  !  not  as  he  loved  you,  his  son.  I 
was  his  confidant  in  many  things,  and  I  have  the  secret  of  his  life 
and  the  explanation  of  its  oddities.  Flory,  your  father  was  a 
saint,  of  princely  soul  as  well  as  princely  birth." 

He  lifted  a  trap-door  in  the  floor  of  the  bed-room,  and  led  the 
way,  holding  a  lighted  candle,  into  the  cellar. 

"  It  is  not  a  cellar,"  he  explained,  flashing  the  light  on  the 
rocky  walls,  "  but  a  cave.  Here  is  a  door  concealed  in  the  rock 
very  nicely.  We  open  it  so.  Now  enter,  and  here  we  are." 

They  could  hear  the  sound  of  running  water  in  the  cave,  but 
Florian  paid  it  no  attention.  His  eyes  were  fastened  on  the  new 
discovery.  A  set  of  rude  shelves  took  up  one  whole  side  of  an 
almost  square  room,  and  was  thickly  crowded  with  books. 
Their  general  character  was  devotional  and  mystical,  but  the 
classics  were  well  represented,  and  astronomy  and  philosophy 
had  the  choicest  volumes.  A  rough  desk  below  contained  a 
wooden  carved  crucifix,  a  few  bits  of  manuscript,  and  writing 
materials.  From  a  peg  in  its  side  hung  a  leather  discipline, 
whose  thongs  were  tipped  with  fine  iron  points.  A  few  sacred 
prints  hung  on  the  walls.  Florian  knelt  and  kissed  first  the  cru- 
cifix and  then  the  discipline. 

"  This  spot,"  said  Paul  reverently,  "  is  a  secret  to  all  save  you 
and  me.  When  I  first  came  here,  broken  down  and  disheartened 
— it  seems  a  beautiful  and  fit  sanctuary  for  the  disheartened — I 
was  sincerely  disposed  to  lean  more  heavily  on  God  for  the  sup- 
port I  needed.  After  a  little  the  prince  took  me  into  his  spirit- 
ual confidence,  and  I  beheld  such  a  sight  " — the  tears  of  emotion 
poured  from  his  eyes — "  as  I  had  never  dreamed  of  seeing  this 
side  of  heaven.  Long  meditations  and  prayers,  mortifications 
such  as  that  discipline  hints  at,  unbounded  charity  for  all  men,  are 
virtues  common  to  all  the  saints.  They  did  not  impress  me  as 
did  the  glimpses  of  his  soul  which  I  received.  Ah  !  such  an 
overpowering  love  of  God.  It  seemed  to  burn  within  him  like  a 


1885.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  363 

real  flame,  and  to  illuminate  the  space  about  him  as  does  this 
candle.  I  would  have  feared  him  but  for  the  love  and  strength 
these  very  qualities  gave  me.  I  knelt  here  with  him  often,  and 
when  I  was  strong  enough  tried  to  stay  by  him  in  his  vigils.  I 
know  the  angels  often  came  to  him  visibly.  I  saw  wonders  here 
and  dreamed  real  dreams.  It  was  a  vision  of  the  ancient  The- 
baid.  And  no  one  knew  it  save  myself.  Who  would  have  be- 
lieved it  had  they  not  seen  what  I  saw?" 

"  Blind,  blind,  blind  !  "  murmured  Florian.  "  We  all  caught 
glimpses  of  his  glory,  but  our  love  was  not  as  sharp  as  hate,  and 
our  souls  too  low  to  look  for  such  a  manifestation  of  grace.  My 
sin  is  all  the  greater." 

"  The  last  time  I  saw  him,"  continued  Paul,  "  was  in  this  spot, 
kneeling  where  you  are  kneeling.  He  had  a  premonition  of  his 
coming  passion,  but  it  was  lightened  by  the  conviction — perhaps 
it  had  been  revealed  to  him — that  out  of  it  would  come  your 
salvation.  '  Tell  my  son/  he  said,  '  that  I  died  because  of  him.'  ' 

" '  Behold  the  murderer  of  his  father,'  "  Florian  murmured  to 
himself. 

"  '  Tell  him  also  not  to  despair,  but  with  a  good  heart,  and 
without  haste  or  great  grief  for  anything  save  for  his  sins,  to  be- 
gin his  penance.'  You  see  he  knew  ;  and  when  I  asked  him  if  he 
were  about  to  die,  '  God  holds  all  our  days/  said  he  ;  '  who  knows 
but  this  may  be  our  last?  '  I  never  saw  him  again  in  life.  God 
rest  his  soul,  if  it  has  suffered  any  delay  !  " 

There  was  again  a  short  pause  as  Paul  waited  to  review  that 
last  scene  and  to  recall  the  tones,  the  feelings,  the  incidents  of  a 
most  pathetic  moment.  Florian  still  knelt  at  the  desk  with  his 
fingers  about  the  discipline. 

"  Well,  it  is  all  over,"  he  said  to  the  kneeling  figure;  "  let  us 
go.  You  notice  the  dry  air  of  the  cave.  It  is  beautifully  ven- 
tilated and  very  safe  for  such  a  place.  Your  father  loved  it. 
Come,  my  friend.  Or  do  you  wish  to  remain  here  ?  " 

Florian  rose  and  they  returned  to  the  room  above. 

"  I  have  finished  my  work — almost,"  said  the  poet,  putting  on 
his  hat,  "  and  now  I  am  going.  Can  I  be  of  any  help  to  you  ?  " 

"  My  father's  friend  and  mine,"  Florian  replied,  "  I  have  need 
only  of  your  pardon  and  the  renewal  of  that  affection  you  once 
had  for  me." 

"  And  never  lost,  my  Florian.  You  have  it  still,  and  the  par- 
don which  is  always  yours  beforehand.  After  a  little  you  will 
return  to  New  York  ?  " 

"  Yes,  after  a  little,"  he  replied  slowly,  "  but  not  to  remain, 


364  TRANSLATIONS.  [Dec., 

Here  is  my  home  in  the  future.  I  have  my  business  to  close  up 
and  a  great  act  of  justice  to  perform.  After  that  my  solitude." 

It  was  on  the  poet's  lips  to  dissuade  him  from  so  extravagant 
a  course,  but  he  thought  better  of  it  and  said  nothing,  preferring 
to  leave  so  delicate  and  dangerous  a  matter  to  time  and  the  good 
providence  of  God.  Florian  walked  out  with  him  as  far  as  the 
opposite  shore,  a  smile  of  joy  lighting  up  oddly  the  sad  lines  of 
his  face.  He  seemed,  however,  singularly  destitute  of  the  power 
of  self-reflection.  His  thoughts  were  ever  fixed  on  what  he  had 
seen  and  heard  of  his  father,  without  much  attention  to  their 
effect  on  himself.  He  was  smiling,  not  for  joy,  but  in  obedience 
to  some  hidden  impulse  which  he  did  not  think  of  analyzing. 

"  Why  do  you  look  so  pleased  ?  "  said  the  poet  to  him. 

"  Do  I  look  pleased?"  he  asked,  with  a  puzzled  expression 
which  silenced  the  poet.  They  parted  at  the  entrance  to  the 
woods. 

"  Until  I  see  you  again,"  said  the  poet,  clasping  his  hand. 


TO   BE  CONTINUED. 


TRANSLATIONS. 

THE  WALTZ. 

FROM  THE  GERMAN  OF   J.   G.   SEIDL. 

LIGHTS  are  gleaming,  viols  throbbing, 
Lo  !  the  dance  sweeps  on  amain, 

Swaying,  surging,  undulating; 

Pleasure  bounds  with  loosened  rein. 

Love-lit  eyes  are  flashing  glances  ; 

Music  with  her  siren  art 
Weaves  her  subtle  spells  of  magic, 

Stirs  the  pulses  of  the  heart. 

And  the  air  is  faint  and  weary  ; 

Windows  are  flung  open  now, 
Breezes  of  the  night  stream  inward, 

And  they  cool  the  heated  brow. 


1 885 .]  TRANSLA  TIONS.  365 

By  the  open  window  standing, 

All  unnoticed  and  unseen, 
Much  I  marvelled,  much  I  pondered,  ^j 

As  I  gazed  upon  the  scene. 

Through  the  room  a  new  waltz  pealeth, 

Joyous,  sad,  and  sweet  by  times, 
With  its  cadences  commingling 

Hark !  a  bell's  sonorous  chimes  ; 

Till  the  harmony  entrancing 

Thrills  with  rapturous  delight, 
And  the  tumult  rolls  more  wildly 

Forth  upon  the  star-lit  night. 

Hushed  at  length  are  flute  and  viol, 
Hushed  all  save  that  solemn  clang — 

'  Twas  a  funeral  bell  that,  tolling, 
Through  the  open  window  rang  ! 


CHILDHOOD. 

FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  VICTOR  HUGO. 
I. 

The  child  sang  gaily :  on  her  dying  bed 
The  pain-worn  mother,  pale  as  marble,  lay  ; 

Death's  shadow  floated  hovering  o'er  her  head, 
And  still  the  child  sang  on,  nor  ceased  his  play. 

II. 

Five  summers  old  the  child ;  he  stood  among 
His  toys  and  playthings  in  the  window's  light, 

And  laughed  and  carolled  blithely  all  day  long, 

While  coughed  his  dying  mother  through  the  night. 

III. 

Beneath  the  churchyard  stone  they  laid  her  low  ; 

Still  sang  the  child,  nor  recked  of  grief  or  care — 
Sorrow  's  a  fruit  God  suffers  not  to  grow 

Upon  a  stem  too  frail  its  weight  to  bear. 


366  T RAN  SLA  TIONS.  [Dec., 

IMMORTALITY. 

FROM  THE  ITALIAN  OF  G.  PRATI. 
I. 

I  noted  a  little  maid  who  stood 

Beside  her  cottage  door ; 
A  wistful,  sad,  expectant  look 
.    Her  tender  features  wore. 
"  How  comes  it,  pretty  one,"  I  said, 

"  I  see  thee  every  day 
Stand  at  thy  cottage  door  and  gaze 

Into  the  far-away  ?  " 

II. 
"  And  can  it  be  you  do  not  know 

That,  since  my  mother  died, 
I  stand  a  while  each  day  and  wait 

My  cottage  door  beside  ? 
Four  years,  as  I  remember  well, 

Have  passed  away  since  then, 
And  they  who  bore  her  forth  told  me 

She  would  come  back  again." 

III. 
"  Alas  !  poor  child,"  I  sadly  said, 

And  tears  were  in  my  eyes, 
"  None  ever  yet  has  aught  beheld 

Return  to  earth  that  dies." 
"  Oh !  yes,  within  my  garden  plot," 

She  answered  smilingly, 
"  The  flowers  come  back  in  spring  ;  the  stars 

Return — and  so  will  she." 

A  FABLE. 

FROM  THE  SPANISH  OF  SAMAN1EGO. 

Standing  one  day  a  pool  beside, 

Thus  spake  Sir  Goose  in  conscious  pride : 

"  What  animal  than  I  more  blest  ? 

More  gifts  are  mine  than  all  the  rest : 

I  am  of  water,  earth,  and  sky  ; 

If  tired  of  walking  I  can  fly ; 

Or  if  at  any  time  the  whim 

Perchance  shpuld  seize  me,  I  can  swim." 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  367 

A  Serpent,  listening  in  the  brake, 

In  accents  sibilant  thus  spake : 

"  Sir  Goose  !  I  cannot  boast  as  you, 

I  cannot  fly  as  falcons  do, 

As  deer  I'm  not  so  fleet  of  limb, 

Nor  can  I  like  the  barbel  swim ; 

But — pray  take  not  my  words  amiss — 

True  excellence  consists  in  this : 

Rather  in  doing  one  thing  well, 

Than  many  things  in  doing  ill." 


CARDINAL  McCLOSKEY,  ARCHBISHOP  OF  NEW 

YORK. 

THOSE  who  read  New  York  newspapers  have  already  been 
fully  informed  respecting  the  principal  events  in  the  life  of  the  late 
Cardinal  of  New  York,  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  and  the 
honors  paid  to  his  memory  by  funeral  obsequies  and  spontaneous 
manifestations  of  popular  feeling.  We  do  not,  therefore,  expect 
to  present  to  this  portion  of  the  public  anything  of  new  interest. 
But  for  more  distant  readers,  in.  this  and  in  foreign  countries,  and 
to  preserve  a  more  permanent  memorial  which  may  be  valuable 
until  a  biography  shall  appear,  we  undertake  to  give  a  sketch  of 
the  life  and  character  of  the  illustrious  subject,  which,  though 
necessarily  succinct,  shall  be  accurate  and  trustworthy,  together 
with  some  reminiscences  of  the  adjacent  scenes  and  persons  with 
which  his  career  was  associated. 

The  spacious  and  beautiful  cathedral  of  white  marble,  with 
the  adjoining  episcopal  mansion  and  the  presbytery,  situated  in 
one  of  the  finest  parts  of  the  city,  make  an  architectural  group 
in  grandeur  and  dignity  worthy  of  the  great  metropolitan  see 
and  the  great  city  of  New  York,  which  is  actually  the  metropolis 
of  the  United  States. 

The  first  cathedral  church  of  St.  Patrick,  now  a  parish  church, 
built  during  the  early  part  of  this  century,  and  rebuilt  in  part 
after  a  fire  which  destroyed  all  except  its  walls  in  1866,  although 
in  itself  a  fine  and  imposing  edifice,  is  placed  amid  very  different 
surroundings.  These  are  and  always  have  been  those  of  a  very 
poor  and  mean  quarter  of  the  city.  The  removal  to  a  different 
locality  was  certainly  fitting  and  desirable  in  every  way.  Yet 


368  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  [Dec., 

we  cannot  help  thinking  that  the  position  of  the  first  bishops  of 
New  York,  like  that  of  the  first  popes  in  the  Catacombs,  had 
something  in  it  most  expressive  of  the  original,  characteristic 
mission  of  the  apostles  and  their  successors,  to  plant  the  church 
of  Christ  amid  the  poor  and  miserable  habitations  of  those  to 
whom  especially  the  Gospel  is  preached,  and  who  have  always 
best  appreciated  its  blessings. 

The  writer  has  conversed  with  a  lady  who  had  assisted  at 
Mass  in  the  drawing-room  of  the  Spanish  consul,  which  at  that 
time,  about  a  century  ago,  sufficed  to  contain  all  the  Catholics  of 
New  York.  For  about  twenty  years  from  that  date  New  York 
was  a  mission-station  in  the  diocese  of  Philadelphia,  attended 
from  that  city  occasionally,  perhaps  once  a  month,  until  it  was 
confided  to  the  care  of  a  resident  priest.  It  was  erected  into  a 
see  in  1808,  and  the  first  bishop,  Dr.  Concanen,  was  consecrated 
in  Italy,  but,  through  the  interference  of  the  civil  authority,  was 
prevented  from  embarking  for  America.  The  second  bishop,  Dr. 
Connolly,  was  consecrated  in  1814,  and  ruled  the  diocese  during 
eleven  years.  The  portraits  of  these  two  bishops,  the  memory 
of  whom  has  been  almost  effaced,  are  preserved  at  the  episcopal 
residence,  and  represent  them  as  venerable,  and  even  distinguish- 
ed-looking prelates.  Dr.  Dubois,  who  succeeded  and  governed 
the  diocese  from  1826  to  1842,  was,  during  all  his  career  as  priest 
and  bishop,  one  of  the  first  and  most  eminent  among  'our  early 
American  clergy.  Dr.  Hughes,  then  a  parish  priest  in  Phila- 
delphia, was  consecrated  as  his  coadjutor  in  1838,  succeeded  him 
in  the  see,  was  made  archbishop  of  the  new  province  of  New 
York  in  1850,  and  died  in  1864,  after  an  episcopate  of  twenty-six 
years.  The  remaining  interval  until  the  recent  accession  of  the 
present  archbishop  was  filled  by  the  episcopate  of  the  late  cardi- 
nal. And,  as  Dr.  Hughes  practically  administered  the  govern- 
ment of  the  diocese  from  the  time  of  his  consecration,  the  Catho- 
lic people  of  New  York  have  been  governed  by  only  two  bishops 
during  the  last  forty-seven  years — a  circumstance  which  partly 
accounts  for  the  unusually  intense  personal  devotion  which  they 
have  ever  manifested  toward  their  prelates. 

The  writer  was  taken  as  a  little  boy  by  his  father,  somewhere 
about  the  year  1832,  to  see  the  old  cathedral;  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  improvements  and  decorations  of  a  later  date,  the  im- 
pression remaining  of  the  church  and  its  vicinity  resembles  sub- 
stantially its  present  appearance. 

Soon  after  Dr.  Hughes*  consecration  I  heard  him  preach  at 
High  Mass  on  a  Sunday,  the  late  Father  Starrs,  V.G.,  being  the 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  369 

celebrant.  I  have  still  a  vivid  remembrance  of  his  appearance — as 
he  was  then  in  the  prime  of  manhood — of  his  sermon,  and  even  of 
the  precise  words  of  some  of  its  sentences.  In  1851  I  passed  a 
fortnight  in  his  house,  assisting  in  a  mission  given  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  celebrated  Father  Bernard.  The  movement  among 
the  Catholics  of  New  York  roused  by  previous  missions  at  St. 
Joseph's  and  St.  Peter's — these  missions  being  then  a  novelty — 
was  so  great  that  they  would  all  have  crowded  into  the  cathedral, 
if  it  had  been  possible,  and  we  would  have  had  an  audience  suffi- 
cient to  fill  St.  Peter's  at  Rome.  The  church  was  stuffed  with 
human  beings,  many  climbing  even  into  the  window-sills,  and  the 
streets  were  packed  with  people  like  a  solid  wall,  so  that  it  was 
sometimes  impossible  to  get  through  them  from  the  house  to  the 
sacristy.  I  was  then  and  often  afterwards  in  familiar  intercourse 
with  this  great  archbishop,  and  learned  to  know  him  well  person- 
ally. Although  he  preserved  somewhat  of  a  distant  and  regal 
demeanor  towards  clergymen  who  were  his  immediate  subjects, 
yet  with  other  clergymen,  and  especially  when  away  from  his 
own  diocese,  he  was  extremely  affable  and  agreeable.  When  I 
first  made  his  acquaintance  at  his  own  house  the  present  bishop 
of  Brooklyn  and  the  late  Archbishop  Bayley,  of  Baltimore,  were 
two  active  and  sprightly  young  priests  attached  to  the  cathedral, 
and  they  were  both  soon  after  the  mission  appointed  to  new  epis- 
copal sees  erected  within  the  diocese  of  New  York — viz.,  Brooklyn 
and  Newark — and  were  consecrated  by  the  Roman  prelate  who 
was  afterwards  Cardinal  Bedini,  then  on  a  special  mission  to  the 
United  States.  One  of  these  young  clergymen  of  that  early  time 
related  a  characteristic  anecdote  of  the  archbishop. 

The  well-known  Father  Larkin,  S.J.,  called  on  him  soon  after 
the  burning  of  the  old  church  first  occupied  by  the  Jesuits  in  the 
city.  The  archbishop  remarked,  with  a  somewhat  malicious  smile, 
that  it  was  the  most  beautiful  fire  he  had  ever  seen.  Father  Lar- 
kin did  not  reply,  but  after  a  moment's  pause,  presenting  his 
snuff-box,  said  :  "  My  lord,  will  you  take  a  pinch  of  Irish  Black- 
guard ? "  The  archbishop  soon  after  parted  from  his  visitor 
with  ceremonious  politeness,  and,  returning  to  his  study,  observed 
to  his  secretary  :  "  Father  Larkin  is  a  remarkable  man,  a  very 
clever  man  indeed  !  " 

Archbishop  Hughes  laid  the  corner-stone  of  the  new  cathe- 
dral on  a  blazing  summer's  day  of  the  year  1858,  in  the  pre- 
sence of  a  vast  crowd,  which  was  estimated  to  number  one 
hundred  thousand,  whose  orderly  and  quiet  march  through  the 
streets  that  Sunday  afternoon  was  like  that  of  an  army.  He 
VOL.  XLII. — 24 


3/0  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  [Dec., 

made  other  preliminary  arrangements  for  the  erection  of  the 
building,  but  finally  left  the  prosecution  and  completion  of  the 
work  to  his  successor.  He  became  enfeebled  by  premature  old 
age,  worn  out  by  the  overwhelming  cares  and  labors  attending 
the  charge  of  a  diocese  which,  before  its  division,  embraced  the 
entire  present  province — viz.,  the  two  States  of  New  York  and 
New  Jersey.  His  province,  when  he  became  a  metropolitan,  in- 
cluded also  the  present  province  of  Boston — i.e.,  all  the  New 
England  States.  Except  during  the  three  years  from  1844  to 
1847,  ne  had  no  coadjutor,  and  for  several  years  before  his  death 
he  was  unable  to  do  more  than  fulfil  the  absolutely  necessary 
duties  of  his  office.  Few  who  are  now  living  can  remember  him 
as  he  was  in  the  full  vigor  and  activity  of  his  prime.  During  his 
time  of  warfare  he  wielded  the  battle-axe  of  Cceur  de  Lion  ;  while 
his  successor,  whose  characteristics  were  in  marked  contrast  to 
his  own,  was  more  like  Saladin,  whose  light  weapon  cut  the  lace 
veil  with  sure  and  graceful  stroke. 

The  Catholic  Church  of  New  York  has  reason  to  be  proud  of 
its  bishops,  and  to  be  grateful  to  God  for  the  line  of  chief  pastors 
who  have  fed  and  defended  this  portion  ot  the  flock  of  Christ  as 
it  increased  and  multiplied  like  that  of  Jacob  in  Mesopotamia. 

The  fifth  bishop  and  second  archbishop,  John  McCloskey,  was 
born  in  Brooklyn,  March  20,  1810,  four  years  before  the  consecra- 
tion of  the  first  resident  bishop  of  New  York.  In  1822  he  began 
the  course  of  his  studies,  which  he  continued,  until  the  comple- 
tion of  his  theology  in  1834,  at  the  College  of  Mount  St.  Mary's, 
Emmittsburg,  Maryland.  Bishop  Dubois  was  during  many 
years  its  president,  and  here  Archbishop  Hughes,  as  well  as 
many  other  prelates  and  priests  of  the  United  States,  received 
their  education.  It  is  a  most  romantic  spot,  and  it  has  a  his- 
tory replete  with  all  kinds  of  interest,  running  over  with  remin- 
iscences and  anecdotes  of  the  boyhood  and  youth  of  a  great  many 
men  who  became  afterwards  well  and  honorably  knoton  in  their 
various  professions.  But  few  of  the  late  cardinal's  contempora- 
ries are  now  living.  His  golden  jubilee  in  1884  brought  one  of 
them,  a  venerable  Jesuit  father,  whose  provincial  threw  him  into 
the  greatest  alarm  by  declaring  that  he  had  given  his  comrade, 
John  McCloskey,  a  beating  in  a  school-boy  fight,  and  threatening 
to  relate  it  publicly.  The  good  father  protested  that  the  story 
was  a  myth,  and  yet  he  privately  acknowledged  to  the  writer 
that  he  was  sorry  he  had  ever  made  known  what  had  really  hap- 
pened, the  historic  germ  of  the  legend — that  he  had  just  given 
him  one  little  clip.  At  the  funeral  another  venerable  old  gentle- 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  371 

man  on  crutches  came  into  the  sacristy  to  tell  me  that  he  had 
been  the  cardinal's  schoolmate.  I  have  heard  the  cardinal  him- 
self relate  with  glee  some  of  his  school-boy  stories,  but  I  have 
forgotten  them,  for  which  some  persons  may  be  thankful. 

One  boyish  adventure  had  nearly  proved  fatal.  During  a 
visit  to  some  farm-house  in  the  country  a  great  log  fell  upon  and 
rolled  over  John  McCloskey,  who  was  taken  up  insensible  and 
severely  hurt.  The  shock  which  his  nervous  system  received 
left  a  permanent  effect.  While  on  a  journey — I  think  during  the 
time  that  he  was  bishop  of  Albany — he  met  with  another  accident 
on  a  railway  which  injured  him  severely  and  laid  him  up  for 
some  weeks.  These  shocks  to  his  nervous  system  were  probably 
the  principal  cause  of  the  premature  failure  of  his  constitution 
and  of  the  disease — paralysis  agitans — with  which  he  was  afflicted 
during  his  latter  years. 

Mr.  McCloskey  was  ordained  priest  January  11,  1834,  by 
Bishop  Dubois,  who  was  assisted  on  that  occasion  by  Dr.  Power, 
a  priest  scarcely  less  celebrated  in  his  day  as  a  preacher  and  con- 
troversialist than  Dr.  Hughes,  and  by  Dr.  Pise,  also  well  known 
for  his  graceful  literary  accomplishments,  peculiarly  attractive 
personal  qualities,  and  still  more  worthy  of  honor  for  his  long  and 
faithful  service  in  the  priesthood.  The  two  following  years  were 
spent  in  study  at  Rome,  and  one  year  more  in  a  tour  through 
Europe.  During  the  remaining  seven  years  of  his  priesthood, 
before  his  elevation  to  the  episcopal  dignity,  Father  McCloskey 
was  rector  of  St.  Joseph's  Church,  New  York,  and  for  a  time 
president  of  the  newly-founded  St.  Joseph's  Seminary  at  Fordham. 
While  rector  of  St.  Joseph's  he  received  into  the  church  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Bayley,  rector  of  St.  Paul's  Protestant  Episcopal  Church, 
Harlem,  who  by  this  step  lost  the  inheritance  of  a  fortune  of  nine- 
ty thousand  dollars,  and  who,  as  archbishop  of  Baltimore,  placed 
the  scarlet  berretta  of  a  cardinal  on  the  head  of  his  former  spiri- 
tual father.  An  old  man  who  lived  for  forty  years  as  a  servant 
at  the  Lorillard  mansion,  Manhattanville,  both  before  and  after  it 
became  a  part  of  the  grand  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  told 
me  that  he  remembered  well  Mr.  Bayley  as  a  Protestant  clergy- 
man, and  that  on  the  occasion  of  a  wedding  in  the  house  he  was 
the  officiating  minister  and  the  lady-superior  of  the  convent  one 
of  the  bridesmaids.  The  drawing-room  where  the  marriage  was 
celebrated  became  afterwards  the  first  chapel  of  the  convent. 

Father  McCloskey  was  consecrated  bishop  of  Axiere  in  par- 
tibus,  having  been  appointed  coadjutor  with  the  right  of  suc- 
cession to  Dr.  Hughes,  on  March  10,  1844.  He  was  translated 


372  CARDINAL  MC€LOSKEY.  [Dec., 

to  the  new  see  of  Albany  May  21,  1847,  an<^  governed  that  dio- 
cese seventeen  years.  His  cathedral  was  a  very  ordinary  church 
with  a  modest  residence  attached  to  it.  A  new  and  handsome 
church  was  afterwards  built  upon  its  site  by  Father  Walworth, 
the  present  rector.  Later  on  a  noble  cathedral  with  a  suitable 
episcopal  residence  adjoining  was  built. 

Bishop  McCloskey  was  translated  to  the  metropolitan  see  of 
New  York  early  in  the  year  1864;  he  was  invested  with  the  in- 
signia of  a  Cardinal  Priest  of  the  Roman  Church,  under  the  title 
of  Sancta  Maria  super  Minervam,  March  15,  1875;  and  he  died 
October  10,  1885,  in  the  seventy-sixth  year  of  his  age,  the  fifty- 
second  of  his  priesthood,  and  the  forty-second  of  his  episcopate, 
having  been  archbishop  of  New  York  twenty-one  years  and 
some  months.  During  the  last  five  years  of  his  episcopate  he 
had  a  coadjutor  in  the  person  of  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Corrigan, 
titular  archbishop  of  Petra,  who  succeeded  to  bis  see  on  his 
demise. 

We  make  no  attempt  at  any  even  succinct  historical  sketch 
of  the  labors  and  events  of  the  late  cardinal's  public  official 
career.  Such  an  account  would  be  a  history  of  the  two  great 
dioceses  which  he  governed,  of  his  entire  province,  and  of  the 
Vatican  Council,  of  .which  he  was  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
members.  In  fact,  his  personal  history  is  connected  with  that 
of  the  whole  Catholic  Church  in  the  United  States.  It  is  well 
known  that  the  churches  he  governed  flourished  under  his  ad- 
ministration, that  great  works  were  accomplished,  and  that  the 
cardinal,  when  his  earthly  career  came  to  its  close,  saw,  in  the 
language  of  Wordsworth  : 

"  Of  all  by  his  great  soul  inspired, 
Much  done,  and  much  designed,  and  more  desired." 

The  change  in  his  personal  condition,  from  the  time  when,  as 
a  little  boy,  he  crossed  with  his  mother  in  a  row-boat  every  Sun- 
day from  the  small  village  of  Brooklyn  to  New  York  to  hear 
Mass  in  one  of  its  two  Catholic  churches,  to  the  time  when, 
surrounded  by  his  suffragans  and  clergy,  he  sat  on  the  throne  of 
his  new  cathedral,  is  typical  of  the  fortunes  of  that  part  of  the 
Catholic  Church  over  which  he  presided. 

Leaving  this  theme  to  be  handled  by  others  in  the  ample  and 
satisfactory  manner  which  it  demands,  I  confine  myself  to  the 
effort  of  sketching  the  personal  character  of  the  great  cardinal, 
and  a  few  scenes  of  remarkable  interest  in  which  he  appeared  as 
the  principal  figure. 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MC€LOSKEY.  373 

The  cardinal  was  tall,  slender,  and  graceful  in  his  person, 
with  a  constitution  apparently  frail  and  delicate,  yet  really  sound 
and  elastic,  capable  ol  great  endurance,  and  retaining  its  health- 
ful vigor  until  he  had  nearly  reached  the  period  of  seventy  years. 
His  mental  and  physical  temperament  is  most  distinctly  charac- 
terized as  one  of  equilibrium,  balanced  adjustment,  and  tranquil- 
lity, not,  however,  at  all  phlegmatic,  but  on  the  contrary  marked 
by  alertness  of  movement  and  gayety  of  disposition.  His  intel- 
lectual faculties  were  symmetrically  developed  and  cultivated. 
He  was  a  diligent  and  a  distinguished  student  in  his  youth,  stu- 
dious and  thoughtful  during  his  whole  life  ;  but  what  may  be 
called  intellectual  passion,  and  all  desire  to  manifest  intellectual 
superiority  or  exhibit  learning,  was  absent,  and  only  attentive 
observation  could  discern  beneath  his  unobtrusive  exterior  man- 
ner of  conversation  how  much  knowledge  and  wisdom  lay  be- 
neath. All  acknowledge  that  he  was  in  many  ways  an  accom- 
plished scholar,  especially  in  theology  and  the  sacred  sciences. 
I  have  sometimes  taken  occasion  to  consult  him,  generally  when 
I  could  not  find  the  solution  of  some  difficult  question  in  books 
or  from  other  theologians,  and  I  never  found  him  at  fault.  In 
fact,  I  have  known  him  to  correct  a  serious  mistake  of  a  cele- 
brated author  in  a  very  important  matter. 

As  a  preacher  he  had  rare  and  excellent  gifts.  I  have  seldom 
had  an  opportunity  of  hearing  him  preach  set  and  elaborate  dis- 
courses. But  I  have  heard  from  an  old  parishioner  at  St. 
Joseph's  that  the  church  was  always  crowded  when  he  preached, 
and  from  competent  judges,  who  had  listened  to  the  most  cele- 
brated preachers  in  America  and  Europe,  that  he  would  compare 
favorably  with  them,  especially  in  regard  to  elegance  of  rhetoric, 
logical  clearness  in  the  construction  of  his  argument,  persuasive- 
ness, and  attractiveness  of  manner.  Of  late  years  I  have  fre- 
quently listened  to  his  short  addresses  to  the  graduates  and  other 
young  pupils  on  the  occasion  of  the  annual  distribution  of  honors 
and  prizes.  It  is  not  so  easy  as  some  might  think  to  make  ad- 
dresses of  this  kind  without  sinking  into  a  continual  repetition 
of  commonplace  remarks,  or  merely  reciting  a  formula  as  fixed 
as  the  phrases  with  which  we  are  wont  to  begin  and  end  a  ser- 
mon:  "  The  words  of  my  text  will  be  found";  "  A  blessing  I 
wish  you  all."  The  cardinal  always  made  a  most  happy,  inge- 
nious, and  appropriate  address  to  his  young  people,  and  never  re- 
peated the  same  twice.  Each  of  them  was  a  perfect  little  gem. 
For  instance  :  "  There  is  some  hidden  spring  within  these  grounds, 
the  fount  of  inspiration  from  which  you  draw  those  beautiful 


374  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  [Dec., 

thoughts  and  sentiments  with  which  you  have  delighted  and 
charmed  us  this  afternoon.  Where  is  it?  Would  that  I  could 
find  it  and  drink  from  it,  that  I  might  make  to  you  some  similar 
and  worthy  response  !  "  There  are  very  few  who,  if  they  were 
fortunate  enough  to  find  such  a  pretty  thought,  would  not  trea- 
sure it  up  for  future  use.  Not  so  the  cardinal.  He  always  had 
a  fresh  bouquet  with  the  dew  still  on  it,  as  rich  and  beautiful  as 
the  nosegays  which  the  young  Muses  and  Graces  of  the  convent- 
school  laid  at  his  feet. 

Of  course  he  won  the  hearts  of  the  young  people  and  children 
of  his  flock  whenever  he  went  among  them  on  the  joyous  festi- 
vals of  confirmation,  first  communion,  and  graduation.  The  same 
amiability  and  benignity  of  character  endeared  him  to  all  who 
were  under  his  pastoral  charge,  whether  of  the  clergy  or  the 
laity,  while  his  episcopal  dignity  of  bearing,  his  justness  of  ad- 
ministration tempered  with  mildness,  his  consummate  wisdom 
and  prudence  in  government,  and  his  thorough  devotion  to  all 
sacerdotal  and  pastoral  duties,  inspired  confidence  and  respect. 
In  regard  to  all  the  duties  of  his  office  it  may  be  said  with  literal 
truth  he  was  totus  in  illis.  From  the  beginning  to  the  end  he 
was  completely  and  entirely  the  priest  and  the  bishop.  All 
other  employments. and  occupations,  however  worthy  in  them- 
selves, besides  those  of  his  priestly  state,  he  touched  with  the 
left  hand.  As  for  recreation  and  amusements,  such  as  are  suit- 
able and  for  most  men  indispensable,  although  he  could  not  say 
literally  with  St.  Charles  Borromeo,  whose  whole  life  bordered 
on  the  miraculous  and  in  some  respects  crossed  the  border,  that 
"  his  only  garden  was  the  Holy  Scriptures,"  yet  he  had  reduced 
the  demands  of  the  inferior  part  of  human  nature  to  their  lowest 
terms.  Grievous  and  growing  infirmities  alone  could  compel 
him  to  relax  his  untiring  diligence.  He  continued  to  exert  him- 
self to  fulfil  a  part  of  his  functions,  steadily  growing  less  and  less, 
even  after  his  coadjutor  had  taken  the  heavier  duties  upon  him- 
self, when  his  trembling  hands  could  scarcely  place  a  wreath 
upon  a  child's  head,  when  he  could  scarcely  rise  up  from  his 
chair,  and  was  unable  to  walk  across  the  floor  of  the  sanctuary 
without  assistance. 

From  the  time  when  he  was  invested  with  his  highest  dig- 
nity the  cardinal  was  never  well.  Even  before  that  he  must 
have  been  sensible  of  failing  strength  and  begun  to  grow  weary. 
He  was  not  one  to  complain  of  fatigue,  but  once,  when  he  gave 
his  pallium  into  my  charge  for  a  time,  he  expressed  with  a  sigh 
the  wish  that  he  might  lay  it  aside  altogether,  and  uttered  the 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  375 

exclamation  :  "  O  beati  voi  !  "  During  his  last  years  he  was  com- 
pelled to  retire  more  and  more  into  that  seclusion  and  quietude 
for  which  he  had  longed.  Unable  during-  a  long  time  even  to 
read,  though  he  continued  to  direct  the  administration  of  his 
diocese  through  his  vicars-general,  the  greatest  part  of  his  time 
was  passed  in  solitude,  with  no  resource  or  occupation  except 
prayer.  During  all  his  life  his  interior  occupation  had  been 
more  spiritual  than  intellectual,  and  not  distracted  or  disturbed 
even  by  incessant  outward  activity.  During  his  months  and 
years  of  languor  he  was  never,  so  far  as  I  could  perceive  or 
know  from  those  who  saw  him  frequently,  morbid,  melancholy, 
or  discontented.  He  seemed  to  be  serene  and  happy,  and  his 
conversation  was  cheerful  and  simple.  I  conclude  from  this 
that  there  was  a  deep  well  of  the  water  of  life  in  his  soul,  that 
his  "  life  was  hidden  with  Christ  in  God,"  that  his  spirit  was 
already  dwelling  in  heaven,  though  his  body  was  on  the  earth. 
One  cannot  possess  this  quiet  of  contemplation  in  old  age  and 
sickness,  unless  he  has  gained  it  by  strenuous,  unremitting  efforts 
to  walk  closely  with  God  during  the  time  of  mental  and  physical 
activity.  The  cardinal  had  been  innocent  and  pious  in  his  boy- 
hood, had  probably  preserved  the  first  grace  of  baptism,  had 
been  consecrated  from  his  youth  to  the  special  service  of  God, 
and  had  gone  on  in  one  unswerving,  undeviating  course  of  fidelity 
to  conscience  and  the  inspirations  of  the  Divine  Spirit.  This  was 
the  source  of  his  peace  and  tranquillity,  the  disposition  which  pre- 
pared him  to  receive  sacerdotal  grace  in  all  its  fulness.  Such 
souls,  above  all  others,  are  worthy  of  the  priestly  vocation,  and  fit 
instruments  of  grace  for  the  sanctification  of  'others.  They  are 
like  St.  John,  the  beloved  disciple  of  Christ,  who  was  spared  the 
struggles  and  the  vehement  repentance  by  which  St.  Peter  and  St. 
Paul  won  the  victory  over  sin.  They  may  not  be  so  well  fitted 
for  tempest  and  warfare,  but  there  is  a  winning  sweetness  and 
gentleness  in  their  sanctity  and  in  their  ministry  which  is  spe- 
cially fitted  to  gain  hearts.  St.  Meletius  of  Antioch  is  a  notable 
instance  in  early  ecclesiastical  history.  The  first  American 
bishop  who  was  made  a  cardinal,  Mgr.  Cheverus,  bishop  of  Bos- 
ton, then  translated  to  Besangon,  and  afterwards  archbishop  of 
Bordeaux,  a  prelate  after  the  pattern  of  St.  Francis  of  Sales,  was 
a  similar  example  in  modern  times.  He  won  the  admiration  and 
affection  of  all  the  people  of  Boston  and  New  England,  and  left 
behind  him  a  reputation  of  sanctity  which  has  not  yet  died  out. 
I  always  heard  him  spoken  of  in  my  boyhood  as  a  saint.  Cardi- 
nal McCloskey  resembled  Cardinal  Cheverus  in  character,  and, 


376  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  [Dec., 

like  him,  he  has  won  universal  regard.  The  citizens  of  Albany, 
headed  by  the  governor  of  New  York,  presented  an  address 
warmly  expressing  the  honor  and  regard  in  which  they  held  him, 
when  he  was  transferred  to  the  metropolitan  see,  New  York, 
and  the  country  in  general  was  pleased  and  gratified  at  his  eleva- 
tion to  the  cardinalate.  On  the  occasion  of  his  death  and  funeral 
the  press,  representing  the  public  sentiment,  was  filled  with  edi- 
torials and  other  articles  expressing  sympathy  and  giving  testi- 
mony of  the  universal  esteem  of  the  community.  Far  more  than 
distinguished  talents  and  rank,  it  was  the  moral  and  spiritual  vir- 
tues of  the  true  Christian  bishop,  the  meekness,  humility,  piety, 
sacerdotal  zeal  and  disinterestedness  of  his  character  and  life, 
which  called  forth  this  spontaneous  homage. 

The  piety  of  a  bishop  has  its  own  specific  character  and  way 
of  manifestation  in  a  pre-eminent  devotion  to  the  Sacrifice,  the 
sacraments,  and  all  the  accompanying  holy  rites  and  observances 
which  belong  to  the  external  worship  of  God  in  the  sanctuary  of 
which  he  is  a  minister.  This  is  seen  in  the  example  of  the  great 
modern  model  of  episcopal  perfection  and  sanctity,  St.  Charles 
Borromeo. 

Cardinal  McCloskey  was  filled  with  the  devotion  to  the  Holy 
Eucharist  which  is  the  fountain  of  vital  force  in  the  priesthood, 
with  reverence  for  the  sacraments  and  all  holy  things,  with  zeal 
for  the  glory  and  beauty  of  the  house  of  God.  His  dignity  and 
grace  of  person  and  manner,  refined  taste,  and  nice  sense  of  pro- 
priety, together  with  his  elevated  piety,  fitted  him  to  fulfil  all  sa- 
cred functions  at  the  altar,  and  to  order  all  external  arrangements 
and  decorations  of  the  church  and  sanctuary,  in 'such  a  becoming 
manner  as  to  reflect  outwardly  the  inner,  celestial  mysteries  sig- 
nified by  and  contained  in  all  sacramental  and  liturgical  forms. 
For  the  same  reason  that  he  honored  the  Lord  in  his  sacraments 
and  sanctuary,  he  honored  him  in  his  own  person  as  the  conse- 
crated minister  of  religion.  He  did  not  show  his  humility  by 
seeming  to  disregard  his  own  dignity,  his  unworldliness  by  neg- 
lecting the  external  proprieties  which  belong  to  it.  He  was  al- 
ways a  polished  gentleman  and  a  dignified  prelate,  showing  due 
courtesy  to  others  and  exacting  due  respect  to  himself.  It  was 
a  great  pleasure  to  see  him  officiate  in  the  ceremonies  of  the 
church.  He  sought  to  provide  the  church  and  the  sanctuary 
with  all  that  was  most  ritually  correct,  most  accordant  to  the 
canons  of  the  purest  taste,  most  cost.ly  and  splendid,  in  archi- 
tecture, art,  sacred  vestments  and  vessels.  He  associated  with 
persons  of  the  highest  ecclesiastical  and  civil  rank,  with  the 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  377 

most  cultivated  minds,  and  was  familiar  with  the  best  works  of 
ecclesiastical  art,  in  Europe,  from  the  first  years  of  his  priesthood. 
Pius  IX.  said  that  he  was  a  man  of  princely  mien  and  bearing ; 
and  he  was  exalted  to  the  rank  of  a  prince  in  the  church  because 
he  was  worthy  to  take  his  place  as  their  peer  among  the  highest. 
"  When  he  went  up  to  the  holy  altar,  he  honored  the  vesture  of 
holiness.  And  about  him  was  the  ring  of  his  brethren ;  and  as 
the  cedar  planted  in  Mount  Libanus,  and  as  branches  of  palm- 
trees,  they  stood  round  about  him,  and  all  the  sons  of  Aaron  in 
their  glory  "  (Eccli.  1.  12-14). 

Three  grand  scenes,  which  were  the  cardinal's  triumphs,  oc- 
curred during  the  last  ten  years  of  his  episcopate — viz.,  his  in- 
vestiture as  cardinal,  the  solemn  benediction  of  the  new  cathe- 
dral, and  the  celebration  of  the  Fourth  Provincial  Council  of  New 
York.  Long  and  minute  descriptions  of  these  scenes  are  con- 
tained in  the  newspapers  of  their  respective  dates.  Such  descrip- 
tions are  often  of  a  magniloquent  character  and  full  of  grievous 
blunders  in  their  ambitious  but  inaccurate  attempts  to  describe 
ecclesiastical  ceremonies.  Some  of  them,  however,  are  the  work 
of  reporters  of  the  first  class,  who  are  well  informed  and  of  prac- 
tised skill  in  their  calling  ;  and  these  are  as  excellent  in  their  kind, 
and  as  perfect  in  an  artistic  sense,  as  the  admirable  portraits  and 
etchings  which  adorn  the  pages  of  the  Century.  Those  who  wish 
for  descriptions  of  the  ceremonies  and  processions  on  these  occa- 
sions can  find  all  that  is  requisite  to  gratify  their  curiosity  in  the 
several  numbers  of  the  Catholic  Review  and  the  Illustrated  Catholic 
American  for  the  present  month  of  October,  in  which  they  have 
been  reproduced. 

I  wish  to  allude  here  only  to  some  features  which  are  note- 
worthy, and  which  were  very  impressive. 

On  the  occasion  of  the  conferring  of  the  cardinal's  scarlet  cap 
on  the  archbishop  of  New  York  by  the  archbishop  of  Baltimore, 
the  vast  multitude  thronging  the  vicinity  of  the  old  cathedral, 
and  covering  all  the  roofs  of  adjacent  buildings,  together  with 
the  poor  and  squalid  appearance  of  the  district  through  which 
the  imposing  array  of  the  procession  passed,  was,  to  me,  the  most 
impressive  part  of  the  spectacle.  A  view  of  the  crowd  within 
the  church,  mingled  of  all  ranks  from  the  humblest  to  the  high- 
est, Catholics  and  non-Catholics,  of  the  perfect  order  and  deco- 
rum which  prevailed  without  and  within  the  church,  and  the  mani- 
festation of  intense  interest  on  the  part  of  all  in  the  ceremony, 
were  well  fitted  to  attract  attentive  consideration  and  awaken 
many  thoughts  and  emotions.  Splendor  coming  in  upon  poverty 


378  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  [Dec., 

without  arousing-  hate  and  envy,  the  highest  and  the  humblest 
mingling  together,  ima  summis — this  presented  an  image  of  re- 
conciliation, union,  illumination  of  the  dark  vaults  and  crypts  of 
human  society  by  light  from  its  upper  regions,  showing  what  the 
Catholic  religion,  and  no  other  power  whatever,  is  capable  of 
effecting  by  bringing  in  harmonizing,  ameliorating  influences  to 
pervade  all  classes  and  conditions.  The  cardinal,  and  Count 
Mirafoschi  in  his  grand  gala  uniform,  with  drawn  sword,  were 
the  two  centres  of  attraction.  I  smiled  inwardly  while  looking 
at  the  fine,  colossal,  brilliant  figure  of  the  papal  officer,  remem- 
bering old  alarms  of  invasion  by  papal  armies,  and  fancying  the 
count  attempting  single-handed  the  conquest  of  the  country. 
Looking  at  the  new  scarlet  vestments  of  the  gentle  and  very 
weary  cardinal,  I  recalled  the  terrifying  phantoms  of  Apocalyptic 
beasts  and  the  Scarlet  Lady.  Then  I  looked  at  the  eager,  admir- 
ing countenances  of  American  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  foremost 
of  them  pressing  quietly  up  within  the  rails  and  mounting  chairs 
among  the  clergy  to  get  a  better  view  of  the  two  personages  clad 
in  ecclesiastical  and  military  scarlet.  When  the  stern,  uncom- 
promising official  who  repelled  the  invaders  turned  his  back,  I 
acknowledge  that  I  connived  at  and  favored  their  intrusion,  and 
gave  my  chair  as  a  coigne  de  vantage  to  one  fortunate  person,  who 
had  a  near  view  which  some  hundreds  of  thousands  would  have 
been  delighted  to  get. 

Just  so  when  the  great  day  of  the  solemn  blessing  of  the  new 
cathedral,  with  its  bright  sunshine  and  genial  air,  witnessed  the 
magnificent  procession  of  prelates  and  clergy,  heard  the  melo- 
dious chants  of  choristers,  and  marked  itself  with  a  red  letter  in 
our  calendar  for  perpetual  remembrance.  The  drawing  together 
of  the  multitude  of  all  classes  ;  the  universal  congratulation  with 
the  venerable  cardinal,  already  verging  toward  the  decline  of 
his  days  ;  the  continual  throng,  for  weeks  and  months,  of  visitors 
to  gaze  at  and  admire  the  storied  windows  and  beautiful  altars, 
were  most  interesting  and  impressive  sights  to  be  contemplat- 
ed by  an  observer  to  whom  humanity  itself  is  the  object  most 
worthy  of  attention  in  this  world. 

The  celebration  of  the  Provincial  Council  lacked  nothing  of 
the  elements  which  go  to  make  up  a  splendid  religious  spectacle, 
in  its  solemn  sessions  with  their  public  processions  and  cere- 
monies. Within  the  council  a  harmony  of  proceeding,  a  quiet- 
ness of  deliberation,  an  absence  of  party  spirit  and  the  eagerness 
for  discussing  and  speechifying  which  are  so  common  in  delib- 
erative and  legislative  assemblies,  even  ecclesiastical,  gave  it  a 


1885.]  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  379 

peaceful  character  which  seemed  to  be  an  inspiration  from  the 
cardinal's  own  tranquil  and  serene  spirit. 

It  seemed  a  wonder  that  he  was  able,  so  extreme  was  his 
bodily  feebleness,  to  preside  over  all  its  private  and  public  ses- 
sions and  to  take  the  part  in  its  ceremonies  which  belonged  to 
him  as  its  president.  He  seemed  like  one  who  belonged  more  to 
the  sphere  of  spiritual  beings  than  to  that  of  men  living  in  the 
body.  "  He  shone  as  the  morning- star  in  the  midst  of  a  cloud, 
when  he  put  on  the  robe  of  glory  and  was  clothed  with  the  per- 
fection of  power  "  (Eccli.  1.  6,  11).  One  could  easily  imagine  that 
some  ancient,  holy  bishop,  raised  from  the  dead  and  still  pale  and 
infirm  as  when  he  lay  breathing  his  last,  had  returned  among  his 
brethren  to  testify  of  the  region  behind  the  veil. 

On  the  occasion  of  his  golden  jubilee  he  made  one  more  ef- 
fort, with  still  greater  difficulty,  to  appear  for  a  short  time  among 
his  brethren  and  receive  their  felicitations ;  and  then,  drawing 
always  slowly  nearer  to  the  world  beyond  the  earthly  atmos- 
phere, he  awaited  the  summons  which  came  at  last,  and,  in  silent, 
perfect  peace  and  possession  of  his  intellectual  consciousness,  all 
the  solemn  rites  prescribed  by  the  church  fulfilled,  he  passed  to 
his  everlasting  rest  and  reward.  Offices  were  continually  recited, 
prayers  and  Masses  were  said,  watch  and  guard  were  kept  over 
his  body,  it  was  laid  in  state  in  the  cathedral,  all  the  solemn  ob- 
sequies were  fulfilled,  and,  with  his  pallium  on  his  shoulders, 
what  remained  of  the  cardinal's  bodily  part  was  sealed  up  in  the 
tomb  behind  the  high  altar,  awaiting  the  resurrection. 

The  high  altar  and  the  episcopal  throne  were  the  personal 
gifts  of  the  cardinal,  who  subscribed  for  this  purpose  from  his 
private  purse  $10,000,  and  sold  his  carriage  and  horses  to  make 
up  the  sum.  They  will  always  remain  as  his  memorial  to  future 
generations.  The  governor  of  New  York  has  already  said  that 
the  cathedral  of  Albany  is  his  monument.  Another  and  more 
splendid  monument,  alike  to  him  and  to  his  illustrious  predecessor, 
whose  body  lies  by  the  side  of  his,  is  the  cathedral  of  New  York. 

As  a  spontaneous  tribute  of  honor  and  love  to  the  deceased 
cardinal,  there  is  nothing  which  can  compare  to  the  gathering  of 
the  people  about  his  coffin  while  his  body  was  lying  in  state  from 
Tuesday  morning,  October  13,  until  Thursday,  the  day  of  his  en- 
tombment. Nothing  similar  has  occurred  within  our  memory, 
except  on  the  occasions  of  the  funeral  ceremonies  of  President 
Lincoln  and  General  Grant.  A  numerous  group  of  prelates  and 
several  hundred  of  the  clergy,  several  distinguished  civilians,  and 
as  many  of  all  classes  as  could  obtain  admission  were  present  at 
the  obsequies,  which  were  performed  with  all  possible  solemnity. 


380  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY.  [Dec., 

The  crowd  of  persons  present  in  the  cathedral  was  but  a  small 
fraction  of  the  multitude,  from  all  ranks  of  society  and  from  other 
parts  of  the  country  as  well  as  from  the  city,  who  would  have 
been  present  if  they  could  have  obtained  admission.  Even  this  is 
not  so  very  remarkable.  But  what  was  really  a  wonderful  spec- 
tacle was  the  scene  witnessed  about  the  cathedral  during  the 
time  of  the  lying-  in  state.  The  church  was  filled  with  the  people 
who  could  gain  admission;  the  great  area  between  its  entrance  on 
Fifth  Avenue  and  the  street,  the  avenue  itself  from  Forty-seventh 
Street  to  Fifty-third  Street,  on  the  eastern  pavement,  were  densely 
packed  with  a  silent,  patient  army,  which  began  to  gather  at  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  did  not  disperse  until  ten  in  the  even- 
ing. A  large  body  of  police,  which  on  Thursday  was  increased 
to  three  hundred,  was  requisite  to  put  the  multitude  in  orderly 
array  and  prevent  the  crushing  which  must  have  otherwise  pro- 
duced confusion  and  resulted  in  danger  to  limbs  and  lives,  as  well 
as  to  secure  a  passage  to  the  catafalque  to  the  greatest  possible 
number.  One  day  was  rainy,  but  this  did  no  more  than  diminish 
the  crowd  to  about  fifty  thousand.  This  long  and  patient  wait- 
ing was  simply  for  the  purpose  of  getting  one  brief  glance  at  the 
bier  with  the  body  of  the  dead  cardinal,  clothed  in  his  pontifical 
vestments,  reposing  upon  it.  And  a  large  proportion  of  the  mul- 
titude were  deprived  of  even  this  satisfaction. 

Such  a  deep  and  universal  emotion  as  this,  prompting  the  en- 
durance of  such  long-protracted  fatigue,  and  keeping  so  vast  and 
miscellaneous  a  crowd  of  men,  women,  and  children  in  a  hush  of 
sombre  silence  for  so  long  a  time,  is  a  wonderful  phenomenon. 
It  has  often  been  witnessed  before  among  the  Catholic  people 
when  persons  have  died  in  the  repute  of  great  sanctity,  but  it  is 
very  difficult  for  any  one  who  is  not  within  the  sphere  of  the  in- 
tense and  overawing  emotions  of  which  only  the  popular  heart 
is  susceptible  to  enter  into  it  and  understand  it.  In  a  general 
and  purely  natural  sense  this  intense  and  overmastering  awaken- 
ing of  sensible  emotions  is  a  spontaneous  stirring  of  the  innate 
aspiration  of  the  human  soul  after  the  sublime.  It  is  the  dispo- 
sition to  wonder  at,  reverence,  and  pay  homage  to  that  which  is 
above  and  beyond  the  limits  of  common  humanity  and  the  ob- 
jects of  every-day  life. 

When  religious  faith  and  the  sentiment  of  the  supernatural 
lie  at  its  root,  then  the  person  or  the  other  object  representing 
the  majesty  of  God,  the  mysteries  of  religion,  the  unseen,  spiri- 
tual world,  the  realities  of  the  life  to  come,  moves  the  imagina- 
tion and  the  feelings  of  those  who  are  in  a  simple  and  child-like 
state,  by  means  of  the  concrete  and  sensible  embodiment  of  that 


1885.]  A  DEWDROP  ON  A  COBWEB.  381 

which  the  intellect  apprehends  by  abstract  ideas,  with  a  force 
which  is  great  because  it  is  consonant  to  human  nature.  What 
we  have  been  describing  manifests  the  depth,  intensity,  and  wide 
extent  of  religious  convictions  in  the  great  mass  of  the  people. 

The  founding,  extension,  perpetuity,  and  powerful  effect  of 
Christianity  in  the  past  and  present  are  chiefly  due  to  bishops, 
from  the  apostles  down  to  their  living  successors,  who  have 
been,  like  Cardinal  McCloskey,  true  and  worthy  ambassadors  of 
God  and  representatives  of  Christ.  It  is  in  the  Catholic  episco- 
pate that  the  hope  of  future  triumphs  of  the  kingdom  of  Christ 
in  the  world  chiefly  reposes.  May  the  example  of  our  holy  Car- 
dinal Archbishop  not  be  lost  on  the  clergy  and  people  to  whom 
he  left  his  blessing. 


A   DEWDROP   ON   A   COBWEB. 

How  fair  a  guest  upon  a  couch 

So  base  ! 
It  restless  moves,  as  it  disdained  to  touch 

So  mean  a  place  ; 
Or  as  it  wooed  the  zephyr's  soft  embrace, 

Upon  its  wings  to  upward  soar. 
It  gazeth  longing  into  Morn's  sweet  face, 

And  opes  its  door 
In  tender  pleading  to  the  King  of  Day, 

Whose  ray 
Shines  through  the  mirror  of  its  rounded  floor, 

And,  lingering  brief  in  beauteous  stay, 
Bears  it  at  last  from  earthly  taint  and  soil  away. 

So  in  its  mortal  web  the  soul, 

A  guest 
Ethereal,  mourns  her  shining,  distant  goal 

In  deep  unrest. 
A  viewless  spirit  ever  doth  invest 

Her  with  a  holy  atmosphere  ; 
And  oft,  by  beams  of  living  light  caressed, 

She  doth  appear 
A  splendid  prisoner  to  the  passer-by, 

Whose  eye, 
Fixed  with  sweet  influence  on  her  pure  career, 

Mounts  with  her  unto  regions  high, 
As  God's  bright  flame  absorbs  her  to  her  native  sky, 


382      "Sr.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"  [Dec., 


"SAINT    THOMAS    OF    CANTERBURY"    AND 
"BECKET." 

IN  picturesqueness  and  "  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is 
dead  " — for  Tennyson's  day  is  dead,  gone  in  a  misty  twilight — 
the  latest  tragedy  of  the  laureate  is  vastly  superior  to  the  one 
which,  after  "  Alexander  the  Great,"  has  made  Aubrey  de  Vere's 
name  glorious  in  the  literary  annals  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
But  a  great  tragedy  on  a  subject  which  is  what  the  Germans  call 
"epoch-making"  demands  higher  qualities  than  picturesqueness 
and  that  nameless  grace  and  delicacy  so  essentially  Tennysonian. 
It  needs  even  higher  qualities  than  the  contrast  of  marked  cha- 
racters, pointed  epigrams,  or  the  fine  play  of  poetic  fancy.  Lord 
Tennyson's  "  Becket  "  has  all  the  lower  qualities,  Aubrey  de 
Vere's  "  St.  Thomas  of  Canterbury  "  all  the  higher.  An  oak  is 
not  more  of  an  oak  because  the  sward  around  is  starred  by  vio- 
lets and  all  the  blooms  of  spring,  and  Aubrey  de  Vere's  "  St. 
Thomas  "  would  not  be  a  greater  tragedy  if  it  had  the  exquisite 
touches  which  the  most  delicate  master  of  poetic  technique  the 
world  has  ever  seen  gives  to  his. 

Tennyson's  tragedy  is  meant  to  be  an  acting  play,  and  it 
barely  fails  of  being  one  ;  De  Vere's  is  frankly  a  drama  for  the 
closet.  Perhaps  the  lack  of  nobleness  in  Tennyson's  is  due  to 
the  necessity  he  felt  of  making  it  fit  the  arbitrary  refinements  of 
the  stage.  The  episode  of  Fair  Rosamond,  which  is  an  offence 
against  historical  truth,  good  art,  and  taste,  would  probably 
never  have  been  introduced  had  the  laureate  not  been  required 
to  give  a  leading  dramatic  lady  something  to  do.  Still,  writers 
impregnated  with  the  traditions  of  the  Reformation  are  always 
crying,  "  Cherchez  la  femme."  If  a  man  is  holy  and  there  is  no 
disputing  the  fact,  they  construct  a  romance  with  a  woman  in  it 
to  account  for  his  renunciations,  and  vice  versa.  Ten  to  one,  if 
Tennyson  is  ever  seized  with  the  idea  of  putting  Sir  Thomas 
More  into  a  tragedy,  he  will  show  to  us  the  great  chancellor  dy- 
ing, not  as  a  martyr  to  religion,  but  as  a  martyr  to  human  love. 
He  has  ruined  a  magnificent  persona  by  making  him,  on  the  eve 
of  his  sublime  death  for  the  church  and  freedom,  drivel  of  what 
he  might  have  gained  had  he  married.  In  the  monastery  at 
Canterbury,  just  before  the  bell  rings  that  calls  him  to  his  doom, 
he  sighs  lackadaisically : 


1885.]  "Sr-  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"       383 

"There  was  a  little  fair-haired  Norman  maid 
Lived  in  my  mother's  house  :  if  Rosamond  is 
The  world's  rose,  as  her  name  imports  her — she 
Was  the  world's  lily. 

JOHN   OF  SALISBURY. 

"  Ay,  and  what  of  her  ? 

BECKET. 

"  She  died  of  leprosy. 

JOHN   OF  SALISBURY. 

"  I  know  not  why 
You  call  these  old  things  back,  my  lord. 

BECKET. 

"  The  drowning  man,  they  say,  remembers  all 
The  chances  of  his  life,  just  ere  he  dies." 

Possibly  this  discord  may  not  strike  the  audience  which,  in 
"  Queen  Mary,"  "  Harold,"  and  "  Becket,"  Tennyson  addresses 
himself  to.  But  to  a  Catholic  it  is  fatal  to  whatever  harmony  he 
might  have  found  in  the  tragedy.  Surely  the  poet  who  gave  us 
a  type  of  purity  in  Sir  Galahad,  and  of  chaste  elevation  in  King 
Arthur,  might  have  better  understood  the  character  of  the  mar- 
tyred successor  of  St.  Anselm.  It  is  impossible  to  approach  the 
climax,  or  rather  anti-climax,  of  Tennyson's  play  without  impa- 
tience and  irritation.  If 

"  To  be  wroth  with  one  we  love 

Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain," 

the  discovery  that  a  true  poet  has  misunderstood  a  grand  char- 
acter and  frittered  away  a  sublime  opportunity  is  an  incentive, 
too,  to  a  helpless  and  hopeless  sort  of  anger. 

In  Aubrey  de  Vere's  "  St.  Thomas  "  there  is  no  anti-climax, 
no  disappointment.  We  miss  sometimes  the  flowers  that  might 
grow  around  the  foot  of  the  oak,  but  the  oak  towers  majestic. 
"  St.  Thomas "  possesses  what  many  of  us  thought  lacking  in 
the  less  ambitious  poems  of  an  author  who  has  given  out  much 
light  without  heat — sustained  intensity  of  passion.  Added  to 
this,  Aubrey  de  Vere,  thoroughly  understands  the  historical 
meaning  of  St.  Thomas'  time  and  the  relations  of  the  great  chan- 
cellor and  primate  to  that  time.  Of  these  the  laureate  seems  to 
be  in  the  densest  ignorance.  If  in  "  Queen  Mary  "  he  drew  his 
facts  from  Froude,  and  in  "  Harold  "  from  Bulwer-Lytton,  he 


384      "Sr;  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"    [Dec., 

appears  in  "  Becket "  to  have  depended  on  his  own  inner  con- 
sciousness for  his  "  history."  He  has,  in  the  most  important 
particulars,  ignored  the  authentic  chronicles  of  the  time. 

It  was,  indeed,  an  "  epoch-making  "  time  and  one  worthy  of  a 
grand  commemoration  in  an  immortal  poem.  England  owes  her 
liberty  to  the  church,  and,  more  than  all,  to  St.  Anselm  and  St. 
Thomas,  because  they  first  withstood  the  advancing  waves  of 
royal  despotism.  And  the  freedom  of  the  church  was  the  free- 
dom of  the  people.  St.  Anselm  put  into  the  "  Mariale  "  the 
echoes  of  the  wails  of  the  Saxon  people,  beaten  down  by  Norman 
conquerors  who  would  have  been  utter  brutes— for  the  Berserker 
spirit  was  strong  in  them — were  it  riot  for  the  influence  of  the 
church.  The  Saxons  saw  their  priests  made  powerless,  their 
church  enslaved,  and  themselves  in  hopeless  serfdom — more 
crushing  even  than  the  slavery  which  Ireland  endured  from  the 
same  hands — when  suddenly  that  church  which  knows  no  na- 
tionality, which  fuses  all  nations  into  one,  asserted  her  might  in 
the  persons  of  two  primates  :  one  of  the  conquering  race,  the 
other  of  the  foreigner's  court.  The  position  of  St.  Thomas  h 
Becket  has  been  misinterpreted  so  utterly  that  he  is  often  set 
down  as  an  ambitious  revolutionist  who  tried,  in  the  interests  of 
ecclesiastical  tyranny,  to  dominate  both  king  and  people.  In 
truth,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  struggled  for  old  English 
laws  against  new  ones  devised  by  the  Normans  to  rivet  more 
closely  the  fetters  of  serfdom  on  the  Saxon  people. 

It  has  been  made  a  reproach  against  St.  Thomas  that  he  re- 
sisted the  "  Royal  Customs,"  that  he  figured  as  a  haughty  prince 
of  the  church  scorning  the  pretensions  of  the  Plantagenet,  and 
that  he  died  a  martyr  to  his  obstinate  desire  to  crush  even  royal 
freedom,  that  he  and  his  monks  might  triumph.  This  view  is 
founded  on  a  misconception  of  the  nature  of  the  Royal  Customs. 
They  were  not  old  Customs,  but  innovations  invented  by  the  con- 
querors for  their  autocratic  purposes.  Aubrey  de  Vere  puts 
into  Becket's  mouth  this  description  of  these  famous  Customs. 
The  Earl  of  Cornwall  says  : 

"You  serve  the  king 
Who  stirred  these  wars  ?  who  spurned  the  Royal  Customs  ? 

BECKET. 

'The  Customs — ay,  the  Customs  !    We  have  reached 
At  last — 'twas  time — the  inmost  of  this  plot, 
Till  now  so  deftly  veiled  and  ambushed..    '  Customs  ! ' 
O  specious  word,  how  plausibly  abused  ! 
In  Catholic  ears  that  word  is  venerable  ; 


1885.]  "ST.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"       385 

To  Catholic  souls  custom  is  law  itself, 

Law  that  its  own  foot  hears  not,  dumbly  treading 

A  holy  path  smoothed  by  traditions  old. 

I  war  not,  sirs,  on  ways  traditionary; 

The  church  of  Christ  herself  is  a  tradition  ; 

Ay,  'tis  God's  tradition,  not  of  men  ! 

Sir,  these  your  Customs  are  God's  laws  reversed, 

Traditions  making  void  the  Word  of  God, 

Old  innovations  from  the  first  withstood, 

The  rights  of  holy  church,  the  poor  man's  portion, 

Sold,  and  for  naught,  to  aliens.     Customs  !  Customs  ! 

Custom  was  that  which  to  the  lord  of  the  soil 

Yielded  the  virgin  one  day  wedded  !     Customs  ! 

A  century  they  have  lived  ;  but  he  ne'er  lived, 

The  man  that  knew  their  number  or  their  scope, 

Where  found,  by  whom  begotten,  or  how  named  ; 

Like  malefactors  long  they  hid  in  holes; 

They  walked  in  mystery  like  the  noontide  pest ; 

In  the  air  they  danced  ;  they  hung  on  breath  of  princes, 

Largest  when  princes'  lives  were  most  unclean, 

And  visible  most  when  rankest  was  the  mist. 

Sirs,  I  defy  your  Customs  ;  they  are  nought: 

I  turn  from  them  to  our  old  English  laws, 

The  Confessor's  and  those  who  went  before  him, 

The  charters  old,  and  sacred  oaths  of  kings  : 

I  clasp  the  tables  twain  of  Sinai ; 

On  them  I  lay  my  palms,  my  heart,  my  forehead, 

And  on  the  altars  dyed  by  martyrs'  blood, 

Making  to  God  appeal." 

These  were  the  Customs  that  St.  Thomas  resisted  to  the 
death.  In  this  speech,  so  full  of  dignity  and  fire,  Aubrey  de 
Vere  has  distorted  no  facts  for  the  sake  of  effect.  Indeed, 
throughout  the  whole  of  his  work  he  departs  in  nothing,  except 
in  the  episode  of  Idonea  de  Lisle,  the  ward  of  Becket's  sister, 
from  the  chronicled  truth.  Idonea,  a  rich  heiress,  pursued  by 
the  ruffianly  knight  De  Broc,  who  "  roamed  a-preying  on  the 
race  of  men,"  took  refuge  with  Becket's  sister  and  was  pro- 
tected by  the  power  of  the  primate.  De  Broc  gained  the  king's 
ear,  and,  "  on  some  pretence  of  law,"  drove  Idonea  from  the 
house  of  Becket's  sister.  De  Broc  and  his  friends  sued  for  her 
as  a  royal  ward : 

"Judgment  against  her  went.    The  day  had  come, 
And  round  the  minster  knights  and  nobles  watched  : 
The  chimes  rang  out  at  noon  ;  then  from  the  gate 
Becket  walked  forth,  the  maiden  by  his  side  : 
Ay,  but  her  garb  conventual  showed  the  nun  ! 
They  frowned,  but  dared  no  more." 
VOL.  XLII. — 25 


386       "Sr.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"   [Dec., 

The  feminine  interest,  to  give  which  to  his  tragedy  Tennyson 
invented  a  new  version  of  the  legend  of  Fair  Rosamond,  is  sup- 
plied by  Aubrey  de  Vere  in  this  very  fitting  episode  of  Idonea. 
It  is  artistic  and  congruous.  Idonea  is  exiled  from  England 
when  the  king's  wrath  bursts  on  all  the  relatives,  friends,  and  de- 
pendants of  A  Becket ;  she  finds  refuge  with  the  Empress  Matilda, 
mother  of  the  king.  Then  occurs  a  scene  between  the  empress 
and  the  novice  which  for  spiritual  as  well  as  intellectual  eleva- 
tion has  seldom  been  equalled. 

One  would  think  that  it  would  have  been  easy  to  give  the 
necessary  feminine  element  to  "  Becket "  by  the  use  of  an  under- 
plot ;  but  Tennyson  has  preferred  to  bring  the  king's  mistress, 
a  "  light  o*  love,"  Fair  Rosamond,  into  intimate  association  with 
the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  whose  chastity,  even  before  he 
took  orders,  amid  all  the  temptations  of  a  court  presided  over 
by  a  loose-minded  Provencal  queen,  was  proverbial.  Fair  Rosa- 
mond is  rehabilitated  for  the  purpose  of  the  laureate.  She  is 
made  to  be,  in  her  own  eyes,  the  lawful  wife  of  King  Henry,  and 
the  chancellor — not  yet  made  primate — promises  the  king  to 
protect  her  against  the  vengeance  of  Queen  Eleanor.  Becket, 
having  become  primate  and  gained  the  hatred  of  the  king,  does 
so  ;  and,  in  a  dagger-scene  quite  worthy  of  a  sensational  play, 
saves  her  from  Eleanor's  fury.  After  that  he  induces  her  to 
leave  her  son  and  begin  a  novitiate  in  Godstow  convent,  from 
which  she  emerges,  with  the  countenance  of  the  abbess,  disguised 
as  a  monk.  She  is  thus  present  at  the  murder  of  the  archbishop, 
and  her  presence  excites  that  tender  retrospection  so  in  keeping 
with  theatrical  traditions,  but  so  shockingly  contrary  to  the 
martyr's  character  and  the  truth  of  history.  It  is  here  that 
Becket  says,  according  to  Tennyson : 

"  Dan  John,  how  much  we  lose,  we  celibates, 
Lacking  the  love  of  woman  and  of  child  !  " 

John  of  Salisbury  seeks  to  give  the  archbishop  consolation 
for  his  supposed  loss,  in  a  most  ungallant  and  pessimistic  tone 
smacking  somewhat  of  "  sour  grapes  "  : 

"  More  gain  than  loss  ;  for  of  your  wives  you  shall 
Find  one  a  slut,  whose  fairest  linen  seems 
Foul  as  her  dust-cloth,  if  she  used  it ;  one 
So  charged  with  tongue,  that  every  thread  of  thought 
Is  broken  ere  it  joins — a  shrew  to  boot, 
Whose  evil  song  far  on  into  the  night 
Thrills  to  the  topmost  tile — no  hope  but  death  ; 
One  slow,  fat,  white,  a  burthen  of  the  hearth  ; 


1885.]  "ST.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AMD  "BECKET"       387 

And  one  that,  being  thwarted,  ever  swoons 
And  weeps  herself  into  the  place  of  power; 
And  one  an  uxor  pauper  is  Ibyci" 

This  is  hardly  the  way  in  which  a  sturdy  and  ascetic  priest 
and  counsellor  would  talk  to  an  archbishop  who,  almost  at  the 
moment  of  martyrdom,  would  begin  to  look  back  at  "  lost 
chances  "  of  love  and  matrimony.  These  touches  of  false  senti- 
ment show  how  impossible  it  is  for  Tennyson  to  comprehend  a 
priest  of  the  church.  How  different,  but  how  true,  is  the  note 
struck  by  Aubrey  de  Vere !  Becket  has  been  just  made  primate, 
and  he  bursts  into  the  splendid  speech  to  Herbert  of  Bosham  : 

"  Herbert !  my  Herbert ! 

High  visions,  mine  in  youth,  upbraid  me  now; 
I  dreamed  of  sanctities  redeemed  from  shame  ; 
Abuses  crushed  ;  all  sacred  offices 
Reserved  for  spotless  hands.     Again  I  see  them  ; 
I  see  God's  realm  so  bright  each  English  home 
Sharing  that  glory  basks  amid  its  peace  ; 
I  see  the  clear  flame  on  the  poor  man's  hearth 
From  God's  own  altar  lit ;  the  angelic  childhood  ; 
The  chaste,  strong  youth  ;  the  reverence  of  white  hairs  : — 
Tis  this  Religion  means.     O  Herbert !  Herbert  ! 
We  must  secure  her  this.     Her  rights,  the  lowest 
Shall  in  my  hand  be  safe.     I  will  not  suffer 
The  pettiest  stone  in  castle,  grange,  or  mill, 
The  humblest  clod  of  English  earth,  one  time 
A  fief  of  my  great  mother,  Canterbury, 
To  rest  caitiff's  booty.     Herbert,  Herbert, 
Had  I  foreseen,  with  what  a  vigilant  care 
Had  I  built  up  my  soul !  " 

His  pupil,  young  Prince  Henry,  is  heard  singing  without,  and 
he  says,  in  contrast  to  the  whines  put  into  his  mouth  by  Tengy- 
son  : 

"  Hark  to  that  truant's  song  !     We  celibates 
Are  strangely  captured  by  this  love  of  children  : 
Nature's  revenge — say,  rather  compensation." 

Catholics  whose  childhood  has  been  passed  among  religious 
will  recognize  the  truth  of  this,  as  well  as  the  falseness  of  Tenny- 
son's point  of  view.  Exiled  in  the  Abbey  of  Pontigny,  after  the 
king  has  poured  his  wrath  on  him  and  his  kindred  for  defending 
the  liberties  of  the  church  and  the  people,  he  does  not  break  out 
into  wild  regret  or  sentimental  sighs.  There  is  manly  tender, 
ness  in  his  tone  to  the  abbot : 


388       "Sr.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"   [Dec., 

'*  My  mother,  when  I  went  to  Paris  first, 
A  slender  scholar  bound  on  quest  of  learning, 
Girdling  my  gown  collegiate,  wept  full  sore, 
Then  laid  on  me  this  hest :  both  early  and  late 
To  love  Christ's  Mother  and  the  poor  of  Christ, 
That  so  her  prayer  in  heaven  and  theirs  on  earth, 
Beside  me  moving  as  I  walked  its  streets, 
Might  shield  me  from  its  sins." 

ABBOT. 

"Men  say  your  mother 
Loved  the  poor  well,  and  still  on  festivals, 
Laying  her  growing  babe  in  counter-scale, 
Heaped  up  an  equal  weight  of  clothes  and  food, 
Which  unto  them  she  gave/' 

It  would  be  necessary  to  apologize  for  giving  many  quota- 
tions, tempting  as  their  beauty  is,  were  it  not  for  the  fact  that 
mere  allusion  to  them  would  not  suffice.  It  is  regrettable  that 
among  Catholics — and  the  present  writer  speaks  from  observa- 
tion— Tennyson's"  Becket,"  printed  in  1884,  is  better  known  than 
De  Vere's  "  St.  Thomas,"  an  American  edition  of  which  appeared 
in  1876. 

Aubrey  de  Vere's  conception  of  the  motives  of  the  martyred 
primate  is  worthy  of  a  Catholic  poet.  Tennyson  grasps  only 
faintly  the  Christianity  of  A  Becket.  It  does  not  come  home  to 
him,  it  does  not  touch  him,  because  in  his  experience  he  has 
never  come  in  contact  with  the  inner  life  of  a  devout  priest,  and 
therefore  his  imagination  is  not  equal  to  the  task  of  evolving  one. 
Of  the  real  meaning  of  asceticism  he  is  entirely  ignorant.  The 
pride  and  the  impatience  of  his  Becket  is  only  equalled  by  the 
self-conceit  of  his  St.  Simon  Stylites. 

^n  the  dialogue  between  the  abbot  of  Pontigny  and  the  ex- 
iled archbishop,  just  quoted,  there  is  an  example  of  Catholic  be- 
lief which,  like  sustaining  gold  threads  in  a  tissue  of  silk,  runs 
through  the  wonderful  tragedy  of  De  Vere's.  The  chancellor 
is  made  the  primate;  he  becomes  less  gay,  less  worldly,  more 
given  to  the  building-up  of  his  soul  and  his  mind,  and  more  spir- 
itual. He,  almost  alone,  stands  up  for  the  church  and  the  people. 
Time-serving  court  bishops  cower,  the  very  court  of  Rome— but 
not  the  church — seems  to  desert  him.  The  pope  himself  sends 
him  the  habit  of  the  monks  of  Pontigny,  with  the  cowl  filled  with 
snow — "  the  pope  knows  well  some  heads  are  hot."  The  arch- 
bishop endures  it  all  with  the  meekness  of  a  saint,  yet  with  the 
dignity  of  a  man.  Through  all  trials,  up  to  the  time  of  martyrdom, 


1885.]   "Sr.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"       389 

he  seems  marked  for  special  grace.  He  is  not  singularly  learned, 
for  the  practical  duties  of  the  kingdom  have  left  him  little  time 
for  study.  And  yet  he  is  well  equipped  with  fortitude  and  his 
hope  never  falters.  Why?  We  are  answered:  because  his  mo- 
ther has  loved  God  and  the  poor,  and  because  he  so  loves  Christ's 
poor,  following  her  behest.  This  essentially  Catholic  point  is 
accentuated  most  sharply  and  artistically  by  the  author. 

Tennyson  draws  very  sharply  the  envious  and  the  fawning 
prelates  around  the  king,  and  his  characterization  is  as  keen  and 
delicate  as  we  have  had  every  reason  to  expect  it  to  be.  But  the 
virtuous  priests  in"  Becket"  are  certainly  a  strange  group.  We 
know  that  the  church  in  England,  half-enslaved  by  the  state  and 
burdened  with  growing  wealth,  had  need  of  reforms  in  disci- 
pline. Aubrey  de  Vere,  with  a  regard  for  truth  which  has  pro- 
bably caused  guileless  Protestants  to  expect  to  see  him  crushed 
by  the  thunder  of  Rome,  makes  the  pious  Empress  Matilda  say: 

"  I  would  your  primate 

Had  let  the  Royal  Customs  be,  and  warred 
Against  the  ill  customs  of  the  church.     'Tis  shame 
To  ordain  a  clerk  in  name  that  lacks  a  cure, 
Whom  idleness  must  needs  ensnare  in  crime, 
Scandal — and  worse — to  screen  an  erring  clerk, 
More  fearing  clamor  than  the  cancer  slow 
Of  wily  wasting  sin.     Scandal  it  is 
When  seven  rich  benefices  load  one  priest, 
Likeliest  his  soul's  damnation." 

JOHN   OF   SALISBURY. 

"  Scandals  indeed ! 

And  no  true  friend  to  Thomas  is  the  man 
Who  palliates  such  abuses.     For  this  cause 
Reluctantly  he  grasped  Augustine's  staff, 
Therewith  to  smite  them  down.     Madam,  the  men 
Who  brand  them  most  are  those  who  breed  the  scandals. 
The  primate  warred  on  such.     The  king,  to  shield  them, 
Invoked  the  Royal  Customs." 

We  understand  all  this,  and  no  Catholic  of  to-day  attempts  to 
palliate  abuses  which  crept  into  the  discipline  of  the  church.  It 
is  evident  that  Aubrey  de  Vere  does  riot  whiten  the  courtiers 
and  sycophants,  although  clothed  with  episcopal  authority,  who 
shrank  from  St.  Thomas  at  the  king's  scowl.  He  is  even  more 
pitiless  to  them  than  Tennyson.  Tennyson,  however,  does  not 
seem  to  see  the  anomaly  of  making  an  archbishop — a  saint  canon- 
ized by  Rome — show  an  insubordinate  and  mutinous  spirit  which 


390       "Sr.  T&OMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"  [Dec., 

almost  justifies  the  hot  words  that  King  Henry  is  made  to  ad- 
dress to  him  : 

"  No  !  God  forbid  and  turn  me  Mussulman  I 
No  God  but  one,  and  Mahound  is  his  prophet. 
But  for  your  Christian,  look  you,  you  shall  have 
None  other  God  but  me — me,  Thomas,  son 
Of  Gilbert  Becket,  London  merchant." 

Tennyson's  Becket  has  a  most  persistent  habit  of  repartee. 
The  repartee  is  sometimes  very  apt,  but  very  unsaintly.  Indeed, 
if  the  laureate  had  made  Wyclif  the  hero  of  his  tragedy,  some  of 
the  speeches  would  be  in  keeping  with  the  sentiments  of  that 
over-glorified  Lollard. 

It  may  be  said  that  Tennyson's  idea  of  St.  Thomas  is  very 
human,  and  that  the  poet  has  well  depicted  in  rushing  words  a 
proud  nature  towering  and  neither  bending  nor  breaking.  Ten- 
nyson's Becket  is  well  enough  painted  from  that  point  of  view. 
There  are  some  exquisitely  "fine  natural  touches.  But  the  poet- 
laureate  had  no  right  to  attempt  to  depict  the  character  of  St. 
Thomas  merely  from  that  point  of  view.  Pride  and  enthusiasm 
would  never  have  made  a  Christian  martyr  of  Thomas  a  Becket, 
and  it  is  the  full  understanding  of  this  that,  leaving  out  other 
qualities,  makes  Aubrey  de  Vere  the  greater  poet  and  the  truer 
delineator  of  a  hero  whom  it  is  almost  sacrilege  to  misrepresent 
for  the  sake  of  a  theatrical  succes  d'estime.  The  character  of  St. 
Thomas  a  Becket  belongs  to  Christendorn  and  to  history,  and  the 
poet-laureate,  rushing  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,  not  caring 
for  or  understanding  the  sacredness  of  his  subject,  has  done  both 
Christendom  and  art  a  wrong  by  dragging  an  effigy  of  the  mar- 
tyred primate  in  the  dust.  It  used  to  be  the  fashion  to  overlook 
the  liberties  that  poets  and  romance-writers  took  with  history  ; 
but  since  historians  have  become  romancers,  and  even  adopted 
the  adjectives  of  the  poets,  we  are  more  exacting.  No  excuse 
can  be  offered  for  Tennyson's  falsification  of  the  character  of  A 
Becket — not  even  an  excuse  that  he  needed  dramatic  color.  He 
had  a  noble  figure  and  a  sublime  time,  and  he  belittled  them 
both,  because  he  would  not  understand  them  or  because  the 
success  of  a  play  he  had  adapted  from  Boccaccio  made  him 
anxious  for  the  applause  of  the  frequenters  of  theatres. 

Tennyson,  echoing,  perhaps,  some  sectarian  preacher,  causes 
the  pope's  almoner  to  suggest  treachery  to  the  archbishop  when 
the  king  is  urging  him  to  sign  the  articles  against  the  freedom  of 
the  church.  Philip  de  Eleemosyna  tempts  the  archbishop  to 


1885.]  "ST.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"       391 

grievous  sin  by  whispering  that  the  pope  wants   him   to  com- 
mit it: 

"  Cannot  the  pope  absolve  thee  if  thou  sign  ?  " 

This  might  be  forgiven  in  a  tract  against  popery,  on  the  score 
of  ignorance;  but  what  plea  can  be  offered  for  it  in  the  careful, 
overwrought  work   of  a   poet   whose   fame   is   world-wide  and 
whose  knowledge  ought  not  to  be  much  narrower? 
Becket  bursts  out  in  this  speech  : 

"  Map  scoffs  at  Rome.     I  all  but  hold  with  Map. 
Save  for  myself  no  Rome  were  left  in  England : 
All  had  been  his.     Why  should  this  Rome,  this  Rome, 
Still  choose  Barabbas  rather  than  the  Christ, 
Absolve  the  left-hand  thief  and  damn  the  right? 
Take  fees  of  tyranny,  wink  at  sacrilege, 
Which  even  Peter  had  not  dared  ?  condemn 
The  blameless  exile?'' 

Is  this  the  language  of  a  Christian  hero?  Are  these  revilings 
of  the  Power  he  is  willing  to  die  for  consistent  naturally  or  true 
artistically  ?  Herbert  of  Bosham,  the  archbishop's  faithful  friend, 
a  devout  cleric  and  a  sensible  man  according  to  good  authorities, 
is  made  to  drivel  : 

"  Thee,  thou  holy  Thomas, 
I  would  that  thou  hadst  been  the  Holy  Father/' 

To  which  Tennyson's  archbishop  complacently  replies : 

" '  I  would  have  done  my  most  to  keep  Rome  holy  ; 
I  would  have  made  Rome  know  she  still  is  Rome, 
Who  stands  aghast  at  her  eternal  self 
And  shakes  at  mortal  kings — her  vacillation, 
Avarice,  craft.     O  God  !  how  many  an  innocent 
Has  left  his  bones  upon  the  way  to  Rome, 
Unwept,  uncared  for!     Yea,  on  mine  self 
The  king  had  had  no  power,  except  for  Rome. 
Tis  not  the  king  who  is  guilty  of  mine  exile, 
But  Rome,  Rome,  Rome  ! '  ' 

Was  there  ever  an  honest  and  faithful  priest  and  friend  so  mis- 
represented by  a  poet  dazzled  by  the  glare  of  the  footlights? 
Was  ever  a  saint  and  martyr  more  besmeared  with  mock  heroic 
pride  and  selfishness  ? 

Chroniclers  tell  us  that  St.  Thomas  was  serene  and  digni- 
fied in  all  trials,  but  "  Becket's  "  serenity  is  frequently  swept 
away  in  gusts  of  evil  temper,  and  he  is  quite  as  foul-mouthed  as 
the  enemies  that  bait  him.  The  prelates  around  him  wrangle 
like  school-boys,  and  the  scene  at  Northampton  is  simply  a  free 


392       "ST.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"  [Dec., 

quarrel.  Aubrey  de  Vere,  comprehending  that  the  key  to  St. 
Thomas'  conduct  must  be  found  in  a  supernatural  manner, 
avoids  the  almost  brutal  mistakes  of  the  laureate.  The  scene  of 
the  signing-  of  the  Royal  Customs  by  A  Becket  was  really  at  Clar- 
endon ;  Tennyson  transfers  it  to  Roehampton.  De  Vere  treats 
this  scene  with  keen  perception  and  admirable  reticence.  The 
archbishop  does  not  forget  himself  or  burst  into  violent  asser- 
tions. He  is  made  to  explain  the  episode  of  the  almoner,  which 
Tennyson  treats  in  a  truly  evangelical  way.  He  tells  how  he 
was  deluded  into  signing  the  articles.  It  is  very  different  from 
the  version  in  which  the  pope's  envoy  whispers  that  one  may 
sin  freely  and  be  sure  of  absolution  ! 

"  Came  next  the  papal  envoy  from  Aumone, 
With  word  the  pope,  moved  by  the  troublous  time 
Willed  my  submission  to  the  royal  will. 
This  was  the  second  fraud  ;  remains  the  third. 
My  lords,  the  Customs  named  till  then  were  few. 
In  evil  hour  I  yielded — pledged  the  church, 
Alas  !  to  what  I  know  not.     On  the  instant 
The  king  commanded,  '  Write  ye  down  these  laws.' 
And  soon,  too  soon,  a  parchment  pre-ordained 
Upon  our  table  lay,  a  scroll  inscribed 
With  usages  sixteen,  whereof  most  part 
Were  shamefuller  than  the  worst  discussed  till  then. 
My  lords,  too  late  I  read  that  scroll :  I  spurned  it ; 
I  sware  by  Him  who  made  the  heavens  and  earth 
That  never  seal  of  mine  should  touch  that  bond, 
Not  mine,  but  juggle-changed.     My  lords,  that  eve 
A  truthful  servant  and  a  fearless  one, 
Who  bears  my  cross — and  taught  me,  too,  to  bear  one — 
Llewellen  is  his  name,  remembered  be  it  ! — 
Probed  me,  and  probed  with  sharp  and  searching  words  ; 
And  as  the  sun  my  sin  before  me  stood. 
My  lords,  for  forty  days  I  kept  my  fast, 
And  held  me  from  the  offering  of  the  Mass, 
And  sat  in  sackcloth  ;  till  the  pope  sent  word, 
'  Arise  ;  be  strong  and  walk  !'     And  I  arose, 
And  hither  came ;  and  here  confession  make 
That  till  the  cleansed  leper  once  again 
Take,  voluntary,  back  his  leprosy, 
I  with  those  Royal  Customs  stain  no  more 
My  soul,  which  Christ  hath  washed." 

This  is  not  the  talk  of  Tennyson's  ill-tempered  and  sharp- 
tongued  Becket,  but  the  sense,  if  not  the  exact  words,  of  the  real 
Becket.  De  Vere's  consummate  skill  in  building  up  bit  by  bit 
the  character  of  the  archbishop,  in  accordance  with  the  charac- 


1885.]  "Sr.  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"       393 

ter  given  him  by  authentic  writers,  is  worthy  of  careful  analysis. 
The  primate  asked  of  his  servants  their  honest  opinions  of  his 
conduct,  and  accepted  opinions  thus  frankly  tendered  as  his 
guide.  The  flattery  of  Tennyson's  Herbert  of  Bosham,  so  com- 
placently swallowed  by  the  laureate's  political  primate,  would 
have  brought  down  the  censure  of  the  real  St.  Thomas.  De 
Vere  characterizes  Llewellen,  the  Welsh  cross-bearer,  by  a  nice 
touch  : 

"The  tables  groaned  with  gold  ;  I  scorned  the  pageant. 
The  Norman  pirates  and  the  Saxon  boors 
Sat  round  and  fed;  I  hated  them  alike, 
The  rival  races,  one  in  sin.     Alone 
We  Britons  tread  our  native  soil." 

In  the  death-scene  Tennyson  sins  unpardonably.  He  shows 
us  the  archbishop  rushing  to  his  death  from  obstinacy  and  want 
of  self-control.  De  Brito,  Fitzurse,  and  De  Tracy  have  come  to 
put  into  act  the  hasty  words  of  the  king  and  to  murder  the  arch- 
bishop.  Becket  rails  at  them  bitterly,  throws  Fitzurse  from  him 
and  pitches  De  Tracy  "  headlong,"  after  the  manner  of  the  mus- 
cular Christian  heroes  beloved  of  the  late  Rev.  Charles  Kingsley. 
He  even  sneers  at  the  monks  whom  Tennyson  makes  to  flee. 
"  Our  dovecote  flown,"  he  says — "  I  cannot  tell  why  monks  should 
all  be  cowards."  He  still  repeats  the  sneer,  until  Grim1,  whose 
arm  is  broken  by  a  blow  aimed  at  Becket,  reminds  him  that  he 
is  a  monk.  Rosamond  rushes  in  and  begs  the  murderers  to 
spare  the  archbishop,  and  then  he  is  slain,  just  as  a  thunderstorm 
breaks  ;  this  climax,  which  in  Aubrey  de  Vere's  tragedy  follows 
strictly  the  authentic  account  of  the  sacrilege,  is  made  trivial  by 
a  silly  coup  de  thddtre. 

There  is  nothing  in  Tennyson's  "Becket"  to  compare  with 
the  lyrics  in  "  The  Princess,"  or  even  the  lute  song  in  "  Queen 
Mary  "  ;  but  they  are  airy  and  expressive  of  the  mood  of  the  per- 
sons in  whose  mouths  they  are  placed.  Queen  Eleanor  sings: 

"  Over !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 
The  reign  of  the  roses  is  done ; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
And  over  and  gone  with  the  sun. 

"  Over  !  the  sweet  summer  closes, 

And  never  a  flower  at  the  close  ; 
Over  and  gone  with  the  roses, 
And  winter  again  and  the  snows." 

It  is  quite  in  accordance   with    the  mood    of  the  light-minded 
queen,  who  is  quite  past  the  August  of  life,  who  has  been  wed- 


394       "Sf-  THOMAS  OF  CANTERBURY"  AND  "BECKET"  [Dec., 

ded   more  for  her  rich   possessions  than  herself,  and  who  is  far 
from  her  gay  and  debonair  Aquitaine. 

Queen  Eleanor  does  not  sing  in  the  similar  scene  in  Aubrey 
de  Vere's  tragedy.  She  turns  to  a  trouvereand  asks  him  to  sing. 
And  he  begins  : 

'  I  make  not  songs,  but  only  find  ; 

Love  following  still  the  circling  sun, 
His  carol  casts  on  every  wind, 
And  other  singer  is  therejione. 

"  I  follow  Love,  though  |ar  he  flies ; 

I  sing  his  song,  at  random  found 
Like  plume  some  bird-of-paradise 
Drops,  passing,  on  our  dusky  bound. 

"  In  some,  methinks,  at  times  there  glows 

The  passion  of  some  heavenlier  sphere  : 
These  too  I  sing ;  but  sweetest  those 
I  dare  not  sing  and  sweetly  hear." 

This  is  a  smooth  setting  of  a  thought  which  both  Keats  and 
Maurice  de  Guerin,  and  no  doubt  all  poets,  have  tried  to  express  ; 
but  Queen  Eleanor,  and  perhaps  the  sensitive  reader,  finds  it 
lacking  as  a  lyric.  The  trouvere  then  sings  another  about 
Phoebus  and  Daphne.  Queen  Eleanor  very  aptly  cries  : 

"  A  love-song  that !    An  icicle  it  is 
Added  to  winter." 

But  if  Aubrey  de  Vere's  lyrical  touch  is  hard  and  cold  in 
comparison  with  Tennyson's,  even  when  Tennyson's  Ivrics  are 
not  his  best,  he  has  the  advantage,  in  all  the  higher  attributes  of 
a  dramatic  poet,  in  limning  Queen  Eleanor,  who  was  a  creature  of 
the  senses,  yet  still  a  princess  and  of  no  mean  capabilities.  Ten- 
nyson gives  the  impression  that  she  was  half-crazed — a  kind  of 
Provencal  Bacchante,  and  her  first  entrance  destroys  all  respect 
for  her  sanity. 

Aubrey  de  Vere's  "Saint  Thomas  of  Canterbury  "  has  a  foil 
in  "  Becket "  which,  by  contrast,  makes  it  glow  and  seem  more 
full  of  lustre  and  color,  as  a  diamond  of  flawless  purity  when  put 
in  a  circle  of  brilliants.  It  is  hard  to  account  for  the  blindness  of 
the  poet  of  the  "  Idyls  of  the  King  "  in  venturing  to  attempt  a 
work  that  had  already  been  perfectly  done.  Aubrey  de  Vere's 
place  as  a  great  dramatic  poet  was  settled  when  "  Alexander  the 
Great"  appeared.  "  Saint  Thomas  of  Canterbury"  was  not 
needed  to  teach  the  world  what  he  could  do.  But  he  has  given 
it  out  of  the  abundance  of  his  heart ;  and  we  Catholics,  who  have 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  395 

the  key  of  faith  with  which  to  unlock  its  mysteries,  which  are 
unknown  to  a  poet  of  even  Tennyson's  insight,  may  thank  God 
that  he  has  raised  up  a  seer  at  once  strong,  pure,  true  to  his 
ideals  both  in  religion  and  art,  more  than  worthy  to  wear  the 
mantle  that  fell  from  the  shoulders  of  Wordsworth,  and  with 
much  of  the  divine  fire  that  made  Shakspere  an  arbiter  of  Eng- 
lish thought  and  speech. 


THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA. 
I. 

THE  Irish,  along  with  shortcomings  which  their  neighbors, 
and  through  them  the  world,  are  never  tired  of  citing,  have  at 
least  one  virtue  :  they  do  not  grovel  before  the  golden  calf.  A 
common  enough  character  among  them  is  the  prodigal  ;  but 
aside  from  such  extremes,  and  regarding  only  the  mass  of  thrifty 
and  sensible  Irishmen  of  whom  one  does  not  hear  much,  it  is  soon 
apparent  that  the  gross  view  of  money  as  a  thing  to  hoard  for 
its  own  sake  is  found  among  them  more  rarely  than  in  other 
nations.  How  often  does  one  hear  of  the  Irishman,  enriched  by 
the  freedom  he  finds  in  other  lands,  who  sits  like  a  toad  over  a 
treasure,  not  enjoying  it  himself  and  letting  as  few  others  as  pos- 
sible get  from  it  any  satisfaction?  The  character  is  common 
among  Germans,  Hollanders,  Scandinavians,  English,  Scotch, 
and  Americans ;  it  is  not  unknown  in  France,  and  has  represen- 
tatives among  the  Jews  even,  when  they  are  not  oppressed — for, 
in  the  face  of  old  prejudices,  the  Jews  are  really  not  so  often 
given  to  undue  hoarding  of  wealth  as  our  forefathers  made  them- 
selves believe.  Whence  comes  this  trait  in  the  Irish  character — 
a  trait  that  has  its  fine,  magnanimous  side,  and  yet  leads  to  the 
unhappiness  of  the  possessor  and  his  surroundings  as  soon  as 
pushed  far?  In  the  attempt  to  explain  it,  if  one  goes  back  into 
the  past,  the  reader  will  bear  in  mindt  hat  perhaps  nowhere  in 
Europe  have  more  old  ideas,  old  customs,  and  elsewhere-forgot- 
ten traits  been  kept  alive  than  in  the  extreme  western  island 
over  against  our  shores. 

Among  semi-civilized  races  hoarding  is  made  easy  by  the  in- 
troduction of  a  metallic  currency  which  is  protected  from  de- 
basement. Early  historians,  like  Keating,  were  supposed  to  say 


THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec., 

that  silver  money  was  coined  in  Ireland  at  a  very  remote  period ; 
but  the  latest  and  best  translation  of  Keating  makes  "  silver 
shields  "  take  the  place  of  coin.  There  would  be  nothing  strange, 
however,  in  an  early  coinage  in  Ireland  of  a  kind  like  that  found 
in  other  Keltic  nations — rude  tokens,  often  stamped  on  one  face 
only,  and  commonly  bearing  the  hardly  distinguishable,  figure  of 
a  horse.  These  coins  cannot  be  assigned  to  places  and  centu- 
ries; they  are  barbarous  imitations  of  Greek  and  Roman  coins, 
and  may  well  have  been  used  in  Ireland  from  the  earliest  ages. 
Few  treasure-troves  are  met  with,  because  of  reasons  we  will 
come  to  soon.  The  first  coins  of  Ireland  that  can  be  definitely 
assigned  to  the  reign  of  a  given  king  are  those  of  Aalaf,  or  Olave, 
king  of  the  Scandinavian  district  about  Dublin,  of  the  Isle  of 
Man  also,  and  of  Northumberland  in  Britain.  .  vEthelstane  de- 
feated this  pagan  at  Brunanburgh,  drove  him,  for  a  time  at  least, 
from  England,  and  caused  him  to  be  baptized  a  Christian  before 
he  died.  We  hear  no  more  of  Irish  coins  for  three  hundred 
years,  when  King  John  minted  pence  in  Dublin  which  bore  the 
royal  head  in  a  triangle  representing  rudely  the  Irish  harp.  For 
centuries  afterwards  the  English  kings  kept  up  the  coinage  of 
money  bearing  Irish  symbols  on  the  charge  or  allusions  to  Ire- 
land in  the  inscription.  But  they  did  not  possess  Ireland  in  any 
complete  sense,  for  the  Welsh-Norman  conquest  was  partial. 
Kit  Marlowe  describes  the  conquered  in  the  passage  where  Lan- 
caster speaks  to  King  Edward  II.  in  that  free  way  which  seems 
so  disrespectful  to  republicans,  brought  up,  as  we  are,  to  consider 
that  a  king,  if  he  rules  at  all,  should  be  a  sovereign  : 

"  Look  for  rebellion,  look  to  be  deposed  ; 
Thy  garrisons  are  beaten  out  of  France, 
And,  lame  and  poor,  lie  groaning-  at  the  gates. 
The  wild  Oneyl  with  swarms  of  Irish  kerns 
Lives  uncontrolled  within  the  English  pale  ; 
Unto  the  walls  of  York  the  Scots  make  road, 
And  unresisted  drive  away  rich  spoils." 

The  bulk  of  the  people  adhered  to  their  old  system  of  barter 
in  kind  rather  than  use  the  invader's  pound,  shilling,  and  penny, 
or  trust  to  the  honesty  of  the  mints  which  were  liable  to  be 
established  by  charter  in  any  large  city.  At  most  they  took  at 
their  weight  in  metal  English  and  Continental  copper  and  silver, 
often  giving  preference  to  that  foreign  money  which  was  famous 
for  purity.  It  is  said  that  an  Irish  fair  to-day  gains  a  good  half 
of  its  "  humors  "  from  the  fact  that  coin  is  little  used  among  the 
poorer  classes.  Many  are  the  funny  stories  of  peasant  wit  con- 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  397 

nected  with  this  old  and  satisfactory  method  ;  strange  to  say,  in 
the  United  States  the  "  swaps  "  and  horse-trades  of  the  rural  dis- 
tricts belong  to  a  similar  state  of  things,  an  age  when  coin  was 
scanty  and  not  above  suspicion.  Consider  the  history  of  Irish 
oppression,  and  judge  whether  or  not  the  peasant  was  wrong  to 
stick  doggedly  to  his  prejudice  against  coin.  The  Irish  have  never 
liked  English  coin,  as  why  should  they  ?  Have  they  not  always 
been  most  potent  tools  in  the  hands  of  London  bankers  ?  No 
matter  if  the  "  wild  Irish  "  did  win  battles,  the  results  were  lost 
by  the  impoverishment  of  the  country  through  the  channels  of 
trade.  Can  we  not  regard  a  nation  in  one  sense  as  a  great  body 
bound  together  by  obscure  nerves  which  warn  it  of.  a  danger 
when  the  onlooker  thinks  that  suspicion  and  stubborn  refusal  to 
accept  a  so-called  tool  of  civilization  is  the  height  of  unreason  ? 
The  absence  from  the  old  literature  of  mention  of  a  coin  currency 
is  very  remarkable.  The  Book  of  Rights,  notwithstanding  that 
penalties  and  tributes  form  its  constant  burden,  has  the  "  ring  " 
for  the  nearest  approach  to  a  currency.  This  was  the  well- 
known  most  portable  property  of  the  northern  nations,  as  of  the 
Italic  races  in  an  epoch  before,  and  is  to-day  in  use  among  the 
African  and  Indian  races. 

"  Fichi  falach,  fichi  fichthill, 
fichi  each  co  ro  Eas-ruaith, 
do'n  righ  do  nar  thearbhas  doghaing, 

do  righ  bhearnais  Conaill  chruaith." 

\ 

Twenty  rings,  twenty  chessboards, 
twenty  steeds  at  the  great  cataract  Eas, 
to  the  King  for  whom  no  sorrow  is  fated, 
to  the  King  of  the  Gap  of  the  hardy  Conall. 

But  the  commoner  perquisites  of  chiefs  were  hogs,  .drinking- 
horns,  horses,  cattle,  male  slaves,  bondswomen  to  grind  at  the 
quern,  suits  of  clothes,  shields  and  chariots.  We  find  rings  al- 
most emerged  into  a  currency  among  the  Saxons,  though, 
strange  to  say,  hardly  so  completely  a  currency  as  the  shells  call- 
ed wampum  or  sewant  among  the  Atlantic  Indians.  In  Beowulf 
an  ordinary  epithet  for  a  chief  is  "  ring-giver,"  whilst  the  early' 
literature  of  Ireland  is  full  of  the  same  allusions.  Thorarin 
Praise-tongue,  in  eulogy  of  King  S  \veyn  of  Norway,  calls  him 
bauga-briotr,  ring-breaker ;  whence  we  conclude  that,  for  exam- 
ple, the  large  arm-rings  of  copper,  silver,  or  gold  were  broken  up, 
and  the  pieces  distributed  among  deserving  jarls  and  kempies, 
just  as  the  Forty-niners  of  California,  true  descendants  of  the 


398  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec., 

Wickingmen,  ran  their  gold  into  chains,  and,  when  they  wished 
to  pay  the  scot,  wrenched  a  "  bit "  off  with  their  teeth.  Bauga 
deildo — "  they  distributed  or  spent  money  " — says  the  very  able 
and  humorous  poet  who  wrote  Rigs-Tkula,  the  Lay  of  Righ, 
using  for  the  common  currency  of  Scandinavia  the  word  from 
which  the  French  get  their  bague.  This  recalls  the  situation  in 
Britain  on  the  arrival  of  the  Romans  ;  for  Csesar  found  a  brass 
currency  in  Kent,  together  with  tallies  and  rings  of  iron,  though, 
according  to  some  manuscripts,  there  seems  also  to  have  been  a 
gold  currency  of  some  kind.  The  latter  must  have  been  scant 
at  that  period  in  Britain,  and  still  scanter  in  Ireland  ;  but  it  is 
more  than  probable  that  with  the  rise  of  cultivation  in  Ireland 
which  took  place  in  the  fourth  and  fifth  centuries  mints  of  some 
rude  kind  were  established.  Then  Ireland  became  the  asylum 
of  the  better  class  of  Kelts  from  Gaul  and  Britain.  We  may 
conclude  that  during  at  least  three  important  epochs  coins  were 
struck  in  Ireland,  if  we  include  thereunder  the  rude  Keltic 
tokens;  yet  between  whiles  they  fall  into  disuse.  Does  not  this 
show  the  rooted  unpopularity  of  coinage  as  against  the  good  old 
method  of  barter  ? 

Since  the  traitorous  Dermot  McMorrough  introduced  the 
Welsh,  Norman,  and  Flemish  adventurers  into  the  Emerald  Isle, 
and  opened  her  to  the  nation  that  loves  coin  above  all  things  in 
heaven  and  on  earth,  the  multiplex  power  which  money  gives 
has  been  used  to  keep  Ireland  under.  It  need  not  be  supposed 
that  Ireland  has  been  the  only  spot  on  earth  to  suffer  in  like 
ways ;  no  land  has  been  quite  exempt.  In  the  United  States,  for 
example,  about  1814  it  used  to  be  said  that  England,  having 
been  worsted  by  America  on  sea  and  land,  was  getting  her  re- 
venge in  the  counting-house,  so  oppressive  of  American  com- 
merce were  the  tactics  of  her  merchants  and  bankers.  But  Irish 
history  always  has  a  charm,  a  picturesqueness  of  its  own ;  one 
follows  better  there  the  destructive  course  of  the  English  guinea 
— that  coin  which  shows  St.  George  beating  down  his  baser  na- 
ture under  the  symbol  of  the  dragon  ;  that  coin  which  can  do  so 
much  good  when  the  lesson  of  its  effigy  is  taken  to  heart.  The 
stubbornness  of  the  Irish  in  resisting  the  uncontrolled  power  of 
capital  as  embodied  in  the  landlord  class,  and  the  ceaseless  agita- 
tion of  men  who  will  neither  pay  nor  emigrate,  is  not  of  to-day 
or  yesterday  :  it  is  coeval  with  the  nation  ;  it  has  subsisted  under 
all  changes  of  the  population,  from  slight  to  large  infusions  there- 
in of  "  Saxon  "  blood  ;  and  on  this  very  point  history  is  being 
made  in  Ireland  now. 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  399 

Pretty  uniformly  the  successive  waves  of  settlement  had  for 
incentive  the  plunder  of  the  native  Irish.  After  the  Norman- 
Welsh  conquest  came  the  encroachments  of  Englishmen  who  ex- 
ploited the  enfeebled  land  with  the  thoroughness  of  keen  traders. 
In  1333  the  English,  and  those  Normans  and  Welshmen  who  had 
not  become  identified  in  custom  and  speech  with  the  Keltic 
population,  were  swept  back  toward  Dublin  by  the  Scottish  Irish 
arms.  Then  many  families  assumed  Irish  names,  usually  taking 
that  of  the  sept  into  which  they  had  married,  and  thus  making  it 
hard  to  trace  them  in  after-generations.  As  the  effort  spent 
itself  and  the  English  power  got  help  stringent  laws  were 
made  against  all  the  Ireland -born.  One  might  be  proud  of 
descent  from  the  clan,  another  boastful  of  the  stock  of  "  Strong- 
bownians,"  a  third  the  son  of  a  recent  intruder  who  scorned 
the  other  natives  of  an  island  their  fathers  had  come  to  plun- 
der by  frank  fighting  or  legal  chicane.  But  all  suffered,  un- 
less there  was  influence  enough  to  procure  a  place  from  the 
dominant  party.  In  1367  the  English  were  forbid  under  pain 
of  prison  to  entertain  Irish  bards,  who  were  then,  as  they 
were  still  four  centuries  later,  considered  no  better  than  spies. 
Forfeiture  of  land  was  decreed  against  those  who  adopted 
the  Irish  dress  and  tongue,  or  the  mode  of  riding  a  horse  with- 
out stirrups.  It  was  felony  to  intermarry  with  the  proscrib- 
ed race  or  entertain  the  relations  of  fosterage  or  gossipred— 
that  is,  of  godfather  or  godmother — relations  that  were  often 
closer  than  connection  by  blood,  and  in  their  influence  upon  the 
social  situation  deserve  more  attention  than  can  be  given  here. 
It  was  felony  to  sell  to,  barter  with,  or  buy  from  a  native.  No 
Irishman  could  hold  a  living  or  enter  a  monastery.  A  special 
rank  was  assigned  the  "  English  by  descent/'  above  the  "  meere 
Irishe  "  but  below  the  "  English  by  birth."  This  did  persons  it 
was  meant  to  favor  no  good,  and  simply  exasperated  everybody. 
In  Wales  similar  oppressions  were  more  successful,  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  its  geographical  position  and  the  im- 
possibility of  the  natives  escaping  long  from  pursuit  without 
quitting  their  own  soil.  Thus  in  Barddas  we  read  as  to  affairs 
circa  A.D.  1400  : 

"  After  the  intestine  war  of  Owain  Glyndwr  the  king  (Henry  IV.  or  V.) 
forbade  paper  and  plagawd  (vellum)  to  be  brought  into  Cymru,  or  to  be 
manufactured  there,  in  order  that  it  might  prevent  epistolary  correspon- 
dence between  a  Cymroand  a  Cymro,  and  between  the  Cymry  and  the  peo- 
ple of  a  bordering  country  and  of  foreign  lands  ;  and  this  to  avenge  the  sid- 
ing with  Owain  which  was  observed  everywhere  on  the  part  of  every  man 


400  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec. 

in  Cymru.  He  also  forbade  the  bards  and  poets  to  go  their  circuits  and  to 
visit  the  different  families  officially.  Then  was  remembered  and  brought 
into  use  the  ancient  custom  of  the  bards  of  the  Isle  of  Britain  ;  namely,  the 
cutting  of  letters,  which  they  called  the  symbols  of  language  and  utterance, 
upon  wood  or  rods  prepared  for  that  purpose,  called  Coelbren  of  the  bards 
— and  thus  it  was  done  :  They  gathered  rods  of  hazel  or  mountain  ash  in 
winter,  about  a  cubit  long,  etc.,  etc." 

In  1494  it  was  thought  useless  to  forbid  the  practice  of  the 
Irish  tongue  and  the  fashion  of  riding  Keltike  without  a  saddle. 
Of  course  after  the  Reformation  the  state  of  the  natives  was  much 
worse,  because  religious  fanaticism  was  added  to  the  virulence 
of  a  mistaken  race-idea.  The  exaggerations  as  to  Saxons  versus 
Kelts  which  it  pleases  eminent  English  historians  to  reiterate  to- 
day in  the  face  of  facts,  were  as  strong  then  as  ever.  In  1677 
Thomas  Sheridan,  M.P.  for  an  English  borough,  wrote  A  Dis- 
course on  Parliaments  from  the  position  of  a  Protestant  and 
Englishman — that  is,  from  a  perfectly  hostile  position,  as  became 
the  renegade  descendant  of  Irish  and  Catholic  houses.  He 
reckoned  only  1,000,000  persons  in  Ireland — which  must  have 
been  an  understatement  even  for  that  time  of  ruin  through  war, 
pest,  and  famine — "  of  which  800,000  are  Irish,  and  of  them  above 
10,000  born  to  estates,  dispossessed.  .  .  .  Besides  their  suffering 
in  estate  and  religion  they  are  yet  further,  beyond  the  Scots,  ren- 
dered incapable  of  enjoying  any  office  or  power,  military  or  civil, 
either  in  their  native  or  any  other  of  their  prince's  countries ; 
their  folly  (!)  having  thus  reduced  them  to  a  condition  more  like 
that  of  slaves  than  subjects."  Every  sort  of  difference  seemed  to 
meet  in  order  to  foment  between  the  Anglo-Scottish  peoples 
and  the  Irish  the  most  virulent  bigotry  and  contempt.  Habits 
and  customs  belonging  to  a  by-gone  epoch  which  lingered  in 
force  in  various  parts  of  Great  Britain,  but  not  directly  under 
the  observation  of  the  men  who  swayed  public  opinion,  were 
seized  on  by  the  English  and  used  as  clubs  to  batter  the  remnant 
of  reputation  left  to  their  defeated  cousins.  Fair  play  was  never 
accorded  the  Irish  ;  all  they  got  was  harsh  treatment,  insuffer- 
able arrogance,  and  demands  that  they  should  better  themselves. 
Certainly  the  example  was  not  good  ;  unhappily  every  nation 
has  its  thousands  who  will  imitate ;  and  though  the  Irish  charac- 
ter can  never  equal  the  English  in  senseless  brutality,  some  very 
fair  attempts  at  it  are  to  be  found  in  history.  The  old  system  of 
fosterage  which  had  gone  out  in  Britain  was  a  cause  of  offence, 
and  in  some  ways  a  serious  political  difficulty.  To  the  newer 
settlers  it  was  so  convenient,  or  so  agreeable  to  inherited  traits, 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  401 

that  we  find  it  among  the  most  English  of  the  island,  the  people 
of  the  Pale  near  Dublin,  in  Dean  Swift's  time.  Who  can  forget 
that  Hogarthian  sketch,  in  rowdy-dow  metre,  of  the  people  of  the 
baser  sort  at  a  feast  ?  Behold  them  boasting  of  their  aristocratic 
descent,  cudgelling  each  other  soundly,  and  talking  of  fosterage 
and  gossipred — remnant  of  the  old  barbarous  but  unselfish  system 
of  the  past : 

"  They  rise  from  their  feast, 

And  hot  are  their  brains, 
A  cubit  at  least 

The  length  of  their  skeans  ; 
What  stabs  and  what  cuts, 

What  clatt'ring  of  sticks, 
What  strokes  on  the  guts, 

What  bastings  and  kicks  ! 
With  cudgels  of  oak, 

Well  hardened  in  flame, 
An  hundred  heads  broke, 

An  hundred  struck  lame. 
You  churl,  I'll  maintain 

My  father  built  Lusk, 
The  castle  of  Slain, 

And  Carrick  Drumrusk. 
The  Earl  of  Kildare, 

And  Moynalta  his  brother — 
As  great  as  they  are, 

I  was  nurst  by  their  mother ! " 

How  well  the  Dean  knew  to  put  his  finger  on  the  traits  of  the 
people  among  whom  he  lived,  and  how  unfortunate  that  he  was 
a  paid  official  of  a  church  that  lacked  parishioners,  and  how  un- 
lucky, too,  that,  as  an  exile  from  politics  and  the  court,  his  eyes 
were  always  turned  toward  London!  In  his  day  the  Irish  had 
to  look  back  on  enough  land-swindles  under  James,  and  mas- 
sacres and  plunderings  of  every  sort  under  Cromwell ;  they  were 
exasperated  to  the  last  degree  when  an  obese  and  grasping  hag, 
one  of  the  German  mistresses  of  besotted  George  I.,  calmly 
sold  to  William  Wood  the  right  to  debase  the  coin  of  Ireland. 
Swift's  epigram  on  Wood  an  Insect  is  remarkable  in  the  anti- 
quarian's eyes  for  recording  a  nostrum  used  by  our  ancestors  for 
the  jaundice  and  other  diseases — one  of  those  remedies  whose 
only  merit  seems  to  lie  in  the  disgust  which  the  human  being  is 
apt  to  feel  for  it.  To  the  student  of  literature  it  is  remarkable 
because  he  calls  Ireland  "  our  mother  Hibernia,"  thus  identify- 
ing himself  with  the  natives  in  a  way  that  would  not  occur  to 
VOL.  XLII. — 26 


402  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec., 

one  whose  parents  were  English  and  his  birth  in  Ireland  a  mere 
accident.  It  forms  another  slender  argument  for  the  theory  that 
Swift  was  born  of  Irish  parents  and  merely  put  with  Mrs.  Swift 
the  Englishwoman — a  recent  widow,  and  a  very  poor  widow  to 
boot— in  order  to  cover  the  facts  of  his  true  parentage.  It 
would  explain  the  indifference  of  Mrs.  Swift  to  her  brilliant  son, 
her  separation  from  him  whilst  he  was  still  a  babe  in  arms,  and 
also,  perhaps,  the  large  measure  of  sympathy  which  Swift  showed 
in  the  Drapier's  Letters  for  the  oppressed  Irish. 

ON  WOOD   AN   INSECT  (1725). 

"  The  louse  of  the  wood  for  a  med'cine  is  used, 
Or  swallowed  alive  or  skilfully  bruis'd  ; 
And  let  but  our  mother  Hibernia  contrive 
To  swallow  Will  Wood,  either  bruis'd  or  alive, 
She  need  be  no  more  with  the  jaundice  oppressed, 
Or  sick  of  obstructions  andflazns  in  the  chest'1 


II. 

Active  and  relentless  for  a  century  before  and  a  century  after 
Swift's  time  was  the  plundering  of  a  gallant,  improvident  nation, 
crippled  more  than  any  other  part  of  the  country  by  anachronisms 
of  prejudice  and  habits,  land-laws  and  social  etiquette.  The  Act 
for  the  Encouragement  of  Trade,  passed  in  1663,  omitted  Ireland 
very  pointedly.  The  same  year  the  importation  of  cattle,  sheep, 
salt  meat,  and  bacon  was  prohibited,  and  in  1696  all  direct  trade 
from  Ireland  to  the  colonies  was  stopped.  Under  William  II. 
the  wool  trade  was  coldly  ruined.  In  1775  an  embargo  was  laid 
on  provisions  in  all  Irish  ports,  so  that  the  army  could  be  cheaply 
supplied.  In  1779  the  CIT  which  is  now  so  frequent  in  the 
mouths  of  the  English  as  a  reproach  to  the  United  States,  the  cry 
in  favor  of  free-trade,  was  heard  in  vain  in  the  Parliament  of  Ire- 
land. The  argument  in  England  was  that  these  measures  would 
complete  the  ruin  of  the  people,  whose  hold  on  the  land  had  been 
already  loosened  by  successive  settlements  of  Protestant  English 
and  Scotch  farmers,  aided  by  infamous  laws ;  but  the  men  by 
whom  Ireland  was  to  be  "  civilized  "  were  the  first  to  be  ruined. 
They  emigrated  to  America  in  swarms  long  before  our  Revolu- 
tion. It  is  amusing  to  note  the  poetic  Nemesis.  The  weapon 
against  the  Keltic  Irish  turned  on  the  hand  of  the  "  Saxon." 
Protestant  and  Catholic,  Kelt  and  Cromwellian,  poured  across 
the  Atlantic  to  form  that  nation  which  was  to  break  England's 
prestige,  at  first  in  war,  then  on  the  high  seas,  and  at  last  in  com- 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  403 

merce.  Yeomen  of  Keltic  Irish  names  were  among  the  heroes  of 
the  fight  at  Lexington.  To  this  day  American  money,  sympathy, 
and  open  or  silent  contempt  play  their  parts  in  the  enfranchise- 
ment of  the  Irish  from  the  rule  of  the  money-bags  of  London. 

The  world  is  now  agreed  that  Ireland  has  been  a  victim,  even 
if  exception  be  taken  to  the  word  of  Chief-Justice  Morris,  which 
called  English  rule  "  a  hopeless  attempt  of  a  stupid  people  to 
govern  a  quick-witted  one."  Stupidity  were,  easier  to  forgive 
than  cupidity.  The  passion  of  the  English  for  acquisition  often 
permits  them  to  suffer  callously  the  taunt  of  dulness.  It  is  the 
guinea  they  are  after,  not  the  applause  of  the  world.  With  the 
guinea  they  can  purchase  Irish  and  Scotch  adventurers  to  make 
the  "  English  "  arms  glorious  abroad,  Welsh  and  German  pro- 
fessors to  make  English  learning  respectable  among  the  culti- 
vated. It  was  to  save  the  guinea  they  hesitated  so  long  to  relieve 
Khartoum  and  murdered  Gordon.  There  is  a  world  of  truth  in 
Napoleon's  bitter  gibe  against  the  English  as  the  nation  of  shop- 
keepers. 

But  in  that  gibe  there  would  be  little  sting  if  the  English  were 
honest  enough  to  own  it  and  accept  the  situation.  They  are  per- 
petually in  a  false  position.  Their  royal  house  proceeds  from  a 
line  which  began  with  a  king  sunk  in  the  coarsest  sensuality,  open 
to  the  baldest  bribes.  He  hated  England  and  the  English,  was 
sneered  at  by  his  new  courtiers  and  insulted  by  the  London  mob. 
The  English  peerage  is  not  a  peerage  of  blue  blood — blood  is  a 
secondary  consideration  to  that  practical  people — it  rests  on  the 
guinea,  as  Burns,  a  Keltic  Saxon,  put  it  long  ago  in  his  famous 
song.  The  Norman  stock  of  which  we  hear  so  much  has  long 
disappeared  in  the  masses  of  English,  and  those  who  bear  names 
that  recall  bloodshed  and  violence,  it  is  true,  but  also  freedom 
from  vices  most  despicable  to  men  of  sentiment,  have  not  a  drop 
of  the  old  blood  in  their  veins.  The  Saxon  stock,  with  absurd 
claims  to  virtues  it  has  little  of,  gradually  invaded  the  whole  na- 
tion with  a  low  standard  of  morality  and  sentiment,  and  largely 
obliterated  the  finer  elements  which  have  been  hitherto  supplied 
by  the  old  British  substratum  in  southern  England,  in  part  by 
the  constant  drain  of  the  Keltic  populations  toward  London. 
That  this  so-called  Saxon  race  is  inglorious  no  one  need  sup- 
pose. But  it  is  foolish  to  try  to  place  its  glory  where  it  does 
not  belong.  Steadiness  of  purpose,  home-life,  comfort  in  the 
house,  and  order  in  the  commonwealth  are  not  small  things  to 
boast  of.  They  make  life  sweet  and  livable.  Great  schemes  in 
commerce  and  manufactures,  great  buildings  and  great  corpora- 


404  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec., 

tions,  are  titles  to  applause.  But  the  perversity  of  human  nature 
is  such  that  these  are  more  ignored  than  honored  by  Englishmen. 
They  point  to  a  peerage  which  is  based  on  money  because  without 
wealth  it  cannot  exist  in  the  face  of  the  mammon-worship  of  the 
reigning  family,  of  the  nobility,  gentry,  and  commons,  instead  of 
resting  their  boasts  on  achievements  of  English  merchants  and 
travellers  in  opening  up  a  large  part  of  the  globe  to  civilizing  in- 
fluences  and  enlarging  the  common  stock  of  knowledge  in  every 
direction.  When  an  Irishman  brags  of  descent  from  Brian  Boroo 
he  is  to  be  respected:  What  if  he  be  unable  to  read  or  write,  what 
if  he  go  barefoot  ?  He  has  a  fine  idea,  a  sentiment,  a  glory  to  think 
back  on.  But  the  smug  Englishman  who  assumes  an  air  because 
he  is  trying  to  fill  the  limits  of  an  old  name,  bought,  not  unusually, 
with  the  guineas  of  a  brewer,  is  a  fit  object  of  contempt.  Let  him 
boast  the  good  that  brewer  may  have  done  in  employing  wage- 
winners  and  making  families  comfortable,  and  none  but  a  fool  will 
deny  him  respect. 

The  strength  of  the  Irish — and  their  weakness — has  been  pov- 
erty. A  characteristic  Englishman  who  travelled  as  lately  as  1882 
in  Ireland,  that  to  him  foreign  and  distant  land,  is  impelled  to  say  : 

"  My  impression  is  that  you  have  only  to  feed  the  Irish  up  and  you  will 
produce  as  fine  a  human  physique  as  it  is  possible  to  behold.  Look  at  the 
Irish  constabulary, -for  instance.  Where  are  you  going  to  find  a  more 
splendid-looking  set  of  fellows?  And  where  are  you  going  to  beat  in 
smartness  the  rank  and  file  of  our  Irish  regiments?  As  for  the  Irish  gen- 
try and  middle  classes,  there  is  an  air  of  high-breeding  and  genial  courtesy 
about  them  which  is  too  often  wanting  on  the  English  side  of  St.  George's 
Channel  "  (W.  H.  Hall). 

The  poverty  in  which  the  thrift  of  Englishman  and  Scot  has 
kept  the  Irish  has  not  been  without  compensating  advantages; 
but  most  people  will  judge  that  the  harm  has  outweighed  the 
good.  It  has  made  the  guinea  a  sore  temptation.  By  the  guinea 
the  Irish  Parliament  was  dissolved  at  the  beginning  of  the  cen- 
tury, and  by  the  guinea's  equivalent  in  that  distant  day  the  native 
chiefs  and  the  old  Norman-Welsh  lords  were  too  readily  induced 
to  betray  their  people.  In  1540,  or  thereabouts,  the  confiscated 
property  of  the  church  was  the  bribe  which  induced  faithless 
rulers  to  change  Henry  VIII.  from  Lord  of  Ireland  to  King  of 
Ireland.  The  chief  of  a  clan  would  surrender  what  was  not  his 
to  give — the  territory  of  his  tribe — and  receive  it  back  from  the 
king  of  England  under  the  feudal  system,  with  an  obligation  to 
do  knight's  service  whenever  summoned.  It  is  true  that  many 
regarded  it  as  a  form  only,  and  never  intended  to  fulfil  their  part 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  405 

of  the  contract ;  but  that  made  it  only  worse.  The  clansmen  did 
not  understand  what  it  was  all  about ;  in  most  cases  never  heard 
of  it  till  too  late.  A  similar  trouble  arose  among  the  Kirghese  of 
central  Asia  when  (1732)  Abdul-Khair  submitted  to  the  Russians 
and  stipulated  that  the  khanate  should  be  hereditary  from  father 
to  son  in  his  family.  The  rule  had  always  been  that  a  brother 
should  inherit,  if  he  were  a  capable  person.  For  nearly  a  century 
afterward  the  Kirghese  regarded  each  hereditary  khan  a  usurper 
in  Russian  pay,  and  continually  rebelled  under  upstart  leaders. 
Note  this  likeness  between  the  Irish  and  Mongol  conception  of 
the  executive.  In  Ireland  a  Shane  O'Neill  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury repudiated  such  a  corrupt  bargain  made  by  his  father,  re- 
belled, and  was  outlawed.  He  said,  with  perfect  truth,  that  his  fa- 
ther had  only  a  life-interest,  according  to  the  native  law  of  tanistry, 
and  had  no  authority  to  sign  away  the  rights  of  his  tribe.  This 
partially  explains  what  seems  so  peculiar  in  the  attitude  of  tenant 
toward  landlord  in  Ireland,  which  makes  the  English  writer  cited 
above  say  :  "  No  Kelt,  speaking  generally,  will  tolerate  a  visible 
landlord  willingly.  An  invisible  landlord,  content  with  a  low 
rent  in  good  seasons,  and  none,  or  next  to  none,  in  bad,  seems  for 
the  present  the  Irish  tenant's  ideal."  That,  in  truth,  is  the  ideal 
of  tenants  all  the  world  over ;  but  what  Mr.  Hall  meant  was  that 
the  Irish  tenant  seems  to  feel  more  than  any  other  an  injustice  in 
the  strict  enforcement  of  the  contract.  When  we  note,  however, 
the  villany  of  the  bribed  leaders  of  the  clans  who  sold  the  peo- 
ple's birthright,  and  reflect  on  the  thousand  instances  of  tenacity 
of  old  customs  and  ideas  among  the  folk,  one  begins  to  under- 
stand, if  not  to  sympathize  with,  a  flock  which  has  been  betrayed 
by  its  own  shepherds  into  the  jaws  of  the  wolf. 

III. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  clan  system  in  just  this  fact  betrayed 
weakness.  It  had  to  go.  Earlier  the  pagans  had  submitted  to 
Christianity  with  little  or  no  struggle  because  the  heads  of  clans 
led  the  way.  Moreover,  if  tithes  were  exacted  for  the  church 
the  clergy  at  least  did  something  to  earn  them ;  the  people  were 
used  to  make  more  or  less  voluntarily  contributions  to  their 
pagan  medicine-man,  whether  Druid,  or  bard,  or  file,  who  as- 
sumed to  have  supernatural  powers;  and  the  infidel  might  re- 
gard the  Christian  priest  as  a  man  who  worked  harder  and  asked 
less  than  a  Druid.  Later  the  reverence  for  the  head  of  the 
family-complex  made  it  easy  for  strangers  to  enter  the  country 


406  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec., 

by  interesting  the  chiefs  in  their  booty.  Until  Protestantism 
overwhelmed  Ireland  along  with  the  trained  veterans  of  Crom- 
well, the  clergy  was  usually  on  the  side  of  established  authority 
not  of  the  clan  type.  For  the  Papacy  was  inevitably  sympa- 
thetic with  the  existing  state  of  things  on  the  Continent,  and 
could  not  be  expected  to  admire  an  obsolete  system  still  linger- 
ing in  that  remote  island.  Rome,  the  centre  of  a  totally  dif- 
ferent scheme  of  religious-temporal  government,  inheritrix  of 
Latin  methods,  could  extend  only  a  general,  humane  sympathy 
toward  the  part  feudal,  part  clannish  inhabitants  of  Ireland.  Re- 
member how  native  prince,  priest,  and  file  stood  by  each  other 
in  the  early  Christian  ages,  and  note  the  same  trait  later.  Be- 
tween Italian  priest,  English  king,  and  Irish  chief  the  clansman 
had  little  chance.  He  might  relieve  his  mind  by  lampoons  like 
that  made  by  Egan  O'Rahilly  in  1713,  wherein  he  traced  back 
the  pedigree  of  a  luckless  renegade,  who  had  entered  the  ranks 
of  the  Cromwellians,  through  thirteen  generations  to  the  devil! 
Laughter  is  often  the  instinctive  act  of  those  to  whom  tears  are 
only  too  ready.  The  slave  offsets  the  hopelessness  of  his  life  by 
that  jollity  which  is  said  to  have  disappeared  from  the  Southern 
plantation  since  freedom  brought  thither  the  responsibilities  of  a 
voter.  Perhaps  much  of  the  famous  wit  and  lightheartedness 
of  the  Irish  was  bred  of  the  necessity  to  lift  at  all  hazards  the 
crushing  load  of  despair.  Satire  was  one  of  the  reliefs  of  an 
oppressed  people  ;  but  in  Ireland  even  that  pastime  was  not  al- 
ways safe.  Witness  Teige  Dall  O'Higgin,  who  lampooned  six 
men  of  the  O'Hara  sept  in  Sligo,  and  for  his  reward  had  wife 
and  child  murdered  and  his  tongue  cut  out. 

The  chief  reason  for  the  extreme  interest  that  the  Irish  past, 
and  indeed  her  politics  down  to  the  present,  excite  in  those  who 
decline  to  see  things  through  English  spectacles  is  the  mixture 
of  various  epochs,  apparently  inextricable,  which  are  to  be  seen, 
like  so  many  tilted  and  plicated  strata,  in  the  Ireland  of  to-day. 
It  is  a  most  curious  land,  this  back-yard  of  Great  Britain,  ignored 
by  the  rest  of  the  Union  as  much  as  possible,  but  containing 
specimens  of  all  the  fashions  in  religion  and  politics,  from  the 
mysterious  builders  of  cairns,  cromlechs,  and  round  towers  to 
the  latest  apostles  of  peace  or  temperance  or  celibacy.  The 
crannog  of  Irish  lakes,  with  its  rude  huts  for  outlaws  and  cattle- 
lifters  on  an  island,  takes  one  back  to  the  stone  age.  The  bale- 
fires in  spring  are  distinctly  pagan.  The  agrarian  murders  are 
often  traceable  to  the  old  wild  justice,  the  instinct  of  tribal  pre- 
servation among  clans.  Wakes  and  riots  recall  semi-savage 


1885.]  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  407 

epochs,  and  the  keeners  and  wandering-  tinkers  and  gipsies  would 
have  been  not  out  of  place  in  barbarous  ages  when  a  much  small- 
er proportion  of  the  folk  was  settled  in  towns.  About  thirty 
years  ago  the  widow  of  an  Irish  farmer  in  Derry  killed  her  de- 
ceased husband's  horse.  When  remonstrated  with  by  her  land- 
lord she  said :  "  Would  you  have  my  man  go  about  on  foot  in 
the  next  world  ?  "  (Lang).  The  martial  ardor  of  the  Irish,  shown 
of  late  centuries  more  in  any  other  country  than  Ireland,  has  a 
feudal  tinge,  and  the  love  of  rank  and  blood  likewise.  Finally, 
the  monarchic  principle  has  always  had  its  charm  for  the  Irish, 
notwithstanding  the  marked  indifference,  amounting  to  disdain, 
with  which  the  present  royal  house  has  treated  them.  Why, 
then,  one  asks,  do  the  English  explore  the  Orient  and  write  long- 
winded  books  of  travel  about  the  Esquimaux,  the  red  men,  the 
Mongols  and  Africans,  when  the  same  amount  of  trouble  would 
show  them  similar  curiosities  in  the  past  and  present  inhabitants 
of  their  own  isles? 

And  as  with  politics,  so  with  literature.  Ireland  has  been 
hospitable  to  every  form  of  literary  activity,  so  far  as  interest  and 
admiration  are  concerned.  In  substantial  rewards  it  has  been 
far  from  liberal.  Why  ?  Because  the  people,  apart  from  the 
large  land-owners  who  lacked  patriotism,  have  been  wretchedly 
poor.  The  guinea  of  England  has  steadily  absorbed  the  half- 
penny of  Ireland,  and  hand-in-hand  with  poverty  goes  the  stifling 
of  all  but  the  rudest  and  worst-paid  forms  of  literature  and  art. 
Often  a  rich  community  does  nothing  for  art  and  literature. 
But  a  very  poor  one,  if  it  would,  can  do  nothing.  Skilfully  using 
the  religious  differences  of  Catholics  and  Protestants,  and  bribing 
heavily  whenever  it  appeared  worth  while,  English  politicians 
and  statesmen  have  kept  Ireland  in  alternate  states  of  penury  and 
internal  warfare.  So  it  is  that,  in  defiance  of  the  large  pro- 
portion of  brain-power  natural  to  the  race,  the  results,  in  mod- 
ern times,  of  distinctly  Irish  departments  of  literature,  art,  and 
science  have  been  meagre  ;  it  has  been  necessary  for  the  Irish 
talent  to  adapt  itself  to  English  demands,  to  become  Anglicized. 
How  much  has  been  lost  in  this  denationalizing  of  the  best  talent 
of  Ireland  who  can  reckon?  The  examples  of  English  coldblood- 
edness and  selfishness  have  been  offered  to  impressible  natures 
with  bad  enough  effect :  you  will  hear  now  and  then  an  Irishman 
speak  of  the  Irish  far  more  brutally  than  the  English  do ;  and 
Irish  are  found  who  imitate  beyond  their  models  a  certain  slav- 
ishness  which  one  finds  in  the  attitude  of  the  Saxon  British 
toward  persons  clothed  with  power. 


408  THE  STAMP  OF  THE  GUINEA.  [Dec., 

In  straitened  circumstances,  and  often  in  the  direst  poverty, 
the  great  mass  of  Catholic  and  Protestant  Kelts  retain  the  old 
traits  of  generosity  and  hospitality,  together  with  contempt  for 
parvenus  and  commercial  oppressors.  English  rule  over  Ireland 
has  been  the  rule  of  merchants,  bankers,  manufacturers,  acting 
through  their  tools,  the  peers  and  commons  of  Great  Britain ;  it 
has  been  often  opposed  by  a  nation  in  whom  still  lurks  a  passion  for 
disinterestedness.  "  Dennis,"  cried  a  farmer  who  had  told  his 
Irish  hand  to  thin  out  the  crowded  hills  of  young  corn,  "  why  do 
you  pull  out  the  tallest  and  strongest  plants?"  "Why  do  I?" 
quoth  Dennis.  "  Sure,  it  is  to  give  the  poor  little  ones  a  chance, 
and  why  not  ?  "  Could  anything  show  better  the  kindliness,  the 
unthinking  generosity  of  the  instinct  underlying  Dennis'  view  ? 
Examine  what  are  called  Irish  bulls,  and,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  you  find  a  fine,  poetical,  unworldly  wisdom  underneath. 
Hindering  and  disintegrating  as  have  been  the  inherited  instinct 
toward  the  clan  system  and  the  feudality  brought  in  by  the  Nor- 
mans, yet  of  late  Irishmen  proud  of  their  name  have  shown  mar- 
vellous docility  to  orders  from  Protestant  as  well  as  Catholic 
leaders  in  whose  honesty  of  purpose  they  confide,  astonishing 
friends  and  foes  by  their  quiet  and  the  compactness  of  their  politi- 
cal ranks.  To  keep  the  peace  an  army  of  police,  each  man  an 
arsenal  of  weapons,  has  been' aided  by  regular  troops ;  money  has 
been  lavished  in  the  old  way,  and  the  strong  levers  of  social  life 
have  been  set  going,  but  with  meagre  results,  if  any.  Less  than 
formerly  historians  and  reporters  have  to  gain  by  concealing  the 
truth  ;  the  public  has  begun  to  understand  the  oppressions  borne 
by  the  Irish;  how  their  sentiments  have  been  used  to  subjugate 
and  keep  them  down  ;  how  traits  which  are  most  valuable  as 
counterbalances  to  snobbishness  and  worship  of  wealth  have  been 
held  up  to  the  world  as  vices.  The  press  has  done  good  work, 
too,  in  this  regard,  though  notable  exceptions  to  manliness  and 
fairness  have  not  been  wanting ;  for  example,  the  London  Times 
sent  an  English  schoolmaster  to  report  the  situation  in  Ireland ; 
printed  through  oversight  his  first  letter ;  discovered  that  it  was 
favorable  to  the  Irish,  and  promptly  declined  to  publish  a  second. 

An  English  politician  of  the  Liberal  party,  addressing  lately 
the  populace  of  a  great  town  within  the  mighty  city  of  London, 
explained  English  rule  in  Ireland  as  "  a  system  which  is  founded  on 
the  bayonets  of  thirty  thousand  soldiers  encamped  permanently 
as  in  a  hostile  country.  It  is  a  system  as  completely  centralized 
and  bureaucratic  as  that  with  which  Russia  governs  Poland  or  as 
that  which  was  common  in  Venice  under  the  Austrian  rule.  An 


1885.]       "Tirs  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES"          409 

Irishman  at  this  moment  cannot  move  a  step,  he  cannot  lift  a  fin- 
ger in  any  parochial,  municipal,  or  educational  work,  without  be- 
ing- confronted,  interfered  with,  controlled  by,  an  English  official 
appointed  by  a  foreign  government,  and  without  the  shadow 
or  shade  of  representative  authority.  I  say  the  time  has  come 
to  reform  altogether  the  absurd  and  irritating  anachronism 
which  is  known  as  Dublin  Castle ;  to  sweep  away  altogether 
these  alien  boards  of  foreign  officials,  and  to  substitute  for  them 
a  genuine  Irish  administration  of  purely  Irish  business." 

"  My  lord,"  spoke  up  a  poor  Irish  harper  of  the  Clan  Neil 
when  he  found  that  a  certain  great  man  had  assigned  him  a  seat 
below  the  salt,  "  thank  you,  my  lord  ;  apology  is  quite  unneces- 
sary. For  of  course  you  know  that  wherever  an  O'Neil  sits,  there 
is  the  head  of  the  table."  Alchemist  Time  is  always  at  fresh  won- 
ders. Put  Parnell  for  O'Neil,  and  Parliament  for  the  table,  and 
consider — the  tables  turned.  Not  by  evictions,  detectives,  Dublin 
Castle  folly,  constabulary,  and  redcoats  can  a  great  little  people 
be  held  from  reaching  sooner  or  later  its  proper  level ;  no,  not  by 
the  most  potent  of  all  the  levers  of  to-day — the  guinea. 


"THE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES."* 

WE  suppose  as  Roman  Catholics  we  were  left  out  in  the  cold 
in  this  recent  Congress  of  Churches.  Perhaps  this  "  Protestant " 
movement — for  we  regret  to  say  it  was  confined  to  that — was  not, 
in -its  present  stage  of  development,  any  of  our  business.  Per- 
haps not,  and  therefore  this  is  no  matter  for  regret  or  grief;  but 
this  much  we  will  be  allowed  to  say,  and  shall  say,  that  on  its 
aim  and  issue  our  life  with  all  its  energies  has  been  deliberately 
staked.  Who  knows,  perhaps  it  never  will  be  our  business  ? 
Its  purpose,  nevertheless,  has  our  sincere  sympathy,  and  its  public 
proceedings,  though  tardily  received,  were  read,  be  it  candidly 
acknowledged,  with  singular  interest. 

The  desire  for  unity  is  undoubtedly  good.  The  desire  for 
union  as  a  step  to  unity  is  both  rational  and  good.  He  who 
yearns  for  unity  is  a  man  of  peace  :  he  who  loves  unity  above  all 

*  Proceedings  of  the  Hartford  Meeting,  1885.  Published  under  the  direction  of  the  Execu- 
tive Committee.  Hartford  :  The  Case,  Lockwood  &  Brainard  Company.  1885. 


4io          "THE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES:'      [Dec., 

things,  quickened  by  the  grace  of  Christ,  is  a  Christian  and  p. 
man  of  God  !  These  desires  when  followed  faithfully  are  pro- 
ductive of  much  good  and  of  greater  blessings  than  some  people 
ever  imagine.  They  find  an  echo  in  the  bosom  of  every  sincere 
Christian  and  vibrate  the  heart-strings  of  all  upright  men.  It  is 
not  easy  to  accentuate  these  desires  too  strongly. 

Only  low,  vulgar,  and  thriftless  minds  can  content  themselves 
in  wasting  the  force  given  for  a  noble  purpose  in  warring  and 
wrangling  sects  into  which  these  three  centuries  and  upwards 
the  actual  Christendom  has  been  deplorably  divided.  Alas  ! 
Satan  has  known  only  too  well  how  to  sow  effectually  his  seeds 
of  disunion  and  discord  among  men  and  the  people  of  God. 

It  is  not  contrary  to  reason,  nor  aside  from  reason,  nor  be- 
yond our  aim,  nor  out  of  place  for  us  to  ask  here  and  now  why 
men,  rational  men,  who  have  a  common  Creator,  a  common  des- 
tiny, and  in  common  the  same  Mediator  and  Redeemer,  should 
be  separated  from  each  other  in  their  noble  efforts  to  promote 
the  present  and  future  welfare  of  all  mankind.  Surely  this  can 
only  be  the  work  of  the  enemy  of  the  human  race.  It  may  also 
be  reasonably  asked:  Why  should  the  bulk  of  mankind,  after 
nineteen  centuries  of  Christianity,  be  seated  in  darkness,  deprived 
of  the  elevation  and  enjoyment  of  the  privileges  of  the  light  of 
the  Gospel  of  Christ,  intended  for  all  souls,  for  every  member  of 
the  human  race,  and  consequently  for  all  creation?  No  practical 
man  doubts  for  a  moment  that  the  accumulated  means  of  modern 
civilized  society,  if  once  again  organically  united  and  directed 
with  the  intent  of  spreading  the  Gospel,  would  fully  suffice  to 
spread  its  glad  tidings  among  the  pagan  inhabitants  over  the 
face  of  the  whole  globe,  and  that  in  an  incredibly  short  time. 
Be  the  responsibility  where  it  may,  cast  your  eyes  over  the 
whole  world  and  ask  yourself  sincerely  as  a  Christian  if  the  pre- 
sent state  of  civilized  modern  Christian  society  is  not  only  de- 
plorable but  disgraceful ! 

Let  the  men  who  took  part  in  the  "  Congress  of  Churches," 
and  those  who  sympathize  with  them — and  there  are  many  more 
of  these  than  they  are  aware  of — think  of  this  and  stand  unflinch- 
ingly firm  upon  the  certain,  good  ground  of  theirs,  and  not  yield 
until  in  our  generation  their  hopes  are  in  the  way  of  realization. 
This  would  indeed  be  a  consummation  and  a  worthy  blessing 
upon  what  is  stigmatized  by  some  as  "  our  material  age  "  ! 

Their  authority  is  greater  than  they  think.  All  sincere  and 
hopeful  Christians  are  one  with  the  movement  of  this  Congress 
of  Churches,  wherever  they  may  be  or  however  called.  All 


1885.]       "TffE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES:'          411 

practical  and  upright  men  entertain  the  same  hopes.  For  unity 
is  a  postulate  of  reason,  a  mark  of  divine  truth  in  religion,  a  sign 
of  sound  philosophy,  the  ground  of  well-being  in  society,  and  the 
source  of  all  that  is  wholesome  in  political  economy.  What  does 
not  make  for  unity  is  wrong.  Let  nothing  drive  them  away 
from  these  convictions  !  Speak  out !  There  is  guilt  somewhere. 
Don't  fear,  but  strike  ! 

"  The  Congress  of  Churches  "  in  Hartford,  held  a  few  months 
ago,  was  a  good  and  fresh  start,  and  in  our  opinion  God's  Spirit 
is  stirring  the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  men  who  compose  this 
movement.  Let  us  both  hold  and  preach,  too,  the  Gospel  of 
hope. 

It  must  be  admitted  by  all  men  of  candor  that  speculatively 
and  practically  the  Catholic  Church — or,  if  it  pleases  some  per- 
sons, we  have  no  scruples  in  saying  the  Roman  Catholic  Church ; 
for  we  are  not  now  disputing  about  the  meaning  of  words,  but 
we  are  talking  with  earnest  men  about  realities — the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  then,  if  that  suits  the  palates  of  some  squeam- 
ish folks  better,  has  maintained  unity  from  the  beginning, 
through  thick  and  thin,  and  never  has  been  by  any  power 
made  to  swerve  from  unity.  The  unity  of  Christianity  is  con- 
nected, concreted  organically,  in  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  or 
found  nowhere  upon  the  face  of  this  earth  !  Her  history  consists 
in  the  main  in  the  narrative  of  her  struggles  against  her  foes  to 
maintain  unity — struggles  with  the  strength  of  strong  races, 
struggles  with  great  nations,  struggles  with  distinguished  fami- 
lies and  powerful  personages,  of  great  wealth,  of  high  birth  and 
lofty  position,  in  every  form  of  sacrifice  possible — and  yet  she  was 
never  known  to  have  succumbed  to  their  influences.  All  their 
efforts,  separate  or  united,  to  misdirect  her  action  have  been,  as 
promised  and  predicted,  vain.  All  power  has  in  the  course  of 
centuries  been  tried  to  reduce  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  to  a 
race  church,  or  a  national  church,  or  to  a  sect ;  but  none  have 
succeeded.  There  stands  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  on  the 
promises  and  predictions  of  Christ,  with  the  consciousness  of 
their  truth  ;  and  there,  with  the  experience  of  so  many  centuries, 
as  upon  an  adamantine  rock,  she  will  stand  until  the  end  of  time, 
because  she  really  represents  Him  who,  in  the  last-uttered  prayer 
for  his  disciples,  said,  in  addressing  his  heavenly  Father :  "  And 
the  glory  which  thou  hast  given  me,  I  have  given  to  them ;  that 
they  may  be  one,  as  we  also  are  one."  * 

The  Roman  Catholic   Church   stands   out  as  the  church  of 

*  St,  John  xvii.  22. 


412          "THE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES"      [Dec., 

Christ,  deny  it  who  may,  or  theorize  upon  it  as  one  pleases,  as 
the  plainest  and  the  most  unvarnished  fact  in  the  religious  history 
of  mankind  or  the  world  ! 

However  you  may  explain  it,  unless  you  accept  this  simply  as 
a  fact  your  explanation  is  looked  upon  by  profound  scholars  and 
practical  men,  competent  to  pass  judgment  on  this  point,  as  com- 
ing short  in  covering  the  facts  of  the  case.  Passion  and  preju- 
dice may  slander  or  vituperate  ;  but  when  unity  is  spoken  of  in 
connection  with  Christianity  among  candid  scholars  and  intelli- 
gent men,  their  eyes  are  at  once  turned  towards  the  Roman  Ca- 
tholic Church.  This  is  what,  in  their  minds,  you  mean,  if  you 
mean  anything  at  all.  Men  feel  powerfully  sure  of  this  one 
thing  :  that  where  unity  leads  the  way  they  are  safe  ;  and  they  are 
not  wrong  in  making  this  judgment.  For  where  unity,  is  the 
leader,  sooner  or  later  men  will  be  surely  led  to  the  truth  and  to 
God. 

To  whatever  cause  he  may  attribute  the  unity  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church,  no  man  who  can  put  two  ideas  together,  no  man 
who  thinks  for  himself  and  has  an  historical  sense  of  truth  and  a 
fair  knowledge  of  history,  but  sees,  whether  friend  or  foe,  this 
much  :  that  the  conduct  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church  and  her 
faithful  members  through  ages  is  induced  by  something  either 
preternatural  or  supernatural.  Their  conduct  is  explicable  on 
no  other  ground,  theory,  or  hypothesis  than  that  there  must 
be  something  in  them  above  human  nature.  So  much  has  been 
gained,  at  least,  that  no  man  of  intelligence  in  this  nineteenth  cen- 
tury dare  stake  his  reputation,  if  he  has  any,  upon  saying  it  is 
his  belief  that  Satan  is  its  promoter  and  prompter.  And  it  must 
also  be  candidly  acknowledged  that  her  unity  stands  out  as  one 
of  her  most  obvious  and  irresistible  features.  It  is  this  attrac- 
tive feature,  perhaps,  more  than  anything  else,  that  has  won  the 
attention,  at  one  or  the  other  period  of  their  lives,  of  nearly  all 
sincere  Christians ;  and,  despairing  to  create  or  produce  such  a 
unity  by  human  means,  many,  unwilling  to  swell  the  ranks  of 
disunion  or  increase  confusion,  have  abandoned  all  other  asso- 
ciations, given  up  all,  to  enter  into  her  sacred  fold.  The  words 
of  the  Eternal  Shepherd  of  souls—"  There  shall  be  one  shepherd 
and  one  fold  " — have  sounded  louder  in  their  ears  than  all  the 
clamors  of  relatives,  or  the  expostulation  of  friends,  or  the  flat- 
tering praises  or  noises  of  the  world.  What  candid  and  upright 
men  seek  for,  especially  in  religion,  is  not  a  man-made  unity  but 
a  God-made  unity,  which  men  may  leave,  but  cannot  break 
into  fragments  or  tear  into  pieces.  Christ  thought  so  and 


1885.]      "T&£  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES:'          413 

made  this  the  test  of  his  power.  No  sincere  Christian  will  ever 
be  content  with  any  unity  short  of  that  which  Christ  alone  was 
competent  to  inaugurate,  and  had  the  power  to  build  up  upon 
earth,  and  was  able  to  sustain  until  the  consummation  of  the 
world.  The  conviction  is  not  uncommon  among  thinking  men, 
and  is  a  growing  one,  that  Christianity  is  fitted  for  all  ages  and 
for  all  races  of  men,  or  it  is  the  greatest  piece  of  deception  that 
ever  was  forced  upon  mankind  or  ever  appeared  upon  the  face 
of  the  globe.  They  may  not  say  so,  but  they  think  so.  Chris- 
tianity is  Catholicity  in  time  and  space,  or  else  a  great  imposition, 
a  magnificent  fiction,  a  superb  humbug! 

Will  the  men  who  formed  the  American  "  Congress  of 
Churches  "  ever  be  awakened  to  these  truths  ?  Scholars  and 
practical  men  have,  and  why  should  not  they?  It  may  be,  at 
least,  true  of  some  of  them  now.  Why  should  we  Catholics 
not  hope  for  it,  and  pray  for  it  too  ?  Oremus  ! 

By  this  it  is  not  meant  to  say  that  the  church  of  Christ  has 
not  had  to  pay  dearly,  often  with  her  blood,  and  had  to  struggle 
hard  and  heroically  to  maintain  her  position  as  the  organic  cen- 
tre of  Christian  unity.  Neither  is  it  meant  to  say  that  she  has 
not  had  great  sacrifices  to  make,  and  has  not  now  great  sacri- 
fices to  make,  in  order  to  accomplish  the  conscious  task  imposed 
upon  her  by  her  divine  Founder.  The  cost  must  always  be 
great,  and  will  always  be  great,  to  advance  the  cause  of  Christian 
unity  in  the  world.  For  Christianity  means  this  :  to  raise  men 
above  themselves,  above  human  nature,  above  the  ties  of  family, 
above  the  ties  which  bind  them  to  a  nation  or  to  a  race ;  but  not 
condemning  or  sundering  these,  but  renewing  them,  and  commu- 
nicating and  establishing  them  at  the  same  time  in  the  tie*  of 
filial  relations  with  God,  and  in  this  Christ-given  tie  to  unite 
all  men  in  a  common  but  higher  than  a  natural  brotherhood. 
But  it  may  be  asked,  Is  this,  the  conscious  divine  task  of  the 
church,  done  ?  Who  is  so  foolish  as  to  suppose  or  imagine 
for  a  moment  that  Christianity  has  been  perfectly  realized  upon 
earth  in  any  one  of  its  spheres  of  possible  and  practical  applica- 
tions ? 

Grant  that  the  human  side  of  the  church  is  always  imperfect 
and  leaves  much  to  be  desired.  But  may  we  not  ask  in  our  day, 
without  giving  offence  to  anybody  :  Who  broke  up,  more  than 
three  centuries  ago,  by  a  religious  revolution,  the  unity  of  Europe 
which  contained  the  hope  and  promise  of  a  speed}7  triumph  of 
the  light  of  Christianity  being  spread  over  the  whole  globe  ? 
One  thing  is  well  known — cast  the  blame  of  it  upon  whom  you 


414          "THE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES"      [Dec., 

like — Christendom  from  that  epoch  has  suffered,  in  too  many 
ways  to  be  enumerated,  from  disastrous  divisions  and  discordant 
sects.  This  much  we  dare  venture  to  say  without  fearing  to 
give  offence  to  anybody  :  that  divisions,  discords,  and  confusions 
are  not  evident  marks  of  the  work  of  men  divinely  influenced. 
One  thing  is  certain :  that  this  division  took  place,  according  to 
non-Catholic  historians  of  these  times — Hallam,  Guizot,  and 
Ranke — notwithstanding  the  best  efforts  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
hierarchy  and  people.  May  not  the  question  be  asked  without 
offence  :  Who  are  to-day  the  promulgators  of  free-loveism  and  kin- 
dred doctrines,  and  of  the  loose  legislation  which  is  effectually 
undermining  the  Christian  tie  of  the  family  ?  Who  are  the  men 
who  are  striving  by  socialism,  by  communism  and  nihilism,  to 
break  up  political  society?  In  a  word,  who  are  the  men  in  re- 
ligion, in  morals,  in  philosophy,  and  in  social  and  political  econo- 
my who  are  actually  seeking  to  bring  things  back  to  the  reign  of 
chaos?  Not  a  Roman  Catholic  voice  will  be  detected  in  this 
Babel  confusion.  A  man  must  stultify  himself  not  to  see  to 
whom  this  applies.  Nobody  is  ever  bound  to  do  that  to  be  a 
Christian.  Let  the  "  Congress  of  Churches  "  speak  out  and  be 
listened  to,  and,  if  needs  be,  let  it  speak  in  tones  of  rebuke  and 
warning  and  in  loud  trumpet  tones  !  It  has  a  voice,  and  people 
are  ready  to  listen.  The  axe  is  raised  ;  men  whose  eyes  are  not 
dim  with  age  see  the  root,  and  why  not  strike  ? 

Admit  that  the  church  on  the  human  side  is  always  imperfect 
— this  must  be  so,  having  but  men  and  "  not  angels  to  manage 
her  cranks  and  safety-valves  " — she  is  nevertheless  a  divine  insti- 
tution, embodying  a  divine  life,  and  therefore  always  above  and 
abreast  of  the  age.  She  is  the  source  from  which  men,  if  they 
only  knew  it,  draw  their  best  inspirations  and  what  promotes  the 
real  well-being  of  mankind.  The  best  authorities  have  shown  that 
the  most  potent,  the  most  popular,  the  most  beneficent  institutions 
of  society,  social  and  political,  are  due  to  the  example  given  by  the 
Catholic  Church,  whose  see  was  located  by  the  Apostle  St.  Peter 
at  Rome.  Suppose,  for  instance,  that  the  rulers  of  the  church 
were  to  find  it  possible  to  fulfil  the  wishes  expressed  by  the  Coun- 
cil of  Trent  upwards  of  three  centuries  ago  in  regard  to  the  Col- 
lege of  Cardinals.  More  than  a  million  of  the  race  of  the  Chinese 
are  good  Catholics,  and  why,  it  may  be  asked,  is  not  John  China- 
man with  his  pigtail  among  the  cardinals?  The  senate  of  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  would  be,  in  this  case,  the  most  perfect, 
the  most  august  representative  assembly  of  the  whole  of  mankind 
that  has  ever  met  or  appeared  upon  the  earth.  It  is  not  yet  too 


1885.]      "THE  AMERICAN  CONGRESS  OF  CHURCHES"          415 

late  !     Suppose,  again,  the  chair  of  St.  Peter  to  be  offered,  as 
it  was  in  the  early  ages  of  the  church,  to  the  most  gifted  man 
and  the  best  calculated  to  fulfil  its  duties  and  defend  its  rights, 
irrespective  of  his  race  or  nationality.     Suppose  the  missionary 
enterprises  of  the  church  to  be  adequately  organized  and  com- 
mensurately  with  the  objects  of  Christianity  and  the  spirit  of 
Catholicity  of  the  church  of  Christ,  would  not  this  unity  of  or- 
ganization, expressed  in  the  most  perfect  form,  present  Chris- 
tianity to  the  minds  of  practical  men  in  its  most  attractive  fea- 
tures, and   be  to  the  pagan  world  almost  irresistible  ?     Do  not, 
we  might  reply  to  this,  fancy  for  a  moment  that   the  church  of 
Christ  is  exhausted  !     Grant  that  there  is  nothing  in  these  things 
incompatible  with  the  doctrines  and   the  spirit  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  and  which  the  present  happily-reigning  Pontiff,  Leo  XIII. 
— who  has  shown  that  he  has  the  courage  of  his  convictions — 
might  not  accept,  the  moment  you  made  it  clear  that  such  was 
the  will  of  God,  would  not  all  this  go  a  great  way  to  reconcile 
those  who  are  sincerely  seeking  for  Christian   unity  to  reverse 
the  religious  revolution  of  the  sixteenth  century?     For  there  is 
nothing,  short  of   what  is   necessary  to    salvation,  which  every 
Christian  should  not  be  willing  to  do,  if  called  upon  ;  and  nothing 
that  those  whom  it  immediately  concerns  should  not  be  willing 
and  ready  to  do  to  render  the  church  of  Christ  more  attractive 
in  the.  eyes  of  those  who  sincerely  seek  after  the  truth,  or  who 
are  seeking  for  it  in  a  more  Catholic  spirit,  or  who  are  anxious 
to  find  it  in  a  more  perfect  form  and  embodiment.     Once  this 
spirit  is  made  reasonably  evident  and  certain,  there  is  nothing, 
short  of  what  is  necessary  in  the  nature  of  things,  which  cannot 
be,  in  a  friendly  and  reconciling  spirit,  shapened  and   adjusted. 
Why,  it  may  well  be  asked,  should  not  the  work  of  the  -Council 
of  Trent  and  of  Sixtus  V.  be  continued  and  perfected,  and,  we 
may  add,  by  Leo  XIII.,  now  happily  reigning,  and  his  successor? 
But  these  are  not  the  times,  when  the  foe  is  at  the  door,  to  in- 
dulge in  condemnations,  or  recriminations,  or  mutual  criticisms, 
however  they  may  be  intended  in  a  friendly  spirit  among  Chris- 
tians, but  rather  the  occasion  for  saying:  "He  that  is  without 
sin,  let  him  cast  the  first  stone."     Time  and  experience,   let  us 
hope,  have   lifted    both   parties   to   this   controversy    above   the 
spirit  of  contention. 

But  who  knows  but  that,  in  the  providence  of  God,  what  he 
is  stirring  up  in  some  hearts  to  ask  he  is  preparing  in  others  to 
grant,  in  view  of  the  unity  of  his  church?  Who  knows?  For 
our  own  part,  we  can  see  no  reason  why  there  should  not  set  in 


416  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  [Dec., 

a  tide  in  the  nineteenth  century  making  for  unity,  stronger  and 
wider,  than  that  of  the  sixteenth  century,  which  led  so  many 
millions  of  Christians  into  disunion,  discord,  and  confusion. 
Or  emus  et  speremus  ;  speremus  et  or  emus  /  God  grant  it ! 


THE   FRENCH   PROBLEM. 

THE  result  of  the  October  elections  has  been  a  surprise  to  all 
parties.  Yet  it  might  have  been  foreseen  that  the  government 
party — or  so-called  "  Moderate  Republicans/'  to  distinguish  them 
from  the  Radicals,  or  "  Intransigeants  " — would  pay  the  penalty  of 
their  blundering  and  cowardly  policy.  Too  sensible  to  adopt  in 
toto  the  doctrines  of  radicalism,  yet  too  weak  and  timid  to  resist 
Radical  pressure,  they  have  followed  a  course  that  has  alienated 
the  confidence  of  the  country.  In  this  last  campaign  they  were 
caught  between  the  upper  millstone  of  conservatism  and  the 
nether  millstone  of  radicalism  and  ground  to  pieces ;  it  could 
not  have  been  otherwise.  They  could  not  be  said  to  represent 
a  principle ;  no  programme  of  theirs  could  have  availed ;  they 
stood  before  the  country  with  their  record,  to  be  judged  by  their 
acts,  not  to  be  trusted  for  their  promises.  And  what  did  this 
record  show  ?  The  persecution  of  faithful  officials,  of  brave  officers 
and  learned  judges,  whom  they  removed  for  no  other  crime  than 
having  an  opinion  of  their  own  or  not  changing  that  opinion 
quickly  enough  to  be  true  Republicans ;  the  persecution  of  un- 
offending men  and  women,  in  violation  of  rights  guaranteed  by 
law,  and  not  for  any  alleged  offence,  simply  because  they  were 
servants  of  God ;  interference  with  the  rights  of  the  private  citi- 
zen, leading  to  troubling  the  conscience  and  disturbing  the  peace 
of  the  family,  by  forcibly  removing  every  token  of  Christianity 
from  the  surroundings  of  the  child  and  sowing  the  seeds  of  infi- 
delity and  unbelief  in  his  young  mind  ;  a  foreign  policy  which  has 
not  secured  one  strong,  honorable  ally  to  France,  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, has  estranged  her  from  most  of  the  European  nations,  who 
look  upon  her  with  distrust,  if  not  with  contempt;  unnecessary 
military  expeditions  which,  if  undertaken  at  all,  should  have  been 
strong  enough  to  insure  swift  and  decisive  results,  but  which  have 
been  managed  so  as  to  drain  the  finances  of  the  country  and  sac-, 
rifice  the  lives  of  her  soldiers. 

The  people  were  called  upon  to  ratify  all  these  acts  and  to 


1885.]  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  417 

say,  "  Well  done,  good  and  faithful  servants  ;  proceed  with  your 
work,"  or  to  signify  their  displeasure.  They  chose  the  latter  al- 
ternative. They  rebuked  their  rulers  at  the  ballot-box  by  voting 
for  the  party  which  had  always  opposed  those  obnoxious  mea- 
sures, for  men  whom  they  had  been  taught  to  look  upon  as  dan- 
gerous enemies,  but  to  whom  they  must  turn  unless  they  prefer 
to  leave  the  country  in  the  hands  that  have  so  ill-managed  its  af- 
fairs, or  to  turn  it  over  to  the  Radicals  as  a  surer  and  quicker  way 
of  reaching  anarchy.  Such  were  the  questions  before  the  French 
people  in  this  last  election.  In  former  ones  the  spectre  of  monar- 
chy was  called  up  freely;  a  good  campaign  weapon,  which — like 
the  "  bloody  shirt "  familiar  to  American  politicians — did  good 
service  in  many  a  contest,  but  in  this  one  the  form  of  govern- 
ment was  not  discussed.  The  aggressive  tactics  of  the  Radicals 
were  directed  against  the  government  candidates,  who  had 
enough  to  do  in  repelling  the  attacks.  The  spectre,  for  once, 
was  forgotten  and  let  alone.  The  people  hitherto  had  been  of- 
fered the  choice  between  an  already-established  republic  and  a 
revolution  to  restore  the  monarchy ;  they  had  invariably  voted 
for  the  former,  notwithstanding  their  displeasure  at  some  of  its 
acts,  for,  even  if  they  had  not  loved  the  monarchy  the  less,  they 
loved  peace  and  order  more.  Now  they  had  the  choice  between 
three  republican  platforms,  and  they  voted  for  that  which  present- 
ed the  greatest  guarantees.  The  logic  of  the  situation  shows  that 
to  call  the  result  a  royalist  gain  and  to  predict  an  attempt  to  re- 
store the  monarchy  are  either  the  conclusions  of  an  alarmist  or  a 
charge  gotten  up  for  effect  by  the  Radicals  ;  they  should  have 
been  received  with  more  distrust  by  the  American  press.  It 
matters  little  that  the  candidates  elected  should  be  individually 
designated  in  the  French  despatches  as  "royalists"  or  " imperial- 
ists "  ;  the  facts  amount  to  this :  the  principles  held  by  that  Re- 
publican minority  in  the  Chamber  of  Deputies  who  styled  them- 
selves "republicans,  liberals,  and  conservatives/'  and  who  for 
the  last  eight  or  nine  years  have  fought  against  every  encroach- 
ment upon  the  rights  and  liberties  of  the  citizen,  were  embodied 
in  the  platform  upon  which  these  candidates  were  elected.  True 
royalists  and  imperialists  voted  for  them,  but  so  did  every  Re- 
publican who  calls  himself  a  Catholic,  every  friend  of  Christian 
education,  every  Frenchman  who  realizes  the  danger  of  such 
a  policy  as  has  prevailed  since  the  death  of  M.  Thiers.  No  ; 
when  we  scan  the  returns  and  see  departments  with  a  large  rep- 
resentation, such  as  that  of  Nord,  or  Catholic  provinces  where 
the  government  of  the  republic  had  conquered  the  time-honored 
VOL.  XLII. — 27 


4i 8  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  [Dec., 

royalism  of  the  peasants,  return  the  whole  list  of  Conserva- 
tive candidates,  the  truth  forces  itself  upon  us.  This  victory 
is  not  for  the  monarchy  over  the  republic;  it  is  for  religion,  mo- 
rality, and  true  liberty  over  infidelity,  materialism,  and  injustice, 
for  wisdom  and  patriotism  over  foolhardiness  and  ambition. 

That  among  these  royalists  and  imperialists  there  are  some 
who  desire  the  overthrow  of  the  republic  cannot  be  denied  ;  that 
a  few,  a  very  few,  like  that  mad  enthusiast  Cassagnac,  would 
even  help  the  Radicals  in  their  work  of  destruction  is  probable ; 
that  any  number  could  be  found  to  inaugurate  a  revolution  is 
impossible.  In  the  first  place,  the  mass  of  the  people  is  against 
them  and  they  know  it.  It  is  not  that  the  love  for  free  institu- 
tions is  very  deeply  rooted,  but  the  people  have  become  used 
to  them  ;  they  begin  to  realize  the  blessings  of  liberty  ;  all  they 
ask  is  to  see  social  order  and  the  national  prosperity  secure.  A 
change  of  government  means  a  crisis  that  interrupts  the  business 
of  the  country  and  affects  the  material  interests  of  the  individual. 
Few  would  choose  to  face  these  evils  in  order  to  attain  a  pro- 
mised good.  It  is  only  when  the  situation  has  become  unbear- 
able that  the  masses  are  roused  to  action.  Then  the  patient 
sheep  becomes  a  roaring  lion.  Such  a  contingency  may  happen 
if  the  Radicals  get  complete  control  of  the  government ;  it  does 
not  exist  now.  All  the  former  revolutions  were  made  by  Paris 
alone  ;  the  country  acquiesced — the  deed  was  done  ;  as  well  accept 
it  as  make  trouble.  But  the  relations  between  the  capital  and 
the  provinces  are  changed.  The  war  and  the  struggle  with  the 
Parisian  Commune  are  lessons  not  easily  forgotten  ;  then  the 
spread  of  education,  the  introduction  of  the  railroad,  and  the  vul- 
garization of  the  telegraph  have  brought  their  fruits.  The  peo- 
ple of  the  provinces  have  a  consulting  voice  in  the  affairs  of  the 
country  ;  they  are  not  willing  to  remain  at  the  beck  of  the  Pari- 
sians, but  they  think  sometimes  they  may  have  to  march  again 
on  Paris.  Besides,  it  is  the  Radicals,  not  the  Royalists,  that  con- 
trol Paris. 

Supposing  the  adversaries  of  the  republic  did  not  shrink  from 
inaugurating  a  revolution  that  must  be  more  terrible  than  any 
that  has  convulsed  France  since  1/93,  another  consideration 
would  make  them  pause.  They  represent  two  parties  which 
hate  each  other  as  much  as  they  hate  the  republic,  and  neither 
would  like  to  work  for  the  benefit  of  its  rival.  Bonapartists  and 
Orleanists  will  never  agree,  not  to  mention  the  Legitimists,  who 
have  no  pretender  to  the  crown.  Absolved  from  their  time- 
honored  oath  of  fidelity  to  the  house  of  Bourbon,  they  are  free 


1885.]  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  419 

to  transfer  their  allegiance  to  any  government,  and  they  would 
prefer  a  liberal,  conservative  republic  to  either  a  Bonaparte  or 
an  Orleans,  whom  they  have  little  cause  to  love. 

There  should  be,  then,  no  fear  of  an  early  attempt  to  change 
the  form  of  government.  The  most  dangerous  enemies  of  the 
republic  are  in  the  Republican  camp.  It  has  ever  been  so.  The 
uprising  of  1789  was  a  reform  movement,  inspired  by  a  generous 
desire  to  correct  intolerable  abuses.  Louis  XVI.  himself  had 
given  the  example.  On  ascending  the  throne  in  1774  his  first 
act  was  to  reduce  the  expenses  of  the  royal  household.  This 
measure  of  reform  he  had  pursued  year  after  year  ;  he  had  abol- 
ished serfdom,  suppressed  statute  labor  in  despite  of  the  resist- 
ance of  parliament,  abolished  the  right  of  mortmain,  granted  civil 
rights  to  his  non-Catholic  subjects,  reorganized  the  magistracy, 
forbidden  the  rack,  opened  to  all,  men  and  women,  the  avenues 
of  trade  hitherto  closed  by  the  stringent  regulations  of  the  guilds. 
He  had  acquired  the  right  to  say,  as  he  did  to  the  States-Gene- 
ral in  1789:  "  It  is  I  who  so  far  have  done  everything  for  the 
welfare  of  my  people,  and  it  is  perhaps  a  rare  occurrence  that 
the  sole  ambition  of  a  sovereign  should  be  to  obtain  from  his 
subjects  that  they  should  come  to  an  understanding  about  ac- 
cepting his  benefactions."  The  demagogic  element  which  en- 
tered the  National  Assembly  changed  reform  into  revolution. 
Tiie  Jacobins  of  1793  paved  the  way  for  the  empire  with  the 
b  )ties  of  innocent  victims.  The  revolution  of  1848  surprised  the 
world;  it  was  the  triumph  of  ideas,  not  of  violence  and  blood- 
shed. The  republic  held  out  her  hands  in  token  of  fraternity, 
and  they  were  pure  of  blood.  Here  was  the  opening  of  a  new 
era  such  as  had  never  been  known  in  the  history  of  a  people. 
The  Socialists  and  Red  Republicans  of  the  time  strangled  young 
Liberty  in  her  cradle  and  made  the  advent  of  a  Bonaparte  possi- 
ble. The  fall  of  Sedan  brought  about  another  bloodless  revolu- 
tion. The  Commune  arose,  ready  for  the  work  of  destruction. 
It  failed,  and  the  patriotism  of  the  men  who  rallied  around  M. 
Thiers  founded  the  republic  on  a  durable  basis.  It  was  acknow- 
ledged the  only  form  of  government  possible  in  France,  the  only 
power  to  which  contending  parties  might  surrender,  for  it  repre- 
sented the  majesty  of  the  nation.  One  condition,  however,  was 
attached  to  its  existence.  M.  Thiers  spoke  advisedly  when  he^ 
said  :  "  The  republic  shall  be  conservative  or  it  shall  be  no  more." 
He  knew  that  "  history  repeats  itself,"  and  he  saw  the  dark  cloud 
rising  which  means  destruction  if  a  firm  and  prudent  hand  is  not 


420  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  [Dec., 

at  the  helm.  The  cloud  has  taken  shape  ;  it  is  called  radicalism 
— the  precursor  of  anarchy. 

The  effect  of  the  last  election  will  be  to  draw  more  clearly 
the  party  lines.  The  various  factions  which  have  influenced  the 
vacillating  policy  of  the  government  will  be  effaced.  The  strug- 
gle is  between  the  Conservatives  and  the  Radicals.  That  it  will 
be  bitter  no  one  can  doubt.  How  it  will  end  is  hard  to"  foresee. 
If  the  Conservatives  have  wisdom  and  prudence,  if  they  are  faith- 
ful to  the  principles  from  which  they  have  not  swerved  since 
1880,  they  may  control  the  majority  and  consolidate  the  republic. 
But  who  among  them  will  pick  up  the  mantle  of  the  dead  Thiers? 
The  Radicals  have  their  leader  already  chosen,  a  bold,  aggressive, 
ambitious  leader — Dr.  Eugene  Clemenceau. 

A  more  dangerous  enemy  of  the  republic  than  this  true  Simon- 
pure  of  radicalism  could  not  have  been  selected.  The  man  is  not 
a  political  crank  like  his  newly-elected  colleague,  the  mischief- 
making  mountebank,  Henri  Rochefort,  but  a  tribune  of  the  Dan- 
ton  type,  more  astute,  perhaps,  and  knowing  how  to  bide  his 
time.  By  a  strange  inconsistency  this  apostle  of  "  advanced 
ideas  "  goes  back  to  the  infancy  of  French  republicanism — nearly 
a  century — to  find  a  model  for  his  ideal  republic.  This  model  is 
the  Constituent  Assembly  of  1789.  To  such  a  body  of  direct 
representatives  of  the  people,  without  the  controlling  power  of 
a  senate  and  with  no  other  head  than  its  own  presiding  officer, 
M.  Clemenceau  thinks  the  destinies  of  France  should  be  confided. 
That  he  will  continue  to  work  for  this  desired  end,  whatever 
compromises  he  may  seem  willing  to  make  in  the  present  emer- 
gency, cannot  be  doubted.  His  whole  past  shows  him  to  be  an 
ambitious  man  with  a  fixed  purpose  and  an  indomitable  will,  too 
cautious  to  risk  a  battle  without  assurance  of  the  victory,  and  too 
unscrupulous  to  hesitate  before  the  means  when  he  sees  his 
chance. 

Eugene  C16menceau  was  .born  in  Catholic  Vend6e  in  1841. 
He  is  therefore  in  the  prime  of  life — too  young  a  man,  perhaps, 
for  the  statesman's  work  of  directing  the  policy  of  his  country. 
He  came  to  Paris  in  1865  to  complete  his  medical  studies,  and  re- 
ceived his  diploma  of  M.D.  in  1869.  He  is  of  that  school  of  phy- 
sicians who  dissect  the  body  to  search  for  a  soul,  and,  finding 
^  none,  proclaim  man  soulless.  As  a  doctor  of  the  old  school  re- 
marked once:  "They  could  hardly  have  expected  to  find  the 
tenant  in  after  he  had  left  the  house  for  ever."  But  such  simple 
logic  does  not  strike  the  eminent  modern  scientist ;  he  demands 


1885.]  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  421 

material  evidence  of  the  existence  of  a  spiritual  soul.  Dr.  C16- 
menceau's  anatomical  studies  therefore  confirmed  his  suspicion 
that  there  is  no  such  a  thing-  as  a  soul ;  the  soul  being  said  to  be 
the  essence  of  the  Divinity  breathed  into  man,  the  one  immortal 
link  between  the  Creator  and  the  creature,  it  was  logical  to  deny 
God.  The  young  man  asserted  himself  as  a  confirmed  material- 
ist and  infidel.  Time  has  only  strengthened  his  opinions. 

Untrammelled  by  superstitions,  the  doctor  felt  capable  of  great 
things.  Not  content  with  curing  diseased  soulless  bodies,  he  de- 
termined to  devote  his  surplus  energies  to  securing  the  material 
happiness  of  his  fellow-man — and  his  own  advancement — and 
turned  his  attention  forthwith  to  politics.  Immediately  after  the 
formation  of  a  republican  government  we  find  him  mayor  of  the 
eighteenth  arrondissement  of  Paris.  Here  one  of  his  first  official 
acts  was  to  order  that  lay  teachers  should  be  substituted  for  the 
members  of  religious  orders  employed  in  the  free  schools  of  his 
district.  Superstition  must  be  rooted  out,  and  the  new-fledged 
mayor  was  eager  for  the  fray.  Such  zeal  deserved  a  reward.  It 
came.  Clemenceau  was  elected  to  the  National  Assembly  in 
1871.  He  voted  against  peace — a  cheap  way  of  gaining  popu- 
larity, considering  how  impossible  it  was  for  Paris  to  maintain 
the  struggle.  Then  came  the  dark  days  of  the  Commune.  C16- 
menceau,  like  his  colleague,  Rochefort,  remained  in  Paris.  That 
his  sympathies  were  with  the  Communists  at  the  beginning  is  a 
well-known  fact.  What  part  he  took  in  their  resistance  to  the 
legal  government  has  never  been  satisfactorily  shown.  It  was 
claimed  that  he  had  tried  to  save  the  lives  of  Generals  Lecomte 
and  Clement  Thomas,  but,  unfortunately,  had  reached  the  place 
of  execution  too  late  to  stay  the  fatal  fire ;  that  his  endeavors  had 
made  him  open  to  suspicion,  and  the  Central  Committee  had 
ordered  his  arrest  and  trial.  He  was  never  arrested,  however, 
and  when  the  assassins  were  brought  to  trial,  after  the  fall  of  the 
Commune,  several  witnesses  testified  that  the  doctor  had  not 
used  all  the  diligence  he  might  have  used  if  he  had  been  really 
anxious  to  save  the  victims.  M.  Langlois,  who  defended  C16- 
menceau,  testified  as  to  the  latter's  willingness  and  the  causes 
of  his  delay,  and  the  charge  was  dismissed.  As  Lecomte  and 
Thomas  were  not  priests  but  soldiers,  and  therefore  not  objects 
of  an  infidel's  just  hatred,  the  doctor  should  have  the  benefit  of 
the  doubt. 

Howbeit,  it  is  certain  that  he  participated  in  various  efforts  at 
bringing  about  a  "  reconciliation  "  between  the  government  of 


422  THE  FRENCH  PROBLEM.  [Dec., 

Versailles  and  the  misguided  fanatics  who  ruled  in  Paris.  These 
attempts  having  failed,  he  resigned  his  seat  and  retired  to  private 
life.  Not  being  a  fool,  he  saw  that  the  Commune  was  doomed. 
He  must  have  cursed  his  mistake  in  not  following  his  colleagues 
to  Versailles,  as  was  clearly  his  duty.  But — lucky  man ! — that 
mistake  turned  to  his  advantage  ;  it  made  him  popular  with  a 
certain  class  of  Parisians.  After  the  restoration  of  order  he  was 
elected  a  member  of  the  Municipal  Council  of  Paris,  where  he 
took  a  prominent  part  in  all  discussions  concerning  the  secular- 
izing of  primary  instruction  and  like  "  anti-clerical  "  measures. 
He  introduced  a  bill  to  increase  the  number  of  members  and  the 
already  too  great  powers  of  the  council — a  government  within 
a  government,  whose  pretensions  have  given  no  little  trouble. 
C16menceau  was  elected  a  deputy  in  1876,  and  was  one  of  the 
ardent  promoters  of  the  general  amnesty — a  dangerous  measure 
that  owed  its  adoption  in  great  part  to  the  sentimental  appeals  of 
the  late  Victor  Hugo.  The  Conservatives  were  in  favor  of  a 
conditional  pardon  which,  while  putting  an  end  to  the  punish- 
ment, left  a  just  stigma  attached  to  the  crime.  Amnesty  gave  a 
clear  record  to  the  Communists,  and  the  welcome  given  by  the 
Radical  council  members  to  the  released  convicts  made  heroes  of 
them.  Scarcely  half  a  dozen  years  had  passed  since  these  men 
had  brought  their  city  to  the  verge  of  destruction,  and  some  of 
them  were  called  to  take  part  in  its  councils.  At  this  moment 
the  names  of  a  dozen  ex-Communists  may  be  checked  off  on  the 
list  of  elected  deputies.  Such  are  some  of  the  fruits  of  Radical 
policy.  Clemenceau,  re-elected  in  1877,  after  the  dissolution  of 
parliament,  became  a  leader.  He  urged  the  impeachment  and 
trial  of  Marshal  MacMahon's  cabinet,  and  showed  no  little  bitter- 
ness in  his  advocacy  of  anti-church  measures.  His  policy  has 
always  been  aggressive.  He  was  mainly  instrumental  in  the 
overthrow  of  Jules  Ferry.  The  mismanaged  Tonquin  expedition 
was  his  ably-handled  weapon  in  the  recent  campaign.  With  it 
he  demolished  the  "  Opportunists,"  little  thinking  how  the  same 

blows  counted  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  Conservatives. 

• 

Can  moderation  be  expected  from  this  man  if  he  sees  his  op- 
portunity for  dictating  the  policy  of  the  Republicans,  so-called  ? 
Will  the  royalist  and  imperialist  Conservatives  side  with  him  in 
order  to  defeat  the  government  ?  or  will  all  true  Conservatives 
and  true  Republicans  unite  in  an  imposing  majority  to  subdue 
Radical  folly  ?  Such  are  the  questions  agitated  in  all  the  Euro- 
pean political  circles.  These  questions  are  momentous,  for  they 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  423 

involve  the  existence  of  the  republic  and  the  peace  of  Europe. 
American  Catholics  cannot  be  indifferent  to  the  fate  of  that  fair 
land,  so  long  called  the  "  eldest  daughter  of  the  church  " — the 
country  that  gave  birth  to  Lafayette  and  Rochambeau.  Neither 
should  they  despair  of  seeing  it  restored  to  its  once  proud  rank 
among  nations.  The  French  conscience  is  roused  ;  the  godless 
shall  not  prevail. 


NEW    PUBLICATIONS, 

CATHOLIC  LIFE  AND  LETTERS  OF  CARDINAL  NEWMAN.  With  Notes  on 
the  Oxford  Movement  and  its  Men.  By  John  Oldcastle.  London  : 
Burns  &  Gates;  New  York:  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 
1885. 

This  neat  volume  is  a  reprint  from  the  periodical  called  Merry  England. 
It  is  not  properly  a  life  of  the  cardinal,  but  a  collection  of  memorial  notes 
and  letters.  The  portraits  contained  in  it,  but  especially  the  group  of  the 
Newman  family  as  they  were  in  1829  when  they  were  living  at  Newnham 
Courtney,  add  much  to  the  value  and  interest  of  this  memorial.  In  this 
family  group,  which  was  sketched  in  chalk  by  Miss  Giberne,  we  see  the 
future  cardinal  as  a  young  clergyman  of  twenty-eight,  with  his  mother,  his 
two  sisters,  and  his  brother  Francis,  sitting  together  in  a  small  parlor,  in 
easy  and  natural  attitudes,  engaged  with  work,  books,  and  conversation — a 
pretty  picture  of  home  life,  which  thousands  have  regarded  and  will  here- 
after regard  with  great  pleasure  on  account  of  the  great  fame  and  distinc- 
tion which  the  two  young  men  have  gained,  but  especially  on  account  of 
the  veneration  and  love  for  Cardinal  Newman  which  is  so  universal.  Sure- 
ly every  one  of  his  admirers  will  wish  to  possess  this  memorial. 

THE  CATHOLIC  FAMILY  ANNUAL  for  1886.  New  York  :  The  Catholic  Pub- 
lication Society  Co.  i$86. 

It  has  come  to  be  a  high  compliment  to  say  of  a  new  issue  of  the  Catho- 
lic Family  Annual  that  it  is  worthy  of  its  predecessors.  More  than  that 
may  be  said  for  the  Annual  for  1886,  a  little  volume  which  is  in  every  re- 
spect a  credit  to  the  Catholic  literary  and  publishing  enterprise  of  the 
United  States.  Taking  it  up  to  glance  it  over  cursorily,  we  were  unable  to 
lay  it  down  until  we  had  read  it  quite  through,  so  interesting  as  well  as 
valuable  are  its  contents.  It  is  a  well-illustrated,  well-written,  and  a  most 
carefully  prepared  publication ;  and  so  accurate  and  exhaustive  are  the 
brief  biographies  of  eminent  Catholics  who  have  died  or  come  into  unusual 
prominence  during  each  year  that  for  these,  its  specialty,  the  volumes  of  the 
Catholic  Family  Anmtal  already  constitute  an  indispensable  authority  for 
reference.  Among  the  leading  biographies  now  given  are  those  of  Car- 
dinal McCloskey,  Cardinal  McCabe,  Lady  Georgiana  Fullerton,  and  Mr. 
A.  M.  Sullivan,  of  the  recently  dead,  and  Cardinal  Moran,  of  Sydney, 


424  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Dec., 

Dr.  Walsh,  the  new  Archbishop  of  Dublin,  and  Dr.  Corrigan,  Archbishop 
of  New  York,  of  the  living.  All  these  are  accompanied  by  finely-engrav- 
ed portraits,  that  of  the  new  Archbishop  of  Dublin  being  the  best  like- 
ness we  have  seen  published  of  him  anywhere.  There  are  besides  these 
other  biographies  of  distinguished  Americans,  Irishmen,  and  Catholics.  An 
interesting  feature  is  the  description  and  illustration  of  the  newly-erected 
monument  in  New  Orleans  to  Margaret  Haughery,  "the  Orphans'  Friend." 
The  array  of  original  articles  is  quite  imposing.  We  would  call  particular 
attention  to  the  article  on  "  Mediaeval  Guilds,"  a  knowledge  of  which  subject 
we  have  long  wished  to  see  spread  among  ourworking  population.  Sciol- 
ism is  so  hopelessly  rife  among  the  advocates  of  labor  reform  nowadays  that 
the  protection  of  labor  by  organization  in  trades-unions  is  generally  ac- 
cepted as  one  of  the  "  ideas  "  of  the  nineteenth  century.  How  old-fash- 
ioned the  notion  is,  and  how  much  better  it  was  in  its  old  form  than  in  the 
new,  and  how  great  a  part  the  Catholic  Church  played  as  the  champion  of 
the  oppressed  in  those  so  little  understood  "  dark  "  ages,  may  be  learned 
from  a  study  of  the  mediaeval  guilds,  to  which  the  article  in  the  Annual 
will  serve  as  an  introduction.  The  Count  de  Mun,  an  active  laboring  man's 
friend,  is  doing  in  France  for  this  subject  a  work  that  we  long  to  see  some 
one  do  for  America.  Perhaps  the  most  attractive  "  bit  "  in  the  issue  will 
be  voted  to  be  Mr.  Maurice  F.  Egan's  poem,  "The  String  of  the  Rosary," 
with  the  exquisite  engraving  in  which  it  is  framed,  whose  design  is  a  sweet 
poem  in  itself.  On  the  whole,  let  us  further  say  that  we  are  struck  particu- 
larly about  this  Annual  by  the  fact  that  no  legitimate  expense  appears  to 
have  been  spared  to  make  it  worthy  of  its  mission  to  American  Catholic 
homes. 

THE  CATHOLIC  HOME  ALMANAC  for  1886.    New  York,  Cincinnati,  and  St. 
Louis  :  Benziger  Bros.     1886. 

The  Catholic  Home  Almanac  is  another  very  creditable  publication  mod- 
elled on  the  plan  of  the  Catholic  Family  Annual.  Its  issue  for  1886 — its  third 
year— '-shows  a  marked  and  most  encouraging  improvement  on  the  two  issues 
that  preceded  it  There  are  many  original  articles  in  the  number,  a  number 
of  original  stories,  and  some  of  the  engravings  are  original.  One  important 
article,  "  The  Religious  Element  in  our  American  Civilization,"  is  from  the 
pen  of  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Gibbons,  Archbishop  of  Baltimore.  The  stories  are 
by  Maurice  F.  Egan,  Christian  Reid,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Sadlier.  The  selected 
matter,  whether  literary  or  artistic,  shows  admirable  judgment  and  taste. 
A  beautiful  colored  chromograph  of  the  Sacred  Heart  forms  the  frontis- 
piece. There  is  one  flaw,  however,  on  this  otherwise  almost  perfect  publi- 
cation which  we  cannot  let  pass  without  remark.  In  a  paragraph  at  the 
head  of  a  page  referring  to  the  English  Church  missions  in  Palestine  this 
sentence  occurs  :  "  Fancy  spending  ,£153,000  in  trying  to  convert  a  Jew: — 
and  what  a  costly  creature  he  would  be  even  if  he  were  converted  ! "  This 
jeer  at  the  Jews,  for  whom  the  saving  mercy  of  our  Divine  Lord  flows  as 
for  every  other  section  of  mankind,  is  conceived  in  anything  but  the 
Christian  spirit — in  a  spirit  rather  which  would  be  peculiarly  obnoxious 
and  dangerous  if  allowed  to  enter  Catholic  homes.  We  would  advise 
the  editor  of  the  excellent  Almanac,  if  it  be  not  too  late,  to  suppress  this 
ugly  and  hurtful  paragraph. 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  425 

ALMANACK  DES  FAMILLES  CHRE"TIENNES  POUR  L'ANNEE  1886.  Einsiedeln 
en  Suisse,  New  York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Louis :  Charles  and  Nicholas 
Benziger  Freres.  1886. 

This  almanac,  a  French  one,  is  a  still  further  indication  of  the  way  in 
which  Catholic  publishing  enterprise  in  this  department  is  progressing. 
It  is  a  beautifully  printed  and  illustrated  volume,  and  its  interesting  con- 
tents are  well  worthy  of  their  setting.  A  good  feature  is  the  summary  of 
the  principal  public  events  of  the  year,  with  the  condensed  illustrations  ac- 
companying it. 

THE  TRUTH  ABOUT  JOHN  WYCLIF  :  His  life,  writings,  and  opinions,  chiefly 
from  the  evidence  of  his  contemporaries.  By  Joseph  Stevenson,  S.J. 
London  :  Burns  &  Gates  ;  New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  Socie- 
ty Co.  1885. 

John  Wyclif,  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  religious  revolution  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  is  naturally  revered  by  all  Protestants  as  their  lawful  an- 
cestor and  dearly-loved  progenitor.  Any  one  carefully  studying  history 
will  see  that  not  only  did  he  hold  all  the  special  errors  which  Protestants 
afterwards  insisted  upon,  but  that  his  political  opinions  were  such  as  must 
delight  the  veriest  anarchist  or  communist  of  our  own  time. 

The  conclusion  of  the  learned  and  venerable  author  of  the  book  must 
be  the  conclusion  of  the  candid  reader  and  of  any  real  student  of  history  : 

"Of  Wyclif  personally  we  have  been  unable  to  form1  any  exalted  estimate.  Intellectually 
there  is  little  to  admire  in  him.  He  was  a  voluminous  author,  and  has  left  behind  him  a  large 
mass  of  writings  on  various  subjects,  thus  supplying  us  with  ample  materials  on  which  to  form 
an  estimate  as  to  his  mental  capacity.  These  writings  are  remarkable  only  as  embodying  nu- 
merous blasphemies,  heresies,  errors,  and  absurdities,  expressed  in  obscure  language.  Morally 
he  does  not  command  our  respect.  He  attacked  the  church  of  which  he  was  a  priest,  and  in 
which  he  continued  to  minister  long  after  he  had  denounced  it  as  the  synagogue  of  Satan.  He 
rebelled  against  that  ecclesiastical  discipline  which  he  had  pledged  himself  to  maintain  and 
defend." 

Each  error  and  heresy  which  he  introduced  among  his  countrymen  had 
been  previously  condemned  by  the  universal  consensus  of  the  authority 
competent  in  such  matters.  Disregarding  this,  he  made  them  his  own 
and  bequeathed  them  as  an  evil  inheritance  to  his  native  country.  The 
wretched  legacy  was  accepted,  and  in  our  time  we  see  England  eating  the 
bitter  fruits  full  ripe  from  the  no±ious  weeds  planted  by  that  archhere- 
tic,  John  Wyclif. 

His  opinions  will  be  more  easy  to  obtain  when  the  new  edition  of  his 
works  which  is  in  preparation  is  published. 

POETS  OF  AMERICA.  By  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  author  of  Victorian 
Poets.  Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1885. 

This  book  is  a  companion  volume  to  the  Victorian  Poets,  published  by 
Mr.  E.  C.  Stedman  about  ten  years  ago.  Mr.  Stedman  is  one  of  our  best 
American  critics,  and  to  his  high  and  difficult  calling  he  brings  an  honesty,  a 
soberness,  and  a  power  of  sympathetic  insight  which  are  seldom  found  com- 
bined in  the  same  individual,  and  which,  when  they  are,  g've  his  judgments 
a  value  that  is  much  rarer  than  that  attaching  to  the  more  brilliant  and 


426  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Dec., 

showy  qualities  of  the  literary  man.  A  true  poet  himself,  Mr.  Stedman  has 
an  instinct  for  discovering  the  true  poetry  of  others  and  a  clarifying  intelli- 
gence which  enables  him  to  set  upon  his  discoveries  a  generally  just  ap- 
praisement. His  Victorian  Poets  was  a  critical  disquisition  on  the  poetry 
of  the  Victorian  era,  including  a  notice  of  every  English  poet  of  any  con- 
sequence who  flourished  since  the  beginning  of  the  present  queen's  reign. 
The  volume  under  notice  does  a  similar  work  for  the  whole  range  of  Amer- 
ican poetry  from  the  earliest  native  poets  down  to  the  songsters  of  to-day. 
Of  the  two  volumes  the  latter  will  be  regarded  with  the  greater  curiosity. 
It  is  the  first  comprehensive  and  competent  criticism  of  the  American 
poetic  outgrowth  considered  as  a  whole  that  has  been  published.  More- 
over, Mr.  Stedman  seeks  to  substantiate  a  claim  for  American  poetry  which 
will  probably  be  generally  conceded  :  namely,  that  "  the  literature — even 
the  poetic  literature — of  no  country,  during  the  last  half-century,  is  of 
greater  interest  to  the  philosophical  student,  with  respect  to  its  bearing  on 
the  future,  than  that  of  the  United  States."  Mr.  Stedman,  who  is  always 
charming,  and  all  but  perfect  in  direct  individual  criticism,  seems  to  be  on 
his  weak  side  when  he  comes  to  broad  generalizations.  There  is  some- 
thing naively  provincial  about  his  summing  up  of  the  attitude  of  Europe 
towards  the  literature  of  America.  "  The  Old  World,"  he  says,  "  has 
drawn  its  countries  together,  like  elderly  people  in  a  tacit  alliance  against 
the  strength  of  youth  which  cannot  return  to  them,  the  fresh,  rude  beauty 
and  love  which  they  may  not  share."  In  fact,  as  is  too  much  the  habit  of 
our  countrymen  when  they  feel  that  a  foreign  eye  is  upon  them,  Mr.  Sted- 
man becomes  uncomfortably  self-conscious  when  he  comes  to  talk  of  the 
literature  of  his  own  land  and  to  make  comparisons  between  it  and  the  con- 
temporary literary  product  of  what  he  so  frequently  alludes  to  as  the  "  mo- 
ther country" — England.  No  doubt,  too,  he  feels  himself  on  delicate 
ground  when  dealing  with  home  poets,  not  a  few  of  whom  are  among  his 
own  contemporaries.  At  any  rate  we  notice  a  constraint  about  the  first 
portions  of  this  book  which  is  in  marked  contrast  to  the  freedom  which 
characterized  Mr.  Stedman's  earlier  volume.  For  the  rest  of  the  book,  the 
monographs  of  Bryant,  Whittier,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Poe,  Lowell,  and 
Holmes  are  models  of  graceful  and  thorough  criticism.  A  very  adroit 
chapter  is  the  one  on  the  present  generation  of  literary  men.  Hardly  a 
living  poet  or  litterateur  of  merit  is  left  unmentioned.  Among  the  Catho- 
lic writers  we  see  discriminating  allusicm  to  Maurice  Egan,  whom  Mr.  Sted- 
man calls  "a  sweet  and  true  poet,"  to  Boyle  O'Reilly,  the  late  Dr.  Joyce, 
Father  Ryan,  O'Brien,  Halpine,  John  Savage,  and  McDermott.  Of  Mr. 
Charles  de  Kay,  who  has  contributed  some  remarkable  studies  of  Irish  his- 
tory and  archaeology  to  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  during  the  past  year,  and 
whose  charming  prose  helps  to  adorn  our  present  issue,  Mr.  Stedman  says 
that  he  "  is  conspicuous  for  height  of  aim  and  certainly  for  a  most  resolute 
purpose ;  in  these  days  it  is  bracing  to  see  a  man  of  his  ability  in  earnest  as 
a  poet."  So  exhaustively  has  Mr.  Stedman  performed  his  task  that  his 
valuable  book  may  be  looked  on  as  a  critical  encyclopaedia  of — to  use  an 
expression  of  his  own — the  whole  choir  of  American  poets.  The  places 
and  dates  of  their  births  and,  when  dead,  of  their  deaths  are  given  in  neat 
marginalia,  and  a  copious  index  adds  the  finishing-touch  to  a  rarely  well 
made  volume. 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  427 

THE  PROPHET  OF  THE  GREAT  SMOKY  MOUNTAINS.     By  Charles  Egbert 
Craddock.     Boston  and  New  York  :  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.     1885. 

