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The Catholic World.

A Monthly Magazine
of
General Literature And Science.

Vol. VIII.
October, 1868, TO March, 1869.

New York:
The Catholic Publication House,
126 Nassau Street.
1869.

John A. Gray & Green,
Printers,
16 And 18 Jacob Street, New York.

Contents.

American College in Rome, The, [560].
Apostolic Letter from the Pope, [721].
A Legend for Husbands, [824].
Basilica of St. Saturnin, The, [101].
Bretons, The Faith and Poetry of the, [123].
Brittany, Its People and its Poems, [598].
Church of the Future, The, [143].
Catholicity and Pantheism, [181], [360], [565], [657], [811].
Curé d'Ars, Statue of, [200].
Catholic Congress? Shall we have a, [224].
Canadian Customs, [246].
Charities of New York, The, [279].
Catholicity, Creative Genius of, [406].
Christmas Gifts, [546].
Dante Alighieri, [213].
Education, Catholic View of, [686].
Earl Derby's Homer, [740].
Flaminia, [76].
Galileo-Galilei, [321], [433].
Good old Time and our own, The, [380].
Genius of Catholicity, The Creative, [406].
General Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church, [461].
General Council, The Approaching, [796].
Hospitality, Legend of, [68].
Holy Grayle, The, [137].
Hyacinthe, Rev. Père, Discourse of, [188].
Hypnotics, [289].
Heremore-Brandon, [522], [663], [784].
Human Will, Teaching of Statistics concerning, [643].
Homer's Iliad, by Earl Derby, [740].
Husbands, A Legend for, [824].
Ireland's Martyrs, [838].
Kaulbach and the Era of the Reformation, [56].
Massacre of St. Bartholomew, [1].
Maria von Mörl, [32].
Marcel, The Story of, [254], [347], [494].
Middle Ages, Ignorance of the, [598].
Out of the Depths have I cried, [453].
O'Reilly's Irish Martyrs, [838].
Philosophy and Science, The Present Disputes in, [229].
Purgatory, Treatise on, [266].
Protestant Episcopal Church, General Convention of, [461].
Protestantism a Failure, [503].
Pope Pius IX., Letter Apostolic of, [536].
"Poor Mara!" [637].
Porter's Human Intellect, [671], [767].
Progress of Nations, Seaman's, [724].
Religion Medically Considered, [116].
Rings, [129].
Right Path found through the Great Snow, The, [370].
Ritualism, The Future of, [828].
St. Bartholomew, Massacre of, [1].
Sisters of the Poor, The Little, [100].
School-Room, In the, [132].
Schaff's Church History, [417].
Scientific and Revealed Truth, The Unity of, [485].
Sun, Eclipse of, in 1868, [697].
Seaman's Progress of Nations, [724].
St. Michael the Hermit, The Legend of, [853].
The Invasion, [18], [162], [301], [473], [619], [746].
Talleyrand, [88].
The Little Sisters of the Poor, [110].
The Faith and Poetry of the Bretons, [123].
Tuscany, Glimpses of, [196], [316].
The Great Snow, The Right Path found through, [370].
The Poor? Who shall take care of, [703], [734].
The Iliad of Homer, [740].
Who shall take care of our Sick? [42].
Who shall take care of the Poor? [703], [734].
Ximenes, Cardinal, [577].

Poetry.

Aspirations, [222].
A Door, Inscription on, [636].
Count de Montalembert, [128].
Christmas, [471].
Dante, Sonnet from Vita Nuova of, [545].
Discipline, [641].
De Profundis, [853].
Friendships, [187].
Indian Summer, [405].
Lines, [745].
Mine Enemy, [73].
Penitence, [421].
Primrose, The Evening, [521].
Pius IX., The Volunteers for, [635].
Summer Shower, A, [40].
The Silent Clock, [733].

New Publications.

Alton Park, [143].
A Psyche of To-day, [143].
A Becket, Life of, [428].
Asmodeus in New York, [429].
A Book about Dominies, [719].
A Few Friends, [856].
Barrington's Sketches of his own Times, [287].
Beginning German, [574].
Beginner's French, [576].
Biarnois's Theoretical French, [718].
Bottala, Rev. Paul, on the Pope, [283].
Cardinals, Lives of the English, [139].
Cradle Lands, [422].
Criminal Abortion, [573]Charlie Bell, [860].
Dalgairns on the Holy Communion, [430].
Excelsior, or Essays on Politeness, [288].
Emmet, Life and Times of, [430].
Father Cleveland, [141].
Fay's Outlines of Geography, [429].
Gropings after Truth, [429].
Gayarré's Philip II. of Spain, [570].
Greeley's Recollections, [571].
Gayarré's History of Louisana, [716].
Gray's Botany, [860].
Herbert's Cradle Lands, [422].
Hebrew Grammar, New, [426].
Historical Gazetteer of Vermont, [428].
Hopkins's Law of Love, [858].
Hayden's Light on Last Things, [838].
Illustrated Family Almanac, [572].
Kelly's Dissertations on Irish Church History, [856].
Logic for Young Ladies, [143].
Leaf and Flower Pictures, [286].
Life of Blessed Spinola, [859].
Mühlbach's Goethe and Schiller, [141].
Modern Women, [143].
Mrs. Sadlier's MacCarthy More, [288].
Mignon, [288].
Moore's Poetical Works, [431].
Moore's Memoir of Sheridan, [431].
Mark's Lessons in Geometry, [431].
New Adam, The, [427].
Newman's Verses, [574].
New Illustrated History of Ireland, [720].
O'Leary, Rev. Arthur, Works of, [287].
O'Shea's Juvenile Library, [573].
Outlines of Composition, [859].
Plain Talk about Protestantism, [288].
Plain Chant, A Grammar of, [857].
Roman Martyrology, The, [430].
Rural Poems, [573].
Report of New York University, [575].
Robertson's Lectures on Burke, [717].
Symbolism, by Moehler, [285].
Sunday-School Library, Illustrated, [286].
Shiel's Sketches of the Irish Bar, [287].
Sydnie Adriance, [430].
South America, A Thousand Miles across, [431].
Synodus Dioecesana Baltimorensis, [432].
St. John's Knowledge and Love of God, [573].
Sadlier's Almanac, [718].
The Works of Burns, Scott, Milton, etc., [142].
The Lily of the Valley, [287].
The Bird, [425].
Tablets, [426].
The Two Women, [432].
Taine's Ideal of Art, [572].
The Little Gipsy, [574].
Tobacco and Alcohol, [719].
The Conscript, [859].
Willson's Histories, [141].
Webster's Dictionaries, [144].
Winninger, Rev. F. X., on the Pope, [285].

The Catholic World.

Vol. VIII., No. 43 October, 1868.

The Massacre Of St. Bartholomew—
its Origin And Character.

[Footnote 1]

[Footnote 1: The Massacre of St. Bartholomew: preceded by a History of the Religious Wars in the Reign of Charles IX. By Henry White. London: John Murray. 1868. 8vo, pp. xviii.-505.
La St. Barthélemy, ses Origines, son Vrai Caractère, ses Suites. Par George Gandy. Revue des Questions Historiques. Tome ier, pp. 11-91, 32-391.]

Few historical events have been more persistently used in arguments against the Catholic Church than the massacre of Admiral Coligny, and a great number of Protestant nobles and people, at Paris, on St. Bartholomew's day, 1572, by orders emanating from the court.

Isolated from the religious wars in which it is but one of the darkest episodes, this affair has been set forward as an independent act—a deliberate scheme of the Catholic party in France—king, nobles, and clergy—to extinguish Protestantism at a single blow. The numbers of the victims have been exaggerated to an extent incompatible with all contemporary statistics of population; and the massacre of St. Bartholomew has thus been transmitted, as if by a series of distorting mirrors, from the pamphlets of the time to the histories, sermons, periodicals, and school-books of our days, each reflection but a distortion of the last, and so exceeding it in unreality that at length truth had become utterly hopeless.

In fact, we might as well expect to have Bibles throw out the long-sanctioned misprint of "strain at a gnat," and print, correctly, "strain out a gnat," or omit the intrusive words at the end of the Lord's Prayer, which all Protestant Biblical scholars admit to be spurious, as to expect popular accounts of St. Bartholomew's day to come down to what is really certain and authentic.

Even among writers of a higher stamp, there seemed to be a disposition to avoid research that would break the charm. Historical scholars made little effort to free the subject from the mists and fables with which it has been encompassed, and set down only well-attested facts with authorities to sustain them. It is, therefore, with no less surprise than gratification that we find in the recent work of Henry White a laborious and thorough examination of the evidence still extant as to the originators of the dark deed, their motives and object, the extent of the slaughter, and the reasons assigned at the moment and subsequently. It is one of those subjects in which no work will be accepted entirely by readers of an opposite faith, inasmuch as it is almost impossible to avoid drawing inferences, and ascribing motives for acts, to real or supposed modes of thought in the religious body to which the actors belonged.

"Respecting the massacre of St. Bartholomew there are also two theories. Some contend that it was the result of a long-premeditated plot; and this view was so ably maintained by John Allen, in the Edinburgh Review, (vol. xliv.—1826,) that nothing further was left to be said on the subject. Others are of opinion that it was the accidental result of a momentary spasm of mingled terror and fanaticism, caused by the unsuccessful attempt to murder Coligny. This theory has been supported by Ranke, in a review of Capefigue's Histoire de la Réforme; by Soldan; by Baum, in his Life of Beza; and by Coquerel, in the Revue Théologique, in 1859."

Such is White's statement of the position of the question; and his work has been justly styled "able and unpretentious."

In France, the anti-Christian writers of the last century—Voltaire and his school—were all loud in denunciation of the affair, and painted it in its worst colors. It was too good a weapon, in their war against religion, to be easily laid down; and it was made to do such good service that later Catholic apologists have till recently scarcely ventured on any examination of the question that would seem at all favorable. The discussion by Gandy is, in extent and research, as well as in soundness of principle, by far the best review of the subject. Yet, as a close historical argument, the force is sometimes destroyed by the citation of comparatively weak and undecisive authorities.

In English, the best Catholic tract on St. Bartholomew was that of Dr. Lingard.

Some of his positions were not well taken, and do not stand when confronted with authorities brought forward by later research. Yet his essay compelled a real historic investigation by subsequent writers, and has led, indirectly at least, to the work of Mr. White.

This writer says, not inaptly (p. 200): "It is easy to prove any historical untruth by a skilful manipulation of documents." This skilful manipulation need not be done with the consciousness of guilt. It may be the result of prejudice, party spirit, bias; and he himself is not free from objection. With an evident endeavor to be impartial, his education and prejudices lead him to slur over some acts and expatiate on others; to ascribe to exalted piety all the deeds of one party, and deny to the other any real religious feeling.

This taints all his introductory chapters on the religious wars in France, prior to 1572, giving a false light and color to the whole. It gives the impression that real piety, devotion, religious feeling, were not to be found at all among the Catholics of France, but were the peculiar attributes of the disciples gained by the emissaries sent from Geneva by Calvin.

Biassing the reader thus, he keeps back the real exterminating, destructive, and intolerant spirit of the Huguenots, and, while detailing here and there excesses, treats as insignificant the conspiracy of Amboise, Coligny's complicity in Poltrot's assassination of the Duke of Guise, Queen Jane's ruthless extirpation of Catholicity, the Michelade, and the fearful butchery enacted by Montgomery at Orthez, a small place where, nevertheless, the Catholic victims numbered, according to his own figures, three thousand, halt what he claims as the number of Protestant victims at Paris on the bloody day of St. Bartholomew.

Nor is he more happy in depicting the theories and ideas of the two parties.

Compare the Protestants in France with the early Christians and the difference will be seen. The Reformers everywhere were aggressive and intolerant. They did not ask merely liberty to adopt new religious views and practise them. They did, indeed, raise the cry of religious freedom—freedom of worship—freedom of conscience; but what did these words really mean? They meant the suppression of the Catholic worship, the extermination of the priesthood and religious orders, the pillage and defacing of Catholic churches, and the destruction of paintings, statues, relics, and crosses. When this was done, they proclaimed religious liberty. Thus, at Lyons, in 1562, "the Mass was abolished, liberty of conscience proclaimed," in two consecutive clauses.

The utter absurdity of such a connection does not strike Mr. White, nor will it strike many English readers as it does a Catholic ear. The Protestant spirit has so falsified ideas that we constantly hear the same inconsistency. The enthusiastic son of New England claims that the Puritan fathers established "freedom to worship God according to the dictates of conscience," when, in fact, they claimed only the right to worship for themselves and denied it to all others; the son of Rhode Island claims Roger Williams as the real founder of toleration, and yet his fanatical opposition to the slightest semblance to Catholicity was such that he exhorted the trained bands not to march under the English flag because it had the cross on it; the historian of New York, or the more elaborate historian of the Netherlands, will claim for Holland the honor of establishing religious freedom, and we read their pages with the impression that the people of the Netherlands were Protestant, as a unit; and that the republic established after throwing off the Spanish yoke made the land one where all creeds met in harmony, and all men were equal in the eye of the law in their religious rights. Yet what is the real fact? From that time till the present nearly one half of the people of the Netherlands have been Catholics. The Protestants, possessing a slight numerical advantage, ruled, and to the Catholics their rule was one of iron. They were deprived of all churches, prohibited from erecting others, confined to certain quarters, subjected to penal laws. Where then was the freedom of worship? In the reformers' minds these words had no application to Catholics.

Now, it was this aggressive, intolerant spirit of the reformers that made the civil governments in countries which elected to remain Catholic so severe on the new religionists. The moment a foreign emissary from Geneva gathered a few proselytes, enough to form a body of any size, then began coarse songs, ridiculing and scoffing at the holiest doctrines of the Catholics; then crosses would be broken down, crucifixes, statues of the blessed Virgin and the saints, defaced or destroyed; as their numbers grew, priests would be driven from their churches or shot down, and the edifices themselves plundered and appropriated to the new creed. That such things could be borne tamely was impossible. In France the government was weak and vacillating. The humbler and less instructed portions of the Catholic body retaliated in the same measure that they saw meted out, and resisted a creed that used abuse and violence, by abuse and violence. They had not the cant of their antagonists, but true religion is not to be measured by that standard.

Alarmed by the excesses of the Reformers elsewhere, the French government attempted to repress their entrance into France by penal laws, a course that seldom attains the end proposed. The progress of error was to be checked by more assiduous teaching of the people by their pastors, by zeal in reforming morals, by institutions practically exercising the spiritual and corporal works of mercy.

Yet, while conceding the general deficiency of power in penal laws to check the progress of religious opinions, it must be remembered that the destructive tenets we have alluded to made the increase of the Calvinists a danger to the peace and well-being of France. Beza, in his Profession of Faith, (v. Point p. 119,) advised the extermination of priests. Calvin (Apud Becan, t. v. opusc. 17, aph. 15, De modo propagandi Calvinismi) declares that the Jesuits must be killed or crushed by falsehood and calumny. The destruction of all representations of Christ and his saints was the constant theme of the reformed preachers, and under this war against idols, as they termed them, they included insult and outrage to the remains of those illustrious men of the past whose exalted virtues had endeared them to the Christian people.

From that day to this Protestantism has sanctioned the outrages thus advised and thus committed. The right of Protestants to demolish, on any slight pretext, Catholic churches, convents, shrines, monuments, or pictures, seems even now a sort of self-evident axiom, its exercise being regulated merely by grounds of expediency. England and the United States can show their examples of this, even in the present century; in the last, the outrages committed by New England troops in Canada and Acadia whenever a Catholic church fell into their power; the careful aiming of cannon at the monastic buildings in the siege of Quebec; the expedition against Louisburg, with the chaplain bearing an axe to demolish the idols; at once suggest themselves to the mind.

That Catholics possessed any right to their own churches, their own ideas of worship, was never entertained for a moment.

The civil law might justly repress such men, if not on the simple ground of teaching false doctrines, at least for their claim of right to destroy the liberty of those who professed the religion of their ancestors.

For some years the reform gained slowly in France, the emissaries of Calvin never relaxing their efforts, and finally winning to their side Queen Jane of Navarre, the Prince of Condé and the three famous brothers of the house of Chatillon, D'Andelot, Admiral Coligny, find the profligate Cardinal Odet. By this time the Protestant churches, true to their aggressive character, assumed a military organization, as White (p. 23) and Fauriel, a recent French Protestant author, admit, and aimed at the overthrow alike of Catholicity and royalty. This secret preparation for an armed attempt to secure the mastery of France had, by 1560, attained its full development.[Footnote 2] The moment had come for a grand effort which was to exterminate Catholicity from France as utterly as it has been from Sweden, where not even gratitude for their foremost struggle for independence saved the Catholic Dalecarlians from annihilation.

[Footnote 2: Consult Mémoires de Saulx Tavannes, p. 29; Lavallée, Histoire des Français, i. p. 575; Fauriel, Essai sur les Evénements qui ont précédé et antené le St. Barthélemy, p. 19-]

The position of affairs in France justified the hopes of the reformers. There were three parties in the state—the earnest Catholic party, headed by the Guises of Lorraine; the Huguenot party, directed by Calvin, with Condé in France as its future king, and Coligny as its master-spirit; and, as usual in such cases, a third party of weak men, who hampered the Catholics, and thus strengthened their opponents, by hesitation, uncertainty, and fitfulness.

The queen mother, Catharine de Medicis, disliked the house of Lorraine more than she loved Catholicity; and, jealous of the growing power of the Guises, was not disinclined to see the party of Condé counterbalance it. Hence, she generally threw her influence into the third party, in which figured the Duke d'Alençon, the Montmorencies, Cossé, Biron, and to which men like the famous Chancellor l'Hopital gave their influence. How little the true Catholic spirit, as we understand it now, prevailed among the higher nobility, may be inferred from the fact that the two great Protestant leaders, Condé and Coligny, were brothers of cardinals, their close relationship to princes of the Roman Church exerting no influence. One of these cardinals apostatized, and, after defying the pope, fled to England, to be poisoned by his valet; the other was a mere figure in the stirring scenes and times in which he lived.

Francis II., husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, on ascending the throne, placed the control of affairs in the hands of his uncles, the Cardinal of Lorraine and the Duke of Guise. This meant a firm government, not one to tolerate an imperium in imperio—a power able to put in the field, as Coligny boasted, one hundred and fifty thousand men.

Encouraged by the edict of January, 1560, the masses of the reformed party were, everywhere that their numbers permitted it, seizing Catholic churches and monasteries, expelling the inmates, demolishing every vestige of the ancient faith. While they were thus committing themselves, and overawing the Catholics, the leaders formed the celebrated plot of Amboise to assassinate the Guises, seize the person of the king, and, of course, the control of the government. In spite of his disavowal, made after it had failed, Calvin really approved of it at first. This White denies, (p. 82;) but the letter to Sturm, cited by Gandy, (p. 28,) is decisive; and in the very letter where he seems to condemn his followers, he says: "Had they not been opposed, in time our people would have seized many churches; … but there, too, they yielded with the same weakness." (Bulletin de la Société de l'Histoire du Protestantisme Français, i. p. 250.) Coligny's complicity is as evident. The ostensible leader was Bary de la Renaudie, "whose enmity to Guise," says White, "probably made him renounce his religion and join the reformers."

Protestant writers all admit that the plot of Amboise would, if successful, have overthrown Catholicity for ever in France. The Guises saw the danger to themselves, to Catholicity, and to royalty, and acted with promptness and energy. Every road and avenue leading to the place was guarded, and the separate bands of the conspirators as they came up were met and crushed, la Renaudie, the ostensible leader, being slain.

Then followed a series of terrible criminal proceedings. The partisans of the rebellion were tried, condemned, and executed with as little mercy as English rulers ever manifested to Irish rebels. White puts the number executed at one thousand two hundred, but cites no authorities to justify so large an estimate.

After this affair at Amboise, "the political character of the Huguenots," as White admits, "became more prominent, and proved the temporary destruction of French Protestantism." The reformers committed many outrages on the Catholics after the failure at Amboise, especially in the districts where Montbrun and Mouvans swept through with the hand of destruction, till the latter perished miserably at Draguignan. Then followed a new Huguenot plot, formed by Condé and his brother Anthony, but Francis II. raised a considerable force, and, marching down, overawed them. Condé and the other Huguenot leaders were summoned to appear before him. D'Andelot fled; Condé appeared, was tried, and condemned; but before any other steps were taken Francis II. died in November. "Did you ever hear or read of anything so opportune as the death of the little king?" wrote Calvin; and Beza gloried over "the foul death of the miserable boy."

Charles IX. became king, with his mother, Catharine de Medicis, as regent, and she sought to weaken the power of the Guises. Condé was released from prison, his brother Anthony made lieutenant-general of the kingdom. An assembly of the Three Estates was convened, but dissolved without effecting any good. Throughout the land, the Huguenots employed abuse and violence, drawing on themselves fearful punishment.

Still, under Catharine's fickle favor, the Huguenots were steadily gaining ground, and the Colloquy at Poissy, in 1562, where Beza appeared in person, was, in its actual result and in moral effect, a victory to the reformers. The countenance of the court gave them boldness. The Catholic party saw the evident danger and were loud in their complaints, but this only made collisions more frequent: one party elate with hope and triumph, the other seeing naught but treachery and violence.

It needed but a spark to kindle a conflagration; at last it came. On Corpus Christi, in 1561, as the procession of the blessed sacrament moved through the streets of Lyons, a Huguenot rushed upon the officiating clergyman and endeavored to wrest the consecrated host from his hands. So daring an outrage roused the Catholics to fury. In an instant the whole city was in arms, and the innocent atoned in blood for the madness of one. Even in Paris itself similar riots took place, and fifty Catholics were killed or wounded at the church of St. Medard, into which D'Andelot rode on horseback at the head of the Huguenots.

The edict of January, 1562, came at last to effect a peace. By its provisions the Protestants were to restore the churches they had seized, to cease their abuse of the Catholic ceremonies in print or discourse, and, in return, were allowed to hold meetings unarmed outside the city, but their ministers were not to go from town to town preaching. The measure of toleration thus granted may not seem excessive, but it was far greater than any Protestant power then, or long subsequently, granted to such subjects as preferred not to change their creed.

The measure, however, failed to produce tranquillity. The Huguenots, far from restoring what they had seized, continued their acts of violence. At Nismes the churches and convents were attacked and profaned, while in Gascony and Languedoc the reformers had established such a reign of terror that for forty leagues around no Catholic priest durst show himself. Montpellier, Montauban, and Castres beheld similar profanations of churches.

Coligny, a prototype of Cromwell in apparent fanaticism, in military skill, in relentless cruelty toward the Catholic clergy, like the Puritan leader of the next century, looked beyond the Atlantic. He had projected a Protestant colony of refuge in Brazil; its failure did not prevent his renewing the attempt in Florida. In the month following that in which the edict was issued, he despatched John Ribaut to lay the foundation of a French colony in America. He seems to have been planning a retreat against sudden disaster in the war they were rapidly preparing. The fate of that colony is well known. At Vassy, in March, a Huguenot congregation came into collision with the Duke of Guise; accounts differ widely as to the details. The duke asserted that his men were attacked. On being struck in the face with a stone, he cried to his men to show no quarter, and, according to White, fifty or sixty were killed and two hundred wounded.

In a moment the affair was taken up and echoed through France. It was worth an army to the cause of rebellion. The military churches rose. So complete was their organization that almost simultaneously thirty-five cities were taken, the Cevennes, the Vivarrais, and the Comté Venaissin were in revolt. Everywhere the Catholic worship was suppressed, the churches stripped, the clergy banished, while the riches torn from the shrines and altars enabled them to maintain the war.

The shrine of St. Martin of Tours, venerated and enriched by the piety of France during a thousand years, gave Condé, prince of the blood, a million two thousand livres to devastate France. To add to their strength, the Huguenots then formed the treaty of Hampton Court with Elizabeth, and by it agreed to restore Calais to England.

As we have seen, they took Lyons, and, after massacring priests and religious, abolished the Mass, and with the same breath declared that every one should be free in his religion. As the Catholics were unprepared, city after city fell into their hands, till no less than two hundred were swept by these devastating hordes, fiercer than Goth or Vandal. The history of every French city marks at this epoch the destruction of all that the past had revered. Orleans, Mans, Troyes, Tours, Bayeux, all repeat the same story. Everywhere priests, religious of both sexes, Catholic laity, were butchered and mutilated with every barbarity. The Baron des Adrets stands forth as the terrible butcher of this period, who made his barbarity a sport, and trained the mind of France to savage inhumanity. In the little town of Montbrison, in August, 1562, he slaughtered more than eight hundred men, women, and children.

The recent French historian, Martin, whose work is in process of publication in this country, glosses over this period by merely alluding to the profanation and pillage of the Catholic churches and religious houses. Every local history in France, however, attests the slaughter and mutilation of the clergy, the last infamy always popularly ascribed to the order of Coligny. Beza, writing in January, 1562, admits that the Protestants of Aquitaine, though enjoying full religious liberty, massacred priests and wished to exterminate their enemies.

This sudden rebellion was the work of Coligny, who, with his army of religious enthusiasts, and "all the restless, factious, and discontented, who linked their fortunes to a party whose triumph would involve confiscation of the wealth of the church," with German mercenaries and English plunderers, swept through the land with prayer on his lips and treason in his heart.

He cloaked his treason under the hypocritical pretext that he was in arms not against the king, but against the king's advisers. White allows himself to be deluded by this hypocritical sham, and in several places censures the treasonable conduct of the Cardinal of Lorraine and others, who wrote to the King of Spain soliciting his aid to save Catholicity in France, while Coligny, in arms against his king, making treaties with Elizabeth of England, introducing into France English and German mercenaries, is never branded as a traitor at all. And if Condé and Coligny merely sought to banish the Guises, how was that to be effected by pillaging Catholic churches? They took up arms to exterminate the leaders of the Catholic party and the clergy, suppress the Catholic worship, and place Condé on the throne. White, too, censures the pope for interfering, but neglects to put before his reader the fact that part of France, the Comté Venaissin, then belonged to the Holy See, and that in that part the Huguenots were committing the same ravages. Meanwhile the royal armies rallied; and, as a first step, endeavored to induce the Huguenot leaders to lay down their arms. Condé was so far influenced by the offers made, that he agreed to leave France if Guise would do the same, but Beza traversed the projects of peace. He besought the prince, says White, "not to give over the good work he had begun, which God, whose honor it concerned, would bring to perfection."

Negotiation failing, the royal troops began the campaign to recover the conquered cities. Blois, Tours, Poitiers, Angers, Bourges, and Rouen were at once retaken, and Orleans, the stronghold of reform, besieged. In the battle of Dreux, fought on the 19th of December, the rebels were utterly defeated, Condé remaining a prisoner in the hands of the royal forces.

While besieging Orleans, (February 18th,) Guise was assassinated by Jean Méré de Poltrot, a man whom Coligny aided with money, and who had revealed to that nobleman his project of murder. White's endeavor to exculpate Coligny is very lame. He deems it suspicious that Poltrot was executed at once without his being confronted with Coligny; as though the rebel general would have come into court for the purpose, in the very heat of the civil war. He finally, however, admits: "This leaves no doubt that Coligny assented, if he did not consent, to the crime. He was not unwilling to profit by it, though he would do nothing to further it. This may diminish the lofty moral pedestal on which some writers have placed the Protestant hero; but he was a man, and had all a man's failings, though he may have controlled them by his religious principles. Nor was assassination considered at all cowardly or disgraceful in those days; not more so than killing a man in a duel was, until very recently, among us."

As he knew the project and gave money, it is hard to see how "he would do nothing to further it." That he had all a man's failings is a very loose form of speech; so loose and broad that, if assassination was not then deemed cowardly or disgraceful, the subsequent killing of Coligny himself, "a man with all a man's failings," can scarcely be deemed cowardly or disgraceful. In fact, at the time, the Protestant party openly defended the murder of Guise, and Beza, not exempt himself from suspicion of complicity, "conferred on Poltrot the martyr's crown."

The Catholic party, thus deprived of its best military leader, (for Montmorency was a prisoner, and St. Andre was butchered in cold blood after the battle of Dreux,) again inclined to peace. A negotiation, opened through Condé, resulted in the pacification of Amboise, March 19th, 1563. This gave each man liberty to profess the religion of his choice in his own domicile, but restricted public worship of the Protestants more than the edict of January had done.

The conference at Bayonne between the French and Spanish courts has often been represented as a plot for the utter extermination of the Huguenots. White shows that it was but a series of festivities; and though the troubles were spoken of, neither court counselled violent measures. Even Alva went no further than suggesting the seizure of the most turbulent leaders.

Charles himself, favorable at Bayonne, became embittered against the reformers, as White himself states, by what he saw as he returned through the states of the Queen of Navarre, who had, with relentless fury, extirpated Catholicity from her territory.

The pacification could not restore peace to the excited public mind while the two antagonistic parties stood face to face. The favor shown to Condé after he joined in expelling his English allies from Havre, as well as to Coligny, whom Montmorency summoned to garrison Paris, emboldened the reformers. The remaining Catholic churches began to undergo the terrible profanation that visited so many, and with this came retaliation. The Protestant princes in Germany at this time appealed to Charles to show lenity to their fellow-believers in his kingdom. The French monarch rebuked their intermeddling, and added, "I might also pray them to permit the Catholics to worship freely in their own cities." And White admits that the Catholics there fared no better than the Huguenots in France.

Meanwhile the Huguenot party was preparing for a new effort to obtain complete control. A force raised to watch the Spanish movements in the Low Countries was made the pretext. A plot was formed to seize the king and his mother, and Coligny, to blind the court, remained superintending his vineyards. But on the 28th of September, 1567, all France was in flames. Fifty towns were seized, and a strong force of Huguenot cavalry dashed upon Meaux to seize the king. Charles, nearly entrapped by the specious L'Hopital, reached Paris, protected by a body of gentlemen under the Duke de Nemours, but Condé pressed so close that Charles more than once turned on his pursuers, and fought at the head of his little body-guard.

As before, the Catholics were without union or plan, while the Huguenots were an organized body of secret conspirators, acting on a well-concerted plan.

Protestant allegiance to a Catholic monarch has never been very strong; indeed, it seems simply a creature of circumstance, not a matter of obligation. The attempt to set aside a Catholic sovereign after the death of Edward VI. and of Charles II. has never been treated as a crime. In the same spirit, White sees nothing wrong in Condé except failure: "His failure (to seize the king's person) made him a traitor as well as a rebel." And yet, with that strange perversity of ideas that seems inherent in his school, he at once brands the Cardinal of Lorraine as a traitor for inviting in the King of Spain, as Condé had Elizabeth.

The battle of St. Denis, under the walls of Paris, cost the royal party the life of Montmorency, while it gave them a doubtful victory. The usual horrors again desolated France. Nismes, in 1567, witnessed its famous Michelade, or massacre of the Catholics. It was a deliberate act. White says none has attempted to justify it. He puts the number of victims at seventy or eighty, but cites no authority. Mesnard, in his Histoire de Nismes; and Vaissette, in his Histoire Générale de Languedoc, make it from one hundred and fifty to three hundred.

The military operations continued until Catharine visited the Huguenot camp, and effected the treaty of Longjumeau, (March 20th, 1568.) But this peace was as hollow as the rest. White charges that the Catholics put numbers of Protestants to death. The Huguenots certainly continued their destruction of Catholic churches. "Brequemant, one of their leaders," says White, "cheered them on to murder, wearing a string of priests' ears around his neck."

At last the Catholics saw the necessity of organizing, and in June, 1568, a Christian and Royal League was formed at Champagne, "to maintain the Catholic Church in France, and preserve the crown in the house of Valois, so long as it shall govern according to the Catholic and Apostolic religion."

This White qualifies as "a formidable league that shook the throne, and brought France to the brink of destruction:" while he has no such terms to apply to the military organization of the Huguenot churches, which was endeavoring to seize the government, and raise Condé to the throne under the name of Louis XIII.

The Catholics did not act too soon. The Huguenots were again ripe for action. The leaders retired to Rochelle, and France was again in arms. Elizabeth sent to Rochelle men, arms, and money; the Prince of Orange also promised aid.

The first great battle was fought at Jarnac, March 13th, 1569, where Condé was defeated and killed. Andelot died soon after, in May, and Duke Wolfgang, of Deux Ponts, who brought fourteen thousand Germans to swell the Huguenot ranks, soon followed. Coligny gained some advantage in the action at Roche Abeille, showing terrible cruelty to the prisoners; but in the battle of Moncontour his army of eighteen thousand was scattered to the winds, scarcely a thousand being left around him. Then cries for quarter were met by shouts of "Remember Roche Abeille!"

Retreating, Coligny was joined by Montgomery, fresh from that terrible massacre of Orthez, before which St. Bartholomew itself pales, three thousand Catholics having been butchered, without regard to age or sex, and the river Gave being actually dammed up by the bodies of the Catholics. The indecisive action of Arnay le Due led to negotiations resulting in the treaty of St. Germain, August, 1570.

These treaties are differently viewed. The proposal for them always came from the court, and followed every victory gained by the Catholic party. White would make them out to be traps laid by Catharine; Gandy seems to lean to the same solution in attributing them to her, though he makes her object to have been to prevent the Guises from being complete masters.

But may we not suppose the Catholic party sincere in their wish for peace? They were never first to take up arms; they were unorganized; the court was wavering, and always contained a number of secret allies of the Huguenot cause. That the Huguenot leaders, after a defeat, should through these raise a peace party at court would be a matter of course. The peace gave them all they needed—time to prepare for a new campaign.

Charles IX. was sincere in his wish to make the treaty of St. Germain a reality. In the interval of tranquillity he married, and turned his thoughts to foreign affairs, proposing to aid the Netherlands against the King of Spain. But the Huguenot leaders kept together in the strong city of Rochelle, ready for prompt action. At last, however, Coligny, in September, 1571, repaired to court, where he was received by Charles with great cordiality. Two marriage schemes were now set on foot to strengthen the Protestant cause—the marriage of Henry of Navarre with Margaret, sister of Charles IX., and the marriage of his brother, D'Alençon, to Queen Elizabeth. Even Jane, Queen of Navarre, came to Blois to negotiate in regard to the marriage of her son.

Coligny so far gained Charles that a French force took Mons, and an army under Genlis, marching to that place, was defeated by the Spaniards, under Don Federigo de Toledo. The marriage of Henry took place on the 18th of August, and seemed to confirm Coligny's paramount influence at court.

This influence, thus suddenly acquired, is in itself a great mystery. Why Charles should thus take to his confidence a man who had so recently and so repeatedly organized armed treason, who had ravaged and desolated half his kingdom, who had laid in ruins nearly half the churches and religious establishments of France, has never been satisfactorily explained.

That Charles was a mere hypocrite, and that his conduct was part of a concerted plot, does not seem at all warranted by any evidence that deserves consideration. That he could really have conceived so sudden an attachment, confidence, and respect for the admiral can be explained only as one of the sudden freaks of a man whose mind was eccentric to the very verge of insanity. But Coligny really ruled in the councils of France; the Guises were, in a manner, banished from court. Catharine and Anjou saw their influence daily decrease. Coligny insisted on war with Spain, and plainly told Charles that he must fight Spain or his own subjects—use the Huguenots to aid Holland against Philip II., or behold civil war again ravaging France.

Catharine strongly opposed this warlike spirit, and sought means to regain her lost power.

The arrogant attitude of Coligny was fast uniting all whom jealousy or personal interest had divided. As often happens, it needed but a spark to kindle a vast conflagration.

One of the great historical questions has been as to the premeditation of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. The Huguenot pamphleteers of the day, followed by the overrated De Thou, Voltaire and his school, and the less temperate Catholic writers, maintain that the plot was long before concerted. White, by his chain of authorities, shows that it was at first aimed at Coligny only, and that the general massacre was not premeditated.

Anjou expressly states that, finding the influence of the admiral dangerous to himself and his mother, they determined to get rid of him, and to concert means with the Duchess of Nemours, "whom alone we ventured to admit into the plot, because of the mortal hatred she bore to the admiral," in her mind the real murderer of her husband, the Duke of Guise.

This statement of Anjou is supported by the testimony of Michieli (Baschet, Diplomatie Venetienne, p. 541) and of the nuncio Salviati.

This makes the first move one of the court party against Coligny personally. The Catholic party, then a recently formed organization, had no part in it; and yet, if we may credit the statement of Cretineau Joly, who has never deceived as to a document he professes to possess, Catholicity in France was in imminent peril, Coligny having, in a letter of June 15th, 1572, to the Prince of Orange, given notice of an intended general execution of the Catholics in September. If a general massacre was plotted, the Catholic party were to be victims, not actors.

Coligny's death having been decided on, Henry de Guise was admitted to the plot, and the execution assigned to him. It needed little to stimulate him to shoot down one who had been privy to his father's assassination. An officer, either Maurevert or Tosinghi, was stationed in a vacant house belonging to Canon Villemur, and as Coligny rode past fired at him, cutting off the first finger of the right hand, and burying a ball in his left arm.

Charles was, as all admit, not only not privy to this act, but was deeply incensed at it. He ordered the assassin to be pursued, and, in despatches to other parts of the kingdom, gave assurance of his intention to adhere to the edict of pacification and to punish all who infringed it. Accompanied by his mother and his brother Henry, he went, that same afternoon, to see the admiral. There a long private conversation ensued between the king and Coligny. White gives this at length from a life of Coligny, published in 1576, but which cannot surely be held as authority. It rests probably on no better source than the Mémoires de l'Etat de France.

Charles, in his letter to the French ambassador at London, tells him that this "vile act proceeds from the enmity between Coligny's house and the house of Guise. I will take steps to prevent their involving my subjects in their quarrels."

Whether the interview changed the king's mind as to the source of the attempt, of course is only conjectural. Still acting in good faith, he appointed a commission of inquiry, including members of both religions, the Huguenots apparently suggested by Coligny.

Charles returned to his palace moody and incensed. He ordered guards to protect Coligny against any further violence, and by his demeanor alarmed his mother and Henry. The Duke d'Aumale and Henri de Guise, foreseeing a tempest, withdrew to the Hotel de Guise, and shut themselves up.

The position of affairs was strange enough. The admiral was not wounded so as to excite any alarm as to his recovery; the loss of a finger and a bullet-wound in the arm, injuries not requiring, one would suppose, the nine physicians and eleven surgeons called in. But it was an attempt on the life of the leader of their party, and the Huguenots determined to pursue it at all hazards. The more violent of them marched through the streets in military array, threatening not only the Guises, who were considered the prime movers, but Anjou, the queen-mother, and even the king himself. They passed the Hotel de Guise with every mark of defiance, and proceeding to the Louvre, made their way to the king's presence as he sat at supper, fiercely demanding vengeance: "If the king refuses us justice," they cried, "we will take the matter into our own hands."

This violence could not but have had its effect on the king. At all events, it must have made him ready to credit any charge of violence brought against them. Catharine was clearly overjoyed at the false step of the Huguenots, as offering her a means of escape from her critical position.

On Saturday, after dinner, a cabinet council was held, and here, according to Tavannes, Anjou, and Queen Margaret of Navarre, it was for the first time proposed to Charles to put an end to all the troubles by cutting off Coligny and the leaders of the party. The council was composed, it is said, of Catharine, Anjou, Nevers, Tavannes, Retz, and the chancellor Birague. Of Catharine and Anjou, afterward Henry III., we need say nothing. Tavannes was little but a soldier, ready for action. The rest, strangely enough, were Italians. Louis de Gonzaga, Duke of Nevers by marriage, was timid and easily led; Albert de Gondi, Marshal de Retz, foster-brother of the king, was a schemer; René de Birague is represented by Mezeray as one who bent before every breath of wind from the court.

Not only in this council was there no one of the Huguenot party so recently restored to favor, but no one of the moderate party, none even of the old French nobility. All but Tavannes were bound to Catharine, and would naturally support her.

According to Anjou and Tavannes, Catharine urged the necessity of the blow to prevent a new civil war, for which the Huguenots were preparing, having sent for ten thousand Germans and six thousand Swiss, their object being to place Henry of Navarre on the throne. Margaret states that they made the king believe his life in danger. The nuncio Salviati, in his despatch of September 2d, also ascribes the king's ultimate action to the instigation of Catharine, impelled by her fears.

Charles hesitated long, and at last yielded, crying: "Kill all, then, that none may live to reproach me." The words of 'the weak king, wrought to madness by his perplexities, seem to have been accepted at once; and the scheme of murder took a wider scope. The Huguenots were doomed.

The question arises, Had Catharine any ground for charging the Huguenots with a plot against the king? A despatch of the Duke of Alva had been received, announcing it. White derides the idea as preposterous. Gandy examines the subject, and admits that the charge lacks all requisite proof. He ascribes the whole to fear. But this does not seem to explain it sufficiently.

The fact of a plot formed after Coligny's wound must have been established in some degree at least, to have brought the king to the policy of the queen-mother. The bed of justice on the 26th, the solemn declaration of Charles, the action of the Parliament, may have been rash and unsupported by proper testimony, but were to all appearance sincere. Charles was not a hypocrite. The declarations of Bouchavannes as to what was proposed at Coligny's house were doubtless more than justified by the loud threats of some of the leaders, like De Pilles and Pardaillan, whose words and deeds make La Noue call them stupid, clumsy fools.

The solution of this historical question is made the more difficult from the speedy termination of the house of Valois. That family and the League come down to us under a heavy cloud of odium; the succession of Henry IV. to the throne made them the only parties on whom all might safely lay the burden of an act at once a crime and a blunder, while it was equally necessary to shield the party with which Henry then acted from any charge of conspiracy. Interest raised up apologists for him and his associates: there was none to do reverence to the name of Catharine or the fallen house of Valois.

Once that the council had decided on its bloody course, the action was prompt. Guise, from being a prisoner in his house, was summoned to command. To the leaders of the people of Paris he repeated the charge of a Huguenot conspiracy against the king, of Swiss and German invaders, adding the approach of a force under Montmorency to burn the city. At four in the afternoon Anjou rode through the streets. At ten, another council was held, to which Le Charron, provost of the merchants, was summoned. To him the king repeated the same charges, giving him orders to put the able-bodied men in each ward under arms, and take precaution for the safety of the city.

Meanwhile, Huguenot gentlemen entered the palace as usual, and Catholics mingled with the Huguenots who called upon Coligny.

White makes an observation that must strike all: "It is strange that the arrangements in the city, which must have been attended with no little commotion, did not rouse the suspicion of the Huguenots."

At midnight another council was held in the palace. Charles was violent and wavered, but Catharine held him to his decision, and Guise went forth to complete the work.

Between three and four in the morning, Guise, Aumale, Angoulême, Nevers, with some German and Italian soldiery, proceeded to Coligny's house. Admission was gained in the king's name, and Carl Dianowitz, or Behm, ran the admiral through, others finishing him as he fell to the floor. The body was then thrown from the window, where Guise and Angoulême treated it contemptuously. Petrucci cut off the head. The mob mutilated the body, as priests had been, by the admiral's orders, and it was finally hung on the public gallows at Montfauçon. All the occupants of the house were slain but two, Merlin and Cornaton. In the adjoining dwellings were Teligny, Rochefoucault, and others, who were all slain.

Then came the signal from Saint Germain l'Auxerrois, and the massacre became general. The Huguenot gentlemen in the Louvre were slain before the eyes of the king to the number of two hundred, says White in his text, although his footnote, citing Queen Margaret's account, says her estimate of thirty or forty is more probable.

In the city, the houses in which Huguenots lodged had been registered, and were thus easily found. The soldiers burst in, killing all they found; but the citizens seem to have gone too far. At five in the afternoon, they were ordered to lay down their arms, although the work of blood was continued for two days by the soldiery.

The details of the massacre would extend this article much too far.

Among the questions that have arisen, is the alleged firing of Charles on the drowning Huguenots thrown into the Seine. It is asserted in the party pamphlets, the Réveille-Matin, 1574, Le Tocsin, 1579, but rests chiefly on what Froude calls "the worthless authority of Brantome."

A more important point is the number of victims. The estimates differ widely:

White bases his estimate on a curious calculation. An entry in the registers of the Hôtel de Ville states that on the 9th of September certain persons received 15 livres for burying dead bodies, and on the 23d the same men received 20 livres for burying 1100. He concludes that the 15 livres represented 1500, by what rule he does not explain, "giving," he says, "a known massacre of 2600." Even on his basis, 35 livres would really represent only 1925. But according to Caveirac, who first cites this entry, 35 livres were paid for interring 1100, which would give only about 1600 in all.

Gandy concludes his view of the matter by giving 1000 or 1200 as the nearest approach to the truth; but the estimate of Tavannes, an actor, Kirkaldy, a witness, and the Tocsin, a Huguenot pamphlet, would seem to be most authentic.

Thus fell the great admiral, the Cromwell of France, in religion less fanatical than hypocritical, a soldier of a high order, aiming under Calvin's teaching to make France a commonwealth with a religious tyranny that would brook no opposition. A man who occupied long a prominent position as one of the high nobility and rulers of the land, but who was simply a destroyer, not a creator; for no great work, no line of sound policy, no important reform, is connected with his name. His life was most injurious to the country, and but for the cowardly and cruel circumstances attending his death, he would occupy but a subordinate place in French history. Few other victims were eminent: Peter Ramus, the learned professor, Pierre de la Place, President of the Court of Ans, and some say Goujon, the sculptor. In fact, the more able leaders of the party had not come to Paris, and this renders the deed indefensible even on the ground of policy. The few nobles who hastened to bask in the sunshine of the court, were not the men most to be dreaded. The slaughter of men and women belonging to the lower classes could but rouse the sympathies of Europe.

The work of blood was not confined to Paris. Throughout France, as the news spread of a Huguenot conspiracy against the king, the scene was reenacted. Of this, White remarks: "The writers who maintain that the tragedy of Saint Bartholomew's day was the result of a long premeditation support their opinion by what occurred in the provinces; but it will be found, after careful examination, that these various incidents tend rather to prove the absence of any such premeditation."

Were orders sent from court to massacre the Huguenots? White, on the authority of Davila, De Thou, and expressions in certain letters, inclines to the opinion that verbal orders were sent. Gandy as positively asserts that no such orders were given. The provincial registers show no trace of such orders. Yet he admits secret orders, subsequently recalled by Charles, and gives a letter addressed to Montsoreau, dated August 26th, which is explicit. The massacres took place as follows: Meaux, August 25th; La Charité, August 27th; Saumur and Angers, August 29th; Lyons, August 30th; Troyes, September 2d; Bourges, September 15th; Rouen, September 17th; Romans, September 20th; Toulouse, September 23d; Bordeaux, October 3d; Poitiers, October 27th. They were thus continued from time to time for two months; long after Charles formally revoked any secret orders given on the spur of the moment. This point is involved in as great obscurity as any other connected with the affair.

Several letters current as to the matter, including those of De Tende and Orthez, are manifest forgeries. As to Saumur, White represents Montsoreau as killing all the Huguenots in that town. The only authority, Mémoires de l'Etat de France, says he killed all he could, and the whole charge rests on this feeble foundation. There is similar exaggeration elsewhere. White, speaking of Lyons, says: "In this city alone 4000 persons are estimated to have been killed;" but in his note adds that one authority says that they were all killed in one day, "which is not probable." He then cites another contemporary brochure setting down the total at Lyons at 1800; and he corrects the error of De Thou, who asserted that the Celestine canons allowed Huguenots to be killed in their monastery, when Protestant authorities admit that the religious saved the lives of those very fugitives.

What was the number slain in the provinces? The martyrologies, by a detailed estimate, make those killed in Paris 10,000, elsewhere 5168, and names 152 as identified in Paris, 634 in the provinces; but the estimate for Paris is of the very highest, and should, as we have seen, not exceed 2000. The very fact that, with researches and personal recollections, only 152 names could be recalled, being one in a hundred out of 10,000, while elsewhere one in eight was known, is very suspicious. Taking his figures for the provinces, it would reduce the whole number in France to about 7000.

