[Transcriber's Notes: This production was derived from https://archive.org/stream/catholicworld09pauluoft/ catholicworld09pauluoft_djvu.txt Page images are also available at https://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/moajrnl/browse.journals/cath.html To view the tables in several places use a fixed pitch font.]

The Catholic World.
Monthly Magazine
Of General Literature And Science.

Vol. IX.
April, 1869, To September, 1869.

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

S. W. Green, Printer,
16 and 18 Jacob St., N. Y.

Contents.

Aubrey de Vere in America, [264].
A Chinese Husband's Lament for his Wife, [279].
Angela, [634], [756].
Antiquities of New York, [652].
All for the Faith, [684].
Bishops of Rome, [86].
Beethoven, [523], [607], [783].
Catholic and Protestant Countries, Morality of, [52].
Catholicity and Pantheism, [255], [554].
Chinese Husband's Lament for his Wife, [279].
Council of the Vatican, The Approaching, [356].
Columbus at Salamanca, [433].
Council of Baltimore, The Second Plenary, [497].
Church, Our Established, [577].
Charms of Nativity, [660].
Conversion of Rome, The, [790].
Daybreak, [37], [157], [303], [442], [588], [721].
Duration of Life, Influence of Locality on, [73].
De Vere, Aubrey, in America, [264].
Dongan, Hon. Thomas, [767].
Emily Linder, [98], [221].
Educational Question, The, [121].
Filial Affection, as Practised by the Chinese, [416].
Foreign Literary Notes, [429], [711].
Faith, All for the, [684].
General Council, The Approaching, [14].
Good Old Saxon, [318].
Heremore Brandon, [63], [188].
Ireland, Modern Street Ballads of, [32].
Irish Church Act of 1869, The, [238].
Immigration, The Philosophy of, [399].
Ireland, A Glimpse of, [738].
Jewish Church, Letter and Spirit in the, [690].
Linder, Emily, [98], [221].
Lecky on Morals, [529].
Letter and Spirit in the Jewish Church, [690].
Leo X. and his Age, [699].
Little Flowers of Spain, [706].
Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries, [52].
My Mother's Only Son, [249].
Man, Primeval, [746].
Moral Aspects of Romanism, [845].
Matanzas, How it came to be called Matanzas, [852].
New-York, Antiquities of, [652].
Nativity, The Charms of, [660].
Omnibus, The, Two Hundred Years Ago, [135].
Our Established Church, [577].
Pope Joan, Fable of, [1].
Problems of the Age and its Critics, [175].
Pope or People, [212].
Physical Basis of Life, The, [467].
Primeval Man, [746].
Paganina, [803].
Rome, The Bishops of, [86].
Ravignan, Xavier de, [112].
Ruined Life, A, [385].
Roses, The Geography of, [406].
Religion Emblemed in Flowers, [541].
Rome, Conversion of, [790].
Recent Scientific Discoveries, [814].
Spain, Two Months in, [199], [343], [477], [675].
Spiritism and Spirits, [289].
Supernatural, The, [325].
St. Mary's, [366].
St. Peter, First Bishop of Rome, [374].
Spanish Life and Character, [413].
Sauntering, [459], [612].
Sister Aloyse's Bequest, [489].
St. Thomas, The Legend of, [512].
Spiritualism and Materialism, [619].
Spain, Little Flowers of, [706].
Scientific Discoveries, Recent, [814].
St. Oren's Priory, [829].
The Woman Question, [145].
The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago, [135].
To those who tell us what Time it is, [565].
The New Englander on the Moral Aspects of Romanism, [845].
Woman Question, The, [145].

Poetry

A May Flower, [282].
A May Carol, [373].
Faith, [540].
Lent, 1869, [31].
March Omens, [97].
May Flower, [282].
May Carol, [373].
Mark IV., [587].
Mother's Prayer, A, [673].
Our Lady's Easter, [197].
Sick, [852].
To a Favorite Madonna, [564].
The Pearl and the Poison, [710].
The Flight into Egypt, [766].
The Assumption of Our Lady, [789].
Vigil, [405].
When, [72].
Waiting, [323].

New Publications.

Allies's Formation of Christendom, [283].
Anne Séverin, [286].
Auerbach's Black Forest, [424].
Ark of the Covenant, The, [427].
Ark of Elm Island, [428].
Alice's Adventures in Wonder Land, [429].
Alice Murray, [570].
Appleton's Annual Cyclopaedia, [719].
An American Woman in Europe, [856].
A German Reader, [859].
Brickmose's Travels, [140].
Bacon's False and True Definitions of Faith, [422].
Banim's Life and Works, [716].
Costello, John M., [143].
Conyngham's Irish Brigade, [720].
Cantarium Romanum, etc., [856].
Dublin Review, The, [426].
Dolby's Church Embroidery and Vestments, [427].
Dotty Dimple Stories, [428].
Die Alte und Neue Welt. [575].
Die Jenseitige Welt, [715].
Divorce, Essay on, [860].
Eudoxia, [286].
Free Masons, The, [426].
Fernecliffe, [428].
Fénélon's Conversations with de Ramsai, [573].
Glimpses of Pleasant Homes, [423].
Hewit's Medical Profession and the Educated Classes, [423].
Herbert's, Lady, Love; or, Self-Sacrifice, [574].
Heat, The Laws of, [576].
Habermeister, The, [719].
Juliette, [429].
Life and Works of AEngussius, [141].
Little Women, [576].
Lover's Poetical Works, [859].
McSherry's Essays, [142].
Montarges Legacy, [286].
McClure's Poems, [288].
Manual of General History, [288].
Martineau's Biographical Sketches, [425].
Müller's Chips from a German Workshop, [571].
Mental Photographs, [576].
Mother Margaret M. Hallahan, Life of, [714].
Meditations on the Suffering of our Lord Jesus Christ, [856].
Nature and Grace, [574].
Notre Dame, Silver Jubilee of, [858].
Nora Brady's Vow, [859].
Oxenham on the Atonement, [568].
Pastoral of the Archbishop of Baltimore, [571],
Problematic Characters, [717].
Reminiscences of Mendelssohn, [428].
Report on Gun-shot Wounds, [857].
Sunday-School Class-Book, [287].
Studious Women, [287].
Salt-Water Dick, [428].
Sogarth Aroon, [719].
Service Manual, Military, [857].
Thunder and Lightning, [284].
Twelve Nights in a Hunter's Camp, [427].
Taine's Italy, Florence, etc., [574].
The Fisher Maiden, [576].
The Two Schools, [859].
The Irish Widow's Son, [860].
Veith's Instruments of the Passion, [141].
Wonders of Optics, The, [284].
Why Men do not Believe, [284].
Wiseman's Meditations, [421].
Winifred, [575].
Warwick, [716].
Walter Savage Landor, [718].
Wandering Recollections of a Busy Life, [718].
Way of Salvation, The, [859].
Young Christian's Library, [719].

The Catholic World.

Vol. IX., No. 49. April, 1869.

The Fable Of Pope Joan.

"But avoid foolish and old wives' fables."—I Tim. iv. 7.

Every one is more or less familiar with the story of a female pope, which runs thus: Pope Leo IV. died in 855, and in the catalogue of Popes Benedict III. appears as his successor. This, claim the Joan story-tellers, is incorrect; for between Leo and Benedict the papal throne was for more than two years occupied by a woman. Her name is not permitted to appear in the list of popes, for the reason that historians devoted to the interests of the church desired to throw the veil of oblivion over so sacrilegious a scandal, and here, say they, is the true account of the affair.

On the death of Leo IV. the clergy and people of Rome met to elect his successor, and they chose a young priest, a comparative stranger in Rome, who during his short residence there had acquired an immense reputation for learning and virtue, and who, on becoming pope, assumed the name of John VII., or, according to some, John VIII. [Footnote 1]

[Footnote 1: And it was the most convenient one to take. Before 855 there were seven popes named John, and at the period when the story began to spread there had been twenty-one.]

Now, the pope so elected was, in fact, a woman, the daughter of an English couple travelling in Germany. She was born in Fulda, where she grew up and was well educated. Disguised as a man, she entered the monastery at Fulda, where she remained undiscovered for years, and from which she eventually eloped with a monk. They fled to England, thence to France and Italy, and finally to Greece. They were both profoundly versed in all the science of the day, and went to Athens to study the literature and language of that country. Here the monk died. Giovanna (her name was also Gilberta or Agnes, according to the fancy of the writer) [Footnote 2] then left Athens and went to Rome, where her reputation for learning and the fame of her virtue soon spread.

[Footnote 2: Her maiden name was for the first time given at end of 14th century. It was then Agnes.]

She gave public lectures and disputations, to which she attracted immense crowds of hearers, all delighted with her exemplary piety and astonished at her matchless learning.

All the students of Rome, and even professors, flocked to hear her. On the death of Leo, she was elected pope by the clergy and people of Rome from among many men preëminent for their learning and virtue. After governing with great wisdom for more than two years—there being not the slightest suspicion of her sex—she left the Vatican on a certain festival at the head of the clergy, to walk in procession to the Lateran; but on the way was seized with the pains of labor, and in the open street, amid the astounded bishops and clergy and surrounding concourse of people, then and there gave birth to a child—and died. After this occurrence, it was determined that the pontiff in procession should never pass that desecrated street, and a statue was placed on the spot to perpetuate the infamy of the fact, and a certain ceremony, minutely described, was ordained to be observed at the consecration of all future popes, in order to prevent the possibility of any similar scandal.

Of course there are numerous versions of the narrative, infinitely varied in every detail, as is apt to be the case with any story starting from no place or person in particular and contributed to by everybody in general.

As told, this incident is supposed to fill every polemical Protestant with delight, and to fill convicted Catholics with what Carlyle calls "astonishment and unknown pangs."

Now, granting every tittle of the story as related to be true, we see no good reason for delight on one side nor pangs on the other. We repeat, conceding its entire truth, there is nothing in the story that necessarily entails injury or disgrace on the Catholic Church. Why should it? Catholic morality and doctrine do not depend upon the personal qualities of popes. In this case, supposing the story true, who was elected pope? A man—as all concerned honestly believed—of acknowledged learning and virtue. There was no intrigue, no improper influence; and those who elected him had no share in the imposture, but were the victims, not the participators, of the deceit practised. The cunning and the imposture were all hers, and her crime consisted, not in being delivered in the streets, but in not having lived chastely. True, it was a scandalous accident; but the scandal could not add to the original immorality of which, in all the world, but two persons were guilty, and guilty in secret—for there is no pretence, in all the versions, that the outward life of the pretended she-pope was otherwise than blameless and even edifying. Those who elected her were totally ignorant of her sex—an ignorance entirely excusable—an error of fact brought about by artful imposture. To their honor be it said, that they recognized in their choice the sole merits of piety and learning, and wished to reward them.

But a female pope was once the head of the church! Dreadful reproach to come from those who call themselves Reformed, Evangelical, and Puritans, who have not only tolerated but established, nay, and even forced some queens and princesses to declare themselves Head of the Church or Defender of the Faith in their own dominions, and dispose—as one of them does to this day—of church dignities and benefices, and order other matters ecclesiastical according to their personal will and pleasure.

Let us now look into the story and examine the testimony on which it is founded. The popess is said to have reigned two years and more. Rome was then the greatest city and the very centre of the civilized world, and always full of strangers from all parts of the earth. The catastrophe of the discovery brought about by the street delivery took place under the eyes of a vast multitude of people, and must have been known on the same day to the entire city before the sun had set. An event so strange, so romantic, so astounding, so scandalous, concerning the most exalted personage in the world, must surely have been written about or chronicled by the Italians who were there, and reported by letter or word of mouth by foreigners to their friends at home, and found its way from a thousand sources into the writings of the time; for it must be remembered the pope, of all living men, was of especial interest to the class who at that period were in the habit of writing. Such testimony as this, being the evidence of eye-witnesses, would be the highest testimony, and would settle the fact beyond dispute. Where is it? Silence profound is our only answer. Nothing of the kind is on the record of that period. Ah! then in that case we must suppose the matter to have been temporarily hushed up, and we will consent to receive accounts written ten, twenty—well, we'll not haggle about a score or two—or even fifty years later. Silence again! Not a scrap, not a solitary line can be found.

And so we travel through all the history which learning and industry have been able to rescue from the re-cords of the past down to the end of the ninth century, and find the same unbroken silence.

We must then go to the tenth century, where the murder will surely out. Silence again, deep and profound, through all the long years from 900 to 1000, and all is blank as before!

And now we again go on beyond another half-century, still void of all mention of Pope Joan, until we reach the year 1058, just two hundred and three years after the assigned Joanide.

In that year a monk, Marianus Scotus, of the monastery of Fulda, commenced a universal chronicle, which was terminated in 1083. Somewhere between these dates, in recording the events of 855, he is said to have written: "Leo the Pope died on the 1st of August. To him succeeded John, who was a woman, and sat for two years, five months, and four days." Only this and nothing more. Not a word of her age, origin, qualities, or circumstances of her death. So far it is not much of a story; but little by little, link by link, line by line, like unto the veridical and melodious narrative of The House that Jack built, we'll contrive to make a good story of it yet. The statement first appears in Marianus. So much is certain. For during the seventeenth century, when the Joan controversy raged, and cartloads of books and pamphlets were written on the subject—a mere list of the titles of which would exceed the limits of this article—every library and collection in Europe was ransacked with the furious industry of which a polemic writer is alone capable, for every—even the smallest—fragment or thread connected with this subject. Nevertheless, this ransacking was neither so thorough nor so successful as during the present century; for, as the learned Döllinger states, "it is only within forty years that all the European collections of mediaeval MSS. have been investigated with unprecedented care, every library, nook, and corner thoroughly searched, and a surprising quantity of hitherto unknown historical documents brought to light."

Comparing the so-called statement of Marianus with the latest sensational and circumstantial relation, it is plain that the story did not, like Minerva, spring full-armed into life, but that it is the result of a long and gradual growth, fostered by the genius of a long series of inventive chroniclers.

But where did the monk of Fulda get the story? Ah! here is an interesting episode. His chronicle was first printed at Basle (1559) from the text known as the Latomus MS. Its editor was John Herold, a Calvinist of note, who, in printing the pas-sage in question, quietly left out the words of the original, "ut asseritur"—that is to say, "as report goes," or "believe it who will"—thus changing the chronicler's hearsay to a direct and positive assertion.

But the testimony of the Marianus chronicle comes to still greater grief, And here a word of explanation. The Original MS. Of Marianus is not known to exist, but we have numerous copies of it, the respective ages of which are well ascertained. Döllinger mentions two of them well known in Germany to be the oldest in existence, in which not a word concerning the popess can be found. The copy in which it is found is of 1513, and the explanation as to its appearance there is simple. The passage in question was doubtless put in the margin by some reader or copyist, and by some later copyist inserted in the text, And so we return to the original dark silence in which we started.

A feeble attempt was made to claim that Sigbert of Gembloux, who died in 1113, had recorded the story; but it was triumphantly demonstrated that it was first added to his chronicle in an edition of 1513. The same attempt was made with Gottfried's Pantheon and the chronicle of Otto von Freysingen, and also lamentably failed. In 1261, there died a certain Stephen of Bourbon, a French Dominican, who left a work in which he speaks of the popess, and says he got the statement from a chronicle which must have been that of Jean de Mailly, a brother Dominican.

To the year 1240 or 1250 may then be assigned, on the highest authority, the period when the Joan story first made its appearance in writing and in history—nearly four hundred years after its supposed date.

In 1261, an anonymous unedited chronicle, still preserved in the library of St. Paul at Leipsic, states that "another false pope, name and date unknown, since she was a woman, as the Romans confess, of great beauty and learning, who concealed her sex and was elected pope. She became with child, and the demon in a consistory made the fact known to all by crying aloud to the pope:

"Papa Pater Patrum papissae pandito partum,
Et tibi tunc edam de corpore quando recedam."

Some chroniclers relate it differently, namely, that the pope undertook to exorcise a person possessed of an evil spirit, and on demanding of the devil when he would go out from the possessed person's body, the evil one replied in the Latin verses above given, that is to say, "O Pope! thou father of the fathers, declare the time of the pope's parturition, and I will then tell you when I will go out from this body."

The demon always was a fellow who had a keen eye for the fashions, and he appears to have indulged in alliterative Latin poetry precisely at the period when that sort of literary trifling was most in vogue among scholars who recreated themselves with such lines as

"Ruderibus rejectis Rufus Festus fieri fecit;"

or

"Roma Ruet Romuli Ferro Flammaque Fameque."

A few years later, Martinus Polaccus or Polonus, Martin the Polack, or the Pole, (Polack is now disused, Shakespeare makes Horatio say, "He smote the sledded Polack on the ice,") who died in 1278, the author of a chronicle of popes and emperors down to 1207, says: "John of England, by nation of Mayence, sat 2 years, 5 months, and 4 days. It is said that this pope was a woman." The chronicle of Polonus is merely a synchronistic history of the popes and emperors in the form of dry biographical notices. Nevertheless, from the fact that he had lived many years in Rome and was intimate with the papal court his book had, to use a modern phrase, an immense run. [Footnote 3]

[Footnote 3: The tradition concerning the resignation of Pope Cyriacus was also widely spread by the same chronicle. The story ran that Pope Cyriacus resigned the pontificate in the year 238, and first took its rise a thousand years after that date. It was pure fiction, and was connected with the legend of St. Ursula and her 11,000 virgins. No such pope as Cyriacus ever existed.]

It was translated into all the principal languages, and more extensively copied than any chronicle then existing. The number of copies (MS.) still in existence far exceeds that of any other work of the kind, and this fact suggests an important reflection. Great stress is laid by some writers on the multitude of witnesses for Joan. But the multitude does not increase the proof when they but repeat one another, and they suspiciously testify in nearly the same words. "The advocates for Pope Joan," says Gibbon, "produce one hundred and fifty witnesses, or rather echoes, of the fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries. They bear testimony against themselves and the legend by multiplying the proof that so curious a story must have been repeated by writers of every description to whom it was known."

The various versions that copy one another must necessarily bear a strong family likeness. Their number can add nothing to their value as proof, and is no more conclusive than the endeavor to establish the doubted existence of a man by a great variety of portraits of him, all—as Whately so well remarks in his Historic Doubts—"all striking likenesses—of each other."

In this case the most ancient testimony is posterior to the claimed occurrence some four hundred years, and is utterly inconsistent with the indisputable facts related by contemporary authors. The erudite Launoy, in his treatise De Auctoritate Negantis Argumenti, lays down the rule that a fact of a public nature not mentioned by any writer within two hundred years of its supposed occurrence is not to be believed. This is the same Launoy who waged war on the legends of the saints, claiming that much fabulous matter had crept into them. On this account he was called "Dénicheur des Saints"—the Saint-hunter or router—and the Abbé of St. Roch used to say, "I am always profoundly polite to Launoy, for fear he will deprive me of St. Roch." The general rule (Launoy's) so important in historical criticism is in perfect harmony with a great and leading principle of jurisprudence. In the Pope Joan incident the silence of all the writers of that age as to so remarkable a circumstance is to be fairly received as a prerogative argument (Baconian philosophy) when set up against the numerous modern repetitions of the story. It may be taken as a general rule that the silence of contemporaries is the strongest argument against the truth of any given historical assertion, particularly when the fact asserted is strange and interesting, and this for the reason that man is ever prone to believe and recount the marvellous; and in the absence of early evidence, the testimony of later times is, for the same reason, only weaker. Now this is in strict accordance with the principle of English common law, which demands the highest and rejects hearsay and secondary evidence; for scores of witnesses may depose in vain that they have heard of such a fact; the eye-witness is the prerogative instance. This is the logic of evidence.

And now we find that what happened to Marianus Scotus also befell Polonus. He was entirely innocent of any mention of Joan! The passage exists in none of the oldest copies, and is wanting in all that follow the author's close and methodical plan of giving one line to each year of a pope's reign, so that, with fifty lines to the page as he wrote, each page covered precisely half a century. This method is entirely broken up in those MSS. which contain the passage concerning Joan, and the rage to get the passage in was such that in one copy (the Heidelberg MS.) Benedict III. is left out entirely and Joan put in his place. Dr. Döllinger and the learned Bayle concur in the opinion that the passage never had any existence in the original work of Polonus.

And just at this juncture the testimony of Tolomeo di Lucca (1312) is important. He wrote an ecclesiastical history, and names the popess with the remark that in all the histories and chronicles known to him Benedict III. succeeded Leo IV. The author was noted for learning and industry, and must necessarily have consulted every available authority, and yet nowhere did he find mention of Joan but in Polonus. In 1283, a versified chronicle of Maerlandt (a Hollander) mentions Joan: "I am neither clear nor certain whether it is a truth or a fable; mention of it in chronicles of the popes is uncommon."

And now, as we advance into the fourteenth century, as manuscripts multiply and one chronicler copies another, mention of Joan increases; and successively and in due order, as the malt, the rat, the cat, the dog, and all the rest appear in turn to make perfect the nursery ditty, so the statue, the street, the ceremony, and all the remaining features of the story come gradually out, until we have it in full and detailed description, and our popular papal "House that Jack built" is complete.