We  have  had  lately  the  irksome  task  of  examining  a  number  of  stories 
by  American  authors,  most  of  which  may  be  likened  to  adulterated  wine 
or  poorly-made  artificial  flowers.  When  the  turn  of  this  story  came,  five 
pa'ges  had  not  been  read  when  a  sensation  of  refreshment  began  to  steal 
over  us,  and  we  recognized  the  presence  of  a  genuine  article.  The  pro- 
mise of  the  beginning  was  fulfilled  by  the  complete  book,  and  our  firm  de- 
cision was  made  that  a  new  writer  has  appeared,  worthy  to  take  rank 
among  the  really  good  old  ones.  We  have  found  that  this  is  the  general 
opinion  of  critics  and  readers,  and  it  is  beyond  doubt  that  the  young  lady 
who  has  taken  the  noin  de plume  of  Charles  Egbert  Craddock  has  only  to 
continue  as  she  has  begun,  to  win  a  place  among  the  best  of  our  American 
writers  of  fiction.  This  story,  and  the  shorter  ones  in  In  the  Tennessee 
Mountains,  bear  a  general  resemblance  to  those  of  Cable,  and  a  closer  one 
to  the  stories  and  sketches  of  life  and  scenes  in  Georgia  by  R.  M.  John- 
ston, with  whose  name  the  readers  of  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  are  familiar. 
In  saying  this  we  are  comparing  them  to  real  masterpieces  in  their  kind. 

The  locality  of  the  story  is  in  the  mountainous  country  of  Tennessee 
among  the  inside  barbarians.  It  is  very  dramatic.  The  persons  are  rude 
and  ignorant  preachers,  working-men,  illicit  distillers,  politicians,  and  wo- 
men of  the  same  class,  sketched  with  great  individuality  of  character,  in  a 
graphic  manner.  Their  peculiar  lingo  is  rendered  in  a  way  certainly  pi- 
quant and  skilful,  we  must  suppose  correct  and  derived  from  intimate 
knowledge.  Their  strange  talk  is  moreover  original,  picturesque,  and  full 
of  mother-wit.  Among  them  all,  Kelsey  the  Prophet  and  Dorinda  Cayce 
stand  out  in  bold  relief  as  ideal  characters.  Dorinda  especially  is  an  ad- 
mirable conception,  as  perfect  as  Auerbach's  "  Barefoot,"  but  of  a  much 
higher  kind ;  for  the  religious  element  is  in  it,  which  was  absent  from  Auer- 
bach's ideal. 

The  author  excels  in  describing  natural  scenery,  in  landscape  and  sky- 
scape word-painting.  Her  rude  characters  live  their  semi-barbaric  life  in 
a  country  of  wonderfully  picturesque  beauty,  and  the  description  of  its 
scenery  in  the  story  surrounds  its  narrative  and  dialogue.  This  descriptive 
environment  is  genuine  poetry  in  all  except  its  formal  arrangement. 
Sometimes  it  is  so  rhythmical  and  cadenced  that  it  can  easily  be  put  into 
the  poetic  form.  Here  is  one  instance  from  pages  6  and  7  of  In  the  Tennessee 
Mountains  : 

"  Lost  Creek  sounded  some  broken  minor  chords, 
As  it  dashed  against  the  rocks  in  its  headlong  way. 

The  wild  grapes  were  blooming.     Their  fragrance  so  delicate,  yet  so  pervasive, 
Suggested  some  exquisite  presence — the  dryads  were  surely  abroad  ! 
The  pine-knots  flamed  and  glistened  under  the  great  wash  kettle. 
A  tree-toad  was  persistently  calling  for  rain  in  the  dry  distance. 
The  girl,  gravely  impassive,  beat  the  clothes  with  the  heavy  paddle. 
Her  mother  shortly  ceased  to  prod  the  white  heaps  in  the  boiling  water, 
And  presently  took  up  her  broken  thread  otf  discourse." 

Only  two  or  three  words  have  been  changed  in  the  above  extract,  and 
it  is  plain  that  such  prose  could  easily  be  altered  by  the  author  into  a 
poetical  form  as  regular  as  the  metre  of  Longfellow.  We  think  she  will 


428  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Dec., 

find  herself  too  much  restricted  within  the  limits  of  the  region  she  has  thus 
far  occupied,  and  will  have  to  take  a  wider  range.  We  heartily  wish  that 
she  may  accomplish  all  which  seems  to  be  within  the  scope  of  her  powers. 

AMERICA,  AND  OTHER  POEMS.     By  Henry  Hamilton.    New  York  and  Lon- 
don :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons.     1885. 

The  author  of  America,  and  Other  Poems  is  a  sweet  singer,  and  his  song 
is  animated  by  true  poetry  and  the  highest  and  only  philosophy  that  there 
is — the  love  of  God  in  himself  and  in  all  his  works.  In  one  of  the  numerous 
and  admirable  sonnets  which  he  groups  together  under  the  title  "  God  and 
the  Soul  "  he  gives  apt  utterance  to  the  dominant  note  of  his  song  : 

"  I  love  all  that  is  beautiful  and  fair — 

The  flowers  that  look  into  the  face  of  spring  ; 
And  birds  when  in  their  leafy  bowers  they  sing  ; 
The  children  playing  in  the  balmy  air, 

"  And  grazing  flocks,  and  yellow  bees  that  bear 
Their  honey  to  the  hive,  the  murmuring 
Of  waters,  fragrant  orchards  blossoming, 
And  summer  nights  when  all  the  heavens  are  bare. 

"  But  though  I  love,  my  heart  finds -not  repose 

In  all  the  glories  of  the  earth  and  sky  : 
They  are  as  fleeting  as  the  melting  snows, 

And  rain  as  homeless  winds  that  round  me  sigh  ; 
Past  them  my  yearning  soul  to  God  up-glows, 

Seeking  the  beauty  which  will  never  die." 

A  kindred  elevated  sentiment  is  expressed  in  a  little  hymn  which  for 
its  simple  beauty  is  worthy  of  quotation  : 

"  The  child,  watching  the  eagle  float 

Through  heaven's  ethereal  blue, 
With  sails  out-spread  like  a  fair  boat, 

Would  gladly  bid  adieu 
To  earth,  and  soar  through  boundless  space, 
Contending  in  the  tireless  race. 

"  The  poet,  too,  in  his  high  song, 

Dreams  of  the  lofty  flight 
That  bears  the  eagle  swift  along 

Above  the  mountain  height, 
Sweeping  still  on  with  the  glad  sun, 
Whose  godlike  course  is  never  run. 

"  And  lovers,  when  the  heart  is  young, 

Long  for  the  dower  of  wings, 
That  they  may  dwell  the  stars  among, 

And  taste  the  joy  that  springs 
When  tender  souls  from  crowds  remote 
Together  blend  and  onward  float. 

"  And  when  sweet  music  softly  steals, 

And  trembling  upward  flies, 
The  heart  responsive  yearning  feels 

To  mingle  with  the  skies  ; 
And  like  harmonious  viewless  sound, 
To  rise  through  the  blue  deep  profound. 


1 885.]  NEW  PUBLICA TIONS.  429 

"  But  blessedness  lies  not  in  space ; 

And  had  we  wings  to  soar, 
They  could  not  bring  us  to  God's  face 

Or  make  us  love  him  more  : 
Within  the  living  fountain  springs 
Purer  than  skies  cloven  by  wings." 

Having  quoted  so  much  from  this  poet,  we  find  ourselves  in  duty  bound 
to  treat  our  readers  to  more  of  his  sweet  verse,  lest  we  do  him  and  them 
the  injustice  of  withholding  fairer  specimens.  We  feel  his  work  is  genuine 
and  pure  poetry,  and  the  best  criticism  we  can  offer  of  it  is  to  give  up  some 
of  our  space,  that  our  readers  may  taste  of  his  sweets  as  well  as  ourselves. 
Here  is  a  tender  baby-song  : 

' '  See  where  the  bending  wheat 

Hangs  down  its  heavy  head  ; 
See  where  the  flowers  sweet 
Droop  low  above  their  bed. 

"  See  how  the  evening  dies 

And  softly  sinks  to  rest ; 
See  how  the  bird  now  flies 
To  its  leaf  hidden  nest. 

"  O  baby  mine,  bend  now 

Thy  weary  head  like  wheat : 
Like  bird  on  leafy  bough, 
Slumber  my  baby  sweet ; 

"  Like  flower  thy  head  bow  down 
Upon  thy  mother's  breast — 

0  Sleep,  let  thy  soft  crown 
Upon  my  baby  rest  !  " 

We  think  these  extracts  are  sufficient  to  justify  us  in  our  estimate 
of  this  new  singer,  whoever  he  is.  But  there  is  one  more  poem  that  we 
must  make  room  for,  since  its  thought  gives  us  a  suggestion  of  Words- 
worth : 

"  Ah  !  no  :  I  will  speak  true. 

When  youth's  glad  spring  was  near, 
And  the  soft  heaven  clear, 
My  happiness  I  knew  ; 
And  even  then  I  saw 
The  vision  far  withdraw 
Swift  as  the  morning  dew. 

"  Nor  did  I  ever  dream 

That  days  like  those  return, 
However  much  we  yearn 
For  their  ethereal  gleam  : 

1  felt  the  shadows  fall, 
I  heard  the  future  call, 

And  saw  life's  darkling  stream. 

"  O  days  when  orchards'  bloom 
Was  like  an  angel's  smile, 
And  brightness,  mile  on  mile, 
Left  not  a  thought  of  gloom  ; 


430  NE  w  PUBLICA  TIONS.  [Dec. , 

When  every  little  flower 
And  every  warm  spring  shower 
Were  fragrant  with  perfume. 

"  But  not  for  joy  like  this 

Has  a  man's  breast  been  made  ; 

To  sit  in  idle  shade 
Is  life's  best  worth  to  miss  ; 

To  do  the  thing  we  ought 

Is  price  at  which  is  bought 
The  only  lasting  bliss. 

"  I  look  upon  the  grave, 

Where  my  sweet  youth  now  lies  ; 
And  lift  to  God  my  eyes, 
Knowing  that  he  can  save. 
And  this  is  all  I  ask  : 

To  do  right  well  the  task  , 

Which  he  with  life's  boon  gave." 

It  must  not  be  inferred  that  all  the  poetry  in  the  volume  is  up  to  the 
above  standard.  On  the  contrary,  much  of  it  is  loose  and  jejune,  the 
poem  that  gives  the  book  its  title,  "  America,"  being  among  the  worst  in 
the  collection.  Nor  should  it  be  inferred  that  the  above-quoted  pieces  are 
the  best ;  they  are  chosen  almost  at  random.  Mr.  Hamilton,  who  publishes 
a  lot  of  poems  at  the  one  time,  possesses  a  poetic  gift  of  a  high  order; 
but  he  seems  to  suffer  from  the  want  of  the  tonic  of  healthy  criticism.  Had 
he  published  oftener  and  in  smaller  instalments,  it  might  have  been  better 
for  his  copious  but  irregular  verse. 

THE  PRINCIPLES  OF  EXPRESSION  IN  PIANOFORTE-PLAYING.    By  Adolph  F. 
Christiani.     New  York  :  Harper  &  Brothers.     1886. 

The  author  of  this  book  undertakes  a  very  novel  and  (if  he  have  suc- 
ceeded) a  very  important  work.  He  endeavors  to  reduce  that  quality  in 
musical  interpretation  called  "expression"  to  a  systematic  theory  with 
principles  that  can  be  denned  and  expounded.  Expression  is  usually,  but, 
as  this  author  asserts,  erroneously,  held  to  be  a  manifestation  of  feeling 
only,  in  the  regulation  of  which  the  intelligence  plays  but  little  part.  To 
perform  music  with  true  expression  requires  a  special  gift  of  nature,  and 
no  one  can  teach  this  art  of  expression ;  the  best  that  can  be  done  is,  by 
illustration,  to  show  when  playing  has  expression  and  when  it  has  not. 
This  is  the  generally-accepted  view,  and  the  leading  teachers  of  both 
Europe  and  this  country  have  up  to  this  had  to  be  content  with  it.  Mr. 
Christiani  takes  issue  with  this  opinion.  He  holds  that  intelligence,  not 
feeling,  is  the  chief  requirement  in  expression  ;  that  expression  is  based 
upon  principles,  and  not  merel)'  upon  emotional  impulse  or  individual 
taste ;  and  that  the  laws  of  expression  can  be  learned  and  obeyed — with 
certain  limitations — even  as  other  laws  of  musical  interpretation. 

All  teachers  and  students  of  the  pianoforte  must  prick  their  ears  at 
hearing  of  these  revolutionary  sentiments — sentiments  which  convey  to 
them  the  promise  of  an  inestimable  boon.  Does  Mr.  Christiani  substantiate 
his  claim  to  render  expression  teachable  ?  We  have  examined  his  able  trea- 
tise carefully,  and  it  is  our  opinion — for  what  that  opinion  may  be  worth — 


1885.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  431 

that  he  does  substantiate  his  claim.  The  clearness  of  this  author's  reason- 
ing has  strongly  impressed  us  ;  the  attractiveness  of  his  style  no  less.  We 
have  never  met  a  musical  work  which,  dealing  so  largely  with  technicality 
and  keeping  itself  so  rigidly  to  business,  had  more  power  to  interest  and 
carry  along  the  lay  reader.  The  uninitiated  layman  can  follow  its  argu- 
ment as  easily  as  the  trained  theorist  or  the  professional  musician.  For 
the  benefit  of  our  many  readers  who  are  interested  in  all  that  concerns  the 
most  popular  of  musical  instruments,  an  outline  of  this  new  view  upon 
pianoforte-playing  may  not  be  out  of  place.  The  truly  artistic  pianist, 
says  Mr.  Christiani,  must  have  four  special  endowments — namely,  talent, 
emotion,  intelligence,  and  technique.  Talent  and  technique  are  always 
indispensable  to  expressive  playing,  but  a  performer  may  be  able  to  play 
with  expression  and  yet  be  either  wanting  in  emotion  or  wanting  in  in- 
telligence. This  causes  Mr.  Christiani  to  divide  expression  into  three 
classes  :  i.  Where  there  is  emotion  without  intelligence  ;  2.  Where  there 
is  intelligence  without  emotion;  and  3.  Where  there  are  both  emotion 
and  intelligence  together.  Expression  depending  on  emotion  solely  is  a 
thing  of  impulse,  at  its  best  but  "  the  fitful  effort  of  exaggerated  sensi- 
bility." Expression  depending  solely  on  the  intelligence  is  fine,  scholarly, 
clear,  and  enlightened,  but  cold.  It  takes  the  two  elements  in  combi- 
nation to  produce  the  only  kind  of  expression  which  is  perfect,  which 
is  artistic.  Purely  emotional  expression  cannot  be  taught,  of  course,  but 
purely  intellectual  expression  may,  and  emotion,  when  it  is  found  co- 
existing with  intelligence,  may  be  stimulated  and  directed  to  the  right 
service  of  art.  It  is  intellectual  expression  that  Mr.  Christiani  undertakes 
to  teach.  He  lays  down  the  laws  of  accents — the  main  ingredients  of  ex- 
pression— in  an  exhaustive  and  amply-illustrated  treatise,  and  shows,  with 
notable  intelligibility  for  so  subtle  a  theme,  the  true  value  of  accents  in 
pianoforte-playing,  and  when,  where,  why,  and  how  accents  ought  to  be 
given.  This  is  the  first  time  this  task  has  been  attempted  in  any  work  on 
music  that  we  are  aware  of.  Mr.  Christiani  further  deals  with  the  functions 
of  dynamics  and  time  in  subserving  the  ends  of  musical  expression.  On 
the  whole  he  has  accomplished  a  work  of  the  highest  service  to  the  vota- 
ries of  the  pianoforte,  has  revolutionized,  in  fact,  one  vital  branch  of  musical 
interpretation.  He  has  reduced  almost  to  an  exact  science  one  of  the  lead- 
ing elements  of  artistic  pianoforte-playing — an  element  that  had  hitherto 
been  left  to  be  acquired  with  the  aid  only  of  hap-hazard  suggestion  and 
untutored  intuition.  There  can  be  no  question  that  the  writer  of  this  able 
book  leaves  students  of  the  pianoforte  under  a  rare  obligation. 

THE  BOY-TRAVELLERS  IN  SOUTH  AMERICA.    By  Thomas  W.  Knox.     Illus- 
trated.    New  York  :  Harper  &  Brothers.     1886. 

Mr.  Knox  has  earned  the  gratitude  of  the  present  generation  of  boys 
by  the  series  of  books  in  which  he  has  described  for  them  the  wanderings 
about  the  globe  of  his  pair  of  boy-travellers,  Frank  Bassett  and  Fred 
Bronson,  with  their  mentor,  Dr.  Bronson.  Already  Mr.  Knox's  boys  have 
been  all  over  the  far  East  and  up  even  to  the  Arctic  Circle.  He  now  brings 
them  to  South  America,  and  they  traverse  the  length  and  breadth  of  that 
wonderful  continent,  seeing  most  of  the  strange  things  and  strange  people 
that  are  to  be  seen  there  by  sea  and  shore,  in  city  and  in  desert.  They 


432  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Dec.,  1885. 

inspect  the  Panama  Canal  and  pass  through  the  Strait  of  Magellan,  they 
cross  the  Andes  and  descend  the  Amazon,  navigate  the  La  Plata  and  Para- 
guay, visit  the  principal  cities  and  study,  like  good  boys,  the  "  manners  and 
customs  "  of  the  various  peoples  they  come  across  on  their  way.  The 
book  is  copiously  and  well  illustrated,  hardly  a  page  being  without  its 
"  picture,"  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  the  school-boy. 

THE  LIFE  OF  FATHER  ISAAC  JOGUES,  Missionary  Priest  of  the  Society  of 
Jesus,  slain  by  the  Mohawk  Indians  in  the  present  State  of  New  York, 
Oct.  18,  1646.  By  the  Rev.  Felix  Martin,  SJ.  With  Father  Jogues'  ac- 
count of  the  captivity  and  death  of  his  companion,  Rene  Goupil,  slain 
Sept.  29,  1642.  Translated  from  the  French  by  John  Gilmary  Shea. 
With  a  map  of  the  Mohawk  Country,  by  Gen.  John  S.  Clark.  New 

,  York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Louis  :  Benziger  Brothers,  printers  to  the 
Holy  Apostolic  See. 

Having  read  pretty  much  all  that  has  been  written  about  Father  Jogues, 
we  did  not  expect  that  another  biography  of  him  would  seem  fresh  and 
vivid  to  us.  But  this  one,  translated  by  Mr.  Gilmary  Shea  and  enriched 
by  his  learned  notes,  has  made  that  impression  on  us.  We  have  read  every 
word  of  it  with  interest.  We  sincerely  hope  that  Mr.  Shea  will  give  us  yet 
more  on  this  and  kindred  topics,  for  his  book  cannot  help  being  most  ac- 
ceptable to  a  discerning  public.  It  is  intensely  interesting  to  read  such 
exciting  adventures,  undertaken  solely  for  God's  glory  and  in  behalf  of 
perhaps  the  most  savage  tribes  known  to  history.  The  romance  of  reli- 
gious heroism  in  its  most  attractive  form  is  here  displayed,  inspiring  the 
reader  with  generous  emulation,  or  at  least  a  deep  sentiment  of  veneration. 

FACTS  OF  FAITH  ;  or,  First  Lessons  in  Christianity.  Compiled  by  the 
Rev.  A.  Bromley  Crane,  of  St.  Wilfrid's  College,  Cotton,  Cheadle,  Eng- 
land. London  :  Burns  &  Gates;  New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publication 
Society  Co.  1885. 

A  valuable  book  of  reference  for  one  who  needs  to  answer  questions 
about  the  faith  tersely  and  clearly.  Worthy  of  a  large  circulation. 

MEDITATIONS  ON  THE  MYSTERIES  OF  THE  HOLY  ROSARY.  From  the 
French  of  Father  Monsabre,  O.P.,  by  V.  Rev.  Stephen  Byrne,  O.P. 
New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.  1885. 

This  little  book  will  serve  admirably  for  a  more  devout  saying  of  the 
beads.  It  is  suggestive  of  good  thoughts  and  resolutions,  and  will  help  to 
deepen  our  love  for  the  holy  mysteries  of  the  Rosary. 

LITTLE  MONTH  OF  THE  SOULS  IN  PURGATORY.  Translated  from  the 
French  of  the  author  of  Golden  Sands.  By  Miss  Ella  McMahon.  New 
York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Louis:  Benziger  Brothers. 

We  are  glad  to  see  books  of  this  kind  which  refer  to  the  other  world, 
because  in  this  country  we  are  not  disposed  to  think  too  much  of  the  other 
world.  We  thank  the  author  for  writing  it,  the  translator  for  translating 
it,  and  the  publishers  for  publishing  it.  Such  books  of  devotion  at  once 
solid  and  pious  cannot  be  too  much  multiplied.  God  bless  all  who  are  con- 
cerned in  its  publication  ! 


THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD. 


VOL.  XLII.  JANUARY,  1886.  No.  250. 


THE    CHRISTMAS    ROSE. 

O  ROSE  of  Sharon  !   this  thy  day  of  glory 

Fills  all  our  hearts  with  sunshine  ;    gone  is  gloom, 

And  from  our  raptured  lips  bursts  the  sweet  story 
Of  how  thou,  Rose  of  roses,  cam'st  to  bloom. 

A  bud  thou  wert  when  Gabriel  out  of  heaven 
Came,  bending  low  before  thee,  Humblest  Heart, 

And  told  thee  of  the  Gift  to  thee  God-given — 
"  Thou  among  women,  Mary,  blessed  art  !" 

And  through  the  spring  of  the  Annunciation, 

And  through  the  summer,  grew  thy  Hope  and  Joy. 

God  gave  thee  peace  for  will's  renunciation — 
His  great,  sweet  peace,  pure  gold  without  alloy. 

The  summer  passed  ;   like  swift-winged  doves  the  days  flew, 
Fierce  floods  had  gone,  filled  was  each  rippled  spring, 

And  August  heat  had  long  dried  up  the  May's  dew  : 
The  Life  within  thine  grew — O  wondrous  thing  ! 

O  Mystic  Rose  !  O  Rose  of  Joy  and  Sorrow  ! 

What  peace,  what  love  abode  with  thee  and  thine  ! 
Stretched  happy  days  to-morrow  and  to-morrow 

For  thee,  God's  handmaid  with  his  Son  Divine. 

Copyright.    Rev.  I.  T.  HECKER,     1885, 


434  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  [Jan., 

Christ  was  within  thee,  House  of  Gold,  in  splendor, 
And  in  thy  fragrance  lay  He  day  and  night. 

Most  sweet  thy  heart,  and  humble,  and  most  tender  ; 
And  day  by  day  thy  petals  saw  the  light. 

The  cold  winds  blew,  and  at  the  wells  in  winter 
The  housewives  shivered,  and  spoke  of  the  cold, 

And  of  the  needful  fire  of  chip  and  splinter, 
And  of  the  sheep  that  huddled  in  the  fold. 

Ah  !   suddenly,  when  all  the  world  was  flowerless, 
Ah  !    suddenly,  when  dark  was  winter's  gloom, 

And  the  poor  earth  was  lying  robbed  and  dowerless, 
The  Rose  of  Sharon  burst  in  fullest  bloom. 


A  STILL  CHRISTMAS. 

IT  was  Christmas  eve  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1653.  The 
snow,  which  had  fallen  fitfully  throughout  the  day,  shrouded  in 
white  the  sloping  roofs  and  narrow  London  streets,  and  lay  in 
little,  sparkling  heaps  on  every  jutting  cornice  or  narrow  window- 
ledge  where  it  could  find  a  resting-place.  But  in  the  west  the 
setting  sun  shone  clearly,  firing  the  steeples  into  sudden  glory 
and  gilding  every  tiny  pane  of  glass  that  faced  its  dying  splen- 
dor. The  thoroughfares  were  strangely  silent  and  deserted. 
The  roving  groups  that  had  been  wont  at  this  season  to  fill  them 
with  boisterous  merriment,  the  noise,  the  bustle,  the  good  cheer 
of  Christmas — all  were  lacking.  No  maskers  roamed  from  street 
to  street,  jingling  their  bells,  beating  their  mighty  drums,  and 
bidding  the  delighted  crowd  to  make  way  for  the  Lord  of  Mis- 
rule. No  shouts  of  "  Noel !  Noel !  "  rang  through  the  frosty 
air.  No  children  gathered  round  their  neighbors'  doors,  singing 
quaint  carols  and  forgotten  glees,  and  bearing  off  rich  guerdon  in 
the  shape  of  apples,  nuts,  and  substantial  Christmas  buns.  In 
place  of  the  old-time  gayety  a  dreary  silence  reigned  through  the 
deserted  highways,  and  down  the  narrow  footwalk,  with  even 
step  and  half-shut  eyes,  tramped  the  Puritan  herald,  ringing  his 
bell  and  proclaiming  ever  and  anon  in  measured  tones :  "  No 
Christmas  !  No  Christmas  !  No  Christmas  !  " 

In  sober  and  sad-hued  garments  was  the  herald  arrayed,  with 
leathern  boots  that  defied  the  snow,  and  a  copious  mantle  envel- 


1 8 36.]  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  435 

oping  his  sturdy  frame.  Now  and  then  he  stopped  to  warn  a 
couple  of  belated  idlers  that  they  would  do  well  to  separate  and 
go  quietly  to  their  homes.  Now  and  then  a  little  child  peeped 
at  him  timorously  from  a  doorway,  and,  overawed  by  his  sombre 
aspect  and  heavy  frown,  retreated  rapidly  to  hide  its  fears  in  the 
safe  shelter  of  its  mother's  gown.  Men  shook  their  heads  as  he 
went  by,  and  muttered  something  that  was  not  always  compli- 
mentary to  his  presence ;  and  women  shrugged  their  shoulders 
and  sighed,  and  thought,  perchance,  of  other  Christmases  in  the 
past,  with  Yule-logs  burning  on  the  hearth  and  stray  kisses 
snatched  beneath  the  mistletoe.  From  a  latticed  window  a  girl's 
face  peered  at  him  with  such  a  light  of  laughing  malice  in  the 
brown  eyes  that  the  Puritan,  catching  sight  of  their  wicked 
gleam,  paused  a  moment,  as  though  to  reprove  the  maiden  for 
her  forwardness  or  to  inquire  what  mischief  was  afoot  under  this 
humble  roof.  But  the  night  was  growing  chill,  and  he  had  still 
far  to  go.  It  might  not  be  worth  while  to  waste  words  of  coun- 
sel on  one  so  evidently  godless;  and,  with  a  heavier  scowl  than 
usual,  he  tramped  on,  swinging  his  bell  with  lusty  force.  "  No 
Christmas !  No  Christmas !  "  echoed  through  the  darkening 
streets,  and  as  he  passed  the  girl  contracted  her  features  into  a 
grimace  that  would  have  done  credit  to  the  wide-mouthed  gar- 
goyle of  a  Gothic  cathedral. 

"  Cicely,  Cicely  !"  cried  a  voice  at  this  juncture  from  within, 
"  close  the  shutters,  do,  and  come  and  help  me." 

Cicely,  who  had  been  inclined  to  stare  out  a  little  longer,  shot 
the  heavy  oaken  bolt  into  its  socket,  and,  opening  a  door  leading 
to  the  inner  room,  disclosed  a  scene  whose  ruddy  cheerfulness 
shone  all  the  brighter  in  contrast  to  the  dreary  streets  outside. 
A  mighty  bunch  of  fagots  blazed  and  crackled  on  the  hearth,  and 
above  the  carved  chimney-place  hung  branches  of  holly,  their 
scarlet  berries  glowing  deeply  in  the  firelight.  In  one  corner, 
half-veiled  by  a  tapestry  curtain,  a  waxen  Bambino  nestled  in 
its  little  manger,  while  before  it  burned  a  small  copper  lamp. 
Wreaths  of  holly  and  ivy  bedecked  the  doors,  and,  standing 
tip-toed  on  a  tall  wooden  chair,  a  young  girl  was  even  now  striv- 
ing to  fasten  these  securely  with  the  aid  of  a  very  old  and  wrin- 
kled woman,  who  seemed  more  competent  to  admire  than  to  assist 
the  undertaking. 

"  Some  bigger  berries,  pray,  Catherine,"  she  said  impatiently ; 
"  and,  Cicely,  if  you  feel  you  have  loitered  enough,  hand  me  those 
two  long  ivy  branches.  They  should  droop  gracefully — so  !  And 
now  stand  off  a  little  way,  and  tell  me  how  it  looks." 


436  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  [Jan., 

The  younger  sister  obeyed,  and,  stationing-  herself  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  room,  surveyed  the  whole  effect  with  much  approval. 
Annis,  her  fair  face  flushed  with  the  exertion,  balanced  herself  on 
her  lofty  perch  and  gazed  complacently  upon  her  handiwork; 
while  even  Mistress  Vane,  who  had  been  seated  quietly  on  a  deep 
chair  by  the  fireplace,  roused  herself  as  from  a  reverie,  and  looked 
•half-wistfully  around  the  cheerful  room.  "  What  bell  was  that  I 
heard  just  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  herald's,  proclaiming  a  still  Christmas,"  answered  Cicely 
promptly ;  "  and  he  watched  me  as  sourly  as  though  he  knew  that 
we  were  plotting  treason." 

"  Cecil,  Cecil !  "  remonstrated  her  mother  in  alarm.  "  Surely 
you  did  nothing  imprudent." 

"  I  ?  "  returned  Cicely,  apparently  oblivious  as  to  what  she  had 
done.  "  I  cast  up  the  whites  of  my  eyes,  as  though  repeating 
psalms  for  mine  own  inward  sustainment;  and  seeing  me  so  pi- 
ously disposed,  he  was  fain  to  pass  on  to  the  correction  of  greater 
sinners." 

"  That  were  well-nigh  impossible,"  said  her  sister,  laughing ; 

but  Mistress  Vane  only  looked  anxious  and  disturbed.     The  sense 

of  insecurity  to  which  Annis  was  indifferent,  and  which  Cicely  at 

fourteen  found  absolutely  amusing,  weighed  heavily  on  the  older 

woman,  who  had  a  better  understanding  of  the  danger,  and  who 

had  suffered  cruelly  in  the  past.     Husband  and  son  had  fallen  for 

a  lost  cause,  confiscation  had  devoured  the  larger  portion  of  her 

once  fair  inheritance ;  and  now,  with  her  two  young  daughters, 

she  found  herself  beset  by  perils,  harassed  by  stringent  laws,  and 

at  the  mercy  of  any  ill-wind  fate  might  blow  her.     Cromwell's 

mighty  arm  held  the  fretful  country  in  subjection,  making  the 

name  of  England  great  and  terrible  abroad,  and  silencing  every 

whisper  of  disaffection  at  home.     The  Puritans  in  their  hour  of 

triumph  stamped  upon  the  land  the  impress  of  their  strong  and 

bitter  individuality ;  and  a  morose  asceticism,  part  real  and  part 

affected,  crushed  out  of  life  all  the  innocent  pleasure  of  living. 

With  every  man  determined  to  be  better  than  his  neighbor,  the 

competition  in  saintliness  ran  high.     Under  its  vigorous  stimulus 

the  May-pole  and  the  Yule-log  were  alike  branded  as  heathenish 

observances,  the  Christmas-pie  became  a  "  pye  of  abomination," 

and  all  amusements,  from  the  drama  to  bear-baiting,  were  censured 

with  impartial  severity.     Feast-days  were  abolished,  and  even  to 

display  the  emblems  of  the  Nativity  was  held  to  be  sedition.    The 

Established  Church,  cowed  and  shorn  of  its  splendor,  was  treated 

with  surly  contempt;  the  Catholics  were  altogether  beyond  the 


i886.]  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  437 

pale  of  charity.  It  was  not  a  time  calculated  to  promote  festivity  ; 
yet  while  the  heralds  proclaimed  through  the  frosty  streets  that 
Christmas  at  last  was  dead,  Annis  Vane,  with  holly  and  ivy,  with 
Yule-dough  and  Babie-cake,  was  making  all  things  ready  for  its 
mysterious  birth.  And  as  she  worked  she  sang  softly  under  her 
breath  the  refrain  of  a  carol  she  had  learned  at  her  nurse's  knee  : 

"This  endris  night 

I  saw  a  sight, 
A  star  as  bright  as  day  ; 

And  ever  among 

A  maiden  sung 
Lullay,  by-by,  lullay." 

"  Is  it  not  strange,  mother,"  she  said,  breaking  suddenly  off, 
"  that  men  should  deem  it  a  mark  of  holiness  to  cast  derision  on 
the  birth-night  of  their  Saviour  ?  " 

"  Let  us  be  just  even  to  our  enemies,"  replied  Mistress  Vane 
gently.  "  They  think  not  to  deride  the  Nativity,  so  much  as  to 
condemn  the  riotous  fashion  in  which  Christians  were  wont  to 
keep  the  feast.  There  have  been  times,  Annis,  when  the  Lord  of 
Misrule  did  more  discredit  to  this  holy  season  than  does  the  Puri- 
tan to-day." 

Annis  opened  her  blue  eyes  to  their  very  utmost.  This  view 
of  the  matter  was  one  she  was  hardly  prepared  to  accept.  "  Why, 
dearest  mother,"  she  protested,  "  when  should  we  venture  to  be 
happy,  if  not  on  Christmas  day  ?  And  how  can  we  show  ourselves 
too  joyful  for  our  salvation  ?  And  did  not  his  most  blessed  Ma- 
jesty King  Charles  knight  with  his  own  royal  hand  a  Lord  of  Mis- 
rule who  held  court  in  the  Middle  Temple?" 

Mistress  Vane  smiled  at  her  daughter's  vehemence.  She  knew 
more  about  these  jovial  monarchs  and  their  courts  than  Annis  did, 
and  it  may  even  be  that  his  most  blessed  majesty's  approval  car- 
ried less  weight  to  her  experienced  mind.  But  in  these  dark  and 
chilly  days  a  little  enthusiasm  was  helpful  in  keeping  one's  heart 
warm,  and  she  was  far  too  wise  a  mother  to  disparage  it.  "  Truly 
they  made  a  brave  show  then  upon  Christmas  day,"  she  admitted, 
"  for  the  lord  mayor  and  his  corporation,  a  goodly  company  of 
gentlemen,  rode  in  procession  to  the  church  of  St.  Thomas  Aeon, 
and  thence  to  dine  together  with  many  pleasant  ceremonies. 
And  stoups  of  wine  and  huge  venison  pasties  were  despatched  to 
the  Temple  for  the  stay  and  comfort  of  the  mock-court,  who  made 
merry  all  day  long.  And  the  streets  were  crowded  far  into  the 
night  with  maskers  and  revellers ;  and  even  the  poor  might  for 


438  A  STILL  C&KISTMAS.  [Jan., 

once  forget  their  poverty,  and  were  welcome  to  the  brawn  and 
plum-broth  of  their  richer  neighbors." 

\"  And  now  we  have  nothing  of  all  this  !  "  cried  Cicely,  with  pas- 
sionate regret.  "  Nothing  to  look  at  and  nothing  to  hear,  save  the 
cracked  bell  of  a  dingy  herald,  who  does  not  even  ride  a  hobby- 
horse like  the  merry  heralds  of  old.  In  truth,  Master  Prynne 
hath  made  good  his  own  words  when  he  holds  that  Christmas 
should  be  rather  a  day  of  mourning  than  one  of  rejoicing." 

"  Not  so  thought  my  godfather,  kind  Master  Breton,"  said 
Annis  thoughtfully.  "  For  he  hath  written  that  it  is  the  duty  of 
Christians  to  rejoice  for  the  remembrance  of  Christ  and  for  the 
maintenance  of  good-fellowship.  'I  hold  it/  he  hath  said,  'a 
memory  of  the  Heaven's  love  and  the  world's  peace,  the  mirth  of 
the*  honest  and  the  meeting  of  the  friendly/  " 

Cicely's  eyes  danced  with  glee.  "  That  were  well  remem- 
bered," she  said  mockingly ;  "  if  now  you  can  but  tell  us  in 
turn  what  your  godfather's  nephew,  Captain  Rupert  Breton, 
hath  thought  upon  the  matter." 

Annis  flushed  scarlet,  and  the  quick  tears  welled  into  her  eyes 
as  she  turned  them  reproachfully  upon  her  sister.  It  was  not 
easy  for  her  to  think  of  her  absent  lover  and  maintain  the  cheer- 
ful frame  of  mind  she  deemed  appropriate  to  the  season.  The 
shores  of  France  seemed  very  far  away  that  night,  and  the  long 
months  that  had  elapsed  since  the  defeat  at  Worcester  stretched 
backward  like  a  lifetime,  as  she  recalled  his  last  hurried  farewell. 
He  had  ridden  hard  and  risked  much  for  those  few  words,  and 
patiently  and  bravely  she  had  waited  ever  since,  hoping,  praying, 
turning  her  face  steadily  to  the  brighter  side,  and  keeping  ever  in 
mind  the  happy  hour  which  should  reunite  them  to  each  other. 
Now  in  silence  she  bound  together  the  last  green  boughs  and  put 
all  in  order  for  the  night.  Old  Catherine  had  long  since  gone  off, 
yawning  and  blinking,  to  bed,  and  Cicely,  half-asleep,  nodded  over 
the  dying  fire.  Only  her  mother  watched  her,  with  eyes  of  loving 
scrutiny,  and  Annis  smiled  brightly  as  she  kissed  the  careworn 
face.  "I  shall  not  cry  myself  to  sleep  to-night,"  she  said  reso- 
lutely. "  This  is  a  time  for  gladness  ;  for  the  star  of  Bethlehem  is 
shining  in  the  sky,  and  the  birth  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand." 

Bright  glowed  the  Christmas-logs  on  the  capacious  hearth 
till  every  pointed  leaf  and  scarlet  holly-berry  shone  in  the  gen- 
erous firelight. 

"  Whosoever  against  holly  do  cry 
In  a  rope  shall  be  hung  full  high." 


1 886.]  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  439 

For  when  the  oak  and  ash  trees  babbled  to  the  wind  and  be- 
trayed the  Saviour's  hiding-place,  the  holly,  the  ivy,  and  the 
pine  kept  the  secret  hidden  in  their  silent  hearts  ;  and  for  this 
good  deed  they  stand  green  and  living  under  winter's  icy  breath, 
while  their  companions  shiver  naked  in  the  blast.  Not  till  the 
risen  sun  has  danced  on  Easter  morn  shall  the  oak  adorn  a  Chris- 
tian household  and  prove  itself  forgiven.  The  Christmas-pie — 
the  Christ-cradle,  as  the  Saxons  used  to  call  it — had  been  baked  in 
its  oblong  dish  in  memory  of  the  manger  at  Bethlehem,  with  the 
star  of  the  Magi  cut  deeply  in  the  swelling  crust.  The  Yule- 
dough,  cunningly  moulded  into  the  likeness  of  a  little  babe,  had 
been  carefully  laid  by  as  a  sovereign  protector  from  the  evils  of  fire, 
floods,  carnage,  and — so  say  some  ancient  writers — from  the  bite 
of  rabid  dogs.  Annis  Vane,  decked  out  in  the  bravest  array  her 
altered  fortunes  would  permit,  knelt  by  the  blazing  hearth.  Her 
ruff  was  of  the  finest  lace,  and  a  row  of  milk-white  pearls  clasped 
her  slender  throat.  She  shaded  her  face  from  the  fire,  and  piled 
up  shining  cones  of  bright-brown  nuts  that  seemed  to  tempt  the 
flames. 

"  All  we  lack  now  is  the  mistletoe,"  she  said  half-despondent- 
ly.  "  It  was  no  easy  task  to  find  the  holly  and  bring  it  home  un- 
noticed ;  but  we  cannot  gather  mistletoe  near  London,  and  there 
is  none  for  sale  throughout  the  city." 

"  Of  what  use  is  the  mistletoe,"  said  the  practical  Cicely, 
"  when  we  are  but  three  women  here  alone  ?  We  can  kiss  each 
other  as  readily  under  a  sprig  of  ivy,  and  we  can  fire  our  nuts 
without  the  help  of  man  or  lad,  provided  only  we  keep  one  in 
our  minds.  Of  whom  shall  I  think,  Annis?"  she  queried,  wrink- 
ling up  her  pretty  forehead  in  anxious  perplexity  over  so  disturb- 
ing a  doubt. 

"  You  are  far  too  young  to  think  of  men  at  all,"  answered  An- 
nis reprovingly,  and  with  all  the  conscious  superiority  of  age. 
"  Nor  do  you  know  enough  as  yet  to  make  such  pastime  profit- 
able." 

Cicely's  brows  drew  together  with  a  frown  which  plainly  in- 
dicated the  nature  of  the  retort  upon  her  lips,  but  a  glance  from 
her  mother  checked  her.  "  The  word  uttered  in  vexation  is  bet- 
ter left  unspoken,"  said  Mistress  Vane,  with  gentle  authority. 
"  And  I  am  waiting  here,  not  to  listen  to  disputes,  which  in  these 
stormy  times  have  grown  wearisome,  but  to  hear  the  Christmas 
carol  promised  me  to-night." 

Annis,  with  flushed  cheeks,  took  down  from  the  wall  a  little 
mandolin  of  Spanish  workmanship,  and,  striking  a  few  chords, 


44°  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  [Jan., 

began  the  carol,  in  which  Cicely,  after  sacrificing  some  moments 
to  ill-temper,  concluded  presently  to  join,  her  clear  flute-notes 
rising  high  above  her  sister's  weaker  tones  : 

"  When  Christ  was  born  of  Mary  free, 
In  Bethlehem,  in  that  fair  citie, 
Angels  sungen  with  mirth  and  glee, 
In  Excelsis  Gloria ! 

"  Herdsmen  beheld  these  angels  bright 
To  them  appeared  with  great  light, 
And  said,  God's  Son  is  born  this  night — 
In  Excelsis  Gloria ! 

"  The  King  is  comen  to  save  kind, 
Even  in  Scripture  as  we  find ; 
Therefore  this  song  have  we  in  mind, 
In  Excelsis  Gloria ! 

"  Then,  dear  Lord,  for  thy  great  grace, 
Grant  us  in  bliss  to  see  thy  face, 
Where  we  may  sing  to  thee  solace, 
In  Excelsis  Gloria  ! " 

As  the  sounds  died  into  silence  there  stood  one  in  the  icy 
streets  and  listened.  No  self-elected  saint  was  he,  scenting  out 
treason  to  the  Commonwealth,  but  a  Cavalier  from  France,  with 
his  love-locks  shorn  for  sweet  prudence*  sake,  and  a  mighty  mantle 
enveloping  him  from  head  to  foot.  If  Annis  Vane  had  waited 
and  hoped  and  built  up  her  faith  in  the  cheer  of  Christmas  night, 
the  joy  she  coveted  was  very  near  at  last.  After  lingering  a 
few  moments,  as  though  on  the  chance  of  hearing  more,  the 
stranger  advanced  and  knocked  sharply  at  the  heavily-barred 
door.  It  was  opened  in  due  season  and  with  great  caution  by 
old  Catherine,  who  evidently  thought  the  hour  ill-chosen  for  a 
new-comer,  and  mistrusted  sorely  the  purpose  of  his  visit.  He 
allowed  her  scant  time,  however,  to  threaten  or  expostulate,  but, 
putting  her  gently  on  one  side,  stepped  to  the  inner  room. 
There,  pale  with  anxiety  and  terror,  Mistress  Vane  leant  forward 
in  her  chair,  while  Cicely,  half-frightened,  half-defiant,  grasped 
her  mother's  skirt.  Before  the  fire  stood  Annis,  her  blue  eyes 
shining  like  stars,  a  round  red  spot  burning  feverishly  in  each 
cheek,  her  lace  ruff  rising  and  falling  distressfully  with  the  heav- 
ing bosom  within.  The  mandolin  had  fallen  from  her  hands ; 
the  ruddy  firelight  lit  up  her  slight  figure  and  fair,  disordered 
curls.  She  stood  thus  for  a  moment,  swaying  breathless  be 


1 886.]  A  STILL  CHRISTMAS.  441 

tvvixt  hope  and  fear,  then,  with  a  low,  joyous  cry,  sprang  forward 
into  her  lover's  arms.  . 

Welcome  now  the  good  cheer  of  Christmas  night !  Welcome 
the  Christmas-pie,  the  pasty  of  venison,  the  pudding  stuffed  with 
plums,  and  the  flagon  of  old  wine.  Love  is  a  brave  appetizer 
when  backed  by  long  fasting  and  a  ten  hours'  ride,  and  Captain 
Breton  brought  all  the  vigor  of  youth  and  happiness  and  of  a 
noble  hunger  to  bear  upon  the  viands.  The  glow  of  the  cheer- 
ful  room  was  infinitely  comforting  to  the  tired  traveller;  the  sight 
of  Annis*  happy  face  put  fresh  hope  and  courage  in  his  heart. 
He  had  much  to  tell  of  the  gay  court  of  France,  and  of  the  royal 
exile,  who  should  one  day,  God  willing,  sit  on  his  father's  throne. 
Nor  were  there  lacking  adventures  and  dangers  of  his  own  to 
give  flavor  to  the  narrative,  nor  plans  for  the  future,  colored  with 
all  the  happy  confidence  of  youth.  He  had  come  home  to  win 
his  bride,  and  to  carry  her  away  to  brighter  scenes  until  this 
soured  and  gloomy  England  should  be  merr.ie  England  once  more. 
"  He  who  would  keep  a  light  heart  within  London  walls,"  said 
he,  "  must  needs  be  very  sure  of  heaven,  as  are  Master  Prynne 
and  Master  Philip  Stubbes,  or  very  much  in  love,  as  am  I.  It 
lacks  but  a  covered  cart  and  a  bell  in  every  street  to  make  one 
feel  the  Black  Death  is  upon  us.  If  you  can  laugh  in  such  an  at- 
mosphere of  melancholy,  Annis,  what  will  you  do  in  France  ?  " 

"  Mayhap  if  I  laugh  enough  in  sober  London  I  shall  grow  too 
giddy  and  forward  in  foolish  France,"  returned  Annis  gaily ; 
"  unless—" 

"  Unless  what,  dear  heart  ?  " 

"  Unless  while  I  am  safe  in  Paris  you  are  fighting  the  battles 
of  the  king  in  England.  Then  tears  will  come  easier  than  laugh- 
ter, as  in  truth  they  have  done  of  late." 

"  Wherever  I  may  be,  your  prayers  will  prove  my  bulwark," 
said  Captain  Breton  confidently.  "  It  would  take  more  than  a 
silver  bullet  to  find  its  way  to  my  heart  while  you  are  besieging 
heaven's  doors  in  the  tumultuous  fashion  that  only  women  can 
attain.  I  bear  a  charmed  life  as  long  as  you  remember  your  pe- 
titions." 

Annis  answered  with  a  look,  and  Cicely,  nestling  by  her  mo- 
ther's chair,  watched  her  sister  with  wide,  serious  eyes.  To  the 
child  standing  on  the  threshold  of  womanhood  the  presence  of 
love  carries  with  it  an  intoxicating  flavor  of  mystery.  It  is 
something  that  fills  her  alike  with  envy  and  a  vague  resentment, 
with  wonder  and  an  indefinable  desire.  Its  commonest  expres- 
sion is  a  perverse  antipathy  to  one  of  the  lovers,  with  an  irra- 


442  A  ~STILL  CHRISTMAS.  [Jan., 

tional  increase  of  affection  for  the  other;  and  in  this  case  Captain 
Breton  came  in  for  his  full  share  ol  Cicely's  smothered  anger  and 
disdain.  He,  meanwhile,  in  happy  unconsciousness,  chancing  to 
meet  the  brown  eyes  lifted  dreamily  to  his  own,  and  noting  the 
upward  curve  of  the  short,  sweet  lip,  thought  within  himself  that 
this  elfish  little  Cicely  was  growing  almost  as  pretty  as  her  sister 
— a  judgment  which  proves  conclusively  the  blindness  of  love  ;  for 
Annis,  though  fair  and  comely  to  look  upon,  carne  no  nearer  to 
her  young  sister's  beauty  than  does  the  pink-tipped  daisy  to  the 
half-opened  rose-bud  uncurling  slowly  in  the  sun.  At  present 
the  girl,  seeing  that  she  was  watched,  turned  away  her  head  pet- 
tishly and  eyed  the  leaping  flames. 

"  Annis  said  to-night  there  was  but  one  thing  lacking  to  her 
Christmas  cheer,"  she  remarked  after  a  pause,  and  with  the  too 
evident  intention  of  saying  something  vexatious. 

"  And  that  was  I  !  "  interposed  the  Cavalier,  with  the  ready 
assurance  of  a  lover. 

"  It  was  not  you  at  all,"  returned  Cicely,  "  but  the  mistletoe. 
We  gathered  the  other  greens  ourselves,  but  there  was  no 
mistletoe  to  be  found  within  or  without  the  gates  of  London." 

"  By  a  happy  chance  we  can  procee'd  as  though  we  had  it," 
said  Captain  Breton  contentedly,  while  Annis  crimsoned  like  a 
rose.  "  It  is  a  welcome  little  plant,  and  carries  a  merry  message ; 
but  if  it  be  banished  in  these  saintly  days  we  obstinate  sinners 
must  kiss  without  its  sanction." 

"  But  the  maid  who  is  not  kissed  on  Christmas  night  beneath 
the  mistletoe  will  never  be  a  wife  during  the  coming  year,"  per- 
sisted Cicely,  who  had  laid  down  her  line  of  attack  and  was  not 
to  be  driven  therefrom. 

"  Now,  will  you  wager  your  ring  or  your  new  ear-drop  on 
that,  little  sister?  "  said  the  captain,  laughing  at  the  threat.  "  Or 
have  you  a  trinket  that  you  value  less  to  risk  in  such  a  cause  ?  " 

Cicely,  deeply  affronted,  puckered  up  her  brow  and  drew 
closer  to  her  mother;  but  Annis,  far  too  happy  to  be  vexed, 
leant  over  and  kissed  the  pouting  lips.  With  her,  joy  meant 
thanksgiving,  and  her  heart  was  singing — singing  the  song  of 
the  angel  of  Judea :  "  In  Excelsis  Gloria!  " 


v^tw  &, 

mJfc- 

1886.]  A  TOUR  mf£fr^Lic  TEUTONIA.  443 


A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA. 

THE  Rhineland,  Bavaria,  Austria,  and  German  Switzerland 
are,  of  all  countries  peopled  by  Teutonic  races,  the  most  full  of 
interest  for  the  Catholic  traveller.  In  Germany  and  Switzerland 
he  may  witness  inspiriting  results  due  to  the  Kulturkampf  perse- 
cution, while  in  Austria  he  may  contemplate  unique  examples  of 
the  survival  to  our  own  day  of  religious  institutions  which  were 
already  flourishing  at  a  time  when  Gothic  cathedrals  and  bare- 
footed friars  lay  undreamed  of  in  the  womb  of  a  remote  future. 

On  the  great  grouse  festival  of  the  present  year  (August  12, 
1885)  we  started  from  London  to  visit  places  which  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century  we  had  desired  to  see,  but  which  recent  political  and 
religious  struggles  and  the  dangers  of  future  revolutionary  legis- 
lation had  made  yet  more  interesting  and  desirable  to  visit. 

Rapidly  passing  by  Brussels,  Koln,  and  Mainz,  our  first  halt 
was  made  at  the  capital  and  seat  of  the  venerable  and  renowned 
ptrince-bishopric  of  Wiirzburg. 

After  leaving  Mainz  the  line,  passing  by  Darmstadt,  traverses 
a  flat  and  uninteresting  country  (only  the  hills  north  of  the  Main 
being  visible  in  the  distance)  till  Aschaffenburg  is  approached, 
when  it  becomes  undulating  and  woody,  and  then  the  road  makes 
a  steep  ascent  amidst  fir-clad  mountains — relics  of  the  great  Hyr- 
canian  forest  described  by  Julius  Cassar.  Towards  the  summit 
is  a  long  tunnel  (which  even  first-class  passengers  have  to  tra- 
verse in  darkness),  and  then  begins  a  rapid  descent,  first  by  the 
river  Lohr  and  then  the  Main,  to  Wiirzburg,  which  was  reached 
at  2.34  P.M.,  Koln  having  been  left  at  6.5  A.M.  As  the  city  is  ap- 
proached the  traveller  is  struck  by  the  enormous  quantity  of 
vineyards  on  every  side,  and  which  gives  to  the  surrounding 
hills,  when  viewed  from  the  city,  the  appearance  of  having  been 
clothed  with  some  textile  fabric  covered  all  over  with  gigantic 
but  admirably-executed  "darning."  The  low  grounds  about  are 
occupied  largely  with  the  famed  Bavarian  hops,  not  growing  on 
poles  only,  as  in  England,  but  also  extending  horizontally  round 
small  cords  attached  to  the  summits  of  their  supports. 

The  view  of  the  old  episcopal  city,  with  its  many  spires  and 
towers,  is  picturesque  and  attractive,  and  on  entering  within  its 
bright  and  clean  appearance  confirms  the  good  impression  pro- 
duced by  its  external  aspect.  We  went  to  the  Kronprinz  Hotel, 


444  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

admirably  situated  opposite  the  Residenz,  or  palace  of  the  prince- 
bishops.  For  a  room  on  the  first  floor,  facing  south  and  looking 
into  a  garden  and  towards  part  of  the  Residenz,  the  charge  was 
two  and  a  half  marks.  The  table  d'hote  was  three  marks,  one 
mark  for  a  breakfast  of  coffee  and  bread  and  butter,  and  one-half 
a  mark  a  day  for  attendance. 

The  first  visit  to  be  paid  was,  of  course,  that  to  the  cathedral 
— a  very  ancient  and  originally  Romanesque  structure,  which  yet 
preserves  externally  some  of  its  old  architectural  features,  but 
which  is  entirely  transformed  within  by  elaborate  stucco  addi- 
tions in  the  taste  of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  is  ablaze  with 
gilding.  The  floor  of  the  choir  and  transepts  is  raised  to  a  con- 
siderably higher  level  than  that  of  the  nave.  Prince-bishops 
ruled  in  Wiirzburg  for  more  than  a  thousand  years,  and  their 
monuments,  like  those  of  the  archbishops  of  Mainz,  are  set  against 
the  sides  of  the  pillars  of  the  nave,  save  the  west  side  of  each, 
which  is  occupied  by  an  altar.  As  at  Mainz,  the  successive 
monuments  exhibit  (but  to  not  so  great  a  degree)  the  changing 
taste  of  succeeding  centuries,  but  the  great  majority  consist  of 
erect,  life-size  figures  in  stone  in  high  relief,  vested  for  Mass,  and, 
although  only  bishops,  yet  with  a  pallium-like  ornament  above 
the  neck,  but  bearing  some  inscription  instead  of  the  crosses  of  a 
pallium.  Almost  all  have  a  sword,  symbolical  of  their  temporal 
jurisdiction,  in  their  right  hand,  and  a  crosier  in  their  left.  The 
figure  of  the  earliest  monument,  however,  that  of  A.D.  1190,  has 
no  sword.  That  next  in  date  (1198)  has  a  sword,  but  it  lies 
against  the  bishop's  chasuble  and  is  not  grasped  by  him.  But 
the  next  bishop,  and  each  of  the  long  line  of  bishops  which  fol- 
low till  modern  times,  firmly  grasps  his  temporal  weapon.  The 
figure  of  one  late  prince-bishop  has  much  resemblance  to  Cardi- 
nal Richelieu ;  it  is  supported  by  two  weeping  cherubs,  one  of 
whom  holds  his  ducal-electoral  crown  and  the  other  his  mitre. 
Somewhat  droll,  and  yet  pathetic,  is  the  monument  of  a  bishop 
who  died  in  1780.  He  is  only  represented  by  his  bust,  which, 
however,  instead  of  having  an  appearance  of  passive  repose, 
turns  the  face,  with  a  deprecating  expression,  upwards  to  a 
great  figure  of  Time  who  is  about  to  place  a  cloth  over  it ; 
and  one  cannot  but  pity  the  poor  bishop,  who  has  got  no  arms 
wherewith  to  push  the  obnoxious  cloth  away !  There  are  three 
monuments  to  bishops  since  the  Revolution — one  to  the  bishop 
who  died  at  Rome  during  the  Vatican  Council. 

There  are  also  many  figures  of  canons  (and  a  few  of  bishops 
also)  in  bronze,  in  low  relief,  and  the  cloisters  of  the  cathedral  are 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  445 

rich  in  sepulchral  monuments.  At  present  the  cathedral  is  pro- 
vided with  ten  canons.  Vespers,  however,  are  only  sung  on  Sun- 
days and  great  feasts,  the  office  otherwise  being  recited  in  mono- 
tone. 

The  chancel,  or  choir,  is  separated  off  by  an  iron  screen,  and  a 
rood  (without  the  Mary  and  John)  is  suspended  over  it  from  the 
ceiling.  The  walls  of  the  choir  are  all  white  and  gold.  The 
worldliness  of  the  eighteenth  century  makes  itself  plainly  mani- 
fest in  the  decorations.  Over  two  of  the  altars  are  the  coats  of 
arms  of  prince-bishops,  with  their  crests  on  helmets.  One  has 
seven  helmets,  each  with  a  crest,  save  the  middle  one,  which 
bears  his  mitre.  The  high-altar  itself  has  a  baldacchino,  which 
is  surmounted,  and  almost  crushed,  by  a  gigantic  ducal-electoral 
crown.  Towards  the  west  end  of  the  nave  is  an  ancient  bronze 
font  very  well  deserving  careful  inspection. 

Next  in  interest  to  the  episcopal  church,  as  left  us  by  its 
prince-bishops,  is  their  own  former  stately  palace.  The  existing 
bishops  inhabit  a  modest  house  near  the  east  end  of  the  cathe- 
dral. Their  princely  predecessors  inhabited  a  "  Residenz  "  which 
is  a  miniature  Versailles.  Most  magnificent  is  its  entrance-hall, 
into  which  carriages  can  drive  and  set  down  at  the  foot  of  a  truly 
regal  staircase.  Its  painted  ceiling  represents  one  of  the  prince- 
bishops — that  is,  his  portrait  in  a  frame — with  wig  and  bands, 
being  carried  upwards  to  Apollo  enthroned  aloft.  Some  of  the 
bishops'  rooms  are  said  to  retain  their  ancient  furniture,  and  one 
is  entirely,  lined  with  looking-glass,  in  part  painted  over  with 
flowers  and  birds.  The  portraits  of  most  of  the  bishops  are  very 
dignified,  and  several  are  represented  habited  in  a  black  cassock 
with  a  royal  mantle,  lined  with  ermine,  over  it.  The  rest  of  the 
rooms  are  furnished  in  the  style  of  the  first  Napoleon.  Gardens, 
partly  in  the  French  and  partly  in  the  English  style,  adjoin  the 
palace,  ornamented  with  mythological  statues  in  the  taste  of  the 
eighteenth  century.  They  are  now  open  to  the  public,  and  a 
military  band  plays  there  several  times  a  week. 

Wiirzburg  has  not  been  so  long  under  the  sway  of  its  prince- 
bishops  in  vain.  It  is  a  very  Catholic  city — as  much  so  as 
Munich,  or  even  more  so.  There  are  Madonnas  and  statues  of 
St.  John  Nepomuk  outside  the  houses  at  every  turn,  and  they  are 
all  in  good  condition  and  seem  well  looked  after.  The  city  con- 
tains Capuchins,  Conventual  Franciscans,  Carmelites,  and  Augus- 
tinians.  The  last-named  make  use  of  the  ancient  Dominican 
church  and  monastery,  but  the  Conventual  Fathers,  of  whom 
there  are  about  a  dozen,  inhabit  a  house  which  has  been  theirs, 


446  A   TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

though  rebuilt,  since  the  days  of  St.  Francis  himself.  Their  old 
Gothic  church  has  been  of  late  rather  well  restored  and  deco- 
rated. The  interior  of  the  Carmelite  church  is  repulsive  from 
the  dolls  in  glass  cases  and  other  analogous  objects  of  a  degraded 
taste.  A  church  close  beside  the  cathedral  has  a  very  interesting 
crypt,  in  daily  use,  in  which  St.  Kilian  is  said  to  be  buried. 
Most  of  the  churches  are  overloaded  with  gilding,  applied  in 
large  masses,  and  some  are  quite  dazzling.  The  most  interesting 
and  beautiful  is  the  Marienkapelle,  in  the  market-place.  It  is 
an  elegant  mediaeval  structure  of  the  last  pointed  style.  It  has  a 
beautiful  spire  of  stone  tracery,  and  a  curious  open-work  stair- 
turret  is  placed  externally  at  the  angle  between  the  chancel  and 
the  nave,  on  the  south  side.  Within  the  tall  pillars  have  no  capi- 
tals, but  are  surrounded  by  images  of  saints  a  little  below  the 
position  where  capitals  would  ordinarily  be  placed.  The  chancel 
is  separated  from  the  nave  by  an  open  iron  screen,  above  which  a 
rood  is  suspended. 

The  city  is  surrounded  by  pleasant  garden-walks  in  the  place 
of  fortifications.  The  handsome  stone  bridge  which  spans  the 
Main  supports  a  dozen  stone  effigies  larger  than  life.  They 
mostly  represent  saints,  of  which  one  is  St.  Frederick,  and  an- 
other, of  course,  St.  John  Nepomuk. 

An  immense  mass  of  building,  which  was  formerly  the  semi- 
.nary  and  the  Jesuits'  establishment,  is  now  the  university  and 
library.  Science  is  well  represented  at  Wiirzburg,  which  enjoys 
the  advantage  of  professors  no  less  eminent  than  Kolliker, 
Semper,  and  Sachs. 

On  the  morning  of  the  feast  of  the  Assumption  we  hastened 
to  the  Marienkapelle,  where,  we  were  told,  the  bishop  would  sing 
High  Mass  at  eight  o'clock.  We  found  it  but  three  parts  filled, 
there  being  still  vacant  places  on  the  comfortable  benches.  Here, 
as  in  the  other  churches,  they  had  both  backs  and  kneeling-boards 
— a  long  spittoon,  filled  with  sawdust,  extending  in  every  case  in 
front  of  the  kneeling-board  for  its  whole  length  !  Punctually  the 
bishop  arrived  and  the  church  became  crowded.  He  is  a  strong, 
rather  young-looking  man,  with  a  typical  German  countenance. 
Only  a  single  priest  descended  to  the  door  to  receive  him,  and 
the  Mass  turned  out  to  be  merely  a  low  one,  said  by  the  bishop 
and  accompanied  by  congregational  singing  in  German. 

The  cathedral  High  Mass  was  at  nine  o'clock.  There  was  an 
assistant  priest  in  cope,  as  well  as  deacon  and  subdeacon.  Five 
canons  assisted  in  the  stalls,  but  no  minor  ecclesiastics,  so  that 
the  great  choir  had  a  very  deserted  appearance.  The  singing 


1 886.]  A   TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  447 

took  place  in  a  gallery  on  the  east  side  of  the  north  transept,  and 
women  bore  part  in  it.  The  rite  was  purely  Roman,  save  that 
the  deacon  sang-  the  Gospel  from  a  lectern  placed  medianly, 
standing  with  his  back  to  the  congregation.  The  latter  filled  all 
the  benches  of  the  nave,  but  plenty  of  standing-room  was  unoccu- 
pied. A  Missa  cantata,  with  good  music,  was  sung  at  the  chapel 
of  the  Residenz  at  half-past  ten. 

The  road  from  Wiirzburg  to  Nuremberg  is  uninteresting,  and 
the  traveller  will  do  well  to  make  use  of  the  evening  for  that 
journey.  It  is  true  that  at  Kitzingen,  which  is  much  elevated,  a 
good  view  may  be  obtained  of  the  windings  of  the  Main,  and 
there  is  a  considerable  amount  of  forest ;  but  it  is  all  pine,  and 
therefore  monotonous,  and  the  trees  are  almost  all  slender  and 
insignificant.  Nuremberg  has  a  bad  sanitary  reputation,  and  is 
said  to  contain  almost  as  many  cesspools  as  houses.  The  careful 
traveller  may,  then,  follow  our  example  and  put  up  at  the  Wiirtem- 
berger  Hof,  close  to  the  railway  station  and  just  outside  the  city 
walls.  But  Nuremberg  has  also  a  great  reputation  as  an  old 
mediaeval  city  surviving  all  but  unchanged ;  and  it  is  true  that 
this  is  deserved  with  respect  to  certain  buildings — notably  St. 
Lawrence's  Church,  and  fragments  of  the  old  city  walls,  and  towers 
with  high  roofs  covered  with  red  tiles.  Nevertheless  Nurem- 
berg, as  a  whole,  is  now  so  modernized  as  to  be  disappointing  to 
the  lover  of  old  ways.  Its  wide,  newly-built  suburbs  quite  over- 
power the  old  central  core  of  the  city,  and  even  the  latter  is  now 
much  modified.  Its  modernization  was  especially  marked  at  the 
period  of  our  visit.  A  great  universal  exhibition  of  medals 
(which  had  filled  all  the  inns)  was  being  held  every  day,  while 
every  evening  a  concert  took  place  in  its  adjoining  gardens, 
illuminated  by  the  electric  light.  On  listening  beneath  that  light 
to  airs  of  Meyerbeer  and  Wagner,  within  view  of  some  of  the  old 
city's  towers  and  spires,  one  could  not  but  be  impressed  with  a 
sense  of  the  mutability  of  human  life,  and  feel  that  mediaeval  times 
were  indeed  distant  from  us.  But  while  thinking  on  the  changes 
with  a  certain  sadness,  supported  by  the  phenomena  around,  the 
moon  suddenly  emerged  from  a  cloud  and  shone  brilliantly  over 
the  whole  scene.  Immediately  the  conditions  and  events  which 
before  seemed  so  remote  became  but  matters  of  yesterday  ;  for 
what  was  the  oldest  antiquity  of  mediaeval  times  compared  to  the 
abyss  of  the  ages  which  have  elapsed  since  that  luminous  but 
dead  and  drear  satellite  was  a  living  world  with  its  winds  and 
waves,  and  probably  an  abode  of  life  ? 

Sunday  was  our  only  day  for  visiting  the  sights  of  the  city, 


448  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

and  any  traveller  so  circumstanced  should  know  that  the  beauti- 
ful old  churches  of  St.  Lawrence  and  St.  Sebald  cannot  be  seen 
after  nine  o'clock  till  their  Protestant  service  is  over.  The  for- 
mer church  is  more  interesting  than  words  can  express,  and  it  is 
well  worth  a  journey  from  London  to  Nuremberg  to  see  it  alone. 
It  is  a  most  wonderful  instance  of  "survival" — a  mediaeval 
Catholic  church  perfectly  preserved  in  its  primitive  state,  as  it 
were  fossilized ! 

The  crosses  and  candlesticks,  and  even  the  cloths,  remain 
upon  all  the  altars,  as  do  all  the  images  in  their  niches,  with  their 
lamps  before  them.  The  rood  is  most  beautiful,  and  the  curious, 
more  than  life  size,  hanging  figure  of  the  Annunciation  is,  we 
believe,  umque.  But  these  and  the  wonderful  sacraments-house 
are  described  in  all  the  guide-books.  There  is  a  little  renaissance 
work,  showing  the  last  efforts  of  Catholic  zeal  before  the  Reforma- 
tion movement,  so  blighting  to  religion,  but  so  fortunate  so  far  as 
concerns  the  preservation  unchanged  of  these  Nuremberg  fossils. 
St.  Sebald's  Church  has  a  nave  of  very  early  pointed  architec- 
ture, interesting  from  having  a  western  apse  and  altar.  The 
well-known  and  beautiful  shrine  of  St.  Sebald,  where  his  relics 
still  repose,  had  all  its  candles  lighted  during  the  Protestant  ser- 
vice. This  very  surprising  phenomenon  (and  perhaps  also  that 
of  the  many  candles  alight  on  the  altar)  was  explained  to  us  as  a 
practice  due  to  its  being  a  legal  condition  for  the  holding  of  cer- 
tain property.  It  is  not  probable,  however,  that  it  is  any  such 
condition  which  causes  the  Madonnas  of  the  street-corners  to 
be  still  preserved  unmutilated  and  even  bearing  their  ancient 
crowns. 

The  principal  Catholic  church — the  Frauenkirche — is  in  an 
admirable  state  of  repair  and  decoration,  the  whole  of  the  latter 
being  in  correct  mediaeval  taste.  There  is  a  rood-screen  of 
open  metal-work,  apparently  new,  above  which  the  rood  is  sus- 
pended. The  whole  nave  is  of  one  height,  that  of  the  aisle  being 
as  high  as  the  central  portion.  The  sermon  preceded  the  Missa 
cantata  and  lasted  the  best  part  of  an  hour,  the  church  being 
crammed  to  the  very  doors.  Another  smaller  Catholic  church, 
recently  acquired,  we  believe  (near  the  gate  leading  to  the  rail- 
way station),  is  in  the  early  pointed  style  and  remarkable  for  the 
small  size  of  the  apse,  which  projects  out  from  the  extensive 
eastern  wall.  Very  devout  and  edifying  was  the  congregation 
assembled  within  it  for  afternoon  service — prayers,  rosary,  and 
benediction  all  said  and  sung  by  the  congregation  in  German. 

A  very  beautiful  mediaeval  fountain,  with  images  of  saints, 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  449 

stands  near  St.  Sebald's  Church  ;  but  another  mediaeval  one  near 
the  Frauenkirche  is  very  singular.  Various  small  female  figures 
are  placed  round  its  central  stem,  and  a  tiny  stream  of  water  issues 
from  either  breast  of  each  figure.  The  cemetery  is  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  in  Germany,  and  is  crowded  with  monuments 
and  plain  tombstones,  all  we  noticed  bearing  inscriptions  touch- 
ing from  their  simplicity  and  the  absence  of  all  exaggeration. 
Except  the  Jews,  people  of  all  religions  or  of  no  religion  are 
buried  side  by  side,  no  portion  being  separated  off  for  any  creed. 

The  old  castle  of  Nuremberg  deserves  a  visit,  if  only  for  the 
sake  of  its  two  superimposed  chapels,  which  are  very  interesting 
architecturally,  and  so  ancient  that  the  more  modern  one  is  said 
to  have  been  built  by  Frederick  Barbarossa.  A  magnificent 
view  of  the  city  and  surrounding  country  will  also  repay  the 
visitor,  who  can,  if  he  pleases,  drive  all  the  way  up  in  a  carriage. 
In  an  adjacent  tower  are  shown  the  various  instruments  of  tor- 
ture used  here  till  the  year  1780.  They  are  so  well  known  as  to 
dispense  us  from  the  task  of  their  description — the  rack,  the  back, 
tearing  ladder,  the  spiked  seat,  the  Spanish  ass,  Spiteful  Bess, 
etc.,  etc.  There  are  also  engravings  illustrating  their  use  and 
many  other  horrors  besides.  In  another  chamber  is  the  well- 
known  "  iron  virgin/'  standing  over  the  "  oubliette  "  in  the  mid- 
die  of  the  room,  in  which  the  person  sentenced  to  die  by  her  had 
to  sleep  (or  try  to  sleep)  the  last  night  of  life  in  a  sort  of  wooden 
crib.  The  last  person  thus  done  to  death  by  the  Eisenerjung- 
frau's  internal  daggers  was  a  lady  of  Nuremberg,  executed  in 
1787  for  the  murder  of  her  child. 

It  should  always  be  recollected  that  if  these  revolting  prac- 
tices existed  during  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries  at 
Nuremberg,  they  so  existed  at  a  time  when  no  Catholic  was  al- 
lowed to  live  within  the  city's  walls,  as  also  that  the  vile  machines 
are  all /^/-mediaeval  in  date. 

The  journey  to  Regensburg  (Ratisbon)  is  best  made  at  night, 
as  it  can  then  be  made  in  two  hours  instead  of  in  six.  Bidding 
adieu  at  eleven  to  our  hotel,  which  was  no  dearer  than  that  of 
Wiirzburg,  we  got  to  our  quarters  at  the  Griiner  Kranz  (the 
green  garland)  in  Regensburg  soon  after  one  o'clock  in  the 
morning.  Its  charges  were  somewhat  cheaper  still,  and  it  is 
conveniently  situated  in  a  central  position  ;  but  here,  as  at  Nurem- 
berg, the  table  d'hote  is  at  half-past  twelve. 

Our  first  visit  next  morning  was,  of  course,  to  the  cathedral, 
and  we  greatly  regretted  being  one  day  too  late  to  hear  the  cele- 
brated chant.     Very  striking  is  the  magnificent  Gothic  church's 
VOL.  XLII.— 29 


45o  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

elaborate  west  front,  with  its  two  noble  towers  and  spires,  a 
landmark  on  all  sides  for  many  miles  around,  and  which  have 
been  completed  but  fifteen  years.  The  cathedral  was,  we  be- 
lieve, once  full  of  rococo  altars  and  ornaments,  as  is  that  of  Wiirz- 
burg  now ;  but  they  were  removed  by  King  Ludwig  of  Bavaria, 
who  did  much  to  restore  the  church.  Each  aisle  ends  eastwards 
in  an  apse  and  altar,  but  there  are  four  altars  against  the  side- 
walls  of  the  nave  (two  on  either  side)  which  are  very  puzzling. 
Each  is  surmounted  by  a  Gothic  baldacchino  supported  on  foui 
columns,  and  each  is  entirely  mediaeval  in  style  and  appears  to  be 
really  ancient  and  unchanged.  Nevertheless  the  altars  do  not 
stand  east  and  west  (as  do  all  the  other  mediaeval  altars  we  know), 
but  are  so  placed  that  the  celebrant  faces  north  in  those  on  the 
gospel  side  of  the  nave,  and  south  in  those  of  its  epistle  side. 
It  would  be  very  interesting  to  know  for  certain  whether  or  not 
they  have  been  changed  in  position.  We  were  shown  in  the 
treasury  a  number  of  relics*  and  precious  articles,  amongst 
them  a  large  chasuble  said  to  have  been  worn  by  St.  Wolfgang, 
and  a  peculiar  vestment,  called  a  "  rationale  "  (in  shape  like  a  very 
short  French  dalmatic  without  the  shoulder-flaps),  which  had 
been  sent  by  the  pope  to  certain  of  the  bishops  of  Regensburg. 
We  were  told  that  only  the  bishops  of  ten  bishoprics  had  ever 
received  it,  whereof  the  bishop  of  Paderborn  was  one.  It  was 
worn  over  the  chasuble. 

The  two  very  ancient  and  very  small  churches  attached  to 
the  cloisters  must  on  no  account  be  left  unvisited  by  any  lover  of 
old  architecture  or  of  Catholic  antiquity.  They  are  duly  de- 
scribed in  the  guide-books.  Very  noteworthy  are  the  wonder- 
fully rich  inner  mouldings  of  the  windows  of  the  cloister,  with 
figures  and  tracery  in  very  high  relief  and  showing  an  incipient 
renaissance  influence.  There  are  a  good  number  of  sepulchral 
monuments  of  varying  degrees  of  interest  and  curiosity.  One 
has  a  pair  of  Caryatides,  each  with  a  skull  on  the  top  and  four 
transverse  rows  of  breasts  beneath  it.  On  two  other  monuments 
are  the  oddest  priests'  heads.  Each  head  bears  a  berretta  and 
is  placed  at  the  summit  of  a  swan-like  neck  which  comes  out 
through  the  top  of  a  helmet ! 

After  inspecting  the  cathedral  we  eagerly  bent  our  steps  to- 
wards the  river  to  take  our  first  leisurely  view  of,  and  our  first 
walk  beside,  the  Danube,  which  is  here  very  wide  (spanned  by  an 
ancient  bridge),  and  with  islands  where  good  baths  may  be  en- 
joyed. 

*  One  of  these  was  a  skeleton  of  one  of  the  Holy  Innocents. 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  451 

A  pilgrimage  to  the  church  of  St.  James  is  a  matter  of  ob- 
ligation for  every  English-speaking  Catholic,  as  it  was  the  church 
of  Scotch  Benedictines  from  the  eleventh  century  till  within  the 
last  five-and-twenty  years.  It  is  a  solemn,  simple,  and  dignified 
basilica,  built  within  a  century  of  the  abbey's  foundation.  It  is 
well  restored,  and  quaint  and  curious  carving  decorates  its  ex- 
terior on  the  north  side.  It  serves  now  as  the  church  of  the 
bishop's  seminary. 

Last  but  by  no  means  least  amongst  the  ecclesiastical  struc- 
tures of  Regensburg  is  the  vast  and  venerable  abbey  of  St.  Em- 
meran,  now — after  enduring  for  twelve  hundred  years — the 
enormous  palace  of  the  Prince  of  Thurn  and  Taxis.  The  church 
remains  as  it  was  when  the  abbey  was  secularized,  and  is  very 
curious.  Like  the  cathedral  of  Wiirzburg,  it  is  a  very  ancient 
church,  disguised  by  a  mass  of  stucco  and  gilding  applied  in 
the  last  century.  The  monks'  choir  is  much  raised  and  at  the 
west  end— like  some  of  the  Spanish  choirs — and  there  is  an 
altar  at  the  east  end  of  the  raised  part.  This  choir  and  the  part 
of  the  west  end  of  the  church  adjacent  to  it  are  separated 
from  the  rest  of  the  edifice  by  an  ornamental  iron  screen.  The 
church  contains  many  venerable  and  interesting  monuments,  but 
very  strange  was  the  manner  in  which  we  found  treated  the 
relics  of  two  saints.  Each  lay  at  full  length  in  a  glass  case  over 
an  altar.  Bands  of  ornamental  gilt  metal-work  were  twined 
round  all  the  bones  and  a  gilt  palm-branch  placed  in  either  skele- 
ton's right  hand.  The  skull,  in  each  case,  had  a  very  peculiar 
decoration.  Three  large,  elaborate  jewelled  brooches  were  plac- 
ed, one  in  the  hollow  socket  of  eaqh  eye,  and  the  third  within  the 
cavity  where  the  nose  had  been.  Beneath  this  a  curved  band  of 
gold  concealed  the  opening  of  the  mouth,  giving  a  horrible  grin 
to  the  face.  Altogether  it  was  an  odd  and  ghastly  sight. 

After  inspecting  all  these  ancient  and  mouldering  fragments 
of  the  past  of  different  centuries,  our  next  excursion  was  a  most 
dusty  drive  to  the  far-famed,  marble,  modern  Walhalla,  which 
looks  down  from  wooded  heights  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Danube 
six  miles  below  Regensburg.  This  temple  of  Teutonic  fame, 
built  by  King  Ludwig  in  imitation  of  the  Parthenon,  and  of  simi- 
lar size  and  proportions,  save  that  it  is  a  trifle  shorter,  is  inter- 
nally gorgeous  with  its  colored  marbles  and  of  great  interest  for 
its  historic  busts  and  statues.  It  was  well  to  make  this  edifice- 
rather  a  pagan  Walhalla  than  a  Christian  temple,  considering 
who  and  what  were  some  of  its  more  conspicuous  inmates.. 
Thus  Catherine  II.  of  Russia  is  in  the  same  division  of  the  build- 


452  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

ing  as  the  pious  Empress  Maria  Theresa,  while  close  to  the  bust 
of  the  latter  is  that  of  her  enemy,  Frederick  the  Great,  though 
they  have  been  considerately  so  placed  that  they  could  not,  had 
they  vision,  see  one  another  ! 

It  was  not  without  regret  that  we  left  the  venerable  city  of 
Regensburg,  the  general  aspect  of  which  we  thought  quite  as 
interesting  as  that  of  Nuremberg.  In  its  old  Rathhaus  may  be 
seen  the  historic  chamber  where  for  nearly  a  century  and  a  half 
(1663-1806)  the  diets  of  the  empire  were  held.  There  also  may 
be  seen  a  collection  of  instruments  of  torture  and  dungeons 
more  repulsive  than  the  celebrated  ones  of  Venice.  Though 
Regensburg  is  so  Catholic  a  city,  the  images  at  the  street-corners 
are  much  less  numerous  than  those  of  Wiirzburg,  so  full  of 
modern  life,  or  than  the  fossil  ones  of  Nuremberg. 

A  tedious  journey  of  nearly  five  hours  brought  us  to  that 
frontier  town  of  Bavaria  and  Austria — Passau.  For  a  very  long 
time  the  twin  spires  of  Regensburg's  cathedral  visibly  dominated 
the  plains  we  traversed,  and  when  lost  to  view  the  Walhalla 
still  shone  out  as  a  brilliant  white  spot  in  the  dark-green  eastern 
boundary  of  the  Danube,  soon  becoming  the  mountain  boundary 
of  Bohemia.  The  land  on  the  western  side  of  the  rail  is  quite 
uninteresting,  and  the  only  town  worth  notice  that  we  passed 
was  Straubing,  with  its  lofty  church  tower  and  more  remarkable 
towers  of  its  Rathhaus,  surmounted  by  no  less  than  five  pointed 
spires.  In  a  chapel  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Peter's,  which 
stands  outside  the  city's  walls,  is  the  tomb  of  that  unfortunate 
and  virtuous  teterrima  causa  belli,  the  fair  but  humble  maid, 
Agnes  Bernauer,  who  was  thrown  into  the  Danube  in  1436,  by 
order  of  Duke  Ernest  of  Bavaria,  for  having  gained  the  heart 
and  hand  of  his  son  Albert — an  act  which  drove  him  to  rebellion 
and  long  civil  war. 

As  the  railroad  approaches  Passau  it  skirts  the  Danube, 
which  here  appears  surprisingly  small  and  insignificant.  The 
houses  take  on  a  Swiss  character,  with  large,  overhanging  eaves. 
The  long-esteemed  and  well-known  house,  the  Wilder  Mann,  hav- 
ing ceased  to  be  an  inn,  we  went  to  the  Bayerisher  Hof  at 
Passau — a  house  centrally  situated  and  with  charges  similar  to 
those  made  by  the  inn  of  Regensburg,  and  a  table  d'hote  at  half- 
past  twelve. 

The  darkness  of  the  streets  rendered  any  exploration  of 
them  on  the  evening  of  our  arrival  unprofitable,  but  the  sight 
which  daylight  afforded  justified  an  early  rise  for  its  enjoyment, 
Passau  has  a  wonderfully  fine  situation  at  the  junction  of  three 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  453 

rivers — the  great  Inn  (which  has  rolled  here  from  the  Engadine 
through  Innsbruck),  the  relatively  small  Danube,  and  the  tiny  Ilz. 
Its  commanding  position  was  keenly  appreciated  by  the  Old 
World's  conquerors  when  it  became  the  Batava  Castra  of  the 
Romans.  In  mediaeval  times  the  seat  of  a  prince-bishopric 
which  endured  till  the  peace  of  Luneville  (1801),  it  has,  besides  the 
cathedral,  its  stately  Residenz,  which  must,  however,  yield  in 
stateliness  to  that  of  Wiirzburg.  Both  stand  on  a  lofty  eminence 
overlooking  the  Inn,  on  the  opposite  shore  of  which  is  the  pil- 
grimage church  of  "  Maria-hilf,"  on  a  corresponding  eminence. 
Externally  the  late  pointed  choir  of  the  cathedral  gives  a  promi- 
nence which  the  interior  belies,  as  within  it  is  completely  disguis- 
ed with  stucco,  rococo  ornaments.  The  externals  of  Catholicity 
are  not  conspicuous  in  Passau,  and  its  priests  no  longer  wear 
cassocks  in  the  streets,  but  black  coats,  round  hats,  and  ordinary 
trousers,  which  are  Austrian  fashions  adopted  in  this  frontier 
Bavarian  town.  At  three  o'clock  we  started  in  a  comfortable 
steamer  for  Linz,  which  we  reached  before  eight,  after  a  journey 
so  cold  that  it  might  have  been  the  igth  of  November  instead  of 
the  iQth  of  August.  The  hand-packages  (and  such  were  our 
only  luggage)  were  examined — or  supposed  so  to  be,  for  ours 
were  not — by  Austrian  officials  before  embarkation.  The  Dan- 
ube between  Linz  and  Passau  compares,  in  our  opinion,  advan- 
tageously with  the  Rhine.  It  is  true  that  the  Danube's  castles 
are  both  much  less  in  number  and  less  picturesque;  but  what 
it  may  lose  in  this  respect  it  gains  in  wildness  and  natural 
beauty.  The  Rhine,  in  spite  of  its  noble  mountain  boundaries 
and  picturesque  turns,  has  an  artificial  aspect  from  the  multitude 
of  vineyards  which  clothe  its  banks,  and  signs  of  man's  habita- 
tion are  otherwise  evident  at  every  turn.  On  the  Danube  the 
vine  is  absent,  and  its  place  is  taken  by  abundant  forest,  while 
towns  and  villages  are  few  and  distant ;  so  that  the  aspect  of 
this  majestic  river  (swollen  below  Passau  by  the  addition  of  the 
Inn)  is  as  wild,  for  long  stretches  of  its  course,  as  in  the  days 
of  Tacitus,  when  its  lofty,  frowning  left  bank  was  known  as 
the  From  Germanica.  It  winds  in  many  sharp,  serpentine  curves, 
amidst  lofty,  wooded  mountains,  for  a  distance  of  thirty  miles, 
when  it  spreads  out  into  a  wide,  watery  expanse  with  low 
banks  and  many  islands.  Shortly  before  getting  to  Linz,  how- 
ever, the  hills  again  advance  and  close  in  upon  the  river,  so 
that  another  picturesque  defile  is  traversed  before  reaching  the 
last  named  city.  On  its  left  bank  is  the  birthplace  of  the  Em- 
peror  Otho  II.,  and  on  its  right  a  Cistercian  monastery,  relaxed  in 


454  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

discipline,  we  were  told,  and  now  containing  only  some  eight 
monks.  At  Linz  we  went  to  the  very  conveniently-situated  and 
well-appointed  hotel,  the  Erzherzberg  Karl,  close  to  the  steam- 
er's landing-place,  and  from  the  windows  of  which  we  looked  out 
on  a  charming  view  of  the  hills  and  mountains  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river.  Here  we  met  with  higher  charges  and  no  table 
d'hote,  but  we  supped  excellently  well  on  a  piece  of  saddle  of 
roebuck  and  pancakes  (pfankucken),  which  we  found  generally 
so  excellent  in  Germany  and  Austria. 

After  a  good  night's  rest  we  looked  eagerly  out  to  enjoy  the 
charming  view  of  which  we  had  had  but  a  glimpse  in  the  evening 
twilight.  To  our  amazement  we  could  see  simply  nothing.  A 
dense  fog,  as  dense  as  any  of  London  city — though,  of  course,  not 
yellow — made  every  object  invisible  at  six  yards'  distance  from 
our  window.  The  Vienna  steamboat  could  not  start  till  an  hour 
after  its  proper  time,  when  the  mist  began  to  lift  and  slowly  dis- 
sipated itself.  After  looking  in  on  the  church  and  the  small 
cathedral,  both  renaissance  structures  with  rococo  ornaments, 
we  made  our  way  to  where  a  new  cathedral  is  rapidly  rising. 
By  good-fortune  we  overtook  a  priest,  who  with  much  amiability 
entered  into  conversation  and  took  us  into  and  all  about  the  fast- 
rising  structure.  The  lady-chapel,  at  the  east  end  of  the  choir, 
is  finished  and  in  use,  and  the  whole  choir  was  expected  to  be  in 
a  similar  state  by  the  end  of  September.  When  completed  it 
will  be  a  very  fine  Gothic  edifice,  quite  traditional  in  all  its  ar- 
rangements, and  with  the  altars  and  stained  glass  of  its  chapels 
all  in  very  good  taste.  Beneath  the  choir  is  a  fine,  well-lighted 
crypt  intended  for  actual  use.  In  its  midst  is  fitly  buried  the 
worthy  Bishop  Rudiger,  who  began  the  work.  Our  guide,  who 
turned  out  to  be  the  capitular  preacher,  informed  us  that  there 
were  but  seven  canons,  and  that  they  said  office  in  choir  at  nine 
and  at  three,  except  on  Thursdays.  Linz  boasts  a  convent  of 
Capuchins  and  another  of  Carmelites,  but  the  most  famed  reli- 
gious establishments  are  not  within  the  city,  more  or  less  remote 
from  it,  and  it  was  mainly  to  visit  these  that  we  had  come  to 
Linz. 

Accordingly  we  started  at  half-past  twelve,  in  an  open  carriage 
and  pair,  for  the  great  Augustinian  monastery  of  St.  Flonan. 
The  day  was  delightful,  the  carriage  well  stuffed  with  easy 
springs,  and  our  smart,  well-behaved  coachman,  with  his  black 
cockade,  took  our  well-groomed  horses  at  a  spanking  pace  along 
an  excellent  road  ;  and  it  was  with  no  small  degree  of  pleasurable 
excitement  that  we  found  ourselves  at  last  so  near  the  accom- 


1 886.]  A  TOUR  iw  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  455 

plishment  of  a  journey  we  had  longed  to  take  since  boyhood's 
days,  when  in  the  paternal  library  we  had  read  the  interesting 
account  given  by  Dr.  Dibdin,  the  bibliographer,  of  his  visit  to 
the  same  place  in  the  year  1818. 

The  road  at  first  for  a  considerable  distance  skirts  the  railway 
to  Vienna.  It  then  diverges  southward,  and,  ascending  between 
some  hills,  traverses  an  extremely  pretty  wood,  which  reminded 
us  more  of  our  English  woodlands  than  anything  we  had  seen 
since  we  had  left  our  own  shores.  Though  the  season  was  ad- 
vanced, there  was  no  scarcity  of  wild-flowers.  Conspicuous  be- 
yond all  others  were  the  brilliant  spots  of  color,  amidst  the  green- 
ery around,  due  to  the  multitudinous  flowers  of  Melampyrum 
nemorosum.  The  pendent  (true)  flowers  were  of  a  very  brilliant 
yellow,  made  the  more  conspicuous  by  the  crown  of  brightest 
blue-violet  bracts  (or  false  flowers)  at  the  summit  of  every  stem. 
Nowhere  during  our  wanderings  did  these  flowers  gladden  our 
eyes  save  in  this  welcome  wood  on  the  road  to  St.  Florian. 

After  less  than  two  hours'  drive  two  distant  towers  and  cupo- 
las began  to  appear  over  distant  woods  which  bounded  our  view 
westwards.  These  were  the  western  towers  of  the  monastic 
church,  and  soon  the  huge,  palace  like  edifice  itself  appeared  in 
view.  Like  the  other  monasteries  I  subsequently  visited,  St. 
Florian  has  lost  all  traces  of  its  mediaeval  structure.  It  was  en- 
tirely rebuilt  in  the  last  century. 

We  drove  through  the  outer  quadrangle,  and,  ringing  at  an 
inner  gateway,  gave  in  our  letters  of  introduction  (from  the 
bishop  of  Newport  and  Menevia  and  the  abbot  of  Buckfast),  and 
were  at  once  admitted.  The  Herr  Prelat,  or  abbot,  was  then  at 
Vespers,  and  we  were  introduced  into  the  interior  of  the  abbey 
church — a  very  handsome  building  of  its  kind,  rich  with  many 
marbles,  deftly  inlaid,  and  costly  woods  and  copious  gilding. 
The  nave  was  filled  with  handsome  and  commodious  pews  with 
doors,  but  without  spittoons — items  of  church  furniture  which 
we  left  behind  us  in  entering  Austria  from  Germany.  Vespers 
were  being  recited  in  monotone  by  fifteen  religious,  who  occu- 
pied the  stalls  and  wore  short  surplices  over  their  cassocks. 
When  Compline  was  finished  we  were  invited  into  the  abbot's 
presence — a  tall  man  of  pleasing  aspect  and  about  sixty  years  of 
age,  whose  manner  was  a  happy  mixture  of  benevolent  courtesy 
and  dignity.  These  Austrian  abbots  may  well  be  dignified,  for 
they  are  really  lord-abbots,  possessing  still  their  ancient  terri- 
torial possession,  and  neither  disestablished  nor  disendowed. 
They  may  well  serve  to  give  us  a  notion  of  what  some  of  our  old 


456  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Jan., 

English  monasteries  might  now  have  been  had  there  been  no 
change  of  religion  in  Britain,  and  had  Glastonbury  and  St. 
Edmunds  remained  side  by  side  with  the  still  surviving  hospitals 
of  St.  Cross  and  the  various  diocesan  properties.  He,  in  com- 
mon with  the  other  monks,  was  habited  in  a  black  cloth  cas- 
sock, over  which  was  suspended,  both  in  front  and  behind,  a 
long,  narrow  strip  of  linen,  the  two  strips  being  connected  by  a 
narrow  tape  round  the  neck.  This  singular  ornament  appears  to 
be  a  case  of  ecclesiastical  survival  in  garments,  and  to  be  a  rudi- 
mentary structure  representing  a  white  scapular  of  the  normal 
kind.  The  abbot  unfortunately  spoke  neither  French  nor  Eng- 
lish, so  that  we  were  reduced  to  converse  in  our  very  imperfect 
German.  We  accompanied  him  to  the  abbatial  apartments,  and 
waited  in  a  very  handsomely  furnished  drawing-room  while  he 
retired  to  read  our  introductory  missives.  He  then  conducted 
us  to  the  library,  where  the  venerable  librarian,  Father  Albin 
Axeray,  showed  us  some  of  the  most  interesting  works  out  of  a 
collection  of  no  less  than  fifty  thousand  volumes.  Amongst  them 
we  were  greatly  interested  to  behold  the  three  volumes  of  Dib- 
din's  bibliographical  tour,  sent  by  the  author  as  an  act  of  cour- 
tesy to  his  monastic  hosts. 

The  monks'  refectory  is  a  noble  room,  and  there  is  a  gallery 
of  pictures  of  moderate  value.  The  abbey  gardens  and  conser- 
vatory are  thrown  open  to  visitors  on  all  days  except  great 
feasts.  The  royal  apartments  are  extremely  handsome,  but  very 
rarely  used.  Fourteen  years  ago,  however,  the  Emperor  Francis 
Joseph  paid  a  visit  and  occupied  them  for  a  short  time. 

By  the  great  kindness  of  the  abbot  a  special  performance  took 
place  on  the  magnificent  organ  of  the  church.  There  are  three 
hundred  pipes,  which  look  as  if  of  burnished  silver,  and  it  has 
more  stops  than  has  any  other  organ  in  Austria.  We  sat  in  the 
stalls  with  the  kind  abbot  and  librarian,  and  enjoyed  for  nearly 
half  an  hour  a  high  musical  treat,  during  which  the  delicacy  and 
sweetness  as  well  as  the  prodigious  power  of  the  instrument  were 
well  displayed.  Lastly  we  descended  to  the  crypt  beneath  the 
church,  wherein  the  bodies  of  past  abbots  up  to  the  very  last 
lie  above  ground,  enclosed  in  bronze  sarcophagi,  as  also  those  of 
a  few  benefactors  of  the  abbey.  These  are  disposed  around  the 
central  space,  which  is  devoted  to  the  sepulchres  of  the  simple 
monks,  their  coffins  enclosed  in  recesses  (much  as  in  the  cata- 
combs of  Kensal  Green  Cemetery),  each  closed  by  a  stone  in- 
scribed with  the  name  and  date  of  the  death  of  him  whose  body 
lies  within  it. 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  457 

Ascending  to  the  upper  air,  we  took  our  leave  of  the  cour- 
teous Herr  Prelat,  Ferdinand  Moser  Profst  der  reg.  Chorhaus- 
tifter  St.  Fiorian,  who  committed  us  to  the  librarian's  care,  that 
we  might  see  the  abbey  farm.  The  monastery,  to  which  be- 
long ninety  monks,  has  the  right  of  presentation  to  no  less  than 
thirty-three  livings.  These  are  served  by  religious  sent  out  from 
the  house,  which,  of  course,  much  reduces  the  number  of  its 
actual  inmates.  Such  incumbents  are  liable  to  recall  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  can  themselves  generally  obtain  a  recall  should  they 
greatly  desire  it.  The  abbey  lands  are  farmed  by  the  monks 
themselves  by  means  of  hired  labor,  and  are  not  let  out  on  lease 
or  by  the  year  to  tenants.  The  farm  buildings  are  very  spacious 
and  in  excellent  condition.  Within  them  were  no  less  than 
sixty-seven  cows  in  their  stalls  and  twenty-six  horses.  In  another 
building  were  no  less  than  forty-eight  pens  for  pigs,  and  some 
were  shown  us  recently  imported  from  England.  The  abbot, 
as  becomes  a  wealthy  prelate,  has  his  own  carriage  and  horses. 

The  existing  superior  has  held  his  office  fourteen  years.  At 
the  death  of  an  abbot  his  superior  is  freely  elected  for  life  by  the 
community,  and  neither  the  government,  the  bishop,  nor  the 
pope  can  interfere  with  the  election  further  than  the  circum- 
stance that  the  government  has  the  right  to  veto  the  election  of 
a  monk  to  whom  it  has  any  great  objection — a  right  which,  we 
were  assured,  has  been  very  rarely  exercised. 

The  community  is  a  most  ancient  one,  having  a  few  years  ago 
celebrated  the  thousandth  anniversary  of  its  foundation.  Al- 
though not  practising  any  remarkable  austerities,  this  institution 
of  canons  regular  of  St.  Augustine  is  in  a  very  flourishing  con- 
dition and  enjoys  a  considerable  reputation  for  learning,  on 
which  account  it  is  called  upon  to  supply  not  a  few  seminaries, 
colleges,  and  schools  with  professors — an  office  readily  undertaken, 
and  is  one  of  the  main  ends  of  the  institute  as  at  present  existing. 
We  bid  adieu  with  regret  to  the  very  kind  father-librarian — a 
venerable  man,  who  had  passed  forty-three  years  of  his  life  in 
religion. 

Our  horses  carried  us  back  very  rapidly  to  Linz,  to  our  great 
contentment,  as  very  threatening  clouds  began  to  appear  on  the 
horizon  and  rapidly  approached.  We  were  safely  housed  and 
occupied  in  noting  down  with  much  contentment  the  events  of 
the  day,  when  we  were  suddenly  half-blinded  with  light  and 
stunned  by  a  deafening  peal  of  thunder.  The  storm  before  an- 
ticipated had  broken  quite  suddenly  over  the  city.  The  rever- 
beration of  the  thunder-peals  amongst  the  mountains  was  most 


458  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan., 

impressive,  and  flash  after  flash  lighted  up  the  landscape  with  a 
most  weird  brilliancy.  Soon  torrents  of  rain  descended,  and  the 
storm  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  leaving  us  not  with- 
out the  hope  of  being  able  to  pay  on  the  morrow  the  much-an- 
ticipated visit  to  the  great  Benedictine  monastery  of  Chrems- 
minster. 


A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT. 

A  BRIGHT  morning  in  the  December  of  1884.  A  bright  break- 
fast-room in  No.  —  Fifth  Avenue,  New  York.  The  fire  sparkles  ; 
the  brasses  around  it  glitter.  The  napery  is  whiter  than  the 
snow  outside.  Each  plate,  each  cup  has  hold  of  a  dancing  sun- 
beam, while  the  silver  cover-dishes,  and  the  knives  and  forks  and 
spoons,  are  dazzling  to  gaze  upon. 

A  trim  little  maid,  whose  cap  would  make  a  fortune  for  a  stage 
soubrette,  noiselessly  enters,  bearing  a  telegraphic  despatch  upon 
a  salver : 

"  If  not  detained  at  Quarantine  the  SS.  Aurania  'will  arrive  at 
her  dock,  Pier  No.  19,  North  River,  at  11  A.M. 

"  MANAGER  MARINE  DEPARTMENT." 

This  telegram  is  hurriedly  opened  and  rapidly  read  by  a  very 
plump,  pink-faced  little  lady  in  the  fifties,  who,  during  its  perusal, 
holds  a  gold  eye-glass  to  one  eye  in  a  fat,  white,  dimpled  hand. 

"  The  Aurania  is  in." 

"  She  arrives  on  the  anniversary  of — " 

"  Bother  your  anniversaries,  George  W. !  "  explodes  the  little 
lady. 

"  I  repeat,  madam,  that  she  arrives  on  the  anniversary  of  the 
crossing  of  the  Delaware  by  our  immortal  Washington."  And  a 
dapper  little  gentleman,  a  double  pink,  bald,  stomachy,  and  shiny, 
rises  from  the  breakfast-table,  and,  turning  his  back  to  the  mu- 
sically sputtering  logs,  and  his  coat-tails  over  his  arms,  stands  in 
a  Bluff  King  Hal  attitude,  as  he  vainly  endeavors  to  get  up  a 
frown  for  the  annihilation  of  his  better-half — for  in  this  happy  re- 
lationship does  the  rosy  little  lady  stand  to  him. 

This  oleaginous  little  man  is  George  Washington  Trubsome, 


1 886.]        A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  459 

known  all  over  the  length  and  breadth  of  this  vast  continent  as 
the  most  uncompromising  of  Americans,  and  whose  animosity  to 
Great  Britain  and  Great  Britainers  is  as  rampant  to-day  as  ever 
was  that  of  his  grandfather,  Ichabod  Trubsome,  who  handled  a 
particularly  troublesome  musket  "  on  that  day  at  Bunker  Hill." 

Every  notable  event  in  the  chain  that  led  up  to  the  evacua- 
tion of  New  York  by  the  redcoats  finds  an  abiding-place  in  Mr. 
Trubsome's  heart,  and  all  the  anniversaries  are  celebrated  with 
becoming  pomp,  punctiliousness,  and  patriotism.  On  the  "  Glo- 
rious Fourth  "  it  is  Mr.  Trubsome's  custom  to  attire  himself  in 
the  uniform  of  a  Continental,  and,  shouldering  his  grandfather's 
musket,  to  go  on  guard  for  certain  hours  upon  the  piazza  of  his 
charming  villa  at  Tarrytown,  from  whence  fireworks  are  lavishly 
delivered  to  the  small  boys  of  the  surrounding  country,  with 
stern  injunctions  that  a  cheer  for  American  independence  must  ac- 
company each  and  every  explosion.  The  anniversary  of  Wash- 
ington's death  sees  Mr.  Trubsome  in  deepest  mourning,  while 
that  of  the  birth  beholds  a  full-blown  rose  in  his  button-hole,  and 
other  and  various  indications  betokening  much  inner  jubilation. 

Mrs.  Trubsome,  who  thoroughly  enjoys  three  meals  a  day 
and  is  not  averse  to  a  quail  on  toast  towards  midnight,  imagines 
herself  an  invalid,  and  has  visited  every  spa  and  spring  of  note 
on  this  continent  in  search  of  that  which  she  possesses  in  the 
rudest  possible  degree — health.  Her  annual  desire  to  repair  to 
Carlsbad,  Marienbad,  or  some  other  European  healthery  of  fash- 
ion is  annually  stamped  out  by  her  caro  sposo  with  the  emphatic 
expression : 

"  If  you  can't  find  a  spring  in  this  glorious  country  that  will 
cure  you,  there's  not  the  ghost  of  a  chance  of  a  spring  anywhere 
else." 

One  child,  a  son,  who  presently  comes  upon  the  scene,  is  the 
single  olive-branch,  while  the  household  is  completed  by  an  or- 
phan girl,  Florence  Maitland,  immensely  wealthy  and  somewhat 
capricious,  who  was  placed  under  Mrs.  Trubsome's  care  on  the 
annihilation  of  both  her  parents  in  that  dire  Ashtabula  railway 
smash-up  of  nine  years  ago. 

.  "  You  will  go  down  to  the  dock,  George  W.  ?  "  observes  Mrs. 
Trubsome. 

"  I  would,  my  dear;    but  this  being  the  anniversary — " 

"  Then  Wash  must  go,  and  at  once.  Somebody  must  meet 
this  young  lady.  Wash  must  hurry  up  !  " 

At  this  moment  a  tall,  43-inch-chested  young  fellow  enters  the 
room,  a  very  tower  of  youthful  strength  and  vigor. 


460  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan., 

"  Good-morning,  mummy."  And  he  kisses  his  mother,  to  the 
utter  disarrangement  of  her  breakfast-cap.  "  Good-morning,  fa- 
ther. What  a—" 

"  This  is  the  anniversary  of  the  crossing  of  the  Delaware, 
Wash,"  bursts  in  his  father. 

"  So  it  is."    And  the  young  gentleman  energetically  attacks  an 


"  On  this  day,  one  hundred  and  —  " 

"  Read  that,  Wash,"  cries  his  mother,  tossing  him  the  yellow 
despatch. 

"  Oh  !  the  Aurania  in.  Won't  Miss  Lawson  have  a  splendid 
sight  coming  up  the  bay  this  sunshiny  morning  !  " 

"  Staten  Island  is  covered  with  snow,  and  the  ice  —  " 

"  Was  pretty  thick  in  the  Delaware  on  this  day,  one  hundred 
and—" 

"  Bother  the  Delaware  !  Wash,  you  will  go  down  and  meet 
her." 

"  But  I  don't  know  her,  mummy  !  " 

"  You  can  pick  her  out.  The  captain  or  any  of  the  officers 
will  show  her  to  you." 

"  Yes  ;  but  what  a  stupid  thing  —  fishing  about  for  a  young  girl  ! 
None  of  you  can  tell  me  if  she  is  tall  or  short,  slim  or  stout." 

"  If  she  is  like  her  father,"  says  Mr.  Trubsome,  "  she  will  be 
particularly  pudgy.  Poor  Ed  Lawson  !  He  and  I  made  money 
together  on  a  water-works  contract.  Then  I  got  hold  of  a  Flor- 
ida canal,  and  he  went  to  India  and  froze  to  a  railway.  He  then 
plunged  into  indigo,  and  I  took  a  plunge  at  cotton.  He  made 
some  money,  I  made  a  lot.  It  was  a  queer  thing,  his  thinking  of 
me  on  his  death-bed.  Lawson  was  a  shrewd  chap,  and  I'll  bet  a 
double  dollar  that  he  has  laid  pipes  for  a  match  for  you,  Wash, 
and  this  girl,  his  daughter,  who  is  now  in  Quarantine  —  " 

"  If  that's  the  case,  sir,"  sputters  young  Trubsome,  his  mouth 
very  full,  "  I  hope  the  ship  won't  come  any  farther  up  the  bay." 

"  My  son  marries  Florence  Maitland,"  cries  Mrs.  Trubsome. 

"  My  son  will  marry  whom  he  pleases,  always  provided  that 
she  is  well  raised  and  has  not  a  drop  of  British  blood  in  her 
veins." 

"  Our  son,"  laughs  Wash,  "  won't  marry  anybody  till  he's 
what  the  barometer  registers  on  the  window-sill  there  —  thirty- 
seven  in  the  shade." 

"  This  may  be  a  designing  girl,  an  artful  minx,  coming  right 
over  here  to  capture  our  boy,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Trubsome  ;  adding 
angrily  :  "  It  is  really  quite  too  provoking  to  be  hampered  with 


1 886.]        A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  461 

girls  in  this  way.  One,  goodness  knows,  was  enough.  My  health 
won't  stand  the  worry  of  two.  You  should  have  thought  of  me, 
George  W.,  before  you  wrote  asking  this  Miss  Lawson  to  come 
over.  /  am  never  consulted." 

"  Why,  Maria,  didn't  you  burst  out  crying  when  you  read  her 
letter,  and  beg  of  me  not  to  lose  a  mail !  " 

"  That  was  all  my  poor  nervousness." 

"  Anyhow,  the  girl  is  here,  and  whether  she  goes  for  Wash  or 
not,  he'll  have,  in  less  than  ten  minutes,  to  go  for  her."  And  the 
old  gentleman  laughs  and  shakes  at  his  own  joke  till  a  couple  of 
oily  tears  steal  calmly  down  his  ruby  cheeks. 

"  I  don't  fancy  this  job,"  cries  Wash,  pouncing  upon  a  cutlet. 
"  Can't  Florence  Maitland  go  and  meet  her  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  Florence  is  ready  to  do." 

The  girl  who  utters  these  words  is  strikingly  haughty,  strik- 
ingly good-looking.  She  would  be  handsome,  if  the  expression  in 
her  eyes  were  more  soft  and  that  of  her  mouth  less  hard.  She  is 
attired  in  a  sable  coat  that  would  bring  water  to  the  mouth  of  a 
Russian  archduchess,  while  a  hat  of  the  same  costly  fur  sits  jaunt- 
ily on  her  shapely  and  Juno-like  head. 

"  Are  you  going  down  to  the  boat  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Trubsome. 

"Yes." 

"  Won't  you  have  some  breakfast  ?  " 

"  I  have  had  a  cup  of  coffee.  I  shall  breakfast  with  my  fellow- 
orphan." 

The  servant  announces  the  carriage. 

"  Won't  it  be  fun  trying  to  pick  out  our  girl ! "  laughs  Flor- 
ence, as,  disdaining  all  offers  of  service,  she  trips  down  the  steps. 
"  Let  us  have  a  bet  on  it,  Wash." 

"  All  right." 

The  Aurania  is  being  warped  in,  the  dock  appearing  to  move 
instead  of  the  leviathan  steamer. 

"  She  has  had  a  rough  passage,"  observes  Wash.  "  See  the 
smokestack  all  white." 

"  Ay,  and  ice  in  the  rigging." 

"  Look  out  for  a  girl  in  black." 

"  I  see  one ! "  cries  Miss  Maitland  excitedly.  "  See,  over 
there  ;  next  to —  Pshaw  !  it  is  an  old  woman." 

"Do  you  observe  a  black  hat  and  veil  next  to  that  tall, 
bearded  man  in  the  Scotch  bonnet  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  " 

"  I'll  bet—" 


462  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan., 

"  She  has  a  pink  necktie." 

"  Crushed  again  !  "  laughs  Wash. 

A  long  row  of  faces  appears  above  the  bulwarks — a  row  ex- 
tending from  stem  to  stern  of  the  ship. 

"Just  fancy,  Wash,  that  behind  that  wall  of  wood  may  be 
standing  your  future  wife  !  " 

"  I  don't  fancy  it  at  all." 

The  magnificent  floating  palace  is  at  length  moored  to  the 
dock,  and  Miss  Maitland  with  her  escort  is  hustled  up  the  gang- 
way— hustled  in  good  sooth,  for  there  are  those  on  the  quay  who 
are  madly  eager  to  clasp  their  loved  ones,  separated  from  them 
bv  three  thousand  miles  of  ocean,  to  their  gladdened  hearts. 
Some  there  are  who  advance  to  offer  the  inestimable  boon  of 
sympathy  to  sorrow  and  suffering ;  some,  with  blanched  lips  and 
dilated  eyes,  who  rush  forward  to  learn  the  worst. 

"  There  she  is !  "  says  Wash,  pointing  to  a  tall  girl  in  a  black 
ulster  who  calmly  stands  by  a  pile  of  state-room  luggage. 
"  Nice,  but  hard-looking." 

"  Go  over  and  make  yourself  known." 

He  advances  awkwardly  enough. 

"  I  am  looking  for  Miss  Lawson,"  he  says  with  a  bow. 

**  Are  you  one  of  Mr.  Trubsome's  family,  sir?  " 

"  I  am  Mr.  Trubsome's  son." 

"  Miss  Lawson  is  on  board,  sir." 

"  Am  I  not  addressing  Miss  Lawson?" 

"  I  am  Stokens,  Miss  Lawson's  maid,  sir.  I  shall  go  and 
acquaint  my  mistress.  Would  you  be  so  kind  as  to  have  an  eye 
to  the  baggage,  sir  ?  "  And  she  trips  away  to  disappear. 

"Well?"  asks  Florence. 

"  A  nice  mess  I've  made  of  it.  That's  Stokens,  Miss  Law- 
son's  maid." 

Miss  Maitland  laughs  till  Stokens  reappears,  following  a  young 
girl  who  is  very  tearful-eyed,  very  red-lipped,  and  very  pale. 
She  is  petite,  a  great  pilot  coat  with  hussar  black  braid  almost 
eclipsing  her. 

She  advances  with  womanly  instinct  to  Florence,  who  takes 
to  her  at  once. 

"  Are  you  Miss  Trubsome  ?  "  she  eagerly  asks. 

"I  am  just  as  good,  my  dear !"  exclaims  Florence,  folding 
her  close  to  the  sables  and  kissing  her.  Then  the  two  cry  a  little, 
and  Wash  asks  Stokens  about  the  passage. 

"  Awful  bad,  sir.  My  mistress  was  sick  the  'ole  way  over, 
and  I  was  'orribly  'elpless.  Ha  !  would  you  ?  "  This  to  a  deck- 


1 886.]         A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  463 

hand,  with  a  rap  on  his  knuckles  from  a  bundle  of  umbrellas,  who 
is  for  removing  the  bag-gage  to  land. 

It  is  Wash's  turn  now. 

"  We  are  very,  very  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Lawson,"  he  says, 
"  my  father  and  mother  and  Florence  here,  and — and — I — we'll 
all  do  our  level  best  to  make  you  feel  at  home." 

She  takes  his  hand  in  both  of  hers,  only  covering  two  of  his 
big  fingers,  and  gratefully  presses. 

"  I  refused  to  go  anywhere  except  to  you,  for  it  was  poor 
papa's  last  request.  I  have  relatives  in  Scotland,  who  wanted  me 
to  come  to  them,  but — " 

"  You  will  be  much  happier  here,  dear,"  cries  Florence. 
"  Come  along;  the  sooner  you  get  rid  of  the  ship  the  better. 
Wash,  you  can  stay  with  Stoker — " 

"  Stokens,  if  you  please,  miss,"  interposes  the  maid. 

"  Stokens,  and  get  the  baggage  passed  through  ;  and  I  will 
take  dear  little — what  is  your  given  name?  " 

"  Given  name?"  asks  Miss  Lawson  in  surprise. 

"  Well,  Christian  name  ?  " 

"  Marie.     I  am  dedicated  to  Our  Lady." 

"  I  don't  know  what  that  means,  Marie,  for  I  am  a — well,  I 
can't  tell  what  I  am — nothing.  It  depends  very  much  on  how 
they  heat  the  church  in  winter  and  cool  it  in  summer,  or  the  side- 
whiskers  of  the  pastor.  Don't  be  shocked,  dear.  After  a  good 
breakfast,  a  talk,  and  a  rest,  I'll  take  you  out  for  a  sleigh-ride." 

"  Would  you  mind  driving  me  to  some  Catholic  church?  " 

"Now?" 

"  Yes." 

"  What  for?" 

•"  To  return  thanks  to  God  Almighty  for  my  safe  passage." 

Miss  Maitland  stares  at  her  in  silence  ;  then  she  turns  to  the 
coachman. 

"  Thomas,  do  you  know  of  a  Catholic  church  on  the  way  to 
the  house?" 

"  Five  or  six,  miss." 

"  Then  stop  at  the  best — at  the  best,  mind  you."  And  she 
tbangs  the  door. 

"  Glory  be  to  God  !  ye'd  think  it  was  a  store  I  was  to  drive 
to,"  mutters  the  honest  Jehu,  ''instead  of  to  the  house  o'  God. 
The  best !  That's  the  way  wid  them,  blown  about  be  every 
windy  docthrine,  as  Father  Cassidy  says." 

A  family  jury  sits  upon  Miss  Lawson  after  she  has  retired  for 
the  night. 


464  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan., 

"  A  most  ignorant  little  girl,"  exclaims  Mr.  Trubsome.  "  She 
knows  nothing  of  American  history,  and  couldn't  tell  me  the 
date  of  the  evacuation  of  New  York  by  the  British.  It  is  my 
opinion  that  she  never  heard  of  the  country  at  all  till  poor  Ed, 
her  father,  mentioned  us." 

"  I  asked  her  about  those  wonderful  Cheltenham  pills  for  the 
nerves.  She  could  tell  me  nothing.  She  hasn't  a  single  patent 
medicine  with  her,"  moans  Mrs.  Trubsome. 

"  She's  none  the  worse  for  that,"  laughs  her  husband. 

"  She's  a  quiet  little  darling,"  bursts  in  Florence,  "  that  wants 
a  shaking  up.  She's  awfully  good — she's  a  Catholic,  you  know. 
It's  a  dead  pity  that  she's  in  deep  mourning,  for  I  could  have 
given  her  such  a  time — the  Patriarchs'  ball  on  Monday  night, 
Mrs.  Astor's  on  Tuesday,  Mrs.  Bradley-Martin's  on  Wednesday, 
Flossie  Bild's  rosebud  luncheon  on  Thursday ;  on  Friday  " — she 
counts  on  her  bejewelled  fingers — "what  is  there  on  Friday? — 
oh!  a  sleighing  party  and  dinner  at  Jerome  Park;  Saturday — " 

"  I  just  imagine  that  Miss  Lawson,  whether  in  mourning  or 
not,  wouldn't  care  to  go  in  for  that  rattling  programme.  Good- 
night !  I'm  off  to  the  club."  And  Wash  dutifully  kisses  his 
mother  and  strides  out. 

A  month  has  rolled  onwards.  Christmas  has  passed.  Marie 
has  made  a  real  English  plum-pudding  with  her  own  dainty 
hands,  of  which  Mr.  Trubsome  innocently  partakes,  and  gets 
laughed  at  when  his  anger  at  being  led  into  eating  any  thing  Eng- 
lish bursts  forth.  Every  morning,  rain  or  shine,  beholds  Marie 
at  the  eight-o'clock  Mass  at  the  Cathedral,  Wash  of  late  escorting 
her  thither,  no  matter  to  what  "  wee  sma'  hour"  he  has  been  de- 
tained at  the  Union.  She  does  not  desire  this,  and  attends  an 
earlier  Mass  at  St.  Stephen's.  He  is  not  to  be  baffled,  however, 
and  on  Christmas  morning  attended  the  first  Mass,  although  he 
had  been  "  on  revel "  to  a  very  advanced  hour. 

"  You  will  spoil  your  complexion,  Marie." 

"  You  will  catch  pneumonia." 

"  You  will  slip  on  the  ice  and  break  your  bones." 

"  Malaria  hangs  around  in  the  early  morning." 

She  only  laughs  as  batteries  such  as  these  are  opened  upon 
her,  and  continues  to  hold  the  even  tenor  of  her  way.  Morning 
after  morning  when  she  returns  from  her  orisons,  rosy,  bright- 
eyed,  fresh  as  May  dew,  she  is  met  by  her  maid  with  "  Please, 
miss,  would  you  step  into  Miss  Maitland's  room  ?  " 

There  lies  Florence,  hollow-eyed,  yawny,  languid,  if  not  fever- 
ish, after  this  ball,  or  that  hop,  or  the  other  theatre  party. 


i886.]         A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  465 

"  I  do  think  that  I  will  give  this  all  up,  Marie,"  she  yawns ;  "  it 
unfits  one  for  anything-  else  ;  it  makes  one  feel  a  hundred  ;  it 
wearies.  Bah  !  the  same  round,  the  same  people,  the — yes,  Char- 
lotte," to  her  maid,  "  I'll  wear  heliotrope  to-night  at  Mrs.  Paran 
Stevens'." 

Wash  turns  in  for  afternoon  tea  now,  spreads  his  immense  legs 
under  the  gipsy  table,  looks  happy,  and  says  very  little.  He 
dines  at  home  muchly,  and  finds  fault  with  the  cookery  with  the 
air  of  a  crucial  connossieur.  Mr.  Trubsome  holds  Marie  as  the 
Ancient  Mariner  held  the  wedding  guest,  every  morning  after 
breakfast,  to  narrate  unto  her  the  grand  and  thrilling  story  that 
led  up  to  the  signing  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  ;  and  she 
now  knows  the  portraits  of  the  signatories  without  once  glancing 
at  the  key,  a  proof  copy  of  the  celebrated  picture  hanging  in  Mr. 
Trubsome's  study  between  George  Washington  and  his  comely 
dame  Martha.  Mrs.  Trubsome  is  scarcely  reconciled  to  her 
guest.  Marie  is  too  healthy,  too  nerveless  to  evoke  sympathy. 
Of  patent  medicines  she  knows  nothing,  of  spas  and  healtheries 
about  the  same.  The  only  theme  that  interests  Mrs.  Trubsome  is 
the  illness  of  Mr.  Lawson,  which,  she  insists,  would  never  have 
ended  fatally  had  the  lamented  gentleman  partaken  of  "  Jobson's 
Blood  Tingler,"  or  "  Medcup's  Nerve  Twitcher,"  or  even  "  Tom- 
tod's  Stomach  Desiccator." 

One  afternoon,  while  Wash  is  engaged  in  playing  a  game  of 
chess  with  Marie,  a  servant  hands  that  young  lady  a  card.  She 
reads  aloud,  half-unconsciously, 4<  Captain  Belfort,  Third  Dragoon 
Guards,"  adding,  with  a  very  pleased  expression  : 

"  Show  him  in,  please." 

Wash  frowns  and  looks  very  rueful. 

"  Won't  you  excuse  me?"  she  says.  "  Captain  Belfort  is  the 
son  of  my  kinsfolk  in  Perthshire.  We  can  finish  our  game  later 
on." 

'  "  Oh  !  don't  let  me  interfere,"  says  Wash  almost  bitterly,  up- 
setting the  chess-board  and  then  the  table  in  an  awkward  effort 
to  rise. 

Captain  Belfort  enters.  He  is  tall,  inclined  to  obesity  and  bald- 
ness, but  is  a  thorough  "  plunger  "  from  his  boot-heel,  which  he 
digs  into  the  Aubusson  carpet,  to  his  tawny  moustache,  to  which 
he  administers  a  preliminary  twirl. 

"  Awfully  glad  to  see  you,  Miss  Lawson.     Awfully  sorry  for 
your  loss.     Awfully — yaas,  awfully.     Am  here  for  a  look  at  this 
shop.     Awfully  rum  shop  it  is." 
voi..  XLII. — 30 


466  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan., 

"  Captain  Belfort,  let  me  introduce  Mr.  Trubsome." 

The  two  men  acknowledge  one  another  by  a  nod. 

"  When  did  you  arrive  ?  " 

"  This  morning." 

"  Had  you  a  good  passage  ?  " 

"  Awfully  blowy  and  roily  and  wavy,  you  know — yaas,  aw- 
fully." 

Then  she  asks  him  after  her  kinsfolk,  who  are,  according  to 
the  gallant  warrior,  "  awfully  fit." 

Florence  comes  in  and  Belfort  is  duly  presented.  After  he 
regains  his  seat  he  screws  a  rimless  glass  into  his  left  eye  and 
peers  at  her.  She,  in  order  to  meet  him  on  equal  terms,  adjusts 
\\tr  pinces  nez,  and  the  two  glare  at  one  another. 

Yes,  the  captain  has  been  in  Egypt,  and  has  been  awfully 
knocked  about  by  those  ^//founded  niggers.  Yes,  he  has  been  in 
India,  and  has  been  awfully  knocked  about  by  those  confounded 
niggers.  The  two  young  ladies  extract  some  talk  from  him,  and 
then  propose  to  administer  tea. 

"  Wash,"  suddenly  exclaims  Florence,  "  is  your  father  dining 
out  to-day  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,"  replies  Wash  gloomily,  his  first  words  in  half 
an  hour.  "  Yes,  he  is,"  he  adds  with  sudden  vivacity.  "  The 
Bunker  Hill  Club  dine  to-day,"  with  a  hard  glance  at  the  British 
warrior  ;  "  it's  the  anniversary  of — " 

"  That's  all  right,  Wash.  I  want  to  give  a  little  dinner  at 
Delmonico's  to  Marie's  kinsman,"  cries  Florence.  "  Go  and  order 
it.  You  pretend  to  know  a  lot  about  dinners  ;  let  us  see  how 
you'll  come  out.  Secure  the  round  table  in  the  corner  window. 
Be  off  !  Captain  Belfort,"  she  adds,  "  my  dear  guardian,  my  sec- 
ond father,  is  very  peculiar  on  the  subject  of — well,  he  don't  like 
Britishers,  and  will  not  have  them  at  any  price.  We  can  do 
nothing  with  him.  He  actually  imagined  himself  ill  because  he 
ate  some  English  plum  pudding  on  Christmas  day  made  by 
Marie  here.  We  are  powerless,  but  we  want  to  do  all  that  we 
can  for  you." 

"  What  an  awfully  extraordinary  old  fellow  !  "  exclaims  the 
captain.  "  And  you  mean  to  say  that  because  of  things  that 
happened  five  or  six  hundred  years  ago  he  keeps  it  up  ?  By 
Jove !  "  And  he  pulls  dreamily  at  his  moustache,  as  if  it  were 
candy. 

They  sip  their  tea,  and  contrive  to  get  out  of  Belfort  that  he 
is  stopping  at  the  Brevoort ;  that  he  hopes  to  pot  buffalo  ;  that 
he  is  in  no  hurry,  having  six  months'  leave  of  absence  from  his 


1 886.]         A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  467 

regiment ;  that  he  has  a  "  pal  "  with  him,  who  is  going-  to  look  at 
a  ranch  in  Wyoming,  and  that  he  hopes  for  a  lot  of  sleighing  and 
canvas-back  ducks. 

"  Who's  talking  of  canvas-backs  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Trubsome,  senior, 
who  rolls  in,  smiling  all  over  and  rubbing  his  hands  gleefully. 
The  girls  glance  at  one  another.  The  captain  rises  and  tugs  vig- 
orously at  his  moustache. 

"  Mr.  Trubsome,"  palpitates  Marie,  "  let  me  introduce  Cap — 
Captain  Belfort,  who  has  just  arrived,  and — and  brings  me  good 
news  of  my  dear  friends  in  Scotland." 

"  Humph  !  "  And  Trubsome  glares  at  the  British  warrior. 
"  In  the  English  army,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yaas,  the  K.  D.  G.'s  "  ;  hastily  adding  in  reply  to  a  ques- 
tioning glance,  "  the  King's  Dragoon  Guards." 

"  I  know  them,  sir.  They  were  over  *here  in  1774-5  and  '6 
and  '7.  In  the  spring  of  1778  they  were  in  Philadelphia,  but  they 
abandoned  that  city  in  June  to  come  along  here.  In  1780  they 
were  in  West  Point  with  that  black-hearted  traitor,  Arnold. 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  Yorktown,  sir?" 

"  I  have — aw — been  quartered  at  York;  a  doosidly  good  bil- 
let, too.  Awfully  good  club,  awfully  hospitable  people,  and 
the  hunting  keen.  The  regiment  hunted  at  York— 

"  Well,  sir,  they  were  hunted  2&  York — town,  and — " 

"  Papa  !  "  bursts  in  Florence. 

"  This  is  only  history,  my  child.  I'm  giving  the  captain  the 
history  of  his  regiment." 

"  You  are  very  good,  sir,"  says  Belfort  stiffly. 

"  On  the  I7th  of  October,  1781,  Yorktown  surrendered,  and 
the  K.  D.  G.'s  with  it.  Why,  sir,  we  had  the  most  splendid  cele- 
bration here  on  the  centennial — the  I7th  of  October,  1881.  It 
lasted  for  days.  I  attended,  and  wore  a  uniform  and  carried  a 
musket  that  belonged  to  my  grandfather,  who  fought  in  one  and 
with  the  other  at  Bunker  Hill." 

Captain  Belfort  rises  to  take  his  leave. 

"  Papa,"  says  Florence,  "  I  am  giving  a  little  dinner  at  Del- 
monico's  to  Captain  Belfort,  our  dear  Marie's  friend,  as  I  know 
your  prejudices  and — " 

"  Ho\v  dare  you  do  such  a  thing  !  "  pulling  her  ear.  "  Cap- 
tain, you  will  dine  here.  You  are  my  prisoner.  I  put  you  on  pa- 
role that  while  in  New  York  you  will  dine  here  as  often  as  you 
can,  provided  always  that  you  discuss  with  me  over  our  walnuts 
and  claret  the  glorious  campaigning  of  a  hundred  years  ago. 
To-night  I  dine  with  the  Bunker  Hill  Club  to  celebrate  the  anni- 


468  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHA  T  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan. 

versary  of  our  treaty  with  France,  but  my  wife  and  son,  and  the 
little  girls  here,  will  entertain  you." 

"  You  are  awfully  good,"  says  the  captain,  "and,  by  Jove! 
I'd  like  to  hear  a  lot  about  Buncombe  Hill — " 

"  Bunker."  And  he  spells  it  for  him,  and  briefly  describes  the 
fight. 

"  I  have  engaged  the  table  by  telephone  and  ordered  the  din- 
ner," observes  Wash. 

"  You  can  dis-order  it,  my  son.  Captain  Belfort  dines  here. 
I  feel  it  a  duty  to  feed  a  British  officer,  we  had  them  on  half- ra- 
tions for  so  long." 

Wash  gives  Florence  a  look  that  plainly  says,  "  What  next?  " 

Wash  does  his  best  to  be  civil  to  Belfort — puts  him  up  at 
his  club,  brings  him  to  several  smart  dances,  and  lends  him  a 
sleigh  and  pair  of  horses.  But  he  cannot  get  him  to  leave  New 
York,  or  yet  No.  —  Fifth  Avenue,  although  he  endeavors  to  pic- 
ture the  glories  of  Niagara  in  its  gigantic  mantle  of  ice  ;  of  Flor- 
ida, with  its  fragrant  orange-groves  ;  of  Boston,  so  British,  and  its 
"  boys  "  so  well  up  to  the  mark  all  round.  The  only  thing  Wash 
admires  about  the  captain  are  his  clothes,  and  he,  despite  the 
thirty  degrees,  goes  about  in  a  tight-fitting  frock  and  gaiters  and 
varnished  boots,  his  nose  as  blue  as  indigo,  his  cheeks  blanched 
with  cold.  Belfort's  companion,  a  Mr.  Dyke,  leaves  for  Wyoming 
after  a  vain  endeavor  to  uproot  the  gallant  captain. 

"  How  Marie  can  find  patience  to  listen  to  the  nonentities  of 
this  fat  fool  is  more  than  I  can  imagine,  mummy,"  Wash  ex- 
claims about  ten  times  a  day  to  his  mother,  who  invariably  re- 
plies :  "  Love,  my  dear  boy,  is  always  blind.  The  very  brutal 
health  of  these  two  people  establishes  an  affinity." 

Bslfort  makes  himself  as  agreeable  as  possible  to  the  old  lady, 
and  has  cabled  to  Cairo  for  some  desert  water  used  by  the  Arabs 
and  considered  by  these  nomads  as  possessing  wondrous  healing 
pow3rs.  Ha  listens  to  her  nervous  woss,  and  lets  her  warble  on, 
while  he  gazes  with  rapturous  eyes  upon  Marie,  who  is  ever  at 
home  and  ever  at  work. 

"  That's  an  awfully  swell  frock  you  are  embroidering,  Miss 
Lawson,"  he  exclaims,  as  one  evening  Marie  is  engaged  with 
bullion-thread  and  seed  pearls. 

"  It  is  a  robe  for  the  Madonna.  The  church  in  which  this 
statue  of  Our  Blessed  Lady  stands  is  very,  very  poor." 

*'  Do  they  want  coin  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  indeed  they  do." 


1 886.]        A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  469 

"  Would  you  mind  writing  the  address  down  in  this  book  for 
me  ?  " 

She  writes  it  in  a  bold,  large,  generous  hand. 

"  Thanks  awfully  !  I  suppose  that  fifty  pound  wouldn't  do 
'em  much  harm  ?  " 

"  Make  it  a  cool  hundred,  Captain  Belfort,"  laughs  Florence. 

"  Oh  !  this  is  too  bad,"  interposes  Marie. 

.     "  Not  a  bit ;  he  is  one  of  you.     In  what  better  way  could  he 
spend  his  money  ?" 

It  should  be  mentioned  that  Belfort  is  a  Catholic.  At  first 
he  used  to  present  himself  at  the  pew  in  the  cathedral  which 
Wash  had  secretly  rented  for  Miss  Lawson,  late  for  Mass.  Marie 
gravely  took  him  to  task,  and  on  the  following  Sunday  he  was 
there  before  her.  Then  he  knelt  very  little.  For  this  he  was 
also  impounded.  Then  he  was  minus  a  prayer-book — a  want 
speedily  supplied  by  his  uncompromising  neighbor.  He  was 
for  asking  questions  and  for  turning  round  to  gaze  up  at  the 
choir,  but  he  soon  relinquished  such  practices.  And  lastly,  under 
Marie's  admonition,  instead  of  making  an  absurd  motion  with  his 
thumb  anywhere  about  the  regions  of  his  throat  or  chest,  he 
gravely  and  faithfully  blessed  himself. 

Miss  Lawson  was  absolutely  her  own  mistress.  She  came 
and  went,  and  there  was  no  one  to  question  her.  Florence  would 
sometimes  jest  with  her  anent  her  prolonged  absences; 

"  If  you  would  only  come  with  me,  Florence,  and  give  up 
some  of  those  eternal  matinees,  those  perpetual  visitings,  which 
you  acknowledge  are  dreadfully  boring,  you  would  be  more  of 
what  God  intended  you  to  be,  \vi\\\  your  brain  and  your  heart  and 
your  wealth — a  useful  woman." 

"  Wait  until  Lent,  Marie.  I  shall  be  a  different  person,  I  as- 
sure you.  I  shall  dress  in  sombre  colors,  violets  and  grays;  and 
I  don't  mind  going  to  church  with  you  twice  a  week.  And  for 
the  first  and  last  week  I  shall  not  enter  a  theatre.  There!  isn't 
that  next  door  to  conversion  ?  Who  knows  but  I  may  '  vert ' 
some  day  ?" 

Lent  arrives.  Captain  Belfort  beats  a  retreat  to  Boston  and 
Niagara,  and  lastly  to  Saratoga,  where  Mr.  Trubsome  joins  him  in 
order  to  go  over  the  battle-fields  that  led  to  Clinton's  surrender. 
Trubsome  and  the  British  warrior  get  on  wonderfully  well.  Bel- 
fort  has  posted  himself  through  the  medium  of  a  work  technically 
written  by  an  English  officer,  and  worries  the  ardent  American 
with  military  phraseology.  In  all  this,  however,  Trubsome  recog- 
nizes a  keen  intelligence  and  a  foeman  worthy  of  his  steel. 


47 o  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan. 

Wash  threatens  voyages  round  the  world  ;  trips  to  India  to 
pot  tigers;  to  the  East  to  visit  scimitar-guarded  Mohammedan 
cities  ;  to  the  North  Pole,  if  an  expedition  be  gotten  up  ;  to  the 
top  of  Chimborazo.  But — he  never  stirs.  His  toilets  are  reful- 
gent, his  manners  morose.  He  smokes  a  great  deal  too  many 
cigarettes,  and  his  mother  intends  asking  Miss  Lawson  to  request 
of  him  as  a  favor  to  cut  down  his  daily  allowance  at  least  one- 
half.  His  club  knows  him  not ;  he  takes  long  walks  in  the  snow, 
and  at  times  cannot  be  induced  to  leave  the  cosey  little  room  at- 
tached to  his  bed-room. 

"  Faix,  we  have  wan  Christian  in  the  house,  anyhow,"  observes 
Mrs.  Trubsome's  cook,  as  she  prepares  a  piquant  entree  for  her 
"  delicate  "  mistress,  "  an  that's  Miss  Lawson.  She  fasts,  an'  no 
mistake.  It's  rale  Lent  with  her.  It  an't  soup  \.\&\.  pretends  to  be 
flour  and  water ;  it  an't  fish,  done  up  to  the  queen's  taste,  at  two 
dollars  a  pound  ;  it  an't  ducks,  that's  neither  fish  or  fowl  or 
flesh  ;  nor  flim-flams  that's  full  of  sherry  wine,  and  port  wine, 
and  Maydarial  wine.  No,  the  darlin'  !  it's  dry  toast,  and  no  milk 
in  her  tea,  and  everything  for  to  correspond.  There's  luck  and 
grace  in  this  house  as  long  as  she's  in  it,  God  bless  her !  " 

Florence  Maitland  is  as  good,  ay,  and  better  than  her  word. 
She  refuses  every  invitation  ;  and,  if  her  sackcloth  be  tailor-made 
and  her  ashes  somewhat  fragrant,  she  strides  forward  on  a 
rougher  bu,t,  after  a  while,  a  less  wearisome  road. 

"  O  my!"  she  exclaims,  "if  Susie  Blyde  or  Mamie  van 
Strope  were  to  see  me  now."  This,  as  with  Marie  she  enters  a 
poor  tenement-building,  bringing  comfort  to  the  sickened  heart 
of  the  helpless  mother  of  six  little  children.  The  girl's  check- 
book is  ever  in  her  hand,  and  the  generous  impulses  that  have 
hitherto  only  blossomed  under  the  sunshine  of  fame  and  fashion 
now  bear  fruit  in  obscurity  and  shadow. 

Lent  over,  Captain  Belfort  returns  from  the  Rockies.  Flor- 
ence Maitland,  being  one  of  the  leaders  of  fashion,  flings  herself 
into  the  whirl  and  spins  as  giddily  round  as  any  dancing  dervish. 

"  Bah  !  it's  all  Dead  Sea  fruit,"  she  will  say.  "  The  moment 
the  season  is  over,  Marie,  let  us  take  Wash  and  our  maids  and 
visit  the  great  shrines  of  the  world,  from  Monserrat  to  Mecca. 
That  will  be  doing  something." 

An  April  shower  catches  Miss  Lawson  on  her  way  to  early 
Mass.  She  remains  in  her  damp  clothes,  and  comes  home  chilled. 
The  family  doctor  is  sent  for,  and  an  immense  fuss  is  made  by 
Mrs.  Trubsome,  who  takes  charge  of  her  and  furnishes  her  room 


1 886.]         A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  471 

with  a  whole  battery  of  bottles.  She  does  not  improve.  Florence 
becomes  a  most  troublesome  but  most  affectionate  nurse.  .She 
constantly  awakes  her  patient  to  ask  if  she  requires  anything, 
and  is  then  in  despair  because  the  girl  cannot  sleep.  She  fights 
pitched  battles  with  Mrs.  Trubsome,  and  sends  for  two  additional 
physicians  without  consulting  the  family  one.  In  a  word,  she  is 
an  amiable  nuisance,  is  in  everybody's  way,  and  in  antagonism  to 
every  human  being  she  encounters  about  the  house. 

"  You  call  everything  fever  here,  by  Jove  ! "  says  Captain  Bel- 
fort — "  a  fever  finger,  a  fever  lip.  We  don't  do  that  in  England." 

"  Who  cares  what  you  do  in  England  ?  "  snaps  Miss  Maitiand. 

Marie  has  a  request  to  make  of  Florence. 

"  I  want  you,"  she  says,  "  as  to  morrow  will  be  the  first  of 
May,  the  month  of  Mary,  to  go  to  Our  Lady's  altar  in  the  Cathe- 
dral and  place  a  bouquet  of  white  roses  at  her  feet." 

"  I  will — I  will !  "  bursts  Florence. 

"  And  every  day  during  the  month." 

"  Yes,  darling,  yes  !  " 

"  And  I  want  you  to  say  one  Ave  Maria.  It  is  a  short  little 
prayer.  I  will  teach  it  to  you.'*  And  she  repeats  it,  the  other 
girl  breathing  it  after  her,  word  for  word,  until  it  is  committed 
to  memory. 

Florence  faithfully  performs  this  task.  She  goes  nowhere 
else.  It  is  a  pilgrimage.  Maria's  chill  has  burned  up  into  fever, 
and  the  doctors  look  very,  very  grave. 

One  day  Florence  is  later  than  usual  in  visiting  the  altar  of 
Our  Lady.  A  man,  bent  in  an  attitude  of  the  deepest  devotion, 
kneels  before  it.  Florence  starts.  It  is  Wash.  She  can  hardly 
believe  her  eyes.  She  retires  till  he  goes  slowly  away,  and  then 
makes  her  daily  offering  of  pure  white  roses  and  says  her  simple 
prayer.  But  oh !  so  devoutly. 

It  is  the  "  Glorious  Fourth,"  and  ninety  degrees  in  the  shade. 
Up  and  down  the  piazza  of  Washington  House,  Tarrytown, 
paces  Mr.  Trubsome,  attired  in  a  rusty  uniform  a  trifle  too  small 
for  him,  and  over  his  shoulder  the  celebrated  musket  that  com- 
mitted such  fearful  havoc  on  the  British  at  Bunker  Hill.  He 
perspires  to  an  alarming  degree,  and  his  complexion  suggests 
apoplexy.  Mrs.  Trubsome  is  on  a  rocking-chair;  it  has  very 
wide  arms,  and  to  each  is  attached  a  small  medicine  chest.  She 
now  and  then  applies  herself  to  the  chest,  takes  out  a  particular 
bottle,  and  either  inhales  the  aroma  or  helps  herself  to  its  contents. 

Under  an  immense  chestnut-tree  on  the  velvety  lawn  hang 
two  hammocks.  One  is  occupied  by  Marie,  the  other  by  Flor- 


472  A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.         [Jan., 

ence.  Beside  the  former,  stretched  on  the  greensward,  is  Wash  ; 
beside  the  other  the  British  captain,  who  vies  with  Mr.  Trubsome 
in  color  and  moisture.  A  regiment  of  small  boys,  all  with  drums, 
their  leader  playing  "Yankee  Doodle"  on  a  tin  whistle  of  tor- 
turing shrillness,  marches  up  the  avenue,  and,  after  giving  three 
cheers  for  George  Washington,  departs  laden  with  Roman  can- 
dles, Catherine  wheels,  and  rockets  of  every  conceivable  descrip- 
tion. The  Hudson  is  languorously  dozing  in  the  dayshine.  The 
greenery  everywhere  is  bathed  in  sunlight,  while  the  dimpled 
hills  seem  as  though  composed  of  a  beautiful  film.  A  war-ship, 
on  its  way  to  West  Point,  causes  Mr.  Trubsome  to  fling  aside  his 
treasured  musket  and  dash  at  a  small  brass  cannon,  to  which  he 
applies  a  match,  his  wife  holding  her  bejewelled  fingers  to  her 
ears.  Bang!  and  Mr.  Trubsome  now  hauls  on  a  flag,  dipping  it 
in  further  salutation  to  Uncle  Sam's  "  powder-boat,"  which  salutes 
in  return,  to  the  worthy  man's  rapturous  delight.  Not  a  craft 
passing  up  or  down  the  river  fails  to  salute  Washington  House, 
and  the  banging  of  the  cannon  and  the  hauling  on  the  flag  in  re- 
sponse to  whistles  from  steamers,  cannon  and  rockets  and  guns 
from  sailing  vessels,  keeps  the  proprietor  in  a  very  blaze  of  fren- 
zied exertion. 

Marie,  after  peering  through  the  bars  of  the  gates  of  death, 
returned  slowly  to  life,  and  her  beautiful  and  holy  resignation 
made  so  deep  an  impression  upon  the  impulsive  heart  of  Florence 
that  she  resolved  to  embrace  the  faith. 

"  I  have  a  big,  big  surprise  for  you,  Marie,"  she  said  one  day 
as  the  girl  was  coming  into  convalescence.  "  I  am  to  be  received 
into  your  church  to-morrow,  and  so  is  Wash." 

Captain  Belfort  has  obtained  extra  leave,  and  chuckles  im- 
mensely over  the  letter  that  announces  the  furlough  and  his  pro- 
motion to  "  major."  One  afternoon  he  asks  Mr.  Trubsome  for 
an  interview  in  the  library. 

"  You  were  all  wrong  about  that  skirmish  at.  Brooklyn,  captain. 
The  real  facts  of  the  case  are  these — " 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  concede.  I  yield  everything.  I  want  to 
speak  on  another  subject." 

"  Oh  !  that's  the  way  you  try  to  get  out  of  it.  Now,  my 
dear  sir,  George  Washington,  when  he  found  that  the  alliance — 

"  It's  about  an  alliance  I  want  to  speak,"  gasps  the  major. 
"  You  have  been  so  awfully  nice  to  me,  and  your  wife,  and  your 
boy,  and  Miss  Lawson,  and  Miss  Maitland,  that  I  have  to  thank 
you  most  awfully.  You  see  I  have  got  awfully  fond  of  the  whole 


1 886.]         A  CABLEGRAM,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT.  473 

lot  of  you,  and  why  not  ?  You  see  you  have  made  my  visit  to 
this  big"  country  so  awfully  jolly  that,  by  Jove !  I  really  don't 
know  how  to  thank  you.  You  see,  don't  you  know,  that  it's 
awfully  jolly  to  be  so  well  treated,  and  your  cookery  is-so  awfully 
excellent,  and  your  cellar  is  so  awfully  fit ;  and  you  see,  don't  you 
know,  that  I  have  about  ,£3,000  a  year — $15,000— and  a  snug  little 
place  in  Leicestershire,  where  I  want  you  all  to  come  and  stop  as 
long  as  you  can,  and  I  want  Miss  Maitland  most  awfully  to  stop 
ail  the  time,  as  my  wife,  don't  you  see."  And  poor  Belfort,  after 
this  prolonged  intellectual  effort,  relapses  into  stolid  silence. 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  want  to  marry  Florence  ?  " 

Beifort  nods. 

"  I  must  search  for  precedents.  I  believe  it*  was  common 
enough  for  American  girls  to  marry  British  officers  after  the  war. 
Why,  yes,  to  be  sure,  my  own  grandaunt  married  a  Colonel 
Whepster,  and  I  never  heard  that  she  was  unhappy  or  badly 
treated.  I'll  think  over  this,  captain— 

"  Major,  sir  !  " 

u  Major,  then,  and  I'll  see  how  the  enemy  is  posted." 

Belfort,  in  a  fever  of  excitement,  meets  Florence  as  he  emerges 
from  the  library. 

"  More  battles,  major?  "  she  laughs. 

"  A  victory,  I  hope,"  he  blurts  out,  then  follows  up :  "  Flor- 
ence, I  have  £3,000  a  year,  and  a  snug  little  place  in  Leicester- 
shire— "  and  he  stops. 

"  And  you  want  me  to  share  it  with  you,"  she  cries  in  despera- 
tion. 

"  Yaas,  most  awfully." 

"  Well — yes.  You  see,"  she  adds,  "  you  are  dreadfully  stupid, 
but  a  good  fellow.  Oh  !  I  know  more  than  you  think,  and  I 
know  what  a  trump  you  are  to  your  poor  relations.  I  am  bright 
enough  for  both,"  she  naively  adds. 

Of  Wash's  wooing  of  Marie  I  shall  not  write  one  word.  They 
are  -engaged.  This  is  sufficient. 

On  Christmas  morning  next  it  is  Mr.  Trubsome's  intention  to 
read  out  at  breakfast  the  following  cablegram  : 

"  If  not  detained  at  Quarantine  the  SS.  Aurania  will  arrive  at 
her  dock,  Pier  No.  19  North  River,  at  n  A.M. 

"  MANAGER  MARINE  DEPARTMENT." 

And  to  add : 

"  And  you  refused  to  go  and  meet  her,  Wash  !  " 


474  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 


THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS. 
PART  III. 

NOT  far  from  where  Euphrates,  that  great  river, 
From  heights  of  Taurus  seaward  winds  in  flood 

Its  mighty  youth  replenishing  for  ever, 
In  days  of  yore  a  royal  city  stood  : 

Two  lesser  streams  embraced  it  like  two  arms 

That  clasp  some  bright  one  in  her  bridal  charms. 

Around  it  gleamed  Plane-tree  and  Poplar  shivering 
In  Syrian  gales  tempered  by  mountain  snows, 

And  gardens  green  traversed  by  runnels  quivering 
And  Palms  at  each  side  set  in  columned  rows : 

High  in  the  midst  a  church  of  ancient  fame 

There  rose.     Edessa  was  that  city's  name. 

Before  that  church  there  stood  five  porches  fair 
Wherein  the  maimed  and  crippled  sue$  for  alms  ; 

Likewise  God's  penitents,  admitted  there 

As  men  beloved,  might  hear  the  hymns  and  psalms 

Until,  their  penance  past,  once  more  the  shrine 

Received  them,  and  they  fed  on  food  divine. 

Within  that  fivefold  narthex  one  there  knelt 
Of  race  unknown,  and  humbler  than  the  rest, 

His  garment  hair-cloth  'neath  a  leathern  belt ; 
He  deemed  himself  unmeet  to  stand  as  guest 

Within  that  hallowed  precinct  whose  embrace 

Cherished  the  Veil  all-blest  and  "Sacred  Face." 

For  that  cause,  year  by  year,  he  dwelt  without, 
Although  in  spirit  kneeling  still  within; 

And  neither  civic  pomp  nor  popular  shout 
Made  way  to  him.     Propping  a  haggard  chin 

On  haggard  hand  he  sat  with  low-bent  brows 

Absorbed  in  heavenly  thoughts,  unearthly  vows. 


1 886.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  475 

Meantime  o'er  all  the  world's  circumference 
Euphemian  sent  wise  men  to  seek  his  son : 

Some  to  Laodicea  sailed,  and  thence 
Their  way,'  like  others,  to  Edessa  won  ; 

Near  him  they  drew  ;  upon  him  turned  their  eye, 

And  knew  him  not;  yet  passed  him  with  a  sigh. 
+ 

There  were  who  turned  again,  and,  instinct-taught, 
Lodged  on  those  fingers  worn  a  piece  of  bread  ; 

And  he  with  gladness  ate  it,  for  his  thought 
Grew  humbler  daily  ;  breaking  it,  he  said 

"Thank  God  that  I  have  eaten  of  their  hand 

Whom  once  I  fed  and  held  at  my  command  !  " 

So  thus  by  patience  and  long-suffering  first, 

And  next  through  heart  self-emptied  to  its  core, 

The  inmost  of  Christ's  Teaching  on  him  burst ; 

And  u  Blessed  they  who  mourn,"  "  Blessed  the  poor," 

Lived  on  his  lips,  as  he  in  them  with  awe 

The  shrouded  Vision  of  God's  greatness  saw. 

He  saw  the  things  men  see  not.     In  a  glass 
Nearer  to  God  than  Nature's  best,  in  Man 

He  saw  that  God  Who  ever  is  and  was : 

In  those  whom  this  world  lays  beneath  her  ban 

The  halt,  the  stricken,  saw  their  Maker  most : 

The  saved  he  saw  in  those  the  fool  deems  lost. 

Now  when  those  years  were  past,  within  the  church 
One  day,  as  vespers  ceased,  was  heard  a  Voice, 

"  Bring  in  My  Son  who  kneeleth  in  the  porch  : 
The  same  shall  see  My  Countenance  and  rejoice." 

Then  forth  God's  people  rushed,  both  old  and  young, 

And  haled  the  man  to  where  that  picture  hung. 

Instant  that  Pilgrim  fixed  his  eyes  thereon, 

And  saw  that  Countenance  through  its  mist  of  blood 

Which  many  see  not:  still,  ere  set  of  sun, 
A  change  miraculous  swifter  than  a  flood 

O'erswept  it.     Grief  and  shame  far  off  were  driven  : 

It  shone  as  shines  the  Saviour's  Face  in  heaven. 


476  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 

And  still  he  said  :  "  Behold,  these  Faces  twain 
Reveal  the  portions  twain  to  man  allowed  ; 

For  one  of  these  is  earth  and  Holy  Pain, 
And  one  is  heavenly  Glory,  when  the  cloud 

Of  time  dissolves."     And  still  his  prayer  he  made 

For  those  far  off:  "  Aid  them,  Thou  Saviour,  aid  !  " 


Twas  needed  sore.     The  day  Alexis  fled 

His  mother  sat  in  ashes  on  the  ground, 
And  thenceforth  day  by  day ;  and  still  she  said, 

"  Lo,  thus  I  sit  until  the  Lost  is  found  !  " 
And  night  by  night  murmured  the  one-day  bride, 
"  His  wife  I  am  :  faithful  I  will  abide. 

"  I  will  not  muse,  as  once,  in  groves  of  Greece, 
Nor  dance,  as  once,  in  palace  halls  of  Rome  ; 

Until  this  wedded  widowhood  shall  cease, 
Here  with  his  parents  I  will  make  my  home  : 

I  must  be  patient  now,  though  proud  of  yore: 

He  called  me  '  Child  ! '     He  said,  '  We  meet  once  more. 

While  sinks  the  sun,  nighing  his  watery  bed, 
The  shadow  reacheth  soon  the  valley's  breast ; 

More  late  it  climbeth  to  the  mountain's  head — 
His  loved  one  gone,  Euphemian  hoped  the  best : 

Not  yet  the  shade  had  reached  him.     Every  morn 

He  said  :  "  Ere  night  Alexis  may  return ! 

"  The  day  my  Son  was  born — the  self-same  hour — 
I  shook  the  dust  from  many  a  treasured  scroll 

Precious  with  that  which  time  would  fain  devour, 
The  great  deeds  of  our  House.     In  one  fair  whole 

To  blend  those  annals  was  my  task  for  years : 

They  bled  full  oft :  they  cannot  end  in  tears." 

But  when  his  messengers  from  all  the  lands 

Returning-,  early  some,  and  others  late, 
From  Gaul,  Iberia,  Thrace,  from  Syrian  sands, 

Red  Libyan  coasts,  and  Calpe's  golden  gate, 
Brought  back  the  self-same  tidings  as  the  first, 
That  grief  which  reached  him  last  was  grief  the  worst. 


1 886.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  477 

Silent  he  mused  :  "  Were  these  our  prayers  of  old? 

Sent  was  our  child,  that  late-conceded  boy, 
To  be  the  lamb  unblemished  of  our  fold,  , 

Then  vanish,  and  to  by- word  change  our  joy  ? 
Had  he  but  won  the  martyr's  crown  and  fame  ! 
But  now  God's  Church  shall  never  hear  his  name. 


"  O  ancient  House,  revered  in  days  of  yore, 

Then  dark,  yet  just,  I  deemed  that  years  to  be 
Fourfold  to  thee,  now  Christian*,  would  restore 

What  time  or  heathen  hate  had  reft  from  thee, 
And  Of  thy  greatness  make  a  boon  for  all — 
That  dream  is  past !     Now  let  the  roof- tree  fall !  " 

Thus  as  his  father  mourned  Alexis  knelt 

One  day  before  that  picture-hallowed  shrine, 

When  suddenly  he  heard  at  once  and  felt 
A  voice  oracular,  awful  yet  benign  : 

"  This  day  in  prayer  be  mighty  for  those  Three, 

Since  what  to  them  I  grant  I  grant  through  thee." 

Then  prayed  the  Saint  as  Saints  alone  can  pray ; 

And  on  that  far-off  Three,  they  knew  not  why, 
There  fell  a  calm  undreamed  of  till  that  day, 

As  when  some  great  storm  ceases  from  the  sky 
Sudden,  and  into  harbor  sweeps  the  bark, 
And  green  hills  laugh  around,  and  sings  the  lark. 

Thenceforth  for  things  gone  by  they  hungered  less, 
And  of  the  joy  to  come  had  oftener  vision  ; 

Thenceforth  self-will  inflamed  not  heart-distress, 
Nor  pride,  dissolved  in  some  strange  soul-fruition 

The  parents  saw  their  son  once  more  a  child ; 

The  wife,  as  when  hq  saw  her  first,  and  smiled. 

Two  years  passed  by  :  once  more  within  his  heart 
That  son  received  an  answer  from  his  God : 

"  Go  to  the  great  sea  down,  and  thence  depart 
To  Tarsus,  where  My  servant,  Paul,  abode  ; 

For  I  will  show  thee  there  by  tokens  true 

The  things  which  thou  must  suffer  and  must  do." 


473  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 

The  man  of  God  arose,  and  gat  him  down 

To  where  Laodicea's  mast-thronged  bay 
Mirrored  that  queenly  city's  towery  crown, 

And  found  a  ship  for  Tarsus  bound  that  day, 
And  sailed  till  o'er  the  morn-touched  deep  arose 
Her  walls,  and  hills  behind  her  white  with  snows. 

Then  from  those  hills  a  storm  rushed  forth,  as  when 
An  eagle  from  great  cliffs  has  kenned  its  quarry ; 

And  the  black  ship  before  it  raced  like  men 

Who  flee  the  uplifted  sword  they  dare  not  parry, 

With  necks  low  bent.     So  fled  that  ship  :  each  sail 

Split ;  and  the  masts  low  leaned  like  willows  in  the  gale. 

Amid  the  slanted  rain  of  falling  spars, 

And  roar  of  winds  and  billows  far  and  near, 

Astonished  stood  those  sea-worn  mariners, 

And  hushed,  since  none  his  neighbor's  voice  might  hear: 

Then  heard  God's  Saint:  "  For  all  this  company 

Fear  nothing.     Of  their  number  none  shall  die. 

"  Fear  not  for  thine  own  self:  this  storm  is  Mine, 

And  it  shall  lay  thee  by  thy  father's  door: 
There  shall  the  great  storm  greet  thee — storm  benign, 

For  what  I  take,  that  fourfold  I  restore." 
Next  morn  they  entered  Tiber's  mouth  :  at  Rome 
He  stood  ere  noon,  and  saw  his  father's  home, 

Saw  it  far  off  whilst  yet  upon  his  way 

To  earth's  cathedral  metropolitan, 
"  Mother  and  Head  of  Churches,"  there  to  pray 

That  what  to  him  remained  of  life's  brief  span 
Might,  through  God's  help,  accomplish  God's  decree, 
And  praise  His  Name  for  all  eternity. 

Entering,  he  knelt  before  that  crypt  cross-crowned 

Where,  in  a  subterranean  chapel  small, 
Reposed,  awaiting  God's  Last  Trumpet's  sound, 

The  sacred  bones  of  Peter  and  of  Paul : 
A  child,  before  those  portals  he  had  prayed, 
Nor  e'er  had  lacked  in  prayer  the  Apostles'  aid. 


1 885.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  479 

Evening  drew  nigh  :  he  left  the  Lateran  : 

Anon,  as  slow  he  paced  Rome's  stateliest  street, 

From  Caesar's  palace  issued  forth  a  man, 

Though  bent,  majestic,  with  attendance  meet. 

That  man  Alexis  knew.     With  steadfast  eye 

The  sire  drew  near  the  son ;  and  passed  him  by. 

Then  cried  that  son  with  anguished  voice  and  face 

"  Servant  of  God,  revered  and  loved  of  all, 
Within  thy  house  yield  me  a  little  place 

That  I  may  daily  eat  the  crumbs  that  fall 
Down  from  thy  table."     And  his  sire  replied: 
"  So  be  it,  Pilgrim  :  walk  thou  by  my  side." 

Through  lonely  ways  dimmed  by  the  day's  decline 
That  sire  and  son  made  way,  and  neither  spake, 

Till,  step  by  step  climbing  Mount  Aventine, 

They  reached  that  well-known  mansion.     Flake  by  flake 

The  snows  were  falling.     'Twas  not  like  the  day 

Of  that  fair  bridal  in  that  far-off  May. 

Alexis  spake  :  "  A  stripling,  sir,  I  saw 

Ofttime  thy  house  ;  memory  thereof  I  keep  : 

Beneath  the  great  stair,  on  a  bed  of  straw, 

Slept  then  a  mastiff:  there  I  fain  would  sleep." 

And  answered  thus  Euphemian  :  "  Let  it  be  ! 

Long  since  he  died  :  his  place  remains  for  thee." 

Once  more  the  son:  "  Footsore  and  weak  am  t  : 
'Tis  time  to  sleep :  my  pilgrimage  is  made  : 

The  mastiff  died  :  the  Pilgrim  soon  will  die." 
Then  down  upon  the  straw  his  limbs  he  laid, 

And  sank  asleep.     Whole  hours,  as  there  he  slept 

Two  women  by  his  couch  their  vigil  kept. 

Down  from  the  head  of  one,  silk-soft,  snow-white, 
Rolled  waves  of  hair :  the  younger  kept  her  bloom 

Though  worn.  They  sat  beside  him  till  twilight 
Was  wholly  lost  in  evening's  deepening  gloom, 

And  longed  that  he  might  wake  and  eat ;  and  spread 

Their  silks  and  velvets  closelier  on  his  bed. 


480  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 

At  morn  he  woke.     Sickness  and  crippling  pain 
Fixed  each  its  eye  thenceforth  on  that  sole  man  ; 

And  like  to  dead  men  on  the  battle-plain 
Silent  he  lay.     In  pain  his  day  began, 

In  pain  worked  on  till  daylight's  last  had  fled, 

As  though  great  nails  had  fixed  him  to  his  bed. 


And  ever  by  his  couch  they  ministered 

Who  loved  that  sufferer  well  yet  knew  him  not : 

For  at  the  first  note  of  the  wakening  bird 
That  mother  came  who  o'er  her  infant's  cot 

Ere  break  of  day  so  oft  had  peered ;  at  noon 

His  sire  drew  nigh  :  and  when  the  rising  moon 

Flung  o'er  the  marble  floor  a  beam  as  bright 
As  that  long  path  wherewith  it  paves  the  sea, 

Softly  she  came  upon  whose  bridal  night 
So  black  a  shade  had  fallen  so  suddenly ; 

And  by  his  bed  sat  in  the  white  moonshine 

Like  one  that  inly  says:  "  This  place  is  mine." 

Some  deem  they  knew  him  not  because  so  long 
That  Syrian  sun  his  wan  face  had  imbrowned  ; 

And  some  because,  at  God's  high  Will,  there  clung 
A  mist  illusive  still  their  eyes  around  ; 

While  some  are  sure  that  mist,  those  long  sad  years, 

Was  unmiraculous,  and  a  mist  of  tears. 

Yet  one  avers  that,  gazing  evermore 

Year  after  year  upon  that  Sacred  Face, 
Its  semblance  spread  that  Pilgrim's  countenance  o'er, 

Its  anguish  fixed,  its  gleams  of  heavenly  grace, 
So  that  who  saw  the  living  face,  beneath 
Its  veil  saw,  too,  the  Face  of  Christ  in  death. 

That  sufferer  at  that  hour  when  Jesus  died 

Saw  still  the  Three  Hours'  Darkness  move  o'er  earth  ; 

And  at  that  hour  when  rose  the  Crucified 
He  saw  God's  Universe  in  angel  mirth 

Flash  forth,  created  new,  and  heard  that  song 

The  Immaculate  sing,  the  singing  spheres  among. 


1 886.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  481 

And  Thrones  he  saw  in  Heaven  ;  and,  near  those  Thrones, 
Three,  for  those  Three  he  loved  in  glory  set : 

His  father's  was  the  loftiest,  for  his  groans 

Had  risen  from  crypts  of  grief  profounder  yet 

Than  theirs ;  and  near  he  saw  a  fourth,  low  down, 

Smaller;  and  o'er  it  hung  a  lowlier  crown. 


But  when  his  parents  at  high  festivals 

Serving  the  mighty  Rite  were  absent  long, 

A  slave,  not  Christian,  reared  in  those  great  halls, 
Of  him  had  charge.     At  times  he  did  him  wrong  ; 

Then  cried,  that  wrong  rebuked  by  no  complaint, 

"  The  man's  a  fool !     Not  less  the  fool's  a  Saint !  " 

And  oft  to  that  low  couch  a  man  there  came 
Old  ere  his  time,  with  haught  yet  pleading  eye, 

Who  spake  :  "  My  sires  to  me  an  ancient  name 

Bequeathed.     When  I  am  dead,  that  name  shall  die." 

And  he  made  answer:  "  Household  none  on  earth 

Can  last,  save  Christ's.     The  rest  are  nothing  worth." 

And  oft  a  woman  sat  beside  that  bed, 

Meek-eyed,  with  soft  white  hair:   "  A  child  had  I  : 
The  twentieth  winter  now  is  past  and  fled  : 

That  child  returns  not.     O  that  I  might  die!  " 
And  he  replied  :  "  Have  courage,  and  endure  ; 
Pray  well;  and  find  thy  children  in  God's  Poor." 

And  many  a  time  low-bent  beneath  the  rod 
A  weeper  wept,  still  fair  as  fair  may  be, 

But  bright  no  more :  "  Pray  well,  thou  Man  of  God, 
That,  living  yet,  my  husband  I  may  see, 

A  living  man  !  "     And  thus  he  made  reply  : 

"  Yea,  thou  shalt  see  thy  husband  ere  thou  die  !  " 

And  ever  when  those  Three  were  set  at  meat 
Euphemian  sent  him  viands,  meat  and  wine, 

But  he  of  barley  crusts  alone  would  eat : 
And  still  he  spake  to  them  of  things  divine ; 

And  still,  when  back  he  sank  and  ceased  from  speech, 

Musing  they  sat,  or  staring  each  on  each. 
VOL.  XLII. — 31 


482  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 

For  others  spake  of  great  things  through  the  ear 
Divulged  to  faith  :  he  spake  of  great  things  seen 

Clear  as  the  stars  of  heaven  through  ether  clear, 
Clearer  for  frosty  skies  and  north  wind  keen : 

The  Martyr  means  the  Witness:  such  was  he, 

Martyr,  not  slain,  of  selfless  charity, 


Which,  loving  well,  not  self,  but  Man,  our  brother, 
For  that  cause  loves  its  God  better  by  far 

Than  Man  ;  nor  suffers  mortal  loves  to  smother 
The  immortal  Love  with  lawless  loves  at  war. 

Such  men  there  lived  of  old  :  such  man  was  he, 

Bondsman  of  Love,  thence  setting  many  free. 

At  times  the  old  passion  in  their  bosoms  burned ; 

At  times  the  wound  half-healed  welled  forth  anew  ; 
Then  to  that  man  of  woes  those  strong  ones  turned, 

Child- like  ;  and  thus  he  gave  them  solace  true: 
"  God  yearns  to  grant  you  peace,  yet  waits  until 
Your  wills  are  one  with  His  all-loving  Will." 

And  when  they  said,  "  Weary  we  grow  of  prayer 
Because  God  hath  not  given  us  that  we  sought," 

He  answered :  "  Love  in  God,  and  work,  and  bear ; 
Let  no  man  say,  '  Serve  they  their  God  for  naught? ' 

Pray  for  great  Rome  ;  for  him  your  Lost  One  pray, 

That  he  be  faithful  till  his  dying  day." 

Suns  rose  and  set ;  the  seasons  circled  slow  ; 

Upon  that  house  settled  a  gradual  peace 
Breathed  from  that  spot  obscure  and  pallet  low  ; 

Yea,  as  the  dews  of  midnight  drench  a  fleece 
So  drenched  was  every  heart  with  that  strange  calm, 
And  wounds  long  festering  felt  the  healing  balm. 

Now  when  the  years  decreed  had  all  gone  by, 
There  came  from  God  an  answer  to  His  Saint : 

"  Rejoice  !     Thy  work  is  worked,  and  thou  shalt  die  :  " 
Then  thanks  he  gave  in  happy  tone  though  faint, 

And,  turning  to  that  slave  with  quiet  smile, 

Demanded  parchment  scroll  and  writing-style. 


1 886.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  483 

Then  wrote  he  down  the  story  of  his  life, 

And  God's  Command,  in  love  that  spares  not,  given  ; 

And  ended  thus  :  "  O  Parents,  and  O  Wife ! 
We  meet  ere  long :  no  partings  are  in  heaven. 

God  called  me  forth  ;  He  said,  '  Work  thou  My  Will.' 

In  part  I  worked  it,  and  I  work  it. still. 

"  Farewell !     God  sent  you  trials  great  below 
Because  for  you  He  keeps  great  thrones  on  high  : 

Likewise  by  you  God  willeth  to  bestow 
New  gifts  on  man.     Each  dear  domestic  tie 

Whereof  so  many  a  year  ye  stood  amerced 

Shall  yet  rule  earth — but  raised  and  hallowed  first. 

"  Because  ye  loved  your  God  as  few  men  love, 

He  called  you  forth  His  witnesses  to  be 
That  Love  there  is  all  human  loves  above, 

A  Love  all-gracious  in  its  jealousy,  . 
That,  all  exacting,  all  suffices  too ; 
The  world  must  learn  this  lesson,  and  from  you." 

When  all  was  writ  he  crossed  upon  his  breast 

His  arms,  and  in  his  right  hand  clasped  that  scroll  : 

And  as  the  Roman  monks  arose  from  rest 

Nocturns  to  chant,  behold,  that  dauntless  soul, 

Cleansed  here  on  earth  by  fire  expiatory, 

When  none  was  near  went  hence  into  the  glory  : 

Next  morning,  in  the  Lateran  basilic, 

Blessed  Pope  Innocent,  who,  throned  that  day 

High  in  Saint  Peter's  world-wide  bishopric, 
O'er  all  the  churches  of  the  world  held  sway, 

Had  sung  at  Mass  that  text,  though  dread,  benign, 

"  Unless  a  man  leave  all  he  is  not  Mine." 


That  moment  from  th  e  Holy  Place  a  Voice 

Went  forth :  "  All  ye  who  labour,  come  to  Me  :  " 

And  yet  again  :  "  All  ye  that  weep,  rejoice  !  " 
At  once  that  mighty  concourse  sank  on  knee, 

And  each  man  laid  his  forehead  near  the  ground  : 

Then,  close  to  each,  those  pillared  aisles  around, 


484  THE  LEGEND  OF  SAINT  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 

Distinct  and  clear  thus  heard  they,  word  by  word : 
"  Seek  out  My  Saint,  and  bid  him  pray  for  Rome : 

Yea,  if  he  pray,  his  pleading  shall  be  heard  ; 
That  lighter  thus  My  judgments  may  become, 

For  now  the  things  concerning  Rome  have  end. 

Seek  in  Euphemian's  house  my  Witness  and  my  Friend." 


Straightway  uprising  in  procession  went 

The  Roman  people.  With  them  paced  that  day 

The  Emperors  twain,  and  holy  Innocent 

Between  them,  higher  by  the  head  than  they. 

Their  crowns  Arcadius  and  Honorius  wore, 

His  mitre  Blessed  Peter's  successor. 

Arrived,  they  questioned  if  beneath  that  roof 

There  dwelt  a  Saint.     All  men  replied  :  "  Not  here  "  ; 

All  save  a  pagan  slave  that  stood  aloof, 

He  who  had  watched  the  sick  man  all  that  year : 

He  spake:  "A  Saint  is  here;  I  did  him  wrong, 

Yet  never  heard  from  him  upbraiding  tongue." 

Then  to  that  marble  stair  Euphemian  ran, 
And  passed  beneath  its  central  arch  ;  and  lo  ! 

Dead  on  his  small  straw  pallet  lay  the  man  ; 
And  on  that  face,  so  long  a  face  of  woe, 

Strange  joy  there  lived  and  mystical  content; 

And  o'er  him  with  wide  wings  an  Angel  bent. 

Aloud  Euphemian  cried  :  they  flocked  around 

,  And  saw  and  knelt.     But  some  that  stood  espied 
That  parchment  in  the  dead  hand  clasped  and  wound, 

And  strove  to  loose  it.     To  that  pallet's  side 
Drew  near  the  brother  Emperors:  each  was  fain 
To  win  it  from  his  hold,  but  strove  in  vain. 

Lastly  Pope  Innocent  approached,  and  spread 
Softly  upon  the  dead  man's  hand  his  own; 

And  instant  dropped  that  parchment  on  the  bed  ; 
Long,  standing  by  that  sacred  head  alone, 

The  Pontiff  eyed  that  scroll :  at  length  he  raised  ; 

While  each  man,  rising,  nearer  drew  and  gazed. 


1 886.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  ALEXIS. 

He  spread  it  wide :  he  read  with  voice  that  trembled  ; 

Then  beat  each  heart,  and  every  cheek  grew  pale, 
And  strong  men  wept  with  passion  undissembled  ; 

For  short,  and  plain,  and  simple  was  that  tale : 
No  praise  it  sued  ;  no  censure  seemed  to  shun : 
Record  austere  of  great  things  borne  and  done. 

Now  when  Euphemian  saw  these  things,  and  heard, 
Motionless  he  remained  as  shape  of  stone  ; 

Ere  long  he  stood  a-shivering  without  word ; 
And  lastly  fell  upon  the  pavement  prone  : 

But,  when  kind  arms  had  raised  him,  on  the  dead 

He  fixed  unseeing  eyes,  and  nothing  said. 

Next  through  that  concourse  rushed  the  Mother,  wailing, 
"  Let  be!     Shall  I  not  see  the  babe  I  bore  ?  " 

And  reached  the  dead  ;  and  then,  her  forces  failing, 
Sank  to  her  knees,  and  eyed  him,  weepijig  sore  ; 

And  as  a  poplar  sways  in  stormy  air 

So  swayed  she ;  and  back  streamed  her  long  white  hair. 

A  change — she  stood.     She  who,  her  whole  life  long, 
Had  lived  the  soft  and  silent  life  of  flowers 

Pleased  with  the  beam,  patient  of  rain  and  wrong, 
Had  held,  unconscious,  all  those  years  and  hours, 

A  fire  within  hidden  'neath  ashes  frore  : 

It  rose — to  speak  but  once,  and  speak  no  more. 

It  spake  reproach  :  "  Ah  me !  thy  Sire  and  I 
Sought  thee  while  near  thou  lay'st,  but  vainly  sought 

Likewise  a  household  slave  right  ruthlessly 

Smote  thee  at  seasons  :  thou  didst  answer  naught: 

Thou  didst  not  dry  our  tears !     O  Son,  O  Son  ! 

Make  answer  from  the  dead,  was  this  well  done  ?  " 

Last,  with  firm  foot  drew  near  the  one-day  Wife, 
And  looked  on  him,  and  said  :  "  I  know  that  face! 

Dead  is  the  hope  that  cheered  the  widow's  life  : 
'Tis  time  the  Wife  her  Husband  should  embrace  ! " 

She  spake,  and  sank  in  swoon  upon  his  breast, 

And  in  that  swoon  her  heart — then  first — had  rest. 


486  THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  ALEXIS.  [Jan., 

But  by  the  Dead  still  stood  Pope  Innocent ; 

His  deacons  placed  the  mitre  on  his  head  ; 
And  on  his  pastoral  staff  the  old  man  leant : 

Upon  that  throng  his  eye  he  fixed,  and  said, 
"  Henceforth  I  interdict  all  tears.     A  Saint 
Lies  here.     Insult  not  such  with  grief  or  plaint. 


"  This  man  was  God's  Elect ;  for  from  a  child 
He  walked,  God's  prophet  in  an  age  impure : 

Ye  knew  him,  sirs  :  harmless  and  undefiled 
He  nothing  preached.     To  act  and  to  endure, 

To  live  in  God's  light  hid,  unknown  to  die — 

This  task  was  his.     He  wrought  it  faithfully* 

"  This  man  a  great  work  wrought :  its  greatness  fills 
True  measure  since  His  Work  Who  still  divides 

To  each  man  severally  as  He  wills  ; 

He  common  souls  in  common  courses  guides : 

To  some  he  points  strange  paths  till  then  untrod : 

This  thing  had  been  ill- done  had  it  not  come  from  God, 

"  Behold !  He  spreads  the  smooth  and  level  way, 
And  blesses  those  that  walk  there  pure  and  lowly  : 

Behold  !  He  calls,  '  Ascend  My  hill,  and  pray, 
And  holy  be  ye,  for  your  God  is  holy : 

Let  each  man  hear  My  Voice  and  heed  My  Call ; 

For  what  I  give  to  each  I  give  for  all.'  " 

He  spake,  and  ceased.     Then  lo  !  an  angel  strain 
At  first  breathed  softly  round  that  straw-laid  bed 

Swelled  through  those  halls  :  and  in  it  mingled  plain 
That  voice  long  loved  of  him  so  lately  dead 

Then  when,  a  child,  he  poured  that  vesper  hymn, 

"  Salve,  Regina,"  through  the  twilight  dim. 

Again  and  yet  again  that  strain  ascended  ; 

And  in  it,  sweeter  each  time  than  before, 
The  child-voice  with  the  angelic  met  and  blended  ; 

The  courts,  the  garden  bowers  were  flooded  o'er, 
Till  sorrow  seemed  to  all  some  time-worn  fable, 
As  when,  to  lull  sick  babes,  old  nurses  babble. 


1 886.]  THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  ALEXIS.  487 

It  ceased.     The  Emperors  gave  command,  and  straight 
Men  stretched  the  Saint  upon  a  golden  bier 

For  kings  ordained ;  and  passed  the  palace  gate  ; 
And  laid  him  in  a  church  to  all  men  dear ; 

And  lo!  that  night  blind  men  who  near  him  prayed 

Made  whole,  gave  thanks,  departing  without  aid. 


But  in  that  palace  where  their  Sai-nt  was  born 
Till  death  those  mourners,  sad  no  more,  abode ; 

And,  yearly  as  recurred  her  marriage  morn, 

That  wife  put  on  her  wedding-dress,  and  showed 

A  paler,  tenderer  reflex,  many  said, 

Of  what  she  looked  the  morning  she  was  wed. 

Serving  their  God — all  lame  half-service  past — 
Serving  their  God,  and,  in  their  God,  His  poor, 

They  lived ;  and  God,  Whose  best  gift  is  His  last, 
Suffered  not  these  that  anguish  to  endure 

Worn  patriots  feel  watching  their  land's  decay : 

Ere  Rome  had  fall'n  they  died — on  the  same  day. 

But  two  years  later  came  that  Scourge  from  God,  1 
Alaric,  and  those  dread  warriors,  Goth  and  Hun, 

Whose  fathers  bled  beneath  the  Roman  rod. 
Above  the  city  walls  at  set  of  sun 

They  laughed  a  dreadful  laugh.     At  twelve  that  night 

Men  whispered,  each  to  each,  with  lips  death-white. 

The  carnage  o'er,  they  passed  to  farthest  shores, 

Exiles  or  slaves,  maiden  to  matron  bound, 
Noble  to  knight,  and  hoary  senators : 

Yet  through  God's  saints  who  slept  in  Roman  ground 
God  spared  most  part ;  and  scathless  towered  o'er  all 
The  basilics  three  of  Peter,  John,  and  Paul. 

t 
Euphemian's  latest  act  had  given  command 

To  raise,  where  stood  his  Fathers'  house  in  pride, 
A  church  to  God.     This  day  that  church  doth  stand 

Honoring  the  spot  whereon  his  dearest  died  : 
Of  that  huge  house  remains  that  stony  stair 
Alone,  which  roofed  the  dying  lion's  lair. 


488  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  [Jan., 

The  Romans  bring  their  infants  to  that  spot ; 

Young  children  glance  therein,  then  shrink  away 
Between  those  columned  ranges  twain  that  blot 

With  evening  shades  the  glistening  pavements  gray  ; 
And  oft  the  latest  lingerer  drops  a  tear 
For  those  so  sternly  tried,  and  yet  so  dear. 

But  ever  while  the  bells  salute  that  morn 

When  from  the  darksome  womb  of  mortal  life 

Their  Saint  into  the  heavenly  realm  was  born, 
Old  Aventine  with  bannered  throngs  is  rife  ; 

They  mount  o'er  ruins  where  the  great  courts  stood  : 

They  mark  old  Tiber,  now  a  shipless  flood. 

They  reach  the  church.     Star-bright  the  Altar  stands: 
The  Benediction  Hymns  ascend  once  more : 

They  press  yet  nearer:  Apostolic  hands 
Uplift  the  Eternal  Victim  :  all  adore. 

The  world  without  is  naught :  within  that  fane 

Abide  the  things  that  live  and  that  remain. 

There  still  thou  livest,  Alexis  !  livest  for  ever 
There  and  in  heaven,  rooted  in  endless  peace — 

Thou,  and  those  Three — like  trees  beside  a  river, 

That  clothe  each  year  their  boughs  with  fresh  increase 

Of  flower  and  fruit  embalming  airs  divine  : 

In  that  high  realm  forget  not  me  and  mine ! 


THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA. 

ON  a  beautiful  lake  connected  with  the  Upper  Missouri  by  a 
slender  stream  of  water,  and  in  full  view  of  a  mountain  called 
Harney's  Peak,  stood  an  Indian  village.  The  Indians  were  the 
last  remnant  of  the  Pottawatomies.  They  were  no  longer  war- 
like ;  they  had  long  ago  buried  the  tomahawk,  and  the  white- 
haired  Jesuit,  Father  Duranquet,  who  had  baptized  them  in  the 
Catholic  faith,  found  in  their  docility  and  devotion  a  sweet  re- 
compense for  his  many  years  of  hardship  in  the  wilderness. 
Thrice  every  twelvemonth  he  visited  his  dear  Pottawatomies, 
and  when  to-day  this  Christmas  day  is  ended  he  will  depart  to 
visit  other  missions  many  miles  to  the  south. 


1 886.]  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  489 

But  his  countenance  this  morning  does  not  wear  its  wonted 
look  of  cheerfulness.  The  government  agent,  whose  duty  it  is 
to  supply  the  Indians  on  this  little  reservation  with  provisions 
and  blankets  for  the  winter,  has  not  made  his  appearance  ;  game 
is  extremely  scarce  ;  the  buffalo  are  well-nigh  exterminated  ;  a 
piercing  wind  is  blowing  from  the  northwest;  his  flock  is  cold 
and  hungry. 

"  Father,"  spoke  a  young  woman,  as  the  priest  was  walking 
toward  a  small  church,  built  of  logs,  where  he  was  about  to 
offer  up  the  Holy  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass — "  Father,  see  what  a 
pretty  stone  I  picked  up  a  moment  ago  by  the  lake.  At  this 
season  there  are  no  flowers  to  decorate  the  altar ;  but  this  stone 
is  so  bright  and  shiny  'twill  take  the  place  of  the  flowers.  Do 
put  it  upon  the  altar  as  my  Christmas  gift.'* 

The  missionary  felt  a  cold  chill  through  his  veins  and  his 
face  grew  deathly  white  at  the  sight  of  the  golden  nugget. 
"  Minneola,"  he  whispered,  "you  have  never  disobeyed  me. 
Hasten  to  yonder  air-hole  in  the  ice-covered  lake,  and  through 
that  hole  drop  this  stone.  The  water  is  deep;  'twill  not  be 
found  again.  And  I  bid  you  to  tell  nobody."  These  words  sur- 
prised Minneola.  Why  did  Father  Duranquet  reject  her  Christ- 
mas gift  ?  Why  did  he  speak  in  low,  faltering  accents,  and  look 
as  if  she  had  shown  him  a  rattlesnake  ? 

But  she  was  always  obedient,  and  without  a  murmur  she 
turned  her  steps  toward  the  frozen  lake.  Minneola  had  almost 
got  to  it  when  she  met  a  young  chief  named  Bald  Eagle.  He 
was  her  husband  ;  they  had  been  married  only  a  few  months. 
All  his  happiness  was  wrapped  up  in  her.  Many  a  mile  had  he 
roved  over  the  snow-covered  prairie  in  order  to  procure  food 
for  Minneola,  but  not  an  antelope,  not  a  bison  had  he  seen.  She 
was  growing  thinner  and  weaker;  starvation  was  coming.  Can 
we  wonder  that  Bald  Eagle  this  Christmas  day  had  a  fierce 
gleam  in  his  eye  ? 

"  The  black-robe  tells  us,"  he  said,  clutching  her  arm,  "  to 
love  those  who  do  us  wrong.  But  how  can  I  love  the  wicked 
agent  who  has  kept  back  from  us  our  rations  and  our  blankets  ? 
O  Minneola  !  I  don't  want  to  go  to  heaven,  if  I  must  meet  pale- 
faces there." 

"  Hush  !  Speak  not  thus,"  exclaimed  Minneola,  with  a  look 
of  tender  reproach.  "  Among  the  pale-faces  are  good  men  as 
well  as  bad.  Is  not  Father  Duranquet  good  ?  " 

"  Ay,  true,"  answered  Bald  Eagle.  "  If  all  were  like  him  we 
poor  Indians  would  not  have  been  driven  further  and  further 


490  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  [Jan., 

from  the  hunting-grounds  of  our  ancestors.  But  how  few  are 
like  him !  Why,  I  once  heard  a  pale-face  say  that  the  only  way 
to  civilize  an  Indian  was  to  kill  him.  And  the  dishonest,  robbing 
agent  will,  no  doubt,  kill  you  this  winter.  But,  Minneola,  if  you 
freeze  or  starve  to  death  I  vow  to  place  upon  your  grave  the 
agent's  scalp.  I  will  redden  the  snow  on  your  grave  with  his 
blood.  By  the  Great  Spirit  I  will !  " 

"  Go  to  church — go !  "  said  Minneola.  "  It  pains  me  to  hear 
such  threats.  Mass  will  begin  presently.  I  will  join  you  in  a 
few  minutes."  And  she  strove  to  push  him  gently  from  her. 

But  Bald  Eagle  espied  something  in  her  hand  and  asked  what 
it  was.  "  Let  me  see  that  glittering  thing,"  he  said,  "  and  then 
I  promise  to  go  to  Mass." 

Minneola  opened  her  palm  and  showed  him  the  nugget,  but 
did  not  give  it  to  him. 

"  Let  me  have  that  pretty  stone,"  he  continued. 

"  I  cannot.  Father  Duranquet  bade  me  throw  it  into  the 
lake,"  said  Minneola. 

"  Let  me  have  it,"  repeated  Bald  Eagle — "  let  me  have  it." 

More  than  one  pale-face  in  Wildcat  Town  had  asked  him  if 
he  ever  found  such  bright,  yellow  stones  on  the  reservation. 
Here  at  last  was  one  of  those  very  stones.  It  might,  perhaps, 
buy  food  and  clothing  for  Minneoia. 

"  Well,  do  not  tell  Father  Duranquet  that  I  disobeyed  him," 
said  Minneola,  after  Bald  Eagle  had  entreated  her  to  surrender 
the  nugget,  and  then  changed  his  tone  and  declared  that  she 
must  give  it  up. 

Poor  Minneola !  There  was  a  heavy  Weight  on  her  heart 
as  she  knelt  at  Mass  this  Christmas  morning.  She  could  not 
sing  the  "  Adeste  Fideles"  as  she  used  to  sing  it.  Her  mind  was 
distracted  with  vague  alarms.  Nor  did  Bald  Eagle,  who  knelt 
by  her  side,  pray  much  either.  He  heard  the  northwest  wind 
howling  round  the  church,  he  saw  his  wife's  hollow  cheeks,  and 
he  determined,  as  soon  as  Father  Duranquet  should  have  set  out 
for  the  other  missions — which  he  would  doubtless  do  despite  the 
intense  cold — to  hasten  to  the  nearest  pale-face  settlement  with 
the  bright,  yellow  stone  and  try  to  exchange  it  for  food  and 
blankets. 

On  the  morrow  Father  Duranquet  bade  farewell  to  the  Potta- 
watomies,  arid  as  he  went  away  shivering  in  his  buffalo-robe  he 
wondered  how  many  of  them  would  perish  with  cold  and  hunger 
before  spring  returned.  It  was  too  late  to  send  a  complaint  to 
Washington.  His  unhappy  flock  must  abide  their  fate. 


1 886.]  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  491 

But  within  half  an  hour  after  the  priest  had  departed  Bald 
Eagle  left  the  village  in  another  direction.  He  was  young  and 
active,  and  swift  was  his  pace  to  the  nearest  town  of  the  pale- 
faces. He  reached  it  at  dusk,  and  the  first  person  he  met  was 
Bob  Gould.  Gould  had  more  than  once  tried  to  persuade  him 
to  smuggle  brandy  into  the  mission,  but  Bald  Eagle  had  always 
refused,  and  Gould  knew  that  it  was  because  Father  Duranquet 
had  forbidden  him.  Now,  Gould  was  in  the  liquor  business 
and  hated  the  priest.  "  Only  for  him,"  he  used  to  murmur,  "I 
should  be  much  richer  than  I  am."  And  it  was  this  very  Gould 
who  had  once  said,  in  Bald  Eagle's  hearing,  that  the  only  way  to 
civilize  an  Indian  was  to  kill  him. 

For  these  words  Bald  Eagle  hated  the  publican.  But  this 
winter  evening  the  crafty  white  man  perceived  his  advantage, 
and,  taking  the  young  chief  by  the  hand,  he  addressed  him  in 
winning  accents.  "  Come  to  my  fireside  and  I  will  warm  you  and 
feed  you,"  he  said.  "  I  heed  not  the  cold,"  answered  Bald  Eagle. 
"But. my  kinsmen  are  suffering.  The  agent,  who  should  have 
come  to  us  six  weeks  ago  with  supplies,  has  not  come.  I  must 
have  food  and  blankets.  Is  this  of  any  value  ?  "  As  he  spoke  he 
held  up  the  nugget. 

Gould,  self-possessed  as  he  was,  could  with  difficulty  pre- 
serve a  composed  countenance  at  the  sight  of  the  gold.  It  was 
almost  as  big  as  a  pigeon's  egg.  But  when  he  answered  his 
voice  betrayed  no  excitement.  Yet  a  keen  ear  might  have 
heard  his  heart  thumping.  "  'Tis  a  pretty  enough  bauble,  and 
will  do  to  ornament  my  mantelpiece,"  said  the  tavern-keeper. 
"  I  will  give  you  a  sack  of  flour  for  it."  Bald  Eagle  eagerly 
pressed  the  nugget  into  his  hand.  Then,  being  asked  where  he 
found  it,  he  said  that  his  wi/e  had  found  it  by  the  shore  of  the 
lake.  "  And  I  remember,"  he  added,  "  that  before  the  frost 
set  in,  while  I  was  digging  for  roots  near  a  muskrat-hole  by 
the  water-side,  I  saw  a  number  of  stones  exactly  like  this  one, 
although  not  quite  so  large.  If  I  see  any  more  shall  I  bring  them 
to  you  ?  " 

"  Hardly  worth  the  trouble,"  answered  Gould  carelessly.  Yet 
his  hand  quivered  as  he  dropped  the  precious  metal  into  his 
pocket.  What  visions  of  wealth  were  rising  up  before  his  mind's 
eye  !  "  I  may  soon  be  worth  millions,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
while  he  led  the  innocent  Pottawatomie  to  his  drinking-saloon, 
where,  after  refreshing  him,  he  sent  him  home  rejoicing  with  as 
much  meal  as  he  was  able  to  carry.  "  And  expect  me  to-morrow 
with  a  sledge-load  of  flour  and  blankets,"  said  Gould,  into  whose 


492  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  [Jan., 

mind  an  inhuman  thought  had  just  entered — a  thought  which 
only  a  demon  could  have  inspired. 

And  now  all  night  long  across  the  desolate  prairie — abandoned 
even  by  the  wolves— Bald  Eagle  travelled.  No  rest  did  he  give 
his  weary  limbs  :  Minneola  was  famishing.  And  when  Harney's 
Peak  flamed  in  the  morning  sunshine  he  greeted  his  loving  spouse 
with  a  cheery  voice  as  she  ran  to  meet  him.  But  it  was  not  until 
Bald  Eagle  had  pressed  her  hand  and  ridiculed  her  foolish  scruples 
that  Minneola  consented  to  taste  the  food  which  he  had  brought. 
"  My  sleep  last  night,"  she  said,  "  was  disturbed  by  a  mournful 
dream.  I  saw  an  Indian  passing  by  me.  Then  came  another  and 
another  of  our  dwindling  tribe — all  in  solemn  procession,  with 
heads  bowed  down  as  if  in  grief.  Alas  !  I  fear  that  some  calami- 
ty is  approaching.  And  'twill  be  all  owing  to  me.  Oh  !  why  did 
I  disobey  Father  Duranquet  ?  " 

"  Silly  woman,  eat  and  be  happy,"  answered  Bald  Eagle. 
"  The  priest  is  a  holy  man,  but  he  is  not  wise,  or  he  would  not 
have  bidden  you  to  throw  away  the  pretty  stone  which  you 
wanted  to  place  upon  the  altar  for  a  Christmas  gift.  Why,  'twas 
that  very  stone  which  purchased  this  food ;  and  we  shall  all  have 
enough  to  eat  ere  long,  and  blankets  too."  But  Minneola  shook 
her  head,  and  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  sat  by  his  side 
eating ;  for  while  she  ate  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  her 
mournful  dream.  It  had  left  a  deep  impression  on  her. 

This  day  Gould  did  not  arrive  with  blankets  and  provisions,  as 
he  had  promised.  But  he  appeared  the  following  day,  and  the 
villain  inwardly  chuckled  as  Indian  after  Indian  took  a  blanket, 
then  gratefully  shook  his  hand. 

Ere  he  went  back  to  Wildcat  Town  he  examined  the  shore 
of  the  lake,  marking  well  the  spot  where  Minneola  had  found  the 
nugget ;  it  was  close  by  the  muskrat-hole  where  Bald  Eagle  had 
seen  so  many  little  yellow  stones. 

"  Thousands  of  miners  will  soon  be  flocking  hither,"  thought 
Gould.  "  But  my  claim  will  be  the  richest  claim  of  all."  Can 
we  wonder  that  he  felt  elated  ?  He  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment 
that  his  hell-inspired  scheme  for  exterminating  the  Pottawatomies 
would  succeed. 

Poor  Minneola,  loath  as  she  was  to  partake  of  the  food 
which  had  been  got  in  exchange  for  the  nugget — the  nugget 
which  Father  Duranquet  believed  to  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  lake 
— yielded  to  the  pangs  of  hunger  and  ate.  But  nothing  could  in- 
duce her  to  accept  a  blanket.  She  drew  scornfully  back  when 
Gould  offered  her  one  ;  nor  would  she  let  Bald  Eagle  even  touch 


1 886.]  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  493 

one  of  the  blankets  with  the  tip  of  ^his  finger.  Bald  Eagle 
laughed,  but  let  her  have  her  way  in  this  matter,  for  he  had  never 
known  her  to  be  so  in  earnest.  There  was  an  expression  of  fiend- 
ish delight  on  Gould's  face  as  he  went  away,  which  Minneola 
perceived,  and  it  made  her  tremble.  And  when  Bald  Eagle  fol- 
lowed her  into  his  wigwam  and  asked  why  she  was  moaning, 
Minneola  only  answered :  "  Woe  is  coming — woe  is  coming." 

Two  weeks  later  a  figure  on  horseback  might  have  been  seen 
watching  from  a  distance  the  stricken  Pottawatomies.  Cold  as  it 
was,  Gould  was  willing  to  endure  the  cold  in  order  to  make  sure 
that  his  scheme  was  succeeding.  Indian  after  Indian  had  fallen  a 
victim  to  a  horrible  disease.  By  and  by  not  a  Pottawatomie  was 
left  alive,  except  two,  a  man  and  a  woman,  whom  Gould  through 
his  spy-glass  espied  wending  their  way  to  the  westward.  He 
ground  his  teeth  when  he  saw  that  Bald  Eagle  and  Minneola  had 
escaped  the  plague.  For,  rude  and  lawless  as  were  the  citizens  of 
Wildcat  Town,  even  in  their  eyes  he  might  appear  a  criminal 
worthy  of  being  "  lynched,"  if  what  he  had  done  should  become 
known  to  them.  And  Bald  Eagle  was  not  a  fool.  He  must  sus- 
pect the  truth.  Would  he  not  make  it  known  ?  Gould  must  not 
let  Bald  Eagle  and  Minneola  escape.  He  did  not  follow  them 
immediately,  however,  but  went  back  to  Wildcat  Town  for  a 
supply  of  ammunition. 