After giving the calculations or guesses of various authors, ranging from 2000 to 100,000, White says: "If it be necessary to choose from these hap-hazard estimates, that of De Thou is preferable, from the calm, unexaggerating temper of the man." De Thou's estimate for all France was 30,000. Gandy thinks the number given by Popelinière (2000) nearer the truth.

Under the examination of impartial history, the massacre of St. Bartholomew dwindles really to far less in numbers, extent, and brutality than the massacre of the Irish Catholics under Cromwell; and does not greatly exceed the number of victims of the Huguenot outbreak in 1563.

One other point remains. Charles, on the 25th, represented the massacre in Paris as a collision between the houses of Guise and Chatillon; but from the 26th he uniformly charges a conspiracy against his person. This he announced to all the foreign courts in explanation. His letter to Gregory XIII. announced the escape of the royal family and the punishment of the conspirators. The nuncio Salviati, in his letters, shows a belief in the reality of the plot. At Rome, the Cardinal of Lorraine, brother of the murdered Guise, was high in influence. What his views and feelings would be on the receipt of the tidings of the discovery of a plot, and the sudden action of the king, it is easy to conceive. In his eyes it was a triumph of justice, religion, loyalty, and law. The pope received the same impression, and under it proceeded to chant a Te Deum at Santa Maria Maggiore. Processions followed. A medal, well known from its frequent reproduction, was struck. But in all this there is nothing to show that Rome knew of the intended massacre or counselled it. Gregory XIII. approved it, only as represented in the brief despatches of Charles IX. and the verbal statements of Beauvillé, to which they refer.

Nor did the clergy in France take any part. No bishop shared in the council, no priest or religious roused the minds of the people. They figure, indeed, in romances, but history is silent. Even in the most virulent pamphlets of the time only three are ever mentioned, the Bishop of Troyes, Sorbin, king's confessor at Orleans, and Father Edmond Auger, at Bordeaux. The Bishop of Troyes is charged with having approved the massacre there, but White does not even name the bishop in connection with the murders at that place, and says they were done by a drunken mob, and "filled the humane Catholics with horror."

At Orleans, White reduces the 1850 of the Martyrologe to 1400, and gives details, but is silent as to any action of Sorbin, or the terrible Franciscan who insulted the Huguenots, received their abjuration, and said Mass for them. Evidently, White found the charges against these clergymen too frivolous even for a stray allusion.

He attributes the massacre at Bordeaux to the preaching of Father Auger, but cites no authority. Fortunately, Auger is not an unknown man. His life has long been in circulation. He was a missionary, known for years among the Protestants, amid whom he had prosecuted his labors. He had suffered imprisonment for the faith; he had even been led to the gallows by order of the Baron des Adrets. So notorious were his charity, his virtue, and his merit, that the voice of Protestant and Catholic alike was raised to save him. Are we to believe on the vaguest of grounds that such a man suddenly became a monster of intolerance? White blushed to give his authority; he should have been ashamed to make the charge.

But it would scarcely do to let his book go forth without lugging in at least one priest. Of the proceedings at Rome he makes more capital. After stating what was done, and mistranslating a Latin phrase to make Charles IX. an angel, he says: "With such damning evidence against the Church of Rome, a recent defender of that church vainly contends that the clergy had no part in the massacre, and that the rejoicings were over rebels cut off in the midst of their rebellion, and not heretics murdered for their religion." The logic of this is admirable. The pope and cardinals ordered rejoicings on receiving despatches from the King of France, announcing that, having discovered a plot against his life and throne, he had put the rebels to the sword; therefore the Catholic clergy had a part in the massacre.

Apply the same to Drogheda. Parliament thanked God for Cromwell's massacre of the Irish after granting quarter, and rewarded a captain for throwing prisoners overboard at sea; therefore the Puritan clergy had a part in the massacre, and the evidence is damning.

The labors of Mr. White, however, on the whole, will do good. The wild assertions that fill our school-books and popular histories must give place to statements that will be justified by his work. It gives a standard to which we may appeal, and, if not all that we would claim, is so far on the way to impartiality that we may feel thankful for it.

It is not little to have wrung from the London Athenaeum the admission that the common view of St. Bartholomew is "one of the great historical errors which has been transmitted from teachers to taught during a long course of years."

From the French of Erckmanm and Chatrian.

The Invasion; or, Yegof The Fool.

Chapter I.

If you would know the story of the great invasion of 1814, even as the old hunter, Frantz of Hengst, related it to me, you must accompany me to the village of Charmes, in the Vosges. Thirty cottages, ranged along the bank of the Sarre, and roofed with slate and dark green moss, compose the hamlet; you can see the gables garlanded with ivy and withered honeysuckle—for winter is approaching—and the leafless hedges separating the little gardens from each other.

To the left, crowning a lofty mountain, rise the ruins of the ancient castle of Falkenstein, a fortalice, dismantled and demolished two hundred years ago by the Swedes. It is now but a scattered heap of stones, only approached by an old schlitte, or road for transporting felled trees, which pierces the forest. To the right, on the mountain-side, is seen the farm of Bois-de-Chênes, with its barns, stables, and sheds, on the flat roofs of which are placed great stones, to enable them to resist the furious northern blasts. A few cattle stray upon the heather, and a few goats clamber among the rocks.

Everything is silent. Children in gray trousers, bare-headed and bare-footed, are warming themselves around little fires, kindled near the edge of the wood, and the blue smoke curls slowly through the air; heavy white and gray clouds hang motionless over the valley, and far above these rise the sterile peaks of Grosmann and Donon.

You must know that the last house of the village—that with two glazed dormer windows upon the slanting roof, and the low door opening upon the muddy street—belonged, in 1813, to Jean-Claude Hullin, an ancient volunteer of '92; but since his return from the wars, the shoe, or, rather, sabot-maker of the village, and enjoying a large share of the esteem of the mountaineers. He was a stout, strongly built man, with gray eyes, thick lips, a short nose, and heavy, grizzled eyebrows. He was jovial and tender-hearted, and unable to refuse anything to his adopted daughter, Louise, whom he had obtained, when an infant, from a band of those miserable gypsies who, without hearth or home themselves, wander from door to door, soldering spoons and pans, and mending broken china. He, however, looked upon her as his own daughter, and never remembered her as the child of a strange race.

Besides this, his affection for his little girl, stout Jean-Claude had a few others. Next in order, he loved his cousin, the venerable mistress of Bois-de-Chênes, Catherine Lefevre, and her son, Gaspard, a fine young fellow, betrothed to Louise, but whom the conscription had carried off, leaving the two families to await the end of the campaign and his return.

Hullin often recalled, and always with enthusiasm, his campaigns of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Italy and of Egypt. He often mused upon them, and sometimes at evening, when his day's work was done, he would wander to the saw-mill of Valtin, a gloomy building, formed of logs covered with the bark, which you see yonder at the bottom of the gorge. There he would sit, in the midst of coal-burners and wood-cutters, before the huge fire made of saw-dust, and while the heavy wheel kept turning, the sluice thundering, and the saw cutting, would he discourse of Hoche, of Kleber, and of General Bonaparte, whom he had seen a hundred times, and whose thin face, piercing eyes, and aquiline nose he drew over and over again.

Such was Jean-Claude Hullin, one of the old Gallic stock, loving strange adventures and deeds of heroic emprise, but bound by the feeling of duty to his toil from New-Year's day to Saint Sylvester's.

Louise, his gypsy daughter, was slight and graceful, with long, delicate hands, and eyes of so tender a blue that their glance seemed to melt their way to the depths of your soul; her skin was white as snow, her hair a gold-shot flaxen, soft as silk, and her shoulders drooped like those of some sweet sculptured saint at prayer. Her guileless smile, her musing brow, her whole form, seemed to recall the antique lay of Erhart the Minnesinger, wherein he says: "I saw a ray of light flash by, and mine eyes are yet dazed with its lustre. Was it the moon glancing through the leaves? Was it morning smiling beneath the woods? No, no! It was Edith, my love, who passed; and still mine eyes are dazed."

Louise loved the fields, the gardens, and the flowers. In spring she eagerly listened for the first notes of the lark, or sought the bluebells beneath the bushes, or watched for the return of the sparrows to the corners of the windows on the roof. She was ever the child of the wandering gypsies, only a little less wild than they; but Hullin forgave everything; he understood her nature, and often cried, laughing:

"My poor Louise, with the booty you bring us—your bunches of flowers and little birds—we should all die of hunger in a week."

But she would only smile, and he, as he returned to his work, exclaim:

"Bah! why should I scold? She is right to love the sunlight, and Gaspard will labor for both!"

So reasoned the good man, and days, weeks, and months rolled by in patient waiting for Gaspard's return.

But Gaspard returned not, and now for two months they had had no tidings of him.

One day, toward the middle of December, 1813, between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, Hullin, bent over his work-bench, was finishing a pair of spiked sabots for Rochart, the wood-cutter. Louise had placed her flowers near the little stove which crackled on the hearth, while the monotonous tick-tack of the old village clock marked the seconds as they flew, and occasionally the tramp of clogs upon the frozen earth was heard without, and a head covered with a hat or wrapped in a hood passed the window. At length, Hullin, glancing through the panes of the window, suddenly stopped his labor, and stood with both eyes wide open, as one gazing at some unusual sight.

At the corner of the street, just opposite the tavern of the Three Pigeons, a strange figure was advancing, surrounded by a crowd of jumping, laughing boys, each vying with the other in shouting at the top of his voice: "King of Diamonds! King of Diamonds!" In truth, a stranger figure could scarcely be imagined. Fancy a man with a grave face and red beard; a gloomy eye, straight nose, eyebrows meeting, a circlet of tin upon his head, an iron-gray shepherd dog-skin flapping upon his back, the two fore-paws knotted around his neck; his breast covered with little copper crosses, his legs with a sort of gray stuff trousers, and his feet bare. A large raven with lustrous black wings was perched upon his shoulder. One might think, from the majesty of his air and gait, that an ancient Merovingian king had come back to earth; and, indeed, he carried a short stick cut to the shape of a sceptre, while with his right hand he gesticulated magnificently, pointing to the skies and apostrophizing his attendants.

Every door opened as he passed, and curious faces were pressed against every window-pane. A few old women upon the outside stairs of their cottages called to him, but he deigned no reply; others descended to the street and would have barred his passage, but he, with head erect and brows haughtily raised, waved them aside.

"Hold!" said Hullin, "here is Yegof. I did not expect to see him again this winter, it is contrary to his habit; and what can he mean by returning in such weather as this?"

Louise, laying aside her distaff, ran to look at the King of Diamonds; for the appearance of the fool in the beginning of winter was quite an event, and the source of amusement to many who were glad to kill time in the taverns, listening to the story of his imaginary power and glory; others, especially women, felt a vague fear of him; for the ideas of fools, as everybody knows, are sometimes drawn from another world than this—to them is confided the knowledge of the past and future; the only difficulty is in understanding them, for their words have always a double sense—one for the ears of the coarse and vulgar, and one, far different, for wise and lofty souls. Moreover, the thoughts of Yegof, above those of all other fools, were extraordinary—not to say sublime. No one knew whence he came, whither he went; he wandered through the land like a soul in pain; he vaunted the greatness of long extinct nations, and called himself Emperor of Austrasia, of Polynesia, and other far-off places. Volumes might be written of the strength and beauty of his castles, his fortresses, and his palaces, the number and grandeur of which he related with an air of much modesty and simplicity. He spoke of his stables, his coursers, the officers of his crown, his ministers, counsellors, and intendants, and never did he mistake their names or attribute the particular merits of one to another; but he complained bitterly of having been dethroned by an accursed race, and Sapience Coquelin, the wise old woman of the village, as well as others, wept whenever he referred to the subject. Then would he, lifting his hand toward heaven, cry out:

"Be mindful, O women! The hour is at hand! The spirit of darkness flees afar! The ancient race, the masters of your masters, come sweeping on like the billows of the sea!"

Every spring he wandered for weeks among the ruins which crown the Vosges at Nideck, Geroldseck, Lutzelbourg, and Turkestein—former dwellings of the great ones of earth, but now the refuge of bats and owls. There would he declaim on the long past splendor of his realms, and plan the subjection of his revolted people.

Jean-Claude Hullin laughed at all this, not being fond of approaching the invisible world; but the fool's words troubled Louise exceedingly, especially when the hoarse voice and flapping wings of the raven added to their wild effect.

Yegof marched majestically down the street, turning neither to the right nor the left, and the girl, seeing that his eyes were fixed upon her habitation, exclaimed:

"Father, father! he is coming here!"

"Very likely," replied Hullin. "He, no doubt, needs a pair of sabots in a cold like this, and if he asks them I should be sorry to refuse."

Yegof was some fifty paces from the cottage, and the tumult continued to increase. The boys, pulling at his strange garment, shouted, "Diamonds! Spades! Clubs!" till they were hoarse, when, suddenly turning round, he raised his sceptre, and cried furiously, though still with an air of majesty:

"Away! accursed race! away—or my dogs shall tear ye!"

This threat only redoubled the cries and shouts of laughter; but at this moment, Hullin appearing at the door with a long rod, and promising its speedy application to the backs of five or six of the noisiest, the band soon dispersed in terror, for many of them had felt its weight. Then turning to the fool, he said:

"Come in, Yegof, and take a seat by the fire."

"Call me not Yegof," replied the latter, with a look of offended dignity. "I am Luitprand, King of Austrasia and Polynesia."

"True, true, I remember," said Jean-Claude; "but, Yegof, or Luitprand, come in. It is cold; try to warm yourself."

"I will enter," answered the fool, "for reasons of state—to form an alliance between two most puissant nations."

"Good! Let us talk over it."

Yegof, stooping in the doorway, entered dreamily, and saluted Louise by lowering his sceptre. But the raven refused to follow. Spreading his broad black wings, he swept around the cottage and then dashed against the windows, as if to break them.

"Hans!" cried the fool, "beware! I am coming."

But the bird of ill omen fastened its pointed talons in the leaden sash, and flapped its wings until the window shook, as long as his master remained within. Louise gazed affrightedly at both. Yegof seated himself in the large leathern armchair behind the stove as on a throne, and throwing haughty glances around, said:

"I come straight from Jerome to conclude an alliance with thee, Hullin. Thou art not ignorant that the face of thy daughter hath pleased me. I am here to demand her in marriage."

Louise blushed, and Hullin burst into a peal of laughter.

"You laugh!" cried the fool angrily. "You will live to regret it! This alliance alone can save thee from the ruin which threatens thee and thine. Even now my armies are advancing; they cover the earth, numberless as the forest leaves in summer. What will avail the might of thy people against that of mine? Ye will be conquered, crushed, enslaved, as for centuries you were, for I, Luitprand, King of Austrasia and Polynesia, have willed it. All things shall be as they were, and then—remember me!"

He lifted his hand solemnly on high.

"Remember the past. You were beaten, despised serfs; and we—the old nations of the north—we trod your necks beneath our feet. We burdened your backs with heavy stones that our strong castles and deep dungeons might be built. We yoked you to our ploughs; you fled before us like chaff before the tempest. Remember, and tremble!"

"I remember it all well," replied Hullin, still laughing, "but you know we had our revenge."

"Ay," said the fool, knitting his brows, "but that time has passed. My warriors outnumber the sands of the shore, and your blood shall flow like rivers to the ocean. I know ye, and for a thousand years have marked ye!"

"Bah!" said Hullin.

"Yes, this arm vanquished ye when we first sought the hearts of your forests. This hand bent your necks to the yoke, and will again. Because you are brave, you think that you will be for ever masters of France; but we have divided your fair land, and will again divide it between ourselves. Alsace and Lorraine shall again be German; Brittany and Normandy shall again belong to the Northmen; Flanders and the South, to Spain. France will be a petty kingdom girdling Paris, with one of the ancient race its king, and you will not dare to murmur—you will be very patient— ha! ha! ha!"

Yegof laughed loudly in his turn.

Hullin, who knew little of history, was astounded at the fool's learning.

"Bah!" he exclaimed again. "Enough of this, Yegof. Try a little soup to warm your blood."

"I do not ask for food," replied the fool; "I ask your daughter in marriage. Give her willingly, and I will raise you to the foot of my throne; refuse, and my armies shall take her by force."

As he spoke, the poor wretch gazed on Louise with looks of the deepest admiration.

"How beautiful she is!" he murmured. "How her brow will grace a crown! Rejoice, sweet maiden, for thou shalt be Queen of Austrasia."

"Listen, Yegof," said Hullin: "I am flattered by your preference; and it shows that you know how to appreciate beauty; but my daughter is already betrothed to Gaspard Lefevre."

"Enough!" cried the fool, rising angrily, "we will now speak no more of it; but, Hullin," he continued, resuming his solemn tone, "this is my first demand. I will twice renew it. Hearest thou? Twice! If you persist in your obstinacy, woe, woe to thee and thy race!"

"Will you not take your soup, then, Yegof?"

"No!" shouted the fool; "I will accept nothing from you until you have consented—nothing!" And waving his sceptre, he sallied forth.

Hullin burst into another peal of laughter.

"Poor fellow!" he exclaimed; "his eyes turned toward the pot in spite of himself; his teeth are chattering; but his folly is stronger than even cold and hunger."

"He frightens me," said Louise, blushing, notwithstanding, as she thought of his strange request.

Yegof kept on the Valtin road. Their eyes followed him as his distance from them grew greater. Still his stately march, his grave gestures, continued, though no one was now near to observe him. Night was falling fast; and soon the tall form of the King of Diamonds was blended with and lost in the winter twilight.

Chapter II.

The same evening, after supper, Louise, taking her spinning-wheel with her, went to visit Mother Rochart, at whose cottage the good matrons and young girls of the village often met, and remained until near midnight, relating old legends, chatting of the rain, the weather, baptisms, marriages, the departure or return of conscripts, or any other matters of interest.

Hullin, sitting before his little copper lamp, nailed the sabots of the old wood-cutter. He no longer gave a thought to Yegof. His hammer rose and fell upon the thick wooden soles mechanically, while a thousand fancies roamed through his mind. Now his thoughts wandered to Gaspard, so long unheard of; now to the campaign, so long prolonged. The lamp dimly lighted the little room; without, all was still. The fire grew dull; Jean-Claude arose to pile on another log, and then resumed his seat, murmuring:

"This cannot last; we shall receive a letter one of these days."

The village clock struck nine; and as Hullin returned to his work, the door opened, and Catherine Lefevre, the mistress of the Bois-de-Chênes farm, appeared on the threshold, to the astonishment of the sabot-maker, for it was not her custom to be abroad at such an hour.

Catherine Lefevre might have been sixty years of age, but her form was straight and erect as at thirty. Her clear, gray eyes and hooked nose seemed to resemble the eyes and beak of the eagle. Her thin cheeks and the drooping corners of her mouth betokened habits of thought, and gave a sad and somewhat bitter expression to her face. A long brown hood covered her head and fell over her shoulders. Her whole appearance bespoke a firm and resolute character, and inspired in the beholder a feeling of respect, not untinged with fear.

"You here, Catherine?" exclaimed Hullin in his surprise.

"Even I, Jean-Claude," replied the old woman calmly. "I wish to speak with you. Is Louise at home?"

"She is at Madeleine Rochart's."

"So much the better," said Catherine, seating herself at the corner of the work-bench.

Hullin gazed fixedly at her. There was something mysterious and unusual in her manner which caused in him a vague feeling of alarm.

"What has happened?" he asked, laying aside his hammer.

"Yegof the fool passed last night at the farm."

"He was here this afternoon," said Hullin, who attached no importance to the fact.

"Yes," continued Catherine, in a low tone; "he passed last night with us, and in the evening, at this hour, before the kitchen fire, his words were fearful."

"Fearful!" muttered the sabot-maker, more and more astonished, for he had never before seen the old woman in such a state of alarm. "What did he say, Catherine?"

"He spoke of things which awakened strange dreams."

"Dreams! You are mocking me."

"No, no," she answered. And then, after a moment of silence, fixing her eyes upon the wondering Hullin, she continued:

"Last evening, our people were seated, after supper, around the fire in the kitchen, and Yegof among them. He had, as usual, regaled us with the history of his treasures and castles. It was about nine o'clock, and the fool sat at the corner of the blazing hearth. Duchene, my laborer, was mending Bruno's saddle; Robin, the herdsman, was making a basket; Annette arranging her dishes on the cupboard; and I spinning before going to bed. Without, the dogs were barking at the moon, and it was bitter cold. We were speaking of the winter, which Duchene said would be severe, for he had seen large flocks of wild geese. The raven, perched on the corner of the chimney-piece, with his beak buried in his ruffled feathers, seemed to sleep."

The old woman paused a moment, as if to collect her thoughts; her eyes sought the floor, her lips closed tightly together, and a strange paleness overspread her face.

"What in the name of sense is she coming at?" thought Hullin.

She resumed:

"Yegof, at the edge of the hearth, with his tin crown upon his head and his sceptre laid across his knees, seemed absorbed in thought. He gazed at the huge black chimney, the great stone mantel-shelf, with its sculptured trees and men, and at the smoke which rose in heavy wreaths among the quarters of bacon. Suddenly he struck his sceptre upon the floor, and cried out like one in a dream, 'Yes, I have seen it all—all—long since!' And while we gazed on him with looks of astonishment, he proceeded:

"'Ay, in those days the forests of firs were forests of oak. Nideck, Dagsberg, Falkenstein—all the castles now old and ruined were yet unbuilt. In those days wild bulls were hunted through the woods; salmon were plenty in the Sarre; and you, the fair-haired race, buried in the snows six months of the year, lived upon milk and cheese, for you had great flocks on Hengst, Schneeberg, Grosmann, and Donon. In summer you hunted as far as the banks of the Rhine; as far as the Moselle, the Meuse. All this can I remember!'

"Was it not strange, Jean-Claude?" said the old woman. "As the fool spoke, I seemed, too, to remember those scenes, as if viewed in a dream. I let fall my distaff, and old Duchene and all the others stopped to listen. The fool continued:

"'Ay, it was long ago! You had already begun to build your tall chimneys; and you surrounded your habitations with palisades whose points had been hardened in the fire. Within you kept great dogs, with hanging cheeks, who bayed night and day.'

"Then he burst into a peal of crazy laughter, crying:

"'And you thought yourselves the lords of the land—you, the pale-faced and blue-eyed—you, who lived on milk and cheese, and touched no flesh save in autumn at your hunts—you thought yourselves lords of the mountain and the plain—when we, the red-bearded, came from the sea—we, who loved blood and the din of battle. 'Twas a rude war, ours. It lasted weeks and months; and your old chieftainess, Margareth, of the clan of the Kilberix, shut up in her palisades, surrounded by her dogs and her warriors, defended herself like a she-wolf robbed of her young. But five moons passed, and hunger came; the gates of her stronghold opened, that its defenders might fly; and we, ambushed in the brook, slew them all—all—save the children. She alone defended herself to the last, and I, Luitprand, clove her gray head, and spared her blind father, the oldest among the old, that I might chain him like a dog to my castle gate.'

"Then, Hullin," said the old woman, "the fool sang a long ballad—the plaint of the old man chained to his gate. It was sad, sad as the Miserere. It chilled our very blood. But he laughed until old Duchene, in a transport of rage, threw himself upon him to strangle him; but the fool is strong, and hurled him back. Then brandishing his sceptre furiously, he shouted:

"'To your knees, slaves! to your knees! My armies are advancing. The earth trembles beneath them. Nideck, Haut-Barr, Dagsberg, Turkestein, will again tower above you. To your knees!'

"Never did I gaze upon a more fearful figure; but seeing my people about to fall upon him, I interposed in his defence. 'He is but a fool,' I cried. 'Are you not ashamed to mind his words?' This quieted them, but I could not close my eyes the entire night. His story—the song of the old man—rang through my ears, and seemed mingled with the barking of our dogs and the din of combat. Hullin, what think you of it? I cannot banish his threats from my mind!"

"I should think," said the sabot-maker, with a look of pity not unmixed with a sort of sorrowful sarcasm—"I should think, Catherine, if I did not know you so well, that you were losing your senses—you and Duchene and Robin and all the rest."

"You do not understand these matters," said the old woman in a calm and grave tone; "but were you never troubled by things of like nature?"

"Do you mean that you believe this nonsense of Yegof?"

"Yes, I believe it."

"You believe it! You, Catherine Lefevre! If it was Mother Rochart, I would say nothing; but you—!"

He arose as if angry, untied his apron, shrugged his shoulders, and then suddenly, again seating himself, exclaimed:

"Do you know who this fool is? I will tell you. He is one of those German schoolmasters who turn old women's heads with their Mother Goose stories; whose brains are cracked with overmuch study, and who take their visions for actual events—their crazy fancies for reality. I always looked upon Yegof as one of them. Remember the mass of names he knows; he talks of Brittany and Austrasia—of Polynesia and Nideck and the banks of the Rhine, and so gives an air of probability to his vagaries. In ordinary times, Catherine, you would think as I do; but your mind is troubled at receiving no news from Gaspard, and the rumors of war and invasion which are flying around distract you; you do not sleep, and you look upon the sickly fancies of a poor fool as gospel truth."

"Not so, Hullin—not so. If you yourself had heard Yegof—"

"Come, come!" cried the good man. "If I had heard him, I would have laughed at him, as I do now. Do you know that he has demanded the hand of Louise, that he might make her Queen of Austrasia?"

Catherine could not help smiling; but soon resuming her serious air, she said:

"All your reasons, Jean-Claude, cannot convince me; but I confess that Gaspard's silence frightens me. I know my boy, and he has certainly written. Why have his letters not arrived? The war goes ill for us, Hullin; all the world is against us. They want none of our Revolution. While we were the masters, while we crowned victory with victory, they were humble enough, but since the Russian misfortune their tone is far different."

"There, there, Catherine; you are wandering; everything is black to you. What disturbs me most is not receiving any news from without; we are living here as in a country of savages; we know nothing of what is going on abroad. The Austrians or the Cossacks might fall upon us at any moment, and we be taken completely by surprise."

Hullin observed that as he spoke the old woman's look became anxious, and despite himself he felt the influence of the fears she spoke of.

"Listen, Catherine," said he suddenly; "as long as you talk reasonably I shall not gainsay you. You speak now of things that are possible. I do not believe they will attack us, but it is better to set our hearts at ease. I intended going to Phalsbourg this week. I shall set out to-morrow. In such a city—one which is, moreover, a post-station—they should have certain tidings of what is going on. Will you believe the news I bring back?"

"I will."

"Then it is understood. I will start early to-morrow morning. It is five leagues off. I shall have returned by about six in the evening, and you shall see, Catherine, that your mournful notions lack reason."

"I hope so," said she, rising; "indeed I hope so. You have somewhat reassured me, Jean-Claude, and I may sleep better than I did last night. Good-night, Jean-Claude."

Chapter III.

The next morning at daybreak, Hullin, in his gray-cloth Sunday small-clothes, his ample brown velvet coat, his red vest with its copper buttons, his head covered with his mountaineer's slouched hat, the broad brim turned up in front over his ruddy face, took the road to Phalsbourg, a stout staff in his hand.

Phalsbourg is a small fortified city on the imperial road from Strasbourg to Paris. It commands the slope of Saverne, the defiles of Haut-Barr, of Roche-Plate, Bonne-Fontaine, and Graufthal. Its bastions, advanced works, and demi-lunes run zigzag over a rocky plateau; afar off you would think you could clear the walls at a bound; a nearer approach shows a ditch, a hundred feet wide and thirty deep, and beyond the dark ramparts cut in the rock itself. All the rest of the city, save the town-hall, the two gates of France and Germany with their pointed arches, and the tops of the two magazines, is concealed behind the glacis. Such is the little city, which is not lacking in a certain kind of grandeur, especially when we cross its bridges, and pass its heavy gates, studded with iron spikes. Within the walls, the houses are low, regularly built of cut stone in straight streets. A military atmosphere pervades everything.

Hullin, whose robust health and joyous nature gave him little care for the future, pushed gayly onward, regarding the stories of defeat and invasion which filled the air as so many malicious inventions. Judge, then, of his stupefaction when, on coming in sight of the town, he saw that the clock-tower stood no longer, not a garden or an orchard, not a walk or a bush could he see; everything within cannon-shot was utterly destroyed. A few wretches were collecting the remaining pieces of their cottages to carry them to the city. Nothing could be seen to the verge of the horizon but the lines of the ramparts. Jean-Claude was thunder-struck; for a few moments he could neither utter a word nor advance a step.

"Aha!" he muttered at last, "things are not going well. The enemy is expected."

Then his warrior instincts rising, his brown cheeks flushed with anger.

"It is those rascal Austrians, and Prussians, and Russians, who have caused all this," he cried, shaking his staff; "but let them beware! They shall rue it!"

His wrath grew as he advanced. Twenty minutes later he entered the city at the end of a long train of wagons, each drawn by five or six horses, and dragging enormous trunks of trees, destined to form a block-house on the Place d'Armes. Between drivers, peasants, and neighing, struggling, kicking horses, a mounted gendarme, Father Kels, rode grimly, seeming to hear nothing of the tumult around, but ever and anon saying, in a deep base voice:

"Courage! my friends, courage! We can make two journeys more before night, and you will have deserved well of your country."

Jean-Claude crossed the bridge.

A new spectacle presented itself within the walls. All were absorbed in the work of defence. Every gate was open. Men, women, and children labored, ran, or helped to carry powder and shot. Occasionally, groups of three, four, or half a dozen would collect to hear the news.

"Neighbors," one would say, "a courier has arrived at full speed. He entered by the French gate."

"Then he announces the coming of the National Guard from Nancy."

"Or, perhaps, a train from Metz."

"You are right. Sixteen-pound shot are wanting, as well as canister. They are breaking up the stoves to supply its place."

Some of the citizens, in their shirt-sleeves, were barricading their windows with heavy beams and mattresses; others were rolling tubs of water before their doors. Their enthusiasm excited Hullin's admiration.

"Good!" he cried, "good! The allies will be well received here!"

Opposite the college, the squeaking voice of the sergeant, Harmantier, was shrieking:

"Be it known that the casemates will be opened, to the end that each man may bring a mattress and two blankets; and moreover, that messieurs the commissioners are about to commence their round of inspection to see that each inhabitant has three months' provisions in his house, which he must show: Given this twentieth day of December, one thousand eight hundred and thirteen. Jean Pierre Meunier, Governor."

Strange scenes, both serious and comic, succeeded every minute.

Hullin was no longer the same man. Memories of the march, the bivouac, the rattle of musketry, the charge, the shout of victory, came rushing upon him. His eyes sparkled and his heart beat fast, and the thoughts of the glory to be gained in a brave defence, a struggle to the death with a haughty enemy, filled his brain.

"Good faith!" said he to himself, "all goes well! I have made clogs enough in my life, and if the time has come to shoulder the musket once more, so much the better. We will show these Prussians and Austrians that we have not forgotten the roll of the charge!"

Thus mused the brave old man, but his exultation was not of long duration.

Before the church, on the Place d'Armes, were fifteen or twenty wagons full of wounded, arriving from Leipsic and Hanau. Many poor fellows, pale, emaciated, with eyes half-closed and glassy, or rolling in agony, some with arms and legs already amputated, some with wounds not yet even bandaged, lay awaiting death. Near by, a few worn-out horses were eating their scanty provender, while their drivers, poor peasants pressed into service in Alsace, wrapped in their long, ragged cloaks, slept, in spite of cold, on the steps of the church. It was terrible to see the men, wrapped in their gray overcoats, heaped upon bloody straw; one holding his broken arm upon his knee; another binding his head with an old handkerchief; a third already dead, serving as a seat for the living. Hullin stood transfixed. He could not withdraw his eyes from the scene. Human misery in its intensest forms fascinates us. We would see how men die—how they face death; and the best among us are not free from this horrible curiosity. It seems to us as if eternity were about to disclose its secrets.

On the first wagon to the right were two carabineers in sky-blue jackets—two giants—but their strong frames were bowed with pain; they seemed two statues crushed beneath some enormous mass of stone. One, with thick red mustaches and sunken cheeks, glared with his stony eyes, as if awakened from a frightful nightmare; the other, bent double, his hands blue with cold, and his shoulder torn by a grape-shot, was becoming momentarily weaker, but from time to time started up, muttering like one in a dream. Behind, infantrymen were stretched in couples, most of them struck by bullets. They seemed to bear their fate with more fortitude than did the giants, not speaking, except that a few, the youngest, shrieked furiously for water and bread. In the next wagon, a plaintive voice—the voice of a conscript—called upon his mother, while his older comrades smiled sarcastically at his cry.

Now and then a shudder ran through them all, as a man—or mayhap several—would rise, and with a long sigh fall back. This was death.

While Hullin stood silent, the blood frozen in his heart, a citizen, Sôme, the baker, came forth from his house, carrying a large pot of boiled meat. Then you should have seen those spectres struggle, their eyes glance, their nostrils dilate; a new life seemed to animate them, for the poor wretches were dying of hunger.

Good Father Sôme, with tears in his eyes, approached, saying:

"I am coming, my children. A little patience, and you will be supplied."

But scarcely had he reached the first wagon, when the huge carabineer with the sunken cheeks plunged his arm to the elbow in the boiling pot, seized a piece of meat, and concealed it beneath his jacket. It was done like a flash, and savage cries arose on all sides. Men who had not strength enough to move would have strangled their comrade. He pressed the precious morsel to his breast, his teeth were already in it, and he glared around like a wild beast. At the cries which arose, an old soldier—a sergeant—sprang from a neighboring wagon; he understood all at a glance, and without useless delay tore the meat from the carabineer, saying:

"Thou deservest to have none. Let us divide; it will make ten rations."

"We are only eight," said a wounded man, calm in appearance, but with eyes glistening in his bronzed face. "You see, sergeant, that those two there are dying; it is no use to waste food."

The sergeant looked.

"You are right," he replied. "Eight parts."

Hullin could bear no more. He fled, pale as death, to the innkeeper, Wittmann's. Wittmann was also a dealer in leather and furs, and cried, as he saw him enter:

"Ha! it is you, Master Jean-Claude; you are earlier than usual. I did not expect you before next week." Then, seeing him tremble, he asked: "But what is the matter? You are ill."

"I have just been looking at the wounded."

"Ah! yes. The first time it affects one; but if you had seen fifteen thousand pass, as I have, you would think nothing of it."

"A glass of wine, quick!" cried Hullin. "O men, men! you who should be brothers!"

"Yes, brothers until the purse gives out," replied Wittmann. "There, drink, and you will feel better."

"And you have seen fifteen thousand of these wretches pass," said the sabot-maker.

"At least; and all in the last two months, without speaking of those that remained in Alsace and on the other side of the Rhine; for, you know, wagons could not be procured for all, and it was not worth while removing many."

"Yes, I understand. But why are those unfortunates there? Why are they not in the hospital?"

"The hospital! Where are there hospitals enough for them—for fifty thousand wounded? Every one, from Mayence and Coblentz to Phalsbourg, is crowded; and, moreover, that terrible sickness, typhus, kills more than the enemy's bullets. All the villages in the plain, for twenty leagues around, are infected, and men die like flies. Happily, the city has been for three days in a state of siege, and they are about to close the gates, and allow no one to enter. I have lost my uncle Christian and my aunt Lisbeth, as hale, hearty people as you or I, Jean-Claude. The cold has come, too; there was a white frost last night."

"And the wounded were in the street all night?"

"No; they came from Saverne this morning, and in an hour or two—as soon as the horses are rested—they will depart for Sarrebourg."

At this instant, the old sergeant, who had established order in the wagon, entered, rubbing his hands.

"Ha, ha!" he said, "it is becoming cooler, Father Wittmann. You did well to light the fire in the stove. A little glass of cognac would not be amiss to take off the chill."

His little, half-closed eyes, hooked nose, separating a pair of wrinkled cheeks, and chin, from which a red tuft of beard hung, all gave the old soldier's face an expression of good humor and jollity. It was a true military countenance—hale, bronzed by exposure, full of bluff frankness as well as of roguish shrewdness—and his tall shako and gray-blue overcoat, shoulder-belt, and epaulettes seemed part of himself. He marched up and down the room, still rubbing his hands, while Wittmann filled him a little glass of brandy. Hullin, seated near the window, had, in the first place, remarked the number of his regiment—the sixth of the line. Gaspard, the son of Catherine Lefevre, was in the same. Jean-Claude would, then, have tidings of Louise's betrothed; but when he attempted to speak, his heart beat painfully. If Gaspard were dead! If he had perished like so many others!

The old sabot-maker felt strangled. He was silent. "Better to know nothing," he thought.

Nevertheless, in a few moments he again tried to speak.

"Sergeant," said he huskily, "you are of the Sixth?"

"Even so, my burgess," replied the other, returning to the middle of the room.

"Do you know one Gaspard Lefevre?"

"Gaspard Lefevre? Parbleu! that do I. I taught him to shoulder arms; a brave soldier, i' faith, and good on the march. If we had a hundred thousand of his stamp—"

"Then he is alive and well?"

"He is, my citizen—at least he was a week ago, when I left the regiment at Fredericsthal with this train of wounded; since then, you understand, there has been warm work, and one can answer for nothing—one might get his billet at any moment. But a week ago, at Fredericsthal, Gaspard Lefevre still answered roll-call."

Jean Claude breathed.

"But, sergeant, can you tell me why he has not written home these two months back?"

The old soldier smiled and winked his little eyes.

"Do you think, my friend, that a man has nothing to do on the march but write?"

"No; I have seen service. I made the campaigns of the Sambre-and-Meuse, of Egypt and of Italy, but I always managed to let my friends at home hear from me."

"One moment, comrade," interrupted the sergeant. "I was in Italy and Egypt too, but the campaign just finished was in every respect peculiar."

"It was a severe one, no doubt."

"Severe! Everything and every one was against us; sickness, traitors, peasants, citizens, our allies—all the world! Of our company, which was full when we left Phalsbourg the twenty-first of January last, only thirty-two men remain. I believe that Gaspard Lefevre is the only conscript left living. The poor conscripts! They fought well, but exposure and hunger did their business."

So saying, the old sergeant walked to the counter and emptied his glass at one gulp.

"To your health, citizen. Might you, perchance, be Gaspard's father?"

"No; I am only a relative."

"Well, you can boast of being solidly built in your family. What a man he is for a youth of twenty! He held firm while those around were sent by dozens to mount guard below."

"But," said Hullin, after a moment's silence, "I do not yet see what there was so extraordinary in this last campaign, for we, too, had our sickness and traitors—"

"Extraordinary!" cried the sergeant; "everything was extraordinary. Formerly, you know, a German war was finished after a victory or two; the people then received you well; drank their white wine and munched their sauerkraut with you; and, when the regiment departed, every one even wept. But this time, after Lutzen and Bautzen, instead of becoming good-natured, they grew fiercer than ever: we could obtain nothing except by force; it was like Spain or La Vendée. I don't know what made them hate us so. But if we were all French, things would after all have yet gone well; but we had our Saxon and other allies ready to fly at our throats. We could have beaten the enemy, even if they were five to one, but for our allies. Look at Leipsic, where in the middle of the fight they turned against us—I mean our good friends the Saxons. A week after, our other good friends the Bavarians tried to cut off our retreat; but they rued it at Hanau. The next day, near Frankfort, another column of our good friends presented themselves, but we crushed the traitors. If we only foresaw all this after Austerlitz, Jena, Friedland, Wagram!"

Hullin stood for a moment silent and thoughtful.

"And how do we stand now, sergeant?" said he, at length.

"We have been driven across the Rhine, and all our fortresses on the German side are blockaded. All Europe is advancing upon us. The emperor is at Paris, arranging his plan of campaign. Would to heaven we could get breathing time until the spring!"

At this moment Wittmann arose, and, going to the window, said:

"Here comes the governor, making his tour of inspection."

The commandant Jean-Pierre Meunier, in his three-cocked hat, with a tri-colored sash around his waist, had indeed just made his appearance in the street.

"Ah!" said the sergeant, "I must get him to sign my marching papers. Excuse me, messieurs, I must leave you."

"Good-by, then, sergeant, and thank you. If you see Gaspard, embrace him for Jean-Claude Hullin, and tell him to write."

"I shall not fail."

The sergeant departed, and Hullin emptied his glass.

"Do you intend to start at once, Jean-Claude?" asked Wittmann.

"Yes, the days are growing short, and the road through the wood is not easily found after dark. Adieu!"

The innkeeper watched the old mountaineer from the window, as he crossed the street, and muttered as he gazed at the retreating figure:

"How pale he was when he came in! He could scarcely stand. It is strange! An old man such as he—a soldier too! I could see fifty regiments stretched in ambulances, and not shake so."

Translated From The Historisch-politische Blätter.

Maria Von Mörl.

In the beginning of this year a remarkable human life came to a close. That wonderful being whose name and fame travelled from South Tyrol all over Germany, and made her residence become a frequented pilgrimage without her will—but for the great consolation of multitudes during a whole generation—that extraordinary woman is no more. Maria von Mörl died on January 11th, 1868, in the fifty-sixth year of her age, and in the thirty-sixth of her ecstatic life.

It is now over a score of years since the masterly pen of Görres sketched, in his Mystik, so striking a portrait of Maria von Mörl, and still the attention of the believing world is attracted to the life of the ecstatic virgin. Since then thousands have gone to the South Tyrol markets to behold as a reality what would sound legendary to read or hear, and to bear testimony to the truth of what Görres wrote about the stigmata of that holy woman. All the pilgrims found his statements perfectly correct. Although Görres, in describing the phenomena, abstained from a definitive judgment regarding her sanctity, according to the rule that no one must be called a saint before death, we are not restrained any longer from expressing our convictions, now that she is no more. Her happy and holy death is the strongest confirmation of her unimpeachable life.

We have now all the necessary documents to form a correct estimate of her holiness. Let us glance at the most interesting events in her life, and sum up briefly and simply the chief traits of her inner and exterior character.

Three miles south of Botzen, in a charming landscape, with a prospect extending over a wide and smiling valley, lies the vine-crowned spot in which Maria Theresa von Mörl first saw the light of day, on October 16th, 1812. She was the daughter of a reduced, but noble, vine cultivator in Kaltern, [Footnote 3] Joseph von Mörl, of Mühlen and Lichelburg, who was blessed with a very large family, but not with sufficient means to raise them as became their blood.

[Footnote 3: Kaltern is the German for the Italian Caldaro.—Tr.]

Maria received from her good, sensible mother, whose maiden name was Selva, a pious and simple education; and the young girl grew up in virtue, modest and gentle, affectionate and obliging to all, of good understanding, but with no great powers of fancy. She was an expert little housewife, and aided her mother in the management of their domestic affairs. Frequent illness, which began to trouble her as early as her fifth year and continued to affect her through life, as it had its seat in her blood, rendered her, even at an early age, rather grave, and increased her zeal in prayer, which showed itself especially in her love and veneration for the Blessed Sacrament. This was her character until, in the year 1827, her beloved mother was taken from her by death; and she, at the age of fifteen, was left in sole charge of the family, her father being unable to provide better for the care of her eight younger sisters. Maria undertook the task of their bringing up with courage and readiness. She sought among her increasing labors and responsibilities, more than ever, consolation in religion, and in the frequent reception of the sacrament of the altar.

But the burden was too heavy for her young shoulders, and she sank under it. In her eighteenth year she fell into a wearisome sickness, which was increased in painfulness by reason of violent cramps, which broke down her constitution. Only by slow degrees was her pain alleviated, without the disease having been completely driven out. She never became perfectly sound again. Yet she bore all her afflictions with heroic resignation, although to her physical torments mental struggles were often added temptations of the devil; and troubles of soul which we cannot dwell upon here. [Footnote 4]

[Footnote 4: Görres describes them fully in his Christliche Mystik, band iii.]

Such was her condition during about two years, when her confessor, Father Capistran, a quiet, prudent man, and for years a true friend of the distressed family, observed "that at certain times, when she was interrogated by him, she did not answer, and seemed to be out of herself." When he questioned her nurses and others on this point, they informed him that such was always the case when she received the holy communion. This was the first symptom of her ecstatic state, into which she entered in her twentieth year, and which soon became more and more striking. On the feast of Corpus Christi, 1832, which in Kaltern, as throughout the whole Tyrol, is celebrated with unusual solemnity, Father Capistran, for special reasons, gave her the holy sacrament at three A.M., and immediately she fell into an ecstasy which lasted, to his personal knowledge, for several hours! He left her to attend to other duties; and when he returned, at noon on the following day, he found the ecstatic still kneeling in the same place where he had left her thirty-six hours before; and heard, to his astonishment, that she had remained the whole time thus undisturbed in contemplation. The good Franciscan now comprehended for the first time that ecstasy had become almost a second nature to her; and undertook the regulation of this supernatural condition of his saintly penitent.

The power of the perceptive faculties increased wonderfully with her ecstasies, as several presentiments and prophecies demonstrated in a surprising manner. Her fame was soon noised abroad. The report of her ecstatic kneeling and prayer spread through the Tyrol, and great excitement was created throughout the whole land. Crowds of people flocked to see her, and to be edified by the sight. From different and distant places numbers came as pilgrims to Kaltern. During the summer of 1833, more than forty thousand persons, of all classes, visited her, without the slightest disorder or scandal, although sometimes two or three thousand people in a day passed through the room of the rapt maiden, kneeling undisturbed in contemplation. Many sinners were moved and converted by the spectacle.

No one could explain the sudden and extraordinary commotion excited in a whole people. The civil and ecclesiastical authorities wished to prevent the concourse; so it was announced that no further pilgrimages would be allowed. They gradually ceased. The priests, however, bore testimony to the good results which had flowed from those pilgrimages. In the autumn of the same year, Francis Xavier Luschin, Prince-Bishop of Trent, caused an investigation to be made, and the witnesses to be examined on oath, regarding the state of the ecstatic virgin, to prevent any further proceedings and annoyances on the part of the police, but especially to remove all suspicion of pious fraud. The prince-bishop, who was impartial enough not to give a final decision, informed the civil authorities "that the sickness of Maria von Mörl was certainly not holiness, but that her undoubted holiness could not be called a sickness."

All this excitement was unknown to the cause of it, who remained undisturbed by the throngs who came to see her. Her inner life seemed to be completely developed in the year 1834, when she received the stigmata. How this happened is best told in the words of Görres himself: "In the fall of 1833, the father-confessor occasionally remarked that the centre of her hands, where the wounds appeared at a later date, began to fall in, and the places became painful and troubled with frequent cramps. He suspected that stigmatization was about to happen, and the result justified his expectations. At early Mass, on February 4th, of the year 1834, he found her wiping her hands with a cloth in childish astonishment. When he perceived blood on it, he asked her what was the matter. She answered that she did not well understand what it was; that she must have cut herself in some strange way. But it was the stigmata, which from that day remained unchangeably in her palms, and soon appeared in her feet also, as well as in her side. So simply did Father Capistran act in the whole affair, and so little desirous of wonder-seeking did he show himself, that he never asked her what were her interior dispositions or phenomena immediately before the reception of the wounds. They were almost round, slightly oblong, about two inches in diameter, and appearing on both the upper and under parts of her hands and feet. The size of the lance stigma in the side, which only her most intimate female friends saw, could not be determined. On Thursday evenings and on Fridays, clear blood flowed in drops from the wounds; on the other days of the week, a dry crust of blood covered them, without the slightest symptoms of inflammation or the slightest traces of pus ever appearing. She concealed most carefully her state, and all that might betray her interior emotions. But on the occasion of a festive procession, in 1833, she fell into an ecstasy in the presence of several witnesses. She appeared like an angel, blooming like a rose. Her feet scarcely touching the bed, she stood up, with arms outstretched in the shape of a cross, and the stigmata in her palms manifest to all beholders." [Footnote 5]

[Footnote 5: Christliche Mystik, ii. 501.]