Then we have Geoffrey of Courlon, a Benedictine, (1295,) Bernard Guidonis and Leo von Orvieto, both Dominicans, (1311,) John of Paris, Dominican, (first half of fourteenth century,) and several others, all of whom take the story from Polonus.

In 1306, we get the statue from Siegfried, who thus contributes his quota: "At Rome, in a certain spot of the city, is still shown her statue in pontifical dress, together with the image of her child cut in marble in a wall." Bayle says that Thierry di Niem (fifteenth century) "adds out of his own head" the statue. But it appears that it was referred to twenty-three years earlier than Siegfried by Maerlandt, the Hollander, who says that the story as we read it is cut in stone and can be seen any day:

"En daer leget soe, als wyt lesen
Noch aleo up ten Steen ghebouween,
Dat men ano daer mag scouwen."

Amalric di Angier wrote in 1362, and adds to the story her "teaching three years at Rome." Petrarch repeats the version of Polonus. Boccacio also relates it, and was the first who at that period asserted her name was not known.

Jacopo de Acqui (1370) says that she reigned nineteen years.

Aimery du Peyrat, abbot of Moissac, who compiled a chronicle in 1399, puts "Johannes Anglicus" in the list of popes with the remark, "Some say that she was a woman."

In 1450, Martin le Franc, in his Champion des Dames, expresses surprise that Providence should have permitted such a scandal as to allow the church to be governed by a wicked woman.

"Comment endura Dieu, comment
Que femme ribaulde et prestresse
Eut l'Eglise en gouvernement?"

Hallam (Literature of Europe) mentions as among the most remarkable among the Fastnacht's Spiele (carnival plays) of Germany the apotheosis of Pope Joan, a tragic-comic legend, written about 1480. Bouterwek, in his History of German Poetry, also mentions it.

In 1481, "to swell the dose," as Bayle says, the stool feature of the story first comes in.

In the Nuremberg Chronicle of 1493 (Astor Library copy) Joan is put down as Joannes Septimus, and the page ornamented (?) with a wood-cut of a woman with a child in her arms. It relates that she gained the pontificate by evil arts, "malis artibus."

In the beginning of the same century there was seen a bust of Joan among the collection of busts of the popes in the cathedral at Sienna. And, more astonishing still, the story was related in the Mirabilia urbis Roma, a sort of guide-book for strangers and pilgrims visiting Rome, editions of which were constantly reprinted for a period of eighty years down to 1550!

In the middle of the fifteenth century we find the story related at full length by Felix Hammerlein, and later by John Bale, then Bishop of Ossory, who afterward became a Protestant. He pretty well completes the tale.

According to Tolomeo di Lucca, the Joan story in 1312 was nowhere found but in some few copies of Polonus. Nevertheless, it is notorious that at that time countless lists and historical tables of popes were in existence, in none of which was there any trace of the popess.

Suddenly we find extraordinary industry exercised in multiplying and spreading the copies of Polonus containing the story, and in inserting it in other chronicles that did not contain it. As the editors of the Histoire Littéraire e France aptly remark: "Nous ne saurions nous expliquer comment il se fait que ce soit précisëment dans les rangs de cette fidèle milice du saint-siège que se rencontrent les propagateurs les plus naïfs, et peut-être les inventeurs, d'une histoire si injurieuse à la papauté." [Footnote 4]

[Footnote 4: "We cannot understand how it is that, precisely among the ranks of the faithful soldiers of the holy see, we find the most credulous propagators and, perhaps, inventors of a story so injurious to the papacy.">[

Dr. Döllinger answers this by stating that those who appeared to be most active in the matter were Dominicans and Minorites, particularly the former, (Sie waren es ja, besonders die ersten.) This is specially to be remarked under the primacy of Boniface VIII., who was no friend of either order. The Dominican historians were particularly severe in their judgments on Boniface in the matter of his difficulty with Philip the Fair, and appear to dwell with satisfaction upon this period of the weakened authority of the papal see.

In 1610, Alexander Cooke published in London, "Pope Ioane, a Dialogue Betweene a Protestant and a Papist, manifestly prouing that a woman called Ioane was Pope of Rome: against the surmises and objections made to the contrarie," etc. Cooke has a preface, "To the Popish or Catholicke reader—chuse whether name thou hast a mind to;" which is very handsome indeed of Mr. Cooke.

The papist in the Dialogue has a dreadful time of it from one end of the book to the other, and Gregory VII. is effectually settled by calling him "that firebrand of hell." Bayle grimly disposes of Cooke's work thus: "It had been better for his cause if he had kept silence."

Discussion of the story comes even down to this century. In 1843 and 1845 two works appeared in Holland: one, by Professor Kist, to prove the existence of Joan; the other, by Professor Wensing, to refute Kist. In 1845 was also published a very able work by Bianchi-Giovini: Esame critico degli atti e Documenti relativi alla favola della Papissa Giovanna. Di A. Bianchi-Giovini. Milano.

It is doubtful if in all the annals of literature there exists a more remarkable case of pure fable growing, by small and slow degrees through several centuries, until, in the shape of a received fact, it finally effects a lodgment in serious history. Taking its rise no one knows where or how, full four hundred years after the period assigned it, and stated at first in the baldest and thinnest manner possible, it goes on from century to century, gathering consistence, detail, and incident; requiring three centuries for its completion, and, finally, comes out the sensational affair we have related. All stories gain by time and travel; scandalous stories most of all. These last are particularly robust and long-lived. They appear to enjoy a freedom amounting to immunity. Just as certain noxious and foul-smelling animals frequently owe their life to the unwillingness men have to expose themselves to such contact, so such stories, looked upon at first as merely scandalous and too contemptible for serious refutation, acquire, through impunity, an importance that, in the end, makes them seriously annoying. Then, too, well-meaning people thoughtlessly accept reports and repeat statements that, through mere iteration, are supposed to be well-founded. Let any one, be his or her experience ever so small, look around and see how fully this is exemplified every day in real life.

Moreover, there was no dearth of writers in the middle ages who used, to the extent of license, the liberty of criticising and blaming the papacy. By all such the Joan story was invariably put forward by way of illustration; and they appear to have gone on unchecked until it was found that the open enemies of the church began to avail themselves of the scandal.

In 1451, AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini, (Pius II.,) in conference with the Taborites of Bohemia, denied the story, and told Nicholas, their bishop, that, "even in placing thus this woman, there had been neither error of faith nor of right, but ignorance of fact." Aventinus, in Germany, and Onuphrius Pauvinius, in Italy, staggered the popularity of the story. Attention once drawn to the subject, and investigation commenced, its weakness was soon apparent, and testimony soon accumulated to crush it.

Ado, Archbishop of Vienne, (France,) who was at Rome in 866, has left a chronicle in which he says that Benedict III. succeeded immediately to Leo IV.

Prudentius, Bishop of Troyes at the same period, testifies to the same fact.

In 855, the assigned Joanide period, there were in Rome four individuals who afterward successively became popes, under the names of Benedict III., Nicholas I., Adrian II., and John VIII. During the pretended papacy of Joan these men were all either priests or deacons, and must have taken part in her election, and have been present at the catastrophe, Now, of all these popes there exist many and various writings, but not a word concerning the popess. On the contrary, they all represent Benedict III. to have succeeded Leo IV.

Lupo, Abbot of Ferrières, in a letter to Pope Benedict, says that he, the abbot, had been kindly received at Rome by his predecessor, Leo IV.

In a council held at Rome, in 863, under Nicholas I., the pontiff speaks of his predecessors Leo and Benedict.

Hincmar, Archbishop of Rheims, writing to Nicholas I., says that certain messengers sent by him to Leo IV. had been met on their journey by news of that pontiff's death, and had, on their arrival at Rome, found Benedict on the throne. Ten other contemporary writers are cited who all testify to the same immediate succession, and afford not the slightest hint of any story or tradition that can throw the least light on that of the female pope. "The time of Pope Joan," says Gibbon, "is placed somewhat earlier than Theodora or Marozia; and the two years of her imaginary reign are forcibly inserted between Leo IV. and Benedict III. But the contemporary Anastasius indissolubly links the death of Leo and the elevation of Benedict; and the accurate chronology of Pagi, Muratori, and Leibnitz fixes both events to the year 857."

But there is no smoke without fire, it is said; and the wildest stories must have some cause, if not foundation. Let us see. Competent critics find the story to be a satire on John VIII. "Ob nimiam ejus animi facilitatem et mollitudinem" says Baronius, particularly in the affair with Photius, by whom John had suffered himself to be imposed upon. Photius, Patriarch of Constantinople, was known to be a half-man, and yet so cunning to overreach John. Therefore they said John Was a woman, and called him Joanna, instead Of Joannes, in that tone of bitter raillery constantly indulged in by the Roman Pasquins and Marforios, and this raillery, naturally enough, in course of time came to be taken for truth.

And again: Pope John X., elected in 914, was said to have been raised by the power and influence of Theodora, a woman of talent and unscrupulous intrigue. In 931, John, the son of Marozia and Duke Alberic, and grandson of Theodora, was said to be a mere puppet in the hands of his mother. "Their reign," (Theodora and Marozia,) says Gibbon, "may have suggested to the darker ages the fable of a female pope."

Again, in 956, a grandson of the same Marozia was raised to the papal chair as John XII. [Footnote 5] He renounced the dress and decencies of his profession, and his life was so scandalous that he was degraded by a synod. Onuphrius Pauvinius and Liutprand are quoted to show that a woman, Joan, had such influence over him that he loaded her with riches. She is said to have died in childbed.

[Footnote 5: At this period the church was as yet without the advantages of the great reform effected by Gregory VII. in 1073, and the choice of a pope by the bishops or cardinals was ratified or rejected by the Roman people, too often, at that time, the dupes or tools of such men as the marquises of Tuscany and the counts of Tusculum, who, says Gibbon, "held the apostolic see in a long and disgraceful servitude.">[

Long series of years preceding and following these events were anything but times of pleasantness and peace to the successors of St. Peter. Even Gibbon says, "The Roman pontiffs of the ninth and tenth centuries were insulted, imprisoned, and murdered by their tyrants, and such was their indigence, after the loss and usurpation of the ecclesiastical patrimonies, that they could neither support the state of a prince nor exercise the charity of a priest."

Now, with such materials as these, a Pope Joan story is easily constructed; for, with the license of speech that has always existed in Rome in the form of pasquinades, it is more than likely to have been satirically remarked by the Romans under one or all of the three popes John, that Rome had a popess instead of a pope, and that the chair of St. Peter was virtually occupied by a female. These things would be repeated from mouth to mouth by men who, according to their temper and ability, would comment on them with bitter scoff, irreverent comment, snarling sneer, or ribald leer, and they might readily have been received as matter of fact assertions by German and other strangers in Rome.

Carried home and spread by wandering monks and soldiers, it is only wonderful that they did not sooner come to the surface in some such fable as the one under consideration. Diffused among the people, and acquiring a certain degree of consistence by dint of repetition through two centuries, it finally reached the ear of the individual who inserted it in the Marianus chronicle in the form of an on dit, and so he put it down "ut asseritur"—"they say."

Certain it is that no such story was known in Italy until it was spread from German chroniclers, and the absurdity was too monstrous to pass into contemporary history even in a foreign country.

But, it is answered, by Coeffetau and others, we do not hear of it for so many years afterward because the church exerted its omnipotent authority to hush up the story. There needs but slight knowledge of human nature to decide that such an attempt would have only served to spread and intensify the scandal. As Bayle wisely remarks, "People do not so expose their authority by prohibitions which are not of a nature to be observed, and which, so far from shutting their mouth, rather excite an itching desire to speak."

Then, too, it is claimed that for a period of several hundred years after 855, writers and chroniclers, by agreement, tacit or express, not only maintained a profound silence on the subject of the scandal, but, in all Christian countries of the world, conspired to alter the order of papal succession, forge chronicles, and falsify historical records. And yet those who use this argument tell us that in the city of Rome, under papal authority, a statue was erected, an order issued, turning aside processions from their time-consecrated itinerary, and customs as remarkable for their indecency as their novelty were introduced, in order to perpetuate the memory of the very same events tyrannical edicts were issued to conceal and blot out! Comment is not needed.

The total silence of contemporary writers, and the immense chasm of two hundred years (taking the earliest date claimed) between the event and its first mention, was, of course, found fatal. Consequently, an attempt was made to prop up the story by the assertion that it was chronicled by Anastasius the Librarian, who lived in Rome at the alleged Joannic period, was present at the election of all the popes from 844 to 882, and must, therefore, have been a witness of the catastrophe of 855. The testimony of such a witness would certainly be valuable—indeed irrefutable. Accordingly a MS. of the fourteenth century, a copy of the Anastasian MS., was produced, in which mention was made of Pope Joan. But this mention was attended with three suspicious circumstances. First, it was qualified by an "ut dicitur" "as is said." Anastasius would scarcely need an on dit to qualify his own testimony concerning an event that took place under his own eyes, and must have morally convulsed all Rome. Secondly, it was not in the text, but in a marginal note. Thirdly, and fatally, the entire sentence was in the very words of the Polonus chronicle. Naturally enough, it was found singular that Anastasius, writing in the ninth century, should use the identical phraseology of Polonus, who was posterior to him by four hundred years.

But, in addition to these reasons, Anastasius gives a circumstantial account of the election of Benedict III. to succeed Leo IV., absolutely filling up the space needed for Joan. In view of all which the critical Bayle is moved to exclaim, "Therefore I say what relates to this woman (Joan) is spurious, and comes from another hand." A zealous Protestant, Sarrurius, writes to his co-religionist, Salmasius, (the same who had a controversy with Milton,) after examining the Anastasian MS., "The story of the she-pope has been tacked to it by one who had misused his time." And Gibbon says, "A most palpable forgery is the passage of Pope Joan which has been foisted into some MSS. and editions of the Roman Anastasius."

With regard to the early chronicle MSS., it must be borne in mind that it was common for their readers (owners) to write additions in the margin, A professional copyist—the publisher of those days—usually incorporated the marginal notes with the text. Books were then, of course, dear and scarce, and readers frequently put in the margin the supplements another book could furnish them, rather than buy two books. Then again—for men are alike in all ages—those who purchased valuable books wanted, as they want to-day, the fullest edition, with all the latest emendations. So a chronicle with the Joan story would always be more saleable than one without it.

But one of the strongest presumptions against the truth of the story is seen in the profound silence of the Greek writers of the period, (ninth to fifteenth century.) All of them who sided with Photius were bitterly hostile to Rome, and the question of the supremacy of the pope was precisely the vital one between Rome and Constantinople. They would have been only too glad to get hold of such a scandal. Numbers of Greeks were in Rome in 855, and if such a catastrophe as the Joanine had occurred, they must have known it. "On writers of the ninth and tenth centuries," says Gibbon, "the recent event would have flashed with a double force. Would Photius have spared such a reproach? Would Liutprand have missed such a scandal?"

We have disposed of the absurdity of the supposition that the power and discipline of the church were so great as to enforce secrecy concerning the Joan affair. But—even granting the truth of this assertion—that power and discipline would avail naught with strangers who were Greeks and schismatics. In 863, only eight years after the alleged Joanide, the Greek schism broke out under Photius, who was excommunicated by Nicholas I. There was no period from 855 to 863 when there were not numbers of Greeks in the city of Rome—learned Greeks too. Many of them agreed with Photius, who claimed that the transfer of the imperial residence, by the emperors, from Rome to Constantinople, at the same time transferred the primacy and its privileges. Yet not only can no allusion to any such story be found in any Greek writer of that century, but there is found in Photius himself no less than three distinct and positive assertions that Benedict III. succeeded Leo IV.

The Greek schism became permanent in 1053, under Cerularius, Patriarch of Constantinople, who undertook to excommunicate the legates of the pope.

With Cerularius, as with Photius, the papal supremacy was the main question, and neither he nor Photius would have failed to make capital of the Joan fable, had they ever heard of it. So also with all the Byzantine writers, and they were numerous. It was not until the fifteenth century that the first mention of the story was made by one of them, (Chalcocondylas,) an Athenian of the fifteenth century, who, in his De Rebus Turcicis, states the case very singularly: "Formerly a woman was in the papal chair, her sex not being manifest, because the men in Italy, and, indeed, in all the countries of the West, are closely shaved." It is true that Barlaam, a Greek writer, mentioned it in the fourteenth century; but Barlaam was living in Italy when he wrote his book.

And now, as we reach the so-called Reformation period, we find the tale invested with a value and importance it had never before assumed. It was kept constantly on active duty without relief, and compelled to do fatiguing service in a thousand controversial battles and skirmishes. Angry and over-zealous Protestants found it a handy thing to have in their polemical house. And, although the more judicious cared not to use it, the story was generally retained. Spanheim and Lenfant endeavored to think it a worthy weapon, and even Mosheim affects to cherish suspicion as to its falsity. Jewell, one of Elizabeth's bishops (1560) seriously, and with great show of learning, espoused Joan's claims to existence.

Nor were answers wanting; and, including those who had previously written on the subject, it was fully confuted by Aventinus, Onuphrius Pauvinius, Bellarmine, Serrarius, George Scherer, Robert Parsons, Florimond de Rémond, Allatius, and many others.

The first Protestant to cast doubt on the fable was David Blondel. A minister of the Reformed Church, Professor of History at Amsterdam, in 1630, he was held by his co-religionists to be a prodigy of learning in languages, theology, and ecclesiastical history. In his Fable de la Papesse Jeanne, with invincible logic and an intelligent application of the true canons of historical criticism, he demonstrates the absence of foundation for the story, the tottering and stuttering weakness of its early years, the suspicions which stand around its cradle; and, instead of disputing how far the Pope Joan story was believed or credited in this or that century, shows that by her own contemporaries she was never heard of at all; the whole story being, he says, "an inlaid piece of work embellished with time." Blondel was bitterly assailed by all sections of Protestantism, and accused of "bribery and corruption," the question being asked, "How much has the pope given him?" Blondel's work brought out a crowd of writers in defence of Joan, foremost among whom was the Protestant Des Marets or Maresius, whose labors in turn called out the Cenotaphium Papessae Joannae by the learned Jesuit Labbe, the celebrity of whose name drew forth a phalanx of writers in reply.

But the worst for Joanna was yet to come. Another Protestant, undeterred by the abuse showered upon Blondel, gave Joan her coup de grace. This was the learned Bayle, who, with rigid and judicial impartiality, sums up the essence of all that had been advanced on either side, and shows unanswerably the altogether insufficient grounds on which the entire story rests. More was not needed. Nevertheless, Eckhard and Leibnitz followed Bayle in the extinguishing process, and made it disreputable for any scholar of respectability to advocate the convicted falsehood.

There was no dearth of other Protestant protests against Joan. Casaubon, the most learned of the so-called reformers, laughed at the fable. So did Thuanus. Justus Lipsius said of it, "Revera fabella est haud longè ab audacia et ineptis poetarum." [Footnote 6] Schookius, professor at Groningen, totally disbelieved it. Dr. Burnet, Bishop of Salisbury, said, "I don't believe the history of Pope Joan," and gives his reasons. So, also, Dr. Bristow. Very pertinent was the reflection of Jurieu, (a fanatical Protestant, if ever there was one—the same noted for his controversy with Bayle, who was a "friend of the family"—so much so, indeed, as to cause the remark that Jurieu discovered many hidden things in the Apocalypse, but could not see what was going on in his own household,) in his Apology for the Reformation, "I don't think we are much concerned to prove the truth of this story of Pope Joan."

[Footnote 6: "In truth, it is a fable not much differing from the boldness and silly stories of the poets.">[

The erudite Anglican, Dr. Cave, says: "Nothing helped more to make that Chronicle (Polonus) famous than the much talked of fable of Pope Joan. For my own part, I am thoroughly convinced that it is a mere fable, and that it has been thrust into Martin's chronicle, especially since it is wanting in most of the old manuscripts."

Hallam calls it a fable. Ranke passes it over in contemptuous silence. So also does Sismondi; and Gibbon fairly pulverizes it with scorn.

A favorite polemical arsenal for Episcopalians is found in the works of Jewell, so-called Bishop of Salisbury. Let them be warned against leaning on him concerning the Joan story. Listen how quietly yet how effectually both Joan and Jewell are disposed of by Henry Hart Milman, D.D., Dean of St. Paul's, in his History of Latin Christianity: "The eight years of Leo's papacy were chiefly occupied in restoring the plundered and desecrated churches of the two apostles, and adorning Rome.

"The succession to Leo IV. was contested between Benedict III., who commanded the suffrages of the clergy and people, and Anastasius, who, at the head of an armed faction, seized the Lateran, [Footnote 7] stripped Benedict of his pontifical robes, and awaited the confirmation of his violent usurpation by the imperial legates, whose influence he thought he had secured, But the commissioners, after strict investigation, decided in favor of Benedict. Anastasius was expelled with disgrace from the Lateran, and his rival consecrated in the presence of the emperor's representatives." [Footnote 8] Like Ranke, Milman also passes over the Joan story with contemptuous silence.

