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SJaga^im ai (^tmxd '^iktKinxt 



1875. . :^ . - / ;: -- 

w Z^t^z. ^ 

;:'n ■' 


The Irish Monthly w j^/ pcttfree for Six Shillings a year, 
paid'in advance. 

The Yearly Volume is issued each November^ bound in cloth, price 
71. U. 

Subscriptions to be sent to the Publishers ^ at 50, Upper Sackville- 
street f Dublin. 

Literary communications to the Editor, the Rev. Matthew 
K.USSSLL, S J.y at the same address. 

• • • • • 

a ••• • * 

• • • • 9* % 

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Tales and Serial Articles. 

The Cliances of War. A Tale. 

By A. Whitelock 305, 365, 425, 48$, 

545. 605, 665 

I. Od Shannon's Banks. II. 

Tidings from the North. III. 

Civil War and Domestic Peace. 

IV. The Confederate Captain. 

V. A Discussion on the Feace. 

VI. A Hurried Departure. VIL . 
A Chivalrous Revenge. VIII. 
Shawn -na-Coppal's Escape. 
IX. A Pious Undertalung 
Foiled. X. The Beginning of 
the End. XI. The Camp. 
Xn. Before the Batde. XIII. 

Lectures by a Certain Professor : — 

About Happiness . • I79 
About Success . . 434 

About Character. . • 594 
About Culture • . .631 
The Relations of the Church to 
Society. By the Rev. Edmund 
Hie Clergy and the Law of 

Elections. ... 45 
Hie Education Question 108, 228 
Chuich Property . . • 273 

The Teaching of the Church 330 
The Definition of Papal In- 

faDib^ty . . 409. 471.529 

Obedience due to the Pope 621,7 13. 

A Pearl in Dark Waters. By the 

Author of " Tybome . 23, 88, 

167, 213, 29^ 

John RichiUtlson*s Relatives 96, 148,. 

. ^. . o . *^5. 339. 479. 537, 658 
A Citizen Samt. By the Author 
of " Eugene 0*Curry" . i, 67, 127^ 


Winged Words . . 52, 422, 647 ■ 

New Books 54, 115, 176, 283, 302, 

^.^ , 411,541,604,649. 

Cromwell in Ireland 158, 218, 243,. 

348. 39«» 44* 
I. Introductory. H. Expe- 
dition to Drogheda. lU. and 
IV. Expedition to Wexford. V. 
Sie^e of Waterford. VI. The 
Sprmg Campaign. VH. The 
Siegeof Kilkenny. VHL Siege 
of Clonmel. 
Madame de Saisseval. By Cecilia 
Caddell, Author of "Litde 
Snowdrop," " Blind Agnese," 
&c. . . 287, 357, 386, 466, 561 

Also, the following Sketches, Essays, and Poems : — 

In the Dawn .... 
The New Koran Refuted . 
An Autumn Memory . 
Ad Poetam .... 
Caprices of History — Michael 

Scott the Wizard. ByC.W.R. 
Norah's Lilies. Bv R. M. 
Down by the Dodder. ByM.R. 
A Christmas Soug. ByM.My.R. 
Tom Hood, St. John Chrysostom 

and Mother M'Aulav 
The Workhouse Children. By 

the Lady Herbert of Lea. 






A Life Grief .... 125 
In the Grarden . . . •147 

A Rose 157 

My Blackbird . . . .189 
An Archbishop^s Requiem . . 212 
Notes in the Big House (Little 

Willie) 240 

Fame %3 

An Old Calumny Refuted . ■ •254 
Ideal Likenesses .... 270 
On the Mount . . .281 
A Holy Anniversary . . •.301 
Nightfall 304. 

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Knowing and Doing. 
Savonarola. By P.T. 

Remembrance and Regret. By 


The Daughters of Mary : A May 

Carol. By Ai^ey de Vere . 
To AHce. By M. My. R. 
My Three. By S. M. S. . 
The Month of the Sacred Heart. 

ByM. My. R. 
A visit to Pompeii and the Author 

of " Fleurange." ByMrs.M.O. 


Pictures. By Alice Esmonde . 

InExHe. By P. G. . 

A Eucharistic Thought. By 

S. M. S. .... 
Lough Neagh. By D. G. . 
From an Australian Albulta. By 

W. L 

What my Books do. By J.F. . 
A Ramble through Poet-land. 

By Edward Harding 
My Mary. By Alice Esmonde . 
Sonnet — On a Fresh Outburst of 

Detraction against the Ohurch. 

By Aubrey de Vere 
Far Away. By Alice Esmonde . 
Jlotel Panier d'Or. (Our Foreign 

Postbag.) ByS A. 












Emancipation and Repeal. By 

P.F 515 

0*Connell— In Memoriam . . 528 
The Pleasant Places of the Long 

Ago. By Ellen Fitzsimon . 555 
The Tercentenary of S. Teresa. 

at Bruges. By S. A. . . 557 
A Kind Word. By Alice Es- 
monde 571 

Rounds of Visits. By a Discur- 
sive Contributor . . 572 
The Missing Notes. By Josephine 

M. Macaulay . . . 582 
The Lark's Matins. By A. A. . 592 
Memorare. By T. F. . . 604 
Publican and Saint. By W. L. 619 
Lafontaine's Best. By M. R. . 641 
Dublin Places and Persons. By 

Edward Mew. . . . 652 
Cloudland. By T. E. B. . .664 
The Bird at Mass. By Ellen 

Fitzsimon . • . •674 
The Later Life of Prince Charles 
Edward. By John O'Hagan, 

Q.C 675 

The Laying of the Stone (May- 

nooth, October loth, 1875) . 693 
Siena (Our Foreign Postbag). By 

S.A 69s 

The Tucker : A Rustic Sketch . 704 

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DECEMBER, 1874. 


By the Author of " Eugene O'Curry/* 

** O Siena", O Siena, guarda quale e quanta 

Grazia in tua Donna infusa ha '1 Signer pio, 
Che il mpndo e U del di Lei giubila e canta." 

WE hear much ofthe force of circumstances in forming charac- 
ter; of the fortuitous events that mark the turning points 
in life; of the power of those "skyey influences" which cast breadths 
of shadow or gleams of sunshine on our way. It would often be 
nearer the truth to say that the turning points are just those pass- 
ages at which the hitherto divergent path of another runs in upon 
our own ; that the supreme force in moulding character is the sol- 
vent action or cohesive power of some higher intelligence brought 
into contact with ours ; that the influences, so strong, yet so in- 
tangible, which obscure the track beneath our feet or illuminate 
the far horizon, are but the sympathetic agency of a human s^, 
radiating light or spreading gloom abroad. * " 

Nothing is more mysterious, noryet more evident, thafllhe jo\Ver, 
especially for good, of purely personal influence in all the walks bf 
life, and all the history ofthe heart and mind and^oul. .In the 

VOL. Ill- B • / v;^^!^ 

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2 A Citizen Saint. 

more dangerous and tempestuous passes we do not always, amidst 
the uproar and peril, see the hand that leads us over the sheer 
abyss, nor recognise the presence that Aerves our footsteps through 
the storm. Butsithe happier hours, which memory takes in charge, 
are nb more than the sc6ne whereon the messengers of God 
appear in human guise, the heralds raise the voice of hope, the 
watchmen meet us with their lamps of light. 

And most of all is this the case in the intellectual and the spiritual 
life. We walk abroad with opinions hanging loosely about us, with 
principles awry, and perhaps the motive power wholly wanting ; 
until some new association evolves order out of chaos, and supplies 
the force, which, like a new faculty, regulates, intensifies, and 
utilizes all. Or again : weighed down by our burdens, torn in the 
conflict of irreconcilable affections, wearied in the contest with 
doubts and apprehensrons, we sit down by the roadside to struggle 
and to hope no more. Presently, upon our path, appears some 
wayfarer who has got for us the charm to heal, the power to fortify, 
the word that makes the slumbering spirit wake again. Then the 
strong arm lightens our load, the dauntless heart dispels the phan- 
tom fears, the clearer intellect bids us be refreshed with draughts 
from fountains full and free. 

All the words of wisdom poured into our ear, all the truths we 
fancy we believe, are no more than the phrases children have by 
rote, unless we see wisdom in action ruling a human life, and note 
the beauty and the strength of virtue quickened in the living soul. 
Faith languishes without evidence of its potency in daily deeds ; 
confidence grows faint unless upheld by example ; even our belief 
in the compassion of Almighty God remains too vague to afford us 
comfort, until some fellow-creature —commissioned to bind up the 
broken heart or free the imprisoned soul — makes us understand 
how infinite must be the goodness of the Lord, since the mere re- 
flection of his charity can turn the servants of his household into 
angels of light and ministers of love. 

Sometimes these heaven-sent people stay with us for an hour or 
a day ; sometimes they are our companions for many a stage ; 
sometimes they leave us only at the call of death, and then to do 
us greater service ; — linking by a more sensible connection the life 
of to-day with the eternity of to-morrow ; taking the bitterness 
from death, as they had once taken the trouble from existence. 

And as it is in the experience of each individual, so is it in the 
wider range of social life.* The sinful cities are saved over and over 
again by a handful of good men. Even in societies the most des- 
ti|^6 of high ideals, there may be found some few of a less inferior 
o^r, in whom the rest believe, and whoseinfluenceleavens the whole 
mass. Th^ interest, as well as the power, always centres in the 
leaders, the exempfars, the teachers of mankind. Has it not been 
said, and wilji truth, that history is nothing more than a series of 
biograf)hies } ^ Hero-worship may not be a reasonable, service ; but 

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A Citizen Saint 3 

surely the craving it expresses for something^ better than we see 
upon the lower level, the belief it embodies in the possibility of 
human nature reaching somewhat nearer to the Divine, is, at any 
rate, a noble instinct. . 

Literature itself, in its highest efforts, if it aoes noj summon 
into life again the characters that peopled the world's past, calls 
upon the scene creatures of the imagination who serve us in good 
stead. Our heroes of romance become as much our kindred and 
possession as if they had once been clothed in the flesh, and had 
trod the earth we walk upon. Do we not fight over them, and 
weep over them, because of that congenial human interest with 
which genius invests them ? 

How comes it then that we know so little, and seem hardly to care 
to know, the history of those elect and noble spuls, whose natural 
endowments were spiritualized and perfected to such a degree as to 
reach the very highest ideal of power, beauty, grace ; whose re- 
semblance to our Lord in His humanity is at once so awe-inspiring 
and so sweetly attractive ; whose influence on the people about 
them was hardly less miraculous than any of their other gifts ; and 
who have left after them a trail of light that beautifies the Church 
herself ? How is it that those servants of God, pre-eminently great, 
do not hold that place in the affections and memory of the Chris- 
tian people which the heroes of profane history and the creations 
of poetic fancy have retained ? How is it that the lives of saints 
are relegated to obscure corners and are not found on our 
library table with our favourite histories, our choice biographies, 
the literature in which we delight, and from which we are proud to 
take our tone, our culture, our opinions ? 

One reason there is which accounts in some degree for this 
neglect. English literature has up to the present time done very little 
service in this field of work. The lives of saints usually met with are 
mere dry records — a string of facts, if not a ''bundle of paradoxes," 
to the general reader ; or they are translations from foreign lan- 
guages, sometimes unintelligible, sometimes ridiculously bad. The 
order, the taste, the critical judgment reqilired for writing the 
memoir of a soldier, a statesman, or an engineer ; the ckill ex- 
pended, as a matter of course, on the biography of any one emi- 
nent in science or letters, appear to be disregarded when there is 
question of compiling the life of a saint. Edifying reading, no doubt, 
we have in these books. Sometimes we get a fair picture of the sub- 
ject of the biography taken from one particular point of view, or 
under the influence of a peculiar light. But seldom indeed is the life 
itself reproduced with all its human interests as well as its superna- 
tural adjuncts. The reader does not breathe the atmosphere fh 
which those siintly fellow- creatures lived ; does not see them in 
their daily life, meet the people they conversed with, hear what the 
townsfolk said of them. They are not individualized ; and there- 
fore are far less real and far less dear to us than the hero of a novel 

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4 A Citizen Satnt. 

or a character on the stage. The life of a saint can no more be written 
by an uneducated pen, or by one careless of detail, than a por- 
trait can be painted by an untrained, reckless hand. In fact, the 
saints we know* best and love most have come down to us por- 
trayed byjhe hand of genius itself — that is by their own hand ; or 
they had some loving, worshipful Boswell about them to gossip of 
their daily life, chronicle the little incidents that supply the essen- 
tial realistic cast, and preserve those precious personal traits which 
make the portrait life-like. Thus we learn first to know and love 
the man, and then we understand the saint. 

In illustration of these remarks S. Augustine and S. Teresa oc- 
cur to mind as examples of our indebtedness to autobiographical 
candour and a free and graphic pen for clear and satisfying 
portraiture ; while -the history of S. Francis de Sales and of S. 
Louis of France may be cited as instances of what an affectionate 
heart, dwelling on minor details, can accomplish in the way of suc- 
cessful delineation. 

S. Augustine, in a few broad flowing lines, sketches not only 
the man of scholarly attainments, refined tastes, and loving ex- 
pansive nature — the centre of the group of friends who studied in 
Carthage, taught in Milan, and spent that never-to-be-forgotten 
vintage vacation in the country house of Verecundus ; but also 
gives us portraits intensely life-like of "that holy man, Ambrose," 
whom he began to love as a man that was kind to him, and dili- 
gently heard as he preached every Lord's day to the people, *• rightly 
handling the word of God f of Monica, the incomparable mother 
in whose praise Ambrose would break forth, and whose conversa- 
tion reminded her son of the finest strokes of Tully and Hortensius ; 
of the young count officer, Evodius ; and of Alipius who stuck close 
to him with a most strong bond of friendship. 

No one who reads the life of S. Teresa, as written by herself, 
can help ever after looking on her as a great friend ; so distinctly 
does her clear, truth-adoring mind reflect itself in the pages, and 
so vividly do those inimitable touches of humour and those bright 
descriptions of scenes and persons bring out the characteristics of 
her who was at once the mystic writer and the " saint of common 

S. Francis de Sales found a Boswell ever to be held in grateful 
recollection in his good friend the Bishop of Belley, who preserved the 
charming traits of Monseigneur de Gen6ve, which furnished a well 
known writer with the subject of his essay on ** The Gentleman 

The Sire de Joinville, the kinsman of S. Louis, does not disdain 
to set down for us the trifling incidents of the great king's daily life. 
Thanks to the faithful seneschal, we see that holy man sitting with 
his back to an oak in the woods at Vincennes in summer time, sur- 
rounded by his officers, hearing the petitions of those who ** no- 
wise hindered by ushers or other folks," come to have justice done 

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A CiHze% Saint. 5 

them in that sylvan court. Never does the sainted monarch appear 
a more loveable character or a nobler figure than when we see him 
in de Joinville's pages, wearing his camlet coat, with ** his hair well 
combed," and his hat, with white peacock's feathtrs, on his head. 

French literature, we need hardly say, is not obnoxious to the 
same reproach as ours. The great Catholic nation has given to the 
world many lives of saints that are at once valuable historical essays, 
as nearly as possible perfect biographies, and remarkable produc- 
tions of literary taste and skill. But the publications of a foreign 
press are not so accessible to general readers as to supply to any 
great extent the need we are deploring. And truly a pressing need 
it is, especially at this moment, when we find that the saints have 
become objects of interest to many outside the Church, and the 
story of their lives has been undertaken by writers who, though 
cultivated and candid, lack the first qualification for such a task — 
the Catholic spirit. 

In the present phase of English intellectual life, when Material- 
ism is spreading a wide waste around, and the discord of Protes- 
tantism is' overturning the landmarks to which faithful eyes had 
trusted, it is no wonder that minds of a more spiritual cast should 
turn to the happierages of faith, half envious of their leadership and 
lofty standards ; should seek to kindle at anotherhearth the enthusiasm 
without which life perishes, and yield to the fascination great sanc- 
tity exerts. Besides this, there is felt to be, even from the strictly 
literary point of view, a certain attraction in a subject which has for 
central interest a figure crowned with the saint's aureole. The spiri- 
tual nature feels the charm inseparable from such association, and 
the poetic imagination delights in the play of the supernatural light 
upon the scenes and forms of the substantial world. 

A glance at the book lists shows what danger we are in of being 
beaten on our own ground. Our sainls are receiving honours from 
Churches holding proudly aloof from the one fold, and the republic 
of letters does homage where the heirs of the kingdom pay but a 
tardy tribute. In other places too, and in the most unlooked-for 
ways, we note signs of this newly-awakened interest. A learned 
and accomplished dignitary of the Protestant Church not long ago 
delivered a lecture to a Christian Young Men's Association on the 
life of S. Francis of Assisi, and astonished his audience, not only 
by the selection of the subject, but by the candour and feeling 
with which it was treated. Thousands of readers have lately been 
surprised tosee the way S. Teresa's name is introduced in the preface 
to one of the most remarkable works of the great novelist of our time. 
And doubtless there are many who have not yet recovered from the 
amazement that seized them on finding that one of the poets ofthe 
day has, in the midst of pages of licentious verse, dedicated a few 
pure stanzas to the honour of that " sweetest of Saints" — Catherine 
of Siena, and added in prose a note of no less remarkable eulogy. 

This gentleman is not the only one who thinks that S. Catherine 

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6 A Ctti^Ji Saints 

ought to be better known than she is. He seems to hope that a 
chronicler will be found to do justice to the ** greatness of spirit and 
genius of heroism," as well as the "strength and breadth of patrio- 
tic thought" that characterised her. Others would like to see her 
among her own people, and hear the words of strange power and irre- 
sistible persuasion which this counsellor of Pontiffs, this envoy of 
the fierce republics, this incomparable peace-maker, had ever at 
command ; while others, again, would desire to have set forth in 
her life the example of virtues that have much need of being 
strengthened in these days— faith unmoved by scandal or distress : 
hope that makes ** impossible" achievements facts. 

There is but a single consideration to reconcile one to the idea 
of the imminent danger S. Catherine runs of falling into the hands 
of a non-Catholic biographer; and it is the reflection that no one 
ever approached her without leaving her presence both wiser and 
better. Some grace, no doubt, will attach to the pen that under- 
takes to write for English readers the history of this great woman 
and great saint, and to delineate a character in which were com- 
bined clearness pf intellect, warmth of affection, courage that never 
quailed ; a character in one word, uniting sweetness and strength 
in marvellous and beautiful association. It will need a wide 
canvas on which to show the scenes of history in which this 
daughter of the people bore a part, and to paint the portraits of the 
men and women grouped around her : the Friar Preachers, the 
Sisters of Penance, the young noblemen who acted as her secre- 
taries, accompanied her on her journeys, and were ready to live 
like mendicants so that they were not for long separated from her 
whom they called their mother and mistress. 

iVIeanwhile let us see whether we could not by sketching in a 
few lines of background, and outlining the principal figures, get, 
even from the rough draught,' some idea of the intrinsic beauty and 
significance of this subject.* 

No matter what may be forgotten of the events that marked its 
troubled course, the fourteenth century will always be remembered 
as the epoch in which the language and literature of Italy sprang 

* "Wc have, in English a recent translation of the Life of S. Catherine of Siena 
by her confessor the Blessed Raymond of Capua (Duffy, 1867), and an old 
version of another life, verjr quaint and interesting, re-edited with a preface by 
Father Aylward, O. P. (Philp., 1867). To appreciate or even properly understand 
these works which come under the head of ^^ Memoires pour servir'^ rather than 
regular biographies, it would be necessary to have acquired a general knowledge 
of the saint's life, and of the times in which she livecl. There is no shorter way 
of gaining this than by reading in addition to Blessed Raymond's " Legenda** the 
" Storia di S, Caterinay" bjr the Oratorian Father Capecelatro, of which the 
third edition (Naples, 1863), is now before us; and the '''• Lettere di S. 
Caterinay^ edited with copious notes and an interesting critical introduction 
by N. Tommaseo (4 vols. Florence, i860). There is an excellent French transla- 
tion of the Letters, with useful historical introduction founded on the 
«* Storia^^* by E. Cartier (3 vols., Paris, 1858). But the notes in this are short 
and few. 

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A Citizen Saint 7 

into existence and grew to perfection, and the period in which 
many of the famous works of the early schools of art were produced. 
The " Vita Nuova" of Dante appeared at its very opening, and pre- 
pared the way for the ** Divina Comedia." Petrarch was bom early 
in the first decade ; Bocaccio came into the world a few years later ; 
and these were followed by a crowd of poets. Cimabue, who died 
in 1300, was the precursor of Giotto, Taddeo Gaddi, Simone Memmi, 
Orcagna, and a long line of illustrious painters. Architects and 
sculptors, of imperishable fame, continued the stupendous under- 
takings of the previous century, originated new designs, and helped 
to make Italy what she has become — a shrine of art. 

The free cities of Lombardy and Tuscany had then reached the 
climax of power and wealth. Popes and emperors sought their 
alliance ; their trade made burgher life in Flanders splendid, and 
helped to civilise the then half barbarous British Isles. Yet the 
arts did not charm peace to tarry in the land ; nor did commerce, 
with its princely enterprise, nor husbandry, though well understood 
and practised, secure to the people the happiness which is counted 
upon as the reward of well-paid industry. The most terrible scourges 
that afflict humanity desolated the country. Foreign armies and 
companies of adventurers plundered the cities and laid waste the 
plains ; famine stalked over the fruitful fields ; and the plague, 
twice within the hundred years, decimated the horror-stricken po- 
pulations. The spirit of unrest and discord finished what other 
visitations left undone. When there were no strangers to war with, 
the republics fought with one another; and when there was a 
truce between the rival cities, the factions contending for the Sig- 
noria tore each other in pieces. 

Great tribulations afflicted the Church. The Popes, whose pre- 
sence might have preserved some semblance of peace and order in 
Italy, were captives — not willing to be free — in Avignon. The Baby- 
lonish captivity, as the people called that disastrous exile, did 
not terminate until the century was drawing to a close ; and then 
began a worse calamity, the great schism of the west. During the 
absence of the Supreme Pontiif from Rome, the clergy became 
disorganised, and the legates, for the most part rapacious foreign- 
ers, oppressed the people that they might live in luxury, and tyran- 
nised not only over the dominions of the Church but over the free 
cities which had remained attached to the papal interest. 

In fact at one time or another within that century Italy appears 
to have been a prey to every evil under the sun, except stagnation, 
slavery, and despair. 

Florence and Siena, the rival republics of Tuscany, could, in 
consequence of their wealth, their armed forces and their influence, 
turn the balance in favour of Pope or Emperor. Sometimes friendly 
relations subsisted between the cities ; more frequently they were 
engaged in jealous contention with one another. Siena espoused 
the Ghibeline cause out of opposition to the Guelphic city on the 

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8 A Citizen Saint. 

Amo. But at a time when political factions divided each state, and 
hereditary enmities brought strife intothemidstof families, nothing 
continued long in the same condition ; and we see Florence now 
zealously supporting Gregory XI., now flaying alive the papal 
nuncio ; Siena one day offering the Signoria to the Emperor, and 
another day treating him >yith the grossest indignity. The political 
exiles of one republic used frequently to settle within the dominion 
of the other, and this interchange of hospitalities served to keep up 
in each state a very lively interest in the internal affairs of the other. 

Siena's pride had been inordinately increased by the victory of 
Monte Aperto, gained in the previous century by the combined 
forces of that republic and of Pisa over the Tuscan Guelphs headed 
by the Florentines. In that battle, fought about five miles from 
Siena, in 1260, a great number of the Guelphs were left dead upon 
the field ; many prisoners were taken ; and the great car or carroccio 
on which were borne aloft the image of Our Lady and the standard 
of Florence, and which it was a point of honour to defend to the 
last extremity, was captured and drawn into the city in triumph. 
The victors hung the Florentine standard in the Duomo ; placed the 
crucifix they had themselves carried into the field over one of the 
altars ; presented the martimlla^ or bell of the carroccio, to the 
church of San Giorgio ; and to express their gratitude to God and 
to the Blessed Virgin, decreed, by order of the senate, that thence- 
forward the words Civitas Virginis should be added to the inscription 
on their coin. At the same time a law was re-enacted obliging 
each citizen who had attained to the age of sixteen years to ofi"<5r 
every year, on the vigil of the Assumption, a pound of wax in the 
cathedral church of Our Lady. 

After that decisive engagement, a great number of the Sienese 
nobles who had been exiled in revolutions of an earlier date, re- 
turned to their native city. Some, by becoming merchants, sought 
to regain the position in the state, of which the jealousy of the 
popular party had deprived them ; others, too proud to descend to 
a lower grade, retired to their hill-side castles, to await the turn in 
political affairs which should restore them to their former import- 
ance ; while others, again, were content to remain an isolated 
class in a separate quarter of the city. For about ten years after 
that battle, or until 1270, the nobles had a share with the burgher 
class in the government. The rulers of the republic, twenty-four 
in number, were chosen in equal proportion from each class. At 
that date, however, a change occurred, and the supreme authority 
was transferred to the hands of thirty-six governors, the majority 
of whom were not of the aristocratic party. Nine years later a new 
magistracy was formed, excluding the upper classes altogether; and 
its members, under the title of the Signori Quindtci, governed the 
city and the commune. Then it was that, through the intervention 
of the papal legate Orsini, an order was made prohibiting the use of 
the words Guelph and Ghibeline. But in spite of that prudential 

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A Citizen Saint. 9 

measure, affairs did not long remain undisturbed in the turbulent 
republic. The Quzndtct were succeeded by the Nove, who enjoyed 
an unusually long^ reign, and maintained their position for seventy 
rears ; that is to say until 1355. These nine governors v. ere chosen 
from a class of about ninety families of rich merchants, who formed 
a sort of burgher aristocracy, and were called the ** Order of Nine." 
Their term of office did not exceed two months ; during which time 
tbey occupied the same palace and banqueted at the same table. 

Again, the order of Nine becoming an object of jealousy to the 
ranks beneath them, the nobles, who still longed for restoration to 
power, took advantage of the ill-feeling that existed, and in the 
year 1355, excited the populace to revolt. With the tacit consent 
of the emperor Charles IV., who was then in Siena, and only too 
anxious to increase his own power by taking advantage of political 
commotions, the Nine were driven from the palace of the Signoria, 
and measures were taken to permanently exclude them from the 
government. But the nobles, though they took a sanguinary re- 
venge on their enemies, did not succeed in attaining the object 
they had most at heart. They did not obtain even a share in the 
Signoria, which was entrusted to twelve magistrates of a somewhat 
lower class of the citizens than the banished Nine. Among the 
families of rank who distinguished or disgraced themselves in this 
unhappy contest, were theTolomei, the Malavolti, the Piccolomini, 
and the Saracini ; among whom, some years later on, S. Catherine, 
as we shall see, found many friends and disciples. 

By the time, however, that the saint became known to her fel- 
low-citizens by her great gifts and heroic charity, another change 
had taken place. The Salembeni and the Tolomei feigning to fight 
with one another, suddenly united their forces, attacked the palazzo, 
turned the Signoria out of doors, and attempted to establish anew 
form of executive, in which the aristocracy should be sufficiently 
represented. The democratic party resisted ; a battle took place 
in the streets ; and the nobles being worsted, shut themselves up 
in their castles. Meanwhile the arrival of the emperor appeared 
for a moment to strengthen their position. But all was in vain. The 
popolani, neither daunted by the martial ardour of the nobles, nor 
overawed by the presence of the emperor, rose to arms ; threw up 
barricades on all sides ; broke into the emperor's palace, disarmed 
and dispersed his guards, and left him for several hours alone in 
the piazza. In vain he addressed himself to the armed citizens, 
who barred the way on every side ; not until he began to suffer from 
hunger did they let him seek a shelter from the Salembeni, and 
finally leave the city. The result of this contest was the formation 
of a new Signoria, composed of fifteen members ; eight taken from 
a lower class than ever before had a share in the government; four 
from those who had beep represented in the magistracy of twelve, 
and three from the order of Nine. The new governors were popu- 
larly called the Reformers ; their official title being the Signori De- 

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10 A Citizen Saint 

y^wj(?r/— Defenders of the city and commune of Siena. At their 
head was the Capitano del Popolo. For a time the nobles under the 
leadership of the Salembeni, held the country round Siena ; but 
finally, in 1369, the Florentines having been chosen arbiters be- 
tween the contending parties, a not very settled peace was obtained. 
The city of Siena, which strikes the traveller as so complete a 
realisation of his idea of the capital of a splendid, warlike and for- 
midable republic, is, though shrunken in its proportions, substan- 
tially the same Civitas Virginis, which, as her latest poet sings, 
** saw S. Catherine bodily/' True, streets once lined with the 
warehouses of rich merchants and the shops of substantial 
traders no longer run with abrupt descent from the tower-crowned 
hills to the deep ravine. Gardens and patches of wild verdure oc- 
cupy the untenanted space, and beautify the site of former habi- 
tations. Of the thirty-nine gates of the turret-flanked walls, only 
eight remain. The population of the present city is not one quar- 
ter of the number of armed men the fierce republic once sent through 
these gates into the Tuscan plains. The city, as if concentrating 
its remaining strength upon the vantage ground, crowns the cluster 
of hills standing apart from neighbouring heights of undulating out- 
line, and is regarded with only a distant recognition by mountain 
ranges on the horizon. The same magnificent Duomo, with its 
white and black-striped campanile, rises on the summit of the steepest 
hill. San Domenico's plain brick structure keeps its place on a 
corresponding height. The Palazzo Publico maintains as proud an 
air as if the Signoria still sat in council within its pictured walls ; 
and the piazza looks as if it might become once more the scene of 
popular tumult and sanguinary onslaught. Prison-like mansions 
of the extinct nobility, with their barred windows, gloomy archways, 
and towers for observation and defence, frown on the precipitous 
streets, and preserve intact the middle-age character of a city which 
even its own inhabitants would not leave in peace. Above all, 
rises to a stupendous height the tower Delia Mangia, with its ma- 
chicolated summit ; and its bell hung in the air, ready for any ser- 
vice : to regulate the daily life of the citizens, as it did five hun- 
dred years ago, when S. Catherine durst not go forth in the morn- 
ing without the city bell's permission ; ready, if need be, to ring 
a summons through the hills, or toll some doleful tidings over the 
territory of the Sienese. 

The city presents no aspect of unsightly ruin, of undignified 
decay. In silent, solemn mood she broods over splendid memo- 
ries. Perhaps she sleeps; perhaps she dreams that fresh blood 
may flow through the empty veins again ; that the Siena which held 
high her head among the proudest of the republics, and set up her 
academies before the rest had schools ; and had painters, and great 
ones too, before Cimabue was bom, may yet awake to vigorous, 
abounding life, and add new glory to her ancient grandeur. 

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A Cthzen Saint, 1 1 

The Sienese of to-day tread the streets with an independent 
step, worthy of the sons of freedom. Their speech is in the 
same sweet and harmonious accents in which Catherine conversed 
and Bernardino preached. In the very language of Dante they tell 
jou how the immortal poet alludes to their city and recalls their 
story ; how he speaks of the victory of Monte Aperto ; how the 
Piazza del Campo is introduced ; how the young prodigals of the 
city, who shod their horses with silver and roasted their pheasants 
at fires made of fragrant spices, have found their place in the In- 
ferno : how the Fonte Branda, with its copious supply of limpid 
water, has been immortalized. If Dante had not died, they say, 
some fifty years too soon, the Virgin of Fonte Branda — S. Cathe- 
rine herself — ^would be met in some page or another of the Divine 

Yes : it would be so, we may be very sure. The Saint of Siena 
would be recognised in the Inferno mourning over souls she 
could not save with all her quenchless zeal ; or met in the 
PurgaioriOy gliding from circle to circle doing penance for poor 
sinners who had been converted by her prayers ; or seen in X^ci^Para- 
diso in an ecstasy of measureless thanksgiving, and intercession 
that asks but to receive. 

One must make a rapid descent from the inhabited part of the 
city to reach the famous fountain that lends its name to the once 
well peopled district in which it is situated, and gives the title of 
the " Vergine di Fonte Branda" to the saint who was born not far 
from its tank-like reservoir. The fountain is in the lowest part of 
the Valle Piatta, a sort of ravine separating the cathedral-crowned 
height from the hill on which the church of San Domenico stands. 
A little way higher up on the cathedral side is the block of build- 
ings now comprising chapel and oratories which once included 
the residence, factory, and shop of S. Catherine's father, 
Jacopo Benincasa, whose workmen washed their wools in Fonte 
Branda, and dyed them for the manufacturers, who at that time 
drove a flourishing trade in Siena. Jacopo was the descendant of 
a French gentleman named Tiezzo, or Teuccio, who came to Siena 
about the year 1282 ; purchased from the republic a plot of ground 
outside the walls, at Monticiano ; built some houses there, and 
called the place Borgo. Tiezzo had two sons ; Benincasa, from 
whom the saint was descended, and Bencivine, the founder, as it 
is asserted, of the Borghese family. The arms of the Benincasa and 
the Borghese are the same ; and the latter, the city registries show, 
were also in the same trade, and had a dyeing establishment close 
to Jacopo's house in Fonte Branda. At the time of S. Catherine's 
canonization, the Roman Borghese .were anxious that their con- 
nection with the family of a dyer should not be brought forward ; 
and they had influence enough, it is said, to prevent this being 
done. It is not easy to understand the pride that would disown re- 
lationship with the race from which S. Catherine sprang. One of 

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12 A Citizen Saint. 

her biographers, commenting on the vanity of the patrician family, 
characteristically remarks that Jacopo Benincasa had a share in the 
magistracy of the republic, which was a much greater thing than 
being a prince in the court of Rome ! Though Jacopo's business 
ranked him with the popolani^ his family were connected with seve- 
ral of the distinguished people in the city, such as the Delia Fonte, 
and the Vannini, the Colombini, and the Telliucci. 

Jacopo Benincasa married Lapa, the daughter of Puccio Pia- 
genti, a poet of some note in Siena in those days. They had a 
very numerous family, of whom eight, at the least, grew up to man- 
hood and womanhood. Catherine was bom on the 25th March, 
1347, the year in which Rienzi proclaimed the republic in Rome. 
In the following year the great plague, described with such terrible 
power by Bocaccio, broke out, and carried off, if the Sienese ac- 
counts are to be credited, eighty thousand of the citizens. Cathe- 
rine was particularly cherished by her mother, and as she grew in 
years became so remarkable for her sweet disposition and graceful 
ways, that the numerous household regarded her with special af- 
fection, and the kinsfolk and neighbours were always wanting to 
have her with them. They called her Eufrosina, the joyous one. 
The child's early piety astonished everyone ; and her wise and 
simple talk attracted people as much as her playful manner 
charmed them. 

One day her mother sent her with her little brother Stefano to 
the house of their married sister Bonaventura, who lived near one 
of the gates of the city. When the children were returning- 
by the street descending from the hill on which the Duomo 
stands to the Fonte Branda quarter, Catherine raising her eyes to 
heaven saw right over the opposite hill and above the gable end of 
the church of San Domenico a vision of our Lord in great majesty, 
accompanied by S. Peter, S. Paul, and S. John the Evangelist. 
The Saviour looked on her with benign tenderness, and stretching 
out his hand, made the sign of the cross and blessed her. Stefano, 
who had not seen the vision, continued his way; but by-and-by 
perceiving that his sister tarried behind and took no notice when 
he called loudly to her, he returned, and taking her by the hand 
sought to arouse her from the trance she appeared to have fallen 
into. At last she lowered her eyes. When she looked up again, 
Christ and the saints had disappeared, and weeping she reproached 
herself for having withdrawn her gaze from that resplendent 

From that time forth her mind dwelt on nothing but heavenly 
things. She could not imagine any delight except in doing as 
she heard the saints had done. Fancying it would be possible for 
her to live like the hermits of the desert, she one day wandered 
outside the city gates ; and when the houses became fewer, and 
she saw the country lying open before her, she thought the wilder- 
ness must surely be nigh at hand. She was brought back to her 

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A Citizen Saint. 13 

home ; and then it came Into her mind that if she could go and 
live with the Dominican Fathers in their convent up there on the 
hill, and teach people to be good and to love God, it would be 
the greatest happiness that could possibly be imagined. When, 
however, it was explained to her that she might neither lead the 
life of a solitary in the desert, nor dwell with the Frati in San 
Domenico, she gave up the childish fancy, and was contemt to as- 
semble the children of her acquaintance in some retired place, 
sing with them the hymns she had learned, talk of the love of God, 
of the delight of a penitential life and of what the saints had gone 
through for the salvation of souls. 

The Benincasa family afforded a good example of a well regu- 
lated, comfortable middle-class household in republican times. 
Trade was in a flourishing state; and in Jacopo's house there 
were abundant means for the troop of children, and even a comer 
to spare for a young orphan relative, Thomas della Fonte, who 
grew up with the rest, until — he too having turned a longing eye 
to that convent on the height — the time came when he could join 
the Frati, labour for the conversion of souls, and help, on the ele- 
vated path of sanctity, Catherine Benincasa herself. Jacopo was 
emphatically a God-fearing man. He was never angry; he would 
not suffer any one to be harshly spoken of; even those who did 
him a wrong were safe from injurious words. He had a particular 
talent for maintaining peace between neighbours and for reconcil- 
ing enemies. As might be expected, the children reaped the 
benefit of the father's good example and Christian conversation. 
One of his daughters after her marriage having lost her spirits and 
begun to waste away, the cause could not be surmised until she 
acknowledged to her husband that the loose conversation of his 
young companions — so diflferent from what she had been accus- 
tomed to hear in her father's house — was so distressing to her that 
she thought she could not have to listen to it much longer and live. 
Catherine certainly inherited her father's kindly disposition, and 
his gift of peace making. 

What qualities the saint inherited from her mother cannot be 
so easily traced ; for Lapa, though a poet's daughter, does not 
appear to have been remarkable for any but good housewifely 
qualities, common sense, and a prudent regard for the satisfactory 
settlement in life of her very large family of children. Possibly 
though one generation was passed over in the transmission, Cathe- 
rine may have owed to her grandfather some of that charm which 
made her conversation so fascinating. In one respect at any 
rate they were like-minded, and that was in affection for the 
Dominicans. In recompense for Piagenti's devotion to the Order, 
Frate Erves, Master of the Friar Preachers in Florence, had,"in a 
document to which his seal was appended, granted in 132 1 to the 
poet, his wife Cena and their children, participation in this life 
and in the next in the merit of all the masses, prayers, and good 

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14 A Citizen Saint, 

works of the Order throughout the world. At his death Piagenti 
left his property, or a good part of it, to the Dominicans. 

The Friar Preachers during those stormy days kept alive in 
Siena, as well as all through Italy, a strong spirit of devotion to 
the Holy See, and a longing desire that the Father of the Faithful 
should return from Avignon and reign once more in Rome. Their 
convents were ever}'where the centre of this idea ; and their in- 
fluence greatly tended to keep the people steady in the faith at 
a crisis made exceedingly dangerous by the disorders, the terrors, 
and the scandals of the time. They were also the great peace- 
makers of the age. The Frati lived much among the people. 
Catherine was accustomed to see them in her fathers house, and 
early learned so to delight in their conversation, and so to love the 
habit of the order, that as she saw them pass the door on the way 
to and from the convent, she would be ready to fall at their feet 
and worship the ground they walked on. She was more devout to 
St. Dominick than to any other of the saints. One night she had 
in her sleep a vision of the founders of the Religious Orders who ap- 
peared to urge her to choose one in which to devote herself to a 
life of perfection. Among them she recognised St. Dominick 
bidding her be of good courage, and presenting to her the habit 
of the Sisters of Penance, which it was even then her earnest desire 
to wear. 

Thus encouraged, she became more than ever determined to 
dedicate herself entirely to God. This resolution, however, did 
not by any means fall in with the wishes and plans of her parents. 
They had made up their mind that she should marry, and had al- 
ready selected for her future husband a young man of the family 
connection. Seeing how little inclined she was to yield to their de- 
sires, her mother left nothing undone to persuade or compel her to 
compliance. To prevent her spending so much time in solitude 
and prayer, she was deprived of the little room she had occupied, 
and commanded to share the apartment of her younger brother, and 
leave the door ajar all through the day; while the kitchen-maid was 
dismissed, that the drudgery of the house might be imposed on the 
too pious child. On the other hand, to induce her to follow the 
example of girls of her own age, and enjoy the amusements 
of the day, she was taken to the hot baths in the neighbourhood 
of Siena, and there thrown into the company of the gay crowd who 
frequented the place for pleasure as much as for health's 
sake. But these efforts proved less than ineffectual. She found 
means to practise extraordinary mortifications in the midst of 
the most distracting scenes, and the drudgery of the house-work 
only afforded her an opportunity of making still more perfect the 
union of her soul with God, She served her father and mother as 
if they had been the Saviour and the disciples ; and made for her- 
self a cell in her own soul, whither she could retire in the midst 
of the most distracting occupations. This trial lasted for some 

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^ A Citizen Saint. 15 

years ; till at last her constancy and patience overcame the opposi- 
tion of her parents. Her father ordered that she should be no. 
longer interfered with, that she should have liberty to carry out 
her wishes as to the state of life she had chosen ; and her mother 
sometime after yielded to her importunities, and spoke to the Sis- 
ters of Penance about receiving Catherine into their community. 

The Sisters of Penance of S. Dominick were at that time very 
numerous in Siena ; and among them were members of several of 
the most illustrious families of the republic. They were popularly 
called the Mantellate from the cloak they wore. Their habit was 
black and white — the Dominican colours, and also tha Sienese. 
They elected their prioress and lived in obedience to her, though 
they did not at that time make the religious vows. They were un- 
der the direction of the Friar Preachers, and attended the offices 
in San Domenico, a church of many memories even then ; for in 
the adjoining convent had lived for some time S. Thomas Aquinas, 
and the Blessed Ambrogio Sansedonio. In the chapel, at the end 
of the nave — the cappella delle Volte, the Sisters were accustomed 
to hold their meetings. When it was proposed to the Mantellate 
to receive into their community a girl of fifteen years of age, for 
Catherine wa^ no older at that time, they replied that such a thing 
could not be done. They received only widows-and women of ma- 
ture years ; a prudent rule, as they lived, not in community, but 
each one in her own house, or with her family, and had special 
need of experience and discretion under these circumstances. An- 
other effort was made to induce the Mantellate to relax their rule, 
but in vain. At last Catherine, reduced to a pitiable state by an 
attack of small-pox, and suffering as well from trouble of mind as • 
from the fever attending the disease, besought her mother to make 
a final appeal to the Sisters ; crying out in the midst of her dis- 
tress, ** Dearest mother, if you hope to see me well and happy, 
procure /or me that I may be clothed as I desire ; for otherwise it 
appears to me that God may so have matters turn out that you will 
not long have me in that nor in any other habit." Moved by the 
anxiety, now only too sincere, of the poor mother, the Sisters con- 
sented to consider the proposal, and told her that if her daughter 
were not very handsome they would receive her into the commu- 
nity. On going to see her they found her still so disfigured 
by the disease from which she had been suffering, that they con- 
cluded there would be no danger on the score of too much beauty. 
Moreover they were so charmed with the sweetness and wisdom of 
her conversation, that they resolved to make an exception in their 
rule and admit her into the staid company of the Sisters of Penance. 

At last, one Sunday, in the year 1362, the Benincasa house- 
hold took their way from Fonte Branda to the church upon the hill ; 
and there, in the chapel of the sisterhood, and in the presence of 
all the Mantellate, Catherine received from the hands of one of 
the Frati, the habit she had so much desired, and was made a daugh- 

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1 6 A Citizen Saint. 


ter of S. Dominick. During the three succeeding years her life was 
one of nearly absolute silence, of uninterrupted and ecstatic prayer, 
of great interior trial, and of almost incredible austerity. Many 
hours of the day she spent in the church. When not there she was 
to be found at home. A favourite place of meditation was the ter- 
race on the top of the house, whence San Dbmenico could be seen. 
In her little room was a plank that served as a bed, and a log 
of wood that she used as a pillow. Extremely little sleep she al- 
lowed herself ; for her habit was to watch through the night while 
the Dominicans, her brothers, slept ; not until she heard the second 
toll for matins would she allow herself to take some rest. 

Understanding from our Lord when she was about nineteen 
years of age that it was His will she should quit her solitude and 
serve Him in a life of active charity among her fellow-creatures, she 
left her cell, joined the family at their meals, put her hand to every 
household work, and went abroad to ministertothe poorand suflfering. 
Much as she would have liked to retire again into the hidden life, 
it soon became impossible for heY to do so. Her ardent zeal and 
superabounding charity, the manifest power of her prayers, and 
the extraordinary grace which seemed to touch the heart as surely 
as her words fell upon the ear, so impressed the people with admira- 
tion, trustfulness, andaflfection, that they came to regard her not only 
as a friend to each citizen, but as a benefactor to the republic. 
She was wanted everywhere inside and outside the city. With 
superhuman energy and unalterable sweetness she responded to 
every call. She fed the poor, she nursed the sick> she went into 
the prisons, and softened hearts that had been hardened in the 
. cruel strifes of the time ; she reconciled enemies to whom none other 
dared whisper peace. She would go to the scaffold with one 
poor wretch, or she would acidress a multitude in words of touch- 
ing eloquence. In the ardour of her love of God, every affection 
became intensified, and every faculty received a stimulq§. The 
clearness of her aim, and the strength of her will, the sweetness 
of her smile, and the graciousness of her manner, made her irre- 
sistible. Her desire that people should know and serve God, 
and live in charity with one another, gave her courage to un- 
dertake what any other woman would have shrunk from ; while her 
vivid realisation of the misery of erring souls, and her intense desire 
to save them, seemed to be communicated by some subtle force 
to the objects of her charity, and to work the miracles of conver- 
sion she longed to see accomplished. If these poor sinners would 
only turn from their evil ways and cease to rush alive into perdi- 
tion, she would execute their wishes, would take their sins upon 
herself, would do the utmost penance for them. She did nbt make 
much distinction between great and little works. All the energy of 
her soul she put into the humblest offices of charity : and she accom- 
plished the most glorious deeds with a simplicity that was perfect 
in self-forgetfulness. When her confessor on one occasion pri- 

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A Citizen Saint 17 

vately rebuked her for allowing the people to bend the knee before 
her, she answered — *' God is my witness that I frequently do not • 
perceive the actions of those who surround me." And we shall 
presently see that when on one occasion, and under exciting cir- 
cumstances, a multitude of people were assembled round her, she 
did not see a face in all the crowd ; she was thinking of one soul 
in grievous straits, and holding it with all her might in the presence 
of God. 

There was ample scope for the exercise of charity of every kind 
in those days. Trade was interrupted by successive disturbances, 
and many families, who had once lived in opulence, were reduced 
to poverty. Catherine, who was discerning as well as open- 
handed in her charity, would seek these distressed families, and 
privately supply their needs. Her father, who greatly loved her, 
had given her permission to take from the house whatever she 
wanted for the poor. In those times of distress she would be up 
before the dawn, collecting the wine and oil and bread she 
wanted for her pensioners ; and when the bell of the Palazzo rang 
over the city and it was lawful for the inhabitants to appear in the 
streets, she would toil up the steep ascent with her load, enter the 
houses before the recipients of her charity were awake, and then, 
depositing her burden within their reach, would hasten home 
again, and arrive at her father's door before the city was astir. 
She had little of her own to give, but what she had she royally 
bestowed. One day, while she was in the church, a poor person 
besought her for some;*elief ; she never had money about her, but 
she said that if he would^come with her to the house, she would 
get him assistance. The need seemed to be too urgent; the 
beggar could not wait. She bethought her of a little silver cross 
that hung to her beads; she offered him this; he took it and 
departed as if he had got all he could possibly desire. Another 
day, as she was setting out with her companions, she was im- 
portuned for an alms. "I assure you, dear brother, I have no 
money," she said. "But," he rejoined, **you could give me that 
mantle." "That is true," she replied, giving it to him. Her 
friends had much trouble redeeming the mantle, and they asked 
her how she could think of walking out without the cloak of her 
Order. Her reply was, that she would rather be without her cloak 
than without charity. 

When the plague broke out a second time in Siena, Catherine's 
heroic devotion was severely tested. Early and late she was in the 
great hospital, Delia Scala, or visiting the stricken people in their 
homes^^In the hospital is still shown a sort of shed to which she 
used to retire to take a few moments' rest; and. in the house at 
Fonte Branda they have the little lantern that used to light her 
through the deserted streets, as she took her way to the death -bed 
of the victims. She prepared the sufferers to meet their God, and 
often, when they died, she buried them with her own hands. 

VOL, III. C Digitized by Google 

1 8 A Citizen Saint. 

Political revolutions and party jealousies instigating cruel 
deeds, gave her enough to do in another way. A true daughter of 
the august republic, she used the freedom of action and liberty 
of speech, which she enjoyed by right of citizenship, to stay the 
hand of remorseless power when she could ; to repair the evil work, 
when nothing else was left to do.. The ferocity of a triumphant 
faction she would fearlessly rebuke. If the Magnificent Signori, 
the defenders and the captain of the people, heard the truth from 
none other, they learned it from her. If her words and her in- 
fluence proved unavailing, then she would take the victims of their 
injustice, or their cowardice, to her heart, comfort them, soothe 
away the bitterness of exasperation from their mind, strengthen 
them for death, and teach them to walk with fearless step to the 
place of execution. Her influence on prisoners was extraordinary. 
Those "who were condemned to death used to send for her ; and 
she succeeded in bringing to a good state of mind many whom no 
one else could move to repentance. 

Among her many beautiful letters, there is one addressed to 
"All the Prisoners in Siena on Good Friday." In this letter she 
implores them to fix their eyes on Christ crucified, that they may 
learn what true patience is ; for the blood of Jesus, she reminds 
them, recalls our own iniquities, and the infinite mercy and charity 
of God, since it was our sins that caused the death of the Divine 
Son. Between the Almighty and us there had been a great war, 
and in our revolt we were reduced to such extremity, that we had 
no strength left to take the bitter remedy our pitiable state required. 
But He, the loving Saviour, took our infirmity upon Himself; 
assumed our weakness, and clothed Himself with our mortal flesh. 
He did as the nursing mother does, who takes the medicine which 
her poor weak infant cannot taste for its bitterness.. *' O most 
gentle loving Jesus !'* she exclaims, "you have done even as the 
tender mother : you have taken the intolerable remedy. You 
have borne the pains, the opprobrium, the ill-usage, the outrages. 
You suff'ered yourself to be bound and stricken ; to be scourged at 
the. column ; to be nailed to the cross ; saturated with injuries and 
aff'ronts ; tormented and devoured with thirst ; while for sole 
refreshment they offered you, in derision, vinegar and gall. And 
all this you endured with patience, praying for those who crucified 
you. Oh ! unspeakable love ! Not only did you pray for those 
who crucified you, but you made excuses for them, saying * Father 
forgive them, for they know not what they do.' Oh ! patience, 
exceeding all patience! Who was it that ever, in the midst of 
blows and torments and the agony of death, pardoned and prayed 
for his executioners ? You, alone, have done it. Lord. For true 
it is that you have taken the remedy for your poor weak children ; 
and with your death you have bestowed life on men. Tasting the 
bitterness of death, you have left the sweetness ef it for us. You 
have drawn us to your breast like a tender mother, and fed us \nth 

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, A Citizen Saint. 19 

grace divine ; you have swallowed the bitter potion, and given to 
us health again/' And then addressing these, the captive citizens 
of her well-beloved Siena, she comforts them in the only way that 
consolation can reach them, and in words that, with theiir martial 
ring, are well calculated to stir and fortify these luckle s sons of 
the republic. ' He, the Saviour, has made Himself our champion 
and our chief. He has marched into the field of battle ; He has 
fought and conquered the very devils. S. Augustine says, that 
' with his unarmed hand, our Captain has vanquished our foes ; He 
has come into the field on the wood of the most holy cross.' The 
crown of thorns .is his helmet ; the flagellated flesh his cuirass ; 
He has nails in his hands for gauntlets, and the iron in his feet^or 
spurs. The lance in his side is the sword with which He conquered 
men. See, then, how nobly armed our Captain is I Shall we not 
follow Him with undaunted courage in all our woes and tribu- 
lations .? " 

A still more beautiful letter, and remarkable as being the only 
one in which S. Catherine refers at any length to the part she 
herself took in an event of importance, is that in which she gives 
an account of her going to visit in prison and attending to the. 
scaffold a young gentleman of Perugia named Nicolo Tuldo, who, 
having spoken disrespectfully of the rulers of Siena, and possibly 
incited his friends in the city to rebel against the not very popular 
government, was seized and condemned to lose his life. The 
cruelty of the sentence so exasperated the young man that he 
broke forth into expressions of imcontrollable grief; uttered ter- 
rible imprecations against the Signoria ; and turned his back on 
God in his despair. Many of the priests went to him, but did not 
succeed in making any impression. Further attempts to turn his 
heart to God and reconcile him to his fate would have been aban- 
doned had it not been perceived that on hearing Catherine's name 
mentioned a gleam of faith and hope seemed to illuminate his 
soul. She was therefore sent for. 

'* I went to see the person you know of," she writes to Father 
Raymond of Capua ; " and he was so comforted and encouraged 
that he went to confession and showed the best possible disposi- 
tions. He made me promise for the love of God that when the 
day of justice came I would be with him. And this I promised 
and did. In the morning before the bell (of the Palazzo) rang I 
went to him, and the visit consoled him greatly. I brought him 
to hear Mass, and he received Holy Communion, which he had 
never done in his life before. His will became submissive and 
united to the will of God ; and the only thing that made him un- 
easy was the fear that his courage might fail at the last moment. 
But the infinite goodness of God so filled him with the love and 
desire of his presence that he longed to be with Him. * Stay with 
me,' he said, * and ^o not forsake me, and all will go well, and I 

c 2 

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20 A Citizen Saint. « 

shalldie content.' And he laid his head against my breast. Then 
I felt a gr^at joy, and as if his blood were an odour of sacrifice, 
and I wished that mine, too, might . be poured forth for the sake 
of Jesua^ the Spouse of our souls. This desire grew stronger 
and stronger ; and perceiving his apprehension I said to him : 

• Be of good courage, brother mine, for we shall soon be at the 
marriage feast in heaven. You will go, bathed in the blood of the 
Son of God, and with the sweet name of Jesus which I wish you 
never for a moment to forget. And you will find me waiting for 
you at the place of justice.' And then, Father and dear son, every 
shadow of fear left him, and his countenance changed even from 
sa^ess to delight. And in his joy and exultation he cried out: 

* Bu)w is it that such a grace should be conferred on me ! Can it 
be true that the delight of my soul will be waiting for me at the 
holy place of justice !* Judge what divine light was given to him 
that he should call the place of execution * holy.* And then he 
said : * Yes ; I will go forth strong and happy ; and I shall count it a 
thousand years until that moment, for thinking that you will be 
waiting for me there.' And he spoke words of such sweet mean- 
ing that I was astonished at the goodness of God. Then I went 
to the place of justice, and while I waited I prayed, and thought 
of Mary and of Catherine virgin and martyr. Before he came I 
stooped down and laid my neck on the block ; but I did not obtain 
what I desired. And while there I prayed with all my heart, and 
said : Mary I what I ask is that, when the last moment comes, 
divine light and peace of mind shall be given to him, and that I 
shall have grace to see him return to his last end — to God. My 
soul was so dilated with the joy of the promise that was then made 
to me, that, though a great multitude filled the place, I did not 
see a soul in all the crowd. At last he came like a gentle lamb ; 
and seeing me he began to smile, and asked me to make the sign 
of the cross on him. When I had done so I whispered : * Dear 
brother, go forth now to the marriage feast in heaven, and enjoy 
the life that never shall have an end.' He laid himself down 
most meekly, and I bared his neck; and bending close to 
him, I reminded him of the blood of the Lamb. He uttered no 
syllable hwijesus^ Catherine; and with these words upon his lips I 
received his head into my hands." 

And then closing her eyes she was wrapped in ecstasy ; and 
she saw in a light as clear as the sun that the divine goodness had 
accepted the sacrifice of the young man's blood, his holy desires, 
his soul ; and she understood that it was through grace and mercy 
alone he received salvation and not through any merit of his own. 
And she was overwhelmed with delight to see with what inefi*able 
love the divine goodness received the soul that had gone forth 
from the body, and endowed it with the power of the Father, the 
love of the Son, and the ravishing joy of the Holy Ghost. Tuldo, 

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A Citizen Saint 21 

seemed, in the vision, to turn and look back, as the bride does 
when she has reached the bridegroom's house, saluting with grate- 
ful farewell those who came with her to the door. 

The people, witnessing this scene, and observing that Tuldo 
turned his eyes to heaven with so fixed a gaze that his eyelids 
were motionless, became deeply affected. They now regarded as 
a martyr the stranger gentleman who had received at their hands 
so sad a doom. They took away his body to bury it with solemn 

But Catherine coming down from that place of justice, filled 
with unspeakable peace, could not bear to wash away the blood — 
the blood of sacrifice — that had fallen on her in that hour. • 

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( " ) 


MY soul upon the verge of night 
Awakened face to face with God, 
It uncertain tender light 
That gleams before the sun's abroad ; 
And roused fiom sleep as by a call, 

It read a riddle in that hour : — 
While singing birds were silent all, 
And closed was every blooming flower. 

Full many a noon-tide left behind, 

I've spent upon the search for this, 
That now hath dropped upon my mind 

As sweetly as a mother's kiss. ' 
But things that are not seen for light. 

Will shine by their own light instead : 
So waits the little star for night. 

And saintly aureole on. the dead. 

Had flowers their rosy wings unfurled. 

Warm-painted on the azure air ; 
Had sunshine glamoured all the world, 

And birds been singing everywhere. 
For song and shine I had not caught 

The voice that solved my mystery. 
Nor gained this glory to my thought 

Which one pale moment brought to me. 

Then never, never, weep again 

And mourn the sunshine hath gone by, 
While faintly through thy window pane 

New day may glimmer soberly. 
For tracks are seen at paly dawn. 

Fresh fodtprints by the angels made : 
And Heaven's full majesty hath shone 

On pilgrims travelling in the shade. 

R. M. 

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( 22 ) 



Chapter XVIII. 


May stood still in astonishment while Philip advanced toward her 
and cried, "Lady Margery, can I see yonr sister?" Uncon- 
sciously May drew herself up ; her timidity never deprived her of 
dignity. ** It is quite impossible, cousin. Lady Marguerite is 
very ill ; she cannot leave her chamber." 

•* No wonder, no wonder!" exclaimed Philip, while his face 
darkened with anger ; ** 'tis a base trick that hath been played on 
us, and your father hath been befooled." 

" Master Engleby," said May, coldly, " I pray you to remem- 
ber you speak in Lord EdenhalFs house, and in the presence of 
his daughter." 

" Cousin, I crave pardon," returned Philip ; ** the suddenness 
of this blow hath overset me." 

" I know not why," said May, her cheeks flushing, •" it should 
be a blow to you." 

Philip was taken by surprise. In many months past he had 
looked on May as a soft, yielding child, an innocent devo/e, whom 
any one could turn round his finger, and who took little heed of 
what was passing around. H^ow she stood looking at him with her 
clear, truthful eyes piercing the depths of his soul and forcing 
him to reveal his hidden motives. He might deceive Marguerite ; 
he could not deceive May. 

She looked on a union between him and her sister as fraught 
with danger to the latter ; and her courage rose to defend the 
being she so fondly cherished. 

" You can hardly be ignorant," stammered Philip, " how long 
I have aspired to win your sister's hand." 

*• I know it," said May, ** but I should have thought this — this 
— step of my father," — her voice faltered, but she recovered her- 
self and went on steadily — ** would hare apparently made 
matters easier. It is true, my sister may not be a great heiress, 
but ." 

" But that is the very point," burst in Philip. " See this very 
document which by iftere hazard I have lighted on. Oh 1 I be- 
seech you, Lady Margery, let me see Marguerite. It is of the utmost 

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24 A Pearl tn Dark Waters. • 

importance ; even you must feel it so, as a Catholic. I pray you, 
let me see your sister ; bear her a message from me." 

** The document you hold/' said May, with increasing coldness, 
" is, if I mistake not, one of ours. Suffer me to take it to my 

" Pardon : no I / would place it in her own hands." 

May looked her astonishment, but before any more could be 
said the door was flung open and Marguerite entered. 

She was pale as death, but her eyes were glowing with feverish 
excitement. She had attired herself hastily, and the disorder of 
her dress formed a strange contrast to her ordinary finished toilet 
Sh^ advanced into the room and sank into the nearest seat. 
" What means all this parley ?" she cried, and casting an indig- 
nant look at May, continued : " Am I to be treated like a child, 
and kept in ignorance of some new phase of this hideous plot ?" 

" No, dearest, fairest cousin," cried Philip, thrusting the old 
parchment into her hands : " by a lucky chance I found this. By 
its means you shall triumph indeed over this bad woman." 

Marguerite unfolded the paper and looked along the dim 
lines, but she could not decipher them. Her head was swim- 
ming and she grew ghastly pale. 

" 'Tis a will," ^aid Philip, " Tis the will of your grandfather. 
It was by his wife the Clymme estates came into your family. By 
this will they are left absolutely to the eldest daughter of his son. 
I know that it was always supposed such a will had been made 
and no one could find it. Your grandfather was, you know, killed 
in battle, and then, as his estates were sequestered, wills would 
have been of little avail. But now times are changed. Evidently 
this will hath been hidden in some secret drawer. By what won- 
derful chance it cometh to light to-day, and I find it lying on 
the floor, is more than I can tell." 

** It was I," said Marguerite, in a fierce, hard tone : *' I found 
it. To wile away my time waiting for her, I played with the 
drawers of the cabinet. When we were children, our old nurse 
told us of a black cabinet in which there was a secret drawer. 
The paper was in my hands when the news came. Ha I " continued 
she, while a strange, bitter smile glittered on her pale lips, " Pro- 
vidence is not so cruel as I deemed it. It leaves me yet revenge." 

May drew near her sister and put her arm round her. She had 
never in her life felt so strong a feeling of aversion as she now 
experienced for Philip. He was working upon the excited and 
wounded feelings of her sister in a state of physical weakness, 
and rousing her to a pitch of madness. She wished she dared call 
for help and s^nd him away. She felt that terrible sensation of 
weakness that comes upon us when we are waging a battle with 
some power of evil ; and then the habit of her life stood her in 
her need. She remembered the counsel of Father de la Colom- 

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• A Pearl in Dark Waters. 25 

bi^re — *' In all hours of anguish and peril fly to the Heart of 
Jesus." Her soul fled to that sure place of refuge, and was still. 

** Then," questioned Marguerite, eagerly, '* I am at this moment 
the owner of the Clymme estates ? " 

** In another year, when you shall be of age," rejoined Philip ; 
"but even now they should be held in trust for you. Your 
father hath had no right to enjoy their revenues during your 
childhood. All must be repaid. His new wife," — he spoke with 
a sort of hiss between his teeth, — ** will find she hath made a 
sorry bargain. She cannot reign over this grand mansion, and 
Edenhall shorn of the Clymme property will be but a mean dwell- 
ing for a Countess." 

** But surely," exclaimed May, " you will not persuade my 
sister to do this cruel wrong? My father never knew of this will ; 
he bath believed the estates his own. Would you have his own 
child sue him for a debt an honourable stranger would not ask ? 
Shame on you ! " 

Philip did not answer. He kept his eyes fixed on Rita. It 
seemed to May like a story she had read of a rattlesnake fascinat- 
ing its victim ere it makes the spring. 

Both waited for Marguerite to speak again. 
The words came slowly. 

" Had he been true to me, had he treated me as a child hath a 
right to be treated, he should scarce have known of this. Had he 
chosen to wed again, — I have no right to gainsay him — he should 
only have known of this to guide him for the future.. I mean had 
he wedded in the light of day, and one who would not disgrace the 
name we bear. But when he hath joined in a plot against me, 
when he hath misled and befooled me, shall I have mercy, shall I 
spare } Great heaven, no I " 

She clasped her hands, and the wild anguish of her face might 
have moved many a heart to pity. 

" Write that down, sweetest cousin," Philip cried. '* See, here 
is paper. I will write it for you in an instant, and you have but to 
sign it." He turned away to an adjacent writing table and began 
his task. 

" But why this haste ? '* demanded May. " *Tis most unseemly 
haste. We have friends we would consult, and there can be no 
need whatever of such hurry." 

She received no answer. Marguerite lay back in her chair 
with closed eyes. Philip wrote on rapidly. May also closed her 
eyes, and cried earnestly within her heart — Domine, ad adjuvandum 

Philip sprang from his seat and brought the paper to Marguerite. 
He placed a pen within her fingers, but it fell upon her lap^her 
eyes did not open. She had fainted. 

Instantly May threw open the door and called for assistance. 

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26 A Pearl in Dark Waters. * 

She pointed at Philip with an imperative gesture, and he obeyed. 
A sense that to be found in his present position would not be 
advantageous for the future flashed upon him. He thrust the will 
into his pocket, and before the servants could reach the room had 
made his exit by another door. 

Chapter XIX. 

At last that terrible day was over. Marguerite, exhausted by all 
she had gone through, was at last {persuaded to go to bed, and 
after tossing about restlessly, moaning with pain, for several hours, 
sank into a deep sleep as the morning began to dawn. 

Leaving her to be watched by a servant she could trust. May 
stole over to the palace to hear Mass. 

After it was over, she sought Father de la Colombidre. He was 
startled at the pale wan face of one whom he had seen only 
the previous day bright and blooming. 

May had not slept — she had passed the night in prayer, by her 
sister's side, and the emotions of the previous day had left their 
mark upon her. She told her tale,* and Father de la Colombidre 
listened with deep interest. 

One of his. characteristics was a deep sympathy for the sorrows 
of others. Rare is the gift, blessed are those who possess it. To 
them is committed a power of healing the wounds of the soul to a 
degree that seems miraculous. Their words are few and simple^ 
but they never sound like platitudes. They can probe a wound 
and the sufferer does not wince. They can reprove, yet their 
words leave no bitterness behind. 

Such was Father de la Colombi^re ; such was the secret of that 
wondrous charm which drew so many in England to his feet. 

** This is, indeed, a heavy cross for you, my dear child," he said 
to Margery. ** I know no one to whom a marriage such as that 
between your sister and Philip Engleby would be more injurious 
than to Lady Marguerite. If she marries, her husband should be 
a man she both loves and respects." 

**And, father, with Philip she can do neither. She cannot 
respect him. I feel certain she loves him not." 

** While," continued the father, " he is a man without religion^ 
without principle. I cannot imagine a more dreadful fate. L^t us 
try to save her from it, my child. If she is sick and unable 
to leave the house, I will come to her. Then, I think, her 
Highness has some influence over her. Speak to Mary Beatrice, 
without delay, of the matter. It were well, I think, if you and 

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• A Pearl in Dark Waters. 27 

yom sister came to your apartment in the palace, even though )roxi 
are not on dnty jast now. Surely it will not be well for Lady 
Marguerite and the liew Countess to meet under one roof." 

" I had thought of that, father, but you know Lady Diana still 
keeps her place at Court — ^we shall be in constant contact." 

•• Oh ! my child, that can't be avoided. Besides, do not imagine 
for a moment I would counsel you to keep up an estrangement. 
You must not fail in respect for your father, He has a perfect 
right to wed a second time. It is only the peculiar circmnstances 
of the case which render it a blow to you both, but especially to 
your sister. I would counsel you to write to your father to-day a 
dntiful epistle. Before doing so, see her Highness ; she will, I am 
sure, bid you return to the palace, and you can say to your 
father you have done so by hier wish. Let me have news of Lady 
Marguerite in a few hours ; and last of all, my child," continued he, 
with a smile, ^^you must not fall sick." 

May dashed away a few tears, and answered him with a bright 
smile. She was able to bear her burden better now. No one who 
sought Father de la Colombi^re's help, in faith, ever went away 
unconsoled. He had the art of raising the drooping spirit, and 
inspiring the faint-hearted with hope and courage. 

When May returned home, she found Rita awake, and, though 
very ill, determined on moving to the palace. In the course of the 
day the transit was accomplished. Philip Engleby called, but as 
his name was brought to Margery, she was able to dismiss him 
with an assurance that her sister was too ill to see him ; and when 
Marguerite had acQomplished the brief journey from. Pall Mall to 
the palace, she became so much worse, that for several days she 
was unable to attend to anything passing around. By her side. 
May watched and prayed. Willingly would Alethea or the Duchesse 
de Marigny have shared her labours, but Rita shrank from a strange 
voice or step. 

Lord Edenhall brought back his wife to Pall Mall, and May 
went to receive them. It was a formal, constrained interview, and 
both parties were glad when it was over. Lady Edenhall seemed 
fatigued, and complained of headache. Few inquiries were made 
for Marguerite. Evidently her illness was felt as a sort of relief. 
It broke the ice of their first meeting. 

The Countess was not sorry that her step-daughter had retreated 
to the palace, and that she was left alone to carry out her schemes 
of pride and pleasure in her new domain. 

But at Marguerite's age grief does not kill, nor even crush. 
The wound in her heart healed, the fever in her veins abated, and 
she rose up from her bed to face life again. 

She was greatly changed. It was extraordinary to see the 
inroads that sickness and grief had made on her beauty. Her 
manner was cold, and hard, and defiant. She scorned sympathy — 

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28 A Pearl in Dark Waters. ' 

dashed affection from her. She would not see Father de la 
Colombi^re — would listen to no message from him. She never 
opened a prayer-book or looked at a crucifix. 

The Duchess of York came to visit her, and Marguerite could 
not refuse her royal mistress ; but Mary Beatrice found her cold 
and reserved. The duchess was of too timid a nature to contend 
with Marguerite; and when she found the loving sympathy she 
was ready to oflfer met by stately ceremony, as if there could be no 
relation possible with her maid-of-honour save those of mistress 
and servant, she felt repelled, and was glad to end the visit 

But as soon as Marguerite was able to rise she sent for Philip 
Engleby, and had a long interview with him. One of her English 
maids attended upon her, and the conversation between Marguerite 
and Philip was carried on in French. 

She said nothing of what had passed to any one ; and as far as 
May knew, the mystery of the will found in the Green Chamber 
remained unknown to Lord and Lady Edenhall. 

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( 29 ) 

Part II. 

-If there's a power above us 

(And that there is all Nature cries aloud 
Through all her works) he must delight in virtue, 
And that which he delights in, mustoe happy, 

But when ? or where ? This world ? 

Addison's Cato, Act V., Sc. I. 
In fact, all these accessory questions involved problems which could not be 
discussed by physical science, inasmuch as they lay not within the region of 
physical science, but came within the scope of that great mother of the sciences — 
rlulosophy. — Huxley ^ Belfast^ Aug. 25. 

Instead of regarding the proper object of physical science as a search after 
essential causes, I believe it ought to be, and must be^ a search after facts and 
relations. — ^W. R. (now Hon. Justice) GnoVfi, Correlation of PhysiccU Forces, 
Pref, ad Jin. 

The teaching of the Infidel School in England culminates, as. a 
well-informed writer* observes, in three negations, viz., — of God, 
of the soul, of virtue. Of that school in its high pretensions, its 
Germanizing tendencies, and its ignorance or contempt of the 
ordinary procedures of the human understanding. Professor Tyn- 
dall has long been considered a fair specimen. His industry and 
courage, his success in some branches of physical science, his 
popularity as a lecturer, and his boundless admiration for the so- 
called heroes of ** advanced thought," pointed him out as a man 
not unqualified to fill for' a season the Presidential Chair of the 
British Association bf Science. The thought found favor in high 
circles ; nor did it lose its attractiveness from the likelihood which 
existed that Professor Tyndall, if elected, would use the influence 
of his high place to uproot, if possible, the most settled convic- 
tions of religious minds, and scatter among English-speaking 
people the seeds of a degrading and withering scepticism. Whether 
the committee of the British Association are chargeable with such 
intention we know not. For ourselves we are disposed to acquit 
that estimable body of such design. Those who think differently, 
and they are many, may point to results and instance the tone 
and character of President Tyndairs Inaugural Address. The Ad- 
dress, which we ventured in another number to designate as the 
New Koran, was certainly not such as either Science or Piety can 
applaud. It was not, as it ought to have been, a report of the 
ascertained results and actual state of physical science. It was 
rather a determined crusade upon long established and Christian 
beliefs. Had the most advanced of German or English unbe- 

• Mr. Mivart, Contemporary Evolution, October number of the Contempo- 
rary Rcvi€w\ page 773. ' ( \ 

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30 The New Koran Refuted. 

lievers been selected, in place of Mr. Tyndall, for the execution of 
a formal assault upon Theism and the nature and destiny as well 
as the liberty of the human soul, we know not how else the sup- 
posed champion could have managed his assault than as Professor 
Tyndall has done. Were such a one selected to act as a buccaneer 
or marauder in pay of some special science, charged to invade 
the domain of contiguous sciences, or even the wider domain of 
Metaphysics and Theology,* we know not in what other wise he 
could have planned and conducted his incursion than as Professor 
Tyndall has done. Breaking loose from the examples of those 
who went before him in the Presidential Chair of Science, and 
spuming the well-defined opinions of Huxley and Justice Grove, 
which we have set down at the head of this paper, Mr. Tyndall, 
from the sphere of special physics, of which he knows much, 
evolves, or rather involves, himself into the region of general 
Metaphysics, from History, of which he knows little, into Theology 
of which he knows less, from facts and the relations of facts in 
which he would be a worthy witness, into conjectures and dim 
visions of the future where he is all at sea, and all, or nearly all, in 
error. We must not omit that Mr. Tyndall (in pure deference, we 
suppose, to his friend, Thomas Carlyle, and to impersonate a pic- 
ture drawn by that frantic writer) has chosen at the end of his 
Address to turn, as it were, champion, challenging people at large 
to a future encounter, parcelling out their functions and dominions 
and limiting their line of movement! under pain of coming dis- 
aster and of his mighty displeasure. 

The iVi?/wmx which follows the footsteps o{ Audacity and Dis- 
proporiionX has not been slow to overtake Professor Tyndall. The 
Press in these countries and America has taken up the gauntlets of 
the challenger, and the marauding sciolist has at least been driven 
within his own lines. More than this indeed has been done. 
Future assaults of a similar character have been rendered more 
difficult and less to be apprehended. Even Mr. Tyndall himself 
has thought over his utterances anew, and, while we write, a mes- 
sage comes to us that that adventurous thinker at the beginning of 
a* course of lectures in Manchester has avowed his belief in a 
Supreme Intelligence, and rejected the charge of Atheism so gene- 

• Professor Tyndall has slain Theology, but only to revive — London Times^ 
Aug. The Thunderer should have said: Professor Tyndall has attempted to 
slay Theology, but has himself been slain. 

t " All religious theories, schemes and systems, which embrace notions of 
Cosmogony, must submit to the control of science, and relinquish all thoughts of 
controlnng it elsewhere," page 60, 6i. Religion is shut out by the Professor from 
** intruding on the region of knowledge, over which it holds no command," and 
relegated, like a piper's instrument, to the region of mere emotion ! — see Address, 
loc. cit. 

X We borrow the language of the Rev. C Pritchard. See his brief but 
masterly essay, read some weeks ago at Brighton, and published under the title 
Modern Science and Natural ReUgion." London : Parker and Co. 

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The New Koran ReftUed. 3 1 

rally preferrea against him. We clap hands with the good folk of 
Manchester at this announcement. We credit the declaration as 
made with entire sincerity, though the reason given for the Pro- 
fessor's happy conclusion is a characteristic and almost a comic 
one. In the minds, however, of German infidels (and possibly too 
of their admirers in England) the admission of an Intelligence 
above the human, which the Professor makes, does not imply a 
belief in One Personal God, supreme over all his works and dis- 
tinct from them. On the contrary, we fear the Professor holds on, 
notwithstanding his recent declaration, to the stupid admha- 
tion (we cannot say worship) of a certain cosmical, harmonious 
whole (to sroy) the Das Universum of the Professor's German 
oracles. Of this cumulative and aggregate Deity, the higher 
reaches — the efflorescence as it were — may, in the Professor's 
estimate, be intelligent. Venus sprang from the foam of the sea ; 
the seminal ^%% from which sentient and intelligent things came 
forth was born of chaos ; and so it may be that from patches of 
star-dust — from atoms self-polarized, self-moved — cemented by 
a divine agglutinative force, came forth, by an upward inexplicable 
motion, a certain confederated or rather cohesive intelligence, by 
which the phenomena of growth and decay, of rest, motion, and 
mechanical force, of evolution and involution, of the correlated 
action of nerve force and mind force, are possibly understood 
more clearly than they are by Mr. Darwin, Herbert Spencer, or 
even the Professor himself.* That such, or nearly such, is the 
view which Mr. Tyndall entertains simultaneousjy with his re- 
pudiation of atheism, we dare to affirm from the following 
significant facts : — 

I - That the Professor nowhere in his Address speaks of God as 
living, personal, and distinct from His works. 2. That he seems 
to identify his own creed with that of Goethe, who, he himself 
tells us, had an abhorrence of One Personal God. 3. That nearly 
all Pantheistic writers are prime favourites in Mr. TyndalFs Address. 
4. That the idea of a Personal Creator is everywhere spoken of 
with contempt and belittled with the caricature of an artificer at 
his bench, a human artificer; and, 5. That the profession of Mr. 
Tyndall of belief in ''a cosmical life, in which all things we see ' 
have their unsearchable roots," is not a sufficient expression to 
convey belief in a Personal God, and is with the foregoing facts 
an adequate, though not very clear, expression of Pantheism or 

♦ Sec the Repudiation of Atheism by Professor T)m(iall, at Manchester, 
Wednesday, October 38, in his Opening Lecture. See also the Professor's 
Address at Belfast ; in the end| where he quotes admiringly from Ooethe, and 
about the middle, where the coincidence of the President's views with those of 
Lucretius, Giordsmo Bruno, and Carlyle, is but too manifest. That Caliban of 
thought and taste, Thomas Carlyle, is, in the same address of the Professor, almost 
deified. Strange 1 but Carlyle, although a God, was not such a hater of the true 
God as the Professor would fain make him. 

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32 The New Koran Refuted. 

belief in the mass, the aggregate, the whole of ihingSy as at once 
both the manifestation and the essence of the Deity. 

Pascal, in his Provincial Letters, somewhere introduces as 
defenders of an opponent's opinion a host of authorities — men of 
strange, unseemly views indeed, but whose names were still more 
strange. The attentive hearer asks in astonishment — What? 
and were all these Christians ! ! We should be tempted as we 
run over the list of Mr. TyndalFs favourite (German) Pantheists, 
to raise our eyes in astonishment and ask, were those who owned 
such opinions and such names. Men — Spinosa, Schleiermacher, 
Fichte, Hegel, Biichner, Haeckel, and the rest ?• The last evolu- 
tion of logic in the hands of these men{?) is the formula — "Das 
Nichts rst das Seyn,"* — Non-Being is Being, Nothing is the equi- 
valent of existence. Such a school debars itself from a hearing 
at the tribunal of human reason. If Mr. Tyndall has evolved him- 
self during his residence beyond the Rhine into a disciple of that 
school we do not envy him his "organism" or his "environ- 

We have been at some pains to learn two things touching 
Pantheism. First, its logical origin ; second, the mental concep- 
tion, the Vorstellung (as Tyndall would say) which it involves. 
The only clue to the former is to be found, we think, in the gra- 
tuitous and altogether erroneous idea which has arisen in some 
minds ihdX personality in God implies limitation, imperfection and 
(bless the mark!) anthropomorphism of a certain kind. This conse- 
quence is assumed at every page by the author of " Supernatural 
Religion." He prefers therefore an impersonal, diffusive Deity, 
hidden somehow in the interstices of things and pervading the 
cosmosf or universe. Mr. Tyndall seems fascinated by the 
fiction, and, in his far-famed lecture. Personality and Anthropo- 
morphism are equivalent ideas, whether as applied to pagans, 
Christians, or to theists at large. The assumed equivalency of the 
two ideas is simply monstrous ; and, speaking of the German and 
Pantheistic school, the confusion of such distinct and distant 
things ought to be known henceforth as the Opprobrium Philoso- 
phorum. As regards the Pantheistic school of England, the Bamp- 
ton lecturer. Dean Mansel, is in part responsible for that blunder. 
The able work of John Young, LL.D., Edinburgh, entitled 
" Province of Reason " has exposed with singular success the 
many errors of Mansel. One however has escaped the keen vision 

• Hegel, Encycloptdiey Die Lehre vott Seyn Seite^ loo, Heidelberg, 1827. 
Fechner, Hartman and Strauss, cany the absurdity still further. 

f Our Infidel Scientists take much pleasure in the use of the words cosmos, 
cosmic, cosmical, &c. The ordmary reader may be informed that cosmos is a Greek 
•word signifying a beautiful and symmetrical thing. The world was supposed 
such. The fine observation of St. Athanasius, viz., that the world would not be 
aieocr^oc bVit an ay^ofsyna (not an ordered but a disordered thing). If there were 
no God to design it, it should be borne innnind by Scientists. 

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The New Koran Refuted. 33 

of Mr. Young, and the bird of prey has pounced upon it. We 
allude to the statement of Dean Mansel that " personality (in God) 
we conceive of as necessarily a limitation."* This false and fatal 
admission is due, we must say, to the ignorance, or incomplete theo- 
logical training of Mr. Mansel. Resting, however, upon this, the 
author of " Supernatural Religion " proceeds to urge that such 
inadequate and anthropo-morphic (sic) modes of representing God 
to ourselves should be abandoned, and replaced by other modes 
(Pantheistic), *' neither contrary to our highest moral sense nor 
contradictory to the teaching of the universe and its laws." The 
error of Dean Mansel is seized upon as the teaching of all theists. 
In the false light supplied by ManseFs error a Christian truth is 
set down by an acute sophist as anthropomorphism, and the note 
once sounded is echoed, re-echoed, and prolonged in the lectures 
or rhapsodies of our cosmic prophets — such as Herbert Spencer 
and Mr. Tyndall. 

Now, personality in the Infinite Intelligence does not imply 
imperfection. Dean Mansel here, as in countless other instances, 
is gravely at fault. No Christian theologian has ever, before 
Mansel, defended such an error. The scholastic theologians with 
one accord reject such an error. They maintain the true dogma, 
which is contradictory to the Dean's assertion. Gabriel VaSquez, 
for example, has the following thesis : ** Personality is a mode deter- 
mining an existing thing in such wise that that thing be personal, 
not that it be finite r — Disp, 25, «. 5.! In the context text to which 
the thesis refers we read thus : — *' For personality in itself is 
only a certain mode, which, although it define and terminate the 
object so that it be a person incommunicable to aught beside, yet 
does not as it were receive that object into itself and so limit or 
terminate it in the nature of substance y as to render it finite of essence f 
unless finiteness belong to the object itself for some other reason^ 

Dean Mansel probably never read Vasquezf or any of the 
commentators on St. Thomas of Aquin. The author of " Super- 
natural Religion " never opened St. Thomas or his commenta- 
tors, and never dreamed that in Christian matters there existed 

♦See Bampton Lectures for 1858 — Limits of Religious Thought. Lect. ni., 
pp. 59, 60, 6r, 5th edition. 

t Vasquez, vol. L, p. 129. Antwerp, 162 1. 

X Vasquez is not the only Catholic divine who states, in express terms, the 
opposite to what Dean Mansel blimderingly affirms, to wit, that *' Personality (in 
God) implies limitation." Suarez is as explicit as Vasquez. His words are, 
" The inhniteness (of God) is not an infinite of a multitude, but an Infinite inten- 
sive of being (perfection;, and for this reason such infinity does not exclude the 
possibility of other entities distinct from God — distinct, I say, by this, that He 
is Infinite — they finite. He, Self-existent and Underived — they derived and 
dependent It is otherwise as regards an Infinite of quantity,^'' See the entire 
first chapter. " De Deo uno et Trino," Lib. i. c. i. In fact that Personality 
neither is nor can be conceived as a limitation or abridgment of perfection in 
God is, whatever Dean Mansel says to the contrary, a simple, universally 
affirmed Christian truth. 

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34 The New Koran Refuted, 

a higher authority than Dean Mansel. Hence the Iharge, so 
exuitingly made (page 74, "Supernatural Religion,") of inade- 
quate and degrading conceptions of the Deity, of anthropomorphism, 
in Christian minds. Hence cosmical and pantheistical instead of 
supercosmic and personal Godhead is the Ultima Thule — the land of 
darkness and contradiction to which the author of ** Supernatural 
Religion " is driven, and to which Professor Tyndall is resolved to 
follow him. We do not here discuss a possible metaphysical ques- 
tion whether personality does or does not necessarily limit its posses- 
sor in point of perfection. If any of our pantheists maintains that it 
does, we are ready to join issue with him. What we complain of 
is that Christians, in the face of existing facts, are charged with 
conceiving Deity as limited and imperfect in consequence of its per- 
sonal character, and that upon this assuredly false charge is founded 
a rejection of the living God and a Deification, not of some crea- 
tures, which is Polytheism, but of all creatures (which is Pan- 
theism) : of all creatures, we say, from the Ovum of Chaos to 
Kant,* Helmholtz and Carlyle. 

Among the Presbyterians of the North there still exists what 
was once known as the Stool of Repentance. At the present day 
it is sometimes, though rarely, used. Should the British Associ- 
ation of Science again assemble at Belfast, we would suggest that 
the time-honoured stool of penance be brought forth and the late 
President of the Association placed thereon. Dean Mansel at his 
right hand, and the author of " Supernatural Religion " at his left, 
while Atheists and Pantheists, Cosmists and Comtists, Epicureans 
and Spinosists be requested to perform around the penitents that 
primeval atom-dance out of which from nothing came ordered 
things, and blind, unintelligent force, self-driven through ages, 
gave forth Professor Tyndall and his cosmic celebrities as its latest 

The logical analysis of pantheism reduces that monstrosity to 
a worship or deification of to irav^ the whole, — all that presents 
itself to our senses, and, by an additive process of our memory and 
understanding^ is strung together and symbolized (for it cannot be 
conceived) as the Universe of Things — Das Universum, This 
universum — ^this to vav — is susceptible (logically speaking) of 
every predicate you choose. It is one, it is many, it is good, it is 
bad, it is great, it is small, it is homogeneous, it is heterogeneous, 
it is divided into parts, it is fused into one, it is ever evolving 
itself into forms, and ever destroying or rather devouring these 

• We mean no disrespect to the memory of Immanuel Kant. That great 
thinker is not fairly expounded by Professor Tj-ndall. The philosopher of 
Koenigsberg, it is true, thought that the existence of 'God could not, in his system 
of formal Logic, be proved by strict demonstration of syllogism ; but he placed 
that truth on 9 ground which he chose to consider of higher certainty, [viz., as 
a postulate of the practical reason of Man. Tyndall, in hb allusion to Clerk 
Maxwell's Lecture at Bradford, forgets this fact. 

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The New Koran Refuted. 35 

forms ; it is life, it is death, it is littleness and meanness in 
the worm, it is power and mightiness in the mountain ; you 
may worship it if you will with Wordsworth and Goethe ; you 
may contemn and curse it with Mill. With no sympathy for you 
and your yearnings the pantheistic deity exists but to puzzle, to 
mock and to be silent ; and mind (if mind there be) reaches its 
highest level in that strange escaped lemur which we call Man, 
and who is, at best (in the system of pantheism) not more than 
what the poetical misanthrope styles him* 

"A chfld of doubt and death, whose hope is built on reeds." 

In sharp contrast with this wretched, untheological view 
of Deity stands the fundamental belief in One, Intelligent and 
Personal God, Maker of Heaven and Earth and of all that 
exists, — a belief common to Patriarchs, Jews, and Christians, and 
as we deem, to all that think aright. The Christian contemplates 
and admins the to iroi/, the limitless multitude of things ; he adores 
the TO evf, the Infinite One which is above it, and which is its 
Cause, The homage of the Christian is not given to greatness of 
multitude or quantity, but to Infinite Intensity (or Perfection) of 
Being. In this line (and it is the only true line) of infinitude, God 
stands alone. He is necessary, self-existent, and eternal. He is 
intelligent, for intelligences exist among created things, and as no 
effect transcends the virtue of its cause, the Creator or First Cause 
of those intelligences must himself be Intelligent. He is One, 
for Multiplicity in the nature of Supreme, Eternal, Underived 
Being cannot be proved, nor assumed. Logical economy is against 
such a supposition : and if made it is found at once to convey im- 
perfection and even contradiction. That Being is Personal ; for 
were It impersonal, neither Oneness nor Intelligence could be 
affirmed of It ; Simplicity and Perfection could not be Its attri- 
butes. Life itself could not be its characteristic. Moreover, 
in the line of intensive perfection of being, the highest thing 
which experience reveals to us is the intelligent ego^ which, when 
spoken of, we designate as person. Removing therefore every 
idea of the imperfect as found in human, or imaginable in limited, 
personalities, we apply (for by so doing we guard the proper 
thought) the word person to the Supreme Being. As, therefore, we 
apply the word being to God, though no other being is like 
to Him, so, with just reason, we ascribe personality to God, 
though no other person is like to Him, The charge of anthro- 
pomorphism against us (as derived from our idea of Divine 
personality) is the last possible extreme of logical injustice. 
Because being is predicated of God, do we ascribe to him 


t TO iV, ro ov and ra-^a^ov Ens^ Unum, and Bonum transcend all categ>rie3, 
and are, as Metaphysicians know, convertible with one another — in fact, different 
names for the same transcendental thing. 

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36 The New Koran Refuted. 

the limitedness and imperfection of experimental beings, as of a 
stone, an animal, a monkey ? Because personality is affirmed of 
the Deity we are by Professor Tyndall adjudged to ascribe to the 
Deity the limitedness, the affections, the very shape and figure of a 
human person ! The definition of a person or personality, given 
by Boethius as far back as the 5th century, was suppositum individuum 
rationdlis naturcB. It is that still adopted. It embraces the ideas 
of substance, unity y intelligence. No other idea is to be imported into 
the significance of the term, person, and the ** unworthy concep- 
tions," the "limitations" and " imperfections," if any, associated 
with it, are the spontaneous gift of the pantheist — the outgrowth 
of ignorance and unbelief. 

If Professor Tyndall allows his Organism to be permeated with 
these salutary notions touching Personality ; and if, still farther, 
he eliminates from the same organism, the gross delusions and 
nebulous conceptions of German Pantheism, we shall have no 
difficulty to accept his IVIanchester declaration as equal to a pro- 
fession of belief in One God. We shall rejoice at the consummation. 
We shall hail it in some sense as " The Truce 0/ God'* We shall 
faithfully observe it, and trouble the Professor no more with 
dissertations on the nature and mode of subsistence of the Supreme 
Ineffable Being. 

In consequence of recent occurrences,* we omit here the proofs 
furnished by Natural Reason for the Existence and attributes of a 
Personal God, as well as those which evince Design in His works. 
We come to the second and third of the three great negations, 
which distinguish the English Infidel School, of which Professor 
Tyndall has made himself the exponent and the oracle. These 
negations are, as Mr. IVIivart expresses it, the negation of the 
soul, and of human liberty and duty. * As to the first. Professor 
Tyndall will concede to the human soul at least as much nobleness 
of nature as he claims for his unseen atoms. He will allow that 
the soul may, as an existing thing, be undecomposable, indestruc- 
tible by any cosmic force. In this case, if the soul is to perish, it 

* We allude, of course, to the well-known avowal of Professor Tyndall, at 
Manchester, Oct. 28. The Irish Times reports as follows: — "Professor Tyndall 
inaugurated a series of popular scientific lectures in the Free Trade Hall, Man- 
chester, last night. The. subject which he selected was that of molecular forces. 
In the courSfe of his lecture the Professor said that the revelations of science 
should rather increase than diminish our wonder at the phenomena of nature. * I 
have often asked myself,' he continued, * whether there was no being or thing in 
the universe which knew more about its mjrsteries than I do.* No man capable of 
profound thought would, in the lecturer's opinion, answer that question, by profess- 
ing the creed of Atheism, which had been so lightly attributed to himseli. These 
words were cheered again and again, and the Professor was obliged to suspend 
his discourse for several minutes to allow the enthusiasm of the audience to sub- 
side." The reader, anxious for the arguments here omitted, may consult the 
recent pamphlets of Martineau ^d Pritchard. 

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The New Koran Refuted. 37 

can perish by only annihilation. ♦ Nature, as far as we can witness 
her procedure, gives no example of simple annihilations, and this, 
in Professor Tyndall's system, would seem to suflSce for the proof 
of the soul's unending being. We, however, require sterner proof 
for our thesis. That substance will perish, even if it be by annihi- 
lation, which God has willed to perish. Have we any indications 
of God's will as to the future of the soul of man ? We have ; and 
here it is to be noted, that what is called by an able American 
writer, " the madness of method " of the Infidel and Pantheistic 
School, is not to be suffered in the question we now approach. 
Neither the microscope nor the micrometer is a fitting instrument, 
nor the eye of the physicist a fitting organ, to survey the ** promise 
land potency " of the human soul. The inspection of its character 
and destiny belongs to the whole man, the intellectual and moral 
man of high synthetic grasp, rather than to the mere optician and 
the decomposing analyst of matter. 

The immortality of the human soul, then, may be proved, not 
only from the general belief of the doctrine in all ages, but from 
the equally extensive prevalence of a dread of annihilation.- The 
mind of man revolts at the idea of ceasing for ever to exist. 
Existence, even the depths of misery, is less dreadful to the mind 
than the thought of eternal non-existeAce. Addison and others 
supplement this argument by a reference to the capability of the 
human mind to advance progressively in knowledge, without reach- 
ing perfection in this world. The brute creation arrives at limits, 
beyond which it cannot pass. No such limits are imposed upon 
the human being. He goes indefinitely onward, from one degree 
to another of attainment, investigating with increasing anxiety 
every department of inquiry in the realms of both mind and matter. 
Can we suppose that the soul thus endowed with an insatiable 
thirst t for knowledge, which it incessantly seeks to gratify, without 

» This statement seems for its validity to postulate the simple, inextended 
and spiritual nature of the human soul. In reality, it does not do so ; as, in the 
supposition of Leibnitz's monads, the immortality of the soul of man might still 
be maintained. The soul of man, however, is, as all its operations attest, in- 
extended and immaterial. Thought is n6 outgrowth of material particles or 
material movements. Even in the lowest organisms, no authenticated instance of 
life emerging from aught but antecedent Life, had ever been found. Tyndall him- 
sdf admits the f;%ct ; and, declaring Bishop Butler's reasoning unanswerable, he 
calls for a new definition of matter — seeks but finds not an Archimedean fulcrum for 
his hj-pothesis — and lastly, in order to destroy in matter the potency and promise 
of terrestrial Life and thought, he is forced to transcend the bounds of experi- 
ment, to prolong his vision beyond its horizon, and to cease, in so doing, to oe a 
physicist or a plulosopher. 

t "We possess powers and capacities," says Pritchard (Mod, Science and 
Ret. p. 9), •* immeasurably beyond the necessities of any merely transitory life. 
There stir within us yearnings irrepressible, longings unutterable, a curiosity un- 
satisfied and insatiable by aught we see. These appetites .... are the 
indications of something akin to something immeasurably beyond us ; tokens of 
something attainable, yet not hitherto attained : signs of a potential fellowship 
with spirits nobler ana more glorious than our own : they are the title-deeds of 
our presumptive heirship to some brighter world than any that has yet beep 
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38 The New Koran Refuted. 

ever being sated, will, after the lapse of a few years, be arrested in 
its onward course, and plunged into eternal non-existence?^ An 
argument for the immortality of the soul may also be derived from 
a contemplation of the attributes of God. He is the Creator and 
moral Governor of the world. He has endowed man with earnest 
longings after immortality. It cannot be that He designs to mock 
us by rendering these desires fruitless. Were such the case, the 
condition of man, prime though he be among living things, would 
be more pitiable and inexplicable than that of the brutes which 
obey him. Animals possess, as far as we know, neither aptitudes 
for, nor desires of, a future. God has endued them with no capacity 
for survival after death. Bishop Butler's admission on this point 
is neither in accordance with general feeling nor with philosophic 
reasons. If the belluine vital principle survived after death, it 
would be undue, objectless, inane, superfluous. It is otherwise 
with man. The veracity and justice of the Creator would forget 
themselves, if there were in store for man a destination such that 
he could not be completely happy except by ignorance or disbelief 
of it. ' Let us suppose, then, that the soul were perishable, and that 
a belief in the mortality of the thinking principle in man — that is, 
man's proper self^ were fully established. The following con- 
sequences would, in practical life, be unavoidably derived from 
this belief: 

1. That, as no distinction is placed by the Author of Nature 
between vice and virtue (one being often the means of felicity, 
the other of sorrow, in this life), the distinction between them is 
null, or God is unjust, both of which are incredible and absurd. 

2. That, in any case, when the interest of Society requires 
great inconvenience or even suffering of some individual member — 
let us say his death— there can be no full obligation to undergo 
such inconvenience. 

3. That suicide, to avoid suffering, is just and prudent; and 
that, as the sufferings of this life (were it considered our only sphere 
of being) are more than its enjoyments, the destruction of them- 
selves by the whole human race would be an heroic act, and a 
consummation much to be desired. 

4. That, in proportion as the nations of the earth advanced 
towards greater civilization, ^ false doctrine^ on the most important 
of all points of personal interest to each, became more firmly estab- 
lished — more clearly defined, and further and further removed from 
objective truth. 

5. That several of the noblest faculties and instincts of the 
human soul are anomalous in Creation and even deceptive — as, for 
instance, our horror of non-existence. 

Now, if such is the uniformity with which the capacities and 
aptitudes of each living thing are adjusted to, and foreshow its 
coming stage of existence, its future theatre of action, as in the 
bee, the beaver, the ant, &c., is it right to break the analogy when 

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The New Koran Refuted. 39 

we come to the hamati soul, and to conceive that its natural 
characters, its hopes, fears, faculties, and aspirations, are mere 
deceptions, and furnish no guarantee for the realisation of what 
thej promise ? • 

There is no adequate rewarding of viritu and justice in this 
life ; vice often passes unpunished and triumphant. If there is no 
future state to distribute to virtue its reward, and to vice its punish- 
ment, whj has the Author of Nature made us responsible beings ? 
Why has He given us a Conscience, an outlook to futurity, and 
a longing for it? Why has He bestowed upon us a capacity which 
enables us to converse with infinities of Time, Space, and Reality 
of Perfection, as with familiar and not estranged things ; and if we 
are, in truth, the ministers and interpreters of Nature, why should 
the monster delusion — the promise to the ear and breach unto 
the heart — be reserved foi* man alone among Nature's works ? 

From these and many other reasons we are forced to the con- 
clusion — highly probable, say ** or rather " absolutely cogent — that 
the soul of man will subsist in a future world. 

«« And live 

. Unhurt amidst the war of elements; 

The wreck of matter and the crush of worlds." 

The intimations of Reason, it is needless to say, are confirmed 
by the assurances of Christian Faith. 

The New Koran, through which Mr. Tyndall endeavours to 
contradict these truths, derives no recommendation from the fact 
that its chief prophet eschews a contemplation of the ethical con- 
sequences deducible from his system. These consequences have 
been eloquently set forth in the October number of this periodical,* 
and later still by the prelates of the Irish Church, in their joint 
pastoral of October 31. The prelates observe — 

** If man be but a conscious automaton — a machine constructed of organized 
matter — if the soul be but a function of the nervous system — the act of volition 
must be governed by laws similar to those which govern the other phenomena of 
matter. Hence it follows that the will must obey the irresistible impulse of these 
laws, and the attribute of liberty belongs to man's will no more than to the 
hurricane which ravages the tropics, or to the earthquake which engulfs cities. 

" And if man's will be not free, then moral responsibility ceases to exist, and 
the legislation which, by Divine or human authority, metes out to criminals 
punbhment for their offences, is nothing but a colossal injustice. Vice and virtue 
are but equal expressions of the same mechanical force ; there can be no sin, as 
there can be no holiness. It is not possible to read without a shudder of disgust 
the statement boldly enunciated a few weeks ago, tliat the human understanding, 
the passion of sensual love, and the religious feeling in man, are all equally results 
of tne play between organism and environment through countless ages of the 

The truths we have hitherto stated may be termed the natural gas- 
/^/of mankind. Science, in its latest disclosures, saith not the contrary 
to them ; Philosophy, the mother of the sciences, confirms them ; hu- 

* Irish Monthly, Oct. Art^ Professor Tyndall at Belfast. 

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40 The New Koran Refuted. 

man society rests upon them ; and religion lends them her sanction. 
It is amusing — absolutely amusing, notwithstanding the gravity of the 
issue — to mark the vague and uncertain character of the forces which 
the New Koran opposes to these truths, " He is not the best shoe- 
maker who makes the best shoes, but who makes the best shoes 
with the materials at his disposal."* On this principle we may 
award to Professor Tyndall a full claim to the celebrity he enjoys. 
Remarkable, indeed, is the slendemess of the materials with which 
he operates. Atoms, evolution, organism and environment, asso- 
ciated experiences, indestructibility of force, continuity of nature — 
these are the materials (should we not rather say the names }) with 
which Mr. Tyndall proposes to displace the old world and to con- 
struct a new. No fulcrum, Archimedean or other, is demanded. 
A few- worthies, unkennelled from their base environment in ancient 
or modern days, are, like Samson*s foxes, strung together by the 
tails and let loose by the prophet against, as he deems them, an 
unscientific generation. Lucretius of old, Giordano Bruno of the 
middle ages, and Mr. Herbert Spencer of recent days, are promi- 
nent in the crowd. Were all these, both men and forces, willing 
to do battle at the command of Professor Tyndall, they would 
avail little to achieve the intended object. As matters are, the 
names and forces relied on are either at one with the philosophy 
of mankind as hitherto accepted, or their opposition to it is 
but conjectural, uncertain and unestablished. The atoms, for 
example, are neither verified to us by experiment nor made clear 
by necessary reasoning. What are they ? Is matter divisible ad 
infinitum^ or is it not ? If not, the continuity of nature is rudely 
broken, and divisibility and compressibility, which run down 
through all material existences, stop short when you come to the 
unseen things called atoms. Is their supposed infinite hardness a 
contingent or a necessary quality } Is it not possible for infinite 
power to break one of those so-called minims or atoms ? Are they 
each of a triple dimension with an under surface, an upper surface, 
and ends and sides } Do they possess polarity, attraction, repulsion, 
and innate or essential motion ? Do they coincide with the points 
of Boscovich, or with the monajds of Leibnitz.? Does not the 
Daltonian law of chemical equivalents or combining proportions 
extend to the larger as to the smaller and ultimate particles of 
** matter }" Was it not for the purpose of keeping clear of such 
assumptions as we now indulge in, that Wallaston and Davy rightly 
rejected the name "atomic theory" (for the law of combining 
proportions of matter) and proposed the more definite and truth- 
ful name of "chemical equivalents," pr *' multiple proportions ?" 
Were not the great discoverers of these laws — Dalton, Wollas- 
ton, Davy, as well as their latest exponents. Maxwell and Andrews, 
devout believers in the spiritual subsistence of God and of the 

• Aristotle. 

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. The New Koran Refuted. 4 1 

human soul ? Does not the following statement from a popular 
book of science* express nearly all that we know for certain on 
the subject of atoms ? — ** Every body is supposed to consist of 
atoms of unknown size, form, and weight, which being supposed 
infinitely hard cannot be further subdivided. . . . No atom 
has ever been seen, even by the most powerful microscopes, al-. 
though particles of bodies less than 300,000 of an inch in diameter 
have been seen by their aid. The forms of atoms are, therefore, 
unknown,** With elements, invisible^ unknozvn, and supposed^ 
such as atoms are, any skilful conjurer, even the author of the 
" New Koran," can play just wHat tricks he pleases. Before 
ousting the authority of ages, however, in behalf of such tricks, 
we must have some greater authority on this point than Demo- 
critusorTyndall. We must ask such men as Newton, or Leibhitz, 
or Boscovich, or DaltOn, or, last of all, the Herschells or the Max- 
wells. The Professor cannot be ignorant what answers, as to the 
relation of atoms to an intelligent cause, these men have left on 

Evolution, whether organic with Mr. Darwin, or mental and 
psychological with Herbert Spencer, is another of those ventures- 
to which prophets and men of ** advanced thought," aspiring to a 
certain fame are not unaccustomed. Of Mr. Darwin's theory, 
though worked out by the author with great care and reverence,! 
Spencer somewhere admits that it is at present, and probably will 
"for ever remain, a mere hypothesis ;" while of Ernest Haeckel's 
Anthropogeny or Development of i\Ian (Leipzig, 1 874), the most 
recent criticism is to the following effect: — ** He does not consider 
that the graduation of forms is equally explicable on the hypothesis 
of an external agency working according to a preconceived plan, 
or of a plastic force immanent in all existence, and that if these, 
as must be conceded, are but precarious inferences from imper- 
fectly understood phenomena, the capacity of anything to meta- 
morphose itself into another thing is, until the transition has been 
actually observed, just such another questionable corollary. He 
would probably contend that Mr. Darwin's generalization has 
placed the matter on a different footing; but it is the misfortune 
of his book that he is compelled to refer habitually to the Dar- 
winian theory as an established truth, without having space, or, 
as we suspect, inclination, to combat the numerous scruples which 
must present themselves to those who are even slightly acquainted 
with the literature of the subject." J 

Of the two principal works of Mr. Herbert Spencer ('* New 
Philosophy " and " Psychology") the criticisms that reach us from 

* Becton's Dictionary of Sciences— ^rf. Atomic Weights. 

t Darwin everywhere speaks of the Creator with great reverence, and leaves 
it uncertain whether one or more typicd forms were placed on earth by Him 
originally. His system will be reviewed at a later date. 