Maria von Mörl became a sister of the Third Order of St. Francis, and, in virtue of the obedience due to him, her confessor undertook to keep her ecstasies within due bounds. She promised him complete obedience. A word from him recalled her to herself. But his experience was very little. No one at home paid much attention to her. She was left very much alone. Her confessor was a sensible man, but very simple and not at all inquisitive. The circle of her spiritual phenomena rolled round within the ordinary limits of the feasts of the church. Father Capistran did not interfere at all in the singularities of her interior condition, or even try to investigate their nature with curiosity. "If she is not questioned," wrote the good and simple confessor to Görres, "she says very little, and seldom speaks at all; thus, for instance, it is only to-day that I learned completely her vision of St. Paul—on the feast of his conversion. Only now and then does she tell a particular circumstance, which I listen to quietly; and if she says nothing, I do not trouble her with questions. She sometimes says to me, 'I cannot properly express what I see by word of mouth or by writing; and perhaps I might say something false.' My direction is extremely plain: I want her to be always humble and devout to God; and I am satisfied when she prays so fervently to God, and intercedes for others, for sinners as well as for the just. It always seems to me that it is not the will of God that I should inquire too curiously about her visions and revelations, as Brentano did with Emmerich." Thus wrote Father Capistran, who describes himself in his letter better than our pen could do it.

In September, 1835, Görres came to Kaltern, in the Southern Tyrol, where he saw frequently the stigmatized girl, whose health was becoming every day worse. He found her in her father's house, lying in a neat, plain, whitewashed room, on a hard mattress, and covered with clean white linen. At the side of her bed was a little family altar; behind it, and over the windows, were a few religious pictures. She had a delicate figure, of medium height, and somewhat emaciated from the use of sparse diet, yet not unusually thin. When he saw her for the first time, she was in an ecstasy, kneeling on the lower part of her bed. Görres describes her thus: "Her hands, with the visible stigmata, were folded on her breast; her face turned to the church, and slightly raised; her eyes having a look of complete absorption which nothing could disturb. No movement was perceptible in her kneeling form for a whole hour, except a gentle breathing, occasionally a muscular action of the throat as in swallowing, and sometimes an oscillatory movement of the head and body. She seemed as if looking into the distance, gazing in rapture at God, like one of those angels who kneel around his throne. No wonder that her appearance produced such a great effect on the beholders, so as to bring tears to the eyes of the most hardened. During her ecstasy she contemplated the life and passion of Christ, adored the Blessed Sacrament, and prayed according to the spirit of the season of the ecclesiastical year. This we are told by her spiritual director. Her visions and revelations had all reference to something holy and ecclesiastical; and, unlike somnambulists, she remained entirely blind, like other persons, to her own bodily state." (II. 504.)

In her natural condition, Maria von Mörl left the impression of her being a simple and candid child on those who visited her. Görres gives a characteristic description of her: "No matter how deeply she may be lost in contemplation, a word of her confessor, no matter in how low a tone it may be uttered, recalls her from her rapture. There seems to be no medium condition; only sufficient time elapses to make her conscious of the word having been spoken, before she opens her eyes and becomes as self-possessed as if she were never in ecstasy. Her appearance becomes immediately changed into that of a young child. The first thing she does on awaking from her ecstasy, if she perceives spectators, is to hide her stigmatized hands under the bed-clothing, like a little girl who soils her hands with ink, and tries to conceal them at the approach of her mother. Then she looks curiously among the crowd, for she is now accustomed to the sight of multitudes, and gives every one a friendly greeting. As she has been dumb for some time, she tries to make herself understood by gestures; and when she finds this method unsuccessful, she turns her eyes entreatingly, like an inexperienced child, to her confessor, to ask him to help her and speak for her. The expression of her dark eye is that of joyous childhood. You can look through her clear eyes to the very bottom of her soul, and perceive that there is not a dark corner in her nature for anything evil to hide in. There is nothing defiled or deceitful in her character; no sentimentalism, no hypocrisy, nor the slightest trace of any pride; but all in her is childlike simplicity and innocence." (II.508.)

Clement Brentano bears a similar witness to her virtue when he visited her at Kaltern, in 1835, and again in the harvest of 1837. In one of his letters he says of her: "Here lives the maiden Maria von Mörl, who is now in her twenty-third year. She is a lovely, pious, and chosen creature. She is incessantly rapt in ecstasy, kneeling in bed, her hands outstretched or folded. She is so wonderfully lengthened during her ecstasy, that one would take her for a very tall person, though really she is quite short. Her eyes remain open and fixed, and though the flies run over her eyelids, she moves them not. She is like a wax figure, and her look is striking. Now and then her spiritual director interrupts her visions, and immediately she settles into repose on her couch, but after a few minutes rises to her knees again. She makes no effort to rise; she seems carried by angels into a kneeling posture. The whole appearance of this extraordinary girl is moving, yet not shocking, for the moment the priest commands her to resume her natural state, she becomes like one of the most simple and innocent of children, as if she were not seven years old. The moment she perceives persons around her, she hides herself to the very nose under the bed-clothes, looks timorous, yet smiles on all around, and gives them pictures, preserving always a serene and attractive countenance, like that of the blessed Emmerich." [Footnote 6]

[Footnote 6: Clemens Brentano, Gesammelte Briefe, band ii. 326. He caused a likeness of her to be painted.]

Like a child, she was fond of children, of birds and flowers. It was observed that birds seemed to have a great liking for her. They sang in flocks around her windows, and if they were brought into her room they flew to her. On one occasion three wild doves were given to her, and although they never allowed any one to fondle them before, they alighted on her, two of them on her arms, and the third on her clasped hands, putting its bill to her mouth as she prayed. This beautiful scene was repeated for several days, until the doves were driven away. The same thing happened with a chicken which a little sister of Maria's, a child of nine years old, accidentally brought into her chamber.

If friends were around her, she could sometimes remain mistress of herself and take part in their conversation; but this was only for a short time, and she fell again into ecstasy. The passion of our Lord seemed to be the special object of her contemplation, and on Fridays especially she suffered agony in her mystical life. In the forenoon her sufferings began to be noticeable. As the great drama of the crucifixion proceeded, its traces were visible in her; her pains increasing until the hour of the death on the cross, when her whole person became as if it were lifeless. Görres paints, in his usual graphic style, all these phenomena, even to the most minute details. (P. 505-508.) For the sake of brevity, we shall quote only Brentano's words. As he was an eye-witness of what he narrates, he is perfectly reliable: "I have never seen anything more awful and astounding; all the patience, anguish, abandonment, and love of Jesus dying was represented in her with inexpressible truth and dignity. She is seen dying by degrees; dark spots cover her face, her nose becomes pinched, her eyes break, cold sweat runs down her person, death struggles in her trembling bosom; her head is raised, while her mouth opens in pain; her neck and chin form almost a straight line, her tongue becomes parched, and is drawn up as if withered; her breathing is low and slightly gurgling; her hands fall powerless to her side, and her head sinks on her bosom. A priest, to whom Father Capistran, who was present, gave authority, commanded her to repose. In a moment she lay fatigued, but calm on her bed, and after about three minutes rose again to her knees, and returned thanks for the death of the Lord."

These phenomena were repeated every Friday throughout the year. Her sufferings became more and more extraordinary. In the year 1836, it was observed that, on the Fridays after the ascension of Christ, when she finished her mystical agony, beginning at three P.M., she fell into a new ecstasy which lasted until half-past four o'clock. Her body lay extended on her couch as on a cross, her arms outstretched as if powerfully wrenched; her head hung on one side, bent somewhat back off her pillow, and unsupported by anything. Thus she remained sometimes two hours as if dead, and could not be recalled without violent and painful convulsions. But when she came back to her natural state, she was ever the same innocent and gentle girl, as if she had never been blessed by God with extraordinary visitations.

So much had ecstasy become a second nature to her, that she was self-conscious only at intervals and by great efforts of the will. During Görres's stay at Kaltern, Maria was asked to stand godmother for a newly born child. She accepted the invitation with great joy, and took the most lively interest in the ceremony; but during it she became ecstatic several times, and had to be repeatedly recalled from her trance.

Yet with all this, she did not neglect the care of her family as far as it lay in her power, and with the direction and counsel of her good confessor. Two o'clock in the afternoon was the hour appointed by him for her to attend to her household affairs. At that hour she was commanded by him to leave her trance, and then, with the greatest diligence, and with the care of a mother, she directed business matters, dictated letters, and arranged all the necessary temporal concerns with great prudence and good sense.

In the year 1841, she left her father's house, and went, in the beginning of November, to live in the convent of the Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis, where, as one of its members, she received a separate dwelling next the church. Here she enjoyed great repose, for access to her became less easy, as visitors were required to procure permission from the ecclesiastical authorities to see her. Still, pilgrimages did not cease; and the good influence exercised by her increased. Of the deep religious impression produced by her ecstasies, the Bishop of Terni, Monsignor Vincent Tizzani, speaks authoritatively in a pastoral letter published regarding Maria von Mörl in the year 1842. He had seen her, one Friday, in her ecstasy and agony, and he could not repress his tears at beholding the text so literally verified, "I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me." His testimony concerning the stigmata and the circumstances of her supernatural state agrees in every particular with that rendered by Görres and Brentano seven years previously. Louis Clarus also, at that time a Protestant, afterward a Catholic, in his studies on mysticism, felt compelled to render this witness concerning her. "The force of truth and reality," says he, writing of his visit to Kaltern, "impressed me so, that I felt necessitated, like the apostle John, to announce what I had heard, my eyes had seen, and my hands touched."

Many others, among them Lord Shrewsbury, attest the same fact, every succeeding witness confirming the testimony of his predecessor. [Footnote 7]

[Footnote 7: Letter from the Earl of Shrewsbury to Ambrose Lisle Phillips, Esq., descriptive of the Estatica of Caldaro and the Addolorata of Capriana. London 1842.]

A whole generation has passed since then, and no one has been able to contradict their statements, or explain the phenomena on any natural principles. For thirty years every one could behold her in ecstasy or agony, and see the wounds plainly on her hands and feet, while she remained ever humble, meek, modest as a child, and intensely pious and holy. Her history could be written in two words: "She suffers, and contemplates." She was a passion-flower clinging to the foot of the cross. In ecstasy she spent her life, contemplating the sufferings of Jesus Christ, praying for all, for the church, and for her native land; doing good to countless poor people, alleviating their sorrows, like the divine Master who dwelt in the recesses of her soul.

Three years before her death she lost her confessor, Father Capistran, who had guided her soul for almost forty years. He was a distinguished theologian, a good priest, and had been judged worthy to be chosen provincial of his order, the Franciscans. He died on the 4th of May, 1865. She mourned his death like a child, and longed more than ever to be dissolved and be with Christ.

Her wish was soon gratified. She became very weak in the autumn of 1867, and the numerous visits she was compelled to receive, as well as the frequent requests made of her, completely prostrated her physical powers. The number of pilgrims to her "Swallows' Nest," as Görres called her abode near the Franciscan church, was extraordinary; men, women, priests, and laity, all came to her shrine.

The measure of her physical suffering was full; but the measure of her mental anguish was not yet complete. On the 8th of September, 1867, she was visited by a severe spiritual trouble. She seemed to be struggling with some power of hell. She became sad, and as if forsaken by God, to such an extent that until September 17th, and for weeks after, consciousness seems to have entirely left her. In this spiritual conflict she saw troops of demons, which surrounded, attacked her, and threatened to carry her off to judgment. She saw and heard the fiends blaspheming all things holy, and trying to bear even the most righteous away to the abyss. She heard the devils scoff at her, and boast that they had the pope in their power; that they had desecrated churches and convents, and made wickedness thrive in the land. These temptations and obsessions lasted from the middle of September to the middle of October, when peace again returned to her soul. From the 23d of October she was able to receive the blessed sacrament regularly; the struggle was over; she had conquered, and was now at rest. When she was afterward interrogated regarding these obsessions, she said that, on the night of the 7th of September, as she was praying for the pope and the emperor, the attack began. It was precisely at this time that the invasion of the pope's temporal possessions by the Garibaldians, sanctioned by the Sardinian government, took place. The French expedition was sent to the pope's relief toward the middle of October, just when Maria's soul obtained rest from demoniacal aggressions; so that her personal affliction seems to have been a participation in the sufferings of the church.

But the light of her life was flickering in the socket. She had a presentiment of her death before it took place, and prophesied often that she would never pass the winter on earth. Toward All Saints' day her weakness became greater, and everything foretold her dissolution. She could no longer bear nourishment. Lemonade or water, with the essence of quinces, was almost her only nourishment for some weeks before her death. When she felt better on certain days, she ate fruit, bread, or porridge, but never meat or meat soup. She sometimes spent several days without eating or drinking. In the last week, especially from Wednesday she suffered great torture. But she was full of resignation; indifferent to life or death, she never repined or murmured. She was patient and full of calm resignation and infantile love. On the feast of the Epiphany, five days before her death, she showed herself in her usual way to the pilgrims; there was a mission at Kaltern, and the missionaries visited her on that festival, to bid her farewell. She received them with bland hospitality, and offered them grapes to eat.

She knew nothing positive about the precise moment of her death, but only that she should die when everything on her became white. The stigmata began gradually to disappear, leaving only a blue spot, which disappeared entirely after her departure. She received the viaticum on January 6th, in the evening. Every one thought she would die immediately; but she made known by gestures that she should not die yet. She remained conscious, and was able to receive holy communion daily.

At last the day of her demise, January 11th, came. About half-past two on Saturday morning, two hours after communion, she passed from this vale of tears to her heavenly home. Her last agony was easy and calm. She lay quiet, occasionally murmuring the name of Jesus; and one of the bystanders heard her say: "Oh! how beautiful; oh! how beautiful." Her breathing grew weaker, and she fell gently asleep in death.

Her body was exposed in the church for two days, and thousands visited it. Many felt as if they had lost a member of their own family. She lay dressed as a bride, clothed in white, with a white veil on her brow, and a crown of flowers at her feet. Her face was beautiful to look upon, half-childlike in expression, yet mingled with the dignity of a matron; her head reclined, bent toward the left side; her brow and eyes were full of dignity; her mouth like that of an infant smiling in sleep; her hands white as alabaster, and ruddy as roses. Afterward the veil was taken away and she appeared more angelic than ever, her rich flowing hair surrounding her noble head. A look of perfect happiness beamed from her entire countenance.

Her burial was solemn. Surrounded by mourning and edified multitudes, her body was borne by young maidens from the catafalque to the zinc coffin prepared for its reception. Her remains were taken on January 13th to her father's family vault at Kaltern, where they now rest in peace.

Kaltern lost its jewel in losing Maria; but her virtues will live for ever in the hallowed spot where she was born, where she lived and died. Truly did Görres write of her to the Prince-Bishop of Trent: "God put her like a living crucifix on the cross-roads, to preach to a godless and dissipated people." She was one of those lamps lighted by the hand of God himself to shine in the darkness, when infidelity is abroad robbing and devouring in the vineyard of Christ. For this purpose she was sent by God, and hence we may well expect that the wonderful supernatural phenomena of her ecstatic life will not cease with her death.

A Summer Shower.

Welcome, O summer rain;
To thirsty hill and plain,
To desolate beds of streams of all their waves run dry.
We know who sent thee forth
From out the windy north,
To trail thy cooling fountains through the sultry sky.
The parchéd earth drinks up
The crystal-flowing cup;
The dusty grasses wash them emerald-green again:
The sweet, drenched roses sigh
In fragrant ecstasy;
The truant brooks foam down their glistening beds amain.
The robins, full of glee,
Answer from tree to tree;
'Neath dusky boughs the glancing orioles, aglow,
Mimic the vivid play
Of lightnings far away,
That southward toss their fiery shuttles to and fro:
While at the fall and lift
Of lights and shadows swift,
Titanic laughter rolls through all the bending skies,
And every water-bead
Trembles, but laughs, indeed,
And every insect quicklier breathes as low he lies.
O Heart! whose pity flows
To cheer the languid rose.
O Hand! outstretched to wake the brooklet's merry din,
Behold me like a blot
Upon this happy spot,
Where joys knock at my door, but never enter in!
Behold the arid ways
Through which my weary days
Tread with unfruitful steps that wander far from thee;
The wasted heart and brain,
All empty, save for pain;
Behold the hidden thorn which thou alone canst see;
And while my fainting sighs
Through nature's hymn arise,
O Comforter of flowers! leave not me to die!
But send thy heavenly rain
Unto my soul again,
Even to me, as grieving in the dust I lie!

Who shall take care of our Sick?

We have taken occasion, in recent numbers of The Catholic World, to present to our readers several of the works of charity which appeal most strongly to Christian sympathy and ask for Christian aid. In our articles on "The Sanitary and Moral Condition of the City of New York"—as but one, however, out of the many cities of our land with like evils and like needs—we directed attention to some lamentable features of the situation of the poor in our midst, and especially of the many thousands of poor and vagrant children growing up in neglect and consequent ignorance and vice. The kindred matter of the condition and proper treatment of the inmates of our jails, prisons, and penitentiaries was touched upon in our last, under the head of "Prison Discipline;" and, again, that of the poor and unfortunate subjects of mental ailments in the article on "Gheel, a Colony of the Insane." In the present number, we invite attention to another branch of the subject, suggested by the inquiry at the head of this article, "Who shall take care of our sick?"

By the sick, we mean all who by infirmity of body or mind are incapable of taking care of themselves; for the range of our inquiry embraces the helplessness of infancy, of decrepitude, insanity, and idiocy, and extends even to prisoners and criminals.

By our sick, we mean the sick poor, the duty of providing for whom devolves on collective society.

But as what is everybody's business is nobody's business, and as society, however imperfectly organized, has many distinct organs and recognized functions corresponding; it remains to be determined through what special ministry the suffering members of humanity shall be succored and the erring reclaimed.

If the rich, and those whose social combinations have been successful, are succored in their need by their families, their friends, their servants; who constitute the families, the friends, the servants, of the poor and isolated? This is a question which pagan societies have evaded, or insolently answered, Vae victis! Religion alone, and only in so far as Christ's spirit has penetrated mankind, has given, through its orders of charity, a fair and candid answer—an answer in deeds as well as words. For many centuries in Christendom, this answer appeared satisfactory in its spirit and intent. Not even the insane were left out of the Christian fold—witness the Colony of Gheel—and it only remained to extend, and multiply, and perfect the works of charity, in proportion as science and art added to the resources of society.

But the Protestant "Reformation" came, sweeping away the work of pious ages, confounding uses with abuses, and upset the whole administration of charity by the servants of Christ, along with public and religious hospitality: in changing the privileged orders, it confided to secular hands the doling out of such pittance to the destitute as the fear of insurrection compelled, and still compels, from the reluctant economy of self interest.

A revival of Christianity in Protestant countries now opens the public mind to the horrors and crimes against humanity perpetrated, in the name of charity, in their "work-houses," "alms-houses," hospitals, and asylums; it leads to the recall and renewal of religious orders devoted to the care of the sick and other classes needing charity. This has not been merely a brilliant corruscation, like the rescue which Florence Nightingale carried to the British troops in the Crimea. Miss Nightingale had previously been trained for years in the religious order of the Kaiserwerth, a normal school of nurses, and the movement, inaugurated by her, continues in England as the "Institution of St. John." A number of religious works, of high merit and extensive usefulness, are described among the Charities of Europe, by De Liefde. [Footnote 8]

[Footnote 8: Published by Strahan: New York and London.]

In New York, we have the Hospital of St. Luke, ministered to by pious Episcopal ladies, who, like the Soeurs Grises of mediaeval Europe, take no vows, and may marry, yet for the time being perform the same functions as our Sisters of Charity or of Mercy.

While attesting a tendency in Christendom to recover the ground lost by the "Reformation," such institutions as we have cited are still very trivial in numbers and power; and though small appropriations of public funds have been made to them, neither they nor the principles which they represent have been officially recognized by states or cities. There is, on the contrary, a jealous opposition to admitting, even to the service of the sick poor, who are mostly Europeans and Catholics, as at Bellevue, the Sisters of Charity; and one of its most eminent surgeons, who knows by experience how precious is their aid, has declared to us with regret his conviction that this salutary measure could not pass. To obviate the prejudices that withhold the administration of charity from its own votaries, whose noble emulation would utilize the differences of sect or order for the common good; to show that the State will find in this restoration economy, at the same time with social or moral advantages, while Christ will be more worthily served; to make it felt that the burden of human sorrows will be lightened, and the redemption of our race from evil promoted, by re-allying piety with charity, is the purpose we have now in view.

"Suum cuique tribuito," "Give to each his own." Two chief orders of power exist in society—interest and sentiment. The natural sphere of interest is confined to material property or goods of the senses; that of sentiment embraces the relations of persons, that is, of beings considered as hearts and souls; so that sentiment culminates in devotion, and ranges love and consanguinity, friendship and honor, in the ministries of religion, expanding the selfhood of the individual by the consciousness of his solidarity with the race, and through Christ with our Father in heaven.

Still, practically, the functions of each power are distinct. It is admitted, in regard to the divers organizations of fire companies, for instance, that the payment of fixed salaries is an efficient or adequate motive for the protection of houses. This service was once confided to public spirit; there was no lack of heroic devotion in its exercise; but salaried firemen were found to be more amenable to discipline, and their organizations to be more permanent and reliable. Now, the contrary is true of hospital service and kindred functions, which employ in some places the religious orders of charity, in others hired assistants. Physicians, patients, and inspectors, all proclaim the superiority of the former. Visit our great secular establishments, such as Bellevue or the Charity Hospital, where the service is either hired or compulsory by convicts, and then the hospitals of religious orders, even the poorest, such as that of the Sisters of the Poor of St. Francis, which is supported by begging from door to door, not to mention the more richly endowed hospitals of St. Vincent de Paul or St. Luke, all free to every needy patient: scent the air of the wards, share the food of the refectory, feel the human magnetism of these spheres, take time and mood to appreciate all their conditions, and you will find their difference amount to a contrast in many essentials of hygiene, physical as well as moral, although science is impartially represented at the secular as at the religious establishments. The former have been largely endowed by private and public benefaction; energy, ability, and good will are not wanting among their officers; yet they inspire such aversion that the decent poor will often rather perish than resort to them.

The characteristic superiority of religious charities is historical, and remounts to the earliest epochs of Christendom; although the secular interest of states in the health and contentment of their peoples has been the same in all times and all countries. If their conduct has been different, the reasons of this difference may be found in the nature of their religions and the fervor or torpor of their piety.

Conversely, just in proportion as our modern states alienate their "public charities" from the influence of religion, they become perverted by the same cruelty and heartlessness that characterized the behavior of the pagan world toward its unfortunate classes. Between the philanthropy of the English workhouse and that of Rome which sent poor slaves to perish on the "dismal island" in the Tiber, the shorter course seems preferable to us, because less degrading to the soul of the victim, and because it has the courage, at least, of its crime.

The Emperor Maximianus, who shipped a cargo of beggars out to sea and drowned them, was still more complete in this economy of suffering. Disease and misery, decrepitude and helpless infancy, have each in turn become the object of such elimination, which ignores tenderness toward the individual; but the process has never stopped where it might have been justified, in a manner, by the substitution of healthier and stronger or more perfect, for less perfect individuals among the representative types of the species. No; the same spirit that sacrificed the feeblest, revelled in the destruction of the strongest men in its gladiatorial arenas. Even in the restricted sense of patriotism, which had contributed so many devotions on the altar of the country, in the heroic days of Greece and Rome, solidarity had ceased to be matter of practical conscience in the pagan world of the great empire. The Hebrews had developed it only as a tribal and family principle. Where has it ever been a social life-truth, unless in the fold of Christ's disciples? and where has this been practically organized, except by its religious orders?

The inconsistencies of war excepted, we see life and personal liberty becoming more sacred from age to age, even amid the corruptions of advanced civilization in Christendom; whereas, on the contrary, in pagan civilizations "the springs of humane feeling in every ancient nation, like the waters of the fountain of the sun, were warm at dawn of morning, but chilled gradually as the day advanced, till at noon they became excessively cold."

When the development of intelligence in civilized communities renders them conscious of needs and of resources outlying the circles of family providence; one of their first Christian movements is to care for their disabled members, stricken by disease or wounds from the army of the working poor.

In our monster cities, the hospital acquires gigantic proportions, and political economy meets humanity in the research for a system which shall afford the greatest mitigation of inevitable suffering and the best chances of restoring the sufferers to social uses.

In this research, charity has anticipated experimental science, and to the religious orders belongs the honor of fulfilling the highest ideal of this sacred function.

The organization of hospitals contains for modern civilization and for cosmopolite New York problems of the highest practical import, which especially interest the Christian church.

What has been hitherto effected under the social pressure of extreme necessity, whether to avert the generation and diffusion of pestilence, or the shame of allowing millions of the poor to perish in their squalid misery, is still painfully inadequate to meet the needs of humanity at points where Europe disgorges her miseries upon America. New institutions are annually struggling into existence to supply this demand. Among the most important by their social and religious nature are those of the Sisters of the Poor of Saint Francis, which may serve as a type of what we would urge concerning the superiority of piety and charity—those daughters of the Christian church—over secular calculations, in this work.

Few, small, and poor as are the hospitals of this order in America, they shine by the spirit which animates them, by the naked purity of their Christian faith, and its works, that confront the world now, precisely as they did eighteen hundred years ago. [Footnote 9]

[Footnote 9: This order of the "Sisters of the Poor of Saint Francis" has been introduced already into several of our larger cities, and with much promise of success. Houses of their order exist in Cincinnati, in Brooklyn, in Hoboken, and elsewhere, and, more recently, have been established here in New York.

If they shall have the wisdom—the church's wisdom of old and of all time, and the spirit which has always animated and characterized her workings—to adapt themselves to the country, to its needs and requirements, to its speech, and (so far as compatible with piety) to its habits and customs, they will doubtless receive vocations, will grow in numbers, will be able to accomplish much in alleviating the sufferings of humanity, and will do no small share of the great work of bringing the Catholic Church rightfully before the American people.

We subjoin the following deserved tribute to their house here in New York, which we find in the Evening Post, of August 13th.:

"Saint Francis Hospital.

"To the Editors of the Evening Post:

"I venture to affirm that at least nine tenths of the good people of this great city are entirely ignorant of the existence of the Hospital of Saint Francis in our midst. Indeed, with my long and generally intimate knowledge of the various benevolences of the city, I was not at all aware of this institution, until a kind lady who has been a warm friend of the House of Industry acquainted me with the fact a few days since, and in her company I had the pleasure of visiting the hospital. For several reasons I beg your permission to say a few words about it in the Evening Post.

"It is located on Fifth and Sixth streets, between Avenues B and C, being the two brick dwellings Nos. 407 and 409 Fifth street, and the one immediately in the rear of No. 173 Sixth street. It is under the care of the 'Sisters of the Poor of Saint Francis,' and is a free hospital for both sexes, without distinction as to creed, and its inmates comprise Catholics, Protestants, and Jews. The means for purchasing this property were obtained by the solicitations of the sisters from door to door. I think the order of Saint Francis originated in Germany, where it still has its headquarters. Most of the sisters here are German, though there are certainly one or two exceptions. The accommodations are altogether inadequate, and not at all well adapted to the purposes. The patients are cheerful and happy, and there is every evidence that all the efforts of these sisters arise from the most pure and unselfish motives, and that there is not the least constraint in regard to religious matters resting upon the inmates. There is a very small chapel in the establishment, the attendance upon which is wholly voluntary. The commonest services are performed by the sisters, and, Puritan Protestant as I was educated, I could but admire the devotion and kindness of these women. I believe their charity is a true and unselfish one; that they are animated by his Spirit who went about doing good, and they should be well supported in their work.

"The patients are of all ages and nationalities, perhaps a more than usual average of Germans. I was particularly interested in two of the wards, one for the 'grandfathers' and the other for the 'grandmothers,' both of them filled with quite aged people. Many of the patients seemed to be incurables, and have a permanent home in the Saint Francis. The good sisters have secured a large plot of ground on which they purpose erecting a building of much greater capacity than those they now occupy, and thoroughly adapted to the objects of the institution. For this object they will need large contributions, which I earnestly hope will be promptly furnished. The following is a general summary of the past year:

"I have written out this simple statement, because it is always pleasant for me to commend all right agencies working for the comfort of the sick poor, and because, comparatively isolated as these women are, they have special claim to sympathy and assistance; and also, because they are Catholics, I am glad of an opportunity to show that Protestants can appreciate what is good, no matter who originates it.
"S. B. Halliday."
(End Footnote 9)]

Arrogant, imposing, and splendid in Broadway, the lusts of power and greed which the poor world now serves show the reverse of the picture in the indigent swarms which vegetate a little way east from First avenue. Passing from the hot-beds of luxury and their exhaustive reactions of improvident misery, enter the Hospital of the Sisters of the Poor of Saint Francis, on Fifth street, near Avenue B. Its extreme neatness in the midst of squalor, its sweetness amid corruptions, atmospheric and social, its severe simplicity of self-renunciation, shaming the complex artifices of our cupidity, its devotion so consistent, so persistent, as the stream of charity ascends toward its fountain-level in the heights of faith; all smite upon the heart with the manifest presence of Jesus. Its inmates attest with a grateful enthusiasm the kindness there lavished upon them. The voices of prayer and praise consecrate the wholesome food to bodily uses; the sweetness of fellowship in Christ pervades all its relations and dignifies the humblest offices. Here are no hired nurses; life-devotion supplies all. The iniquities of civilization or the discrepancies between the soul's ideal and the world's possible, may defeat nature's fondest intentions of personal destiny in love and maternity for individual lives; but as "the stone which the builders rejected, the same shall become the head of the corner," so the career of charity opens to all who live in Christ a higher sphere of espousals and of motherhood, pure from the dross of selfishness.

One who observes the practical working of this institution must soon be convinced that it possesses neither time nor inclination for other arts of proselyting, than the attractive emanations of a glowing, earnest life of love and duty. Fourteen sisters support and care for more than a hundred patients, and even add to the domestic and ward service that of the pharmacy. The patients receive daily visits from a physician and a clergyman. "We know," say the sisters, "that, when the body is sick, the soul suffers, and that spiritual consolation often does the body more good than the best medicines." Books are provided for those able and willing to read. Attendance at the chapel is optional. There are regular services on Sunday. The patients are of diverse creeds, as of diverse nations. This hospital is often preferred by Protestants, and even by Jews; for those who suffer go where they find hearts to sympathize with and hands to help them. They see that the poor sisters have nothing for their labors but their simple food and clothing. More is not allowed by the rules of their order, that they may the more disinterestedly apply themselves to the care of the poor and suffering sick, the support of whom and other expenses of the institution depend upon the daily collections and labors of the sisters themselves." (Report for 1867.) This noble ignorance of all distinctions of creed and sect is the common attribute of the Sisters of Charity. Those who serve the Hospital of St. Vincent de Paul, an older and wealthier charity than that of the Sisters of St. Francis, one of the most creditable, indeed, in our country, open its doors alike to sufferers of all denominations.

In regard to the matter of practical economy and saving to the state, from placing its hospitals, and other like institutions, under the care of the religious orders, we are permitted to give the following extract from a letter from a Catholic lady of Cincinnati:

"The only public institution we as yet have which is supported from the public purse is the prison, managed by the Good Shepherds. In his annual report, the mayor always praises their economy and excellent management, but he has never had the magnanimity to publish the thousands annually saved, in comparison with the old régime. Their salaries are fixed at $100 a year for six sisters—$600, which is $100 less than the pay of a single policeman. The sisters have the entire management of the prison. The Harris School is in full operation. The house can receive no more than about fifty-five. Colonel Harris, the founder, a Protestant, always expresses his surprise at the little outlay. Our own experience shows an immense economy, as well as superior moral influence in the effects of our charities, so beneficial in softening the hearts of the poor."

We may here take occasion to remark that a religious order affords guarantees of honest administration in a higher degree than any individual can do by his personal responsibility. The legal security, or values pledged, may be equal; but in one case there is at stake only a business responsibility, in which it is often regarded as smart to outwit a committee of inspection; while, on the other hand, corporate honor is involved, and the officer entrusted with funds is doubly responsible to the committee of inspection, and to the order of which he or she is a member, under the more extended affiliation of the church.

Moreover, the discipline of the religious orders is very rigorous on the chapter of economies, and there are not by any means the same opportunities or temptations for an officer to divert funds from public to private uses. The inspectors themselves will often be Protestants.

It behoves us to examine the use of hospitals in the general system of humanitary functions. The hospital is a corollary of the city. The city is a gland or glandular system of elaboration for the social and intellectual secretions of humanity—arts, sciences, and refinements. But the advantages of the city are obtained only by great sacrifices; among which is the separation of great numbers of persons from their local and family attachments, obliging them to derive their subsistence from industries more precarious than those of rural life. More wisdom being required to direct one's course in the complex relations of the city, more are bewildered, misled, overwhelmed; vast and powerful currents of crime and of waste are generated, and restorative measures are needed to counteract them. Now, the necessity of cities and that of hospitals being admitted, how, let us ask, can this kind of help be rendered, this sort of duty performed, so as most worthily to attest the principle of human solidarity, so as to benefit most the recipients of charity, to honor most the organs by which charity is rendered, and so secure the best kind of service in this arduous function; finally, how best to economize the resources of collective society in the adaptation of means to ends?

First, let us consider the expediences of public charity, especially in reference to the persons or characters of its organs.

The best interest of society demands that there shall be a place for every one, and every one in his place; or, in other words, that as specific vocations are inherent to each type of character, so that use should be allotted to each for which nature supplies the aptitudes, and which it embraces with ardor.

The attractiveness of certain functions< or the aversion occasioned by them, has very little to do with the impression they make on the senses of a party indifferent. The cares required by an infant, for example, which excite maternal zeal in all its plenitude, appear simply tedious and disgusting to most men. So it is with the care of the sick, in which science and affection find powerful attachments insensible to others, who, good in other ways, feel no vocation for it. Finally, and beyond all special vocations, there is the enthusiasm of devotion, the religious instinct to which Christianity appeals, which it awakens in many souls, and which it justifies in affording to it the highest spheres of use. The contemplative idealist may try to escape the normal limitations of his nature in vague aspiration; but Jesus has provided against this Brahminic perversion by the culture of charity, in identifying the love of God with the love of the neighbor, and himself with the least of mankind. "As long as you did it to one of these my least brethren, you did it to me." (St. Matthew xxv. 40.)

We do not suppose that Christianity endowed human nature with philanthropy as a new passion; it gave this aspect, this evolution, this modality, to what had been patriotism for the heroic states of Rome, of Greece, and other nations, which had always sought, and sometimes found, a social channel, but which Christianity more fully satisfied in the theory and practice of unity.

There have always been developed, in proportion with the industrial progress of civilization, wants extraordinary without being fantastic. Such are the cares of illness. The wisdom of Christian charity has adapted to these extreme wants vocations equally extreme, in the devotion of religious orders; and this duty has devolved especially upon the female sex, because it is better gifted than the male for the ministry of compassion.

It is feasible, moreover, for religious orders to accept as well the penitent as the virgin; and shaming the world's intolerance, to rescue from sin and disgrace a lower world of souls, whom passion or imprudence had otherwise ruined.

There is no depth of crime, indeed, from which its subjects may not be rescued by charitable labors; and in proportion as their organization is extended and perfected, legal as well as simply moral offences may find here at once their prevention and their expiation. The brothel and the penitentiary, those two institutions of hell on earth, may thus be countermined, and the means of redemption afforded to their victims. The salutary influence which the discipline of charitable works exerts over mental and moral aberrations, may even reclaim not a few of the insane, or those who, under ordinary circumstances, are drifting fatally toward the lunatic asylum.

That extraordinary virtue which the impulse and exercise of active benevolence has in developing the soul and awakening its latent powers from torpor, may appear from the following incident lately observed at Mr. Bost's, in Laforce, Dordogne:

One day a poor girl, deaf, dumb, blind, paralytic, and epileptic, was brought to Bethesda. "It required some courage," says the narrator, Mr. De Liefde, "to fix one's eyes on that miserable creature, with her dried-up, contracted limbs, her repulsive face, the features of which were constantly contorted in the most hideous manner. Well, an idiot took charge of that child, guarded and nursed it, and stood by its death-bed to administer to it the last solace of love! And such was the indefatigable care and even intelligent thoughtfulness with which she tended her poor helpless charge that Mr. Bost said, 'When I lie on my death-bed, I shall count it a blessing to be nursed in this way.' I do not wonder at such hearts being able to understand what is the meaning of the simple sentence, 'God loveth you,' long before the intellect is able to catch the difference between two and three; nor can I be surprised at what Mrs. Castel told me, that the same children who do not know whether a shoe ought to be on the foot or on the head, or who, if not prevented, would, like beasts, walk on all fours and lick the dirt, may yet sometimes be heard ejaculating, 'Mon Dieu! prends pitié de moi. J'en at bien besoin.'

"Long before they could catch the idea of shifting a piece of wood from the right hand to the left, they gave evidence of being pleased by an act of kindness, and of being grateful for a benefit bestowed on them.

"In the year 1854, a girl who was a perfect idiot stood, one day, in Mr. Bost's lobby. The aspect of the hideous-looking little creature was so sickening that Mr. Bost could not permit her to be taken into the establishment, but still less could he send her away. If ever there was a subject for compassionate, saving love, it was here. The power of prayer and the perseverance of charity could now be put to the test. Mr. Bost resolved to keep the girl in his own house. The doctors declared it perfect folly. During three months, all his efforts to strike a spark of intellect out of this flint proved a total failure. But one evening, at worship, while the hymn was being sung, he heard an articulate and harmonious tone proceed from the brutishly shaped mouth. The child evidently tried to put its voice in accord with the sounds which it was hearing. Mr. Bost is a musician, and at once applied his talent to the benefit of his unhappy pupil. Under the softening and cheering influence of harmony, it was affecting to see how, first with painful struggles, and then, with growing ease, the mind of the child emerged from the dark deep in which it had been confined. By little and little, the idiot succeeded in uttering articulate sounds, then in uniting them into syllables, and finally into words. At the same time, her health improved visibly, her nervous system became less irritable, her face assumed more and more a rational expression. She began to show joy and surprise when receiving something that was agreeable to her. Then tokens of gratitude and of affection followed. In short, after a lapse of two years, the idiot had disappeared to make room for a child which appeared to be behind but a few years only, when compared with other children of her own age. At present, that same child, formerly beneath the level of the brute, speaks well, sews, and knits, and might be the teacher of children less sunken in idiocy than herself when she first set foot on Mr. Bost's threshold."

Such was the spirit and such the conduct which determined mediaeval Europe to entrust the religious orders with vast landed possessions, and with these the whole care of the poor, of the sick, and of the wayfarer, duties which they discharged with greater satisfaction to the people than any secular aristocracy of privilege known in the records of history.

"For the uncertain dispositions of the rich, for their occasional and often capricious charity, was substituted the certain, the steady, the impartial hand of a constantly resident and unmarried administrator of bodily as well as spiritual comfort to the poor, the unfortunate, and the stranger."

Now, still the question presses, whether, instead of confiding our sick to hired nurses, we shall not invite the willing sisterhood to extend their organization among us, and sustain them in this devotion. It is well ascertained that none can make a thousand dollars go so far as they can in the service of their sick.

It is notorious in America, that public works undertaken by the government are generally ill done and very wastefully. Hence, common sense excludes the government from enterprises of internal improvement, and confides them either to individuals or companies, without hesitating thus to create privileged orders and to favor a moneyed aristocracy.

To have a great work well done, passions as well as interests must be engaged in it; personal character, pride, and ambition, as well as skill and capital; and where many persons must co-operate, there is no guarantee of harmony in action and of successful result so sure as that corporate zeal which religion employs with so much power, and which religion alone can bring to bear. This is indeed a holy fire, enkindled and kept alive upon objects of charity, that purges away dross.

If the Catholic Church has in all ages conducted her enterprises with the greatest success, it is because she has known how to enlist the greatest number of motives, the strongest and the best. On the other hand, it will be readily confessed that the great public hospitals under secular control do not even bring into play the common levers of interest which secure results in the management of railroads, of hotels or banking-houses, nor those of ambition, which animate the army and navy. Charity, as a secular business, is always poorly paid, rendered grudgingly, distastefully, and so as to excite aversion. Many will rather die than have recourse to it. It always carries with it a certain stigma of inferiority and contempt. No personal character or corporate zeal is identified with it, still less can there exist that unison of feeling and of effort which places the seal of the divine humanity on such institutions as those of the sisters. We transcribe from one of the most remarkable works of modern travel, The Pillars of Hercules, by David Urquhart, his impression of the last remaining hospitals of the religious order in Spain. Let us note that Mr. Urquhart is an Englishman and a Protestant:

"The Hospicio of Cadiz is at once a poor-house and a house of industry, a school, a foundling hospital, a hospital, and a mad-house; that is, it supplies the places of all these institutions. It is imposing in its form, embellished in its interior, and as unlike in all its attributes and effects as anything can be to the edifices consecrated to the remedying of human misery, by our own charity and wisdom.

"Hospital De La Sangre, (Seville.)

"This is a noble edifice, composed of several grand courts and of two stories; the lower one for summer, and the upper one for winter. I think I may say that to each patient is allotted at least four times as much space as in any similar European establishment, and the very troughs in which the dirty linen is washed are marble: the patients have two changes of clean linen in the week. The kitchens are all resplendent with painted tiles and cleanliness, and there seemed abundance of excellent food. In these institutions, in Spain, the inmates are completely at home. Soft and blooming girls, with downcast look and hurried step, were attending upon the poor, the maimed, and the suffering. The lady-directress had told the servant who accompanied me to bring me, after my visit, to her apartment, which was a hall in one of the corners of the building; she said she had heard that England was celebrated for its charity, and asked if our poor and sick were better off than in Spain. I was obliged to confess that the reverse was the case. She asked me if it was not true that we hired mercenaries to attend on the sick, and abstained from performing that duty ourselves; and if our charity was not imposed as a tax? She told me that there were eight hundred of her order in Spain; that it was the only one that had not been destroyed; that none were admitted but those of noble birth or of gentle blood; and that they took all the vows except that of seclusion, and in lieu of it took that of service to the poor and sick. The Saint Isabelle of Murillo was the model of their order. The Hospital de la Sangre was founded by a woman."

Mrs. Jameson [Footnote 10] pays a just tribute to the Hospital Lariboissière, in Paris, "a model of all that a civil hospital ought to be—clean, airy, light, lofty, above all, cheerful. I should observe," she says, "that generally in the hospitals served by Sisters of Charity, there is ever an air of cheerfulness, caused by their own sweetness of temper and voluntary devotion to their work. At the time that I visited this hospital, it contained six hundred and twelve patients, three hundred men and three hundred and twelve women, in two ranges of building divided by a very pretty garden. The whole interior management is entrusted to twenty-five trained sisters of the same order as those who serve the Hôtel Dieu. There are, besides, about forty servants, men and women, men to do the rough work, and male nurses to assist in the men's wards under the supervision of the sisters. This hospital was founded by a lady, a rich heiress, a married woman too. She had the assistance of the best architects in France to plan her building, while medical and scientific men had aided her with their counsels."

[Footnote 10: Sisters of Charity, Protestant and Catholic.]

In the General Report on the Condition of the Prisons of Piedmont, to the Minister of the Interior, we find this paragraph:

"It is an indisputable fact that the prisons which are served by the sisters are the best ordered, the most cleanly, and in all respects the best regulated in the country. To which the minister of the interior adds: Not only have we experienced the advantage of employing the Sisters of Charity in the prisons, in the supervision of the details, in distributing food, preparing medicines, and nursing the sick in the infirmaries, but we find the influence of these ladies on the minds of the prisoners when recovering from sickness has been productive of the greatest benefit, as leading to permanent reform in many cases, and a better frame of mind always; for this reason, among others, we have given them every encouragement.

"Among the other reasons alluded to, the greater economy of the management is a principal one. It is admitted, even by those who are opposed to them, that, in the administration of details, these women can always make a given sum go further than the paid officials of the other sex. Their opposition to the sale of wine and brandy to the prisoners, except when prescribed by the physicians, is also worthy of note.

"One of the directors of the great military hospital at Turin told Mrs. Jameson that he regarded it as one of the best deeds of his life, that he had recommended and carried through the employment of the Sisters of Charity in this institution. Before the introduction of these ladies, the sick soldiers had been nursed by orderlies sent from the neighboring barracks, men chosen because they were unfit for other work. The most rigid discipline was necessary to keep them in order, and the dirt, neglect, and general immorality were frightful. Any change was, however, resisted by the military and medical authorities till the invasion of the cholera; then the orderlies became, most of them, useless, distracted, and almost paralyzed with terror. Some devoted Sisters of Charity were introduced in a moment of perplexity and panic; then all went well—propriety, cleanliness, and comfort prevailed. No day passes, said this director, that I do not bless God for the change which I was the humble instrument of accomplishing in this place. Very similar was the information received relative to the naval hospital at Genoa.

"Another excellent hospital, that of St. John, at Turin, contained four hundred patients, male and female, besides its ward for sick children, and two for the bedridden and helpless poor, the whole being under the management of twenty-two religious women with forty-five assistants, and a large number of physicians and students. All was clean, neat, and cheerful. I was particularly struck by the neatness with which the food was served; men brought it up in large trays, but the ladies themselves distributed it. There was a little dog with its forepaws resting on one of the beds and its eyes steadfastly fixed on the sick man, with a pathetic, wistful expression, while a girl knelt beside him, to whom one of the sisters was speaking words of comfort.

"In this and other hospitals is an excellent arrangement for the night-watch. It was a large sentry-box of octagon shape, looking each way, the upper part all of glass, but furnished with curtains, and on a table were writing materials, medicines, and restoratives, linen napkins, etc. Two sisters watched here all night; here the accounts were kept, and privacy secured, when necessary, for the ladies on duty.

"The Marchese A——, one of the governors of the Hospice de la Maternité, described to us in terms of horror the state in which he had found the establishment when under the management of a board of governors, who employed hired matrons and nurses. At last, in despair, he sent for some trained sisters, ten of whom, with a superior, now directed the whole in that spirit of order, cheerfulness, and unremitting attention which belongs to them.

"We cannot," he said, "give them unlimited means, for these good ladies think that all should go to the poor; but if we allow them a fixed sum, we find they can do more with it than we could have believed possible, and they never go beyond it; they are admirable accountants and economists.

"In the great civil hospital at Vienna, larger even than the Hotel Dieu of Paris, the Sisters of Charity were being introduced some twelve years ago when Mrs. J. visited it.

"The disorderly habits and the want of intelligence in the paid female nurses had induced the managers to invite the co-operation of the religious sisters, though it was at first against their will. In the Hospital of Saint John, at Salzburg, the same change had been found necessary.

"At Vienna, I saw a small hospital belonging to the Sisters of Charity there. Two of the sisters had settled in a small old house. Several of the adjoining buildings were added one after the other, connected by wooden corridors. In the infirmary I found twenty-six men and twenty-six women, besides nine beds for cholera. There were fifty sisters, of whom one half were employed in the house, and the other half were going their rounds among the poor, or nursing the sick at private houses. There was a nursery for infants whose mothers were at work; a day-school for one hundred and fifty girls, in which only knitting and sewing were taught, all clean, orderly, and, above all, cheerful. There was a dispensary, where two of the sisters were employed in making up prescriptions, homoeopathic and allopathic. There was a large, airy kitchen, where three of the sisters, with two assistants, were cooking. There were two priests and two physicians. So that, in fact, under this roof, we had the elements, on a small scale, of an English workhouse; but very different was the spirit which animated it.