In  Wildcat  Town  this  winter  the  small-pox  had  broken  out 
and  carried  off  a  good  many  people.  But  the  greater  the  scourge 
the  more  brandy  and  whiskey  had  been  imbibed.  Gould's  tavern 
had  never  been  so  popular.  And  now  when  he  reappeared  among 
his  friends  they  set  up  a  shout,  and  Gould  so  far  forgot  himself 
as  to  exhibit  the  nugget  of  gold.  Then  some  one  called  his  health 
and  wished  him  good  luck.  His  health  was  toasted  uproarious- 
ly, and,  full  of  craft  as  Gould  was,  he  himself  drank  more  than 
was  wise,  and  very  soon  it  was  noised  abroad  that  where  the 
Pottawatomie  mission  stood  was  a  gold-mine  ! 

Had  a  supernatural  being  dropped  down  from  the  sky  and 
told  the  inhabitants  of  Wildcat  Town  that  by  simply  shoulder- 
ing a  pick-axe  and  marching  due  west  forty  miles  they  might  all 
become  millionaires,  the  bustle  and  uproar  could  not  have  been 
greater.  Straightway  the  small-pox  was  forgotten  ;  on  every  side 
appeared  new  life  and  energy,  while  the  telegraph  flashed  the  ex- 
citing news  to  the  remotest  corner  of  the  land.  Then  an  unex- 
pected thaw  set  in,  the  snow  melted  away,  and,  too  impatient 
to  wait  for  spring-time,  an  army  of  swearing,  drinking,  rollicking 
men,  with  pick-axes,  pistols,  and  whiskey,  turned  their  faces  in 


494  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  [Jan., 

the  direction  of  the  Black  Hills,  and  at  their  head  was  Bob 
Gould  ;  for  so  anxious  was  he  about  securing  the  richest  claim 
that  he  forgot  to  go  in  pursuit  of  Bald  Eagle  and  Minneola. 

Ay,  gold  there  was,  and  plenty  of  it,  just  where  the  rum- 
seller  had  told  them  there  was  gold  ;  and  nuggets  almost  as  big 
as  his  fist  were  unearthed.  Into  a  trench  the  dead  Indians 
were  tumbled  pell-mell.  What  was  the  life  of  a  few  score  of  red- 
skins compared  with  a  gold-mine?  Nobody  cared  to  ask  ques- 
tions. And  when,  toward  the  end  of  March,  a  Catholic  priest  came 
among  the  miners  and  implored  them  to  tell  him  how  all  this  had 
happened — what  had  destroyed  his  flock  ?  had  they  starved,  or 
been  frozen,  or  what?  and  who  had  pulled  down  the  little  church 
and  the  wigwams? — -the  miners  were  too  busy  to  answer,  except 
by  a  shrug  of  their  shoulders.  Where  the  church  had  stood  a 
big  hotel  was  being  erected  ;  countless  gambling-hells  and  drink- 
ing-saloons  were  doing  a  flourishing  business  ;  a  theatre  would 
be  opened  in  a  week  ;  there  was  even  talk  of  a  railroad  ;  Wildcat 
Town  would  soon  be  a  mere  village  compared  with  Auriopolis. 

But  Father  Duranquet  was  not  to  be  rebuffed  ;  undaunted  by 
scowls  and  gibes,  he  continued  to  ask  questions,  until  finally  he 
learnt  that  small-pox  had  carried  off  his  whole  flock  except  two, 
who  had  escaped  and  wandered  into  the  wilderness.  This  much 
Bob  Gould  had  divulged  when  tipsy  to  a  friend  less  tipsy  than 
himself.  And  it  was  this  friend  of  his  who  now  paused  a  moment 
digging  for  gold  to  speak  a  calm  word  to  the  heart-broken  priest. 
"  Gould  himself,"  added  the  miner,  "  hasn't  been  seen  in  several 
weeks.  He  couldn't  sleep  at  night;  had  something  on  his  mind 
that  troubled  him ;  and  the  last  I  saw  of  him  he  was  galloping  off 
towards  Harney's  Peak,  howling  like  a  madman." 

Father  Duranquet,  who  knew  the  desperate  character  of  Bob 
Gould,  could  not  help  suspecting  that  in  some  mysterious  way  he 
was  at  the  bottom  of  all  this  ruin  and  desolation.  He  had  heard 
enough,  and,  mounting  his  horse,  he  rode  out  of  Auriopolis  in 
quest  of  the  two  Indians  whom  the  small -pox  had  spared.  And 
as  he  jogged  along  he  called  to  mind  the  nugget  which  Minneola 
had  brought  to  him  on  Christmas  morning.  She  had,  no  doubt, 
obeyed  him  and  thrown  it  into  the  lake.  Yet  was  it  not  strange 
that  within  a  few  months,  and  winter-months  too,  a  gold-mine 
should  have  been  discovered  on  the  mission-ground?  Perhaps 
after  his  departure  Gould  had  visited  the  mission,  and  in  an  un- 
guarded moment  Minneola  might  have  told  him  about  the  nugget. 
And  then — auri  sacra  fames ! — the  unhappy  Indians  had -been 
doomed.  While  Father  Duranquet  was  thinking  of  this  he  met 


1 886.]  THE  FAULT  OF  MINNEOLA.  495 

a  band  of  men  carrying  rifles  and  pick-axes.  They  had  trudged 
all  the  way  from  Missouri,  and  they  stared  at  him  with  curious 
eyes,  and  marvelled  that  he  was  not  going  in  the  direction  of  the 
wonderful  gold-mine.  In  reply  to  a  question  they  told  him  that 
two  Indians,  one  of  whom  was  a  squaw,  had  been  seen  about  a 
week  before.  "  But  reckon  they're  starved  to  death  by  this 
time."  And  with  a  heartless  laugh  they  went  on  towards  the 
Black  Hills — for  was  it  not  enough  to  make  them  laugh  that  a 
white  man  should  bother  his  head  about  a  redskin? 

The  following  day,  near  a  grove  of  cottonwood  trees,  a  shock- 
ing sight  presented  itself  to  the  missionary's  eyes.  A  man  sur- 
rounded by  wolves  was  crying  for  help  and  doing  his  utmost  to 
beat  them  off.  But  the  savage,  hungry  pack  pressed  closer  and 
closer;  nor  could  Father  Duranquet  do  anything  to  save  him  :  his 
terrified  steed  refused  to  advance,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  unfor- 
tunate traveller  was  torn  in  pieces.  Then,  strange  to  relate,  one 
of  the  wolves  separated  itself  from  the  pack,  and,  holding  in  its 
jaws  the  man's  head,  passed  slowly  within  a  very  little  distance  of 
the  priest.  And  lo !  the  blood-besmeared  head  was  the  head  of 
Bob  Gould. 

This  evening,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  Father  Duranquet  per- 
ceived on  a  low  hill  ahead  of  him — a  buffalo.  It  was  the  first  that 
he  had  seen  in  more  than  a  twelvemonth,  and,  as  he  gazed  on  the 
solitary  creature,  he  did  not  know  that  it  was  the  very  last  buffalo 
left  in  that  region.  Of  the  millions  that  had  once  roamed  over 
the  plains  of  the  far  West,  all  had  been  destroyed  except  this 
one.  As  Father  Duranquet  was  watching  it  slowly  retreating  be- 
hind the  hill,  his  horse  snorted  and  swerved  to  one  side  with  such 
violence  that  he  was  almost  thrown  out  of  the  saddle.  Turning 
to  look  for  the  cause  of  its  fright,  what  should  he  see,  half-hidden 
by  a  clump  of  sage-brush,  but  an  Indian ;  and  the  Indian  was  Bald 
Eagle !  He  was  crouched  at  the  foot  of  a  mound,  at  one  end  of 
which  was  planted  a  little  cross  made  of  a  broken  arrow.  His 
head  reclined  on  his  breast ;  dangling  from  his  wrist  was  Min- 
neola's  rosary,  and  in  his  right  hand  he  clutched  a  bow,  from 
which  he  had  aimed  a  shaft — perhaps  at  the  buffalo  on  the  hill. 
But  Bald  Eagle's  strength  had  departed ;  the  missile  had  dropped 
half-way.  Then,  sinking  beside  the  grave  of  his  beloved,  he 
had  gone,  let  us  hope,  to  rejoin  Minneola  in  the  happy  hunting- 
ground. 

Used  as  the  aged  missionary  was  to  scenes  of  woe  and  death, 
his  eyes  were  bedimmed  with  tears  as  he  knelt  and  offered  up  a 
prayer  for  the  last  of  the  Pottawatomies. 


496  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 


SOLITARY  ISLAND. 
PART  FOURTH. 

CHAPTER   VII. 
"WHO   WOULD   HAVE  THOUGHT   IT?" 

THAT  was  a  miserable  day  for  Ruth  Pendleton  which  wit- 
nessed the  vulgar  outbursts  of  Barbara  Merrion  and  showed  to 
her  the  real  character  of  the  woman  in  whom  she  had  confided. 
There  was  nothing-  to  prevent  her  from  telling  the  story  to  the 
whole  world ;  and  in  her  heart  there  was  the  dread  of  its  reach- 
ing Paul's  ears,  as  it  must  if  he  remained  long  in  the  town  or  if 
Barbara  encountered  him.  She  was  compelled  to  believe  that 
Paul  thought  no  more  of  her  than  of  any  other  woman,  in  spite  of 
Barbara's  gossip.  His  manner  had  always  been  cordial,  respect- 
ful, and  distant.  He  had  never  sought  her  out,  and  he  so  near ; 
had  never  presumed  to  any  of  a  lover's  boldness  or  familiarity  ; 
had  always  been  as  distant  as  a  polite  acquaintance  could  be,  and 
talked  of  New  York  and  his  visit  to  her  convent  as  common 
things,  which  they  were  not  to  her.  Was  the  bit  of  Bristol-board 
a  fancy,  then?  She  looked  at  it  many  times  a  day.  How  it 
would  amuse  him  when  Barbara  related  its  history  !  Her  cheeks 
burned  at  the  thought  of  the  humiliation.  The  squire  assured 
her  that  he  had  arranged  it  with  Barbara  nicely,  and  that  night 
Barbara  came  herself  with  Florian  to  protest  against  the  conduct 
of  that  day  and  to  declare  that  the  secret  would  be  a  secret  for 
ever. 

Ruth  was  fain  to  be  satisfied,  but  could  not  trust  Barbara  un- 
til she  heard  that  Paul  had  also  departed  from  Clayburg.  It  was 
a  delicate  and  thoughtful  act  on  the  poet's  part,  and  well  deserved 
its  intended  effect.  Ruth  rejoiced  over  it  from  one  point  of  view. 
It  was  hardly  probable  that  he  had  met  Barbara.  If  so,  and  she 
had  told  him,  there  was  no  dread  of  meeting  him  again  in  this 
world.  Her  dream  was  faded  into  the  chili  reality  of  day.  Re- 
signation was  Ruth's  stronghold,  and  she  bore  this  sorrow  as 
sweetly  as  she  had  borne  many  others  in  her  placid  life.  The 
winter  wore  away,  until  blustering  March  began  to  hint  at  the 
warmth  of  spring.  Clayburg  was  deep  in  snow  and  ice  still,  and 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  497 

won  many  a  malediction  from  the  genial  Peter,  as  he  surveyed 
the  wintry  desolation  from  the  office  of  the  hotel  on  the  morning- 
after  his  arrival. 

"  The  whole  place  ought  to  be  ceded  to  the  British  govern- 
ment," he  said  to  the  amused  bystanders,  "  for  a  compensation, 
of  course.  You  might  take  it  back  in  the  summer,  but  in  winter 
a  Yankee  ought  to  be  forbidden  to  enter  it.  If  ye  had  steam  now 
under  the  streets  to  keep  the  snow  melting  there  at  least,  it 
wouldn't  be  so  bad.  Ye  look  like  Esquimaux." 

"  We  air  Esquimaux,"  said  a  shrewd  youngster,  "  except  in 
the  matter  of  whiskey.  That  don't  freeze,  anyway." 

"  Yer  right,  b'y,"  said  Peter,  with  a  wink ;  "  and  that  reminds 
me,"  giving  a  mighty  cough,  "that  I  must  take  something  for  this 
cold,  if  I  hope  to  escape  consumption.  Step  up,  lads." 

Peter  was  interrupted  in  his  approach  to  the  bar  by  the  sud- 
den opening  of  a  door  near  him  and  the  immediate  appearance  of 
the  squire  in  his  very  path.  It  was  as  if  the  world  stood  still  with 
surprise  when  the  two  old  worthies  faced  each  other.  The  squire 
walked  haughtily  away  in  one  direction,  and  Peter  as  haughtily 
in  the  other,  with  his  eye  flashing  and  a  certain  weak  but  con- 
sistent inclination  to  turn  back  and  address  his  enemy,  visible  in 
the  uncertain  movement  of  his  legs  towards  the  bar-room.  He 
came  to  the  door  once,  with  the  "  tears  of  Erin  "  in  his  hand  and 
his  eye  hinting  at  an  invitation ;  but  the  squire  was  deep  in  the 
weekly  paper,  and  looked  savage.  He  was  examining  the  hotel 
register  when  Peter  came  again  to  the  office,  and  had  put  on  his 
glasses  to  read  Peter's  new  name. 

"  Masquerading,"  he  snorted;  "  nothing  more!  His  name's 
no  more  Parker  C.  Lynch  than  mine  is.  I  know  him.  The 
greatest  natural  fool  that  ever  was  born  inside  Ireland.  He's 
Peter  Carter  the  world  over,  and  he'll  die  so." 

"  Here's  my  card,"  said  Peter,  at  his  elbow,  "and  there's  my 
reference,"  laying  his  finger  on  Paul's  name.  "  I've  come  all  the 
way  from  New  York  to  apologize  to  your  daughter  for  certain 
conduct  unbecoming  a  gentleman — " 

In  some  way  unknown  the  squire  got  self-possession  enough 
before  this  speech  was  well  begun  to  seize  Peter's  hand  jovfully 
and  crush  his  words  out  of  hearing  by  loud  and  joyful  shouts  of 
welcome,  while  at  the  same  time  he  pushed  him  out  of  the  office 
into  a  private  room. 

"  This  is  amazing,"  said  Peter,  "  and  unexpected.  After  our 
long  estrangement,  to  meet  in  this  friendly  way— 

"  It  is  amazing,"  said  the  squire,  with  a  groan,   "and  I  shall 
VOL.  XLII.— 32 


498  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

end  the  whole  matter  with  shooting  you.  What  do  you  mean  by 
shouting-  out  in  a  public  room  matters  concerning  your  private 
life  and  mine  ?  How  dare  you  speak  of  my  daughter  as  you  do 
in  public  ?  It  is  enough  to  drive  a  man  mad  ;  and  if  you  don't 
shut  up  and  get  out  of  this  town  at  once,  or  never  say  a  word  of  me 
or  mine  until  you  are  dead,  I'll  arrest  you  as  a  swindler  and  give 
you  six  months  in  jail.  I'm  the  sheriff  of  this  county,  and  I  can 
do  it.  Carter,  you're  a  fool,  and  you  never  were  a  gentleman." 

"  I'm  a  fool,  I  admit,"  said  Peter  in  deep  astonishment,  "  to 
stand  the  like  o*  this  from  you,  you  red-faced  country  nabob,  with 
as  much  sense  in  your  system  as  there  is  in  my  nose  !  You  must 
know  once  for  all  that  I  shall  talk  as  I  please,  about  anybody  I 
please,  and  where  I  please.  I'll  go  out  this  minute,"  said  Peter, 
rising,  "  and  detail  the  whole  story  of  your  daughter  to  the  world. 
I'll  put  it  in  the  paper." 

The  squire  drew  a  pair  of  handcuffs  from  his  pocket  and  stood 
before  the  door  jingling  them. 

"  You're  going  to  jail,  Carter,  this  instant,"  said  he  deter- 
minedly. "  I  am  not  going  to  endure  you  any  longer." 

"  O — ah  !  "  quoth  Peter,  with  a  long  stare  at  the  handcuffs  and 
the  situation.  "  My  name's  not  Carter,"  he  said  after  a  pause, 
"  but  just  what  you  saw  written  in  the  register — P.  C.  Lynch — 
and  I'm  the  husband  of  Madame  De  Ponsonby,  and  the  father  of 
that  sweet  girl  Frances.  Paul  Rossiter  will  swear  to  it.  I'm 
sure  you  wouldn't  put  a  born  gentleman  in  jail.  'Twas  yourself 
brought  the  trouble  on.  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  father,  and  I 
came  up  here  to  apologize  to  Miss  Ruth  for  the  mean  advantage 
I  took  of  her  some  time  ago  when  looking  for  Paul." 

The  squire  could  not  but  feel  his  sincerity,  and  with  a  slow, 
uncertain  movement  he  put  away  the  handcuffs. 

"  Why  do  you  make  such  a  fool  of  yourself,  then,"  said  he, 
"  shouting  all  you  know  to  the  world,  and  dragging  a  lady's  name 
before  the  public  in  a  bar-room  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  do  that,"  Peter  stoutly  asserted.  "  Did  I,  though  ? 
Well,  if  I  did — and  yet  I  can't  believe  it — I'm  heartily  sorry,  and 
I'll  drink  to  me  own  repentance,  with  your  kind  permission. 
After  that  I'll  call  on  Miss  Ruth,  explain  myself,  and  retire." 

"  No,  you  needn't  mind,  Carter,  or  Lynch.  I'll  bear  the  apol- 
ogy. Miss  Pendleton  is  not  anxious  to  see  you  again,  and  it 
would  disturb  her  too  much.  I  am  sorry  we  can't  offer  you  the 
hospitality  of  our  house,  but  it  would  only  end  by  carrying  you 
off  to  jail.  I'm  the  sheriff  now,  and  I  don't  stand  any  more  non- 
sense." 


i886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  499 

"  Just  so,"  said  Peter  dubiously.  "  Man  dressed  in  a  little 
silly  authority  commits  such  absurdities  as  make  fools  weep. 
Who  asked  you  for  your  hospitality,  Pendleton  ?  Haven't  t 
money  to  pay  me  own  way  ?  You  may  be  sorry  you  can't  offer 
it,  but  you  have  saved  me  the  trouble  of  declining.  And  this 
idiot  was  once  my  friend  !  " 

"  And  would  still  be  your  friend,  if  you  knew  enough  to  keep 
your  mouth  shut,"  the  squire  snapped  in  a  savage  way. 

"  Would  you,  now  ?  "  Peter  asked  earnestly.  "  Then  hear 
me.  I  close  my  mouth  now  and  for  ever.  If  my  mouth  is  all 
that  separates  us,  I'll  do  away  with  it.  I'll  sew  it  up  or  deposit 
it  in  a  bank  as  far  as  I  can." 

"  There's  enough  of  it  to  draw  big  interest,"  said  the  squire, 
softening. 

"  D'ye  say  so  ?  "  Peter  roared.  "  Then  we're  reconciled.  I'll 
have  in  a  punch  to  cement  the  glory  of  this  day,  and  as  long  as  I 
am  in  this  town  we'll  make  the  night  rosy  as  the  dawn  with  feast- 
ing. Don't  be  afraid,  squire,  of  my  peaching  on  ye  henceforth. 
As  long  as  I  stay  I'll  act  like  the  gentleman  I  am  by  birth,  and— 
and — and — I  can't  think  of  the  other  word,  but  ye  can  depend  on 
me." 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  anyway?"  said  the  squire  sus- 
piciously. 

"  I  came  up  with  Paul ;  ye  know  Paul  Rossiter  ?  Be  George  ! 
I  forgot  all  about  him  " ;  and,  as  if  a  sudden  thought  occurred  to 
him,  "  Squire,  I'll  bet  ye  ten  dollars  I'll  sleep  under  your  roof  to- 
night." 

The  squire  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  yet  with  a  lingering 
sense  of  uneasiness.  What  could  the  old  fellow  mean  ? 

"  Don't  get  that  idea  into  your  head,"  said  he. 

"  I  haven't  got  the  idea,  squire.  I  won't  go  till  you  ask  me, 
of  course.  That's  what  I  mean.  But  I'm  sure  ye'll  ask  me. 
Never  mind  ;  we'll  not  talk  of  it.  Come  on  for  a  game  of  euchre  ; 
and  mind,  it's  double  the  stakes  after  every  deal." 

In  the  excitement  of  a  favorite  pastime  the  old  gentlemen  for- 
got all  unpleasantness,  all  idea  of  time,  past  or  future.  The  din- 
ner-hour passed  unnoticed,  and  its  noisy  herald,  the  bell  of  the 
establishment,  made  no  impression  on  their  ears — circumstances 
leading  to  complications  and  encounters  the  results  of  which 
found  point  and  emphasis  in  the  fact  that  Peter  laid  his  round, 
jolly  head  on  one  of  the  squire's  pillows  that  night.  For  Ruth, 
having  dined  alone,  and  certain  that  her  father  would  not  return 
to  dinner,  took  advantage  of  the  clear,  bright  day  to  visit  some  of 


5oo  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

her  poor.  They  met  at  the  post-office — Paul  hearty  and  loud  from 
a  consciousness  of  the  happiness  to  come,  she  a  trifle  pale  and 
saddened  on  many  accounts.  It  was  : 

"  Miss  Pendleton,  are  you  not  glad  to  see  an  old  face  to-day?  " 
and  "  Mr.  Rossiter,  this  is  an  unexpected  pleasure,"  with  bows 
and  tremblings  and  heart-beats  innumerable,  and  many  inquiries 
about  nothing  at  all,  until  Paul  said : 

"  I  am  going  to  visit  you  this  evening,  with  your  permission, 
and  I  shall  bring  with  me,  if  you  like,  an  eccentric  friend  whom 
you  may  have  met — Mr.  Peter  Carter,  as  he  is  commonly  known." 

Ruth  smiled  an  assent  while  she  tingled  with  shame,  and  the 
scene  faded  for  an  instant  from  her  vision.  He  must  know  all, 
then,  to  be  here  at  this  season  and  in  the  company  of  this  dread- 
ful old  man  ! 

"  His  rightful  name,"  said  the  poet,  "  is  Lynch,  and  he  is  the 
father  of  that  Miss  Lynch  who  was  to  be  the  wife  of  our  friend 
Florian." 

"  Who  was  to  be?"  she  repeated.  "  Is,  then,  that  story  true 
which  we  have  heard  of  her  cruel  desertion  ?  " 

"  Unfortunately,  yes  "  ;  and  he  added  in  a  lower  voice,  "  You 
may  wonder  at  my  return  in  this  rough  season,  but  I  come  on  a 
matter  that  concerns  us  both." 

"  Had  you  not  better  wait  ?  "  she  said  politely,  glancing  around, 
while  inwardly  she  grew  hot  and  cold  from  shame. 

"  I  merely  wished  to  give  you  a  hint,"  he  said,  "  of  what  you 
are  to  expect."  And  the  cruel  fellow  knew  all  the  time  the  double 
meaning  in  his  words  and  watched  her  confusion  with  secret  de- 
light. "  The  island  has  another  solitary." 

She  cast  a  startled  look  at  him. 

"  Florian  has  come  back  a  penitent,  thrown  up  the  world  and 
its  honors,  and  proposes  to  live  and  die,  as  did  his  father,  in  the 
obscurity  of  that  island." 

"  I  am  dazed,"  she  replied  ;  "  I  cannot  understand  such  things." 

"  They  are  as  true  as  they  seem,  Miss  Pendleton.  This  evening 
I  shall  explain  them.  Florian  is  on  the  island,  has  been  there  for 
ten  days,  and  Mrs.  Merrion  has  married  a  Russian  count  and  gone 
to  Europe.  You  are  still  more  surprised.  Let  me  say  good-day 
to  you,  and  do  me  the  honor  of  being  at  home  this  evening." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  allowed  her  to  pass  on  her  way.  At  the 
hotel  he  found  the  squire  and  his  partner  still  deep  in  their  game, 
with  faces  excessively  red  from  hot  punch,  and  no  idea  of  the 
state  of  time  and  their  own  stomachs.  The  squire  shook  hands 
with  Florian's  rival  gruffly. 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  501 

"  I  suppose  you  have  dined,"  said  the  poet.  "I  am  a  little 
late." 

"  It's  hardly  ten  o'clock,"  said  Peter.  "  Come,  squire,  double 
the  stakes."  But  the  mention  of  time  had  struck  the  squire  like  a 
blow.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  and  tossed  the  cards  pettishly  at 
Peter,  who  tossed  them  back  again,  and  finally  threw  them  over 
his  person  in  a  shower. 

"  I'm  late  again,"  said  the  squire.  "  This  card-business  is  too 
much  for  me.  And  now  what  will  Ruth  say  ?  " 

"  Papa,"  mimicked  Peter,  who  was  now  in  the  mood  for  royal 
fun,  "  why  do  you  return  when  the  praties  are  cold — " 

Paul  laid  his  han^on  Peter's  arm  in  time  to  check  his  impru- 
dence. "  We  shall  all  dine  together,"  said  he.  "  Squire  Pendle- 
ton,  will  you  accept  an  invitation  to  dinner?  " 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  squire  ungraciously.  "  There's  no  help 
for  it  now.  I  shall  be  happy." 

"And  mind,"  said  the  jovial  Peter,  as  they  proceeded  to  the 
dining-room,  "that  you're  going  to  entertain  the  dignitary  of  the 
county — the  man  who  may  have  yet  the  privilege  of  hanging 
you." 

Very  doubtfully  the  squire  received  the  poet  and  Peter  at  his 
home  that  evening.  Ruth  blushed  on  greeting  the  latter,  but  his 
apology  was  so  utterly  wanting  in  eccentricity,  so  suited  to  the 
occasion,  and  his  manner  afterwards  was  so  modest  because  of 
Paul's  warnings,  that  both  father  and  daughter  were  put  at  their 
ease.  Ruth  was  again  deceived.  This  visit  concerned  only  Flo- 
rian,  she  thought,  and  consequently  there  was  no  reason  why  she 
could  fear  that  Barbara  had  exposed  her.  Talk  drifted  into  the 
usual  channels,  and  presently  Peter  coaxed  the  squire  to  a  glass 
of  cider  in  the  back  room  and  a  quiet  game  of  cards.  The  door 
was  left  open  for  various  reasons  quite  patent  to  all  present,  but 
the  reasons  were  deprived  of  their  force  by  the  continual  noise 
which  the  veterans  made.  In  the  midst  of  it,  and  in  spite  of  it, 
Paul  related  the  circumstances  which  had  led  to  Florian's  flight 
to  the  island,  and  gave  Ruth  a  description  of  his  experience  with 
the  penitent  that  morning. 

"  It  is  a  wreck  you  have  seen,  not  Florian,"  she  said,  with  the 
tears  in  her  eyes ;  "  but  out  of  it  the  old  Florian  will  come  back 
to  us.  Thank  God  !  I  hope  Linda  and  the  prince  know  this  day 
of  joy." 

"  It  is  quite  impossible,"  said  Paul,  "  that  he  should  take  up 
the  life  his  father  led.  He  is  too  useful.  Yet  it  fits  him  wonder- 
fully ;  and  to  see  Kim  you  would  think  the  prince  was  revived." 


502  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

"  We  shall  leave  Pere  Rougevin  to  settle  his  future.  He  will 
make  it  easy  for  him  to  resume  the  old  life  without  violence  to 
the  grace  which  he  has  received.  I  shall  make  bold  to  visit  him 
to-morrow." 

"  Double  the  stakes,"  came  Peter's  voice  through  the  door, 
"  and  fire  away." 

The  squire  cast  a  satisfied  glance  at  the  polite  manner  of  the 
poet.  No  sign  of  the  lover  there  ! 

"  I  shall  have  the  honor  of  accompanying  you,"  said  Paul,  "  if 
you  have  no  objections.  I  am  going  to  the  island  myself.  My 
two  reasons  for  coming  here  were —  " 

"  Three  games  out  of  four !  "  shouted  Pet^r.  "  Paul,  b'y,  New 
York  against  the  world !  I'm  waxing  the  Clayburg  heathen." 

"  Hard  work,"  thought  the  squire,  "  to  make  love  with  Peter 
around." 

"  I  wished  to  make  certain  of  what  had  happened  to  Florian, 
for  the  sake  of  Frances,"  continued  the  poet. 

"  Poor  girl !  "  said  Ruth,  "  she  will  be  his  salvation  yet." 

"  Indeed  she  will,  Miss  Pendleton.  I  believe  his  heart  turns 
that  way  still.  No  great  heart  like  his  could  ever  find  content  in 
such  a  creature  as  Mrs.  Merrion.  And  my  other  reason  was  to 
remove  any  misunderstanding  between  you  and  me." 

"  Misunderstanding!"  said  Ruth,  greatly  surprised. 

"  I  have  loved  you  a  long  time,  Miss  Pendleton — fully  eight 
years.  1  have  tried  to  keep  it  a  secret,  to  bury  it  for  ever  from 
your  knowledge,  and  yet  I  could  not.  I  could  not  leave  you  with- 
out having  spoken.  God  knows  if  I  might  not  have  made  a  mis- 
take in  so  doing  !  It  would  be  an  eternal  regret  to  me,  and  so  I 
wish  to  know  from  your  own  lips,  Ruth,  if  I  must  part  from  you 
for  ever.  It  rests  with  you  to  give  me  the  greatest  happiness  or 
the  greatest  sorrow  of  my  life." 

"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  give  you — "  She  hesitated,  for  her 
emotion  was  strong,  and  she  dreaded  an  exhibition  of  tears  be- 
fore Peter  and  the  squire.  Paul  trembled  in  spite  of  his  confi- 
dence in  Barbara's  story. 

"  I  shall  be  compelled  to  give  you,"  said  Ruth  calmly,  after  a 
time,  "  what  you  call  the  greatest  happiness  of  your  life."  And 
she  laid  her  hand  in  his  for  an  instant,  while  their  eyes  met  and 
exchanged  the  thoughts  too  true  and  sweet  for  expression.  His 
face  was  radiant,  and  he  made  no  demur  when  she  begged  to  be 
excused  and  withdrew  to  her  own  room.  God  had  been  very 
good  to  her.  In  the  very  moment  of  her  resignation  to  his  will 
he  had  honored  and  blessed  her  beyond  belief.  The  squire  saw 


1 886.]  SOLITAR  Y  ISLAND.  503 

her  depart  with  a  hearty  delight,  and  thereafter  accepted  triumph 
and  defeat  with  indifference  ;  but  his  heart  fell  when  Paul,  in  the 
presence  of  the  journalist,  made  a  formal  demand  upon  him  for 
his  daughter. 

"  You  needn't  hesitate,"  said  Peter;  "the  two  were  made  for 
each  other,  and  no  man  can  part  them.  Didn't  you  and  I  try  it 
in  New  York,  like  the  foolish  boys  we  are?  Didn't  I  keep  on 
trying  it  for  years  afterward  ?  If  love  can  more  than  match  two 
such  giants  as  we,  where's  the  use  of  fighting  it?  Come,  now, 
surrender.  New  York  is  at  the  pinnacle  of  glory  to-night.  Beat- 
en in  cards  and  love  under  your  own  roof,  the  least  you  can  do 
is  to  come  down  gracefully,  and  then  select  your  monument. 
There's  no  room  for  ye  here  after  to-night.  Ye  poor  old  squire  \ 
Ye  were  always  a  fool,  but  I  never  saw  ye  look  so  much  like  one 
as  now." 

"  I  had  thought  Ruth's  idea  of  marrying  was  over,"  said  the 
squire  sadly  ;  "  but  if  you've  made  it  up  between  you,  I  have 
only  to  say  yes." 

"  So  you  may  go  to  the  hotel,  Paul,  b'y,"  said  Peter,  "  for  the 
old  boy  won't  be  able  to  stand  the  sight  o'  ye  for  a  week,  and  I 
shall  stay  here  to  comfort  him.  Be  off,  now! " 

The  squire  felt  the  need  of  consolation  and  made  no  objection 
to  Peter's  proposal.  The  poet  modestly  withdrew,  not  at  all  dis- 
heartened by  the  squire's  reluctance  to  receive  him  as  a  son-in- 
law,  while  the  old  man  proceeded  to  drown  sorrow  and  time  in 
Peter's  fashion,  without  any  regard  for  the  morrow.  The  stakes 
were  doubled  innumerable  times  before  the  winter's  dawn  steal- 
ing coldly  into  the  room  displayed  the  empty  pitchers,  scattered 
cards,  and  chairs  upset  in  cheerless  outline. 

Florian  easily  guessed  the  relation  existing  between  the  two 
who  visited  him  the  next  day.  Ruth's  manner  was  always  so 
clearly  marked  in  its  modesty  and  reserve  that  her  intimates 
might  soon  discover  any  variation  in  it.  The  new  hermit  ac- 
cepted the  position  quietly  and  without  so  much  as  a  single  re- 
flection on  what  might  have  been.  He  did  not  look  for  any 
surprise  on  the  part  of  those  who  came  to  see  him,  nor  did  Ruth 
manifest  any.  It  was  as  if  he  had  been  there  ten  years.  Paul 
gave  them  an  opportunity  to  talk  alone. 

"  I  congratulate  you,"  said  Florian  gravely,  "  on  your  pre- 
sent happiness.  You  are  every  way  deserving  of  it." 

"  And  I  congratulate  you  on  yours,"  said  Ruth.  "  Our  island 
seems  destined  to  have  a  tenant  always." 

She  would  have  wept,  had  she  been  alone,  at  his  sadly  altered 


504  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

appearance,  stooped,  pale,  hollow-eyed,  and  the  firm  lips  quiver- 
ing-. But  better  that  way  and  dear  to  God  than  in  the  pride 
of  his  physical  strength  and  political  glory  ! 

"  Yes,  this  is  a  place  for  happiness,"  he  said,  looking  around 
the  homely  room.  "  It  healed  my  father's  heart — " 

"  And  it  will  heal  yours,"  she  added  for  him  as  he  left  the 
thought  on  his  lips  unexpressed.  He  smiled  as  if  she  had  re- 
proved him. 

"  I  hope  so.  You  have  not  known  all  my  wickedness,  Ruth. 
I  deserted  Frances—" 

"  I  know  it  all,  Florian.  Do  not  distress  yourself  with  re- 
counting it.  Your  reparation  will  be  all  the  sweeter  to  her,  poor 
girl." 

"  How  can  I  make  it  ?"  he  said  humbly.  "  I  have  put  a  shame 
upon  her  which  only  marriage  can  take  away  ;  yet  I  could  not 
ask  her  after  the  wrong  I  have  done." 

"  Do  not  think  about  it  at  all,"  said  Ruth  with  emphasis. 
"  Go  to  her,  tell  her  your  sorrow  and  your  resolutions.  Her 
love  will  find  a  way  through  difficulties.  Linda  would  rejoice 
to  see  this  hour,"  she  added.  **  O  Florian,  what  a  time  it  has 
all  been  !  What  a  treasure  we  missed  finding !  I  cannot  forgive 
myself  for  not  knowing  in  time  !  " 

"  I  came  near  missing  it  altogether,"  he  said  in  turn.  "  I  was 
but  little  disturbed  at  his  discovery  and  death.  What  a  fate  is 
mine  !  Had  I  remained  in  Clayburg  he  would  have  made  him- 
self known  to  me.  Had  I  even  been  faithful  to  God  while  in 
the  world  he  would  have  granted  me  the  favor.  Had  I  tried  to 
discover  him,  and  not  feared  it,  I  would  have  found  him.  Had  I 
been  faithful  to  Frances  he  would  not  have  died.  My  ambition, 
avarice,  disloyalty  to  the  faith,  and  desertion  of  my  promised 
wife  have  been  almost  balanced  by  the  fact  that  I  am  his  mur- 
derer. I  would  never  have  known  my  dreadful  share  in  his 
death  had  I  responded  to  the  feelings  which  decency  and  grace 
prompted  in  me  when  I  was  last  on  the  island  after  his  death. 
But  no;  I  went  back  to  evil,  and  thus  was  I  turned  from  it.  May 
God  and  my  saintly  father  help  me  ;  but  indeed,  Ruth,  I  am  a 
most  miserable  man  !  " 

His  cheeks  flushed  while  he  was  speaking,  and  Ruth's  tears 
fell  slowly.  It  was  his  first  outburst  of  feeling  in  mortal  presence 
since  the  night  his  crime  was  fixed  upon  him.  He  bowed  his 
head  upon  the  table  and  wept  in  silence. 

"  Thank  God,  as  I  do,  for  these  tears,"  she  said.  "  Yours  is  a 
strong  nature,  Florian,  and  once  turned  from  the  right  it  would 


i886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  505 

require  just  such  means  to  bring  you  back.  I  am  not  sorry  for 
your  sins,  since  I  see  your  repentance.  Your  father  cannot  re- 
gret his  sad  ending,  nor  your  share  in  it,  when  he  sees  your  tears 
falling  into  the  hand  of  God.  O  Florian  !  be  of  good  heart :  all 
your  sins  are  forgiven  you." 

It  was  a  haggard  face  that  he  presented  on  rising. 

"  I  know  they  are  forgiven.  I  am  very  fortunate.  Pardon 
me  for  intruding  these  things  on  you.  It  is  not  a  day  for  tears." 

The  sun  was  shining  maliciously  on  the  helpless  snow,  whose 
white  fingers  clung  in  vain  to  the  spruce-trees  and  the  rocks,  and 
with  much  weeping  lost  their  hold  and  fell  out  of  sight.  Patches 
of  gold  color  lay  along  the  ice,  and  big  shadows  stole  around  the 
islands,  retreating  from  the  sun.  The  air  and  earth  sparkled.  A 
soft  wind  blew  from  the  south  in  gusts  and  filled  the  narrow 
channels  with  music.  It  was  not  a  day  for  tears,  as  Florian  had 
said,  but  the  sight  of  that  lonely  grave  upon  the  hill  was  ever  in 
his  eyes,  and  the  beauty  of  the  world  lay  under  its  shadow.  For 
him  the  sun  rose  and  set  behind  it,  and  beyond  it  he  saw  heaven 
and  hell,  the  eternal  truths  of  religion,  and  the  path  that  led  to 
heaven.  He  could  not  but  be  a  little  gloomy,  and  the  presence 
of  men  augmented  the  gloom.  His  friends  parted  from  him  with 
many  kind  wishes  and  hopes  for  the  future.  Like  his  father,  he 
said  nothing  and  watched  them  until  they  were  out  of  sight. 
What  was  he  thinking  of  ?  The  poet  thought  it  might  be  of  the 
days  when  the  rights  now  exercised  by  another  over  Ruth  be- 
longed to  him.  The  poet  was  wrong.  Florian  was  wondering 
if  his  repentance  would  bring  him  the  peace  of  heart  which  at- 
tached to  the  former  hermit  of  Solitary  Island  ! 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
REPARATION. 

THE  oldest  inhabitant  of  Clay  burg,  mindful  of  that  day,  years 
back,  when  Florian  had  received  a  public  reception  from  his 
townsmen,  and  particularly  moved  by  the  physical  and  moral 
grandeur  of  the  man  at  the  time,  had  he  seen  the  figure  which 
one  April  day  walked  to  the  residence  of  Pere  Rougevin  would 
have  been  overcome  with  resentment  and  shame.  Still  pale  and 
emaciated,  stooped  and  shambling  in  his  walk,  as  plainly  clothed 
as  a  workman,  Florian  proceeded  through  the  streets  of  the  town 


5o6  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

as  calmly  as  if  it  was  a  custom  with  him  so  to  do.  People  stared 
at  the  stranger  and  wondered  at  his  likeness  to  "  their  boy," 
speculated  as  to  who  he  might  be,  and  were  mystified  when  no 
one  knew  him.  Florian  was  more  than  disguised.  It  was  an- 
other person  who  walked  the  streets  that  day  on  his  pilgrimage 
of  reparation.  Pere  Rougevin  received  him  with  respect,  yet 
distantly.  Since  the  days  when  he  had  been  his  altar-boy  affec- 
tion had  not  existed  between  them  to  any  degree.  Florian  had 
not  desired  it,  and  the  polite  priest  had  never  intruded.  He  had 
not  even  presumed  on  his  knowledge  of  Florian's  antecedents, 
holding  himself  as  a  disinterested  spectator  when  his  official 
character  was  not  dragged  in.  The  priest  was  not  a  lovable 
man  commonly,  being  prudent  and  diplomatic  and  stern,  but  his 
character  was  one  that  drew  out  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors  and 
held  the  interest  of  his  people.  Its  intellectual  side  was  upper- 
most, which  fact  sufficiently  accounted  for  the  repulsion  he  and 
Florian  exercised  on  each  other. 

"  You  are  aware,"  said  Florian,  without  any  preface,  "  of  all 
that  has  happened  to  me.  I  suppose  Mr.  Rossiter  told  you.  You 
will  not  be  surprised  at  my  visit,  then.  I  come  to  ask  your  par- 
don for  much  that  I  have  thought  and  said  and  done  against  you, 
and  much  more  for  the  lack  of  gratitude  I  had  for  your  services. 
My  father  thought  you  a  valuable  friend,  and  your  fidelity  proves 
that  he  did  not  esteem  you  too  highly.  Will  you  believe  that  I 
regret  most  sincerely  my  past  conduct  ?  " 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  priest,  with  some  constraint ;  for  he  saw 
that  Florian  was  in  an  odd  mood,  one  that  he  could  not  then 
conceive  to  be  natural.  Both  Ruth  and  Paul  had  urged  him  to 
influence  Florian  against  his  resolution  of  living  on  the  island, 
but  he  saw  no  way  to  begin.  He  was  farther  removed  from  the 
politician  than  ever,  and  when  he  said  no  more  Florian  rose 
to  go. 

"  I  heard  a  rumor,"  said  Pere  Rougevin  then,  "  that  you  in- 
tended to  spend  the  rest  of  your  life  on  the  island." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Florian  simply. 

"  As  an  act  of  penance  ?  "  inquired  the  priest. 

"  And  from  inclination,  too,"  answered  the  penitent. 

"  It  is  a  rather  violent  change,"  suggested  the  other.  "Are 
you  sure  it  is  an  act  agreeable  to  God?  One  should  hesitate  and 
seek  advice  before  rushing  into  positions  of  that  kind." 

"  Is  not  inclination  a  good  adviser  ?  "  Florian  asked. 

"  To  a  penitent  it  is  a  great  enemy.  Inclinations  for  a  long 
time  bad  or  erratic  do  not  lead  to  good  in  an  instant." 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  507 

"  I  am  ready  for  advice,"  he  replied  humbly.  "  Would  you 
advise  me?" 

"  Then  tell  me  minutely  your  reasons  for  leaving  a  life  which 
had  become  a  second  nature,"  said  the  pere,  with  business-like 
alacrity,  "  and  turning  to  one  so  trying  and  unusual  in  our  day." 

Without  emotion  or  affectation  Florian  laid  bare  his  most 
secret  thoughts  to  the  priest  and  made  plain  his  reasons  for  liv- 
ing on  the  island  as  a  solitary. 

"  I  did  not  think  it  unusual  after  my  unusual  career,"  he  said  in 
conclusion.  "  It  seemed  a  fitting  close  to  a  life  so  full  of  error." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,"  the  priest  said  doubtfully,  "  and  you  can 
wait.  A  few  months  hence  it  may  be  easier  to  arrive  at  a  deci- 
sion. In  the  meantime  you  can  continue  to  follow  those  im- 
pulses which  God  may  give  you.  I  can  say  nothing  more  now." 

These  words  Florian  received  as  a  command,  although  the 
priest  was  himself  surprised  at  them.  He  had  already  arrived  at 
a  speculative  decision  in  the  case,  but  Florian's  simple  narrative 
had  made  a  great  impression  on  him,  and,  obeying  a  strong  mo- 
mentary impulse,  he  resolved  to  attempt  no  interference  in  a  mat- 
ter which  Providence  seemed  to  have  taken  into  its  own  hands. 
Florian,  therefore,  went  away  uninstructed.  He  took  the  morn- 
ing train  for  New  York,  buying  his  ticket  with  the  squire's 
startled  eyes  fixed  on  him  fearfully.  Was  this  a  ghost  ?  the  squire 
asked  himself.  He  did  not  venture  to  address  the  figure,  and 
Florian  did  not  observe  him,  while  the  more  he  looked  at  the 
undressed  beard  and  the  lean  form  the  less  resemblance  could  he 
see  to  his  famous  boy.  The  eyes  of  New-Yorkers  were  not  so 
easily  deceived.  Passing  through  the  streets  to  his  long-desert- 
ed office,  he  met  but  a  few  acquaintances,  and  all  recognized  him, 
offered  him  their  sympathy  for  the  illness  of  which  they  had 
heard  nothing,  and  wondered  at  the  odd  manner  in  which  he 
accepted  their  condolences.  Just  then  he  was  a  political  cipher 
and  was  not  troubled  with  the  presence  of  old  adherents.  A 
paragraph  in  the  paper  announced  his  return  to  the  metropolis, 
and  brought  fear  and  trepidation  into  the  De  Ponsonby  house- 
hold, but  in  no  other  circle  did  it  create  any  excitement.  Peter 
read  the  notice  from  the  paper  with  considerable  satisfaction  in 
his  garret. 

"  It's  the  season  of  marriages,"  he  said  to  himself ;  "  and  since 
Paul  is  going,  I'd  like  to  see  Frank,  poor  creature,  going  too. 
She  has  a  large  heart,  that  girl,  and  may  be  she  could  supply  him 
with  a  little— poor  divil !  he  needs  it.  I'd  not  grudge  him  some 
of  my  own,  if  it  could  be  transmitted  like  the  transfusion  of 


508  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  ["Jan'» 

blood;  but  it  can't,  and,  anyway,  how  do  I  know  that  I  have  so 
much  of  it  to  spare  ?  I  lost  some  on  Maria,  the  poor  thing — it's 
little  she  appreciated  it.  What  grand  opportunities  ye  lost, 
Peter — no,  Parker,  old  b'y,  since  ye  lost  the  first ;  that  was  when 
Adam  took  a  bite  of  the  apple,  poor  fellow.  There's  more  of  him 
in  us  than  original  sin.  Hey,  Paul,  b'y,  what  d'ye  think  of  him 
turning  up — the  man  with  a  gizzard  instead  of  a  heart  ?  " 

Paul  had  just  entered  for  a  chat,  and  the  paper  was  waved  at 
him  triumphantly. 

"  Is  it  so  ?  "  said  he  in  excitement.     "  Let  me  see." 

"  There,  now,  don't  be  impatient,  and  I'll  read  it  for  ye.  Now 
that  Ruth  is  yours  ye  have  no  reason  to  be  hasty  for  the  rest  of 
your  days." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Paul,  after  hearing  the  paragraph  ;  "  I 
can't  stay."  And  he  was  out  of  the  door  so  swiftly  that  Peter  had 
barely  time  to  throw  on  his  coat  and  follow  him  with  a  burning 
curiosity.  He  saw  the  poet  rush  around  the  block  and  enter  the 
boarding-house,  and  he  followed  more  leisurely  to  arrange  for  his 
own  safety  in  entering  it.  Frances  was  already  acquainted  with 
the  fact  so  eagerly  communicated  by  the  poet,  and  looked  help- 
less and  delighted. 

"  We  must  get  your  mother  into  humor  some  way,"  said  Paul ; 
"  why,  we  may  not  have  a  minute  to  spare." 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Frances  tremulously,  "  that  she  never  will 
forgive  him — never." 

"  Don't  fear,  Frank.  I  have  a  last  resort — your  father.  He 
will  surely  make  a  break  of  some  kind  if  we  get  into  difficulties. 
I  must  see  madame  instantly.  Depend  on  me." 

The  poet  was  lull  of  joy  and  excitement  as  he  sought  out 
madame,  but  he  repressed  it  into  its  ordinary  limits  as  he  entered 
into  her  parlor.  The  stern  image  of  Parker  C.  Lynch,  ever  be- 
fore her  eyes  like  a  fate,  also  concealed  the  smile  which  the  poet's 
presence  always  brought  to  her  lips. 

"  I  have  a  bit  of  information  to  impart,  madame,"  said  he  mod- 
estly, "  which  may  surprise  you.  I  am  soon  to  be  married." 

"  Agreeable  information,"  said  madame,  interested.  "  And 
who  is  the  fortunate  lady?" 

"  Miss  Ruth  Pendleton,"  he  replied.  "  You  recall  her,  do  you 
not  ?  " 

With  a  slight  frown  madame  said  she  did,  and  looked  as  if  she 
did  not  care  to  hear  more ;  but  the  poet's  purpose  would  take  no 
hints  at  that  solemn  moment.  Half-laughing,  he  went  on  to 
wring  her  heart  still  more. 


I886.J  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  509 

"  She  was  here  one  winter  some  years  ago,  and  later  still  while 
I  was  rambling  north.  She  stopped  at  Mrs.  Merrion's.  I  hope 
it's  not  to  her  detriment  in  your  mind  that  she  was  once  engaged 
to  Flonan  Wallace." 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  madame  severely  ;  "  but  I  would  prefer  his 
name  to  be  left  unmentioned  in  this  house." 

"It  has  merited  the  opprobrium  of  silence,"  Paul  admitted 
jauntily,  as  if  pronouncing  sentence  on  a  professional  criminal. 
"  What  he  made  poor  Frances  suffer  he  has  endured  himself  at 
Ruth's  hands,  only  reasons  differed  in  both  cases.  Now  he  is 
just  after  receiving  a  second  instalment  of  justice,  and  I  am  glad 
of  it." 

So  he  was,  but  not  in  the  sense  which  madame  apprehended, 
and  at  the  same  time  she  could  not  repress  her  curiosity. 

"  What  was  the  instalment  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Haven't  you  read  the  newspapers  ?  His  charmer,  Mrs.  Mer- 
rion,  married  the  Russian  count  and  went  to  Europe." 

"  Oh  !  yes,  I  heard  that.     It  was  deserved — well  deserved." 

"  Those  who  knew  his  dealings  with  the  beauty  did  not  get 
the  whole  truth.  It  was  he  who  deserted  her." 

"  What  more  could  be  expected  of  him  ?  However,  he  had  a 
sensible  woman  to  deal  with.  If  Frances  only  had  her  spirit !  " 

"  The  funniest  part  of  the  story  is  his  motive  for  acting  as  he 
did.  Some  miracle  of  grace  was  worked  in  him.  He  threw  up 
Mrs.  Merrion  of  his  own  free-will,  threw  up  his  political  life,  and 
retired  into  a  northern  solitude  to  begin  a  lifelong  penance. 
What  do  you  think  of  that?" 

Madame  surveyed  the  statement  and  the  poet  with  keen  eyes 
and  keen  judgment  before  answering. 

"  On  the  face  of  it  there  is  something  strange,  and  in  him  re- 
volting," said  she.  "  I  see  that  he  has  returned  to  New  York." 

"  Why,  he  has  a  notion  that  a  penitent  sinner  is  bound  to 
make  as  great  an  atonement  as  possible,  and  he  is  going  about  ask- 
ing pardon  of  those  whom  he  has  injured,  and  offering  restitution. 
He  asked  pardon  of  me  and  several  others.  What  an  idiot !  " 

"  You  saw  him,  then  ?  "  said  madame  coldly. 

"  I  did,  for  I  followed  him  to  his  retreat  while  pursuing  my 
affianced  in  the  icy  north.  I  was  shocked  at  his  appearance. 
He  looked  as  if  he  had  suffered  from  a  fever.  He  was  living  on 
bread  and  water.  His  hair  and  beard  had  grown,  his  elegance 
was  gone,  and  I  feared  he  was  a  little  off — that  is,  insane ;  but  he 
wasn't.  Ruth  told  me  he  was  very  sensible.  Do  you  remember 
seeing  Miss  Pendleton,  madame?" 


5io  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

"  Why,  I  have  an  idea,"  said  madame,  "  but  not  a  very  dis- 
tinct one.  Of  course  there  is  no  other  woman  like  her  in  the 
whole  world." 

"  She  is  the  soul  of  truth.  She  told  me  of  many  things  con- 
cerning Mr.  Wallace,  and  she  hinted  that  he  was  coming  to  see 
you  to  ask  your  pardon  and  Frances'.  She  asked  that  you  would 
receive  him  kindly  for  the  sake  of  his  late  repentance.  In  this 
point  I  differ  from  Miss  Pendleton.  You  owe  it  to  yourself  and 
your  daughter,  madame,  to  dismiss  him  the  moment  he  makes 
his  appearance.  1  give  you  Ruth's  message,  as  in  duty  bound, 
and  my  opinion  along  with  it." 

"  Your  opinion  is  a  little  harsh,'*  said  the  lady.  "  I  could  not 
deny  him  the  satisfaction  of  asking  pardon  for  a  great  wrong." 

"  Oh  ! "  said  Paul,  agreeably  disappointed,  and  he  saw  that  it 
was  safe  to  let  the  great  man  plead  his  own  case.  In  another 
room  Peter  was  arguing  the  matter  with  his  daughter.  He  sus- 
pected, in  some  fashion,  that  Florian  was  coming  to  renew  his  suit, 
but  Frances  would  not  admit  it. 

"  And  if  he  does,  I  am  sure,  Frances,  you  will  receive  his  at- 
tentions kindly."  Peter  made  a  strong  effort  at  pure  English 
in  speaking  to  his  daughter.  "  I  wouldn't  blame  him  so  much 
for  his  former  behavior.  These  American  politicians  with  equali- 
ty in  their  mouth  all  the  time  have  a  great  love  for  blue  blood 
and  rank.  I  can't  find  fault  with  him  for  not  wishing  to  marry 
my  daughter.  Pm  disreputable.  And  he  was  nothing  but  a  Yan- 
kee wire-puller." 

"  Doesn't  blood  tell,  and  wasn't  he  a  prince?"  said  Frances. 

"  Not  at  all,"  blurted  Peter,  trampling  the  objection  to  death. 
"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all !  What  are  these  Russians,  even  the  best 
of  them  ?  Tartars,  Mongols,  candle-and-oil-eaters,  savages  mas- 
querading !  Blue  blood  in  them  f  No,  sir !  No,  Frances,  not 
even  in  their  czar!  So  don't  mind  his  display  of  plebeian  horror, 
but  take  pity  on  him  if  he  asks  for  it." 

"  I  have  always  pitied  him,"  she  said,  smiling. 

"  That  isn't  the  kind  of  pity  I  like.  Pity  smiling!  Such  pity 
is  barbarous  !  The  savage  smiles  murdering,  and  coquettes  smile 
in  breaking  the  hearts  of  honest  men!  Look  at  me!  I'm  the 
victim  of  coquettes,  of  pity  with  a  smile  in  it,  like  a  bee  with  his 
sting." 

"  And  you  are  quite  broken-hearted,  papa  ?  " 

"  Broken-hearted  !  "  exclaimed  Peter  with  a  wail.  "  No,  but 
splintered-hearted.  It's  been  chipped  away.  Don't  give  Florian 
any  of  that  merchandise,  for  no  man  will  buy  it  No,  Frank ; 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  511 

receive  him  this  way  if  he  comes  :  put  a  smile  on  your  sweet 
little  mouth,  so" — and  Peter  threw  his  mouth  into  position — 
"throw  your  little  hands  out  so,  and  say" — Peter  piped  the 
words—"  «  O  me  beloved !  all  is  forgiven,  all  forgotten.  I  am 
yours  for  ever  ! '  " 

Then  he  fell  into  a  fit  of  roaring  over  his  own  humor  which 
even  Frances  could  not  -quiet. 

"  I  am  in  earnest  now,  Frank,"  he  went  on.  "  Ye  ought  to  re- 
turn him  good  for  evil ;  and  once  a  woman  loves,  sure  she  loves 
for  ever.  I  know  Maria's  heart  yearns  for  me,  but  she  can't  accept 
what  is  disreputable.  You'll  be  kind  to  him  now,  Frank ;  say 
you  will." 

A  well-known  voice  in  the  hall  startled  Peter  out  of  attending 
to  her  reply.  With  a  hasty  glance  around  he  plunged  into  a 
convenient  room  in  time  to  conceal  himself  from  the  wrathful 
glances  of  madame  just  entering.  Paul  followed  close,  to  give 
her  no  opportunity  of  speaking  to  Frances  that  evening,  and 
they  settled  down  there  to  a  comfortable  game  of  cards,  which 
was  enlivened  for  two  of  the  party  by  glimpses  of  Peter's  subdued 
and  rosy  face  as  he  looked  out  helplessly  from  the  cut  de  sac  into 
which  he  had  precipitated  himself.  Certainly  none  had  any  idea 
that  Florian  would  visit  the  boarding-house  so  soon  after  his  arrival 
in  the  city,  and  Paul  was  counting  on  that  supposition  to  get 
madame  into  a  reasonable  frame  of  mind.  All  were  surprised 
when  the  servant  laid  Florian's  card  in  the  mistress'  hand  and 
heard  his  name. 

"  Send  him  up,"  said  madame  promptly,  while  Paul  rose  to 
go.  "  No,"  she  continued,  "you  may  remain.  This  matter  is 
as  public  as  was  his  engagement.  I  wish  it  to  be  so." 

The  poet  sat  down  disturbed  in  mind,  so  poorly  did  this 
promise  for  the  result  of  his  scheming.  Frances  was  in  a  state 
of  agony  utterly  beyond  her  will  to  control,  but  madame  never 
once  alluded  by  word  or  look  to  her  nervous  manner.  It  was  a 
formidable  court  before  which  the  penitent  presented  himself, 
and  its  humiliation  was  fully  completed  by  the  unseen  figure 
listening  and  observing  from  the  room  beyond.  Yet  Florian  en- 
tered as  indifferently  as  if  he  were  in  the  lonely  island  cabin,  and, 
after  saluting  the  three  gravely  and  politely,  sat  down.  His  ap- 
pearance astonished  madame  greatly,  and  drew  a  quickly-smoth- 
ered sob  from  Frances,  but  all  signs  of  emotion  were  presently 
buried  in  a  dead  calm,  which  grated  upon  Paul's  nerves  like  saw- 
sharpening.  He  was  bound  by  circumstances  and  could  say 
nothing  and  do  nothing  to  alter  the  condition  of  affairs.  The 


512  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

battle  lay  between  madame  and  true  love  !  If  Florian.  suffered 
from  any  emotion  it  was  visible  only  in  the  long  interval  which 
followed  his  entrance  before  speaking.  Like  a  true  and  deter- 
mined enemy,  madame  said  not  a  single  word  while  waiting  for 
the  parley  to  begin,  until  Paul  in  his  hard  indignation  felt  that  a 
battery  would  not  be  too  much  to  bring  to  bear  on  this  feminine 
obstructor  to  the  natural  course  of  penitence  and  love.  Occa- 
sionally Peter  surveyed  the  scene  in  blank  astonishment.  Flo- 
rian he  recognized  only  from  hearing  him  addressed,  and  the 
mystery  aggravated  his  imprisonment. 

"  I  have  done  you  and  your  daughter  a  great  wrong,  mad- 
ame," Florian  said  with  simple  directness,  "and  I  thank  you  for 
giving  me  this  opportunity  to  express  my  sorrow  and  ask  your 
pardon.  I  deserted  Miss  Lynch  for  another  far  beneath  her  in 
real  worth.  It  was  a  heartless  act,  but  at  that  time  I  found  such 
acts  ot  mine  easily  justified.  My  eyes  are  opened.  I  have  no 
words  to  express  my  sorrow  for  what  I  have  done.  I  hope  you 
will  forgive  me." 

"  You  were  forgiven  at  that  time,"  said  madame  gently — so 
gently  that  Paul's  heart,  leaped  with  hope. 

"  I  owe  it  to  you  to  say,"  continued  Florian,  bowing,  "  that 
my  feelings  towards  Miss  Lynch  have  never  changed.  They 
have  only  been  obscured.  I  believe  sincerely  that  at  one  time 
these  feelings  your  daughter  returned.  Although  she  released 
me  from  the  engagement,  I  do  not  think  she  lost  those  rights  on 
me  which  it  gave  her.  I  am  glad  to  make  the  poor  restitution 
of  renewing  the  offer  which  I  once  had  the  honor  to  make  to  her. 
I  do  it  fully  conscious  of  my  own  unworthiness.  I  beg  of  you 
not  to  misunderstand  my  motives." 

Madame  never  hesitated  in  her  reply,  although  while  Florian 
was  speaking  she  had  caught  the  petitions  of  three  appealing 
faces,  the  third  being  now  visible  through  the  half-open  door, 
where  Peter  was  listening,  impatient  and  interested. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  know  your  motives,"  she  said  calmly, 
"  but  your  offer  we  reject  for  good  reasons.  It  is  quite  impossi- 
ble that  my  daughter  should  ever  again  consider  marriage  with 
you." 

The  face  of  Frances  grew  pale  as  death,  but  her  lips  were 
pressed  tight  in  determination.  Paul  growled  and  Peter  started 
forward,  then  drew  back.  Madame  crushed  these  signs  of  re- 
bellion by  her  proud  and  confident  indifference. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  best,"  Florian  said  after  a  pause.  He  had  re- 
ceived  her  answer  without  any  surprise,  as  if  he  considered  it 


i886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  513 

a  very  proper  thing-.  "  There  have  been  many  changes  in  my 
life  which  might  not  be  agreeable  to  you.  In  no  way  am  I  the 
same  as  when  I  first  had  the  honor  of  proposing  for  your  daugh- 
ter's hand.  I  will  never  again  be  the  same,  I  trust.  I  have  done 
all  that  I  know  how  to  do  in  atoning  for  a  great  injury.  You 
have  forgiven  me.  It  would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  know  that  in 
your  opinion  I  have  done  all  that  is  possible." 

His  wistful  gaze  and  simple  words  disconcerted  mamma  con- 
siderably. She  was  half-convinced  that  the  man  was  acting,  but 
his  motives  were  hidden,  nor  could  she  discover  them.  There 
was  no  adequate  motive  to  explain  all  this  masquerade. 

"You  could  not  have  done  more,"  she  answered  steadily  in 
a  tone  that  closed  the  interview.  Florian  rose  and  bowed  his 
farewell.  Peter  stood  expectantly  in  the  doorway,  as  if  waiting 
to  hear  a  protest  from  the  interested  others.  When  it  came  not 
he  entered  the  room  with  his  usual  bravado  and  seized  Florian's 
hand.  Had  he  known  the  precise  condition  of  the  politician's 
affairs,  his  grasp  might  have  been  less  hearty  and  the  scene  about 
to  follow  prudently  deferred.  Standing  in  the  doorway,  he  con- 
fronted madame. 

"  Some  time  ago  I  did  not  favor  the  attentions  of  Mr.  Wallace 
to  our  daughter " — a  shade  of  disgust  passed  over  madame's 
scornful  face — "  but  my  feelings  have  changed,  Maria.  He  has 
acted  like  a  gentleman  ;  his  love  is  sincere,  and  I  hereby  declare 
he  shall  not  leave  the  room  until  the  late  unpleasantness  is 
smoothed  out  for  ever." 

Paul  would  have  cried  "  bravo  "  to  Peter's  speech  but  for  its 
unfortunate  ending,  which  left  him  mute.  He  ventured,  how- 
ever, to  second  Peter  in  his  open  rebellion. 

"Had  not  Frances  better  speak  for  herself ?"  he  murmured 
gently  to  take  the  sting  from  the  suggestion.  He  looked  timo- 
rously at  madame's  face  for  the  Et-tu-Brute  expression,  but 
Peter,  like  the  bull  in  the  china-shop,  left  no  time  for  expres- 
sion. 

**  The  head  of  the  family  is  speaking  for  her,"  said  Peter 
sharply,  yet  with  dignity,  "  and  ye  may  know  that  the  paternal 
authority  still,  reigns  supreme  in  spite  of  a  foolish  attempt  of  wo- 
man to  usurp  me  throne.  Mr.  Wallace,  ye  are  welcome  to  join 
your  fortunes  to  ours  at  any  time  that  Frances  gives  the  word  ; 
and  that  she  will  give  it  I  pledge  me  sacred  word  of  honor." 

Peter  looked  at  madame  after  this  declaration  of  war,  but  the 
lady  was  deeply  interested  in  a  book  at  that  moment,  and  Fran- 
ces had   buried  her  shamed  face  in  her  hands.     It  was  an  awk- 
VOL.  XLII. — 33 


5 14  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Jan., 

ward  crisis,  and  even  Peter's  blatant  courage  fell  flat  before  that 
ominous  silence. 

"  Well,  come  again,"  said  he  sociably  to  Florian,  "  and  we'll 
settle  it  more  suitably,  d'ye  see." 

And  he  winked  at  the  grave  gentleman,  drew  his  arm  in  his 
own,  and  conducted  him  out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 
A  happier  ending  to  a  tragic  comedy  could  not  have  been  con- 
ceived, and  madame  joined  Paul  in  the  hearty  laugh  which  he 
indulged  in,  escaping  to  her  own  apartments,  however,  to  avoid 
further  talk  on  the  matter. 

fT     The  poet  went  down  into  the  hall  and  found   Peter  standing 
there  in  a  deep  study,  shaking  his  bullet-head. 

"  It's  no  use,"  said  he  ;  "  Maria's  moral  superiority  is  beyond 
mine,  and  I  must  cave  every  time.  What's  to  be  done?  I'll 
carry  her  off,  abduct  her,  and  have  her  married  from  me  own 
residence  in  the  top  story  of  No.  49.  Wouldn't  that  be  glorious, 
and  such  a  joke  on  madame !  Poor  Maria,  I  can't  help  but  ad- 
mire her.  When  she  was  Frances*  age  they  were  like  as  two 
peas  in  looks,  but  in  moral  character  they  no  more  resemble  each 
other  than — than — than — I've  lost  every  simile  I  ever  had  to- 
night." 

"  We  made  a  mistake  one  way,"  said  Paul  musingly,  "  and 
another  way  it's  all  right.  Peter,  I  want  to  bet  with  you  that 
there  will  be  two  marriages  in  Clayburg  within  a  twelve- 
month." 

"  Done,"  said  Peter.  "  But,  as  I'm  sure  to  win,  lend  me  a  few 
dollars  in  advance,  and  take  it  out  of  the  wager." 

"  Dear  old  boy  !  "  said  Paul  the  indulgent,  in  admiration,  "  who 
ever  found  you  untrue  to  your  colors  ?  " 

TO  BE  CONCLUDED  NEXT  MONTH. 


1 886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  515 


THE  APOLOGY   FOR  JOHN    BROWN.* 

THERE  is  a  small  company  of  New  England  Radicals  who  have 
been  posing-  for  the  past  quarter  of  a  century  as  the  special  de- 
positaries of  Divine  confidence.  It  is  upon  the  question  of  negro 
slavery  that  they  assume  to  have  shared  the  secrets  of  Providence. 
They  advocated  the  most  violent  of  all  measures  of  emancipation 
while  slavery  was  established  by  law.  War  and  a  servile  insur- 
rection, according  to  them,  would  have  been  at  any  time  an  ap- 
propriate remedy  for  the  evil  which  stirred  their  indignation  ;  and 
to  think  as  they  did  about  the  matter  was  the  last  test  of  Chris- 
tian sincerity.  When  slavery  at  last  was  swept  away  they  began 
to  believe  that  they  had  done  it  all  themselves — that  is,  they  and 
God  together.  It  is  true  that  none  of  their  particular  schemes 
were  realized  and  none  of  their  expectations  were  fulfilled.  So 
far  as  the  human  eye  could  see,  God,  who  governs  the  world  in 
his  own  way,  brought  about  emancipation  by  agencies  which  no- 
body could  have  anticipated  or  would  have  chosen.  Freedom 
was  secured,  not  by  an  insurrection  of  the  slaves,  but  by  an  insur- 
rection of  the  slaveholders ;  and  the  sentiment  of  Union,  which 
the  Radicals  detested  as  the  principal  support  of  slavery,  became 
the  chief  factor  in  its  overthrow.  So  signally  was  the  wisdom  of 
man  brought  to  naught  by  the  events  of  the  civil  war  that  we  all 
might  have  learned  from  that  great  social  and  political  revolution 
to  distrust  ourselves  and  adore  the  inscrutable  power  which  rules 
the  world.  But  that,  as  we  have  said,  is  not  the  lesson  which  our 
Radical  friends  read  in  recent  history.  It  is  enough  for  them  that 
slavery  fell ;  and  although  they  did  less  for  its  overthrow  than  any 
other  division  of  the  abolitionists,  and  were  further  out  in  their 
calculations  than  any  other  party  whatever,  they  seem  honestly 
persuaded  that  our  Lord  committed  to  them  the  regeneration  of 
this  country  and  gave  them  the  foresight  and  courage  necessary 
for  so  high  a  task.  Partly  on  account  of  their  connection  with 
Boston  literary  circles,  it  happens  that  they  have  persuaded  a 
considerable  minority  of  the  public  to  accept  them  at  their  own 
valuation ;  and  as  this  easy  acquiescence  in  an  extravagant  claim 
involves  troublesome  consequences,  it  may  be  worth  while  to  pause 
a  moment  and  pass  under  review  a  recent  characteristic  utterance 
of  the  Radical  clique. 

*  The  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Brown^  Liberator  of  Kansas  and  Martyr  of  Virginia. 
Edited  by  F.  B.  Sanborn.     i2mo.     Boston :  Roberts  Brothers.     1-885, 


516  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  [Jan., 

Of  this  complacent  little  company  Mr.  F.  B.  Sanborn  has  long 
been  a  conspicuous  member.  He  is  one  of  the  few  survivors  of 
the  Secret  Committee  of  extreme  abolitionists  who  supplied  John 
Brown  with  the  money  and  other  means  for  his  raid  upon  Vir- 
ginia, and  he  appears  to  have  known  more  than  any  of  his  asso- 
ciates about  the  precise  form  which  Brown's  enterprise  was  to 
take.  His  Life  of  the  hero  of  Harper's  Ferry  has  many  glaring 
defects  as  a  biography,  but  it  is  valuable  as  a  statement  of  the  prin- 
ciples by  which  an  influential  body  of  advanced  political  thinkers 
were  governed  at  a  very  critical  period  of  our  history,  as  well  as 
the  judgment  which  nearly  thirty  years'  experience  and  reflection 
induce  them  now  to  place  upon  those  principles  and  their  prac- 
tical application.  We  do  not  purpose  discussing  the  character 
of  John  Brown.  Our  business  is  with  the  doctrines  of  John 
Brown's  biographer  and  apologists. 

When  Brown  went  to  Kansas  in  1855  Mr.  Sanborn  assures  us 
that  he  had  already  been  for  many  years  engrossed  with  plans 
for  a  forcible  attack  upon  slavery,  and  that  he  removed  to  the 
Territory  because  he  saw  there  the  best  opportunity  for  carry- 
ing out  his  great  object.  It  is  not  unlikely  that  this  statement  is 
substantially  true,  although  it  is  not  supported  by  Brown's  letters. 
Five  of  his  sons  had  settled  in  Kansas,  and,  like  the  rest  of  the 
Free  State  men,  they  were  threatened  with  the  loss  of  their  in- 
vestments— to  say  nothing  of  their  lives — by  the  lawless  incur- 
sions from  Missouri.  John  Brown  went  out  to  join  them,  taking, 
for  family  use,  a  few  rifles  bought  with  money  received  from 
Gerrit  Smith  and  other  sympathizers.  So  far  there  was  nothing 
to  distinguish  his  action  from  that  of  hundreds  of  other  anti- 
slavery  settlers  who  hastened  to  the  Territory  in  those  disordered 
times.  But  in  the  fighting  which  followed  Brown  was  the  leader 
of  a  band,  including  his  sons  and  a  few  other  bold  men,  which 
won  a  wide  celebrity.  Sometimes  they  acted  nominally  as  a 
part  of  the  Free  State  militia;  sometimes  they  operated  inde- 
pendently under  a  curious  compact,  or  set  of  rules,  drawn  up 
by  their  captain.  Neither  side  was  very  particular  about  the 
authority  under  which  it  fought.  Mr.  Sanborn  assumes  that 
Kansas  at  that  time  was  a  theatre  of  war.  In  one  sense  this  is 
true,  for  civil  society  had  nearly  fallen  to  pieces,  and  men  were 
learning  to  obey  no  authority  but  that  of  military  force.  There 
was  actual  warfare,  inasmuch  as  there  was  bloodshed  and  system- 
atic violence.  But  this  is  not  to  say  that  there  was  any  such  con- 
dition  of  legitimate  war  as  effects  a  suspension  of  the  civil  law 
and  authorizes  belligerent  undertakings.  It  may  be  admitted. 


1 886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  517 

however,  that  the  equities  of  the  case  were  obscure  enough  to 
puzzle  unlearned  frontiersmen,  and  that  the  readiness  of  the 
United  States  government  to  consult  the  interests  of  a  political 
party  rather  than  the  demands  of  justice  was  the  mainspring  of 
awful  misfortunes.  Upon  this  we  presume  that  impartial  his- 
torians of  all  classes  are  now  agreed.  Impelled  by  President 
Pierce's  fatal  mistakes,  pro-slavery  men  and  anti-slavery  men 
alike  ruled  themselves  entirely  by  their  own  ideas  of  policy  and 
right.  Both  ran  off  horses  and  cattle,  foraged  upon  the  enemy, 
made  "  requisitions  "  upon  shop-keepers,  captured  and  rescued 
prisoners,  raided  camps  and  settlements.  A  Kansas  man  writes 
to  Mr.  Sanborn  :  "  I  met  John  Brown  on  the  evening  before  the 
battle  of  Osawatomie.  He,  with  a  number  of  others,  was  driving 
a  herd  of  cattle  which  they  had  taken  from  pro-slavery  men.  He 
rode  out  of  the  company  to  speak  to  me,  when  I  playfully  asked 
him  where  he  got  those  cattle.  He  replied,  with  a  characteristic 
shake  of  the  head,  that  '  they  were  good  Free  State  cattle  now.' ' 
John  Brown's  eldest  son,  describing  an  attempt,  with  the  aid  of 
his  brother  Owen,  to  escape  from  a  federal  marshal,  writes:  "  He 
[Owen]  brought  with  him  into  the  brush  a  valuable  running 
horse,  mate  of  the  one  I  had  with  me.  These  horses  had  been 
taken  by  Free  State  men  near  the  Nebraska  line,  and  exchanged 
for  horses  obtained  in  the  way  of  reprisals  further  south."  Some 
time  later  Brown  and  his  band  formed  part  of  an  expedition 
which  crossed  over  into  Missouri  to  emancipate  certain  slaves. 
Besides  bringing  off  the  negroes  they  killed  the  owner  and  took 
his  cattle.  Brown  conducted  the  fugitives  to  Canada,  and  on  his 
way  dispersed  a  marshal's  posse  in  Kansas,  capturing  a  number 
of  horses  belonging  to  the  party.  In  one  place  Mr.  Sanborn  tells 
us  that  he  gave  these  animals  to  some  "  Topeka  boys  "  who  had 
aided  him ;  in  another  place  he  says  that  he  publicly  sold  them 
in  Ohio,  "  warning  the  purchasers  of  a  possible  defect  in  the 
title." 

In  the  midst  of  the  raids  and  skirmishes  a  tragedy  was  enact- 
ed which  filled  both  sides  with  horror.  Scattered  along  Potta- 
vvatomie  Creek  stood  the  cabins  of  five  or  six  active  pro-slavery 
men.  They  are  said  to  have  been  ruffianly  characters,  and  there 
is  some  testimony  that  they  were  threatening  an  attack  upon  the 
Browns.  It  does  not  appear,  however,  that  the  Pottawatomie 
settlers  had  recently  been  guilty  of  any  special  outrage.  Be- 
tween midnight  and  dawn  on  the  25th  of  May,  1856,  the  cabins 
were  visited  one  by  one  by  a  band  of  armed  men,  and  five  of  the 
occupants  were  roused  from  sleep,  led  out,  and  quietly  put  to 


5i8  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  [Jan., 

death.*  Suspicion  by  common  consent  pointed  to  Brown.  To 
the  end  of  his  life  he  denied  killing  any  of  the  men,  although  he 
declared  that  he  approved  the  "  executions."  Brown's  New  Eng- 
land supporters  accepted  this  denial.  All  his  friendly  biogra- 
phers down  to  Mr.  Sanborn  have  likewise  acquitted  him  of  the 
crime.  Dr.  von  Hoist,  in  the  volume  just  published  of  his  learned 
Constitutional  History  of  the  United  States,  reviews  the  testimony 
(so  far  as  he  has  read  it)  and  is  convinced  of  Brown's  innocence. 
Yet  it  has  been  known  for  a  few  years  past  from  the  confession 
of  one  of  the  "  executioners,"  and  the  fact  is  now  put  beyond 
question  by  Mr.  Sanborn's  avowals,  that  the  deed  was  John 
Brown's.  He  planned  and  ordered  the  enterprise,  led  the  assas- 
sins in  person,  entered  the  houses,  pointed  out  the  victims,  and 
gave  the  death-signal.  Whether  he  struck  any  of  the  fatal  blows 
with  his  own  hand  or  left  that  work  to  his  subordinates  is  the 
only  point  now  in  dispute.  The  confession  of  Townsley,  just 
referred  to,  asserts  that  Brown  did  take  a  personal  share  in  the 
butchery.  Mr.  Sanborn  appears  to  have  satisfied  himself  that 
this  assertion  is  not  true.  But  testimony  which  satisfies  Mr.  San- 
born is  not  necessarily  conclusive.  Until  Townsley 's  confession 
appeared  John  Brown  was  generally  cited  as  denying  that  he 
was  present  at  the  Pottawatomie  murders.  After  his  death  his 
son  Salmon,  who,  according  to  Mr.  Sanborn,  was  with  him  on 
the  night  in  question,  made  a  written  declaration  that  John 
Brown  was  "  not  a  participator"  in  the  affair.  When  it  became 
necessary  to  meet  Townsley 's  statement,  the  witnesses  revised 
their  recollection  of  Brown's  language,  and  remembered  that  he 
had  denied  only  the  killing,  and' not  the  participation.  One  can- 
not feel  much  confidence  in  this  corrected  testimony,  nor  does  it 
seem  to  be  worth  the  pains  which  Mr.  Sanborn  and  others  have 
spent  upon  it.  The  party  under  Brown  consisted  of  his  sons 
Frederick,  Owen,  Watson,  and  Oliver,  his  son-in-law  Henry 
Thompson,  Townsley,  and  a  man  named  Wiener.  The  actual 
executioners  were  told  off  from  this  band.  Their  names  have 
not  been  revealed,  but  we  infer  from  Mr.  Sanborn's  comments 
that  he  knows  them  and  has  talked  with  them.  The  weapons 
were  artillery  cutlasses  which  Brown  had  obtained  in  Ohio. 
They  were  sharpened  in  the  camp  just  before  the  "  secret  expe- 
dition "  started.  "  No  man  of  our  entire  number,"  says  John 
Brown,  Jr.,  "could  fail  to  understand  that  a  retaliatory  blow 
would  fall ;  yet  when  father  and  his  little  band  departed  they 

*  The  horses  which  John  Brown,  Jr.,  mentions,  in  a  passage  cited  just  now,  as  having  been 
"  obtained  in  the  way  of  reprisals,"  were  stolen  on  this  occasion  by  the  murderers. 


i886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  519 

were  saluted  by  all  our  men  with  a  rousing  cheer."  The  same 
authority  is  quite  outspoken  about  the  motive  for  the  massacre. 
"  The  blow  was  struck,"  he  says,  "  for  Kansas  and  the  slave  ;  and 
he  who  attempts  to  limit  its  object  to  a  mere  settlement  of  ac- 
counts with  a  few  pro-slavery  desperadoes  on  that  creek  shows 
himself  incapable  of  rendering  a  just  judgment  in  the  case." 
And  Mr.  Sanborn  treats  the  affair  as  a  justifiable  and  salutary  act 
of  retaliation  for  the  murder  of  "  five  sons  of  liberty  slain  in  the 
previous  six  months  " — although,  it  may  be  remarked,  none  of 
the  five  were  murdered  by  these  Pottawatomie  men. 

It  is  not  our  place  to  judge  the  conscience  of  John  Brown. 
Educated  in  the  most  savage  school  of  Calvinism,  he  had  brood- 
ed over  the  wrongs  of  the  slave  and  fed  his  morbid  imagination 
with  the  bloodiest  pages  of  Old  Testament  history,  until  Jehovah 
appeared  to  his  eyes  only  as  a  God  of  wrath  and  destruction. 
"  Without  the  shedding  of  blood  there  is  no  remission  of  sins  " 
was  a  text  for  ever  in  his  mouth.  "  I  think  God  has  used  me  as 
an  instrument  to  kill  men,"  he  said  once  to  a  lady ;  "  and  if  I  live 
I  think  he  will  use  me  as  an  instrument  to  kill  a  good  many 
more."  As  the  Almighty  armed  the  Hebrew  people  against  the 
hosts  of  the  idolater,  so  John  Brown  held  that  he,  too,  had  re- 
ceived a  divine  command  to  slay  and  to  despoil,  and  that  for  him 
the  dispensation  of  carnage  was  still  in  force.  Fanatics  of  the 
same  stamp  have  appeared  in  the  world  before.  We  need  not 
inquire  into  the  sincerity  of  John  Brown's  delusion.  For  our 
own  part  we  readily  admit  it  as  to  his  general  course,  although 
his  continued  denial  of  the  Pottawatomie  murders  is  hard  to 
reconcile  with  an  absolute  faith  in  a  divine  commission  to  kill. 
But  it  is  of  some  consequence  how  the  intrinsic  morality  and 
reasonableness  of  his  acts  are  regarded  by  the  representative  of 
a  school  of  writers  who  exercise  a  deep  and,  we  suspect,  a  grow- 
ing influence  upon  contemporary  thought ;  and  so  let  us  turn  to 
Mr.  Sanborn. 

To  begin  with,  Mr.  Sanborn  declares  in  the  most  dogmatic 
manner  that  John  Brown  in  Kansas  was  "  divinely  inspired." 
We  understand  this  not  as  a  rhetorical  flourish  but  as  the  de- 
liberate expression  of  what  the  author  regards  as  an  ascertained 
truth.  Elsewhere  he  speaks  of  John  Brown  as  having  been  fa- 
vored with  a  direct  revelation  from  heaven  shortly  before  his 
death.  The  world  ought  not  to  be  expected  to  receive  these 
remarkable  statements  merely  upon  the  ipse  dixit  of  Mr.  San- 
born, and  yet  he  does  not  offer  to  substantiate  them.  How  does 


520  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  [Jan., 

he  know  that  Brown  was  divinely  inspired?  If  one  were  to  put 
that  question  to  him  personally,  he  would  perhaps  answer,  "  Why, 
Brown  told  me  so  himself" ;  but  even  that  authority  leaves 
something  to  be  desired.  It  reminds  us  of  the  intelligent  jury- 
man  who  voted  for  the  acquittal  of  a  thief  in  defiance  of  the  evi- 
dence, and,  when  asked  his  reason,  replied,  "  Why,  the  man  owned 
that  he  was  not  guilty."  As  a  matter  of  fact  Mr.  Sanborn's 
confidence  in  the  theory  of  inspiration  is  not  so  great  that  he 
ventures  to  neglect  other  justification.  If  John  Brown  was  in- 
spired there  is  no  more  to  be  said.  His  savage  deeds  were  dic- 
tated by  the  Almighty,  and  they  could  not  be  wrong.  But  the 
biographer  undertakes  a  defence  of  the  Pottawatomie  murders 
in  a  series  of  purely  earthly  arguments,  with  which  we  must  say 
that  he  makes  a  sorry  show. 

1.  The    victims    were    dangerous    and    vicious    men.     John 
Brown  once  said   that  if  they  had  committed  murder  in  their 
hearts  they  deserved  to  die ;  and,  having  satisfied  himself  that 
they   had  committed   murder  in  their  hearts,  he  naturally  pro- 
ceeded  to  their  slaughter.     This  rule  of  conduct,  that  any  man 
has  a  right  to  kill  any  man  who  has  deserved  to  die,  is  so  mon- 
strous that  we  cannot  conceive  of  a  thoroughly  sane  person  up- 
holding it.     We  will  not  do  Mr.  Sanborn  the  unkindness  of  be- 
lieving that  he  really  does  uphold  it.     But  he  puts  it  forth  for 
the  benefit  of  John  Brown,  and  the  plain  truth  is  that  whenever 
he  attempts  to  discuss  the  conduct  of  his  hero  he  involves  him- 
self in  such  a  muddle  of  false  sentiment  and  unregulated  emotion 
that  he  is  hardly  responsible  for  the  logical  deductions  from  his 
language. 

2.  The  murders  had  a  good  effect.     They  terrified  one  side 
and  encouraged  the  other.     "  Upon   the  swift  and  secret  ven- 
geance of  John  Brown  in  that  midnight  raid  hinged  the  future 
of  Kansas,  as  we  can  now  see  ;  and  on  that  future  again  hinged 
the  destinies  of  the  whole  country.     Had  Kansas,  in  the  death- 
struggle  of  1856,  fallen  a  prey  to  the  slaveholders,  slaveholding 
would  to-day  be  the  law  of  our  imperial  democracy."     This  is 
something  worse  than  the  hated  doctrine  that  it  is  permitted  to 
do  evil  that  good  may  follow,  for  it  is  equivalent  to  contending 
that  any  deed   whatever  is  just   which   God,  in  his  inscrutable 
wisdom  and  boundless  mercy,  may  finally  overrule  for  our  ad- 
vantage.    And  if  the  Pottawatomie  murders  were  right  because 
emancipation  was  one  of  their  remote  and  indirect  consequences, 
why  was  not  the  secession  of  South  Carolina  right  for  precisely 


1 886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  521 

the  same  reason  ?  Yet  it  is  upon  this  argument  that  Mr.  San- 
born  rests  the  principal  weight  of  his  defence.  The  grotesque 
assumption  that  the  issue  of  the  slavery  question  was  decided,  or 
even  materially  hastened,  by  the  killing  of  five  men  on  Pottawa- 
tomie  Creek  is  a  striking  illustration  of  the  narrowness  of  mind 
with  which  the  Radical  clique  have  always  judged  the  incidents 
of  the  great  national  conflict. 

3.  The  murders  were  acts  of  war.  "  Yet  we,  who  praise 
Grant  for  those  military  movements  which  caused  the  bloody 
death  of  thousands,  are  so  inconsiderate  as  to  denounce  Brown 
for  the  death  of  these  five  men  in  Kansas.  If  Brown  was  a  mur- 
derer, then  Grant  and  Sherman  and  Hancock  and  the  other 
Union  generals  are  tenfold  murderers,  for  they  simply  did  on  a 
grand  scale  what  he  did  on  a  small  one.  War  is  murder-— in  one 
of  its  aspects  it  is  deliberate  and  repeated  murder ;  and  yet  the 
patriot  warrior  who  goes  to  battle  in  behalf  of  his  country  is  not 
arraigned  for  murder,  but  honored  as  a  hero.  This  is  so  even 
when  by  stratagem  or  midnight  assault  he  slays  hundreds  of 
defenceless  people,  for  the  cause  in  which  he  fights  is  supposed  to 
excuse  all  atrocious  deeds.  A  like  excuse  must  serve  for  this  vio- 
lent but  salutary  act  of  John  Brown."  Pray,  who  taught  Mr. 
Sanborn  the  scandalous  doctrine  that  the  cause  in  which  a  sol- 
dier fights  "  excuses  all  atrocious  deeds  "  ?  Where  did  he  learn 
that  the  massacre  of  defenceless  hundreds  is  an  honorable  occu- 
pation for  a  military  hero  ?  What  warrant  has  he  for  the  insin- 
uation that  Grant  and  Sherman  and  Hancock  were  capable  of 
dragging  unarmed  citizens  out  of  their  beds  and  cutting  them  to 
pieces  in  order  to  strike  terror  into  the  enemy  ?  Is  this  what 
Mr.  Sanborn  understands  by  war  ?  In  point  of  fact  the  whole 
argument  is  an  after-thought.  Until  quite  recently  John  Brown's 
friends  agreed  in  denying  that  he  had  any  hand  in  the  affair. 
Then  they  looked  upon  it  as  an  atrocity,  provoked,  indeed,  by 
outrages  on  the  other  side,  but  not  to  be  defended,  and  certainly 
not  to  be  included  among  the  operations  of  war.  With  the  dis- 
covery that  John  Brown  was  the  author  of  the  dark  deed  their 
tone  changed.  To  their  minds  John  Brown  could  do  no  wrong; 
and  they  must  find  a  defence  for  what  they  once  considered  in- 
defensible. The  words  with  which  Mr.  Sanborn  dismisses  the 
subject  are  suggestive  :  "  Those  of  us  who  long  refused  to  be- 
lieve that  Brown  participated  in  these  executions  would  not, 
perhaps,  have  honored  and  trusted  him  less  had  we  known  the 
whole  truth.  I  for  one  should  not,  though  I  should  have  deeply 


522  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  [Jan., 

regretted  the  necessity  for  such  deeds  of  dark  and  providential 
justice." 

Brown  returned  to  the  East  after  this  affair  to  raise  funds  for 
the  further  prosecution  of  the  war,  and  what  was  known  of  his 
character  and  method  of  operations  commended  him  so  strongly 
to  the  New  England  party  of  action  that,  in  spite  of  suspicions 
engendered  by  the  Pottawatomie  tragedy,  he  was  trusted  with 
money  and  arms  to  be  used  in  Kansas  practically  at  his  own  dis- 
cretion. "  Brown's  purpose,  as  he  disclosed  it  in  Boston  in  Jan- 
uary, 1857,  was  to  equip  and  arm  a  hundred  mounted  men  for 
defence  and  reprisal  in  Kansas ;  and  it  was  upon  this  plan  that  the 
National  [Kansas]  Committee,  when  it  assembled,  held  a  warm 
discussion,  in  which  Brown  himself  took  part.  His  request  was 
for  arms  and  money,  which  he  might  be  at  liberty  to  use  in  his 
own  way,  his  past  conduct  being  his  guarantee  that  he  would  use 
them  wisely."  There  were  various  committees  engaged  at  that 
time  in  promoting  Free  State  emigration  to  Kansas,  and  assisting 
settlers  with  money,  clothing,  and  arms.  In  the  National  Com- 
mittee, whose  headquarters  were  at  Chicago,  there  was  great 
distrust  of  Brown's  violence.  The  temper  of  the  Massachusetts 
Committee  was  much  more  radical.  At  the  meeting  of  the  for- 
mer body,  held  in  New  York  January  23,  1857,  Brown's  request 
for  money  and  arms  was  presented  by  Mr.  Sanborn  as  delegate 
from  Massachusetts.  The  debate  ended  in  a  "  compromise." 
The  National  Committee  voted  Brown  a  credit  of  five  thousand 
dollars  (of  which,  in  the  end,  only  a  small  part  was  paid),  and 
transferred  to  the  Massachusetts  Kansas  Committee  two  hundred 
rifles,  which  that  committee,  according  to  prearrangement,  en- 
trusted to  Brown  as  its  agent.  But  the  expedition,  from  which 
the  committees  expected  a  great  deal,  was  never  organized,  and 
one  would  think  that  even  the  most  sanguine  of  Brown's  friends 
must  have  felt  their  confidence  in  his  practical  sagacity  severely 
shaken.  With  a  small  sum  of  money,  contributed  by  various 
admirers,  he  travelled  as  far  as  Iowa,  and  after  considerable 
delay  he  did  enter  Kansas,  but  without  arms  or  followers.  Most 
of  his  funds  had  been  squandered  upon  an  English  adventurer 
named  Hugh  Forbes,  whom  he  hired  as  a  "  military  instructor" 
at  one  hundred  dollars  a  month,  paying  him  six  months'  salary  in 
advance. 

Moreover,  it  is  clear  that  his  interest  in  Kansas  was  giving 
way  before  a  scheme  for  a  more  direct  and  romantic  attack  upon 
slavery.  This  scheme,  out  of  which  the  Harper's  Ferry  enter- 


i886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  523 

prise  was  finally  developed,  contemplated  the  establishment  of  a 
series  of  fortified  camps  somewhere  in  the  mountains  of  the 
border  slave  States,  as  rallying-points  for  fugitives  and  bases  for 
offensive  operations.  From  these  secure  posts  emissaries  were  to 
visit  the  plantations  and  arouse  the  negroes,  runaways  were  to  be 
helped  forward,  and  raiding  parties  were  to  swoop  down  upon 
"  the  enemy.'5  Brown  was  infatuated  enough  to  believe  that  a 
few  determined  men  could  hold  the  mountain  fastnesses  against 
any  attempt  to  dislodge  them.  Drawing  their  supplies  from 
the  plunder  of  the  plantations,  and  recruiting  their  numbers  from 
the  more  courageous  of  the  negro  fugitives,  they  would  gradually 
drive  slavery  back  by  making  it  insecure,  and  as  it  retreated 
southward  they  would  follow  it.  "  God  has  given  the  strength 
of  the  hills  to  freedom,"  he  said  to  Frederick  Douglass;  "they 
were  placed  here  for  the  emancipation  of  the  negro  race." 

This  was  the  plan  with  which  he  again  came  East  in  1858. 
Mr.  San  born  gives  an  interesting  account  of  the  manner  in  which 
the  project  was  laid  before  Brown's  most  useful  friends.  Mr. 
Sanborn,  Theodore  Parker,  George  L.  Stearns,  and  T.  W.  Hig- 
ginson  were  invited  to  meet  Brown  at  Gerrit  Smith's  house, 
near  Peterboro',  N.  Y.,  in  February,  1858.  Sanborn  was  the  only 
one  of  the  four  who  presented  himself  at  the  appointed  time,  and 
to  him,  to  Gerrit  Smith,  and  to  Edwin  Morton,  the  tutor  of  Mr. 
Smith's  son,  the  plan  of  campaign  was  then  divulged.  Virginia 
was  designated  as  the  field  of  operations,  the  following  May  was 
indicated  as  the  time,  and  a  constitution  which  Brown  had  drawn 
up  for  the  government  of  such  territory  as  he  might  occupy  was 
exhibited  and  explained.  The  biographer  states  that  the  little 
council  was  not  only  astonished  but  almost  dismayed.  The 
hopelessness  of  the  undertaking  was  manifest,  but  Brown  was 
not  to  be  moved  by  objections ;  and  after  the  debate,  adjourned  at 
midnight,  had  been  continued  through  the  next  day,  Gerrit  Smith 
took  Mr.  Sanborn  aside.  "You  see  how  it  is,"  he  said :  uour 
dear  old  friend  has  made  up  his  mind  to  this  course  and  cannot 
be  turned  from  it.  We  cannot  give  him  up  to  die  alone  ;  we 
must  support  him.  I  will  raise  so  many  hundred  dollars  for  him  ; 
you  must  lay  the  case  before  your  friends  in  Massachusetts,  and 
perhaps  they  will  do  the  same.  I  see  no  other  way."  Concur- 
ring entirely  in  this  judgment,  Mr.  Sanborn  at  once  disclosed  the 
plot  to  Parker,  Higginson,  and  Dr.  S.  G.  Howe,  while  Brown 
himself  explained  it  to  Mr.  Stearns,  who  was  the  most  liberal 
of  his  backers.  A  little  later,  in  company  with  his  eldest  son, 


524  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  [Jan., 

Brown  had  a  conference  respecting  the  enterprise  with  Frederick 
Douglass,  Henry  Highland  Garnet,  and  some  other  colored 
men.  In  March  a  "  Secret  Committee  "  was  organized,  consisting 
of  Smith,  Parker,  Howe,  Higginson,  Stearns,  and  Sanborn.  The 
money  which  Brown  said  he  required — one  thousand  dollars — 
was  easily  raised,  Mr.  Stearns  giving  three  hundred  dollars,  but 
more  was  afterwards  called  for. 

In  the  meantime  the  costly  Colonel  Hugh  Forbes  had  made 
trouble.  He  did  nothing  of  consequence  for  his  six  hundred  dol- 
lars, but  he  held  Brown's  secret,  and  he  threatened  to  use  it  un- 
less he  were  placed  at  the  head  of  the  enterprise  and  Brown  dis- 
missed. He  professed,  indeed,  after  some  correspondence,  to 
have  betrayed  the  scheme  to  Sumner,  Seward,  and  other  Repub- 
lican leaders  at  Washington.  There  is  no  proof  that  he  ever  did 
so,  but  he  did  tell  something  to  Henry  Wilson,  and  Wilson  wrote 
to  Howe,  in  consequence  of  which  the  invasion  was  postponed 
for  a  year  and  ostensibly  given  up.  To  baffle  suspicion  Brown 
was  despatched  again  to  Kansas. 

This  new  turn  of  affairs  drew  attention  to  a  highly  embarrass- 
ing circumstance.  The  arms  with  which  John  Brown  proposed 
to  equip  a  slave  insurrection  in  Virginia  were  those  which  had 
been  entrusted  to  him  by  the  National  and  Massachusetts  Com- 
mittees for  the  defence  of  the  Free-Soil  settlers  in  Kansas.  Sen- 
ator Wilson's  letter  required  an  answer,  and  Dr.  Howe  accord- 
ingly wrote  :  "  Prompt  measures  have  been  taken,  and  will  be 
resolutely  followed  up,  to  prevent  any  such  monstrous  perver- 
sion of  a  trust  as  would  be  the  application  of  means  raised  for  the 
defence  of  Kansas  to  a  purpose  which  the  subscribers  of  the  fund 
would  disapprove  and  vehemently  condemn."  The  nature  of 
these  "  prompt  measures,"  as  they  are  described  by  the  ingenu- 
ous Sanborn,  is  rather  curious.  The  Massachusetts  Committee, 
to  which  the  arms  belonged,  had  spent  its  money  and  done  its 
work,  and  in  effect  nothing  was  left  of  it  now  except  Messrs. 
Stearns,  Howe,  and  Sanborn,  who  held  occasional  meetings  to 
finish  off  ragged  ends  of  business.  It  was  agreed  by  these  three 
gentlemen,  acting  as  the  State  Committee,  that,  in  satisfaction  of 
a  debt,  the  arms  should  be  made  over  to  Mr.  Stearns  as  a  private 
individual;  and  Mr.  Stearns,  as  chairman  of  the  committee,  hav- 
ing formally  warned  John  Brown  not  to  use  the  arms  for  any 
other  purpose  than  the  defence  of  Kansas,  and  to  hold  them  sub- 
ject to  the  orders  of  the  committee,  proceeded  a  week  later,  as  a 
private  individual,  to  lend  the  arms  to  John  Brown,  to  be  used  in 


i886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  525 

his  own  discretion.  Mr.  Sanborn  remarks  that  neither  he  nor 
Mr.  Stearns  nor  Dr.  Howe  wished  at  any  time  that  the-  arms 
should  really  be  recalled,  and,  moreover,  they  knew  very  well 
that  Brown  would  not  give  them  up  unless  he  chose.  Such 
were  the  prompt  measures  by  which  Dr.  Howe  and  his  asso- 
ciates prevented  the  monstrous  perversion  of  a  trust. 

The  Secret  Committee  of  six  decided,  after  this  affair  had 
been  disposed  of,  that  it  was  better  not  to  be  burdened  with  a 
needless  and  inconvenient  knowledge  of  Brown's  plans.  "  They 
were  willing-  to  trust  him  with  their  money,  and  did  not  want 
him  to  report  progress  except  by  action."  Thus  it  happened 
that  none  of  them  were  consulted  about  the  Harper's  Ferry 
affair.  They  knew  that  Brown  was  preparing  a  foray  some- 
where on  the  Virginia  line,  but  they  knew  neither  the  day  nor 
the  exact  place  selected  for  the  enterprise.  They  raised  about 
four  thousand  dollars,  including  liberal  donations  from  Mr. 
Stearns  and  Gerrit  Smith,  and  of  this  sum,  says  Mr.  Sanborn, 
"at  least  thirty-eight  hundred  dollars  were  given  with  a  clear 
knowledge  of  the  use  to  which  it  would  be  put."  Thus  when 
Brown  took  up  again  his  postponed  project  in  the  spring  of 
1859  ne  was  we^  supplied  with  money  and  weapons,  and  there 
were  no  scrupulous  committees  to  interfere  with  him.  Dr.  Howe, 
strongly  disapproving  of  some  of  his  latest  actions  in  Kansas, 
had  partly  withdrawn  his  confidence,  but  did  nothing  to  thwart 
him.  Higginson  appears  to  have  lost  a  great  deal  of  his  original 
earnestness  in  the  plot.  Theodore  Parker  was  in  Italy,  near  his 
death,  and  no  help  was  to  be  expected  from  him.  Stearns,  Smith, 
and  Sanborn  were  the  men  upon  whom  the  financial  burdens  of 
the  enterprise  at  last  rested.  One  can  hardly  help  wondering 
what  they  thought  of  some  of  John  Brown's  demands  upon  them. 
At  one  time  he  asked  for  "  a  quantity  of  whistles  such  as  are  used 
by  the  boatswain  on  ships  of  war.  They  will  be  of  great  service. 
Every  ten  men  ought  to  have  one  at  least."  Again  he  wrote  to 
Mr.  Sanborn :  "  I  want  to  put  into  the  hands  of  my  young  men 
copies  of  Plutarch's  Lives,  Irving's  Life  of  Washington,  tfie  best- 
written  Life  of  Napoleon,  and  other  similar  books,  together  with 
maps  and  statistics  of  States."  Mr.  Sanborn  adds  that  Brown 
was  very  particular  about  getting  the  best  edition  of  Plutarch. 
But  the  New  England  enthusiasts  "  who  were  willing  to  give  to 
a  brave  man  forcibly  interfering  with  slavery,  without  inquiring 
very  closely  what  he  would  do  next,"  had  not  much  reason  to 
complain  of  his  methods,  even  when  he  talked  of  freeing  the 


526  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  [Jan., 

slaves  with  Plutarch's  Lives  and  boatswains'  whistles.  Nor,  cer- 
tainly, could  they  reproach  any  one  but  themselves  when  he 
rushed  into  a  mad  and  fatal  enterprise  for  which  they  had  fur- 
nished the  means. 

We  shall  not  follow  the  story  to  its  familiar  conclusion,  nor 
inquire  too  closely  into  the  behavior  of  some  of  John  Brown's 
accomplices  when  they  were  confronted  with  the  deplorable  con- 
sequences of  their  conduct.  T  \venty-five  years  ago  abettors  of 
the  Harper's  Ferry  affair  were  naturally  anxious  to  evade  a  re- 
sponsibility in  which  they  now  glory.  Our  present  concern  is 
with  the  apology  which  after  this  long  interval  is  put  forth  for 
John  Brown's  career,  from  his  predatory  raids  and  midnight 
slaughters  in  Kansas  to  his  last  outrages  against  the  sanctity  of 
human  life  in  Maryland.  The  key  to  that  career  was  his  declara- 
tion that  slaveholders  had  no  right  to  live.  Even  Mr.  Sanborn 
perceives  that  it  needs  an  apology.  "  The  story  of  John  Brown," 
he  says,  "  will  mean  little  to  those  who  do  not  believe  that  God 
governs  the  world,  and  that  he  makes  his  will  known  in*advance 
to  certain  chosen  men  and  women,  who  perform  it,  consciously  or 
unconsciously.  Of  such  prophetic,  Heaven-appointed  men  John 
Brown  was  the  most  conspicuous  in  our  time."  He  believed — 
elsewhere  our  author  gives  us  to  understand  that  he  knew — 
that  God  had  called  him  to  a  high  and  painful  work.  In  carry- 
ing on  that  work  it  was  his  privilege  to  make  his  own  code  of 
ethics.  The  common  laws  of  morality  did  not  bind  him.  His 
deeds  are  "not  to  be  judged  by  the  every-day  rules  of  conduct." 
That  was  the  theory  upon  which  John  Brown  acted,  and  upon 
that  theory  Mr.  Sanborn  defends  him.  To  the  case  of  John 
Brown  our  biographer  fits  the  lines  in  Milton's  "  Samson  Ago- 
nistes  " : 

"As  if  they  would  confine  the  Interminable, 
And  tie  him  to  his  own  prescript, 
Who  made  our  laws  to  bind  us,  not  himself, 
And  hath  full  right  to  exempt 
Whom  so  it  pleases  him  by  choice 
From  national  obstriction,  without  taint 
Of  sin,  or  legal  debt ; 
For  with  his  own  laws  he  can  best  dispense." 

This,  he  continues,  is  high  doctrine,  applying  only  to  heroes, 
but  it  does  apply  to  John  Brown.  We  might  inquire  what  Mr. 
Sanborn  means  by  applying  this  high  doctrine  to  heroes.  Milton's 
doctrine  is  that  God  is  not  the  slave  of  the  laws  which  he  made 


1 886.]  THE  APOLOGY  FOR  JOHN  BROWN.  527 

for  men ;  Mr.  Sanborn's  doctrine  seems  to  be  that  heroes  are  not 
subject  to  the  laws  which  God  made  for  other  men.  Milton 
holds  that  God  may  exempt  whom  he  pleases  from  particular 
obligations ;  Sanborn  holds  that  heroes  may  exempt  themselves. 
This  principle  of  action  has  obvious  inconveniences.  In  the  first 
place,  before  it  can  be  put  in  practice  a  man  must  be  able  to  look 
himself  all  over,  inside  and  out,  and  decide  that  he  is  made  of 
heroic  stu,ff  and  fired  with  heroic  impulses.  Then,  if  he  once 
begins  to  exempt  himself  from  "  national  obstriction  "  and  other 
restraints,  there  is  logically  no  stopping  him.  He  may  do  what 
he  pleases,  and  to  all  remonstrance  it  will  be  a  sufficient  plea 
that  the  ordinary  rules  of  conduct  are  only  for  ordinary  men, 
but  high  doctrine  is  for  heroes.  To  be  sure  the  plea  is  befogged 
a  little  by  reference  to  a  divine  commission ;  but  the  hero  himself 
is  the  only  witness  to  that  commission  ;  he  alone  authenticates 
his  own  credentials  ;  he  alone  hears  the  inward  voice  and  deter- 
mines whether  it  is  the  inspiration  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  or  a  whis- 
per from  the  pit,  or  the  vagary  of  a  diseased  mind. 

Preposterous  as  it  is,  the  "  high  doctrine  applied  to  heroes  " 
governed  the  conduct  of  a  party  of  very  respectable  and  highly- 
educated  New  England  Radicals  in  a  time  of  grave  national  dis- 
turbance ;  it  led  them  to  subscribe  money  for  the  promotion  of 
homicide  ;  it  justified  them  to  their  own  minds  in  sustaining  what 
they  believed  to  be  a  good  cause  by  methods  so  violent  and  law- 
less that  they  had  not  the  moral  courage  to  look  at  them  ;  and 
now,  after  years  of  peace  should  have  brought  them  a  calmer 
judgment,  it  figures  again  in  an  apology  which  fits  the  life  of 
every  insane  fanatic  who  has  ever  disturbed  society,  as  perfectly 
as  it  does  the  sins  and  delusions  of  the  poor  old  Calvinist  who 
was  hanged  at  Charlestown — hanged  because  he  reduced  to  ac- 
tion the  principle  virtually  maintained  in  this  book,  that  the  final 
standard  of  right  and  wrong  is  every  man's  own  fancy. 


528  DOMENICO' s  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 


DOMENICO'S  NEW  YEAR, 
i. 

DOMENICO  CAFFERATA  stood  on  the  hard,  yellow  beach  that 
skirts  the  Gulf  of  Santa  Eufemia  at  the  lower  town  of  Tropea. 
The  mild  December  sun  had  not  long  risen,  and  the  shadow  of 
the  high  rock  on  which  is  built  the  city  of  Tropea  proper  lay  on 
the  lower  town  and  stretched  out  over  the  surface  of  the  gulf 
towards  Capo  Vaticano.  Tropea  at  this  early  hour  still  slept, 
but  the  lower  town  was  already  wide  awake,  and  the  mothers, 
wives,  sisters,  and  daughters  of  the  fishermen  whose  homes  were 
there  moved  about  at  their  work.  In  front  of  a  white-washed 
cottage  not  far  from  where  Domenico  was  standing  a  fat,  white 
kitten  was  chasing  a  wooden  float  at  the  end  of  a  net  which  a 
young  girl  was  slowly  drawing  towards  her  as  she  mended  it 
mesh  by  mesh.  Starch-like,  vase-shaped  masses  of  jelly-fish  lay 
about  on  the  sand  where  the  tide  had  left  them.  Out  near  the 
horizon  the  brown  lateen-sails  of  the  small  craft  plying  between 
Stromboli  and  Naples  bellied  before  the  fresh  breeze  that  was 
rippling  the  blue  water.  Several  men  in  green  and  white-striped 
sleeveless  jackets,  with  scarlet  cloths  wound  in  turban  fashion 
around  their  heads,  were  up  to  their  waists  in  the  gulf  hauling 
in  a  seine,  and  above  them  a  covey  of  gulls,  hovered  in  the  air, 
waiting  to  make  a  meal  on  the  worthless  anchovies  that  would  be 
cast  aside  on  the  beach. 

On  a  shelf  of  rocks  under  the  cliffs  was  a  cluster  of  houses 
better  built  and  more  neatly  kept  than  the  somewhat  shabby  fish- 
ermen's huts  that  straggled  lower  down.  They  were  the  homes 
of  the  wealthier  inhabitants  of  the  lower  town,  of  the  masters  and 
mates  in  the  shipping  trade  along  the  coast  from  Taranto  to 
Naples  and  to  Sicily  and  the  Lipari  islands.  This  trade  was 
mostly  in  silk,  cotton,  wine,  earthenware,  raisins,  currants,  and 
figs.  But  it  had  fallen  off  greatly.  For  Garibaldi's  expeditions 
had  interfered  with  the  legitimate  commerce  of  the  coast,  and, 
though  the  heavy  taxes  imposed  by  the  king  of  the  Two  Sicilies 
were  still  levied  and  exacted,  the  revolutionary  excitement  had 
cut  off  the  resources  with  which  to  meet  them. 

Domenico  was  just  turned  eighteen.  He  was  a  handsome 
youth,  not  tall  nor  brawny,  but  of  medium  height  and  of  that  neat 


1 886.]  DOMENICO' s  NEW  YEAR.  529 

form  which  utilizes  the  essentials  of  physical  strength  to  the  best 
advantage.  He  was  dressed  in  a  short  jacket  and  wide  trousers 
of  dark  blue  velveteen ;  a  red  knit  cap,  the  point  and  tassel  of 
which  hung  jauntily  down  over  his  left  ear ;  low  shoes  of  russet 
leather,  showing  above  them  woollen  stockings  knit  with  clocks 
of  many  colors.  His  jacket,  buttoned  at  the  top,  opened  over  an 
embroidered  brown  linen  shirt,  and  a  silver  crucifix  on  his  chest 
was  suspended  from  his  neck  by  a  silver  rosary.  His  hair  was 
black  and  his  skin  a  clear,  light  brown.  His  features,  though 
masculine,  were  perfectly  regular,  the  nose  straight,  the  wide-set, 
black  eyes  full  of  intelligence  and  looking  directly  at  whatever 
interested  them,  while  the  long,  moderately  thick  lips  parted  over 
white  teeth  that  always  took  a  share  in  the  young  man's  smiles, 
which  ordinarily  were  frequent. 

But  just  now  Domenico  was  not  in  a  gay  mood.  Except 
when  watching  the  headland  of  Capo  Vaticano,  he  was  embracing 
his  mother  with  great  warmth  and  addressing  to  her  in  the  dia- 
lect of  the  region  words  very  many  of  which  were  affectionate 
diminutives.  He  was  telling  his  "  dear  little  mother  "  that  he 
would  always  be  "  a  good  little  boy  "  anof  say  his  "  little  prayers," 
so  that  the  "  dear  little  most  holy  Virgin  "  should  have  no  cause 
to  be  displeased  with  him,  and  that  in  a  very  little  while — by  the 
next  New  Year  after  the  corning  one — a  mere  pezzino  of  time,  he 
would  be  back  again,  etc.  It  was  such  a  story  as  many  a  son  of 
every  race  has  told  his  mother  to  cheer  her  at  parting,  in  every 
language  and  dialect  of  civilized  man.  But  Domenico's  mother, 
like  all  mothers  under  similar  circumstances,  refused  to  be  com- 
forted. 

Agata  Cafferata  had  done  her  best  to  bring  up  the  children 
that  her  late  husband,  the  master  of  a  felucca,  had  left  to  her  care. 
But  the  Lord  had  taken  them  one  by  one  away  from  her,  all  but 
this  last,  Domenico — her  baby,  bambino  carino,  as  she  still  called 
him.  Her  savings  had  dwindled  away  in  the  general  depression 
of  trade,  and  she  had  been  forced  to  dispose  of  the  felucca  for  a 
very  small  sum,  and  that  sum  was  going  fast. 

News  came  from  time  to  time  that  far  away  across  the  ocean, 
in  the  land  which  the  Italian  sailor,  Cristoforo  Colombo,  had  dis- 
covered for  the  good  of  the  church,  the  people,  for  some  in- 
scrutable reason,  were  in  arms.  The  accounts  were  vague,  and 
the  geographical  notions  which  the  generality  of  the  inhabitants 
of  Tropea,  even  the  navigating  ones,  had  of  America  were  any- 
thing but  definite.  Still  something  of  what  everybody  continued 
to  say  must  be  true,  and  all  agreed  that  though  a  war  was  raging 

VOL.  XLIL— 34 


530  DoMENiccfs  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

in  the  far-off  Stati  Uniti  di  America — was  it  North  or  South 
America?  no  one  was  certain — money  was  circulating  plentifully 
there,  and  strangers  might  take  their  chance  of  earning  great 
wages  without  being  involved  in  a  war  in  which  they  had  no 
interest.  Several  young  fellows  of  the  Tyrrhenian  coast  had 
gone,  and  were  sending  back  to  their  families  more  money  than 
they  could  have  touched  in  ten  years  of  toil  between  Naples  and 
Taranto. 

Domenico's  ambition  had  been  fired  by  these  reports,  and  after 
many  arguments  he  had  prevailed  on  his  mother  to  consent  to 
his  going  to  America.  In  the  long  leather  bag  that  lay  near  him 
Agata,  besides  his  working-clothes,  had  put  a  few  souvenirs  of  her- 
self and  of  the  kindly  old  priest  of  the  parish,  who  was  too  feeble 
to  come,  as  he  had  intended,  to  give  a  blessing  to  the  boy  on  his 
departure  and  to  the  boat  that  was  to  carry  him  on  the  beginning 
of  his  adventure.  Among  the  rest  was  a  little  prayer-book ;  for 
Domenico  could  not  only  read  Tuscan  but  could  say  the  Credo 
and  the  Pater  and  Ave  in  Latin,  and  had  several  times  been  per- 
mitted the  privilege  of  serving  the  curatos  Mass. 

"  Eccolo ! "  murmured  the  cousins  and  second-cousins  and 
other  relatives  clustered  in  a  group  which  held  itself  delicately 
apart  from  the  mother  and  son,  who  had  now  but  a  few  moments 
to  be  together  before  the  wide  ocean  should  begin  to  divide 
them.  The  blades  of  a  pair  of  oars  rose  and  fell  from  the  side  of 
a  yawl  that  was  heading  in  towards  the  beach. 

The  thin  waves  were  leaping  lightly  in  the  sun,  and  the  foam- 
ing edge  of  the  brine  with  every  ripple  came  further  up  the 
strand.  It  was  the  coming-in  of  the  tide  that  going  out  would 
bear  Domenico  away  to  Naples  in  the  trader  anchored  beyond 
the  mole. 

Poor  Agata's  head  rested  on  her  child's  shoulder  and  all  else 
but  he  was  forgotten.  The  boy's  quick  ears,  however,  caught 
the  dip  of  the  oars,  and  as  he  turned  to  look  the  boatman,  who 
was  grinning  recognition  at  the  crowd  on  the  beach,  called  out 
to  him,  "  Presto,  ragazz  inio  !  " 

A  hearty  embrace  for  old  men  and  women,  youths  and  chil- 
dren— kinsmen  all.  And  then  the  final  good-by  to  the  mother. 
To  save  beaching  the  boat  Domenico  would  have  rushed  through 
the  gentle  surf,  but  the  stout  fellows  about,  unwilling  that  he 
should  spoil  his  fine  clothes,  lifted  him  up  and  bore  him  out. 

"  Orsii  !  Agata,"  said  the  men.  "  Have  courage ;  Domenico 
will  come  back  rich  and  wise."  The  women  sighed,  "  Povera 
Agata !  povera  madre  /  " — a  mother  to  be  pitied,  for  she  was  los- 


1 8 86.]  DOMENICO'  s  NEW  YEAR.  531 

ing  her  son.  And  then  for  Domenico  the  women  and  children, 
falling  on  their  knees,  begged  Mary,  Star  of  the  Sea,  to  direct  his 
voyage  safely,  while  the  men  waved  their  caps  and  shouted  after 
him:  "Buon  viagg ',  carino ;  iddio  e  la  Santissima  Vergine  ti  ten- 
gon  !  " — Good-by,  Domenico.  You  need  the  help  of  God  and  the 
prayers  of  the  saints  indeed  on  the  voyage  of  life  you  are  begin- 
ning. 

II. 

It  was  the  spring  of  1863.  South  Street,  New  York,  and  the 
streets  opening  out  of  it,  were  not  so  brisk  as  they  had  been. 
There  was  no  longer  the  dense  forest  of  masts,  extending  from 
the  ferries  at  the  Battery  to  Corlears*  Hook,  that  used  to  excite 
admiration.  And  from  the  peaks  of  the  thinly-scattered  vessels 
lying  at  the  docks  it  was  no  longer  the  American  ensign  that 
almost  everywhere  caught  the  eye.  The  English-built  Confed- 
erate cruisers  and  blockade-runners  had  changed  all  that. 

Yet  the  day  was  bright.  The  clear,  ringing  sledge-notes 
from  the  forge  in  Roosevelt  Street,  alternated  by  the  lighter 
taps  of  the  smith  signalling  to  his  helper,  were  taken  up  by  the 
redbird  in  his  cage  against  the  front  of  the  "  Anchorage,"  two 
doors  beyond. 

Two  rough-looking  fellows  sat  side  by  side  on  a  chain  cable 
coiled  on  the  sidewalk  near  the  smithy.  One  of  them,  a  squat, 
red-faced,  sandy-haired  man,  carried  in  the  leather  belt  he  wore 
around  his  waist  a  long  sheath-knife,  which  stuck  out  from  be- 
neath his  dark  blue  reefing-jacket.  His  clasped  hands  rested  be- 
tween his  knees,  and  he  measured  off  his  slowly-spoken  sentences 
in  an  accent  that  showed  him  to  be  from  the  south  of  England. 
The  other  was  a  strongly-knit  man  also,  but  better-shaped  and 
of  more  regular  features,  swarthy  of  complexion,  and  having 
black  eyes  with  a  red  glitter.  He  would  be  pronounced  an  Ital- 
ian by  any  passer-by. 

They  both  savored  of  the  salt  sea,  but,  though  they  were  once 
sailors,  they  were  now  crimps,  and  as  conscienceless  a  pair  of  ras- 
cals as  ever  recruited  a  ship's  crew.  The  metallic  sparks  which 
swarmed  out  of  the  smithy  doors  like  flies  warned  the  pair  that 
honest  workmen  were  near,  and  they  carried  on  their  conversation 
in  a  low  tone,  occasionally  looking  towards  the  Anchorage. 

The  Anchorage  in  Roosevelt  Street  was  a  gabled  brick 
house,  and  bore  the  marks  of  having  once  enjoyed  greater  re- 
spectability than  it  appeared  to  possess  now.  But  whatever  the 
house  may  have  been  at  the  beginning  of  the  century,  it  was  now 


532  DOMENICC?  s  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

and  had  long;  been  a  sailors'  boarding-house.  The  sign  that 
swung  from  the  tall  post  on  the  curbstone  had  a  faded  picture 
of  a  ship  in  a  chopping  sea  letting  go  her  anchor,  and,  beneath, 
the  words,  "  The  Anchorage.  By  Keziah  Winslow.'  But  the 
•'house  was  familiar  to  every  Jack-tar  that  the  winds  brought  to 
New  York  as  "  Mother  Winslow's." 

The  Widow  Winslow  liked  the  nickname  "  Mother,"  and  she 
sincerely  regarded  her  coarse  and  often  boisterous  boarders  as 
"  her  boys,"  and  never  hesitated  to  enforce  discipline  among 
them.  She  was  tall  but  rather  gaunt,  yet  had  the  physical  abil- 
ity to  compel  an  acceptance  of  her  ideas  of  deportment.  If  a 
newly-landed  salt,  after  spending  the  day  trying  to  get  his  sea- 
legs  off,  only  to  get  a  drunken  pair  on,  reeled  up  the  two  steps 
from  the  street  and  bore  down  upon  the  bar  with  many  a  tack  to 
starboard  and  port,  she  merely  gave  a  wink  at  the  bystanders 
and  put  the  man  before  her,  just  as  a  policeman  would  do,  and 
stranded  him  on  his  cot  safe  and  sound  for  the  night. 

Mother  Winslow  was  a  thorough  Yankee — "  aginiwin  wooden 
nutmeg  from  Connecticut,"  she  was  proud  to  say — and  as  brack- 
ish as  any  of  the  weather-beaten  men  she  provided  with  board 
and  lodging.  She  took  her  name  of  Winslow  from  an  ambitious 
New  London  mariner  who  had  tired  of  coasting  work  and  gone 
off  as  mate  on  a  whaler,  but,  dying  on  a  prosperous  voyage,  had 
left  to  his  widow,  Keziah,  his  share  in  the  oil,  blubber,  and  whale- 
bone. She  was  the  daughter  on  both  sides  of  seafaring  people  of 
many  generations.  Perhaps  her  ancestors  in  the  direct  line  had 
never  given  up  their  dislike  for  dry  land  since  the  first  of  them 
took  refuge  with  Noe  in  the  Ark.  Keziah  Winslow  herself 
would  have  shipped  before  the  mast  when  she  became  a  widow, 
if  any  skipper  would  have  encouraged  the  notion ;  but  as  her  sex 
forbade  her  being  a  sailor,  she  took  her  husband's  legacy  with 
her  to  New  York  and  bought  out  the  Anchorage.  She  was  rich 
and  had  shares  in  some  of  the  best-paying  vessels  in  the  coasting 
trade.  But  that  trade  was  in  a  bad  way  now,  though  the  coast- 
ing vessels  were  again  beginning  to  thrive  as  transports  for 
troops  and  supplies  in  the  government  service. 

Occasionally,  however,  her  coast- wise  boarders  at  night, 
when  "half-seas-over,"  were  inclined  to  "raise  the  roof"  with 
their  "  chantee  "  : 

"  I  wish  I  was  in  Mobile  Bay, 

Ah,  hay  !  ah,  hoy! 
Screwing  cotton  by  the  day  " — 

but  the  "  Belay  !  "  of  a  gruff  voice  would  very  likely  end  the 


1 886.]  D OMEN ico' s  NEW  YEAR.  533 

wish  with  "  Mobile  Bay,  eh  ?  Mates,  there  an't  any  Mobile,  ~or 
Charleston,  or  Wilmington,  or  Savanny  for  us  any  more,  unless 
you  want  to  ship  on  one  o'  them  lime-juicer  Britishers.  They've 
got  the  whole  coast ;  they  have,  d — n  'em  !  " 

But  Mother  Winslow  was  hopeful.  "  Wall,  boys,"  she  would 
remark,  "  the  critters  what's  fightin'  to_  keep  the  stars  and  stripes 
out  o'  them  harbors  down  there  an't  got  good  sense.  I'm  not 
afeard  about  the  Johnny  Bulls  keepin'  the  trade  nohow.  It  an't 
in  good  reason  that  this  coast  from  the  Saint  Lawrence  to  the 
Rye-o  grandy  hadn't  ought  to  be  all  one  coast,  and  there  an't  any 
power  on  earth  as  can  make  a  dividin'  line  in  it  and  say  :  '  This 
here's  one  country  and  that  there's  another.' " 

Mother  Winslow's  only  child,  Amos,  a  strapping  fellow,  who 
had  sailed  as  mate  between  New  York  and  the  lower  coast,  had 
felt  disgusted  at  the  idleness  in  the  trade  that  followed  the  out- 
break of  the  war  and  the  depredations  of  the  cruisers,  and  enlisted 
in  the  Union  army,  much  to  his  mother's  regret ;  for  whereas  she 
could  formerly  see  him  once  every  few  weeks  at  least,  months 
sometimes  passed  now  that  she  could  not  even  hear  from  him. 
She  was  discussing  with  some  of  her  guests  the  wages  offered  on 
the  transports. 

"  If  Ame  hadn't  been  such  a  blamed  fool,"  said  she,  "  he  could 
'a'  had  a  good  berth  on  one  them  transports.  And  there's  that 
young  Eye-talian  over  there.  Just  see  how  he  sets  and  grins  ! 
He's  a  nice-lookin'  boy,  though,  and  I'm  afeard  o*  them  crimps 
if  they  git  him.  They  an't  none  o'  you  knows  his  lingo,  eh  ?  " 

But  none  of  these  coasting  mariners  had  the  polyglot  abilities 
requisite,  and  Mother  Winslow  was  forced  to  do  what  was  evi- 
dently against  her  inclination.  She  went  to  the  door  and  called 
"  Maltese  John,"  the  swarthy  one  of  the  worthy  pair  who  were 
sitting  on  the  chain  cable  near  the  blacksmith's. 

As  the  Maltese  entered  the  barroom  he  glanced  about  in 
search  of  the  foreigner  whose  language  he  was  expected  to  inter- 
pret, and  he  instantly  descried  the  young  Italian  whom  Mother 
Winslow  seemed  to  take  a  warm  interest  in. 

It  was  Domenico  ;  not  quite  so  open  of  expression  as  when  he 
had  sailed  away  from  Tropea  six  months  before.  He  was  evi- 
dently growing  wary,  or  thought  he  was. 

"  Eh  !  "  exclaimed  the  Maltese  with  the  soft,  guttural  sound 
which  the  Italian  language  affords  to  its  playful  speech.  "  Tu 
vuoi  farti  ricco  Americano?"  and,  turning  to  Mother  Winslow, 
"  Dis-a  boy  want  to  be  a  rich-a  American  like-a  you  and  me." 
And  he  chuckled  at  the  innocent  manner  of  the  young  man.  j 


534  DOMENICO'  s  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

Domenico  glowed  with  joy  on  hearing  the  sounds  of  his  na- 
tive land,  even  though  in  a  dialect  not  so  soft  to  him  as  his  Cala- 
brian.  At  Tropea,  it  is  true,  the  Maltese  were  not  favorites, 
but  then  that  was  a  surviving  prejudice,  a  memory  of  the  days 
when  the  mixed  race  of  Malta  were  Saracens  and  Christians 
by  turns,  and  corsairs  and  freebooters  whatever  their  religion. 
Domenico  told  the  Maltese  all :  how.  on  his  arrival  in  England, 
he  had  been  robbed  of  his  money,  and  then  been  deceived  by 
crimps,  who,  pretending  to  get  him  a  berth  as  a  sailor  before  the 
mast,  for  his  passage,  to  New  York,  had  really  shipped  him  on  a 
voyage  to  Quebec  and  return,  and  had  arranged  between  the  ras- 
cally Liverpool  boarding-house  keeper  and  the  equally  rascally 
master  of  the  vessel  to  divide  up  all  of  his  pay  between  them  in 
advance.  Now  he  was  at  last  in  New  York,  after  several  other 
mishaps  and  three  voyages  across  the  Atlantic  instead  of  the  one 
he  had  expected.  He  wanted  advice  now,  he  said,  and  assistance 
to  secure  work  in  the  transport  service. 

The  Maltese  listened  in  silence  to  the  young  Italian's  voluble 
utterance,  and  when  it  was  ended  promised  with  a  grunt  that  he 
would  see  what  could  be  done. 

"  Well,  Maltee,"  Mrs.  Winslow  asked,  "  what's  the  young 
man  want  to  do  ?  Ship?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  crimp  ;  "  he  want  to  ship^a  on  transport. 
Sometin'  Jim  Piper  tell-a  me  about  do  jus*  right  for  him,  I  t'ink." 

"  Now  look  here,  Maltee,"  exclaimed  the  widow,  reddening 
with  anger  at  the  mention  of  the  English  crimp,  "  don't  you  dare 
to  help  Jim  with  any  shanghain'  business  on  this  here  boy.  But 
you're  afeard  o'  that  little  Englishman.  Yes,  you  are ;  you  know 
you  are,"  as  the  Maltese  shrugged  his  shoulders  almost  to  the 
rings  in  his  ears  by  way  of  protest.  "  That  young  fellow's  a 
countryman  of  yours,  too." 

"He?  "queried  the  Maltese.  "Why,  he's  an  Eye-talian,  a 
Calabrese,  and  I'm  from  de  island  of  Malta." 

"  Well,  there  an't  any  difference  worth  talkin*  about ;  and  any- 
way he's  a  countryman  of  mine,  because  he's  got  a  mother  what 
he  likes,  and  he's  away  from  her.  I  know  it.  I  seed  him  lookin' 
at  her  pictur  not  long  ago.  He  has  her  pictur  hangin'  round  his 
neck,  painted  very  pretty.  His  mother  has  red  hair.  There,  he's 
lookin'  at  it  now." 

"  Dat's  de  Madonna  de  boy  got  dere,"  the  Maltese  corrected 
her,  and  a  certain  softness  in  the  tone  of  the  man's  voice  seemed 
to  speak  of  youthful  recollections — of  the  innocent  days  of  early 
piety,  perhaps. 


1 886.]  DOMENICO'S  NEW  YEAR.  535 

"  Well,  I  know  such  a  boy  as  that's  got  a  mother,  any  way,  and 
I  know  I  sh'd  hate  to  have  my  Ame  get  into  the  grip  of  a  lot  o* 
land  pirates.  But  Ame's  too  sharp  for  that.  I  wish  he  was  here 
now  to  git  this  boy  a  good  send-off.  Maltee,  you  git  him  a 
berth  and  do  the  square  thing  by  him.  There  an't  any  man  ever 
sailed  the  sea  can  say  I  went  in  hooks  with  a  crimp  or  a  ship's^ 
master  to  rob  him  of  his  wages,  or  let  it  be  done  without  raisin' 
a  row  about  it." 

"  All-a  right,"  was  the  only  response  the  Maltese  made  as  he 
darted  out  with  a  laugh. 

III. 

The  weather  had  been  mild  during  most  of  the  final  month  of 
1863.  On  the  last  day  of  the  year  a  soft  fall  of  snow  had  whiten- 
ed Thorofare  Gap  and  all  the  country  round  about,  but  in  the 
dusk  of  approaching  niglit  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  its 
few  patches  remaining  on  the  warm  ground  from  the  hoary 
masses  of  granite  and  basalt  that  at  frequent  intervals  overhang 
the  pass. 

The  main  turnpike  road  as  well  as  the  principal  railroad  con- 
necting the  portion  of  Virginia  which  reaches  from  the  lower 
Potomac  to  the  lower  Rappahannock  with  the  Shenandoah  Val- 
ley and  those  other  pleasant  valleys  nestling  along  the  eastern 
fringe  of  the  Blue  Ridge,  cross  the  short  range  known  as  the 
Bull  Run  Mountains  by  means  of  Thorofare  Gap.  One  would 
have  to  go  many  miles  to  the  north  or  south  of  that  great  pass  to 
find  another  rift  in  the  range  where  even  the  most  sure-footed  of 
men  and  beasts  could  with  any  ease  make  their  way  from  east  to 
west  or  from  west  to  east.  Thorofare  Gap,  consequently,  was  of 
immense  importance  in  the  military  operations  of  Virginia  dur- 
ing the  Civil  War.  It  was  the  scene  of  many  an  adventure,  of 
surprises  by  one  and  the  other  of  the  opposing  forces  on  its  an- 
tagonist, of  scouts  and  reconnoissances  without  number,  of  con- 
flicts more  or  less  serious.  Sometimes  the  pass  was  in  the  pos- 
session of  Federal  troops,  sometimes  of  the  Confederates  ;  fre- 
quently neither  held  it  but  both  disputed  for  it. 

Historic  Bull  Run  courses  through  the  pass  on  its  way  to- 
wards the  broken  ground  between  Centreville  and  Manassas 
Junction,  where  it  gave  the  name  to  two  great  battles  and  to 
several  skirmishes  in  the  four  years'  contest.  In  the  pass,  how- 
ever, Bull  Run  is  a  limpid  brook  flowing  in  a  shaly  bed,  now 
beside,  and  now  under  and  across,  the  railroad  and  turnpike, 
which  run  parallel  between  the  rugged  eminences  at  either  hand. 


536  DOMENICO'S  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

As  the  last  night  of  the  year  settled  down  the  wind  shifted 
towards  the  northwest  and  whistled  sharply  through  the  tall 
pines  and  the  laurel  shrubberies  that  grew  here  and  there  on 
the  steep  declivities  of  the  gap,  sending  into  the  air  little  whiffs 
of  the  now  fast-freezing  snow  that  had  been  clinging  to  their 
branches.  The  sky  was  cloudless,  and  as  the  atmosphere  more 
and  more  filled  with  frost  the  stream  sparkled  back  reflections  of 
the  stars  from  the  film  of  ice  that  was  forming  on  its  surface. 
The  soft  ooze  of  mud  that  had  lain  for  days  on  the  turnpike  road 
was  now  as  hard  as  stone,  and  the  echoes  were  acute  and  rapid. 

It  was  a  cruel  frost  that  was  preparing  to  usher  in  the  new 
year,  and  so  thought  a  knot  of  men  in  Federal  uniform  who  were 
gathered  about  a  roaring  fire  near  the  western  end  of  the  gap. 
Except  for  the  sparks  that  rose  straight  up  in  the  air  whenever 
one  of  the  men  struck  his  heavy  boot  into  it  to  rouse  it,  no  one 
coming  from  the  west  would  have  suspected  the  existence  of  the 
fire,  for  it  was  sheltered  from  sight  in  that  direction  by  a  project- 
ing rib  of  rocks. 

These  men  were  an  outpost  from  a  New  York  infantry  regi- 
ment that  was  quartered  in  the  gap,  and  were  the  connecting 
link  between  a  stronger  post  nearer  the  regiment  and  other  but 
smaller  groups  skilfully  placed  on  the  cliffs  and  out  in  the  open 
beyond  the  mouth  of  the  gap.  Twenty  loaded  muskets  rested 
against  the  perpendicular  rock.  Some  of  the  men  were  reclining 
with  their  limbs  extended  in  the  warm  bed  of  ashes  that  surround- 
ed the  fire;  the  shadows  of  others,  who,  with  their  overcoat-capes 
pulled  over  their  heads,  were  trotting  up  and  down  to  keep  their 
blood  in  circulation,  were  thrown  upwards  against  the  high  em- 
bankment of  the  railroad  in  grotesque  and  ever-changing  pos- 
tures. The  lieutenant  who  was  in  command  of  this  post  and  of 
its  outlying  pickets  sat  alongside  of  the  sergeant  a  little  apart 
from  the  rest. 

It  was  very  still  except  for  the  sighing  of  the  trees,  and  the 
creaking  of  the  ice  in  the  now  solidly  congealing  stream,  and  the 
coughing  now  and  then  of  the  sentinel  from  the  outpost  keeping 
his  two  hours'  watch  in  the  road  beyond  the  glare  of  the  fire. 

Most  of  the  men  were  veterans,  but  there  were  several  who 
had  recently  joined  from  the  recruiting  rendezvous,  and  these 
were  distributed  about  at  the  different  posts,  in  order  to  give 
them  a  good  initiation  into  the  roughness  of  the  service.  The 
sergeant  had  just  returned  from  relieving  the  outer  line,  and  was 
discussing  with  the  lieutenant  the  merits  of  the  new  men  he  had 
placed. 


1 886.]  DoMENiCtfs  NEW  YEAR.  537 

"  How  about  No.  3  Post?"  inquired  the  officer.  "  That's  the 
riskiest  of  all,  and  I  hope  they'll  not  fall  asleep  with  the  cold  out 
there  before  I  can  make  the  '  rounds ' ;  for  the  '  reb '  cavalry  were 
at  Aldie  this  morning,  and  they  may  come  down  the  'pike  before 
the  night  is  over  to  try  us." 

"  There's  a  mighty  good  corporal  at  No.  3,  lieutenant,"  said 
the  sergeant,  "and  he  has  three  pretty  good  men  with  him.  But 
he  has  one  of  the  new  men,  too,  that  I  don't  know  anything 
about.  He's  an  Italian,  and  is  almost  as  black  as  your  cook. 
He  seemed  a  little  excited  when  I  was  out  there  ;  his  ears  were 
pricked  up  at  every  sound,  and  his  eyes  were  as  wide  open  as 
saucers.  It's  not  a  very  easy  place  out  there  in  that  open  field. 
If  the  'Johnnies'  come  it  is  fight,  die,  kill,  or  surrender;  not 
much  chance  to  run  into  the  gap,  unless  a  man  studies  the  ground 
well  enough  to  fool  those  Virginia  horsemen,  and  that's  not  easy 
either." 

"  I  wonder  how  much  that  Italian  cost  the  country?"  the  lieu- 
tenant sarcastically  remarked  in  reference  to  the  large  bounties 
then  paid,  as  he  filled  his  brier-wood  pipe  and  thrust  a  stick  into 
the  red  embers  of  the  fire  for  a  light. 

v  "  I  don't  know,"  the  sergeant  answered,  "  but  I  guess  he  cost 
a  good  deal  more  than  he  got ;  for  I  hear  that  he  and  some 
others  of  the  same  batch  of  recruits  were  swindled  out  of  their 
bounties  by  the  substitute-brokers." 

A  crackling  of  dry  branches  overhead  brought  everybody  to 
his  feet,  and  a  rush  was  made  to  grasp  the  muskets.  All  eyes 
were  turned  upwards  towards  the  jutting  cliff,  but  the  strained 
nerves  relaxed  again  as  a  familiar  voice  spoke  out  from  the  dark- 
ness up  there: 

"  Be  gobs,  b'ys,  it's  ye  that's  comfortable  and  aisy  wid  yer 
feet  to  the  finder.  Ye're  more  like  salamandhers  than  soldiers,  so 
y'  are,  rowlin'  in  thim  ashes.  The  divii  a  bit  ye  care  if  Post 
No.  I's  froze  as  shtiff  as  pokers." 

"Now,  Flanagan,  what's  the  matter?  What  are  you  doing 
away  from  your  post?"  demanded  the  officer  severely  as  the 
owner  of  the  voice  and  the  brogue — a  very  fat  man,  seemingly, 
from  the  loose  way  in  which  his  overcoat  was  bundled  around 
him — came  into  sight  at  the  edge  of  the  rock  and  cast  a  longing 
look  at  the  cheerful  blaze  almost  directly  beneath  him. 

"  Well,  leftenant,"  was  the  answer,  "  the  carporal  bid  me  tell  ye 
we've  been  hearin'  harses'  hoofs  on  the  'pike  beyand,  though  it's 
so  black  out  there  that  sorra  bit  o'  gray  can  we  see.  Ah  !  but 
that's  a  fine  fire  y'  have  there,  leftenant."  But,  noting  calmly  the 


538  DoMENiccfs  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

officer's  impatience,  he  said  :  "  Annyhow,  the  carporal  and  us  b'ys 
does  be  thinking  thim  b'ys  to  the  left  o'  the  'pike,  in  the  open 
field  beyand,  '11  be  in  throuble  shortly  if  they  don't  mind."  And 
so  saying  he  disappeared  in  the  darkness,  and  his  return  up  the 
steep  hillside  to  rejoin  his  comrades  on  the  lookout  was  marked 
for  a  minute  by  the  glint  of  his  bayonet. 

"  Put  out  the  fire !  "  was  the  officer's  order  at  once,  and  it  was 
obeyed,  though  with  reluctance,  and  with  not  a  little  growling  in 
undertones  at  Flanagan  as  the  messenger  that  had  disturbed  their 
repose.  But  Flanagan's  was  a  clear  head  if  not  a  cool  one,  as 
they  knew,  and  the  corporal  was  a  brave  fellow  not  likely  to  be 
overcome  by  the  fidgets  or  to  take  alarm  at  nothing.  The  scat- 
tered embers  of  the  fire  were  stamped  out ;  cartridge-boxes  were 
opened  and  the  flaps  buttoned  up  so  as  to  leave  the  cartridges 
handy ;  the  priming  of  the  muskets  was  examined,  and  quietly 
the  men,  under  the  low-spoken  orders  of  their  officer,  fell  into 
ranks  and  moved  through  the  ditch  beside  the  railroad  to  a  rude 
breastwork  of  logs,  which  was  covered  in  front  with  branches  to 
conceal  the  purpose  of  the  construction. 

It  was  nearly  midnight,  and  at  midnight,  as  these  soldiers 
knew,  the  moon  would  rise  with  the  new  year.  Already,  indeed, 
a  white  light  was  illumining  the  crests  on  either  side  of  the  gap, 
and  one  wide  moonbeam  fell  slanting  athwart  the  turnpike-road 
beyond  the  mouth  of  the  gap,  and  showed,  though  indistinctly, 
some  human  figures  motionless  near  a  ruined  log-house.  That 
was  Post  No.  3. 

The  moon  is  rising  now  clear  above  the  tops  of  the  mountain, 
but  a  cloud  that  is  passing  across  keeps  the  turnpike  in  darkness 
where  it  issues  from  the  gap  to  the  west. 

There  was  a  flash  at  the  log-house  !  There  is  another !  Ah  ! 
now  they  are  coming.  "  Hi !  hi !  hi !  "  The  Confederate  yell  and 
the  rattle  of  hoofs  over  the  stony  field  threaten  the  isolated  picket- 
post  with  destruction.  The  flash  of  the  muskets  at  the  log-house 
is  almost  as  rapid  and  their  crash  as  spiteful  as  if  fifty  infantrymen 
were  at  that  post  instead  of  the  five  brave  fellows.  Now  the 
cloud  has  passed  from  the  moon,  and  the  field  is  dotted  with 
horsemen  caracoling  around  the  poor  hovel,  and  there  in  the 
turnpike,  with  guidons  flying,  a  solid  column  of  cavalry  is  form- 
ing to  charge  into  the  pass. 

All  is  quiet  but  ready  at  the  breastwork,  and  hasty  word  has 
been  sent  to  the  rear  to  notify  the  main  force.  The  Confederate 
yell  in  the  field  is  answered  by  the  angry  and  defiant  shouts  of 
the  Federal  picket-post,  and  the  rattle  of  their  musket-shots  re- 


1 886.]  DoMENictfs  NEW  YEAJZ.  539 

spends  to  the  crack  of  the  horsemen's  pistols.  But  it  is  too  much 
for  the  five  men,  and  they  are  running  towards  the  gap,  loading 
their  pieces  as  they  come  and  turning  about  to  fire.  It  is  as  light 
as  day  out  there,  or  these  agile  infantrymen  might  escape  without 
harm  now.  But  the  ground  they  are  coming  over  is  rough  and 
deeply  seamed,  and  the  Confederate  horses  bound  over  it  with 
the  certainty  of  goats.  One  Confederate  reels  in  his  saddle  and 
falls;  the  horse  of  another  is  maimed,  and,  stumbling,  hurls  his 
rider  to  the  earth. 

"  Hurrah  !  "  cry  the  running  Federals  exultantly,  and  they 
descend  out  of  view  into  the  hollow  through  which  flows  the 
stream.  In  the  field  beyond,  the  charging  scattered  horsemen 
are  coming  on,  and  the  heavy  stamping  on  the  turnpike  indicates 
that  the  solid  column  also  is  now  advancing.  Three  infantrymen 
emerge  from  the  bed  of  the  stream  and  make  for  the  breastwork. 
Breathless  and  almost  broken  they  reach  the  shelter.  The  cor- 
poral and  the  Italian  are  missing. 

The  next  morning  a  cheerful  fire  burned  again  behind  the 
cleft  in  the  rock  near  the  mouth  of  the  gap.  A  Federal  soldier, 
whose  shattered  arm  was  set  in  a  splint,  was  kneeling  near  the  fire 
beside  another  Federal  on  whose  sleeves  the  double-barred  chev- 
rons indicated  the  grade  of  corporal.  In  front  of  the  breastwork, 
a  few  yards  further  out,  lay  the  dead  body  of  the  lieutenant  who 
was  in  command  there  at  midnight.  Nearly  all  who  had  occu- 
pied the  breastwork  then  were  still  there  or  close  by,  dead  or 
wounded.  .  Flanagan  was  not  dead,  but  he  said  he  might  as  well 
be,  with  the  ugly  sabre-cut  across  his  features  to  mar  their 
beauty.  Having  fought  cleverly  as  long  as  there  was  fighting  to 
do,  he  was  equally  clever  now  in  the  useful  occupation  of  nurse 
to  his  wounded  comrades.  A  party  of  men  in  Confederate  uni- 
form were  working  with  pick  and  spade  to  dig  a  long  trench  in 
the  frozen  earth  to  bury  the  dead,  whom  another  party  of  Con- 
federates were  counting  and  arranging  in  rows,  Confederates  in 
one  place,  Federals  in  another.  The  battle-flag  of  the  Southern 
Confederacy,  a  white  field  with  a  red  saltire  cross,  waved  from 
a  staff  on  the  railroad  embankment.  The  Confederates  were  in 
possession. 

"  Do  you  know  him  ?  "  a  Southern  surgeon  asked  the  Federal 
soldier  who  was  kneeling  beside  the  corporal. 

"  Speak-a  no  Eenglees.     Me  Italiano,"  said  the  other. 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  speak  English  this  letter  which  the  man 
you  are  attending  to  has  written  speaks  well  for  you."  And  the 


54°  DOMENICO'  s  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

surgeon  chuckled  with  satisfaction  at  the  lame  pun  he  had  made 
unintentionally,  as  he  examined  a  closely-written  sheet  of  paper 
folded  and  addressed  without  an  envelope.  "  But,"  he  said,  "  I 
used  to  know  something  of  Italian,  and  here  goes."  And  before 
he  was  through  he  learned  from  Domenico  Cafferata — for  it  was 
he — of  his  many  adventures  since  leaving  Tropea. 

"  And  this  corporal  dying  here,"  Domenico  told  him  in  his 
Calabrese,  which  the  surgeon  contrived  with  much  difficulty  to 
understand,  "  is  the  only  child  of  Mrs.  Winslow,  who  keeps  the 
Anchorage  in  New  York,  where  I  boarded  when  I  was  trying  to 
find  work  as  a  sailor.  But  two  men,  who  pretended  that  they 
were  getting  me  a  berth,  took  me  over  to  an  island  near  the  city, 
and  I  was  made  to  put  on  a  soldier's  dress.  I  told  the  officers 
that  the  paper  I  had  signed  was  represented  to  me  to  be  shipping- 
papers,  but  they  did  not  understand  -and  they  only  laughed  at 
me.  I  was  kept  on  that  island  for  a  long  while,  and  made  to 
drill  four  times  a  day.  Then  they  sent  me  off  along  with  others 
by  railroad,  and  after  a  day  we  came  to  a  city  with  a  great  white 
building  with  a  dome — Vaschenton  they  called  it.  There  we  got 
out  of  the  cars  and  were  made  to  march  across  a  long,  ugly 
bridge  over  a  wide  river  to  a  vast  field,  where  we  had  to  live  in 
the  open  air  like  an  immense  drove  of  cattle,  with  soldiers  gal- 
loping constantly  around  on  the  outside  to  prevent  us  from  es- 
caping. But  I  had  no  longer  any  thought  of  escaping.  Where 
should  I  go  ?  I  knew  not  the  country,  and  I  had  no  money  and 
no  friends. 

"  One  day  they  gave  some  of  us  little  brass  numbers  and  letters 
to  fasten  on  our  caps — like  these."  And  he  showed  the  Confede- 
rate surgeon  his  blue  kepi  with  B,  4-th  N.  Y.  V.  on  the  crown. 

"  And  so  you  wanted  to  be  a  sailor,  and  they  made  you  a  sub- 
stitute in  the  army,  whether  or  no,  for  some  patriot,  and  then 
robbed  you  of  the  bounty  ?  "the  surgeon  remarked. 

Domenico  nodded  his  head  and  went  on  :  "  We  were  put  on 
board  cars  and  rode  for  a  little  while  towards  the  southwest,  and 
were  then  ordered  out  and  were  marched  to  a  camp  a  few  miles 
the  other  side  of  this  gap,  and  there  I  was  assigned  to  Company 
B  in  the  4-th  New  York  Infantry  Volunteers.  But  I  was  happy 
when  I  found  that  I  had  chanced  into  the  same  company  as  Mo- 
ther Winslow's  son  ;  for  Mother  Winslow  is  a  very  good  woman, 
I  am  sure,  or  she  would  not  have  been  so  kind  to  me,  a  poor  boy 
in  a  strange  land." 

"  But  she  didn't  save  you  from  those  rascals  who  deceived 
you  by  making  you  a  soldier,"  interrupted  the  surgeon. 


i886.]  DoMENictfs  NEW  YEAR.  541 

"  Ah !  but  she  did  not  know  until  it  was  too  late  ;  and  she 
came  over  to  the  island  in  a  little  boat,  and  rowed  it  herself,  just 
like  any  of  our  Tropean  fisherwomen.  She  spoke  to  the  officers, 
but  they  said  they  could  do  nothing  for  me  ;  and  then  she  came 
and  kissed  me — yes,  and  cried  over  me,  as  my  mother  might  have 
done." 

The  wounded  corporal  meantime  was  rapidly  approaching 
his  end.  He  had  been  shot  through  and  through  the  body,  and 
his  case  was  beyond  the  reach  of  treatment.  The  Italian's  hand 
was  in  his.  The  surgeon,  who  had  been  busy  with  his  associates 
since  midnight,  attending  equally  to  the  Federal  and  the  Confede- 
rate hurt,  was  affected  by  the  touching  evidence  of  friendship 
between  these  two  men,  neither  of  whom  understood  the  other's 
language.  The  one  was  a  dark,  emotional  Italian  boy,  the  other 
a  rugged,  full-grown  Yankee,  whose  red  beard  covered  his  chest 
as  he  lay  with  his  head  pillowed  on  a  knapsack. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  dying  man,  "  see  that  that  letter — is  sent 
— to  my  mother — and  be  good — to  the  Italian.  He  is  a  brave 
boy — and  a  Christian.  He  might  have  escaped — but  he  stayed 
to  help  me— when  I  was  hit." 

The  Italian  had  moved  gently  aside  to  permit  the  surgeon  to 
catch  the  whispered  words  of  the  fast-weakening  corporal,  and 
was  gazing  on  the  crucifix  of  the  rosary  which  he  had  detached 
from  his  neck,  where  he  still  wore  it,  though  under  his  clothes. 

"  Sia  buon*  a  lui,  O  Gesu  Cristo  ! "  he  muttered.  "  Prega  per 
lui  e  per  madre  sua — e  madre  mia,  O  Madre  del  nostr'  iddio  e  di  not 
tutti !  "  He  did  well  to  ask  for  the  prayers  of  her  who  is  at  the 
same  time  the  Mother  of  our  God  and  of  us  all,  that  there  might 
be  comfort  for  two  sorrowing  mothers — one  in  America,  one  in 
far-away  Calabria. 

The  corporal  clutched  the  Italian's  hand  again,  and,  drawing  it 
close  to  his  face,  pressed  the  crucifix  to  his  lips.  His  groans  less- 
ened. Perhaps  the  representation  of  the  dying  Saviour  of  men 
soothed  the  excruciating  pain  of  his  wound.  His  strong  features 
relaxed  from  the  sensation  of  anguish,  and  as  the  blue  tint  of  mor- 
tality touched  them  and  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  which  were  clasp- 
ed in  prayer  across  his  breast,  he  faintly  uttered,  in  seeming  har- 
mony with  the  Italian's  word  madre,  "  My  mother !  " 

All  the  dead  were  soon  buried,  and  as  the  bugles  sounded 
"  Boots  and  saddles"  the  prisoners  were  mustered,  and  such  of 
them  as  were  not  too  badly  wounded  to  walk  were  formed  in 
ranks,  for  the  whole  Confederate  force  was  to  be  withdrawn  im- 
mediately. 


542  DOMENICO"  s  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

The  surgeon  approached  Domenico,  who  was  kneeling  beside 
a  rude  cross  of  two  sticks  which  he  had  set  at  the  head  of  the 
trench  at  the  part  where  Corporal  Winslow  was  interred,  and 
tapped  him  on  the  shoulder. 

"  You  must  fall  in  now  with  the  rest,"  he  said.  "  I  shall  find 
some  means  of  sending-  through  the  lines  this  letter  of  your  dead 
comrade  to  his  mother." 

He  read  and  translated  for  Domenico  a  part  of  the  letter  in 
which  the  brave  corporal,  in  the  agony  of  death,  had  sought  to 
offer  some  consolation  on  this  New  Year's  day  to  his  worthy 
mother.  But  the  surgeon  did  not  translate  the  final  lines,  in 
which  Corporal  Winslow  related  briefly  Domenico's  generous 
act  of  courage  in  risking  deliberately  his  life  and  liberty  to  save 
a  comrade,  and  in  which  he  expressed  it  to  be  his  dying  wish 
that  his  mother  should  in  future  have  for  Domenico  the  same 
affection  she  had  borne  towards  himself.  "  He  is  a  good  boy," 
he  wrote,  "and  the  best  Christian  I  have  ever  met ;  and  whatever 
you  do  for  him,  if  ever  you  see  him  again,  will  be  just  as  pleas- 
ing to  me — if  the  good  Lord  after  my  death  lets  me  know  what 
is  happening  on  earth — as  if  you  did  it  for  me." 

Domenico  took  the  place  in  the  ranks  pointed  out  to  him,  and 
the  victorious  Confederate  column  poured  out  of  Thorofare  Gap 
and  bent  its  march  towards  the  upper  waters  of  the  Rappahan- 
nock. 

IV. 

A  year  and  more  had  passed  since  the  Confederates  had  made 
their  early  New  Year's  call  on  the  Federal  troops  stationed  at 
Thorofare  Gap — a  year  during  which  Domenico  had  grown  ten 
years  older,  for  he  had  spent  the  time  in  the  great  prison-pen 
at  Andersonville.  Perhaps  he  would  have  died,  either  from 
starvation  or  from  the  exposure  and  anxiet}',  only  for  a  compan- 
ion who  had  great  ingenuity  in  procuring  food,  and  whose 
cheeks  never  became  too  hollow  for  a  smile  nor  his  jaws  too 
lank  for  a  joke,  though  the  jokes  were  often  bitter  enough  at 
contemplation  of  the  prospects. 

The  Confederate  soldiers  had  little  to  eat  for  themselves  ;  how 
could  they  be  expected  to  provide  amply  for  their  prisoners? 
They  would  have  exchanged  the  prisoners,  but  certain  influences 
in  the  Federal  cabinet,  to  forward  a  policy  of  their  own,  prevented 
any  exchange. 

Domenico  and  Flanagan  were  inseparable  now.  They  slept 
together  in  the  same  hole  in  the  sand,  and  the  one  thin  blanket 


1 886.]  DOMENICO'  s  NEW  YEAR.  543 

was  their  protection  against  the  chills  of  night.  Domenico  ac- 
quired a  fluent  facility  in  English,  thanks  to  his  talkative  compan- 
ion and  his  own  quick,  musical  ears,  which  readily  caught  every 
sound  and  intonation.  "  Be  gobs,"  he  would  say,  "  it's  de  fine 
English  I  shpake.  Sure  I  have  de  best  of  tachers ;  it's  Flanagan 
himself." 

But  Flanagan,  who  was  somewhat  advanced  in  years,  finally 
sickened  on  the  scanty,  unwholesome  fare,  and  his  wound,  conse- 
quently, refused  to  heal.  Domenico  was  the  grave-digger,  and  he 
mourned  sincerely  over  the  loss  of  this  light-hearted  and  generous 
friend. 

Deliverance  came  at  length  for  all  the  captives  in  that  ill- 
starred  prison-camp,  and  Domenico  could  now  look  forward  to  a 
homeward-bound  voyage — just  as  poor  as  when  he  had  set  out, 
and  as  good,  but  much  wiser. 

How  his  heart  beat  at  the  prospect  that  before  long  he  would 
be  gliding  over  the  blue  water  of  the  Mediterranean;  that,  as  he 
turned  Capo  Vaticano,  he  should  see  white  Tropea  perched  on  its 
lofty  crag  in  the  distance,  the  waves  lapping  the  mole,  and  down 
there  on  the  beach  in  front  of  the  lower  town  his  dear  kinsfolk 
awaiting  his  arrival,  and,  best  of  all,  his  mother —  But  was 
she  still  alive  after  all  these  months  of  separation  ?  Yet  he  felt  a 
good  deal  of  reassurance  as  he  recollected  her  true  piety  and  sin- 
cere trust  in  God,  and  her  resignation  to  his  will — the  Italian 
pazienza  that  has  provoked  the  sneers  of  many  who  do  not  under- 
stand it. 

But  he  remembered  the  gallant,  upright  fellow  who  got  his 
fatal  wound  that  midnight  at  Thorofare  Gap — a  noble,  faithful  son, 
too,  whose  mother  would  nevermore  see  him.  Yes,  he  must  find 
Mother  Winslow,  cost  what  delay  or  inconvenience  it  might. 
That  was  a  religious  duty. 

And  he  would  like  to  put  his  hands — heavy  hands  again,  for 
he  was  regaining  his  strength — on  those  scoundrels,  Jim  Piper 
and  the  Maltese.  But  no,  he  would  not  seek  revenge  ;  that  would 
be  unchristian,  although  he  argued  with  himself  that  to  punish 
crime  is  not  necessarily  to  take  revenge.  But  he  set  this  aside 
with  another  ready  phrase  of  the  Italians,  "  ma  chef  "  which  prac- 
tically means  "  do  nothing  "  when  nothing  can  be  done.  For  the 
war  was  over,  and  it  would  be  hard  to  convict  a  man  now  of  an 
offence  connected  with  the  war,  even  if  the  witnesses  could  be 
found. 

It  seemed  to  Domenico  an  age  before  all  the  formalities  of 
mustering,  marching  and  counter-marching,  and  paying  off  of  the 


544  DOMENICO'S  NEW  YEAR.  [Jan., 

released  prisoners  were  completed,  and  he  was  really  at  liberty 
once  more  to  go  whither  he  wished. 

His  eyes  brightened  and  the  color  came  to  his  cheeks  as  he 
gazed  on  Chesapeake  Bay  and  inhaled  the  familiar  air  of  the 
salty  sea.  At  nightfall,  as  the  steamer  that  bore  him  to  Washing- 
ton met  the  swell  of  the  tide  off  Fortress  Monroe,  and  the  fresh- 
ening breeze  blowing  straight  from  the  ocean  tossed  his  long  hair' 
about  his  face,  he  could  have  sobbed  with  joy.  He  saw  far  away 
to  the  east  the  flickering  lights  of  Cape  Charles  and  Cape  Henry. 
As  the  vessel  pitched  and  tossed  in  the  trough  of  the  sea  he  felt 
himself  secure  again,  on  an  element  which  would  not,  like  the 
treacherous  earth,  quake  at  some  unforeseen  moment  and  open 
to  swallow  up  those  who  confide  in  it.  Above  him  the  pleiades 
twinkled  in  the  heavens,  and  the  Great  Bear  crouched,  watching 
the  pole-star.  He  took  the  course,  as  nearly  as  he  could,  of 
Tropea.  "  Iddio  mio  ;  tanto  lontano!  "  Still  he  felt  gay,  for,  long 
as  was  the  distance  to  be  travelled,  he  was  now  every  day  short- 
ening it. 

In  New  York  how  he  flew  across  the  city  from  the  Jersey  City 
ferry  and  down  Maiden  Lane  to  South  Street !  He  looked  about 
as  he  hurried  along  past  the  ships'  stores  on  that  street.  He  had 
known  the  street  but  for  a  few  days,  and  that  was  months  ago, 
yet  everything  seemed  as  if  it  had  undergone  a  change.  But  he 
was  young,  barely  twenty  now,  and  at  that  time  of  life  a  few 
months  are  what  a  generation  is  to  the  older  man. 

Once  he  lost  his  way,  and  he  inquired  for  Roosevelt  Street  of 
a  spruce-looking,  sandy-complexioned  fellow  with  a  shining  white 
shirt-bosom, on-  which  a  cluster  of  diamonds  glittered.  But  Do- 
meniq^'s  queer  English,  mingling  an  Italian  accent  with  an  Irish 
brogiit:,;.drew  no  response  but  a  derisive  laugh  and  a  sneer. 
Domenico's  temper  was  wrought  up,  and  as  he  searched  the  face 
of  his  insulter  he  fairly  screamed  with  rage,  "Jim  Piper!"  and 
would  have  grasped  the  rascal.  But  the  prosperous  ex-mutineer, 
ex-crimp,  ex-substitute-broker,  now  become  an  influential  ward- 
politician,  recognized  Domenico  at  the  same  time  and  slunk 
quickly  into  a  hall-way  and  disappeared.  Domenico's  first  im- 
pulse was  to  pursue  the  man ;  but  he  recollected  that  he  had 
promised  the  Lord  to  suppress  feelings  of  vengeance,  and  he 
went  on. 

The  Anchorage  was  no  longer  an  anchorage  for  the  toilers  of 
the  sea.  The  building  had  been  repaired  and  remodelled,  and  a 
brisk  dealer  in  ships'  groceries,  who  now  carried  on  business 
there,  was  standing  at  the  door.  He  was  a  recently-discharged 


i886.]  DOMENICO' s  NEW  YEAR.  545 

soldier  himself,  and  therefore  took  interest  in  the  inquiries  of 
Domenico,  who  still  wore  the  military  blouse  with  the  brass  but- 
tons. Domenico  was  told  that  the  Widow  Winslow,  to  whose  es- 
tate the  property  still  belonged,  was  dead,  but  that  if  he  would 
go  to  the  Seamen's  Savings-Bank  he  would  find  a  gentleman  who 
was  administering  the  estate,  and  who  could  give  all  particulars 
about  Mother  Winslow. 

Mother  Winslow  in  her  will,  after  reciting  the  noble  conduct 
of  Domenico,  as  related  in  the  letter  which  her  dying  son  had 
written,  constituted  Domenico  her  sole  heir;  though  in  case  he 
should  not  survive  her,  or  could  not  be  found,  she  desired  that 
the  interest  of  her  property  might  be  expended  in  maintaining 
sailors'  boarding-houses,  where  sailors  could  be  protected  from 
the  dishonesty  of  recruiters  for  ships'  crews.  Luckily  the  widow 
had  not  a  surviving  relative  to  find  a  pretext  in  this  whimsical 
proviso  for  breaking  the  will,  and  the  stanch  retired  sea-captain, 
now  a  bank-officer,  whom  she  had  chosen  to  administer  the  es- 
tate, carried  out  the  trust  loyally. 

One  of  Domenico's  first  cares  after  entering  into  possession  of 
the  respectable  property  so  unexpectedly  bequeathed  to  him  was 
to  make  another  journey  to  Virginia,  and,  after  several  days'  ex- 
amination of  the  western  end  of  Thorofare  Gap,  he  was  reward- 
ed by  finding  the  exact  spot  in  the  trench  occupied  by  Corporal 
Winslow's  body.  The  remains  were  tenderly  gathered  and  taken 
to  New  York,  and  interred  in  Greenwood,  where  a  graceful  mon- 
ument commemorates  the  widow  and  her  son.  The  inscription 
runs  thus  : 

"  To  Mother  and  Son 

By  a  Foreigner 
Who  Loved  them  Both 

As  if  he  were 
Their  Son  and  Brother." 

Domenico  sat  beside  Agata  on  the  front  gallery  of  their  house 
in  the  lower  town  of  Tropea,  receiving  the  welcome-home  of  his 
kin  and  his  townspeople,  all  of  whom  were  proud  of  this  young 
man  who  had  gone  so  far  and  returned  unspoiled. 

"  Madrina  mia"  he  said  to  his  mother  as  he  took  her  hand  in  his 
"  when  I  went  around  Capo  Vaticano  yonder  on  my  voyage  to 
America  I  would  not  look  back,  for  I  wanted  to  see  you  again  ; 
but  I  felt  at  the  instant  our  boat  was  turning  the  cape  that  on  the 
next  New  Year's  but  one  I  would  be  with  you,  and  not  before. 
But  even  this  the  good  Lord  did  not  permit.  As  it  is,  I  shall 
never  forget  that  New  Year's  day." 
VOL.  XLII. — 35 


5^6  OLD  GAL  WAY.  [Jan., 

11  Nor  I  either,"  said  his  mother  softly.  "  I  prayed  that  day 
you  left  me,  and  most  fervently  ever  after,  that,  wherever  you 
might  be  or  whatever  you  might  have  to  do,  you  would  behave 
yourself  like  a  man  and  a  Christian.  And  the  Lord  heard  my 
prayers." 


OLD  GALWAY. 

"  GALWAY  !  "  is  shouted  out  by  the  railway-guard,  and  the 
train,  after  a  run  of  six  or  seven  hours  from  Dublin,  puffs  its  way 
into  one  of  the  finest  railway-stations  in  Ireland.  Big  enough  for 
London  or  New  York,  it  was  built  in  the  days  when  railway- 
making  was  a  sort  of  romance,  and  railway  directors  in  Ireland 
indulged  in  ideas  of  making  her  people  happy  in  their  hunger 
by  means  of  steam  alone.  Connected  with  the  station  is  a  ho- 
tel of  corresponding  proportions,  which  seems  to  look  out  from 
its  blank  and  untenanted  windows  over  the  comparatively  low- 
ly roofs  of  the  town,  and  down  upon  the  little  square  in  front 
of  it  (which  one  would  think  had  dwindled  from  its  natural  size 
in  its  despair  of  rising  to  the  dignity  of  the  situation),  with  an  air 
of  aristocratic  astonishment,  as  though  it  were  wondering  how  it 
had  come  to  be  dropped  among  such  indifferent  company.  Con- 
trasted with  their  surroundings,  hotel  and  station  are  in  their  his- 
tory not  a  bad  illustration  of  the  brilliant  hopes,  the  extravagant 
schemes,  followed  by  the  small  performance,  which  have  marked 
so  grotesquely  the  history  of  nearly  all  sorts  of  enterprise  in  Ire- 
land. At  the  time  when  the  railway  was  built  great  things  were 
going  to  be  done  for  Ireland.  Connaught,  which  had  been  an  al- 
most terra  incognita  to  the  rest  of  the  world  from  the  time  when 
Cromwell  had  given  it  as  an  alternative  place  of  refuge  to  the  de- 
spoiled "  papists  "  of  the  eastern  counties,  was  to  be  opened  up. 
Its  mystical  hidden  beauties  of  lake,  mountain,  and  valley  were 
to  be  unveiled  to  the  tourist ;  the  romances  of  its  ruined  castles 
and  the  roystering  life  of  its  decayed  gentry  were  henceforth  to 
be  learned  not  merely  from  the  pages  of  the  novelist ;  its  resources 
of  sea  and  shore  were  to  be  developed,  and  the  picturesque  bar- 
barism of  its  people,  of  which  the  world  had  heard  something 
in  the  vague  rumors  that  had  reached  its  ears  of  knee-breeches, 
poteen,  and  potatoes,  was  to  be  replaced  by  English  roast-beef, 
baker's  bread,  tracts,  and  other  triumphs  of  English  civilization. 


i886.]  OLD  GALWAY.  547 

English  capital,  too,  was  to  come  and  establish  the  manufactures 
which  were  to  complete  its  prosperity  ;  rags  were  to  give  place 
to  broadcloth,  repining  to  shouts  of  gladness  ;  old  things,  in  fact, 
were  to  altogether  pass  away,  and  all  things  were  to  become  new. 
The  picture  may  seem  exaggerated,  but  in  spirit,  at  least,  it  is 
not.  How  far  any  portion  of  it  was  realized  it  is  not  for  us  now 
to  inquire,  but,  at  any  rate,  none  of  the  things  promised  ever  came 
in  sufficient  quantity  or  numbers — not  even  the  tracts  or  the  tract- 
distributers — to  utilize  to  any  extent  the  railway-station  or  the 
hotel. 

No  one  visiting  Galway  for  the  first  time  and  taking  a  walk 
among  its  old-fashioned  streets — everywhere  pervaded  with  a  sort 
of  Troja  fuit  air,  where  a  bit  of  crumbling  wall  may  be  all  that 
remains  of  what  was  once  a  castle,  where  hoary  and  half-ruined 
mansions  stand  side  by  side  with  smirk  plebeian  dwellings,  or 
cabins  so  far  gone  in  decrepitude  that  they  carry  their  chimneys 
as  the  typical  Connaughtman  is  supposed  to  wear  his  caubeen — 
could  believe  that  little  more  than  two  centuries  ago  Galway  was 
the  second  city  for  commerce  in  the  British  Empire.  Yet  such, 
according  to  the  testimony  of  Richard  Cromwell  (son  of  the 
Oliver  whom  Ireland  has  such  sad  reasons  to  remember),  was  Gal- 
way, now  only  a  city  of  ruins  and  recollections,  of  pride  and 
poverty,  of  ancient  dignity  in  rags  and  a  few  parvenu  pretensions 
in  purple — or  such  substitute  for  purple  as  Galway  purses  will  ad- 
mit of,  for  every  one  in  Galway,  simple  and  gentle,  does  his  best 
to  walk  in  the  way  of  ruin  by  trying  to  keep  up  appearances — 
shorn  of  almost  every  honor  except  the  name  still  proudly  ap- 
plied to  it  by  its  people  of  the  "  Citie  of  the  Tribes,"  and  the 
dignity  it  enjoys  as  the  capital  of  the  poorest  province  in  Ireland. 

Starting  from  Eyre  Square — the  square  whose  modest  preten- 
sions the  monster  hotel  looks  down  upon  with  such  an  air  of  su- 
perciliousness— we  come  into  the  principal  street,  passing  by  the 
commonplace  name  of  Shop  Street.  This  is  the  chief  business 
street,  as  well  as  the  leading  thoroughfare  of  the  town,  and, 
though  generally  commonplace  and  vulgar  enough  in  appear- 
ance, even  for  the  petty  transactions  of  Gaivvay  commercial  life, 
has  many  features  of  interest  for  the  antiquarian  and  student  of 
history,  as  well  as  for  the  moralist  whose  pleasure  it  is  to  dwell 
upon  the  vicissitudes  of  things  and  the  cynical  mode  in  which 
Fate,  chief  amongst  democrats,  delights  to  show  its  contempt  for 
human  grandeur.  A  narrow  and  tortuous  little  street — tortuous 
enough,  for  its  little  length,  to  make  one  almost  imagine  it  was 
trying  at  every  turn  to  hide  its  littleness  from  the  world,  or  had 


548  OLD  GAL  WAY.  [Jan., 

become  so  tired  of  its  puny  existence,  almost  as  soon  as  it  had 
entered  upon  it,  that  it  was  trying-,  like  many  a  human  creature, 
to  escape  from  itself — it  has  nothing  of  dignity  in  it  as  a  street, 
but  even  in  its  present  insignificance  shows  traces  of  ancient 
grandeur,  relics  of  rare  workmanship  that  look,  from  the  posi- 
tion they  occupy,  like  bits  of  lace  seen  among  the  rags  of  a  beg- 
gar. Gal  way  borrowed  much  of  its  architecture  and  many  other 
things  from  Spain  ;  for  from  an  early  period  its  relations  with 
that  country  were  numerous  and  intimate,  and,  while  Spanish 
wines  have  filled  its  cellars  and  crowned  its  boards,  Spanish 
beauty  has  often  adorned  its  promenades  and  drawing-rooms. 
How  Spain  and  Galway  became  so  intimately  connected  it  is 
hard  to  explain,  but  history  as  well  as  modern  evidences  attest 
the  fact.  Traces  of  the  Spanish  origin  of  some  of  its  people  may 
still  be  seen,  no  less  in  the  lustrous  black  hair  and  dark  eyes  of  its 
women  than  in  a  certain  hidalgo-like  bearing  in  some  of  its  men. 
These  peculiarities  are  most  observable  among  its  humbler  classes, 
especially  among  the  fishermen  and  their  families,  whose  circum- 
stances and  position  preserved  them  from  influences  which  affect- 
ed the  higher  or  more  conspicuous  members  of  society. 

The  Citie  of  the  Tribes  is  no  longer  so  except  in  name.  The 
"tribes,"  as  such,  have  long  disappeared;  their  individuality  has 
been  as  completely  broken  as  that  of  the  ten  tribes  of  Israel  after 
the  Captivity  in  Babylon.  Of  the  fourteen  families,  or  so-called 
tribes,  who  were  once  the  chosen  people  and  rulers  of  the  city, 
the  names  of  not  more  than  four  or  five  are  to  be  found  in  the  en- 
tire population.  The  rest  have  been  scattered  over  the  face  of 
the  earth,  victims  to  the  misfortunes  which  follow  most  things 
human,  and  more  especially  to  the  misfortunes  which  for  gene- 
rations have  followed  men  and  things  Irish.  The  Blakes,  the 
Bodkins,  the  Burkes,  and  the  rest  of  the  old  magnates  of  Gal- 
way,  though  little  in  their  greatness,  were  really  great  in 
their  littleness.  Their  city  was  never  at  best  very  large,  but 
'they  had  their  feuds  and  distinctions,  no  doubt,  as  the  Monta- 
gues and  Capulets  had  theirs  in  Venice,  only  all  the  more 
marked  on  account  of  the  smallness  of  the  arena.  To  this  day, 
even,  one  may  observe  symptoms  of  jealousy  in  regard  to  their 
respective  dignity  between  the  representatives  of  some  of  the 
old  families  of  Galway.  Between  Blakes  and  Burkes  and  Bod- 
kins there  is  still  many  a  private  wrangle  as  to  which  of  their 
names  was  greatest  in  the  grand  old  times.  But,  whatever  their 
relations  towards  each  other,  they  were  united  in  their  hatred 
and  fear  of  the  "  barbarian  "  who  roamed  like  the  Arab  outside 


i886.]  OLD  GALWAY.  549 

their  walls.  For  the  "  tribes  "  were  of  different  race  to  the  people 
among  whom  they  dwelt.  They  were  of  English  or  Welsh  ori- 
gin, descendants  of  the  men  who  had  come  with  Strongbow  and 
those  who  came  immediately  after  him,  who,  having  in  their  turn 
fallen  under  the  frown  of  fortune,  withdrew  to  the  barren  spot 
beside  the  sea  where  Galway  now  stands,  and  had  built  them- 
selves a  city,  as  the  refugees  from  northern  Italy  had  settled 
upon  the  lagoons  and  islands  which  afterwards,  under  their  hand, 
became  the  city  of  Venice.  Outside  the  city  limits  lay  the 
country  of  the  O'Flahertys,  the  O'Connors,  and  other  septs  of  the 
Milesian  Irish,  against  whom  they  had  to  be  on  continual  guard, 
and  whose  attacks  they  feared  so  much  that,  not  depending  sim- 
ply on  their  own  prowess,  they  had  placed  over  the  western  gate 
of  the  city  the  inscription  :  "  From  the  ferocious  O'Flahertys 
good  Lord  deliver  us  ! "  Like  Venice,  Galway,  having  no  re- 
sources within  itself,  was  a  purely  commercial  community,  and 
as  such  lived  and  throve  in  spite  of  the  ferocious  O'Flahertys, 
whom,  however,  they  often  contrived  to  appease  by  a  scanty 
tribute  or  by  gifts  of  the  wine  which  it  early  began  to  import 
from  Spain.  With  Spain  was  its  chief  trade,  and  through  Gal- 
way the  wines  of  the  south  of  Europe  became  as  well  known  at 
the  tables  of  the  Galway  gentry,  and  of  others  farther  away,  as 
their  native  usquebaugh. 

The  reputation  of  Galway  for  its  wines  continued  long  after 
it  had  ceased  to  be  a  place  of  any  commercial  importance. 
Towards  the  end  of  the  last  century  no  such  wines  could  be  had 
in  Ireland  as  were  to  be  found  in  the  cellars  of  its  country  gen- 
try or  in  the  bins  of  its  few  remaining  merchants.  It  was  the 
smuggler,  however,  not  the  legitimate  trader,  who  had  generally 
been  the  means  of  putting  them  there. 

As  to  its  architecture,  the  stamp  of  Spain  is  on  all  that  re- 
mains, and  of  a  greatness  when  Spain  herself  was  great.  A  house- 
front  emblazoned  with  fantastic  mediaeval  figures,  surmounted, 
perhaps,  by  a  Spanish  galleon  in  full  sail;  a  gable  end  pointing 
to  times  as  gray  in  the  memory  of  mankind  as  it  is  itself;  a  pon- 
derous and  elaborately-carved  doorway,  supporting,  perhaps, 
some  mean  superstructure  of  recent  date  ;  a  heavy  arch,  opening, 
it  may  be,  into  some  wretched  laneway,  which,  by  its  carving 
and  graceful  curve,  might  suggest  reminiscences  of  Seville  or 
Salamanca — all  these  we  may  see  in  Galway.  One  of  the  most 
perfect  remains  of  the  past  stands  in  Shop  Street.  It  is  called 
Lynch's  Castle,  and  is  substantially  as  perfect  as  the  day  on  which 
it  was  built ;  though  its  dignity  as  a  castle  exists  no  longer,  for  it 


550  OLD  GALWAY.  [Jan., 

is  now  a  chandler's  shop.  The  Spanish  galleon  still  continues  to 
spread  its  sails  of  stone  over  its  doorway,  the  griffin  and  other 
monsters  famous  in  the  heraldry  of  the  middle  ages  still  look 
fiercely  out  from  its  marble  front,  but  only  the  memory  remains, 
and  that  indistinct  enough,  of  the  time  when  it  was  the  home  of 
merchant-princes ;  for  the  halls  where  we  can  easily  fancy  the 
wealthy  burgher  displayed  his  munificence,  and  the  bejewelled 
lady  her  beauty  and  her  brocade,  are  dingy  with  dust  and  neg- 
lect, and  in  the  windows  whence  once  bright  eyes  beamed  on 
a  world  that  they  made  more  bright,  and  smiles  went  forth  that 
smote  the  passers-by  with  sweet  madness,  there  are  now  half  a 
dozen  tallow  candles  and  one  or  two  bottles  of  castor-oil.  Better, 
perhaps,  that  Lynch's  Castle,  too,  had  become  a  ruin  or  been  de- 
stroyed like  the  rest  of  its  stately  brethren. 

Near  the  old  church  of  St.  Nicholas  stand  the  remains  of  the 
building  from  the  window  of  which  one  of  the  mayors  of  Gal- 
way  played  the  part  of  Brutus  in  the  execution  of  his  only  son. 
The  story  is  that  the  young  man  had  murdered  his  rival  in  love, 
a  Spaniard  and  a  guest,  and  was  tried  and  condemned  to  death 
for  the  murder  by  his  own  father.  No  one,  however,  could  be 
found  to  carry  the  decree  into  execution,  and  the  mayor,  obdurate 
to  the  last,  was  obliged  to  do  so  himself.  Over  the  window  from 
which  the  execution  took  place  a  pair  of  cross-bones,  with  the  in- 
scription under  them,  Memento  mori,  still  remind  the  passers-by 
of  the  tragical  deed. 

Down  towards  the  river  is  a  great  archway,  where  once  was 
one  of  the  gates  against  which  the  fury  of  the  "  fierce  O'Flaher- 
tys "  was,  no  doubt,  often  directed  ;  and  under  and  beside  the 
arch  the  Galway  fisherwoman  plies  her  trade,  with  a  vehemence 
of  tongue  and  gesture  which,  we  can  well  believe,  almost  rivals 
the  clamor  of  the  ancient  foes  of  the  city.  The  fisherwoman  rep- 
resents the  Galway  of  the  present;  the  tall  archway,  towering 
with  gray  and  solemn  mournfulness  over  the  chattering  crowds 
beneath,  the  Galway  of  a  time  which  is  no  more ;  and  both  form 
a  scene  fraught,  perhaps,  with  more  melancholy  and  suggestive 
feelings  than  even  Lynch's  Castle  with  its  griffins  and  flying  gal- 
leon on  the  marble  front,  and  its  candles  and  castor-oil  bottles 
in  the  windows. 

The  suburbs  of  Galway  are  neither  very  pretty  nor  interest- 
ing. The  only  one  to  which  either  epithet  could  be  applied,  per- 
haps, is  Salt  Hill.  Salt  Hill  is  Galway 's  watering-place,  and 
stands  about  a  mile  from  the  town,  on  the  northern  side  of  the 
bay.  It  is  a  favorite  place  of  resort  in  the  summer,  and  during 


1 886.]  OLD  GAL  WAY.  551 

that  season  can  show,  perhaps,  as  many  fair  faces  and  fine  figures 
as  any  other  place  of  its  size  in  Ireland.  Many  a  bright  recol- 
lection can  it  afford  to  the  Gaiway  pleasure-seeker,  for  the  people 
of  the  old  town  are  genial  to  excess,  and  take  their  pleasures  any- 
thing but  sadly.  The  Gaiway  lady  is  distinguished  by  some  of 
the  best  qualities  of  her  sex,  and  the  Gaiway  gentleman,  though 
a  trifle  rollicking  in  his  manner,  is  always  agreeable.  Lever  did 
him  an  injustice  in  making  him  simply  a  kind  of  better-class 
rowdy,  for  there  is  no  man  who  appreciates  more  keenly  the 
tastes  and  sympathizes  more  warmly  with  the  feelings  of  others. 
He  is  far  from  being  a  worldly  man  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the 
term,  so  is  often  set  down  as  a  spendthrift ;  seldom  knows  the 
value  of  money,  but  has  a  decided  liking  for  the  genteel  in  its 
largest  sense,  though  he  has  often  false  ideas  of  gentility.  If  in 
trade,  for  instance,  he  always  hastens  to  get  out  of  it  as  soon  as 
possible  ;  and  when  he  has  acquired  just  enough,  perhaps,  to  en- 
able him  to  carry  on  his  business  properly,  he  closes  his  warehouse 
or  shop  and  makes  arrangements  for  becoming  a  country  gentle- 
man. This  weakness  may  afflict  him  less  now  than  formerly,  for 
land  in  Ireland  has  lost  much  of  the  fictitious  value  that  used  to 
attach  to  it,  and  democratic  ideas  have  invaded  even  the  ruins  of 
old  Gaiway.  Take  him  for  all  in  all,  however,  it  would  be  hard 
to  find  his  superior  or  equal  elsewhere  in  the  possession  of  solid 
and  simple,  good  qualities. 

Gaiway,  of  course,  is  not  free  from  the  tendency  to  minute 
social  distinctions  which  sometimes  makes  Irish  society  not  a 
little  ridiculous.  In  its  puny  population  of  seventeen  or  eight- 
een thousand  it  is  said  there  are  no  less  than  seven  or  eight 
distinctly-defined  social  "  sets,"  each  of  which  looks  up  to,  or 
looks  down  upon,  the  others,  and  shows  an  amazing  amount  of 
vigor  in  doing  so.  Social  fences,  however,  are  everywhere  get- 
ting broken  down  in  Ireland,  and  in  Gaiway  even  the  work  of  de- 
molition has  made  some  progress. 

Among  the  people  of  Gaiway  those  of  the  suburb  known  as 
"  The  Claddagh  "  are,  however,  the  most  interesting.  They  are 
really  a  "  peculiar  people."  Though  separated  from  the  main 
body  of  the  town  only  by  the  breadth  of  the  river,  the  inhabi- 
tants of  the  Claddagh  have  almost  as  few  dealings  with  the  rest 
of  its  population  as  the  Jews  had  with  the  Samaritans.  They 
are  a  simple  and  primitive  people,  who  cling  to  their  old  habits 
of  life  with  more  than  aristocratic  conservatism.  Irish  is  their 
universal,  and  almost  their  only,  language ;  and  one  of  the  sights 
of  Gaiway  on  a  Sunday  evening  is  to  see  the  children  gathered 


552  OLD  GAL  WAY.  [Jan., 

together  in  the  Sunday-school,  and  watch  them  as  they  are  being 
taught  their  catechism  in  Irish,  and  hear  the  Babel  of  little  voices 
giving  their  answers  in  the  ancient  tongue,  unknown  to  many 
even  in  Galway.  The  stranger  might  say  this  was  not  civiliza- 
tion ;  but  the  language  is  almost  the  only  legacy  their  parents 
have  to  leave  them,  and  it  is  touching  to  see  with  what  fidel- 
ity it  has  been  preserved  within  earshot  of  the  "  higher  "  and 
more  imperial  speech.  It  can  bring  them  no  riches,  it  is  a  very 
imperfect  kind  of  preparation  for  beginning  the  world,  but  it  is 
the  language  of  their  love  and  their  recollections,  and,  above  all, 
it  is  the  language  of  their  prayers. 

The  Claddagh,  poor  as  it  is,  with  its  mud  cabins,  tumbling  the 
one  over  the  other,  was  once  the  seat  of  royalty — the  home  of  a 
hierarch  as  implicitly  obeyed  in  his  pea-jacket  and  sou'wester  as 
if  he  had  a  crown  on  his  head  and  a  sceptre  in  his  hand.  Like 
several  other  peculiar  localities  in  Ireland  and  among  the  islands 
on  the  sea-coast,  the  Claddagh  people  elected  one  among  them- 
selves, whom  they  called  "  the  king,"  to  whom  they  referred  their 
disputes,  and  whose  opinion  they  consulted  in  their  fishing  dif- 
ficulties. Torry  Island,  off  the  coast  of  Donegal,  had,  until  lately, 
its  king  also,  and  so  had  a  certain  locality  in  Dublin  formerly 
known  as  Mud  Island  ;  but  both  are  now  gone,  and  democratic 
Fate  has  proved  unfavorable  to  royalty  in  the  Claddagh  as  well. 

The  Claddagh  from  time  immemorial  has  been  a  fishing  com- 
munity, and  the  first  day  of  the  fishing  season,  when  their  boats 
were  putting  out  to  sea,  was  one  of  high  ceremonial  and  import- 
ance to  them.  Whatever  of  gayety  they  had  amongst  them  was 
then  made  to  appear  most  gay.  Then  the  men  put  on  their  best 
attire,  and  the  women  appeared  in  their  scarlet  mantles — the  origi- 
nal of  the  Colleen  Bawn  cloak  some  years  ago  so  fashionable,  spun 
by  themselves,  and  colored  with  a  dye  the  composition  of  which 
was  a  secret  to  all  save  themselves,  and  which  is  said  to  have 
been  the  only  real  representative  of  the  famous  dye  of  ancient  Tyre. 
Coming  to  the  sea-shore,  the  priest  solemnly  blessed  the  boats, 
while  the  fishermen  listened  with  uncovered  heads,  the  women 
kneeling  at  the  same  time  on  the  shore,  to  the  prayer  which  he 
raised  to  heaven  for  their  safety  and  prosperity.  But  these 
things  exist  no  longer,  save  in  the  traditions  of  the  neighborhood 
or  in  the  memory  of  its  very  oldest  inhabitant.  The  fishermen, 
many  of  them,  are  gone,  and  half  the  houses  that  were  their 
homes  are  now  in  ruins. 

Lough  Corrib  stretches  from  Galway  upwards  of  twenty 
miles  north — a  narrow  strip  of  water  at  first,  displaying  tew 


1 886.]  OLD  GAL  WAY.  553 

points  of  beauty  or  interest  until  Menlo  Castle  is  reached,  which 
stands  on  the  right-hand  shore,  when  there  is  something  to  ad- 
mire and  more  that  may  interest  the  stranger.  Here  has  resided 
for  generations  a  member  of  the  Blake  family,  and  here  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  enacted  many  of  the  rollicking  scenes  de- 
scribed by  Lever  in  Charles  O'Malley.  Close  to  the  castle  stands 
the  hamlet  of  Menlo,  a  confused  collection  of  huts  which  one 
might  easily  mistake  for  a  Zulu  village  ;  for,  with  the  exception 
of  the  police  barracks,  it  is  entirely  composed  of  mud  and  straw. 
The  contrast  which  it  offers  to  the  fine  old  dwelling  of  its  pro- 
prietor is  no  less  striking  than  that  which  may  be  perceived 
everywhere  in  the  west  of  Ireland  between  the  dwellings  of  the 
peasantry  and  those  of  the  police.  The  best  house  in  every 
western  town  and  in  the  country  parts  of  Connaught.  is  almost 
invariably  the  police  barracks.  Of  course  the  landlord  can  beat 
the  policeman  in  this  respect,  for  he  generally  lives  in  a  castle, 
and  between  the  relative  degrees  of  comfort  to  which  landlords, 
policemen,  and  people  are  respectively  entitled  there  was,  until 
recently,  no  common  point  of  comparison.  Anything  was  sup- 
posed to  be  good  enough  for  the  people. 

Opposite  Menlo  Castle  is  part  of  the  estate  of  him  who  was 
once  the  eccentric  and  hospitable  Richard  Martin.  "  Dick  "he 
was  familiarly  called,  and  as  Dick  he  is  known  to  fame.  Time  was 
when  he  could  boast  that  there  was  an  avenue  of  forty  miles 
running  through  his  estates,  for  he  had  estates,  more  or  less  con- 
nected, from  Galway  bridge  to  Clifden,  which  is  about  that  dis- 
tance. But  the  ruin  which  the  extravagance  of  his  hospitality 
began,  the  famine,  by  depriving  him  of  his  rents,  completed,  and 
the  rich  and  bounteous  Dick,  the  "king  of  Connemara,"  died  a 
pensioner  on  the  generosity  ot  his  friends.  To-day  there  is  not 
an  acre  of  the  vast  property  over  which  he  held  sway  in  the 
hands  of  any  one  of  his  name. 


554  ^  LEGEND  OF  JUDEA.  [Jan., 


A  LEGEND  OF  JUDEA. 

THE  good  dame  busy  with  her  yearly  cleaning- 
Heard  in  the  streets  a  loud,  resounding  cry : 

"  Come  from  your  haunts  of  toiling,  careworn  mortals ; 
Oh !  come  and  see  the  famous  kings  pass  by." 

Quoth  Martha,  flourishing  her  sedgy  duster : 

"  This  last  year's  wear  hath  left  a  grievous  track : 

I  must  not  tarry  for  this  grand  procession  ; 

I'll  work,  and  see  them  :  they're  coming  back." 

So  she  resisted  the  entreating  cry, 

And  all  unseen  the  gorgeous  train  passed  by. 

And  then  Dame  Martha,  when  her  work  was  finished, 

Took  up  her  station  at  her  cottage  door, 
And  watched  and  waited  for  the  Magi's  coming — 

Three  kings  renowned  for  Eastern  wealth  and  lore. 
And,  standing  there  with  eager  eyes,  she  listened 

To  rude  descriptions  of  the  glittering  train, 
And  said  :  "  'Tis  well  I've  finished  all  my  cleaning 

In  time  to  see  them  when  they  come  again  ; 
And  though  I've  dwelt  beneath  resplendent  skies, 
The  glorious  sight  will  please  my  fading  eyes." 

But  the  three  kings,  forewarned  of  wily  Herod, 

Sought  out  their  kingdoms  by  another  road. 
The  gorgeous  train,  aflame  with  gold  and  purple, 

That  lighted  once  Dame  Martha's  poor  abode, 
Swept  o'er  the  other  side  of  fair  Judea  ; 

While  Martha  leaned  upon  her  well-worn  broom, 
And  dreamed  her  visions  of  that  grand  procession, 

Its  gold  and  purple  and  its  rich  perfume, 
Her  dim  eyes  fixed  upon  the  eastern  sky, 
Where  never  more  will  king  or  train  pass  by. 

O  Martha  !  vain  is  all  your  weary  waiting  ; 

All,  all  in  vain  your  tears  and  your  regret ! 
The  kings  ere  this  are  ruling  their  dominions : 

They  came  not  back — they  owed  to  you  no  debt. 


1 886.]  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  555 

And,  busy  Martha,  when  again  you  listen 

To  royal  troopers  calling  you  to  come, 
I  trow  you'll  say  not  in  the  olden  manner, 

"  Wait,  good  people,  till  my  work  is  done." 
What  profit  earthly  order  you  may  gain 
Who  miss  the  Lord  of  Hosts  and  all  his  train  ? 

And,  O  ye  Marthas  who  are  always  troubled 

That  this  or  that  may  not  be  rightly  done, 
Can  ye  not  feel  'tis  love  alone  that  seasons 

The  toil  by  which  all  earthly  things  are  won  ? 
That  days  do  come  when  voices  from  the  heavens 

Demand  your  presence  at  some  royal  feast, 
And  if  you  wait  to  furbish  your  mean  cottage 

You  miss  the  Host,  the  Sacrifice,  and  Priest? 
They  wisest  are  who  "  choose  the  better  part  "  : 
Not  all  earth's  treasures  can  outweigh  one  heart ! 


THE  KNICKERBOCKER   GHOST. 

ONE  of  the  most  brilliant  women  in  Washington  society  fif- 
teen years  ago  was  Mary  Ten  Eyck.  Her  face,  laughing  and 
piquant,  attracted  more  admiration  than  the  beauties  about  her, 
and  her  indomitable  will  and  energy  triumphed  over  adversity, 
built  up  a  home  from  the  wreck  of  fortune,  and  kept  her  at  the 
head  of  a  charming  coterie  in  spite  of  her  manifold  duties. 

Practical  to  the  tips  of  her  pretty  fingers,  she  was  the  last 
person  to  hold  a  midnight  review  of  dead-and-gone  generations 
for  the  pleasure  of  being  frightened.  And  yet  this  is  the  story 
she  told  me  as  we  sat  in  the  parlor  of  the  old  Randolph  home- 
stead. 

The  open  fire  meditated  in  the  twilight,  the  strings  of  the  piano 
she  had  just  left  still  vibrated  with  faint  echoes  of  Heller's  wild 
"  Tarantella,"  the  wind  rattled  the  windows,  and  the  snow  whirled 
past  in  drifts,  like  clouds  of  ghostly  witnesses  come  in  sheet  and 
shroud  to  testify  to  the  truth  of  her  tale. 

Two  years  ago  I  was  invited  to  spend  the  Christmas  with  my 
aunt,  Mrs.  Philip  Stuyvesant.  They  live  on  the  Hudson  in  the 
house  the  old  Patroon  built,  and  retain  many  of  the  ways  and 


556  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  [Jan., 

almost  all  the  old  furniture,  plate,  and  china  that  came  in  with 
the  Hollanders  but  went  out  with  the  Hessians ;  for  when  "  the 
terrors  of  Hanover"  made  their  raid  through  that  part  of  the 
country  their  forage-bags  were  stuffed  with  many  things  foreign 
to  rations. 

I  reached  the  landing  on  a  lovely,  frost-bespangled  December 
night,  and  I  thought  the  old  place  had  never  looked  more  attrac- 
tive. The  avenue  of  elms  bent  and  swayed  in  the  sharp,  strong 
air,  their  shadows  moving  to  and  fro  like  witches'  fingers  weav- 
ing the  moonlight  into  a  silver  scarf  ;  the  lights  twinkled  through 
small  diamond  panes  of  thick  glass  set  in  lead  and  sunk  deep  in 
the  massive  walls;  and  the  somewhat  squat,  solid  proportions  of 
the  house  assumed  grace,  almost  elegance,  in  the  magic  light. 

Within  it  was  even  better — the  soft,  deep  colors  of  the  native 
woodwork  mellowed  by  two  centuries  of  warmth,  sunshine,  and 
liberal  friction  ;  the  carved  furniture,  brass-bound  and  shining 
with  generations  of  polishing;  the  quaint  tiled  fire-places,  where 
Jonas  disappeared  bare  down  the  throat  of  the  whale  and  came 
out  in  the  next  panel  clad  in  a  full  court-suit  with  a  broad  grin  on 
his  face  ;  where  Esther  in  an  infant  waist,  with  the  ripest  of  figures, 
knelt  to  an  Ahasuerus  who  was  the  fac-simile  of  King  Gambrinus  ; 
and  where  Noe,  in  knee-breeches  and  lace  ruffles,  assisted  a  large 
family  out  of  a  small  ark,  surrounded  by  animals  of  which  the 
elephants  and  rabbits  were  of  even  size.  Add  to  this  the  waxed 
floors  with  their  rugs  of  fur  and  panther-skins,  the  dragon-sconces, 
girandoles  and  candlesticks  with  cut-glass  pendants,  and  the 
queer  little  Venetian  mirrors,  and  you  can  picture  the  spot  where 
I  was  to  take  my  holiday. 

My  welcome  was  all  that  could  be  wished,  and  I  entered  on  a 
Christmas-tide  of  such  absolute  enjoyment  that  the  days  ran  by 
like  hours.  We  skated,  we  sleighed,  we  drove  and  walked,  had 
private  theatricals,  and  finally  aunt  announced  she  would  close 
the  season  with  a  ball. 

This  produced  a  stir  through  the  county,  for  her  parties  were 
famous,  and,  as  many  of  the  guests  would  come  from  adjoining 
districts  and  dozens  from  New  York  City,  we  resolved  ourselves 
into  a  committee  of  ways  and  means  to  house  over-night  some 
thirty  or  forty  whose  country-seats  were  too  far  away  to  make 
coming  and  going  possible,  or  whose  age  made  fatigue  unadvis- 
able. 