X Saturday Keview, Nov. 1 87 4. 

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42 The New Koran Refuted. 

both sides of the Atlantic* are such as we care not to reproduce ; 
but no criticisms are needed to refute him who holds that insepa- 
rable associations in the ascidian or simian ancestor of man issue (after 
countless transmissions, but with perfect validity) in the human 
descendant as the logical law of identity or necessary inference. If 
this is Psychology, then logic is at an end, and human thought 
bids adieu to the world. The apotheosis of Mr. H. Spencer and 
his speculations occupies and disfigures pages 59 and 60 of Mr. 
Tyndall's Address. Of the " Correlation of Forces," introduced 
to save appearance by Mr. Tyndall, we would speak more re- 
spectftilly. The writer who first unfolded that theory is now 
judge in an English court. He has within the last few days 
republished- his book above-mentioned. Our third motto is 
from the preface to that book, and if the Professor adopts it in 
theory and pursues it in practice, there will be an end, as far as 
we are concerned, of all antagonism between Science and Religion. 
No section of mankind has done more to promote the study of the very 
branch ofphilosophy that delights Mr. Tyndall most — we mean Mo- 
lecular Physics — than the Church has done. Gassendi, Descartes, 
Boscovich,t Bayma, and others, are ample evidence of this truth. 
When scientists, however, or rather specialists, forget the advice of 
Justice Grove, transcend the regionof facts and relation of facts, in- 
vade the dominion ofphilosophy (the mother of the sciences) and of 
the still higher dominion of theology, disestablishing and destroying 
the most sacred heritages of both, it is time in the interest of those 
great inheritances, of truth, and of this great universe at large, to 
challenge the invaders and ask under what warrant they proceed. 
We have so done, as time and circumstances have allowed us, 
with the author of the ** New Koran." A thousand voices more 
potent than ours, have done the same. The Prophet has lowered 
his tone ; he has recanted or explained. Something more remains 
to be done. Pantheism is distinctly to be renounced. The dig- 
nity and destiny of the human soul are to be acknowledged. The 
essential and ineffaceable characters of vice and virtue are to be 
proclaimed. A few books of Christian philosophy and theology 
may be admitted, besides those of Bishop Butler, into the Pro- 
fessor's library. Thomas Carlyle and Herbert Spencer are not to 
be adored; nor is the great belluine or materialistic school of 
Germany to be abjectly followed. Should Professor T)mdall accept 
these suggestions, there is much to be expected from his fearless 
- devotion to truth, from his admittedly high powers, both of research 

* See the Catholic World, New York, Feb. 1872, Art. Cosmi. Philos. and 
Dublin RevieWy Oct, 1874, Art. Herbert Spencer's Psychology. 

t Father Boscovich has obtained a world-wide fame for what is known as 
Boscovich's theory. Father Bayma, in his ** Molecular Physics," publislied in 
England, a few years since, has brought to this subject an amount of speculative 
insight as well as high mathematical skill, which must command admiration. 
These last -mentioned writers were both of the Society of Jesus. 

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The New Koran Refuted. 43 

and elucidation and his intimate acquaintance with the many sci- 
ences to which years of study and observation have introduced him. 
Should our suggestion be neglected, and the Professor continue, 
as hitherto, his abject idolatry of Lucretius, Herbert Spencer, and 
the specialists of Germany, we shall say, that we regret the fact, 
but fear not the result " There is no need," says the eloquent 
Professor of Astronomy at Oxford, " to be frightened at the phan- 
toms raised by such terms as matter, and force, and molecules, 
and protoplasmic energy, and rhythmic vibrations of the brain ; or 
in that which denies all evidence of design in nature, or in that 
which assimilates the motives which induce a parent to support 
his offspring, to the pleasures derived from wine and music, or in 
that which asserts the unknowableness of the Supreme and the 
vanity of prayer. Philosophies which involve such results can 
have no permanent grasp on human nature ; they are in them- 
selves suicidal, and in their turn, and after their day, will, like 
other such philosophies, be refuted or denied by the next comer, 
and are doomed to accomplish the happy despatch." Opinionum 
comnunta delet dies, naturcB judicia confirmai, said the Roman philo- 
sopher.* The conjectures, prophecies, prolonged visions, and 
shadowy generalieations of Professor Tyndall — which we have 
ventured to style the New Koran — will vanish with other such 
systems into the " infinite azure of the past," while the belief of a 
Living, Personal Creator and of Man's Immortal Destiny shall, like 
the molecules described by Professor Maxwell, remain as the 
*' foundations of the universe," unbroken and unworn. 

* The Church is in many places taunted by Professor Tyndall with its slow- 
ness in adopting new theones and adapting itself, as he says, to new "environ- 
ments " of thought. Were the charge to the effect that the Christian Church 
persistently rejects ascertained facts and established laws of the human mind as 
applied to such facts, it is met simply and sufficiently by a denial. If the new 
theory is simply on its trial, and especially if it seems to jar with well-established 
maxims of reason and experience, surely mankind in such case can afford to wait 
a little before giving full adhesion to the novel ideas. Justice Grove rejoiced that 
his views on the ** Correlation of Physical forces '* met, for a long time, with 
" the opposition usual and," as he says, " proper to novel ideas." The frequent 
adoption of a different course would involve, he observes, " an anarchy of thought 
— a perpetuity of mental revolutions." The advice — 

The friends thou hast and their adoption tried. 
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel, 
Bat do not dull thy palm with entertainment 
Of each new-hatcn*d — unfledged comrade — 
is as applicable to systems and theories, as it is to friends, and the great Bard 
bot utters, in the person of Polonius, the wise maxims which have ever guided the 
Christian Church. 

M. O'F. 

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THE silver mists break o*er the far hills away ; 
The sunbeams of Autumn shine down clear and cold ; 
The dark bent droops sad by the lone moor to-day, 
Where the grey plover's notes are plaintively told. 
The faded leaves seek in the cold earth a grave, 

Where the sweet-briar hangeth, robed in deep red, 
The plumes of the alder in rich' sables wave 

Where November winds mourn for the bright Summer dead. 

The tassels of clover the tired reaper slays ; 

The hazel-tree bends with its full pendants brown. 
The bloom lingers still where the wild woo'dbine stays, 

From its fair sister-flowers, a-buried far down. 
The white snow will come yet — the pure and white snow—* 

To nurture the petals asleep in the ground. 
And Spring- days will dawn, and the Spring breezes blow. 

And fresh things and lovely will start up around. 

The Autumn awakens a dream in the heart, 

When November winds mourn for the blooni on the lea ; 
From time and from distance a sad dream will start — 

The sound of a parting, the sob of the sea. 
Like passionate echoes that Song wrings from pain. 

The memories that cry from that day by the shore. 
Where brave ships awaited the will of the main. 

And one sailed to East, to return never more. 

Oh ! if for an absence our hearts only bled, 

The clasp of a hand that was tender and true, 
The tone of a voice, and the kind words it said, 

The sound of a footstep our ears full well knew. 
Though absence is grief, and the dead have our tears, 

Yet life flows smooth on 'neath a yet keener pain ; 
Alas ! for the hope that dropped out from the years, 

Alas 1 for the shadows that ever remain. 

Oh 1 the strength of the billows, the beauty and pride ! 

When waves broke in sorrow, as seemed they that day. 
For brave ships departing to purple seas wide. 

Where angry white mountains gaped hungry away. 
Oh ! the fall of the leaf- time, far off from the shore, 

The hope that for ever died out by the sea, 
The shadows that stay to depart now no more. 

When November winds mourn for the bloom on the lea. 

, . M. ,My. R. 

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( 45 ) 



X. The Clergy and the Law of Elections. 

I HAVE said that ordinarily there is no difficulty thrown in the way 
of the clergy as to their instructions concerning moral obligations. 
The chief exception I am aware of, so far as public teaching, is with 
regard to the duties of voters at Parliamentary elections. British law 
is very jealous of clerical influence in this department. I will, for 
the moment, adopt, as an exposition of the law, a passage in the 
judgment delivered at the conclusion of the trial of the Longford 
Election Petition in 1 870. This passage conveys the view taken of 
the Law by an eminent judge, whose words carry with them great 
weight. He may, no doubt, be mistaken as to the legal doctrine 
on the subject, and what he says is to be looked on rather as a 
dictum than as even an attempt to fix the rule of law, so far even as 
it could be fixed by one election judge. Still he is a most respect- 
able authority, and appears to have spoken deliberately and with 
reflection. He has spoken clearly, definitely, and unambiguously, 
with one exception, which I intend dwelling on a little hereafter. 

The words of Mr. Justice Fitzgerald are as follows (pp. xiv., xv. of 
Report)—" Considering this question of undue influence, or rather 
what I call here undue clerical influence, because all the allegations 
of the petitioners point to undue priestly influence, it is not my 
intention in any way to detract from the proper influence which a 
clergyman has, or by a single word to lessen its legitimate exercise. 
We cannot forget its wholesome operation, and how often, even 
recently, it has been the great bulwark of the community against 
insurrection and fruitless attempts at revolution. The Catholic 
priest has, and he ought to have, great influence. His position, 
his sacred character, his superior education, and the identity of 
his interests with his flock, ensure it to him, and that influence 
receives ten-fold force from the conviction of his people that it 
is generally exercised for their benefit. In the proper exercise of 
that influence on electors, the priest may counsel, advise, recom- 
mend, entreat, and point out the true line of moral duty, and 
explain why one candidate should be preferred to another; and 
may, if he thinks fit, throw the whole weight of his character into 
the scale ; but he may not appeal to the fears, or terrors, or super- 
stition of those he addresses. He must not hold out hopes of 
reward here or hereafter, and he must not use threats of temporal 
injury or of disadvantage, or of punishment hereafter. He must not, 
for instance, threaten to excommunicate or to withhold the sacra- 
ments, or to expose the party to any other religious disability, or 

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46 The Relations of the Church to Society. . 

denounce the voting for any particular candidate as a sin, or as an 
offence involving punishment here or hereafter. If he does so with 
a view to influence a voter, or to affect an election, the law considers 
him guilty of undue influence. As priestly influence is so great, we 
must regard its exercise with extreme jealousy, and seek, by the 
utmost vigilance, to keep it within due and proper bounds." So 
far the learned judge. 

Before discussing the doctrine laid down in these few sen- 
tences, I will take the liberty of expressing some views of my own 
concerning the action of the clergy with regard to elections, views 
that are quite irrespective of the law of the land, but in no degree 
at variance with it. I think that political subjects, elections in- 
cluded, ought to be seldom and sparingly treated of in discourses 
from the altar or pulpit — in fact, only so far as is more or less 
necessary. When a priest does find it his duty to introduce them, 
he should remember not only his own sacred character, which he 
carries with him everywhere, but also the holiness of the place 
where he stands and of the function he is performing as a preacher 
of God's word. Hence, his language ought to be circumspect, 
dignified, temperate, free from exaggeration. It ought to be such, 
too, as would bear to be reported and printed without discredit to 
himself or scandal to others. I am not alluding now to any rheto- 
rical excellence, but to the perfect propriety of the expressions 
used. A great deal of what I have just written is applicable to 
other utterances of priests, as, for instance, in their speeches at 
public meetings — indeed to all their utterances. No doubt, greater 
latitude may be allowed in some circumstances than in others ; 
but that latitude has its boundaries, and these should be carefully 
estimated and never passed. 

As to the fitness or unfitness of any particular candidate, a priest 
should be vety slow to judge even in his own mind that a vote for 
or against any given man is sinful. By a vote against a candidate, 
I mean, of course, a vote for his adversary to his exclusion. A 
priest should be still slower to express such a judgment, though 
prudently formed, and he should be very slow indeed to express it in 
public. This is specially applicable to an absolute, decisive form 
of pronouncing on the subject. For example, there is a consider- 
able diff"erence between saying: *' I tell you it is a grievous sin to 
vote for such a man;" and saying, "It is well for you to reflect 
whether such a vote may not be sinful," — or, " If / were to vote 
for him I should feel that I was guilty of a serious sin." There 
are plenty of unmistakable sins, without multiplying them unne- 

I come now to the principles set forth in the Longford Judg- 
ment regarding clerical influence. In the first place, it will be 
seen, on close examination, that the influence there sanctioned and 
approved is not in itself essentially and exclusively clerical. It is 
not spiritual, though indirectly connected with the clerical and 

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The Relatums of the Church to Society. 47 

spiritual profession of those by whom it is exercised. There is, 
indeed, no widely diffused class of men of whom all the same things 
can be said that are there said of the clergy. But there are many 
individuals, and there may easily be, in a particular place, even a 
body of persons of whom we could correctly affirm what is affirmed 
of the clergy in the passage before us, with the sole exception of 
the two words sacred character, and even the circumstance indi- 
cated by these words goes rather to commend the persons than to 
qualify the influence. As for the position, the superior education, 
the identity of interests, the conviction of the people that the 
influence in question is generally exercised for their benefit, these 
things might be found in a medical doctor or other professional 
man, in a merchant, in a landlord, nay, in all the landlords of a 
district or of a county, though not of all districts nor of all 
counties. With regard to the influence which priests have exer- 
cised or do exercise against insurrection and revolt, it is, in no 
small part, of a kind which the law as expounded at Longford 
would peremptorily exclude from parliamentary elections, and for 
the rest, it might emanate from men of other classes. 

But spiritual influence is eliminated, and sweepingly eliminated, 
from elections. I should like to know how much spiritual influ- 
ence is conceivable, if all allusion to rewards or punishments in 
this life or the next be set aside, if there is not to be a word said 
about sin. I may be told that I ought not to taunt the judge or 
the law with inconsistency, since it is very plain that the judge and 
the law as expounded by him do intend to do away with spiritual 
influence. This indeed seems to be the case ; and yet it appears 
hardly credible. Is a priest alone forbidden to appeal to con- 
science, and, if he appeals to conscience, is he not in reality using 
spiritual influence ? If he appeals to conscience, is he not truly, 
though but implicitly, threatening the punishment to be feared by 
those who disregard its dictates ? May the priest not speak of 
God, and of what He expects and even demands ? and what God 
demands may not be refused with impunity ? 

But let us come completely to the point. The law, as under- 
stood by Judge Fitzgerald, will not allow sin to be mentioned by 
the priest. He is not at liberty to tell his people that a particular 
way of voting is sinful. Now, I ask whether it is possible or not 
that a particular way of voting should be sinful ? whether it be 
possible or not that a particular way of voting should seem to a 
prudent man to be obviously in itself morally wrong? Can mem- 
bers of parliament do serious mischief or not ? Does the welfare 
of the country depend or not on legislation ? May not legislation 
be iniquitous ? Are there not men whose professed principles will 
lead* them to legislate iniquitously ? I am not alluding to any one 
in particular. I am certainly not accusing any Longford candi- 
date, nor indeed any candidate for any special place. I am putting 
an abstract question. If an individual is pretty sure to turn out 

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48 The Relatimis of the Church to Society. 

a pernicious legislator, to help in damaging the country, to help 
in damaging religion, will it be quite right to afford him the oppor- 
tunity ? I know that the obligation of each voter may appear to 
be, to use the expression, diluted by reason of the small part his 
vote has in effecting a return, and again by reason of the compara- 
tively small amount of mischief one member can do in an assembly 
of over six hundred ; and this was one of my reasons for saying 
that we should be slow to condemn as grievously sinful a vote given 
for this or that candidate. Still, the very use of the doctrine of 
the unimportance of single votes for single members is question- 
able and not without its dangers. 

Besides, whatever weight it may be entitled to, the law has no 
business to avail itself of any such doctrine, since the law goes on 
the principle of attaching great moment to every election and 
every vote. The law scrutinizes with jealousy every element of 
parliamentary election. It would ill become the law to turn round 
and say — a few votes here and there, a few members here and 
there, do not much matter. The law does not say such things 
and could not say them. Will the law, on the other hand, say 
that every election and every vote is a matter of importance, but 
cannot have to do with conscience ? The law never has said and 
never will say anything of the kind, at least till things become a 
great deal worse in these countries than they are. And whatever 
the law might choose to say on the subject, it has no right to de- 
clare that perverse voting may not be sinful. This is not pre- 
cisely its province, but this is the province of the ministers of re- 

What I contend for, then, is, that there may he a conscientious 
obligation, an obligation under sin, and even under grievous sin, 
to vote for or against a particular person in certain circumstances, 
and that the law neither does nor can negative this position. I 
then proceed to contend that where such . obligation exists, or is 
believed and considered to exist, there is no harm in stating it 
privately or publicly. It seems strange that a priest should not 
be at liberty to tell the people of an obligation of conscience which 
he believes to exist, and consequently to tell them of a sin which 
he believes will be committed by the breach of that obligation. It 
seems strange, I say, that the law should undertake to forbid this, 
for I am just now speaking of the law of the land, not of the law 
of God, which undoubtedly does not forbid it, but rather, on the 
contrary, prescribes it, so far as it may be consistent with prudence. 
The law of the land is subordinate to the law of God and cannot 
validly gainsay that law ; but the law of the land, even where it 
does not hindy may, in certain classes of cases, create a state of 
circumstances which renders imprudent what would otherwise be 
the right course, and causes it not to be the right course any 

Curiously enough, a layman may, I presume, talk as much as 

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The Relations of the Church to Society. 49 

he likes about the sin of voting one way or the other, but a priest 
cannot, on the ground, we must suppose, that the people will 
believe the latter and will not so much mind the former. After 
all, a priest cannot make a thing a sin that is not so already. As 
to threats of excommunication or refusal of sacraments, the case 
is somewhat different : for these things are acts that can be done 
by the clergy, I do not recognise the right of the law to meddle in 
such matters, but I am not so much surprised that it should. 

Before making any further remarks on the Longford judgment, 
of which I have still a few words to say, I wish to explain part of 
what I have already said. I have given some countenance to the 
notion that a voter's responsibility is diminished by the circum- 
stance of his being one among many, and likely enough not to 
turn the scale, and also by the circumstance that a member of 
parliament is likewise one among many in the House of Commons. 
Certainly it seems a less mischievous act to vote for an unfit candi- 
date than simply to appoint him, if the party had the power ; and, 
again, there is a wide difference between even appointing a 
member of parliament and appointing a supreme ruler, or even 
a subordinate ruler, who would be possessed of considerable 
personal jurisdiction which he was likely to abuse. Thesfi dis- 
tinctions, too, are of more weight in ordinary circumstances than 
in the case of a life and death struggle between a decidedly good 
party and a decidedly bad party, as, for instance, in Belgium. It 
may not be out of place here to observe that a member of parlia- 
ment, besides his share in the action of the House of Commons, 
has a certain local influence, which may be used for good or for 
evil. I do not, by any means, desire to make light of the duty of 
voters. It would be in the interest of my argument to exaggerate 
it ; but I do not seek advantages of that sort. One thing certain 
is, that the law's prohibition to speak of sin, or hell, or heaven is 
not based on the unimportance of votes, that, on the contrar)', the 
greater their importance might be the more would the law set 
itself against what it calls undue influence. Another thing certain 
is, that, in the eyes of all tolerable Christian^ and of many who are 
not Christians, the position of legislators is one that avails much 
for moral good or evil ; that bad legislators are a great moral 
mischief, and that the question of their selection is a moral ques- 
tion. And yet, sin, it seems, is not to be spoken of in this con- 
nection ; in other words, conscience is not to be spoken of ; for 
where conscience reaches sin reaches. Heaven and hell are to 
be kept out of view. And I would have it carefully noted that there 
is not question of excess or abuse. Even if there were, I would 
demur to interference with what is the proper province of the 
Church. But this is not so. With or without moderation guilt is 
not to be touched on. I ask, is all this thoroughly Christian ? 

I said I was not quite done with the Longford judgment. I 
have no wish to disparage the distinguished man who pronounced it. 


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50 The Relations (ff the Church to Society, 

But, as a high public functionary, he is fairly liable to criticism. 
As we sometimes say in Ireland, he has a right to be commented 
on. Well, then, Mr. Justice Fitzgerald, speaking of the Catholic 
priest's legitimate influence, says: he "may. . . .point onithe true line 
of moral duty, and explain why one candidate should be preferred 
to another." Now, I ask, what is the line of moral duty, but the 
line of moral rectitude as opposed to moral turpitude f and what 
is moral turpitude but sin ? Surely moral duty is something more 
than party politics, something more than mere expediency, so far 
as party politics and expediency are rightly or wrongly .supposed 
to be indifferent in relation to conscience. Moral duty means 
moral obligation. It has but one true and genuine sense, though 
its objects are exceedingly various. The duty, for instance, of 
respecting property is as truly a moral duty, and in the same sense, 
as that of respecting life, though theft is a less crime than murder. 
Every real duty has a relation to God ; and no real duty is unac- 
companied by a divine sanction of reward and punishment. Those 
who deny or ignore God and a future retribution may, indeed, 
admit some sort of moral duty, but not in the same sense as Chris- 
tians. By the way, it may become a curious legal question, 
whether those men in England — otherwise, in some instances, re- 
spectable and distinguished — who deny or are not prepared to affirm 
the existence of a personal God, are qualified to give testimony on 
oath in the courts. 

It might be attempted to explain this part of the judge's 
statement, as having reference to an abstract teaching on the 
duty of voters. But, even if such an explanation were suffi- 
ciently consistent with the context, which does not seem to be 
the case, any developed instruction on the subject dealing with 
moral duty in its only legitimate meaning, and, at the same time, 
setting forth that meaning in an intelligible form, would, or easily 
might, come practically to have a very definite bearing on the 
particular candidates for the seat. Surely the judge could not 
mean that a priest was merely to tell his hearers it was their moral 
duty to vote for the man they thought the fittest. He would not 
be precluded from alluding to the matter of legislation. Again, 
he would not be precluded from saying what was to be undefstood 
by moral duty. 

Suppose then, for example, the priest were to expatiate on the 
evils of godless education, and the moral duty oftaking this ques- 
tion into account. Suppose he were to tell them it was their moral 
duty to use their franchise to do away, as far as in them lay, with 
so ruinous a system, what would all this mean, where one of the 
candidates was a notorious upholder of the education thus repro- 
bated ? Suppose, again, the priest were to tell his hearers what 
sort of man was fit and what sort of man was unfit to be a member 
of parliament, and to inculcate on them the moral duty of choos- 
ing a man of the one sort and rejecting a man of the other sort, 

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The Relatiofis of the Church to Society. 5 1 

he certainly would not go a tittle beyond pointing out the line of 
moral duty which the judge allows him to point out ; and yet the 
application would be, or might be in some instances, transparent. 
As to moral duty itself, surely the judge would not tie down the 
priest to these two words, if he (the priest) ^believed that many of 
the people might miss their meaning. There is no special charm 
in the terms. It is their sense that must be minded. He might 
speak of their being answerable to God, of their being bound in 
conscience. He might even bring in that condemned word sin. 
He might say everything that is really and genuinely conducive to 
the understanding of the phrase moral duty. For, if a thing may 
be spoken of, and spoken of as, from its nature a motive of action, 
that nature may be and ought to be fully declared. If, for instance, 
the judge were to say — as no doubt he would say, and say truly— 
that the moral duty of obedience to legitimate authority ought to 
be insisted on by the clergy, he would be understood to mean 
that the clergy should make the faithful comprehend the moral 
evil — the sinfulness — of disobedience, and the consequences of that 
disobedience. Either, then, let the line of moral duty be struck 
out, or let sin and its consequences not be eliminated. I have 
already stated clearly enough my own views as to the caution 
which should be observed in asserting that it is a sin to vote for 
or against a particular candidate. But we are talking of principles 
broadly laid down to meet all cases, and viewed thus the judge's 
language is not consistent— or at least does not seem so. One 
brief remark more about the terms of the judgment. The word 
superstition is introduced, I think unnecessarily. I do not charge 
the judge with any evil intention in using it ; and I can conceive 
a line of thought which might innocently suggest it, as, for instance, 
that an unwarranted appeal to conscientious fears might be turning 
them to a sort of superstitious purpose ; but, as it stands, the word 
does not look well. 

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V 5- 



Oh ! the anguish of that thought that we can never atone to 
our dead for the stinted affection we gave them — for the light 
answers we returned to their plaints, or their pleadings — for the 
little reverence we showed to that sacred human soul that lived so 
close to us, and was the divinest thing God had given us to know. 

When our indignation is borne in submissive silence, we are 
apt to feel twinges of doubt afterwards as to our own generosity 
if not justice ; how much more when the object of our anger has 
gone into everlasting silence, and we have seen his face for the 
last time in the meekness of death. 

When Death, the great Reconciler, has come, it is never our 
tenderness that we repent of, but our severity. 

In old days there were angels who came and took men by the 
hand, and led them away from the city of destruction. We see no 
white- winged angels now. But yet men ar^ led away fromi threat- 
ening destruction. A hand is put into theirs, and leads them forth 
gently towards a calm and bright land, so that they look no more 
backward ; and the hand may be a little child's. 

As our thoughts follow close in the slow wake of the dawn, we 
are impressed with the broad sanieness of the human lot, which 
never alters in the main headings of its history— hunger and labor, 
seed-time and harvest, love and death. 

In the man whose childhood has known caresses, there is 
always a fibre of memory that can be touched to gentle issues. 

Our daily familiar life is but a hiding of ourselves from each 
other, behind a screen of trivial words and deeds, and those who 
sit with us at the same hearth are often the farthest off from the 
deep human soul within us : full of unspoken evil and unacted 

We are, all of us, made more graceful by the inward presence 
of what we believe to be a generous purpose : our actions move to 
a hidden music. , 

' It is the way with half the truth amidst which we live, that it 
only haunts us and makes dull pulsations which are never born 
into sound. 

Iteration, like friction, is likely to generate heat instead of 

* Perhaps some reader of these '* Winged Words'* may know something ol a 
small manuscript collection of similar /^tw/^-j, which the compiler lost so long ago 
*as the summer of the Franco-Prussian War. It can hardly have survived, though 
in regular book-form, with the title "Mottoes of the Soul." Information sent 
to the Publisher of the Irish Monthly will reach the owner of the lost treasure. 

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Winged Words. 53 

Old men's memories are" like old men's eyes — they are strongest 
for things a long way off. 

Life is so complicated a game that the devices of skill are liable 
to be defeated at every turn by air-blown chances, incalculable as 
the descent of thistle-down. 

No man ever struggled to retain power over a mixed multitude 
without suffering irritation ; his standard must be their lower needs, 
and not his own best insight. 

It is the moment when our resolution seems about to become 
irrevocable — when the iron gates are about to close on us — that 
tests our strength. Tl^en, after hours of clear reasoning and firm 
conviction, we snatch at any sophistry that will nullify our long 
struggles, and bring us the defeat which we love better than 

Human beings in moments of passionate outburst and de- 
nunciation, especially when their anger is on their own account, 
are never so wholly in the right that the person who has to wince 
cannot possibly protest against some unreasonableness or unfair- 
ness in their outburst. 

Failure, after long perseverance, is much grander than never to 
have a striving good enough to be called a failure. 

By desiring what is perfectly good, even where we don't quite 
know what it is, and cannot do what we would, we are part of the 
Divine power against evil — widening the skirts of light and making 
the struggle with darkness narrower. 

When the commonplace ** We must all die" transforms itself 
into the acute consciousness, **I must die — and soon," then death 
grapples us, and his fingers are cruel ; afterwards he may come to 
fold us in his arms as our mother did; and our last moment of 
dim earthly discerning may be like the first. 

Her anger said, as anger is apt to say, that God was with her — 
that all heaven, though it were crowded with spirits watching them, 
must be on her side 

Solomon's Proverbs, I think, have omitted to say, that as the 
sore palate findeth grit, the uneasy conscience heareth innuendoes. 

If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense 
that our elders are hopeful about us ; for no age is so apt as youth 
to think its emotions, partings and resolves the last of their 

There are natures in which if they love us, we are conscious of 
having a sort of baptism and consecration ; they bind us over to 
rectitude and purity, by their pure belief about us ; and our sins 
become that wicked kind of sacrilege which tears down the in- 
visible altar of trust. 

Let us be afraid of sliding into that pleasureless yielding to 
the small solicitations of circumstance, which is a commoner 
history of perdition than any single momentous bargain. 

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I. Grapes and Thorns, By the Author of ** The House of Yorke," 

&c. New York: Catholic Publication Society. 
The works of fiction that can be read, not only without danger but 
with profit and edification, are not so numerous that we can afiford 
to neglect the additions which American writers are making to our 
stock. The lady who allows herself to be known only under her 
initials, " M. A. T.," or as " Author of the * House of Yorke,* " is 
doing good service in this department of literature ; and her books 
ought to become better known amongst us here, though in some 
respects they are suited rather for the American public. Miss T. 
is, we believe, a New England convert, and the ardour of her reli- 
gious convictions pervades all her writings. But those who shrink 
from religious or controversial novels need not shrink from "The 
House of Yorke "or from ** Grapes and Thorns." They are two very 
interesting tales of American life ; the plots are well woven to- 
gether, the characters cleverly discriminated and sustained, and 
the style is fresh and graceful, marked sometimes even by eloquence 
and power. The patches of scenery that are occasionally painted 
for us are very well done, showing both knowledge and love of 
nature. That weak point of many story-tellers, the conversation, 
is managed skilfully in all the works of this writer. There is not 
too much of it, and it is generally sprightly and natural and helps 
forward the plot. Any analysis of the plot of this last of the series, 
** Grapes and Thorns," we shall not attempt. We have said enough 
to show that we rank these tales higher than any of the same class 
since the author of *' Ladybird " wove her last romance. 

n. Sacrum Septenarium ; or, the Seven Gifts of the Holy Ghost, as 
Exemplified in the Life and Person of the Blessed Virgin, for 
the Guidance and Instruction of Her Children. By the Rev. 
Henry Formby. London : Bums and Oates. 
The zealous priest to whom Catholic children owe the Pictorial 
Bible and Church History Stories *' proposes the example of the 
great Mother of the Christian family to the more attentive study of 
all her children" in this simple and beautiful work. It consists, as 
the title promises, of a devout treatise on the Seven Gifts of the 
Holy Ghost, discussed in as many chapters.. The style is plain 
and unaffectedly earnest ; and, as a proof that the matter is solid, 
it is enough to say that Father Formby seeks the pure ore in the 
Summa of St. Thomas. He even follows the angelic doctor in his 
pecilliar methodical form of treating every question, which, as he 
explains, "consists in opening the question under consideration 
by a statement of the principal reasons which appear to make 

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Neiv Books. 55 

against his real doctrine ; which being done, he brings forward 
some brief statement in a contrary sense, commonly taken either 
from Holy Scripture or from great and distinguished Fathers of 
the Church ; after which he proceeds to unfold his own doctrine, 
concluding with an appropriate solution of the difficulties that he 
had raised against it in the beginning." Perhaps the present 
treatise may owe a little of its dryness to the same source to which 
we have attributed in part its solidity. The omission of index and 
table of contents is partly compensated by the running headings 
at the top of the pages. This pretty book is not the first offering 
which its author has laid at the feet of the Queen of the Rosary. 

III. The Seven Sacraments Explained and Defended, In Question 
and Answer. Edited by a Catholic Clergyman. Dublin: 
W. B. Kelly. 

The very unusual fault may be found with the title-page of this 
book, that it is much too humble and unpretentious. It professes 
only to explain and defend the Seven Sacraments, but on exami- 
nation we find that out of one hundred and ninety pages no more 
than eighty are occupied with this subject, while the rest range 
over nearly all the principal points of controversy. Of course a 
popular little treatise of this kind does not aim at being profound 
or original ; but a great deal of sound, useful matter is put together 
clearly and forcibly. It is strange that the writer, who has com- 
piled his materials with such praiseworthy care and diligence, has 
not furnished us with even so simple a guidepost over the road 
traversed as would have been afforded by a table of contents. In 
this case the defect has not been supplied even to the extent indi- 
cated in tl}e second of these notices. What ancient writer was it 
— his remark is generally given in Latin — who said that a book 
without an index was like a man ** blind of an eye ?" 

IV. Memoir of His Holiness Pius the Ninth, Dublin : McGlashan 
and Gill. 

Two things catch the eye on the cover of this sketch. One is the 
face of Pio Nono with the sweet smile so familiar and so welcome 
to us all ; and the other is the words, ** Price One Penny." This 
very readable sketch is therefore intended for wholesale distribu- 
tion among the simple people who will rather like the unbooklike 
form, which, though somewhat awkward, has been chosen as the 
fittest for these purposes. It cannot be said that the propagandist 
spirit is rife among us. We have no religious tract societies in 
this country. The reply comes readily enough : ** So much the 
better;" but certainly sloth, carelessness, selfishness, want of zeal, 
a false security, and other causes have hindered us from using the 
Press as much as we ought to use it as a means of influencing 
opinion within and without the Church. **The children of this 
world are wiser in their generation than the children of light," and 

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56 New Books, 

one of the ways in which they-verify this word of our Lord is by 
propagating more energetically and more perseveringly their pe- 
culiar doctrines and feelings. But we are pursuing too far the 
thought suggested by this Memoir of the Sovereign Pontiff, adapted 
as it is for being spread among the people to keep alive that filial 
feeling which can indeed never die, and to which the great Cardi- 
nal gave expression in the prayer, " God bless our Pope, the great, 
the good!" 

V. Sanctorum Palrum Opuscula Selecla. Edidit H. Hurter, S.J. 

Innsbruck : Wagner. London : D. Nutt. 
This may seem to be hardly the proper place for noticing a work 
like that of which we have just transcribed the title ; but many 
whom such a series will interest are kind enough to read these 
pages, and others may be glad to know of a suitable ** present for 
a clergyman " less common than an embroidered stole or a bre- 
viary bound in red morocco. These select works of the Holy 
Fathers are edited with great care in very convenient little volumes 
by Father Hurter, Professor of Theology at Innsbruck. His name 
recalls the memory of his father, the celebrated convert, the bio- 
grapher of Innocent III. Father Hurter supposes, not without 
reason, that theological students, and even priests, have neither 
money to purchase nor leisure to study the large and costly editions 
of the works of the Fathers. He has, therefore, made a selection 
of their chief masterpieces, grouping together short treatises by 
different Fathers which regard the same subject or kindred subjects. 
Thus the second of the series consists of the tracts of Tertullian 
and St. Cyprian on the " Our Father," together with St. Thomas 
Aquinas* Explanation of this divine prayer. The clearness and 
boldness of the type and the excellent arrangement of matter help 
to make this, and indeed all the little volumes, a very pleasant 
introduction to patristic literature. A still more favorable speci- 
men is the twelfth volume, "De Gloriosa Dei Genitrice Maria 
Sanctorum Patrum Opuscula Selecta," containing sermons and 
tracts about the Blessed Virgin, by St. Jerome, St. Cyril of Alex- 
andria, St Bernard, St. Proclus and an anonymous author, preceded 
by a brief but comprehensive critical introduction by the Editor, 
who elucidates his text with careful annotations. Besides the 
index, which renders the contents of each volume easily accessible, 
Father Hurter has wisely halted at the twenty-fourth volume of the 
series and published a general index for that and ail the previous 
volumes. The volumes, being of varying size, though of course 
made suitable for binding together, range in price from eight- 
pence to one shilling and sixpence : but the entire First Series, 
with the general index just referred to, may be had for a few shil- 
lings above a pound. We shall rejoice if this notice, though some- 
what intrusive in this place, should make these sacred writings 
more familiar to the youthful Levites of the Irish Church. 

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iNew Books. 57 

VI. AfUmoons with the Saints. By W. H. Anderdon, Priest of the 
Society of Jesus. New Edition, enlarged. London : Burns 
and Oates. 1874. 
Father Anderdon has added so considerably to the first edition 
of his " Afternoons with the Saints,*' that it may in its present 
form be considered a new work. A very entertaining and very 
useful work it is, and we shall be surprised if the demand for a 
third edition do not speedily afford Father Anderdon (affectionately 
remembered in Ireland under a more dignified title) an oppor- 
tunity of supplying a representative saint for the only month that 
is not at present mentioned in the table of contents — that which 
comes between St. Joseph's month and Mary's. There is, indeed, 
no symmetrical arrangement of this nature in the collection, though 
the months are given in order : some with one only of their saints 
celebrated, others with three or four, making in all more than a 
score of lively little biographical sketches. The Author prefers 
dramatic effect to critical accuracy, writing history sometimes (with 
better motives) on Mr. Froude's plan of supposing what fiiust have 
happened, and reporting conversions which may have taken place. 
Would that some one would give us in somewhat popular form the 
lives of our hidden Irish saints according to the fuller materials 
which the ill-requited devotion of our Irish scholars is gradually 
bringing to light. In the present series Ireland is represented by 
St. Bridget ; and Father Anderdon begins her story by asking : 
" Did you ever chance to find yourself on the great plain of Kil- 
dare } It stretches away, as you may remember, with broad heath- 
lands, or decayed forests, or bog tracts : it is dry here, moist and 
watered there ; it runs away westward from the Wicklow moun- 
tains, till it is stopped by the range of hills south-west of Mount- 
mellick and Maryborough." In his preface. Father Anderdon says, 
very truly, that few more useful labours could be undertaken for the 
"Apostolate of literature " than a series of saints* lives, compiled 
with the accuracy and care of Alban Butler, in a form more graphic, 
and appealing to the habits of modern thought. Without pretend- 
ing at all to aim so high as this, the present elegant little volume 
will help many readers, both young and old, to spend some plea- 
sant ** Afternoons with the Saints." 

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POET, I have heard thy name 
On a thousand lips to day. 
And a crowd of critics say 
Thou has won undying fame. 

Lay not down the lyre unstrung ; 
In thy lately finished book 
•Leave e*en yet one little nook 

For a song that must be sung. 

Sing it — nay, 'tis vain to sigh — 
Fate inflicts no special wrong, 
Asking for thy funeral song. 

For the singers, too, must die. . 

Sing, and ere the echo dies. 

While the power still is thine, 
Run thy pen through every line 

That could shame the chastest eyes. 

Think of God and thy good name ; 

** Search with lamps " the written scroll ; 

Leave no blot upon thy soul : 
Leave no shadow on thy fame. 

J. F. 

[Note — In page 19, line 13, read: "the sword with which he conquered 
Death for men."] 

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•( 59 ) t 



WHAT volumes of romance might be drawn from that myste- 
rious and inscrutable book which philosophers call the 
Sdentia Media — the knowledge of the future conditioned I What 
an unbounded field for speculation lies in the " might have been !*' 
How varied the possible divergences from the actual order of 
events which might be mapped out in the limitless region of con- 
tingency ! 

He is a bold man who will venture to pronounce how the his- 
tory of the world would have run, if Julius Caesar had hesitated a 
little longer on the bank of the Rubicon ; if the young Henry VIII. 
had been presented by his father to the Archbishopric of Canter- 
bury ; if the ship in which Oliver Cromwell was embarking for New 
England had not been stopped on the Thames by royal proclama- 
tion ; if Napoleon Buonaparte had actually, as he once proposed, 
carried his sword and his ambition into the service of the Sultan ! 
And the possible speculations as to the results to which events 
like these might have led in the general course of history, are 
equally open on a lesser scale in the thousands of conceivable 
contingencies regarding individuals which lie hidden in the unex- 
plored world of possibility. 

I am tempted to devote a page or two to a contingency of this 
kind in Irish ecclesiastical history — once, it might seem, all but 
realized — which has lately come under my notice. Seen broadly and 
from the outside, it is not a little strange and startling, and it is 
likely, I think, to prove new to most readers. The matter seems 
to have been first noticed, in the course of his wide and miscel- 
laneous reading, by that curious scholar, the late Dean Milman, 
who made it the subject of a short paper in the " Journal of the 
Philobiblon Society;" but as this journal, like those of several 
similar literary clubs and associations, circulates only among the 
members of the society, and is not obtainable under the ordinarj' 
conditions of the book-trade, the Dean's paper and its subject 
have escaped observation altogether, or at least have attracted 
little attention. 

Singular as are some of the anomalies which present themselves 
in the history of Ireland, I think there are few who ** will not be 
surprised to hear " of a reputed wizard and magician as a member 
of the ancient Irish episcopate. Yet such is the " caprice of his- 
tory" — such the strange combination of characters which is found 
all but accomplished in the case to which I have to refer. 

Every one who has dipped even in the lightest way into the 


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6o t Caprices of History. 

history of demonology and witchcraft, kas read of the redoubted 
wizard and necromancer of the thirteenth century — Michael Scott 
(or The Scot !)* To English readers he is known as an object, 
half of wonder half of awe, by the well-known episode in the 
" Lay of the Last Minstrel," in which he appears as the former 
master of that gloomy Monk of Melrose to whom William of Delo- 
raine is despa.tched on a mysterious mission by the Lady of Brank- 
some. It would be difficult to find a more vivid and perhaps a 
more exact embodiment of the popular notions regarding Michael 
Scott which pervade the ballads and romances of the later middle 
age than is interwoven into his namesfake's poem. 

Even after the long interval of years which has passed, the 
Monk of Melrose still speaks of his master with unconcealed fear 
and awe : — 

" In these far climes it was my lot 

To meet the wizard Michad Scott ;— 

A wizard of such dreaded fame. 

That if, in Salamanca's cave, 

Him listed his magic wand to wave, 

The bells would ring in Notre D4me." 

The Monk proceeds to describe the dread teaching which he 
had received at the hands of Michael Scott — 

** Some of his skill he taught to me, 
And, ■Warrior, I could say to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three. 
And bridled the Eske with a curb of stone ; 
But to speak them were a deadly sin ; 
And for having but thought them my heart within 
A treble penance must be done." 

^The picture of Michael Scott presented in Sir Walter's pages 
may be regarded as sketched from the popular contemporary 
notion of his character. His legendary fame as a magician and 
wonder-worker was widely diffused, and there are numberless 
allusions in the lighter writers of the fifteenth century to his magical 
arts and marvellous performances. One of the least questionable 
of his powers — that of passing and causing others to pass through 
space at will — is referred to By the Monk of Melrose, whom the 
wizard, when in his last hour, summoned from Spain to his dying 
bed, and carried over half Europe in a single day — 

** When Michael lay on his dying bed, 
His conscience was awakeued, 
He bethought him of his siniul deed. 
And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 
I was in Spain when the morning rose, 
I stood by his l>ed ere the evening close.** 

* Michael Scotus; Scotus being, I need hardly say, the Gentile name derived 
from Scotia^ which had originally applied exclusively to Ireland, but at the time 
to which I refer was used both of Ireland and of Scotland. 

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The Wizard Michael Sd^it. 6i 

But darker arts are also zfe freely imputed to him in the anqient 
ballads and romances. Dean Milman quotes a macaronic distich : 

''£cce idem Scottus, qui stando sub arboris umbra 
Quattuor inde vocat magna cum voce Diablos ; '* 

and the popular mediaeval notion regarding Scott, and that which is 
embodied in the lighter records of the fourteenth and fifteenth 
centuries, is of one who during life was a necromancer and magi- 
cian, and who continued to the end devoted to the same dark and 
unlawful arts. The Monk of Melrose assures Deloraine with 
trembling lips that — 

<* The words may not again be said 
That he spoke upon luis dying bed ; 
They would rend the Abbey's mighty nave, 
Ancl pile ^t in heaps on the Wizjml*s grave." 


And although he himself sought so to guard the tomb of his dead 
master by prayers and sacred emblems, 

*• That his patron*s cross might over him wave, 
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's grave ; " 

yet there is an ominous significance of nameless evil in his de- 
scription of the accompaniments of the Wizard's burial : — 

" It was a night of woe and dread. 
When Michael in the tomb was laid ; 
Strange sounds along the chancel past, 
And the banners waved without a blast" 

In the vulgar legend the same mysterious influence is found con- 
tinuing to haunt the tomb in after ages ; and the popular view of 
Michael Scott, if drawn from the ballad or romance of his own and 
the succeeding ages, presents him as during life one of the most 
dreaded of magicians, and after death as in some mysterious manner 
carrying the same dread power beyond the grave. Accordingly, 
Dante, in the Inferno, places him among the diviners and necro- 
mancers in the fourth abyss, as one 

*' Chi veramente 
Delle magiche firode seppe il giuoca" 

Now, returning to the strange historical anomaly under discus- 
sion, how are we to account for the fact that this maister of magic 
art and hero of cabalistic legend turns out after all to have been a 
reverend chur(ihman and dignitary, and the recipient of rich and 
influential preferment; that he was the favoured friend of two 
successive Popes ; that he was actually appointed by one of them, 
Honorius III., to an archiepiscopal see in Ireland ; and that it is 
simply owing to his own humility and conscientious reluctance to 

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62 Caprices of History. 

undertake a responsibility which he felt himself unfitted to dis- 
charge, that the name of the wizard, Michael Scott, does not stand 
in the venerable roll of our own archbishops of Cashel ? 

I need not say that my object in drawing attention to this 
singular circumstance is something higher than the desire to 
amuse the reader with a mere "curiosity of history." The case 
presents many circumstances of more than common interest, and 
is well worth investigating for its own sake. 

Michael Scott, like his fellow-philosopher and congenial spirit, 
Roger Bacon, has two distinct characters : the legendary and the 
historical ; and in his case, as in that of even more prominent 
personages in mediaeval history, the distinctive characteristics of 
two ideals are united in the most incongruous and indeed most 
grotesque association. It is with him as with the legendary and the 
historical Charlemagne, or with the Barbarossa of the chronicler, 
and the Barbarossa of the minnesinger. Some justice has been 
done to the true memory of Roger Bacon by modern scholars, 
especially in laying open the stores of genius . and learning con- 
tained in the remarkable works from his pen, published in the 
" Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during 
the Middle Ages." 

It may be worth while, in the same sense, to say a few words, 
with a view to place in a better light a memory less brilliant than 
that of Roger Bacon, but yet deserving of no mean place in the 
same departments of knowledge. 

The truth is that our ancestors, while the belief in sorcery and 
w.itchcraft still prevailed, were very free in imputing to persons of 
high reputation for unusual studies the practice of the unlawful 
arts. Every one knows how, in the case already referred to, this 
reputation arose around the most brilliant as well as most profound 
scholar of his age, Roger Bacon — a man scarcely inferior in genius, 
and far superior in moral qualities, to his namesake of Verulam — 
and how fatally and obstinately it clung to his person during life, and 
to his memory after death. It was the same for Albert the Great, 
whose name continued down to our own time to be associated in 
the popular chap-books of astrology and divination, with all the 
higher mysteries of the craft. Even the catalogue of the Popes 
themselves furnishes more than one adept to the popular roll of 
necromancers and magicians. Not to speak of the learned pon- 
tiffs, Sylvester II. (Gerbert), and Pius II. (^Eneas Sylvius); even in 
the case of the great Pope, St. Boniface VIII., this formed one of 
the articles of the charge against him, which was made the subject 
of judicial investigation. 

It would appear, indeed, that few of those who devoted them- 
selves to Oriental studies — to Hebrew or Arabic — could escape 
<vithout suspicion. With the former study were connected not 
only all the malignant associations inseparable from the detested 
Hebrew nationality itself, but also the dread inspired by the hidden 
mysteries of the Cabbala, which in those days was^he synonym of 

The Wizard Mictuul Scott, 63 

the Black Art itself. The latter drew after it all the dark associa- 
tions involved, especially after the Moorish triumph in Spain, in 
the popular conception of the Mahommedan superstition, and all 
the unholy influences which were supposed to animate its fol- 
lowers. Under both these heads Michael Scott presented to the 
vnlgar mind of his age a reputation in the highest degree open to 
attack. I shall not attempt formally to discuss the question as to 
his nationality or the immediate place of his birth, which has been 
the subject of considerable controversy. Tiraboschi thinks he 
was a native of Italy : others claim him as a Spaniard. The name, 
however, would in itself suffice to identify him as a native of eithei 
of the countries known in that age by the name of Scotia, Ireland, 
or Scotland, properly so called, and there is little reason to doubt 
that he was bom in Scotland. Sir Walter Scott claims him as a 
native of Balwearie, in Fife. He was bom, probably, towards the 
end of the twelfth century. It is certain, however, that his early 
life was spent out of Scotland. According to Bale, he studied at 
Oxford and Paris, and obtained the degree of doctor of divinity, 
probably at the latter university. About 1220 he went to Ger- 
many, where he is found as one of the band of students and 
scholars attached to the service of the Emperor Frederic II., and 
where much of his learned work was done. On the death of 
Frederic, Scott retumed to England, where he enjoyed the favour 
of Henry III. and his successor, the first Edward. The year as 
well as the place of his death has been a subject of controversy ; 
but according to the generally received tradition, he was buried 
in the Abbey of Melrose, and the mysterious incidents of William 
of Deloraine's midnight visit to the grave, worked up into a tale 
of wonder in the " Lay of the Last Minstrel," are but the echos 
of the popular legend, which survived down to the last generation. 

In addition to his fame as an Orientalist, Michael Scott offered 
another provocation to the vulgar suspicion. His works related 
almost exclusively to subjects of mathematical and physical science. 
He was one, if not the chief, of the " eminent men " (viri lecti) 
by whom was executed, under the patronage of Frederic, the Latin 
translation of Aristotle's philosophical works, " partly from the 
Greek, partly from the Arabic," which was published at Venice in 
1496. Several original treaties — '* On the Sphere," on the ** Nature 
of the Sun and the Moon," and on various subjects of natural history 
— attributed to him, were published in the beginning of the six- 
teenth century, either separately or in the various collections of 
the time ; and they are represented as displaying lights and habits 
of inquiry quite in advance of what is popularly regarded as the 
spirit of his age. 

Thus, Michael's philosophical pursuits, as well as his general 
studies, were precisely those which might best give a colour to the 
vulgar prejudice which represented him as a magician. He was a 
skilled Orientalist, and especially familiar with Arabic— the mother 

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64 Caprices of History, 

tongue of the dreaded Moorish enchanters. He was a cultivator 
of this Arabian philosophy, which even in the schools was an 
object of suspicion. He pursued, it is supposed at the charge of 
Frederic, a regular series of observations of the sun and stars, 
which, however purely scientific in itself, had no other purpose in 
vulgar estimation than as a key to the secrets of judicial astrology. 
And finally, the evil reputation of his patron, Frederic himself, 
must have had a great influence in determining the direction of 
the popular estimate of the studies of Michael Scott 

Dean Milman renders a tribute to the enlightened liberality of 
the Popes of the thirteenth century, which rose superior to this 
vulgar prejudice, and recognised the true intellectual position of 
this great scholar. In repeated communications from the Holy 
See to England during two successive Pontificates, that of Hono- 
rius HI. ( 1 21 6-1227), and that of Gregory IX. (i 227-1 241), 
Michael Scott is mentioned with high commendation of his learn- 
ing. On the 16th January, in the 8th year of Honorius's Pontifi- 
cate (1223), the Pope directs the Archbishop of Canterbury (who 
was no other than the celebrated Stephen Langton), to give a 
benefice to Michael in consideration of his singular eminence in 
knowledge among the scholars of his day (quod inter liieratos dono 
vigeat sdeniicB singularij^ and in the same year is found recorded a 
Papal dispensation, enabling him, for the same reason, to hold a 
plurality of benefices. 

But Honorius's favour to him did not stop here. In the same 
year Michael was presented by the chapter of the Archbishopric of 
Cashel to that see, which, was vacant at this time, and for which 
the Pope had refused to confirm the candidate who had been pre- 
sented by the chapter in Ihe first instance. The Pope confirmed 
the election of the chapter, and moreover marked his approval of 
it by a special manifestation of his favour, Michael Scott being 
permitted to retain his other benefices in conjunction with the see. 

So far, therefore, we find the appointment of the "Wizard 
Archbishop" an "accomplished fact." But the "Caprice of 
History" stops here. Although nominated and -elected, the 
"Wizard" never actually became an archbishop. If the reader 
will turn to " Ware's Catalogue of Archbishops of Cashel,"* at the 
year 1223, he will find the name of Marianus O'Brien as translated 
to Cashel in that year from the see of Cork ; and in Theiner's 
"Vetera Monumenta Hibemorura et Scotorum," the circumstances 
of his succession are fully explained. It appears from the brief of 
Honorius to the new archbishop, Marianus O'Brien, there printed,! 
that O'Brien had been previously postulated for as archbishop, but 
that the Pope had set the postulation aside, not from any personal 
objection to Marianus, but because of some irregularity in the 

* Ware's Bishops, p. 471. 

t Vetera Monumenta Hibemorum et Scotorum, Py^S. 1 

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The Wizard Michael Scott. 65 

procedure. The canonical right of nomination having thus lapsed, 
Michael Scott weis directly named by the Pope himself, but being 
ignorant of the language of the country, he declined to undertake the 
responsibility. From the reason alleged for his refusal, it may be 
at once inferred that in Michael Scott's case the name Scotud is to 
be understood not in the sense of a native of Ireland, like John 
Duns Scotus, but of the kingdom still known under that name. 

On Michael Scott's resignation of the preferment, it would 
seem from the Pope's letter that a new postulation for the see was 
sent forward ; but this also proved irregular and inadmissible, and 
Honorius returned to the original postulation, which, although 
irregular in point of form, was in substance unobjectionable, 
and appointed Marianus O'Brien to the see, which he continued 
to hold for about fourteen years. 

It is interesting to find that Michael Scott did not forfeit the 
favour of the See of Rome by thus declining the offered prefer- 
ment. The successor of Honorius, Gregory IX., continued to 
bestow his patronage upon him. Dean Milman refers to a letter 
of this pontiff to the Archbishop of Canterbury urging Michael's 
claims to a benefice ; and this letter may be cited as a significant 
commentary on the black picture, unredeemed by a single light, 
drawn by historians of the Robertson and Hallam school, of the. 
literary and social condition of the Dark Ages. Michael Scott, in 
the very midnight of this age of darkness, is commended by the 
head of the mediaeval Church himself to the patronage of his arch- 
bishop, not for those ** external observances," that ** stereotyped 
formalism," that ** empty superstition," which these writers repre- 
sent to have been the essence of the mediaeval religion, but for a de- 
gree of learning and culture which might be not unworthy of honour 
even amid the pretentious scholarship of our own self-satisfied age ; 
" because, not content with a knowledge of the Latin language, 
he devoted himself laboriously and successfully to the study of 
Hebrew and Arabic, and thus, while thoroughly learned in each, 
he was distinguished by an agreeable combination of various and 
diversified attainments." 

C. W. R. 

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( 66 > 


" IVT O^^H' ^^**^® Norah ! whither art thou hieing ?" 
\\ Keep the sad voices of the winds calling eerily. 

" Aha I for the water, for the blue shining water!" 
Rings out the answer from her glad heart cheerily. 

Still snatching wildly at her curly brown locks streaming — 
" Linger on the heath awhile and revel with us merrily ! " 

** Hie! for the lilies, for the white floating lilies !" 
Leaping from the clinging of their light hands airily: 

"Tarry, little maiden, the waxen cups come drifting*'— 
Dragging in terror at her light flowing drapery. 

" Oh ! they are for Mary, and the dawn-star is fading, 
Morn is breaking o'er the hills, pallid and vapoury." 

" Tarry, little Norah ! thou'lt drown unless thou tarry ! 

We will blow the flowers, so thou may'st grasp them easily!" 
" They must be on the altar at Mary's feet ere sunrise," 

Stretching o'er the margin of the lake curling breezily. 

Rest thee, little maiden, thou art drifting 'mid the lilies, 
Down among the lilies with thy dead eyes closed dreamily, 

Clasping to thy bosom all the snowy waxen blossoms, 
While upon thy pallid face the sun smiles beamily. 

** Norah, little Norah ! it is sunrise on the mountains !" 
Wail the sad voices of the winds calling drearily ; 

** Mary wears the lilies in her diadem in Heaven," 
Weird Echo answers, through the mist falling eerily. 

R. M. 

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( 67 » 



'* Ghrande cittadino, grande aiuma» scrittore grande.** 

Fortunately for S. Catherine she had that " cell of the soul " to 
which she could retire amidst the pressure of varying circum- 
stances, and the throng of people of every condition and degree 
by which she was surrounded. To this is due the outward serenity 
and the interior peace which she maintained throughout a life of 
constant agitation, grave anxieties, and extraordinary responsi- 
bility. We4iardly ever find her alone. Even when she is engaged 
in prayer we see people standing not far off, waiting to take her to 
some quarter of the city where there is trouble to be relieved, or 
to carry her away to a distant part of the territory to end a feud 
between rival families, or to reconcile a hostile faction to th6 state. 
Within the wider circle of citizenship there was the nearer circle 
of friendship and discipleship ; so that if the Sienese as a body 
did not on all occasions claim her services, she would still have 
had enough to do with the men and women who formed her spiri- 
tual family, ruled their lives by her counsel, and were never satis- 
fied to be separated from her. Naturally many of her most ardent 
disciples as well as her dearest friends were among the Mantellate 
of S. Dominick. As we have had already occasion to mention, 
these members of the Third Order did not live in community, but 
continued to reside with their parents or their children as the case 
might be ; and were free to accompany Catherine in the many 
journeys she had to make into the country parts of the territory, 
to other Tuscan cities, and to far distant countries. Family ties 
appear to have been in no way loosened when the Sisters of Pe- 
nance were clothed in the habit of the order. On the contrary, each 
member, without shuffling off her own domestic cares, shared the 
anxieties of the rest. Catherine's clear head, helpful hand, and 
efficacious prayers were relied on in every emergency ; and occa- 
sions were not few : for many of the Mantellate belonged to the 
class of the nobili, who were constantly under a cloud of suspicion » 
or were actually in strife with the democratic party in the re- 

The Sister with whom S. Catherine was most closely united in 

» friendship was Monna Alessia, the youthful widow of one of the 

Saracini family, a man of rank and education. Alessia became 

so much attached to Catherine Benincasa that she left her own 

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68 A Citizen Satnt. 

residence and took a house at Fonte Branda. She lived with her 
father-in-law and her mother; spent her fortune in helping the 
poor ; kept very close to her friend ; and, desiring to wear the 
same habit, soon became enrolled among the Mantellate. Cathe- 
rine used to spend days and weeks and months with Alessia. One 
day the latter saw as she stood at the window two criminals led 
through the streets to execution, and heard them blaspheming as 
they passed. Moved with compassion she called to Catherine to 
come and see the unfortunate men, who were tied to a stake on a 
cart while the executioners tortured them with red hot pincers. 
She saw them — turned away — and retired to pray. When the pro- 
cession arrived at the city gate an extraordinary change came over 
the bandits. They thought the Saviour met them there all covered 
with wounds and blood, and exhorted them to confess their sins 
and be converted. Suddenly their imprecations ceased; they 
asked the priests, whose ministrations they had obstinately refused, 
to help them ; humbly acknowledged their crimes, and thanked 
God aloud for having showed them mercy. The spectators were 
astonished ; and the executioners, marvelling at what they saw and 
heard, could not bear to torture the criminals any more. Some 
who knew Catherine intimately felt convinced that so singular a 
conversion must have been due to her intercession ; and having 
gone to ask AJessia whether the saint had been concerned for 
those men, ascertained that she had wrestled, so to speak, with 
God for the poor sinners, and that at the very moment the long 
constraining prayer was ended, they had given up their souls in 

On another occasion Catherine remained a long time in the 
same house for the" sake of Alessia's father-in-law, Francesco Sara- 
cini, an old gentleman of eighty years who had only been once at 
confession in his life, had never received Holy Communion, and 
was still full of the outrageous fury and vengeful spirit of the time. 
Alessia had often, but without effect, besought him to give up his 
enmities and be reconciled to God. At last the thought struck 
her that if Catherine would come and stay with her some impres- 
sion might be made during the long winter evenings by the con- 
versation of her friend. She was not mistaken ; for though the 
old gentleman at first made a jest of the good counsels of the 
saint, he was in the end attracted and persuaded by her touching 
eloquence. One day he told her that he was resolved to make his 
peace with God ; but at the same time acknowledged that he 
entertained so great a hatred for a certain prior that he was daily 
on the watch for an opportunity to take his life. However, after 
Catherine had reasoned with him he said he would do whatever she 
recommended. " I wish then," she said, " that for the love of our 
Lord Jesus Christ, and that you may be pardoned yourself, you would 
go and be reconciled with the prior." Francesco rose early next 
morning, and taking a falcon of which he was verv fond, went to 

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A Citizen Saint. 69 

the church to seek the prior; who, seeing his enemy approach 
took to flight. The old gentleman sent a priest to say that no 
injniy was intended ; that on the contrary Saracini was the bearer 
of good news. Whereupon the prior understanding that his enemy 
was unarmed, and taking with him a number of persons for greater 
security, consented to an interview. Francesco then told the prior 
how the grace of God had touched his heart ; and offered the 
falcon as a pledge of peace. Returning to Catherine he told her 
what he had done, and said he would obey her again if she had 
any thing more to command. She then advised him to go to 
confession to one of the Frati whom she named ; and this he did* 
But the confessor being at a loss what work of satisfaction to 
assign a man of his great age, who was moreover far from rich, 
gave him some trifling penance, desiring him to return to her 
who sent him and do whatever she should tell him. For some 
time after this the old man was to be seen every morning at early 
dawn taking- his way in silence to the Duomo, and reciting a 
hundred Pater 2SiA a hundred Ave^ keeping the reckoning by means 
of a cord with a hundred knots which the saint had given him for 
that purpose. 

Whenever it happened that Alessia did not accompany her 
friend on* a journey, she felt the separation very sensibly, and 
appears to have had no hesitation in saying so. The saint would 
then have to write ; rebuking her for cherishing too strong an 
attachment, and counselling her to raise her thoughts to a higher 
standard of renunciation. This. lesson, which is given with great 
tenderness and force in the letters to Alessia, is also inculcated 
in a most impressive manner in a letter written to two other Sisters 
who remained in Siena during the temporary absence of Catherine 
at the Castle of the Salembeni. " Love and obedience," the saint 
writes, ** have power to free us from our troubles and to dissipate 
the darkness that overshadows us; for obedience destroys the 
very root of our troubles, namely, our own perverse will, which is 
literally annihilated in the virtue of true and holy obedience. 
The darkness that obscures the spirit is dispelled by charity and 
union with God ; for He is love indeed and light eternal. No one 
who takes this light as a guide need fear to wander from the right 
road. And, therefore, most dear daughters, it is my desire, since 
the necessity is so great, that you should learn to renounce your 
own will and take this light for your guide. And this I well re- 
member is the doctrine I have always taught you, though it seems 
to have made but a slight impression. Do now, I beseech you, 
what you have hitherto neglected ; otherwise I, who am truly de- 
serving of every punishment, shall be grieved exceedingly. For 
the honour of God we have now to do what the holy apostles did 
when, having received the Holy Ghost, they were separated one 
from another and taken from fheir sweet mother Mary. Well may 

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70 A Citizen Saint. 

we indeed believe that their delight would have beea to remain 
together ; and yet they gave np their own will, seeking the honour 
of God and the salvation of souls. And though Mary was taken 
from them they did not for that suppose that she ceased to love 
them or that they should ever be forgotten. Let -this be the rule 
we take for ourselves. I know very well that my presence is a 
source of great comfort to you ; nevertheless in the spirit of true 
obedience you mast renounce your own consolation for God's sake 
and for the good of souls, and not listen to the suggestions of the 
devil, seeking to persuade you that you are deprived of the affection. 
I have for your body and soul. Otherwise there would be no trae 
love in you. And of this be very sure that I love you for God 
alone. Why then should you be unreasonably afflicted, about what 
must necessarily be done ? Oh I how are we ev^*- to accomplish 
great things if we thus fall short on slight occasions ! God sepa- 
rates us, or lets us stay together, according as circumstances 
require. Our dear Saviour wishes and permits that we should 
part from one another for his honour. Take courage then, my 
children ; begin to sacrifice your own will to God ; and do not 
always be looking for the food of infants when you should rather 
have strong teeth to eat hard and even bitter bread, if need 
should be." 

In a letter to Alessia, and alluding to the trials ishe has herself to 
endure in the place she is staying at,Catherine expresses her readiness, 
nay, even her desire, to suffer if it should be God's good pleasure 
still further to afflict her. She will have sorrows for meat, and tears 
for drink, and the sweat of labour for refreshment. Troubles will 
cure -her, and pain will make her strong. Let suffering then be a 
light to her steps, and trials clothe her as a garment, when she 
shall have been freed from every vestige of self-love, spiritual and 
temporal. ** The pain I have endured," she says, " from seeing 
myself deprived of every human consolation has shown me how 
destitute I am of real strength and virtue. Therefore, most dear 
daughter, I entreat you for the love of Jesus crucified not to cease 
praying, but on the contrary to redouble your supplications in my 
behalf; for I have much greater need of your help than you can 
imagine. And give thanks to God for me also. And beg of Him 
that I may have grace to lay down my life for Him ; and that if it 
please Him he will deliver me from the burden of this body; for 
indeed this life of mine is little use to any one : rather is an in- 
cumbrance and offence to every one here and elsewhere by 
reason of my sins. May God in his mercy deliver me from my 
many faults ; grant me during the short time I have to remain in 
the world to be enflamed with the love of virtue; and give me 
strength to offer Him, while I suffer, longing and ardent and pain- 
ful desires for the salvation of all men and for the reformation of 
the holy Church. Rejoice, rejoice in the cross with me; for the 

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A Citizen Saint. 7 1 

cross is a couch on which the spirit finds repose ; a table where 
the soul partakes of the food and fruit of patience, with great peace 
and unalterable calm." 

Alessia was not the only member of the noble Saracini family 
azBOug the Sisters of Penance at that time ; there was also Fran- 
cesca, the widow of Clemente Gori, who devoted herself to works 
of charity, and whose four children in the course of time entered 
the Dominican Order. One of her friends speaking of Francesca, 
says, *' her soul was tenderly united to God and to blessed Cathe- 
rine : *' a not unusual term of expression in the memoirs before us ; 
for we constantly find it said that such a one was '' a most pious 
man and greatly devoted to the saint;" or that such another was 
" most faithful to God and the Church, and strongly attached to 
Catherine." Francesca, or " Cecca," as she is generally called in 
the letters, was rarely separated from Catherine. Lisa di Colom- 
bini, the widow of Catherine's brother, Bartolo, was likewise con- 
stantly in the same company ; and so, also, were another Catherine, 
the daughter of Schetto of Siena, a second Francesca, and a cer- 
tain Giovanna Pazza. These devoted friends and inseparable 
companions often acted the part of amanuenses to Catherine. The 
familiar letters jvere dictated to them, and we not unfrequently 
trace the secretary's hand when in the concluding paragraph of 
the missive she sends a friendly greeting to the correspondent, 
bringing in her own name in a playful, disparaging way. That 
"foolish creature Cecca," or "Cecca who is always losing her 
time," desires to be remembered a thousand times. That ** stupid 
Catherine " sends some other message. " Alessia wonders much 
that you have never written to her ; " or that " negligent Alessia 
would greatly like to be folded in this letter and sent to you." 
Generally all who are of the family for the moment are mentioned 
together — "MonnaLisa, Francesco, ed io;" or "Alessia, ed io, e 
Cecca," as the case might be, send an affectionate greeting or a 
pious remembrance to the absent friend. 

Thus we seldom see the saint except surrounded by her com- 
panions ;, nor do we often find her on her journeys or engaged in 
any serious work without one or more of the Frati of San Dome- 
nico being of the company. The Friar Preachers, as we have said, 
were the spiritual directors of the community to which S. Catherine 
belonged, and they had always been on intimate terms with the 
Benincasa family. Moreover, the presence of a priest was often 
required in the affairs that she was concerned about ; while her 
assistance was constantly important to the Dominicans in 
their labours among the people. Catherine's confessor till her 
twenty-fourth year, was Father Thomas della Fonte, already men- 
tioned as the orphan youth who had been brought up in her 
father's house. He was afterwards more intimately connected 
with the family by the marriage of one of his relatives with Cathe- 
rine's sister, Niccoluccia. He was a man of great piety, but was 

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72 A Citizen Saint. 

not considered so learned as many of the other Frati. We have a 
few very graceful letters addressed by Catherine to Father Thomas. 

Another of the Friar Preachers, Thomas di Siena, when quite 
young became acquainted with the family, and always continued 
closely allied in friendship with Catherine. He has left an inte- 
resting account of the saint to which, we'are indebted for many of 
the little traits thait enable us to realise in some degree the im- 
pression she made on those who happened to be brought into 
relationship with her. For instance he lets us see that she was 
never idle ; that when not actually in prayer or performing some 
work of charity, she was either instructing her neighbours or dic- 
tating letters to her secretaries. He describes how courteous, 
kindly, and even gladsome her manner always was ; and speaks of 
her delight in singing sacred canticles, and of her singular love for 
flowers, which she used to arrange with great skill in bouquets, in 
the shape of coronets or crosses to decorate the altars with, or 
give as a remembrance of the love of God to Father Thomas or 
some other friend. 

Father Bartholomew Dominici, who also knew the saint long 
and intimately, has left a memoir which strongly supports Father 
Thomas's testimony. He, too, speaks of ^Catherine's patience 
and cheerfulness. No matter how acute her sufferings were he 
never saw even a shade of melancholy cross her face. Her con- 
versation, he says, charmed every one. The people surprised at 
her learning and eloquence supposed that the Friar Preachers must 
have taught her what she knew; but Father Bartholomew says 
that it was quite the contrary in fact : that it was Catherine who 
instructed the Frati. In this again he only supplements the testi- 
mony of Father Thomas, who says it would be impossible to de- 
scribe the effect her example and her exhortations produced among 
the Friar Preachers. Father Bartholomew, who was at one time 
her confessor,, had unbounded confidence in the power of Cathe- 
rine's intercession. When away from Siena, if any trouble befel 
him, he could not help mentally invoking her assistance. On one 
very distressing occasion, he records his belief that she actually 
became aware of his great need and obtained him succour. He 
was not the only one of S. Catherine's spiritual family who made 
the same appeal under similar circumstances and was alike be- 
friended. Father Bartholomew's disposition was singularly affec- 
tionate ; but he appears to have been often much tormented with 
scruples. We see this clearly in the letters written to him by 
Catherine, when he was called from Siena to preach at As- 
ciano, lecture at Pisa, or profess theology at Florence. "Put 
away,'' she writes, ** every uneasy thought that stops you in your 
course, and take other people's opinion rather than your own.- 
And if the devil should strive to disturb your conscience tell him 
that he will have to answer to me for that as well as for many other 

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A Citizen Saint, 73 

things besides ; for a mother, you know, must be responsible for 
her child." And again : ** I have received your letter and under- 
stand what you say concerning the doubt you have. Before long, 
please God, we shall be able to talk the matter over together. I 
am quite convinced that Divine Providence will not allow your 
labours to be fruitless ; you €hall have the fruit without knowing 
how, and in virtue of profound humility. I wish you to go on, 
and with all tenderness entreat you as a son ; and I,, your poor, 
unworthy mother, will offer you and keep you in the presence of 
our Father, the everlasting God. And if ever I was anxious about 
your soul I am certainly more so than ever this day. You were 
able to perceive this at Easter : and now we have the Easter every 
day. Therefore you can never be left without me, for I am always 
near you in holy desires." When he expresses anxiety to have 
her come to Asciano to help in some affair, she answers that 
she would gladly do so if God permitted it, either for His honour 
or for the father's satisfaction or her own. which would be very 
great. But she tells him the weather has been very rainy, and she 
has been so ill for more than ten days that it was as much as she 
could do to get to the church on Sunday. And in the same letter 
she says, " put all your strength into everything you have to do ; 
chase away the darkness and attain to light ; not dwelling upon 
our human weakness, but remembering that in Christ crucified you 
can do all things. And I shall never leave you, but will stand 
beside you by means of that unseen vision which the Holy Spirit 
can bestow." 

But the Dominican father who was most intimately, and for 
the longest time, associated with the saint, was Blessed Raymond 
• of Capua ; a man of high rank, of the noble race of the Delle 
Vigna, and descended from Pier delle Vigna; the chancellor of the 
Emperor Frederick H. Having been for four years director of a 
convent of Dominican nuns at Montepulciano, he was sent to 
profess theology in Siena in 1373. Doubtless he had already 
known the saint by reputation. He cannot but have heard of her 
from Father Thomas and another of the Frati of San Domenico, 
who not very long before were overtaken by robbers on the road be- 
tween Siena and Montepulciano. There was no convent of the 
order in the latter city, and Father Raymond having but one com- 
panion with him was always delighted to receive a visit from any 
of his- friends from the neighbouring convents. The two Frati 
had set out to visit Father Raymond, and as Father Thomas could 
not remain long away from Catherine, they had taken horses which 
had been lent to them for the journey. They had been imprudent 
enough to stop to rest at an inn ; and the people of the place 
seeing they were alone and unarmed, conceived the design of 
robbing them ; went on before them ; and, when the travellers 
arrived at a lonesome part of the road, robbed them and dragged 
them into the forest with the intention of murdering them, so as to 

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74 -^ Citizen Saint. 

leave no traces of the crime. The friars had appealed in vain to 
the compassion of the brigands, when Father Thomas, remember- 
ing the saint his penitent, began to pray to her, saying : " O 
Catherine, meek and devoted servant of God, help us in this 
peril." Suddenly the robber who was nearest to Father Thomas, 
and appeared to have been charged te kill him, turned to the rest 
and said : " Why should we kill these poor friars who never did us 
any harm ? It would be a dreadful crime ! Let us release them ; 
they are good- hearted men and will not betray us." The rest 
agreed at once, and restoring to the friars their garments and 
horses, and all that had been taken except a small sum of money, 
set them on the road to Montepulciano, where they arrived the 
same day, and related their adventures to Father Raymond. 

When settled in the convent of San Domenico Father Raymond 
became acquainted with Catherine, who believed that he had been 
specially given to her as confessor by the Blessed Virgin. He was 
himself particularly devout to Mary, and has left among his works 
a treatise on the Magnificat. In Catherine's letters to Father Ray- 
mond we see more frequently invoked than in other parts of her 
correspondence " quella dolce madre Maria." He soon felt the 
attraction and strengthening influence of her sanctity ; and at the 
same time that he was her spiritual father he was thankful to God 
to be counted among her disciples, and allowed to be much do- 
mesticated with her. He always addressed her as "Mother," and 
entertained the strongest affection for her : " molto e santamente 
la amasse." The plague which raged in Siena 'during three years, 
and carried off the Podesta and his son, six judges, and a third of 
the population, was at its height when Father Raymond came to 
San Domenico. All who could leave the city had fled away, and he* 
was dismayed by the horror and desolation that reigned around. 
But Catherine, who with several of the Sisters succoured the 
plague-stricken people, taught him that we should love our neigh- 
bour's soul more than our own body ; and, astonished at her devo- 
tion, and stimulated by her example, he resolved to sacrifice his 
life to the care of the sick and dying. He found himself almost 
alone in this work, and hardly allowed himself time to eat or sleep. 
One* day he was seized with the terrible symptoms which he well 
knew foreboded an attack of the fatal disease, and he thought his 
own summons had come. With difiiculty he dragged himself to 
Catherine's house. She was out attending a sick person, and be- 
fore she could be found and told of his condition he had become 
so ill that he was obliged to lie down. Returning and seeing him 
in such suffering she knelt beside him, and placing her hand on his 
forehead began to pray interiorly, as was her wont; while he, 
seeing her enter into an ecstacy, began to hope he should ob- 
tain some great good for soul or body. After an hour and a half 
Catherine rose np from her prayer, gave him some nourishment 
with her own hand, and desired him to sleep a little. When he 

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A Citizen Saint. 75 

awoke the pains had left him and he felt as well as if nothing had 
happened. "Now go," said Catherine to him, "and labour for 
the salvation of souls, and render thanks to the Omnipotent Lord 
who has delivered you from this danger." 

By this time Catherine's Came had spread far beyond the walls 
of Siena, and when the plague had ceased the people began to 
come in. crowds to hear her and to see her. Pope Gregory XI. 
hearing of the great influence she exercised and the number of 
conversions effected by her means, desired her to go through the 
country parts of the republic,and gave Father Raymond and two 
other priests the powers reserved to bishops for absolving all who 
went to Catherine, and afterwards confessed their sins. Father 
Raymond says he often saw more than a thousand men and women 
hastening to her from the mountains and the surrounding country. 
She could not possibly speak to them all ; but such a light of 
sanctity shone in her countenance that her presence sufl5ced to 
convert them. The multitude was so great the confessors were 
sometimes discouraged and often exhausted with fatigue, as they 
frequently had to remain fasting until evening. But Catherine, 
always telling the Sisters to take good care of the Frati, never 
interrupted her prayer and never seemed to grow tired. Her joy 
was indescribable ; and her companions seeing it were consoled 
and encouraged to bear the labour and fatigue they had to go 

Meanwhile Catherine, attended by some of the Sisters and 
accompanied by one or more of the Frati, had frequently to visit 
the towns, convents, or castles of the territory under somewhat 
different circumstances. Though her object was always some 
great good, such as the arrangement of important business, the re- 
conciliation of enemies, if not actually the saving of souls, the rulers 
of<he republic were not invariably satisfied to have her absent from 
the city ; they were even at times uneasy until they had her back 
again. This was particulariy the case whenever she remained for 
a considerable time, as not un frequently happened, at the Rocca 
di Tentinnano, the castle of the Salembeni, which was situated in 
the beautiful valley of the Orcia, about twenty-three miles from 
• Siena. Here in the fortress castle of the patrician family dwelt 
great friends of the saint : the Coimtess Bianchina ; her son Gio- 
vanni d'Agnolino Salembeni, a man remarkable for courage and 
capacity: his sisters and children. Agnolino's grandfather who 
had been captain of the Orvietani, was considered one of the 
richest men in Italy; and his father, Giovanni, Councillor of 
Charles IV., had splendidly entertained at his house the emperor 
and all his court. The connections of the Salembeni were influ- 
ential in Italy, and they headed the nobles in Siena, though they 
were not always at peace with the other aristocratic families of the 
republic, any more than with the popular party when at the head 


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A Citizen Saint 

of affairs. Much of their own blood as well as that of their rivals 
was spilled in contests with the Tolemei : and many of them 
perished in war with the republic itself. A frightful occurrence 
had shortly before taken place in the city, when one of the familj 
who had been guilty of an atrocious murder having been spared 
by the too timorous senator whose office it was to pronounce sen- 
tence on the offender, the popolani revolted, and taking the sword 
of justice into their own hand, beheaded Salembeni in the 

These events did not sweeten the. relations between the parties. 
The citizens did not like Catherine's visits to La Rocca, and 
dreaded that she might take thi? part of the Salembeni against the 
republic. Even when she went there to endeavour to settle the 
disputes between the popular party and that powerful family the 
governors seem to have been unable to control their apprehen- 
sions. Catherine's position on such occasions cannot have been 
either easy or agreeable ; and accordingly in her letters from La 
Rocca we find allusions to many trials and difficulties. She says 
in one place that they are living in the midst of brigands : in 
another, that they are surrounded by incarnate demons ; or she 
speaks of herself as dwelling in the island of La Rocca beaten by 
all the winds. Of course she was not left, even at the wors^ 
without her consolations, any more than without . her friends. On 
one occasion there were with her Father j^^aymond, Father Thomas 
della Fonte, Lisa and another Sister. Alessia was of the company 
another time. As usual the people of the surrounding country 
would come to claim a share in Catherine's interest and charity. 
She would heal and comfort them ; and the Frati would have 
enough to do ministering to their spiritual wants. Once it hap- 
pened that while Catherine and her friends were thus occupied at 
La Rocca she received a letter from one of her correspondents, 
Salvi, the son of Messer Pietro goldsmith in Siena, informing her 
of the uneasiness her absence created, and of the suspicions ex- 
cited against Father Raymond, and urging her to return to the 
city without delay. 

This message provoked a characteristic reply. After speaking 
of the inutility of faith without works, and of the impossibility of . 
coming to the Father except by following the footsteps of the Son 
• whose path was strewn with briars and thorns, S. Catherine tells 
Salvi that she believes it to be the will of God she should remain 
where she is. She had felt some anxiety lest she might displease 
Almighty God by staying when she and Father 'Raymond were 
the object of such complaints and suspicions ; but divine Truth 
had given her to understand, that she should keep her place at the 
table of the holy cross in the midst of sufferings and murmurs, 
seeking the honour of God and the good of souls. The people 
here were entrusted to her hands that she might snatch them from 
4he grasp of the evil one and reconcile them to God and to one 

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A Citizen Saint 77 

another. She must continue as she had begun ; convinced that 
all this mischievous interference was the work of the devil. '* I 
shall therefore do all I possibly can," she continues, " for the 
honour of God, the good of souls, and the welfare of our city ; 
even though the task may be but indifferently accomplished after 
all. And it is a delight to me to follow the footsteps of my Cre- 
ator, and receive evil for good ; to seek the honour of others and 
be put to shame myself ; to be ready to sacrifice my life for those 
who would willin^y compass my death. For what they call death 
is life to us ; and their contempt we account as glory. The dis- 
grace remains with him who does the evil deed. Where there is 
no sin there is no shame nor dread of punishment. My trust is 
in Domino nostro Jesu ChristOf and not in men. I shall goon there- 
fore ; and if they insult and persecute me I will answer with tears 
and ceaseless prayers for them as long as the grace of God remains 
with me. And whether the devil likes it or. likes it not I shall 
devote my life to the honour of God and the salvation of 
souls and to doing good to the whole world, but most of all to my 
own city. And what a shame it is for the citizens of Siena to think, 
or for a moment imagine, that we could be employed hatching 
conspiracies in the territory of the Salembeni or anywhere else in 
the world ! They suspect the servants of God, and seem to enter- 
tain no distrust of the wicked ; but they prophesy aright unknown 
to themselves. They prophesy after the manner of Caiphas when 
he said that one man should die that the people might not perish. 
He knew not what he was saying, but the Holy Ghost knew well 
and spoke by his mouth. Just in the same way my citizens think 
that 1 and those who are with me hatch conspiracies ; and they 
say what is true without understanding the meaning of their words. 
They are prophets in their way. For the only object I and those 
who are with me have at heart is to discomfit the devil, and de- 
prive him of the power he has acquired over human beings by 
mortal sin. I want to take hatred out of the hearts of men and 
reconcile them with Christ crucified and with one another. These 
are the plots we are engaged in, and these are the things I desire 
to see those who are with me busy about. All that I have to com- 
plain of is that we are not working heartily enough ; we are getting 
on too slowly. And you, my dear son, I beg that you and th^ 
others will pray to God that I may be full of zeal for this work and 
for all that may contribute to the honour of God and the good of 
souls. I must conclude now, though I could say a great deal more. 
The true disciple of Christ is not he who says: Lord! Lord I but 
he who follows in His footsteps. Tell Francesco to be of good 
courage in Jesus Christ. Father Raymond, poor calumniated man, 
begs you will pray for him that he may do everything that is right 
and have the gift of patience." 

It was no trifling matter to incur the jealousy or displeasure of 
republican rulers in those days. Nicolo Tuldo, as we have seen, 

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78 A Citizen Saint 

fared badly in consequence of incautious words ; and we find that 
another gentleman was sentenced to death because, having given 
an entertainment in his house outside the city, he had not invited 
the Reformers. In this, however, the Sienese were not worse than 
the Venetians. The former beheaded the suspected ; the latter 
drowned them. At any rate it is no wonder that Catherine's friends 
were anxious for her return whenever the Defenders of the people 
showed symptoms of uneasiness. Sometimes the troubled magis- 
trates wrote to the saint themselves. On one occasion while she 
was staying at Montepulciano they sent her a letter asking her to 
hasten her return, and saying that she was wanted to settle some 
dispute. In her reply she exhorts them to be true and manly rulers 
of the city that belongs to them : that is to sav of their own soul ; 
and likewise of the earthly city confided to tneir care : the State 
which they should govern according to the laws and customs of 
the country. She warns them of the evil of self-seeking, and de- 
sires them to beware of servile fear. When a man's conscience is 
obscured by sin he knows neither God nor himself. He is not in 
a position to govern others with justice, to punish the guilty with 
discrimination, or efiectually protect the innocent. And then she 
continues : " This servile fear and culpable self-seeking it was, my 
dear brothers, which caused the death of Christ. Pilate was blinded 
by the fear of losing his power — he could not see the truth, and 
murdered Christ. But not for that did he save himself from what 
he dreaded ; for when the time came that it pleased God (not that 
God was pleased with his sin), he lost his soul and his body and 
the signoria. And indeed it appears to me that the world is full 
of such Pilates, who in their cowardly blindness pursue the ser- 
vants of God, hurling stones at them, and following .them with 
insults, injurious words, and persecutions." Farther on she says : 
" Act so that when the account shall be demanded you may be able 
to surrender your trust without danger of eternal death. I wish^ 
therefore, that you would regulate your conduct with a true and 
holy fear. And I must tell you that the men of the world have no 
possible way of preserving their spiritual goods and their temporal 
possessions except by leading a virtuous life ; for nothing causes 
their destruction but their own faults and vices. Remove the evil 
and the fear will cease ; and you will then b,e full of courage and 
strength, and not afraid of your own shadow. I shall say no laorty 
only beg you to pardon my presumption. The affection I have 
for you and for all the other citizens, and the grief I feel when I 
think of your spirit and your acts so little in conformity with the law 
of God must plead my excuse to Him and you.** And then referring 
more particularly to herself and answering their request that she 
' would return to the city, she says : " I must now reply, most dear 
brothers and signori, to the letter you sent to me by Thomas di 
Guelfuccio. I thank you for the kiftdness you show your fellow- 
citizens and for your anxiety to procure them peace and quiet ; and 

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A Citizen Saint. 79 

am grateful for your affection for my unworthy self. I do not de- 
serve that you should hold me in such esteem as to desire my 
return, or ask me to be the means of procuring this peace, since i 
am incapable of this or any other even the least thing. Neverthe- 
less, I shall leave all in the hands of God, and will bow my head, 
and, according as the Holy Spirit permit, will obey your orders 
and do as you wish ; for I must always consult the will of God 
rather than that of men. At present I do not see how I could 
leave ; for I have an important matter to settle in the convent of S. 
Agnese, and I am staying with Messer Spinello's nephews for the 
purpose of reconciling the sons of Lorenzo. You see it is now a 
long time since you began to wish to arrange this matter, and yet 
nothing has been done. I should be sorry if through any negli- 
gence on my part, or in consequence of my abrupt departure, a 
stop should be put to progress ; for in that case I should fccir to 
offend God. But I shall return as quickly as I can : the very mo- 
ment the Lord enables me to do so. And now do you and the rest 
have patience ; and do not let your mind and heart be filled with 
these thoughts and fancies which all proceed from the devil striving 
to hinder God's glory and the salvation of souls, and to destroy 
your peace of mind. I am sorry my citizens give themselves so 
much trouble thinking and talking about me. One would think 
they had nothing else to do but to speak ill of me and of those who 
are with me. As far as I am concerned they are quite right, for I 
am full of faults ; not so my companions. But we shall overcome 
by bearing all with patience ; for patience is never beaten, but 
always remains in possession of the field. What afflicts me is that 
the blow rebounds on the head of those who strike it ; so that very 
often theirs is both the sin and the punishment." 

Even before S. Catherine travelled beyond the boundaries of 
the republic her correspondence had become a very important part 
of her work. Her letters, of which we have nearly four hundred in 
the volumes before us, are worthy of being treasured not merely as 
the remains of so remarkable, so gifted, and so saintly a woman, 
but for their historical interest, their great value as spiritual writ- 
ings, and their literary excellence. They are considered a model 
of style even among the works of an age when the Italian language 
was in all the freshness and vigour of its youth and prime. It has . 
been said that her diction was as as pure her life was faultless : 
"Fu non meno pulita nello scrivere, che incontaminatai nel 
vivere." In form the letters seldom vary, whether addressed to 
popes, kings, military commanders, or to her own disciples, rela- 
tives, and intimate friends. Invariably they begin in the name of 
Jesus and of Mary, " Al nome di Ges6 Cristo crocifisso e di Maria 
dolce," and end with the words " Ges6 dolce, Ges6 amor." There 
is hardly one of them in which we do not find an eloquent discourse 
on some particular virtue, a denunciation of some sin or folly, or 
a practical instruction clearly and forcibly worded. The subject is 

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8o A Cih'zen Saint, 

always applicable to the position in life of the person addressed, to 
his particular circumstances at the moment, or to the situation of 
public affairs. The familiar letters conclude with a friendly re- 
membrance or graceful valediction ; the more important epistles 
with a strong word of counsel, an earnest request, a prayer. Sim- 

Elicity, conciseness, force, an elegant turn of expression and a 
armonious disposition of the words are the characteristics of the 
style, and are noticeable even in short sentences. To cite two or 
three examples : S. Catherine in one place says it is a scandalous 
thing that the Lord should stand knocking at the door and we not 
open to him : — " Grande villanea 6 che Dio stia alia porta dell' 
anima tua, e non gli sia aperta." In another place she observes 
that the more unbounded our hope is the more munificent will be 
the providence of God : — " Chi piii perfettamente spera, piii per- 
fettamente gusta la Providenza df Dio." Gratitude, she somewhere 
says, keeps the fountain of piety full to the brim, while unthank- 
fulness dries up the spring : — " La gratitudine nutrica la fonte della 
pieta neir anima, la ingratitudine la dissecca." And could there 
be anything more gracefully expressed than this sentiment : My 
soul rejoices and exults in suffering ; I do not heed the thorns, for 
I feel the fragrance of the opening rose ? — ** L'anima mia nel dolore 
gode et esulta, perocch6 tra le spine sente Fodore della rosa che k 
per aprire." 

S. Catherine's letters were seldom written by her own hand. 
The more important were generally dictated to the Sienese gentle- 
men who were her disciples, and were proud to be her clerks and 
secretaries and her messengers to courts and governments. We 
are told that she often dictated three or four letters at one time. 
Can we not fancy the scene ? In the centre of the group the saint 
with her fragile black-and-white-robed figure, and her delicate face 
ready to break into that gracious smile which her disciples are 
always talking of, and by which they knew her when, after her death, 
they believed they saw her in vision anrong the saints in glory ; 
Sister Alessia, and **Cecca," and Lisa, the personification of 
friendship and fidelity, always near at hand ; Father Raymond, 
confessor and disciple, standing on one side ; or Father Thomas, 
the kinsman; or Father Bartholomew Dominici, so delicate of con- 
science, so tender of heart ; or ** Fra Santi," the old hermit, who left 
his peaceful cell to labour for the good of others, affirming that he 
found greater tranquillity and more profit to his soul in following 
Catherine and listening to her than he ever enjoyed in his soli- 
tude. And then the young men pen in hand waiting to know what 
the ** cara, dolce, veneranda madre" desires to say to Gregory or 
to Urban ; to the Queen of Naples or to Charles of Anjou ; to the 
Senator and Bannerets of Rome ; to the Lords Priors of the people 
and commune of Perugia; to the Consuls and Gonfaloniers of 

S. Catherine's secretaries form a very interesting group, and 

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A Citizen Satnt 81 

were among the most cherishbd of her disciples. Neri di Landoccio 
de Pagliaresi, who had been converted by her, was one of the first 
to leave his father's house and all he possessed to follow the saint. 
He had asked her to let him be numbered among her sons, and 
she wrote to him in reply : " I am unworthy of this, for I am only 
a poor miserable creature ; but I have received you and do receive 
you with tender affection. I promise before God to be responsible 
for all the sins you have committed and may yet commit ; but I 
beseech you satisfy my desire, make yourself conformable to Jesus 
crucified, and separate yourself entirely from the world as I 
told you ; for in no other way can we become like to Jesus." From 
first to last Neri acted as her secretary, sometimes carrying her 
messages to the Pope and to the Queen of Naples. 

Barduccio Canigiani, of a Florentine family settled in Siena, 
gave up everything to serve Catherine, by whom on account of 
his singular innocence he was greatly beloved. 

But perhaps there was not one of all the faithful band more 
devoted to the saint, or more dear to her than Stefano di Corrado 
Maconi. He was seldom absent from her side, and the others, he 
at least believed, were sometimes a little jealous of her affection for 
the enthusiastic and indefatigable secretary and disciple. The way 
in which the friendship began is characteristic of the saint and .of 
the time. A great enmity existed in those days between the Ma- 
coni and two other powerful families of the republic, the Rinaldini 
and the Tolomei. The fault appears itot to have been on the side 
of the Macon?, who were the least powerful party, and were anxious 
that a reconciliation should be effected, as were also many influen- 
tial citizens. All negociations having failed, Stefano, who was 
leading the ordinary life of a young man of the world at the time, 
was told of Catherine's extraordinary success in managing affairs 
of this kind, and it was said to him thatif she were asked to under- 
take the negociation peace would certainly be Obtained. Accord- 
ingly he went to a gentleman, a friend of his, for whom Catherine 
had once done a similar good office, and told him what he wanted. 
The gentleman remarked that there was no one in the city more 
capable of effecting a reconciliation between enemies than Cathe- 
rine, and offered to go at once with Stefano to see her. The young 
man was astonished at the reception he met with from the saint, 
who attracted and interested him so much that he told her what 
sort of life he was leading, and at her request promised to go to 
confession and adopt a more Christian course of conduct. She 
told him to have great confidence in God, and that she would take 
the matter in hand and do all she could \o procure him a good 
peace. An appointment was arranged, and the hostile parties were 
to meet in the Church of San Cristofero to be finally reconciled. 
However, the pride of the Rinaldini and the Tolomei got the 
better of their good dispositions, and they were resolved riot to 
keep their engagement. Catherine being told of this, simply re- 

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82 A Citizen Saint. 

marked, *' They will not listen to me, but willingly or unwillingly 
they shall have to listen to God." And thereupon she went to the 
church where she had appointed to meet Stefano, his father Cor- 
rado, and other members of the family ; went straight to the high 
altar, and began to offer up there most fervent prayers. Mean- 
while the parties who had refused to go to San Cristofero happened 
to enter unknown to one another the church in which S. Catherine 
was praying and their enemies waiting on her. As soon as they 
saw the saint in prayer before the altar with a divine light shining 
in her countenance, their obduracy melted away ; they addressed 
her when she had finished her prayer, and begged of her to regu- 
late the conditions of peace between them, and the Maconi. Pre- 
sently the enemies asked pardon of one another, and embracing 
in token of reconciliation, left the church with tranquil hearts. 
After this Stefano went often to visit Catherine. Her words and 
example produced a total revolution in his manner of thinking and 
in his life. The whole city was astonished at the change, and 
none were more surprised than he was himself when he found he 
loathed the things he had formerly desired, and felt the love of 
God becoming enkindled in his heart. When she asked him to 
write some letters under her dictation he gladly assented ; and from 
that time forth he was one of her most devoted friends, one of 
her most ardent disciples. He says himself that he studied her 
words and actions with the greatest attention. He never heard an 
idle word pass her lips ; and she had a way of instantly turning the 
most frivolous expressiotis of those about her to their spiritual 
good. He and the others were so charmed with her conversation 
that they often forgot to take their meals. Sometimes they would 
come to her with some secret trouble in their mind ; but the mo- 
ment they found themselves in her presence' they would forget the 
cause of their uneasiness, and think no more of their pains. Her 
penetration was so extraordinary that she seemed to know souls as 
others know faces; and he one day said to her, ** Indeed, mother, 
it is very dangerous to be near you, for you discover all our secrets." 
Stefano Maconi joined a confraternity attached to the great 
Hospital della Scala, and took part with many gentlemen of his 
acquaintance in the religious and charitable works of the associa- 
tion, which, under the title of the " Compagnia della Vergine 
Maria," had been celebrated in Siena almost from the earliest 
Christian times. The hospital itself was one of the most ancient 
in Europe, and was supposed to have been built on the site of a 
temple of Diana. In the lower part of the building the confra- 
ternity had a chapel and apartments. It so happened that soon 
after Stefano joined the confraternity, the members, who were of 
the nohili class, began to plot against the government of the hated 
Reformers, used their offices in the hospital as a place of meeting 
for the malcontents, and drew the young man into the conspiracy. 
Catherine appears to have supematurally divined what was going 

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A Citizen Saint. 83 

on ; and one day when Stefano came as usual to visit her, before 
he had time to utter a word, she rebuked him in the strongest 
terms for turning the house of God into a den of conspirators 
against the republic ; warned him that he was placing in danger 
his own soul and body ; conjured him to rid himself of the trea* 
sonous poison, and assigned him a very severe penance in expia* 
lion for his offence. From that hour Stefano had done with plots, 
and dedicated his life to works of virtue and charity, 

Besides these three secretaries, Neri, Barduccio, and Stefano, 
there were other friends who gladly rendered the same services to 
Catherine at different times. But it would be impossible to name 
all who were on terms of intimacy with her, and stood beside her, 
ever watchful to help her in her undertakings and carry out her 
wishes. Her disciples formed a very remarkable and varied class, 
including members of different religious orders, fathers and mo- 
thers of families, young men and women of all ranks. They used 
to apply to her in every need, and seek her counsel on all occa- 
sions. When they could not come to her they wrote, and the cor- 
respondence thus involved must have given the secretaries at times 
quite enough to do. Among the disciples was a certain Cristofano 
di Gano Guidini, whose mother was one of the Piccolomini. He 
was introduced to Catherine by Neri di Landoccio, and had an idea 
of entering a religious order ; but not considering it right to leave 
his mother he made up hijs mind to marry. Catherine not being 
in Sienai at the time he to*ok this resolve he despatched a messen- 
ger to her with a letter, asking her which of three ladies whom he 
named she would prefer for his wife. It is quite evident from the 
answer that the saint thought it would have been much better for 
him to get over the scruple about his mother and follow the first 
inspiration he had received. But since the question was settled 
she prayed that the hand of the Lord might guide him, and coun- 
selled him under every circumstance to keep his eyes fixed on God, 
seeking always the divine honour and the good of his fellow- 
creatures. As for choosing a wife for him, she was very reluctant 
to interfere in such a matter, which was more suited for seculars 
than for such as she. But as she did not like to refuse his request, 
she told him that though all three were good it would be best for 
him to take the one that was first named, if he did not feel that her 
having been married before was an objection, and she prayed that 
God might greatly bless them both. When he had the saint's 
answer he was satisfied. He married ; and it is on record that he 
proved a good husband. Having been left after some years a 
widower, he assumed the habit of the Brotherhood of the Hospital 
of Santa Maria della Scala ; a black soutane and mantle with a 
hood, having on the left side as badge a little bit of yellow silk. He 
was the first to write about the Blessed Giovanni Colombini, and 
left memoirs, including an account of S. Catherine, whom he 
survived a great many years. He expired in the arms of Stefamo 
Maconi with htr name on his lips. Digitized byCjOOglC 

84 -^ Cihzen Saint 

Andrfea di Vanni, one of a race of artists, and himself a painter 
of eminence, was also among her disciples. We h^ve a letter written 
to him when he held the highest post in the republic, and was Ca- 
pitano del Popolo. It makes a picture in itself to fancy Andrea 
dressed in the fiery splendour of the commander — all, save the ash- 
coloured tunic, crimson and gold from cap lo shoe — receiving the 
saint^s letter from the hand of one of the other young men her 
envoys. In this letter she says she does not see how we can ever 
govern others properly unless we first learn how to rule ourselves : 
*' Non veggo il modo che noi potessimo ben reggere altrui, se 
prima non reggiamo noi medesimi." She instructs him how to 
prepare himself for Holy Communion ; how to administer justice 
truly ; and lays down rules by which he may keep his own soul and 
Siena in peace. She earnestly desires to see him an upright go- 
vernor, and to know that justice is maintained in '* our city." 

Vanni was sent on embassies from the republic to Avignon and 
to Naples. While in the latter city he painted several pictures. 
The portrait picture of the saint, still on the wall of San Domenico, 
is by the artist disciple. It is said that he also painted a head of 
Christ, representing the Saviour as he appeared to S. Catherine in 
her visions ; but of this work there remains no trace. 

In company with S. Catherine's friends and disciples Father 
Raymond used frequently see a young man of noble family, Fran- 
cesco Malavolti by name, who, having been left independent of 
control at an early age by the death of his parents, fell into all 
kinds of temptations, and though married led a wild life. He 
used to listen with great attention and admiration to the saint when 
his young friends brought him to see her, and for a time his con- 
duct would improve ; but afterwards he would fall back again into 
his old habits. She often prayed for his conversion, and once 
said to him, " You come to me, and then you fly away ; but one 
day or another I shall weave you such a net that you can never 
spread your wings again." In a letter to the unstable youth she 
says she writes in the anxious desire of seeing him return to the 
nest with his companions. She fears that the enemy of God has 
carried him so far away that he cannot now be brought back. And 
she his poor mother goes about seeking and calling for him, whom 
she would willingly take on her shoulders in the sorrow and com- 
passion she has for his soul. " Open, then, most dear son," she 
says, ** the eyes of your intellect and free yourself from the dark- 
ness that surrounds you. Acknowledge and reflect on your sins ; 
not that you may despair, but that you may know yourself and hope 
in the goodness of God. Just see what a wealth of grace, received 
from your heavenly Father, you have miserably squandered. Do 
now, like that prodigal son who wasted all his substance living 
riotously, but who, being reduced to necessity, confessed his folly 
and went to his father to ask forgiveness. Yes, do you also this ; 
for you are poor and needy, and your soul is famishing with hunger. 

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A Cihzen Satnt. 85 

Run, then, to your Father and sue for mercy ; for He will relieve 
you, and will not despise your desires founded on sorrow for 
sins committed ; He will even receive you with affection. Alas ! 
alas ! where have all your good desires flown to ? And how am 
not I to be pitied to see the demon carrying away your soul and all 
your noble aspirations ! The world and the slaves of the world 
have snared and held you in their seductive toils and sinful plea- 
sures. Come, now; hasten and take the remedy : awake, to sleep 
no more. Bring some comfort to my soul ; and be not so cruel to- 
your o^vn as to tarry in the coming. Let not the devil deceive you 
by fear or shame. Break the bonds that bind you, and make 
haste to come, dear son of mine. And truly I may call you dear, 
considering all the tears and sorrow and infinite bitterness you 
have caused me. Yes ; come now home to your nest. All the 
excuse I can offer to God is that I can do more. And whe- 
ther you come or whether you stay all I ask of you is that you do 
the will of God." The wild bird tarried long on the way, but flew 
home at last. 

Those whom Catherine had charmed away from a perverse ge- 
neration to live unspotted from the world ; those whom she led to 
clearer heights upon the narrow path they had already chosen, 
constituted her friends, her disciples, her family. Those are they 
whom she speaks of when she says to God : '* I offer and recom- 
mend to Thee my most deter children, for they are my very soul."^ 
Sheh«^d them for life, for death, and for eternity. The blessed 
in heaven, she says in the ** Dialogo^^ participate in a particular 
manner in the happiness of those with whom they were most closely 
united in affection while on earth. Their love made goodness grow 
in them. They were for one another an occasion of glorifying the 
name of God in themselves and in their neighbour ; and as the 
affection that united them is not destroyed in heaven they enjoy it 
in a fuller measure, and this very love augments their blessedness. 

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( 86 ) 


AT ATURE I love in all her moods, 
1\ But I more oft have sought her 
Where on the silence of green woods 

Breaks in the rush of water. 
The noise of streamlet's ceaseless flow 

Has soothed my spirit ever — 
Blank seems fair Nature's fairest show ' 

Without some gleaming river. 

Had I to own a grand estate — 

(The notion makes me shiver) — 
For these three things I'd stipulate : 

A lake, a hill, a river. 
Your dull, flat, woody parks may be 

Baronialler and broader — 
A glen for me 'twixt hills and sea, 

With a live stream like Dodder. 

Too long have I thy neighbour been. 

Dear Stream, without exploring 
Thy course amid the meadows green, 

Thy purling and thy roaring : 
For thou, too, placid Stream, hast roared. 

While in wild, wintry weather 
Thou hast thy mountain torrent poured 

Between the crags and heather. 

Thy mountain cradle's far away, 

Thy race is run ; and mine is 
Nearer perhaps — ah ! who can say 

How near? — unto its ^nis. 
And so from Life's loud, dusty road, 

A somewhat jaded plodder, 
I steal to this serene abode. 

And thee, suburban Dodder ! 

I lean me on this orchard wall 

And smell the pears and cherries — 
Each shrub and tree, both great and small. 

Stoops 'neath its load of berries. 
That redbreast thieving yonder, see ! 

Poor innocent marauder. 
The Seventh Commandment binds not thee 

A-robbin' near the Dodder. 

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' Domt hy the Dodder. 87 

And now our seaward ramble meets 

A rustic, quaint, and still town, 
Which you must spell with double / — 

God bless it, dear old Milltown ! 
Yet here, even here, one likes to dine 

Rich scenery 's poor fodder 
For poet going up the Rhine, 

Or going down the Dodder.* 

My song must cease, but thine goes on — 

Thy musical, meek murmur 
Broke Nature's silence ages gone — 

Thy voice has but grown firmer. 
In shade and shine, grave, gay, sing on, 

And scoop thy channel broader ; 
From dawn to dark, from dark to dawn, 

Flow on, sing on, O Dodder ! 

Flow on ! Poor Moore once warbled here 

" Flow on, thou shining river !" 
Thy race is run, the sea is near. 