"I saw at Vienna another excellent hospital for women alone, of which the whole administration and support rested with the ladies of the Order St. Elizabeth. These are cloistered. All sick women who apply for admission are taken in, without any questions asked, so long as there is room for them. I found there ninety-two patients, about twenty of whom were ill of cholera. In each ward were sixteen beds, over which two sisters presided. The dispensary, which was admirably arranged, was entirely managed by two of the ladies. The superior told me that they have always three or more sisters preparing for their profession under the best apothecaries, and there was a large garden principally of medicinal and kitchen herbs. Nothing could exceed the purity of the air, and the cleanliness, order, and quiet everywhere apparent."

Let us remark certain features in these last two examples:

1. The possibility of recreation by a timely change of labors, as from the hospital to the school, or to the garden, etc.

2. The economy, and guarantee of genuineness, afforded by the culture and pharmaceutic preparation of medicinal herbs.

3. The unison of action, by fulfilment of sanitary functions by members of their own body.

"It was admitted on all sides in England, when investigations were held on the office of hospital nursing, that the general management of our hospitals and charitable institutions exhibited the want of female aid such as exists in the hospitals abroad— the want of a moral, religious, intelligent, sympathizing influence combined with the physical cares of a common nurse. Some inquiry was made into the general character of hospital nurses, and the qualifications desired, and what were these qualifications? Obedience, presence of mind, cheerfulness, sobriety, forbearance, patience, judgment, kindness of heart, a light, delicate hand, a gentle voice, a quick eye; these were the qualities enumerated as not merely desirable, but necessary in a good and efficient nurse—virtues not easily to be purchased for £14 10S. per year! (or hired at $14 a month in New York [Footnote 11])—qualifications, indeed, which, in their union, would form an admirable woman in any class of life, and fit her for any sphere of duty, from the highest to the lowest. In general, however, the requirements of our medical men are much more limited; they consider themselves fortunate if they can ensure obedience and sobriety, even without education, tenderness, religious feeling, or any high principle of duty. On the whole, the testimony brought before us is sickening. Drunkenness, profligacy, violence of temper, horribly coarse and brutal language—these are common, albeit the reverse of the picture is generally true. The toil is great, the duties disgusting, the pecuniary remuneration small, so that there is nothing to invite the co-operation of a better class of nurses but the highest motives which can influence a true Christian. At one moment the selfishness and irritability of the sufferers require a strong control; at another time their dejection and weakness require the utmost tenderness, sympathy, and judgment. To rebuke the self-righteous, to bind up the broken-hearted, to strengthen, to comfort the feeble, to drop the words of peace into the disturbed or softened mind just at the right moment; there are few nurses who could be entrusted with such a charge, or be brought to regard it as a part of their duty. To this social function corresponds the Sister of Charity, as defined by St. Vincent de Paul, an ideal so often fulfilled in life and action.

[Footnote 11: This is the salary of orderlies at Bellevue Hospital, where the duties are often so arduous that one attendant would be quite inadequate to the care of twenty beds but for the aid rendered by patients to each other. The night-watch passes but once in two hours.]

"Can any one doubt that the element of power, disunited from that of Christian love, must, in the long run, become a hard, cold, cruel machine, and that this must of necessity be the result where the masculine energy acts independently of the feminine sympathies?

"All to whom I have spoken, without one exception, bear witness to the salutary influence exercised by the lady nurses in the Crimea over the men. In the most violent attacks of fever and delirium, when the orderlies could not hold them down in their beds, the mere presence of one of these ladies, instead of exciting, had the effect of instantly calming the spirits and subduing the most refractory. It is allowed, also, that these ladies had the power to repress swearing and coarse language, to prevent the smuggling of brandy and raka into the wards, to open the hearts of the sullen and desperate to contrition and responsive kindness. 'Even when in an apparently dying state,' writes one of these illustrious nurses, 'they would look up in our faces and smile.'"

Dr. H. R. Storer, of Boston, has recently put forth a little book entitled Nurses and Nursing, etc., abounding in suggestions which may some day be utilized in a hospital more liberally endowed and more elaborately organized than anything which now exists, and in which he mentions, with the highest regard, the Hospital of the Sisters of St. Francis, in Boston, 28 Sansom street. The doctor does well to dedicate his humane aspirations for a perfect system of nursing to the sisterhood. From what zeal less earnest, less intelligent, less refined, or less holy, can we ever expect to find music and flowers, birds, landscape views, the varied resources of luxury in nature and society, made tributary to the service of the sick?

A worthy servant of our Master, Mr. Bost, of Dordogne, the founder and administrator of several important charitable institutions, having among them departments for the hygienic treatment of epilepsy, scrofula, consumption, and idiocy, one of whose cures we have cited, remarks:

"The best physician, under God, is Nature. I never visit the hospitals in our great cities without a feeling of distress. What, then, you ask, is wanted? Are the patients not cared for? Are there no able medical men, no remedies, no order, no cleanliness, no wholesome and abundant nourishment? No doubt there is plenty of all that. I have with admiration accompanied the medical men on their morning visits. Everything art could contrive for restoration to health was applied; yet the cure was slow, attended with horrible pains, and the case often terminated in death. I will tell you what was wanting—the country air, the fragrance of the flowers and of the earth, the hues of morn and eve, the sunbeams, the harmony of nature, the carol and warbling of birds, so adapted to cheer hearts broken by suffering, and to which no other recreation is offered than the sight of rows of beds upon which sufferers are sighing and groaning from morning till evening and from evening until morning."

"It is amazing," writes Mr. Liefde, "to witness the cures which simply by the application of natural hygiene, have been effected at the establishments of Laforce: Consumption of the lungs, in an advanced stage, has quite disappeared in some cases, hysteria in others; amputations are prevented; a girl sent away from a hospital as incurable from hip disease is enabled to walk well. The invalids are occupied in the fields or the garden; they go into the stable and see the cattle; they are in sight of the works of creation so adapted to raise their thoughts to God, who is love, even when his hand presses heavily upon them."

If one wish to witness the healing power of the Gospel over both body and soul, he can do no better than to spend a week at Laforce.

In conclusion, we would urge it, as a matter of high policy, duty, and right, upon the church of Christ, to reclaim, as fast and as far as its means will allow, its primitive position in regard to the administration of charities in general, and of hospitals in particular; for we believe it to be the only social organ adequate to these humane uses. Science cannot remain neutral, and the trustees, the wardens, orderlies, nurses, the cooks, and all the persons employed in the hospital service, should be brothers and sisters of one and the same order, the voluntary subjects of the same rule, all pervaded by the same religious sentiment and corporate spirit, while friendly rivalries obtain between the different institutions.

Translated From Le Correspondant.

Kaulbach And The Era Of The Reformation.

[Footnote 12]

[Footnote 12: Kaulbach's picture of the Era of the Reformation now being on exhibition in this country, a republication of the above article from the pages of our French contemporary has seemed to us not inopportune.—ED. C.W.]

I call up matters still fresh in recollection, in proceeding to speak here of a work of art which so justly drew to itself the public attention at the Universal Exposition of 1867. I refer to the grand cartoon of Kaulbach, which, under the title of the Era of the Reformation, figured in the Bavarian department.

The purely artistic critic has already fulfilled his mission in regard to that remarkable composition, and it is not from the artistic point of view that I permit myself to reopen its study. I had already, years ago, admired that magnificent fresco, one of the most beautiful ornaments of the Berlin Museum; and after having a long while contemplated and meditated upon it, it seemed to me that one could not too highly praise the vigor of composition and the marvellous skill with which the artist had been able to group, within so narrow a space, so many different personages, and to render living to the eyes of the spectator one of the most stormy periods of modern times. But in this beautiful drawing there is something else than a work of art: there is a thesis. And that thesis is this: That the sixteenth century belongs wholly to the Protestant Reformation; that that Reformation is its centre, its heart, its vital principle; that everything of that period—theology, letters, science, art, the discoveries of human genius, political and military power—all came of the Reformation. Hence the name given to the tableau—the Era of the Reformation. Hence, also, the selection, the treatment, and the grouping of all the personages in it.

And since I cannot avail myself of the help of an engraving or photograph, I am going to attempt a rapid sketch, as a whole and in its principal details, of this vast composition.

In the centre, and as the culminating point toward which the whole movement of the picture converges, is figured Dr. Martin Luther. The former Augustinian monk holds himself erect, upon the uppermost step of that temple within whose walls a whole century is represented as in motion, and he raises aloft above his head, with both hands, the Bible—the Bible, that world at once both old and new, which, according to the Protestant hypothesis, the genius of Luther discovered, buried under the darkness of ignorance and Roman superstition, as, in like manner, thirty years before him the bold Genoese navigator, Christopher Columbus—whom one sees at the left-hand side of the picture, resting his hand, firm and inspired, upon the map of the world—had found, in the ocean's midst, the vast continents of the American hemisphere.

At the left of Luther stand the theologians and pastors who adhered to his dogmatic teaching: Justus Jonas, and, next to him, Bugenhagen, who is distributing the Lord's Supper to the two princes, John le Sage and John Frederic, the two grand patrons of nascent Lutheranism. At the right of the Saxon monk stands Zwingle, holding also the book of the Scriptures, and Calvin, who is giving the bread and cup of the Lord's Supper to a group of Huguenots, among whom we distinguish Maurice of Saxony and Coligny.

The artist does not tell us, it is true—and I own that his pencil could hardly have told us—whether the Bible which Luther holds speaks the same language as the Bible placed in Zwingle's hands; nor how, within a step or two of the patriarch of the Reformation, Bugenhagen gives a Lord's Supper wherein is really contained, with the bread and wine, the body of Christ, while, alike near to him on the other side, Calvin is giving another Lord's Supper which is only a figure of that same body, and wherein the faithful partake of the communion of Jesus Christ by faith only.

A little beneath Luther, in the attitude of a submissive disciple and admirer, and indicating by a gesture the Wittenberg doctor, as much as to say, "There is the Master!" stands the mild Melanchthon, conversing with two savants of the times—Eberhardt of Tann and Ulrich Sazius. These two men are pressing each other's hands, as if the artist would express thereby the strange accommodations to which, in the matter of the Augsburg confession, the strict Lutherans, on the one side, and those who had a leaning toward the Zwinglian and Calvinistic ideas, on the other, lent themselves. [Footnote 13]

[Footnote 13: It is well known that Melanchthon—who personally inclined toward the ideas of Carlostadt and the sacramentarians respecting the Lord's Supper; who, moreover, upon the question of the outward hierarchy of the church, would have willingly lent himself to a compromise with the Catholics; who, underneath the whole, did not dare to contradict Luther—thought to reconcile all these difficulties by putting forth two editions of the Augsburg Confession—the edition invariata, or strictly Lutheran, and the edition variata, wherein concessions are made to Calvinistic ideas.]

Behind these corypheuses of the Reformation of the sixteenth century, the precursors of the grand "liberalizing" movement have not been forgotten.

The Reformation, as is known, holds essentially to having a tradition—a rise and visible continuation, reaching back to the earlier ages. Behold them, then, these prophets and forerunners of the "word of life:" Here, Peter Waldo, Arnold of Brescia, Wickliffe, John Huss; there, Abelard, the bold metaphysician, the merciless dialectician, the same whom St. Bernard accuses of sacrificing faith to reason, and of destroying, by his explications, the essence of the mysteries; [Footnote 14] next, by his side, Savonarola and Tauler, the spiritual sons of the canonized monk of the thirteenth century, (St. Dominic,) to whose memory classic Protestantism never fails to attach the founding of the Inquisition, with all its attendant train of horrors: Tauler, of whom they desire to make one of the precursors of the new exegesis of the Scriptures; and Savonarola, whose animated and fiery gesture recalls at once the popular tribune, the Florentine republican chief, and the head-strong opposer of the church's hierarchical authority.

[Footnote 14: St. Bernard, letters 188th and 189th.]

Following upon these, come next in order all those other great geniuses of the human race, more numerous and prolific than ever in an age which justly calls itself the age of renewal, (de la Renaissance,) and when a thousand favoring circumstances had imparted mighty impulse to the human mind; and they all proceed to arrange themselves in a most harmonious manner around that renovation of Christianity and the church, which is, as it were, (in the picture,) the heart and the vital principle of all the movements of the era. Princes, warriors, statesmen, savants, artists, scholars, jurists, poets, critics, inventors—all have their place in this grand composition.

In the train of the haughty Elizabeth of England, but marching at some distance from that pitiless reformer, as if they desired to leave place for the gory shade of the unfortunate Mary Stuart, "Queen of Scots," appear Thomas Cranmer, More, Burleigh, Essex, Drake, and other gentlemen who represent the English Church. Another group brings together Albert of Brandenburg, William of Orange, Barnevelt, and, at the end, Gustavus Adolphus, evoked a century in advance, it is true, but nevertheless consecrated by his bold deeds of arms and his premature death as a hero—I was about to say as a saint—of the Protestant Church militant.

To warriors and statesmen the painter has given only a secondary place, in a work chiefly designed to glorify intellectual power; and, after the apostles of the Reformation, the honors of this grand piece of canvas are meted out to savants, scholars, and artists.

Bacon of Verulam, with his Novum Organum, makes a part of that group so vigorously designed, where are seen, with Christopher Columbus, Harvey, Vesalius, and Paracelsus. High up in the edifice, and properly placed there as in a sort of observatory, Copernicus, Galileo, Tycho Brahe, and Kepler are studying the course of the stars, and calculating the laws of their revolutions. So much for science.

Marsilio Ficino, Giordano Bruno, Campanella, and Nicolas de Cus represent philosophy, with Pico Mirandola, author of the celebrated thesis, De omni re scibili.

Petrarch, with the crown he received at the capitol, faces Shakespeare and the immortal author of Don Quixote, Michael Cervantes. The aged Hans Sachs, the popular poet of the Reformation, is there also, quite at the bottom of the picture, and bending under the weight of age. He represents that literature of the people which henceforward will always hold place growingly by the side of the special literature of the learned. This latter is personated in Reuchlin and Erasmus; and the artist has judged most wisely and properly in placing the latter of these close to Ulrich of Hutten and to Bucer, that is to say, in company with the brutal enemy of monks, and with one of those unfrocked monks whom the Rotterdam critic, with such cutting sarcasm, rallied upon their enthusiasm for a reformation which so generally, like the never-failing conclusion of a comedy, ended in marriage.

The painter has taken care not to forget the personages of the era who ought to be dearer to him than all the others together: Albert Dürer, Peter Vischer, Leonardo da Vinci, Michael Angelo, Raphael, and last, with the inspired gesture of a man who feels himself master of the future, the author of that magnificent discovery which men will henceforth make use of, alike with their reason and their freedom, their intelligence and their speech; here employing it to spread error, to persuade to falsehold, to sow dissensions; elsewhere, using it to serve for the diffusion of truth, the advancement of justice, the amelioration—intellectual, moral, and religious—of the human race: I mean Gutenberg, the immortal inventor of the art of printing. He holds in his hand that sheet, still fresh, which with deep emotion he has seen come forth from the first press, and with which he can speed round the world, crying out with Archimedes, carried away by enthusiasm, "I have found it! I have found it!"

And he has found, in fact, the mighty and formidable lever with which without difficulty he will lift the world of modern thought.

Such, so far as I have been able to describe it, passing by some personages or some details of secondary interest, is this famous picture, which, as a work of art, I admire with the fullest measure of sympathy, and have found it truly worthy of the high award made to it. But, I repeat, the artist has not been in it the artist only. He has also, at the same time, been the controversialist and the historian. He has not only made a chef-d'oeuvre of painting: he has wished also to write a page of the history of Europe. That was his right unquestionably, and I am far from disputing it with him. I will even add that, if I was a Protestant, I should be justly proud of the manner, so intelligent and bold, with which the illustrious author of the Berlin frescoes has been able to glorify the Reformation.

It is for this very reason, also, that I have profoundly studied this grand picture. In fact, if a work of art is at the same time a thesis of history or of theology, it is no longer amenable to artistic criticism only. Kaulbach has, so to speak, crowned the work of the Magdeburg centuriators, in making, as he has done, all the events of the sixteenth century the triumphal cortége of the Reformation. Historic science has the right, then, to intervene; and, without being a Baronius, one can try to answer this thesis, and to point out what there is in it of the purely systematic and exclusive.

II.

I commence by according thus much to it: To compress a whole century within the frame—narrow and always a little factitious—of a picture or of a historical representation, is no easy task. So many diverse facts to bring together, to condense, or at least to point out; so many movements and collisions of ideas to depict; so many personages to group together and arrange; then to gather this multitude into unity, to bring order out of this seeming confusion; to know precisely how to seize and place in proper relief that which can be called the culminating point of the epoch, and to make that point the centre around and from which shall radiate all the other events of the period—this is a work which demands at once great power of synthesis, a wide yet sure range of vision, an accurate sentiment of just proportions, and, in the case of a historical painting, a complete divesting of one's self of the spirit of mere system, and a most scrupulous impartiality.

Now, what strikes one, first of all, in looking at Kaulbach's grand picture, is the exclusive idea which has presided over the whole, as well as over all the details, of its composition. Even the title given by the author to his work is witness to this. It is not so much the sixteenth century that the artist has desired to paint as the Era of the Reformation; and the Reformation, moreover, solely as regarded from the Protestant point of view. Accordingly in the picture everything is treated with reference to Luther and Calvin; and the choir of great personages who figure in it serve only, so to speak, as the retinue of the new gospel and its first apostles.

But if the unhappy rupture which separated from the Catholic Church a large part of Northern Europe is one of the most considerable events of the century, it is not, however, so exclusively such that it has the right to absorb into itself all the other events of the period; and it is well known how numerous those events were in an age which should be regarded as one of the most eventful epochs in European history.

And it is not solely from the point of view of religious and artistic history that it is just to make this objection; it should be made, moreover, in behalf of political history. In fact, whatever influence Protestantism may have exercised upon the relations of the civil states among and toward each other, it is but slight up to the seventeenth century, the beginning of the Thirty Years' War and the treaties of Westphalia, which caused new principles to prevail in the public law of Europe. He has been, therefore, entirely blind to the grandest political contest of the sixteenth century—that between France and Austria; a contest that holds too large a place in the history of that century not to be noticed and made mention of, at least by introducing into the sketch the princes in whom it was personified—Charles V. and Francis I.

Francis I., the enlightened patron of letters, the founder of the College of France, the friend of Benvenuto Cellini and Leonardo da Vinci, the secret supporter of the Lutherans of the empire, should have had, by these by-passages of his life, some right not to be forgotten by the pencil of the German painter. But if state policy caused him to lend a helping hand to the Protestants of Germany—the adversaries of Charles V.—that same policy, joined with religious motives, caused him to sign the edicts of proscription against the Protestants of his own kingdom; and the prince who, in despite of his sister's sympathies for Calvin, refused to drag France upon the precipice of the Reformation, could scarcely find favor with the panegyrists of Protestantism.

As to Charles V., even had he not joined to his title of Emperor of Germany the crown of Spain, with all his possessions in the Low Countries and in the New World, one would have still found it strange to see him excluded from the cortége of sovereigns, politicians, and statesmen who gave lustre to the sixteenth century.

A sketch of the sixteenth century, then, is incomplete without these two princes, who represent the fierce struggle between the two most powerful Catholic nations at an epoch in which the religious revolutions of the European world should have made such an omission, so it would seem, impossible. Strange antagonism indeed that between these two nations, who would have been able by their accord to arrest the political progress of Protestantism, and to hinder the theology of Wittenberg and Geneva from becoming subsequently a preponderating influence in the direction of the affairs of Europe! Strange and restless antagonism, which occupies a large part of the political history of the sixteenth century; fills, again, the seventeenth with Richelieu and Louis XIV.; seemingly is quieted for an instant when Marie Antoinette shares the throne of Louis XIV. and Marie-Louise that of Napoleon the First; survives, however, three centuries of wars, of changes and revolutions of every sort, to place anew the two peoples in hostile array upon the fields of Magenta and Solferino, and only seems bound to disappear when it has arrived at one of its extreme but logical consequences, namely, the exaltation of the power which most fully represents upon the European continent the Protestant enthusiasm and the ancient grudges against France. It is, in fact, only since the battle of Sadowa that this antagonism between these two great Catholic nations has seemed to give place to mutual intelligence of a common danger, and to that sympathetic regard which a recent and distinguished visit has consecrated, so to speak, in the face of Europe, and commended to the intelligent applause of the people of Paris.

The exclusive glorification of Protestantism in the master-work of Kaulbach has also been an occasion of another lamentable omission. It is not enough—be it said without excessive and immoderate partiality toward our own country—it is not enough to have made France represented only by Calvin and by Coligny in the imposing cortége of all the glories of the sixteenth century. This systematic exclusion is explained even by itself. In such a composition the places of honor were to be reserved to the countries which welcomed Protestantism with an enthusiasm so ardent, or submitted themselves to its dictation with so strange a docility. One knows, on the other hand, what insurmountable resistance France opposed to the introduction and establishment of Protestantism. It cost her, it is true, more than forty years of continual wars. And what wars those terrible fratricidal and religious strifes of the sixteenth century were; stirred up and kept alive on both sides by the most violent passions, and which, after the unhappy and sanguinary convulsions in which were consumed the reigns of Henry II., Francis II., Charles IX., and Henry III., would have ended surely in the breaking up of the ancient national unity, if Providence had not, at the conclusion of those frightful dissensions, caused to intervene a prince pre-destined to pacify the minds, quiet the discords, and close up and heal the deep wounds of the country! Henry IV. arrives at the end of the sixteenth century, as it were in order to bring about union between Protestantism vanquished and Catholicity triumphant. He gives to the latter the pledge of a public conversion; to the former, the benefit of a legal existence; and, especially in rendering sacred the respect due to minorities, he demonstrates, better than by all arguments, and perhaps for the very reason that his conversion was less a work of devotion than of policy, how the genius of the French nation was opposed to the doctrines of the reformers.

Whatever may be said of the equivocal sincerity of his Catholicity and of the blemishes of his private life, Henry IV., who belongs to the sixteenth century by his birth, by his elevation to the throne and some of the most considerable transactions of his reign, worthily represents, at the close of an epoch so disturbed, some of the highest and most rightful aspirations of what may be called, right or wrong, the spirit of modern times. Great prince assuredly was he who could cause to triumph over passions envenomed by the civil and religious wars of half a century that love of common country, in which, despite of all that would divide them, the French people ought to feel themselves children of the same mother and defenders of the same flag.

The exclusion—almost entire—of France from a picture designed to glorify the sixteenth century, is not the only, nor even the gravest, reproach which historical criticism has the right to address to its author.

It is, still further, authorized to demand of him if it is strictly just to cause this grand composition, artistic, scientific, and literary, to do honor solely to Luther and Calvin—a composition which, from a certain and strictly proper point of view, would have sufficed to the glory of an epoch—and above all, if it does not do a strange violence to truth to enroll under the banner of Protestantism such men as Petrarch, Shakespeare, Christopher Columbus, Michael Angelo, and Raphael?

The name of Shakespeare, indeed, not long since stirred up quite a lively discussion upon this very subject In the eyes of a certain school it seemed to import absolutely that, to the honor of letters, the immortal author of Hamlet and of Othello did not belong to the Church of Rome—as if Corneille and Racine sparkled with any the less brilliancy because they were Catholics, or that the dramatic art had need to be ashamed of Polyeucte, Esther, and Athalie.

The question has been examined with all the attention which it merits, and the conclusion to which a conscientious inquiry seems to bring us is, that, if Shakespeare belonged by his birth to the time of the Reformation, it is not, nevertheless, necessary to ascribe, either to the gospel of Luther and Calvin or to the Draconian Protestantism of Queen Elizabeth, the masterly productions of his genius.

As to Christopher Columbus, who does not know, I will not say his obedience and filial devotion to the Church of Rome, but the profound piety of his soul and the tenderness of his religious sentiments? According to the chronicler who has preserved for us in Latin the admirable prayer made by that great man at that solemn hour of his life when, triumphant at last over so many distrusts and so many wrongs, over so many delays and so many obstacles, conqueror, so to speak, of the elements and of men, but always submissive to God, he cast himself upon his knees on the land of the New World, as if to take possession of it in the name of faith. "O God!" he said, "eternal and omnipotent, thou hast by thy holy Word created heaven and earth and sea. Blessed and glorified be thy name; praised be thy majesty which has deigned by thy humble servant to cause that thy holy name should be known and proclaimed in this other part of the world."

Now, by whom, think you, had the bold discoverer the intention of proclaiming and making known the name of Jesus Christ in the New World? Was it by the Methodist and Quaker missionaries? or by those apostolic men who, docile to the word of the Roman pontiff, and like him "fishers of men," went forth to announce the Gospel to every creature and to "cast the net of the word" amidst all nations? It is mere idle fancy, then, to connect with Luther and Calvin that wonderful movement, made up of theoretical science and of boldness, of learned calculations and of enthusiastic intuitions, which set out to open to the adventurous genius of the race of Japheth the vast field of enterprise presented by the continents of America and the Archipelagoes of Oceanica. Chronology, moreover, suffices to give the lie very explicitly to this iniquitous claim. Christopher Columbus discovered America in 1492, and died in 1506: the same year in which Martin Luther entered as a novice the Augustinian convent of Erfurt, and when no one looked to see him become one day an adversary of the Papacy.

The Papacy! Far rather with its remembrance should be associated that grand epoch of modern Europe, that new crusadal enterprise, not to recover the tomb of Christ, but to plant the cross, to propagate the Gospel, and to accomplish the prophecies respecting the universality of the church. It was, in fact, a pope, and that pope an Alexander VI.—the same that proved how much the grandeur of that institution is independent of the worth of individuals—it was Borgia, so severely judged by history, who promulgated the famous bull of 1493, designed to draw the line of demarcation between the discoveries of the Portuguese and those of the Spaniards. From that bull, and from the names of the peoples who bore away the palm from all the rest of Europe in the career of great discoveries, it follows that the Protestant Reformation had nothing to show or pretend to in that splendid episode of the history of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. All those intrepid navigators were Catholics; and the only power which intervened to regulate and pacify the feverish movement that bore them onward was the Church of Rome—the Papacy!

It may be said, perhaps, that the Spaniards, in discovering America, put to shame the Catholic religion by their sharp cupidity and the disgraceful severity of their conduct toward the natives. We have not the slightest intention of transforming the soldiers of Cortez and of Pizarro into peaceful missionaries. If the ferocity of those men disgraced the Gospel, so much the worse for them. But as to the church, if it be insisted on that she shall be mixed up with the question, she has nothing to lose; for it was she herself, and she alone, who intervened to moderate the cupidity of the conquerors, and to defend against it the cause of the conquered. To her alone belongs the name, ever to be venerated, of Bartholomew Las Casas, the eloquent pleader in behalf of Catholicity and of its beneficent action upon society. As to the great Italian artists of the sixteenth century, and particularly as to Michael Angelo and Raphael, it is still more arbitrary, if possible, to have enrolled them in the army of the innovators. What could be more entirely Catholic than the inspirations and great works of these men of genius? Not to speak in detail of the inimitable Madonnas of Raphael, nor of the gigantic frescoes of Michael Angelo in the Sistine chapel, nor the many other marvellous works with which they have for ever enriched Italy and Europe; but of the church of St. Peter, upon which both had the glory of working, is it not, as it were, the very personification, at once ideal and plastic, of the entire Catholic Church? It is the grand church of the popes; it is there that repose, by the side of the illustrious chiefs St. Peter and St. Paul, the remains of so many sovereign pontiffs. It is under its dome that is celebrated, on the grand solemnities of the year and by the very hands of the vicar of Jesus Christ, the sacrifice of the Mass. It is from its balcony that is given, on those same solemnities, that pontifical benediction, preceded by that absolution and those indulgences, against which for three hundred years Protestantism never loses an occasion of casting its anathemas or its sarcasms; save perhaps when one of its children, assisting on Easter-Day at that wonderful solemnity, and hearing the sonorous and affecting voice of Pius IX., at the moment of imparting benediction to the world, mingling itself with the roll of drums, the discharge of cannon, and the chimes of the thousand bells of Rome, falls upon his knees in spite of himself, subdued by I know not what mysterious power, and rises up again with the confession that the inspirations of Catholicism are far differently fitted to charm the soul and seize hold upon the heart than the chilling ceremonial of a Calvinistic Lord's Supper under the arches of St. Paul's in London. In a word, everything of that grand basilica of the Eternal City, from its corner-stone to the cross which surmounts its dome, all has been inspired by Catholic thought; and it may be affirmed with assurance that all the grand artists who worked upon it could say as Raphael replied to Leo X.: "I love so much the Church of St. Peter!" [Footnote 15]

[Footnote 15: Reply of Raphael to the brief of Leo X., naming him superintendent of the work of the church. See, further, the will of Raphael, (cited in Audin's Leo X. t. ii. p. 347.)]

Moreover, independently of all individual names, can it not be said in a general manner that it is going quite counter to historic truth to attempt to connect the art-movement of the sixteenth century with the influence of Luther and Calvin? It is well enough known, in truth, what was the attitude of the Reformation, especially of the Calvinistic part of it, toward the beautiful and the divine in the arts. Many of our old cathedrals in France still bear, after three hundred years, the marks of the iconoclastic fury of the Huguenots. The literal interpretation—literal even to barbarousness—of the text in Exodus, "Thou shalt not make to thyself any graven images," it translated, especially in its beginnings, into a relentless proscription; and the statues, pictures, and wonderful great church-windows, where the middle ages had expended so much of faith and often so much of genius, disappeared under the blows of a most savage vandalism.

They are ours, then, altogether ours, those divine men, as the Greeks would have called them, who have written in the history of art the immortal pages stamped with the names of Perugino, Leonardo da Vinci, Brunelleschi, Bramante, Michael Angelo, and Raphael. It is not around Luther and Calvin that they should be grouped, but around those Roman pontiffs who gave such a vigorous impulse to literature and the arts, and who caused all those beautiful poems of painting or of stone to serve for the glorification of the Catholic Church. On that point, moreover, public sentiment has passed judgment for all future time. The history of the arts does not know the era of Luther; it knows and will always know the era of Leo X.

III.

If it had been given to one of those masters of art of the sixteenth century to make a synoptical picture of that grand epoch, he would have singularly modified the perspectives and enlarged the horizons. In regard to that rebellious monk who holds up the Bible as a standard of revolt; in regard to those men who surround him, and among whom are found at the same time the co-workers and the adversaries of his work; a Melanchthon, who had been his disciple, and a Zwingle who had been his rival—strange council, where there is no unanimity except to attack and deny, and where there is division when the matter to be treated of is that of affirming and establishing—in this respect, one would have seen, majestically grouped upon the steps of a temple based, sixteen hundred years previously, upon immovable foundations, the Fathers of the Council of Trent, who, during a term of nearly twenty years, had brought together, classified, and fixed, in wonderful conformity with the whole current of tradition, the divers points of the doctrine and the discipline of the Christian church.

Five popes [Footnote 16] occupied the See of St. Peter during the holding of that memorable council. Some among them may, perhaps, be justly blameworthy for this or that fault, in their administration; but to have been able to convoke and reunite that immortal assembly; to have caused it to resume its labors when they had been interrupted; to have conducted them through so many obstacles and difficulties, coming from men or things, to their close; to have, at last, as was done by Pius IV., perpetuated, so to say, the authority and reformatory action of that oecumenical assembly by the institution of that Congregation of the council, whose mission, for three hundred years past, has been to explain and put into practical execution the decrees passed at Trent—this is evidently one of the most important pages of the history of the Reformation within the fold of Christianity, and is, perhaps, one where the divine power and the supernatural constitution of the church shine forth most visibly. For neither the popes who presided over the council nor the bishops who composed it were, taken individually, men of genius; and it is permitted to us to say that in great matters where the personal consideration of man appears the least, there the wisdom and power of God shine forth all the more strikingly.

[Footnote 16: Paul III., Julius III., Marcellus II., Paul IV., and Pius IV.]

And then, again, around those two centres which mingle themselves in one—the Papacy and the general council—and which represent so forcibly, in the face of the precocious divisions of Protestantism, the grand and living unity of the church of Jesus Christ, what astonishing fecundity for good, what varied resources, what fruitful germination of men and deeds! What souls, those great saints of the sixteenth century, recruited from among all ranks of society, and to whom Providence seems to have confided the mission of replying by some beneficent institution to all the attacks and all the negations of Protestantism!

Would that, then, be a picture wanting in grandeur, where a competent artist—wishing to glorify in the sixteenth century not the warlike Reformation which rent asunder without remorse the ancient and majestic unity of Christendom, but the peaceful and fruitful reform which multiplied, according to the needs of a much troubled and suffering age, grand inspirations and magnanimous self-sacrifices—should group around the living centre of the church Ignatius Loyola and his brave companions, the pastor Pascal Baylon and the grand nobleman Francis Borgia, St. Philip Neri and St. Camillus of Lelli, St. Charles Borromeo in the midst of the plague at Milan and St. Francis of Sales evangelizing the populations of Chablais? And yet this enumeration must be limited to the names of the more illustrious only, and to works the most considerable.

Now, in these names are found truly personified the inspirations which constitute, in its plenitude, the veritable spirit of Christianity.

First, the spirit of zeal and apostleship. Those who have seen the frescoes of the church of St. Ignatius at Rome remember with what just pride a Jesuit painter has represented the triumphs of the first fathers of his company over heresy and infidelity. And unless blinded by incurable prejudices, what a striking comparison can one make between Melanchthon, the disciple of Luther, and that student of the Paris University, the friend of St. Ignatius—that St. Francis Xavier who, setting out for the Indies in 1541 and dying in 1552, had converted, by himself alone, more heathen in a dozen years than all the Protestant missionaries united have been able to convert in a century; that man whose life would seem but a legend of olden times, were it not authenticated by most unexceptionable documents, and had it not appeared in the sixteenth century, which is far less the age of enthusiasm than that of criticism—that man, in fine, to whom a Protestant, Baldeus, has had the impartiality to render a splendid eulogy, closing with that apostrophe so naïve and nearly as honorable to the writer as to the hero, "Would to God that, having been what you were, you might be of us!"

If the Company of Jesus represents in so high a degree the spirit of zeal, behold St. Theresa and St. Peter of Alcantara, who represent none the less worthily the spirit of penitence—that essential part of the Christian life, so entirely foreign to the heroes and the works which spring forth from Protestantism.

In contrast with the rehabilitation of the flesh, openly preached and practised by Luther, by Henry VIII., by the Landgrave of Hesse and the principal corypheuses of the Reformation, see how, in the train of these two Spaniards—that reformer of Carmel and that son of St. Francis—whole generations follow. They embrace with enthusiasm that hidden life of the cloister, where the superficial glance of the man of the world sees only an arbitrary captivity and aimless mortifications; but where the eyes of faith discover the secret of those acts and movements of reparation which preserve from ignominy and ruin the ages dragged along the dangerous declivity of scepticism and immorality, by teaching men that, if unbelief and luxury destroy individuals and societies, it is the force of prayer, united to that of sacrifice, which alone can raise them up again.

Finally, after the spirit of zeal and the spirit of penitence, the spirit of charity completes the fulness of the Christian life.

Now, can Protestantism take any offence, if, in looking over with it the list of its founders and apostles, we demand of it where there is to be found, among those ardent adversaries of Roman superstitions, a single man to whom one can conscientiously give the title of benefactor and consoler of men?

I see Luther, indeed, presenting the Bible to Germany surprised and misled; and Calvin administering the cup of the Lord's Supper to gentlemen of the court of Francis I. or to the rich burgesses of Geneva. Here, in one place, Reuchlin and Ulrich of Hutten are jeering, and laughing at the monks, and there, in another, Gustavus Adolphus is brandishing his valiant sword in defence of the new gospel; but still, again, among these bold promoters of the Reformation, among these indefatigable champions of gospel-christianity, as they proudly entitle themselves, would that I were shown one of those souls inspired from above to pour upon the miseries of the age the treasures of divine consolations! I behold party-leaders, Bible-expounders, soldiers, politicians, and savants; but of friends of the poor, of protectors of old age and deserted infancy, of men who sacrifice all and who sacrifice themselves even, to gain the right, the privilege, of drying up the tears of the afflicted and of holding out the helping hand to the unfortunate—of these I see none. These are all in the ranks of that church whose privilege it will always be, and which no sect has ever been able to take from her, to prove that she alone is the veritable spouse of Jesus Christ, because she alone is the true mother of men! Behold St. Philip Neri and his companions of the Oratory of Rome, whose remembrances still live in the hospital of the Trinity for pilgrims—St. Philip Neri, whose name, after more than three hundred years, is always associated in the Eternal City with the idea of whatever is most tender and good. By the side of St. Philip, his contemporary and friend, St. Camillus of Lellis, institutor of a congregation specially devoted to the care of the sick poor; while, by a like inspiration, the Spaniard, St. John of God, established, in 1540, that charitable order, spread since then throughout Christendom, and whose members rival in self-sacrificing devotion the disciples of St. Camillus in consecrating themselves to the work of relieving human infirmities. In fine, if St. Vincent of Paul constitutes the glory and, more than the glory, the consolation of the seventeenth century, the sixteenth century has, nevertheless, the right to claim him in part; for it saw his birth, and it gave to him the first inspirations of that zeal and charity which draw down every day upon his name the grateful benedictions of all who languish and suffer—upon that name at once the humblest and the most popular of all names.

In conclusion, if, in this picture of the Catholic glories of the sixteenth century, it were necessary also to find place for men of the sword and men of law, are there many figures more martial than that of Bayard, the chevalier "without fear and without reproach," or those of the admirable Knights-Hospitallers of Malta, who, in 1585, under the orders of their grand-master, La Valette, stood as a living rampart, against which all the forces of Islamism dashed and broke themselves, and who did for Christian Europe in the sixteenth century what, a century later, the immortal Sobieski had to do with his brave Polanders?

As to men of law, Catholic France has the right to name with pride the grand-chancellor Hôpital; and Protestant England has not the right to claim Thomas More. It was this courageous magistrate who refused to subscribe to the divorce of Henry VIII., and who, when entreated by his wife not to expose himself to capital punishment by opposing the king's wishes, replied in these beautiful words: "What! Would you have me compromise my eternity for the sake of twenty years which yet perhaps remain for me to live?" He died upon the scaffold, the 6th of July, 1535, with the constancy of a martyr; worthy precursor of that long and illustrious generation of witnesses to the faith, who, during all the second half of the sixteenth century, watered with purest of blood the soil of England, and did more honor, it seems to me, to the ancient renown of "The Isle of Saints" than a Cranmer, the courtly and apostate archbishop, or an Essex, one of the numerous lovers of that princess who foully stained with mire and blood the throne upon which she sat, and that state church of which she made a mere vassal of that throne.

After having rectified and completed, so far as it has been given me to do, this painting, so original and vigorous, but at the same time so manifestly devoted to a preconceived and systematized idea, I arrive at a conclusion which is applicable not to the sixteenth century only, but to all the epochs of history.

It is that, after the likeness of man himself, each phase of the life of humanity bears in it two souls, and, as it were, two humanities. These are the twins that struggled together in the womb of Rebecca, and on the occasion of which the Lord responded to the troubled mother: "Two nations are in thy womb, and two peoples shall be divided out of thy womb, and one people shall overcome the other." (Gen. xxv. 23.)

Yes, as each one of us bears within him two men, whose unceasing struggle makes up the whole prize and the whole grandeur of the moral life, so in like manner each age of the world bears within it two ages: the one which is the docile instrument of God in the pursuit of truth and the accomplishment of justice; and the other, which paralyzes a part of the living forces of humanity by leading them astray into error, or by putting them to the service of selfishness and evil.

This grand principle of the philosophy of history, due to Christian psychology and the true knowledge by man of himself, has been admirably demonstrated by St. Augustine. One sees, from numerous passages in his writings, how that holy doctor was impressed by the perpetual antagonism and irreconcilable opposition between these two powers, or "cities," (as he terms them,) who always and everywhere are making war upon each other, and to whom each succeeding century serves but as a battle-field.

Quite as much and even more than others, does the sixteenth century present to the look of the observer the militant dualism of these two principles: the one, calling itself the Reformation of the church by disorder and violence; the other, wishing to be, and which has been, the fruitful and pacific renovation of Christian life by humble zeal and true charity. The Protestant Reformation claims the sixteenth century as exclusively its own. I believe I have sufficiently demonstrated that, by its most beautiful and most enduring parts and characteristics, the century belongs neither to Luther nor Calvin; but that the Catholic Church can exhibit it with just pride alike to her friends and her enemies.

From this study, made in the light of this principle, I would also deduce a second conclusion and apply it directly to the times in which we live.

Are we not ourselves witnesses of and actors in a struggle like or analogous to that which, before our day, divided our fathers? Yes, our century, soon to complete the third quarter of its term, itself also is engaged in this struggle between, so to term it, two opposing cities or communities. For some time past, this struggle seems to have entered upon a new phase and into a most sharp crisis.

With whom will victory rest, and which of the two principles shall carry captive the other in its triumph, so as to decide definitively the character of this epoch? That is a secret as yet only known to God, and it is not mine to attempt a reply to so hidden and mysterious a question. What I do know is, that we ought to oppose, with all our might, those who, wishing to bring about a violent retrograde movement in European society, threaten every day to carry us back to the age of Voltaire, and who present to us the saturnalia of '93 as the ideal of liberty, prosperity, and progress!

What I know, again, is, that but yesterday the antagonism between these two opposing powers (des deux cités) was personified in two men, upon whom, if I mistake not, the judgment of posterity has already begun to be made up: One of them, who represents, in all his serene majesty and with impressive authority even in his weakness, the force of right—the august and mild pontiff, whom twenty-two years of revolutions and ingratitude do not dishearten and dissuade from blessing the world, and calling down, by his prayers, upon sorely tried and troubled society, the spirit of wisdom, counsel, and peace; the other, that incorrigible leader of the antichristian army, the man of those bold deeds whose ephemeral triumph aspires to build up right upon force, but which one day, I hope, Italy will disavow in the name of her religious traditions, as well as in the name of her true and sound liberal traditions.

No; this nineteenth century, where by the side of so much that is evil there is so much that is good—so many generous sallies of self-devotion, so many hidden acts of self-sacrifice, so many solid virtues—the century which has given us a Curé of Ars and a Pius IX., an Affre and a Lamoricière, a Lacordaire and a Ravignan, an O'Connell and a Zamoyski, a Jane Jugan—founder of the Little Sisters of the Poor—and those students to whom not only France, but the Catholic world, are indebted for the institution of the Conferences of St. Vincent of Paul; this century will never be dragged down to the gemoniae scalae [Footnote 17] of history with the ignominious stamp upon it of having been the Era of Garibaldi. It will triumph over all the obstacles heaped upon its pathway by scepticism, by false science, and by the violence of party-spirit. These adverse forces seem at this hour, it is true, to take up with renewed energy the struggle which for eighteen centuries nothing has interrupted; but by so doing they only serve to show us more clearly our duty, and to urge us on the more strenuously to fulfil it.

[Footnote 17: The gemoniae scalae were steps in ancient Rome, near the prison called Tullianum, down which the bodies of those who had been executed in prison were dragged and thrown into the Forum, to be there exposed to the gaze of the multitude. TRANS.]

Translated From The French.

The Legend Of Hospitality.

"Legend or history, history or legend, there are truths to be culled from each, my friends," justly remarks that charming writer, Charles Nodier. A beautiful legend creates its own atmosphere of sweet and moral influences, as a flower exhales its perfume. Happy they who can discern and appropriate them! It is in these old and popular legends that oftentimes will be found infused whatever is most beautiful and pure of a nation's poetry and of its faith; they being, as it were, the expression of a people's thought. For a long time, indeed, those simple traditions of the past constituted, as we may say, the literature of the people's social gatherings, and served an important part in keeping firmly cemented the noble principles of family, of union, and of justice, which formed the triple corner-stone of all well-regulated society. When the trembling voice of the old man was heard, all were silent, and went forth after his narrative with souls deeply impressed, on the one hand, by the punishments which struck down the wicked, or, on the other, softly moved by the justly deserved reward that so often formed the graceful dénouement of some touching ballad.

Some of these legends, coming to us, as they do, from afar, have even preserved the first freshness of the primitive ages. This is, indeed, their greatest charm. Witness this exquisite legend of hospitality, which for a long time delighted the simple hearts of the peasants of France.

In the days of Jesus, there lived on the banks of the Jordan an old man, who might well have been taken for a patriarch of an ancient tribe, whom Death seemed to have forgotten. His name was Philomen, and in his lowly cabin he subsisted solely on the fruit of his little garden, and the milk furnished him by his goat. Now, one quiet evening, some one tapped gently at his door, and an old man, though younger than he, entering, claimed his hospitality.

"Most willingly, my friend. My cottage is not large; my garden yields not much fruit; my goat gives but little milk; but, even so, I share it cheerfully with all who cross my threshold in the name of hospitality. Enter, then, good friend, and rest after the fatigue of the day."

"But," said the traveller hesitatingly, "I am not alone. I have twelve companions with me, overpowered by weariness and parched with thirst, for we have just crossed the desert."

"Let them all come; you are all welcome. All who come hungry to my door are welcome to all I possess."

Then the stranger made a sign to his companions, who were silently standing at the door; and he found that they were Jesus and his twelve apostles, whom St. Peter led on their journey, ever walking in advance, he who was one day to open the gates of Paradise.

They entered, partook of his simple fruit, drank the milk furnished by his goat, and rested for a time on his rough mat. When day dawned, St. Peter said to him, "Before going hence, hast thou no petition to make to us? Hast thou not some wish? Ask whatever thou wilt in return for thy hospitality. All that thou shalt ask shall be granted unto thee."

Then the old man made three wishes, and said: "My sweet Lord, I love life so well, grant me yet five hundred years to live; the days pass so quickly in this peaceful cabin."

"Granted," said a sweet and touching voice, which seemed to come, as it were, from the midst of the group. "What else wilt thou have?"

"My good Lord, I have a beautiful fig-tree in my garden, which bears such fine fruit that they are often stolen from me. Grant me, then, that whoever climbs into it may not be able to descend until I give him leave; thus I will ensnare the thief."

Jesus smiled as he heard this quaint wish, and, bowing his fair head, said: "It shall be done as thou wishest. Hast thou more still to ask? Speak freely, for thou seest that I grant thee all that thou hast wished for."

"My dearly loved Lord, I have a wooden chair, on which my friends sit when they come sometimes at night to talk with me. Grant me that whoever rests on it may not be able to rise, and must remain there as long as I shall please."

And Jesus approved again, because he loved this guileless old man, who was so simple of heart and made such modest wishes. St. Peter then thanked him, and went forth, followed by his twelve companions, among whom Jesus loved to conceal himself.

Years passed by one after the other. One century passed, then another, until finally the last day of the last year arrived, and the venerable Philomen saw the grim traveller Death enter his cabin, who said to him:

"Come along, old man! Thou hast eluded me this long time—thanks to an especial favor. Thou hast reached the years of Mathusale. If every one lived as thou hast, I would have no work on earth. Come along, quick. Regulate thy affairs, bid farewell to thy garden, because, with the setting sun, I lead thee forth with me."

"O my good dame! if you would but pity me! Ah! yes, if you would have some pity, you would let me live some few days more—only one day, then. It is so good to live!"

"No, nothing; not one moment more," replied the sinister guest in a harsh and dry voice.

"At least, then, let me once more eat of the fruit of my fig-tree. I have loved them so well; it will be a last consolation to me. But I am too weak to shake the tree, and too old to reach those highest branches. Do you go up, and gather me that fig up there; it is so thoroughly ripened by our eastern sun."

"Most willingly. See, old man, I will show thee that Death is not as surly as 'tis said she is."

Then placing her hour-glass and scythe at the foot of the tree, the unlucky dame climbed up; but scarcely had she pressed her foot upon the branches, than, lo! they sprang up as if from her tread, closed around and so shut in the impudent wight that she could not even stir. She called; she cried aloud, then moaned and supplicated. Philomen renewed his humble petition, but she persistently refused.