[Footnote 7: Sept A.D. 855.]
[Footnote 8: Sept. 29, 855.]

In his Papst-Fabeln des Mittelalters, the learned Dr. Döllinger has exhausted the erudition of the subject, and not only demonstrated the utter unworthiness of the invention, but— what is for the first time done by him—points out the causes or sources of all the separate portions of the narrative. Thus, the statue story arose from the fact that in the same street in which was found a grave or monumental stone, of the inscription on which the letters P. P. P. could be deciphered, there was also seen a statue of a man or woman with a child. It was simply an ancient statue of a heathen priest, with an attendant boy holding in his hand a palm-leaf, The P. P. P. on the grave-stone, as all antiquarians agreed, merely stood for Propria Pecunia Posuit; but as the marvellous only was sought for, the three P's were first coolly duplicated and then made to stand for the words of the line already referred to—Papa Patrum, etc.—much in the same way as Mr. Jonathan Oldbuck insisted that A. D. L. L., on a utensil of imaginary antiquity he had found, stood for AGRICOLA DICAVIT LIBENS LUBENS, when it only meant AIKEN DRUM'S LANG LADLE. The controversy concerning the existence of Joan may be considered as long since substantially closed, and Joan, or Agnes, or Gilberta, or Ione, as she is called in the English (Lond. 1612) edition of Philip Morney's (Du Plessis Mornay) Mysterie of Iniquitie, to stand convicted as an imposter, or, more properly speaking, a nonentity. Her story is long since banished from all respectable society, although it contrives to keep up a disreputable and precarious existence in the outskirts and waste places of vagrant literature. We are even informed that it may be found printed under the auspices and sponsorship of societies and individuals considered respectable. If this be true, it is, for their sakes, to be regretted; and we beg leave severally to admonish the societies and individuals in question, in the words of the apostle: "Avoid foolish and old wives' fables: and exercise thyself to piety."

Translated From The French.
The Approaching General Council.

By Mgr. Dupanloup, Bishop Of Orleans.

V.
The Help Offered By The Council.

This is the reason why that church, which is the friend of souls and which was never indifferent to the evils in society, is now so deeply moved. Undoubtedly the church and society are distinct; but journeying side by side in this world, and enclosing within their ranks the same men, they are necessarily bound together in their perils and in their trials. The church has called this assembly, therefore, because she feels that in regard to the evils which are common to both, she can do much to forward their removal.

However, let us be careful, as careful of exaggerating as of diminishing the truth. Does it depend upon the church to destroy every human vice? No. But in this great work, in this rude conflict of the good against the bad, she has her part, an important part, and she wishes to perform it. Man is free, and he does good of his own free-will. But he is also aided by divine grace, which assists him without destroying his liberty; for as the great Pope St. Celestine said, "Free-will is not taken away by the grace of God, but it is made free." Being the treasury of celestial goods, the church is man's divine assistant, and lends him, even in the temporal order, a supernatural aid. If to-day she is assembling in Rome, and, as it were, is collecting her thoughts, it is only in order to accomplish her task, to work more successfully and powerfully for the welfare of mankind.

"Who can doubt," exclaims the Holy Father, "that the doctrine of the Catholic Church has this virtue, that it not only serves for the eternal salvation of man, but that it also helps the temporal welfare of society, their real prosperity, good order and tranquillity?" And who will deny the social and refining influence of the church? "Religion! Religion!" an eminent statesman [Footnote 9] has recently said, "it is the very life of humanity! In every place, at all times, save only certain seasons of terrible crisis and shameful decadence. Religion to restrain or to satisfy human ambition--religion to sustain or to reconcile us to our sorrows, the sorrows both of our worldly station and of our soul. Let not statesmanship, though it be at once the most just and the most ingenious, flatter itself that it is capable of accomplishing such a work without the help of religion. The more intense and extended is the agitation of society, the less able is any state policy to direct startled humanity to its end. A higher power than the powers of earth is needed, and views which reach beyond this world. For this purpose God and eternity are necessary."

[Footnote 9: M. Guizot]

Then, too, the Holy Father, after he has alluded to the beneficent influence of religion in the temporal order, proclaims anew the concord, so often affirmed by him, between faith and reason, and the mutual help which, in the designs of Providence, they are called to lend one to the other. "Even," he says, "as the church sustains society, so does divine truth sustain human science; the church supports the very ground beneath its feet, and in preventing it from wandering she advances its progress." Let those who vainly strive to claim science as an antagonist to the church understand these words! The head of the church does not fear science, he loves it, he praises it, and with pleasure he remembers that the Christian truths serve to aid its progress and to establish its durability. The most illustrious scholars who have appeared upon the earth, Leibnitz, Newton, Kepler, Copernicus, Pascal, Descartes, before whom the learned of the present time, if their pride has not completely blinded them, would feel of very little importance, think the same about this question as does the Sovereign Pontiff. This is demonstrated, adds the Pope, by the history of all ages with unexceptionable evidence. This too is the meaning of the well-known phrase of Bacon, "A little learning separates us from religion; but much learning leads us to it." Presumptuous ignorance or blind passion may forget it; but the greatest minds have always recognized the agreement of faith and science, the harmony between the church and society, and rejected this antagonism of modern times, which is so contrary to the testimony of history and the interests of truth.

But let us not allow an ambiguous expression to become the pretext for our opponent's attacks; how then does the church attempt to reform society? History has answered this question. Prejudice alone fancies that it has discovered some secret attack upon the legitimate liberty of the human mind. The Council of Rome will be the nineteenth Ecumenical Council, and the forty or fifty nations which will be represented there have all been converted in the same way; that is, they have been brought from barbarism to civilization by the authority of her words, by the grace of her sacraments, by the teaching of her pastors, and the examples of her saints. Such are the ways of God and the action of the church, sometimes seconded, but more frequently attacked, by human powers.

Instructor of souls, the church uses the method of all good education--authority and patience. Where there is doubt, she affirms; where there is denial, she insists; where there is division, she unites; she repeats for ever the same lessons, and what grand lessons they are! The true nature of God, the true nature of man, moral responsibility and free-will, the immortality of the soul, the sacredness of marriage, the law of justice, the law of charity, the inviolability of private rights and of property, the duty of labor, and the need of peace. This always, this everywhere, this to all men, to kings and to shepherds, to Greeks and to Romans, to England and to France, in Europe and in Australia, under Charlemagne or before Washington.

I dare to assert that the continuity of these affirmations creates order in society and in the human mind, just as certainly as the repeated rising of the same sun makes the order of the seasons and success in the culture of the earth. O philosopher, you who disdain the church! be candid and tell me what would have become of the idea of a personal God among the nations, had it not been for her influence? O Protestants and Greeks! admit that without the church the image of Jesus Christ would have been blotted out beneath your very eyes! O philanthropist and statesman! what would you do without her for the family and the sanctity of marriage?

What the church has once done, she is going to do again; what she has already said, she is going to repeat; she will continue her life, her course, her work, in the same spirit of wisdom and charity; she will continue to affirm to man's reason those great truths of which she is the guardian, and it is by this means, by this alone, though by it most energetically, that she will act on society.

It has been said that the religion of the masses of the people is the whole of their morality. Then since morality is the true source of good statesmanship and good laws, all the progress of a people must consist in making the first principles of justice influence more and more their private and public life. From this it follows that every people which increases in its knowledge of Christian truth will make substantial progress, while at the same time every people which attempts to solve the great questions that perplex mankind in any way opposed to the gospel of Christ will be in reality taking the wrong road which can only end in their utter destruction. Who expelled pagan corruption from the world, who civilized barbarians by converting them? Look at the East when Christianity flourished there; and look at it now under the rule of Islam! The influence of Christianity upon civilization is a fact as glaring as the sun. But the principles of the gospel are far from having given all that they contain, and time itself will never exhaust them, because they come out of an infinite depth.

Now, although the centuries have drawn from the Christian principle of charity, equality, and fraternity of man consequences which have revolutionized the old world; still all the social applications of this admirable doctrine are very far from having been made. It is even, as I believe, the peculiar mission of modern times to make this fruitful principle penetrate more completely than ever the laws and customs of nations. If the century does not wander from the path of Christian truth, it will establish political, social, and economic truths which will reflect upon it the greatest honor. But it is the mission of the church and her council to preserve these truths of revelation free from those interpretations which falsify their meaning.

Then every great declaration of the truths of the Bible, every explanation of the doubts and errors concerning it, every true interpretation of Christianity by the masses of the people is a work of progress, which is at once social and religious. This then is why the church is using every effort, or, as says the Holy Father, why she is exerting her strength more and more. This is the reason why Catholic bishops will come from every part of the world to consult with their chief.

It is in vain you say in your unjust and ignorant prejudice, the church is old, but the times are new. The laws of the world are also old; yet every new invention of which we are justly proud would not exist, and could not succeed, were it not for the application of those laws. You do not understand how pliant and yet how firm is the material of which her Divine Founder has built his church. He has given her an organization at once durable and progressive. Such is the depth and the fruitfulness of her dogmas, such too is the expansive character of her constitution, that she can never be outstripped by any human progress, and she is able to maintain her position under any political system. Without changing her creed in the least, she draws from her treasury, as our divine Lord said, things both new and old, from century to century, by measuring carefully the needs of the time. You will find that she is ever ready to adapt herself to the great transformations of society, and that she will follow mankind in all the phases of his career. The Christian revelation is the light of the world, and always will be; be assured that this is the reason why the coming council will be the dawn, not as many think the setting, of the church's glory.

VI.
The Unfounded Fears On The Subject Of The Council.

What then do timid Catholics and distrustful politicians fear? Ah! rather let mankind rejoice over the magnanimous resolution of Pius IX. It should be a solemn hope for those who believe, as well as for those who have not the happiness of believing. If you have the faith, you know that the spirit of God presides over such councils. Of course, since it will be composed of men, there may be possible weaknesses in that assembly. But there will also be devoted service to the church, great virtues, profound wisdom, a pure and courageous zeal for the glory of God and the good of souls, and an admirable spirit of charity; and, besides all this, a divine and superior power. God will, as ever, accomplish his work there.

"God," says Fénélon, "watches that the bishops may assemble when it is necessary, that they may be sufficiently instructed and attentive, and that no bad motive may induce those who are the guardians of the truth to make an untrue statement. There may be improper opinions expressed in the course of the examination. But God knows how to draw from them what he pleases. He leads them to his own end, and the conclusion infallibly reaches the precise point which God had intended."

But if one has the misfortune not to be a Christian and not to recognize in the church the voice of God, from simply a human point of view, can there be anything more worthy of sympathy and respect than this great attempt of the Catholic Church to work, so far as it is in her power, for the enlightenment and peace of the world? And what can be more august and venerable than the assembly of seven or eight hundred bishops, coming from Europe, Asia, Africa, the two Americas, and the most distant islands of Oceanica? Their age, their virtue, and their science make them the most worthy delegates from the countries in which they dwell, and the recognized representatives of men of the entire globe with whom they come in contact every day of their lives. It is a real senate of mankind, seen nowhere but at Rome. And although our mind should be filled with the most unjust prejudices, what conspiracy, what excess, what manifestation of party feeling need be feared from a meeting of old men coming from very different parts of the earth, almost every one a complete stranger to the others, having no bond of sympathy but a common faith and a common virtue? Where will we find on earth a more perfect expression, a more certain guarantee of wisdom, of wisdom even as men understand it? I have ventured to say that modern times, disgusted by experience with confidence in one man, have faith in their assemblies. But what gathering can present such a collection of the intelligent and the independent, such diversity in such unity? Who are these bishops? Read their mottoes:

"In the name of the Lord!"
"I bring Peace!"
"I wish for Light!"
"I diffuse Charity!"
"I shrink not from Toil!"
"I serve God!"
"I know only Christ!"
"All things to all men!"
"Overcome Evil by Good!"
"Peace in Charity!"

As to themselves, they have lost their proper names. Their signature is the name of a saint and the name of a city. Their own name is buried, like that of an architect, in the foundation stone of the building. Here are Babylon and Jerusalem; New York and Westminster; Ephesus and Antioch; Carthage and Sidon; Munich and Dublin; Paris and Pekin; Vienna and Lima; Toledo and Malines; Cologne and Mayence. And added to this, they are called Peter, Paul, John, Francis, Vincent, Augustin, and Dominic; names of great men who have established or enlightened various nations that profess Christianity, They do not bear the names of the past and present only, they also bear those of the future. One comes from the Red River, another from Dahomey, others from Natal, Victoria, Oregon, and Saigon. We are working for the future, although we are called men of the past. We are working for countries which to-day cannot boast a single city, and for people who are without a name. We go farther than science, even beyond commerce itself, until we find ourselves alone and beyond them all. When we cannot precede your most adventurous travellers, we tread eagerly in their footsteps; and why? To make Christians--that is to say, to make men, to make nations. What then do you fear? Why do you object to such a council when you entitle yourselves, with such proud confidence, the men of progress and the heralds of the future?

Will it be nations who are disturbed by the council? How can nations be menaced or betrayed by men who represent every nation of the civilized globe? The bishops love their countries; they live in them by their own free choice, and for the defence of their faith. Will the bishops of Poland meet the bishops of Ireland to plan the ruin of nations and the oppression of a fatherland? And is there a single French bishop, or one from England, or from any other country, who will yield to any one in patriotism, who does not claim to be as good a Frenchman, or Englishman, or citizen, as any one of his fellow-countrymen? Is our liberty placed in jeopardy? What can you fear from men who, from the days of the Catacombs up to the massacre of the Carmelites, have established Christianity only at the sacrifice of their life, and whose blood flowed freely in the days that liberty and the church suffered the same persecution? Will the bishops of America join those from Belgium and Holland in a conspiracy against liberty? Will the bishops from the East unite with the bishops of France, and so may other European countries, in sounding the praises of despotism?

No, no; there is nothing true in all these fears; they would be only silly phantoms were it not that they are the result of a hatred which foresees the good which will be done, and wishes to prevent it. What will the council do? I cannot say; God alone knows it at this hour. But I can say that it is a council, because eighteen centuries of Christianity and civilization know and affirm it; a council, hence it is the most worthy exemplification of moral force, it is the noblest alliance of authority and liberty that the human mind can conceive; and I may boldly assert that it never would have conceived it by its own power.

I am not going to mark out the limits of liberty and power. I do not intend now to show the characteristics of schism and heresy, of English or German Protestantism, or of the false orthodoxy of Russia. I will say only one word, and then proceed to make my conclusions. It is this. If the Christian churches wish to become again sisters, and if men wish to become brothers, they can never do it more certainly, more magnificently, or more tenderly than in a council, under the auspices and in the breast of that church which is their true mother.

Do you imagine that you discover different opinions in the church, and make this an obstacle? I would have the right to be astonished at your solicitude, but I will suppose you to be sincere, and I answer, You know very little about the church, Her enemies daily declare that our faith is a galling yoke, which holds us down and prevents us from thinking. And therefore, when they see that we do think, they are perfectly amazed. This is one of the conditions of the church's life, and the greatest amount of earnest thinking is always within her fold. It is true that we have an unchanging creed, that we are not like the philosophers outside of the church, who do little more than seek a doctrine, and endlessly begin again their searches. They are always calling everything in question, they are continually moving, but never reach any known destination. With us there are certain established definite points, about which we no longer dispute. And thus it is that the church has an immovable foundation, and is not built entirely in the air. Yet liberty also has its place in the church, Our anchors are strong and our view is unlimited; for beyond those doctrines which are defined there is an immense space. Even in dogma the Christian mind has yet a magnificent work to accomplish, which can be followed for ever, because, as I have already said, our dogmas, like God, have infinite depths, and Christian intelligence can always draw from them, but never drain them.

No one should therefore be astonished to see that Catholics argue about questions not included within the definitions of faith, many of which are difficult and complex, and which modern polemics has only made more obscure. The spirit of Christianity was long ago defined by St. Augustine in these memorable words: In necessary things unity, in doubtful things liberty, in all things charity. The course of centuries has changed nothing. Besides, I have before said, and I now repeat, that the council, precisely because it is ecumenical—that is, composed of representatives from all the churches in the world—bishops living under every political system and every variety of social customs—excludes necessarily the predominance of any particular school of a narrow and national spirit and of local prejudices. It will be the great catholic spirit, and not such and such particular notions, which will inspire its decisions; and whatever may happen to be the peculiar ideas of different schools or parties, the council will be the true light and unity. There will be complete liberty left in regard to all things not defined. But these definitions will be the Catholic rule of faith, and they should not disturb any one in advance. Again, they threaten nothing which is dear to you, men of this age, they threaten only error and injustice, which are your enemies as well as ours. If you wish to know the real opinions of this magnanimous pontiff, who is the object of so many odious and ungrateful calumnies, and of the bishops, his sons and his brothers; if you wish to conjecture the spirit of the future council, you will find it completely stated in these few words of Pius IX., which were addressed to some Catholic publicists, scarcely a year ago, and which have been inscribed on their standard as a sacred motto: "Christian charity alone can prepare the way for that liberty, fraternity, and progress which souls now ardently desire."

I cannot repeat too often, and you, my brethren of the holy ministry, cannot repeat too often, that great is the mistake of those who denounce the future council as a menace or a work of war. We live in a time in which we are condemned to listen to all. But nevertheless we are not bound to believe all. When, a year ago, the Pope announced to the bishops assembled in Rome his determination to convoke an ecumenical council, what did the bishops of the whole world see in this? A great work of illumination and pacification—these are the precise words of their address. The papal bull uses the same language. In this ecumenical council, what does the Pope ask his brothers, the bishops, to examine, to investigate with all possible care, and to decide with him? Before everything else, it is that which relates to the peace of all and to universal concord.

And when I read the bull carefully, what do I see on every page and in each line? The expression of solicitude well worthy the father of souls, and not less for civil society than for the church. He never separates them. He is careful always to say that their evils and their perils are mutual. The same tempest beats them both with the same waves. At this time, which is called a period of transition, religion and society are both passing through a formidable crisis. There are men to-day who would wish to destroy the church if they could; and who, at the same time, would shake society from its very foundations. And it is for the purpose of bringing help to them both, and to avert the evils which menace them together, that the holy father has conceived the idea of a council. The reason given by him to the bishops is precisely to examine this critical situation, and suggest the remedy for this double wound. These are his words: "It is necessary that our venerable brothers, who feel and deplore as we do the critical situation of the church and society, should strive with us and with all their power to avert from the church and society, by God's help, all the evils which are afflicting them."

It has been told that the Pope wished to break off friendly relations with modern society, to condemn and proscribe it, to give it as much trouble as lies within his power. Yet never have the trials which you endure, Christian nations, more sadly moved the head of the church, never has his soul poured forth more sympathetic accents, than for your perils and your sorrows. And it has been noticed by every one, pillaged of three-fourth of his little territory, reduced to Rome and its surrounding country, placed between the dangers of yesterday and those of to-morrow, suspended, as it were, over a precipice, the Pope seems never to think of these things; he does not seek to defend his menaced throne; not a sentence, not a single word, about his own interests; no, in the bull of convocation the temporal prince is forgotten and is silent—the pontiff alone has spoken to the world.

VII
The Council And The Separated Churches

But all has not yet been said, Other hopes may be conceived of the future council. We delight in anticipating other great results. The letters of the Holy Father to the Eastern bishops and to our separated Protestant brethren give us good ground for hope.

At two fatal epochs in the history of the world, two great divisions have been made in this empire of souls which we call the church—twice has the seamless robe of Christ been rent by schism and heresy. These are the two great misfortunes of mankind, and the two most potent causes which have retarded the world's progress. Who does not admit this? If the old Greek empire had not so sadly broken with the West, it would have never been the prey of Islamism, which has so deeply degraded it, and which even now holds it under an iron yoke. Nor would it have drawn into its schism another vast empire, in whose breast seventy millions of souls groan beneath a despotism which is both political and religious.

And who can say what the Christian people of Europe would be today, were it not for Lutheranism, Calvinism, and so many other divisions? These unhappy separations have made Christianity lose its active power in retaining many souls in the light of divine revelation which have since been wrested from it by incredulity. And who can tell us how much they have retarded the diffusion of the gospel in heathen countries?

Sorrowful fact! There are even now millions of men upon whom the light of the gospel has never shone, and who remain sunken in the shadows of infidelity. Think of the poor pagans on the shores of distant isles! They are vaguely expecting a Saviour; they stretch their arms toward the true God; they cry out by the voice of their miseries and their sufferings for light, truth, salvation, Eighteen centuries ago, Jesus Christ came to bring these good tidings to the world, and spoke these great words to his apostles, "Preach the gospel to every creature!" The church alone has apostles of Jesus Christ, emulators of that Peter and Paul who landed one day upon the coast of Italy to preach the same gospel to our fathers and to die together for the same faith.