My muse grows sad — forgive her. 
And as we've strewn upon thy banks 

Our very softest sawder. 
Flash back thy sunniest smile in thanks 

Upon thy Laureate, Dodder ! • 

I leave thee. Shall it be for aye, 

A river's long Forever ? 
" I will return," we often say. 

And yet return, ah ! never. 
Well, on Life's road, through dust or flowers, 

A not less useful plodder 
I'll be, please God, for these calm hours 

Spent on the banks of Dodder. 

M. R. 

• " I think ni go np the Rhine this summer," said a certain Baronet. 
** An d I," rejoined a certain Alderman, " will go down the Dodder." 

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( 88 ) 



Chapter XX. 

It was a few days after the Secret conference between Marguerite 
and Philip ; night had closed in ; the noise and stir of a large 
household had died away ; all had retired to rest, and Father de 
la Colombi^re was, as usual, wrapt in prayer before the Tabernacle, 
when he was startled by a low knock* at his door. A little boy 
stood on the threshold who bore a note. 

Father de la Colombi^re unfolded it and read the following 
lines in Margery's handwriting : — 

** Father — Rita is going. In half an hour it will be too late. Laure has 
only just discovered it. They are to meet in the girden ; he has by some means 
procured a key to a side gate. She will fly with him and be married by the Pro- 
testant rite. O Father, save her ! I-aure and I are waiting for yon in thg garden ; 
the side door by the fountain is open. Dismiss this child.'' 


With a few kind words the child was sent away. Father de la 
Colombi^re wrapped himself in his cloak, drew a low Spanish hat 
over his brows and descended to the garden. At the spot appointed 
he met Margery and her waiting maid, the former palQ and trem- 
bling. She pointed to a tree at some distance from them, where 
stood two closely veiled and mufifled figures. They were Mar- 
guerite and her attendant. 

Just as May and her two companions reached this spot, Philip 
Engleby with rapid steps entered the garden from a side gate and 
approached the party, saying: ** There is no time to be lost, 

He started back as he saw the intruders. " Ha ! what means 
this ?" he cried. 

" That you cannot take Lady Marguerite Clymne at this un- 
seemly hour from those who are bound to protect her," said Father 
de la Colombi^re. 

" Mon P^re," exclaimed Marguerite, " I pray you, do not inter- 
fere. I am mistress of my own actions. I go with my cousin and 
future husband by my own free act and will." 

"Hearest thou what the lady says?" said Philip, his face 
darkening with rage. " We want no spiritual fooling and priestly 
domination here. Stand back, Monsieur TAumdnier, or by 
Heaven Til make you repent it.'* 

** I shall not yield," said the priest. " I am parleying thus, 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters. 89 

only to shield Lady Marguerite's name from scandal ; but if you 
do not instantly withdraw and allow her to regain her chamber in 
safety, I will alarm the Household." 

Philip paused a moment as if irresolute* Father de la Colom* 
bi^re turned his gaze on Marguerite, to see the effect of his words ; 
but Margery's eyes were fixed on Philip. 

The priest moved nearer to Marguerite. In an instant some- 
thing glittered in the moonlight. May threw herself upon his arm. 
A low cry burst from her lips, and a gush of warm blood welled 
from her side. The blow aimed at the Father had struck the 
faithful child. 

With a gasp of horror Marguerite started forward and caught her 
sister in her arms. Philip, not even yet losing his self-possession, 
whispered to Marguerite : " Leave her to her maid and fly. In the 
confusion we shall escape." 

Marguerite did not answer even by a glance. With sobs of 
anguish she hung over the apparently lifeless form, while Father 
de la Colombi^re assisted by Laure and Victoire endeavoured to 
stanch the life-blood that was ebbing fast away. 

Muttering a curse, Philip bit his lip and turned away. " The 
game is up," said he between his teeth, as he let himself out at 
the garden gate. 

Victoire succeeded in bandaging the wound ; and then Laure, 
a strong, vigorous woman, lifted May's light form in her arms and 
carried her towards the palace. There was a sort of unspoken 
consent among the four actors in this strange scene to keep the 
occurrence if possible secret. They had been standing upon soft 
ea^h, and the rain which was beginning to fall would soon efface 
all evidence of the fray. 

Father de la Colombi^re regained his room unobserved, changed 
his dress, and anxiously awaited a summons to Lady Margery's 

In about an hour came the expected knock, and Monsieur Bon- 
jean, the little, fat, good-natured French doctor to the Duchess of 
York entered. 

"What! up again, Mon P^re?" said he, rubbing his hands; 
" if all the world thought as little of their lives as you do, my 
occupation would be gone. I have come to tell you that Lady 
Margery Clymne is very ill." 

"Indeed !" said the Father, "that is very sudden." 

" Very much so," returned the doctor : " stabs in the side have 
not, as far as I know, any premonitory symptoms. Now sir," con- 
tinued the little man, dropping his tone of banter, " I can keep a 
secret, if need be, as well as a priest Lady Margery did not stab 
herself; that is certain from the position of the wound. Neither 
do I think the little angel that she is would tell a lie to save a life. 
'Tis a wonderful creature that. . With those great eyes of hers 
fixed on you with a pleading look, a man feels he must do what 

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90 A Pearl in Dark Waters* 

she asks and not cross her. Well, when I had dressed her wound 
and bade her lie still, she would speak to me alone. Then stretch- 
ing forth her little hand, she said : * Doctor, you will keep this 
secret ?' I answered : * Ch^re demoiselle, a man cannot hold his 
tongue and see foul wrong without opening his lips. You are too 
generous. Your father is bound to punish this midnight assassin. 
I know you do not want the court to ring with your name, but 
Lord EdenKall must know.' 'If P^re de la Colombi^e agrees 
with me, will you consent?' she said. *Yes,' I replied, *I will 
leave the matter to his decision.' * Go then to him,' she said, * he 
will tell you all, and pray him to come to me when the morning 
breaks. I shall live till then ; shall I not ?• I nearly answered 
that she would live to laugh at her adventure, but someway the 
words stuck in my throat. I could not deceive those truthful eyes. 
So I simply answered 'there is no pressing danger if you obey my 
directions,' and I hastened here," 

" Then there is no hope ?" demanded Father de la Colom- 

" None whatever," replied the doctor. ** She has had her death- 
blow. She will not do more than get through the day that is dawn- 
ing this very Friday on which we have entered." 

" Jhe first Friday of the month," said Father de la Colombi^re 
to himself in a low tone ; and then he told Monsieur Bonjean the 
whole story. 

" I see," exclaimed the doctor, when it was finished ; " we must 
not drag Lady Marguerite's name through the mud. A precious 
rascal that fellow must be, I should like to wring his neck. Well, 
well ! there will be another angel in heaven before night. I do not 
know but that it is the only fit place for such as that fair flower. 
She is not meant for this world's gibes and turmoil. We must say 
it is bleeding at the lungs, and conceal the rest, I suppose." 

So saying he rose and wished Father de la Colombi^re farewell. 

Chapter XXI. 

The day passed on and the gentle life of Margery Clymne was 
passing with it. The Duchesse de Marigny and Alethea Howard 
watched by her side. Merry Kate Howard came with beating 
heart and swoln eyes to press a last kiss on the pale brow. Mary 
Beatrice wept over the attendant she had fondly loved. Beside 
the bed knelt Marguerite immovable to all save the sufferer. Not 
a word, not a look did she lose. She hung upon each syllable, 
she treasured up each glance. The love of their childhood, the 
affection of their riper years, which had seemed to be dried up and 
withered in her heart, sprang forth in life and vigour. No one 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters, 91 

dared to disturb her, no one save Father de la Colombidre ven- 
tured to speak to her, and he addressed her in few words. He 
knew the hour for human help and consolation had not yet come ; 
God was doing his own work in that agonized soul. 

The Father spent much time in the sick chamber ; but more 
than once the sisters were left alone. May could not speak often, 
for the loss of so much blood had brought on great exhaustion ; 
but the watchers in the adjoining chamber knew that she spoke to 
Marguerite. They could hear the low tones and the smothered 

Neither Lord nor Lady Edenhall came to break the peace of 
this death-scene. They were at Edenhall for a few days, and the 
swiftest courier could not let them know in time. 

** 'Twas a pity," said the Ladies Howard and the Duchess. 
**That dying saint," exclaimed Kate, ** might convert harder 
hearts than even the stem Earl and the worldly Qountess." 

•* She lies there, looking like a broken lily," sobbed Alethea ; 
" what shall I do without her ?" 

Oh I cry of anguish that has burst from so many hearts in this 
weary vale of tears. Blessed are those of whom it is said. It tells 
the certain tale that they have done their work, that they have com- 
forted the hearts of others, and shed a bright light of example 
amidst the weary maze of this world. 

The belief that May was a saint had for long been growing up 
in the minds of her intimate friends. She spoke little on spiritual 
subjects, and her life was unmarked by any extraordinary action. 
But sanctity is an atmosphere, and in it May dwelt. 

Well, she was dying, now, and still her words were few, her 
actions simple. There was nothing thrilling or exciting around 
that death-bed. A stranger would have deemed May did not know 
she was dying. But she knew it well ; only, for her death had . no 
fears. She was going to Him in whom her life had been hidden, 
on whom all her thoughts were set, to whom she had given her 

But May was a child of earth, and even her death was not without 
its suffering. She was a follower of the Crucified, and she must 
needs feel the shadow of His cross. He had to part from His 
sinless mother ; May had to bid farewell to her erring sister. 

" O May I" wailed Rita, " do not leave me. Too late I know 
what you are to me. The glamour is gone, the devil is cast out. 
Could I dwell by your side, I should be safe. Without you. what 
can become of me } Oh ! May, ask God to let you stay .?" 

Father de la Colombi^re was in the room. May turned her 
pleading eyes to him, and he answered the mute question in these 
words : ** She shall be my special care. As long as God suffers 
me, I will never forsake her." 

" Life is short, Rita love," said the dying girl ; " and to me it 


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gi A Pearl in Dark Waters. 

seems but a day since mine began. Your*s will soon pass, and we 
shall be together — for ever." 

Her voice grew weak. A sudden grey shade crept over her 

Father de la Colombi^re made a sound which brought in 
Alethea, the Duchesse, Laure, and Victoire. He began the prayers 
for the dying, and the women responded. 

Early in the day May had been anointed and had received the 
Viaticum. Prayers were all she needed to help her in her passage 
home. As Henriette de Marigny and Alethea looked up, they 
fancied they could almost see the bright company of angels coming 
to meet her ; they could almost hear the choir of virgins singing 
jubilees who were to receive her. Did May see them, hear them 
too ? Or were her wondering eyes fixed on a greater sight ? They 
were open wide, like a child's that sees for the first time some 
marvellous and beauteous spectacle. A look of astonished rapture 
transformed her face. The colour came into her cheeks. Her 
hands dropped the crucifix and were locked together. Yea, Mar- 
gery, oft hast thou meditated on Him, oft hast thy heart pictured 
His ** mild and festive aspect." Those thoughts were shadows ; 
this is the reality. Thy eyes have seen the King in His beauty. 
Thou hast entered the land that is very far off. 

Lord and Lady Edenhall returned to London with all speed, 
and their first meeting with Marguerite took place in the chamber 
of death. Nothing could induce Marguerite to quit the corpse. 
She never slept and never tasted any food save a few drops that 
Mary Beatrice herself, standing by her, cup in hand, compelled 
her to swallow. 

Margery was most beautiful in death. A smile hovered on her 
lips, and her features looked as if chiselled in ivorj'. A crucifix 
was between her clasped hands, and on her breast lay a little pic- 
ture she had drawn herself, of the Saviour opening His side and 
showing His Sacred Heart. She was in all probability the first 
person on whose death-cold breast the image of the Heart of burn- 
ing love, her refuge in life, her rest in death, was laid. 

By the side of the corpse sat Marguerite nearly as pale and as 
silent as her dead sister. 

Many wondered that Lady Edenhall came at all. She was 
known not to be fond of being brought face to face with death. 
The truth was she wanted to get over her first interview with Mar- 
guerite, and she thought it would be easier to do it on an occasion 
when both would be under a sort of unwonted excitement, and 
when surrounding circumstances would make the change in their 
relative positions less obvious. 

Marguerite endured her father's kisses, though she never 
answered him when he asked kindly after her health, and never 
rose to her feet. But when his wife approached, her eyes flashed 
fire ; and Lady Edenhall, cowed for once in her life, drew back. 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters. 93 

The suddenness of May's death did not excite much surprise. 
It had somehow been said she had broken a blood-vessel on her 
lungs ; and people repeated this, while no one could trace the 
quarter from whence the report sprang. May had always been a 
fragile creature, and her untimely ending therefore was looked upon 
without surprise. Lord Edenhall made a few inquiries of her maid 
and seemed satisfied. 

Lady Edenhall was anxious to get away. As she entered the 
corridor, she met Father de la Colombi^re so suddenly that invo- 
luntarily the priest raised his eyes, and his glance of deep compas- 
sion fell on the Countess. He started back as a look of deep, 
burning hatred answered him. 

" Yes," she said in low tones, *' I have done wisely to escape 
the snares in which you have entangled those poor giris. One lies 
there a victim to your power ; the other, I suppose, will follow in 
her steps. Doubtless," she sneered, "you think the sight of the 
pale corpse decked out with flowers, and with some horrible picture 
lying on her bosom, would move me to repentance. Pardon, Mon- 
sieur rAumonier, I am not so easily caught. Hear me," she con- 
tinued, in hard, eager tones, " by that dead girl I vowed that I will 
drive you from the place. This cursed devotion you practise shall 
not gain ground in this free land, beware, beware in time. Yield, 
or my vengeance is sure." 

Lord Edenhall's step was heard in the distance approaching, 
yet she looked eagerly in the priest's face for an answer. But the 
Father did not reply to her. He only said in a low tone : ** I will 
fear no evils, for Thou art with me." 

H 2 

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94 j 


OH ! there are times when love will speak, 
And memories crowd, and feelings throng,. 
And words rush upward to the lips, 
And shape themselves in tones of song. 

As streams will flow when wells grow deep 
And music make along their way, 
So kneeling here at Mary's feet, 
Mv heart overflows with love to-dav. 

O gentle Lady ! gracious Queen ! 
O Lady ! good and kind to me, 
rd give my blood, I*d give my life. 
To gain one glory more for thee ! 

Ah me ! the foolish words and vain — 
Thou couldst not be more sweet and fair. 
And I, so full of sins and faults. 
That wants must make my daily prayer. 

O gentle Lady, gracious Queen ! 
Forgive a sinner's lay like mine, 
When saintly hands write well thy praise, 
And poet-hearts throb in each line. 

And so 'twill be for evermore. 

As swift the ages roll along ; 

Love's pulse will thrill the burning rhyme. 

While flows for thee the tide of song. 

God wills it, and it must be so. 
The lesson sweet Himself first taught — 
He lisped thy name. He sought thy care, 
To thee His childish sorrows brought. 

He hid His face oft in thy robes, 
And played with thee as children play ; 
He watched thy smile, He caught thy sigh. 
He thought of thee by night and day. 

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A Christmas Song. 95 

His eyes have lingered on thy face, 

O Lady, beautiful and fair ; 

His boyish hands with fond caress 

Have pressed thy brow, and stroked thy hair. 

He knelt to seek in manhood's prime 
Thy blessing and thy leave that day, 
Ere yet He went to give for us 
The life He owed to thee away. 

And so 'twill be through endless years, 
As swift the ages roll along — 
Love's pulse will thrill the burning rhyme, 
And waike for thee the tide of song. 

M. My. R. 


THE connecting link between these three who have certainJy never been 
linked together before, is nothing less than the Precious Leg of Miss 
Kilmanseg. In one of the pensive passages "with which the pathetic 
humourist who sang the " Song of the Shirt " relieves the drollery of that incom- 
parable burlesque, these lines occur : — 

*• And oh ! when the blessed diurnal light 
Is quenched by the providential night, 

To render our slumbers more certain — 
Pity, pity the wretches who weep, 
For tney must be wretched who cannot sle2p 

When God himself draws the curtain." 

Poor Hood beyond all doubt never read St. John Chrysostom's treatise on 
Compunction, yet here he keeps very close to the very words of the followng pas- 
sage towards the beginning of the second book in which the same idea occurs : — 
" When mothers wish to put their little ones to sleep, they take and rock them 
gently in their arms, then hide them away under curtains and leave them quiet. 
So R-ovidence spreads darkness as an immense curtain over the world to hush 
nature to silence and invite men to rest from their labours." 

It is highly improbable, as I might show from an examination of dates and 
circumstances, that Mother Mary Catherine M'Aulay, Foundress of the Sisters of 
Mercy, ever saw either in Hood or Chrysostom this idea which she herself in 
tura uses as an illustration when recommending to her nuns a certain graceful 
quietness of tone and manner. " See (she says) how silently and brilliantly the 
lamp of the sanctuary bums before the most Holy Sacrament when the oil is 
pore and good : it is only when the oil is bad, that it crackles and makes a noise. 
See, too, now quietly the great God does all His mighty works. Darkness is 
spread over us, and light returns again, and there is no noise of drawing curtains 
or closing shutters." 

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( 96 ) 


By the Author of "Nancy Hutch and her Three Troubles." 

Part IV. 

When the thread of this story was broken short two months since, 
we left Mrs. George Richardson and Miss Travers taking a cup of 
tea at day-dawn by the fire in Mr. Tottenham's dressing-room, 
after having sat up through the night together by the old man's 

** But," Mary George resumed, after a silence long enough to 
allow of her thoughts returning leisurely from her own sick bed to 
Uncle Tottenham's, " I dare say the old man himself was not 
without more ready money in the house ?" 

" I don't exactly know indeed," replied Miss Travers. 

" It isn't likely that he was," rejoined the former, as she sur- 
veyed a substantial, brass-bound, Bramah-locked desk that stood 
on one end of the table at which both ladies were seated. 

" Anything but that I" said Miss Travers to herself, as she ob- 
served the look so directed. 

** I wonder where she is going! Is it to get the key ?" thought 
Mary George, as the young girl, having said to her : ** Excuse me 
a moment ! " hastily rose and left the room. 

It was to her that her employer would look for finding things 
as he had kept them, was Miss Travers' thought, as she went back 
to the room in which he lay. She could make Mrs. George 
Richardson welcome — heartily welcome so far as she was con- 
cerned, to all the other keys — but this key was quite a different 
matter. Having then searched for and found it in the sick man's 
old-fashioned fob, she secured it in her own purse ; and steadily 
determining that so far as in her lay there it should remain, she 
returned to the room and seat that she had quitted, and silently 
finished her cup of tea. By this time it had occurred to her that 
by pointing out other ways and means of supply she might, at least 
for the present, evade all question of reference to Mr. Tottenham's 
desk. With this end in view she said to Mary George: 

" Perhaps you do not know that it is Mr. Frazer, the attorney, 
who manages Mr. Tottenham's money. I dare say he would ad- 
vance Mr. Richardson any you may want." 

Mary George made no response aloud. ** Mr. Frazer ! " thought 
she. This was an odd way in which two and two were brought 
together. It was awkward, to say the least of it, as she shrewdly 
guessed that he was not the person to whom George would be 
readiest to go for money. ** But no matter," she argued, after 
a few moments' reflection upon her side, " a week or so's expenses 

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John Richardson's Relatives. 97 

— should the old man hold out through a second week without 
coming to sufficiently to act for himself— could not come to so 
very, very much, particularly if managed as she meant to manage 
matters, it might be well worth risking, or even losing, if by so 
doing others were kept from putting their fingers in the pie here. 
By the end of that week they, that is to say herself and George, 
probably should see their way before them. After all, then, what 
was it but a sheer waste of time to sit still, thinking of what might 
have to be done that day fortnight?" 

This querying conclusion was spoken aloud. But it was Miss 
Travers' turn to hear and say nothing ; or, what is more likely, to 
say nothing because she had not heard. While her companion 
speculated on the future, she was looking back upon the past ; and 
with her face now turned towards the fire, and eyes seemingly fixed 
on it, she sat still and silent, as if fallen asleep. Seeing which, 
Mary George, being by no means given to talking for talk's sake, 
contentedly reverted to thoughts of how George and the nursery 
would get on at home without her, as she tidied up the tea cups, 
then took off the night-cap, put on (as if for bed) precisely as the 
clock struck eleven the night before, and proceeded to make her 
morning toilet in anticipation of an early visit from the doctor. 

Miss Travers, meantime, was dwelling on that occurrence of the 
day before which so strangely had brought her and Mrs. George 
Richardson together. Old Nurse Nelly had pronounced off-hand 
that her master could have got no shock ; and Doctor Franklin 
had agreed with her. ** But how could they know ? " asked Miss 
Travers of herself. She had, or at least thought she had, good 
reasons for holding the contrary opinion. How often did those 
very papers that she daily read to the old man supply instances of 
other men, believed by their friends to be prosperous and happy 
till suddenly found shot or poisoned, in mad endeavour to escape 
distress they were not Christian enough to live through I And if 
it really was true that Mr. Tottenham could get no shock, how was 
it that she sometimes had seen him look out anxiously for letters, 
seem nervous as he opened and relieved when he had read them ? 
Since he had no children to be anxious about, no friends so valued 
as to make his hand shake or his breath come short in anticipa- 
tion of ill tidings of them, then the letters that so moved him 
must be on money matters. Could she suppose that it was simply 
as news of the day that he took so lively an interest in the share- 
lists that he sometimes bade her read to him, sometimes looked 
over himself, before her task began, seeming now to dwell on one 
item, now upon another ? That he had at least glanced at this 
very list a moment before the fit prostrated him was not only pos- 
sible but probable. Could she be certain that he had looked at 
it, she would feci all but certain that in it might- be found the 
immediate if not the sole cause of his sudden seizure. Whether 
he had or had not, she vainly endeavoured to decide. There 

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98 John Richardson's Relatives. 

seemed a for and against in particulars that she had as yet told to 
no one ; and these she now thought over, considering and recon- 
sidering them one by one again. 

Mr. Tottenham had been looking, talking, and walking just as 
usual, she remembered, up to the time at which the morning's 
post and a local newspaper were brought together into their sitting 
room. Two letters and a newspaper made up the post. Both 
papers were laid upon the table ; the letters she herself passed on 
to Mr. Tottenham. These plainly contained nothing of an agitat- 
ing import ; nay, more, she judged that they were nearly alike, of 
no material import whatsoever. The first opened was, as she 
knew by the familiar handwriting of the address, from Mr. Frazer, 
who, she felt assured, would have brought instead of writing any 
tidings that could thus affect so old, so valued, and valuable a 
client. Moreover, Mr. Tottenham after running his eye over the 
few lines enclosed, thrust it carelessly into his coat pocket. If of 
consequence he would without delay consign it to his desk. The 
second was but a bill which he handed back' to her with — he was 
in all things a systematic man — a request to file it at once, and to 
put him in mind, should he happen to forget, to pay it before the 
week's end. These then, she considered, might be set aside as in 
nowise touching on the cause — if cause there had been — of his 
illness. Between the two newspapers it was that her thoughts 
went to and fro. 

That she had left him seemingly quite well when going to put 
the bill given her on a file that hung in the pantry ; and returning, 
after an absence of perhaps five minutes, found him lying back in 
his chair in that fit in which he still remained, was what she had 
told freely to all inquirers. What she had not told, and did not 
for the present mean to tell, was that the local newspaper opened 
out before she left the room in readiness to begin her customary 
morning's task of reading it aloud, lay upon the floor beside him ; 
having, no doubt, fallen from his hand at the moment of his 
seizure. He must have stood up, or at least leaned forward, pur- 
posely to take it. He then could see the unopened paper lying 
where she had placed it underneath. Its direction was not to the 
old man, but to his dead wife. This was why she had taken the 
precaution to put it for the moment — as she fancied she was doing 
— safely out of sight, purposing to open it herself and, if asked 
no question, to let him suppose, as a thing of course, that the ad- 
dress was to him. That he had had the opened paper in his hand 
she looked upon as certain. And now the questions she vainly 
strove to settle with herself were these : Had he taken notice of 
the one unopened ? Had he got the shock that, despite the nurse 
and doctor's reasoning, she held that he had got from anything in 
print on the one paper, or from sight of the address upon the 
other, bringing, as it well might, suddenly together to his mind 
the remembrances of what had been, and of what never again 

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John Richardson* s Relatives. 99 

could be in his lonely life ? Limited as were her own experiences 
she had once felt the force of that sharp shock that seems shot 
through and through us when put to the question for our dead as 
though they yet lived. And she might have rested satisfied that 
in this she had found the most likely oause, but for the fact that 
Mr. Tottenham had himself being speaking of his trouble, sadly 
indeed but calmly, a few moments before ; saying, as he bade her 
file the bill (which was from the undertaker) :. ** When that is closed 
I shall have seen the last of my poor Sarah I ** 

Now, the young girl fancied that those recollections of his wife as 
dead made it most unlikely that the mere sight of her name, written 
by any hand, could five minutes after so affect him. And then again 
she almost decided that they were the very thoughts to fore-run a 
revulsion of feeling strong enough to overpower an aged and soli- 
tary man. 

But when again and again she had gone over the incidents of 
the previous day, as well as those of many other days of her four 
years' residence in the house, and taken into account, one with 
another, all probabilities, it was but to find herself, whether she 
would or not, returning with more and more belief in it to 
her first instant conviction, as she saw the opened paper lying by 
Mr. Tottenham's chair, -that in that column, which she could as 
easily interpret as she could read off so much short-hand, an 
initiated eye would find what struck the old man down. 

Left much to her own thoughts day after day during the four 
years passed within her present home, and with few sources of 
amusement within reach, Miss Travers very naturally had taken 
pleasure in seizing, as they came her way, odds and ends of infor- 
mation about the previous lives of the lonely old couple to whom 
she seemed to stand in stead of family and friends. Those acqui- 
sitions she stored up as she did the bits for the old lady's favourite 
patchwork : to be, like them, taken out and pieced together on 
occasion. As a whole they formed a something different from 
what was known to ox imagined by Mr. Tottenham's relatives, or 
his nearest and most prying neighbours. 

Long before the present time she had come to the conclusion 
that he already had had losses. More than that indeed, she was 
persuaded that he once had been, or to himself and some few others 
seemed to be, upon the very brink of ruin ; and that during those 
dark days had come to pass — a nine days' wonder in their circle of 
acquaintances — that sudden departure for India of Giles Totten- 
ham the younger, to which the old lady would at times refer as 
" the banishment of her poor, dear lad," and Nurse Nelly more 
darkly allude to by " those were them transported that did nothing 
to deserve it." 

Outside the family Miss* Travers had sometimes heard this 
occurrence talked over. By some, who plainly knew little or 
nothing of young Giles, it was attributed to the natural desire of a 

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lOo yohn Richardson's Relatives. 

brother to see an only sister. By others, rather better informed as 
to his character, it was set down as the whim of a spoiled and ex- 
travagant young man, anxious to escape even the lax restraint 
imposed on him by foolishly fond adopted parents, and secure of 
the welcome of the prodigal whenever it should please him to 
return. But she long since had felt assured that he had gone in 
search of fortune, and gone unwillingly. The old people, to a 
certainty, had been loath to part with him. The voyage, then, 
she argued, needs must at the time have been a measure of ne- 

*• That happened in times you know nothing of, child — how 
could you ? Nobles don't be long * coming to ninepence.* But 
there are ups in the world as well as downs, thanks be to God ! 
* All isn*t lost that's in danger ; ' and if my advice was asked, maybe 
them that are lying low where they had no call to go would be 
here to enjoy their own. Marriage isn't the only thing people da 
in haste to repent at leisure." 

These oracles, and many of the same sort, were delivered at 
different times and apropos to various circumstances, by old Nurse 
Nelly. Sometimes they were spoken to Miss Travers herself, or ta 
the younger servants ; but more frequently at one or both of her 
employers. Occasionally ** the wind of a word" exchanged be- 
tween the old folk themselves, not always — especially on the lady's 
side — marked by the softness of the zephyr, followed up Nurse 
Nelly's saws and instances, and confirmed the impressions they 
had made. 

From such materials (scanty enough, she well knew, to be 
scouted by others as groundwork of a belief in which she stood 
alone) had Miss Travers by slow degrees built up for herself the 
story of how old Giles Tottenham had, mainly at his wife's desire, 
retired from business earlier in life than men making money are 
often seen to do ; how, weary of inactivity, or urged by a renewed 
desire to realise that ** enough" which has been shrewdly defined 
as ** always something more than what a man has," he soon, 
without leave asked of his wife, turned his thoughts and funds to- 
speculation ; how he had won, and won ; and then lost, or nearly 
lost, his all ; and how he since had won again. And now the 
question, ** Had he indeed once more lost ? " seemed, as to its 
probability, to hang upon that other question : Had she rightly 
construed all those little things which one by one might appear so 
many nothings, but which taken together had proved sufficient to 
convince herself } 

Fresh from a boarding school, which she quitted to become Mrs. 
Tottenham's companion. Miss Travers could have little knowledge 
of the world of business beyond that made up of scattered glean- 
ings throughout the world of books. Amongst these she had 
picked up the fact (which perhaps her speculations upon old Tot- 
tenham's life had helped to keep in mind) that there come crises in 

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John Richardson's Relatives. i o i 

men's lives when a mere rumour of their losses will ruin the credit 
which those losses taken alone may hut endanger ; when an in- 
discreet word spoken by friend or foe may prove a word of doom. 
It was therefore not simply as a curious question that the cause of 
the old man's illness presented itself to her. It touched, or ap- 
peared to her to touch, on a more pressing one, called up by Mary 
George's cross-examination-like survey of his writing-desk : Were 
his private papers to be pried into whilst he still lived, and whilst 
possibly — if not altogether probably — he might yet live on, and re- 
cover to be angered, perhaps injured, by such an inquisition ? 

With this unsettled and unsettling question troubling both her 
head and heart, she sat on, wrapt in thought, and motionless, 
opposite Mary George's vacant chair long after that busy house- 
wife left the room ; till the fire which, useful and cheerful though 
it was at first, had not been made with lavish hand, burned low 
and lower, and at last burned out. But as the risen sun had 
brought with it the warmth of a June morning, no fresh chill came 
to make her conscious of how long she had been there, and she 
still continued to think out her thoughts. 

•* Pity it was," she said to herself, " that it had not struck her 
to send for Mr. Frazer on the previous morning when the doctor 
was the only person thought of. Then she might have taken it on 
herself to do so. It would have seemed a most natural and prudent 
thing to do ; all might be kept right without further interference 
upon her part, and she herself be free of the responsibility that 
weighed upon her so. But now her own position was altered. 
With the old man's next-of-kin in actual possession of the house, 
how could she, a stranger, call in another stranger, old and trusted 
friend though he may be ?" 

She might yet indeed write to him and no one be the wiser ; 
and, perhaps, so devolve on him a trust which at present she held 
to be her own. But again, she thought, if — as was quite possible — 
Mr. Tottenham's illness had arisen out of any step taken without 
or against Mr. Frazer's counsel, was it for her to arouse suspicion 
of the fact ? And, to cap the climax of her perplexities, she re- 
membered that an advice once given her by Mr. Frazer himself, as 
the golden rule for her guidance in the house of hfer employer — 
" Hear, see, and say nothing," — ran counter to her speaking even 
to him on Mr. Tottenham's affairs. 

At long last one happy thought flashed across her mind, showing 
a practical way out of her difficulty. What Mr. Frazer would most 
probably have done if called on yesterday —set seals upon Mr. 
Tottenham's desk — she herself might manage to get done to-day. 
In many books that she had read (she could not tell how many) 
when the rich man of the story died, leaving his friends uncertain 
as to who should be his heir, the persons concerned, or others 
acting for them, jointly set their seals upon chests, desk, &c., sup- 
posed to hold effects of value, and so kept all safe for the right 

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I02 John Richardson* s Relatives, 

owner. Now, though poor Mr. Tottenham was not dead, he was 
helpless as the dead to protect his secrets, which (as she judged 
from a something besides books) might be what he would most 
desire to set a safeguard on, and keep unknown to all the world. 

Suppose, then, she were to ask the doctor and Mr. George 
Richardson to put their seals on the desk, curiosity, whether idle 
or interested, would be barred out once for all while Mr. Totten- 
ham lived. They might indeed wonder at a little girl like her pro- 
posing such a thmg. But that she wouldn't mind a bit, if they 
should but consider it a right thing to do, and do it. She did not 
think either gentlemen likely to look on it in any other light Dr. 
Franklin was just what one might expect him to be from his name : 
an honest, straightforward man. He spoke little for a doctor (at 
school she had seen a good deal of other doctors who talked ten 
words to his one) ; but when he did speak, it was to say what he 
thought, and not what other people wished him to say. There 
was a something about Mr. George Richardson, too, that she felt 
inclined to like — much better than she did anything in Mrs. George 
except her cleverness. 

Her course thus decided on, though not without a little flutter- 
ing at the heart as she faced the prospect of so bold a step, she 
resolved to watch for and seize the very earliest opportunity that 
might present itself; as she did not know what moment she might 
be called on to give up the key. One of the Mr. Deanes, she 
knew, was an attorney. He might think that he had a right to see 
to everything ; even should I\Irs. George Richardson make no 
such motion upon her part. 

Whilst thinking these last thoughts she was already on the way 
to her own room ; just stopping for a moment to look in on the 
sick man and make sure that there was still no change. She quickly 
brought back with her a taper, matches and sealing-wax ; and 
with these at hand she purposed staying by her charge till the 
arrival of one or both the gentlemen. The doctor, the clock gave 
warning, could not be long in coming. Instead of again 
sitting down meantime, she kept walking to and fro. By walking 
quickly and trying to think of something else, she fancied she best 
should keep her courage up. At all but the first sound of the doc- 
tor's carriage- wheels she was out on the stairs, running quickly, 
though very softly, down. And before the doctor's man could 
reach the door she had it open. Fortune, she then saw, had al- 
ready favored her more than she had had any reason to count 
upon. George Richardson, picked up half-way on his early walk 
to learn how his grand-uncle had passed the night, was stepping 
from the carriage, the doctor following. Having ascertained from 
her report that no apparent change had taken place in the con- 
dition of the patient, both gentlemen alike lent a willing ear to her 
request that they would **step in here a moment," on coming to 
the dpor of the old man's dressing-room. 

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yohn Richardson! s Relatives, 103 

*' This," she said, steadying herself by laying her hand on it,. 
" is Mr. Tottenham's private desk. His papers are in it, I believe. 
I have the key. It is to me he will look for it, if he recover. I 
should like, if you both would be so kind, to have your seals on it. 
I think it would be right.** 

Had Miss Travers not been too pre-occupied, and almost 
agitated by timidity and nervous anxiety at once, she might have 
noticed something like a smile, repressed by habitual prudence^ 
pass over Dr. Franklin*s face ; and something like a blush, which 
could not be repressed, upon George Richardson's : the same 
thought possibly glancing through the mind of each. 

Feeling that as "next-of-kin** present it was his part here 
to take precedence of the doctor, George replied at once, with an 
almost eager readiness, more than answering to Miss Travers* 
expectations. He said — ** Quite right, / think, too, Miss Travers. 
You," to the doctor, ** will not object }" 

" No ; after you. And as you also wish it, I do not think I 
need," the doctor said, replying at the same time to entreaty in 
George*s voice and Miss Travers' countenance. 

With all appliances before them, it was but a moment's work. 
The desk was sealed ; thanks given for their ready kindness ; and 
both gentlemen were again on their way to see the patient after a 
delay so short from the moment of the carriage drawing up, as not 
even to have arrested Mary George*s notice. Miss Travers follow- 
ing more slowly, with a lightened heart, took her customary place 
in the sick room, whilst the nurse attended to some fresh direc- 
tions given by the doctor. 

"I am going a little way out of town to make my next call, or 
I should be glad to take you home," Dr. Franklin said to 
George, as they quitted Mr. Tottenham's room ; ** but I can give 
you a seat as far as Cross-street.** 
** Thank you,** returned George. 

** But he had much better walk, doctor," added his wife. "He 
can't be got to take exercise enough.** 

" I dare say I had,** agreed George, understanding that, care 
for his constitution apart, his wife wished him to outstay the 
doctor. " I am in no haste. The day is young ; and Tve got 
nothing particular to do before twelve o'clock.** 

" I wish I could call so much time my own,** rejoined the doc- 
tor, who probably understood this bit of by-play as well as the 
performers. " Good-day, then ;** and with smile and bow to Mary 
George, whom he expected to see again by and by, he departed. 

Left to themselves, the pair entered the room in which Miss 
Travers had passed so much of the morning, and in which the 
sealed desk now stood witness of her occupation. 

'* Who did that ? *' Mary George said, stopping suddenly be- 
fore it. 

" Franklin and I," responded George. 

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I04 John Richardson's Relatives. 

"Why so?" 

** Well, Miss Travers asked us." 

"Well!" echoed his wife, but in a tone that to George's ear 
meant ill ; " I didn't think that girl had so much '' 

** She was quite right," George said, briskly, as his wife paused 
to find a word to convey her thoughts not too strongly. *' That is 
one part of women's rights that every man of business would wish 
conceded to them." 

** What ! to seal up other people's desks ?** 

" To be taught to know how matters of business should be 
managed, in the proper, business-like, straightforward way ; as 
men of any sense would see at a glance they had better be man-* 
aged. And then they would not be led into the underhand, 
childish courses they sometimes take, bringing trouble on them- 
selves and others." 

Saving a significant "'Hem !" Mary George let this speech 
pass without acknowledgment. The thing itself was done. She 
understood its matter-of-course irreversibility. Let money come 
or come not whence it might, that possible resource was closed. 
She would waste no words on it, jiist then at least. Setting aside, 
probably for after- thought, Miss Travers' share in the transaction, 
she turned without delay to the next item on the list' that she had 
mentally made up for settlement with her husband ; it seemed, in- 
deed, the best possible " Roland for his Oliver." 

** Mr. Frazer — I suppose the Frazer you had to do with — is the 
old man's attorney ?" she said. 

"Is he? I didn't know!" George exclaimed with a start. 
" You didn't ask anybody, surely ?" he added, doubtingly. 

" No ; I found it out by chance : settling about — about what might 
be wanted with Miss Travers. She told me it is to Frazer the old 
man always sends to get his orders cashed. You may have to go 
to him for money if your uncle holds on long as he is now. 
Unless he had it in his desk, there was very little in the house." 

" I shouldn't like it," George returned, more decisively than 
was his wont in meeting his wife's suggestions. ** Frazer might 
think what isn't the case — knowing how I was pushed for money 
not long since. Besides," he added, after a moment's silent 
thought, including (his wife judged from a side glance cast upon 
the desk) at least a half regret for his precipitate and unadvised 
action thereupon, " that might be a cross kind of business. 
Frazer would probably require a guarantee from some one or more 
of us — the Deanes, John, and myself — before advancing money ; 
unless Uncle Tott has made a will in favour of any one of us and 
he knows of it. But," he said, after a moment's silence, and 
brightening up as if with a happy second thought, "couldn't Miss 
Travers go to him, that is, when 'tis really wanted of course :*" 

" I suppose she could," returned his Mary. " Whether she 
would ,or not, seems to be another thing. Perhaps she might 

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John Richardson's Relatives. 105 

at vour desire, as yon were so very ready to obey hers. She 
appears to be a little too high-handed, considering her position, 
for me to like to have much dealing with." 

•* High-handed ? not a bit of it !" George thought ; ** he could 
pledge his life on that." But be wisely kept to himself this diffe- 
rence of opinion, and said merely : " Well, / have no objection 
to try if she will when you want it" 

" Oh ! well, I don't want it yet. There's no immediate call for 
it : and we had better try to manage without him as long as we 

" No doubt of it," agreed George. 

" Whether or not indeed," pursued she, ** I have been thinking 
it would be as well to keep down expenses here. We might not 
be thanked for having made an open house for all comers." 

*• You forget," George said, ** that all comers likely to come 
have as good a right to come and stay and spend as you and I." 

" Not quite, if we have all the trouble of — of everything. And 
/ don't intend to stay in an expensive way — nor to let others do 
so either," she added, but only in her own mind — not quite sure 
that George would approve of her projected tactics, and '* seeing no 
earthly use of her being so simple as to explain all to him just 

" At all events," George said, following out the line that his 
own thoughts had taken from his wife's starting-point, ** I dare say 
the Deanes must be let know .how poor old Uncle Tott is ?" 

''/daresay they'll hear it soon enough; and come bothering 
soon enough, too. You don't think it will give them much trouble 
of mind .?" 

** Not more than it gives us, very likely. But appearances — if 
nothing else — must be kept up. It would look strange if you and 
I seemed to take possession of the old man, and keep his illness 
secret. John, too " 

** Strange !" echoed his wife, interrupting him. "I declare I 
don't understand your family ! You spend your lives wide asunder 
and as if nothing to each other. But when Death shows his face, 
you must get together, all of you — as if that would mend matters." 

"Well," returned George, whose mind had taken somewhat 
more of the tone befitting the apprehension of that awful visitor, 
" after all, isn't that natural enough ? Does not Death bring all 
men together ? " 

" Oh 1 you'll just give me the blues ; and I want to keep up," 
rejoined his Mary, rising abruptly to break up the conjugal con- 

** I'll call on Achilles, and he can let Giles know," concluded 

"If you will, you will, you know," replied his wife. This was 

. a not unusual mode of signifying that she had come round to his 

opinion, or at least did not, for reasons of her own, choose to give 

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io6 John Richardson's Relatives^ 

further opposition ; and was fully understood as such by George, 
She now had indeed just reflected that if the Deanes were to come 
(and come they ultimately would no doubt I ) it was perhaps as 
well to know precisely when they might be looked for. This point 
George's call on them would fix wiihin, probably, an hour or two. 
" But I am sure," she said, as her husband, seeing her about to 
quit the room, prepared to leave it too, ** I am quite sure there's 
no occasion for your going to-day. To-morrow will be soon 
enough. You must see yourself, and so would they if they were 
here, that there's no use in any one but the few that are wanted 
coming about a poor man that knows nobody yet." 

** You may be right on that point," George said, reflectively; 
probably not altogether sorry to be provided with a feasible plea 
for not doing to-day what he might put off" till the morrow. 

Upon this understanding, then, they parted. To give George 
his breakfast there would, economy apart, be inconsistent more 
or less with the course that his wife had laid down for herself. 
Therefore she now let him go without even an allusion to that 
meal. She knew that it would be comfortably served to him at 
home ; and so, of course, did George. If he had indeed thought that 
his stay would be expected or desired, he now said to himself as 
he turned his face homeward that ** this was cutting things close ! " 
He perhaps was, on the whole, not ill-pleased to find himself ort 
the way back to his own cheerful room, easy chair and morning 
paper, and freedom to appear as well as he in spirits to enjoy them 

On her side, Mar>' George, intent on something more than the 
hastening of her own breakfast, proceeded to the kitchen, where her 
favour and influence were notably on the increase. The early 
morning hours that Miss Travers had spent in reverie j>6^ had given 
to action. Such was her habit of mind that she hardly could see any- 
thing anywhere wanting to be done without a wish to do it. And 
thus, perhaps without a special motive urging her to what she did, 
she had gone hither and thither through the house, putting a hand 
to everj'thing not likely to lessen her fitness to present herself at a 
moment's warning before Dr. Franklin. So that when the servants 
came down stairs it seemed to them as though the Fairy Good-will 
had been at work while they were sleeping. And now all that was 
needed to complete the conviction that ** she was a clever, kind, 
considerate lady as ever they met" was added by the carefully 
pre-arranged little speech with which she followed up her direc- 
tions for breakfast. ** First," she said, " the strange nurse must 
get hers ; and when she has done, Miss Travers and I will have 
ours. And as soon as breakfast is over, Pll go to market. Mrs. 
Timmany will want her dinner at a regular hour and early. And if 
Miss Travers won't mind having hers about the same time — a chop 
or steak for her can be done with the nurse's. You will have na 
cooking to do for me," she added, after a moment's pause to em- 

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John Richardson* s Relatives. ^ 107 

phasize the annouRcement ; " Til dine at home with the children 
when I go to see them every day. I don't understand anyone in 
good health giving servants unnecessary trouble where there's a 
sick person to be attended to." 

No sooner had she got outside the kitchen door than her praises 
were song with one voice by cook and housemaid. Nurse Nelly 
alone preserved a dignified and distrustful silence. So rarely, 
however, was she known to praise anybody but herself (while mak- 
ing constant profession of "giving everyone his merit") that 
neither of her kitchen mates so much as thought of asking her 
opinion. Now she listened, her head a little on one side, and a 
tfrinkle in her eyes : both of which signs were perfectly intelligible 
to her companions. Anyone familiar with her peculiarities might 
now foretell the coming, at the first sufficient pause, of her favorite 
exclamation : ** Ver-y fine oysters!" 

" An ang^el down from heaven wouldn't please you I " the cook 
said, angrily. 

" He didn't come to try me yet," returned Nellv. " But * let 
everyone praise the bridge as he passes over it.' She's sweet to 
you : and you do well to be sweet to her — [aside] * Too sweet to 
be sound,' like a frost-bitten potato — that's all Nelly has to say 
to it" 

J. M. O'R. 

VOL. ni. ^ r^ ^T 

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( io8 ) 



XI. Education. 

Having spoken of the professional knowledge and professional 
studies of the clergy, of the application of that knowledge and 
those studies in the confessionad, in public and private instruction 
and advice on religious matters, including whatever belongs to 
Faith or to Morals, I must not omit to speak of the rights and 
duties of the clergy with reference to education. How does the 
Church— the teaching and governing Church — stand towards edu- 
cation — towards the intellectual training of Catholic youth ? 

It is the direct business of the Church to secure the religiatts 
instruction of the rising generation of every time. Whatever else 
they learn, care must be taken that they learn the true doctrines of 
Faith and Morals under the guidance and direction of the clergy. 
No doubt, parents and other lay persons can and do communicate 
this kind of knowledge, and their x:o-operation is much needed — 
indispensably needed. Yet, the work they do is the work of the 
Church, and must be done under the presidency and direction of 
the Church. The Church is entitled and bound to insist on this 
branch of education being effectually attended to, on children 
being taught and taught correctly. The clergy must take part in 
the work themselves, and guide the eilbrts of secular teachers in 
this regard. The spiritual interests of children, with which in- 
terests the Church is charged, strictly demand the exercise of this 
care on the part of the clergy, abstracting from all merely temporal 
advantages to the children and to human society. But it must be 
remembered that the temporal advantages thence derived are ex- 
ceedingly great. Indifferent Christians may sometimes be tolerable 
citizens, but rarely so good, so useful citizens as if they were better 
Christians ; whilst really good Christians are sure not to be bad 
citizens. If some among them do not do much for their country, 
they will do nothing against it. It stands to reason that those who 
are carefully brought up in the knowledge and fulfilment of the 
law of God should be faithful in the performance of those duties 
which the law of God imposes, and therefore of all social duties, 
which are assuredly comprised in that law. Conscience, in the 
long run, reaches much further than any amount of civil coercion 
and police vigilance. 

But educational teaching is not universally confined, nor nearly 
confined, to religious truths of ai\y kind. Arts and sciences and 
literature are to be cultivated, not indeed by all, and by compara- 
iively few to any considerable extent ; but they are to be cultivated^ 

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The Relations of the Church to Society. 109 

and, as I have said elsewhere, the Church is very far from dis- 
couraging such studies. What then is the office of the clergy in 
their regard ? 

I need not repeat that ecclesiastical students are encouraged 
and even required to apply themselves to the branches of which 
we are speaking. It is well known that both in the past and in 
our own time many members of the clerical body have distinguished 
themselves in the various departments of natural knowledge. 
Popes and bishops have established splendid schools for the pro- 
motion of secular learning. All this is matter of undisputed his- 
tory, but does not afford an answer to the question proposed : 
namely, what is the office of the clergy in regard of these studies ? 
Is it, for instance, the duty of the Church to teach human science 
and literature ? Is it the duty of the Church to provide laymen 
with the opportunity of cultivating these branches of knowledge ? 
I am not asking what bishops or priests rhay do in this respect, nor * 
even what they may, in certain circumstances, be more or less 
bound to do on the score of charity, with a view to meeting the 
wants of their fellow men — with a view to conferring on them a # 
natural benefit, which they would otherwise either not possess at 
all or would not possess without a considerable amount of accom- 
panying spiritual danger — with a view, too, to furthering remotely 
the interests of religion. I am inquiring whether the Church is 
directly charged with the training of the laity, or any of them, in 
merely human arts and sciences and literature. This query must 
be answered in the negative. The obligatory teaching commis- 
sion, so to speak, which the Church has received from her Divine 
Founder, regards religious doctrine only. She is not debarred 
from promoting, fostering, encouraging merely human studies, 
even among the laity ; nay, she has a right to this, as a subordinate 
means towards the attainment of her own proper end ; but it is 
not one of her essential functions. 

Has the Church, then, any office, any duty imposed on her, 
with reference to secular education ? Undoubtedly she has. It is 
an essential function of the Church to watch over secular educa- 
tion ; to protect the faithful from the dangers incident to it ; to 
insist on the use of those safeguards which are required for this 
purpose. Whatever belongs to Faith or Morals is within the com- 
petence of ecclesiastical authority, and nothing is more obvious 
than the connection of secular education with Faith and Morals 
under the respect just stated. Some portions of secular education 
concern subjects which have, from their nature, a bearing on reli- 
gion, while other subjects can with no great difficulty be so treated 
as to have a bearing on it likewise. Indeed, there is scarcely any 
branch of human learning, if there be any at all, that does not 
admit of this. 

The vigilance of the Church with reference to education is exer- 
cised in various ways, according to circuthstances. The pastors 

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no The Relations of the Church to Society. 

keep themselves informed of the nature of the instruction given 
to Catholics, partly by observation, partly by reports made ta 
them, partly by inquiry. They ascertain by the same means the 
character of those teaching institutions which axe frequented by 
Catholics. They watch, too, the laws of the state, proposed or 
enacted, regarding colleges and schools. The authority or control 
of the Church with reference to education is exercised over the 
Catholic heads of schools and colleges, over Catholic teachers, in 
or out of schools and colleges, and over Catholic parents and 
children. The amount of interference is regulated by the necessity 
of the case, the opportunities afforded, and prudential considera- 
tions, which sometimes commend the toleration of what cannot 
be positively approved. • Any intelligent and tolerably fair man, of 
whatever, creed, or of no creed, will admit that Catholics, to be 
consistent, must take their religion into account in connection 
• with the secular teaching of their children, and that the Church is^ 
on Catholic principles, entitled and bound to watch and, in a cer- 
tain degree, direct that teaching. A Protestant, and still more an 
, infidel, may condemn or ridicule* this course, as he condemns 
and ridicules Catholicity itself; but he cannot deny that, Catholics 
being Catholics, and the Church being viewed as they view it, no 
other course is legitimately open to them or to it. And yet, un- 
fortunately, there are professing Catholics who do not seem to 
see things in this light. We may trust they are but few. They 
are influenced partly by simple ignorance, partly by superficial and. 
illusory reasonings, and partly, no doubt, by certain worldly in- 
terests, which are, or appear to be, more effectually promoted by 
setting aside what these men persuade themselves to be mere 

At the present time, in these countries — and not only in these 
countries, about which, however, we are most concerned — there are 
two un-Catholic doctrines extensively prevalent among Protestants^ 
and others who differ from us in religion : namely, that secular 
learning should be entirely disconnected from religion, and that 
education should be mixed and not denominational. These two 
doctrines though not identical nor inseparable are closely allied to 
each other. For Catholics, the second— which regards mixed 
education — is far the most practically important. For, besides 
other reasons, where Catholics are educated on the thoroughly 
denominational system, there will not be, as a matter of fact, any 
undue separation of secular learning from religion. I have said 
thoroughly f because a school might be, and very often is, under the 
exclusive care of good Catholics, and yet not simply a Catholic 
schooL I will therefore make a few remarks on mixed education, 
introducing as much as need be said about the disconnection of 
religion from .secular teaching. 

By mixed schools and colleges for Catholics, I mean those in 
which the official positions of heads, directors, teachers, or some 

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The Relations of the Church to Society, 1 1 1 

of them, are, as a matter of course, held by or open to non-Catholics. 
I have worded my description thus, because if the Catholic head of 
an otherwise Catholic college were to avail himself occasionally, 
or even permanently, of the services of a Protestant teacher in some 
particular branch, the college would not thereby become a mixed 
one. This coursers not commonly advisable ; but the nature of 
the subject, the personal character of the master employed, and a 
proper amount of supervision, might render it safe in a special 

I am speaking here, as I have expressly indicated,' of mixed 
schools or colleges y^r Catholics, that is as regards Catholic scho- 
lars, who would be thus educated on the mixed system. I am not, 
at present, concerned with establishments in which there are no 
Catholic pupils. I am not at present concerned either with the 
fact of there being or not being non-Catholic pupils mixed with 
Catholics under a purely Catholic staff. 

Having sufficiently stated what I mean by a mixed school or 
college, and consequently by a mixed education, which is that 
received in such an institution, I come to the grounds of objection 
to the system. In a mixed college or school, either Christian 
doctrines enter into the common teaching or they do not. Either 
all allusion to Faith and Morals is studiously avoided, or they are 
at least partially dwelt on by the masters in the instruction they 
give. If they are introduced, so far religion is taught — taught 
officially by non-Catholic masters to Catholic youths. Now, as- 
suredly, this is not a legitimate source whence Catholic youths 
should derive any part of their religious knowledge. There is for 
them but one religion : that religion is the Catholic, not any other, 
not common Christianity, which is not a religion at all. A non- 
Catholic master, professing no subordination to the Catholic 
Church, is no authority for them in such matters. This is true, 
even where nothing is said at variance with any Catholic tenet. 
But what guarantee is there, or can there be, that no aggression 
will occur ? The non-Catholic teacher cannot be expected to 
know the precise doctrines of the Catholic Church, — the exact 
boundaries of common and particular religious doctrines. He 
may, even quite unintentionally, broach what is heterodox for us. 

If, on the other hand, all allusion to religion and to those sub- 
jects which are comprised under religion, as I take it here and am 
entitled to take it— if, I say, all such allusions are to be completely 
avoided, we shall have not only a bald and jejune teaching, hardly 
possible for a continuance, but a teaching intensely non-Catholic 
and non-Christian. I do not say ««-Catholic nor f/«-Christian, 
but non-CdXYioWc and «(?«-Christian. Now this, for Catholicsj is 
very bad. The thorough ignoring of religion, the exclusion of it 
as a forbidden subject, must have a positively bad effect. It serves 
to make scholars study to forget that they are Catholics. It puts 
God out of their sight ; it fosters the idea that religion is a totally 

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separate thing from the business of life — /A«r business of life being 
their lessons. How can they realise to themselves that their whole 
lives are to be spent in the service of God, not, of course, by an 
uninterrupted succession of spiritual exercises, nor in a way to 
interfere with the exact study of any useful branch of knowledge, 
but by a religious intention of doing all they do for the glory of 
God, referring everything to Him ? Experience and history teach 
that a religious spirit, far from impeding secular studies, helps men 
forward in them. If boys and young men are taught on a system 
professedly exclusive of religion, though not professedly opposed 
to it, they will learn to think but little of their religion and of God. 
Their lives will not be seasoned with Christian thoughts. Breath- 
ing an exclusively secular moral atmosphere, they will become in 
a great degree secularists; that is, persons who care nothing 
about religion. 

Further, it is thoroughly impossible that anything like a full 
course of secular education can be gone through without involving 
the influence of religious principles or irreligious principles on 
the manner in which it is taught— on the teaching itself. This is 
obvious with regard to history and with regard to mental philo- 
sophy. It is true even of classics, if the true meaning and spirit of 
the authors are to be dwelt on and developed. It is impossible 
for a teacher not to put forward, one way or other, his moral views, 
for instance ; and moral views, according to Catholic notions, 
belong to religion. Even if it were possible to avoid this, it could 
not be avoided without extreme circumspection and extreme self- 
control, such as are to be expected from very few men, and cannot 
be counted on. Even if allusions connected with religion could 
be abstained from, and easily abstained from, it is absolutely cer- 
tain that, among a number of masters, and during any long lapse 
of time, they will not be abstained from. It is certain that cases 
of direct or indirect religious or irreligious teaching will be very 
frequent. This is a necessary result of the moral nature of men, 
and whoever really thinks otherwise must be strangely ignorant of 
that nature. 

Further, the relations between teachers and scholars naturally lead 
to a considerable personal influence of the former over the latter. 
If a teacher is all that he ought to be as a teacher, he will be ad- 
mired and looked up to by those under his charge. It may easily 
happen that a Protestant teacher will avail himself of this morsd 
power to draw his pupil towards that religion which he himself 
professes, and to warn him against what the master considers 
the delusions of Popery. This work need not be done during 
class hours. But, even without any intentional attempt of the 
kind, the schoiar*s feelines towards his instructor are not unlikely 
to recommend, in some degree at least, the latter's religious tenets, 
or to diminish that abhorrence in which all Catholics ought to 
hold sectarian doctrines — not, of course, the men, but the doctrines 

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only. Boys and girls and young men and women are easily 
wrought on and easily warped. 

It is quite consistent with all I have just said that many in* 
stances may be found of those who have passed unharmed through 
mixed schools or colleges. No one has ever said that mixed edu- 
cation is ^jx^/i*a//v</^x/n^/i«^tf to every individual so educated. It is 
calculated to be pernicious, but several may escape injury from it 
It is still more consistent with the alleged danger that compara- 
tively few abandon the Church in consequence. Indeed the up- 
holders of the system for this country would deplore any conside- 
rable number of such defections resulting from it ; since their 
fiavourite scheme would thus become patently intolerable, and could 
last but a short while longer. The great evil to be feared is not 
apostacy, but a kind of unsoundness which may readily be found 
in professing Catholics. A certain undesirable class of them 
are an easy fruit of such training — a class distinguished by doc* 
trinal looseness joined with a very imperfect allegiance to the 
Church, and, as a necessary consequence, a commenced proclivity 
towards unbelief. Even those who have been educated at Catholic 
schools too often become later infected with this pestilence, which 
is found floating in the moral atmosphere of society. But mixed 
education is naturally adapted to communicate it, and insert it 
more deeply, while, on the other hand, the old principles of a sound 
training will often rise up and assert themselves and dispel the 
malady more lately contracted. 

It is contended by many outside the Church that Catholic edu- 
cation unduly restricts the scholar, confines the range of his specu- 
lations, cramps his intellectual energies. The Catholic hierarchy 
and priesthood are hostile to progress, they fetter intelligence on 
principle. What is a Catholic to say to this allegation ? I, as a 
Catholic, ask whether this pretended illiberality of priests and 
bishops and popes is the effect of Catholic doctrine, whether it is 
precisely because they are Catholic ecclesiastics that they take the 
view imputed to them ? Is it merely an accidental coincidence ? 
This may happen in one or two or twenty cases, or even more. 
There may be priests or bishops who are narrow-minded about 
education, or about anything else, as there may be priests or 
bishops who go astray culpably or inculpably in various ways. 
But it is simply unintelligible that Catholic priests and bishops 
should all, or nearly all, take a particular line, such as that pre- 
tended, unless the line in question is substantially dictated by the 
Catholic religion. And, no doubt, those who support mixed edu- 
cation on this ground do, expressly or tacitly or virtually, attri- 
bute the supposed fact to the Ca,tholic religion, at least in their 
own minds, or if any do not, this comes from the imperfect and 
confused character of their perceptions concerning the Catholic 
religion, and the relation between it and the clergy. I should like 
to hear any reasonable, educated man controvert this conditional 

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114 The Relations of the Church to Society. 

proposition : If the Catholic clergy through the world uniformly, 
or almost uniformly, habitually and .persistently, hold to a system 
of undue restriction and illiberal shackling of the intelligence and 
studies of scholars, they derive this system from the doctrines of 
the Catholic religion. I go further, and I say that, in such hypo- 
thesis, they correctly derive the system from the doctrines of the 
Catholic religion — that it is no mistake. For, assuredly, if the 
clergy as a body do not understand the Catholic religion, no one 
ynderstands it. The argument then for mixed education taken 
from the evil influence of the Catholic priesthood cannot, in the 
first place, be accepted by a Catholic, as it would commit him to 
the condemnation of his Church and Religion. Secondly, that 
argument comes to be available against those who use it. That is 
to say, whatever there is in it tells in a Catholic's eyes against 
them. I will put the thing thus : Either the Catholic religion does 
call for a restriction, which these gentlemen would get rid of, or it 
does not ; if it does, then their position in the mind of a Catholic, 
must militate against their system and serve as an objection to that 
system ; if it does not, then the argument is worth nothing, and is 
no argument* at all. If they shift their ground, and say some 
Catholic bishops or priests would shackle the intelligence of 
scholars, I reply, so, probably, would some parsons and some Pro- 
testant bishops, and some Deists and some Atheists. As a matter 
of fact, some men of each of these classes are intolerant of what- 
ever is at variance with their own theories, and would, to the best 
of their ability, shut out a student from the danger respectively of 
Popery, Christianity, Theism. I admit there is a certain restraint 
desired and imposed by the Church as regards students or scho- 
lars. It will be well for us next to consider briefly what is the 
nature and amount of this restraint. 

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V 115 ) 


I. Puck and Blossom, A Fairy Tale. By Rosa MulhOlland, 
Author of "The Wicked Woods of Tobereevil," ** Hester's His- 
tor)%" **The Little Flower-seekers," &c. Marcus Ward and 
Co., Belfast. 
The Christmas-box season has set in with its usual severity. Let 
us trust that all the good things Father Christmas brings for his 
children may be half as good in their kind as this fairy picture- 
book of pretty stories. We opine that the travels of many an 
Irish child in search of a Christmas book will come to a happy 
conclusion at the counter which introduces " Puck and Blossom " 
to his notice ; and we may say the same for English and Scotch 
childcen also, and for young America. Nothing can well be more 
attractive than its general daintiness of get-up, even the initial 
letters and tail-pieces being little works of art. The chromo- 
graphic illustrations in gold and colours are simply marvellous, 
when taken in connection with the circumstance that the price of 
the volume is not gold also but only a piece of silver. Daintier 
binding, creamier paper, rounder or clearer printing, funnier or 
5unnier pictures, child's heart could not desire, even at Christmas 
time ; and under the sacred name of Child we include here such 
"children of a larger growth'* as are happy enough to preserve 
*' a young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks." 

All this, however, is but the setting of a jewel rich and rare as 
the gems worn by the brave maiden in the Irish melody. Here is 
a fairy tale quite after the heart of that true poet (albeit a joker) 
who not only sang the " Song of the Shirt," but also framed so 
eloquent " A Plea for the IMidsummer Fairies ; ** nay, we are sure 
this delicate phantasy would please the poet of poets who dreamed 
the " Midsummer Night's Dream," from which Master Puck Mea- 
dowsweet derives his name. Perhaps it would have been better to 
be original in this point as. in all the rest; for the mere nomen- 
clature of the fairies and goblins in this book is in itself a triumph 
of ingenuity — monosyllabic, like Chinese proper names, and all 
roguishly significant of character. Puck himself is certainly a very 
sturdy, manly little fellow, but not half so good as Blossom Barley- 
corn, a gentle, merry, soft-hearted little maiden of seven years old. 
After they have escaped from the City of the Discontented Chil- 
dren, it is very nice to see how thoughtful they are for those ugly 
wee brats, putting in a good word for them with the fairies. No 
doubt they enjoyed the ball much better when the fairy Frisk gave 
them, just before it began, this piece of good news : — 

" Youll be glad to hear that all the children who were sorry in the hospital 
of the City under the S^a have been rescued from the gobUns, and are now safe 
at home "with their fjithers and mothers.** . . . 

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ii6 New Books, 

" Oh ! I am so glad," cried Blossom. 

" How did your friends manage it ?" asked Puck. 

»* I cannot exactly tell you,** said Frisk, " but I know the lobsters had a claw 
init. . . .»' 

" And are the naughty children there still ? " asked Blossom. 

" Of course they are,** said Frisk. 

'* But some day they will get sorry too,** said Blossom, ** and then there will 
be nobody to help them.*' 

" We can't be expected to provide for that,** said Frisk. 

** Ah, do ask the frog to go down under the sea every now and then, and see 
if there are any more children getting sorry ! ** said Blossom. 

It is Blossom, too, who, when the little hunchback living up 
on the Dom has told his very touching story, and ended with the 
comforting thought that in Heaven his limbs shall be straight and 
strong — while Puck asks a rather awkward question about a new 
back. Blossom pats her new friend's cheek tenderly with her tiny 
hand and pays him the nice compliment : ** You won't want a new 
face ; the one you have will do for Heaven very well, I think."' 
And even when ** the Old Lady who kept the village in hot water" 
gets into well-deserved trouble. Blossom again has a cry of com- 
passion for her. 

Whoever wants to know all about this little girl and boy and 
their wonderful adventures, and the story of the Little Spinster 
and the other folk they encountered, must consult this veracious 
history for himself. That a book which deserves higher praise 
than we have given to it should be one of " Marcus Ward's Five 
Shilling Series " is " a revealed truth which we cannot compre- 
hend." If our people would but bestir themselves and encourage 
their fellow-countrymen and fellow-countrywomen in the exercise 
of their gifts at home by taking special interest in a work like 
this, produced in all its parts in Ireland, they would display their 
patriotism very practically, and contribute something towards the 
fulfilment of the aspiration which we notice on the trade-mark of 
these enterprising publishers — Floreat Hihemia ! 

II. Spicilegium Ossoriense, Being a collection of Original Letters 
and Papers illustrative of the History of the Irish Church from 
the Reformation to the year 1800. By the Right Rev. Patrick 
Francis Moran, D.D., Bishop of Ossory. First Series. Dub- 
lin : W. B. Kelly. 1874. 
The Bishop of Ossory has paid to his diocese the same compli- 
ment which Dom Gu6ranger paid to his Abbey of Solesme in 
choosing a name for the Spicilegium SoUsmense, Although, how- 
ever, by no means confined to matters concerning that diocese, the 
collection begins with such papers as the " Order of Episcopal 
Visitation in the Diocese of Ossory," "Patron Saints of the Churches 
of Ossory," &c. ; and throughout the volume we meet with most 
interesting local documents, like the address of the priests of 

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Nav Books. 11 J 

Ossory on the promotion of the distinguished Dr. James Phclan 
from the parish of Callan to be their bishop. 

These historical gleanings have been gathered in fields in which 
the spoiler rather than the reaper has been at work ; and, when we 
consider the coarse of events in Ireland during and since the 
jears to which the documents contained in this elegant quarto 
refer, the wonder grows upon us how so many interesting papers 
have survived, and how the Bishop of Ossory has been able to com- 
pile them (two hundred and sixty-two in number) from so many 
different sources often very recondite and inaccessible. / Although 
these sources are indicated in each instance, it is to be regretted 
that a general introductory dissertation has not given us some» of 
the valuable and interesting information which the editor alone 
could furnish as to the nature and history of the materials here 
amassed. Fortunately, however, this volume is only the first of 
(let us hope) a long series which will afford opportunity for nume- 
rous prolegomena and excursus. Of the latter there are several 
scattered up and down in the course of this volume, which re- 
lieve with a page or two of English the respectable Latinity in 
which most of the letters and reports are couched. Perhaps the 
most interesting of these are the pages relating to Richard Creagh, 
Archbishop of Armagh, and his two escapes from prison. Extracts 
from the State Paper Ofiice are contrasted with Froude's falsie ac- 
count of the " poor wretch," a§ he styles the Primate rather through 
contempt than compassion ; and further proof is thus given of the 
already well-proven point ** how little reliance can be placed on 
the unauthenticated statements of that flippant historian." 

A glancealong the columns of the very clearly arranged table of 
contents is enough to show that the Spicilegium Ossoriense is a 
precious addition to the historical literature of the Irish Church, 
throwing light on the records of almost every diocese, as well as 
on the labours of all the religious orders that have helped the 
faithful bishops, priests, and people of Ireland to make and to 
keep our beloved country the most Catholic spot on God's earth. 

III. Expostulation in Extremis; or. Remarks on Mr. Gladstones 
Political Expostulation on the Vatican Decrees. iBy the Right 
Hon. Lord Robert Montagu, M.P. London: Bums and 
This is one of the most effective additions to that literature of 
expostulation, under which the booksellers* counters are likely to 
groan for some time. For expostulation is quite the rage at pre- 
sent. That feminine phrase describes accurately enough the sort of 
expostulation that is current. Olive branches are once more dis- 
charged from catapults. 

The history of Mr. Gladstone's religious opinions has not fol- 
lowed the course of that wonderful narrative, of which the opening 
phrase of this sentence recalls the amended title. A closer parallel 

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ii8 New Books. 

for this part of his career might be found in an incident from a 
popular farce of other days, in which Mr. Box seems to meditate 
the fatal plunge, approaches the edge of the precipice, lays his 
hat down on the brink, takes one look into the yawning gulf 
beneath, and walks off in the opposite direction 1 Mr. Gladstone 
appeared at one time to be on the very point of saying with a 
different hero, ** Festus, I plunge ! " but he thought better of it ; 
and now, like Mr. Box aforesaid, he is walking off in the opposite 
directionT and very fast indeed. '^How changed from that Hector," 
whose high theories of Church and State disgusted the Whiggish 
soul of Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

♦Those who did not before dislike or distrust the fallen chief are 
inclined to chide him now more in s.orrow than in anger. Perso- 
nally, this escapade has not improved his chance of ever yielding 
to the entreaty which Pius IX. is said to have addressed to a cer- 
tain Anglican who spoke of waiting for some future " coming 
over in gloho^ ''Save your own soul, my child I" Politically, we 
have nothing to say here to the matter, unless, perhaps, an ** intel- 
ligent outsider " may venture on the remark that the Liberal sub- 
alterns must be sorely tried at seeing the recuperative energies of 
their party all wasted by this blunder on the part of their leader : 
a blunder, indeed, which is politically worse than a crime, since 
it renders all their opponents' blunders hannless to the Ins and 
useless to the Outs. Lothair may indulge in any amount of heed- 
less rhetoric about domiciliary visits and arbitrary arrests, and 
may then, at one angry hiss from Berlin, eat his words with 
abject alacrity ; but his rival is secure, nevertheless, against having 
his Homeric studies interrupted by a recall to power. 

The trenchant pamphlet, whose subject (ratherthan its substance) 
has suggested these remarks, will not be translated into Welsh, 
nor circulated to the extent of a hundred thousand copies like 
the original ** Expostulation." In this wicked world answers arer 
always duller than attacks ; and, besides, the expostulator has the 
special privilege of always catching the Speaker's eye and monopo- 
lising the ear of the public. But he himself at least has read and 
studied Lord Robert Montagu's eloquent arguments, and cannot 
but feel their cogency. Let us hope that they may help him to 
perceive that ** it is excellent to have a giant's strength, but it is 
tyrannous (or at least foolish) to use it like " — the laU Lord John 
Russell, or his correspondent, the Bishop of Durham. 

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IT was a cold, drizzling, wretched evening in November. People 
hurried along the slippery, muddy streets of London, intent 
on their work or business, and only anxious to get home out of 
the ^et. 

But there was one whose step w^s even quicker than the rest, 
though his grave countenance and downcast eyes showed that he 
was the bearer of Something that kept him recollected amid his 
hurry. We will follow him past the broad gaslit street and down a 
narrow passage, till he pauses at a house in a wretched court, of 
which the entrance "was half choked with rags and bones. He does 
not speak, but hurries on up the dirty, broken staircase, and some 
of the lodgers in the same house follow him, awe-struck and silent 
too, till he reaches one particular door. It is opened by a crying 
boy of ten or twelve years old, who instantly kneels, while his 
sister, a little older than himself, lights a candle, and together 
with their visitor approach a bed in the corner of the miserable 
room, on which is lying a woman, still young, but in the last stage 
of decline. H«r poor wan features light up with joy as she sees 
her Lord approaching ; and for a short time nought is heard but 
the voice of the priest, who is come to soothe that dying bed, and 
give the one great strength for the last dread journey. 

A quarter of an hour passed, the service was over, and in a faint 
and feeble voice the dying mother spoke : " Father, I could go in 
peace, and gladly, too, but for one thing. What is to become of 
my poor children } They must go to the workhouse. Sad enough 
to think that his children should come to this ! But it isn't only 
that — ^you know what I mean ! If they go, they will lose their 
faitlv It's no use telling me the contraiy. I know the law is on 
our side, and the law says that children are to be brought up in 
the religion of their parents. But the guardians don't care about 
the law; t\ief\\ force them to be Protestants, as they did Mary 
Green*s children last year. And when I went to see 'em, the poor 
little boy, he cried so 'I and said they beat him if he made the sign 
of the cross or said his own prayers. O sir! would that I had 
buried them with their poor father ! I would rather see them die 
this minute than become Protestants I " 

" And does not our Lord know this, and will not He provide, 
O you of little faith V* replied the kind old priest, gently taking 
her hand. " Do not fear, my child ; we will all look after them. 

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120 . The Warkhotise Children. 

And the newspapers have taken up the matter, .and now the guar- 
dians dare not keep th^ children as they used to do. Only com- 
mend them to HU care who never yet forsook the widow and the 

"I would be beaten to death sooner than give up being a 
Catholic, mother!" excjaimed the boy, who had been eagerly 
hanging on his mother's words. The little girl was silent ; but 
she drew nearer to. her mother and imprinted on her forehead one 
long, long kiss. It seemed as if this silent compact were under- 
stood by both mother and child. ** God bless you, my darling!" 
murmured the poor woman. They were her last conscious words- 
Soon the death struggle began, and before morning dawned, the 
poor children were orphans and alone. 

We will pass over the misery of the few intervening days. A 
kind neighbour took pity on the children's misery and desolation, 
and shared with them her scanty meals. But this could not last ; 
and the morning came when the terrible separation was to take 
place from all they had ever loved or known. The pauper funeral _ 
over, the brother and sister found themselves somewhat roughly, " 
yet not unkindly, dragged down the street by a policeman, and 
brought to a big stone building witt^ a high wall, and an iron gate 
at which he rang. After a few words with the porter, they were 
shown a long passage into a bleak, large room, in the comer of 
which was a stem man sitting behind a high desk, who looked up 
at them with a cross, disagreeable expression of face, and ex- 
claimed to their guide : " What ! more brats ? the house is chock- 
full already ! What's their names ? " *' Mary and Arthur Duncan, 
sir," replied the policeman, touching his hat respectfully to that 
awful functionary, the master of the workhouse. " Their mother 
was a very respectable widow, sir, but who had been ill a long 
time, and so got behind- hand with the rent and everything. She 
lived in King's-head Court, and was buried by the parish this 
moming, leaving the children quite destitute. They are Catholics, 
sir," he added, in rather a deprecatory tone. 

• «* Papists are they ?" exclaimed the master, in an irascible tone. 
** Oh ! we'll soon knock that out of them," ringing violently, as 
he spoke, for one of his underlings, who received orders forthwith 
to take the children to their respective quarters. Before they* were 
separated, Mary threw her arms round her brother's neck : " Re- 
member poor mother and your promise ! " she whispered. Arthur 
nodded ; his heart was too full to speak, and he followed his con- 
ductor down the cold stone staircase to a large room where boys 
of all ages were sitting huddled up together, looking too cowed 
and miserable to play, although the tasks were over ; and dressed 
in the woikhouse livery of brown hoUand pinafores, which added 
to the sallow and unwholesome look of most of their faces. Even 
Arthur's arrival amongst them excited scarcely any remark or com- 
ment, except that one of them, with a nicer face, than the rest,. 

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The Wofkhotise Children. i % i 

made room for him on the bench where they were sitting, and 
began to speak to him in a low voice. His name, age, and the 
like were the first questions ; and by degrees Arthur was led on 
to speak of his mother and his faith. An expression of terror 
passed over the face of his interlocutor. " Keep it dark as you 
value your skin!" he whispered eagerly. "I was, like you, a 
Catholic, and they nearly murdered me — and now : . ." What 
more he might have said W2ts stopped by the loud and angry voice 
of the master summoning the boys to dinner; but poor little 
Arthur's heart sank within him, and he thought to himself, " Shall 
I ever be brave enough to be one of those confessors mother told 
us about ?" 

We must leave Arthur and Mary to their fate for a few weeks, 
and introduce our readers to another room in the same building, 
where a large number of persons are assembled. It was ** board 
day," and there was evidently an unusual excitement among the 
guardians, who spoke to one another in low voices, and occa- 
sionally looked first towards the chairman, and then towards the 

" The lady is waiting down stairs, sir," said the clerk, laddress- 
ifig a pompous -looking individual seated at the end of a long table 
covered with green baize, round which about fifteen other men 
were assembled. 

" Show her up,** was the reply ; and in a few seconds the door 
\)pened and admitted a lady, very simply dressed, who, in accor- 
dance with the chairman's invitation, took a seat near him, ^nd 
then remained silent. 

" May I ask you, madam, for what reason yoii have wished to 
see the board to-day ?" inquired the chairman. 

" I am come," replied the lady, "'to ask for two children now 
in this house, Mary and Arthur Duncan. They are the children of 
Catholic parents ; and, as such, I wish to have them transferred to 
one of the Catholic industrial schools certified for that purpose by 
the Government." 

Complete silence followed this speech, which was broken by 
the chairman sending for the master, and inquiring into the par- 
ticulars of the case. 

"Duncan, sir? Yes, sir. Two children — boy and girl. Boy 
as obstinate a little Papist as ever you saw, sir. He had been 
taught by the ' Christian Brothers ' (as they call 'em) before he 
came here ;*and they had made him make the sign of the cross 
when the clock struck. And we can't cure him of it, sir, tho' 
we've tied his hands and feet, and beaten him scores of times for 
it.* And the girl 's just as bad, the mistress says." 

The lady's colour rose, but she simply said : " Are these chil- 
dren's names entered as Catholics in the Creed Register ? " 

♦A feet. 

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i2z The Workhouse Children, 

" No, ma'am," replied the master. " We keep no Creed Regis- 
ter here.'' 

" Are you aware, sir," continued the lady, "that this is in direct 
contravention of two distinct Acts of Parliament ?" 

The chairman fidgeted, and looked at a fat, red-faced man 
seated a little lower down, who replied : 

" Very sorry, ma'am ; but, in my opinion, a Creed Register is 
quite unnecessary. These children are orphans, and should be 
taught without sectarianism. Such children, / say, should be 
brought up in the established religion of the country. What's 
good enough for us is good enough for them, I should think." 

** Are you a father ?" replied the lady, quietly. 

** Yes, ma'am, I am." 

** Well then — supposing (which I allow is very unlikely) that in 
the fluctuations of trade you were to be unfortunate, as some are, 
and then die, and leave your children unprovided for, would you 
like to think that they would be brought up as Catholics ?" 

'* I would sooner see them in their graves ! " eagerly exclaimed 
the red- faced grocer. 

** There's an old proverb," replied the lady, smiling, " that 
"* sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.' Now, I knew the 
parents of these poor children. Their toother died when I was 
♦present. One only thought embittered her last moments : the 
terror lest her children should be brought up as Protestants. She 
made use of just the same words as you : * I would sooner see them 
in their graves ! ' " 

** But, ma'am," continued the speaker, " we guardians don't 
recognise them as Roman Catholics, or anything else. The chil- 
dren here are simply taught what we believe to be the truth. 
We've got to keep them and feed them, and it's our duty, I take 
it, to try and make something better of them than would have 
been the case if they had been left to their Popish parents." 

" But you forget," replied the lady, " that this is not a question 
for you or me to judge or decide upon. The law says : ' No child 
shall be instructed in any other religious creed than in that of its 
parents.' (Act, Victoria, 1862, sec. 9.) And further, that *No 
child shall be compelled to attend any religious service contrary 
to the religious principles of its parents.' (Act, William IV., 1834, 
sec. 19.)" 

** But surely," interrupted the chairman, "these Acts are per- 
missive, not compulsory, on the guardians ?" 

** I may be wrong in my knowledge of English grammar," re- 
plied the lady; " but I consider although * may' is permissive, the 
word * shalV is peremptory ; and the clause says : ^No child shall 
be sent under this Act to any school which is conducted on the 
principles of a religious denomination to which such child does 
not belong." 

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The Workhouse Children. 123 

The chairman, seeing that the argument was not going in' 
favour of the hoard, interposed with the question — 

" May I ask, madam, by what right you come here to claim 
these children ?" 

" By my right as godmother," answered the. lady, firmly, ** in 
pursuance to the 14th section of the Act of 1866, which has been 
again confirmed by the Act of 1868. I have brought with me all 
the papers required by this Act — the certificates of their baptistn, 
and of the marriage and deaths of their parents. It is a clear and 
straightforward case according to the law of the land. But I 
would rather appeal to your feelings as gentlemen, and ask you to 
let me remove the children quietly, without having recourse to 
extretne measures.'* 

The lady, hereupon, was asked to withdraw for a short time 
while the board discussed the matter. 

" I really know nothing of the law of the case, gentlemen,'^ 
said the chairman, testily, when the door was closed. 

" Mr. May," he added, turning to the clerk, "what do you say 
in this matter ?*' 

" That there's no denying the lady has the law on her side, sir. 
She put it as neatly as possible, and there's no escape from it, I'm 
afraid, do what you will. Here are the words as plain as a pike- 
staff," he addedj unfolding the Acts of Parliament as he spoke, 
and pointing to the clauses before mentioned. ** I see no alterna- 
tive but that ycu should let the children go." 

" Besides, that woman has influence, and is capable of putting 
the whole thing into the newspapers if we resist," grumbled another 
of the board, who had a righteous horror of being " shown up" as 
the narrow-minded bigot he really was. 

" What with the Poor Law Board interfering one day, and a 
radical press the next, I don't know what use guardians are of, any 
longer!" angrily exclaimed a conservative corn-chandler, who sat 
next him. And so the discussion waxed hot and angry, with the 
consciousness on the part of the speakers that their case was in- 

Meanwhile, the lady, having asked for the matron, was occupy- 
ing herself in visiting the house. 

. ** Which is Mary Duncan ?" she asked, on coming into the 
girls' school-room. 

The mistress coloured. ** She's in disgrace, ma'am, for obsti- 
nacy and disobedience." 

" I am very sorry to hear that," replied the lady. " What has 
she done ?" 

" She wouldn't say the prayers, ma'am, in the morning with the 
others, and she wouldn't learn her Catechism, leastways that bit 
abont the sacraments. She would say there were seven instead of 
two ; so I just boxed her ears, and locked her up in the black 

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124 2T4^ Workhouse Children. 

** Are you aware that she is a Catholic ?" asked the lady. 

** I know nothing about that," answered the mistress, sulkily. 
** My business is to see that the children say the prayers and learn 
the Catechism, and don't set themselves up to be wiser than their 

The lady sighed. "I must ask you, for my sake, to let Mary 
Duncan out this time, so that I may speak to her. I knew her 
mother, and I promised that I would look after her child." 

The mistress reluctantly complied, and Mary was brought down. 
She was very pale, and looked ill and exhausted ; but her face 
brightened at the sight of the lady. ** O ma'am I O poor mother!" 
was all she could say, as the recollection of the last time they had 
met came across her, and then burst into a violent fit of crying. 

** My poor, dear child ! " whispered the lady, " I know all. 
Keep up your heart ; 1 "am doing my best, and soon I hope to 
have you out of this place." Then, turning to the matron, she 
said : ** I should like to speak to this little girl in your parlour for 
a moment, if you will allow me." 

The matron acquiesced ; and Mary, holding fast by her pro- 
tector's hand, soon found herself alone with her old friend in the 
matron's room. 

"Are there many Catholic children in the house?" was the 
first question asked by the lady. 

*• There were a great many, ma'am," replied Mar}', " but now 
they daren't own to it The mistress is so cruel, and puts such 
extra work on them if she finds out that they're what she calls 
* Papists;* and half the time they don't get their dinner or supper; 
so they're just starved and beaten into being Protestants.".* 

"And my poor little confessor here has borne all this ?*' said 
the lady, smoothing the hair oS the child's forehead, and looking 
at her lovingly. 

**I tried to think of Jesus, and how He bore pain and shame 
for us, as poor mother used to tell us," said the child, simply ; 
** and then it didn't seem so hard. And I pray to Him and to 
our Lady every day to give me strength to bear it ; and if it may 
be, to get me and Arthur away from this terrible place." 

A messenger here interrupted the conversation by summoning 
the lady to reappear before the board. 

" Courage, and hope on ! " whispered she, as she left the little 
girl to obey the summons. 

** We have considered the case you have brought before us, 
madam," said the chairman, gravely, "and though you must allow 
me to say there is no legal right in the matter of removing the 
children to the district schools, which is left to the discretion of 
the board, yet we think, considering all the circumstances, it will 
be well to grant your .request. You are therefore at liberty to 

• A fact. 

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The Workhouse Children. 125 

-remove the children when you please, and we have desired the 
necessary forms to be prepared for the purpose." 

Reader, my tale is told ; and unlike some tales it is a true one« 
If it should induce you or any one else to take up the cause of 
these poor children, and to second the measures which are being 
set on foot to deliver these little ones from the cruel persecution 
they are now undergoing for their faith, or from the still more 
irreparable wrong of their being robbed of it altogether, and for- 
-cibly brought up in error, my object will be attained.* 


NOW the lights are out, and* the crowd is gone, 
And the organ hushed in a tender wail ; 
And the pensive shades from, the East creep on 

Through the Gothic arch and the marble rail ; 
They creep and they pause by the empty shrine, 

And the unlit lamp, and the open door. 
Where the clusters green, and the rosebuds pine. 
And the soft leaves fall to the crimson floor. 

Why kneel I to stay while the rest depart, 

And only the incense lingereth near, 
With a prayerless voice, and a hungry heart, 

And a love that dareth not love through fear ? 
Ah ! He was there and they bore Him away, 

And the white-stoled priest left the door ajar ; 
And my sorrow waked, and I kneel and stay, 

When the rest all go to their homes afar. 

It waked and it wailed on the music's tone, 

And it cried out strong when the Lord was gone ; 
And I list in fear to its troubled moan, 

And I trembling wait till a calm comes on. 
Ah I the once bright hope that grew pale and died, 

When I never grieved in the morning hour — 
And I came at noon, and I wept and cried, 

Till it started up with a life-grief power. 

• ♦ It is certain that Catholics in these countries are quite too indifferent to the 
losses which the Church, alas ! is suffering in England and the United States by 
the anti-Catholic influences brought to bear on Catholic orphans and other poor 
^Jifldren in workhouses and similar establishments. We have seen most harrow- 
ing statistics on this question put forMrard lately in American journals. The fore- 
going little tale may help us to realise the fate of some of tnese wretched little 
creatures. It has been before in print, but not in a public journal ; and we use it 
now with the kind permission, and indeed at the suggestion, of the noble Writer. 
—Ed. I. M. 

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iz6 A Life Grief. 

Oh I ]the hope that's dead, and the grief that slept^ 

Till it waked just now with a thrill of pain ; 
AJid the longing years, and the vigils kept, 

And the buried joy, and the prayers all vain. 
Oh ! the deepening shades, and the clouded hearty 

And the light that steals from the West afar ; 
And the Virgin's tenderer look apart. 

And the altar lone, and the door ajar. 

Will a sorrow speak though the voice is low, 

And hardly a word or a prayer can say ? 
Will it reach His ears in its plaining woe. 

Where anointed hands have hid Him away ? 
Will she not whisper a pleading word. 

His mother and mine with the tender brow ? 
His mother and mine 1 Oh ! pardon me, Lord, 

For my sorrow but wafced and wailed just now. 

Yet the night will pass, and with morning's light 

They'll leave Him here in His home once more ; 
'Mid the tinkling bells and the tapers bright, 

And the crowd that kneel by the prison door. 
But this thing shall stay like a spirit grieved. 

And never a morrow or sunshme feel. 
Till the last pulse beat, and the sigh be heaved, 

And the darkness grows, and the death-tear steaL 

** May His will be done," now I murmur low, 

** Though it seemeth harsh in its stem decree. 
Let this trouble stay since He wills it so ; 

One day I shall know it was good for me." 
With a mournful grace doth the day depart, 

While the slow shades darken the aisles around ; 
And the sorrow sleepeth now in my heart. 

Till it starts again at a sight or sound. 

M. My. R. 

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( 1^7 ) 



" Catexina avea in se una forza contro ogni maniera di ostacoli. Voile vin- 
cerli e li vinse." 

The Babylonish exile of the Popes in Avignon had lasted more 
than sixty years, when the desire which Dante had put into terrific 
words, and Petrarch had with pathetic eloquence expressed, seemed 
at length about to be accomplished. P/)pe Urban V., in spite of the 
determined opposition of Charles of France ; in spite of the re- 
luctance of the College of Cardinals — French, all but three, in 
nation ; in spite of his own well-founded apprehensions, resolved 
to renounce the peaceful splendour of the court of Avignon, and 
restore the apostolic seat to Rome — all revolutionized and ruined* 
The cry of the Italian people had been listened to and the counsel 
of the saints received. In the month of May, 1367, Urban left 
Avignon ; and in the following October, after receiving a magnifi- 
cent welcome in Genoa, and tarrying some time in Viterbo, he 
entered Rome attended by the ambassadors of the Emperor, the 
King of Hungary, and the Queen of Naples ; and surrounded by 
the princes of the Italian states, the representatives of the free 
republics, and two thousand bishops, abbots, and churchmen of 
eminence. The emperors of the east and of the west hastened to 
Rome to pay respect in person to the restored pontiff. On every 
side there was rejoicing ; Italy was full of hope ; and before long^ 
Urban had regained all the lost territory that had once belonged 
to the patrimony of S. Peter. Three years, however, had hardly 
passed away when the great hope which had so nearly reached 
fulfilment was scattered to the winds. The Pope, discouraged by 
the difiiculties that beset his path in Italy, or yielding to the Car- 
dinals* importunities, or hoping, as it is believed, to effect a recon- 
ciliation between the kings of France and England, who were 
then at war, made up his mind to forsake Rome and return to 
inglorious retirement on the banks of the Rhone. The Italians 
bitterly felt the defection of their head; the servants of God 
mourned over the widowed See. Peter of Aragon, the saintly 
Franciscan who had strenuously counselled the Pope's return to 
Rome, now poured forth remonstrances and threatened the divine 
displeasure; and S. Bridget of Sweden raised a warning voice,, 
and announced to Urban .that if he left the city of the apostles he 
should speedily die. The pontiff, though a man of sincere reli- 
gious feeling, disregarded all these representations. He removed 

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128 A Cittzefi Saint 

once more the Papal court into Provence, and in two months' 
■ time was dead. 

Immediately the conclave assembled, and the Cardinal of 
Villanova, a native of France, was elected. The new pontiff, 
who took the name of Gregory XL, was hardly thirty-six years of 
age. He was of a peaceful, studious disposition,' and had led a 
pious life even from his earliest days. With unfeigned reluctance 
he accepted a dignity which the unusual difficulties of the time 
rendered exceedingly burthensome to one of his mild, conciliatory, 
but somewhat irresolute character. 

The unscrupulous conduct of the French legates, who were 
distrusted as foreigners and hated as tyrants, had long kept Italy 
in a state of disaffection and disturbance; while theVisconti, lords 
of Milan — the greatest enemies of the Popes in those days — s^eized 
on every opportunity to fan <iisloyalty into revolt. Barnabas Vis- 
conti, a man of remarkable talents and a patron of letters, but mo^ 
of all distinguished for his military capacity, had carried on a war 
against successive pontiffs with perfidiousness . and pertinacity. 
For armed attacks he was well prepared, and he only laughed at 
spiritual chastisements. Having received information that Urban V. 
had placed him under the censures of the Church, he met the 
Pope's messengers on the bridge of Lando, and made the legates 
who carried the Bulls eat the parchment on which they were 
written, threatening to throw them into the river if they made any 
delay. He dressed up the ambassadors of the Sovereign Pontiff 
in white, and led them through the streets to be a laughing-stock 
to the people ; and told the archbishop of Milan that Visconti was 
Pope, emperor, and king in his own territory, and that God him- 
self could not make him do what he was determined not to do. 
Barnabas and his brother having in 1372 seized on Reggio and 
other possessions of the Church, Gregory excommunicated the 
lord of Milan, who on hearing the step the Pope had taken avenged 
himself by treating those who remained faithful to the sovereign 
pontiff with unheard of indignity and cruelty. His hunting dogs, 
five thousand in number, were billeted on the monasteries ; and 
■ecclesiastics who resisted him were torn to pieces by wild horses. 

All other means having proved unavailing, the Pope declared 
war against Visconti ; formed a powerful league by the aid of the 
Emperor, the King of Hungary, and the Queen of Naples ; and 
took into his service the famous Condottiere^ Sir John Hawkwood, 
and his well-trained army of mercenaries. The lord of Milan 
having being defeated, despatched an ambassador to Avignon 
with instructions to bribe the Pope's counsellors ; and, desiring to 
secure an influential ally, sent a message to Catherine of Siena. 
In the end, Gregory earnestly desiring peace, a truce was ob- 

When S. Catherine received Visconti's message, she wrote to 
the Cardinal of Ostia urging him to do all that was possible to 

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A Citizen SatnL 129 

restore peace to Italy and put a stop to the evils that afflicted the 
servants of God ; begging of him at the same time to represent to 
the Holy Father that the rain of souls was of much more account 
than the destraction of cities. To Visconti she writes on the 
necessity of self-knowledge, and on the sin of pride. Even if a 
man were to possess the whole world, he ought to acknowledge 
his own nothingness. Death will as surely find him as the meanest 
of mankind ; the intoxicating joys of the world may forsake him 
as they do others; and he, no more than. the rest of the race, 
could prevent life, health, and all earthly treasures disappear- 
ing like the wind. She does not think that any one ought to be 
called Lord ; for the most powerful raler is only a dispenser, for 
a time and according to the Creator's pleasure, of the good gifts 
of the Sovereign Lord. Then she speaks of the means of recon- 
ciling the sinful soul to God, of the treasure of the blood of Jesus 
confided to the Church, and of the dignity of the vicar of Christ. 
A man must be mad, she says, who departs from the Lord's vice- 
gerent, and lifts his hands against him who holds the keys. "I 
entreat you,'* she continues, **to do nothing against our head. 
Be not surprised if the devil tries to deceive you under false ap- 
pearances, and incites you to take into your own hands the chas- 
tisement of bad pastors. Pay no heed to the tempter, and do not 
concern yourself with causes that come not under your jurisdiction. 
Our Lord forbids this ; He says these are His anointed ; He will 
not suffer any creature to exercise a judgment He reserves for Him- 
self. How culpable a subordinate would be who would want to 
take the power of bringing a malefactor to justice out of the hands 
of the judge ! It is no business of his ; it is tHe judge's part to act 
in the matter." And in conclusion she says: '*^Yes: I must tell 
you, my very dear father and brother in Christ, that God will not 
permit you nor others to become the chastiser of His ministers. 
He has reserved to Himself this right, and entrusted it to His 
vicar; and if the vicar neglect the duty (he ought to fulfil it and 
would do wrong to neglect it), we must humbly await the decision 
and sentence of the Sovereign Judge, the eternal God. .... 
I conjure you, in the name of Jesus cracified, to meddle no more 
in these affairs. Keep your cities in peace ; punish your own sub- 
jects when they deserve it; but do not sit in judgment on those 
who are the ministers of the glorious and precious Blood." 

Siena had been no unconcerned spectator of current events ; 
nor had S. Catherine been less than keenly alive to interests affect- 
ing the welfare of Italy, the well-being of Christendom, and the 
peace of the Church. For the evils that afflicted the Church and 
the world she saw a remedy in three things : the proclamation of 
a cnisade against the Turks ; the reformation of the clergy and the 
appointment of worthy pastors ; the definite return of the Pope to 
Rome. On the question of the crasade, Gregory XL was of one 
accord with the saint. Both saw in such an enterpirise an occasion 

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15© A Citizen Satnt. 

of rallying the forces of Christendom for the defence of Europe^ 
protected by no bulwark from the formidable and aggressive 
power of the»Sultan Amurath/save what the ill-defended kingdom 
of Hungary afforded ; an opportunity of engaging in a worthy 
cause the restless ambition and warlike impetuosity of kings and 
nations ; a means of saving the states of Europe from profitless 
and desolating wars, and preventing the extinction of republics ia 
fratricidal strife. The Pope early turned his attention to the or- 
ganization of a holy war, and the saint supported him with earnest 
zeal : employing her powerful pen* in kindling the enthusiasm of 
princes, commanders, and republics, and upholding in his resolve 
even the Pope himself. 

Gregory wrote to the King of England, the Doge of Venice, 
and the Count of Flanders, urging them to lend their aid in de- 
fending Christendom against the Turks ; ordered Berengario^ 
Grand Master of the Knights of Rhodes, to h6ld Smyrna as a gar- 
rison against the infidels ; and commanded a council to be held at 
Thebes to make the necessary preparations for the crusade. At 
this council were to appear in person, or represented by their am- 
bassadors, the princes of the East ; Leonardo da Tocco, ruler of 
Lucalia ; Francesco Cantalusio, Prince of Mytilene, and many 
others who had men and ships capable of serving in the war; and 
it was directed that Eleanor, Queen oi Cyprus, should entrust the 
conduct of the military affairs of her kingdom to the Prince of 
Antioch. The Pope, moreover, required the sovereigns to whom 
he had already written, as well as the Doge of Genoa, the King of 
Trinacria, the Queen of Naples, and the Prince of Taranto, the so- 
called Emperor of Constantinople, to attend the council or send 
their representatives. All appeared to be going on well when a 
war broke out between Venice and Genoa, and the latter republic 
sent a fleet to attack Cyprus. The council was thus rendered im- 
possible, and the Turks, emboldened by the delay, assumed a still 
more threatening attitude. Nevertheless, in 1373, the Pope pro- 
claimed the crusade, leaving nothing undone to stimulate the en- 
thusiasm of princes ; to inducethe faithful to pray for the success 
of the enterprise ; and to obtain money to carry on the necessary 
preparations. Great exertions were made to procure an efficient 
naval armament, and Smyrna was given for five years to the 
Knights of Rhodes that they might establish there a centre of 
communication and be in a position to assist the crusaders. En- 
cyclical letters were sent to the Hospitallers of St. John of Jerusa- 
lem in Bohemia, France, Navarre, England, Portugal, and other 
countries, urging them in moving terms to take up arms against 
the infidels. 

The success of the contemplated crusade would, it was be- 
lieved, greatly depend on the part taken by Joanna, Queen of 
Naples, who was connected by ties of relationship and friendship 
with the court of France, and could strongly reinforce the anna- 

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A CtUzen Saint 131 

ment with $hips and men. But it did not appear an easy task to 
enkindle a noble enthusiasm in that woman's heart. Beautiful 
and fascinating, the queen loved pleasure more than virtue ; and, 
careless of the welfare of her own subjects, it was hardly to be 
expected she- would evince much zeal for the interests of the Chris- 
tian world- Her early career had been more remarkable than 
edifying. The first of her four husbands, Andrew of Hungary, 
had been murdered, not without her connivance it was believed ; 
and his uncle Louis having invaded Naples to avenge his. death, 
the queen, who held her kingdom from the Pope, repaired to 
Avignon to defend herself from the accusations that had been 
brought against her. So effective was her eloquence and so moved 
with pity were her auditors at seeing a queen thus obliged to 
undertake her own defence, that she obtained all she desired. 
Clement VI. with the consent of Louis restored her kingdom to 
her. At the same time the sovereignty of Avignon which be* 
longed to Joanna, was made over to the Pope, and a certain sort 
of independence thus secured to the exiled pontiffs. 

To leave nothing undone at this crisis, Catherine of Siena in a 
letter to the queen, said that she had great pleasure in announc- 
ing to her that the Pope had sent a Bull to the Minister of the 
Minorites, the Provincial of the Friars Preachers of San Domenico, 
and to another of the order, commanding them to unite under the 
standard of the cross all who were willing to lay down their life 
for Christ and take arms against the infidels ; and entreated, nay, 
even constrained her to manifest a holy zeal for the undertaking. 
Joanna having returned a favourable answer, signifying her readi- 
ness to do the Pope's pleasure, Catherine wrote again, expressing 
her delight at having this assurance ; reminding Joanna that, as 
she enjoyed the title of Queen of Jerusalem, it was only fitting 
that she should take a leading part in the present expedition ; 
and adding that this was the time to show herself a faithful daughter 
of the Church. The Holy Father is anxious to know what the qiieen 
intends to do, and Catherine begs of her to write to the Pope 
expressing her desire, and asking his permission, to undertake the 
crusade ; for if she declare herself and take the initiative a great 
number will follow her example. 

To the Qi^^en of Hungary, mother of Louis the Great, the 
reigning King of Hungary and Poland, who was called the 
Gonfaloniere of the Holy Cross, Catherine wrote in a strain of 
more tender eloquence. She says we ought all to hasten like 
ardent lovers l» rescue the Church in the hour of her distress. 
" It is therefore necessary,*' she continues, " that you and I and 
every creature should love and serve her on all occasions, but 
especially in time of need. I, wretched creature that I am, have 
not wherewithal to give her help ; but if it would do her any 
service to shed my blood for her, she should willingly have it to 
the last drop. But this I will do : I will give the little that God 

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13? A Cihzen Saint. 

has bestowed on me, though* I have nothing to offer her but tears, 
and sighs, and ceaseless prayers. But you, my mother, and the 
lord master, the king your son, can aid her not merely by prayers 
and holy desires : you can freely and for love's sake, lend her tem- 
poral assistance also. Do not, for the love of God,, neglect this 
opportunity." And then the saint begs the queen to urge her son 
to listen favourably and offer his services in case the Holy Father 
should ask him to take the command of the expedition. The 
Turks are making inroads on the Christian territory every day, and 
it is a scandalous thing that the infidels should be in possession of 
places that belong to us by every right and title. If one of the 
queen's cities were taken from her, assuredly she would put forth 
all her strength, and fight to the death to get back her own pos- 
sessions. Should we not strive now with greater solicitude, con- 
sidering the souls that are at stake and the place that is in question ? 
Catherine goes on to say that she has written to the Queen of 
Naples, and to several other sovereigns, and that they have 
answered favourably and promised aid in men and money. She 
hopes in the goodness of God that the standard of the Holy Cross 
will be soon unfurled, and she entreats the Queen of Hungary to- 
follow the example of the other princes. 

In the meantime it became impossible for Catherine to remain 
undisturbed in her own city, or to limit her charitable visitations- 
to places within the confines of the Sienese territory. Her name 
was now well known throughout Italy, and especially in the other 
cities of Tuscany yhose inhabitants, becoming very^ anxious to. see 
her, soon found out that there were many ways in which the Saint 
of Siena could befriend them also. Her first journey of impor- 
tance appears to have been undertaken in 1374, when she went to- 
Florence in obedience to the command of the General of the Do- 
minicans at the time the Chapter of tHe Friar Preachers was beings 
held in that city.* While there she added to the number of her 
friends the Archbishop Angelo da Ricasoli, Nicolo Soderini one 
of the most influential of the citizens, and Buoncorso di Lapo, 
whom she had probably become acquainted with, when, shortly 
before, he had gone to Siena to effect a reconciliation between the 
Salembeni and the popular government. 

* Three of S. Catherine's brothers were then settled in Florence. The family 
had been reduced from its prosperous condition owing to the injury trade had 
sustained in consequence of the workmen engaged in the wooUen mafiulacture 
having revolted against their employers. Jacopo BenincaA, shortly before 
this migration, died a most happy death, anecdonatdy attende<i by Catherine, 
who, not being able to endure the thought of the father, who had brought her up 
with such care and been so good to her, passing through purgatory, be^ught the 
Lord to suffer the divine justice to be satisfied in her. She believed that her 

Srayer was heard, and joyfully bore a new and acute pain from tHat hour to her 
eath. After some years her mother, Lapa, received the habit of the Sisters of 
Penance, and literally became a disciple of her daughter. 

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A Cthzen SatnL 135 

The citizens of Pisa now sent pressing invitations to Catherine 
to visit their city ; and Pietro Giambacorti, a rich merchant and 
head of the democratic party, then supreme in the republic, was 
urgent in his request that she would comply with their desires. 
She did not like journeys ; and on this occasion she seemed to 
fear that scandal might arise in the event of her visit to the sea- 
board city, tis the best understanding did not exist at the time 
between Giambacorti and the governors of Siena. In answer to 
a letter, in which he begged of her to consider the good she could 
do by coming, and the earnest wish of the nuns of a certain con- 
vent to see her, she said among other things ; ** I received your 
letter with affectionate welcome ; whence I see clearly that it is 
not any merit or goodness on my part (for I am sinful and wretched 
enough) but only your own charity and the goodness of those 
pious ladies which induce you with such great humility to write 
and ask me to visit you. I would willingly comply with your de- 
sire and theirs ; but just at this moment I must entreat you to hold 
me excused. My health is not strong enough for such an under- 
taking, and besides I see that it might give rise to scandal at pre- 
sent. But I trust in the goodness of God that if it should be for 
His glory and the good of souls, I may be permitted to take the 
journey some future day, when I may do so with an easy mind and 
without causing complaints of any kind : and then indeed I sh^ll 
be ready to obey the commands of the Supreme Truth and to do. 
your bidding. Remain in the holy presence of God, and may Jesus 
reward you with his precious grace. Remember me lovingly to 
those good ladies, and tell them to pray for me to God that He 
may make me truly humble and in all things submissive to the will 
of my Creator." 