"Very well! I only want five hundred years, five centuries more!" And raising his head menacingly, he took up the hour-glass and scythe, quietly returning to his cabin. Every morning he returned, imposed his conditions of release, which Death, becoming more and more irritated, as obstinately refused. Then he would go back patiently to his cabin. On the third night he saw a dark figure, with glittering eyes, prowling round the foot of his tree. He listened, and heard this conversation. Now, you must know that this was the Devil, who came to make his complaint: "What dost thou there, thou idler? Thou no longer sendest me work to do. I am ruined by thy delay."

But the terrible accomplice could do nothing; because he who binds on earth as he binds in heaven had bound her so firmly that Death herself could not undo it.

Next morning, after a fresh dispute with Philomen, she yielded, and consented to let him have five hundred years added to his life. But as Death is treacherous, he sought his tablet, and before she came down he made her sign the treaty. After that he set her free, restored her baggage, her hour-glass and scythe, and let her depart, threatening and raging as she went, vowing to cut off, at the very moment of the promised time, the life of one who had so pitilessly ridiculed her.

Years again passed by, one by one; the centuries were accomplished; and yet Philomen did not grow old. Ten times had he seen pass by that unhappy pilgrim condemned to wander for ever round the world. Each journey marked one century as this wandering Jew crossed the Jordan, near his little cabin, on the road to Jerusalem, that, ascending Golgotha, he might sue for mercy on the very spot where the blood had been shed of him whom he had despised! The centuries had all now passed, and one evening, when Philomen sat quietly by his hearth, the dark traveller entered once more. Midnight was the fatal hour. She rudely accosted him: "Come along now, old man! Thou shouldst long since have been in thy grave. No mercy for thee this time! Thou wouldst but mock me again, could I show pity for thee. Oh! how tired I am; so tired, so worried! To-day I have killed nearly three thousand Christians, then a whole race of infidels, and decimated an entire kingdom, with my well-tempered weapon, pestilence. Rich and poor, prelates and priests, I have upturned everything—everything. But I am horribly tired, and while awaiting the expiration of thy time, I will rest me a little here." Saying these words, she threw herself on the wooden stool that Jesus had gifted with supernatural powers. Then she began to jeer at the old man, speaking to him of the joys of life, of youth, of love, etc. When midnight tolled, she attempted to rise from the chair and spring at Philomen, who had wisely placed himself beyond her reach; but, nailed down upon this wonderful seat, she could not move! In vain she shook her glass, made deadly thrusts with her scythe! Then the good man went to his hearth, and kindled such a fire as nearly roasted her even at that distance. Her hour-glass was about falling to pieces, the handle of her scythe was nearly reduced to ashes, when, after a most vigorous dispute, she granted Philomen a new lease of five centuries more of life!

Now, this was, as you know, the second time she had been caught in the same trap, and more enraged than ever, she went forth crying aloud that she should not be caught again; and good old Philomen lived on through the long years obtained by this trick. But everything of time must end; everything falls; everything dies; everything passes away. And these five centuries, too, were gathered with all that had gone before. But Death had learned prudence now, and did not venture near, sending a shaft from afar that pierced the good old man and sent him at once from life to death. But as he had lived so innocently and ever observed the laws of holy hospitality, God had a place prepared for him in his own beautiful Paradise.

Now, it happened that before going there our Philomen wished to see, just a little, what was going on in hell. Since the night that he overheard the dispute between Death and Satan, he had cherished a great desire to do so. He quietly entered the abode of the condemned, and when the Devil came to meet him, and would have seized upon him, Philomen cried out: "Stop there! I am not for thee! I am of the kingdom of the elect, and come here only to see if all that is said of thee in the kingdom of the living be true. Lead me everywhere!" When, conducted by his dark guide, he had visited the bowels of the earth and witnessed all manners of torture, he proposed to him to stake his own soul against some of the most fearfully punished among the damned who were uttering most terrific shrieks. The dice were brought, and shaken by each in turn. Philomen gained twelve souls; then Satan became fearful he might lose all with this mysterious partner, and refused to play on. Philomen then took the road to Paradise, and, reaching the gate, tapped gently. Saint Peter came to open for him. He at once recognized him, and, smiling, said, "Pass on, we have expected you all this time." "Oh! very well," said the acute old man, "but, like you formerly, I am not travelling alone: I have with me twelve companions, who claim your hospitality." "This is but fair," said St. Peter, once more smiling, "so come in." And so Philomen and his twelve ransomed souls all went to join the throng of the blessed who will for ever sing the glory of God.

It is thus the good old man lived fifteen hundred years, and practised the holy rules of hospitality. And it is thus that our pious ancestors taught their children never to refuse entrance to those who knocked at their doors, imploring shelter; and thus we, too, see how religiously and beautifully hospitality was practised in the former ages, in the chateaux of the rich as well as in the more humble dwellings of the poor.

Mine Enemy.

If he could stand against me now,
With other eyes and an alien brow;
If I could break the spell that still
My will entangles with his will;
If he could laugh the while I weep;
If I could wake, and he asleep;
Could I uncoil the mystery
Where he is I, and I am he:
Then might I hide me from his face;
Or strike him down within his place;
And so, at last, my life be free
From his tormenting company.
But no; his blush my forehead burns,
His the pallor my pale cheek turns,
And when he sees the thing I do,
'Tis mine own eyes that he looks through.
When I would hate this tiresome mate,
He teaches me the way to hate;
When from his presence I would flee,
He, taunting, flies along with me.
But best I like his baser slips,
His angry eyes and impious lips;
For then, half-wrenched away from me,
Almost it seems he leaves me free.
'Tis then I raise aloft my cry:
St. Michael, to the rescue fly!
'Tis then almost my foot is prest
Upon the monster's struggling breast;
'Tis then I feel my shoulders glow
With hints of wings they yet may know,
And breathe as slaves pant, wild and sweet,
Whose chains are falling to their feet!
'Tis then I nestle, safely bound
By wings of angels circling round,
And feel the drawing of the cord
That holds my anchor in the Lord!
And most I fear when cunningly
He crouches, hidden from mine eye,
And breathes into the pipes whose keys
Hold all my spirit's melodies.
When I his hiding would betray,
He holds the lamp, and leads the way;
When I would break his hardihood,
He wields the lash that draws my blood.
So deep his guile, I scarce can know
From whose intent my actions grow;
So brightly do his tear-drops shine,
I oft mistake his grief for mine.
When veiled emotions, swift and strong,
Run all my trembling nerves along,
If 'tis his sigh or mine whose swell
Upheaves my breast, I cannot tell.
When friendship frowns, I turn to see
My foe's eyes beaming tenderly;
When friendship harshly speaks, I hear
His dulcet tones wooing mine ear.
When God is slow to hear my cry,
Behold th' insidious list'ner nigh!
When thirst has parched my vitals up,
His hand presents the sparkling cup.
If I would reason with my foe,
He lets the high-piled logic grow,
And lowly bends, in humble guise,
With silent mouth and drooping eyes.
But as, o'erflowing with content,
I view my stately monument,
Nor guess the thoughts lie side to side
In subtle, weak cement of pride,
With sudden flash of mocking wit
He plays about and shatters it,
Or some volcanic underthrust
Levels my structure with the dust.
And straight, ere I can speak for pain,
He builds my chang'd thoughts up again
In airy stretches, bright or dim,
With flower-woven cornice-rim;
With domes that melt into the sky,
Like piles of snowy cumuli;
And pinnacles where fancy sees
Stars cling and swim, like golden bees;
With long-drawn wings whose cloudy tips
The sunset kisses with red lips;
And cloudy-curtained windows bright,
Whence pours a flood of rosy light.
And with it come bewildering tunes,
Where heavenly airs bear hellish runes;
And, calling sweet and calling clear,
The voice that most I long to hear.
But if, lured by this temple fair,
Dazzled, I seek to enter there,
It clings, and burns with lurid light,
Like Glauce's bridal-garment white.
Then since my foe so potent is,
And I so weak, lest I be his,
Some friend I need, stronger than he,
To stand and keep my heart for me.
And since, though driven forth with pain,
Ever he stealeth back again,
More need have I of heavenly light
To make his lurking-places bright.
And since I stand unarmed, indeed,
Before his wrath, great is the need
I should invoke, with prayerful word,
Saint Michael of the fiery sword!
That night and day I still should cling
Beneath my hovering angel's wing;
And ne'er let slip the golden cord
That holds my anchor in the Lord!

Translated From The Revue Du Monde Catholique.

Flaminia.

By Alexandre De Bar.
Concluded.

"You will not be surprised to see that Flaminia was ignorant of the veritable nature of the affection that she felt for Albert; but you will be astonished to learn that he shared entirely her ignorance, although he had seen much of life. Yet think that it is to know nothing of the most impetuous passion of our soul if we have only learnt the theory; for as to know the world we must have lived in the world, so to know the heart one must have lived by the heart; if such has not been one's experience, all is obscurity and one takes a false route. Now, Albert had lived out of the world, and had not yet loved aught but a glorious renown. Besides all this, if you will look back upon that fair time of youth which has now fled from us, you will remember that the descent which allures us is often so gentle that we follow it without attention; until the day when an unforeseen event, and often even an unimportant circumstance, arouses us, and permits us by a glance to see the road that we have already glided down. Albert, too, descended that charming declivity, gathering the perfumed flowers which hung on the shrubs, and intoxicating himself with perfumes, with light and songs. His soul happy, his heart pure, dazzled by the celestial gleams which irradiated him, how could he see where all this was conducting him? This is how he first became aware of his position: There was at the bottom of the gardens of the palace Balbo a long alley, that was covered by the thick foliage of the vines, whose stems, black and distorted, clung to and spread up the stone pillars on each side. Here and there the jasmines displayed the silver stars of their flowers, which shone out of the deep shade of their leaves. From that alley the eye gazed upon a vast horizon, bounded by two large sheets of azure, the sea and sky, between which the mountains lifted their imposing masses, gilded by the rays of the setting sun. It was in this perfumed gallery that, each evening, Albert was conducted by his hosts, as soon as the refreshing breeze of evening blew across the sea. Often it was the arm of Flaminia that aided his yet feeble steps in this exercise. How many charming hours thus passed for them during the calm of those evenings, when the noises of the day ceased one by one, until the ear brought but the sound of the whispering breeze, pure and sweet as the breath of a sleeping child, to the touched and softened soul! One day, the fever seemed struggling to regain its power over the form of Albert; his wounds were scarcely closed, and the emotions that he experienced reacted most powerfully upon his health. Sir, man is born for suffering, and not for joy. His body can support an immense weight of sorrow and pain without giving way; but it is worn out by pleasure, and joy kills it. Giovanni, uneasy about his friend, strictly forbade his leaving his room, and that evening the family went alone to their walk. Albert returned sadly to the saloon, become more desert for him than the sands of Sahara, in company with Giovanni, who, in the hope of distracting his loneliness, talked to him of battles and of victories; although had he known how far the mind of his friend was from all such subjects, he might have given himself far less trouble with an equally good result. Little caring then for glory, Albert's heart was with Flaminia under the perfumed shade of the vines and jasmines. At their return, Flaminia held out to Albert a spray of jasmine covered with flowers, saying to him: 'You like these flowers, so I bring you them.' When Albert had retired to his own room, he took this bouquet and covered it with kisses: he listened with delight to the voice that issued from those flowers and that told him such sweet words. A flame seemed to mingle with their perfumes that carried a new life to his heart; but it carried there also the light. Another voice made itself heard and showed him the truth, and he fell from the regions of happiness where his dream had carried him, into the implacable reality; for he then discovered with what sort of an affection they were both animated. And he a knight of the Order of Malta! If absence could have given the repose of forgetfulness to Flaminia, Albert would not have hesitated to have left her at once. But if there exist attachments so slight that the simple absence of their object is sufficient to cure them, so there are others which may be likened to those long-lived plants that extend their roots in all directions and all depths; so that one cannot tear them from the soil in which they have once gained a hold. Such affections as these resist all human efforts, and absence but serves to render their wounds more poignant and more lively. Albert understood too well the character of Flaminia not to know that their destiny was irrevocably fixed. Divine Providence seemed to have drawn them together in this world but to make them merit, by a sacrifice of their affections, the happiness that was destined for them in the next. The ordinary remedy of absence would have been useless in their case. Albert understood this, and the idea of getting himself absolved from his vows of knighthood came to him. This thought he repelled. It was not that he believed the success of such a measure impossible, but that he saw in it a desertion of his duty; he felt that his conscience would not be in tranquillity, and that it would perpetually remind him that one cannot thus break his engagements with God. He knelt down piously, and that which passed in his soul during that cruel night, and that which he suffered during that struggle, ever rested a secret between him and God. For you, scholar of the eighteenth century, it is an unpardonable weakness that of placing one's self humbly on one's knees before the Divine Majesty. Yet, thanks only to this weakness, Albert, in all the force of youth, resisted without failing before the most impetuous, the most irresistible of all our passions, and came forth victorious out of the rudest combat that he had ever given. He loved, passionately, Flaminia: Flaminia, beautiful, rich in heart and soul, full of all the merits, of all the virtues, that can entrance at the same time the heart, the soul, and the senses; Flaminia, who loved him with an equal ardor, and who confided herself to him absolutely and without reserve. He had over her an absolute power, and, far from using it, he subdued his passion, and, directing by a determined will the tumultuous waves of his heart, he traversed without shipwreck those tempests that are more ungovernable than the rage of the ocean. The strength with which he aided himself was that same weakness which makes you smile. Had he trusted only in himself, he would have fallen, because he was but a man; he implored the aid of him who is strength itself, and he vanquished. Faith was for him what the fortifying oil was with which the athletes rubbed their bodies before the struggle; and, not content with aiding him to overcome himself, she knew also how to dry his tears by the blessed aid of hope. For, at the same time that she showed him in all their barrenness the painful paths of duty, she let him see at the end of the journey, and as the price of his victory, that eternal union of souls which time itself is powerless to break. I know you to be prejudiced, my dear Frederick, on all that which touches religious questions; but, at the same time, I know you to be of too good faith not to acknowledge that there is truly something superhuman in a doctrine which gives such victories; neither shall I insist on the detail of the events which occurred during the six months that Albert yet passed by the side of Flaminia, for they would have no value in my recital. It would not, perhaps, be without a certain interest to follow the developments of that affection, so completely purified from all earthly thoughts; but, as there are certain situations where a look, a smile, takes the proportions of a veritable event, it would be necessary for me to enter into the very slightest points of its psychology. On learning the gravity of the wounds of his brother, Adolph Shraun had come in all haste to the palace Balbo. Antonia failed not to produce in his heart an impression as profound, but more decisive, than that which Flaminia had already aroused in his brother. As he knew that the project of an alliance would be joyfully received in the two families, Antonia was not long without knowing the sentiments which she had enkindled. The frank, impetuous, and lively character of Adolph had already predisposed her in his favor, so that she quickly shared the same sentiments and hopes as himself. Joy renders us much more disposed to confidence than does sorrow, and Antonia did not fail to feel the need of confiding to some one both her secret and her love. This need caused her to seek in Flaminia for sympathy, and the reciprocal confidence which was due between these two young hearts, so well formed to love and sustain each other, was then established for ever. The naïve confidences of her sister enlightened Flaminia on her own sentiments, and carried into her soul the light that she had but caught glimpses of before. She then understood the nature of her destiny, and, like Albert, she accepted it without a murmur. She took refuge in the consoling thought that their union would be accomplished in those celestial regions where only reign the eternal laws of love; and thus placing her hopes upon a sure basis, she resigned herself to her cross, prayed, and awaited God's will. I think that I have quite sufficiently instructed you upon the state of these noble hearts; so that I can arrive at that which is the object of my story—namely, to tell you how it was that my great-grandfather, Adolph, saw, one day, two souls." The Baron Frederick could not here repress a deep sigh of satisfaction, and the count, who noticed nothing, continued: "The hours, which their separation was soon to render so long, passed away with a cruel rapidity; the moment approached when Albert ought to leave Flaminia, that he might report himself to the Grand-Master Coroner, who was then preparing an expedition directed against Napoli of Roumania, and the few days they had yet to pass together made them feel still more strongly the happiness that they were about to lose. Giovanni had announced his intention of following his friend, and their approaching departure had cast a shade of sadness on that household, lately so joyous that it had seemed a nest hidden from the world, where alone happiness dwelt. One evening, when, according to their usual custom, they were all grouped together under the shadow of the vines, the conversation took a melancholy form, and the fear that reigned in all their hearts expressed itself by words: they were talking of death. 'Come, come,' said the Prince Balbo, after a few minutes of discussion on the subject, 'what is the use of these fears? When duty calls, we must obey, not only by action, but in heart, and without regret. Besides,' he added, 'the hour of our death is not in our own choice; and none are protected from his stroke when God calls the angel of death and says, "Strike!" I have, like you, my children, incurred many perils in my life, and yet sixty winters have whitened my head; and how many have I not seen of those whose life was peaceable—of flourishing youth—sheltered from all harm, who have been struck down before their time! Let us confide in God, my children; let us resign ourselves beforehand to his will, which is always just, always good—since he is eternally just and good.'

"Flaminia, crushed by the grief of a separation that snatched away from her for ever the half of her soul, had, until these last words of her father, remained silent; but then, lifting her head and leaning slightly toward Albert, said to him in a tone that was audible only to him, 'Yes, happily, one dies at every age.'

"Albert understood her thought.

"'Do you not, then, think on the grief of those who are left?' answered he, in a voice of low reproach.

"'Oh!' replied she quickly, 'if I die first, I will come to seek you.'

"Before that cry, uttered from the heart, before that affection that felt itself sufficiently strong to vanquish the laws of death, sufficiently holy that God should grant it a miracle, silence could be the only answer; but a glance of Albert replaced with all the eloquence of the heart the powerless word. On the morrow of that evening, Albert left Flaminia. I will not paint to you their affliction. It was immense. But a hope that is too ill known in this, our century, sustained their courage and energy. At the moment of an adieu so cruel to both, not a tear fell from their eyes. That they did flow, and most abundantly and bitterly, there is no doubt, since grief never loses its rights, and human force, even the best sustained, has its bounds; but they flowed in silence and in secret, and he who was their only witness treasured them up. The days, the months, the seasons passed on; three times the trees had lost their foliage and renewed their leaves; three times had the alley of vines seen the winter's sun pass unobstructed through their naked branches. All had changed around them; their hearts alone changed not. The renown of Albert grew each day, with his valor, more brilliant; but it was no longer renown that he sought, it was a death that would have opened before him that wide field where impatience dies away before the eternity that then commences; death that he desired because it would have brought him near to Flaminia; and death would not listen to him. In vain did he fling himself into the thickest of the danger; in vain did he accomplish prodigies that had caused the bravest to turn pale; he passed through all these without even a wound. Although he had but very rare occasion of knowing what passed in that cherished spot where ever rested his heart and thoughts, still he doubted not but that the tenderness of Flaminia was as lively and as deep as his own; nor did he deceive himself. Flaminia had refused under different pretexts the offers that had been made to her; and notwithstanding all the desire they felt to establish their daughter, I would dare to affirm that it was not without a certain secret joy that the Prince and Princess Balbo looked upon the prospect before them, the hope of keeping her always by their side. Do not blame them too quickly, my friend; for it is a painful thought that during twenty years a child should have been the object of your affection and of your solicitude; that she should have taken the best and largest portion of your life and heart, in order that, one day, a stranger, under the title of a new-born love, should carry away from you all your joy; leaving you to see your much-loved child place herself under another protection than thine, and quit without regret the house where she leaves a blank that nothing else can fill.

"I had almost forgotten to tell you that Antonia had married Adolphus, and lived happy and peaceful in this same castle where we now are finishing our career. Albert, tired of war, and freed from all further illusions of glory, had come, after having refused the highest distinctions of the order, to seek some repose by his brother's side. Ambition was dead in him; his soul, that had been so severely proved, had need of recollection and calm; and he found this by the side of him whom, after Flaminia, he loved the best in the world. Moreover, although he himself scarcely ever spoke of her who filled all his thoughts, still he felt a lively pleasure in hearing her spoken of so frequently by his brother and his wife. Albert was then calm and composed; he marched courageously forward in life as does the traveller who climbs with difficulty the bare paths of a desolate and arid mountain, sure to find in the evening the joys of the fireside and the shelter of his friends' roof.

"Three years, day by day, had passed away since the moment when Albert had quitted the palace Balbo. It was the evening; Adolphus and Antonia were by his side, in this same saloon where we now are. Contrary to his custom, Albert, for whom that anniversary was a day of mourning, felt his soul full of a penetrating and serene joy, when ten o'clock sounded from that same clock that—"

Here the recital of the count was interrupted by the sound of the clock which resounded in the vast apartment. One would have said that it affirmed the words of the count, by repeating the ten strokes which it had caused to be heard at the moment of which he was speaking. That metallic sound seemed to have in it an unusual power; there was something solemn in its grave slowness; in the deep noise of the wheel drawn round by the falling lead, which accompanied with its heavy base the more piercing sound that traversed the thick oaken case. Both the count and his friends were seized by an impression which they did not seek to dispel or resist. Both instinctively uncovered their heads, and while the count waited almost respectfully until its last vibrations were lost in silence, the baron, more moved than perhaps he was willing to show, placed on the table his pipe, yet fully charged with tobacco, and, an event that certainly had not occurred with him once in ten years, he left that inseparable companion of his leisure hours, without touching the tankard that in vain offered to his gaze its brown and golden tints.

"Ten o'clock had then sounded," continued the count, "and that being the moment when each was accustomed to separate for their bedrooms, Adolphus had got up and looked at his brother, who had been for some time previous motionless and in an attitude of profound attention, resembling a man who follows with his ear the scarcely perceptible sounds of some distant harmony.

"All is finished,' murmured Albert at the moment when the clock had finished striking; and, placing his hand on his brother's arm, 'Remain here,' said he, and turning toward Antonia: 'Pardon me, my sister, if I thus detain Adolphus; but I have need of him to-night, and to-morrow it will be too late.'

"'You frighten me,' answered Antonia; 'what then is going to happen?'

"'You will know very soon,' replied Albert. 'Poor sister! your eyes will shed many a tear; but they will be dried by the thought that the motive which causes them to flow assures for ever the happiness of those who are dear to you.'

"He then kissed her forehead, and, followed by Adolphus, went to his own room, the same which is now yours, dear Frederick.

"'What is the matter with you?' asked Adolphus of his brother, as soon as they were alone.

"'I am sad and happy at the same time; sad because I am going to leave you alone for a short time; but very happy because I go at last to rejoin her, and for this time not again to leave her!'

"'Explain yourself; why do you leave us?'

"'Listen: for that you may understand what is going to happen here this night, it is necessary that you should know what I have felt and suffered during the past three years.'

"Albert then told him of all that which I have just described to you; of his love for Flaminia, of his struggles, and of his victory, over himself; and Adolphus, who already knew through his wife of what Flaminia had suffered, saw with astonishment that all which had been felt by the one had also been by the other, in the same degree and at the same moment. Never had the most profound sympathy established between two beings a more complete identity of sensations and thoughts; near or separated, their two existences had formed but a single life, as their two souls seemed to form but a single soul. When Albert had finished his recital, he added:

"'"If I die first, I shall come to seek you!" Flaminia had told me, and now Flaminia has just died. Do not ask me how I know it, for I am ignorant myself of the reason; but I do know it. I have followed, moment by moment, the progress of her death; at the end I have felt her die, and now I await her coming. In a few instants more she will be here, and we shall depart together for that blessed home where nothing can again oppose itself to our eternal union. It seems to me that already I feel my soul disengaging itself from its bonds; I no longer regard the sufferings that I have endured, except with that sentiment of thankfulness and joy which one feels at the recollection of perils that have been overcome; my past sufferings have no longer their sting, my tears no longer their bitterness! At the solemn moment when I am about to quit a life that has been most painful in its trials for the happy life of triumph, I have wished to have you by my side, that I might say to you my last farewell in this world, and press for a last time your hand before going to await you in eternity.' I leave you to think, my dear Frederick, what must have been the astonishment of Adolphus at receiving this strange confidence.

"'I have too much confidence in the firmness of your reason,' he answered to his brother after a short silence, 'to believe that it has become weakened, were it only for a moment; but do you not fear to have been the victim of some mental illusion, and to have taken for a reality that which was in reality only the dream of your heart exalted by sadness and solitude?'

"'I understand your incredulity,' answered Albert, 'for I have myself shared in it. Each time that the recollection of that promise presented itself to my memory, my reason revolted against such an evident impossibility; the soul cannot again appear in this world once that it has quitted it, thought I, and yet I counted on the premise even while I disbelieved its possibility. Only an hour ago, I yet doubted, but now that doubt has passed away, since the moment when her dying voice sounded in my ears uttering her last words: "You have waited for me; I am here!" Then I understood that it was not merely the strong desire of a soul overexcited by the desire to be reunited to the second half of itself that I felt, but that it was really a mysterious warning; and the accomplishment of a promise that God himself had blessed, and that he permitted to be fulfilled.'

"'But how to explain this miracle?'

"'I am unable to explain it; I tell you what is about to happen, that is all that I can do. In a few minutes Flaminia will be present, and in seeing her you will believe me. For the rest,' added he, after a moment's pause, 'all is a mystery in this world, but the grand end of all is sufficient to enlighten our paths. Do you think that it would be more easy for me to tell you how it is that, notwithstanding we have never said anything to each other that could divulge the mutual state of our hearts, we have yet, in spite of our separation, lived by the same life and the same love? That you cannot believe me, I know, but only wait a little time, and you shall see.'

"In truth, Adolphus did not believe, although the evidently profound conviction of Albert shook his mind and caused in him an impression that he would gladly have shaken off, so contrary to reason did it seem to him. 'Let us make haste, the time presses,' said Albert. He then arranged in order, with rapidity and calm, several important affairs with which he was charged, relating to the principal commanderies of Germany; then, kneeling down, he offered up a short prayer; scarcely had he finished, than, rising up quickly, he seized the hand of his brother, and cried: 'Look! she is come.' Adolphus turned round, and saw Flaminia standing by the side of Albert. You who have lost some one who was dear to you, Frederick, you have remarked that, at the moment when the last sigh escapes and before the work of decay begins, the face is possessed of a calm beauty, supernatural and indefinable in its expression, that inspires an awed respect for that now lifeless form which just a moment before contained a soul. Such looked Flaminia; her figure, surrounded by a luminous atmosphere, had received from immortality an august expression. It was perfectly the form of Flaminia, such as Adolphus had known her, but it was no longer the creature that is imperfect, and subject to the attacks of time and life. It was the being imperishable who, coming forth victorious from her many trials, bore in her all the splendors of her glory. Her beauty was not that which charms by the uniformity, more or less complete, of its lineaments; no, it was the celestial beauty whose type is graven in ourselves; the beauty a single ray of which suffices to illuminate the face that hides a pure soul: this was the beauty sublime that enveloped her with its divine wings, and transfigured her face while changing its lineaments. Adolphus bent his knee before the vision. 'Had I not told you that she would come?' said Albert to his brother. 'Yes!' replied a harmonious voice, which issued from the then incorruptible lips of Flaminia. 'Yes! our love was too pure not to merit its recompense. God has permitted it; you waited for me, and I am come.' She bent slightly toward him to whom she at length was about to be united, and, surrounding him with her arms, she drew his face closer to her own, that gleamed with a celestial joy. Behind them, and contemplating them, stood Death, not under the form of fleshless skeleton, but as a radiant angel who changes bitterness into joy, and tears into smiles. His beautiful face bore the impress of grave majesty rather than of severity, softened by that infinite mercy which gives hope to repentance. The mercy and goodness of the Master who sends him shone in his look, which is so sweet to the contemplation of the soul wearied by the painful journey of life. The hour was come! At the moment when Flaminia, in a manner, took possession of Albert, the angel of Death drew near him, and while with one hand he touched his shoulder, with the other he pointed toward heaven. Albert's body fell back into the arm-chair, which, living, he had just occupied; and when Adolphus, drawn forward by an instinctive motion, ran to support him, he saw by the side of Flaminia the form of his brother, that shone forth surrounded by the same glory and the same joy. He passed the rest of the night by the side of his brother's body, and wept, though not over him whom he had just seen pass away to heaven. The man whom faith sustains with its sweet consolation weeps not the loss of his friend, but his absence. He wept because every separation, even the shortest, is a grief, and his tears were dried by the certainty that Albert was in the possession of a happiness that could neither diminish nor fade, and which he hoped one day to share with him."

The count here left off his story. The baron had listened to him with a sustained attention, and although he preserved his imperturbable calm, yet the recital had so much moved him, that he remained silent; and the count, after waiting a few minutes, continued: "Such is the history of my great-uncle Albert, as it has been transmitted to us by him who was the witness. Do you find it, then, surprising that the faith should be hereditary in a family where such facts happen? What can you reply to this history?"

"Nothing," answered the baron, "except that, to draw the consolations which it contains, one must have the faith; and besides, in supposing that God, if he exists, interferes with the affairs of this world, he is unjust, since he refuses to me the consolation that he gives to others."

"Have you ever asked him for it?" answered the count with a friendly severity. "Have you not, on the contrary, repulsed by a determined obstinacy the solicitations of divine Providence? Pardon me, my friend, if I awaken a painful recollection for you, but have you not even resisted the awful voice of Death?"

"What is the good of my asking?" replied the baron, eluding the second part of his friend's demand. "If faith be necessary, God owes it to me without asking him."

"Food is also necessary," answered the count, "and does man find it ready for him, unless he works? No, no, my friend; labor and prayer, such is the destiny of man upon the earth. His material life is bought by the sweat of his brow, as his spiritual life is the price of his efforts. 'Seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,' has said the divine Master. Ah! if you had ever knelt before that God whom you blaspheme; if you had with perseverance exposed to him your doubts, your miseries, you would have known that he never leaves without help the soul that sincerely implores him; you would have known that he never hides himself from him who seeks him with a humble and contrite spirit and a pure heart. Pray, my dear Frederick, pray, I tell you, and you will feel that he is near to you; that his arms are open to receive you, and his hands ready to shed on you all the sweet consolations and hopes with which they are filled!"

It was now late; the two friends then separated, and, without doubt, the count that night in his prayers demanded with more than usual fervor the conversion of the man he so warmly loved. Ordinarily, on gaining his room, the baron was accustomed to install himself as comfortably as possible in an immense old leathern arm-chair, whose age dated back for two or three centuries, which he placed in front of the wood fire that burnt noisily on the hearth; and after having again lit his pipe, that inseparable friend, he used to take a book, and, stretching out his feet upon the copper fire-dogs, wait until he felt sleepy, which invariably occurred as soon as there remained no more tobacco in the sculptured wooden bowl of his pipe.

But on that night he cast around him many a curious look, and examined with as great an attention, one after the other, the several pieces of antique furniture with which his room was furnished, as though it had been the first time that he had seen them; then, in place of sitting down in that ancient arm-chair, which he preferred to all the others on account of its large dimensions, he placed it in front of him, and, sitting down on the most modern of his chairs, he regarded with a questioning curiosity and certain respect that mute witness of an adventure, the mere recital of which had caused so great a trouble in his mind; seeming to ask of it a solution to his doubts and fears. After a long and silent contemplation, he let fall his forehead on his hands, and, plunging his fingers among his hair, whitened rather by sorrow than by age, began to meditate profoundly. The agitation of his mind was so great, and the flow of his thoughts so rapid, that, without knowing it, he began to think aloud. "If what he said were true, if there were something within us that outlived our bodies, I could see thee again, my dearest and best-beloved Gertrude; and I could again find the joys of our too short union, and this time for always, unchanging and eternal! And ought I to repulse that thought through the childish fear of abandoning myself to a false hope? Of these two ideas were it not better to follow that which gives us consolation and causes us to live, rather than that which thickens around us the already too profound shades of life, and changes our grief into despair? What consolation have I ever found in the reason of which I am so proud? None! If pride has withheld my tears before men, yet since twenty years they have flowed on in silence without their source being yet dry. If I have blushed to let my weakness be seen by men, have I not felt it a thousand times within me, implacable, and terrible, before my vain revolts against a destiny that broke my heart and that I was forced to submit to? When beside her death-bed I felt but a sterile despair, when my will, my love, were powerless to retain for a single moment the last sigh of that life that I would have been willing to prolong at the expense of my own days, what have I been able to do? Nothing! not even to die! Since twenty years I implore the oblivion which flies before me! Since twenty years, I recoil before the thought to precipitate myself therein! Is it fear that hinders me? No! I have faced the peril when my duty demanded it, and I would do it again: I have too often seen Death to fear him. The reason is that a secret voice speaks within me higher than all the sophisms of my grief, and tells me that I have not the right to destroy the life which I did not give myself. Yet if there is nothing beyond the tomb, why should I fear it, and what have I to dread from oblivion? Have I not the most absolute right on myself, since all ends but in a dreamless sleep? Is it really a sleep? Ah! there is the truth, both for me and for all others; it is that in secret I doubt as often of that oblivion that I so loudly affirm, as I do whether that God does not exist whose existence I so deny. Yet again, if God is but an imaginary being, and if immortality is but a dream, what does one risk to have thought the contrary? One would have lived fortified against the ills and crosses of this life by a thought that sweetens, even the terrors of death. One would not even feel the loss of that hope, since the hour of our disenchantment would be the one which should plunge us into the deep repose of oblivion! The lie, then, would have done that which the truth could not do; it would have given us happiness. If, on the contrary, immortality is not a vain chimera, but a reality, is it not a terrible responsibility to have shut one's heart to its evidence and to have misunderstood the sublime Author of all things? Yes! in truth terrible; for in that momentous question, doubt is not to be permitted. On all human questions indifference follows uncertainty, but here indifference is itself a fault—one must deny or believe. But how am I to believe? When from earliest childhood you have had your aspirations broken or wounded under the repeated blows of contempt, and when you have been taught but to laugh at in others that faith whose absence you shall one day so bitterly deplore, how then to believe? Pray, he told me. Pray! Can I pray? Oh! happy are they who, arrived like me at that sad epoch in life when one drags painfully along the burden of one's worn-out days, have not to curse those who held them away from that source of strength and consolation! Yes, they are happy whom a pious mother taught from their cradle to bend the knees and join the hands in prayer! Gertrude also, she too prayed; and many a time have I felt myself touched in seeing her bend her head before the God of whom she asked for me the light of the faith. How many times have I not felt the desire to share her belief, and to kneel down like her and say: 'My dear Gertrude, there exists no place on this earth where we ought to be separated; there is not a thought, a belief, an affection, that ought not to be shared by us. Whatever may be the destiny that awaits us after the destruction of our being, whether it be oblivion or immortality, I wish to share it with you. Let your convictions be mine also, even as your life is mine. After having given me happiness in this world, show me the road that leads to that eternity I wish to believe in because you believe; make me to know that God whom I wish to love because you love him!' But alas! held by a false shame, I resisted that voice which spoke in the depth of my heart, and which, perhaps, was the voice of God: for is it not possible that such feelings as these are those by which Providence calls us to the truth? And I, how have I responded to that voice? Why, by rallying her on her belief. I caused her tears to flow, the only ones most certainly, but today they fall heavily upon my heart. And now friendship speaks to me this day the very same language that did of old her love. Shall I yet remain deaf? Ought I to cede to or resist the voice which now speaks to me? O Albert! you on whom was accomplished, in the room where I am, and in that arm-chair that I now look on, so incomprehensible a mystery, cannot you come in aid of the most faithful friend that your family ever had!" And the excellent baron, letting himself be carried away by his emotion, found himself, without knowing how, on his knees before that chair in whose arms Albert had died; and the head covered by his hands, and the heart filled with the thirst for truth, he prayed: "O my God!" prayed he, "if it is true that you are not a vain creation of the weakness or of the pride of man; if it is true that you continue to watch with solicitude over the creature who has issued from your hands, you will not see without pity the heart full of trouble that I lift up toward you. Led astray by the habits begun in childhood, I have perhaps followed error thinking to follow the truth; but I have done it in all sincerity and through love of the truth. If I am deceived, O God! enlighten my trembling soul, dissipate the doubt which is crushing me, and draw toward you the soul that seeks you and desires you! And you, Gertrude, dear companion too soon lost to me, if you see my regrets that time cannot extinguish; and the tears that your memory costs me, ask of your God that he make himself known to me; ask him that I may adore him as you adored him, and, above all, ask him that I may again be united to you."

His voice died away then, and yet his prayer continued. His soul, overexcited with the emotions of that night, poured itself out before God without following any line of thought. It was an immense lifting up of his whole being toward the truth—an ardent thirst for hope; it was the twenty years of a mute despair that resumed itself into a supreme cry; it was the heart, so pure and so good, of that worthy man, that opened itself completely and mounted full of desires and tears, carrying with it the most fervent prayer that had ever reached the immovable throne of the Eternal. At last the baron arose, but in place of at once laying himself down to sleep on the bed, whose soft pillows vainly invited him to repose, he retook his former position and began to reflect. The thoughts pressed so tumultuously in his brain, ordinarily so calm, and succeeded each other with so great a rapidity, that he could but vaguely seize them. His eyes, fixed upon the light flame that yet burned on the hearth, saw not that they expired one by one. The last played yet some time on the log covered with white ashes, disappearing for a moment to again reappear in another spot; at length it died out. The lamp burned with a reddened glare through its lack of oil, and yet the baron did not move. How long he had rested in that state of semi-sleep is what he never knew himself, when to the dying gleam of the lamp succeeded so brilliant a light that the baron always maintained that one so intense had never before shone on mortal eyes; at the same time brilliant and soft, it penetrated all objects without causing them to cast any shadow, and, as it were, drowned them in a sea of light. The baron lifted up his head at this unexpected brilliancy; he wished to speak, and his voice expired on his opened lips; but he distinctly heard these words: "Frederick, the prayers of your beloved Gertrude have been at length heard; the straight-forwardness and simplicity of your heart have found grace before the throne of the Eternal Master; he smiles on those who imitate him. He loves those who, like him, bear their cross with courage, and drink without feebleness the chalice of bitterness that is offered to all, without exception, in this life of probation. If it has been that, until now, you have rested deaf to the warnings that divine Providence sent you, at least you have listened with docility to that which was contained in the recital of your friend, and it was not without a reason that he was inspired to tell the true legend of the loves of Flaminia and Albert to you this night. The faith that strengthens the soul in the midst of the calamities of life descended into your heart and penetrated it with its salutary ardors at the moment when, breaking your pride before your will, you have knelt down before the Lord and asked of him the light; you could not remain always out of the truth; you, the devoted friend, the faithful husband; you whose entire life has been but a long research for the rarest virtues, and who feel, beating in your breast as noble and loving a heart as ever animated a human form." Here the brilliant light faded slowly away. The lamp was extinguished, and the blackened, logs gave forth no glimmer of light. The baron gained, by feeling his way, his bed, and laid himself on it, feeling himself full of an unknown joy, understanding the duties of a Christian, and resolved to perform them. He fell asleep in thinking of that happy day when should be restored to him that wife whom he had never ceased to love. The next morning, when he descended to the saloon where all the family were united, he embraced his friend's wife, and kissed, one after another, her children and grandchildren, who were all there that day at the castle; and all this with a demonstration of joy so contrary to his usual phlegmatic manner that it for the moment gave cause to fear for his reason; and then, approaching the count, who regarded him with stupefaction, he embraced him vigorously, and said to him, while wiping his eyes, humid with tears of joy: "Ah! you are right, my dear friend; I shall see again my Gertrude!"

Talleyrand,
by Lytton Bulwer.

[Footnote 18]

[Footnote 18: Historical Characters. By Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer, G.C.B. Two vols., 8vo. Richard Bentley, New Burlington street, London. 1868.]

Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer has presented the public with sketches of some eminent men, and has done his work well. It is not a series of biographies, but rather a finished outline of their prominent characteristics and of their achievements. In advance of the memoirs of Talleyrand, written by himself, and now in course of publication, this illustrious Frenchman is placed among the number, and in a new light. He is no longer the inscrutable being he appeared to his contemporaries, and as he has appeared since to their children. His name has been intimately associated with the great men and events of the last years of the unfortunate reign of Louis XVI. of France, near the close of the last century. Still more prominently is the memory of him associated with the convocation of the States-General and the National Assembly. By accident, he had the good fortune to be free from the odium attached to the Legislative Assembly and the atrocities of the National Convention, with the attendant horrors of the Committee of Public Safety in the Reign of Terror.

He fled from France in all haste as an émigré, and yet was lucky to avoid being classed with the aristocrats and so-called enemies of his country. He was prominent in the Revolution, without the stain of a regicide; he was a fugitive with the loyal crowd, without being stigmatized as a royalist. No amount of human foresight could have served him as a safe guide to shun the dangers which beset his fame and security on either side. His success was altogether fortuitous; but his friends attribute all to his superior sagacity and wisdom, while his enemies ascribe it to his remarkable cunning and prudence. When the days of danger and of blood passed by, Talleyrand returned to Paris with prestige, and was immediately employed by the Directory. When that went down, he floated to the surface with Bonaparte in the consulate and empire. Upon the fall of the empire, with the entrance of the allied armies into the capital he was their trusted counsellor. The restoration of the Bourbons was at once accompanied with the restoration of Talleyrand to the foreign office and to the head of affairs. When the Bourbons were expelled, in 1830, he was again reinstated by Louis Philippe, under whose reign he died in 1838, with that sovereign an attendant at his death-bed.

In truth, the same good fortune set in his favor when he was a boy: but it came in the guise of a calamity. Neglect on the part of a nurse resulted in a slight lameness for life in his legs, and in consequence a family council was convened wherein it was decided he should be deprived of his rights of primogeniture, of his high station as a nobleman, and of the wealth which went with them. His younger brother was substituted, while Talleyrand was destined for the priesthood. But such is the waywardness of fate that in a few years nobility was abolished, its privileges destroyed, and the nobles themselves were in exile, with his impoverished brother among the number. On the other hand, Talleyrand entered the church; he became a bishop, and in turn he deserted the church and his diocese when the road to greater worldly success and distinction led through desertion. He was excommunicated by the pope when papal censure and condemnation could only, for the time being, add to his popularity. Subsequently these were removed by the pontiff, when a brief to that end, with the turning tide of events, was all that was wanting to increase his prestige.

To what peculiar talent, quality, or skill he was indebted for his happy career has always been an open question; nor is it yet completely solved. Sir Henry does not undertake to discuss the problem, although he must entertain an opinion on the subject. But it is much better that he declined to propound any theory of his own; for in doing so the readers of his book would have misgivings that he tampered with some facts, or suppressed others altogether, in order to maintain it. His work in its present shape invites confidence, imports greater accuracy, and imparts additional satisfaction. No one can distrust his historical integrity, or doubt the extent of his inquiries and research in an honest endeavor to enlighten the public, or fail to appreciate the information obtained. It is a decided accession to biographical literature.

Nor are the opinions of the author, interspersed through the pages, the least interesting part of his performance; for these opinions on the mighty men and events of the period to which he refers may be taken as a reflex of the sentiments now current in the continental diplomatic corps, of which Sir Henry is an old and constant member of high standing. In his expositions, it is entertaining to compare the slow, lagging judgment of Europe on those times with American impressions, which are far more correct, enlightened, and advanced. The great idol which the foreign diplomatic community adores is success: Paris is its peculiar shrine; and Parisian society are fellow-worshippers. But, until success is attained and established, their fetich image is only one in the rough, to be hewed and hacked as cheap lumber. Napoleon and Talleyrand, during the long wars of the consulate and empire, were not deemed by neighboring states as much better than misshapen monsters of the human species: while the brilliancy of their achievements was dazzling the sight, bewildering the imagination, and extorting applause or admiration on this side of the Atlantic.

When the sanguinary contest closed in Europe, the exhibition of its continuous blaze of glory had lost much of its novelty in America; the ardor of our people commenced to cool down; they began to make a more dispassionate, and, consequently, a more rational estimate of their late heroes. This examination in some of its aspects was not favorable to the character of the republicans and of Napoleon. His genius, indeed, could not be denied; his deeds were marvellous; the splendor of his course had never been surpassed in ancient or modern ages; his individual or personal popularity was not in the least impaired. But on the whole, had his life been a blessing or otherwise to mankind? Had it been beneficial or injurious to progress? Had he or the preceding government of the Convention in the Reign of Terror promoted the welfare of France? Reluctantly but surely the American mind came to the conviction that the wars of the emperor had been as useless as they were prodigal of life, more desolating than the bloody guillotine worked by Robespierre. That decision will not soon be reversed; in all probability it will be confirmed and strengthened by time. On the eastern continent, however, this stage of enlightenment has not been reached by the mass of the intelligent population; but they are coming up to it. Napoleon as the scourge had there to be withdrawn, before he could reappear transformed into a hero, and from a hero into a great beneficent political being. His wars were there pronounced productive of good, as a destructive fire that had consumed the vermin of class abuses; that had extirpated the noxious weeds strangling civilization, which could not be eradicated by peaceful means; that the Reign of Terror had been a terrible tempest, to be sure, but a tempest, nevertheless, which, in the oratorical figure of Lord Erskine, had driven away pestilence and purified the atmosphere. At this point European sentiment now stands.

In republican America, the next stride will be still in the advance to the further conclusion, that Napoleon, in his martial policy, evinced only the cold-blooded, inordinately selfish despot, whose love of country was centred in self-love, whose patriotism for the State was unbounded when he was the State, for which he would sacrifice as much as Louis XIV. in a dazzling reign equally disastrous to the happiness of his subjects. But in Europe, to condemn the warlike propensities of Napoleon, is at the same time to condemn the hostile coalitions that promoted or provoked them. The measures adopted by inimical and rival powers to overthrow the French empire originated in passions and for a purpose fully as absurd and damaging to their own people. Both sides wanted war, without counting the cost, and now both are counting the loss, when war is no longer wanted. The losing figures present the longest columns to contemplative countenances the most elongated. In this showing, the picture is not inviting to monarchical perceptions; they are unwilling to acknowledge the fidelity of the portrait. England was always first in heart and soul in these conspiracies against the peace of Christendom, and England ever since has felt also, both first and last, the evil effects from the heaviest debts to be borne in consequence. Hence the dispiriting consciousness in the best of British circles, that France under Robespierre and Napoleon was matched in its foolishness by England under Pitt and Castlereagh. Something like even-handed retributive justice was meted out to all four: Robespierre attempted self-destruction when the executioner at the guillotine awaited him; Castlereagh cut his own throat; Pitt pined away and died as he closed the map of Europe with his finger pointing to the fatal field of Austerlitz; Napoleon lingered out a miserable life on a barren rock. The administrations of these men are now understood in the American republic, and have received the American condemnation. Talleyrand was an inferior personage to them in power, but only one degree less; he was the greatest in importance, and in position of the second grade. He is not so well comprehended. They did not know, until now, he had said to Montalvert:

"You have a prejudice against me, because your father was an imperialist, and you think I deserted the emperor. I have never kept fealty to any one longer than he has been obedient to common sense. But if you judge all my actions by this rule, you will find that I have been eminently consistent." (P. 408.)

The cause of his success was generally found in his strict adherence to the maxim that

"The thoughts of the greatest number of intelligent persons in any time or country are sure, with a few more or less fluctuations, to become in the end the public opinion of their age or community." (P. 442.)

He profited by this experience and knowledge; he understood men; he consulted public opinion, and followed it.