But poor Indians! poor Japanese! Following the apostles of the Catholic Church sent by the successor of him to whom Jesus Christ said, "Thou art Peter, and on this rock I will build my church," we see other missionaries who come to oppose them. But who sends them? Is it Jesus Christ? What, then, is Christ, as St. Paul asked of the dissidents of the first century, divided? Is not this, I ask you, a dreadful misfortune for the poor infidels? And is it not enough to make every Christian shed tears?

And union, if it were only possible, (and why should it not be, since it is the wish of our Saviour)—union, especially because now the way is open and distance has almost vanished, would it not be a great and happy step toward that evangelization of every creature which Jesus charged his apostles and their successors to begin when he had left the earth?

Yes, every soul in which the spirit of Jesus dwells should feel within a martyrdom when it considers these divisions, and repeat to heaven the prayer of our Saviour and the cry for unity, "My Father, that they may be all one, as you and I are one." This is the great consideration which influenced the head of the Catholic Church when, forgetting his own dangers, and moved by this care for all the churches which weighs so heavily upon him, he convoked an ecumenical council. He turns toward the East and to the West, and addresses to all the separated communions a word of peace, a generous call for unity. Whatever may be the way in which his appeal is received, who does not recognize, in this most earnest effort for the union of all Christians, a thought from heaven, inspired by Him who willed that his Church should be one, and who said, as the Holy Father has been pleased to recall, "It is by this that you will be known to be my disciples"?

But will our brethren of the East and West respond to this thought, this wish? The East! Who is not moved before this cradle of the ancient faith, from whence the light has come to us? I saw the Catholic bishops of the East trembling with joy at the announcement of the future council, and expecting their churches to awake to a new life and to a fruitful activity. But will the Eastern churches refuse to hear these "words of peace and charity" that the Holy Father has lately addressed to them "from the depths of his heart"? [Footnote 10] And why should they be deaf to this appeal? For what antiquated or chimerical fears? Who has not recognized and been deeply touched by the goodness of the pontiff? How delicately, and with what accents of particular tenderness, does the Holy Father speak of our Oriental brethren, who, in the midst of Mohammedan Asia, "recognize and adore, even as we do, our Lord Jesus Christ," and who, "redeemed by his most precious blood, have been added to his church!" What consideration does he manifest for these ancient churches, to-day so unfortunately detached from the centre of unity, but who formerly "showed so much lustre by their sanctity and their celestial doctrine, and produced abundant fruits for the glory of God and the salvation of souls!" [Footnote 11]

[Footnote 10: Apostolic Letter of Pius IX., September 8th, 1868.]
[Footnote 11: ibidem.]

And, at the same time, we must admire his gentleness, his forgetfulness of all his irritating grievances. The Holy Father speaks only of peace and charity. He asks only one thing, and that is, that "the old laws of love should be renewed, and the peace of our fathers, that salutary and heavenly gift of Christ, which for so long a time has disappeared, may be firmly re-established; that the pure light of this long-desired union may appear to all after the clouds of such a wearisome sorrow, and the sombre and sad obscurity of such long dissensions." [Footnote 12]

[Footnote 12: Ibidem.]

But let the Eastern bishops know that this deep longing for peace and union is not found in the heart of the Holy Father alone; the bishops and all the Christians of the West, how can they help desiring this most happy event? Can there be any good gained in keeping the robe of Christ torn asunder? And what—I ask it in charity and for information—what can the churches of the old Orient gain by not communicating with those of the entire universe? Who prevents them? Are we yet in the time of the metaphysical subtleties and cavils of the Lower Empire?

I have already alluded to the infidel nations. Let my brethren, the Eastern bishops, permit me to recall to them what is at this moment the state of the entire world and the situation of the church of Christ in all its various parts. If in every time the church of Christ has had to struggle, is she not now more than ever before resisted and fought against? Is not the spirit of revolution—and, unfortunately, it is an impious one—rising against her on every side? And you, Eastern churches, whether you are united or not, have you not also your dangers? Is not your spiritual liberty unceasingly threatened? Is not Christianity with you surrounded by determined enemies—at your right, at your left, on every side? And will not the storm of impiety which now disturbs Europe, since distance is no more an obstacle, burst upon Asia, and will not the Christian races of the East become contaminated by the repeated efforts of an irreligious press?

In such a critical situation, when every danger is directed against the church of Jesus Christ by the misfortunes of the time, the first need of all Christians is to put an end to division which enfeebles, and to seek in reconciliation and peace that union which is strength. What bishop, what true Christian, will meditate upon these things, and then say, "No, division is a good; union would be an evil"? On the contrary, who does not see that union, the return to unity, is the certain good of souls, the manifest will of God, and will be the salvation of your churches? What follows from this? Can there be any personal considerations, any human motives whatsoever, superior to these great interests and these grave obligations? Your fathers, those illustrious doctors, Athanasius, Gregory of Nazianzen, Basil, Cyril, Chrysostom, did not find it hard to bend their glorious brows before him whom they call "the firm and solid rock on which the Saviour has built his church." [Footnote 13] If they were living to-day, would they not, as Christians, and most nobly, too, trample upon an independence which is not according to Christ, but which is merely the suggestion of a blind pride? If past centuries have committed faults, do you wish to make them eternal?

[Footnote 13: Ibidem; words of St. Gregory of Nazianzen, quoted by the Holy Father.]

But the time, if you will hear its lessons, will bring before your mind the gravest duties. You who are surrounded on one side by despotism, and on the other by Mohammedanism, surely, you cannot fail to feel the peril of isolation, and the fatal consequences of disunion.

May God preserve me from uttering a word which can be, even in the most remote way, painful to you; for I come to you at this moment with all the charity of Jesus Christ.

Indeed, whether I think of those unhappy races whose souls and whose country have become sterile under the yoke of the religion of Mohammed, or whether I turn my eye toward those great masses of Russians, grave in their manners, religious, who have remained in the faith, notwithstanding the degradation of their churches, and notwithstanding the supremacy of a czar whose pretended orthodoxy has never inspired even the least pity and justice for Poland! equally do I feel the depths of my soul moved to pray for those many nations who are worthy of our interest and our sincere compassion. O separated brothers of the East!—Greeks, Syrians, Armenians, Chaldeans, Bulgarians, Russians, and Sclavonians, all whom I cannot call by name—see the Catholic Church is coming toward you, she stretches out her arms to embrace you! O brothers! come!

She is going to assemble, as the whole church, from all parts of the civilized world. From our West, from your East, from the New World, also, and from far distant islands, her bishops are now hastening to answer the call of the supreme chief, to meet at Rome, the centre of unity. But ah! she does not wish to assemble her council without your presence, O brothers! come!

This is one of those solemn and infrequent occasions which will take centuries before its equal is seen. The church offers peace. "With all our strength we pray you, we urge you, to come to this General Council, as your ancestors came to the Council of Lyons and the Council of Florence, in order to renew union and peace." [Footnote 14] But, On your Side, will you refuse to take a single step toward us, and allow this most favorable opportunity to escape? Who will venture to take this formidable responsibility upon himself? O brothers! come!

[Footnote 14: Ibidem.]

The heart of the church of Jesus Christ does not change; but the times change, and the causes which have, unhappily, made the efforts of our fathers fail, now, thank God, no longer exist. Then I say to you all, O brothers! come!

In regard to ourselves, we are full of hope; and, whatever may be the resistance that the first surprise, or perhaps old prejudices, have made, everything seems to us to be ready for a return. "Rome," said Bossuet, in former times—"Rome never ceases to cry to even the most distant people, that she may invite them to the banquet, where all are made one; and see how the East trembles at her maternal voice, and appears to wish to give birth to a new Christianity!"

O God! would that we could see this spectacle! What joy would it be for thy church on earth, in the midst of so many rude combats, and such bitter affliction! What joy for the church in heaven! And what joy, churches of the East, for your doctors and your saints, "when from the height of heaven they see union established with the apostolic see, centre of catholic truth and unity; a union that, during their life here below, they labored to promote, to teach by all their studies, and by their indefatigable labors, by their doctrine and their example, inflamed as they were with the charity poured into their hearts by the Holy Spirit, for Him who has reconciled and purchased peace at the price of his blood; who wished that peace should be the mark of his disciples, and who made this prayer to his Father, 'May they be one as we are one.'" [Footnote 15]

[Footnote 15: Ibidem. Unity will be the eternal characteristic of the true church. Every question concerning the church is reduced finally to this question, Where is unity?]

Oh! then, listen to the language of the church, the true church of Jesus Christ, who alone, among all Christian societies, raises a maternal voice, and demands again all her children, because she is their true mother! This is the reason why the Sovereign Pontiff, after he has spoken to the separated East, turns toward other Christian yet not catholic communions, and addresses to all our brothers of Protestantism the same urgent appeal.

Protestantism! "Ah!" exclaimed Bossuet, in his ardent love, in his zealous wish for unity, "our heart beats at this name, and the church, always a mother, can never, when she remembers it, repress her sighs and her desires." These are sighs and desires which we have heard from the Holy Father in an apostolic letter written a few days after the Brief addressed to the Eastern bishops, to "all Protestants and other non-Catholics," and in which he deplores the misfortunes of separation, and shows the great advantage of the unity desired by our Lord. "He exhorts, he begs all Christians separated from him to return to the cradle of Jesus Christ. … In all our prayers and supplications we do not cease to humbly ask for them, both day and night, light from heaven, and abundant grace from the eternal Pastor of souls, and with open arms we are waiting for the return of our wandering children." [Footnote 16]

[Footnote 16: Apostolic Letters of September 13th, 1868.]

See, then, what the Holy Father says, and, together with him, the whole church. Shall we hope and pray always in vain? Will the work of returning be as difficult as many think it? I know that prejudices are yet deep; and the difficulty that the work of tardy justice meets with in England is one proof among others; but it is the business of a council to explain misunderstandings, and, by appeasing the passions, prepare the mind to return to the church. And, should any one be tempted to think me deluded, I will answer that among those of our separated brethren who are not carried away by the sad current of rationalism, there is a daily increasing number who regret the loss of unity. I affirm that this is true of America, that it is true of England, I will answer, too, that more than once I have been made the recipient of grief-stricken confidence, and heard from suffering hearts the longing desire for the day in which will be fulfilled the words of the Master, "There shall be one fold and one shepherd." Will this day never come? Are divisions necessary? And why should we not be the ones destined to see the days predicted and hailed with joy by Bossuet? Here, undoubtedly, the dogmatic objections are serious. But they will disappear, if the gravest difficulty of all, in my opinion, is removed; and that difficulty is the negation of all doctrinal authority in the church, that absolute liberty of examination, which, willingly or unwillingly, is certain to be confounded with the principles of rationalism. It is for this reason that Protestantism bears in its breast the original sin of a radical inconsistency, which is lamented by the most vigorous and enlightened minds of their communion. And it is upon this that we rely, at least for numerous individual conversions, and, by God's grace, perhaps for the reconciliation of a large number.

If this essential point is solved—and the solution is not difficult to simple good sense and courageous faith—all the rest will become easy. Reason says, with self-evident truth, that Jesus Christ did not intend to found his church without this essential principle of stability and unity. He did not propose to found a religion incapable of living and perpetuating itself, abandoned to the caprice of individual interpretations. This is so clear of itself that it does not need to be supported by any text of the Bible.

But there are texts which, to persons of candid mind, and without any great argument, are equally convincing. I will repeat only three; the first, "Thou art Peter," the primacy of St. Peter and the head of the church; the second, "This is my body," the most blessed sacrament; the third, "Behold thy mother," behold your mother, the Blessed Virgin, Are you able to efface these three sentences from the Gospel? Have you meditated upon them sufficiently, and upon many others which are not less decisive? Then from the Bible pass to history, and from texts to facts.

Do not facts tell you plainly that the living element of complete Christianity is wanting in you? For, on the one hand, you have had time to understand thoroughly the authors of rupture; and, on the other, you are now able to consider its results. For three centuries you have been reading the Bible; for three centuries you have been studying history. Have not these three centuries taught you a new and solemn lesson? The principle of Protestantism, by developing, has borne its fruits; and the predictions of catholic doctors in ancient controversies are realized every day beneath your eyes. Contemporaneous Protestantism is more and more rapidly dissolving into rationalism; many of her ministers acknowledge that they have no longer any supernatural faith; and recently a cry of alarm, proceeding from her bosom, has resounded even in our political assemblies. But a cry lost in the air! Dissolution will go on, notwithstanding noble efforts and Christian resistance, always increasing and ruining more thoroughly this incomplete Christianity, which needs the essential power that preserves and maintains, and which is nothing else than authority. To lose Christianity in pure sophistry, this is the tendency of modern Protestants, whether they are willing to admit it or not. But good may come from an excess of evil, And what is more calculated to enlighten many deceived but well-meaning souls concerning the radical fault of Protestantism than this spectacle of disintegration by the side of the powerful unity of the Catholic Church, and the council which is going to be its living manifestation?

There is another hope, little in accordance with human probabilities, I know, but which my faith in the Divine mercy does not forbid me to entertain, and that is, that even the Jews themselves, the children of Israel, who, associating with us, lead to-day the same kind of social life, will feel something touch their hearts and bring them, docile at last, to the voice of St. Paul, to the fold of the church. In the Jews, indeed, so long and so evidently punished, I cannot help recognizing my ancestors in the faith; the children of Moses, the countrymen of Joseph and Mary, of Peter and Paul, and of whom it is written, that they "who are Israelites, to whom belongeth the adoption as of children, and the glory and the testament, and the giving of the law and the service of God and the promises: whose are the fathers, and of whom is Christ, according to the flesh, who is over all things, God blessed for ever, Amen." [Footnote 17] I beg them, therefore, to believe in Him whom they are yet expecting; I beg them to believe eighteen hundred years of history; for history, like a fifth gospel, proves the coming and divinity of the Messiah.

[Footnote 17: Romans ix. 4, 5.]

Do not feel astonished, then, to see me full of compassion for Protestant, Greek, and Jew, while I am accused of being severe toward the abettors of modern scepticism. I recognize the difference between errors which are nearly finished, and errors which are just beginning; between responsible and guilty authors who knowingly spread false doctrines, and their innocent victims, who, after centuries, still cling to them. How can I help being moved to tears when I see the people of my country, its mechanics and its farmers, so industrious and so worthy of sympathy, young men of our schools, whose active minds call for the truth, both fall, almost before they are aware of it, into the hands of teachers of error? When the reawakening of faith was so perceptible a few years ago, and a decisive progress toward good seemed to be accomplished, how quickly did the shadows gather around us; dismal precipices opened beneath our feet, the breath of an impious science and violent press became most potent, and the beautiful bark of faith and French prosperity seemed ready to sink before she had fairly left her port! Ah! I do, indeed, execrate the authors of that cruel wreck, while I feel myself full of pity for the many sincere souls I see among our separated brethren, living in error, it is true, but they have never made error live! With warmth I extend to such captive souls a friendly hand. Let them come back to the church; for she it is who guards Jesus Christ, the God of the whole truth, and invites them to this great banquet of the Father of the family, where, as Bossuet has well said, "all are made one."

May the coming council, in its work of enlightenment and pacification, reconcile to us many souls who are already ours by their sincerity, their virtue, and, as I know of many, even by their desires. Let, at least, this be the heartfelt wish of every Catholic! Yes, let us open our hearts with more warmth than ever to these beloved brethren; let us wish—it is the desire of the Holy Father—that the future council may be a powerful and happy effort, and let us repeat unceasingly to heaven the prayer of the Master, "May they be one, as we are one."

VIII.
The Catholic Church.

And you, whom the duties of my position compel me to address persistently—in time and out of time, says St. Paul—adversaries of my faith, though I speak to you with austere words upon my lips, still know that it is with charity in my heart toward you all, whether philosophers, Protestants, or indifferent to all religion, yea, I would wish my voice could reach the most wretched pagan lost in the shadow of the superstition which yet covers half the globe. O brethren! I would that you could taste for a single moment the deep peace that one feels who lives and dies in the arms of the church! Bear witness with me to this peace, my brethren of the priesthood, and every Christian of every rank and of all ages! When one knows that he is surrounded by this light, assured by her promises, preceded by those sublime creatures who are called saints, and whose glory in heaven the church of the earth salutes, bound by tradition to all the Christian centuries by the successors of the apostles, and founded, at last, upon Jesus Christ, what joy! what a company! what power! and what repose in light and certainty!

I am firmly convinced, and each day brings forth a new proof, that the enemies of the church do not really detest her. No; the dominant sentiment among our enemies is not always hatred. There is another feeling which they do not admit, which is far more frequent among them, This is envy. Yes; they envy us; the atheist, at the moment he is insulting a Christian, says secretly to himself, "Oh! how happy he is!"

Let us not credit that which we hear said against the church, that her majestic face has been for ever disfigured by calumny, and that henceforth men can only see in her a mistress of tyranny and ignorance. These violent prejudices certainly do have an influence; our faults and our enemies undertake the business of propagating them. But the church, in spite of this—and the ecumenical council will prove this again to the world—will not be any less the church of Christ, "without blemish and without spot," notwithstanding the imperfections of her children; and there is not one among those that attack her who can tell us what evil the church has ever done to him. "My people, what have I done to thee?"

What evil! Citizens of town and country, you owe to the Catholic Church the purity of your children, the fidelity of your wives, the honesty of your neighbor, the justice of your laws, the gay festival which breaks in upon the monotony of your daily lives, the little picture which hangs upon your wall; and, more than these, you owe her the sweet expectation which waits by the cemetery and the tomb! This is the evil she has done you—this enemy of the human race!

And if you can raise your thought above yourself, above your own interests, above your homes; if you allow your thoughts to soar higher than the smoke which curls above your roofs, what a grand spectacle does the Catholic Church present! She is great and good, even in the little history of our life—greater and far better does she appear in the history of the laborious developments of human society. Inseparable companion of man upon this earth, she struggles and she suffers with him; she has assisted, inspired, guided humanity in all its most painful and glorious transformations. It was she who made virtues, the very name of which was yet unknown, rise up from the midst of pagan corruption; and souls, so pure, so noble, so elevated, that the world still falls upon its knees before them.

It was she who tamed and transformed barbarians; and who, during the long and perilous birth of modern races in the middle ages, has courageously fought the evil, and presided over all progress. And it must be again the Catholic Church which will help modern society to disengage from the midst of its confused elements that which disturbs its peace, the principles of life from the germs of death, by maintaining firmly those truths which alone can save it.

Ah! we do not know the Catholic Church well enough. We live within her fold, we are a part of her, and yet we do not understand her. We ignore both what she was and what she is in the world, and the mission God has given her, and the living forces, the divine privileges, bestowed upon her, so that she may accomplish eternally her task upon the earth, to maintain immutably here below truth and goodness, and to remain for ever, as an apostle said of her, "the pillar and the ground of truth."

Surely, we never hear it made a matter of reproach that a pillar remains unchanged; what would become of the edifice, if the pillar were to leave its place? Why, then, reproach the church for being immovable, and why is not this immobility salutary for you? What will you do when there are tremblings in regard to the truth like the trembling of the earth? While you must disperse, we are uniting. What you are losing, we are defending. We can say to modern doctrines, "We knew you at Alexandria and at Athens; both you, your mothers, your daughters, and your allies." The church can say to the nations, when the Pope has gathered their ambassadors: "France, thou hast been formed by my bishops; thy cities and their streets bear their names! England, who has made thee, and why wert thou once called the isle of saints? Germany, thou hast entered into the civilization of the West by my envoy, St. Boniface. Russia, where wouldst thou now be, were it not for my Cyril and my Methodius? Kings, I have known your ancestors. Before Hapsburg, or Bourbon, or Romanoff, or Brunswick, or Hohenzollern—before Bonaparte or Carignan, I was old; for I have seen the Caesars and the Antonies die; to-morrow I will be, for I am ever the same. Do you answer that it will be without money, without dwelling, without power? It may be so, for I have endured these proofs a hundred times, always ready to address to nations the little sentence Jesus once spoke to Zaccheus, 'This day I must abide in thy house.' If I leave Rome, I will go to London, to Paris, or to New York." It is only of the church and of the sun that it can be said that to-morrow they will certainly rise; and this is the reason that the church, in the midst of the disturbances of the present time, boldly announces her council.

Admirable spectacle, that our century would wish not to admire, but whose grandeur it is forced to acknowledge. Yes, many a wearied eye rests with irresistible emotion upon this stately pillar, standing alone in the midst of the ruins of the past and of the actual destruction of all human greatness. The indifferent feel troubled, surprised, attracted at the sight of the church testifying her immortal power by this great act; and after they have exhausted all their doctrines, they are tempted to exclaim to the Supreme Pontiff that which Peter, the first pontiff, once said to Jesus, "Master, to whom shall we go? you have the words of eternal life."