However, the nuns, the citizens, and Giambacorti finally gained 
their point. In the month of April, 1375, the plague having ceased 
in Siena, Catherine, though broken down by her severe penances 
and the sufferings she had endured in Ker attendance on the sick 
' and dying, set out for Pisa. Father Thomas, Father Raymond, 
Father Bartholomew Dominici went with her to hear the confessions 
of the people who would be sure to crowd found the saint. She 
was also accompanied by her mother, Alessia, Francesca, Gio- 
vanna Pazza, and probably by other sisters. The Archbishop, the 
Mantellate of the city, Giambacorti and all his family, went to 
welcome her on her arrival ; and immediately she was visited by 
persons of eminent sanctity, and religious ol various orders who 
wished to . converse with her on spiritual subjects. During her 
stay in Pisa, from April to September, she and her companions 
were the guests of Gerardo Buonconti, a man of great influence 
and particularly devoted to the saint. The house in which he so 
hospitably received the Sienese visitors is still to be seen near the 
church of S. Cristina, and the room once occupied by the saint is 
shown. Thr^e of Buonconti's sons became her disciples, and held 

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134 A Ctitzen SaifU. 

themselves in readiness to takei the cross as soon as the crusade 
should be organized. Gerardo himself appears to have sometrnyes 
acted as secretary to his venerated guest, for a letter written by her 
to a monk in the monastery of Belriguardo near Siena, concludes 
in these words: "that unworthy man, Gerardo, and Frate Rai- 
mondo, his Father, desire to be remembered to you." 

Father Raymond and Buonconti were very anxious about 
Catherine, whose strength became even more than usually en- 
feebled during her stay in Pisa, and they used to consult together 
as to what remedy could best be applied. Father Raymond re- 
membeied having once heard that people subject to fainting fits 
had been relieved by having the wrists and temples bathed in 
Veruaccia wine ; and he proposed to Girardo to try this remedy, 
since, owing to their patient*s dislike to wine, eggs, meat, and 
such nourishment, it was of no use to prescribe a generous regimen. 
The kindly host had none of this wine in his cellar, and a neigh- 
bour who was applied to and who would have given a cask of it 
with all his heart for such a purpose, found his supply exhausted. 
The wine was in the end supplied in a very extraordinary manner, 
greatly to Catherine's confusion, as it attracted the attention of the 
citizens in a way that was particularly distasteful to her. We are 
not told \vhat effect the prescription had ; nor whether it was after 
its application that her friends and disciples became greatly 
alarmed lest they should lose her. Father Raymond called them 
all around her, and with tears they besought Almighty God to 
spare them yet awhile their beloved mother and mistress, and not 
leave them orphans amidst the tempests of the world before they 
were strengthened in virtue. Distrusting the efficacy of their own 
prayers, they besought Catherine to pray that God would hear 
theifl for the sake of their. salvation. But she, not seeing the case 
in this light, would only pray that the Lord would do what was for 
the best. This made them more sorrowful than ever. However, 
before long their humble prayers were heard, and their mother 
was restored to her usual, though by no means robust condition. ' 

It was while praying one Sunday after Holy Communion in 
the church of S. Crisftna that Catherine received the stigmata: the 
wounds being perceptible by the pain, but not visible to the eye, 
The spot where the saint knelt is marked by a little column near a 
small altar. The crucifix before which she was praying at the 
moment is now in Siena^ having been sent as a pledge of peace to 
that city from Pisa. 

Catherine's confessors, as had been anticipated, were fully en- 
gaged by the people who came to see and be instructed by her. 
Cardinal Giovanni di Domenico, Bishop of Ragusa, who was in 
Pisa at that time, says, in a letter afterwards written to his mother, 
that he saw Catherine speaking to certain sinners, and her instruc- 
tions were so profound, and her eloquence so full of strength and 
ardour, that the most wicked men were converted. ' The monks of 

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A Citizen SatnL 135 

the Carthusian monastery in the island of Gorgone, not far from 
Pisa, hearing so much of the saint became extremely anxious to 
see her ; and the Prior Dom Bartolomeo di Ravenna, who regarded 
her with the highest esteem and affection, often pressed her to 
spend a day in the rugged little island which belonged to the 
Order, and asked Father Raymond to support his petition. 
Catherine consented, and accompanied by about twenty of her 
friends crossed over to the island, where the prior had a lodging 
prepared for them at some distance from .the monastery. The 
party arrived at night ; and next morning' the monks having been 
introduced to Catherine, she was requested to speak some words 
to them. In vain she endeavoured to excuse herself, believing 
that it ought to be her part to listen to the religious instead of 
trying to instruct them. She hadj however, to grant the prayer 
of the prior ; and in doing so she spoke with such knowledge and 
feeling on the duties of those who lead a solitary life, and on the 
temptations with which the devil assails them, that all, even Father 
Raymond who knew her so. well, remained in unspeakable amaze- 
ment. One of the most eloquent of the saint's discourses, the 
subject being perseverance unto death, is to be found in a letter 
written to a Florentine gentleman of rank who had become a 
monk in that monastery. 

Pisa was at that time a good centre of communication with the 
Christian world, east and west ; and S. Catherine took advantage 
of her stay in the beautiful seaside city to bring her influence to 
bear on the important subject of the crusade. Just then arrived the 
ambassador of the Queen of Cyprus, who put into Pisa, and awaited 
a favourable wind to sail for France, whither he was going to seek 
an interview with the Pope. The saint's zeal for the enterprise 
was not cooled by the touching picture the envoy drew of. the 
Christian isle with an infant king, and a weak woman as v^gent, 
exposed to the attacks of" the infidels bent on its conquest. 
Though the Pope had confided the queen to. the protection of the 
Knights of Rhodes, the danger became so imminent from day to 
day that Eleanor pressed with eloquent appeal for the succour 
which a general crusade would afford. Catherine, writing to her 
friends in Siena, tells them that there is a better prospect now for 
the crusade ; says that she has been speaking to the ambassador 
of the Queen of Cyprus ; and mentions that the Holy Father had 
meanwhile sent to Genoa to treat of the same affair. She wrote at 
the same time to Florence, urging Nicolo Soderini to be ready him- 
self and to engage as many others as he could to take part in the 
holy war. 

Among the dangerous elements which the saint wished to see en- 
gaged in the crusade, and thus diverted into a safe channel, were the 
companies of mercenaries with their condottieriy or hired captains, 
who ravaged Italy in every direction, either as unscrupulous troops 
in the pay of some chief or state, or as desperate adventurers, plun- 


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136. A Citizen SatnL 

dering and massacring on their own account. These troops were 
of different nations — German, English, Breton, French. The 
most famous among them were the English and Breton soldiers 
commanded by Sir John Hawkwood, called by the Italians Count 
Aguto: the same whose monument in the form of a memorial 
picture even now attracts the attention of English travellers visit- 
ing the Cathedral of Florence. Hawkwood was' an able captain ; 
and his soldiers, trained in the wars between France and England, 
were a highly disciplined and formidable band. Anxious to free 
Italy from the scourge of their presence and to turn their military 
talents to the service of the good cause, Catherine wrote to Hawk- 
wood and his companions, sending Father Raymond s^t the same 
time to the redoubtable condottiere to back up her appeal with his 
own personal influence. She begs Count Aguto to reflect for a 
moment, and to consider all the pains and hardships he has suf- 
fered while in the service and pay of the devil ; and tells him that 
she anxiously desires he would change his course, and with all his 
followers and companions in arms, enter the service and shoulder 
the cross of Christ, now that the Pope has proclaimed a crusade 
against the infidels. War between Christians is often sinful ; at 
best it is but a lamentable necessity. It is hardly credible that 
the children of the one only Church should pursue one another as 
it is the custom now to do. But since they take such delight in 
fighting, let them follow their inclinations in a way that will be 
profitable to their own and other people's souls. They promised 
to follow the Son of God unto. death, and yet they go on fighting 
against Christ, thrusting their swords into the breast of His own 
children, and forgetting that a severe account will be required of 
the blood shed to no good purpose. 

The saint's entreaty produced its effect. Hawkwood and all 
the caporali of his company promised Father Raymond, and con- 
firmed their promise with an oath, that they would turn their arms 
against the infidels as soon as the expedition should be set on 
foot ; and, not content with this, they sent Catherine a paper to 
the same effect and signed with their own hand in testimony' of 
their good faith. She also wrote to other companies that were 
being organized in Tuscany, and particularly to the Count, the son 
of Monna Agnola, who was already preparing a troop for the ex- 
pedition. This letter is remarkable for its chivalrous tone, the 
subject being the battlefield of this darksome life wherein we can 
never.close our eyes without danger of death, nor lay down our 
arms without certainty of destruction. But what need we fear — 
how can we fear when Christ is our Captain, and our hope is fixed 
on the Creator of the world ! Let us put away all fear, generously 
waging war and following the standard of the most holy Cross ; 
taking in hand the two-edged sword of love and hate wherewith to 
overcome our foes. This is the combat that every one bom into 
th'e world must sustain ; this is the field into which all must do- 

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A Citizen Saint 137 

scend who have attained the use of reason. We are chosen by the 
ineffable goodness of God to fight like true soldiers against vice 
and sin, and gain the riches and the recompense of virtue. The 
Holy Father has called out the Knights of Rhodes (whose isle 
was threatened by the Turks) and all who are willing to follow 
them. Let the Count go at once and speak to Don Juan Fer- 
nandez (the Grand Master), and do what God, through his advice, 
will show him. " Have no* fear, then, dear sons ; put on the breast- 
plate of the Precious Blood, and let our blood fioyr forth with the 
Blood of the Lamb. Oh ! how shall not this goodly coat of mail 
hold us safe from every hurt. You will strike with the sword of 
love and hate, and lay prostrate all your foes ; and from this strong 
armour every thrust will glance away. Think, my sons, how won- 
derful this armour is, which conquers when it is touched, and 
wounds the arm that strikes it. It is a quiver full of arrows with 
unseen darts inflicting real wounds. But from each wound it gives, 
flowers and fruit spring up : flowers that bloom to the praise and 
gloT}' of the name of God, and with their fragrance overcome the 
stench of "unbelief. Arid after the flowers will come the fruit, when 
we shall receive the recompense of all our toil : the increase of 
grace in this our earthly life, the eternal vision of the Lord here- 
after. No more negligence, then, but boundless zeal ; lose not 
the harvest for the cost of a little labour : for in no other way (fan 
you show yourselves brave and noble knights. Therefore, I have 
told you that what I wish is to see you like true soldiers posted on 
the battlefield. Grant my prayer, I beseech you ; fulfil the will of 
God, and my desire; let the blood of Jesus crucified inundate 
and inebriate your soul, for it is in this blood the heart is 

To the Judge of Arborca, who was virtually the ruler of the 
island of Sardinia, Catherine sent one of her disciples, Frale Ja- 
copo. The mission was successful, for the judge promised to send 
to the war as his contingent for ten years, two galleys, a thousand 
mounted horse, three thousand foot soldiers, and six hundred 
crossbow-men. Catherine announcing this to one of her friends. 
Father William of England,* adds that the Judge of Arborca wrote 
TOost graciously to her, and said he would himself go to the war. In' 
the same letter she mentions that Genoa takes the matter to heart 
^d offers money and men. Still further to aid the cause she sent 
Father Raymond and Don Giovanni della Celle, monk of Valam- 
brosa, to diff'erent cities of Italy to kindle the holy flame, proclaim- 
ing the crusade in the Pope's name "and her own. To others as 

• Frate Guglichno Fletc (Fleetwood ?) of the convent of the Order of the Her- 
mits of S. Augustine at Lecceto, about three miles from Siena. Catherine often 
visited the convent. Father William's life was wonderfully silent and austere, 
and he was held in great reverence by the people. He was an ardent disciple of 
the saint, who wrote him several letters. 

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138 A Citizen Saint. 

well as to the saint it now appeared there was good ground for 
hope. Party strife began in some degree to subside, and prepara- 
tions were being seriously made throughout Italy for the expedi- 
tion to the East. But again enthusiasm was quenched in bloodshed, 
and the high hopes that had been cherished sank in disappoint- 

One day Father Raymond, overwhelmed with affliction, came to- 
Catherine to tell her that Perugia had -broken out into rebellion 
against the Pope, having been instigated thereto by Florence, 
which was rapidly setting all Tuscany and the States of the Church 
in a flame. Considering the terrible evils that were now certain to 
ensue, and foreseeing the interruption of their cherished enterprise, 
the Frate's eyes filled with tears. But Catherine turning to him 
said : ** Do not weep now, for there will be much worse things to- 
lament over by-and-by. What you see is but a speck in compari- 
son with what is yet to come." Father Raymond thought nothing 
could be worse than to see people losing all love and reverence for 
the Church and despising the papal censures. '* This is the sin of 
laymen," she replied, " but before long you will see' the clergy 
doing something much worse. The holy Church will be the scene 
of a great scandal, when a strong hand shall undertake to carry 
reform into the priesthood. I do not speak of heresy, but of a 
gneat schism in the Christian world. Be well prepared with pa- 
tience, for you yourself shall see these things." All that she now 
could do was to use her utmost efforts to keep the cities where she 
had influence in obedience to the Pope. She had gone shortly 
before by command of his Holiness from Pisa to Lucca, where she 
had been warmly welcomed by the people and hospitably received 
by Bartolomeo Balbani. As usual she made many friends, and in- 
creased the number of her disciples during her stay in that free 
city. She now took advantage of what she had thus gained, and 
wrote in urgent terms to the Ancients and the Gonfaloniere of 
Lucca, entreating them not to join in the league against the commoji 
father of the faithful. At the same time she wrote to Gregory 
beseeching him to send to the citizens of Lucca and Pisa some 
words of paternal kindness and encouragement, and to invite them 
to remain firm and faithful. She has herself, she says, remained up^ 
to the last moment. in these cities doing all in her power to per- 
suade them not to league with the guilty subjects who had revolted 
against his Holiness. But they are placed in a position of great 
perplexity. They have received no assistance from the Holy 
Father, whose enemies beset and threaten them on all sides. She 
also begs the Pope to write still more pressingly to Messer Pietro 
Gapibacorta, and to do so in affectionate terms and without delay. 
" Be not afraid, O Father," she writes, " of the storm that has 
burst forth and of the unnatural children who have revolted against 
you. Fear nothing, for the assistance of God is at hand. Keep a 
vigilant eye on spiritual things. Give good bishops and governors 

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A Citizen, SatnL 139 

to yonr cities ; for bad pastors and bad rulers were the cause of 
this revolt. Apply the remedy without delay. Trust in Jesus 
Christ and proceed without fear. Carry out the holy resolutions 
Ton have taken : return to Rome and set on foot a glorious cru$ade. 
Delay no longer ; your delays have already done much harm. I 
implore you," she adds, " to invite the rebels to a holy peace ; so 
that all their warlike ardour may be turned against the infidels. I 
trust that God in His infinite goodness will grant you speedy suc- 
cess. Courage, then, courage ! Yes, come, and console the poor 
servants of God, your children. We are expecting you with an 
ardent and affectionate desire. Forgive me, O my Father, all that 
I have . said. You know it is out of the abundance of the heart 
the month speaketh." 

At last Catherine, whose stay in Pisa had been prolonged by 
the reluctance of the archbishop to allow her to depart, was able 
to return to her own city.. In the autumn of 1375 she and her 
family of friends and disciples were at home ag^in, not far from 
Fronte Branda and within sight of San Domenico planted on the 
hilL For a little space, possibly, the thunder clouds rolling over 
Italy sent only a distant echo into that hollow between the cathe- 
dral and convent-crowned heights. But Catherine had brought 
enough home in her heart from that convulsed and suffering world 
outside— -enough to render still more insatiable her desire of suf- 
fering in sjrmpathy with God's servants and in expiation for the 
sins of faithless men — enough to make every pulsation of life a 
breathing prayer. We are told that she spent at this time nearly 
the whole day in prayer ; her only repose being the little she al- 
lowed herself when she went into the fields to enjoy the poetry of 
nature of which we hear she was so fond, or with her compa- 
nions sang canzoni in praise of the Mother of God. " Poetry and 
music," the author of the ** Storia " remarks, ** consort well with 
religion ; and Catherine followed in this the holy traditions not 
only of the Dominican Order, in which from the very beginning 
the Arts were held in honour, but of the Third Order itself. For 
the learned Padre Marchese, speaking of the Third Order of the 
Dominicans (whose greatest glory is undoubtedly the Virgin of 
Siena) says, that in it as well as among the Friar Preachers all the 
Fine Arts were held in great love and veneration." 

Meanwhile the state of things progressed from bad to worse at 
Florence. To the imprudence and tyrannical disposition of the 
French legates, as already noted, was attributed the origin of the 
dreadful war that had now broken out. Shortly before this a 
rumour had spread through Italy that the Papal legates, and even 
the Pope himself, had determined to destroy the liberty of the 
Tuscan states. Florence was speedily in a ferment, and Viscbnli 
improved the occasion. The legate of Perugia was believed to 
have lent his aid to the Salemfceni in their opposition to the popu- 
lar party in Siena, and was therefore suspected of ambitious de- 

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140 A Citizen Saint. 

signs against that republic. But the chief blame justly falls on the- 
Cardinal of S. Angelo, Guglielmo Noelletti, legate of Bologna- 
Either to gratify an ill-feeling towards the Florentine republic, or 
to preserve his own territory from all danger of scarcity, he refused 
to allow the exportation of grain from the States of the Church^ 
The Florentines, suffering greatly from the famine that had suc- 
ceeded the pestilence, pressingly asked permission to import com 
from the neighbouring territory. The legate sent a refusal to their 
demand. About the same time Sir John Hawkwood, who had 
been witfi his company in the service of the Pope during the war 
with Visconti, had, in consequence of the truce, been disbanded by 
Noelletti. The latter capped his refusal of the com by intimating 
to the Florentines that if the condotiiere entered the republican' 
territory the cardinal could not prevent him. This warning the 
citizens received as a mockery of their distress; and when the 
adventurers, pursued their devastating march and approached the 
very gates of Florpnce, the rage of the people knew no bounds ; 
they saw in this nothing but a concerted measure between Hawk- 
wood and the cardinal legate. Gregory XL having received in- 
telligence of these events sent letters to be forwarded from Florence 
ordering the legate of Bologna to suj)ply the com required by the 
citizens. But. the cardinal refused to change his course. He 
would not even read the pontifical bulls. 

Forthwith the Florentine government began to prepare for de- 
fence and aggression. A new magistracy was created for the 
occasion, in the form of a commission of eight citizens charged 
with the conduct of the war. They were called the Otto delta 
Guerra — the Eight of War ; and they soon showed they had been 
well selected for the work. Not only did they lash the fury of the 
citizens to the utmost, but they took measures to kindle the revo- 
lutionary flame elsewhere. They sent bands through the cities of 
Italy carrying a red flag on which the word '* Libertas" was em- 
broidered in letters of gold. The populations were to take notice 
that the Florentines did not want to interfere with the liberties of 
any state : their only wish was to set all free from the yoke of 
foreigners. Secret agents were despatched at the same time to- 
stir up rebellion in the Papal cities ; and with such success were 
their eff"orts attended that before the end of the year 1375 eighty^ 
cities and fortified places, including Viterbo, Monte Fiascone, 
Perugia, and Assisi had joined the republicans, into whose service 
was now taken the redoubtable condotiiere^ Sir John Hawkwood. • 

Another commission was appointed to regulate the internal 
affairs of the republic ; to stir up the people ; regulate public wor- 
ship; appoint to ecclesiastical benefices.; secularise Church pro- 
perty, and so on. This commission, like the other, was composed 
of eight members. They were determined Ghibelines, and such 
were the excesses and sacrileges they coinmitted that the people 
with grim humour called them the Eight Saints. The Prior of 

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A Citizen Saint. . 141 

the Carthasians, who was then Apostolic Nuncio, was seized ; his 
flesh was cut in pieces and thrown to the dogs in the presence of 
the shouting multitude, who finished the day's work by burying 
their victim before he had ceased to breathe. 

When the intelligence of these atrocious proceedings was 
brought to S. Catherine she exerted all her influence to prevent 
the Ghibeline party prevailing at that crisis in Siena : and knowing 
that the French cardinals by whom the Pope was surrounded 
would counsel the most rigorous measures in regard to the Unduti- 
ful Florentines, she wrote letters to Gregory XI. inclining him to 
mercy, and entreating him to consider at this moment not so much 
the necessity of regaining the possessions which the Church had 
lost as the duty of recovering the stray sheep — a treasure which 
sadly impoverishes the Church in the losing. The arms of benig- 
nity, charity, and peace would effect much more than weapons of 
war, and would be sure in the end to regain temporal territory and 
spiritual possessions. The patrimony of the poor is spent on 
soldiers who devour the blood and life of men. And this war is a 
great obstacle to the desire of his Holiness to carry out the 
reform of the Church, by giving her good pastors for her 
government. At such times as these, when it appears of impor- 
tance to conciliate princes and great hien, bishops are sometimes 
appointed according to the ideas of these magnates, and not 
according to the Pope's own judgment. And a great evil it is to 
give, from .whatever motive, to the Church, pastors who seek their 
own selfish ends and not the honour and glory of God's name. 
Bad pastors are destroying the people of God instead of converting 
them ; they see wolves carrying off the sheep and appear to give 
themselves no concern, so intent are they on "seeking their own 
pleasures, and courting the honours and favours of the world. 
The Pope himself is like a lamb in the midst of wolves, and he 
must not be surprised if he should have to encounter great ob- 
stacles ; if all human succour should fail him ; and if those who 
ought to assist turn and conspire against him. But let the Holy 
Father hold fast to his good and holy desire of returning to Rome ; 
realise his project ; and carry on the crusade against the Turks 
who are now invading the Churches possessions. 

The saint beseeches the Pope to pardon her presumption for 
speaking in this wise. But if she followed her own desire she 
would continue speaking as long as she had a breath of life left. 
She could say much more by word of mouth than by letter, and 
she thinks it would be a great comfort to her soul if she could 
do so. She begs the Pope to admit the bearer of this letter to an 
audience ; to give full credence to his words ; and to grant what he 
asks. And if the Holy Father have any secret matter to commu- 
nicate to her the message may with all safety be entrusted to him. 
The envoy thus accredited was Neri di Landoccio, who was sent 
from Siena to carry Catherine's letter to the Pope at Avignon, 

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142 A Citizen Satnt. 

By this time an army had been got ready to support the Papal 
cause in Italy, including in its ranks a company of Breton merce- 
naries, who, having been asked whether they were hardy enough to 
enter Florence, replied that if the sun penetrated there, so should 
they. But Gregory, who naturally inclined to peace, listened 
favourably to the earnest and eloquent entreaties of the saint, whom 
he held in high esteem. -In the beginning of 1376 he sent envoys 
to Florence with conditions of peace easy of acceptance. The 
well-disposed citizens, acknowledging that the terms were better 
than- could have been expected, were satisfied to accept them. 
Not so the Eight of War. While the ambassadors were engaged 
in completing the treaty of peace, Count Antonio di Bruscoli was 
orderfed by the Eight to enter Bologna and incite the inhabitants 
to rebel. This he did with such success that the Papal troops 
were driven out of the city, and the cardinal legate was taken 
prisoner. Such treachery was likely to prove too much even for 
Gregory's patience ; and Catherine was deeply afflicted when she 
heard what had occurred. She sent to her friends in Florence en- 
treating them to leave nothing undone to re-establish union with 
the Church; she saw no other way of saving the republic and all 
Tuscany. Surely, she said, war was not such a pleasant pastime 
that they should want to have it when it could be avoided. The 
preacher of the Friar Minors went to them on her part, and they 
would do well, she said, to listen to what he had to say concerning 
themselves atid their city. The result of this embassy was that the 
Florentines deputed Father Raymond to go to the Pope; and 
Catherine sent by him a letter supplicating his Holiness not to 
refuse to grant peace on account of what had happened in Bologna. 

Qregory, consenting to suspend hostilities; cited the Gonfalonier 
and the other representatives of the republic to appear in person be- 
fore him to answer for their conduct. A month's delay was accorded. 
If they did not present themselves within that time, on the 31st 
March sentence of excommunication should be pronounced against 
them. The war party, not deeming it prudent to oppose the more 
peacefully inclined citizens, sent to Avignon Alessandro dell* 
Antella, Domenico di Salvestro, and Donato Barbadori. The am- 
bassadors were admitted to a public audience, and on the very day 
that excommunication should otherwise have been pronounced 
against them they stood in the presence of the Pope. Barbadori, 
whose oratory was in high repute, spoke for all. His address was 
a burst of impassioned eloquence. But instead of seeking to ex- 
cuse the conduct of the Florentines, he denounced the French 
legates as the cause of the war, forgot all prudence in the heat of 
patriotic ardour, and called on God to judge between the two. 
The speaker's voice, his impetuous flow of words, the deep 
feeling that prompted his expressions, produced a profound impres- 
sion, and many of the audience were melted even to tears. Less 
oratorical was the Pope's discourse. His words were pronounced 

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A Citizen Saint. 143 

-with g^reater calmness. He would not at that moment give judg- 
ment ; he would consult the Cardinals. 

The Italian members of the Sacred College advised the adop- 
tion of conciliatory measures. The French cardinals, immensely 
in the majority, were all for war ; the army should be despatched 
forthwith ; the excommunication should be pronounced ; if Barba- 
dori's audacity were to be answered with proposals of peace, the 
Pope would soon be left without a foot of land in Italy. A few days 
-after the delivering ofthe ambassador's ill-judged oration, and while 
the question of war or peace still remained under discussion, the very 
worst news from Bologna reached Avignon. Now, assuredly, the time 
for justice had come! The cardinals were assembled; the ambas- 
sadors were commanded to appear. The awful sentence of the Pope 
was read : the Florentines were excommunicated, and their city 
was placed under an interdict. Barbadori, excited by intense 
passion, l^urst into tears, threw himself at the foot of a crucifix that 
was in the hall, and raising his voice so that all might hear, called 
upo.n God to defend, the republic against the cruel anathemas 
fulminated agiinst her, and appealed to the Judge of the living 
and the dead from the sentence pronounced that day. So saying 
he departed, leaving the assembly overwhelmed with astonish- 

Thus at last broke the thunder-cloud over Florence. The 
citizens saw in the Pope's sentence the destruction of their pros- 
perity, the ruin of their trade. They were now thoroughly alarmed, 
and the peace party began to gain strength. The Eight of War, 
who, since the return of the ambassadors, had committed greater 
excesses than ever, were obliged to yield to the pressure of opinion, 
and seek in this extremity an intercessor with the Pope. They 
remembered Catherine of Siena. A deputation from the Eight of 
War and the Priors of the Arts, in whose hands the government 
was placed, went to Siena to ask her to be a peace-maker between 
the republic and the Pope, and to repair without delay to Florence. 
She went at once. The magistrates of the city came out to meet 
her ; and her friend Nicole Soderini, now one of the Priors, with 
g^reat joy received her into his house, and placed her in communi- 
cation with the Eight of War and the principal citizens. A most 
difficult task she had to undertake in striving to bring the factions 
that divided the state to something like unanimity. Again -she 
wrote to the Pope, and' sent some of her trusted friends and dis- 
ciples to Avignon with instructions to dispose Gregory's heart to 
peace, and mitigate his just indignation' against the Florentines. 
But this was not deemed sufficient for the urgency of the occasion. 
The citizens implored of her in the name of God to go herself to 
the Pope and obtain peace for them. 

This was a mission the saint could not refuse. She set out on 
her journey in search of peace; but unfortunately just at the very 
time that Robert, Cardinal of Geneva, left Avignon at the head of 

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144 -^ Citizen Satnt. 

an army of 6,000 cavalry and 4,000 infantry, including the indotni- 
• table company of Bretons, to let loose on Bologna a ferocious 
soldiery, and culminate the horrors of war in the massacre of Ceseme. 
Some of Catherine's disciples had already preceded her to Avig- 
non. Father Raymond and some others of the Frati were there ; 
and Neri di Landoccio was either there, or, if he had already 
returned to Italy after delivering the saint's letter to the Pope, he 
again set out in her company. We are told, at any rate, that she left 
Italy with twenty-two disciples, among whom certainly were three 
of the Sisters of Penance, Fra Giovanni Tantucciand Fra Felice da 
Massa, both Augustinians ; Fra Guidone, three of the sons of 
Buoncorti of Pisa, Nicolo di Mino Cicerchi, and Stefano di Corrado- 

Some time before this journey had been thought of the saint 
said one day to Stefano : ** Before long, my dear son, your greatest 
wish shall be granted." He was astonished to hear this, for he was 
not conscious of entertaining any particular desire in the world; he 
was rather thinking of quitting it altogether. • ** My very dear 
mother," he said, " what is my greatest desire ?" She lold hini to- 
look into his heart. **I do not find, mother, that I have any 
stronger wish than to remain with you." " Then you shall be sa- 
tisfied," she said. And yet when the journey to Avignon was decided 
on he never ventured to hope he might be allowed to go. When,, 
therefore, he heard that he was among those chosen to accompany 
Catherine to France he remembered what she had said, and joyfully 
left home and friends to follow her footstep?. 

Whether the saint and her disciples travelled by sea or land 
there is no way of ascertaining, for the account of her journeys,, 
written by Don Giovanni delle Celle has been lost. All we know 
is, that on the i8th June she and her followers entered on foot the 
city of the Popes — Avignon — busy, splendid, luxurious : bristling 
with defences, beautified with innumerable spires and gigantic 
towers ; majestically seated on the Rhone flowing' rapidly by the 
battlemented walls and past the abrupt aclivity on which stood the 
cathedral and the fortress, palace of the Popes. Gregory showed 
his esteem for the saint by ordering her to be lodged in the house 
of a certain Giovanni de Regio, a large tower-shaped mansion, 
having a richly adorned chapel attached ; and directing that what-^ 
ever she and her companions might require should be provided at 
his expense. On the very day of her arrival a short letter was 
brought to her from the Pope, asking her advice as to whether he 
should take counsel with the cardinals before he decided on re- 
turning to Rome. From Catherine's answer it would appear that 
they had cited for Gregory the example of Clement IV., who, when 
about to do the same thing, sought the advice of his brothers the 
cardinals. But Catherine observes that they say nothing of the 
course pursued by Urban V., who in doubtful matters consulted 
their opinion, but in clearand evident cases, like this question of 

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A Citizen Saint. 145 

the Pontiff's return to his See, did not wait for what they had to- 
say, but followed bis o\vn judgment, paying no heed to their oppo- 
sition. She implores him in the name of Christ to hasten to make 
up his mind to depart, but recommends him to keep his intentions- 
up to the last moment a secret. This letter was dictated to Stefano 
Maconi, and Father Raymond when he had translated it into- 
Latin carried it to the Pope. 

Two days after her arrival, having received a command to ap- 
pear before the Pope and speak in the name of the Florientines, 
Catherine of Siena, attended by Father Raymond of Capua, stood. in 
the presence of the Supreme Pontiff, who was seated on his throne 
and surrounded by the purple- robed cardinals. The saint spoke in 
her exquisite Italian — she. knew no other language — and Father 
Raymond translated what she said into Latin for the Pope, who did 
not understand what was then considered a vulgar tongue. When 
she had finished speaking, the Holy Father, who seemed to be 
greatly impressed by her views, said to her: "In order that you 
may see how truly anxious I am for peace and concord, I leave all 
in your hands, only recommending you to have due regard for the 
honour and the interests of the Holy Church." 

Catherine began with all the ardour of her nature to dispose 
matters so that when the Florentine ambassadors, who were to have 
immediately followed her to Avignon, should arrive, peace might 
be made without delay. She spoke with many of the cardinals^ 
and with several temporal lords, and all seemed to promise well. 
But the Eight of War were in no haste to send the ambassadors^ 
Their most earnest desire was to keep things in their existing state,. 
and maintain their own position. They talked of peace merely to 
please the people, who were scandalized by the attitude the republic 
had assumed towards the Holy See. Gregory, noticing the delay,. 
said to Catherine that the Florentines, who had evidently counted 
on deceiving the Pope; would in the end deceive even herself; 
they would not. send any embassy, or if they did, no conclusion 
would be come to. Finally arrived three envoys from Florence,, 
well instructed by the Eight to spend the time in fruitless negotia- 
tions, and not to let peace be made. 

Meanwhile, however, there were other great interests claiming 
attention which Catherine's stay in Avignon gave her an oppor- 
tunity of advancing. First among these, of course, were the Pope's 
return to Rome and the crusade against the Turks. On these and 
other subjects she not only spoke to Gregory, but, for greater con- 
venience, as he did not understand her tongue, wrote letters to him 
from Giovanni dc Regio's tower-like mansion. To Charles V. of 
France nothing was more repugnant than this project of the Pope's 
desertion of Avignon ; and the king desired his second son, Louis, 
Duke of Anjou, who had gone to the. Papal court about some 
matter in dispute with the king of Aragon, to dissuade the Holy 
Father from putting his resplve into execution. The Duke was by 

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146 A Citizen Saint. 

no means prepossessed in favour of Catherine of Siena, but she had 
no sooner become acquainted with him than she recognised in the 
king's son the fitting man to be entrusted with the conduct of the 
crusade, and she j)roposed to Gregory that Louis should be named 
commander of the expedition. The Duke's distrust was, before 
long, changed to aflfection and reverence ; he was anxious that the 
saint should visit the French court and try whether peace might 
not be made with Edward of England. She would not do this ; 
but she wrote to the king a letter full of eloquent and wise counsel. 
Th^re was no difficulty, however, in persuading Catherine to visit the 
X>uke and Duchess of Anjou when their home, on account of an 
accident that had occurred at a banquet they had given, was a 
house of mourning. She went to their residence and remained 
three days with them. 

One day the f ope sent for Catherine and asked her would she 
recommend him to carry out his intention of returning to Rome, 
notwithstanding the many and serious obstacles that opposed the 
execution of his design. She excused herself, saying it was not fitting 
that an insignificant woman should decide such a question. Gregory 
said he did not ask her counsel ; he wanted to know the will of 
God. " How, then," she replied, ** can you be ignorant of the will 
•of God — you who vowed to him that you would return to Rome!*" 
The Pontiff, greatly astonished at being thus reminded of a vow 
which he had indeed made, but had never spoken of to any one, 
became more than ever convinced that it was the voice of God that 
urged him to depart. He commanded that a galley should lie at 
anchor in the Rhone ready for an emergency, though its possible 
destination was kept a secret. 

Suddenly, on the 13th September, 1376, Gregory XI. announced 
iiis intention of at once leaving Avignon and returning to Rome. 
The time was gone by for murmurs or objections ; the court must 
remove from the seat of peace and security in Province; the cardi- 
nals must leave their too well loved native land ; .the citizens of 
Avignon must be satisfied to see their glory vanish. But the Pope 
did not mean to drop down the Rhone in that galley anchored 
under the shadow of the walls ; he would go in solemn cavalcade 
to Marseilles, and under the escort of the Knights of S. John of 
Jerusalem, embark at that port for Italy. In the midst of gloom, 
stupefaction, and incidents of ill-omen, the Holy Father bade adieu 
to that palace sanctuary built upon a rock — so grandly fortified 
without, so exquisitely adorned within. His relations implored 
him to stay, and his aged father Hung himself across the threshold 
and with uncontrollable emotion, adjured him not to go forth an 
exile from the land of his birth ; the very mule on which he had 
mounted refused to take the road. Strong now in his resolve, 
nothing could retard the Pope. Another mule was brought, and 
the procession, sadly enough, moved on.' The clergy, the religious, 
the citizens of Marseilles, came out to meet the Holy Father as he 

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A Citizen Satnt, 147 

approached their city ; they paid him all the honour due to so ex- 
alted a guest ; they mourned over his departure, as all France was 
sure to do. Ten days he lingered on the shores of that sea that 
was to bear him from his place of rest to a land strewn with thorns 
and tempest-riven. 

Of the twenty-two ships awaiting the signal of departure, the 
greater number belonged to the Knights of S. John. Foreign 
states, however, were not unrepresented. Among the rest appeared 
a splendid galley belonging to Florence ; for the republic, though 
at war with Gregory, could not but rejoice with the rest of Italy 
when the tidings had gone forth that the Head of the Church was 
returning to the City of the Apostles. 

The. venerable Grand Master, Don Juan Fernandez Eradia,. 
commanded the galley in which the Pope was to embark. On 
the 2nd October Gregory went on board, and with tearful eyes 
turned away his gaze from the shores it had cost him so much to- 


LORD, the place is dark with night, 
The olive trees are dim to sight ; 
Scarcely can I see Thee, prone, 
Face to earth, outcast, alone. 

I have followed Thee with fear, 
Followed Thee, and found Thee— here. 
Let me cry, and let me pray. 
Take the cup of pain away I 

Hear me pray and hear me cry 
Words of Thine own agoi^y : 
Thou the Lord, and God of all ; 
1, so poor, so weak, so small. 

Yet no coward, and if Thou 
Urgest this, give courage now f 
Calm the shudder at my heart. 
Bid my rebel. will depart. 

Let the measure be filled up. 
Filled and drained the bitter cup — 
Drained, O living God, for Thee, 
Who hast made this mystery ! 

R. M. 

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( 148 ) 



Part V. 

■** There is a change, at last," pronounced Dr. Franklin, upon his 
first visit next day. " It is very slight indeed ; but it is for the 
better, little as it is. You perceive it, nurse ?" . 

** I thought I did, sir," answered the nurse. " But I didnt 
like to say so to the ladies for fear of being mistaken, and disap- 
pointing them." 

" The breathing is softer certainly," continued the doctor, ad- 
dressing Mary George, who, as she did not perceive the improve- 
ment, looked as though rather disposed to doubt it. "Perhaps 
Jess hard may be nearer to it,** he concluded. 

**You think he's recovering, doctor.^" said Miss Travers, 

" I hope so, my dear," responded the doctor. ** I have seen 
quite as bad cases recover. That is all I can say yet." 

Of ear less fine perhaps, and- certainly of less sanguine disposi- 
tion than the others, Mary George still (to herself) discredited 
what the rest of the household, once the doctor's opinion had been 
given, all ** saw as plain as could be ! " or had seen an hour ago; 
'* though, like Mrs. Timmany, they said nothing." 

"Any change since last night?" George asked, on his arrival, 
which this morning was somewhat later than the doctor's. 

"Oh, dear, yes, sir!" answered the servant that let him in. 
^' The doctor says so ; and we all see a change." 

" You have good news to-day I —haven't you .?*' George said 
cheerfully, on meeting his wife. 

** Doctor FraAklin says there is some slight improvement," she 
replied. . • " 

"Then, if he says it, he sees it!" returned George, decisively. 
^* There isn't a bit of humbug about Franklin." 

" Who says there is ?" rejoined she. " / don't see any change 
yet. But of course there may be." 

" I'll just take a look at him myself ;' though I can't expect to 
be able to see further into a medical millstone than you," con- 
cluded George, passing on to the sick room. 

" Of course you see the improvement?" Mary George asked, 
on his return to where he had left her. 

" If it isn't fancy, I really do think I perceive the breathing to 
be softer." 

" 7/^— that's just it ! " returned his wife. 

** If he is really getting better— and I'm sure I hope he is, poor 

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yohn Richardson* s Relatives, 149 

old sonl ! " put in George, with genuine good feefing — "it will 
l)e all the more necessary that I should do as we settled on yes- 

" Ksyou settled," interposed Mary George. 

" Surely you agreed it would ^" 

" If you go, I think the earlier you do it the better," in- 
terrupted his wife. " I'd like to know when they may be expected 
to walk in on us. I suppose you'll come back and let me know." . 
"Well, yes, if you like." 

" I do like, of course ; and 'tis the only thing I like about it." 
"They'd be sure to hear it, you know," George said, feeling it 
hard that a matter he had looked on as already settled beyond yea 
or nay, now seemed to need beinjg argued out again. 

" You know, or ought to know : that's the very thing / told 
jvtt," interrupted his wife. " But slsj^ou think you ought to go and 
tell it too, 7 think you should just go oflf and do it and have done 
with it." 

" I'll go as soon as 'tis at all likely Ach Deane will be met in 
the office," George said. " I don't care to have to go up stairs 

and have to — to *'- [" encounter" was the first word that oifered ; 

but he did not quite like to apply that to a lady, and paused to 
find a better] — " to play politeness to his wife. She's a woman I'd 
never care to see much of." 

And as his own wife was, in this at least, thoroughly of one 
mind with him, she left it to his own discretion and acquaintance, 
slight as it was, with his cousin Achilles' hours -and customs, to 
strike a happy medium between late and early. 

George himself indeed needed no spur. The desire to get over 
a disagreeable duty as soon as may be, is generally a spur of the 
most eflfectual, if not sharpest, kind with even the fair-and-easiest 
going people', and George Richardson was fair-and-easy going by 
nature ; and by habit, so far as his Mary's quicker temperament 
did not interfere with and overbear his own. His present duty * 
then seeming to divide itself into two, he proceeded to get over the 
harder half first by paying his brother John that short visit •men- 
tioned earlier in this story. . And then more leisurely, and with a 
feeling of relief not unlike that of a mitching schoolboy who has 
just got over the dreaded meeting with his master, he turned his 
steps towards the office of Achilles Deane, who earned and spent his 
income (or so much of it as Mrs. Achilles' economies allowed of 
spending) under one roof, in a good, roomy family-house situate 
in the same fashionable-professional quarter with that of his 
brother solicitor and former inaster, Mr. Frazer : only a dozen or 
so of doors coming between. 

Achilles rose promptly to receive his visitor. Indeed it seemed 
that, as George pushed in the door, he was in the act of rising 
^ith something as like a start as was consistent with the well- 
practised composure of a man whose business in no small degree 

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I50 John Richardson's Relatives. 

depends on the capability to master agitation and conceal surprise. 
Then, as he neither re-took his own chair, nor made any motion 
towards inviting George to that placed in readiness for clients, the 
cousins stood face to /ace, only the paper-strewn office table inter- 
vening, in a position suited rather tp antagonists than friends. 

•* 1 came in to tell you Uncle Tottenham is ill," George said. 
'•He ." 

*• Thank you I '* interrupted AchiUes ; rather dryly, too, George 
thought Next moment he had no doubt of the cprrectness of his 

" I had already been informed of it," added his cousin, in a 
manner to convey the addition of — " So please not to count on 
your bringing me the news as' a point on your side 1 We start 
fair : with no obligation upon either hand." 

** Oh, indeed !" George said. " I didn't know you knew it." 

Achilles hemmed — involuntarily, though, it seemed indeed ^ 
for he courteously endeavoured to pass it off with his pocket hand- 

(*• Serve me right for coming ! " George exclaimed to himself^ 
" Mary wasn't so far wrong after all.") 

"This occurred on Monday, I believe?" questioned Achilles; 
putting, as he spoke, his thumbs into the arm-holes of a rather 
showy waistcoat. It, doubtless, was a customary attitude: one 
that, inconstraining him to straighten himself up to his full height, 
gave him the air of desiring to overcome his interlocutor. 

" On Monday!" repeated George. ("Hang the fellow!" he 
went on to himself, ** does he think he has me on the table ?") 

" There was full time for the news to reach us, you perceive !" 
resumed Achilles. 

** Well, really," said George, thus put on his defence and not 
enough practised in the art that teaches qui s^£xcuse, s'accme 
to evade the snare, ** there was no earthly use in telling it any 

** I have no doubt that it was s6 considered," agreed Achilles^ 
** But, in point of fact, we were just about going over." His hat,, 
indeed, lay, as George now perceived, at its owner's right hand 
upon the table. 

At this juncture, a door not far from Achilles' elbow, and pre- 
viously ajar, was opened wide enough to let out the bulky person 
of the elder brother, Giles, from where, as it seemed to George, he 
had been lying perdu during the preceding passage of arms. 

Meantime George was speaking on. ** He knows nobody even 
yet. (How d'ye do, Giles?) And though Franklin pronounced 
him a shade better this morning, he may keep on unconscious no 
one knows how long yet." 

This was said no doubt somewhat at hap-hazard. In fact, 
George perhaps knew best what he had said through the response 
it elicited from Achilles. 

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John Richardson's Relahves. 151 

*• Oh, indeed ! ** in words, was followed by a look around the 
table which seemed to say — ** I don't see why I*d leave my business 
at this time of morning at that rate." It was plain neither brother 
had known much more than that their granduncle had had a fit. 

** You'll be sure to find Franklin there at three, if you care to 
meet him. Good-day," George said ; and without (it must be 
owned) a thought of soliciting the pleasure of their company 
should they purpose "going over" sooner, he nodded to both 
brothers, and walked away without more words on either side. 

•* Well ?" Mary George said, eagerly, as she met her husband 
on his return from his diplomatic mission. 
** The Deanes knew it !" he replied. 
•* Didn't I tell you!" she exclaimed, in a triumphant tone. 
•* One really might think you were glad of it," George rejoined, 
looking somewhat vexed. He had been about to tell her frankly 
" how very right she was." Now there seemed no need to add 
an3rthing to her self-complacency. 

" I'm not glad of it ! " she returned ; ** why should I ? But 
I'm glad I wasn't such a simpleton as to fancy they wouldn't find 
it out soon enough without you or me." 

"Well, all things considered, I'm glad I did go," resumed 
George- " It was as well to show them at least that we mesmt to 
let them know of it ourselves." 

** Yes, if you could be sure you did show it," remarked his wife, 
consolingly. " It's just as likely they thought we knew of their 
knowing it already. I shouldn't wonder if they did. And that 
'twas so much labour lost to put yourself into that state : cutting 
rods to scourge yourself, perhaps." 

George may have said to himself that these charges were 
about as consistent with each other as the parts of the famous 
logical plea of the broken pot : — " Broken when we borrowed it, 
and whole when we returned it " — but aloud he made no imme- 
diate rejoinder whatever. Never predisposed to pick a quarrel, he 
was more than commonly indisposed to it at that moment. He 
bad thrown himself upon the chair nearest the door ; and now 
leaned back on it looking very much as though he could wish 
himself quietly back in his own oflBce, yet lacked energy enough 
to set off at once for that haven of repose. He was easily heated 
in warm weather ; and that rubbing against the grain which was at 
times like the present a characteristic of his Mary's conversation, 
was not a process of the cooling kind. After a moment's silence 
' he said what appeared to him the best thing he could say — " At 
worst you need apprehend but one rod. John won't come here. 
I might have guessed indeed that he wouldn't trouble Uncle Tott*s 
house now more than he did at any other time." 

" From that I suppose you mean that we oughtn't be here 

" I don't say that. If John and Mary happened, as we did, to 

VOL. III. M . r^^^\^ 

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132 John Richardson's Relatives^ 

hear of it first, it would be no wonder if they did as we have 

Propitiated by this, Mary George let that point be as if settled, 
and fell back on a matter that she had in mind from the moment 
George had spoken his first words. 

" I have a pretty strong notion," she said, '' how the Deanes 
came to hear of it so very soon : that somehow or other they were 
sent word by the nurse." 

" The nurse I " echoed poor George. Aghast with surprise 
and dismay, he sat upright in his chair as if now indeed put on 
his defence ; and feeling that, like Reynard the fox, he could do 
nothing that did not seem to turn out a matter for reproach. 

** Not the nurse you brought," replied his wife ; ** but that old 
woman in the kitchen that you heard called Nurse Nelly. She 
talked so much, especially the first day I was here, of ** her child," 
as she called your cousin Giles ; and how, since his death, Mr. 
Giles Deane is the only one of the old man's name in the family, 
that Fm almost sure she did it." 

*• It was Giles who seemed to me to have told Achilles," George 
said ; but feeling his own part in that matter had come to a 
happy termination, all things considered, he plainly took but a 
languid interest in his wife's anxiety to get to the bottom of what 
to her looked little less than a conspiracy ; for as old Nelly had 
not, she thought, been out of the house, there must be some third 
party concerned. 

** She got out of me all my children's names, too," resumed 
she ; *' like a great fool I thought it the most natural thing in the 
world for an old (amily servant to ask, and I answered all her 

*' How could you think anything else ?" George said, with an 
amiable wish to do away with her annoyance. " Besides the chil- 
dren are called what they had a right to be called. And what's 
done can't be undone. And so," he concluded, rising to go, as 
one hastens to avail of a dry moment in showery weather, " if 
there is nothing you want me to do for you, I may as well lose no 
more time. I'll find something to do in the office." 

** I — I think not," his wife said. What she had to do did not 
at that moment call for help from George, and remembering this 
she let him go in peace and without delay. 

" I don't think the/11 be here— or at least both of them yet 
awhile," were George's last words, as he turned from the door- 
step to which his wife had accompanied him, as though to make 
up in ceremony for any shortcoming in hospitality. ** From the 
look I saw Achilles give at his office table I think he'll wait to see 
to some of his business first at any rate. I told them they'd be 
sure to find Franklin here about three. I could come — that is, if 
you really wished — ^ — ." 

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John Richardson* s Relatives. 153 

" Not at all ! " interrupted she ; ** I'm not quite sure that I maj 
be here myself." 

" If I were you, I think I wouldn't," concluded George, 
However this might chance to be, her husband's presence was 
about the last thing that Mary George would desire at any moment 
between this and dinner time. 

This was the day to which she had been looking forward ; the 
<iay that must decide upon what footing the Deanes were or were 
not to enter on their indisputable share of the claims of next-of- 
kin. This was the day on which the question of dinner or no 
dinner in their granduncle Tottenham's house became the ques- 
tion of the hour. And like a generalissimo on the eve of an en- 
gagement that must decide his fate and fame, Mary George chose 
to be left to herself: alone and undisturbed she best could con- 
centrate her energies, measure her resources, and lay out in detail 
her plan of action. 

The result of her reflections during the foregone days (and 
part of the nights indeed) was that the most certain means of 
establishing her no-dinner programme would be by beginning 
>^ith the giving of a dinner. As a matter of tact this course had 
many considerations to recommend it besides that of working by 
the rule of contraries, which seems as natural, and no doubt may 
be as desirable, to the social as it plainly is to the political econo-: 
mist. This dinner, however, was not to be given on the premises : 
that would be but a precedent for other dinners ; whereas she in- 
tended hers to be a dinner once for all, given in her own house 
and honestly at her own charges. 

Nor would this entertainment — supposing it to come off* as 
projected — add anything to speak of to the cost of the course 
otherwise laid down : she was consistently frugal in all parts of her 
plan. George, she reflected, having, happily, none of those dis- 
likes to the best-cooked cold meats and most savoury home-made 
dishes which render some women's husbands so particularly 
hard to please or cater for, her whole household would find full 
provision to the week's end in the remains of this diplomatic 
dinner. Thus, then, heart and conscience equally at ease, she 
proceeded to take counsel with herself as to what pieces de resist- 
ance might best serve for her main force ; and what pudding most 
effectively follow as a corps de reserve. These points decided, after 
deliberation such as Achilles himself if consulted might pronounce 
to be no more than their due, she rose from her chair, feeling that 
one part of her task was got through. But another and a yet more 
delicate and difficult part lay before her : and with regard to this 
she experienced the anxiety that ever must weigh on the mind of all 
commanders whose plan of action constrains them to devolve on 
untried auxiliaries the carrying out of the movement designed to 
open a campaign. Duty calling her elsewhere — in fact to market 
and thence home to arrange about the cooking — she had to entrust 

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154 John Richardson's Relatives. 

to Uncle Tottenham's servants a message of invitation to be given 
to the Deanes, should they arrive in her absence — and, all things 
considered, she inclined to think \i quite as well they should : ani 
upon the due and proper delivery of this message might depend, 
not the da/s fortune only, but the success or failure of her whole 
iacttque. But here she knew that she might count on that surest, if 
not best, of all allies, self-love, whilst acting for itself to act for her. 
With admirable judgment she put her message into few. and 
plain words — anything superadded would come better from the 
speaker's self. Having left it to the last moment before quitting 
the house, she rang for the cook, calmly delivered it, and then 
departed, taking with her, as may be supposed, the best good 
wishes of the latter for this fresh proof of her considerate disposi- 
tion : even Nurse Nelly finding, for the moment, nothing to say 
against a lady who thus showed herself as hospitable with respect 
to her own larder as she was sparing in her requisitions upon that 
of Uncle Tottenham. 

Upon the other side, also, meantime, there was a laying, or 
rather re-laying of plans for the day ; begun as soon as George 
had quitted the office of Achilles. The Giles Deanes had brought 
with them that very baby on which Mary George had partly counted 
for the keeping of them more or less away. When leaving home 
that morning hastily, and unaware that old Giles was still uncon- 
scious, the accompaniment of baby, as Giles the third, was held to 
be desirable. Now, the presence of the little Giles gave both 
wife and husband the consciousness of having made a needless, if 
not an absurd, preparation. Most people (** carriage people " will 
understand that they are not alluded to) have known what it is to 
be caught by brilliant sunshine in a fashionable quarter with an 
umbrella brought for by-gone rain. Little Giles was, at the pre- 
sent crisis, a family umbrella — the most embarrassing of all to be 
incumbered with at an unseasonable time. Achilles was un- 
doubtedly not at heart displeased with that misfortune of his 
granduncle which put into its proper light ** this strange proceed- 
ing on the part of — he could not help saying it to himself (and 
to his wife in the pantry', whither she had gone to make arrange- 
ments for the servants' dinner) — of Giles and .his wife." There 
seemed to him (Achilles) a positive indelicacy in thus making him, 
as it were, a party to putting forward on behalf of Giles* claim as 
next-of-kin an item of evidence, in the person of Baby Giles, of 
which he himself, unhappily, could bring forward no precise 

Thus, then, at the very first there seemed to be a general feeling 
as to the baby's being for the moment one too many ; and the only 
moot question to be, if the mother had not better stay with the 
child. There could be little doubt that such was Achilles' opinion. 
Conveyed though it was through the precautionary circumlocutions 
which that "peculiar people" called people-in-law are wont to 

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John Richardson* s Relfiitves. 155 

employ towards each other, with kind consideration for each othet's 
well-known susceptibility to take offence, it was plain enough for 
Giles to understand *' his view." Had Mrs. Achilles not been 
going, Giles himself probably would have thought the same way, 
and have been ready enough to say so, and to send wife, nurse, 
and baby straight home again. But Mrs. Achilles, he remembered, 
had already said that she was going ; and Ach had made no ob- 
jection — neither of course did or could he. But surely it was not 
for him to belittle his own wife by leaving her behind, like a. poor 
relation, whilst his brother's wife kept him company. Achilles 
harkig signified his views could not well go farther in face of the 
awkward precedent laid down in his own wife's express determi- 
nation on the same point. Mrs. Achilles was, as he knew, at that 
moment going about the house with her bonnet already on. And 
this once witnessed, upon the question of going anywhere, was as 
the **this is my hand and seal " on one of his own flawlessly-drawn 
deeds, against which he might say with equal truth, if not quite 
-equal pleasure, " no appeal could lie." 

Mrs. Giles, on her part, was, naturally enough, not inclined to 
be set aside without ceremony. Nor did she ** see why nurse and 
poor baby might not stay in Uncle Tottenham's kitchen as well, 
and perhaps with quite as much comfort, as in Mrs. Achilles' nur- 
sery ; where, indeed," as she did not fail to remark in an aside to 
Giles, "they had not as yet been invited to remain." Mrs. Achilles' 
judgment was, '* de-ci-ded-ly, that if mother and baby did not at 
once take the rational course (i. e. the road homewards), the next 
best thing was that both should go where baby might teach his 
parents a lesson not a little needed. As for her, she had not the 
remotest idea of encouraging such a ridiculous proceeding, by mak- 
ing her establishment a half-way-house to Uncle Tottenham's." 

Thus far Mrs. Achilles* policy fell in with Mary George's. All 
things, then, well considered and re-considered, both sisters-in-law 
were to accompany their husbands ; waiting on Achilles who, fulfil- 
ling George Richardson's shrewd prevision, thought it quite as well 
to get over a good part of the work that lay upon his oflftce table ; 
thereby earning the cost of that dinner which, prompted by his 
wife, he counted on his Uncle Tottenham's purse providing him 
with in its proper time. 

"For surely," Mrs. Achilles had'said, as she portioned out the 
cold meat for the servants, " where the Richardsons dine, we may: 
you have quite as good a right. As to there being, as you say, any 
. risk of short commons, that's not likely. People are not so sparing 
in laying out other people's money. You may be sure Giles and 
Jane came in, intending to dine there." 

Upon this Achilles, well content, betook himself to his deeds ; 
whilst Giles, not feeling himself quite equal to what he imagined 
to be the possible eventualities of the family rencontre at his grand- 
imcle's without the support of Achilles, found a ready and agree- 

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156 * John, Richardson's Relatives. 

able means of whiling away the idle hours in a visit to a cattle- 
market within easy walking distance of his brother's house. 

Giles having sent home his car directly after arriving (thereby 
giving his sister-in-law good grounds foj: her belief in the family 
design to make a day of it), the migration to Uncle Tottenham's 
was conducted on foot, and took some time to perform, the house 
being situated in the suburbs. If the present expedition was of 
any other sort, the order of the day would most likely dictate a 
something more like a happy-family arrangement than that which 
now^took place. Achilles would have felt himself called on to be 
the special escort of Giles' wife, and Giles to submit to be chape- 
roned by Mrs. Achilles. But the considerations just then upper- 
most with both brothers alike put such conventionalities quite out 
of mind. And the feeling of ** every man for himself" (wife and 
family being understood) brought about, as of course, its own 
characteristic coupling of the party. They were together because 
Giles could not well go without Achilles, and Achilles, under ex- 
isting circumstances, could not well shirk Giles. On both sifles, 
indeed, was the early-instilled belief of their being the stronger for 
acting as a bundle of twigs ; but mingling with and marring it 
was the later-learned troublesome knowledge of how often a twig 
out of this same kind of bundle is found to give the very smartest 
strokes to one or all of the rest. There certainly was enough 
brotherly regard to make either much prefer going halves with the 
other, to doing so with one or both of the Richardsons. But the 
shorter way investigation went beyond that fact, perhaps, the 
better. There are a great many mill-stones doing their share of 
the world's work which well-regulated curiosity will choose to 
contemplate from without rather than stop the wheels to look into 
them. So long as old Giles Tottenham lived, there would be at 
least a possibility that some one of the four grand nephews might 
be sole heir of all he had to leave. And every one having come 
to the use of reason must know that such a possibility was a thing 
impossible for a devoted husband and father to put out of sight. 

As the party left Achilles' door, Giles took the lead : not only 
as the elder and in right of having first heard the news, but as a 
man with plenty to do at home, thinking that time enough had 
already been lost to him, and determined to lose no more. Nurse 
and baby followed close behind ; the latter, favoured by a long 
sleep at Uncle Achilles', now wide awake and in high good- 
humour. This division of the company having got a start of at 
least twenty paces — one for every one of the more last words that 
Mrs. Achilles found to say to Sophia at the hall door — they kept 
their vantage steadily, leaving the others no alternative between 
an undignified run and a position decisively in the rear. Thus all 
through the walk a distance provokingly emblematic of prior claims 
intervened between the pairs, varying a little according as Mrs. 
Achilleft' anxiety to come up with and even go before " Giles and 

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John Richardson's Relahves. 157 

Jane, whose extraordinary proceedings were showing themselves 
to be all of a piece," or Achilles' disinclination "to identify him- 
self with nurse and baby," gained the upperhand. 

Meantime, common acquaintances passing at nodding dis- 
tance the couples in succession, very naturally (prompted by their 
own fine family feelings) set the migration down as a pleasant family 
party going somewhere out of town together to enjoy a fine day to 
the full in each other's company. One indeed, a lady sharp-sighted 
enough to see quite across the street and on occasion even 
farther, noting baby's age and unmistakable good health and 
spirits, and observing the absence of anything about or behind 
them in the shape of a dinner basket, decided on a different but 
no less edifying mot (Penigme: relating to her own family, as an 
interesting little incident, how she " had met and been chafmed 
with such an instance of unity of feeling in the Deane brothers 
and their wives ; all going in one party to vaccinate the last baby." 

So the world takes us, as we pass it by, sometimes for worse, 
and sometimes also, happily, for better than we are I 


GOD bless the dews that fed, the winds that rocked thee, 
Wee Rose divine 1 
God bless the gentle hand that kindly plucked thee 

To lay in mine. 
God bless the generous friend whose love in thee 

Stored up for me. 
And may her .wise and holy counsels win me 
Eternity I 

A. D. 

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( 158 ) 


I. Introductory. 

A FEW words about the state of parties in Ireland at the time 
r\ when our sketch begins. At the death of Charles I., 
January 30th, 1649, the Royalist cause in England seemed hoi>e> 
less ; the majority of the triumphant party wished for a Republic 
In Ireland — though the Stuarts deserved but scant gratitude from 
the Irish people — all parties were united in their attachment to 
Royalty. Two Royalist armies were in the field. Owen Roe 
O'Neill in the north commanded one ; Ormonde, the king's lord 
lieutenant, the other : his forces, united with those of Inchiquin, 
lay encamped about Drogheda. Dublin and Deny were the only 
strong places in the hands of the Parliament. But the mutual 
distrust of the leaders, or rather the treachery of Ormonde — " the 
unkind deserter of loyal men" — prevented that united action 
which could alone offer a successful resistance to the energy of 
Cromwell; and a second time, through the folly of her own 
children, Ireland became a conquered nation, and saw her fairest 
portions divided as a spoil among fanatics. 

The Order-book of the Council of State under the date March 
14th, 1 649, contains the following record: '* Yesterday, Tuesday, 
13th March, there was question in the Council of State about 
modelling of the forces that are to go to Ireland; and a sugges- 
tion was made that they would model much better if they knew 
first under what commander they would go." On the following 
Wednesday Lieutenaftt- General Cromwell was unanimously voted 
Lord Lieutenant and Commander-in-Chief of the English forces 
in Ireland. The General was asked to give in his answer to the 
Council of State within three days whether he would go to Ireland 
or not. In reply he intimated to the Parliament his readiness to 
serve them in the wars of Ireland. The House of Commons also 
spoke of " the necessity of advancing a considerable sum of money 
with all speed for the service of Ireland, and voted that /*i 20,000 
should be borrowed from the City of London for the purpose. A 
committee of the members was elected to treat with the Council 
of the City for the borrowing of that sum. Lord Chief Baron 
Wild did press the proposal with many arguments ; and among 
others he distinguished the state of the war in that kingdom as 
not between Protestant and Protestant, or Independent and Pres- 
byterian, but between Papist and Protestant ; Papacy or Popery 
being not to be endured in that kingdom, which totally agreed 
with that maxim of King James, when first King of the Three 

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Cromwell in Ireland* 159 

Kingdoms : ' Plant Ireland with Puritans and root out Papists, and 
then secure it.' " A week later (April 20th) the council of the 
army met and named two officers of every regiment, both of horse 
and foot, in the army to meet the next morning, " to gather what 
advice to offer to General Cromwell concerning the expedition to 
Ireland, and to decide what regiments shall go on that service." 
** After a solemn seeking of God by prayer," they agree that the de- 
cision shall be made by lot ; tickets are put into a hat ; a child draws 
them. The regiments, fourteen of foot and fourteen of horse, are 
decided on in this manner. The officers on whom the lot fell in all 
the twenty-eight regiments, expressed much cheerfulness at the 
decision. Kot so the soldiers ; they openly declared they would 
not march. Among them were not a few of the sect called 
Levellers, whose founder asserted that a vision had lately appeared 
to him ordering him to restore " the ancient community of enjoy- 
ing the fruits of the earth." They suspected that Cromwell had 
even then a design to seize on the supreme power, and wished to 
get rid of them by employing them in Ireland. The mutiny first 
broke out in Bishopsgate — a troop of horse under Colonel Whally 
refused to quit London, as they were ordered ; and took posses- 
sion of the colours. The other regiments quartered in different 
places, openly declared their determination to join the mutineers. 
But the capture of the greater number, and the execution of a few 
of the ringleaders, soon put an end to this rebellious spirit. Peters 
and his fellow-chaplains were ordered to preach the new crusade ; 
at times even the Lord Lieutenant himself expounded the Scrip- 
tures ** excellently well, and pertinently to the occasion." Very 
soon the most stubborn yielded to the fervent exhortations that 
compared them to the Israelites who were sent to exterminate the 
idolatrous inhabitzmts of Canaan, and declared that they were a 
people chosen to inherit the land promised to their fathers, and to 
purge it of idolatry and superstition. 

" On the evenmg of July loth, 1649, about five o'clock, the 
Lord Lieutenant (Cromwell) began his journey to Ireland, by the 
way of Windsor,- and so to Bristol. He went forth in that state 
and equipage as the like hath hardly been seen ; himself in a coach 
with six gallant Flanders mares, whitish grey; divers coaches 
accompanying him, and very many great officers of the army. 
His lifeguard consisting of eighty gallant men, the meanest 
whereof a commander or esquire, in stately habit ; with trumpets 
sounding, almost to the shaking of Charing Cross, had it been 
now standing. Of his lifeguard many are colonels ; such a guard 
as is hardly to be paralleled in the world. The Lord Lieutenant's 
colours are white." On Saturday evening, July 14th, he entered 
Bristol. Here he was delayed a fortnight, partly by the unwilling- 
ness of some of his soldiers to proceed further, partly by the prepa- 
rations necessary for the campaign* Thence by way of Tenby and 
Pembroke, where his forces were increased from the garrison, he 

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'i6o Cromwell in Ireland. 

marched to Milford Haven. On the 13th of August he set sail for 
Dublin with a single division of the army ; the wind was favour- 
able, and he landed at Ringsend the second day following, having 
altered his original plan, which was to land somewhere in Munster. 
Many pauses — among them. Jones' success at Rathmines, and still 
more the necessity of recovering -some strong places about Dublin 
that threatened the forces within the city — made him resolve to 
land at Dublin. His son-in-law, Ireton, third in command, fol- 
lowed the next day with the remainder of the army. The force was 
made up of Ireton's, Scroop's, Horton's, Lambert's, and Cromw^ell's 
own regiments of horse ; of Abbott's, Mercer's, Tulcher*s,Garland's, 
and Boulton's troops of dragoons ; and of Ewer's, Cooke's, Hew- 
son's, Deane's, and Cromwell's regiments of foot, as well as the 
Kentish regiment under Colonel Phaire. The divisions of Jones 
and Monk, already in Ireland, were also under his command. The 
whole force at his disposal must have been over 17,000 men ; he 
had besides several pieces of artillery, an abundant supply of mili- 
tary stores, and ^200,000 in money. Among the officers were 
many whose names are familiar to the readers of Irish history : 
Henry Cromwell, the Protector's second son, later Lord Deputy ; 
Jones, Blake, Ludlow, Waller, Sankey, &c. 

" On his arrival," as the old newspapers tell us, "he was re- 
ceived with all possible demonstrations of joy ; the great guns 
echoing forth their welcome, and the acclamations of the people 
resounding in every street. The Lord Lieutenant being come into 
the city — where the concourse of people was very great, they all 
flocking to see him of whom before they had heard so much,-— at 
a convenient place he made a stand, and with his hat in his hand 
he made a speech to them, which was entertained with great ap- 
plause by the people " — the Catholics had, two years before, been 
driven out of the city and forbidden under pain of death to return — 
" who all cried out : * We will live and die with you!"' On the 
24th of August he issued a proclamation, notifying that he had 
assumed the supreme command, and promising protection until 
the I St of January following to all well-minded persons who 
were willing to supply the army with provisions at a fair rate, and 
stay peaceably in their homes. 

XL The Expedition to Drogheda, 

On Friday, August 31st, Cromwell divided his army, and tak- 
ing the larger division crossed the Liffey and encamped about 
three miles to the north of Dublin. But a fortnight had passed 
since he landed ; this time had been spent in giving the men some 
i^est, and in establishing a strict system of military discipline 
among them. The next day he took the field, and set out for 
Drogheda, "his design being the regaining of that town; or 
tempting the enemy, upon his hazard .of the loss of that place, to 

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Cromwell in Ireland, 1 6 1 

fight.** The possession of this town, as an open seaport, was of 
the greatest importance; through it, also, communication could 
easily be kept up with the north. Hence Ormonde rightly judg- 
ing it would be the first place attacked, ordered the works to be 
repaired as weH as the shortness of the time would allow ; and 
assembling his forces at Tecroghan, he advanced to Portlester, to 
be near at hand in case his aid was needed. In spite of the exer- 
tions made, the city was badly fortified ; it was garrisoned, how- 
ever, by about 3,500 men, nearly all Irish troops ; viz., Ormonde's 
regiment of 400 men, under the command of Sir Edward Varney ; 
Colonel Byrne's, Colonel Wall's, and Colonel Warren's, of 2,000 ; 
Lord Westmeath's, of 200 ; Sir James Dillon's, of 200 ; and 200 
horse. The commander to whom this important post was en- 
trusted was Sir Arthur Ashton, an Englishman, who had distin- 
guished himself by his bravery both at home and abroad. He had 
served with distinction under King Sigismund against the Turks ; 
when the civil war broke out in England we find him leading the 
Royalist cavalry at Edgehill ; and later. Governor of Reading and 
Oxford. Ormonde might therefore reasonably re<:kon on a 
lengthened resistance ; he knew how vain the efforts of a besieg- 
ing army would be, no matter how brave and well disciplined, 
when exposed to the hardships of a siege in midwinter. But the 
activity and boldness of Cromwell soon put an end to such hopes* 
We will let the Lieutenant-General tell the history of his successes, 
as he relates it to the Honorable William Lenthall, Esquire^ 
Speaker of the Parliament of England, in a letter written the i6th 
of September : — 

*' Your army being safely arrived in Dublin, and the enemy 
endeavouring to draw all his forces together about Trim and Te- 
croghan, as my intelligence gave me, from whence endeavours 
were made by the Marquis of Ormonde to draw Owen Roe O'Neill 
to his assistance, but with what success I cannot as yet learn, I 
resolved, after some refreshment taken for our weather-beaten men 
and horses, and accommodations for the march, to take the field. 
And accordingly on Friday, August the 31st, I rendezvoused with 
eight regiments of foot and six of horse and some trpops of 
dragoons — about 10,000 men — three miles on the north side of 
Dublin. The design was to endeavour the regaining Drogheda, 
or tempting the enemy, upon the chance of losing that place, to 
fight. Your army came before the town the Monday following, 
September the 3rd, where having pitched [on the south side of the 
town] as speedy cpurse as could be was taken to frame our bat- 
teries ; which took up the more time, because divers of the batter- 
ing guns were on shipboard. On Monday, the loth, the batteries 
hegan to play ; whereupon I sent Sir Arthur Ashton, the Governor, 
a summons to deliver the town to the use of the Parliament of 
England. To which receiving no satisfactory answer, I proceeded 

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i6z Cromwell in Ireland. 

that day to beat down the steeple of the church on the south side 
of the town, and a tower not far from the same place. 

** Our guns not being able to do much, that day, it was resolved 
to endeavour to do our utmost the next day to make the breaches 
assaultable, and, by the help of God, to storm them. The place 
pitched upon was that part of the town wall next a church called 
St. Mary*s ; which was the rather chosen, because we did hope 
that if we did enter and possess that church, we should b6 the 
better able to keep it against their horse and foot until we could 
make way for the entrance of our horse ; and we did not conceive 
that any part of the town would afford the like advantage for that 
purpose with this. The batteries planted were two : one was for 
that part of the wall against the east end of the said church ; the 
other against the wall on the south side. Being somewhat long 
in battering, the enemy made six retrenchments : three of them 
from the said church to Duleek Gate ; and three of them from the 
east end of the church to the town wall, and so backward. The 
guns, after two or three hundred shot, beat down the comer tower, 
and opened two reasonable good breaches in the east and south 

'*Upon Tuesday, the nth instant, about five o'clock in the 
evening, we began the storm; and after some hot dispute we 
entered, about seven or eight hundred men ; the enemy disputing 
it very stiffly with us — and indeed, through the advantages of the 
place, and the courage God was pleased to give the defenders, our 
men were forced to retreat quite out of the breach, not without 
considerafble loss ; Colonel Castle being there shot in the head, 
whereof he presently died ; and divers officers and soldiers doing 
their duty being killed and wounded. There was a tenalia to 
flank the south wall of the town, between Duleek Gate and the 
corner tower before mentioned, which our men entered. Therein 
they found some forty or fifty of the enemy, whom they put to the 
sword ; and this tenalia they held ; but it being without the wall, 
and the sally-port through the wall into that tenalia being choked 
up with some of the enemy which were killed in it, it proved of no 
'use for. an entrance into the town that way. 

** Although our men that stormed the breaches were forced to 
recoil, yet being encouraged to recover their loss, they made a 
second attempt, wherein God was pleased so to animate them that 
they got ground of the enemy, and, by the goodness of God, forced 
him to quit his retrenchments ; and after a very hot dispute — the 
enemy having both horse and foot and we only foot, within the 
wall, — they gave ground, and our men became masters both of 
their retrenchments and of the church ; which indeed, although 
they made our entrance the more difficult, yet proved of excellent 
use to us ; so that the enemy could not now annoy us with their 
horse ; but thereby we had advantage to make good the ground, 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 1 63 

that so we might let in our own horse ; which accordingly was 
done, though with much difficulty.^ 

" The garrison fought with extreme courage," says Froude ; 
" twice after forcing their way into the town, the storming parties 
were beaten back through the breach. The third time, as the 
light was waning, Cromwell led them up in person, forced Ashton 
upon his. inner lines, stormed these lines in turn, and before night 
was master of the town." Colonel Wall, who commanded the 
regiment stationed nearest to the trenches, was killed ; and his 
men became confused and dispirited by the loss of their leader. 

Then it was, probably, that quarter was offered and accepted. 
Carte says distinctly that Cromwell promised quarter to all who 
would lay down their arms. So long as the garrison resisted, that 
promise was faithfully observed. As soon, however, as the city 
was in the invaders* power, Jones, the Governor of Dublin, who 
was second in command, told Cromwell that now he had the 
flower of the Irish army in his hands. An order was therefore 
issued that ** no quarter should be given." 

" Many of the enemy," continues Cromwell, " retreated into 

the Millmount, a place very strong and of difficult access, being 

exceedingly high 'and strongly palisaded. The Governor and 

many officers being there, our men getting up to them were ordered 

by me to put them all to the sword. And indeed, being in the 

heat of action, I forbade them to spare any that were in arms in 

the town ; and I think that night they put to the sword about 

2,000 men." Sir Arthur Ashton fell among the first ; ** he had his 

brains beaten out," says one who was present, *'and his body 

hacked and chopped to pieces." Sir Edward Varney, Colonels 

Warren, Fleming, and Byrne were slain in cold blood. ** I don't 

believe," writes Cromwell to the President of the Council of State, 

" that any officer escaped with his life, save only one lieutenant, 

who, I hear, going to the enemy said that he was the only man 

that escaped of all the garrison." As every part of the town was 

commanded from the Millmount, further resistance was useless ; 

the besiegers poured in through the two breaches, crossed the 

bridge, and were soon in possession of the whole of the north 

side. There the work of slaughter was continued. The garrison 

were the first victims. One of CromwelFs own soldiers states that 

bis companions put to death 1,000 men who had been posted on 

this hill, and that 2,000 persons were slain along the bridge which 

crosses the river. Hugh Peters, Cromwell's chaplain, who gave 

the first account of the victory to the Parliament, sets down the 

number of the garrison slain at 3,350 : he adds — none spared. 

Such was the fate of those who had surrendered because quarter 
had been promised them. Others there were who would not trust 
to Cromwell's mercy. Of these some sought refuge in a round 
tower near one of the city gates ; some, at the west gate. A vast 
crowd had fled to St. Peter's Church; here at least they thought there 

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164 Cromwell in Ireland. 

might be some hope of safety. Cromwell on the morning of the 
12th, gave orders that the church should be blown up. "It was 
from this church that the Catholic inhabitants of the town had the 
insolence on the last Lord's Day to thrust out the Protestants and 
to have Mass said there." But changing his plan* he ordered that 
its steeple, which was of wood, should be set on fire. Those who 
had taken refuge in the body of the church knew too well the fate 
that awaited them, and continued to offer resistance. Thomas 
i Wood, a captain in Ingoldby's regiment, was an eye-witness of 
what followed. " On his return to England," writes his brother 
Anthony, ** being often with his mother and brethren, he would 
tell them of the most terrible assaulting and storming of Drogheda, 
wherein he himself had been engaged, He told them that 3,000 
at least, besides some women and children, were, after the as- 
sailants had taken part, and afterwards the whole, of the town, put 
to the sword. He told them that when they were to make their 
way up to the lofts and galleries of the church, and up to the 
tower where the enemy had fled, each of the assailants would take 
up a child and use it as a buckler of defence when they ascended 
the steps, to keep themselves from being shot or brained. After 
they had killed all in the church, and up the towers, they went 
into the vaults underneath where all the flower arid choicest of the 
women and ladies had hid themselves. One of these, a most 
handsome virgin, arrayed in costly and gorgeous apparel, kneeled 
down to him with tears and prayers to save her life ; and being struck 
with a profound pity, he took her under his arms, and went with 
her out of the church wiih 4;he intention of putting her over the 
works to shift for herself: but a soldier perceiving his intentions 
ran his sword into her body. Whereupon, seeing her gasping, he 
took away her money, jewels, &c., and flung her down over the 
works." Mr. Froude has been unlucky in not falling in with this 
account given by one " who was himself engaged in the storming." 
Otherwise he could hardly have said that ** there is no evidence 
from an eye-witness that women and children were killed other- 
wise than accidentally." 

** In this place — the tower," continues Cromwell's letter, * near 
1,000 were put to the sword, fleeing thither for safety. The next 
day the other two towers were summoned, in one of which there 
were about six or seven score. But they refused to yield themselves ; 
and we, knowing that hunger must compel them, set only good 
guards to secure them from running ajvay. When they submitted 
their officers were knocked on the head, every tenth man of the 
soldiers killed, and the rest shipped for the Barbadoes. The sol- 
diers in the other tower were all spared as to their lives only, and 
shipped likewise for the Barbadoes." 

What the fate of the ecclesiastics was who were found within the 
city it is not hard to conjecture — their chief crime in the eyes of 
the Puritans was, that " they. had a short time before set up the 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 1 65 

Mass in some places of the town that had been monasteries." " I 
believe," says Cromwell, ** all the friars were knocked on the head 
promiscuously but two — the one of these was Father Peter Taaffe, 
brother of Lord Taaffe, an Augustinian, whom the soldiers took 
the next day and made an end of; the other was taken in the 
round tower, and when he understood that the officers had no quar- 
ter, he confessed he was a friar, but that did not save him." 

A manuscript history of these events, written at the time by one 
of the Jesuits on the Irish mission, and preserved in the archives 
of the Irish College at Rome, gives further details of the cruelty 
exercised towards the priests that were seized : 

" The city being captured by the heretics, the blood of the Ca- 
tholics was mercilessly shed in the streets, and in the dwelling- 
hcnises, and in the open fields ; to none was mercy shown ; not to 
the women, nor to the aged, nor to the young. The property of 
the citizens became the prey of the Parliamentary troops. Every- 
thing in our residence was plundered ; the library, the sacred cha- 
lices, of which there were many of great value, as well as all the 
furniture, sacred and profane, were destroyed. On the following 
day, when the soldiers were searching through the ruins of the 
city, they discovered one of our fathers, named John Bathe, with 
his brother, a secular priest. Suspecting that they were religious 
they examined them, and finding that they were priests, and one 
of them, moreover, a Jesuit, they led them off in triumph, and, 
accompanied by -a tumultuous crowd, conducted them to the 
market-place, and there as if they were at length extinguishing the 
Catholic religion and our Society, they tied them both to stakes 
fixed in the ground, and pierced their bodies with shot till they 
expired. Father Robert Netterville, far advanced in years, was 
confined to bed by his infirmities ; he was dragged thence by the 
soldiers and trailed along the ground, being violently knocked 
against each obstacle that presented itself on the way ; then he 
was beaten with clubs, and when many of his bones were broken 
he was cast out on the highway. Four days after, having fought 
the good -fight, he departed this life to receive, as we hope, the 
martyr's crown." Three Dominicans, that had been taken prisoners, 
were led out for execution in presence of the whole army. They 
met death bravely. 

For five whole days the massacre continued. " During that 
time," says Clarendon, ** the whole army executed all manner of 
cruelty, and put every man that belonged to the garrison, and all 
the citizens who were Irish, man, woman, and child, to the sword." 
Well might Ormonde say that "on this occasion Cromwell exceeded 
himself and anything he had ever heard of in breach of faith and 
bloody inhumanity, and that the cruelties exercised for ^^io, days 
after the town was taken would make as many several pictures of 
inhumanity as are to be found in the * Book of Martyrs.* " 

" Now, give me leave," continues Cromwell in the letter already 

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1 66 Cfomwell tn Ireland. 

cited to Lenthall, ** to say how it came to pass that this great work *• 
— (** this great mercy, this righteous judgment upon the barbarous 
wretches," he calls it elsewhere) — " was wrought. It was set upon 
some of our hearts that a great thing should be done, not by power 
or might, but by the spirit of God. That which caused your men 
to storm so courageously, it was the spirit of God — that gave jour 
men courage, and therewith this happy success. And therefore 
it is good that God alone have all the glory." 

The Parliament, on the receipt of this letter on the 2nd, of 
October, appointed a thanksgiving day, and voted a letter of 
thanks to the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and to the army, " in 
which notice was to be taken that the House did approve of the 
e?cecution done at Drogheda, as an act of justice to them" — those 
who were slain — " and of mercy to others who may be warned by it." 
Cromwell did not err in his conjecture ; the ruthless massacre 
of the inhabitants of Drogheda had the desired effect. ** It spread 
abroad," said Carte, " the terror of his name, it cut off the best 
body of the Irish troops, and disheartened the rest to such a de- 
gree that it was a greater loss in itself and much more fatal in its 
consequences than the defeat at Rathmines." 

Drogheda was captured on the nth of September. Cromwell 
was resolved not to lose a moment of time; on the 13th he de- 
spatched Colonel Chidley Coote, with two regiments of horse and 
one of foot, to Dundalk ; by him' he sent the fallowing letter to 
the chief oflficer commanding there : 

" Sir, — I offered mercy to the garrison of Drogheda, in sending the Governor 
a summons before I attempted the taking of it. Which being refused brought 
their evil upon them. If you, being warned thereby, shall surrender your garri- 
son to the use of (he Parliament of England, which by this I summon you to do, 
you may thereby prevent effusion of blood. If upon refusing" this offer, that 
which you like not befalls you, you will know whom to blame. — I rest your ser- 
vant, OLrvER Cromwell." 

The Ulster Scotch troops who garrisoned this place, under the 
command of Lord Ardes, were ordered by Ormonde to retire from 
it. On arriving before the town Coote found it abandoned. Ulster 
was therefore open to him. Coote's force was now increased by 
another regiment of foot and two troops of dragoons, and the com- 
mand was transferred to Venables. He was to effect a junction of 
his forces with those of Sir Charles Coote, who was shut up in 
Derry. Carlingford and Newry surrendered to him almost without 
a blow. One of the chief objects of his mission to the north was 
to sound the Scottish Planters, and if possible to gain them over 
to the side of the Commonwealth. Very soon he was able to send 
** information which promised well towards the northern interest." 
He found these disciples of Knox were but too ready to make 
common cause with the Puritans against the confederate forc^Jof 
Ormonde. In a few days Lisbum, Belfast, and Coleraine opened 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters. 167 

their gates, and before the end of September every port and every 
important military place in the north, Carrickfergus alone excepted, 
were in the hands of the Parliamentary army. 

But we have not space to dwell on these successes in detail. 
We are concerned only with Cromwell's own deeds. On the 27th 
of September he writes from Dublin to the Speaker of the Parlia- 
ment of England, giving a detailed account of the success of Venables' 
expedition to Ulster. He adds this important postscript : " I desire 
ihe supplies moved for may be hastened. I am very persuaded, 
though the burden be great, it is for your service." He asks that re- 
cruits and some fresh regiments of foot should be sent to him ; for 
the ** country-sickness" was beginning to do its work, and the man- 
ning of the garrisons that had fallen into his hands had diminished 
the number of troops that were available for service in the field. 

Cromwell returned with his army to Dublin immediately after 
the capture of Drogheda. There he allowed them to. rest for a 
fortnight before engaging in the perilous expedition to the south. 
During this brief interval of repose the Puritan soldier was not 
quite idle. "The buff coat, instead of the black gown," says the 
JtUelligencer, ** appears in the Dublin pulpits. To use the two 
swords well is meritorious. Not a word of St. Austin or of St. 
Thomas Aquinas ; only downright honesty is now given forth." 

The history of the expedition to Munster, its immediate results, 
and how they were brought about, we must reserve for our next 

D. M. 



Chapter XXII. 

When the time came to remove the mortal remains of Lady Mar- 
gery to their last resting place. Marguerite's grief became uncon- 
trollable. No change had passed on Ma/s lovely features. Still 
lingered the smile upon the half-parted lips. ** Death's effacing 
finger " had not begun its work. To Marguerite, as it has been to 
many others, the removal of the corpse was a fresh separation ; or 
rather, it was not till then she realised she had lost for ever in this 
world the truest friend, the most tender love she was ever likely to 

A mighty anguish overpowered her. It was the hour in her life 
when the dark waters entered into her soul. She flung herself upon 
the lifeless body, and in delirious tones implored May to speak, to 
come back to life, not to leave her, to forgive her, not to leave the 


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1 68 A Pearl in Dark Wafers. 

keen darts of remorse for ever to rankle within her breast. The 
gentle tones of Henriette and of Alethea had no power over her. 

The funeral cortege had assembled, and the attendants to 
carry away the corpse were already in the corridor. Alethea sent 
for P^re de la Colombi^re. He entered the room, and with a few 
words contrived to gain ascendancy over Marguerite so far as to 
induce her to allow the servants to enter and perform the last sad 

When the corpse of Margery Clymne was carried out, the 
father's hand was raised in benediction. She was laid in ground 
consecrated long before ; but the cold ritual of an alien creed was 
read over her grave. She recked it not. Unseen angels hovered 
round, chanting the prayers of Holy Church. Angel hands 
poured down upon her the Church's benedictions. Those who 
were with her were mightier than those who were against her. To 
worldly eyes her early death, her hurried sepultum so different 
from that of other daughters of her noble line, seemed as a misery. 
But she was numbered with the children of God; her lot was 
among the saints.* 

Down the corridor echoed the tread of the funeral train. The 
Duchesse, the Ladies Howard, and the servants followed it to the 
palace gates. Marguerite was left alone with the father. She 
had sunk on a couch, for her tottering limbs could not sustain her 
weight. Father de la Colombi^re sat down beside her and spoke. 

\Ve can record but few of his words. Were we to tell them all, 
they would be deemed striking and beautiful, but we could have 
210 idea of the force with which they went to the almost broken 
heart of Marguerite. 

Father de la Colombi^re was a man of great tenderness of heart 
and of deep feeling, both rigidly governed by his habitual self- 
control. The rule of St. Ignatius, which is like a fire that bums 
up the dross of natural impulses and purifies to marvellous perfec- 
tion the powers of the soul, was not enough for this ardent being. 
He had long since bound himself by vow to do that which is most 
perfect. When, therefore, a nature like his exerts its utmost 
strength to comfort a sorrowing or to raise up a desponding soul, 
it is rare indeed that it fails. ** Like rivers of water in a dry place, 
like the shadow of a great rock in a weary land " came the mes- 
sage of the Lord to Marguerite by the lips of His servant. 

Hitherto she had known little of Father de la Colombi^re. In 
the days of her thoughtless gaiety she had avoided him ; and, when 
they had met, he had confined himself to speaking a few kind 
words. With his keen discernment he had seen that the hour of 
his ministry to this soul had not yet come. During these past 
days of anguish he had purposely left her alone to wrestle with her 
God. Instead of speaking to her he had prayed for her. But now 
the time was come and he spoke. In low, calm tones, his eyes 
fixed on a crucifix, he spoke, and like St. Paul of old the scales fell 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters. 169 

off the blinded eyes of Rita. She saw the folly of the past ; she saw. 
also the infinite love that had waited for her. She saw how the 
thorns and briars with which she had entangled herself had 
wounded the Hands that were ever seeking her. Her heart was 
-well-nigh broken, because in her defence Ma/s young blood had 
flowed ; she saw how freely for her a more precious Life-blood had 
been shed, over which she had never dropped a tear. 

Father de la Colombi^re's words had not to pierce a stony 
rock. Marguerite's was not a nature encrusted with worldliness, 
•dead to the instincts of the faith. New the patient toil of the 
obscure nun in the Faubourg S. Jacques was to bear its fruit. 
Ncru) the faith of her childhood woke up in all its vigour. Prayers 
said in obedience, sacraments which seemed like routine, found 
living voices and said — " Behold our fruit, hidden for many a day,. 
but not wasted or consumed." 

A mighty change was wrought in that poor soul. The bitter- 
ness of her wild remorse was changing into that sorrow which in 
itself is peace. Henriette de Marigny looked into the room and 
'withdrew in awe. 

Father de la Colombi^re did indeed look like the picture she 
had often imagined of Him to whose feet the broken-hearted were 
wont to creep and be at rest. 

" Despair not, my child," went on the low, calm voice, " this 
day is the beginning of a better life for you ; sorrow not for her 
who is gone, and who has exchanged earth's sufferings for an 
eternal weight of glory. I, who knew her inmost soul, can say 
with all but certainty that she is among the saints in bliss. Her 
love was but the shadow of the love whose sweetness you shall 
know. * She has bequeathed to you as a legacy her boundless love 
for Jesus. It was her life, the secret of her brightness, her influ- 
ence, her peace. Her sole earthly desire for herself was to conse- 
crate herself to Him in religion ; but He took her by a shorter 
road to lie on His Sacred Heart. As the Christians of old were 
baptised in blood, so by suffering and sacrifice that dear child won 
the spousal ring from her Beloved." 

When at last Father de la Colombi^re left Marguerite, she sub- 
■mitted to Henriette de Marigny like a little child. 

The Duchesse remained with her for a few days at the Palace, 
V'hile they went through the last sad task of gathering up all May's 
belongings, of breaking all the links of the life that had now 
^nded for the two sisters. 

During those few days Marguerite knelt at the altar where May 
had so often received the Bread of Life, never without praying 
that her twin sister might soon be at her side again. 

There is a superstition that the death of one twin saps the ful- 
ness of life in the other. Be there truth or not in the saying. 
Marguerite was changed from that funeral day so utterly that none 
could know her. After a few days the Duchesse de Marigny took 

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I70 A Pear lift Dark Waters. 

her to her own house and tried her utmost to revive her broken 
spirits and repair her shattered health. 

But weeks and months passed on and the bright Marguerite did 
not come back. Another creature altogether rose from her ashes^ 
in whose eyes dwelt a deep peace, and on whose face suffering had 
left its traces. 

She was willing to return to her father's house, but Lady Eden- 
hall did not choose it. She called on her stepdaughter once at the 
Duchesse's house intending to try her utmost to^ regain her ascen- 
dancy over her. But she found the Rita she sought dead and 
buried in the grave of her twin sister, and Marguerite ** silent and 
serene," was not to her taste. 

Thus when Marguerite craved leave of her father to **go be- 
yond seas," Lady Edenhall urged him to grant the request. The 
thought of her escaped victim troubled her ; and, unable to con- 
quer, she wanted to get her out of her sight. So, there was no- 
opposition ; and on one lovely morning in the summer of 1 678, 
three companions — Henriette de Marigny, Alethea Howard, and 
Marguerite — set sail for France intending to bend their steps to 
the little town of Paray-le-Monial. 

Chapter XXIIL 

Lady Edenhall was sitting in the retiring-room of her house in 
Pall Mall. It had served the same purpose for her step-daughter ; 
but in their time its appointments were simple ; now every luxury 
known and invented was lavished around. 

But the Countess as she sat at her writing table did not look 
like a person happy or at ease. She had changed much for the 
worse since we first made her acquaintance. Her manners had 
grown haughty and arrogant ; her beauty was on its wane ; and 
the artificial helps she used for its preservation were becoming- 
more and more evident. There was a restless fire in her eyes, a 
twitching of her lips that told of inward disquiet. 

She was examining various papers which lay on her table with 
much eagerness ; but, as she finished the perusal of one after 
another she flung them down, with an impatient gesture. 

** Nothing there," she muttered, as she finished the last ; " he 
is too cunning to betray himself. Verily I have spent much gold 
for nought. It costs a heavy sum to bribe the femme de chamhre of 
a princess to steal letters from her private casket, and 'tis provok- 
ing to think I can find nothing. I don't think a word of these 
could be twisted into a plot against his Majesty, nor yet an at- 
tempt to introduce Papistry again into this land. The reverend 
father confines himself most scrupulously to the direction of her 
Highness's conscience, and these letters would only be an evidence 

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A Pear lift Dark Watert. 171 

that he does not mix himself up with state affairs. Ha, ha, I see 
his reverence does not like her Highness's weakness for cards. It 
shall be my daily task to foster and encourage that tendency in 
Mary Beatrice. She obeys him, doubtless, by never asking for a 
card i>arty; but when we begin the sport, she cannot resist joining 
in it ; and if well plied, as I know how to do it, will play for high 
stakes. Then I know now the secret of her downcast look when 
the game is over. And odd enough I thought it — after the first 
inoment of exultation, she is as vexed when she has won, as when 
she has lost. I see now she dreads an admonition, for this wily 
Jesuit tells her that money thus gained makes but sorry alms, and 
a penny given as the result of self-denial will bring more blessing 
than a hundred gold angels, which are the fruit of self-indulgence. 
Pshaw ! I hate such folly. The man is a hypocrite. I cannot, I 
will not believe, he can live the life of an owl as he does willingly. 
There must be something behind the scenes. Are we not all 
acting a part, and why should he alone be walking the paths of 
truth and simplicity ? 

There was a low tap at the door. ** Entrez^* said the Countess. 
A servant entering, and bowing low, said : " The young man who 
was here yestereven craves speech of your honoured ladyship." 

" Bid him enter,** she exclaimed ; and in a few instants Ars^ne, 
whose interview with Father de la Colombi^re our readers have 
not forgotten, entered the room. 

He was no longer the shabby-looking individual who presented 
himself before the priest. Well dressed, and evidently well oflf in 
other respects, was this genteel young man. He made a most 
lowly obeisance to the Countess, and stood hat in hand awaiting 
her orders. 

" Well, Ars^ne," she began, " I grieve to say 'tis all useless so 
far. After the labour and expense of procuring these letters, they 
prove nothing — ^absolutely nothing ! " 

" Ah, indeed ! Miladi ; be not cast down ; I have long felt that 
looking for proofs against these kind of folks is useless. They are 
fools more than knaves. Dangerous fools, I grant, and to be got 
rid of ; but as to seeking true accusations against them save and 
except the Papistry forbidden by law, which undoubtedly they 
practise, it is impossible." 

"And do you mean to tell me they are not hypocrites?" de- 
manded the Countess. 

" Miladi, if they are, their acting surpasses that of any one seen 
on this earth. When I dwelt among them in the little lodging I 
told you of in the city, I watched and waited with all my skill to 
catch them out in somewhat, but in vain. They spent their time 
in prayer and study. When they were together, which occurred 
but rarely, or when some one who dwelt at a distance came to see 
them, there was talk and laughter. Oftentimes I contrived to 
listen at the door, and I found the peals of laughing were caused 

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ijM A Pearl tn Dark Waters. 

by the stories of the disguises they had adopted, or the bair* 
breadth escapes they had sustained : how one had gone about like 
a miller, with a sack of flour on his back, and even now his hair 
was whitened. Now another had, when the alarm of a search was 
raised in a house where he was tarrying, gone into the kitchen 
and turned scullion." 

** Well, well,*' cried Lady Edenhall, " for what purposes did 
they thus stoop ? For what end did they run these risks ? There 
is the point. There must be some political reason." 

** No, Miladi, I believe it not. They are content, these strange 
beings, to eat the dust, to risk their rest, their goods, their heads 
even, to say Mass. That was the one story of these days I tell 
you of. They say Mass at dead of night, in forest huts or city 
cellars. In these efforts their lives seem to consist, their hearts 
to abide." 

*• Is it, then, hopeless, Ars^ne ?" cried Diana, springing from her 
seat and pacing the room with restless steps like a tigress deprived 
of her prey. ** I have sworn to be revenged on this man. I have 
plotted for it for months. Are he and the whole of this detestable 
crew to escape ? Are you such a coward you can devise nothing ?" 

** Pardon, Miladi. Your revenge is sure. I have only said 
that by true accusation we shall never succeed. There always re- 
mains to us, iht false** 

Lady Edenhall seated herself again without a word. 

" You know, Miladi," pursued Ars^ne — speaking in a familiar 
tone no other inferior would have dared to use with her — " there 
is no use blistering one's tongue with lies ; so why should I go on 
telling them to your honoured ladyship ? But, Miladi, before this 
year runs out, nay, perhaps in a few days, a plot that hath been 
hatched by one Master Oates — mark the name well, Miladi — will 
burst forth, and let every Papist in England tremble, for his or 
her doom is sealed." 

" Say you so veritably/'" said Diana. 

" I swear it, Miladi. All we want is gold." 

"Take it," exclaimed she, pushing a purse towards him; 
" count the contents ; I warrant 'tis more than an hundred angels." 

As Ars^ne stooped over the table to count the gold, a letter 
fell from his pocket. The handwriting caught Lady EdenhalFs 
eye, and she grasped the letter. 

" Ha, Ars?ne I I know the writer of this. Are you in commu- 
nication with him ? Lie not to me ; he, also, is my enemy." 

*• I will not lie, Miladi. I know Master Engelby is not devoted 
to your honoured ladyship ; but I also know that all other feelings 
are swallowed up in the vehement hate he bears to the chaplain at 
St James. He is heart and soul with us, helping on this plot of 
which I speak. Your ladyship knows he has no gold to spare." 

•*'Tistrue. Poor Philip ! " She mused for a moment. "Think 
joii» Ars^ne^ he would use this diamond if I sent it him ? " and sa 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters. 1 75 

saying she took from a little box beside her an unset stone of 
great value. 

" Surely, Miladi. He will be honoured by such a gift and 
forget any unreasonable wrath he hath cherished against you." 

" Ah, Ars^ne I if you could do that, if you could bring about a 
good understanding between us, a rich guerdon and my undying 
thanks shall be yours. Go now, my good youth, and hasten* to 
me again when you have news to give." 

Arsdne again bowed low, and gathering up his spoils withdrew. 

Chapter XXIV. 

We have more than once in the course of this history paid a visit 
to the little convent hidden in the Grange near May Fair ; but we 
have not had time to enter more minutely into the lives of its holy 
inmates or describe the abundant work they were doing for God*s 
greater glory. Not only were their constant prayers and penances 
rising up to Heaven, but their days were filled with good deeds. 

The suffering endured by poor Catholics in those days was 
intense. In order to have a chance of practising their religion, of 
bringing up their children in the faith, they had often to refuse 
prospects of advancement and keep themselves in obscure poverty. 
Were they the objects of spite and envy on the part of others, 
there was no redress. If they went to law, they knew an exposure 
of their faith would be the result. To such as these the Nuns of 
the Conception brought relief. They made garments for the 
destitute ; they fed a number of children who managed to tread 
their way through the winding paths, the trees and the brushwood 
which made the Grange so safe a hiding-place. When neces- 
sary, the nuns would leave their convent and go forth to visit the 
sick and dying. 

Their distance from the city, where most of the poorer Ca- 
tholics were congregated, was a great drawback ; and often with 
blistered feet and weary bodies did the nuns return from their 
walks or rather scrambles, over the rough and muddy streets of 
London. But they were willing to endure all hardships for their 
Master's sake, and moreover they were sanguine — they thought 
better times were at hand and that they would soon be able to 
emerge from their present dwelling and establish themselves in the 
heart of the city. These pleasing anticipations were soon to be 
rudely dispelled. The community were gathered together at their 
simple dinner, when a hurried knock was heard at the door. It 
opened, and Katherine Howard hastily entered. Her face wore 
traces of deep grief; she was trembling from head to foot. 
"Dearest heart! exclaimed the Mother Superior, "what ails 
you ?" Some of the Sisters drew her into a seat, for she was 
gasping for breath. At last she was able to speak. 

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174 -^ Pearl in Dark Waters. 

** My father," she said, " is in prison, and a crowd of othei 
gentlemen. Father Whitbread is taken and many others of the 
Society, and numerous priests besides. A fearful plot or conspi- 
racy is set on foot against us, and it is said we shall all be de- 
stroyed from the land. Oh, my Alethea, thanks be to God thou 
art safe in thy convent home. And you, Sisters, must fly.'* 

"Fly!" said the Superior. "Alas! must this indeed be oar 
fate ? Are we not counted worthy to endure the prison cell, the 
torture, and the dying to win a martyr's crown ? " 

" I bear you Father de la Colombi^re's own advice ; for the 
present he is safe ; indeed I suppose they will not dare to touch 
her Highness's chaplain." 

"Ah!" said Sister Magdalene Lacy, "they drove away P^re 
St. Germains, although he held the same post." 

" Yes, but then he was conspired against," remarked Mother 
Elizabeth. " Let us hope no such villainy will be exercised for 
this good father, this apostle of the Sacred Heart. But, dearest 
Kate, what can we do to comfort you ? Is there nothing in oar 
power ? " 

" No, dear Mother and Sisters," said Kate, gradually regaining 
her composure ; " we have but to part, — and, I fear, for ever in 
this world. You must fly with all speed, and I shall never rest till 
I have joined my father in his prison." 

" Kate, do not be cast down,'* said Sister Agnes ; " I cannot 
but think your father will escape. Why 'twill be a shame before 
the world if Lord Stafford's grey hairs be touched. Take heart, 
dear Kate ; we poor nuns are different ; we are pestilent indeed in 
once- time merrie England, and if our hiding-place be discovered, 
we had best begone." 

" Thanks, dear Sisters all," said Kate, " for your cheering 
words. My poor heart says you nay— but I count on your prayers, 
dear ones. Pray for him continually that he may do God's holy 
will, and I have patience to stand beneath his cross and forgive 
those who have torn his grey head away from my loving arms;— 
he who hath been upright in all his dealings, who hath been a 
father to the poor, a friend to the fatherless and the widow ; and 
so these days are over. How often have Alethea and I passed 
happy hours here, how often we came hither with Margery. Ah ! 
she hath escaped this evil, and hath fled like a bird out of the 
fowler's hand. Adieu ! adieu 1 dear Sisters, I must not tarry," and 
so saying she embraced each of the community in turn, and striv- 
ing to stem her tears, hastened from the room. 

The nuns immediately set about their simple preparations for 
departure, but they could not leave the spot until some priest shonld 
come to remove the Blessed Sacrament ; at least they would try to 
procure one before venturing on the extraordinary step of conceal- 
ing in their own faithful breasts the hidden God. In the course of 
the day they contrived to send a message to St. James' Palace^ 

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A Pearl tn Dark Waters. 175 

and also to arrange with the captain of a trading vessel then lying 
in the Thames to take them on board the following evening. 
Their messenger to the Palace returned with an answer, and when 
the first grey light of dawn was piercing the heavens P^re de la 
Colombiire made his way across the silent, deserted May Fair, 
through the scattered trees to The Farm. All was ready for the 
Mass, and never had the nuns assisted with more awe at the Holy 
Sacrifice, for he who offered it seemed more like a seraph than a 
man. Each Sister received Holy Communion. The Bread of 
Angels was consumed — the Tabernacle was empty — it was another 
dipper chamber, and these faithful hearts were ready to go forth in 
the strength of that meat to their Gethsemane and Calvary. 

For some time'after Mass Per^ de la Colombi6re knelt in silence ; 
all around him were praying also, and with an intensity of suppli- 
<:ation and vehement confidence into which we, nursed in the lap 
of security, we, too soft to make heroic sacrifices, cannot enter. 

At last he rose and turned towards the community; his face was 
glowing with unearthly radiance, his eyes were fuW of heavenly 
4ight. The future seemed unfolded before his gaze. 

Then in solemn accents, in a slow, measured voice he spoke : — 
" It shall be, but not yet. Through a sea of tribulation, through 
much darkness, they shall walk till the end arrives. The day 
shall come when Catholics in this land shall go forth free, when 
the children of those who have wronged us shall flock to the Church's 
feet. Oh ! courage. Sisters, and let us suffer, for verily it is not in 
vain — let us be content to sow the seed, watering it with blood and 
tears ; let others gather the harvest when we, by God's mercy, are 
garnered in the Eternal Home above. Sisters, the hour shall come ; 
my words are like one who speaketh dreams, yet they are true. The 
hour shall come when on this very spot the Immaculate Conception 
-of Mary shall have great honour, and the Sacred Heart of Love a 
glorious shrine. Not a tear that has been shed, not a prayer you 
have off'ered up, shall be lost or forgotten. Those who are yet 
unborn shall thank you and praise our Lord through the ages of 

He blessed them and passed away. He bent his steps along 
Piccadilly to the Palace, unaware that his movements were watched 
and his footsteps dogged. 

As he left the Grange, the nuns gazed after him and said: — 
** Who knoweth, when his prophecy is fulfilled and the shrine for the 
Heart of Jesus and His spotless Mother stands in this wild spot, 
perchance bis image as of one reckoned among the saints shall glad- 
den the eyes of the faithful, even more than his look and voice that 
«eem to come from heaven have gladdened our feeble hearts in this 
our hour of need." 