For these revelations and for these reasons, every line in the volume of Sir Henry Lytton Bulwer attracts attention and invites scrutiny. Sir Henry's style, turn of thought, opinions, even his words, must be weighed and studied, not only to gather the import of their meaning, but the exact shade of meaning. In this critical examination, it will be discovered Sir Henry adheres to no fixed method or standard of composition. Sometimes he is easy, smooth, and flowing as Joseph Addison; again he is terse as Dean Swift; sometimes he is turgid and rambling as a plenipotentiary who has particular instructions to communicate nothing in very verbose sentences long drawn out, wherein he is neither choice in his language nor correct in the common rules of grammar. Now, diplomacy admits of all these varieties of writing, and Sir Henry tries them all. No pent-up uniformity contracts the powers of his rhetoric or vocabulary. In one paragraph he exercises the precision of an algebraic formula; in another he wanders astray in the collocation of phrases with unguarded looseness. For him to write in his vernacular idiom must be something of an effort, although he can write well when on his good behavior; but it is evident he thinks in French. His ideas, thoughts, and some of his opinions and principles have consequently a Gallic tinge, and read like a translation; while others, if more cosmopolitan, are limited to the tone pervading the diplomatic circle; and diplomatists have among themselves a professional cant or set of political dogmas, which in a class less polished and select would be mistaken for a species of slang.

It is interesting and instructive to be made familiar with their proverbial philosophy, but it does not follow the infallibility of their proverbs must be recognized. Many of Sir Henry's opinions, therefore, may meet with dissent on this side of the water; much of his free and easy continental code he himself would abhor if made applicable to British interests, British politics, or British domestic ethics. In the cultivated opinion of the United States, the continental standard of justifiable policy is even more detestable, and ought to be in all climes and countries, in every latitude and longitude on the face of the earth.

Charles Maurice Talleyrand de Périgord was born in 1754, of one of the most noble and ancient families in France. He was sent to the Collége d'Harcout, where he gained the first prizes; transferred to the Seminary of St. Sulpice, his talents for disputation and composition were long remembered; and when, at last, sent to the Sorbonne, he was equally remarkable, although destined for the church, as a very clever and a very profligate young gentleman. He made no secret of his dislike to the profession chosen for him, but it was not doubted among those who knew him that he would reach its highest honors. In 1773, he entered the Gallican priesthood. When twenty years of age, his countenance was peculiarly attractive. It was indicative of softness, yet of boldness; of imperturbability, yet of humor and wit. When somewhat older, his features wore a long, oval appearance; his eyes were blue, deep, and variable; his lips usually compressed with an ironical smile, but not of ill nature; his nose, with clear-chiselled nostril, was delicate and slightly turned up; his voice deep toned, almost sepulchral. In five years he was chosen to the distinguished post of agent-general of the French clergy, where he administered with great success the ecclesiastical revenues of immense amount, and where he first exhibited his financial abilities in the clearness and neatness of his statements and reports. He became Bishop of Autun in 1789.

"'He dressed,' says one of his many biographers, 'like a coxcomb, he thought like a deist, he preached like a saint. At once active and irregular, he found time for everything: the church, the court, the opera. In bed one day from indolence or debauch, up the whole of the following night to prepare a memoir or a speech. Gentle with the humble, haughty with the high; not very exact in paying his debts, but very scrupulous with respect to giving and breaking promises to pay them.'" (P. 31.)

Early in life introduced into the salons of Paris, he readily caught their spirit, and soon obtained the friendship of the leading encyclopaedists and philosophers of scientific and historical fame; he was on intimate terms with many well known in letters and in the arts. The celebrated wits of both sexes, the beauties, the belles, courted his society; the charm of their brilliant conversation, their versatile accomplishments, and their winning manners were fascinating and irresistible. These divinities imagined they moved and had their being in a sublimated atmosphere far above and beyond the aspiration of common mortals; their sentiments breathed of perfect philanthropy, expressed in terms and in tenderness befitting persons divinely inspired. Every allurement that could inspire the imagination, every blandishment entrancing the senses, every grace, talent, every ornament which could enhance the form or ennoble the intellect, was cultivated and appreciated. Luxury in dress, in gems, in furniture, in equipage, in banquets, in music, in flowers, in painting, in frescoes, in sculpture, was displayed with excess of prodigality which vied with the purest taste. An ambrosial flavor of expression abounded in a common salutation; a delicate oriental perfume seemed to permeate every compliment, nor was any remark deemed appropriate unless it contained a compliment; eloquence was discarded because it was tinctured with too much external exhibition of feeling; it, moreover, took up too much precious time. But a higher art was attained in its stead—the art of epigrammatical brevity, to communicate in a half-line what an oration could not teach in a half-hour; nor was an epigram deemed perfect when its wit was rare and its sense profound, unless it tended to a sneer at religion or goodness in mankind, or told a scandalous lie.

The pervading object, the avowed purpose in this society, was to seek pleasure, to declaim against abuses in institutions, moral, political, and Christian, in the public at large, in domestic habits and manners, in the state, and in the church. But these refined creatures were not good, nor moral, nor pure, nor Christians themselves; they made no pretensions to any of these virtues; they were not proselyting reformers; they were in no sense radicals; they made no active exertions to pull down, neither did they aim to build up, nor to improve the world, but were content to deplore human evils and to rail at everybody. If a choice had been given to them to abolish institutions, or only to remove their abuses incident to all things of human creation, they would have preferred to abolish the institutions, provided the abuses were permitted to remain intact. But as they could not be rid of the beneficial advantages of the substance without the banishment of the evil shadow, they were content to tolerate the nuisance of what was a blessing to the nation, in order to possess for themselves the parts pernicious which were of sinful, comfortable consideration in their sight. They supposed their mission fulfilled when they talked and did nothing. If one of the coterie had turned patriot and aspired to usefulness, he would have been deemed a harmless traitor, and commiserated for the folly of his desertion. His efforts would have subjected him to their lamenting sympathy, their smiling mockery, their laconic brevities, which, although seemingly soothing, would be as scorching as they were short. Because he had accomplished something commendable or attempted its accomplishment, they would decide he had fallen from grace, had rendered himself liable to their biting condolence, and laid himself open to the piercing shafts of their pity. Voltaire, still lingering in his senility as head and chief priest of this highly refined and deeply depraved community, had sent forth a parting rescript to the faithful in their infidelity, that "one who has done nothing is possessed of a terrible advantage; but he must not abuse it."

Talleyrand, at the age of thirty-six, was fast rising to great prominence, if not pre-eminence in this unholy set. When Voltaire should be called to his last account in another world, and his mortal remains repose in the Père-la-Chaise or Parthenon, it was generally supposed the young Bishop of Autun would by common consent be raised to the place of the old philosopher of Ferney. But had it been thus, had the reign of the Bourbons been prolonged, Talleyrand would have betrayed and mocked the irreligious of the Palais Royal and St. Germain, as he bartered away the pious interests of his diocese. In some respects he resembled Voltaire, but in many more they widely differed. In general he was in mind unlike to him, as he was in morals dissimilar to the late bishop. Voltaire was always in search of flattery; Talleyrand despised it. Voltaire was pleased with petty scheming and petty intrigues; Talleyrand pushed them aside. Voltaire betrayed and lampooned his friends; Talleyrand did not deceive his, nor slander. Voltaire was much feared for his malicious sarcasm; Talleyrand was well liked for his bounteous humor. The one was a judge of books, as the other was a judge of men; the one was always grumbling from his failures, the other always content with his success; the one injecting a telling point into a falsehood, the other imparting force to a truth. Both were great in epigrammatic hits in their own way; with this difference, however, that Voltaire, being soured with the world, exposed his asperity in his jests; while Talleyrand, pleased with it, concealed all vexation and rounded his remarks with an easy smile. Voltaire was a spoiled child of society; society was a plaything for Talleyrand. In a word, the graceless bishop, intellectually, morally, socially, was the superior, and far outshone the snarling philosopher. Voltaire could never, in playing long whist and counting his points, if informed that an old lady had married her footman, have drawled out, "At nine honors don't count;" nor could he in pleasantry have said to Frederick of Prussia what Talleyrand remarked to Louis XVIII.: "There is something inexplicable about me which brings ill luck on the government that neglects me."

Before the death of Voltaire, the young Bishop of Autun had discovered, with his preternatural clearness of mental vision, that the scoffers who were the embodiment of science, philanthropy, and refinement, joined to profligate professors and shameless women, formed an institution, with its abominations also, like all others; just as the holy church had its sacred virtues scandalized by some glaring abuses among a portion of the clergy. The bishop must have felt that he constituted in himself a type of what was good and of what was bad in each: he ardently loved science, art, and whatever was refining and progressive, as he conscientiously revered the revealed truths of the Catholic faith. But he could not resist the enticements and adulations of society; nor refuse the temptation to raise himself to political power by laying sacrilegious hands on the property of the church. Not for one moment, however, was he deceived by the sophistries or jargon of the infidel school that reigned supreme in polite circles, and only once was his sound judgment found wanting in fidelity to his religious order, of which he was a most unworthy representative. He confounded the abuses in the state, the depravity of the aristocracy, the irregularities among the clergy, as one common class of grievances to the nation which ought to be ended; but he did not desire to witness the sovereign beheaded, the mob supreme, nor the idol of Reason enthroned in the house of God.

His aim in life seems to have been the possession of unrivalled prestige in Parisian society. To reach that pinnacle for his ease, comfort, and earthly happiness, he did or was willing to do whatever would promote his purpose: he left undone whatever would militate against it. He understood the requisites for its attainment, but would not sacrifice present tranquillity, the absolute satisfaction now, for the shadowy anticipation in the future. Intellectual exertion was a pleasure to him at all times. He desired wealth, rank, power, fame, as passports into the magic circle of his ambition; but he held himself on a level with the great, while he treated the unfortunate, the weak, the unsuccessful, with undiminished attention. He was keenly sensitive to censure, for censure impaired his prestige. Pozzo de Borgo, a celebrated and rival diplomatist, once said of him: "This man has made himself great by placing himself always by the side of the little and among those who most need him." In truth, he was willing to aid any one, powerful or weak, who could now or hereafter aid him. But he never deceived those whom he was serving, nor cringed, nor intrigued, nor betrayed them; he was always true to his country, and always sound in his judgment in deciding by what line of conduct the interests of his country could be best promoted.

In one instance only did he make a mistake, but that mistake was terrible; it was, moreover, unfortunate for France as for himself; it produced the only bad luck that befell him in his very long life and invariably prosperous career. It was in not discriminating between the clergy, as trustees of the church property, and the property itself entrusted to their keeping. He viewed the temporalities as absolutely their own, their inheritance, instead of perceiving that these possessions were only a charge delivered to them for safe keeping and transmission, which could not descend to their heirs but must go to their successors. He confounded their duties as administrators of the estate with the rights of the persons for whom the estate was formed. If the clergy were willing, therefore, to take a bribe to betray their trust, Talleyrand supposed the nefarious bargain amounted to a fair and honest purchase of the trust property. The estate was not created for them, but they were created for the estate.

A few months after Talleyrand was installed Bishop of Autun, he was elected a representative to the States-General. Of his peculiar fitness for the place, Sir Henry Bulwer brings forward some striking and convincing testimony.

When the States-General met, they formed themselves into the National Assembly; they resolved to legislate in one and the same hall, the nobles and the clergy, mixed with the commonalty, and all three merged into one body. The Three Estates were no more; it was only the Third Estate that remained. The impending danger from immediate bankruptcy of the nation being the vital as it was the first subject for discussion, the high reputation possessed by the Bishop of Autun for financial abilities and practical skill easily gained for him the first place as a man of business, as the first rank in social position was already accorded to him. He spoke well, sensibly, to the point. Mirabeau was the greater orator, it is true, but Mirabeau was the orator for the commons; Talleyrand was no orator at all; he was a fluent speaker, never indulging in meretricious or ornamental embellishments, never appealing to the vulgar passions: he was the pride and glory, the great favorite of the nobles and clergy. His sphere had been more select, more exalted, more refined, where the declamation, passionate appeals, rounded periods, startling antitheses of Mirabeau would have been deemed low and voted down. Mirabeau was unable to shine in the Parisian salons frequented by the choice aristocracy, while Talleyrand despised making a figure of himself for the applause of the bourgeoisie of the Third Estate. But what the Third Estate was wanting in elegance of manners, in wit and cultivation, they supplied in the strength of their numbers, and in the corresponding determination to absorb all political power. It was evident the nobles and the clergy would be compelled to succumb. At last they gave way, and not only yielded up whatever political rights or immunities were their own, but whatever also was confided by others to their keeping. To quote from Sir Henry:

"On the 4th of August … almost all the institutions and peculiarities which constituted the framework of government and society throughout France were unhesitatingly swept away, at the instigation and demand of the first magistrates and nobles of the land, who did not sufficiently consider that they who destroy at once all existing laws (whatever those laws may be) destroy, at the same time, all established habits of thought; that is, all customs of obedience, all spontaneous feelings of respect and affection, without which a form of government is merely an idea on paper. In after times, M. de Talleyrand, when speaking of this period, said, in one of his characteristic phrases: 'La Révolution a désossé la France,' 'The Revolution has disboned France.' … The Bishop of Autun was undoubtedly among the foremost in destroying the traditions which constitute a community, and proclaiming the theories which captivate a mob." (P. 55.)

This extract is a fair specimen of the false statement of facts, and of the fallacious reasoning in the diplomatic body, on popular events. It is as destitute of truth as it is of logic, or a correct understanding of the principles upon which civil government is constituted. In all that was done so far, only antiquated, effete, feudal, or petty provincial privileges were surrendered; privileges which properly belonged to the state for the benefit of the nation whenever the state might deem it proper to demand them or to destroy them; for, long before, they ought to have been abolished. The aristocracy now chose voluntarily to relinquish them gracefully. They removed thereby great grievances from the public, and many intolerable burdens from the peasants. The laws which were repealed at the same time were only customs or statutes which had protected the privileges given up, and became obsolete when nothing was left for them to protect. Instead of dissolving society, the relinquishment of petty political rights was the removal of pernicious, detestable rubbish. All laws were not abrogated; nor was one destroyed, altered, or amended which protected the person or preserved property.

The next step of progress in the right direction was a vigorous effort to induce the king to be equally generous and patriotic in relinquishing some of his odious antiquated prerogatives. But Louis XVI. was unwilling to conform to the public wishes; he refused, because compliance would trench upon the sovereignty which he had received untouched from his royal ancestors, and which he resolved to transmit untarnished to his posterity. But when the pressure for a written constitution began to threaten his personal safety, he yielded with a mental reservation that he had given way to superior force; he conscientiously, but erroneously and fatally, believed his consent was not binding on him or his heirs. The representatives of the nation now maintained, that ministers having the national confidence should be called into the royal cabinet. To this reasonable request, the king refused his consent; but he temporized by reluctantly giving audience to Mirabeau, Talleyrand, and some others of the liberal party, leaving them under the mistaken impression that he would listen to their advice. But the king did not adopt their counsels; he did not intend that any of them should become his counsellors.

Louis granted them a hearing in order to conceal his intentions. It was only a blind to cover his purpose, which was to resume, at the first opportunity, what he had relinquished, and to send Mirabeau and Talleyrand, with their friends the sans-culottes, adrift. These liberals were consequently deceived; in truth, they aided in their own deception; they could not imagine the king would prove a traitor to his own interests. The king, however, was only playing over again the losing game practised by Charles I., and by his son, James II., of England. The stake in both countries was the same: it was, whether sovereignty should repose in the crown, as in ancient times, or in the people, in accordance with modern ideas. The prize cannot be divided, as some supposed; it can never be divided; in its very nature it is indivisible; it would be as impossible as to place one crown on two separate heads at the same time. Sir Henry Bulwer, as a true Briton, thinks, no doubt, the Stuart sovereigns were perjured knaves, because they deceived the House of Commons, and broke solemn promises made to their ministers; but he views the Bourbon king as foolish only in doing the same things, and pursuing the same line of policy. Now, in verity, the moral code applies alike to both dynasties, in both countries, in both centuries. Whatever royal promise is made should be royally and religiously fulfilled; but its violation does not justify a resort to the block at Whitehall or to the guillotine at the Carrousel. The execution of a monarch for defending his prerogatives by fair means or false promises, is no less a crime against civilization than it is a political error. No good can come of it; no good ever has.

But the duplicity and falsehood of Louis, in its incidents, brought on the first blow against property; and with the attack on property, all the crimes and calamities, all the misery, poverty, and long list of woes of the Revolution commenced. Then society began to disintegrate; then France began to disbone; it never ended until morality, Christianity, civilization, were crushed to a jelly. Talleyrand was the leader in this raid, and on his head rests the responsibility. He was the great oracle on financial topics in the National Assembly; he was the member looked up to for the solution of the financial problem to save the nation from ruin; he had accepted the position almost thrust upon him; and his reputation was at stake in surmounting the crisis. With success he could compel the king to invite him into the ministry. Mirabeau admitted this in a letter to a friend, and a portfolio in the ministry was the goal of Talleyrand's ambition. All eyes were, therefore, turned to the Bishop of Autun, and the eyes of the bishop turned to the landed property of the church, from whence the wants of the treasury could be immediately and with facility supplied. He was willing to propose the double sacrilege on religion and on society; for it was no less an outrage on civilization or civil government than it was on Christianity, which is the foundation of good government.

The coolness with which Sir Henry Bulwer states this desecration can only be compared with the absurdity in the line of argument with which Talleyrand advocated the measure. If some Bishop Colenso in the House of Lords should propose the seizure and confiscation of the wealth of the Anglican Establishment, the question would appear in a different aspect to the British diplomatist. He would view it with horror. In either case, however, the measure would be infamous. Governments are instituted to protect property, not to squander it; and the only difference between that which is held by an individual for himself and that which is held in trust for the benefit of others, is in the circumstance that whatever is in trust is, in the public estimation, more sacred, because it is preserved for the welfare of the poor, the weak, the ignorant or infirm of mind, who cannot provide for themselves; just as the state extends a more paternal care over the property of infants, idiots, or orphans, than over the interests of men and women of full growth and sound mind. If a call must be made in a sudden exigency for funds, what government, not demented, would spare the mercantile houses of the rich, to sequestrate and spoliate the hospitals for the helpless?

Talleyrand considered the church property as public property; but this view, plausible at first sight, is found on reflection to be fallacious. It was not derived from the nation, nor from the public, but from individuals, and from its own accumulations; it was not designed for the benefit of the public, but for a specific class of the people—the needy—to which class the mass of the community did not belong, and, furthermore, hoped they never would. So much for the bishop's premises and argument. But a stronger objection remains: it is the broad principle of the invasion of private rights, of common justice; and when that principle is once rendered unstable by common consent, the stability of all public opinion, of all civil institutions, of all organized government, is shaken; the state is liable to be overturned. When the National Assembly deemed it proper for the public good to confiscate the church property, the Legislative Assembly followed the example set to deprive persons of their liberty, and the National Convention next voted away lives by the hecatomb daily; under the same plea, the king himself was decapitated. When the public morality was once vitiated, who could foretell where the national criminality would terminate, who or how many would not be its victims?

It has been the same with European ethics. When the great Frederick of Prussia violated the Pragmatic Sanction, to which Prussia had assented, and seized upon Silesia, neighboring nations were not slow to forget and forgive his audacity and to follow his unrighteous example. The partition of Poland grew out of it, from the contempt entertained for international opinion. Next came the French Revolution, when nations had no faith in the integrity of rival governments, nor had governments much confidence in their people. The world went backward in civilization, and the long wars of the republic, of the consulate, of the empire, ensued; not only the French, but every foreign soil on the Continent, was drenched in blood. At last, the moral atmosphere became so foul that the idea of assassination was entertained and talked about in every court at war with Napoleon. It was deemed feasible, it was favored by a silent assent; it floated in the air.

Sir Henry, in echo to diplomatic opinion and to the sentiment of the belligerent nations, treats the murder in cold blood of the Bourbon Duke d'Enghien, by order of Napoleon, as an atrocity. The act certainly was atrocious; but, at the bar of history, who are all the criminals that may be arraigned as accomplices in conspiring to efface the stain of turpitude in assassination from the Christian code of morals? How many were smiling at the prospect of doing unto the French emperor that which he did unto the duke? Not one statesman, or legislator, or diplomatist, or writer, could in his conscience cast the first stone. Public opinion was debauched on the subject; moral integrity was disboned. Napoleon justified his conduct in the only way left open to modify the enormity of the offence—to extenuate the nefarious deed. He excused himself as he excused his first attacks in war; it was to defend himself by becoming the assailant. He undertook to teach his enemies the efficacy of retaliation, and the lesson did teach them. Nothing more was ever whispered in secret, or again talked openly, of taking him off by poison or the dagger.

Talleyrand, although imperial prime minister at the time, does not appear to have been consulted. From all that is known, he certainly did not advise or countenance the act; he did not approve or condemn when it was done. What he communicated officially, he wrote, as secretary of the emperor, that which was dictated to him to write. But, on the other hand, no one is aware that he counselled against the murder; in all probability, in his laxity of morals, his sensibilities were not much shocked by the event. He was never known to have considered the transaction an impolitic measure; the common story that he spoke of it as worse than a crime—as a political blunder—has no authentic foundation.

Such was the course of affairs growing out of the first invasion of rights to property at the suggestion of the Bishop of Autun. But the immediate effects upon his fortunes are curious. He was erroneously associated in the foreign mind with the revolutionary acts that followed; and when, on the contrary, for self-preservation, he fled to London to escape the stigma of those very acts and the malice of the very men who perpetrated them, he was ordered out of England as a Jacobin or regicide and found a refuge in America. But in our republic no countenance was given to him, no cordial greeting extended. By the Federalists, he was, contemned as a traitor to his king, an apostate to his religion, an enemy to social order. By the anti-Federalists he was viewed as an aristocrat, an émigré, an obstacle to social progress. The ex-bishop, therefore, in 1794, like the expatriated M. Blot in 1864, had leisure to turn his attention to the culinary art. Talleyrand, and the other involuntary emigrants, observed upon the vines near the kitchens a beautiful round red production growing, which was cultivated as a vegetable ornament, whose botanical name was the lycopersicum, but which Americans called the love-apple. The French gentlemen recognized in it their tomate, and forthwith taught our great-grandmothers how to render it a more palatable esculent for their tables than it was a pleasing embellishment to their gardens.

But the Reign of Terror soon terminated; like the reign of Louis, it ended also at the guillotine. He now returned to Paris. His friend Barras was in the Directory, and Barras was of the aristocracy, who, however, "had been forgiven the crime of being a noble, in consideration of the virtue of being a regicide." From that date began the new lease to Talleyrand of power, prestige, influence, and prosperity, which was never again broken during his long life. He was willing to serve any administration under any form of government, providing it was the best under the circumstances, and when he could be, as he for the first time expressed it, the right man in the right place. But never for a day did he remain when he could not be useful to France, nor serviceable to the executive by whom he was retained. He knew how long it was beneficial to adhere to the Directory, and when the time had come to drop off. The first consul was treated in the same manner, and the emperor, and the allies, and Louis XVIII., and Louis Philippe. None of them could fascinate him by their condescension or consideration; yet he served them all honorably, honestly; but it was requisite he should be called and retained on his own terms. When he was dismissed, it was not before he already knew it was better for his own interests to go.

When Alexander of Russia entered Paris, in 1814, with the allied armies, the czar took up his imperial residence at Talleyrand's mansion, and expected to use the late prime minister for his own purpose by the high honor conferred. But Talleyrand was insensible to such delicate attentions; he was fully conscious he was himself a prince, and of the proud family of Périgord, a family that were sovereign in provinces of France in the middle ages, long before the Romanoffs, surrounded by a wild horde of half-naked Tartars, had ever held court on horse-back, or crossed the Ural, or been heard of in Europe. Talleyrand was not made a tool by the czar, but the czar was moulded like wax under the manipulations of Talleyrand; to him Louis XVIII. was indebted for his throne; and afterward, at the Congress of Vienna, when Alexander discovered Talleyrand could not be induced to betray French interests for the benefit of Russia, the czar compelled Louis to dismiss him from office.

Napoleon was estimated in a similar manner, but with even less respect, for he had been a plebeian, and perhaps, if anything, worse; he was not a Frenchman, he was a Corsican. After the battle of Leipsic, Napoleon offered the portfolio of foreign ministry to his former minister, but on the condition he should lay down the rank and emoluments of vice-grand elector. The object of the emperor was to make him dependent on imperial favor. But Talleyrand, who would have accepted the office, refused the condition, saying: "If the emperor trusts me, he should not degrade me; and if he does not trust me, he should not employ me; the times are too critical for half-measures." No circumlocution was resorted to on either side; it was plain dealing; for the parties knew with whom they were treating, and no compliments were requisite. M. Thiers remarks that "two superior Frenchmen, until they have an opportunity to flatter one another, are natural enemies." However much Talleyrand's wish might have been to assist the emperor, he would not show it: his invariable maxim was point de zèle—never evince ardor in anything.

But while he had no abasement in the presence of the great, he had no assumption toward equals or inferiors in mind and in position. Thoroughly self-reliant, he was never found disconcerted nor off his guard; in the widest sense he was a man; he held all others as no more and no less. He had no confidants. Perhaps Montrond was an exception, for Montrond was a specialty, Sir Henry tells us, of the age, a type of the French roué. He was one of Talleyrand's pets, as Talleyrand was one of his admirations. Each spoke ill of the other; for each said he loved the other for his vices. But no one could speak to Talleyrand with so much intimacy, nor obtain from him so clear an answer; for they trusted one another, though Montrond would never have told any one else to trust Talleyrand, nor Talleyrand have told any one else to trust M. de Montrond.

Here we must, with reluctance, lay down Sir Henry's book; space will not permit dwelling longer upon it.

The Basilica of St. Saturnin.

My journey to the ancient and religious city of Toulouse was made in a season of sorrow. I was in the fearful grasp of giant Despair, whose whips were as scorpions urging me on. Every step in this sorrowful way was a torture, because it widened the distance between me and a past which could never return. I felt like those poor souls in Dante's Inferno, whose heads were placed backward, so their tears fell on their shoulders. So my heart was looking ever back—back, with sorrowful eyes, as if the future held no consolation in store. O soul of little faith! encompassed by thy black cloud, absorbed in thy griefs, thou seest not the brightness beyond the darkness that enfolds thee! Journeying on with weary steps, I found in my way a cross. I was already laden with one—seemingly overwhelming—which the past had bequeathed to me, and I was about to turn aside from this material cross I had stumbled upon, when I called to mind a traveller of the olden time who found, like me, a cross in his pathway. Not satisfied with kneeling before it, he caught it up and pressed it to his heart. What should he find but a precious treasure concealed beneath! Such a treasure I found beneath the great Latin cross known as St. Saturnin or St. Sernin's church at Toulouse—a treasure I took to my heart, which it continues to enrich, and hallow, and beautify. I turned aside from my weary path to find consolation and rest in this great cruciform temple, and not in vain. O little isle of peace in an ocean of sorrow! how sweetly did the hours pass in thy serene atmosphere! The Vade in pace came to my soul like the sun after a great tempest, restoring brightness and freshness to my world. A thousand tender and holy emotions floating around, like the birds in the arches of Notre Dame de Paris; came nestling to my heart. At such moments

"The eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache."

But it is not my intention to indulge here in any display of personal emotion. I only wish, in gratitude for many holy memories, to note down a few of the impressions I received in a sacred place, and mention in a simple way some of the objects that interested me particularly, but not as a connoisseur of Christian art.

I am sure no one has ever lived in Catholic countries without feeling thankful that there is one door ever open to the passer-by, with its mute appeal to sinful, sorrowing humanity to enter and lay down its burden. It is the door of God's house, which rejects no one—always open, reminding us that the All-Father is ever ready to receive us. Who can resist the appeal? How many a poor peasant have I seen, with care on the brow, turn aside for a moment into a church, lay down the basket of provisions or utensils for a brief prayer, and then go on his way refreshed! These ever-open churches are like fountains by the wayside, where the heated and foot-worn traveller may find rest and a cooling draught, without money and without price. Ah! who would close thy gates, O house of prayer? As the poet says: "Is there, O my God! an hour in all life when the heart can be weary of prayer? when man, whom thou dost deign to hear in thy temple, can have no incense to offer before thy altar, no tear to confide to thee?"

Even the undevout cannot pass one of the grand old churches of the middle ages with indifference; especially one like the basilica of St. Sernin, with so many historic and religious memories connected with it, and which seems to appeal to every instinct of our nature. Entering this great church by the western portal, I could not forget that through it had passed three Roman pontiffs and many a king of France. Pope Urban II., returning from the Council of Clermont, where the first crusade had been decided upon, came, in the year of our Lord 1096, to consecrate this church, built on the ruins of two others. Some days after came Count Raymond de St. Gilles, the hero of the Holy Wars, to pray before the tomb of St. Saturnin, followed by princely vassals, before reviewing the one hundred thousand soldiers at the head of whom he opened a passage to the Holy Sepulchre. His two noble sons, Bertrand and Alphonse Jourdain, likewise passed through the same door, preceded by their family banner, before going, like their glorious father, to die in the Holy Land. Simon de Montfort, of Albigensian memory, before being invested with the comté of Toulouse, came here to kneel before the tombs of the apostles and martyrs. Among the kings of France, Philippe-le-Hardi came here four times. Charles VI., Louis XI., Louis XIII., and Louis le Grand also rendered homage to the saints herein enshrined. Above all, Saint Bernard, St. Dominick, and many other renowned saints trod these pavements and prayed under these arches! …

Some may think lightly of these associations, and say,

"A man's a man for a' that;"

but there are no greater hero-worshippers than the Americans; none love a title more than a stanch republican; and I, a Hebrew of the Hebrews! frankly own to this little weakness. I love the grand old names and titles. I look with curiosity and respect on the footprints of kings and crusaders, and even of knights of low degree, and I tread with reverence the stones the blessed saints have trod. …

St. Sernin's church, built in imitation of St. Paul's at Rome, is of the Latin style, cruciform in shape, terminating, in pious memory of the five sacred wounds of our Saviour, with five chapels toward the holy East; for the orientation is carefully fixed, as in all ancient churches. There are five naves in this church, separated by four rows of majestic pillars. It is rare to find these collateral naves.

On entering this church, one is profoundly impressed by the majestic arches and the length of the grand nave with the double row of arcades on each side. A mysterious light, coming one hardly knows whence, is diffused through the multiplied arches, disposing the soul to calmness and meditation. The long naves all seem, through the converging rows of columns, to point to that altar in the distance where is seen the twinkling light that ever burns before the tabernacle, drawing one on like a powerful magnet. The Christian heart feels the influence of a Presence diffused, like the light before IT, throughout the vast enclosure.

Thoreau, who only worshipped nature, impressed by the religious atmosphere of a great Catholic cathedral, said such a vast cave at hand in the midst of a city, with its still atmosphere and sombre light disposing to serious, profitable thought, is worth thousands of our (Protestant) churches which are open only on Sundays. "I think," says he, "of its value, not only to religion, but to philosophy and poetry: besides a reading-room, to have a thinking room in every city!" And who can tell the influence, not only on the mind and heart, but on the taste, of such a church with its paintings, statuary, holy emblems, and antique shrines which have for ages been the glory of one's city, and intimately connected with its past history?

The most striking object, on entering the principal nave, is the tomb of St. Sernin, raised in the air on the uplifted heads of four gilded bulls. Over it is a baldaquin on which is represented the apotheosis of the saint. The whole is richly gilded, and, when lighted up, has a brilliant effect.

Ossa Sancti Saturnini,

in large gilded letters, is inscribed on the sarcophagus. At first the taureaux puzzled me. I thought of the bulls of Bashan—of the cattle upon a thousand hills—and of the sacrifices of the old law, but I could not see their connection with St. Saturnin. But in recalling his martyrdom I found the solution of my perplexity.

St. Sernin, the apostle and first Bishop of Toulouse, was sent by Pope St. Fabian, in the third century, to carry the light of faith into Gaul. His success in the conversion of the people to Christianity so infuriated the priests of Jupiter and Minerva, who were specially worshipped in the capital of Toulouse, that they one day seized him, and, on his refusing to sacrifice to the gods, attached him to the feet of an infuriated wild bull, who leaped down the hill, dashing out the brains of the saint. Two holy women gathered together his remains, but the place of their burial was known only to a few till after the triumph of the Christian religion in the empire of Rome. An oratory was erected over his tomb in the fourth century, and later a church rose which was completed by the great St. Exuperius, the seventh successor of St. Sernin in the see of Toulouse—that saint so renowned for his charities and learning, and whose remains are enshrined in this church. He was the friend of St. Jerome, who corresponded with him, and dedicated to him his commentary on the prophecies of Zachary. St. Exuperius even sold the sacred vessels of the altar to feed his flock during a great famine, so the Body of Christ had to be carried in an osier basket, and a chalice of glass was used in the service of the altar—a chalice carefully preserved by a grateful people till the Revolution of 1793.

One loves to recall, among the many sainted bishops of Toulouse, that "flower of royal blood," Louis of Anjou, grand-nephew of St. Louis, King of France, and nephew of the dear St. Elizabeth of Hungary. At the age of twenty-one he was offered a kingdom, which he refused in favor of his brother, wishing to consecrate himself to God among the Franciscans. "Jesus Christ is my kingdom," said he. "Possessing him, I have all things: without him, I have nothing." He was ordained priest at the age of twenty-two, and obliged by holy obedience to accept the see of Toulouse. Before receiving episcopal consecration he made a pilgrimage to Rome and took the habit of St. Francis. The Toulousains received him with magnificence as a prince, and revered him as a saint. Like St. Exuperius, he was devoted to the poor, to whom he gave the greater part of his revenues. Every day he fed twenty-five poor men at his table and served them himself, sometimes on his knees. Terrified by the obligations of his office, he begged to be released from them, and God granted what men denied. During his last sickness, he exclaimed: "I have at last arrived in sight of the desired haven. I am going to enjoy the presence of my God, of which the world would deprive me." He died with the Ave Maria on his lips, at the age of twenty-three and a half years.

What renders the basilica of St. Sernin one of the most remarkable and one of the holiest spots in the world, after Jerusalem and Rome, is the number of the saints herein enshrined. The counts of Toulouse brought back from the Holy Land many relics which they obtained in the East. Thus a great part of the body of St. George was brought from Palestine by William Taillefer, eighth Count of Toulouse. Kings of France also endowed this church with relics. Those of St. Edmund, King of England, were brought to France by Louis VIII. The crypts in which most of these relics are contained are intended to recall the catacombs of Rome. In the eleventh century they were not in shrines or reliquaries, but reposed in marble tombs, and the faithful went to pray before them, as in the crypts of St. Calixtus on the Appian Way. Over the door leading into the upper crypts is the inscription, "Hic sunt vigiles qui custodiunt civitatem," and over the door of the pilgrims, "Non est in toto sanctior orbe locus." This door leads to the inferior crypts, which you descend by a flight of steps. The numerous pilgrims of the middle ages paused on each step to repeat a prayer. Thus they passed on into the numerous passages of the crypts, recalling the catacombs. As you go down into them, you pause amid your prayers to read an inscription, in red letters, on a white marble tablet:

"Under the auspices, and by the pious munificence of the emperors Charlemagne, Louis le Débonnaire, and Charles le Chauve, the wonderful basilica of Saturnin has received the precious remains of several apostles and of a great number of martyrs, virgins, and confessors of the faith. The dukes of Aquitaine, the counts of Toulouse, have increased this treasure. The magistrates of this capital have faithfully guarded it.
"Here Religion preserves for the eternal edification of the faithful a portion of the cross of our Lord, a thorn from his crown, (the gift of Count Alphonse, brother of St. Louis,) a fragment from the rock of the Holy Sepulchre, (glorious conquest of the Toulousain crusaders.) and a piece of a garment of the Mother of God.
"Under these vaults, O pious traveller! are venerated the relics of St. Peter, St. Paul, St. James the major, St. James the minor, St. Philip, St. Simon, St. Jude, St. Barnaby, St. Bartholomew, apostles.
"St. Claudius, St. Crescentius, St. Nicostratus, St. Simplicius, St. Castor, St. Christopher, St. Julian, St. Cyr, St. Asciscle, St. Cyril, St. Blasius, St. George.
"The first bishops of Toulouse, the series of whom date from the third century: Saint Saturnin, St. Honorius, St. Hilaire, St. Sylvius, St. Exuperius, repose in this church.
"Not far from their venerated remains are those of St. Honestus, St. Papoul, St. William, Duke of Aquitaine, St. Edmund, King of England, St. Gilles, St. Gilbert, St. Thomas of Aquin, St. Vincent of Paul, St. Raymond, Pope St. Pius V., St. Susanna, St. Julietta, St. Margaret, St. Catharine, St. Lucia, and of St. Agatha."

Grow not weary, kind reader, over this long list of names, for each one has its history, which is interwoven with that of Holy Church. Let us rather linger with love and faith over each name, whether humble or mighty on earth—now potent in heaven! Let us murmur them in reverence, for some of them are inscribed on the foundations of the New Jerusalem—and all gleam like precious stones on its walls—all these did wear on earth "the jewelled state of suffering," but they are now triumphant in heaven, and their memory has long been glorious on earth.

One feels deeply awed in descending among these shrines containing the bodies of the saints—temples of the Holy Ghost. Virtue hath not yet gone out from them, as is testified by the wonders still wrought at their tombs.

Many of the present shrines are antique, some costly, and all interesting, but they have lost their ancient splendor. Their magnificence before the Revolution may be imagined from existing descriptions. These tell us of, among others, the silver shrine of St. Edmund, an ex-voto from the city of Toulouse, in 1684, in gratitude for deliverance from the plague, adorned with statues of solid silver. When the saint was transferred to this châsse, it was exposed to the veneration of the people for eight days, and all the parishes of the environs came to honor them. Some days there were fifty processions, which gives an idea of the lively faith and piety of that age. The octave was terminated by a general procession in the city, in which were borne forty four shrines, the most of them silver, and adorned with gold and precious stones.

And when, in 1385, the relics of St. James the major were transferred to a new shrine, the Duc de Berry, brother of Charles VI., gave for it a silver bust of the saint, a gold chain to which was attached a sapphire of great value, surrounded by rubies and pearls, with other jewels which adorned the bust till the time of the Revolution.

Like Madame de Staël, "I love this prodigality of terrestrial gifts to another world—offerings from time to eternity! Sufficient for the morrow are the cares required by human economy. Oh! how much I love what would be useless waste, were life nothing better than a career of toil for despicable gain!"

Though these shrines are stripped of most of their former splendor, the inestimable relics remain still venerated by the people. They no longer go there in the old garb of the pilgrim, with "sandal shoon and scallop-shell," or only occasionally, but their faith is as profound, and their piety as genuine. I was so fortunate as to meet a pilgrim in the orthodox garb as I was going into the church. He entered just before me. He was clad in a loose brown habit which extended to his feet. Over his shoulders was a cape, around which were fastened scallop-shells, as we see in pictures of pilgrims. His feet were sandalled.

"His sandals were with travel tore: Staff, budget, bottle, scrip he wore."

In truth, he had a bundle suspended by a stick on his shoulder. His hair was disordered, his eyes cast down, and he went from shrine to shrine paying his devotions, regardless of every one. From the way in which he made the sign of the cross I took him to be a Spaniard. I felt an indescribable emotion of pity for him whose contrition had induced to assume a penitential garb, and go from church to church living on alms, and I prayed that his soul might find peace—that peace which the world cannot give!

One of the first subterranean chapels I entered was that of the Sainte-Epine, in which is a beautiful silver reliquary, containing one of the thorns from the crown our suffering Saviour wore. It was given by St. Louis to his brother Alphonse, who married Jeanne, daughter of Raymond VII., last Count of Toulouse. On the pavement of the chapel is graven this ancient distich, likening the Sainte-Epine, surrounded by the bodies of thirteen saints, to a thorn among roses:

"Quisquis es externus quaerens miracula sixte, En tredecim pulchris insita spina rosis."

After the Revolution a holy priest of Toulouse established, in honor of this precious relic, the Confraternity of the Holy Thorn, composed of the most fervent Catholics of the city. Afflicted by the prolonged captivity of Pope Pius VII., they begged of God his deliverance—not only at their own shrines, but at that of St. Germaine of Pibrac. Their prayers were heard. On the 2d of February, 1814, the holy father slowly and sadly passed the walls of Toulouse on his way to Italy, locked up in his carriage! The highway was completely obstructed by the crowds of people, who, all bathed in tears, went out to meet him, and on their knees besought his benediction. Among them were the votaries of the Sainte-Epine, raising their hands to heaven in behalf of the holy captive.

The pope earnestly desired to enter the city that he might venerate the body of the angelic doctor, in the church of St. Sernin, but it was not deemed expedient to entrust such a guest to the faithful Toulousains. Halting beyond the ramparts, merely to change their horses and obtain refreshments, they hurried on as if afraid of losing their prisoner.

In another chapel of the crypts is the altar of St. Simon and St. Jude, containing their relics. It was consecrated by Pope Calixtus II. Old legends tell us that these apostles were two of the shepherds of Bethlehem, who first heard the Gloria in Excelsis. One loves to believe that they who were encircled by the brightness of God, to whom angels talked, and who were first at the manger, should afterward be called to follow our Saviour and preach the glad tidings, which they had heard from angelic tongues, to the nations afar off. They could not have lost sight of him who was so miraculously revealed to them. They must have hastened to join him as soon as he entered upon his public life.

In a niche, close by the chapel of St. Simon and St. Jude, is the entire body of St. Gilles, to whom the old counts of Toulouse had a particular devotion, especially Raymond IV., who is invariably styled in history Raymond de St. Gilles. This saint was very popular, not only in France, but in England and Scotland. A large hospital for lepers was built by the queen of Henry I. outside the city of London, which has given its name to a large district of that city; and St. Giles is the patron saint of Edinburgh, where a church was built under his invocation not later then 1359. This renders his shrine a place of interest to all who speak the English tongue. St. Sernin possesses, too, the body of one of England's sainted kings and that of her patron saint.

St. Gilles, or St. Giles, was an Athenian of royal blood, who, fearing the admiration excited by his talents, went to France, and became a hermit in a cave near the mouth of the Rhone. He subsisted on the produce of the woods and the milk of a tame hind. After his death a magnificent monastery, and then a city, rose round his tomb, and gave his name to the counts of Languedoc.

In a large portable châsse is the head of the glorious St. Thomas Aquinas, the author of the profound Summa Theologiae and the sublime Office of the Blessed Sacrament, worthy of the tongues of angels. This great doctor of the middle ages is not dead. His voice is still heard in the office of the church, "now with a single antiphon unlocking whole abysses of Scripture, and now in almost supernatural melody, more like the echoes of heaven than mere poetry of earth," says Faber. One should listen to this grand office resounding in the arches of the church where its author is enshrined, when thousands of tapers, around the enthroned ostensorium, light up the brilliant shrine of St. Sernin! It is a foretaste of the song of the redeemed!

When the body of St. Thomas of Aquin, brought from Italy, approached Toulouse, Louis of Anjou, brother of Charles V. of France, with archbishops and mitred abbots, at the head of one hundred and fifty thousand people, went out to meet it. Duke Louis and the principal lords of his court bore over it a canopy blazing with gold and precious stones. Around it floated six standards: on two were the arms of France, the third of Anjou, the others of the pope, the house of Aquin, and the city of Toulouse. They enshrined it magnificently in the church of the Dominicans, but it has been at St. Sernin since the Revolution. When placed in its present châsse in 1852, the venerable Père Lacordaire made a panegyric of the saint, attracting an immense audience. The arms of the illustrious house of Aquin are emblazoned on his altar.

In passing out of the crypts on the side opposite that which I entered is the following inscription:

"After having reunited in Clermont, in the year of salvation 1096, the faithful destined to deliver the Holy Sepulchre, Pope Urban II. wished himself to consecrate this basilica, one of the most precious monuments of Christian art. The sovereign pontiff had near him Raymond IV., Count of Toulouse and of St. Gilles, that glorious prince who first displayed on his banners and on his armor the Holy Cross of the Saviour.
"Popes Clement VII., Paul V.. Urban V., and Pius IV. have granted numerous privileges to this abbatial church. Those who visit its seven principal altars obtain indulgences like those acquired before the seven altars of St. Peter's church at Rome.
"Charles VI., Louis XI., Francis I., Charles IX., Louis XIII., and Louis XIV., kings of France, have, in praying, passed through these holy catacombs. It is here that in all public calamities a pious population has constantly resorted to implore the powerful intercession of the holy protectors of this antique and religious city."

There is hung on the walls of the crypts a curious bas-relief of the youthful Saviour, which is supposed to date from the Carlovingian age. He is in an aureola, ovoidal in form, pointed at its two extremities. Without, in the angles, are the emblems of the four evangelists. Around the head of our Saviour is a nimbus in the form of a cross, on which are graven the letters Alpha and Omega. This bas-relief was evidently the centre of an extensive work. The youthfulness of the features of Christ gives a presumption in favor of its antiquity. He is often found on many Christian sarcophagi, and in many of the paintings of the catacombs at Rome, with a youthful face. M. Didron says that, from the third to the tenth century, Christ is oftener represented young and beardless, but his face, young at first, grows older from century to century, as Christianity advances in age. The ancient Christian monuments at Rome, Aries, and elsewhere represent Christ with a young and pleasing face.

Many non-Catholics do not like these representations of our Saviour at all. The old Puritans were so opposed even to a cross that, in 1634, they cut out the holy emblem from St. George's flag; but there is now a great reaction in this respect. We pray it may grow still stronger. We find many of these representations of our Saviour, which must date from the beginning of Christianity. The Emperor Alexander Severus, who ascended the throne A.D. 222, had placed in his Lararium a statue of Christ, but we are not told how he is depicted. The Sudario of Veronica, the portrait attributed to St. Luke, the statue raised in the city of Paneas by the grateful Hémorroïsse, whether genuine or not, belong to the earliest ages, and prove, says M. Didron, that the Son of God was represented by painters and sculptors from the dawn of Christianity.

The chapels in the upper crypts are very interesting, with their statues and bas-reliefs covering the panelled niches which contain the holy relics. There is, in one of the chapels, a crucifix which St. Dominick used when he preached, and which he is said to have held up to animate the army of Simon de Montfort, at the great battle of Muret, when the Albigenses were decisively overthrown. Lacordaire says St. Dominick was not present at the battle, but remained in a chapel hard by, to pray, like Moses, with uplifted arms. One looks upon the crucifix with interest. It is of wood, blackened by time, and about a yard in length. The feet of the Christ are fastened one upon the other, in the Italian style.

One of the chapels bears the startling title of the Seven Sleepers, which would seem to savor of magic or oriental legend. They were seven Christians martyred at Ephesus, in the reign of Trajan, where, in the language of Scripture, they slept in the Lord. Their bodies having been found in the year 479, it was said, in mystic style, that they had awakened again, after a sleep of more than two hundred years. Honoring them collectively, it became a custom to call them the Seven Sleepers, and the Mohammedans have preserved the tradition as well as Christians. A chapel dedicated to them is rarely found; but Mrs. Jameson says they perpetually occur in the miniatures, sculpture, and stained glass of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. They are found in the chapel of Edward the Confessor at Westminster. Their statues, lying side by side on a bed of stone, were formerly in their chapel at St. Sernin, but only two of them now remain.

In the treasury of the abbey of St. Saturnin were formerly many curious and valuable objects. One of these, now in the museum at Toulouse, is the horn of Orlando, which, indeed, is ornamented with figures in the style of the age of Charlemagne. During the last days of Holy Week, when the bells were hushed during the awful days commemorating our Saviour's passion and death, the prolonged notes of this horn called the faithful to prayer. A similar one was used in the church of St. Orens at Auch, which is still carefully preserved. One loves whatever recalls Orlando, the type of Christian chivalry. Many a tradition of him lingers in this country. Roncesvalles claims to possess his armor, and Blaye his terrible sword and his tomb. In the country of the Escualdunae is the Pas de Roland, a gigantic footprint on a large rock. At the other extremity of the Pyrenees, in Roussillon, the long table of a Celtic dolmen is called by the people Le Palet de Roland; and large depressions in the form of a semi-circle, in this part of France, mark the passage of Orlando's steed—that steed over which, when dead, his master wept, begging his forgiveness if he had ever been ill-treated. The poet tells us the horse opened his eyes kindly on his master, and never stirred more.