Every  night  we  would  gather  about  the  hearth  and  discuss 
invitations,  dresses,  etc.,  and  by  day  we  would  open  up  rooms, 
change  furniture,  have  bedsteads  mounted  three  and  four  deep ; 


1 886.]  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  557 

and,  leaving  the  actual  work  to  the  good  domestics,  we  made  the 
walls  ring  with  our  laughter  and  nonsense. 

One  morning  while  we  were  at  breakfast  the  butler  brought 
in  the  mail,  and  aunt,  under  shelter  of  the  coffee-urn,  opened  her 
letters.  Suddenly  I,  who  sat  next  her,  heard  a  low  exclamation 
of  dismay,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw  her  staring  ruefully  at  the  letter 
in  her  hand. 

"  What  is  it,  auntie  dear  ?  " 

"  Why,  Mollie,  old  Madam  Schuyler  has  expressed  a  wish  to 
come  to  the  ball,  and  Mrs.  Peter  has  written  to  ask  if  I  can  ac- 
commodate her.  I  haven't  a  decent  spot  to  offer." 

"  Put  the  Haverstraws  into  my  room,  and  give  her  theirs." 

"  Where  will  you  sleep?" 

"  Anywhere — on  a  clothes-line,  in  the  coal-cellar,  in  a  rocking- 
chair,  on  the  weather-vane  ;  or,  I'll  tell  you,  in  that  old  lumber- 
room  where  we  were  raking  around  yesterday.  It  will  make  a 
beautiful  dressing-room  for  Gretchen  and  myself.  There's  a 
lovely  old  glass,  and — " 

"  Mollie,"  said  my  aunt,  looking  at  me  with  stately  approval, 
"  you  are  a  very  sensible  girl."  Then  she  added  :  u  But,  my  dear, 
do  you  know  that  room  is  said  to  be  haunted  ?  " 

"  Haunted  ?     How  delicious  !     By  what  ?  " 

If  she  had  answered,  "A  regiment  of  ghosts,"  I  should  not 
have  cared,  for  my  spirits  were  as  effervescent  as  champagne. 

"  Well,"  she  said  with  some  reluctance  and  a  signal  of  caution, 
"  they  say  it  is  old  Anneke  Pook,  the  housekeeper  during  whose 
time  the  'missing  silver'  disappeared,  and  who  is  reported  to 
have  either  died  of  grief  on  account  of  its  loss  or  to  have  been 
murdered  by  the  Hessians  who  stole  it." 

Now,  this  missing  silver  had  been  a  moan  in  the  family  for  a 
century,  and  indeed  the  list  of  plate  (carefully  preserved)  proved 
it  to  have  been  of  great  value,  and  many  a  harsh  word  had  been 
said  of  the  Hessians  and  old  Anneke  by  the  ladies  of  the  Ten  Eyck 
family  whenever  a  state  occasion  brought  out  the  plate-chests. 

Telling  Gretchen,  my  favorite  cousin,  of  the  plan,  I  ran  up- 
stairs to  the  pretty  little  hall  bed-room  into  which  I  had  moved 
in  view  of  the  coming  crowd,  and  gathered  up  my  belongings  ; 
but,  suddenly  remembering  that  the  old  room  had  not  been 
cleaned,  I  went  down  the  hall  and  opened  the  door. 

Was  it  only  the  chill  of  a  long-closed  place  that  struck  me, 
and  was  it  the  breath  of  the  morning  mist  still  floating  through 
the  air  that  made  a  filmy  shadow  pass  over  the  mirror?  It  will 
take  a  wiser  than  I  to  say,  but — I  have  my  opinion. 


5  $8  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  [Jan., 

"  Dust — and  ashes,"  I  said  aloud,  for  in  the  tire-place  was  a 
small  heap  of  charred  wood,  and  everything  was  gray  with  dust. 
Our  foot-prints  of  the  day  before  were  tracked  deeply,  and  the 
bed  looked  like  a  hearse  with  the  body  laid  in  state,  its  curtains, 
faded  and  moth-eaten,  waving  a  gloomy  invitation  to  "  come  up 
and  be  dead." 

Even  my  light  heart  was  not  proof  against  the  general  air  of 
ruth  and  rust,  so  I  seized  the  bell-cord  and  gave  it  a  hearty  jerk. 
The  rotten  wool  snapped  in  my  hand,  and  a  broken  wire  slid  out 
after  it.  Then  I  called,  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  servants  were 
hard  at  work. 

Out  went  the  dirt  and  broken  furniture,  and,  with  the  aid  of 
lavender-water  (sprinkled  over  the  newly-scrubbed  floor),  a  pretty 
rug  near  the  bed,  fine  linen  on  it  with  one  of  aunt's  eider  quilts, 
a  rocking-chair,  fresh  curtains  at  the  window  and  around  the 
tester,  and  a  wood-fire  "  to  take  the  chili  off,"  the  room  looked 
so  comfortable  that  I  moved  in  immediately. 

That  evening  my  aunt  was  ailing,  and  Gretchen  asked  if  I 
would  mind  sleeping  alone,  as  she  felt  she  ought  to  be  with  her 
mother. 

I  assured  her  positively  on  that  score,  and  ran  singing  down 
the  hall- way.  I  slipped  into  my  flannel  wrapper,  put  my  chair 
before  the  glass — now  polished  to  its  first  brightness— and  sat 
down  to  brush  my  hair.  As  my  brush  twinkled  back  and  forth 
I  stopped  several  times  to  beam  amiably  at  the  touches  aunt  had 
added  during  the  afternoon — a  clock  of  bronze  with  a  chime, 
brass  candlesticks,  a  vase  of  chrysanthemums,  and  on  the  writ- 
ing-table a  candelabra  of  wax-lights. 

I  never  once  thought  of  the  ghost,  and,  indeed,  was  conscious 
of  nothing  but  sleepiness  and  the  comfortable  sense  of  fatigue  re- 
sulting from  youth  and  exercise.  I  locked  the  door,  put  out  my 
lights,  pulled  aside  the  window-curtains,  hopped  into  bed,  and 
fell  immediately  into  a  profound  sleep. 

I  awakened  suddenly  but  quietly.  The  fire  had  burnt  to 
embers,  a  gibbous  moon  stared  haggardly  in  at  the  window,  and 
I  was  conscious  in  every  nerve  of  my  body  of  the  presence  of 
something  that  my  eyes  strained  to  see  and  my  ears  to  hear. 

The  curtains  of  the  bed  were  draped  tentwise,  and  in  the 
opening  toward  the  room  I  saw  as  in  a  frame  the  fire-place,  the 
table,  my  rocking-chair,  and  a  portion  of  the  mirror.  For  a  rea- 
son I  could  not  define  I  looked  intently  into  the  depths  of  this 
glass.  As  I  did  so  a  film  passed  over  it  as  if  it  had  been  breathed 
upon,  and  I  saw  a  woman's  figure  reflected  in  it.  She  was  bend- 


1 88 5.]  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  559 

ing-  over  the  fire,  stirring-  something  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  small 
stew-pan.  I  turned  my  eyes  in  her  direction  and  surveyed  her 
closely.  "It  is  one  of  the  servants,"  I  thought;  "but  what  in 
the  world  is  she  doing  in  my  room  ?  May  be  aunt  is  sick  and 
needed  hot  water,  and  my  fire  is  the  only  one  not  out/' 

This  was  so  plausible  that  I  rose  on  my  elbow,  intending  to 
ask  about  it,  and  at  the  same  time  to  get  up  and  go  to  her.  The 
soft,  whistling  sound  of  the  silk-covered  eider  quilt  as  it  slipped 
from  me  seemed  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  old  woman,  for 
she  turned,  and  in  the  glow  of  the  embers  I  saw  the  face  of  an 
absolute  stranger,  and  noticed  for  the  first  time  her  odd  attire — 
a  quilted  black  skirt,  a  cap  with  heavy  plaited  border,  a  bodice 
and  over-gown  like  "  Mother  Hubbard's,"  lace  mits  on  bird-claw 
hands,  and  a  black  bag  hanging  from  her  arm.  Her  face  was 
old,  but  in  turning  toward  me  she  got  her  back  to  the  light,  and 
I  could  not  distinguish  her  features.  She  came  toward  me  with 
a  mincing  little  step,  and  dropped  a  curtsey  twice.  I  looked 
steadily  at  her,  utterly  fascinated,  and  as  she  got  near  the  bed,  I 
cannot  tell  how  or  why,  I  became  convinced  it  was  the  ghost  of 
Anneke  Pook !  Cold  water  seemed  to  be  pouring  over  my  scalp 
and  trickling  in  a  tiny  stream  down  my  back.  A  wild,  unreason- 
ing fear  that  she  would  touch  me  took  possession  of  me,  and  as 
she  drew  nearer  and  nearer  I  ground  myself  into  the  bed  to  es- 
cape her.  She  reached  out  her  hand,  and  for  the  first  time  in 
my  healthy  young  life  I  fainted. 

The  next  thing  I  remember  was  hearing  the  clock  chime  three. 
Then  came  the  memory  of  what  had  passed,  and  then  the  realiza- 
tion that  if  I  lay  there,  with  that  dreadful  old  woman  possibly 
hidden  behind  the  curtains,  I  would  go  mad  with  terror. 

I  sprang  from  the  bed  at  one  bound,  seized  the  candle,  and 
thrust  it  into  the  coals — I  didn't  dare  trust  myself  to  strike  a 
match,  for  fear  it  might  go  out  and  leave  the  last  condition  of 
that  woman  worse  than  the  first !  The  sperm  broke  into  a  flame, 
and  I  lighted  all  ten  of  the  candles  in  the  lustre.  Then  I  looked 
in  every  hole  and  corner,  thoroughly  ashamed  of  my  fright  and 
convinced  that  it  was  some  real  person  who  had  strayed  in  by 
mistake. 

"  Of  course,"  I  said  aloud.  "May  be  it  was  a  relative  of  one 
of  the  servants,  come  to  see  the  festivities,  and  the  old  lady — " 
just  here  I  passed  the  door. 

//  was  locked,  and  the  key  was  on  the  inside. 

I  felt  the  old  dread  stealing  back,  but  with  returning  circula- 
tion came  new  courage,  and,  throwing  a  log  of  wood  on  the  coals, 


560  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  [Jan., 

I  sat  until,  overcome  by  warmth  and  fatigue,  I  fell  asleep,  and  did 
not  awaken  until  the  morning  sun  shone  in  my  face. 

The  candies  were  burnt  down  and  guttering  in  their  sockets, 
the  fire  was  dead  as  the  Caesars,  and  only  my  pale  cheeks  and 
position  assured  me  that  my  experience  was  not  a  nightmare. 

The  question  of  what  to  do  occupied  my  dressing-hour  ef- 
fectually, and  my  conclusion  was  to  say  nothing  about  it,  for  I 
was  an  officer's  daughter  and  had  been  raised  in  a  very  practical, 
common-sense  way.  The  word  "  ghost "  was  unknown  in  my 
"youth's  lexicon,"  and  in  broad  daylight  my  adventure  dwindled 
to  an  optical  illusion. 

But  my  pale  face  was  something  of  a  tell-tale,  so  I  slipped  up 
into  the  attic,  and  out  of  the  "property"  chest  (left  since  our 
private  theatricals)  got  a  pot  of  rouge  and  tinted  my  cheeks  so 
artistically  that  every  one  exclaimed  at  my  color  as  1  came  into 
the  breakfast-room. 

•  During  the  day,  on  one  pretext  or  another,  I  interviewed  all 
the  servants  as  to  the  whereabouts  of  their  venerable  female  rela- 
tives, but  without  result.  And  an  old  book  I  picked  up  in  the 
library  made  me  far  from  comfortable,  for  under  the  head  of 
"  Holland  Costumes"  1  saw  exactly  such  a  one  as  that  worn  by 
my  midnight  visitor,  and  it  was  labelled  "  Housekeeper  and 
Bourgeoisie." 

I  was  rather  silent  and  thoughtful  all  day,  but  this  was  attri- 
buted to  a  telegram  announcing  that  my  special  friend  could  not 
be  present  at  the  ball.  As  darkness  came  on  my  pulses  beat 
quicker,  and  to  shake  off  my  nervousness  I  played  and  sang  and 
danced  with  such  vim  that  I  went  to  my  room  exhausted,  but  so 
full  of  electricity  that  I  was  as  wide  awake  as  a  colony  of  owls. 

"  This  will  never  do ! "  I  thought,  and,  undressing  quickly,  I 
blew  out  my  lights  and  went  to  bed,  where  I  lay  with  my  eyes 
resolutely  shut,  counting  "  white  sheep,"  till  I  actually  fell  asleep. 

I  awakened  in  the  same  way  I  had  done  the  night  before,  and 
repeated  its  experiences  in  every  particular,  except  that  when 
the  old  woman  came  toward  me  I  turned  out  of  bed,  and,  with 
my  teeth  chattering  in  my  head,  said  : 

"  Stop  !  Do  not  come  any  nearer.  What  do  you  want?" 
!  A  smile  flitted  over  her  face,  and,  beckoning  with  one  of  her 
mittened  hands,  she  walked  out  of  the  room,  turning  every  few 
steps  to  look  back  at  me  and  repeat  the  motion.  I  was  shaking 
so  I  could  hardly  stand,  but  my  blood  was  up,  and  I  determined 
to  follow  her  if  I  had  to  go  on  my  hands  and  knees. 

I  caught  up  a  candle  and  a  box  of  matches  and  started  after 


1 886.]  THE  -KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST.  561 

her.  She  went  through  a  long  hall  in  the  oldest  part  of  the 
house.  It  was  full  of  windows,  and  1  could  distinguish  her 
figure  as  she  flitted  past  these  openings — a  shadow  among  sha- 
dows, mine  running  a  race  with  it  as  I  scudded  after. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  and  waited  until  I  was  within  a  few 
feet  of  her,  then  she  touched  the  wall,  and — was  gone ! 

I  struck  a  match  and  lit  my  candle.  The  passage  ended  in  a 
back  stairway  separated  from  the  house  by  a  nail-studded  door 
of  oak;  the  key  was  on  the  right  side,  and  the  door  was  locked, 
so  I  had  to  conclude  she  had  disappeared. 

I  looked  carefully  about  me.  What  had  she  brought  me  here 
for?  She — I  was  so  sure  it  was  Anneke's  ghost  that  I  always 
meant  her  when  I  said  "  she  " — couldn't  want  me  to  take  her 
bones  and  give  them  Christian  burial,  after  the  fashion  of  the 
conventional  ghost,  for  she  had  been  found  dead  in  her  chair,  in 
the  room  I  occupied,  two  days  after  the  Hessians  raided  the 
county.  She  was  too  respectable  and  Dutch  to  be  playing  prac- 
tical jokes  on  one  of  the  family  at  midnight.  She — 

The  silver,  the  missing  silver  ! ! 

I  tried  to  fix  the  exact  spot  where  the  little  claw  had  been 
laid.  My  eyes — or  imagination — detected  a  tiny  spot,  which  I 
industriously  enlarged  with  the  dead  match,  and  then  I  crawled 
back  to  bed  full  of  plans  for  the  morrow. 

In  the  morning  I  went  to  my  aunt's  room,  and,  after  I  had 
kissed  her,  I  said  : 

"Aunt,  I  want  to  borrow  Peter." 

Peter  was  the  coachman  and  very  clever  with  his  tools. 

"  Certainly,  my  dear.  Do  you  want  the  single  or  the  double 
carriage?  " 

"  Neither,  dear,  only  Peter.  Aunt — "  And  here  I  stopped, 
for  my  next  step  was  so  very  decisive. 

-Yes?" 

"  Aunt,  if  I  make  a  mess  and  break  one  of  the  walls  down  " 
— she  looked  at  me  attentively  and  in  a  somewhat  startled 
manner — "and  then  don't  find  anything,  will  you  mind  it  very 
much  ?  " 

"  My  dear—" 

"  No,"  I  interrupted,  " '  I  am  not  mad,  I  am  not  mad,'  like  the 
young  woman  in  the  ballad,  but '  I  soon  shall  be  '  if  you  don't  let 
me  satisfy  my — curiosity." 

"Child,  what  is  the  matter?"  For  I  had  laid  a  peculiar 
emphasis  on  that  last  word. 

Then  I  told  her,  adding  I  was  convinced  the  apparition  had 

voi.  XLII. — 36 


562  THE  KNICKERBOCKER  GHOST/  [Jan., 

to  do  with  the  lost  silver ;  and  I  coaxed  and  argued  so  success- 
fully that  at  last  she  consented,  and  off  I  went  to  find  Peter. 

At  four  o'clock  the  household  went  sleighing.  Then  Peter 
and  I  locked  the  doors  at  both  ends  of  the  hall  and  began  our 
work.  I  found  the  match-mark  and  sounded  with  a  small  ham- 
mer. I  fancied  it  rang  hollow  all  about  the  place  my  little  old 
visitor  had  touched,  and  so  did  Peter,  who  grew  quite  excited. 
He  was  a  negro,  the  son  of  a  slave  of  great-grandfather's,  and 
retained  all  the  superstition  of  his  race  in  spite  of  his  "  Northern 
raisin'."  Seeing  this,  I  told  him  my  story.  His  wool  rose  visi- 
bly and  his  eyes  grew  round  and  prominent. 

He  struck  the  first  blow  at  the  wall  with  great  solemnity. 
The  plaster  cracked  and  flaked  away.  He  used  a  large  chisel, 
and  after  an  hour's  work  brought  to  view  some  planking.  I 
should  have  thought  it  a  partition,  but  it  was  in  the  solid  outer 
wall,  and  a  few  more  strokes  disclosed  an  iron  hinge.  Highly 
elated,  I  ran  to  aunt's  room. 

Curiosity  is  a  good  medicine. 

She  got  up,  dressed,  and  came  over. 

Peter  was  almost  white  with  plaster-dust,  and  his  white  tie 
was  under  his  ear,  but  his  elegance  was  unfailing,  and  he  pointed 
with  his  most  gorgeous  bow  to  a  wooden  door  about  three  feet 
long  and  two  wide. 

My  aunt  changed  color  and  shrank  back. 

"  Mollie,  I  hardly  like  to  go  on  with  this." 

But  I  was  wild  with  impatience  and  told  Peter  to  prize  it 
open. 

A  dark  recess  was  what  we  saw,  filled  with  unequal  lumps  of 
something  that  when  touched  felt  like  dried  flesh. 

It  was  now  my  turn  to  recoil. 

Could  old  Anneke  have  been  murdered,  after  all,  and  buried 
there? 

Fear  lent  a  sharp  edge  to  my  voice. 

"  Peter,  don't  stand  there  like  a  goose,  but  clear  out  that 
closet  right  off !  " 

He  stepped  to  the  opening  and  drew  out,  one  after  another, 
some  twenty  or  thirty  doeskin  bags  which  gave  forth  a  faint 
metallic  clash  in  the  process. 

My  aunt  sat  flat  on  the  floor  and  took  as  many  as  she  could  in 
her  lap.  The  first  one  she  opened  held  a  bowl  about  two  feet  in 
diameter,  its  beaten  surface  covered  with  bas-reliefs  of  Bacchantes 
reeling  through  a  drunken  dance. 

"  Mollie,"  she  said  in  a  positively  awestruck  voice, "  this  is  the 


1 886.]  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  563 

flip-bowl  great-grandfather's  father  had  made  out  of  the  first 
silver  dollars  he  got  from  the  Brazils  after  settling  in  the  New 
World.  And  here  are  the  *  Twelve  Apostles ' ;  these  were 
twelve  spoons  of  marvellous  workmanship  and  goodly  size,  ter- 
minating at  the  handles  in  exquisitely  wrought  figures  of  St. 
Peter,  St.  Luke,  St.  John,  and  the  rest  of  the  holy  twelve,  each 
indicated  by  his  symbol  — St.  Peter  a  crowing  cock,  St.  Mark  the 
lion,  St.  John  the  eagle,  etc. 

"  And  see  these,"  indicating  caudle-bowls,  marrow-spoons, 
salt-cellars  as  big  as  young  sugar-bowls,  silver  skewers,  tankards, 
gravy-boats — in  a  word,  all  of  the  "missing  silver." 

Anneke  had  guarded  the  treasure  faithfully,  and  the  house- 
wifely little  ghost  had  not  been  able  to  rest  until  it  was  given 
into  the  proper  hands. 

She  was  never  seen  again. 


THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN. 

WITH  the  kind  permission  of  the  editor  of  THE  CATHOLIC 
WORLD  I  beg  to  tell  the  story  of  the  Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  the 
Rosary  for  the  protection  of  immigrants  that  has  been  estab- 
lished at  Castle  Garden  within  the  past  two  years. 

The  idea  of  having  a  priest  at  Castle  Garden  was  first  sug- 
gested at  a  meeting  of  the  Irish  Catholic  Colonization  Society 
in  Chicago,  May,  1883,  when  it  secured  the  earnest  support  of 
Bishops  Ireland,  Spalding,  and  Ryan.  Until  that  time  there  was 
no  Catholic  mission  at  Castle  Garden. 

The  Colonization  Society  felt  that  here,  on  the  threshold  of 
their  new  life,  it  was  of  the  utmost  importance  that  the  church 
should  mount  its  guard  upon  the  faith  and  virtue  of  the  Catholic 
immigrants.  The  character  of  their  whole  career  might  depend 
on  the  influences  they  would  be  brought  under  during  their  first 
days  in  a  strange  country.  No  one  who  has  not  made  the  lot  of 
the  newly-landed  immigrant  a  special  study,  or  who  has  not  been 
an  immigrant  himself,  can  understand  what  dangers  beset  the 
"  stranger "  on  his  or  her  first  introduction  to  American  life. 
Young  girls  waiting  to  obtain  employment,  and  going  at  night  to 
boarding-houses  in  the  slums  of  a  strange  city ;  young  men  going 


564  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  [Jan., 

to  similar  places,  easy  dupes,  during  these  days  of  idleness,  for 
swindlers  who  lie  in  wait  for  such  as  they  ;  poor  people  arriving 
in  New  York  without  any  clear  notion  of  where  to  settle  down 
and  not  knowing  whither  to  turn  for  disinterested  information  or 
advice;  people  wretched,  or  mayhap  conscience-burdened,  whom 
a  little  help  or  a  kindly  word  of  counsel  would  start  upon  the 
right  path  ;  in  a  word,  helpless  Catholic  immigrants  distracted 
amid  the  din  and  the  danger,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  be- 
yond the  reach  of  a  priest,  and  never  in  worse  need  of  the  sus- 
taining hand  of  the  church,  yet  seeing  neither  priest  to  consult 
nor  chapel  before  whose  altar  to  gather  strength  and  consola- 
tion— this  was  the  state  of  things  that  existed  at  Castle  Garden 
until  attention  was  called  to  it  in  1883. 

The  Right  Rev.  Dr.  Ryan,  Bishop  of  Buffalo,  was  requested 
by  the  Colonization  Society  at  the  meeting  in  May  to  wait  on 
his  Eminence  the  late  Cardinal  McCloskey  as  a  committee  of 
one,  and  to  ask  him  to  take  the  matter  in  hand  and  establish  a 
priest  at  Castle  Garden,  one  who  would  be  thoroughly  acquaint- 
ed with  the  city.  The  cardinal  received  the  proposition  cor. 
dially,  and  with  that  tender  solicitude  which  he  ever  displayed 
in  all  matters  concerning  the  welfare  of  the  Catholic  immigrant. 
Shortly  afterwards  the  question  was  laid  before  the  bishops 
assembled  in  the  Provincial  Council  of  New  York,  and  it  was 
there  resolved  that  the  mission  should  be  established.  In  accor- 
dance with  their  resolution  the  bishops  at  once  called  on  me  to 
take  charge  of  the  undertaking. 

The  day  after  the  Provincial  Council  Bishop  Ryan  and  my- 
self paid  a  visit  to  Castle  Garden  to  make  a  first  investigation  as 
to  what  good  could  be  effected  by  a  priest  there.  We  met  with 
considerable  discouragement  and  would  have  left  somewhat 
dashed  in  hope  but  for  Mr.  Connolly,  of  the  Labor  Bureau  at 
Castle  Garden,  who  told  us  "  there  was  work  at  Castle  Garden 
for  a  priest,  and  that  this  work  would  develop  itself  with  the 
presence  of  the  priest "  ;  whereupon  we  resolved  to  make  a  tho- 
rough-going effort  at  any  cost. 

As  soon  as  possible  I  bade  farewell  to  the  parish  of  St.  Ber- 
nard, and  made  formal  application  for  admission  to  Castle  Gar- 
den, receiving  from  the  Emigration  Commissioners  a  cordial 
response. 

Before  arranging  my  permanent  quarters  at  the  Garden  I 
thought  it  well  to  make  a  journey  westward,  so  as  to  acquaint 
myself  with  the  parts  of  the  country  towards  which  the  stream 
of  immigration  was  mainly  tending.  Accompanied  and  aided  by 


1 886.]  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  565 

W.  J.  Onahan,  Esq.,  secretary  of  the  Irish  Colonization  Society, 
I  established  in  the  cities  of  Buffalo,  Chicago,  St.  Louis,  Kansas 
City,  Denver,  Omaha,  Peoria,  St.  Paul,  and  Minneapolis  bureaus 
of  information  for  Catholic  immigrants  to  work  in  connection 
with  the  central  bureau  which  I  contemplated  establishing  in 
New  York. 

On  my  return  from  the  West,  January  I,  1884,  I  regularly  took 
up  my  post  at  Castle  Garden.  By  the  courtesy  of  the  commis- 
sioners I  was  allotted  a  room  in  the  building,  which  I  had  fur- 
nished as  an  office. 

I  was  not  long  at  Castle  Garden  before  it  became  apparent 
that   there   was   a   great  work   to  be   done.     Every  other   day 
brought  its  shiploads   of   immigrants,  who,   after    they   passed 
through  the  hands  of  the  registration  clerks,  took  their  places  in 
the  Labor  Bureau  to  wait  for  employment.     Where   were  they 
to  go  to  at  night,  if  an  employer  did  not  turn  up  in  the  mean- 
while?    Their  only  alternative  hitherto  had  been  to  go  indiscrim- 
inately with  the  first  lodging-house  keeper  who  got  possession  of 
them.     For  any  one  acquainted  with  the  life  of  a  great  city  it  is 
unnecessary  to  dwell  on  the  dangers  to  which  virtuous   young 
girls  and  unsophisticated  young  men  were  thus  exposed.     It  is 
impossible  to  exaggerate  these  dangers.     Many  a  young  woman 
has  been  ruined  for  life  on  these  occasions  ;  and  many  a  young 
man  has  had  his  whole  career  wrecked  at  the  outset  by  the  asso- 
ciations and  circumstances  among  which  he  has  there  been  thrown. 
Moreover,  the  trials  to  be  faced  by  penniless  immigrants  appealed 
forcibly   to  commiseration ;  charity  had  a  most  noble  and  useful 
field  here.     I  have  found  the  advancement  of  a  railroad  fare  to  a 
point  where  employment  had  been  offered  enough  to  start  many 
an  immigrant  on  the  road  to  success.     The  condition  of  immi- 
grants who  have  had  to  wait  weeks,  as  is  often  the  case,  especially 
during  the  winder,  before  receiving  an  offer  of  employment,  and 
have  spent  all  their  little  means  on  their  support  in  the  mean- 
time, was  pitiable  in  the  extreme.     From  what  fate  God  alone 
knows  have  men  and  women  in  such  a  plight  been  rescued  by 
the  timely  bestowal  of  a  night's  lodging,  and  a  meal  that  at  least 
stayed  the  pangs  of  hunger. 

I  soon  found  that  my  private  purse  was  inadequate  to  the 
demands  that  were  being  made  upon  it,  and  that  a  priest's  bless- 
ing would  not  feed  an  empty  stomach  or  give  a  night's  lodging 
to  a  destitute  immigrant.  I  therefore  applied  to  his  eminence  the 
cardinal  for  the  remedy.  The  result  was  the  institution  of  the 
"  Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary" — a  mission  founded  on  the 


566  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  [Jan., 

same  basis  as  Father  Drumgoole's  St.  Joseph's  Union.  I  was 
thus  authorized  to  promise  certain  spiritual  advantages — the 
Holy  Sacrifice  of  the  Mass  offered  up  for  their  benefit  on  every 
Wednesday,  Friday,  and  Saturday — to  subscribers  of  twenty  five 
cents  (or  upwards)  annually  ;  and  by  this  means  it  was  calculated 
that  I  would  obtain  a  fund  sufficient  to  meet  all  the  requirements 
of  the  mission. 

The  cardinal,  in  order  to  give  practical  encouragement  to  the 
project,  headed  the  subscription  with  a  donation  of  $50,  and  his 
Grace  Archbishop  Corrigan  handed  me  over  a  like  sum.  Other 
subscriptions  followed,  ail  of  them  voluntarily  (for  I  called  on  no 
subscribers  personally) ;  and  I  visited  some  of  the  parish  churches, 
where,  by  favor  of  the  pastors,  I  propagated  the  mission  among 
the  congregations.  This  proceeding  was  attended  with  such  spon- 
taneous success  that  the  nucleus  of  a  fund  was  soon  amassed,  and 
I  felt  confident  that,  when  the  time  came  to  call  for  it,  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  from  the  faithful  of  America 
a  fund  in  every  way  worthy  of  the  mission  and  its  objects. 

My  first  serious  step,  on  being  provided  with  means,  was  to 
establish  a  lodging-house  for  destitute  immigrant  girls.  Up  to 
May  i,  not  having  an  establishment  of  this  kind,  I  managed  by 
sending  girls  to  boarding-houses  in  the  neighborhood,  kept  by 
persons  of  whose  honesty  and  respectability  I  was  assured.  But 
this  plan  was  not  entirely  satisfactory.  As  may  be  readily  under- 
stood, it  was  impossible  to  exercise  the  thorough  surveillance 
necessary  for  the  protection  of  the  girls  under  this  system.  What 
was  wanting  was  some  place  distinct,  some  place  separated 
from  the  influences  of  the  ordinary  immigrant  boarding-house — a 
place  of  my  own,  in  short,  the  arrangements  of  which  would  be 
completely  under  my  own  control  and  constantly  under  my  eye. 
On  May  i,  I  was  enabled  to  rent  part  of  the  house  No.  7 
Broadway  for  this  purpose,  I  was  fortunate,  too,  in  being  able 
to  secure  the  services  of  Mrs.  Boyle,  matron  of  the  Labor  Bureau, 
who  kindly  consented  to  act  as  matron  of  the  establishment. 
Here,  since  May  I,  Our  Blessed  Lady  of  the  Rosary  has  en- 
abled us  to  afford  board  and  lodgings  to  one  hundred  and  sixty 
destitute  immigrant  girls.  Some  of  them  stayed  three  or  four 
nights,  but  the  majority  only  stayed  one  night.  Many  often 
received  temporary  shelter  and  food  while  waiting  for  friends 
who  came  for  them  late  at  night.  This  house  is  intended  exclu- 
sively for  destitute  immigrant  girls;  it  is  a  harbor  in  which  they 
are  safe  in  the  midst  of  danger  until  employment  is  procured. 
No  one  can  over-estimate  its  safeguarding  influences ;  and  no  one 


1 886.]  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  567 

who  has  had  any  experience  of  immigrant  life  will  fail  to  appre- 
ciate its  necessity  and  its  efficacy. 

A  brief  experience  of  Castle  Garden  impressed  upon  me  three 
great  evils  that  were  characteristic  of  Irish  emigration  particularly. 
When  I  first  began  work  the  "  state-assisted "  emigration  from 
Ireland  was  in  full  swing.  This  was  a  cruel  device  by  which  the 
English  government  sought  to  thin  out  the  over-crowded  Irish 
poor-houses.  The  English  authorities  took  paupers  from  the 
various  Poor  Law  Unions,  supplied  them  with  clothes,  and  paid 
their  passage  to  New  York.  Occasionally  the  fare  was  paid  to 
some  city  in  the  interior  of  the  country  where  the  assisted  emi- 
grant was  supposed  to  have  friends.  We  found  this  supposition 
often  based  merely  on  the  statement  of  the  emigrant  that  he  had 
at  some  time  or  other  known  of  some  one  from  his  neighborhood 
in  Ireland  who  had  settled  in  the  city  mentioned,  or  else  on  the 
fact  that  the  emigrant  had  had  a  letter  at  some  time,  often  several 
years  back,  from  an  American  acquaintance.  The  presence  of 
these  poor  people  was  an  unmixed  misfortune.  Thoroughly  de- 
moralized by  their  experience  of  British  poor-houses,  they  were 
incapable  of  making  their  way  in  this  country.  Helpless  and  des-' 
titute  they  were  thrown  on  our  hands.  Some  attempt,  I  thought, 
ought  to  be  made  in  Ireland  to  bring  public  opinion  to  bear  against 
this  cruel  business.  I  was  furthermore  impressed  with  what  I 
may  call  the  recklessness  that  characterized  the  voluntary  emi- 
gration from  Ireland.  People  were  rushing  from  the  old  country, 
giving  up  fair  ways  of  living,  in  the  belief  that  they  would  have 
no  trouble  in  obtaining  employment  here.  Most  of  them  seemed 
to  think  that  there  was  no  such  thing  as  poverty  or  distress  in 
this  country.  They  came  utterly  unprovided  for  the  prolonged 
period  of  enforced  idleness  that  faced  many  of  them,  usually 
having  with  them  only  money  enough  to  pay  for  their  board  and 
lodgings  for  about  a  week  or  two.  Another  feature  typical  of 
all  classes  of  Irish  emigrants  was  their  ignorance  as  to  what  part 
of  the  country  it  would  be  most  advantageous  for  them  to  settle 
in.  Most  of  them  came  with  no  idea  whither  to  go  after  landing 
in  New  York.  The  result  was  that  many  a  man  trained  to  farm- 
work,  who  could  have  obtained  good  wages  and  a  prospect  of  in- 
dependence by  going  West  at  once,  kept  hanging  around  New 
York  until  all  his  money  was  gone,  and  finally  had  to  settle  down 
to  the  career  of  a  city  laborer  with  ono  prospect  but  to  excavate 
cellars  and  clean  sewers  for  a  contractor  all  his  life.  I  found  an 
important  function  in  directing  and  assisting  emigrants  of  this 
class  to  locations  where  agricultural  labor  was  in  high  demand. 


568  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  [Jan., 

But  I  felt  convinced  that  it  would  be  essential  for  my  purpose  to  visit 
Ireland  itself,  whence  the  chief  stream  of  Catholic  emigration  flows 
to  us,  and  there  on  the  spot  to  warn  the  people  on  these  matters 
so  vital  to  the  welfare  of  the  emigrant. 

Accordingly,  taking  with  me  the  surplus  remaining  of  my  tes- 
timonial from  St.  Bernard's  parish,  and  leaving  Rev.  E.  J.  Siat- 
tery  in  charge  of   the  mission,  I   visited    Ireland,  having  these 
three  objects  in  view:  (i)  to  condemn  assisted  emigration;  (2)  to 
throw  a  damper  on  reckless  emigration ;  and  (3)  to  point  out  to 
healthy  emigration  the  proper  directions  for  it  to  take.     I  was 
most  kindly  received  in  Ireland  by  both  people  and  clergy.     His 
Grace  the  Most  Rev.  Dr.  Croke,  Archbishop  of  Cashel,  gave  me 
a  particularly  hearty  welcome ;  and  I  had  the  privilege  of  stating 
my  case  before  the  assembled  bishops  of  Ireland  at  their  annual 
meeting  at  Clonliffe  College.     Their  lordships  made  me  the  bearer 
of  a  message  to  his  Eminence  Cardinal  McCloskey,  thanking  him  for 
the  appointment  of  the  Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary  at 
Castle  Garden,  and  stating  that  the  mission  was  another  testimony 
of  his  eminence's   unceasing  care  for  the  exiled  of  their  flocks. 
I  spent  three  months  in  Ireland,  and   was  welcomed  everywhere 
by  priests  and  people.     With  tongue  and  pen  I  did  my  utmost  to 
forward  the  objects  I  had  in  view,  seizing  every  opportunity  to 
speak  or  write  in  discouragement  of  the  heedless  rush  of  emigra- 
tion from  Ireland.     Everywhere  I  went  the  priests  offered  me 
their  pulpits,  and  the  newspapers,  from  the  great  daily  of  the  me- 
tropolis, the  Freeman  s  Journal,  to  the  remotest  provincial  weekly, 
placed  their  columns  at  my  disposal.      I  have  reason  to   think 
that  some  good  was  effected  by  this  visit ;  and  that  the  subject 
has  not  been  allowed  to  fade  from  the  Irish  mind  is  assured  by 
the  fact  that  the  official  organ  of  Mr.   Parnell,   United  Ireland, 
has,  through  a  special  commissioner  in  this  country,  caused  the 
question  of   Irish  emigration  to  America  to  be  thoroughly  in- 
vestigated. 

So  far  as  the  work  has  proceeded,  we  have  every  reason  to 
thank  God,  and  the  intercession  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary,  for 
the  progress  that  has  been  made.  Let  any  immigrant  who  landed 
at  Castle  Garden  in  the  old  days  visit  the  institution  now,  and  he 
will  be  astonished  as  well  as  delighted  at  the  blessed  change  that 
the  Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary  has  brought  about.  No 
longer  do  friendless  girls  and  forlorn  families  step  straight  from  the 
deck  of  the  emigrant  ship  among  "  black  strangers,"  and  into  the 
pitfalls  of  a  sinful  city.  The  comforts  of  their  holy  religion,  and 
the  friendship  and  counsel  and  protection  of  persons  of  their  own 


i886.]  THE  PRIEST  AT  CASTLE  GARDEN.  569 

faith  and  race,  specially  appointed  by  the  church  for  the  purpose, 
greet  them  on  their  arrival. 

The  work  of  the  mission  is  not  yet,  of  course,  completed. 
It  is  contemplated  to  establish  further  an  immigrants'  chapel,  a 
home  for  both  sexes,  and  a  Catholic  immigrants'  bureau  of  in- 
formation. 

An  immigrants'   chapel  near  Castle  Garden  is  the  first  need. 
We  want  the  altar,  so  that  its  sublime  blessings  and  consolations 
will  be  the  very  first  influences  that  will  touch  the  immigrant  in 
his  new  home  ;  the  confessional  to  open  its  doors   to  those  who 
are  "  weary  and   heavy  laden,"  and  to    remind    them    that  this 
fountain-head  of  all  true  comfort  in  trouble  will  not  be  absent  in 
the  strange  land  to   which  they  have  come  ;    and   the   Sunday 
Mass,  so  that  the  obligation  of  attending  the  Holy.  Sacrifice  will 
not  be  the  first  good   practice  the  immigrant  will  forget  on  his 
breaking  with  his  old  life.     Oh  !  who   can   tell  the  inestimable 
blessings  to  flow  from   the   presence  of   this  institution  of   the 
church  at  the  gateway  of  the  New  World?     Already  what  de- 
light is  there  in  beholding  the  sense  of  safety  and  comfort  that 
glows  over  the  poor  immigrants  when  they  perceive  that  they 
are  welcomed  by  a  priest  of  the  old  faith  !     They  are  sure  now 
of  a  friend  who  will  direct  them  and  advise  them  and  protect 
them  in  their  first  adventures  in  the  new  country  !     Some  there 
are  who  come   with   heavy-burdened  conscience,  alas  !    and  for 
them  the   priest  is  the  only  confidant.     If  they   meet  him  not 
among  their  first  experiences,  before  the  religious  influences  of 
the  old  land  have  yet  lost  their  bloom,  they  may  never  again 
come  to  the  fountain  of  repentance,  and  may  be  lost  to  grace  for 
ever.     How  grand  it  has  been  when  such  immigrants  have  come 
to  the  priest  with  their  tales,  and  when  he  has  felt,  as  they  went 
away  purified  and  upheld,  that  they  have  been  started  fairly  for 
good  and  happy   lives  !     And  how  awful  is  the  thought  of  the 
numbers  whose  temporal  and  spiritual  future  has  been  doomed 
to  ruin  for  the  want  of  the  helping  hand  and  sacramental  grace 
on  their  first  withdrawal  from  the  atmosphere  of  home ! 

As  yet  we  have  but  a  lodging-house  for  destitute  immigrant 
girls.  We  need  a  lodging-house  for  friendless  Catholic  immigrants 
of  the  opposite  sex.  We  have  as  yet  been  unable  to  properly 
guard  these  against  the  dangers  that  attend  a  sojourn  among  im. 
migrant  lodging  houses  during  their  period  of  enforced  idleness. 
In  one  word,  what  we  require  is  an  institution  of  our  own,  a 
temporary  home,  in  which  we  can  offer  board  and  lodging  to 
the  destitute  Catholic  immigrants  of  both  sexes— one  being, 


570  A  CORRECTION:  [Jan., 

under  proper  superintendence,  devoted  to  the  girls,  and  another 
to  the  men— and  not  merely  board  and  lodging-,  but  reading  and 
the  means  of  innocent  recreation,  during  the  idle  time  they  are 
forced  to  spend  while  waiting  for  employment.  It  is  as  essential 
for  the  young  men  as  for  the  girls  that  they  should  be  made  to 
feel,  from  the  outset,  that  their  best  protection  in  the  new  coun- 
try, as  she  was  in  the  old,  is  our  holy  mother  the  church. 

In  connection  with  this  temporary  home  I  also  count  on 
establishing  a  thoroughly-equipped  Catholic  immigrants'  bureau, 
where  every  kind  of  information  and  accommodation  will  be 
furnished  to  immigrants ;  where  letters  and  messages  can  await 
them  ;  where  letters  can  be  written  for  those  unable  to  write 
themselves,  and  through  which  correspondence  of  every  kind 
concerning  immigrants  can  be  carried  on,  with  regard  both  to 
America  and  the  old  country. 

JOHN  Jos.  RIORDAN, 

Mission  of  Our  Lady  of  the  Rosary,  Castle  Garden, 

New  York. 


A  CORRECTION. 

THE  author  of  the  article  on  Cardinal  McCloskey  in  the 
December  number  of  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  wishes  to  correct 
a  mistake  which  has  been  pointed  out  to  him  by  a  friend.  He 
stated  that  Archbishop  Bayley  was  received  into  the  church  by 
Cardinal  McCloskey  while  he  was  rector  of  St.  Joseph's  Church. 
He  was  received  at  Rome.  The  foundation  of  Mr.  Bayley 's  con- 
version  was  laid  by  his  study  of  the  Fathers  in  the  fine  library  of 
Dr.  Jarvis,  son  of  Bishop  Jarvis,  of  Connecticut,  with  whom  he 
was  a  student.  Mrs.  Jarvis  became  a  Catholic,  and  the  first 
Mass  said  in  Fairfield,  Conn.,  where  there  is  now  a  pretty  Catho- 
lic church  and  a  flourishing  parish,  was  celebrated  in  Mrs.  Jar- 
vis'  drawing-room.  While  Mr.  Bayley  was  rector  of  St.  Paul's 
Protestant  Episcopal  Church,  Harlem,  he  was  an  intimate  friend 
of  Father  McCloskey,  who  prepared  him  by  his  counsels  and  in- 
structions for  his  great  and  happy  change.  His  reception  into 
the  Catholic  Church  took  place  in  the  church  of  St.  John  Late- 
ran,  and  he  made  his  first  communion  in  the  chapel  which  was 
formerly  the  cell  of  St.  Ignatius,  and  in  which  the  saint  died. 
The  friend  who  has  kindly  given  this  information  received  it 
directly  from  the  mouth  of  Archbishop  Bayley. 


1 886.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  571 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

HISTOIRE  DES  PERSECUTIONS  PENDANT  LA  PREMIERE  MOIETE  DU  PRE- 
MIERE SIECLE.  Par  Paul  Allard.  Paris :  V.  Lecoffre,  90  Rue  Bona- 
parte. 1886. 

This  is  a  very  different  work  from  any  we  have  before  met  with,  except 
the  similar  ones  of  the  same  author,  especially  that  one  which  treats  of  the 
persecutions  during  the  century  and  a  half  preceding  A.D.  202,  when  the 
persecution  of  Septimius  Severus  began.  His  persecution,  and  those  of 
Maximinus  and  Decius,  with  intervals  of  peace  during  the  reigns  of  Helio- 
gabalus,  Alexander  Severus,  and  Philip,  fill  up  the  first  half  of  the  third 
century. 

This  work  is  different  from  others,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  a  mere  narra- 
tive of  martyrdoms,  or  a  mere  description  of  archaeological  remains,  but  a 
history  constructed  with  the  greatest  pains,  from  archaeological  documents 
as  well  as  the  formal  records  of  historians.  As  such  it  is  a  work  of  the 
greatest  value  and  importance,  as  well  as  one  of  an  intensely  interesting 
character.  We  say  the  same  of  the  prior  work  to  which  we  have  alluded. 
Ancient  history  is  getting  itself  rewritten,  in  our  day,  in  a  way  that  is  sur- 
prising to  one  who  remembers  the  old  times  when  Rollin  was  our  text- 
book. Minute  researches  into  archaeological  documents,  and  new  investi- 
gations among  the  great  cemeteries  of  the  past  followed  by  great  dis- 
coveries, have  enabled  erudite  scholars  to  reconstruct  and  reproduce  the 
buried  ages  with  wonderful  minuteness  and  accuracy.  Christian  antiquities 
surpass  all  others  in  importance.  Heretofore  our  histories  of  the  first 
Christian  ages  have  been  unsatisfactory.  But  such  writers  as  M.  Allard 
are  doing  much  to  remedy  this  evil.  It  is  needless  to  say  that  all  investi- 
gations and  discoveries  bring  more  and  more  into  the  light  most  conclu- 
sive evidence  that  those  first  ages  of  Christianity  were  Catholic,  and  show 
the  primitive  origin  of  dogmas,  rites,  organic  laws,  and  all  other  principles 
and  elements  which  make  the  specific  character  of  the  Catholic  Church 
and  the  Catholic  religion. 

THE  NINE  MONTHS.  The  Life  of  Our  Life.  Part  I.  Vol.  II.  By  H.  J. 
Coleridge,  S.J.  London  :  Burns  &  Gates.  1885.  (For  sale  by  the 
Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.,  New  York.) 

There  cannot  be  a  better  book  for  Advent  than  this.  It  treats  of  the 
interval  between  the  conception  and  birth  of  our  Lord.  It  is  among'the 
richest  and  sweetest  of  all  the  treatises  of  Father  Coleridge.  Perhaps 
many  Catholics  do  not  reflect  that  this  part  of  our  Lord's  life  was  con- 
scious, perfectly  rational,  and  constantly  meritorious  ;  that  he  was  endowed 
with  all  mental  and  spiritual  perfections  and  in  possession  of  the  beatific 
vision  from  the  first  instant  of  his  conception  and  the  creation  of  his  hu- 
man soul. 


572  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  I  Jan., 

We  have  been  pleased  to  find  Father  Coleridge  maintaining  the  opinion 
that  St.  Joseph  and  the  Blessed  Virgin  were  formally  married  before  the 
Annunciation.  So  also  his  explanation  of  the  cause  and  reason  of  St. 
Joseph's  hesitation  and  trouble  respecting  the  miraculous  pregnancy  of 
Our  Lady,  and  his  intention  of  departing  privately  from  her,  is  one  which 
gives  us  great  satisfaction.  He  explains  all  this,  viz.,  not  as  a  doubt  or 
fear  arising  from  ignorance  of  the  cause  of  Mary's  having  conceived,  but 
as  a  hesitation  respecting  his  own  call  to  be  the  protector  of  the  Mother  of 
God  and  the  foster-father  of  her  Divine  Child.  The  volume  on  the  In- 
fancy of  Jesus  is  announced  for  the  end  of  Advent  in  time  for  Christmas. 
We  wish  the  author  a  happy  Christmas  and  success  in  his  great  work  until 
its  full  completion. 

HISTORICAL  NOTES  ON  ADARE.  Compiled  by  the  Rev.  T.  E.  Bridgett, 
C.SS.R.  Dublin:  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son.  1885.  (For  sale  by  the  Catholic 
Publication  Society  Co.,  New  York.) 

Adare,  the  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Dunraven,  is  one  of  the  prettiest  spots  in 
Ireland.     Besides  this  it  has  the  distinction  of  being  the  part  of  the  County 
Limerick  around  which  cluster  most  mediaeval  associations.     Father  Brid- 
gett has  collected  some  reliable  historical  notes  about  Adare    and  pub- 
lished them  in  a  brochure  which  makes  a  very  compact  and  interesting 
little   volume   indeed.     He   tells  the   history  of  Adare  in  brief,  its  occu- 
pation  by  the  Geraldine  family,  the  wars  by  which  it  was  ravaged,  the 
founding  of  its  manor,  castle,  abbeys,  schools,  and  even  its  hospital — for  in 
Adare  the  Knights  Hospitallers  of  St.  John  of  Jerusalem  held  possessions. 
The  history  of   the  White  Abbey  of  the  Trinitarians,  whose  priory  was 
founded  in  1230,  and  which,  having  been  despoiled  from  the  Catholics,  has 
now  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  faithful  again,  and  is  one  of  the  few  of 
the  ancient  shrines  of  holiness  in  Ireland  that  still  remain  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  people,  is  peculiarly  interesting.     So  is  the  history  of  the  Black 
Abbey  of  the  Augustinians,  which,  meeting  a  less  fortunate  fate,  is  now 
the  Protestant  church   of  the  parish.     In  the  story  of  the   Poor  Abbey, 
whose  beautiful  ruins  are  still  to  be  seen  within  the  park  of  Lord  Dun- 
raven,  we  get  a  glimpse  of  the  way  the   Irish   and    Anglo-Irish   families 
in   the   middle  ages  between  them  built   churches.      Thus  runs  the    list 
of    benefactors :  "  Cornelius  O'Sullivan  erected  the  belfry,  and  made  an 
offering  of  a  silver  chalice  washed  with  gold.     Margaret  Fitzgibbon,  wife 
of  Cornelius  O'Dea,  built  the  great  chapel  [by  which  is  perhaps  meant 
the  long  south   transept]  ;  John,  son  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond,  erected   a 
second  chapel,  of  minor  dimensions,  to  which   Margaret,  wife  of  Thomas 
Fitzmaurice,    added    another,    small     indeed     but    exquisitely    beautiful. 
O'Brien  of   Ara   and    his  wife   built  the    dormitory,   while    Rory   O'Dea 
completed    a    portion    of    the    cloister    and    presented    a    silver   chalice. 
Marianus  O'Hickey,  who  subsequently  took  our  habit  and  died  in  Adare 
convent,  built   the  refectory,   and   it   was   he   who    furnished    the   north- 
ern  side   of  the   choir  with   its   beautiful   panellings  and  stalls.     Donald 
O'Dea  and  Sabina,  his  wife,  finished  another  portion   of  the  cloister,  and 
Edmund  Thomas,  Knight  of  the  Glens,  and  his  wife,  Honora  Fitzgibbon, 
built  the  infirmary ;  the  latter  died   1503.     Another  lady,  the  wife  of  Fitz- 
gibbon, added  ten  feet  to  the  length  of  the  chancel,  in  order  that  the 


1 886.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  573 

priests  might  have  ample  space  about  the  great  altar;  she  likewise  caused 
a  vault  to  be  constructed  for  herself  under  the  choir."  Particulars  are 
given  by  Father  Bridgett  of  the  suppression  of  the  religious  houses,  the 
spoliation  of  the  lands  of  the  orders  and  their  distribution  among  the  in- 
vaders, the  coming  of  the  Palatines,  and  the  founding  of  the  Quin  family, 
whose  head  was  a  member  of  the  Irish  Parliament  in  1800,  and  who  was 
raised  to  the  peerage,  as  Baron  Adare,  in  reward  for  his  vote  for  the  Union. 

ITALIAN  POPULAR  TALES.  By  Thomas  Frederick  Crane,  M.A.,  Professor 
of  Romance  Languages  in  Cornell  University.  New  York  and  Boston  : 
Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co.  1885. 

Christmas-tide  is  an  appropriate  season  for  the  issue  of  a  book  which 
brings  with  it  as  much  old-fashioned  delight  for  folk  who  like  to  gather 
round  the  winter's  hearth  and  hear  "  stories  "  as  it  does  solid  food  for  the 
scholar's  digestion.  And  such  a  book  is  one  which  Professor  Crane,  of 
Cornell,  gives  to  the  public  at  this  festive  time  of  the  year. 

One  of  the  characteristics  of  modern  scholarship  is  the  attention  it  is 
paying  to  folk-lore.  This  is  a  field  which  the  comparative  methods  of  his- 
torical study,  now  so  generally  pursued,  have  discovered  to  be  a  rich  and 
attractive  one.  The  stories  and  the  superstitions  which  have  been  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation  at  the  firesides  of  a  people  have  been 
found  to  be  filled  with  invaluable  historical  suggestion,  and  in  tracing  the 
dim  origin  of  the  traditions  many  a  clue  has  been  obtained  to  the  origin  of 
the  people  itself.  The  brothers  Grimm  not  only  accomplished  a  great 
work  in  collecting  the  legends  and  tales  from  the  lips  of  their  countrymen 
in  Germany,  but  by  their  achievement  they  gave  an  impetus  to  the  pursuit 
of  this  line  of  study  which  has  been  felt  in  most  countries  of  Europe.  Al- 
ready in  England,  Scotland,  France,,  Biscay,  Spain,  Portugal,  Greece,  Nor- 
way, Sweden,  Russia,  Iceland,  Greenland,  scholars  have  gathered  the  tradi- 
tional literature  from  the  folk  and  published  it  in  many  volumes.  Even 
Ireland,  through  Kennedy,  has  given  an  incomplete  contribution  to  this 
bibliography,  while  from  India,  China,  Japan,  and  South  Africa  collections 
of  folk-stories  have  come.  Italy  has  hitherto  been  rather  backward  in  this 
work ;  but  recently  her  scholars  have  taken  the  subject  in  hand,  and,  both 
in  the  mainland  and  the  island  of  Sicily,  have  gone  far  towards  rescuing 
for  permanent  use  the  folk-literature  of  their  country.  Professor  T.  F. 
Crane  has  rendered  a  great  service  to  American  students  and  the  Ameri- 
can public  by  translating  and  giving  us  in  a  bulky  volume  a  copious  se- 
lection from  the  materials  thus  amassed. 

The  selection  includes  one  hundred  and  nine  tales  (exclusive  of  a  num- 
ber of  tales  given  in  the  notes),  and  the  author  classifies  these  under  five 
general  heads  :  fairy  tales,  stories  of  Oriental  origin,  legends  and  ghost- 
stories,  nursery-tales,  and  jests.  The  versions  given  by  Professor  Crane 
are  the  homely  originals  as  they  are  told  by  the  people  themselves,  and  not 
the  "  literary  "  versions,  as  those  versions  which  have  been  published  from 
time  to  time  by  Straparola,  Boccaccio,  and  others  are  called.  As  Professor 
Crane's  volume  includes  the  entire  range  of  popular  tradition  in  Italy,  it 
forms  a  condensation  of  the  literature  of  the  subject ;  and  as  the  work  is 
compiled  with  great  exactitude,  and  contains  notes  which  are  full  of  sug- 
gestion for  further  investigation,  it  is  a  book  invaluable  for  students,  one 


574  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Jan. 

which  will  save  them  a  great  amount  of  labor  and  which  brings  within 
their  reach  materials  not  easy  of  access  in  this  country. 

We  find  in  this  collection  the  germs  of  many  favorite  stories  and 
legends,  and  variations  of  others.  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  "Cinderella," 
"  Puss  in  Boots  "  appear  in  their  original  form,  and  it  must  be  allowed  that 
the  literary  versions  of  Perrault,  Mile.  Lheritier,  Count  Caylus,  with  which 
the  young  folk  are  familiar,  are  hardly  an  improvement  on  the  tales  as  the 
unnamed  story-tellers  gave  them  to  the  people.  There  are  a  few  variations 
of  the  legend  of  "The  Wandering  Jew  "  ;  here  is  one  :  "  Malchus  was  the 
head  of  the  Jews  who  killed  our  Lord.  The  Lord  pardoned  them  all  and 
likewise  the  good  thief,  but  he  never  pardoned  Malchus,  because  it  was  he 
who  gave  the  Madonna  a  blow.  He  is  confined  under  a  mountain  and  con- 
demned to  walk  round  a  column  without  resting  as  long  as  the  world  lasts. 
Every  time  that  he  walks  about  the  column  he  gives  it  a  blow  in  memory 
of  the  blow  he  gave  the  Mother  of  our  Lord.  He  has  walked  around  the 
column  so  long  that  he  has  sunk  into  the  ground  ;  he  is  now  up  to  his 
neck.  When  he  is  under,  head  and  all,  the  world  will  come  to  an  end,  and 
God  will  then  send  him  to  the  place  prepared  for  him.  He  asks  all  those 
who  go  to  see  him  (for  there  are  such)  whether  children  are  yet  born,  and 
when  they  say  yes  he  gives  a  deep  sigh  and  resumes  his  walk,  saying  :  '  The 
time  is  not  yet,'  for  before  the  world  comes  to  an  end  there  will  be  no  chil- 
dren born  for  seven  years."  Here  is  a  quaint  legend  from  Venice  of  the 
middle  ages  :  "  A  wealthy  knight,  who  has  led  a  wicked  life,  repents  when 
he  grows  old,  and  his  confessor  enjoins  on  him  a  three  years'  penance. 
The  knight  refuses,  for  he  might  die  at  the  end  of  two  years  and  lose  all 
that  amount  of  penance.  He  refuses  in  turn  a  penance  of  two  years,  of 
one  year,  and  even  of  a  month,  but  agrees  to  do  penance  for  one  night. 
He  mounts  his  horse,  takes  leave  of  his  family,  and  rides  away  to  the 
church,  which  is  at  some  distance.  After  he  has  ridden  for  a  time  his 
daughter  comes  running  after  him  and  calls  him  back,  for  robbers  have  at- 
tacked the  castle.  He  will  not  be  diverted  from  his  purpose,  and  tells  her 
that  there  are  servants  and  soldiers  enough  to  defend  the  house.  Then  a 
servant  cries  out  that  the  castle  is  in  flames,  and  his  own  wife  calls  for  help 
against  violence.  The  knight  calmly  continues  his  way,  leaving  his  ser- 
vants to  act  for  him,  and  simply  saying:  'I  have  no  time  for  it  now.' 
Finally  he  enters  the  church  and  begins  his  penance.  Here  he  is  disturbed 
by  the  sexton,  who  bids  him  depart,  so  that  he  can  close  the  church;  a 
priest  orders  him  to  leave,  as  he  is  not  worthy  to  hear  a  Mass ;  at  midnight 
twelve  watchmen  come  and  order  him  to  go  with  them  to  the  judge,  but 
he  will  not  move  for  any  of  them  ;  at  two  o'clock  a  band  of  soldiers  sur- 
round him  and  order  him  to  depart,  and  at  five  o'clock  a  wild  throng  of 
people  burst  into  the  church  and  cry  :  '  Let  us  drive  him  out ! '  Then  the 
church  begins  to  burn  and  the  knight  finds  himself  in  the  midst  of  flames, 
but  still  he  moves  not.  At  last,  when  the  appointed  hour  comes,  he  leaves 
the  church  and  rides  home,  to  find  that  none  of  his  family  had  left  the 
castle,  but  the  various  persons  who  had  tried  to  divert  him  from  his  pen- 
ance were  emissaries  of  the  devil.  The  knight  sees  how  great  a  sinner  he 
was  and  declares  that  he  will  do  penance  all  the  rest  of  his  life." 

There  is  a  pretty  version  of  the  legend  of  St.  James  of  Galicia  with  a 
couple  of  legends  of  St.  Oneira  in  this  collection,  and  there  are  besides 


1 886.]  NE  w  PUBLICA  TIONS.  575 

some  stories  which  are  the  germs  from  which  Lafontaine  wrought  some  of 
his  famous  fables. 

ART  McMoRROUGH  O'CAVANAGH,  PRINCE  OF  LEINSTER.  By  M.  L. 
O'Byrne,  author  of  The  Pale  and  the  Septs,  Leixlip  Castle,  and  ///-  Won 
Peerages.  Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son.  1885.  (For  sale  by  the  Catholic 
Publication  Society  Co.,  New  York.) 

For  some  time  past  the  author  of  the  book  above-named  has  been  pub- 
lishing Irish  historical  romances.  Art  McMorrough  O'Cavanagk  is  the 
third  that  has  appeared.  No  more  ambitious  work  than  a  historical  ro- 
mance can  be  undertaken  by  a  writer  of  fiction  ;  and  surely  none  more 
desirable  than  a  romance  whose  materials  are  gathered  from  Irish  history. 
Full  of  thrilling  incident,  of  heroic  and  romantic  derring-do,  and  of  the 
darkest  tragedy,  as  every  page  of  Irish  history  is,  it  is  strange  that  the 
romancist  has  left  this  field  all  but  untouched.  When  an  Irishman  with 
the  genius  of  Walter  Scott  appears,  he  will  find  a  work  to  do  for  Irish 
romance  which  will  be  worthy  of  his  highest  powers.  How  has  the  author 
of  Art  McMorrough  CfCavanagh  succeeded  in  this  direction  ?  Well,  Miss 
O'Byrne— we  believe  the  author  is  a  young  lady— is  not  a  Walter  Scott. 
But,  having  said  that,  we  have  nothing  but  praise  to  utter  for  the  manner 
in  which  she  has  performed  a  work  that  would  be  too  much  for  any  novel- 
ist of  lesser  calibre  than  the  great  enchanter  of  Abbotsford.  Miss  O'Byrne 
goes  to  her  task  with  a  most  advantageous  equipment.  She  has  an  intense 
love  of  her  subject,  a  love  for  the  past  of  Ireland,  and  an  almost  passionate 
attachment  to  the  sentiment  of  Irish  nationality.  She  seems  thoroughly 
versed  in  the  history  and  genealogy  of  her  favorite  district,  Leinster;  and 
she  wields  a  rapid  and  picturesque  pen.  But  she  lacks,  or  perhaps  has 
not  yet  developed,  the  novelist's  master-spell,  the  power  of  weaving  an 
unbroken  and  enchaining  narrative.  Miss  O'Byrne's  love  of  history  and 
genealogy,  her  anxiety  to  be  exact,  not  to  miss  a  single  genealogical  or 
historical  point,  causes  her  to  overlook  what  should  be  her  most  impor- 
tant concern — the  elements  of  pure  romance.  The  plot  is  thus  interrupted 
and  involved,  and  the  interest  dissipated  from  the  story  itself.  This  is  all 
the  more  to  be  regretted  because  Miss  O'Byrne's  work  displays  qualities 
which  we  have  seen  in  no  other  romance  of  Irish  history  that  has  been 
attempted,  save  Gerald  Griffin's  Invasion.  She  does  make  the  past  live 
again  in  her  pages ;  and  this  is  a  rare  and  most  valuable  quality,  espe- 
cially as  the  time  she  revivifies  is  one  of  the  most  obscure  and  neglected 
in  history.  The  Celtic  and  Norman-Irish  chieftains,  and  the  lords  of  the 
Pale,  their  manners,  their  conversation,  their  dress,  their  dwellings,  and 
their  life  with  its  constant  stir  of  incident,  are  vividly  depicted. 

EXILED  FROM  ERIN.  A  Story  of  Irish  Peasant  Life.  By  M.  E.  T.  Dublin  : 
James  Duffy  &  Sons.  1885. 

As  an  Irish  story,  Exiled  from  Erin  is  the  direct  antithesis  of  Art 
McMorrough  O'Cavanagh.  One  deals  with  the  chieftains  and  hierarchs  of 
ancient  Ireland,  the  other  with  the  humblest  class  of  the  Irish  peasantry  of 
the  present  day.  The  author  has  been  anything  but  fortunate  in  the  treat- 
ment of  his  theme.  He  has  managed  to  give  us  a  picture  of  the  Irish  peasant 


576  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Jan.,  1 885. 

from  which  all  the  beautiful  traits  that  belong  to  the  character  are  omitted 
and  in  which  none  but  the  least  lovely  traits  appear.  The  tone  of  the  book 
is  decidedly  low.  Its  first  scene  is  a  pugilistic  set-to  between  youngsters,  and 
its  hero  and  heroine,  a  peasant  lad  and  lass,  act  as  letter-carriers  and  go- 
betweens  for  a  pair  of  lovers  of  "the  quality,"  one  "Master  Dick"  and 
"  Miss  Minnie,"  who  are  planning  an  elopement.  It  cannot  be  commended 
as  elevating  reading. 

UNDER  THE  PINE.     By  M.  F.  Bridgman.     Boston:  Cupples,  Upham  &  Co. 
1885. 

This  is  a  volume  of  poems  of  one  who  has  drawn  his  inspiration  evi- 
dently from  the  blessed  damosels  of  Dante  Rossetti  or  the  pea-green  maidens 
of  Burne  Jones.  Not  that  there  is  much  about  maidens  of  any  kind  in 
these  watery  verses,  which  are  all  blank.  They  seem  to  be  addressed 
mostly  from  one  male  friend  to  another,  a  pair  who  are  in  the  habit  of 
"sitting  and  talking  in  dreamland,"  "gazing  o'er  a  dusky  meadow,"  and 
holding  conversations  like  this  with  each  other  : 

"  Sombre,"  said  he,  "  is  yon  pine-tree 

In  this  scanty  August  moonlight." 

"Ah  !  "  I  said,  "  o'er  Way  land's  wood  the  moon  is  wan  !  " 

STORIES  OF  DUTY  :    A  Book  for  Boys  and  Girls.     By  Maurice  Francis  Egan, 
author  of  The  Life  Around  Us,  etc.     Philadelphia  :  Fasy  &  Comber. 

Mr.  Egan  has  applied  the  same  method  to  these  stones  for  young  folk 
that  has  made  him  such  a  successful  delineator  of  life  among  "  children  of  a 
larger  growth."  The  preface  puts  his  little  readers  in  a  good-humor,  and 
then  he  proceeds  to  tell  them  a  delightfully  straightforward  and  graphic  tale 
of  city  and  country  life  called  "Working  their  Way."  "The  Boys  in  the 
Block,"  which  follows,  describes  daily  life  in  New  York  in  a  realistic  manner 
which  has  charms  even  for  older  people.  The  struggles,  the  temptations,  and 
the  motives  of  city  boys  of  the  tenement-house  are  vividly  painted.  There 
is  a  pleasant,  humorous  flavor  about  some  of  the  passages,  and  the  boy's 
thoughts  as  he  watches  the  Chinaman  in  his  laundry  are  evidently  taken 
from  life.  Mr.  Egan's  boys  are  real  boys — boys  who  are  certainly  very  wel- 
come after  the  "  little  Savoyard  "  style  of  literature.  It  is  not  often  that  an 
author  whose  motive  is  evidently  a  moral  and  religious  one  succeeds  in 
making  his  work  so  attractive.  Mr.  Egan's  stories  are  such  easy  reading 
that  they  must  be  hard  writing.  "The  Child  of  the  Floods  "  and  "Mr.  Kalb- 
fleisch"  we  have  seen  before,  but  we — although  our  hair  is  turning  gray — 
read  them  with  new  pleasure.  Through  all  these  stories  runs  a  chain  of 
religious  instruction,  evident  but  not  obtrusive. 

ELIZABETH  ;   or,  The  Exiles  of  Siberia.    A  tale  from  the  French  of  Mad- 
ame Sophie  Cottin.     New  York  :  W.  S.  Gottsberger.     1885. 

We  recognize  an  old  familiar  friend  of  boyhood  in  this  tale.  It  was 
very  popular  sixty  years  ago,  and  is  worthy  to  have  another  run  of  favor 
among  the  young  folks.  It  is  really  a  very  pretty  tale,  very  well  told,  and 
is  founded  on  fact. 


THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD. 


VOL.  XLII.  FEBRUARY,  1886.  No.  251. 


A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS. 

ST.  PAUL,  in  his  Second  Epistle  to  Timothy  (iii.  2,  3,  and 
4),  mentions  filial  disobedience  and  its  usual  concomitant  sins  as 
part  of  the  signs  of  the  "  dangerous  times "  "  to  come  on  "  in 
"the  last  days." 

"  Men  shall  be  lovers  of  themselves,  covetous,  haughty,  proud,  blasphe- 
mers, disobedient  to  parents,  ungrateful,  wicked, 

"  Without  affection,  without  peace,  slanderers,  incontinent,  unmerciful, 
without  kindness.  .  .  ." 

The  force  of  parental  authority  in  France  has  become  greatly 
impaired  from  what  it  was  in  former  times,  and,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, to  the  serious  detriment  of  family  union,  social  harmony, 
and  the  general  public  welfare.  One  of  its  alarming  features  has 
been  the  steadily  increasing  number  of  instances  of  rebellious  or 
wayward  fits  de  famille,  by  which  term  those  sons  are  meant 
whose  parents  hold  a  good  social  position  and  are  blessed  with 
means  to  educate  and  comfortably  provide  for  them.  The 
causes  in  France  of  this  particular  evil  and  of  its  spread  have 
been  such  as  might  be  expected,  and  as  can  be  observed  in  other 
countries,  especially  in  our  own.  They  are  clearly  explained  in 
pamphlets  from  which  I  have  derived  the  information  I  am  about 
to  give  about  the  establishment  of  the  Maison  Paternelle  and  its 
subsequent  success.*  There  has  been  an  unwholesome  expan- 
sion of  ideas  of  liberty  and  personal  independence  in  the  minds 

*  They  are  mentioned  in  a  foot-note  to  page  169  of  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  for  November, 
1885,  under  the  heading  of  "A  French  Reformatory." 

Copyright.    Rev.  I.  T.  HECKBR.    1885. 


578  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  [Feb., 

of  young  men,  leading-  them  to  great  earnestness  and  tenacity  in 
claiming  what  they  conceive  to  be  their  rights,  while  forgetful  of 
correlative  duties.  Another  fruitful  cause  has  been  the  weakness 
of  those  parents  whose  sons,  having  been  always  allowed  in 
childhood  and  boyhood  to  have  their  own  way  in  almost  every- 
thing, cannot  be  brought  to  understand,  when  they  are  grown, 
that  they  are  under  any  obligation  to  regard  parental  counsels 
and  to  obey  parental  authority,  and  become,  therefore,  unman- 
ageable. The  widowed  mothers  of  sons  who  are  to  come  into  an 
estate  when  they  attain  their  majority  are  often  lacking  in  the 
force  of  character  and  determination  needed  to  bring  them  up 
properly  and  control  them.  The  expectant  heir  is  tempted  to 
discount  the  future  and  spend  the  proceeds  very  much  like  the 
prodigal  son  of  the  parable,  and  is  not  very  patient  of  maternal 
remonstrance.  An  instance  is  related  of  one  of  these  young  fel- 
lows, who,  when  reproached  for  having  aggravated  his  disobe- 
dience by  most  outrageous  behavior  to  his  mother,  gave  as  an 
excuse,  "  I  do  not  see  that  I  am  to  blame  ;  I  was  told  by  my  com- 
panions that  it  was  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  man  to  obey  a 
woman."  Parental  authority,  for  obvious  reasons,  is  also  usually 
feebly  enforced  with  their  sons  by  widows  who  marry  again. 
The  stepfather  is  naturally  loath  to  exercise  it,  and  the  mother, 
deprived  of  his  earnest  co-operation,  and  feeling  that  her  mater- 
nal prestige  has  become  more  or  less  impaired,  has  not  courage 
and  fortitude,  when  the  occasion  calls  for  it,  to  do  her  entire  duty 
in  the  matter.  Finally,  a  potent  cause  besides  those  just  ex- 
plained, which  in  France  has  led  many  young  men  of  good  social 
position  to  turn  out  badly,  has  been  either  a  neglect  of  duty  on  the 
part  of  parents  or  their  bad  example.  Many  are  quite  careless 
about  training  their  sons  properly  and  religiously,  and  instilling 
good  principles  into  them,  and  are  consequently  without  any 
controlling  influence  when  the  time  comes  for  its  needed  exercise. 
The  father  is  devoted  to  his  business  and  to  getting  along  in  the 
world,  and  is  fond  of  his  club ;  the  mother  has  her  visiting  circle 
and  "  what  is  going  on  in  society  "  to  look  after,  and  both  have 
"  really  so  little  time  "  to  devote  to  the  training  of  their  children. 
Other  parents,  intent  on  enjoying  the  pleasures  of  this  world  and 
getting  out  of  this  life  as  much  of  them  as  they  can,  point  out 
to  their  sons  a  course  which  the  latter  are  not  slow  to  follow  as 
soon  as  they  are  old  enough.  Some  parents  think  to  mend  mat- 
ters by  sending  their  sons  to  boarding-school,  but  find  that  their 
scions  are  just  as  unwilling  to  obey  rules  and  be  submissive  to 
authority  there  as  at  home.  Expulsion  from  ^college  or  grammar- 


1 886.]  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  579 

school  is  a  very  serious  matter  in  France,  and  puts  great  obsta- 
cles in  a  young-  man's  career,  and  particularly  if  a  professional 
one  be  intended  for  him.  One  of  these  young  scapegraces,  when 
warned  by  the  principal  of  his  college  that  if  he  incurred  expul- 
sion from  it  he  never  could  be  admitted  into  any  other,  replied  : 
"  So  much  the  better  ;  there  will  then  be  no  end  to  my  vacations." 
Another  youngster  of  like  stamp  tried  twice  to  set  fire  to  the 
school  to  which  he  had  been  sent,  hoping,  as  he  said,  "  that  since 
he  would  not  be  allowed  to  leave  the  school  he  would  make  the 
school  leave  him."  Nor  has  the  remedy  of  sending  sons  away 
to  travel  in  foreign  parts,  when  their  families  can  afford  the  ex- 
pense, or  of  getting  them  into  the  French  army  or  navy,  proved 
often  efficacious.  In  the  first-mentioned  case  the  young  men 
usually  return  from  abroad  not  only  unimproved,  but  sometimes 
even  worse  than  before.  If,  after  having  been  compelled  to  enter 
without  vocation  and  as  a  punishment,  they  manage  to  stick  in 
either  service,  the  tendency  to  dissipated  habits  is  likely  to  be 
made  worse  by  garrison  life  and  its  surroundings. 

The  French  civil  code  has  provided  one  last  and  forlorn 
means  for  parents  afflicted  from  the  cause  just  described.  There, 
as  in  the  State  of  New  York,  a  parent  can  apply  to  a  judge  for 
an  order  to  have  an  unmanageable  son  committed  to  a  house  of 
correction  for  a  term,  mentioned  in  the  judicial  sentence — in  the 
case  of  boys  under  fifteen  not  to  exceed  one  month.  But  the  ex- 
pectation of  any  good  results  from  an  appeal  to  the  law  is  so 
very  uncertain,  and  the  risk  of  making  matters  worse  so  very 
great,  that  parents  in  France,  particularly  those  in  good  circum- 
stances, dread  having  recourse  to  it. 

In  1854,  after  the  Colonie  Agricole*  had  been  many  years  in 
successful  operation,  the  unhappy  father  of  a  son  with  whom  he 
could  do  nothing,  and  was  at  a  loss  what  to  try,  said  to  M.  de 
Metz  :  "  You  have  established  so  fine  an  institution  to  reclaim 
from  vice  the  outcast  children  of  the  poor,  why  do-  you  not  start 
something  to  reclaim  the  wayward  sons  of  the  rich?"  This  ap- 
peal, and  a  thorough  understanding  of  the  great  and  wide-spread 
need  to  which  it  referred,  led  M.  de  Metz,  in  February,  1855,  to 
begin  at  Mettray  his  Maison  Paternelle,  or  school  of  repression  for 
boys  of  the  wealthier  classes  of  society.  The  subjects  that  were 
to  be  dealt  with  in  this  new  sanitarium  would  evidently  need  a 
mode  of  treatment  very  different  from  that  followed  with  the  poor 
waifs  in  the  Colonie  Agricole.  The  former  had  become  perverse, 
though  blessed  with  all  the  advantages  of  which  the  latter  had 

*  Described  in  THE  CATHOLIC  WORLD  for  November,  1885. 


580  A   PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  [Feb., 

been  always  deprived.  Family  surroundings,  the  comforts  of 
affluence,  parental  care,  school  facilities,  a  sense  of  personal 
dignity — all  these  they  had  in  abundance.  But  personal  dignity 
had  in  their  case  become  turned  into  pride  and  insubordination ; 
maternal  love  they  had  unfeelingly  trifled  with  ;  in  a  word,  they 
had  become  perverse  through  abundance,  just  as  their  outcast 
counterparts  had  through  destitution. 

The  building  is  near  to  the  Reformatory,  but  entirely  separate 
from  it.  It  is  a  spacious  structure,  built  of  the  fine  white  stone 
of  Touraine,  with  two  wings,  and  the  way  to  it  is  through  a  spa- 
cious avenue  lined  with  fine  trees.  The  arch  of  the  main  en- 
trance is  crowned  with  an  escutcheon  containing  the  well-known 
emblem  of  Hope  and  surmounted  by  a  cross.  Above  the  door  is 
a  statue  of  the  Good  Shepherd  carrying  the  stray  sheep  on  his 
shoulders.  Within  are  the  cells  of  the  young  men  under  treat- 
ment, the  main  feature  of  which  is  solitary  confinement.  The  in- 
mates never  see  one  another ;  their  names  remain  a  secret  be- 
tween the  superintendent  and  their  respective  families.  They 
are  known  by  a  given  name ;  and  the  case  has  happened  of  two 
brothers  having  been  in  the  house  at  the  same  time,  and  neither 
knowing  of  it  until  long  afterwards.  The  solitude  of  the  cell,  in- 
tended to  arouse  reflection,  a  sense  of  misconduct,  and  a  craving 
for  occupation  of  some  kind,  is  broken  only  by  the  visits  of  the 
preceptor,  the  chaplain,  and  the  superintendent.  The  practice  of 
steady,  regular  labor  is  greatly  relied  upon  for  its  moralizing 
effects.  The  preceptor  (one  being  specially  assigned  to  each  of- 
fender) takes  charge  of  his  pupil's  studies  and  makes  him  prepare 
recitations  and  tasks.  Under  an  assumed  name  his  productions 
are  allowed  to  compete  for  excellence  with  those  of  the  regular 
students  of  the  college  at  Tours,  and  thus  a  spirit  of  emulation  is 
aroused.  The  system  followed  in  the  institution  admits  of  the  ap- 
plication of  great  rigor  or  great  kindness  and  leniency,  according 
as  the  case  calls  for  either.  As  soon  as  the  boy  gives  evidence 
of  good-will,  docility,  and  good  behavior,  he  is  rewarded  accord- 
ingly, and  is  transferred  from  the  cell  with  only  bare  walls  and 
a  gloomy  aspect  to  a  more  cheerful  one,  in  which,  if  the  preceptor 
be  well  pleased  with  him,  he  is  allowed  to  have  pictures  hung  on 
the  walls,  and  to  have  flowers  and  singing  birds  to  cheer  him  in 
his  solitude,  and  he  is  permitted  to  work  at  gardening  in  a  plot  of 
ground  set  aside  for  that  purpose.  If  his  preceptor  is  particularly 
well  satisfied  with  him  he  is  indulged,  according  to  his  tastes,  in 
lessons  in  fencing,  riding,  gymnastics,  music,  drawing,  and  military 
drill.  His  preceptor  takes  him  out  to  walk  in  the  beautiful  sur- 


1 886.]  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  581 

rounding  country,  with  a  view  that,  by  seeing  the  magnificent 
sights  of  nature,  he  may  be  reminded  of,  and  brought  to  reflect  on, 
the  infinite  power  and  wisdom  which  created  them.  The  oppor- 
tunity is  then  improved  to  call  his  attention  to  the  peasant  men 
and  women  hard  at  work  in  the  fields,  who  barely  earn  a  living, 
and  are  nevertheless  cheerful  and  apparently  contented,  and,  after 
the  day's  toil,  sing  as  they  wend  their  way  home.  He  is  also 
taken  to  see  the  young  colonists  on  the  outlying  farms  of  the 
Colonie  Agricole,  hard  at  work  under  a  broiling  sun,  garnering  in 
the  crops,  and  when  noon  comes  enjoying  contentedly  their  plain 
repast  of  bread  and  a  little  curdled  milk.  He  sees  them  cheerful 
and  affectionate  with  their  head  men,  to  whom  they  yield  a  will- 
ing and  ready  obedience.  At  other  times  he  visits  peasants  in 
their  cots,  and  has  opportunity  to  realize  the  daily  privations 
they  have  to  endure  ;  how  they  have  to  strive  to  make  both  ends 
meet  and  to  keep  their  homes  neat  and  in  order.  The  crucifix 
on  the  wall,  with  its  bit  of  boxwood  above,  is  pointed  out  to  him 
as  evidence  of  their  faith  and  hope.  Occasionally  he  is  taken  to 
visit  the  abodes  of  the  poor  unable  to  work  from  sickness  or  old 
age ;  he  is  reminded  to  contrast  their  suffering  condition,  borne 
with  resignation,  with  the  comfort  and  plenty  which  has  been  his 
lot  and  for  which  he  has  been  ungrateful,  and  if  he  appear  com- 
passionate he  is  provided  with  a  little  money  to  give  in  alms. 
Finally,  when  the  boy's  behavior  has  become  exceptionally  good, 
so  as  to  give  prospects  of  his  being  soon  fit  to  return  home,  he 
is  invited  to  dine  with  the  superintendent.  Parents  are  kept 
regularly  advised,  by  reports  sent  to  them,  of  their  sons'  improve- 
ment. 

The  principal  moralizing  forces  on  which  M.  de  Metz's  sys- 
tem relies  for  success  are  thus  shown  to  be  constant,  arduous 
employment,  which  is  required  to  be  performed  with  spirit  and 
contentedly  ;  hardships  and  privations  which  must  be  endured 
without  grumbling  or  any  evidence  of  bitter  feeling  ;  and,  per  con- 
tra,on  the  part  of  the  authority  enforcing  these  requirements, 
the  manifestation  of  an  untiring  devotedness.  It  is  rare  to  find 
a  boy  under  treatment  so  perverted  as  to  persevere  in  evil  re- 
gardless of  the  intelligent  and  affectionate  care  which  he  sees  be- 
stowed on  him,  having  plainly  for  its  object  to  restore  in  his 
family  that  harmony  which  he  has  disturbed,  and  to  replace  him 
in  a  position  conducive  to  his  future  welfare. 

The  treatment  and  its  resulting  cure  usually  takes  two 
months.  In  cases  where  the  superintendent  has  doubts  that  the 
subject  has  been  entirely  healed,  he  places  him  for  a  month  with 


582  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  [Feb., 

one  of  the  priests  having  charge  of  parishes  in  the  neighborhood 
of  Mettray,  who,  being  a  well-informed  and  charitable  man,  con- 
versant with  the  practice  of  the  house  which  the  boy  has  just  left, 
continues  the  treatment,  but  in  a  different  manner,  and  involving 
only  a  partial  restraint  of  his  liberty.  When  an  inmate  is  about 
to  leave  the  institution  and  return  to  the  home  of  comfortable 
affluence  from  which  he  came,  he  is  notified  that  his  discharge  is 
temporary  only,  and  conditional  upon  his  not  relapsing  into  the 
bad  conduct  which  led  to  his  confinement,  and  he  is  shown  the 
cells  set  apart  for  the  reception  of  those  brought  a  second  time. 
The  superintendent  expresses  to  him  a  confident  hope  that  the 
notification  thus  made  will  amount  in  his  case  to  no  more  than  a 
mere  formality,  with  which,  in  compliance  with  the  regulations, 
he  has  to  go  through. 

It  will  be  readily  imagined  that  much  of  the  success  which 
has  attended  M.  de  Metz's  labors  in  establishing  this  institution, 
which  has  supplied  so  great  a  need  in  France,  is  due  to  his  high 
intelligence,  his  varied  and  abundant  experience,  his  excellent 
judgment,  and  his  dignified,  impressive  manner,  which  almost  al- 
ways proved  irresistible  with  young  men. 

His  usual  practice,  before  admitting  a  boy  into  the  Maison 
Paternelle,  was  to  try  first  what  could  be  done  by  kind  but  firm 
remonstrance  and  admonition.  If  the  delinquent  lived  too  far 
away  from  Paris  or  Tours  to  be  seen  personally,  M.  de  Metz, 
after  having  carefully  ascertained  the  facts  in  his  case,  addressed 
him  a  letter  couched  in  terms  similar  to  the  following :  "  I  am 
pained  to  learn  that  you  are  a  serious  cause  of  displeasure  to 
your  family,  and  that  all  the  parental  exhortations  made  you  up 
to  this  time  have  been  in  vain.  The  day  of  severity  is  at  hand ; 
you  are  about  to  be  deprived  of  your  liberty,  and  thereby  given 
opportunity  to  reflect  in  solitude,  and  in  the  light  of  your  con- 
science, on  the  fatal  consequences  to  you  of  disregard  of  your 
filial  duties.  It  is  my  desire  to  be  a  mediator  between  your 
family  and  you,  and  I  have  asked  in  your  behalf  for  a  respite  of 
punishment.  Turn  the  delay  to  good  account  by  imploring 
your  parents  to  forgive  your  past  bad  conduct,  the  disgrace  of 
which  so  far  rests  on  yourself  only,  but  which  may  hereafter 
attach  a  stigma  to  a  name  the  honor  of  which  should  be  main- 
tained, not  impaired,  by  you.  From  and  after  the  reception  of 
this  letter  set  yourself  to  acquiring  habits  of  industry  ;  be  respect- 
ful and  submissive  with  your  parents  ;  revive  in  your  heart  those 
religious  sentiments  which  made  your  childhood  happy  and 
which  you  have  been  so  quick  to  forget ;  and,  above  all,  show 


i886.]  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  583 

your  gratitude  to  God,  who  has  inspired  me  with  the  thought  of 
attempting  to  save  you  from  the  punishment  which  now  awaits 
your  bad  conduct. 

"  If,  heedless  of  this  fatherly  warning,  you  persist  in  the  sad 
course  upon  which  you  have  entered,  do  not  blame  me  for  the 
rigorous  treatment  which  you  will  have  rendered  necessary,  and 
the  infliction  of  which  I  did  all  I  could  to  avoid  for  you.  There 
is  yet  time  ;  afford  me  the  joy  of  having  successfully  co-operated 
in  bringing  you  back  to  the  path  of  duty  and  restored  in  your 
family  a  condition  of  happiness  which  you  should  never  have 
disturbed." 

By  strong  admonitions  in  the  kind  tone  of  the  above,  deliver- 
ed either  personally,  when  possible,  or  by  letter,  M.  de  Metz  has 
often  obtained  a  successful  result.  Nor  did  he  confine  himself  to 
a  single  communication,  if  he  judged  that  more  would  effect  the 
purpose.  M.  Bertin  relates  a  very  interesting  case,  of  which  he 
had  personal  knowledge,  in  which  M.  de  Metz  prevailed.  A 
friend  of  the  former  came  one  day  to  him,  and  with  tears  in  his 
eyes  told  him  that  the  conduct  of  his  eldest  son  was  the  cause  of 
the  most  cruel  pain  to  himself  and  wife  and  to  their  aged  parents. 
The  young  man  claimed  that  he  was  old  enough  to  direct  his 
own  conduct,  and  that  he  did  not  intend  to  be  preached  to  by 
anybody.  He  was  arrogant,  frequently  disrespectful,  to  his 
mother  and  to  his  grandparents  ;  the  entreaties  and  threats  of  his 
father  had  no  effect  on  him.  Every  means  had  been  tried  in 
vain.  M.  Bertin  gave  his  friend  a  letter  of  introduction  to  M. 
de  Metz,  who,  after  having  carefully  ascertained  by  inquiry  the 
young  man's  antecedents  and  disposition,  sent  for  him,  and,  in  an 
interview  alone  with  him  in  his  office,  thus  addressed  him  : 

"  You  have  entered  upon  a  bad  course,  in  which  if  you  per- 
sist the  certain  result  will  be  bitter  grief  for  your  parents,  and  for 
yourself  a  wretched  and  dishonored  existence,  because  there  can 
be  no  happiness  for  the  man  who  ignores  the  duties  which  have 
been  made  obligatory  by  laws  and  morals  in  all  countries  and  in 
every  age. 

"  You  take  a  pride  in  doing  wrong,  and,  in  the  contest  which 
you  have  begun  with  your  family,  have  made  it  a  point  of  honor 
that  your  ungodly  efforts  shall  come  out  triumphant ;  the  anguish 
and  tears  of  your  parents  are  a  cause  of  rejoicing  to  you. 

"  I  conceive  it  my  duty  to  tell  you  that  by  a  long  experience 

'in  life,  and  through  an  ardent  desire  to  contend  with  the  genius 

of  evil  for  the  recovery  of  those  who  have  been  led  away   by 

him,  I  have  become  a  physician  for  young  men  afflicted  with 


584  A   PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  [Feb., 

moral  disorders.  I  prefer  to  use  anodyne  remedies ;  but  when 
they  prove  insufficient  I  have  recourse  to  a  heroic  treatment. 
You  are  one  of  these  diseased  subjects  whom  I  ought  to  and 
will  heal ;  I  trust  that,  after  I  have  assured  you  that  you  cannot 
avoid  the  necessity  of  leading  a  different  life,  you  will  not  fail  to 
understand  that  my  fatherly  advice  is  prompted  solely  by  the 
desire  of  serving  your  best  and  highest  interests. 

"  I  wish  you,  moreover,  to  know  that  on  one  of  my  hands  I 
wear  a  velvet  glove,  and  on  the  other  an  iron  gauntlet.  To-day 
I  offer  you  the  former,  and  shall  continue  to  do  so  for  eight  days  ; 
if  you  allow  these  to  pass  without  availing  yourself  of  it,  you 
shall  be  made  to  feel  the  pressure  of  my  iron  grasp." 

The  young  man  withdrew  and  joined  his  father  and  mother, 
who  had  remained  in  an  adjoining  room.  He  did  not  unbosom 
himself  in  the  least  to  them,  but  remained  cast  down  and  taciturn 
the  entire  evening.  The  following  morning  he  came  into  his 
father's  office  and  said  to  him :  "  I  have  found  a  man  who  is 
stronger  than  I,  and  I  will  strike  my  flag."  There  was  no  evi- 
dence, in  the  manner  this  determination  was  announced,  of  the 
working  of  a  tender  and  affectionate  nature ;  the  rebellious  con- 
test was,  indeed,  brought  to  an  end  and  calmness  restored  in  the 
family,  but  the  respect  and  submission  which  followed  were  not 
accompanied  by  those  outpourings  of  the  heart  so  highly  priz- 
ed by  parents. 

But  the  yonng  man  who  would  not,  or  could  not,  avoid  the 
alternative  of  being  sent  to  the  house,  was  visited,  very  soon  after 
having  been  immured  in  his  cell,  by  M.  de  Metz,  who  talked  to 
him  usually  in  this  wise :  "  Do  not  fail  to  understand  that  you 
have  been  sent  here  to  be  morally  cured  ;  pray  do  your  best  to 
bring  this  about  as  quickly  and  with  as  little  difficulty  as  pos- 
sible, and  I  shall  be  the  one  to  thank  you  for  it.  Your  godfather 
became  sponsor  for  you  to  God  ;  I  have  become  sponsor  for  you 
to  your  family.  Do  not  attempt  to  fight  it  out  with  me.  It 
would  be  sheer  madness  to  fight  an  enemy  much  stronger  than 
yourself;  it  would  be  foolish  ingratitude  to  fight  a  friend  who 
•desires  and  is  seeking  after  your  good." 

M.  de  Metz  has  sometimes  had  experience  of  repentance  on 
the  part  of  the  self-accusing  parents  of  boys  placed  under  his 
charge.  A  touching  instance  is  that  of  a  mother  who  thus  wrote 
to  him  :  "  I  see  clearly  that  all  the  trouble  has  been  brought 
about  by  my  fond  weakness,  and  that  I  really  deserve  to  be 
locked  up  in  a  cell  next  to  that  of  my  son.  Pray  come  to  my  aid 


i886.]  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  585 

to  enable  me  to  recover  a  parental  authority  received  in  trust 
from  divine  Providence,  and  for  which  I  have  not  known  how 
to  secure  respect." 

M.  de  Metz's  solicitude  and  labors  for  the  reform  of  the 
inmates  of  the  Maison  Paternelle  were  not  brought  to  an  end  by 
their  departure  from  it.  He  corresponded  with  his  ex-pupil  and 
his  parents,  and  if  the  former  showed  that  he  was  persevering  in 
good  he  received  affectionate  letters  of  encouragement ;  in  the 
contrary  event  he  was  reminded  that  a  violation  of  his  promise 
by  a  return  to  evil  courses  would  cause  him  to  be  brought  back 
to  Mettray  and  confined  in  the  gloomier  cells  called  cellules  de 
re'inte'gration.  But  M.  de  Metz  never  had  recourse  to  this  sad 
alternative  without  first  having  an  interview  with  his  ex  pupil 
and  giving  him  a  chance  to  promptly  make  new  promises  and 
reasonable  time  to  show  how  they  were  kept,  and  if  they  turned 
out  in  a  failure  an  officer  of  the  institution  was  sent  for  the 
relapsing  offender. 

When  M.  Duruy  was  Minister  of  Public  Instruction  he  came 
to  Mettray  and  specially  examined  the  Colonie  Agricole  and  the 
Maison  Paternelle.  After  having  fully  accomplished  the  object 
of  his  visit  and  talked  with  the  young  men  in  their  cells,  he  ex- 
pressed to  M.  de  Metz  his  surprise  that,  while  going  the  rounds 
of  the  schools  and  other  educational  establishments  elsewhere,  he 
had  heard  no  end  of  complaints  either  against  the  management  or 
the  teachers,  and,  on  the  contrary,  nothing  but  expressions  of 
satisfaction  from  the  incarcerated  boys  above  mentioned,  whom, 
in  most  cases,  no  school  would  keep.  "  The  explanation  which 
your  excellency  desires,"  replied  M.  de  Metz,  "  is  probably  this : 
This  house  is  really  a  paternal  one  for  the  young  men  confined 
in  it,  and  we  do  our  best  to  make  them  feel  it." 

During  a  period  of  nineteen  years,  from  the  time  it  was  opened 
up  to  January,  1874,  the  Maison  Paternelle  has  had  sent  to  it 
1,132  young  men,  belonging  to  all  the  well-to-do  classes  of  society. 
A  little  more  than  one-half  were  sons  of  land-owners  and  manu- 
facturers. Thirty  came  to  Mettray  during  the  two  months  imme- 
diately following  M.  de  Metz's  decease.  The  sad  fact  has  been 
observed  that  the  number  annually  admitted  is  steadily  on  the  in- 
crease. On  this  point  the  triennal  report  of  1880  is  silent,  but  in 
that  of  1883  it  is  stated  that  in  1882  there  had  been  208  applications 
for  admission  and  42  admissions,  while  in  1875  there  had  been  176 
applications  and  54  admissions.  This  difference  is  accounted  for 
from  the  fact  that  afflicted  parents  find  obstacles  in  getting,  and 


586  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  [Feb., 

are,  besides,  averse  to  apply  for,  the  judicial  decree  which  seems 
to  be  an  obligatory  condition  of  admission.  What  is  more  natural 
than  that  parents  should  be  desirous  to  avoid  for  their  sons  the 
stigma  of  a  commitment  on  record  in  a  court  of  justice?  How 
much  they  would  prefer  as  complete  privacy  as  possible !  At 
the  time  that  M.  Bertin  wrote  his  account  one-fifth  of  the  released 
inmates  had  relapsed  into  bad  ways  and  had  to  be  brought  back 
to  go, through  a  second  and  more  severe  treatment,  which  in 
most  cases  proved  ultimately  successful.  It  is  hardly  conceivable 
that  discharged  patients  of  the  moral  sanitarium  at  Mettray  should 
ever  themselves  apply,  of  their  own  accord,  to  be  readmitted  ;  such 
has,  nevertheless,  been  the  fact,  and  M.  Bertin  states,  from  the 
latest  report  then  before  him,  that  there  had  been  up  to  that  time 
41  cases  of  young  men  readmitted  on  their  own  petition,  arid  that 
four  of  them  were  then  in  the  institution.  Their  object  seems,  in 
many  cases,  to  have  been  to  seek  a  spot  endeared  to  them  by 
appreciation  of  past  benefits,  where  they  could  spend  a  few  days  in 
retreat,  either  to  find  quietude  and  peace  and  strengthen  their 
good  resolutions,  or  devote  themselves  to  some  work  which  could 
best  be  done  in  solitude  and  retirement.  To  satisfy  these  wants 
a  few  secluded  small  cottages  have  been  provided,  each  having 
only  three  rooms  on  the  ground-floor — viz.,  a  bed-room,  study, 
and  a  small  bed-room  for  a  nurse  in  case  of  sickness — with  a 
flower-garden  in  front ;  the  whole  enclosed  by  stone  walls. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  licentious  novels,  feuilletons,  and 
plays,  of  which  there  has  been  a  growing  abundance  in  France  for 
the  past  half-century,  an  abundance  which  unfortunately  still  con- 
tinues, have  had  their  pernicious  effects  upon  the  youth  of  the 
day.  A  similar  moral  contagion,  but  lesser  in  degree,  has  been 
observed  in  our  own  country  ;  take,  for  instance,  the  cases  of  per- 
version among  the  children  of  the  middle  classes  in  consequence 
of  reading  dime-novels  and  like  trash. 

The  success  which,  under  the  blessing  of  divine  Providence, 
followed  upon  M.  de  Metz's  labors  was  undoubtedly  in  some 
measure  facilitated  by  that  generous  impulse,  enthusiastic  gra- 
titude, and  admiration  for  devotedness  which  are  observable,  in 
greater  or  less  degree,  in  the  French  character,  and  which  cause 
it  to  be  carried  away  by  kind  and  generous  treatment,  and  to 
respond  to  noble  examples  of  charity  and  disinterestedness. 

The  quasi  religious  unity  existing  in  France  was  also  undoubt- 
edly of  great  assistance  to  M.  de  Metz,  as  it  would  be  to  the  fur- 
therance of  any  good  work.  I  mean  a  unity  hardly  at  all  disturb- 


1 886.]  A  PROTECTORY  FOR  PRODIGAL  SONS.  587 

ed  by  the  dissension  of  many  sects.*  There  are  only  two  sects 
of  any  note  in  France,  and  they  exert  a  very  limited  influence  on 
public  opinion,  and  their  claims  created  no  serious  embarrass- 
ments in  the  management  of  affairs  or  in  the  discussion  of  plans, 
such  as  are  observed  in  our  own  country.  Moreover,  the  ties  of 
family  and  relationship  are  highly  considered  and  exert  a  strong 
influence  in  French  society,  in  which  there  is  a  very  sensitive 
regard  and  concern  for  whatever  may  affect  or  tarnish  the  family 
good  name.  This  feeling  was  very  strong  in  the  past  and  has 
great  force  still.  It  has  given  rise  to  the  usage  of  assembling 
conseils  de  famille,  which  are  recognized  by  French  law.f 

M.  de  Metz's  utterances  were  sometimes  full  of  dry  humor. 
A  friend  was  once  talking  with  him  on  the  subject  of  the  contrast 
between  the  insufficient  care  which  some  people  of  fashion  give  to 
bringing  up  their  children  and  the  interest  they  take  in  training 
horses  and  dogs.  "  I  know,"  said  M.  de  Metz,  "  of  a  wealth}-  family 
where  it  is  considered  quite  in  order  to  give  four  thousand  francs 
(eight  hundred  dollars)  a  year  to  a  piqueur,\  and  only  half  the  sum 
to  the  tutor  in  charge  of  the  children.  I  admit,"  he  added, 
smiling,  "  that  a  good  piqueur  who  thoroughly  understands  the 
handling  of  dogs  is  a  man  hard  to  find.  But  to  know  how  to 
properly  bring  up  children  !  .  .  ."  His  abrupt  silence  at  this 
point  was  more  expressive  than  words. 

M.  de  Metz  had  formed  the  project  in  1864  of  founding  another 
institution,  very  different  in  its  purpose  from  the  other  two,  in 
another  locality,  and  to  be  named  "  La  Colonie  Libre."  It  was 
to  serve  for  the  reception  and  training  to  habits  of  labor  and 
steady  industry  of  boys  of  the  middle  and  artisan  class,  not 
vicious,  but  inclined  to  roving  habits  and  to  yield  to  temptation, 
and  for  whom  life  in  a  large  city  is  full  of  peril.  M.  de  Metz 
had  conceived  the  idea  that  a  few  years  spent  in  the  country 
at  farm- work,  under  special  training,  would  be  very  efficacious  to 

*  According  to  the  census  of  December,  1881,  as  given  in  the  Statesman's  Mamtal  for  1884, 
the  religious  denominations  in  France  were  as  follows  : 

Roman  Catholics  (78.50  per  cent.) 29,201,703 

Protestants  (Calvinists  and  Confession  of  Augsburg,  the  only  two 

recognized  by  the  laws  of  France,  .018  per  cent.) 692,800 

Jews 53,936 

Non  -Professants,  who  decline  to  make  any  profession  of   religious 

belief 7,684,906 

Various  creeds 33,042 

Total 37,666,387 

f  The  conseilde  famille  is  an  assemblage  of  the  heads  of  a  family  and  their  prominent  near 

relations  for  the  purpose  of  deliberating  and  taking  action  on  any  matter  of  moment  affecting 

any  of  its  members. 

J  A  whipper-in  or  huntsman. 


588  To  ST.  CECILIA.  [Feb., 

build  up  such  subjects  physically  and  morally.  As  the  reports  of 
1880  and  1883  make  no  mention  of  any  such  establishment,  it  is  to 
be  presumed  that  he  died  before  having  opportunity  to  make  a 
beginning  of  it. 

How  is  it  wither  defamille  in  these  United  States,  and  parti- 
cularly in  the  city  of  New  York  ?  Do  not  many  of  them  every 
year  begin  to  go  to  the  bad  and  become  fit  subjects  for  a  Maison 
Paternelle,  if  we  had  one  here  ?  Is  such  an  institution  needed 
here  ?  Would  it  be  in  accordance  with  the  ideas  and  habits  of 
the  people,  assuming  that  the  required  zeal  and  devotedness  could 
be  found  to  undertake  its  establishment  ? 


SONNET— TO  ST.  CECILIA. 

O  PERFECT  Lily  !  whose  fair,  fragile  white 

Life's  glowing  sunshine  wooed,  and  wooed  in  vain, 

And  all  its  tempests  had  no  power  to  stain ; 

O  fragrant  Rose !  bathed  in  a  glow  so  bright, 

Thy  life's  first  glory,  not  its  early  blight, 

As  they  believed  who,  through  death's  passing  pain, 

Gave  for  a  little  loss  a  priceless  gain, 

And  Heaven's  first  glimpse  to  thy  enraptured  sight — 

Thy  very  name  awakens  melody, 

And  music's  tenderest  praises  seem  to  play 

Around  thy  distant,  martyred  memory, 

As  fresh  in  this  as  thine  ungrateful  day. 

Sweet  Saint,  the  symbol  of  meek  constancy, 

Pray  God  we  share  in  thy  triumphal  lay. 


i886.]  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN.  589 


THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN. 

WHY  must  the  public  schools  of  this  free  land  be  so  con- 
ducted that  Catholics  are  forced  to  establish  parochial  schools  ? 
Can  sincere  believers  in  Christianity  be  parties  to  this  injustice  ? 
Can  fair-minded  men  be  parties  to  it?  We  say  sincere  believers, 
because  as  the  pretended  mother  was  discovered  by  her  will- 
ingness to  have  the  child  put  to  death  and  divided,  so  it  can  only 
be  a  pretended  Christian  who  will  divide  the  child's  training  for 
life  and  death  between  two  divergent  methods  of  instruction. 
And,  we  ask,  what  fair-minded  citizen  can  demand  that  the  public 
money  shall  be  spent  exclusively  upon  schools  which  Catholics 
honestly  believe  rob  the  souls  of  their  children  of  the  Christian 
faith  ?  If  you  say  the  public  schools  do  no  such  thing,  that  Ca- 
tholic parents  are  mistaken,  then,  we  ask,  who  has  made  you  judge 
between  these  fathers  and  mothers  and  the  souls  of  their  chil- 
dren? Will  you  take  the  responsibility  of  affirming  that  on  a 
question  of  the  most  vital  importance  to  these  parents,  a  ques- 
tion touching  a  religion  to  which  you  are  a  stranger,  your  opin- 
ion is  right  and  that  of  the  parents  wrong  ?  And  will  you  please 
bear  in  mind  that  the  practical  result  of  the  dispute  is  that  the 
dollars  and  cents  of  a  multitude  of  good  citizens  must  be  paid 
into  the  public  treasury  and  spent  for  your  side  of  the  question 
and  against  their  own  ?  Do  you  think  this  is  acting  like  a  fair- 
minded  man?  Put  yourself  in  the  piace  of  your  Catholic  neigh- 
bor :  how  would  you  like  it?  There  is  but  one  escape  from  this 
charge  of  injustice,  and  that  is  to  affirm  that  the  Catholic  view 
of  the  school  question  is  immoral.  Maintain,  if  you  please,  that 
our  convictions  openly  violate  a  fundamental  principle  of  com- 
mon Christian  morality,  and  you  may  force  us  to  pay  for  the 
public  schools.  But  if  this  preposterous  claim  be  not  set  up  you 
must  admit  that  some  accommodation  should  be  come  to ;  the 
principle  of  American  liberty  called  freedom  of  conscience  estops 
your  further  discussion.  The  objection  of  Catholics  to  the  pre- 
sent public-school  system  is  a  matter  of  conscience.  If  you  will 
say  that  a  private  school  aided  by  a  free  state  is  an  open  viola- 
tion of  public  morality,  on  a  par  with  polygamy  or  infanticide, 
please  tell  us  how  and  in  what  particular,  or  concert  measures 
with  us  to  readjust  in  accordance  with  the  American  idea  the 
mutual  relations  of  the  state,  family,  and  churches  in  public  educa- 


590  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN-.          [Feb., 

tion.  Prudent  and  wise  men  know  how  to  adjust  differences  when 
they  mean  well.  Meantime  ponder  the  words  of  the  bishops  of 
the  Province  of  New  York  in  the  late  Provincial  Council :  "  Un- 
til such  time  as  a  sense  of  justice  will  force  our  fellow-citizens  to 
admit  the  fairness  of  our  claims,  and  realize  the  injustice  of  tax- 
ing us  for  schools  to  which  we  cannot  conscientiously  send  our 
children,  unless  in  cases  of  extreme  necessity,  we  shall  be  obliged 
to  build  our  own  schools,  even  out  of  our  scanty  resources." 

Is  it  a  right  use  of  political  power  to  cram  down  the  throats 
of  an  integral  portion  of  the  American  people  your  views  of 
education?  Is  it  honest  to  make  them  help  pay  for  schools 
which  may  be  yours,  indeed,  but  which  can  only  be  theirs  by  vio- 
lating their  consciences  ?  Is  this  a  taste  of  American  liberty  of 
conscience  ? 

How  long  will  this  driving  of  Catholic  children  into  private 
and  parochial  schools  goon?  Will  it  continue  till  non-Catholic 
children  shall  be  alone  in  the  public  schools,  and  every  Catholic 
parish,  however  poor,  shall  have  its  own  school?  It  looks  as  if 
the  remnants  of  Christianity  outside  the  church  were  doomed  to 
be  swept  clean  away  by  paganizing  education.  How  long  shall 
American  citizens  be  made  to  suffer  in  patience  from  this  bigo- 
try ? 

In  Europe  men  look  to  the  state  for  favors ;  in  America 
this  is  not  the  case.  Catholic  Americans  ask  no  favors  of  the 
state.  But  we  maintain  that  it  is  a  disgrace  and  a  shame  that,  of 
all  places  in  the  world,  in  this  free  country  any  large  body  of  re- 
spectable citizens  should  be  taxed  for  the  support  of  schools 
which  are  so  conducted  that  to  send  their  children  to  them  is  to 
risk  their  religious  perversion.  We  maintain  that  what  bigots, 
with  all  their  venom,  were  unable  to  do  at  the  formation  of  our 
government  the  partisans  of  the  public  schools  are  now,  whether 
consciously  or  otherwise,  endeavoring  surreptitiously  to  do  by 
public  secular  education  ;  that  is  to  say,  the  law  of  the  land  and 
the  public  taxes  are  made  use  of  to  force  upon  a  portion  of  the 
community  something  which  their  deliberate  convictions  forbid 
them  to  use. 

The  Catholic  parent  says,  That  school  injures  my  child's  ulti- 
mate welfare ;  you  say,  I  disagree  with  you,  and  I  have  the  power 
and  I  will  put  the  taxes  upon  you.  Is  this  fair  play?  Is  this 
American  ?  And  now  it  has  come  to  pass  that  it  is  not  simply 
the  state  but  the  nation  that  is  to  be  used  against  the  Catholic 
conscience,  since  the  enormous  sums  asked  at  Washington  by 
scheming  politicians  for  educational  purposes  are  to  be  exclu- 


i886.]  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN.  591 

sively  used  for  secular  schools.  Having  milked  the  udder  of  the 
state  nearly  dry,  they  would  like  to  try  their  hands  at  that  of  the 
nation. 

Meantime  we  are  more  than  persuaded  that  freedom  and 
equal  rights  are  (excepting  this  one  blot)  the  primary  ideas  of 
Americans  in  their  political  conduct ;  and  we  are  equally  cer- 
tain that  in  accordance  with  freedom  and  equal  rights  Ame- 
ricans will  meet  this  issue  and  decide  it.  The  issue  as  seen  by 
the  Christian,  whether  Catholic  or  not,  is  stated  in  four  words  : 
Christianity  against  secular  schools.  That  this  is  truly  the  issue 
has  been  growing  clearer  and  clearer  every  day.  Religious  men 
of  all  denominations  are  beginning  to  perceive  it.  They  per- 
ceive that  it  is  the  public-school  boards  in  their  respective  locali- 
ties that  have  become  the  judges  of  the  worth  or  worthlessness 
of  Christianity  to  the  child.  Thoughtful  religious  men  and  wo-' 
men  are  finding  out  the  reason  why  unbelief  is  spreading  among 
the  people.  The  main  business  of  teaching  this  people  what  to 
believe  and  how  to  live  and  die  is  carried  on  by  a  system  which 
shuts  out  from  their  view  the  God  who  created  them  and  the 
end  for  which  they  were  created.  The  reader  will  see  evidence 
of  this  in  the  following  words  of  an  upright  Protestant  minister. 
They  are  printed  in  the  Chicago  Interior,  one  of  the  organs  of 
Presbyterianism  in  the  West.  He  is  speaking  of  higher  educa- 
tion, and  incidentally  of  primary.  The  italics  are  our  own  : 

"  We  think  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  control  of  the  higher 
education  of  the  future  is  a  question  which  intimately  concerns  both 
church  and  state.  Garfield  used  to  say  that '  man  is  the  joint  product  of 
nature  and  nurture.'  This  is  a  very  pregnant  statement,  the  general  accu- 
racy of  which  no  one  will  dispute.  Perhaps  we  might  safely  go  a  step  fur- 
ther and  say  that  nature  may  prove  stronger  than  nurture,  or  vice  versa. 
If  nature  in  the  great  majority  of  cases  should  prove  stronger  than  nur- 
ture, it  would  be  a  bad  thing  for  society  ;  for  nature,  according  to  our  or- 
thodox views,  '  is  deceitful  above  all  things  and  desperately  wicked.' 
Hence  it  is  apparent  that  no  true  virtue  could  be  the  outcome  of  an  educa- 
tion that  simply  gave  to  nature  an  unbridled  use  of  its  power.  But  is  not 
the  welfare  of  states  dependent  upon  the  virtue  rather  than  the  intelli- 
gence of  its  citizens?  The  real  question  is,  then,  What  shall  be  the  char- 
acter and  aim  of  the  education,  especially  higher  education,  of  the  future  ? 
If  it  be  an  education  that  shall  merely  develop  power,  and  aim  at  that  only, 
its  character  is  determined  by  that  fact.  But  if  it  seek  to  accomplish  two 
main  things — viz.,  power  and  control — then  its  character  is  fixed  according- 
ly. Now,  we  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  element  of  control  in  education  is  of 
greater  importance  than  that  of  power.  In  other  words,  I  should  infinitely 
prefer  that  my  boy  should  have  clear  views  upon  the  questions  of  right  and 
wrong,  and  prefer  the  former,  than  that  he  should  know  a  little  more  in  a 


592  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN.          [Feb., 

general  way  about  some  of  the  sciences  and  speculative  philosophy,  but  be  indif- 
ferent to  the  Ten  Commandments.  Whether  nurture  or  education  shall  prove 
stronger  than  nature  depends  mainly  upon  the  emphasis  placed  upon  the 
element  of  control.  This  brings  us,  then,  to  the  original  inquiry,  Under 
what  control  shall  the  higher  education  of  the  future  be  placed  ?  There 
are  only  three  conceivable  answers  to  this  important  question  : 

"  i.  The  state.  But  the  state  does  not  emphasize  the  element  of  con- 
trol in  education.  One  of  its  leading  aims  seems  to  be  to  avoid  this  very 
thing.  Hence  our  common  schools,  while  excellent  in  many  respects,  are  prac- 
tically godless.  It  is  becoming  more  and  more  exceptional  that  even  a  few 
verses  of  the  Bible  are  hastily  read  in  the  morning.  The  Bible  and  prayer  are 
virtually  excluded  from  the  school-rooms  of  the  state.  What  is  the  result  ? 
You  get  power,  but  no  control  of  that  power.  An  atmosphere  is  developed 
which  is  hostile  to  piety,  duty,  morality.  Of  course  nature  is  master  of  the 
situation,  and  nature  is  hostile  to  God. 

"  The  above  is  largely  true  of  our  state  universities.  Where  a  better 
state  of  things  prevails  in  them  it  can  only  be  regarded  as  a  temporary  inci- 
dent of  their  life,  and  due  to  an  accidental  influence  being  exerted  by  some 
Christian  denomination.  But  the  point  is,  these  exceptional  and  better 
features  are  really  abnormal  and  cannot  be  depended  on. 

"  2.  Private  and  irresponsible  individuals  may  assume  control  of  Jthe 
higher  education  of  the  future.  Of  course  this  will  never  be  a  very  general 
condition  of  things.  Yet  how  many  private  enterprises  of  this  kind  have 
sprung  up  in  our  country  during  the  past  two  years  !  But  the  fact  that  in 
all  such  cases  the  prevailing  motive  is  a  mercenary  one  is  a  sufficient  com- 
mentary. 

"  3.  The  Christian  church  may  control  the  higher  education  of  the  fu- 
ture. The  question  is,  Does  the  church  afford  the  only  safe  guarantee  for 
efficient  work  in  this  line?  Unquestionably  it  does.  In  the  element  of 
power  the  church  will  give  as  much  of  it  as  the  state  can.  The  best  sci- 
ence and  philosophy  of  the  day  is  within  the  pale  of  the  church.  Educa- 
tion, in  its  broad  and  liberal  sense,  has  had  no  better  friend  than  the 
church  in  the  past,  nor  is  it  likely  to  have  in  the  future.  But  the  church 
does  not  forget  the  important  element  of  control  in  education.  It  jealous- 
ly guards  the  conscience  and  feeds  it  with  proper  food,  so  that  it  may  not 
only  live,  but  become  strong  enough  to  perform  its  true  functions  in  the 
soul  as  its  controlling  power.  In  a  word,  the  education  of  the  church  has 
prime  reference  to  character,  and  the  development  of  the  strongest  and 
best  character  it  believes  can  be  secured  by  the  faithful  education  of  man 
as  a  totality.  It  would  not  ignore  any  of  the  faculties  of  soul  or  body,  es- 
pecially not  the  higher  faculties  of  the  soul.  Of  course  the  question  of 
ministerial  supply  in  the  future  is  intimately  and  vitally  connected  with 
the  other  question  of  the  control  of  the  higher  education  of  the  future. 
There  are  many  leading  minds  who  think  that  the  new  empire  springing 
up  rapidly  in  these  parts  is  to  be  the  battle-ground  of  the  future  in  respect 
to  this  matter  of  control  in  education.  Our  Board  of  Aid  for  colleges  and 
academies  was  not  born  a  day  too  soon.  If  the  church  will  be  alive  to  its 
opportunities  and  duty,  it  can  make  this  board  an  arm  of  mighty  power  in 
our  land.  .  .  .  JOHN  D.  MCLEAN." 

"  GROTON,  D.  T." 


1 886.]  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN.  593 

In  establishing  in  such  magnificent  proportions  the  present 
school  system  the  generosity  of  the  American  people  has  been 
wonderful.  It  has  been  called  forth  by  their  love  of  knowledge — 
a  noble  trait.  The  same  sentiment,  set  right,  guided  by  the 
principles  so  honestly  stated  by  Mr.  McLean,  would  but  stimu- 
late the  same  generosity  and  consecrate  education  to  the  noblest 
of  all  purposes.  The  number  of  schools  and  of  teachers  in  all 
grades  would  but  be  increased  and  their  character  elevated,  if 
the  education  of  the  child  were  conformed  to  the  end  for  which 
the  parent  believed  he  was  created.  But  so  far  the  zeal  for 
knowledge  has  been  zeal  without  knowledge.  Have  our  people 
sufficiently  appreciated  that  there  is  no  intellectual  privilege 
equal  to  being  taught  by  Jesus  Christ ;  that  there  is  no  doctrine 
that  can  compare  with  his;  that  there  is  no  true  teaching  which 
does  not  lead  to  him  and  his  truth  ?  The  American  people  have 
not  denied  this  or  doubted  it.  Their  mistake  was  concerning  the 
method  of  applying  the  teaching  of  Christ  to  the  human  mind. 
They  thought  that  the  faith  of  Jesus  Christ  could  be  well  enough 
imparted  by  a  method  of  instruction  which  dealt  with  .things 
temporal  and  things  eternal  in  sensu  diviso ;  but  in  reality  this 
life  and  the  life  to  come  are  one.  They  have  forgotten,  too,  that 
religious  belief  and  practice  are  maintained  among  a  people  only 
with  difficulty  and  by  means  of  much  systematic  teaching,  and 
that  religious  teaching  at  its  very  best  is  apt  to  be  deafened  by 
the  clamor  of  the  world  in  the  hurly-burly  of  this  busy  age. 

Meantime  secular  statesmen  have  fallen  into  a  grosser  error. 
They  have  fancied  that  it  is  the  business  of  the  state  to  educate 
the  people.  This  is  a  mistake.  The  problem  of  statesmen  in 
this  matter  is  really  how  the  state  shall  aid  the  divinely-appoint- 
ed agencies  of  education.  These  are  the  authority  of  God  in  the 
family  and  the  same  authority  in  the  church.  To  consult  the 
rights,  nay,  the  very  scruples,  of  parents,  to  assist  in  a  spirit  of 
impartial  justice  the  different  religious  societies  among  us  in  the 
work  of  education — such  is  the  r61e  of  the  state  as  Americans 
understand  it.  Divine  rights  the  state  has,  to  be  sure,  but  among 
them  the  training  of  children  is  certainly  not  to  be  found  ;  least 
of  all  training  children  to  the  grief  of  parents.  In  educational 
matters  the  American  state  has  been  running  off  from  its  provi- 
dential lines. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  religious   Protestants   are   becoming 

antagonized   by  the  public  schools.     We  believe  that  the  more 

thoughtful    portion   of    every   Christian    denomination    in   this 

country  would  favor  an  honest  effort  towards  religious  school- 

VOL.  XLII. — 38 


594  THE  SLAUGHTER  OF  THE  FIRST-BORN.  [Feb., 

ing-.  We  believe  that  honest  Protestants  would  be  glad  if  the 
people's  children  could  be  taught  the  religion  of  their  parents  at 
school.  They  have  discovered  that  the  school  grievance  is  only 
Catholic  because  it  is  a  religious  grievance  in  the  broadest  sense. 
Catholics  and  Protestants  are  nearing  each  other  in  this  contro- 
versy. Whatever  aversion  we  may  have  to  Protestant  errors, 
we  see  but  deeper  error  in  the  interference  of  a  godless  school- 
board  between  God  and  the  child's  soul,  and  between  the  father 
(Protestant  or  otherwise)  and  his  child.  Sincere  Catholics  and 
honest  Protestants  in  this  country,  as  is  the  case  in  others,  can 
have  a  platform  of  principles  broad  enough  to  stand  together 
upon,  and  shortly,  we  think,  will  have  it.  And  then  let  bigots 
and  political  schemers  beware  ! 

This  propaganda  of  unreligious  citizenship  must  be  resisted. 
Resistance  will  not  be  confined  to  any  one  section  of  this  people. 
A  portion  are  taking  their  leisure,  indeed,  in  coming  to  this 
point.  But  the  slaughter  of  their  first-born  is  persuading  them 
of  their  duty.  "For  whereas  they  would  not  believe  anything 
before  by  reason  of  the  enchantments,  then  first  upon  the  de- 
struction of  their  first-born  they  acknowledged  the  people  to  be 
of  God"  (Wisd.  xviii.  13).  If  they  will  not  admit  that  Catholics 
are  the  people  of  God,  at  any  rate  they  will  admit  that  we  know 
what  we  are  about  on  the  school  question. 

So  great  a  principle  and  so  true  a  cause  will  not  long  lack 
champions  in  the  political  arena.  "  The  first  of  all  gospels  is 
this,  that  a  lie  cannot  endure  forever."  There  is  a  class  of  minds 
whose  ruling  passion  is  love  of  being  right.  Another  class  there 
is  whose  ruling  passion  is  love  of  peace  and  plenty.  Woe  to  the 
state  when  the  latter  outweighs  the  former !  Have  we  come  to 
that  already?  Are  you  going  to  say  that  the  love  of  being  right 
is  no  longer  the  dominant  trait  of  the  American  people  ?  We 
do  not  believe  it.  And  we  are  further  persuaded  that  when 
sincere  and  intelligent  religious  men  and  women  present  their 
religious  convictions  as  a  political  factor,  then  the  school  ques- 
tion will  be  fairly  considered  and  quickly  settled.  Meantime  we 
will  raise  our  voices,  and  will  not  allow  them  to  be  stifled  till  we 
get  our  rights. 

A  sincere  member  of  any  church  is  always  respected.  A 
man  or  woman  fond  of  religious  society,  a  regular  attendant 
at  religious  services,  a  constant  reader  of  Holy  Scripture,  is 
still  the  most  honored  member  in  an  American  community.  If 
he  be  deemed  of  upright  conscience  his  religious  disposition 
makes  him  welcome  in  a  worldly  man's  home-circle,  and  such 


1 886.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  595 

traits  are  noted  in  favor  of  one  who  seeks  a  worldly  man's  child 
in  marriage.  It  will  be  twenty  times  the  present  power  of 
agnosticism  that  will  weaken  the  instinctive  respect  that  men 
have  for  those  who  solve  the  great  questions  of  the  soul  by  living 
'and  dying  for  God  and  for  eternity.  Shall  such  men  be  ignored 
or  have  no  weight  when  they  organize  to  bring  the  school 
grievance  to  settlement?  God  forbid  !  If  a  man  is  known  to 
buy  and  sell  goods  under  the  influence  of  the  Christian  religion, 
he  is  but  the  better  trusted  ;  shall  he  be  only  scoffed  at  if  he  pro- 
claims the  same  rule  of  conduct  in  the  training  of  his  children?/ 


JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL. 

"  A  HISTORY  of  the  lifetime  of  Joost  van  den  Vondel,"  says 
Mr.  Edmund  Gosse  in  his  Studies  in  Northern  Literature,  "  is  a 
chronicle  of  the  whole  rise  and  decline  of  the  literature  of  Hol- 
land." Born  in  1589,  he  was  eight  years  old  when  the  United 
Provinces,  throwing  off  the  yoke  of  Spain,  proclaimed  their  Com- 
monwealth and  insured  at  once  the  freedom  and  the  prosperity 
of  the  Netherlands.  Though  the  struggle  continued  for  years, 
the  victory  was  practically  won,  and  even  the  assassination  of  the 
stadtholder  failed  signally  to  undo  the  work  that  he  had  done. 
As  Holland  rose  rapidly  in  wealth  and  political  importance  she 
blossomed  into  a  literature  whose  rich  efflorescence  was  second 
only  to  the  glory  of  the  Elizabethan  school  in  England.  The 
great  historian  Hooft,  the  dramatists  Brederod  and  Vondel,  the 
lyrical  poets  Huyghens,  Barlaeus,  and  Janssen  Starter,  formed  a 
little  group  of  rare  talent  whose  lifelong  labors  raised  their  coun- 
try to  an  honorable  distinction  in  the  world  of  letters,  as  William 
the  Silent,  Maurice  of  Nassau,  and  Oldenbarneveldt  raised  her  to 
a  place  among  the  nations.  They  died,  leaving  none  to  succeed 
to  their  titles ;  and  Vondel,  who  had  assisted  at  the  birth  of 
Dutch  literature  and  nourished  its  vigorous  growth,  was  des- 
tined in  his  old  age  to  be  the  witness  of  its  premature  decline. 

Nothing  could  well  be  more  homely  than  the  early  surround- 
ings of  this  greatest  of  Holland's  poets.  His  parents,  poor  Ana- 
baptists of  Cologne,  were  driven  hither  and  thither  as  members 
of  that  much-persecuted  sect  until  they  found  a  shelter  in  Am- 


596  JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL.  [Feb., 

sterdam,  where  they  established  themselves  in  a  modest  stocking- 
shop  in  the  Warmoesstrat.  Years  of  thrift  insured  them  a  com- 
petency, and  when  Joost  Vondel  at  twenty-one  succeeded  to  the 
business  he  left  it  principally  in  the  hands  of  his  young  wife, 
while  devoting  himself  to  the  more  congenial  task  of  writing 
verses,  none  of  which,  however,  gave  much  promise  of  his  future 
greatness.  His  early  tragedy  of  Henry  IV.  probably  met  with 
no  more  tfbtice  than  it  deserved,  and  his  fugitive  poems  were  but 
little  known  outside  of  the  small  coterie  of  writers  and  scholars 
who  willingly  received  him  in  their  midst.  For  Hooft  especially 
he  felt  a  warm  admiration  and  affection,  which  was  ill-repaid  in 
later  life ;  and  another  and  happier  friendship  formed  about  the 
same  time  was  destined  to  have  a  marked  effect  upon  his  sub- 
sequent career.  This  was  with  the  poetess  Tesselschade,  the 
daughter  of  Roemer  Visscher,  a  man  of  wealth  and  standing, 
whose  ripe  scholarship  and  distinguished  attainments  placed  him 
without  a  rival  at  the  head  of  the  literary  society  of  Amsterdam. 
His  three  daughters  were  its  brightest  ornaments,  and  of 
these  the  youngest,  Tesselschade,  was  a  Dutch  S6vign6,  whose 
praises  poets  sang,  and  for  whose  sake  they  wore  their  brightest 
bays.  It  seems  impossible  to  speak  with  sufficient  admiration  of 
one  whose  influence  was  so  unreservedly  good,  whose  rare  beauty 
wrought  evil  to  none,  and  who  combined  within  herself  the  grace 
and  wit  of  a  woman  of  the  world  with  the  modesty,  the  domestic 
affections,  and  the  sterling  sense  of  a  German  housewife.  An 
artist  of  some  merit,  she  counted  Rubens  among  her  friends ;  a 
tender  and  pleasing  writer,  she  won  the  hearts  of  Holland's 
greatest  sons.  The  fiery  young  genius  Brederod  flung  his  pas- 
sionate soul  at  her  feet;  Constantine  Huyghens  bore  her  through 
life  a  real  though  somewhat  fantastic  affection  ;  the  poet  Barlaeus 
sought  her  hand,  and  Vondel,  when  a  widower,  would  fain  have 
shared  with  her  his  undying  fame.  Yet,  unspoiled  amid  this  uni- 
versal admiration,  Tesselschade  suffered  herself  to  be  wooed  and 
won  by  a  middle-aged  and  commonplace  sailor,  Allart  Krom- 
balgh,  and  when  he  died  she  remained  faithful  to  his  memory. 
Her  friendship  with  Vondel  lasted  unbroken  through  their  lives, 
and  in  one  respect  at  least  her  influence  touched  him  nearly. 

The  family  of  Roemer  Visscher  were  Catholics.  Good  pa- 
triots, who  had  no  mind  to  see  their  country  trodden  under-foot 
by  Spanish  tyranny,  they  were  yet  faithful  children  of  the  mo- 
ther-church. Amid  the  jars  and  dissensions  of  Calvinists  and 
Arminians,  amid  the  wrath  of  the  Remonstrants  and  the  war-cry 
of  the  Gomarists,  the  little  household  maintained  its  peaceful 


1 886.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  597 

serenity,  withdrawn  wholly  from  the  religious  struggles  of  the 
hour.  Mr.  Gosse,  who  cannot  be  accused  of  any  undue  prefer- 
ence for  Rome,  is  moved  to  acknowledge  that,  in  this  case  at  least, 
Catholicity  was  a  boon,  and  Peter's  Rock  a  more  comfortable 
resting-place  than  the  sea  of  discord  that  raged  around  it.  "  To 
the  family  of  Roemer,"  he  says,  "  with  their  mild  Catholicism  and 
their  cultured  humanism,  these  rabid  shouts  of  Free-Will  and 
Predestination  that  deafened  the  consciences  of  men,  and  drove 
them  to  the  foulest  acts  of  tyranny  and  treason,  must  have  seemed 
pitiful  indeed  ;  nor  has  Protestantism  ever  shone  in  so  contempti- 
ble a  light  as  in  those  years  preceding  the  murder  of  Oldenbarne- 
veldt." 

That  murder  was  the  turning-point  in  Vondel's  career.  The 
Synod  of  Dort,  which  had  met  in  1618  with  the  ostensible  pur- 
pose of  reconciling  the  perfectly  irreconcilable  religious  bodies, 
had  .become  a  mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  triumphant  Calvinists, 
with  Maurice  of  Nassau  at  their  head,  and  James  of  England 
lending  them  his  gracious  approbation.  In  their  pitiless  zeal  they 
were  not  content  with  hounding  the  Arminian  pastors  from  their 
livings  and  banishing  many  from  the  country.  Hugo  Grotius, 
the  most  eminent  jurist  of  his  time,  and  Rombout  Hoogerbeets 
were  imprisoned  for  life  in  Loevestein,  whence  the  former  es- 
caped through  the  sagacity  and  devotion  of  a  maid-servant.  The 
body  of  the  secretary,  Ledenberg,  who  died  by  his  own  hands  in 
prison,  was  dragged  from  the  grave  and  publicly  hanged,  that 
the  state  might  wrest  from  his  children  their  inheritance.  And 
Oldenbarneveldt,  Holland's  greatest  and  truest  son,  the  friend  of 
William  the  Silent  and  the  liberator  of  his  country,  was  beheaded 
on  the  I4th  of  May,  in  his  seventy-second  year,  "  for  having  con- 
spired to  dismember  the  States  of  the  Netherlands — which  he  of 
all  men  had  helped  to  bind  together — and  for  having  greatly  trou- 
bled God's  church." 

A  blacker  judicial  murder  never  stained  the  fair  fame  of  a  re- 
public. All  that  could  be  urged  against  the  Grand  Pensionary 
was  his  laxness  in  the  spirit  of  persecuting  Christianity.  "  He 
was  accused,"  says  Motley,  "of  a  willingness  to  wink  at  the  in- 
troduction quietly  and  privately  of  the  Roman  Catholic  worship. 
That  this  was  the  deadliest  of  sins  there  was  no  doubt  whatever 
in  the  minds  of  his  revilers.  When  it  was  added  that  he  was  sus- 
pected of  the  Arminian  leprosy,  and  that  he  could  tolerate  the 
thought  that  a  virtuous  man  or  woman  not  predestined  from 
all  time  to  salvation  could  possibly  find  the  way  to  heaven,  lan- 
guage became  powerless  to  stigmatize  his  depravity."  For  these 


598  JOOST  VAN  DEN  VONDEL.  [Feb., 

crimes  they  dragged  the  old  man  to  the  scaffold  amid  coarse  jn- 
sults  and  ribald  jests  ;  and  after  his  bleeding  body  had  been 
thrust  with  ostentatious  ignominy  into  a  filthy  box  a  document 
was  published  explaining  that  the  utter  absence  of  any  treason- 
able evidence  was  owing  to  the  humanity  of  his  judges,  who,  in 
consideration  of  his  extreme  age,  had  mercifully  abstained  from 
putting  him  to  the  question.  "  This  is  the  reward  of  forty 
years'  service  to  the  state,"  said  the  prisoner,  with  a  momentary 
pang  of  anguish,  as  he  looked  upon  the  gaping  crowd  assembled 
to  witness  his  execution ;  and  then,  with  gentle  dignity  kneeling 
upon  the  rough  boards,  he  bent  his  venerable  head  to  receive  the 
fatal  stroke. 

Barneveldt's  heroic  death  fell  like  a  thunderbolt  upon  the 
little  group  of  poets  and  patriots  that  met  under  Roemer  Viss- 
cher's  roof.  Hot  with  shame  at  his  country's  disgrace,  and  with 
fury  that  Prince  Maurice  should  have  left  his  father's  cherished 
friend  to  such  a  fate,  the  passionate  resentment  that  shook  Von- 
del's  soul  found  vent  in  a  series  of  burning  songs,  and  in  the 
tragedy  of  "  Palamedes,  or  Murdered  Innocence,"  where  Barne- 
veldt,  the  stadtholder,  and  other  eminent  personages  were  paint- 
ed under  the  thinnest  of  disguises.  Though  this  tragedy  was  not 
produced  until  after  Prince  Maurice's  death  in  1625,  it  very  natu- 
rally awoke  a  spirit  of  bitter  resentment,  and  cost  the  poet,  or  his 
friends,  a  fine  of  three  hundred  gulden.  By  this  time,  however, 
his  fame  was  being  slowly  and  surely  established,  and  his  name 
had  become  a  watchword  among  those  whose  finer  souls  or  wider 
sympathies  responded  freely  to  his  call.  He  had  reached  an  age 
when  men  have  oftenest  put  forth  their  best  efforts,  and  his  life- 
work  was  but  begun.  Gradually  and  powerfully  his  massive 
genius  developed  itself,  attaining  its  highest  point  only  when  old 
age  had  crowned  his  head  with  silver.  Had  Vondel  died  as  pre- 
maturely as  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Keats,  there  would  have  been 
nothing  left  to  show  mankind  how  great  a  poet  they  had  missed. 
Had  Keats — snatched  too  soon  from  a  listening  world — been  per- 
mitted to  ripen  into  vigorous  manhood,  what  ravishing  lost  har- 
monies would  have  been  bequeathed  to  the  English  tongue ! 
Vondel  was  forty-nine  years  old  when  his  great  tragedy,  "  Gijs- 
brecht  van  Aemstel,"  was  first  played  in  the  Academy  of  Amster- 
dam ;  a  year  later  he  dedicated  to  Tesselschade  his  translation  of 
the  "  Electra "  of  Sophocles,  and  on  his  fifty-fourth  birthday  he 
took  the  long-meditated  step  and  entered  the  Catholic  Church. 

It  seems  a  little  hard  to  understand  the  universal  opprobrium 
that  followed.  As  a  sympathizer  with  the  Arminians  Vondel 


1 885.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  $99 

had  always  stood  upon  the  losing-  side,  while  by  joining  the  Ro- 
man fold  he  sacrificed  at  once  such  political  influence  as  he  had 
hitherto  possessed,  and  with  it  the  support  and  approbation  of 
his  oldest  friends.  Now,  when  a  man  willingly  relinquishes  any 
distinct  worldly  advantages  for  the  sake  of  his  religious  convic- 
tions, he  challenges  our  respect,  even  if  those  convictions  seem 
to  us  mistaken.  When  Dryden,  the  most  courtly  and  astute  of 
poets,  accepted  Catholicity  in  the  nick  of  time  to  make  good  his 
favor  with  a  Catholic  king,  his  enemies  had  some  ground  on 
which  to  doubt  his  disinterestedness,  though  the  less  captious 
critics  of  to-day  refuse  to  impute  to  him  ignoble  motives.  But 
when  Crashaw  threw  himself  into  the  bosom  of  the  church  there 
was  not  one  dissentient  voice,  save  that  of  the  surly  Prynne,  in 
the  universal  acknowledgment  of  his  sincerity.  And,  like  Cra- 
shaw, Vondel  had  nothing  to  gain  and  much  to  lose  in  adhering 
to  his  new  creed.  Less  spiritual  and  far  more  masculine  than  the 
English  poet,  it  was  given  him  to  spend  hours  in  a  trance  of  ec- 
static devotion  ;  but  he  could  and  did  suffer  manfully  for  the 
faith  he  held.  If  his  poems  are  not  "  steps  for  happy  souls  to 
climb  heaven  by,"  they  at  least  stretch  soberly  along  in  the  same 
great  direction.  Crashaw,  in  his  contemplative  purity  and  rap- 
turous love,  at  once  represents  the  church  suffering  and  the 
church  triumphant ;  Vondel  is  the  very  embodiment  of  the 
church  militant  Crashaw  died  at  thirty-seven,  a  flower-like 
soul  unfit  for  the  coarse  and  wicked  soil  of  earth  ;  Vondel  strug- 
gled on  until  ninety-one  amid  poverty  and  misfortunes,  with  an 
indomitable  courage  that  nothing  could  subdue.  His  is  the  sad- 
der as  well  as  the  more  instructive  history  ;  and  who  was  there 
to  write  of  him,  as  Cowley,  the  stanchest  of  Protestants,  wrote 
in  love  and  reverence  of  the  dead  Crashaw  ? — 


"  Pardon  !  my  mother-church,  if  I  consent 
That  angels  led  him  when  from  thee  he  went. 


Or  again  : 


"  His  faith,  perhaps,  in  some  nice  tenets  might 
Be  wrong;  his  life,  I'm  sure,  was  in  the  right, 
And  I  myself  a  Catholic  will  be 
So  far  at  least,  great  saint,  to  pray  to  thee. 
Hail,  bard  triumphant!  and  some  care  bestow 
On  us,  the  poets  militant  below." 

Venders  friends  on  the  other  side,  denying  him  with  one  ac- 


600  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  [Feb., 

cord  the  privilege  of  deciding  for  himself  what  he  should  believe, 
turned  away  in  anger  when  his  change  of  creed  was  announced, 
and  never  seem  to  have  forgiven  him  the  step.  Hooft,  whom  he 
had  loved  so  long,  barred  the  doors  of  Muiden  Castle  against  his 
old  companion,  and  would  not  suffer  him  beneath  his  roof.  Huy- 
ghens,  suspecting  that  Tesselschade's  influence  had  much  to  do 
with  the  matter,  forgot  for  a  while  his  admiration  of  the  "  match- 
less qualities  "  he  was  never  wearied  of  singing,  and  upbraided 
her  fiercely  and  bitterly  for  assisting  at  Vondel's  fall.  So  sting- 
ing, indeed,  were  his  reproaches  that  the  lady,  whose  gentle  femi- 
ninity did  not  permit  her  to  indulge  in  polemical  warfare,  wearied 
of  this  one-sided  battle  and  entrusted  her  defence  to  Barlaeus, 
who  was  too  happy  to  be  allowed  to  espouse  her  cause.  But, 
except  Tesselschade,  there  was  no  one  to  defend  Vondel,  who,  see- 
ing himself  deserted  by  his  friends,  wasted  no  time  in  complaints 
or  self-extenuation,  but  proceeded  quietly  with  his  literary  labors. 
Drawing  his  inspiration  from  Holy  Writ,  he  produced  at  this 
time  his  Scriptural  dramas,  "  The  Sons  of  Saul,"  "  Joseph  in  Do- 
tham,"  and  "  Joseph  in  Egypt "  ;  also  his  translation  of  the 
Psalms  of  David,  which  he  dedicated  to  Christina  of  Sweden, 
who  sent  him  a  golden  chain  with  her  portrait  attached. 

There  is  something  na'ive  enough  to  be  absolutely  amusing  in 
the  verdict  of  a  modern  French  critic  on  the  poet's  conversion  to 
Catholicity.  While  acknowledging  the  "  incontestable  services 
rendered  by  him  to  the  country  of  his  adoption,"  and  saluting 
him  as  the  "father  of  Netherland  poetry,  and  the  restorer  of 
the  national  language  of  the  Pays-Bas,"  the  writer  deprecates 
the  one  mistaken  step  which  robbed  him  of  the  support  and  sym- 
pathy of  his  friends.  "  But  the  most  cruel  punishment  of  his  in- 
consistency," he  adds,  "  was  met  by  him  in  his  own  family.  His 
daughter  Anna  left  him  to  enter  a  convent,  and  his  son  Joost 
ruined  him  in  business."  Here  we  have  a  relation  between 
cause  and  effect  that  does  credit  to  Gallic  logic.  That  his 
daughter  should  have  gone  into  a  convent  was  perhaps  the 
natural  outcome  of  her  father's  religion,  and  may  be  regarded 
as  an  evil  or  a  blessing,  according  to  people's  views.  But  to 
say  that  his  son  mismanaged  the  stocking-shop  and  brought 
poverty  on  the  family  because  Vondel  had  become  a  Catholic 
is  inferring  rather  more  than  the  circumstances  will  permit. 
Apparently,  however,  a  somewhat  similar  view  was  held  by  his 
contemporaries.  Such  misfortunes  were  plainly  the  punishment 
due  him  for  his  perversion,  and  they  were  only  acquiescing 


1886.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  6oi 

cheerfully  in  the  decrees  of  Providence  when  they  refused  to 
lift  a  hand  to  help  him  in  his  sore  distress. 

But  this  is  unduly  anticipating-  events.  Vondel  had  still  be- 
fore him  some  years  of  prosperity  and  peace,  though  death  was 
about  to  deprive  him  of  his  dearest  friend.  Tesselschade,  whose 
wedded  happiness  had  been  of  brief  duration,  had  since  her 
widowhood  devoted  herself  to  the  education  of  her  only  re- 
maining child.  Still  beautiful  and  winning,  she  gently  refused 
all  offers  of  marriage,  content  to  remain  the  companion  of  great 
men  and  the  beloved  patroness  of  all  the  younger  writers  of 
her  day.  Her  last  years  were  shadowed  by  sorrows,  borne  with 
touching  patience  and  resignation.  A  spark  from  a  smithy 
partly  destroyed  her  sight  and  marred  her  loveliness  for  ever. 
Death  carried  off  in  quick  succession  many  of  those  dearest  to 
her,  and  finally  laid  his  hand  on  her  young  daughter,  the  pride 
and  joy  of  her  life.  Broken-hearted  by  this  last  blow,  she  died 
of  grief  in  1649,  leaving  her  memory  embalmed  in  the  songs  of 
Barlaeus,  Huyghens,  and  Vondel,  while  her  own  lyrics  hold  a 
more  modest  niche  in  the  temple  of  fame.  Of  these  "  The 
Nightingale"  is  familar  to  all,  having  been  translated  into  Eng- 
lish by  Sir  John  Bowring  and  Mr.  Edmund  Gosse,  and  pub- 
lished at  different  times  in  collections  of  fugitive  poems. 

Vondel  was  sixty  years  old  when  Tesselschade  died.  His  tra- 
gedy of  "  Mary  Stuart "  had  met  with  brilliant  success,  and  the 
poet,  now  living  quietly  with  his  daughter  on  the  Cingel,  began 
the  great  work  of  his  life,  the  choral  drama  of  "  Lucifer."  Mr. 
Gosse  has  clearly  pointed  out  how  deeply  indebted  to  this  ma- 
jestic poem  is  the  author  of  "  Paradise  Lost."  Preceding  the 
English  epic  by  thirteen  years,  it  could  not  have  failed  to  at- 
tract the  attention  of  Milton,  who  was  a  finished  Dutch  scholar, 
and  who  drew  so  much  of  his  inspiration  from  foreign  sources. 
Had  he,  indeed,  adhered  to  his  original  design  of  treating  his 
subject  dramatically,  the  resemblance  between  the  two  poems 
would  have  been  closer  still,  though  no  one  ventures  to  place 
"Lucifer"  on  the  same  lofty  pinnacle  as  its  heroic  rival.  But  a 
like  spirit  dominates  in  both.  "The  great  Puritan  epic,"  says 
Mr.  Goldwin  Smith,  "  could  hardly  have  been  written  by  any 
one  but  a  militant  Puritan  "  ;  yet  Vondel,  though  a  son  of  Rome, 
is  swayed  by  precisely  the  same  warlike  zeal  for  a  sublime  cause. 
The  clash  of  the  celestial  armies  rings  in  his  ears,  their  gleaming 
armor  dazzles  his  eyes,  their  impetuous  charge  fills  him  with  ex- 
ultation. Like  Milton,  he  makes  of  Lucifer  a  superb  incarnation 


6O2  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  [Feb., 

of  revolt,  not  to  exalt  the  spirit  of  rebellion,  but  to  give  dignity 
and  meaning  to  the  struggle.  It  is  not  the  Almighty  crushing  a 
worm  which  calls  forth  our  enthusiasm,  but  the  angels  of  God 
rushing  with  loyal  valor  against  a  powerful  foe. 

In  their  own  characters  and  destinies  Milton  and  Vondel 
closely  approximate  each  other — the  same  stern  and  uncom- 
promising patriotism,  the  same  passionate  defence  of  a  lost 
cause,  the  same  purity  of  life  without  a  tinge  of  asceticism, 
the  same  adherence  to  their  respective  creeds,  the  same  heroic 
fortitude  under  heavy  affliction.  In  an  old  Dutch  print  of  Von- 
del we  discern  far  more  of  the  soldier  than  the  poet.  With  his 
martial  bearing  and  his  military  mustachios,  he  looks  ready  to 
gird  on  his  sword  and  fight  gaily  in  the  foremost  ranks  of  bat- 
tle. Yet,  gentler  far  than  Milton,  his  warlike  spirit  never  degen- 
erated into  blood-thirstiness  ;  and  for  the  real  difference  between 
the  two  we  have  but  to  turn  from  the  downright  ferocity,  the 
"  Latin  Billingsgate,"  with  which  Milton  pursued  the  unfortu- 
nate Salmasius,  to  the  epitaph  in  which  Vondel  has  recorded  his 
unswerving  affection  for  his  ungenerous  friend  Hooft. 

"  Lucifer,"  as  well  as  "  Gijsbrecht  van  Aemstel,"  has  been 
translated  into  French,  and  may  be  found  in  the  "  Chefs- 
d'oeuvres  des  ThMtres  Etrangers  "/  but  though  Mr.  Gosse  in  his 
study  of  Vondel  has  given  us  a  spirited  synopsis  of  the  drama, 
only  a  few  scattered  extracts  from  the  chorus  have  been  ren- 
dered into  English  verse.  The  entire  action  takes  place  among 
the  heavenly  hosts.  We  hear  of  Eve's  beauty  and  Adam's  bliss 
only  through  the  angelic  praises  of  both.  Apollyon  describes 
Eve  as  lovelier  than  the  brightest  spirits,  fairer  than  the  gates  of 
pearl,  her  hair  golden  as  a  veil  of  sunbeams.  Man,  created  less 
than  the  angels,  is  yet  laden  with  blessings  and  destined  to 
work  his  way  to  a  higher  glory  and  to  a  place  nearer  God. 
Lucifer,  the  Morning-Star,  the  Stadtholder  of  Heaven,  is  roused 
to  bitter  grief  and  jealousy  at  sight  of  this  new  rival,  and  Beel- 
zebub inflames  his  wrath  with  pointed  taunts  upon  his  fallen 
greatness.  Apollyon  and  Belial  fan  the  flames  of  rebellion 
among  the  sorrowing  and  discontented  angels,  who  wail  with 
one  voice : 

"Alas!  alas!  alas  !  where  has  our  bliss  departed!" 

In  vain  Gabriel  seeks  to  argue  them  into  obedience;  in  vain 
the  superb  and  haughty  Michael  warns  them  of  the  hopeless- 


1 886.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN  VONDEL.  603 

ness  of  contending  against  the  Most  High ;  in  vain  Raphael,  the 
messenger  of  love  and  reconciliation,  endeavors  to  win  them 
back  to  their  allegiance  ere  the  thunders  of  God  hurl  them  into 
hell.  Lucifer,  to  whom  the  rebel  hosts  have  already  paid  divine 
homage,  refuses  to  bow  his  crested  head.  Despairing  of  success, 
he  yet  rears  the  banner  of  revolt  and  rushes  impetuously  on  his 
doom. 

There  is  but  a  single  conflict  between  the  two  armies  of 
heaven.  The  loyal  servants  of  God  fly  with  quivering  pinions 
to  the  fray,  while  the  rebellious  spirits  advance  in  the  form  of  a 
crescent,  Belial  and  Beelzebub  leading  either  horn.  Lucifer,  in 
his  sun-bright  chariot  studded  with  rubies,  his  shining  buckler 
engraved  with  the  morning-star,  encounters  the  mighty  arm  of 
Michael,  who,  bearing  aloft  the  standard,  on  which  is  blazoned 
the  mystic  name  of  the  Creator,  leads  the  triumphant  hosts 
of  heaven.  Maddened  by  approaching  defeat,  Lucifer  in  vain 
essays  to  cleave  with  impious  arm  that  awful  name.  The  arch- 
angel's gleaming  sword  hurls  him  with  irresistible  force  into  the 
yawning  abyss  of  hell,  whose  grim  gates  open  blackly  to  receive 
the  rebel  rout.  From  thence — a  monarch  still  within  his  own 
domain — he  sends  Belial  to  tempt  the  innocent  Eve  and  accom- 
plish through  her  fall  the  degradation  of  mankind.  With  the  exile 
of  our  first  parents  from  their  lost  Eden,  and  with  the  final  doom 
of  the  disgraced  and  defeated  angels,  the  drama  is  concluded. 

The  likeness  between  "  Lucifer  "  and  "  Paradise  Lost "  is  too 
apparent  to  need  comment.  Not  only  is  the  general  tenor  of  the 
poems  the  same,  but  individual  passages  often  bear  a  close  resem- 
blance. Thus  Satan's 

"  Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven" 
is  more  tamely  rendered  by  Lucifer's 

"  En  liever  d'eerste  Vorst  in  eenigh  lager  hof 
Dan  in't  gezalight  licht  de  tweede,  of  noch  een  minder."* 

And  though  Mr.  Mark  Pattison  lays  stress  on  the  greater  earthli- 
ness  of  Vondel's  angels,  yet  the  Miltonic  spirits  who  turn  desirous 

"  Forthwith  from  dance  to  sweet  repast," 
and  Belial  "  in  gamesome  mood  "  chuckling  over  the  success  of 

*  Better  to  be  Prince  of  a  lower  court 
Than  stand  second  or  third  within  the  holy  light. 


604  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  [Feb., 

his  new  artillery,  must  be  thought  to  occasionally  rival  them  in 
this  respect.  The  chorus  which  concludes  the  first  act  of 
"  Lucifer "  has  been  translated  by  Sir  John  Bowring,  a  most 
indefatigable  worker  and  a  most  indifferent  poet.  We  quote  a 
portion  of  it  before  passing  on  to  Mr.  Gosse's  too  scanty  versions: 

"  Who  sits  above  heaven's  heights  sublime, 

Yet  fills  the  grave's  profoundest  place, 
Beyond  eternity  or  time 

Or  the  vast  round  of  viewless  space ; 
Who  on  Himself  alone  depends, 

Immortal,  glorious,  but  unseen, 
And  in  his  mighty  being  blends 

What  rolls  around  or  flows  within. 
Of  all  we  know  not,  all  we  know, 

Prime  source  and  origin,  a  sea 
Whose  waters  pour'd  on  earth  below 

Wake  blessing's  brightest  radiancy. 
His  power,  love,  wisdom  first  exalted  j 

And  waken'd  from  oblivion's  birth 
Yon  starry  arch,  yon  palace  vaulted, 

Yon  heaven  of  heavens  to  smile  on  earth. 
From  his  resplendent  majesty 

We  shade  us,  'neath  our  sheltering  wings, 
While  awe-inspired  and  tremblingly 

We  praise  the  glorious  King  of  Kings 
With  sight  and  sense  confused  and  dim. 

O  name,  describe  the  Lord  of  Lords  ! 
The  seraphs'  praise  shall  hallow  Him  : 

Or  is  the  theme  too  vast  for  words  ?  '' 

Compare  this  with  Mr.  Gosse's  translation  of  the  angelic 
chorus,  who  watch  with  wondering  dismay  the  changed  and 
sullied  brightness  of  their  rebellious  brothers : 

"  Why  seem  the  courteous  angel-faces 
So  red  ?     Why  streams  the  holy  light 

So  red  upon  our  sight, 
Through  clouds  and  mists  from  mournful  places  ? 

What  vapor  dares  to  blear 

The  pure,  unspotted,  clear, 

And  luminous  sapphire  ? 

The  flame,  the  blaze,  the  fire 

Of  the  bright  Omnipotence  ? 
Why  does  the  splendid  light  of  God 
Glow,  deepened  to  the  hue  of  blood, 

That  late,  in  flowing  thence, 
Gladdened  all  hearts  ?  " 


1886.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN    VONDEL.  605 

Here  we  have  the  quaintness  of  the  old  Dutch  poet  set  into 
living  English ;  and  the  anti-chorus,  in  a  singularly  musical  reply, 
explain  that  envy  "  from  the  under- world  came  sneaking,"  and 
has  tarnished  the  glory  of  God's  chosen  servants. 

"  The  doves  of  heaven  here  on  high, 
Whose  innocent  pinions  sweetly  tinkled, 
Are  struck  with  mourning  one  and  all, 
As  though  the  heavens  were  far  too  small 
For  them,  now  Adam's  been  elected, 
And  such  a  crown  for  man  selected. 
This  blemish  blinds  the  light  of  grace, 
And  dulls  the  flaming  of  God's  face." 

rOne  more  short  quotation  is  all  we  may  add,  but  it  is  too 
felicitous  to  be  omitted.  The  triumphant  chorus  celebrate 
Michael's  victory  in  an  ode  so  curious  and  complex  that  only  a 
poet-critic  could  successfully  unravel  its  intricacies,  and  we  can- 
not forbear  to  give  at  least  the  opening  lines : 

"  Blest  be  the  hero's  hour, 

Who  smote  the  godless  power, 
And  his  might,  and  his  light,  and  his  standard, 

Down  toppling  like  a  tower  ; 

His  crown  was  near  God's  own, 

But  from  his  lofty  throne 
With  his  might  into  night  be  hath  vanished  ; 

God's  name  must  shine  alone. 

Outblazed  the  uproar  fell 

When  valorous  Michael, 
With  his  brand  in  his  hand  quenched  the  passion 

Of  spirits  that  dared  rebel. 

He  holds  God's  banner  now; 

With  laurels  crown  his  brow  ! " 

"  Lucifer  "  was  received  with  a  storm  of  invectives,  as  "  treat- 
ing in  a  fleshly  manner  the  high  theme  of  God's  mysteries,"  and 
found  its  way  to  the  stage,  to  publication,  and  to  the  hearts  ot  the 
Dutch  people  only  after  a  prolonged  and  hard-fought  battle.  Crit- 
ics to  this  day  persist  in  thinking  that  it  veils  a  political  signifi- 
cance, and  Lucifer  is  believed  by  some  to  mean  William  the 
Silent,  and  by  others  Cromwell ;  both  of  which  suppositions  be- 
ing equally  unhappy  when  we  reflect  that  the  first  stadtholder  and 
the  ruler  of  the  English  Commonwealth,  so  far  from  being  inglo- 
riously  defeated,  carried  their  respective  rebellions  to  a  most  suc- 
cessful issue.  There  seems  no  legitimate  reason  to  connect  this 


6o6  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  [Feb., 

noble  poem  with  the  miserable  wickedness  of  the  day ;  and 
critics,  in  their  rage  for  finding  hidden  meanings,  have  forgotten 
that  the  devout  and  reverent  Vondel  would  hardly  have  compared 
the  cruel  tyranny  of  Philip  II.  or  the  unscrupulous  falseness  of 
Charles  I.  to  the  just  vengeance  of  an  Almighty  God. 

The  poet  was  now  approaching  his  seventieth,  year.  He  had 
been  elected  president  of  the  Guild  of  St.  Luke,  and  publicly 
crowned  on  that  occasion  by  the  painter,  Bartholomeus  van  der 
Heist ;  he  had  outlived  the  malice  of  his  enemies,  and  might  rea- 
sonably hope  to  see  his  sun  of  life  set  clearly  and  peacefully  in  an 
honorable  old  age.  But  heavy  sorrows  were  even  now  in  store  for 
him.  His  son's  mismanagement — whether  the  result  of  Catholici- 
ty or  not — plunged  him  into  financial  ruin.  He  sacrificed  his  own 
little  fortune  of  40,000  gulden,  and,  after  travelling  into  Denmark 
to  try  and  treat  with  the  creditors,  he  obtained  on  his  return  a 
petty  clerkship,  in  which  by  hard  toil  he  earned  a  scant  support. 
"  In  this  misery,"  comments  Mr.  Gosse  sternly,  "  Holland  allowed 
her  greatest  poet  to  drudge  from  his  seventieth  to  his  eightieth 
year,  and  his  employers  had  the  insolence  to  reproach  the  old 
man  with  sometimes  writing  verses  in  his  office  hours.  I  doubt 
if  in  all  the  tragical  annals  in  literature  there  is  a  sadder  story  than 
this;  and  that  London  should  have  let  Otway  starve  seems  to  me 
less  infamous  than  that  Amsterdam  should  have  plagued  the  aged 
Vondel  so  harshly  for  a  pittance  of  fourteen  pence  a  day." 

Troubles  more  undeserved  never  darkened  a  poet's  life.  Ot- 
way starved  in  the  streets  of  London,  but  not  until  he  had  sunk 
his  manhood  in  the  foolish  passion  that  hurried  him  into  his  last 
sad  misery.  Milton — blind,  feeble,  and  contemned — lingered  in 
lonely  obscurity  ;  but  the  author  of  "  Eikonoklastes  "  and  the 
"  Pro  Populo  Anglicano  Defensio  "  could  hardly  hope  for  much 
consideration  from  his  outraged  and  triumphant  enemies.  Yet  a 
short  concealment  in  Bartholomew  Close  was  practically  all  he 
endured  at  their  hands  before  the  Act  of  Oblivion  relieved  him 
from  even  that  necessity.  "  There  were  among  the  Royalists," 
says  Mr.  Keightly,  "  men  of  humanity  who  could  feel  compassion 
for  him  who  was  deprived  of  nature's  prime  blessing,  and  men  of 
taste  who  were  capable  of  admiration  for  exalted  genius."  But 
Vondel,  having  led  a  life  of  chaste  and  abstemious  simplicity,  and 
having  raised  his  voice  only  in  behalf  of  the  wronged  and  perse- 
cuted, found  no  one  in  rich  and  busy  Amsterdam  to  hold  out  to 
him  a  generous  hand  of  sympathy.  With  characteristic  courage 
he  went  cheerfully  on  his  way,  not  posing  as  a  martyr  for  the 


1 886.]  JOOST   VAN  DEN   VONDEL.  6o/ 

benefit  of  posterity,  but  doing  his  daily  work  as  well  as  his  in- 
creasing  years  would  permit,  and  writing  all  the  while  with  un- 
dimmed  power  and  beauty.  "  Jephte,"  "  King  David  Restored," 
"  Samson/'  "  Adam  in  Exile/'  "  Adonis,"  and  the  translations  of 
"  CEdipus  Tyrannus  "  and  the  "  ^Eneid,"  were  among  the  pro- 
ductions of  those  ten  hard  years  ;  and  if  the  spectacle  is  a  sad  one, 
it  is  sublime  in  its  unostentatious  endurance.  The  noble  old  man, 
going  daily  to  his  humble  toil,  yet  ever  mindful  of 

"  That  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide,'' 

suffering  neither  age  nor  poverty  nor  scorn  to  dim  his  light  nor 
to  disturb  his  soul,  has  taught  us  the  truest  lesson  we  can  learn. 

When,  in  his  eightieth  year,  Holland  awoke  to  her  own  shame 
and  a  small  state  pension  freed  Vondel  from  drudgery,  he  still 
continued  to  write,  his  last  literary  work  being  the  translations  of 
Ovid  and  Sophocles.  He  lived  to  be  ninety-one,  retaining  the 
full  use  of  all  his  faculties,  and  he  died  with  a  jest,  on  his  lips, 
light-hearted  to  the  end.  The  influence  of  his  Catholicism  is 
shown  in  such  purely  religious  poems  as  "  The  Virgins,"  "  The 
Mysteries  of  the  Altar,"  and  the  "  Praise  of  St.  Agnes,"  written 
before  he  entered  the  church  ;  but  at  all  times  he  drew  from  the 
Scriptures  and  from  tradition  the  inspirations  best  fitted  to  his 
Muse.  His  body  lies  entombed  in  the  Nieuwe  Kirk  at  Amster- 
dam, near  that  of  the  gallant  Admiral  de  Ruyter ;  but  though 
Protestant  walls  enclose  his  ashes,  his  memory  is  distinctively 
our  own  by  right  of  the  common  faith  he  so  bravely  loved  and 
cherished. 


6o8  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 


THE   DOCTOR'S   FEE. 
I. 

IT  was  a  burning  day  of  July,  and  not  a  breath  of  air  was  stir- 
ring in  the  narrow,  dirty  alley  through  which  two  men — a  priest 
and  a  physician — were  passing  on  their  daily  rounds  of  charity. 
They  were  strangers  to  each  other,  and  both  were  strangers  in 
the  place  where  they  now  met,  the  town  of  Altonboro' — the  priest 
having  arrived  there  only  three  days  before  to  take  temporary 
charge  of  the  mission-duty  of  a  brother  cleric  at  present  absent 
on  account  of  ill-health,  and  the  doctor  being,  comparatively  speak- 
ing, a  new-comer  also,  a  young  man  just  commencing  the  prac- 
tice of  his  profession. 

Dr.  Kelly,  the  priest,  who  was  walking  some  yards  in  front  of 
the  other,  stopped  suddenly  before  one  of  the  small,  mean-looking 
houses  that  lined  the  alley,  to  speak  to  a  sallow  woman  standing 
in  an  open  door.  After  exchanging  a  few  words  with  her  he  was 
about  to  continue  on  his  way  when  she  exclaimed,  as  the  young 
physician  approached  : 

"  Here's  the  doctor  now  that  'tends  him.  He  can  tell  you, 
father." 

The  father  glanced  round,  and,  lifting  his  hat,  bowed  courte- 
ously as  he  said : 

"  Dr.  Ferrison,  I  believe  ?  " 

"  That  is  my  name,"  answered  the  young  man,  bowing  in  re- 
turn. 

"  Will  you,  sir,  allow  me  to  ask  you  a  question  about  one  of 
your  patients?" 

"Certainly,"  was  the  ready  reply,  as  the  speaker  drew  a  step 
nearer  his  interlocutor  and  paused. 

"  This  good  woman  tells  me  that  Mahoney,  who  lives  next- 
door  here,  has  taken  a  turn  for  the  worse  since  I  saw  him  this 
morning.  I  wish  to  know  if  he  is  in  danger  of  death." 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  myself  since  this  morning,"  answered 
the  doctor,  a  look  of  concern  coming  over  his  face.  "  He  was 
not  then  in  danger — that  is,  immediate  danger — though  a  very 
sick  man.  But  if  there  has  been  a  change  I  shall  have  to  see  what 
it  is  before  I  can  give  you  an  opinion." 

They  walked  on  together  to  the  next   house,  and,  passing 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  609 

through  a  small  outer  room,  entered  another  where  the  sick  man 
lay.  It  was  a  poor  place,  but  clean,  and  the  bed  looked  comfort- 
able. The  wasted  figure  upon  it  was  moving  very  restlessly,  his 
hands  and  feet  not  being  still  an  instant,  though  he  was  evidently 
too  weak  to  toss  his  body  about.  He  had  typhoid  fever,  and  by 
the  illness  of  a  month  was  reduced  from  a  robust  man  to  an 
emaciated  frame  pitiable  to  see.  The  pinched,  unshaven  face  was 
colorless,  but  the  languid  eye  had  still  a  fever  lustre  in  it  that 
brightened  almost  to  a  flash  when  its  wandering  glance  fell  on  the 
doctor;  and  a  faint  attempt  to  smile  curved  the  parched  mouth 
as  the  priest  advanced  and  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  Glad  I  am  to  see  you,  father,"  he  said  ;  then,  looking  up  as 
the  doctor  touched  his  wrist,  he  added  plaintively  :  "  An'  sure  I'm 
afraid  me  time's  come,  doctor !  " 

"  The  crisis  of  your  fever's  come,"  answered  the  latter.  "  Come 
a  little  sooner  than  I  expected.  And  I'm  afraid  you  haven't  been 
following  my  directions  properly.  Did  you  take  your  medicine 
regularly — a  spoonful  every  hour?  " 

"  I  did,"  said  the  man  in  a  weak  voice.  "  Mary  there  '11  tell 
you  so." 

"  Yes,  doctor,  he  tuk  it  sure,  an'  ivery  drop,  too,"  cried  a 
woman's  voice  in  a  quick,  eager  tone,  as  the  speaker  advanced 
from  behind  the  head  of  the  bed,  which,  for  the  sake  of  air,  had 
been  drawn  into  the  middle  of  the  floor.  She  stopped,  facing 
the  doctor,  and  stood  in  an  unconsciously  dramatic  attitude, 
her  thin  hands  grasping  each  other  tightly,  her  straight,  black 
brows  drawn  together,  her  eyes  looking  out  from  under  their 
shadow  with  a  strained  gaze  of  agonized  inquiry  from  one  to 
the  other  of  the  three  men  before  her — the  poor  writhing  form 
on  the  bed,  the  grave  face  of  the  physician,  who  stood,  watch  in 
hand,  counting  the  fearfully  rapid  but  weak  pulse,  and  the  benign 
but  sad  countenance  of  the  priest. 

Small  comfort  did  she  derive  from  the  scrutiny.  Her  face, 
haggard  from  watching  and  anxiety,  twitched  convulsively,  and 
once  her  lips  unclosed  as  if  to  utter  a  passionate  wail ;  but  she 
restrained  herself  bravely,  and  there  was  a  moment's  silence, 
broken  at  last  by  the  feeble  tones  of  the  sick  man. 

"  Father,  you'll  give  me  the  rites?"  he  said,  looking,  with  a 
pitiful  quiver  of  a  smile,  at  the  priest. 

"Yes,  my  son,"  responded  the  latter.     "  I  will  anoint  you  at 
once ;  and  if  the  doctor  thinks  then  that  your  condition  requires 
it,  I  will  return  home  for  the  Blessed  Sacrament.     I  have  my  oil- 
stocks  but  not  the  pyx  with  me." 
VOL.  XLII.— 39 


6 io  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

He  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  woman,  who  was  staring-  vacantly 
before  her  with  an  expression  of  dumb  despair,  and  directed  her 
to  make  the  necessary  preparations  for  the  administration  of  the 
sacrament;  and  when  she  had  set  a  small  table  beside  the  bed 
and  covered  it  with  a  clean  white  cloth,  he  took  from  his  pocket 
a  morocco  case  containing  his  stocks,  asked  for  holy  water,  and, 
having  completed  his  arrangements,  proceeded  with  the  holy  rite. 

The  doctor,  meanwhile,  had  gone  into  the  outer  room  and 
been  engaged  in  mixing  and  portioning  out  some  medicine  for  his 
patient.  Seated  before  the  only  window  the  apartment  could 
boast,  and  leaning  over  a  chair  that  he  had  taken  for  a  table  upon 
which  to  work,  he  did  not  observe  what  was  going  on  around, 
and  was  surprised,  on  returning  to  the  sick-chamber  presently,  at 
the  scene  which  met  his  sight.  The  priest  was  anointing  the 
feet  of  the  sick  man,  who  lay  perfectly  quiet  now.  His  hands, 
clasped  upon  his  breast,  held  a  crucifix,  his  eyes  were  closed,  and 
there  was  an  expression  of  peaceful  resignation  on  the  skeleton- 
like  face.  Back  towards  the  wall,  as  far  from  the  bed  as  the  lim- 
ited space  of  the  room  permitted,  a  rough-looking  man  and  two 
women  were  kneeling — neighbors  who  had  gathered  in.  They 
were  saying  the  Litany  of  Loretto  in  a  low  tone — one  leading, 
the  others  responding — and  the  poor  wife  knelt  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bed,  praying  too,  but  silently.  Her  face,  which  was  almost 
as  fleshless  and  wan  as  that  of  her  husband,  wore  a  singular  look 
of  mingled  anguish  and  hope,  as  her  eyes  followed  greedily  every 
motion  of  the  priest. 

Dr.  Ferrison,  taking  in  at  a  glance  all  these  details  as  he  was 
about  to  enter,  paused  on  the  threshold,  leant  his  shoulder  against 
the  side  of  the  door,  and  looked  curiously  at  what  was  to  him  a 
strange  spectacle.  He  was  aware  that  a  Catholic  when  dangerous- 
ly ill  called  for  a  priest,  who  performed  certain  religious  services 
at  the  bedside ;  but  he  had  never  happened  to  be  present  before 
on  an  occasion  of  the  kind.  He  had  taken  good -care,  indeed,  not 
to  be  present  on  such  occasions,  regarding  these  ceremonies  as  the 
superstitious  observances  of  one  of  the  effete  creeds  of  the  world  ; 
for,  like  most  non-Catholic  men  of  his  day  and  generation,  he  was 
a  materialist  in  opinion.  Since  it  now  came  in  his  way,  however, 
he  was  not  averse  to  studying  this  new  phase  of  human  nature 
which  he  had  stumbled  upon,  and  felt  interested  in  observing  the 
effect  already  produced  by  the  reception  of  the  sacrament  in 
stilling  the  fevered  restlessness  of  the  sick  man,  being  the  more 
struck  by  this  result  from  the  fact  that  several  similar  cases  had 
come  under  his  notice — sudden  changes  in  the  condition  of  the 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  611 

sick,  which  changes  had  been  ascribed  by  their  friends  to  the  hav- 
ing "  received  the  rites."  Heretofore  he  had  attributed  this  effect 
to  the  force  of  imagination  acting  together  with  the  strong  ten- 
dency of  all  illiterate  minds  to  religious  superstition.  But  while 
waiting  now  until  the  prayers  were  concluded  there  dawned  sud- 
denly on  his  mind  a  sense  of  doubt  whether  he  had  more  reason 
for  his  belief  in  negation  than  these  people,  evidently  so  earnest 
and  sincere,  had  for  their  faith  in  a  personal  God.  It  was  the 
priest  more  than  the  people  who  excited  his  attention,  however. 
The  contrast  between  the  man  and  his  surroundings  was  very 
striking.  Father  Kelly's  face,  seen  anywhere,  must  have  impress- 
ed an  observer  as  both  handsome  and  distinguished-looking  ;  but 
kneeling,  robed  in  his  lace  surplice  and  violet  stole,  in  this  home 
of  poverty,  the  incongruity  of  such  a  presence  in  such  a  place 
was,  to  one  not  a  Catholic,  something  to  marvel  at.  He  looked 
as  if  he  had  been  taken  from  what  was  his  appropriate  place,  a 
cathedral  sanctuary,  or  like  a  figure  from  an  altar-piece,  Dr.  Fer- 
rison  thought,  and  gazed  with  thoroughly  assthetic  appreciation 
at  his  fine  head,  graceful  attitude,  and  most  impressive  manner. 
The  young  man,  during  a  residence  of  some  years  in  Paris  while 
studying  his  profession,  had  sometimes,  for  the  sake  of  the  spec- 
tacle and  the  music,  gone  to  church.  The  blaze  of  lights  and  flash 
of  jewels  on  the  altars  of  Notre  Dame  and  the  Madeleine,  the  rich 
robes  and  picturesque  grouping  of  figures  in  the  holy  ceremonies, 
the  clouds  of  incense  and  the  music,  were  all  very  attractive  to 
him.  And  so,  too,  was  the  fine  oratory  of  many  of  the  preachers. 
Listening  to  these  orators,  he  did  not  greatly  wonder  that  there 
should  be  men  ready  to  adopt  a  profession  which  gave  them  the 
intellectual  eminence  and  spiritual  power  etfjoyed  by  the  pre- 
lates of  the  church.  Even  the  sight  of  the  priests  whom  he  met 
in  the  hospitals  had  never  moved  either  his  surprise  or  admira- 
tion, partly,  perhaps,  because  he  had  given  little  thought  to 
them  or  their  work,  and  partly  because  he  tacitly  classed  them, 
with  the  subordinate  employees  of  the  civil  government,  as  offi- 
cials who  had  duties,  and  salaries  for  performing  these  duties — 
the  church  there  being  a  state  machine,  which  the  present  rulers 
of  the  state  had  not  yet  been  able  to  get  rid  of,  notwithstanding 
their  good- will  and  zealous  endeavors  to  that  end. 

But  the  priest  before  him  he  regarded  with  different  senti- 
ments. He  knew  that  neither  fame,  power,  nor  yet  riches  could 
be  the  motive  influencing  this  man  to  the  self-devotion  of  which 
he  had  been  the  witness  for  two  days  past.  For  himself,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  personal  motive  in  his  own  labor.  He  could 


612  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

scarcely  feel  that,  valuable  as  his  services  were  to  these  poor 
people  (to  whom  he  gave  them  gratuitously),  he  was  so  much 
conferring  a  favor  as  exchanging  benefits,  the  knowledge  and 
experience  which  he  was  acquiring  more  than  offsetting  the 
work  he  was  doing.  But  what  possible  advantage  could  the 
priest  gain  by  labor  in  such  a  field  as  this? 

Of  course  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  think  of  spiritual  gain  in 
the  matter. 

His  thoughts  were  so  plainly  expressed  in  his  countenance 
when  Father  Kelly,  after  concluding  the  services,  turned  from 
the  bedside,  and,  while  taking  off  his  surplice,  accidentally  glanced 
toward  him  and  caught  his  eye,  that  the  good  father  was  much 
amused,  and  smiled  to  himself  as  he  gave  his  surplice  and  stole  to 
one  of  the  women  who  had  been  kneeling  in  the  corner,  saying : 

"  Take  care  of  them,  Kitty.  I  am  going  now  for  the  Blessed 
Sacrament,  and  will  be  back  as  soon  as  possible.  In  about  an  hour 
and  a  half,"  looking  at  his  watch,  "you  may  expect  me." 

Then  he  walked  toward  the  door,  but  suddenly  paused  and 
looked  back  at  the  doctor,  who  was  examining  his  patient.  The 
man  lay  motionless  and  limp,  with  more  the  appearance  of  death 
than  life,  so  extreme  was  the  pallor  of  both  face  and  hands.  He 
opened  his  mouth  when  requested  to  do  so,  but  his  eyelids  did 
not  lift  until  the  doctor  said  in  a  somewhat  hushed  tone  : 

"  How  do  you  feel  now  ?  " 

"  Aisy,  glory  be  to  God  !  "  he  answered  in  a  faint  voice,  look- 
ing up  ;  "  but — I'm  very  weak — " 

So  weak,  obviously,  that  his  voice  failed.  But  his  eyes,  from 
which  the  fire  of  fever  had  now  died  out,  fixed  for  an  instant 
wistfully  on  the  doctor's  face,  and  then  travelled  slowly  to  that 
of  the  priest. 

"If  I'm  going,"  he  murmured,  "  I'd  like  to  know." 

"  Tell  him  the  truth,  doctor,"  said  the  priest.  "  He  is  able  to 
bear  it.  Is  he  dying?" 

"  He  is  not  dying  now — that  is,  he  is  not  in  articulo  mortis  ; 
but  he  is  in  a  critical  condition.  The  chances  of  life  and  death 
are  about  equal  at  present,  I  should  say.  If  there  is  a  favorable 
change  within  the  next  twelve  hours  he  will  get  well,  I  think." 
The  speaker  hesitated  a  moment  and  his  voice  sank  a  little  as  he 
concluded  :  "  Without  a  change  there  is  not  much  hope." 

"  God's  will  be  done !  "  said  the  poor  fellow  in  a  whisper, 
turning  a  glance,  half-pitying,  half-apprehensive,  on  his  wife,  who 
stood  near. 

She  saw  and  understood  the  look,  and,  starting  forward,  cried, 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  613 

in  a  voice  so  cheerful  and  hopeful  that  both  the  "priest  and  the 
doctor  were  surprised  :  "  Keep  up  heart,  Mike,  my  man,  and  don't 
fear  for  me.  Shure  the  doctor  says  there's  a  chance  yit  for  ye  ; 
and  the  father  said  a  Mass  for  ye  the  mornin',  and  the  Blessed 
Virgin  is  praying-  with  all  her  might  for  ye  this  minute,  I  feel. 
Cheer  up  and  trust  in  God !  " 

The  doctor  smiled  on  the  woman  as  he  beckoned  her  to  him. 
"  That's  right — keep  up  his  spirits,"  he  said.  "  Here  is  his  medi- 
cine. Be  careful  that  he  takes  it  exactly  according  to  these  di- 
rections. Can  you  read  writing?" 

"I  can,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  have  written  down  the  directions,  so  that  there  can 
be  no  mistake.  I  will  read  them  over  to  you."  He  did  so. 
"  Remember  that  the  least  forgetfulness  or  neglect — " 

"  Never  fear,  doctor,"  interposed  she  eagerly  ;  "  I  understand." 

"  That  is  all,  then.  I'll  call  again  when  my  round  in  this  part 
of  the  town  is  over." 

This  part  of  the  town  consisted  exclusively  of  the  dwellings 
of  the  poor,  which  were  crowded  together  on  a  low  flat  of 
ground  bordering  a  rather  sluggish  river.  It  had  been  a  wet 
season — excessive  rains  alternating  with  great  heat — and  atten- 
tion to  sanitary  regulations  had  not  been  as  strictly  enforced  as 
prudence  required.  The  inevitable  result  of  such  neglect  follow- 
ed :  diphtheria  and  typhus  fever  both  made  their  appearance — 
the  first  attacking  children,  the  last  able-bodied  men  principally. 
Among  a  small  colony  of  Irish  railroad  laborers  Mike  Mahoney, 
the  man  whose  bedside  the  doctor  had  just  left,  was  the  first  vic- 
tim, though  others  soon  followed ;  and  Dr.  Ferrison's  round  con- 
sumed so  much  time  this  afternoon  that  the  sun  was  setting 
when  he  emerged  from  the  last  house  in  which  he  had  a  patient. 
The  street  here  ran  parallel  with  the  river,  and  he  paused  a  mo- 
ment to  look  down  the  stream  at  the  blazing  western  sky,  which 
was  pouring  a  flood  of  radiance  along  the  water  and  touching 
with  gold  every  object  the  level  rays  could  reach.  It  was  with 
a  little  sense  of  regret  that  he  turned  his  back,  after  a  lingering 
gaze,  and,  walking  a  short  distance  further,  came  to  the  entrance 
of  the  alley  in  which  Mahoney  lived.  It  crossed  the  street  at 
right  angles,  and  consequently  was  now  in  shade,  the  solid  wall 
of  houses  that  interposed  between  it  and  the  glowing  west  shut- 
ting off  every  glint  of  the  golden  glory  burning  there. 

The  young  man  closed  his  umbrella  and  removed  his  hat  from 
his  flushed  brow  as  he  entered  the  alley,  slackening  his  steps  at 
the  same  time.  But  before  he  had  proceeded  far  he  resumed  a 


6 14  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

quicker  pace,  and  there  was  a  slight  movement  of  his  nostrils  in- 
dicating- that  the  atmosphere  was  not  quite  that  of  a  hay-field ; 
for,  while  there  was  no  positive  ill-odor  in  the  air,  unless  the  dis- 
infectants which  were  very  perceptible  to  the  sense  might  be  so 
considered,  a  close,  earthy  smell  pervaded  the  place. 

As  he  approached  the  house  to  which  he  was  going  the  priest 
came  out  of  it  and  stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

"  You  will  find  your  patient  better,  doctor,"  he  said,  with  a 
genial  smile,  as  he  returned  the  young  man's  salutation. 

"  Ah  ?  "  said  the  latter.  "  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  When  I  left 
him  two  hours  ago  I  apprehended  the  approach  of  coma." 

He  passed  on  into  the  house,  and,  after  remaining  a  few  min- 
utes, reappeared. 

"  There  is  a  marked  improvement  in  his  condition,"  he  said 
cheerfully  to  the  priest,  who  had  awaited  his  return.  "  I  hope  the 
poor  fellow  may  recover,  though  he  is  not  out  of  danger  yet. 
All  the  symptoms  are  favorable  now,  however." 

"  I  think  he  will  recover,"  said  Father  Kelly.  "  I  see — this 
is  your  direction,  I  believe?"  and,  the  other  assenting,  he  con- 
tinued his  sentence  as  they  walked  on  together.  "  It  comes  in 
the  way  of  my  profession  to  see  so  much  of  dangerous  illness 
that  it  is  rarely  a  priest  is  at  fault  in  his  judgment  of  disease — 
though,"  he  added,  "  we  always  defer  to  the  superior  knowledge 
of  our  medical  brethren.  And  this  reminds  me  to  inquire  about 
several  of  my  people  whom  you  are  attending."  He  named  half 
a  dozen  or  more.  "  None  of  them  are  likely  to  need  the  sacra- 
ments before  to-morrow  morning,  I  suppose?  I  mean  no  one  ot 
them  is  desperately  ill?" 

"  Several  of  them  are  desperately  ill — or,  rather,  will  be  so 
before  the  fever  has  run  its  course,"  responded  the  doctor ;  "  but 
none  are  in  danger  of  sudden  death,  which,  I  presume,  is  what 
you  are  thinking  of?" 

"  Yes.  Thank  you  for  the  information.  It  relieves  my  mind. 
I  saw  most  of  them  this  morning,  and  did  not  regard  them  as 
in  immediate  danger;  but  I  am  always  uneasy  about  a  typhoid 
case,  the  malady  being  so  deceptive.  And  this  fever,  it  seems  to 
me,  is  rather  virulent  in  form,  is  it  not?  " 

"  Decidedly  so.  And  very  contagious,"  added  the  speaker 
with  lurking  malice,  shooting  a  quick  glance  at  the  face  of  his 
companion,  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words. 

That  face  looked  serious ;  but  if  the  young  physician  had  ex- 
pected to  excite  any  personal  alarm  in  the  mind  of  the  priest, 
and  supposed  for  an  instant  that  he  had  succeeded  in  his  object, 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  615 

the  next  remark  of  the  latter  disabused  him  of  such  a  suspi- 
cion. 

"  I  have  been  trying  to  devise  some  plan,"  the  father  said, 
"  for  the  removal  of  the  children,  at  least  of  these  poor  people, 
from  the  danger  of  contagion  to  which  they  are  exposed,  but 
have  been  unable  as  yet  to  make  arrangements  for  the  purpose. 
If  the  municipal  authorities  were  wise  they  would  lose  no  time 
in  establishing  a  hospital  and  a  camp  in  healthy  situations  a 
short  distance  from  the  town,  and  removing  both  sick  and  well 
from  the  pestilential  locality  we  have  just  left.  In  my  opinion 
the  fever  was  not  brought  from  elsewhere  and  communicated  by 
infection,  as  is  alleged  ;  I  believe  that  it  originated  on  the  spot." 

"  Without  question  it  did,"  answered  Dr.  Ferrison.  "  But 
the  other  theory  is  a  convenient  and  economical  one — economi- 
cal for  the  present,  that  is.  It  will  prove  very  expensive  eventu- 
ally, these  dolts  that  make  up  the  corporation  will  find ;  for  if 
matters  go  on  as  at  present  much  longer,  the  county  will  have,  at 
the  lowest  estimate,  some  scores  of  paupers  to  take  care  of  dur- 
ing the  winter." 

"And  is  not  there  danger  of  the  disease  becoming  epidemic?" 

"  Such  a  thing  is  not  impossible,  but  not  very  probable,"  the 
doctor  replied.  "  With  the  exception  of  those  back  streets  lying 
along  the  river — slums  they  might  almost  be  called — the  sanitary 
status  of  the  town  is  not  bad.  The  air  we  are  breathing,  for  in- 
stance"—  they  had  just  left  the  streets  in  question — uis  pure 
enough  ;  and  there  is  no  danger  of  the  spread  of  the  fever  by 
contagion,  as  nobody  but  the  inhabitants  of  the  place  ever  go 
into  it — except  yourself." 

"  And  yourself,  and  your  brother-physicians,"  said  the  other. 

"  Men  of  my  profession  are  fever-proof,  as  a  rule ;  and  since 
we  are  necessitated  to  be  in  constant  contact  with  disease  in  all 
its  forms,  each  one  has  to  take  the  risk  of  making  the  rare  excep- 
tion. But — if  you  will  excuse  me,  sir,  for  telling  you  so — I  have 
thought  several  times  during  the  last  day  or  two  that  you  are 
committing  a  great  imprudence  in  venturing  into  and  spending 
so  much  time  as  you  do  in  that  infected  atmosphere.  I  am  glad 
of  an  opportunity  to  speak  to  you  on  the  subject.  You  are  in- 
curring great  danger,  I  assure  you." 

"  Thank  you  for  the  warning,"  said  the  priest  in  a  cordial 
tone,  "  though  you  must  not  be  surprised  at  my  disregarding  it. 
What  you  have  said  of  your  profession  applies  equally  to  my 
own.  We  priests — " 

"  Father  Brian !  "  a  voice  called  to  him  from  behind  at  this 


616  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

instant,  and  a  gentleman  hastened  up,  saying  as  be  advanced :  "  I 
have  been  looking  for  you  for  the  last  two  hours,  Father — " 

"  In  a  moment,"  said  the  priest,  with  a  slight  motion  of  apo- 
logy ;  "  I  will  speak  to  you  in  a  moment,  Mr.  Ashby."  And  he 
turned  to  his  late  companion — who,  bowing  silently,  was  about 
to  walk  away — extended  his  hand  and  shook  warmly  the  one 
placed  in  it.  "  I  am  very  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance, 
Dr.  Ferrison,"  he  said.  "  As  we  are  fellow-workers,  I  hope  to 
see  you  soon  again." 

During  the  following  three  months  the  priest  and  the  phy- 
sician became  good  friends  and  faithful  comrades  in  the  work 
of  charity  to  which  they  were  both  devoted.  Fellow-workers 
they  were,  indeed,  through  many  weary  days  and  nights,  and 
beside  many  beds  of  sickness  and  of  death.  For  Death  reaped 
his  harvest,  though  not  a  large  one.  Altonboro'  itself,  of  which 
this  little  pied  de  terre,  now  the  scene  of  so  much  suffering  and 
sorrow,  was  a  suburb,  was  not  a  very  large  town,  and  the  popu- 
lation of  the  fever-infected  district  did  not  number,  probably, 
more  than  five  hundred  souls.  Nevertheless,  in  consequence  of 
its  lingering  character,  the  sickness  found  ample  material  all 
through  the  months  of  July,  August,  and  September.  In  every 
house,  almost,  at  least  one,  and  often  more  than  one,  of  the  in- 
mates was  ill;  and  the  disease  seldom  ran  its  course  in  less  than 
a  month,  while  in  violent  cases  it  lasted  double  that  length  of 
time. 

That  the  rate  of  mortality  was  comparatively  small  was  at- 
tributable in  a  great  degree  to  the  example  and  energetic  effort 
of  the  priest,  Dr.  Kelly — or  Father  Brian,  as  he  was  familiarly 
called  by  his  people.  As  he  had  remarked  to  Dr.  Ferrison  the 
day  they  first  met,  the  most  effectual  way  to  arrest  the  progress 
of  the  disease  was,  he  thought,  to  remove  as  many  people  as 
possible  from  the  crowded  and  unhealthy  locale  of  the  river-side. 
He  suggested  to  the  mayor  that  by  prompt  action  in  this  direc- 
tion the  threatened  mischief  might  be  averted;  but  that  func- 
tionary was,  in  the  first  place,  of  the  sluggish  nature  which  is  in- 
capable of  promptitude  either  in  thought  or  action ;  and,  sec- 
ondly, he  was  a  man  of  narrow  prejudices,  well-intentioned  but 
ignorant,  who  did  not  care  to  adopt  the  suggestion,  however  sen- 
sible it  might  be,  of  a  Roman  Catholic  priest.  Seeing  this, 
Father  Brian  proceeded  to  take  what  measures  he  could  for 
the  safety  of  those  of  his  own  people  who  lived  in  the  river  sub- 
urb. But  he  had  difficulties  to  encounter  here,  too — or,  more 


i886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  617 

properly  speaking,  a  difficulty :  the  want  of  pecuniary  means. 
He  was  not  to  be  daunted  in  his  resolve,  however.  He  appealed 
to  his  congregation  in  Altonboro',  which  was  few  in  numbers, 
and,  with  two  or  three  exceptions,  all  humble  people  of  limited 
means;  he  wrote  to  his  bishop  and  to  friends  elsewhere,  and 
in  each  case  there  was  a  generous  response  to  his  call  for 
help.  One  of  his  parishioners  gave  him  the  use  of  a  site  for  his 
proposed  camp  of  refuge,  another  furnished  a  large  bill  of  rough 
lumber,  and  the  rest  contributed  money,  food,  cooking-utensils, 
and  bed-clothing  to  the  extent  of  their  ability.  The  bishop  sent 
a  check  and  his  blessing ;  others  sent  checks  and  good  wishes  ; 
and  so  he  had  the  happiness,  in  less  than  two  weeks  after  he 
came  to  Altonboro',  to  see  his  charitable  enterprise  fairly 
afloat. 

He  began  on  a  small  scale,  preparing  accommodation  at  first 
only  for  the  little  ones  of  his  own  people — eight  or  ten  Irish 
families;  but  the  sight  and  thought  of  the  children  of  the  equally 
poor  people,  their  neighbors,  distressed  him  greatly,  and  he  de- 
cided that  he  could  afford  to  take  a  few  of  these  children, 
and  began  considering  how  best  to  approach  the  parents  on 
the  subject.  Being  Protestants,  he  feared  they  would  distrust 
his  motives  and  suspect  him  of  proselytizing  designs.  He  was 
hesitating  what  to  do,  and  had  just  made  up  his  mind  that  he 
would  speak  to  the  several  physicians  whom  he  met  daily  in 
their  rounds  of  duty,  and  request  them  to  negotiate  the  affair, 
when  one  of  the  small  individuals  in  question  smoothed  the  way 
for  him.  This  child  had  been  accustomed  to  seeing  and  being 
noticed  by  the  priest  while  playing  with  his  little  Irish  com- 
panions, and  he  crept  up  to  the  father,  half-shyly,  half-boldly,  on 
the  day  after  the  last  batch  of  Catholic  children  had  been  taken 
away,  evidently  expecting  a  greeting. 

"  Well,  Johnny,"  said  the  priest  kindly,  "  how  are  you  com- 
ing on?  The  fever  hasn't  caught  you  yet,  I  see." 

"  No,  sir,  but  it's  cotched  Tommy  and  Caddy,"  answered  the 
child  promptly. 

"Ah!  I'm  sorry  to  hear  that." 

"  And  mother  says  she  knows  me  and  Liz  '11  be  the  next," 
pursued  Johnny  in  a  doleful  tone.  Then,  lifting  his  eyes  to 
the  face  that  was  looking  down  at  him,  and  reading  aright 
its  expression  of  regret  and  pity,  he  plucked  up  courage  to 
say  diffidently : 

"Father  Brian,  won't  you  take  me  to  the  Riffuge?" 

"  Willingly,  my  little  man,"  was  the  reply.     "  It  would  be  a 


6i8  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

pity  for  such  a  sturdy  fellow  as  you  to  take  the  fever.  I'll 
carry  you  out  with  me  this  morning,  if  your  mother  will  let 
you  go." 

"I'll  ask  her — I'll  ask  her!"  cried  the  boy  eagerly,  running 
off  as  fast  as  his  legs  could  carry  him. 

The  priest  followed  slowly,  resolved  to  seize  the  opportunity 
thus  providentially,  it  seemed  to  him,  offered  for  the  furtherance 
of  his  design,  but  very  doubtful  how  he  might  be  received  by 
the  boy's  mother,  who  had  the  character  among  her  Catho- 
lic neighbors  of  being  particularly  ill-natured  and  prejudiced 
against  the  church.  To  his  surprise  his  proposal  was  at  once 
gratefully  accepted.  The  poor  woman,  having,  as  she  said,  her 
hands  full  already  with  two  sick  children,  was  more  than  glad 
to  guard  against  the  risk  of  having  two  additional  cases  of  ill- 
ness, by  sending  Johnny  and  his  little  sister  to  a  place  of  safety. 
And,  the  ice  thus  broken,  plenty  of  candidates  presented  them- 
selves, or  rather  were  presented  by  their  parents,  for  admission 
to  his  camp  of  refuge.  Day  by  day  its  numbers  were  increased, 
until  more  than  a  hundred  pairs  of  little  eyes  and  hungry  little 
mouths  watched  eagerly  every  morning  for  his  appearance  with 
their  daily  rations. 


•II. 

It  was  not  until  after  the  establishment  was  in  good  work- 
ing order  that  Dr.  Ferrison  found  time  to  pay  a  visit  to  the 
place.  Though  but  recently  settled  in  Altonboro',  on  the  com- 
pletion of  his  medical  studies,  he  had  already  gained  conside- 
rable reputation  and  practice  ;  and  when  to  his  regular  profes- 
sional business  was  added  the  gratuitous  practice  he  was  now 
doing  in  the  fever  district,  as  it  began  to  be  called,  he  had  few 
spare  minutes  in  the  twenty-four  hours.  It  was  with  some  re- 
luctance, therefore,  that  he  consented  one  morning  to  place 
himself  beside  Father  Brian  on  the  front  seat  of  the  homely 
vehicle  the  priest  had  lately  set  up  for  the  convenience  of  con- 
veying supplies  to  his  colony  (which  was  situated  two  or  three 
miles  from  the  town — too  far  to  be  easily  accessible  on  foot), 
and,  as  Father  Brian  expressed  it,  take  a  breath  of  country  air 
and  a  look  at  the  Refuge. 

"Don't  grudge  yourself  an  hour  or  two  of  rest,"  said  the 
father,  seeing  the  doctor  glance  at  his  watch  a  little  uneasily 
as  they  went  bowling  along  a  beautiful,  shady  country  road, 
which  was  so  narrow  that  the  boughs  of  the  pine  forest  through 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  619 

which  their  route  lay  met  overhead  and  shut  out  the  blinding 
and  sickening  rays  of  the  sun.  "  You  need  it.  You  are  over- 
working yourself." 

The  young  man  laughed  slightly.  "  That  accusation  from 
you  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  very  homely  old  proverb,"  he  said. 
"  If  I  am  the  kettle,  you  most  emphatically  are  the  pot.  You 
cannot  deny  that  you  work  harder  than  I  do,  and  without  the 
same  necessity." 

"  I  do  deny  it;  I  deny  both  counts.  Considering  our  respec- 
tive ages,  I  do  not  work  so  hard  as  you  do,"  replied  the  priest. 
"  And  the  necessity  in  my  case  is  not  less  than  that  in  your 
own.  Proverb  for  proverb  :  Prevention  is  better  than  cure." 

"Granted,"  said  the  doctor — "the  truth  of  the  proverb,  I 
mean.  But  I  was  thinking  less  of  your  work  here  about  these 
children  than  of  the  manner  in  which  you  haunt  that  infected 
purlieu  which  nobody  ought  to  enter  unnecessarily  ;  and  the 
recklessness — pardon  the  word — with  which  you  expose  your- 
self to  contagion  by  touching,  and  putting  yourself  in  such  close 
contact  with,  these  fever-patients,  as  I  see  you  every  day  doing." 

"  It  is  not  recklessness  but  duty  which  moves  me  in  the  mat- 
ter," answered  the  priest  seriously.  "  You  touch  them  and  in- 
hale their  breath  while  examining  their  pulses  and  tongues  in 
your  ministrations  as  a  physician ;  I  do  the  same  in  the  per- 
formance of  my  functions  as  a  priest.'' 

"But—" 

"  Speak  frankly,"  said  Father  Brian,  as  the  speaker  checked 
himself,  evidently,  in  what  he  was  about  to  say. 

The  latter  complied  with  the  request,  changing,  however, 
the  drift  of  his  intended  remark.  "  You  said  a  moment  ago  that, 
*  considering  our  respective  ages,'  you  do  not  work  harder  than 
I  do.  What  has  a  slight  difference  of  age  to  do  with  the  ques- 
tion, may  I  ask?" 

"  The  difference  is  not  slight  between  your  age  and  mine," 
was  the  reply.  "  It  is  fifteen  years  at  least,  I  should  say  from 
your  appearance." 

"  Scarcely  so  much  as  that,  I  imagine,"  said  the  doctor  a  little 
quickly. 

"I  am  thirty-eight,"  said  the  priest,  "and  I  judge  you  to  be 
about  twenty-three." 

"  You  certainly  are  a  very  close  and  accurate  observer,"  the 
other  admitted.  "  That  is  nearly  my  age.  I  was  twenty-four  a 
few  days  ago.  But  why  should  not  a  man  of  twenty-three  or 
lour  be  able  to  incur  as  much  labor  arid  fatigue  as  one  older?" 