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I. Never Forsake the Ship, and Other Poems. By " Finola." Dub-^ 

lin : McGlashan and Gill. 
To some readers of certain northern newspapers (not of the present- 
day) and of one or two weekly journals published in Dublin, the 
name of " Finola " will recall many graceful verses distinguished 
by a strong feeling of patriotism. Some of these have in various, 
collections of Irish ballads been attributed to Miss Elizabeth Wil- 
loughby Tracy. The preface to the present edition allows us to 
conclude that this lady is now Mrs. Ralph Varian of .Cork. We- 
think the title-page ought to. have plainly let us know whom we- 
have to thank for this charming little volume ; nor do we see why 
** Never Forsake the Ship " is put forward in preference to many^ 
pieces of at least equal merit and pretension. It indeed suggests 
a very pretty design for the cover of green and gold, and is in 
itself a spirited poem. But our specimens of this Irish muse 
would be taken from a different class if we could make a selection^ 
Nay, we think that the mere names of some of them will show that 
the chooser of such subjects has true poetic feeling. There is not 
much of conventional commonplace about ** The American Letter," 
''The Boat," "In the Workhouse," "The Ship will Sail To- 
morrow," "The Artificial Flower Maker," "Christmas Eve at 
Sea," and " Only a Factory Child." We ask the reader, however^ 
to open first at " The Poet's Thanksgiving," which throbs with true 
piety and true poetry, and does not deal in vague abstractions 
about nature and skyey influences, but addresses the Creator 
directly—" for all I thank Thee, O my God 1 " We turned to the 
poem consecrated to " Agnes " with the hope that, like Tennyson,. 
Keats, and many others, " Finola" might have added to the poetry 
clinging round the very name of the winning little saint of " Fa- 
biola;" but it is only some namesake of the Virgin-martyr. A. 
similar poetic instinct, however, has lit upon so pretty a theme as 
" Coming Home from Mass," which is one of the most pleasing 
pieces in the volume, though we fear that the subject has been 
regarded from an artistic point of view only, not from personal 
experience. It speaks well, however, fpr the good taste and kindly 
feelings of this Irish heart that this last circumstance could hardly^ 
be inferred from a perusal of this book which is " afiectionately 
dedicated to the people of Ireland of all creeds and classes." 

II. The Child, By Monsigneur Dupanloup, Bishop of Orleans^ 

Translated, with the Author's permission, by Kate Anderson^ 

Dublin : McGlashan and Gill, 1875. 

A FITTING time was chosen for the appearance of this beautiful 

work on the training of children — the Christmas season, when the 

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New Books. 177 

world gathers in adoration round the cfadle of the Child of Beth- 
lehem who was afterwards to say, '* Suflfer the little children to 
come to me." The .spirit of that saying pervades this book and, 
better still, the life of the author, that illustrious man the echo of 
whose eloquence in his recent pleadings for Christian Education 
have reached us even through the non-conductor of the British 
press. Twenty-five years of the life of the Bishop of Orleans have 
been devoted to the instruction of youth ; and on this question 
therefore he speaks ** as one having authority." He does not speak 
vaguely but almost too practically. Witness his chapter on the 
" Spoiled Child." 

This translation is brought out in a most satisfactory manner 
as regards paper, printing, and binding. Monsigneur Dupanloup 
has not been so fortunate as his brother prelate, Monsigneur Lan- 
driot. One might read page after page of the " Valiant Woman "" 
without being reminded that Miss Helena Lyons was only a trans- 
lator. Miss Kate Anderson does not leave us under such a delusion^ 
and indeed has hardly been ambitious of this difficult or impossible 
species of success ; for the last of her two sentences of preface ex- 
presses a hope that, if her " close adherence to the text be not 
consistent with what critics designate pure and clrxssical English, 
the beauty and sublimity of this great Bishop's language will per- 
haps be considered sufficient excuse." She has given us at all 
events in a readable shape a solid and useful work from which 
parents and persons having to deal with children will derive many 
excellent hints, though they will have often to translate them further 
out of a certain Frenchiness of thought and expression to accom- 
modate the Bishop's precepts to a different " environment." 

III. Life of the Ven. Father Perboyre, Priest of the Congregation of 
the Mission, Translated from the French by a Sister of Mercy. 
Dublin : McGlashan and Gill. 

This is an excellent translation of the very edifying Life of a Vin- 
centian Missionary who suffered a most cruel and tedious martyr- 
dom in China less than forty years ago. The incidents of his life 
are set forth in a yery interesting manner, with a clearness and 
simplicity that lose nothing in the English version. The Third 
Book, which treats of Father Perboyre*s virtues in particular, is of 
great practical utility, and cannot be read without solid profit, es- 
pecially by priests and religious. 

IV. Reply to the Bishop ofRipon's Attack on the Catholic Church. By 
A Layman. Sheffield: Published by the Catholic Association.. 

A Protestant journal, distinguished for the most ardent piety, re- 
marks in its notice of the above brochure^ that those to whom it is a 
permissible diversion to see a Bishop chopped up into mincemeat 
with science and dexterity, may enjoy that pleasure by reading this 
reply to the Bishop of Ripon This diversion, whether permissible 

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178 New Bjooks. 

or not, the Church Herald itself and other Ritualistic papers afford 
each week to their readers — excepting indeed the " science and 
dexterity." Probably this Protestant Bishop wished, by his pulpit 
tirade, to do away with the Popish associations which a recent con- 
version has linked with the name of his diocese. We were struck 
Avith a remark made by the Marquis of Ripon in a lecture delivered 
before he became a Catholic. He combatted the common idea 
which Pope has embodied in the line, ** a little learning is a danger- 
ous thing." **No," said the noble lecturer, "not if the possessor 
of that little learning knows it to be little." If a little knowledge 
of Christian theology be a dangerous thing, this good Bishop of 
Ripon has escaped a danger. 

V. Life of St, Columha or Columbhille^ Patron of Deny and Founder 
of lona. From the Latin of St Adamnan. Dublin: W. B. 
Kelly, 1875. 
This is a new edition of a work which, we believe, is due to the 
zeal and patriotism of the late Rev. Matthew Kelly, D.D., of May- 
nooth. If this be so, it is another of his many contributions to Irish 
ecclesiastical literature, for which Catholic Ireland ought to cherish 
the memory of this sanctorum indigetum diem deyotissimus^ as he is 
most justly styled in the inscription on the statue of St. Bngid, 
which he himself erected in the College Chapel. The original 
Latin work of St. Adamnan is very curious and valuable. There are 
few points about the persons and places mentioned which are 
not cleared up in the brief but copious notes with which this 
translation is enriched. 

IV. Jack Hazlitt, A.M. By R. B. O'Brien, D.D., Dean of Lime- 
rick. Dublin : Duffy and Sons. 
This " Hiberno-American Tale," as it is called on the title-page, 
has reached us at the last moment. Even had it come earlier, it 
would not have been amenable to this tribunal, for it would be 
unbecoming to forget that the volume is a reprint from our own 
pages. To the most diligent, however, of our readers the spell of 
novelty will not be altogether wanting, for, full as "Jack Hazlitt" 
was originally of character and incident, many striking details are 
here added, especially in the Transatlantic portions of the story. 

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VIIL— About Happiness. 

Thsrs is a certain di£ference to which I would fain call my reader's 
attention. It is the difference between writing "on" a sub- 
ject, and only " about" it. If I were vrriting ** on " Happiness, I 
might possibly feel myself called upon to frame at least a provi- 
sional definition, and make that the starting point of various curves 
of dissertation which would from time to time return back upon their 
beginning. As, however, it is rather my fancy to write ** about " 
things, and as the flights of my fancy may be as little calculable as 
the motions of an irregular solid, I do not see any purpose that 
could be served by definition except the purpose of demonstrating 
the enormous facility of mistake that may be connected with that 
process. Most people are prompt enough to appreciate th^ con- 
ditions under which other people ought to be happy ; but the precise 
conditions, however appreciable - as matters of desire, or as things 
to be sought after, never seem to get themselves placed in one's 
own particular case. 

Perhaps there were times when it seemed to us as if we were 
very near to happiness ; but, probably, the golden moment passed 
by, and has never been so near us since. The word is in common 
use enough ; the thing itself escapes us somehow. Indeed it is sq 
rare that one wonders on what pabulum of fact the idea has sup- 
ported itself, that has so persistently clung to human thoughts and 
sought expression in human language. 

Derivatively, happiness is the thing that " haps." And it is as 
good an account of it as any other, if only because it implies that 
no account can be given. For who has ever attained to happiness 
ex proposito? Who has ever awoke in the fresh morning, with the 
feeling of newness about him which morning brings to youth, and 
said: "Come, to-day I will be happy;" and has not found ere 
night came what an impassable gulf circumstances sometimes 
cause to yawn between a design and its fulfilment ? Never say 
" I'll be happy." There clings a sinister omen to the.mere saying 
of it. But say if you will — "(^ome what may. Til be cdntent," — 
and under the coarse, brown robe of contentment the vision of the 
goddess Happiness may, in time, reveal itself. 

It has been said *' man never is, but always to be blest.'* But 
it woald, perhaps, be quite as true to end the line — "but always 
has been blest." There is something in memory that glorifies and 
beautifies a very commonplace past. The memory of happiness is 
never psunful until happiness has become an absolute impossibility. 
"Sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things." — 
Yes, Mr. Tennyson — it was true enough in the meridian under 
which Dante placed it, the second circle of the " Inferno " — but is . O Digitized by Google 

i8o Lectures by a certain Professor. 


it true for any one above whose head the blue heaven is bending 
still ? I confess I do not find it so. What a time it was, that far 
back past.. What friends were ii> those days, what pleasant faces, 
what genial smiles, what hopes, what hea^l None like them 
now. So you think. But if you could only bring back the past as 
it really was it would not be half so pleasant as memory makeeit; 
The hearts were ordinary hearts encaigh> and. few friendships- of. 
twenty golden years ago can stand the light that falls on theo^ 
from that twenty years' experience. The faces were, — well, averag9> 
faces, and tluese not always smiling* These hearts that we rer 
member were capable of their cold fits, and had them not rarelyi. 
But memory is eclectic, and can suppress quite, as much as it re- 
produces. Memory is something of an artist There is tK)thiBg 
intrinsically delightful in a pot or a pan, and there is, perhaps, 
much that is intrinsically unsightly and disagreeable in the aotaal 
vision of a Dutch boor raised to the highest heaven he ia<:apabl6 
of conceiving by his beer can and his pipe. Yet, let these things 
get, as they have got, into the eye and the mind of a Teniers« and 
one wonders how the most undoubted life likeness can be the 
groundwork of such transfiguration as they undergo upon the can- 
vas. And memory acts after some such fashion. It selects its 
details and paints a pleasant picture out . of the fragments of the 
past. Once this picture has been painted, it is only the details 
with which it deals that seepi to have a right to live. If that be 
T^t the past, it ought to have been. Memory, like genius, does 
justice to the violated ideal. And surely if genius seizes on a 
historical character or incident, and gives its version of the man 
or the thing, would you, or would the world, be much obliged to 
any dry-as-dust who would fish up from forgotten times something 
incompatible with the rendering, of genius ? 

It may not impossibly be that one of the minor enjoyments of 
heaven will be to weave together memories of long-past scenes on 
earth. There would then be no regret such as memory usually 
brings on this side the grave ; but memory might be so exalted by 
the conditions of beatified existence that it would seize upon and 
make live over again the trifles that escape our notice in their pass- 
ing but that in reality give much of their colour and their mean- 
ing to the things of which they were circumstances* 

People talk about happiness in every tense but the present. 
One is ready enough to say — ** Such a time I was happy." Readier 
still to say — " But for such a thing, I would be happy ;" — and that 
thing is usually the very backbone of their earthly condition^ But 
who ever says, '^I am happy?" and if in soifie blissful hour some 
rare mortal syllables. the words, the happiness of wbictv he. staves 
to tell flies with his fleeting breath. Woe to the im^rtiaent-morr 
tal who violates the incognito of a visiting god. The coasciont 
dream of happiness never came till the spell of sleep waa iiearly- 
broken. When the words that strove, to express.his drsMafo^ndL 

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JLeciures by a-ceri^ Prbfessor: i^ i 

themselves npon the sleeper's lips, ht was almost awake again, the 
vision nearly gone, the brightness* fadmg out into the light of 
common day. If an angel had been there, the waking eyes caught 
onlv a glirap>se of his departing pinions. 

The yotmg dreaih of happiness to come. The old have 
memories of happiness that was. The n^iddle-aged very commonly 
are sceptical of the existence of happiness at all. Happiness in 
this world usually comes draped in illusion, and by the time one 
arriyes at middle age the illusions have faded out one by one, or 
have been swallowed up by the monster illusion that one is free 
from illusion. At any rate one has not had time to discover what 
is in reality the fact, that all illusioii covers a very solid basis of 
reality. Illusions are nature's beneficent gilding for bitter but 
necessary pills. They are the atmosphere through which we are 
meant to see things. Do yoil think, or can you say, that you have . 
ever seen the commonest object as it is in itself? You never have. 
The eye, modified itsdf by innumerable conditions, creates a great 
deal of what it sees. It makes a picture and divines the reality. So * 
don't be too hard on illusions, whether they be the illusions that cling 
to "cakes and ale/' or the subtler ilhisions that hamper the wisdom 
that despises them. Even if my vote had any influence, 1 should be 
slow to give it for the removal of all illusion from this theatre of 
human actions. Evenif you stickle for reality, they ar*? reality as much 
as anythiiig else. There they are, and have been any tiriie these five 
thousand years. Being there, they have a right to be. Suppose you 
want to see a real man. At what arbitrary point shall you consider 
his reality to begin. Divest him of his dignities and offices. Strip 
him of his title and his rank. Take oflf his robes of state, his busi- 
ness dress, his garment of pleasure. Can you say you have him 
while even a fig-le^f disguises him ? Nay, why will you leave the 
flesh upon his bones ? Do you not see how apt it is to assume 
varying tints of most deceptive bloom ? Have it off" by all means, 
and let him figure before you in his skeleton. But can anyone 
think that a man's framework of bones constitute him 7 The 
flesh and the clothes you have taken away, and the circumstances 
which Tonr eager search for reality flung aside he must assume 
again if you would have the faJntesC chance of knowing him or 
his history. For all these things have gone to make him what he 
IS and shall do their part in making him whatever he may become. 
' There is one illusion that has much to do with most of our 
happiness, and still more to do with most of our unhappiness. It 
may be told in a word. We expect too much: . One has, especially 
in «uiy life though I do not know any agfe at which it is com- 
pletely absent — one has an exaggerated sense of one's own impor- 
tence in the system of beings, and jp^wing out of that, an ex- 
a^irerated sense of the imjibrtance of oiie's own special interests. 
l^^is it ufeti^y countetacted by any keen appreciation of the 
fact that others are in this tespect very like ourselves, .and take 

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1 8»2, Lectures by a certain -Professor. 

equally large views upon the subject of their own personality. 
Nature has not made any. human being without a due, not tp say 
an undue, share of self-esteem ; and when my self-esteem is 
brought into contact with yours, jt takes some time and some 
temper so to adjust them to each other as that contact will not 
mean collision. 

Indeed we expect too much. It is beautiful to witness fhe 
confiding simplicity with which an ingenuous youth will expect the 
world to take him at his own estimate— to be at pains to make 
itself acquainted with his idiosyncracy, and being acquainted adapt 
itself to that. Beautiful to see how, notwithstanding liability to 
cRange of view, which might be one of the very early lessons taught 
by the smallest experience, a young man will calmly expect his 
own present feeling to be viewed in the light of a standard of con- 
duct to his neighbour. Beautiful but for this — that the disappoint- 
ment that is inevitable, instead of presenting us with the golden 
fruit of wisdom, often results only in the crab-apple of cynicism. i 
•The sweeter the wine, the more biting is the acid of the vinegar. I 

I remember once making to some extent, and striving to culti- 
vate the acquaintance of two robins. I was anxious to be of as& 
to them, to alleviate the hardships of the severe winter. I had 
ready for them a constant supply of crumbs, and, conscious of the 
most benevolent intentions towards them, it was my programme 
that they should surrender themselves completely to my views,, 
and consent to be made happy, not indeed in their o^n foolish, ill- 
considered way, but in the way which my higher intelligence would 
be prompt to suggest. But they did not fall in with my views^ 
They seemed indeed to have an unreasonable distrust of my ulti- 
mate intentipns. They took my crumbs, but kept carefully beyond 
the reach of the hand that scattered them. I felt hurt. They 
were unreasonable — they were even ungrateful. They should have- 
known me better, and better divined the benevolence of my inten- 
tion. A cold shadow of cynicism stole over my preconceived senti- 
ments on the subject robins. I began to think that they had been 
spoken of beyond their merits. My faith was shaken in the portioa 
that»concemed them of the legend of the " Babes in the Wood." Sa 
far as I could see they were no better than sparrows ; indeed, not 
so good ; for, if sparrows had no aureola of sentimental legend 
around their history, yet, their social manners, free and jerky, not 
to say impudent, presented many aspects with which a growing 
boy might naturally sympathise. 

A young man goes amongst men, whose theory of life is much 
more complicated than that of birds ; and he expects to unravel 
the complication in a fashiop somewhat analogous to that which I 
have been describing. He has a tolerably good opinion of himself,, 
and that apparent benevolence which such a good opinion usually 
brings with it, so long as it is not disturbed by the unfriendly com* 
ments of persons pr circumstances. Having that good opinion 
he expects others not only to have the same, which would be- 

Lectures by a certain Professor, 1 83 

mach to expect, but to act as if they had it, which would be to 
expect much more. He has the heart-hunger natural to his age, 
and the belief, natural too, that his neighbours exist more or less 
for the purpose of bringing about a more fitting adjustment be- 
tween what he has and what he wants. Of course he finds that 
the world is not organized precisely according to that view. 
Thinking that others' desire to serve him is in direct ratio to his 
desire to be served, he makes investments of belief and of conduct 
in that theory, and he so far loses his investment as that he' gains 
nothing but a somewhat sad experience. Bui do you suppose that 
he need come out of the market a moral bankrupt ? Do you sup- 
pose that he would be wise in entertaining scepticism as to the 
existence of human kindness, because it was not, as he had ex- 
pected, exclusively at his service ? Because the social system was 
not arranged according to his views, does it necessarily follow 
that it was badly arranged ? Not at all. As a man gets wiser, he 
expects less, and probably gets more than he expects. 

One of the Moorish caliphs of Granada was surnamed " The 
Happy." Things had always gone well with him in the Estimation 
of his subjects. It is to be supposed that his health had been 
beyond the average good, that his friends had been faithful, his 
people prosperous, and his arms either eminently successful or 
rusty from long disuse. At any rate, men, looking back upon his 
life, saNv it as one long track of uninterrupted brightness— of sun- 
shine unve:^ed by a cloud —and they styled him *' The Happy.' 
But when he himself looked back he did not see things precisely 
so. His life had been a long one, he had had some rare days, but, as 
for happiness, by the most conscientious computation he arrived 
at the conclusion that he had had in his whole lifetime just three 
and twenty days of what he considered happiness. . Some of my 
readers might possibly suppose that these twenty-three days 
chanced within the period of the caliph's honeymoon. But I fear 
there is in his history intrinsic evidence that he was never married 
at all ; and as a matter of fact, in his reckoning, the days were not 
consecutive. Does it not seem a small allowance of happiness for 
a long lifetime } Does it not seem that his subjects lightly and 
w^ith little reason gave him the title of "The Happy .?'• Consider 
the matter each one for himself. Have you, or you, or you, a 
larger number of .pure white days in the calendar of your happi- 
ness ? For my part, I think the oaliph had a just claim to his 

Ah ! ^he happy days are rare in most lives. There have been 
some, but they were few. These were days when, if one only 
could, he would have stopped the pendulum of tirtie, and have 
life measured by the music of happy heart-beats. If only the 
evanescent moment would crystallize into permanence, though it 
may have been in reality that in the very evanescence lurked the 
chief part of the charm 1 I am inclined to think that really happy 
moments would not survive the shock of such cryj 

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tli4 Lectures by a certain Prc^essor. 

Sti;aog^, .wbeayou look back how difficult it is to fix upon and 
duly to appraise the constituent elements of any happiness you 
remember, tt was m^de up of trifles so insignificant and so com- 
mon-place. So common, indeed^ that, considered merely as things, 
you can get them together almost any day you please. Ind^ 
they have often been together since without resulting in anything 
like happiness. Some summer day like a thousand that have come 
and gone. Some voice which, objectively considered, even ydn 
cannot pronounce to have been the sweetest that ever made music 
through lips tremulous with emotion. Some common passages ia 
human intercourse — a word, a look, a smile, a tone — that seemed 
to strike a hidden harmdny out of all surrounding circumstance. 
And these things resulted in a passing mood that made the world 
look as if it were temporarily transfigured. It was a happy day. 
Never shone the sun so brightly, never ran the river with so sweet 
a song — ^never grass so green, never flowers so beautiful. 

Look bac^ at it all now. Put the pieces together and place 
them under the inicroscopic memory. Apply your subtlest tests— 
analyze it with what sjkill you may — ^you cannot so find the soul of 
that dead happiness as that you would be able to give reason good 
to any sensible man that you ought to have been happy. 

Indeed analysis is a process very fatal to life or to anything 
that stands to anything else in the relation of life. The scalpel 
may reve^ the secret of structure, it can never reach the mystery 
of being. The spell of life is foui>d at the bottom of no crucible. 
Fatal to the life of everything that lives is tljfat lale-bom of the 
goddesses — the goddess Analysis. 

The man is still living who pade me rich beyond the measure 
of a child's, dream by the present of n\y first shilling. It was so 
much of a novelty to me at the tiipe that I kept it by me for a day 
and a, half. But during the one night of my possession it might 
have been a^ enchant^ shilling for the wild way in which it (ook 
possession pf my dreams. It was lost mysteriously, and found as 
if by mirfu:l.e. It was spent, and yet turned up ag^ip in the most 
unaccountable fashion. It was a relief when it burned, as it soon 
did, the proverbial hole in my one pocket. I bought a drum. Of 
course the];e never had been, and ah ! there never has been since, 
such a drum as that. Prosajc people might see only paint and 
tinsel; it needed, and it had, the poet's eye of a child to dis- 
cern in the tawdry colours a glow and a glory and a splendour 
akin to those of the hues that painted all the west when the va^s^ 
iveAt down behind the elms in the garden. 

Of course I beat my drum till everyone in the house was sick 
of the sound. I delighted myself with the unusual amount of 
noise I found myself capable of making. But wl^en my pleasure 
was at its height came fatal reflection on the source of it. Whence 
came the delightful sou^d ? Clearly* the answer to this qt^estion 
was not on the outside of the drum. Hence, juvenile philosophy 
inferred tj^at it. mii^t be in^icle. FraqticfU conclusionrT-smash t()^ 

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iMiCturisby >a ^er/atn Pro/ifisor. >r85 

>pi u < e i i uw)itt. Loi 'inside was titter emptiness. The reason of the 
'^caasure was not ttiere — and in the process of seeking for it the 
pleasure itseff had vanished. 

Don't i>reak yonr drum. Enjoy your happiness if yOd have it, 
and whilst you haveit, and do not too closely scrutinize its foun- 
'Ktatian. I confess I am apt to smash my drum. My fingers itch 
•to break the toys of life, and erven before they are broken their 
charm is disturbed by the sure foreknowledge that they shall be 
broken by and bye. Let me tell you there is a still worse thing 
than smashing a drum. It is pulling a doll to pieces. It is like 
murder. There is nothing inside commonly but sawdust, and it 
makes a mess. Whatever bloom be on the cheek, however steadily 
the^jpesmay stare-^once the sawdust appears, the illusion is over. 
I; have seen most life-like dolls in Paris, and, indeed, elsewhere; 
dollfi that looked as if they understood you, and would look so, 
however elevated your remarks might happen to be. Yet, when I 
look for a little time, I see that the intelligence is stereotyped — 
that it is there for all comers ; that it will beam with equal and im- 
partial radiance on Plato and on Punch ; somehow I begin to think of 
the sawdust I said before, ** don't break your drum ; " still more 
earnestly do I say — don't pull the dolls to pieces. Let the blue 
eyes, or the brown or the grey, that hoard in the form of mere 
expression wbat were, doubtless, thoughts and feelings in the 
:ancedtml eyes that expressed them first — let them beam on you 
-And be satisfied. Don't pull them to pieces. But «tay — something 
mnst have got into my pen — else why have I spoken of ''ancestral 
•eyes ?*' Have dolls ancestors ? What can I have been meaning ? 
However, let it stand — perhaps some one will pat sense into it. 

Do any toys one ever plays with in what are called the se- 
^rioas pur^iits of life give anything like the genuine pleasure that 
a child's fancy can extract from a child's plaything ? A drum, or 
a 'tpeiiny -Whistle, or a sword of lath, or a doll made up of rags and 
sawdo^ what a wealth of pare imaginative power of the highest 
tdiainatic order is lavished on these things by little boys and girls. 
jLnd these veiy boys and girls will afterwards grow up (or will thesy 
grow down ?) into very commonplace people, hopeful of little, 
^^reamlhl of less, incapable of the dramatic effort that would be so 
lielpfnl to^bttrily, of potting themselves in the place of others whose 
*hopes and fears, and points of view may happen to be different 
fnm their own. Methinks h would be well worth a man's while 
if be •oonid retain his tastes for childhood's simple pleasures. 
Horn hapi^ wtmld you be, reader, and how harmless if your 
^pleasures were still the pleasures of a child. Suppose, for instance, 
yoQ retained your juvenile taste for loUypops, and your juvenile 
jpowers of digestion not yet trammelled by any compulsory eclec- 
nicisni in the matter of food, how much solid happiness you could 
IKircAiase for a shilling. Yet, remark, fate has taken care that even 
-ftieiiappinettthatresults from loUypops shall not be too easily 

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1 86 Lectures by a certain Professor. 

accessible, and has established an inverse ratio between the&cilitj 
of spending the shilling and the enjoyment of the shilling's worth. 
How cheaply might a man amuse himself if paint aind tinsel and 
glare and glitter and noise retained their pristine power to charm 
his spirit ; or rather if his spirit retained its pristine power to in- 
fuse into these things the charm that they had. To be sure the 
world would hardly endure that a man's pursuit of happiness 
should cost him so little in solid money. 

'* ^ddficare casas, plostello adjnngere mores 
Lndere par impar, equitare in amndine longa 
• * Si qnem barbatum delectat, amentia vcrset.* 

So sings Horace — and I, for the special benefit of my lady readers 
(even in these days when women's rights may be supposed to in- 
clude a right to a knowledge of Latin), subjoin a very unsophisti- 
cated rendering into English — 

" If any man whose beard was grown. 
To relish childish sports was known. 
Display his skill on baby-house, 
Or to a wainlet yoke a mouse,' 
Play odd and even, ride a stick. 
The world would say — * a limatic' " 

But would the world be right in saying so, seeing "the many more 
expensive and, to say the least that may be said, quite as useless 
games it provides for its grown-up children ? 

And, indeed, the world has toys for bearded men and beardless 
women. Any talk about happiness would be incomplete without 
some mention of the means by which the world proposes to confer 
it. But the mention shall be but passing ; for I fear the paper 
grows too long. I shall not stay or stoop to talk about " pleasure" 
in its meaning of pleasure of sense. If any one thinks that happi- 
ness lies that way, in no long time he shall find out his mistake. 
A man may reduce himself to the level of the brute, but even when 
he does, it is fortunate for him that rarely can he attain to the 
stolid contentment of the brute. 

But what the world chiefly has, is wealth and knowledge. The 
inability of wealth to purchase happiness has been one of the 
commonplaces of moral literature, at any rate, since the days of 
Solomon. Nor can I add anything worth adding to the illlustra- 
tion of the well-worn theme. Wealth purchases not happiness, but 
a very good imitation of it ; so' good, that at a certain distance it 
looks marvellously like the real article. But it is remarkable that 
the actual possessor never finds himself precisely at that distance. 
However, let me say, as my not quite original contribution to the 
subject, wh^tev#r dreams of happiness are associated with the . 
possession of wealth — and that there are some vivid ones,- the 
very existence of money-lovers sufficiently attests^-they are asio- 

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Lectures by a certain Professor. 187 

dated not precisely with the wealth a man has, but 'with "the 
little more" which so many are seeking, but which no man had 
ever found, or ever shall. 

Who seeks for happiness in knowledge seeks it at a nobler 
source ; but whether it is a more certain source may well admit of 
question. I think Solomon says quite as strong things about its 
vanity as about the vanity of other things. To any one who has 
ever been happy it will, on reflection, be manifest with what a vast 
amount of ignorance that happiness was compatible. Indeed, 
most happy people seem, to their observers, to be ignorantly 
happy. And we grow out of a great deal of our happiness as the 
horizon of acquired knowledge wideAs around us. From this 
point of view it is perhaps consoling to reflect how very little 
most of us know, and how little capable are many of the things 
which we have even been at pains to learn, of interfering unduly 
with our happiness. For even the things we ought to know can 
hide themselves most modestly in mental comers unsunned by 
consciousness. It is astonishing how little expedite knowledge 
serves the turn of most of us, even of us who pretend to some 
degree of culture, and have our pretension allowed (chiefly by 
persons who have a reciprocal need of like allowance), always 
bating the inevitable discount with which even our best friends ac- 
cept our estimate of ourselves. I shrewdly suspect that a great 
many things of which we are ignorant are amongst the things 
which, in the. words of the late Lord Macaulay, /* every school 
boy is supposed to know." 

Supposed, indeed. Let me suppose a little. Suppose a man 
stopped you in the street — you, dear reader — and addressed you 
thus : " Pardon me, sir ; but would you favour me with the precise 
date of the battle of Platoea?" or, ** I would feel obliged if you 
would give me some information about the constitution and pur- 
poses of the Amphictyonic Council ;" or, " May I ask you to give 
me the equivalent in years before Christ of the middle of the 
thirty-seventh Olympiad?" What would you reply? Perhaps, if 
you were utterly candid, you would answer — "Well, I really can't 
at this moment give you, with any precision, the information you 
require, but if you come with me to my study I will be presently in 
a position to gratify your laudable curiosity." But if you were 
more astute, and less easy tampered, you would turn to him and 
say indignantly — "Sir, there is a place for everything, and the 
street is not the place to ask information which the merest school- 
boy could furnish, and the absence of which 'in your case argues a 
lamentable deficiency in your early education. Sir, I object on 
principle, to answer such questions. Even in those days things 
have not gone so far as that it needs a competitive examination to 
secure freedom of the street and freedom from impertinent ques- 
tions." And haying thus loftily put him down you might go 
home to your boys, and, if occasion served, might with all the 

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\i68 l^tcciuresby u cer^n JPrafessor. 

gravity of a philosophic father -impress opom them tlie InseTerabie 
bond that fate has placed between success in iife and Hfe*lon^ 
mastery of the details of Grecian history. 

Well, Lord Macaulay made large nse of that " schoolboy,** and 
endowed him with a most unwarrantable amoimt of kno^niedge* 
That schoolboy I have never met-^nor do I believe I would madi 
care to meet him. 

I remember wh«n I was a schoolboy myself. I do not know 
what I was- supposed to* know. But I had a large quantity of mis- 
cellaneous information (as miscellaneous as the ordinary contents 
of an average boy's pockets) for which I got no credit whatever, 
but which, nevertheless, stbod me in good stead among my juve- 
nile contemporaries. For instance, no amount of acquir^nent in 
the science of projectiles could have added anything to my skill 
with a finger stone. I knew nothing of the relation respectively 
between the force of a hand stroke, the weight of a ball, the re- • 
sistance of the air, the law of the parabola, and a given spot on 
the wall before me ; and yet oa an instinctive and impromptu cal- 
culation, I could put the ball just there. I knew by a sort of 
reflex action of the instinct of self-preservation how high a crow's 
nest should be, to be beyond my climbing ; and was even uble 
instinctively to make allowance for the probable avoirdupois bodily 
increase that made a branch unattainable in June on which I had 
fearlessly ventured in April. I knew the pugilistic capabilities of 
my sehoolmates, and could estimate to a nicety, in any individoal 
instance, how far conscious pluck could counterbalance an esti- 
mated preponderance of brute force ; and in what cases discretion 
not only was the better part of any valour that was possible, but 
that any theory of valour that did not include such diiscretion was 
radically deficient in practical application. I so far entered into 
the feelings of birds as to be able to predicate with tolerable cer- 
' tcunty where any ornithological specimen known tothe countryside 
was likely to build its nest. I knew the hazel copse where nuts 
grew thickest, and the lonely dell where blackberries were soonest 
ripe. I knew what gardens it was safe to essay, and marked well 
the gruff gardeners whose temper written on their faces made 
them very dragons of Hesperides. I knew — but why go on reca- 
pitulating points of knowledge that are only mine in memory now > 
And, besides, some one may say — " Did you not set out to q>eak 
. about happiness ? — how far you have wandered from your subject." 
To such a one I answer—^" Nay, not so far, for these things wmr 

But let me finish seriously. Seriously, then, there is littie or 
no happiness to be found here. More seriously still, made though 
we are for happiness, it is not for any happiness that earth can 
give. Seek it if you will, and as you must. Pursue the trailing^ 
garments that fik>at ever beyond your reach on the verge of the 
leaden^oloured mist, that is, the condensed cticamstance of your 

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My Blacklnrd. 189 

ordinary life. Bnt even if for ;some brief moment you seem to 
catch the flying fijgure, beware how you sit still to cherish your 
happiness. That is fatal. Do you not remember the man whose 
whole life had been a pursuit, who had taken hold of the world and 
filled both his hands with all the world had to give ? A worldlings 
— but with seeming touches of relenting in his worldliness. For 
at last be seemed to himself to have enough. The folly of further 
seeking came home to iu9i» and in his evening musing over the 
past and over the future, he entertained a guest that seemed 
strangely like wisdom. He wotdd amass no more. Not a bad 
resolution in itself — but bad for him — for it marked the dying out 
even of the poor ideal that he had had. The gross reality upon 
which henceforth he was content to rest was meaner than even a 
miser's ideal. He folded his hands and — was happy. And lol 
when the visions of the night were on men's eyes, the vision of 
the death-angel smote upon his. No ear but his that never again 
heard any sound on earth, heard the voice of doom that shrieked,. 
" O fool," through all the chambers of the well-filled house. Andy 
when the morning came, they found him white and dead — ^and ah ! 
no longer happy. 

We are but in the desert, travelling home. We have no lasting^ 
city. Who can build of desert sand a house that will not crumble 
even while he builds ? If some rare days of happiness be given, 
they are meant to be as wells in the desert to cheer our fainting 
spirit for its onward journey. Wise travellers drink and are gone. 
It is madness to linger, and death to stay ; for desert wells go dry 
inevitably and soon. Better even follow the mirage than pitch 
your tent on any oasis however fair. Better still to learn and take 
to heart the lesson the mirage teaches, that not in it is the home 
and the happiness we se^ : that on beyond the desert verge — 
many days' journey, or it may be only a few — there is a golden 
city where there is rest for wayworn feet and weary hearts, and 
where, and where alone, we may rest and be happy. 


OH I in the sycamore tree, in the sycamore tree. 
There is a blackbird that sings to me ; 
Sweet is his note as the rose in June, 
Quainter than any old poet's rune. 
Wild as the water that winders o'er 
Hill and dale to a far seashore ; — 
Softly, oh 1 softly he says his say 
'Twixt the dawn and day, 'twizt the dawn and day I 

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1 jo My Blackbird. 

Oh ! in the sycamore tree, in the sycamore tree. 

There lives Tor ever a wonder to me : 

Out of a small winged creature's throat, 

In a warbling, murmuring, marvellous note, 

Cometh the utterance deep and low 

Of the human love that is bliss or woe. 

Oh 1 in the sycamore tree, in the sycamore tree, 

How can a bird speak so to me ? 

When the sun is high he will not sing, 

As love were such a holy, bashful thing. 

But just when the da>vn begins to break, 

And soul and sense are but half awake, . 

It tunes on the air that mystical spng, 

A little now, and more ere long — 

Oh 1 with notes that are tender, and strange, and deep. 

Calling my heart through the mists of sleep. 

Yet nested high in that bow'ring tree, 
What can a little bird know of me ? 
Hath he studied life from his home of leaves 
Through open windows on stammer eves ? 
Or is it a secret unguessed, unknown. 
That he hath a human heart of his own. 
With the rapturous bliss of its joyous mood — 
Its swoonings, yearnings, and tears of blood ? 

Oh ! since first that little bird spake to me, 

A joy, and a grief, and a mystery 

Have perched and nested deep in my heart. 

Where one nmst remain when two depart, 

And my spirit knows not which of the three 

Will stay and for ever abide with me : 

But the bird he knoweth and singeth alway 

'Twixt ihe dawn and day, 'twixt the dawn and day. 

And waiting I hear from the sycamore tree 

A message from heaven drop down upon me. 

"Keeping thy joys and grief apart, 

Yet make of them music within thy heart, 

That some who listen for sympathy 

May say * a human heart sings to me,' 

And may feast on sweets 'twixt the night and the dawn 

Of a fuller light than yet hath shone." 

^ . R. M. 

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191 } 




** Siena era a lei come famiglia, le era patria la Chiesa.*' 

S. Catherinb, whose absence from Italy had been prolonged far 
beyond her expectation, had for some time greatly desired to re- 
turn to her own city. She begged of the Pope to grant her a fina! 
andience and permit her to depart. Gregory XI., however, would 
not suffer her to leave Avignon until he had himself set out. On the 
very day, therefore, that the Holy Father left for Marseilles, the saint 
and her disciples turned their steps towards home. They entered 
Toulon in their usual humble guise, and Catherine according to 
her custom retired to her apartment in the inn. Her friends had 
not spoken of her ; but, as Father Raymond says, the very stones 
seemed to cry out, and the people came in crowds asking where 
was the saint who was returning from the pontifical court. In 
Genoa the travellers were hospitably received by Monna Orietta 
Scotta, who kept them in her house during the month they re- 
mained in that city ; and, as several of them fell ill after the 
journey, she had two physicians to see them every day Neri di 
Landoccio was reduced to such a condition that the doctors des- 
paired of his recovery. The sad news was imparted to the. rest by 
Father Raymond one day as they sat at table together. Stefan o 
Maconi rose instantly and went to Catherine. Throwing himself 
at her feet, he conjulred her with tears not to suffer his companion 
and brother, during a journey undertaken for God and for her, to 
die and be buried in a strange land. She said he ought not to 
grieve so much if it should be God's will to call his brother Neri, 
and reward him for all his labours. But this made Stefano lament 
the more, and urgently press his petition: for well he belieVed 
she could obtain their friend's recovery if she only would. Cathe- 
rine, greatly affected, replied, that all she intended was to ex- 
hort him to submit to God's will, and bade him confte to her 
when she had received Holy Communion at Mass in the morning 
and remind her of his intention ; while he at the same time should 
pray that her supplications might be heard. Stefano was early on 
the watch next day, and presenting himself to Catherine just as 
she was going to Mass, entreated her not to deceive his expecta- 
tions. When she arose from prayer after Communion she found the 
faithful secretary waiting at her side. She smiled and told him 
the grace he desired had been obtained. ** Mother, will Neri be 
cured ?" he exclaimed. *' Yes," she replied, " for it is God's will 
to restore him to us." Hearing these words the young man with 

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192 A Citizen Saint. 

joyful heart hastened to his sick friend, vho veiy soon completely 

A pendant to this picture as given by Father Rajrmond is 
Stefano's account of the saint going to visit him with her con- 
fessor and companions, when he, too, after constant and affec- 
tionate nursing of his sick friends^ was seized with fever. He 
was so rejoiced to see her that he forgot what was the matter with 
liim; ana when, she asked him how he was affected he answered 
•quite cheerfully that they told him he was ill, but he did not know 
what ailed him. Racing her hand on his forehead and shaking 
lier head : " Do you hear how the child answers me ?" she said. 
'' They tell him he is ill ! and he does not know what is the 
matter ! and all the time he has a violent fever." She told hko 
^he would not allow him to follow the example of the others: he 
must recover, and get up at once, and attend to the rest as usual. 
Arid then, while she went on discoursing of heavenly things, the 
patient began to feel so much better that he could not help inter- 
rupting the conversation to tell his friends of the change that had 
suddenly come over him. 

Stefano*s mother, Monna Giovanna di Corrado, herself one of 
Catherine's disciples, appears to have suffered some uneasiness 
about her son's long absence from home; for we find the saint 
writing to beg of her to overcome the grief his departure has 
caused her, and to rejoice rather, for the journey would not be 
devoid of profit to his soul and to Monna Giovanna's also. Un* 
shaken trust in the providence of God and firm belief in his infinite 
love are inculcated: and a serious lesson is given to Christian 
parents who are not satisfied to allow their children to follow the 
call of God ; but, according to their own fancy, choose a state of 
life for them, saying they are anxious to see their children living, 
in a manner pleasing to the Almighty, but that this can be done 
in the world as well as in any other state. In their pride and 
ignorance these poor mothers go so far as to lay down laws and 
regulations for the Holy Ghost. " Be of good heart now and 
patient," she says in the end, ** and do not be troubled if I have 
kept Stefana too long. I have taken good care of him ; for we 
are one and the same in affection ; and besides, your interests are 
as dear to me as my own." 

While Catherine was still in Genoa, Gregory XI. came into 
port after a perilous and tempestuous voyage in which the galley 
with the Pope on. board was only saved from shipwreck by the 
nautical experience of the Grand Master who commanded the 
vessel During the ten days the Holy Father remained in Genoa 
discouraging accounts were received from other parts of Italy. It 
was said that the Romans had no great welcome for the rtder 
whose authority they had usurped ; while in Florence tuomltnoBS 
disorder continued to reign, and the citizens were far frorii slww- 
ing the joy which might have been expected \ehen> desiires^ so -fer' 

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A Citizen Saint. 193. 

vendy espiessed had been at last fulfilled. The Pope was greatly 
hurt ; his fears retamed ; he spoke of retracing his steps. Inte- 
rested counsellors were at hand to take advantage of any momen'* 
taiy weakness he might betray. But the courageous spirit which 
had supported him in the momentous crisis at Avignon was also 
near; ajud still had power to strengthen him in his onward course. 
Gregory went one night to Catherine's dwelling, and taking counsel 
with ber» and listening to her powerful arguments and persuasive 
eloquence, felt his courage invigorated. Having Tinade the saint 
piomise to pray for him every day^ he departed, once more settled 
in resolve ; and she, turning to God, spent the whole night in 
prayer for the Pontiff and for the Church. 

On the 2?th October, I376, the Pope sailed out of the Bay of 
Genoa to encounter again the dangers and terrors of the sea. 
Several of the cardinals became seriously ill on the passage, and 
one of the number. Cardinal de Narbonne, landed to die at 
Pisa. Finally, after a few days' stay at Leghorn, the Holy Father 
disembarked at Cometo, where he remained until the middle of the 
month of January following. Catherine had in the meantime re- 
turned to Siena ; but her prayers and anxious thoughts still fol- 
lowed the Pontiff,'and her letters reached him at Corneto. She 
keeps before his mind the higliest ideal of constancy, fortitude, 
and patience. She reminds him how, so early in his youth, he 
was planted in the garden of the holy Church, and how he has been 
chosen to labour and combat for the honour of God, the salvation 
of souls, and the reform of the Church. H^ knows well that when 
he took the Church for his spouse he pledged himself to suffer for 
her the stress of contrary winds, and all the sorrows and tribulai- 
ttons that should arise. Like a valiant man he must stand up to 
face the storm, never looking back through surprise or fear. The 
persecutions of the Church, like the trials of the virtuous soul, end 
in peace, won by true patience and by perseverance for which the 
crown of glory is reserved. Let the Holy Father, in the name of 
Jesus crucified, hasten with all speed to take the place of the glo- 
rious apostles, Peter and Paul, full of assured confidence that God 
will give him all that is necessary for himself and for the Church 
his spouse. Catherine at the same time intercedes for her own 
city which had been compelled by the Florentines to side against 
the Pope. Siena, she says, had always been the cherished daughter 
of his Holiness. It is evident that the citizens were constrained 
by circumstances to do things displeasing to the Holy Father who 
may therefore well excuse them and draw them to him with the 
bond of love.* 

* Shortly after, when Gregory had entered Rome, Andrea Piccoloniini and two 
other citizens were sent as ambassadors from Siena to congratulate the Sovereign 
Pontiff on his retnm to the City of the Apostles, and to negotiate certain affans 
of state. The old historian relates that, havine brought letters from Sister 
Catherine Benincasa, the envoys were received with great benignity by the Pope. 

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li^ A Citizen Saint. 

At last, thtee months after his departure from Avignon, Gre- 
gory, having embarked on the Tiber, arrived at S. Paul's and 
thence proceeded to Rome, making his entrance amidst the vioas 
of the now rejoicing multitude. The Grand Master of the Knights 
of S. John of Jerusalem carried the triumphal standard of the 
Church ;• the clergy, the nobles, the senator and bannerets, and the 
citizens followed in procession ; the way was strewn with flowers ; 
and as evening fell before the Pope arrived at S. Peter's, the city 
burst into illumination, while the people kindling flambeaux as 
they went, made the roadway a path of light. In spite, however, 
of the general gladness, and notwithstanding the readiness with 
which the citizens had given the keys of the city into the Pope's 
hands as he entered the gates, Gregory soon perceived that it 
would be no easier nor quicker task to establish peace among the 
factions that divided Rome than it would be to build up the ruins 
tRat encumbered the soil on every side. Had he been left in 
peace to attend to the government of the Papal States his concilia-' 
tory temper and great patience might have prevailed over many 
obstacles. S. Catherine's earnest desire was that the Pope on his 
return to the Apostolic City should discharge the Breton troops, and 
begin the pacification of Italy with unarmed hands. This did not 
meet the views of those who had influence in the Roman court. 
War and confusion continued to be the order of the day. 

After a time the Pope's adherents having gained some advan- 
tage, Gregory, seizing the occasion, sent two ecclesiastics, one an 
Augustinian and the other a Minorite, to Florence to prepare the 
way for peace. Catherine, on her side, left nothing undone to . 
second the Holy Father's efforts ; wrote to her friends in the hos- 
tile city, and sent thither Stefano Maconi with instructions to act 
on her part. Bbt neither the Pontiff's envoys nor the saint's dis- 
ciples met with much success. The Eight of War were more than 
ever opposed to reconciliation. To make matters worse they de- 
termined that the interdict should no longer be observed ; sent 
orders through the city and the neighbouring territory to have the 
•services, of the Church performed as usual ; heavily fined the con- 
vents and churches where resistance was offered ; and sentenced 
to a like penalty all prelates who should absent themselves from 
their churches. 

One Sunday morning an envoy of the Pope called on Father 
Raymond, who was then in Rome, and desired him to go to the 
pontifical palace at dinner hour. The Holy Father on receiving 

him said that he had reason to think that if Catherine of Siena 


The saint reminds Uie Holy Father that all reasonable beings are more taken by 
love and kindness than by anything else : ** which is most of all true with regard 
to our Italians of these parts." Indeed she does not see that there is any other 
way in which the Holy Father pan gain them. '* The Sienese ambassadors are 

? to your Holiness ; and if there are people in the world who can be drawn 

lection, certainly these are they.** 

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A, Cttiten Saint. 195 

I to go to Florence the citizens would not have the heart to 
resist so charitable and holy a woman, and some good results might 
be looked for. Father Raymond replied that not Catherine alone 
but he himself and all the Frati of the Order, would be ready to 
meet death itself in obedience to the holy Church. But Gregory 
wished that she alone should go as his accredited envoy ; for she, 
being held in great reverence by all, would be less exposed to 
danger than any one else. Catherine was informed of the* Holy 
Father's desire that she should go on his part to the faction-torn 
T^nblic, the necessary powers were sent to her, and with her 
accustomed promptness and intrepidity she set out from Siena. 
Nicolo Soderini and her numerous friends and disciples in Flo- 
rence received her with delight On the very day of her arrival 
she spoke three times to the people, on submission to the Church's 
ordinances and on the observance of the interdict; and produced so 
profound an implosion that the citizens returned to their obedience 
and the interdict was observed anew. Her joy was expressed 
in a letter to the Cardinal di Luna. . '* Pray," she says, '' that the 
son may quickly rise, for now the dawn appears. The morning 
light is breaking, and the darkness spread abroad by the mortal 
sins conmiitted in celebrating — and publicly celebrating — the 
divine offices of the Church has been dispelled, to the discomfiture 
of him who desired to prevent its disappearance. The interdict 
is observed." 

The saint's next effort was not so speedily successful. Nothing 
could be more pitiable than the state of. Florence, reduced to 
penury by the interruption of her commerce, and suffering all the 
consequences of war without and anarchy within. To reconcile 
the republic to the Holy See appeared hardly possible: the 
Florentines would not be reconciled with one another. However, 
the Gnelphic party gained strength, and with the aid of the well- 
disposed citizens compelled the Eight of War to come to terms. 
It was arranged that the pacification of Italy should be undertaken 
by a congress summoned to assemble at Sarzana, to which the 
princes of Europe, the .Italian republics, and the cities leagued 
against the Pope, were each to send two or mpre representatives, 
while Barnabas Visconti undertook to appear in person and act as 
arbiter between the Sovereign Pontiff and the Florentines. The 
congress assembled in due course, the Cardinal della Giorgia and 
the Bishop of Narbonne representing the Pope ; and the conditions 
of peace were all but completed, when the proceedings were sud- 
denly interrupted by the intelligence of the death of Gregory XL, 
which happened on the 17th March, 1378. 

* This calamity threw Florence into wilder confusion* The 
people broke loose from all control ; no longer knew what they 
thoi^ht nor what they wanted ; and, collecting in mobs, wildly 
attadi:ed such persons as happened to excite their animosity. 
Catherine's friends suffered severely. Soderini's house was pil- 

▼OL, m. P \ r^r^r^\c> 

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196 A Citizen Se^nt 

laged and burned, and the residence of another of her disciplet, 
Ristoro Canigiani, brother of Bardnccio, shared the same iate. 
Canigiani's enemies with sublime republican irony inscribed h» 
name on the list of the nobles ; a proceeding tantamount in tboee 
days to deprivation of the right to share in the government of tbe 
state. But the frenzy of the populace reached its height when a 
cry was raised that Catherine of Siena was the cause c^ their suf- 
ferings, and that she ought to be cut in pieces or burned ative. 
The people in whose h<Mse she was st^ng basely abandoned her. 
With some of her disciples she took refuge in a garden not far ofi^ 
where she began at once to pray, beseeching the Almighty that 
bloodshed might cease in the city; or that if a sacrifice were 
wanted she might be the victim. The crowd rushed into the 
garden, shouting, "Where was this Catherine? Where was this 
cursed woman ?" Hearing the cry, Catherine arose from h^* 
prayer, and coming forward threw herself on her bftees before a 
wild-looking man who Was brandishing a naked sword, and vocife- 
rating louder than the rest, " I am Catherine,** she said. "Take 
me and kill me. But, in the name of God, I command you not to 
hurt any of the people who are with me." Her words threw the 
ringleader into confusion. All he could do was to desire her to get 
out of his sight and* begone I But she courageously replied that 
she would not go ; she would remain where she was ; she desired 
to suffer, and would rather than anything in the world be mawle a 
sacrifice for Christ and the Church. 

The mob dispersed without doing her any harm. Her com- 
panions congratulated her on her escape from imminent danger ; 
but she lamented that she was not found worthy of so glorious a 
death. They tried to persuade her to return to Siena. Nothing, 
however, would induce her to leave the Florentine territory imdl 
she had fulfilled her mission. She retired to Vallombr06a, where 
she remained until, the city becoming quiet afler a few days, she 
was able to return to Florence. Before long she succeeded in 
accomplishing her task. Ambassadors were sent to Rome. At 
the same time she wrote to the Pope, imploring him to receive tbe 
stray sheep with mercy. Even though they should not sue for 
clemency with true and perfect humility, she hopes ^e Holy 
Father will overlook their (teficiency and not exact from the weak 
what they afe incapable of giving. He is not to regard the scan- 
dal that has taken place in the city, where the demons of hell 
appear to have been doing all they conk) to prevent peace being 
made. These children will be afterwards better than the rest. 
She herself wishes no longer to remain in Florence. But the Hoij 
Father will fhid her obedient to hts will ; her only aaxi4Mis deaize* 
is to obtain the favour and the pardon she now entreatSi. 

The Pdpe listened favourably to the saint's prayer. Fefl»e 
was granted on the conditions proposed at the congtest so dis- 
astrously interrupted. The Bishop of Voltena and Fia Fn 

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A Ctfizdh Satnt 197 

Orvieto were sent in due coarse to free the Florentines from the 
excommonication. Catherine announces the Joyful intelligence of 
peace in letters addressed to " Sano di Maco and her other sons 
in Christ,'' in Siena. God has heard the cry of His servants who 
have so long we[>t in His presence and moaned over these dead. 
Now they have arisen. From death they have been restored to 
life; from darkness they have come forth to light What un- 
utterable Joy it is to see the children returning to the obedience of 
their Father, and recovering His favour after having pacified their 
souls ! ** On Saturday at one o'clock, the olive branch of peace 
appeared, and to-day at vespers all was finished." Catherine 
thus set free said to her disciples: "We may quit Florencer 
since, through the grace of God, I have followed His command- 
ments and obeyed the order of His vicar. Those whom I found in 
revolt against the holy Church I leave subject to that kind and 
tender mother. Let us now return to Siena." 

Catherine's home in her native city which in itself appeared 
unlike enough to the solitude a truly interior soul like hers desires, 
had doubtless become, by force of contrast to the turbulent 
rush of life in Florence and the courtly splendour of the dzy% in 
Avignon, a scene of peaceful seclusion, a very haven of refuge. 
Withdrawn to some extent from the turmoil of public affairs, the 
saint began to write the " Diahgo^^ that wonderful book so simple 
in its form, so sublime in its teaching, which the highest earthly 
authority bas characterised as replete with doctrine not acquired 
bat infused. It was composed in this wise. The saint spoke in 
the form of a dialogue between Gk>d and the soul. One of her 
secretaries, Neri di Landoccio, Barduccio, or Stefano Maconi, wrote . 
down the words as they fell from her lips. Cristofano di Gano 
Guidini was also constantly present, listening, and writing also. 

But short as was the interval, from July to October, in which 
the saint was thus occupied, she was not left undisturbed by the 
claims of the outer world. To understand the part she was now 
required to take in the affairs of Christendom, we must go back a 
few months, and recall the circumstances attending the death of 
Gr^ory XI. and the election of his successor, Urban VL 
Gregory's pontificate which had been troubled enough through- 
out its course, was clouded towards its close by the dread 
of still more evU days that were fast a|>proaching. Yielding to 
despondency he fancied that the great act of his life— the return 
from Avignon — ^had been undertaken in vain» and dreamed, it is 
said, of yet another removal to Provence. His health, never 
robust, bc^an rapi^y to fail, and he became extremely apprehen- 
sive of the consequences of his demise. He carefully made ar- 
rangements for the assembly of the conclave ; ordered that the 
cardinals in Rome at the time of his death should select some 
place in the dty or outside and proceed without delajr to elect his 
successor ; desire4 that whoever bad Uie majority of votes, even 

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19$ A Cihzen Saint. 

thopgh the number did not reach' two-thirds, should be pro- 
claimed Pope ; and in the most moving manner besought them uk 
the name of the Divine mercy to choose the most worthy. 

The Sacred College consisted at the moment of Gregory's 
death of twenty-three cardinals. Sixteen of the number were in 
Route, six had remained in Avignon, and one was at Sarzana. Of 
the four Italian cardinals all but Tebaldeschi, Cardinal of S. 
Peter's, aspired to the tiara. The French desired a Pope of their 
own nation, but they were divided* The natives of Limousin 
wished to elect a countryman of their own, while the others were 
of opinion that that province had already given too many pontiffs 
to the Church. The solitary Spaniard remained undecided. The 
Roman people of every class, intensely excited and dreading the 
desertion of their city if another French Pope were elected, loadly 
clamoured for an Italian, if not a Roman, pontiff. Under these 
circumstances, immediately after the obsequies of the late Pope 
had been performed, the conclave assembled. A* terrible thunder- 
storm broke over the city at the same moment, while the people 
raised a still more frightful uproar, threatening death to the cardi- 
nals if the election did not satisfy them. Even before the con- 
clave assembled the cardinals had thought of electing to the chair 
of S. Peter a dignitsfty of the Church not included in the Sacred 
College. Bartolomeo Prignano, Archbishop of Ban, had been 
spoken of; and attention was again directed to him. The French 
were the first to speak and vote in his favour; the Italians con- 
sented though unwillingly. The archbishop was summoned to the 
conclave, and to avoid exciting the suspicions of the Romans^ 
certain other eminent prelates were also invited. Finally, Pri- 
gnaiio was elected by a unanimous vote. The announcement was 
delayed lest the people should rise in revolt, for by this time none 
but a Roman would content them. Rumours, however, got wind 
to the effect that Francoise de Bar, a Frenchman, was elected. 
The populace thereupon rose to arms, besieged the conclave, and 
forced the cardinals to take to flight. To* gain time it was given 
out that Cardinal Tebaldeschi had been chosen, but had refused 
the dignity. The excited multitude rushed to do honour to the 
supposed Pope; forced the aged and infirm cardinal to assume 
the Pontifical insignia, and crowded round him to kiss his hands 
and feet. Distressed beyond measure to see himself the object of 
so irreverent a proceedirtg, and driven to extremity, he told the 
people that the Archbishop of Bari, and not he, was Poj)e. A cry 
was now raised of ^^Non lo volemol^ the bells were rung to call the 
citizens, and the tumult reached its height. Next day the ferment 
having somewhat subsided, the cardinals who had taken refuge 
in the castle of S. Angelo and elsewhere to the number of twelve 
returned to the pontifical palace. The Pope-elect inquired whether 
the proceedings had been conducted canonically. The cardinals 
answered that all had been done in due form ; besought him not 

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A Cthzen Sutht. 199 

to leave the Chnrch without a head in this time of sore distress ; 
and urged him to accept without Aeizy the pontifical honours. 
He did so. The prescribed ceremonies were gone through ; and 
the newly-elected Pope was publicly crowned in the Lateran Ba- 
silica as Urban VI. 

The cardinals who had not at once returned to the pontifical 
palace, and Gerardo Ambiense, who had been absent at Sarz^na, 
now hastened to do homage to Urban. They all wrote to the 
emperor and to the princes of Europe announcing the unanimous 
election of the Archbishop of Ban. Those who had stayed at 
Avignon confirmed the election. S. Catherine, though she held 
the new Pope whom she had known in Avignon in high esteem, 
was well aware of the defects of his character. From the first she 
appears to have dreaded the consequences of his harsh temper, 
impetuous zeal, and unconciliatory nature. In her letters she con- 
stantly entreats him to be considerate and indulgent in his dealings 
with others. She reminds him that to act without moderation 
impedes rather than advances what we undertake ; and begs him 
for the sake of Christ crucified to control in some degree the quick 
impulses to which he is naturally inclined. No less anxious was 
the saint that he should surround himself with wise counsellors 
and good men. She considered it of immense importance that he 
sbould proceed at once to create cardinals, and that he should 
exercise sound judgment in the selection. Unfortunately these 
recommendations were not attended to in time. The cardinals 
were not created until it was too late; and before many months 
were over, Urban's severity had produced irreparable disaster. 

On the veiT day after his coronation the Pope publicly up- 
braided the bishops who were present for remaining in Rome and 
deserting their sees ; and shortly after in public consistory he 
reprehended the cardinals in the bitterest terms, stigmatized the 
vices of the court, and inveighed against the bad example given 
by the princes of the Church. Conveyed in exasperating terms, 
these reproaches had no* other effect than to give occasion to in- 
sulting rejoinders. " Tu menti, o Barese" was the answer of the 
Cardinal of Amiens on one occasion. From words the Pope pro- 
ceeded to deeds : inaugurating sudden reforms, instituting merciless 
Tetrenchments, and adopting a course regarded as imprudent and 
nnfeeling. Summer approaching the cardinals left Rome, and 
according to previous arrangement the greater number of them 
met at Anagni to take counsel together and decide on the course 
they should adopt. Reports were put in circulation casting doubts 
on the validity of Urban's election ; the intentions of the cardinals 
hegan to be surmised ; and iti the end all disguise was thrown off. 
Rostagno, a Frenchman, who had the command of the Castle of 
"S. Angelo, was gained over to their side ; an army of Bretons was 
subsidized ; and an attitude of open hostility assumed. Otto of 
Bnmswick, the husband of the Queen of Ks^ples, rq)aired to 

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ifoo A Citizen Saint 

Anagni with a view of bringing about a reconciliation. By Urbaii*s 
command three of the Italian cardinals set out on the same mission. 
Many other influential men also interposed. The Pope even pro- 
posed to summon an oecumenical council to consider the question 
of the election. But all was in vain. The French party began to 
work upon the ambition of the three Italian cardinals— Corsini of 
Florence, Borzano of Milan, and Orsini of Rome — ^holding out to 
esCch a hope of the tiara^ Tebaldeschi alone remained faithful to 
Urban ; and shortly after, being on his death-bed, he deposed in 
. the most solemn manner that the voting liad been perfectly free^ 
and that Urban had been unanimously elected. 

Overwhelmed with grief at seeing himself thus deserted, and 
filled with consternation at the evils that had fallen on the Church, 
the Pope regretted his extreme asperity and unwise precipitancy, 
and saw how imprudent he had been in neglecting to increase the 
Sacred College. He now would have wished to create twenty- 
nine new cardinals, but five of those to whom the dignity was 
offered refused to accept it. Two days after, the cardinals, who 
had left Anagni and assembled in the castle of Onorato, Count of 
Fondi, a nobleman of influence rendered malcontent by sudden 
deprivation of his government, declared the election of Urban null 
and void; reproached, denounced, anathematized him; went 
through the form of an election, and proclaimed the Cardinal of 
Geneva under the title of Pope Clement VII. 

Such was the news brought to Siena towards the close of the 
month of September, 1578. Catherine, who was well aware of the 
circumstances attending the election of Urban, had not the shadow 
of doubt of the validity of his title. With all the ardour of her 
soul she now strove to sustain the Pope's courage in his perilous 
position, and comfort him in his terrible isolation. She exerted 
all her influence to hold in true allegiance her friends and dis- 
ciples, to keep the cities in which her name had authority from 
leaguing with the schismatics, and to dissuade the princes with 
whom ^e was in correspondence from lending countenance to the 
anti-Pope. In her letters to Urban at this crisis that heroism of 
soul which is contagious finds expression. And certainly the 
Pope had need of sudb support. He was personally unattractive. 
He had not the gift of making friends ; in fact he had the unhappy 
art of alienating those who naturally would have clung to him. 
Clement, on the contrary, had many advantages and possessed not 
a few brilliant qualities. He was not yet thirty-six years of age ; 
was of commanding stature and graceful presence ; was handsome 
and courtly; loved splendour, and was liberal and generous in 
expenditure. His military talents, though disgraced by the aflfair 
of Cesena, were likely to be turned to good account in his present 
position. Moreover, he was connected with many of the great 
families of Europe. 

Clement did not» in the first instance, succeed in gaining the 

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A CthzenSamL 201 

miqK>rt of the King of France ; though in the end, the prospect 
of having a French Pope established in Avignon, and the promise 
held but of a donation to the Duke of Anjou of a no inconsidera- 
ble portion of S. Peter's patrimony, overcame his reUictance to 
encourage schism, The Queen of Naples shared the satisfaction 
of her subjects on the accession of a Neapolitan to the Pontifical 
throne, offered rich presents on the occasion, and sent three hun- 
dred soldiers under the conunand of Count Lorito Caracciolo to 
form a guard of honour to the Pope. But this good understanding 
speedily came to an end. His Holiness refused to sanction the 
marriage of the daughter and heir of the King of Sicily with a 
relative of Joanna's husband ; one of the most influential of her 
courtiers, Nicolo Spinelli, having been treated with some indignity 
at the court of Rome on the occasion of his visit with Otto of 
Brunswick, cherished a violent animosity to Urban, and made the 
queen believe that the Pope intended to shut her up in a monas- 
tery and give her kingdom to Charles Durazzo ; in a word, deadly 
enmity took the place of temporary friendship. 

At length the Pope resolved to act on S. Catherine's advice and 
call to his aid true servants of God who, unmoved by passion and 
uninfluenced by selfish considerations would be capable of giving 
him wise and efficient counsel. But the saint must have been 
greatly astonished when she was informed that the first step his 
Holiness took in that direction was to send for Father Raymond, 
who was then Prior of the Minerva, and desire him to write to her 
to come at once to Rome. Her answer to this was that she was 
unwilling to go ; knowing as she did that many of the citizens of 
Siena, and especially some of the Sisters of Penance, did not ap- 
prove of so many journey^, and thought it not right for a religious 
to be seen travelling on all the highroads. She declined, in fact, 
to go unless the Pope sent her an express command in writing. 
Father Raymond told this to Urban, who forthwith commanded 
Catherine, in virtue of holy obedience, to repair to Rome withoqt 
delay. She therefore set out from her native city, *' going," as 
she wrote to Sister Daniella da Orvieto, " to accompli^ the will 
of Christ crucified and of his vicar." She was accompanied by 
a great number of her friends and disciples: some wishing to 
visit the tombs of the martyrs; others desiring to seek soaaoe 
favour from the Pope — all anxious to remain with her. Among 
the Sisters of Penance who went on this pilgrimage were her 
mother, Alessia, Francesca, Giovanni di Capo, and Lisa. Fra 
Giovanni Tantucci was with her on this journey as on the road to 
Avignon; so likewise was Fra SantL Neri dl Landoccio and 
Barduccio and Tommasso Buonconti left their affluent homes with 
joy to follow and to serve her. Others who could not then go, 
went after some time to Rome. 

The saint and her family of friends and disciples lodged in a 
street close to the Piazza della Minerva, and lived on alms. An 

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202 A Cthzen Satnt. 

excellent system was established in the house. One of the Sisters 
was appointed every week to manage the affairs of the community, 
so that the rest might be free to follow* their religious exercises 
and attend to the business that had brought them to Rome. 
When the provisions seemed likely to run short a da/s notice was 
to be given, so that Catherine or one of the others might go 
out to look for bread. The family usually consisted of twenty- 
four members; but the number was often vastly increased. Cathe- 
rine was so hospitable that, Father Raymond says, she would have 
thought as little of receiving a hundred guests as of inviting one. 
When those who were called to Rome by the Pope and by her 
began to answer the summons, they found a home in that house. 
The church and convent of Santa Maria sopra Minerva were close 
at liand. The basilica of S. Peter's was about a mile distant 
Other holy places possessing special attractions for the saint and 
her disciples, such as the church of Santa Sabina on the Aven- 
tine, and the convent of San Sisto on the Appian Way, were 
somewhat further off. *. 

But there was other work to be done in Rome besides visiting 
places dear to the Christian world as well as to her heart One 
day she was commanded to repair to the Pontifical palace and 
speak before the Pope and the cardinals on the subject of the 
schisni. The Holy Father was astonished at the wisdom and 
eloquence of her words. Turning to the cardinals he said, " Ought 
not we be ashamed in the sight of God to yield to despondency ? 
This humble little woman puts us to shame. I call her so, not 
disparagingly, but because her sex is weak and she might naturally 
be expected to tremble even while we stood firm in courage. Bat 
see 1 it is we who are cast down, while she, unmoved by appre- 
hension, fortifies us With her noble words ! " 

So high was the Pope's opinion of Catherine's moral influence 
and power of persuasion that he thought of sending her to Naples 
with the view of detaching the queen from the schism. His idea 
was to send her in company with the daughter of S. Bridget of 
Sweden, another S. Catherine living in Rome at that time, who 
was so well aware of the circumstances attending the Papal elec- 
tion that her testimony in regard to the validity of Urban's title 
was considered extremely important. Catherine of Sweden re- 
sembled her mother in sanctity ; the Pope himself once said to 
her : '* Vere biberas de lacte matris tuae." In beauty she is said 
to have excelled all the women of the time. Father Raymond, to 
whom the Pope had spoken on the subject of the embassy, told 
Catherine of Siena what she might possibly be required to do. 
She, who had courage for any undertaking, took up the idea 
warmly, and offered to set out at once. But Catherine of Sweden, 
who had been greatly annoyed by the Roman nobles importuning 
her with offers of marriage, and inconvenienced by the attention 
she attracted, saw good reasons for declining to visit that iniqni- 

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A Citizen Saint. 203 

tons court, and refused to go. The latter view of the case rather 
tallied with Father Raymond's own. So unscrupulous a woman as 
Joanna would not he&itate, he thought, to have her visitors 
waylaid on the journey, or to have them insulted on their arrival in 
her capital. His Holiness also, on consideration, tbok this view 
of the question, and decided not to send these saintly women to the 
court of the Queen of Naples. When the daughter of the free repub- 
lic heard this she said : "If Agnes and Margaret had listened to such 
reasons they never would have won the martyr's crown. And have 
not we a Spouse who can liberate us from the hands of the impious, 
and save our honour in the midst of a mob of impious men ? As 
far as my judgment goes these are all vain considerations proceed- 
ing from defect of faith rather than from true prudence." Hear- 
ing her speak thus, Father Raymond says he could not but blush 
interiorly to find himself so inferior to her in constancy and faith. 
As there was nothing else left for her to do, Catherine continued 
to write letters to the Queen and to several of the great ladies of 
Naples, among whom she had devout admirers, and sent Neri di 
Landoccio with them to the court. 

At this juncture there appeared to be still some hope that 
Charles V. might be persuaded to support Urban ; and Father 
Raymond, who was well known in France, and on whose zeal and 
prudence the Pope strongly relied, was fixed on to carry Papal 
briefs to the king, the Duke of Anjou, the University of Paris, and 
several cardinals, bishops, and personages of distinction. Asso- 
ciated with him in the embassy were the Bishop of Valence and 
Bign^, and Jacomo Ceva, doctor of laws, who were already on the 
other side of the Alps. Catherine was greatly afflicted when she 
heard she was to lose him whom she called her father and her 
dear son, so soon after she had come to Rome. But she advised 
him to obey without delay, and spoke to him in such impressive 
terms on the duty of supporting Urban and defending his cause as 
he would the Catholic faith itself, that, although he had no doubt 
on the subject, her words were a spur to him, and he often recalled 
them afterwards ai>d drew strength from them in time of difficulty 
and trial. Before he left she spoke with him for some hours, 
those who were present taking no part in the conversation, and 
then she said : •* Now go whither God calls you. I think that in 
this life we shall never discourse together as we have just now 
done." And when the hour of departure came she went to the 
place of embarkation, and kneeling down as the vessel moved 
from the shore, she prayed, and with tearful eyes made the sign of 
the cross over the departing friend, taking thus what proved indeed 
a last farewell. 

Father Raymond got safely to Pisa and thence to Genoa, 
though the sea was covered with the ships of the schismatics 
harrying to Avignon, and with Joanna's galleys on the watch to inter^- 
cept all communication with France. But having left Genoa to 

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204 A Cituxn Saint. 

proceed by land, he received warning at Ventimiglia to proceed^ 
no farther as his life would be in danger from the adherents of the 
anti-Pope who were determined not to allow messengers or letters 
from Urban to pass bejond the Alps. He and the companion 
the Holy Father had given him took counsel together,, returned to 
Genoa, and sent to the Pope for further instructions. In reply 
they received orders to remain where they were, preach against 
the schismatics, and keep the republic attached to the Papal in- 
terest. Rejoicing in his escape. Father Raymond returned thanks 
to God, and communicated the intelligence to Catherine, who» 
however, deeming that death under such circumstances would be 
an enviable and glorious martyrdom, did not by any means feel 
disposed, to join in the Te Deum. In letters addressed to him at 
Pisa and Genoa she laments over his pusillanimous defection, and 
reproves him for being so well satisfied to give up his mission. 
The Lord, she says, has shown him his impeifectioiL He was not 
worthy to fight in the battle-field. He was hid like a child in the 
background, and then he willingly turned away and gave God 
thanks for having condescended to his weakness. Hc^py would 
it have been for her poor father's soul and for her own if by the 
shedding of his blood be might have cemented a stone in the 
edifice of the holy Church. But he fancied a greater burthen had 
been put iipon him than he could bear, and found means to cast 
down the load. This she clearly sees, and only wishes that others 
did not remark it as well. And now he seems to doubt everything^ 
even her concern for him. Where is the faith he once had and 
now ought to have ? What has become of the certainty he used 
to feel that before anything happens the event has been seen and 
determined in the sight of God, not merely in affairs of great mo- 
ment but even in the smallest occurrences ? If he had been faith- 
ful he would not have wavered, nor begun to have any fears with 
regard to God or to her ; but, like a good son filled with the spirit 
of obedience and animated with zeal, he would have gone and 
done all that it was possible for him to do. And if he could not 
have gone straight on with upright carriage and head erect he 
would have crept on his hands and knees. If he had not been 
able to travel as a religious he would have made his way as a pil- 
grim. If he had no money he would have begged his bread. And 
this sort of childlike obedience would have advanced things in the 
sight of God and in the hearts of men more than all hijiman pru- 
dence could do. "I am more solicitous about your soul/' she 
continues, " than you can imagine. I have an ardent desire to see 
you attain to perfection. And therefore it is that I press you with so 
many words, and constrain you, and reprove you so as to make 
you continually turn in upon yourself. I am constantly endeavour- 
ing and always will strive to make you take up the burthen of the 
pc^ect. Bear with my defects, and listen to my words with good 
patience. And when your fauUs are pointed out, rejoice and give 

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A Cittzen Saint. 205 

thanks to the Divine goodness who has given you a friend to be 
concerned about you and to watch for you in His presence/' 

Catherine was so distressed by the failure of this embassy 
that she offered to go herself to France; but the Pope would not 
hear of her leaving Rome. There was nothing left for her to da 
but to write after some time one of her fearless, eloquent, pathetic 
letters to the king. It has been said that Petrarch himself could 
not have written anything more beautiful than her letter to Charles 
on this occasion. Whether the missive ever reached the court of 
Fiance is doubtful, for the adherents of Clement, as already ob- 
served, were careful to intercept all such communications. They 
were wise in their generation thus to gain time for spreading re- 
ports injurious to Urban, and preventing the true account of the 
Papal election from becoming known. By and by it was next to 
impossible to come at the truth ; such confusion prevailed that 
not only servants of God but even saints lived, and without blame, 
in obedience to the anti-Pope. The Papal briefs of which Father 
Ra^-mond had charge never got beyond the Alps. They were sent 
by him to Siena, where they remain at the present day. 

The Pope now addressed a brief to several distinguished ec- 
clesiastics, members of different religious orders, learned and holy 
men, inviting them to come to Rome and lend their aid in this 
crisis. Most of these were friends of the saint of Siena, and letters 
from her accompanied the Papal brief. To her friend the Prior 
of Gorgona, she says that the true Pope, Urban VL, is calling the 
servants of God to his side to guide himself and the Church by 
their counsel. He sends this brief. And now let the Prior do what 
it requires of him, and press the others who are therein mentioned 
to come speedily. Let everything be. laid aside, no matter what it 
may be, and for the love of God let there be no delay. She says 
to Don Giovanni deile Celle that in such extren^ity as the present we 
should remember the Holy Father, and when he asks with such be- 
nignity and humility the help of the servants of God they ought to 
fly to his assistance. " Now I shall see,'' she continues, ''whether 
yon are truly inflamed with the love of Gqd ; are sincerely anxious 
for the reformation of the holy Church ; and are really detached 
from your own consolations. Certain I am that, if self-love is 
consumed in that furnace, you will not be reluctant to forsake your 
cell and your own satisfaction ; but will find a cell in the know- 
ledge of yourself, and will be ready to lay down your life there if 
necessary for the dear truth." Father William of England and his 
companion, Frate Antonio da Nizza, are admonished that if they 
do not quit their leafy solitudes and come out on the fleld of battle 
they will act contrary to the will of God. They need have no- 
hesitation in leaving their woods and deserts, for there are dark 
and wild places enough here in Rome. No more slumbering. 
Now is the time to be awake and watching. ''Be under no ap- 
preheasiim," she tdls certain hermits in Spoleto, " that you will 

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^o6 A Citizen Saint. 

meet joy and great consolation here, for yon come to suffer, and 
not to enjoy any delight except it be the delight of the cross." 

With no less zeal and energy did she labour to keep the re- 
publics and cities of Italy in obedience to Urban. And in this 
she succeeded. Florence remained faithful, as likewise did the 
republics of Venice and Siena ; and among others the cities of 
Perugia and Bologna. Her letters home to Siena show how 
anxious she is that her own city should assist the Pope in his dis- 
tress. . She writes to the Magnificent Signori, the Defenders of 
the People and Commune of Siena, and t6 the ConfrateVnity of 
the Hospital of La Scala, enclosing the letters to Stefano M aconi, 
who is to read and profit by them, and then carry the despatches 
to their address. He is to act in the spirit of these letters, and 
to speak to every one according as opportunity shall arise, con- 
straining the Signori and all who are concerned to lend their 
utmost aid to the vicar of Christ and to the Church. " Endeavour 
not to be lukewarm/' she says to Stefano, " but ardent in urging^ 
the brothers and heads of the confraternity to do all that is possible 
in regard to the matter about which I write. If you were what 
you ought to be you would set the whole of Italy in a flame. It 
would not be such a difficult thing to do." Finally she presses 
Stefano himself to come ; telling him that the blood of the mar- 
tyrs who with such a passion of love gave their life for the sake of 
the Life itself boils up from the soil, calling him and others now 
to Rome. The young man, who appears to have been in some 
difficulty or trouble at the time, delayed in answering the summons. 
One day, however, as he was praying in the chapel under the hos- 
pital of La Scala, an interior voice warned him that Catherine 
was dying. Then he hastened. 

Meanwhile Rome itself had been the scene of atrocious occur- 
rences. Silvestro di Budes, who commanded Clement's troops, 
•suddenly entered the city by the Lateran gate, fell upon a number 
of unarmed citizens holding an assembly in front of the palace of 
the Capitol, killed among others seven of the Bannerets, and leaving 
Rome overwhelmed with consternation, rushed out again. Next 
day the people, blind with rage, fell upon the foreigners who were 
living peaceably in Rome, and murdered several Breton priests, 
faithful adherents of the Pope and attached to his court. Early in 
1379 the army, encamped at Marino, threatened to enter Rome, 
which still remained partly in the hands of the schismatics, for 
whom Rostagno held the castle of S. Angelo. The Pope had 
taken into his service Alberico da Balbiano, Count of Cuneo, whose 
well-trained band of four thousand infantry and four thousand light 
horse — all Italians — was held in higher repute than any of the 
foreign mercenaries, and was called the company of S. George. 
Without waiting for the Clementisti to enter Rome, the Count of 
Cuneo suddenly sallying out, attacked the army encamped at 
Marino, gained a signal victory, and returning the same evening to 
the city, inspired such terror that Rostagno surrenc|ped the castle 

A Citizen Saint 


of S. Angelo to the Pope. S. Catherine and Giovanni Cenci 
senator of Rome had, previous to this, entered into negotiations 
with the governor in the hope of inducing him to give up the 
castle. The Romans rejoicing in their deliverance from the French, 
attributed their gooH fortune to the prayers of the saint ; while she, 
desiring that solemn thanksgiving should be offered to Almighty 
God, prayed the Pope to order a solemn procession In which he 
shonld himself take part. But her desire was that a penitential 
spirit and Christian humility should characterise an act under- 
taken at so sad a time. Accordingly, the Pope and clergy walked 
barefoot from S. Maria in Trastevere to S. Peter's, and in this 
humble guise the Sovereign Pontiff took possession of the palace 
of the Vatican, which he had not been able to inhabit while the 
castle of S. Angelo remained in the hands of his enemies. The 
multitude who followed the Pope on this occasion were greatly 
edified by a spectacle such as had not b6en seen for six hundred 
years. A few days after this, on the 6th of May^ Catherine dictated 
four of the most remarkable letters she ever wrote, addressed re- 
spectively to the King of France, the Count Alberico, the Bannerets 
of Rome, and the Queen of Naples. To the Bannerets she particularly^ 
reconmiends the care of those who were wounded in the late battle ; 
and she begs them not to be ungrateful to Cenci, who acted with 
great prudence and disinterestedness in connection with the affair 
of the surrender of the castle of S. Angelo. 

On the defeat of his troops Clement fled in all haste from the 
Roman territory and took refuge in Spelunca, a fortress belonging to- 
the Queen of Naples. Thence he went to the Castle dell' Uovo,. 
where he was received with obsequious demonstrations of respect. 
Joanna met him in the archway of the grand entrance, which was hung 
with rich draperies for the occasion. He Was conducted to a pontifical 
throne, and the Queen and her husband Otto, a great number of 
princes and noble ladies, barons and grandees, kissed his feet aud 
paid him all the honours usually reserved for the true head of the 
Church. For some little space the anti-Pope and the. revolted 
cardinals. Queen Joanna and the obsequious courtiers, held 
high festival in th)e castle. But the Neapolitans taking all this 
in very bad part rose in insurrection, and obliged Clement and 
his cardinals to fly to Gaeta, whence they sailed for France. On 
the 30th of May, the University of Paris, not without many^ 
dissenting voices, however, decided for Clement. The anti-Pope 
and the college of French cardinals established their court ia 
the lately deserted city on the Rhone ; and Avignon for the next 
forty years continued to be a centre of interest to the unhappily 
divided Christian world. 

But now a new danger threatened the ruler of Rome. He had 
not been so fortunate as to conciliate the affection of his 
own subjects. They rose in rebellion, rushed to the Vatican, 
and in armed multitudes entered the Pope's apartments. Urban,. 
who could not be accused of indecision or cowardice, with tru|y; 

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^o8 A Citizen Saints 

regal and sacerdotal dignity, prepared to meet the wildly excited 
populace. Vested pontifically, crowned with the tiara, and cross 
in hand, he ascended the throne and awaited the approach of the 
loudly threatening assailants, who, beholding so unexpected a 
vision, cast down their arms and fled away. Outside, however, the 
tumult continued, and it was not till Catherine, who had great in- 
fluence with the people, went among them, reasoned with them, 
and calmed down their effervescence, that they were reconciled 
with their ruler. 

The Queen of Naples who, feigning to repent of her disloyalty 
to Urban, had sent ambassadors to Rome, speedily recalled her 
envoys, and ceased to dissemble her hostile intentions. All means 
of conciliating her having failed, the Pope entrusted his defence 
to Charles Durazzo, cousin of Louis of Hungary, and heir to 
Joanna; and invested him with the sovereignty of Naples which 
was held as a fief of the Roman See. Joanna, thereupon, taking 
counsel with Clement, named as her successor Louis Duke of 
Anjou, a warlike and ambitious prince, who under these circum- 
stances undertook the conduct of the war with no little ardour. 

By this time, Catherine, who had intensely lived every hour of 
her wonderful life of penance, prayer, physical suffering, and men- 
tal anguish caused by the difficulty and distress of the times, found 
her vital energy well nigh exhausted before she entered on her 
thirty-third year. And yet though she had become like a spectre 
in appearance she continued to go through an extraordinary 
amount of fatiguing exertion : rising to hear Mass at dawn, and 
after a couple of hours' rest walking to St. Peter's, where she 
would remain till vespers praying for the Holy Father and the 
people. With great difficulty, on the Monday after Sexagesima 
Sunday (1380) she dictated to Barduccio a letter to Urban. Two 
or three weeks later the last letter of all was written. It was to 
Father Raymond, and contained her last instructions. She desires 
hirfi get her book (the Dialogo) and any other writings he can find 
of hers, and, having consulted with certain of the Fathers and of 
her disciples whom she names, do with them what shall be thought 
most conducive to the glory of God. She enjoins him to do every- 
thing he can for the spiritual family she leaves kfter her ; holding 
them in the bond of charity and perfect union, and not allowing 
them to be dispersed like sheep without a shepherd. For her 
own part she hopes to be more useful to them after her 
death than she was during her life. And he must not be saddened 
by what she now says ; she does not write thus to afflict him, but 
because she knows not what the Divine goodness intends to do 
with her, and she wishes to have fulfilled her duty. "Be not 
grieved," she says, ** that we are separated from one another. You 
would certainly have been a great consolation to me ; but I have a 
stillgreater comfort and a still greater joy in seeing the fruits you 
produce in the holy Church ; and I conjure you to labour with 
more zeal than ever, for in po time was the need so great." 

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A Citizen Saint 209 

Father Bartholomew who was then Prior of San Domenico in 
Siena, was soiit by the Provincial on some business to Rome. He 
arriTed in the city on Holy Saturday, and not knowing that Cathe- 
rine was ill went at once to her house. It nearly broke his heart, 
he saj^y to see the state she was reduced to. The moment she saw 
him she tried to express her joy but could not speak* Only when 
he pvt his ear dose to her month could he hear her faint answer 
to his inquiries : " All was going on well," she said ; " thanks to 
oor dear Saviour.'* . He told her the object of his journey, and 
said that as the next day would be the fea^ of the Passover he 
would like to say Mass there and give Holy Communion to her 
and her spiritual- children. She expressed, a longing desire that 
the Lord wt>uld permit her to communicate. Next morning he 
heard her confession, gave her absolution, and offered the Holy 
Sacrifice. No one expected that she would be able to receive the 
Holy Eucharist. But to the indescribable joy of all she arose to 
do so. When the business that brought him to Rome had been 
terminated, his companion urged him to return home. But 'this, 
he told Catherine, he could not bear to do. She said he knew 
well how great a consolation it was to her to see again those whom 
God had given her and whom she truly loved. It would be the 
greatest pleasure to her if God would allow Father Raymond to be 
with her alsa But it was not His will that she should have them ; 
and what He ordained she also willed. He must go. Father 
Bartholomew said he would do as she wished as soon as she re- 
covered some strength ; and asked her to pray that if it were God's 
will he should go she might become better before he set out. She 
promised to do this \ and next day when he returned she was so 
much bett^ that he began to be hopefuL She had hitherto been 
unable to move, even to turn from one side to the other ; but now 
she raised herself and received him with so affectionate a greeting 
that he wept for joy. But this was the sign of departure ; he knew 
it, and left Rome. 

Bardttccio, who never ceased watching her through all those 
days of suffering, wrote an account of her last moments in a letter 
to a nnn in a convent near Florence ; asking at the same time the 
pr^ers of the religious for the poor unworthy writer, now " left 
an orphan by the death of our glorious mother.*' On the Sunday 
before the feast of the Ascension she appeared to be in9ensible 
and the last sacraments were administered. Then, after passing 
through an interior agony which lasted an hour and a half, her 
•countenance suddenly chaoiged and a heavenly radiance overspread 
her face. She had been reclining on Sister Alessia's shoulder, 
and now^ trying to rise, they helped her to get into a sitting posture 
while still in the same way supported. They had placed on a 
table near her some rdics and pictures of saintiB with a crucifix in 
the centre ; and on the cross she fixed her gaze, while pouring 
forth snbtime thoog^s on the goodness of God, and humbly con- 
feisiag her faolts^ She asked th« priest fen: absolution, and pasff^^ 

aio A Cihz£n Saint. 

for the plenary indulgence granted to .her by Gregory XI. and 
Urban VI. Her petitions having been granted, she spoke to 
several of those about her ; many times asked her mother's blessing ; 
prayed for Urban, acknowledging him to be truly the Sovereign 
Pontiff, and enjoining all her children to lay down their life if 
necessary in testimony of his title ; and o£fered*up supplications for 
all whom the Lord had given her to love in a special manner. 
And then making the sign of the cross she blessed them all. 
** Yes, Lord, Thou callest me and I go to Thee^ ' she said. " I go, 
not on account of my merits, but because of Thy infinite mercy. 
And this mercy I now implore in the name of Thy precious blood." 
Commending her soul to God in the very words of the crudfi^ 
Saviour, her face radiant as an angel's, she bowed her head and 

Knowing what would be the grief and excitement of the Ro- 
man people, who regarded Catherine as a great friend as well as a 
saint^ and wishing to indulge their own sorrow undisturbed, her 
disciples kept secret what had happened until the next day (April 
30), when the saint's body, having beeij enclosed in a coffin of 
cypress wood, was carried on Stefano Maconi's shoulders into the 
church of the Minerva. Soon the concourse of people became so 
great that danger was apprehended, and the body was* placed in 
the chapel of S. Dominick, the railings of which were closed. 
Stefano and the other disciples and companions kept guard there 
with pious care, until, three days after her death, the obsequies were 
performed with great solemnity by commai^d of the Pope, and 
Catherine of Siena was temporarily interred in the cemetery ad- 
joining the church. Some days later, Giovanni Cenci, to testify 
the veneration and gratitude of the Roman citizens had another 
funeral service conducted with senatorial and civic splendour. 

And then began that life of earthly immortality which the vene- 
ration of the Church and the affection of the people can bestow. 
In a wonderfully short time her name was made known in distant 
countries and devotion to her became general. Her disciples- 
many of them occupying a high position in the Church and in the 
various Orders to which they belonged, and not a few so saintly in 
their life as to be ranked among the " Blessed "— rspread her fame 
wherever they went. That regal character which commanded the 
loysil devotion of all who approached her ; that truly liberal soul 
which understood and sympathised with every state and condition 
of Christian life ; that affluent nature in which the great ac- 
knowledged an equal and the lowly recognized a friend, was certain 
to leave a memory of which time would only test the en- 
durance. Long before her canonization most of the cities of Italj 
kept her anniversary as a day of special devotion and popular 
festivity ; and memoirs written of her, and transcriptsof her writings 
reached even to such remote places as Nuremberg, Prague, Treves, 
Hungary, and England. When the schism had ceased and peace 
wa3 restored to the Chaich,'the canonization of S. CathcTm^ long 

• A Citizen Satnt. 211 

delajed by the troubles of the times, was proceeded with. To 
Pi as II. (iEneas Sylvius Piccolomini) it was a source of pure delight, 
as he himself says in the Bull of canonization, that the sanctity of 
the Virgin of Siena should be proclaimed by her fellow- citizen 
occupying the chair of Peter. Petitions had been addressed to the 
Holy See from many states and from d istant lands praying that religious 
homage to Catherine of Siena should be permitted without longer 
delay, on account of the great devotion witn which she was regarded 
by the people. Among the petitioners were Frederick Augustus, 
Emperor of the Romans, and Paschal, Doge of Venice. 

As time went on, the glorious arts of Italy, the masterpieces of 
Fra Bartolomeo and of Sodoma, and the productions of the later 
Sienese School, made the form of the .saint and the attributes 
which typify her spirit or recall the incidents of her life — ^the 
crown of thorns, the lantern, the lily, and the book — familiar to 
the admiring eye. The Aldine edition of her letters, and Gigli's 
collection of her worics, annotated with extraordinary copiousness 
and care by the Jesuit Father Burlamacchi, render testimony to 
the literary and historic value of her written remains. Florence 
and Siena, when nothing else was left to quarrel over, fiercely 
fought about the place her works should hold in the literature of 
Italy. But this contest of taste, and strife of words, served only to 
attract the more attention to the noble teaching and pure style of 
one who was a peace-maker indeed. 

And in our own day — history repeating itself — Catherine's 
name has been invoked in a way that sends a thrill of emotion 
through the heart. When the clouds gathering over Pius the 
Ninth's inheritance darkened the horizon; and cities and .terri- 
tories of the Church's patrimony were filched away ; apd treachery 
withdrew one by one the earthly supports of the Pontifical throne ; 
Catherine, whcf had supported Gregory in that momentous hour 
at Avignon, and had been summoned by Urban to stand beside 
him in his dereliction, was called once more to the City of the 
Apostles. In the month of April, 1866, the Senator and Conser- 
vators committed themselves to the protection of S. Catherine of 
Siena, and the Sovereign Pontiff proclaimed her co-protectress 
of the city of Rome. 

Thus through the centuries the name of the Seraphic Virgin 
remains on the lips and in the hearts of the Christian people. 
From the troubled earth to her heavenly home voices, strong, 
piercing, and harmonious, ascend to her day by day : the call of 
the Church, the prayers of the just, the cry of sinners : — 

^'Ora ^u V{t$fi ft intfrcel^ yco noib all Bcum.'^ 


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( 21Z ) 


A DARK mist hangs o*er the distant plain, 
Where the weeping clouds by the Galtees rest ; 
And the soft chimes ring out a sad, low strain, 

Like the undertone of a heart oppressed. 
Through the hush and glopm of the quiet town 

Men come and go with bated breath : 
Thev come and they go with heads bowed down. 
Where the Prelate lies in the sleep of death. 

Oh I the worth and depth of the lofty mind. 

And the great heart cold and pulseless there. 
And the scholar's crown round the brow entwined 

With a gentle grace and a glory rare. 
Oh 1 the ^ther kind and the true friend gone, 

And the saintly soul that is passed away, 
And the mitred brow that with beauty shone 

From the priestly life that is lost to-day. 

The waters moan by the palace walls, 

The burthened winds by the altar sigh ; 
And ''/orevergofu" still the soft chime calls. 

And **/orevergom/' still the sad heart's cry. 
There's a pallid moon in the midday sky. 

And a sullen grey robes the heavens' dim ; 
And the withered leaves by the beech shade lie* 

Like the broken hopes laid there with him. 

His name was great in the churches wide. 

And his love in his people's heart was deep. 
And lying low now is Cashel's pride, 

Where the women cry and the strong men weep. 
And yet not to-day while the hot tears flow, 

But in years to come we shall miss him more, 
And the memory dearer with time will grow, 

Of the nature great to its inmost core. 

♦ The Most Reverend Patrick Leahy, D.D., Archbishop of Cashd and Emif, 
died on the 26th of January, 1875, in his 69th year, and was buried on the 3rd of 
Febraaiy near the high altar of his Cathedral of Thurles, which he had raised to 
the glory of God and filled with the most precious marbles. He was holy, xeal- 
0U8, learned, and^accomplished, beloved and revered by his priests and peoplCi 
and by very many far and wide. Cuj'us antma in refngerittm. 

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A Pearl tn Dark Wdiers. 313 

The3F'll come from the North and the East along 

In purple robes for the solemn prayer ; 
From the rock-bound West and the South they'll throng — 

Yet how few like him in the calm sleep there 1 
*' OhI /or ever goner* is the heart's sad cry, 

And *^ for ever gone P* is the bell's refrain. 
And the burthened winds still bear it by 

To the weeping clouds o'er the distant plain. 

In the vast cathedral draped full deep 

They are sadly making the place he'll dwell, 
*Neath the altar's shade where he wished to sleep. 

At the Master's feet he had served so well. 
And oh ! let the soft earth gently fall 

O'er the tender heart, while the prayers arise ; 
And *^ for ever gone P* still the soft chimes call. 

And ^^ for ever gone r still the mourner cries. 

Feb. 3, 1875. M. My. R, 



The evening shades were beginning to gather, the sun in all its 
glory was about to sink in the horizon, when a travelling carriage, 
covered with mud and dust and drawn by tired horses, slowly 
rumbled through the streets of the little town of Paray le Monid 
and halted before the convent of the Saintes Maries, as the Visitation 
nuns were then called. From the coach three persons descended ; 
and when they had entered the parlour and'thrpwn off their travel- 
ling gear, we might recognise our three friends — Henriette de 
Marighy, Alethea Howard, and Marguerite. 

A grille with open bars ran along one side of the rbom ; and in 
a few minutes the curtain was withdrawn, and the Mdre de Sau- 
maise, then reverend mother, welcomed the strangers: "Not 
strangers to me," said she, " but long ago taken into my heart, 
iince from the letters of our good FaUier de la Colombiire you are 
well known to me. And are you really all come hither to join our 
community?'* ^ 

** Such is our wish and desire, reverend mother," JEmswered 

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214 A Pearl in Dark Waters. 

Henriette ; ** but speaking chiefly for myself, I feel that it will be a 
wonderful grace if God indeed finds me worthy of such a state." 

" Well," said M^re de Saumaise, " the first thing is to give yoa 
the rest you all need alter your long journey. Our extern sisters 
will take care of you, and to-morrow we shall meet again." 

On the following d^y the three friends were admitted within 
the enclosure; and after visiting the nuns' choir, the reverend 
mother led them into the garden. This garden was large and 
well laid out with walks and alleys : a peaceful spot where the soul 
could raise herself from the troubles of earth and soar away in 
thought awhile to the heavenly garden where one day she shall 
rest at her will. 

As the Superior and her companions pursued their path, they 
saw a nun in the distance pacing slowly along. As they drew near 
her, M^re de Saumaise spoke. " Sister Margaret Mary," she said ; 
and the Religious instantly came to her side. With fe^ings of 
mingled curiosity and awe the three travellers gazed on the face of 
her, to whom, as they knew. Father de la Colpmbi^re believed our 
Lord had spoken. There was no natural beauty in the featnres, 
no signs of rare intellect or genius written on the brow, but the 
eyes were lustrous with a light from some hidden source. The 
friends said to themselves, as we all have said at some time or 
another in our lives when we have met a saint : '* Those eyes have 
seen God." Just now those eyes of Margaret Mary were raised to 
the face of her Superior to learn her bidding with the mild, wistful 
gaze of a little child. 

" Sister," said the mother, " greet these strangers ; they have 
journeyed far. Two are of English blood, the other hath sojourned 
long in England, and all are the spiritual children of our honoured 
Father de la Colombi^re." 

Sister Margaret's face was lit up with a smile so bright and 
radiant that it made, her features absolutely beautiful. "I will 
leave them awhile with you, Sister," continued the Superior, '* for 
I have press of occupation. Do you lead them to the bosquet hard 
by, where I know you love to sit, and entertain them as best you 

Under the shade of the little bosquet or bower was a rough 
seat on which the little group placed themselves and began to 
speak of Father de la Colombi^re and his life in London. With 
tender interest the nun listened. And when they spoke of Father 
de la Colombi^re's sermons, and how by his means the devotion 
to the Sacred Heart had been taught and was beginning to take 
root in England, her pale face lit up with such a glow of love, of 
joy, and of triumph, the travellers gazed in wonder. Atnother 
who hears that the head of her only child is crowned with the 
laurels he has won, the wife of one whom the world delighteth to 
honour, is not so full of joy and exultation as this gentle creature, 
and passionate lover of Jesus Christ. 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters. 215 

The generation among whom she lived was stiffnecked and 
perverse. England was lost to the faith— Ireland trodden down 
under the oppressor's foot — France sowing the crop of vice, world- 
liness, cruelty to the poor, neglect of God, that were a century 
later to bring forth a bitter harvest. There were many cold hearts 
around, even in the sanctuary and cloister ; but within this virgin 
soul a divine fire had been lit which was to inflame the whole 
Christian world. Here was one at least who did indeed know how 
to love much. On every side spread the waters dark and drear ; 
but amid the waste of sin, of coldness, of neglect, a pearl, whose 
lustre the whole world was one day to admire, shone brightly like 
a star. 

IDuring the next few days the three friends sought each in turn 
private interviews with Sister Margaret She, being commanded 
by her Superior to speak to each her mind, did so. Both Hen- 
riette de Marigny and Alethea Howard entered the noviciate. 
Marguerite took up her abode in the out-quarters of the convent 
determining to spend a certain time in prayer and reflection on 
her future course. 

Chapter XXVI. 

The infamous work of Titus Gates had now fairly begun, and the 
panic with which the people who boast especially of common sense 
are wont to be seized by fits and starts, ran riot in the kingdom. 
Another gunpowder plot, only more insidious, more deadly, and 
more widespread, was declared by Titus Oates to be nipped in the 
bad; and public opinion loudly demanded the punishment of 
those whom this villain without character or a shadow of proof 
accused as he would. 

Father de la Colombi^re spent much time alone in his room. 
Since the commencement of the uproar he had, at the request of 
the Duchess of York, rarely quitted his apartments save to go to 
the chapel. After the arrest of his Provincial and brethren, the 
dispersion of the nuns, and the terror and distress among Catholics, 
the father had redoubled his prayers and penances. If, using our 
privilege as an historian, we venture to look into his sleeping 
chamber, which adjoined the room where he sat and received 
visitors, we might fancy ourselves in the cell of an anchorite. 
The room was perfectly bare. A few planks formed the bed. 
Underneath them were concealed rude instruments of penance. 
Often nearly the whole night was spent by him in vigils, and on 
one occasion shortly after the departure of the nuns' from the 
Grange, the father was so wrapt in prayer that the hours fleeted 
by unnoticed. He did not hear heavy steps ascending the stairs 
and pacing the corridor till at last a violent knocking at .the door 
aroused him. He bad not time to do more than rise from his 

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2i6 A Pearl in Dark Waters. 

knees when the door was radely burst open, and about a dozen 
soldiers, headed by an officer, rushed into the room. With per- 
fect composure Father de la Colombi^re gazed at them. 

" Surrender in the king's name,** cried the officer, striking the 
priest rudely on the shoulder. ** You are summoned before the 
Farliament of England, you foul conspirator, you hatcher of plots 
against the weal of king and kingdom ! " 

The man's face was scowling with rage; his teeth gnashed 
together as he spoke. Father de la Colombi^re recognised Philip 
Engleby, and a prayer like unto the Divine " Father forgive them, 
for they know not what they do,** went up to heaven from the 
priest's heart. 

•' Can I take anything with me ?** demanded he, gently. 

" Nothing," cried Philip, furiously. " All your papers shall be 
examined, and your villainy made plain. You are unmasked at 
last, sir ; and now," he added in a low hiss, '* I have my revenge.** 

The father bowed his head. "Lead on,** he said, "I am 

Philip gave the signal, and the party moved out. Thirteen or 
more soldiers were there to guard one fragile looking, delicate 
priest Philip kept close by his side, muttering, as he strode 
along, oaths, curses, and abuse of all kinds. Like his Master, the 
confessor for His name was silent, but with every blasphemy 
which wounded the Heart of Jesus as it fell from the lips of a 
creature He had died to redeem, rose up an act of reparation from 
a being whom that same redemption had made a saint. 

Along the silent, deserted streets they went, oflen stumbling on 
their way into holes and ruts, for the light thrown from the torch 
carried by a soldier cast an uncertain gleam. Father de la Co- 
lombi^re was greatly exhausted when the party reached Newgate. 
He was thrust into a cell, the door locked upon him, and he was 
left alone in the darkness in a small, damp, and perfectly unfur- 
nished room. He sank on his knees, but weakness overpowered 
him, and he-was compelled to lie down. The damp of the place 
struck his always delicate lungs like a knife. A violent fit of 
coughing ensued ; and when he removed the handkerchief from 
his mouth it was stained with blood. 

When the day came he was visited by the gaoler. Bread and 
water were served out to him ; and in the course of the day a 
wooden stool and a sack of straw were given for his use. He was 
allowed no light save the glimmer of day that flickered in through 
a narrow slit in the wall ; no writing materials, no means of com- 
munication with his friends. Fortunately he had in his pocket his 
Breviajy ; and thus in vocal and mental prayer the first days of his 
captivi^ passed away. 

On the third day he was brought before Parliament The 
Chamber was crowded with members ; and, as the prisoner wis 
brought in, a sea of faces confronted him. Many were dark with 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 

A Pearl in Dark Waters. 217 

ftury, others were full Oj" scorn. There was not one pitying glance 
as the slight form of the priest, all covered with the dust and dirt 
of his prison, stood before them. 

What a victim he seemed in the gaze of that stately assembly — 
feeble in body, of another race than theirs, poor and friendless, for 
none dared to raise a voice in his favour. Why does he not tremble 
before them ? Does he not know his fate is in their hands ? He 
stands without support—not defiant, but as one who has nothing 
to fear — not downcast, but as one whose soul is . anchored in 
peace. There is no contempt or triumph in his look, and yet .men 
feel he is their master. There is a calm majesty they cannot sub- 
due. They can kill the body, — no hard task to complete the work 
that penance and mortification have begun; They can soon de- 
stroy that fragile frame which is but like " a lamp to hold a soul." 
But they cannot conquer the spirit Among them even now he is 
a king. 

Father de la Colombi^re being placed at the bar, an indict- 
ment was read declaring he was involved in a conspiracy to de- 
throne King Charles, place the Duke of York on the throne, and 
establish the Popish religion in the country. 

" Guilty or not guilty ?" said the Clerk of Arraigns. 
** Not guilty," answered the prisoner. 

Titus Oates now made his appearance, a short, stout man with 
greasy complexion and ferretlike eyes. Cunning and perfidy were 
written on his face. The sound of his oily voice was enough to 
proclaim there was no truth in him. But men's eyes and ears 
were blinded and dulled by prejudice, or as we may well believe in 
these insane panics against the Church of God, they were tempo- 
rarily possessed by the father of lies. 

So the foul tongue went on its way, and the Jesuit listened in 
silence while he was accused of words and deeds foreign to his 
nature^ his religion, and his rule. A light had been seen burning 
at midnight in his chamber, the window of which looked on the 
Place of St. James. It denoted meetings of conspirators. His 
steps had been tracked to and from a lonely farm-house near May 
Fair. The house had been searched and was found empty ; but 
some morsels of torn, half-burnt paper picked up gave, evidence it 
had been the haunt of traitors. It was believed that several hun- 
dred persons had been reconciled to the Popish religion by this 
man. Titus further deposed that a young Frenchman, a native of 
Danphin6, would give important evidence against the prisoner ; 
and accordingly Ars^ne came forward. 