One would like to think this the veritable horn of Orlando—which was so powerful, when sounded for the last time, that the very birds of the air fell dead, the Saracens fell back in terror, and Charlemagne and his court heard its notes afar off. There is far more enjoyment in accepting all these local traditions than in disputing their truth. Let us reserve our incredulity for so-called history.

From the tower of St. Sernin there is a magnificent view of the Pyrenees from sea to sea, and of a large extent of country full of historic and religious associations. Directly beneath is the old city of Toulouse, recalling Clemence Isaure and the golden violets, and the troubadours of an older time. St. Anthony of Padua frequented its famous schools. St. Dominick here founded the order of Preaching Friars, which has given so many doctors and missionaries to the church. St. Vincent Ferrier preached yonder in St. George's Square. In that same Place afterward preached Friar Thomas de Illirico against the excesses of the Carnival, and against all games of chance, with such effect that all the cards found in the shops were publicly burned and the trade of card-maker abolished. One day, after the preaching of this servant of God, the capitouls had placed on the five principal gates of the city a marble tablet which bore en relief the holy name of JESUS supported by angels—that name so powerful for defence that it makes the very demons tremble!

Another famous preacher of that time induced the capitouls to appoint four watchmen to patrol the city at night, from one till five, and chanting loudly:

"Réveillez-vous, gens qui dormez, Priez Dieu pour les trépassez."

Before leaving St. Sernin, we stop to murmur a Requiescant in pace at the tombs of the counts of Toulouse, the first sovereigns who styled themselves "By the grace of God," and whose history is so glorious and yet so sad and tragical.

And as no Catholic Christian quits a church without leaving a tribute of love before the altar of the Madonna, so, before reluctantly leaving this antique basilica, perfumed with a thousand memories, I drop my bead at the feet of Mary, remembering that in this country were first strung together the bright jewels of the rosary, which have ever since adorned the garments of Christ's spouse—the Church.

AVE MARIA!

The Little Sisters of the Poor.

The thoughtful soul, whether within or without the Catholic Church, cannot fail to be impressed with the extent of her charities. The fatherless, the widow, the aged, the poor, as St. Laurence the martyr declared when ordered by the prefect of Rome to deliver to him the wealth of the church—these are her riches. But one must be within the fold to appreciate the universality of her bounty; to see that every need of suffering humanity, as it rises, finds pious souls whose vocation it is to look after that very need, to provide for that very want; and the smallness of the beginning of each world-wide charity makes the humble-hearted leap with joy that, even in the narrowest sphere, every one may be privileged to help our dear Lord in the person of his poor.

When St. Francis of Assisi gave his rule of strict poverty to the ten united with him in hungering to work for Christ, it needed more than his great faith to believe that, in forty-two years after his death, two hundred thousand zealous souls would be banded together, under his name, for prayer and alms-deeds; while, through all coming ages of the church, his followers should steadily increase, steadfast in the work for which they had joined hands.

When, in 1537, Angela Merici, of Brescia, a lady of birth and fortune, sorrowing over the death of a well-beloved sister, soothed her grief by devoting herself to the education of poor female children, at a time when four doctors of the law declared the instruction of women the work of the devil, she did not realize that from the grave of her own sorrow would spring the far-famed order of Ursulines, (a beautiful resurrection!) who collected and taught the poor orphans of massacred parents during French revolutions, and who held their infant and ragged schools long before England had thought of them.

When, in 1633, St. Vincent de Paul, seeing the misery and destitution of the poor in the streets of Paris, placed four young women, who volunteered to aid him in relieving present distress, in charge of a noble lady who had for several years devoted herself to the work under his direction, he scarcely expected to see in twenty years two hundred houses and hospitals of the order of Charity, spreading everywhere their sheltering arms for the suffering poor.

Franciscans, Ursulines, Sisters of Charity, we have in our midst, showing, by their lives of self-abnegation in this hard, worldly age and country, that the evangelical counsel, to forsake all for Christ's sake, is not obsolete.

But another branch of the great tree of charity that, like the banyan, plants itself and rises with new life and vigor wherever it takes root, is about to spread its benign shadow over our land.

The Little Sisters of the Poor are coming among us, and it is well we should know whence they come and what is their work. Like the older orders in the church, Les Petites Soeurs des Pauvres had a very small beginning.

In St. Servan, a small town on the north coast of France, washed by the waters of the English Channel, the male peasantry have, from time immemorial, obtained a scanty living for themselves and families by following the sea. This life of exposure and danger leaves always, wherever it is followed, many children fatherless and wives widows, and often deprives aged parents of their only support. It was the custom for these poor bereaved widows and parents of deceased fishermen to gather about the church-doors, asking alms of the congregation as they passed out; many abuses arose out of this way of distributing charity; the boldest fared the best, and the money thus obtained was often wasted in drink or self-indulgence, without providing for any real want. The good God touched the heart of the pious Curé of Servan by the sight of these poor persons, often blind, aged, and infirm, with none to care for them. In the quiet of his own humble home, Abbé le Pailleur thought over the condition of these miserable beings, commending them to his divine Master, and asking the guidance of him "who had not where to lay his head," in his efforts for their relief. The blessed Spirit guided to his direction a young orphan-girl from the laboring classes, who, for the love of God, desired to do something for those more destitute than herself. The curé recommended to her care an old blind woman, utterly without friends, and who, from the scanty alms bestowed at the church-door, was seldom able to obtain the smallest pittance, her blindness preventing her access to the charitably inclined.

Not many weeks passed, before another poor seamstress confided to her pastor the same desire to work for Christ's poor; she was permitted to share the labors of the other, both working all day, and coming by turns at night to watch and tend and to provide for the old blind woman, with what they could spare from their own small earnings. At length, that there might be no loss of time and labor, Marie Augustine and Marie Theresa hired an attic where they dwelt together, and took their aged pensioner to share their home.

Here their devotion and self-denial attracted the attention of a servant, Jenny Jugan, [Footnote 19] who, by industry and frugality in early life, had accumulated about six hundred francs. She asked to go with them, and to share with them, giving her all to the good work, taking her part of the toils and privations, and bringing with her one or two aged poor. Thus, on the feast of St. Theresa, 1840, the house of "The Little Sisters of the Poor" may be said to have been established.

[Footnote 19: Jenny Jugan was about forty. She was living in the attic mentioned, and received in that place the poor blind who had been under the care of Marie Augustine and Marie Theresa.]

Abbé le Pailleur had early given them a rule of life, one article of which they pondered with special care: "We will delight above all things in showing tenderness toward those aged poor who are infirm or sick; we will never refuse to assist them when occasion presents itself, but we must take great care not to meddle in what does not concern us." They still went about their daily labors, and though their earnings never exceeded one franc per day, at night they shared it with those whom God had confided to their care. The curé helped them to the extent of his resources, which were very limited. Prayer and faith were the means whereby they made so little serve for so many. The good Lord who heareth the cry of the ravens listened to the pleading of the Little Sisters, and sent them a faithful friend and benefactress in one Fanchion Aubert, who took no vows, but gave all her substance to their work, wishing to live and die among them. She possessed a little property, a small stock of the plainest furniture, and a quantity of linen; with these she came, sharing everything with them and their poor. By her thrift she had gained credit in St. Servan, and through her the sisters were able to leave the attic, and rent a long, low dwelling with space for twelve beds, which were immediately filled. And now came the time when, with the small band of sisters and the multiplication of pensioners, the age and infirmities of their poor required all their attention; they could no longer go out to earn anything; and though those of the old women who were able did sometimes assist the funds of the establishment by begging, their faithful guardians desired to save them from the temptations and degradation to which such a life too often led them.

Help came now and then, but not enough to supply all the needy ones, and the sisters often went hungry. They sought counsel of the father of the house, Abbé le Pailleur. After prayer and meditation, he proposed to the sisters that for the love of God they themselves should become beggars. Most cheerfully they went forth with baskets on their arms, asking charity, "the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table." From that day they have provided in this way for their destitute ones; nothing comes amiss, the refuse of the table or the wardrobe is accepted thankfully. These mendicant sisters have never been without their share of contumely and reproach. Members of older orders in the beginning turned the cold shoulder upon them, and they were spurned from the presence of one religieuse with the reproach, "Don't speak to me, I am ashamed of your basket!" but they only renewed their entire consecration to God, and went on begging. At length their basement was crowded to suffocation; the abbé sold his gold watch, and with the remains of Fanchion's property, and all their savings, they made the first payments for a large house; before the end of the year, the twenty-two thousand francs (the price of the house) were all paid. Here they took that name so redolent of sweetness and humility, "Little Sisters of the Poor," and here they accepted fully what before had been necessarily imperfect, their rule of life, taking, in addition to the usual vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, the vow of hospitality. At the end of two years, fifty aged people were fed and clothed by the begging sisters, and comforted and cared for with all the assiduity of the most tender love. Their rule was to divide all the broken victuals among the poor, and feed themselves upon what remained, never murmuring if they went without. One winter's night, when the old people, fed and cared for, had gone to their rest, the sisters had for their suppers only about a quarter of a pound of bread. They sat down cheerfully at the table, said their Benedicite, and passed the bread from one to the other, each declining any right to it, and all pretending to be well able to do without it. Before it had been decided how the loaf should be divided, the bell rang; some one had sent them a supply of meat and bread. "Trust in the Lord and do good, and verily thou shalt be fed," was the motto of their holy lives. It will not surprise us to learn that, in return for their self-sacrifice, Almighty God gave them many souls from among the abandoned and often dissolute people, who, but for the peaceful refuge of their home, would have been lost in the whirlpool of ignorance and vice. To bring back these poor creatures to their forgotten Father was the delight of the zealous sisters, and they felt themselves well rewarded when they saw these darkened minds opening to the truth, and returning to sit at the feet of Jesus with loving penitence.

But the house was filled to overflowing, and they resolved to build. They well knew in whose hands are the gold and silver, and into his ever-listening ear they poured their new want.

The reply did not linger, for they worked as well as prayed. At the sight of the zeal with which they began to clear the stones from a piece of ground, which they already owned, and to dig the foundations, workmen came, materials were sent, and alms flowed in abundantly.

Some time previous a person from the Island of Jersey, which is not far from St. Servan, came to that town to seek for an aged relative. He found her sheltered by the "Little Sisters," and with devout thanksgiving to God he gave alms of all that he possessed, and at his death bequeathed the house seven thousand francs. This legacy fell to them as they began the building, and with the new house came new souls, ready to consecrate themselves to the service of God's poor, and with these new sisters came the desire that the hand of charity might be held out to the poor of other regions. The elder of the two girls who were first banded together in this order, and who was now called Mother Marie Augustine, with four sisters, went out from the mother-house, and established themselves at Rennes, a town of forty thousand inhabitants, fifty or sixty miles from their first home. The trust in Providence which led to this movement was greatly blessed, and soon there came another call from the town of Dinan. This call came from the mayor of the city, who thought it a wonderful stroke of policy to provide for the town's poor without drawing on the city treasury. The sisters went without hesitancy, and in 1846 had three well-established houses, which ten of the sisterhood supported by begging.

In France, as in this country, it has been for a long time the custom for persons living in the interior to seek the sea-coast during the summer months. A young lady coming from Tours to St. Servan did not, as too many do, leave all thoughts of her religion behind, but in her temporary sojourn gave herself to good works. Attracted by the genuine humility and piety of the "Little Sisters of the Poor," she begged them to go back with her to Tours. They asked only a roof to shelter and liberty to work, and in January, 1847, they hired in that city a small house in which they received at once a dozen poor people. In 1848, they bought, for 80,000 francs, a very large building, and found shelter for a hundred. How this sum was paid and the family supported remains a secret with the angel who makes record of alms-deeds. For the food of these poor people, every café was engaged to save their coffee-grounds and tea-leaves, and schools, colleges, barracks, and families their crusts of bread; each sister, as she went forth, carried on her arm a large tin pail, divided in compartments, which allowed the scraps of bread and meat, with the cups of broth and other fragments, to be kept apart from each other. At their return, these bits were overlooked, and by the hands of the sisters made into very palatable dishes for their beloved poor. But we must not forget that other and more arduous and disagreeable duties were required of these indefatigable workers than even providing their food from such material. The nursing, tending, and watching of these poor creatures whose former lives of misery had often brought upon them repulsive infirmities and diseases, lifting the helpless, comforting the forlorn, and bearing with the ungrateful, all these must be shared by these devoted women, who had undertaken to follow the command of the apostle, to provide for the aged and the widow. Most of these nuns came from the people; many of them had witnessed want and woe from their infancy, and understood the special needs of the poor; but now and then ladies of rank and education joined them, all working together in perfect equality, each undertaking that class of duties for which she was best fitted. Many a sister has been truly a martyr for Christ, in working for these ignorant, degraded beings, often obstinate and full of ingratitude. But "it is not for the sake of gratitude we nurse them," said a sister whose pale face showed the wearing nature of her cares: "it is because in them we see le bon Dieu!"

To tell the story of the journeyings from place to place all over France, the difficulty with which they took root in some of the larger cities, and the comparative welcome they met in the smaller towns, would fill a volume. From France they went to Belgium, to Spain, to Switzerland, and lately to Ireland, and even to Protestant England and Scotland. To-day one hundred and eight houses of this order are scattered over Europe, with a sisterhood of eighteen hundred women, who watch over, comfort, and maintain more than twelve thousand poor old men and women, without money and without price save the voluntary offerings of the cheerful giver!

In England the appearance of the order excited at first much curiosity, but many turned away from them with aversion, the aversion which centuries of false teaching has planted in the minds of most Protestant communities against all religious orders; but their uniform humility, gentleness, and kindness won the day. In Park Row, Bristol, England, in Bayswater, in London, as well as in other places, their convents are admirably conducted, and they welcome visitors most cordially; wherever they go they become popular. "We get a good deal in England," said one of the sisters; "the English are very good to us, though they are Protestants." There is something in simple, honest trust in God which touches the heart, and often those who at first turned away from the begging sisters, in the end prove their warmest supporters.

On his way to business a butcher, belonging in London, and glorying in the name of "a stanch Protestant," was induced to visit one of the convents. He was so delighted with the charity and with all he saw, that he told the "good mother" to let the convent cart call at his stall once a week, and he would give them soup-meat for the house. As he went away, his conscience reproached him; the "horns and hoofs" of the dreadful "beast" of whom he had so often heard appeared before him; he might be suspected of a leaning toward popery! But then his Anglo-Saxon common sense told him that to help the aged and infirm was right, popery or not, and he kept his word; the meat is always ready when the cart arrives, but no communication passes between the sister who takes and the man who gives; he has not yet lost his fear of the "seven heads and ten horns, and the number 666."

The institution of this order at least makes plain one fact: that numbers of poor can be well supported from the waste of the rich. It ought also to put to silence those who scoff at the idea of an overruling Providence—the living God rather, who cares for the raven and the sparrow, and is constantly working miracles under our eyes, whereby the hungry are fed and the naked clothed.

Madame Guizot de Witt, a-Protestant lady, says: "Every time I visit one of the houses of the 'Little Sisters,' and see their bands of old people—aged children, so neatly dressed, so well taken care of, occupied and amused in every way that age or weakness allow, I seem to hear the voice which says, 'Go, and do thou likewise.'"

This band of noble workers is coming among us, to gather the abundance that falls from our tables, often wasted, or thrown to dumb beasts, while souls made in the image of God look on with hungry eyes.

How shall we greet these servants of God? If we receive the "Little Sister" kindly, giving of our plenty when she asks, she will thank God; if we turn away with cold questioning, she still thanks God that she may bear trial for his sake.

To the thrifty American mind, this scheme of beggary will, no doubt, appear to some as a nuisance, and call for the interference of the laws against begging; but there are others whom the hand of God has touched; these will welcome to the freedom of our land a band of sisters whose charity beareth all things, endureth all things, and hopeth all things. But however we receive them, they will still go on, and if they are turned away from one town or city by the iron hand, they will bring a blessing upon another, both now and in that day when the Judge shall say, "Come, ye blessed of my Father, possess the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry, and ye gave me meat; thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye covered me: … for as long as ye did it to one of my least brethren, ye did it to me."

List Of The Houses Founded By The Little Sisters Of The Poor.
In France.—
The novitiate at Latour;
St. Joseph, near Becherel, (Ile et Vilaine;)
Rennes;
St. Servan;
Dinan;
Tours;
Nantes;
Paris, Rue St. Jacques near the Val de Grace;
Besançon;
Angers;
Bordeaux;
Rouen;
Nancy;
Paris, Avenue de Breteuil;
Laval;
Lyon, á la Vilette;
Lille;
Marseilles;
Bourges;
Pau;
Vannes;
Colmar;
La Rochelle;
Dijon;
St. Omer;
Brest;
Chartres;
Bolbec;
Paris, Rue Beccaria, Faubourg St. Antoine;
Toulouse;
St. Dizier;
Le Havre;
Blois;
Le Maus;
Tarare;
Paris, Rue Notre Dame des Champs;
Orleans;
Strasbourg;
Caen;
St. Etienne;
Perpignan;
Montpellier;
Agen;
Poitiers;
St. Quentin;
Lisieux;
Annonay;
Amiens;
Roanne;
Valenciennes;
Grenoble;
Draguignan;
Chateauroux;
Roubaix;
Boulogne;
Dieppe;
Beziers;
Clermont Ferrand;
Lyons, La Croix Rousse;
Metz;
Nice;
Lorient;
Nevers;
Flers;
Villefranche;
Cambrai;
Niort;
Paris, Rue Philippe Gerard;
Les Sables d'Olonne;
Troyes;
Maubeuge;
Nimes;
Toulon;
Tourcoing;
Cherbourg;
Valence;
Périgueux;
and one just now beginning in Dunkerque.
In Switzerland.—Genevra.
In Belgium.—
Bruxelles, Rue Haute;
Liege, at the Chartreuse;
Jemmapes, near Mons;
Louvain;
Antwerp;
Bruges;
Ostende;
Namur.

In Spain.—
Barcelona;
Maureza;
Granada;
Lerida;
Lorca;
Malaga;
Antequera;
Madrid, Calle della Hortaletza;
Jaen;
Reuss;
two more are preparing in Valence and Andalusia.
In England, Ireland, and Scotland.—
London, (Southwark,) South Lambeth Road;
London, (Bayswater,) Portobello Lane;
Manchester, Plymouth Grove;
Bristol, Park Row;
Birmingham, Cambridge Street Crescent;
Leeds, Hanover Square;
Newcastle-on-Tyne, Clayton Street;
Plymouth, St. Mary's;
Waterford;
Edinburgh, Gilmore Place;
Glasgow, Garngad Hill;
Lochee, near Dundee;
a new foundation beginning in Tipperary.
In the United States.—
No house exists as yet, but the "Little Sisters of the Poor" are preparing three foundations which are to take place very soon, one in Brooklyn, De Kalb Avenue; a second one in New Orleans, in the buildings occupied by the Widows' Home; the third one in Baltimore, with the charge, too, of the Widows' Home; besides these, several other foundations are contemplated in the course of the next and of following year.

Religion Medically Considered.

By the term "religion," we mean that divine code mercifully revealed by God to mankind, in the old and new dispensations, as their rule of faith and practice. Its precepts have reference both to the corporal and spiritual, the temporal and eternal welfare of men. Religion, it is true, in its higher sphere, addresses itself to the soul. It embraces the affections, emotions, and sentiments of our spiritual nature, and its direction is always toward the infinite fountain of love and wisdom. Yet its scope, while for eternity, is for time also. When God first revealed himself to Moses, the Israelites were fast relapsing into heathenism, with, its pernicious and degrading habits of life. Under the divine inspiration, however, the prophet imbued them anew with faith in the true God, and presented them at the same time with an admirable code of practical life. He taught them to love and fear God, to obey his commandments, to live soberly and uprightly in themselves, and to practise justice and love toward each other. He continually placed before them the divine promises of not only eternal but also temporal rewards for obedience, and, in like manner, the threatened penalties of disobedience. Viewed even as practical rules of living for earthly life alone, his are models of excellence. No man has ever done more toward retaining that tabernacle of the human soul, the earthly body, in a pure and healthy condition than this great lawgiver. Contrast the precepts given by God through him to the Israelites after he had brought them out of the land of Egypt, with those of the Egyptians, of the Canaanites, and other heathen nations of the period. How wise and elevating are the tendencies of the one! What injustice, inhumanity, and degradation mark the other! On the one hand, love supreme to God and to one's neighbor as one's self, joined with forbearance, justice, truthfulness, honesty, chastity, temperance, cleanliness even, and rigid adherence to what would now be termed sound sanitary principles; while on the heathen side, what may be comprised in three words—selfishness, sensuality, and force. The fruits of obedience to the former were, even here, comparative immunity from disease and its sufferings, with enhanced material prosperity and happiness, and with increased longevity; while to the other there came the legitimate penalties of inordinate self-indulgence, of selfishness and evil-living; the fruits of the laws of life which heathenism gave to them.

It is hence that we claim for religion—for the religious precepts revealed to man by the divinely inspired prophets of the old dispensation, that they contributed vastly to the physical and temporal well-being of the race. The God of nature required that there should be no violation of the laws of nature; that our organs and faculties, designed for legitimate uses, should not be subjected to abuse and perversion. Hence temperance and moderation, and a rigid avoidance of whatever tended to a violation of the natural laws of health, were enjoined upon man as duties of religious obligation. That the mortal body might be and remain a fit enclosure of the immortal soul, the inspired teachings of the old law descended to the minutest details of the laws of health and life. This, indeed, constituted the less exalted sphere of religion, yet one of prime importance, so far as the well-being and happiness of earthly life was concerned.

Even, then, should we, for the moment, ignore religion in its higher relations, and leave out of the question a future existence, regarding man merely as an animal who is to be annihilated at death; still we shall find that by its precepts and its influence it has always largely contributed to his measure of health, happiness, and longevity.

It is our purpose, in this paper, to confine our remarks to this view of the case, and to discuss the influence of religion and a Christian life upon man in his physical and earthly relations. For the atheist even, for the deist and the sceptic, we claim that the precepts and practice of Christianity are, above all other systems and modes of life, conducive to physical and mental health and vigor, to true enjoyment and long life.

Nearly all of the eminent philosophers and heathen teachers before and at the time of Christ seem to have regarded the pursuit of sensual pleasure as life's chief aim and end. True, they advised a certain measure of moderation in the gratification of the appetites and passions, in order that the vitality might not be too rapidly exhausted; but this was their only limit to self-indulgence; religious or moral obligation was not taken into the account in making up the programme of practical life. The pagan disciples of Aristotle, Socrates, and Plato, as well as the more cultivated and polished polytheists of the empire of the Caesars, lived for sensual enjoyment alone. Even human life was made subservient to this dominant idea, as the frequent and wanton murders of slaves and newly born children demonstrate.

Early failure of the vital forces, followed by disease and its accompanying physical and mental suffering, was the fruitful result. A participation in the revels of the temples of Venus and of Bacchus might give its few brief hours of sensual pleasure; but violated nature always inflicted her bitter penalties therefore, in the form of painful and tedious morbid reactions. The spectator at the Colosseum may have been momentarily excited by the bloody scenes of the arena; but the simple instincts of humanity must have filled the soul with horror and disgust, on subsequent reflection upon the cruelty involved therein. Even in the higher planes of pagan life, in the very lyceums and groves of the philosophers of the Augustan age, so lax and inefficient was the moral code of the day, and such their own imperfect moral teachings, that the practical life-results were little better. One can appreciate the reality of this when he calls to mind the utter variance of the new law of Christ, when first introduced among them, with nearly all the philosophies, customs, and habits of the period. He has but to read, for this purpose, the frightful description of ancient heathen society given by St. Paul in the latter half of the first chapter of his epistle to the Romans, addressed to the Christian converts from among this very people. Without the restraining and healthful influences of true religion, to what depths of moral and physical degradation is not human nature capable of bringing itself! [Footnote 20] "Professing themselves to be wise," says the apostle, "they became fools. … Wherefore God gave them up to the desires of their heart, to uncleanness, to shameful affections, and to a reprobate sense:" [thereby] "receiving in themselves the recompense which was due to their error. … Being filled with all iniquity, malice, fornication, covetousness, wickedness, full of envy, murder, contention, deceit, malignity, whisperers, detractors, hateful to God, contumelious, proud, haughty, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, foolish, dissolute, without affection, without fidelity, without mercy."

[Footnote 20: Romans i. 21-33.]

In contrasting, then, the principles, habits, and lives of the Latin subjects of the Roman empire with those inculcated by Christ in the new law, it will be found that the latter were by far the most conducive to physical and mental vigor, material happiness, and longevity. In one example we have a material philosophy, wealth, sensuality, and unlimited self-indulgence; in the other, a Christian code, inculcating virtue, charity, morality, temperance, and moderation in all things. The fruits of both systems were plainly visible, even in the days of Christ.

It has been estimated that more than one fourth part of the population of the empire, under Augustus and Tiberius Caesar, were slaves. The condition of these bondmen was deplorable. They were not only deprived of all political and social rights, but were regarded as soulless and devoid of moral responsibility. Human slavery was a legitimate offspring of the pagan philosophies of the period.

Another portion of the Roman people, amounting to about one half of the entire population, occupied a moral and social status nearly as low as that of the slave. The mothers, wives, and daughters of Roman citizens were regarded as inferior beings, mere pets and playthings of the men, household ornaments, useful only so far as they were capable of contributing to the sensual pleasures of their lords and masters. This wanton degradation of the sex was another direct result of the pernicious teachings of those men who are still lauded and honored by the world as models of wisdom and virtue! The free patricians and plebeians, comprising less than one third of the entire population, and possessing nearly all of the national wealth, devoted their lives in striving to add to the military power and glory of the empire, and in the pursuit of worldly pleasure. In the furtherance of these objects, neither right, justice, humanity, nor even life itself was regarded as important when opposed to their dominant passions. Such were the materialists of that day.

Let us now turn to the precepts of our blessed Saviour, and their immediate practical results in elevating humanity to a higher plane, and in enhancing the general welfare of the human race. The fundamental principles of the Christian system are, besides faith in the revealed mysteries, supreme love to God and fraternal love to man. "Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with thy whole heart, and with thy whole soul, and with thy whole mind. This is the greatest and first commandment. And the second is like to this: Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself. On these two commandments dependeth the whole law and the prophets." (Matt. xxii. 37-40.) "All things, therefore, whatsoever you would that men should do to you, do you also to them: for this is the law and the prophets." (Matt. vii. 12.)

One of the first-fruits of these new ideas was a recognition by the Christian converts of the dignity and brotherhood of all mankind, and of the equality of all in the sight of God. Thus were females and slaves at once elevated to their proper positions in the scale of humanity. They could no longer be regarded as mere instruments of sensual gratification, but were recognized as brethren, children of a common father, co-workers and coequals in the spiritual vineyard of our Lord Jesus Christ.

How readily, then, can we comprehend the ardent and untiring devotion and love which were everywhere evinced by Christian women for their divine Redeemer and Benefactor! How readily can we explain the boundless enthusiasm and joy of the multitudes of poor, oppressed, and disease-stricken men who followed Jesus from place to place for consolation and restoration! When these multitudes heard the precious sermon upon the mount, so much at variance with the prevalent tenets and practices of the world, they were amazed and delighted; for in it false philosophies, a vicious civilization, and pernicious usages were rebuked, mankind exalted to a higher sphere, and humanity vindicated.

As the lives of the pagans were natural reflexes of their false and inhuman moral and social codes, so were the lives of the Christians natural reflexes of the divine code. The foundations of the one were idolatry, selfishness, sensuality, uncharitableness, pride, and arrogance; of the other, godliness, charity, love, humility, and benevolence. Humanity cannot clothe itself with the first without chilling and paralyzing the higher impulses of the soul, and fostering the bitter germs of mental and physical sorrow. Nor can it adopt the last without developing those spiritual attributes which elevate, refine, and bless the possessor.

Let us come down to our own day, where materialism, sensuality, and general immorality are nearly as common as in the days of the apostles. We call ourselves Christians, profess to believe in one God, in the immortality of the soul, and in a future state of rewards and punishments; but practically, in actual life, many communities are as inhuman, as sensual, as material, and as immoral as were the pagans of the golden age.

The pagan disciples of Aristotle, for instance, did not hesitate to violate the sacred germs of humanity, and thus to blast the souls of multitudes of victims, for the purpose of preventing too great an increase of population. The religion of Christ changed all this, and true Christians have ever heeded the change. But the recent work of Dr. Storer, of Boston, and official legislative reports, demonstrate that this great crime is quite as prevalent in the modern Athens and in the State which contains it, as it was in the worst days of the Roman empire. The influence of this alarmingly prevalent crime of our own day and of our own nation is baneful in the extreme. On strictly sanitary and material grounds, it is to be deprecated as an evil of the greatest magnitude. Among its deleterious results may be recorded diseases of important vital organs, which are in turn reflected to the entire nervous system, and a consequent train of physical and mental disorders, which make life a burden instead of a blessing. Here, then, we see that a truly Christian mode of living is more conducive to health, happiness, and long life than that of the sensual materialist.

Contemplate, again, the world of wealth, fashion, and pleasure. Behold the pomp, the luxury, and the numerous sensual enjoyments which make up so largely its sum of life. Follow the votaries of pleasure in their daily and nightly rounds, sit at their epicurean tables, accompany them to routs, balls, play-houses, and innumerable other places of resort, which temptingly beckon them on every hand. Be with them also in their sleeping, and at their early morning hours, when the inevitable reactions manifest themselves; when pains, lassitude, and nervous and mental depression overtake them. Read their interior convictions, thoughts and regrets for ill-spent time, and for perversions of the higher faculties. Consult the epicure, who "lives to eat" and to stimulate his artificial appetite daily with highly seasoned dishes. He will discourse eloquently upon the pleasures of the table; but he can depict also the horrors of indigestion, hypochondria, and not unfrequently of paralysis, apoplexy, and kindred ailments. Consult the wine-bibber and the whiskey-drinker. They can point to the enormous revenues which the government derives from their patronage; to the innumerable drinking-saloons which cover the land, and which are sustained and enriched by them; to the numerous dens, above-ground and under-ground, where the poor congregate to imbibe fiery poisons that steal away their brains and the bread of their wives and children; to the untold millions which are expended in their traffic by men of all classes and conditions.

These men can portray the temporary delights and excitements of such exhilarating beverages. They can tell you how the brain glows, how the pulse rises, and how all the organs and faculties are roused to preternatural energy under the influence of these potent agents. But alas! what multitudes have experienced the dreadful reactions which always follow their habitual use! What multitudes have gone down to the grave prematurely with Bright's disease, liver-complaint, softening of the brain, dropsy, insanity, paralysis, delirium tremens, etc., victims of these insidious poisons! In the United States especially, the prevalence and the evils of whiskey-drinking are truly monstrous. It is the dominant curse, the crying evil of the day. It pervades all of the ramifications of social life. It numbers its victims by millions of all ages, sexes, and conditions. It corrupts and undermines the very foundation of health, perverts and degrades the intellectual and moral faculties, and depresses men deep, deep into the lower strata of humanity.

Thousands have become habitual drinkers, and ultimately confirmed inebriates, through the advice of their medical advisers. In accordance with some absurd hypothesis, or perchance to please their patients, too many medical men, during the past twenty years, have ordered the habitual use of whiskey, rum, brandy, and other stimulants. The calamities thus entailed are fearful to contemplate; and those thoughtless physicians who have contributed so largely in extending this great national vice will bear to their graves a dreadful responsibility.

So far, then, as eating and drinking are concerned, it is evident that the precepts of the Christian religion are far better calculated to promote the welfare of mankind than are those of the man of pleasure. Religion inculcates simplicity, frugality, temperance; and the fruits are physical and mental vigor and tranquil enjoyment. Irreligion encourages unrestrained convivial excesses; and the results are disease, pain, and general debasement.

Note, again, the devotees of fashion, whose pleasure consists in unnatural and artificial excitements, who regard the ordinary affairs and duties of life as tame and irksome, who convert night into day, and who are happy only when in the midst of the exaggerations, the frivolities, the romances of life. Do these individuals employ their faculties or their time in accordance with the laws of nature, or with reference to the duties and destinies which manifestly pertain to them? The excitements of the play-house, the ballroom, the race-course, and similar places of fashionable resort are prone to divert the mind from the serious duties of life, to engender morbid tastes and sentiments, and to implant feelings of discontent with reference to ordinary duties and occupations. When indulged in to such an extent, these amusements are unchristian, and therefore derogatory to health and happiness. Not in the gilded saloons of fashion are to be found peace, contentment, and charity. Not in the souls of pleasure-seeking devotees are to be found real satisfaction and enjoyment. But among those who lead religious lives, whether high or low, rich or poor, wise or simple, will be found the highest developments of love, virtue, health, and true happiness.

A worldly life develops and fosters all that is sensual and selfish in man. It continually rouses the organs and faculties of the system into abnormal activity and excitement. It perverts the delicate and sensitive functions of the organism from their legitimate uses to the gratification of transient impulse, passion, and caprice. It plays with the thousand living nerves and fibres as upon the inanimate strings of an instrument, heedless whether the overstrained and palpitating chords of life snap asunder under the exciting ordeal. Its fruits, consequently, are demoralizing, and in the highest degree detrimental to health, usefulness, and happiness.

In a religious life how great a contrast is presented! Such a life develops and fosters the highest and purest attributes of the soul. It rouses into ever-living activity the divine sentiments of love and charity, and puts far away sensuality, selfishness, and inordinate and unlawful self-indulgence. It inculcates temperance, moderation, disinterested benevolence, chastity, and the cultivation of those virtues and graces which secure health, contentment, and tranquil happiness.

From a strictly material point of view, then, we may rest assured that a truly religious life is far more conducive to genuine pleasure and to longevity than a mere worldly one. A simple contemplation of the complicated and sensitive human organism, of its physiology and its subjection to certain natural laws and requirements, renders the justness of our position manifest. Health can only be maintained by a just equilibrium in the action of all the organs, functions, and faculties. Every overaction, every undue excitement, is followed by a corresponding reaction which is depressing, debilitating, and productive of more or less disorder and suffering.

The thoughts, energies, and hopes of men of business are too generally absorbed in the eager pursuit of wealth. Their ideas, aspirations, and daily and hourly actions pertain solely to this world. From childhood to old age the idea of eternity is almost entirely put from them. Practically, these men are infidels, because every act of their lives, from waking to sleeping, has sole reference to the present life. They live and think and act as if they were to remain for ever on this earth. They put far from them the momentous realities of the near future, and cling to the riches, the pomps, the vanities, and the frivolities of this world like monomaniacs. Follow them to their counting-rooms, to their clubs, to their places of recreation, to their homes, and see how much of care, anxiety, and suffering, and how small an amount of tranquil happiness, attend them. Contrast the lives and the deaths of these devotees of business and riches with those of the humble and exemplary Christian. Is there a doubt on which side health, contentment, and true enjoyment of life will be found? "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven: for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. … Ye cannot serve God and mammon." (Matt. vi. 19, 20, 21, 24.)

Let it not be thought that we are opposed to a reasonable devotion to material and worldly affairs, or that we would place a single obstacle in the way of human progress, whether pertaining to trade, commerce, or the useful and ornamental arts. Every man in his sphere has duties to perform; but it must not be forgotten that these duties are neither exclusively material nor yet spiritual. Let it not be forgotten that the soul has its wants and necessities as also the body. And let it not be forgotten that, while the physical man is but for a day, the spiritual man is for eternity. The wise man, therefore, will recognize the fact that there is a time for all things—for business, for recreation, for mental culture, and (chief of all) for spiritual duties; and he will best accomplish the just ends of his existence who rightly appreciates and acts upon this great truth.

Translated From The French.

Faith And Poetry Of The Bretons.

Continued.

Saint-Thêgonnec
Cemeteries
Calvaries
Character Of The People.

We need not traverse the whole of Brittany to have a perfect idea of the works of architecture which faith has embellished. In one little borough-town, Saint-Thégonnec, between Morlaix and Landerneau, we find all the types of Christian art in Brittany concentrated—church, funereal chapel, burying-vault, calvary, and sculptures.

The Breton cemeteries closely resemble each other; nearly everywhere they surround the church, and are enclosed by a low wall, often without gates of any kind, merely a small ditch preventing the cattle from trespassing on the abode of the dead. [Footnote 21] A cross, or a calvary, where the scenes of the passion are represented, or sometimes the kneeling statue of a loved or lamented pastor's venerated image that recalls his virtues to his faithful people, these are the only monuments of the cemeteries of the Breton villages. The tombs are marked by small heaps of earth, pressed each against the other, and surmounted by a cross. Some are covered by a stone, and in this stone is indented a little cup that gathers the dew and rain from heaven, and offers to the mourning relative—the mother, son, the friend—the blessed asperges to accompany the prayer for him who lies beneath. [Footnote 22] These cemeteries, placed in the midst of towns and villages, cannot be of any great extent; soon, therefore, they are filled with extinct generations, and these bodies must be exhumed to make place for new-comers. In one village, Plouha, after the sons had disinterred the bodies of their fathers, they decorated the façade of the church with the stones of the tombs, that they might be cold witnesses of their memories, or, at least, might never cover the bodies of others. The general resting-place for these exhumed bones is a mortuary chapel constructed by the side of the church; and if a glance is taken through the Gothic arch which opens on this charnel-house, bones upon bones may be seen heaped up and mingled like blades of straw. These were men who have walked on the earth, now solitary and forsaken until the eternal resurrection.

[Footnote 21: At Goueznon, at Plabennec, etc.]

[Footnote 22: We see in Algeria little cups hollowed in the sepulchral stones of the Mussulmans; but this water is only used by the birds to satisfy their thirst, or to water the flowers that decorate the tombs.]

But at Saint-Thégonnec a more respectful and tender sentiment has tried to preserve intact at least a portion of these bodies so rudely torn from the earth. Before entering the church, we are struck by an unexpected sight; from every projection of the building, on the porches, on the prominent cornices, are laid or hung and suspended, one above the other, a multitude of small boxes arranged as a chaplet; these little boxes, surmounted each by its cross, are coffins, and enclose the skull of an ancestor, his head, or, according to the expressive word of the old language, le chef, that which is most noble in man, and which may be resumed. An inscription indicates the date and name:

"Here lies LE CHEF de …"

Another touching symbol may be seen through the openings, the funeral archives of families preserved in the shadow of the church, that rising generations may discover them, so that they may not be forgotten, as they would be, immured in their own homes. [Footnote 23]

[Footnote 23: At Locmariquer there are not only coffins with heads, but miniature ones enclosing all the bones, piled one above the other like bales of goods, in the place apportioned them.]

Here and there on the cornice, exposed to the air, are skulls of the dead, poor creatures once without friends or family to give them burial, painted green, their eyes filled with sand and blades of grass projecting from them, often leaning against each other; here, one supported perhaps by him who was his bitter enemy.

Passing there double rows of coffins, we enter the church, and this is but a repetition of all the Breton churches; everything here—an elegant font, sculptured mouldings, pulpit of choice wood and of marvellous workmanship—chef-d'oeuvre of the end of the Renaissance, and one of the finest pulpits in Brittany—pictures on wood, chisel paintings, ever perpetuating the patriarchs, the kings, and prophets of the Old Testament mounting from earth to heaven; even to the Blessed Virgin; vault of gold and azure fairly sparkling in its complete beauty; the choir, the altar, and the side chapels filled with statues, wreathed columns, heads of angels, flowers, garlands, gilded and painted in every color, a perfect stream of gold, verdure, brilliant crimson, and azure.

From this refulgent and living whole, a single door rises on the side, high and naked; no sculpture, no ornament; the stones sweat their dampness; the bricks, that have assumed a blackened tint, separated by their white cement, present a lugubrious aspect; a great mourning veil seems spread before the eyes—this is the gate of death. You open, and you pause enchanted. Before you lies the cemetery. At your right, at your left, monument upon monument breaks upon your gaze. Under the porch where you stand are the statues in line of the twelve apostles; and opposite you, a large gate with three arches, the gate of the cemetery, in its imposing style, an arch of triumph, as if the Bretons, passing under it the perishable body, had typified the life eternal, the glory and the joy of the imperishable soul. At the right, a mortuary chapel of the style of the Louvre of Henry IV. is erected, its sculpture from the bottom to the top, an immense châsse pictured in granite; at your left is the calvary, one of those complicated calvaries, found only in Brittany, a whole people of statues; eighty or a hundred personages in the most natural and simple attitudes—disciples, prophets, holy women, thieves on their crosses, guards on horseback, and, towering over all this crowd, the tree of the cross, colossal in its structure, of several stones, cross upon cross, and holding on its branches statues of the Virgin, Saint John, the guards, and others, and, in immensity of size and above all, the Christ himself, with his arms extended over the world, and his eyes uplifted to heaven. Angels are there, too, suspended in the air, and collecting in their chalices the precious blood from his hands. [Footnote 24]

[Footnote 24: The calvaries of Plougastel and Pleyben—towns so remarkable for their beautiful churches are more complicated and grand, perhaps, but not so striking, as this one.]

And this is not all: enter the crypt of the mortuary chapel, and there you will find yourself face to face with another chef-d'oeuvre—the entombing of Christ, the scene which has ever inspired the greatest artists, and in colossal proportions. These are painted statues, and the painting adds to the impression, giving to the deeply moved personages the appearance of life. You hear them cry, you see their tears course down their pallid faces; the Virgin-Mother with her pressed lips on the livid feet of her divine Son, the Magdalen overwhelmed with grief and still beautiful in the midst of her sorrow. Can you fail to become an actor in this impassioned scene? You are rooted to the spot; the terrible blow that made them surfer becomes your reality, and, grieved to the depths of your soul, you feel your own tears flow; the lapse of ages is forgotten, and you are living in that Calvary scene.

And when we think that these works of religious art are spread all over Brittany with the same profusion; that in towns apparently the most remote from any road or centre, at Saint-Herbot in the Black Mountains, at Saint-Fiacre, which is only a little village of Laouet, and even less than a village, a miserable hamlet of five or six houses, in the chapel of Rozegrand near Quimperlé, a modest manor which hardly merits the name of a castle—we find in all these places galleries of sculptured wood, painted, gilded, and figured with fifty or more persons, rivalling the most costly churches; works so admirably reproducing the history, the miracles, and the mysteries of religion, while they preserve among the people and reanimate and increase their ardor and faith, we cannot but ask, What is the cause of such a multitude of works of art appearing everywhere on the surface of the country, and what has been the inspiration which has produced such fruit—richness of invention, truth of gesture, expression of physiognomy, a true and deep sentiment of everything divine in scenery and action? In all these monuments of the middle ages, there is to be found the same truth, the same power of imagination, while the artist never repeats himself and never tires you. He leads you on like the musician, scarcely giving you time to recover from one melody ere you are soul-entranced with another still more beautiful.

But this creative power has a cause; this society—as a man arrived at maturity with all his work accomplished for the end he would attain—had been prepared by previous ages. Disengaged from the swaddling-clothes of antiquity, its tongue was formed, its religious ideas fixed, and with its new-formed Christianity, it was logically constituted—it became a unity. Still in possession of such power, this people struggles only to create; never led by contrary tastes or carried away by disorderly and unregulated motives, so justly named in our day caprice, they cling to what preceding ages have sought for, gathered, and inculcated. The materials are ready to their hands, they seize them, and, with the genius of the age, reproduce, in a thousand forms, new beauties; the well-filled vase has only to diffuse itself and overflow with treasures. Thus, imagination bursts out everywhere lively and colored; the same mind, in literature as in art, reproduces the varied ornaments of churches, invents fables and legends, and finds at every moment new images to represent manners, ideas, opinions; and this imagination, far from exhausting itself, grows and increases, not as the forced plant of the hot-house, but the natural flower of their own spring. Ages train on, and the last one bears the crown.

We see, too, why such artists—authors of such exquisite works—are so obscure, so unknown. They have not rendered their own ideas simply, but those of their race; the sentiments of their ancestors, of the fathers with whom they have been born and raised, have penetrated their whole being, and they have merely expressed their surroundings. Thus, these monuments of art are not only proof of talent and their sojourn on earth, but witnesses of their piety and faith—the worship of a people.

So, the faith of days past still lives in Brittany: could one doubt it, let him look at the evidences of an unweakened piety which meet him at every step. See the gifts of the women of the aristocracy, beautiful scarfs of cashmere, covering the altars of the cathedral of Tréguier, and the offerings of the poor, bundles of crutches, left at Folgoat by the infirm "made whole." Then the pilgrimages, vast armies of men and women, moving yearly to their favorite shrine of Saint Anne d'Auray, and the miraculous pictures, decking from top to bottom this church of the Mother of the Virgin, too small for a Christian museum replenished so constantly. At every step arise new chapels and churches: at Saint-Brieuc several were built at once; Lorient, a town peopled with soldiers and sailors, has just raised at its gate a church in the style of Louis XIV.; Vitré gives to its church a new bell and a sculptured pulpit; the little villages put up in their cemeteries calvaries with figures of the middle ages; the calvary of Ploëzal, between Tréguier and Guingamp, is dated 1856; Dinan restores and enriches its beautiful church of Saint Malo; Quimper throws to the air two noble spires from the towers of its cathedral; the chapel of Saint Ilan, a model of elegance and grace, rises in pure whiteness on the borders of the sea, in the midst of the calm roofs of its pious colony; Nantes, while she builds several new churches, finishes her immense cathedral, its dome of Cologne and Brittany, to which each age has given a hand, and in constructing this beautiful church of Saint Nicholas, proves what the piety and zeal of a pastor and devoted flock could accomplish, in less than ten years, by alms and gifts. A few years since, at Guingamp, a chapel was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin outside the church; the statues are painted of the twelve apostles, the altar is magnificent, and the roof azure and stars of gold. No expense was spared, no decoration too great to ornament the sanctuary of the Virgin. Fifty thousand persons were there the day of the inauguration. These are the national holy-days of the Bretons. Elsewhere, people rush to the inauguration of princes or the revolutions which presage their downfall; but here they come from all parts of Brittany to assist in the coronation of the Queen of heaven. And what piety, what recollection, what gravity in the deportment of these men and women, kneeling on the pavements of the churches! As at La Trappe, so here is seen the same complete absorption of the human being in the thoughts that fill the soul; the functions of life seem annihilated, and, immovable in prayer, they remain in that absolute contemplation in which the saints are represented, overwhelmed by sentiments of veneration, submission, and humility: the man is forgotten, the Christian only exists. More expressive even than the monuments are these daily acts of devotion, that evidence the habitual state of the soul.

Walk, on a market-day, through the square of some city or town of Finistère. How varied and animated it appears! Rows of little wagons standing around, and on these all sorts of merchandise: velvet ribbons and buckles for the men's caps; woollen ornaments made into rosettes for the head-dresses of the women; variegated pins, ornamented with glass pearls; pipe-holders of wood; little microscopic pipes and instruments to light them, with other useful and ornamental wares. Under the tents of these movable shops, a crowd of men and women are seen. The women with head-dresses of different forms, their large white handkerchiefs rounded at the back and carefully crossed on the breast; the men with their pantaloons narrowly tightened, falling low, and resting on the hips, so that the shirt may be seen between them and the vest, their caps with broad brims covering their long hair, often tucked up behind, and walking with measured steps, carrying their canes, never hurried, always calm and dignified. Twelve o'clock is heard; from the high bell-tower of the neighboring church comes the echoing peal of mid-day; twelve times it slowly strikes, and then all is hushed. Every one pauses, is silent. With simultaneous movement, the men doff their hats and their long hair falls over their shoulders. All are on their knees, the sign of the cross is made, and one low murmur tells the Angelus. A stranger in such a crowd must kneel; involuntarily he bends his knee with the rest. The prayer to the Virgin finished, they rise again; life and motion commence, and a din is heard, the almost deafening noise of the roar of the sea.