Hear the words of life, you who doubt, who search, who suffer! Hear them also, you who triumph, who rejoice, who lord it over your fellowman! Hear the words that the church calls her little children to repeat at every rising of the sun: Credo, I believe! I believe in one God, the Creator. See, savants, here is the answer to your uncertainties. Credo, I believe! I believe in a Saviour of the world who has consecrated purity by his birth, confounded pride by his precepts, rebuked injustice by his sufferings, and proved his divinity and immortality by his resurrection, I believe in Jesus Christ! See in him, poor, afflicted humanity, poor, oppressed people, an answer to your despair. Credo, I believe! I believe in the Holy Ghost, in the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, in the judgment, and in a life of everlasting happiness to those who have fought the good battle. See in our creed, O Protestants and philosophers! so divided in your affirmations, so narrow in your hopes, the response to your disputes. See in it, oppressive monarch, the answer to your iniquities! And see, also, O pitiless death! the answer to your terrors.

To love, to hope, to believe! Everything is contained in these words; and it is the church who alone can preserve in unshaken majesty and in the universal truth this Credo, that the nineteenth century, now in the dawn of the twentieth, is going to repeat with the two hundred and sixty-second successor of the fisherman Peter, first apostle of Jesus Christ.

But, brothers, let us cease speaking; let us cease disputing, let us cease fearing, let us bend the knee and pray!

O God! who knows the secret of your Providence, and who knows the wonders which the church will yet display to the world, if men's faults and their passion do not retard her? If religion and society, leaning one upon the other, should advance, with mutual concord, on their blessed course, what great steps would there be toward the establishment of your reign upon the earth, toward the progress of nations, toward liberty by the way of truth, toward the real fraternity of men, toward the extinction of revolution and of war, toward the peace of the world. Then a new era would open before us, and a new great century appear in history. Let us throw open our souls to these hopes; let us beg these blessings of God, and let us foresee possible misfortunes only to prevent them. Let it be known at least that Catholics are not men of discouragement, of dark predictions, or of peevish menaces; but men of charity, of noble hopes, of peaceful effort, and, at the same time, of generous struggle.

Let us invoke St. Peter and St. Paul; let us invoke the Virgin Mary, Mother of Jesus, the honor and the heavenly guardian of the race of man; and, united to the souls of all the saints, let us pray to the adorable Trinity reigning in heaven!

Let us pray that the council may be able to fulfill its task; that the Christian world will not repel this great effort which the church is making to help them; that light may find its way into their minds, and that their hearts may be softened! That misunderstandings may be explained, prejudices removed; that unreasonable fears may disappear, and that Christianity, and consequently civilization, may flourish with a new and more vigorous youth. May the return to the church, so much desired and so necessary, take place!

Let us pray for the monarchs of the world, that the wish and formal request that the Holy Father made them in his letter may be granted, May they cast aside all silly objections, and favor by the liberty they give the bishops the future assembly of the church, and let her council meet in peace.

Let us pray, too, for their people, that they may understand the maternal intentions of the church; and, closing their ears to calumny, may hear with confidence and accept with docility the words of their mother.

Let us pray even for the avowed enemies of the church, that they make a truce with their suspicions and their anger until the church has announced, in her council and under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, her decrees whose wisdom and charity can hardly fail to touch them.

Let us pray for so many men of good faith, men of science, statesmen, the heads of families, workmen, men of honor, whom the light of Jesus Christ has not yet enlightened, that they may now receive its beneficent rays.

Let us pray that the anxious wishes of so many mothers, sisters, wives, and daughters, who, in obscurity, are maintaining purity and holiness in their families, often without being able to bring our holy faith there, may at length be heard.

Let us pray for the East and the West, that they may be reconciled; and for our separated brethren, that they may leave the division which is destroying them, and answer the urgent appeal of the holy church, and come to throw themselves in those arms which have been open to receive them for three centuries.

Let us pray for the church, for her faithful children, and for her ministers, that each day may find them more pure, more holy, more learned, more charitable; so that our faults may not be an obstacle to the reign of that God whose love we are appointed to make known.

Let us also pray for the Holy Father. Deign, O God! to preserve him to your church, and enable this great pontiff, who has not feared, even amid the troubles of the age, to undertake the laborious work of a council, to see its happy issue! May he, after so many trials, bravely borne, rejoice in the triumph of the church, before he goes to receive in heaven the reward of his labors and his virtues!

Lent, 1869.

I.
We like sheep have gone astray,
Kyrie eleison!
Each his own misguided way,
Kyrie eleison!
Wandering farther, day by day,
Kyrie eleison!
II.
Shepherd kind, oh! lead us back;
Christe eleison!
Wrest us from our dangerous track,
Christe eleison!
Lest the wolves thy flock attack;
Christe eleison!
III.
Ope for us again thy fold,
Kyrie eleison!
Night approaches, drear and cold;
Kyrie eleison!
Death, perchance, and woes untold;
Kyrie eleison!
Richard Storrs Willis.

The Modern Street-ballads Of Ireland.

The home of the street-ballad, pure and simple, is in Ireland. It has nearly vanished in England, destroyed by the penny newspaper, which contains five times as highly spiced food for the money. In Ireland it still exists and supplies the place of the newspaper, not only in appeals to the passion or reason, but as a general chronicle of every event of importance, local or national, Very often both are combined, and the leading article and the account of political insult will be run into rude rhyme together, and the story of a murder be interspersed with reflections on its sin. The quantity of ballads is, of course, enormous, and to expect that any but a small portion should possess more poetry than a newspaper article would be unreasonable. But all are not of this prosaic class, and some possess the genuine spirit of poetry under their rude but often spirited diction.

The first question naturally asked is, Whence comes this enormous flood of ballads? Who are the poets who produce them on every imaginable subject, even the most verse-defying public meeting, or in praise of humblest of politicians? Like the immortal Smiths and Joneses, that make the thunder of the Times, their names never appear, and though the ballad or the leading article—and both have done so—may influence the fate of nations, it will bring to the author only his stipulated hire. At present, the street-ballads of Ireland are mostly composed by the singers themselves. In ancient days, the weavers and tailors and the hedge-schoolmasters used to be a fruitful source of supply, the sedentary occupations of the former being popularly supposed to foster the poetic talent, The latter class has vanished, and if here and there one exists, it is in the shape of a red-nosed, white-haired veteran, who is entertained in farmers' houses and country shebeens, in memory of his ancient glory, when sesquipedalian, long words and "cute" problems made him the monarch of the parish next to the priest himself. However, the singer of the ballad is, in most instances, the writer, who is only anxious for a subject of interest on which to exercise his muse, and generally turns out half-a-dozen verses of the established pattern in half an hour. This he takes to the publisher, who not only allows him no copyright, but does not even make a discount in the price of his stock in trade, for which he pays the same as his brother bards, who, finding his ballad popular, will straightway strain their voices to it. But then he has the same privilege with their productions, so that it is all right in the long run. The ballads are printed on the coarsest of paper with the poorest of type, and generally with a worn-out woodcut of the most inappropriate description at the head. Thus, for instance, I have one, where a portrait of Jerome Bonaparte does duty over the "Lamentation of Lawrence King for the murder of Lieut. Clutterbuck."

The ballad-singers are of both sexes, and are very dilapidated specimens. The tone in which they send their voices on the shuddering air is utterly indescribable—a sort of droning, pillelu falsetto, at once outrageously comical and lugubrious. They sing everything in the same melancholy cadence, whether lamentation or love-song. Very often, two, more especially of women, will be together. The first will sing the first two lines of a quatrain alone, and then the second will join in, and they rise to the height of discord together. Fair-days are their days of harvest, although in cities like Cork or Waterford they may be seen on every day except Sunday. A popular ballad will often have a very large sale, and will find its way all over the country.

The greater portion of ballads composed in this way are, of course, destitute of anything like poetry—mere pieces of outrageous metaphor and Malapropoian long words, for which last the ballad-singers have a ridiculous fondness. The singers sing in a foreign language; they have lost the sweet tongue peculiarly fitted for improvised poetry, in which their predecessors the bards, down to the date of less than one hundred years ago, sang so sweetly and so strongly, with such dramatic diction and happy boldness of epithet. The language of the Saxon oppressor is from the tongue, and not from the heart. As the mother of the late William Carleton used to say, "the Irish melts into the tune;" the English doesn't, and so many of the finest of the ancient melodies are now songs without words. "Turlogh O'Carolan," "Donogh MacConmara," and the "Mangaire Sugach" have not left their successors among the "English" poets of the present day. Among a people naturally so eloquent as the native Irish, not even the drapery of an incongruous language can entirely obscure the native vigor and strength of thought. A ballad is sometime seen which, though often unequal and rude, is alive with impassioned poetry, fierce, melancholy, or tender, and it almost always becomes a general favorite, and is preserved beyond its day to become a part of the standard stock. The songs of so genuine a poet as William Allingham, who is the only cultivated Irish poet who has had the taste and the spirit to reproduce in spirit and diction these wild flowers of song, have been printed on the half-penny ballad-sheets, and sung at the evening hearth and at the morning milking all over Ireland. "Lovely Mary Donnelly" and the "Irish Girl's Lamentation" have become, in truth, a part of the songs of the nation, touching alike the cultivated intellect and the untutored heart.

The street-ballads may be divided into five classes: patriotic, love-songs, lamentations, eulogies, and chronicles.

The patriotic songs are disappointing. There are few to stir the heart like the war-notes of Scotland. The reason is obvious. The triumphs were few and fleeting, and the song of the vanquished was only of hope or despair. They must sing in secret and be silent in the presence of the victors. In most of the political songs allegory is largely used. Ireland is typified under the form of a lonely female in distress, or a venerable old lady, or some other figure is used to disguise the meaning. Of course the street ballad-singers dare not sing anything seditious, and even the whistling of the "Wearing of the Green" will call down the rebuke of the "peeler." The ballads that express the hatred of the people to their rulers are sung in stealth and are often unprinted. They are not usually the production of the hackneyed professional ballad-singers, and are consequently of a much higher order. The following is a good specimen, It is entitled

The Irishman's Farewell To His Country.
Oh! farewell, Ireland: I am going across the stormy main,
Where cruel strife will end my life, to see you never again.
'Twill break my heart from you to part; acushla astore machree.
But I must go, full of grief and woe, to the shores of America.
"On Irish soil my fathers dwelt since the days of Brian Borue.
They paid their rent and lived content convenient to Carricmore.
But the landlord sent on the move my poor father and me.
We must leave our home far away to roam in the fields of America.
"No more at the churchyard, astore machree,
at my mother's grave I'll kneel.
The tyrants know but little of the woe the poor man has to feel.
When I look on the spot of ground that is so dear to me,
I could curse the laws that have given me cause to depart to America.
"Oh! where are the neighbors, kind and true, that
were once my country's pride?
No more will they be seen on the face of the green,
nor dance on the green hillside.
It is the stranger's cow that is grazing now,
where the people we used to see.
With notice they were served to be turned out or starved,
or banished to America.
"O! Erin machree, must our children be exiled all over the earth?
Will they evermore think of you, astore,
as the land that gave them birth?
Must the Irish yield to the beasts of the field?
Oh! no—acushla astore machree.
They are crossing back in ships, with vengeance on their lips,
from the shores of America."

The songs which were in vogue among the young and enthusiastic Fenians were, as might be supposed, of an entirely different nature. They were not peasants, but half-educated artisans. The proscribed National Cork Songster contains probably more rant and fustian than any similar number of printed pages in existence. The verses, of course, bear a family resemblance to those that appeared in the Nation for a couple of years previous to the events of '48, and in many instances are reproductions. Those of a modern date are still more extravagant, if possible, than that deluge of enthusiastic pathos; for among the Nation poets were Thomas Davis and James Clarence Mangan, while among those of the Fenians of 1866 there is but one that deserves the slightest shred of laurel. Charles J. Kickham, now under sentence of fourteen years' penal servitude in her Britannic Majesty's prisons, has written two or three pieces of genuine ballad-poetry of great merit, which the people have at once adopted as household songs. "Rory of the Hill" is of remarkable spirit. It begins:

"That rake up near the rafters,
Why leave it there so long?
The handle of the best of ash
Is smooth and straight and strong.
And mother, will you tell me
Why did my father frown,
When to make hay in summer-time
I climbed to take it down?
She looked up to her husband's eyes,
While her own with light did fill,
'You'll shortly know the reason why,'
Said Rory of the Hill."

The love-songs, that are sung by the colleens at the soft dewy dawn, as they sit beside the sleek cows just arisen from beneath the hedge, the nimble finger streaming the white milk into the foaming pail, while the lark's song melts down from that speck beneath the cloud, and the blackbird and thrush warble with ecstasy in the hedge, the morning light shining across the dewy green fields; or at

"Eve's pensive air,"

when the shadows are growing long, although the tops of the swelling uplands are bright, and the crows are winging home, and the swallows darting in the still air; or, in the winter evenings, when the candles are lighted in the kitchen, and busy fingers draw the woof, while the foot beats time to the whirring wheel, are very numerous, and generally of a higher order of merit than the patriotic songs. The pulses of the heart are freer and its utterance dearer in human love than in love of country. The beauties in which the Irish girls excel all others—the blooming cheeks, and brilliant eyes, and wealth of flowing hair, are the main objects of compliment, and are often transformed into personifications of endearment. Colleen, the universal term for young maidens, seems but a corruption of coolleen, which means a head of curls or abundant tresses. Grey and blue eyes are especially objects of endearment, and even in the ancient Irish poems, green-eyed is not unfrequently used, which is not so unnatural as the English reader may suppose, the Irish word expressing the indefinable tint of some lighter blue eyes, being untranslatable into English. [Footnote 18]

[Footnote 18: "Sweet emerald eyes."—Massinger. "How is that young and green-eyed Gaditana?" Longfellow's Spanish Student.]

Although the modern love-songs are inferior to those in the Irish language, for the reason that has been mentioned, that English is not yet the language of the Irish heart, they often possess a simple power, and, though seldom sustained throughout, a touch of nature's genius, which the highest poet cannot reach with all his art. How exquisite is the following:

"As Katty and I were discoursing,
She smiled upon me now and then,
Her apron string she kept foulding,
And twisting all round her ring."

Bits of poetry can be picked out of almost every love-ballad, as witness the following:

"My love is fairer than the lilies that do grow,
She has a voice that's clearer than any winds that blow."
"With mild eyes like the dawn."
"One pleasant evening, when pinks and daisies
Closed in their bosoms one drop of dew."
"His hair shines gold revived by the sun,
And he takes his denomination from the drien don."
"I wish I were a linnet, how I would sing and fly.
I wish I were a corn-crake, I'd sing till morning clear—
I'd sit and sing to Molly, for once I held her dear."
"'Twas on a bright morning in summer,
That I first heard his voice speaking low,
As he said to the colleen beside me,
Who's that pretty girl milking her cow?"
"The hands of my love are more sunny and soft
Than the snowy sea foam."
"My love will not come nigh me,
Nor hear the moan I make;
Neither would she pity me,
Though my poor heart should break."

There is not one, however, that would bear quoting entire, and none that comes anywhere near the flowers of the ancient Irish love-songs which are some of the finest in the world. The principal theme and delight of the ballad-singers are romantic episodes, where a rich young nobleman courts a farmer's daughter in disguise, and, after marriage, reveals himself, his lineage, and his possessions to his bride; or where a noble lady falls in love with a tight young serving-boy. Such a ballad will be as great a favorite among the colleens as the novels of romantic love are said to be among milliners' apprentices. One thing is especially noticeable among the love-ballads, and that is the total absence not only of licentiousness, but even of coarseness. The Irish peasant-girls at home are the most virtuous of their class in the world, owing to the influence of the confessional, the strong feeling of family pride, and the custom of universal and early marriage. Not but there are unfortunates who have made a "slip;" and when the ballad relates of such a tragedy, it shows of how deep effect is the scorn of the parish, and how wretched the fate of the unfortunate and her base-born offspring. The "lamentations" or confessions of condemned criminals are highly popular. Premeditated murder is rare among the Irish peasantry, in comparison with the records of ruffianism among the English laboring classes, and the interest excited by the event is deeper, and extends to a larger space of local influence. These lamentations are the rhymed confessions of the criminals, giving an account of the circumstances of the tragedy, sometimes in the third person, and sometimes in the first, always concluding with a regret at the disgrace which the criminal has brought on his relations, and imploring mercy for his soul. They are of unequal merit, and, as a whole, not equal to the love-songs. Once in a while, there is a touch of untaught pathos; but being without exception the production of the hackneyed writers, they are as little worth preservation as the "lives" of eminent murderers which supply their places among us.

The narrative ballads tell of every event of interest to Irish ears, from Aspromonte to the glorious steeplechase at Namore; the burning of an emigrant ship, to a ploughing-match at Pilltown, the same language being used for the one as the other. During the late war in this country, every great battle was duly sung by the Irish minstrels. The sympathies of the peasantry were usually with the majority of their kindred in the North, but not universally so. Thus does a bard give an account of the battle of New Orleans, which would astonish General Butler:

"To see the streets that evening,
the heart would rend with pain.
The human blood in rivers ran,
like any flood or stream.
Men's heads blown off their bodies,
most dismal for to see;
And wounded men did loudly cry
in pain and agony.
The Federals they did advance,
and broke in through the town.
They trampled dead and wounded
that lay upon the ground.
The wounded called for mercy,
but none they did receive—"

The eulogies of person or place, some patron or his residence, are innumerable, and ineffably absurd. Some years ago, an idle young lawyer at Cork happened to be visiting Blarney Castle, when one of these wandering minstrels came to the gate, and asked to dedicate a verse to "Lady Jeffers that owns this station." The request was granted, and the laughter of the guests, as the bard recited his "composition," may be imagined. The occurrence and the style of verse were common enough, but an idle banter incited the gay youth into a burlesque imitation. The result was the famous "Groves of Blarney," that has been sung and whistled all over the world. Those who have not seen the originals might imagine the "Groves of Blarney" to be an outrageous caricature. But it is not so. It hardly equals and cannot surpass some of the native flowers of blunder. The original is still sold in the streets of Cork, and some extracts, in conclusion, will show how much Dick Milliken was indebted to his unwitting model:

"There are fine walks in those pleasant gardens,
And spots most charming in shady bowers.
The gladiator, who is bold and daring,
Each night and morning to watch the flowers.
"There are fine horses and stall-fed oxen,
A den for foxes to play and hide,
Fine mares for breeding, with foreign sheep,
With snowy fleeces at Castle Hyde.
"The buck and doe, the fox and eagle,
Do skip and play at the river side.
The trout and salmon are always sporting
In the clear streams of Castle Hyde."

Daybreak.

Chapter I.

"O jewel in the lotos: amen!"

A wide, slow whitening of the east, a silent stealing away of shadows, a growing radiance before which the skies receded into ineffable heights of pale blue and gleaming silver, and a March day came blowing in with locks of gold, and kindling glances, and girdle of gold, and golden sandals over the horizon.

Louis Granger, standing in the open window of his chamber, laughed as he looked in the face of the morning, and stretched out his hands and cried, "Backsheesh, O Howadji!"

Not many streets distant, another pair of eyes looked into the brightening east, but saw no gladness there. Margaret Hamilton remembered that it was her twenty-fifth birthday, and that she had cried herself to sleep the night before, thinking of it. But she would not remember former birthdays, celebrated by father, mother, and sisters, before they had died, one after one, and left her alone and aghast before the world. This, and some other memories still more recent, she put out of sight; and, since they would not stay without force, she held them out of sight. One who has to do this is haunted.

The woman looked haunted. Her eyes were unnaturally bright and alert, and shadows had settled beneath them; her cheeks were worn thin; her mouth compressed itself in closing. At twenty-five she looked thirty-five.

And yet Miss Hamilton was meant for a beauty—one of the brilliant kind, with clear gray eyes, and a creamy pallor contrasting with profuse black hair. The beautiful head was well set; something vivid and spirited in the whole air of it. Her height was only medium, but she had the carriage of a Jane de Montford, and there were not wanting those who would have described her as tall.

While she looked gloomily out, a song she had heard somewhere floated up in her mind:

"The years they come, and the years they go,
Like winds that blow from sea to sea;
From dark to dark they come and go,
All in the dew-fall and the rain."

It was like a dreary bitter wind sobbing about the chimneys when the storm is rising. She turned hastily from the window, and began counting the hideous phantoms of bouquets on the cheap wall-paper, thinking that they might be the lost souls of flowers that had been wicked in life; roses that had tempted, and lilies that had lied. The room, she found, was sixteen bouquets long, and fourteen and a half wide.

When her eyes began to ache with this employment, she took up a book, and, opening it at random, read:

"A still small voice said unto me,
'Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?'"

Was everything possessed to torment her? She dropped the book, and looked about in search of distraction. In the window opposite her stood her little easel with a partly finished cabinet photograph on it a man's face, with bushy whiskers, round eyes, an insignificant nose, the expression full of a weak fierceness superficially fell and determined, as though a lamb should try to look like a lion. One eye was sharply finished; and, as Margaret glanced at the picture, this stared at her in so grotesque and threatening a manner that she burst into a nervous laugh.