620  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

"  You  are  a  young  physician  as  well  as  a  young  man,  or  you 
would  not  ask  that  question,"  responded  the  priest.  "  Why  is 
not  that  sapling  " — he  pointed  with  his  whip  to  a  young  elm — 
"as  large  and  as  stout  as  that  tree?  "  indicating  a  young  oak  of 
older  growth. 

"Ah!  father,  I  am  afraid  there  is  malice  in  that  illustration." 
cried  the  young  man,  with  a  boyish  laugh.  "  You  would  insin- 
uate that  there  is  a  difference  of  character  as  well  as  age  in  the 
two  types." 

"  No ;  I  did  not  mean  that,"  answered  the  other,  laughing 
too,  and  looking  pleased ;  for  it  was  the  first  time  that  the  doctor 
had  called  him  by  the  name  he  loved  best  to  hear.  "  Not  at  all, 
I  assure  you.  I  only  mean  that  there  are  degrees  of  strength 
corresponding  with  degrees  of  maturity.  You  acknowledge 
that?" 

"  Of  course." 

"  At  twenty-one,  more  or  less,  a  man  is  mature — that  is,  he 
has  attained  to  the  full  development  of  his  physical  organization : 
ail  is  there  that  is  to  be  there ;  the  machine  of  his  body  is  com- 
plete in  all  its  parts.  But  the  material  of  which  this  machine  is 
'composed  is  still  too  soft  and  flexile  to  be  able  to  support  with 
impunity  the  same  amount  of  labor  and  fatigue  which  it  can  en- 
dure with  ease  after  it  has  been  hardened  by  ten  or  fifteen  years' 
efterci'se  of  nerve  and  muscle.  Is  not  this  self-evident  ?  " 

"  Y-es,  in  a  degree,  but  with  a  qualification.  In  fact,  I  must 
make  two  qualifications.  First,  there  is  a  fire  and  elasticity  in 
early  youth  which  evaporates  during  the  hardening  process  of 
which  you  speak  ;  and,  secondly,  there  are  great  differences  in 
the  individual  man — as  marked  differences  as  there  are  between 
the  elm  and  the  oak.  To  return,  then,  to  the  personal  question, 
I  claim  in  right  of  my  twenty-three  years  an  exuberant  and  un- 
tiring vitality  which  your  additional  fifteen  years  have  taken 
away  from  you,  and  for  my  physical  man  a  character  of  fibre  and 
temperament  that  give  me  unlimited  power  of  endurance." 

The  quiet,  argumentative  tone  of  the  speaker  took  away  from 
his  words  any  appearance  of  boasting  and  vanity  which  other- 
wise they  might  have  seemed  to  express.  He  stated  what  he 
held  to  be  a  plain  fact,  in  plain  terms,  and  the  priest  did  not  mis- 
understand him,  but  answered,  with  a  glint  of  humor  in  his  eye  : 

"  That  is,  you  think  you  can  stand  the  strain  of  work  better 
than  I  can." 

"  Not  better,  but  as  well,"  was  the  candid  reply.  "  You  have 
a  splendid  physique  ;  there  is  no  fear  of  your  being  hurt  by  any 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  621 

amount  of  work.  But  there  is  very  great  danger  of  your  con- 
tracting the  fever ;  and  since  you  will  brave  it  so  rashly,  I  should 
like  to  suggest  a  few  precautions  that  would  somewhat  lessen 
the  risk  you  run,  if  you  will  permit  me." 

"  Certainly.  I  shall  be  much  obliged  to  you,  and  will  follow 
your  advice  if  possible." 

"  My  first  recommendation,  then,  is  that  you  exchange  your 
heavy  black  dress  for  a  light  linen  suit  or  white  flannel,  and  I 
would  earnestly  advise  you  not  to  go  into  that  pestilential  air 
when  overheated  or  when  fasting.  On  Sunday  I  heard  one 
woman  say  to  another  who  was  waiting  to  waylay  you  as  you 
came  out  of  the  house  where  Conolly  was  dying :  '  Don't  stop 
Father  Brian  now!  Shure  he's  just  from  the  altar  an'  fastin'.' 
And  that,"  concluded  the  doctor  with  emphasis,  "  was  at 
noon ! " 

"  It  was  a  risk,  and  I  was  aware  of  the  danger,"  admitted  the 
priest ;  "  but  it  was  unavoidable.  The  message  sent  for  me  was 
so  urgent  that  I  was  afraid  to  stop  a  minute,  and  the  event  justi- 
fied my  haste.  The  poor  fellow  did  not  live  half  an  hour  after  I 
reached  his  bedside." 

"  I  should  not  myself  like  to  breathe  such  air  for  half  an  hour 
on  an  empty  stomach,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  tone  of  indignant 
protest  against  an  act  which  he  regarded  as  madness.  "  Indeed, 
no  consideration  could  induce  me  to  do  it." 

"  I  had  no  option  in  the  matter,"  said  the  priest.  "  Even  if  I 
had  been  inclined  to  shrink — which,  thank  God  !  I  was  not— I 
could  not  have  indulged  the  impulse.  To  have  failed  to  respond 
to  such  a  call  would  have  been  an  inexcusable  dereliction  of  duty. 
But  I  determined  at  the  time  that  the  same  thing  shall  not  hap- 
pen again.  I  will  not  sing  High  Mass  hereafter  while  the  fever 
lasts,  but  will  say  a  Low  Mass  on  Sundays  as  on  other  days,  at 
an  early  hour." 

The  doctor  did  not  give  utterance  to  the  thought  in  his  mind, 
"  Why  sing  or  say  it  at  all?  "  But  probably  the  priest  read  it  in 
his  countenance,  and  the  reverend  gentleman  smiled  to  himself 
as  he  thought :  "  Never  mind,  my  young  friend  ;  before  I  have 
done  with  you,  Deo  volente,  I'll  answer  that  question — to  your 
satisfaction,  I  hope."  He  said  nothing  on  the  subject  at  present, 
however,  but  began  to  speak  of  his  camp  of  Refuge,  which  they 
were  now  approaching. 

"  Here  we  are !  "  he  cried  cheerfully,  pointing  to  a  long,  low, 
roughly-constructed  building  standing  two  or  three  hundred 
yards  away  from  the  road  in  the  heart  of  a  thick  pine  wood. 


622  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

"  It  is  a  healthy  situation,  you  see ;  but  a  little  too  much  shaded, 
perhaps.     Do  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Not  for  temporary  use  of  this  sort,"  was  the  reply.  "  You 
have  a  considerable  colony,"  he  added,  smiling-  at  the  commotion 
visible  even  from  where  they  were  and  through  the  intervening 
trees  and  undergrowth. 

The  moment  the  horse  turned,  which  he  did  of  his  own  ac- 
cord, from  the  road  into  the  new  but  already  well-beaten  track 
leading  to  the  building  aforesaid,  there  had  been  a  quick  shout, 
followed  by  many  and  exultant  shouts:  "The  father!"  "Here's 
Father  Brian  !  "  "  The  father's  coming  !  "  iterated  and  reiterated 
by  many  voices  in  tones  ranging  from  incipient  bass  to  the  shrill- 
est treble,  while  a  crowd  of  small  figures,  increasing  in  numbers 
momently,  rushed  about  pell-mell,  jumping,  screaming,  throwing 
up  their  arms,  and  finally  clustering  like  a  swarm  of  bees  all 
around  the  father  when  he  drew  up  his  horse  on  a  level  space  in 
front  of  the  house. 

"  Gently,  gently  ;  stand  off,  all  of  you !  "  he  remonstrated, 
flourishing  his  whip  in  the  air,  but  at  the  same  time  smiling 
kindly  upon  them.  "  Yes,  Joe,  that's  right ! "  he  went  on,  as  a 
tail  boy  sprang  unbidden  to  the  horse's  head.  "  Well,  my  chil- 
dren, how  are  you  all  this  morning?" 

"  We's  well ;  what  you  got  for  us,  father?  "  responded  divers 
throats  in  unison. 

The  father  slowly  lifted  up  a  huge  demijohn  that  had  been 
sitting  between  his  and  Dr.  Ferrison's  feet,  and,  balancing  it  with 
some  difficulty  on  his  knees,  said  with  well-simulated  gravity  : 
"  I  have  brought  you  some  medicine  this  morning.  The  doctor, 
you  see,  has  kindly  come  out  with  me  to  give  you  a  dose  of  rhu- 
barb all  round." 

The  look  of  blank  disappointment  and  dismay  which  all  the 
eyes — blue  eyes,  gray  eyes,  brown  eyes,  black  eyes — in  the  sea 
of  eager,  up-turned  faces  fastened  on  the  doctor  at  these  words 
quite  upset  his  gravity.  After  an  ineffectual  effort  to  maintain  a 
serious  countenance  he  suddenly  burst  into  a  fit  of  laughter,  in 
which  the  priest  joined  heartily.  And  at  this  instant  there  was  a 
triumphant  cry  from  just  behind  the  father's  back,  which  caused 
a  joyful  revulsion  of  feeling  among  the  small  people. 

"  Peaches  !  peaches !  "  shrieked  two  audacious  little  rascals 
who  had  climbed  up  on  the  back  wheels  of  the  shallow,  green- 
bodied  wagon,  and  stealthily  investigated  the  contents  of  some 
covered  hampers.  And  the  cry,  "  Peaches  !  peaches !  O  father, 
you've  brought  us  peaches !  "  was  echoed  by  the  others,  several 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  623 

of  whom  had  been  about  to  lift  up  their  voices  in  weeping  at  the 
mention  of  rhubarb,  when  the  discovery  and  proclamation  of 
their  enterprising  companions  changed  their  tears  to  rejoicing. 

"  Yes,  I  have  brought  you  some  peaches,"  said  the  father,  set- 
ting the  demijohn  down,  "  and  no  bad  news,  thank  God !  "  he 
added,  as  his  eye  fell  on  faces  here  and  there  in  the  crowd  which 
showed,  by  their  eager  anxiety  of  expression,  that  a  few  of  the 
children  were  not  so  self-absorbed  as  the  majority  undoubtedly 
seemed  to  be.  "All  the  sick  are  doing  well  this  morning." 

He  alighted  while  speaking,  walked  round  to  the  back  of  the 
vehicle,  and,  pushing  the  cover  off  one  of  the  hampers,  displayed 
a  heaped-up  abundance  of  beautiful,  crimson-cheeked  fruit.  "  Don't 
get  out,  doctor,"  he  said  to  the  latter,  who  was  preparing  to  de- 
scend. "  Sit  still,  sit  still ;  we'll  drive  on  presently.  And  mean- 
while try  these  " — he  motioned  to  the  peaches  ;  "you'll  find  them 
good." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  doctor,  leaning  over  and  helping  him- 
self ;  "  they  are  very  fine." 

"  I  am  glad  this  is  a  good  fruit  year,"  Father  Brian  remarked, 
as,  having  distributed  the  contents  of  the  hampers,  he  mount- 
ed again  to  his  seat,  and,  making  a  circuit  around  the  house, 
began  to  descend  a  steep  hill  in  the  rear  of  it.  "  Ripe  fruit  is 
wholesome,  and  eating  is  one  of  the  staples  of  a  child's  enjoy- 
ment. I  find  that  the  bringing  some  little  matter  of  cakes  or 
fruit  or  nuts  to  these  children  every  morning  has  a  wonderful 
effect  in  keeping  them  happy  and  contented." 

"  They  are  little  animals,"  said  the  doctor,  "  who  only  need 
the  gratification  of  their  animal  instincts  to  make  them  happy." 

"  If  I  had  time,"  said  the  priest,  with  rather  a  grave  smile,  "  I 
would  take  issue  with  you  on  that  opinion,  which  is  not  sound, 
my  young  friend.  We  must  discuss  it  some  of  these  days.  But 
now  look  around  and  tell  me  if  this  is  not  a  pleasant  transition 
from  the  close  streets  we  left  half  an  hour  ago." 

The  doctor  glanced  around  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
astonishment  and  pleasure.  The  temperature  on  the  hill  above, 
where  they  halted  the  moment  before,  had  seemed  to  him  de- 
lightful, the  house  being  embowered  in  pines  large  and  small, 
that  shielded  it  effectually  from  the  heat  of  the  sun  ;  but  the 
place  to  which  they  were  now  descending  was  as  cool  and  almost 
as  dark  as  a  cave,  only  a  few  shimmering  gleams  of  gold  falling 
here  and  there  through  the  dense  masses  of  foliage  that  surged 
like  a  sea  far  above  their  heads.  They  had  been  jolting  down  a 
rough,  tortuous  road  which,  just  as  Father  Brian  spoke,  brought 


624  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

them  to  level  ground  again,  and  they  emerged  from  between  two 
walls  of  thick  undergrowth  into  a  narrow  ravine,  through  which 
a  small  stream  flowed  tranquilly  along. 

Here  was  a  busy  scene,  not  altogether  unlike  a  gipsy  en- 
campment, only  that  the  same  sort  of  rudely-built  structure  as 
the  one  on  the  hill  took  the  place  of  the  picturesque  tents  of  the 
Romany  race,  and  the  figures  dotted  about,  singly  and  in  groups, 
along  the  banks  of  the  little  water-course  did  not  look  at  all 
Egyptian  in  character.  At  the  far  side  of  the  glen,  which  was 
not  more  than  a  hundred  yards  in«length,  half  a  dozen  washer- 
women, of  various  shades  of  color,  were  industriously  at  work, 
the  bushes  surrounding  them  being  covered  with  small  garments 
of  graduated  sizes  and  diverse  shapes  ;  scores  of  children,  who 
after  their  regale  of  fruit  had  scudded  down  the  steep  hill  around 
which  Father  Brian  was  obliged  to  wind  laboriously,  romped 
noisily  about,  while  others,  reversing  the  order  of  that  rule  of 
propriety  so  much  inculcated  on  the  juvenile  mind,  and  so  ob- 
noxious thereto,  that  children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,  were 
making  themselves  heard,  though  they  could  not  be  seen — the 
drying-ground  of  the  laundresses  affording  excellent  hiding-places 
from  which  to  send  forth  those  unearthly  whoops  and  yells  the 
emission  of  which  is  such  ecstasy  to  small  boys,  probably  be- 
cause they  are  aware  that  the  sound  is  such  a  torment  to  the  ears 
of  their  elders. 

,  Near  a  spring  that  nestled  against  the  hillside  and  was  over- 
hung by  a  giant  oak,  and  not  far  from  the  gable-end  of  what 
looked  like  an  indefinitely  elongated  shanty,  a  large  caldron  was 
hanging  over  a  brightly  blazing  fire,  its  contents  bubbling  mer- 
rily and  throwing  off  clouds  of  savory  odor — savory  at  least  to 
the  sense  of  its  presiding  genius,  a  short,  fat  old  woman  in  a  blue 
homespun  dress,  who  stood,  flesh-fork  in  hand,  watching  the 
seething  mass  with  approving,  not  to  say  loving,  regard,  and  oc- 
casionally giving  it  a  caressing  stir.  She  turned  her  head  as 
the  sound  of  wheels  came  to  her  ear,  showing  a  round,  good- 
tempered,  yellow  face ;  and  at  the  same  moment  a  negro  man, 
who  was  squatting  beside  her  stuffing  wood  into  the  fire,  rose 
precipitately  to  his  feet  and  came  in  a  shambling  half-trot,  half- 
walk  to  meet  the  father. 

"  Well,  Simon/'  said  the  priest,  pulling  up  his  horse  opposite 
the  old  woman,  to  whom  he  gave  a  smiling  nod — "  all's  going  on 
well,  1  hope,  this  morning?" 

"  Y.es,  sir;  all's  going  on  first-rate,  father,"  answered  the  man, 
a  tall,  very  black,  and  very  flat-nosed  individual.  "  I  fetched 


i886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  625 

out  the  things  early ;  and  besides  what  was  on  the  paper  that  I 
carried  to  Mr.  Morgan,  he  put  in  a  big-  piece  of  beef  and  a  set  of 
liver  and  lights  that  he  give  you  hisself,  he  told  me  to  tell  you." 

"  That  was  very  kind  of  him.     i  hope  you  thanked  him  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  I  told  him  I  knowed  you'd  be  a  thousand  times 
obliged  to  him.  And  Mr.  Green  he  give  a  bushel  of  potatoes ; 
and  Mr.  Hanwell  told  me  to  call  to-morrow  morning  and  he'd 
send  you  a  bag  of  flour  and  some  rice." 

"  We  are  getting  on  famously,  you  see,"  said  Father  Brian  to 
the  doctor,  as  they  alighted.  "  Good-morning,  Aunt  Penny,"  he 
went  on,  turning  to  the  cook.  "  Sandy  brought  you  enough  to 
keep  your  pot  boiling  this  morning,  didn't  he?" 

"  Enough  and  more'n  enough,"  responded  she,  looking  up 
with  a  smile  at  the  speaker,  and  measuring  the  doctor  from  head 
to  foot  with  one  quick  glance  from  a  pair  of  bright  brown  eyes, 
which  then  reverted  to  Father  Brian's  face,  as  she  continued  in  a 
scolding  tone :  "  Half  o'  the  meat  Simon  fetched  would  'a'  been 
enough,  what  with  all  the  other  things  I  had.  But  it  was  your 
orders  to  put  it  all  in,  he  said,  and  I  done  it.  You's  what  I  call 
'xtravagant,  Father  Brian.  For  my  part,  I  don't  believe  in  stuf- 
fin'  children.  But  you's  'xtravagant !  " 

"  God  forbid  !."  said  Father  Brian.  "  Extravagance  is  waste, 
and  waste  is  sin.  I  don't  want  to  stuff  the  children,  but  they 
must  not  be  stinted." 

"Stinted,  indeed,  with  all  that  potful  o'  victuals!  They  gits 
another  sight  more  here  than  they's  used  to,  /know,"  retorted 
the  old  woman. 

"  And  besides  the  children,"  pursued  Father  Brian,  "  there 
are  all  the  rest  of  you — the  women  yonder,  and  Simon,  and 
yourself.  Are  you  sure  now  that  you  have  got  dinner  sufficient 
for  all?" 

"  It's  not  my  fault  if  I  haven't,"  she  answered  a  little  shortly. 
"  I've  followed  your  directions  strict."  Then,  relaxing  into  her 
good-tempered  smile  again,  she  added  :  "  Don't  you  be  makin' 
yourself  uneasy,  Father  Brian,  about  that.  There's  enough  and 
more  'n  enough  for  all,  as  I  told  you  awhile  ago." 

"  There  ought  to  be,  from  the  looks  of  that  vessel,"  said  the 
doctor,  speaking  for  the  first  time.  "  It  puts  me  in  mind  of  the 
caldron  from  which  Sancho  Panza  received  a  ladleful  of  gravy 
with  a  few  fowls  floating  about  in  it." 

"  What?"  said  the  old  woman  abruptly,  fixing  her  eyes,  which 
were  singularly  clear  and  intelligent  for  one  of  her  age  and  sta- 
tion, on  the  young  man's  face  inquiringly. 
VOL.  XLII.— 40 


626  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

He  was  amused  with  her  free  and  easy  manner,  and  told 
briefly  the  story  of  the  hungry  Sancho's  enjoyment  of  the  wed- 
ding- feast  in  Don  Quixote,  Aunt  Penny  listening  with  absorbed 
interest,  and  Father  Brian  meanwhile  holding  an  aside  confer- 
ence with  Simon. 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Penny,  in  comment,  "  that  was  a  feast,  sure 
enough.  I  shouldn't 'a'  minded  bein'  there  myself,"  she  confessed 
with  a  short,  chuckling  laugh.  "  I've  heard  a  good  many  stories, 
but  I  never  heard  that  before.  My  mistiss  used  to  tell  me  stories, 
and—" 

"  Come,  doctor,"  Father  Brian's  voice  interposed  here,  "  while 
Simon  is  taking  the  things  out  of  the  wagon,  come  and  see  my 
treasure-house.  Bring  the  wagon  to  the  door,  Simon,  and  be 
as  quick  as  you  can  about  it,  for  we  must  be  thinking  of  get- 
ting back  to  town." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor;  "  I  am  afraid  my  patients  are  looking 
for  me  now." 

"  I  won't  detain  you  long,"*said  the  priest,  leading  the  way 
toward  the  rough-looking  house  mentioned  above.  "  Every- 
thing is  very  primitive,  you  perceive,"  he  went  on  in  the  tone  of 
a  cicerone,  "  but  substantial,  and  sufficiently  comfortable  even  for 
bad  weather.  This  building  is  the  commissary  department: 
magazine,  kitchen,  and  refectory  are  all  under  one  roof.  Aunt 
Penny  prefers  to  boil  her  pot  out  of  doors  such  weather  as  this, 
but  we  have  a  kitchen,  where  the  other  part  of  the  cooking  is 
done,  under  her  superintendence,  by  another  woman." 

The  doctor  laughed.     "  You  have  fine  names,"  he  observed. 

"  I  make  up  in  sounding  names,  you  see,  for  the  plainness,  of 
the  things  designated,"  was  the  good-humored  reply,  as  the 
speaker  pushed  open  a  door  that  gave  entrance  to  a  well-sized 
room,  and  stepped  in,  followed  by  his  companion. 

The  latter  smiled  at  the  air  of  satisfaction  with  which  the 
good  father  surveyed  the  multifarious  contents  of  the  place. 
There  were  bundles,  bags,  barrels,  baskets,  boxes,  jars,  jugs, 
pots  and  pans,  tinware,  crockery  and  cutlery,  bolts  of  cloth 
and  bales  of  blankets,  ready-made  clothing  for  children — in 
short,  a  most  miscellaneous  collection  of  articles  necessary  and 
useful,  coarse  in  quality,  but  good  of  their  kind,  all  disposed 
in  order,  some  on  the  floor  and  some  on  shelves  around  the 
walls.  , 

"A  tolerably  furnished  store-room  to  begin  with,"  Father 
Brian  remarked  complacently. 

"  An  exceedingly  well  furnished  one,  I  should  say,"  assented 


1 885.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  627 

the  doctor.     "  There  is  more  here  than  you  will  be  able  to  use, 
surely." 

"Oh  !  yes  ;  more  than  will  be  needed  for  the  use  of  the  chil- 
dren;  but  what  is  left  over  I  shall  distribute  among-  their  parents 
when  the  little  ones  go  back  to  them.  Those  blankets  that  you 
glanced  at,  for  instance,  will  be  very  welcome  in  many  poor 
houses  during  the  coming  winter.  But  I  shall  not  accept  any 
more  stores  of  this  description.  I  put  a  card  in  the  morning's 
paper  informing  the  kind  people  who  have  been  so  liberal  that 
we  are  now  fully  supplied  with  household  stuffs  and  clothing, 
and  for  the  future  will" need  only  provisions.  Indeed,  we  have 
plenty  even  in  that  line,  as  a  dealer  would  say,  to  last  some  time. 
And  all  of  these  things  are  voluntary  contributions,"  he  added. 
"  People  only  need  to  receive  an  impulse  to  develop  the  chari- 
table instinct  of  human  nature." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  said  the  doctor,  with  a  slightly  incredu- 
lous smile. 

"Think  so!  Is  it  possible  that  you  doubt  such  an  obvious 
fact?  Why,  look  about  you  and  you  will  see  that  it  is  so.  I  say 
nothing  of  the  permanent  charities  of  the  world  or  of  the  habi- 
tual charities  of  individuals,  but,  considering  only  temporary  calls 
like  the  present,  did  you  ever  know  an  instance  where  such  a  call 
was  disregarded — nay,  where  it  was  not  responded  to  promptly 
and  liberally  ?  I  never  did.  Take  the  present  case.  No  sooner 
was  it  known  that  I  had  established  this  Refuge,  and  that  it  was 
not  what  is  called  sectarian— since  other  children  as  well  as  those 
of  my  own  pe*ople  were  received — than  a  number  of  the  most 
prominent  citizens  of  Altonboro'  came  to  me  and  expressed  a 
wish  to  assist  in  the  work.  They  would  have  subscribed  money, 
if  I  had  wanted  it ;  and  when  they  learned  that  I  preferred  con- 
tributions of  this  sort  " — he  motioned  around  with  his  hand — 
"you  see  the  result." 

"A  very  good  result,"  said  the  doctor  a  little  dryly;  "but 
you  must  excuse  me  for  doubting  whether  charity  in  the  abstract 
had  much  to  do  with  the  affair,  so  far  as  anybody  but  yourself 
was  concerned." 

"  To  what  motive,  then,  do  you  attribute  the  action  of  the 
men  I  speak  of?"  asked  Father  Brian. 

"  I  suppose  they  were  ashamed  to  see  you  bearing  the  whole 
burden  of  what  concerned  the  rest  of  the  community  as  much  as 
it  did  you — more,  indeed,  as  the  Protestant  children  outnumber 
the  Catholics — and  chose  as  a  matter  of  vanity  to  do  their  part." 

The  priest  shook  his  head  as  disapproving  the  opinion  just 


628  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

expressed,  and  had  opened  his  lips  to  speak ;  but  at  this  moment 
his  attention  was  diverted  by  the  appearance  of  Simon,  who  came 
staggering  in,  bent  half  double  under  the  weight  of  a  huge  sack 
of  potatoes,  the  last  of  several  additions  he  had  been  making  to 
Father  Brian's  hoards  while  they  talked.  "  This  is  all,  father," 
he  said,  dumping  it  off  his  shoulder  into  a  corner. 

"  Very  well ;  then  we  will  go,"  said  the  father,  turning  to  the 
door. 

As  they  drove  by  the  house  on  the  hill  he  pointed  to  it,  say- 
ing :  "  The  dormitories.  Aunt  Penny  is  dominant  below  in  the 
victualling  department,  and  a  white  woman  and  her  husband — 
very  respectable  people — have  charge  here," 

"  Aunt  Penny  is  a  comical-looking  old  soul,"  said  the  doctor, 
"  and,  judging  from  her  didactic  way  of  speaking,  seems  to  have 
an  excellent  opinion  of  herself." 

"  She  has,  and  with  some  reason.  She  is  strictly  honest,  and 
good-tempered — if  she  is  not  rubbed  the  wrong  way." 

"  If  she  is  not  rubbed  the  wrong  way!  "  repeated  the  doctor 
with  amusement.  "  I  don't  think  there  is  anything  specially  com- 
mendable in  such  amiability  as  that." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  the  priest.  "  Everything  is  comparative, 
and  her  faults,  when  measured  with  those  of  many  of  her  betters, 
are  trifling.  For  example,  contrast  her  character — all  circum- 
stances considered— with  yours  and  mine.  Do  you  think  that  if 
you  had  been  born  in  her  condition  of  life,  and  had  no  more  edu- 
cation than  she  has,  you  would  have  been  better  than  she  is  ?  For 
myself,  I  am  fain  to  confess  that  I  do  not  believe*!  should  have 
been  as  good." 

"  1  think  it  very  likely  that,  with  the  odds  you  allow  me,  I  am 
not  as  good,"  said  the  doctor  laughingly.  "  Goodness  is  not  my 
strong  point." 

"  And  what  is,  may  I  ask?"  said  the  other. 

A  flippant  reply  rose  to  the  lips  of  the  young  man,  but  he  did 
not  utter  it.  There  was  a  something  about  the  priest  which  com- 
pelled respect  of  manner  as  well  as  of  sentiment,  and,  after  an  in- 
stant's hesitation,  he  answered  in  the  tone  of  the  questioner: 

"  Love  for  my  profession." 

A  short  silence  followed  ;  and,  glancing  at  the  handsome,  well- 
cut  face  of  Father  Brian,  the  doctor  saw  on  it  an  expression  which 
he  did  not  understand.  The  full,  gray  eyes  were  fastened  absent- 
ly, but  with  mechanical  attention  to  the  business  of  driving,  on 
the  horse's  head  and  the  road  stretching  before  them,  but  there 
was  a  look  of  inward,  concentrated  thought  in  the  whole  counte- 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  629 

nance  which  made  the  observer  doubt  whether  his  companion 
had  not  lost  ail  recollection  of  what  they  had  been  talking-  about, 
and,  indeed,  of  time  and  place  also.  A  vain  man  would  probably 
have  felt  somewhat  offended  at  such  sudden  abstraction ;  but  Dr. 
Ferrison  was  not  afflicted  with  that  uncomfortable  characteristic, 
self-consciousness.  He  had  as  little  of  it,  in  fact,  as  a  man  well 
could  have,  and,  consequently,  instead  of  indulging-  any  sense  of 
affront,  his  own  mind  went  contentedly  off  on  a  little  thought- 
excursion,  from  which  it  was  presently  recalled  by  the  voice  of 
the  priest. 

"  Love  for  your  profession,"  the  father  said,  repeating  in  a 
tentative  tone  the  words  he  had  just  heard.  Then,  after  a  slight 
pause :  "  A  very  worthy  object  for  love  is  your  profession,  cer- 
tainly," he  went  on,  "  if  viewed  in  the  right  way.  But  do  you 
view  it  in  the  right  way?" 

"  You  will  have  to  explain  what  you  conceive  that  to  be  be- 
fore I  can  answer  your  question,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Do  you  recognize  the  fact  that,  in  the  words  of  Ecclesiasticus, 
1  all  healing  is  from  God  '  ?  that  both  '  the  skill  of  the  physician  ' 
and  the  medicines  with  which  he  '  cures  and  allays  pains '  are  the 
'  creations  of  the  Most  High  '  ?  " 

The  gravity  of  the  speaker  impressed  the  young  man  in  spite 
of  himself.  He  was  conscious  of  a  faint  emotion  of  regret  that 
truth  obliged  him  to  say  : 

"  I  never  took  that  view  of  the  matter,  I  confess." 

"  Ah !  I  suspected  as  much,"  Father  Brian  exclaimed,  and, 
turning  his  head,  looked  earnestly  into  the  eyes  that  met  his  own 
with  a  smile,  which,  however,  had  nothing  of  offensive  levity  in 
it.  "  You  are  not  a  Catholic,"  continued  the  priest,  "  and  there- 
fore it  is  not  strange  that  you  should  be  carried  along-  with  so 
many  others  on  the  tide  of  modern  thought,  as  it  is  named  by  its 
adherents — that  tide  which  is  sweeping  away  all  religion  not 
founded  on  the  Rock  against  which  the  g-ates  of  hell  shall  not  pre- 
vail. It  is  not  strange  ;  and  yet  it  strikes  me  with  a  little  sur- 
prise." 

"  Why  ?"  the  doctor  inquired. 

"  Because,"  answered  the  priest,  with  the  air  of  a  reasoner — 
"  because  you  have  both  intellectual  acumen  and  moral  rectitude 
of  nature ;  and  though  it  frequently  happens  that  these  qualities 
do  not  prevent  a  man's  straying,  on  'his  own  account,  into  the 
mazes  of  speculative  illusion,  they  ought  to  preserve  him  from 
being  led  away  by  the  sophistries  of  other  men." 

Dr.    Ferrison   made  no  reply,   but    his   mind    was   evidently 


630  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

given  to  the  words  of  the  speaker,  who,  after  a  slight  pause,  re- 
sumed : 

"  Our  acquaintance  is  not  of  long  standing,  my  young  friend, 
but  from  the  very  first  of  that  acquaintance  I  have  been  attracted 
toward  you  by  certain  unmistakable  indications  of  character 
which  interest  me  very  much."  He  here  paused  again,  and  said 
with  a  smile:  "  I  do  not  offend  you  by  my  frankness?" 

"Offend  me?  Oh!  certainly  not,"  answered  the  other,  rous- 
ing himself  with  a  slight  start  from  his  attitude  of  mental  atten- 
tion. "  Pray  go  on." 

"  It  is  one  of  the  popular  delusions  of  the  day  to  consider  an- 
tagonism to  the  Christian  faith  a  sign  of  courage  and  enlighten- 
ment of  mind.  No  doubt  this  is  your  opinion  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  entertain  any  feeling  of  antagonism  to  the  Christian 
faith,"  the  doctor  said,  evading  a  direct  reply  to  the  question 
asked.  "  I  would  not,  if  I  had  the  power,  interfere  with  it  or  its 
professors  in  any  way.  I  simply  do  not  believe  in  it  myself." 

"  Did  you  ever  examine  the  subject?  Or  have  not  you,  like 
the  generality  of  non-believers,  leaped  to  your  conclusion  without 
regard  to  premises  ?  " 

"  I  am  perfectly  familiar  with  the  tenets  of  Christianity.  I 
was  educated  in  them." 

"  As  taught  by  Protestantism,  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  know  nothing,  then,  of  Christian  theology,  I  assure  you. 
Protestantism  is  not  Christianity,  but  merely  a  few  mutilated 
fragments  of  Christian  belief.  It  is  the  most  illogical  of  systems, 
it  system  it  can  be  called — denying  and  protesting  against  the 
authority  of  the  Catholic  Church,  apart  from  which  it  has  no 
base  of  existence." 

"  That  last  idea  is  precisely  what  occurred  to  me  from  the 
time  I  was  capable  of  thinking,"  said  the  young  man;  "and,  con- 
sequently, having  no  respect  for  the  consistency  of  Protestant- 
ism, or  for  .its  authority  either,  I  could  have  none  for  its  pre- 
cepts." 

"  But  how  is  it,"  asked  the  priest,  "  that,  perceiving  thus  in- 
tuitively, it  may  be  said,  the  fallacy  of  Protestant  pretensions  as  a 
teacher,  it  did  not  further  occur  to  you  to  doubt  its  credibility  as 
an  accusant  of  the  church,  and  to  investigate  the  whole  ques- 
tion ?  " 

"  I  knew  enough  of  the  question  to  satisfy  me  that  I  could 
never  give  my  adherence  to  beliefs,  many  of  which  are  opposed 
o  all  natural  reason." 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  631 

"  To  the  unshackled  freedom  of  human  thought,"  said  the 
priest,  with  a  laugh. 

The  young  doctor  laughed  too,  good-humoredly.  "  Yes,"  he 
said,  "  to  the  unshackled  freedom  of  human  thought.  I  accept 
your  definition  of  the  idea  I  wished  to  express." 

"  It  is  not  my  definition,"  said  Father  Brian.  "  I  was  amused 
once,  when  talking  to  an  old  friend  of  mine  who  plumes  himself 
on  the  '  liberality  '  of  his  opinions,  to  hear  that  grandiloquent  sen- 
tence pompously  enunciated  by  him.  It  has  a  sound  that  tickles 
the  liberal  ear;  but  some  time  we  will  analyze  it,  and  I  think  I 
can  show  you  that  it  is  all  sound  and  no  sense.  Meanwhile,  to 
return  to  our  point.  You  cannot  give  your  adherence,  you  say, 
to  beliefs  that  are  opposed  to  reason.  Is  it  consonant  with  rea- 
son to  form  an  opinion  without  knowledge  of  the  subject  con- 
cerned ?  You  have  not  studied  the  science  of  theology ;  there- 
fore how  can  you  judge  of  the  reasonableness,  that  is  to  say,  the 
truth,  of  what  it  teaches  ?  " 

The  doctor  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  this  query,  but  re- 
covered himself  almost  immediately.  "  I  have  never  studied  the 
science  of  theology,"  he  said,  "  but  the  dogmas  of  the  Catholic 
Church  are  patent  to  the  world.  For  instance,  there  is  transub- 
stantiation.  I  do  riot  see  how  it  is  possible  to  reconcile  that  be- 
lief to  reason." 

"  It  is  not  possible  if  by  '  reason  '  you  mean  the  natural  law — 
that  is,  the  law  which  governs  the  material  world,  and  man  him- 
self in  his  relations  with  material  things.  It  is  no  more  possible 
to  judge  theological  dogma  by  the  natural  law — or,  if  you  like 
the  term  better,  natural  reason— than  it  is  possible  to  weigh  a 
legal  argument  in  a  pair  of  cotton-scales.'* 

The  doctor  looked  surprised,  almost  startled,  by  this  unex- 
pected reply.  Without  having  ever  given  the  matter  a  serious 
thought,  he  had  taken  for  granted  that  Catholics  considered 
themselves  as  having  reason  for  believing  what  he  regarded  as 
most  preposterous  imaginations ;  and  this  frank  avowal  of 
Dr.  Kelly's  astonished  him,  while  at  the  same  time  the  illustra- 
tion that  followed  threw  a  gleam  of  light  on  the  subject  which 
somewhat  changed  its  aspect  in  his  eyes.  He  turned  with  a 
doubtful,  puzzled  gaze  to  the  priest,  as  he  said  : 

"  You  admit  that  reason  has  nothing  to  do  with  your  faith, 
and  yet — 

"  Pardon  me,"  interposed  Father  Brian,  "  but  I  expressed  my- 
self badly  if  what  I  said  conveyed  that  impression  to  your  mind. 
Reason  has  everything  to  do  with  my  allegiance  to  the  church  if 


632  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

I  was  born  a  Catholic,  or  my  acceptance  of  the  faith  if  I  was 
born  without  the  pale  of  the  church;  but  not  in  the  way  that 
non-Catholics  seem  to  suppose  it  ought  to  have.  Reason  is 
merely  a  guide  which,  if  accompanied  by  pure  intention,  leads 
the  mind  to  the  church — the  pillar  and  ground  of  truth.  The 
church,  like  her  divine  Founder,  teaches  not  as  do  the  Protestants 
and  free-thinkers  of  the  day,  the  modern  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
but  '  as  one  having  authority.'  And  as  one  having  authority 
she  does  not  submit  supernatural  mysteries  to  the  judgment  of 
human  reason.  On  the  contrary,  she  says  to  the  mind  of  man: 
*  These  things  you  must  believe.  They  appertain  to  the  spirit- 
ual, not  the  natural,  order,  and  thus  they  are  above  the  compre- 
hension of  human  reason.  Above,  but  not  contrary  to,  reason. 
It  is  by  faith  alone,  then,  that  you  can  believe.'  ' 

"  But  what  if  the  mind  replies:  '  I  have  no  faith,  therefore 
I  cannot  believe'?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  Faith  is  the  gift  of  God,"  answered  the  priest,  "  and  he 
never  fails  to  bestow  it  on  the  soul  which  seeks  it  in  the  way  he 
has  commanded.  We  must  become  as  little  children  in  docility 
and  trust.  '  Ask,  and  you  shall  receive  ;  seek,  and  you  shall  find  ' 
— if  you  ask  and  seek  in  the  right  spirit." 

The  doctor  was  too  well  bred  to  shrug  his  shoulders ;  but  the 
expression  of  his  face  was  so  significant  of  the  thoughts  passing 
in  his  mind  that  Father  Brian  could  not  repress  a  smile,  though 
it  did  not  seem  to  him  a  smiling  matter. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that,  so  far  from  seeking  the  gift  of 
faith,  you,  like  many  others  with  whom  I  have  accidentally  come 
in  contact,  would  reject  it  if  it  pressed  itself  upon  you." 

"  No,"  answered  the  young  man  ;  "  you  are  mistaken.  I  have 
no  feeling  that  would  make  me  shrink  from  the  truth  in  whatever 
form  it  presented  itself.  The  difficulty  with  me  is  to  conceive  it 
possible  that  such  a  tenet  as  the  one  I  referred  to — transubstantia- 
tion — could  be  true." 

"  But  you  do  conceive  it  possible  to  select  one  isolated  fact  from 
the  centre  of  a  great  system,  and  predicate  correctly  the  truth  or 
falsehood  of  that  fact,  and  the  whole  scheme  to  which  it  belongs, 
by  the  light  only  of  your  uninstructed  intelligence !  Let  us  see 
how  this  method  would  work  in  judging  the  facts  of  secular  sci- 
ence. We  will  take  the  simple  proposition,  '  It  is  the  earth,  not 
the  sun,  which  moves.'  Does  this  assertion  look  reasonable,  or 
even  credible,  on  the  surface  ?  We  feel  the  ground  firm  under  our 
feet;  we  saw  the  sun  rise  in  the  east  this  morning  ;  we  see  it  now 
moving  across  the  heavens  ;  the  daily  experience  of  many  years 


i886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  633 

assures  us  that  in  a  few  hours  it  will  sink  below  the  western 
horizon.  How  is  it  that,  notwithstanding  this  positive  evidence 
of  our  senses  to  the  contrary,  we  believe  that  it  is  the  earth,  not 
the  sun,  which  is  moving?" 

"  We  believe  it  because  astronomy,  which  is  an  exact  science, 
teaches  it,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  Precisely,"  said  the  priest.  "  Astronomy  teaches  it ;  and 
having,  either  by  a  study  of  data  or  a  simple  act  of  faith,  satisfied 
ourselves  of  the  trustworthiness  of  astronomy  as  an  expositor  of 
celestial  phenomena,  we  receive  unhesitatingly  the  conclusions 
which  that  science  presents  to  us.  Theology  also  is  a  science. 
Will  you  tell  me  why  you  accept  the  teaching  of  the  one  and 
turn  from  that  of  the  other?" 

"  There  is  the  vast  difference,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  while 
astronomy  treats  of  the  real,  the  material  world,  and  is  there- 
fore, as  I  said  before,  an  exact  science,  theology  deals  with  ab- 
stractions— matters  which,  being  intangible  to  the  senses,  cannot 
be  examined  and  tested  by  them." 

"  Let  us  be  exact  in  our  terms  as  well  as  in  our  science,"  said 
Father  Brian,  with  a  smile.  "  What  do  you  signify  by  the  word 
<  senses'?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  the  other,  "  I  mean  those  faculties,  so- 
called,  by  which  we  take  outward  impressions  into  the  mind." 

"  Into  the  mind,"  repeated  the  priest.  "  You  admit,  then, 
that  it  is  the  mind  which  your  material  science  must  appeal  to  as 
the  discoverer  and  interpreter  of  her  mysteries.  And  if  the  mind 
— or,  in  other  words,  human  reason — can  grasp  and  analyze  the 
nature  and  processes,  or  (to  speak  with  more  precision)  a  knowl- 
edge of  the  nature  and  processes,  of  that  which  is  its  antithesis, 
matter,  how  can  you  suppose  the  operations  of  its  own  nature 
(assuming  the  word  *  abstractions,'  in  the  sense  you  use  it,  to 
mean  processes  of  mind  unconnected  with  matter)  to  be  'intan- 
gible '  to  its  comprehension?  " 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  half-laugh,  "that 
you  are  getting  beyond  my  depth.  Metaphysics  was  always  my 
abhorrence  ;  and  if  you  are  going  to  plunge  into  its  weary  laby- 
rinths I  doubt  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  follow  you." 

"  But  how,"  said  Father  Brian  seriously,  "  are  you  to  know 
what  to  believe  and  what  not  .to  believe — what  is  truth  and  what 
is  fallacy — if  you  do  not  take  the  trouble  to  examine  and  inform 
yourself?  The  majority  of  mankind  accept  without  question 
whatever  creed  is  given  them  either  by  their  parents  or  by  the 
self-constituted  teachers  of  all  shades  of  opinion  who  abound  in 


634  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Feb., 

the  world.  But  I  had  fancied  that  vou  were  not  of  this  num- 
ber." 

"  I  am  not,  I  assure  you,"  responded  the  doctor. 

"Then,  if  you  do  not  take  your  opinions  ready-made,  nor  yet 
acquire  them  by  logical  inquiry,  how  do  you  come  by  them,  and 
on  what  do  you  ground  them?" 

"  If  you  mean  my  religious  opinions,  I  have  none.  I  am  a 
materialist,  pure  aud  simple.  I  believe  in  what  I  see,  hear,  and 
touch — in  nothing  more." 

"  Excuse  me,  my  friend,"  said  the  priest,  smiling,  "  but  you 
believe  in  more  than  that,  whether  you  are  aware  of  the  fact  or 
not — as  I  can  soon  convince  you,  if  you  will  go  into  the  sub- 
ject with  me.  We  are  almost  in  town,  so  there  is  no  time  for  an 
argument  now  ;  but  I  should  like  to  discuss  the  matter  fully  the 
first  leisure  hour  that  we  both  have.  As  to  your  objection  to 
metaphysics,  I  suspect  you  are  jesting  about  that — merely  fencing 
off  an  inconvenient  question." 

The  young  man  laughed,  tacitly  admitting  the  truth  of  this 
conjecture,  and  expressed  his  willingness  to  look  into  the  subject, 
as  proposed  by  his  companion.  "  But  I  don't  know  when  the 
leisure  hour  you  speak  of  will  come,"  he  added.  "  There  is  not 
much  prospect  of  it  at  present." 

"  Not  much,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Father  Brian,  as  he  drew  up 
in  front  of  a  private  residence  at  the  entrance  of  the  town.  "  This 
is  where  you  wished  to  be  set  down,  I  believe." 


TO   BE  CONTINUED. 


1 886.]  " DUDE"  METAPHYSICS.  635 


"DUDE"   METAPHYSICS. 

THE  newspaper  and  conversational  term  "dude"  has  not 
found  its  way  into  the  dictionary  or  polite  literature.  Yet  it  is 
so  expressive,  so  well  understood,  and  so  apt  for  our  present  pur- 
pose that  no  other  term  could  fill  its  place.  A  self-complacent 
fop,  with  the  age  but  without  the  full  physical  proportions  of  man- 
hood, and  devoid  of  intellectual  force,  is  usually  dubbed  with  the 
title.  In  society  he  is  the  butt  of  ridicule ;  and  his  arrogance 
and  insolence  are  treated  with  contempt  by  men  of  sense,  or  at- 
tributed charitably  to  ignorance  or  imbecility.  Such  a  character 
in  every-day  life  provokes  our  laughter,  but  when  met  with  in 
the  higher  walks  of  science  he  excites  our  disgust.  And  yet  who 
has  not  met  in  his  readings  with  such  a  frivolous  dilettante — some 
slipshod  scientist  who  treats  all  the  knowledge  of  antiquity  with 
disdain;  some  shallow-pated  theorizer  who  has  dabbled  in  for- 
eign metaphysics,  and  tries  to  import  its  aberrations  among  us 
without  really  understanding  them  himself;  some  would-be  imi- 
tator of  Voltaire  or  Fichte,  though  as  unlike  the  original  as  a 
baboon  is  to  the  Apollo  of  Belvidere?  But  of  all  the  "dudes" 
save  us  from  the  "  dude  "  metaphysician  !  He  has  read  Darwin 
and  Fichte,  and  swears  by  them,  though  he  does  not  understand 
them.  He  wants  to  create  a  sensation,  to  be  a  novelty,  and  for 
that  purpose  he  will  coolly  affirm  the  most  outrageous  nonsense, 
and  expect  to  find  gulls  to  swallow  it.  Nor  does  his  expectation 
always  go  unrealized.  The  number  of  metaphysical  tuft-hunters 
who  swear  by  Schelling,  and  drink  with  smacking  lips  the  watery 
twaddle  of  Atlantic  Monthly  theology,  is  very  large  even  in  the 
United  States.  They  believe  in  "  Dawwin,  you  know,  and  evo- 
lution ";  they  "admire  Fichte"  and  pronounce  "  Chwistianity, 
miwacles,  and  God  a  bowe  [bore],  you  know." 

This  burst  of  contempt  spontaneously  came  to  us  while  pe- 
rusing an  article  in  the  last  December  number  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  on  the  "  Idea  of  God,"  by  John  Fiske — a  man  not  devoid 
of  talent  or  reputation.  The  insolent  manner  in  which  he  treats 
the  arguments  used  for  centuries  in  the  schools  to  prove  the  ex- 
istence of  the  Supreme  Being,  and  the  indecent  way  in  which  he 
mixes  up  the  names  of  profound  scholars  and  saints. in  the  same 
category  with  infidels  and  scoffers,  would  rouse  the  bile  of  the 
most  phlegmatic  polemist.  Thus  he  speaks  of  the  "  cosmic 


636  "DUDE"  METAPHYSICS.  [Feb., 

theism  of  Clement  and  Origen,  of  Spinoza  and  Lessing  and 
Schleiermacher"  ;  and  no  doubt  John  Fiske's  tuft-hunters,  believ- 
ing him  to  be  an  authority,  imagine  that  the  orthodox  Clement 
and  Origen,  who  preached  a  personal  God,  differed  in  nothing 
from  the  pantheist  Spinoza  and  the  sceptic  Schleiermacher.  Is 
not  this  ignorant  confusion  of  men  and  opinions  an  evidence  of 
the  "  London  assurance  "  of  the  metaphysical  "  dude  "  ?  Again  : 
"  The  difference,  however,  between  this  cosmic  conception  of 
God"  (that  is,  by  Clement,  Origen,  and  Spinoza)  "and  the  an- 
thropomorphic conception  held  by  Tertullian  and  Augustine, 
Calvin  and  Voltaire  and  Paley,  is  sufficiently  great  to  be  describ- 
ed as  a  contrast."  Was  ever  such  ignorance,  and  this,  too,  in  a 
magazine  that  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  beacons  of  New  England 
intelligence?  Does  not  every  tyro  know  that  the  God  of  Augus- 
tine, Tertullian,  Clement,  and  Origen  was  the  same — the  triune 
God  of  the  Christians?  And  by  what  stretch  of  imagination  does 
Mr.  Fiske  couple  these  names  with  the  cruel  Calvin  and  the  scoff- 
ing Voltaire  ?  This  is  coupling  tigers  with  lambs,  contrary  to 
sense  and  Horace  : 

"  Non  ut 
Serpentes  avibus  geminentur,  tigribus  agni." 

Not  only  the  men  but  their  doctrine  was  dissimilar,  as  every  one 
who  knows  anything  knows. 

Mr.  Fiske's  ignorance  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Fathers  regarding 
the  Deity  is  equalled  by  his  self-possession  in  trying  to  impose  on 
his  readers  without  proof  the  old  but  false  theory  that  mono- 
theism is  posterior  to  polytheism.  "  Cosmic  theism,"  which  is 
but  another  name  for  the  pantheism  of  Spinoza,  and  "  anthro- 
pomorphic theism  "  (we  use  Fiske's  terminology),  which  is  but 
another  name  for  polytheism,  are  corruptions  of  the  primeval 
truth  that  the  triune  God  acts  in  and  through  nature,  and  that 
the  second  Person  of  the  Trinity  became  incarnate.  All  history 
proves  that  monotheism  was  the  first  belief  of  mankind.  Take 
the  first  chapter  of  Genesis  as  a  witness. 

Even  when  our  metaphysician  wants  to  be  jocose  he  forges, 
or  steals  at  second-hand  from  some  one  who  lies.  Ridiculing 
the  mediaeval  miracle-plays,  he  quotes  one  as  containing  the  fol- 
lowing passage.  Our  readers  will  pardon  us  for  giving  the  ir- 
reverent words,  but  we  do  so  to  show  the  "  dudish  "  character 
of  the  Atlantic's  metaphysician  :  "  '  Wake  up,  almighty  Father! 
Here  are  those  beggarly  Jews  killing  your  son,  and  you  asleep 
here  like  a  drunkard  ! '  *  Devil  take  me  if  I  knew  anything 


i886.]  " DUDE"  METAPHYSICS.  637 

about  it ! '  is  the  drowsy  reply."  We  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that 
no  such  words  as  these  occur  in  any  of  the  genuine  miracle-plays 
of  the  middle  ages,  and  we  have  a  right  to  demand  from  Mr. 
Fiske  his  authority  for  the  quotation.  He  gives  none ;  he  can 
give  none  worthy  of  credence.  By  the  way,  let  us  suggest  to 
our  esteemed  contemporary  that  its  writers  should  be  taught  to 
indicate  in  foot-notes,  as  the  writers  in  Catholic  periodicals  do, 
the  sources  from  which  they  take  at  least  their  important  quota- 
tions and  statements. 

But  the  strongest  evidence  of  the  "  dudish  "  nature  is  given 
by  Mr.  Fiske's  treatment  of  the  argument  from  design  which  St. 
Thomas  and  all  the  great  thinkers  use  to  prove  the  existence  of 
God. 

We  see  in  the  universe  that  all  unintelligent  beings  follow 
certain  laws.  They  have  plainly  a  purpose  and  they  obey  a 
certain  order.  Yet  we  know  that  as  they  do  not  possess  intelli- 
gence, they  cannot  have  an  aim  unless  guided  by  an  intelligent 
being  outside  of  them,  as  the  arrow  is  by  the  archer  ;  *  and  this 
supreme  intelligence  which  rules  and  guides  them  all  is  God — 
the  great  Architect,  the  great  Designer. 

This  argument  Mr.  Fiske  dismisses  with  disdain,  quoting 
against  it  John  Stuart  Mill's  threadbare  objection:  "  It  is  impos- 
sible to  suppose  the  Creator  to  be  at  once  omnipotent  and  abso- 
lutely benevolent.  For  nothing  can  be  clearer  than  that  nature 
is  full  of  cruelty  and  mal-adaptation.  In  every  part  of  the  animal 
world  we  find  implements  of  torture  surpassing  in  devilish  inge- 
nuity anything  that  was  ever  seen  in  the  dungeons  of  the  Inquisi- 
tion. We  are  introduced  to  a  scene  of  incessant  and  universal 
strife,  of  which  it  is  not  apparent  on  the  surface  that  the  outcome 
is  the  good  or  the  happiness  of  anything  that  is  sentient."  In 
other  words,  the  divine  Architect  does  not  exist,  because  there 
are  bugs,  mosquitoes,  and  rattlesnakes.  Yet  Mr.  Fiske's  own 
words  might  have  suggested  to  him  an  answer  to  his  difficulty : 
"  It  is  not  apparent  on  the  surface  that  the  outcome  "  of  bugs  and 
rattlesnakes  "  is  the  good  or  the  happiness  of  anything  that  is  sen- 
tient"; but  beneath  "the  surface"  may  there  not  be  reasons  for 
their  existence  that  we  do  not  understand?  Is  there  not  some 
"  good  "  and  "  some  happiness  "  for  a  bug  or  a  rattlesnake  to  exist  .•> 
We  have  no  doubt  that  both  are.  happy  in  their  way  and  have  a 
very  gay  time  of  it  while  they  are  let  alone.  We  must  not  be  too 
selfish,  Mr.  Fiske.  That  swarm  of  buzzing  mosquitoes  which  you 
hear  singing  their  harmonious  chorus  of  exultation  seems  to  be 

*  Div.  Thomas  Sum.  Theol.  par.  prim,  qusest  ii.  art.  iii. 


638  "DUDE"  METAPHYSICS.  [Feb., 

a  crowd  of  very  merry  fellows,  even  though  they  do  annoy  you 
and  like  to  taste  your  blood.  Do  you  not  think  that  a  pair  of  rat- 
tlesnakes may  enjoy  life  on  a  summer's  day  under  the  shelter  of  a 
rock  or  near  the  sweet  waters  of  the  rustic  spring?  Our  happi- 
ness is  not  the  only  happiness  in  the  world  ;  and  any  existence  is 
better  than  none  at  all.  A  disciple  of  Mr.  Fiske  once  said :  "  I 
believed  in  God  until  one  day  my  cat  ate  up  my  canary,  and  I 
thought  that  a  benevolent  Deity  should  not  permit  such  an  act  of 
cruelty  to  happen."  He  forgot  that  the  cat  was  happy  in  eating 
the  canary,  and  that  the  canary  may  have  passed  into  a  happier 
state  for  having  been  eaten  up.  Who  knows  the  future  of  cana- 
ries or  bugs  ?  Who  can  fathom  all  the  plans  of  the  Creator  ?  Not 
"  by  the  surface,"  then,  should  we  judge,  but  answer  the  objection 
of  Mr.  Fiske  and  Mr.  Mill  as  St.  Augustine  answered  it  nearly  fif- 
teen hundred  years  ago  :  "  Since  God  is  supremely  good,  he  would 
not  permit  evil  to  be  in  his  works,  unless  he  were  at  the  same  time 
so  omnipotent  and  so  good  as  to  draw  good  out  of  evil !  "*  We 
may  not  be  able  to  see  all  the  good  which  God  takes  out  of  evil. 
We  cannot  understand  how  the  bee  takes  honey  out  of  poison. 
We  do  not  understand  all  the  final  causes  of  beings,  for  we  are  not 
God.  His  aims,  purposes,  and  designs  are  not  all  known  to  us. 
That  he  is  we  know  ;  that  there  is  design  in  his  works  we  know  ; 
nor  should  we  give  up  belief  in  these  clear  truths  on  account  of 
certain  obscurity  in  trying  to  understand  the  oddities  of  nature. 
We  spoke  of  mosquitoes.  They  may  have  even  their  moral  use. 
If  Mr.  Fiske  would  sleep  a  midsummer's  night  in  a  Hackensack 
swamp,  and  would  not  swear  nor  lose  his  temper,  he  might  find 
himself  in  the  morning  a  better  man  morally,  though  shorn  of 
much  of  his  facial  beauty. 

Mr.  Fiske's  rejection  of  the  "  argument  from  design,"  on  ac- 
count of  the  oddities  of  irrational  nature,  is  surpassed  in  inconse- 
quence by  the  same  rejection  on  account  of  the  existence  of  moral 
evil  in  the  universe.  Moral  evil  comes  from  free-will.  God, 
therefore,  is  not,  in  the  sense  in  which  Mr.  Mill  and  Mr.  Fiske  put 
it,  the  "  creator  of  the  devil."  God  is  the  creator  of  an  angel 
who  abused  his  free-will  and  made  himself  a  devil.  Nor  is  there 
"in  orthodox  Christianity  .  .  .  the  Augustinian  doctrine  of  total 
depravity."  It  ought  to  be  known  to  Mr.  Fiske  that  the  whole 
Catholic  Church — and  it  is  "orthodox" — abhors  the  "doctrine 
of  total  depravity,"  and  has  anathematized  it  in  the  Council  of 
Trent.  "  Total  depravity  "  is  the  figment  of  John  Calvin's  brain, 
and  in  no  sense  can  be  attributed  to  St.  Augustine  or  be  called 

*In  Enchir.  cap.  xi. 


i886]  "DUDE"  METAPHYSICS.  639 

Augustinian.  The  permission  of  physical  or  moral  evil  in  the 
universe,  therefore,  although  in  some  respects  mysterious,  proves 
nothing  against  the  argument  from  design  for  the  existence  of  God. 
A  flaw  in  my  watch  does  not  prove  that  it  was  not  made,  and  well 
made,  by  the  watchmaker.  That  flaw  may  be  the  work  of  some 
one  else.  In  the  case  of  nature  what  man  calls  flaws  and  defects  are 
only  so  to  his  limited  ken.  If  he  could  get  behind  the  scene,  as  he 
will  some  day,  he  would  be  able  to  see  the  causes  of  things  and 
understand  what  is  now  wrapt  in  mystery. 

Mr.  Fiske,  having  sat  down  on  "  the  argument  from  design  "  ; 
having,  as  he  imagines,  destroyed  St.  Thomas,  St.  Augustine, 
Calvin,  and  Voltaire,  proceeds  to  give  his  own  idea  of  God.  And 
here  is  where  you  can  always  catch  the  "dude"  metaphysician. 
When,  with  a  wave  of  his  kid-gloved  hand,  he  wafts  away  ortho- 
doxy, and  with  offensive  drawl  begins  to  give  you  his  theory, 
his  view,  mark  how  imbecility  is  stamped  on  its  features.  After 
much  discussion  of  the  forces  of  nature  everywhere  witnessed  he 
reduces  them  all  to  one,  which  he  calls  "the  Power";  but  "this 
is  the  very  same  power  which  in  ourselves  wells  up  under  the 
form  of  consciousness."  In  a  word,  the  forces  of  nature  and  our 
force  are  identical— are  God.  But  it  is  transparent  that  if  this 
theory  be  true  there  are  two  Gods.  The  force  in  me  is  a  per- 
sonal one  ;  I  know  and  feel  by  the  only  means  possible  for  knowl- 
edge, which  is  my  own  consciousness,  that  I  am  a  person,  while 
the  forces  of  nature  are  evidently  impersonal.  There  is  a  spe- 
cific difference  between  me  and  them,  as  there  is  between  the 
personal  and  the  impersonal.  There  must  be  two  Gods,  then, 
if  Fiske  is  right — the  one  myself,  and  the  other  the  not-me  of  na- 
ture ;  and  if  he  is  going  to  identify  both,  what  becomes  of  his 
originality  ?  For  this  identification  of  the  personal  and  the  im- 
personal of  the  me  and  the  not-me  is  an  importation  from  the 
modern  German  pantheists.  Instead  of  the  one  God,  therefore, 
proved  by  the  argument  from  design,  we  have  two  by  the  ar- 
gument from  Fiske.  Yes,  we  have  more  than  two :  we  have  as 
many  Gods  as  there  are  human  persons ;  for  each  human  person 
knows  that  he  is  specifically  distinct  from  his  neighbor,  yet  all 
are  "the  very  same  Power  which  in  ourselves  wells  up  under 
the  form  of  consciousness." 

Thus,  according  to  Fiske,  Bunker  Hill  will  be  the  new 
Olympus,  and  he  its  new  Jupiter,  sitting  "  ' 'Anporarfl  nopycpfj 
TtoXvdsipado?  Ovkv/tTroio,"  surrounded  by  all  the  gods  and  pretty 
goddesses  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 

There  are  forces  in  nature,  we  concede ;  there  is  even  much 


640  " DUDE"  METAPHYSICS.  [Feb., 

truth  in  Darwin's  theory  of  natural  selection  and  evolution.  His 
error  consists  in  drawing  conclusions  from  mere  similitude  as  if  it 
were  identity.  Because  things  look  alike  it  does  not  follow  that 
they  are  identical.  But  underling  Darwin's  theory  of  natural 
selection,  and  Fiske's  identification  of  forces,  there  is  a  question 
which  remains  unsolved.  Is  the  cause  of  these  natural  forces  in 
themselves  or  out  of  them  ?  Whence  come  these  natural  forces 
and  natural  laws?  Are  they  self-existent,  self-creators,  or  do 
they  point  to  a  supreme  First  Cause,  self-existent  and  omnipotent, 
who  has  created  them  ?  Beyond  Fiske's  forces  there  is  a  force 
which  is  the  efficient  cause,  and  the  efficient  cause  by  creation,  of 
all  power,  whether  it  be  outside  of  us  in  the  visible  universe  or 
"  well  up  under  the  form  of  consciousness." 

Consciousness  attests  that  the  cause  of  our  existence  is  not  in 
ourselves.  Reason  shows  that  the  cause  of  the  existence  of  be- 
ings outside  of  us  is  not  in  themselves,  for  they  are  essentially 
contingent.  These  two  facts  blow  Fiske's  theory  into  the  air. 
Metaphysics  that  goes  no  further  than  what  is  visible,  that  simply 
certifies  to  the  existence  offerees  in  nature  and  goes  not  beyond 
them  to  find  the  intelligent  cause  which  produced  them,  is  only 
chemistry.  We  concede  all  that  it  may  attest,  but  beyond  it  our 
intellect  must  soar  to  the  only  solid  resting-place  for  a  logical  in- 
vestigator— the  supreme,  necessary,  self-existing,  personal,  cre- 
ating First  Cause. 

That  we  have  not  misinterpreted  Mr.  Fiske  will  be  clear  from 
a  quotation  or  two  from  the  closing  pages  of  his  article  :  "  The 
infinite  and  eternal  Power  that  is  manifested  in  every  pulsation 
of  the  universe  is  none  other  than  the  living  God."  "  The  ever- 
lasting source  of  phenomena  is  none  other  than  the  infinite  Power 
that  makes  for  righteousness."  The  sum  of  the  forces  underlying 
the  universe  is  therefore  God.  He  is  the  Anima  mundi.  He  is 
the  substance,  "  everlasting  source  of  phenomena,"  "  manifested  in 
every  pulsation  of  the  universe."  This,  we  perceive,  is  bald  pan- 
theism— Spinoza  in  an  Atlantic  Monthly  dress. 

But  how  does  this  theory  answer  the  objections  brought 
against  "  the  .argument  from  design  "  ?  Mr.  Fiske  rejects  that 
argument  because  of  the  existence  of  physical  and  moral  evil  in 
the  world.  How  does  his  God  get  rid  of  them  ?  Very  simply, 
for  they  are  God  in  his  theory.  They  are  only  "  phenomena  "  of 
the  infinite  power.  Fiske  shuts  his  eyes  and  practically  denies 
the  existence  of  any  evil  in  the  world.  Good  and  evil,  right  and 
wrong,  are  "  phenomena  of  the  infinite  power  that  makes  for 
righteousness."  What  is  "  righteousness  "  according  to  Fiske? 


1 886.]  THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS.  641 

It  is  the  end  of  that  "  struggle  between  man's  lower  and  higher 
impulses  in  which  the  higher  must  finally  conquer."  But,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  the  higher  do  not  always  finally  conquer.  Experi- 
ence contradicts  our  metaphysician's  unauthenticated  statement. 
It  is  a  mere  cobweb  of  his  brain.  To  make  man  and  his  moral 
life  a  mere  phenomena  of  the  "  infinite  Power  "  of  nature  is  to 
deny  free-will  and  take  away  all  human  responsibility  for  crime. 
If  I  am  God  I  cannot  sin.  All  that  I  do  is  right.  I  am  only  one 
of  the  many  manifestations  of  that  "  eternal  Power  that  is  mani- 
fested in  every  pulsation  of  the  universe." 

Thus,  to  get  rid  of  the  objection  to  God's  benevolent  provi- 
dence derived  from  the  existence  of  evil,  Mr.  Fiske,  following 
Hegel  and  Fichte,  identifies  evil  with  God.  Thus  we  have  logi- 
cally from  their  theory :  God-crime,  God-sin,  God-bug,  God- 
mosquito,  God-rattlesnake.  Where  is  the  fool-killer?  Arise,  O 
Juvenal,  and  scourge  the  "  dudes  "  ! 

"  O  sanctas  gentes,  quibus  hsec  nascuntur  in  hortis  numina  !  " 


THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS. 


PROEM. 

DEEM  not  these  days  primordial  spanned  by  time. 

Range  not  the  bells  of  Genesis  to  chime 

With  science.     What  are  ages,  years,  or  days 

To  eyes  prophetical  but  sacred  ways 

To  teach  high  law  and  holy  truth  to  man  ? 

All  life  leads  back  to  Him  who  drew  life's  plan 

Untableted,     Bound  by  one  high  behest, 

The  Prophet  ranged  his  tablets  as  he  list. 

Creation  was  his  theme  ;  and  from  inspired  tongue 

Burst  this  grand  burden  in  a  solemn  song, 

With  intervals  of  choral  praise  ; 

And  the  intervals  are  days. 
VOL.  XLII. — 41 


642  THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS.  [Feb., 

DAY   I. 

In  the  beginning  God  made  heaven  and  earth. 
Void  was  creation  at  its  earliest  birth, 
Lonely  and  dark,  an  ocean  without  shore. 
Perpetual  midnight  brooded  evermore 
Upon  a  waste  of  waters.     The  primeval  sleep 
Of  death  hung  on  the  eyelids  of  the  deep. 
No  life  as  yet.     Blind  forces  drove  or  drew 
By  laws  which  even  dull  inertia  knew. 
Grand  in  his  purposes,  but  all  unused  to  urge, 
A  mighty  Smith  slow  plied  the  kindling  forge. 


"  Be  light !  "     Quick  through  the  world  the  fiat  rang, 
And  wakened  Nature  into  lustre  sprang. 
A  soft  enchantment  flooded  pregnant  space, 
Giving  blind  chaos  body,  itself  bodiless. 
The  eddying  atoms  rolled  in  wreaths  of  light, 
Taking  all  vision  needs  save  only  sight. 
Creation  had  no  eye.     Not  yet  were  wrought 
Those  crystal  caves  where  sense  distils  to  thought ; 
But  all  unseen  a  lone  though  luminous  world 
Of  mustering  meteors  into  order  whirled. 

Evening  and  morn,  day  one. 

But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 


DAY  II. 

Hung  the  deep  heavens  in  shrouds  of  vapor  dressed, 
The  earth  was  blanketed  in  watery  mist. 
Far  overhead,  slow  gathering  in  their  robes, 
The  shapeless  meteors  crystalled  into  globes. 
God  spake  :  Divide,  O  waste  of  waters,  here  ; 
Make  space  for  a  clear  sky  and  a  free  atmosphere. 
Westward,  ye  heavens,  in  endless  circle  sweep, 
And,  like  a  roof,  arch  in  this  lower  deep ; 
And  thou,  O  sea,  lapped  in  thy  caves  remain 
Without  a  shore  until  I  speak  again. 

Evening  and  morn.     Tis  done. 

Yet  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 


1 886.]  THE  DA  YS  OF  GENESIS.  643 

DAY  III. 

What  vision  saw  that  wondrous  eve  and  morn 
When  from  the  ocean-bed  the  lands  were  born  ? 
What  mighty  hand  lifted  the  deep  sea-caves, 
And  made  the  islands  bud  above  the  waves? 
These  grew  to  continents.     Along  the  ocean-floor 
Deep  currents  spread  the  wastings  of  the  shore 
In  ridges  vast.     Slow  throbbings  of  the  earth, 
Upheaving  these,  to  mountain  chains  gave  birth. 
Green  spread  the  grass  and  trees  o'er  the  young  land. 
Oh !  gentle  were  the  fingers  of  that  mighty  hand. 

A  third  day's  labor  done. 

But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 


DAY   IV. 

Now  lift  our  thoughts  to  the  round  heaven  above, 

Where  sun,  moon,  stars  by  law  in  order  move. 

They  mark  our  time.     The  sun  by  day  gives  light. 

A  softer  radiance  rules  the  veiled  night. 

God  made  all  these.     O  Israel,  lend  no  ear 

To  heathen  myths  or  philosophic  sneer. 

Stars  are  not  deities  ;  nor  do  they  draw 

Their  being  from  unlegislated  law. 

Creatures  of  God  are  they  ;  and  Him,  glad  throng 

Of  worshippers,  they  praise  with  waltz  and  song. 

Day  fourth.     A  work  well  done. 

But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 


DAY  V. 

Oh  !  who  can  chronicle  what  ages  long 

The  woods  have  thrilled  with  winged  love  and  song ; 

How  long,  with  threads  of  sunshine  in  their  wake, 

The  gamesome  fish  embroider  stream  and  lake? 

And  tell  me,  science,  did  some  'prentice  hand 

Engrave  such  forms  on  the  Silurian  strand, 

Give  warlike  morion  to  the  trilobite, 

And  eyes  that  gleamed  from  cones  of  jewelled  light  ? 


644  THE  DAYS  OF  GENESIS.  [Feb., 

Vast  is  thy  work,  O  God,  graded  thy  plan  ; 
But  high  organic  types  with  earliest  life  began. 

A  fifth  day  come  and  gone. 

But  the  mighty  Smith  wrought  on. 


DAY  VI. 

Said  God :  Open  thy  womb,  thou  barren  earth  ; 

To  beasts  that  walk,  and  things  that  creep,  give  birth. 

Rallied  red  dust  to  life.     "  Tis  good,"  the  Maker  said. 

Now  from  the  same  dull  mould  let  man  be  made. 

Nature  lacks  nothing  save  a  lawful  lord, 

And  let  him  bear  our  image.     At  the  word 

Stood  man  upon  his  heritage,  soil  and  soul. 

Child  of  the  soil,  'tis  his  the  earth  to  rule ; 

Child,  too,  of  heaven,  to  high  hopes  early  blessed, 

'Tis  his  to  work  with  God,  with  God  to  rest. 

Lo,  the  Smith's  labor  done! 

God's  Sabbath  has  begun. 


DAY  VII. 

Blest  is  the  Sabbath  day.     Hushed  is  the  hive 

Of  busy  life.     Now  the  still  heart  may  live. 

Vanish  the  phantom  forms  of  yesterday, 

And  unreal  living  to  true  life  gives  way. 

God  speaks  to  silent  hearts.     Ah !  look  and  see 

Beyond  this  near  horizon.     Let  eternity 

Tell  what  is  earth,  and  life,  and  man ;  and  why 

Creation  creeps  thus  low  beneath  a  lofty  sky  ; 

And  wherefore  that  slow  week  of  work  was  blessed  ; 

And  why  it  ended  in  a  Sabbath's  rest. 

O  Christ !  I  wait  the  dawn. 

Bring  my  slow  Sabbath  on  ! 


1 886.]    .  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  645 


SOLITARY  ISLAND. 

PART  FOURTH. 

CHAPTER   IX. 

A   CONSPIRACY. 

A  RUMOR  crept  through  political  circles  in  the  metropolis 
that  Florian  was  closing  up  his  legal  business  on  the  point  of 
retiring  to  a  more  congenial  field  of  labor.  It  was  only  a  rumor, 
and  before  it  could  be  verified  the  great  politician  had  utterly 
disappeared  from  the  sight  of  men.  A  reporter  was  knocking 
his  door  out  of  shape  for  an  interview  at  the  very  moment  which 
saw  him  approaching  Clayburg  on  the  evening  train.  Thus  the 
world  would  always  knock  at  the  doors  of  his  heart.  Never 
again  would  they  open  to  any  of  its  emissaries,  and  his  joy  had 
something  fierce  in  it  as  he  reflected  that,  God  willing,  he  was 
entering  Clayburg  from  the  south  for  the  last  time.  Behind 
him  in  the  distance  his  burnt  ships  were  smouldering — his  fame, 
his  power,  his  wealth,  his  memory,  his  love !  Men  would  never- 
more see  them  in  their  proud  beauty  sailing  rough  seas  towards 
glorious  harbors !  If  they  heard  of  him — and  he  prayed  they 
would  not — it  would  only  be  to  hear  of  his  conquests  over  him- 
self, and  probably  they  would  shrug,  and  wink,  and  smile,  and 
touch  their  foreheads  knowingly  to  insinuate  his  mental  weak- 
ness, a  fact  which  pleased  him  greatly  and  drew  a  smile  from 
him,  as  showing  how  often  the  world  mistook  wisdom  for  folly. 
He  jumped  from  the  train  before  it  reached  the  depot,  and  made 
his  way  across  the  fields  to  the  river.  It  was  now  the  first  week 
of  May,  and  the  ice  was  gone,  but  the  chilly  air  blew  sharply 
across  the  water,  and  the  shore  resounded  under  the  breakers. 
He  stood  on  the  hill  for  a  moment  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Linda's 
resting-place,  where  the  tall  monument  pierced  the  sky.  His  re- 
solution had  been  to  look  no  more  to  the  past,  to  leave  its  sad 
reflections  in  the  grave,  and  to  keep  his  eyes  on  the  future,  while 
his  thoughts  engaged  the  present  and  made  what  thev  could  out 
of  it.  At  this  moment  it  was  impossible.  Back  went  his  recol- 
lection to  the  hour  when  Linda  was  in  the  meridian  of  her  health 
and  beauty,  when  he  was  young  and  full  of  hope  and  unstained 
by  sin,  when  Ruth  was  his  by  love's  clear  title.  The  intervening 


646  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Feb.,, 

• 

years  were  like  a  nightmare — ignorance  at  thfc  beginning,  murder 
at  the  end,  and  mystery  everywhere.  Was  he  not  dreaming 
now  ? 

At  a  convenient  spot  along  the  shore  he  found  a  boat,  whose 
he  knew  not,  but  used  it  as  if  it  were  his  own.  It  was  a  long 
and  weary  pull  against  a  north  wind  until  he  reached  the  shelter 
of  the  channel ;  longer  and  wearier  across  Eel  Bay  to  the  anchor- 
age below  the  cabin ;  and  the  night  reminded  him  of  that  blus- 
tering, raw  evening  when  with  Ruth  he  had  first  set  foot  on  his 
island.  First  to  the  grave  and  then  to  the  house!  He  lit  the 
fire  and  drew  the  curtain,  fondled  Izaak  Walton,  and,  settling- 
close  to  the  log  blaze,  felt  himself  at  home.  His  home  !  He  was 
cut  off  from  the  world  at  last  and  for  ever.  His  next  flight  he 
hoped  would  be  heavenward. 

Ruth  quickly  received  word  of  his  return  and  the  events  pre- 
ceding it,  and  had  a  long  conversation  with  Pere  Rougevin  touch- 
ing the  new  hermit.  As  a  part  of  a  plan  which  she  had  con- 
ceived, and  the  pere  improved  and  perfected,  the  squire  was  in- 
formed of  Florian's  presence  in  Clayburg. 

"Where  is  he  stopping?"  said  the  old  man  doubtfully. 
"  What's  he  doing  here  at  this  time  of  the  year  ?  What's  he 
come  for?" 

"  He  is  living  by  himself  on  Solitary  Island,"  said  Ruth. 
"  For  the  rest  you  had  better  ask  himself." 

"  What ! "  murmured  the  squire,  and  he  said  a  queer  word 
under  his  breath,  "have  you  Jesuits  got  hold  of  him  again?" 

"  The  news  came  from  New  York,"  Ruth  replied  indifferent- 
ly;  "I  know  nothing  more  about  it,  papa." 

"  Well,  you'll  know  more  after  I  git  back,  girl.  Living  on 
Solitary  Island,  hey  ?  I'll  blow  that  island  to  the — cats.  It's 
made  more  trouble,  for  a  little  two-acre  mud-hen  that  it  is,  than 
old  Grindstone  !  Does  the  pere  know  of  this?" 

"  I  told  him,  papa." 

"  Of  course  you  did.  You  and  he  are  always  plotting  and 
planning.  He's  a  sneaky  Jesuit,  that  pere,  and  I'll  tell  him  so 
when  I  see  him.  And  mark  me,  Ruth,  don't  let  me  hear  of  you 
or  the  priest  visiting  that  boy  without  my  permission.  You're 
both  free  and  independent,  but,  by  the  shade  of  Mackenzie  !  I'm 
sheriff,  and  I'll  make  you  both  feel  it  if  I'm  disobeyed." 

"  We  have  not  the  faintest  desire,  papa,"  said  Ruth  meekly, 
"  to  see  Florian ;  but  we  fear  he  is  troubled,  and  we  know  that 
there  is  no  one  like  his  old  friend  to  help  him.  Unless  you  per- 
mit it,  we  shall  not  go  near  him." 


I886.J  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  647 

"  You're  a  deep  pair,"  said  the  distrustful  squire,  shaking  his 
leonine  head,  "  but  I'm  to  be  ahead  of  you,  anyhow." 

What  the  squire  feared  and  distrusted  he  scarcely  knew,  but 
he  was  ready  to  maintain  against  all  opponents  that  Florian's  pro- 
per place  at  any  time  was  New  York  City.  Not  to  be  there 
was,  in  his  eyes,  dangerous  for  so  prominent  a  politician.  He 
shook  hands  with  the  hermit  on  entering  the  cabin,  and  sat  down 
in  a  panic.  This  was  the  man  who  had  bought  the  ticket  weeks 
previous  in  Clayburg  station,  but  it  surely  was  not  Fiorian. 

"  What's  happened,  Flory  ? "  he  asked  in  a  hushed,  awed 
voice. 

"  I've  changed  my  method  of  living,"  said  Fiorian  gravely. 

"  I  should  think  you  had,"  murmured  the  squire  feebly,  "  but 
I  don't  get  the  hang  of  this  thing,  somehow." 

The  hermit  did  not  seem  to  care  much  for  his  dazed  condition, 
as  he  made  no  effort  to  relieve  it.  The  squire  shook  off  a  ten- 
dency to  faint  with  disgust. 

"  Flory,"  said  he  sternly,  "  I've  sworn  by  you  since  you  were 
born,  because  there  was  not  a  year  nor  an  hour  of  your  life  that 
I  couldn't  put  my  hand  down  and  say,  He  is  just  so.  I  can't  do 
that  now.  What's  come  over  you  ?  Why  are  you  here  instead 
of  in  New  York?  Who's  been  bewitching  you  ?  What  has  hap- 
pened to  you  ?  Good  God !  "  cried  he  in  an  excess  of  feeling, 
standing  up  to  hit  the  table  into  fragments  with  his  fist,  "  tell  me 
something,  or  I'll  think  you've  been  dead  and  come  to  life  again." 

The  crash  of  the  broken  furniture  sobered  him  for  an  instant. 
Fiorian  looked  with  slight  displeasure  at  the  ruin. 

"  There  is  no  need  of  excitement,"  he  said  soothingly,  and  the 
tone  cut  the  squire  to  the  heart.  He  sat  down  trembling,  al- 
most crying,  as  a  suspicion  of  Florian's  sanity  entered  his  head. 

"  I  was  dead,"  continued  Fiorian,  "  and  I  came  to  life  again. 
You  are  very  shrewd,  squire." 

He  paused,  and  Pendleton  waited  long  for  further  informa- 
tion, but  none  came.  The  hermit  sat  gazing  into  the  dying  em- 
bers of  a  fire,  and  at  times  moved  naturally  around  the  cabin,  ar- 
ranging odd  articles  or  brushing  them.  The  squire  stared  at  him 
with  a  feeling,  as  he  said  afterwards,  that  Rev.  Mr.  Buck  was 
pouring  ice-water  down  his  spine. 

"  I  suppose  it  surprises  you,  old  friend,"  Fiorian  said,  with 
sudden  cordiality,  "  but  I  have  come  here  to  live  for  good.  You 
know  who  lived  here  before  me.  I  am  not  better  than  he,  am  I  ? 
It  pleases  me  to  follow  him,  and  I  don't  think  the  world  has  any 
reason  to  make  a  fuss  over  it." 


648  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Feb., 

The  squire  considered  this  expression  of  a  future  policy  some 
moments,  and  then,  reverting  to  the  words,  "  I  am  not  better  than 
he,  am  I  ?  "  said  emphatically : 

"  Yes,  you  air,  Flory,  and  don't  you  forgit  it."  Here  a 
pause  while  he  gathered  himself  for  another  burst,  and  then, 
"  Better  than  him  !  Why,  what  was  he  more  than  a  slave  of  the 
Russian  Empire — with  all  respect  to  him  as  your  father — a  fellow 
that  didn't  dare  call  his  life  his  own  ?  And  you  are  an  American 
citizen,  a  governor,  almost,  of  the  greatest  State  in  the  Union,  and 
a  Clayburg  boy.  Flory,  this  looks  like  insanity.  Flory,  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  to  you.  I'm  groping.  Can't  you  look  and 
talk  for  one  minute  as  you  used  to,  Flory  ?  " 

This  appeal  made  no  further  impression  on  the  hermit  than  to 
illuminate  his  pallid  face  with  a  smile.  The  squire  made  a  few 
more  weak  attempts  upon  the  hermit's  defences,  and  then  rushed 
in  sudden  and  overpowering  disgust  for  the  door. 

"  I've  got  to  think,"  said  he,  "  and  I  can't  do  it  looking  at  a 
corpse." 

He  did  not  hear  Florian  laugh  as  he  banged  the  door — the  first 
laugh  that  had  passed  his  lips  since  the  night  of  Vladimir's  reve- 
lations. 

After  an  hour  he  returned  and  resumed  his  seat  with  a  deter- 
mination written  all  over  him. 

"  I  must  know  the  ins  and  outs  of  this  thing,"  he  said  quietly ; 
"and  I'm  going  to  put  some  questions  as  the  sheriff  of  Jefferson 
County.  What's  to  prevent  me  from  jailing  you?" 

"  Nothing,"  said  Florian,  "  unless  the  consequence — jailing 
yourself." 

"  Now,  Flory,  be  reasonable  and  answer  squarely.  Have  you 
thrown  up  politics  for  good  and  all  ?  " 

"  I  have,  squire." 

"  And  you  are  going  to  live  on  this  island  for  the  next  forty 
years  or  so?  " 

"  With  God's  will,  yes." 

"  H'm  !  that  smacks  of  the  Jesuits.  What's  the  reason  of  all 
this,  Flory  ?  Did  you  get  a  pious  stroke?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  was  that,"  said  Florian,  meditating,  as  if  a  new 
question  had  touched  his  soul. 

"  Is  it  in  the  papist  line,  lad,  somewhat  like  your  father  ?  I 
hoped  you  were  working  away  from  the  Jesuits?" 

A  faint  blush  spread  over  Florian's  face. 

"  I  am  nearer  to  the  Jesuits  than  ever,  squire,  but  not  as  near 
as  I  could  wish." 


1 8 86.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  649 

"  So  I  thought,"  said  the  squire,  shaking  his  head — "  so  I 
thought.  And  I  must  say  my  opinion  of  the  Jesuits  is  consider- 
ably smaller  than  it  was  an  hour  ago.'* 

He  reflected  a  few  moments,  and  saw  that  Florian's  curiosity 
was  aroused. 

"  Had  I  been  the  boss  of  the  Jesuit  corporation,"  said  he,  aim- 
ing eye  and  finger  at  Florian's  reason,  "  I  think  I  could  have  done 
a  smarter  bit  of  business  than  has  been  done  in  letting  you  bury 
yourself  out. of  sight.  When  you  got  your  pious  stroke  and 
came  to  me  to  have  it  utilized,  put  in  the  market,  so  to  speak,  I'd 
have  thought  in  this  way :  '  Here's  a  man  as  clever  as  the  devil, 
a  speaker,  a  wire-puller,  a  statesman ;  knows  the  ins  and  outs  of 
everything.  Here  we  are,  papists  without  much  standing,  with 
no  politicians  to  speak  of  on  our  side ;  nobody  to  look  after  us 
when  the  spoils  are  dividing  and  the  Methodists  are  gobbling 
everything ;  nobody  with  the  ears  of  the  nabobs  between  his  fin- 
ger and  his  thumb  to  tell  our  story  there.  Here's  a  man  dying 
to  get  such  a  job.'  And  I'd  give  it  to  you  and  send  you  out,  if 
you  did  nothing  else  than  educate  young  papists  to  do  as  you 
did,  Flory,"  said  the  squire  solemnly.  "  Could  you  let  me  have 
the  name  or  the  daguerreotype  of  the  boss  Jesuit  ?  I've  heard 
and  seen  a  great  many  fools  in  my  time,  but  I  put  him  down  as 
the  completest  fool  that  was  ever  born." 

It  was  an  impressive  speech  and  had  a  meaning  which  Florian 
seized  upon  quickly.  The  squire  might  have  retired  at  that  mo- 
ment with  honor.  His  mission  was  fully  accomplished,  and  he 
had  sent  home  like  an  arrow  a  thought  which  had  not  yet  broken 
upon  Florian's  mental  vision.  But  the  squire  buzzed  and  buzzed 
a  thousand  commonplaces  in  the  hermit's  ears  for  another  period, 
and  departed,  out  of  humor  with  himself  and  the  world,  only  when 
Florian  politely  showed  an  inclination  to  lead  him  down  to  his 
boat.  Ruth  rejoiced  when  she  had  heard  the  substance  of  the 
conversation  stormily  poured  from  his  lips.  His  one  sensible  ob- 
jection to  Florian's  idea  of  a  solitary  life  tickled  him  much,  and 
he  was  never  done  describing  the  effect  it  had  upon  Florian,  all 
unconscious  of  how  innocently  yet  successfully  he  had  played  the 
part  intended  for  him  by  those  scheming  Jesuits,  his  daughter 
and  the  priest.  In  fear  that  he  might  spoil  the  effect  which  he 
had  created,  Ruth  forbade  further  visits  to  the  island  until  the 
hermit  had  time  to  revolve  the  thought  in  his  mind. 

"  You  know  Flory,"  she  said  to  him — "  how  when  you  pre- 
sent him  a  new  idea  he  thinks  and  thinks  about  it  until  he  knows 
it  to  the  core.  Let  him  think  upon  it  for  a  week.  It  was  such  a 
very  good  idea." 


650  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Feb., 

T     "  Wasn't  it,  now  ?  "  said  the  gleeful  squire.     "  I'd  like  to  pre- 
sent him  with  one  more,  and  that  would  fetch  him." 

While  he  hugged  his  triumph  to  his  bosom,  Florian  had  time 
to  digest  his  lately-acquired  information,  and  the  way  was  paved 
for  an  assault  by  the  wary  Pere  Rougevin.  No  man  on  a  diplo- 
matic errand  could  look  less  concerned  than  the  priest,  and  his 
"  just-dropped-in  "  air  was  perfect.  He  was  well  informed  of  the 
squire's  late  interview  when  he  paid  his  casual  visit  to  the  island. 
The  hermit  was  not  suspicious,  but  the  pere  was  also  careful  to 
arouse  no  suspicion.  Florian's  manner  had  not  changed.  His 
thoughts,  however,  had  suffered  a  serious  invasion  upon  their 
routine,  and  he  was  wishing  that  the  priest  would  introduce  that 
subject  of  which  they  had  spoken  at  their  last  meeting.  Some- 
thing in  his  manner  must  have  caught  Pere  Rougevin's  quick 
eye,  or  he  would  not  have  made  his  adieus  and  walked  to  the  door 
so  confidently,  leaving  the  object  of  his  mission  in  the  shade. 
Florian  did  not  stop  him  as  he  went  out,  but  rose  up  and  fol- 
lowed him. 

"  Do  you  remember,"  said  the  hermit,  "  of  expressing  at  one 
time  a  doubt  as  to  my  vocation  to  this  solitary  life  ?  " 

u  I  do,"  said  the  priest  promptly,  "  and  I  have  my  doubts 
still,  but  I  thought  it  better  to  leave  this  work  to  yourself.'' 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  think  my  vocation  is 
doubtful?" 

"  Why,"  said  the  pere,  with  hesitation,  "on  general  principles 
we  need  in  this  country  more  of  the  active,  less  of  the  contem- 
plative, life.  With  regard  to  your  case,  we  need  such  a  man  as 
you  in  public  life.  You  can  see  that  without  further  expla- 
nation." 

"  I  have  thought  of  it,"  said  Florian,  and  there  was  a  touch  of 
sadness  in  his  voice  and  in  the  droop  of  his  head. 

"  Your  circumstances  are  so  peculiar  that  I  hardly  dared  de- 
cide upon  the  matter.  I  think  yet  it  is  best  to  trust  it  to  your- 
self, and  if  you  need  any  advice  on  particular  points  I  can  give  it 
to  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  hermit.  And  with  so  few  words  the 
work  was  done. 

The  pere  said  but  one  sentence  to  Ruth  when  she  met  him  at 
the  dock :  "  The  occasion  is  ripe  for  you,  miss,"  and  went  on  his 
way  smiling. 

Ruth  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining  the  squire  up  to  this 
point,  and  still  more  difficulty  in  persuading  him  to  accept  of  her 
company  on  the  proposed  visit  to  Florian.  He  declared  he  had 
no  confidence  in  her  since  she  became  a  Jesuit,  did  not  know  but 


i886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  651 

that  she  would  intrigue  to  keep  his  boy  on  the  island,  and  had  a 
general  feeling  against  her  saying  or  doing  anything  in  so  deli- 
cate an  affair.  Ruth  vowed  solemnly  that  her  only  desire  and 
aim  was  to  restore  to  a  loving  and  grieving  and  injured  heart 
the  one  man  who  could  bring  peace  to  it,  and  sealed  her  de- 
claration with  an  all-conquering  kiss  on  the  rough,  paternal  face. 

"  You  know  what'll  fetch  me  every  time,"  said  the  squire  ; 
"and  since  there's  another  woman  in  the  pie,  come  along." 

Ruth  could  hear  her  heart  beat  as  she  approached  the  cabin 
above  the  boulder.  What  would  the  final  result  be?  They 
could  not  keep  from  Florian  the  secret  of  their  assault  upon  his 
determination  to  do  penance  as  a  solitary.  Would  the  knowledge 
drive  him  into  obstinacy  ?  She  did  not  yet  know  the  extent  of 
the  change  which  had  taken  place  in  him.  Florian  opened  the 
door  for  them. 

"  If  your  visitors  are  all  as  persistent  as  we  are,"  said  she, 
smiling,  "you  will  not  have  much  of  your  solitude." 

"  I  fear  I  am  not  to  have  much  of  it  anyway,"  he  replied  in 
such  a  tone  as  made  it  hard  to  tell  his  feelings.  "  Your  father, 
here,  has  disturbed  me  on  that  point,  and  Pere  Rougevin  has 
almost  settled  it  that  I  shall  go  out  into  the  world  and  be  a  her- 
mit there." 

"  The  best  thing  the  pere  ever  did  in  his  life,"  said  the  squire. 

"  Which  would  be  very  hard  for  you,  Florian,"  said  Ruth  with 
a  gentle  sympathy  that  woke  him  at  once,  while  the  squire  was 
resolved  into  a  thunder-cloud  at  this  treachery. 

"  Ruth,  you  tell  me  what  to  do,"  Florian  said  humbly  and 
submissively. 

"  It  is  easy  enough  to  endure  this  solitude,"  she  continued  ; 
"  it  may  be  beautiful  to  certain  natures.  But  to  be  alone  in  the 
busy  world  is  very  trying.  Of  course  duty  makes  the  hard 
things  easy  and  sweet.  That  would  be  your  only  consolation, 
Florian." 

"  It  is  this  way  with  me,  Ruth,"  he  began  eagerly,  and  mak- 
ing no  account  of  the  squire :  "  I  have  learned  to  love  this  place, 
this  life,  as  I  never  loved  anything  in  this  world.  You  know 
why.  And  what  I  was  is  such  a  horror  and  shame  to  me  that  to 
return  to  its  scenes  is  like  death.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  and  to 
your  father  and  to  the  pere  that  I  ought  not  throw  aside  a  power 
which  could  certainly  be  used  for  the  general  good,  merely  to 
satisfy  myself." 

"  And  you  ought  not,  that  is  true — " 

"  That's  what  /  maintain — that's   what   I've   maintained   all' 


652  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Feb., 

along ! "  shouted  the  squire.  "  Flory,  if  you  do  otherwise  you 
must  write  your  name  beside  the  boss  Jesuit's." 

"  Now,  papa!"  said  Ruth,  bringing  the  boiling  volcano  down 
to  a  harmless  simmer.  "  You  ought  not,  Florian,  if  there  would 
be  no  danger  to  yourself  in  holding  a  power  which  was  to  you 
so  strong  a  temptation." 

"  I  would  take  and  hold  it  under  protest,"  he  replied  confi- 
dently. "  I  value  it  no  more  than  a  straw.  I  cannot  disguise 
from  myself  that  hereafter  I  can  but  despise  it.  O  Ruth  !  is 
there  no  middle  course  ?  Yet  why  do  I  ask  ?  I  have  set  myself 
to  do  that  which  is  hardest.  Let  me  take  the  worst  with  joy." 

Ruth's  face  kindled  into  enthusiasm. 

"  Well,  there  is  a  middle  course,"  she  said  triumphantly.  "  You 
can  remain  in  your  solitude  and  yet  retain  your  interest  in  the 
world." 

Both  gentlemen  uttered  exclamations  of  delight  or  rage,  and 
turned  upon  her — the  hermit  hopefully,  the  squire  in  despair. 

"  Have  you  forgotten  Frances  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,"  and  he  drew  away  as  if  hurt.  "  She  has  justly  forgot- 
ten me.  I  saw  her.  It  is  all  over." 

"  You  saw  her  mother,  Florian.  If  you  had  seen  herself  you 
would  not  have  been  in  trouble  so  long.  It  is  not  all  over.  That 
dear  girl  is  as  faithful  to  you  as  if  you  never  wronged  her.  She 
let  her  mother  speak  first,  as  obedience  required;  and  she  was 
silent,  as  became  her  modesty.  But  she  has  never  lost  her  faith 
in  you  when  we  all  trembled,  and  she  loves  you  still." 

This  picture  of  feminine  devotion  drew  the  tears  to  Ruth's 
eyes. 

"  Then,  besides,  you  were  half-glad  the  test  of  coming  here  to 
live  was  not  to  be  laid  before  her.  She  would  have  followed  you 
to  a  tent,  you  foolish  fellow.  Florian,  where  are  your  wits  ?  See 
that  hill  yonder?  Build  there  a  pretty  villa,  and  bring  Frances 
to  preside  over  it.  There  is  no  reason  why  a  great  politician 
should  not  live  among  the  islands  and  rule  from  this  solitude. 
You  need  not  practise  law.  And  so  your  temptations  are  mini- 
raized,  your  influence  is  preserved,  and  your  solitude  is  saved  to 
you." 

It  was  a  sight  to  see  the  squire's  face  glow  as  Ruth  reached 
her  climax,  and  when  the  last  word  was  uttered  he  gave  a  cheer 
that  rattled  the  loose  articles  in  the  room. 

"  You  can  think  over  it,"  said  she,  seeing  that  the  squire's 
emotion  jarred  upon  him.  "  These  things  cannot  be  done  hastily. 
If  it  be  God's  will  that  you  stay  here—" 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  653 

"  More  Jesuitism  !  "  growled  the  squire. 

"  You  must  do  so.  If  duty  points  another  road  to  you,  my 
advice  will  occur  to  you  as  an  easy  way  out  of  the  difficulty. 
You  will  not  forget  Frances?"  she  added  wistfully. 

"  I  can  never  forget  her,"  he  replied.  "  I  thank  you  for  your 
visit,  Ruth.  In  a  little  while  I  can  decide,  if  I  have  not  already 
decided.  Squire,  not  another  word,  or  I  stay  here  for  ever." 

Pendleton  saw  dimly  that  few  words  and  a  speedy  departure 
were  two  important  points  in  Ruth's  programme,  and  for  a  won- 
der he  tucked  his  daughter  under  his  arm  and,  with  a  brief  fare- 
well, led  her  down  to  the  boat. 


CHAPTER   X. 
THE  RED   CURTAIN. 

CLAYBURG  was  "  completely  upsot,"  as  a  native  expressed  it, 
by  the  publication  of  the  banns  of  marriage  between  Paul  Rossi- 
ter  and  Ruth  Pendieton.  It  had  "  reckoned  "  on  her  remaining 
an  old  maid;  it  "admired"  what  the  squire  would  do  now;  it 
"  swowed  "  its  astonishment  over  and  over  for  two  weeks,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  the  fact  was  accomplished  in  white  satin  and 
tulle,  and  a  great  part  of  the  town  invited  to  assist  in  the  festivi- 
ties. Parker  C.  Lynch  was  ex-officio  the  master  of  the  feast.  In 
full  morning-dress,  gloved  and  collared  to  perfection,  this  erratic 
representative  of  the  bluest  blood  of  Ireland  was  a  fine-looking 
gentleman  on  the  model  of  an  English  squire,  and,  when  he  posed 
or  walked  about  under  certain  eyes  of  the  assembly,  showed  that 
he  had  not  forgotten  his  earlier  training.  The  squire  could  not 
restrain  his  astonishment  or  refuse  his  admiration.  In  his  suit  of 
armor  he  was  as  stiff  as  a  post,  growled  and  swore  secretly  at 
intervals,  and  looked  anxiously  for  the  opportunity  to  steal  away 
and  disrobe  himself. 

"  Where  did  you  get  the  knack  of  wearing  this  confounded 
rig?"  said  he  to  Peter.  "Can  you  see  those  tails  of  mine?  I 
feel  like  a  swallow  ;  I  don't  know  what  minute  I  am  going  to 
fly." 

"  Ye're  a  ground-swallow,"  replied  Peter,  with  a  grin  and  a 
drinking  gesture  as  if  swallowing  a  hot  liquid.  "  Ye're  cavernous, 
squire.  Faith,  ye  look  well  for  an  old  country  buck  that  knows 
so  little,  and  ye  carry  the  odd  garments  neatly." 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  do  it  ?  "  said  the  squire,  awe-stricken. 


654  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Feb., 

"  It  was  born  there,"  Peter  said—"  the  coat  I  mean.  I  had  it 
on  when  I  was  born.  D'ye  notice  the  shape  of  me  legs  ?  Ye 
can  never  wear  a  swallow-tail  unless  you  are  shaped  so." 

The  squire  looked  down  mournfully  at  a  fearful  waste  of  thigh- 
bone and  flesh  on  his  particular  person. 

"  I  must  look  awful,"  said  he  sadly.  "  Couldn't  we  get  away, 
Peter,  and  get  rid  of  these  togs?  There's  a  neat  little  room  up- 
stairs, with  a  red  curtain  across  a  bay-window  and  a  bed-room 
opening  off  the  other  side,  where  I  keep  my  private  cellar — " 

"  Your  midnight  cellar  you  mean,"  Peter  broke  in,  with  a 
deep,  silent  laugh.  "  All  right,  me  b'y  ;  hang  on  to  your  guests 
for  a  little  longer,  and  when  I  give  the  signal  make  for  the 
room." 

Not  the  least  distinguished  of  the  guests  was  Mrs.  Buck  and 
her  minister,  as  faultless  in  costume  as  of  old.  The  good  lady 
had  been  .somewhat  left  in  the  shade  since  the  discovery  of  Flo- 
rian's  real  parentage,  and  her  vanity  had  received  a  deep  wound 
in  being  cut  off  so  roughly  from  her  famous  brother.  Mr.  Buck 
alone  could  have  told  her  severe  disappointment  at  not  having 
been  the  Princess  Linda,  and  her  ravings  over  the  possibility  of 
Mrs.  Winifred  having  put  Linda  in  her  place.  These  weaknesses 
Sara  kept  from  the  world  prudently.  She  was  now  quite  a  mo- 
ther in  Israel.  Five  blooming  and  clever  children  clung  on  occa- 
sions to  her  voluminous  skirts,  and  her  matronly  figure,  with  its 
still  coquettish  movements,  was  almost  charming.  Her  faith  was 
wholly  dead.  She  never  was  troubled  with  a  single  longing  for 
the  truths  on  which  she  had  been  fed,  nor  with  a  single  scruple 
as  to  her  apostasy.  In  being  liberal  enough  to  consider  Catho- 
lics on  a  par  with  Episcopalians  and  in  despising  the  sects  she 
considered  herself  doctrinally  safe.  Poor  Sara !  The  day  was 
not  far  distant  when  the  conscience  so  peacefully  slumbering 
would  rouse  itself  to  make  her  careless  life  most  miserable  !  She 
seized  upon  the  squire  at  a  most  critical  moment.  Peter  had  just 
winked  at  him  knowingly,  and  then  disappeared  into  the  upper 
rooms. 

"  Aren't  you  happy,  squire  ?"  buzzed  Sara  in  his  ears.  "  Who 
would  have  thought,  knowing,  as  we  do,  all  that  has  happened, 
that  this  day  would  ever  have  corne?  Who  is  Mr.  Rossiter? 
Such  a  fascinating  man  !  How  is  it  that  he  wasn't  gobbled  up 
by  a  handsomer  woman  than  our  Ruth?" 

"  Because  in  New  York,  where  there  aren't  any  women,"  said 
the  sarcastic  squire,  "  he  didn't  see  any  one  handsomer.  If  he  had 
come  to  Clayburg  first,  where  the  women  are  as  thick  as  sar- 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  655 

dines,  Ruth  wouldn't  have  had  a  chance.     Will  you  excuse  me, 
Mrs.  Buck?     1  see— " 

"  No,  I  won't  excuse  you,"  said  Sara,  laughing.  "  I  must  tell 
you  something  about  Dunse.  You  know — " 

But  the  squire  never  heard  a  word  of  the  something,  for  his 
eyes  were  fastened  on  Peter,  who  had  returned  to  the  guests  with 
a  sheepish  expression  of  countenance,  and  who  now  raised  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling  and  shook  his  head  to  signify  that  he  could 
not  enter  the  room.  Mrs.  Buck  had  finished  her  narration. 

"  Wasn't  it  ridiculous  of  Dunse?"  she  said. 

"  He's  an  idiot,"  the  squire  replied,  connecting  the  words  with 
Peter's  pantomime.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am  ;  I  referred  to 
Mr.  Carter.  You  must  excuse  me  now,  for  really  I  am  wanted 
in  another  part  of  the  house." 

The  squire  sought  out  Peter,  and  heard  his  report  of  the  pri- 
vate room  with  the  red  curtain  and  the  private  cellar. 

"  I  couldn't  get  beyond  the  door,"  said  he. 

"  Why,"  growled  the  squire,  "  what  was  to  hinder?" 

"  The  door  was  locked,  to  be  sure.  I'm  not  immaterial, 
squire." 

If  the  door  was  locked  the  squire  had  a  key,  and  he  tossed 
the  door  in  on  its  hinges  scornfully  and  entered  the  room.  The 
red  curtain  across  the  bay-window  was  shaking  in  the  wind,  and 
the  squire  was  about  to  close  the  window  behind  it  when  Ruth 
had  him  by  the  arm.  ^ 

"  Now,  papa,"  said  she — the  elegant  Peter  mimicked  her  with 
a  chuckle — "  this  room  is  my  room  for  to-day.  If  you  look  for 
a  nice,  quiet  corner,  go  into  the  room  over  the  kitchen." 

"  There's  nothing  to  drink  there,"  said  he. 

"  I  move  we  hold  our  ground,  then,"  said  Peter. 

f  But  the  old  gentlemen  were  forced  to  yield  to  Ruth's  demand, 

and  finally  made  themselves  comfortable  in  the  appointed  room, 

as  became  barbarians  fond  of  undress  uniforms  and  cards  and 

punch.     Paul  followed  his  wife  to  the  room  with  the  red  curtain. 

"  You  have  everything  ready  ?  "  said  he. 

"  Your  own  plays  could  not  show  a  better  situation,"  she  re- 
plied. "  It  has  been  a  weary  time  until  this  day,  husband.  I  have 
never  felt  easy  in  ten  years  until  this  hour.  If  Linda  were  only 
here  to  share  our  joy !  " 

"  I  don't  think  she  cares,"  said  Paul,  looking  at  a  copy  of  that 
painting  which  had  once  hung  in  Florian's  room — Linda  waving 
her  handkerchief  from  the  yacht.  "  Your  own  selfishness,  Ruth, 
prompts  that  wish." 


656  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  [Feb., 

Ruth  acknowledged  the  charge,  and  then,  dismissing  him  to 
the  guests,  explored  the  space  behind  the  red  curtain.  There 
was  considerable  running  to  and  from  that  room  during  the  after- 
noon, and  every  attempt  made  by  the  squire  to  take  possession — for 
he  was  not  satisfied  with  his  allotted  room — was  steadily  resisted. 

"  Why  isn't  Fiory  here?  "  the  squire  asked  frequently. 

"  Give  him  time,  papa.  These  great  men  don't  come  and  go 
like  common  people." 

"  Common  people  !     I'm  sheriff  of  the  county  !  " 

"  Don't  be  quarrelsome.  When  Florian  comes  you  shall  be 
told  in  time  to  see  him  and  hear  him." 

"  Why  can't  I  go  into  that  room  ?  " 

"  Because  Ruth  says  you  cannot." 

"  Let  me  see  just  b*ehind  the  red  curtain." 

"  There's  nothing  behind  the  curtain,  papa." 

"  What  is  it  shut  all  the  time  for?" 

"  Now,  papa,  go  away  and  be  reasonable  or  I  shall  punish 
you.  I  have  a  secret  which  is  to  be  mine  all  day.  At  night  you 
shall  all  know  it." 

"  Gimme  my  punishment  now,"  urged  the  squire,  and,  after 
pulling  his  whiskers,  she  dismissed  him  with  a  kiss. 

At  twilight  the  guests  were  gone,  and  the  squire  and  Peter 
were  peacefully  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  the  day's  excitement. 
The  poet  and  his  bride  stood  together  on  the  veranda,  facing  the 
calm  waters  of  the  river,  her  head  resting  on  his  shoulder  and 
her  deep  eyes  watching  the  stars  in  the  cool,  far-reaching  sky. 
Their  thoughts  were  too  overpowering  for  utterance. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  she  sighed  occasionally — "  all  over."  And  he 
said  nothing.  "  One  effect  of  a  steady  life  in  these  old  villages 
is  peculiar.  The  years  seem  as  days.  I  am  not  ten  days  older 
in  thought  than  when  Linda  used  to  come  down  that  road — O 
my  dear  little  princess  ! — waving  her  hands  and  singing  to  me  a 
long  way  off.  All  the  nights  like  these  seem  as  one,  there  have 
been  so  many  of  them." 

"  And  there  are  to  be  so  many  of  them,"  said  the  poet. 

"  Let  us  hope  so,  dear,"  said  she.  "  With  all  the  suffering  and 
uncertainty  in  the  past  there  has  been  more  beauty  in  it  than 
ugliness,  more  good  than  evil.  Even  poor  Florian  will  find  cer- 
tain and  unexpected  rest  to-night." 

"  There  are  two  figures  coming  down  the  road,  Ruth.  It  is 
time  for  Florian  to  be  here." 

"  Do  you  meet  them,  and  then  send  Florian  up  to  the  room," 
said  she.  "  Tell  him  I  would  like  to  see  him." 


1 886.]  SOLITARY  ISLAND.  657 

Pere  Rougevin  and  the  hermit  congratulated  the  poet  where 
he  stood,  and  then  Fiorian  proceeded  alone  to  the  apartment 
where  Rath,  all  aglow  with  delight,  awaited  him.  It  was  the 
room  with  the  red  curtain. 

"  Accept  my  best  wishes  for  your  future  happiness,"  said  he  ; 
"  the  present  is  all  your  own." 

She  looked  at  him  with  satisfaction.  His  dress  was  the  usual 
neat-fitting  citizen's  costume,  his  hair  had  been  cut  and  his  beard 
trimmed.  Fiorian,  subdued  and  pale,  was  very  much  himself 
again. 

"  I  conclude  from  your  appearance,"  said  Ruth,  "  that  con- 
science has  again  decided  against  a  solitary  life  for  you." 

"  It  is  settled,"  he  said,  "  that  I  am  still  to  remain  in  the  poli- 
tical world — most  of  the  time  here  ;  as  it  may  need  in  New  York." 

"  You  are  very  sad  over  it.  Have  you  forgotten  my  via 
media  ?  I  flattered  myself  you  would  act  on  that  immediately." 

"  How  gladly  would  I,  if  it  rested  only  with  myself !  But, 
Ruth,  put  yourself  in  my  place.  You  know  the  motive  I  had  in 
deserting  Frances.  I  have  no  courage  that  would  send  me  to 
the  feet  of  one  I  have  so  wronged  to  ask  a  great  favor." 

"  How  is  it  ever  to  be  done?"  said  Ruth  in  pretended  de- 
spair. "  Frances  has  forgiven  you,  will  have  no  other  but  you, 
waits  for  you,  weeps  for  you.  She  is  not  bold  enough,  and  you 
are  excessively  humble.  This  will  never  do.  There  should  be 
no  go-betweens,  yet  I  cannot  see  how  it  is  to  be  avoided  if  you 
will  not  speak  for  yourself." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  happiness  for  me,"  he  said,  "  to  have 
the  support  and  sympathy  of  one  so  tenderly  loved.  Yet  you 
know  her  bringing-up.  You  see  the  life  that  awaits  me  and 
those  who  attach  themselves  to  my  fortunes.  How  can  I  ask  her 
to  banish  herself  to  Solitary  Island  ?  " 

"  Without  you  she  considers  the  world  a  desert.  With  you 
Sahara  would  shame  Grindstone." 

"  You  leave  me  no  escape,"  he  protested. 

"  No,  you  are  trapped  to-night,"  she  said,  exultant.  "  Do  you 
see  that  red  curtain,  Fiorian  ?  "  He  looked  at  the  object.  "  If  I 
were  to  tell  you  that  by  pulling  it  aside  you  would  find  there  the 
last  wish  of  your  heart,  the  or\e  circumstance  needed  to  make 
your  life  complete,  would  you  run  out  the  door  to  your  island  ?" 

"  Have  your  words  a  meaning?"  said  he  in  a  tremulous 
voice. 

She  rose  and  pulled  aside  the  mysterious  curtain,  and  there 
VOL.  XLII.— 42 


658  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  I.  [Feb., 

in  the  space  beyond  was  Frances,  blushing  and  paling  and  trem- 
bling in  doubt  and  joy. 

"  No  sibyl's  vision  can  surpass  the  reality  of  this,"  said  Ruth, 
as  with  a  laugh  of  hysterical  strength  she  fluttered  from  the  room, 
leaving  Florian  on  his  knees  beside  the  trembling  and  laithful 
woman  whose  hands  he  kissed  with  reverence  and  love. 


THE   END. 


EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  I. 

SOME  time  ago  the  learned  Dr.  Faust  deploringly  remarked  in 
one  of  our  leading  publications  that  "  our  English  Catholic  litera- 
ture is  sadly  deficient  in  historical  works  illustrating  the  differ- 
ent phases  and  epochs  of  the  German  revolt  of  three  hundred 
years  ago."  In  order  to  explain  the  rise  and  growth  of  the  Pro- 
testant schism,  even  Catholic  writers  throw  the  blame  on  a  uni- 
versally corrupted  clergy  and  laity,  and  heedlessly  repeat  the 
old  calumnies  of  Protestant  historians,  thus  unconsciously  de- 
faming the  great  men  of  that  unhappy  period.  Dr.  Faust  mildly 
calls  this  "  a  kind  of  lazy  acquiescence  in  the  more  popular  form 
of  belief." 

Among  the  names  which  are  held  for  opprobrium  by  non- 
Catholic  or  by  indiscreet  and  acquiescent  Catholic  writers 
stands  foremost  that  of  Emperor  Maximilian  I.  We  are  not  sur- 
prised, but  rather  prepared,  to  hear  a  Protestant  partial  historian, 
the  bigoted  Robertson,  in  his  history  of  Charles  V.  speak  of 
Maximilian  with  contempt,  as  "a  prince  conspicuous  neither  for 
his  virtues,  nor  his  power,  nor  his  abilities  "  ;  but  we  sincere- 
ly regret  to  find  one  of  our  great  English  Catholic  historians  * 
alluding  slightingly  to  the  great  emperor,  placing  his  noble  char- 
acter in  a  questionable  light.  Maximilian  was,  in  his  time,  the 
pride  of  the  German  nation,  and  will  be  at  all  times  the  boast  of 
the  Catholic  house  of  Hapsburg.  Johannes  Janssen,  the  highest 
living  authority  on  the  historical  questions  of  the  Reformation 
period,  has  successfully  vindicated  and  permanently  established 
the  moral  greatness  of  Maximilian. 

Emperor  Maximilian  I.,  son  of  Frederic  III.  and  Eleanore  of 

j*  S.  H.  Burke,  Historical  Portraits  of  the  Tudor  Dynasty,  i.  n8,  119. 


I886.J  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  /.  659 

Portugal,  was  born  in  1459.  In  his  early  youth  he  gave  but  in- 
sufficient proofs  of  even  ordinary  mental  abilities,  and  was  often 
flogged  by  his  masters  on  account  of  a  deficient  knowledge  of 
his  lessons.  Soon,  however,  this  dulness  was  succeeded  by  rare 
brightness  of  mind  and  astonishing  eagerness  for  study. 

During  the  siege  of  Vienna,  as  a  boy,  he  experienced  the 
fickleness  and  instability  of  fortune,  and  was  forced  to  beg  his 
bread  to  save  himself  from  starvation.  "  He  alone,"  Maximilian 
afterwards  said  to  the  Duke  of  Saxony,  "  understands  the  wants 
of  the  people  who  himself  has  suffered  from  want." 

Charles  of  Burgundy  became  acquainted  with  the  young 
prince  at  Treves  in  1473,  and  was  so  charmed  with  his  noble 
qualities  that,  on  his  return  to  the  court  at  Ghent,  he  gave  such 
glowing  accounts  of  the  rising  young  Hapsburger  that  the  heart 
of  his  only  daughter,  Mary,  was  smitten,  and  four  years  later  she 
became  the  happy  wife  of  Maximilian.  By  this  his  first  mar- 
riage he  secured  Burgundy  to  his  house.  "  Poorer  match  there 
could  not  have  been  for  the  richest  heiress  of  Christendom,"  says 
Gardiner,  in  his  preface  to  Letters  and  Papers  illustrative  of  the 
Reigns  of  Richard  III.  and  Henry  VI I. ,  admitting,  however,  that 
Maximilian's  talents  were  "  a  real  accession  "  to  the  strength  of 
Burgundy.  The  emperor  was  married  a  secon-d  time  to  Bianca 
Maria  of  Naples  in  1494. 

Maximilian's  appearance  was  truly  majestic  and  attractive, 
commanding  at  once  respect  and  admiration.  His  soft  eyes,  re- 
flecting his  kind-heartedness,  could  yet  blaze  with  angry  fire  in 
excitement  and  pierce  to  the  heart  of  the  guilty.  He  is  said  to 
have  once  stood  before  a  cage  of  lions,  and  by  the  sternness  of 
his  look  to  have  kept  the  ferocious  beasts  in  subjection.  When 
he  made  his  solemn  entry  into  the  Flemish  city  of  Ghent  to  meet 
his  fair  bride,  Mary  of  Burgundy,  he  won  the  hearts  of  all 
lookers-on  by  his  chivalrous  and  graceful  bearing.  Mounted  on 
a  large,  brown  steed,  glittering  in  a  silver  cuirass,  his  profuse 
golden  locks  bound  together  by  a  coronet  of  pearls  and  precious 
stones,  he  presented  a  dazzling  picture  of  romance  and  chivalry. 
An  eye-witness  to  this  scene,  the  chamberlain  William  von 
Hoverde,  wrote  on  this  occasion  :  "  Oh  !  what  a  magnificent  ap- 
pearance. Maximilian  is  so  youthfully  fresh,  so  manfully  strong, 
so  resplendent  of  fortune,  that  I  know  not  what  to  admire, 
whether  his  blooming  youth  or  his  strength  or  his  fortune. 
One  must  love  him,  this  brilliant  man."  "  Yes,  one  must  have 
loved  him,"  continues  Janssen,  "  whether  seen  in  simple  gray 
hunting-coat,  'neath  Alpine  hat,  equipped  with  climbing-spikes, 


66o  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  I.  [Feb., 

cross-bow,  and  bugle-horn,  scaling  precipices  to  climb  to  the 
highest  peaks  of  the  Tyrolese  mountains  ;  or  engaging  in  familiar 
talk  with  a  passing  peasant ;  or  in  social  pleasure  at  Frankfurt 
or  at  Ulm,  jesting  in  humorous  conversation  with  the  burghers 
and  the  burghers'  daughters,  and  not  taking  it  ill  if  some  patri- 
cian lady,  hearing  of  his  intended  early  departure,  had  hidden  his 
boots  and  his  spurs,  and  kept  him  for  another  day  to  lead  the 
morrow's  dance  with  the  queen  of  the  feast." 

A  model  soldier  and  excellent  commander,  Maximilian  pos- 
sessed a  courage  approaching  temerity.  He  cheerfully  shared 
the  trials  of  war  with  his  army,  and  bore  with  apparent  ease  the 
fatigues  and  hardships  of  camp-life.  He  personally  engaged  in 
battle,  and  often  showed  where  cannon-shot  flew  thickest  a  des- 
perate and  almost  presumptuous  boldness.  Many  of  his  heroic 
adventures  and  knightly  feats  at  tournaments,  clothed  in  poetry, 
still  live  on  the  tongue  of  the  South  Germans  and  call  forth  the 
admiration  of  brave  hearts. 

During  the  Diet  of  Worms  in  1495  a  celebrated  French 
chevalier,  Claude  de  Barre,  unexpectedly  appeared  in  the  city, 
hung  up  his  shield  on  the  outer  wall  of  his  inn,  and  proclaimed 
by  a  herald  that  he  was  ready  to  engage  hand-to-hand  any  Ger- 
man who  had  courage  sufficient  to  tilt  spears  with  him.  This 
bold  and  insolent  defiance  received  at  first  no  response.  Maxi- 
milian then,  to  save  the  German  name,  took  up  the  challenge,  and, 
unknown  to  any  one,  had  a  shield  put  up  beside  the  Frenchman's, 
and  had  it  proclaimed  that  a  German  knight  would  sustain  the 
contest.  On  the  appointed  day  Maximilian,  in  the  armor  of  a 
simple  knight,  presented  himself  in  the  arena.  He  fought  like  a 
lion,  was  slightly  wounded,  but  finally  unhorsed  and  vanquished 
the  Frenchman.  Great  was  the  joy  and  grateful  admiration  of 
the  people ;  but  when  the  mysterious  knight  threw  back  his 
visor,  then  the  wildest  applause  and  shouts  of  unbounded  enthu- 
siasm greeted  the  emperor. 

Maximilian  is  justly  called  the  last  of  the  knights,  for  with 
him  the  chivalric  spirit  disappeared.  Passionately  fond  of  the 
chamois  chase,  he  met  with  many  adventures,  which  were  per- 
petuated in  verse  and  song. 

As  he  was  the  most  chivalrous  and  warlike  prince  in  Christen- 
dom, so  he  surpassed  ail  his  princely  contemporaries  in  learn- 
ing and  culture.  He  spoke  fluently  German,  Flemish,  Latin, 
French,  Walloon,  Italian,  and  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the 
English  and  Spanish  languages.  The  Court  Library  at  Vienna 
preserves  many  manuscripts  by  Emperor  Maximilian.  They  show 


1 886.]  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  I.  66 1 

his  vast  erudition  and  singular  scholarship,  and  are  essays  on  di- 
versified subjects — on  theology,  architecture,  genealogy,  mili- 
tary art,  agriculture,  gardening,  armoring,  the  chase,  cooking, 
etc.*  His  literary  skill  and  taste  are  manifested  in  his  two  poeti- 
cal works,  Theuerdank  and  Weisskunig.  The  former  is  an  alle- 
gorical poem  conceived  by  the  ^emperor,  and  for  the  most  part 
written  by  himself;  it  was  prepared  for  the  press  and  orna- 
mented with  interesting  wood-cuts  by  the  provost  of  St.  Alban's, 
in  Mayence — Melchior  Pfinzig.  The  Theuerdank  is  a  sort  of  auto- 
biography of  the  emperor,  whilst  the  Weisskunig  is  an  allegorical 
prose-writing  relating  the  notable  deeds  of  his  public  life. 

Thus  both  a  scholar  and  an  author,  and  imbued  with  a  love 
for  learning,  Maximilian  gave  a  vigorous  impulse  to  the  arts  and 
sciences,  and  was  deservedly  styled  by  his  contemporaries  "  fa- 
ther of  the  arts  and  sciences."  Scholars  and  poets  were  his 
welcome  guests  and  enjoyed  his  constant  patronage.  Pierre  de 
Froissart,  the  celebrated  Frenchman,  visited  Vienna  during  the 
reign  of  Maximilian,  and  was  astonished  at  the  activity  of  the 
university  students,  especially  at  their  easy  access  to  the  impe- 
rial court,  and  at  the  intimate  and  hearty  relation  which  existed 
between  Maximilian  and  men  of  science.  "  The  emperor,"  he 
wrote  back  to  France,  "  not  only  calls  them  his  friends,  but  treats 
them  as  such.  It  appears  to  me  that  he  seeks  their  company  to 
be  edified  by  them.  There  is  certainly  no  other  sovereign  who 
is  willing  to  be  instructed  by  men  of  more  learning,  and  who 
himself  is  of  so  rich  a  mind  that  he  instructs  by  his  very  question- 
ing." 

He  was  surrounded  by  men  of  the  highest  culture.  Sebas- 
tian Sprenz,  a  distinguished  Hebrew  scholar  and  mathematician, 
was  his  secretary  ;  Matthew  Lang,  Bishop  of  Gurk,  afterwards 
Archbishop  of  Salzburg  and  cardinal,  was  his  chancellor.  His 
efforts  in  behalf  of  German  historical  literature  were  invaluable  : 
in  the  interest  of  history  he  sent  scholars  to  various  abbeys  and 
convents  to  ransack  their  libraries  in  search  of  old  manuscripts ; 
at  his  request  and  by  his  aid  Ladislaus  Stabius  gathered  together 
material  for  a  genealogical  history  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg. 
To  carry  out  a  scientific  project  Maximilian  once  pawned  a 
costly  jewel.  John  Stabius,  Jacob  Manlius,  Andrew  Striborius, 
John  Cuspinian,f  all  men  of  the  highest  literary  fame,  travelled 

*  Cf.  Geschichte  der  Kaiserl.  KoenigL  Hofbibliothek  zu  Wien,  von  Ig.  Fr.  Edlen  von 
Mosel,  pp.  17-22. 

t  In  a  house  at  Vienna,  believed  to  have  been  inhabited  by  Cuspinian,  is  to  be  found  on  a 
stone  tablet  the  following  inscription  :  "  Imp.  Caes.  Aug.  Maximilianus  Frederici  III.  fil.  Archidux 


662  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  /.  [Feb., 

abroad  in  the  interest  of  science  at  the  expense  of  the  generous 
emperor.  Among  his  intimates  were  the  gifted  abbot,  John 
Trithemius,  and  Conrad  Peutinger,  whom  he  engaged  and  en- 
couraged in  many  historical  publications.  He  bestowed  the 
dignity  of  the  laureateship  on  the  Rhenish  poet,  Henry  Glarea- 
nus,  ennobled  the  celebrated  humanist,  John  Reuchlin,  and  gave 
the  famous  composers  Josquin  and  Obrecht  chairs  in  his  impe- 
rial orchestra.  Preferring  the  nobility  of  science  to  that  of  birth, 
he  one  day  sharply  rebuked  a  nobleman  who  refused,  thinking  it 
beneath  him,  to  steady  a  ladder  placed  against  a  wall  on  which 
Nuremberg's  painter,  Albrecht  Diirer,  was  sketching  a  picture 
for  the  emperor.  "  Albrecht/'  said  Maximilian,  "  by  the  emi- 
nence of  his  art  is  a  nobleman  and  more.  I  can  easily  make  a 
nobleman  of  a  peasant,  but  I  cannot  so  easily  make  an  artist  of  a 
nobleman."  Men  of  science  and  art,  thus  honored  and  assisted 
by  him,  gratefully  looked  up  to  him  as  to  their  Maecenas  and 
dedicated  to  him  their  works.  Martin  Waldseemliller  dedicated 
to  him  his  Introduction  to  Cosmography,  with  the  Four  Voyages  of 
Amerigo  Vespucci ;  Albrecht  Diirer  beautifully  and  humorously 
illuminated  a  prayer-book  for  him. 

The  University  of  Vienna  became  the  emperor's  favorite 
child  and  enjoyed  his  continued  and  practical  patronage ;  by 
many  personal  sacrifices  he  made  it  the  first  university  in  Europe. 
He  there  founded  the  Court  Library  for  the  use  of  the  students, 
and  made  the  famous  humanist,  Conrad  Celtes,  whom  he  had 
called  to  the  university,  its  first  librarian. 

Maximilian  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  noble  art  of 
architecture,  and  was  proud  of  his  membership  in  the  builders' 
guild.  "He  built,"  says  Janssen,  "and  repaired  many  churches 
and  castles,  and  gave  work  to  brass-founders,  tinsmiths,  jewel- 
lers, painters,  plumbers,  helmet-smiths,  armorers,  wood-carvers, 
and  engravers.  Many  superb  creations  of  the  then  living  artists 
owe  their  origin  to  his  order.  The  best  proof  of  the  emperor's 
cultivated  taste  will  be  found  in  his  grand  sepulchral  monument 
at  Innsbruck,  for  which  he  himself,  with  his  friend,  Conrad  Celtes, 
designed  the  plans  ;  it  is  one  of  those  last  important  productions 
of  the  old  German  art."  Several  pyrotechnical  discoveries  are 
attributed  to  his  inventive  genius ;  besides,  he  perfected  the  con- 
struction of  fire-arms  and  the  method  of  casting  ordnance. 

From  a  prince  so  richly  possessing  the  noblest  qualities,  and  so 

Austriae  Litterales  litterae  Viennam  invexit.  Gymnasium  viris  illustribus  exornavit.  Impera- 
torias  leges  adduxit.  Barbariem  e  Germania  sustulit.  Ac  militarem  disciplinam  Germanos 
docuit."  Cf.  Von  Mosel,  1.  c.  p.  6. 


1 886.]  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  7.  663 

willing  to  serve  his  country,  the  accomplishment  of  great  things 
for  his  people  was  expected.  At  his  accession  to  the  imperial 
throne  Wimpheling  wrote :  "  All  eyes  are  directed  towards 
Maximilian,  and  from  no  one  of  the  emperors  since  Charlemagne 
have  the  people  expected  so  much."  If  he  only  partially  ful- 
filled these  expectations,  any  lack  of  success  must  be  sought  out- 
side his  personal  endeavors  and  labors.  His  greatest  political 
fault  was  his  over-trust  in  the  German  princes,  who  at  that  time 
were  for  the  most  part  a  degraded,  faithless,  and  selfish  oligarchy 
— a  circumstance  explaining  the  growth  of  Protestantism  better 
than  any  commonly  alleged  cause.  The  emperor  had  to  waste 
much  time  and  energy  at  fruitless  diets  of  these  worthless 
princes  ;  his  fiery  eloquence  often  drew  forth  the  most  hopeful 
promises,  but  their  deceitful  and  dishonorable  dealings  left  him 
powerless  at  the  end.  Trithemius  characteristically  remarked  of 
the  Nuremberg  Diet  (1487) :  "  Much  was  proposed,  spoken,  and 
agitated  ;  but  besides  promises  nothing  resulted,  as  all  were 
seeking  their  own  personal  interests." 

Besides  a  corrupt  and  perjured  nobility,  Maximilian  had  to 
guard  himself  from  the  treacherous  machinations  of  the  French 
king,  Louis  XII.,  who  excited  Hungary  and  Poland  against  the 
emperor,  and  who  aimed,  as  did  his  son,  Francis  I.,  at  the  posses- 
sion of  the  imperial  crown.  The  straightforwardness  and  hon- 
esty of  his  character  were  not  always,  however,  a  match  for  the 
deceitful  cunning  of  his  rivals. 

To  establish  better  order  than  he  found  in  the  empire  he  in- 
stituted the  Imperial  Chamber,  the  Imperial  Aulic  Council,  and 
divided  Germany  into  ten  districts,  over  each  of  which  he  placed 
a  captain,  with  a  force  sufficient  to  quell  any  disturbance.  To  do 
away  with  the  evils  of  a  mercenary  service  he  organized  a  per- 
manent body  of  troops,  and  made  several  important  improve- 
ments in  military  matters. 

He  commissioned  Francis,  Count  of  Thurn  and  Taxis,  to  in- 
troduce mail-service  into  Germany,  and  established  a  regular 
post  between  Brussels  and  Vienna.  • 

The  erriperor's  political  idea  and  constant  aim  was  the  welfare 
of  the  empire,  to  draw  together  and  strengthen  the  German 
states  against  foreign  powers.  To  this  end,  as  he  declared  be- 
fore the  assembled  states  at  the  Reichstag  of  Lindau  (1496),  he 
was  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life  and  all  he  had,  and  to  suffer,  if  need 
be,  poverty  and  its  consequent  wretchedness.  How  he  kept  his 
promise  may  be  learned  jfrom  the  words  of  Abbot  Trithemius, 
written  seventeen  years  later :  "  What  emperor  for  centuries  has 


664  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  /.  [Feb., 

taken  such  pains  for  the  good  of  the  empire  ?  Who  was  more  in- 
ventive of  means  to  restore  its  unity  and  strength  ?  Which  one 
has  for  this  purpose  so  entirely  exhausted  his  own  resources  as 
he  ?  It  is  sad  to  think  how  little  it  has  availed.  ...  It  has  become 
the  fashion  of  the  states  not  to  keep  at  all  or  only  in  part  the 
promises  they  have  made  to  the  emperor.  Hence  it  comes  that 
the  emperor  has  no  power  to  maintain  right  and  justice,  and  to 
punish  fitly  the  disturbers  of  the  public  peace." 

When,  towards  the  close  of  his  life,  Maximilian  saw  that  all 
his  plans  and  hopes  for  the  restoration  of  the  empire's  ancient 
glory  and  power  were  in  vain,  he  sorrowfully  exclaimed :  "  For 
me  no  joy  is  left  on  earth.  Poor  German  land  !  " 

More  successful  in  the  building-up  of  his  own  illustrious 
house  of  Hapsburg,  he  secured  for  it  by  fortunate  marriages  the 
crowns  of  Spain,  Hungary,  and  Bohemia,  which  gave  rise  to  the 
famous  distich  : 

"  Bella  gerant  alii ;  tu  felix  Austria,  nube  : 
Nam,  quae  Marsaliis,  dat  tibi  regna  Venus." 

These  peaceful  acquisitions  strengthened  the  house  of  Haps- 
burg against  its  Eastern  enemies,  and  in  the  near  future  limited 
the  extent  of  the  apostasy  in  Germany  and  saved  Europe  from 
the  barbarism  threatened  by  the  crescent. 

Maximilian's  moral  character  and  social  qualities  appear  in  an 
amiable  light.  Always  mild,  cheerful,  and  condescending,  he  be- 
came one  of  the  most  popular  kings  in  German  history.  Misfor- 
tune or  distress  could  not  ruffle  the  peace  of  his  soul  nor  weaken 
his  confidence  in  God.  He  was  generous  and  at  times  extrava- 
gant, lavishing  presents  without  discrimination  ;  for  he  thought 
it  high-minded  and  becoming  an  emperor  to  be  so.  Personally, 
however,  he  was  frugal  and  economizing,  living  on  rather  scanty 
fare,  and  in  his  own  apartments  content  with  a  few  indispensable 
articles. 

The  emperor's  loyalty  to  the  church  and  filial  affection  for 
the  Vicar  of  Christ  can  never  be  seriously  questioned.  A  devout 
Catholic  at  heart,  he  endeavored  to  advance  the  interests  of  his 
holy  faith  and  humiliate  the  enemies  of  the  church. 

In  1518  Leo  X.  proclaimed  a  crusade  against  the  Turks,  and 
sent  a  consecrated  sword  and  helmet  to  the  emperor,  the  born 
defender  of  the  Catholic  Church.  This  blest  armor  was  present- 
ed to  Maximilian  by  the  papal  legate,  Cardinal  Cajetan,  at  the 
Reichstag  of  Augsburg.  "  With  a  most  grateful  heart,"  said  the 
emperor  on  this  solemn  occasion,  "  do  I  receive  this  holy  armor 


1 886.]  EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN  L  665 

from  the  hands  of  the  legate.  It  has  been  my  ardent  desire  since 
the  days  of  my  earliest  youth  to  risk  blood  and  life,  gopds  and 
riches,  for  the  Apostolic  See  and  the  welfare  of  Christendom. " 
Though  now  deprived  of  youth  arid  vigor,  yet,  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  helmet  of  the  Holy  Ghost  and  the  sword  of  faith,  he 
would  further  the  holy  enterprise  and  head  the  Christian  army. 

One  day,  while  riding  alone  on  horseback  in  the  vicinity  of 
Augsburg,  he  met  in  a  mountain  pass  on  the  road  a  beggar  who 
had  been  suddenly  taken  ill.  He  dismounted,  gave  the  poor 
man  a  refreshing  draught,  wrapped  his  imperial  cloak  round  him, 
and.  riding  back  to  the  city,  called  a  priest  to  administer  to  him 
the  last  consolations  of  religion. 

He  was  pained  to  see  before  his  death  the  beginning  of  the 
great  schism,  and  with  it  the  decline  of  the  great  German  Em- 
pire. Many  saw  in  the  insolent  proceedings  of  the  Wittenberg 
monk  a  mere  quarrel  of  the  schools,  but  the  clear-sighted  Maxi- 
milian at  once  discerned  the  full  importance  of  the  new  teach- 
ings. In  a  letter  to  the  Holy  Father  dated  August  5,  1518,  he 
showed  the  extent  of  the  religious  trouble,  asked  Leo  X.  to  sup- 
press the  dangerous  heresy  in  its  germ,  and  readily  offered  his 
energetic  assistance  to  enforce  any  papal  decrees  against  the  in- 
novators, who  were  endangering  the  unity  of  faith,  replacing 
revealed  truth  with  private  opinion.* 

When  the  emperor  felt  his  end  approaching  he  fervently  pre- 
pared for  the  awful  hour.  During  the  last  four  years  of  his  life 
he  had  his  coffin  borne  about  with  him  on  his  journeys,  and  was 
often  heard  to  apostrophize  in  mournful  words  his  last  dwelling- 
place.  He  devoutly  received  the  last  sacraments,  and  during 
his  death-agony,  in  full  possession  of  his  senses,  repeated  the 
prayers  of  the  dying  till  his  lips  were  closed  in  death.  This 
occurred  on  January  12,  1519,  the  sixtieth  year  of  his  eventful 
life. 

*  See  vol.  iii.  of  the  Life  of  Martin  Luther,  by  George  Evers,  where  the  letter  is  given  in 
full.  It  breathes  the  noble  sentiments  of  a  thoroughly  Catholic  monarch.  Oh  !  that  his  words 
had  been  better  heeded. 


666  THE  ELEVEN  GENERAL  ELECTIONS  OF          [Feb., 


THE  ELEVEN  GENERAL  ELECTIONS  OF  THE  REIGN 
OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA. 

JUST  at  this  time  it  may  be  relevant  to  recall  a  few  of  the 
features  of  the  last  ten  general  elections  in  Great  Britain.  It  is 
not  proposed  to  do  more  than  to  speak  of  names  and  events 
which  would  be  remembered  by  most  men  who  are  turned  sixty. 

1837.  The  accession  of  Queen  Victoria,  in  the  year  1837,  made 
it  necessary  that  a  new  Parliament  should  be  summoned.  The 
general  election  gave  the  preference  to  the  Tories — or,  as  they 
were  then  called  for  the  first  time,  the  Conservatives.  Some 
gifted  and  promising  men  sat  in  the  new  Parliament.  Mr.  Dis»- 
raeli  was  for  the  first  time  elected.  Mr.  Grote,  the  distinguished 
writer  of  Greek  history  ;  Lord  Lytton,  then  Mr.  Edward  Lytton 
Bulwer ;  Sir  William  Molesworth,  a  "  philosophical  Radical  "  ; 
Lord  Morpeth,  more  a  scholar  than  a  politician,  with  a  good 
many  other  superior  men,  were  first  heard  of  as  members  of  the 
House  of  Commons.  Mr.  Gladstone  had  been  five  years  in  Par- 
liament. Lord  John  Russell  had  begun  his  career  as  a  party 
leader.  Lord  Palmerston,  who  now  became  foreign  secretary, 
had  not  yet  given  proofs  of  his  great  ability.  Sir  Robert  Peel 
was  the  acknowledged  leader  of  the  Tories.  Lord  Stanley  (the 
late  Lord  Derby)  was  a  distinguished  member.  O'Connell  and 
Sheil  represented  the  Irish  party,  and  alternately  astonished 
and  delighted  the  House  with  their  courage  and  magnificent  elo- 
quence. Sheil  was  perhaps  the  most  brilliant  of  the  orators  who 
have  been  heard  in  the  House  of  Commons  during  the  present 
century.  With  not  a  few  natural  impediments — in  particular  a 
most  unmusical  voice — he  was  pronounced,  both  by  Mr.  Glad- 
stone and  Mr.  Disraeli,  to  be  the  most  fascinating  orator  of  his 
day.  Sir  Robert  Peel,  unlike  Sheil,  was  very  calm,  full  of  com- 
mon sense,  not  of  ardor ;  yet  his  sound,  practical  arguments  won 
a  hold  over  the  House  of  Commons  which  enabled  him  at  all 
times  to  command  attention.  Lord  John  Russell  was  a  stronger 
man  than  he  seemed  to  be.  He  was  not  an  orator,  but  he  was  a 
skilful  debater  ;  and  he  was  gifted  with  a  sort  of  irritating  sar- 
casm, which  was  likened  to  a  "  dissolving  acid — to  an  opponent." 
Tom  Moore,  who  was  a  great  friend  of  Lord  John  Russell,  has 
praised  him  with  the  warmth  of  his  poetic  nature  rather  than 
with  the  justice  of  criticism.  Lord  John  Russell  was  a  very 


1 886.]  THE  REIGN  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA,  667 

expert  word-swordsman,  and  was  indomitable  in  "  sticking-  to 
his  own  ground."  For  many  years  Lord  John  Russell  and  Sir 
Robert  Peel  fought  out  their  political  battles  "  hand-to-hand." 
Lord  John  was  before  all  things  "a  reformer."  He  had  learned 
his  political  lessons  at  the  feet  of  Fox.  And  he  was  (for  his  day) 
as  advanced  or  extreme  a  Liberal  as  any  man  who  sat  in  the 
Commons.  He  needed — and  he  possessed — great  abilities,  in  a 
House  which  comprehended  such  commanding  minds  as  those  of 
Disraeli  and  Gladstone,  O'Connell  and  Sheil,  Stanley  and  Peel ; 
and  also  such  highly  cultured  thinkers  as  Bulwer  and  Grote,  Sir 
Francis  Burdett  and  Villiers  ;  and  the  somewhat  opposite  yet 
not  unimportant  factors  in  debate,  Tom  Buncombe  of  Finsbury 
and  Smith  O'Brien. 

i84r.  On  June  4  Sir  Robert  Peel,  by  previous  agreement, 
proposed  a  vote  of  want  of  confidence  in  the  ministry,  and  Lord 
Melbourne  (then  prime  minister)  and  his  colleagues  were  con- 
demned by  a  majority  of  one.  That  "  one  "  was  no  suggestion  of 
the  immense  majority  (throughout  the  country)  by  which  the 
Conservatives  were  about  to  be  restored  to  power.  Sir  Robert 
Peel  came  into  office  with  (as  Lord  Melbourne  assured  him) 
"  more  friends  outside  the  House  than  inside  it,"  and,  certainly, 
with  few  enemies  of  much  importance.  Lord  Melbourne  then 
quietly  dropped  out  of  office,  and  seven  years  afterwards  he 
died.  The  Peel  ministry  was  now  installed  with  great  hopes. 
Many  notables  held  office  under  the  premier  ;  but  perhaps  the 
most  remarkable  of  the  new  members  who  were  now  brought 
into  Parliament  was  the  (until  then)  almost  unknown  Mr.  Richard 
Cobden.  He  was  destined  soon  to  make  a  great  name  in  a  House 
where  Mr.  Gladstone  was  still  but  "  a  rising  man,"  and  to  create 
a  considerable  sensation  among  a  ministry  which  included  Sir 
James  Graham  for  home  secretary,  Lord  Stanley  for  colonial 
secretary,  the  Earl  of  Aberdeen  for  foreign  secretary,  and  Lord 
Lyndhurst  for  the  woolsack,  but  which  did  not  include  Mr.  W. 
E.  Gladstone — very  shortly,  however,  to  become  the  prime 
minister. 

1846.  The  defeat  of  Sir  Robert  Peel's  ministry  in  this  year 
was  due  mainly  to  his  advocacy  of  free  trade.  It  has  been  said 
that  Peel  crushed  O'ConnelPand  carried  free  trade,  but  that 
O'Connell  and  the  protectionists  had  life  enough  left'in  them  to 
pull  down  the  ministry  they  detested.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Lord 
John  Russell  now  succeeded  as  prime  minister.  Lord  Grey  be- 
came colonial  secretary.  Sir  Charles  Wood  was  the  new  chan- 
cellor of  the  exchequer  ;  but,  though  a  man  of  sound  sense,  he 


668  THE  ELEVEN  GENERAL  ELECTIONS  OF          [Feb., 

was  a  bad  speaker,  and  consequently  was  not  popular  in  the 
House.  Sir  George  Grey,  on  the  contrary,  though  but  a  re- 
spectable home  secretary,  was  a  speaker  of  great  fluency — or  pre- 
cipitancy. Lord  John  Russell,  being  at  the  head  of  affairs,  soon 
found  himself  involved  in  great  difficulty  in  having  to  deal  with 
the  terrible  Irish  famine.  And  yet  another  difficulty  also  em- 
barrassed him — the  outbreak  of  the  Chartist  riots  in  London. 
At  the  general  election  Fergus  O'Connor,  a  known  agitator,  had 
gained  a  seat  as  Radical  member  for  Nottingham,  and  was  im- 
mediately engaged  in  stirring  up  all  Radicals  to  communistic 
ideas  about  property.  It  was  just  at  this  period  that  Louis 
Philippe  had  fled  to  England,  and  about  half  Europe  was  in 
revolutionary  mood  ;  so  that  it  was  a  comparatively  easy  matter 
for  any  popular  demagogue  to  rally  a  crowd  round  "  the  flag  of 
the  people's  liberties." 

1852.  In  the  summer  of  this  year  there  was  a  general  election, 
which  was  embroiled  by  very  serious  riots,  not  only  in  England 
but  in  Ireland.  The  great  mass  of  the  Irish  people  were  quite 
indifferent  to  the  fact  that  Mr.  Disraeli  (who  at  that  time  was 
chancellor)  had  done  his  best  for  the  financial  interests  of  Eng- 
land. The  question  which  they  cared  for  was  that  of  "  Tenant 
Right " ;  and  between  the  landlords  and  the  popular  party  in 
England  contention  ran  so  high  as  to  become  dangerous.  The 
Irish  Catholics,  too,  had  felt  piqued  by  the  debates  on  the  "  Eccle- 
siastical Titles  Bill,"  and  still  more  piqued  by  the  fact  that  the 
English  people,  as  a  whole,  did  not  care  a  pin  about  Irish  affairs. 
The  general  election  passed  off,  however,  quietly.  Among  the 
new  members  returned  by' this  election  was  the  celebrated  essay- 
ist, Macaulay.  Edinburgh  had  elected  him  without  his  solicita- 
tions and  without  any  declaration  of  his  opinions.  This  was  ex- 
ceptionally flattering.  In  1847  Macaulay  had  been  thrown  out. 
In  1852  his  election  was  spontaneous — an  act  of  reparation  and 
of  grace.  It  was  just  at  this  moment,  when  men  were  "counting 
up  "the  general  election  (and  just  two  months  before  the  new 
Parliament  met),  that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  died  at  Walmer 
Castle.  He  may  be  mentioned  as  a  counsellor  of  his  sovereign, 
much  more  than  as  a  statesman  or  as  a  minister.  His  death  was 
the  signal  for  a  national  mourning ;  for,  though  his  victories  be- 
longed to  a  past  time,  he  was  regarded  as  a  type  of  English 
heroism.  No  episode  of  importance  marked  the  opening  of 
Parliament;  but  Mr.  Disraeli  had  to  introduce  his  budget  to  the 
House,  and  this  was  the  rock  on  which  he  split.  The  two  points 
which  stood  out  in  that  budget  were  (i)  the  reduction  of  the  malt 


1 886.]  THE  REIGN  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA.  669 

duty,  and  (2)  the  increase  of  duty  on  inhabitated  houses.  The 
debate  was  very  long  and  very  furious.  The  excitement  with- 
in the  House  was  intense.  Mr.  Disraeli  made  a  magnificent 
speech,  and  then  Mr.  Gladstone  rose  to  answer  him.  (This  was 
the  beginning-  of  that  rivalry  of  the  two  heroes  which  lasted 
from  1852  to  1876,  and  which  scarcely  for  a  brief  interval  seemed 
to  slacken.)  Mr.  Gladstone  won  a  vote  from  the  House.  Mr. 
Disraeli  was  beaten  by  nineteen.  Exit  the  Conservative  minis- 
try ;  enter  Lord  Aberdeen,  Lord  John  Russell,  Lord  Palmerston, 
with  Mr.  Gladstone  as  the  chancellor  of  the  exchequer. 

1857.  That  "  government  by  party  means  government  by 
mutual  recrimination"  was  proved  to  perfection  in  1857.  Lord 
Palmerston  "  went  to  the  country  "  with  the  assurance  that  Lord 
Derby,  Lord  Lynd  hurst,  Sir  E.  Lytton,  Lord  Grey,  and  Lord 
Robert  Cecil  were  craven  Englishmen,  utterly  devoid  of  any 
patriotism,  who  were  friends  and  allies  of  "  an  insolent  barba- 
rian " — namely,  a  certain  Chinese  gentleman,  Governor  Yeh. 
That  phrase,  "  insolent  barbarian,"  won  the  country  !  The  vic- 
tory of  Lord  Palmerston  was  complete.  Such  men  as  Cobden, 
Bright,  Milner  Gibson  were  all  "nowhere" — annihilated  by  the 
phrase  "  insolent  barbarian."  No  sooner  was  Lord  Palmerston 
in  power  than  he  distinguished  himself  in  two  ways  in  parti- 
cular :  appointing  evangelical  clergymen  to  bishoprics,  and  in- 
sisting on  passing  the  Divorce  Bill.  The  two  preferences,  as 
Mr.  Disraeli  gaily  remarked,  were  "  hardly  harmonious  in  spi- 
rit." Mr.  Gladstone  vigorously  opposed  the  new  Divorce  Bill. 
Nevertheless  the  Divorce  Bill  was  passed.  A  year  later  Lord 
Palmerston  resigned  office. 

1859.  A  vote  °f  "  want  of  confidence,"  moved  by  Lord  Hart- 
ington  (then  for  the  first  time  taking  a  position  in  public  trust), 
provoked  a  long  and  bitter  debate.  It  was  in  this  quarrel  that 
Sir  James  Graham  called  Mr.  Disraeli  "  the  Red  Indian  of  de- 
bate," who  "  by  use  of  the  tomahawk  had  cut  his  way  to  power, 
and  by  recurrence  to  the  scalping  system  hoped  to  prevent  the 
loss  of  it."  Lord  Hartington  carried  his  motion  by  thirteen. 
The  queen  then  invited  Lord  Granville  to  form  a  ministry.  But 
Lord  John  Russell  would  not  serve  under  Lord  Granville. 
Lord  Palmerston,  therefore,  became  once  more  prime  minister — 
and  continued  prime  minister  for  life.  He  formed  what  was 
certainly  a  strong  ministry  :  Mr.  Gladstone  was  chancellor  of 
the  exchequer ;  Lord  John  Russell,  foreign  secretary  ;  Mr.  Sid- 
ney Herbert,  minister  for  war ;  Mr.  Card  well,  the  Irish  secretary  ; 
and  Sir  Charles  Wood,  the  secretary  for  India.  Lord  Palmer- 


6/o  THE  ELEVEN  GENERAL  ELECTIONS  OF          [Feb., 

ston  offered  a  seat  to  Mr.  Cobden  ;  but  it  is  remarkable  that  the 
chief  promoter  of  the  repeal  of  the  corn  laws  never  held  a  place 
in  an  administration. 

1865.  On  July  6  the  Parliament  (which  had  died  a  natural 
death)  was  dissolved  by  the  ordinary  proclamation.  It  is  ob- 
servable that  at  this  time  (just  exactly  twenty  years  ago)  Mr. 
Disraeli  told  his  constituents  that  "  the  chief  issue  to  be  decided 
was  the  existence  of  the  English  Established  Church."  "  The 
maintenance  of  the  national  church,"  he  stoutly  maintained,  "  in- 
volved the  question  whether  the  principle  of  religion  should  be 
an  element  of  the  political  constitution ;  whether  the  state  should 
be  consecrated  ;  or  whether,  dismissing  the  sanctions  that  appeal 
to  the  higher  feelings  of  man,  the  scheme  of  government  should 
degenerate  into  a  mere  system  of  police."  (There  is  probably  as 
little  fear  now  as  there  was  then  that  such  "  degeneracy  "  will  en- 
sue during  the  next  Parliament !)  Mr.  Gladstone,  who  was  now 
"put  up"  for  Oxford,  was  defeated  by  the  not  important  Mr. 
Gathorne  Hardy.  He  was,  however,  elected  for  South  Lanca- 
shire. Mr.  J.  S.  Mill  was  now  first  returned  to  Parliament. 
Mr.  Bright  was  triumphantly  re-elected.  The  new  Parliament 
was  essentially  democratic  ;  it  was  formed  largely  of  the  extreme 
section  of  Liberals.  The  country  earnestly  wished  that  Lord 
Palmerston  could  have  headed  it ;  but  the  aged  statesman  died 
just  as  Parliament  met,  and  Lord  John  Russell  was  invited  to 
form  a  government.  He  did  so.  A  few  "  new  men  "  now  came 
into  public  life.  Mr.  Forster  became  under-secretary  for  the 
colonies,  and  Mr.  Goschen  succeeded  to  the  Board  of  Trade. 
Mr.  Gladstone  was,  of  course,  the  leader  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. But  some  great  changes  now  marked  the  new  assembly. 
Palmerston,  Cobden,  Sidney  Herbert,  Sir  James  Graham  were 
all  gone.  Lord  John  Russell  had  been  raised  to  the  Upper 
House.  Mr.  Lowe  was  a  "  free  lance  "  once  more,  unshackled 
by  any  official  position.  But  the  greatest  change  was  undoubt- 
edly that  of  "  Gladstone  in  place  of  Palmerston."  The  latter  had 
united  all  parties — not,  of  course,  in  their  opinions,  but  in  good- 
will. Mr.  Gladstone  led  only  the  Liberals ;  but  he  invited  the 
Radicals  to  join  them.  Mr.  Disraeli  now  headed  the  Conserva- 
tives. 

1868.  On  the  last  day  of  July  the  dissolution  took  place,  and 
the  elections  came  on  in  November.  The  Liberals  had  a  con- 
siderable majority.  But  there  was  also  a  Conservative  reaction 
in  not  a  few  Liberal  constituencies.  Thus  Lancashire  returned 
only  Tories  for  its  county  divisions,  and  chiefly  Tories  for  its 


1 886.]  THE  REIGN  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA.  671 

borough  divisions.  Eight  Conservatives  came  in  for  Lancaster, 
Mr.  Gladstone  and  Lord  Hartington  being  displaced.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone was  therefore  transferred  to  Greenwich.  From  Oxford 
Mr.  Gladstone  had  migrated  to  Lancashire,  and  now  from  Lanca- 
shire he  migrated  to  Radical  Greenwich — perhaps  the  most  demo- 
cratic of  London  suburbs.  Mr.  Milner  Gibson  and  Mr.  Bernal 
Osborne  were  unseated.  The  latter  got  into  Parliament  once 
more  ;  the  former  disappeared  from  public  life.  In  the  new 
House  of  Commons  the  majority  (of  the  Liberals)  was  not  less 
than  one  hundred  and  twenty,  being  sixty  more  than  their  ma- 
jority in  the  last  Parliament.  Mr.  Gladstone  had  therefore  every- 
thing in  his  own  hands. 

1874.  Mr.  Gladstone  decided  of  his  own  accord  that  he 
would  bring  his  administration  to  an  end.  On  the  night  of  Janu- 
ary 23  all  London  was  astonished  (and  all  London,  indeed,  was 
incredulous)  at  the  news  that  Mr.  Gladstone  had  resigned.  He 
stated  in  his  address  to  his  constituents  that  his  authority  had 
now  "  sunk  below  the  point  necessary  for  the  due  defence  and 
prosecution  of  the  public  interests,"  and  that,  if  the  country 
should  return  him  to  power,  he  would  introduce  a  series  of  finan- 
cial measures,  and  among  them  would  totally  repeal  the  corn- 
tax.  The  country  was  not  amenable  to  such  wooing.  The 
country  reseated  the  Conservatives.  The  Conservatives  had  a 
majority  of  fifty.  Mr.  Disraeli  very  quickly  formed  a  ministry. 
Lord  Salisbury  was  entrusted  with  India,  and  Lord  Derby  with 
foreign  affairs.  Lord  Carnarvon  became  colonial  secretary.  Mr. 
Cross  (an  almost  unknown  man)  was  exalted  to  the  position  of 
home  secretary.  Mr.  Gathorne  Hardy  was  made  secretary  for 
war,  and  Mr.  Ward  Hunt  first  lord  of  the  admiralty.  Sir  Staf- 
ford Northcote  became  chancellor  of  the  exchequer.  The  Duke 
of  Richmond,  as  lord-president  of  the  council,  was  a  safe  leader 
for  the  government  in  the  House  of  Lords.  Mr.  Gladstone  pre- 
sently announced  his  "  intention  of  retiring  from  the  leadership 
of  the  Liberal  party  " — an  intention  which  eleven  years  later  he 
has  reconsidered  with  some  variety  of  disposition. 

1880.  The  session  of  1879  was  the  sixth  session  of  a  well-worn 
Tory  Parliament,  and  the  country  was  crying  out  for  a  dissolu- 
tion. Mr.  Gladstone  was  pleased  to  argue  that  a  government 
ought  to  dissolve  itself  a  few  months  before  its  natural  expira- 
tion— an  argument  which  was  hardly  worth  pressing  ;  for,  as  a 
matter  of  fact,  no  Parliament  lasts  seven  years,  and  there  is  al- 
ways "  a  moribund  interval "  for  every  ministry.  The  dissolu- 


672  THE  ELEVEN  GENERAL  ELECTIONS  OF          [Feb., 

tion  took  place  on  March  24,  and  the  general  election  commenc- 
ed almost  immediately.  The  result  has  been  compared  to  a 
political  earthquake.  From  the  very  first  day  of  the  elections  it 
was  evident  that  the  Conservatives  were  "  out  "  at  least  half  over 
the  kingdom.  Defeat  was  soon  turned  into  disaster.  A  majo- 
rity of  one  hundred  and  twenty  (strangely  enough,  the  same  ma- 
jority which  sent  the  Liberals  to  power  in  1868)  now  did  the 
same  kindness  for  them  again.  The  queen  sent  for  Lord  Hart- 
ington,  then  for  Lord  Granville,  then  for  the  real  man  who  was 
wanted.  And  Mr.  Gladstone  (not  having  "  retired  ")  took  office. 

It  will  be  relevant  to  add  some  further  details  in  regard  to 
recent  Parliaments  and  elections. 

First,  as  to  the  duration  of  English  Parliaments.  From  the 
first  Parliament  of  George  III.  to  the  last  of  Queen  Victoria  it  has 
been  a  rare  thing  for  a  Parliament  to  "  last  out  its  time."  No 
Parliament  did  so  in  George  III.'s  reign.  The  two  Parliaments 
that  sufficed  for  George  IV.  lasted,  one  of  them  six,  the  other 
three  years.  In  William  IV.'s  time  four  Parliaments  (in  but  six 
years)  were  elected  to  serve  under  his  majesty,  the  longest  last- 
ing two  years  and  five  months.  In  Queen  Victoria's  time  there 
have  been  two  Parliaments  which  have  lasted  six  years — that 

from  1859  to  l8^5  and  tnat  fr°m  l874  to  l88°- 

Prime  ministers  in  England  have  usually  "made"  general 
elections,  quite  as  much  as  general  elections  have  made  prime 
ministers.  It  may  be  interesting  to  recall  the  names  of  the 
prime  ministers  from  the  date  of  the  accession  of  the  House  of 
Hanover.  From  October  10,  1714,  there  have  been  forty-three 
first  lords  of  the  treasury — or,  more  accurately,  forty-three 
changes  in  the  ministry,  involving  forty- three  accessions  to  of- 
fice. The  names  of  these  prime  ministers  are  Walpole,  Stan- 
hope, Sunderland,  Wilmington,  Pelham,  Newcastle,  Bute,  Gren- 
ville,  Buckingham,  Grafton,  North,  Shelborne,  Portland,  Pitt, 
Addington,  Perceval,  Liverpool,  Canning,  Goderich,  Wellington, 
Grey,  Melbourne,  Peel,  Russell,  Derby,  Aberdeen,  Palmerston, 
Disraeli,  Gladstone,  Salisbury.  Of  this  number  Walpole  was 
twice  prime  minister,  Pitt  twice,  Melbourne  twice,  Peel  twice, 
Russell  twice,  Derby  three  times,  Disraeli  twice,  and  Gladstone 
twice.  The  above  list,  extending  from  1714  to  1885,  would  show 
that  the  average  duration  of  ministers  (and  therefore  of  the 
tenure  of  the  premiership)  is  little  more  than  three  years  and 
eight  months.  This  must  seem  to  be  a  very  short  time.  Yet 


i886.]  THE  REIGN  OF  QUEEN  VICTORIA.  673 

some  prime  ministers  have  "  reigned  "  a  long  while.  Thus  Wai- 
pole  was  premier  for  twenty  years  ;  Lord  North  for  twelve ; 
William  Pitt  for  eight ;  Lord  Liverpool  for  fourteen  ;  Lord  Mel- 
bourne for  six ;  Lord  John  Russell  for  six  ;  Lord  Derby  for  six  ; 
Lord  Palmerston  for  six;  Mr.  Disraeli  for  six,  and  Mr.  Glad- 
stone for  even  a  slightly  longer  time.  In  regard  to  the  number 
of  electors  in  Great  Britain,  there  were  in  1864,  in  the  counties 
of  England  and  Wales,  535,788;  in  the  counties  of  Scotland,  49,- 
109  ;  in  the  cities  and  boroughs  of  England  and  Wales,  491,229  ; 
in  the  cities  and  boroughs  of  Scotland,  52,628  ;  total,  1,128,754. 

In  1874  the  number  of  electors  on  the  register  was  2,748,985 — 
namely,  2,245,108  in  England  and  Wales,  280,308  in  Scotland, 
and  223,569  in  Ireland.  Taking  the  period  from  the  passing  of 
the  Reform  Bill  in  1868  to  June,  1874,  the  county  electors  in- 
creased about  300,000,  and  the  borough  electors  about  one  mil- 
lion. So  that  the  electoral  franchise  (up  to  the  other  day)  used 
to  include  about  one  in  twelve  of  the  population.  The  recent 
addition  of  two  millions  to  the  register  will,  of  course,  revolu- 
tionize these  old  figures. 

In  regard  to  the  number  of  the  members  of  the  House  of 
Commons,  it  appears  that  in  the  reign  of  Henry  VII.  there  were 
altogether  296  members.  Henry  VIII.  added  38;  and,  by  gra- 
dual increase  from  reign  to  reign,  the  number  of  members  in 
1817  amounted  to  658.  It  must  be  remembered  that  the  union 
with  Scotland  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne  was  the  occasion  of 
adding  45  members  ;  and  the  union  with  Ireland  in  the  year  1800 
was  the  occasion  of  adding  100  members.  In  the  session  of  1874 
the  House  of  Commons  had  661  members,  England  and  Wales 
sending  487,  Ireland  105,  and  Scotland  69. 

As  we  are  speaking  only  of  the  electoral  system,  it  may  seem 
irrelevant  to  allude  to  the  House  of  Lords.  Yet  since  by  re- 
commendation of  existing  ministers  peers  are  (at  least  usually) 
created,  and  since  there  is  a  marked  disposition  at  this  time  to 
adopt  a  general  principle  of  "  elected  peers,"  it  may  be  per- 
mitted to  state  that  more  than  two-thirds  of  the  hereditary  peer- 
ages have  been  created  since  the  year  1800.  At  least  350  of  the 
peers  have  been  created  in  the  last  eighty  years,  of  whom 
(about)  175  have  been  created  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Victoria. 
This  fact  is  so  far  analogous  to  the  electoral  system  that  the 
creation  of  peers  is  now  principally  motived  by  the  interests  of 
the  political  party  in  power.  And  the  present  general  election 
shows  clearly  that,  whatever  be  the  future  of  the  House  of  Lords, 
the  people  wish  it  to  be  partly  electoral.  Thus,  by  analogy,  the 
VOL.  XLII.— 43 


674  THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.          [Feb., 

House  of  Lords  must  open  its  gates  pari passu  with  the  largely 
widening-  House  of  Commons.  And  the  "moral"  of  general 
elections,  in  regard  to  the  House  of  Lords,  is  that  the  more  the 
people  get  the  government  into  their  hands,  the  more  the  Lords 
must  take  the  people  into  their  counsels. 


THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES. 

THE  Irish  language  is  apparently  dying.  If  not  dying,  it  is 
in  the  last  stages  of  decay.  The  chances  are  that  the  next  gene- 
ration, if  not  our  own,  will  be*present  at  its  deathbed.  From  a 
literary  point  of  view,  the  death  or  decay  of  the  language  of  an 
imaginative  race  of  old  standing  in  European  civilization  is  cer- 
tainly mournful  to  behold.  Yet  Irish  funerals  are  not  often  un- 
mitigatedly  sad.  The  elastic  nature  of  the  people  easily  rebounds 
from  woe,  having  a  touch  of  true  philosophy  in  its  readiness  to 
submit  gracefully  to  what  has  to  be.  And  even  if  their  language 
disappear,  the  race  itself  is  vigorous,  full  of  life,  hopeful,  and  it 
has  made  the  English  speech  so  fluently  its  own  that  there  are 
many  good  people  who  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  it  ever  had 
any  other.  To-day,  indeed,  excepting  to  the  rustics  and  moun- 
taineers and  fishermen  along  the  west  and  south  of  Ireland, 
and  to  a  few  scholars  and  some  aristocratic  representatives  of 
old  chieftains'  families,  the  Irish  is  an  unknown  tongue  to  the 
Irish  people.  Few  Irishmen  or  Irishwomen  with  any  pretence 
to  refinement  care  to  acknowledge  an  acquaintance  with  it. 
There  are  many,  whose  English  is  not  as  good  as  it  might  be, 
who  yet  would  take  offence  at  being  supposed  to  understand  the 
language  of  their  race  ;  there  are  others  who  understand  it,  but 
deny  any  knowledge  of  it.  Strange  fact,  that  a  people  almost 
morbidly  sensitive  as  to  all  else  that  is  peculiarly  theirs  should 
be  indifferent  to  their  language,  the  distinctive  badge  of  their 
race.  But  in  this,  as  in  many  other  respects,  the  Irish  are  real 
Gaels.  In  abandoning  .their  language  they  are  merely  doing 
what  their  relatives  of  the  Continent  did  centuries  ago. 

But,  in  addition  to  this,  the  Irish  have  shown  no  resentment 
at  having  most  of  their  surnames  distorted  out  of  resemblance  to 
the  original  sound,  and,  further,  they  have  permitted  themselves 
to  be  deprived  of  the  ancient  given  names,  sonorous  and  full  of 
meaning,  which  their  ancestors  proudly  kbore.  So  far  has  this 


1 886.]          THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.  675 

gone  that  "  Pat,"  the  diminutive  of  a  name  foreign  to  their  tongue, 
has  become  the  accepted  humorous  designation  of  an  Irishman. 

It  is  only  within  very  recent  years,  and  owing  almost  as  much 
to  the  labors  of  German  philologists  as  of  Irish  scholars,  that  the 
Gaelic  language,  of  which  Irish  is  the  purest  dialect,  has  receiv- 
ed that  attention  which  it  deserves.'* 

The  probabilities  are  that  the  fair-haired,  blue-eyed  Scots 
were  the  first  of  the  Gaelic  tribes  to  issue  from  Asia  on  the 
inarch  across  Europe.  If  one  may  found  an  opinion  on  the  tes- 
timony of  clear  traditions,  current  among  the  Irish  as  long  as  we 
have  any  record,  and  on  the  references  by  the  Greek  historians 
of  the  time,  there  is  good  reason  for  believing  that  the  Skuthes 
(or  Scythians)  were  that  tribe  of  the  Gaels  who  never  rested 
until,  after  many  vicissitudes  and  fierce  struggles,  they  had 
planted  themselves  on  the  farthest  island  of  Europe  to  the  west, 
the  island  called  by  the  ancient  geographers  lerne,  and  by  the 
Irish  themselves  Eire,  the  "  land  of  the  West  " — Ireland.  There, 
as  elsewhere,  they  overcame  the  dark-haired,  swarthy  aborigines 
and  gradually  adopted  them  as  part  of  their  own  people.  The 
vacuum  left  by  these  Gaels  on  the  northern  shores  of  the  Black 
Sea  was  afterwards  filled  by  other  races,  and  later  by  the 
Tartars,  who,  on  account  of  the  territory  taken  up  by  them, 
have  sometimes  been  erroneously  confounded  with  the  original 
Skuthes,  or  Scythians.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  this  vanguard 
tribe  of  the  Gaels,  the  Scots  of  Ireland,  Scotland,  and  the  Isle 
of  Man,  is  the  only  Gaelic  tribe  still  preserving  the  use  of  the 
mother-tongue.f 

*  "Gaelic"  is  the  spelling  adopted  in  Scotland  in  the  last  century,  instead  of  the  ancient 
spelling  still  preserved  in  Ireland,  Gaodhelig.  The  correct  sound  is  hard  to  convey  to  one  who 
has  not  heard  it.  It  might  be  represented  by  some  such  phonetic  spelling  as  Gwo-e-lig,  giving 
to  the  w  a  barely  perceptible  sound,  and  to  the  o  the  German  sound,  the  emphasis  being  placed 
on  the  first  syllable. 

The  correct  name  of  the  Gaelic-speaking  race,  by  the  way,  is  Gael  (Gaodhal),  not  "  Celt," 
or  "  Kelt."  Celt,  or  Kelt,  another  form  of  which  is  kilt  (or  ceilf),  a  part  of  the  ancient  attire 
of  the  race,  is  derived  from  ceilim,  "  I  conceal."  It  has  been  explained  to  have  been  applied  to 
an  order  of  chivalry  amongst  the  Gaels  of  ancient  days,  each  member  of  which  was  bound  in 
honor  to  conceal  his  identity  and  family  connections  until  he  had  established  his  reputation  for 
prowess.  It  was  these  Celts,  or  bands  of  "  unknown  "  knights,  who  became  so  great  a  terror  to 
the  Greek  frontiers,  and  it  was  some  of  these,  probably,  who  prepared  the  way  for  that  irrup- 
tion of  the  Gaels  which  set  the  geese  of  the  Roman  Capitol  to  cackling. 

t  Omitting  the  Greek  termination  es,  the  word  Skuth  corresponds  very  closely  to  an  unedu- 
cated Scotchman's  pronunciation  of  the  word  "  Scot"  (Scoot),  which  is  also  the  Gaelic  sound  of 
the  word. 

Until  quite  late  in  the  middle  ages  the  Irish  were  always  spoken  of  as  "Scots,"  and  Ireland 
then  was  "Scotia."  After  a  time,  in  order  to  distinguish  it  from  its  colony  of  Argyle  (Ar 
Gael),  Ireland  was  called  "Scotia  Major."  Still  later  the  geographical  name  Eire  (Hibernia) 
took  the  place  for  Ireland  of  the  tribal  name  Scotia,  which  gradually  c?.me  to  be  applied  exclu- 
sively to  the  lesser  Scotland,  or  Caledonia. 


676  THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.        [Feb., 

Once  Gaelic  was  spoken  over  a  wide  belt  of  Europe,  from 
Galatia  to  the  ocean ;  now  it  has  been  dead  for  centuries  on  the 
Continent,  where  its  few  traces  are  the  nasal  sounds  of  French, 
Portuguese,  and  of  some  of  the  dialects  of  that  part  of  Italy 
which  once  was  Cisalpine  Gaul,  and  of  the  dialect  of  the  Gali- 
cians,  or  Gallegos,  in  Spain,  a  few  idioms,  and  a  few  translitera- 
tions or  softenings  of  consonants.  The  Cymraeg — which  the 
English  call  "  Welsh,"  and  the  Irish  call  "  Bretnach  "—including 
the  dialects  of  Wales,  Cornwall,  and  Brittany,  is  a  kindred  tongue 
to  the  Gaelic ;  according  to  some  it  is  a  later  offshoot. 

The  literary  culture  of  Gaelic,  which  had  long  been  waning, 
may  be  said  to  have  come  to  an  end  as  soon  as  the  bitter  Penal 
Code  was  put  into  force  in  Ireland  in  the  early  part  of  the  last 
century.  It  is  unnecessary  to  repeat  Edmund  Burke's  famous 
characterization  of  that  iniquitous  code,  which  practically  closed 
all  schools  to  the  great  majority  of  the  people  of  Ireland.  With- 
in a  generation  or  two,  under  its  cruelly  skilful  action,  Ireland 
became  the  most  illiterate  nation  in  Europe,  perhaps.  Of  course 
the  Gaelic  language  suffered  in  consequence,  as  did  everything 
else  Irish. 

But  Gaelic  had  been  directly  attacked  long  before.  In  1367 
a  parliament  of  the  Anglo-Normans  at  Kilkenny  enacted  a  stat- 
ute which,  among  other  things,  forbade  the  employment  of  Gae- 
lic by  the  English  settlers  in  Ireland.  Yet  by  the  end  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  the  Gaels  had  so  used  their  winning  ways  that 
Poynings'  Act  of  1495,  though  renewing  the  other  Kilkenny 
decrees  intended  to  keep  the  Irish  and  English  elements  from 
mingling,  let  the  language  alone ;  for  many  of  the  most  promi- 
nent Anglo-Norman  families  had  lost  their  Norman-French  and 
spoke  no  language  but  Gaelic.  In  James  I.'s  time  the  Bible  of 
the  "authorized  version"  and  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer 
were  translated  into  Gaelic  for  the  use  of  the  Irish.  But  that 
was  a  temporary  concession,  and  was  made  in  furtherance  of  an 
English  purpose.  With  the  breaking-up  of  the  clans  in  the 
seventeenth  century,  and  the  confiscation  of  Irish  lands  to  Eng- 
lish adventurers  and  to  a  few  of  their  Irish  allies,  the  bards  dis- 
appeared, and  with  them  almost  the  last  vestige  of  a  current 
Gaelic  literature  of  any  intrinsic  merit. 

The  legal  banning  of  Gaelic  by  the  supporters  of  English 
dominion  contributed  also  to  the  corruption  of  Irish  surnames. 
But  this  was  aided  to  some  extent,  though  unintentionally,  of 
course,  by  the  action  of  the  Catholic  priests  and  Catholic  school- 
masters. The  priests,  on  account  of  the  various  enactments 


i886.]          THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.  677 

against  the  Roman  Catholic  religion,  were  nearly  all  educated 
and  ordained  abroad.  When  they  returned  to  Ireland  from 
Rome,  Paris,  Vienna,  Salamanca,  or  Flanders,  where  they  had 
spent  much  of  their  youth  and  early  manhood,  they  were  full 
of  the  fashionable,  classicism  of  the  time,  and  many  of  them  were 
apt  to  regard  Gaelic  as  a  barbarous  jargon.  It  is  true,  they  had 
usually  to  preach,  and  to  exercise  their  ministry  generally,  in 
Gaelic,  for  most  of  their  flocks  understood  no  other  language. 
But,  as  a  rule,  they  discouraged  Gaelic.  When  a  child  was 
brought  for  baptism,  the  sponsors  would  naturally  propose  for 
the  given  name  one  that  had  long  been  identified  with  the  clan 
or  with  that  particular  family.  But  the  sponsor's  suggestion 
would  be  ignored,  and  the  child,  perhaps,  christened  "  Patrick  " 
or  "  Bridget,"  according  to  its  sex,  or  the  proposed  name  would 
be  perhaps  translated  into  something  more  "  Christian,"  a  name 
more  or  less  resembling  it  in  sound  being  sometimes  chosen. 
In  this  way  the  youngster  whose  parents  or  sponsors  had 
wished  to  name  it  Domhnall  (Donald)  became  thereafter 
legally  known  as  "  Daniel  " — a  Hebrew  name — while,  worse  still, 
perhaps,  Diarmaid  (Dermot)  became  "Jeremiah"!  No  other 
people  in  Europe  have  had  a  similar  experience.  Catholic 
schoolmasters  also  were  under  the  ban  of  the  law,  as  were  the 
Catholic  priests,  and  in  trying  to  keep  the  lamp  of  literature 
from  going  quite  out  among  their  impoverished  countrymen 
they  were  liable  to  fine,  imprisonment,  banishment,  and,  for  a 
repetition  of  the  offence,  death.  Yet  even  these  brave  old 
sesquipedalians  were  bitten  by  the  classical  mania  and  would 
not  tolerate  the  Gaelic.  The  luckless  youngster  who  thought- 
lessly broke  out  into  the  language  of  his  fathers  was  flogged 
by  these  pedagogues  as  old-fashioned  pedagogues  knew  how 
to  flog.  What  wonder  that  a  language  should  fade  out  of 
use  when  its  natural  supporters  joined  with  the  enemy  against 
it! 

Though  the  language  is  disappearing,  the  surnames  survive 
and  promise  to  be  propagated  in  all  parts  of  the  civilized  world. 
But  most  of  them  are  mutilated  in  form.  Very  few  of  these 
names  are  pronounced  by  their  present  bearers  as  they  were  pro- 
nounced two  centuries  ago,  and  many  of  them  are  so  changed, 
both  in  orthography  and  pronunciation,  as  to  be  traceable  with 
very  great  difficulty  to  their  true  source.  The  very  look,  not  to 
say  sound,  of  "  Gilhooly  "  and  "  Muldoon  "  is  enough  to  stir  one 
to  laughter.  Yet  both  these  names  are  respectable  in  their  ori- 
gin, in  their  meaning,  and  in  their  antiquity,  while  their  true 


678  THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.         [Feb., 

sound,  as  properly  spelled,  is  extremely  musical.  But  Ireland 
has  long  been  unfortunate,  and  therefore  unfashionable. 

In  James  I.'s  time  an  act  was  passed  forbidding  the  use  of  all 
but  a  few  of  the  old  Gaelic  surnames.  This  act  was  only  par- 
tially enforced,  however,  and  principally  in  Ulster,  where  the 
work  of  translating  the  names  began.  The  Mac  and  the  O' 
were  easily  dropped.  But  MacGabhan  (M'Gowan)  became 
"Smythe,"*  MacEoghan  (now  often  written  McOwen,  McKeon, 
M'Ewen,  Ewing,  McCune,  etc.)  and  MacSeaghan  (M'Shane) 
both  became  "Johnson"  or  "Jackson."  O'Domhnall  (O'Don- 
nell)  was  translated  into  "  Danielson  "  or  "  Donaldson,"  and  also 
into  "  Daniels  "  ;  and  so  on  through  a  long  list  of  corruptions 
or  mistaken  translations.!  Sometimes  his  nickname — and  nick- 
names were  plentiful  where  all  the  people  of  a  village  belonged 
to  one  clan  and  had  one  surname — furnished  the  clansman  with  a 
new  surname  when  he  began  in  his  awkward  way  to  crunch  the 
fearful  consonants  of  the  Sacsanach.  The  tow-headed  Murtach 
"fionn  "  ("  very  fair")  O'Neill  became  "  Martin  Whyte,"  or  per- 
haps "  Mortimer  Neilson,"  etc. 

Previous  to  the  establishment  of  English  dominion  in  Ireland 
the  Irish  lived  in  tribes  or  septs,  each  sept  being  composed  of  a 
number  of  clans  or  groups  of  villages.  All  the  members  of  any 
one  sept  were,  in  theory  at  least,  descendants  of  a  common  an- 
cestor, whose  name,  with  O'  or  Mac  prefixed,  designated  the 
sept.  All  the  septs  of  Ireland  were,  again,  descended  from  cer- 
tain groups  of  ancestors,  and  these  lineages  are  still  piously  pre- 
served, and  no  doubt  with  great  accuracy.  For  the  tenure  of 
land,  which  was  held  in  common,  as  well  as  more  sentimental  pri- 
vileges, depended  on  accuracy  in  this  matter,  and  very  little  on 
purchase  or  other  acquired  title.  The  bards  of  each  clan,  who 
were  its  historians  and  genealogists,  were  therefore  watched  by 
an  interested  criticism  that  would  be  sure  to  check  any  imagi- 
native tampering  with  the  lineage  on  which  so  much  depended. 
There  was  no  aristocracy  in  the  feudal  sense,  for  the  Gaels  had 
always  either  exterminated  or  effectually  absorbed  whatever 
people  they  conquered,  so  that  there  was  no  race  of  helots  for 
them  to  lord  it  over.  The  clansman  looked  upon  his  chief  as  his 
relative  and  as  the  official  representative  of  his  family. 

*  Gabhan  is  the  Gaelic  for  "  smith." 

t  Many  of  the  so-called  "  Scotch-Irish  "  of  the  United  States  are  the  descendants  of  beaten 
clansmen  of  the  various  clans  of  Ulster  who  translated  their  surnames.  Properly  speaking  not 
one  out  of  a  hundred  of  those  in  the  United  States  who  boast  a  Scotch-Irish  origin  have  any 
"  Scotch  "  about  them.  The  whole  thing  is  a  convenient  myth,  invented  by  those  who  wished 
somehow  to  explain  away  their  Irish  strain. 


1 886.]         THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.  679 

O\  anciently  written  ui,  means  a  "  male  descendant "  generally, 
while  Mac — 'nowadays  written  also  Me  and  M* — means  simply  "  a 
son."  But  it  is  only  in  English  that  either  of  these  is  prefixed  to 
the  name  borne  by  a  woman.  In  Gaelic  the  prefix  Ni — a  con- 
traction of  ingean,  "a  daughter" — is  used.  Thus  a  woman  who 
in  English  would  appear  as  "Julia  O'Connell  "  would  in  Gaelic 
be  "  Siodla  [Sheela]  Ni  Chonaili."  The  famous  Amazon  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  whom  English  historians  call  "  Grace  O'Mal- 
ley,"  is  known  in  Ireland  by  her  true  name,  "  Gra  Ni  Mhaile  " 
(pronounced  Graw  nyee  Wale).*  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand 
how  the  complicated  orthography  of  Gaelic  names  came  to  be 
shattered  when  these  names  were  rendered  in  English  letters. 
For  the  English  alphabet  has  twenty-six  letters,  while  the  Gaelic, 
like  the  most  ancient  Greek  alphabet — from  which,  perhaps,  it  was 
derived — has  but  sixteen  besides  the  aspirate,  or  k.  In  addition 
to  this  there  are  two  peculiarities  of  Gaelic  which  account  for 
some  of  the  odd  distortions  of  these  names.  These  are  aspiration 
and  eclipsis. 

Orthographically  aspiration  consists  in  putting  an  h  after  the 
letter  to  be  aspirated  ;  phonetically  in  softening  or  modifying,  or 
even  deadening,  the  sound  of  the  letter  aspirated.  Thus  the 
names  MacMuircath  and  MacMuirchu  have  been  jumbled  to- 
gether in  English,  and  now  appear  under  such  forms  as  "  Mac- 
Murroch,"  "  M'Murrough,"  "Morrow,"  "  Murphy,"  etc.  f  One 
use  of  the  aspirate  is  purely  euphonic;  it  is  inserted  between  the 
prefix  O'  and  the  surname,  if  the  surname  begin  with  a  vowel, 
just  as  the  French  use  the  letter  t  in  a-t-il.  Let  us  take  that  ex- 
tremely ancient  name  of  Aodh,  which  signifies  "  fire."  In  some 
parts  of  Ireland  it  is  sounded  almost  like  ay  in  the  English  word 
"  day,"  in  others  like  ee  in  the  word  "  meet."  In  Ulster  was  a 
clan  descended  from  an  ancestor  of  this  name,  and  this  clan  bore, 
therefore,  the  surname  of  MacAodha.  Further  south  another 
clan  with  an  ancestor  similarly  named  used  O'  instead  of  Mac 
for  its  prefix,  and  this  clan  was  called  O'h-Aodha.  Nowadays 
O'h-Aodha  and  MacAodha  appear  in  a  multitude  of  forms; 
among  them  O'Hay,  O'Hea,  Hays,  Hayes,  Hay,  etc. — the  final  s 
being  an  imported  Anglicism — MacKay  (M'Kay),  Mackay,  Mac- 

*  There  are  but  few  O's  among  the  Scotch,  for  O'  did  not  come  much  into  vogue  in  Ireland 
until  the  eleventh  century,  by  which  time  the  migrations  from  Ireland  to  North  Britain  had 
ceased.  Nevertheless  there  are  O's  in  Scotland  ;  for  instance,  Ogilvie,  or  Ogilby,  correctly  writ- 
ten O^Giall  buidhe,  "  the  descendant  of  the  yellow-haired  hostage."  Then  there  are  Oliphant, 
Ochiltree,  etc. 

\Muir  cath  signifies  a  "sea-battle,"  and  muir  cu  a  "sea-hound"  ("  sea-dog"  we  say  in 
English) — i.e.,  a  "fighter  at  sea." 


68o  THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.         [Feb., 

key,  M'Kee,  Magee,  MacHay,  etc.  The  translating  process 
gives  MacHugh,  Hughes,  etc.,  the  shallow  pedants  having  treat- 
ed Aodh  as  "the  Irish  "  for  Hugh,  which  is,  of  course,  of  Teu- 
tonic origin.  Another  instance  of  the  confusion  caused  by  this 
euphonic  h  is  in  the  case  of  the  name  Aonghus  and  its  modi- 
fications. With  O'  it  properly  becomes  O'h-Aonghus,  whence 
we  now  see  O'Haynes,  Haynes,  etc.;  while  MacAonghus,  with 
more  sportive  opportunities,  has  capered  about  as  MacEnnis, 
Maclnnes,  M'Gennis,  Magennis,  Ennis,  Guinness,  etc.  Aonghu- 
saigh,  signifying  "  belonging  to  Aonghus,"  furnishes  the  surname 
of  O'h-Aonghusaigh,  better  known  now  as  O'Hennessey  and 
Hennessy. 

Eclipsis  is  a  very  puzzling  feature  of  Gaelic  grammar,  yet  it 
is  quite  as  philosophical  and,  to  the  Gael  at  least,  just  as  natural 
as  were  the  euphonic  transformations  in  his  verb  to  the  Greek. 
It  is  used  in  inflecting  nouns,  and  consists  in  prefixing  a  certain 
consonant  to  the  initial  consonant — if  the  initial  be  a  consonant — 
the  prefixed  consonant  being  sounded  instead  of  the  initial.  An 
(like  French  du]  signifies  "  of  the,"  and  it  eclipses  the  noun  it 
governs,  or  aspirates  it  if  it  begin  with  a  vowel.  Thus  sagart 
(Latin  sacer]  means  "  a  priest."  The  name  Mac  an  t-sagairt  (t 
being  the  eclipsing  letter  for  s)  nowadays  appears  as  MacAn- 
tagart,  M'Entegart,  Taggart,  Taggard,  etc.  Mac  an  t-saor,  "  the 
son  of  the  artificer,"  is  now  M'Intyre.  Where  aspiration  is  em- 
ployed instead  of  eclipsis  we  have  Mac  an  phearson,  now  usually 
written  MacPherson ;  MacPhaidin  (from  Paidin,  pronounced 
"  paw-dyeen "),  "  the  son  of  little  Patrick,"  now  familiar  as 
M'Fadden.  Mac  an  bhaird,  "the  son  of  the  bard,"  is  the  origin 
of  the  names  MacEnward,  Mac  Ward,  M'Quard,  Ward,  etc. 

The  adjective  terminations  adh,  ach,  agh  are  nearly  always 
represented  in  the  Anglicized  form  by  the  final  y,  though  not 
always.  Thus  O'Ceallach  has  been  Englished  into  O'Kelly,  Kel- 
ley,  etc.;  yet  it  also  is  met  with  in  such  shapes  as  Kalloch,  Kel- 
logg, etc.  The  name  of  O'Seaghdha  loses  its  terror  in  O'Shea, 
Shee,  Shay,  etc.  But  a  sad  fate  has  befallen  O'h-Uilleachan, 
which,  though  it  still  wrenches  unaccustomed  jaws  as  O'Hoola- 
han,  has  generally  been  changed  into  Howlan,  Holland,  etc. 

At  the  period  when  the  present  corrupt  forms  of  Irish  names 
were  coming  into  use  the  great  body  of  the  Irish  people  had 
been  rendered  completely  illiterate.  They  could  neither  read 
nor  write,  whether  in  their  native  Gaelic  or  in  the  foreign  Eng- 
lish tongue  which  they  were  beginning  to  learn.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  English  knew  no  Gaelic.  What  wonder,  then,  that  the 


1 886.]          THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.  68 1 

mellifluous,  majestic  surnames  of  the  Gaels  were  mutilated,  if 
not  caricatured,  when  done  into  English,  by  the  joint  work  of 
Irishmen  and  Englishmen  ignorant  of  one  another's  language? 
One  can  easily  imagine  a  scene  at  the  breaking  up  of  a  clan  and 
the  legal  taking  possession  of  its  confiscated  territory  by  some 
newly-arrived  Englishman  who  is  thereafter  to  be  the  ''land- 
lord." He  is  there  with  his  business  man,  a  London  attorney, 
and  an  interpreter,  pressed  into  the  service,  is  at  hand.  A  group 
of  the  clansmen  are  kept  in  place,  awaiting  their  turn  to  be  regis- 
tered as  "  tenants."  Behind  them  a  force  of  English  soldiers 
stand  ready  with  arms  in  hand  to  make  English  law  beloved  by 
Irishmen.  The  attorney  is  seated  at  the  table,  ready  to  begin  the 
rent-roll. 

"  What's  your  name  ?  "  asks  the  landlord  of  the  stalwart  fellow 
first  in  order. 

"  Cdh-ainm  an  thu  ?  "  translates  the  interpreter. 

"  M'ainm,  a  deir  se  ?  [my  name,  says  he  ?]  "  replies  the  Gael. 
"  Inis  don  Sacsanach,  is  maith  agus  mor  an  t-ainm  orm — ainm  nios 
onorach  nasa  h-aimn  fein.  Is  misi  Tordhalbhach  MacGiola  Mho- 
chudha  !  "  (Tell  the  Saxon  it  is  good  and  great,  the  name  on  me 
— a  name  more  honorable  than  his  name.  I  am  Tordhalbhach 
MacGiola  Mhochudha.) 

Small  blame  to  the  Cockney  attorney  if  he  winced;  and  when, 
with  tongue  between  his  lips,  he  laboriously  spelled  out  the 
name  as  he  thought  he  heard  it,  "  Turlough  MacGillicuddy  " 
(or  perhaps  "  MacEllicott"),  he  did  his  best.  It  is  hard  to 
catch  correctly  the  sounds  of  an  unfamiliar  foreign  tongue. 

The  conjunction  of  the  final  c  in  Mac  with  an  initial  liquid  or 
vowel  is  responsible  for  such  double  forms  of  the  same  name  as 
MacReidy  and  MacCready  (Macready)  ;  MacRea  and  MacCrea ; 
MacLellan  and  MacClellan  ;  Maclvor  and  MacKeever,  etc. 
Something  similar  is  seen  in  Welsh  names.  Ap  Hoel  gives 
Howell  and  Powell ;  Ap  Lloyd,  Lloyd  and  Floyd  ;  Ap  Ris,  Rice 
and  Price;  Ap  Hugh,  Hughes  and  Pugh ;  Ap  Robert,  Roberts 
and  Probert,  etc. 

The  two  words  giola  and  maol  are  frequent  compounds  of 
Irish  surnames.  Giola  is  found  in  English  dress  in  the  word  gil- 
lie, a  corrupt  spelling  introduced  by  Scotch  novelists.  Giola  ori- 
ginally meant  "a  youth,"  and  was  applied  particularly  to  the 
young  fellows  who  were  attached  to  a  chief's  retinue.  Thence 
it  passed  easily  into  the  sense  of  a  client  or  follower.  Amongst 
the  early  Gaelic  Christians  it  was  employed  in  this  sense,  figura- 
tively, in  connection  with  the  name  of  some  holy  person  chosen 


682  THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.         [Feb., 

as  a  model.  Thus  we  have  Giola  Dia  (Anglicized  into  Gildea), 
"  a  servant  of  God  "  ;  Giola  Christ  (Gilchrist),  "  a  servant  (or  fol- 
lower) of  Christ "  ;  Giola  Mhuire  (Gilmuir,  Gilmore,  Gilmer, 
etc.),  "a  servant  or  client  of  Mary";  and  so  with  the  names 
Giola  Phadhruig(Gilpatrick,  Gilfettrick,  McElfetrick,  etc.),  Giola 
Brigdhe  (Gilbride),  signifying  special  reverence  for  St.  Patrick 
or  St.  Bridget.  The  names  MacGillicuddy,  Magillicuddy,  Mac- 
Ellicott,  Elliott  are  phonetic  attempts  to  put  into  English  dress 
MacGiola  Mhochudha,  "the  son  of  St.  Mochudha's  client." 

Maol  or  mael  is  used  somewhat  like  giola.  Primarily  it  means 
"  bald,"  and  hence  was  used  of  the  ancient  monks  on  account  of 
their  tonsure.  To  shave  the  hair  from  the  head  was  understood 
to  symbolize  the  complete  dedication  of  one's  self  to  religious 
service  ;  and  hence  mavtas  a  prefix  came  to  mean  "  disciple  "  or 
"  imitator  "  of  some  religious  teacher  or  saint.  We  have  Maol 
Colm  (Malcolm),  "  a  disciple  of  St.  Colm,"  the  founder  of  lona ; 
Maol  Isa  (Meiissey),  "a  disciple  of  Jesus";  Maol  Mhuire  (Mai- 
lory),  <£a  disciple  of  Mary."  Malone,  Moloney,  Muldoon  are 
names  formed  in  this  way. 

The  colors  are  displayed  in  the  surnames  of  most  nations. 
Among  the  Irish  they  originated,  not  more  than  about  two  cen- 
turies ago,  in  the  nicknames  of  the  common  clansmen.  As 
samples  there  are  Finn  (in  Gaelic  written  fionn),  which  means 
"  white  ";  Duff  (dubh\  "  black  "  ;  Donne,  Dunne,  and  Dunn  (donn) 
"  brown  ";  Glass  (glas),  "  green  ";  Gorm  (gorni),  "  blue  ";  Roe  and 
Rudd  (ruadh\  "red";  Leigh  (liath\  "gray,"  etc.,  besides  the 
translated  forms,  Whyte,  Greene,  Browne,  etc. 

The  Scotch  abandoned  the  ancient  orthography  of  the  Gaelic 
about  the  middle  of  the  last  century.  As  late,  however,  as  1724 
the  Presbyterian  Synod  of  Argyle  published  a  psalm-book  with 
the  ancient  alphabet  and  orthography.  But  the  Scotch,  having 
finally  adopted  the  Roman  alphabet,  have  differed  since  that  time 
from  the  Irish  in  the  spelling  of  many  familiar  names  common 
even  yet  to  Scotch  and  Irish.  Thus  the  Scotch  names  Colqu- 
houn,  Farquhar,  etc.,  are  identical  with  the  Irish  forms  Calla- 
ghan,  Farrar,  etc.,  some  ingenious  person  having  introduced  the 
digraph  qu  as  a  representative  of  the  broad  Gaelic  guttural.  But 
the  guttural,  in  sound  at  least,  has  pretty  nearly  disappeared 
from  Gaelic  surnames  as  we  hear  them  pronounced  nowadays. 
For  instance,  the  true  form  of  the  name  Connor,  or  Conor,  is 
Conn  chobkair,  meaning  "  the  war-hound  of  help  " — i.e.,  "  the  help- 
ing war-hound  "  ;  while  Gallagher  is  Gall  ckobkair,  "  the  stranger 
of  help  " — i.e.,  "  the  helping  stranger." 


i886.]          THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.  683 

There  is  a  class  of  pseudo-Gaelic  names  which  has  puzzled 
some  Americans  anxious  to  trace  their  pedigree.  Many  of  the 
Anglo-Normans  who  settled  in  the  west  and  south  of  Ireland 
adopted  the  language,  dress,  manners,  and  customs  of  the  Gaels, 
so  that  they  were  said  to  have  become  "  more  Irish  than  the 
Irish  themselves  " — ipsis  Hibernis  Hiberniores.  They  even  went 
so  far  as  to  organize  clans  of  their  own,  the  Anglo-Norman 
knight  becoming  the  chief  of  the  clan  he  organized.  His  clans- 
men would  be  outlaws,  or  adventurers  from  Gaelic  clans,  willing 
to  throw  in  their  fortunes  with  him.  The  De  Burgo  and  Fitz- 
Gerald  families,  which  had  already  divided  into  several  branches, 
were  the  first  to  set  the  example.  The  De  Burgos  took  the 
name  of  MacWilliam,  from  an  ancestor,  William  de  Burgo,  while 
the  FitzGeralds  became  MacMaurice,  MacGibbon  (or  Fitz-Mau- 
rice,  Fitz-Gibbon)  ;  and  all  the  clansmen,  no  matter  what  their 
origin,  assumed  the  common  surname  of  the  clan.  Hence  the 
host  of  Bourkes,  Burkes,  McWilliams,  Fitz-Gibbons,  etc.,  in  Ire- 
land. The  De  Courcy  family  formed  the  MacPatrick  clan,  the 
De  Barrys  became  MacDavids  or  MacDevitts,  the  De  Ber- 
minghams  became  MacYoris,  etc. 

The  ecclesiastical  and  classical  pedantry,  already  referred  to, 
has  been  principally  responsible  for  the  substitution  of  names  of 
Hebrew  or  classical  origin  for  the  beautiful  Gaelic  given  names. 
A  few  samples  of  the  old  names  and  their  queer  modern  sub- 
stitutes or  "  translations  "  may  be  interesting.  Alastair  *  has 
been  "  translated  "  into  the  Greek  name  "  Alexander."  Aluin 
(Alan),  meaning  "  beautiful,"  is  lost  to  the  Irish,  though  still  pre- 
served by  the  Scotch.  Aonghus  (Angus),  "  the  shrewd  one,"  has 
almost  disappeared,  or  else  has  been  replaced  by — "  ^Eneas  " ! 
Art,  meaning  "  high,"  "haughty,"  " lofty,"  etc.,  has  nearly  gone 
out  of  use,  or  has  been  replaced  by  its  Welsh  relative  "  Arthur," 
to  which  it  is  sometimes  made  to  do  duty  as  a  nickname.  Aodh, 
"fire,"  has  disappeared  completely.  Wherever  it  was  once  a 
favorite  the  Teutonic  name  "  Hugh  "  is  found.  Aine,  an  ancient 
feminine  name,  has  given  way  for  the  Hebrew  "  Hannah,"  or 
"  Anna,"  or,  in  the  soaring  middle-class  circles,  to  the  Greek 
"  Anastasia."  If  Aine  O'Kelly  were  sent  to  a  convent  boarding- 
school  in  Ireland  she  would  most  likely  be  set  down  in  the 
school  register  as  "  Miss  Anastasia  Kelly."  Brian  has  been 
"  Christianized  "  into  "  Bernard  "  and  "  Barney."  Calbhach, 
Carroll,  Cathal,  Connor,  and  Cormac,  all  now  masquerade  as 

*  From  ala,  "a  swan,"  and  astraim,  "to  carry" — -"a  swan-bearer,"  in  reference,  perhaps, 
to  some  singular  performance  of  the  first  who  was  called  by  the  name. 