The prisoner had done his utmost to pervert him, he said. He 
had offered him gold for this end. He placed him in a small 
house in Ave Maria-lane, where certain other Jesuits abode. 
They fed him well and clothed him, requiring in return that he 
should assist in the household work and study certain Popish 
books. The prisoner often came to the house and had induced 

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2x8 Cfofiiivell in Ireland. 

Ars^ne to confess to him. Other persons also came to confess to 
him — gentlemen and ladies of high degree. Ars^ne knew it was 
confession, for he peeped through the key-hole and saw these per- 
sons on their knees. When he confessed to the prisoner, he was 
counselled by him that it was a good thing to kill the king, as 
then the Duke of York would succeed, and the Catholic faith 
triumph. He was urged also to assassinate many other noble per- 

These words caused a great sensation in the House ; and the 
prisoner, for the first time making any movement, turned his eyes 
on Ars^ne. The young man flushed painfully and turned away his 
head. Titus Oates whispered in his ear, and he answered by an 
impatient gesture. 

The Lord Chancellor, however, now spoke. " We have heard 
enough. Prisoner at the bar, have you anything to say in your 
defence ?" 

" The charges, my lord, laid against me, are mainly false." 

" Oh ! mainly*^ cried one knot of peers ; ** not wholly or en- 

"What matter what the knave saith ?" exclaimed another; 
" know we not these villains are trained to lie } " 

** Pass sentence on him, my lord,*' cried a third ; " hanging is 
too good for folks like these." 

" Hold I " exclaimed an old man who had not hitherto spoken ; 
" have a care what you are about. This man is a Frenchman, and 
what will King Louis say to us ? " 

The remark struck home! A whispered consultation went on 
for a few minutes ; and the Father was ordered back to prison. 

HI. Expedition to Wexford. 

Immediately after the capture of Drogheda, Cromwell returned 
with his army to Dublin. The inhabitants of the city received him 
vrith demonstrations of joy ; he had earned their gratitude by 
delivering them from all danger of an attack by a Papist army, and 
by relieving them from many of the oppressive burthens to which 
they had been subjected before his coining to Ireland. Winter 
was fiftst approaching, and no time should be lost, if the southoin 
part of the island was to be subdued. Besides, it was of the 
utmost importance to follow up the blow that had been struck so 
successfully at Drogheda, and to prevent by rapid action the union 
of the scattered forces of the Irish, which a sense of the common 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 2 1 9 

danger could hardly fail to bring about. Charles II., some months 
before proclaimed King by the Scots, had left St. Germains and 
come to Jersey, "to be so much the nearer Ireland in case he should 
be advised to go thither ; " Prince Rupert was at Kinsale with 
sixteen frigates of the royal fleet, well equipped and ready for sea, 
awaiting orders to set sail and escort the King. Ormonde urged 
Charles to put himself at the head of the royalist army. " The 
rebels are strong in their numbers," he writes to the King, Sep- 
tember 27th, 1649, "exalted with success, abundantly provided with 
aU necessaries, likely to want for nothing that England can 
afford them ; and in the pride of all this, are either marched out, or 
ready to march to pursue their victories. On the other side, to 
withstand them, our numbers are inferior, discouraged with mis- 
fortunes, hardly and uncertainly provided for, the people weary of 
their burthens, wavering in their affections, and our towns defence- 
less against any considerable attempt. I hold it, therefore, abso- 
lutely necessary for your Majesty to appear here in person. The 
preservation of any footing in this kingdom can be in no other way 
hoped for." But the chief reason why he wished for the King's 
coming was, that, the supreme power, civil and military, being in the 
hands of one person, the conduct of public affairs should no 
longer be clogged by the divided counsels of the twelve Commis- 
sioners who had been appointed to carry on with him the govern- 
ment of the country. 

As soon as Ormonde learned that Cromwell intended to march 
southwards, he left his quarters at Portlester, near Trim, and a 
week after encamped at Graig, in the county Kilkenny ; here he 
was joined by 1,000 foot and 300 horse, under Major-General Luke 
Taaffe, whom the Marquis of Clanrickarde had sent to his assistance 
from Connaught. 

Owen Roe O'Neill had agreed to unite his forces with those of 
Ormonde, for '* the Marquis," says Carte, no friend of O'Neill's, 
" had a very advantageous opinion as well of his honour, con- 
stancy, and good sense, as of his military skill ; from which he 
hoped as much advantage to the King's service as he did from the 
strength of his troops." By the treaty proposed by Heber 
M'Mahon, Bishop of Clogher, and a»sctUeu to with joy by the 
officers, O'Neill promised to join Ormonde with 6,000 foot and 
500 horse at Carrickmacross, in the beginning of September. It 
vras only at the end of that month that he began his march to the 
south ; advancing •' much later and slower with his army than he 
otherwise would have done, by reason of his illness ; a defluxion 
in his knee, which was so extremely ]>ainful that he could neither 
ride nor endure to be carried in a horse litter, though he still 
flattered himself that he might recover so far as to be able to place 
himself at the head of his army, which he was infinitely fond of 
doing. The complaint was imputed to poison from a pair of 
msset boots sent him ais a present from a gentleman of the name 

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220 Cromwell in Ireland. 

of Plunket, in the county of Louth, who afterwards boasted that 
he had done the English an eminent piece of service by despatching 
O'Neill out of the world." From Derry, where he was first attacked 
by this fatal disease, about the middle of August, he was conveyed 
to Ballyhaise, and afterwards to Cloghoughter, a castle of the 
O'Reillys in Cavan ; there he died on the 6th of November — " the 
best general the Irish ever had, *' says Schomberg's secretary, Dr. 
George. He had in truth all the qualities that constitute 'a leader 
of men ; ' a clear, sound judgment ; bravery in the field ; skill in 
profiting of every advantage offered by the enemy ; caution which 
left nothing to chance, and earned for him from our historians the 
title of the Irish Fabius. Ever intent on the welfare of his country 
and religion, he rose high above the jealousies and intrigues that 
surrounded him ; and in nothing did he show more magnanimity 
than in the noble self-denial that made him sink his own greatness, 
and follow the leadership of those whom he knew to be his inferiors. 
He had learned the science of war and won the highest distinction 
in the Spanish service. On his return to Ireland, in 1642, he was 
welcomed with joy, and the unanimous voice of the Irish people 
called on him to be their leader: 

** Owen Roe— our own O'Neill ; 
, He treads once more our land — 

The sword in bb hand is Spanish steel, 
But the hand is an Irish hand.*'* 

Father Luke Wadding sent to him from Rome the sword of his 
ancestor, the great Red Hugh, " that had rifted the field like 
lightning at Beal-an-atha-buidhe,"t — and well and bravely did he 
wield it for faith and for fatherland. In the forty battles which he had 
fought against the English, only once did he suff"er defeat At the 
battle of Benburb—gained with far inferior numbers by his skill 
and gallantry — over 3,000 Scots were left on the field, and many 
more were slain in the pursuit. " The Lord hath rubbed shame 
on our faces, till we are humbled," writes their General Monroe. 
On the side of the Irish only seventy fell. The colours which were 
taken from the enemy, thirty-two in number, he sent to the Pope's 
Nuncio in Limerick. They were borne in solemn procession to 
St. Mary's Cathedral, where a Te Deum was sung in the Nuncio's 
presence in thanksgiving for the success that the God of Hosts 
had granted to *' the Catholic army." J Had the Confederate leaders 

(•) See Aubrey de Vere's *• Inisfiul.*' 

(t) The Mouth of the Yellow Ford: see "Life of Hugh O'Neill" by John 
Mitchel, p. 137, and "The Confederationof Kilkenny," hy the Rev. C. P. Mechan. 

(J) On the evening of the 13th of June, 1 646, news of the victory arrived in Li- 
merick, and Father O'Hartigan conveyed to theKuncio thirty- two ensigns and the 
great standard of the cavalry. Monsignor then ordered that public tlumks should 
be offered up in the following manner : — The next day at four o'clock p.m. the 

Digitized by VjOOQIC 

Cromwell in Ireland. 221 

united with bim then, and allowed hiih to follow up this victory; 
or even now had he been able to meet Cromwell before the walls 
of Drogheda, or to carry out the plan of defence which he urged . 
Ormonde to adopt, viz., to avoid an engagement unless at a great 
advantage, and to defend the mountain passes of Wicklow and 
retard the enemy's advance until the winter should set in ; like his 
Roman model — 

" Whose wise delay 
Restored the fortune of the day," 

he might have saved his country. But it was not to be. Finding 
himself unable to advance, he ordered General Richard Farrell, his 
favourite officer, to take 4,000 men and march with all possible haste 
to the help of Ormonde. The country through which they had to 
pass was full of marshes and lakes ; and supplies were so difficult 
to be had that the men were obliged to scatter themselves far 
and wide ; their advance was in consequence so much retarded 
that it was only on the 25th of October they reached Kilkenny. 

Cromwell returned to Dublin on the i6th of September. A 
week after he set out on his expedition to the south with 7,000 
foot and 2,000 horse. '* He had published, before leaving Dublin," 
says Carte, ** a proclamation forbidding his soldiers under pain of 
death to hurt any of the inhabitants, or to take anything from them 
without paying for it ready money. This being strictly observed, 
and assurances being given that they were for the liberties of the 
commoners ; that everybody should enjoy the liberty of their 
religion ; that those who served the market at the camp should pay 
no contribution : all the country people flocked to his camp with 
all kinds of provisions, and due payment being made for the same, 
his army was much better supplied than ever any of the Irish had 
been." He chose the route along the coast, in order to have the 
support of his ships in case he needed it, and to secure, by the 
capture and garrisoning of the seaports, direct communication at 
all times with England. A detailed account of the movements of 
the army is given in his letter to the Speaker of the Parliament of 
England, written from Wexford on the 14th of October, 1649 : — 

" The army marched from Dublin about the 23rd of September 

trophies were brought in procession from the Church of St. Francis, where they 
haa been deposited, pr^eded by all the militia of Limerick armed with muskets. 
Next came tne ensigns, borne by the nobles of the city. The Nuncio followed 
with the Archbishop of Cashel and the Bishops of Limerick, Clonfert and Ard- 
fert ; and after them came the Supreme Council, with the prelates and msi^trates 
in their robes of state. The people were collected in the streets and at the win- 
dows; as soon as the trophies arrived at the cathedral, the 7'eDeum was intoned by 
the Nuncio, who, after tne customary prayers, gave the solemn benediction. The 
next morning High Mass was oflfercu^rt^ gratiarum actionehy the Dean of Fermo 
in presence of the same bishops and magistrates" (See ** Rinuccini*s Embassy 
ialrehuid,"p. 175)- 

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222 Cromwell in Ireland. 

into the county of Wicklow, where the enemy had a garrison about 
fourteen miles from Dublin, at Killincarrick, which they quitting-, 
a company of the army was put therein. From thence the armjr 
marched through a desolated country until it came to a passage over 
the river Darragh, about a mile above the Castle of Arklow, which 
was the first seat and honour of the Marquis of Ormonde's family, 
which he had strongly fortified. But it was, upon the approach of 
the army, abandoned ; in it we left another company of foot. 

" From thence the army marched towards Wexford ; where in 
the way was a strong and large castle, at a town called Limbrick, 
the ancient seat of the Esmonds ; where the enemy had a strong- 
garrison ; this they burnt and abandoned, the day before our 
coming thither. From thence we marched towards Ferns, an 
episcopal seat, where there was a castle, to which I sent Colonel 
Reynolds with a party to summon it. Which accordingly he did, 
and it was surrendered to him ; having put a company there, we 
advanced the army to a passage over the river Slaney, which runs 
down to Wexford ; and that night we marched into the fields of a 
village called Enniscorthy, belonging to Mr. Robert Wallop, where 
there was a strong castle well manned and provided for by the 
enemy ; and close under, a very fair house belonging to the same 
worthy person, a monastery of Franciscan Friars, the most con- 
siderable in all Ireland ; they ran away the night before we came. 
We summoned the castle, and the garrison refused to yield at 
first; but upon a better consideration they were willing 'to 
deliver the place to us ; which accordingly they did, leaving their 
great guns, arms, ammunition, and provisions." 

Enniscorthy was part of the territory given by Strongbow to 
Maurice de Prendergast, one of his companions in arms ; he built 
the castle. The manor afterwards came into the possession of the 
M*Morroughs, and was given by Donald Cavenagh, sumamed the 
Brown, head of the sept, to the Franciscan Monastery which he 
had founded in 1460 for Friars minor of the strict observance. 
After the dissolution of the religious houses, it was bestowed 
by Queen Elizabeth on Sir Henry Wallop, knight, Treasurer at 
War to the Queen in Ireland. The "worthy person" who at 
this time dwelt in the '*fair house," w^as his grandson; he had 
been member for Andover, one of the judges presiding at the trial 
of Charles I., and member of the Council of State. After the 
Restoration he was sentenced to be imprisoned for life in the Tower 
of London, where he died in 1 667. His great-grandson was created 
Earl of Portsmouth in 1743. His descendant— an absentee — has at 
the present moment an income of /^i 4,000 a year from his Ennis- 
corthy estate. 

On Saturday, September 29th, the Parliamentary fleet appeared 
off the harbour of Wexford ; and the second day after, October 
I St, Cromwell with his army encamped before the walls. The 
possession of this town was most important to him. I| was 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 223 

through it principally that the Confederates obtained the necessary 
supplies of arms and ammunition, and communicated with their 
friends in foreign countries ; for its inhabitants, guided by their 
faithful Bishop, Nicholas French, had never for a moment wavered 
in devotion to their country and religion. There too he would find 
in its commodious harbour secure anchorage for his fleet. The 
" intelligence he had in the town," made him hope that its capture 
would be an easy task. " Hugh Rochfort," says Carte, ** a lawyer. 
Recorder of the town, was now in correspondence with Cromwell, 
through Mr. Nicholas Loftus, who was at this time a very active in- 
strument in engaging all the inhabitants of the town to be subser- 
vient to Cromwell's purposes. Rochfort carried on the same work 
with still greater artifice, pretending to-be zealous for the Irish 
cause ; and having done all he could to intimidate the townsmen and 
persuade them to capitulate, he quitted the place upon Cromwell's 
approach, and retired with his goods to the fort of Passage, 
letting them see by that action his own terror, and inviting them to 
follow his example." 

Ormonde was aware of these intrigues, and had given notice 
to the inhabitants of their danger. He ordered his army to march 
to Ross ; and went with only his own retinue and attendants to 
Duncannon, and thence to Ross. Lord Castlehaven was sent to 
examine the defences of the town and to provide whatever would 
be needed for its security. But the townsmen distrusted 
Ormonde. They knew that often before he had treated with the 
enemy ; that he had even surrendered the capital to them. Nor was 
their confidence in him increased ^when they heard that he had 
made common cause with Inchiquin, who had sacked Cashel and 
slaughtered 3,000 of his fellow-countrymen there. No wonder then 
that they did not wish to admit his troops, and that they preferred 
to trust to their own arms and to the justice of their cause. It was 
only when the fleet appeared before the town that they accepted 
David Synnott, Lieutenant-Colonel of Preston's regiment, as 
governor ; " and if Sir Edmund Butler," says Carte, " had not come 
himself, they would have opposed Synnott's entrance with his men." 
The second day after his arrival before the town Cromwell 
summoned it to surrender. We will give the correspondence which 
took place between him and the governor. 

(!•) " To the Comtnander-in Chief of the town of Wexford. 

" Before Wexford, 3rd October, 1649. 
<' Sir,— Having brought the army belonging to the Parliament of England to 
this place, to reduce it to its due obedience, thsA effusion of blood may be pre- 
vented, and the town and country about it preserved from ruin, I thought fit to 
summon you. to deliver the same to me, to the use of the State of England. By 
this offer I hope it will clearly a])pear where the guilt will lie, if innocent persons 
should come to suffer with the guilty. I expect your speedy answer, and rest. Sir, 
your servant, « Oliver Grohwsll.'* 

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2 24 Cromwell tn Ireland. 

(2.) ''FortheZml General Cromwell. . 

" Wexford, 3rd October, 1649. 
«* Sir, — I received your letters of smnmons for the delivery of this town into 
your hands, which stands not with my honour to do myself, neither wDl I take it 
upon me, without the advice of the rest of the officers, -and mayor of this Corpora- 
tion ; thin town being of so great consequence to all Mland. These I will call 
together and confer with, zad return my resolution tor you to-morrow by twelve 
o'dock. In the meantime if you are so pleased, I am content to forbear all acts 
of hostility provided you permit no approach to be made. Expecting your an- 
swer in that particular, I remain, my lord, your lordship's servant, 

•*D. SiNNOTT." 

(3.) " To the Commander-in-Chief of the town of Wexford. 
« * Before Wexford, 3rd October, 1 649. 
«* Sir, — I am contented to expect your resolution by 12 o'clock to-monow 
morning. Because our tents are not so good a covering as your houses, and for 
other reasons, I cannot agree to a cessation. I rest your servant, 

"Olivbr Cromwell.' 

(4.) '^ For the Lord General Cromwell. 

•* Wexford, 4th October, 1649. 
" Sir, — I have advised with the mayor and officers, as I promised ; and I am 
content that four whom I shall employ may have a conference with fourof yoais, 
to see if any Agreement may be begot between ns. To this purpose I desire you 
to send mine, a safe-conduct, as I do hereby promise to send to yours when you 
send me their names. And I pray that the meeting may be haa to-morrow at 
8 o'clock in the forenoon, that they may have suffiaent time to confer together 
and determine the matter ; and thit the meeting and place may be agreed upon, 
and the safe conduct mutually sent for the said meeting this afternoon. Expect- 
ing your answer hereto, I rest, my lord, your servant, 


" P.S.— Send me the names of your agents, their qualities and degrees. 
Those I fix upon are — Major James Byrne, Major Theobald Dillon, Alderman 
Nicholas Chevers, and Mr. William Staflford." 

(5.) " To the Commander-in-Chief of the town of Wexford. 

" Beifore Wexford, 4th October, 1649. 
" Sir, — ^Having summoned you to deliver the town of Wexford into my Hands, 
I might well expect the surrender of it, and not a formal treaty ; which is seldom 
granted but where the things stand upon a more equal footing. . If, therefore, 
you or the town have any conditions to offer, upon wnich you vnll surrender the 
place to me, I shall be able to judge of the reasonableness of them when they 
are made known to me ; wherefore, if you shall think fit to send the persons 
named in your last, entrusted by yourself and the town, by whom I may under- 
stand your desires, 1 shall give you a speedy and fitting answer. And I do 
hereby engage myself that they shall return in safety to you. I expect yonr 
answer to this within an hour ; and rest your servant, 

" Oliver Cromwell." 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 


(6.) " For the Lord General Cromwell. 

"Wexford, 4th October, 1649. 
•• Sir, — I have returned you a civil answer, to the best of my judgment, and 
thereby I find yon undervalue me and this place so much, that you think to have 
it surrendered without capitulation or honorable terms, as appears by the hour's 
fimitaEtion in your last. Sir, had I never a man in this town but the townsmen 
and the artiDeiy here planted, I should conceive myself in a very fitting condition 
to make honorable conditions. And having a very considerable party along 
with them in the place, I am resolved to die honorably, or make such conditions 
as may secure my honour and life in the eyes of my own party. To which reason- 
d)le terms if yx>u Esten not, or give me not time to send my agents till 8 o'clock 
in the forenoon to-morrow, with my propositions, with a further safe-conduct, I 
leave you to your better judgment, and m3rself to the assistance of the Almighty ; 
and so conclude. Your servant, 

" D. SiNNOTT." 

(7.) " For the Lord General Cromwell. 

"Wexford, 5th October, 1649. 
«• Snu — My propositions bemg now prepared, I am ready to send my agents 
with them to you. And fo'- their safe return, I pray you to send a safe-conduct 
by the bearer to me, — ^in hope an honorable agreement may thereupon arise be- 
tween your lordship and, — ^my lord, your lordship's servant, 

" D. SlNKOTT." 

While these letters were passing between the commanders, 
Cromwell, on the 4th of Ortpber, despatched Lieutenant Colonel 
Jones with a party of dragoons to capture a fort which lay at the 
mouth of the harbour, about ten miles from the town. The garri- 
son at their approach abandoned it, leaving behind seven large 
guns, and went on board a frigate that lay in the harbour within 
reach of the guns. The dragoons immediately took possession of 
the fort, and turned the guns against the frigate ; the fleet also 
came to their help, and the frigate was obliged to yield, as well as 
another small vessel that had been sent from the town to her 

Meantime he was investing the town closely on the south and 
west At the sight of such formidable preparations the magistrates 
asked Ormonde for a stronger reinforcement ; he sent Lord Castle- 
haven with another Ulster regiment 1,500 strong under Lord 
Iveagh to their relief; they passed over the ferry near Ballentrenna 
and entered the town, which was still open on that side. After 
their arrival Sinnott sent the following despatch : — 

(8.) "For the Lord General Cromwell. 

"Wexford, 5th October, 1649. 
" My Lord, — Just as I was ready to send out my agents to you. the Lord 
General of the Horse came hither with a relief, to whom I communicated the pro- 
ceedings between your lordship and me, and delivered to him the propositions I 
intended to desjjatch to your lordship. He has desired a short time to consider 
them and to send them to me. This, my lord, I could not deny, he having a 
commanding power over me. 

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226 Cromwell in Ireland. 

"Pray, my lord, don't believe that I do this to trifle out time ; but for his 
consent. And if 1 find any long delay on bis lordship returning them to me, I 
will proceed of myself according to my first intention. To whidi, I beseech yfyar 
lorduup, give credit ; at the request, my lord, of 3K>ur lordship's ready servant, 


(9.) " To the Commander-in-Chief of the town of Wexford, 

" Wexford, 6th October, 1649. 

•* Sm, — ^You might have spared your trouble in the account you give me of 
your transaction with the Lord General of your Horse, and of your r^olution in 
case he answers not your expectation in pomt of time. These are your own con- 
cerns, and it behoves you to improve the relief you mention to your best advan- 
tage. All that I have to say is, to desire you to take notice tnat I do heirebv 
revoke my safe-conduct from the persons mentioned therein. When yon shaH 
see cause to treat, you may send for another. I rest, sir, your servant, 

«* Olivkr Cromwell." 

On the 6th October, having landed his artillery and stores, he 
began to erect a battery that would command the ferry and prevent 
all communication by it with the town. "The governor," sajrs 
Carte, "notwithstanding the strong party he had lately received, was 
in some apprehensions for the place, on account of a scarcity of 
provisions ; but if a body of 500 men more with victuals were sent, 
he made no question of defending it against the enemy, who began 
already to suffer for want of forage. Ormonde resolved to attempt ' 
the relief of the place in person ; leaving General Taaffe with a 
Connaught regiment to* garrison Ross, he advanced with the rest 
of his army, and on the night of the 9th he crossed the Slaney, and 
reached the ferry on the north side of the town. Sir Edmund 
Butler succeeded in entering the town with 500 foot and 100 horse ; 
on account of his great experience and well known bravery he was 
appointed military governor. 

Early in the morning of the i ith, the batteries of the besieging 
army began to play; their quarters had been removed to the 
south east end of the town, near the castle, which stood outside the 
walls. They resolved to direct the whole strength of their artillery 
against the castle, being persuaded that if they captured it, the 
town would easily follow. 

When about a hundred shots were fired, the governor asked to 
parley ; he wished for leave for four persons chosen by him to go 
out and offer terms of surrender. 

(10.) ** For the Lord General Cromwell. 

" Wexford, nth October, 1649. 
" Sir, — In performance of my last, I desire your lordship to send me a safe- 
conduct for Major Theobald Dillon, Major James Byrne, Alderman Nicholas 
Chevcrs, and Captain James Stafford, whom I will send to your lordship instructed 
with my desires. And so I rest, my lord, your servant, 

•* D. SlNNpTT." 

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Cromwell in Ireland, 227 

•* Which desire I condescending to," says Cromwell in the letter 
to the Speaker of the Parliament, " two field officers with an alder- 
man of the town and the captain of the castle, brought out the 
following propositions, which for their abominableness, manifesting 
also the impudence of the men, I thought fit to present to your 
view, together with my answer." 

** 77ie propositions of Colonel David Sinnatt^ Governor of the town and castle 
of IVejc/ord, for and on behalf of the officers, soldiers , and inhabitants in the 
said torwn and castle, to General Crormvell: — 

" I. That all the inhabitants of the town at all times hereafter shall have fi«e 
liberty publicly to exercise and profess the Roman Catholic religion, without 
restriction or penalty. 

*' 2. That the regular and secular Roman Catholic clergy now possessed of 
the churches, church livings, monasteries, religious houses and chapels in the 
said town, and in the suburbs and franchises, and their successors, shall hold and 
enjoy for ever the said churches, &c., and shall teach and preach in them pub- 
licly, without any molestation. 

" ^. That Nicholas, now Lord Bishop of Ferns, and his successors, shall exercise 
such jurisdiction over the Catholics of nis diocese as since his consecration hitherto 
he used. 

" 4. That all the officers and soldiers in the said town and castle, and such of 
the inhabitants as are so pleased, shall march with flying colours, and be con- 
veyed safe with their lives, artillery, ordnance, ammunition, arms, goods of all 
sorts, horses, moneys, and whatever else belongs to them, to the town of Ross, 
there to be left safe with their own party ; alloMring each musketeer towards their 
march a pound of powder, four jrards ox match, and twelve brace of bullets ; and 
a strong convoy to be sent with the said soldiers, within twenty-four hours after 
the yielding up of the said town. 

" 5. That such of the inhabitants as will desire to leave the town at any time 
hereafter, shall have free liberty to carry away all their frigates, artillery, arms, 
powder, com, malt, and other provisions which they have for their defence and 
sustenance, and all their goods and chattels, without any disturbance, and have 
safe-conducts and convoys for their lives and goods to Ross, or where else they 
may think fit. 

'<.6. That the mayor, bailiffs, free burgesses, and commons of the said town 
may hold and enjoy their franchises, liberties and immunities, which they hitherto 
enjoyed ; and may have the government of the said town, as hitherto they enjoyed 
the same firom the realm of England. 

" 7. That all the burgesses and inhabitants, either native or strangers, of the 
said town, who shall continue their abode therein, or come to live there within 
three months, and their heirs shall hold all their several castles, houses, lands, 
&c., within the land of Ireland, and all their goods and chattels, to them and their 
heirs for ever without molestation. 

'* 8. That such burgesses or other inhabitants, as shall at any time hereafter 
be desirous to leave the said town, shall have free leave to dispose of their real 
and personal estates to their best advantage ; and further, have full liberty and 
safe-conduct to go to England or elsewhere according to their pleasure. 

" 9. That the inhabitants of the said town, either native or strangers, at all 
times hereafter, shall have the full liberty of fireebom English subjects, without 
the least incapacity or restriction therein ; and that all the freemen of the said 
town shall be as free in all the seaports, cities, and towns in England, as the fi«e- 
men of all the said cities and towns ; and the freemen of the said cities and towns 
to be as free in their said town of "Wexford as the freemen thereof, for their 
greater encouragement to trade together. 

" 10. That no memory remain of any hostility which was hitherto between 
the said town and castle on the one part, and the Parliament or State of Eng- 
VOL. HL R ( \ 

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aaS The Relations of the Church to Socufy. 

land on the other part ; bat that all acts, transgressions, offences, depredatums, 
and other crimes, of what nature and quality soever, be they ever so transcendent, 
attempted or done by the inhabitants of the said town, or any other heretofore or 
at present adhering to the said town, either native or stranger, shall pass in ob- 
livion, without chastisement, challenge, demand, or questiomng of them or any of 
them, now or at any time hereafter. 

(i I.) **For the Commander-in-Chiefs in the town of Wexford^ 

«* Before Wexford, nth October, 1649. 

" Sir, — ^I have had the patience to peruse your propositions ; to which I might 
have returned an answer with some disdain. But, to be short, — ^I shall give the 
soldiers and noncommissioned officers quarter for life and leave to go to their 
several habitations, with their wearing clothes; they engaging themselves to 
take up arms no more against the Parliament of England ; and the commissioned 
officers quarter for their lives, but to render themselves prisoners. And as for 
the inhabitants, I shall engage myself that no violence shall be offered to their 
goods, and that I shall protect their town from plunder. 

" I expect your positive answer instantly ; and if you will upon these terms 
surrender and quit, and in one hour send to me four officers of the quality of 
field-officers and two aldermen, for the performance thereof, I shall thereupon 
forbear all acts of hostility. Your servant, 

"Oliver CRoifWEix." 

{To he continued,^ 



XI. Education {continued). 

The restraint desired and imposed by the Church as regards stu- 
dents or scholars may be reduced to a few heads. First, Catholic 
scholars are not to be taught any doctrine contrary to that which 
the Church teaches, either as matter of faith or as certain truth, 
though not strictly of faith. Secondly — though, indeed, this is con- 
tained in what I have put down as first, but is deserving of special 
mention — Catholic scholars are not to be taught any system or 
principles of mental philosophy that have been condemned by the 
Church. Thirdly, Catholic scholars are not to be taught history 
compiled with a view to undermining the Catholic religion, and 
interspersed with remarks and reflections directed to this object. 
Fourthly, Catholic scholars are not to be encouraged, nor even al- 
lowed, to read indiscriminately all books they please, or to examine 
for themselves all that the adversaries of Christianity or Catholicity 
have written against their faith. Students going through their 
course are not qualified to deal safely with such authors. They 

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The Relations of the Church to Society. 229 

have neither maturity of judgment nor a stock of information to fit 
them for an investigation of this kind. I speak thus of students, 
because I am at present concerned about them ; but I would not be 
understood to imply that such unrestrained research is free from 
danger in men who have completed their academical training. 

I quite understand that the restriction on reading, examining, 
investigating, appears hard to manv of those who are opposed to us 
in the question of education. Tney will meet us with that very 
specious, and, in many circumstances, very fair proverbial counsel, 
Audi alteram partem. But it so happens that this is a counsel which, 
in its received sense, no Catholic is at liberty to follow with refer- 
ence to the doctrines of his religion. The saying means that we 
should suspend our judgment till we hear what has to be said on 
the other side. Now, as Catholics, we cannot suspend our judg- 
ment regarding Catholic truths. If we do look into objections for 
some good purpose, we must do so with a determination not to 
yield to them. This may sound hard or illiberal ; but it is of the 
essence of Christian faith. 

Fifthly, Catholic scholars are not to be taught religion either as 
to dogma or as to morals by non-Catholics ; because non-Catholics, 
however otherwise estimable, are not fit and proper organs or me- 
diums of the Catholic Church, from which alone Catholics are to 
derive their religious knowledge. Sixthly, Catholics are not to be 
taught religion, even by Catholic masters, otherwise than in sub- 
ordination to ecclesiastical authority. 

These are the restrictions which occur to me. There is also the 
positive obligation of securing adequate formal and distinct reli- 
gious instruction for every Catholic scholar, besides what may enter 

It is on such principles that Catholic parents must act for them- 
selves and for their children. They may have their children edu- 
cated, highly educated, learnedly educated, taught everything that 
is worth knowing, but under a protecting guidance. Assuredly, the 
Church, as I have stated elsewhere,* sets no bounds to speculations 
in the region of truth, and there is no advantage in learning what is 
false. It may often be useful to know something about unsound 
teachings ; but this must be done under direction which will pre- 
vent their being imbibed. 

It will be worth our while, before going further, to direct our 
attention to some decisions and declarations connected with this 
matter emanating from competent ec^clesiastical authority. In the 
Syllabus subjoined to the Pope's Encyclical Quanta cura^ issued on 
the 8th of December, 1864, we find the following propositions set 
down for reprobation: — "The whole government of the public 
schools in which the youth of any Christian State are brought up, 
with a limited exception in the case of episcopal seminaries, can 

♦ Irish Monthly, VoL ii., p. 283. 

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230 The Relations of the Church to Society. 

and ought to be assigned to the civil authority, and so assigned 
that no right be acknowledged on the part of any other authority 
whatsoever of interfering in the discipline of the schools, in the 
regulation of the studies, in the conferring of degrees, in the choice 
or approbation of masters" (n. 45). " Catholics may approve that 
mode of education of youth which is disjoined from the Catholic 
faith and the power of the Church, and which concerns itself exclu- 
sively, or at least primarily, with the knowledge of natural things 
and the ends of earthly social life" (n. 48). 

In the Encyclical Quanta cura itself some errors are proscribed 
which had not been set down for condemnation in any previous 
Papal. document. Of these the sixth is: " That domestic society, 
or the family, derives the whole character of its existence from civil 
law ; and therefore from civil law alone flow and depend all the 
rights of parents over their children, and, in the first place, the right 
to care for their instruction and education." The seventh is: 
" That the clergy being, as they are, inimical to the true and usefiil 
progress of science and civilization, ought to be removed altogether 
from the care and office of instructing and educating youth." 

The Sacred Congregation of Propaganda disapproved of the 
Queen's Colleges as an institution detrimental to religion, and the 
Pope concurred in this judgment (Letter of Oct. 9, 1847). ^^ 
Archbishops and Bishops of Ireland, assembled in Dublin in 
October, 187J, issued a pastoral address to the clergy, secular and 
regular, and the laity of their flocks, on Irish Education. In this 
address they treat the subject at considerable length and with great 
power. I cannot afford to quote largely from it. In order to give 
in a few words — ^and those the words of the prelates themselves— 
. their doctrine on mixed and denominational education, I will cite 
the first and second of a series of resolutions which they state 
*' were passed unanimously by the Archbishops and Bishops of Ire- 
land, at the meeting at which the foregoing address was adopted." 

1. " We hereby declare our unalterable conviction that Catholic 
education is indispensably necessary for the preservation of the faith 
and morals of our Catholic people." 

2. " In union with the Holy See and the Bishops of the Catholic 
world, we again ren^w our often-repeated condemnation of mixed 
education, as intrinsically and grievously dangerous to faith and 
morals, and tending to perpetuate disunion, insubordination, and 
disaffection in this country." 

In treating, though briefly, of the relations of the Church to 
socie^ with regard to education, I may be allowed to allude to the 
constitutional rights of Irish Catholics as to the realization of the 
Catholic view. I will lay down and partially develop some prin- 
ciples concerning which, if rightly understood, there cannot be anj 
reasonable dispute. 

I. The Catholic religion is fully and thoroughly tolerated in 
these three kingdoms. Those who profess it enjoy the same civil 

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The RelaHans of the Church to Society. 23 1 

rights as any other subjects of the British Crown. I am not for- 
getting the Established Churches of England and Scotland ; for- 
tnnately we have done with that of Ireland, though the tithe-rent 
charge is to be paid for several years yet. I am not forgetting, 
I say, these Established Churches, which, beyond question, are 
specially recognized, favoured, and supported at the public expense. 
We have here a politico-religious inequality, which it is beside my 
purpose to quarrel with just now. But, in the sense in which I am 
speaking and expect to be understood, there is constitutionally civil 
equality — an equality of civil rights — between Catholics on the one 
side and Anglicans and Scotch Presbyterians on the other. That 
is to say, an individual Catholic is supposed to be treated exactly in 
the same way as an individual Protestant. Neither is considered to 
possess any political privilege or to suffer any political disability 
arising out of his religion. Both are entitled to the same protec- 
tion, both are entitled to be provided for alike in all temporal mat- 
ters in which the State provides for the subjects of the realm. 

2. The British Legislature acknowledges the obligation of making 
provision for education in these three kingdoms. This provision, 
it is admitted, ought to be proportioned at once to the wants of the 
people and to the national resources. There is no need of entering 
here into the details of either. Nor is there any need of insisting 
further on the obligation : Parliament is ready and willing to do as 
mnch in point of mere degree as we would ask for. 

3. The education which the State is bound thus to provide for is 
secular education. At least the State is hound to provide for secular 
education, for education in the necessary and useful branches of 
natural knowledge, and it is with this obligation alone I have to do. 
For greater clearness, I will say that I speak of non-religious know- 
ledge; for the term natural by itself may be ambiguous, more 
especially as some of the parties engaged in the Education ques- 
tion recognize no religion but what they would call natural religion, 
and what is assuredly nothing more^ however far it may be less than 
such. I mean, in a word, knowledge that has no more professedly 
to do with religion than, for instance, grammar and mathematics 
have : I ^xj professedly^ on account of the indirect bearing of some 
other branches on religion. 

4. Catholics being on a par with Protestants in the eye of the 
British Constitution, as it now stands, with reference to ail merely 
temporal rights and advantages, and education, as we here view it, 
being a temporal thing, the British Legislature is bound to meet 
the wants of Catholics in this respect as fully as those of Protestants. 
Protestants are not entitled to any preference. This obligation is 
more palpable and unassailable in Ireland than in the other two 
portions of the United Kingdom. I do not say it is more real, but 
it is more patent, and less liable to even inconclusive objections. 

* In Ireland the majority of the people — the mass of the people — are 
Catholics. The laws regulating Irish education have been, are, 

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232 The Relations of the Church to Soaefy. 

and are to be, framed distinctly for Ireland, as for England and 
Scotland respectively. Now, there can be no possible plausible 
ground for, in any degree, ignoring, passing over, neglecting the 
confessedly equal rights of the bulk of the population. No states- 
man can stand up and say, '* My plan of education must be one 
comprehensive plan, calculated as well as may be to meet the 
necessities of the whole country. I cannot legislate for every indi- 
vidual. Some parties must stiifer accidentally. I would, if I could, 
satisfy to the full the needs of every man ; but it is impossible. 
The Catholics must forgive me if I do not comply with their 
demands, which I admit to be in themselves just." What sheer 
nonsense this would be ! 

5. Since Irish Catholics, remaining Catholics, recognized as 
such, are equally entitled with their Protestant fellow-countrymen 
to be provided for by the State with reference to secular education, 
they have a strict right that the provision made should be one of 
which they can avail themselves without acting against their reli- 
gious principles, without doing any violence to those principles, 
without running what, according to those principles, is a serious 
risk of a great evil. This proposition cannot easily be controverted. 
Suppose, for the sake of illustration, that the State aid afforded to 
Catholics for secular educational purposes, or, to put it otherwise, 
suppose the only State aid afforded to Irish youth. Catholic and 
Protestant, were clogged with the condition of occasionally attend- 
ing Protestant service, or joining in Protestant prayers, or listening 
to instructions given by a Protestant clergyman ; the rights of 
Catholics would be flagrantly violated. Because among those 
rights is that of being helped by the State in reference to education 
on equal terms with their Protestant fellow-subjects, and without 
prejudice to their religious profession, and any such condition as 
those just stated would be at variance with their religious profes- 

The conditions I have named are closely connected with wor- 
ship. Suppose, instead, that the youth in these schools were to be 
left exposed to be required to read Protestant controversial books, 
or take part in quiet controversial conversations with Protestants ; 
such an item in the arrangement would render it grossly unjust 
towards Catholics, though the acts to be done would not be strictly 
— so to speak — ^un-Catholic acts. The gist of my proposition is 
this — that any circumstance to which Catholics seriously object as 
not in accordance with their religious principles cannot be legiti- 
mately annexed to, or combined with, a temporal benefit conferr^i 
on them by the State as a matter of right in fulfilment of their 
claims as British subjects. 

Having stated these few principles, which I apprehend will 
hardly be questioned by any fair man holding to the present British 
Constitution, I come to apply them, or rather the last of them, 
resting as it does on those that precede — I come to apply this prin- 

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The Relaiians of the Church to Society. 233 

ciple to mixed education for Irish Catholics. Irish Catholics, as a 
bodj, object to mixed education as at variance with their religious 
views and sentiments. They object to it on the twofold ground of 
its beings exclusively secular and of its being mixed. If mixed, it 
must be exclusively secular, because religious teaching of Catholics 
by non-Catholics would be still more intolerable than purely secular 
instruction. Yet, this severance of mere human learning from reli- 
gion is an un-Catholic thing. It is not, however, the worst element 
of the system. The evil to be apprehended from the admission of 
non-Catholic teachers into schools or colleges for Catholics is still 
greater. The whole plan of mixed education is opposed to Catholic 
vie\^-s and principles ; therefore the aid afforded by Government for 
the education of Catholics, on the ground of their claim to this aid 
as British subjects, if associated with the system of mixed educa- 
tion, is not a fulfilment of their rights. 

I may be told that the whole business of the State in this matter 
is with secular education, and secular education is, by its nature, 
unconnected with religion ; that religious education may be very 
good and very necessary, and ought not to be impeded or inter- 
fered with by the State, but cannot be provided by the State for a 
mixed population. I may be told that I am in reality demanding 
Catholic education, and therefore not merely secular but religious 
education, from a Government which most impartially makes no 
distinction between Protestajits and Catholics, and makes no in- 
quiries about any man's religion so as he be a loyal subject. 

I reply to all this as follows : — I do not demand from the State 
aid for Catholics towards religious education as such, but towards 
secular education. I do not ask the State to pay a shilling for 
lessons in catechism. I do demand from the State aid for Catho- 
lics towards secular education to be given by persons whom 
they are willing to trust, not by persons whom, on religious 
grounds, they distrust, and are bound in consistency to dis- 
trust, however unexceptionable those persons may be as mem- 
bers of civil society. If those teachers of secular knowledge whom 
Catholics trust — namely, Catholic teachers — season their instruction 
to a certain extent with religion, the State will not have to pay for 
such seasoning. Let the State, if it please, watch the teaching, and 
see that it is not deficient as secular teaching, for which alone the 
State paysi It will thus be assured that the public money is not 

It is well to observe here that the professors of literature and 
science in Catholic colleges, even when they are ecclesiastics, are 
not expected to give, and are not accustomed to give, formal reli- 
gious instruction during their regular time of lectures on literature 
or science : that instruction is given at fixed hours, either by the 
same or by other persons, as a distinct work. The great motives 
for wishing to have the education of Catholics in the hands of 
Catholic superiors and masters are, that no un-Catholic teaching 

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234 The Relations of the Church to Society. 

may find a place, that allusions incidentally made to religions sub- 
jects may be of a Catholic character, and tnat there may be a better 
opportunity for arrangements as to the religious instruction of the 

The duty of the State with regard to education is not precisely 
to give it, but to provide iox it — to afford the people the means 
of obtaining it. I do not say that the State is merely to disburse 
the funds requisite, without looking to their expenditure. I have 
already said that the State is welcome to ascertain that the money 
is applied to the object for which it is given. 

The State may do very well in not inquiring about men's reli- 
gion. But if Catholics cry out to the State — "Take notice, we are 
Catholics, and we do not claim any privilege, any preference, on 
that score ; but we beg of you, we require of you as a matter of 
justice, not to give us help in a shape in which we cannot use it. 
We do not ask for more than our share ; but let the amount which 
our numbers and our wants entitle us to come in a form that will 
suit us. You will be none the poorer, and we shall be better off.*' 
If, I say, Catholics cry out thus to the Legislature, would it not be 
cruel to reply — "Good people, we make no distinctions ; we neither 
know nor wish to know what religion you are of. That would be 
bigotry — ^almost persecution: We give you your share in that shape 
which we think the best. If you are fools enough to think other- 
wise, you must take the consequences." 

Umectarian Education is a high-sounding phrase conveying — 
some think — z. noble idea. It is a sort of echo of Civil and Religious 
Liberty. The phrase, however, is delusive in more ways than one. 
In the mouths of many it means very little less than the banishment 
of all religion, at least of all revealed religion, and that banishment 
they would be proud to effect. But what I wish to call attention to 
at this moment is that the doctrine of Unsectarian Education is no 
such thing as unsectarian. It is bitterly sectarian. This statement 
may be called a paradox, and perhaps it is a paradox in that most 
legitimate sense of the word, namely, a proposition apparently ab- 
surd, but really true. Let us see. These gentlemen look on all 
religious bodies as sects, even those to which they respectively 
belong, such as Anglicans, Presbyterians, &c. Be it so, I say, 
though certainly Catholics will never agree to think themselves 
sectarians, or to consider any kind of Protestants as anything else 
but sectarians. Be it so, I say &gain. What follows ? That every 
doctrine regarding religious matters, as such, is sectarian, every reli- 
gious tenet is sectarian. Now, the doctrine that secular education 
is to be treated as a thing unconnected with religion ; that secular 
education is to be administered to men of every religion by men of 
every religion or of no religion ; that differences of religion on the 
part of teachers are of no moment — all this is a doctrine regarding 
religious matters as such ; it is a religious tenet, or at least the 
denial of one ; it is a phase of indifferentism, which undoubtedly 

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John Richardson's Relahves. 235 

belongs to the domain of religion. The opposition between Catho- 
lics and these secularists is an opposition on a religious question, 
not on a question of politics, or of mathematics, or of natural philo- 
sophy, or of history. The objection of Catholics to be taught, or to 
have their children taught, by Protestants, or Jews, or free-thinkers 
is a religious objection. Catholics say their religion condemns the 
system ; their opponents say that the religion of Catholics has no 
business to condemn the system ; that genuine religion does not 
condemn it. What is all this but a religious controversy, a sec- 
tarian controversy, if we are to adopt the phraseology of our 
antagonists ? Will they deny that our view is sectarian f Surely 
not. They will hold it up to odium as such. If so, is not their 
contrary holding sectarian too, the question being a religious one ? 

I may be told that Catholics do not agree in condemning the 
S3rstem. I reply that all who have the reputation of being sound 
Catholics do condemn the system as religiously inexpedient and 
dangerous, though they may differ as to the degree of danger 
and the circimistances in which a Catholic can lawfully avail him- 
self of mixed teaching when no other is to be had. There 
may, too, be a few otherwise really good Catholics, who suffer hallu- 
cination on this subject ; but their number is small. Catholics as a 
body, in conformity with the views of the pastors of their Church, 
disapprove and reject mixed education. 



Part VI. 

On arriving at Mr. Tottenham's, the Deane party, excepting nurse 
jund baby, were by desire of Achilles shown straightway to the sick 
man's room. The professional nurse being at dinner, and Nurse 
Nelly in attendance on her, Miss Travers at that moment was in 
sole charge of the patient. Here, then, before ten minutes had 
elapsed, the family party found themselves in that very awkward 
but not very uncommon triangular dilemma in which to sit, stand, 
or go is obviously and equally difficult ; a predicament that Mary 
George would, in her matter-of-fact and wholly unhumorous way, 
have much enjoyed witnessing, could she, invisibly, have been 
behind the door. All that was to be seen, learned, or forecast of 
the unconscious sufferer was soon exhausted. When the few facts 
that she was prepared to communicate were shortly and simply 

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236 John Richardson* s Relatives. 

told, in answer to alternate questions from Achilles and his wife, 
little if anything further was to be elicited from Miss Travers. 
Predetermined upon speaking with caution when she must break 
silence, and keeping silence when she could avoid speech, she 
would at any time during those days of suspense and anxiety have 
been found a rather unpromising subject for attempts at interview- 
ing. But at this crisis her attention was, quite unaflfectedly, so 
riveted on the patient — in whom she saw, or fancied she saw, in- 
creasing signs of amendment — that to distract her by persistent 
questioning or anything that did not touch his state, would have 
been an impropriety apparent to the most indifferent or dullest 
looker-on. To look on in company, then, was the only coarse 
open to the visitors so long as they should continue to share her 
watch. Had the poor man been dead, instead of dead-alive, there 
would have been a something to do and a good deal to say. Dis- 
cussion and decision upon time, place, and fashion of the funeral 
would easily have killed the first half-hour at least. After a few 
aphorisms on the uncertainty of life and the proper care of health, 
and a few flourishes of white handkerchiefs, they might freely and 
comfortably have fallen to discussing the character of the deceased, 
accounting for the resignation with which they met his sudden 
departure, and conjecturing the amount and disposition of his 
goods and chattels. Under existing circumstances these modes of 
passing time were out of the question ; while, after having come 
expressly to see so near a relative, just to look at him and leave 
him seemed little less so. Hence a common feeling of relief put for 
the moment the family party into perfect concord when Achilles, 
being, like most lovers of good cheer, not a little of a sanitarian, 
suddenly was, or professed to be, struck by the consideration " that 
so many persons breathing the air requisite for the patient must be 
improper — highly improper, he should say T* and thus gave to all 
four a feasible pretext for withdrawal to some other apartment. 
Unguided save by Mrs. Achilles, who made an amiable desire to 
gratify her sister-in-law's supposed anxiety to rejoin baby an excuse 
for opening every door, and taking note of things inside, they made 
way slowly till the sound of voices— to which their leader could 
no longer turn a deaf ear — led them to where baby's nurse and 
Nurse Nelly were engaged in interesting dialogue ; the professional 
nurse sitting by, a silent but seemingly sympathetic listener. The 
brothers, each after his own fashion, acknowledged their old 
though slight acquaintance with Nurse Nelly. In the nod and 
glance of Giles there was, however, a certain significant something 
not apparent in those of Achilles, which Mary George might have 
read off into " I shan't forget you !" and which probably was nei- 
ther unintelligible nor unwelcome to the old woman herself. One 
of few survivors of the genuine old school of Irish servants, Nelly 
had all their characteristic devotion to the open hand ; a devotion 
which, though often wholly indiscriminating, was seldom if ever 

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Jphn Richardson's Relatives. 237 

altogether sordid, since it looked less to the mere money-value of 
a gift than to the supposed generosity of spirit in the giver ; and 
cheerfully gave the spendthrift for love the service his purse could 
no longer pay for. Under a new light thus thrown on his character 
the living Gilea would seem to Nelly to become more near of kin 
to his dead namesake. There was then no simulation and as little 
as possible of selfishness under the show of quickened interest 
with which she turned again towards the baby. On one point only 
was she playing a part. Apy one familiar with her customary airs 
of self-importance, her readiness on all occasions to put herself 
forward as one of the family, would have seen that something must 
be hid under the seeming humility with which she had held her- 
self in the background since the arrival of the brothers Deane. 

Mrs. Timmany, at first sight of the party, rose, curtsied, and 
discreetly was about to leave the room, but was stayed by both the 
ladies ; both speaking in a breath : 

"You are the nursetender, I presume.^" Mrs. Achilles said, in 
a manner that possibly was a fair copy of Achilles' style when ad* 
dressing himself to an untoward witness. 

" Pray don't go away without finishing your glass of stout 1 " 
said Mrs. Giles, like one who knew what it was to be deprived of 
rights or comforts by unseasonable interruptions. 

" Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am," responded Mrs. Timmany, 
her countenance and manner undergoing a comically rapid change 
as she turned from one lady to the other. 

•* The old gentleman is improving, we understand ?" Mrs, 
Achilles continued ; feeling her way, with tact as she considered, 
towards questions of more pressing moment- 

•* What do you think of him yourself, nurse .?" interposed Mrs. 
Giles. Not very robust herself, she felt a genuine interest, more 
or less, in all sick folk. 

"I dare say," remarked Achilles, "you are not without some 

experience, Mrs. a " 

•' Timmany, sir," supplied the nurse. 

"Aye, Timmany, Timmany," repeated Achilles. The name 
seemed to have struck him, whether as one out of the common or 
as one half-remembered. 

"I think I may say that, sir," replied Mrs. Timmany, with a 
sigh. " My first experience of all was a long one — with my own 
husband, who was taken much like the poor dear gentleman here, 
fifteen years ago." 

"Years 1" echoed Mrs. Achilles. 

"And * fif— teen,' you say 1" added Achilles himself. "And he 
lives still, I conclude from— a- — " 

" Indeed he does, sir," promptly rejoined Mrs. Timmany, with 
the most encouraging cheerfulness. 
" Dear me 1" exclaimed Achilles. 
" You see, sir," continued the nurse, " once they get out of the 

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238 John Richardson* s Relatives. 

fit (if they get out of it at all), nursing and good management do 
more for 'em than doctoring." 

"And who recommended you here?" asked Mrs. Achilles, 
thinking this question must bring her round to Mary George. 

"Well, ma'am, I declare to you, that's more than I can say: 
it all happened in such a hurry when Mr. Richardson called for 

" Mr. George Richardson, perhaps ?" put in Mrs. Giles. 

" I don't see what that matters, Jane," said Mrs, Achilles, in a 
tone that decided Mrs. Timmany to take no notice of an interrup- 
tion that she did not clearly understand. " You were saying '* 

this to Mrs. Timmany. 

" Only that there wasn't a word about an3rthing but getting 
here as fast as we could, ma'am. But I supposed, when I had 
time to think of it, ma'am, that some one was good enough to 
speak for me to Mrs. Richardson." Mj 

" Mrs. George Richardson, I think you mean," agiuFput in 
Mrs. Giles, nodding to the nurse. 

" Mrs. John Richardson seems not to be concerned at all, so 
far as I see, Jane," returned Mrs. Achilles, emphatically and some- j 
what testily. Getting near to the point at which she wanted to 
arrive, she found Jane's repeated interference reallv annoying. 1 

The little interpolations just noted were, on the part of both \ 
sisters-in-law, apropos to one of those standing family grievances 
which, however likely to be ignored or, if known, ridiculed by out- 
siders, are sore points enough to feelings within the family shoe. 
Mrs. Giles, commonly so called by favour of Mrs. Achilles, was 
bom and reared in one of those families of moderate means but 
great gentility whose " residences " lie, as in a ring-fence, close 
round provincial cities. With pretensions too high to allow of 
their evening themselves with citizens, and without the wealth re- 
quisite to gain admittance to the pale of " county people" proper, 
they form a special class that may perhaps be most appropriately 
named (by borrowing a special term) county-of-the-city folk. 
Hence the step taken by Miss Jane Good in entering the Deane 
family, while considered prudent and praiseworthy in one of six 
unmarried sisters, was yet, owing to Giles' city connections, looked 
on by herself and friends as somewhat of a descent in social rank. 
She expected, however, as a thing of course, to at least hold the 
title and precedence of an elder brother's wife. Painful, then, was 
the surprise with which she, accustomed as she was to the observ- 
ance of all due distinctions — observance nice in proportion to their 
smallness — found her own claims controverted, and not that merely, 
but absolutely overborne by the resolute determination of His. 
Achilles to hold herself in all respects on the same footing with 
"Giles' wife;" her (Mrs. Achilles') notion being that "Achilles, 
as a professional man, and she, as a professional man's wife-H»»/ 
a wife who had brought fur husband money — held a position superior 

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John Richardson's Relatives. 239 

to that of any farmer and his wife." A steady course of visiting- 
cards and of other equally gentle remedial measures having signally 
failed against Mrs. Achilles' steadier iteration of '' Mrs. Giles," the 
poor little woman, while feeling herself every inch Mrs. Deane, 
had, perforce of weakness, to resign herself to be and to remain Mrs. 
Giles : yet always under protest ; which protest was persistently 
renewed from time to time, whenever an occasion offered, in the 
only modes she dared to venture on — a setting right of third parties, 
misled by Mrs. Achilles, as to which w^ which of the two brothers, 
and a ptinctiliously precise reference to other elder brothers and 
their wives by proper style and title. In the present instance when 
she had made the effort to inform Mrs. Timmany of Mary George's 
position with respect to Mary John, she turned away like one who 
" for a quiet life" drops a disputed point, and crossed the toom to 
where her husband, who already had made that move, stood in talk 
with N|tee Nelly. Thus the other couple were left to uninter- 
lupted'Wbverse with the other nurse. 

** Mr. Richardson is not in the house at present, we are given 
to understand ?" Achilles said. 

"Nor Mrs. Richardson?" added Mrs. Achilles. 
( " No, sir ; he was here this morning, and I heard him say he'd 
call in the evening again," replied Mrs. Timmany to the former ; 
and to the latter, " Mrs. Richardson will be in before long, ma'am, 
most likely." 

■** What time does she dine ?" pursued Mrs. Achilles. 
"I think she dines early, ma'am ; but the servants may be better 

able to tell you. Shall I say you wish ?" 

" If you please," interrupted the lady, impatient with what she 
thought to be " the woman's stupidity." ** * May be better able to 
tellT" she repeated when Mrs. Timmany had withdrawn. "I 
should think so." 

, " It strikes me," Achilles said, in an undertone, and one ex- 
pressive of the disagreeableness of the suspicion, " that she does 
not dine here. 'Tis plain that Richardson doesn't." 

"Oh, nonsense I" his wife returned. **She does, you may be 
sure." But a suspicion of another sort, namely, that "she" had been 
beforehand with visitors in her arrangements for that day, and got 
dinner out of the way, as it were, was now entering Mrs. Achilles' 
own mind, and of itself was quite sufficient to create a feeling of 
very serious responsibility. 

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( »40 ) 



We are sorry to have to tcU our young 
readers that since we last spoke to them 
on this page, Willie, the dearest, and 
oldest, and wisest, and best little patient 
in our Big House has gone from among us. 
Willie is dead. His little white bed stands 
empty in its comer beside the window, 
ana many a sorrowful look is cast on 
it from the other cribs. Every child in 
the wards loved, reverenced, and obeyed 
Willie. He was in turns companion, 
play-fellow, and instructor of all. His 
word was law in the place, though his 
poor, weak voice was scarcely ever heard 
above a whisper, and when it was once 
known among the children that Willie had 
pronounced a thing right or wrong there 
was felt to be no appeal from the judgment. 
"Willie said it,'* was enough to satisfy 
everybody; and " Willie wishes it " was 
an aU-powerful reason why anything in the 
world should be done. 

We are going to tell our little readers 
the story of w3lie's life, feeling sure that 
they wm like to hear it. When he was a 
very little boy he lived with his grand- 
father in a large town in the north, where 
Protestants have unfortunately a great 
dislike to Catholics. His mndfather, 
grandmother, and aunt were Protestants : 
and Willie heard so many dreadful stories 
about the Catholic religion that he had a 
horror of any one who belonged to it. He 
was taught very little religion of any kind ; 
but he knew something of the story of our 
Lord. "I used to think," he told us, 
" about His being a little child, and I won- 
dered who was His mother. I thought to 
myself if He was a baby He must have had 
a mother, and I asked my aunt who she 
was ; but my aunt said He was God and did 
not want a mother like other people. No- 
body would tell me a word about her. But 
when I came to Dublin to my own mother 
I asked her, and then she told me all about 
the Blessed Virgin. And ever since that 
I loved her." 

Before Willie left B a terrible acci- 
dent happened him ; he fell and hurt his 
back, and that was the beginning of the 
long, long agony which the dear, patient 
fellow had to endure before he was ad- 

mitted among the angels. In the 
of time he was sent to his mother and 
father in Dublin. And how they*miist 
have grieved to see their bright, handsooie 
boy arrive crippled, and bent, and scarcely 
able to walk ! He was not aUe to ^ay 
like other children and had a great deu (rf* 
time to think ; and it shocked Mm greatlj 
to know that his mother went out crery 
morning to that dreadful place caDed a 
Catholic church! One day WUhe was 
obliged to go with her, which was a real 
affliction to him, and he crept away by 
himself into a comer of the church to cry. 

Most of our little friends know the pic- 
ture of our Lord which used to hang in 
the Sacred Heart Chapel in Gardiner's- 
street Church ; the face had a wami ex- 
pression, and the red mark of a wound was 
on the extended hand. Willie sat dovn 
on the step of the altar, because it was a 
quiet place, and his poor little heart was 
sore and grieved when he raised his eyes 
to the face of the picture and ** saw our 
Lord looking at him." A feeling came 
over him such as he had never known be- 
fore. .**I thought He was alive," saH 
Willie, "and I couldn't keep my eyes off 
Him. And I looked at His nands, and I 
wondered how He could have stretched 
them out to get the nails put in." 

From that day forth Willie came creep- 
ing every day into the church, and would 
sit as long as he could on the altar step 
looking at the picture, thinking who can 
tell what deep, tender, gratefiQ thoughts, 
and drinking m the faith through his lor- 
ing, longing, wondering eyes. One day 
after the church was shut he sat to rest on 
the steps of the presbyteiy, " and a lovdy 

Eriest came out," said Willie, "and pot 
is hand on my head and blessed me, and 
went away down the street. And I just 
thought I would be a Catholic.*' 

So Willie was baptized, and soon after 
his disease grew worse; he could not 
move at all, and had to lie constantly on a 
wretched straw bed, which was at night 
all the resting-place to be had for &Sa 
and mother and three little brothers. The 
sad discomfort increased his sufifertngs. 
His youngest brother used to kick WOHe's 

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Notes in the Big House. 


poor back in his skep ; that back which 
was covered with the most terrible sores ; 
and the dose air in the crowded room tor- 
mented hiniy and he could not eat the food 
which his mother was able to provide for 
him« Yet throngh all his misery Willie 
had one great joy which no suffering could 
take away from him. The " lovelv priest " 
used to come and bring him Holy Com- 
munion ; and talk to him about heaven, and 
tcadi him to bear his pains like a hero. 

In the meantime his Father in heaven 
was preparing a home for poor Willie. 
One oay when our arrangements for open- 
ing the Big House were first completed, 
tins, our first patient, was carried up the 
stairs and laid in the little bed which he oc- 
cupied so long. He begged to be placed so 
that he could see the statue of our Lady 
which stands at the end of the ward ; and 
there he lay smiling and at peace, with his 
great, dark, spiritual eyes fixed on the 
Hohr Mother's face. "I love her,** said 
WilJie, in Ins simple, earnest way; "I 
love her better than anything but God." 

It was then thought that he could not 
live more than a few weeks or months, 
but peace, and care, and proper treatment 
prolonged his life. He had a great wish 
to get weD that he might become a priest 
and a missionary, and go out into the 
world to work for God. These dreams of 
the future delighted him ; and in the long 
summer days when he was able to lie in a 
chair in tibe sunny garden and imagine 
himself convalescent, he loved to talk them 
over with his dear friend, Thomas, who 
was also steering from spinal disease, and 
who was a companion af^er his heart. 
Thomas also wished to work for our Lord, 
but he hesitated a little at the thought of 
becoming a priest. •* You would have to 
face into such dreadfully dirty places," said 
Thomas, " and to be always in the middle 
of sickness!" 

"I would face into anything to prevent 
sin," was Willie's eager reply. 

Though Willie received Holy Commu- 
nion very frequently he heard Mass only 
once in Ws life, when his delight was ex- 
cessive; and he was afterwards troubled 
to think that he could not join in any of 
the Masses which were going on all around 
him every day. By accident a book was 
put in his hands which contained a method 
of assisting at the Holy Sacrifice in spirit 

rings, I join in that." said Willie ; " and 
when St. Joseph's bell rings, I join in 
that ; " and so tne longing little soul used 
to lie every morning listening for stray 
notes of distant bells and sending up his 
pure and eager homage beyond the gold- 
rimmed clouds which he could see from 
his window. He was constantly thinking 
of our Lord in the tabernacle, and of how 
if he were only well enough he would love 
to keep near to Him. "I would just go 
when the church is opened in the morning 
at six," he said, " and stay till five when it 
shuts." On last Holy Saturday he asked 
eagerly whether the Blessed Sacrament 
had been brought back to the tabernacle, 
he felt so lonely while it was away. 
When he heard it had returned he lay back 
with a look of indescribable peace and 
content. •* Indeed," said a dear and faith- 
ful friend of his, who told us this story, 
«* Willie always brought to my mind the 
thought of the peace of Grod wnich passeth 
all understanding." 

Poor Willie had the most ardent devo- 
tion to the sufferings of Jesus Clu^st, and 
an earnest and loving desire to suffer with 
Him. No giant could have more patiently 
and determinedly *« faced into " heavy, in- 
tolerable hours of pain and endurance than 

did this frail creature. "Father C 

told me," he said one day to the friend 
before mentioned, "that our Lord came 
for two things, to redeem us and to show 
us an example. He suffered, and so I like 
to suffer too." The same kind Father 

C also told him that he was the son 

of a great King, and that a glorious place 
was prepared for him if he bore his pams 
patiently. "Just the way I do, you know," 
said Willie, with a happy simpucity which 
was his peculiar characteristic. A lady 
had given him some pictures of the Way of 
the Cross, and he would study these by 
the hour, more completely lost in the in- 
terest of that splendid tragedy than if he 
had been reading the most fascinating 
tale — not that Wiflie despised stories such 
as children love— but the spiritual won- 
ders of Truth charmed him most of all. 
" Some day I'd like you to read 'Jack the 
Giant Killer' for me," he said to his 
friend; "but to-day I would like what 
St. John saw," This meant that the 
visions of the Apocalypse were the sick 
boy's peculiar delight. "He always told 
me what he liked and what he did not 
understand," says his friend, " in the many 
books he read. His great favourites were 

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Notes in the Big House. 

the ninetieth Psakn, the fourteenth chap- 
ter of St. Tohn, and above all " What St. 
John saw. 

He once took great pains to find some- 
thing he liked particularly in the New 
Testament. When found, this proved to 
be three words occurring in the story of 
Lazarus — **And Jestis wept^ 

Willie bore his pains bravely to the last. 
When asked if ne thought upon them 
much while lying awake on tne weaiy 
nights when no sleep would come he said, 
smiling, " Oh, no ! ** in a tone as if he 
were surprised at being suspected of wast- 
ing his time so foolishly. " I think of how 
nice it will be in heaven, and how glad I 
will be to see our Lord and the Blessed 
Virgin ! " 

On last Christmas Dav he made up his 
mind for the first time that he could give 
up his missionary dreams and be content to 
go to heaven at once. His dear friend 
Thomas, who is now at home, though 
suffering badly, wrote him a touching litUe 
letter in which he hopes that as they can- 
not meet here any more they will soon be 
together with God. " Dear Willie," writes 
Thomas in a postscript added a night after 
the labour of the letter had been accom- 
plished, " Dear Willie, I am very bad to- 
day ; my back is bad, and my head is bad ; 
and, dear Willie, I am very bad altogether. 
I wish you all the compliments of the 

Though Willie was not allowed to live 
and grow up into a missionary, yet he was 
in some degree a little missionary among 
the children. He taught them their prayers, 
gently rebuked them for what was wrong 
in their words or acts, and so gained their 
respect that a child who grieved Willie 
by bad conduct of any kind was sure to be 
in disgrace with the rest. His example 
impressed them, his playful good humour 
encouraged them, and his sweetness and 
tenderness won all their hearts. If he had 
to chide, he knew how to make up for 
whatever pain he was obliged to give. A | 
certain Joey was troublesome in the ward, 
an impetuous little chap, given to the use 

of naughty words, and disliking all di 
zation and controL " I like the place v 
well,*' Joey was heard to say to a stniij 
one day; "you get lots to eat. 1 
worst of it is yotCre washed every day 
This turbulent little man was tamed 
Willie, who was his idoL Willie woi 
rebuke, condemn, and sometimes, 
honoui- bound, was forced to complain 
a higher authority. As soon as tne lie 
storm was past, Willie's weak voice « 
heard calling softly on Joey to come 
him ; when a store of certain « goodies 
little bits of everything nice his fhends k 
brought him, was found hidden and 
Willie's pillow for the consolation of tl 

We have not space to tell more aboi 
Willie at present ; we hope our reade 
will not think we have exaggerated by 
line in this slender sketch of him. H 
was not a clever boy, being a perfect dd 
in all but in his one peculiar gift of spizi 
tuality. He had a difficulty about lean 
ing to write ; and though he peisetercdi 
trying and was most eager for lessons, y 
he was always apologizing to \m 6ia 
and teacher for "doing the thio^ s 
badly." He suffered great agonv befa 
death, but his one idea throng all was U 
endure for the love of his Saviour. W< 
will only add a few words written to us bj 
the true friend to whom he made all lu 
little confidences. 

" His special favourite in the Apoca* 
lypse was the chapter where is toW ho* 
the Lamb stood on Mount Sion, and 
around Him one hundred and forty-foui 
thousand, the first-fruits to God and the 
Lamb, in whose mouth was found wlicr 
and who are without spot in the prlpuce 
of their God. Among them, I cos 
trust, is the pure soul of our HttTel 
that now already he has seen thJ 
in His beauty, and the land tha(l 
far off.' " |» 

The usual monthfy list of subscription 
and gifts is unavoidably held over, aud 
will appear in our next number. 

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( 243 ) 


III. Expedition to Wexford {continued). 

As soon as the inhabitants of Wexford learned the answer that 
Cromwell had sent to the terms of surrender proposed b/Sinnott 
the Governor, they prepared themselves for a stem resistance. To 
the soldiers quarter and liberty; to the officers quarter, but not 
liberty ; and to the inhabitants freedom from pillage : these were 
the conditions on which the town should be surrendered within 
an hour. Yet matters were not so desperate within the walls that 
such terms need be accepted. The town was, according to Crom- 
well's description, pleasantly seated and strong, having a rampart 
of earth fifteen feet thick within the wall. It was garrisoned by 
over 2,000 men, commanded by an officer who had given many 
proofs of his bravery and fidelity. In the fort and elsewhere, in 
and about the town, there were near a hundred cannon ; in the 
harbour three vessels, one of them of thirty-four guns, another of 
about twenty guns ; and a frigate of twenty guns on the stocks, 
built up to the uppermost deck, which for " handsomeness' sake" 
Cromwell afterwards ordered the workmen to finish. Winter was 
setting in — it was the middle of October — and the " country sick- 
ness " would soon begin to tell on troops encamped under the 
open sky. Ormonde's army was at Ross — only twenty miles off; 
watching no doubt for a favourable moment to fall on the rear of the 
besieging lines, whose numbers were too few to keep up a com- 
plete investment and at the same time to repel a sudden attack 
that might be made on any point either from within or without. 

Unhappily, within the town there was that which marred many 
of these advantages — discord, a want of mutual confidence be- 
tween Ormonde and the inhabitants — and so far did it go, that the 
townsmen seem to have thought there was little room for choice 
between those who called themselves their friends and those 
whom they well knew to be their enemies. With difficulty could 
they be brought to admit a reinforcement from the Royalist army 
within the walls; it was only at the urgent request of Sinnott, 
whom Ormonde had sent as Governor, that they consented to 
receive a second body of troops, though they were much needed 
for the defence of the town. Some went so far as to propose that 
Cromwell should be treated with, in the hope that a peaceful 
surrender might secure to them not only life and liberty but a 
part of their goods, and perhaps their homes. But worse than 
this — they had in their midst a traitor. Such was the confidence 
of the Council of the Confederate Catholics in Captain James 
Stafford that the government of the county of Kilkenny had been 
entrusted to him jointly with Sir Thomas Esmond ; and when it 

VOL. in. S Digitized by Google 

244 Cromwell in Ireland. 

was known that Cromwell was marching on Wexford, he was sent 
to act as governor of the castle there, a most important post, 
since the possession of it ensured the possession of the town : and 
now the townsmen chose him as one of their four agents to confer 
with the besiegers about the terms of surrender. 

On the nth of October, about noon, some breaches having^ 
been made in the walls of the castle, the Governor of the town 
asked for a safe-conduct for four persons to treat of surrender on 
honourable terms. What these terms were we have already seen. 
One of the four persons chosen on behalf of the townsmen was 
Stafford. While Cromwell was preparing his answer, and before 
he delivered it, the Commissioners being still ignorant of what his 
decision might be, the Captain (Stafford) being fairly treated — 
these are Cromwell's own words — ^yielded up the castle. The 
local tradition says that Cromwell and Stafford had a meeting at 
midnight by the river side. Carte's words leave no room for 
doubting of the governor's guilt : ** The enemy entered the gates 
by the treachery of Captain Stafford." And ac:ain: "SuSford 
having privately received Cromwell's forces into the castle, which 
commanded the part of the town that lay next it, they issaed sud- 
denly from thence, attacked the wall and gate adjoining, and 
soon became masters of the place." 

The castle was outside the walls, vet close that so communi- 
cation could not be cut off between them. Seeing it in the hands 
of the enemy, and knowing that its guns commanded a part of the 
town, the besieged abandoned the aefence of that portion of the 
works ; the besiegers seized their scaling ladders, and crossed the 
walls without hindrance. The gates were immediately thrown 
open to admit those who were outside, and the whole army poured 
in. An attempt was made to prevent the advance of the cavalry 
by placing ropes and chains across the street. Meantime the 
garrison were retreating to the market-place; there the towns- 
people had gathered together. "When they were come into the 
market-place," writes Cromwell, " the enemy msiing a stiff resist- 
ance, our forces broke them." 

Then the same scenes that took place at Drogheda were re- 
newed at Wexford.* We have Cromwell's own account of these 
atrocities in a letter to the Speaker of the Parliament from before 
Wexford, i ith October, 1649. V Our men," he writes, " put to the 
sword all that came in their way. I believe, in all, there was lost 
of the enemy not less than two thousand- This town is now so 
in your power that of the former inhabitants I believe scarce one 
In twenty can challenge any property in their houses. Most of 

* «In Kovemher, 1649, the Idali under lacbiqiiiii kdd siege to Oanick-on- 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 245 

them are ran away, and many of them killed in this service. And 
indeed it has, not without pause, been deeply seated upon our 
hearts that we intending better to this place than so great a ruin, 
hoping the town might be of more use to you and your army, yet 
God would not have it so ; but by an unexpected providence in 
His righteous justice, brought a just judgment upon them, causing 
them to become a prey to the soldiers, who in their piracies had 
made preys of so many families, and now with their blood to 
answer the cruelties which they had exercised upon the lives of 
divers poor Protestants. It were to be wished that an honest 
people wonld come and plant here, where there are very good 
houses, and other accommodations fitted to your hands, which may 
by your favour be made of encouragement to them." 

And he concludes with the following pious utterance : "Thus 
it hath pleased God to give into your hands this other mercy** — 
Drogheda was the first — " for which, as for all, we pray God may 
have all the glory. Indeed your instruments are weak, and can 
do nothing but through believing — and that is the gift of God 

There is abundant testimony of contemporary writers to prove 
that the cruelties practised at Wexford were as great as those of 
Drogheda. Pr. Fleming, Archbishop of Dublin, writing to the 
Secretary of the Propaganda at Rome a few months after, says 
that many priests, some religious, innumerable citizens, and two 
thousand soldiers were massacred.* Father St. Leger, S.J., in a 
letter to his superiors in Rome in 1655, containing an account of the 
events of the preceding years, states that when Wexford was taken, 
Cromwell exterminated the^ citizens by the sword. Fortunately 
we have a detailed account of these events from one whose testi- 
mony is beyond all cavil. Dr. Nicholas French, the Bishop of 
Wexford, was "then lying ill in a neighbouring town." Soon 
after he was sent by the Confederates to ask for aid and protec* 
tion for the Irish Catholics from the Duke of Lorraine. The laws 
made against "Jesuits, priests, friars, monks, and nuns," and 
rigidly enforced, prevented his return to his native land ; he died 
at Ghent, August 23rd, 1678.! In a letter to the Papal Nuncio, 
written from Antwerp in January, 1673, he thus describes what 
took place : — 

"On that fatal day, October nth, 1649, I lost everything I 
had. Wexford, my native town, then abounding in merchandize, 
ships, and wealth, was taken at the sword's point by that pest of 
England, Cromwell, and sacked by an infuriated soldiery. Before 
God's altar fell many sacred victims, holy priests of the Lord. Of 
those who were seized outside the Church, some were scourged, 
some thrown into chains and imprisoned, while others were hanged 

» «* Spidleg. Oswr." By the Right Rev. Dr. Moran. L 341. 
t " Insh Writers of the Seventeenth Century." By Thomas D'Arcy Magee. 
L 162. 


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246 Cromwell in Ireland. 

or put to death by cruel tortures. The blood of the noblest of 
our citizens was shed so that it inundated the streets. There was 
hardly a house that was not defiled wilh carnage and full of waU- 
. ing. In my own palace, a boy hardly sixteen years of age, an 
amiable youth, and also my gardener and sacristan were baLrba- 
rously butchered ; and my chaplain, whom I had left behind me at 
home, was pierced with six mortal wounds and left weltering in 
his blood. And these abominable deeds were done in the open 
day by wicked assassins ! Never since that day have I seen my 
native city, my flock, my native land, or my kindred : and this it 
is that makes me the most wretched of men. After the destine- 
tion of the town I lived for five months in the woods, every moment 
sought after that I might be put tb death. There my drink was 
milk and water, my food a little bread ; on one occasion I did not 
taste bread for five whole days. I slept under the open sky, 
without roof or bedclothes. At length the wood in which I lay 
concealed was surrounded by numerous bodies of the enemy th^ 
came to seize me and send me in chains to England. But thanks 
to my guardian angel, I escaped from their hands by the swiftness 
and stoutness of my horse."* 

There is another letter of Dr. French's still extant in the 
library of Trinity College ; it is entitled, " Apologia," and seems 
to be a defence of his leaving Ireland and seeking safety in a 
foreign land : 

" You say nothing about my native city, Wexford, craelly de- 
stroyed by the sword on the nth of October, 1649 i nothing of 
my palace being plundered, and of my domestics impiously slain ; 
nothing of my fellow^labourers, precious victims, immolated by 
the impious sword of the heretics before the altar of God ; nothing 
of the inhabitants weltering in their own blood and gore. The 
rumour of the direful massacre reached me whilst I was ill in a 
neighbouring town, suffering from a burning fever. I cried and 
mourned and shed bitter tears and lamented; and turning to 
heaven with a deep sigh cried out, in the words of the Prophet 
Jeremias, and all who were present shared in my tears. In that 
excessive bitterness of my soul, a thousand times I wished to be 
dissolved and to be with Christ, that thus I might not witness the 
sufferings of my country. From that time I have never seen my 
city or my people, but, as an outcast, I sought refuge in the wilder- 
ness. I wandered through woods and mountains, generally taking 
my rest and repose exposed to the hoar frost, sometimes lying hid 
in the caves and caverns of the earth. In the woods and groves I 
passed more than five months, that thus I might administer some 
consolation to the few survivors of my flock who had escaped from 
the universal massacre, and dwelt there with the herds of cattle. 

* A copy of the Latin original is given in the " Spicileginm Ossoriense.** 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 247 

Hut neither trees nor caverns could afford me a lasting refuge ; for 
the heretical governor of Wexford, George Cooke, well known for 
bis barbarity, with several troops of cavalry and foot soldiers, 
searching everywhere, anxious for my death, explored even the 
highest mountains and most difficult recesses ; the huts and habi- 
tations adjoining the wood, in which I had sometimes offered the 
Holy Sacrifice, he destroyed by fire ; and my hiding places, which 
"were formed of branches of trees, were all thrown down. Among 
those who were subjected to much annoyance on my account, was 
a nobleman, in whose house he supposed me to be concealed. 
He searched the whole house with lighted tapers, accompanied by 
soldiers, holding their naked swords in their hands to slay me the 
moment I should appear. But amidst all these perils God pro- 
tected me, and mercifully delivered me from the hands of this 
blood-thirsty man."* 

Father Franqis Stafford, in a letter written about the same time, 
gives an account of the death of seven Franciscan Fathers. " On 
the nth of October, seven friars of our Order, all men of great 
merit, and natives of the town (Wexford), perished by the sword 
of the heretics. Some were killed kneeling before the altar, others 
while hearing confessions. Father Raymond Stafford, holding a 
crucifix in his hand, came out of the church to encourage the 
citizens, and even preached with great zeal to the infuriated 
enemies themselves, till he was killed by them in the market- 
place." The n^mes of these martyrs for the faith should not be 
forgotten ; they were — Fathers Richard Sinnott, Francis Staf- 
ford, Paulinus Sinnott, John Esmond, Peter Stafford, Raymond 
Stafford, and the lay brothers, Didacus Chevers and James Roch- 
fort.f A like fate befel any priest that fell into the hands of the 
Puritans during the war. When any forces surrendered upon 
terms, priests were always excepted ; they were out of protection, to 
be treated as enemies that had not surrendered-! " During the ten 
years of Cromwell's government," writes Mr. Froude, *• the priests 
and their works were at an end." 

Sir Edmund Butler was shot in the head while endeavouring to 
escape by swimming across the ferry. About 300 of the towns- 
people tried to cross the river in boats ; the boats, being over- 
crowded, were swamped, and aH on board were drowned. 

A traidition, still current in Wexford, says that 300 women were 
slain at the foot of the great cross in the public square. MacGeo- 
ghegan, who published his history in 1758, was the first writer 
who made special mention of this incident of the siege ; and from 

♦ " Sketch of Persecutions," &c By the Bight Rev. Dr. Moran. Dublin : 
TMtj. 1862. 

t " Snfferets for the Fjulh in Ireland." By Myles O'Reilly. M.P. 

X " The Cromwellian Settlement of Ireland." By J. P. Prendergast. P. 312. 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 

the silence of contemporaries, some of our historians have inferred 
that this tradition refers only to the general massacre of the 
inhabitants in the market-place. "Some nave questioned the accn- 
racy of the statement made by MacGeoghegan and Lingard,'* 
writes the Right Rev. Dr. Moran, " as to the massacre of these 
300 females around the cross in Wexford : they say Dr. French 
and the other contemporary writers would not be silent in regard 
of this particular. But these contemporary writers sufficiently 
describe the wholesale massacre of the inhabitants, without mercy 
being shown to either age or sex ; and any particulars that are 
added have a special reference to themselves. The same writers 
when describing the destruction of Drogheda, are silent as to the 
massacre in the crypt of St. Peter's Church ; and were it not for 
the narrative of an officer who was himself engaged in that bar- 
barous work, some critics would probably now be found to reject 
it as fabulous. The constant tradition not only of Wexford, but 
of the whole nation, attests the truth of the statement of the 
above-named historians."* 

It was not the inhabitants of the town alone that were slain. 
Dr. Lynch states that there was soon after throughout the countrv 
an indiscriminate massacre of men, women, and children, by which 
not less than 4,000 persons, young and old, were atrociously 
butchered by the order of Colonel Cooke, who had been appointed 
governor of the town bv Cromwell.f 

After the capture of Wexford, Cromwell despatched Ireton to 
lay siege to Duncannon. This fort is situated on a rock project- 
ing from the eastern side of Waterford harbour; its possession 

* The following poem on this subject by Mr. Michael Joseph Bany will be 
new to many of our readers : — 

" They knelt around the Cross divine. 

The matron and the maid — 
They bow'd before redemption's sign. 

Aid fervently they prayed — 
Three hundred fair and helpless ones, 

Whose crime was this alone — 
Their vah'ant husbands, sires, and sons» 

Had battled for their own. 

" Had battled bravely, but in vain — 

The Saxon won the fight. 
And Irish corses strewed the plain 

Where Valour slept with Roght. 
And now, that man of demon guilt. 

To feted Wexford flew— 
The red blood reeking on his hilt, 

Of hearts to Erin true! 

« He found them there— the yoong, the 

The maiden and the wife ; 
Their guardians brave in death werecold, 

Who dared for them the strife. 
They prayed for mercy — Grod on hi^ ! 

Before thy cross they prayed, 
And ruthless Cromwell bade them £e 

To glut the Saxon blade ! 

" Three hundred feU— the stifled pi«|«r 

Was quenched in women's blood ; 
Nor youth nor age could move to sptie 

From slaughter's crimson flood. 
But nations ktep a stem account 

Of deeds that tyrants do ! 
And guiltless blood to Heaven will moatf 

And Heaven avenge it too ! ** 

t <* Cambrensis Eversus." Edited by Rev. M. Kelly. IIL 103. 

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• CrtmtiveU in Ireland, 249 

secured to the Royalists the otAy approach hw ^rmitx to that citj. 
Ormonde considered it so important that he had resolved, in case 
General Farrell should arrive Defore its fall with the forces sent 
bj Owen Roe 0*Neill, .to ventare a battle rather than lose it He 
appointed Colonel Wogan governor, in place of Captain Thomas 
Roche, who had been put in command there by the Commissioners ; 
but as this was declared a breach of the Articles of Peace agreed 
on between Ormonde and the Confederates, Roche was restored 
to his command jointlv with Wogan. One hundred and twenty 
£nglish officers of Ormonde's lifeguard, whose fidelity had 
been tried by long service on the King's side in England, were 
sent to aid in the defence. From the citizens of Waterford he 
^ot forty barrels of powder, and a sufficient quantity of provisions 
to enable the besieged to make a lengthened resistance. Lord 
Castlehaven was sent to consult with Wogan on the plan of de- 
fence ; and seeing the situation of the besieging force, they re- 
solved to make a sally on a party of 1,500 foot that lay encamped 
in the neighbourhood* 

The stratagem employed is thus described by Carte: "Castle- 
haven undertook to send that night by sea eighty horses with 
pistols and all accoutrements; if Wogan would mount them with 
so many of English officers, and make a sharp sally with them 
before break of day. Some Parliament ships lay before the fort ; 
jet the tide serving at the beginning of the night, Castlehaven 
provided boats and ordered eighty choice horse to come to the 
seaside, where making the horsemen to alight, he caused the 
horses to be passed over. They entered the place; all was 
executed as designed ; a considerable slaughter made, and the 
artillery seized. Great was. the confusion amons^ the enemy, who 
took it not to be a sally of the garrison alone, for Wogan retired 
with his party before day, but the falling in of an army from abroad, 
hearing and seeing horses, and knowing none to be in the fort. 
Their consternation was so great on this occasion, that they raised 
the siege that very day (Nov. 5th), and marched off with such 
haste that they left two brass cannon behind them.'' 

Cromwell's soldiers were already weary of the hardships of the 
winter campaign, and showed a disposition to mutiny. He quieted 
them by a promise that the expedition to Ross should be the last 
service for the year, and that after the capture of that town they 
should go into winter quarters. On the 15th of October he left 
Wexford. Two days later he encamped before New Ross, a walled 
town situated upon the river Barrow, " a very pleasant and commo- 
dious river, bearing vessels of a heavy burden." Ormonde had 
sent Sir Lucas Taaffe with 1,500 foot to defend the pla<% — there 
were already 1,000 foot garrisoning the town-*and hearing of 
Cromwell's advance, he marched with his amy towards Ross and 
encamped on the other side •of the river. Taaffc^ the Governor, 
came to the camp and asked for an order under the Lord Lieu- 

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250 Cromwell in Ireland. 

tenant's hand for the defence of the town, as long as it was pos- 
sible ; and for the surrender, when it should be decided by a council 
of the chief officers that it could hold out no longer. 

On his arrival before the town, Cromjvell sent the following 
summons to the Governor : — 

(i.) ^^ For the Commander-in-Chief in Ross: These — 

^ "Before Ross, 17th October, 1649. 

" Snt, — Since my coming into Ireland, I have this witness for myself, that I 
have endeavoured to avoid efiusion of blood ; having been before no place to 
which such terms have not been first sent as might have turned to the good and 
preservation of those to whom they were offered ; this being my principle, that 
the people and places where I come may not suffer, except through their own 

« To the end 1 may observe the like course with this place and the people 
therein, I do hereby summon you to deliver the town of Ross into my hands, to 
the use of the Parliament of England. Expecting your speedy answer, I rest 
your servant, 

" OuvER Cromwell." 

The trumpeter who carried the summons was not allowed to 
enter the town ; he was received at the gates, and told that an 
answer would be given in due time. The batteries of the besieg- 
ing army were therefore got ready, and preparations made for 
storming the outworks. Early on the morning of Friday, the 19th, 
the large gims began to play. Soon after the Governor sent the 
following answer to the summons : — 

(2.) •* For General Cromwell^ or^ in his absence, for the Commander- 
in-Chief of the Army now encamped before Ross, 

" Ross, 19th October, 1649. 

" Sir, — I received a summons from you, the first day you appeared before 
this place, which should have been answered* ere now had not otJier occasions 
interrupted me. And although I am now in far better condition to defend this 
place than I was at that time, yet I am, upon the considerations offered in your 
summons, content to entertain a XxestXy^ and to receive from you those conditions 
that may be safe and honourable for me to accept. If you listen to them, I desire 
that pledges on both sides may be sent for performance of such articles as shall 
be agreed upon ; and that all acts of hostihty may cease on both sides, and each 
party keep within their distance. To this your immediate reply is expected by» 
sir, your servant, 

"Lucas Taaffe." 

(3.) '* For the Governor of Ross : These^ 

•« Before Ross, 19th October, 16A9. 
<* Sir, — If yon Hke to march away with those under your command, with 
. their arms, bag and ba£;gage, and with drums and colours, and shall deliver up 
tljLe town to me» I shall give caution to perform those conditions, expecting the 

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Cromwell in Ireland. 251 

like fipom you. As for the inhabitants, they shall be permitted to live peaceably,, 
free from Uie injury and violence of the soldiers. 

•• If you like hereof, you can tell how to let me know your mind, notwith- 
standing my refusal of a cessation. By those you will see the reality of my 
intentioos to save blood, and to preserve the place from ruin. I rest your ser- 

" Oliver Cromwell." 

The batteries still continued to play, and a breach was soon 
made in the wall. The men were drawn out in line, ready to ad- 
vance for the storm, Colonel Ingoldsby being chosen by lot to 
lead them. Taafie seeing how matters stood, sent the following 
reply : — 

(4.) " For General Cromwell : These— 

"Ross, 19th October, 1649. 
'* Sir, — ^There wants but little of what I would propose ; which is, that such 
townsmen as have a desire to depart, may have liberty within a convenient time 
to carry away themselves and their goods ; and liberty of conscience to such as 
shall stay ; and that I may cany away sudi artilleiy and ammunition as I have in 
my command. If you be inclined to this, I will send, upon )rour honour as a 
safe-conduct, an officer to conclude with you. To which your inlmediate ansi^er 
is expected by, sir, your servant, 

" Lucas Taaffe." 

On the 8th December, I1641, both Houses of Parliament in 
England passed a joint declaration, in answer to the demand of the 
Irish for the free exercise of their religion, that they would never 
give their assent to any toleration of the Popish feligion in Ireland, 
or in any other part of his Majest/s dominions. Another law was 
made in 1644, ^"^^ ^^ quarter should be given to any Irishman, or 
to any Papist bom in Ireland. Pym boasted that they would not 
leave a priest in Ireland.* We shall now understand better the 
meaning of the following letter. 

(5.) " For the Governor of Ross : These — 

"Before Ross, 19th October, 1649. 

*• Sir, — ^What I formerly offered I shall make good. As for your carrying 
away any artilleiy or ammunition that you did not bring with you, or that has 
not come to you since you had the command of that place ; X must deny you 
that, expecting you to leave it as you found it. 

" As for tluit which you mention concerning hTjerty of conscience, I meddle 
not with any man's conscience. But if by liberty of conscience you mean a liberty 
to ezerdse Uie Mass, I judge it best to use plam dealing and to let you know, 
where the Parliament of England have power, that will not be allowed of. As 
for such of the townsmen as desire to depart and carry away themselves and 
^oods, as you express, I engage they shall have three months' time to do so ; and 
m the meantime they shall be protected from violence in their persons and goods, 
as others tmder the obedience of Parliament. 

*• If you accept of this offer, I engage my honour for a punctual performance 
hereof. I rest your servant, 

•• OuYEE Cromwell." 

* " CromweDian Settlement," p. 3 1 1. 

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2^2 Cromwell in Ireland. 

(6.) " For General Cromwell: These-- 

"October 19th, 164^ 
" Sir, — I am content to ^cld up this place upon the tenns offered in your 
last and fiirst letteti. And if you please to send your safe-conduct to such as I 
shall appoint to perfect these conditions, I shall on receipt thereof send them to 
you. In the interval, to cease all acts of hostility, and that all parties keep their 
own ground, until matters receive a full end.. And I remain, sir, your servant, 

"Lucas Taaffb." 

(7.) '' For the Chpemor of Ross : Thest-^ 

" October 19th, 1649- 
" Sir, — ^You have my hand and honour engaged to perform what I offered in 
my first and last letters ; which I shall inviolably observe. I expect you to send 
me immediatelv four persons of such quality as may be hostages for yxsox perfor- 
mance ; for wnom you have this safe-conduct enclosed, into which 3^ may 
insert their names. Without which I shall not cease acts of hostility. If any- 
thing happen by your delay, to your prejudice, it will not be my fomt Those 
you sena may see the conmtions perfected. Whilst I forbear acts of hostility, I 
expect you forbear all actings within. I rest your servant, 

" Oliyer Cromwell." 

" This," says an old London newspaper, " was the last mes- 
sage between them. The governor sending out his four hostages 
to compose and perfect the agreement, our batteries ceased; and 
our intentions to storm the town were disappointed. Thus within 
three days we had possession of this place without the effusion of 
blood ; a very considerable place, and very good quarters for 
the refreshment of our soldiers. The enemy marched over to 
the other side of the river, and did not come out at th^t side of 
the town where we had encamped.'' Some six hundred English 
soldiers that were in the town entered the service of the Parlia- 

•* The surrender of this garrison," writes Cromwell to Lent- 
hall, "was a seasonable mercy, as giving opportunity towards 
Munster ; and is for the present a very good refreshment for our 
men. We are able to say nothing as to adl this, but that the Lord 
is still pleased to own a company of poor worthless creatures ; for 
which we desire His name to be magnified, and that the hearts 
of all concerned may be provoked to walk worthy of such con- 
tinued favours." 
u^ . D. M. 

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( ^53 


THE Orator spoke, and the crowd was hush'd. 
Men held their breath as the quick words rush'd ; 
Stem eyes grew tearful, cold hearts grew hot ; 
Though the hours sped by they heeded them not; 
And they swore not their fault if they liv'd not to see 
The tyrant dead and their country free. 

The Orator ceases — the curtain falls. 
The echoes die through the tenantless walls — 
They fought in vain, for the orator's word 
Sta/d not the sweep of the tyrant's sword. 
And the riveted chain clankM on as before. 
And the orator's words are remembered no more. 

Scanty his guerdon, scanty his fame. 

He lives in story, only a name. 


The Poet sang, and the earth grew still. 
And he moulded men's hearts at his own sweet will ; 
And they ask'd his name that it might be enroled 
With the names of earth's greatest in letters of gold — 
And his pale cheek flushed and his heart beat high, 
And he said — " Nor my name nor my song shall die.** 

He paus'd, and earth's voices, silent so long, 
Grew sevenfold louder, and drown'd his song. 
As the tide of time thro' the centuries roll'd 
The rust ate in thro' the letters of gold ; 
And newer songs seem'd sweeter to men, 
And the Poet's songs are not heard again, 
Save by a few, with less heart than head, 
Who grope for his thoughts in a tongue that is dead. 
Scantj his guerdon, scanty his fame. 
He left in story scarce aught but a name. 

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254 -^^ Old Calumny Refuted, 


The Thinker sat pale in his lonely cell, 

And mus'd on the Thought he had shap'd so well ; 

And his keen eye looked through the coming years. 

And he saw thro' the haze of his happy tears 

His shapely thought thro' the world expand 

Till its impress was stamp'd on the sea and the land ; 

And he thought to himself, 'mid his vision of fame, — 

" Surely the .world will remember my name." 

And the Thinker died, and his Thought went forth 

To the east and the west, to the south and the north ; 

But talent such changes on genius rang 

That the world forgot from whose brain it sprang ; 

And men deem'd that the fruit of the thought of the sage 

Was the slow grown produce of many an age. 

Scanty his guerdon, scanty his fame. 

He left in story not even a name 1 

J. F. 


** And not (as we are slandered, and as some affirm that we say) let us do 
evil that good may come." — Bt, Paul^ Rom. i. 8. 

IT is no disgrace to the Jesuit Order that it is sometimes at- 
tacked with that same sort of calumnies against which the 
Apostle here defends himself. Like causes produce like effects, 
and the friends, not less than the foes, of Christianity, too closely 
resemble in this nineteenth century their respective ancestors of 
the first, to carry on their warfare now-a-days in a very different 
fashion or with weapons altogether unlike to those used in the 
earliest age of the Church. 

The reflection is forced upon us by the long article, headed 
" Jesuit Teaching," which, following another of the same kind,, 
appears in the January issue of the (London) Quarterly Review* 
The writer is said to be an M. P. for an English midland county^ 
who has acquired, during a residence of some years in the German 
towns of Frankfort and Munich, just as much knowledge of the 
history of the Jesuit Order, their rules and their moral teaching, 
as enables him to misquote their annals, misunderstand their 
rules, and caricature their doctrine. Following the lead of Dr. 
Ruber of Munich, the member for the English shire put off his 
boots and travelling coat and set himself to indite a lengthy 

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An Old Calumny Refuted. 255 

paper on the Institate and Rales of the Society of Jesas. In the 
November issue of the Month a temperate and well-considered 
paper dealt effectively with the first or October article of the 
reviewer. The second article, entitled "Jesuit Teaching," was 
given to the world in the January number of the Quarterly; and 
together with Mr. Gladstone's " Speeches of Pius IX.," formed, 
we presume, for English Protestant minds the piece de resistance of 
that mnch-sought-for issue. The castigation inflicted upon the 
Quarterly reviewer by the Month would, in the opinion of com- 
petent judges, have sobered a less courageous or better in- 
formed writer. The reviewer, however, nothing daunted by ill 
success, has provoked a second combat, ,and abandoning the 
guidance of his Munich oracle — Dr. Huber — has opened business 
on his own account. The head and front of the Jesuits* offending 
is, this time, the laxity of their moral teaching. No doubt the 
tender conscience of the reviewer is sorely touched at this. He sets 
down at the head of his paper four or five Jesuit authors, some living, 
some long since dead, out of whose works he pretends to extract 
propositions quite shocking to Christian morality, and which, he 
thinks, fully justify the satire of Pascal and the deadly hatred of the 
Munich doctors against the Jesuit Society. The cardinal errors 
of this Society the reviewer reduces to three heads, viz. : That the 
end justifies the means ; that equivocations and mental reserva- 
tions are lawful things ; and last, not least, that probabilism, as it 
is called, is a safe and just rule of human action. 

Those who are acquainted with the " splendid libel " of Pascal 
and his associates, will find in this recent article of the reviewer 
little that can be called new. They cannot, however, fail to re- 
mark what a large amount of bad logic, blundering, and misquo- 
tation can be crowded under the appearance of impartiality and of 
some learning into an article in the Quarterly, 

The charges against the Jesuit Fathers are drawn from, and 
alleged to be justified by, the printed works of Gury, Busenbaum, 
Voit, Layman and Liberatore — the first four compilers of manuals 
of moral theology ; the last, a writer on ethical and philosophical 
subjects both in the ** Civiltd Cattolfca" and in separate printed 
works inscribed with the writer's name. 

The doctrine that the end justifies the means; or, in other 
words, that evil may be done in order that good may come, is, it 
is needless to say, spumed by St. Paul ; and in the unlimited sense 
put upon it by the English reviewer, has never had a defender 
among Catholics — ^Jesuit or other. The only authentic source to 
which I can trace that motto is the too well-known Hans Carvel in 
the burlesque poem of that name by Matthew Prior — 

" The end must justily the means- 
He onlv sins that ill intends ; 
Since therefore 'tis to combat evil, 
Tis lawM to employ the devil." 

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256 An Old Calutm^ Refuted, 

It is barely possible tbat the writer of the article headed *' Jesuit 
Teaching" in the last Quarterly^ considering the aaiount of 
knowledge displayed in his former lucubrations, may have con- 
sidered Hans Carvel to have been a Jesuit. We assure him the 
fact was not so» We assure him further that the wittj irony of 
Pascal in his seventh letter entitled, •* How to direct one's IntOBr 
tion according to the Casuists/' is irony and nothing more. There 
is no objective counterpart to it. It lacks truth. No Jesuit ever 
maintained that the intrinsic characters of moral good and moral 
evil are dependent upon the mere artifice of directing one's inten- 
tion in this or the other way : and neither Chateaubriand, nor the 
candid and clever English Protestant who wrote under the signature 
of Frank Fairplay, was wrong in designating the ** Provincial Letters" 
of Pascal, the one as an " immortal lie," the other as at best but 
" a splendid libel." The writers who have been found guilty of 
nine hundred falsifications in their two famous works, cannot be 
good authorities for grave charges. The Munich professors of 
the present day cannot be much relied on ; and we purpose in the 
following pages to open some sources of information as to " Jesuit 
Teaching " less liable to objection and more satisfactory to Eng- 
lishmen, than what the reviewer in the Quarterly has thought 
proper to produce. • 

In dealing with any body of men we should accept their own 
declarations as the best evidence of the tenets they hold. Egn 
sum pfoximus mihi is true not only of individuals but of com- 
munities. Their disclaimers of doctrines or views imputed to 
them ought to be weighed and judged of by the same rule as those 
of individual persons. Humanity, as well as love of truth, pre- 
scribe this course ; and it is hard (unless, perhaps, in the cases of 
St. Paul and the Jesuit body) to see any exception to it. Follow- 
ing this principle, the charge of holding that " the end justifies 
the means " will soon disappear from the list of Jesuit evils. No 
Jesuit has ever yet acquiesced in it. No Jesuit has failed to pro- 
test against it. We will deal however with Jesuit authors only and 
proceed with written evidence alonfe. 

In the year 1625, about the same time that Herman Busen- 
baum was collecting materials for his ** Medulla Theologiae Mo- 
ralis," the great Jesuit commentator, Cornelius k Lapide, wrote 
his " Exposition on the Epistles of St Paul." His annotation or, 
doctrinal comment on the passage of St. Paul at the head of this 
paper, is as follows : — ** Observe here with care that no sin, not even 
the smallest venial sin, is a means that may he chosen or put into execu- 
tion for the purpose of avoiding even the very gravest sinP A more 
explicit denial of the doctrine that " the end justifies the means^" 
was never yet put forth. It has never been heard that the Jesuits 
in their individual or corporate capacity have objected, to this ruling 
of A Lapide or disavowed his doctrine. 

About the same time a luminary of another kind — a Jesuit, and 

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An Old Calumny Refuted. 257 

one whose influence was not less than that of A Lapide — ^was 
rootmting high in the firmament of Italy. This was the famous 
missionary preacher. Father Paul Segneri. If any writer among 
the Jesuits can be selected as a fair representative of their teach- 
ing, it is the famous preacher, Paul Segneri. His credit with that 
Order for correct theological teaching (as well as for elegance of 
language) is immense, while the masses whom he addressed 
ranked his **Prediche" and his ** Ragionamento " as second to the 
inspired volumes alone. 

The extract which we give below is taken from the ** Ragiona- 
mento" of November 28. The subject is ** Small Sins," — 2l subject 
with which the hearers of Mr. Spurgeon cannot be unfamiliar. 
More valued, however, than the effusions of Spurgeon himself, the 
substance of the *'Ragionamento" on ^'Little Sins "has passed, in]the 
House of Spiritual Exercises in Rome, into the standing text which 
year after year is propounded almost without change to the clergy- 
men and laymen that frequent that house. The doctrinal teaching 
of Ibis Jesuit Segneri, runs thus : — 

•• To be bnrtliened with a siDf^e deliberate Tenial sin, however small, is a greater 
evil in one's regard than to be a£ucted with every possible disease — ^wounds, impos- 
thumes, fever, gont, palsy, paroxysms of every sort ; nay, than the very devils of 
heB, soffered to infest the human frame. It follows that to escape these evils one 
can never bring himself with a good conscience to tell a single lie, though only 
in jest, nor attempt a slight theft, nor compass a trifling fraud or bit of knavery, 
l^or alone this, but were it in one's power to bring one day or other to the faith 
of Christ by means of such a sin all Jews, Tartars, Turks, Gentiles, in a word, 
all the nations rebellious to God's word, one cannot so act, nor would God be 
obliged for such conversion, but would punish one with pain and sufifering so 
severe as those of Purgatory, which surpass all the torments of this world/ — 
Segneri, *• Ragionamento," Nov. ap.* 

Segneri was bom in 16^4, Father Busenbaum in i6oa The 
"Ragionamento" above cited reached the public ear, however, long 
before any of the obnoxious phrases, which sharp eyes seem to 
have detected in Busenbaum, was put into print. So, in like manner, 
did the commentary of A Lapide proclaiming, on the authority of 
St. Paul, that "no morally evil thing, however small, can be done 
or designed for even, the greatest of good results.** Loc. cit. But 
earlier than either of these, the well-known Cardinal Bellarmine, a 
Jesuit, had given to the world his Catechism or *' Dottrina Cris- 
tiana." We find in this standard Catechism (as we do in our 
Catechisms of to-day) the following question and answer : — 

Q. Is it kwfiil to tell a lie [^n officious lie, is BeUarmine's w(»rd] for a good 
A, No ; for a He bdng intrinsically evil, no reason or motive can excuse it 

* The doctrine ajDOonts to this, that ff^ end can justify evil means. 

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258 An Old Calufnny Refuted. 

We call the attention of the reviewer and his Munich friends to 
this uncompromising and highly practical doctrine of the learned 
Jesuit Bellarmine. It should be borne like an amulet around the 
necks of reviewers and Munich doctors. It might be engraved at 
a future day (we hope a distant day) as an epitaph over the tomb 
of the Quarterly reviewer ; and if useless for the generation that 
now is, it might be of some service to that which is to follow. 

Bellarmine is not the only Jesuit catechist who teaches that the 
holiness of an end or intention, however unquestioned, cannot 
authorize the adoption of immoral or improper means. In France, 
the country of Pascal, and while the light irony of thkt writer was 
ringing in the ears of many a Parisian gamin, Father Couturier, a 
Jesuit, was labouring to impress upon the rising generation the 
same stern truth that Bellarmine and Segneri had proclaimed in 
Italy. The text of Pdre Couturier is as follows (" Catech. Dogm. 
et Moral, VIII. Com. de Dieu ") ; 

Q. May we not sometimes tell a lie ? 

A, No; it is never permitted to tell a lie. A lie is at all times a sin because 
always, opposed to the supreme veracity of God, who of necessity detests felse- 
hood, (duplicity, and lips that lie. 

Objection, There are lies that harm our neighbour in no degree, their aim is 
to have a laugh, to excuse oneself, to oblige, to avoid giving displeasure, &c. 

A, It matters not, answers St. Austin. It is never allowed on whatever oc- 
casion. How trivial soever a lie may be, it is still a greater evil than the com- 
bined temporal evils of all this worlci. 