"I must turn your face to the wall, Cyclops, till I can give you another eye," she said, suiting the action to the word.

A pile of unfinished photographs lay on a table near. She looked them over with an expression of weariness. "O the eyes, and noses, and mouths! Why will people so misuse the sunbeams? And this insane woman who refuses to be toned down with India ink, but will have colors to all the curls, and frizzles, and bows and ends, and countless fly-away things she has on her! She looks now more like an accident than a woman. When the colors are put in, she will be a calamity. Only one face among them pleases me—this pretty dear."

Selecting the picture of a lovely child, Margaret looked at it with admiring eyes. "So sweet! I wish I had her here this moment with her eyes, and her curls, and her mouth."

A sigh broke through the faint smile. There seemed to be a thorn under everything she touched. Laying the picture down, she busied herself in her room, opened drawers and closets and set them in order; gathered the few souvenirs yet remaining to her—letters, photographs, locks of hair—and piled them all into the grate. One folded paper she did not open, but held an instant in fingers that trembled as they clung; then, moaning faintly, threw it on to the pyre. Inside that paper were two locks of hair—both silver-threaded—twined as the two lives had been; her father's and her mother's.

The touch of a match, and the smoke of her sacrifice curled up into the morning sky.

Then again she came to a stand-still, and looked about for something to do.

"I cannot work," she said. "My hand is not steady enough, and my eyes are dim. What was it that Beethoven wrote to his friend? 'At times cheerful, then again sorrowful; waiting to see if fate will listen to us.' Suppose I should drop everything, since I am so nerveless, and wait to see what fate will do."

Here again the enemy stood, The picture of waiting that came up before her mind was that of Judge Pyncheon in the House of the Seven Gables, sitting and staring blankly as the hours went by—a sight to shriek out at when at length he was found. With a swift pencil this woman's imagination painted a companion picture: the door of her room opening after days of silence; a curious, frightened face looking in; somebody sitting there cold and patient, with half-open eyes, and not a word of welcome or questioning for the intruder.

A clock outside struck ten. Margaret rose languidly and dressed for a walk, after pausing to rest. Raising her arms to arrange her hair and bonnet, she felt so faint that for a moment she was obliged to lean forward on her dressing-table.

At length she was ready, only one duty left unperformed. Miss Hamilton had not said her prayers that morning, and had not even thought of saying them, or of reproaching herself for the omission—a scandalous omission, truly, for the granddaughter of the Rev. Doctor John Hamilton, and daughter of that excellent but somewhat diluted deacon, John Hamilton, his son. But to pray was to remember; and beside, God had forgotten her, she thought.

Miss Hamilton was not a Catholic, To her, Christ died eighteen centuries ago, and went to heaven, and stayed there, only looking and listening down in some vague and far-away manner that was easier to doubt than to believe. The church into which, at every dawn of day, the Beloved descends with shining pierced feet and hands; with the lips that spoke, and the eyes that saw, and the locks through which had sifted the winds of Olivet and the dews of Gethsemane; with the heart of infinite love and pity, yes, and the soul of infinite power—this church she knew not. To her it was an abomination. The temples where pain hangs crowned with a dolorous majesty, and where the path of sorrows is also the path of delights, her footsteps had never sought. To her they were temples of idolatry. Therefore, when troubles came upon her, though she faced them intrepidly, it was only with a human courage. What wonder if at last it proved that pain was stronger than she?

With her hand on the latch of the door she paused, then turned back into her chamber again. The society face she had assumed dropped off; a sigh went shivering over her lips, and with it a half-articulated thought, silly and womanish, "If I had some one to come in here, put an arm around me—I'm so tired!—and say, 'Take courage, dear!' I could bear up yet longer. I could endure to the end, perhaps."

A silly thought, but pitiful, being so vain.

Miss Hamilton was not by nature one of those who, as Sir Thomas Browne says, looked asquint upon the face of truth. But she had not dared to fully realize her circumstances, lest all courage should die out of her heart. Now you could see that she put aside the last self-delusion, and boldly looked her life in the face. It was Medusa.

One of the bravest of soldiers has said that in his first battle he would have been a coward if he had dared. Imagine the eyes of such a fighter, a foe within and a foe without, and but his own right arm and dauntless will between the two!

Such eyes had this woman. Of her whole form, only those eyes seemed to live. But for them she might have been Margaret Hamilton's statue.

At length she moved; and going slowly out, held on to the railing in descending the stairs. Out doors, and down Washington street, then, taking that direction involuntarily. It was near noon when she found herself in a crowd on Park street, hastening through it, without caring to inquire what the cause of the gathering was. Coming out presently in front of the state house, and seeing that there was space yet on the steps, she went up them, and took her stand near a gentleman whom she had long known by sight and repute. Mr. Louis Granger also recognized her, and made room, quietly placing himself between her and the crowd. Miss Hamilton scarcely noticed the movement. She was used to being attended to.

This gentleman was what might be called fine-looking, and was thoroughly gentlemanly in appearance. He was cast in a large mould, both form and features, had careless hazel eyes that saw everything, and rather a lounging way with him. Indeed, he owned himself a little lazy, and used laughingly to assert his belief that inertia is a property of mind as well as of matter. It took a good deal to start him; but once started, it took still more to stop him. His age might be anywhere from thirty to forty, the few silver threads in his fine dark hair counting for nothing. You perceived that they had no business whatever there. He was not a man who would catch the eye in a crowd; but, once your attention was directed toward him, you felt attracted. The charm of his face depended chiefly on expression; and those who pleased him called Mr. Granger beautiful.

He stood now looking attentively at the lady beside him, finding himself interested in her. Her eyes, that were fixed on the advancing procession, appeared to see no more than if they had been jewels, and her mouth was shut as if it would never open again. The pale temples were hollow, the delicate nostrils were slightly pinched, the teeth seemed to be set hard. He studied her keenly, secure in her perfect abstraction, and marked even the frail hand that clinched, not clasped, the iron railing. Mr. Granger could read as much in a hand as Washington could; and this hand, dazzlingly fair, full-veined, pink-palmed, transparent, dewy, with heart-shaped finger-tips that looked as though some finer perception were reaching out through the flesh, was to him an epitome of the woman's character.

It was the 17th of March, and the procession in honor of St. Patrick an unusually fine one. It flowed past like a river of color and music, with many a silken rustling of the flag of their adoption, but everywhere and above all the beautiful green and gold of that most beautiful banner in the world—a banner which speaks not of dominion, but of song and sunshine and the green earth. While other nations, higher-headed, had taken the sun, the star, the crescent, the eagle, or the lion for an emblem, or, with truer loftiness, had raised the cross as their ensign, this people, with a sweetness and humility all the more touching that it was unconscious, bent to search in the grasses, and smilingly and trustfully held up a shamrock as their symbol. Those had no need to inscribe the cross upon their escutcheon who, in the face of the world, bore it in their faithful hearts, and upon their bowed and lacerated shoulders.

A pathetic spectacle—a countless procession of exiles; yet, happily for them, the generous land that gave them a home grew no dark willows to rust their harp-strings.

The music was, of course, chiefly Irish airs; but one band in passing struck up "Sweet Home."

Margaret started at the sound, and looked about for escape. She could not listen to that. Happening to glance upward, she saw a company of ladies and gentlemen in the balcony over the portico. Governor A—— was there, leaning on the railing and looking over. He caught her glance, and beckoned. Margaret immediately obeyed the summons, getting herself in hand all the way, and came out on the balcony with another face than that she had worn below. She had put on a smile; some good fairy had added a faint blush, and Miss Hamilton was presentable. The governor met her with a hearty smile and clasp of the hand. "I am glad to see you," he said. "Will you stand here, or take that seat Mr. Sinclair is offering you?"

"Yes, sir," he exclaimed, as Margaret turned away, continuing his conversation with a gentleman beside him, "the English treatment of the Irish is a clear case of cussedness."

"Our good chief magistrate is slightly idiomatic at times," remarked a lady near by.

A poetess stood in the midst of a group of gentlemen, who looked at her, while she looked at the procession. "It is Arethusa, that bright stream," she said with soft eagerness, "Pursued and threatened at home, it has crept through shadowy ways, and leaped to light in a new land."

Margaret approached Mr. Sinclair, who sat apart, and who made room for her beside him.

Even now she noticed the splendid beauty of this man in whom every physical attraction was perfected. Mr. Maurice Sinclair might have posed for a Jupiter; but an artist would scarcely have taken him for a model of the prince of the apostles. He was superbly made, with a haughty, self-conscious beauty; his full, bold eyes were of a light neutral tint impossible to describe, so transparent were they, so dazzling their lustre; and his face was delicately smooth and nobly-featured. One could scarcely regret that the long moustache curling away from his mouth, then drooping below his chin, and the thick hair pushed back from his forehead, were of silvery whiteness. It did not seem to be decay, but perfection. Mr. Sinclair used to say that his head had blossomed.

He smiled as Miss Hamilton stepped slowly toward him, the smile of a man entirely pleased with himself.

"Own now," he said, "that you are wishing to be Irish for the nonce, that you might feel the full effervescence of the occasion."

She shook her head listlessly.

Mr. Sinclair perceived that she needed to be amused. "See the governor wave his handkerchief!" he said. "That man has been born twice, once into Massachusetts, and the second time into all creation."

She glanced at the object of his remarks, noting anew his short, rotund figure, his round head with all its crow's-nest of black ringlets, his prompt, earnest face that could be so kind. "There isn't a drop of mean blood in his veins," she said. "He is one of those rare men in whom feeling and principle go hand in hand."

Mr. Sinclair gave his shoulders a just perceptible shrug. "Do you know all the people here?" he asked, observing that Margaret looked searchingly over the company. "Let me play Helen on the walls of Troy, and point out the notables whom you do not know. That antique-cameo-faced gentleman whom you are looking at now is the Rev. Mr. Southard. He is misnamed of course. He should be called after something boreal, Does not he make you shiver? He lives with my cousin, whom I saw you standing beside down there. Louis likes him, or pretends to. Mr. Southard is not so much a modern minister, as a theological reminiscence. He belongs among the crop-heads; I have somewhere heard that he was a wild lad, and is now doing penance. It is likely. One doesn't bar a sheep-fold as one does a prison. He appears to be a little off guard now, for a breath seems to have forgotten predestination. When he looks like that, I am always reminded of something pagan, He'd be horrified, of course, if he knew it. Mark that Olympian look of painless melancholy, and the blue, motionless eye. What a cold, marble face he has! Being too polished to retain heat, he remains unmoved in the midst of enthusiasm. That's philosophy, isn't it? He is one of those who fancy that ceasing to be human, they become superhuman. They mistake the prefix, that's all. But Mr. Southard bristles with virtues. I must own that I never knew a man so forgiving toward other people's enemies."

"I know Mr. Southard well by reputation," Margaret interrupted rather warmly. "He is human, of course, and so, fallible; but every mountain in his soul is a Sinai!"

"Oh! he has his good points," Mr. Sinclair admitted tranquilly. "I have known him to be surprised into a glorious laugh, for which, to be sure, he probably beat himself afterward; and he has a temper that peeps out now and then in a delightfully human fashion. I have detected in him, too, a carnal weakness for French chocolate, and a taste for pictures, even the pictures of the Babylonians. Once I saw him stand five minutes before a faded old painting of Cimabue's; I believe it was a virgin standing between two little boys who leaned to kiss each other, a hand of hers on either head, I don't condemn the man in toto. I like his faults; but I detest his virtues!

"That stout, consequential person, with his chin in his cravat, who as Suckling says of Sir Toby Mathews, is always whispering nothing into somebody's ear, is Mr. ex-councilman Smith. He was thrown to the surface at the time of the Know-Nothing ebullition, and when that was over, was skinned off with the rest of 'em. He considers himself a statesman, and looks forward with prophetic goggle eyes to the time when his party shall be again in the ascendant. He comes here to nurse his wrath, and I haven't a doubt that he feels as though this procession were marching down his throat. He used to be to a joiner, then a house-builder, then he got to be a house-owner. Twenty years ago, my aunt Betsey, who lives in the country, paid him two dollars to build a trellis for her grape-vine, and he did it so well that she gave him his dinner after the family had got through. Now he has a mansion near hers that dwarfs her cottage to a bird-cage. His place is really fine, grounds worth looking at, and a stone house with bronze lions at the door. I don't know what he has lions there for, unless to indicate that Snug the joiner lives within. I'm not afraid of 'em. You've never heard of him here; but out there he is tremendous. 'Imposteur à la Mecque, et prophète à Médine.'

"Still there are people even here who blow about him. Psaphon's birds, of course, fed on Smith's oats, He hates me because he thinks that I laugh at him; but I don't doubt that it soothes his soul to know that the roses on his carpets are twice as large as those on mine, and that he has ten pictures to my one. The first thing you see when the vestibule door opens is a row of portraits, ten of 'em, Smith and his wife, and eight children. Ames painted 'em, and he must have had the nightmare regularly till they were done. They are larger than life, and their eyes move. I am positive that they move. I guess there are little strings behind the canvas. There they hang and stare at you, till you wish they were hanged by the necks. The first time I went there, I shook my fist at 'em behind Smith's back, and he caught me at it. I couldn't help it. The spectacle is enough to excite any man's worst feelings. The parlor walls are covered with landscapes painted from a cow's point of view, strong in grass and clover, with pleasant drinking-places, and large trees to stand under when the sun gets high. I never see such trees and water in nature, but I dare say the cows do. My wife and I dined there once. The eight children sat in two detachments and ate Black Hamburg grapes, skins and all; and the peaches were brought in polished like apples. My wife got into such a giggle that she nearly strangled. I see, you sharp-eyed Bedouin, you want to remind me that I have eaten of this man's salt. True, but he made it as bitter as any that Dante ever tasted.

"That sober, middle-aged man in a complete suit of pepper and salt, hair and all, is Mr. Ames, the member from N——, Polliwog Ames they call him, from his great speech. Is it possible you have never heard of it? It was the speech of the session. Some one had introduced a bill asking an appropriation of ten thousand dollars toward building a new museum of natural history. There was a little palaver on the subject, then Ames got up. All winter nothing had been heard from him but the scriptural yea and nay; so, of course, every one was attentive, 'Gentle-men,' he said, 'while thousands of men, women, and children, in the city, and tens of thousands in the commonwealth, are hungry to-day, and will be hungry to-morrow, and are and will be too poor to buy food; while paupers are crowding our almshouses, and beggars are swarming in our streets; while all this poverty is staring us in the face, and putting to us the problem, how are we to be fed and clothed and sheltered, and kept from crime, and taught to read and to pray? it would seem to me, gentlemen, an unnecessary not to say reprehensible act, to appropriate ten thousand dollars of the public money, in order that some long-nosed professor might be enabled to show us how polliwogs wiggle their tails.' Having said this, Mr. Ames shut his mouth, and sat down covered with glory."

Margaret's only comment was to look earnestly at this man who had remembered the poor.

They were silent a little while; then Mr. Sinclair spoke again, in a lower voice. "I am going to Europe in a few weeks."

She had nothing to say to this. His going would make no difference with her.

"You know, and everybody knows," he went on hastily, "that my wife and I have not for years lived very happily together. I think that few blame me. I would not wish all the blame to be thrown on her, either. The fact is, we never were suited to each other, and every day we grew more antagonistic. We had a little sensible talk last week, and finally agreed to separate. She will remain here, and I, as I said, shall go to Europe for an indefinite time, perhaps for ever."

At any other time Margaret might have felt herself embarassed by such a confidence. As it was, she hardly knew what reply to make; but, since he waited, managed to say that if people could not live peacefully together, she supposed it was best they should separate.

He spoke again abruptly.

"Margaret, you cannot, if you would, hide your misery from me. You are fitted to appreciate all that is beautiful in nature and art, yet are bound and cramped by the necessity of constant labor for your daily bread. You suffer, too, what to the refined is the worst sting of poverty, the being associated with, often in the power of, vulgar and ill-natured people, who despise you because you are not rich, and hate you because, being poor, you yet will not and cannot be like themselves. I know that there are those who take delight in mortifying you, in misinterpreting your every act and word, and in prejudicing against you persons who otherwise might be your friends. What a wretched, double life you live; petted by notable people on one hand, and insulted by inferiors on the other! How long is it to last? You must be aware that you are slipping out of the notice of your early friends. You cannot accept their invitations, because you have not time, and moreover, are not suitably dressed. By and by they will cease to invite you. Do you look forward to marriage? Every day your chances are lessening. You are growing old before your time. I cannot see that you have anything to look forward to but a life of ill-paid toil, a gradual dropping out of the place that you were born and educated to fill, a loss of courage and self-respect, a lowering of the tastes, and at last, a sinking to the level of what you must despise. If you should be taken ill now, what would become of you?"

"I should probably go to the charity-ward of the public hospital," Miss Hamilton replied coldly.

"What do you hope for?" he asked.

"I hope for nothing," she answered. "I know all that you tell me, and far more."

Mr. Sinclair's eyes brightened. "What good are your fine friends to you? You would never ask them to help you, I know; but if you could bring yourself to that, would you not feel a bitter difference? It is not mean to shrink from asking favors, when they are for ourselves. Walter Savage Landor was neither mean nor a fool; yet he makes one of his best characters say that the highest price we can pay for a favor is to ask for it, and everybody who has tried knows that. You would sink at once from a friend to a dependent. Now your friends ask no questions, and you tell them no lies. If they give the subject a thought, they fancy you in some quiet, retired, and highly genteel apartment, if rather near the eaves, then so for a pure northern light, leisurely and elegantly painting photographs, for which you receive the highest prices, and thanks to boot. They don't see an upstartly assistant criticising your work, or a stingy employer taking off part of the price for some imaginary flaw. And if they did, they would only tell you that such annoyances are trivial, that you must rise above them. I've heard that kind of talk. But those who go down to battle with the pigmies know how tormenting their bites are. The worst of it is, too, that you cannot long maintain the dignity and purity of your own character in this petty strife, It isn't in the nature of things, I don't care what may be said to the contrary by parlor ascetics and philosophers. They have no right to dogmatize on the necessary influence of circumstances in which they have never been placed. Moreover, constant labor is lowering to the mind, and any work is degrading to the person who can do a higher kind of work. It may be saving to him whose leisure would be employed in frivolity and license; but that person is already base. The time you spend in studying how to make one dollar do the work of five makes a lower being of you. I can see this in you, Margaret. Your manners and conversation are not what they were. You have no time to read, or think, or look at pictures, or hear lectures, or listen to music—none. You have only time for work, and, the work finished, are too weary for anything but sleep; perhaps too weary for that even, How long do you expect to keep up with such a life dragging at you?"

Miss Hamilton lifted between her finger and thumb a fold of the dress she wore. "All the time I could spare from my painting in the last three weeks has been devoted to the task of making this dress out of an old one," she said. "It was a difficult problem; but I solved it. I was always fond of the mathematics. Of course, during those three weeks my universe revolved around a black bombazine centre. O sir! I know better than you can tell me, how degrading such labor is. God in the beginning imposed it as a curse; and a curse it is!"

There was again a momentary pause, during which Mr. Sinclair's merciless eyes searched the cold face beside him. Margaret did not observe that all the company had gone, that the procession had disappeared, the crowd melted away. She had sat there and listened like one in a dream, too dull and weary to be angry, or to wonder that such words should be addressed to her, and such bold assertions made, where her most intimate friends had never ventured a hint even.

When Mr. Sinclair spoke again, his voice was soft and earnest. "Have you any friend so dear and trusty, that his frown would make your heart ache yet more? In all the world, do you know one to whom your actions are of moment, who thinks of you anxiously and tenderly, for whose sake you would walk in a straight path, though it might be full of thorns? Is there one?"

"There is not one," she said.

"Come with me, then!" he exclaimed. "Think of Italy, and what that name means, of the east, of all the lands that live in song and in story. Drop for ever from your hands the necessity for toil, and let your heart and mind take holiday. 'Not one,' you said; but, Maud, you mistook, I thought of you all the time, and got your troubles by heart. Leave this miserable, cramping life of yours, and come with me where we shall be as free from criticism as if we were disembodied spirits. Forget this paltry Boston, with its wriggling streets and narrow breaths. Fancy now that the breeze in our faces blows off the blue Mediterranean, the little dome above us rises and swells to St. Peter's, that last flutter of a banner over the hill is the argent ground with golden keys. Or Victor Immanuel has got Rome for his own, and there floats the red, white, and green of Italy. How you would color and brighten like a rose under such sunshine! Come with me, Margaret, come!

She looked at him with troubled, uncomprehending eyes, groping for the meaning under the flowery speech. His glance dazzled her.

"It is like a fairy-tale," she said. "How can it come true? I am poor, yet you bid me travel as only the rich can. How am I to go with you? who else is going?"

He smiled. "O silly Margaret! since there is no other way, and since in all the world there is no one to care for or to question you, come with me alone."

Then Margaret Hamilton knew that her cup of bitterness had lacked one poisoned drop. She got up from the seat, shrinking away, feeling as though she lessened physically.

