“There are now people who tell us that the Encyclical is not a dogmatic bull, but a doctrinal letter; that the eighty propositions are not condemned, because they do not figure in the Encyclical, but only in the Syllabus; that this Syllabus does not bear the signature of the Pope; that it has been composed only by a commission of theologians, etc. These people would do better to be silent. Encyclical or Syllabus, the fact is that the theocracy has just hurled as haughty a defiance against modern ideas as it was possible for it to do. We shall soon see what will be the result.”
We will leave them to settle their quarrels between themselves. For ourselves, listening to these voices of heaven and of hell, of the church and of the world, which coincide in exalting the work eternally blessed by Pius IX., we repeat with profounder conviction than ever: “Yes, the Syllabus is the infallible word of Peter; and if our modern society is within the reach of cure, it is by the Syllabus that it is to be saved!”
SIR THOMAS MORE.
A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.
FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.
I.
In a sumptuous apartment, whose magnificent furniture and costly adornings announced it as the abode of kings, in a large Gothic arm-chair—whose massive sides were decorated with carvings in ebony and ivory of exquisite delicacy, and which was in itself, altogether, a model of the most skilful workmanship—there reclined the form of a stately and elegant woman.
Her small feet, but half-concealed beneath the heavy folds of a rich blue velvet robe, rested on a footstool covered with crimson brocade, embroidered with golden stars. Bands of pearls adorned her beautiful neck, contrasted with its dazzling whiteness, and were profusely twined amid the raven tresses of her luxuriant hair. An expression of profound melancholy was imprinted upon her noble features; her eyes were cast down, and the long, drooping lashes were heavy with tears which she seemed vainly endeavoring to repress, as she sat absorbed in thought, and nervously entwining her snowy fingers with the silk and jewelled cord which, according to the fashion of that day, she wore fastened at her girdle and hanging to her feet. This royal personage was Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, wife of Henry VIII., and queen of England.
The king himself was hurriedly pacing to and fro in the apartment, with contracted brow, a deeply troubled expression gleaming from his dark eyes and obscuring, with a shade of gloomy fierceness, the naturally fine features of his face. The ordinary grace of his carriage had disappeared; his step was hurried and irregular; and every movement denoted a man laboring under some violent excitement. From time to time he approached the window, and gazed abstractedly into the distance; then, returning to Catherine, he would address her abruptly, with a sharp expression or hurried interrogation, neither waiting for nor seeming to desire a reply.