Of positive witnessings to the effect that the end does not 
justify any means (in the slightest degree condemnable) we have 
already a goodly array. It is questionable if the whole Anglican 
communion can produce as many testimonies under this one head. 
One more shall be added to the list. The founder of the Sociejf 
of Jesus is sometimes taunted with infusing into that Society in 
its very origin a spirit of craft and subserviency, and is charged in 
particular with furnishing germs of the hated doctrine, that the 
end justifies the means. To any one who reads the ** Spiritual 
Exercises " of that devoted and single-minded man, no weapon 
from the armoury of slander shall appear more pointless. No 
writer could indeed declare in clearer language than Ignatius, that 
bad or vicious means cannot be relieved of their guilt and rendered 
faultless by any end or intention they may be made to subserve. 
This negative St. Ignatius lays down unequivocally in his "Spiri- 
tual Exercises " in the meditation on the three degrees of humility. 
The second degree is stated to amount to this, that we be deter- 
mined on no account whatever, for no consideration of this life, 
to commit a single venial sin, be it ever so small. The third de- 
gree of humility (L e. of Christian loyalty) the saint defines thus: 
that in case of equal (external) honour accruing to the Supreme 
Being from two sets of actions— two lines of conduct on our part, 

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An Old Calumny Refuted, 2 Kg 

-we should choose of the two that which makes us more resemble 
the mortified life of Christ Earlier still the saint had laid down 
a similar doctrine. There is, he says, one end and only one 
ultimate end for which man was created. He is bound to strive 
for that end, and to use created things in reference to that end 
-only. Holy and excellent, however, as this last advice is, it is to 
be limited and explained by the axiom (self-evident to a Christian) 
that when any created object is commanded or forbidden there 
ceases to be moral option on our part ; the question is settled 
l)y the highest authority that exists. The range of free moral 
choice does not extend to such points. They are sealed and de- 
termined by the highest of all law-givers, and no end, intention, 
legislation, reasoning, or permission can disturb or invalidate the 
ruling of that authority. — (Ignatius of Loyola, " Exercises, Funda- 
mental Meditation.") 

Thus the Jesuit Fathers, through their founder, their professors, 
their preachers and their catechis,ts have held the same language, 
viz. — that no end, no intention or object whatsoever can justify or 
exempt from God's displeasure an act in itself prohibited or im- 
moral. None endorse more cheerfully than the Jesuit the well- 
known maxim of the poet— 

" Who noble ends by nohU means obtains, 
Or failing smiles in exile or in chains, 

that man is great indeed." 

From utterances such as those above given, let us turn to the 
jugglery by which they are sought to be set aside. " The mind 
of man can rest," says Gibbon, " in a mixed and middle state be- 
tween self-illusion and voluntary fraud." That many of the Jesuits' 
accusers are just in this state we have much reason to believe, and 
that the M.P. for Oxfordshire has not escaped it we make bold, 
notwithstanding all literary courtesies, to afl&rm. A few samples of 
his manipulations will suffice for the reader. 

The words of Father Gury, '^ qui ignorat Mysteria Trinitatis'' &c., 
the reviewer translates, " he who ignores the mysteries of the 
Trinity," &c., instead of ** who is ignorant of,"&c., the nonsense or 
counter sense of which is briefly though effectively exposed in the 
last number of "The Month" (see page 230 of the periodical). Further 
on, a still braver feat of translation is achieved by the reviewer. 
Father Gary divides Mental Reservations into two kinds — strictly 
mental and loosely, or improperly called mental {Stride mentales et latk 
sen improprie mentales,) The former, he says, are never allowed, 
being only lies in another shape; the latter may, from grave causes, 
in some cases be allowed. The translator here renders lati^ 
VOL. in. T 

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2 to An Old Calumny Refuted, 

latently^ italicizing the word to show us the fidelity with which he 
has translated. He then informs us that Gury permits laieni 
mental reservations for a grave reason. The reviewer though 
representing, it is said, an English shire, in which one of the 
great Universities is situate, is manifestly unaware that latiy^ 
widely^ vaguely, from latus, lata, latum, wide, has no connection 
whatever with lateo, latere, to lie hid, or with its derived adverb 
latenter, latently. This creditable mistake turns of course to the 
advantage of the reviewer's cause, and makes Gury ^slj precisely the 
reverse oi vi\iZX. Qfxxry does say. Compared with this achievement, 
the effort of the spectacled parson who derived Deipara from 
Deus, God, and/ar, equal, and charged Catholics with making the 
Blessed Virgin equal to God, vanishes into insignificance ! Some 
of the Oxford beadles or hall-porters, ought surely to be taken 
into our reviewer's service before the latter again honours the 
" Quarterly" with his lucubrations. 

The same ** mixed and middle state between self-illusion and 
voluntary fraud " which Gibbon attributes to Mahomet, appears to- 
cling to our writer, when, endeavouring to support his charge 
against the Jesuits of having taught " that the end justifies the 
means," he flies to the pages of Gury, Busenhaum, Voit, and 
Liberatore. It is in vain that Gury lays down that ** only means 
in themselves indifferent, i. e. characterised by no inherent malice, 
are permissible."* It is in vain for the -same excellent writer to- 
proclaim that ** all choice of evil means, is evil,"t that " he who- 
uses evil means to attain a good end contracts the guilt attaching^ 
to the use of such means ; "{ the writer will have it that guilt does 
not mean guilt, evil does not mean evil. 

The reviewer's next assault is directed against Father Busen- 
baum. Father Herman Busenbaum lectured for many years in. 
Moral Theology, in the University of Cologne, and in 1645 gave 
to the world his well-known " Medulla Theologiae Moralis." In 
the preface to this work the author tells us, ** I have asserted nothing 
unless what has been the common sentiment of doctors, or what 
I have found in the books or writings of the most approved authors." 
Many of the propositions contained in the " Medulla" are, as Dr. 
Newman (letter to the Duke of Norfolk, p. 43) observes, not Father 
Busenbaum's but those of other people. They are not even ap- 
proved by Father Busenbaum, but given for what they are worth. 
Busenbaum apprises us "that if he sets forth some instances where 
Catholic doctors thought more benignly (than the common run of 
authors, we suppose), he does not therefore either advise or ap- 
prove of those statements [Praef, ad fin). The style of this moralist . 
is orderly and lucid ; concise however even to a fault, like that of 
the Father of Greek Philosophy himself. A hasty and superficial 

♦ •• Casus Cansc." p. 352. 

t " Compcnd. Theologiae Mor." De Actib. Human. Art. II., § 3. Dc Finc- 
unde resolves, 

X ^d De Actib. Human. Art. H., { 3. De Fine 

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An Old Calumny Refuted, 261 

reader may easily, on this accoant, mistake the meaning of Father 
Bosenbaum ; and it is no wonder that a literary buccaneer who is 
in want of a Latin dictionary, and is too ignorant to understand 
the word laie (loosely, widely), but confounds it with latenter 
(latently), should be unable to supply the ordinary ellipses and the 
omitted but understood conditions of a close and logical writer 
vpoii Moral Theology. 

The reviewer charges Father Busenbaum with being the patri- 
arch of a maxioi which he justly regards (if absolutely taught or 
acted upon), as sulyversive of morals and common honesty. 
Bnsenbaum's" Manual" has gone through /u^ ^tt»^r(f(/ editions since 
164.5, "when it first appeared. The reviewer has got seized and 
possessed of one edition, that of Munich, 1653), and this he 
cites by pages only — as if every reader of the ** Quarterly" is 
supposed to have gone to the Old Catholics of Munich, and to 
have furnished himself with the rare and rather antiquated edition 
that adorns the reviewer's own shelves. We possess better and later 
editions, not paged, however, as the reviewer's is. With some 
difficulty we have succeeded in finding a phrase or two not unlike 
those quoted in the ** Quarterly." On these phrases, we think, 
rests the entire patriarchate so liberally bestowed upon Busen- 
baum both by Pascal of old, and by Dr. Huber and Mr. Cartwright 
in the present day. Among the sixty or more propositions found 
in Busenbaum, and censured by the Roman authorities since 1 645, 
this dictum^ ** Cui licet finis, ei licent media ad finem" does not 
appear. From this alone it is clear, that Busenbaum used such 
dictum in no heterodox or uncatholic sense. The maxim or rule, 
*' Cui licet finis, ei licent et media," ^^who has a ri^ht to the end, 
has a right to the means,*^ manifestly supposes : i. That the moral 
goodness or badness of the means has not been determined already 
aliunde. 2. That such are the only or necessary means to the end 
in question. 3. That the end in question is lawful. There is no 
need of repeating these suppositions at every moment. We know 
that no end or motive can legitimate such means as are in them- 
selves wrong. Busenbaum's treatises on Material and Formal Co- 
operation, On Lying, On Duelling, Self-Mutilation, Immodesty, &c.^ 
suppose and rest upon such assumptions ; and in the first of the two 
obnoxious passages (see Busenb. L. IV., cap. 11., Art. ii. resolues 3, 
and L. VI., Tract VI., c.ii.), the means said to be not condemnable 
are narrowed down, even in such a thing as the natural right to 
escape from death or perpetual prison, by these stringent limits, 
viz. nisi honum publicum aliud postulet, ptacisa vi et injuria ; i. e. 
that such escape be not against the common weal, that it be without 
violence, and without wrong or injury to any. These excesses not 
being supposed, the natural rightof any man to escape from enforced 
death or captivity carries with it a corresponding right to break a 
window, or jump it may be over a table. Will any Englishman 
deny the right or condemn the fugitive of a sin before God ? 

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262 An Old Calumny Refuted. 

What one of the 600 M.P's. blames John Mitchell for his escaipe 
on any other ground than that of broken /an?/^f* 

The next delinquent in matter of moral teaching, according to 
our reviewer, is Father Gury. Fortunately the words of Father 
Gury are so clear and so full as to defeat adverse criticism. 
They are» " The lawfulness of the «nd carries with it a right to 
means of thunselves indifferent^^ The miserable comment put by 
the " Quarterly's" writer on the word indifferent is altogether ex- 
cluded by Gury's own definition of the word, as used by him.t A 
circumstance is in his language, indifferent when it neither adds 
to nor diminishes the morality of the act it belongs to. In 
the same category with Gury are to be classed two other writers 
quoted by our reviewer, viz. Wageman and Liberatore, both 
Jesuit divines. The former of these writers says : — 

"(I) If the means be indifferent^ the choice derives neither goodness nor 
malice from it, as is evident. (2) If the means is of the same spec^ malice or 
goodness as the end, the ch(nce does not superincmce a new species of morality. 
(3) Every choice of evil means is evil ; but on the other hand, not evexy choice 
tiigood means is positively good." 

The latter. Father Liberatore offends our ** astounding^ 
critic, by giving utterance to a simple truism which no one ever 
attempted to deny. The proposition is what Locke would have styled 
a mere " verbal proposition ;" more recent writers would name it a 
platitude. It is to the following effect as given by the reviewer:— 
'' From the obligation to attain an end arises the right to procnre 
the means necessary and useful towards that end." A very harm- 
less utterance surely ; yet such are the utterances which offend the 
tender consciences of our reviewers, and force them every three 
months to give an ainng at once to their knowledge of Latin and 
their contempt of the rules of logic. 

. In the paper which we now close, the reader will observe a 
mass of direct teaching from Jesuit sources to the effect that the end 
does not justify any unjust or censurable means. Of the five Casuists 
produced by Mr. Cartwright as erring by an opposite teaching, we 
have dismissed two (Layman and Voit) as not affording even a 
pretext for the change advanced. Three others we have confronted 
with their accuser, and considering the mighty blunders of the 
latter, and the unblamed utterances against which he fights, we 
must say to each one of the accused : 

** The formal process vanishes to sport, 
And yoji're dismissed with honour by the conrt.*' 

How long the Quarterly will continue to instruct its readers 
through such articles as we have examined, will depend much on 
the good sense or prejudice of the English people. M. O'F. 

• It is only of a sin inforo conscieniiae the author speaks. 

t The reviewer labom^ hard (see "Qoarteriy," p. 71) for some ftnf«gtiral gpd 
absurd meaning of the word indifferent, Fatliier Gury informs him in what sense 
he uses it ; viz. — <* Quae (actiones) nihil conferunt ad moralitatem actus, prosns 
indifferentes haibttLim,** {De Act, Human, De CircumstantOs^ P* ^ Rome, 

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( ^63 . ) 



Part VII. 

Left to themselves in this state of suspense, husband and wife 
silently looked round them. Achilles' first glance lit upon the 
sealed desk, purposely left by Mary George in a place where she 
knew it would catch the eyes of all comers. 

" Verjr regular — very proper, indeed !" he said on sight of this 
object of Miss Travers' care. Cautiously drawing it towards him 
(Giles* broad back just then offering a screen ample enough be- 
tween him and the others), he found his curiosity fully satisfied 
" G. R.," in the large plain capitals of an old-fashioned family seal, 
and "A. F.," in a delicately executed modem monogram, answered 
for " George Richardson" and "Arthur Franklin." 

** Very proper and regular, really I " again commented he. 

" Yes, if they didn't open it first," observed Mrs. Achilles. 

Her husband shook his head. Of Dr. Franklin's part he had 
not the very slightest doubt ; and, all things considered, he "rather 
thought not," he said^ meaning to refer only to his cousin George. 

At this moment the cook appeared. Warned by the coming 
footstep, Mrs. Achilles had already turned from the table, and now 
stood confronting her. Awed for the moment by the commanding 
air of the figure that thus stopped the way, the woman involuntarily 
made something like the curtsey that had been a daily portion of 
her early lessons. But quickly recovering herself, and as' though 
feeling that she had been imposed on, she assumed even more 
than her ordinary share of that give-and-take, labour v. capital 
demeanour which, whether for better or for worse, domestics on 
this side of the water are surely and not slowly acquiring from 
their American cousins. 

"Mrs. Richardson is out, I believe?" recommenced Mrs. 

" Yes, mem. You're Mrs. Deane, I suppose'm ?" 

*• Certainly I I am Mrs. Deane," answered the lady, raising 
her voice, pethaps unconsciously, so as to send the assertion the 
full length of the room to the ear of Mrs. Giles. " And this is 
Mr. Deane— your master's nephew." 

The cook glanced at the gentleman, but turned again to Mrs. 

" We're expecting Mrs. Richardson in, every moment, m'm," 
she said. '* But if she was not back in time to meet you, mem, 
she left her compliments, and hoped you and Mr. Deane wouldn't 
think of going back to the country without dining. And the other 

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264 John Richardsori s Relatives. 

Mr. Deane and his lady, she hoped you'd all make one party and 
dine with Mr. Richardson at fiv^. He'd expect you up to half- 
past for certain, and she hoped you wouldn't disappoint him." 

"Oh I — thank you," pronounced Mrs. Achilles, slowly, and 
then she was silent. Looking on her as a natural enemy, even as 
the giver of gifts she mistrusted Mary George. Yet what was to 
be done ? since, without taking time to put the axiom into words, 
she, too, recognised the fact that, come what might, men must get 
their dinner. One effort more she would make before referring, 
as she must, the matter to Achilles. 

*• Mrs. Richardson herself dines here," she said, in the tone of 
assertion rather than of question. ' 

** Here, ma'am ! oh, dear no, 'm ! " was the reply. ** She just 
takes a cup of tea with Miss Travers morning and evening. Mrs. 
Richardson doesn't give the least bit of trouble in the house ; no 
more than if she was a child, but a great deal less." This was 
added with a look towards the group around the baby. 

•* What do you say ?" Mrs. Achilles said, now forced to face her 
liege lord and the consequences of her own miscalculations. 

" If you settled to have no dinner at home, we must have it 
somewhere, you know I " returned Achilles, in an aside such as he 
and his professional brethren would hold on a hitch in the cause of 
an unlucky client, and whose significance would be pretty sure to 
be apparent to the other side. 

Now on the present ** other side " the cook was nowise defi- 
cient in the mother wit that sees and catches at the enemy^s weak 
point. She felt that she had but quietly to ** hold her own" for 
that day in order to ensure a happy riddance of the perpetual and 
perhaps irregular dinners for family droppers-in, of which a vision 
had haunted her throughout the first night of her old master's ill- 
ness. She stood still and silent ; respectfully so, it seemed, but— 
Mrs. Achilles understood the full force of what lay behind that 

" Well, yes," she said to her husband, " I did tell Sophia to 
slacken fire in the range : coals are so " 

** Well, then," interrupted he, decisively, ** there's nothing else 
for it!" 

In short it was a decree nisi^ which, as every one will know, 
Achilles had put into plain English. No wonder, indeed! the 
poor man was already sensible of having his appetite put forwanl 
a full hour by the clock upon the bare prospect of the only possible 
alternative as to getting dinner (a plate of ham- shavings at a coffee 
shop being none) : the going home and awaiting the heating of 
the oven and Sophia's temper. For as to the dropping into an hotel 
for a good substantial meal — as some easy-going, road-to-ruin-like 
folk might think of doing, was, in the company of Mrs. Achilles, 
im-pos-si-ble ! 

'* I'll mention Mrs. Richardson's invitation to my brother and 

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John Richardson* s Relatwes. 265 

sister-in-law," that lady herself said to the cook, with a nod that 
added plainly '* you may go." 

That she had appropriated to herself and her husband the 
message more particularly addressed to the country couple, and, it 
might even be said, personated them for the moment, seemed to 
Mrs. Achilles a matter of no consequence ; since to her and Achilles, 
who otherwise might have to give a dinner, the moot question of 
accepting one elsewhere appeared properly to belong. And now 
that this arrangement was decided on, she took the newest, 
simplest, and surest means of ensuring tranquil acquiescence by 
laying it before Giles and his wife in the shape of an accomplished 
fact. This done, all that remained was to pass somehow or other 
the time dividing the present from George Richardson's dinner- 

On the following morning, George unexpectedly appeared be- 
fore his brother's door just as the family were gathering for break- 
fast. His first thoughts on waking, at the early hour at which all 
folk not descended from the seven sleepers must awake in a house 
inhabited by three healthy children and a baby, were that as his 
recent visit to John's ofl5ce had more or less broken the ice be- 
tween them it would be too bad to let it close in to separate and 
chill them as before ; that a fresh piece of news, such as he now 
was provided with, is a great help towards getting through an 
awkward meeting ; and that by going to John's house there would 
be Mary and the children to help to carry on or off the interview. 
He had then, without giving his courage time to cool down into 
irresolution, proceeded to put his thoughts into action. 

At almost the first sound of his voice in the hall, a shower of 
young Richardspns descended upon Uncle George I " If they 
were but a little stronger, I'd make my appearance * Lady-out-of- 
town,' " he said to John and Mary, as led and driven he entered 
the breakfast- room, where his welcome was, if less noisy, not less 
cordial. There were no two ways in which John could meet his 
own brother in his own house. And Mary's cordiality indeed was 
even more marked than usual : '* lest," as she afterwards said to 
her husband, " the poor fellow might think that unfortunate money 
matter — which she felt sure he could 'not help — lessened his wel- 
come." And as she promptly made all proper inquiries for Mary 
George (learning how and where she was), John was spared that 
difficulty as to naming the latter which he lately had experienced 
in meeting George alone. 

" Well," the latter said, the moment he had answered his sister- 
in-law, ** they've strange news over at Uncle Tott's — he's come to 
timself at last." 

** Thank God," John said ; " that would be good news, even if 

he was the total stranger that ," here he paused, as though not 

choosing at such a juncture to go back on bygones. 

"Yes, indeed!" added Mary, feelingly. "Poor man! it was 

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266 John Rtchardson*s Relatives. 

awful to think of any one being taken off in that way. When did 
he come to, George } " 

** Late last evening. The Deanes were there in the afternoon,, 
and went back again before Giles went home to see was there anj 
change. So that we were all in the house when he suddenly 
opened his eyes and looked about him. At first he seemed to 
fancy we all were there about the old lady's funeral, and asked had 
he been let lie there while others buried his wife. They told him 
that it was after the funeral he fainted ; and he still seems under 
the impression that he has been ill all the tfme since her death, and 
to forget all that has happened since. He has no notion that he has 
had a fit. Isn't it odd ? But Franklin mentioned a man whom 
he had attended himself in a last fit, and whom his father had 
brought round from a first more than twenty years before, and who 
never knew of its occurrence. And Uncle Tott is not to be told 
of his, it appears." 

"That's all right, I dare say," John replied, "He's in safe 

** By the way, he asked for you — that is, at least, he asked how 
you are." 

"Not as if he wished to know more than that?" John said, 

" Well to t — t — tell you the truth," stammered George, " it 
sounded like the mere old-fashioned politeness he always spoke 
ivith when we chanced to meet. That was how it struck me— as 
you ask." 

" And as it struck me without asking," John rejoined. 

"That's no reason though, as I said to you before, why you 
shouldn't go to see him. He showed no surprise at seeing any of 
us, and no dislike to seeing us. And no doubt he will be likely 
to settle his affairs now, if he has not settled them already." 

Mary looked inquiringly at John. "Perhaps," she said, "the 
coolness between him and all of you was more his wife's fault than 
his own." 

" A hundred to one it was ! " George exclaimed, eagerly. 
"What !" John returned, indignantly; and turning to his wife as 
though George had not been heard, "if George and his wife were 
dead, do you think that I could be prevented even by you— if you 
would prevent me — from loving and looking after his grandchil- 
dren ? or that he would — if he could do it — be prevented looking: 
after ours ? I rejoice at the poor old man's recovery, but ^ 

He did not fill up this pause, nor did anyone else for the mo- 
ment ; and Mary, turning to her tea-urn — forgotten while they 
talked — ^proceeded to make breakfast ready. The children mean- 
time had settled themselves on and around their uncle. George 
junior, in quality of eldest and of godson, having taken possesion 
of the right knee, while Anna, as the only girl, claimed the left; 
and the younger boys seized a shoulder each. 

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John Richardson's Relatives. 267 

** Now,'* George said to his godson, " One — ^" 

" One-ery, two-ery, Dickeiy, Davy, 
Hollabo, crackeiy, Henry, navy ; 
Whiskum, dandum, merri-cum-time ; 
Humbleum, bumbleum, twenty-nine,"* 

trolled out young George, in a breath. 

•• That's a man !" his uncle said ; ** you'll soon be able to say^ 
your A B C." 

The little fellow smiled understand ingly at this eulogium. 

*• I could say it, too. Uncle George," cried Anna, eagerly: 
•* though George wouldn't teach me." 

•* I only said it wasn't fit for girls," returned George junior: — 
" and is it, Uncle George ?" 

•• Well," Uncle George replied, consideringly, as he looked first 
at one child and then at the other, " Well, George, Polly says it." 

" And mamma said if it wasn't fit for girls you would not teach 
it to George," added Anna, triumphantly. 

" Mamma said right — as she always does," George said, turn- 
ing an affectionate look on his sister-in-law. " But I'll tell you. 
what it is, Anna; — I'll" (lowering his voice confidentially) "find 
something for you and Polly to say yourselves." 

" Would Polly have it if I went down to dine with her to-day ?" 
inquired the child. 

"Not to-day, Anna, certainly," Mary John said. "Uncle 
George knows when papa and I say * No,' it is not to be. And 
wouldn't it be nicer for you to ask him to send up Polly and the 
boys to dine with you?" 

" We have no hobby-horse here," Anna replied, looking at her 

"You have a stable, you know, Anna," returned he; "and 
papa says you'll find a donkey in it some fine day. And won't 
that be better?" 

" I know papa said we'd have a donkey some fine day. But 
ever, ever so many fine days came and he didn't come." 

" I didn't promise the fine day to come this year," John said. 

•• And Dick says," pursued Anna, " that when wehaveourdonkejr 
we shan't be able to ride him on wet days ; nor any day at night. ' 

" Why, Dick is as melancholy in his prophecies as * Moore's- 
Almanac!'" George said. "Though if he once had the donkey 
himself, I fancy he'd try conclusions with us on that point. I 
hope you rode enough, Anna, when you were down last birthday ?"" 

" Georgey gave Dick a great big piece of his pudding to let me 
ride as long as ever I liked," answered Anna. " But he wouldn't 
let George, and 'twas then they boxed and ^" 

• The Tim9s lately attributed this rhyme to Sir Waller Scott, but it has beea 
cmrent from time immemorial in Mnnster nurseries. 

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-268 John Richardson* s Relatives. 

** Ho, ho-!'' said John, in a tone that Anna understood, and she 
stopped short. 

*• I'm shocked !" George said. 

" And I'm still more shocked. Uncle George," added Mary. 

*' Dick will have to go to school and get the ' Principles of 
Politeness * flogged into him," continued Uncle George, puttings 
on a face to suit the severity of the sentence. 

** Little girls who bring home stories when they dine out, had 
much better dine at home, Anna," the mother said, significantly. 

'* But Uncle George — but mamma," pleaded Anna, tears in her 
■eyes, and entreaty in her voice for Dick and herself, " Georgey 
5aid boys should know how to box ; and that they might as well 
box about the hobby-horse as about anything else." 

This was a speech that struck father, mother, and self-con- 
scious uncle as •' so kind for" Georgey to make — so like Georgey's 
father's characteristic optimism, that no one of the three could 
keep up sufficient semblance of gravity to deceive the keen cross- 
■examining gaze of childish eyes ; and all the little people had read 
off the faces around them the conclusion before Uncle George 
spoke one for all : *' Mamma sees that that makes it quite another 
affair," he said ; "and no tale out of school at all." 

**It strikes me, Uncle George," interposed John, to whose 
heart a possible pleasure lost to his children struck home with 
almost a pang, '* we might manage a riding-party without bring- 
ing the house down altogether about your old Nancy's ears. What 
do you say, little woman ? Suppose you four go down at eleven 
and stay till one and bring Polly and the boys back by two to dine 
with you here. You all will have two hours for the hobby-horse. 
And who knows but mamma, for a kiss apiece, might make a pud- 
ding for Georgey." 

A general clapping of hands accepted this happy compro- 

"And now," Mary asked, "who will go down and remind 
Lizzie that Uncle George's eggs are to get a turn and a-half ?" 

"II" and "II" cried the two children, unattached; "and I'll 
lum the glass I " 

" One at a time," interposed John. 

" Come, boys, I'll draw lots for you," their Uncle George said, 
taking out his pocket-book to get a piece of paper. 

"And the child that loses now is to go next time withont 
any lots," George, junior, said, with the air of a young juriscon- 

" Quite right, Counsellor," said John. 

" And," added Mary, " so that you may not have time to forget 
whose turn it is, perhaps Uncle George will come to-morrow 

Both boys clapped their hands. 

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John Richardson's Relatives. 269 

" You will, Uncle George, won't you ?" begged little George, 
"who dearly loved his uncle, godfather, and namesake. 

'^ He must, mamma, " added Anna, with an air of queenly 

"Well, I don't know about to-morrow," George himself re- 
plied. " If I have any fresh news " 

•• Whether you have or not, do come, George," urged Mary. 
** You may as well come up to us while you are alone. It is so 
dreary a thing to begin the day as you do." 

John was on the point of saying with surprise, " you forget 
the children," when he checked himself. It would almost look 
hke a put off to Mary's invitation. It did not occur to him that a 
group^of children — even good children — without a mother at home 
to keep them in order, may not present a picture quite so attrac- 
tive to his wife's eyes as to his. 

That point — so far at least as concerned the next morning 
settled, and the eggs duly watched and done to a turn, breakfast 
began and ended cheerily. John and George then left the house 
together ; probably the first time since the marriage of the latter, 
of their thus setting off for their separate offices in each other's 
company. But for the remembrance of mote recent meetings 
this would have been a great and equal enjoyment to the brothers. 
Yet, even here, luck favoured George's bold stroke. Before em- 
barrassment on either side could be renewed by awkwardness of 
either silence or speech, a chatty neighbour of John's overtook 
and accosted them. Living on the same road, and going the same 
way daily about the same hour, and fresh from reading the same 
news, John and this gentleman had easily fallen into one of those 
walking alliances so common amongst suburban men of business. 
To George he was even better known as a brother merchant, 
and he now slackened pace and, as a thing of course, fell into line 
with them. 

" You, like myself, are going to business for form's sake," he 
said to George; '* though we may as well go take our pleasure. Com 
is a drag in the market. Only that people must keep on eating, 
and, sooner or later, I suppose, must come to us, we'd have a pros- 
pect of starving ourselves in the midst of plenty." 

This was just what George had wished to say once n^ore to John : 
what he had thought to find, but did not, earlier that morning an 
opportunity of dropping incidentally in conversation. And now 
he could almost agree to make over his first good customer to this 
acquaintance, he felt so much obliged to him for thus saying what 
he had so desired and found so hard to say for himself. 

His place of business being the first come to of the three, he 
parted from John as well as his friend with a nod instead of the 
more formal shake-hands of the day before. He did not, perhaps, 
quite feel as though some part of his debt was paid. But he 

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2 yo lumr Ideal Likenesses* 

certainly found it to weigh less heavily upon him after the pleasant 
hour of old brotherhood once more spent together. 

"It was very good of George to come to you again to-day," 
Mary said to John that evening. " It shows that he really desires- 
to do us a service with your grand-uncle." 

'* Yes," returned John. '* He's the old George still. To be as- 
sured of thjit is one good gained. What I most dreaded for him ia 
his connection with those Johnson people was that he might lose 
his own guileless, open character when bound up with those, the 
very essence of whose nature seems knowingness. But, after all, 
I think there is no great reason to dread his changing, if the 
world go on at all smoothly with the poor fellow as to money 

** George may give way to others sometimes, where you'd hold 
out, John ; but I need only look in his face when he has the 
children round him to feel sure that nothing could really change 
his affectionate nature," Mary said, warmly. 

" I believe you are right," John rejoined, siniling; "you know 
George says you always are. One is apt to get impatient at people 
who are too impressionable, too easily led — over-impatient, I be- 
lieve," he added, after a moment's thought. " And yet there's a 
forzxid against in it, as there is in everything else. The forces 
they yield to easily seem to take less from them than from harder 
natures ; and to leave them pretty much as they were at first, down 
to the end of the chapter." 


{Norn first publisfud.) 

I. Ariadne. 

A SWEET, but happy-looking face, with mouth 
Like rosebud opening to the pleasant sooth. 
Giving sweets, stealing sunshine ; it was gay. 
As it could smile e'en sorrow's self away. 
The curls were all thrown back, as not allowed 
To shed o'er that young brow the faintest cloud. 

♦ Wc dwe these relics of the Author of the «* Recluse of Inchedony," n^wse 
name we have linked with a shorter but better known poem, to the kindness of 
Mrs. Lynch, of Killester Demesne, Raheny, a relatire of CaBanan's. The dying 
poet gave them to her, with the assurance that thev had not been and wonld not 
be poblished, when setting ont for Portugal, where ne was too soon to find a gra^ 

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Four Ideal Likenesses. 2*] i 

From the fair forehead's height they downward rolled, 

A sonny stream, floating with waves of gold. 

A wreath of vine-leaves bound them, but the wind 

Kissed the stray ringlets it had not confined. 

Too beautiful for earth, the sky had given 

To eye and cheek the colouring of heaven : — 

Blue ! the clear blue, upon an April sky ; 

Red, the first red, the morning blush's dye. 

The downcast look at times wore pensiveness, 

But tender, more than sorrowful, as less 

She'd known than dream'd of woe — as her chief grief 

Had been a fading flower, a falling leaf. 

Her song was as the red wine sparkling up, 

Gaily o'erflowing from a festal cup. 

Her step was light, as wont to move along 

To the gay cymbal and the choral song. 

Her laugh was glad, as one who rather chose 

To dwell upon life's pleasures than life's woes. 

And this was she whom Theseus left to pine 

And mingle her salt tear-drops with the brine. 

Her face was all too bright for tears, she gave 

Sighs to the wind and weeping to the wave ; 

And left a lesson unto after times. 

Too little dwelt upon in minstrel rhymes — 

A lesson ! how inconstancy should be 

Repaid again by like inconstancy. 

II. Sappho. 

Dark, passionate, though beautiful, the eye 

Was as the lightning of the stormy sky : 

Flashing through darkness — light and shadow blent — 

Working of the mind's weird element. 

You could not mark the features — could not trace 

What hue, what outline, was upon that face. 

Even while present, indistinct it seemed, 

Like that of which we have but lately dream'd. 

You saw a hurried hand fling back the hair, 

Like tempest clouds rolled backward on the ain 

Still midnight was beneath that haughty brow. 

Darkened with thoughts to which it would not bow. 

Midnight ! albeit, a starry one — the light 

Meteor, or planet, still was that of night. 

She had a dangerous gift — though genius be 

All the earth boasts of— immortality. 

This gift too heavenly to suit that earth — 

The spirit perishes with its fatal birth. 

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2^2 Four Ideal Likenesses. 

This mingling fire and water — soul and day — 
The one must make the other one its prey. 
Her heart sufficed not to itself; such mind 
Will shrink such utter loneliness to find 
As it must in its range of burning thought ; 
Will sigh above the ruins it has wrought, — 
False fancies, prejudice, affection vain, — 
Until it seeks to wear again the chain 
Itself has broken, so that it might be 
Less desolate, although no longer free. 
She loved ; again her ardent soul was buoyed 
On Hope's bright wings above life's dreary void : 
Again its fond illusions were received. 
Centred in one, the dearest yet believed. 
It ended as illusions ever must — 
The shining temple prostrate in the dust. 
Look on that brow so deeply stamped ^ith pride^ 
How might it brook the grief it could not hide ? 
Above her raged the storm, beneath the sea. 
And love and genius found their destiny — 
Despair and death ! 

III. Erinna. 

Fashioned by nature in her gentlest mood. 

Almost for human love too fair, too good — 

'Twas a sweet face, — a face of smiles, of tears. 

Of all that soothes and softens, wins, endears ; 

Bearing the omen of her early fate. 

The rose upon her lips was delicate. 

Her youthful cheek was pale, and all too plain 

Was seen the azure wandering of the vein 

That shone in the clear temple, as if care, 

Wasting that brow to sickness, had been there. 

Erinna ! she who died like her own song. 

Wasting too soon away — remembered long. 

Her heart and life were musical, but one 

Who marvelled at what hfer sweet self had done — 

Who breathed for Love, and pined to find that Fame 

In answer to her lute's soft summons came. 

See, the eye droops in sadness, as to shun 

That which it dare not gaze on — Glory's sun. 


There is an antique gem, on which her brow 
Retains its graven beauty even now. 
Her hair is braided, but one curl behind 
Floats, as enamoured of the summer wind. 

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The Relations of the Church to Society. 273. 

Her dress is simple, as she were too fair 
Even to think of beauty's own sweet care. 
The lip and brow are contrasts ; one so fraught 
With pride — the melancholy pride of thought ; 
Conscious of its own power, yet forced to know 
How very little way that power will go. 
Regretting — ^while too proud of— the fine mind 
Which raises, but to part it from its kind. 
But the sweet mouth had nothing of all this : 
It was a mouth the bee had learned to kiss. 
« « « « « 

The one spoke genius in its high revealing^. 
The other smiled a woman*s gentler feeling. 




XII. Church Property. 

The Church of Christ taken in its more extended sense, that is^ 
for the whole society of true believers, is what theologians and 
jurists call a perfect community^ namely, a moral body sufficient for 
itself in its own order, and not a mere part of some other body, 
nor dependent on any other. In this sense, speaking of the 
temporal order, an empire, a kingdom, a republic, is a perfect 
community, whilst a city, a province, a colony is not such. A 
perfect community possesses within itself all that is required for its 
own government and support. It may need, no doubt, many things 
which are not actually produced within its territory, but it has the 
means of purchasing them. It manages its own affairs for itself. 
There are different degrees of this perfection of a community, or 
rather there are different degrees of approach to the condition of a 
perfect community. Thus a city has more of this character than a 
village ; a province or a colony, at least in many instances, than a 
city. On the other hand, a so-called kingdom may not be a perfect 
community, as we see in the case of our three kingdoms, England, 
Ireland, and Scotland. 

The Church is a perfect community in the spiritual order. It 
is complete, independent. It is not a mere part of any larger body 
in the spiritual order, it is not, as such, a part of any state or number 
of states in the temporal order ; it is not, as to the proper affairs oF 

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^74 '^f^ Relahons of the Church to Society. 

its own spiritual order, dependent on any temporal state or number 
of states. It is a vast independent kingdom or empire. It com- 
prises within it various subordinate communities participating more 
or less of this perfection, approaching more or less to the condition 
of a perfect community, but in no case possessing it We have 
parishes and dioceses and ecclesiastical provinces. Shall I say 
National Churches. The phrase must be guardedly used in the 
present context. If we understand it in a merely popular sense, 
there are, of course, National Churches very dear to the Catholics of 
the nations whereof they are the Churches. A National Church in 
this acceptation is that portion of the Universal Church which exists 
in a particular country, and is made up of all the dioceses of the 
country. In it the fellowship of citizens is combined with that of 
Catholics. But it has no strictly ecclesiastical unity and complete- 
ness, unless so far as it is constituted or recognized by the Holy See 
as one body with a common organization, which appears from its 
having one Primate, or, if there be but one province as in England, 
one Metropolitan. We have, besides. Religious Orders and Con- 
gregations, which, partly each as a whole, partly in their different 
provinces and houses, constitute so many communities more or less 
•complete, but none of them simply perfect as the Church is.* 

The Church is itself a divinely constituted Corporation^ and con- 
tains a great number of smaller corporations of those two kinds 
which our British lawyers call corporations aggregate and corpora- 
tions sole, A corporation aggregate is a collection of many indi- 
viduals who constitute one moral person having various powers 
and rights and duties, exercised and fulfilled either by the whole 
body, or, on its part, by its appointed officers, and persevering un- 
changed, though the individuals of which the collection was originally 
composed may die or cease to belong to it, their places, when 
necessary, being filled up by others who are introduced according 
to certain rules laid down. We have abundant examples of this in 
■municipal and other bodies incorporated by Act of Parliament. 
A corporation sole is an in^dividual who, in virtue of a post which he 
holds, is conceived to possess an official personality with certain 
powers and rights and duties annexed to it, and which passes with 
those powers and rights and duties to his successor in the same 
post, the natural person of the man being, under this respect, merged 
in the official person. We see this exemplified in the bishops and 
rectors of the Established Church of England. Corporations, 
whether aggregate or sole, never die — that is to say, they do not die 

* Most Orders and Congregations of men form each one body under a chief 
superior, but have several houses governed immediatdy by a subordmate local 
superior. But in many Orders and Congregations of women it is otherwise. The 
bond of union amon^ the convents in different places consists only in the identity 
of the Rule and the identity of origin, without any actual present association, or 
subjection to a^ common head. 

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The Relations of the Church to Society . %js 

by the mere death of the men, one or many, who constitute them 
for the time being. They may, of course, be put an end to by a 
competent authority, or they may die 9ui by the failure of necessary 

Well, then, there are many corporations of both these kinds in 
the Catholic Church. They have their charters from God through 
the Sovereign PontifiT, and are not dependent on the civil authority 
fortheirexistenceastrue ecclesiastical corporations, though there are 
advantages derivable from their being recognized, as they ought to 
be, by the State. It is easily understood that the corporations aggre- 
gate of which I have been speaking are identical with some of the 
communities mentioned already, and the corporations sole are 
Bishops, parish priests, or other specially qualified individuals of 
the clergy. The whole of this organization has come to the Church 
from her Divine Founder, proximately or remotely, without the 
need of any extraneous intervention. It is all the work of Christ 
and of the Church herself, so far as authority is concerned. 

Our Lord furnished her with whatever was necessary under this 
respect. But there is one thing, wherewith He did not furnish her, 
and yet which is requisite for her work. This, however, was not 
forgotten nor neglected, nor left by Him without provision made 
for it. He knew it would be wanted; He knew it would be forth- 
coming, and He took care it should accrue to her, though not given 
by Him. The Church does not, by virtue of its institution, actually 
possess what is called //w/^r/y, and yet it cannot go on, much less can 
itfloarish, without property. Its ministers must be supported, and 
enabled to effect objects which cannot be effected without worldly 
means. To meet this requirement, besides that spirit of love and ge- 
nerosity with which God inspires the faithful, and especially some 
amongst them, there are two rights conferred by Him on the govern- 
ing Church, and which may with all proprietybe called dtvine n'gh/s. 
One is that of being en/i/ied to a competent amount of temporal sup- 
port from their spiritual subjects, and even of exacting that support as 
the fulfilment of a conscientious obligation. The other is that of 
holding and administering property otherwise legitimately bestowed 
by those Christians who, in their natural and civil capacity, have 
such goods at their disposal. 

The pastors of the Church are entitled to receive sufficient 
material help from the faithful. The duty of affording this is im- 
posed on them by Divine law — in truth, by Natural law; that is to 
say, by what is called hypothetical natural law, the meaning of which — 
in the present matter — is, that, supposing the establishment of the 
Church, supernatural as it is in itself, the faithful come from the 
nature of things to be bound to give that pecuniary aid which is 
required for the maintenance of its clergy. This obligation is also 
a matter of Divine positive law ' sufficiently indicated in the Scrip- 
ture and taught at all times in the Church. The Pastors, too, are 
authorized to insist on the discharge of this obligation. Even 

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«76 The Relations of the Church to Society. 

where what is called the voluntary system is followed, either wholly 
or partially, the duty of contribating to the support of the clergy 

But, besides the right which is correlative to this duty — this 
conscientious obligation — there is another really distinct from it, 
and to which I have already alluded. Many of the faithful endow 
the prelates and ministers of the Church, and ecclesiastical 
establishments of various kinds, with goods which the donors might 
lawfully dispose of otherwise, so that, antecedently to these endow- 
ments, there was no right to demand them. But, once given, 
they are held by a title at least a& strong as that whereby 
laymen hold whatever is justly theirs. By the divitu right of which 
I have spoken, with reference to this property, I do not mean a 
directly divine title to the goods possessed even when they have 
been acquired, but a divinely derived qualification to be the owner of 
the goods, so that, in the first place, the moral personality of the 
Church, or of an ecclesiastical body, or of a prelate or minister of 
the Church as such, is sufficient to sustain a real ownership in 
conscience, without dependence on any recognition by the State, of 
moral personality ; and that, in the next place, the State cannot 
justly deprive the moral person of the property so held any more, 
at all events, than it can deprive a physical person, that is a 
private individual, of what belongs to him. It is with a view to 
this doctrine that I have spoken of the various corporations which 
the Church comprises within itself. 

Further, the State cannot justly or validly — so far as conscience 
is concerned — interfere with the subordination of any such moral 
person to a higher ecclesiastical authority with regard to the 
administration of the property in question. Suppose, for instance,, 
that a certain fund is bestowed on a parish priest, to be employed 
by him and his successors for parochial purposes, the State cannot 
validly — in conscience — ^authorise the transmission of the fund to 
the present priest's relatives, nor interfere with the canonical 
intervention of the Bishop as regards the dis[>osal of the fund. -The 
nature and incidents of the ownership depend on the con- 
stitution and laws of the Church, whether these be recognized — as 
normally they ought to be — or not by the State. The State may 
have the physical power or the legal power, so far as its own laws 
are concerned, to interfere, and contravene canonical ordinances or 
decisions regarding the Church's goods ; but this power, though it 
often cannot be effectually resisted, and may be taken advantageof by 
interested parties, has no binding force in the eyes of God or of 
conscience. It may often be the duty of ecclesiastics to submit to 
the action of the State in such cases, not because that action in- 
volves or creates any real right, but because a higher law forbids 
violence, and imposes the obligation of rather suffering injustice 
than pursuing a course which would lead to still greater evils. 
Ffu4ence likewise dictates that the title of the clergy to retain and 

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The Relahons of the Church to Society. I'n 

dispense Church property should be invested, as far as possible, 
with the conditions required to give it effect in the ejes of the law 
of each particular country. 

Ecclesiastical property cannot be truly or justly considered 
fMic property^ that is to say, property belonging to the State, or 
sobject, in virtue pf its peculiar character, to administration by die 
State. Neither the Church nor its corporations are Government 
institutions; they do not form a civil department ; they do not owe 
their origin to kings or parliaments. The goods they possess have 
not come to them, for the most part, from kings or pariiaments, 
and wherever these goods have, in any degree, come from kings 
orparliatnents, they were gifts, endowments henceforth belonging, 
not to the donors, but to the dioceses or monasteries or other bodies 
on which they had been conferred. I do not speak now of annual 
grants, nor of continuing civil titles to levy tithes or other payments. 
These are successive new donations, the mere cessation of which 
does not imply the taking away of anything actually appropriated 
and enjoyed. I do not, I say, speak of such subventions, because I 
cannot go fully into the subject, but must keep comparatively on the 
surface, and I wish to avoid complications. But, assuredly, the with- 
drawal of such subsidies as I have alluded to may often be blame- 
worlbj OA the ground of faithlessness to promises and on other 
grounds. Its absolute injustice is most palpable where the yearly 
allowance is expressly or tacitly assigned as a compensation for 
Church funds iniquitously appropriated at some previous time, or 
where the allowance is rendered necessary by such previous ap- 
propriation on the part of the State ; or even, without these circum- 
stances, where the Church has been robbed, and full restitution has 
not been yet made. 

Confining myself, at present, to property which has passed 
completely into the hands of the clergy as such, the secular 
authority has bo legitimate power of taking it away and employing 
it otherwise. The Church, as represented by its corporations, has 
the strictest title to keep what it has lawfully got. Those who 
made it over to the Church did not intend it for the State, and 
where the State itself was the author of the endowment, it was a 
ghftr and not a lender^ and the purport of the proceeding was to 
make the Chprch the thorough owner not a mere agent. Besides, 
in reality, but a small proportion of the goods of ecclesiastical 
persons as such, or of ecclesiastical bodies, has been derived from 
Governments. Even the endowments made by kings are not, as a 
matter of course, to be set down as official acts of nations through 
their rulers. 

It is needless to say that the principle I am stating has been 
many times ignored at various periods ; among the rest in our own 
day, in seveial countries, in different ways, on different grounds, 
with different pretexts, but always unjustly, invalidly as regards 
conscience, saoilegiously^ because the rights of the Church are 

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^78 The Relations of the Church to Society. 

sacred rights. Sometimes the spoliation has been an act of 
avowed hostility to the Christian or Catholic religion. The re- 
ligion was condemned as an evil thing, a pest to society, as mn 
iniquitous institution which could not, of course, have a claim to 
exist at all, much less to be supported from any source. Whatever 
might be thought of the private possessions of those who professed 
it — and these were often invaded as well — ^the religion itself, or 
the Church with which it was identified, could not be allowed to 
enjoy and turn to its own mischievous purposes any part of the 
wealth of the country. Criminals as criminals could surely have 
no such prerogative. This is intelligible and consistent, and if 
the charges had been true, could not be found fault with. Bat 
where the Catholic religion is fully tolerated, or put on a perfect 
par with other creeds, or even declared the religion of the countiy 
and of the State, the case is very different. 

The motives for spoliation are easy. to find. The most 
obvious is desire to have the goods in as great amount as may be. 
Another motive akin to this, and which I call another because it 
may be turned into a pretext, is want of money, deficiency of funds. 
The ruling power says : " We are in distress, we are in difficulties, 
and thiere we see large amounts swallowed up by priests and monks, 
rendered useless, wasted on objects that cannot be compared with 
those we have to attain. This must not be. We will utilize these 
ill employed revenues." This plea may be ingeniously worded, 
developed, set off by a thousand calumnies on the 'one side, and 
appeals to love of country and to laudable desires of public pros- 
perity on the other. But the pleais after all weak and unsubstantiaL 

First of all, the expenses to be met are often reckless and hx 
from being really profitable to the nation. Then, however that may 
be, ecclesiastical property is surely not the only source whence help 
can be got. Those whose turn it is to despoil the Church never 
wait till other expedients are exhausted. One element of the 
theory on which they proceed is that the Church has not the same 
right to what it holds — to what it has most legitimately and even 
legally acquired — that other proprietors have. They would not 
think of treating private men, however rich, or even mere lay 
corporations in the same way. They look on the Church as fair 
game, and they hardly seek to dissemble this. They have m 
' authority to pronounce on the utility or inutility of the revenues 
which the Church possesses. Those revenues belong to the Church 
as much as any individual's revenues belong to him. The Church 
is not more amenable to the temporal authorities in this regard 
than laymen are. I have said not more; I add now that the Church 
is less amenable, on account of its sacred character, on accomit of 
that position which God has given it in the world. 

The State, besides, is not qualified to pronounce on the utility of 
those objects to which ecclesiastical revenues are applied. The 
end of the Church and of its corporations is a spiritual end, an end 

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The Relations of the Church to Society. 279 

which <:annot be thoroughly prosecuted without material means, 
bat yet a spiritual end, which men of the world are not ordinarily 
competent to deal with, and not unfrequently fail to appreciate. 
Lajrmen do, no doubt, often appreciate it to some extent, and this 
it is which has led so many of them to devote so large a portion of 
their wealth to the Church. It is not the proper province of states- 
men to determine what course the Church and the clergy should 
follow, what works they should do, what means they need to carry 
out those works, at any rate where the means are not asked from 
the State. It is not the business of the temporal Government to 
settle the number of the clergy, secular or regular, nor to appoint 
their occupations, unless in a limited degree where they are em- 
ployed and paid by Government as officials. Certainly a gaol 
chaplain or a military chaplain could be called to account for 
absence or neglect of his charge. 

I am free to admit that ecclesiastical men or institutions may 
sometimes be too rich, unwholesomely so for themselves, though the 
mischief comes not directly from the amount of wealth, but from 
its misapplication, since worthy ways can always be found of 
spending it. But, without entering into distinctions, I admit simply 
there may be abuses in this regard, and abuses that can be seen and 
known and justly deplored by laymen. What then ? Has the State, 
even in these cases, a right to despoil the men or the institutions of 
what is, after all, their own ? Certainly not It is the business of the 
Church to reform her own members and institutions. The State 
dares not interfere with the extravagance of laymen, so long as they 
are not lunatics and keep within the law. Even, therefore, where 
abuses clearly exist, the State cannot meddle, cannot confiscate 
Church property. The principle which would allow this, besides 
being false, is ulteriorly dangerous; because if the Sute could inter- 
fere thns in clear cases, there would be no tangible ground for 
preventing its interference in other cases too, nor for preventing its 
institution of vexatious inquiries. 

To return to the plea of necessity : I say this plea is not valid. 
It is never made simply and by itself; a real pressure is not waited 
for ; the necessity is not such as could even apparently justify an 
invasion of property which in no way belongs to the State, much 
less an invasion carried so far as such invasions are carried. I may 
add that in cases of real necessity, where the State has good ground 
for seeking material help from the Church, this help is not refused. 
Another motive which governments have for despoiling ecclesias- 
tical corporations is a jealous unwillingness that these corporations 
should possess wealth, an unwillingness which is part and parcel 
of that ill-feeling which the world — the world condemned in the 
gospel— entertains against religion. The Church, too, is weak ; 
the Church can be preyed upon with comparative impunity. 

The public good is alleged as a justifying cause for taking away 
property fiom the Church. And yet the public good suffers much 

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28o The Relatione of the Church to Society. 

by the proceeding. Church endowments, even where there maf 
be or have been abuses, were and are turned largely to the account 
of charitable relief to the distressed : relief afforded in a way and 
in a spirit very different from what are to be expected or found in 
the action of most secular governments ; not as a dry matter of 
business, not for the sake of appearance or convenience, not as 
the necessary fulfilment of a civil duty, not stiffly or grudgingly, 
not with a wasteful expenditure on officials — but from sentiments 
of charity, and in a truly compassionate, and reasonably economi- 
cal, manner. The monasteries in these our own countries h^ped 
the poor quite otherwise than they are helped now. The Church, 
too, besides relieving the indigent in their corporal wants, has 
always been a friend to learning and to the fine arts, and has made 
her resources available in these directions. 

Some secular governments, using their power and following the 
bent of their bad will, have lately pursued and do pursue their course 
of iniquity in robbing the Church. We have a prominent speci- 
men of this in the kingdom of Italy. We see there not only in- 
vasion of ecclesiastical property, but the most heartless depreda- 
tion. There is one reflection which it i3 worth while to make, and 
repeat, and repeat often, with reference to this and other public 
offences against rights, namely, that they are not the less guilty 
because como&itted on a great scale, nor yet because they are com- 
mitted in the name of the law, which after all is not law otherwise 
than in name, for a law real and at the same time unjtut is an im- 
possible thing, since justice enters into the true conception of a 
law. Mr. Gladstone is shocked at the Pope's having annulled 
" the law for the suppression of monastic Orders and appropri- 
ation of their properties .... passed in the kingdom of Sardinia 
(in 1855) on the simple ground of his Apostolic authority . . . and 
all other laws injurious to the Church," and having excommuni- 
cated all who had a hand in them ; and calls this invading the pn- 
vince of the civil power !* Such laws did not need to be annulled. 
They were null already. If the Pope used the word tfii«i«/-^which 
I am not able just now to say — it was equivalently in the sense of 
declaring the proceedings null. Then, the Pope inflicted a spiritnai 
penalty for a great crime— sacrilegious rapine. Was there anything 
so outrageous in this ? The Council of Trent did not take this 

All men join in condemning highway robbers ai^d fraudnlent 
dealers, and those lower classes of thieves, pilferers and pick- 
pockets ; indeed the view the law takes of some of the acts of snch 
offenders in our own countries is fearfully, not to say pharisaicalljr« 
severe ; and yet wholesale spoliation, especially of the Church, is 
looked on in quite a different light. The men who commit it are 
reputed honourable members of society, whilst their conduct is in 

^ "Vaticanism/' pp. 88, 89^ t Sess. 22. De Refona. c. 11. 

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On the Mouni. a8i 

truth more guilty, more foul, more immoral, than that of those 
whose dishouesty consigns them to our docks and our prisons. 

Should any Protestant chance to read what I have juSt written, 
and remark that the same principle applies to the disendowment 
of the Irish Church, my answer is, that the Irish Disestablished 
Church, like the English Established Church, was of its nature a 
State institution and nothing more. All its rights came from the 
British Legislature, and so did its property, with the. exception of 
private endowments, for which provision was made in the Irish 
Church Act, 1869, section 29. 

** And they sat down and watched Him." — Matt, xxviL 36. 

I REST my face upon my hands. 
And lay the sacred scroll aside, 
And let my wandering thoughts awhile 

Rest on my Saviour crucified— 
Trying to bring with love and pain 
The scene of Calvary back again. 

I follow through that awful day, 
And scarce less awful night before ; 

I see Him mocked, and bruised, and torn 
Till hell can add no torture more. 

I see its rage loosed on Him then — 

His Father's wrath, the sins of men, 

The worn-out lash, the clotted cloaks 
The red pool in the judgment-hall, 

Where flowed the Blood from veins laid bare, 
Besprinkling pillar, steps, and all. 

I see the reed and thorny crown, 

And mark the crimson drops flow down. 

Fixed to a cross with three rough nails, 
That fair and fatal town outside. 

While skies are black at midnoon hour. 
And from the grave pale shadows glide ; 

Suspended 'mid th^ trembling air. 

They sat them down and watched Him there. 

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282 On the Mount 

The Mother stands in speechless woe, 
Suffering each j>ang with keener dart ; 

The thorny crown, the iron spikes. 

Pierce sharper through her broken heart. 

His low " I thirst " falls on her ear. 

While gloating eyes st^U watch Him near. 

That face so ever like to hers 
Is strangely beautiful e'en now. 

As tremblingly the shade of Death 
Flits o'er the Lord of Life's pale brow. 

His plaintive moan steals on the air, 

And cruel hearts still watch Him there. 

Oh ! tremble, sorrow-heaving earth, 
And hide thy face, shamed sun, the more,. 

And Magdalen and John, press close 
To her who stands that cross before — 

On fire with pain, one tortured thrill — 

Oh I woe and grief I they watch Him still. 

I cry : my Mother I give me tears, 
And heart with love and sorrow rife. 

For Him and thee that fearful day. 
And for my own poor sinful life ; 

And touch my soul with Pity's power 

That I may weep with thee this hour. 

Oh ! let me learn for Jesus* sake 

To bear in silence lesser pain, 
And with my God all desolate 

To suffer meekly, nor complain. 
And thou wilt teach and be my guide. 
Sweet Mother of the Crucified I 

M. My. R. 

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( 283 ) 

L Sketch of the Life of Ihe late Father Henry Young of Dublin. By 

Lady Georgiana Fullektok. London : Bums and Oates. 
Though this book fortunately has not for our readers all the charm 
of novelty, they will hardly welcome it less but more on that account 
in this elegant and cheap reprint ; and they will feel themselves 
the more bound to propagate in its substantive form this pious- 
biography with which in its detached portions our pages were first 
enriched. In her interesting preface, in which Lady G. Fullerton 
claims for herself only the modest part of " a stringer of beads 
which others have toiled to collect," this characteristic saying 
occurs : "To do some little good — and no harm — by writing, has 
been our lifelong prayer." That prayer must have been a humble 
and fervent one, for it assuredly has been granted in a very signal 
measure and degree. The list which fills the last two pages of 
this book will show this to any one who is at all acquainted with 
the works there mentioned ; and, as this list includes only those 
works of Lady G. Fullerton which are issued by one publisher, there 
are many omissions such as ** Ladybird," "Too Strange Not to be 
True," "Mrs. Gerald's Niece," not to go back to the volumes written 
before the youthful writer of "Ellen Middleton " became a Catholic^ 
full as they also are of a devout, sincere, and earnest spirit. Yet it is 
strange withal that such a writer, though using her gifts only for pure 
and holy purposes, should ever become the biographer of Father 
Henry Young, who^e hidden apostleship seldom strayed far from 
the lanes and alleys of Dublin. We may here give vent to a grudge 
which we owe to the popularity of this "Sketch of Father Young^s 
Life." Though provision was made for an increase of readers when 
the "Life" began in thisMagazine, we completely underestimated the 
number of the holy priest's admirers ; and hence has arisen the sad 
dearth of our fifth monthly part (Nov., 1873), which necessitates an 
advertisement appearing in this or in our next issue. No doubt 
this welcome embarrassment of being out of print — which we trust 
will speedily befal also the reprint of the life of the saintly old 
Chaplain of St. Joseph's, Portland-row— is due in great part to- 
the fortune which gave him for his historian Earl Granville's sister 
and the author of "Ladybird." 

IL The Life of Our Life. By Henry James Coleridge, of the 

Society of Jesus. London : Bums and Oates. 
This title belongs rather to a great work, of which the present 
volume, the twelfth of the quarterly series issued under the editor- 
ship of the managers oiThe Months is only an instalment. Though 
the first to be published, it is not the first part of that long promised 
work. Father Coleridge in his preface gives some excellent 

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^84 New Books. 

reasons for beginning with " the Ministry of St. John the Baptist," 
which is the title and subject of this volume,, the portion, namely, 
of our Lord's public life which is coextensive with the preaching 
of the Precursor. The second division of the second part of the 
Vita Vit(B Nostra will, we are assured, follow immediately. The 
•careful reader of this work will no doubt study it, in connection 
with Jhat earlier work by the same writer, of which we have jast 
^iven the title. Of that Harmony, the twelve sections which are here 
developed in a full and accurate commentary, are translated in the 
appendix. We may remark, indeed, that everything is translated, 
the Latin and Greek quotations of the whole volume not amounting: 
altogether to many lines. This, and the omission of nearly all 
references, which Father Coleridge accounts for very satisfactorily 
in his preface, hide in part the solid erudition amassed in every 
chapter ; but these characteristics also help to adapt the work for 
the use of very different classes of readers. Its learning and 
scientific accuracy commend it to the preacher and the student, 
while the continuity of the narrative and the avoidance of, as it 
-were, the pedantic forms of a biblical commentary will allow it to 
be used as a treasure of devout spiritual reading tending to make 
meditation on the Gospel more solid and fruitful. It is hard, for 
instance, to see what could be added for either of these objects to 
the chapter on our Lord's temptations. 

As we have said, this very compactly though elegantly 
printed volume does not go beyond the introduction to the public 
life of our Lord. The arduous undertaking, for which Father 
Coleridge has evidently been preparing himself through many 
laborious years, is holy enough and important enough to make us 
pray fervently that God may be pleased to enable him in due time 
to accomplish it worthily. 

III. Our Ladys Dowry; or^ How England Gained and Led that 
TiiU. By the Rev. T. E. Bridgbtt, C. SS. R. London : Bums 
and Oates. 
Father Bridgett, whose name will not sound as a stranger's 
to many of our readers in Ireland, has marshalled with extra- 
ordinary industry an array of testimonies to the ancient devotion 
of England towards the Blessed Virgin, which justify the glorious 
title (so miserably forfeited) of Our Lady's Dowry. Wonn-eateo 
tomes, unpublished manuscripts, blackletter books buried in private 
collections — he has laid them all under tribute. These materials 
he has put together with great skill and care. His clear, cultivated, 
judicious, nay, judicial style suits well the object of the book which 
cannot fail to impress many outside the Church. Would that some 
one would give us a similar work on the devotion of Ireland to the 
Blessed Virgin, in which, thank God, Father Bridgett's third part, 
** Disloyalty," would have no counterpart. We may notice as an 
extraneous testimony to the . Redemptorist's learning and the 

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New Books. 


polish of his style that he is the latest accession to that very select 
little band of Catholic writers — the Archbishop of Westminster 
Father Dalgaims, and Mr. St. George Mivart — who have the enirie 
of the Contemporary Review. 

IV. Inaugural Address at Clongowes College Debating Society, By the 

Rev. J. J. O'Carroll, S.J. Dublin : M*Glashan and Gill. 
Our notice of this Address has been delayed thus long by an accident. 
Thoughtful and ingenious as are the reflections on oratory and 
eloquence with which it opens, there is no doubt that the most 
interesting and valuable portion of it might be labelled in com- 
mercial parlance, " William Shakspeare to Edmund Campion, Dr." 
It is here proved very clearly that in Father Campion's History of 
Ireland, written when Shakspeare was a child, is found substantially 
that famous panegyricon Cardinal Wolsey, which Shakspeare, in the 
play oi King Henry VIII, ^ makes Griffith pronounce in answer to 
Queen Catherine. Let us place the priest and the poet side by 
side : — 

The Cardinal, a man undoubtedly 
bom to honour. I think some prince's 
— ^no butcher's son. A ripe schoolman. 
£xceeding wise, fair spoken, high- 
minded. Lofty to his enemies, were 
they never so big ; to those who ac- 
cepted and sought his friendships won- 
derful courteous. 

Insatiable to get, and more prince- 
like in bestowing. 

As appeardth by his two Colleges at 
Ipswich and at Oxenford. The one 
suppressed with his fall ; the other un- 
finished, and yet, as it lieth, an house 
of students incomparable through 

Never happy till his overthrow; 
therein he showed such moderation 
and ended so patiendy, that the hour 
of his death did him more honour than 
all the pomp of life passed. 


This Cardinal, though from an 
humble stock, undoubtedly was fa-' 
shioned to much honour from the 
cradle. He was a scholar and a ripe 
and good one. Exceeding wise, fair 
spoken, and persuading. Lofty and 
sour to them that loved him not ; but 
to those men that sought him sweet as 

And though he were unsatisfied in 
getting (which was a sin), yet in be- 
stowing, madam, he was most princely. 

Ever witness to him those twins of 
learning that he raised in 3^ou, Ipswich 
and Oxford. One of wmch feU with 
him, unwilUng to survive the good 
that did it; the other, though unfi- 
nished, yet so famous, so excellent in 
art, and still so rising, that Christendom 
shall ever speak his virtue. 

His overtnrow heaped happiness upcm 
him ; and then, and not tul then, he 
felt himself and found the blessedness 
of being little ; and to add more honour 
to his age than man could give him, he 
died fearing God. 

. Father O'Carroll enters into a very subtle comparison of the 
two passages with all their surroundings, for which we must refer 
the reader to the Address. This is of course no charge of pla- 
giarism against the greatest poet of all time, for even here his 
genius but translates good prose into grand poetty. 

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286 New Books. 

V. The Prisoners of the Temple ; or Discrowned and Crowned, By 
M. C. O'Connor Morris. London : Bums and Oates. 

The preface reminds us that this volume is chiefly a reprint of 
a series of articles which appeared in The Months We trust that 
some of the sketches of ecclesiastical history which have appeared 
there may be reproduced in a similar volume, and that we may 
have in the same form not only the " Dialogues on the Council,"' 
which have long been promised to us, but also the highly interest- 
ing and useful tale ** Wafted Seeds^^ which assuredly deserves a 
separate existence of its own. The present volume, to which we 
can devote no more than a few words- of hearty commendation,, 
treats of some of the least familiar and most interesting incidents 
in that strange drama of the French Revolution, of which the 
world never tires reading. The earlier scenes are sketched rapidly; 
and then we have a minute and a vivid picture of the sufferings 
and death of the various members of the French Royal Family. Very 
pathetic, above all, is the account of the two years of the Dauphin's 
prison-life, ending with his death at ten years of age. " I heard such 
beautiful music up there," he h?id said just before, " and through 
all the voices I heard my mother^s." 

VI. The Origin and History of Irish Names of Places, Second Series* 
By P. W. Joyce, LL.D., M.R.I.A. Dublin ; M'Glashan & GilL 

Few more thoroughly Original and creditable additions have been 
made of late years to our literature than Dr. Joyce's work on the 
" Origin and History of Irish Names of Places," of which the 
present volume is the completion. If any of our readers is unac- 
quainted with the First Series, let him turn to the last leaf of this 
book and read the catena of testimonies to its solid, original, and 
sterling merit, extracted from the Saturday Review^ the Athenceum^ 
the Scotsman, the North British Review, &c. — authorities quite 
sufficiently impartial with regard to books published by Irishmen 
in Ireland on Irish subjects. This second series does not consist 
of the mere gleanings after a rich harvest, but is fully equal in 
interest and originality to its predecessor, which we hope to see it 
overtaking soon in the number of its editions. It is indeed im- 
possible to open at any page without meeting with proofs of the 
skilful research and minutely accurate knowledge of various kinds 
that have here been brought to bear on the etymologies of Irish 
topography. This is, however, by no means a chaos of curious 
antiquarian details. The materials so industriously gathered are 
woven together with much skill, good taste, good sense, and con- 
siderable grace of style, so as to make a very readable book. The 
last and not the least of its merits is a very full and carefully com- 
piled index, which will kindly guide the reader to the passages 
that relate to any locality in which he may be specially interested.. 
It was a happy inspiration that suggested such a task to one 
possessed of the very rare qualifications which have enabled Dr. 
Joyce to finish it so successfully. 

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i 287 ) 



Part I. 

CHARLOTTE HELENE DE LASTIC, afterwards Countess of 
Saisseval, was bom in Paris, October, 1764. Her parents 
were noble, and held distinguished places at court and in the 
army : her father being at the time of her birth one of Louis XV.'s 
field-marshals, and her mother, lady-of-honour to Madame Ade- 
laide, his daughter. 

Charlotte was baptized on the same day that she was born, her 
maternal grandmother answering for her as godmother at the bap- 
tismal font When she returned with her charge from church and 
laid the babe in her pale mother's arms, the latter eagerly enquired 
if she had made an especial offering of the child after baptism to 
-God. " Certainly," was the quick reply. " I have offered her to 
God through the hands of the Blessed Virgin." This incident, 
when afterwards recounted to the little girl, made a deep and salu- 
tary impression on her mind, and the knowledge of her early 
■dedication to Mary, by increasing her devotion to that heavenly 
mother in her childhood, no doubt procured for her many of the 
higher graces by which she was afterwards distinguished and 
which enabled her to live like a saint amid the court gaieties of 
her early married life as well as to endure the sufferings of its latter 
days with all the cheerfulness and constancy of a martyr. 

Her childhood gave striking indications of the qualities both 
of mind and heart which God had bestowed upon her : beautiful 
and yet not vain — full of talent and yet docile to all who taught 
her — spirited and gay, and yet with a soul which seemed instinc- 
tively to seek good and avoid evil, her . education, which was 
superintended entirely by her mother, was an easy and a pleasant 

And with such dispositions, and such a mother to direct them, her 
own child life was naturally a happy one. For there were no domestic 
storms, no childish rebellion against its rules to cloud it, no repin- 
ings or idle longings for a different state of things, to spoil its 
innocent pleasures or make its duties seem repulsive. 

To the young people of the nineteenth century, however, the 
everyday life of Mademoiselle de Lastic would probably appear dull 
and vapid ; the word ** excitement," which now-a-days is on the 
lip of every young girl almost before she has left the nursery, being 
then, in the sense in which it is used at present, absolutely un- 
known. The choice of dress, companions, studies, and amuse- 

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288 Madame de SaissevaL 

ments claimed by most modem young ladies as the privilege or 
their eighteen years of wisdom were, in the days of Mademoiselle 
de Lastic, placed as the^ ought to be, in the mother's bands, and 
no one ever dreamed of disputins^ her authority. 

Charlotte pursued her studies in her mother's house and under 
her mother's eye, and her chief recreation seems to have consisted 
in an occasional visit to a convent of which one of her aunts was 
abbess. In that quiet abode of virtue she doubtless spent many a 
pleasant holiday; sometimes, perhaps, wandering through its 
spacious gardens — sometimes resting beneath the drooping- 
branches of the lime tree, listening to the soft humming of the 
bees as they plunged in and out of its golden blossoms — or else 
surrounded by a few of her favourite companions, and dividing 
among them, amid much innocent mirth and laughter, the delicious 
comfitures (the work of the nuns themselves) which had been pro- 
vided for their collation by her abbess aunt. 

Occasionally also she was sent to St. Denis where the Princess 
Louise, having exchanged the royal purple of her birthright for 
the brown habit of a Carmelite nun, was giving her sisters in 
religion such an example of fervour and exactitude to rules as 
made her the joy and admiration of even the oldest and holiest 
among them. 

The princess read the heart of her young visitor aright, and 
foreseeing that it would one day be devoted entirely to God, took 
pleasure in cultivating with assiduity the good dispositions she 
found there. Possibly, indeed, it was in the half matenial, half 
confidential communications vouchsafed to her by the most saintly 
princess of the age, that Mademoiselle de Lastic first acquired that 
indifference to worldly splendour which distinguished her through 
life, and which helped her to fix all her hopes and all her energies 
from the very beginning upon the glorious acquisitions of eternity. 

Madame Louise, with all her affection for her youthful guest, 
did not, however, attempt to influence her» as she grew up, in the 
choice of a vocation. She was too large-minded to suppose that 
because she herself had been drawn to a monastic life there were 
no other ways in which souls, which God had chosen for His own, 
could attain perfection ; therefore if she ever spoke at all to Made- 
moiselle de Lastic of her future prospects, it would be doubtless 
merely to counsel her to seek the will of her Divine Lord most 
seriously in the matter, and that once found, to do her best in 
order to fulfil it. 

Innocent, however, and pious as she was, Charlotte gave no 
indication in her girlhood of any especial vocation to religion, and 
it soon became evident to her family that she was not intended for 
the cloister. God will have saints in all states and ranks of life, 
and her lot had fallen among those who are called, not only to 
sanctifv themselves in the world, but to be the means by their 
example, of sanctifying others. She was destined to be a wife, a 

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Madame de SaissevaL 2jBc> 

mother, and a widow ; and in each of these three phases of exist- 
ence she was to prove herself a saint — a saint in the smiles and 
sunshine of the world — a saint in its storms and tribnlations— a 
saint, and more than a saint, a very martyr, in the desolation which 
fell upon her, when God, trying her more terribly than He had tried 
even His servant Job, took her children one after another from her 
until the last and dearest of them all had expired in her arms, and 
she was left alone to devote her best and highest energies to Hini 
who, in the mysterious plenitude of His love, had thus stripped her 
soul of all earthly ties, in order to compel it to become more 
entirely His own I 

The question of vocation having been decided in the negative, 
Charlotte's parents, acting in conformity to the ideas of the age, 
immediately resolved upon her marriage. As a preliminary to- 
this step, she was formally introduced at Mendon, where Mesdames 
of France, the aunts of Louis XVI., held a court so brilliant and 
well appointed that even the gayest of the courtly throng who 
went there, pronounced it only second in grace and splendour 
to Versailles itself. Her marriage followed almost immediately 
afterwards, and at the early age of seventeen she became the wife 
of the Comte de Saisseval, the possessor of an immense fortune 
and a noble name. Like most of the young nobility of his day, 
he held rank likewise in the army, being colonel of a cavalry regi- 
ment at the time of his marriage and up to the very moment when 
the Revolution compelled him to abandon his country. The young 
countess was placed immediately among, the ladies-of-honour of 
Madame Victoire, while her sister-in-law received an appointment 
about the person of the Princess Elizabeth, the sole unmarried 
sister of the king. 

Rich, beautiful, full of talent, and only seventeen, yet compelled 
by her position to mix in all the dangerous frivolities of a court, 
Madame de Saisseval soon showed by her conduct the lofty nature 
of her character and the wisdom by which it had been fostered into 
maturity. No vanity made her swerve from the path of duty. No 
flattery or distinction unduly moved her ; and, more than all the 
rest, no amusement was an amusement to her, if shadowed ever so 
lightly by the possibility of sin. Even in the very first years of 
her married life, and long before what in sober earnest she used 
to call her " conversion ** had taken place, she had adopted the 
holy habit of retiring every now. and then for a few days to some 
pious convent, where she could seek God more thoroughly and 
commmfie with Him more intimately than it was possible to do 
amid the distractions of a court. In those precious hours of soli- 
tude she was able to pray uninterruptedly, to examine her con- 
science minutely, to receive her Divine Lord frequently, and thus 
to lay up in her breast such a good measure of spiritual grace and 
comfort as filled, and more than filled, the void which worldly 
pleasures, however innocent, are certain in the end to produce irk 

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2go Madame de Satssmal. 

the soul. God is only too willing to shower down His gifts opoo 
those who seek them earnestly ; and the fruit of these pioas 
•exercises soon became visible to all who knew her. The most 
-dutiful of daughters she had ever been, and now under the infla- 
•ence of divine grace she became equally noted in her new position 
as the most devoted of wives and tenderest of mothers, while the 
modest grace which distinguished her every word and action, won 
for her, even among the reluctant worldlings of the court, the 
•epithet of ** heavenly." 

Marie Antoinette, then in the first beauty of her youth, often 
^aw and admired the fair young countess at the court of Meudon, 
and she would gladly have admitted her among the chosen few 
in whose society she sometimes sought refuge at Trianon from the 
•etiquette and ceremony which overpowered her at Versailles, had 
Madame de Saisseval herself desired it. But a far higher privilege, 
though one less thought of by the world, had already been ac- 
•corded to her in the friendship of Madame Elizabeth, the yoang 
sister of Louis XVI., who even at that early age was leading 
the life of a saint at her brother*s court 

Knowing how little Madame Elizabeth loved Trianon and 
its idle, if harmless, frolics, the king had already purchased a 
pretty residence for his sister at Montreuil, and here she generally 
passed her days, arriving in the early morning and only returning 
to Versailles at night. Some of her ladies and a few chosen 
friends were her only companions in this loved retreat; the court 
was as completely ignored as if it had never existed for her ; and 
the young princess amused herself to her heart's content with her 
books, her gardens, her poultry yard, her poor people, and her 

Madame de Saisseval was no doubt often among the latter, 
sharing in amusements and occupations so congenial to her own 
heart. Sometimes Madame Elizabeth spent her day in visiting 
the sick and indigent of the neighbourhood ; sometimes she 
assembled the little ones of Christ for catechetical instruction; 
often she superintended the distribution of the milk, which was 
always set aside by her orders from the produce of her farm for 
the use of motherless babes or delicate invalids, who would have 
suffered grievously, if deprived of this addition to their nourish- 
ment ; and often also she took counsel with her ladies in order to 
-contrive unlooked-for amusements and merry surprises for the 
best conducted of her dependents on the farm. 

Nothing in this line can be prettier than the little story ve 
find in her biography concerning " Honest Jacques," a Swiss 
lierd, brought all the way from Fribourg for the better tending of 
Madame's dairy cows. ** Honest Jacques " was probably better 
fed and better paid in the service of the princess than he had ever 
been in his life before, but he could not forget his native moun- 
tains or the dear Utile ftanc/e whom he had left there tending her 

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Madame de SaissevaL 291 

fiUb^s cows, and waiting in patient hope until he should return 
with enough money to enable him to many her. Probably Madame 
Elizabeth observed the occasional cloud upon his brow, or she 
detected a note of sadness in the songs which, Swiss-like, he sang 
to his cows amid their pastures, for she begged the lady who had 
been instmmental in bringing him from his home to find out if he 
were really happy in her service. The honest answer, that he 
could not forget his betrothed, and that he feared she was pining 
in his absence, enlisted all her young pity for the two thus separated 
by poverty from each other. The Swiss girl was sent for at once, 
and the very day of her arrival at Montreuil, Madame Elizabeth 
appointed her superintendent of her dairy, and gave her in marriage 
to Jacques. 

It is pleasant to be able to add that the young couple whom she 
bad thus made happy for life remained faithful to the end. - 

** She is a good Princess ! In all Switzerland there is nobody like 
htr! — nobody half so good,'* Jacques was never weary of exclaim- 
ing, even when it was far from safe to speak well of royalty ; and 
when that royalty was actually tottering to its fall, and ^ladame 
Elizabeth had left her beloved Montreuil, first for Versailles and 
afterwards for the Tuilleries, the good man proved that he had 
really meant what he said, for he and his wife clung to her with 
unshaken fidelity to the last. They abandoned in fact the quiet 
home she had given them at Montreuil in order to follow her to 
Paris ; and once there, they made themselves useful to her in a 
thousand different ways, but chiefly, as we may easily believe, by 
conveying letters and messages, of too dangerous a character to be 
entrusted to an ordinary servant, to the adherents of royalty outside 
her prison. Their services in this way (however secretly carried 
out) drew upon them at last, as might be expected, the suspicions 
of the government, and towards the end of Madame Elizabeth's 
career the girl was seized and put in prison, while Jacques onlv 
escaped the same fate by a precipitate retreat into Switzerland. 
But the man who had mourned for his betrothed, while free and 
'Well cared for beneath her father's roof, wa* little likely to forget 
his wife pining in prison and in hourly expectation of perishing on 
the scaffold. He could not be happy in his own safety while she 
was in such awful danger; and he resolved at last upon making a 
final effort to deliver her. With some difficulty and much danger 
to himself, he made his way back to Paris, succeeded in rescuing 
her from the hands of her jailers, and returned with her imme- 
diately to his native land. 

^OL- in. X Digitized by GoOglC 

( 292 ) 



Chapter XXVIL 

Whiijb Father de la Colombi^re lingered in prison. Lady Edenhall 
>yas at the height of her power. The mutual hatred which both 
she and Philip Englebj had conceived for the Jesuit had brought 
them together, and Lady Edenhall's darling wish was fulfilled of 
seeing Philip once more her slave. Lord Edenhall had long since 
found out that his wife cared not a straw for him, but only for his 
name and fortune. Leaving her, therefore, to the enjoyment of 
these, he wrapped himself up more than ever in State affairs, grew 
morose and silent, and the Earl and Countess rarely met. 

Lady Edenhall had it all her own way. She had never looked 
more beautiful and magnificent than at an evening reception of the 
Duchess of York. Mary Beatrice had no mind for festivities when 
her chaplain was in prison, and her best friends scattered and per- 
secuted ; but she dared not show signs of grief, and the Duke in- 
sisted on giving more receptions than usual, in order to feign 
indifference to the state of public affairs. 

The card tables were arranged as usual, but the Duchess had 
refused to play, making some smiling excuse which would have 
passed current, more especially as of late her card-playing had 
notably diminished. 

In her heart Mary Beatrice said : " No, not while A^is languish- 
ing in prison will I disobey his counsel. Gladly would I forget in 
the excitement of cards the aching pain at my heart, but I will not 
do it." 

Presently Lady Edenhall approached her. "Your Highness 
does not play to-night," she said, in dulcet tones. 

" No," answered Mary Beatrice, quickly, toying with her brace- 
let ; ** I am not in the humour to-night." 

"Have orders, then, come even from Newgate?" demanded' 
the Countess. "Then may we say indeed of your Highness's holy 
chaplain, though silent yet he speaketh." 

Mary Beatrice started and coloured deeply. No soul save 
herself had known of Father de la Colombi^re's counsel. She 
trembled and looked up into Lady Edenhall's face. "Has he 
been tortured V^ she faltered, while her cheeks, ere while, flushed 
crimson, turned deadly pale. 

" Not yet, Princess, but he may be, and he shall, if he interferes 
with your Highness's pleasure." 

Mary Beatrice rose and walked to a card table. A game was 
just concluded, and she soon made up her set. In a few moments 

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A P^arl in Dark Waters, ^193 

she was absorbed in play. Never had she been so excited. Her 
■eyes shone, her cheeks flushed, her bosom heaved. No one would 
recognise the graceful Princess, the weeping novice torn from her 
convent to be an unwilling bride, the pious ' listener to Father de 
la Colombi^re*s sermons. This was a gambler. It was easy to 
foresee what Mary Beatrice could and would become if this passion 
were indulged. 

Lady Edenhall bent over her for a few minutes with a gratified 
look — a look such as a fiend might have worn in the flesh — and 
then she turned away. 

" I will labour at this/' she murmured to herself. " I will undp 
his work in that soul. I will ruin his fair hopes of her. She is 
-easily depressed. I believe I could get her in time to abjure her 
•creed, and then — and then — I think I should wipe out the disgrace 
of having once knelt at his feet. Faugh ! I hate myself as I think 
of it. How heated these rooms are— I feel faint, actually." And 
going towards an entrance, she sought the corridor. Philip Engleby, 
always on the watch, hastened after her. 

" I feel unwell, Phil," said she ; " bring me a chair. Sitting 
^ere in the air will refresh me." 

Philip brought a seat, and Lady Edenhall emptied her bottle of 

" Dost thou know, Phil," she continued, ** I have dismissed 
Ars^ne to-day } The fellow was too insolent, too presuming. We 
have already paid him beyond his deserts ; but it seems he thought 
we were to endow him with a fortune and make him equal with 
ourselves^ Imagine" — and Lady Edenhall laughed scornfully — 
^*he hinted I was to let him come to these receptions and try his 
luck at winning a wife. He thinks his handsome face should carry 
all before it. So I bade him go help the cooks and scullions, and 
choose his wife from them. Victoire, the head cook, is his country- 
woman, and a vastly pretty damsel." 

"What did he say to that?" inquired Philip. "You have 
courage, Di. I would not have dared to stir up his fiery blood.'' 

" He went away in a fury," she answered, " saying, perhaps 
this would be my last visit to St. James's. I do believe he will tell 
some tale to my lord. Poor fool ! he little knoweth Edenhall." 
And Lady Diana laughed merrily. " In truth, though," she said, 
presently, " I do not feel well. I have taken a chill. Escort me, 
I^hil, and call my people. I will hie me to bed." 

The reception at St. James's was over, and the palace was silent, 
its inmates probably wrapped in sleep. 

Mary Beatrice had gone to bed with fevered blood and aching 
^^art. For the first time in her life she had tried to drown the 
voice of conscience. Hitherto her religion had been that of the 

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294 -^ Pearl tn Dark Waters. 

loving child who having erred runs to his father's feet to tell his 
fault and receive his pardon. God had been to her a tender Father, 
listening to the faintest word of contrition that fell from her lips. 
To-night for the first time she shunned His face. She knelt not 
before her crucifix ; she did not kiss the feet of her Madonna ; 
she sprinkled no holy water on her bed. Hurriedly undressing, 
she buried her face in the pillows. On a table near lay the heap 
of glittering gold she had won at play. She fell into a fevered 
sleep, and her guardian angel raised his eyes to the Face which he 
always beheld, and cried : " Shall this fair blossom wither beneath 
the world's scorching glare ? Oh ! by her long fidelity, by her 
deeds of charity, and by her acts of humility, have pity on Thy 

Some hours afterwards the waiting women who slept in the 
ante-room to the Duchess's chamber, were awakened by loud cries. 
They rushed to their mistress. She was crouching on the ground 
trembling in terror, her long raven hair flowing around her, her 
hands clasped in convulsive agony. She could not speak ; and 
when the women raised her up, covered her with blankets, and tried 
to soothe her, her terrified eyes wandered round the room as if she 
saw some frightful vision. It was some time before she could 

" I have had," said she, at length, " a frightful dream.* I dare 
not tell you unless you swear not to betray me." 

The women eagerly swore, and the Duchess with tremblings 
accents went on to say: "By my bedside s^ood Lady Diana, but 
changed — oh! awfully changed. She was enveloped in flames, 
and her eyes glared like those of a wild beast. She said, Oh ! 
(cried Mary Beatrice) shall I ever forget that voice ? *Iam damned t 
I am in the flames of hell I ' " 

** And did your Highness speak to her?" asked the tremblings 

** Yea, with a strange courage, at which I now marvel, I said,. 
* How can this be ? I cannot believe it* " 

" And then ? " demanded the servants. But another fit of shud-^ 
denng seized on the Duchess, and she was so nearly fainting that 
the women had to give her a cordial ere her white lips could frame 
a sentence. When she spoke again, she said : 

"The spectre answered — * Madam, to convince you, feel my^ 
hand ; ' and she laid her hand upon my arm. It burnt and scorched 
me with such exceeding anguish that I cried out and awoke." 

" But, dearest Madam," said Alix la Motte, " it is impossible. 
Lady Edenhall is in life and health. She was at the reception." 

" I know, I know," answered Mary Beatrice ; and then into her 

• TbiB dream of Mary Beatrice is an historical incident in her life. Tlie time or 
its occurrence, and the person of whom she dreamt, have been altered for the 
purpose of our tale. 

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A Pearl in Dark Waters^ 295 

memoiy there flashed Lady Edenhall's last words and last glance. 
She had done a devirs work for Mary Beatrice's, soul. With a 
resolution which belonged to her character, although it was at the 
same time gentle and yielding, Mary Beatrice disengaged herself 
from the sheltering arms of Alix and Blanche, and walked with bare 
feet to the crucifix which hung above her priedieu. She fell down 
before it in mute and voiceless prayer. Her pious attendants knelt 
beside her. 

What passed in the soul of the princess was known only to 
God, but doubtless a deep contrition was breathed from that gentle 
heart and a mighty resolution taken. From that day Mary Beatrice 
never again touched cards. 

At last Alix getting alarmed, persuaded her mistress to go to 
bed. The fright and; the sudden chill made her ill ; and when 
morning came she was unfit to rise. Lying faint and weary on her 
pillows, she did not see the scared faces of her women, nor hear 
Alix's determined resistanqe in the ante-room in refusing admission 
to visitors brimful with news. But Alix^s power availed nothing 
when the Duke of York, hearing his wife was ill, came to see her. 
He went quickly into the chamber, and taking her little hand in his, 
said kindly : ** Has this awful news upset you, sweet heart ? Poor 
Lady Diana ! I can hardly credit it. Sne so full of life yester- 
even lieth now a blackened corpse. What ! did you not hear it ?" 
as his wife's eyes, distended with terror, were fixed on his face. 
*' She is dead I and by foul play, they whisper. The body is turn- 
ing black already — the effect of some strong poison. She was 
found dead in her bed, and must have been so for some hours — 
Ha 1 Alix, Blanche I hasten hither. I have been too rough 1 Her 
Highness has fainted." 

Chapter XXVIIL 

For several days Mary Beatrice's illness continued, and the story 
of her dream was bruited about, causing great indignation in the 
minds of many Protestants, but having a salutary effect on some 
Catholics ready to forsake the faith for this world's goods. That 
Lady Edenhall had been poisoned, there was no manner of doubt. 
It was supposed some slight portion had been mixed with a deli- 
cate dish of which she had partaken before going to the palace, 
and a larger dose with the succory water that always stood by her 
bedside to be taken in the night. Feeling feverish, she had 
emptied the glass, and an agonizing death had quickly followed. 
In the blackened coipse with protruding eyes, an object of shud- 
dering dread to the domestics that but the day before had trembled 
at her frown, who could recognise the haughty beauty, Diana 
Edenhall ? With a loud voice the mute corpse criedi " Have pity 

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2g6 A Pearl in Dark IVaiers^. 

upon me, my friends, have pity upon me, for the hand of the Lord 
hath touched me." But among those she called her friends there 
was none to pity her. It was only from the lips of him she deemed 
her enemy (hearing the news in his prison cell) that there went up 
a cry of anguish for her soul. 

Ars^ne had disappeared ; so also had many of Lady Edenhall's 
jewels. Search was made for him in vain, and a whisper that 
Philip Engleby for reasons of his own had favoured his flight,, 
reached Lord Edenhall's ears, and Philip was called to account. 
High words passed between them, for which Philip demanded satis- 
faction. A duel was fought with rancour on both &ides, while 
both combatants were skilled swordsmen. Both were borne from 
the field sorely wounded, and in a few hours Philip Engleby died 
with a curse on his lips. Lord Edenhall was maimed for life and 
rendered a hopeless invalid. 

About a week after Philip's death. Father de la Colombi^re was 
again summoned before the House of Lords. His time of impri- 
sonment had greatly changed him. A sharp cough shook his 
frame, and he looked little more than skin and bone; but his* 
glorious eyes shone brightly in his pale, worn face, and there was 
no sign of fear, of faltering, or dismay to be seen on his features. 
Detained for some hours in an ante-chamber until " my lords "" 
should summon him to their presence, he quietly took out his Bre- 
viary and recited the oflSce for the day. 

He was not, however, brought again before the tribunal. *• My 
lords," probably, felt somewhat ashamed of having to confess that 
the accusations laid , against him could not be substantiated. 
Great things had been hoped for by the imprisonment of her High- 
nesses chaplain. His papers had been narrowly examined, but,, 
like his Master, no witness, save false witnesses, could be found 
against him. 

At last an officer of the king's guard entered the ante-chamber 
and displayed his warrant from the king to banish Claude de la 
Colpmbi^re, " a pestilent Jesuit," from the kingdom, and to wit- 
ness his embarkation. 

The Father bowed his head, and closing his Breviary was about 
to put it in his pocket, when the officer roughly seized his arm and 
hustled him before him. The book fell on the ground.* 

It was a bitter day, with showers of sleet and a keen east wind. 
Ere the Jesuit and his guards had proceeded far, the former tottered 
in his walk and then fell to the ground. He was raised up, and a 
stream of blood was flowing from his mouth. 

The officer felt alarmed. The death of this prisoner, even by 
sickness, would be a disaster involving King Charles in a disagree- 

* There is a tradition that a Missal and Breviary belonging to Father de U 
Colombi^e were left in England, and were at one time in possession of Sioii 
College. No txace of them now exists* 

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A Pearl %n Dark Waters. 297 

able manner with King Louis. The insensible form was carried 
into an hostelry, and word was taken to the palace ; upon which the 
king (only too glad personally to grant the favour) accorded ten 
days of repose and liberty before Father de la Colombi^re should 
be obliged to quit the kingdom. Moreover, he was permitted to 
lodge with Father Russell, the Franciscan, one of her Majesty's 
chaplains^ and as yet protected by the marriage contract of Queen 
Catherine from the prevailing storm. 

With devoted kindness, Father Russell did all in his power to 
restore the shattered frame of his friend ; and in a day or two 
Father de la Colombi^re was able, to his great joy, as he tells us 
in his letters, to bid adieu to many who had known and loved him. 
Thus he gained access to those of his brethren then languishing in 

The Provincial, Father Whitbread, had been taken from a sick 
bed, where he was suffering from low fever, cast into a dark, damp 
cell and loaded with chains. But when Father de la Colombi^re 
entered his cell, the face he gazed on was radiant with happiness. 

" And so, Father Provincial," said Father de la Colombidre, 
**yon were right and I was wrong. You foresaw a storm was at 
hand : I thought peace and increase were to be given unto your 

*• Yes," said Father Whitbread, " I know not why, but an in- 
terior conviction has been in my mind for years that troubles were 
at hand. When I witnessed the success God was pleased to give 
to yonr preaching and ministry among souls, I tried to combat the 
feeling as a mistrust of God's providence. But ever since the 
Friday after Corpus Christi, when we made the consecration of our- 
selves to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, the conviction hath grown 

" And that is why you preached so earnestly to Ours at Li^ge on 
the Feast of St. James — was it not V^ 

" I could not help it, Father," replied the Provincial. " When 
I looked on the group of young fervent souls renewing their vows 
imto the Lord, my heart was moved within me, and the words of 
that da/s gospel seemed so appropriate to the occasion, • Can you 
drink the chalice that I shall drink ? They sqy unto Him, We can^ 
And so I went on to ask them, — Can you undergo a hard persecu- 
tion ? Are you contented to be falsely betrayed, and injured, and 
hurried away to prison ? * We can, blessed be God.' Can vou 
suffer the hardships of a jail ? Can you sleep on straw, and live 
on hard diet ? Can you lie in chains and fetters ? Canyon endure 
the rack ? * We can, blessed be God.' Can you be brought to 
the bar and hear yourselves falsely sworn against ? Can you pa- 
tiently receive the sentence of an unjust judge condemning you to 
a painful and ignominious death — to be hanged, drawn, and quar- 
tered ? * We can, blessed be God.' These words flowed from my 
lips without my will, as it were, but they affrighted none of those 

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2 98 A Pearl tn Dark Waitrs. 

ardent souls, and I comfort myself in thinking that« when we 
cut down, others shall take our places." 

" I have brought you comfort, Father," said his visitor. •• I 
shall leave with you seven Hosts, that you may for a week to come 
feast^upon the Bread of the strong." 

A heavenly smile lit up the Provincial's face as he took the 
Sacred Gift from the hands of his brother in Christ. " Wonderful 
is the grace of our God," he continued. " Often do I mind me of 
the words of our Master — * Your joy no man can take from you^ 
What is this dark cell, these chains, this feebleness of body, when 
Christ consoleth me ? Thanks be to Him : I shall die by His 
grace in the bosom of the Society, my true mother. From my 
infancy in her arms, I was taught that practice of mental praj^er 
which, having become habitual to me, is now my comfort an4 

" Yes," said Father de la Colombi^re, ** we may say of medita- 
tion, as did holy David, * Sweeter than honey unto my month.* 
Tell me, my reverend Father, I beg of you, for we are about to 
part for ever — does God bestow on you many lights in prayer ?" 

** He is very good to me," answered the old man. " My spirit 
travels with Him amidst the hills and seas of Galilee. I seem to 
live with Him on earth, to hear His voice, to touch His hands. 
What are sufferings, what is death ? The affair of a moment, and 
then I enjoy Him for all eternity of whom only to think of on 
earth is bliss. ... Is your time drawing near to leave me. 
Father ? Confess me, as it please you, before you go." 

Father de la Colombi^re visited the following day Father 
Barrow, more generally called Harcourt, the Rector of the London 
College of the Society.* The old gray-haired Father of seventy 
years was bright and happy as a child. To die a martyr's death 
had been, as he told Father de la Colombidre, his daily prayer for 
twenty years ; and now God was about to grant the desire of his 
heart, he praised and blessed His holy name. 

Then Father de la Colombi^re visited Father John CaldwdU 
and Father Anthony Turner, both converts (the fatter a B. A. of 
Cambridge), and Father John Gawan, who in his novitiate had 
been called "the angel," on account of his childlike innocence 
and candour. 

Having heard the confessions of these his dear brethren, and 
bestowed on each a gift similar to that he had given the Provincial, 
Father de la Colombidre visited also Father Mico '' socius" to the 
Provincial, and Father Mumford, both of whom shortly afterwards 
died while in the act of prayer, worn out by the weight of their 
irons. The five other Fathers whom we have mentioned, after a 

* The papers of the Society having been seised in the Titus Oates plot, no 
record remains of the exact spot of the head quarters of the Society in London. 
It was undoubtedly situated in the City. 

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A Pearl tn Dark Waters. 299 

long imprisonment, were executed at Tybome, and gained the 
crown of mart3nrdom. So also did many other fathers of the Society 
and of other religious orders, and secular priests, apprehended and 
executed in London and other towns. The aged Jesuit Father 
Neville, whose years numbered eighty- four, was flung down stairs 
hy the pursuivants, and so went to heaven. 

Father de la Colombi^re managed to gain admission to the 
Tower where Lord Staflford was confined, and bestowed all the com- 
fort he could on the brave old nobleman. He saw Katherine 
Howard, who with her mother had taken up her abode in a narrow 
lodging close to the Tower, that they might enjoy daily access to 
their beloved one, and relieve as far as might be his wants. 

The Father did not fail to visit the Duchess of York, and this 
at the earnest request of the Duke, who feared his wife's mind 
would never recover from the effect of her frightful dream. But to 
ber troubled spirit her chaplain brought help and consolation. He 
foresaw that Mary Befitrice had a thorny path to tread and must 
not lose her courage for what might be only an imagination. *' Pray 
for this poor soul," said he, " and let us not presume to judge that 
which is hidden in the secrets of God." 

Then at last the holy Claude de la Colombi^re bade farewell to 
the land in which he had laboured, prayed, and suffered. He bent 
bis steps to Paray-le-Monial, where he spent a few days, and then 
hastened to report himself to his provincial at Lyons. Having told 
Marguerite of her father's state, he approved of her resolve to 
return to England and devote herself to that father's solace. 

Lord Edenhall lingered for two years, a fretful and suffering 
being. He was removed to Edenhall ; and often did good Mistress 
Dorothy marvel to see the once gay and impetuous Marguerite 
changed into the patient, unselfish nurse and dutiful child. 

In the dark waters of affliction this pearl at length shone 
brightly. She had her reward when death drew near. A salutary 
fear of God's judgment came on the proud old man. He cried out 
for mercy ; and, by Marguerite's contrivance, a priest stood beside 
him and reconciled the parting soul. 

About the same time Lord Stafford, at the end of two years* 
imprisonment was beheaded on Tower Hill, on the Feast of St. 
Thomas of Canterbury, 1680. His wife did not long survive him; 
^d Katherine and Marguerite, linking their fates together, went 
to Paris. There, some years after. Lady Katherine married, and 
became the excellent wife and mother all who knew her antici- 

Marguerite entered the Convent of the Conception, and was sent 
^ter her profession to a hospital served by the sisters of her insti- 
tute. Her duties led her to attend a man suffering frightful agonies 
from cancer in the mouth. He obstinately refused to speak to a 
priest, and 1^ mostlv in a sort of gloomv stupor, save when in 
paroxysms or anger he wildly blasphemed. One day an English- 
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300 A Pearl tn Dark Waters. 

man happening to visit the hospital, was conducted by Sister Mary 
Austin (our Marguerite) through the ward. As they drew near the 
sufferer's bed, they were speaking in English. The wild start the 
man gave, the agonized look he cast ere again cowering down in 
his bed, convinced the sister a chord might be touched. When 
the visitor was gone, she sat by this poor creature and spoke in 
English. By degrees, in subsequent visits, she contrived to break 
the ice. It was Ars^ne the traitor, the murderer. With great 
difficulty, she persuaded him to listen to a priest, and as soon after 
he became from his dread malady speechless, absolution was given 
conditionally a«d he was anointed. He could not receive Holy 
Communion, and his death-agony was one of those frightful scenes 
upon which the mind cannot dwell. 

Father de la Colombi^re survived his return to France little 
more than three years, during which time he was a constant invalids 
His health never recovered from the effect of his imprisonment, 
and he may be truly reckoned among the martyrs to the faith in 
England. He died at Paray-le-Monial, February 15th, 1682. 

Both Henriette de Marigny and Alethea Howard were among 
the most fervent of the holy community on which God bestowed 
the singular gift of becoming the cradle of devotion to the Sacred 
Heart of Jesus, 

Our task is well-nigh done. Yet let us linger in the spots 
where once those we have written of, lived and suffered. May Fair 
is now a fashionable quarter of the town ; but hard by, on the spot 
where once stood the Grange or Farm is a shrine, dear to many 
hearts, and which has to many proved the threshold of eternal life* 
Raised in honour of Mary's Immaculate Conception, her dear 
name is held in constant honour and renown, and the fairest 
flowers blossom at her feet. And within that shrine there is a spot 
embalmed with love and prayer. Here on the pictured wall are 
the forms of Claude de la Colombi^re and his spiritual child,. 
Blessed Margaret Mary. There bum the lamps before the Sacred 
Heart. A guard of honour pays perpetual worship. How man3r 
tears have been dried, how many hearts consoled, how many battles- 
against our spiritual foes fought and won in that spot, none but 
God and His angels can tell. 

There are those who believe an earnest prayer in that sanctuarjr 
is never left unheard, and no wonder. In the midst of the vast 
wicked Babylon the angels of the Lord keep watch, and remind 
Him who rewards so grandly, of the love, the patience, the prayers, 
the sufferings, of those who have gone before. They laboured, and 
we have entered into the fruit of their labours. May we be faithful 
to our trust. And if the hour of peace be over, may we be ready in 
our turn to suffer and to die, if need be, for the honour of the Heart 
of Jesus and of the Mother whom that Heart loves so well. 


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( 30I ) 


THESE words may even still be able to call to the reader's atten- 
tion in time, but only barely in time, to the recurrence of aa 
Anniversary which ought not to be allowed ever to pass unnoticed. 
Passion Sunday indeed is gone by, and that is the day which was- 
chosen for the consecration of Ireland to the Heart of Jesus, two- 
years ago. The date was -fixed upon, no doubt, partly at least on 
account of its suitableness for the occasion : the day which by its- 
name, announces the approach of Passiontide, harmonizing well 
with the special oblation of herself to her crucified Redeemer made 
by that nation to which He has given such a share of His Cross. 
It was therefore on Passion Sunday that the faithful were exhorted 
in this past month by their pastors to renew that consecration of 
themselves. We failed to find room at the proper time for even a 
few hurried words on the subject ; but this present too late re- 
minder may induce some to supply the omitted acts of devotion on 
the 30th of March, which, according to another computation, is the 
anniversary of that l>oly event. 

There is a further reason why we should strive to deepen and 
to quicken the feelings and convictions which find their expression 
in tnese acts of devotion. It was in the June of 1675 that our 
Lord made this special appeal to the hearts of His creatures 
through His servant. Blessed Margaret Mary, of the Visitation Con- 
vent of Paray-le-Monial ; and the present year is, to use a word 
much in vogue, the centenary of the devotion to the Sacred Heart.*^ 
In the Archdiocese of Toulouse, and in many parts of France and 
other Catholic countries, preparations are being made to celebrate^ 
duly this jubilee also as well as the General Jubilee of the Church. 

There are many who will not be much helped by these peculiar 
circumstances, and who rather need to dwell on the general con- 
siderations which urge us to make use of this and every other 
means that we find useful for turning our hearts to where our trea- 
sure is. " Love hath fulfilled the law ;" and the devotion of which 
the Anniversary of Ireland's Consecration reminds us is only a. 
means to fill our hearts with the love of Jesus. Personal and na- 
tional acts of consecration are but special exercises of this loVe. 
Our own dear country (to revert to the occasion which suggests- 

* As Ids special tribute Father Killes, S J., of the Universitv of Innsbnick, has 
brought out a fourth edition of his large work — " De Rationibus Festorum Sa- 
cratissiini Cordis Jesu et Purissimi Cordis Mariae " — in which the theology and 
canonical history of the subject are solidly and learnedly discussed, and its special 
Hterature in all languages is catalogued with great fulness- and precision. The 
industry of the author alone, though evidently very great, could not have gathered 
8«ch materials together without devoted heli>ers in many countries. His brethren 
in the priesthood will furthermore find in this work, in that one of its four books- 
wluch IS entitled " Asceticus," the most solid aliment for their own devotion and 
that of their people. 

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o02 A Holy Anniversary. 

these thoughts) was dedicated to the heart of her Divine Lord bj 
her bishops and priests and people combined, as a pledge of their 
special love and devotion to that Heart, which is the symbol and 
in some sense the instrument and the victim of the Redeemer's 
love for men. It may be that our love for Jesus is so cold and 
vague as to be startlea, shocked, and almost distressed and scan- 
dalized at the device by which He has deigned to bring home to 
tis the reality, and, as it were, the permanent reality of the Incarna- 
tion, and the enduring intensity of all the motives and feelings that 
made Him assume a bodv and a soul like ours. But like another 
mystery of His love which we think of as the greatest, as if there 
were degrees in the Infinite— like the Blessed Eucharist itself, we 
liave nothing to do but to accept with love and awe the gift which 
<jod has given to us, though we should never have dared to imagine 
it for ourselves or to desire it. But God, who knows the hearts 
that He has made, has not over-estimated the resistance to be over- 
come in obtaining possession of His own. With all the prodiga- 
lity of His love for men, do men love him too much in return ? 
Must not He still point to His Heart and say : Behold this Heart so 
loving and so little loved ? Perhaps, when the' devotion to the Sacred 
Heart was first proposed to us, we were not able to realise the 
answer given by St. John the Evangelist to St Gertrude, who 
expressed her wonder that he, the beloved disciple who leaned his 
head against the Lord's breast, had not earned literally the title 
that is often given to him of Apostle of the Sacred Heart Is this 
the age for which this device of the Divine love was reserved, when 
men's hearts, grown colder, would require a stronger incentive, a 
more vehement appeal ? The world has never been a very satisfac- 
tory place, but in many ways it does seem more hopeless and 
heartless now than ever. Reputable books and journals, that pretend, 
and with too much reason, to be the organs of the world's opinions, 
take for granted and propound with moderation and good taste, 
more hideous and revolting doctrines than the impious Voltaire 
<ever dared to broach. While faith, hope, charity, and all Christian 
principles and virtues are dying out in the world outside, it behoves 
the children of the Church to draw closer and closer to the Heart 
of Jesus. 