But when she reached the door, Mr. Sinclair was there before her.

"At least, forgive me!" she heard him say.

"Let me go!" she exclaimed, without looking up.

"Remember my tenderness and pity for you," he urged.

"You have none!" she said. "Let me go."

"And you are not indifferent to me," he continued.

She lifted her face at that, and looked at him with eyes that were bright, gray, and angry as an eagle's.

"Maurice Sinclair," she said haughtily, "I thank you for one thing. Weary, and miserable, and lonely as I have been, I could not have been certain, without this test, that such a temptation would not make me hesitate. But now I know that temptation comes from within, not from without, and that infamy attracts only the infamous. I care for you, you think? My admiration and my friendships are free; but I am not a woman to tear my hands on other people's hedges. Let me tell you, sir, that I must honor a man before I can feel any affection for him. I must know that, though being human he might stumble, his proper stature is upright. If I cared for you, I could not stand here and scorn you, as I do; I should pray you to be true to your noble self, to give me back my trust in you. I should forgive you; but my forgiveness would be coals of fire on your head. If I could love a man well enough to sin for him, I should love him too well for that. Oh! it was manly, and tender, and generous of you, was it not? I had lost all but self-respect, and you would have taken that from me. But, sir, I have wings which you can never entangle!"

"You have nowhere to turn," he said.

She stood one instant as though his words were indeed true, then threw her hands upward, "I turn to God! I turn to God!" she cried out.

When she looked at him again, Mr. Sinclair stepped aside and let her pass.

But the strength that passion gives is brief, and when Margaret reached the street, she was trembling with weakness. Where to go? Not home; oh! not to that gloomy place! She walked across the Common, and thence to the Public Gardens, every step a weariness.

"I must stay out in the sunshine," she thought, taking a seat under the great linden-tree that stands open to the west. "Darkness, and chilly, shadowed places are terrible. Oh! what next?"

Though she had called on God, she yet believed not in him, poor Margaret! Hers had been the instinctive outcry of one driven to desperation; and when the impulse subsided, then darkness fell again.

Sitting there, she drew from her pocket a little folded paper, opened it in an absent way, and dreamily examined the delicate white powder it contained. More than once, when life had pressed too heavily, the enchanter hidden under this delusive form had came to her aid, had loosened the tense cords that bound her forehead, unclasping them with a touch as light and tender as love's own, had charmed away the pain from flesh and spirit. She recollected now anew its sinuous and subtile ways. First, a deep and gradually settling quietude of mind and body, all disturbing influences stealing away so noiselessly that their going was imperceptible, a prickling in the arms, a languor in the throat and at the roots of the tongue, a sweet fainting of the breath, an entire and perfect peace. Then a slowly rising perception of pleasures already in possession yet unnoticed before.

How delightful the mere involuntary act of breathing! How airily intoxicating the full, soft rush of blood through the arteries, swinging noisily like a dance to a song, never lost, in whatever labyrinthine windings it might wander. How the universe opened like a folded bud, like myriad buds that bloom in light and color and perfume! The air and the sunshine became miracles; common things slipped off their disguise, and revealed undreamed-of glories. All this in silence. And presently the silence would be found rhythmic like a tune.

She went no farther. The point at which all these downy influences became twined into a cord as potent as the fabulous Gleipnir, and tightened about both body and soul with its soft, implacable coils—that her thought glanced away from.

She carefully shook the shining powder into a little heap in the paper. There was ten times as much as she had ever taken at once; but then she had ten times greater need of rest and forgetfulness. Her head felt giddy, as if a wheel were going within it. Catching at that thought of a wheel, her confused memory called up strange eastern scenes, a temple in a gorge among rocky mountains; outside, the dash of a torrent foaming over its rough bed between the palms; not far away, the jungle, where the tiger springs with a golden flash through the shadows; within, hideous carved idols with vestments of cloth of gold, and silver bowls set before them, the noiseless entering of a gliding lama, the bowed form and hand outstretched to twirl the praying-wheel, whereon is wound in million-fold repetition the one desire of his soul, "Um mani panee, houm!" O jewel in the lotos! Rest and forgetfulness! So her thought kept murmuring with weary persistency.

As she raised the morphine to her lips, some one touched her arm.

"Madam!" said a man's voice just behind her shoulder.

She started and half turned. "Well, sir!"

"What have you there?" he asked, without removing his hand.

She shook herself loose from him. "Will you go on, sir? you are insolent!"

"I cannot go while you have such a face, and while that paper is in your hand," Louis Granger said firmly; and reaching, took the morphine from her.

Her glance slid away from his face, and became fixed.

"O child! what would you do?" he exclaimed.

She did not appear to hear him. She was swaying in her seat, and her breath came sobbingly.

Mr. Granger called a carriage that was passing, and led her to it. She made no resistance, and did not object, scarcely noticed, indeed, when he seated himself opposite her.

"Walk your horses till I find out where the lady wants to go," he said to the driver.

When, after a few minutes of sickening half-consciousness, Margaret began to realize who and where she was, and looked at Mr. Granger, she met his eyes full of tears.

"I have no claim on your confidence," he said, "but I desire to serve you; and if you can trust me, I assure you that you will never have reason to regret it."

Margaret dropped her face into her hands, and all the pride died out of her heart.

"I was starving," she said. "I have not tasted food for twenty-four hours; and for a week I have eaten nothing but dry bread."

Mr. Granger leaned quickly and took her hand in a strong grasp, as we take the hands of the dying, to give them strength to die.

"I worked day and night," she sobbed; "and I only got enough to make me decent, and pay for my room. I have done all I could; but I was losing the strength to do. I have been starving so for more than a year, growing worse every day. I wasn't responsible for trying to take the morphine. My head is so light and my heart is so heavy, that everything seems strange, and I don't quite know what is right and what is wrong."

Mr. Granger's sympathy was painfully excited. He was not only shocked and hurt for this woman, but he felt that in some way he was to blame when such things could be. He had also that uneasiness which we all experience when reminded how deceitful is the fair surface of life, and what tragedies may be going on about us, under our very eyes, yet unseen and unsuspected by us. "What if my own little girl should come to this!" he thought.

"What was Mr. Sinclair saying to you up there?" he asked abruptly.

She told him without hesitation.

"The villain!" he muttered.

"No," Margaret replied sadly, "I think that according to his light, he had some kind meaning. You know he doesn't believe in any religion, that he denies revelation; yet you would not call him a villain for that. Why then is he a villain for denying a moral code that is founded on revelation? He is consistent. If God and my own instincts had not forbidden me to accept his proposal, nothing else would have had power."

She sighed wearily, and leaned against the back of the carriage.

"Promise to trust all to me now," Mr. Granger said hastily, "I am not a Maurice Sinclair."

"Have I not trusted you?" she asked with trembling lips. "Besides, it seems that God has sent you to me, and trusting you is trusting him. I didn't expect him to answer me; but I called, and he has answered."

Chapter II.
A Louis D'or.

With the exception of that perfect domestic circle not often beheld save in visions, there is perhaps no more delightful social existence than may be enjoyed where a few congenial persons are gathered under one roof, in all the freedom of private life, but without its cares, where no one is obliged to entertain or be entertained, but is at liberty to be spontaneously charming or disagreeable, according to his mood, where comfort is taken thought of, and elegance is not forgotten.

Into such an establishment Mr. Granger's home had expanded after the death of his wife. It could not be called a boarding-house, since he admitted only a few near friends; and he refused to consider himself as host, The only visible authorities in the place were Mrs. James, the housekeeper, whose weapon was a duster, and Miss Dora Granger, whose sceptre was a blossom.

The house was a large, old-fashioned one, standing with plentiful elbow-room in a highly respectable street that had once been very grand, and there were windows on four sides. All these windows looked like pleasant eyes with spectacles over them. There was a rim of green about the place, a tall horse-chestnut-tree each side of the street, and an irrepressible grape-vine that, having been planted at the rear of the house, was now well on its way to the front. This vine was unpruned, an embodied mirth, flinging itself in every direction, making the slightest thing it could catch at an excuse for the most profuse luxuriance, so happy it could never stop growing, so full of life it could not grow old.

In the days when Mr. Granger's grandfather built this mansion, walls were not raised with an eye chiefly to the accommodation of Pyramus and Thisbe. They grew slowly and solidly, of honest stone, brick, and mortar. They had timbers, not splinters; there wasn't an inch of veneering from attic to basement; and instead of stucco, they had woodwork with flutings as fine as those of a lady's ruffle. When you see mahogany-colored doors in one of those dwellings, you may be pretty sure that the doors are mahogany; and the white knobs and hinges do not wear red. Cannon-balls fired at these houses stick in the outer wall.

Such was Mr. Louis Granger's home. Miss Hamilton had looked at that house many a time, and sighingly contrasted it with the dingy brick declivity in which she had her eyrie, Now she was to live here.

"How wishes do sometimes come fulfilled, if we only wish long enough!" she thought, as the carriage in which she had come drew up before the steps. Mr. Granger stood in the open door, and there was a glimpse of the housekeeper behind him, looking out with the utmost respect on the equipage of their visitor—for one of Miss Hamilton's wealthy friends had offered her a carriage.

But as the step was let down, and the liveried footman stood bowing before her, Margaret shrank back with a sudden recollection that was unspeakably bitter and humiliating. In spite of the mocking show, she was coming to this house as a beggar, literally asking for bread. On the impulse of the moment, she could have turned back to her attic and starvation rather than accept friendship on such terms. In that instant all the petty spokes and wheels in the engine of her poverty combined themselves for one wrench more.

"I have been watching for you," said Mr. Granger's voice at the carriage-door.

Margaret gave him her hand, and stepped out on to the pavement, her face downcast and deeply blushing.

"I hope I have not incommoded you," she said coldly.

He made no reply, and seemed not to have heard her ungracious comment; but when they reached the threshold, he paused there, and said earnestly, "I bid you welcome to your new home. May it be to you a happy one!"

She looked up gratefully, ashamed of her bitterness.

Mr. Granger's manner was joyful and cordial, as if he were receiving an old friend, or meeting some great good fortune. Bidding the housekeeper wait, he conducted Margaret to a room near by, and seated her there to hear one word more before he should go to his business and leave her to the tender mercies of his servants. As she sat, he stood before her, and leaning on the high back of a chair, looked smilingly down into the expectant and somewhat anxious face that looked up at him.

"I am so cruel as to rejoice over every circumstance which has been influential in adding to my household so welcome and valuable a friend," he said. "I have worlds for you to do. First, my little Dora is in need of your care. It is time she should begin to learn something. I have also consented, subject to your approval, to associate with her two little girls of her age, who live near, and will come here for their lessons. Besides this, a friend of mine, who is preparing a scientific work, and who does not understand French, wishes you to make some translations for him. Does this suit you?"

"Perfectly!"

"But first you must rest," he said. "And now I will leave you to get acquainted with the house under Mrs. James's auspices. Do not forget that your comfort and happiness are to be considered, that you are to ask for whatever you may want, and mention whatever may be not to your liking, Have you anything to say to me now?" pausing with his hand on the door-knob.

"Yes," she replied, smiling, to hide emotion; "as in the Koran God said of St. John, so I of you, 'May he be blessed the day whereon he was born, the day whereon he shall die, and the day whereon he shall be raised to life!'"

He took her hand in a friendly clasp, then opened the door, and with a gesture that included the whole house, said, "You are at home!"

Margaret glanced after him as he went out, and thought, "At home! The French say it better: I am chez vous!"

"You have to go up two flights, Miss Hamilton," the housekeeper began apologetically, with the footman still in her eye. "But Mr. Granger said that you want a good deal of light. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis occupy that front room over the parlor, and the next one is the spare-chamber, and that one under yours is Mr. Granger's, and that little one is Dora's, and the long one back in the L is Mr. Southard's. Up this other flight, Miss Aurelia Lewis has the front chamber. She likes it because the horse-chestnut tree comes up against the window. In summer you can hardly see through. It's like being in the woods. There, this is your chamber," flinging open the door of a large, airy room that had two deep windows looking over the house-tops straight into the eyes of the east. The coloring of this room was delightfully fresh and cool, the walls a pale olive-green, the wood-work white, and the wide mantel-piece of green marble. There were snow-white muslin curtains, Indian matting on the floor, and the chairs were all wicker, except one, a crimson-cushioned arm-chair. The old-fashioned bureau and wardrobe were of solid mahogany adorned with glittering brass knobs and handles, and the black and gilt framed looking-glass had brass candle-sockets at each side. The open grate was filled with savin-boughs, and a bright shell set in the midst. In the centre of the mantle-piece was a white vase running over full of glistening smilax sprays, and at each end stood a brass candlestick with a green wax candle in it. There were three pictures on the three blank walls; one a water-color of moss-roses and buds dew sprinkled, the second, a chromo of a yellow-gray cat stretched out in an attitude of slumbrous repose, her tail coiled about her lithe haunches, her head advanced and resting on her paws, her eyes half shut, but showing a sly line of watchful golden lustre. The third was a very good engraving of the Sistine Madonna. A large closet with drawers and shelves, delightful to feminine eyes, led back from this quaint and pleasant chamber.

Margaret glanced around her pretty nest, then flung off her bonnet and shawl, and, seating herself in the armchair by the window, for the first time really looked at the housekeeper. Till that moment she had not been conscious of the woman.

Mrs. James was hospitably making herself busy doing nothing, moving chairs that were already well placed, and wiping off imaginary specks of dust. She looked as though she would be an excellent housekeeper, and put her whole soul in the business; but appeared to be neutral otherwise.

"Everything here was as clean as your eye this morning," she said, frowning anxiously as she stooped to bring a suspected table-top between her vision and the light.

"Everything is exquisite," Miss Hamilton replied. "One can't help having a speck of dust now and then, The earth is made of it, you know."

The housekeeper sighed wofully. "Yes, there's a great deal of dirt in the world."

When she was left alone, Margaret still sat there, letting the room get acquainted with her, and settling herself into a new and delicious content. Happening after a while to glance toward the door, she saw it slowly and noiselessly moving an inch or two, stopping, then again opening a little way. She continued to look, wondering what singular current of air or eccentricity of hinge produced that intermittent motion. Presently she spied, clasped around the edge of the door, at about two feet from the carpet, four infinitesimal fingertips, rosy-white against the yellow-white of the paint. Miss Hamilton checked the breath a little on her smiling lips, and awaited further revelations.

After a moment, there appeared just above the fingers a half-curled, flossy lock of pale gold-colored hair, and softly dawning after that aurora, a beautiful child's face.

"Oh! come to me!" exclaimed Margaret.

Immediately the face disappeared, and there was silence.

Miss Hamilton leaned back in her chair again, and began to recollect the tactics for such cases made and provided by the great law-giver Nature. She affected not to be aware that the silken locks reappeared, and after them a glimpse of a low, milk-white forehead, then a blue, bright eye, and finally, the whole exquisite little form in a gala-dress of white, with a gay sash and shoulder-knots.

Dora came in looking intently at the mantel-piece, and elaborately unconscious that there was any one present but herself. Miss Hamilton's attention was entirely absorbed by the outer world.

"I never did see such a lovely flower as there is in that window," she soliloquized. "It is as pink as ever it can be. Indeed, I think it is a little pinker than it can conveniently be. It must have to try hard."

Dora glanced toward the stranger, and listened attentively.

"And I see three tiny clouds scudding down the east. I shouldn't be surprised if their mother didn't know they are out. They run as if they didn't mean to stop till they get into the middle of next week."

Dora took a step or two nearer, looked warily at the speaker, and peeped out the window in search of the truant cloudlets.

"And there is another cloud overhead that has gone sound asleep," Miss Hamilton pursued as tranquilly as if she had been sitting there and talking time out of mind. "One side of it is as white as it can be, and the other side is so much whiter than it can be, that it makes the white side look dark. If anybody wants to see it, she had better make haste."

"Anybody," was by this time close to the window, looking out with all her eyes, her hand timidly, half unconsciously touching the lady's dress.

"Oh! what a splendid bird!" cried the enchantress. "What a pity it should fly away! But it may come back again pretty soon."

Silence, and the pressure of a dimpled elbow on Margaret's knee.

"I suppose you don't care much about sitting in my lap, so as to see better," was the next remark, addressed, apparently, to all out-doors.

The child began shyly to climb to the lady's knee, and was presently assisted there.

"Such a bird!" sighed Margaret then, looking at the little one, thinking that by this time her glance could be borne. "It had yellow specks on its breast," illustrating with profuse and animated gestures, "and a long bill, and a glossy head with yellow feathers standing up on top, and yellow stripes on its wings," pointing toward her own shoulders, her glance following her finger. Then a break, and an exclamation of dismay, "What has become of my wings?"

Dora reached up to look over the lady's shoulder, but saw only the back of a well-fitting bombazine gown.

"I guess they's flied away," said the child in the voice of a anguid bobolink.

"Then I'll tell you a story," said Margaret. "Once there was a lady who lived in a real mean place, and she didn't have a good time at all. She was just as lonesome and homesick as she could be. One day she brought home the photograph of a dear little girl, and that she liked. And she wished that she could see the real little girl, and that she could talk to her; but she had only the paper picture. Well, by and by she went to live in a delightful house; and while she sat in her chamber, the door opened, and who should come in but the same dear child whose picture she had loved! Wasn't the lady glad then?"

"Who was the little girl?" asked Dora with a shy, conscious look and smile.

The answer was a shower of kisses all over her sweet face, and two tears that dropped unseen into her sunny hair.

To Be Continued

Comparative Morality Of Catholic
And Protestant Countries.

It is truly refreshing to read in Putnam's Magazine for January, 1869, the article entitled, "The Literature of the Coming Controversy," written, as we now know, by Rev. Leonard W. Bacon, a Protestant minister of Brooklyn, In it, he castigates most soundly the well known anti-popery society called "The American and Foreign Christian Union," "numbering," as he says, among its vice-presidents and directors, some of the most eminent pastors, bishops, theologians, and civilians of the American Protestant churches. Some of its publications he calls "wicked impostures" and "shameful scandals," and wonders "how they can stand, from year to year, accredited to the public by some of the most eminent and excellent men in the country." Our wonder is still greater how he can call men who countenance such things "excellent." He says: "All the time that this society has been running its manufactory of falsehoods and scandals, only the resolute good sense of the public, in not buying the rubbish, has saved the church of Christ from a burning and ineffaceable disgrace." The disgrace to the church, it seems to us, is the same, since its chief men are implicated in this proceeding, "whether the public buy the rubbish or not." We honor Mr. Bacon for his manly, straightforward conduct, and thank him for this act of justice. It is the first we have had to rejoice in for a long while, but we hope it will not be the last. The time seems to be approaching, when calumny and abuse will no longer be received with favor by the public, and the Catholic Church be allowed to speak in her own defence, and listened to, and judged of, according to her own intrinsic merits. All we ask is fair play, and we are confident the truth will make itself known.

But the Rev. Mr. Bacon, after denouncing the lying and scurrilous attacks against the church, goes on to say: "It is a pleasant relief to take up another author—the Rev. M. Hobart Seymour, of the Church of England. His two books, entitled Mornings with the Jesuits at Rome, and Evenings with the Romanists, are models of religious controversy. The latter of the two, especially, being the more popular, is peculiarly fitted to be effective in general circulation." …. "This sprightly, instructive, and interesting book has gone out of print." … It is out of print in English; but desiring to gladden our eyes with a copy of this model of "courtesy, fairness, ability, and religious feeling," we procured a translation into Spanish, entitled, Noches con los Romanistas, issued by The American Tract Society, for the use of benighted Spaniards. We have read the opening chapter, and found it enough. We are tempted to exclaim with bitter disappointment, Is this all the fairness and justice we are to expect from one who is described as the "model" of a Protestant controversialist? We prefer the McGavins, the Brownlees, or the Kirwans whom Mr. Bacon so justly holds up to public scorn. This man stabs you in the dark; he is a Titus Oates, who swears away your life by false testimony—by telling just enough to convict you, when he knows enough to give you an honorable acquittal.

This opening chapter has for its theme the relative effects of Protestantism and the Catholic religion upon the morality of those under their respective influence; and to show that Catholic countries, in comparison to Protestant, are sinks of crime and impurity. This, if fairly proved, would be a practical argument of overwhelming force, sufficient to close the mind against all that can be said in favor of the Catholic Church; and be a sufficient reason, with most people, for refusing even to entertain her claims to be the Church of God. We know that she is Christ's Church, and that just in proportion as she exerts her influence, virtue and morality must prevail; and that it is impossible to prove, unless through fraud and misrepresentation, that the practical working of her system produces a morality inferior to that of any other.