684  THE  METAMORPHOSES  OF  IRISH  NAMES.         [Feb., 

"  Charles."  Conn,  a  suggestive  name  for  a  leader  of  men,  signi- 
fying "  war-hound,"  has  come  to  be  treated  as  if  it  were  a  mere 
nickname  by  the  foolish  or  ill-informed  descendants  of  those  who 
once  wore  it  proudly.  Nowadays  an  Irishman  who  is  familiarly 
called  "  Conn  "  signs  his  name  "  Cornelius,"  or  perhaps  "  Con- 
stantine."  Diarmaid  (Dermot)  *  has  become  —  "Jeremiah"! 
Domhnall  f  (Donal  or  Donald)  has  been  Hebraicized  into  "  Dan- 
iel." Some  Irishmen  whose  family  tradition  would  have  called 
Donat  are  known  as  Dionysius,  and  others  as  Denis.  How 
much  grander  "  Dionysius  Smythe  "  sounds  than  does  "  Donat 
MacGowan  " ;  the  second  is  Irish,  however,  and  the  first  is  non- 
descript. Eoghan  has  been  modified  into  the  form  of  its  Welsh 
relative  "  Owen,"  or  has  been  Hellenized  into  "  Eugene.'  Fear- 
ghus  (Fergus),  "  a  wise  man,"  is  seldom  met  with  now  in  Ireland, 
though  still  flourishing  in  canny  Scotland.  Felim  is  now  ren- 
dered by  "Philip,"  and  Finnin  by  "Florence."  Lorcan  has 
given  place  to  the  Latin  "  Laurence,"  and  Maghamhn  (Mahon), 
4<  rich  in  pastures,"  to  "  Martin."  Maolmhuire  (Myler),  "  Mary's 
devotee,"  has  been  changed  into  the  Latin  "  Miles "  (Myles), 
which  means  "a  soldier."  Niall,  "a  champion,"  has  nearly  dis- 
appeared. Raghnaiil  (Ranal,  Ronald,  or  Reynold)  is  lost  to  the 
Irish.  The  very  ancient  Celtic  name  Ruadhri  (Rory),  "  the 
ruddy-complexioned  chief,"  has  been  abandoned  for  the  Teutonic 
"  Roderick  "  and  "  Roger."  Sighile  (Sheela),  "  fairy-like,"  pro- 
bably older  than  Rome,  beguiles  mankind  as  "Julia,"  "Judith," 
and,  colloquially,  as  "Judy."  Tadg  (Teague),  also  very  ancient, 
has  been  "translated5'  into  "  Thaddseus,"  "Timothy,"  and 
"  Teddy."  It  is  easy  to  understand  the  terror  to  Saxon  eyes  of 
so  magnificent  a  piece  of  orthography  as  Tordhalbhach  (Torlach 
and  Turlough),  "  tower-like  "  ;  but  how  it  seems  to  lose  its  height 
and  dignity  when  it  is  turned  into  "  Terence  "  !  The  beautiful 
name  of  Una,  native  and  peculiar  to  Ireland,  has  been  sacrificed 
for  the  Saxon  "Winifred."  Nearly  all  the  Irish  "Winifreds" 
belong  to  families  or  lineages  where  Una  was  once  a  favorite 
name. 

*  This  Homeric  style  of  name  is  derived  from<#,  "a  god,"  and  armaid,  "of  arms" — t'.e.t  "a 
god  in  arms." 

t  From  domhan,  "  the  world,"  and  a//,  "  powerful." 


1 8 86.]  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  685 


THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE. 

"When  such  a  one  as  she,  such  is  her  neighbor." 

— As  You  Like  It. 

THE  faculty  of  composing  interesting  concretes,  whether  in 
verse  or  in  prose,  out  of  the  discordant  elements  of  this  lower 
life  was  bestowed  by  the  Almighty  for  benign  purposes.  In  this 
lower  life  good  and  evil,  their  actions  and  results,  are  often  so 
confounded  that  the  industrious  and  the  honorable  often  seem  to 
fail  of  their  reward,  while  the  indolent  and  the  vicious  triumph 
over  and  mock  at  them.  In  addition  to  the  consoling  hope  of 
immortality,  in  which  good  and  evil  are  to  be  separated  for  ever, 
God  has  imparted  a  supplemental.  Next  and  subsidiary  to  the 
preacher,  whose  office  is  to  remind  us  constantly  of  the  Last  Judg- 
ment, is  the  poet,  who  leads  our  minds,  inconstant  enough  to 
need  such  aids,  to  trustful  expectation  of  that  Judgment  by  cre- 
ating from  among  the  inhabitants  of  this  present  world  those  of 
his  own  in  which  justice  is  administered  in  ways  at  least  ap- 
proximating the  justice  of  eternity.  For  this  purpose,  less  exalt- 
ed, indeed,  than  that  of  the  priesthood,  we  believe  that  poesy  was 
bestowed  upon  mankind.  The  novelist  is  a  poet  as  well  as  the 
maker  of  verses.  In  these  new  creations  the  jarring  elements  of 
human  life  are  so  joined  as  to  appear  to  harmonize  in  some  de- 
gree, or  made  to  cease  their  conflict  by  the  triumph  of  the  good 
even  on  this  side  of  the  grave.  This  is  the  leading,  legitimate 
purpose  of  fiction — to  show  us  a  more  excellent  way  than  the 
present  in  which  we  travel,  and  so  to  hold  us  from  discourage- 
ment for  the  irregularities  and  failures  that  we  continually  wit- 
ness and  experience. 

We  have  made  these  observations  prefatory  to  some  reflec- 
tions upon  satire,  particularly  as  exhibited  in  the  works  of  Mr. 
Thackeray. 

Suggestive  were  the  motives  that  impelled  the  first  of  the 
satirists  of  Greece.  What  might  have  been  done  by  Archilochus 
of  Paros  but  for  the  accidents  in  his  earliest  ambition  we  cannot 
say,  knowing  so  little  of  his  youth.  But  it  was  his  lot  to  love 
the  fair  Neobule,  daughter  of  Lycambes.  The  maid  returned  his 
passion,  and  her  father  at  first  gave  consent  to  their  union,  but, 
having  ascertained  that  the  mother  of  the  youth  had  been  a 
slave,  withdrew  it.  Thereupon  the  lover  gave  vent  to  his  disap- 


686  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  [Feb., 

pointment  and  indignation  in  such  verses  (the  first  of  their  kind) 
that  not  only  Neobule  but  her  sisters  also  hanged  themselves. 
Results  so  tragic  have  not  often  followed  the  scourgings  of  the 
Parian's  successors,  but  they  sometimes  have  been  painful  and 
hurtful.  Let  us  consider  briefly  some  of  those  in  the  productions 
of  him  whom  many  regard  the  greatest  of  the  novelists. 

In  the  drolleries  of  Michael  Angelo  Titmarsh  there  was 
a  sufficiency  of  bitterness.  The  name  was  prophetic,  and  its 
prophecies  ran  along  in  rapid  fulfilment  in  the  Times,  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine,  and  Punch.  Yet  nothing  seriously  ambitious 
seemed  to  have  been  attempted  in  The  Fat  Contributor,  Miss 
Tickletobys  Lectures,  Jeames*  Diary,  Mrs.  Perkins'  Ball,  The  Journey 
from  Cornhill  to  Grand  Cairo.  The  characters  thus  far  created 
had  been  laughed  at,  and  some  of  them  despised,  but  none  were 
destined  to  become  immortal.  If  the  artist  was  ever  to  take 
more  thoughtful  views  of  men  and  things,  it  was  time  he  had 
begun,  for  he  was  now  forty  years  old.  So  Michael  Angelo 
Titmarsh  retired  from  public  view,  and  his  place  was  taken  by 
William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 

Vanity  Fair — another  prophetic  name !  The  wisest  of  man- 
kind, he  who  had  tried  every  form  of  prosperity,  riches,  power, 
glory,  love,  revenge,  even  wisdom,  had  pronounced  them  vanity. 
In  vain  the  men-singers  and  the  women-singers ;  in  vain  the 
trumpet  of  triumphant  war;  in  vain  the  sweet  peacefulness  of  the 
lute,  dulcimer,  and  harp  ;  in  vain  the  soft  words  of  concubines  and 
parasites  ;  in  vain  the  royal  diadem  ;  in  vain  all  human  know- 
ledge. The  aged  king,  turning  his  eye  back  upon  the  past  and 
reviewing  his  career,  could  only  drivel  out  in  impotent  complaint, 
"  Vanitas  vanitatum  !  "  A  mournful  judgment  to  make  of  human 
life,  yet  not  unfitted  to  one  who  had  used  its  best  things  intetn- 
perately,  and  who,  in  spite  of  his  wisdom,  in  spite  of  his  commis- 
sion from  Heaven  to  build  the  Temple,  had  turned  his  way 
from  the  true  God  and  bent  his  knee  before  Baal. 

We  are  now  to  have  a  Vanity  Fair  exhibited  by  Mr.  Thack- 
eray. Well,  men  are  fond  of  spectacles,  even  the  grotesque. 
Invited  to  this  Vanity  Fair,  although  warned  that  we  are  to  see 
deformities  instead  of  excellences,  we  accept  the  invitation. 
What  have  we  here?  Representatives  of  several  estates — a  mar- 
quis, a  baronet  and  his  family,  a  tradesman  and  his  family,  some 
officers  of  the  army,  and  a  governess.  We  had  been  led  to  be- 
lieve that  they  were  a  brave  set  of  men,  the  peers  and  the  knights 
of  England.  But  when  we  see  two  of  their  representatives  in 
the  Marquis  of  Steyne  and  Sir  Pitt  Crawley,  we  are  made  to 


1 886.]  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  687 

doubt  if  history  be  not  in  error  to  assign  to  the  ancestors  of  such 
as  these  the  wresting  from  despotic  kings  Magna  Charta,  Habeas 
Corpus,  and  the  Bill  of  Rights.  But  let  these  go.  Yet  we  may 
be  allowed  to  hope  that  persons  in  our  class,  without  ancestral 
image  or  tradition,  the  necessarily  self-reliant — that  some  of  these 
are  worth  the  bread  they  eat,  the  breath  they  draw,  and  the 
clothes  they  wear ;  and  that  the  lives  they  lead,  or  try  to  lead, 
may  encourage  us  somewhat  in  efforts  to  walk  honestly  among 
men  and  reverently  before  God.  Then  who  are  these  Osbornes, 
Sedleys,  Dobbins,  and  Sharps?  Indeed,  with  one  exception, 
they  are  vicious  or  contemptible.  That  exception  is  Dobbin. 
Dobbin  did  have  a  heart,  and  was  made  awkward  and  unlovable. 
It  would  not  have  suited  the  showman,  who  had  advertised  for 
monstrosities,  that  a  man  who  had  a  heart  should  also  have  a 
proper  figure  and  winsome  manners.  The  only  apparent  pur- 
pose for  which  this  heart  had  been  given  was  that  it  might  be 
wounded  and  trampled  upon  with  levity  and  impunity.  Behold 
what  a  run  of  loves  is  here.  Honest,  clumsy  Dobbin,  risen  from 
little  beginnings,  gives  his  single  love  to  Amelia  Sedley,  who 
cannot  endure  to  hear  his  name  mentioned  along  with  that  of 
George  Osborne,  handsome,  but  ignorant  and  a  scoundrel.  The 
wife  believed  him  glorious  until  Waterloo,  when  it  was  found 
that  had  he  not  fallen  in  battle  he  would  have  forsaken  her  and 
run  away  with  Mrs.  Rawdon  Crawley.  Years  afterwards,  when 
the  widow  has  lost  youth  and  beauty,  and  been  broken  by  soli- 
tude and  privation,  Dobbin,  now  high  in  fame  and  rank,  comes 
in  for  the  poor  remnant  of  what  is  left  of  her. 

How  has  it  been  with  Rebecca  Sharp  ?  The  artist  tried  his 
hand  on  her.  He  gave  the  beauty,  social  position,  other  goods 
to  Amelia.  But  the  things  which  sometimes  captivate  men  more 
than  these  were  bestowed  upon  the  poor,  plain  governess.  The 
very  relation  of  such  men  as  the  Crawleys  to  each  other  made 
their  pursuit  more  shamefully  eager.  What  a  scene  was  there 
when  on  the  death  of  the  old  dotard's  wife,  reaching  his  withered 
hand  to  grasp  the  coveted  prize,  he  found  that  she,  not  having 
foreseen  this  opportunity,  had  become  the  wife  of  his  son  !  Then 
ensued  a  career  which  it  is  surprising  that  a  most  gifted  man 
should  narrate  through  long  years  of  circumstantial  details.  We 
look  on  and  watch  how  this  wife  manages  to  preserve  that  mid- 
dle place,  tormenting  her  husband  with  jealousies  that  do  not 
amount  to  full  assurances,  and  avoiding  the  disgust  of  other 
lovers  by  semblance  of  the  chariness  of  her  favors.  We  can- 
not but  be  fascinated  by  a  certain  sort  of  heroism,  evil  as  it  is, 


638  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  [Feb., 

and  we  are  not  too  indignant  when  we  find  her  at  last  enjoying 
comparative  triumph,  become  a  snug  widow,  and  dispensing  in 
charities  a  commendable  safe  part  of  the  property  so  unexpect- 
edly devolved  upon  her.  Dowerless,  without  beauty,  without 
family,  without  heart,  without  honesty,  she  fought  her  way,  out- 
lived most  of  those  with  whom  she  had  to  do,  and,  so  far  as  the 
world  knew,  was  not  far  from  being  about  as  respectable  as  any. 

We  have  been  to  the  show.  What  now  are  our  reflections? 
What  higher  and  braver  thoughts  have  come  to  our  minds 
when,  wearied  with  toil  and  the  witness  of  life's  discordant  reali- 
ties, we  turned  aside  to  dream  of  the  unreal  ?  What  encourage- 
ment have  we  gained  for  efforts  at  well-doing  by  the  sight  of 
honest  work  and  patient  endurance  rewarded  ?  Or  what  warning 
have  we  had  from  the  contemplation  of  vice  and  intrigue  over- 
taken by  disaster,  or  at  least  by  disappointment?  Instead  of 
these  we  have  found — and  to  some  extent  been  ashamed  to  find — 
ourselves  admiring  a  creation  that  is  as  seductive  as  it  is  evil. 
Added  to  this  we  were  conscious  of  a  loss  of  some  portion  of  that 
which  it  is  most  calamitous  to  lose.  Woe  to  him  who  parts  from 
his  trust  in  mankind,  who  does  not  believe  that  in  this  world 
there  is  goodness  beyond  that  which  he  has  ever  found  in  his 
own  being  the  capacity  to  practise ! 

In  this  book  the  artist — and  he  was  an  eminently  great  artist 
— seemed  to  have  endeavored  to  drive  mankind  to  their  own 
unaided  struggles,  taking  away  from  them  all  good  examples, 
and  leaving  them  to  conclude  that  nothing  is  real  but  folly  and 
perfidy.  Let  us  read  this  extract,  like  which  very  many  might 
be  made  : 

"  Perhaps  in  Vanity  Fair  there  are  no  better  satires  than  letters.  Take 
a  bundle  of  your  dear  friend's  ten  years  back — how  you  clung  to  each  other 
before  you  quarrelled  about  the  twenty-pounds  legacy  !  Get  down  the 
round-hand  scrawls  of  your  son,  who  has  broken  your  heart  since  with 
selfish  undutifulness ;  or  a  parcel,  breathing  endless  ardor  and  love  eternal, 
which  were  sent  back  by  your  mistress  when  she  married  the  Nabob — your 
mistress  for  whom  now  you  care  no  more  than  for  Queen  Elizabeth. 
Vows,  loves,  confidences,  promises,  gratitude — how  queerly  they  read  after 
a  while !  There  ought  to  be  a  law  in  Vanity  Fair  ordering  the  destruction 
of  every  written  document  (except  receipted  tradesmen's  bills)  after  a  cer- 
tain brief  and  proper  interval.  Those  quacks  and  misanthropes  who  ad- 
vertise indelible  Japan  ink  should  be  made  to  perish  along  with  their 
wicked  discoveries.  The  best  ink  for  Vanity  Fair  use  would  be  one  that 
faded  utterly  in  a  couple  of  days  and  left  the  page  clean  and  blank,  so  that 
you  might  write  on  it  to  somebody  else.'' 

Surely  the  Preacher  himself  would  have  been  puzzled  to  put 
more  strongly  the  case  of  vanitas  vanitatum. 


1 886.]  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  689 

In  the  literature  of  fiction  there  is  not  to  be  found  a  picture 
drawn  more  artistically  than  Rebecca  Sharp.  She 'was  of  the 
sort  upon  whom  it  suited  the  author  to  exert  his  consummate 
powers.  He  painted  her  to  the  life,  with  pretended  reluctance  to 
evil,  suspected,  yet  not  fully  known  to  be  persuasible  to  consent, 
demanding  risk,  high  pay,  so  that  the  pursuit,  of  which,  if  easy,  a 
bold  lover  would  weary,  acquired  the  eagerness  which  must  not 
be  allowed  to  abate.  No  woman  could  better  understand  the 
trick,  as  sung  by  the  shepherd  in  Virgil,  of  casting  her  apple  and 
then  fleeing  to  the  covert  of  willows  : 

"  Malo  me  Galatea  petit  lasciva  puella ; 
Et  fugit  ad  salices  ;  et  se  cupit  ante  videri.'' 

It  is  a  sad  commentary  on  the  powerlessness  and  the  hope- 
lessness of  a  poor  young  woman  without  other  gift  than  mere 
virtue  to  obtain  success  that  appears  to  attend  upon  insidious- 
ness  and  fraud.  It  would  have  been  a  good  sight  to  see  the  lift- 
ing of  such  a  one,  even  though  slowly  and  through  difficulties, 
where  so  many  thousands  of  poor  girls  do  rise  through  toil  and 
patient  waiting.  In  default  of  this  the  next  best  would  have 
been  to  drive  her  to  the  frustration  of  every  dishonorable  pur- 
pose that  had  tempted  her  from  the  path  of  rectitude.  Better 
than  both  of  these,  for  the  highest  purposes  of  instruction,  would 
have  been  pictures  of  young  women  who  endured  temptation 
and  outrage  without  expecting  and  without  receiving  reward 
except  such  as  came  from  the  testimony  of  a  good  conscience 
and  of  suffering  for  the  sake  of  Him  who  ennobled  suffering  and 
put  it  above  successes,  victories,  and  triumphs.  For  had  there 
not  lived  in  such  a  career  Agnes  and  Afra,  Rose  and  Eulalia, 
Lucy  and  Blandina  ?  If  such  as  these  be  outside  of  the  art  of 
the  novelist,  then  surely  he  may  hold  up  to  our  view  young  girls 
such  as  Richardson  presented  with  generous  sympathy  to  the 
public  of  his  day.  Alas  !  the  eves  of  that  public  were  yet  moist 
with  tears  when  the  profligate  Fielding  made  them  laugh  both  at 
them  over  whom  they  had  wept  and  at  themselves.  It  was  such 
a  joke  to  imagine  it  possible  for  as  poor  a  girl  as  Pamela  to 
marry  a  rich,  hardened  bachelor  and  reform  him  after  marriage, 
or  for  another  like  Clarissa  to  endure  such  trials  and  yet  con- 
tinue spotless  in  her  virtue !  No,  no  ;  Rebecca  Sharp  must  be 
what  she  was,  have  a  better  time  than  even  Amelia  Sedley,  and 
thus  be  made  to  exhibit  that  virtue  is  worth  not  even  as  much 
as  a  semblance  that  is  suspected  and  almost  known  to  be  false. 
Satire,  indeed !  Satire  upon  the  men  in  highest  society,  for  of 
VOL.  XLII. — 44 


690  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  [Feb., 

the  two  from  this  class  whom  he  exhibited  one  was  a  heartless 
profligate,  the  other  a  loathsome  brute  ;  satire  even  upon  mar- 
riage, for  the  couple  who  were  truest  to  each  other  were  the 
O'Dowds,  whose  rudeness  was  sufficient  to  make  all  of  both 
sexes  feel  like  keeping  away  from  marriage  altogether,  if  this  is 
to  be  considered  a  fair  illustration  of  its  most  honorable  estate. 

In  Pendennis  Thackeray's  sarcasm,  if  somewhat  less  painful 
because  more  playful,  is  yet  more  undistinguishing.     On  its  ap- 
pearance men  of  letters  were  disposed  to  regard  it  as  a  satire 
upon  the  literary  profession.     The  truth  is  that  whoever  reads 
the  book,  if  he  be  one  who  considers  himself  superior  in  gifts  and 
conditions  to  a  rather  low  plane  of  human  life,  will  find  himself 
jeered  at  on  occasions  wherein  he  will  be  most  surprised  to  find 
himself  an  object  of  reproach.     Mr.  Pendennis  lived  to  become  a 
person  of  whom  the  author  was  proud  that  he  was  considered  a 
gentleman  to  be  admired.      When  a  boy  he  was  polite,  good- 
looking,  well  cared  for,  of  sufficient  fortune  and  thoroughly  re- 
spectable family.     Such  advantages  naturally  lead  us  to  expect 
a   quickly-developed,  worthy  manhood.      Yet   very   soon    after 
first  looking  upon  the  goodly  lad  we  are  made  acquainted  with 
some  little  matters  which,  but  for  remembering  that  he  is  a  spe- 
cial friend  of  the  distinguished  author  of  Vanity  Fair,  would  lead 
us  to  infer  that  the  youngster  has  already  been  sold  to  the  devil 
and  is  destined  to  do  faithful  work  for  his  master.     He  had  the 
misfortune,  when  in  his  seventeenth  year  and  while  absent  from 
home  at  a  boarding-school,  to  lose  his  father,  of  whom  he  was 
the  only  child.     This  father,  though  formal  in  his  exterior,  was  a 
devoted  family  man,  "  adored  his  wife,  and  loved  and  admired 
his  son  with  all  his  heart."     To  the  young  generally  death  seems 
an  awful  event,  and  the  death  of  one's  father  is  certainly  one  of 
the  most  appalling  of  all  its  forms.     Even  when  the  parent  has 
been  harder  than  is  consistent  with  such  relation,  surely  it  must 
be  seldom,  except  among  the  very  worst  specimens  of  boyhood, 
that  one  feels  like  triumphing  at  the  very  hour  and  in  the  very 
presence   of   such  a   death,   and  strutting  amid  the  possessions 
which  it  has  devolved  upon  him.     Let  us  see,  according  to  the 
testimony   of  his  most  intimate  friend,  how  young  Arthur  be- 
haved when,  summoned  from  Gray  Friars',  he  entered  the  room 
where  lay  the  corpse  of  him  who,  in  his  life,  had  "  loved  and  ad- 
mired his  son  with  all  his  heart,"  to  whom,  so  says  this  most  in^ 
timate  friend, 

"Arthur  had  been  his  father's  pride  and  glory  through  life,  and  his 
name  the  last  which  John  Pendennis  had  tried  to  articulate  while  he  lay 


1 886.]  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  691 

with  his  wife's  hand  clasping  his  own  cold  and  clammy  palm,  as  the  flick- 
ering spirit  went  out  into  the  darkness  of  death,  and  life  and  the  world 
passed  away  from  him. 

"  As  for  Arthur  Pendennis,  after  that  awful  shock  which  the  sight  of 
his  dead  father  must  have  produced  on  him,  arid  the  pity  and  feeling  which 
such  an  event  no  doubt  occasioned,  I  am  not  sure  that  in  the  very  moment 
of  grief,  and  as  he  embraced  his  mother  and  tenderly  condoled  her,  and 
promised  to  love  her  for  ever,  there  was  not  springing  up  in  his  breast  a 
feeling  of  secret  triumph  and  exultation.  He  was  the  chief  now,  and  lord. 
He  was  Pendennis,  and  all  around  about  him  were  his  servants  and  hand- 
maids. In  the  midst  of  the  general  grief  and  the  corpse  still  lying  above 
he  had  leisure  to  conclude  that  he  would  have  all  holidays  for  the  future, 
that  he  wouldn't  get  up  till  he  liked,  or  stand  the  bullying  of  the  doctor, 
and  had  made  a  hundred  such  day-dreams  and  resolves  for  the  future. 
How  one's  thoughts  will  travel,  and  how  quickly  our  wishes  beget  them  ! 
When  he,  with  Laura  in  his  hand,  went  into  the  kitchen  on  his  way  to  the 
dog-kennel,  the  fowl-houses,  and  his  other  favorite  haunts,  all  the  ser- 
vants assembled  there  in  great  silence  with  their  friends,  and  the  laboring- 
men  with  their  wives,  and  Sally  Potter,  who  went  with  the  post-boy  to 
Clavering — all  there  assembled  and  drinking  beer  on  the  melancholy  occa- 
sion— rose  up  on  his  entrance,  and  bowed  and  curtsied  to  him.  They 
never  used  to  do  that  last  holidays,  he  felt  at  once  and  with  indescribable 
pleasure.  The  cook  cried  out,  '  O  Lord  ! '  and  whispered, '  How  Master  Ar- 
thur do  grow  ! '  Thomas,  the  groom,  in  the  act  of  drinking  put  down  the 
jug,  alarmed  before  his  master.  Thomas'  master  felt  the  honor  keenly. 
He  went  through  and  looked  at  the  pointers.  As  Flora  put  her  nose  up 
to  his  waistcoat,  and  Ponto,  yelling  with  pleasure,  hurtled  at  his  chain,  Pen 
patronized  the  dogs,  and  said,  'Poo  Ponto!  poo  Flora!'  in  his  most  conde- 
scending manner.  And  then  he  went  and  looked  at  Laura's  hens,  and  at 
the  pigs,  and  at  the  orchard,  and  at  the  dairy.  Perhaps  he  blushed  to 
think  that  it  was  only  last  holidays  he  had  in  a  manner  robbed  the  great 
apple-tree  and  been  scolded  by  the  dairy-maid  for  taking  cream." 

If  anything  equal  to  this  can  be  found  in  another  book  pur- 
porting- to  represent  highly  respectable  people,  imaginary  or 
real,  we  do  not  know  where.  Yet  this  youth  grows  up  to  be  a 
fine  gentleman,  become  a  favorite  of  the  author,  be  an  author 
himself,  a  great  author,  charming  the  best  society,  marry  a  sweet 
girl — that  is,  sweet  enough,  we  judge  ;  the  same  Laura,  indeed, 
who  went  tripping  it  along  with  him  on  that  same  morning,  patro- 
nizing the  servants,  and  dogs,  and  chickens,  and  pigs.  Why  not? 
What  has  he  done  that  we  would  be  above  doing  in  the  same 
circumstances  ?  We  are  told  over  and  over  again,  by  the  author, 
that  we  need  not  turn  away  with  disgust  from  the  sight  of  such 
things,  and  congratulate  ourselves  that  we  would  not  and  could 
not  do  them.  He  looks  us  calmly  in  the  face  and  asserts  that 
we  both  could  and  would,  and  that  we  actually  do  them  con- 
stantly. One  of  us  may  have  a  rosy-cheeked,  full-eyed  boy,  in 


692  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  [Feb., 

whom  he  may  believe  to  see  the  promise  of  a  manhood  that  will 
rise  fully  to  the  needs  of  his  time.  As  he  looks  into  those  full 
eyes  he  may  believe  he  sees  the  filial  love  that  is  desired  and 
professed  to  be  in  the  boy's  breast,  and  that  when  himself  shall 
come  to  die  that  fair  son,  even  if  yet  a  boy,  will  grieve  away 
down  in  the  depths  of  his  true  heart,  will  sometimes  repair  to  his 
father's  tomb  to  weep  there,  and  ever  afterwards  remember  him 
with  pious,  sweet  regret.  If  we  who  are  parents  could  not  thus 
believe,  we  should  pity  and  almost  feel  like  cursing  ourselves 
that  God  had  not  made  us  childless. 

Such  sarcasms,  the  very  quintessence  of  bitterness,  abound 
throughout  Thackeray's  works,  and  we  are  sometimes  made  to 
feel  how  insultingly  they  are  turned  from  the  meanest  characters 
and  inflicted  upon  ourselves.  He  seemed  to  take  a  special  plea- 
sure in  recounting  the  quarrels  of  married  persons.  Bad  as 
such  things  may  be,  we  dare  not  express  our  disgust,  because  we 
foresee  that  we  are  to  be  told,  almost  apace,  that  we  are  not  bet- 
ter— nor  happier — than  those  whom  we  think  we  despise  or 
compassionate;  that  our  "  silly-headed  "  wives,  when  they  seem 
most  affectionate,  have  least  concern  for  us,  and  that  all  of  us, 
husbands  and  wives,  are  but  "  pairs  of  infinite  isolations,  with 
some  fellow-islands  a  little  more  or  less  near  between  us."  Alas !  ; 
there  be  some,  too  many,  who  thus  outrage  the  holy  estate  of 
matrimony,  and  lose  or  trample  upon  the  good  influences  and 
the  pure  enjoyments  that  it  was  designed  to  impart.  But  it  is  a 
poor  lesson  that  such  persons  learn  when  they  read  in  a  famous 
book  by  a  famous  man  that  their  own  lives  are  but  miniatures  of 
the  world  around  them.  They  have  weak  incentives  to  amend- 
ment when  they  are  taught  by  such  high  authority  that  such 
amendment  is  not  only  unnecessary  but  impossible.  Human 
nature  wants  supports  and  incentives  from  every  source  whence 
they  can  be  brought.  Out  of  harmony  as  is  this  lower  life,  beset 
with  perfidies  and  wrong- doings  of  many  sorts,  it  would  be  in- 
tolerable if,  in  the  absence  of  all  real,  we  should  be  forbidden  to 
contemplate  imaginary  good  examples.  If  these  evils  abound  in 
us  and  among  those  we  know  around  us,  we  might  be  allowed,  at 
least,  to  hope  that  somewhere,  beyond  the  pale  of  our  poor  ac- 
quaintance, there  are  some,  if  only  a  few,  among  whom  vulgar- 
ity and  lies  and  perfidy  have  no  abiding-place.  Such  sarcasms, 
therefore,  even  if  they  were  just,  would  do  harm.  But  they  are 
not  just.  In  every  society  there  are  husbands  and  wives  who 
not  only  love  but  respect  one  another,  and  there  are  .boys  and 
girls  who  love  and  honor  their  parents  sincerely,  heartily  weep 


1 886.]  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  693 

when  they  die,  and  feel  a  sense  of  loss  that  only  God  can  repair. 
Everywhere  there  are  thousands  upon  thousands,  of  both  sexes 
and  all  conditions  and  all  ages,  among  whom  the  appearances 
and  avowals  of  love  and  friendship  and  honor  are  not  mockeries 
and  lies;  and  such  persons  become  more  numerous  as  the  world 
grows  older  and  approaches  the  fulness  of  the  times  of  God. 

As  Thackeray  grew  older  his  writings  afforded  somewhat 
more  comforting,  at  least  less  despairing,  views  of  human  life. 
In  The  Newcomes  Mr.  Arthur  Pendennis  seemed  to  have  mode- 
rated considerably  since  the  day  when  he  strutted  about  his 
possessions  close  to  the  yet  unfilled  grave  of  his  father.  Yet  in 
this  most  studied  and  consummate  story  and  in  Henry  Esmond 
there  are  flings  against  society  in  general  which  show  that,  if  the 
bitterness  was  subdued,  the  lack  of  any  confidence  yet  remained. 
The  latter  work,  with  all  its  splendid  writing  and  its  several  in- 
stances of  profound  feeling,  is  a  great,  broad  satire  on  life.  Our 
hearts  had  been  made  sick  in  Vanity  Fair  by  the  contest  of  a 
father  and  his  son  for  the  love  of  the  same  woman,  and  we  had 
strengthened  ourselves,  as  well  as  we  could,  by  reflections  that 
such  hideous  monstrosities  were  to  be  seen  only  in  the  ruder  of 
the  sexes  ;  but  in  Henry  Esmond  this  sickness  returns  and  seems 
destined  to  come  nigh  unto  death  when  we  see  a  young  man, 
who  has  been  jilted  by  the  girl  of  his  choice,  seeking  and  finding 
consolation  in  the  arms  of  that  girl's  mother !  O  shade  of  Sir 
Pitt  Cra.wley  !  thou  wast  defeated  in  that  unnatural  strife  with 
thy  son  for  the  possession  of  Rebecca  Sharp ;  but  it  might  have 
subtracted  somewhat  from  the  anguish  and  the  shame  of  defeat 
hadst  thou  foreseen  that,  in  such  another  struggle,  age  in  its  turn 
would  triumph,  the  young  daughter  fall  down,  and  the  mother 
rise  upon  her  ruin !  We  may  have  thought  it  had  been  enough 
for  us  to  be  made  to  contemplate  the  horrible  history  of  the 
family  of  Laius  of  Thebes — a  history  made  in  obedience  to  the 
decrees  of  Fate,  and  which,  though  in  a  barbaric  age,  filled  man- 
kind with  consternation,  drove  Jocasta  to  suicide,  and  OEdipus 
to  tear  out  his  eyes  with  his  own  hands.  Yet  now  in  Christian 
times,  in  high  society,  we  are  made  to  look  upon  careers  not 
very  far  less  revolting,  entered  upon  and  run  deliberately,  and  not 
only  see  the  runners  not  ashamed,  but  be  forbidden  to  feel,  or  at 
least  to  express,  shame  for  ourselves  for  being  in  such  presence. 

If  what  we  have  said  of  the  purpose  of  fiction  be  just,  that  it 
was  to  aid  in  consoling  for  the  want  of  harmony  and  the  wrong- 
doings in  this  life,  then  we  must  conclude  that  Mr.  Thackeray, 
with  all  his  pre-eminent  talents,  if  he  did  not  pervert  and  dis- 


694  THE  EXTREMITY  OF  SATIRE.  [Feb., 

honor  his  art,  at  least  came  short  of  its  noblest  behests.  From 
the  contemplation  of  his  masterpieces  we  turn  with  sadder  in- 
stead of  more  cheerful  views  of  life,  with  less  instead  of  more 
cordial  chanty  for  mankind,  with  diminished  instead  of  enhanced 
confidence  in  men  and  hope  for  ourselves,  with  lowered  instead 
of  exalted  aspirations  for  the  good.  In  that  series  of  powerful 
creations  by  Hogarth,  The  Harlot's  Progress,  we  are  led  along  in 
natural,  inevitable  gradation  from  little  Kate,  innocent  as  a  flower 
in  her  native  Yorkshire,  alighting  from  the  old  wagon  at  the 
"  Bell  Inn  "  in  Cheapside,  to  that  last  scene  of  Dolours  and  Death  in 
the  garret  of  Drury  Lane,  and  we  turn  away  shuddering  for  the 
sure  end  of  vicious  living.  A  mournful  lesson,  but  not  without 
its  benefits.  But  what  if  the  artist  had  retired  her  into  decent 
widowhood,  or — many,  many  times  worse — if  he  had  accosted  us 
at  the  door  of  his  studio,  as,  exhausted  with  horror  and  pity,  we 
were  making  our  way  out,  and,  grinning  the  while  at  our  excited 
state,  charged  us,  and  not  only  us  but  all  the  world  else,  with 
being  no  better  than  his  picture,  and  declared  that  our  escape 
thus  far  from  a  fate  unhappy  as  that  of  her  whom  he  named  "  the 
creature  of  the  pest-pit  and  perdition  "  was  due,  and  our  possible 
escape  from  it  hereafter  would  be  due,  either  to  the  want  of  suffi- 
cient temptation  or  the  absence  of  detection?  Alas!  that  we 
should  be  allowed  to  look  upon  no  good  examples,  real  or  imagi- 
nary, and  even  be  discouraged  from  making  them  of  ourselves. 
If  Mr.  Thackeray  in  his  work  had  motives  which  were  meant  to 
be  generous,  we  can  conceive  of  none  other  than  that  he  believed 
the  only  way  possible  to  amend  mankind  was  to  render  every- 
body contemptible  in  the  eyes  of  everybody  else  and  his  own 
besides.  The  latter,  indeed,  is  in  harmony  with  the  teachings 
of  the  church,  which  always  commends  to  its  children  to  be 
modest,  even  lowly,  in  mind.  But  the  former  is  a  dangerous 
method  of  instruction.  It  is,  indeed,  an  evil  disease  to  which  the 
remedy  to  be  applied  is  worse  than  itself.  Nothing  is  more  salu- 
tary than  humility,  but  for  its  best  uses  it  must  be  in  the  heart 
of  him  who  "  in  the  midst  of  reproaches  remaineth  in  great 
peace."  "  Never  think  that  thou  hast  made  any  progress  until 
thou  feel  that  thou  art  inferior  to  all."  In  order  to  avail  of  this 
counsel  of  Thomas  a  Kempis  one  must  have  set  before  him  a 
standard  of  excellence  of  some  sort,  be  made  to  believe  that  out- 
side of  himself  there  is  good,  and  that  it  is  attainable  by  per- 
sistent endeavor.  Otherwise  his  humility  must  turn  back  upon, 
rend,  and  drive  him  to  despair — of  all  conditions  for  the  human 
heart  the  most  deplorable. 


1 886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  695 

A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA. 

PART   II. 

THE  next  monastery  which  claimed  our  attention  was  that  of 
Chremsminster.  And  we  would  advise  any  one  intending  to  visit 
it  from  Linz  rather  to  go  the  long  journey  to  it  by  carriage 
than  by  the  most  tedious  of  trains — one  which  stops,  and  stops 
long,  at  every  station  of  its  route.  We  unfortunately  elected  to 
follow  the  more  economical  course,  and  started  from  Linz  by  rail 
at. ten  minutes  before  seven,  to  arrive  at  the  station  for  Chrems- 
minster at  nine.  The  latter  part  of  the  journey  is  interesting 
as  affording  distant  glimpses  of  the  mountains  of  the  Salzkammer- 
gut.  On  nearing  Chrems  the  huge  monastery,  which,  perched 
on  a  lofty  hill,  overhangs  that  little  town,  has  a  very  impressive 
appearance,  and  an  enormous  and  very  lofty  tower  (much  like 
representations  of  the  Tower  of  Babel)  is  a  singular  adjunct  to  its 
more  ecclesiastical-looking  towers  and  cupolas.  It  is  entirely 
an  eighteenth-century  building. 

Being  ignorant  of  our  exact  route,  we  rejoiced  to  overtake 
a  traveller  by  our  train  who,  from  the  black  scapular  over  his 
cassock,  we  took  to  be  also  on  his  road  to  the  abbey.  We  found 
that  he  was  indeed  a  member  of  the  fraternity,  who  was  returning 
home  after  serving  for  some  years  in  one  of  the  parishes  belong- 
ing to  the  abbey.  Through  his  courtesy  and  latch-key  we  were 
enabled  at  once  to  scale  the  hillside  through  garden-paths  and 
get  at  once  to  the  abbot's  quarters,  avoiding  what  would  else 
have  been  a  long  walk  round  the  base  of  the  hill  and  a  slow 
ascent  to  its  principal  entrance.  We  sent  in  our  cards  and  let- 
ters, waiting  meanwhile  in  an  anteroom  in  the  company  of  a  vene- 
rable janitor.  Very  soon  the  abbot,  Herr  Leonard  Achleitner, 
came  out  from  his  apartments,  into  which  he  invited  us,  where, 
seated  on  a  handsome  crimson  velvet  sofa,  we  began  a  conversa- 
tion which,  to  our  regret,  we  found  we  were  compelled  to  carry 
on  in  German  as  best  we  might.  He  then  showed  us  his  most 
comfortable  study,  and  also  the  room  in  which  the  monks  say  (in 
the  evening)  their  Matins  and  Lauds  of  the  next  day,  instead 
of  saying  it  in  the  church  choir.  He  then  handed  us  over  to 
the  charge  of  an  amiable  and  healthy-looking  young  monk — by 
name  Columban  Schiesflingstrasse — with  an  injunction  to  show 


696  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

us  everything  worth  seeing.  He  also  invited  us  to  sleep  at  the 
monastery  (an  invitation  we  were  reluctantly  obliged  to  decline), 
and  insisted  on  our  dining  with  the  community,  regretting  that 
an  urgent  call  from  home  necessitated  his  leaving  us  to  the  hos- 
pitable care  of  the  prior. 

Our  first  visit  was  to  the  library,  which,  we  were  told,  could 
boast  of  eighty  thousand  volumes.  The  works  devoted  to  the 
different  natural  sciences,  however,  were  separate  and  placed  in 
the  vicinity  of  the  school  of  the  professor  of  each  such  science — 
for  Chremsminster  is  a  vast  educational  establishment.  We  were 
shown  many  beautiful  manuscripts  and  various  curious  works, 
one  being  a  mediaeval  book  of  the  "black  art,"  and  another 
a  treatise  on  astrology,  both  profusely  illustrated.  We  then 
walked  through  the  spacious  "  royal  apartments,"  which  are  not, 
however,  so  sumptuous  as  those  of  St.  Florian.  A  picture-gal- 
lery extending  through  several  rooms,  a  room  full  of  engravings 
and  others  with  old  glass,  china,  objects  of  "  vertu,"  next  claimed 
our  attention.  We  then  descended  to  the  church  to  hear  Sext  and 
None.  The  abbey  church  is  similar  to  that  of  St.  Florian  in  style, 
but  not  so  fine.  The  choir,  too,  is  placed  up  in  a  western  gal- 
lery. The  office  was  only  recited  in  monotone,  and  we  were  told 
that  no  High  Mass  was  sung  even  on  Sundays,  but  on  the  great 
festivals'only.  About  one  hundred  monks  belong  to  the  abbey, 
but  only  twenty -five  were  in  residence  at  the  time  of  our  visit. 
Many  are  permanently  absent,  serving  the  twenty-five  livings 
which  are  in  the  abbot's  gift,  but  others  were  away  for  their 
vacation.  A  certain  number  act  as  professors  to  the  three  hun- 
dred students  who  are  educated  in  the  abbey,  the  great  majority 
of  whom  are  not  destined  for  the  priesthood.  The  age  of  the 
students  varies  from  nine  to  twenty-two  years,  but  all  these  lads 
were  away  for  their  holidays  at  the  time  of  our  visit.  The 
monks  have  no  hood ;  their  scapular  has  three  buttons  at  the  top 
in  front,  and  they  wear  trousers  under  their  black  cassock.  Only 
on  great  days  do  they  wear  a  cowl  in  choir,  and  this  cowl  has  a 
hood,  which  is,  however,  never  worn  on  the  head.  Of  course 
they  have  not  the  large  monastic  tonsure. 

The  treasury  of  the  church  is  rich  in  relics,  in  gold  and  silver 
and  jewelled  mitres,  and  in  embroidered  vestments — some  of  the 
latter  having  been  given  by  the  Empress  Maria  Theresa.  There 
is,  however,  hardly  anything  mediaeval  except  a  very  large  chalice 
from  which  Holy  Communion,  under  the  form  of  wine,  was  at 
one  time  given  to  the  laity. 

Twelve  o'clock  having  struck,  we  were  conducted  to  the  re- 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  697 

factory,  where  the  prior,  Herr  Sigismund  Fellocker  (a  devoted 
mineralogist),  placed  us  on  his  right.  A  long  monastic  grace  was 
said,  but  there  was  no  reading  during  the  meal,  but  the  busy 
hum  of  cheerful  conversation.  We  sat  at  a  "  high  table,"  at  right 
angles  to  which  two  other  tables  extended  (near  either  wall  of 
the  refectory)  opposite  its  either  end. 

Being  Friday,  our  fare  consisted  of  maigre  soup,  omelettes, 
sauerkraut,  very  excellent  apple  turnovers,  and  crayfish.  Each 
monk  had  before  him  a  small  decanter  of  white  wine  made  at  one 
of  their  houses  in  lower  Austria,  for  at  Chrems  the  vine  will  not 
ripen  thoroughly. 

At  the  conclusion  of  dinner  the  prior  and  most  of  the  monks 
retired,  but  the  sub-prior  invited  us,  with  another  guest,  our 
young  monastic  guide,  and  two  other  monks,  to  sit  again  and 
taste  a  better  vintage.  Other  wine  was  brought,  both  white  and 
red,  and  then  coffee ;  and  droll  stories  and  clerical  and  political 
riddles  went  round.  Much,  however,  yet  remained  to  see,  and 
with  cordial  adieus  to  the  others  we  left  with  Brother  Columban 
for  further  explorations. 

Passing  through  the  pleasant  gardens,  with  their  greenhouses 
and  botanical  objects  of  interest,  we  next  ascended  the  great, 
Babel-like  tower  of  the  observatory.  Each  story  of  it  is  devoted 
to  a  different  study,  that  of  astronomy  being  at  the  summit.  As 
we  ascended  we  surveyed  collections  of  fossils,  of  minerals,  of 
chemical  and  physical  apparatus,  of  anatomical  preparations,  and 
of  zoological  specimens.  A  spacious  staircase  ascends  the  centre 
of  the  tower  and  along  its  walls,  and  elsewhere  in  the  tower 
were  some  hundreds  of  portraits  in  oil  of  former  students,  each 
in  his  powdered  wig.  They  were  all  anterior  to  1789.  Each 
portrait  was  numbered,  but  in  the  troubles  of  the  revolutionary 
wars  the  list  was  unfortunately  lost,  and  now  no  one  knew  any- 
thing about  the  history,  or  even  the  name,  of  any  one  youth  thus 
represented.  It  seemed  to  us  a  most  sad  sight,  that  crowd  of 
pleasant,  youthful  faces  gazing  at  us,  but  all  utterly  unknown. 
It  was  a  sort  of  vision  of  the  forgotten  dead. 

We  were  next  taken  to  a  very  charming  structure  reminding 
us,  on  a  small  scale,  of  the  Campo  Santo  at  Pisa.  It  was  a 
building  forming  a  parallelogram,  perhaps  five  times  as  long  as 
broad,  surrounded  internally  by  a  sort  of  cloister  with  pillars  and 
open,  elegant  arches  on  the  side  opposite  the  outer  wall.  The 
elongated  opposite  sides  of  this  surrounding  cloister  were  con- 
nected by  five  or  six  transverse  passages,  each  bordered  on  either 
side  by  other  similar  pillars  and  open  arches  supporting  a  solid 


698  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

roof.  Each  rectangular  space  thus  surrounded  by  arcaded, 
cloister-like  walls  is  a  fish-pond,  wherein  are  preserved  extraor- 
dinarily fine  trout  and  gigantic  carp,  so  that  the  abbey  is  thus 
well  supplied,  seeing  that  no  more  abstinence  is  observed  than  is 
incumbent  on  all  Austrian  Catholics.  The  outer  walls  of  the 
external  cloister  were  everywhere  hung  with  deer's  heads  and 
antlers,  all  of  which  had,  we  were  told,  been  shot  by  members 
of  the  community,  who  go  out  on  hunting  excursions  into  their 
own  forests,  which  are  well  stocked  with  deer  and  roebuck,  as 
well  as  with  pheasants  and  partridges.  The  sub-prior  told  us  he 
had  been  a  keen  sportsman  in  the  earlier  days  of  his  religious 
life.  The  abbey  possesses  much  land,  which  is  all  cultivated  by 
hired  labor,  and  their  forests  could  be  seen  from  the  abbey  win- 
dows ascending  the  sides  of  some  distant  mountains.  To  be- 
come a  monk  in  this  monastery  it  is  neither  necessary  to  have 
any  fortune  nor  to  be  of  noble  birth.  If,  however,  the  applicant 
possesses  money  it  must  be  added  to  the  common  stock  on  his 
reception.  The  novitiate  lasts  a  year,  and  the  young  monk,  after 
his  profession,  remains  morally  free  to  leave  for  four  years  lon- 
ger. Before  1848  the  arm  of  the  law  would  have  brought  back 
to  the  monastery  by  force  any  monk  who  left  after  such  proba- 
tion. Now,  however,  there  is  no  secular  compulsion. 

Having  thus  hastily  surveyed  what  the  abbey  had  to  show, 
we  wished  to  leave ;  but  the  rain  began  to  descend  in  torrents, 
and  we  dreaded  the  consequences  of  a  tedious  railway  journey 
back  endured  with  wet  clothes — and  wet  they  must  have  been 
after  traversing  the  abbey  quadrangles  and  the  road  to  the  sta- 
tion in  such  a  downpour  !  Accordingly  we  gratefully  accepted 
Brother  Columban's  kind  invitation  to  his  cell,  where  for  an  hour 
he  amused  us  by  playing  very  cleverly  a  succession  of  pleasing 
airs  upon  the  zithern.  He  shares  his  cell  with  another  young 
monk.  Older  monks  have  each  a  room  to  themselves.  The 
professor-monks  have  each  two  rooms,  the  prior  has  three  rooms, 
and  the  abbot  a  suite  of  handsome  apartments. 

The  rain  having  now  ceased,  our  young  friend  accompanied 
us  down  the  short  road  through  the  garden,  and  bade  us  a  kind 
adieu  at  the  same  postern  by  which  we  made  our  entrance,  and 
we  crept  back  by  our  snail-train  to  our  quarters  at  the  Erzherz- 
berghof  Karl  at  Linz. 

The* following  morning — Saturday,  August  22 — we  started  to 
visit  the  renowned  Benedictine  monastery  of  Molk,  which  no 
traveller  along  the  Danube  can  have  failed  to  notice.  It  is 
reached  in  four  hours  by  steamer  from  Linz,  which  place  we  left 


1 886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  699 

at  half-past  seven,  breakfasting  on  board  our  very  comfortable 
boat.  This  part  of  the  river  is  less  picturesque  generally  than 
the  portion  between  Passau  and  Linz,  but  it  is  more  busy,  and 
below  Grein  the  mountains  advance  on  the  river  and  form  a 
beautiful  landscape,  and  in  this  vicinity  the  steamer  shoots  down 
a  rapid  with  somewhat  startling  velocity,  the  passengers  being 
requested  to  keep  their  seats,  that  the  steersman  may  have  an 
unimpeded  view  of  what  is  before  him. 

The  majestic  monastery  of  Molk  with  its  lofty  dome  stands 
out  nobly  on  a  height  of  the  Danube's  southern  shore.  It  is 
a  mile  from  the  landing-place  to  the  abbey,  which  is  reached 
mainly  by  a  charming  walk  through  woods  skirting  the  Danube. 
Winding  round  the  base  of  the  hill  on  which  the  abbey  stands, 
we  passed  through  the  main  street  of  the  small  town  of  Molk 
and  ascended  a  steep  road  to  the  great  entrance  to  the  monas- 
tery, a  guide  carrying  our  hand-bags  (for  we  meant,  if  possible,  to 
sleep  at  the  abbey)  to  the  abbot's  quarters,  called  the  Prelatura. 
To  reach  it  we  ascended  a  noble  staircase,  at  the  summit  of  which 
was  an  enormously  long  corridor  in  which  were  full-length 
paintings  of  all  the  heads  of  the  house  of  Hapsburg,  from  long 
anterior  to  the  first  imperial  Rudolph  down  to  the  living  Aus- 
trian kaiser,  Francis  Joseph  ;  plenty  of  space  remaining,  however, 
unoccupied  to  hold  the  effigies  of  many  future  kaisers. 

Opposite  the  top  of  this  staircase  was  the  entrance  to  the 
abbot's  rooms ;  he  was  not,  however,  within  them  at  our  arrival, 
but  with  the  rest  of  the  community  at  dinner.  After  waiting  a 
short  time  the  monks  came  forth,  and  amongst  them  a  very  ge- 
nial old  gentleman,  whom  we  found  to  be  the  prior,  who  came  to- 
wards us  with  an  air  of  cordial  amiability,  and,  having  glanced  at 
our  letters,  led  us  towards  the  abbot,  who  was  by  this  time  ad- 
vancing between  two  religious  (who  seemed  in  attendance),  with 
his  gold  chain  and  cross,  and  wearing  a  low,  beaver,  chimney-pot 
hat.  He  asked  us  our  business  with  a  certain  brusqueness,  but  he 
soon  afterwards  put  us  at  our  ease,  though  it  was  easy  to  see 
we  had  to  do  with  no  "  lord  "  by  courtesy,  but  with  the  actual 
owner  of  a  wide-spreading  domain.  He  kindly  consigned  us  to 
the  care  of  the  prior,  Herr  Friedrich  Heilmann,  for  dinner,  and 
sent  word  to  the  librarian  to  receive  us,  and  went  his  way.  We 
entered  a  long,  low,  ordinary  room  which  the  religious  had  just 
vacated.  This  was  not  their  regular  refectory,  but  a  temporary 
dining-room,  used  while  the  greater  number  of  the  monks  were 
away  for  their  vacation.  Here  servants  quickly  brought  us  soup, 
boiled  beef,  roast  lamb,  and  salad,  with  good  white  wine,  followed 


7oo  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

by  excellent  coffee.  The  hospitable  prior  meanwhile  sat  by  us  and 
talked  of  the  good  sport  which  their  forests  afforded — sport  in 
which  he  no  longer  took  part,  having  been  an  inmate  of  the  ab- 
bey for  more  than  forty  years. 

Our  brief  repast  concluded,  we  visited  first  the  refectory — 
a  magnificent  apartment,  fit  for  a  palace  ;  its  ceiling  elaborately 
painted,  and  its  walls  adorned  with  pictures  placed  between  great 
gilded  caryatides.  Passing  out  through  a  glazed  door,  we  entered 
a  spacious  balcony  whence  could  be  obtained  a  fine  view  of  the 
Danube,  and  the  spots  where  the  first  Napoleon  had  planted  his 
battalions  were  pointed  out  to  us.  On  the  other  side  of  this  gal- 
lery is  the  library,  and  here  we  met  advancing  to  greet  us  the 
venerable  librarian,  Herr  Vincenz  Staufer,  to  whose  care  the 
prior  for  a  time  transferred  us,  inviting  us  to  go  to  his  room, 
when  he  would  show  us  more  and  take  us  to  our  lodgings  for 
the  night.  The  library  is  a  hall  fully  as  magnificent  as  the  re- 
fectory, if  not  more  so,  and  rich  with  color  and  gilding.  Here- 
in and  in  certain  adjacent  apartments  are,  we  were  told,  sixty 
thousand  volumes  of  printed  books  with  four  thousand  volumes 
of  manuscripts.  Father  Staufer  was  very  busy  making  a  new 
catalogue,  that  of  the  manuscripts  being  already  completed.  He 
eagerly  showed  us  some  of  his  greatest  treasures,  including  the 
original  chronicle  of  the  abbey,  begun  in  the  twelfth  century, 
with  other  manuscripts  of  much  greater  antiquity,  and  mediaeval 
copies  of  Horace  and  Virgil ;  also  a  copy  of  the  first  German 
printed  Bible,  and  an  account  of  the  discovery  of  America  done 
only  two  years  after  that  great  act  of  Columbus. 

Four  years  previously  this  library  and  its  librarian  had  both 
had  a  narrow  escape  from  more  or  less  serious  injury,  as,  while 
he  was  conversing  with  a  visitor  in  the  principal  apartment,  an 
adjacent  part  of  the  library  was  struck  by  lightning  and  much 
of  it  overthrown.  We  rejoiced  to  find  in  our  kind  guide  an  en- 
thusiastic botanist,  and  in  his  own  two  comfortable  rooms  we 
hunted  out,  with  his  help,  the  names  of  various  plants  which  had 
struck  us  by  their  beauty  and  novelty.  He  then  conducted  us 
to  the  prior's  own  rooms,  five  in  number,  and  very  comfortably 
furnished.  Here  we  rested  a  little  and  then  proceeded,  under 
the  prior's  guidance,  to  visit  other  parts  of  the  abbey.  Amongst 
these  were  the  Imperial  apartments,  which  are  naturally  noble 
and  spacious,  but  not  so  magnificent  as  those  we  had  seen  at  St. 
Florian. 

We  were  then  somewhat  startled  to  meet  in  one  of  the  corri- 
dors in  the  penetralia  of  the  monastery  a  handsome  young  lady 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  701 

walking  with  a  young  monk.  On  nearing  them,  however,  it  was 
evident  it  was  a  brother  with  his  sister,  who  very  respect- 
fully kissed  the  prior's  hand.  We  then  found  that  this  young 
monk,  just  ordained,  was  to  sing  his  first  Mass  to-morrow,  on 
which  account  his  nearest  relatives — his  sister  and  his  aunt — had 
come  to  be  present  on  the  great  occasion.  A  first  Mass  is  made 
a  great  deal  of  in  these  monasteries,  and  the  rare  ceremony  of 
a  "  grand  High  Mass  "  was  to  be  celebrated  on  the  occasion. 

The  abbey  church  is  of  the  same  style  as  that  of  St.  Florian, 
and  is  very  handsome  of  its  kind,  with  a  fine  dome  and  a  profu- 
sion of  marble  and  gilding.  In  it  are  the  tombs  and  monuments 
of  Leopold  I.,  Margrave  of  Austria  (the  founder),  and  five  of  his 
successors. 

We  were  now  conducted  to  our  own  rooms  to  rest.     These 
were  comfortably  furnished  with  spring-beds  and  all  needful  ap- 
pliances, but  with  no  extravagance.     We  were  soon  roused  from 
our  siesta  by  a  friendly  visit  from  the  abbot,  who  came  to  invite 
us  to  walk  with  him  in  his  garden  and  partake  of  a  slight  refec- 
tion, corresponding  to  our  "afternoon  tea."      In  the  pleasure- 
grounds  were  nice  walks,  one  overlooking  the  Danube  and  with 
a  distant  view  of  the  mountains  of  the  Semmering  pass.     After  a 
short  stroll  we  repaired   to  a  sort  of   spacious   summer-house, 
decorated    within  with  figures  of    the  inhabitants    (animal    and 
vegetable)  of  the  four  quarters  of  the  globe — paintings  which 
were  remarkably  fresh,  considering  that  they  were  done  one  hun- 
dred and  thirty  years  ago.     There  was  one  principal  table,  fur- 
nished   with   ornamented  napkins,   which  were   wanting   at  the 
other  tables.     The  "  afternoon  tea  "  we  found  consisted  of  most 
excellent  beer,  dishes  of  cold  veal,  ham  and  tongue  in  small  slices, 
with  salad  and  cheese.     The  abbot,  in  his  beaver  hat,  headed  the 
table,  and  the  prior  sat  at  the  bottom  ;   besides  these   were  the 
librarian,  one  other  monk,  the  young  monk  freshly  ordained,  his 
sister  and  aunt,  a  secular  priest  who  had  come  to  preach  on  to- 
morrow's festival,  and  a  religious  from  Chremsminster.      Other 
monks  and. guests  sat  at  the  other  tables,  at  one  or  two  of  which 
cards    were    being  played  for  trifling  stakes,  and  smoking  was 
general,  the  excellent  and  genial  prior  appearing  much  to   relish 
a  capacious  pipe.     The  rest  of  the  afternoon   was  passed  in  fur- 
ther explorations  and  friendly  chat  till  eight,  the  hour  for  supper. 
This  meal  was  partaken  of  by  the  monks  generally  in  the  rather 
small  room  wherein  they  had  dined  ;  but  the  guests,  who  had  sat, 
as  just  mentioned,  with  the  abbot  in  his  summer-house,  were  all 
invited   to   the  large  and  stately  refectory,  where  we   were  all 


7O2  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

hospitably  entertained,  the  great  hall  being  illuminated  with 
candles.  The  supper  consisted  of  soup,  veal,  souffle*,  and  roast 
chicken.  At  first  a  wine  was  served  made  of  several  vintages 
mixed,  but  afterwards  came  a  choice  wine  of  one  vintage.  Sup- 
per being  concluded,  we  walked  together  to  the  Prelatura, 
whence  the  abbot,  the  newly-ordained  priest,  and  one  or  two 
more  had  the  courtesy  to  accompany  us  all  to  our  rooms,  includ- 
ing the  ladies,  who  were  lodged  in  apartments  very  near  our 
own. 

The  next  morning  (Sunday)  breakfast  was  brought  to  our 
rooms  at  seven  o'clock — coffee,  milk  and  bread,  and  a  liberal 
supply  of  the  excellent,  home-made  butter.  The  High  Mass  was 
to  begin,  we  understood,  at  eight  o'clock,  and  we  took  our  place 
early  at  a  convenient  window  of  the  triforium,  which  is  divided 
out  into  a  number  of  rooms  like  private  boxes,  each  with  a  glazed 
window  looking  into  the  church.  The  church  soon  filled  with 
people,  to  whom  great  liberty  was  allowed  of  streaming  through 
the  abbey  corridors  in  various  directions.  Punctually  enough 
the  clergy  entered  the  sanctuary,  the  monks  wearing,  not  cowls, 
but  white  cottas  over  their  ordinary  habit.  They  came  down 
from  the  sanctuary  and  sat  on  benches  opposite  the  pulpit,  which 
was  occupied  with  the  clerical  guest  we  had  met  the  day  before, 
and  who,  with  much  earnestness,  volubility,  and  apparent  elo- 
quence, declaimed  for  a  whole  hour.  At  nine  the  clergy  re- 
turned to  the  sanctuary  and  soon  the  Mass  began.  The  abbot 
took  no  part  in  it  beyond  sitting  in  his  stall.  The  young  priest 
was  attended  by  an  assistant  priest  in  a  cope  in  addition  to  the 
deacon  and  subdeacon.  He  sat  on  the  abbot's  throne  at  Mass, 
and  was  treated  much  as  if  abbot  for  the  day.  All  the  servers 
and  choir-boys  had  garlands  of  flowers  twined  round  one  arm,  and 
there  were  garlands  round  the  processional  candles  and  cross. 
The  young  priest's  aunt  and  sister  were  accommodated  with 
seats  in  the  monks'  stalls.  The  church  was  pretty  full,  all  its 
benches  being  occupied.  The  music  was  florid  and  was  not 
sung  in  the  choir,  but  there  was  a  band  and  a  set  of  male  and  fe- 
male singers  in  the  western  organ-gallery.  No  introit,  gradual, 
offertory,  or  communion  was  sung,  nor  did  the  congregation 
take  any  apparent  notice  of  the  Et  incarnatus  est  in  the  Credo, 
but  they  had  rather  the  air  of  sympathetic  spectators  of  the  im- 
posing ceremony. 

We  were  obliged  to  take  a  hasty  adieu  of  the  abbot,  that  we 
might  catch  the  train  which  was  to  take  us  to  St.  Polten  in  time 
to  visit  the  monastery  of  Gottweib  the  same  day.  We  left  with 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  703 

regret  after  a  very  agreeable  stay,  and  with  pleasant  remem- 
brances of  the  good  abbot,  librarian,  and  prior,  all  of  whom  had 
kindly  invited  us  to  come  see  them  again. 

A  short  journey  brought  us  to  St.  Polten,  where  we  put  up  at 
the   Kaiserin    Elisabet,  fortunately  finding   accommodation,   for 
which  a  week  later  we  should  have  looked  in  vain,  as  grand  mili- 
tary manoeuvres   were  then  to  take  place  and  thirty  thousand 
troops  to  be  inspected  by  an  archduke.     Already  troops  were 
entering,  and  our  hotel  was  nearly  filled  with  officers.     At  first 
we  feared  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  us  to  make  the  journey 
to  Gottweib  that  day,  as  it  seemed  that  only  a  carriage  with  one 
horse,  called  an  einspanner,  could  be  obtained — one  of  those  one- 
sided, uncomfortable-looking  vehicles   (so   common   in  Austria) 
which  have  a  carriage-pole  with  no  horse  on  one  side  of  it.     The 
prospect  of    extra  drinkgeld,   however,  led  a  zealous  porter  to 
obtain  for  us  an  open  carriage  with  a  good  pair  of  horses,  the 
coachman  of  which  engaged  to  take  us  to  the  monastery  of  Gott- 
weib and  back  for  six  florins  and  a  half.     For  the  first  three-quar- 
ters  of  the  journey  the   way   was   uninteresting,   save   for   the 
batches  of  pilgrims,  each  headed  by  a  large  crucifix  borne  aloft, 
which  were  successively  passed  ;  the  little  pious  pictures,  for  the 
most  part  artistically  distressing,  which  lined  the   road   at  fre- 
quent intervals  (and  before  one  or  two  of  which  we  saw  people 
kneeling  in  prayer),  and  a  large  statue  of  the  so  popular  St.  John 
Nepomuk.     For  several  miles  the  road  was  bordered  with  dam- 
son-trees  richly  laden  with   their   purple   fruit.      At   the   com- 
mencement of 'the  last  quarter  of  our  journey  we  entered  a  defile 
in  the  wooded  mountains,  and  we  rose  gradually  to  a  considerable 
elevation,  whence  much  of  the  course  of  the  Danube  was  visible. 
The  object  of  our  journey  also  stood  out  very  picturesquely  at 
the  summit  of  a  very  lofty  hill,  and  the  special  road  to  it,  diverg- 
ing from  the  highroad  between  St.  Polten  and  Mautern,  was  ex- 
ceedingly steep,  forcing  the  horses  to  frequent  halts.     The  town 
of  Mautern  was  plainly  visible,  and  visitors  coming  to  Gottweib, 
elsewhere  than  from  Molk,  would  do  well  to  land  there  and  take 
the  carriage  for  a  short  drive  to  the  monastery.     The  steep  last 
part  of  the  road  was  bordered  on  one  side  with  large,  painted 
"  stations  of  the  cross,"  but  these  were  so  dilapidated  that  the 
subjects  could  be  made  out  only  with  great  difficulty.    We  drove 
into  the  great  courtyard  of  the  abbey  and  found  that  all  the  com- 
munity were  at  office  in  the  church,  which  we  at  once  visited 
It  is  much  smaller  than  those  of  the  abbeys  previously  visited, 
and  more  ancient.     In  the  nave,  in  spite  of  stucco  rococo  orna- 


704  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

ments,  there  are  plain  signs  of  its  original  romanesque  style,  and 
the  chancel  is  pointed.  The  latter,  in  which  is  the  choir,  is  much 
raised,  many  steps,  centrally  placed,  leading  up  to  it,  and  having 
on  each  side  of  them  an  opening  leading  down  into  a  light  and 
rather  lofty  crypt.  Therein  is  a  modern  memorial  tomb  of  the 
founder,  Altmann,  Bishop  of  Passau,  placed,  with  very  bad  taste, 
on  the  spot  where  an  altar  had  been  and  should  still  be. 

All  the  altars  of  this  church  faced  the  east.  Its  organ  and 
pulpit  were  gorgeous  with  a  profusion  of  gilding.  In  the  nave 
of  the  church  there  were  pews  as  well  as  open  benches. 

After  the  recitation  of  Vespers  and  Compline  the  Litany  of 
the  Saints  and  many  prayers  were  said  in  German,  after  which 
benediction  was  given  with  the  ciborium — during  the  singing  of 
hymns  in  German — no  incense  or  cope  being  used. 

Service  over,  we  were  conducted  to  the  abbot,  Herr  Rudolph 
Gusonbauer,  whom  we  found  in  his  nice  suite  of  well-furnished 
apartments.  At  first  he  was  somewhat  disturbed  at  our  advent, 
being,  as  he  told  us,  much  occupied  ;  but  when  he  found  we  but 
intended  to  make  an  afternoon  call  he  was  all  graciousness,  and 
most  kindly  insisted  on  himself  showing  us  the  library  and  its  prin- 
cipal treasures.  He  told  us  that  it  contained  62,600  volumes,  where- 
of 1,400  were  manuscripts  and  no  less  than  1,200  books  printed 
before  the  year  A.D.  1500.  Amongst  the  manuscripts  was  one 
which  had  been  written  in  the  abbey  seven  hundred  years  ago, 
on  the  finest  parchment,  in  such  small  letters  that  it  made  ordi- 
nary eyes  ache  to  read  it.  Yet  it  was  most  beautifully  written. 
Another  manuscript  was  of  the  sixth  century,  and  there  were 
others  anterior  to  the  foundation  of  the  monastery,  which  is  now 
a  thousand  years  old.  One  very  valuable  manuscript  was  a  his- 
tory of  the  abbey — Chronicon  Gottricense.  Amongst  the  printed 
books  was  one  of  a  date  anterior  to  the  introduction  of  type,  so 
that  each  page  of  it  was  an  entire  woodcut.  I  spoke  to  the  ab- 
bot of  the  visit  of  Dr.  Dibdin  to  the  monastery  sixty-seven  years 
ago,  and  he  showed  me  the  portrait  of  the  amiable  man  who  was 
then  its  superior  (Abbot  Altmann),  and  who  survived  till  the  year 
1854,  and  is  now  buried  in  the  abbey  church. 

We  then  visited  the  Imperial  apartments,  to  which  a  truly 
royal  staircase  leads.  The  rooms  were  much  finer  than  those 
of  Molk,  and  Napoleon  I.  lodged  in  them  when  on  his  road  to 
Vienna.  From  their  windows  magnificent  views  are  to  be  ob- 
tained ;  and,  indeed,  there  are  fine  views  all  round  the  abbey,  and 
charming  wooded  scenery  to  the  south — that  is,  away  from  the 
Danube. 


1 886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  705 

In  this  abbey  there  were  but  fifty  monks  and  two  novices, 
the  number  of  its  inmates  having  diminished  during  the  last  half- 
century,  owing  to  its  having  ceased  to  be  the  episcopal  seminary 
and  to  its  having  severed  its  former  connection  with  a  certain 
convent  in  Hungary. 

Declining  kindly-proffered  hospitality  for  the  night,  we  drove 
rapidly  back  to  St.  Polten  in  time  to  see  something  of  it  before 
retiring  to  rest. 

There  is  in  that  city  a  convent  of  English  nuns  with  a  sin- 
gularly ornate  exterior  with  life-sized  figures  of  saints.  The  old 
Jesuit  house  is  now  a  barrack.  We  visited  the  Franciscan  con- 
vent, which  contains  but  half  a  dozen  fathers — Conventuals.  It 
was  formerly  a  Carmelite  convent,  as  the  altars  of  its  church 
prove;  but  the  Emperor  Joseph  II.  transferred  the  Franciscans 
to  it  and  removed  the  Carmelites. 

On  the  morning  of  the  next  day — the  24th  of  August,  St.  Bar- 
tholomew's— we  entered  the  small  cathedral  by  eight  o'clock,  and 
found  six  canons  in  their  stalls  just  finishing  office.  Then  began 
a  very  peculiar  High  (?)  Mass,  which  the  canons  did  not  remain 
to  attend,  but  disappeared  one  by  one  through  a  side-door  behind 
each  row  of  stalls.  There  was  a  fairly  numerous  congregation — 
almost  half  of  it  composed  of  men — in  the  benches  or  open  pews 
of  the  nave.  There  was  no  deacon  or  subdeacon,  and  only  two 
servers,  in  their  own  every-day  dress.  For  music  there  was  the 
organ  and  one  male  singer  in  the  organ-gallery.  No  introit,  of- 
fertory, or  communion  was  sung  ;  only  one  of  each  of  the  three 
sets  of  petitions  of  the  "  Kyrie,"  only  four  fragments  of  the  "  Glc- 
ria  "  ;  of  the  "  Credo  "  the  first  sentence,  the  Et  incarnatus  est,  and 
the  last  sentence  were  sung,  and  only  one  of  the  three  petitions 
of  the  "  Agnus  Dei."  Altogether  it  was  a  most  slovenly  perform- 
ance, and  yet  the  church  has  not  here  been  plundered  as  else- 
where in  Europe  ! 

We  hastened  back  by  rail  to  Linz  and  thence  to  Gmiinden, 
where  we  took  up  our  quarters  at  the  quiet  and  comfortable 
Belle  Vue  Hotel,  in  rooms  the  windows  of  which  afforded  a 
charming  prospect  of  the  lovely  Traun  See. 

Gmiinden  is  full  of  charms  for  the  ordinary  visitor,  and  es- 
pecially for  the  lover  of  nature.  It  is  a  great  resort  of  the  great 
ones  of  the  earth,  and  kings  and  princes  have  their  pleasure- 
houses  around  its  lovely  lake.  The  Princess  of  Wales  was  staying 
in  that  of  the  Duke  of  Cumberland,  and  the  English  royal  livery 
might  be  seen  with  the  carriage  of  the  Queen-Dowager  of  Han- 
VOL.  XLII.— 45 


;o6  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

over.  Its  mundane  attractions,  however,  are  set  forth  in  all  the 
guide-books,  while  few  matters  of  Catholic  interest  came  under 
our  notice  ;  and  the  same  must  be  said  of  our  next  halting  stage 
— the  gay  and  charming  Austrian  watering-place,  embowered  in 
lovely  mountain  scenery,  Ischl.  Returning,  however,  in  the 
twilight  from  a  long  walk  (on  the  evening  before  quitting  Gmiin- 
den)  by  the  footpath  which  skirts  the  eastern  shore  of  the 
Traun  See,  we  were  struck  by  hearing,  as  we  passed  cottage 
after  cottage,  the  voices  of  those  within  saying  their  evening 
prayers.  At  Ischl  the  parish  church  was  built  by  the  Em- 
press Maria  Theresa.  It  is  lined  throughout  with  rather  good 
modern  paintings,  while  comfortable  benches  or  pews  occupy 
almost  all  its  area.  The  charm  of  this  town  is  the  ease  with 
which  the  glitter  of  a  gay  and  fashionable  throng  can  be 
exchanged  for  secluded  walks  in  far-stretching  pine  woods, 
which  we  found  richly  carpeted  with  a  charming  little  blue 
cyclamen. 

The  peasants  hereabouts  very  often  have  their  knees  naked, 
an  interval  being  left  between  the  breeches  and  gaiters.  This, 
like  the  custom  of  wearing  a  kilt  in  the  Highlands,  may  be  due  to 
a  wish  to  avoid  the  inconvenience,  in  such  a  mountain  region,  of 
wearing  a  garment  which,  like  trousers,  must  exercise  a  drag- 
ging action  on  the  knee. 

After  a  very  brief  sojourn  at  Ischl  we  left  it  for  that  city  we 
had  so  long  looked  forward  with  especial  interest  to  seeing— 
namely,  Salzburg. 

We  started  at  noon  by  the  route  passing  by  Steinach  and 
Bischofshofen  junctions.  The  first  part  of  the  journey  led  by 
the  beautiful  lake  of  Hallstadt,  which  can  be  seen  quite  well  from 
the  railway,  and  is  of  a  wilder  and  more  savage  beauty  than  the 
Traun  See.  As  we  neared  the  first  junction  we  gradually  ap- 
proached the  gigantic  and  precipitous  "  Grimming  Mountain," 
which  is  7,697  feet  high,  from  which  we  again  retreated  as  we  went 
from  Steinach  to  our  second  junction.  As  we  receded,  however, 
he  seemed  to  tower  more  and  more,  so  as  to  give  rise  to  the  feel 
ing  that  we  should  never,  as  it  were,  get  out  of  the  reach  of  his 
eye ;  for  his  top,  which  every  now  and  again  became  hidden  by 
much  lower  but  much  nearer  hills,  rose  again  and  again  above 
them  as  we  receded  further.  As  we  approached  Bischofshofen 
the  valley  increased  greatly  in  beauty  and  the  foreground  as- 
sumed much  of  an  English  character.  After  changing  at  the 
last-named  station  we  entered  a  most  magnificent  defile  of  preci- 


i886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  707 

pitous  and  fantastic  limestone  mountains,  which  continued  almost 
to  our  destination.  We  reached  Salzburg  a  little  after  six  o'clock 
and  put  up  at  the  H6tel  de  1'Europe — a  most  comfortable  house, 
but  at  an  inconvenient  distance  from  the  city.  On  Sunday,  Au- 
gust 30,  we  paid  our  first  visit  to  the  cathedral  to  hear  High 
Mass  in  that  church  of  which  Mozart  was  so  long  kapellmeister. 
The  church  was  to  us  impressive  from  its  simplicity,  its  quiet 
color  and  small  amount  of  gilding  contrasting  strongly  with 
some  of  the  over-gorgeous  churches  we  had  been  visiting.  It  is 
an  Italian  building  with  a  central  dome.  A  nave  is  provided 
with  commodious  benches,  which  were  well  filled  for  the  High 
Mass,  the  music  of  which  was  florid  but  exceedingly  fine.  A 
member  of  the  chapter  sang  Mass  with  mitre  and  crosier,  and 
there  were  four  clergy  in  dalmatics,  with  an  assistant  priest  in  a 
cope.  Five  canons  assisted  in  their  stalls,  or  rather  on  benches 
which  take  the  place  of  stalls. 

In  the  afternoon,  however,  Vespers  and  Compline  were  mum- 
bled inaudibly  in  a  monotone  by  seven  canons  and  some  assis- 
tants, after  which  followed  exposition  with  German  prayers. 

Close  to  the  cathedral  is  the  venerable  Benedictine  abbey  of 
St.  Peter  and  also  the  Franciscan  convent  (of  Observantine  Friars), 
the  jchurch  of  which  is  most  curious  and  interesting.  Its  doors 
are  quite  romanesque,  and  so  are  parts  of  the  nave-aisles,  while 
other  parts  are  early  pointed.  The  chancel  is  extremely  high, 
very  much  more  lofty,  indeed,  than  the  nave,  and  in  a  late  flam- 
boyant style  with  a  complexly  groined  roof  supported  by  five 
enormously  high,  round  columns  without  capitals ;  and  the  con- 
trast between  the  excessive  length  of  these  columns  and  the 
shortness  of  those  of  the  nave  is  such  as  we  have  never  elsewhere 
seen.  So  far  there  were  specimens  of  very  different  mediaeval 
styles  ;  but  the  eastern  and  western  parts  of  the  church  are  over- 
laid with  very  late  renaissance  stucco-work,  with  unicorns  and 
other  heraldic  emblems,  while  the  triforium  of  the  chancel  has 
on  one  side  Louis  XV.  windows  looking  down  into  the  church. 
Thus  we  have  here  a  most  interesting  example  of  a  church  which 
has  gone  on  from  very  ancient  times  to  the  present  day,  always 
introducing  the  new  fashions  which  successively  came  into  vogue, 
however  bad,  and  never  attempting  anything  in  the  shape  of  re- 
storation. As  to  its  internal  modern  furniture,  it  is  bedizened 
with  frightful  rubbish  of  all  kinds — a  great  contrast  to  the  re- 
freshing simplicity  of  the  adjoining  cathedral,  the  only  ornaments 
within  which  open  to  criticism  are  the  monuments  of  its  de- 


;o8  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  [Feb., 

ceased  prince-bishops.  There  are  ten  of  these  in  the  chancel  and 
transepts.  Each  is  a  flat  monument  (fixed  against  the  wall),  form- 
ing- a  marble  frame  to  an  oil-painting  of  the  deceased  prelate. 
These  ten  pictures  represent  ten  archbishops,  each  in  a  scarlet* 
cassock,  wig,  and  lace  rochet,  kneeling  with  elbows  on  a  prie- 
dieu,  with  prayer-book  in  hand,  at  which  he  does  not  look,  but 
at  the  spectator !  The  marble  frame  has  the  usual  complement 
of  eighteenth-century  ornaments — naked,  crying  boy-cherubs, 
Death's  heads  and  cross-bones,  Time's  scythe  and  hour-glass, 
bats'  wings,  mitres,  crosiers,  and  sceptres. 

The  Abbey  of  St.  Peter  is  the  real  forts  et  origo  of  the  whole 
place.  From  it  sprang  bishops,  cathedral,  city,  and  principality. 
We  found  that  it  contained  more  fragments  of  antiquity  than  any 
other  of  the  monasteries  we  had  previously  visited,  its  outer 
door  leading  into  a  cloister  with  romanesque  pillars  and  arches, 
and  entirely  paved  with  ancient  sepulchral  monuments.  Thus 
far  we  saw  at  our  first  visit ;  but  neither  the  abbot  nor  prior  being 
within,  we  postponed  till  the  following  day  our  examination  of 
the  more  interesting  and  ancient  foundation.  On  our  return  to 
our  hotel  we  found  that  the  clouds  and  fog  which  had  en- 
shrouded the  country  round  Salzburg  since  our  arrival  had 
lifted,  and  we  had  our  first  glimpse  of  its  environs.  The  near 
hills,  covered  with  green  fields  and  trees,  rose  on  either  side  to  a 
considerable  elevation,  while  behind  them  lofty  mountains  tow- 
ered, tier  upon  tier,  to  great  altitudes  with  most  irregular  and  pic- 
turesque outlines. 

On  the  following  day  we  once  more  bent  our  steps  to  St. 
Peter's  Abbey,  calling  on  the  way  to  see  two  other  Salzburg 
churches.  One  of  these  was  the  church  of  the  Immaculate  Con- 
ception— a  rather  plain  church,  standing  north  and  south,  and 
built  in  the  year  1708.  On  the  gospel  side  of  the  interior  there 
was  a  most  singular  wooden  image  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  Mary 
seated  in  a  chair,  with  a  blue  mantle  over  a  tunic,  with  a  lace 
fabric  over  the  knees.  The  other  church  was  that  of  St.  Cajetan, 
a  round  structure  of  no  special  interest,  though  leading  out  from 
the  gospel  side  of  the  porch  was  a  passage  to  another  chapel,  in 
the  middle  of  which  is  a  Santa  Scala,  and  beside  it  a  repulsive 
Ecce  Homo  behind  an  iron  grating. 

We  were  very  kindly  received  at  St.  Peter's  by  a  worthy  Fa- 
'ther  Anselm  and  the  venerable  prior,  the  former  of  whom  took  us 

*  They  had  all  the  right  to  wear  scarlet  like  cardinals. 


1 886.]  A  TOUR  IN  CATHOLIC  TEUTONIA.  709 

through  the  cemetery,  with  its  many  interesting  monuments  and 
very  ancient  catacombs  and  cave  oratories,  which  are  duly  de- 
scribed in  the  guide  books.  This  excellent  religious  was  full  of 
regret  at  the  sad  fate  which  overtook  their  ancient  romanesque 
abbey  church  in  1774.  Up  to  that  date  it  had  retained  its  ancient 
character  unchanged.  The  whole  interior  was  decorated  with 
early  frescoes  ;  the  choir  was  in  the  chancel,  enclosed  behind  a 
wooden  rood-screen  still  bearing  its  rood  aloft.  In  that  fatal  year 
the  community  determined  to  decorate  their  church  in  the  fashion 
of  their  day.  The  frescoes  were  obliterated,  and  even  the  lines  of 
architecture  disguised  as  far  as  possible  by  the  superposition  of 
stucco  ornaments.  The  rood-screen  and  rood  were  got  rid  of, 
and  the  choir  moved  up  into  a  room  constructed  over  the  north 
aisle  with  Louis  XV.  windows  looking  into  the  church. 

In  the  church  treasure-house  we  were  shown,  amongst  other 
things,  a  variety  of  abbatial  ornaments.  There  was  a  most 
beautiful  crosier  of  the  fourteenth  century,  another  the  shaft  of 
which  consisted  of  the  tusk  of  a  narwhal,  and  an  extremely  an- 
cient one  with  an  ivory  top  shaped  like  the  handle  of  a  crotched 
walking-stick.  There  were  various  late  crosiers  and  mitres  of 
the  usual  frightful  shape,  but  some  elegant  mediaeval  ones. 
There  were  also  two  uncut  Gothic  chasubles ;  and  I  was  much 
interested  to  hear  the  monks  express  their  admiration  for  them, 
and  their  certain  conviction  that  sooner  or  later  they  must  come 
into  general  use  in  place  of  the  undignified  ones  which,  without 
authority,  had  crept  into  general  use  in  careless  and  corrupt  times 
of  atrociously  bad  taste. 

The  abbey  contains  a  valuable  geological  gallery  and  a  collec- 
tion of  the  fishes,  birds,  and  beasts  of  the  principality,  amongst  the 
latter  being  preserved  the  stuffed  skin  of  the  last  of  their  bears. 

Having  been  invited  to  join  the  community  dinner,  we  entered 
the  refectory,  where  the  abbot  met  us  with  cordial  greetings. 
He  repeated  very  impressively  his  parts  of  the  monastic  grace, 
after  which  he,  with  twelve  monks,  five  novices,  and  three  guests, 
sat  down  to  meat,  during  the  first  part  of  which  there  was  read- 
ing from  the  refectory  pulpit.  The  meal  was  of  the  usual  simple 
but  sufficient  character,  and  the  wine  (which  came  from  their 
vineyard  at  Stein,  near  Vienna)  was  most  excellent  and  justified 
its  well-known  reputation. 

We  were  told  that  the  full  number  of  religious  of  St.  Peter's 
was  fifty,  and  that  they  have  but  six  parishes  to  serve,  but  that, 
nevertheless,  the  house  was  quite  sufficiently  wealthy. 


ISLAM.  [Feb., 

Certainly  the  abbot's  quarters,  to  which  he  kindly  invited  us 
after  the  repast,  had  an  air  of  prosperity.  They  consisted  of  some 
six  or  seven  charming  rooms,  with  an  oratory,  all  very  elegantly 
furnished,  and  quite  sufficiently  so  for  the  use  of  any  secular  no- 
bleman. Here  were  very  kindly  brought  for  our  inspection  some 
of  the  bibliographical  treasures  from  their  library  of  sixty  thou- 
sand volumes.  Amongst  them  was  a  manuscript  "book  of  life" 
of  great  antiquity.  It  contained  a  list  of  benefactors,  with  their 
anniversaries,  amongst  which  figured  the  names  of  the  early  Car- 
lovingian  kings. 

On  leaving  St.  Peter's  we  terminated  our  series  of  monastic 
visits,  which  had  afforded  us  so  much  pleasure  and  interest  and 
no  little  edification.  We  knew  that  these  wealthy  and  ancient 
abbeys  were  not,  and  did  not  profess  to  be,  houses  of  "  strict  ob- 
servance "  ;  but  in  all  we  met  with  abundant  evidence  of  a  sincere 
and  virile  piety  and  much  learning  and  patriotism,  with  ready 
kindness  and  friendliness  for  us  foreigners.  Each  and  all  we 
left  with  a  hearty  aspiration,  Ad  multos  annos,  and  the  trust  that 
a  visitor  who  should  inspect  them  sixty-seven  years  hence  may 
find  them  as  flourishing  as  we  found  them  sixty-seven  years  after 
the  visit  of  our  predecessor,  the  Rev.  Dr.  Dibbin. 


ISLAM. 


[These  sonnets,  written  in  reference  to  the  last  Russo-Turkish  war,  but  never  before  pub- 
lished, have  a  bearing  also  on  the  present  state  of  the  great  Eastern  question.] 


I. 

FIVE  times  five  years— O  shameless  wickedness ! — 

Hath  Christian  Europe  propped  the  Moslem's  rule. 
Five  times  five  years  hath  Christian  wretchedness 

Learnt  misery's  lessons  in  oppression's  school ! 
What  though  an  equal  law  and  equal  right 

By  solemn  "hats"  and  "firmans"  hath  been  given? 
Who  knows  not  that  the  Turk  in  Europe's  sight 

Hath  cast  his  pledges  to  the  winds  of  heaven  ? 


1 886.]  ISLAM.  711 

And  when  at  length,  in  writhings  of  despair, 
The  trampled  worm  turned  in  unhappy  hour, 

Exultant,  like  the  tiger  from  his  lair, 

Sprang  the  fierce  Moslem  on  the  hated  Giaour. 

Lust,  rapine,  murder,  torture,  outrage,  blood, 

Poured  on  the  land  in  overwhelming  flood. 


II. 

Unchangeable,  unchanging  from  the  first ; 

Unquenched,  unquenchable  his  burning  rage ; 
Uncurbed  his  passion,  and  unslaked  his  thirst ; 

He  spares  nor  priest  nor  people,  sex  nor  age. 
No  pity  stays  the  all-devouring  sword  ; 

Mercy — he  laughs  the  very  word  to  scorn ! 
Men  die  by  thousands,  by  the  stake  or  cord, 

And  women  wail  the  hour  that  they  were  born ! 
Such  tale  Batak  and  Philippopolis 

With  outstretched  throat  proclaim  from  East  to  West. 
We  fold  our  arms,  and  bow  our  heads,  and  kiss 

The  molten  calf  of  our  self-interest. 
Thus  Mammon-taught,  we  by  our  altar  stand  : 
And  idol-worship  still  defiles  the  land  ! 


III. 

Nay,  but  (we  hear)  not  to  the  Ottoman  state, 

In  will  or  wish  or  deed,  impute  the  blame; 
Barbarian  hirelings  of  their  own  fierce  hate, 

Unauthorized,  have  wrought  these  deeds  of  shame. 
How  comes  it,  then,  that  they  who  boasting  claim 

The  foremost  place  in  all  that  demon  band, 
Though  damned,  by  Europe's  righteous  word,  by  name, 

Still  decked  and  honored  by  their  master  stand? 
Unequalled  deeds  of  license  and  of  crime, 

Since  God  of  old  cast  out  the  Chanaan  race, 
Accursed  have  made  them  in  the  r61e  of  time: 

Yet  still  in  Stamboul  they  hold  pride  of  place. 
How  long,  O  God !  how  long,  thy  people  cry, 
Shall  be  the  day  of  our  fierce  agony  ? 


712  ISLAM.  [Feb., 

IV. 

But  now  the  Powers  their  anxious  counsel  take, 

And  special  embassage  and  envoys  send. 
Their  heads  diplomatists  and  statesmen  shake, 

Terms  and  proposals  modify  and  mend. 
They  tell  the  sultan  "  all  is  for  his  good  : 

'Tis  madness  if  their  counsel  he  refuse." 
But  one  hath  whispered  :  "  Be  it  understood 

Words  are  the  only  weapons  we  shall  use." 
And  now  the  conference  puts  forth  its  power  ; 

Complaisant,  mends  its  terms  and  niends  again : 
The  vizier  dallies  on  from  hour  to  hour, 

Then  sternly  says :  "  We  won't ;  you  talk  in  vain !  " 
Words!  words!  mere  words! — brave  words  as  e'er  were 

spoken. 
But  not  by  words  the  oppressor's  rod  is  broken  ! 


v. 

But  as  of  old,  when  Israel's  favored  line 

Seemed  faithless  all,  seven  thousand  yet  there  were 
Who  had  not  bowed  the  knee  at  Baal's  shrine 

Nor  with  their  lips  had  kissed  his  image  there ; 
So  now,  'mid  Europe's  base  apathy, 

One  mighty  nation  dares  to  own  a  heart, 
One  glorious  prince  redeems  humanity 

From  Meroz'  curse  and  Meroz'  dastard  part. 
O  God  of  battles !  in  thy  might  arise, 

Scatter  the  heathen,  thy  right  arm  display  ; 
Confound  the  wisdom  of  the  worldly-wise, 

And  out  of  darkness  bring  the  light  of  day  : 
Defend  the  right ;  let  Christian  victory  tell 
Still  fights  the  Christian's  God  against  the  infidel ! 


1 886.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.'  713 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS. 

CAROLS  FOR  A  MERRY  CHRISTMAS  AND  A  JOYOUS  EASTER.  The  music 
by  the  Rev.  Alfred  Young,  Priest  of  the  Congregation  of  St.  Paul  the 
Apostle.  The  words  selected  and  original.  New  York  :  The  Catholic 
Publication  Society  Co.  ;  London  :  Burns  &  Gates. 

The  inscription  Father  Young  gives  us  on  the  title-page  will  be  found 
a  truthful  indication  of  the  substance  of  his  charming  little  volume. 
"Carols!  Carols  for  you,  my  Masters  —  songs  that  will  charm  the  saddest 
heart  among  you  to  merriment  and  joy."  The  singing  of  carols,  particu- 
larly at  Christmas-time,  has  always  been  popular  in  England  and  other 
European  countries.  In  France  they  are  known  as  Noels,  which  seems  to 
be  an  abbreviation  of  the  word  Emmanuel.  Some  writers,  however,  derive 
it  from  natalis  dies  —  Nativity  day.  Certainly  there  is  nothing  more  pleas- 
ing and  instructive  than  this  time-honored  custom  of  carol-singing.  The 
practice  is  so  ancient  as  to  be  considered  coeval  with  the  celebration  of 
Christmas  itself.  We  are  informed  that  in  the  early  ages  of  the  church  the 
bishops  were  accustomed  to  sing  carols  on  Christmas  day  among  their 
clergy. 

That  quaint  writer,  Jeremy  Taylor,  referring  to  the  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis," 
or  hymn  sung  by  the  angels  on  the  plains  of  Bethlehem,  says  :  "As  soon 
as  these  blessed  choristers  had  sung  their  Christmas  carol,  and  taught  the 
church  a  hymn  to  put  into  her  offices  for  ever  in  the  anniversary  of  this  fes- 
tivity, the  angels  returned  into  heaven."  Thus  also  Milton  in  the  twelfth 
book  of  Paradise  Lost  : 

"  His  place  of  birth  a  solemn  angel  tells 
To  simple  shepherds,  keeping  watch  by  night  ; 
They  gladly  thither  haste,  and  by  a  quire 
Of  squadron'd  angels 


The  Puritans  denounced  not  only  the  singing  of  carols,  but  also  the 
celebration  of  Christmas  itself,  as  pernicious  and  unscriptural. 

With  the  revival  of  Catholic  faith  and  practice  in  England  and  America 
comes  naturally  a  renewal  of  the  ancient  joyous  spirit  which  in  Catholic 
times  made  England  deserve  the  title  of  "  Merry."  "  Beatus  populus  qui 
scit  jubilationem  !  "  exclaims  the  Psalmist  —  "  Blessed  is  the  people  that 
knoweth  how  to  be  merry!"  In  the  beginning  of  the  present  century  a 
distinguished  Catholic  foreigner,  after  a  tour  in  England,  thus  expressed 
his  mind  :  "  You  have  led  me  through  a  land  of  closed  churches  and  hushed 
bells,  of  unlighted  altars  and  unstoled  priests.  It  looks  as  if  England  were 
under  an  interdict." 

Kenelm  Digby,  speaking  of  the  clergy  under  the  influence  of  Calvin- 
ism, thus  contrasts  the  effect  of  the  change  in  faith  : 

"  The  tartness  of  their  face  ripe  grapes  doth  sour, 
And  night-owls  shriek  where  mounting  larks  should  sing." 

Well  did  the  poet  Spenser  make  proud  Sansfoy  the  father  of  Sansjoy. 

All  this  comes  to  our  mind  as  Father  Young  sings  to  us  his  beautiful 


NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Feb., 

Christmas  carols.  There  are  melodies  to  suit  all  tastes.  Some  are  broad 
and  churchly,  others  are  free  and  florid.  Some  are  also  quaint  and  excel- 
lent imitations  of  similar  ancient  songs.  A  remarkable  example  of  this  is 
the  carol,  "  In  Bethlehem,  that  noble  place,"  evidently  composed  in  one  of 
the  Gregorian  modes. 

This  great  diversity  of  style  employed  to  give  fitting  expression  to  the 
text  is  the  first  thing  which  would  attract  the  notice  of  a  musical  critic.  The 
spirit  of  Father  Young's  musical  phrases  is  never  vulgar  or  commonplace. 
That  he  has  sought  in  this  volume,  as  in  his  Catholic  Hymnal,  a  refined  and 
original  expression  is  quite  apparent.  A  hasty  glance  even  at  the  kind  of 
hymns  and  carols  he  has  written  or  selected  for  his  books  gives  equal  evi- 
dence of  the  good  taste  which  distinguishes  the  text  and  music  of  both. 
The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.  issues  it  in  good  style. 

LIFE  OF  ST.  PHILIP  BENIZI,  OF  THE  ORDER  OF  THE  SERVANTS  OF  MARY, 
1233-1285.  With  some  account  of  the  first  disciples  of  the  saint.  By  the 
Rev.  Peregrine  Soulier,  priest  of  the  same  order.  Translated  from  the 
French  and  revised  by  the  author.  London :  Burns  &  Gates ;  New 
York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 

The  lives  of  the  saints  have  ever  been,  next  to  Holy  Scripture,  the  fa- 
vorite reading  of  souls  aspiring  to  union  with  God.  In  the  long  study  of 
perfection  the  teaching  of  the  daily  lesson  is  shared  between  the  Holy 
Spirit  in  the  Scriptures  and  the  same  Holy  Spirit  in  the  lives  of  devout 
men  and  women.  When  one  has  felt  the  strong  impulse  of  living  for  God, 
such  books  as  tell  of  the  heroes  of  the  Gospel  are  full  of  interest — are,  in 
fact,  what  books  of  adventure  and  fiction  are  to  boys  at  school.  Why 
should  it  not  be  so  to  all  classes  of  Christians  ?  Why  should  the  life  of  a 
hero  be  dull  reading  because  not  war  nor  politics,  but  the  peace  of  Christ 
and  the  brotherhood  of  mankind,  were  the  aims  of  his  life?  Surely,  until 
people  begin  to  read,  at  least  a  little,  for  eternity's  sake  they  can  hardly 
expect  to  gather  much  enduring  fruit  from  the  privileges  of  education. 

St.  Philip  Benizi  is  a  character  of  the  highest  kind.  For  six  hundred 
years — six  times  the  life  of  our  republic — the  order  for  which  he  legislated, 
the  Servites  of  Mary,  have  obeyed  his  laws  and  rejoiced  in  their  wisdom ; 
the  whole  church  has  studied  and  celebrated  his  virtues;  the  choicest 
spirits  of  every  generation  since  then  have,  in  spirit,  followed  his  wander- 
ings over  Europe,  his  preaching  of  the  doctrines  of  Christ,  his  display  of 
miraculous  power.  He  was  a  man  of  his  times,  adapting  the  ancient  and 
unchanging  principles  of  religion  to  the  needs  of  the  men  and  women 
around  him,  and  arousing  in  them  those  aspirations  which  can  alone  be 
gratified  by  the  maxims  and  practices  of  the  spiritual  life. 

This  volume,  a  work  of  love  by  a  member  of  the  saint's  order,  shows 
patient  research,  careful  composition,  and  great  unction.  It  is  well  printed 
and  bound. 

THE  CHAIR  OF   PETER.    By  John   Nicholas   Murphy.     Popular  Edition. 
^London  :   Burns  &  Gates ;   New  York :  The  Catholic   Publication    So- 
ciety Co. 

Mr.  Murphy  is  an  Irish  barrister  of  standing  and  repute,  who  has  been 


1 886.]  NEW  PUB LIC A TIONS.  7 1 5 

honored  by  the  Holy  Father  with  the  title  of  a  Roman  count,  which  he  has 
well  deserved  by  his  excellent  works,  written,  for  the  honor  and  service  of 
the  Catholic  religion.  We  took  occasion  to  praise  in  the  highest  terms  the 
first  edition  of  his  Chair  of  Peter,  and  we  have  been  pleased  to  find  a 
similar  judgment  expressed  by  other  periodicals,  as  well  those  which  are 
not  Catholic  as  those  which  are  of  high  character  among  Catholic  reviews 
and  newspapers.  The  present  edition  is  much  enlarged  and  improved. 
The  careful  statistics  respecting  the  Catholic  hierarchy  and  population  in 
various  countries,  and  the  minute  indexes,  together  with  much  general  and 
miscellaneous  information  on  matters  connected  with  the  Roman  Church, 
make  this  a  very  convenient  as  well  as  really  learned  and  at  the  same 
time  popular  manual  of  instruction  on  its  great  and  most  important  theme. 
We  cannot  too  cordially  recommend  it. 

ON  THE  STUDY  OF  LANGUAGES,  considered  in  their  bearing  on  the  Pas- 
toral Office  and  the  establishing  of  Graded  Catholic  Schools.  By  Rev. 
Louis  Cornelis.  Written  expressly  for  clerical  students.  St.  Louis,  Mo. : 
Amerika  Print. 

By  printing  this  little  pamphlet  the  author  has  done  a  service  to  re- 
ligion. He  advocates  calmly,  reasonably,  and  convincingly  the  advantages 
of  a  thorough  study  of  modern  languages  in  training  for  the  priesthood. 
We  can  vouch  for  every  word  he  says  by  our  own  observation  and  ex- 
perience. The  number  of  parishes  consisting  of  mixed  nationalities  is  very 
great,  especially  throughout  the  West.  The  pastor  is  usually  of  the  more 
numerous  race  ;  but  the  spiritual  needs  of  the  minority  place  him,  we  might 
almost  say,  under  a  grave  obligation  to  know  how  to  converse  in  their 
language,  and  he  should  busy  himself  to  acquire  a  facility  of  preaching  in 
it.  The  course  of  studies  in  our  seminaries,  now  becoming  longer  and  more 
leisurely,  will  enable  students  to  fit  themselves  better  for  such  emergen- 
cies. 

What  Father  Cornelis  has  to  say  of  graded  schools  in  this  connection  is 
worthy  of  consideration. 

THE  DEFENDER  OF  THE  FAITH  :  The  Royal  Title,  its  History  and  Value. 
By  Rev.  T.  E.  Bridgett,  C.SS.R.  London  :  Burns  &  Oates  ;  New  York  : 
The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 

Father  Bridgett,  in  addition  to  his  arduous  labors  as  a  giver  of  missions 
and  retreats,  is  rendering  important  service  to  the  truth  by  his  researches 
into  the  history  of  the  past  and  the  works  which  have  been  the  result  of 
those  researches.  At  the  present  time  Catholics  have  reason  to  congratu- 
late themselves  that  there  are  so  many  good  workers  in  this  field,  such  as 
Father  Forbes-Leslie,  Father  Morris,  Father  Stevenson,  Mr.  Gillow;  and 
since  we  have  mentioned  Mr.  Gillow's  name,  we  may  say  how  sincerely  we 
hope  that  his  invaluable  Biographical  Dictionary  of  English  Catholics  \j\\\ 
meet  with  the  success  and  encouragement  it  so  well  deserves.  It  is  a  work 
which  forms  an  epoch  in  English  Catholic  literature,  and  it  would  be  a  sub- 
ject for  extreme  regret  if  it  were  not  to  be  completed.  Father  Bridgett's 
work  has  already  appeared  in  substance  in  the  Dublin  Review,  but  it  well 
deserves  republication.  The  Rev.  J.  J.  Brewer,  so  well  known  for  his  histo- 


716  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Feb., 

rical  works,  has  given  in  the  introduction  prepared  by  him  for  the  publica- 
tions of  the  Master  of  the  Rolls'  Reign  of  Henry  VIII.  a  somewhat  inaccurate 
account  of  the  transactions  connected  with  the  conferring-  of  the  title  "  De- 
fender of  the  Faith  "  on  the  king  by  Leo  X.  These  transactions  and  the 
book  written  by  the  king  Father  Bridgett  has  carefully  studied,  and  he  gives 
in  this  pamphlet  the  result  of  that  study.  It  is  well  worth  reading. 

THE  NATIVITY  PLAY,  or  Christmas  Cantata.     By  Rev.  Gabriel  A.  Healy, 
Rector  of  St.  Bernard's  Church,  New  York.     D.  &  J.  Sadlier  &  Co. 

The  subject  of  this  cantata  is  one  which  repeats  the  same  dear  old  story 
of  Christmas  with  the  angels  and  shepherds.  It  is  made  up  of  a  variety  of 
prose  and  verse,  and  to  the  subject  of  Christmas  proper  the  Epiphany  and 
massacre  of  the  infants  has  been  added,  which  is  the  cause,  no  doubt,  why 
it  occupies,  as  we  are  informed  in  the  preface,  two  hours  in  its  performance. 
Some  childlike  representations  of  this  kind  are  certainly  most  pleasing, 
and  no  doubt  would  do  much  now,  as  the  reverend  author  truly  says  they 
did  in  the  middle  ages,  to  strengthen  the  faith  and  piety  of  the  people ;  but  we 
cannot  agree  with  him  in  wishing  a  revival  of  the  old  mystery  plays  which 
were  in  great  vogue  from  the  twelfth  to  the  fourteenth  century.  They 
soon  expanded  from  simple  and  edifying  representations  into  full-blown 
theatrical  performances  by  full-grown  artists,  and  thus  soon  degenerated 
into  money-making  performances  and  other  disorders,  and  ended  in  giving 
so  much  scandal  that  they  were  formally  interdicted  in  1545.  M.  On.  le 
Roy  in  his  work,  Etudes  sur  les  Mysteres,  and  M.  Ch.  Mangin  in  his  Origines 
du  Thtdtre  Moderne,  show  how  our  present  drama  found  its  birth  and  first 
developments  in  these  old  mystery-plays.  Is  there  not  a  well-grounded  fear 
that  the  like  abuses  may  also  happen  in  our  own  day,  especially  when 
there  are  already  so  many  other  inducements  offered  to  our  young  people  to 
go  upon  the  stage,  now  so  commonly  debased  as  to  be  hardly  tolerable? 

THE  MAD  PENITENT  OF  TODI.     By  Mrs.  Anna  H.  Dorsey.    Notre  Dame, 
Indiana  :  Ave  Maria  Press. 

Mrs.  Dorsey  describes  in  a  graphic  and  pleasing  style  the  life  of  Jaco- 
pone  di  Todi,  author  of  the  Stabat  Mater,  both  before  and  after  his  conver- 
sion. There  is  one  instance  in  this  little  book  of  a  very  common  violation 
of  literary  propriety— the  giving  of  French  names  to  persons  and  places  not 
French,  by  a  servile  copying  of  French  writers.  Pietro  de  Morone,  who 
became  Celestine  V.,  is  called  Pierre  de  Morvane.  Holy  men  are  not  in- 
fallible or  impeccable.  Jacopone  was  blamable  for  writing  squibs  upon 
Boniface  VIII.  and  associating  himself  with  his  opponents.  Probably  the 
severe  punishment  inflicted  on  him  was  unjust,  yet  the  scandalous  and 
schismatical  behavior  of  some  of  the  Franciscans  of  that  time  in  respect  to 
the  Holy  See  made  it  difficult  to  discriminate  between  a  good,  well-meaning 
man  who  was  imprudent  and  others  who  were  pestilent  fanatics. 

DECRETA  OUATUOR  CONCILIORUM  PROVINCIALIUM  WESTMONASTERIORUM, 
1852-1873.     Editio  secunda.     Lond.  :  Burns  et  Gates. 

This  beautifully-printed  volume  contains  the  legislation  by  which  the 
Catholic  Church  in  England  has  been  established  upon  its  present  firm  and 


1 886.]  NE  w  PUB  Lie  A  TIONS.  7 1 7 

solid  basis.  The  first  three  councils  were  celebrated  under  the  presidency 
of  Cardinal  Wiseman,  the  fourth  under  that  of  Archbishop  (since  then  cre- 
ated Cardinal)  Manning.  This  collection  of  decrees  is  a  monument  of  eccle- 
siastical wisdom  worthy  of  the  best  days  of  the  church.  All  studious  cler- 
gymen, especially  those  who  have  to  take  a  foremost  and  active  part  in 
preparing  the  decrees  of  provincial  and  diocesan  synods,  will  find  it  not 
only  interesting  but  extremely  valuable. 

SIXTH   CENTENARY   OF    ST.    PHILIP    BENIZI.     1285-1885.    In   Memoriam. 
Church  of  Our  Lady  of  Sorrows,  Chicago.     1885. 

Father  Morini,  of  the  Orderof  the  Servites,  has  issued  the  pamphlet  bear- 
ing the  above  title  in  a  manner  especially  marked  by  good  taste  and  elegance. 
The  occasion  of  it  was  furnished  by  the  celebration  of  the  centenary  of  St. 
Philip  in  the  church  of  the  Servite  Fathers  at  Chicago.  St.  Philip,  though  not 
the  original  founder  of  the  Servite  Order,  was  its  legislator,  and  the  active, 
organizing  master-workman  who  put  into  execution  the  intentions  and  ideas 
of  the  seven  holy  men  who  were  its  first  founders  and  fathers.  The  black 
scapular  of  the  Seven  Dolors  of  Mary  and  the  Rosary  of  the  Seven  Dolors 
belong  to  this  order,  and  are  quite  generally  objects  of  pious  devotion 
among  the  faithful.  We  sincerely  wish  that  the  American  branch  of  this 
venerable  order  may  take  deep  root  and  flourish  abundantly  in  our  country. 

FABIOLA.     Illustrated  edition.     New  York  :  Benzigers.     1886. 

Cardinal  Wiseman's  exquisite  romance  is  an  English  classic  too  well 
known  for  words  of  praise  at  this  late  day.  The  illustrated  edition  issued  in 
December,  but  received  by  us  too  late  for  a  notice  before  Christmas — a  cir- 
cumstance which  we  regret — is  a  large  and  really  rich  and  elegant  quarto, 
printed  on  excellent  paper,  with  good  type  and  above  two  hundred  illustra- 
tions of  various  sizes  and  kinds,  above  thirty  of  which  are  full-page.  The 
binding  is  in  a  brilliant  style,  and  we  can  say  of  the  whole  ornamental  part 
of  the  volume,  what  we  cannot  always  say  of  similar  attempts,  that  it  is  in 
good  taste,  genuinely  artistic,  and  not  of  the  meretricious  sort  which  is  too 
common.  We  believe  that  the  retail  price  is  $6 — not  extravagant  for  such 
a  work.  Happy  those  who  have  received  this  illustrated  Fabtola  as  a 
Christmas  present.  It  is  beyond  the  means  of  those  who  are  not  very  well 
supplied  with  money  to  spend  on  books,  but  those  who  can  afford  it  ought 
to  encourage  the  effort  to  bring  out  Catholic  works  of  this  kind,  and  put 
within  reach  of  their  families  a  help  so  attractive  and  efficacious  for  gaining 
knowledge  of  the  glories  of  the  Catholic  religion  and  awakening  in  them  a 
just  pride  in  their  faith  and  its  heroes.  It  would  be  a  happy  thought  to 
issue  a  similar  edition  of  Cardinal  Newman's  Callista,  which  is  also  a 
masterpiece  of  the  same  kind  with  Fabiola. 

DER  HAUSFREUND  :  Illustrirter  Familien-Kalender  des  Herald  des  Glaubens 
fur  das  Jahr  1886.     St.  Louis,  Mo. 

Personally  we  are  glad  to  have  this  German  Catholic  almanac,  but  we 
can  scarcely  expect  to  increase  its  circulation  among  our  readers  by  prais- 
ing its  merits.  Our  German  brethren  excel  in  this  kind  of  work.  They 


7 1 8  NEW  PUBLICA TIONS.  [Feb., 

have  a  wonderful  amount  of  ingenuity,  tact,  artistic  taste,  and  talent  for 
gathering  together  popular  songs,  stories,  and  amusing  miscellanies  for 
young  and  old  people.  This  is  a  good  almanac,  its  illustrations  are  good, 
its  contents  are  varied,  entertaining,  and  instructive.  We  are  thankful  to 
those  who  sent  it.  Lebet  wohl !  lebet  wohl,  Hebe  Briider !  Lebet  wohl 
aufs  widersehn. 

THE  CATHOLIC  DIRECTORY,  ECCLESIASTICAL  REGISTER,  AND  ALMANAC 
FOR  THE  YEAR  OF  OUR  LORD  1886.  London:  Burns  &  Gates;  New- 
York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 

This  is  the  English  Catholic  Directory  for  1886,  compiled  and  edited  by 
Rev.  Canon  Johnston,  of  Cardinal  Manning's  household,  and  is  a  most  com- 
plete and  useful  manual  'for  England,  Scotland,  and  Wales.  Besides  con- 
taining a  list  of  the  archbishops,  bishops,  and  priests  of  these  countries,  it 
also  contains  a  list  of  the  sovereign  pontiffs,  the  Sacred  College  of  Cardi- 
nals, the  Sacred  Congregations,  sees  of  the  Catholic  Church  of  the  Latin 
Rite  and  Oriental  Rite,  and  also  apostolic  delegations,  vicariates,  and  pre- 
fectures, as  well  as  much  other  very  valuable  information. 

LIVES  OF  THE  SAINTS  AND  BLESSED  OF  THE  THREE  ORDERS  OF  ST. 
FRANCIS.  Translated  from  the  Aureole  Seraphique  of  the  Very  Rev. 
Father  Leon,  ex-provincial  of  the  Friars  Minor  of  the  Observance. 
With  a  preface  by  His  Eminence  Cardinal  Manning.  Vol.  I.  8vo,  pp. 
552.  Taunton  :  Published  by  the  Franciscan  Convent.  (For  sale  by  the 
Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.,  New  York.) 

This  is  the  first  volume  of  a  very  important  work  now  being  issued  in 
England  by  the  Franciscan  fathers.  It  will  be  completed  in  two  octavo 
volumes.  Cardinal  Manning  in  his  preface  thus  speaks  of  St.  Francis  : 

"  The  aureola  of  our  Seraphic  Father  has  been  always  expanding  in  radiance  as  through  six 
hundred  years  his  children  have  been  crowned  with  him  in  his  Master's  kingdom.  The  title  of 
this  book,  now  for  the  first  time  published  in  an  English  translation,  has  been  well  chosen.  The 
Seraphic  Aureola  of  the  Three  Orders  of  St.  Francis  tells  us  that  not  only  the  father  of  the 
household,  but  the  household  itself  is  crowned.  The  Seraphic  Order  shares  in  the  name  and  in 
the  glory  of  its  head. 

"  In  the  day  when  St.  Francis  before  the  bishop  in  Assisi  offered  himself  by  one  act  of  he- 
roic self-oblation  to  his  Father  in  heaven,  the  love  of  God  transformed  him  as  the  iron  glowing 
from  the  furnace  puts  on  the  nature  of  fire.  He  seems  to  have  passed  through  no  tardy  progres- 
sive changes  of  fervor,  but,  like  the  bush  in  Horeb,  to  be  at  once  wrapped  in  flame  and  yet  not 
consumed.  The  fire  which  Jesus  sent  on  earth  was  already  kindled  in  him  to  its  fullest  intensity. 
Elevated  and  united  to  God  in  love  he  was  changed  into  a  living  image  of  Jesus  as  we  see  him  in 
the  Gospels.  The  book  of  the  Conformities  of  Francis  to  our  Divine  Redeemer  is  a  true  delinea- 
tion both  of  the  Master  and  of  the  servant.  Love  to  God  and  to  all  the  works  of  God,  living 
and  without  life  ;  love  to  man,  both  the  evil  and  the  good  ;  compassion  to  all  in  suffering  ;  ten- 
derness to  all  infirmity  ;  gladness  in  poverty  ;  joy  in  contempt ;  a  habitual  vision  of  God  by  faith, 
by  which  God  was  seen  in  all  things,  and  all  things  seen  in  God  ;  or,  in  a  word,  charity  and  hu- 
mility made  perfect.  This  is  the  outline  of  Francis  and  the  reflection  of  the  divine  original. 
With  this  perfect  impression  he  was  stamped  in  youth  as  by  the  signet  of  the  living  God  ;  the 
stigmata  in  Mount  Alvernia  were  only  the  countersign,  and  his  last  conformity  to  the  Son  of  God 
in  the  days  of  his  Passion  upon  earth.  This  is  beautifully  pictured  in  the  Fioretti  of  St.  Fran- 
cis. We  are  told  that  when  St.  Clare  and  her  companions  were  sitting  at  S.  Maria  degli  An- 
geli  surrounded  by  the  brethren,  St.  Francis  began  to  speak  of  the  love  of  God.  The  fire  had 
kindled  within  him  and  he  breathed  it  in  his  words.  They  were  all  wrapped  in  contemplation 
and  forgot  the  food  that  was  before  them.  The  convent  and  the  wood  around  it  seemed  to  be 


1 886.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  719 

enveloped  in  flames.  The  neighbors  came  in  speed,  believing  that  a  fire  had  broken  out.  Such 
was  the  power  of  God  with  which  St.  Francis  subdued  the  souls  of  his  first  disciples,  Bernard, 
Egidio,  Masseo,  and  a  multitude  too  long  to  name.  In  three  years  he  had  five  thousand  gathered 
round  him  ;  and  the  sound  of  the  feet  of  those  who  were  coming  to  him  was  already  heard,  as  he 
said ;  and  they  have  never  ceased  to  come  to  this  day. 

"  Every  saint  has  his  special  conformity  to  our  Divine  Master,  but  St.  Francis  seems  to  be 
the  express  likeness  of  Jesus  conversing  among  men  in  the  mountains  and  plains  of  Galilee  and 
Judasa,  intensely  human  in  all  sympathy  with  the  people ;  but  mysteriously  divine  in  his  words 
and  actions.  He  was  the  friend  of  the  poor  ;  poor  himself,  with  a  poverty  greater  than  theirs  ; 
and  the  poor  of  the  world  have  been  his  special  inheritance  ;  and  the  rich  of  the  world  have  made 
themselves  poor  in  spirit  or  in  truth  to  join  themselves  to  him. 

"  It  is  this  singular  perfection,  separate  from  all  others,  that  St.  Francis  impressed  upon  his 
disciples,  and  through  them  upon  his  order  in  all  time.  For  six  hundred  years  his  children  have 
multiplied  beyond  all  others.  In  all  lands,  of  all  languages,  in  every  state  of  life,  men  and 
women,  poor  and  rich,  lettered  and  unlearned,  soldier  and  civilian,  layman  and  priest,  princes 
and  kings,  bishops  and  pontiffs,  in  whatsoever  condition  of  life  they  might  be,  the  Franciscan 
type  is  in  all  the  same.  Poverty  of  spirit,  love  of  the  poor,  tenderness  towards  all  suffering,  joy 
in  all  the  works  of  creation,  humility  of  heart,  unworldliness  in  the  throng  and  furnace  of  the 
world,  self-concealing  piety,  and  a  silent  fervor,  always  aspiring  in  closer  conformity  to  the  hu- 
mility and  charity  of  Jesus  Christ.  Such  are  the  three  families  of  St.  Francis,  the  First  Order  of 
men  ;  the  Second  Order  of  cloistered  women  ;  the  religious  and  the  secular  members  of  the  Third 
Order,  bear  the  same  family  likeness.  St.  Louis  of  France,  St.  Charles  of  Milan,  St.  Elizabeth 
of  Hungary,  St.  Elizabeth  of  Portugal,  St.  Rose  of  Viterbo,  B.  Angela  of  Foligno,  St.  Bernar- 
dine  of  Siena,  St.  Bonaventure  the  Seraphic  Doctor,  all  these,  most  diverse  in  all  other  things,  in 
this  are  all  alike,  that  they  bear  the  likeness  of  '  the  poor  man  of  Assisi.'  Whether  in  the  clois- 
ter or  in  the  world,  at  the  altar  or  in  the  schools,  in  the  court  or  in  the  camp,  there  is  the  sweet- 
ness, the  joy,  and  the  confidence  which  is  inspired  by  the  Holy  Ghost,  by  '  the  Gift  of  Piety ' 
breathing  in  the  words  and  actions  of  their  life. 

11  The  vicissitudes  of  the  Church  and  the  revolutions  of  the  world  which  have  diminished 
and  even  extinguished  many  orders  have  fallen  lightly  upon  the  order  of  St.  Francis.  It  has  had 
little  to  lose,  and  when  that  little  was  lost,  it  has  returned  to  its  primitive  state  of  the  poverty 
which  St.  Francis  loved  so  much  and  bequeathed  as  the  heirloom  of  his  children  for  ever.  Still 
more  strange  :  the  revolutions  of  these  days,  which  have  wrecked  so  much,  have  sometimes  left 
them  in  peace ;  and  sometimes  even  restored  them  to  their  humble  homes.  The  poverty  of  St. 
Francis  disarms  and  converts  the  world. 

"  It  was  in  the  midst  of  commercial  and  luxurious  Italy  that  St.  Francis  arose  to  bear  witness 
against  greed  and  sensuality  and  selfishness  ;  and  to  set  fire  to  the  heart  of  the  world  cold  in 
self-indulgence.  It  is  to  commercial  and  luxurious  England  that  the  Seraphic  Order  comes  once 
more.  It  came  in  our  thirteenth  century,  when  England  was  sick  with  worldliness,  and  the  lot 
of  the  poor  was  hard  ;  it  comes  again  in  the  last  days  of  the  nineteenth  century  when  the  wealth 
of  England  is  piled  mountains  high  upon  a  toiling  and  suffering  people.  The  gulfs  and  chasms 
which  divide  our  classes  and  threaten  the  peace  of  our  commonwealth  can  be  closed  only  by  the 
humility  and  charity  of  Jesus  Christ.  The  saints  and  blessed  of  the  Seraphic  Order  are  to  us  a 
luminous  cloud  of  witnesses,  showing  by  their  words  and  lives  that  though  humility  and  charity 
are  the  highest  reaches  of  perfection,  nevertheless  the  way  is  open  and  easy  to  all  in  every  state 
of  life.  St.  Augustine  has  said  'no  man  can  say  that  he  cannot  love  God,'  and  as  St.  Leo, 
'  nothing  is  beyond  the  reach  of  the  humble.' " 

SADLIERS'  CATHOLIC  DIRECTORY,  ALMANAC,  AND  ORDO   FOR  THE  YEAR 
OF  OUR  LORD  1886.    New  York  :  D.  &  J.  Sadlier  &  Co. 

Sadliers*  Directory  for  the  United  States  is  out  this  year  several  weeks 
earlier  than  usual — a  great  gain  for  those  who  are  in  the  habit  of  using  it. 
Two  editions  are  published  this  year.  One  contains  only  the  reports  and 
returns  for  the  United  States,  and  is  small  and  cheap.  The  other  contains 
the  usual  returns  from  Canada,  Ireland,  etc.,  is  large  and  bulky,  and,  of 
course,  dearer. 


720  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Feb.,  1886. 

CLOTILDE  :  A  Story  of  France,  and  other  Stories  for  Girls.  Boston  : 
Thomas  B.  Noonan  &  Co. 

Clotilde  takes  us  back  to  the  early  days  of  French  history,  when 
Clovis  united  the  various  peoples  of  France  and  reigned  the  first  king  of 
the  Franks.  Clotilde  by  her  rare  beauty  won  the  heart  of  this  stern  war- 
rior, and  by  her  sweet  Christian  virtues  finally  converted  him  from  pagan- 
ism. He  was  baptized  by  St.  Remi,  and  received  from  the  pope  the  title 
of  "Most  Christian  King,"  a  title  the  kings  of  France  have  borne  ever 
since.  The  story  furnishes  an  interesting  glimpse  of  European  society  in 
the  fifth  century.  "  St.  Genevieve  "  is  a  sketch  of  the  patroness  of  Paris 
told  in  the  form  of  a  short  story.  The  book  also  contains  an  account  of 
the  monks  of  St.  Bernard,  and  half  a  dozen  other  stories,  all  of  which  will 
prove  attractive  reading  for  the  young. 

MARY  BURTON,  and  other  Stories.     Boston  :  Thomas  B.  Noonan. 

This  is  a  volume  of  the  Golden  Crown  Library,  and  contains  about  a 
dozen  short  stories,  the  scenes  of  which  are  laid  in  France,  Italy,  Greece, 
and  other  countries.  Each  of  the  stories  teaches  a  useful  lesson  ;  one, 
that  a  contented  spirit  is  a  remedy  for  all  the  evils  in  the  world  ;  another 
shows  the  bad  effects  of  exaggeration.  The  stories,  although  written  with 
a  moral  object  in  view,  are  not  "  too  good  for  youthful  human  nature  "  to 
read  with  pleasure. 

LOST,  and  other  Tales  for  Children.  Adapted  from  the  French  by  the 
author  of  Tyborne.  London  :  Burns  &  Gates  ;  New  York  :  The  Ca- 
tholic Publication  Society  Co. 

Three  charming  little  stories  make  up  the  contents  of  this  book,  all  the 
scenes  of  which  are  laid  in  France.  The  characters  introduced  are  chiefly 
children  under  twelve  years  old,  and  the  stories  are  well  adapted  to  in- 
terest the  young. 

LITTLE  DICK'S  CHRISTMAS  CAROLS,  and  other  Tales.     By  Amy  Fowler. 
.      London  :  R.  Washbourne.     (For  sale  by  the  Catholic  Publication  So- 
ciety Co.), 

This  elegantly-bound  little  volume  contains  six  very  good  and  very  in- 
teresting stories  for  boys  and  girls.  There  is  one  thing  we  protest  against, 
however;  and  that  is  the  habit  of  the  London  publishers  sewing  in  their 
catalogues  at  the  end,  thereby  making  the  purchaser  pay  for  what  is  gene- 
rally given  free.  This  little  book  has  only  128  pages,  yet  there  are  32  pages 
of  a  catalogue  tacked  on  to  it,  so  as  to  make  it  look  as  if  it  were  a  lanre 
book. 


of  the  Commune.     By  Mrs.  Frank  Pentrill.     Dublin:  M. 
11  &  bon.     (For  sale  by  the  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co.) 
This  handsome  little  book  is  dedicated  to  Rev.  J.  Hogan,  D.D.,  late  of 
St.  Sulpice,  Paris,  but  now  president  of  St.  John's  Seminary,  near  Boston, 
Mass.    The  story  is  well  written,  and  gives  a  lively  picture  of  the  siege  of 
Paris  by  the  Prussians,  and  the  actions  and  doings  of  the  Communists—  or, 
as  they  are  called,  the  Commune. 


THE 


CATHOLIC  WORLD 


VOL.  XLII.  MARCH,  1886.  No.  252. 


EMPEROR    JULIAN    THE    APOSTATE,    THE    GREAT 
SPIRITIST  OF  THE  FOURTH  CENTURY. 


i. 

AMONG  the  numerous  "isms"  that  are  at  work  in  undermin- 
ing the  Christian  belief  of  many  in  this  country  modern  spiritism 
is  one  of  the  most  formidable.*  Its  adherents  are  counted  by 
the  millions;!  its  publications  are  scattered  throughout  the 
land ;  ^  and  by  presenting  itself  in  the  garb  of  an  angel  of  light, 
or  as  a  messenger  from  the  dear  departed  ones  in  the  unseen 
realms  above,  it  succeeds  in  leading  many  astray  from  the  belief 
in  Christ  and  the  truths  he  has  taught.  That  this  danger  is 
by  no  means  confined  to  such  as  are  outside  of  the  Catholic 

*  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  (The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast-table,  Boston,  1883,  p.  15)  ob- 
serves :  "Spiritualism  is  quietly  undermining  the  traditional  ideas  of  the  future  state  which 
have  been  and  are  still  accepted,  not  merely  in  those  who  believe  in  it,  but  in  the  general  senti- 
ment of  the  community,  to  a  larger  extent  than  most  good  people  seem  to  be  aware  of." 

t  Since  spiritists  usually  meet  in  private  or  home  circles,  it  is  impossible  to  give  a  fair  esti- 
mate of  their  number.  Dr.  Eugene  Crowell  (Spiritualism  and  Insanity,  Boston,  1877,  p.  7) 
thinks  their  number  in  the  United  States  is  more  than  two  millions.  Dr.  Joshua  Thorne  (Reli- 
gio-Philosophical  Journal,  Chicago,  June  20,  1885)  says  "it  is  six  millions  and  over  in  this 
country."  Alfred  Russell  Wallace  (A  Defence  of  Modern  Spiritualism,  6th  edition,  Boston, 

1882,  p.  14)  even  states  :  "  The  number  of  spiritualists  in  the  Union  is,  according  to  those  who 
have  the  best  means  of  judging,  from  eight  to  eleven  millions.     This  is  the  estimate  of  Judge 
Edmonds,  who  has  had  extensive  correspondence  on  the  subject  with  every  part  of  the  United 
States.     The  Hon.  R.  D.  Owen,  who  has  also  had  great  opportunities  of  knowing  the  facts, 
considers  it  to  be  approximately  correct ;  and  it  is  affirmed  by  the  editors  of  the  Year-Book  of 
Spiritiialism  for  1871." 

\  Besides  numerous  books  and  pamphlets  on  spiritualism,  about  twenty  spiritualist  weeklies 
or  other  periodicals  are  said  to  be  published  in  America,  one  of  which  alone  is  reported  to 
have  more  than  thirty  thousand  subscribers.  See  Theologisch-praktische  Quartalschrift,  Linz, 

1883,  p.  387. 

Copyright.    REV.  I.  T.  HECKER.     1886. 


722  EMPEROR  JULIAN  THE  APOSTATE,  [Mar., 

Church  the  following  quotations  from  a  spiritist  weekly  will 
show. 

The  Religio- Philosophical  Journal,  May  16,  published  a  commu- 
nication from  a  Michigan  gentleman,  whose  full  name  and  ad- 
dress is  given,  who  states :  "  Among  the  letters  I  have  recent- 
ly received  from  spiritists  and  mediums  are  some  from  Roman 
Catholics."  In  one  of  these  letters  a  lady  writes  : 

"  I,  though  a  Roman  Catholic,  am  wrapped  up  in  and  true  to  the 
cause.  .  .  .  The  Scriptures  of  old  point  vividly  to  this  foundation  of  facts ; 
they  are  imbued  with  the  same  spirit,  consequently  spiritualism  and  Ca- 
tholicism are  one  and  the  same  faith.  .  .  .  This  may  seem  very  strange 
language  to  you,  dear  sir,  coming,  as  it  does,  from  a  stanch  Romanist  and 
a  communicant,  but  such  it  is.  I  am  one  of  the  most  devoted  to  my  reli- 
gion and  church,  still  I  am  a  participant  in  this  most  abhorred  of  truths." 

This  Catholic  lady  considers  herself  "  honored  "  that  the  spirits, 
or  "  controls,"  have  selected  her  as  one  of  their  instruments,  and 
even  asks  God  to  grant  her  the  grace  to  acquit  herself  "  nobly 
and  honorably  in  this  holy  and  efficacious  mission." 

In  another  number,  June  6,  the  same  weekly  published  a  com- 
munication from  a  Catholic  lady  of  New  York.  The  writer 
states : 

"  I  am  a  member  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church.  In  that  church  is 
found  a  class  of  mystic  literature  which  is  full  of  phenomena  similar  to 
modern  spiritualism.  That  style  of  reading  has  always  fascinated  me." 

f  She  also  claims  having  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  famous 
medium,  Henry  Slade,  through  whose  mediumship  a  slate  she 
held  in  her  hand  was  repeatedly  written  on  by  some  invisible 
agency.  "  I  carried  it  (the  slate),"  she  observes,  "  home  with  me, 
and  have  since  showed  it  to  priests  of  my  church.  They  were 
filled  with  wonder." 

In  the  same  journal,  June  13,  a  writer,  whose  name  is  given, 
observes  : 

"  Upon  a  time  I  was  a  devout  Catholic,  and  before  I  was  acquainted 
with  spiritualist  literature — I  have  no  other  acquaintance  with  the  system 
—I  was  accustomed  to  think  and  say  that  I  knew  the  Roman  Catholic 
Church  to  be  the  one  true  church  of  God." 

But  the  writer  seems  to  have  lost  this  conviction  after  hav- 
ing become  acquainted  with  spiritist  literature ;  for  there  he  be- 
lieves to  have  found  phenomena  recorded  still  more  marvellous 
than  the  wonders  which  attest  the  divine  mission  of  the  Catholic 
Church.  The  writer  observes  : 

"  If  the  phenomena  of  the  Catholic  religion  prove  it  divine,  what  are 


1 886,]    THE  GREA  T  SPIRITIST  OF  THE  FOURTH  CENTURY.    723 

we  to  say  of  the  still  more  marvellous  phenomena  of  a  system  (modern 
spiritualism)  most  of  whose  adherents  emphatically  deny  the  cardinal 
dogma  of  Catholicism — viz.,  the  divinity  of  Jesus  ?  " 

These  quotations  from  but  three  numbers  of  a  single  spirit- 
ist weekly  deserve  being  reflected  on. 

How  many  similar  quotations  from  writings  of  Catholics 
could  be  annually  culled  from  all  the  spiritist  publications  of 
the  United  States?  How  many  Catholics  who  never  write  or 
publish  a  word  about  it  join  spiritist  circles  and  partake  in 
stances,  thinking  it  no  harm  to  converse  with  spirits  of  the  dear 
departed?  And  how  many  ill-instructed  Catholics  do  thus 
gradually  renounce  the  Catholic  religion  and  embrace  that  novel 
"  ism  "  which  pretends  to  be  a  new  revelation  from  above  ? 

II. 

Spiritists  claim  to  converse,  by  various  means,  with  spirits 
of  the  departed — of  parents,  brothers,  neighbors,  sisters,  etc.  But 
how  do  they  know  that  these  spirits  are  what  they  claim  to  be  ? 
Often,  as  Longfellow  observes,  "  things  are  not  what  they  seem." 
Spiritists  will  answer,  these  spirits  often  reveal  things  which 
were  known  only  to  such  particular  persons  when  living  on 
earth.  Yet  here  our  spiritists  overlook  that  there  may  be  spir- 
its who  also  witnessed  those  things  and  now  make  use  of  them 
to  delude  people.  Besides,  spiritists  may  say  that  occasionally 
these  spirits  appear  in  the  unmistakable  forms  of  certain  deceas- 
ed persons,  write  in  their  very  handwriting,  etc.  But  why  could 
not  also  other  spirits  than  those  of  deceased  persons  assume  such 
forms,  imitate  such  handwriting,  etc.  ? 

We  know  from  reliable  sources  that  spirits  of  doubtful  and 
mischievous  character  have  often,  in  different  times  and  countries, 
badly  deluded  people  who  trusted  them.  Even  some  of  the 
wisest  and  the  most  learned  of  their  times  were  occasionally  led 
by  "  spirits  "  to  their  ruin.  A  very  instructive  example  of  this 
kind  is  Emperor  Julian  the  Apostate,  one  of  the  most  learned 
men  of  his  age,  a  brave  soldier,  an  accomplished  general,  and  a 
shrewd  statesman.* 

*  The  following  works  have  been  consulted  on  the  life  of  Emperor  Julian :  Edward  Gib- 
bon, The  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire,  New  York,  1880  ;  Henry  Hart  Milman,  D.D., 
The  History  of  Christianity,  New  York,  1881  ;  George  Rawlinson,  M.A.,  The  Seven  Great 
Monarchies  of  the  Ancient  Eastern  World,  New  York,  1884 ;  CEuvres  Completes  de  Montes- 
quieu, Paris,  1835  ;  Dr.  J.  Alzog,  Universalgeschichte  der  christlichen  Kirche,  Mainz,  1860  ; 
Ausgewaehlte  Schriften  des  seligen  Theodoretus,  Bischofs  von  Cyrus,  Kempten,  1878 ;  Des  heili- 
gen  Cyrillus,  Erzbischofs  von  Jerusalem  und  Kirchenvaters,  Katechesen,  Kempten,  1871  ;  An 
Oration  of  St.  Gregory  of  Nazianzum  against  Emperor  Julian,  Latin  text,  edited  by  Migne  ; 
Ammiani  Mar cellini qua  super sunt,  Lipsiae,  1867. 


724  EMPEROR  JULIAN  THE  APOSTATE,  [Mar., 

In  his  early  youth  he  had  been  educated  a  Christian  ;  he  was 
baptized  and,  as  some  claim,  even  ordained  lector.  Unfortunate 
circumstances  conspired  to  make  him  averse  to  Christianity ;  and 
his  tutor,  Mardonius,  endeavored  to  fill  his  mind  with  reverence 
and  enthusiasm  for  the  gods  of  Homer  and  Hesiod.  Such  sen- 
timents were  nourished  by  the  writings  of  the  famous  orator 
Libanius,  and  by  conversations  with  pagan  philosophers,  espe- 
cially  with  the  far-famed  Maximus. 

"Thus  it  came"  (as  St.  Cyril  of  Alexandria  observed)  "that  he  who 
had  been  counted  among  the  faithful,  who  had  been  enlightened  by  baptism 
and  exercised  in  the  reading  of  the  holy  books,  having  become  corrupt  by 
conversing  with  reprobate  men  devoted  to  paganism,  thought  of  renounc- 
ing the  (Christian)  faith  ;  and  that  he  who  had  been  educated  for  the  ser- 
vice of  the  church  became  a  servant  of  the  evil  spirits." 

When  Julian  was  about  twenty  years  old  he  was  initiated  in 
the  mysteries  of  paganism  at  Ephesus,  by  Maximus,  who  was 
also  a  master  of  magic  arts.  St.  Gregory  of  Nazianzum,  who  for 
a  while  had  been  a  schoolmate  of  Julian's  at  Athens,  relates,  on 
the  authority  of  such  as  gloried  in  being  acquainted  with  the 
secrets  of  the  Apostate,  that  he  had  washed  off  his  Christian  bap- 
tism by  sacrificial  blood.  The  manner  in  which  this  ceremony 
was  performed  seems  to  have  been  as  follows :  The  baptized  per- 
son to  be  regenerated  to  paganism  descended  into  a  pit  or 
trench,  and  then,  through  a  kind  of  sieve,  the  blood  of  a  bull 
or  ram  was  poured  over  his  whole  person.  This  ceremony  was 
evidently  a  diabolical  caricature  of  Christian  baptism. 

St.  Gregory  relates  further  that  Julian  was  led  by  the  magi- 
cian into  a  dark  subterranean  cave.  The  spirits  being  called 
upon,  terrible  sounds  and  irightful,  fiery  spectres  are  said  to  have 
appeared  and  filled  Julian  with  such  terror  as  to  induce  him  to 
make  the  sign  of  the  cross,  which  he  had  learned  to  do  when 
a  Christian.  Suddenly  the  demoniacal  apparitions  vanished. 
Again  the  spirits  were  called,  and  again  they  were  put  to  flight 
by  the  sign  of  the  cross.  Julian  commenced  to  waver  in  his  reso- 
lution of  devoting  himself  to  the  worship  of  the  spirits  who  fled 
before  the  cross.*  But  the  magician  declared  that  the  demons 
had  fled,  not  because  they  feared,  but  only  because  they  detested 
that  sign.  Julian,  believing  the  magician,  devoted  himself  to  the 
worship  of  the  demons. ,  kFrom  this  time,  as  his  admirer  Libanius 

*  There  are  numerous  cases  recorded  in  which  diabolical  manifestations  were  suddenly  put 
to  an  end  by  the  sign  of  the  cross  or  the  name  of  Jesus.  See  H.  Hurter,  S.J.,  Sanctorum 
Patrum  Opuscula  Selecta,  vol.  i.  pp.  105-128,  vol.  xi.  99-107 ;  D.  Aug.  Rohling,  Orakel  und 
Zauberwunder,  Mainz,  1882,  pp.  30-37,  79-88. 


i886.]    THE  GREAT  SPIRITIST  OF  THE  FOURTH  CENTURY.    725 

relates,  Julian  continued  to  live  in  familiar  intercourse  with  the 
gods  and  goddesses.  These  descended  upon  the  earth  to  enjoy 
the  pleasure  of  conversing  with  Julian;  sometimes  they  gently 
awoke  him  from  his  slumber  by  touching  his  hand  or  hair;  they 
guided  every  action  of  his  life  and  warned  him  of  impending 
dangers.  So  familiar  and  well  acquainted  had  Julian  become 
with  them  that  he  could  readily  distinguish  the  voice  of  Jupiter 
from  that  of  Minerva,  or  the  form  of  Hercules  from  that  of 
Apollo. 

in. 

Who  these  gods  were  with  whom  Julian  was  so  familiar  was 
no  mystery  to  the  early  Christians.  Long  before  the  days  of 
Julian  these  so-called  gods  whom  the  Greeks  and  Romans  wor- 
shipped had  been  compelled,  by  the  exorcisms  of  the  Christians, 
to  confess  who  they  really  were.  Minutius  Felix,  in  his  Octavius, 
declares  they  are  insincere,  impure,  vagabond  spirits  or  demons 
that  sometimes  conceal  themselves  behind  statues  and  images 
consecrated  to  them,  and  give  evidence  of  their  presence  by  in- 
spiring soothsayers,  by  giving  oracles,  by  directing  the  flight  of 
birds,  by  enlivening  occasionally  the  fibres  of  the  entrails  of  sac- 
rificed animals,  or  by  directing  the  lots.  He  adds  : 

"All  this,  as  the  greater  part  of  you  (pagans)  know,  the  demons  confess 
of  themselves  whenever  they  are  expelled  from  bodies  by  us  (Christians) 
through  the  torments  of  words  and  the  fires  of  prayer.  Saturn  himself, 
and  Serapis,  and  Jupiter,  and  all  the  demons  you  (pagans)  worship,  over- 
come by  pain,  confess  what  they  are.  Nor,  indeed,  do  they  lie  to  their 
own  disgrace,  especially  since  (on  such  occasions)  some  of  you  (pagans) 
are  present.  Believe  these  witnesses  who  confessed  themselves  to  be 
demons." 

Likewise  Tertullian,in  his  Apologeticitm,  challenged  the  pagans 
to  bring  any  one  possessed  by  a  demon  before  their  tribunals, 
adding:  "  Commanded  to  speak  by  any  Christian,  that  spirit  will 
in  truth  confess  himself  to  be  a  demon,  as  he  elsewhere  falsely 
(claims  to  be)  a  god."  Then  he  asks  the  pagans  :  "  If  they  are 
truly  gods,  why  do  they  lie,  (claiming)  to  be  demons?  ...  If,  on 
the  other  hand,  they  are  demons  or  angels,  why  do  they  else- 
where .answer  that  they  take  the  place  of  gods?"  Therefore 
Tertullian  draws  the  conclusion  that  the  so  called  gods  whom 
the  pagans  worship  cannot  be  gods,  but  are  merely  lying  demons 
or  devils. 

Such,  then,  were  the  gods  whom  Julian  worshipped  with  the 


726  EMPEROR  JULIAN  THE  APOSTATE,  [Mar., 

blindest  zeal.  At  first  he  did  so  secretly ;  but  on  becoming  em- 
peror he  no  longer  made  any  mystery  of  his  devotedness  to 
them.  The  animal  sacrifices  he  offered  at  their  altars  were  so 
numerous  that  the  expenditures  for  them  threatened  to  exhaust 
the  revenue ;  hundreds  of  cattle  and  countless  choice  birds  from 
all  parts  of  the  empire  were  constantly  bleeding  in  honor  of 
the  gods.  A  historian  observes  :  "  Julian  was  perpetually  seen, 
himself  wielding  the  sacrificial  knife,  and  exploring  with  his  own 
hands  the  reeking  entrails  of  the  victims,  to  learn  the  secrets  of 
futurity."  For,  as  we  may  infer  from  remarks  of  Ammianus 
Marcellinus  and  other  contemporary  writers,  signs  made  by  the 
so-called  gods  on  the  entrails  of  sacrificed  animals  were  looked 
upon  by  pagans  as  a  favorite  means  of  learning  the  secrets  of  the 
future. 

Julian  is  even  accused  of  having,  like  some  other  pagan 
Roman  emperors  before  him,*  occasionally  sacrificed  to  his  gods 
something  better  than  animals. 

Bishop  Theodoretus  of  Cyrus  relates  that  at  his  time,  about 
A.D.  450,  evidences  of  Julian's  shocking  superstition  were  still 
preserved  in  the  city  of  Carrae,  in  Mesopotamia,  not  far  from 
Cyrus.  On  his  march  to  Persia  Julian  had  come  to  the  city 
mentioned,  where  a  famous  pagan  temple  still  existed.  With 
some  choice  companions  he  entered  this  temple.  On  their  com- 
ing out  again  the  doors  were  carefully  locked  and  sealed. 
Moreover,  Julian  left  a  guard  of  soldiers  to  watch  that  no  one 
entered  the  temple  before  his  return  from  Persia.  But  Julian 
never  returned ;  he  was  killed  in  battle.  When  the  news  of 
Julian's  death  had  arrived  the  temple  was  opened,  and  there 
they  found  the  dead  body  of  a  woman.  The  body  had  been  cut 
open  and  the  liver  used,  no  doubt  to  learn  what  Julian  wished 
to  know  from  his  "  gods." 

Also  in  the  imperial  palace  at  Antioch  human  corpses,  hidden 
in  boxes,  etc.,  were  said  to  have  been  found  after  Julian's  death. 
"  For  such  things,"  Theodoret  observes,  "  belong  to  the  worship 
of  the  gods  of  darkness." 

Of  course  the  pagan  admirers  of  Julian  do  not  mention  such 
facts.  But  let  it  not  be  forgotten  that  Theodoret  was  born  at 
Antioch  about  AD.  390,  only  twenty-seven  years  after  Julian's 
death.  At  his  time,  no  doubt,  many  were  yet  living  who  had 
known  Julian  personally  ;  and  from  such  Theodoret  could  obtain 
reliable  information  concerning  the  Apostate. 

*  See  A.  Lecanu,  Geschichte  des  Satans,  Regensburg,  1863,  p.  95. 


1 886.]    THE  GREAT  SPIRITIST  OF  THE  FOURTH  CENTURY.    727 

IV. 

On  one  point  all  historians  or  biographers  of  Julian  agree : 
that  he  was  a  most  zealous  worshipper  of  the  gods.  How,  then, 
did  these  repay  their  imperial  devotee?  What  success  did  he 
have  in  his  undertakings  after  publicly  restoring  the  worship  of 
the  gods  on  becoming  emperor  ? 

One  of  his  greatest  cares  was  to  restore  ancient  temples  of 
the  gods.  In  Constantinople,  which  was  then  the  capital  of 
the  empire,  not  much  could  be  done  for  paganism ;  for  this  city, 
but  recently  founded  by  Constantine,  was  an  essentially  Chris- 
tian commonwealth.  Better  prospects  for  furthering  the  cause 
of  paganism  Julian  expected  to  find  in  Antioch,  the  capital  of 
Syria,  where  the  pagans  were  still  very  numerous.  Augurs,  ma- 
gicians,  and  priests  of  Cybele  and  other  so-called  deities  flocked 
to  Antioch  at  the  approach  of  Julian,  who  ascended  the  lofty  top 
of  Mount  Casius  to  offer  solemn  worship  to  Jupiter  Philius,  the 
pagan  tutelary  deity  of  Antioch.  He  afterwards  visited  the  fa- 
mous temple  of  Apollo  in  the  beautiful  grove  of  Daphne,  and,  as 
he  himself  related,  expected  to  find  there  a  magnificent  proces- 
sion, sacrifices,  libations,  and  children,  dressed  in  white,  dedicated 
to  the  service  of  the  god  Apollo.  But  what  was  his  surprise  on 
entering  the  temple !  He  found  there  only  an  old  pagan  priest, 
with  a  single  goose  for  sacrifice.  He  felt  provoked,  and  deter- 
mined to  restore  the  once  so  famous  temple  in  which  Apollo  had 
been  solemnly  worshipped,  and  where  he  had  given  oracles. 
But,  to  jiis  further  chagrin,  Julian  was  told  that  Apollo  had  con- 
fessed he  could  not  give  any  oracles  in  the  presence  of  the  re- 
mains of  Babylas,  the  martyred  bishop  of  Antioch.  To  purify 
the  grove  the  relics  of  St.  Babylas  were  removed,  and  then  the 
restoration  of  the  temple  was  energetically  commenced.  While 
the  work  was  going  on  Julian  was  surprised  by  the  intelligence 
that  the  temple  was  on  fire.  How  it  originated  was  a  mystery. 
Even  the  famous  gilded  statue  of  Apollo  was  burned  to  ashes. 
The  Christians  were  convinced  that  Providence  had  sent  down 
lightning  and  destroyed  the  idol  and  its  temple.  Julian's  gods 
were  unable  to  prevent  this  failure,  which  was  as  humiliating  to 
themselves  as  to  Julian,  their  faithful  worshipper. 

Knowing  the  Jews  to  be  most  bitter  enemies  of  Christianity, 
and  to  refute  the  Christian  conviction  that  the  destroyed  temple 
of  Jerusalem  was  not  to  be  rebuilt,  Julian  determined  to  rebuild 
that  temple.  The  Jews  of  the  Roman  Empire  were  invited  by 
public  proclamation  to  return  to  the  land  of  their  fathers  and  to 


728  EMPEROR  JULIAN  THE  APOSTATE,  [Man, 

rebuild  their  temple.  From  all  sides  the  Jews  flocked  to  Jeru- 
salem, and  such  as  could  not  go  personally  sent  pecuniary  assis- 
tance. Alypius,  the  energetic  friend  of  Julian,  was  appointed  to 
superintend  the  work.  The  eyes  of  the  whole  Roman  world — of 
pagans,  Jews,  and  Christians — were  turned  to  Jerusalem  ;  for  the 
rebuilding  of  the  temple  was  a  matter  of  great  interest  to  all. 
St.  Cyril,  then  bishop  of  Jerusalem,  had  confidently  predicted 
the  failure  of  the  enterprise,  even  after  the  work  had  been  be- 
gun. The  pagans  and  Jews  were  already  beginning  to  rejoice  at 
their  seeming  success. 

But  all  at  once  a  terrific  earthquake  shook  the  ground  ;  a 
violent  whirlwind  scattered  the  rocks  that  had  been  dug  up  and 
the  materials  that  had  been  collected  ;  balls  of  fire  repeatedly 
burst  forth  from  the  earth  and  burned  or  killed  such  as  would 
continue  to  work,  so  that  nobody  could  approach  the  place 
where  the  foundations  were  to  be  laid.  With  obstinate  zeal  the 
Jews  for  a  while  insisted  on  continuing  the  work;  but  finally, 
finding  themselves  opposed  by  an  irresistible,  unseen  power,  they 
abandoned  the  work,  humbled  and  dismayed. 

To  complete  the  triumph  of  Christianity  on  this  occasion  a 
shining  cross  appeared  in  the  firmament,  and  similar  crosses  were 
seen  on  the  garments  of  those  present.* 

Again  the  false  gods  of  Julian  were  unable  to  protect  the 
work  of  their  imperial  devotee. 

But  in  Persia  Julian  was  to  receive  his  reward  for  serving 
the  gods  so  faithfully.  He  inquired  of  the  oracles  at  Delphi, 
Delos,  Dodona,  and  other  places  if  he  should  wage  war  against 
Persia.  The  gods  encouraged  him  to  do  so,  promising  victory. 
The  following,  according  to  Theodoret,  was  the  answer  of  Ares, 
or  Mars,  the  god  of  war : 

"  Now  we  gods  all  hasten  to  carry  the  ensigns  of  victory  to  the  impet- 
uous river ;  I  myself,  the  violent  Ares,  expert  in  war,  will  lead  them." 

Relying  on  such  promises,  Julian  confidently  undertook  the 
expedition ;  he  dreamed  of  victory,  and,  as  Theodoret  adds,  al- 
ready thought  of  his  war  against  the  Galileans,  as  he  contemp- 
tuously called  the  Christians,  after  his  victorious  return  from 
Persia.  He,  indeed,  passed  "  the  impetuous  river"— Tigris— but 
never  to  see  it  again  alive.  On  the  memorable  26th  of  June,  A.D. 
363,  Julian's  army  was  attacked  by  the  Persians  and  he  himself 
mortally  wounded  by  a  javelin,  which,  as  Ammianus  Marcellinus 

*  See  Two  Essays  on  Biblical  and  Ecclesiastical  Miracles,  by  Cardinal  John  H.  Newman, 
London,  1881,  pp.  334-347. 


i886.]    THE  GREAT  SPIRITIST  OF  THE  FOURTH  CENTURY.    729 

relates,  penetrated  to  his  liver.  That  such  was  to  be  his  death 
was  perhaps  never  thought  of  by  Julian,  who  examined  so  many 
livers  of  sacrificial  victims  to  learn  the  will  of  the  gods  or  to  find 
out  secrets  of  the  future.  During  the  dangerous  battle  neither 
Ares  nor  any  other  god  put  in  an  appearance  to  protect  Julian. 

Such,  then,  was  the  reward  he  received  from  the  gods  for  his 
faithful  service  :  his  short  reign  of  less  than  two  years  was  a  series 
of  humiliating  failures.  Julian  could  certainly  not  have  closed  his 
life  with  words  more  appropriate  than  those  attributed  to  him  by 
Theodoret,  "  Thou  hast  conquered,  Galilean  !  " — meaning  Christ. 

A  last  grand  effort  had  been  made  by  the  powers  of  darkness, 
through  the  instrumentality  of  Julian,  to  crush  Christianity  in  the 
Roman  Empire  ;  but  in  vain.  Hardly  was  Julian  dead  when  the 
army  proclaimed  Jovian,  a  Catholic,  emperor.  No  pagan  ever 
again  ascended  the  throne  of  the  Roman  Caesars,  and  the  re- 
ligion of  Christ,  which  Julian  had  intended  to  annihilate,  still  con- 
tinues its  ever-victorious  march,  "  full  of  life  and  youthful  vigor." 

V. 

Modern  spiritists  may  say,  What  have  we  to  do  with  Em- 
peror Julian  ?  They  may  profit  by  his  sad  experiences  in  con- 
fidently dealing  with  irresponsible  spirits  of  more  than  doubtful 
character. 

Like  many  of  our  modern  spiritists,  Julian  was  a  man  of 
great  intelligence  and  wide  experience ;  and  yet  deceitful,  vaga- 
bond, and  impure  spirits  (spiritus  insinceri,  vagi  .  .  .  impiirt),  as 
Minutius  Felix  calls  the  demons  worshipped  by  the  pagans,  made 
him  believe  that  they  were  gods. 

What  guarantee  have  our  modern  spiritists  that  they  are 
not  being  deluded  by  similar  spirits  of  darkness,  that  only  pre- 
tend to  be  the  spirits  of  departed  dear  ones  ? 

The  same  kind  of  spirits  that  deluded  the  pagan  Romans  and 
Greeks,  so  that  they  were  believed  to  be  gods,  may  now  deceive 
people  by  pretending  to  be  the  spirits  of  departed  men.  No  doubt 
these  spirits  may  often  reveal  things  true ;  but  let  our  spiritists 
remember  the  words  of  Banquo  in  Shakspere's  "  Macbeth  "  : 

"  What !  can  the  devil  speak  true  ? 
.  .  .  Oftentimes,  to  win  us  to  our  harm, 
The  instruments  of  darkness  tell  us  truths  ; 
Win  us  with  honest  trifles,  to  betray  us 
In  deepest  consequence." 

To  Christians  it  cannot  be  a  matter  of  doubt  what  kind  of 
spirits  are  at  the  bottom  of  modern  spiritism,  since  the  whole 


730  EMPEROR  JULIAN  THE  APOSTATE,  [Mar., 

drift  of  this  "  new  revelation  "  tends  to  ignore  the  central  dogma 
of  divine  revelation,  the  redemption  through  the  Incarnate  Son 
of  God,  and  to  substitute  in  its  place  something  like  the  Bud- 
dhist Karma—"  that  complicated  group  of  affinities  for  good  and 
evil  generated  by  a  human  being  during  life,"  as  A.  P.  Sinnett, 
the  author  of  Esoteric  Buddhism,  calls  it. 

The  Apostle  St.  John  (First  Epistle  iv.  1-3)  has  given  to  all 
future  generations  this  instruction  : 

"  Dearly  beloved,  believe  not  every  spirit;  but  try  the  spirits,  whether 
they  be  of  God  :  because  many  false  prophets  are  gone  out  into  the  world. 
By  this  is  the  Spirit  of  God  known  :  every  spirit  that  confesseth  Jesus 
Christ  to  have  come  in  the  flesh  is  of  God;  and  every  spirit  that  dissolveth 
Jesus  is  not  of  God." 

According  to  this  instruction  every  Christian  must  look  upon 
all  spirits  that  deny  the  Redemption  through  the  Incarnate  Son 
of  God  as  lying  spirits,  no  matter  what  they  may  pretend  to  be. 

We  know  that  there  are  good  spirits,  "  ministering  spirits, 
sent  to  minister  for  those  who  shall  receive  the  inheritance  of 
salvation"  (Heb.  i.  14).  Such  spirits  will  never  teach  men  any- 
thing contrary  to  the  revealed  word  of  God. 

Moreover,  since  the  days  of  Christ  countless  millions  of  faith- 
ful members  of  his  one  true  church  have  departed  this  life ;  but 
has  it  ever  happened  that  the  spirit  of  any  such  person  has  re- 
vealed to  dear  friends  on  earth  anything  contrary  to  the  doc- 
trines of  Christ  or  his  church  ?  It  is  a  very  suggestive  fact  that 
modern  spiritism  flourishes  especially  among  such  as  are  not 
baptized,  or  who,  having  been  baptized,  have  practically  re- 
nounced Christ  and  his  church. 

The  Second  Plenary  Council  of  Baltimore  has  remarked : 

"  Since  such  a  great  number  of  those  who  among  us  call  themselves 
Christians  have  not  even  been  cleansed  by  the  sacred  laver  of  baptism, 
and  have  consequently  not  emerged  from  darkness  to  light,  nor  put  on 
Christ,  what  is  it  to  wonder  at  if  they  still  remain  under  the  power  of  the 
prince  of  the  world,  of  these  darknesses,  or  if  they  are  at  least  exposed,  un- 
protected, to  his  invasions  ?  "  (No.  39). 

God  has  appointed  his  church  on  earth  to  instruct  and  guide 
men  in  affairs  of  the  unseen  world  above,  and  not  invisible  spi- 
rits whose  real  character  is  shrouded  in  mystery,  and  whom  no 
mortal  can  hold  responsible  for  what  they  may  pretend  to  reveal. 
For  this  reason  also  Abraham,  in  the  parable  recorded  by  St. 
Luke  xvi.  29,  31,  replied  to  the  rich  man  in  hell,  who  requested 
that  Lazarus  be  sent  from  the  other  world  to  his  brothers  to 
warn  them : 


1 886.]   THE  GREA  r  SPIRITIST  OF  THE  Fo  UR TH  CENTUR  Y.    73 1 

"  They  have  Moses  and  the  prophets  :  let  them  hear  them.  ...  If  they 
hear  not  Moses  and  the  prophets,  neither  will  they  believe  if  one  rise 
again  from  the  dead." 

Spiritists  are  greatly  mistaken  in  assuming,  as  some  seem 
to  do,  that  modern  spiritism  is  a  new  revelation  from  above 
which  is  destined  to  be  "  the  church  of  the  future."  The  phe- 
nomena of  modern  spiritism  are  nothing  substantially  new  ;  simi- 
lar ones  are  recorded  to  have  been  witnessed  among  various 
pagan  nations  of  modern  and  ancient  times.  Already  Moses 
mentions  them.  We  read,  for  instance,  in  the  book  of  Deute- 
ronomy xviii.  10-12  : 

"  Neither  let  there  be  found  among  you  any  one  .  .  .  that  consulteth 
soothsayers,  .  .  .  neither  let  there  be  any  wizard,  nor  charmer,  nor  any  one 
that  consulteth  pythonic  [or  familiar]  spirits,  or  fortune-tellers,  or  that 
seeketh  the  truth  from  the  dead.  For  the  Lord  abhorreth  all  these 
things." 

Modern  spiritism  is  but  a  revival  of  ancient  pagan  prac- 
tices which  disappeared  before  the  advance  of  the  religion  of 
Christ.  In  proportion  as  the  belief  in  Christ  is  lost  in  so-called 
Christian  countries  the  powers  of  darkness  regain  their  former 
influence  on  men ;  and  this  influence  can  be  destroyed  by  none 
but  Him  of  whom  we  read  :  "  For  this  purpose  the  Son  of  God 
appeared,  that  he  may  destroy  the  works  of  the  devil"  (i  John  iii. 
8).  This  he  has  done  already  once  in  the  formerly  pagan  empire 
of  Rome.  The  great  St.  Athanasius  could  say  *  at  his  time  : 

"  Formerly  all  was  filled  with  the  fraud  of  the  oracles  ;  and  the  oracles 
at  Delphi,  Dodona,  in  Bceotia,  Libya,  Egypt  .  .  .  were  admired  by  the 
imagination  of  men.  But  now,  since  Christ  is  preached  everywhere,  also 
this  frenzy  has  ceased,  and  no  soothsayers  are  any  more  found  there.  For- 
merly the  demons  deceived  men  with  false  shows,  having  taken  posses- 
sion of  fountains,  rivers,  wood,  and  stones,  and  made  thus  by  their  delu- 
sions the  foolish  confused.  But  now,  since  the  divine  appearance  of  the 
Word  (of  God)  has  taken  place,  this  delusion  has  come  to  an  end." 

Our  United  States,  though  often  called  a  Christian  country, 
is  probably  as  much  pagan  at  present  as  the  Roman  Empire 
was  about  the  end  of  the  third  century.  Let  us  hope  that  in  the 
course  of  time,  as  before  in  Rome,  the  true  religion  of  Christ 
will  become  the  religion  of  this  country  also.  Then  the  deceit- 
ful phenomena  of  modern  spiritism  will  vanish,  as  the  oracles 
of  old,  as  pagan  necromancy  and  the  familiar  intercourse  with 
"  gods "  like  those  of  Julian,  have  also  disappeared  before  the 
light  of  Christianity. 

*  On  the  Incarnation  of  the  Word  of  God,  No.  47. 


732 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar. 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE. 

in. 

|  (THE  young  doctor  had  been  set  to  thinking,  and  that  more 
seriously  than  he  had  ever  thought  before  about  anything  out- 
side his  profession  ;  but,  as  he  had  prognosticated,  the  hour  of 
leisure  did  not  come  soon.  Both  Dr.  Kelly  and  himself  were  so 
fully  occupied,  and  their  attention  so  entirely  engrossed,  that 
though  they  met  every  day — generally  two  or  three  times  a  day 
—it  was  only  very  occasionally  that  a  moment  of  leisure  afford- 
ed opportunity  for  more  than  the  exchange  of  a  few  brief  sen- 
tences of  greeting  and  comment  upon  the  condition  of  the  sick, 
their  equal  care.  On  the  rare  occasions  when  they  were  acci- 
dentally thrown  together  during  an  unemployed  half-hour  Fa- 
ther Brian  did  not  recur  to  their  late  conversation — partly  be- 
cause he  felt  that  to  do  so  might  be  injudicious,  and  partly  from 
the  fact  that  it  seemed  useless  to  touch  upon  a  subject  which 
could  not  be  handled  cursorily  with  advantage  to  either  speaker 
or  hearer.  He  preferred  to  wait  a  period  of  leisure,  when  it 
would  be  possible  to  give  and  obtain  that  deliberate  attention 
which  the  importance  and  subtlety  of  the  questions  concerned 
demanded. 

And  so  the  summer  passed  ;  its  green  beauty  changed  gradu- 
ally into  the  glory  of  autumn,  while  typhus  still  raged  in  the 
river  suburb,  and  the  ordinary  malarial  fever  of  the  climate  pre- 
vailed in  the  town  itself  with  unusual  severity.  The  middle  of 
October  had  come  without  bringing  the  eagerly  looked-for  frost 
which  would  kill  the  germs  of  malaria  in  the  air.  The  physi- 
cians were  feeling  sensibly  the  long  strain  of  over- work — several 
of  them  being  temporarily  disabled,  thus  leaving  all  the  more 
labor  for  those  who  were  still  efficient — when  a  welcome  variation 
of  weather  at  last  brought  hope  of  permanent  change.  Rain 
fell  in  torrents  for  forty-eight  hours.  Then  as  evening  ap- 
proached the  clouds  parted,  dispersed,  melted  away,  and  the 
sun  went  down  in  a  clear  sky. 

Just  as  the  last  line  of  the  dazzling  disc  disappeared  Father 
Brian  and  Dr.  Ferrison,  coming  from  different  directions,  met  in 
the  street  by  the  river  and  walked  on  together  into  the  town. 

"  If  the   wind  "-—which   was  now  blowing  freshly—"  lulls," 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  733 

said  Father  Brian,  "  we  shall  have  frost  to-night.  The  tempera- 
ture has  lowered  considerably  already." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  the  alteration  is  very  perceptible, 
and  it  is  a  great  relief  that  it  has  come  at  last.  But  unfortunate- 
ly it  is  not  an  unmixed  good.  It  will  play  the  wild  with  some  of 
my  patients,  I  know." 

"  Do  serious  harm,  you  think  ?  " 

"  The  sudden  fall  of  temperature  will  prove  fatal  with  two 
cases  at  least,  I  fear." 

"  Green  and  Tom  Brady,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  the  priest,  looking 
much  concerned. 

"  Tom  Brady  and  Mrs.  Wilkins,"  answered  the  doctor.  "  As 
to  poor  Green,  he  is  past  being  either  hurt  or  helped  by  any- 
thing." 

"  There  is  no  hope  at  all,  then,  for  him  ?  ' 

"  Not  a  shadow  of  hope,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  shall  be  content 
if  he  goes  off  quietly.  What  I  apprehend  is  that  mania  may 
supervene  to-night  or  to-morrow  morning,  and  in  that  event  he 
will  die  in  convulsions." 

"  I  have  been  afraid  of  this  myself,"  said  the  priest.  "  But 
there  are  no  signs  of  it  at  present.  I  am  just  from  his  bedside, 
and  he  is  dozing  quietly,  as  he  has  been  all  day." 

"  He  has  had  a  good  deal  of  opium,"  said  the  doctor — "  as 
much  as  I  could  venture  to  give  him.  But  didn't  you  notice 
an  occasional  jerk,  a  closing  of  the  hands  and  shutting  his  eyes 
tightly?  Those  are  bad  symptoms.  I  suspected  from  the  first, 
as  you  may  remember  my  telling  you,  that  he  was  laboring 
under  incipient  mania  a  potu  when  the  fever  attacked  him,  and  I 
am  convinced  now  that  my  judgment  was  correct." 

"  But  I  thought,"  said  the  priest,  "  that  you  had  subdued  the 
tendency  that  way,  and  so  averted  the  danger." 

"  Only  staved  it  off  for  a  while.  Day  by  day,  as  the  fever  ap- 
proached its  crisis,  I  have  seen  more  and  more  plainly  what  was 
coming.  This  is  the  tenth  day,  and  he  will  die  to-night,  I  think." 

"  Sad  for  his  mother,"  said  Father  Brian,  with  a  sigh.  "  Is  it 
likely  or  possible  that  he  will  recover  consciousness  before  he 
dies  ?  " 

"  I  hope  not,"  was  the  answer.  Then,  noticing  the  grave,  al- 
most shocked  look  on  his  hearer's  face,  the  speaker  added  with  a 
half-smile,  "  It  is  for  his  own  sake  that  I  hope  so.  If  he  regains 
even  a  delirious  consciousness  the  chances  are  that  he  will  die  in 
paroxysms  of  fearful  horror.  And  so  I  shall  continue  to  keep 
him  as  much  as  possible  under  the  influence  of  opium.  I  only 


734  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

wish  that  I  could  give  him  an  anaesthetic  to  help  him  off,  but 
this  the  law  don't  allow — properly  enough,  it  must  be  confessed, 
since,  if  such  an  option  of  treatment  existed,  it  might  be  abused." 

"  My  friend,"  said  the  priest,  laying  his  hand  on  the  young 
man's  arm,  "  do  you  know  how  shockingly  you  are  talking  ?  Do 
you  think  it  well  to  jest  on  such  a  subject?" 

"  Upon  my  word  I  am  not  jesting.  I  mean  what  I  say — that, 
if  I  could,  I  would  give  the  poor  fellow  an  anaesthetic  to  spare 
him  and  that  poor  old  woman,  his  mother,  some  hours  of  awful 
agony.  I  am  doing,  or  rather  I  wish  I  could  do,  as  I  would  be 
done  by.  If  I  were  in  his  condition  I  should  regard  a  sure  dose 
of  chloroform  as  the  greatest  kindness  a  friend  could  bestow 
upon  me." 

"  There  is  a  greater  kindness,"  said  the  priest,  "  which  I  shall 
endeavor  to  bestow  upon  this  unhappy  man — the  reconciling  his 
soul  to  God  before  he  dies.  And  to  this  end  I  implore  you,  my 
dear  doctor,  not  to  stultify  consciousness  further.  I  compre- 
hend your  motive  ;  it  is,  as  you  look  at  it,  kindness.  But,  believe 
me,  it  is  not  the  greatest  kindness.  Let  him  suffer  the  tempo- 
rary agony  you  speak  of,  if  so  by  his  soul  may  be  saved." 

The  doctor  felt  no  inclination  to  smile  at  this  adjuration,  little 
as  the  sentiment  expressed  could  appeal  to  his  sympathy.  He 
was  impressed,  almost  startled,  by  the  tone  and  look  of  the 
speaker,  and  answered  earnestly : 

"  It  is  not  to  stultify  his  senses,  but  to  quiet  his  nerves,  that  I 
am  giving  him  laudanum  in  heroic  doses.  The  one  faint  possi- 
bility— and  very  faint  it  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say — of  his  regaining 
his  mind  at  the  last  is  in  the  tranquillizing  effect  of  the  medicine." 

"  And  you  think  the  end  will  be  to-night  ?  " 

"  Most  likely.  He  may  ^live  till  morning,  however.  Not 
longer,  I  certainly  think." 

They  walked  on  a  few  steps  in  silence,  and  then,  having  come 
to  the  point  where  their  ways "  diverged,  as  the  doctor  glanced 
at  Father  Brian  to  say  good-evening  he  was  struck  by  the  lat- 
ter's  appearance 

"  Why,  you  look  very  badly,  father  !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Are 
you  ill?" 

"  Not  quite  well,  I'm  afraid,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  was  caught 
in  the  rain  last  night  and  had  a  slight  rigor  this  morning,  which 
has  left  a  headache  and  some  feverishness.  But  it  will  wear  off, 
no  doubt." 

"  It  may,  and  it  may  not,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Will  you  let 
me  see  your  pulse,  if  you  please  ?  You  have  considerable  fever. 


i886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  73$ 

If  you  will  take  my  advice,  Father  Brian,  you  will  go  home  and 
go  to  bed,  and  take  a  little  care  of  yourself  for  the  next  few  days, 
or  you  will  bring  on  an  attack  of  fever." 

"  I  am  going  home,"  answered  the  father;  "and,"  he  added, 
with  his  slight  but  genial  laugh,  "  I  will  try  to  follow  the  rest  of 
your  advice." 

The  doctor  did  not  laugh,  nor  was  his  countenance  genial,  as 
he  heard  this  cautious  promise,  for  he  knew  what  it  meant — 
knew  that  Father  Brian  did  not  intend  to  let  care  for  his  own 
health  interfere  with  the'performance  of  his  priestly  duties;  and 
the  young  man  was  out  of  patience.  He  said  nothing,  however, 
being  aware  that  remonstrance  would  be  useless,  but  with  a  part- 
ing salutation  went  his  way. 

It  was  with  a  sad  heart  that  Father  Brian  walked  slowly 
homeward.  Poor  Green  was  so  much  in  his  thoughts  that, 
though  he  felt  as  well  as  looked  badly,  he  went  at  once  into  the 
church  and  knelt  long  before  the  tabernacle  in  earnest,  almost 
passionate,  prayer  for  the  soul  which  was  about  to  go  unshriven, 
he  feared,  into  the  presence  of  God.  All  that  he  asked  for  the 
unhappy  man — whom  he  judged,  from  what  he  had  heard,  to 
have  been  weak  but  not  vicious  in  character — was  that  he  might 
recover  consciousness  sufficiently  to  receive  the  sacraments,  or 
even  absolution  alone. 

Twilight  had  faded  into  night,  and  but  for  the  sanctuary- 
lamp  he  would  have  been  in  total  darkness  when  at  length  he 
rose  from  his  knees.  He  passed  into  his  own  house,  which  ad- 
joined the  church,  and  by  this  time  his  head  and  limbs  were  ach- 
ing severely ;  but  the  cup  of  coffee  awaiting  him  proved  very 
refreshing,  and  on  leaving  the  little  round  table,  which  Mrs. 
Brown,  his  housekeeper,  always  arranged  with  most  inviting 
neatness,  he  would  have  thought  the  heaviness  and  sense  of  dis- 
comfort which  had  not  entirely  left  him  might  be  merely  the 
effect  of  fatigue,  but  for  one  unmistakable  symptom.  As  he  sat 
down  before  the  bright  wood  fire,  drew  the  lamp  on  the  table  at 
his  elbow  near  to  him,  and  took  up  his  breviary  to  finish  saying 
his  office,  he  was  distinctly  conscious  of  a  wish  that  it  was  al- 
ready finished.  He  knew  what  this  signified — for  it  was  only 
when  positively  unwell  that  he  ever  felt  a  disinclination  to  say 
his  office — and,  remembering  the  doctor's  advice,  determined  that 
he  would  try  to  follow  it.  Then  he  opened  his  book  and  had 
made  some  progress  in  his  task  when  Mrs.  Brown  came  in  to 
remove  the  tea-things,  and  expressed  both  surprise  and  disap- 
probation on  perceiving  the  appearance  of  the  table. 


736  THE  DOCTOR" s  FEE.  [Mar., 

"  You've  eat  nothing,  father  ! "  she  said  reproachfully. 

"  I  have  no  appetite,"  he  answered.  "  In  fact,  I  am  a  little 
unwell  this  evening — or  was  so  when  I  came  in.  But  your 
excellent  coffee,  Mrs.  Brown,  has  done  me  a  world  of  good.  I 
feel  much  better  since  I  drank  it." 

Mrs.  Brown  looked  what  she  would  have  called  "  dubious  " 
at  this  assurance.  Coffee  was  a  good  thing  as  far  as  it  went,  she 
thought,  and  she  prided  herself,  she  often  said,  on  her  skill  in 
making  it ;  but  the  waffles  and  broiled  chicken,  which  she  found 
untouched,  were  its  natural  and  necessary  concomitants  in  her 
opinion.  She  would  fain  have  persuaded  his  reverence  to  re- 
consider the  matter  and  take  a  little  food. 

"  Many  a  time  a  body  mayn't  feel  like  eating,"  she  remarked, 
"  but  if  they  '11  try  their  appetite  '11  come.  You  try  a  bit  of 
this  breast,  father.  It's  very  tender,  and  I'll  fetch  you  a  hot 
waffle  to  eat  with  it." 

"  I  wish  I  could,"  he  said  with  a  smile,  "  but  it  is  impossible 
to-night." 

After  Mrs.  Brown  had  withdrawn,  and  he  had  concluded  his 
office  and  laid  aside  his  book,  he  sat  for  a  minute  gazing  in  the 
fire,  while  considering  whether  he  would  go  to  bed  and  get  what 
sleep  he  could,  or  sit  up  waiting  for  the  summons  which  he  felt 
sure  would  come  before  the  night  was  over;  and  he  had  just 
decided  that  it  was  useless  to  make  the  exertion  of  moving — an 
exertion  to  which  he  found  himself  very  averse — when  the  door- 
bell rang  loudly. 

He  rose,  put  on  his  overcoat,  took  his  hat  and  stick,  and  when 
Mrs.  Brown  appeared  an  instant  afterwards  to  announce  very  un- 
willingly that  there  was  a  sick-call,  she  found  him  ready  to  go  out; 
nor  did  she  need  to  tell  him  where  his  presence  was  required,  as 
he  asked  at  once  if  it  was  not  Mrs.  Green  who  had  sent. 

"  I  should  like  to  speak  to  the  messenger,"  he  said.  "  I  hope 
he  is  here  yet?  " 

"  No,  he's  gone,"  answered  the  woman.  "  He  just  said 
please  come  as  quick  as  you  could,  that  Mr.  Green  was  in  a 
awful  way  ;  and  when  I  told  him  he  had  better  wait  and  see  you 
he  said  he  hadn't  time:  he  had  to  run  for  the  doctor  now." 

It  was  quite  a  long  walk  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  Green,  and 
Father  Brian,  who  had  set  off  at  a  brisk  pace,  soon  found  him- 
self  constrained  to  check  his  impatience  and  move  more  deliber- 
ately, as  he  became  conscious  how  very  languid  he -felt.  He 
was  walking  slowly,  therefore,  when  he  heard  a  sharp,  ringing 
tread  following  rapidly  in  his  own  steps  ;  and — 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTORS  FEE.  737 

"  You  see  my  fears  are  verified,  father,"  said  Dr.  Ferrison's 
voice  at  his  side.  "  Poor  fellow,  I  wish  I  had  doubled  his  doses 
to-day  !  I  knew  he  was  dying — that  he  must  die ;  and  Clayton, 
whom  I  took  this  morning  to  see  him,  agreed  entirely  with  my 
judgment  of  his  condition.  I  was  greatly  tempted  to  give  him 
opium  in  sufficient  quantities  to  prevent  the  occurrence  of  this 
phase  of  the  disease  ;  but  his  mother,  to  whom  I  explained  the 
whole  case,  opposed  my  doing  so.  I  ought  to  have  acted  with- 
out consulting  her." 

"  No,  my  dear  doctor,  that  would  have  been  wrong,"  said 
Father  Brian.  "It  was  proper  to  consult  her;  and,  indeed,  it 
would  not  have  been  right  to  administer  the  medicine  even  with 
her  consent,  as  in  that  case  death  might  have  been  caused  by 
the  drug,  not  the  disease." 

"  Death  was  inevitable,  and  the  drug  could  produce  only  the 
beneficial  effect  of  annihilating  pain  by  lulling  consciousness.  I 
blame  myself  very  much  for  not  having  given  it." 

"  I  am  glad  you  did  not." 

"  You  will  change  your  mind  on  that  point  before  the  night 
is  over,  I  fancy,"  said  the  doctor. 

They  were  just  turning  a  corner,  and  he  paused  suddenly, 
the  priest  following  his  example.  Both  listened  intently  for  a 
second  or  two.  "  Do  you  hear?"  cried  the  doctor. 

"  Alas,  yes  !  "  was  the  response. 

The  place  to  which  they  were  going  was  yet  a  square  off, 
but  there  were  sounds  on  the  still,  night  air  which  they  knew  in- 
stantly must  proceed  thence — dreadful  cries  that  made  the 
priest  cross  himself  while  he  lifted  his  heart  in  prayer  for  the  un- 
happy soul  to  whose  assistance  he  was  hastening,  and  that  grew 
louder  and  more  distressing  as  they  drew  near  to  a  respectable- 
looking  house  set  a  little  back  from  the  street,  at  the  open  door 
of  which  a  group  of  men  were  standing. 

"They  seem  to  have  the  whole  house  spread  open ! "  said  the 
doctor  impatiently.  ."  I  wonder  what  the  idiots  are  thinking  of 
not  to  shut  the  doors  and  windows  !  " 

At  this  moment  there  came  a  scream  of  such  shrill  frenzy 
that  they  stopped  involuntarily  for  an  instant,  with  a  sense  of  un- 
controllable horror. 

"  Heavens  !  This  is  even  worse  than  I  expected  !  "  ejacu- 
lated the  doctor  when  the  fearful  sound  had  died  away. 

They  were  at  the  house-door  by  this  time,  and,  nodding  silent- 
ly to  the  men,  who  drew  aside  to  make  room  for  them,  walked  up 
the  steps  of    the  dwelling,  which,  as  its  appearance  indicated, 
VOL.  XLII.— 47 


738 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 


was  that  of  a  small  but  prosperous  tradesman.  Entering  a  nar- 
row passage-way,  they  mounted  a  still  narrower  staircase  toward 
the  sick-chamber,  from  the  door  of  which  a  brilliant  stream  of 
light  was  pouring.  So  violent,  indeed,  was  the  transition  from 
the  dimness  of  the  starlight  they  had  just  left  to  the  blinding 
glare  they  encountered  on  turning  the  last  landing  of  the  stair, 
that  both  paused  in  the  shadow  outside  and  waited  a  few  minutes 
until  their  eyes  had  grown  somewhat  accustomed  to  the  change 
before  entering  the  room. 

All  was  still  now  in  that  room,  with  the  exception  of  a  gasp- 
ing moan  faintly  audible  at  intervals.  But  when  the  doctor,  im- 
patient to  get  to  the  bedside,  stepped  noiselessly  across  the 
threshold,  followed  with  equal  caution  by  the  priest,  the  silence 
was  broken  suddenly  and  sharply.  The  wretched  man,  who  had 
been  lying  exhausted  after  the  subsidence  of  the  paroxysm  so 
lately  over,  started  up,  a  ghastly  and  horrible  object.  His 
quivering  body  was  naked  to  the  waist,  his  long  arms  wildly  out- 
stretched, the  short  black  hair,  which  ^was  very  thick,  bristled 
straight  on  end  above  his  forehead,  and  his  livid,  distorted  coun- 
tenance and  blazing  eyes  expressed  the  extremity  of  supernatural 
fear.  Uttering  a  piercing  cry,  half-shriek,  half-wail,  he  had  al- 
most thrown  himself  headlong  from  the  bed  ere  the  watchers 
beside  him,  whose  guard  had  been  somewhat  relaxed  when  he 
became  quiet  a  few  minutes  before,  could  lay  hands  on  him 
again. 

The  scene  that  followed   was  indescribably  terrible — a  clus- 
ter of  men  knotted  together  on  the   bed,  presenting  to  the  eye 
but  a  confused  mass  of  half-clad  figures  swaying  to  and  fro  in  a 
desperate  struggle.     One  athletic  frame  was  extended  crosswise 
of  the  couch  over  the  knees  of  the  sufferer,  thus  pinning  down 
his  lower   limbs   under  a  weight  which  even   the   superhuman 
efforts  of  delirium  could  not  entirely  resist ;  while  it  required  all 
the  muscle  and  nerve  of  four  strong  men  to  hold  his  writhing  and 
convulsed  form.     Four  to  one  as  they  were,  it  almost  seemed  an 
unequal  contest  of  strength  on  their  part ;  for  every  now  and 
then  he  succeeded  in  wrenching  his  arms  partly  free  of  control, 
to  grapple  and  fight  with  demoniac  fury.     The  men  had  relieved 
themselves  of  the  restraint  of  their  coats,  and  the  rest  of  their 
clothing  was  soon  torn  by  his  maniac  grasp  and  hanging  in  strips 
about  their  persons.     The  shoulders  of  two  of  the  number,  indeed, 
were  as  bare  as  his  own,  and  streaming  with  blood  where  he  had 
fastened  his  finger-nails  into  their  flesh.     And  through  it  all  were 
sounding  the  horrent,  unearthly  yells  and  ravings  that  struck  on 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  739 

the  ear  with  the  incisive  sharpness  of  acute  physical  pain.  Hell 
was  yawning-  around  him  ;  he  saw  the  red  flames,  he  saw  the 
devils,  black,  hideous  shapes,  hovering-  all  about  him  !  So  he 
cried  out  with  ravings  and  blasphemies  that  curdled  the  blood  of 
his  hearers  and  sickened  their  very  souls. 

"  You'll  have  to  fetch  in  more  assistance,"  said  one  of  the  men, 
looking  up,  his  face  bathed  in  perspiration,  to  the  doctor.  "  Send 
out  for  more  men,  and  we'll  take  it  by  turns;  for  this  is  goin'  to 
last  all  night.  My  strength's  pretty  nigh  spent  for  the  present." 

"  And  mine,  too,"  said  another,  with  a  gasp. 

"  Call  up  Ivins  and  Johnson.  They  was  to  come.  I  expect 
they're  down-stairs  now,"  exclaimed  a  third. 

"  It'll  take  six  men  to  hold  him  before  much  longer,"  said  the 
first  speaker  a  moment  later,  as  the  feet  of  those  who  had  been 
summoned  from  below  were  heard  ascending  the  stairs. 

The  priest  and  the  physician  stood  by,  silent,  powerless. 

"  You  can  do  nothing  to  quiet  this  frenzy?  "  said  the  former. 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  "  Nothing,  so  long  as  the  par- 
oxysm lasts.  When  the  next  intermission  comes  I  will  try  to 
get  him  to  swallow  a  dose  of  chloral  or  laudanum.  But — "  con- 
tinued the  young  man,  then  checked  himself  and  motioned  the 
other  to  follow  him  from  the  room.  "  I  can  see  that  you  are 
very  unwell,  father,"  he  said,  the  moment  they  were  outside  the 
door.  "  Pardon  me,  but  I  think  you  ought  to  go  home.  You 
can  do  poor  Green  no  good  by  staying :  he  will  not  recover  con- 
sciousness before  he  dies." 

"  He  will ! "  said  a  voice  beside  them,  in  a  tone  of  suppressed 
excitement ;  and  the  two  gentlemen,  turning  almost  with  a  start, 
so  sudden  and  unexpected  was  the  exclamation,  saw  Mrs.  Green, 
the  mother  of  the  unfortunate  man,  who  had  approached  unper- 
ceived  by  either  of  them.  She  was  pale  and  trembling,  and  her 
dull-colored  blue  eyes  had  in  them  a  look  of  mortal  anguish  ;  but 
there  was  an  expression  of  resolution  on  her  face,  and  she  made 
an  effort  to  control  her  agitation  as  she  went  on  : 

"  Don't  go,  father !  Don't  leave  him  while  there's  breath  in 
his  body  !  God  is  merciful ;  he  will  surely  hear  my  prayers.  I 
don't  ask  for  his  life  to  be  spared,  but  only  that  he  may  come  to 
his  senses  enough  to  get  the  absolution.  Oh,  don't  leave  him  !  " 

Father  Brian  hastened  to  relieve  her  anxiety.  "  Compose 
yourself,  my  poor  child,"  he  said  :  "  I  am  not  going  to  leave  him. 
I  will  join  my  prayers  to  yours,  and  we  will  not  despair  of  being 
heard  while,  as  you  say,  there  is  .breath  in  his  body.  But — 

"  I  know  what  you're  going  to  say,  father !  "  she  interrupted 


74o  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

nervously.  "Yes,  I'll  try  to  be  resigned  if  my  prayers  are  not 
granted.  But  I  have  faith  that  God  will  hear  me  ;  I  know  the 
Blessed  Mother  will  plead  for  me  !  It  isn't,"  she  went  on  rapid- 
ly, "as  if  he  had  been  a  wicked  man.  He  was  a  good  son  al- 
ways and  a  good  neighbor.  Nobody  can  say  anything  agin' 
him.  The  only  thing  was,  he  would  drink.  That  was  wrong  : 
oh  !  how  many  times  I  told  him  so.  But  he  never  hurt  anybody 
but  his  own  self  by  that.  Surely,"  she  cried  passionately,  "  God 
will  have  mercy  on  him,  and  on  me  who  have  tried  to  serve 
Him  faithful  these  many  years  !  " 

" '  O  woman,  great  is  thy  faith  ;  may  it  be  done  to  thee  as 
thou  wilt ' !  "  thought  Father  Brian  ;  while,  without  waiting  for 
a  reply,  Mrs.  Green  left  them  as  abruptly  as  she  had  appeared. 
His  eye  followed  her,  and  through  the  open  door  of  the  sick- 
room rested  on  her  bowed  figure,  that  crouched  in  a  kneeling 
position  at  the  foot  of  her  son's  bed.  "  You  see  I  must  remain," 
he  said  to  the  doctor.  And  they,  too,  returned  to  the  bedside. 

When  at  last  the  intermission  for  which  Dr.  Ferrison  had 
been  waiting  occurred,  an  effort  was  made  to  administer  a  seda- 
tive, but  without  success.  There  being  no  possibility  of  appeal- 
ing to  the  intelligence  of  the  man,  the  doctor  endeavored  to  pour 
a  spoonful  of  laudanum  down  his  throat  by  force,  but  was  com- 
pelled to  desist  from  the  attempt,  not  only  because  there  was 
danger  of  producing  strangulation,  but,  too,  it  roused  the  sufferer 
from  the  brief  rest  which  he  so  much  needed,  and  which  was  a 
great  relief  to  his  attendants  as  well  as  to  himself;  and  as  the 
faintest  touch  startled  him,  it  was  out  of  the  question  to  give  him 
the  medicine  hypodermically. 

All  night  long  he  raved  and  struggled,  with  occasional  short 
lulls  of  stupor.  Toward  morning  the  duration  of  these  pauses 
increased  and  his  strength  evidently  lessened.  He  would  start 
up  with  convulsive  fury,  but,  after  a  comparatively  brief  par- 
oxysm, fall  back  on  his  pillows  exhausted,  and  utter  a  succession 
of  moaning  wails  .which  were,  if  possible,  more  distressful  than 
the  fierce  cries  that  preceded  them,  then  relapse  again  to  insen- 
sibility. 

And  all  night  long  the  poor  woman  who  knelt  at  the  foot  of 
his  bed  cried  to  God  for  him  without  ceasing,  and  implored  help 
from  the  Mother  of  Mercy.  She  rose  finally  after  a  longer  in- 
terval than  usual  had  'passed  without  his  making  any  sign,  and, 
going  to  his  side,  bent  over  him.  As  she  did  so  she  started  and 
seemed^  to  cower  back.  A  change  had  come  over  his  face  since 
her  eye  had  rested  on  it  last,  at  the  time  she  spoke  to  Father 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  741 

Brian,  It  wore  now  that  indescribable  look  which  she  had  seen 
too  often  in  her  life  not  to  recognize  at  a  glance.  The  end,  she 
knew,  was  very  near ;  apparently  he  had  already  sunk  into  the 
coma  that  so  commonly  precedes  dissolution. 

For  a  moment  she  stood  paralyzed  ;  then,  seizing  one  of  the 
limp  hands  that  lay  now  so  passive,  "  Willie  !  Willie  !  O  my 
son,  can't  you  hear  me?  Willie!"  she  called,  her  voice  rising 
gradually,  until  the  last  word  was  a  cry  of  sharp  agony. 

There  was  a  flicker  of  the  eyelids,  they  lifted  slowly,  and  the 
glazing  eyes  looked  at  her  rationally,  but  with  a  wondering  in- 
quiry which  she  answered  instantly. 

"  You  are  dying,  my  son,"  she  said.     "  Here  is  the  priest." 

His  eyes  closed,  as  if  without  volition  on  his  part,  for  the 
expression  of  his  face  indicated  consciousness.  When  the  priest 
placed  the  crucifix  to  his  lips  he  made  an  effort  to  kiss  it,  and 
on  its  being  put  into  his  hand  his  fingers  closed  over  it. 

"The  doctor — the  doctor!  Oh,  call  the  doctor!"  cried  the 
poor  mother  in  a  shrill  whisper,  while  the  priest  spoke  words  of 
exhortation  and  encouragement  to  the  dying  man. 

The  doctor,  who  had  not  left  the  house,  but  had  lain  down  in 
an  adjoining  apartment  without  undressing,  was  already  there. 
Awakened  from  a  light  slumber  by  Mrs.  Green's  first  call  to  her 
son,  he  rose  and  hurried  to  the  room.  But  he  shook  his  head  in 
answer  to  the  mute  entreaty  with  which  she  looked  toward  him, 
and,  turning  to  the  priest,  said  rapidly  in  a  low  voice :  "  Do 
what  you  think  necessary  at  once.  His  life  must  be  reckoned 
by  minutes  now." 

"  You  hear  what  I  am  saying,  my  son?  "  the  father  asked  in  a 
clear,  slow  tone.  "  You  repent  of  your  sins,  and  have  a  firm 
faith  and  hope  in  the  mercy  of  God  ?  " 

With  a  visible  effort  the  eyes  unclosed  and  looked  up,  weak 
and  glazing,  but  with  full  intelligence  and  an  eager  gaze  of  awak- 
ened hope. 

"  Follow  me,  then,  with  your  whole  heart,  in  the  act  of  con- 
trition I  am  about  to  make  for  you,"  Father  Brian  continued, 
"and  I  will  then  give  you  absolution." 

Dr.  Ferrison  put  his  finger  on  the  pulse  that  was  beating  very 
feebly,  and,  watching  the  face  of  the  dying  man,  perceived  that, 
though  life  was  fluttering,  as  it  were,  on  his  lips,  his  mind  was  un- 
obscured  and  joined  earnestly  in  what  the  priest  was  saying.  At 
the  concluding  words  of  the  absolution  his  eyes  moved  slightly, 
turning  their  gaze  from  Father  Brian,  on  whom  they  had  been 
fixed,  and  glancing  upward  for  an  instant  with  an  expression  of 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

fervent  thanksgiving.  Then  they  fell  again  and  rested  on  his 
mother,  while  the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile  crossed  his  mouth  ; 
and  as  the  priest's  voice  pronounced  those  words  which  so  often 
seem  to  loose  the  clinging  bonds  of  life,  "  Depart,  Christian 
soul,"  the  spirit  went  forth  in  one  long-drawn  but  quiet  breath. 

When  the  last  flicker  of  life  was  over  in  that  soft,  lingering 
sigh,  the  eyes  closing  naturally  and  the  face  composing  itself 
into  what  looked  a  placid  slumber,  Dr.  Ferrison  folded  his  arms 
and  stood  motionless  while  the  remainder  of  the  prayers  were 
recited.  It  seemed  scarcely  credible  to  him  that  the  calm,  dead 
face,  lying  with  the  impress  of  a  peaceful  spirit  on  it,  could  be  the 
same  countenance  so  lately  contorted  in  the  agonies  of  unearthly 
terror.  And  why  such  a  change,  the  young  physician  asked 
himself?  He  would  have  staked  his  professional  reputation  that 
the  case  must  end  either  in  convulsions  or  coma.  All  his  know- 
ledge and  experience,  which  were  considerable  for  a  man  of  his 
age,  convinced  him  that  such  a  termination  was  inevitable  ;  and 
when  he  beheld  the  man's  eyes  open  with  the  light  of  reason  in 
them,  he  had  felt,  scientifically  speaking,  confounded. 

Suddenly,  as  he  marvelled,  the  echo  of  Mrs.  Green's  voice 
came  to  his  memory  with  as  startling  distinctness  as  if  it  was 
really  sounding  in  his  ears :  "  I  have  faith  that  God  will  hear 
me  ;  I  know  the  Blessed  Mother  will  plead  for  me !  " 

He  turned  almost  impatiently  from  the  thought  which  ob- 
truded itself  on  his  mind,  that  here  might  be  the  explanation  of 
what  he  considered  so  extraordinary  ;  but  at  the  same  time  his 
gaze  instinctively  wandered  toward  the  poor  woman  whose  faith 
and  hope  he  had  esteemed  superstitious  folly.  And  a  new  sur- 
prise awaited  him.  Her  face  was  nearly  as  much  transformed  as 
was  that  of  her  son.  Kneeling  beside  the  dead  body  of  her  only 
child,  her  countenance  expressed  not  merely  resignation  and 
tranquillity,  but  happiness  !  Later,  no  doubt,  would  come  the 
natural  grief  of  a  bereaved  mother,  the  sense  of  loneliness  and 
desolation  inevitable  under  the  circumstances.  She  would  miss 
the  familiar  presence  which  was  all  that  gave  any  color  of  plea- 
sure and  hope  to  her  life.  But  she  did  not  think  of  this  now. 
Her  only  consciousness  was  that  the  dread  which  had  haunted 
her  for  years,  poisoning  all  possibility  of  comfort  or  ease  of  mind, 
was  over,  and  for  ever.  Her  "  poor  Willie  "  was  safe — safe  in 
the  mercy  of  his  God.  No  fear  henceforth  that  he  might  die 
suddenly  and  unabsolved.  She  was  happy  in  this  knowledge. 
The  plain,  coarse  features  were  irradiated  with  a  supernatural  joy 
which  made  them  for  the  moment  beautiful ;  and  as  the  young 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  743 

man  glanced  from  her  upraised  brow  to  that  of  the  priest,  it 
seemed  to  him  that  on  both  was  the  reflex  of  a  light  from  above. 
For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  felt  that,  placed  between  these 
two  people  so  dissimilar  in  all  but  one  thing,  their  common  faith, 
he  was  standing  on  holy  ground. 

The  east  was  golden,  though  the  sun  had  not  yet  appeared 
above  the  horizon,  when  Father  Brian  and  the  doctor  left  the 
house  now  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  death.  They  walked  for 
some  distance  without  speaking,  along  the  silent  and  empty 
street. 

"  Father  Brian/'  said  Dr.  Ferrison  at  last,  rather  abruptly,  "  I 
should  like  to  ask  you  a  question." 

"  I  will  answer  it  if  I  can,"  responded  the  other. 

"  You  believe,  I  know,  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul. 
Where  do  you  suppose  that  soul  which  has  just  left  the  body 
is?" 

"  In  purgatory,  I  hope,"  answered  the  priest. 

The  young  man  turned  and  looked  at  the  speaker. 

"  You  are  serious  in  saying  that?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Perfectly  serious,"  was  the  reply. 

"  You  hope  that  it  is  in  purgatory  ?  " 

"  I  hope  and  believe  so." 

"  I  was  under  the  impression  that  purgatory  is  considered  to 
be  a  place  of  suffering,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Necessarily,  since  it  is  a  place  of  purgation,"  answered  the 
priest.  "  But  it  is  also  a  place  of  hope  ;  and  since  whoever  goes 
to  purgatory  will  sqo'ner  or  later  enter  heaven,  it  is  a  very  safe 
first  stage  of  one's  journey  on  leaving  this  life." 

"  It  seems  to  me  it  would  be  better  to  go  straight  to  heaven," 
observed  the  doctor.  "  If  there  is  such  a  place  ! "  he  added 
mentally. 