France in her afflictions has drawn closer to 'the Sacred Heart. 
Blessed Margaret Mary was a child of France, and so was the chief 
of the first instruments in spreading the devotion to the Heart of 
our Lord, that Father de la Colombi^re, who has played so con- 
siderable a part in the Tale which has but just now been brought 
to a conclusion in our pages. This devotion is thus congenial to 
the soil of France. But France sinned, and God who loves her 
has chastised her. After their recent terrible disasters the faithful 
of France resolved on erecting a splendid shrine to the Sacred 
Heart on Montmartre, with the inscription : " Christo ejusqtu sa- 
xratissimo Cordi Gallia poenitens et devota,^^ One of our contributors, 

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A Holy Anniversary. 305 

dwelling in that great and wonderful and most genial land, makes: 
this the text of an appeal, which an accident has reserved for this- 
appropriate occasion. 

Poor bleeding France ! may these blest words sink deep 
Into thv heart and mind. The lip may speak 
The hollow accents that the heart ne'er felt, 
And dupe the guileless soul that trusts in sdl. 
They dupe not Thee, Omniscient ; Thine eye 
Scans the vain windings of the human he;^rt, 
And reads the thought ere it can snatch the mask. 
Let penitence and fond devotion find 
Their shrine in living hearts and not in stone ; 
The monumental marble would but scoff 
The words that chronicle a nation's lie. 
War's blood-stained sword, and Fortune's deepest firown 
Have tauglit thee better than the treacherous smile 
That "WQOtA thee blindly to thine own decay. 
There is no joy, no hope, no stren|[th, no peace 
When Faith and Virtue dwell not m the land : 
The pageantry of vice may screen the wreck 
Of all that's noble in a nation's life ; 
But soon the pageant falls, and falling shows 
The pent-up norrors of a living tomb. 
Can Dack, loved France, thy virtues and the deeds 
Of days of yore ; scan History's blazoned page, 
And count th* unfading glories of the past. 
Rise from thy iiedlen state and fix thy gaze 
On Gloiy's limner trembling in the gde ; 
But Glory's banner bears but one device, — 
" For God and Fatherland fight, win, or die." 
Gird thee, for still the threatening war-cloud lowers. 
Strike for the aged Pontiff captive held ; 
Strike for our holy Faith, despised, oppressed ; 
Strike for the cause of Liberty and Right, 
And God will bless and crown thee with success. 


May that prayer which is pronounced by so many lips be heard 
and granted in God's own time and in God's own way : Sacred 
Heart ofjesusy save the Church and France I The interests of the 
Church at home and in ^le foreign missions are wound up closely 
with the stability of France as a great Catholic nation — a nation 
Catholic to the heart's core, in spite of some loud talkers and fluent 
writers, and in spite of some evil traditions. Still the pious boast 
is true: ** Christus amat Francos P* 

Otd, ma col^ isxpire, et I'amour est vainquenr ; 
Je te pardonnerai, j'en jure par mon Coeur I 
Autour du Christ ton Chef, peuple, serre tes rangs : 
Par Lui seul tu vaincras. Le Christ aime les Francs f 

Yes, Christ loves the Franks ; but better (may we not say so ?) Her 
loves the Celts — He loves the Irish race that has clung so faith- 
fully to Him through many and various trials, manifesting always- 

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304 Nightfall 

so tender a devotion to His Mother in heaven, and so brave a 
loyalty to His Church upon earth. However, men are not saved 
by races or by nations, but individually soul by soul. Each of ns 
may and must say with St. Paul, *' Christ has loved we and delivered 
Himself for me." Out of every source of grace the measure of 
grace that is drawn away depends on the capacity of the recipient 
As star differs from star in glory, heart differs from heart in width, 
in depth, in generosity. Sacred rites affect various souls variously. 
Here is the way that the sacred rite of which we have been speak- 
ing, wishing to make the memory of it a holy Anniversary— here is 
the way that the national Consecration of Ireland affected one 
simple Irish heart> We quote from the letter of a Sister of Mercy. 
•" Something in the Irish Monthly brought to my mind a little 
incident which I may as well tell you. A week or so after last 
Passion Sunday [1873], a servant girl who had been under our 
care a year or two ago came up to consult us about going to 
America. The Sister to whom she spoke gave her the best 
advice she could, but did not urge her to remain, for she was 
steady, well-trained, not too young, and had very good prospects. 
The Sister, however, went on to speak of the Consecration of Ire- 
land on Passion Sunday and of the devotion to the Sacred Heart 
of Jesus, recommending it strongly to this poor girl, who has 
almost always lived in Protestant families and has had struggles of 
her own about religion. Poor Mary seemed touched with what 
was said, but made no remark. When she was leaving, the Sister 
said something which took for granted that she would go in search 
of the ' big wages' in America; but Mary turned to her and said: 
* Oh ! ma'am, 1 would hot like to leave Ireland now when it is put 
vnder the Sacred Heart,' and there were tears in her eyes as she 


ON wood and wave the gathering shadows fall ; 
The trees are whispering in the twilight %r^y^ 
As if orie last farewell they fain would say. 
Ere darkness shrouds them in her dusky pall. 
Now, one by one, broad oak and poplar tall 
Melt into shade ; the golden-mantled day 
O'er the hushed meadows softly steals away, 
And solemn night sits silently on all. 
Hark to the breeze ! that, slowly creeping by. 
With low, dull moan the spreading darkness fills; 
The night is fraught with answering sympathy. 
For all around the oaks and poplars sigh, 
And floating faintly o'er the far-off hills, 
A deep, sad voice comes sobbing from the sea. 

E. H. 

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( 30S ; 

A Tale. 


• Chapter I. 

On Shaknon's Banks* 
'*Kd degU alfcri, miperboaltero flume."— Pm^KCv. 

I AM a schoolmaster — a humble member of a despised fraternity. 
The actual present contains for me very little of what is 
called the poetry of life, and it is this accident, I presume, which 
impels me to live my idle hours in a world which has long since 
passed away. We view the distant past through a mellow haze 
^hich gives richness to the noble figures which people it, and 
makes approachable the uncouth and forbidding by softening their 
harsh outlines and shrouding many of their defects. It thus 
liappens that intercourse, with the dead past has greater charms 
for some than intercourse with the living present. My own pre- 
ference for the former is decided, and I have many reasons to feel 
thankful that it is so. 

My unpretending school stands on the banks of the Shannon. 

When the restless community of which I am autocrat has been 

•dissolved for the day, and coming down from my desk I divest 

myself of the awful dignity of my office and descend to the level 

of mere human feeling and human enjoyment, my evening walk 

usually lies along the margin of the great river which flows at 

hand. Alone by the water** edge, my thoughts ever wander back 

to the men who lived ^d the events which have been enacted 

within hearing of the waves whose music has become so familiar 

to me. I love the huge stream with a fervour which, I am slow to 

believe, will find a parallel in the poet's enthusiasm for the scenery 

which he describes. I love it because the murmuring of its waves 

has become for me like voices of the past, telling me many secrets 

of the great deeds of the unhistoric dead. I love it, too, because 

the sound of its waters mingled with every golden dream which I 

dreamed long ago, when my own life was beginning ; ^and even 

then kept ringing musically in my ear, when those gorgeous un- 

realities were dispelled, and I dreamed no more. I do not think 

I shall ever waver in this love. I have not always been a school- 

master^ and it has been given me before I settled down to my 

VOL. III. Y a { \ 

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3o6 The Chances of War. 

present occupation to visit the river scenery of many lands. From 
the summit of a Roman cupola I have beheld the Tiber winding 
through the lonely Campagna, and have marked the contrast be- 
tween its yellow folds and the green meadows on its shores ; but 
even there I could not help feeling that there were brighter waves 
flowing through greener fields by the home which I had quitted to 
visit the City of the Seven Hillar. From the ramparts of Verona I 
have seen the lively Adige burst sparkling from beneath the frown- 
ing mountains of Tyrol ; and from the towers of the old palace of 
Avignon I have watched the impatient Rhone hurrying through 
the vine-covered hills of Provence to the distant Mediterranean ; 
but lovelier even than these was the picture which my memory 
treasured of the dark blue waters which sleep in their great reser- 
voirs beneath the hills of Thomond, and thence pour noisily down 
over the shallow ford and under the quaint bridge of Elillaloe. I 
have gazed with rapture on the majestic Rhine, flowing calmly on 
between ruin-crowned hills, and mirroring within it the spires of 
mediaeval cathedrals and the fortress palaces of old electors ; but 
my heart whispered that yet more bieautiful was the broad river 
which flows between Oflaly and Hy-maine, reflecting in its blue 
waves the crumbling gables and ruined arches of Clonmacnoise. 

Lovelier even than what it is now was this " ancient river " in 
the distant days to which the incidents of the story we are to tell 
carry us back. We are concerned with events more than two 
hundred years old, and at this remote period the scenery of the 
Shannon possessed many charms which it has since lost. Rem- 
nants of the antique forests which once covered so large a part of 
the island still lingered along its shores. The castles of the '' old 
Irish " and of the Anglo-Saxon settlers, which now in ruinous 
desolation peep from out their ivy shrouds, lifted their heads 
proud and defiant on the heights beneath which the river sweeps, 
or on the islands which its waves encircle. Convents, too, and 
monasteries but lately restored to their lawful owners by the 
domestic government which had ventured to annul the confiscat- 
ing laws of Elizabeth, reposed in peace upon its banks — ^the cam- 
paign of the ruthless Cromwell against Irish faith and Irish 
nationality had not yet begun. 

It is true no chartered Drainage Company had opened up the 
river for the passage of vessels never destined to disturb its waters, 
or planted buoys to mark out the navigable channel for imaginary 
skippers. But, though these improvements which we have seen 
introduced in our own time were wanting then, the picturesqueness 
of Shannon scenery was hardly affected by their absence. Lou^h 
Ree, in the month of May, 1646, even without these embellish- 
ments which have been added by modem engineering, might still 
rival in beauty the fairest landscape that Europe could offer. Our 
tale chooses for its opening scene Lough Ree and its surroundings, 
on one of the brightest of the bright evenings of that beautiful 

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The Chances of War. 307 

month. Half the fiery red disc of the setting san showed across 
the tops of the hills of Roscommon, and his rays fell in showers of 
dnsky gold upon the trees which fringed the Leinster shore. A 
brisk wind had been blowing daring the day ; but it had died away 
as evening advanced. The surface of the hdLe, which some hours 
before had been covered with angty billows, now presented to the 
eye long series of glittering waves rising and falling in sluggish 
undalations, and rolling in languid procession towards the shore. 
The shadow of the gaunt hills behind hung heavily upon the 
western margin of the lake, adding deeper gloom to the woods 
which clothed the upland, and a darker tint to the heather which 
covered the bogs and moors. 

As the last rays of the sun shot across the summits of the western 
hills, a band of horsemen issued from the woody border 
which skirted the Roscommon shore. The party consisted 
of about twenty men. They were armed after the fashion of the 
cuirassiers or pistoliers of the period. The upper part of the body 
was protected by a corselet of iron, the lower limbs by cuissarts 
formed of heavy folds of the same metal and extending to the 
knee, where they were met by boots of coarse leather. In front of 
each saddle hung, at either side, a long leathern case somewhat 
more than two feet in length,*from which protruded the butt of a 
large pistol — ^an instrument which had already become formidable 
in the wars of the century, and from which the soldier who used it 
was sometimes named. From the girdle of each horseman hung 
a heavy sword, and at his right side were suspended a powder- 
flask and priming box. The horses on which the troopers were 
mounted were of powerful build, but at this moment they were 
evidently exhausted by a long and toilsome journey. They followed 
one another in dull regularity, raising their drooping heads and 
quickening their slackening pace only when an occasional appli- 
cation of the heavy spurs which swung to and fro along their 
flanks warned them that the hour for rest had not yet come. The 
riders appeared worn out by the fatigues of a long march. They 
sat listlessly in their high saddles, yielding to every motion of 
their horses — ^their accoutrements bespattered with the contents of 
many a mud pool thrQUgh which they had splashed during the day. 
In most cases they had divested themselves of their heavy helmets, 
which, secured by a strap to the saddle-bow, rattled lazily against 
the iron-covered knees of their owners. No sound of song or joke 
broke the silence of the march. Now and then, indeed, some 
expression of impatience would find its way to the lips of a tired 
trooper ; he would wonder aloud if they were ever to arrive at the 
halting-place ; but no one volunteering an answer, the attempt at 
conversation was abandoned and all again became silent. 

At the head of the little troop rode a young man of command- 
ing appearance, evidently the leader of the party. His costume 
resembled much that of his followers. His armour was fashioned 

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3o8 The Chances of War. 

like theirs, but the metal of which it was made was more highly 
tempered, and the workmanship which it displayied much more 
exquisite. The pistols at his saddle-bow were lighter and of more 
graceful form than those carried by his men. A sword hung b^ 
his side, and the embossed hilt of the formidable skeine was visible 
amid the folds of his sash. On his head he wore a broad-brimmed 
hat ornamented with a heavy plume ; and his hair, long and flow- 
ing, after the manner of the " old Irish,'* fell in bright masses on 
his shoulders. His face, which had still the roundness and soft- 
ness of youth, gave token of long continued exposure to the 
successive inclemencies of the seasons, and perhaps a shrewd 
observer would have thought that it never could have been so 
bronzed by an Irish sun. 

For a long time the leader, like his men, had been riding in 
silence ; but no one who observed the changes which passed in 
quick succession over his countenance, and the fixed and intelli- 
gent look of his blue eyes, would have said that his silence was 
the result of the apathy produced by extreme fatigue. His mind^ 
on whatever subject engaged, was evidently too much engrossed 
by other matters to be conscious of the bodily weariness which 
he must have shared with his followers. 

** Didst thou not say, O'Duigenan, that we should reach the 
castle before sunset ?" he at length inquired from the soldier who 
rode immediately behind him. 

**No doubt, captain," was the reply; "and my words would 
have proved true, had our horses not been so worn out by these 
two days' ride. Another day's journey at this pace will dismount 
us all." 

'* Horse and man shall have rest when we pass the Shannon,'* 
returned the officer. '' But we cannot now halt so long in any 
place that our enemies in the neighbourhood may have notice of 
our march. To-morrow, however, let the jaded brutes have a few 
additional hours' rest. We are now near the head of the lake, and 
there is, moreover, little chance of our coming being announced 
by the inhabitants of this district." 

The last words, spoken in a tone of intense bitterness, were 
accompanied by a wave of the speaker's hand in the direction of 
the silent wilderness of fair fields which stretched away into tbe 
gathering shadows of night. 

** Canst find," he inquired after a short pause, " in thy recol- 
lections of this neighbourhood any place which will give us a better 
covering than the branches of these trees ? The night breeze from 
the river is chill, and methinks we could sleep better were we 
separated from it by even a stone wall." 

** Years ago," replied the soldier, ** a Biatach* kept open house 

* " Biatachs were an order of persons, very numerous in Ireland in ancient 
times, appointed to keep houses of hospitality, for the entertainment of travellers 

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The Chances of War. 309 

at the spot ^here the road we now follow joins those of Killian 
aad BaU3rxnoe. The place lies directly opposite the castle, but it 
is scarcely possible that the cabin can have weathered the hard 
tiines through which the country has passed since I was a boy." 

** And in which so many stouter dwellings have gone to the 
ground/' added the officer. " But let us hope the ruins may yet 
be restored. In the meantime we must push on ; night is almost 
Hpon us, and these drowsy horsemen look as if they would go to 
sleep in their saddles." 

With a cheering "Forward!" to his men, the leader of the 
party spurred forward on the shaded path before him. The tired 
troopers behind roused from their lethargy, gathered up the reins 
and urged their jaded horses in the same direction. 

After a ride of about a quarter of an hour, the soldier who had 
been previously addressed as O'Duigenan pushed forward his 
horse till he was almost abreast of his leader. 

** We are almost at the end of our day's journey," he said. 
** Well-remembered landmarks tell me we are near the Biatach's 

As he spoke, a turning in the path they were following brought 
them in sight of the resting-pl^ce they sought. It was a large 
square cabin. Its walls, like those of all the humbler habitations 
of the period, were built of clay. The roof was, or rather had 
been, formed of a thatch of straw or reeds supported by roughs 
unhewn beams of wood. Its appearance was gloomy and deserted, 
and it was but too evident that the melancholy anticipations of 
CXDuigenan were destined to be realized. The hospitable shelter 
which the humanity of a former age had provided for the houseless 
wayfarer had suffered the fate which befell so many other edifices 
of a kindred nature during the wild wars of the century. Its 
tenants had sought some safer refuge from the bands of marauders 
who from time to time swept over the country, and the abandoned 
Cabin stood chill and desolate by the wayside— a sad monument of 
the falling fortunes of the race to wl^ose chivalrous hospitality it 
owed its existence. 

A broad, grassy pathway led from the deserted inn to the 
water's edge. Through the opening in the trees the eye caught a 
glimpse of the broad waters of Lough Ree and of the numerous 
islands with which at this point its surface is dotted. On the 

and the poor ; and the establishments orer which they presided had endowments 
and eiants of lands for the public use, and free entertaimnent for all persons who 
stood in need of it ; and from these arose the tenn, Ballybiatach, so common in 
Ireland as a name for a townland, which signified land appropriated to these pur- 
poses." (Connellan and MacDcrmott's Annals of the Four if asters.) 

The existence of these establishments is mentioned in the Annals so late as 
the year 1609. " MacWard> i. e., Owen, the son of Geoffrey, son of Owen, son of 
Geoffi-ey, chief professor to O'Donnell in poetry, a leamea and intelligent man, 
who kept a house of general hospitality, died at an advanced age, after the vic- 
toiy of repentance.** 

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310 The Chances of War. 

nearest of these islands, and visible from the spot where stood the 
ruins of the " house of hospitality," rose the high walls of a castle, 
or it might more properly be said, of a fortified dwelling-house. 
The building was of the type to which belonged most of the dwell- 
ings of the lesser nobility of the Pale. It was a rectangular edifice, 
about fifty or sixty feet high, built of rough, uncut stone, and sur- 
mounted by irregular battlements of various heights, the highest 
being placed at the comers. Its dark walls seemed to frown upon 
the restless waters which rippled merrily against their sides ; and 
the gloomy battlements which protected the roof stood out against 
the darkened sky, like gaunt sentinels keeping guard upon the quiet 
laJce and its peaceful surroundings. 

" Look there. That is the Castle of Duneevin,*' said CDuige- 
nan, pointing to the dark pile, as his commander drew bridle in 
front of the deserted cabin. 

" Ride down to the shore and warn its inmates of our coming. 
Food and provender are at hand,'' continued the officer, address- 
ing the troop which had halted before him ; " dismount and picket 
your horses in the wood, and let some one light a fire in yonder 

'' Your men may spare themselves this trouble at least," said a 
voice from out the deep shadow of the ruined doorway, " a fire is 
already blazing within." 

As he concluded, the speaker emerged from the obscurity in 
which he had hitherto been concealed, and advanced towards the 
chief of the little party, who took but slight pains to conceal the 
surprise and distrust which this unexpected offer of hospitali^ 
excited in him. There was little in the outward appearance of the 
stranger to allay his suspicions. His clothes were old and thread- 
bare, their form ^one indicating that the wearer belonged or 
claimed to belong to higher classes of Irish society. He wore the 
truis^ harrady and mantle, distinctive garments of the old Celtic popu- 
lation ; but the cloth of which they were made had lost its original 
colour, and the traces of a journey over the moors and bogs of the 
neighbourhood were still visible upon them. From beneath a 
cone-shaped hat his hair fell in heavy dark masses on his shoulders. 
He was of middle age, of strong and active build. His glance was 
quick and penetrating as he scanned the little troop drawn up 
before the cabin, but it settled down to a quiet and subdued lode 
as he advanced to greet the officer in command. 

'' I can claim to be the host only because I have been the first 
to arrive at the inn," he said, with a smile ; " but my offer of 
shelter is cordial, and poor though the lodging be, it is hardly to 
be despised while the " 

" We thank you for your courtesy," returned the soldier with 
cold politeness, '' and are too fatigued not to profit by it willingly. 
I expected to find the cabin untenanted. Solitary travellers are 
not often to be met with in this neighbourhood just now. It most 

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The Chances of War. 311 

be very important business which tempts them to traverse this dis- 
trict at present" 

** You have guessed rightly,*' said the stranger, quietly ; " the 
business on which I travel is important." 

*'The circumstances under which we meet must excuse my 
curiosity in asking what it is." 
*• I am a courier." 
•• By whom sent — and whither ?" 
" By the O'Neill— to Limerick." 

*' You will forgive my requiring some other voucher for this 
besides jrour own statement" 

The stranger drew from the breast of his faded jerkin a paper 
which he presented to the officer. Its contents seemed to satisfy 
the latter. He repeated the order to his 'men to begin their 
arrangements for passing the night, whilst he himself, notwith- 
standing his weariness, remained to converse with his new-made 
acquaintance. The conversation became so engrossing that he 
seemed to forget the circumstances of his position. He was at 
length recalled to a sense of his .present duties by a gesture from 
his companion which directed his attention to the lake below. In 
answer to the summons of O'JDuigenan's bugle a boat had 
quitted the island-castle and was now rapidly cutting its way 
through the water. In the stem sat a red-faced, portly individual, 
whose gravity of demeanour and dignity of carriage were too great 
for any position below that of steward of the household, and who 
might therefore be rightly set down as the holder of that impor- 
tant office. 

*' I must quit you for a moment," said the officer to the courier 
with whom he conversed. ** We have need of more than is in- 
cluded in vour offer of hospitality. We are hungry as well as 
tired. I will join you again presently." 

He turned towards the shore of the lake, which he reached as 
the keel of the boat grated on the pebbles of the strand. 

" Greet the Lord of Duneevin in the name of Captain Heber 
MacDermott, who travels on the business of the Supreme Council, 
and who trespasses so far on his hospitality as to ask some refresh- 
ment for himself and his troop." 

**The castle farmyard lies down yonder among the trees," 
replied the stout dignitary from the stem of the boat. '' There 
you will be supplied with forage for your horses. Your message I 
will bear to Mr. Dillon." 

With a profound bow to the soldier he hurriedly ordered the 
boatmen to push off from the shore, and was home rapidly away, 
followed by a parting injunction from O'Duigenan to lose no time 
in delivering his message. 

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312 The Chaiices of War. 

Chapter II. 


* * Welcome, good ICeesala, 
Nov sit we close about this taper here 
And call in question our neoeasities."— «/iMliii9 Cmtwt, 

" And so you journey southwards,'* said the officer who had given 
his name as Captain Heber MacDermott, when he had rejoined 
the messenger of O'Neill. "Are the tidings which you bear from 
the north for the ears of the members of the Council alone, or 
might I also hear what our prospects in Ulster are ?" 

"In truth, good sir, the message which I bear is hardly a 
secret ; but you err when you suppose that it is intended for the 
ears of the Council. I have but to report to my Lord the Nuncio 
the progress made in the organisation of the army of the north." 

***Tis well," replied the soldier, "that you have to deal only 
with him. Truly I begin to believe that, priest as he is, he under- 
stands the trade of war better than those self-conceited cavaliers of 
the Pale." 

" Or, perhaps, is more in earnest in waging it," suggested the 

" Of that, too, he has given proof. You have doubtless heard 
that active preparations are being made to press the siege of 

" News does not travel so rapidly just now. I heard not of 
this before." 

"The fortress must fall," continued the soldier, "and when it 
does, we shall owe the possession of it to the energy of my Lord 
the Nuncio. The garrison will now have to deal with a man of a 
different stamp from the dainty and blundering Glamorgan. We 
want but men of energy and determination at the head of affairs, 
and the land is free." 

" And have you not left many such behind you in the south .^" 
asked the stranger. 

"Many!" replied the soldier, disdainfully. "Among yon 
lordlings of the Pale, driven by fear to take part with us, 
whom the government of England styles * Irish Rebels,' there is 
scarcely a true patriot. Which of them would not make his peace 
with King or Parliament to-morrow, and purchase his own security 
by surrendering to their mercy his Irish confederates ? They care 
more for the pretended friendship of the trickster Ormond than 
for the safety of the Irish nation. For them, to be the friends of 
England is more desirable than to be the deliverers of Ireland. 
They would not consent to be free if freedom, political and reli- 

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The Chances of War. 315 

gions, implied separation from England. They are but half- 
hearted allies i^hen the battle is raging, and hold us back if we 
would follow up the victory when it is won. Would to God we 
had an Irish government and an Irish army with an Irish general 
at its head. Soon would the land be rid of bloodhounds such as 
Coote and Inchiquin, who at this moment are hunting down our 
unfortunate race as if God had made it their natural prey." 

•'Your wish to behold an Irish army with an Irish general will 
be speedily fulfilled. Ulster, towards which you travel, is Irish 
still, and Ulster is now in the field. The Red Hand is raised 
again, and when it falls the enemies of Ireland and of God are 
likely to remember the blow." 

" Heaven grant that it may strike soon!" fervently ejaculated 
the yonng soldier. " It can do more to establish permanent peace 
than all the chicanery of these drivelling politicians who are con- 
tent to beg from the favour of his excellence of Ormond a security 
which their own swords might establish in a few weeks and pre* 
serve for ever." 

" You will probably be witness of what you desire so much ; I 
bear to the Nuncio the assurance that in a few days the camp will 
be broken up and the army of General O'Neill will march against 

•' And will, it is to be hoped, effect more than Preston and 
Clanrickarde are likely to do in that quarter against the plunderer 
Coote,'* said the oflBcer, pointing towards the west. 

** I doubt it not," rejoined his companion ; and then added with 
a smile, " you can yourself bear witness that Don Eugenio is not 
a foe to be despised, even when the odds are against him." 

*'Yes, I can bear witness to that, though I am at a loss to 
understand how you have come to know me so well. General 
O'Neill and I have met ere this. We defended opposite sides in 
strangers' quarrels ; but I have seen in him as an enemy that 
which makes me well satisfied to serve under him as a friend. I 
feel assured that I could not draw my sword under a worthier com- 

"I am glad that you have formed such an estimate of our 
General," returned the stranger. "You will find that he is no 
less just in his estimate of the merits of Captain MacDermott. 
But I perceive that a speedy answer has been returned to your 
message to the castle. Boats have already put off from the island. 
Your presence will be necessary at the landing-place. We will 
meet again by the fire in the cabin when your troopers have re- 
freshed themselves. Till then, adieu." 

The stranger bowed to MacDermott and directed his steps to 
the ruined inn, within and around which were visible the disorder 
and apparent confusion which characterise the temporary resting- 
places of soldiers on the march. Treading his way through the 
piles of saddles, pistol-cases, and pieces of armour which lay 

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314 The Chances of War. 

around the entrance, he entered the cabin and seated himself pn 
a log of wood beside the blazing fire. 

Long and silently did he peer into the fiery recesses of the 
heap of burning faggots on the hearth, watching how they leaped 
and crackled and struggled with one another, how the bright flame 
shot up for a moment into the air, and fell again buried in the 
smoke] which issued from the pile. What were his thoughts ? 
Did they wander to the incidents of the great national struggle 
imaged in the objects before him — to the great contest where all 
was turmoil and strife'; where the flame of hope, fanned by some 
momentary success, blazed for a time before the eyes of the op- 
pressed, and then went out again amid the smoke and din of some 
disastrous battle-field ? Long he mused, heedless of the tramp of 
heavy feet and the sounds of harsh voices and careless laughter 
which accompanied the preparations made by the troopers for 
their evening meal. His musings were at length disturbed by a 
heavy hand laid upon his shoulder. He started hurriedly from his 
seat O'Duigenan the trumpeter stood before him. 

"Nay, start not as if a serpent had stung thee — the reptiles left 
the island in St. Patrick's time," said the soldier, lightly. 

" I choose to believe that the brood is not yet extinct in the 
country," returned the stranger, drily. ** But what wouldst thou 
with me?" 

" In the first place I am charged to say to you that Captain 
MacDermott has accepted the invitation of the master of yonder 
castle to be his guest for the night, and invites you to accompany 
him thither. In the second place, should this arrangement not 
suit you, I can myself give you an iitvitation to a tolerable supper 
which we intend eating in the open air rather than under this 
villainous-looking roof." 

"Where shall I find your captain?" hastily demanded the 

" By the shore of the lake," were the only words of the reply 
which reached his ears. He quitted the cabin abruptly and harried 
to the shore. MacDermott*s voice greeted him as he approached. 

** We have waited for you some time. I am impatient to be 
gone. Jump in and I will push off." 

" I go not," was the reply. " I come but to thank you for yonr 
invitation." He stooped to push off the boat from the strand, and 
bending over MacDermott whispered in his ear. 

" Speak not of our movements ; those whom you shall meet 
are not all friends of our cause." 

A vigorous push sent the light bark far out into the deep water. 
The rowers bent to their oars, and the moonbeams danced fantastic 
dances on the chopped and broken waves which they left behind 
them in their wake. 

The stranger gazed for a moment after the receding skiff. 
** Thy love of Ireland is sincere," he murmured, " if it stand the 

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The Chances of War. 315 

\ bj which it Is now to be tried — ^the friendship of Ireland's 
I aristocracy.** 

He wrapped his cloak round him and retraced his steps to the 
bin which he had quitted. He avoided the boisterous circle 
lich smronnded a large fire kindled at the foot of a tree, and 
lich noisily discmssed the provisions furnished by the hospitable 
^rd of Dnneevin. He took his place again by the fire blazing on 
i rained hearth of the Biatach, drew his thin cloak yet closer 
«nd him, and resting his head against the mouldering earthen 
^1, was released by sleep from the remembrance of his country's 
'fortunes and his own. 


' If yon know these things, yoiishaU be blessed if you do ihem.**^S,yohnt im. 1 7. 

^ OME Fathers in the recreation-room 

Were gaily chatting in the evening's gloom, 
Then, asking silence, thus the Rector said : 
" To-day in St Augustine's book I read — 

* I?e monachorum open :* and found 
What strange delusions everywhere abound. 
It seems that some lay brothers, in their zeal 
For high perfection, from their work would steal 
Into the library, to study there 
What Holy Scripture says on constant prayer ; 
And when the Abbot called them to account. 
They used to quote the Sermon on the Mount ; 
How birds of air will neither sow nor reap, 
Nor gather into bams ; yet, while they keep 
From earth's low toils, by God's own hand are fed. 
'And such should be our state,' these brethren said ; 

* For who are those designed by birds of air 
But such as give themselves to constant prayer ? 
Let worldlings till the ground, 'tis fit that they 
Should work for us, while we for them will pray.' 
Now St. Augustine also was a bird 
Who higher soared than they ; so when he heard 
These famous reasons, he began to laugh. 
For birds like him are never caught with chaff. 
And he, too, quoted Scripture, how St Paul 
Both worked himself, and gave this rule to all : 

* If any work not, neither let him eat.* 
Then, after thus exposing their deceit, 
The saint exclaims: * What folly thus to shirk 
For reading's sake your heaven-appointed work ; 
And thus neglect the Scriptures to obey, 
For greater leisure to learn what they say.' 

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3 1 6 Knowing and Doing. 

** Now, Fathers," cried the Rector, " I declare 
More birds than those are taken in this snare ; 
We think or dream, speak, listen, read, and write 
On vice and virtue with so great delight, 
That oft our very joy makes us forget 
To do the thing on which our thoughts are set 
Let each one tell the truth for candour's sake» 
And I the first will mm culpa make. 
In Chapter once I spoke so feelingly 
Upon our Blessed Lord's humility. 
And on his hidden life, that, shame to say ! 
I felt a glow of pride at my display. 
What say you, Father John, can you deny 
Such folly ever took you on the sly ? " 
*' Indeed it did," said John ; ** not long ago 
My spirit burned so eagerly to know 
Our Lord's submissive life at Nazareth, 
And how he was ' obedient unto death,' 
That I stood heedless of the signal bell 
Which called me thence, and stopped to ponder well 
If I possess'd the mystery — but, be sure. 
Such weakness Father Charles would ne'er endure." 
** Don't be too sure," said Charles; " I was so vexed 
At being called, when writing on the text — 
' And they immediately their nets forsook 
And followed Jesus ' — that, with angry look, 
I bade the porter say it was too soon, 
I could not leave until the afternoon. 
But, Father James, 'tis your turn now to say 
Did your calm soul thus ever go astray?" 
** Ask, then," said James, " in Adam did I sin ! 

* One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.' 
The other day at dinner, when they read 

How certain hermits scarcely tasted bread, 

I was so lost in wonder at their fast 

That I kept eating on till I was last." 

"And I," said Father Mark, " read in the life 

Of India's great Apostle, of his strife 

Against a world of pagans, and the hope 

That gave him strength with such a world to cope, 

Till at such hope amazed, my heart grew faint. 

And quite despaired that / should be a saint." 

" Enough 1" the Rector cried, ** 'tis clear to me 

We all are sailing on the self-same sea, 

And in the self-same boat ; so let us pray 

For grace our lights more promptly to obey. 

* Not those who know,* says Jesus Christ, 'are blest, 
But those who do what they have reckoned best' " 

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( 317 ) 


JEROME SAVONAROLA was bom in Ferrara, on September 
the 2 1 St, 1452. His parents wished him to become a doctor, 
and his early studies were such as to fit him for that career. 
But his own choice led him away from the world ; and in 1475 we 
find him a lay-brother novice in the Dominican Convent of Bologna. 
The grounds of this choice we know in part, in part we can infer 
from his after-life. Italy, at the time of which w8 write, had become 
3, vast theatre for the open display of vice and crime. Every rank 
and every order of men were tainted with corruption. Noble and 
peasant, the people and their rulers, had alike fallen ; and with the 
restoration of letters, under the patronage of the Medici, the spirit 
of the pagan world seemed to have burst forth afresh upon the soil 
of Itajy. From such a scene Savonarola fled — from "the great 
wretchedness of the world, the iniquity of men, the debauchery, the 
adultery, the robberies, the pride, the idolatry, the monstrous blas- 
phemies by which the world is polluted ; — for * there is none * " he 
adds, " * that doeth good, no, not one.' " The great esteem in which 
he held the works of St Thomas Aquinas, and the well-merited 
renown of the Dominican Order, did much to determine his choice 
of a religious life; while, as he assured Pico della Mirandola in after 
years, he was deterred from becoming a priest by the lives of many 
whom he saw around him —lives spent in striving after mere human 
knowledge, in useless disputations, or the pursuit of pleasures even 
less in harmony with their holy calling. *' In the houses of the great' 
prelates and doctors," he says, ** nothing is thought of but poetry 
and rhetoric. Go and see for yourselves. You will find them with 
hooks of polite literature in their hands — pernicious writings — with 
Virgil, Horace, and Cicero, to prepare themselves for the cure of 
souls withal . . They tickle the ears with Aristotle, Plato, Virgil, 
and Petrarch — why do they not, instead of books like these, teach 
that alone in which are the law and the spirit of life ?" 

It was on his entrance into the noviceship that he addressed to 
his father that memorable letter, in which, as Dean Milman says, 
*'the calm, deliberate determination of the youthful ascetic is 
-exquisitely blended with the tenderness of a loving son." 

"Dear Father — ^I fear my departure from home has caused you much 
sorrow ; the more so because that departure was kept a secret from you. I would 
wish you to learn my motives and intention now from this letter, that you may 
be comforted, and understand that I have acted as I ought. You who so weU 
know how to appreciate the perishable things of earth, Judge not with the pas- 
sionate judgment of a woman, but looking to truth, judge whether I am not 
light in abandoning the world." [Then he refers to the state of Italy, as cited 
bdore, and continues :] ** I could not endure the great wickedness of certain 

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3i8 Savonarola. 

parts (^ Italy. Eveiywhere I sawvirtae despised, vice in honour. Wherefore 
dafly I entreated of my Lord Jesns Christ that He would lift me from out tUs 
mire. Continually I made my prayer with the greatest earnestness to God, say- 
ing—* Show me the path in wnich I should walk ; for to Thee do I lift op my 
soul.' When, then, God, in answer to my prayer, condescended to show me the 
right way, could I decline it ? . . . . Bethmk you, dearest father, of the afllic- 
tion I endured in separating from you. Never, since I was bom, have I suAsred 
such sorrow and anguish of mind, as when I abandoned my own fieither, to make 
the sacrifice of my Ixxly to Jesus Christ, and surrender my will into the hands of 
men I had never seen. .... You grieve- that I left you secretly, almost as a 
fugitive. In truth such was my own grief and agony of soul, that, if I had be- 
trayed myself, I verily believe my heart would have broken and I should have 

changed my purpose ere I could depart In mercy, then, most loving 

father, dry your tears, add not to my pain and sorrow. To be Caesar I would 
not return to the world — but I am of flesh as you are ; my senses war against 
reason, and I would not give vantage to the devil, particularly when I thmk of 
you. Comfort my mother. Both of you send me, I entreat yon, your ble^ing; 
and I will ever pray fervently for your souls. 


He had been received into the Convent of Bologna as a lay- 
brother ; one, that is, vvhose endeavour it should be to serve God 
by manual rather than by mental labour. But a short time sufficed^ 
to show the rare gifts with which he was endowed ; and he was 
ordered to devote himself to study. Of the seven years which he 
passed in Bologna, part was spent in preparing for his future labours, 
part in teaching ; and both in the chair of philosophy and in his 
own private studies, we can already trace the ruling principle of his 
life — his horror of trifling, and his love of earnest, serious worit. 
Burlamacchi tells us how he strove to avoid the vain and useless 
questions with which philosophers delighted to make a show of 
subtlety and learning, and how when his duty to others had been 
done faithfully and well, he gave himself up to meditation on Holy 
Scripture, and on the writings of St. Thomas. 

In 1482 we find him in Ferrara, his native city; but he remained 
there only a short time ; for Ferrara was threatened with war by the 
Venetians, and most of the Dominicans withdrew from the city. 
Fra Girolamo was sent to Florence, then the first city in Italy^ 
destined to be the theatre of his failure, of his triumphs, and of his 
doom. There he was appointed to teach Theology, and in 1485 to 
deliver a course of Lenten sermons in the great church of San 
Lorenzo. His reputation for learning and holiness had preceded 
him to Florence ; and, as Professor of Theology, he had sustained 
it fully. Great then were the expectations raised when it became 
known that he was to preach in San Lorenzo ; and proportionately 
great was the wonder, when his opening discourse proved an utter, 
hopeless failure. His voice was weak and unpleasing, his manner 
bad, his style rude and unpolished, wanting in that easy grace 
and flow to which Florentine audiences had become accustomed. 
Scarce twenty-five persons came to his second sermon. 

Still he continued for a time to preach, though not in Florence, 

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Savonarola. 319 

nor with any marked success. Indeed so little promise was there 
of that wondrous eloquence, which mastered and carried away the 
crowded audiences of later years, that he soon forsook preaching 
altogether, and devoted himself wholly to his duties as Novice- 
master in the Convent of St. Mark. But in i486 he was sent to 
Brescia ; and there, at last, the pent-up waters burst their bounds. 
All Brescia crowded round his pulpit, and sat breathless with terror 
and dismay, as he thundered forth the terrible denunciations of vice 
and crime which he had found in the Apocalypse. The vice he saw 
around and beside him — ^the punishment he judged could not be far 
distant ; and so, like the prophets of old, he reproached the people 
with their sins, and bade them prepare for the day of chastisement, 
when they should become the prey of a cruel enemy ; fathers should 
stand helpless while their children were massacred before their 
eyes, and the streets of their city should run rivers of blood. For 
generations no such orator had been seen in the pulpits of Italy. 
Every word he uttered came from a heart filled to overflowing with 
zeal for souls, and hatred of all wickedness and sin ; the principles 
of Christian morality were made to rest on more secure foundations 
than the pagan writings of Greece and Rome; and men listened once 
again to the divine doctrines of that mysterious book, **in which are 
the law and the spirit of life." No wonder that in the eyes of many 
his mission of Apostle was confounded with that of Prophet, and 
that where he only meant to terrify and warn, he was believed to 
foretell. Events, indeed, seem to have been on the side of popular 
belief, as many of his hearers must have thought in later yeats, 
after Gaston de Foix had carried Brescia by storm, given it up to be 
sacked and plundered, and slaughtered six thousand of its in- 

During the four years which follow, Savonarola continued to 
preach in various cities throughout the north of Italy. W.e hear of 
him in Bologna, in Pavia, and in Genoa. Everywhere, we are told, 
his success was complete ; but all further details are wanting until 
his return to Florence, in 1490. Here he was once more charged 
with the instruction of the novices, and immediately began a course 
of lectures on the Apocalypse. The elders of the convent soon 
showed their anxiety to be present ; by degrees some friends from 
without the walls were allowed to mingle with the listeners, until 
at length no apartment in St. Mark's could be found to hold the 
audience, and they were forced to meet in the convent garden. 
Meanwhile the fame of his eloquence had spread abroad through 
the city, and the desire to hear him preach in public was loudly ex- 
pressed. At first he hesitated, — then yielding, foretold, it is asserted, 
that his apostleship would be of eight years' duration ; and on the 
first of August he appeared once more before a Florentine con- 

* Bresda was stormed immediately after the defeat of the Venetian army be- 
neath its walls, and a few weeks before the bloody battle of Ravenna in 1572. 

VOL. III. Z r I 

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520 Savonarola. 

gregation. But there was little danger of his failing now. His 
voice ^nd manner had still some of their old harshness and want of 
grace ; but the terrible message he believed himself commissioned 
to deliver, and the words of thrilling earnestness in which he gave 
it, lefl men little inclination to dwell on faults like these. The 
human character of the prophet was forgotten in the fear of the 
evils he foretold. 

We may pause for a moment here to examine the state of 
Florence at the time when Savonarola returned thither. The 
de'Medici, by their great wealth and liberality, had come to be the 
first subjects and real rulers of the Republic. From the day when 
Cosmo de'Medici was recalled in triumph from his Paduan exile, in 
1434, his prosperity and influence had steadily increased ; so that 
he was wont to complain to his friends, Machiavelli tells us, " that 
he had never been able to lay out so much in the service of God as 
to find the balance in his own favour."* On his death, in 1464, 
his only son, Piero, inherited all his influence and riches; but he, too, 
died soon after, in 1468, leaving two sons, Lorenzo and Giuliano. 
Against these was formed the famous Pazzi conspiracy!; but 
Giuliano was its only victim, his more fortunate brother escaping 
with some slight wounds. The war, with which Rome and Napl^ 
followed up the failure of the plot, only served to strengthen the 
power of Lorenzo. Popular sympathy had been excited by the 
death of Giuliano; and the courage displayed by Lorenzo, in 
endangering his liberty and life for the sake of his. country, when 
he visited the King of Naples, and by a personal treaty put an end 
to the war, had made him the idol of the people ; so that, when 
Savonarola entered Florence in 1490, the government of the city 
was in . reality, if not in name, in the hands of the de'Medici. 
Although the hatreds and jealousy, which had so often been the 
cause of civil strife, still existed, the overpowering influence of the 
ruling faction prevented all open attempts at revolt. The dread of 
banishment and the strange deeds done in the secret chambers of 
the Old Palace had stricken fear into the hearts of their enemies ; 
and so the city enjoyed a profound peace, broken only by the 
brilliant feasts and pageants with which the Florentines consoled 
themselves for the loss of liberty. 

But with peace and prosperity had come corruption. Lorenzo 

* History of Florence. B. vii., ch. i. 

f It has been asserted that the conspiracy was formed under the patronage of 
Sixtus IV. and Ferdinand King of Naples. Of the former Machiavelli says :— 
" The Pontiff offered every means at his disposal in favour of their enterprise ; " 
and of the latter — " King Ferdinand promised, hj his ambassador, to contribute 
all in his power to the success of their undertakmg." (Hist of Flor. VIII., I.) 
But it is nowhere stated that the Intended assassination of Lorenzo and his brother 
had been communicated to either Pope or King. Indeed it is certain that the 
Pope had protested against any blood being shed in the effort to bring about 
the desired change of government. 

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Savonarola. 321 

dei'Medici and his gajand learned friends had embraced the morals, 
with the philosophy and learning, of the ancients ; and although a 
boimtifiil patron of religion, and fiather of a Cardinal and future 
Pope, the Maecenas of Florence was a very little better Christian 
than his namesake of pa^^an Rome. The wealthy and the powerful 
bad not been slow to imitate the wickedness of their rulers, and the 
evil had spread downwards, until every rank had become infected. 
In his sermon on the mission of St. Philip, Dr. Newman has 
eloquently described the mischief wrought by the disciples of the 
" new learning." " They flung a grace over sin, and a dignity over 
iuit>elief. Life was to them one long revel ; they feasted, they 
sported, they moulded forms and painted countenances of the most 
pierfect human beauty ; they indulged in licentious wit, they wrote 
•immodest verses, tiiey lightly used the words of Scripture; they 
quarrelled, they used the knife, they fled to sanctuary, and then 
they issued forth again, to go through the same round of pleasure 
and of sin. Festivab and carnivals became seasons of popular 
licence for dramas and masquerades ; and the excesses of paganism 
were renewed with the refinements supplied by classical associ- 
ations." The priesthood too had been smitten with the contagion/ 
In Florence, in Ronte, throughout all Italy there was pressing need 
of reform. A spirit of worldliness, of ambition, of luxury, had seized 
upon the ministers of the Church and upon her princes. '* Never," 
says Dr. Newman, " never, as then, were her rulers, some in higher, 
some in lower degree, so near compromising what can never be 
compromised ; never so near denying in private what they taught 
in public, and undoing by their lives what they professed with their 
mouths ; never were they so mixed up with vanity, so tempted by 
pride, so haunted by concupiscence ; never breathed they so tainted 
an atmosphere, or were kissed by such treacherous friends, or were 
subjected to such sights of shame, or were clad in such blood-stained 
garments, as in the centuries upon and in which St. Philip came into 
the world." And St. Philip was bom in Florence, within twenty 
years after Savonarola's death. 

Such was the state of Italy and the. Church, when the great 
Dominican delivered his first sermon in the Convent Church of St. 
Mark. He still preached from the Apocalypse, repeating to his 
terrified hearers the threats and warnings which had appalled the 
inhabitants of Brescia some few years before. •* During the course 
of the year," he says, " I continued to develop to the Florentines 
these three propositions : * The Church shall be renewed in our 
time — before that renovation God will strike all Italy with a fearful 
chastisement — these things shall happen soon.* I endeavoured to 
prove to them these three points byprobable arguments, by allegories 
drawn from sacred Scripture, by other similitudes and parables drawn 
from what was going on in the Church ... I dissembled the 
knowledge which God gave me of these things in other ways, 
because men's spirits seemed not yet in a state fit to comprehend 

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322 Savonarola. 

such mysteries." From his first entrance on a religious life 
Savonarola had given himself up to meditation on Holy Scriptare ; 
and for a mind constituted like his, and accustomed to think mach 
on the then state of Italy, such meditation must have had very 
special charms. He knew thoroughly the corruption of civil and 
religious society ; and if it were in the designs of God to punish 
always where punishment is due, what wonder that he came to 
think the day of retribution for Italy was near at hand ? He may 
have had a special and a divine impulse to foretell the desolation 
which war and famine were to bring, or he may not. He himself 
declared he had, vaguely enough in the passage cited above, bat 
openly and clearly in his later writings. Some, no doubt, will find 
the key to his sad forebodings in his own abilities and his knowledge 
of his times and country. It may be said that no man with his in* 
tellectual gifts could fail to read the warning which was written 
legibly through every province and on every city in Italy. Jealousy, 
dissension, irreligion, immorality everywhere ; traitors at home, 
declared enemies abroad ; there was no great need of prophetic 
spirit to see that a storm was close at hand, or even to mark out the 
region where its fury would be soonest felt Be this, however, as it 
may, the Florentines of his own age seem to have acknowledged 
in him a more than human mission. All ranks and classes thronged 
to hear him. The Church of St. Mark proved far too small for the 
crowds that sought an entrance; and Savonarola was forced to 
preach in t^ie Cathedral. In the Lent of 149 1 .he took possession 
of the pulpit of Santa Maria dei Fieri, for so the beautiful Cathedral 
was called ; and thenceforth he continued without intermission, if 
we except a visit to Bologna in 1493, to instruct, to warn, to terrify, 
and to encourage the people of Florence, until his death in 1498. 

In the meantime he became Prior of St Mark's. According 
to the custom of their Order, the Dominicans of Florence elected 
their own Superior ; and at the election which took place about a 
year after his arrival in the city, be was unanimously chosen. Now 
there can be no stronger testimony to his real worth than this 
choice. When we remember that, good and pious as the religious 
of St Mark's undoubtedly were, still they had fallen away in many 
minor details from the fervour of their rule ; when we remember 
Savonarola's austere life and his known views on the necessity of 
strict observance ; and when we take into account the possible 
jealousy of those who saw themselves eclipsed by this stranger 
from Ferrara, we shall estimate at its true value the trust confided 
to him by his religious brethren. Few men were so well fitted and 
circumstanced as they to judge him rightly ; few men less likely to 
be influenced by the popular esteem in which he was held. And 
lapse of time only served to show that their judgment of him was a 
just one. Stem and unbending as he was in his public warfare 
against sin, rigidly austere in his own private life, still the 
Dominicans of his convent found him ever a kind and tender 

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SavanaraUii, 325 

superior. He introduced reforms, as might have been 
expected — the convent property was sold, personal poverty 
was insisted on, the rule of St Dominick was again observed in all 
its purity ; but in all this there was no harsh exercise of authority. 
Spare diet, poor clothing, and the naked walls of a narrow cell 
lost half their repulsiveness, when it was seen that the Prior fared 
worst of all, and that in everything he strove after reform rather by 
example than counsel or command. In his intercourse, too, with 
his community we find the best proof of his sincerity in the pulpit. 
Had Savonarola been acting a part before the people of Florence ; 
had he been striving after power, and for that end making a show 
of piety and zeal ; had his anger against sin and his commission 
to threaten Italy with a speedy chastisement been alike assumed ; 
then we should expect to find him wear the mask, even within 
the convent walls, endeavouring to prove to his companions that 
he was what the outside world believed. If, on the contrary, his 
zeal was honest and sincere; if the sole object of his life and labours 
was the bettering of his fellow-men ; we should expect the Savo- 
narola of the pulpit to differ widely from the Savonarola of the 
cloister, where a fitting theme for his- anger and indignation was 
no longer -to be found. And so it was. No recreation was so 
pleasant to the novices in St Mark's as that in which Fra Girolamo 
took part ; no one so well as he knew how to organize their hardly 
earned days of rest and relaxation. Pure and spotless always, 
grave and religious as we should expect, he was all in his private 
life that a saint should be, nothing of what a fanatic or hypocrite 
would certainly have been. 

In April, 1492, Lorenzo de'Medici died. He was succeeded by 
his son Piero. In the following July Innocent VIII., too, passed 
away, to be succeeded by Roderigo Borgia, Alexander VI. 

When Savonarola returned to Florence from Bologna, in 1493, 
he found the city hastening to a revolution. Not content to govern 
the republic, as his father and great-grandfather had done, unless 
he appeared to govern, Piero de'Medici was straining every nerve 
to become a sovereign. Now, willing as the Florentines were to 
accept the reality of the Medici rule, they were determined to pre- 
serve the forms of a republic. Hence, when Piero's designs became 
known, popular indignation was aroused, and it was resolved to 
avert the danger by driving him from the city. An opportunity 
soon offered. In 1494 Charles VIII., of France, invaded Italy. 
He desired to be at peace with Florence, and sent ambassadors to 
the chiefs of the republic ; but Piero de'Medici had entered into . 
treaties with the King of Naples and the Pope, and was unwilling 
to break with his new allies. Thereupon, Charles gave orders to 
march against the city, with the avowed purpose of yielding it up 
to be plundered by his soldiery. When too late, Piero de'Medici 
repented of his error. In imitation of his father he hastened to 
the camp of his enemy. But the time for an honourable treaty was 
already past. He was forced to accept ^^""d, eyeuMfJi^OTgful 

t^ Sanxmarola. 

«TOs ; surrendered several of the state f^^-ft^Fl^itrn"?^^ 
lo^n of 200,000 ducats. The anger of ^^^^J^^J^^^^^^^- 
ux^clless whek the conditions agreed to ^^^J^^^^^ 
' Aledici was declared a traitor; he and his P^rtizans w^ e^l^ 
TT^ the territories of the republic; and anibassadore jere sent^o 
S-otiate a peace with Charles. The latter was, ^^^}^^^ 
^oin^ towards Florence, and on his arrival ^^^"^^^ 5?n^ AU 
^ of the Medici. This the FlorenUnes refused to ailow. Au 
c>es of compromise had been lost, and men vrere waiting, m « 
>Txy^ of despair, for the signal which was to let ^"^^^^^^^^^^ 
dix^^y of Fr^ce upon an almost defenceless city, when Savonarcto 
^e^ared before the king. What his words were we ^ow not, 
t:hey turned Charles from his purpose, and Florence remamea 

On the departure of the French army it ^^cam^J^^^^^*^^ 
^ a government to the city, and popular gratitude pointed 
>avonarola as the man best fitted to frame a constitution, witn 
^oiTTO of government then agreed upon we have nothing to^ 
^ ^ it is enough to know that it aimed at making Florence a iree 

a, C:hristian state. But the question has arisen : Was Savcwarom 
^i«cl in quitting his purely religious labours to undertake tftc 
^s of a legislator ? That there was any desire on his part to 
::*:^ at political importance by adopting the popuUr f^.^e ot tdc 
^^i<=>n,'' as Roscoe (Lorenzo de Medici, ch. x), with his ha^bi^ 
^ P>rejudice against every opponent of the Medici, has as«5rtea, 
^«^«t<i not stay to deny. But it has been said that his religious 

^^-»ci mission should have taught him to abstain from aU 
"^•^^^ence in politics ; and many even of those who most revere 
■^•^^^mory hold him to have erred in so interfering. No doubt 
'^^^^rnpt proved a failure. The constitution drawn up under his 

*> ^d only a brief existence, and the personal enemies whom 
•"^^l itical life raised up to him proved powerful ^lough to bring 

^^ 1^ i s destruction. His want of success may explain the blame 
^^ Had to bear. That he had a clear right, however, to make 
^^"^^inpt seems evident. It was no self-sought mission ; the 
l^?' X>eople of Florence called on him for assistance. Almost at 
" * *^ir»^ when Savonarola made laws in Florence, a Franciscan 
"•- H « famed Ximenes de Cisneros, ruled the destinies of Spain ; 
U. -^^^ ^^^ seven electors to the German Empire were princes of 
J" *"^^arch,.and almost independent sovereigns ; a few years after 
^^^=^^th Wolsey was made Chancellor of England ; later still, 
^^^i^u and Mazarin governed France — we had almost said 
Mt^^ ; and the Reductions of Paraguay grew up and flourished 
^ ^ he care of the Jesuit missioners. The whole spirit of his age 
^^^ ^-id that the ministers of religion were not to be shut out from 
^,5=>litical life of nations. And rightly — £ot the lessons of 
* * ^y* which the Church was sent to teach, should iiffluencc 

^^^'wr^ effectually the actions of mankind than they can ever do 

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Savonarola. 325 

while confined to the pulpit and confessional. Even in Protestant 
Bngland this truth is partly acted on : in the House of Lords the 
Bishops of the Establishment sit side by side with the secular 
nobility for the ostensible purpose of guarding the interests of 

During the years which followed the expulsion of the Medici, 
Savonarola ruled Florence from the Cathedral pulpit. The changes 
which he brought about we can scarcely realize in days like these 
we live in. Florence became pre-eminently a Christian city ; —some 
hare called it a Theocracy ; and rightly enough, for it was with the 
laws of God that its rulers sought primarily to harmonize the 
ataaagement of the state. The wild excesses of the carnival 
gave way to more Christianlike rejoicings ; the impure songs of 
Lorenzo de*Medici were banished from society; the dress of the 
women became more modest ; the works of Catullus and Propertius 
were no longer the class books of the city schools ; even the painters 
and sculptors united under Fra Bartolomeo to protect Christian art 
from the reviving sensuality of pagan times. The famous bonfire 
ia the Piazza dei Signori, during the Carnival of 1497, is at once 
a proof of Savonarola's infiuence, and of the wonders he bad 

In his denunciations of sin the unworthy ministers of the 
Chnrch were not spared ; nor did Rome itself escape the scathing 
eloquence of the reformer. Alexander VL has had scant favour 
shown him by writers of any creed or country ; but his personal 
character is of slight moment in the struggle which he waged 
against Savonarola, except in so far as it explains, though it cannot 
justify, the conduct of the latter. Rumours bad reached Rome of 
the wonders done in Florence by the zeal of the great Dominican, 
and had made for him earnest friends among the best men in the 
papal court Hence, at first, Alexander proceeded against him 
with great mildness. He was invited to go to Rome and explain 
his views to the Pontiff in person ; but Savonarola pleaded ill 
health, and he was soon after forbidden to preach in public. Then 
the magistrates of Florence interceded with the Pope ; the pro- 
hibition was withdrawn ; and Savonarola once more denounced the 
evils which had arisen in the Church, and called down judgment 
from heaven on the vices of her rulers. One of his most bitter 
sermons was transcribed by an enemy, ^id sent to Rome. 

In the hope of silencing him by courtly favour and dignity, the 
Master of the Sacred Palace, the Dominican F. Ludovico da Ferrara, 
was authorised to offer to him a cardinal's hat and the Arch- 
bishopric of Florence, if only he would cease from prophesying. 
Savonarola's answer was given from the pulpit of Santa Maria, 
whither he had invited the messenger : " I will have no other red 
hat than that of the martyr — red with my own blood." lo non vog- 
Uo altro capello rosso che quello del mariirio ruhricato delproprio sangueJ' 

It was at once evident that the contest between Rome and 

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326 Savonarola. 

St. Mark's could admit of no compromise ; and the Pope, who 
nntil now, had acted with wonderful gentleness, turned his whole 
attention to the struggle. On Maf the twelfth, 1497, Savonarola 
was excommunicated ; and on October the sixteenth, was issued a 
brief to the prior and brotherhood of St. Mark's, condemning his 
language, and commanding him to refrain from preaching. He 
obeyed in part, until the new year gave Florence a signory, com- 
posed mainly of his own friends, who were urgent with him to enter 
once again on the duties from which he had been suspended. 
Savonarola yielded, and on Septuagesima Sunday began his last 
course of sermons in the Cathedral Church ; where the multitudes 
that thronged to hear him were so great, that the seats had to be 
built up around the Church as in an amphitheatre. His breach 
with the Pope was completed now. Every word he uttered before 
those crowded masses was in direct violation of the papal mandate ; 
and disguise the fact, or explain it as he might, he had entered on 
a course no Catholic can justify. " Reform is not wrought out by 
disobedience,"* and whatever may have been the life of Roderigo 
Borgia, Savonarola's duty was obedience to his commands. Savo- 
narola himself must have felt all this ; and had he been less moved 
by the excitement of the contest, or found some true friends among 
his many followers, he would, doubtless, have submitted. For 
when we find him labouring to defend his cause by sophisms like 
these : " The Pope, as far as he is Pope, cannot err ;t when he errs, 
he is not Pope .... It follows then, that this brief, which 
is such a wicked brief, is not the Pope's brief," we cannot fail to 
see that his zeal for the reformation of the Church is blinding him 
to his own duty, while he still holds fast the principles from which 
that duty must necessarily follow. 

Naturally, the Pope was unwilling that such a state of things 
should last. New and more threatening briefs were forwarded to 
Florence, and the city was menaced with interdict unless the 
signory should silence the offending friar. Then, at last, Savonarola 
cast all restraint aside, and openly defied the Pope. He wrote to 
all the great princes of the Christian Church — to France, England, 
Germany, Hungary, and Spain — calling on them to save religion 
from the misrule of Alexander VI., and imploring them to convoke 
a council ; in whose presence he would prove the Pontiflf to be 
unworthy of his high dignity, to have obtained it by simony, and 
to have disgraced it by many crimes. If these letters be authentic, 
and there seems no reason to doubt their authenticity, they offer a sad 
evidence of the terrible degree to which Savonarola's misguided 
zeal had blinded his sense of right and duty. One of them is said 
to have been intercepted by Ludovico Sforza, Duke of Milan, and 
by him forwarded to Rome. 

♦ Dr. Newman. 

t As Dean Milman speaks of " an infallible Pope/' in reference to the case of 
Savonarola, it is weU at the present time to note that the Pope's infallibility 
was in no way involved in these transactions. 

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Savonarola. 327 

Meanwhile, an old fend with a party in the Church of Florence 
hlazed forth afresh. Bitter words were bandied to and fro, till at 
length it was proposed to invoke the judgment of heaven by the 
ordeal of fire.* Savonarola himself refused to sanction such a 
method of dealing with his cause; but the popular mind was 
excited, and he was obliged to let things take their course. On 
Saturday, the 7th of April, all Florence seemed assembled in the 
Piazza della Signoria — the venerable magistrates of the city, 
surrounded by the trained soldiers of the state ; an armed guard 
of Savonarola's friends ; 500 compaf^nacd^ to protect his opponents ; 
and an innumerable multitude of every rank and order. But the 
accusers of Fra Girolamo had, it seems, determined from the first 
to avoid entering on the trial. To bring the people together, and 
arouse their expectations ^ to disappoint them, and throw the blame 
on the great Dominican, would suit their purpose quite as well, 
and prove infinitely less dangerous than any ordeal by fire. So 
hours were spent in quarrelling about the conditions to be observed ; 
and then the rain came down in torrents, and the Signoria declared 
that Providence refused to be a party to the trial. But the people 
would not have it so. Like the Italians of our own day, they were 
passionately devoted to pleasure, be its nature what it might ; and 
with the spirit of idleness which distinguished the burghers of 
Imperial Rome, had inherited the taste for blood which arrayed 
the opposing ranks of gladiators and sent " the Christians to the 
lions." Hence the good citizens of Florence clamoured long and 
loudly for the completion of the trial ; and when they found their 
request unheeded, and the rain came down, as if to afiford fresh 
subject of complaint, their patience became exhausted. They 
were dissatisfied, thoroughly dissatisfied, prepared even to believe 
Savonarola an impostor ; for if his cause had been a good one, 
would he not have entered the fire himself, whatsoever conditions 
the others might demand ? This ivas the hour for which his 
enemies had long been waiting — an opportunity of inflaming the 
populace against him ; and so well had their plans been laid, and 
so zealously did their agents labour, that while Savonarola was 
returning to St. Mark's, surrounded by an armed guard, the people 
hooted and derided him as he passed ; and ere the morrow's sun had 
set, were gathered round the convent walls, howling for his blood. 

On that day, Palm Sunday, he appeared once more in the pulpit 
of the Dominican church, and declared his readiness to die for the 
troths he had preached from it. He was surrounded by gloving 
hearts who trusted in him still ; and to these, in calm and earnest 
words, he repeated his belief in the reality and greatness of his 
mission, then gave them his parting blessing, and left the pulpit 
of St. Mark's for ever. 

• " The Ordeal was condemned as superstitious by Popes Stephen V., Alex- 
ander II., Celestine III., Innocent III., and Honorius III." (Dr. lingard's 
"Anglo-Saxon Church." Vol. ii., p. 138.) 

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3^6 Savonarola. 

We need not dwell upon the final scene — how friends and 
brothers in religion offered up their lives in his defence ; how 
the blood of assailants and assailed flowed together in the 
cloister and the church ; and how at last, by the treachery of a 
fellow Dominican, Malatesta Sacramoro, he was led away a pri- 
soner, in the hands of his enemies. On the following day his 
trial was begun ; for men called it • a tria^ though sentence had 
been passed upon him long months before. Zeal for religion held 
a foremost place amongst the avowed motives of his accusers ; but 
his real, his only crime, in their eyes, was his want of 83rnipathy 
with the faction of the Medici. Piero de'Medici had attempted m 
the preceding year to take Florence by surprise. He failed-; and 
five of his adherents within the city were condemned to die. That 
the sentence was a just one nobody denied : but the culprits ap- 
pealed to the Great Council. Savonarola was asked to interfere in 
their behalf, but he refused ; and the right to appeal was disallowed. 
From that moment the friends of the Medici syore to take rcvengc- 
They it was who poisoned the already embittered mind of the 
Roman Pontiff; they, if we can believe all impartial testimony, 
who urged on the strife just referred to, and who prearranged the 
difficulties and delays of the ordeal by fire ; they who stirred up 
the ruffian mobs that desecrated the Convent of St. Mark. And 
now at last their hour of triumph had arrived, for were they not to 
sit as judges on the man whom they had vowed to persecute and 
slay ? What wonder, then, !f we hear of an outward show of jus- 
tice, and nothing more ? that a notary — Ceccone— was hired to 
prostitute himself and his profession by forging confessions which 
were never made ? that Fra Girolamo's delicate frame was racked 
and tortured, until the desired admissions were wrung from his 
almost senseless lips ? and that on the faith of admissions so ob- 
tained, sentence of degradation and of death was passed upon 
him ? Then the last scene in the tragedy was enacted. Briefly 
and graphically the official document tells the story :— 

'* A dl XXn di Maggio detto, 
Fra Girolamo 1 

Fra Domenico > A ore 13 fiurono degradati, e poiarsi in piazza de* S^ori." 
Fra Silvestro 3 

Early on the awful morning the three ♦ were led to the chapel, 
humbly accepted the absolution offered in the Pope's name, and 
received Holy Communiour Savonarola at the last spoke a few 
touching words, imploring God's pardon for any sins he might 
have committed, and any scandal he might have caused. And 
$0 he died, and his ashes were cast upon the waters of the Arno, 
and borne towards the sea. 

* Two of Savonarola's companions were condemned with him. In what Onir 
offence consisted it is impossible to say. 

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Remembrance and Regret. 329 

Thus far we have striven to do justice to the memory of Jerome 
Savonarola ; — to point out the greatness of his mission, his single- 
ness of purpose, his earnestness in the cause of virtue and of truth, 
his own great holiness of life ; to lay bare the grievous errors into 
which he fell towards the end of his career, and the foul injustice 
of which he was the victim. Posterity has partially reversed the 
judgment of the Signory of Florence. His death has been judged 
a murder, if not a martyrdom ; he himself has been reverenced as 
one of God's uncanonized saints by men and women like St. 
Philip Neri and St. Catherine de Ricci ; his portrait, painted by 
a Pope's command, rests in a place of honour in the Vatican ; 
and, if his zeal had been guided to the end by prudence and 
hnmility, impartial students of his history would proclaim him one 
of the glories of a glorious Order, one of the noblest and most 
heroic of the white-robed children of St. Dominick. 



T?LING by the withered chaplet 
JL"^ That crown'd the brow of youth — 
Forego the charm of beauty's smile 

For the cold calm grace of truth ; 
Dead hopes, and lost illusions. 

Bright days whose suns are set — 
Let them lie buried ever, 

Lest remembering we regret I 

Nay, spoil not life's full music 

By the discord of a moan, 
Though the past be known too fully, 

Though the future's all unknown. 
To that future we give hostage, 

To that past we pay a debt. 
In the things that we remember 

And the things that we regret. 

Never sigh for draught of Lethe, 

For though memories have their sting. 
That is paid beyond proportion 

By the countless joys they bring : 
Days have been — (not fate can hinder) — 

Which the heart would not forget. 
Though 'twere bribed by not rememb'ring 

E'en the things that we regret 


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( 330 ) 



XIII. — ^The Teaching of the Church. 

I have already spoken of the Church's office of teaching,* and of" 
the prerogative of Infallibility f connected with that office. I now^ 
propose entering further into the consideration of the matter, the 
nature, and the mode of teaching on the part of the Church. I 
will also dwell on some circumstances relating to the Infallibility, 
more especially of the Roman Pontiff. Recent discussions give 
additional interest to the whole of this branch of my subject; 
though, even independently of these, I should have considered its 
development desirable. It has been said before that the matter of 
the Chtirch's teaching is the whole doctrine of Faith and Morals. 
I dwelt particularly on the latter department, to which I shall have 
occasion to return. In the meantime, I will, at once, proceed to 
some explanations about Faith, which may serve to throw light on 
what is to follow. 

Actual Faiihy or an act of Faith, is a supernatural and most 
firm assent to truths revealed by God, on the authority of God 
revealing. This assent is supernatural, not only in its motive, but 
in its principle, namely Divine Grace, and in its own essence, 
which is of a higher order than that of any natural judgment. This 
supernatural character, however, of an act of Faith is not neces- 
sarily perceptible. We have not an experimental knowledge of it 
We have every reason to be satisfied that our acts of Faith are of 
this intrinsically Divine kind, but we do not, so to speak, see that 
it is so. We are explicitly conscious of believing, and believing 
firmly ; yet we do not perceive the distinguishing excellence of the 
assent. Faith, too, is free, not in the sense that we can lawfully 
withhold it from Divine revelation sufficiently proposed to us, but 
that our understanding is not forced to assent, as in the case of 
self-evident natural, truths, which we cannot help admitting, as that 
a whole is greater than any of its parts, that we are surrounded by 
light in the daytime, that Rome and Paris exist, though we have 
never visited either of them. We are free to believe or not, as we 
are free to sin or not, though we are not entitled to sin. The 
immediate motive or ground of Faith is the authority of God re- 
vealing. A variety of reasons, or even of arguments, may serve as 
preliminaries to Faith, but the act itself rests on the authority of 
.God; and no amount of mere rational certainty about some of the 
same truths which we believe can hold the place of Faith on the 

• Irish Monthly, pp. no and following. f lb,, pp. 219 and following. 

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The Relations of the Church to Sociefy. 331 

testimony of God by revelation. Christian Faith* consists in be- 
lieving revealed truths because they have been revealed by God. So 
much for actual Faith. 

Habitual Faith — or the virtue of Faith — ^is a permanent super- 
natural gift infused into the soul, whereby we are specially quali- 
fied to make acts of Faith. Though called habitual^ it is not a 
habit acquired by repeated acts, but comes directly from God. 
Children receive it in baptism, though not as yet capable of using 
it, and are truly enrolled among the Faithful, 

The consideration of Faith naturally leads us to that of Infidt- 
lify, which is opposed to Faith. Infidelity, in its Theological 
acceptation, is a generic term. Divines recognise three principal 
degrees of Infidelity, namely — the rejection of all supernatural 
revelation, and this goes by the name of Paganism, irrespectively 
of idolatry or other errors with which it may be combined ; the 
rejection of the New Testament, while the Old Testament is 
admitted, vth\c\i \^ fudaism ; and the partial rejection of the Chris- 
tian revelation by a denial of some of its doctrines, and this is 
Seresy. Wilful Infidelity is a sin. That which is inculpable is 
called Negative Infidelity, and is chiefly spoken of in connection 
with those among whom the Gospel has not been preached. The 
popular sense of Infidelity coincides pretty much with that of the 
first of the three species I have enumerated as assigned by Theo- 
logians. Those who admit no supernatural revelation are called 
and considered Infidels, and they alone are so called and con- 
sidered. I am content to speak in this sense, whenever I may 
have to use the terms Infidelity and Infidels. I would observe, in 
passing, that among those who give what may be called a civil 
adhesion to various Christian sects, and even occasionally, though 
not perhaps in these countries, to the Catholic Church, are found 
men who deserve to be classed, and indeed sufficiently class them- 
selves, with Infidels, manifesting unmistakably their disregard of 
all revealed doctrines, while others often use expressions that point 
in the same direction and afford good ground for suspecting them • 
of similar principles. 

As the words heresy and heretic are of frequent occurrence in 
leligious discussions, it will be useful to fix their meaning and 
correct application, which admit of some little variety. The sin of 
heresy, according to Theologians, consists in the pertinacious 
rejection of one or more doctrines of Catholic Faith by those who 
profess to admit the Christian Religion. The pertinacity of which 
there is question here does not imply perseverance or continuance, 
bnt the degree of wilfulness dependent on the degree of the pro- 
position of the doctrine to the, person, which is such that it is placed 
well within his reach, within the reach of his knowledge, so as to 
take away the plea of ignorance— even culpable ignorance. It is 
needless to say that culpable ignorance does not excuse from 
gnilt, and very often even from grievous guilt, though the trans- 

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332 The Relations of the Church to Sadefy. 

gression is somewhat less thaa it would otherwise be- But the 
precise nature of this particular sin of heresy lies in a very decided 
wilfulness- Mortal sin against Faith can be comnaiUed withoot 
reaching the grade of heresy. This may be illastr^ed from the 
crime of murder, as viewed by the law of the land. Murder^ in ite 
legal acceptation, involves a particularly notable amount of malice, 
the absence of which by no means necessarily exempts the accoaed 
party from severe punishment. He may be still held acoowntafele 
for killing his fellow-creature ; and manslaughter, as it is called, i» 
often visited with a very heavy penalty, though less thaa that which 
is inflicted for murder. It is not required for heresy that the per- 
son should actually recognise the Divine revelation of that docr 
trine which he refuses to believe. Few men are so wicked s& 
€XpliciUy to give the lie to God. But, as I have said, the doctrine 
as revealed must be placed within his reach. 

The doctrine, too, must be of Catholic Faith, that is to s^, it 
must not only be contained in the body of revealed truth, but most 
be proclaimed by the Teaching Church as therein contained. It 
must either be defined by a Council or a Pope, or else, withoat a 
definition, it must be preached so decidedly, and so constantly,, 
and so universally as a revealed doctrine that the voice of the Church 
propounding it is unmistakable. I havQ said elsewhere that dogmas 
may be quite suflSciently proposed by the Church to the Faith- 
ful without being defined, and that some which have been defined 
were so proposed antecedently to their definition.* A doctrine 
may be so manifestly contained in the Scripture that the proposi- 
tion of the Scripture as the Word of God is a sufficient teaching 
of the doctrine as revealed. When we say a thing \^ of Catholic 
Faith we mean that it is entitled to be believed >ith that assent 
which has been described as constituting an act of Faith ; that it 
has been so thoroughly and finally promulgated as a revealed 
truth that all are obliged to receive it and believe it on the autho- 
rity of God ; that in its explicit and developed form, and not as 
. merely contained in the general deposit of Faith handed down 
from the Apostles, it has a special place in the Church's profession 
of Faith. Many things which are of Catholic Faith are not known 
expressly by' all the Faithful ; but all the Faithful believe in gene- 
ral terms whatever the Church teaches to be revealed truths, and in 
the form in which she teaches them. Hence, their belief of those 
dogmas of Catholic Faith which they have not heard in so many 
words, though personally on their part implicit, really tokes in the 
same dogmas according to the explicit shape which they have in 
the Church's profession, and nothing is wanted for the personal 
explicit belief of them but the intimation of their having been 
distinctly proclaimed by the Church. It can even happen that a 
good Catholic, unaware of the Church's teaching on a particular 

• Irish Monthly. Vol. ii., p. 121. 

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The Reiatums of the Church to Society. 333 

poiBt, may itiBOcently think the opposite of what she teaches ; but 
this is a mere accidental laistake which does not interfere with the 
sotmdness of his Faith. 

A distinction is made between Catholic Faith and Divine Faith : 
a doctrine is said to be of Divine Faith though not of Catholic 
Faith. It is Bot«at all difficult to understand that one or more 
individuals may believe with Divine Faith a revealed truth 
which they see with certainty to be such, though it be not pro- 
mulgated by the Church so as to make it of Catholic Faith* 
I am» however, inclined to think these cases are rare. But how 
can a doctrine be itself classed as o/Dtviiu Faith and not of Catholic 
Faith i One meaning, and a true meaning, of the phrase is that 
the doctrine has been in reality revealed, and is therefore a proper 
object of Faith, needing cmly to be duly propounded in order to 
its becoming of Catholic Faith. But those who state things to be 
of Divine Faith appear at times to imply more than this. The 
view they take comes perhaps to this : that the revelation of a doc- 
trine, though not as yet propounded by the Church so as to make 
its belief obligatory under pain of heresy, is so plainly established 
that a well-informed and consistent Catholic can hardly reject it 
without running counter to the Faith. There is also, perhaps, this 
farther meaning, that the Church almost teaches the doctrine as 
revealed — not that the Church has almost defined it, for this is not 
very intelligible, and a definition is not the only mode, as we have 
seen, of teaching a doctrine as belonging to Faith ; though once a 
doctrine is seriously controverted among Catholics, nothing short 
of a definition is likely to settle the question. When, therefore, a 
doctrine is said to be of Divine though not of Catholic faith, the 
idea conveyed may sometimes be not merely that it has been re- 
vealed, but tliat this has always been, or has become, peculiarly 
patent, and that the Church goes near preaching it as a revealed 
doctrine, though she may not have formally pronounced, not only 
on the revelation, but even on the truth, of the doctrine, nor ex- 
pressly condemned the opposite in any shape. But, after all, such 
a qualification of a doctrine ordinarily, not to say always, remains 
a matter of opinion, and may be questioned with impunity by many> 
who hold the doctrine to be true ; while, in some instances the 
tnith of the doctrine is denied with equal impunity. Certainly the 
denial is not heresy in the eyes of the Church, though it may be 
so in rare instances before God, not because the thing is said to 
be of Divine Faith, but because its revelation is made sufficiently 
manifest to individuals, who, notwithstanding, pertinaciously shut 
their eyes against the light. But instances of this kind are quite 
exceptional. As a rule, the sin of heresy is not committed unless 
by the pertinacious rejection of a truth of Catholic Faith, 

If the rejection be not pertinacious, in the sense explained, 
^here is no imputable sin of heresy committed, but only what 
Theologians call a material sin, that is to say a forbidden act the 

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334 2"A^ Relations of the Church to Society. 

prohibition of which is not known. Dr. Newman, in his letter to 
the Duke of Norfolk, has given an amusing illustration of the sense 
in which this word materuU so applied would probably be taken by 
those unacquainted with Theological language.* Nothing is more 
common among Divines than to speak of material sin, material 
heresy, material heretics, in contradistinction to formal sin, heresy, 
heretics; the latter expressions being intendfed to indicate the 
accountableness of men before the tribunal of God for the acts o( 
which there is question. It is well, however, to remark, as regards 
the present subject, that, even where there is not formal heresy^ 
there may be formal tin against Faith, as I have already intimated, 
namely in the case of culpable ignorance. The term heresy is 
used also to signify the false doctrine itself which is opposed to 
that of Catholic Faith. We speak of heresy in a generic sense, of 
^ heresy, of heresies, oi heretical propositions^ statements, books, with- 
out direct reference to persons. 

The formal sin of heresy, the actual, imputable guilt of heresy 
deprives the person who commits it of the habit or virtue of Faith 
— if he previously had it — and, so long as he perseveres in the 
same disposition, he is incapable of habitual Faith, and also of a 
genuine act of Divine Faith. The man who heretically denies one 
doctrine can believe no other with true Christian Faith. He may 
hold other Christian doctrines sincerely, and seem to himself to 
believe them as he ought. But his Faith is not really Divine.f 

To sum up what I have said about heresy and heretics, so far as 
the terms are concerned, it appears that heresy is the rejection of 
a doctrine of Catholic Faith. If this rejection be pertinadous, or 
wilful in the sense explained, there is the imputable sin of heresy; 
otherwise there is not Therefore, to qualify the rejection of a 
certain doctrine as heresy is not necessarily to charge the person or 
persons who reject it with the sin of heresy : to qualify a statement 
as a heresy or heretical is not necessarily to charge with the sin of 
heresy the party who makes it. When we talk of heretical doctrine 
we do not, as a matter of course, mean to say that those who profess 
it are heretics before God. It is the same when we speak of 
heretical sects ; we do not pronounce judgment on all their indivi- 
•dual members. It is the same, again, when we call Protestants 
heretics. On the other hand, there are cases where ignorance is 
pretty obviously out of the question, not on the general ground of 
learning and ability, but on that of previous education and pro- 
fession, and, in such cases, the terms have naturally a different 

It will be well here to explain briefly what is meant by a Theo- 
logical Note, as Divines call it, attached to a proposition condemned 
by ecclesiastical authority as doctrinally wrong. A Note is a word 

• Pages 93, 94. 

t This is the common opinioii of Theologians. 

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The Relations of the Church to Society, 335 

or phrase employed to indicate the particular kind of evil character 
attributed to a statement concerning Faith or Morals, and on ac- 
count of which it is proscribed. Thus a proposition is condemned 
as heretical or erroneous, or savouring of heresy ox error, or schismaiical^ 
or impious, &c. It is not my intention to go into these and many 
other notes, the precise force of which respectively is discussed 
and developed by Theologians. The Note of heresy implies, as is 
obvious from what I have been saying, that the opposite doctrine 
is of Catholic Faith. What kind of opposition this must be, I will 
state just now. In the meantime, I will observe that this Note 
holds the highest place. It is the worst Note, so to speak, with 
which a proposition can be visited. It may be intensified by asso- 
ciation with other notes, especially that of blasphemy. Biit it stands 
at the top of the list of Notes. 

In connection with this relative position of Notes, I may mention 
a remark of Mr. Gladstone in his rather harsh article on " The 
Speeches of Pope Pius IX." " The Holy Father," observes Mr. Glad- 
stone, "says (1. 286) * In Rome not only is it attempted to diffuse im- 
piety all around, but men even dare to teach heresy and to spread un- 
belief.' Now as impiety proper is the last and worst result of heresy 
or unbelief, it is strange, at first sight, to find it placed on a lower 
grade in the scale of sins. But, when we remember that in these 
volumes it simply means Italian liberalism, the natural order of 
ideas is perfectly restored."* Of course, the Pope is not here en- 
gaged in attaching Theological Notes t© condemned propositions. 
But, even so, his words are not open to the criticism to which they 
are subjected. Impiety may be taken either in a restricted sense for 
language or conduct injurious to God as our Father, or to his 
representatives, especially the Roman Pontiff, or to our natural 
parents ; or, in a wider sense, for disrespect to God, to religion ; or 
more widely again, for all great offences against God, all wicked- 
ness. Now if it be understood in a confined meaning, heresy and 
unbelief are something worse still. If it comprises all wickedness, 
heresy and unbelief are within its range, but are a very advanced 
degree of it, and thus heresy 'and unbelief are something more 
than is implied by the mere mention of impiety. Certainly wicked- 
ness is a comprehensive term enough. It includes all kinds of 
very considerable misdeeds. Yet we can say of a man, he is not 
only wicked, he is a murderer. No doubt, murder is wickedness, 
but there may be a good deal of wickedness short of murder. What 
Mr. Gladstone means by impiety proper I do not exactly know ; but 
I do know that heresy is a very horrible thing, a great offence to 
God, one of the greatest that can be committed, and the spread- 
ing of it is worse still. The truth is that the evil of heresy is not 
appreciated by many as^it ought. 

Mr. .Gladstone is offended at the place the Pope assigns to 

* Quarterly Review, Jannarf, 1875, p. 281. 

VOL. III. 2 A r" T 

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336 The Relahons of the Church to Society. 

Italian Liberals, and, among the rest, at their being denominated 
impious, though, on the other hand, it would seem that this very 
application of the word to such a respectable set of men mitigates 
in his eyes what would otherwise be the terrible odiousoess of the 
idea conveyed. Impiety, he appears to say, signifies in the Pope's 
mouth Italian liberalism, and, therefore, no wonder there should 
be other things a great deal worse. "The natural order of 
ideas is perfectly restored." Now, without discussing the exact 
sense of the word liberalism in Mr. Gladstone's vocabulary, or any 
other, it is an undoubted fact that a large proportion, at least, of 
those who call themselves Liberals in Italy are patently irreligious ; 
that several among them publish, while others encourage, blas- 
phemous writings and prints ; that sacred persons and things, held 
in veneration by the mass of the Catholic people, are turned into 
ridicule ; that the parliament, which is a fair exponent of the 
sentiments of, at least, a large proportion of the Liberals, makes 
laws and sanctions acts which good Catholics through the world 
look on as sacrilegious. The constituted authorities forming, or 
representing, the executive, and the municipal authorities, are not 
backward in carrying out this legislation, and doing work of 
the same kind on their own account. I should be very sorry 
to think that Mr. Gladstone approved of a great deal of what 
goes on through the action of the Liberals. Some part of 
it, no doubt, he looks on favourably ; another part — I don't 
say the whole of the rest of it — not as unfavourably as Catholics 
do. But the Pope cannot be expected to take the same view 
as a Protestant, which Mr. Gladstone £r, much less as an infidel, 
which Mr. Gladstone U not, 

I must not indulge further in this digression, but say at once the 
little that remains to be said, for the present, about theological 
notes or censures , as they are also called, though of quite a different 
character from the ecclesiastical penalties which go by the same 
name. I alluded to the kind of opposition which is required 
between condemned propositions and the truths inferrible from 
their condemnation. Logicians, in discussing the opposition of 
propositions, speak, among the rest, of contraty and contradictory 
opposition. This is the only distinction we have need of con- 
sidering here. One proposition is said to be the contradictory of 
another, when the former denies precisely what is afiSrmed by the 
latter, or affirms precisely what is denied by the latter neither more 
nor less ; whilst a contrary ^Shxms or denies,more than is respectively 
denied or affirmed by its opposite. To give a trite example, these 
two propositions are contradictory of each other: All men are 
good ; Some man is not good ; these two are contrary : All men 
are good ; No man is good ; or even, Some men are not good, for 
otu man is enough, and more than one more [than enough, for 
the contradictory opposition. Contradictory propositions can 
neither be both true nor both false ; contrary propositions cannot 

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The Relatidhs of the Church to Society, 337 

be both true* bat may be both false^ as is obvious in the illustration 
givcA. Applying this logical doctrine to the matter in hand. Every 
I»oscribed proposition is set down as false ; for it is not intended 
to condemn the truth. Falsehood, or falsity, is one of the theo- 
logical notes often used ; but, whether used or not, it is implied 
and contained in every one of the others. Well, then, a proposition 
being declared false, its coniradictofy^ which cannot be false too, is 
equivalently declared to be true, and we have the same authority for 
the truth of the one as for the falsity of the other. Bxxtihe contrary 
proposition need not be true, and we have not the same authority 
for its truth as for the falsity of that which is condemned. 

I have said that every condemned proposition is set down as 
false. The meaning of this is not that the proposition may not be 
true in some possible sense, but « that it is false in the sense in 
which it is condemned, and that sense is to be ascertained, partly 
from the words as they lie, partly from the context in which the 
proscribed proposition is found. Generally speaking, the sense 
in which the proposition is taken, and in which it is condemned, 
is suflSciently ascertainable without reference to the context of the 
book or writing from which it has been extracted, though that 
context may afford additional light, more especially where there 
is any ambiguity. Sometimes propositions are proscribed without 
any allusion to particular authors or to anything else that can serve 
to explain them, and, in these cases, the meaning must be such as 
can be reached independently of extrinsic help, at least by Theo- 
logians. We have instances of this kind in the long lists of propo- 
sitions condemned by Alexander VII. and VIII. and Innocent XL 
commonly to be found prefixed to Treatises on Moral Theology. 

There are condemned propositions which convey exaggerated 
statements concerning the truth or falsehood of certain doctrines^ 
and in which the censure may fall only on the exaggeration, so to 
speak. Take, for instance, this proposition condemned by Alex- 
ander VIII. : •* The assertion of the authority of the Roman Pontiff 
over an Ecumenical Council, and of his infallibility in pronouncing 
on questions of Faith is futile, and over and over thoroughly re- 
fated (literally, uprooted — convulsa)." What seems to be precisely 
condemned here is the alleged futility and thorough refutation of 
the doctrines alluded to. The simple denial of those doctrines 
would not have been clearly opposed to the condemnation, and in 
fact those who denied them were not conceived to hold the con- 
demned proposition, which still undoubtedly went some way 
towards sustaining the prerogatives in question. 

As to the manner of applying Theological Notes, sometimes 
one proposition, or each of several, is definitely qualified and its 
special evil character determined by the 'annexation of a particular 
note or of several notes, in other cases a series of propositions is. 
proscribed with a general statement premised or subjoined that 

2 A2 ( \ 

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338 The Daughters of Mary, 

they are respectively heretical^ emmeous, &c., without a specific de- 
termination regarding each. In such case this much is made 
known ; that each of the propositions deserves one or more of the 
notes enumerated, and that each of the notes is deserved by one 
or more of the propositions. 

Lastly, it is to be observed that the prohibition of a propositioB 
is quite another thing from its condemnation^ and may occur with 
reference to a proposition perfectly true but inexpedient to be used 
at a particular time. 

A May Carol. 


T^ROM sin — but not alone from sin — 
1/ That Bright One of the worlds was free ; 
Never there stirred, her breast within. 
That downward Creature-Sympathy, 

Which clouds the strong eyes that discern, 
Through all things, One— the All-True, All-Just, 

And bids the infirmer instinct yearn 
To beauteous nothings writ in dust. 

O Mary, in thy Daughters still 

Thine image pure, if pale, we find ; 
The crystal of the flawless will ; 

The soul irradiating the mind ; 

The heart where live, in memory sheathed, 

But ghosts of Nature's joy or grief. 
Like wood-scents through a Bible breathed 

By some thin-pressed, long-cherished leaf. 

Hail, Mary's child, and child of Heaven, 
The Church ! Thou shar'st her heavenly life ; 

To thee, the Virgm-Spouse, is given 
The Virgin-Mother's peace in strife. 

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( 339 ) 



Part VIII. 

One of these mornings, when the'brothers had breakfasted together 
and walked from John's house into town together, John found in 
his office letter-box a large, blue, business-like document which 
on the instant so took up his thoughts that he walked on to his 
customary place and sat down to consider it, forgettingjo shut his 
door and even to take off his hat. He read it twice over and then 
laid it, open as it was, upon the desk before him. Here at last 
was the offer of that contract which he had been expecting ! The 
grand opportunity waited, wished, and hoped for, and come now 
when it must come in vain. ** If," thought he, ** that offer had 
been made him a few months before, how he should have welcomed 
it!— how he should have longed for the coming of dinner time, to 
hasten home with the good news to Mary ! " But the next moment 
brought with it another and a different thought. " Had this busi- 
ness indeed been given him when the matter was first talked of and 
be first thought that he had a chance of getting it, all his own re- 
sources would at once have been engaged in or pledged to it ; and 
if (as he must believe) Johnson really had not ready money and 
would not raise it otherwise in George's hour of need, George 
would now be bankrupt — George, his one brother, seen cheerful 
and hopeful though still straitened not ten minutes since. No; 
he could not regret that he had been able to save George — though, 
if it were to do again, he certainly would see Johnson nailed to his 
promise beforehand. So he would think no more of that first 
thought. But he was free to be sorry that, delayed so long, this 
offer had not been delayed a little longer — three months, two, even 
one, may make all the difference in the world just now when their 
granduncle was hanging between life and death. For himself, 
directly, he expected nothing, whether the old man lived or died. 
But George might be more lucky; and he (John) should then 
indeed count on his own money back again. Bui meantime wha( 
was to be done about this matter in hand ? No expectations could 
alter the fact that there the letter was, in black and white, waiting 
to be answered * Yes ' or * No.' Should he reply off-hand (this 
really was the only thing concerning it that there was any sense in 
thinking about now), should he let it be as if it never had been, 
and so spare Mary the pain of knowing that it had come too late 
or too soon to be availed of ? But he never yet had kept anything 
from her, and did not like to begin doing so now." 

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340 John Richardson's Relatives, 

" He might, perhaps, without offence let some posts pass before 
he wrote his answer. Busy men, or men supposed to be busy, may 
take some days of grace before attending to even important com- 
munications. He thus might keep the matter pending for some days. 
But what good was there," he asked himself, "shilly-shallying 
about it ? — waiting, Micawber-like, to see if anything would turn 
up ? He saw no good, so far as he could see, to be effected by any 
such delay. Yet it was hard to have to take Fortune by the shoulder 
and turn her from his door ; and a something — was it a presenti- 
ment ? he could not tell^seemed to urge him to take time on 

" Yes, this was what he would do : postpone his reply for a week 
or say ten days (worse than lose he couldn't); then accept of 
course, if he could accept, or decline, if he must decline, the offer. 
And meantime he would put the entire affair altogether out of mind, 
not give it so much as a single moment's thought which might 
prove to be a moment wasted. He would bring his every energy 
to bear on the business that he actually had in hand as though—*' 

Tap ! tap ! tap ! very gently intemipted him. And the pencil 
taken up to put his resolution into instant practice, was dropt, 
as, in answer to " Come in !" the open door opened wider, and his 
wife appeared. 

** You are surprised to see me in town," she said. " But papa 
has just been with me to say mamma has caught cold and is in bed 
to-day — nothing serious, thank God! but of course I'm going to 
see her." 

" Of course, dear ! " echoed John. 

** He was asking, among other things," resumed she," what 
about that contract ? * Because,' he says, * if you are not quite 
sure of it, there is a friend of his ' ." 

" Oh ! " groaned John in spirit, " ' it never rains but it pours.' 
Tell him, with many thanks," he said, interrupting Mary, ** there's 
not the least occasion for anything like that. I am sure of it— of 
the offer at least." 

And he turned up the opened envelope so that its post-mark of 
that morning showed her that it had only just then reached his 

**I thought I'd come in on my way and tell you," Mary said. 
** And now I'm glad I did. I can tell him you've got it, and it will 
l>e all right." 

** But, Mary, if I cannot undertake it — ^and as things are I fear 
I cannot — how will it be ?" 

** Well," she said, hesitatingly, not liking to forecast unpleasant- 
ness, " that will be — disagreeable. If papa knew nothing of it we 
need not tell him ; but you see he does. What will you do ?" 

'' The best I can when it comes to the point. But at present I 
have made up my mind to wait awhile before doing anything. And 
there is but one thing for you to do, dear; tell him I am offered it" 

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John Richardsoris Relatives, 34 1 

Mary turned to go away ; her face full of perplexity despite an 
anxious effort to conceal what she felt. 

*• Mary ! " her husband called, Jbefore she reached the office 
door. She turned round quickly. ** Do you remember what you 
told me your old ntirse used to say — * God is good, and He said 
He would ?• '' 

Mary smiled ; and before the smile vanished she had vanished 
too. John was not disposed to delay her any longer. For once 
in their married life he preferred her absence to her presence. 
Habituated to confide to her his every thought and feeling, he 
found it hard indeed to be constrained to dissemble in this his 
first serious trouble. Yet discuss it freely and fully with her he 
could not, inasmuch as she herself had just unwittingly added to 
it more than he would be willing to acknowledge to any one — and 
last of all to her — by the few words that she had spoken in her 
father^s name. 

Mary Richardson's father was a worthy, in fact, an excellent 
man, with one only failing. Had he been early and sufficiently 
indoctrinated with the now universal and all powerful principle of 
non-intervention, Mr. Leeson would have been as agreeable as he 
really was estimable in all the relations of family life. But he un- 
happily was bom half a century too soon to benefit by the growth 
and spread of this modem moral all-heal ; and in consequence was 
what nature made him, somewhat of a busybody, less or more as 
circumstances varied. Having retired whilst yet comparatively 
young from his own business (which he had conducted with the 
success so often remarkable in the career of men of one idea), he 
naturally enough felt desirous of finding fresh interest and occu- 
pation in the directing a little, now and then, of the affairs of 
others ; and believed that those others would be all the better and 
happier for his being permitted so to do. If the clever, indus- 
trious, and affectionate husband whom his daughter Mary had been 
fortunate enough to secure (he did not even to himself dare to say 
whom he had secured for her, seemg that beyond a mere consent 
he had had neither act nor part in the making of the match) had a 
fault it was, Mr.'^ Leeson in secret ponderings decided, that he did 
not often enough ask advice nor yet take a hint when offered it as 
to the material difference between one head and two ; that he was, 
perhaps — for time alone could prove it — a thought too self-reliant. 
The good maii did not go so far as to say self-sufficient : that was 
what no one could even think of the very unassuming, modest- 
mannered young architect. 

Intuitively Mr. Leeson was aware from the first that it would 
not be easy to intermeddle unasked and without gooS cause given 
with his sometimes rather silent son-in-law. Such cause indeed 
he did not absolutely desire to have provided, seeing that this 
would import downright mismanagement of business on the part 
of John Richardson. But no doubt, did any cause present itself. 

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342 John Richardson's Relatives. 

Mr. Leeson would count it his duty to his daughter and his daugh- 
ter's children promptly and decisively to interfere. Of this John 
was well aware ; and not by intuition only, but also by means of 
pretty frequent altercations between his excellent father-in-law and 
an elder daughter's husband, with whom Mr. Leeson had been 
blessed by good fortune and his own energetic endeavours to settle 
his family. There were then few things that John Richardson had 
more at heart than the avoidance of giving his father-in-law any 
such hold on him as that which the worthy man maintained on 
John's sister-in-law's husband. So much so that it was a mere 
apprehension of the facts coming somehow to Mr. Leeson's ears 
and so giving him a pretext for a first intervention which, rather 
than a doubt of fair dealing on the part of either George or Richard 
Johnson, had caused John's hesitation to trust them with his loan 
unsecured for twenty-four hours ; and which made him, when he 
had so trusted them, regret hot having managed matters with more 
caution ; instead of hastily doing what Mr. Leeson would look on 
as an act little short of lunacy. "Without so much as the scrape 
of a pen," John then imagined him saying, *' to lend* a man's all 
for any other man's business ! Is our son-in-law mad, Anna, my 
dear ? I certainly must make it my business henceforward to in- 
quire into things more closely for Mary's sake." 

And now John could almost realise the inquiring into that 
really threatened his domestic peace should nothing in very deed 
turn up to enable him to accept and carry out this much-coveted 
contract. That there might seem a need for any one's thus coming 
between him and the wife of his bosom, protecting her, as it were, 
against him, lessening, perhaps, her reliance on and trust in, if not 
her love for him was, even in imagination only, torture to a high- 
minded, sensitive, and, where his deepest feelings lay, a reserved 
man. Here was the sting of the failure ! This it was that fore- 
cast trouble upon trouble. Were the contract lost to him and yet 
the fact of the loss kept to themselves — that is, to himself and his 
Mary — it would, he now thought, matter little. It would only be 
the working on more slowly, but little less contentedly in peace. 

Where now was his determination not yet ten minutes made» 
and that so sturdily — to ** think no more of it ?" He thought, he 
could think of nothing else than this unlucky contract. Pushing 
his still idle, and for the time, useless, pencil farther from him, he 
got up hastily ; under the impulse of the moment deciding that he 
would at once go see if anything could be made of Richard John- 
son's promise towards the averting of what he so much dreaded. 
Not through George, though, would he essay this I In this George 
(though good and true at heart) and George's wife must be looked 
upon and held as one. He would go himself to. Johnson straight 
ahead. Johnson, at worst, would not taunt him with having acted 
like a fool — whatever he might think. He could but refuse to keep 
his word to hold him (John) scathless; and to have tried him 

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yohn Rtchardsan's Relatives. 343 

would 'at least provide an answer to one of the questions that he 
owned to himself, with another groan in spirit, he must now pre- 
pare to encounter if — if, in short, nothing were to turn up. There 
he was, a regular out-and-out Micawber I he once more reflected, 
with a dismal endeavour to smile at the resemblance. 

Whilst thinking thus he was already on his way to try this sole 
obvious resource. But it seemed fated that when alike in trouble 
the brothers Richardson should also be alike unlucky in the matter 
of finding Mr. Richard Johnson at home. 

** The governor was gone abroad— on the Continent,'* Johnson's 
head clerk answered rather loftily to John Richardson's questions. 
" Not expected home before the end of next week at soonest." 

The simple truth was that the first excursion prompted by Mary 
George Richardson had in due course brought about this second 
and more distant one. Struck with some improvements in the 
mill-gear that he then inspected, he speedily made up his mind to 
do as his enterprising brother-miller had done : go to France him- 
self, and in person order and bargain for the same or a suitable 
modification thereof for his own somewhat larger concerns. And 
this week happened by mischance to be the time he pitched on for 
bis journey. So John Richardson had nothing for it but to thank 
his informant and return the way he went; only more slowly and 
more perplexed in mind. 

He might, he dared say, aided by his well-known character and 
with the certainty of a heavy and remunerative undertaking ready 
to bis hand, raise somehow a sum sufficient to meet his needs at 
starting. It was an expedient new to him indeed, and one he 
should not altogether like : yet with so much at hazard he would, 
probably, once in a way determine upon trying it but that here 
again his worthy but peculiar father-in-law stood '' like a lion in 
the path." Trained in the customs and attached to the traditions 
of the ready-money or simple long-credit dealings of good old 
slower-going times, Mr. Leeson looked on bills in bank, promis- 
sory notes, I O U's and all — if these are not all the denominations 
of those wandering Jews of commerce, degenerate oflfspring of the 
old Lombards, Latter-day exponents of the economics of extrava- 
gance, with an alarmed aversion. ** Elites " was his comprehen- 
sive name for all. To learn — and whatever others particularly 
wished to keep secret, he was pretty sure, as busy-idle men will be, 
to learn — that his daughter's husband had "flown a kite" would 
excite much the same sort of emotion and commotion as might be 
expected to arise in another man's heart and house if told that his 
daughter herself had gone up in an aerial flight. The keeping of 
such a fact from him was not for a moment to be counted on ; while, 
if it were likely to escape him through all other ways, the direct 
question of " Had you funds enough for the calls of this afiair in 
hand ?" too likely to be put to Mary, ma^ bring out the truth. 
Then neither Mary nor himself would ever hear the last of it : so 

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544 John Richardson's Relatives. 

that this expedient was not to be thought of seriously, come what 

There undoubtedly was one alternative — he almost wished there 
was not — of which nine men out of every ten he met would say to 
him : " Why, man, there's your father-in-law ! What real difficulty 
can there be in settling such a thing as that between you ? Stuff 
and nonsense ! / can't understand such — delicacy — if that's what 
you call it. What's the old fellow's money for but to help to posh 
his own children on in the world ? If you lose such a chance as 
you are offered now just because you're too mealy-mouthed to speak 
up and own you're short of cash, it will serve you right if you never 
get such another. No doubt you did very wrong. * There are no 
brothers in the world we have now,' as a poor woman said some 
time ago, and you made a mistake in forgetting that fact But at 
worst he can't eat you — we don't live in Owhyhee 1 If it was my 
case I'd make a face as long as my arm ; say I was ever so sorry, 
and would be the best of good boys from this day forward, and 
never lend a brown ha'p'ny to the end of my days.. And I'd pocket 
the lecture -I'd get with the money, and sleep and forget it. Take 
a friend's advice and go tell him your story ; or, go home and write 
to. him if you think it easier: he'll have half his steam blown, off 
before you come to close quarters." 

Between recollection and imagination of other folk*s sayings 
and doings in difficulties like his own, John's thoughts supplied 
him flowingly with this and much more of the same sort of Job*s 
comforting. But it left him where it found him. Nay more, it 
annoyed and irritated him; pursuing him like some real body's 
chatter kept up at his ear, whether he would or not. Other men's 
fathers-in-law were not only not his but really were not to be looked 
on in the same light nor reasoned about in anything like the same 

To retire and live upon a certain round sum, aside from what 
he had fixed on as a fair first provision for his children, had been 
the dream and aim of his father-in-law's life. And to break in, 
now that it was realised, upon that sum by so much as a single 
pound would, John felt assured, break in on the harmony of Mr, 
Leeson's existence, and possibly on that of all those surrounding 
and depending on him. His capital was a thing regarded with such 
complacency as to give a certain sort of pleasure to contemplate 
(in the dim distance of the future) even the prospect of dividing its 
undiminished amount into certain smaller round proportions. Once 
chip that e%gt and it would seem to its possessor as if stricken by 
the doom of ** Humpty Dumpty;" that nothing could ever make 
it whole and round again. How, then, could he (John) think of 
attempting to lay rough hands on it in this free-and-easy kind of 
way ? 

Not but that he knew that however great the grievance of being 
asked to break in thus upon his funds might appear to Mr. Leeson, 

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John Rtchardson's Relahves. 345 

not to be asked, not to be consulted, not to be afforded the option 
of giving or withholding help would be looked on as a grievance, as 
great perhaps as the other. John did not know but that it might 
be looked on as greater. He only knew to a certainty that, whether 
he struck high or low, there would be an outcry against him. And 
yet this idea that he might apply to her father was a part of what 
he had read in his Mary's candid countenance half an hour before. 
She might think, perhaps she could not help thinking, that as the 
fault had been his in losing their reserve, or at least putting it be- 
yond present reach, it was his part as a father, rather than let this 
golden chance go by, to put his pride under his feet and try the 
alternative of borrowing till George could enable him to repay. 
This, naturally, would seem less difficult and disagreeable to Mary 
than it must to him. She probably looked at the matter much as 
if it were one between Anna grown up, and Anna's husband and 
their own two selves. To John alone it belonged to feel all the 
difference. Mr. Leeson was Mary's own father. But, though 
Mary and he were one, he (Mr. Leeson) wasn't his own father, nor 
could he make his own of him. No ; were he not thus swayed to 
and fro by troubled thoughts as to Mary's impressions, he would 
rather sweep the streets for the money than ask it of his father- 

Deep in these thoughts as he walked back slowly, he took no 
note of those who passed him either way till stopped suddenly by 
a person who, standing straight before him, laid a black-gloved, 
trembling hand upon his arm. Looking up with a start, he recog- 
nised in a pale, pretty, young woman in deep mourning, the widow 
of an old school and class-fellow who had gone to India and (as he 
had lately learned) died there ; as have so many other triumphant 
and rejoicing marksmen who gained their appointments but to lose