Again I see them in the church of Cast, (Finistère.) It was Sunday, at the hour of vespers. The bell of the church-tower had sounded from the break of day, and crowds of men and women surrounded the church, talking in groups, gently and noiselessly. The bell ceased; the groups broke up and separated into two bands, on one side the men, on the other the women, all directing their steps to the church. The women entered first, and in a moment the nave was filled; the young women of the Confraternity of the Blessed Virgin took their places in the middle of the church, all in white, but their costume ornamented with embroidery of gilt and silver, gilded ribbons on their arms, belts of the same encircling their graceful figures, and falling in four bands at the back on the plaited petticoat, and the heart of gold and cross on the breast of each; in the side aisles, the matrons ranged themselves, wives and mothers, in more varied costumes, gayly colored, head-dresses of deep blue and yellow, blue ribbons with silver edges on the brown jackets, red petticoats, and clock stockings embroidered in gold. All knelt on the pavement, their heads inclined, their rosaries in their hands, and in collected silence.

The women all placed, another door opened at the side of the church, and the men's turn came. With grave and measured steps they walked in file, and strange and imposing was the sight—in comparison with the variegated and gay dress of the women, so opposingly sombre was that of the men; and yet the attention was not so much riveted by their uniform attire, their long brown vests, their large puffed breeches; but their squared heads, their long features, the quantity of straight hair, covering their foreheads like thick fleece, and falling in long locks on their shoulders and down their backs. All, children and men grown, wore the same costume, this long black hair, which in the air assumed a sombre reddish tint, and falling on the thick, heavy eyebrows, gave to their eyes an expression of energy, of almost superhuman firmness. They scarcely seemed men of our time and country; the grave, immovable faces, with the brilliant eyes scrutinizing at once the character and appearance of the stranger among them, the uncultivated heads of hair, weighing down their large heads like the manes of wild animals, gave the idea of men apart; men from the wilds of some far country moving among the modern races, with silent gesture and solemn step, and uttering brief and pithy sentences, as if they alone held the secrets of the past, the knowledge of the mysteries and truths of the olden time.

They defiled one by one, prostrating themselves before the altar, and kneeling in turn on the stone floor, surrounding entirely the grating of the choir. True assemblage of the faithful! The men, a strong soldiery in front, the women behind, a more humble crowd, but each forgetting the other, living but for one thought—for God. For God is not for these barbarians what he is for us; we, civilized inhabitants of cities, we try to explain God, and even on our knees in his temples we analyze him, comment upon his acts, and even doubt if he exists. They spend no time in such vain thoughts, barren meditations: for them God is; they know and believe in him. He made the heaven over their heads, the earth that produces their harvests, made them themselves, and preserves them or takes them to him. He is the Invisible who can do everything, from the heights of the heavens, and everywhere at once; and in comparison with this All-Powerful they feel their littleness, prostrate themselves and adore.

Count De Montalembert.

In that drear twilight, herald of the day
On which new faith, new hope, new love were born,
And while my heart still pressed against the thorn
Of unbelief, like some fresh matin lay
Of forest warbler in his own loved May,
Broke, Montalembert, on my trance forlorn,
Elizabeth's young voice, which sang death's scorn
In carols with celestial transports gay.
Now, when cool evening's earliest pensive shade
Creeps o'er my life, as clear and jubilant
As that wild mocking-bird's, is heard the chant
Of mighty abbots, whose processions fade
Into the dark of ages, made by thee
New themes for thought and holy minstrelsy.

Rings.

Looking over an old jewel-case, the other day, I found a ring; no treasured heirloom or gage d'amour of by-gone days, but a simple black circlet, whose sole ornament was a silver heart, on which were engraved in rude fashion the letters VA. The sight of it recalled a stormy day during the winter of 1864, when a pale and emaciated Confederate soldier knocked at our door and asked for shelter. Of course, it was cheerfully granted.

On questioning him we learned that he had suffered the rigor of prison life for two years; had just been released, and was en route to join his regiment before Petersburg. Upon leaving, he thanked me for our hospitality, and begged my acceptance of this little ring, the making of which had served to while away the tedium of captivity. I put it carefully aside, and the lapse of time and other more stirring events had almost obliterated the circumstance from my mind, until it was thus revived.

As I gazed upon it, how many memories were revived by it! In it I traced the life of the donor, and in him the vain hopes and aspirations of his comrades and the ruin which befell them. I heard the call to arms; saw the leave-taking and departure for the field; followed him amid the sanguinary contests of battle; till at length defeat, like a black cloud, lowers over his decimated legions, and he finds himself within a prison's walls. There, chafing against captivity, listening eagerly for tidings of release, and sick with hope deferred, I see him beguiling the weary hours in fashioning this little trinket. At last the hour of liberty arrives, and with bounding pulse, to the tune of "Home, sweet home," he turns his back on prison-bars. Once again he is a soldier of the army of Northern Virginia; but gone are the high hopes which animated his breast, and gone are most of the brave comrades who once stood shoulder to shoulder with him; hardship, hunger, and death have done their work, and the end is near; a few more suns, and he and his cause fall to rise no more!

Such is the story that I read in that little hoop of black horn. How many startling events, how many passions of the human heart crowded into a tiny compass!

And this, methought, is not the only ring about which might be woven a tale of joy or sorrow. The "lion-hearted" king, notwithstanding his pilgrim guise, by means of one was betrayed to his relentless Austrian foe; and, centuries later, the gallant Essex entrusted his life to such an advocate. Trifling baubles as they are, which may be hid in the hollow of a baby's hand, they have, from their first introduction to the world, acted a conspicuous part in its history.

The Persians maintain that Guiamschild, fourth king of the first race, introduced the ring. Whether this be true or not, it is certainly of ancient date, since mention is made of it in Genesis as being worn by the Hebrews as a signet. It was also in use among the Egyptians; for we are told that, after the interpretation of the dream, "Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it on Joseph's hand," as a mark of royal favor. The Sabines used this ornament during the time of Romulus, and perhaps the glittering jewels on the fingers of the women may have enhanced their attractions in the eyes of the bold Roman youths when they so unceremoniously bore them off. But it is not certain at what precise period the Romans adopted rings; for there are no signs of them on their statues prior to those of Numa and Servius Tullius. They were commonly made of iron, and Pliny says that Marius wore his first gold one in his third consulate, the year 650 of Rome. Senators were not allowed to wear them of this metal unless distinguished as ambassadors in foreign service; but in after days golden rings became the badge of knighthood; the people wearing silver, the slaves iron.

In tracing its history, we can readily imagine that the ring was invented merely as an accompaniment to bracelet and necklace; afterward it became a badge of distinction; and finally, when the art of engraving and cutting stones was introduced, it attained an importance which no other trinket can boast of. Ornamented with initials, armorial crests, or mystic characters, it has been used for centuries as a seal for state documents and secret despatches, a sort of gage de foi of their authenticity. There are numerous instances in the sacred writings of its peculiar significance when thus employed. For example, when Ahasuerus, giving ear to the counsels of his favorite, consented to exterminate the Jews, it is recorded that "the king took his ring from his hand, and gave it unto Haman;" and, concerning the proclamation, "in the name of King Ahasuerus was it written, and sealed with the king's ring." We also read elsewhere that the den into which Daniel was thrown was sealed by the king "with his own signet, and with the signets of his lords, that the purpose might not be changed concerning Daniel."

It is supposed that the Greeks did not know the ring at the time of the Trojan war; for Homer does not speak of it, and instead of sealing, they secured their letters by means of a silken cord. Although this people encouraged learning and the fine arts, they do not seem to have possessed that of engraving, which they borrowed from the Egyptians, who excelled in this branch to a remarkable degree.

The rage for signets soon became universal, no patrician was without his ring, and in Rome the engravers were forbidden to make any two seals alike. In such esteem were they held, that it is related, when Lucullus visited Alexandria, Ptolemy could find no more acceptable present to offer him than an emerald, on which was engraved a portrait of himself. Julius Caesar had on his ring the image of Venus, armed with a dart; and the seal of Pompey was a lion holding a sword, while that of Scipio Africanus bore the portrait of Syphax, the Libyan king whom he had vanquished.

The manner of wearing the signet differed greatly, the Hebrews preferring to ornament the right hand, the Romans the left. The Greeks put it on the fourth finger of the left hand, because of the belief that a nerve connected that member with the heart; hence the same custom is observed with the wedding-ring.

After the advent of Christianity, it assumed a spiritual as well as political value, the episcopal ring, as it is called, being used as a pledge of spiritual marriage between the bishop and the church. This custom is of ancient date, since there is mention in the proceedings of the fourth Council of Toledo, A.D. 633, that a bishop condemned for any offence by one council, if found innocent upon a second trial, should have his ring restored. The popes also wore seals, and at the present time the revered Father of the Catholic Church has two—one which he uses to sign apostolical briefs and private letters, called the fisherman's ring, representing St. Peter drawing in his net full of fishes; the other, with which he seals his bulls, is ornamented with the heads of St. Paul and St. Peter, with a cross between the two.

The Hebrew used the wedding-ring, though some writer maintains that it was not a pledge of love, but given in lieu of a piece of money. It is evident that the Christians adopted the practice in their marriage rites at an early period, some of the oldest liturgies containing the vows with regard to it.

Being esteemed in a political and religious sense, it is no matter of wonder that Cupid's minions have also, from time immemorial, made the ring a seal of undying constancy, accepting its circular form as a type of eternity. Thus, Portia, after bestowing her riches upon Bassanio, says:

"I give them with this ring;
Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
Let it presage the ruin of your love,
And be my vantage to exclaim on you."

But lovers, not content with the emblem of shape, also added mottoes, and it became the fashion to engrave verses, names, and dates within the ring. Alluding to the custom, Hamlet asks, "Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?" And in the last act of The Merchant of Venice, when Portia exclaims:

"A quarrel, ho, already? What's the matter?"

Gratiano answers:

"About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
That she did give me; whose posy was
For all the world like cutler's poetry
Upon a knife—Love me, and leave me not."

The wedding-ring of Lady Catharine Grey, sister of Lady Jane Grey, consisted of five golden links, and on the four inner ones were these lines of her husband's composition:

"As circles five by art compact, shewe but one ring in sight,
So trust uniteth faithfull mindes with knott of secret might;
Whose force to breake but greedie Death noe wight possesseth power,
As time and sequels well shall prove. My ringe can say no more."

The famous ring given by Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex is said to be still extant, and in the possession of Lord John Thynne, a descendant of Lady Frances Devereux, the earl's daughter. It is of gold, the sides engraved, with a cameo head of Elizabeth in a sardonyx setting.

Before ending this paper, I must relate a curious legend, told of the Emperor Charlemagne, prefacing my story by saying, that in those times certain precious stones were thought to possess peculiar virtues which had an influence on the wearers or those around them. At the court of Charlemagne there lived a woman, neither young nor handsome, but who appeared to have a wondrous fascination for the monarch. So potent were her charms, that he neglected the affairs of his empire, and allowed his sword to rust. At last, to the great joy of all, the woman died; but Charlemagne mourned grievously, and even when her body was prepared for burial, refused to allow it to be carried out of his sight. However, there was in the palace a bishop, learned in the arts, and acquainted with the superstitions of the time; and one day, when the king had gone hunting, he resolved to examine the corpse. His search was successful; for under the woman's tongue he found a ring, which he immediately secured. On his return from the chase, the emperor repaired to the room where the body lay; but instead of lingering near it, he ordered it to be interred, and seemed to have entirely recovered from the spell that bound him. That night a ball was given at court; and many a fair cheek flushed in anticipation of being the choice of Charlemagne in the dance; but lo! when the music struck up, the emperor stepped forward and requested the bishop to be his partner. The good priest, resenting the indignity, escaped from the hall, and feeling assured that the ring in his possession was the cause of such conduct, threw it into a lake beneath the palace walls. Thereupon Charlemagne recovered his senses, but ever after was devoted to the spot, and built there the town of Aix. Some old chronicler also asserts that, when the monarch was on his death-bed, he said that it was impossible for him to depart in peace from this world until a certain ring was restored to him. The secret of its hiding-place being revealed, the lake was dragged and the charm found. Charlemagne received it with many signs of joy, and requested that it might be buried with him.

For the truth of this legend I do not vouch; but it is averred that, years afterward, when the tomb of the mighty Frank was opened, on his breast was found an antique ring.

In The School-room.

[Footnote 25]

[Footnote 25: In the School-Room; Chapters in the Philosophy of Education. John S. Hart, LL.D., Principal of the New Jersey State Normal School. Eldredge & Brother: Philadelphia.

The Scientific Basis of Education, demonstrated by an analysis of the temperaments and of phrenological facts, in a series of letters to the Department of Public Instruction in the city of New York. By John Hecker. Published by the Author, 56 Rutgers Street, New York.]

The author of this volume has evidently spent much time in the school-room, and has not spent it in vain. He writes like a practical man, in a clear, vigorous style. As he says in his preface, he takes "a pretty free range over the whole practical field of inquiry among professional teachers, and presents to us thoughts suggested in the school-room itself in short, detached chapters." The work is not a philosophy of education, but rather a laudable attempt to contribute something toward it.

In the first chapter, on "What is Teaching?" he brings out forcibly the truth that teaching is not simply telling, nor is talking to a class necessarily teaching, as experience shows that a class may be told a thing twenty times over, and talked to in the most fluent manner, and still make little advancement in knowledge.

This truth deserves more attention from those engaged in teaching. The work of universal education which is required in our country is so vast, that necessity has forced many to assume the office of teachers who have very little knowledge of what teaching is. "Teaching," as the author well says, "is causing one to know. Now, no one can be made to know a thing but by the act of his own powers. His own senses, his own memory, his own powers of reason, perception, and judgment must be exercised. The function of the teacher is to bring about this exercise of the pupil's faculties."

The second chapter, on "The Art of Questioning," states that a "most important and difficult part" of the teacher's art is to know how to ask a question, but he gives none of the principles that underlie the art. The earnest reader will say: If so much depends on skilful questioning, why does he not tell us how to do it? The little work of J. G. Filch, M.A., on The Art of Questioning appears to us much more philosophical and satisfactory. According to him, questions as employed by teachers may be divided into three classes, according to the purposes which they may be intended to serve. There is, first, the preliminary or experimental question, by which an instructor feels his way, sounds the depths of his pupil's knowledge, and prepares him for the reception of what it is designed to teach.

There is, secondly, the question employed in actual instruction, by means of which the thoughts of the learner are exercised, and he is compelled, so to speak, to take a share in giving himself the lesson.

Thirdly, there is the question of examination, by which a teacher tests his own work, after he has given a lesson, and ascertains whether it has been soundly and thoroughly learned. By this method, as an eminent teacher has said, one first questions the knowledge into the minds of the children, and then questions it out of them again.

The following chapters on the order of development of the mental faculties are very good. We think, however, he lays too much stress on the necessity of knowledge before memory. The memory, being strongest and most retentive in youth, should then be stored with those germinating formulas which will bear fruit in after life. When the reasoning powers are developed at a later period, they then have something upon which to act.

The chapters on "Loving the Children" and "Gaining their Affections" are excellent.

The high salaries paid in our public schools induce many to engage in teaching, merely because it affords them honorable and lucrative employment. They have no love for the children, and are, therefore, unfit for the work. They have no sympathy for the children of the poor with bright eyes and tattered garments. It is painful to go into the school of such teachers. They seem to regard the children as pawns on a chessboard, or as things which they are paid to manage and keep in order. Such teachers should study well the chapters on loving the children for what they are in themselves.

He then introduces a chapter on "Phrenology," in which he details several instances where a professor of phrenology, as he says, was misled, and gave an incorrect delineation of character. We suppose he wishes us to conclude, phrenology is therefore a humbug. But such an inference is evidently unwarranted from any data he has given. One might as well say that several instances of malpractice on the part of physicians prove the science of medicine to be a humbug. There is no doubt that, by phrenology, physiognomy, and various temperamental peculiarities, a person's general character and disposition may be discerned. The wise teacher will study these, that he may intelligently vary his government and teaching to suit the various characters of the pupils under his charge.

The work of Mr. John Hecker on The Scientific Basis of Education shows to how great an extent a knowledge of phrenology and of the different temperaments may assist the teacher in the instruction and government of children. His work is worthy the attention of every teacher.

The chapters on "Normal Schools" and "Practice Teaching" are important. It by no means follows that, because a person knows a thing, he is therefore prepared to teach.

The art of communicating one's knowledge to others is quite a distinct acquirement.

No one who has compared the results obtained by teachers who have been trained for the work with those who have not can fail to appreciate this. We hope the time will come when all who occupy the position of teachers will be required to attend to this matter, and keep pace with the progress made in the art of teaching.

The chapter on cultivating a habit of attention should be studied by every teacher.

The freaks into which an uncultivated ear may be led for the want of attention will be best illustrated by one of the author's examples. A class at the high-school was required to copy a passage from dictation. The clause,

"Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice,"

appeared with the following variations:

Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice.
Every bridge of rasality indicates some latest vice.
Every breech of ferocity indicates some latinet vice.
Every preach of erracity indicates some late device.
Every branch of vivacity indicates some great advice.
Every branch of veracity indicates some late advice.
Every branch of veracity indicates some ladovice.
Every branch of veracity indicates some ladened vice.
Every branch of veracity in the next some latent vice.
Every reach of their ascidity indicates some advice.

Every one who is called upon to give out "notices" or to speak in public knows full well how great a portion of what is said in the plainest manner is misapprehended for the want of this habit of attention.

The volume closes with a lengthy "Argument for Common Schools." It would be more properly called an "apology." His first point is, "that without common schools we cannot maintain permanently our popular institutions." The necessity of universal education to secure the permanence of our popular institutions is conceded by all. But education, according to the author's own definition, is the "developing in due order and proportion whatever is good and desirable in human nature." Therefore, not only the intellect, but also the moral and religious nature must be developed. This the common schools fail to do.

A man is not necessarily a good citizen because he is intelligent, without he also possesses moral integrity. According to the author's own admission, his education is incomplete. As the public schools fail to give any moral training, they fail to make reliable citizens, and are therefore insufficient to secure the permanence of our democratic form of government.

To this objection he replies "that many of the teachers are professing Christians, and exert a continual Christian influence." But many more are non-professors, and exert an anti-christian influence.

In visiting schools, we have been able to tell the religious status of the teachers in charge by the general tone of the exercises. One presided over by a zealous Methodist resembled a Methodist Sunday-school or conference meeting. Another, under the care of a "smart young man," delighted in love songs, boating songs, etc., and had the general tone of a young folks' glee-club. In another of our most celebrated public schools, one of the professors was an atheist, and it was a matter of common remark among the boys that Prof. —— said there was no God.

In another, one of the teachers was overheard sneering at a child because she believed in our Lord Jesus Christ, and had a reverence for religious things. We admit that the familiar intercourse and intimate relations of the teachers with the children give them a great influence over their plastic minds, but, to our sorrow, we know that it is not always for good. We do not, therefore, consider it a recommendation of a system to say that the moral tone of its teaching depends altogether on the caprice and character of the different teachers it happens to employ.

Again, he says the law of trial by jury requires that every citizen should be intelligent, as they are thus called to take part in the administration of justice. True; but it requires much more that jurymen should possess moral principle. What makes courts of justice so often a mockery, but the want of principle and of conscience in those who administer the law? If his estate, life, or reputation depended on the decision of twelve men, would he feel easy if he knew them to be unprincipled, immoral men, open to bribery and corruption, however intelligent they might be? No; the constitution of our government, the popular institutions of our country, require that here, more than in any country of the world, the young should receive a sound moral and religious training, which cannot be done where, as here, religion is excluded from our common schools.

But, he says, the children attend the Sunday-school, which supplements the instructions of the weekday-school. True; but every earnest pastor who has any positive creed or doctrine to teach his children will tell you that one or two brief meetings on Sunday are not enough for this purpose. We ourselves are forced to the painful conclusion that the Sunday-school system does not give sufficient control over the children to form in them any earnest Christian character. It is like reserving the salt which should season our food during the week, and taking it all in a dose on Sunday.

The Sunday-school should be diligently used to supply, as far as may be, the lack of religious instruction in the common schools, but that it alone is inadequate to this purpose is shown by the constantly increasing number of our young who follow not the footsteps of their parents in the ways of a Christian life.

The author then, changing his base, argues that intellectual education alone tends to prevent sensuality and crime, and adduces statistics to show that the majority of convicts in our prisons are from the uneducated class. But if he attended to other statistics recently brought to light by Rev. Dr. Todd, Dr. Storer, of Boston, and others, he would discover that sensuality, only more refined, is permeating American society, and that hidden crime is depopulating some of the fairest portions of our land. It is true, perhaps, that those crimes which are taken cognizance of by the police courts may be more numerous among the uneducated, but it is those secret crimes against God and the moral law that corrupt society and endanger a nation's life.

In New England, which the author holds up as the ideal of what the common-school system can produce, physicians testify that immorality and hidden crime prevail to such an extent that the native American stock is literally dying out, the number of deaths far exceeding the number of births. Intellectual culture alone will not preserve American society from corruption, any more than it did pagan Greece and Rome.

The author seems to feel the force of this objection, which, as he says, "is urged with seriousness by men whose purity of motive is above question, and whose personal character gives great weight to their opinions," and admits that "religious teaching does not hold that prominent position in the course of study that it should hold; but he seems forced, like many of his fellow-educators whom we have known, to argue and apologize for the common-school system, because they see no way of securing universal education and at the same time providing for proper religious training. If they turn, however, to the educational systems of France, Austria, or Prussia, they would find the problem solved. Even in Canada, the British Parliament has avoided by its provisions those serious errors under which we labor, and which are making our system daily more and more unpopular.

By "An Act to restore to Roman Catholics in Upper Canada certain rights in respect to Separate Schools," passed May 5th, 1863, they provided that "the Roman Catholic separate schools shall be entitled to a share in the fund annually granted by the legislature of the province for the support of common-schools, and shall be entitled also to a share in all other public grants, investments, and allotments for common-school purposes now made or hereafter to be made by the municipal authorities, according to the average number of pupils attending such school as compared with the whole average number of pupils attending schools in the same city, town, village, or township." (Cap. 5, sec. 20.)

And also that "the Roman Catholic separate schools (with their registers) shall be subject to such inspection as may be directed from time to time by the chief superintendent of public instruction." (Cap. 5, sec. 26.)

Let our separate schools that have been and may be established, in which the children receive a proper religious training, receive their due proportion of the public fund, and by the inspection of a board of education be kept up to the highest standard of secular learning, and the grievances under which we now suffer will be removed.

From the German

The Holy Grayle.

"'Here on the rushes will I sleep,
And perchance there may come a vision true,
Ere day create the world anew.'
Slowly Sir Launfal's eyes grew dim,
Slumber fell like a cloud on him,
And into his soul the vision flew."
Lowell.

Sir Launcelot Du Lac—without his peer of earthly, sinful man—had taken the Quest of the Holy Grayle. One deadly sin gnawed at the heart of the flower of chivalry; but a mighty sorrow struggled with and subdued his remorse, and a holy hermit assoiled him of his sin. With purified and strengthened heart, he won his way to a sight of that wondrous vessel, the object of so many knightly vows. It stood on a table of silver veiled with red samite. A throng of angels stood about it. One held a wax light and another the holy cross. A light like that of a thousand torches filled the house. Sir Launcelot heard a voice cry, "Approach not!" but for very wonder and thankfulness he forgot the command. He pressed toward the Holy Grayle with outstretched hands, and cried, "O most fair and sweet Lord! which art here within this holy vessel, for thy pity, show me something of that I seek." A breath, as from a fiery furnace, smote him sorely in the face. He fell to the ground, and lay for the space of four and twenty days seemingly dead to the eyes of all the people. But in that swoon marvels that no tongue can tell and no heart conceive passed before his face. …

The history of the wondrous vessel was in a measure made known to him. His purified eyes saw in the dim past a long line of patriarchs and prophets, who had been entrusted with this sacred charge almost from the beginning of time. The San Greal was revealed to his ardent gaze:

First: in the hands of white-robed men, who met Noah as he went in, and his sons, and his wife, and his sons' wives, with him into the ark, bearing with him the bones of Adam—great Progenitor. Its origin and history were revealed to Noah, and that it was destined to be used in the most mysterious of rites.

Next: Abraham was standing before an altar on a hillock in the valley of Jehoshaphat. His flocks were grazing around or drinking from the brook Cedron: his camels and beasts of burden and armed servants in the distance. The patriarch, flushed with victory, stood as if in awe and expectation. Majestic, white-winged Melchizedek came from Salem. His tall, slender frame was full of tempered majesty. He wore a garment of dazzling whiteness, confined by a girdle on which were embroidered characters of mystic import. His long hair was fair and glossy as silk; his beard white, short, and pointed. His face shone with divine splendor. A holy calm seemed diffused in the air around him. He bore in his hands the holy vessel handed down from Noah. He placed it upon the altar, behind which rose three clouds of smoke; the one in the midst rose higher than the other two. On the altar lay the bones of Adam—long after buried beneath the great altar of Calvary—and both prayed God to fulfil the promise he had made to Adam of one day sending the great Deliverer who would bruise the serpent's head. The priest of the most high God then took bread and wine— emblems of the great Eucharistic Sacrifice—raised them toward heaven, and blessed them, and gave thereof to Abraham and his servants, but tasted not thereof himself. They who ate of this bread and drank of this wine seemed strengthened and devoutly inspired thereby. And Melchizedek blessed Abraham, and said: "Blessed be Abram by the most high God, who created heaven and earth." And he renewed to him the promise that in him should all the families of the earth be blessed.

The San Greal seemed, in the vision, left with Abraham as a pledge of that promise, and afterward, was carried down into Egypt by the children of Israel. Moses took it with him when he fled to the land of Midian, and was using it for some mysterious oblation on Mount Horeb, when the Lord appeared to him in a flame of fire out of the burning bush.

Sir Launcelot saw the vessel long after in the temple of Jerusalem among other precious objects of antiquity; its use and origin nearly forgotten. Only a few remembered its strange history, and felt, rather than knew, that it yet awaited its most glorious use. Its holy guardians had always watched over its safety with jealous care, until the abomination of desolation entered the holy place. But a divine Eye seemed to watch over it. At the institution of the Mass, it was in the possession of a holy woman, since known as Veronica—her who took off her veil to wipe the dust and sweat and blood from the divine face of suffering Jesus, which was left thereon so miraculously imprinted. Veronica brought the vessel to the disciples of Jesus to be used at the Last Supper.

The Holy Grayle revealed to the astonished eyes of Sir Launcelot was composed of two parts, the cup and the foot. The cup alone had been handed down from the time of the holy patriarchs. Its very form was wonderful and significant, and its composition mysterious. Jesus alone knew what it was. It was dark, compact, and perhaps of vegetable origin. It was covered and lined with gold, and on it were two handles.

The foot of the chalice, added at a later period, was of virgin gold, wrought with the skill of a cunning workman. It was ornamented with a serpent and a bunch of grapes, and gleamed with precious stones.

The whole chalice rested on a silver tablet, surrounded by six smaller ones. These six cups had belonged to different patriarchs, who drank therefrom a strange liquor on certain solemn occasions. They were used by the holy apostles at the Last Supper, each cup serving for two persons. (These cups Sir Launcelot saw belonging afterward to different Christian churches, where they were held in great reverence.) The Holy Grayle stood before our blessed Lord. … Let not sinful hand depict the vision of that unbloody sacrifice, so clearly revealed to the adoring eyes of Sir Launcelot, and so affectingly told in Holy Writ. …

The San Greal, fashioned with mysterious care for the most mysterious of oblations, and handed down from remote antiquity by righteous men, to whom it was the pledge of a solemn covenant, was henceforth to be the object of the veneration of the Christian world. Only the pure in heart could guard it. Angels with loving reverence folded their wings around what contained most precious Blood. Its presence conferred a benediction on the land in which it was preserved.

Sir Launcelot saw afterward the hand that came from heaven right to the holy grayle and bare it away. But a comforting voice told him that it should reappear on the earth, though for him the quest was ended.

At the end of four and twenty days, Sir Launcelot awoke. The vision had passed away, but the place was filled with the sweetest odors, as if of Paradise. Wondering thereat, he cried: "I thank God of his infinite mercy for that I have seen, for it comforteth me." And he rose up and went to Camelot, where he found King Arthur and many of the Knights of the Round Table, to whom he related all that had befallen him.

New Publications.

Lives Of The English Cardinals;
Including Historical Notices Of The Papal Court, From Nicholas Breakspear (Pope Adrian Iv.) To Thomas Wolsey, Cardinal Legate.
By Folkestone Williams, author of, etc., etc.
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1868. 2 vols. 8vo, pp. 484, 543.

Wonders will never cease. A few years since, the present pope, willing to do honor to a great nation, conferred on one of its subjects the highest dignity in his gift. The new cardinal was a man honored alike in England and America for his learning and ability, as well as for his never departing from the strict line of his priestly and episcopal functions. One would have supposed that the English government and people would have felt flattered, and that the English sovereign, who is queen not only of certain Protestant Englishmen, but of a mass of Catholic subjects who cannot number much less than twenty millions, would, while thanking his holiness, have hinted that her twenty millions should have more than one representative in the Sacred College. Instead of this sensible course, a period of insanity ensued—England frothed, England foamed, England grew rabid.

To judge by this book, England is actually becoming sane. The author seems to feel that England is slighted because she has no cardinal. "There has recently been a creation of cardinals, and, though some disappointment may have been caused by the omission of an eminent English name from those so honored, the extraordinary claims of one of the most active of Roman Catholic prelates are not likely to be overlooked by so discriminating a pontiff as Pio Nono."

Mr. Williams here, in two goodly octavos, gives the lives of the English cardinals, from Robert le Poule to Wolsey, as he conceives it; and a rapid examination of the whole, and careful scrutiny of portions, leads us to the judgment that seldom has a work been attempted by a man so utterly unfitted for the task. As though his proper task did not afford him a field sufficiently large, he gives an introduction of eighty pages on the Papacy, the Anglo-Saxon Church, and the Anglo-Norman Church. The whole history of the church down to the Reformation is thus treated of, and to the mighty undertaking he brings only the usual superficial reading of our time, with a more than ordinary amount of religious flippancy, and false and prejudiced views of Catholic dogma, practice, polity, and life. There is not a silly slander against the church that he does not adopt and give, with all the gravity imaginable, as undisputed fact, not even deigning to quote vaguely any of his second-hand authorities or modern treatises, while, to make a parade of his learning, he gives us a four-line note in Greek to support his opinion as to a topographical question as immaterial to the history of the English cardinals as a discussion on the Zulu language would be. As instances of his utter unfitness, we might refer to his treatment of such points as St. Gregory VII., Pope Joan, and the institution of the Feast of the Immaculate Conception.

What his own religious stand-point may be is not easily decided. He lays down (p. 146) that Christ's divinity is his humanity; that the idea of the Good Shepherd, put forward by our Lord and ever deemed so typical of him, was of pagan origin, (p. 8,) and, from the note on the same page, that the church, as founded by Christ, was a grand failure. He maintains, too, that the Christianity, as introduced into England, was and is only the old paganism, the names of the days of the week settling the question, (p. 24.) On one point only he seems clear and positive, and this is, that on general principles popes must always be wrong, and that to deny anything they lay down must be pre-eminently right.

As a specimen of his style, take the following: "The Good Shepherd was the recognized emblem of the divine Founder of their religion, but as the community enlarged it required a human director." We are left in doubt whether this community of primitive Christians required this human director as a new emblem, or a new founder, or a new religion. He proceeds: "He who by his superior sanctity gained authority as well as admiration was invested with that character. His flock became a church, and he undertook its spiritual management in the capacity of presbyter." This is a very pretty fable, but he fails to give us any authority. An expression of our Lord shows that church authority began at the other end: "Non vos me elegistis; sed ego elegi vos, et posui vos ut eatis," "You did not elect me, (your God and Redeemer,) but I picked you out and set you up to go and teach." And they did go and did teach, and such as listened to their teaching and became their disciples became Christians with human directors from the outset.

During the period covered properly by these volumes, from the beginning of the twelfth to that of the fifteenth centuries, England had comparatively few cardinals; English kings seemed to have cared little to exercise any influence on papal councils, and never sought to obtain for an English prince an honor given to members of many reigning families. The English cardinals whose names at once suggest themselves are Cardinal Nicholas Breakspear, (subsequently Pope Adrian IV.,) Cardinal Stephen Langton, Cardinal Beaufort, and Cardinal Wolsey. Of all except the first, the general idea in men's minds is drawn less from history than from Shakespeare. Of these especially, really well-written lives, with sketches of the less known and less important English cardinals, would indeed be a valuable addition; but such Mr. Williams's book certainly is not.

In beginning his life of Adrian IV., he quotes Matthew of Paris, who makes him son of Robert de Camera, said by William of Newburgh to have been a poor scholar; then cites Camden's statement that he was born at Langley, near St. Alban's; but he slips in a charge, hunted up in the filth of the wretched Bale, that he was illegitimate; as though the assertion of such a man, in the most virulent stage of the Reformation abuse, could be authority as to a fact of a period so long past. Even Fuller, as he admits, with all his readiness to belittle the papacy, only "insinuates that he was an illegitimate son." Yet Mr. Williams, on the assertion of a Bale and the insinuation of a Fuller, says, "There is reason to believe that he was the natural son of a priest," and on this supposition he proceeds to erect his whole superstructure.

From such a writer no book can emanate that any man can read who does not wilfully wish to be misled.

Goethe And Schiller.
An Historical Romance.
By L. Mühlbach, author of "Joseph II. and his Court," "Frederick the Great and his Court," "The Empress Josephine," "Andreas Hofer," etc., etc.
Translated from the German by Chapman Coleman.
Illustrated by Gaston Fay.
New York: D. Appleton & Co. Pp. 283. 1868.

A careful perusal of this, the author's latest production, has not caused us to modify, in the slightest degree, the opinion heretofore expressed in these pages concerning the volumes comprising what is now known as the Mühlbach series of historical romances. That they are ably written we admitted then, and we are not now disposed to deny. But this, their only merit, in our judgment, can be claimed equally as well for many literary works which no prudent father, no careful mother, would dream of keeping within reach of, much less of placing in the hands of, their guileless offspring. Illicit love, in some instances covered by a thin veil of Platonism, the intrigues of courtiers, duplicity and meanness, are the pivotal points on which the incidents principally turn. For these and similar offences against morality, the author has no word of censure, while as for the dramatis personae, their virtuous indignation, when given utterance to, is always directed against the criminal and not the crime. In fine, we look upon these as books by which not a single person can become better or more enlightened, while very many will rise from their perusal worse than before.

Father Cleveland; Or, The Jesuit.
By the authoress of "Life in the Cloister," "Grace O'Halloran," "The Two Marys," etc., etc.
Boston: P. Donahoe. Pp. 178. 1868.

An affecting tale, founded on fact. The main incident, the heroine withering beneath the breath of calumny and finally dying of a broken heart, truly depicts the fatal consequences too often resulting from the sin of slander. The scene is laid in England, Ireland, and the New World. The incidents being principally descriptive of the fallen fortunes of the Desmonds, the sad reverses of Squire Cleveland, and the untimely fate of the amiable heroine, give a rather sombre tone to the narrative, which is somewhat relieved, however, by the filial affection of Aileen Desmond, the quaint humor of Pat Magrath, and the unaffected piety and zealous ministrations of Father Cleveland, the good Jesuit.

Outlines Of Ancient And Modern History.
Illustrated by numerous Geographical and Historical Notes and Maps.
Embracing: Part I. Ancient History.
Part II. Modern History.
By Marcius Willson.
School Edition.
Published by Ivison, Phinney & Co., New-York.

Messrs. Ivison, Phinney & Co. are among the most extensive publishers of school books in the United States. They are the publishers of Sanders's series of Union Readers, Robinson's Arithmetics and Mathematical Works, Kerl's Grammars, and many other school publications. All of these are largely used in our Catholic institutions, and extensively used in the public schools all over the country. At present we will confine our remarks to the Outlines of Ancient and Modern History at the head of this notice. We are fully satisfied that any candid, intelligent, fair-minded reader of this misnamed history, after the most cursory examination, would pronounce its introduction into the schools of the country as highly calculated to mislead such as should rely on its statements, and corrupt such as should adopt its principles. In note I, p. 332, he tells us that the "Albigenses is a name given to several heretical sects in the South of France, who agreed in opposing the dominion of the Roman hierarchy, and in endeavoring to restore the simplicity of ancient Christianity," and that "the creed of the unfortunates had been extinguished in blood." The Protestant historian, Mosheim, speaking of these "unfortunates," says that "their shocking violation of decency was a consequence of their pernicious system. They looked upon decency and modesty as marks of inward corruption. Certain enthusiasts among them maintained that the believer could not sin, let his conduct be ever so horrible and atrocious." (Murdock's Mosheim, note, vol. ii. b. iii. p. 256. [Footnote 26])

[Footnote 26: This note was omitted in the English translation.]

But our object is not to refute or expose its inconsistencies, contradictions, misrepresentations, falsehoods, and calumnies, as the book, left to itself, is far below our notice. But the case is different when Messrs. Ivison, Phinney & Co. set their machinery in motion for introducing this SCHOOL-BOOK into all the schools in the country, send their agents from school to school soliciting their introduction, and advertise in school publications throughout the country that "this History has an extensive circulation, has received the highest recommendations from hundreds of presidents and professors of colleges, principals of academies, seminaries, and high-schools." It is these powerful and, we are sorry to say, successful efforts that have caused us to take any notice whatever of this demoralizing book; for left to itself it would be of very little consequence. In the same page from which we have already quoted, p. 332, the author assents that "the avarice of Pope Leo X. was equal to the credulity of the Germans; and billets of salvation, or indulgences professing to remit the punishments due to sins, even before the commission of the contemplated crime, were sold by thousands among the German peasantry." And then he goes on to tell us that Luther bitterly inveighed against the traffic in indulgences, and that he was a man of high reputation for sanctity and learning. Here the author is so anxious to falsify the Catholic doctrine of indulgence, and to blacken the character of Leo X., that he goes so far as to slander and misrepresent even his idol, Martin Luther. For Luther did not inveigh against the pope for the sale of indulgences, or ever say that an indulgence was a pardon for sin past, present, or to come. It was left for his followers to coin this falsehood, and it is a slander on Luther to accuse him of the fabrication. He has enough to account for without charging him with what he is not guilty of; and he knew and taught while a Catholic priest that an indulgence does not pardon sin, and that a person in mortal sin cannot gain an indulgence. We may return to Willson's Histories again, for he has written others besides the one referred to, and all in the same strain; but we trust we have said enough to draw the attention of our readers to the character of the work, and we hope that neither the solicitations of agents, nor the high-sounding recommendations of interested parties in its favor, will prevent them from opposing its introduction into our schools, public and private, and preventing its introduction whenever they can. Count de Maistre has testified that history, for the last three hundred years, is a grand conspiracy against truth; and although the Willsons and their tribe are still numerous, active, and powerful, the progress of the age warns them that they cannot delude the public.

1. The Complete Poetical Works Of Robert Burns, with Explanatory Notes, and a life of the author. By James Currie, M.D.
2. The Poetical Works Of John Milton. To which is prefixed a Biography of the author, by his nephew, Edward Phillips.
3. The Monastery And Heart Of Mid-Lothian. By Sir Walter Scott, Bart. Paper.
4. Mr. Midshipman Easy. By Captain Marryatt. Paper.
5. The Life And Adventures Of Nicholas Nickleby, Martin Chuzzlewit And American Notes. By Charles Dickens. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1868.

We give above the titles of six different works, by well-known authors, new editions of whose writings are now being reprinted, in a cheap and popular form, by the Messrs. Appleton. As long as the majority of people will read little else than fiction, we are glad to see the Messrs. Appleton give them such works as Walter Scott's and Charles Dickens's, for the trifle of twenty-five cents a volume. They are certainly remarkably cheap, and if this will have the effect, even in a slight degree, to make the youth of the country turn from the sickly trash of newspaper stories, and read these instead, the Messrs. Appleton will have done good for the rising generation. If we are to have cheap literature spread broadcast over the land, it is better to have such works as those of Scott, Dickens, etc., than the dime novel and the weekly-paper stuff now so widely prevalent.

Modern Women And What Is Said Of Them.
A reprint of a series of articles in the Saturday Review.
With an introduction by Mrs. Lucia Gilbert Calhoun.
New York: J. S. Redfield. Pp. 371. 1868.

This volume contains thirty-seven articles on modern woman in her various phases. That they are, in a certain sense, ably written, it is needless to assert; and as the majority of them have been extensively copied on this side of the Atlantic, it may be equally unnecessary to state that, as regards the subject under discussion, they are generally denunciatory. Hence we are at a loss to understand what could induce one of the sex attacked to take upon herself the ungracious task of a compiler, even with the opportunity of self-vindication afforded by the introduction. Perhaps, however, this advocate of woman's rights acts on the principle that even kicks and cuffs are better than being entirely ignored.

Alton Park; Or, Conversations On Religious And Moral Subjects.
Chiefly designed for the amusement and instruction of young ladies.
New edition. Philadelphia: Eugene Cummiskey. Pp. 408.

Alton Park is so well and favorably known to Catholics, that praise at our hands and at this late day is supererogatory. We must, however, compliment the publisher for the very handsome style in which he has brought out this volume.

A Pysche Of To-day.
By Mrs. C. Jenkin, author of "Who breaks pays," "Skirmishing," "Once and Again," "Cousin Stella."
New York: Leypoldt & Holt. Pp. 280. 1868.

This tale represents to us certain aspects of Parisian life, which are interesting, not as always exciting pleasurable emotions, but as being evidently drawn from life. The story is told in a pleasing, unaffected manner, and the main incidents are only too probable.

Logic For Young Ladies.
Translated from the French of Victor Doublet, Professor of Belles-Lettres.
New York: P. O'Shea. Pp. 148. 1868.

An excellent text-book; clear, simple, comprehensive. We would suggest, however, in order that its sphere of usefulness may not be even apparently circumscribed, that the title for the next edition read, not "Logic for Young Ladies," but "Logic for the Young."

Academic Edition. A Dictionary Of The English Language, explanatory, pronouncing, etymological and synonymous. With an appendix, containing various useful tables. Mainly abridged from the latest edition of the quarto dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D.
By William G. Webster and William A. Wheeler.
Illustrated with more than three hundred and fifty engravings on wood.
Pp. xxxii. 560. 1868.
A High-school Dictionary Of The English Language, explanatory, pronouncing, and synonymous. With an appendix containing various useful tables. Mainly abridged from the latest edition of the quarto dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D.
By William G. Webster and William A. Wheeler.
Illustrated with more than three hundred engravings on wood.
Pp. xxiv. 415. 1868.

A Common-school Dictionary Of The English Language, explanatory, pronouncing, and synonymous.
With an appendix containing various useful tables. Mainly abridged from the latest edition of the American dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D.
By William G. Webster and William A. Wheeler.
Illustrated with nearly 250 engravings on wood.
Pp. xix. 400. 1868.
A Primary-school Dictionary Of The English Language, explanatory, pronouncing, and synonymous.
With an appendix containing various useful tables.
Mainly abridged from the latest edition of the American dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D.
By William G. Webster and William A. Wheeler.
Illustrated with more than 200 engravings on wood.
Pp. xii. 352. 1868.
A Pocket Dictionary Of The English Language;
abridged from the American dictionary of Noah Webster, LL.D.
Prefixed is a collection of words, phrases, mottoes, etc., in Latin and French, with translations in English.
William G. Webster, editor.
Pp. iv. 249. 1868.
The Army And Navy Pocket Dictionary.
By William G. Webster.
Pp. iv. 319. 1868.

The peculiar claims of these books to professional and popular patronage are so fully set forth in the titles prefixed, that it only remains for us to say that we heartily recommend them to teachers and others, as among the best dictionaries of their class now before the public. They are published by Ivison, Phinney, Blakeman & Co., New York.

The "Catholic Publication Society" has in press

The Holy Communion: its Philosophy, Theology, and Practice.
By John Bernard Dalgairns, Priest of the Oratory of St. Philip Neri.
A new edition of the Illustrated History of Ireland, by a member of the Poor Clares, Kenmare, Ireland, and sold for the benefit of that community. This edition will have additional engravings, and over 100 pages more matter than the first edition. It will also contain a chapter on the Irish in America. The work will be ready about October 15th. Canvassers are wanted to sell it in the country.

Books Received.

From THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY, New York:

Symbolism.
By John Adam Moehler, D.D.
1 vol. crown 8vo, pp. 504. Price, $4.
The Illustrated Catholic Sunday-School Library Second series. 12 vols. in box, $6 per box.
From PATRICK DONAHOE, Boston:
The works of Rev. Arthur O'Leary, O.S.F.
Edited by a Clergyman of Massachusetts,
1 vol. 8vo, pp. 596. Price, $2.

The Catholic World

Vol. VIII., No. 44—November, 1868.

The Church of The Future.

The phrase which forms the title to this article does not originate with us. We find it floating in the columns of various recent periodicals. Our attention is especially directed to it, as the expression of a definite idea, in a late number of the Galaxy, and by an editorial in the Churchman for the 25th of July of the present year. From these we gather that, in the opinion of certain modern prophets, some one of the existing Protestant denominations is destined to achieve pre-eminence over all the rest, and, gathering into its single fold the population of America, become the "Church of the Future" in our land.

The author of the article in the Galaxy writes in the interest of Methodism. In its past successes and its present characteristics he beholds an omen of its ultimate supremacy over all other Christian bodies, if not over infidelity and rationalism itself. The Churchman, on the contrary, claims the laurels of this future victory for Protestant Episcopalianism—predicting that, through its inconsistency with republican institutions, the influence of the Catholic Church must eventually be destroyed; that Presbyterianism, being a growth of but three hundred years, and never yet attaining, or likely to attain to, the semper, et ubique, et ab omnibus of mature and stalwart age, must soon decay; that Methodism, having lost its pure vitality when it departed from the sacred unity of "Mother Church" can never meet the needs of coming generations; he thence concludes, that the diminutive society once called the "Protestant Episcopal" but now rejoicing in the title of the "Reformed Catholic" Church, is to absorb into its bosom the teeming millions of this country, and become the guide and teacher of the Western continent.

The expections of these dreamers are well calculated to provoke a smile. While the great fact remains uncontradicted that the united strength of Protestant Christendom has failed to check the spread of irreligion in the bosom of modern society, while nearly every one of its denominations is struggling to maintain its present spiritual powers, it seems a time for humiliation rather than for boasting, for prayer and labor rather than for triumph. Far be it from us to discourage Christian hope, or snatch away from Christian zeal the vision of those future glories to which it should aspire. But the impression is strong upon our mind that such "castles in the air" as those to which we have referred, imply worse than time wasted in their building, and manifest an increase of that indolent consciousness of strength which, in communities as well as individuals, is the forerunner of a swift decay.

With this remark, we leave the thoughts suggested by the advocate of Methodism, and pass on to discuss the question raised by the assumptions of the Churchman, namely:

Whether the Protestant Episcopal Church is destined to attain pre-eminence over the other sects of Christendom in this country, and become the church of the future people of America?

This question is susceptible both of a divine and human answer. It may be said that the Protestant Episcopal Church is the true Church of God, and therefore that its ultimate supremacy, not only here but everywhere, is certain. It may be also said that, as its internal structure and external operations are such as will adapt it to control and harmonize the elements of which American society is now and will hereafter be composed, so is it likely to attain the relative position which its advocates with so much assurance claim, and to wear the crown which already glitters in their dazzled eyes. Together these two answers stand or fall; for, if the Protestant Episcopal Church be the true church of God, then must it, ex necessitate rei, be adapted to control and harmonize, not only the society of this age and country, but the societies of every other age and clime; and, vice versa, if it be adapted to control and unify the faith, and, through the faith, the acts and lives of men, then must it also, ex necessitate rei, be the church of God.