"  No,"  said  the  priest.  "  If  this  were  possible  it  would  not 
be  desirable,  as  I  think  I  can  demonstrate  to  you.  It  is  not  pos- 
sible, however.  Nothing  defiled  can  enter  heaven ;  and  as  the 
vast  majority  of  human  beings  are  imperfect  in  virtue,  even  when, 
as  we  say  theologically,  in  a  state  of  grace — that  is,  in  com- 
munion with  the  church  and  obedient  to  her  instruction — it  is 
imperatively  essential  that  each  soul  shall  be  purged  of  the  dross 
of  sin  that  defiles  it  at  death,  before  it  can  enter  the  visible  pre- 
sence of  God.  And  we  have  only  to  look  at  the  matter  from  a 
common-sense  point  of  view  to  discover  the  wisdom  of  this  divine 
ordination.  Take,  for  instance,  the  case  of  the  man  of  whom  we 


744  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

are  speaking.  You  heard  what  his  mother  said,  that  he  was  not 
a  bad  man.  All  that  I  have  learned  from  others  about  him  con- 
firms the  truth  of  this  statement.  But  can  you  conceive  that  his 
soul,  if  unassoiled,  would  be  a  fit  inhabitant  for  heaven?  or 
would  heaven  be  a  place  of  happiness  to  it  ?  His  life  in  this 
world  was  a  very  negative  one,  both  as  regarded  virtue  and  vice. 
His  amiability  and  kindliness  of  character  were  merely  natural 
virtues— and  natural  virtues  do  not  merit  supernatural  reward- 
while  the  intemperance  which  was  his  habitual  fault  was  more 
an  infirmity  than  a  vice,  He  did  not  violate  charity,  but  neither 
did  he  much  practise  it ;  and,  though  not  a  practical  Catholic,  he 
was  one  in  belief,  confessed  his  faith  before  men,  and  received  the 
last  absolution.  Now,  what  would  you  do  with  such  a  soul  as 
this  ?  It  is  not  good  enough  for  heaven  ;  it  is  not  bad  enough 
for  hell.  Looking  at  the  question  _hypothetically,  what  would 
you  do  with  it  ?  " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head.  He  felt  himself  unequal  to  hypo- 
thetizing  on  such  unfamiliar  ground  ;  but  he  would  have  been 
pleased  to  hear  the  conclusion  of  the  priest's  explanation,  and 
was  sorry,  consequently,  when  the  latter  paused  at  the  door  of 
his  church  and  said  with  a  smile  : 

"  It  is  not  worth  while,  I  suppose,  to  ask  you  to  come  in  and 
assist  at  the  Mass  which  I  am  going  to  offer  for  the  repose  of 
this  soul  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  should  like  to  hear  Mass  some  time,"  said  the  doc- 
tor a  little  hesitatingly,  as  if  apologizing  to  himself  for  such  an 
admission,  "  but  not  to-day.  I  am  going  home  to  try  and  get  an 
hour  or  two's  sleep  before  breakfast.  Good-morning." 

"  Good-morning,"  returned  Father  Brian,  as  he  mounted  the 
steps  to  the  church-door  and  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  for  the 
key.  But  before  he  had  fitted  it  into  the  lock  Dr.  Ferrison,  who 
had  walked  away  a  few  steps,  was  back  again. 

"  At  the  risk  of  making  myself  a  nuisance,"  the  young  man 
said,  "  I  must  again  urge  you  to  pay  a  little  attention  to  your 
health,  Father  Brian.  You  look  wretchedly." 

"  I  feel  used  up  just  now,"  Father  Brian  acknowledged,  "  but 
a  little  rest  and  a  few  doses  of  quinine  will  set  me  up.  How 
much  quinine  shall  I  take  ?  " 

The  doctor  pulled  out  his  note-book  and  wrote  a  prescription. 
"I'll  leave  it  at  Gowan's  as  I  pass  by,"  he  said,  "and  will  tell 
them  to  make  it  up  and  send  to  you  at  once.  And  you  ought  to 
take  it  at  once,  and  keep  quiet  to-day." 

"  I  will,"  said  the  priest. 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  745 

IV. 

He  did  keep  quiet,  but  was  unable  to  take  the  medicine,  as 
before  leaving-  the  altar  he  was  shaking  in  a  hard  chill,  which 
was  followed  in  due  course  by  a  high  fever.  It  was  not  until 
evening  that  he  could  venture  to  try  the  quinine. 

"  Look  on  the  mantel-piece,  Simon,  and  bring  me  a  little 
round  box  you  will  find  there,"  he  said  to  his  faithful  factotum, 
who,  coming  in  from  the  Refuge  as  usual  that  morning  for  orders, 
at  his  own  entreaty  had  remained  in  attendance  on  the  father  all 
day. 

After  a  blundering  search  he  discovered  the  box,  opened  it, 
and,  laying  down  the  cover,  carried  the  other  part  to  the  bedside. 
Father  Brian  raised  himself  up,  counted  out  five  pills,  and,  asking 
for  a  glass  of  water,  swallowed  them.  They  looked  rather  small, 
he  thought,  for  one-grain  pills,  and  after  he  had  lain  down  a 
doubt  suggested  itself  to  his  mind  as  to  whether  he  had  taken 
the  right  quantity.  He  requested  Simon  to  bring  the  box  to 
him  again  with  the  lamp,  that  he  might  see  the  prescription. 

"  Dose,  five  pills  every  four  hours,"  he  read  aloud.  "  I  was 
right,  yes."  And  he  was  about  to  give  the  box  back  to  the  boy 
when  his  eye  happened  to  fall  on  the  line  above  the  one  of  direc- 
tions which  he  had  been  looking  at — "  20  grs.  morphine." 

With  a  slight  start  he  held  the  words  a  little  nearer  to  his 
sight,  and,  taking  the  latnp  from  Simon's  hand,  examined  them 
closely.  The  writing  was  at  once  cramped  and  clumsy,  but  per- 
fectly legible.  He  saw  that  a  mistake  had  been  made,  either  in 
the  medicine  itself  or  the  labelling — a  mistake  which  might  prove 
very  serious,  if  he  had  taken  five  grains  of  morphine. 

"  Give  me  my  coat,  will  you,  Simon  ?  "  he  said  after  a  minute's 
thought,  pointing  to  a  chair  on  which  the  garment  was  hanging. 
"Thank  you.  Now  ask  Mrs.  Brown  to  step  here,  if  she  pleases.'* 

From  the  pocket  of  his  coat  he  extracted  his  note-book,  and 
wrote  a  line  of  explanation,  which  he  sent  with  the  pill-box  to  Dr. 
Ferrison. 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  father?  "  inquired  the  housekeeper, 
entering  by  one  door  as  Simon  departed  on  his  errand  through 
the  other. 

"  Yes,  Mrs.  Brown.  That  is,  I  am  a  little  afraid  I  have 
taken  a  dose  of  morphine  in  place  of  quinine,"  answered  he, 
"  and  I  wish  you  would  go  and  make  some  very  strong  coffee, 
and  let  me  have  it  as  soon  as  possible." 

Mrs.  Brown  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror,  and  was  pitch- 


746  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

ing  toward  the  door  as  fast  as  her  rather  superabundance  of  flesh 
would  permit.     "  I'll  run  for  a  doctor!  "  she  cried  breathlessly. 

"  Stop,  stop,  stop !  "  said  Father  Brian.  "  Pray  don't  alarm 
yourself  so  unnecessarily.  I  have  already  sent  for  the  doctor  ; 
and  if  you  will  go  at  once  and  make  the  coffee — " 

"Yes,  father,  I  will,"  she  said,  and  hurried  out  of  the  room, 
crossing  herself  as  she  went. 

Father  Brian,  left  alone,  rose,  walked  across  the  floor  to  a 
table  on  which  was  a  pitcher  and  glass,  and  drank  two  goblet- 
fuls  of  water;  after  which  he  retired  back  to  bed  and  awaited 
patiently  the  doctor's  arrival.  If  he  found  the  time  long  there 
was  no  indication  of  the  fact  in  the  expression  of  his  countenance, 
as  he  lay  with  closed  eyes,  taking  a  general  review  of  his  life, 
and  making  an  act  of  contrition  for  his  sins  and  shortcomings. 
He  was  by  no  means  certain  that  it  was  morphine  which  he  had 
swallowed,  thinking  it  probable  that  the  mistake  was  in  the 
labelling,  not  the  drug ;  but  even  if  it  was  morphine  he  thought 
that  the  water,  and  the  coffee  which  Mrs.  Brown  soon  brought, 
and  of  which  he  drank  a  good  deal,  would  together  so  thorough- 
ly dilute  and  neutralize  the  opiate  as  to  render  it  harmless,  or  at 
least  prevent  serious  danger. 

Simon,  meanwhile,  had  some  difficulty  in  finding  Dr.  Ferrison, 
who  was  not  at  home  when  inquired  for  at  his  boarding-house. 
Following  him  from  place  to  place,  the  messenger  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  overtaking  him  and  delivering  Father  Brian's  note. 
An  examination  of  the  medicine  convinced  the  doctor  that  it  was 
morphine,  and,  very  much  alarmed,  he  set  off  at  once  to  see 
about  it. 

But,  great  as  was  his  hurry  to  get  to  Father  Brian,  he  could 
not  restrain  the  impulse  of  indignation  which  prompted  him  to 
stop  on  his  way  at  the  drug-store  in  which  the  prescription  had 
been  made  up,  and  inform  the  clerk  to  whom  he  had  given  it  of 
the  mischief  he  had  done. 

"  Morphine  made  up  for  quinine !  "  exclaimed  the  druggist 
himself,  Mr.  Gowan,  none  of  the  clerks  being  present.  "  You 
must  be  mistaken,  Dr.  Ferrison,"  he  said.  "  My  clerks  are  all 
too  well  trained  to  do  such  a  thing  as  that.  Gregory  particu- 
larly—you say  you  gave  it  to  him  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

'  Then  I'll  engage  it's  all  right,"  said  the  man  confidently. 

"  Will  you  tell  me  why  the  box  is  labelled  *  morphine,'  then  ?  " 
demanded  the  doctor,  pointing  to  the  word  on  the  box-cover  as 
he  spoke. 


1 886.]  '  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  747 

Mr.  Gowan's  face  changed  as  his  eye,  following  Dr.  Ferrison's 
gloved  finger,  rested  on  the  writing.  He  recognized  it,  and  re- 
ceived mechanically  two  of  the  pills.  "  I'll  look  at  your  prescrip- 
tion ;  it  is  on  file.  Perhaps  the  mistake  was  yours." 

"  That's  likely  !  "  said  the  young  man  ironically.  "  Give  me 
a  box  of  mustard,  if  you  please." 

Having  received  which,  he  departed  in  haste,  leaving  Mr. 
Gowan  exceedingly  disturbed  in  mind.  He  stood  tasting  and 
smelling  one  of  the  pills  which  Dr.  Ferrison  had  placed  in  his 
hand,  while  waiting  impatiently  for  the  return  of  the  clerks  ;  and 
presently  they  came  in — three  in  number,  including  his  son,  a 
boy  of  fourteen,  whom  he  had  lately,  as  he  would  have  expressed 
himself,  put  behind  the  counter.  A  few  questions  soon  elicited 
the  fact  that  the  head-clerk,  Gregory,  had  deputed  the  making- 
tip  of  what  he  considered  such  a  simple  prescription  to  the  boy 
James  Gowan,  who  loudly  protested  that  Gregory  had  told  him 
morphine  ;  Gregory,  of  course,  as  vehemently  declaring  that  he 
had  told  him  quinine. 

"What  did  you  tell  him  anything  for?"  demanded  the  drug- 
gist with  a  frown.  "  Why  didn't  you  make  it  up  yourself  ?  " 

"  Because  Dr.  Ferrison  gave  me  two  other  prescriptions  at 
the  same  time  that  required  very  careful  compounding ;  and 
this  was  so  plain — 

"You  said  morphine /  "  cried  the  boy  in  a  half-whining,  half- 
defiant  tone.  "  I  asked  you  three  times  over,  and  you  said  mcr- 
phine" 

The  clerk's  face,  which  had  been  pale  since  he  heard  of  the 
affair,  turned  crimson  at  this  reiterated  accusation  ;  but,  disdain- 
ing to  reply  to  his  assailant,  he  turned  to  his  employer. 

"You  know,  Mr.  Gowan,  it's  impossible  that  I  could  have 
told  him  to  write  down  twenty  grains  of  morphine  in  one-grain 
pills — five  pills  to  a  dose !  He  wrote  down  the  prescription  to 
my  dictation,  before  he  started  to  weigh  it  out — and — " 

"  I  wrote  down  just  what  you  told  me,  and  you  said  mor- 
phine !  "  interrupted  the  boy,  who  seemed  to  think  that  his  only 
justification  consisted  in  the  repetition  of  this  asseveration. 

Mr.  Gowan,  though  a  good-natured  man,  was  in  a  rage.  He 
felt  that  the  character  of  his  establishment  was  compromised  ; 
and,  moreover,  he  was  concerned  for  the  priest,  whom  he  knew 
very  well  and  much  respected.  He  discharged  the  clerk  on  the 
spot,  promised  the  boy  that  he  should  have  a  lesson  in  the  morn- 
ing that  he  would  remember,  and  having  thus,  as  he  conceived, 
done  his  part  in  expiation  of  such  an  outrage,  as  he  termed  it,  he 


;48  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

went  at  once  to  see  how  the  priest  was,  and  to  express  his  regret 
for  the  mistake  made. 

Poor  Father  Brian  was  undergoing  the  mauvais  quart  cTheure 
which  necessarily  follows  the  taking  a  wrong  dose  of  medicine. 
In  answer  to  Mr.  Gowan's  inquiries  Mrs.  Brown  replied  that 
Dr.  Ferrison  had  given  the  father  an  emetic  and  he  could  not  see 
any  one :  he  was  very  sick. 

"  So  much  the  better  !  "  thought  the  druggist  as  he  turned 
away  from  the  door.  "  If  he  can  throw  the  opiate  off  his 
stomach  he  will  be  all  right." 

The  good  priest  himself  was  of  the  same  opinion ;  and  when 
an  hour  later  he  found  himself  apparently  rid  of  the  "  perilous 
stuff"  which  he  had  taken  into  his  stomach,  and  established  by 
the  fire  in  his  sitting-room,  with  a  bowl  of  cracked  ice  on  the 
table  at  his  elbow,  glowing  logs  and  dancing  flames  throwing  a 
red  and  cheerful  light  over  the  apartment,  and  his  young  friend 
the  doctor  sitting  opposite  him,  his  face  beamed  with  satisfaction 
and  benevolence.  It  is  true  that  his  head  ached,  and  that  his 
stomach,  though  quiescent  from  exhaustion,  kept  him  constantly 
in  mind  of  how  much  it  was  irritated  and  disgusted  by  the  treat- 
ment it  had  received.  But  he  endured  these  unpleasant  condi- 
tions with  patience — ignoring  them,  in  fact,  to  appearance,  and 
seeming  disposed  to  be  thoroughly  content  with  the  turn  which 
matters  had  taken. 

The  doctor,  on  the  contrary,  was  exasperated  to  a  degree  that 
made  it  difficult  for  him  to  affect  the  outward  composure  which 
he  compelled  himself  to  maintain.  He  was  burning  with  impa- 
tience to  deal  with  the  unprofitable  clerk  whose  carelessness  had 
proved  so  disastrous.  "  He  shall  be  punished,  the  miserable 
fool !  I'll  take  him  before  Williams  the  first  thing  to-morrow 
morning ! "  the  young  man  was  saying  to  himself,  when  Father 
Brian  interrupted  his  amiable  thoughts, 

"  Are  you  ever  ill?"  he  asked,  with  a  smile. 

" Very  seldom,"  was  the  reply.  "I  don't  remember  ever  to 
have  had  a  serious  illness  in  my  life." 

'  You  are  fortunate  in  one  sense,  and  unfortunate  in  another," 
said  the  priest.  "  Fortunate  inasmuch  as  that  the  greatest  tem- 
poral blessing  we  can  enjoy  is  health  ;  but  to  be  able  to  enjoy  it, 
or  I  should  rather  say  to  appreciate  it,  we  must  sometimes  real- 
ize what  St.  Thomas  would  call  the  pain  of  loss  with  regard  to 
it.  And  speaking  of  St.  Thomas  reminds  me — I  received  this 
morning  some  books  I  ordered  to  be  sent  me  from  my  library, 
which  is  not  here.  Among  them  is  one  that  I  must  recommend 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  749 

to  you,  and  which  I  wish  very  much  that  you  would  read — an 
abridged  translation  of  The  Sumrna.  I  mean,"  he  explained,  see- 
ing by  the  other's  face  that  he  had  never  before  heard  the  name 
even  of  the  book,  "  the  great  theological  work  of  St.  Thomas 
Aquinas.  Now  that  the  frost  has  come,  you  will  have  a  little 
leisure  from  professional  work,  it  is  to  be  hoped.  By  the  way, 
how  are  all  the  sick  getting  on  to-day  ?  " 

"  Very  well  on  the  whole.  Mrs.  Wilkins  died  this  morning, 
but  Brady  is  a  little  better,  and  I  think  may  recover.  They 
were  the  only  two  of  my  own  patients  about  whom  I  felt  any 
uneasiness  ;  and  Clayton  tells  me  that  his  and  Worthington's 
are  all  going  on  well." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  the  poor  woman  and  her  family,"  said  Father 
Brian,  leaning  his  head  back  and  closing  his  eyes. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  beginning  to  feel  sleepy,"  said  the  doc- 
tor quickly. 

"  No,  not  the  least  so." 

"  Why  did  you  close  your  eyes,  then  ?  " 

Father  Brian  smiled  at  the  suspicious  tone  in  which  the  ques- 
tion was  asked,  but  looked  grave  again  as  he  replied  : 

"  I  was  saying  a  De  Profundis  for  Mrs.  Wilkins.  She  was  not 
a  Catholic,  but  I  trust  she  was  in  good  faith  in  her  religious  be- 
lief;  and  the  prayer  can  do  her  no  harm,  if  no  good." 

Looking  up  as  he  concluded  speaking,  Father  Brian  was 
struck  by  the  expression  of  the  doctor's  face.  "  Tell  me  what 
you  are  thinking,"  he  said. 

The  young  man  hesitated  ;  then,  seeing  that  the  priest  was 
waiting  for  his  reply,  he  answered  frankly  :  "  To  say  the  truth, 
I  was  thinking  that  your  religion  must  be  a  very  fatiguing  one. 
This  morning,  ill  as  you  were,  you  stopped,  before  going  home, 
to  perform  a  religious  ceremony  in  connection  with  the  man  by 
whose  death-bed  you  had  spent  the  night,  instead  of  at  once 
taking  the  rest  you  so  much  needed.  And  it  seems  to  me  you 
would  not  feel  much  like  praying  just  now,  particularly  for  a 
person  in  whom  you  had  no  interest,  with  whom  you  were  not 
even  acquainted." 

"  We  should  feel  an  interest  in  every  human  soul,"  answered 
the  father.  "  But  I  am  sorry,"  he  continued,  with  a  smile,  "  that 
my  religion  looks  so  formidable  to  you.  That  is  because  you  do 
not  understand  it.  If  you  would  examine  and  reflect — " 

He  paused  as  a  quick  glint  of  the  eye  indicated  that  some 
sudden  thought  was  crossing  the  mind  of  his  companion. 

"  I  have  been  reflecting  at  odd  times,"  said  the  latter.     "  The 


THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

subject  never  interested  me  at  all  until  last  summer,  when,  as 
you  may  remember,  we  were  speaking  of  it  once  or  twice.  I 
was  struck  then  by  the  reasonableness  of  several  of  the  ideas 
which  you  advanced.  Particularly  I  wondered  that  it  had  never 
occurred  to  me  before  to  consider  the  impossibility  of  judging 
justly  about  that  of  which  one  is  ignorant.  It  was  really  a  shock 
to  my  self-respect  when  I  suddenly  became  aware  that  I  have 
been  doing  all  my  life  exactly  what  I  always  had  such  a  scorn  of 
doing — taking  for  granted  a  good  deal  that  I  was  taught,  instead 
of  examining  for  myself.  It  is  strange  that  I  could  have  done 
this,  because  it  is  an  instinct  of  my  nature,  if  I  may  use  such  an 
expression,  to  demand  proof  before  accepting  any  assertion.  I 
recollect  perfectly  that  in  my  earliest  childhood  I  used  to  ask  my 
mother  some  very  embarrassing  questions,  of  how  she  knew  that 
there  was  a  God,  how  she  could  be  sure  that  the  Bible  was  true ; 
and  her  replies  never  satisfied  me.  When  I  grew  older  the  his- 
tory of  Henry  VIII. 's  denunciation  of  Luther's  course  of  action, 
and  of  his  subsequently  following  Luther's  example,  settled  the 
subject  of  religion  for  me.  My  parents  were  then  dead,  so  that  I 
was  not  trammelled  by  regard  for  their  opinion  and  feelings — as 
I  might  have  been  had  they  lived,  as  to  outward  expression — and 
I  rejected  Protestantism  with  hearty  disgust.  Christianity  I 
considered  it — though  you  tell  me  that  Protestantism  is  not 
Christianity." 

"  Only  a  very  mutilated  form  of  it — a  form  so  mutilated  and 
consequently  so  illogical  that  it  is  marvellous  that  any  intellec- 
tual mind,  looking  at  it  from  either  a  common-sense,  an  historical, 
or  a  theological  point  of  view,  can  fail  to  perceive  how  utterly 
untenable  are  its  pretensions.  You  did  perceive  this,  it  appears, 
and  your  difficulty  is  elementary  ;  you  called  yourself  a  mate- 
rialist, I  recollect.  Materialist  is  a  generic  term  ;  are  you  posi- 
tivist,  agnostic,  pessimist — " 

"  Neither  one  of  the  three,"  interposed  the  doctor,  with  a 
smile,  "  nor  yet  a  Buddhist.  I  have  no  creed  of  any  kind.  The 
word  scepticism  has  a  conventional  meaning  attached  to  it  which 
does  not  altogether  fit  my  case,  but  it  more  nearly  expresses  my 
state  of  mind,  which  is  emphatically  one  of  doubt,  than  any  other 
word  I  can  think  of.  It  seems  to  me  we  are  so  surrounded  by 
mystery  that  it  is  but  an  exercise  of  imagination  to  attempt  an 
explanation  of  the  inexplicable." 

[;  What  is  imagination?  "  asked  the  priest. 

"  In  the  sense  in  which  I  use  the  word  it  means  an  ideal  con- 
ception of  a  thing." 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  751 

"  And  what  is  a  conception  ?  " 

The  young  man  hesitated  ;  then,  after  an  instant  of  thought, 
said  :  "  A  picture  in  the  mind." 

"  Mind  itself— what  is  that?  "  pursued  the  father. 

"  Ah !  now  we  are  coming  to  the  breakers,"  cried  the  doctor 
lightly.  "  There  is  a  wide  difference  of  opinion  on  that  point," 
he  went  on.  "  Mr.  Huxley  would  tell  you — " 

"  We  are  talking  seriously,"  interrupted  Father  Brian,  trying 
to  maintain  a  grave  face.  "  Let  Mr.  Huxley's  vagaries  alone. 
What  I  propose  is  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  things.  What  is 
mind,  I  ask  you  ?  " 

"  My  mind  is  a  blank  so  far  as  this  subject  is  concerned,  I 
must  confess,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"  And  is  it  possible  that  you  are  satisfied  to  rest  in  such  igno- 
ble ignorance  ? — forgive  the  word  !  "  demanded  Father  Brian, 
speaking  now  with  unaffected  gravity. 

"  As  to  that,  I  do  not  know — how  am  I  to  know? — that  it  is 
ignoble  ignorance." 

"  Are  you  willing  to  be  convinced  that  it  is,  and  to  correct 
it?" 

"  Not  only  willing,  but  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so.  Varying 
Plato's  prayer  a  little,  I  can  very  sincerely  say,  '  O  God — if 
there  be  a  God — enlighten  my  soul — if  I  have  a  soul ' !  " 

"  With  these  dispositions,  I  think  your  prayer  will  be 
granted,"  said  the  priest.  And  after  refreshing  himself  with  a 
piece  of  ice  he  forthwith  began  the  process  of  enlightenment. 

"  A  fundamental  principle  in  ethics  as  well  as  in  physics  is 
that  to  demonstrate  any  given  proposition  we  must  take  as  a 
starting-point  one  admitted  fact  on  and  from  which  to  deduce 
our  argument,"  he  said.  "  I  propose  to  prove  to  you,  first,  the 
immateriality  of  the  human  soul;  secondly,  the  existence  of 
God ;  thirdly,  the  divine  origin  and  exclusive  authority  of  the 
Catholic  Church." 

With  hand  extended,  fore-finger  and  thumb  meeting  and  form- 
ing a  large  O,  Father  Brian  had  unconsciously  been  speaking  in 
the  measured  and  impressive  tone  habitual  with  him  when  he 
preached  ;  and  though  looking  straight  at  his  one  auditor  the 
while,  it  was  not  until  the  conclusion  of  his  exordium  that  his 
eye  took  in  the  expression  of  that  hearer's  face.  He  paused  then 
suddenly,  and  his  low  but  singularly  mirthful  laugh  rang  out,  to 
the  surprise,  and  somewhat  to  the  embarrassment,  of  his  young 
friend. 

"  Excuse  me,"  said  the  reverend  gentleman,  "  but  there  was 


752  THE  DOCTOR' s  FEE.  [Mar., 

such  a  quizzical  look  of  surprise,  verging  on  dismay,  in  your  face 
that  it  was  irresistibly  amusing.  Don't  disclaim.  It  was  rather 
startling,  naturally  enough,  to  be  made  suddenly  aware  that  }rou 
were  expected  to  listen  to  a  sermon — and  a  long  sermon,  as  the 
firstly,  secondly,  and  thirdly  promised.  The  fact  is,  I  am  afraid 
I  have  too  much  the  trick  of  the  trade  about  me  :  too  often 
forget,  when  talking,  that  I  am  not  in  the  pulpit.  *  On  the  pre- 
sent occasion,'  however,  I  of  course  intended  to  glance  very  has- 
tily over  the  wide  field  I  have  indicated,  my  object  being  merely 
to  direct  your  attention  to  the  subject,  and  excite  your  interest 
sufficiently  to  induce  you  to  go  to  that  fountain  of  intellectual  as 
well  as  spiritual  light,  St.  Thomas.  So  now  to  proceed." 

Waving  away  with  a  motion  of  his  hand  the  disclaimer  which 
the  young  man  was  still  anxious  to  make,  he  went  on,  but  in  a 
more  conversational  tone  than  before: 

"  We  will  begin  with  that  self-evident  fact  which  even  the 
school  of  Mr.  Huxley  and  Mr.  Tyndall  has  never  attempted  to 
deny — man  exists.  Next  comes  the  question,  What  is  man?  I 
answer,  Man  is  a  being  of  dual  nature:  a  material  body  animated 
by  an  immaterial  principle,  the  soul  or  spirit.  I  prove  the  mate- 
riality of  his  body  by  showing  that  if  you  detach  a  minor  part 
of  this  body  from  the  major  part  to  which  is  joined  the  soul,  the 
part  detached  is  man  no  longer,  but  mere  animal  matter  that, 
speedily  losing  its  organization  as  human  flesh,  is  resolved  by 
natural  process  to  its  elements  ;  and  that  the  same  result  happens 
to  the  whole  body  itself  as  soon  as  the  soul  is  separated  from  it. 
I  prove  further  the  distinct  individuality  of  the  two  natures, 
material  and  immaterial,  by  reminding  you  how  often  these  na- 
tures are  at  variance  with  one  another  in  inclination.  To  illus- 
trate familiarly,  I  doubt  whether  either  you  or  I  have  passed 
twenty-four  hours  during  the  last  month  in  which  the  body  has 
not  said,  '  I  am  tired — let  me  rest '  ;  to  which  appeal  the  spirit 
has  replied,  *  No,  I  must  do  this  or  that  thing  before  resting.' 
It  is  the  same  with  them  in  more  important  matters.  Look  at  a 
man  disposed  to  the  sin  of  intemperance.  He  knows  that  he  is 
injuring  himself,  his  fortune,  his  family,  by  the  indulgence  of  this 
sensitive  appetite  (to  use  a  schoolman  term),  and  he  struggles 
against  the  habit.  If  the  spiritual  nature  is  strongest  he  controls 
himself;  if  the  animal  nature  predominates  he  yields  to  its 
promptings  and  becomes  a  drunkard.  Again,  the  separableness 
of  the  two  natures  is  manifested  in  the  fact  that  although  the 
reciprocal  action  and  reaction  between  them  is  positive  and  gen- 
erally very  great,  it  nevertheless  often  happens  that  one  can  suf- 


i886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  753 

fer  intensely  without  the  slightest  participation  in  its  pain  on 
the  part  of  the  other.  Thus  a  man  may  be  enduring-  the  greatest 
stress  of  mental  anxiety  and  unhappiness,  yet  at  the  same  time 
enjoy  perfect  bodily  health;  or  while  in  agonizing  bodily  pain 
he  may  be  serene  and  cheerful  in  mind. 

"  The  next  point  I  make  is  that  the  soul  is  the  principle  of 
life,  and  that  it  is  immaterial.  I  will  show  you  this  by  another 
illustration.  Suppose  that  you  meet  a  man  on  the  street,  shake 
hands  and  are  standing  talking  to  him,  when  a  pistol  is  acciden- 
tally discharged  near  by,  the  bullet  of  which  passes  through  his 
heart,  killing  him  instantly.  His  lifeless  form  sinks  to  the  ground, 
and  you  bend  over  it.  All  that  your  material  senses  are  capable 
of  perceiving  is  still  before  you — the  eyes  that  so  lately  met 
your  glance,  the  lips  which  put  into  vibration  a  column  of  air 
conveying  sound  to  your  ears,  the  hand  that  grasped  your  own. 
But  is  all  the  man,  with  whom  you  were  talking  just  now,  there  ? 
No  ;  the  man  is  dead :  this  is  only  his  body,  a  mere  mould  of  clay. 
A  minute  ago  this  mould  of  clay  thought,  moved,  felt :  you 
might  spurn  it  now  with  your  foot,  or  you  might  hold  the  flame 
of  a  candle  to  its  fingers,  and  it  would  not  be  conscious  either  of 
indignity  or  of  pain.  What  has  caused  so  great  a  change?  The 
absence  of  that  which  animated  this  body — the  principle  of  life, 
the  soul.  Can  you  deny  that  this  principle  existed  when  the  man 
walked  up  to  you  ?  Can  you  deny  that  it  is  absent  as  he  lies  be- 
fore you  ?  " 

"  No,"  answered  the  doctor,  "  I  cannot  deny  that.  So  far 
your  reasoning  seems  to  me  conclusive,  unanswerable.  But 
though  you  have  demonstrated  the  immateriality  of  the  soul  or 
mind,  you  have  not  proved  its  indestructibility,  or,  as  you,  I  sup- 
pose, would  say,  its  immortality.  To  appearance  it  goes  out  and 
becomes  extinct,  like  the  flame  of  a  candle.  What  proof  have 
you  that  it  still  exists  apart  from  the  body  ?  " 

"  No  direct  evidence  in  the  natural  order,  since  it  is  through 
our  senses  that  our  souls  are  cognitive  of  their  surroundings,  of 
each  other,  even  of  their  own  material  existence.  When,  there- 
fore, a  soul  is  separated  from  its  corporeity  it  becomes  intan- 
gible to  the  corporal  sense ;  hence  we  cannot  follow  it  with  our 
perceptive  faculties,  any  more  than  we  can  follow  with  our  eyes 
the  figure  of  a  man  who  leaves  us  by  going  out  of  a  room  and 
shutting  the  door  behind  him.  The  man  disappears  from  our 
sight  because  that  sight  cannot  pierce  the  opaque  walls  that  en- 
close its  range  of  vision ;  the  soul  vanishes  from  our  perception 
because  that  perception  is  confined  to  the  world  of  sense,  out  of 
VOL.  XLII.— 48 


754  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  [Mar., 

which  the  soul  has  passed.  But  does  the  fact  that  it  has  passed 
beyond  the  domain  of  sense  prove  that  it  has  ceased  to  exist  ? 
No  more,  analogically  speaking,  than  the  fact  that  your  eyes 
cannot  see  the  man  outside  of  a  closed  door  proves  that  he  is 
not  there.  It  is,  you  must  concede,  by  logic  and  analogy  that 
the  observation  of  crude  facts  has  been  gradually  developed  into 
method  and  formed  into  a  generality  termed  knowledge." 

-Yes." 

"  Knowledge  teaches  us  that  matter  is  indestructible.  Take  a 
drop  of  water,  a  grain  of  dust,  the  smallest  imaginable  particle  of 
matter,  and,  though  the  process  of  division  may  be  carried  to  the 
extent  of  rendering  its  atoms  invisible  and  impalpable  to  sense, 
it  would  be  as  possible  to  destroy  the  world  as  to  annihilate  a 
single  one  of  those  atoms.  Man's  body  is  material,  we  have  seen  ; 
therefore,  in  its  component  parts,  imperishable.  Now,  what  is 
this  body  in  relation  to  the  soul  by  which  it  is  animated  ?  A 
garment  that  enfolds,  and  a  servant  that  obeys  its  master ;  an  in- 
strument used  by  the  mind  as  a  workman  uses  his  tools.  Which 
of  the  two,  then — body  or  spirit — is  the  higher  nature?  You 
must  admit  that  the  spirit  is.  And  can  you  conceive  it  possible 
that  the  higher  nature  '  goes  out  and  becomes  extinct '  while  the 
lower  is  inannihilable  ?  Is  not  such  a  presumption  altogether 
contrary  to  reason  ?  I  will  show  you  presently  what  St.  Thomas 
says  on  the  subject ;  but  first  let  us  recur  for  a  moment  to  our 
starting-point — man  exists — and  examine  the  logical  sequence  of 
the  proposition. 

"  What  is  the  first  principle  of  logic?  It  is  that  there  can  be 
no  effect  without  a  cause,  that  it  is  impossible  for  something  to 
come  from  nothing.  Man  is  ;  therefore  he  is  something.  Being 
something,  he  is  either  cause  or  effect.  Is  he  cause  ?  No  ;  he 
did  not  antedate  but  succeeded  the  creation  of  the  world.  I,  as  a  . 
Christian,  hold  that  the  world  was  created  first,  and  man  after- 
wards ;  you,  as  a  materialist,  contend  that  matter  existed — how, 
you  say  not— and  gradually  resolved  and  evolved  itself  into  na- 
ture and  man.  So  we  stand  here  on  common  ground,  agreeing 
that  man  is  not  cause.  Since  he  is  not  cause  he  must  be  effect, 
and  as  effect  he  must  have  a  cause.  What  is  this  cause  ?  Chris- 
tianity says  God  ;  materialism  says  matter.  Let  us  analyze  the 
two  theories.  We  will  call  them  so  for  the  sake  of  argument. 
Now—" 

"  A  moment,"  here  interposed  the  doctor.  "  I  am  sorry  to  in- 
terrupt you,  and  sorry  to  lose  what  you  were  about  to  say,  but 
I  am  afraid  that  you  are  over-exerting  yourself." 


1 886.]  THE  DOCTOR'S  FEE.  755 

"  I  think  not,"  answered  Father  Brian.  "  You  had  better  let 
me  go  on  and  keep  my  mind  active.  I  am  not  at  all  sleepy  as 
yet,  but  am  beginning  to  have  a  slight  premonition  that  I  might 
easily  become  so.  I  feel  a  little  tired,  with  a  consciousness  that 
it  would  be  very  agreeable  to  go  to  bed.  I  can  resist  these  sen- 
sations without  difficulty  at  present ;  but  if  I  permit  myself  to  let 
down  in  the  least  degree,  it  will  be  hard  to  rouse  myself,  I  am 
sure." 

"  If  your  stomach  could  bear  a  little  coffee — "  began  the  doc- 
tor, but  the  padre  shook  his  head,  put  a  piece  of  ice  in  his  mouth, 
and  resumed  : 

"  Man  is  not  cause  ;  therefore  he  is  effect ;  therefore  he  has 
a  cause.  Is  matter  this  cause  ? 

"  I  have  contrasted  the  relative  character  of  spirit  and  of 
matter  in  their  combination  as  man  ;  let  us  now  note  the  differ- 
ence of  the  two  intrinsically.  The  spiritual  being  man,  and  the 
inanimate  substance  matter,  are  most  essentially  opposite  in  na- 
ture. Man  is  endowed  with  life,  intelligence,  and  volition ;  his 
motives  and  actions  are  positive,  self-controlled,  and  may  be 
unique.  Matter  is  lifeless  ;  it  does  not  act,  but  is  acted  upon 
(by  a  force  of  which  I  shall  speak  later),  and  its  operations  are 
negative,  circumscribed,  uniform,  and  immutable,  proceeding 
always  in  a  circle.  The  spirit  or  mind  of  man  (speaking  hastily 
as  I  am,  I  cannot  pause  to  distinguish  between  soul,  or  spirit,  and 
mind,  but  use  the  three  words  indiscriminately) — the  mind  of  man 
is  cultivable.  Take  a  savage,  and  you  may  teach  him,  or  he  may 
teach  himself  by  observation  and  experience,  some  of  the  habits 
and  ways  of  thinking  of  civilized  life;  take  a  civilized  but  igno- 
rant man,  and  he  may  be  educated,  in  a  degree  refined  ;  take  a 
thoroughly  educated  and  cultivated  man,  and  he  is  constantly 
advancing  to  higher  culture.  Even  man's  body,  from  its  associa- 
tion with  mind,  is  improvable  to  a  certain  limit.  Compare  a 
peasant  and  a  fine  gentleman — the  disparity  between  them  is  al- 
most immeasurable. 

"  Now  turn  to  matter,  the  earth  on  which  we  live,  and  out  of 
which  our  bodies  are  formed.  Here  we  find  a  regular  recur- 
rence of  certain  phenomena :  the  alternation  of  light  and  dark- 
ness, which  we  call  day  and  night,  the  flow  of  the  ocean  tides, 
the  revolution  of  the  seasons.  There  is  no  change  here.  The 
days  are  not  longer  or  shorter,  nor  have  the  seasons  varied  in 
any  respect,  since  Cheops  built  his  pyramid  in  the  valley  of  the 
Nile,  or  Romulus  founded  the  Eternal  City  on  the  banks  of  the 
Tiber.  Man  sweeps  over  the  face  of  the  globe,  inventing  Ian- 


756  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  [Mar., 

guage,  establishing  governments  and  laws  ;  cities  spring  up  at 
his  touch,  empires  rise  and  flourish.  Can  a  mountain  move,  or 
can  a  tree  think  ? 

"  And  materialism  tells  you  that  from  this  matter,  itself  with- 
out life,  there  emanates  life  ! — in  a  word,  that  something  has 
come  from  nothing. 

"  Matter  is  not  man's  cause.     What  is? 

"  Once  more  let  me  illustrate.  A  man  who  has  never  heard 
of  steam  as  a  motive  power  happens  to  see  a  train  of  cars  run- 
ning on  a  railroad-track  beside  which  he  is  passing.  He  stops  to 
stare  with  amazement  at  the  strange,  huge  animal — such  it  looks 
to  him  at  a  first  glance  to  be — which  is  drawing  the  carriages 
along.  But  he  is  an  intelligent  man,  and  on  closer  inspection  he 
perceives  that  the  engine  is  not  a  living  thing  but  a  piece  of 
mechanism.  It  does  not  occur  to  him  to  question  whether  it 
was  self-created,  or  evolved  by  chance  from  its  elements,  wood 
and  metal.  On  the  contrary,  he  thinks, '  What  a  marvellous  mind 
it  was  that  conceived  and  executed  such  a  work  as  this ! '  So 
we,  my  friend,  beholding  the  earth  and  man — the  one  so  admir- 
ably organized  (for  that  which  is  called  the  life  of  matter,  vegeta- 
tion, is  not  vitality  but  organization),  the  other,  in  the  words  of 
the  Psalmist,  so  curiously  and  wonderfully  made — must  logically 
exclaim  :  '  This  effect  has  a  Cause  ;  this  world  has  a  Creator ;  there 
is  a  God.'  " 

TO   BE  CONTINUED. 


THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO. 

THERE  is  an  adage  that  those  are  blessed  who  expect  nothing, 
for  they  shall  not  be  disappointed.  Now,  I  did  expect  something, 
and,  to  confirm  the  adage,  I  was  grievously  disappointed.  I  had 
been  stopping  at  Milan,  and  I  had  heard  so  much  of  the  annual 
fair  of  Bergamo  that  I  determined  to  seize  the  opportunity  of 
inspecting  its  wonders.  It  is  held  in  the  very  hot  season— the 
close  of  August  and  beginning  of  September— is  "  very  charac- 
teristic," so  I  was  told,  and  attracts  to  it  the  inhabitants  of  the 
remote  valleys  and  mountainous  districts  of  the  Pennine  Alps. 
I  was  disappointed  :  there  is  nothing  like  making  a  clean  breast 
of  it.  As  a  fair  it  was  a  failure  ;  still,  as  a  study  of  Italian  life  it 
had  its  peculiar  features,  and  I  jotted  them  in  my  note-book. 


1 886.]  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  757 

Like  Laurence  Sterne,  "  I  pity  the  man  who  can  travel  from 
Dan  to  Beersheba  and  cry,  Tis  all  barren." 

The  journey  from  the  Lombard  capital  is  not  far — little  more 
than  an  hour  by  express  cars.  The  locomotive  sweeps — in  a  lei- 
surely Italian  way,  be  it  observed,  for  an  express — through  plains 
bursting-  with  fertility. 

I  fortunately  met  an  agreeable  companion,  an  American,  in 
that  far-away  region,  lively  as  a  musical  box  and  practical  as  a 
mill-wheel.  But  he  had  a  too  freely  expressed  contempt  for  anti- 
quity. He  was  one  of  those  go-ahead  men  who  would  turn 
church  steeples  into  telegraph-posts  and  parcel  out  the  Coliseum 
into  building-lots.  He  was  generous  and  off-handed  in  his  deal- 
ings;  most  globe-voyaging  Americans  are,  and  have  completely 
taken  the  shine  out  of  British  tourists  on  the  European  Continent. 
Englishmen,  as  I  heard  a  discriminating  hotel  clerk  remark  at 
Geneva,  nowadays  "  count  their  change  "  ;  Americans  do  not 
take  the  trouble.  Besides,  they  give  more  commissions  to  the 
painters,  are  sweet  on  knickknackery,  and  submit  to  extortion 
with  an  infinite  grace. 

Bergamo  is  like  Brussels  in  one  respect — there  is  a  high  town 
and  a  low  town ;  there  the  resemblance  ceases.  The  low  town, 
if  more  affected  by  the  business  folk,  is  quite  as  important  and 
respectable  as  the  high  town,  which  has  a  slightly  stronger  flavor 
of  the  aristocratic.  There  is  a  gap  between  them.  The  high 
town  is  built  on  a  terrace  of  the  hills,  that  rise  up  precipitously 
here,  and  looks  in  the  distance  as  if  it  were  a  painted  town  or  an 
act-drop,  so  brilliant  are  the  colors  and  strong  the  contrast  of 
white  houses,  red-tiled  roofs,  and  yellowish  church-domes  with 
the  green  of  the  foliage,  the  gray  of  the  hill-tops,  and  the  sap- 
phire of  the  sky  behind.  The  air  must  be  healthy,  although  omi- 
nous vapors  do  spring  up  from  the  flat  country  round  ;  for  the 
lakes  of  Como  and  Iseo  are  near,  and  appetizing  breezes  are  born 
occasionally  in  the  mountains  and  come  down  like  a  gift  on  the 
dwellers  on  the  plains.  Fields  of  Indian  corn,  out  of  which  the 
staple  Italian  dish  polenta  is  made,  are  numerous  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. Polenta  is  one  with  the  hasty-pudding  doled  out  to 
the  poor  during  the  Irish  famine,  and  which  they  did  not  take 
kindly  to  very  often.  Italians  laugh  and  grow  fat  upon  it,  and 
snap  their  fingers  at  dear  beef.  Polenta  and  uccelli—ihQ  bodies 
of  the  little  birds  bedded  in  the  savory  mess — form  a  dish  dainty 
enough  to  be  set  before  a  king.  The  dusty  road  from  the  rail- 
way depot  to  the  inn  is  bordered  with  rows  of  horse-chestnuts 
and  howling  mendicants,  both  in  remarkable  luxuriance.  Never 


758  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  [Man, 

has  it  been  given  to  me  to  gaze  upon  horse-chestnuts  with  finer 
fruit  nor  mendicants  with  a  more  varied  stock  of  ailments  and 
deformities.  Heaven  help  the  latter  !  Let  us  pity  them  substan- 
tially and  pass.  Omnibuses  ply  between  the  depot  and  the 
lower  town;  thfe  distance  is  not  quite  three  hundred  yards,  but 
the  horses  are  trained  to  make  it  appear  much  longer.  They 
switch  their  tails  with  a  haughty  spirit,  and  lift  their  hoofs  super- 
ciliously as  if  they  had  passed  their  childhood  learning  to  mark 
time  in  a  cavalry  regiment,  and  move  along  in  a  sort  of  zigzag 
trot  with  great  action  and  very  small  pace. 

We  were  housed  in  the  Golden  Hat.  A  roomy  hat  it  was. 
In  the  spacious,  dark,  low,  cool  apartment  into  which  we  entered 
directly  from  the  street,  tables  were  set,  and  knives  and  forks  and 
fingers — yes,  fingers — were  busily  worked  by  crowds  of  small 
farmers  who  had  come  to  the  fair.  Hale  men  with  swarthy,  fur- 
rowed cheeks  they  were,  and  with  much  of  the  Munster  peasant 
in  expression  and  dress  and  manner.  The  only  singularity  of 
costume  to  be  noticed  was  a  colored  night-cap,  or  wishing-cap, 
worn  under  the  ordinary-  hat.  In  one  corner  was  a  tall,  elderly 
man  with  a  mien  of  noble  dignity  ;  he  was  bald,  had  a  grand 
Roman  nose  and  a  patriarchal  beard.  He  was  sitting  in  appa- 
rent silent  obliviousness  of  the  seething,  sordid  world  around. 
He  would  have  been  invaluable  in  a  studio  where  orders  for 
Platos  were  plentiful.  I  ensconced  myself  in  the  shade  and 
watched  this  mysterious  philosopher.  A  group  of  noisy  farm- 
ers were  bargaining  behind  a  pillar,  gesticulating  violently, 
and  now  and  again  clearing  their  throats  with  a  gulp  of  wine. 
One  of  them  proposed  that  they  should  go  out  and  take  another 
look  at  the  ox  over  the  price  of  which  they  were  chaffering. 
They  left  their  glasses  behind  them,  not  quite  finished.  The 
mysterious  philosopher  rose,  stealthily  approached  the  table, 
drained  the  glasses  to  the  lees  one  after  another,  and  calmly  re- 
sumed his  seat  and  his  aspect  of  spiritual  contemplativeness.  In 
a  room  behind,  opening  on  the  inn-yard,  eating  and  drinking  and 
talking  were  also  going  on.  I  suppose  there  was  a  philosopher 
in  a  corner  there,  too.  Very  merry  people  they  were,  and  tem- 
perate, except  in  their  language.  They  would  waste  an  hour 
beating  down  twenty  lire  to  nineteen.  Young  Italy,  with  burnt- 
sienna  face,  pressed  in  and  out,  and  old  Italy,  with  parchment 
face,  kept  its  seat  and  smoked  or  inhaled  snuff.  Such  snuff — shade 
of  Lundy  Foot !  I  saw  a  man  produce  a  brown  paper  parcel  from 
his  waistcoat-pocket  and  sniff  its  contents.  Those  contents  were 
common  tobacco  ground  to  dust.  While  middle-aged  Italy  was 


1 886.]  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  759 

deep  in  macaroni  or  rice  dressed  with  grease,  Italy  of  young  man- 
hood's period  went  in  for  bumpers  of  the  sour  purple  wine  of 
Barbera  with  the  flavor  of  the  muscat  in  it,  or  of  the  sweet  amber 
wine  of  Asti.  One  brand  of  the  Asti,  the  spumante,  has  an  ex- 
hilarating effervescence  and  would  make  an  excellent  cheap  sub- 
stitute for  champagne,  only  I  fear  it  will  not  bear  exportation. 
The  only  wine  I  know  that  is  like  it  is  the  vin  de  Vouvray  one  gets 
in  the  Touraine — a  mixture  suggestive  of  perry  and  the  ginger-ale 
of  Belfast.  How  fortunate,  I  reflected,  that  such  beverages  as  these 
and  that  mild  cordial,  rosolio,  and  the  natural  lemonade  were  the 
favorites  in  this  sultry  clime  of  quick  tempers  and  sharp  steel,  and 
not  the  potent,  fiery  potion  known  elsewhere  as  rye!  Talkative 
as  well  as  merry  were  these  Italians.  Mark  that  circle  of  heads  ; 
those  crones  in  cotton-print  dresses,  with  Madras  handkerchiefs 
swathing  their  hair,  needed  no  sheet  of  society  gossip.  Let  us 
hope  their  conversation  was  not  scandalous,  for  the  sake  of  the 
rosaries  they  carried.  But  tongues  will  wag.  Outside  in  the 
broad  market-place  there  was  cracking  of  whips  and  a  chorus  of 
loudly-pitched  voices  and  strange  ejaculations  blent  with  the  rural 
discord  of  the  farm-yard.  Lean  pigs  and  shorn  sheep,  both  with 
ears  long  as  rabbits,  squealed  and  bleated,  and  calves  were  hus- 
tled about,  and  teams  of  dwarfish  steers,  harnessed  to  huge  wag- 
ons, chewed  the  cud  of  patience. 

My  American  proposed  that  we  should  sally  forth  and  search 
for  the  fun  of  the  fair.  The  boom  of  a  big  drum  directed  us  to 
the  booths.  There  was  a  row  of  them  :  a  diorama  ;  a  fat  woman 
(how  she  must  have  perspired  that  broiling  day!);  a  wild-beast 
show  consisting  of  a  monkey  and  two  white  mice;  an  anatomical 
museum  which  professed  to  contain  the  embalmed  remains  of 
Milly  Christine,  the  South  Carolina  phenomenon,  patronized  by 
all  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe;  and  an  exhibition  of  feats  of 
strength  and  tight  rope  performances  on  the  model  of  that  in  the 
Princess  of  Trebizond.  Further  on  there  was  the  skeleton  of  a 
whale  caught  off  the  coast  of  France  ;  beside  it  an  academy  where 
an  educated  seal  held  forth  ;  and  lo  !  cheek  by  jowl  with  the  pho- 
cine  habitat  was  enthroned  under  an  enormous  umbrella,  ample  as 
a  cart-wheel  or  the  famous  hat  of  Nell  Gwynn,  our  old  friend  Mrs. 
Jarley  with  her  inimitable  wax-works.  The  dear,  portly  dame 
was  suffering  from  the  temperature.  She  was  not  the  cheerful 
woman  she  used  to  be.  My  American  was  anxious  to  interview 
the  seal,  and  I  accompanied  him.  I  had  often  heard  of  the  talking 
fish,  but  this  was  the  first  chance  I  had  of  seeing  him — in  the  flesh, 
I  had  almost  written.  The  American  heard  him  distinctly  say 


;6o  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  [Mar., 

"ma-ma,"  but  he  had  better  hearing  than  I.  This  seal,  like  the 
Pompeian  funambulist,  was  "  truly  a  wondrous  fellow."  He  turned 
on  his  own  axis  in  the  bath  to  the  melody  (?)  of  a  hand-organ  ;  he 
beat  the  water  with  his  fins,  and  took  fish  from  the  hands  of  his 
mistress,  who  expatiated  on  his  bulldog  face,  his  calf's  eyes,  and 
his  tiger's  teeth.  But  he  accomplished  a  more  artful  feat  than 
these.  When  his  mistress  left,  and  the  American  poked  him  with 
his  stick,  he  rose  with  a  gaze  of  human  reproach,  lifted  the  hinged 
covering  of  his  bath  with  his  head,  and  shut  himself  out  from 
public  view. 

We  rambled  on  till  we  came  to  avenues  of  stalls  branching  off 
from  a  little  piazza  with  a  fountain.  Toys,  pipes,  metal  studs, 
looking-glasses,  pious  pictures,  "  Brummagem  "  ware  in  earrings 
and  breast-pins,  and  cheap  photographs  of  works  of  art  alternated 
with  potatoes  and  tomatoes,  ices  and  lemonade,  plums  and  peaches, 
figs  and  grapes,  pears  and  ready-made  polenta.  Peasant  maidens 
without  veil  or  fan,  and  in  slippered  feet,  trooped  along  side  by 
side  with  shopkeepers'  daughters  with  veil,  and  fan,  and  para- 
sol, and  high-heeled  bottines  that  would  not  discredit  Paris.  This 
was  not  the  only  hint  of  French  civilization  to  obtrude  itself. 
There^was  a  placard  advertising  LUomo-Donna  of  Dumas  the 
younger  over  a  book-stall.  I  was  curious  in  examining  those  books 
to  ascertain  what  manner  of  mental  pabulum  was  sought  after  by 
Bergamo.  There  were  novels  by  Antonio  Bresciani,  including, 
among  others,  Olderico,  or  the  Pontifical  Zouave  ;  there  was  Souve- 
nirs of  the  Tyrol  Campaign,  by  a  Garibaldian  volunteer;  there  was 
the  story  of  Raffaello  and  the  Bella  Fornarina,  and — burning  dis- 
grace to  the  vender! — there  was  a  pair  of  villanous  pamphlets 
entitled  Gli  Amori  of  two  discrowned  female  sovereigns. 

There  is  a  conservatory  of  music  in  Bergamo — though  it  does 
not  rank  as  a  great  town  ;  has  a  population  of  but  forty  thousand— 
and  many  celebrated  singers  (Rubini,  a  native,  among  the  rest) 
studied  there.  The  tomb  of  Donizetti,  who  was  also  born  there, 
is  to  be  seen  in  the  church  of  St.  Mary  the  Major,  in  the  upper 
town,  opposite  that  of  his  master,  Giovanni  Mayr.  I  could  not 
prevail  on  my  practical  friend  to  climb  the  ascent  in  order  to 
visit  it. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  said.  "  Elias  Howe  is  the  one  composer  1  rec- 
ognize ;  the  only  fantasias  I  believe  in  are  those  executed  on  a 
sewing-machine." 

A  play-bill  announced  a  new  opera  for  that  night  (for  Berga- 
mo has  its  opera-house)—"  La  Notte  di  Natale."  But  there  was 
no  use  in  asking  my  American  to  patronize  a  stall.  He  had  seen 


1 8 86.]  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  761 

an  opera  once,  and  he  volunteered  to  tell  me  what  this  would  be 
like.  A  man  in  black  would  come  on  and  bawl — that  was  the 
tenor;  then  a  woman  in  white  would  come  on  and  screech — that 
was  the  contralto  ;  another  man  in  black  would  howl — that  was 
the  baritone  ;  another  woman,  but  she  in  sky-blue,  would  whine 
— that  was  the  soprano ;  and  then  a  burly  ruffian  in  red  would 
bring  a  dagger  out  of  his  sleeve  and  his  voice  out  of  his  boots — 
that  was  the  basso-profundo. 

"  But  there  is  a  plot,"  I  gently  remonstrated  between  two 
laughs.  "  Surely  they  are  not  always  the  same  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  he  said—"  always.  Plot:  love,  jealousy,  murder. 
Finale:  chorus  of  bawling,  screeching,  howling,  whining,  and 
leather  lungs  from  those  boots,  with  a  little  caterwauling  and  a 
too-loo-e-ty  thrown  in.  There,  sir,"  wound  up  my  American, 
"  that's  your  opera  !  How  do  you  like  it  ?  " 

We  took  a  ride  outside  the  town.  A  dwarf  stood  at  a  cross- 
ing with  a  tirelire  in  his  hand  and  rattled  it  before  the  Ameri- 
can. My  companion  was  bountiful  and  dropped  a  few  soldi  into 
it.  More  beggars  pestered  us.  My  American  fell  into  a  brown 
study  as  we  continued  on,  until  we  reached  a  silk-factory.  When 
I  pointed  it  out  to  him  he  brightened  up. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said,  "  there  is  something  more  pleasing  to  God 
than  this  highway  mendicancy ;  that  means  industry,  intelli- 
gence, domestic  comfort.  This  country,  with  its  mulberries  and 
olives,  its  dairy-farms  and  splendid  wheat-tracts  with  those  irri- 
gating canals,  should  be  a  rich  country.  When  will  some  apos- 
tle rise  to  teach  this  people  that  to  labor  is  to  pray  ?  " 

Evening  was  failing  as  we  returned.  We  overtook  a  bearded 
Capuchin  on  the  road  and  gave  him  a  lift.  He  was  as  handsome 
a  man  as  ever  wore  a  uniform  in  a  Royal  Guard — erect,  with  a  re- 
fined face,  a  bold,  frank  brow,  and  a  pleasing  and  intelligent  eye. 
He  was  in  the  dress  of  his  order,  which  took  the  American's 
fancy  vastly.  .  He  was  bareheaded  but  for  a  tiny  black  skull- 
cap ;  a  habit  of  a  coarse  brown  stuff,  girdled  at  the  waist  and 
falling  down  to  his  sandalled  feet,  a  pointed  cowl  hanging  behind 
his  shoulders,  was  the  only  outer  garment  he  wore.  He  was 
urbane  and  cheerful.  The  American  began  mildly  bantering 
him  on  his  costume,  and  asked  him  why  he  did  not  wear  clothes 
like  other  men. 

"  Have  you  no  soldiers  in  the  United  States  ? "  he  asked 
slily. 

"  We  have,  and  good  ones.     I  was  with  Sherman." 

"  Do  they  wear  uniforms?  "  pursued  the  friar. 


« 


762  THE  FAIR  OF  BERGAMO.  [Mar., 

"  Why,  certainly." 

"  Well,  this  is  mine.     I  am  a  soldier  of  the  faith." 

The  American,  I  am  glad  to  record,  asked  .  him  to  take 
charge  of  some  money  to  distribute  in  help  to  the  deserving ;  and 
I  am  confident  that  amiable  and  willing  friar  discharged  his 
trust  well,  for  he  looked  and  spoke  like  one  who  knew  the  poor 
and  felt  for  them.  He  was  no  idler,  either,  for  I  afterwards 
learned  that  he  was  chaplain  to  a  lunatic  asylum  and  was  a  man 
beloved  for  his  kindness  and  revered  for  his  worth. 

Night  had  dropped  its  curtain  as  we  re-entered  the  town,  and 
the  fair  Bergamese  were  wending  their  way  to  the  opera-house. 
What  a  pretty  animation  bevies  of  young  girls  in  simple  muslin 
robes,  with  a  silken  sash  round  the  waist  and  the  graceful  black 
veil  on  the  head,  lent  to  the  streets  !  On  they  tripped  in  this 
their  every-day  costume,  without  shawl  or  other  covering,  so 
grateful  is  the  Italian  summer  clime  after  the  sun  has  gone  down. 
They  had  only  to  put  on  a  pair  of  gloves  and  they  were  in  even- 
ing dress.  But  there  were  a  few  coquettes,  who  looked  as  if  they 
had  stepped  out  of  a  portrait-gallery  of  the  Grand  Monarque's 
court.  They  had  powdered  their  hair,  and  there  they  passed 
through  the  roar  and  bustle  of  the  fair,  unremarked  and  unan- 
noyed.  The  cavaliers  with  them  were  their  fathers  or  their 
brothers  ;  for  in  Italy,  as  in  France,  the  unmarried  female  is  never 
permitted  abroad  with  any  male  escort  but  a  relative.  I  was 
almost  enticed  to  follow  with  the  current  to  hear  "  La  Notte  di 
Natale,"  but  there  was  my  American.  What  was  to  be  done  to 
while  avvay  the  tedium  of  the  hours?  Luckily  there  was  a  re- 
source— there  was  a  circus  in  the  town. 

I  have  a  weakness  for  the  sawdust.  My  business  never  made 
me  a  looker-on  in  Vienna  that  I  did  not  hie  to  Rentz's  ;  my  first 
night's  visit  in  Madrid  is  invariably  to  Price's.  I  know  nearly 
every  circus-proprietor  in  the  world  personally.  I  could  not  re- 
sist the  temptation  of  a  view  of  the  performances  of  the  troupe  of 
Signor  Guillaume. 

The  bright,  particular  star  of  the  equestrian  firmament  of 
Bergamo— should  she  not  be  called  a  planet,  seeing  that  she 
shone  in  an  orbit? — was  Miss  Ella,  an  English  lassie.  Miss  Vic- 
toria, another  English  lassie,  had  been  the  luminary  of  Giotti's 
circus  at  Geneva.  The  English  rule  the  roost  in  hippodramatic 
spheres.,  My  American  took  leave  to  remark,  sir,  that  Jimmy 
Robinson,  the  best  bare-back  rider  in  the  world,  was  a  citizen 
of  the  United  States,  he  was;  whereupon  I  quietly  crushed  him 
by  remarking  in  return  that  his  fellow-citizen  rejoiced  in  the  bap- 


1 886.]  BY  SUMMER  SEAS.  763 

tismal  appellation  of  Michael  Fitzgerald,  which  is  as  Irish  as  a 
pig  or  a  potato  ;  and  Ireland,  it  must  be  vouchsafed,  is  not  yet 
American. 

The  doings  in  the  arena  were  of  the  usual  kind,  but  the 
clowns  were  more  than  usually  dreary,  and  the  spectators  laughed 
with  a  glee  that  was  refreshing  in  its  childishness.  One  clown 
had  a  happy  thought — a  thought  worthy  of  the  jester  in  half- 
mourning  in  the  burlesque  of  The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii.  He  got 
himself  up  in  a  Dolly  Varden  suit — a  fashion  then  common  in 
Italy.  Pleasant  it  was  under  the  shadow  of  the  olives  to  meet  a 
foreign  reproduction  of  Dickens'  creation — 

"  Just  as  the  artist  caught  her, 
As  down  that  English  lane  she  tripped, 
In  flowery  chintz,  hat  sideways  tipped, 
Trim-bodied,  bright-eyed,  roguish-lipped — 
The  locksmith's  pretty  daughter." 

I  have  mentioned  this  circus  because  of  a  scene  in  which  a 
rider  personated  "  the  resurrection  of  Italy."  He  emerged  as  a 
dude  with  a  cigar  in  his  mouth  ;  he  read  of  a  patriotic  movement 
and  flung  away  his  cigar ;  he  then  appeared  in  rifle  uniform  and 
lastly  in  a  red  shirt  as  a  Garibaldian.  "  Garibaldi's  hymn  "  was 
played,  but  there  was  no  extraordinary  enthusiasm.  A  Pontifi- 
cal Zouave  galloped  in,  and  after  a  gallant  fight  was  killed ;  and 
then  came  an  Italian  carabineer,  whom  he  of  the  red  shirt  lugged 
off  his  horse  by  the  hair.  Thus  is  history  chronicled  in  the  ring. 
The  only  time  the  Garibaldians  met  the  Pontifical  Zouaves  they 
were  beaten,  and  when  the  royal  troops  met  the  Garibaldians  it 
was  not  the  former  who  were  defeated.  But  Mentana  and 
Aspromonte,  seen  through  the  glittering  medium  of  the  foot- 
lights, are  Garibaldian  victories. 


BY  SUMMER  SEAS. 

STAR  OF  THE  SEA,  these  placid  waves  beside, 

Which  mirror  in  their  depths  the  silver  sheen 
The  pale  moon  radiates  upon  the  tide 

From  the  blue  skies  whereof  is  she  the  queen, 
A  dream  comes  to  me  of  returning  ships, 

And  some  sweet  shrine  that,  dedicate  to  thee, 
The  mariners,  with  reverential  lips, 

Hail  in  their  songs  afar,  Star  of  the  Sea. 


764  BY  SUMMER  SEAS.  [Mar., 

And,  as  I  dream,  the  life  about  me  takes 

The  image  of  an  ocean  to  mine  eyes, 
The  farther  edge  of  whose  expanses  breaks 

Upon  the  starlit  shores  of  Paradise ; 
While  o'er  the  bosom  of  its  billows  swift, 

Which  hasten  on  and  outward  ceaselessly, 
My  soul  seems  floating  like  a  boat  adrift, 

Whither  the  currents  run,  Star  of  the  Sea. 


Lamp  of  our  life,  not  thine,  forsooth,  the  fault 

If  eyes  that  turn  from  them  away  their  gaze 
Fail  to  discern  at  times  in  yonder  vault 

The  clear  effulgence  of  thy  constant  rays : 
However  fierce  the  storm,  or  dark  the  night, 

Or  mountainous  the  seething  surges  be, 
The  lustre  of  thy  light  glows  warm  and  bright 

Before  the  steadfast  search,  Star  of  the  Sea. 


Even  the  erring  ones  who  steer  astray, 

In  quest  of  pleasure,  where  false  beacons  lure, 
Can,  if  they  turn  them  back  while  yet  they  may, 

By  thy  sure  guidance  their  safety  secure  ; 
For  on  lifeVocean  vast  there  is  no  wave, 

Drifting  or  driven  on  a  treacherous  lee, 
O'er  which,  the  wanderer  to  warn  and  save, 

Shine  not  thy  blessed  beams,  Star  of  the  Sea. 


Star  of  the  Sea,  these  placid  waves  beside, 

That  mirror  in  their  depths  the  liquid  light 
The  pale  moon  radiates  upon  the  tide 

From  the  blue  sky  she  traverses  to-night, 
Guide  us  aright,  that  when  our  homing  ships 

Enter  the  harbor  of  Eternity 
We,  like  the  mariners,  with  thankful  lips, 

May  hail  thee  in  our  songs,  Star  of  the  Sea. 


i886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  765 

ANSWERED  AT  LAST. 


A   TRUE   STORY. 


IT  was  the  end  of  October,  and  there  were  very  few  people  in 
London,  and,  callers  being  in  consequence  not  very  numerous  at 
my  office,  I  imagined  that  I  should  find  no  difficulty  in  getting 
away  early  on  a  certain  Friday  morning  in  order  to  proceed  to 
an  out-of-the-way  corner  of  England  where  business  required 
my  presence.  Unfortunately,  just  as  I  was  preparing  to  start 
one  of  my  clients,  who  happened  to  be  passing  through  town, 
came  to  consult  me  upon  a  matter  of  urgent  importance.  He 
was,  moreover,  a  person  to  whom,  on  account  of  his  advanced 
age  and  high  social  standing,  it  would  have  been  impossible  in 
any  case  to  refuse  an  interview  ;  and  hence  it  came  to  pass  that 
when  at  length  he  took  his  leave  I  found  that  it  was  barely  pos- 
sible for  me  to  catch  the  midday  express.  I  promised  the  cab- 
man double  fare  if  he  would  take  me  to  Paddington  in  time,  but 
it  was  of  no  use,  and  I  arrived  at  the  Great  Western  terminus 
only  to  hear  the  faint  shriek  of  the  departing  engine.  This  was 
annoying,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  so  I  sent  off  a  tele- 
gram to  inform  Mr.  Moreland,  the  gentleman  at  whose  house  I 
was  expected,  that  I  could  not  arrive  until  the  last  train,  the  only 
other  one  which  stopped  at  the  little  station  where  I  had  to 
alight.  Having  despatched  my  message,  I  purchased  a  supply 
of  newspapers,  hoping  to  while  away  not  too  wearily  the  time 
which  must  perforce  elapse  before  I  could  begin  my  journey. 

It  was  not  a  romantic  journey,  nor  one  which  could  be  con- 
sidered interesting  in  any  way.  I  was  accustomed  to  make  such 
very  frequently  ;  for  I  belonged  at  that  period  of  my  life  to  a 
leading  firm  of  London  solicitors,  and  sometimes  hardly  a  week 
passed  without  my  having  to  run  down  to  one  part  of  the  coun- 
try or  another  to  transact  business  on  behalf  of  some  client.  My 
present  errand  took  me  to  Darnesfield  Court,  a  solitary  country- 
house  situated  at  a  short  distance  from  a  small  village  in  the 
west  of  England.  It  did  not  belong  to  Mr.  Moreland,  but  he  had 
taken  it  for  a  year  in  order  to  be  near  his  only  daughter,  who 
had  recently  married  a  gentleman  whose  property  was  situated 
in  the  neighborhood.  Since  the  death  of  her  mother  this  daugh- 
ter had  been  her  father's  constant  friend  and  companion  ;  thus  he 


766  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

naturally  felt  lonely  without  her,  especially  as  he  was  an  old  man 
and  his  sons  were  all  out  in  the  world. 

The  hour  for  starting  came  at  last,  and  as  we  steamed  slowly 
out  of  the  station  far  indeed  was  I  from  anticipating  the  startling 
spectacle  of  which  I  was  to  be  the  involuntary  witness  before 
many  more  hours  had  gone  by.  If  I  now  write  down  the  singular 
story — the  most  singular,  indeed,  I  have  ever  met  with  in  the 
course  of  my  experience,  professional  or  otherwise — >it  is  in  the 
hope  not  merely  of  interesting  the  reader  for  the  space  of  a  brief 
half-hour,  but  of  convincing  him,  in  these  days  when  it  is  the 
fashion  openly  to  deny  the  supernatural,  or  else  practically  to 
leave  it  out  of  sight  altogether,  that  not  only  does  the  Creator 
govern  in  a  general  and  more  extended  sense  the  course  of  events 
in  the  world  which  he  has  made,  but  that  every  occurrence  in  the 
life  of  each  individual  is  permitted  or  appointed  by  an  over- 
ruling Providence,  and  forms  a  part  of  the  vast  system  by  means  of 
which  his  divine  and  beneficent  purposes  are  furthered  and  car- 
ried out. 

In  due  time  I  found  myself  at  Westhampton,  where  Mr. 
Moreland's  dog-cart  was  awaiting  me.  The  night  was  very 
dark,  so  dark  as  to  necessitate  extreme  caution  on  the  part  of  the 
servant  who  was  driving  ;  and,  what  with  the  slowness  of  the 
pace  and  the  coldness  of  the  weather— for  it  was  unusually  cold 
for  the  time  of  year— the  distance  from  the  station  seemed  to 
have  extended  itself,  and  the  way  appeared  longer  and  lonelier 
than  I  could  have  imagined  a  four  miles  drive  along  a  country 
road  could  possibly  be.  The  clock  of  the  adjacent  church  was 
striking  eleven  as  we  drew  up  before  the  door  of  Darnesfield 
Court,  and  the  light  and  warmth  of  the  hospitable  mansion  were 
very  welcome  to  me  as  I  entered  the  hall.  Jarvis,  the  butler,  re- 
ceived me  with  polite  apologies.  "  Master  hopes  you  will  ex- 
cuse his  having  gone  to  bed,  sir,"  he  explained ;  "  he  was  very 
tired  this  evening,  and  is,  besides,  in  the  habit  of  always  retiring 
early.  But  supper  is  quite  ready,  if  you  will  please  to  walk  into 
the  library." 

I  followed  him  with  alacrity.  The  well-lighted  room  looked 
the  picture  of  cheerful  comfort,  and  the  nicely-arranged  supper- 
table  bore  a  most  inviting  aspect.  I  told  Jarvis  I  did  not  need 
his  services,  so  he  quitted  the  apartment  and  I  began  my  meal 
without  delay.  It  was  quickly  concluded,  and  I  pushed  back 
my  chair  and  got  up  with  the  intention  of  ringing  the  bell ;  but  I 
was  sleepy  and  tired,  and  the  temptation  presented  by  a  com- 
fortable easy-chair  which  stood  beside  the  bright  wood  fire 


i886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  767 

proved  too  strong  for  me.  I  paused,  sat  down,  and  in  less  than 
five  minutes  was  sound  asleep,  profoundly  oblivious  of  the  in- 
terests of  Jarvis,  who  was  probably  quite  as  sleepy  as  I  was. 
My  slumbers,  as  I  afterwards  found,  must  have  lasted  about  half 
an  hour.  They  certainly  would  not  have  been  as  peaceful  as  they 
were,  had  I  dreamt  of  what  was  to  follow.  Some  slight  noise,  I 
know  not  of  what  nature,  having  aroused  me,  I  rose  from  my 
seat,  and  before  winding  up  my  watch  I  proceeded  to  compare 
it  with  the  timepiece  on  the  mantel-shelf.  Having  done  this,  I 
replaced  it  in  my  waistcoat  pocket  and  took  out  my  pipe,  which  I 
was  about  to  fill  when  all  at  once  the  door  was  unceremoniously 
burst  open,  and  a  girl  rushed  into  the  room,  followed  closely  by 
a  man,  who  caught  hold  of  her  round  the  waist.  I  can  see  it  all 
now  as  if  it  were  yesterday — the  look  of  horror  in  her  dilated 
eyes,  the  agonized  gesture  which  seemed  to  entreat  for  mercy, 
the  uplifted  hands,  the  pleading  lips,  the  wild  despair  with  which 
she  cowered  before  her  murderer.  Yes,  her  murderer;  for  in  an- 
other moment  the  man  had  drawn  a  dagger  from  the  pocket  of 
his  coat  and  plunged  it  into  her  breast.  Ail  this  passed,  I  need 
hardly  say,  in  less  time  than  it  takes  me  to  write  these  lines,  and 
the  moment  I  beheld  her  fall  forwards  to  the  ground  I  sprang  to 
the  door  with  the  double  object  of  procuring  assistance  for  the 
victim,  should  she  still  be  within  the  reach  of  aid,  and  also  of  se- 
curing the  assassin. 

"Jarvis,  Jarvis  !  "  I  called  as  I  passed  through  the  open  door, 
which  I  closed  behind  me — "Jarvis,  where  are  you  ?  For  Hea- 
ven's sake  come  at  once  !  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  coming  directly,"  said  that  functionary  placidly 
and  sleepily,  as  he  emerged  from  a  door  which  led  to  the  lower 
regions.  But  when  he  caught  sight  of  me  the  expression  of  his 
face  changed. 

"  There  is  murder  going  on  in  the  library  !  "  I  gasped  out.  We 
paused  an  instant  at  the  door:  the  silence  of  death  seemed  to 
reign  within.  Then  I  cautiously  turned  the  handle,  and,  looking 
in,  we  saw — no  trace  whatever  of  the  horrors  I  had  just  witnessed  ! 
The  room  was  exactly  as  it  had  been  when  I  sat  down  to  sup- 
per ;  both  the  intruders  had  entirely  disappeared,  and  there  was 
not  even  one  single  spot  of  blood  upon  the  carpet.  Murderer, 
victim,  dagger,  every  trace  of  the  crime,  had  vanished  into  air  ; 
and  as  I  related  to  the  servant  the  scene  I  had  just  witnessed,  I 
saw  from  his  countenance  that  he  received  the  tale  with  a  mixed 
feeling  of  incredulity  and  contempt. 

"  There  are  no  ghosts  in   this   house,  sir,"  he  said  when  I 


768  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

stopped  speaking — "  at  least  I  never  heard  of  any.  I  made  all  the 
doors  fast,  too,  an  hour  or  more  ago,  and  no  one  could  have 
passed  through  the  hall  without  my  seeing  him.  There  is  no 
young  lady  in  the  house  at  present,  either,  nor  any  gentleman, 
except  yourself  and  master.  So  you  see,  sir,  you  must  have 
been  dreaming,"  he  wound  up  in  a  triumphant  and  conclusive 
tone — the  tone  of  a  man  who  has  proved  a  fact  even  to  demon- 
stration. 

I  knew  quite  well,  as  well  as  I  do  at  the  moment  I  am  writ- 
ing, that  I  had  not  been  dreaming,  that  I  never  was  more  thor- 
oughly awake  than  I  was  when  an  involuntary  witness  of  the 
spectacle  I  have  just  described.  I  could,  therefore,  only  suppose 
that  some  terrible  crime  had  in  time  past  been  committed  in  the 
library,  and  that  this  fact  furnished  an  explanation  of  the  appari- 
tion I  had  beheld.  However,  I  felt  the  butler  had  the  best  of 
me,  and  the  feeling  was  not  an  agreeable  one. 

"  Show  me  my  room,  please,"  I  said  in  as  unconcerned  a  tone 
as  I  could  assume,  and  I  followed  the  man  up-stairs  to  the  apart- 
ment assigned  to  my  use.  He  lit  the  candles  upon  the  dressing- 
table,  wished  me  good-night,  and  left  me.  But  I  suppose  few  of 
my  readers  will  be  surprised  to  hear  that  it  was  long  before  I 
could  attempt  going  to  bed. 

I  sat  down  before  the  fire  and  began  to  think.  No  house 
could  be  less  weird,  uncanny,  and  suggestive  of  ghosts  than 
Darnesfield  Court.  I  had  seen  many  country-houses,  but  never 
did  I  meet  with  one  more  prosy,  practical,  and  suggestive  of 
solid,  every-day  comfort.  There  was  no  touch  of  romance  or 
sentiment  about  it ;  it  was  painfully  and  pitilessly  matter-of-fact, 
both  inside  and  out.  There  was  no  ruined  tower,  half-clothed  in 
ivy,  no  moat  where  stately  swans  could  swim  at  their  leisure  ; 
there  were  no  secret  staircases,  no  winding  passages,  no  hidden 
rooms  cleverly  contrived  between  massive  walls.  It  was  just 
such  a  house  as  every  one  must  have  seen  twenty  times  over — 
solid,  substantial,  built  of  red  brick,  with  a  large  gravelled  space 
in  front.  The  family  to  which  it  belonged  had  preserved  the 
faith  even  among  the  worst  storms  of  persecution,  and  the  pre- 
sent owner  was  a  man  distinguished  for  virtue  and  piety,  having 
erected  the  beautiful  little  church  which  adjoined  his  grounds  in 
order  to  provide  for  the  spiritual  wants  of  the  increasing  number 
of  Catholics  in  the  neighborhood,  many  of  them  converts  whom 
the  teaching  and  example  of  the  admirable  priest  who  acted  as 
his  chaplain  had  led  to  seek  admission  into  the  true  fold.  But 
all  this  formed  no  adequate  reason  for  rejecting  the  idea  that  the 


1 8 86.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  769 

mansion  was  haunted — an  idea  which  shaped  itself  all  the  more 
definitely  in  my  brain  the  longer  I  mused  upon  the  subject. 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  before  I  lay  down  to 
seek  repose,  and  I  did  not  fall  asleep  until  the  Angelus,  sounding 
from  the  tower  of  the  church,  told  me  that  a  new  day  had  begun. 


II. 

The  breakfast  hour  at  Darnesfield  Court  was  fashionably  late, 
for  the  simple  reason  that  the  present  master  of  the  house  did 
not,  as  he  was  wont  to  confess  with  outspoken  frankness,  really 
know  what  to  do  with  his  time.  I  was  not  quite  ready  when  the 
gong  sounded,  and  as  I  slowly  descended  the  broad  staircase  and 
crossed  the  spacious  hall  on  my  way  to  the  dining-room  I  ac- 
knowledge that  I  felt  somewhat  uncomfortable,  for  I  knew  that 
the  butler  would  have  been  beforehand  with  me  in  acquainting 
his  master  with  the  story  of  the  last  night's  apparition. 

Although  my  host  received  me  with  the  utmost  courtesy, 
there  was  a  slight  constraint  perceptible  in  his  manner,  and  I 
knew  in  a  moment,  as  I  shook  hands  with  him,  that  my  surmise 
was  correct,  and  he  had  already  been  made  acquainted  with  the 
singular  occurrence  of  the  previous  night.  He  eyed  me  some- 
what curiously,  but  did  not  broach  the  subject  that  was  evidently 
uppermost  in  his  mind  until  I  began  to  speak  of  it. 

"  Did  you  know  that  this  house  was  haunted,  Mr.  Moreland  ?" 
I  inquired,  as  I  took  an  egg  from  its  resting-place  beneath  the 
snowy  napkin. 

"  Oh  !  dear,  no,"  was  his  ready  reply.  "  Nor  can  I  believe  it  to 
be  so,  either.  It  is  not  a  very  old  house,  and  had  I  had  any  sus- 
picion that  it  was  haunted  I  should  on  no  consideration  have 
taken  it,  for  I  have  the  greatest  dislike  to  that  sort  of  thing." 

"  Well,"  I  rejoined,  "  how,  then,  can  you  explain  what  I  wit- 
nessed last  night  ?  "  And  I  related  in  detail  the  incident  which  is 
already  known  to  the  reader,  and  to  which  my  host  listened  at- 
tentively. But  I  saw  that  he  regarded  it  as  the  delusion  of  a  dis- 
ordered brain. 

"  It  must  have  been  an  optical  illusion,"  he  remarked  senten- 
tiously  when  I  had  concluded — "  a  very  singular  optical  illusion, 
no  doubt.  I  have  recently  read  a  book  on  the  subject,  a  most 
interesting  book.  When  the  nerves  of  the  eye — 

"  An  optical  illusion!  "  I  broke  in.  "  Indeed  that  is  impossi- 
ble ;  I  am  not  an  imaginative  or  fanciful  man.  There  never  was 
any  one  less  excitable  or  more  prosy  than  myself.  Pray  do  not 
VOL.  XLII.— 49  • 


7;o  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

talk  to  me  about  illusions.  The  thing  was  no  mere  fancy  ;  I  saw 
it  all  as  plainly  as  I  now  see  you." 

"  Well,"  he  resumed,  "then  you  must  have  been  dreaming; 
dreams  are  very  real  sometimes.  What  with  the  motion  of  the 
train  and  the  drive  through  the  night-air,  no  doubt  you  felt 
sleepy.  I  dare  say  something  you  had  been  reading,  some  tale 
of  horrors,  may  be,  or  perhaps  some  criminal  case  you  may  have 
been  engaged  in  getting  up  lately,  recurred  to  your  mind  in 
rather  a  startling  manner  just  as  you  were  about  to  awake." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort,"  I  answered,  not  without  some  warmth. 
"  I  assure  you,  my  dear  sir,  I  was  as  fully  awake  as  I  am  now. 
I  can  assert  it  most  emphatically.  The  door  was  burst  open,  and 
I  heard  as  well  as  saw  the  two  rush  in." 

Mr.  Moreland  looked  down,  and  a  somewhat  peculiar  smile 
played  upon  his  lips.  I  felt  that  I  was  in  danger  of  losing  my 
temper,  but  checked  the  irritable  impulse  and  said,  with  a  forced 
attempt  at  jocularity  :  "  You  will  tell  me  next  that  I  had  an  attack 
of  delirium  tremens  !  " 

To  my  surprise  my  host  rejoined  with  grave  politeness  :  "  I 
need  not  say  that  I  could  not  have  ventured  to  hint  at  such  a 
thing,  if  the  suggestion  had  not  come  from  yourself ;  but  I  hope, 
my  dear  Mr.  Furnival,  that  you  will  not  be  offended  if  I  proceed 
to  add  that  this  is  an  alternative  that  strikes  me  as  by  no  means 
an  impossible  one.  As  you  are  no  doubt  aware,  all  the  best 
medical  authorities  agree  that  delirium  tremens  may  be  brought 
on  by  want  of  sleep  or  an  undue  stress  laid  on  the  brain,  though 
in  the  vast  majority  of  cases  it  arises  from  indulgence  in  alcoholic 
drinks.  Every  one  knows  how  hard  you  work,  and  my  butler 
tells  me  that  you  drink  no  wine,  so  you  cannot  take  offence  at 
what  I -have  said." 

I  bowed,  and  Mr.  Moreland  continued:  "  I  wish  I  had  been 
down-stairs  myself;  I  ought  to  have  been  there  to  receive  you. 
It  is  high  time  that  I  apologized  for  not  having  done  so.  The 
truth  is,  I  am  an  old  man,  and  I  had  ridden  a  good  many  miles  in 
the  morning  and  was  tired.  Besides,  I  thought  your  train  would 
be  late.  The  last  train  generally  is  behind  time." 

Here  a  welcome  interruption  was  created  by  the  entrance  of 
a  servant,  who  informed  his  master  that  the  solicitor  with  whom 
I  was  to  confer  respecting  the  transfer  of  some  property  had 
already  arrived  from  the  county  town  and  was  waiting  in  the 
library.  But  though  no  more  was  then  said  on  the  subject,  I 
could  not  get  it  out  of  my  thoughts  all  day  ;  and  I  must  confess 
that  I  found  the  business  I  had  come  down  to  arrange  more 


i886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  771 

wearisome  than  business  had  ever  been  before,  and  that  I  got 
through  it  far  more  slowly  than  is  my  wont,  and  did  not  succeed 
as  readily  as  I  usually  do  in  making  either  my  client's  wishes  or 
my  own  ideas  clear  to  my  fellow-lawyer. 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  Father  Hubert,  the  parish 
priest,  dined  at  the  Court,  according  to  a  long-established  and 
invariable  custom,  with  which  Mr.  Moreland,  who  was  himself 
an  excellent  Catholic  of  the  good,  old-fashioned  type,  had  no  in- 
clination to  interfere.  The  conversation,  as  was  natural,  revert- 
ed to  the  subject  of  the  apparition.  Father  Hubert  had  heard  a 
garbled  account  of  the  matter  from  some  of  the  villagers  to 
whom  Jarvis  had  been  talking,  and  he  listened  with  much  inte- 
rest to  the  story  I  told  him.  He  said  that  he  had  never  heard 
of  any  ghost  in  connection  with  the  house,  which  was  scarcely  a 
hundred  years  old,  adding  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  history 
of  its  owner  which  could  seem  to  point,  however  remotely,  in 
the  direction  of  a  mysterious  tragedy,  much  less  of  a  terrible 
crime.  Despite  all  that  was  said,  my  own  conviction  remained 
unshaken  that  the  apparition  was  a  real  one  ;  but  I  felt  that  I  was 
considered  to  be  the  victim  of  a  strange  hallucination — one  of 
those  delusions  to  which  an  active  and  overworked  brain  renders 
many  persons  liable. 

On  the  Monday  I  was  engaged  to  shoot  over  the  well-stocked 
preserves  of  an  old  college-friend,  whose  country-seat  was  about 
twelve  miles  from  Darnesfield.  I  was  to  remain  to  dinner,  driv- 
ing back  afterwards  to  Mr.  Moreland's,  as  I  had  to  return  to 
town  by  the  first  train  on  Tuesday  morning.  It  was  a  relief  to  me 
to  turn  my  back  upon  the  house,  which  I  believed  to  be  haunted  ; 
and  as,  after  an  early  and  solitary  breakfast,  I  drove  rapidly  away 
in  the  direction  of  Lancaster  Park,  my  spirits  rose  with  every 
mile  I  left  behind  me.  They  would,  perhaps,  have  scarcely  been 
so  elastic  had  I  known  whom  I  was  to  see  before  the  day  was 
done  ! 

As  almost  all  the  guests,  excepting  those  who  were  staying 
in  the  house,  came  from  a  distance,  the  dinner-hour  had  been 
fixed  for  half-past  six.  Country  dinner-parties  are  apt  to  be 
rather  dull  affairs,  and  this  one  proved  no  exception  to  the  rule. 
It  was  not  a  brilliant  gathering  which  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
room.  My  hosts,  the  Lancasters,  were  typical  specimens  of  a 
Country  gentleman  and  his  wife,  and  there  were  several  people 
exactly  like  them,  only  older  or  younger,  graver  or  gayer,  as  the 
case  might  be.  Of  one  of  the  persons  who  composed  the  company 
I  had  scarcely  a  glimpse  until  we  were  all  seated  at  table,  as  whilst 


ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

we  were  in  the  drawing-room  she  had  her  back  turned  to  me, 
and  was  engaged  in  conversing  with  a  tall,  thin  man,  who,  stand- 
ing before  her,  bent  on  her  glances  of  unmistakable  admiration. 

"That  is  Mr.  Somerset,"  Mrs.  Lancaster  explained  to  me  in 
an  undertone—"  a  younger  brother  of  Sir  Edward  Somerset,  the 
proprietor  of  Darnesfield  ;  and  the  young  lady  he  is  talking  to  is 
a  Miss  Rutherford.  He  is  desperately  in  love  with  her,  but  I 
fancy  her  heart  is  bestowed  elsewhere." 

Mr.  Somerset  took  Miss  Rutherford  in  to  dinner  ;  they  were 
opposite  to  me,  rather  lower  down  the  table,  and  after  the  first 
glance  I  directed  towards  her  I  seemed  to  see  no  one  else.  My 
whole  attention  was  riveted  upon  her,  and  I  could  scarcely  take 
my  eyes  from  her  face.  She  was  exceedingly  pretty  ;  yet  it  was 
not  her  beauty  that  fascinated  me — for  I  had  seen  many  more 
beautiful  women — but  to  my  utter  amazement  I  recognized  in 
her  the  girl  whom  I  had  seen  murdered  in  the  library  of  Darnes- 
field Court.  There  she  sat  in  her  youthful  freshness  and  inno- 
cent enjoyment,  chattering  gaily  to  her  admirer ;  but  it  was  im- 
possible to  be  mistaken  as  to  her  identity.  I  looked  and  looked 
again,  gazed  and  gazed  once  more,  and  every  time  I  became 
more  thoroughly  and  utterly  convinced  that  I  was  right.  She 
was  simply  dressed  in  a  gown  of  soft,  pale  pink  material,  cut 
square  at  the  neck  ;  and  in  her  corsage  and  in  her  hair  she  wore 
some  delicate-hued,  late-flowering  natural  roses,  which  heighten- 
ed the  effect  of  her  exquisite  complexion  and  dark  brown  eyes 
and  hair.  Truly,  she  had  not  much  in  common  with  the  agonized, 
scared,  terror-stricken  woman  whom  I  had  seen  cowering  before 
the  uplifted  dagger;  and  yet  I  could  recognize  each  feature  :  the 
shape  of  her  face,  the  turn  of  her  figure,  the  very  form  of  her 
hands — everything  about  her,  in  fact,  was  the  same.  The  identity 
was  undeniable,  indisputable.  I  grew  absent  and  distracted,  so 
that  the  prosy  dowager  to  whom  it  was  my  duty  to  talk,  finding 
me  rather  a  dull  companion,  addressed  herself  in  preference  to  a 
simpering  captain  of  dragoons  who  sat  on  her  other  hand. 

As  soon  as  the  ladies  quitted  the  dining-room  I  excused  my- 
self to  Mr.  Lancaster  on  the  plea  that  I  was  tired  after  my  day 
in  the  open  air,  and  begged  him  to  allow  me  to  take  my  depar- 
ture at  once,  especially  as  I  had  to  be  back  in  London  at  so  early 
an  hour  the  next  morning.  So  the  dog-cart  was  brought  round, 
and  I  returned  to  Darnesfield  Court,  astonishing  Mr.  Moreland 
not  a  little  by  my  unexpected  appearance. 

"  Why,  Mr.  Furnival,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  did  not  expect  to  see 
you  for  a  l.ong  time  yet!  Do  you  know  that  it  is  only  nine 


i886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  773 

o'clock?     What  is   the    matter?     Are   you  ill?     You  have  not 
seen  another  ghost,  surely  !  " 

"No,  I  have  not  seen  a  ghost,"  I  replied  gravely;  "  I  have 
seen  the  lady." 

"  The  lady  !     What  lady  ?  " 

"  Why,  the  lady  I  saw  in  the  library  the  other  evening;  the 
bodily  form  of  the  phantom-shape  I  saw  in  the  apparition." 

My  host  removed  his  cigar  from  his  lips  with  an  impatient 
gesture.  "  I  do  wish,"  he  exclaimed  almost  pettishly,  "  you 
could  get  that  nonsense  out  of  your  head.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  have  seen  it  over  again?  Pray,  where  did  it  happen  this 
time  ?  In  the  drive  or  out  on  the  open  road  ?  " 

"You  do  not  understand  me,"  I  said,  as  I  seated  myself  by 
the  fire.  "  I  do  not  say  that  I  have  seen  the  tragedy  acted  over 
again,  but  I  have  seen  one  of  the  dramatis  persona.  She  sat 
opposite  to  me  at  dinner.  I  recognized  her  at  once  ;  there  is  no 
possible  doubt  about  it.  She  is  a  handsome  girl,  with  beautiful 
hair,  and  rather  a  peculiar  manner  of  parting  her  lips  when  she 
smiles.  Her  name  is  Miss  Rutherford." 

At  this  point  it  was  evident  from  the  expression  of  Mr. 
Moreland's  face  that  he  began  to  entertain  serious  doubts  of  my 
sanity.  "Whatever  are  you  talking  about?"  he  cried,  startled 
out  of  his  usual  serenity.  "  You  cannot  mean  Marian  Ruther- 
ford ;  she  is  my  daughter's  great  friend.  They  are  like  sisters. 
Are  you  going  to  tell  me  she  is  murdered  ?  " 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  replied,  "  did  you  not  hear  me  say  that 
she  was  at  Mr.  Lancaster's  house  to-night,  and  that  I  sat  oppo- 
site to  her  at  the  dinner-table  ?  She  is  as  much  alive  as  you  or 
I ;  but,  bright  and  blooming  as  she  is,  she  is  none  other  than 
the  girl  who  rushed  into  the  library  the  other  night,  white  and 
scared  and  terrified,  pursued  by  her  murderer." 

"  What  a  very  singular  thing,"  Mr.  Moreland  remarked,  "  that 
you  should  have  taken  up  this  idea !  You  are  the  last  man  I 
should  have  suspected  of  such  vagaries.  And  "now  that  your 
delusion  has  taken  this  personal  turn,  the  matter  has  gone  quite 
beyond  a  joke.  One  thing  I  really  must  beg  of  you,  and  that  is, 
not  to  breathe  a  word  of  this  to  any  one.  Suppose  it  got  round 
to  Miss  Rutherford,  how  extremely  unpleasant  it  would  be  for 
her  and  all  of  us  !  No  ;  the  ghost-story  has  got  wind,  and  has  no 
doubt  by  this  time  received  innumerable  additions,  but  what  you 
have  just  mentioned  to  me  must  not  go  any  further." 

I  promised  secrecy,  and  Mr.  Moreland  continued :  "  Miss 
Rutherford  is  an  orphan  and  my  ward,  for  she  has  no  near  rela- 


774  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar.7 

tives  living.  I  am  very  fond  of  her,  and  should  be  glad  to  see 
her  suitably  married  ;  but  I  am  afraid  that  her  marriage  can 
hardly  be  a  happy  one  if  she  perseveres  in  keeping  to  her  pre- 
sent engagement.  Between  ourselves,  I  should  only  be  too  glad 
to  see  it  broken  off,  and  am  using  all  my  influence  to  induce  her 
to  give  up  her  intended  husband,  who  is  handsome  and  fascinat- 
ing, and  that  sort  of  thing,  but  not  the  sort  of  man  a  girl  should 
trust  herself  to  for  life.  He  is  a  Spaniard  of  good  family ;  his 
parents  settled  in  Mexico  before  he  was  born.  I  am  afraid  he  is 
addicted  to  one  or  two  very  bad  habits,  besides  having  a  fiery 
and  unrestrained  temper.  But  he  can  be  charming  when  he 
chooses,  and  has  a  great  hold  over  Marian,  who  is  deeply  attach- 
ed to  him,  though  she  deplores  his  want  of  principle."  Thus  the 
old  man  continued  to  run  on,  and,  as  I  plainly  perceived  the  sub- 
ject of  the  apparition  to  be  an  unwelcome  topic,  I  let  it  drop,  and 
soon  afterwards  we  parted  for  the  night.  As  I  lay  down  to  rest 
I  could  not  help  wondering  what  was  the  import  of  the  strange 
spectacle  I  had  witnessed,  and  why  I  had  been  permitted  to  be- 
hold it.  Cut  bono  ?  I  said  to  myself  over  and  over  again  ;  for,  as 
the  reader  will  readily  understand,  the  matter  was  now  invested 
with  an  additional  and  far  deeper  interest,  since  one  of  the  phan- 
tom actors  had  been  seen  by  me  as  a  living  reality.  Was  I  to 
see  the  other  also?  And  if  so,  when  and  where  would  the  meet- 
ing take  place  ? 

On  rising  the  next  morning  I  found  that  a  dense,  damp  fog 
had  succeeded  to  the  brilliant  autumnal  sunshine  of  the  preced- 
ing day  ;  and  when,  after  a  hurried  breakfast,  I  bade  farewell  to 
Mr.  Moreland  and  drove  away  from  his  door,  I  felt  that  the  mist 
which  shrouded  the  landscape  in  its  veil  of  gloom  was  not  thicker 
or  more  impenetrable  than  the  mystery  connected  with  Marian 
Rutherford  and  the  scene  in  the  library.  Had  that  mystery 
some  undiscoverable  relation  to  a  long-forgotten  past?  Or 
might  it  possibly  contain  a  foreshadowing  of  a  yet  unimagined 
future?  Had  it  been  shown  to  me  for  some  hidden  purpose 
which  at  present  I  could  not  divine,  but  which  in  due  time  would 
be  revealed  to  me  ? 


III. 

Never  have  I  been  able  to  account  to  myself  for  the  uncon- 
trollable impulse  which  prompted  me,  one  dreary  afternoon 
about  two  months  subsequent  to  my  visit  to  Darnestield  Court, 
to  return  home  from  my  office  on  foot,  especially  as  the  weather 


i886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  775 

was  not  pleasant  enough  to  furnish  an  inducement  for  departing 
from  my  almost  invariable  custom  of  travelling  by  omnibus. 

On  the  occasion  of>which  I  speak  I  had  walked  down  Oxford 
Street,  transacting  some  trifling  business  on  the  way,  and  then 
directed  my  steps  homewards.  When  I  reached  Hyde  Park  the 
crowd  of  carriages,  and  indeed  of  vehicles  of  every  description, 
was  greater  than  usual,  and,  habituated  though  I  am  to  thread 
my  way  between  menacing  coal-wagons  and  dive  with  dex- 
terity beneath  the  heads  of  advancing  cab-horses,  I  was  obliged  to 
wait  several  minutes  before  I  was  able  to  cross  the  road.  I  was 
looking  impatiently  around  me,  thinking  how  foolish  I  had  been 
to  take  this  long  walk  on  a  gusty,  disagreeable  day,  and  feeling 
certain  that  I  should  be  caught  in  the  rain  before  I  could  reach 
my  home,  when  all  at  once  my  attention  was  forcibly  arrested 
and  my  roving  thoughts  were  brought  to  a  sudden  standstill. 
Close  to  my  right  hand,  on  the  curbstone  where  I  was  standing, 
I  became  aware  of  the  presence  of  a  gentleman  whose  face  was 
strangely  familiar  to  me.  He  was  tall  and  handsome,  with  curly 
black  hair  and  regular,  finely-cut  features.  But  though  his  ap- 
pearance was  decidedly  striking,  I  could  not  at  first  remember 
where  I  had  seen  him  before.  At  that  moment  there  was  an  op- 
portunity for  crossing  the  road  ;  we  traversed  it  side  by  side,  and 
as  I  looked  again  at  the  stranger  the  truth  flashed  upon  me  with 
the  force  and  directness  of  an  intuition — he  was  the  phantom 
murderer  of  Darnesfield  Court!  Without  thinking  why  I  did 
so,  I  followed  the  mysterious  unknown  as  with  rapid,  active 
steps  he  walked  on,  shaping  his  course  in  a  slanting  direction 
so  as  finally  to  emerge  from  the  Park  opposite  Exhibition  Road. 

Down  this  road  he  went  until  he  came  to  the  post-office, 
which  is  situated  on  the  right-hand  side;  there  he  paused,  and, 
availing  himself  of  the  shelter  afforded  by  the  roofing  over  the 
street — for  it  was  now  raining  fast — stood  still  for  a  moment 
under  the  gas-lamp,  and,  putting  his  hand  into  the  breast-pocket 
of  his  overcoat,  took  out,  with  a  quick  gesture  only  too  well  re- 
membered by  me,  not  this  time  a  dagger,  but  a  packet  of  letters, 
which,  after  a  rapid  survey,  he  slipped  into  the  box.  I  had  gone 
up  quite  close  to  him,  under  pretence  of  consulting  the  clock,  and 
before  walking  away  he  turned  and  suddenly  looked  me  in  the 
face.  His  eyes  met  mine,  and  I  felt  more  than  ever  certain  of 
his  identity.  He  went  down  the  road  as  far  as  it  goes,  then,  turn- 
ing to  the  left,  walked  past  the  church  of  the  Oratorian  Fathers, 
stopping  at  a  house  a  little  further  on,  the  door  of  which  he 
opened  with  a  latch-key,  thus  proving  that  he  lived  there.  A 


776  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Man, 

card  with  Apartments  for  Gentlemen  \.Q\&  me  that  it  was  a  lodging- 
house  ;  and  it  was  not  difficult  on  the  following  day  to  ascertain 
his  name.  It  was  Dei  Mar,  the  landlady  informed  me — Mr.  Alfonso 
Del  Mar;  and  she  added  that  he  was  a  Spaniard.  "  I  might  have 
guessed  that,"  I  said  to  myself ;  "  he  has  the  look  of  a  haughty 
hidalgo."  As  I  walked  away  it  suddenly  occurred  to  my  mind 
that  Mr.  Moreland  had  said  that  the  gentleman  to  whom  Miss 
Rutherford  was  engaged  was  Spanish.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
her  present  lover  was  identical  with  what  I  could  not  but  sup- 
pose to  be  her  future  murderer?  The  truth  must  be  discovered  ; 
I  wrote  immediately  to  Mr.  Moreland — ostensibly  for  some  other 
object — and  in  his  reply  he  informed  me  that  my  surmise  was 
correct,  and  that  Del  Mar  was  the  name  of  Miss  Rutherford's 
affianced  husband. 

The  reader  will  not  need  to  be  told  that  this  identification  of 
the  principal  actor  in  the  tragedy  I  had1  witnessed  furnished  me 
with  a  subject  for  long  and  serious  thought  and  for  mature  and 
anxious  deliberation.  I  hesitated  as  to  what  course  of  action  it 
was  best  to  take,  or  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  abstain 
from  action  altogether,  since  I  could  think  of  none  that  would  do 
any  good.  With  Mr.  Moreland  there  was  manifestly  nothing  to 
be  done,  since  he  had  shown  himself  determined  not  to  take  the 
matter  up,  and  I  knew  that  if  I  persisted  in  urging  him  to  do  so 
he  would  only  grow  angry  with  me  and  tell  me  in  plain  terms 
that  I  must  be  a  madman.  Ought  I  to  acquaint  Miss  Rutherford 
with  the  whole  story,  with  a  view  to  warning  her  before  it  should 
be  too  late  and  her  life  irretrievably  linked  with  that  of  Mr.  Del 
Mar?  But  then  there  was  my  promise  of  secrecy,  and  if  I  were 
to  break  it,  and  she  believed  me,  either  in  part  or  whole,  I  should 
probably  only  make  her  miserable  and  myself  disliked  ;  for  what 
girl  ever  consented  to  give  up  a  lover  on  the  strength  of  such 
testimony  as  I  could  bring  forward  as  to  the  danger  involved  in 
a  marriage  with  him  ?  And  if,  on  the  other  hand,  I  said  to  my- 
self, she  refused  altogether  to  give  credit  to  my  story,  I  should 
not  fail  to  bring  down  upon  myself  an  amount  of  ridicule  and 
contempt  which  I  felt  hardly  prepared  to  encounter. 

Therefore,  after  much  hesitation  and  manifold  reflections,  I 
finally  decided  to  keep  silence ;  and  when,  a  few  months  subse- 
quently, I  heard,  not  without  a  sense  of  relief,  that  Marian's  en- 
gagement was  broken  off,  I  considered  my  resolution  to  have 
been  a  wise  one,  and  the  subject  of  the  apparition  became  less 
frequently  present  to  my  thoughts,  and  as  time  went  on  gradually 
faded  from  them  altogether. 


i886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  777 

About  twelve  months  later,  indeed,  the  impression  was  to  a 
certain  extent  renewed,  for  I  happened  incidentally  to  be  told 
that  Miss  Rutherford  was  dead,  and  that  circumstances  of  a  pecu- 
liarly melancholy  and  mysterious  nature  were  connected  with 
her  death.  What  these  circumstances  were  I  was  unable  fully 
to  ascertain,  as  my  informant  only  knew  that  the  unfortunate 
young  lady  had  been  found  dead,  and  that  the  matter  had  been 
hushed  up,  as  there  was  a  strong-  suspicion  pointing  in  the  direc- 
tion of  suicide.  Of  Mr.  Moreland  I  had  lost  sight  altogether,  and 
my  own  life  was  just  then  so  full  of  sorrow  and  anxiety  that  the 
cares  and  labors  of  the  present  quickly  effaced  the  recollection  of 
my  vision — that  most  weird  and  mysterious  among  my  memories 
of  the  past. 

IV. 

I  am  not  engaged  in  writing  my  own  autobiography,  and  it 
would  be  alien  to  the  purpose  of  the  present  story  were  I  to  at- 
tempt to  narrate  the  chain  of  circumstances  by  means  of  which  I 
found  myself,  after  an  interval  of  ten  or  twelve  years,  an  inmate 
of  the  accident  ward  belonging  to  a  large  hospital  in  one  of  the 
principal  towns  of  Australia.  A  compound  fracture  of  one  of  my 
lower  limbs  necessitated  a  somewhat  lengthened  period  of  repose, 
and  the  enforced  captivity  proved  very  irksome  to  me.  Slowly 
and  wearily  the  weeks  dragged  by,  until  I  was  at  length  pro- 
nounced convalescent,  and  it  wanted  but  two  or  three  days  to 
the  time  fixed  for  my  quitting  the  hospital,  when  one  evening  a 
man  who  was  a  stranger  in  the  place  was  brought  into  the  ward, 
having  been  seriously  hurt  in  the  course  of  a  drunken  quarrel 
with  some  rough  associates  in  a  tavern. 

The  bed  next  to  mine  happening  to  be  vacant,  the  new-comer 
was  placed  in  it ;  his  injury  was  pronounced  by  the  doctor  to  be 
severe,  but  not  necessarily  mortal.  It  was  of  such  a  nature  as 
to  leave  the  sufferer  in  full  possession  of  his  consciousness,  as  I 
presently  discovered  ;  for,  in  the  stillness  of  the  night,  the  pa- 
tient, being  in  too  great  pain  to  sleep,  commenced  talking  to 
himself  in  an  undertone.  Perhaps  he  was  unaware  that  he  was 
speaking  aloud,  or  perhaps  he  imagined  that,  as  he  spoke  Span- 
ish, no  one  of  those  around,  if  they  chanced  to  overhear,  could 
understand  what  he  said.  However,  since  that  language  is  per- 
fectly familiar  to  me,  I  could  understand  every  word  he  uttered — 
every  word,  that  is,  which  reached  my  ears ;  for  frequently  the 
sick  man's  mutterings  became  inaudible,  or  intervals  of  slumber 


778  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

on  my  own  part  rendered  me  for  a  time  oblivious  of  my  sur- 
roundings. On  the  whole  I  slept  but  little,  however ;  for,  listen- 
ing at  first  from  mere  idle  curiosity,  I  soon  found  my  interest 
excited  in  no  small  degree,  for  it  was  manifest  that  the  Spaniard 
was  a  prey  to  remorse  on  account  of  some  crime,  the  recollec- 
tion of  which  lay  heavily  on  his  mind  and  caused  him  poignant 
regret.  What  was  the  nature  of  that  crime  his  self-communings 
did  not  disclose,  but  I  gathered  that  it  was  an  act  of  violence, 
connected  in  some  way  with  my  own  country ;  for  as  his 
thoughts  apparently  travelled  back  over  by-gone  years,  he  con- 
stantly mentioned  English  scenes  and  English  people,  some  of 
whose  names  were  familiar  to  me  and  seemed  to  evoke  dim 
memories  of  a  long-forgotten  past.  Was  it  a  dream,  or  was  it 
something  the  sick  man  said  as  he  tossed  restlessly  from  side  to 
side,  that  gave  definite  form  to  those  shadowy  reminiscences,  and 
recalled  to  my  mental  sight  with  startling  vividness  a  tragedy 
to  which  for  years  my  thoughts  had  not  reverted,  but  which 
could  never  be  entirely  effaced  from  my  remembrance — namely, 
the  mysterious  phantom-scene  it  had  been  my  lot  to  behold  in 
the  library  of  Darnesfield  Court?  The  scene,  the  actors,  rose  up 
before  me  as  if  all  were  being  enacted  over  again  then  and  there  ; 
and  at  the  same  time  a  suspicion  started  up  within  my  mind — 
a  suspicion  which  gradually  strengthened  into  conviction  and 
forced  itself  upon  me  with  irresistible  power — that  the  sufferer  at 
my  side  was  the  Spanish  gentleman  to  whom  Miss  Rutherford 
had  been  engaged,  and  that  it  was  by  his  hand  that  she  had 
come  to  her  untimely  end.  Thus,  by  one  of  those  remarkable 
coincidences  in  which  we  should  find  it  difficult  to  believe,  did 
they  not  so  constantly  occur,  I  was  now  brought  into  immediate 
proximity  with  the  man  who  had  committed  the  crime  that  I  had 
seen  in  anticipation. 

The  next  morning  my  first  thought  was  the  desire  to  gain 
sight  of  the  individual  who  so  deeply  interested  me  ;  but  on  look- 
ing anxiously  towards  his  bed  I  perceived  that  he  had  fallen  into 
a  heavy  sleep,  and,  his  countenance  being  averted  from  me,  it 
was  impossible  to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  his  features — a  glimpse 
which  would  either  go  to  corroborate  the  truth  of  my  surmise 
or  prove  my  suspicions  to  be  unfounded.  On  my  inquiring  his 
name  of  the  nurse,  to  my  surprise  she  said  that  it  was  Albert 
Davis.  Then,  seeing  the  puzzled  expression  on  my  face,  she 
added  :  "  He  does  not  look  much  like  an  Englishman,  certainly." 

I  could  now  move  about  with  the  aid  of  a  stick,  and  therefore 
as  soon  as  I  was  dressed  I  went  to  my  neighbor's  bedside.  One 


1 886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  779 

glance  sufficed  to  convince  me  that  I  had  guessed  aright ;  supposi- 
tion became  certainty  as  soon  as  my  eyes  fell  on  the  face  of  the 
Spaniard,  in  whom,  changed,  care-worn,  prematurely  aged  as  he 
was,  no  one  could  fail  to  recognize  the  actor  in  that  dark  drama, 
the  proud  and  passionate  Del  Mar.  There  was  the  same  black 
curly  hair,  there  were  the  same  finely-cut  features,  the  same  pecu- 
liar lower  lip,  which  gave  a  haughty,  almost  ill-tempered  expres- 
sion to  the  countenance,  though  the  cheek  was  now  flushed  with 
fever  and  the  naturally  lustrous  eyes  sparkled  with  an  unnatural 
brilliancy.  I  asked  the  sick  man  how  he  was,  adding  that  I  was 
sure  he  had  been  in  pain  in  the  night.  He  looked  surprised  at 
being  addressed  in  Spanish,  and  answered  in  the  same  language. 

-'A  thousand  thanks,"  he  said,  with  the  courtesy  of  his  nation. 
"I  could  not  sleep,  it  is  true,  but  my  wound  is  slight ;  1  shall 
soon  recover." 

After  a  few  commonplace  remarks,  and  the  proffer  of  my 
services  if  I  could  be  of  any  use  to  him,  I  asked,  Had  he  not 
lived  in  England  ? 

An  expression  of  pain  passed  over  the  stranger's  face  ;  with  a 
slight  moan  he  turned  away,  closing  his  eyes  wearily  as  he  utter- 
ed the  monosyllabic  reply  "yes." 

At  this  moment  the  surgeon  came  round,  and  I  had  no  more 
opportunity  of  conversing  with  my  neighbor  that  day.  When 
night  came  he  was  delirious,  and  until  I  fell  asleep  it  was  pitiful 
to  hear  his  wanderings;  how  he  went  back  to  the  days  of 'his 
early  youth,  when  he  was  an  innocent  child,  his  reminiscences 
being  ever  and  anon  mingled  with  outbursts  of  lamentation  and 
*  bitter  self-reproach. 

When  I  awoke  the  next  day  the  nurse  was  standing  by  his 
side.  "  Poor  fellow  !  "  she  said,  turning  to  me,  "  he  is  very  bad, 
though  he  will  not  allow  it  himself.  The  doctor  says  he  would 
certainly  have  recovered  even  if  the  injury  were  worse  than  it 
is,  were  it  not  that  his  constitution  is  ruined  through  habitual 
intemperance  and  the  wild  life  he  has  led  of  late  years.  His 
blood  is  in  a  bad  state,  and  he  may  sink  rapidly  ;  he  ought  to  be 
warned  of  his  danger." 

I  asked  if  I  might  be  allowed  to  speak  to  him,  and,  since  he 
was  a  Catholic,  ascertain  whether  he  was  desirous  to  see  a  priest. 
Consent  was  readily  given,  and  I  moved  at  once  to  his  bedside, 
conscious  that  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost.  The  fit  of  fever  had 
passed  away,  and  he  lay  back  on  his  pillow  in  a  state  of  exhaus- 
tion. I  endeavored  gently  to  acquaint  him  with  his  perilous 
condition,  and  urged  him  to  accept  the  ministrations  of  a  priest. 


78o  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

But  he  would  not  believe  my  statement  or  accede  to  my  pro- 
posal.    "  Not  yet,"  he  murmured  ;  "  when  I  am  better,  perhapsr 
I  shall  soon  recover.     I  cannot,  I  will  not  die  !  " 

Finding  I  could  prevail  nothing,  I  changed  my  tactics.  "  I 
know  who  you  are,"  1  said.  "  Your  name  is  not  Albert  Davis ; 
it  is  Alfonso  Dei  Mar." 

The  sick  man  stared  wildly  at  me.  "  Who  are  you,"  he 
asked,  "  and  what  do  you  know  about  me  ?  " 

"Not  only  do  I  know  your  real  name,"  I  continued,  "but  I 
know  that  you  have  on  your  conscience  a  terrible  crime,  which 
makes  you  afraid  to  die,  afraid  to  appear  before  the  tribunal  of 
God." 

Del  Mar's  countenance  became  ghastly.  "  Hush,  hush  !  "  he 
cried.  "  Do  not  say  that ;  it  is  false,  it  is  false  !  " 

"  Is  it  false,"  I  pursued,  "  that  you  were  affianced  to  Marian 
Rutherford,  that  you  quarrelled  with  her  at  Darnesfield  Court, 
and  that  one  evening  you  stabbed  her  to  the  heart?  " 

This  was  a  bold  venture  on  my  part,  and  I  was  almost  ap- 
palled at  the  effect  it  produced.  There  was  a  gurgle  in  the 
man's  throat  as  he  vainly  strove  to  articulate  ;  cold  drops  stood 
on  his  brow,  his  lips  writhed  as  in  bodily  torture,  he  grasped 
my  wrist  with  his  burning  hand. 

"  Did  she  die,"  he  exclaimed — "  oh  !  tell  me,  did  she  die  ?  Was 
that  accursed  blow  fatal?"  And  when  he  read  the  answer  on 
my  countenance,  "Alas!  then  I  am  a  murderer,"  he  ejaculat- 
ed. "  Dios  mios,  I  am  a  murderer.  Ay  di  mi,  ay  di  mi !  " 

He  lay  back  upon  his  pillow,  moaning  feebly,  and  I  was 
obliged  to  call  for  assistance,  as  I  perceived  that  the  violence  of* 
his  emotion  had  caused  his  wound  to  bleed  afresh.  The  doctor 
insisted  on  quiet,  but  after  a  time  the  sick  man's  eye  sought 
mine,  and  with  an  imperious  gesture  he  summoned  me  to  his 
side. 

"  My  sin  has  found  me  out  at  last,"  he  said.  "  I  thought  no 
human  eye  witnessed  it ;  sometimes  I  have  even  persuaded  my- 
self that  the  whole  was  a  hideous  dream.  Ever  since  that  fatal 
night  a  curse  has  pursued  me.  I  have  failed  in  everything.  I 
have  been  a  wanderer  and  an  outcast.  I  have  plunged  into  wild 
excitement  in  order  to  escape  from  the  remembrance  which 
haunted  me.  I  have  endeavored  to  drown  my  remorse  with  in- 
toxicating drink.  But  tell  me,  if  you  saw  it,  why  did  you  not 
deliver  me  up  to  justice?  Why  did  you  not  let  them  hang  me 
as  a  murderer?  How  much  it  would  have  spared  me  !  If  you 
only  knew  what  these  years  have  been !  And  now  the  end  has 


r886.]  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  781 

come,  and  it  is  too  late  for  hope,  too  late  for  repentance,  too  late 
for  forgiveness !  " 

I  said  all  I  could  to  soothe  the  sufferer;  I  reminded  him  of 
the  infinite  mercy  of  God,  of  the  Sacrament  of  Penance  open  to 
sinners,  of  the  welcome  the  church  prepares  for  the  penitent 
prodigal.  And  then  I  left  him,  that  I  might  seek  the  priest  and 
ask  him  to  be  in  readiness  should  Del  Mar  consent  to  see  him. 
He  promised  to  come  to  the  ward  that  same  evening,  and  fer- 
vently did  I  pray  that  he  might  not  come  in  vain  as  far  as  my 
poor  friend  was  concerned. 

Through  the  mercy  of  Heaven  the  good  priest's  persuasions 
were  effectual.  The  next  morning  Del  Mar,  who,  though  for 
long  years  he  had  neglected  to  approach  the  sacraments,  had 
never  denied  the  faith,  was  reconciled  to  the  church  and  made 
his  peace  with  God,  promising  that  if  spared  to  recover  he 
would  lead  a  life  of  penance  and  atonement  for  his  sin.  But 
this  was  not  to  be  ;  although  at  first  he  seemed  to  have  passed 
safely  over  the  worst  crisis,  and  was  even  pronounced  out  of 
danger,  yet  blood-poisoning  set  in  and  he  sank  rapidly.  I  saw 
him  again  two  or  three  times  before  his  death,  but  I  never  dis- 
closed to  him  the  manner  in  which  I  had  become  possessed  of 
his  secret  and  made  aware  of  the  crime  long  before  the  thought 
of  it  had  taken  shape  in  his  brain.  Nor  did  he  question  me 
much  on  the  subject,  but  evidently  took  it  for  granted  that  I 
had  somehow  been  an  unobserved  spectator  of  the  terrible  scene, 
and  had  concealed  the  fact  from  motives  of  prudence — from 
inability  to  trace  the  culprit,  perhaps,  or  from  lack  of  sufficient 
evidence  to  convict  him,  or,  more  likely  still,  from  fear  of  at- 
tracting to  myself  suspicion  of  guilt  which  it  would  be  difficult, 
nay,  impossible,  to  disprove.  At  any  rate,  he  doubtless  concluded 
that  I  had  had  good  reasons  of  my  own  for  not  appearing  in  the 
matter  and  revealing  what  had  occurred  in  those  brief  moments 
of  frenzied  passion — moments  which  he  was  to  expiate  by  years 
of  bitter  remorse. 

I  told  him  Miss  Rutherford  was  supposed  to  have  committed 
suicide,  but  I  naturally  forbore  frqm  interrogating  him  as  to  the 
circumstances  which  led  to  the  crime,  though  I  was  curious  to 
know  its  immediate  motive.  On  this  point,  however,  during 
our  last  interview,  he  voluntarily  enlightened  me. 

"  Though  all  was  broken  off  between  Miss  Rutherford  and 
myself,"  he  said,  "and  I  was  on  the  eve  of  sailing  for  America, 
some  evil  impulse  impelled  me,  before  I  should  leave  England 
for  ever,  once  more  to  revisit  the  place  where  I  had  first  become 


782  ANSWERED  AT  LAST.  [Mar., 

acquainted  with  her.  I  believe  my  good  angel  tried  to  deter 
me,  for  innumerable  obstacles  opposed  themselves  to  the  execu- 
tion of  my  project,  but  each  one  only  made  me  more  determin- 
ed to  realize  it.  Mr.  Moreland  had  left  Darnesfield  Court,  but  I 
was  well  acquainted  with  the  Somersets,  to  whom,  as  you  doubt- 
less know,  the  mansion  belonged,  and  who  were  again  occupy- 
ing it.  To  their  house  I  went,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of 
paying  them  a  parting  visit,  but  really  to  see  Marian  once  more. 
I  found  that  she  had  recently  become  engaged  to  Henry  Somer- 
set. I  saw  her  walking  with  him  in  the  grounds,  as  she  had  for- 
merly walked  with  me ;  and,  my  jealous  temperament  leading 
me  to  imagine  that  preference  for  him  had  caused  her  to  reject 
me,  I  resolved  to  reproach  her  with  her  perfidy.  In  vain  I 
watched  for  an  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  alone,  but  when 
the  time  to  take  leave  arrived  I  contrived,  under  some  pretext 
or  other,  to  draw  her  aside  for  a  moment,  and  beg  her,  for  the 
sake  of  the  love  she  once  bore  me,  to  grant  me  an  interview 
that  evening  after  the  household  had  retired,  as  I  wished  the 
fact  of  our  meeting  to  be  a  secret.  Bewildered  and  astonished, 
she  had  not  time  to  collect  her  thoughts,  and  before  she  was 
aware  of  what  she  was  doing  she  had  given  her  consent.  She 
let  me  in  at  the  front  door,  which  was,  as  I  had  foreseen,  left 
unbolted  that  night  for  the  convenience  of  the  son  of  the  house, 
who  had  gone  to  a  ball  in  the  neighborhood.  I  reproached  her, 
as  I  had  intended  ;  she  was  a  very  high  spirited  girl,  and,  irri- 
tated by  my  injustice,  retorted  in  a  manner  which  stung  me  to 
madness,  and,  my  hot  blood  getting  the  better  of  me,  I  lost  every 
vestige  of  self-control.  Terrified  at  my  vehemence  and  at  the 
menaces  I  uttered,  she  fled  from  me  into  the  library — and  you 
know  the  rest.  Instead  of  leaving  for  South  America  in  the 
steamer  in  which  I  had  taken  my  passage,  I  let  it  start  without 
me  and  embarked  under  a  false  name  for  Australia  on  the  next 
vessel  which  happened  to  be  sailing.  But  for  the  knowledge  I 
so  unexpectedly  found  you  to  possess  of  a  crime  I  deemed 
known  only  to  God  and  to  myself,  I  should  never  have  sum- 
moned up  courage  to  see  a  priest,  and  my  miserable  life  would 
in  all  probability  have  been  terminated  by  a  yet  more  miserable 
death." 

On  the  following  day  Del  Mar  received  the  last  sacraments, 
and  expired  some  hours  later  in  excellent  dispositions,  having  re- 
peatedly made  acts  of  humble  contrition  and  complete  resigna- 
tion to  the  will  of  God.  The  last  words  he  was  heard  to  utter 
were,  Jesus,  pardon !  Mary,  help  !  And  may  we  not  feel  assured 


1 886.]        CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.  783 

that  when  he  passed  into  the  presence  of  his  Judge  the  sentence 
pronounced  on  him  was  a  merciful  one? 

I  saw  hitiilaid  in  his  lonely  grave,  and  as  I  turned  away  from 
the  cemetery  I  no  longer  asked  myself  for  what  end  I  had  be- 
held the  mysterious  apparition.  No  longer  did  I  exclaim,  Cui 
bono  f  for  I  had  found  the  key  to  the  enigma,  and  my  oft-repeat- 
ed question  was  answered  at  last. 


CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS. 

THE  friendships  among  mankind  are  themes  for  frequent 
thoughtful  speculation.  The  needs  and  obligations  of  other  re- 
lations in  this  life  are  of  sufficiently  easy  understanding  and  ex- 
position. It  is  not  so  with  friendships.  The  subtlety  of  their 
essence,  the  absence  of  regularity  in  their  formation,  the  varieties 
among  the  strains  that  they  will  endure,  have  seemed  ever  to 
hinder  their  reduction  to  ascertained  terms.  Husbands  and 
wives,  parents  and  children,  brothers,  sisters,  and  other  kindred, 
colleagues  in  whatever  department  of  endeavor,  magistrate  and 
private  citizen,  clergy  and  laity — all  know  well  what  these  owe 
among  one  another.  But  who  shall  say  the  same  of  friends  ? 
The  poets  and  the  philosophers  have  said  some  beautiful  things 
and  some  contemptuous,  and  all  maintain  that  perfect  friendships 
are  most  rare.  "  Rarum  genus  !  "  exclaimed  Cicero.  Said  Lilly 
in  Endymion  : 

"  Friendship  !  of  all  things  the 
Most  rare,  and  therefore  most  rare  because  most 
Excellent." 

So  nigh  is  friendship  akin  to  love  that  the  Greeks,  and  after 
them  the  Romans,  gave  to  it  a  name  derived  from  that  dear 
word.  English-speaking  people  have  done  differently,  but  nei- 
ther can  they,  any  more  than  could  the  ancients,  define  the  boun- 
dary between  the  two. 

There  is  something  quite  interesting  in  reflections  upon  the 
few  friendships  among  eminent  persons  that  have  been  handed 
down  through  the  literatures  of  the  ages.  Curious  illustrations 
some  of  them  are.  Take  that  of  Orestes  and  Pylades,  exhibited 
by  their  becoming  principal  and  accessory  to  the  murder  of  the 
mother  of  the  one  and  the  aunt  of  the  other,  the  accessory  re- 


784  CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.       [Mar., 

warded  for  his  part  with  the  hand  of  another  parricide,  Electra, 
the  tale  of  whose  sufferings  makes  up  one  of  the  greatest  essays 
of  the  tragic  muse. 

Then  Theseus  and  Pirithous.  The  history  of  the  friendship 
of  these  two  heroes  affords  somewhat  of  humor,  grim  though  it 
be.  Plutarch,  after  an  account  of  the  help  rendered  by  the  for- 
mer to  Adrastus  of  Thebes,  thus  proceeds  : 

"  The  friendship  of  Theseus  and  Pirithous  is  said  to  have  commenced  on 
this  occasion.  Theseus  being  much  celebrated  for  his  strength  and  valor, 
Pirithous  was  desirous  to  prove  it,  and  therefore  drove  away  his  oxen  from 
Marathon.  When  he  heard  that  Theseus  pursued  him  in  arms  he  did  not 
fly,  but  turned  back  to  meet  him.  But  as  soon  as  they  beheld  one  another 
each  was  so  struck  with  admiration  of  the  other's  person  and  courage  that 
they  laid  aside  all  thoughts  of  fighting  ;  and  Pirithous,  first  giving  Theseus 
his  hand,  bade  him  be  judge  in  this  cause  himself,  and  he  would  willingly 
abide  by  his  sentence.  Theseus  in  his  turn  left  the  cause  to  him  and  de- 
sired him  to  be  his  friend  and  fellow-warrior.  Then  they  confirmed  their 
friendship  with  an  oath." 

This  reminds  us  somewhat  of  the  inception  of  the  alliance 
between  Robin  Hood  and  Little  John.  The  historian  does  not 
record  whether  or  not  the  oxen  were  restored,  but  we  conclude 
that  perhaps  the  robbery  was  treated  as  a  harmless  practical 
joke,  and  that  both  were  thankful  for  the  happy  result  to  which 
it  had  led. 

We  are  not  informed  as  to  the  age  of  the  king  of  the  Lapithae 
at  the  beginning  of  the  confederate  achievements  of  these  dis- 
tinguished cronies  ;  but  Theseus  was  now  fifty  years  old,  and 
seemed  to  have  lost  no  part  of  the  ardor  which  had  been  wont 
to  impel  him  to  the  obtaining  of  wives  by  conquest  and  rape, 
although  now  foreseeing  that  he  must  wait  some  years  longer 
for  the  fruition  of  his  next  endeavor.  His  comrade  also,  what- 
ever may  have  been  the  number  of  his  years  and  of  his  wives, 
was  equally  impressed  by  the  infantile  beauty  that  had  capti- 
vated the  veteran  lover.  Let  us  hear  Plutarch  again  : 

"  The  two  friends  went  together  to  Sparta,  and,  having  seen  the  girl 
(Helen,  then  nine  years  old)  dancing  in  the  temple  of  Diana  Orthia,  carried 
her  off  and  fled.  The  pursuers  that  were  sent  after  them  following  no 
further  than  Tegea,  they  thought  themselves  secure,  and,  having  traversed 
Peloponnesus,  they  entered  into  an  agreement  that  he  who  should  gain 
Helen  by  lot  should  have  her  to  wife,  but  be  obliged  to  assist  in  providing 
a  wife  for  the  other.  In  consequence  of  these  terms,  the  lots  being  cast, 
she  fell  to  Theseus,  who  received  the  virgin  and  conveyed  her,  as  she  was 
not  yet  marriageable,  to  Aphidnae.  Here  he  placed  his  mother  with  her 
and  committed  them  to  the  care  of  his  friend  Aphidnus,  charging  him  to 


i886.]        CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.  785 

keep  them  with  the  utmost  secrecy  and  safety;  whilst,  to  pay  his  debt  of 
service  to  Pirithous,  himself  travelled  with  him  into  Epirus,  with  a  view  to 
the  daughter  of  Aidoneus,  king  of  the  Molossians.  This  prince  named  his 
wife  Proserpine,  his  daughter  Core,  and  his  dog  Cerberus.  With  this  dog  he 
commanded  all  his  daughter's  suitors  to  fight,  promising  her  to  him  who 
should  overcome  him.  But  understanding  that  Pirithous  came  not  with 
an  intention  to  court  his  daughter,  but  to  carry  her  off  by  force,  he  seized 
both  him  and  his  friend,  destroyed  Pirithous  immediately  by  means  of  his 
dog,  and  shut  up  Theseus  in  close  prison." 

These  and  similar  friendships  among  the  great  doubtless  were 
in  the  mind  of  Addison  when  (in  Cato)  he  wrote : 

"The  friendships  of  the  world  are  oft 
Confederacies  in  vice,  or  leagues  of  pleasure." 

The  last  was  indeed  costly  to  both  ;  for  Theseus,  though  deliv- 
ered from  prison  by  Hercules,  was  destined  for  his  baleful  work, 
confederate  and  single,  to  be  cast  down  the  Scyrian  promontory  ; 
and  Virgil  represents  him  afterwards  in  Tartarus,  ever  repeating 
to  the  shades  therein  the  admonitory  words, 

"Discite  justitiam  moniti,  et  non  temnere  divos." 

As  for  the  friendship  of  Damon  and  Pythias,  its  story  would 
seem  to  have  been  handed  down  for  the  purpose  mainly  of  il- 
lustrating how  rarely,  under  the  government  of  such  a  prince 
as  Dionysius,  can  exist  a  friendship  which  is  very  common  in 
modern  times,  particularly  among  free  peoples,  wherein  on  every 
business-day  in  every  year  men  become  sureties  for  the  perform- 
ance of  the  most  difficult  obligations  and  abiding  by  the  most 
stringent  penalties,  not  only  in  behalf  of  friends,  but  of  others 
whom  they  believe  to  have  the  sense  of  honor  which  alone  is 
necessary  to  save  from  losses.  The  return  of  Damon  did  indeed 
operate  as  a  surprise  upon  the  despot,  so  great  as  to  induce  a 
solicitation  to  be  admitted  into  a  friendship  so  far  beyond  all  his 
notions  of  what  was  possible  to  humanity. 

We  cannot  be  too  thankful  for  the  account  given  by  Cicero 
of  the  friendship  of  Scipio  and  Laslius.  Not  that  we  have  been 
made  familiar  with  any  special  incidents  of  their  mutual  render- 
ing of  services.  Yet  in  the  mouth  of  the  less  eminent  of  these 
two  were  put  some  of  the  sweetest  words  that  were  ever  spoken. 
In  this  treatise  (De  Amicitid]  may  be  seen,  we  think,  the  justice  of 
what  was  said  in  the  beginning  of  this  article  about  the  subtlety 
that  makes  any  definite  exposition  concerning  friendship  impossi- 
ble. We  know  not  what  depth  of  sorrow  had  been  felt  by  the 
VOL.  XLII. — 50 


786  CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.       [Mar., 

survivor  when  death,  in  circumstances  of  special  horror,  took  from 
his  embrace  the  beloved  companion  in  military  and  civic  achieve- 
ments ;  but  his  absence  shortly  afterwards  from  the  college  of 
augurs  in  the  gardens  of  Decius  Brutus  was  found  to  have  been 
attributed  erroneously  to  his  indulgence  of  grief  instead  of  being 
detained  at  home  by  sickness.  We  are  led  by  Cicero,  who  lets 
him  discourse  upon  the  subject  with  his  sons-in-law,  to  notice 
how  different  is  friendship  from  love,  how  far  below  it,  indeed,  if 
measured  by  the  feelings  that  arise  when  lovers  have  seen  their 
best  beloved  depart  from  this  life.  "  Moveor"  calmly  said  the 
survivor,  "  sed  non  egeo  medicina"  Indeed,  it  appears  that  he  was 
afraid  to  indulge  in  grief  to  any  extent.  "  Mcerere  hoc  ejus  eventu 
vereor  ne  invidi  magis  quam  amid  sit."  All  grief  has  yielded  to 
the  sweetness  mostly  of  remembering  of  what  sort  was  the  illus- 
trious man  whose  companionship  he  had  enjoyed  so  long,  and 
partly  in  speculating  upon  the  exalted  estate  to  which  he  believes 
him  to  have  risen.  It  is  very  entertaining  to  listen  to  such  elo- 
quent discourse  from  one  in  whom  there  seems  no  feeling,  or 
almost  no  feeling,  of  regret,  and  muse  upon  the  reflections  which 
this  disciple  of  the  Stoics  makes  upon  a  relation  that  left  such 
solace  on  its  dissolution,  summing  up  with  the  conclusion  that 
friendship — friendship  that  is  to  endure  throughout  life  (than 
which  nothing  is  more  difficult  or  more  rare) — can  obtain  only 
among  the  good.  Such  had  been  the  friendship  of  ^Emilius  and 
Luscinius,  of  Curius  and  Coruncanius.  Yet  what  shall  we  say 
of  the  instance  given,  though  with  lofty  indignation,  of  Blossius 
Cumanus  and  Tiberius  Gracchus,  which  survived  the  tomb,  and 
was  avowed  by  the  survivor  when  pleading  for  money  before 
the  consuls,  Lasnas  and  Rupilius,  before  whom  he  declared  that 
such  had  been  his  affection  for  the  great  tribune  that  if  the  latter 
had  asked  him  to  put  the  torch  to  the  Capitol  he  would  have 
complied?  "  Videtis  quam  nefaria  vox!"  exclaimed  the  aged 
patriot.  Yet  the  instance  disproved  his  theory. 

Here  it  seems  apposite  to  remark  that  those  friendships  that 
have  become  historic  have  subsisted  for  the  greater  part  between 
men  who  were  not  equals,  and  that  the  warmth  of  their  devotion 
has  been  in  inverse  ratio  to  the  inequality.  But  for  Theseus  we 
might  never  have  heard  of  Pirithous.  Yet  it  was  the  latter  who 
took  the  initiative  in  that  famous  alliance  ;  and  we  know  too 
much  of  the  temper  of  him  who  had  vanquished  the  Minotaur, 
the  Bull  of  Marathon,  and  the  Centaurs  to  be  in  much  doubt 
how  he  would  have  behaved  had  the  Spartan  princess  fallen  to 
the  other's  lot.  So  of  Pylades,  in  whom  the  fierce  blood  of  the 


1 886.]        CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.  787 

Atridas  had  been  mingled  with  the  unwarlike  of  the  Phocian. 
He  became  never  the  leader,  but  was  ever  the  follower,  both  in 
the  assassination  of  Clytemnestra  and  the  expedition  into  Taurica 
Chersonesus.  So  of  Pythias,  whose  name,  it  is  probable,  would 
never  have  been  transmitted  but  for  his  standing  bail  for  the  dis- 
tinguished disciple  of  Pythagoras.  Even  of  Lselius  the  most  of 
what  we  know  is  from  the  pen  of  the  great  orator  who,  in  his 
name,  put  forth  that  splendid  panegyric.  In  this  his  sense  of 
inferiority  is  apparent  in  the  praise  he  bestowed,  and  a  pardon- 
able  pride  in  having  enjoyed  the  friendship  of  such  a  man,  the 
recollection  of  which  subdued  most  of  the  grief  at  his  death.  It 
was  exquisite  tact,  the  selection  of  the  lesser  but  more  devoted 
friend.  We  cannot  but  suspect  that  in  the  other  case  the  most 
eloquent  words  in  the  discourse  would  have  been  employed  upon 
his  own  and  the  renowned  deeds  of  the  rest  of  the  Scipios. 

The  same  may  be  said,  and  with  greater  fitness,  of  the  friend- 
ship of  David  and  Jonathan.  The  initiative  is  from  the  inferior. 
Not  all  of  the  prophetic  gift  imparted  by  tasting  the  honey-comb 
at  Beth-aven  had  been  lost,  and  in  the  stripling  holding  in  his 
hand  the  Philistine's  head  he  recognized  a  rising  star  before 
which  his  father's  would  disappear.  Most  pathetic  is  the  history 
of  this  friendship,  beginning  at  first  sight : 

"And  Saul  said  to  him,  Whose  son  art  thou, thou  young  man?  And 
David  answered,  I  am  the  son  of  thy  servant,  Jesse  the  Beth-lehemite. 

"  And  it  came  to  pass,  when  he  had  made  an  end  of  speaking  unto  Saul, 
that  the  soul  of  Jonathan  was  knit  with  the  soul  of  David,  and  Jonathan 
loved  him  as  his  own  soul. 

"Then  Jonathan  and  David  made  a  covenant,  because  he  loved  him  as 
his  own  soul." 

It  is  touching  to  consider  the  ministrations  in  this  alliance, 
all  on  the  part  of  the  inferior,  the  melancholy  Jonathan.  Pur- 
sued by  the  frightened  jealousy  of  the  king,  David  flees  from 
Ramah  to  the  faithful  prince,  by  whom  he  is  hidden  in  the  field. 
Even  here  protection  is  bespoke  for  himself  and  his  house  when 
the  fugitive,  his  enemies  being  overcome,  shall  rise  to  the  king- 
dom : 

"  And  thou  shalt  not  only  while  yet  I  live  show  me  the  kindness  of  the 
Lord,  that  I  die  not : 

"  But  also  thou  shalt  not  cut  off  thy  kindness  from  my  house  for  ever  ; 
no,  not  when  the  Lord  hath  cut  off  the  enemies  of  David  every  one  of 
them  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

"  So  Jonathan  made  a  covenant  with  the  house  of  David,  saying,  Let 
the  Lord  even  require  it  at  the  hand  of  David's  enemies. 


;88  CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.        [Mar., 

"  And  Jonathan  caused  David  to  swear  again,  because  he  loved  him  as 
he  loved  his  own  soul." 

Once,  and  once  only,  is  it  recorded  that  the  feeling  of  David 
was  the  stronger.  Yet  even  this  may  be  attributed  to  gratitude 
for  his  rescue  more  than  response  to  the  love  that  at  such  risk 
had  been  expended  upon  him  : 

"  And  as  soon  as  the  lad  was  gone,  David  arose  out  of  a  place  towards  the 
south,  and  fell  on  his  face  to  the  ground,  and  bowed  himself  three  times  : 
and  they  kissed  one  another,  and  wept  one  with  another,  until  David  ex- 
ceeded. 

"And  Jonathan  said  to  David,  Go  in  peace,  forasmuch  as  we  have 
sworn  both  of  us  in  the  name  of  the  Lord,  saying,  The  Lord  be  between 
me  and  thee,  and  between  my  seed  and  thy  seed  for  ever. 

"  And  he  arose  and  departed  and  Jonathan  went  into  the  city." 

Yet  another  service  and  another  reminder  are  made  in  the 
wilderness  of  Ziph  : 

"And  Jonathan,  Saul's  son,  arose  and  went  to  David  in  the  wilderness, 
and  strengthened  his  hand  in  God. 

"  And  he  said  unto  him,  Fear  not :  for  the  hand  of  Saul  my  father  shall 
not  find  thee ;  and  thou  shalt  be  king  over  Israel,  and  I  shall  be  next  unto 
thee:  and  that  also  Saul  my  father  knoweth. 

"And  they  two  made  a  covenant  before  the  Lord  ;  and  David  abode  in 
the  wood,  and  Jonathan  went  to  his  house." 

It  was  a  merciful  subdual  of  the  prophetic  inspiration  of 
Jonathan  when,  always  sad  but  ever  hoping,  he  fondly  dreamed 
of  becoming  second  to  the  loved  of  his  soul  in  the  coming  king- 
dom. Beautiful  was  the  song  of  the  royal  poet  over  the  bodies 
of  father  and  son  at  Gilboa ;  but  there  is  no  noticeable  difference 
in  the  sorrow  he  felt  for  both  over  the  praises  he  bestowed : 

"  From  the  blood  of  the  slain,  from  the  fat  of  the  mighty,  the  bow  of 
Jonathan  turned  not  back,  and  the  sword  of  Saul  returned  not  empty. 

"  Saul  and  Jonathan  were  lovely  in  their  lives,  and  in  death  they  were 
not  divided  :  they  were  swifter  than  eagles,  they  were  stronger  than  lions. 

"  Ye  daughters  of  Israel,  weep  over  Saul,  who  clothed  you  in  scarlet, 
with  other  delights,  who  put  on  ornaments  of  gold  upon  your  apparel. 

"How  are  the  mighty  fallen  in  the  midst  of  the  battle.  O  Jonathan  ! 
thou  wast  slain  in  thine  high  places. 

"  I  am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother  Jonathan  :  very  pleasant  hast 
thou  been  unto  me :  thy  love  to  me  was  wonderful,  passing  the  love  of 
woman. 

"  How  are  the  mighty  fallen,  and  the  weapons  of  war  perished  ! " 

A  beautiful  song.      Amid   high-sounding  strains  of  lament  for 


1 886.]        CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.  789 

the  fall  of  the  powerful  is  interluded  one,  tender  and  brief,  for 
the  friend,  not  so  much  for  the  sake  of  the  survivor's  love  as  of 
that  of  the  dead,  which  was  passing  the  love  of  woman.  It  is 
the  most  interesting  in  all  the  annals  of  friendship,  and,  like  most 
others,  whether  among  the  powerful  vor  the  lowly,  the  wise  or 
the  simple,  its  incipiency  and  its  preponderance  of  fondness  were 
with  the  one  whose  capacities  were  the  least  for  every  purpose 
except  that  of  ever-abiding  affection  and  unalterable  faithfulness 
to  its  behests. 

In  other  historic  though  less  noted  friendships,  as  that  be- 
tween Sts.  Cuthbert  and  Herbert,  and  that  between  Xystus 
II.  and  St.  Lawrence,  may  be  seen  also  the  greater  devotion  of 
the  lesser  friend.  The  humble  monk  of  Derwentwater  besought 
the  great  bishop  of  Lindisfarne  to  obtain  for  him  the  felicity  of 
dying  at  the  same  hour  with  him,  and  the  request  was  kindly 
granted.  So  the  poor  deacon,  following  behind  the  great  pontiff 
as  he  was  led  to  execution,  put  forth  a  similar  request ;  and  his 
lamentation  was  subdued  when  assured  that  after  three  days 
more,  to  be  spent  in  distributing  among  the  poor  the  treasures 
of  the  church,  he  should  get  also  his  crown  of  martyrdom  and 
rejoin  his  beloved  in  a  better  world. 

Other  thoughts  come  to  the  mind  while  reflecting  upon  these 
and  the  common  friendships  of  the  world.  There  is  among  man- 
kind a  respect  for  friendship  that  may  be  named  almost  unique. 
There  is  no  term  that  indicates  pitifulness  like  "  friendless."  For 
rare  as  may  be  the  friendships  that  are  reasonably  cemented,  and 
that  continue  long  faithful  and  fond,  yet  how  few  so  poor  as  not 
to  have  one  or  more  whom  they  may  justly  call  friends.  To  no 
condition  of  human  life  do  not  friendships  of  some  sort  seem  to 
have  a  necessity  peculiar  to  themselves,  differing  from  and  inde- 
pendent of  that  pertaining  to  other  conditions.  The  possession 
of  wives  and  children,  the  possession  or  pursuit  of  riches,  power, 
and  honor,  seldom  if  ever  are  satisfactory  without  the  added 
possession  of  friends.  The  division  that  friendships  allow  in 
felicities,  the  solace  they  impart  in  miseries,  are  unlike  those  in 
any  other  relation.  Perhaps  causes  of  this  are  their  calmness, 
their  comparative  freedom  from  eagerness — things  that  render 
communion  among  those  who  feel  them,  whether  often  or  seldom 
together,  whether  dwelling  near  or  remote,  so  practicable  and 
even.  The  husband,  to  be  content,  must  live  with  his  wife,  and  a 
parent  among  or  near  his  children.  But  the  dearest  friends  may 
dwell  far  apart,  and  the  pressure  of  life  that  has  separated  them 
alters  not  the  sweetness  of  communions  that  are  only  silent. 


790  CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.        [Mar., 

When  death  comes  to  one,  if  tears  flow  not  as  at  the  departure 
of  those  bound  by  a  more  passionate  feeling-,  the  minds  of  sur- 
vivors are  often  more  true  to  the  memory  of  this  bond  than  to 
some  of  those  which  in  life  were  stronger. 

As  to  the  origin  of  friendship  it  is  useless  to  speculate  ;  so  as 
to  the  occasions  of  its  cementation  ;  so  as  to  the  inherent  fitness 
of  particular  classes  of  persons  for  its  fondest  and  most  faithful 
manifestations.  If  the  loves  between  men  and  women  often  seem 
capricious  or  dependent  upon  accidents,  what  shall  we  say  of  the 
friendships  of  this  life  ?  In  all  this  earth  there  is  nothing  that,  if 
not  accidental,  seems  so  incomprehensibly  capricious.  In  loves 
dissimilarities,  whether  of  person  or  of  mind  and  disposition, 
oftener  than  otherwise  are  what  first  united  them.  The  man 
with  dark  hue  and  eyes  commonly  finds  the  maid  with  the 
blonde  and  blue.  The  maid  light-hearted  and  petite  is  com- 
monly won  by  the  man  lofty  and  saturnine.  In  loves  the  things 
are  sought  which  the  seekers  do  not  already  possess.  It  is  a  law 
like  that  of  lower  nature  which  delights  in  oppositions  or  in 
compositions,  and  will  not  be  content  with  one  of  its  kind  though 
most  excellent.  We  notice  often  how  variant  from  the  leaf  of  a 
tree  is  its  flower,  and  how  variant  from  both  the  fruit.  What 
thousands  of  compositions  dot  every  vernal  landscape  ! 

But  friendships  cannot  be  traced  commonly  either  to  unlike- 
nesses  or  likenesses.  The  unlike  and  the  like  sort  in  circumstan- 
ces that  often  seem  as  accidental  as  the  fall  of  leaves  that  have 
been  lifted  by  the  wind  and  deposited  softly  upon  the  bosoms  of 
others  that  were  brought  by  a  contrary.  As  for  the  dependence 
of  friendships  upon  special  characteristics  of  mind  and  temper, 
and  that  they  cannot  exist  except  among  the  good,  nothing 
seems  more  remote  from  being  facts.  Not  only  do  friendships 
subsist  among  the  bad,  but  they  subsist  between  the  good  and 
the  bad.  There  is  hardly  any  community,  however  small,  where- 
in friendships  of  greater  or  less  intensity  are  not  found  that 
seem  most  incongruous;  wherein  the  conduct,  the  sentiments, 
the  aspirations  of  one  friend  are  unexceptionable,  and  those  of 
the  other,  if  not  degraded,  seem  to  be  ever  tending  downwards. 
What  is  yet  more  curious  among  such  is  that  the  example  of  one 
has  seldom  appeared  to  have  been  salutary,  nor  that  of  the  other 
pernicious.  There  may  be  reprimands  frequent  and  earnest,  and 
acceptance  of  them,  whether  with  or  without  resentment,  cer- 
tainly without  amendment;  yet  alliances  continue  to  subsist,  if 
seldom  offensive,  at  least  always  defensive,  and  the  one  with  all 
his  virtuous  conduct,  sentiments,  and  aspirations  will  risk  all  he 


1 8 86.]        CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.  791 

values  most  highly  in  public  opinion  to  defend  his  comrade  and 
rescue  him  from  punishment  that  he  knows  would  be  just. 

Much  has  been  said  about  the  defence  rendered  by  members 
of  the  bar  to  those  who  have  been  charged  with  crimes  of  vari- 
ous magnitude,  and  the  world  outside  of  courts  has  its  stereo- 
typed words  of  condemnation  for  conduct  seeming  to  them  in- 
consistent with  the  conservatism  of  tranquillity,  honor,  and  re- 
spect for  law  for  which  men  of  this  profession  ought  to  be  par- 
ticularly distinguished.  Yet  among  these  brave,  ardent,  persis- 
tent defences  one  may  often  see  what  is  only  a  discharge  of  what 
is  felt  to  be  a  behest  of  friendship  of  more  or  less  affectionateness, 
whose  risks  and  sacrifices  are  the  greater  as  the  danger  is  more 
threatening  and  public  hostility  and  prosecution  more  exacer- 
bated. For  even  the  felon  when  arrested  seeks  aid,  not  always 
from  counsel  who  are  most  distinguished,  but  rather  from  him 
whom  he  knows  and  likes  most,  on  whose  reciprocation  of  his 
good- will  he  relies  for  successful  rendering  of  the  service  he  so 
sorely  needs  more  trustingly  than  he  would  rely  upon  the  supe- 
rior adroitness  and  eloquence  of  the  greatest  advocate. 

As  to  the  rarity  of  friendships  asserted  by  the  good  Laelius, 
he  was  referring,  of  course,  to  such  as  that  which  marked  the 
companionship  of  himself  with  the  illustrious  man  whose  de- 
parture he  contemplated  with  feelings  so  calm  and  painless. 
Friendships  may  indeed  be  not  only  rare  but  impossible  when 
the  highest  heights  of  ambition  admit  but  one  among  the  sealers, 
if  only  two  in  number,  to  attain.  The  instance  is  yet  to  be  found 
wherein  of  two  friends,  equal  in  every  particular  and  both  de- 
sirous of  renown,  one  stepped  aside  and  allowed  the  other  to 
plant  his  foot  upon  the  acme  of  public  honors.  But  there  is  no 
rarity  of  devoted  friendships  among  the  multitudes — friendships 
that  delight  in  services  that  it  is  even  sweeter  to  bestow  than  it 
is  to  receive. 

The  poets  have  been  prone  to  lament  the  evanescence  of 
friendships.  But  this  is  rather  from  the  fact  that  their  spirits 
are  tuned  to  a  sensibility  so  high  that  they  set  an  inadequate 
value  on  what  is*  possible  to  the  multitudes  who  are  not  so  fine.ly 
and  tensely  strung.  Their  Iamentati5ns  are  for  the  absence  of 
those  emotions  which  only  spirits  like  them  can  feel,  ethereal 
and  of  some  semblance  to  the  divine.  But  let  any  man  of  ex- 
perience count  up,  if  he  will,  the  number  of  those  which  have 
been  wholly  dissolved  in  the  period  of  his  observations.  How 
few  among  them  have  been  found  grossly  unfaithful !  We  will 
not  say  that  the  friendships  of  human  life  have  been  more  en- 


792  CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.        [Mar,T 

during  in  the  main  than  its  loves,  though  we  are  not  quite  sure 
of  being  wrong  if  we  should.  For  loves,  though  more  ardent, 
are  more  exacting,  and  they  often  lose  all  because  dissatisfied 
and  complaining  of  what  seems  to  them  the  little  they  receive 
compared  with  the  abundance  they  bestow.  Loves  demand  re- 
iterated assurances  and  proofs  which  lovers,  on  the  one  hand, 
sometimes  grow  resentful  for  the  few  they  receive,  and,  on  the 
other,  grow  weary  of  their  repeated  rendering.  -Hence  the  num- 
bers of  the  neglects  of  parents,  of  the  disinheritances  of  children, 
and  especially  of  divorces  of  husbands  and  wives,  that  would  be 
multiplied  ten  thousand-fold  except  partly  for  the  scandal  to  be 
incurred,  partly  for  the  inconveniences  resultant  to  families,  but 
mainly  the  restraining  laws  of  the  church  and  the  state. 

"  A  question  was  started  whether  the  state  of  marriage  was  natural  to 
man.  Johnson — '  Sir,  it  is  so  far  from  being  natural  for  man  to  live  in  a 
state  of  marriage  that  we  find  all  the  motives  which  they  have  for  remain- 
ing in  that  connection,  and  the  restraints  which  civilized  society  imposes 
to  prevent  separation,  are  hardly  sufficient  to  keep  them  together.'  "  * 

These  were  the  words  of  one  of  the  most  loving  and  devoted  of 
husbands,  who  during  the  whole  of  his  widowed  life  mourned 
the  departure  of  the  wife  of  his  bosom. 

On  the  other  hand,  friendships  receive  and  bestow  with  little 
jealousy,  and  some  of  their  dearest  results  follow  services  in 
which  those  who  bestow  are  hardly  conscious  of  the  exertion 
which  they  cost.  It  is  not  often,  we  believe,  that  friendships 
that  have  once  been  fond  are  dissolved,  at  least  to  the  degree  as 
to  become  hostilities.  Such  an  end  shocks  the  minds  even  of 
the  simple  and  humble.  On  the  contrary,  such  friendships  usu- 
ally survive  even  the  tomb,  and  the  affection  felt  by  those  who 
have  departed  are  often  inherited  and  treasured  by  their  children. 
Common  life  abounds  in  them,  and,  though  not  demonstrative, 
self-asserting,  and  exacting  like  loves,  they  impart  to  the  multi- 
fold misfortunes  of  this  lower  life  a  solace  without  which  they 
would  be  far  harder  to  endure.  They  help  to  support  poverty, 
exile,  imprisonment,  the  loss  of  kindred,  youth,  health,  honor, 
name,  even  loves;  and  as  old  wine  is  the  sweeter,  so,  after  the 
lapse  of  long  time,  thoughts  of  them  are  more  comforting  and 
more  fond. 

We  would  not  be  understood  as  maintaining  that  friendship 
is  either  superior  or  equal  to  love ;  for  love  is  undoubtedly  the 

*  Boswell's  Life  of  Dr.  Johnson. 


1 886.]        CELEBRATED  AND  COMMON  FRIENDSHIPS.  793 

supreme  of  all  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart.  It  is  the  very 
exaltation  of  its  supremacy  more  than  all  other  causes  that  gives 
rise  to  the  jealousies  by  which  it  is  often  so  sorely  beset.  To 
these  jealousies  friendship  itself  sometimes  makes  the  incipient  if 
not  controlling-  occasion.  We  remember,  in  Dickens'  Household 
Words,  a  somewhat  blas6  account  of  the  loss  of  one  friend  by  an- 
other after  the  marriage  of  the  former.  "  I  had  an  old  friend  " — 
the  bachelor's  story  about  thus  ran — "  and  he  got  married.  After 
some  time  I  went  to  see  him  and  his  wife.  As  1  entered  the 
room  something  stood  up,  having  on  my  old  friend's  clothes, 
standing  in  his  shoes,  speaking  in  his  voice.  But  it  was  not  my 
old  friend  ;  he  was  gone." 

In  this  instance,  as  in  most  others  of  the  dissolutions  of  friend- 
ship, is  to  be  noticed  the  manner  in  which  they  occur.  Sad  as 
they  may  be  to  all  parties,  they  are  seldom  accompanied  by  vio- 
lence, and  more  seldom  are  succeeded  by  enmities.  Such  friend- 
ships commonly  subside^beneath  the  pressure  of  life,  that  substi- 
tutes other  ties  in  their  stead,  and,  instead  of  being  rudely  cast 
aside,  become  only  obsolete.  "  Sunt  remissions  usus  elucndc?"  as 
the  elder  Cato  used  to  say,  "  dissuendce  magis  quam  discindendce" 
Whereas  loves  when  dissolved  are  dissolved  for  the  most  part 
abruptly,  if  not  with  anger  and  violence  ;  hearts  once  beating  in 
happy  unison  are  torn  and  bleeding,  and  if  hate  does  not  suc- 
ceed it  is  mainly  because  pride  or  pious  submission  keeps  it 
away. 

Loves  and  friendships — happy  they  who  may  claim,  or  who 
may  believe  they  can  claim,  to  have  both,  genuine  and  constant. 
Not  all  are  blessed  with  the  greater ;  but  the  less  hardly  any  is 
so  poor  as  to  be  wholly  without. 


794  "ENGLISH  HOBBES!  " — "IRISH  D OGGES  /"  [Mar., 


"ENGLISH  HOBBES!"— "  IRISH  DOGGES  !  " 

i. 

THE  taunts  one  race  casts  upon  another  are  very  often  based 
on  something  in  itself  most  praiseworthy.  What  one  nation 
cannot  forgive  in  another  is  a  virtue,  or  an  article  of  superior 
value  ;  such  is  generally  selected  for  an  insult.  The  strong  ani- 
mal powers  of  the  English  are  construed  by  the  French  as  a 
reproach  ;  the  latter  dwell  on  British  coarseness  in  the  man,  and 
the  bony  framework  and  large  teeth  in  the  woman.  The  delicate 
cookery,  grace,  and  light-heartedness  of  the  French  have  furnish- 
ed English  literature  with  an  endless  vista  of  sneers.  At  one 
period  the  common  name  for  Welshmen  was  crogans,  possibly 
because  the  poorer  sort  ate  in  messes  from  a  crock,  as,  in  the 
Anglo-Saxon  laws,  certain  knots  of  men  called  potwealleras  appear 
to  have  been  so  termed  because  they  belonged  to  one  fire  and 
boiled  their  food  in  one  pot.  The  famous  Statutes  of  Kilkenny, 
after  enacting  various  penalties  against  those  who  imitated  or 
had  dealings  with  the  Gaelic  Irish,  ordained  that  differences 
should  not  be  made  between  English  born  in  England  and  Eng- 
lish born  in  Ireland  by  calling  the  former  "  English  Hobbes,"  or 
clowns,  and  the  latter  "  Irish  Dogges."  The  term  of  contempt 
used  by  the  Irish  meant  an  elf,  or  oaf,  a  loutish  field-hand  or 
laborer  ;  yet  the  typical  Saxon  who  did  more  to  win,  hold,  and 
exploit  Britain  than  any  other  was  the  small  farmer,  who  in  edu- 
cation and  character  came  nearest  to  the  man  called  a  hobbe 
and  later  "  Hodge."  In  Ireland  the  word  hobbe  was  also  em- 
ployed for  a  small,  cheap  horse  such  as  farming  folk  raise  and 
use  ;  and  the  term  was  naturally  opposed  as  an  inferior  to  the 
highly.-bred  animal.  That  the  helpful  rustic  sprite,  the  laborer 
and  the  beast,  for  all  of  whom  and  of  which  the  term  was  in  use, 
were  unfit  for  sneering  allusions  signified  nothing  to  the  time 
and  people.  Reiteration  makes  a  taunt  hateful,  whether  it  have 
a  meaning  or  not.  The  only  escape  is  to  accept  it  as  an  honor, 
as  the  Flemish  nobles  did  the  Spanish  insult  of  "  beggars,"  and 
as  in  England  and  Ireland  the  words  Tory,  Whig,  and  Radical 
have  been  assumed  by  those  who  were  called  so  in  scorn.  The 
English  sneer  against  the  Irish  was  something  more  than  it  looks 
on  the  surface.  It  was  meant  to  wound  much  more  than  we 


1 886.]  "ENGLISH  HOBBES!  "—"IRISH  DOGGESl  "  79$ 

imagine  who  consider  that  to  call  a  man  a  dog  is  never  a  grievous 
matter,  and  sometimes — as  a  "sad  dog "*— is  half  a  compliment. 
There  was  some  national  insult  underlying  the  term,  when  applied 
to  an  Irishman,  which  relieved  it  from  commonplace  as  a  term 
of  disdain.  The  Irish  were  still  largely  given  to  hunting  and 
the  raising  of  cattle.  Moreover,  their  old  literature,  which  was 
in  full  vogue,  and  at  that  period  undergoing  a  rejuvenescence, 
contained  many  allusions  to  that  noble  dog,  the  staghound  : 

*'  Do  bi  Sgedlan  a's  Bran  ar  eill 
og  Fionn  reid  iona  thoid." 

"  Sgeolan  and  Bran  were  leashed 
In  mild  Fionn's  hand  " — 

"and  each  of  the  Fionna  had  his  own  hound  and  our  sweet- 
tongued  dogs  in  full  cry,"  is  John  O'Daly's  paraphrase  of  one 
of  Oisin's  hunting  ballads  as  chanted  by  that  pagan  hero  to  St. 
Patrick.  Other  famous  hounds  are  plenty  ;  such  were  Buadhach 
Mor  and  Ablach  Og,  let  slip  at  the  chase  of  Sleeve  Truim  by 
Oisin  himself ;  and  Uacht  Ar  and  Ard  na  Feirb,  by  Mac  Brea- 
sail.  The  name  of  Oscar's  deerhound  was  Mac  an  Truim,  and 
Gaol's  was  Leim  ar  Luth ;  Garraidh  unleashed  three — Fearan 
and  Foghar  and  Maoin.  Other  names  of  beasts  fit  to  pull  down 
boar  and  stag  are  Coingiol,  Gruaim,  Aircis,  Raon,  Coir  the 
Black,  and  White  Dealbh.  In  the  Book  of  Rights  Aedha,  the 
King  of  Conail,  is  entitled  to  women,  bondmen,  drinking-horns 
(cuirri),  swords,  "  and  three  hounds  for  his  forest  hunting-shed." 
Various  breeds  of  dogs  from  Great  Britain  and  Ireland  have 
been  celebrated  in  Europe  from  as  early  an  epoch  as  there  is 
record  in  the  annals  and  tradkions  of  classic  nations,  and  to  the 
present  day  the  fleetest  coursers  of  the  hare  are  Irish.  At  the 
time  that  the  eastern  parts  of  Ireland  were  settled  by  the  Nor- 
man-Welsh the  dog  was  still  an  animal  of  the  first  importance 
in  native  eyes.  It  was  like  the  horse  to  the  Arab.  Perhaps  it 
marked  a  difference  from  the  natives  that  the  Ostmen  of  Dublin, 
turbulent  vassals  of  those  kings  of  Ireland  who  could  maintain  a 
claim  to  be  Ard-righ,  buried  with  the  body  of  their  suzerain, 
Donogh  Mac  Murragh,  King  of  Leinster,  after  they  had  treach- 
erously murdered  him,  the  carcass  of  a  dog.  This  was  just  be- 
fore Dermod,  his  son,  invited  over  the  Norman- Welsh  with  the 
ambiguous  permission  of  Henry  II.  In  1335,  so  a  document 
proves,  Edward  III.  was  in  the  habit  of  importing  hawks  and 
greyhounds  from  Ireland.  Their  own  contempt  for  the  dog — 


796  "ENGLISH  HOBBES!  "— "IRISH  DOGGES !  "          [Mar., 

which,  as  we  shall  see,  was  Christian  in  its  origin — and  the  oc- 
currence of  boasts  about  their  hounds  uttered  by  the  native 
party,  must  have  given  the  English  colonists  and  their  partisans 
the  occasion  to  use  "  dogge  "  as  a  doubly  bitter  term  of  con- 
tempt. On  the  one  hand,  moreover,  the  status  of  the  dog  had 
fallen  from  its  position  among  their  own  remote  ancestors  of 
Germany  and  northern  Gaul ;  on  the  other,  the  hostile  Irish 
chieftains  of  their  own  epoch,  as  well  as  legendary  heroes  of  the 
latter,  were  apt  to  have  "  dog  "  in  their  names.  The  doughty 
Johan  de  Courci  (A.D.  1177)  warred  against  a  Mac  Duinnshleibhe 
(Dunlevy)  who  was  called  Cu  Uladh,  war-dog  of  Ulster — a  name 
he  lived  up  to  by  worrying  the  invaders  in  many  a  hard-fought 
round.  Another  Cu  Uladh  (O'Morna)  is  mentioned  by  the  Four 
Masters  under  A.D.  1391  ;  he  was  the  head  of  the  family  Mac 
Giolla  Muire  (Gillimurry,  Gilmer,  Gilmore)  and  chief  over  seve- 
ral tribes.  In  his  metrical  legends  of  the  heroic  age  of  Ireland 
Aubrey  de  Vere  chants  the  magical  and  warlike  deeds  of  the 
being  after  whom  these  chieftains  in  all  probability  were  popu- 
larly named.  He  has  set  in  fine  English  one  of  those  after- 
thoughts by  which  people  evolve  an  anecdote  out  of  a  supposed 
etymology.  Whilst  he  was  yet  a  boy  the  great  national  hero, 
Cuchullain,  is  supposed  to  have  ceased  to  call  himself  Setanta 
and  to  have  assumed  the  name  by  which  he  is  known  in  Irish 
legend : 

"  Next  he  told 

How  to  that  child,  Setanta  first,  there  fell 
Cuchullain's  nobler  name.     '  To  Emain  near 
There  dwelt  an  armorer — Cullain  was  his  name — 
That  earliest  rose,  and  latest  with  his  forge 
Reddened  the  night ;  mail-clad  in  might  of  his 
The  Red  Branch  knights  forth  rode  ;  the  bard,  the  chief 
Claimed  him  for  friend.     One  day,  when  Conor's  self 
Partook  his  feast,  the  armorer  held  discourse  : 
'The  Gods  have  made  my  house  a  house  of  fame  ; 
The  craftsmen  grin  and  grudge  because  I  prosper ; 
The  forest  bandits  hunger  for  my  goods, 
Yea,  and  would  eat  mine  anvil  if  they  might — 
Trow  ye  what  saves  me,  sirs  ?     A  Hound  is  mine  ; 
Each  eve  I  loose  him  ;  lion-like  is  he  ; 
The  blood  of  many  a  rogue  is  on  his  mouth  ; 
The  bravest,  if  they  hear  him  bay  far  off, 
Flee  like  a  deer! '     Setanta's  shout  rang  loud 
That  moment  at  the  gate,  and,  with  it  blent, 
The  baying  of  that  hound  !     '  The  boy  is  dead  ! ' 
King  Conor  cried  in  horror.     Forth  they  rushed — 
There  stood  he,  bright  and  calm,  his  rigid  hands 


1836.]  "ENGLISH  HOBBES  !  "—"IRISH  DOGGES  !  "  797 

Clasping  the  dead  hound's  throat !    They  wept  for  joy ; 
The  armorer  wept  for  grief.     '  My  friend  is  dead  ! 
My  friend  that  kept  my  house  and  me  at  peace  ; 
My  friend  that  loved  his  lord  ! '     Setanta  heard 
Then  first  that  cry  forth  issuing  from  the  heart 
Of  him  whose  labor  wins  his  children's  bread. 
That  cry  he  honors  yet.     Red-cheeked  he  spake  : 
'  Cullain  !  unwittingly  I  did  thee  wrong  ! 
I  make  amends.     I,  child  of  kings,  henceforth 
Abide,  thy  watch-hound,  warder  of  thy  house.' 
Thenceforth  the  Hound  of  Cullain  was  his  name, 
And  Cullain's  house  well  warded." 

The  first  syllable  of  this  name  does  appear  to  mean  dog1.  But 
Cuchullain  does  not  stand  alone  in  the  Keltic  past ;  he  has  been 
connected  with  Sirius,  the  dog-star,  and  also,  like  the  mythical 
Arthur  of  Britain,  with  Arcturus,  the  Great  Bear. 

It  is  painful  to  remember  that  the  hounds  which  were  the 
boast  and  joy  of  the  native  Irish  in  their  life  in  forest  and  hills 
should  have  been  used  to  track  them  when  fugitives  before  the 
merciless  viceroys  of  the  English  kings  and  queens.  Elizabeth, 
cruel  as  she  was  vain,  her  mouth  full  of  godliness  and  her  de- 
spatches urging  the  wholesale  poisoning  of  rebellious  chiefs 
and  their  families,  had  in  the  Earl  of  Essex  a  minion  just  to  her 
mind.  He  is  recorded  to  have  used  packs  of  bloodhounds,  eight 
hundred  in  all,  to  track  the  native  Irish  in  their  fastnesses.  The 
staghounds,  of  which  Sgeolan  and  Bran  are  the  heroic  represen- 
tatives, appear  to  have  descended  from  a  mixture  of  bloodhound 
and  greyhound.  The  bulldog  or  the  mastiff  was  in  the  early 
Christian  centuries  imported  from  Britain  for  use  in  the  arena  at 
Rome.  The  mastiff  was  certainly  known  in  Asia  at  a  very  re- 
mote period,  for  he  is  seen  on  the  Assyrian  bas-reliefs  and  is  still 
found  on  the  Indian  uplands.  But  this  is  enough  to  show  that 
the  dog,  far  from  suggesting  a  degraded  idea  to  the  old  Irish, 
was,  on  the  contrary,  a  beast  of  honor.  It  may  be  safely  ac- 
cepted that  in  a  large  number  of  cases  the  favorite  Old,  Middle, 
and  New  Irish  names,  in  which,  alone  or  combined,  one  sees  Cu, 
Con,  and  Conn,  have  for  their  earliest  meaning  Hound. 

In  this  trait  the  Irish  have  high  classical  precedent,  showing 
once  more  their  nearness  to  the  Greeks.  The  cu,  cuin  of  Irish, 
the  ci,  cyn  of  Welsh,  the  KVGOV,  KVVOS  of  Greek  stand  side  by  side 
rather  than  derive  one  from  the  other.  It  would  be  hard  to 
count  the  Greek  names  having  that  root.  The  brave  Athenian 
at  Marathon  who  held  the  Persian  ship  till  both  hands  were 
chopped  off,  and  then  seized  it  with  his  teeth,  was  fitly  named 


798  "ENGLISH  HOBBES  !  " — "IRISH  DOGGES  !  "  [Mar., 

Kunsegirus,  for  his  pluck  was  like  that  of  a  bulldog.  A  town  in 
Arcadia  was  Kunaethrae  ;  another  in  Locris  of  the  Opuntii,  Kunos  ; 
and  a  suburb  of  Athens,  Kunosarges,  or  White  Dog — a  name  that 
recalls  the  novels  of  Bret  Harte.  The  Kunourii  were  a  tribe  of 
Greece  said  by  Herodotus  to  be  aboriginal.  Kunosoura  was  one 
of  the  nurses  of  the  infant  Jove  on  Cretan  Ida ;  Kuniska  was  a 
daughter  of  Archidamus,  King  of  Sparta,  and  Kuno  was  the 
Greek  rendering  of  the  name  Spaka,  she-dog,  in  Median,  as  the 
herdsman's  wife  was  called  who  brought  up  Cyrus  the  Great. 
As  in  Ireland,  so  among  the  primitive  Greeks,  the  dog  appears  to 
have  been  held  in  enough  esteem  to  give  his  name  to  a  great  many 
persons  of  rank.  Homer  has  honored  him  so  far  as  to  make  of 
the  old  hound  of  Odusseus  by  all  odds  the  most  pathetic  figure 
in  the  Odyssey. 

But  the  dog-name  is  essentially  heathen,  and  wherever  in 
Ireland  we  find  Cu  or  Con  we  may  be  sure,  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten,  that  here  the  Christian  cloak  over  the  pagan  body  lets  the 
old  nakedness  shine  through.  Along  with  Christianity  the  Jew- 
ish reformers  taught  the  Greeks  and  Romans  many  national  pre- 
judices. Five  centuries  later  they  influenced  the  Arabs  still 
more  strongly  against  the  dog,  that  indispensable  comrade  of  the 
wandering  tribes,  that  most  faithful  cousin  to  the  most  treacher- 
ous beast,  the  wolf.  Why  the  Jews  hated  the  dog  may  be  guess- 
ed when  we  look  to  the  land  where  they  waxed  populous  and 
strong,  and  which  they  plundered  of  jewels  and  portable  pro- 
perty when  they  left.  Near  their  own  towns  during  the  stay  in 
Egypt  was  Kunopolis,  as  the  Greeks  called  it,  the  Anup  of  the 
Egyptians,  a  great  temple-city,  in  which  the  river  Nile  was  wor- 
shipped under  the  form  of  Anubis,  the  dog  or  jackal-headed 
genius,  whose  constellation  was  the  dog-star.  The  Mosaic  laws 
register  the  Hebrew  loathing  for  that  degraded  worship.  Hence, 
for  the  next  sixty  centuries  or  so  dog  has  remained  a  term  of 
reviling  in  the  Hebrew,  Christian,  and  Mohammedan  worlds  ;  any 
cruelty  practised  toward  a  domestic,  in  his  forgiveness  of  inju- 
ries more  Christian  than  the  Christians  themselves,  has  had  war- 
rant and  excuse  ever  since ;  and  this  winter  has  seen  in  the  United 
States  a  panic  regarding  that  mysterious  disease,  hydrophobia, 
which  is  doing  the  greatest  injustice  to  a  noble  beast. 


II. 

Places  and  persons  in  the  East  and  in  eastern  Europe  have  this 
allusion  to  the  dog.     Western  Europe  is  not  different.     Westward 


1 886.]         "ENGLISH  HOB BE s  /  "—"IRISH  DOGGES!  "  799 

of  the  Straits  of  Hercules,  says  Polybius,  dwell  the  Konii.  The 
most  western  inhabitants  of  Europe,  says  Herodotus,  living  beyond 
the  Keltoi,  are  the  Kynesii :  "These  Keltoi  are  found  beyond 
the  Columns  of  Hercules  ;  they  border  on  the  Kynnesians,  the 
most  remote  of  all  the  nations  who  inhabit  the  western  parts  of 
Europe."  Do  not  these  indications  point  to  a  nation  of  shep- 
herds in  western  Spain,  Ireland,  and  Britain  who  held  the  dog 
in  so  much  regard  that  they  called  themselves  after  him,  as  clans 
among  the  Indians  are  named  after  a  favorite  animal?  Only 
partly  Keltic,  in  fact,  the  report  of  their  existence  would  come 
to  Greek  ears  through  Greco-Kelts  ;  we  may  suppose  them  to 
have  reached  the  stage  of  development  when,  out  of  the  conflict- 
ing clans  bearing  the  names  of  various  beasts,  that  called  the  Dog 
had  become  the  master  and  given  its  name  to  the  nation.  In 
Caesar's  time  the  hare,  cock,  and  duck  were  taboo  in  Britain,  point- 
ing to  the  existence  of  clans  bearing  those  names.  For  we  find  in 
races  where  the  clan-system  is  most  primitive  that  the  members 
of  a  given  clan,  named  after  an  animal,  dare  not  kill  it.  We 
know  that  the  Cimbri — that  people  which  form  a  bone  of  conten- 
tion as  to  their  nationality  between  snarling  archaeologists — kept 
war-dogs  as  a  part  of  their  military  system  ;  these  and  the  brav- 
est of  the  women  would  defend  the  wagon-forts  which  were  the 
last  refuge  of  that  extraordinary  roving  race.  Odd,  that  Cimber 
should  contain  once  more  that  little,  almost  changeless,  root  kin, 
root  of  the  living  Welsh  name  for  dog,  which  only  suffered  be- 
fore the  following  b  the  common  change  into  m  !  Greeks  and 
Romans  record  as  singular  that  the  Kelts  used  dogs  in  war,  but 
their  own  ancestors  did  the  like :  Corinth  was  fabled  to  have 
been  saved  from  sacking  by  fifty  trained  war-dogs,  and  in  certain 
attacks  on  the  Gauls  mentioned  by  Strabo  bloodhounds  were 
used.  So  that  when  Shakspere  wrote  this  for  Antony  to  utter, 

"  Cry  '  Havoc  ! '  and  let  slip  the  dogs  of  war," 

the  figurative  and  poetical  phrase  was  hardly  removed  from  the 
solid  ground  of  daily  fact.  War-dogs — that  is,  bloodhounds — 
were  in  that  year  employed  in  Ireland  and  Scotland  to  hound  the 
men  who  refused  to  be  dragooned  into  Protestants  or  acknowledge 
the  right  of  their  recreant  nobles  to  sell  them  to  the  English  gov- 
ernment. The  grimness  of  this  scene  may  be  contrasted  with 
the  amusements  of  the  great  O'Connell  two  centuries  and  a  half 
later.  It  was  with  a  pack  of  hounds,  not  bloodhounds  but  their 
dwarfed  descendants,  that  O'Connell  used  to  beguile  his  win- 
ter hours — a  pack  of  little  beagles  not  more  than  ten  inches 


800  "ENGLISH  HOBBES!  "— "IRISH  DOGGES!  "  [Mar. 

high.  They  represented  well  enough  the  gradual  shrinkage  of 
Ireland's  forests  and  game.  To-day  we  learn  that  even  fox- 
hunting is  likely  to  receive  its  death-blow  at  the  hands  of  the 
peasantry. 

The  prominence  of  the  dog  in  old  Keltic  place  and  person 
names  makes  one  suspect  the  existence  of  an  element  in  the  early 
population  of  Europe,  and  particularly  of  the  British  Isles  and 
adjacent  parts  of  the  Continent,  of  a  race  more  purely  pastoral 
and  nomadic  than  the  Keltic.  It  would  be  well  if  some  one  bet- 
ter fitted  than  the  present  writer  would  thoroughly  sift  the 
legends  and  mythology  of  the  Irish  and  such  records  as  can  be 
lound  of  the  old  British,  the  Welsh,  and  the  Picts,  in  order  to 
trace  how  much  if  any  of  the  racial  characteristics  of  the  Irish 
can  be  assigned  to  a  substratum  of  populace  over  which  the 
Keltic  wave  of  conquerors  passed,  never  to  ebb  again.  If  there 
is  anything  in  physiognomy,  this  is  at  least  curious  :  that  on  ex- 
amining the  beautiful  drawings  of  the  Japanese  which  represent 
their  hermits,  Buddhist  saints,  and  wise  men,  one  is  amazed  at  the 
strongly- marked  Scottish  and  north-of-Ireland  faces  to  be  seen 
at  the  other  extremity  of  Asia.  Something  more  than  coinci- 
dence must  account  for  the  likeness  between  Japanese  old  men 
in  the  carvings  and  pictures,  and  "  hard-featured  "  Highlanders 
and  Irishmen. 

The  clan-system  and  fosterage  are  found  throughout  Asia,  as, 
indeed,  they  existed  and  exist  among  the  aboriginal  Americans. 
A  friendship  as  binding  as  that  of  foster-brotherhood  was  arti- 
ficially established  between  two  and  sometimes  three  men  among 
both  Kelts  and  Scandinavians.  The  latter  sometimes  transfused 
the  blood  from  the  arms  of  the  contracting  parties  in  a  rude  tent 
made  by  loosening  the  turf  and  prying  it  up  so  as  to  accommo- 
date two  persons.  Here  blood-friendship  was  sworn,  as  if  to  take 
mother-earth  for  a  witness  that  the  grave  should  be  the  portion 
of  him  who  neglected  to  help  his  brother  in  distress.  Strange 
to  say,  we  have  in  Lucian,  the  Asiatic  Greek,  an  account  of  a  some- 
what similar  contract.  In  his  Toxaris  there  are  charming  stories 
told  by  the  "  Scyth  "  to  illustrate  his  nation's  cult  of  friendship. 
Blood-friendship  was  attested  by  cutting  the  veins,  dipping 
swords  in  the  mingled  life-fluid,  and  tasting  the  same.  A  man 
could  have  a  second  friend  of  this  kind,  but  no  more !  So  when 
the  Scythian  ambassador  Arsacomas  demands  of  Leucanor,  who 
was  a  rich  Grecian  prince  on  the  Bosphorus,  the  hand  of  his 
daughter,  and  Leucanor  scoffingly  asks  the  simple  man  whether 
he  has  flocks,  pastures,  and  wagons,  which  are  the  riches  of  no- 


1 886.]         "ENGLISH  HOBBES  !  "— u  IRISH  DOGGES  /  "  801 

mads,  he  answers,  No,  but  I  have  Two  Friends.  How  those  two 
avenge  the  insult  and  get  him  the  princess  cannot  be  told  here ; 
Tooke's  translation  of  Lucian  gives  it  in  full.  It  may  be  noted, 
however,  that  Toxaris — apparently  a  Greek  translation  of  bow- 
man— the  name  Lucian  gives  his  grave  Scyth,  might  be  held 
an  argument  in  favor  of  the  meaning  "  bowman  "  which  is- attri- 
buted to  the  word  Scyth  and  thence  to  the  word  Scot.  What 
is  more  important  just  here  is  to  note  that,  in  the  story  of  the 
blood-friend,  when  the  one  swims  the  river  in  the  face  of  his  foes 
to  offer  himself  in  ransom  of  his  captive  blood-brother,  the  swim- 
mer utters  the  word  ziris,  whereupon  the  enemy  cease  shoot- 
ing at  him.  This  word  ziris  may  be  the  same  as  the  Irish  word 
sirim,  to  beg,  beseech,  in  the  indicative  mood — "  I  beg."  The 
man  who  said  it  was  a  Scyth  ;  the  army  that  understood  it  was 
Sarmatian.  Are  we  to  believe  that  several  Keltic  nations  of  the 
Euxine  were  known  to  the  Greeks  of  the  first  and  second  cen- 
turies A.D.  by  those  names  ?  For,  wide  as  the  net  of  Lucian  was, 
and  exaggerate  as  he  might,  such  points  had  to  be  true  to  facts 
or  the  story  would  not  have  had  the  necessary  realism  to  his  au- 
ditors. Possibly,  owing  to  the  number  of  migrations  of  Keltic 
nations,  that  word  sirim  had  become  an  international  term,  be- 
ing part  of  a  very  early  lingua  Franca  in  the  East.  At  any  rate, 
its  outcropping  in  Lucian  shows  how  hasty  those  have  been 
who  brush  aside  the  early  Irish  traditions  that  point  to  the  East. 
The  more  one  examines,  the  more  it  seems  probable,  that  on  the 
one  hand  "  Scythia  "  contained  Keltic  nations  down  to  Christian 
times  ;  on  the  other,  that  Ireland  and  Great  Britain  were  very 
far  from  being  purely  Keltic,  but  had  a  substratum  of  Turanian, 
or  very  nearly  pure  nomadic,  races. 


ill. 

In  Irish  political  affairs  questions  of  agriculture  have  played 
a  large  part.  Yet  the  tilling  of  the  soil  does  not  seem  to  be  the 
best  line  for  Ireland.  Rather  is  it  pasturing,  because  of  her 
moist  climate  and  frequent  cloud  and  fog.  For  the  same  reason 
manufactures  ought  to  have  flourished  in  order  to  supplement  the 
weakness  of  crops,  as  in  America  the  rivalry  of  the  Western  States 
made  men  turn  that  way  in  the  Eastern.  By  means  of  infamous 
legislation,  by  means  of  the  British  guinea,  by  taking  every  ad- 
vantage of  discords  arising  from  religious  differences,  a  nation  in 
whose  mouths  "  fair  play  "  is  ever  heard  as  an  adjuration  to 
others  curbed  the  commerce  of  Ireland  and  crushed  her  manufac- 

VOL.  XLII. — 51 


802  "ENGLISH  HOBBES  !  "— "IRISH  DOGGES  /  "  [Mar., 

ttires.  Doubtless  it  was  partly  owing  to  the  fitness  for  pastures  of 
a  large  part  of  Irish  land  that  nomadic  habits  were  retained  long 
after  they  disappeared  from  the  greater  part  of  western  Europe. 
When  the  Irish  emigrate  to  America  in  larger  numbers  than  the 
country  can  absorb  on  farms,  readily  and  at  once,  they  are  seen 
to  congregate  in  towns.  They  have  little  real  love  for  agricul- 
ture, though  for  centuries  compelled  to  be  farmers  or  starve. 
This  may  partly  explain  why,  under  apparently  favorable  cir- 
cumstances, reforms  in  Irish  land  tenure  do  not  work  as  ex- 
pected. The  nomad  element  shows  in  the  readiness  of  gangs 
of  laborers  to  exploit  Scotland  and  England,  in  their  eagerness  to 
join  the  army,  the  little  difficulty  in  inducing  them  to  emigrate. 
Go  back  to  Edmund  Spenser's  age  and  see  how  nomadic  must 
have  been  the  race  he  describes.  Spenser  himself  records  the 
prevalent  opinion  of  a  "  Scythian  "  substructure  in  the  population, 
the  word  Scythian  being  chosen  from  a  perhaps  chance  resem- 
blance between  Scot  and  Scyth,  but  the  meaning  the  old  classical 
one  of  a  nomadic  race,  like  the  Turkish  and  Tatar  tribes  about 
the  Caspian.  Spenser  did  not  invent ;  he  reported.  Irish  histo- 
rians of  patriotic  worth  the  most  sterling  are  those  who  conjec- 
ture and  bring  reasons  for  a  nomad  first  occupation  of  Ireland. 
Their  persistence  in  attributing  a  "  Scythian "  ancestry  to  the 
Irish  may  be  accounted  for,  but  only  partially,  by  the  curious 
migrations  of  Keltic  nations  from  the  Asian  plateau  and,  in  his- 
torical times,  back  again.  It  is  also  founded  on  similarities  be- 
tween customs  and  rites  called  somewhat  vaguely  Druidic  and 
those  discovered  in  Persia,  Trans-Oxiana,  the  Punjaub,  and  north- 
ern India.  Many  things  among  the  Greek  and  Latin  writers 
warrant  the  belief  that  among  the  "  Scythians  "  were  extensive 
nations  of  Kelts  who  were  in  relations,  sometimes  of  conquerors, 
sometimes  of  allies,  sometimes  of  tributaries,  with  the  partially 
Greek  nations  about  the  Bosphorus.  Pliny  uses  the  Persian  cus- 
toms of  magic  to  explain  the  British.  Contempt  for  "  Scythians  " 
is  apparent  enough  among  the  Greeks,  and  from  them  the 
Romans  took  the  same  tone.  Now,  is  it  not  curious  that  the 
Irish  historians,  whose  education  was  classical — and  who  seldom 
rose  to  the  effort  of  national  historical  essays  without  obtaining 
an  unusual  degree  of  the  classical  learning  common  to  their  day 
—should  have  so  far  sunk  the  self-conceit  natural  to  all  men  as 
to  indicate  these  contemned  Scyths  as  their  ancestors  ?  To  me 
this  fact  goes  a  great  way  to  establish  by  internal  evidence  that 
they  had  very  serious  and  circumstantial  native  records  of  the 
past,  foreshortened,  of  course,  in  the  historical  perspective  and 


1 886.]         "ENGLISH  HOBBES  !  "—"IRISH  DOGGES  !  "  803 

colored  by  a  forced  admixture  with  Biblical  names,  as  we  find  in 
all  the  European  nations,  but  none  the  less  credible  because, 
when  formed,  the  policy  of  the  Druids  forced  scholars  to  retain 
long-  lists  of  names  and  long-  records  of  fact  in  memory,  and  for- 
bade the  setting  down  of  national  records  in  runic,  oghamic,  or 
old  Greco-Gaulish  letters.  "  The  Scythians  sacrifice  to  the  god 
Scymitar,"  says  a  character  in  Lucian's  Jupiter  Tragcedus  (second 
century  A.D.);  and  Solinus,  a  writer  of  the  same  epoch,  says  of 
the  British  islanders,  "The  chief  glory  of  the  men  is  in  their 
arms." 

Lucian's  delightful  story  of  Arsacomas,  the  Scyth  ambassa- 
dor, shows  the  correspondence  between  some  nations  covered  by 
that  name  and  Irish  tribes.  The  king  whose  bride  the  friend  of 
Arsacomas  stole  was  ruler  of  the  Machlyans,  nomads  who  had 
flocks,  cushioned  chariots,  and  gold  beakers  in  their  possession, 
who  lived  near  the  Euxine,  but  also  had  relations  with  northern 
India,  where  a  nation  of  the  same  name  is  mentioned.  The  Scy- 
thian friend  of  Arsacomas  pretends  to  be  an  Alan,  and  we  are 
told  that  between  Scyths  and  Alans  the  only  difference  was  their 
respective  fashions  of  wearing  the  hair  short  or  long.  Remem- 
ber the  "  glibbes,"  or  long  locks,  of  the  Irish  in  Elizabeth's  day  ; 
then  consider  the  likeness  of  "  Alan  "  (a  great  name  among  the 
Bretons  who  came  from  the  Welsh  of  Britain)  and  "  Machlyans  " 
with  the  names  of  clans  in  the  British  Isles — and  decide  whether 
there  is  not  at  least  a  very  pretty  puzzle  to  account  for  so  many 
parallels  between  the  Keltic  inhabitants  of  these  islands  and  na- 
tions on  the  Euxine  during  the  first  Christian  centuries.  Be- 
sides these  dim  hints  of  a  Kelticism  the  Alani  show  in  history  a 
character  eminently  Keltic.  In  the  fourth  century  of  our  era  the 
Huns  defeated  them  on  the  Tanais  ;  one  part  retreated  to  the  Cau- 
casus, where  they  were  defeated  by  Genghis  Khan  in  1221  and 
utterly  wiped  out  of  national  existence  by  Batu  Khan  in  1237. 
The  other  part  made  alliance  with  their  conquerors,  the  Huns, 
and  helped  them  to  invade  Pannonia  and  drive  out  the  Goths. 
In  406  they  entered  Gaul  with  the  Vandals  and  Suevi,  and  many 
settled  near  Orleans.  Summoned  by  Theodoric  to  meet  Attila 
at  Chalons,  they  deserted  the  Gothic  emperor  at  a  critical  mo- 
ment and  very  nearly  turned  that  victory  into  a  defeat.  A  sec- 
tion which  settled  in  Spain  was  equally  hostile  to  the  Visigoths, 
and  were  defeated  by  them  A.D.  418.  They  seem  to  have  been 
nomads,  but  not  pure  nomads — rather  Keltic  ;  that  is  to  say, 
ready  to  emigrate,  ready  to  make  war,  but  also  very  capable  of 
establishing  themselves  firmly  when  circumstances  were  at  all 


804  "ENGLISH  HOBBES!  "—"IRISH  DOGGES!  "  [Mar., 

favorable.  Such  facts  cause  one  to  view  askance  historians  of 
to-day  and  of  the  past  who  talk  glibly  of  the  extermination  of 
races — who  assert,  for  example,  that  the  Saxons  did  not  mix 
with  the  conquered  British,  or  the  Danes  and  English  of  the 
Pale  with  the  native  Irish,  or  the  Keltic  tribes  of  an  earlier 
epoch  with  quite  different  races  who  held  Ireland  before  their 
coming.  In  Spenser's  View  of  the  Present  State  of  Ireland  the 
dummy,  Eudoxus,  chides  Irenseus,  who  is  Spenser,  for  believing 
the  legend  of  a  Scythian  origin  of  the  first  people  in  Ireland,  say- 
ing that  in  this  he  does  "  very  boldly  "  : 

"'Truly  I  must  confess  I  doe  soe,'  answers  Irenseus,  'but  yet  not  soe 
absolutely  as  you  suppose.  I  doe  herein  relye  upon  those  Bardes  or  Irish 
chroniclers,  though  the  Irish  themselves,  through  theyr  ignoraunce  in  mat- 
ters of  learning  and  deepe  judgement,  doe  most  constantly  beleve  and 
avouch  them  ;  but  unto  them  besides  I  add  my  owne  reading;  and  out  of 
them  both  togither,  with  comparison  of  times,  likewise  of  manners  and 
customes,  affinitye  of  woordes  and  names,  propertyes  of  natures  and  uses, 
resemblances  of  rytes  and  ceremonyes,  monumentes  of  churches  and 
tombes,  and  many  other  like  circumstances,  I  doe  gather  a  likelihood  of 
truth  ;  not  certaynly  affirming  anything,  but  by  conferring  'of  times,  lan- 
guages, monuments,  and  such  like  I  doe  hunte  out  a  probabilitye  of  things 
which  I  leave  to  your  judgement  to  beleve  or  refuse.  The  Bards  and 
Irish  chroniclers  themselves,  though  through  desire  of  pleasing  perhaps 
to  much,  and  through  ignorance  of  arte  and  purer  learning,  they  have  cloud- 
ed the  trueth  of  those  times,  yet  there  appeareth  amongest  them  some 
reliques  of  the  true  antiquitye,  though  disguised,  which  a  well-eyed  man 
may  happely  discover  and  find  out.' '' 


IV. 

For  many  generations  it  has  been  the  fashion  to  scoff  at  the 
Scythian  myth  in  the  origins  of  the  Scots  of  Eire  and  Alba,  but 
a  wider  acquaintance  with  the  roving  and  partially  settled  nations 
of  Central  Asia  makes  one  look  again,  and  with  increased  respect, 
at  this  persistent  tradition  among  the  Irish.  Under  the  Keltic 
population  of  Wales  antiquarians  have  discovered  traces  of  a 
race  alien  in  physique,  probably  alien  in  color,  language,  and 
polity.  Without  jumping  to  the  conclusion  that  in  this  layer  we 
come  upon  the  stone  age  at  once,  it  may  well  be  that  we  find  the 
age  of  bronze  weapons  in  the  persons  of  an  earlier  population  of 
nomads  akin  to  Turks,  Finns,  and  Tatars.  It  is  tempting,  per- 
haps too  tempting  to  be  sound  philology,  to  identify  the  heroic 
name  Fiann  among  the  Irish  with  a  vague  tradition  of  a  Finnish 
folk  driven  before  the  Keltic  wave  into  the  mountains  and  deserts 
of  Ireland,  only  to  emerge,  after  amalgamation  of  conquerors  with 


1886.]  "ENGLISH  HOBBES!  "  —  "IRISH  DOGGES  !  " 

conquered,  as  a  mighty  hero  in  the  scattered  fragments  of  a  na- 
tional epos.  This  Finnish  nation  driven  before  the  Kelts  from 
the  Persian  plateaus  to  Ireland  may  be  the  origin  of  the  mythical 
Fenius  Farsadh — Fiann  the  Persian  or  Parthian.  In  Old  Ire- 
land the  literary  and  minstrel  customs  have  a  strong  Asian  tinge. 
A  late  traveller  in  Central  Asia,  on  the  confines  of  the  Russian 
and  Chinese  possessions,  describing  certain  mixed  Mongol-Tatar 
tribes,  might  be  writing  of  the  Irish  bards  as  they  once  passed 
from  sept  to  sept  singing  the  native  legends  under  the  noses  of 
Welsh,  Norman,  and  English  intruders  who  understood  imper- 
fectly or  not  at  all  the  language  of  their  tenants  or  of  the  half- 
tributary  tribes  in  their  vicinage  ;  such,  for  instance,  as  the  bard 
Maolruanad  Mac  Carroll,  called  Camshuilech  from  a  defect  in  his 
eyes,  who  was  treacherously  murdered  by  the  Norman,  Welsh, 
and  English  colonists  in  1333  along  with  Earl  Jean  de  Berming- 
ham,  their  commander  and  deliverer  from  Edward  Bruce. 

"  The  Kirghese  Oilantchis  travel  from  one  collection  of  tents  to  another, 
perpetuating  their  ancient*  traditions  and  singing  love-songs,  some  of 
which  latter  they  compose  on  the  spot.  .  .  .  Their  songs  are  full  of  feeling 
and  tenderness,  and  such  widespread  celebrity  do  some  of  the  Oilantchis 
attain  that  whole  auls  (camps)  are  eager  to  do  them  honor.  The  theme  of 
Sart  songs  is  invariably  the  feats  of  valor  of  their  Palvans,  or  heroes,  or 
else  love  adventures.  .  .  .  The  Sart  music  is  made  to  suit  the  varying  theme, 
being  now  tender,  soft,  and  pleasant,  and  then  harsh,  abrupt,  and  shrill. 
The  songs  of  the,  Kirghese  have  not  this  variety,  but  have  a  character  of 
their  own." 

The  sun-worship  of  the  pagan  Irish  is  found  even  among  the 
Tatars  who  are  called  Mohammedan.  Lansdell  noticed  that 
whenever  they  slaughtered  an  animal  the  Tatars  looked  toward 
the  sun  and  muttered  a  prayer.  Some  of  the  blood  was  poured 
on  the  ground  and  covered  with  dust  in  order  to  propitiate  good 
and  avert  bad  luck.  The  Kirghese  have  an  epic  called  "  Manas  " 
after  a  giant,  an  epos  called  the  Samyatei,  and  other  tales  and 
traditions  like  the  pristine  literature  of  the  Irish.  They  love 
songs  and  repartee,  fight  with  great  joy  at  the  elections  of  chiefs, 
employ  professional  "  keeners "  at  funerals,  and  have  feasts 
(wakes)  at  the  tomb. 

Granted  its  presence  in  Ireland,  can  we  predicate  a  Tatar 
element  in  the  Kelts  of  the  rest  of  Europe?  The  Keltic  nations 
in  history  are  the  greatest  nomads,  or,  it  would  be  truer  to  say, 
the  greatest  conquering  wanderers,  of  the  world.  Over-running 
Italy  again  and  again,  sacking  Rome  more  than  once  in  historical 
times,  devastating  Spain,  Africa,  and  Asia  Minor,  ruining  Greece, 


8o6  "ENGLISH  HOBBES !  "—"IRISH  DOGGES !  "  [Mar., 

founding  dynasties  in  this  land  and  that,  the  Kelt  seems  ubiqui- 
tous. We  are  learning  many  things  of  early  Europe  from  early 
Ireland  by  process  of  analogy.  Can  we  argue  here  from  the  Irish 
to  the  other  Kelts  ?  We  find  an  apparent  nomad  substratum  under 
the  Kelt  in  the  Emerald  Isle.  And  by  nomad  is  now  meant,  not 
merely  a  similarity  of  customs  between  the  old  Irish  and  existing 
nomads,  such  as  the  one  just  instanced,  but  faces  and  figures  that 
recall  Finno-Turkic  races,  nay,  real  analogies  of  speech  embedded 
in  the  Irish  language  which  point  to  some  such  pristine  affinity 
between  Mongol-Tatar  races  and  Keltic  as  might  arise  had  there 
been  some  blending  of  the  stocks  thousands  of  years  ago.  Sup- 
pose, for  instance,  a  conquering  Keltic  stock  deficient  in  women 
should  overrun  a  country  of  Mongols,  kill  off  most  of  the  men, 
and  take  the  women  for  wives,  concubines,  and  slaves.  Then 
those  women  would  be  apt,  having  the  teaching  of  the  children 
in  their  hands,  to  infuse  in  the  language  an  important  quantity  of 
words,  idioms,  and  phrase-forms.  Suppose,  to  give  the  example 
locality,  the  Kelts  arrive  in  Ireland  from  Scandinavia  by  way  of 
Britain  or  from  Spain,  or  from  both  lands  during  the  same 
epoch,  and  find  nomads  of  the  type  of  Finns,  Lapps,  Turks,  or 
Kalmuks  in  possession.  Lacking  women,  they  take  wives  of  the 
nomads.  We  might  be  able  to  explain  from  an  amalgamation  of 
the  two  races  why  the  Irish  often  drop  a  strong  consonant  from 
between  two  vowels,  as  a  air  for  athair,  father,  when  we  find  that 
the  Finns  say  sata,  hundred,  but  saan,  of  a  hundred,  tdlotta  or 
taloa,  house,  tomutta  or  tomua,  dust.  Like  the  Irish,  the  Fin- 
nish ear  seems  extremely  sensitive.  In  speaking  English  the 
Irish  often  add  vowels  where  we  do  not  use  them.  They  say 
Charles  for  Charls,  newees  for  news,  and  so  on.  Foreign  words 
are  treated  in  the  same  way  by  the  Finns,  only  they  take  liberties 
with  the  consonants,  and  if  two  come  together  will  often  drop 
one  entirely.  Thus  the  German  schnur  becomes  nuora  ;  the  name 
Stephan,  Tehvan.  The  Hungarians  pronounce  shnur,  sinor ; 
stall,  istallo ;  scola,  iscola.  Hungarian  owes  the  power  of  its 
poetry  to  the  freedom  it  has  in  placing  the  words  in  the  sentence, 
the  emphatic  taking  the  lead.  Ki  vette  meg  az  drat? — "Who 
bought  has  the  watch?"  So  in  the  Irish  sentence  the  important 
word  is  placed  first.  In  Irish  the  obsolete  feminine  of  Mac  (son 
of)  which  is  Ni  (daughter  of)  makes  one  think  of  the  Hungarian 
affix  ne,  from  no,  woman  or  wife.  Thus  Csaszar,  emperor,  be- 
comes Csaszarne,  empress.  Kirdly,  king,  becomes  kiralynt,  queen. 
Fcrj\  husband,  reminds  one  of  Irish  fear,  the  prefix  vert  meaning 
man,  which  we  meet  in  Vercingetorix,  Vergil,  and  other  Gaulish 


1 886.]  "ENGLISH  HOBBES  !  "—"IRISH  DOGGES  !  "  8o/ 

and  Gallo-Roman  names.  In  ember,  man,  we  may  get  scent  of 
the  derivation  of  Irish  ban  (mbari)  woman,  which  in  turn  may 
lead  us  to  our  own  word  "  woman."  for  which  our  dictionaries 
give  us  such  a  forced  derivation.  The  curious  rule  in  Irish  that 
the  leading  vowel  in  words  of  several  syllables  gives  the  key  to 
the  rest  of  the  vowels,  and  compels  a  change  in  them  all,  is  dis- 
tinctive of  Finnish. 

It  would  be  wrong  to  leave  the  impression  that  these  analo- 
gies are  in  the  nature  of  proof  positive  that  there  is  a  Finno- 
Turkish  element  in  the  old  Irish  tongue;  it  is  only  noticed  as 
one  of  a  series  of  hints  which  point  that  way.  To  settle  such  a 
question  needs  much  time  and  labor  in  a  new  field,  and  by  mere- 
ly mentioning  it  one  incurs,  perhaps  justly,  the  anger  of  pro- 
found scholars  who  move  slowly — though  sometimes,  alas  !  not 
surely — from  point  to  point  of  their  arguments.  It  would  also 
be  foolish  for  Irishmen  to  reject  the  theory  because  the  nomad 
stands  less  high  than  the  Semite  or  the  Aryan  in  the  estimation  of 
the  world.  To  this  great  race  belong  the  Hungarians,  one  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  chivalrous  of  nations ;  the  Finns  and  Lapps, 
who  have  a  wonderful  epos  in  the  Kalevala ;  and  in  all  probability 
the  Babylonians,  who  laid  the  foundations  of  our  sciences  of  ma- 
thematics and  astronomy.  Dr.  Isaac  Taylor  has  shown  that  the 
Etruscans  were  of  this  stock,  both  from  their  history  and  the  tes- 
timony of  what  remains  of  their  language;  we  know  how  highly 
civilized  they  were  and  how  much  they  contributed  to  the  litera- 
ture and  art,  the  religion  and  military  strength,  of  the  Roman  com- 
monwealth. The  writer  remembers  rousing  the  wrath  of  an  honest 
Hungarian  gentleman  by  alluding  to  the  ethnological  and  lingual 
ties  between  Hungarians  and  Turks,  and  the  belief  which  has  gra- 
dually grown  among  students  of  Babylonia  that  the  Assyrians  got 
their  civilization  in  large  part  from  an  old  Turanian  race  akin  to 
Turk  and  Hun.  He  had  no  great  opinion  of  Babylonians,  and  the 
unspeakable  Turk  he  abhorred.  Therefore  he  hastily  concluded 
that  his  nation  was  insulted.  In  truth  it  would  take  a  book  to  show 
all  the  things  for  which  the  world  is  indebted  to  these  races.  In 
Irishmen,  therefore,  it  need  rouse  no  fear  of  belittlernent  if  one 
argues  to  a  Turanian  element  in  their  composition.  It  would 
merely  explain  a  little  better  their  pastoral  tendency  as  against 
the  stronger  agricultural  element  in  the  English.  Jt  would  show 
why  so  many  famous  men  have  had  the  dog  as  an  honor-badge  in 
their  names,  and  why  their  ancestors  felt  a  peculiar  contempt  for, 
and  superiority  to,  an  "  English  hobbe." 


8o8         NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar., 


THE    NORMANS    ON    THE    BANKS    OF    THE     MIS- 
SISSIPPI. 

IT  was  a  Norman,  Robert  Cavelier  de  La  Salle,  who,  depart- 
ing from  Canada  and  navigating-  the  Mississippi  down  to  the 
Gulf  of  Mexico,  took  possession,  in  the  name  of  Louis  XIV.,  King 
of  France  and  Navarre,  on  the  9th  of  April,  1682,  of  the  immense 
territory  he  had  explored,  and  which  was  henceforth  claimed 
as  a  French  possession,  from  the  mouth  of  the  St.  Lawrence  to 
those  of  the  newly-discovered  river,  to  which  he  gave  the  name 
of  Colbert,  after  having  called  the  vast  country  which  it  watered 
Louisiana.  It  is  well  known  that  he  perished  before  he  could, 
with  the  ample  means  put  at  his  disposal  by  his  sovereign,  colon- 
ize the  province  of  which  he  had  been  appointed  viceroy. 

Lemoyne  d'Iberville,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  officers 
of  the  French  navy,  and  famous  for  his  many  exploits,  was  the 
second  explorer  after  La  Salle.  On  the  2d  of  March,  1699,  he 
entered  the  Mississippi  by  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  to  which  at  that 
time  it  carried  a  prodigious  quantity  of  driftwood.  This  was 
an  indication  which  helped  him,  as  it  did  subsequent  navigators, 
to  find  the  mouth  of  the  river.  Iberville  was  born  in  Canada, 
but  of  Norman  origin ;  for  Charles  Lemoyne,  his  father,  was  bap- 
tized in  the  church  of  St.  Remy  in  Dieppe  on  the  2d  of  August, 
1626.  He  descended  from  Louis  Lemoyne,  lord  of  the  manor 
of  Aviron,  in  the  neighborhood  of  Evreux,  who  had  been  en- 
nobled in  1471. 

Charles  Lemoyne,  the  father  of  Iberville  and  of  numerous 
other  sons,  all  of  distinguished  merit,  had  settled  in  Canada  in 
1641  and  had  married  Catherine  Thierry,  a  woman  of  great 
worth,  a  Norman  like  himself,  and  born  at  St.  Denis  le  Petit,  a 
village  of  the  diocese  of  Rouen.  He  was  the  proprietor  of  the 
manor  of  Iberville,  within  the  commune  of  Thil-Manneville,  an 
ancient  fief,  now  belonging  to  the  Le  Bourgeois  family  of  Dieppe. 
Iberville,  in  his  expedition  to  Louisiana,  was  accompanied  by 
two  of  his  brothers,  Bienville  and  Sauvolle.  The  Mississippi,  on 
whose  banks  now  lies  a  populous  parish  called  the  Parish  of 
Iberville,  may  be  said  to  have  been  the  river  with  many  names; 
for  Garcilasso,  in  his  history  of  Hernando  de  Soto,  calls  it  Rio 
Grande  or  Chicagua ;  Barcia,  another  Spanish  author,  calls  it  Rio 
de  la  Palisada  ;  then  came  La  Salle,  who  named  it  Colbert ;  Tonti. 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.        809 

his  faithful  companion  and  lieutenant,  designates  it  as  the  Missis- 
sippi ;  Bossu  says  that  the  Indian  word  for  it  was  Meschassipi, 
which  means  agglomeration  of  waters ;  Chateaubriand  has  it  Mes- 
ckacM. 

Iberville  used  the  oar  and  the  sail  to  overcome  the  current  of 
the  mighty  stream.  On  both  sides  he  saw  nothing  but  a  des- 
ert wilderness,  fields  of  tall  weeds,  innumerable  cane-brakes,  and 
dense  forests  which  looked  like  the  contemporaries  of  the  crea- 
tion of  the  world.  For  a  long  distance  there  was  not  a  village  to 
be  seen,  not  even  a  solitary  hut.  The  complete  absence  of  all 
signs  of  human  life  was  beginning  to  be  oppressive.  Iberville 
did  not  recognize  the  localities  described  by  Hennepin  and 
Tonti,  probably  on  account  of  the  changes  which  had  taken 
place  during  the  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  that  had  elapsed 
since  their  visit.  It  appears  that  in  those  days  changes  in  the 
Lower  Delta  of  the  Mississippi  were  exceedingly  frequent  and  of 
more  common  occurrence  than  in  our  times.  Charlevoix  men- 
tions how  considerable  they  had  been  in  the  course  of  a  few 
years.  Tonti,  in  1685,  had  been  compelled  to  carry  further  up 
on  the  bank  of  the  river  the  column  erected  in  1682  by  La 
Salle  and  cast  down  by  some  cause  or  other. 

At  last  Iberville  arrived  at  the  village  of  the  Quinipissas, 
where  the  chief  of  that  tribe  delivered  to  him  the  letter,  or 
"  speaking  bark,"  which  Tonti  had  left  for  La  Salle  in  case  the 
latter,  for  whom  he  had  instituted  a  search  for  ninety  miles  along 
the  coast  west  and  east  of  the  Mississippi,  should  make  his  ap- 
pearance. Retracing  his  steps,  Iberville  went  to  the  Bay  of  Bi- 
loxi,  where  he  constructed  a  fort,  of  which  he  gave  the  com- 
mand to  Sauvolle.  He  then  sailed  for  France.  Sauvolle  died 
on  the  22d  of  July,  1701.  It  was  believed  by  some  that  the  cause 
of  his  death  was  yellow  fever. 

Iberville  continued  to  devote  himself  to  the  settlement  of  the 
French  colony  until  he  died,  in  1706,  of  yellow  fever  in  one  of  the 
West  India  islands.  On  Bienville  then,  who  had  become  the 
governor  of  Louisiana,  rested  the  whole  burden  of  providing  for 
the  wants  of  this  infant  establishment,  so  distant  from  Canada 
and  France,  the  only  points  to  which  he  could  look  for  assist- 
ance. 

At  that  time  the  bishop  of  Quebec  was  under  the  ecclesi- 
astical jurisdiction  of  the  archbishop  of  Rouen,  for  Canada  was 
a  dependency  of  that  Norman  diocese — a  circumstance  which 
shows  the  importance  and  influence  of  the  Norman  element  in 
the  discovery  and  colonization  of  the  domains  of  France  on  the 


8io        NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar., 

continent  of  North  America.  The  Jesuits,  of  whom  many  were 
Normans,  had  rendered  great  services  to  Canada,  where  they  had 
been  actively  instrumental  in  gaining  for  the  French- the  affec- 
tion and  confidence  of  the  aborigines.  True,  some  of  them  had 
been  horribly  tortured  by  those  whom  they  had  tried  to  con- 
vert to  Christianity,  but,  on  the  whole,  they  had  secured  a  wide- 
spread influence  over  the  savages.  They  soon  turned  their  eyes 
towards  Louisiana,  to  which  they  hastened  as  missionaries,  in 
spite  of  the  long  distance  that  separated  them  from  this  newly- 
opened  field  of  action,  and  despite  the  perils  that  they  had  to  en- 
counter through  fierce  tribes  in  a  journey  of  more  than  fifteen 
hundred  miles ;  and  they  were  generally  successful  in  their  mis- 
sion of  peace,  conciliation,  and  conversion. 

In  1717  Bienville  ordered  the  ground  upon  which  now  is  the 
cathedral  and  Jackson  Square  to  be  cleared  and  the  plan  of  a  town 
to  be  laid  out  by  the  engineer  Latour.  A  few  houses  were  built 
of  wood,  but  on  their  being  .destroyed  by  a  hurricane  some  of 
them  were  rebuilt  of  bricks,  and  the  town  began  to  enlarge  itself 
gradually  and  give  some  signs  of  vitality.  It  was  named  New 
Orleans,  in  compliment  to  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  then  Regent  of 
France.  Although  still  an  humble  village,  it  became  in  1722  the 
seat  of  government. 

In  October,  1726,  Perier  had  succeeded  Bienville  as  gover- 
nor. The  Western,  or  Company  of  the  Indies,  had  the  adminis- 
tration of  the  colony.  In  1727  Ursuline  nuns  and  a  few  Jesuits 
were,  by  virtue  of  a  covenant  with  that  company,  sent  to  New 
Orleans,  principally  for  the  purpose,  on  the  part  of  the  nuns,  of 
taking  charge  of  a  hospital.  Besides,  it  was  in  consideration  also 
to  provide  for  the  education  of  the  children  of  the  colonists  and 
to  minister  to  the  spiritual  wants  of  the  community. 

The  Ursulines  were  seven  in  number.  According  to  the 
stipulations  of  the  contract,  they  were  transported  at  the  cost 
of  the  Western  Company,  with  four  servants,  and  they  had  re- 
ceived each,  before  their  departure,  as  a  gratuity  the  sum  of  five 
hundred  livres.  They  were  immediately  put  in  possession  of  the 
hospital,  in  which  they  were  to  reside  until  a  more  convenient 
dwelling  should  be  built  for  their  use.  The  company  was  bound 
to  concede  to  the  hospital  a  lot  of  ground  measuring  eight  ar- 
pens  fronting  on  the  Mississippi,  by  the  usual  depth  of  forty. 
The  object  of  this  concession  was  the  establishment  of  a  plan- 
tation capable  of  supplying  the  wants  of  the  Ursulines  and  of 
affording  to  them  a  sufficient  remuneration  for  their  services  in 
the  hospital.  These  eight  arpens  with  the  usual  depth  were  to 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.         81 1 

be  located  below  New  Orleans  and  as  near  to  it  as  possible. 
Each  of  the  nuns  was  to  receive  six  hundred  livres  a  year  until 
their  plantation  should  be  in  full  cultivation,  or  should  have 
been  furnished  by  the  company  with  eight  negroes  on  the  or- 
dinary conditions  on  which  they  were  sold  to  the  colonists.  It 
was  expressly  stipulated  that  if  the  nuns  ceased  to  serve  in  the 
hospital  as  agreed  upon  they  would  forfeit  the  plantation  and 
the  immovables  attached  to  the  hospital,  and  would  retain  only 
the  negroes  and  other  movables. 

As  to  the  Jesuits  who  were  to  come  to  Louisiana  at  the  same 
time  with  the  Ursulines,  their  superior  was  to  reside  in  New  Or- 
leans, but  could  not  exercise  therein  any  ecclesiastical  functions 
without  the  permission  of  the  superior  of  the  Capuchins  under 
whose  spiritual  jurisdiction  New  Orleans  happened  to  be  placed. 
The  Jesuits  were  transported  at  the  cost  of  the  company.  Be- 
fore their  departure,  and  as  a  gratuity,  each  one  received  one 
hundred  and  fifty  livres.  During  the  first  two  years  of  their 
residence  in  Louisiana  they  were  to  be  paid  severally  at  the  rate 
of  eight  hundred  livres  annually,  and  afterward  that  salary  was 
to  be  reduced  to  six  hundred  livres.  A  concession  of  eight 
arpens  of  land  fronting  on  the  river,  with  the  usual  depth  (forty 
arpens),  was  made  to  them  in  the  neighborhood  of  New  Or- 
leans. They  long  dwelt  on  a  plantation  above  the  large  tho- 
roughfare now  known  as  Canal  Street.  A  house  and  a  chapel 
were  constructed  for  them,  and  they  soon  became  very  influen- 
tial in  Louisiana.  Thus  New  Orleans  was  abundantly  provided 
with  spiritual  assistance,  being  flanked  on  the  left  by  the  Ursu- 
lines, and  on  the  right  by  the  Jesuits. 

The  religious  corporation  of  the  Ursulines  was  instituted  in 
1537  by  Arfgele  de  Brescia.  The  main  object  was  the  education 
of  the  faithful  and  the  nursing  of  the  sick  in  hospitals.  This  insti- 
tution, being  patronized  by  the  pope  and  by  the  dignitaries  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  spread  rapidly  and  obtained  an  ever-increasing 
degree  of  development  which  continues  to  this  day. 

This  religious  community  of  nuns,  who  departed  from  the  port 
of  Lorient,  in  France,  on  the  22d  of  February,  1727,  and  who 
arrived  in  New  Orleans  on  the  7th  of  August  of  said  year,  was 
composed  of  eleven  persons,  including^the  mother-superior,  named 
Tranchepain  de  St.  Augustin.  She  belonged  to  a  rich  Huguenot 
family.  She  had  abjured  in  the  hands  of  the  grand- vicar  of  the 
archbishop  of  Rouen,  and  had  taken  the  veil  among  the  Ursu- 
lines in  1699.  They  were  all  of  the  heroic  Norman  race,  and 


812         NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar., 

were  received  in  New  Orleans  with  demonstrations  of  joy  and 
deep  sympathy. 

Madeleine  Hachard,then  a  novice,  but  who  subsequently  took 
the  black  veil  in  New  Orleans,  and  from  whose  letters  to  her 
father  in  France  I  intend  to  quote  as  largely  as  the  limits  of  this 
article  will  permit,  wrote  to  him,  immediately  after  having  reached 
her  destination  in  Louisiana: 

"Fathers  and  mothers  were  transported  with  joy  on  seeing  us,  and  said 
they  would  no  longer  think  of  returning  to  France,  now  that  they  could 
procure  instruction  for  their  daughters.  There  is  a  struggle  here  among 
the  people  as  to  which  of  them  will  be  foremost  in  supplying  our  wants, 
and  this  is  done  in  such  a  way  as  to  put  us  under  obligation  almost  to  every- 
body." 

The  monastery  destined  for  the  nuns  not  being  ready  for  their 
reception,  they  were  provisionally  established  in  a  house  which 
Governor  Bienville  had  just  vacated,  and  it  was  only  in  1734  that 
they  took  complete  possession  of  the  edifice  which  had  been  con- 
structed for  their  accommodation.  Before  that  occurrence  three 
of  the  sisters  died,  among  whom  was  the  mother-superior,  Marie 
Tranchepain.  The  survivors,  in  their  circular-letter  on  this  sad 
event,  said  "  that  she  had  died,  like  Moses,  in  sight  of  the  Land 
of  Chanaan."  Immediately  after  their  arrival  they  opened  their 
school  with  great  success  and  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  the 
population. 

Madeleine  Hachard,  who,  when  she  pronounced  her  vows, 
became  Sister  St.  Stanislas,  was  the  daughter  of  a  burgher  of 
Rouen.  It  was  a  very  pious  family,  for  one  of  her  brothers  was 
a  priest ;  another  was  religiously  inclined,  and  she  hoped  to  see 
him  join  the  sacred  orders,  with  a  keen  desire  that  he  should 
become  a  Jesuit  missionary.  One  of  her  sisters  was* a  nun,  and 
two  others  were  aspiring  to  the  same  position. 

Madeleine  Hachard  had  evidently  a  good  and  affectionate 
heart,  a  mind  of  some  culture,  and  a  remarkable  degree  of  instruc- 
tion for  her  sex  at  the  time  in  which  she  lived.  Although  very 
religious,  she  was  not  bigoted.  Her  disposition  was  cheerful, 
affable;  and  she  trusted  firmly  in  God.  She  kept  on  the  even 
tenor  of  her  gentle  ways  without  ever  allowing  herself  to  be 
ruffled  by  anything.  It  is  impossible  to  read  her  letters  without 
appreciating  such  a  lovely  character.  The  motive  of  all  her 
actions,  the  leading  principle  of  her  life,  was  the  passion  to  sacri- 
fice herself  for  the  service  of  God  and  the  welfare  and  salvation 
of  her  fellow-creatures. 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.        813 

She  thought  that  the  city  of  Rouen  should  be  proud  of  hav- 
ing- given  birth  to  those  who  had  discovered  the  Mississippi  and 
had  been  the  first  pioneers  of  Louisiana.  She  hoped  that  the 
priests  and  nuns  of  Normandy  who  were  so  zealously  at  work  for 
the  instruction  of  the  "poor  savages"  of  the  colony  and  for  the 
salvation  of  their  souls  would  do  their  utmost  to  induce  their 
compatriots  to'  undertake  the  discovery  of  new  fields  of  useful- 
ness. She  expressed  herself  happy  to  know  that  the  Indians 
think  that  Normandy  is  the  most  glorious  province  of  France, 
and  believe  that  the  Normans  never  fail  in  anything  that  they 
set  their  hearts  upon. 

Sister  Madeleine  Hachard — in  religion  St.  Stanislas— died  af- 
ter having  been,  during  thirty  five  years,  an  excellent  teacher  for 
the  youth  of  New  Orleans,  and  after  having  fulfilled  in  a  most 
exemplary  manner  all  the  duties  incumbent  upon  her.  The 
whole  community  deplored  her  death.  She  left  in  the  hands  of 
her  Ursuline  sisters  a  large  manuscript  volume,  supposed  to  be 
a  diary,  and  which  it  would  be  very  interesting  to  examine,  if  it 
could  be  found. 

This  mission  of  the  Ursuline  nuns  and  their  settlement  in 
Louisiana  was  organized  by  the  Jesuit,  Rev.  Father  De  Beaubois, 
who  departed  before  them  for  New  Orleans  to  make  preparations 
for  their  reception. 

On  the  22d  of  February,  1727,  Madeleine  Hachard  wrote  to 
her  father  from  Lorient,  where  she  was  to  embark : 

"  If  I  appeared  to  leave  you,  my  dear  father,  my  dear  mother,  and  all 
my  family,  with  a  dry  eye,  and  even  with  joy,  my  heart  did  not  grieve  the 
less.  I  even  confess  that,  at  the  last  moment,  I  had  to  go  through  a  very 
hard  struggle ;  but  now  the  sacrifice  is  made,  and  I  compliment  myself  on 
having  obeyed  the  Sovereign  Master  of  our  destiny. 

"On  my  arriving  in  Paris  with  my  companions  I  was  most  graciously 
received  by  the  Ursulines  de  St.  Jacques.  We  hoped  to  make  a  very  short 
stay  in  that  city,  but,  to  our  dismay,  we  soon  learned  that  probably  our 
sojourn  in  it  would  be  prolonged  one  month,  because  the  ship  that  was  to 
carry  us  to  Louisiana  would  not  be  ready  before  this  lapse  of  time.  We  had 
to  submit  patiently  to  this  contrariety.  Fortunately  the  affectionate  hos- 
pitality and  the  good  manners  of  the  Ursuline  dames,  with  whom  we  had 
the  honor  to  be,  rendered  less  painful  our  disappointment  in  being  thus 
detained  in  Paris.  Such  were  their  demonstrations  of  friendship  that  to 
havQ  remained  with  them  would  have  been  a  happy  lot.  I  will  not  deny  to 
you  that,  in  connection  with  this  subject,  I  was  tempted  in  this  terrestrial 
paradise,  and  that  the  temptation  was  of  the  strongest;  but  the  Lord  has 
supported  and  guarded  me,  and,  fortified  by  his  grace,  I  have  preferred  a 
sojourn  in  New  Orleans  to  one  in  Paris.  When  we  had  to  part  many  tears 
were  shed.  I  felt  how  profoundly  attached  I  was  to  these  sisters,  and  how 


814        NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Man, 

easily  I  should  have  accustomed  myself  to  live  in  that  agreeable  and  holy 
community;  but,  my  dear  father,  when  God  speaks  one  must  obey." 

On  the  8th  of  December,  1726,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
she  departed  with  two  other  Ursulines  and  two  Jesuits,  Father 
Doutreleau  and  Father  Crucy,  who  were  to  accompany  the  nuns 
to  Louisiana.  The  journey  to  Lorient  through  Brittany,  on  exe- 
crable roads  and  in  cold  and  rainy  weather,  was  'exceedingly  fa- 
tiguing and  full  of  mishaps.  It  lasted  more  than  ten  long  days. 
She  relates  in  very  good  humor  trials  which  might  have  soured 
an  angel.  As  a  specimen  of  that  humor  I  translate  a  portion  of 
her  letter,  in  which  she  says  to  her  father: 

"  I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  that  during  the  whole  journey  Father 
Crucy  and  myself  were  always  in  a  state  of  warfare,  His  superior,  Father 
Davangour,  had  requested  me  to  watch  over  him,  and  the  mother-superior 
of  the  Convent  de  St.  Jacques  had  requested  him  to  be  my  director.  So 
that,  from  time  to  time,  we  reciprocally  exchanged  remonstrances  and  rep- 
rimands— all  done  in  a  sportive  manner,  of  course.  My  nature  is  not  mel- 
ancholy, as  you  know,  and  the  good,  dear  father  has  the  same  tempera- 
ment. There  was  laughter  at  our  expense  occasionally,  but,  as  we  are  the 
youngest  of  the  party,  it  was  not  unbecoming  in  us  to  be  a  source  of  amuse- 
ment to  our  friends. 

"  We  take  with  us  a  locksmith,  a  cabinet-maker,  and  several  other  me- 
chanics, and  also  a  Moor  [probably  she  meant  a  negro].  We  also  have  a 
very  beautiful  kitten,  who  wished  to  become  one  of  our  community,  as  she 
took  it  for  granted,  according  to  all  appearances,  that  there  are  as  many 
mice  in  Louisiana  as  in  France. 

"  I  do  not  care  about  the  rumors  afloat  in  Rouen  that  I  have  not  de- 
parted from  that  city,  where  I  am  now  reported  to  have  been  seen  by  dif- 
ferent persons.  It  is  glorious  for  me  to  be  in  two  distant  cities  at  the 
same  time.  It  puts  me  on  a  par  with  Frangois  Xavier,  that  great  Apostle 
of  the  Indies  and  Japan,  who  is  reported  to  have  shown  himself  frequently 
in  several  places  at  the  same  moment — which  is  looked  upon  as  a  great 
prodigy.  Unluckily,  my  dear  father,  I  am  not  a  sufficiently  great  saint 
to  perform  such  miracles.  To  a  certainty  I  am  not  in  Rouen,  but  in 
Lorient,  where  I  continue  to  be  very  lively  and  cheerful,  and  very  well 
satisfied  with  my  vocation,  whose  duties  I  am  resolved  to  fulfil  as  com- 
pletely as  may  be  in  my  power." 

The  impressions  produced  upon  Sister  Hachard  on  her  ar- 
rival in  New  Orleans  are  vividly  reproduced  in  her  letters  to  her 
father,  and  are  valuable  as  being,  no  doubt,  truthfully  descrip- 
tive of  what  she  actually  saw. 

• 

"Although,"  she  writes,  "  I  do  not  as  yet  know  perfectly  the  province 
called  Louisiana,  still  I  will  attempt,  dear  father,  to  give  you  some  details 
about  it.  I  assure  you  that  I  can  hardly  realize  that  I  am  on  the  banks 
of  the  Mississippi,  because  there  is  here,  in  certain  things,  as  much  mag- 
nificence as  in  France,  and  as  much  politeness  and  refinement.  Gold  and 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.         815 

velvet  stuffs  are  commonly  used,  although  they  cost  three  times  as  much 
as  in  Rouen.  Corn-bread  costs  ten  cents  a  pound,  eggs  from  forty-five  to 
fifty  cents  a  dozen,  milk  fifteen  cents  for  a  measure  which  is  half  that  of 
France.  We  have  pineapples — the  most  excellent  of  all  fruit— peas  and 
wild  beans,  water-melons,  potatoes,  sabotines — which  are  very  much  like  our 
gray  renette  apples — an  abundance  of  figs  and  pecans,  walnut  and  hickory 
nuts,  which,  when  eaten  too  green,  act  as  astringents  on  the  throat.  There 
are  also  pumpkins.  I  do  not  speak  of  many  other  kinds  of  fruit  of  which 
I  have  heard,  but  with  which  I  am  still  unacquainted. 

"As  to  meat,  we  live  on  wild  beef,  venison,  wild  geese  and  turkey  and 
a  sort  of  swan,  hares,  chickens,  ducks,  teals,  pheasants,  partridges,  quails, 
and  other  game.  The  river  abounds  in  monstrously  large  fishes,  among 
which  the  sheepshead  must  be  mentioned  as  excellent;  and  we  have  also 
rays,  carps,  and  an  infinite  number  of  other  fishes  unknown  in  France.  A 
great  use  is  made  of  chocolate  and  coffee  with  milk.  We  eat  bread  made  of 
half  rice  and  half  wheat-flour.  We  have  wild  grapes  larger  than  those  of 
France.  They  do  not  grow  in  bunches,  but  are  put  on  the  table  in  plates 
in  the  fashion  that  prunes  are  served.'' 

Probably  she  means  the  wild  grapes  which  the  Creoles  call  socos, 
and  the  Anglo-Saxons  muscadines. 

She  continues  to  say  in  her  gastronomic  account : 

"The  dish  most  in  favor  is  rice  boiled  with  milk  and  what  is  called 
sagamiti,  which  consists  of  Indian  corn  pounded  in  a  mortar  and  boiled  in 
water  with  butter  or  lard.  The  whole  people  of  Louisiana  regard  as  most 
excellent  this  kind  of  food." 

It  was  borrowed  from  the  savages,  as  the  name  indicates. 

This  is  certainly  the  Land  of  Chanaan.  It  is  impossible,  there- 
fore, not  to  be  confirmed  in  the  suspicion  that  the  horrible  descrip- 
tions of  famine  sent  to  the  metropolis,  and  the  constant  applica- 
tions for  provisions  addressed  to  the  home  government  by  the 
authorities  of  the  colony-  were  dictated  by  the  desire  to  have 
materials  with  which  to  trade  with  the  Indians,  who  were  rep- 
resented as  very  "  sociable,"  and  who  were  but  too  readily- 
disposed  to  exchange  their  furs  and  other  articles  of  commerce 
for  the  products  of  France,  which  in  their  eyes  had  the  merit  of 
novelty.  It  may  not  be  unfair  to  suppose  that  what  was  so 
clamorously  asked  for  under  the  plea  of  suppressing  famine  was 
frequently  sold  to  the  colonists  and  to  the  Indians  at  an  advan- 
tageous profit.  It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how,  in  the  early  days 
of  the  colony's  existence,  a  sparse  population  of  a  few  hundred 
souls  should  have  been  threatened  with  starvation,  when,  with  a 
fishing-rod  and  a  gun,  with  shot  and  powder,  food  could  be  pro- 
cured that  would  have  been  the  pride  and  the  delight  of  an  epi- 
curean in  France.  How  did  De  Soto  and  his  thousand  mailed 


8i6        NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  'OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar., 

warriors,  with  their  horses  caparisoned  in  armor,  live  during 
three  years  in  the  inmost  depths  of  our  wilderness,  without  any 
communication  with  the  outside  world? 

"  The  Mississippi,"  writes  the  nun,  "  is  the  greatest  river  in  North  Ame- 
rica, with  the  exception  of  the  St.  Lawrence.  An  infinite  number  of  rivers 
fall  into  it.  Over  two  thousand  miles  is  the  length  of  its  course.  It  can- 
not be  ascended  nor  descended  by  large  vessels,  but  only  by  small  boats 
carrying  from  twelve  to  fifteen  people.  It  is  lined  on  its  banks  with  very 
large  and  tall  trees.  The  rapidity  of  the  current  having  an  undermining 
effect,  the  banks  cave  in  and  fall  into  the  stream  with  those  trees  in  such 
quantity  that  in  some  places  they  obstruct  the  river.  It  would  cost  the 
hardest  kind  of  work  and  .immense  disbursements  to  render  this  river 
navigable  and  susceptible  of  being  ascended  and  descended  by  large  ves- 
sels. Besides,  there  are  sand-bars  from  distance  to  distance.  It  would  be 
necessary  to  give  them  a  sloping  edge. 

"Although  we  are  here  nearer  the  sun  than  in  Rouen,  we  do  not  suffer 
from  too  much  heat ;  and  the  winter  is  moderate,  not  lasting  more  than 
three  months,  during  which  we  have  only  white  frosts.  We  are  told  that 
Louisiana  is  three  times  as  large  as  France.  The  lands  are  very  fertile  and 
produce  annually  several  crops.  There  are  reeds  and  wild  canes  which  rise 
to  the  height  of  fifteen  to  twenty  feet;  a  variety  of  trees,  among  which  the 
cotton-tree — although  no  cotton  grows  on  it — sycamores,  mulberries,  chest- 
nut-trees, fig-trees,  almond-trees,  lemon-trees,  orange-trees,  pomegranate- 
trees.  These  lands  are  the  finest  in  the  world,  but  to  be  cultivated  would 
require  another  population.  A  man  who  should  work  them  only  two  days 
in  the  week  would  have  food  enough  for  the  whole  year.  But  most  of  the 
people  live  in  idleness,  addicting  themselves  only  to  hunting  and  fishing. 
The  commerce  of  the  Western  Company  with  the  Indians  in  furs,  bear- 
skins, and  other  merchandise  is  very  considerable. 

"  Our  lodgings  are  as  good  as  could  be  desired  while  waiting  for  the 
completion  of  our  convent.  There  is  no  religious  community  that  has  been 
so  well  accommodated  at  the  beginning  of  its  existence.  When  we  arrived 
here  the  Rev.  Father  de  Beaubois  told  us  that  one  single  blast  of  the 
north  wind  had  killed  nine  of  his  negroes.  It  is  a  loss  of  nine  thousand 
livres.  Fifteen  days  ago  the  Company  of  the  Indies  gave  us  eight  slaves ; 
two  ran  away;  we  kept  a  fine-looking  negress  to  serve  us,  and  we  sent  the 
rest  to  work  on  our  plantation,  which  is  only  three  miles  from  this  town. 
On  that  plantation  an  overseer  and  his  wife  attend  to  our  interests. 

"  I  will  not  speak  to  you,  my  dear  father,  of  the  morals  of  the  laity  of 
this  country,  as  I  neither  know  nor  wish  to  know  them.  They  are  said  to 
have  very  slanderous  tongues  and  to  be  very  corrupt.  But  a  good  many 
are  very  honest  people.  None  of  those  impure  girls  who  are  said  to  have 
been  sent  here  by  force  are  to  be  found.  None  have  come  so  far." 

The  trials  and  discomforts  during  the  five  months  which  the 
voyage  of  the  nuns  lasted  from  Lorient  to  New  Orleans  are 
related  with  graphic  simplicity  and  without  complaint.  Three 
times  they  met  with  hostile  privateers.  *  The  decks  were  cleared 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.         817 

for  combat,  and  the  women  were  sent  down  below  to  the  best 
place  of  safety  ;  but  the  enemy,  intimidated  by  this  show  of  reso- 
lute defiance,  concluded  not  to  attack.  Three  times  the  vessel 
was  threatened  with  being-  completely  wrecked,  with  the  loss  of 
all  on  board.  The  courage  of  Madeleine  Hachard  never  failed 
heron  these  occasions,  for  it  was  inspired  by  the  most  implicit 
reliance  on  the  mercy  of  God,  who,  she  believed,  would  decree 
what  was  best  for  her,  whether  she  perished  or  not. 

The  nuns  were  hospitably  received  by  Devergis,  who  com- 
manded at  the  Balize  and  was  then  establishing  a  fort  on  a  one- 
half  acre  island  at  the  entrance  of  the  river.  He  supplied  them 
with  pirogues,  which,  at  that  time,  were  scooped  trees,  in  which 
there  was  space  enough  to  contain  sixteen  persons. 

"  Ours  were  not  so  large,"  she  writes.  "  We  had  to  divide  into  three 
bands.  The  reverend  mother-superior  occupied  one  of  the  pirogues  with 
the  youngest  sisters,  among  whom  I  was  included.  We  were  accompanied 
by  Father  Doutreleau  and  Father  Crucy.  The  rest  of  our  sisters  took 
possession  of  the  second  pirogue,  with  a  Mr.  Massy  and  two  of  our  ser- 
vants. There  was  a  third  smaller  pirogue  for  the  mechanics  and  the  ser- 
vants in  the  employment  of  the  reverend  fathers.'7 

It  seems  that  the  ship  in  which  the  nuns  came  had  remained 
outside  the  bar  and  did  not  attempt  to  bring  them  up  to  New 
Orleans. 

"The  trials  and  fatigues  of  our  [five   months'  sea-voyage  are  not  to  be 
compared  with  what  we  had  to  endure  during  the  seven  days  which  it  took 
us  to  come  from  the  Balize  to  New  Orleans — a  distance  of  about  ninety 
miles.     What  renders  the  journey  so  fatiguing  is  the  necessity  of  building 
huts  every  night  on  the  bank  of  the  river.     This  was  to  be  done  an  hour 
before  sunset,  so  as  to  have  time  to  erect  our  mosquito-bars  and  prepare 
our  supper;  because  as  soon  as  the  sun  disappears  from  the  horizon  there 
is  a  regular  battle  to  be  fought  against  the  mosquitoes.     Other  insects  are 
quite  as  redoubtable  as  the  mosquitoes  and  equally  pitiless.     Sometimes 
they  fill  up  the  air  so  densely  that  one  would  almost  suppose  that  they  could 
be  cut  with  a  knife.     Their  bites  are  quite  venomous  and  torturing.     There 
is  no  habitation  and  no  cultivation  between  the  Balize  and  New  Orleans, 
except  within  a  short  distance  of  that  town.     A  wilderness  of  tall  forests 
extends  all  along  the  banks,  and  their  only  inhabitants  are  snakes,  adders, 
scorpions,  crocodiles,  vipers,  toads,  and  other  reptiles,  which,  however,  do 
us  no  harm.     We  became  acquainted  with  an  immense  variety  of  them. 
The  weeds  are  so  tall  and  so  thick  that  it  is  impossible  to  build  huts  except 
on  the  immediate   margin  of  the  river.     Our  sailors  every  evening  drove 
canes  or  poles  into  the  ground  around  every  mattress,  in  the  shape  of  a 
small  arbor,  over  which  they  hung  an  ample  sheet  of  very  light  linen.     We 
slept  on  these  mattresses  without  undressing,  two  of  us  in  the  same  bed. 
VOL.  XLII. — 52 


8i8         NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.     [Mar., 

These  pieces  of  linen  had  to  be  laid  over  us  very  tightly  and  carefully,  in 
order  not  to  allow  the  slightest  aperture  for  the  mosquitoes  to  come  in. 

"  We  slept  twice  in  the  midst  of  almost  liquid  mud  and  of  a  deluge  of 
rain  which  made  our  mattresses  float  under  us,  with  an  accompaniment  of 
thunder,  lightning,  and  wind.  Several  of  our  sisters  were  much  incom- 
moded ;  they  took  severe  colds  and  fluxions.  They  had  a  swelling  of  the 
legs  and  faces.  One  of  them  became  very  ill.  As  to  myself,  although  I 
was  drenched  like  my  companions,  I  stood  it  very  well  and  my  health  was 
not  affected.  Besides,  we  had,  when  in  the  pirogues,  to  put  up  with  the  in- 
commodity  of  not  being  able  to  sit  down,  to  stand  up,  to  kneel,  or  even  to 
move  at  all.  We  were  perched  up  on  the  top  of  our  trunks  and  baggage, 
to  which  we  had  to  cling,  and  on  the  slightest  movement  we  were  threat- 
ened with  the  capsizing  of  the  boat  and  with  becoming  the  food  of  fishes. 
Whenever  the  pirogue  stopped  we  ventured  on  a  change  of  position  and 
on  giving  some  relief  to  our  cramped  limbs.  During  the  day  we  ate  bis- 
cuit and  salt  meat  cooked  the  preceding  evening  on  shore.  One  is  sur- 
prised when  considering  the  fortitude  supplied  by  God  to  those  who  rely 
on  him  in  trying  circumstances.  It  demonstrates  that  he  never  permits 
that  we  be  tempted  beyond  our  powers  of  resistance,  giving  us  grace  pro- 
portioned to  the  severity  of  the  trials  he  imposes.  It  is  true  that  our  ar- 
dent desire  to  reach  the  promised  land  helped  us  in  supporting  with  joy 
every  painful  circumstance. 

"  When  we  were  within  twenty-four  or  thirty  miles  of  the  town  we  be- 
gan to  meet  some  inhabitants.  There  was  a  struggle  among  them  as  to 
which  would  welcome  us  with  the  most  cordial  and  affectionate  hospitality. 
They  attempted  to  force  us  into  their  houses,  and  greeted  us  with  accla- 
mations of  joy.  We  met,  much  beyond  our  expectation,  quite  a  number  of 
honest  people  who  had  come  from  Canada  and  France  to  settle  in  this 
country.  We  had  the  promise  of  numerous  boarders.  Some  even  pressed 
it  upon  us  without  being  disposed  to  wait  for  further  delays.  Fathers  and 
mothers  rejoice  at  our  coming.  They  are  enthusiastic  over  our  arrival. 
They  say  that  they  will  no  longer  think  of  returning  to  France,  because 
they  now  have  the  means  and  opportunity  of  educating  their  daughters. 
This  good  disposition  makes  them  attentive  to  supply  our  wants  with  the 
greatest  profusion,  and  really  we  are  overwhelmed  with  obligations  almost 
toward  everybody. 

"  We  have  on  our  side  the  commandant,  Paris,  and  his  wife,  who  are 
persons  full  of  merit,  and  whose  amiable  society  is  really  captivating.  In 
three  years  he  has  acquired  the  esteem  of  the  whole  country.  His  con- 
duct is  above  censure.  His  whole  time  is  devoted  to  rendering  justice 
and  to  serving  the  interests  of  the  company  in  a  manner  so  gentle  and  so 
insinuating  that  he  has  almost  entirely  appeased  all  the  troubles  and  the 
discord  which  had  prevailed  in  this  town.  He  has  established  a  well-regu- 
lated police.  He  wars  against  vice  ;  he  drives  away  all  those  who  lead  a 
scandalous  life  ;  he  punishes  corporally  all  the  women  of  bad  repute.  A 
law-suit  is  ended  in  three  or  four  days.  For  the  most  trifling  theft  one  is 
hung  or  broken  on  the  wheel.  The  Superior  Council  is  supreme.  There 
is  no  appeal  from  its  decisions.  Although  there  are  judges  in  the  most 
distant  parts  of  the  country,  yet  litigants  come  here  even  from  the  Illinois 
district  to  submit  their  cases  to  this  tribunal, 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.         819 

"Mr.  De  La  Chaise,  director  general  of  the  company,  has  never  ceased 
to  be  exceedingly  kind  and  gracious,  and  has  never  refused  anything  that 
we  ask." 

On  the  24th  of  April,  1728,  she  wrote  her  last  letter  to  her 
father. 

"The  river  here,"  she  said,  "  is  larger  than  the  Seine  at  Rouen.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  Mississippi — that  is,  on  the  right  side — there  are  some 
small  barracks  where  are  lodged  the  slaves  of  the  company.  New  Orleans 
is  situated  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Mississippi,  and  not  on  the  shore  of 
Lake  Pontchartrain,  as  represented  on  the  map  which  you  have  purchased. 
It  is  true  that  the  whole  stream  does  not  flow  in  front  of  the  town  ;  for 
above  it  divides  and  forms  three  arms,  which  reunite  below  it,  fall  into  the 
main  river,  and  run  with  velocity  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico." 

It  is  impossible  to  understand  this  passage  unless  we  suppose 
that  the  innocent  and  cloistered  nun  mistook  crevasses  above  the 
town  for  three  arms  of  the  river. 

In  this  letter  to  her  father  she  complains  for  the  first  time  of 
her  health  being  affected  : 

"  I  have  lately  had  several  attacks  of  fever.  Yesterday  I  took  a  dose 
of  emetic  to  cure  myself.  It  is  the  ordinary  remedy  in  this  country. 

"  Governor  Perier  had  placed  with  us  as  a  boarder  a  lady  who  is 
separated  from  her  husband  ;  but  as  she  showed  signs  of  being  tired  of  the 
convent,  and  as  she  attempted  to  hold  secret  communications  with  a  person 
outside,  the  governor  had  a  prison  constructed  on  our  premises.  With 
the  consent  of  her  husband  she  was  locked  up  in  it  until  she  can  be  sent 
back  to  France.  This  is  the  way  that  things  are  carried  on  here. 

"  On  our  side  of  the  river  there  is  a  well- conditioned  levee,  and  all  along 
this  levee  or  embankment  there  is,  on  the  side  of  the  town,  a  large  ditch 
for  the  drainage  of  the  water  that  may  come  into  it.  This  ditch  is  palisaded 
with  lumber." 

Madeleine  Hachard  must  have  been  delighted  with  the  sacred 
mission  she  had  accepted  and  the  duties  imposed  upon  her  as  a 
missionary,  a  school-teacher,  and  a  hospital  nurse,  for  she  certainly 
looks  on  the  bright  side  of  the  humble  spot  where  she  is  to 
work.  Thus  she  enthusiastically  writes  to  her  father: 

"Our  town  is  very  handsome,  well  constructed,  and  regularly  built,  as 
much  as  I  could  judge  on  the  day  of  our  arrival  ;  for  ever  since  that  day 
we  have  remained  cloistered  in  our  dwelling.  We  had  been  given  a  very 
poor  idea  of  this  place  by  individuals  who  had  not  witnessed  its  progress 
for  several  years.  Since  then  a  great  deal  has  been  done  to  improve  this 
capital  of  the  colony. 

"  The  streets  are  very  large  and  straight ;  the  main  street  is  near  three 
miles  in  length ;  the  houses  are  well  built,  with  upright  joists  filled  with 
mortar  between  the  interstices,  and  the  exterior  whitewashed  with  slack- 
lime.  In  the  interior  they  are  wainscoted.  These  houses  have  many 


820         NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar., 

openings,  and  their  roofs  are  made  with  boards,  which  are  small  planks 
cut  in  the  shape  of  slates  and  imitating  them  to  perfection  in  solidity  and 
beauty.  The  colonists  are  very'proud  of  their  capital.  Suffice  it  to  say  that 
there  is  a  song  currently  sung  here  which  emphatically  declares  that  New 
Orleans  is  as  beautiful  as  Paris.  Beyond  that  it  is  impossible  to  go. 

"  The  fact  is  that  although  I  am  not  to  be  persuaded  by  the  song,  which 
can  have  effect  only  on  those  who  have  not  seen  Paris,  New  Orleans 
aggrandizes  itself  and  may  become  in  the  course  of  time  as  large  and  im- 
portant as  the  principal  cities  of  France,  if  workmen  migrate  to  this  place, 
and  if  it  becomes  populated  in  proportion  to  the  extent  of  the  plan  on 
which  it  has  been  laid  out. 

"  The  women  here  are  extremely  ignorant  as  to  the  means  of  securing 
their  salvation,  but  they  are  very  expert  in  the  art  of  displaying  their 
vanity.  There  is  so  much  luxury  in  this  town  that  there  is  no  distinction 
among  the  classes,  so  far  as  dress  goes.  The  magnificence  of  display  is 
equal  in  all.  Most  of  them  reduce  themselves  and  their  families  to  the  hard 
lot  of  living  at  home  on  nothing  but  sagamite,  and  flaunt  abroad  in  robes 
of  velvet  and  damask  ornamented  with  the  most  costly  ribbons.  The  wo- 
men here  paint  and  rouge  to  hide  the  ravages  of  time,  and  wear  on  their 
faces,  as  an  embellishment,  small  black  patches.  Finally,  the  evil  spirit  has 
prepared  for  himself  a  large  empire  in  this  country.  But  this  does  not 
make  us  lose  the  hope  of  counteracting  him,  as  God  demonstrates  by  an 
infinity  of  examples  that  he  loves  to  show  his  strength  in  the  very  weak- 
ness of  his  agents.  The  more  powerful  is  the  enemy  the  more  encouraged 
we  are  to  combat  him.  What  is  very  pleasant  to  us  is  the  docility  of  the 
children,  who  can  be  moulded  as  one  pleases.  As  to  the  negroes,  it  is  easy 
to  instruct  them  as  soon  as  they  learn  French.  I  will  not  say  as  much  of 
the  savages,  whom  it  is  impossible  to  baptize  without  trembling  on  account 
of  their  natural  inclination  to  sin,  particularly  the  women,  who  under  an  air 
of  modesty  hide  all  the  passions  of  the  beast. 

"Whilst  waiting  for  the  final  construction  of  our  convent,  which  will  be 
a  solid  brick  edifice  of  large  dimensions,  we  reside  in  the  finest  house  of  the 
town.  It  is  a  two-story  building  with  an  attic,  containing  all  the  apart- 
ments which  we  need,  with  six  doors  in  the  first  story  for  egress  and  in- 
gress. In  all  the  stories  there  are  large  windows,  but  with  no  glass.  The 
frames  are  closed  with  very  thin  linen  admitting  of  as  much  light  as 
glass." 

This  house  had  been  vacated  by  Bienville  to  establish  the  nuns 
provisionally.  Its  situation  was  southeast  between  Bienville  and 
St.  Louis  Streets,  that  run  perpendicularly  to  the  river,  and  Royal 
and  Chartres,  that  run  in  a  parallel  line  to  it.  The  monastery  in 
the  course  of  construction  was  at  the  other  extremity  of  the 
town  at  the  angle  formed  by  the  south  side  of  Arsenal  Street. 

"  We  have,"  says  Madeleine  Hachard,  "a  poultry-yard,  and  a  garden  at 
the  extremity  of  which  are  enormous  and  indigenous  trees  of  a  really  pro- 
digious size.  This,  however,  has  its  inconvenience,  for  it  procures  for  us 
the  daily  visit  of  a  multitude  of  mosquitoes.  At  this  very  moment  there 
are  several  of  them  hovering  around  me  and  seemingly  bent  upon  assas- 


1 8 86.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.       '821 

sinating  your  poor  daughter.     These   insects  come  at  sunset  and  retire  to 
the  woods  at  sunrise. 

"  Governor  Perier  and  his  wife,  who  is  very  amiable  and  of  great  piety, 
do  us  the  honor  of  often  visiting  our  establishment.  The  king's  lieutenant 
[a  sort  of  lieutenant-governor,  who  commands  a  town  or  a  locality  for  the 
king  in  the  absence  of  the  governor]  is  a  perfect  gentleman  and  an  old 
officer.  They  and  the  rest  of  the  population  load  us  with  presents.  We 
have  been  given  two  cows  with  their  calves,  a  sow  and  its  little  pigs,  also 
hens,  musk-ducks,  turkeys,  and  geese  for  our  poultry-yard.  The  inhabi- 
tants, seeing  that  we  refuse  to  be  paid  for  instructing  day-scholars,  are 
penetrated  with  gratitude  and  aid  us  to  the  full  extent  of  their  power. 
The  marks  of  protection  which  we  receive  from  the  highest  in  the  land 
cause  us  to  be  respected  by  the  whole  population.  This  would  not  continue 
long  if  we  did  not  sustain  by  our  actions  the  exalted  opinion  they  have 
of  us. 

"  We  drink  beer.  Our  most  common  food  is  rice  boiled  with  milk,  small 
wild  beans,  meat  and  fish.  But  in  the  summer  we  consume  but  very  little 
meat.  During  that  season  it  can  be  procured  only  twice  a  week,  and  it 
is  not  easy  to  preserve  it.  Game  can  be  had  during  the  whole  winter  in 
abundance.  The  hunting  season  begins  in  October.  At  about  thirty  miles 
from  our  town  a  great  many  wild  beeves  are  caught  [probably  she  means 
buffaloes].  We  pay  for  it  three  cents  per  pound,  as  we  do  for  venison.  This 
meat  is  superior  to  the  beef  and  mutton  that  you  eat  in  Rouen. 

"  Wild  ducks,  teals,  geese,  water-fowls,  and  other  game  are  very  cheap 
but  in  general  we  abstain  from  buying  any  of  it,  as  we  do  not  wish  to  accustom 
ourselves  to  live  too  luxuriously.  Finally,  it  is  a  charming  country  during 
the  winter.  We  have  oysters  and  carps  of  a  prodigious  size,  which  are  deli- 
cious, water-melons,  French  melons,  potatoes— that  is,  big  roots  that  are 
baked  under  ashes  like  chestnuts,  of  which  they  have  the  taste,  but  are 
sweeter,  softer,  and  excellent.  All  this,  my  father,  is  exactly  as  I  relate  to 
you.  I  say  nothing  of  what  I  have  not  had  personal  experience.  There 
are  many  other  kinds  of  food  of  which  I  have  not  yet  tasted,  and  to  which, 
therefore,  I  do  not  allude. 

"As  to  the  fruits  of  the  country,  there  are  many  which  we  do  not 
find  very  good,  except  peaches  and  figs,  which  are  in  abundance.  Such  a 
quantity  of  them  is  sent  to  us  from  the  neighboring  plantations  that 
we  utilize  them  in  making  confitures.  With  blackberries  we  make  a  jelly 
which  is  very  fine.  Rev.  Father  de  Beaubois  has  the  finest  garden  in  the 
town.  It  is  full  of  orange-trees  which  produce  oranges  exceedingly  sweet. 
The  other  day  he  made  us  a  present  of  three  hundred  sour  ones,  which  we 
have  confited. 

"  During  the  Holy  Week  we  had  exhortations  and  conferences,  that  were 
attended  by  almost  two  hundred  persons.  We  had  the  Tenebrce  and  the 
Miserere  set  to  music  and  accompanied  by  instruments.  At  Easter  we  had 
also  the  whole  Mass  set  to  music  with  quartettes  and  admirably  sung.  The 
convents  of  France,  with  all  their  brilliancy,  seldom  do  as  much. 
*  "All  this  has  a  very  good  effect  and  ends  in  attracting  the  public. 
Some  come  from  a  beginning  of  devotion,  others  from  curiosity;  and  it 
necessarily  follows  that  they  have  to  listen  to  a  sermon  from  Father  de 
Beaubois,  whose  zeal  is  without  limits,  and  who  verily  believes  that  he  can 


822         NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar.r 

convert  everybody.  But  before  he  succeeds  in  this  pious  design  he  has 
yet  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do ;  for  besides  debauchery,  bad  faith,  and, 
finally,  all  the  other  vices  prevail  here  more  than  anywhere  else,  but  it  must 
be  added  that  they  thus  prevail  with  an  abundance  which  is  beyond  all 
measure.  As  to  the  girls  of  a  loose  character,  although  they  are  carefully 
watched  and  severely  punished  by  their  being  made  to  ride  a  wooden 
horse,  and  by  having  them  whipped  by  all  the  soldiers  of  the  garrison,  yet 
there  are  enough  of  them  to  fill  up  a  large  refuge-asylum.  A  thief  is  tried 
in  two  days.  He  is  either  hung  or  broken  on  the  wheel,  whether  he  be  a 
white  man,  a  negro,  or  a  savage.  There  is  no  distinction  and  no  mercy. 

"  Our  small  community  increases  from  day  to  day.  We  have  twenty 
boarders.  Eight  of  them  have  made  their  first  communion  to-day.  We 
have  also  three  lady  boarders  and  three  orphans  who  pay  nothing  and 
whom  we  have  received  from  charity,  seven  slave  boarders  whom  we  are 
to  instruct  and  prepare  for  baptism  and  their  first  communion,  a  large  num- 
ber of  day-scholars,  besides  many  black  and  Indian  women  who  attend  our 
school  during  two  hours  every  day. 

"The  usage  here  is  to  marry  girls  from  twelve  to  fourteen  years  old. 
Numbers  of  them  had  been  married  at  that  age  before  our  arrival,  without 
their  knowing  whether  there  was  one  single  God  or  many.  Judge  of  the 
rest.  But  since  we  have  been  here  none  have  been  permitted  to  marry 
without  having  received  religious  instruction  from  us. 

"  We  are  now  accustomed  to  the  sight  of  black  people  ;  lately  we  have 
been  given  two  other  negresses  to  board  with  us,  one  six  years  old  and  the 
other  seventeen,  to  be  instructed  in  our  religion.  At  the  same  time  they 
will  serve  us.  Should  it  become  the  fashion  for  negresses  to  adorn  their 
faces  with  patches,  in  imitation  of  the  white  ladies,  those  patches  would 
have  to  be  white.  It  certainly  would  look  funny. 

"You  see,  my  dear  father,  that  there  are  here  causes  enough  to  stimu- 
late our  zeal.  I  cannot  express  to  you  the  pleasure  we  find  in  instructing 
these  youth.  It  is  enough  to  consider  the  need  they  have  of  it.  We  have 
boarders,  from  twelve  to  fifteen  years  old,  who  had  never  gone  to  confes- 
sion, and  who  had  even  never  heard  Mass,  having  been  reared  on  planta- 
tions fifteen  or  eighteen  miles  from  the  town,  without  any  spiritual  assis- 
tance and  without  ever  having  heard  the  name  of  God.  They  look  on  the 
most  common  information  which  we  give  as  an  oracle  coming  from  our 
lips.  We  have  the  comfort  to  find  in  them  much  docility  and  much  ardor 
for  instruction.  All  of  them  would  like  to  become  nuns — which  is  not  to 
the  taste  of  Rev.  Father  de  Beaubois.  Our  most  worthy  superior  thinks 
it  would  be  much  better  that  they  should  become  Christian  mothers  in 
order  to  establish  religion  in  this  country  by  their  good  examples. 

"  It  must  be  admitted  that  in  this  foreign  land  Christianity  is  almost 
unknown.  It  is  true  that  there  are  a  great  many  honest  people,  according 
to  the  ways  and  judgment  of  the  world,  but  there  is  not  the  slightest  ap- 
pearance of  devotion,  or  even  Christianity.  We  should  be  very  happy  if 
we  could  inaugurate  here  the  reign  of  religion  with  the  help  of  our  reve- 
rend father-superior  and  some  Capuchins,  who  exert  themselves  to  the 
utmost  for  that  purpose.  As  to  oui selves,  we  do  our  best  and  spare  no 
efforts. 

"  Your  city  of  Rouen,  my  dear  father,  ought   to  be  proud  of  having 


1 886.]     NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.         823 

given  birth  to  Cavelier  de  La  Salle,  and  to  so  many  missionaries  and  other 
people  who  have  worked  zealously  for  the  conversion  and  civilization  of 
the  poor  savages.  It  is,  perhaps,  for  this  reason  that  the  savages  of  Louis- 
iana have  so  much  esteem  for  the  Normans,  and  consider  their  province  as 
much  superior  to  any  other  in  France.  They  believe  that  there  is  no  en- 
terprise in  which  Normans  will  not  succeed.  This  conviction  would  be 
much  strengthened  if  they  were  made  acquainted  with  the  exploits  of  the 
Dukes  of  Normandy,  with  the  bravery  of  the  Normans  in  the  Holy  Land 
and  with  their  conquest  of  England  and  other  kingdoms.  But  we  are  not 
here  for  that ;  if  they  wish  to  know  something  about  it  let  them  get  the 
information  from  others  or  read  histories." 

I  may,  perhaps,  be  permitted  here  to  observe  in  a  parenthesis 
that  there  have  been  many  discussions,  which  have  led  to  no  posi- 
tive and  settled  results,  about  the  extent  of  the  knowledge  which 
it  is  proper  to  impart  to  the  primitive  ignorance  of  man.  It  is 
believed  by  some  that  too  much  of  it  would  shake  the  basis  of  re- 
ligion and  society.  I  doubt  it.  Religion  is  not  of  this  world,  it 
is  true,  but  it  is  in  it  and  for  its  special  benefit.  It  is  a  part  of 
the  history  of  mankind,  and  therefore  men  and  women  should  be 
made  acquainted  with  the  history  of  their  race  in  all  its  ramifica- 
tions, profane  and  religious,  and  with  an  accurate  and  impartial 
exhibition  of  its  bright  and  dark  sides.  History  would  be  better 
understood  when  thus  studied  as  a  complete  whole,  and  not  in  a 
disconnected  manner.  Piety  has  no  solid  foundation  if  it  should 
rest  on  ignorance  and  not  on  the  knowledge  of  evil  and  its  awful 
consequences.  An  eminent  divine  has  said  that,  when  looking  at 
the  grand  figure  of  Christ,  one  must  not  fail  to  notice  the  devil 
crouching  in  the  background  and  sometimes  peeping  over  the 
shoulder  of  the  Master. 

It  is  to  the  credit  of  the  Ursulines  that,  with  the  assistance  of 
the  Jesuits,  they  established  in  New  Orleans  the  first  school  for 
the  education  of  the  daughters  of  Louisiana.  As  Christians  and 
as  Normans  it  is  a  merit  which  they  can  rightly  claim. 

The  Ursulines  kept  on  the  even  tenor  of  their  way  until  the 
Spaniards  landed  in  New  Orleans  on  the  5th  of  March,  1766. 
Their  number  then  increased  by  the  accession  of  Spanish  nuns, 
who  became  predominant.  When  the  French  Republic  took 
possession  of  Louisiana  in  1803  by  cession  from  Spain,  merely  to 
deliver  it  over  to  the  United  States,  the  majority  of  the  nuns 
showed  the  greatest  excitement  and  indignation.  They  loudly 
proclaimed  that  they  did  not  accept  this  change  and  would  take 
refuge  in  Cuba.  The  French  colonial  prefect,  Laussat,  called 
upon  them  to  ascertain  if  this  really  was  their  intention  and  to 
remove  what  apprehensions  they  might  have.  The  Sister  Mar- 


824        NORMANS  ON  THE  BANKS  OF  THE  MISSISSIPPI.    [Mar., 

garita  Dulievre  de  San  Ignacio,  a  native  of  Nantes  and  long  a 
resident  of  La  Rochelle,  expressed  herself  in  the  most  energetic 
terms  against  the  new  government,  which  she  declared  to  be 
revolutionary,  impious,  and  sacrilegious.  She  reproached  it  with 
the  hideous  crimes  which  it  had  perpetrated  from  1789  to  1803  in 
France  ;  and  she  added  that  Laussat's  promises  of  protection  were 
mendacious,  because  it  was  well  known  that  he  was  soon  to  trans- 
fer Louisiana  to  the  Republic  of  the  United  States,  which  was  no 
better  in  any  respect  than  the  godless  French  Republic.  The 
other  nuns  were  frightened  at  the  vehemence  of  the  language  of 
their  sister,  and  feared  that  the  prefect  might  take  some  harsh 
measures  against  them.  But  he  refrained  from  it  in  considera- 
tion of  the  age  of  the  nun,  who  was  more  than  a  septuagenarian, 
and  finally  consented  to  their  emigration  when  convinced  that 
they  had  resolved  upon  it  of  their  own  free-will  and  with  the  ap- 
probation of  the  ecclesiastical  authority  to  which  they  were  sub- 
jected. 

On  the  2Qth  of  May,  1803,  sixteen  nuns,  escorted  by  the  Vicar- 
General  Harfell,  by  the  Marquis  of  Casacalvo — one  of  the  com- 
missioners of  Spain  for  the  delivery  of  Louisiana  to  the  United 
States — and  by  the  ex-governor,  General  Salcedo,  left  their  con- 
vent at  ten  o'clock  at  night  by  the  church  door  opening  on  Ursu- 
line  Street,  and  went  on  board  of  the  vessel  which  was  to  trans- 
port them  to  Havana.  They  exchanged  on  their  departure  the 
most  affectionate  and  sisterly  embraces  with  the  six  nuns  who  had 
resolved  to  remain.  They  went  away  with  empty  hands,  carry- 
ing with  them  no  property  of  any  value  save  the  papers  and 
archives  of  their  community,  which  were  transported  to  Havana, 
and  which  should  have  remained  in  New  Orleans.  They  left, 
however,  in  the  possession  of  the  sisters  who  clung  to  their  old 
convent  an  engraving  representing  the  landing  of  the  Ursulines 
at  New  Orleans  in  1727.  It  was  made  at  that  epoch,  and  is  a 
relic  which  would  be  valuable  in  the  eye  of  any  antiquarian. 

The  rest  of  the  history  of  the  Ursulines  of  Louisiana  does  not 
fall  within  the  scope  of  this  article. 


1 886.]  DICKY  DOYLE'S  DIARY.  825 


DICKY  DOYLE'S  DIARY. 

A  BOY  with  a  long,  mobile  mouth  ready  to  curve  in  a  broad 
smile,  and  with  a  shock  of  hair  overhanging  his  forehead — such 
was  Dicky  Doyle  at  fifteen  when  he  drew  himself  in  his  diary, 
turn-down  collar,  belted  jacket,  long,  slim  legs,  and  all.  On 
the  recurring  Sundays  this  boy  noted  down:  "Chapel  at  eight, 
breakfast  nine  "  ;  or,  "  Sunday  frosty — home  ;  breakfast  hot  "  ; 
or,  "  Went  to  chapel  at  eight,  home  at  nine  ;  Mr.  Mayne  came 
to  breakfast  " — entries  that  mark  the  diary  of  a  young  Catholic 
familiar  with  early  Mass.  In  after-years  he  became  the  well- 
known  artist  of  humorous  illustrations  whose  signature,  with  a 
little  dicky-bird  perched  upon  it,  was  familiar  in  Punch,  in  the 
Christmas  books  of  Dickens,  and  in  works  of  Thackeray,  Leigh 
Hunt,  Ruskin,  and  others.  His  love  of  children  and  fairy-folk 
stamped  his  more  fanciful  work  with  his  own  character  of  fresh- 
ness, gayety,  and  delicate  grace  of  feeling.  Who  that  has  ever 
seen  that  folio  of  elves  can  forget  how  Richard  Doyle  peopled 
Fairyland  ? 

Well,  here  he  was,  a  boy  in  1840,  beginning  to  write  a  diary. 
"  Hope  I  may  be  skinned  alive  by  wild-cats  if  I  don't  go  on  with 
it."  The  wish  is  illustrated  by  a  glimpse  of  the  shock-headed  lad 
running  amid  an  outburst  of  cats  prancing  mad.  Soon  he  is  "  so 
sick  with  this  book"  that  he  "  won't  let  any  one  see  it  at  least  for 
a  year" — little  dreaming  that  a  quarto  fac-simile  of  it,  writing, 
sketches,  and  all,  would  be  given  to  the  world  forty-five  years 
after,  at  the  close  of  1885.  The  diary  was  begun  in  obedience  to 
his  father's  wish  that  he  should  try  to  acquire  an  artist's  habit  of 
observation  and  of  noting  those  observations  with  the  pencil.  It 
has  been  published  by  his  co-religionist,  J.  Hungerford  Pollen, 
two  years  after  Richard  Doyle's  death,  to  show  the  progress  of 
his  genius  as  a  boy  and  to  tell  its  own  tale  of  the  early  home-days 
of  an  artist  who  worked  out  celebrity,  a  Catholic  who  had  a  public 
name,  a  friend  so  dearly  prized  that  to  the  last,  though  he  might 
be  ceremoniously  "  Richard,"  he  was  privately  "  Dicky  Doyle." 

Fond  of  hard  work,  fond  of  books,  fond  of  fun — these  were  his 
three  characteristics.  The  boy's  home-circle  in  1840  counted 
four  brothers  with  turn-down  collars,  and  two  sisters  with  lit- 
tle, low-necked  gowns,  in  one  of  the  old-fashioned  houses  of  Cam- 
bridge Terrace,  Hyde  Park.  They  had  daily  lessons  from  a 


826  DICKY  DOYLE'S  DIARY.  [Mar., 

tutor,  and  had  also  lessons  in  music,  dancing,  and  fencing".  He 
fears  his  violin  practice  is  like  "  the  singing  of  an  asthmatic  don- 
key or  the  conversation  of  an  insane  cat "  ;  but  he  calls  music, 
"  next  to  painting-,  the  most  delightful  of  pursuits."  Dancing  he 
holds  in  genuine  boyish  horror.  "  That  revolting  species  of  amuse- 
ment, the  dance,"  is  taught  by  "  a  specimen  of  animated  nature 
of  rather  tall  proportions,  with  falling  shoulders,  a  powerful  pair 
of  legs,  and  a  peculiarly  bitter  smile."  Fencing  he  finds  hard 
work  in  warm  weather,  and  pictures  himself  and  his  brother, 
armed  and  masked,  leaning  against  opposite  walls,  limp  as  rags. 
It  was  an  artistic  family,  and  every  Sunday  the  "  show"  is  men- 
tioned— the  boys'  exhibition  of  the  drawings  of  the  week  to  their 
father,  who  was  himself  an  artist  of  repute  in  his  day. 

Dick  had  already  begun  to  be  a  hard  worker.  Early  in 
January  he  finished  the  series  of  comic  pictures  called  The 
Tournament,  all  but  the  title-page,  "  and  I  expect  to  have  it  done 
next  week,  and  then  '  Hurrah  !  '  Don't  you  be  too  sure  though, 
perhaps  they  won't  be  published  at  all."  But  they  were,  as  we 
find  on  the  3d  of  March  the  boyish  rejoicings,  as  usual  sparsely 
punctuated  :  "  Oh  my  goodness  me  fifty  hot  pressed  copies  of 
The  Tournament.  I  won't  believe  it.  Hurrah!"  Then,  for  next 
day,  "  As  soon  as  I  got  up  this  morning  I  ran  to  have  a  look  at 
the  fifty  copies.  ...  Of  course  they  looked  beautiful.  ...  It  is 
a  wonder  I  was  able  to  eat  any  dinner."  He  begins  at  once 
Quentin  Durward  on  a  sheet  of  double  elephant—true  industry, 
not  made  an  idler  by  a  first  success.  But  is  it  success?  The 
engraver  comes  with  his  bill.  Master  Dick  does  a  lively  draw- 
ing of  three  policemen,  in  glazed  hats,  grotesquely  grim,  fat,  and 
grinning,  literally  running  away  with  him  full  speed  to  prison. 
Of  course  his  father  paid  the  bill,  and  the  boy  was  not  run  away 
with,  as  his  wild  imagination  pictured.  On  the  contrary,  out  of 
his  earnings — seven  and-sixpence  a  copy  by  private  sale — he  re- 
funded the  money  to  his  father,  and  afterwards  ordered  two 
more  fifties  from  the  engraver.  The  humorous  set  of  pictures 
was  shown  far  and  wide  in  London  drawing-rooms,  and  was  ad- 
mired, amongst  others,  by  Count  d'Orsay.  Meanwhile  Dicky 
was  hard  at  work  again,  as  we  see  him  in  his  own  diary  sketches, 
with  the  little  white  dog  Ruff  patiently  sitting  beside  the  easel, 
while  he  paints  for  hours,  always  in  the  old-fashioned  boyish 
belted  jacket  and  with  the  thatch-roof  of  hair  falling  in  a  thick 
curve  almost  into  his  eyes.  Once  he  had  written:  "  I  was  up 
early.  Good  boy.  I  really  begin  to  suspect  I  am  getting  better 
I  do.  ...  Now  just  imagine  if  I  was  was  [sic]  walking  along 


i886.]  DICKY  DOYLE'S  DIARY.  827 

coolly  and  suddenly  saw  The  Tournament  in  a  shop  window.     Oh 
crikey  it  would  be  enough  to  turn  me  inside  out." 

At  the  end  of  May  a  little  picture  occurs  showing  the  backs 
of  two  boys  and  a  dog,  all  looking  in  at  a  shop-window,  and  the 
writing  tells  how  his  brother  brought  the  alarm  that  "  my  thing" 
was  to  be  seen  in  Piccadilly.  The  boys  and  Ruff  rushed  out  to 
behold  it,  "and  there  to  my  consternation  was  the  identical  cul- 
prit lying  on  its  back  in  the  bottom  shelf  of  the  window.  This 
certainly  is  something  beyond  belief." 

Not  many  boys  of  fifteen  have  ever  enjoyed  such  a  cause  of 
consternation.  The  other  important  work  of  the  year  was  a 
commission  for  envelope  designs — comic,  of  course,  for  the  bent 
of  his  genius  was  decided  now.  Historical  subjects  and  pic- 
tures from  romance  had  been  his  first  ambition ;  landscape  art 
had  a  charm  for  him,  and  we  see  him  out  in  the  Park  planning  a 
great  amount  of  drawing  from  nature.  But  the  moment  the 
public  were  set  laughing  by  his  humor  fate  fixed  upon  him  for  a 
master  of  the  ludicrous,  an  artist  of  innocent  fun. 

Already  he  had  the  first  element  of  success — zest  for  work. 
The  excitement  of  hard  work  he  calls  delicious,  and  votes  that  in 
comparison  with  the  ferment  of  preparing  for  Christmas  the 
holidays  are  dull.  Yet,  like  most  artists  of  mature  growth,  the 
boy-artist  had  his  trying  fits  of  depression,  hating  everything 
he  had  done,  till  he  felt  as  if  he  could  not  go  on.  At  such  times, 
he  remarks  wisely,  one  can  only  wait,  or  go  on  ;  "  either  is  bet- 
ter than  committing  violence  on  my  person."  A  sketch  shows 
his  own  idea  of  himself,  with  flying  hair  and  jacket,  plunging  into 
a  pond,  where  a  pair  of  ill-fated  legs  are  already  sticking  up 
among  the  rushes.  Neither  does  he  elect  to  go  into  solitary 
situations  like  "the  cur  wot  shunned  society."  Probably  he  wait- 
ed when  work  came  to  a  standstill ;  there  is  a  sketch  of  him  and 
the  dog  Ruff  both  huddled  into  a  sort  of  niche  or  nook,  where 
there  is  just  room  for  the  boy  to  sit  down  with  drawn-up  knees, 
and  hair  in  his  eyes,  and  mouth  down  at  the  corners,  while  the 
fluffy  white  dog  begs  piteously,  as  if  imploring  Dicky  to  get  up 
and  do  something,  like  a  sensible  boy. 

When  his  work  brings  money  he  craves  for  books.  One  day 
he  notes  with  glee  that  he  has  a  light-blue  purse  lined  with  white, 
with  ivory  rings  and  tassels,  and  that  this  blue  purse  is  groaning 
under  the  weight  of  coin  "  fit  to  bust  itself."  He  burns  to  rush 
off  to  the  bookseller's  just  to  save  the  precious  purse  from  "  bust- 
ing." The  greatest  joy  of  his  indoor  life  was  an  illustrated  book 
or  a  luxurious  read.  He  was  a  critical  young  reader.  For  in- 


828  DICKY  DOYLE'S  DIARY.  [Mar., 

stance,  when  he  has  drawn  a  historical  picture  of  Richard  Cceur 
de  Lion  pardoning  his  brother  John,  his  frank  and  naive  re- 
marks in  the  diary  are  capital :  "  I  pardon  him,  said  Richard, 
and  wish  I  could  as  easily  forget  his  injuries  as  he  will  my  par- 
don." That  is  in  the  English  history,  but  Dicky  wonders  if  he 
really  said  it  or  not.  "  Such  a  thing  as  that  might  be  so  easily 
invented — though  I  don't  know — it  is  almost  too  fine  for  that." 
Clever  lad !  Truth  is  finer  than  fiction,  and  hearts  say  better 
things  than  historians  could  invent. 

Another  bright  comment,  but  of  a  humorous  kind,  was  made 
by  the  boy  on  an  anecdote  which  he  has  heard  and  written  down 
for  illustration.  After  the  siege  of  a  town  in  Batavia  by  the 
Dutch  troops  the  inhabitants  took  it  into  their  heads  that  the 
cannon  ought  to  be  propitiated ;  and  they  came  during  the  night 
and  worshipped  the  Dutch  guns,  laying  offerings  of  fruit  and 
other  luxuries  on  top  of  them.  Dicky  draws  the  worshippers, 
and  the  sentry  and  recumbent  soldiers  peeping  out  of  the  cor- 
ners of  their  eyes  at  the  provisions  that  they  will  seize  upon  as 
a  windfall  the  minute  the  Batavians  are  gone.  The  zeal  of  the 
natives  was  ill-judged,  he  remarks ;  those  good-natured  blacks 
ought  to  have  known  that  they  were  inflicting  mental  agony 
upon  the  cannon  by  leaving  the  food  on  their  backs,  where  they 
could  not  get  at  it,  instead  of  putting  it  into  their  mouths. 

Like  most  boys,  he  was  keenly  interested  in  everything  con- 
nected with  soldiers.  "  If  I  were  not  going  to  be  an  artist,"  he 
wrote,  "  I  would  like  best  to  be  an  officer  in  the  Life-Guards. 
There  is  scarcely  anything  so  delicious  to  me  as  a  review."  At 
fifteen  he  had  acquired  perfect  mastery  of  the  figures  and  action 
of  men  and  horses,  and  of  the  effect  of  crowds,  and,  improving 
with  practice,  his  review  sketches  were  stirring  and  brilliant  be- 
fore the  end  of  the  year.  He  describes  the  inspections  at  the 
Park,  and  how  the  old  Duke  of  Wellington  would  appear  after 
the  lines  had  been  long  waiting — "  the  hero  of  Waterloo  mount- 
ed upon  an  animal  of  small  proportions,  which  contrives  to  jog 
him  into  the  air  in  an  awful  manner,  while  he  calmly  surveys  the 
sky  above  his  head." 

This  was  the  year  of  the  marriage  of  Queen  Victoria,  and  also 
of  the  impulsive  and  freak-like  invasion  of  Boulogne  by  Prince 
Louis  Napoleon,  who,  though  he  made  a  dash  and  failed  in  1840, 
had  better  luck  next  time  and  became  emperor.  The  boy  gives 
his  views  on  the  marriage  and  the  invasion,  and  his  sketches  too. 
A  sketch  of  a  garlanded  cake  accompanies  the  entry,  early  in  the 
year :  "  The  confectioners  have  been  commanded  to  supply  her 


i8S6.]  DICKY  DOYLE'S  DIARY.  829 

majesty  with  a  great  beast  of  a  plum-cake  some  ten  feet  in  cir- 
cumference, to  be  followed  up  by  a  hundred  others  of  a  more 
decent  size,  which  are  to  be  distributed  among  her  majesty's 
"friends."  The  royal  marriage-day  arrives  :  he  sketches  his  rue- 
ful face  waiting  at  the  window  for  the  rain  to  stop  pouring.  It 
ceased,  and  he  dashed  out,  in  company  with  his  brother,  guarded 
by  an  umbrella  the  worse  for  wear.  The  crowds  were  good- 
humored,  as  usual,  "  all  except  the  old  women  with  coal-scut- 
tle bonnets  and  green  umbrellas."  The  two  boys  jostled  their 
way  to  get  a  good  view.  Dicky  drew,  in  his  diary,  the  bri- 
dal carriage,  with  the  arms  of  England  blazoned  on  the  panel, 
and  with  a  cluster  of  footmen  standing  up  at  the  back  and  look- 
ing across  the  roof  at  the  burly  coachman.  The  bride  appears 
within,  and  Prince  Albert  with  a  white  bow  on  his  shoulder. 
"  The  cheers  were  tremendous,"  writes  Dick,  with  becoming 
loyalty,  "and  Henry  and  I  waved  our  hats  and  screamed  with 
all  our  might.  .  .  .  The  queen,  with  a  large  veil  over  her  head, 
looked  actually  beautiful." 

His  account  of  the  other  great  event  begins  boyishly  : 
"  Here's  fun  !  "  and  Prince  Napoleon,  an  inch  tall,  and  with  his 
hat  crooked,  struts  in  the  margin.  He  has  invaded  Boulogne 
with  fifty  men.  On  the  next  page  we  see  him  and  his  troops 
careering  down  a  street,  accompanied  by  a  dog  in  barking  sur- 
prise, and  with  the  townsfolk  staring.  "  A  little  battle  "  turn- 
ed unfavorably,  and  Dicky  relates  how  the  invaders  did  not 
run,  but  just  tried  to  reach  their  boats  in  the  quickest  possible 
way,  but  all  cramming  into  one,  they  upset  and  were  distribut- 
ed about  in  the  water ;  and  the  episode  ends  with  a  minute 
sketch  of  the  leader  with  the  imperial  features  riding  on  a  buoy 
far  out  at  sea.  The  grewsome  look  of  the  face  is  one  of  the 
marvels  of  Dicky's  pencil. 

Smaller  events  made  subjects  for  most  of  the  sketches — the 
bear  at  the  Zoological  Gardens  nearly  on  his  head  on  the  bear-pit 
pole,  trying  to  get  the  visitor's  bun,  held  out  on  a  stick  ;  the  man 
in  the  street  selling  silver  rings  for  a  penny,  and  the  other  man 
preaching  energetically  with  three  or  four  little  boys  for  his  con- 
gregation ;  the  footmen  in  livery  on  the  drawing-room  day,  with 
their  long  silk  stockings,  which  he  informs  us  were  of  pale  pink, 
picking  their  steps  in  agony  down  the  muddy  street  and  trying 
to  smile  superbly,  while  the  crowd  rejoices  in  the  troubles  of  the 
pink  calves.  Dicky  had  an  eye  for  everything,  and  became — if, 
indeed,  he  was  not  from  the  beginning — a  marvellous  observer. 
But,  above  all,  he  excelled  in  crowds.  Some  of  the  boy's  sketches 


830  DICKY  DOYLE 's  DIARY.  [Mar., 

remind  one  of  Hogarth  ;  and  he  could  draw,  in  the  theatre  or  in 
the  street,  backs  more  expressive  than  faces. 

The  fairies  had  begun  already  to  take  possession  of  him,  or 
rather  he  had  begun  to  lay  open  fairyland  and  to  jot  down  with 
his  pencil  the  portraits  of  the  tricksy  elves.  They  have  not 
wings,  but  they  are  the  most  fairy-like  fairies  ever  beheld — all 
alive,  gay,  mischievous,  but  only  in  fun ;  little  creatures  with 
jesters'  caps,  holding  each  other  by  leg  and  hand  to  slip  down 
a  wall  in  the  margin,  or  nailing  up  or  balancing  in  their  place 
the  letters  of  the  day  of  the  week  which  Master  Dick  had 
reached  in  his  diary.  At  the  top  of  December  two  of  them 
are  hard  at  work  hacking  and  hewing  at  the  Christmas  pudding. 
Christmas  was  coming  much  too  soon  for  Dick,  and  he  draws  in 
the  margin  a  grim,  relentless  man  whom  he  imagines  the  month 
of  December  to  be  like,  because  when  people  have  a  great  deal 
of  work  to  get  through  in  preparation  for  Christmas  December 
hurries  down  upon  them  without  mercy.  "  Whenever  a  month 
knows  that  it  is  wanted  to  come  as  slowly  as  it  conveniently  can, 
so  sure  is  it  to  come  at  the  rate  of  a  black-whiskered  policeman 
running  with  energy  after  a  small  youth." 

Dick  had  been  preparing  for  his  father  a  procession  of  whim- 
sical little  figures,  and  as  early  as  the  I4th  of  November  he  had 
been  afraid  he  would  never  be  able  to  put  down  a  quarter  of  the 
ideas  that  crowded  into  his  head.  At  this  date  in  his  diary  the 
boy  sketched  himself  lying  in  bed  helplessly,  with  the  tumbled 
hair  covering  his  forehead,  while  crowds  of  little  figures  whirled 
down  upon  him  like  a  shower,  or  clutched  the  bed-clothes  and 
scrambled  up  from  the  floor.  Even  if  he  were  to  strike  a  light, 
he  says,  he  could  not  put  down  his  ideas  upon  paper  before  morn- 
ing; so  he  turned  his  thoughts  to  other  things,  as  we  see  by  the 
sketch  of  the  dimly-lighted  room,  where  he  stands  like  a  boy- 
ghost  with  a  pointed  night-cap,  and  dresses  a  figure  and  shakes 
hands  with  it.  "  First  jumping  out  of  bed,  I  seize  upon  a  chair 
by  brute  force  and  plant  it  in  the  middle  of  the  floor;  becoming 
possessed  of  a  coat,  I  then  place  it  upon  the  back  of  the  chair ; 
a  pair  of  trousers  in  a  reclining  posture  adds  to  the  picturesque 
effect  already  produced,  and  I,  becoming  enraptured  at  the  sight, 
fetch  four  boots  and  place  a  leg  in  each  ;  but  stay,  something  yet 
was  wanting— I  seized  a  hat,  and,  placing  it  on  one  side  of  the 
gentleman's  head,  gave  at  once  to  the  whole  a  light,  cheerful,  and 
even  playful  appearance." 

An  example  of  a  procession  such  as  he  was  preparing  for  the 
Christmas  show  is  drawn  as  an  ornamental  border  to  two  pages 


1 886.]  "THE  CHURCHMAN:'  831 

of  this  most  original  diary.  At  the  foot  of  the  page  the  figures 
start,  go  running  and  scrambling  up  a  ladder  at  the  side,  follow 
fast  along  the  top,  hurrying  more  and  more  as  they  near  the 
opposite  corner  of  the  open  pages,  and  there  we  see  that  they  are 
about  to  disappear  through  a  small  round  hole  in  a  wall.  In  this 
hole  a  pair  of  legs  are  seen  flying  through  ;  a  dog  is  springing  to 
follow,  and  a  stout  old  gentleman,  with  flying  coat-tails,  is  gath- 
ering himself  up  to  haste  away  through  the  hole  or  to  stick  in  it. 
All  the  other  figures  are  tending  onwards  to  the  hole,  like  a  fan- 
tastic march  doomed  to  struggle  through  such  little  openings  as 
we  find  in  dreams.  ^ 

Of  course  the  boy  who  invented  these  things  had  in  him  a 
spark  of  the  immortal  fire  of  genius  and  a  glow  of  humor  that 
was  never  dimmed  through  life.  But  there  are  many  less  famous 
folk  who  could  take  hints  from  the  diary  of  Dicky  Doyle.  The 
faculty  of  drawing  humorous  marginal  sketches  is  not  an  un- 
common one ;  nor  is  it  always  a  sign  of  the  artistic  gift.  But 
those  who  h'ave  it  might  make  a  quarto  book  worth  keeping,  if 
they  were  to  write  a  journal  briefly  and  brighten  its  pages  with 
pencil-sketches  that  would  call  up  a  smile  in  after-days. 


"  THE  CHURCHMAN:' 

IT  was  foolish  to  expect  that  the  recent  revival  in  this  city 
among  the  Episcopalians  might  renew  their  faith  in  the  great 
revealed  truths  of  Christianity  and  increase  their  charity  towards 
God  and  man.  Such  is  the  usual  effect  of  missions  among  Catho- 
lics. But  with  the  Episcopalians  the  effect  seems  to  be  no  great 
increase  of  the  love  of  God  and  a  notable  lessening  of  their  love 
for  their  neighbor.  The  superficiality  of  Broad-Churchmen  and 
their  strong  tendency  to  agnosticism,  the  formalism  of  Ritualists 
together  with  the  general  doctrinal  indifference  of  the  average 
church-goer,  called  for  some  powerful  movement  towards  better 
things  ;  undoubtedly  a  revival  of  religion  in  this  sect  was  greatly 
needed.  The  revival  came  and  went,  and  one  fruit  of  it  is  abuse 
of  the  Catholic  religion.  We  trust  sincerely  that  it  has  had  a 
good  effect  upon  some ;  but  it  is  sad  to  think  that  in  others  it  has 
only  stirred  up  sectarian  bile  and  bigotry.  It  has  had  apparent- 
ly only  that  effect  on  the  author  of  the  following  article,  which 
we  clip  from  the  editorial  columns  of  "The  Churchman"  in  its 
issue  of  the  i6th  of  January  : 


832  "THE  CHURCHMAN^  [Mar., 

"  Since  the  Syllabus  of  Pius  IX.  it  is  quite  evident  that  no  devout 
Roman  Catholic  can  yield  an  undivided  allegiance  to  the  government  of 
the  United  States.  It  is  impossible  for  any  man  to  hold  that  the  decisions 
of  the  pope  are  supreme  and  irreformable  in  all  matters  of  faith  and  morals, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  yield  entire  allegiance  to  any  State.  This  con- 
sideration has  now  become  all  the  more  important  since  the  publication  of 
the  recent  Encyclical,  in  which  Roman  Catholics  are  urged  as  such  to  take 
an  active  part  in  political  affairs  for  the  expressed  purpose  of  extending  the 
influence  *and  power  of  the  Papal  See.  If  the  Emperor  of  Germany,  for 
instance,  were  to  insist  upon  reserving  to  himself  a  certain  definite  claim 
upon  the  supreme  obedience  of  all  Germans  coming  to  this  country,  it  is 
quite  certain  that  the  allowance  of  this  claim  by  a  German  seeking  naturali- 
zation would  be  rightfully  considered  a  bar  to  his  citizenship.  The  allowance 
of  a  similar  claim  on  the  part  of  the  Bishop  of  Rome  by  a  Roman  Catholic 
alien  seeking  naturalization  ought  also  to  be  regarded  as  a  sufficient  rea- 
son for  denying  his  request.  And  if  this  country  is  to  continue  to  be  free, 
it  is  to  this  complexion  we  must  come  at  last.  The  conflict  between  Rome 
and  national  independence  is  irrepressible." 

In  this  article  there  is  not  a  word  of  truth,  and  there  seems  to 
be  not  an  atom  of  fairness  in  the  writer's  animus.  It  is  all  abusive 
invective  and  false  accusation. 

It  is  not  true  that  the  doctrines  of  Christianity,  as  embodied 
by  the  Catholic  Church,  and  the  free  institutions  of  our  repub- 
lic are  in  conflict.  The  Catholic  religion  can  save  men,  indeed, 
under  any  form  of  civil  government,  and  knows  how  to  find  the 
authority  of  God  in  any  legitimately-constituted  state;  nay,  more, 
the  true  religion  can  flourish  under  a  bad  government,  bad  in  form 
and  bad  in  practice.  Did  not  Christianity  grow  from  infancy  to 
manhood  under  the  Roman  emperors  ?  And  in  our  own  times  has 
not  Catholicity  steadily  advanced  amid  the  confiscations  and  im- 
prisonments of  Bismarck's  tyranny?  Did  not  the  church  struggle 
into  a  wide  and  safe  harbor  in  Ireland  against  the  storm  of  in- 
credible fury  hurled  against  her  by  that  institution  which  "The 
Churchman"  is  fond  of  calling  "  the  mother-church  of  England  "  ? 
But  the  church  is  no  friend  of  arbitrary  power.  Catholics  have, 
indeed,  here  and  there  favored  absolutism,  but  they  have  had 
to  quarrel  with  their  religious  principles  to  do  it,  and  gene- 
rally, as  in  the  case  of  the  Gallican  Church,  with  their  religious 
superiors  at  the  centre  of  Catholicity.  For  the  true  home  of 
the  Catholic  religion  is  among  a  people  politically  free.  It 
must  be  so,  because  the  application  of  religious  aid  to  the  human 
soul  in  the  Catholic  Church  necessitates,  for  its  normal  action, 
free  men  assisted  by  a  free  clergy.  Catholicity  is  productive  of 
civil  freedom.  Historians  tell  us  that  the  example  of  those  re- 
ligious republics,  the  Benedictine  abbeys,  was  the  origin  of 


1 886.]  "THE  CHURCHMAN:'  833 

the  free  Catholic  states  of  the  middle  ages.  The  centre  of 
Catholic  authority  at  Rome  fostered  the  establishment  and 
growth  of  the  Italian  republics  ;  when  they  were  assailed  by 
the  Ghibelline  factions  and  the  ambition  of  the  empire  the 
Papacy  fought  and  suffered  for  them  for  centuries.  Nowhere 
has  Catholicity  better  flourished  than  where  hand-in-hand  with 
love  of  freedom,  and  the  study  of  its  principles,  and  the  practise 
of  its  rights.  Witness  the  founding  and  maintenance  of  free 
states  in  all  Italy ;  of  the  free  cities  of  Germany,  the  Hanseatic 
towns;  Switzerland — whose  very  origin  as  a  nation  is  monastic — 
down  to  the  little  but  perennial  blossoms  of  Catholic  civil  liberty 
in  the  republics  of  Andorra  and  San  Marino.  And  is  there  no 
similar  lesson  this  side  the  ocean?  When  the  Spanish  colonies 
threw  off  the  yoke  did  they  rush  into  the  arms  of  "  the  mother- 
church  of  England  "?  Has  Episcopalianism  made  any  headway 
in  free  Mexico  ?  Have  not  the  clergy  and  Catholics  of  Brazil  but 
just  now  succeeded  in  emancipating  the  blacks  of  that  country 
against  all  the  furious  resistance  of  that  foremost  bulwark  of  Pro- 
testantism, Freemasonry — a  society  to  which  the  writer  we  have 
quoted,  perhaps,  and  certainly  very  many  of  his  clerical  brethren, 
belong?  And  does  Catholicity  feel  out  of  place  in  free  America? 
Is  "The  Churchman  "  aware  of  any  signs  of  its  withering  up  and 
vanishing  away  in  this  free  atmosphere  ? 

But  of  the  religious  revolution  of  the  sixteenth  century  it  may 
be  said  that  it  was  as  much  due  to  the  tyranny  and  greed  of  mon- 
archs  as  to  any  spiritual  motives,  good  or  bad,  among  the  people  ; 
and  of  the  Anglican  Church  in  particular  that  it  allied  itself  with 
persecution  and  despotism  wherever  and  whenever  it  could.  No 
people  could  learn  to  be  free  from  studying  Anglicanism ;  its 
religious  authority  is  not  simply  arbitrary,  but  is  rooted  in  the 
arbitrary  will  of  purely  civil  rulers.  There  is  not  a  bishop,  dean, 
prebend,  canon,  or  other  high  dignitary  in  "  the  mother-church  of 
England  "  chosen  otherwise  than  by  the  party  leader — be  he  Jew, 
Christian,  or  infidel — in  momentary  possession  of  the  right  to  dis- 
tribute the  spoils  of  office.  If  the  case  is  different  in  the  daugh- 
ter-church of  America  it  is  because  American  liberty  has  had  too 
powerful  a  teaching  to  be  resisted. 

A  fair  contrast  between  the  Catholic  and  Anglican  spirit  was 
displayed  at  the  opening  of  the  American  Revolution.  The 
Catholics,  clergy  and  people,  were  on  the  side  of  liberty.  The 
"churchmen,"  at  least  as  far  as  the  clergy  were  concerned,  were 
almost  to  a  man  on  the  side  of  King  George.  It  was  a  bigoted 
clique  of  Protestants  in  the  Colonial  Assembly  of  New  York 

VOL.  XLII. — 53 


834  "TffE  CHURCHMAN:'  [Mar., 

who  said  such  things  of  the  Catholic  faith  that  John  Carroll,  the 
Catholic  priest,  and  Benjamin  Franklin,  the  philosopher,  were 
balked  in  their  efforts  to  bring  Catholic  Canada  into  the  new  re- 
public. The  Catholic  Church  had  taught  the  modern  nations  of 
the  world  how  to  be  free,  founding  those  civil  liberties  which 
went  down  at  the  Reformation,  and  by  Catholic  Americans  and 
Catholic  Frenchmen  helped  to  liberate  the  American  colonies. 
The  Anglican  branch  on  this  continent  contributed  the  praying 
and  preaching  of  her  American  clergy  to  extinguish  the  spirit 
of  freedom  here.  When  the  country  was  free  the  "  Protestant 
Episcopal  Church  "  was  taught  a  form  of  electing  its  bishops  and 
clergy  by  the  free  institutions  of  this  republic.  When  there 
arose  a  necessity  for  more  freedom  in  church  polity  Anglican- 
ism must  take  its  cue  from  the  civil  state.  But  every  nation  has 
learned  the  true  principles  of  liberty  from  the  Catholic  Church. 
Twelve  hundred  years  before  the  Declaration  of  Independence 
was  written  Gregory  the  Great  had  proclaimed  our  fundamental 
political  truth  :  Omnes  sunt  pares.  And  if  the  Anglican  Church 
did  not  maintain  a  hateful  form  of  monarchy  in  the  United  States 
and  make  itself  the  state  church  it  was  not  from  lack  of  the  will. 

And  a  yet  better  field  for  evidence  of  our  estimate  of  the  re- 
lative influence  of  true  and  false  Catholicity  is  to  be  had  in  the 
history  of  Ireland.  How  has  Protestant  England  treated  Catho- 
lic Ireland?  Of  all  tyrannies,  of  all  persecutions,  of  all  bigotries 
recorded  in  the  history  of  the  human  race,  none  has  surpassed, 
even  in  the  most  barbarous  times,  the  conduct  of  "  The  Church- 
man s  "  model  Christianity  towards  the  Irish  people.  The  squire 
and  the  parson  were  the  two  factors  ;  one  furnished  the  brute- 
force  and  the  other  the  moral  suasion  in  the  work  of  enslaving 
Ireland.  One  succeeded  in  stealing  the  material  substance  of 
the  people ;  the  other  failed  in  robbing  them  of  their  souls'  wel- 
fare only  by  a  miracle  of  divine  mercy  and  the  people's  enlight- 
ened convictions  of  conscience.  It  is  a  standing  monument  of 
Protestant  effrontery  that  the  simulacrum  of  the  departed  Irish 
Establishment,  with  its  debris  of  hungry  and  wrangling  clergy, 
should  have  the  face  to  stay  in  Ireland  at  all.  And  in  this  nine- 
teenth century  England's  Carlyles  and  Froudes  blame  their  coun- 
try, riot  for  her  unutterable  cruelties  to  the  Irish,  but  for  not 
stamping  out  the  people  who  clung  to  their  own  faith  and  their 
own  soil. 

And  if  the  leaders  of  the  Irish  people  are  beginning  to  ex- 
pound to  the  masses  the  radical  opinions  of  the  great  Catholic 
theologians  on  political  government  and  the  right  of  men  to 


1 886.]  "Tffjs  CHURCHMAN:'  835 

property  in  the  land,  it  is  because  the  tyranny  and  bigotry  of 
Anglicanism  have  given  them  occasion  to  do  so.  There  is  a  time 
in  the  history  of  all  nations  when  the  providence  of  God  brings 
them  face  to  face  with  the  prime  truths  which  lie  at  the  base  of 
society  ;  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  things  else  they  are  compelled  to 
declare  to  all  mankind  the  first  principles  of  social  order.  At 
the  present  moment  the  Irish  people  at  home  in  the  parent  isle, 
and  the  many  millions  of  the  race  in  every  part  of  the  world,  are 
affirming  principles  of  civil  freedom  and  of  the  distribution  of 
the  temporal  gifts  of  God  which  may  well  cause  landlordism  and 
Anglican  state-churchism  to  look  for  a  troubled  future.  And 
from  no  source  are  these  principles  so  largely  drawn  as  from  the 
great  doctors  of  Catholic  truth. 

The  truth  is — and  the  writer  we  have  quoted  ought  to  know 
it,  if  he  knows  what  he  is  writing  about — that  free  states  have  re- 
peatedly risen  under  the  action  of  the  church's  principles,  and 
been  peopled  and  governed  for  ages  by  her  children.  The  civil 
state  has  existed  for  ages  in  accord  with  the  church,  each  possess- 
ing its  own  autonomy  intact.  And  he  ought  to  know  that  Ang- 
licanism has  nowhere  in  this  wide  world,  in  much  of  which  it 
has  had  sway  these  three  hundred  years,  ever  called  forth  or  ma- 
terially helped  to  establish  a  single  true  republic.  Why  not? 
Because  the  native  plant  can  only  flourish  "  by  law  established," 
and  with  "  our  sovereign  lord  the  king''  or  "  our  sovereign  lady 
the  queen "  as  the  ecclesiastical  head.  Any  growth  different 
from  this  is  too  exotic  and  weak  a  plant  to  spare  any  fruit  avail- 
able for  the  aspirations  of  men  in  the  civil  order. 

The  writer  will  vainly  search  for  any  decision  of  the  Catholic- 
Church,  unless  wilfully  perverted  from  its  meaning,  inimical  to 
the  free  institutions  of  our  republic  or  of  any  other  free  state. 
There  is  no  principle  in  the  foundations  of  our  political  institu- 
tions or  in  our  civic  life  in  conflict  with  Christianity  as  taught  by 
the  Roman  Catholic  Church ;  but  much,  on  the  contrary,  and 
that  easily  perceived  by  unbiassed  minds,  which  upholds  them. 
The  assertion  to  the  contrary  has  no  support  whatever,  and  it  is 
evidence  of  shallowness  of  mind  or  of  a  perverted  conscience  or 
an  egregious  bigotry  to  make  it. 

If  he  needed  an  actual  witness  near  at  home  he  has  it  in  the 
struggle  over  the  Freedom  of  Worship  Bill  in  this  State.  On 
which  side  are  the  bigots?  Who  are  the  deniers  of  religious 
liberty  to  their  fellow-citizens?  Who  are  acting  from  motives 
of  stupid,  despotic  tyranny?  Not  one  practical  member  of  the 


836  THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  ACRED  A  AND       [Mar., 

Catholic,  or,  if  it  suits  some  tastes  better,  the  Roman  Catholic, 
Church ! 

What  does  the  writer  wish  ?  That  we  should  obey  legisla- 
tures and  judges  deciding  on  questions  of  faith  and  morals? 
Does  he  suppose  that  if  any  judge  should  take  it  into  his  head 'to 
give  a  decision  touching  faith  or  morals  contrary  to  the  church's 
decision,  that  he  should  find  Catholics  obeying  Caesar  rather  than 
Christ?  Would  he  be  willing  to  obey  in  such  a  case?  Is  he  a 
statolater?  If  he  is  he  but  follows  the  traditions  of  his  church, 
but  is  false  to  those  of  his  country,  if  he  have  the  honor  to  be  an 
American.  Would  he  have  the  supremacy  of  the  state  estab- 
lished over  the  church,  as  is  the  case  with  "  our  mother-church 
of  England  "  ?  The  Catholic  Church  knows  how  to  make  mar- 
tyrs, but  not  slaves. 

We  feel  that  an  apology  is  due  to  our  readers  for  placing  such 
an  article  before  them  as  the  one  we  have  taken  from  "  The 
Churchman."  It  is  not  our  custom.  Its  intrinsic  merit  has  not 
called  for  it,  because  it  has  none.  We  only  departed  from  our 
custom  because,  after  some  thought,  we  feared  that  it  might  be 
the  occasion  of  mischief. 


THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  AGREDA  AND   PHILIP 
IV.,   KING   OF   SPAIN.* 

WEST  of  Zaragoza,  in  old  Castile,  is  the  small  town  of  Agreda 
at  the  foot  of  Moncaldo,  with  the  tall,  slender  spire  of  its  cathe- 
dral rising  above  picturesque  battlements,  and  a  small  stream 
called  the  Quieles  flowing  gently  through  its  streets,  spanned 
by  the  single  arch  of  an  old  stone  bridge.  The  chief  interest  in 
the  place  centres  in  the  memory  of  the  Venerable  Madre  Maria 
de  Jesus,  commonly  known  as  Mary  of  Agreda,  author  of  the 
famous  Mistica  Ciudad  de  Dios,  which  excited  so  great  a  contro- 
versy in  the  seventeenth  century,  and  is  still  read,  and  regarded 
as  one  of  the  most  remarkable  mystical  works  in  the  church. 

Maria  de  Jesus  was  born  in  Agreda  in  1602,  and  in  her  very 
girlhood  showed,  by  her  thoughtful  turn  of  mind,  her  instinctive 
shrinking  from  the  world,  and  her  angelic  piety,  that  she  was 
destined  to  something  extraordinary  and  supernatural.  She  was 
attractive  in  person,  with  the  dark  eyes  and  olive  complexion 

*  La  Sceur  Marie  d^  Agreda  et  Philippe  IV.    Par  M.  de  Lavigne.     Paris. 


1 886.]  PHILIP  IV.,  KING  OF  SPAIN.  837 

peculiar  to  the  Spanish  ;  and  she  grew  still  more  beautiful  under 
the  refining  influences  of  a  spiritual  life,  her  face  becoming  al- 
most luminous  under  strong  religious  emotion,  but  without  losing 
its  feminine  sweetness  and  modesty.  At  the  age  of  fifteen  she 
decided  to  embrace  the  monastic  life,  and  such  was  already  her 
moral  ascendency  that  she  induced  her  whole  family  to  follow  her 
example.  Her  father,  whose  name  was  Francisco  Coronel,  and 
her  two  brothers,  gave  up  their  patrimony,  and,  leaving  their  na- 
tive place  for  ever,  entered  the  Order  of  St.  Francis  in  the  pro- 
vince of  Burgos.  Mary,  with  her  mother  and  sister,  converted  the 
paternal  mansion  into  a  Franciscan  convent,  which  in  a  few  years 
became  renowned  throughout  Castile  and  Aragon.  In  this  con- 
genial life  Mary's  soul  at  once  expanded  and  rose  to  the  loftier 
heights  of  piety.  The  wants  of  her  physical  nature  were  almost 
forgotten  or  disregarded.  Her  prolonged  vigils,  leaving  her  only 
two  hours  of  sleep ;  her  continual  fasts  on  one  slight  meal  a  day, 
and  that  of  vegetables  alone  ;  her  other  austerities  of  all  kinds, 
persevered  in  with  a  heroism  more  than  feminine ;  her  long  pray- 
ers and  meditations  on  the  life  and  teachings  of  our  Lord  ;  her 
supernatural  contemplations,  and,  finally,  the  state  of  mystic  death 
at  which  she  arrived,  in  which  the  soul  becomes  the  passive  and 
yet  concurrent  instrument  of  divine  grace — all  contributed  to 
give  her  a  great  reputation  for  sanctity.  At  the  age  of  twenty- 
five  she  was  elected  superior  of  the  house,  which  office  she  con- 
tinued to  hold  till  her  death,  with  the  exception  of  three  years. 
At  thirty-five  she  began  her  Mystical  City  of  God,  which  was  the 
fruit  of  her  daily  meditations  and  rapt  states  of  contemplation. 
When  this  work  appeared  it  was  hailed  with  almost  unanimous 
applause  by  the  bishops  of  Spain.  The  Spanish  Inquisition,  al- 
ways rigid  in  its  censorship,  regarded  it  as  almost,  if  not  wholly, 
of  divine  revelation.  The  Sorbonne  at  Paris  held  thirty-two  stan- 
ces, in  which  five  hundred  and  fifty  doctors  discussed  its  merits, 
but  finally  condemned  it  with  true  national  hostility  to  Spain.  At 
Rome  it  was  indeed  placed  on  the  Index,  but  was  removed  short- 
ly after  by  command  of  the  pope  himself,  some  say  at  the  solici- 
tation of  the  King  of  Spain.  Though  no  formal  approbation  has 
ever  been  given  to  the  work,  Pope  Alexander  VIII.  authorized 
its  circulation,  and  Clement  IX.  forbade  its  being  placed  on  the 
Index.  Its  discussion,  however,  has  delayed  the  process  for  the 
canonization  of  its  author,  though  no  one  ever  doubted  her  sin- 
cerity, her  earnest  convictions,  and  the  saintliness  of  her  charac- 
ter. In  it  she  displays  a  mind  thoroughly  imbued  with  the  re- 
ligious spirit,  and,  though  without  education,  strictly  speaking, 


838  THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  AGREDA  AND       [Mar,, 

shows  a  knowledge  of  Scripture,  a  depth  of  theological  learning, 
and  a  correctness  of  scholastic  terms  that  are  truly  surprising. 
The  work  is  not  untinctured  with  the  bad  taste  of  the  time,  and 
to  thoroughly  understand  it  the  reader  should  know  something 
of  the  tone  of  piety  in  the  age  it  was  written.  The  style,  how- 
ever, is  dignified,  and  yet  easy ;  and  some  of  her  descriptions 
have  a  certain  grandeur,  as  in  the  Passion,  where  Satan  and  his 
angels  are  represented  as  following  Christ  to  Mount  Calvary 
bound  in  chains,  forced  to  become  witnesses  of  his  sufferings  and 
death,  and  smitten  to  the  ground  at  the  moment  of  the  Consum- 
matum  est. 

So  renowned  had  Mary  of  Agreda  become  for  her  sanctity 
that  King  Philip  IV.,  on  his  way  from  Madrid  to  Zaragoza  to 
put  down  the  rebellion  in  Catalonia,  stopped  several  hours  at  the 
convent  of  Agreda  to  have  an  interview  with  her  and  commend 
the  interests  of  his  kingdom  to  her  prayers.  This  was  on  the 
loth  of  July,  1643,  and  so  profoundly  was  the  king  impressed  by 
her  bearing  and  conversation  that  he  entered  into  a  confidential 
correspondence  with  her  that  lasted  twenty-two  years — that  is, 
till  her  death  in  1665. 

Philip  IV.  began  to  reign  in  the  sixteenth  year  of  his  age 
(1620),  and  naturally  fell  under  the  influence  of  the  Conde-Duque 
de  Olivarez,  who  was  his  prime  minister  and  practically  the  ruler 
of  the  kingdom.  Olivarez  was  ambitious  to  restore  Spain  to 
its  former  supremacy  in  Europe,  but  by  his  rash  policy  he  only 
diminished  its  power  and  plunged  it  into  disasters  from  which  it 
has  never  recovered.  It  lost  its  possessions  in  the  Netherlands 
after  a  disastrous  war.  Portugal  proclaimed  its  independence 
under  the  house  of  Braganza,  which  led  to  further  losses  in 
South  America,  the  East  Indies,  etc.  Catalonia  rebelled.  And, 
as  the  conclusion  of  so  many  reverses,  the  treaty  of  the  Pyrenees 
assured  to  France  the  possession  of  Roussillon,  Artois,  and  Alsace 
at  the  marriage  of  the  Infanta  Maria  Teresa  to  Louis  XIV. 

Philip  IV.  sought  consolation  for  so  many  disasters  in  the  cul- 
tivation of  literature  and  the  arts,  of  which  he  was  an  enlightened 
patron.  He  gathered  around  him  men  of  talent,  such  as  artists 
and  eminent  writers,  especially  of  plays,  and  his  reign  became 
the  most  brilliant  period  of  the  Spanish  drama.  Cervantes  had 
not  long  been  dead.  Lope  de  Vega  had  arrived  at  an  honored 
old  age.  Montalvan  still  wielded  his  graceful,  versatile  pen. 
Quevedo,  at  once  statesman  and  poet,  made  himself  a  power  by 
his  spirited  and  pungent  satires.  And  Calderon,  king  of  dra- 
matic poets,  had  not  only  authority  over  everything  relating  to 


1 886.]  PHILIP  IV.,  KING  OF  SPAIN.  839 

the  stage,  but  was  admitted  to  the  royal  intimacy  and  made 
Knight  of  Santiago.  Philip  himself  sacrificed  to  the  Muses.  He 
wrote  several  comedies,  one  of  which  became  famous  :  Dar  su 
vida  por  su  dama — a  title  that  has  something  chivalric  in  its 
sound.  He  even  took  part  in  the  improvisations  of  extempo- 
raneous dramas  then  popular  at  court,  in  which  bearded  hidalgos 
figured  as  actors,  as  well  as  the  king,  whose  exterior  advantages 
and  cultivated  tastes  gave  him  pre-eminence.  His  reign,  too, 
was  illustrated  by  many  celebrated  masters  of  painting,  such  as 
Zurbaran,  Pacheco,  Alonso  Cano,  Murillo,  and  Velasquez.  He 
made  Velasquez  painter  to  the  royal  family,  and  daily  visited  him 
in  his  studio.  No  one  who  has  visited  the  Royal  Gallery  at 
Madrid  and  seen  the  wonderful  productions  of  this  great  painter 
but  has  paused  before  his  glorious  portrait  of  Philip  IV.  on 
horseback  with  a  feeling  akin  to  gratitude  ;  for  if  he  was  a  weak 
ruler,  ill-fitted  for  such  a  critical  time,  he  made  his  country  rival 
Italy  by  his  appreciation  of  the  arts,  and  left  it  all  these  monu- 
ments of  imperishable  fame. 

But  there  is  another  side  to  the  character  of  Philip.  Fond  of 
pleasure  as  he  was,  and  averse  to  the  cares  of  government,  he 
had  the  national  zeal  for  the  faith  and  a  strong  sense — at  least  at 
times — of  his  religious  obligations.  His  private  life,  to  be  sure, 
was  not  free  from  scandals,  but  he  blushed,  at  least,  for  his  faults ; 
he  condemned  them  himself,  and  in  his  better  moments  aspired 
to  a  higher  life.  The  Ven.  Marina  de  Escobar,  in  a  vision,  saw 
a  golden  chain  from  heaven  attached  to  the  heart  of  Philip  IV., 
conferring  on  him  a  special  love  for  the  faith  and  zeal  for  its  pro- 
tection, an  instance  of  which  we  have  when  the  Prince  of  Wales, 
afterwards  Charles  I.,  made  his  romantic  visit  to  Spain  to  woo 
the  Infanta  Maria.  Philip,  seeing  how  greatly  the  interests  of 
religion  were  involved  in  this  proposed  alliance,  prostrated  him- 
self before  the  crucifix  at  his  bedside  and  cried  with  true  Spanish 
fervor:  "  O  Lord!  I  swear  to  thee  by  the  crucified  union  of  God 
and  man  which  I  adore  in  thee,  on  whose  feet  I  press  my  lips, 
that  not  only  shall  the  coming  of  the  Prince  of  Wales  not  prevail 
with  me,  in  anything  touching  thy  holy  Catholic  religion,  to  go  a 
step  beyond  that  which  thy  vicar,  the  Roman  pontiff,  may  re- 
solve, but  that  I  will  keep  my  resolution  even  if  it  were  to  in- 
volve the  loss  of  all  the  kingdoms  which  by  thy  favor  and  mercy 
I  possess." 

It  was  this  religious  side  of  Philip's  character  that  led  him  to 
seek  with  so  much  respect  the  counsels  and  prayers  of  Mary  of 
Agreda,  and  keep  up  a  correspondence  with  her  for  so  many 


840  THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  ACRED  A  AND        [Mar., 

years.  His  letters  to  her  constitute  a  journal  of  the  principal 
events  of  his  reign.  They  display  no  solid  political  principles, 
or  lofty  views  as  a  ruler,  but  show  him  to  have  been  not  without 
a  sense  of  his  moral  responsibilities,  and  by  no  means  the  mere 
careless,  pleasure-loving  prince  he  has  generally  been  represent- 
ed. He  recounts  his  defeats  and  disasters,  his  want  of  means, 
his  private  sorrows  arising  from  the  illness  of  the  queen  and  the 
loss  of  his  children.  He  discusses  questions  that  affect  his  tran- 
quillity of  conscience,  and  expresses  deep  penitence  for  his  faults. 
After  more  than  two  centuries  they  are  of  interest  as  revealing 
the  true  character  of  the  man  and  the  secret  aspirations  of  his 
soul.  They  are  of  value  also  from  an  historical  point  of  view, 
for  they  furnish  the  key  to  several  enigmas  of  the  time. 

These  letters  also  throw  fresh  light  on  the  saintly  nun  of 
Agreda.  When  we  consider  that  Spain  was  then  one  of  the 
leading  kingdoms  of  Europe  ;  that  its  kings,  of  the  proud  race  of 
Hapsburg,  were  hedged  around  with  divinity,  as  it  were,  and 
only  approached  with  the  most  rigid  etiquette,  we  are  astonished 
at  the  freedom  and  dignified  simplicity  with  which  this  humble 
recluse,  sprung  from  the  people,  addressed  her  sovereign.  There 
is  no  flattery,  no  adulation,  and  no  disposition  to  profit  by  her 
moral  influence  over  him.  Her  letters  display  great  loyalty,  but 
little  knowledge  of  politics.  She  does  not  attach  much  import- 
ance to  actual  events;  they  are  only  of  moment  to  her  as  furnish- 
ing opportunities  of  applying  and  enforcing  the  religious  truths 
that  were  the  daily  food  of  her  own  soul.  Hers  was  not  the 
voice  to  rouse  the  king  to  any  other  warfare  but  the  spiritual 
combat,  though  she  evidently  possessed  great  energy  and  firm- 
ness of  character.  They  show,  too,  her  knowledge  of  the  hu- 
man heart,  and  are  a  proof  of  her  profound  piety — a  piety  of  a 
practical,  common-sense  kind  that  never  goes  beyond  the  bounds 
of  prudence,  which  is  somewhat  surprising  in  one  who  led  so 
supernatural,  and  what  is  often  called  "  visionary,"  life.  Each 
letter  is  a  brief  treatise  on  some  question  of  faith  and  piety,  tend- 
ing to  rouse  the  conscience  and  moral  courage  of  the  king. 

Philip,  in  writing  Mary  of  Agreda,  folded  his  paper  in  two 
lengthwise,  and  wrote  only  on  one  column,  leaving  the  other  blank 
for  her  reply.  By  this  means  his  letter  was  returned  to  him  with 
the  answer.  The  original  letters  were  preserved  in  the  king's 
cabinet,  and  after  his  death  were  scattered  and  doubtless  lost. 
But  Mary  of  Agreda  kept  a  copy  of  them,  which  was  afterwards 
deposited  in  the  archives  of  Simancas,  but  only  twenty-one  of 
the  king's  letters  with  her  replies  have  come  down  to  us. 


i886.]  PHILIP  IV.,  KING  OF  SPAIN.  841 

The  king's  first  letter  is 'dated  "  Zaragoza,  October  4,  1643." 
Olivarez  had  been  dismissed  the  January  before,  and  Philip,  alter 
directing  the  affairs  of  the  kingdom  himself  for  six  months,  had 
appointed  Don  Luis  de  Haro  prime  minister.  Portugal  had 
declared  its  independence.  Catalonia  was  in  a  state  of  insurrec- 
tion. After  enjoining  secrecy  as  to  the  correspondence  on  Mary 
of  Agreda  the  king  continues : 

"  Since  I  saw  you  I  have  felt  new  courage.  The  proofs  of  your  interest, 
and  the  promise  to  pray  for  me  and  the  welfare  of  my  kingdom,  have  re- 
stored my  confidence  and  given  me  the  strength  my  heart  needed.  As  I  then 
told  you,  when  I  left  Madrid  I  felt  all  human  means  had  failed  me.  1  could 
only  look  to  Heaven  for  the  accomplishment  of  my  plans.  .  .  .  Our  frontier 
on  the  side  of  Portugal  is  devastated  by  the  people  of  that  country,  rebels 
against  God  and  their  lawful  king.  The  affairs  in  Flanders  are  growing 
worse,  and  everything  indicates  a  rebellion  unless  God  provides  a  remedy. 
As  to  Spain,  though  my  presence  here  is  of  benefit,  I  fear  if  the  provinces 
are  not  encouraged  by  some  success  they  will  become  demoralized  and  dis- 
affected towards  the  monarchy.  Our  situation  is  certainly  very  critical 
every  way,  and  yet  I  assure  you  this  is  not  what  afflicts  me  the  most,  but 
the  thought  that  God  is  angry  with  us. 

"  Do  not  write  me  after  the  manner  of  the  world,  which  is  not  always 
sincere,  but  according  to  the  inspiration  of  God,  before  whom  I  declare  (and 
I  have  just  received  him)  that  in  all  things  and  everywhere  I  wish  to  obey 
his  holy  law  and  fulfil  the  duties  he  has  imposed  on  me  as  king.  I  hope  he 
will,  in  his  mercy,  have  pity  on  us  and  open  to  us  a  way  of  extrication 
from  these  difficulties.  .  .  .  The  greatest  favor  his  blessed  hand  can  be- 
stow on  me  is  to  inflict  on  my  person  alone  the  chastisement  my  sins  have 
drawn  on  this  kingdom,  for  I  alone  merit  it,  and  not  my  people,  who  have 
always  been,  and  always  will  be,  true  Catholics.  I  await  your  reply  to  con- 
sole me,  depending  on  your  intercession  with  our  Lord  that  he  may  vouch- 
safe to  enlighten  me  and  draw  me  from  the  cruel  anguish  in  which  I  am 
plunged." 

Mary  of  Agreda  in  her  reply  says : 

"  Sire,  the  lack  of  confidence  in  ourselves,  so  reasonable  when  we  con- 
sider the  fragile  character  of  our  human  nature,  formed  of  clay,  is  not  an 
obstacle  to  the  marvellous  designs  of  the  Lord  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  pro- 
motes and  hastens  them,  as  was  the  case  with  King  David  when,  acknow- 
ledging and  weeping  for  his  sins,  he  promised  thenceforth  to  love  and 
serve  the  Lord.  ...  I  acknowledge  that  the  kingdom  and  monarchy  are 
in  great  danger.  These  wars,  these  dissensions  among  Christian  kings  and 
princes,  are  chastisements  sent  by  the  Most  High  before  pardoning  our 
offences  against  him.  These  chastisements  in  themselves  are  a  proof  of 
his  Divine  Majesty's  love  for  this  country  and  the  monarchy,  which  already 
owe  him  so  much  gratitude.  But  when  past  errors  have  been  renounced 
before  the  Lord,  then  his  divine  goodness  knows  how  to  change  his  threats, 
punishments,  and  severity  into  consolations,  favors,  and  benefits.  I  trust 
through  the  clemency  of  the  Most  High  that  if  your  majesty  perseveres  in 


842  THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  AGREDA  AND       [Mar., 

your  good  and  holy  resolutions,  if  you  induce  others  to  follow  the  same 
course,  correcting  what  is  evil,  administering  requisite  justice  without  hu- 
man consideration,  rewarding  the  good,  and  taking  care  that  the  poor  are 
not  humbled  for  the  reason  that  they  are  poor— for  God  himself  became 
poor  in  this  world  for  our  sakes— but  seeking  rather  to  raise  them  up  on 
account  of  their  lowliness,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  humbling  the  pride  of 
the  rich  and  the  haughty  whenever  they  forget  the  requirements  of  the 
divine  law,  which  is  the  same  for  all  men,  then  I  trust  the  mercy  and  jus- 
tice of  Heaven  will  bring  everything  to  a  happy  termination.  ...  I  pro- 
mise your  majesty  with  all  sincerity  and  devotion  to  consecrate  to  the  Lord 
my  poor  prayers,  labors,  and  sufferings,  and  those  of  our  community,  to 
obtain  of  him,  by  the  intermediation  of  his  holy  Mother,  conceived  with- 
out sin,  all  that  you  so  ardently  desire.  May  God  increase  your  majesty's 
courage,  grant  you  peace  and  prosperity,  and  render  you  a  happy  and  for- 
tunate king.'' 

Philip  thus  replies: 

"  Sr.  Maria  de  Jesus,  your  letter  afforded  me  the  greatest  pleasure  and 
increased  my  courage.  I  feel  that  the  prayers  and  exercises  of  yourself 
and  your  community  will  obtain  from  our  Lord  what  this  kingdom  most 
needs  for  its  peace  and  tranquillity.  The  moment  has  come  for  you  to  pray, 
for  my  army  is  on  the  point  of  beginning  the  campaign,  and  any  day  may 
produce  important  results.  The  more  I  fear  I  do  not  on  my  part  merit  that 
the  issue  should  be  fortunate,  the  more  necessary  it  is  that  they  who  are 
good  should  pray  God  for  me.  He  knows  how  sincerely  I  desire  to  submit 
to  his  holy  law  as  man,  and  to  fulfil  my  obligations  as  king  ;  that  I  am 
doing  in  this  respect  all  I  can  do,  vigilant  in  having  justice  administered 
with  firmness  and  impartiality,  and  pursuing  a  straightforward  course  in 
all  things  relating  to  the  service  of  God  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  repair  in  so 
short  a  time  the  evil  it  has  taken  so  long  a  period  to  produce.  ...  I  desire 
to  accomplish  the  will  of  the  Lord  in  all  things.  If  I  fail  in  any  respect  it 
will  be  from  my  frailty  as  man,  and  not  as  a  wicked  man.  Therefore  I  beg 
of  you  in  a  particular  manner,  if  you  learn  the  will  of  God,  to  make  it 
known  to  me/for  I  am  willing  to  submit  to  it  in  all  things.  I  would  offer 
my  life  with  good-will,  if  the  sacrifice  would  lead  to  the  deliverance  of  my 
kingdom  and  the  peace  of  the  Christian  world." 

Mary  of  Agreda  says  in  her  next  letter: 

"  In  defending  the  cause  of  the  Most  High  your  majesty  is  only  defend- 
ing your  own  cause.  God  loves  great  courage  because  it  effects  great 
things.  And  anything  great  accomplished  by  human  weakness  and  lowli- 
ness is  a  proof  of  the  Almighty's  assistance.  I  desire  great  courage  for 
your  majesty,  therefore,  because  you  have  need  of  it  to  repair  the  mis- 
fortunes of  the  nation.  Arm  yourself,  then,  with  force.  The  most  effica- 
cious is  that  which  God  gives  by  his  grace,  and  he  will  not  refuse  it  if,  in 
seeking  it,  you  are  penitent  for  the  past  and  wish  to  do  right  in  the  future. 
The  testimony  of  a  good  conscience  will  give  confidence  in  God,  courage 
against  man  and  the  devil,  and  the  energy  to  accomplish  great  things. 

"  I  have  promised  your  majesty  many  times  to  pray  for  you  and  invoke 
the  divine  protection  in  your  behalf.  I  repeat  to-day,  in  presence  of  the 


i886.]  PHILIP  IV.,  KING  OF  SPAIN.  843 

Most  High,  that  all  my  prayers,  all  my  meditations,  have  no  other  end 
than  to  obtain  from  the  Almighty  the  salvation  of  your  majesty  and  the 
happiness  and  tranquillity  of  this  realm.  I  offer  all  that  my  humble  sub- 
mission to  God's  will  can  merit  in  expiation  of  all  the  offences  your  majesty 
may  have  committed  against  him.  ...  I  have  offered  my  life  to  God  for  the 
glory  of  his  holy  church  and  the  peace  of  this  kingdom.'' 

Philip  was  now  expecting  supplies  of  gold  and  silver  from  the 
famous  mines  of  Potosi,  so  necessary  to  carry  on  his  wars,  and  he 
was  the  more  anxious  for  their  safe  arrival  on  account  of  five 
galleons,  loaded  with  treasure,  destroyed  by  the  French  three 
years  previous.  Accordingly  he  writes,  December,  1643  : 

"  I  am  expecting  from  hour  to  hour  the  arrival  of  some  galleons  by  the 
help  of  God.  I  trust  he  will  bring  them  safely  into  port ;  nevertheless,  I 
beg  you  to  aid  me  by  imploring  the  Divine  Majesty  to  grant  me  this  favor. 
I  know  I  do  not  deserve  it.  I  merit  great  chastisement,  but  I  trust  he  will 
not  permit  the  total  destruction  of  this  monarchy." 

At  the  end  of  his  next  letter,  Philip,  after  recommending  the 
queen  to  the  prayers  of  Mary  of  Agreda,  adds : 

"  In  spite  of  my  numerous  occupations  I  seize  every  instant  I  can  to 
read  the  history  you  sent  me  [the  Mistica  Cmdad}.  It  interests  me  deeply, 
and  I  have  read  a  large  part  of  it  already.  It  is  a  very  remarkable  work, 
and  most  suitable  for  this  holy  time  of  Lent." 

Several  years'  letters  are  now  unfortunately  missing.  During 
this  time  died,  October  6,  1645,  Queen  Elizabeth  de  Bourbon, 
daughter  of  Henry  IV.  of  France — "  the  best  queen,"  says  Bos- 
suet,  "  that  Spain  ever  had."  The  year  after  died  the  Infant  Don 
Baltazar  Carlos,  heir  to  the  throne,  at  the  age  of  seventeen. 
This  was  a  sad  blow  to  Philip,  but  when,  after  great  precautions, 
it  was  announced  to  him,  his  only  expression  of  grief  was :  "  I 
must  only  be  the  more  devoted  to  my  people,  and  regard  them 
as  my  surviving  children,"  and  he  slowly  withdrew  into  his  cham- 
ber. It  is  on  this  occasion  we  have  a  glimpse  of  the  supernatural 
side  of  Mary  of  Agreda's  life.  The  death  of  the  young  prince 
was  revealed  to  her  while  engaged  in  prayer.  The  account  of 
her  visions  concerning  his  death,  his  detention  in  Purgatory,  and 
his  final  entrance  into  heaven,  written  down  for  the  consolation 
of  the  king  at  his  own  command,  are  very  curious,  and  in  parts 
sublime,  reminding  one  of  the  Divine  Poet  of  Italy.  We  give 
only  a  short  extract : 

"Finally,  the  day  of  the  Circumcision,  the  first  day  of  the  year  1647, 
being  at  prayer  before  the  Blessed  Sacrament  in  the  convent  church, 
towards  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  saw  the  soul  of  the  prince  issuing 


844  THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  AGREDA  AND       [Mar., 

from  Purgatory.  He  was  clothed  with  glory,  and  in  the  presence  of  God 
prayed  me  to  make  known  to  his  father  what  I  had  just  seen. 

"  I  realized  and  heard  the  Almighty  command  the  guardian  angel  of  the 
prince  and  other  ministering  spirits  to  descend  into  Purgatory  and  draw 
therefrom  this  blessed  soul,  that  it  might  be  received  into  eternal  bliss. 
The  angels  obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments  brought  his  soul  with  them  into 
the  presence  of  the  Lord.  With  like  swiftness  was  it  purified,  adorned, 
illuminated,  and  clothed  with  wonderful  gifts.  In  an  instant  the  Beatific 
Vision  was  revealed  to  him,  at  which  his  soul  became  more  beautiful,  more 
resplendent  than  several  suns  combined. 

"As  soon  as  his  soul  was  thus  glorified  the  first  movement  he  made  was 
to  break  out  into  the  canticle  in  the  fifty-first  chapter  of  Ecclesiasticus, 
beginning  with  these  words  :  '  I  will  give  glory  to  thee,  O  Lord,  O  King, 
and  I  will  praise  thee,  O  God,  my  Saviour ! ' 

"Angels  and  saints  united  in  expressing  their  joy  at  his  bites.  The 
Queen  of  Heaven  received  him  as  her  child  :  the  rest,  as  brother  and  com- 
panion; and  on  all  sides  could  be  seen  the  accidental  joy  experienced  by 
the  saints  when  a  soul  is  admitted  to  the  participation  of  the  blessedness  of 
heaven,  so  far  beyond  what  the  eye  hath  seen,  or  the  ear  heard,  or  it  hath 
entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive." 

The  king's  next  letter  that  has  been  found  is  dated  June  12, 
1652.  After  speaking  of  the  disturbances  in  Andalusia,  the  sieges 
of  Barcelona,  Gravelines,  and  Turin,  and  of  the  multiplied  offences 
against  God,  he  writes  : 

"  It  is  evident  that  the  evil  enemy  is  profiting  thereby  to  injure  Chris- 
tianity, and  this  afflicts  me  more  than  my  personal  sufferings,  for  I  ask  my- 
self if  this  is  not  the  consequence  of  my  sins  and  the  negligence  with  which 
I  have  fulfilled  the  obligations  God  has  imposed  on  me.  He  knows  how 
much  I  desire  to  please  him,  how  much  I  fear  to  offend  him  ;  but  I  fear 
also  my  own  weakness,  and  therefore  I  beg  you  to  aid  me  with  your  prayers, 
for  if  God  be  propitiated  he  will  allay  and  check  the  disturbance  in  which 
we  are  involved." 

Mary  of  Agreda  replies  : 

"  Sire,  it  would  avail  nothing  as  a  remedy  to  the  trouble  that  overwhelms 
your  majesty  to  possess  all  the  gold  and  silver  in  the  world,  or  rule  over 
the  whole  globe  from  the  east  to  the  west,  and  from  the  north  to  the  south, 
or  have  at  your  command  all  the  men  of  valor  who  have  lived  since  the 
time  of  Adam,  if  the  eternal  God,  the  author  of  all  nature  and  the  dispenser 
of  grace,  does  not  co-operate  by  his  divine  favor.  .  .  .  Victory  belongeth 
to  him.  Triumph  is  in  his  hands.  Events  are  directed  by  his  uncreated 
knowledge.  Success  is  accorded  by  his  clemency,  and  consolation  by  his 
mercy.  If  we  obtain  too  promptly  what  we  desire  we  cease  to  love  God. 
Accordingly  if  his  divine  wisdom  defers  a  benefit  it  is  to  keep  us  the  longer 
from  straying  away  from  him.  To  remain  faithful  to  him  we  should,  there- 
fore, consider  ourselves  as  beggars,  for  abundance  and  wealth  generally 
render  us  selfish  and  indifferent.  The  first  angel  was  lost  through  satiety. 
His  misfortune  was  that  he  had  nothing  at  the  moment  to  wish  for,  and  he 


1 886.]  PHILIP  IV.,  KING  OF  SPAIN.  845 

would  not  have  been  cast  out  if  the  possession  of  so  many  benefits  had  not 
blinded  him  as  to  his  future  wants.  The  other  angels  had  also  received 
many  gifts  and  favors,  but  they  did  not  forget  they  still  had  much  more  to 
receive  from  God,  and  therefore  they  remained  humble.  They  were  like 
the  seraphim  Isaias  tells  us  were  around  the  throne  of  God,  who  had  two 
wings  wherewith  they  did  fly,  and  other  wings  wherewith  they  covered  their 
faces  and  their  feet;  these  indicating  repose,  the  others  motion — repose,  as 
symbolizing  the  possession  of  all  good ;  motion,  as  the  symbol  of  aspira- 
tion and  desire.  They  flew  and  they  reposed.  So  whatever  we  obtain  from 
God,  we  must  not  forget  there  is  always  more  to  expect  from  him. 

"  Our  condition  is  exceedingly  low  and  vile.  As  long  as  we  are  in  want 
we  pray.  When  we  succeed  we  forget.  That  is  why  the  Most  High  gives 
and  retains,  grants  and  withholds,  in  order  that,  grateful  for  the  benefits 
he  has  already  bestowed,  we  may  still  pursue  him  to  beg  for  what  we  yet 
need." 

It  is  said  that  Philip  fell  into  evil  courses  after  the  death  of 
the  queen  and  Don  Baltazar,  and  "  a  celebrated  beata  "  was  sent 
to  admonish  him,  who  filled  him  with  salutary  terror  by  threat- 
ening- him  with  the  wrath  of  God — a  prophetic  intimation,  for 
shortly  after  he  barely  escaped  falling  victim  to  a  plot  against  his 
life  and  the  crown.  This  affected  him  deeply  and  brought  him 
back  to  a  sense  of  duty.  There  is  nothing  to  prove  that  this 
beata  was  Mary  of  Agreda,  but  it  does  not  seem  improbable.  At 
all  events,  the  king's  relapse  gives  double  significance  to  many 
passages  in  her  letters,  such  as  the  following : 

"  I  compare  God  to  the  sun.  If  there  are  clouds  and  mists  we  lose  sight 
of  it,  we  are  deprived  of  light ;  but  as  soon  as  the  air  is  purified  and  grows 
clear  we  behold  the  sun  again,  we  feel  it,  we  enjoy  it,  we  have  our  part  in 
its  influences  and  benefits.  There  are  no  clouds  more  dense  than  our  pas- 
sions and  evil  inclinations.  If  they  are  gratified  they  hide  from  us  the 
divine  sun  of  righteousness  which  is  God.  They  deprive  us  of  good  influ- 
ences. We  are  left  in  the  midst  of  darkness,  exposed  to  continual  falls  into 
an  unfathomable  abyss.  .  .  .  But  if  we  resist  and  mortify  them  as  soon  as 
they  occur  to  our  thoughts,  we  are  enlightened  by  grace  ;  we  turn  towards 
God ;  we  begin  to  feel  his  influence  ;  a  more  powerful  light  falls  on  our  souls ; 
a  stronger  love  animates  our  will ;  we  feel  more  strength  within  to  over- 
come what  had  seemed  insurmountable,  and  more  ardor  in  serving  God ; 
we  recognize  that  without  the  breath  of  his  immutable  being  we  cannot 
undertake  perilous  enterprises,  that  if  we  are  armed  with  divine  strength 
our  victory  is  certain,  by  the  aid  of  his  right  hand  we  shall  conquer  our 
enemies.  But  the  great  difficulty  is  to  renounce  ourselves.  We  remain 
concentrated  in  ourselves  and  act  like  creatures  whose  minds  are  diseased 
and  who  are  abandoned  of  God.'' 

The  following  extract  is  from  her  letter  on  hearing  of  the 
capitulation  of  Barcelona  : 

"  St.  Augustine  says  there  is  no  greater  misfortune  than  the  happiness 


846  THE  VENERABLE  MARY  OF  AGREDA  AND       [Mar., 

of  the  sinner,  and  when  God  permits  him  to  be  happy  in  his  iniquity  it  is 
because  his  wrath  is  only  the  greater.  He  only  leaves  him  without  chastise- 
ment in  this  world  in  order  to  chastise  him  the  more  rigorously  in  the  life 
to  come,  What  would  it  serve  a  man  to  have  the  wisdom  of  Solomon,  the 
beauty  of  Absalom,  the  strength  of  Samson,  the  long  life  of  Henoch,  the 
wealth  of  Croesus,  and  the  power  of  Caesar,  if  his  soul  is  endangered  there- 
by ?  Though  all  his  life  be  prosperous  and  happy,  of  what  account  are  the 
goods  he  hardly  possesses  before  he  has  to  resign  them  ?  The  life  of  man  is 
only  a  flower  that  springeth  up  in  the  morning,  blooms  at  mid-day,  and 
in  the  evening  is  already  faded  and  withered.  .  .  .  One  of  the  most  perfect 
qualities  of  divine  mercy  is  that  it  accords  prosperity  and  success  with  such 
weight  and  measure  that  the  desire  for  what  we  still  need  serves  as  a  re- 
mora  (check)  to  our  passions,*  a  counterpoise  to  satiety,  a  spur  to  incite  us 
to  have  recourse  to  the  immutable  being  of  God,  a  motive  to  love  and 
please  him  as  one  on  whom  depends  the  supply  of  our  wants.  The  great- 
est acquirement  of  the  human  mind,  the  best  proof  of  wisdom,  is  to  be 
able  to  resist  prosperity  so  as  not  to  be  lifted  up  by  it,  and  adversity  so  as 
not  to  be  cast  down  by  it." 

"Of  all  the  chastisements  inflicted  by  the  power  of  the  Most  High,  the 
severest  rigor  of  divine  justice  is  to  abandon  a  soul  to  its  sins.  .  .  .  There 
is  a  maxim  of  the  philosophers  that  privations  are  more  or  less  hard  to 
bear  according  to  the  greater  or  less  value  of  the  good  one  is  deprived  of. 
Now,  sin  deprives  us  of  grace,  which  is  the  participation  of  God  and  the 
benefit  of  being  his  children  and  the  heirs  of  eternal  glory.  Whence  we 
may  conclude  that  the  greatest  of  evils  and  of  chastisements  is  to  be  left  in 
the  sin  that  deprives  us  of  such  benefits." 

"The  entire  life  of  man  is  only  an  instant  compared  with  eternity,  and 
God  wishes  this  brief  time  to  be  employed  in  preparing,  and  meriting  by 
means  of  our  tribulations,  the  crown  of  eternal  bliss.  Who  would  not, 
then,  accept  with  joy  the  suffering  that  is  only  temporary  in  order  to  ob- 
tain that  which  is  eternal  ?  There  is  nothing  more  valuable  than  time, 
and  the  best  use  we  can  make  of  it  is  in  suffering  that  by  which  we  can  ac- 
quire such  an  inexpressible  benefit." 

The  king  writes  her  in  1653  : 

"  How  true  what  you  say  in  your  letter  !  The  most  hardened  sinner  can- 
not refuse  to  acknowledge  the  difference  there  is  between  the  state  of  grace 
and  that  of  guilt,  but  such  is  our  weakness  that  we  yield  rather  to  evil  than 
to  good.  Against  all  reason  do  we  allow  ourselves  to  be  led  away  by  our 
appetites,  regardless  of  our  highest  interests.  Therefore  do  I  dwell  with 
satisfaction  on  the  examples  you  mention.  They  will  aid  me  in  escaping 
from  similar  evils  and  in  seeking  the  incomparable  benefits  of  divine 
grace." 

"  Remora  de  nuestras  passiones"— an  image  often  used  by  the  old  Spanish  writers  from  a 
small  fish  (the  echeneis  remord)  which,  it  was  once  believed,  had  the  power  of  stopping  a  vessel  in 
the  midst  of  its  course.  It  is  employed  also  by  the  ancient  Greek  and  Latin  authors,  such  as 
Aristotle,  Ovid,  and  Lucan.  Pliny  says  the  echeneis  stopped  the  galley  of  Periander,  tyrant 
of  Corinth.  Another  is  said  to  have  arrested  the  vessel  of  Antony  in  the  midst  of  the  battle  of 
Actium,  commenting  on  which  Dom  Benito  Feijoo,  in  his  Encyclopedia,  says  that  the  only 
remora  that  checked  Antony  in  his  course  was  the  beauty  of  Cleopatra, 


1 886.]  PHILIP  IV.,  KING  OF  SPAIN.  847 

And  again  he  writes  : 

"  I  no  longer  allow  myself  to  be  cast  down  by  my  troubles.  On  the 
contrary,  I  rejoice,  for  they  seem  to  me  light  in  comparison  with  the  ex- 
amples you  cite  from  Holy  Scripture,  which  prove  how  necessary  afflictions 
in  this  life  are  for  our  salvation,  and  how  dangerous  prosperity  is,  since  it 
has  caused  the  downfall  of  so  many." 

Mary  of  Agreda  thus  replies  to  this: 

"  Sire,  patience  in  our  trials  is  a  laudable  virtue,  but  it  is  still  better  to 
receive  them  with  joy.  Doctors,  however,  only  find  this  degree  of  perfec- 
tion in  souls  of  the  highest  courage.  Your  majesty,  therefore,  must  not 
allow  yourself  to  be  cast  down  by  anything  that  befalls  you." 

In  1657  the  king  thus  commences  one  of  his  letters: 

"  I  am  always  afflicted  at  the  failure  of  a  letter  from  you,  especially  when 
this  is  caused  by  ill-health.  My  sorrow  is  then  double.  I  rejoice,  however, 
to  hear  you  are  better.  I  feel  great  interest  in  the  state  of  your  health  and 
the  continuation  of  the  counsels  you  give  me.  I  appreciate  their  value, 
and  earnestly  desire  to  put  them  in  practice,  but  fear  lest  I  fail  through  my 
weakness  and  sins." 

The  following  year  he  again  says  : 

"  Your  illness  caused  me  great  anxiety"and  distress,  especially  when  I 
heard  it  was  dangerous,  for  I  regard  you  with  deep  affection.  The  depriva- 
tion would  have  been  a  great  trial  had  our  Lord  called  you  to  eternal  rest, 
but  I  trust  he  will  not  deprive  me  of  your  counsels  and  close  the  door 
through  which  I  look  for  remedy  in  my  greatest  woes." 

Mary  of  Agreda  thus  writes  in  reply  : 

"  Your  majesty  condescends  to  value  the  prolongation  of  my  life,  where- 
as I  consider  it  so  useless  that  I  wish  I  could  sacrifice  it  in  the  service  of 
the  Most  High  and  in  that  of  your  majesty.  My  only  anxiety  and  wish  in 
this  valley  of  tears  is  that  God,  whose  goodness  is  so  immense  and  whose 
mercy  is  infinite,  be  not  offended  with  us,  but  afford  us  his  protection  ;  that 
his  holy  faith  be  maintained  and  practised  ;  that  your  throne  be  surround- 
ed by  prosperity  and  happiness;  and  that  your  majesty  may  be  saved.  .  .  . 
The  famine  and  war  that  weigh  so  heavily  upon  us  have  been  sent  us  for 
our  sins.  .  .  .  We  see  that  under  the  ancient  law  the  Hebrews,  men  and 
women,  with  the  priesthood,  humbled  their  hearts  by  fasting,  clothed  them- 
selves in  sackcloth,  and  made  ^their  children  prostrate  themselves  before 
the  altar  in  the  temple,  and  instead  of  losing  life,  honor,  and  liberty,  which 
they  were  in  danger  of,  they  obtained  security,  glory,  victory,  and  riches. 
I  am  deeply  afflicted,  my  heart  is  rent,  when  I  see  that  no  one  gives  a  thought 
to  this  remedy.  It  seems  as  though  all  fear  of  the  divine  justice  were  lost. 
And  yet  the  blows  that  have  fallen  so  severely  upon  us  are  loud  warnings. 
...  In  the  deepest  recesses  of  my  seclusion  I  will  aid  your  majesty  as 
much  as  is  in  my  power.  I  will  invoke  by  my  cries,  my  tears,  the  mercy 
of  the  Most  High." 


848  A  PLEA  FOR  THE  INDIAN.  [Mar., 

'      The   remaining    letters   have   never   been    found.      Mary   of 
Agreda  died  on  Whitsunday,  May  24,   1665,  aged  sixty-three. 

The  long  continuance  and  regularity  of  this  correspondence 
show  how  much  value  the  king  attached  to  it.  The  letters  of 
Mary  of  Agreda  invariably  stimulated  his  conscience,  roused 
his  moral  energy,  and  afforded  him  so  much  consolation  amid 
the  misfortunes  of  his  reign  and  almost  continual  ill-health  that 
when  they  were  delayed  he  always  expressed  his  regret  as  if  his 
chief  solace  was  wanting.  He  died  four  months  after  her,  Sep- 
tember 17,  1665.  after  blessing  his  children  and  saying  to  his  heir: 
"  God  grant  that  you  may  be  happier  than  I  !  " 


A  PLEA  FOR  THE  INDIAN. 

AN  ounce  of  experience  is  worth  many  pounds  of  theory,  and 
it  would  be  well  if  those  who  are  given  to  theorizing  were  to 
bear  this  in  mind.  Some  cunningly-devised  scheme  of  philan- 
thropy may  appear  fair  and  fascinating  on  paper.  Some  plan 
of  political  economy  may  seem  the  very  one,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  originator,  to  answer  every  requirement.  But  when  these 
schemes  of  philanthropy,  these  plans  of  political  economy,  pass 
from  the  ideal  into  the  real,  then  experience  soon  detects  the 
latent  flaws  and  relegates  them  to  a  place  on  the  library  shelf, 
where  in  the  abstract,  like  Plato's  Republic,  they  may  live  im- 
mortally without  harm  to  mankind,  or  else  sink  into  the  obscuri- 
ty which  befitted  them.  Such  are  the  thoughts  that  occur  as  one 
reads  from  time  to  time,  in  magazine  or  journal,  some  proposed 
solutions  for  the  Indian  problem.  Men,  and  women  too,  living 
far  away  from  the  scene  of  action,  without  even  a  passing  sense 
of  their  unfitness,  will  undertake  to  interfere  with  the  control  and 
welfare  of  the  still  savage  population,  and  offer  their  suggestions 
to  the  general  government.  One  does  not  object  to  the  interest 
they  show  in  the  poor  red  men,  but  one  must  deprecate  the  man- 
ner  in  which  it  is  [evinced.  Did  it  never  occur  to  a  political 
economist  that  in  such  matters  he  might  derive  valuable  counsel 
from  those  living  among  the  savages  for  many  years  as  their 
spiritual  guides  and  apostles  ?  What  course  of  action  would  the 
Catholic  missionary  desire  to  see  in  force?  Truly  a  practical 
question,  and  one  which  they  are  capable  of  answering  from  their 
long  experience.  We  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  priests  should 

•\ 


1 8 86.]  A  PLEA  FOR  THE  INDIAN.  849 

mix  in  politics  or  the  "  black-robe  "  turn  a  government  politician. 
Far  from  it!     Only  this:  men  who  have  been  for  years  in  the 
practice  of  a  profession  or  a  trade  are  generally  admitted  to  have 
some  weight  and  authority  in  matters  belonging  to  their  avoca- 
tion.    Why  does  this  not  hold  good  of  missionaries?     Who  can 
vie  with  them  in  the  knowledge  of  the  savage  tribes  to-whom 
they  have  devoted  their  lives  ?     Who  can  take  a  more  real-  and 
genuine  interest  in  their  welfare  ?     Who  can  be  more  desirous 
of  seeing  them  civilized  and  prosperous  ?     Who  can  have  such 
an  insight  into  the  character  and  habits  of  these  races  ?     Who 
can  know  better  what  will  conduce  to  their  development  or  their 
destruction?     And  what  must  weigh  deeply  with   Catholic  phi- 
lanthropists must  be  the  consciousness  that  these  men's  opinions 
and  verdicts  will  be  biassed  by  no  self-seeking,  since  they  are 
men  who  by  their  profession  have  renounced  all  hope  or  wish 
of  earthly  honors  or  riches.     Moreover,  they  seek  not  the  mere 
humanizing  of  the  savages,  but  the  transforming  of  what  is  in- 
tensely animal  into  the  real  and  spiritual  life  of  devout  Catholics. 
The  government  looks  upon  the  Indian,  or  should  look  upon  him, 
as  a  man  with  the  duties  of  a  possible  if  not  actual  citizen  of  the 
republic  at  no  distant  day.     The  priest  does  not  overlook  this, 
but  considers  it  as  not  the  one  thing  necessary  nor  the  primary 
object  of  their  civilization  ;  for  with  the  eyes  of  faith  he  sees  in 
them  "the  citizens  of  a  better  country,  even  one  to  come,"  in 
view  of  which  we  have  here  no  abiding  city.     The  efforts  of  the 
missionary  are  directed,  then,  in  the  first  place,  to  the  imprinting 
on  the  minds  of   the  savages  those   notions   which   make  them 
conscious  of  their  moral  responsibility  towards  God,  and,  as  a 
natural  consequence,  of  their  duties  towards  their  fellow-men. 
He  does  not  endeavor  to  give  them  a  distorted  and  exaggerated 
estimate  of  the  benefits  of  civilization,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  would- 
be  leaders  of  modern  thought,  according  to  whom  human  happi- 
ness should  increase  in  proportion  to  the  acquirement  of  creature 
comforts — the  greatest  amount  of  wealth,  pleasure,  and  ease,  with 
the  least  expenditure  of  vital  force,  being  the  summum  bonum 
of  existence  in   their  ethics.     The    missionary  does  not,  indeed, 
inculcate  such  ideas  as  these,  but  he  lays  a  sure  and  solid  foun- 
dation for  the  fabric  of  true  culture,  made  up  of  the  threads  of 
virtues  theological  and  moral.     He  not  only  preaches  by  word 
of  mouth,  but  by  that  more  emphatic  and  convincing  way   of 
practice.     He  first  sets  the  example  which  he  would  have  fol- 
lowed,  and    in   his    own    person    makes   civilization   attractive. 
VOL.  XLII. — 54 


850  A  PLEA  FOR  THE  INDIAN.  [Mar., 

Were  such  a  one  to  be  asked  his  opinion  as  ,to  the  manner  of 
treating  the  red  men,  what  would  be  his  answer? 

Consulting  that  best  of  teachers — experience — he  would  say,  in 
the  first  place :  Keep  the  Indians,  for  the  present  at  least,  per- 
fectly isolated  from  white  men.  The  necessity  of  this  separation 
has  been  demonstrated  over  and  over  again.  Throw  the  redskin 
into  the  company  of  the  pale-faces  and  the  result  is  a  complete 
degradation  of  the  man  ;  he  loses  the  natural  virtues  he  had,  but 
not  his  vices,  and  acquires  in  addition  the  very  worst  habits  of 
the  other  race  without  their  good  points.  The  same  effect  is 
produced  if  the  process  be  reversed  and  white  settlers  be  intro- 
duced among  the  Indians."  And  yet  these  very  points,  so  strong- 
ly opposed  by  the  missionary,  are  the  ones  put  forward  as  the 
best  and  surest  means  of  civilizing  the  savage  tribes.  The  weak 
spot  in  this  policy  escapes  the  attention  of  its  advocates — namely, 
that  to  expect  such  beneficial  results  from  intercourse  supposes  a 
sort  of  exemplary  superiority  on  one  side  which  will  raise  the 
other  to  an  equal  height.  Very  fine  indeed  in  the  ideal !  But  in 
reality  what  sort  of  a  white  population  do  we  find  on  the  border- 
lands ?  Is  it  a  highly  moral  and  civilized  one  ?  Or  is  it  not  usu- 
ally largely,  even  preponderatingly,  made  up  of  the  scum  and 
dregs  of  society  ;  a  motley  collection  of  adventurers  and  fortune- 
hunters  with  one  aim  and  purpose  in  life — that  of  enriching  them- 
selves in  any  way  that  offers  ?  Their  code  of  morality  is  brief,  and 
may  be  summed  up  in  a  few  words  which  exemplify  some  of  the 
cant  phrases  of  the  modern  illuminati :  "  Let  the  fittest  survive  "  ; 
"  Man  is  but  a  highly-developed  animal  " ;  "  There  is  no  God, 
nor  devil,  nor  future  life."  The  conclusions  to  such  premises 
are  readily  deduced  by  the  frontiersmen. 

Are  these  the  civilizing  elements  which  are  to  leaven  the  In- 
dian race  and  transform  them  into  good  citizens  of  the  republic  ? 
In  the  ideal  the  theory  might  hold.  Imagine  a  community  of 
honest,  God-fearing,  industrious  farmers  and  artisans,  with  their 
well-educated  and  well-behaved  families,  settled  in  the  midst  of 
savagedom.  As  by  magic  the  hitherto  fallow  lands  yield  copious 
crops  more  than  ample  to  supply  the  wants  of  the  community. 
The  new-built  granaries  groan  with  abundance,  and  their  over- 
flow procures  for  the  fortunate  owners  all  the  domestic  articles 
they  need.  Cattle,  sleek  and  contented,  graze  in  the  meadows, 
and  on  the  hillsides  flocks  of  sheep  crop  the  toothsome  pasture. 
The  central  spot  of  the  village  is  the  church,  with  its  neighbor- 
ing school.  All  is  order,  peace,  contentment,  prosperity — in  a 
word,  Arcadia  realized.  But  has  it  ever  been  realized  by  the  pro- 


1 886.]  A  PLEA  FOR  THE  INDIAN.  851 

cess  above  advocated?  Never;  but  the  very  reverse  has  again 
and  again  resulted.  One  instance  will  suffice — the  case  of  the 
non-Catholic  Spokanes,  sunk  in  every  kind  of  vice  and  degrada- 
tion. On  the  other  hand,  has  the  system  of  isolation  proved  suc- 
cessful ?  In  all  confidence  we  can  affirm  that  it  has,  and  point 
to  the  Mission  of  St.  Ignatius  in  the  Kalispel  country — doubtless 
known  to  many  by  the  graphic  sketch  of  Mr.  Smalley  in  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine  for  January,  1885.  Here  the  very  best  results  are 
being  daily  obtained.  Nor  is  the  day  distant  when  the  Flatheads 
and  other  neighboring  tribes  will  become  good  citizens  of  a  pros- 
perous State.  But  the  ways  of  God  are  slow — as  the  saying 
goes,  "  The  mills  of  God  grind  slowly,  but  they  grind  exceeding 
fine."  The  sun  does  not  burst  upon  the  world  all  of  a  sudden  in 
its  meridian  splendor,  but  gradually  from  the  deep  darkness  of 
night  appears  the  first  faint  dawn,  increasing  steadily  until  at 
noon  in  the  zenith  it  floods  the  world  with  light.  So  in  the  moral 
order  after  the  gloom  of  savagery  comes  the  first  ray  of  enlight. 
enment  to  the  mind  :  too  much  light  would  daze  and  stupefy. 
Man's  mental  grasp  is  very  finite,  and  he  must  acquire  knowledge 
by  degrees.  The  Indian  in  many  respects  is  but  a  child,  and  in 
his  development  must  be  treated  accordingly.  And  yet  his  ill- 
advised  well-wishers  would  have  him  trained  and  developed  into 
a  full-blown  civilized  American  citizen  whilst  at  present  the  bud 
is  still  in  embryo.  They  are  too  eager  for  progress  ;  they  speak 
as  if  they  would  advise  a  farmer  who  wished  to  produce  a  rich 
crop  to  perform  all  the  various  processes  of  cultivation  collec- 
tively— plough,  sow,  fertilize,  irrigate,  ail  in  close  succession, 
without  giving  nature  a  breathing-time,  as  it  were,  between  the 
different  stages.  The  effect  is  null,  for  order  reigns  in  nature- 
first  the  seed,  then  the  ear,  then  the  full  grain  in  the  ear.  Pa- 
tience, therefore,  is  needed  with  the  Indian  ;  he  cannot  pass  from 
a  savage  life  into  a  full-developed  civilization  in  a  single  genera- 
tion. 

All  history  tells  the  same  story.  Every  nation  has  had  its 
day  of  comparative  barbarism,  and  has  taken  many  centuries  to 
reach  its  present  state  of  nineteenth-century  maturity ;  though, 
if  truth  were  to  be  told,  beneath  the  thin  veneer  of  civilized  man- 
ners much  of  the  barbarian  still  remains  even  in  the  most  highly- 
cultured  European.  The  one,  in  his  simplicity,  openly  shows 
his  claws ;  the  other  conceals  them  beneath  the  silken  glove. 
Search  into  the  mode  of  life  of  the  poor  in  thickly-inhabited 
manufacturing  towns  or  in  rural  districts,  and  the  difference  be- 
tween many  of  them  and  the  savage  is  one  of  degree,  not  kind  : 


852  A  PLEA  FOR  THE  INDIAN.  [Mar., 

the  same  nature  produces  like  effects.  But  this  is  not  a  defence 
of  savagery  ;  it  only  aims  at  getting  for  the  Indian  a  fair  hearing 
and  a  chance  of  life  and  happiness.  Some  one  may  say  :  "  Chances 
he  has  had  in  abundance — he  has  not  profited  by  them  ;  if  he  had 
he  would  be  further  advanced  in  the  social  state  than  he  is.  Or 
if  he  has  not  had  the  opportunities  demanded,  why  has  not  the 
church,  his  advocate,  been  more  active  in  furthering  his  pro- 
gress?"— an  opportune  question,  which  very  many  Catholics  an- 
swer as  best  they  can.  The  church  has  done  what  she  could  in 
the  past.  With  the  meagre  forces  at  her  disposal  she  has  made 
the  best  possible  use  of  her  soldiers,  the  missionaries  of  God. 
They  were  and  are  very  few  in  number  in  comparison  with  the 
vastness  of  the  campaign.  They  had  everything  to  surmount, 
foreigners  in  a  strange  land,  with  no  moral  or  pecuniary  support 
from  American  Catholics.  They  have  struggled  on  against  these 
great  odds  and  accomplished  prodigies  in  the  sight  of  God  ;  for 
men  have  no  knowledge  of  their  feats.  The  tribes  that  have  been 
civilized  by  the  "black- robes"  are  worthy  to  be  compared  with  the 
primitive  Christians  for  their  fervor  and  edification.  The  aged 
missionary  goes  to  his  grave  lamenting  the  good  that  could  be 
and  is  not  done.  American  Catholics  have  much  to  answer  for 
their  apathy  regarding  the  evangelization  of  the  Indians.  May 
a  spark  of  apostolic  zeal  fall  upon  willing  hearts  !  A  twofold 
good  can  be  accomplished — the  savage  can  be  transformed  into 
an  exemplary  Catholic  whose  citizenship  is  in  heaven,  and  at  the 
same  time  fitted  to  become  a  worthy  and  useful  citizen  of  the 
United  States.  One  word  more  upon  a  point  which  has  been  al- 
ready implicitly  touched  upon — the  abolition  of  tribal  distinc- 
tions and  rule.  In  a  nascent  society  the  tribal  system  is  a  natural 
sequel  to  the  patriarchal.  First  comes  the  family  with  its  head, 
then  groups  of  families  with  some  recognized  chief  who  is  su- 
perior by  virtue  of  his  ability,  sagacity,  prudence,  or  prowess  in 
war.  Although  in  a  sense  supreme,  still  he  has  his  council  of 
elders  for  advisers,  whom  he  consults  on  all  important  matters. 
When  the  religion  of  Christ  has  conquered  his  mind  and  heart, 
then  the  "  black-robe  "  becomes  his  most  valued  counsellor,  and 
there  is  that  perfect  agreement  between  church  and  state  which 
in  ages  past  proved  so  beneficial  to  European  society  when  in 
process  of  formation.  Before  the  Indian  can  arrive  at  fully-de- 
veloped civilized  modes  of  life  he  must  pass  through  the  prepa- 
ratory stages — infancy,  boyhood,  youth,  manhood,  the  prime  of 
life :  he  cannot  by  a  hot-house  forcing  be  transformed  at  once 
into  a  full-grown  social  and  political  man.  Patience,  then,  is 


1 886.]  NE  w  PUB  Lie  A  TIONS.  853 

our  plea,  but  this  is  only  passive.  An  active  element  is  needed 
— namely,  interested  and  able  Catholic  advocates  for  the  Indians. 
Protestant  philanthropists  and  politicians  are  making  themselves 
heard  on  all  sides.  True  philanthropy  should  be  a  sufficient  mo- 
tive for  Catholic  hearts  who  feel  that  the  only  real  civilizing,  re- 
generating power  i$  that  of  their  holy  faith. 


NEW    PUBLICATIONS, 

THE  THIRTY  YEARS.  OUR  LORD'S  INFANCY  AND  HIDDEN  LIFE.  By  H. 
J.  Coleridge,  S.J.  London  :  Burns  &  Gates  ;  New  York  :  The  Catholic 
Publication  Society  Co.  1885. 

This  volume  completes  the  whole  first  part  of  our  Lord's  Life,  by  Fa- 
ther Coleridge.  Some  few  points  in  it  have  interested  us  particularly, 
on  account  of  some  previous  investigations  of  these  points  in  other  au- 
thors which  have  led  us  to  the  same  result  which  Father  Coleridge  has 
arrived  at.  One  of  these  is  the  cause  of  the  apparently  inhospitable 
reception  which  Joseph  and  Mary  met  with  at  Bethlehem.  Pious  writers 
and  preachers  commonly  come  down  hard  on  these  people  of  Bethlehem, 
and  on  the  innkeeper,  and  exaggerate  the  inconvenience  to  which  the 
Blessed  Virgin  was  subjected,  by  representing  it  as  wiTfully  inflicted  by 
hard-hearted  kinsfolk  through  contempt  of  a  poor  relation.  We  think 
this  view  of  the  case  groundless  and  absurd.  The  Lord  ordered  it  so  that 
poverty,  humility,  and  suffering  were  the  attendants  of  his  human  birth  ; 
but  the  proximate  cause  was  a  natural,  unavoidable  impossibility  of  finding 
in  a  pressing  emergency  suitable  lodgings  in  a  village  overcrowded  by  an 
influx  of  guests.  Father  Coleridge  looks  at  it  in  the  same  light. 

It  has  always  been  a  very  great  puzzle  for  t,hose  who  suppose  that  the 
Wise  Men  from  the  East  came  to  Bethlehem  about  a  fortnight  after  the 
Nativity  to  explain  how  the  Holy  Family  could  remain  about  a  month  after 
their  departure  in  Bethlehem  unmolested  by  Herod,  and  even  go  boldly  to 
the  Temple  to  accomplish  the  rite  of  the  Purification  of  the  Blessed  Virgin. 
Father  Coleridge  solves  the  difficulty,  and  we  have  become  at  last  satis- 
fied that  he  is  right  about  the  matter,  by  supposing  that  St.  Joseph  went  to 
Nazareth  for  a  short  time  after  the  birth  of  our  Lord,  returned  to  Beth- 
lehem with  the  intention  of  taking  up  his  residence  in  the  town,  and  there 
remained  for  several  months.  The  star,  he  supposes,  appeared  to  the  Wise 
Men  on  Christmas  day.  Their  journey  to  Jerusalem  lasted  four  or  five 
months.  The  very  night  after  their  departure  from  Bethlehem  St.  Joseph 
fled  into  Egypt  with  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  the  Infant  Lord,  and  after  his 
return  from  Egypt  changed  his  intention  of  living  at  Bethlehem  and  went 
to  live  at  Nazareth  because  he  was  afraid  of  Archelaus.  All  this  chimes 
in  very  well  with  the  theory,  which  seems  to  us  the  most  probable  one, 
that  Jesus  Christ  was  born  December  25,  A.u.C.  747=5  B.C.  The  Wise  Men 
came  in  May  or  June,  748.  The  Holy  Family  remained  in  Egypt  until  the 
spring  of  750,  at  which  time  Herod  died.  Archelaus  had  been  deposed  and 
a  Roman  governor  substituted  for  him  at  Jerusalem  before  the  Lord  was 


854  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Mar., 

twelve  years  old,  and  there  was,  therefore,  no  danger  in  the  visit  of  the 
Holy  Family  to  Jerusalem  to  keep  the  Passover,  which  occurred  during  his 
thirteenth  year.  In  treating  of  our  Lord's  visit  to  the  school  of  the  doc- 
tors in  the  Temple,  Father  Coleridge  expresses  the  opinion  that  Simeon, 
who  received  Jesus  into  his  arms  at  the  time  of  the  purification  of  the 
Blessed  Virgin  Mary,  was  the  famous  Rabbi  Simeon,  son  of  Hillel,  and  fa- 
ther of  Gamaliel ;  that  he  was  still  living  at  the  tim'e  of  our  Lord's  visit  to 
the  Temple  in  his  thirteenth  year,  and  was  probably  present  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  interview  with  the  doctors. 

We  are  promised  the  publication  of  the  remaining  volumes,  which  will 
make  Father  Coleridge's  work  complete,  regularly  and  without  undue  de- 
lay ;  and  there  is  no  reason  to  fear  that  this  promise  will  not  be  fulfilled,  as 
all  who  are  interested  in  sacred  studies  must  hope  it  will  be. 

THE  KEYS  OF  THE  KINGDOM.  By  the  Rev.  J.  J.  Moriarty,  LL.D.  New 
York  :  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. ;  London  :  Burns  &  Gates. 

Dr.  Moriarty  has  a  very  happy  faculty  of  presenting  Catholic  doctrine 
in  a  way  to  attract  the  attention  and  to  win  the  respect  and  good-will  of 
Protestants.  His  works  are  noticed  in  a  very  friendly  and  appreciative 
manner  by  the  secular  press,  and  obtain  a  wide  and  continual  circulation. 
His  latest  work,  treating  of  the  importance  of  the  study  of  religion,  the 
rule  of  faith,  and  the  four  marks  of  the  true  church,  published  in  an  unu- 
sually handsome  form,  is  marked  by  the  same  excellent  style,  happy  use  of 
quotations  from  distinguished  and  popular  writers  who  are  not  Catholics, 
the  same  kind  and  respectful  manner  toward  his  readers,  and  the  same  con- 
clusive and  popular  method  of  argument  which  have  made  his  previous 
works,  particularly  Stumbling  Blocks  made  Stepping  Stones,  so  successful. 
It  is  a  work  fitted  to  do  much  good,  and  the  high  commendation  which  it 
has  already  received  from  some  secular  newspapers  is  an  augury  that  it 
will  be  as  favorably  received  and  as  extensively  circulated  as  the  author's 
previous  works  have  been. 

THE  LIFE  OF  THE  VERY  REV.  THOMAS  N.  BURKE,  O.P.  By  William  J. 
Fitzpatrick,  F.S.A.  (2*vols.)  London:  Kegan  Paul,  Trench  &  Co.; 
New  York  :  Benzingers.  1886. 

Father  Burke's  countless  friends  and  admirers  in  both  hemispheres  will 
welcome  the  publication  of  his  biography.  It  is  one  of  the  most  entertain- 
ing books  we  have  ever  come  across,  and  if  it  is  not  extremely  and  widely 
popular  we  shall  be  at  a  loss  to  find  any  reason  for  its  failure,  unless  it  be 
that  its  cost  may  hinder  its  general  circulation.  All  the  children  of  Erin, 
in  their  own  home  and  throughout  the  whole  world,  must,  of  course,  re- 
ceive with  enthusiasm  the  life  of  one  of  the  greatest  and  best,  most  gifted 
and  most  unselfish,  most  religious  and  most  patriotic  of  Irishmen  and  Irish 
priests  which  this  age  has  produced.  There  is  nothing,  however,  in  the 
principles,  the  language,  the  character,  or  the  career  of  the  illustrious 
Dominican  which  can  render  the  history  of  his  life  in  any  exclusive  sense 
an  object  of  interest  to  his  own  countrymen  alone,  or  even  to  those  only 
who  are  Catholics,  in  England,  America,  and  other  countries.  As  a  man, 
a  scholar,  an  orator,  a  philanthropist,  his  qualities  were  so  remarkable  and 
so  genial,  and  there  was  so  much  in  his  character  and  career  of  the  heroic, 
that  he  must  win  admiration  from  all  sorts  of  men  who  can  appreciate  such 
traits,  as  in  point  of  fact  he  did,  during  his  too  short  public  career  as  an 


1 886.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  855 

orator,  from -almost  all  men  in  this  country?  and,  in  a  more  restricted  sphere, 
wherever  he  was  known  during  his  whole  life.     Every  one  knows  that  the 
exuberance  of  the  humorous  and   playful  temperament  which  nature  had 
given  to  Father  Burke  was  one  of  his  most  salient  personal  characteristics. 
The  frolicsome  spirit  possessed  him  in  his  childhood,  and  most  persons  of 
calm  and  prudent  judgment  will  think  that  it  was  not  always  kept  within 
due  bounds  in  after-life.     Mr.  Fitzpatrick  has  filled  his  volumes  with  anec- 
dotes and  witticisms  and  drolleries  from  the  days  of  Father  Burke's  child- 
hood  and   his   after-life  which  are  racy  and  rich,  and  help  to  make  his 
volumes,  as  we  have  said  they  are,  most  entertaining  reading.     We  think 
that  some  pruning  in  this  respect  would  have  been  more  judicious  on  the 
author's  part,  although  his  great  abundance  in  personal  details  and  descrip- 
tion, and  the  minuteness  of  his  narrative,  on  the  whole  make  his  memoir 
extremely  life-like  and  realistic.     Moreover,  Mr.  Fitzpatrick  does  full  jus- 
tice to  the  graver  and  more  important  parts  of  his  task,  and  has  devoted 
an  amount  of  careful  research  and  conscientious  labor  to  its  fulfilment, 
and  has  shown  a  tact  and  skill  in  arranging  his  materials,  which  entitle  him 
to  rank  among  the  few  very  successful  writers  of  biographical  memoirs. 
The  gayety  of  Father  Burke  in  social  intercourse,  the  continual  play  of  his 
spirit  of  humor,  was  only  the  flashing  of  the  drops  on  his  laboring  oar, 
which  he  plied  incessantly  in  his  various  avocations  while  employed  in  ar- 
duous duties  at  San  Clemente  in  Rome,  in  England  and  Ireland,  filling  im- 
portant offices  and  actively  engaged  in  priestly  work  in  the  convents  of  his 
order,  and  during  the  course  of  his  sermons  and  lectures  in  the   United 
States;  besides  his  deep  and  thorough  studies  and  multifarious  reading, 
which  filled  up  to  overflowing  the  exhaustless  reservoir  of  his  intellect, 
memory,  and  imagination.     The  amount  of  labor  which   he  accomplished 
was  simply  wonderful,  and  together  with  this  was  joined  an  endurance  of 
sickness  and  suffering,  especially  in  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life,  finishing 
with  the  last  heroic  effort,  which  took  him  literally  from  his  death-bed  into 
the  pulpit  to  plead  for  orphans  who  were  in  danger  of  dying  from  starva- 
tion.    All  this  is  graphically  told,  and  the  whole  history  of  the  develop- 
ment and  exercise  of  Father  Burke's  varied  and  remarkable  endowments 
is  fully  and  minutely  laid  open.     The  author  is  also  careful,  in  his  devoted 
fidelity  and  piety  towards  his  illustrious  friend,  to  disclose  beneath  the  bril- 
liant exterior  of  the  scholar  and  orator  of  genius  and  wit,  the  deep  fund  of 
religious  virtue  which  was  under  the  surface  and  mostly  hidden  from  view ; 
the   humility  which  was   insensible  to  adulation  and  averse  from  worldly 
honors,  the  habit  of  prayer  and  penance,  the  love  of  poverty,  the  purity, 
the  ardent  faith  and  charity,  the  disinterestedness  and  integrity,  the  sacer- 
dotal and  religious  zeal,  which  kept  Father  Burke  always  a  true  priest  and 
a  genuine  disciple  of  St.  Dominic,  without  a  shadow  or  stain  on  his  reputa- 
tion, throughout  a  career  in  which  a  man  of  only  ordinary  firmness  and 
stability  of  interior  virtue  would  have  been  in  danger  of  at  least  giving  way 
to  the  illusions  of  pride  and  ambition.     The  innocence  of  the  frolicsome 
boy,  the  humility  of  the  applauded  orator,  the  patience  of  the  wearied,  suf- 
fering warrior  of  faith  and  charity,  the  resignation   and   hope  of  the  dying 
Christian,  the  tribute  of  supreme  respect  and  affection  from  the  highest 
and  the  humblest  alike  to  the  dead  priest,  the  noble  monument  of  the  clois- 
tral church  of  Tallaght  erected  over  his  grave  to  honor  his  memory,  are 
witnesses  to  a  grace  of  God  and  a  generous  co-operation  with  it  in  Father 


856  NE  w  PUB  Lie  A  TIONS.  [Mar., 

Burke  by  which  his  shining  intellectual  gifts  and  achievements  were  hal- 
lowed and  elevated,  and  the  best  of  all  panegyrics  deserved — that  he  was  a 
good  as  well  as  a  great  man  in  his  day  and  sphere. 

A  LITERARY  AND  BIOGRAPHICAL  HISTORY  ;  or,  Bibliographical  Dictionary 
of  the  English  Catholics  from  the  breach  with  Rome  in  1534  to  the 
present  time.  By  Joseph  Gillow.  (Vol.  II.)  London  :  Burns  &  Gates  ; 
New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 

After  the  well-deserved  praise  which  the  first  volume  of  this  work  has 
received  from  every  quarter — Catholic,  Protestant,  and  purely  literary  and 
scientific — it  is  needless  to  do  more  than  mention  the  publication  of  the 
second  volume,  and  to  say  that  it  fully  maintains  the  standard  of  its  prede- 
cessor. Indeed,  some  improvements  have  been  made,  such  as  giving  fuller 
lives  of  the  more  important  persons  and  placing  catch-letters  at  the  head 
of  each  page  to  facilitate  reference.  The  volume  begins  with  Lord  Dacre 
and  ends  with  Bishop  Gradwell,  and  includes  many  lives  of  special  interest, 
such  as  those  of  Bishop  Gardiner,  Bishop  Fox,  and  Dryden  of  former  times, 
and  of  those  of  Fathers  Faber,  Formby,  and  Dalgairns  of  our  own  days.  It 
is  an  invaluable  work  for  the  student  of  English  history,  whether  religious 
or  secular. 

A  CHILD  OF  MARY.  By  Christian  Reid.  Reprinted  from  the  Awe  Maria. 
Notre  Dame,  Ind.  :  Joseph  A.  Lyons.  1886.  (For  sale  by  the  Catholic 
Publication  Society  Co.) 

Miss  Fisher  has  long  since  won  a  high  place  among  our  American  fe- 
male novelists.  A  Child  of  Mary  is  one  of  her  minor,  less-ambitious  pro- 
ductions, but  quite  worthy  of  her  pen,  a  prettily-written,  attractive,  and 
edifying  story.  It  is  all  about  a  Catholic  girl,  on  the  father's  side  an 
American  springing  from  one  of  the  old  families,  very  rich,  genteel,  and 
Episcopalian,  of  one  of  the  Southern  Atlantic  States  ;  on  the  mother's  side 
and  by  education  French,  an  orphan,  an  heiress,  a  devout  Catholic,  who 
'lives  in  her  Southern  uncle's  family,  and  becomes  the  foundress  of  a  Ca- 
tholic church  as  well  as  in  general  an  "  angel  and  minister  of  grace  "  in  the 
town  of  Clarendon. 

The  story  teaches  one  excellent  lesson,  which  is  the  importance  and 
utility  of  making  churches  neat,  tasteful,  and  ritually  correct  in  all  re- 
spects, and  also  of  giving  to  all  the  externals  of  divine  worship,  vest- 
ments, ceremonies,  music/etc.,  as  much  completeness  and  beauty  as  possi- 
ble. Some  Catholics — even  some  ecclesiastics — have  very  inadequate 
perceptions,  or  mistaken  notions,  on  these  points.  Some  appear  to  think 
that  a  sort  of  Puritan  simplicity  suits  better  the  modern  age  and  the  pre-^ 
sent  condition  of  both  cultivated  and  unlettered  Christians.  They  have  a 
fancy  that,  in  a  special  sense,  people  of  a  religious  disposition  who  by  edu- 
cation are  Protestants  would  be  more  easily  converted  if  Catholicism  were 
modified  in  many  of  its  accidentals.  This  is  a  grievous  misapprehension. 
Renee  Leigh  was  sound  in  her  views,  happily  Father  Gerard  sustained  her 
fully,  and  Mr.  Stanmore  was  a  genuine,  thorough  convert,  who  drank  the 
pure  milk  of  the  word  with  a  wholesome  appetite,  not  asking  for  sugar 
and  water  to  weaken  it.  Renee  was  wrong,  however,  on  one  point.  She 
insisted  that  Mr.  Stanmore  could  have  no  certitude  respecting  truths  of 
the  Christian  religion  except  by  way  of  the  infallible  authority  of  the 
Catholic  Church.  But  it  was  necessary  for  him,  first  of  all,  to  be  certain 


1 886.]  NE w  PUBLICA  TIONS.  857 

of  this  divine,  infallible  authority,  received  through  the  apostles  from 
Jesus  Christ.  And  such  a  clear  thinker  as  Miss  Fisher  will  easily  perceive 
that  the  same  indisputable  facts  and  irrefragable  arguments  by  which  we 
prove  the  divine  origin  and  institution,  and  the  infallible  authority,  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  will  equally  avail  for  other  doctrines  of  Christian  and 
Catholic  faith.  If  the  story  had  been  carefully  examined  by  one  of  the 
theologians  of  the  University  of  Notre  Dame  this  mistake  would  have 
been  rectified.  This  is  a  convenient  opportunity  to  suggest  that  exposi- 
tions of  theological  doctrines  ought  always  to  receive  such  an  examination 
before  they  are  published. 

The  exact  truth  which  would  have  made  Renee's  argument  with  Stan- 
more  solid  in  all  its  parts  is  that  the  ordinary,  the  best,  the  easiest,  the 
most  suitable  way  for  the  majority  of  persons,  of  receiving  doctrines  of 
faith,  is  through  the  explicit  teaching  of  the  church  ;  and  that  the  only 
way  of  knowing  certainly  all  the  revealed  truths  of  faith  and  morals  is 
this  same  teaching.  Nevertheless,  there  is  an  indirect  way  of  receiving 
the  testimony  of  the  church,  there  is  a  way  of  apprehending  the  motives 
of  the  credibility  of  Christianity,  and  of  obtaining  a  certain  conviction  of 
some  of  its  most  necessary  truths,  which  does  not  require  or  presuppose 
an  explicit  knowledge  of  the  exclusive  and  infallible  authority  of  the  one 
true  church.  Solid  and  firm  convictions  of  the  divine  truths  which  have 
been  preserved  by  the  surviving  traditions  of  the  old  religion  among  the 
new,  separated  sects,  are  the  basis  and  starting-point  of  a  perfect  conver- 
sion to  the  entire  Catholic  faith  in  the  case  of  many  intelligent  and  reli- 
gious Protestants,  who  do  not  abandon  or  discredit  anything  which  was  true 
and  good  in  the  belief  and  the  practical  piety  of  their  earlier,  imperfect 
condition  ;  but  add  to  it,  follow  it  to  its  logical  consequences,  and  bring  it 
to  completeness  and  perfection.  Indeed,  Miss  Fisher  describes  just  such  a 
process  in  the  instance  of  Mr.  Stanmore.  The  accomplished  author  of  the 
story  has  our  cordial  encouragement  and  best  wishes  for  new  efforts  and 
continued  success  in  her  literary  career. 

CREMORE:  A  VILLAGE  IDYL.     By  Will  MacDermott.    New  York  :  D.  &  J. 
Sadlier  &  Co.     1886. 

In  his  preface  the  author  of  Cremore  says  that  he  "  is  not  aware  of 
travelling  in  the  footsteps  of  any  previous  Irish  bard."  He  will  hardly  be 
accused  of  following  in  the  footsteps  of  any  bard  of  whatever  nationality. 
His  unfettered  soul  seems  also  to  have  scorned  the  beaten  path  of  correct 
grammatical  construction  and  punctuation.  Imagine  the  bewilderment 
occasioned  the  reader  by  stanzas  such  as  this  : 

"  Our  farmer's  name  was  John  McCue 
His  sires  had  held  that  very  farm 
For  years  that  run  to  Brian  Boru 
For  him  it  had  a  magic  charm 
It  woke  the  years  that  long  have  fled 
When  Freedom  gave  its  brightest  ray 
E'en  at  his  nod  the  noble  dead 
Came  forth  to  fight  in  fancy's  play 
Those  heroes  of  the  past,  those  nervers  of  to-day." 

In  speaking  of  Ireland's  wrongs  the  poet  breaks  out  thus  : 


858  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  [Mar., 

"  .    .    .    the  sun  fore'er  will  set 
E'er  we  forget  the  iron  prongs, 
The  leather  thongs,  the  scaffold  gongs, 
The  baby's  pang  on  bay'net  raised." 

Assuredly  the  spectacle  of  a  "  baby's  pang  "  raised  on  a  bayonet,  if  once 
seen,  could  never  be  forgotten. 

Cremore  is  the  name  of  an  Irish  village,  and  the  idyl  deals  with  the  love 
of  John  McCue's  daughter  for  the  hero,  young  "  De  Vere, "  and  the  vil- 
lainies of  a  certain  "  Captain  Ben,"  who  when  he  hears 

11  That  old  McCue,  a  Romish  friar, 
Had  hid  amid  his  yellow  corn," 

gives  vent  to  his  villainy  in  the  following  neat  and  bloodthirsty  couplet  : 

"  By  Heaven's  aid  I'll  show  my  ire, 
And  from  yon  Romish  spire  I'll  hang  this  popish  friar. " 

The  bard  describes  the  home  of  "  Captain  Ben  "  : 
"  His  castle  rose  in  stately  prose." 

It  is  difficult  to  conceive  how  the  castle  could  rise  in  stately  prose,  but  it  is 
evident  that  it  does  not  rise  in  stately  verse.  "  De  Vere  "  attempts  to  res- 
cue the  priest  from  the  hands  of  "  Captain  Ben  "  and  his  gang  ;  and  a  gen- 
eral fight  ensues,  which  is  described  in  verses  that  boldly  defy  grammar 
and  sense  : 

"  They  dance,  they  prance,  to  the  sound  of  steel, 

Some  fall  to  rise  and  some  to  sleep, 

Their  last  and  earthly  stage  a  reel, 

'Mid  brains  and  blood  a  ghastly  heap," 
etc.,  etc. 

The  bard  closes  his  remarkable  effort  by  lamenting  that  his  grandfather 
and  another  relative  had  not  lived  to  read  the  poem.  Readers  of  the  idyl 
will  probably  rejoice  that  the  venerable  gentlemen  were  spared  the  in- 
fliction. 

CLEOPATRA.     By  Henry  Greville.     Boston  :  Ticknor  &  Co.     1886. 

Madame  Durand,  who  writes  under  the  well-known  nom-de-plume  of 
Henry  Greville,  is  undoubtedly  a  clever  writer,  and  possesses  a  certain 
dash  and  brilliancy  of  style;  but  one  lays  down  her  novel  Cleopatra  with  a 
sense  of  weariness,  yes,  and  of  disgust.  It  is  full  of  bathos,  of  false  senti- 
mentality, and  of  false  ideals.  Cleopatra,  the  heroine,  is  described  as  a 
creature  of  great  beauty,  purity,  and  loftiness  of  character,  but  it  is  impos- 
sible to  reconcile  her  actions  with  a  Christian  ideal  of  a  noble  woman. 
Because  she  had  set  her'heart  on  securing  riches  and  a  great  position,  and 
in  order  to  escape  from  an  unpleasant  life  with  a  married  sister,  she  marries 
an  old  general,  full  of  years  and  honors  and  the  gout.  For  a  while  May 
and  December  live  happily  together ;  but  at  length  there  comes  a  youth 
upon  the  scene — the  story  is  laid  in  Russia — a  young  Swede,  whose  dark 
eyes  say,  "  I  adore  you,"  etc.  The  usual  amount  of  sickly  sentimentality 
follows;  the  great  passion  which  has  sprung  to  life  in  an  instant  between 
the  Swede  and  Cleopatra  must  be  obeyed  at  all  odds;  and  Cleopatra,  after 
some  hesitation,  is  persuaded  to  ask  for  a  divorce  from  her  aged  husband, 
who  is  informed  by  her  of  the  state  of  affairs.  The  old  general  is  also 


1 886.]  NEW  PUBLICATIONS.  859 

described  as  great  and  noble ;  he  shrinks  from  the  disgrace  of  a  divorce, 
and  so  to  release  his  wife  resolves  to  kill  himself. 

"  One  single  jewel  was  wanting  in  the  crown  of  this  rich,  brave,  happy  man — renunciation. 
He  felt  this  palm  descending  upon  his  head  from  the  sky  that  smiled  above  him.  While  the 
eyes  of  the  poor  lovers  filled  with  tears,  his  old  heart,  which  always  beat  generously,  throbbed 
with  pride  and  joy  at  the  thought  that  he  could  perform  one  more  good  deed  before  leaving  this 
world." 

The  good  deed  which  this  old  man  contemplates  is  self-murder.  Not 
only  is  divorce  ennobled,  but  the  crime  of  suicide  also.  These  two  wretched 
sins,  which  only  too  often  stain  the  annals  of  this  age,  are  in  particular  in- 
stances glorified  with  the  garb  of  virtue.  Cleopatra  prevents  the  old 
general  from  performing  this  noble  act ;  he  is  at  length  persuaded  to  con- 
sent to  a  divorce,  which  is  obtained  after  much  difficulty ;  Cleopatra  mar- 
ries her  Swedish  lover,  and  dies  upon  her  wedding  night.  Such  is  a  brief 
outline  of  a  book  which  will  be  read  by  thousands,  and  whose  author  is 
said  by  a  critic  in  the  Literary  World  to  be  "actuated  by  high  and  noble 
impulses."  And  again  :  "  Henry  Greville  is  idyllic,  in  the  sense  that  most 
of  her  stories  may  be  read  with  pleasure  by  the  innocent  maiden  and  the 
sophisticated  man  of  the  world."  Surely  this  story  is  not  one  of  these. 

THE  LIFE    AND   ADVENTURES   OF   ROBINSON    CRUSOE.    Edited  by  Rosa 
Mulholland.     Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son.     1886. 

This  edition  of  Robinson  Crusoe  is  prepared  especially  for  Catholic 
children.  The  reasons  for  a  special  edition  are  given  by  Miss  Mulholland 
in  her  preface : 

"  So  many  editions  of  this  famous  old  book  have  been  published,  and  are  still  coming  out 
every  day,  that  it  would  seem  almost  unnecessary  to  prepare  one  specially  for  the  use  of  Catholic 
schools  and  the  pleasure  of  Catholic  firesides. 

"  However,  those  with  whom  the  book  is  a  favorite  will  readily  admit  that  there  are  to  be 
found  in  it,  as  it  stands  in  the  original,  many  passages  which  render  it  not  quite  desirable  reading 
for  little  ones  of  the  faith  to  which  Daniel  Defoe  did  not  belong,  though  he  shows  us  Crusoe 
struck  with  wonder  at  the  devotion  and  heroism  of  a  Catholic  priest. 

"  It  has  been  thought  well,  therefore,  to  leave  out  those  portions  of  Crusoe's  adventures, 
though  the  greater  part  of  the  omission  has  been  made  with  regret.  So  many  strong  moral  les- 
sons are  conveyed  through  the  pages  of  this  fascinating  book  that  only  the  interests  of  those 
whose  minds  are  not  yet  ripe  enough  to  take  in  the  meaning  of  all  those  moral  lessons  would 
warrant  its  curtailment. 

"  Notwithstanding  this,  the  necessary  omissions  have  been  made,  so  that  neither  teachers 
aor  parents  need  hesitate  to  put  the  present  volume  into  the  hands  of  boy  or  girl  under  their 
control." 

MATILDA,  PRINCESS  OF  ENGLAND  :  A  Romance  of  the  Crusades.  By 
Madame  Sophie  Cottin,  author  of  Elizabeth.  From  the  French,  by 
Jennie  W.  Raum.  New  York  :  W.  S.  Gottsberger.  1885. 

Of  course,  a  romance  by  Madame  Cottin  is  a  good  one.  Matilda  is 
partly  an  historical  romance  and  partly  an  invention,  after  the  model  of 
Scott's  incomparable  Talisman,  The  author,  being  a  Catholic,  keeps  her 
story  clear  of  the  blunders  and  misrepresentations  with  which  some  simi- 
lar works  of  fiction  are  defaced.  Those  who  like  romantic  tales  of  this  de- 
scription will  find  that  they  can  read  this^story  with  pleasure. 

WAIFS  OF  A  CHRISTMAS  MORNING,  AND  OTHER  TALES.    By  Josephine  Han- 
nan.     Illustrated  by  Isabel  M.  Whitegreave.    Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son. 

This  is  a  very  pretty  story-book,  both  inside  and  out.     It  contains  three 


860  NE  w  PUBLIC  A  TIONS.  [Mar.,  1 886. 

quietly-told  tales,  simple  and  healthy  in  tone  ;  and  its  simple  blue  and  gilt 
cover  is  very  pleasing  to  the  eye. 

CHARLES  A.  GILLIG'S  NEW  GUIDE  TO  LONDON  and  important  suburban 
districts.  Specially  compiled  for  the  use  of  travellers,  with  maps  and 
illustrations.  London  :  Gillig's  United  States  Exchange,  9  Strand, 
Charing  Cross  ;  Chicago  :  Rand,  McNally  &  Co. 

This  is  an  excellent  hand-book  for  travellers  visiting  London.  Its  in- 
formation is  concise,  yet  sufficient  for  all  ordinary  purposes  ;  and,  what  is 
better  still,  it  is  correct. 


BOOKS  RECEIVED. 

THE  CATHOLIC  PRIESTHOOD.  By  Rev.  Michael  Muller,  C.SS.R.  New  York  and  Cincinnati  : 
Fr.  Pustet  &  Co.;  St.  Louis  :  B.  Herder  ;  New  York,  Cincinnati,  and  St.  Louis  :  Benziger 
Bros. 

THE  ALTAR  MANUAL,  for  the  use  of  the  reverend  clergy  ;  containing  the  Gospels  and  Epistles 
for  Sundays  and  Festivals.  Boston  :  Thos.  B.  Noonan. 

DELSARTE  SYSTEM  OF  DRAMATIC  EXPRESSION.  By  Genevieve  Stebbins.  Original  illustra- 
tions. New  York  :  Edgar  S.  Werner. 

OUR  LADY  OF  PERPETUAL  SUCCOR  :  A  Manual  of  Devotion  for  every  day  in  the  month.  By 
Rev.  Thomas  Livius,  C.SS.R.  London  :  Burns  &  Gates;  New  York  :  The  Catholic  Pub- 
lication Society  Co. 

AN  IRON  CROWN:  A  Tale  of  the  Great  Republic.     Chicago  :  T.  S.  Denison. 

HOFFMAN'S  CATHOLIC  DIRECTORY,  ALMANAC,  AND  CLERGY  LIST  QUARTERLY.  For  the 
year  of  our  Lord  1886.  Hoffman  Bros.,  Catholic  Publishers,  Milwaukee  and  Chicago. 
Price  50  cents. 

THE  BIRTHDAY  BOOK  OF  OUR  DEAD.     Dublin  :  M.  H.  Gill  &  Son. 

PAMPHLETS  RECEIVED. 

FIRST  LECTURE  OF  THE  ST.  Louis  CATHOLIC  LECTURE  BUREAU  COURSE.  "The  Light  of 
the  World."  By  the  Rt.  Rev.  John  J.  Keane,  D.D.,  Bishop  of  Richmond,  Va. 

TREATISE  ON  PRAYER.     By  Rev.  F.  Girardy,  C  SS.R.     New  Orleans,  La. 

SECOND  LECTURE  OF  THE  ST.  Louis  CATHOLIC  LECTURE  BUREAU  COURSE.  "  Man's  Aim  in 
Society."  By  the  Rev.  Thos.  O'Gorman,  Merriam  Park,  Minn. 

DIGEST  OF  LAWS  GOVERNING  THE  ISSUE  OF  MUNICIPAL  BONDS.  Published  by  S.  Kean  &  Co., 
Bankers,  Chicago.  Compiled  by  C.  G.  Neely,  of  the  Chicago  bar. 

THE  CITY  OF  REFUGE  ;  or,  Mary,  Help  of  Christians.  London  :  Burns  &  Oates  ;  New  York  : 
The  Catholic  Publication  Society  Co. 

PRINCIPLES  OF  GOVERNMENT  OF  ST.  IGNATIUS.  Translated  by  a  member  of  the  Order  of 
Mercy,  authoress  of  Life  of  Catherine  McAuley.  New  York  :  The  Catholic  Publication  So- 
ciety Co.  ;  London  :  Burns  &  Oates. 

A  DEFENCE  OF  THE  CATHOLIC  CHURCH.  Being  an  answer  to  a  recent  pamphlet  entitled  Paul, 
the  first  Protestant.  By  Rev.  William  J.  Burns,  S  J.  Kingston,  Jamaica. 

CORNEILLE'S  TRAGEDY  POLYEUCTUS,  THE  CHRISTIAN  MARTYR.  Translated  into  English 
blank-verse  by  Walter  Federan  Nokes.  Interleaved  with  the  French  text.  Librairie 
Hachette  et  Cie.,  London,  Paris,  Boston. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  PRIESTHOOD.  A  sermon  delivered  in  the  Church  of  St.  Dominic's  Priory, 
Woodchester.  By  the  Rt.  Rev.  John  Cuthbert  Hedley,  O.S.B.,  Bishop  of  Newport  and 
Menevia.  London  :  Burns  &  Oates. 

WORDS  SPOKEN  AT  THE  MONTH'S  MIND  OF  HIS  EMINENCE  CARDINAL  MCCLOSKEY,  ARCH- 
BISHOP OF  NEW  YORK.  By  Most  Rev.  M.  A.  Corrigan,  D.D.,  Archbishop-elect.  New 
York  :  Benziger  Bros. 

ENCYCLICAL  LETTER  OF  OUR  MOST  HOLY  LORD  LEO  XIII.,  BY  DIVINE  PROVIDENCE  POPE, 
CONCERNING  THE  CHRISTIAN  C9NSTITUTION  OF  STATES.  London  :  J.  Donovan,  27  Well- 
ington Street,  Strand. 

SEVENTEENTH  ANNUAL  REPORT  OF  ST.  MARY'S  INDUSTRIAL  SCHOOL  FOR  BOYS  OF  THE  CITY 
OF  BALTIMORE.  Carroll  P.  O.,  Baltimore  Co.,  Md.  :  Printing  Department  of  St.  Mary's 
Industrial  School. 

HEAR  THE  OTHER  SIDE.  Freedom  of  worship :  the  merits,  principles,  and  practicability  of  the 
measure  explained  and  vindicated.  New  York  :  Willis  McDonald  &  Co. 

TWENTY-THIRD  ANNUAL  REPORT  OF  THE  NEW  YORK  CATHOLIC  PROTECTORY  TO  THE 
LEGISLATURE  OF  THE  STATE  AND  TO  THE  COMMON  COUNCIL  OF  THE  CITY.  Salesroom 
and  reception  office,  415  Broome  Street. 


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