We know all the importance of the question; it is one that touches our good name, and we feel indignation against any one who shall attempt to rob us of it, by any mean or unfair tricks. Let us see how our "model" controversialist deals with this matter. "In order not to cause a useless waste of time by going over all sorts of crimes," he selects the greatest one, that of murder or homicide. Then he selects England, and compares it with nearly all the Catholic countries of Europe, and shows it to be at least four times better than the very best of them. We do not propose to ferret this out; we cannot lay our hands upon the statistics of this particular crime, which seem to be everywhere very loosely given; but we can show shortly, that his conclusions are utterly false. He gives the number of persons imprisoned on this charge of homicide in England and Wales, during 1852, as 74, and the annual mean for three years as 72. This will strike every one as simply ridiculous. Luckily, the Statistical Journal of 1867 gives the following tables of this crime for 1865, as follows:

If 519 were tried, we may judge of the number imprisoned. The author of the article in the Journal says: "The police returns do not correspond with the coroners', and the discrepancy is so great that I can only account for it on the supposition that, according to the police view of it, infanticide is not murder." The number of coroners' inquests held in 1865, in England and Wales, was

He continues, "Open verdicts, as they are termed, such as, 'found dead,' or 'found drowned,' are rendered in many cases when a more accurate knowledge would have led to the verdict of 'wilful murder.'"

It is just as easy to compare the total of first-class criminals of all sorts, as to select homicide.

Alison [Footnote 19] says, "The proportion of crime to the inhabitants was twelve times greater in Prussia (Protestant) than in France, (Catholic,) and in Austria, (Catholic,) the proportion of convicted crime is not one fourth of what is found in Prussia." The Statistical Journals for 1864-65 show that France is better than England.

[Footnote 19: History of Europe, vol. iii. chap, xxvii. 10, 11.]

There were no less than 846 deaths of children under one year old, in 1857, in England and Wales from violent causes, [Footnote 20] from which we may form some little idea of the extent of only one sort of homicide.

[Footnote 20: Statistical Journal, 1859.]

Only 74 incarcerations for homicide in all England and Wales for the year 1852! Why, it is stated in the New York Herald of February 4th, that 78 persons were arrested last year for murder in New York alone. We can easily imagine what the grand total for the United States must be, and how much better is England, with its pauperism and crime, than the United States?

Mr. Seymour undoubtedly is "sprightly" enough, but only "instructive" by showing us the amount of nonsense which the public is expected to swallow without examination, where the Catholic Church is concerned, and the amount of fair play to be expected from a "model" of a Protestant controversialist.

But as a comparison based on "homicide" alone would prove nothing, any more than one based on drunkenness or robbery, Mr. Seymour institutes another, in respect to unchastity, or immorality, and here he sets up as his criterion the amount of illegitimacy among Catholics and Protestants respectively. In any community, the moral condition is to be estimated by the greater or smaller proportion of illegitimacy. We object to this as a very unreliable test. In some communities, an illegitimate birth is almost unknown, and yet they are the most corrupt and licentious on the face of the earth. Infanticide and foeticide replace illegitimacy. A young woman falls from virtue; but in spite of the finger of scorn which will be pointed at her, her sense of religious duty restrains her from adding a horrible crime to her sin. What is her moral condition in the sight of God, compared with that of the guilty one whom no fear of the Almighty has restrained from the commission of this crime? The absence of illegitimacy may be the most convincing proof of a state of moral corruption, as in Persia and Turkey, where no children except in wedlock, are suffered to see the light of the world. [Footnote 21]

[Footnote 21: Storer, Criminal Abortion, p. 32.]

There are good reasons why more illegitimate children might be expected to be born among Catholics than among Protestants, and yet the former be much more the moral than the latter. "The doctrine of the Catholic Church," says Bishop Fitzpatrick, "her canons, her pontifical constitutions, her theologians, without exception teach, and constantly have taught, that the destruction of the human foetus in the womb of the mother, at any period from the first instant of conception, is a heinous crime, equal at least in guilt to that of murder." [Footnote 22]

[Footnote 22: Ibid. p. 72.]

This is understood by Catholics of all classes, and inspires a salutary horror of the crime. Protestantism does not teach morality in this definite way, but leaves people to reason out for themselves the degree of criminality of particular offences. Let us listen to Dr. Storer, an eminent Protestant physician. "It is not, of course, intended to imply that Protestantism, as such, in any way encourages, or indeed permits, the practice of inducing abortion; its tenets are uncompromisingly hostile to all crime. So great, however, is the popular ignorance regarding this offence, that an abstract morality is here comparatively powerless; our American women arrogate to themselves the settlement of what they consider, if doubtful, purely an ethical question; and there can be no doubt that the Romish ordinance, flanked on the one hand by the confessional, and by denouncement and excommunications on the other, has saved to to the world thousands of infant lives." [Footnote 23] Rev. Dr. Todd, a Protestant minister of Pittsfield, Mass., to his honor be it said, has had the courage to declare the same thing in similar words. [Footnote 24] Dr. Storer proceeds, "During the ten years that have passed since the preceding sentence was written, we have had ample verification of its truth. Several hundreds of Protestant women have personally acknowledged to us their guilt, against whom only seven Catholics, and of these we found, upon further inquiry, that but two were only nominally so, not going to the confession." [Footnote 25]

[Footnote 23: Criminal Abortion, P. 74.]
[Footnote 24: Serpents in the Dove's Nest.]
[Footnote 25: Criminal Abortion, p. 74.]

Two communities exist, in which, say, an equal amount of unchastity occurs. In one, religion restrains from the commission of further crime, and there is much illegitimacy apparent; in the other, criminal abortion destroys all the evidence, and though horribly corrupt in comparison, the appearance is all the other way. Some such comparison might be made between Paris and Boston; with what truth, each one can determine for himself, And there is another reason which adds force to what has been said. In Catholic countries, foundling hospitals, established for the very purpose of saving infant life, exist everywhere, Knowing that the temptation to conceal one's shame will, in many cases, be too strong to be resisted, and thus one crime be added to another, the impulse of Christian charity has caused the founding of these hospitals, so that the infant, instead of being killed, may be provided for, and the mother have a chance to repent, without being for ever marked with the brand of shame. Scarcely any such exist among Protestants. To set up, then, illegitimacy as the best criterion of the morals of a community, is a palpable injustice to Catholics.

But let us, nevertheless, follow Mr. Seymour on his own chosen ground, He thinks the Catholic country people may, in the absence of peculiar temptations, be as good as the Protestant; and that the state of great cities will show more the influence of religion on the morals of the people, We think the opposite; for in great cities there are immense masses of degraded people, who abandon the practice of religion, never go to church, and for whom the Protestant church, at least, would be apt to disclaim all responsibility. The country people are within the knowledge and the voice of the preacher or the priest, and religion exercises its proper influence upon them.

He selects London, on the Protestant side, as the largest city in the world, the richest, and where there are "the most numerous, the strongest, and the most varied temptations;" and, of course, where there should naturally be the most vice and crime. But facts contradict theory. The percentage of illegitimate births in London is 4.2, while that for all England and Wales is 6.5, and in the country districts, where the "numerous, strong, and varied temptations" are wanting, it varies from 9 to over 11. [Footnote 26]

[Footnote 26: Statistical Journal, 1862.]

London is compared with Paris, Brussels, Munich, and Vienna; and the rates are given as follows:

Proportion Of Illegitimate Births.

and then, to show that this fearful disproportion exists not only in the capital cities, but also in other smaller ones, we have another table:

The inference from these figures, drawn with many exclamations of surprise and horror, is, that the Protestant religion is ten times as powerful against crime and vice as the Catholic, and to create an overwhelming conviction of the essential corruption of the latter. Nothing is further from the truth. London, Liverpool, Birmingham, etc., are as corrupt as any cities of the world. The cities of France and Austria need not fear the comparison, and the more thoroughly it is made the better.

J. D. Chambers, Recorder of Salisbury, a Protestant, says: [Footnote 27]

[Footnote 27: Church and World, 1867.]

"And here a few words on the unhappy reason why London and other large towns of Great Britain and also Holland are comparatively moral in this respect, and that in their cases the average of this species of immorality is far below that of the great cities of the continent; the fact that in this respect the urban population of Great Britain appears to be what it most certainly is not, comparatively pure, the rural the most corrupt; whilst on the continent the reverse is evident. There can be no doubt, as Mr. Lumley, in his able Poor-Law Reports, has often hinted, that this difference is owing to the prevalence of what has been justly called the 'social evil;' to the license, it may, in truth, be called encouragement, which, in the populous districts of this country, and notoriously in Holland, is given to public prostitution. Of course there will be no illegitimacy among Mohammedans and Hindoos, in Japan and China, or the African tribes, nor also among those who live much in the same manner." And, we might add, who practise infanticide and foeticide as they do. He goes on, "In London, the fallen women may be taken, at the mean of the estimates, at 40,000. … In Birmingham, in 1864, there were 966 disreputable houses where they resorted; in Manchester, 1111; in Liverpool, 1578; in Leeds, 313; in Sheffield, 433. [Footnote 28] And here we have revealed a plague-spot in English society which runs through every grade, especially the artisan, manufacturing, and lower commercial classes, who, as we have seen, in general never enter a church. … There is no need, in addition, to dwell on the revelations of the divorce court, which prove that Englishmen are nearly as bad in this respect as the northern Germans. There is no one who is acquainted with the condition of the families of artisans who does not know the sad frequency with which they abandon their wives, and how frequently they live in a state of concubinage."

Alison corroborates this: "In London the proportion (of illegitimacy) is one to thirty-six, the effect, it is to be feared, of the immense mass of concubinage which there prevails, under circumstances where a law of nature renders an increase of the population from that source impossible." [Footnote 29]

[Footnote 28: Statistical Journal, 1864.]
[Footnote 29: Vol. ii. chap. xvii. 122.]

"In London, however, and the English cities, there are more illegitimate births than appear on the registers, because children of people who live together without being married are registered 'legitimate.'" [Footnote 30] So much for London, Liverpool, etc.

[Footnote 30: Statistical Journal, 1862.]

In Paris, a great proportion of the children reckoned illegitimate are born in the lying-in hospitals, or brought to the foundling hospitals, and the greater proportion of the mothers are from the provinces, as will be seen from the following table for 1856:

Children born in concubinage are reckoned illegitimate, and about one-ninth of such children, on an average, are afterward legitimated. The proportion of illegitimacy, then, for Paris proper, on the best calculations, is not over 12 per cent; and that of London, calculated on the same data, would probably be quite as large, if not larger.

The same considerations apply to Brussels, Vienna, and Munich. Large foundling and lying-in hospitals exist in al these places, and are resorted to by all the country round. The figures for these cities are in no sense a criterion of their morals.

In Munich and Vienna, there is another important thing to be taken into account, which we shall explain when we come to speak of countries. We see, then, how much value is to be attributed to the heavenly purity of Protestant London, Liverpool, etc., in comparison to the "astonishing," "horrible" corruption of Catholic capitals on the continent. Moreover, in the latter the "social evil" is kept within strictest limits, and under the complete control of the government, and is not allowed to flaunt itself in public, as in London and New York, These considerations are strengthened by the case of Protestant Stockholm, where, public prostitution being prohibited, the rate of illegitimacy is over fifty to the hundred—quite equal to that of Vienna. [Footnote 31] Why did not Mr. Seymour cite Stockholm, which is notorious? I will answer: It was not convenient to spoil a good story.

[Footnote 31: Appleton's Cyc., art. "Foundling Hospital.">[

Now as to the smaller cities of Austria, which, according to Seymour, beat the world for corruption, what is to be said? Simply, that they are no worse than their neighbors. What we have said of the foundling and lying-in hospitals of Paris explains the whole matter. "In Austria, excluding Hungary, there are forty foundling and forty lying-in hospitals, and the number of foundlings provided for by the government is over 20,000." [Footnote 32]

[Footnote 32: Ibid.]

These hospitals exist, without doubt, in all these cities; and if we subtract their inmates who come from the country we should find that they do not compare unfavorably with their neighbors. They include the chief cities of the German provinces of the empire; and allowing only 4273 foundlings from the country to be in their hospitals, which is certainly a very moderate calculation, their own proper rate of illegitimacy would not exceed ten per cent. This would be the case in Innspruck, for example, if 53 only were received. Our "model of fairness" from such data draws his main conclusions, which prove that he is very "sprightly" at the figures, if nothing else. Shall we excuse him on the plea of ignorance? No! he was bound to verify his statements, and the conclusions from them; and if he had chosen to take the pains, the sources of information were open to him. An infamous calumny against the Catholic Church is invented by somebody, and the whole tribe of popery-haters forthwith swear roundly that it is "undoubted," "notorious," etc., and, by dint of clamor, force the public to give credit to it.

But, seemingly aware that comparing London with cities so different in climate, position, language, etc., has rather an unfair look, he says he will take cities of two adjoining countries of the same race, and gives us the following table:

The only thing this table proves is, that in Prussia the two Catholic cities of Cologne and Aix la Chapelle are better than any of the Protestant ones. They show excellently well in the Protestant column; but then the reader who is not well-posted or observant might suppose that, being in Protestant Prussia, they are Protestant cities. We can hardly suppose Mr. Seymour, who is a traveller, to be ignorant of so well known a fact. And how comes it that Protestant Prussia makes so poor a show alongside of the pure and virtuous cities of Birmingham and Liverpool, where there are "so many and varied temptations"?

"If, then," he says, "the question of the comparative efficacy of Romanism and Protestantism to restrain vice and immorality is to be decided by the comparison of Austria and Prussia, we have as a basis of a certain judgment this notable fact, that in ten cities of Austria we find forty-five illegitimate births in the hundred, and in ten cities of Prussia, sixteen only." We have seen what this is worth. It seems to us that it would be more satisfactory to compare Austria and Prussia at once than to pick out cities here and there to suit one's purpose. And this seems to strike our author; for he says, "They often assure us that some Protestant countries, as Norway, Sweden, Saxony, Hanover, and Wurtemberg are as demoralized as Roman Catholic countries. I shall not deny the allegation; but if a profound demoralization exists in some Protestant countries, that in Catholic countries is much worse." Then he goes on in this style to make his assertion good:

Here we have Styria, Upper and Lower Austria, Carinthia, Salzburg, Trieste, which are not separate countries at all, but simply the German provinces of the Austrian empire, and Bavaria, compared with countries so different and wide apart as Norway, Sweden, Saxony, Hanover, and Wurtemberg. This is tricky in the extreme. Moreover, there is no reliance to be placed on the figures which express their rate of illegitimacy, for a very good reason. Marriage is forbidden to great numbers in German Austria and Bavaria. "No person in Austria can marry if he does not know how to read, write, and cipher." [Footnote 33] Besides, in both countries, a man, before being permitted to marry, had to possess a sum of money quite out of reach of a great many. Appleton's Cyclopaedia [Footnote 34] says, "In some German states the obstacles to legal marriage are so great that numbers of people prefer to live together in what would be perfectly legal wedlock in Scotland and America, but is only concubinage by the local laws of the state."

[Footnote 33: Alison, vol. iii. chap, xxvii. 9.]
[Footnote 34: Article Europe.]

They marry, but the state will not recognize the children as legitimate, and the official registers are no criterion of the real state of the case. Mr. J. D. Chambers says, [Footnote 35] "In Bavaria, moreover, where the population is one-third Protestant, there exists an atrocious state of law which forbids marriage unless the contracting parties satisfy the authorities that they are capable of maintaining a family without extraneous aid. This, of course, leads to many secret marriages and illicit connections, so that this country ought to be excepted from the average."

[Footnote 35: Church and World, 1867.]

The Bavarians are as good a people as any in Germany, and it is a shame to libel them. If countries are to be compared—and it is the only fair and honest way to proceed—why not compare them in a straightforward, obvious way—France and England, Prussia and Austria—in fact, all the countries we can get the statistics of, and show the result in a tabular form, so that we can understand the whole thing at a glance? This would effectually put a stop to the cry of the vice of Catholic countries, which the Chicago Press, of January 11th, declares to be "notorious throughout the country." It is "notorious," because statements like Seymour's, cooked up for a purpose, give rise to utterly false conclusions, which are easily caught up and trumpeted, through the pulpit and the press, all over the country.

We shall now, leaving out Bavaria, for the reasons above given, give the latest and best statistics, in respect to illegitimate births, which it is possible to get. They are taken from the journals of the Statistical Society of London of the years 1860, 1862, 1865, 1867, the principal portions being compiled by Mr. Lumley, Honorary Secretary of the society, and contained in that of 1862, to be seen in the Astor Library. It will be interesting to the general reader, apart from its controversial bearings.

In Prussia, we have statistics according to the religious creed of the people. We shall, therefore, divide it into Catholic and Protestant. We wish the same could be done for Holland and Switzerland. Where there is a large minority differing from the majority, it would be most interesting; but it cannot be done except in Prussia. The number of illegitimate births in the hundred is as follows, according to the latest accounts given:

Mixed countries, where the Catholic population approaches the half:

Lest we be deemed to wish to conceal the depravity of Ireland, we give what is given by Mr. J. D. Chambers, [Footnote 36] who probably has access to the registrar's reports, which, of course, we have not:

and these, we remark, are mostly in the north, which is Protestant.

[Footnote 36: Church and World, 1867.]

The particulars of the statistics throw a good deal of light on the morality of the different countries, for instance, in France and England. The rate of illegitimacy in all

In spite of the "numerous and varied temptations" of the large towns, the rate is much less in them than in the country, which runs after this fashion:

In France, it is just the other way. The rate is,

Brittany and La Vendee remained Catholic through the storm of the French Revolution, and at this moment are thoroughly so. In Austria, the rate is: whole empire, only 9; urban districts, from 25 to 65; therefore, rural districts cannot be more than 5 or 6.

Prussia gives us, perhaps, the most conclusive test of the effects of religion on morals; for the census has been carefully taken according to creed, for many years, with uniform result thus. There are over 11,000,000 Protestants, and over 7,000,000 Catholics, principally in the Rhine provinces, Westphalia, and Posen. [Footnote 37] The rate

[Footnote 37: Historische Blätter, 9th Heft, 1867.]

Rev. T. W. Woolsey, of Yale College, New Haven, bears testimony to this relative state of morals in regard to the kindred subject of divorce, in an address before the Western Social Science Convention, at Chicago, as follows: "We have made some comparisons between the frequency of divorce in this country and in other parts of Protestantism. Prussia had the reputation of having the lowest system of divorce laws anywhere to be found. But the ratio there of annual divorces to annual marriages in 1855 was, among non-Catholics, one to twenty-nine, or about 3.5 per cent less than in Vermont or Ohio, and far less than in Connecticut, where it is 9.6 per cent. The greatest ratio nearly thirty years ago in the judicial districts of Prussia was 57 divorces to 100,000 inhabitants; the least, 16 to 100,000: nay more, in the Prussian Rhenish provinces, where the law is based on the Code Napoleon, and where the Catholic inhabitants, being numerous, must have some influence on the social habits of Protestants, there were but four fair divorces to 100,000 Protestants, or twenty-four in all among 600,000 of that class of inhabitants. I write this in pain, being a Protestant, if, as the Apostle Paul says, 'I may provoke to emulation them which are my flesh, and might save some of them.'"

Scotland might be supposed by our Protestant friends to be high up on the list, having always been so completely under the influence of the pure gospel of Calvin and Knox; but the rate for Scotland is 10.1.

In the Lowlands, where Presbyterianism carried all before it, the rate is from 10 to 15. In the Highlands, which remained to a considerable extent Catholic, the average is 5.6.

Supposing the immorality of the large cities, Protestant and Catholic, to be the same, though it is pretty sure the Catholic are much the best, and confining our comparison to the mass of the rural population, which is the fairer test, and the countries would stand in the following order, beginning with the most favorable:

Thus, to sum up, the Catholic countries of Europe, perhaps without an exception, are above the Protestant, if the number of illegitimate births is accepted as a criterion of morality. Could we get the statistics of infanticide, and of a still more common and destructive crime, foeticide, and add them to the above, then we could form a more just idea of the benefit the Catholic religion, with her divine ordinance of Confession, has conferred on the human race. But of course it is impossible to determine with exactness the amount of this crime which hides itself in profound darkness; we can only conjecture from sure indications that it is one of fearful magnitude.

We need not go abroad; the evidence is at our own door. Take the State of Rhode Island as a specimen. The number of children annually receiving Catholic baptism exceeds the half of all the children born in the State, although the Catholic population does not exceed the third part; in other words, there are two Protestants to every Catholic, and yet there are more Catholic children born than Protestant. Illegitimacy is almost unknown among Catholics, and the birthrate is at least 1 to 25, which demonstrates that criminal abortion cannot exist to any extent worth speaking of. The birth-rate among Protestants is i to over 50. What becomes of the children who ought to be born? Let Dr. Storer speak: [Footnote 38] "Hardly a newspaper throughout the land that does not contain their open and pointed advertisements. … The profits that must be made from the sale of the drugs supposed abortifacient, may be judged from the extent to which they are advertised and the prices willingly paid for them." "We are compelled to admit that Christianity itself, or, at least, Protestantism, has failed to check the increase of criminal abortion." [Footnote 39] To the same effect we have a writer in Harper's very anti-popery Magazine: "We are shocked at the destruction of human life upon the banks of the Ganges, as well as on the shores of the South Sea Islands; but here in the heart of Christendom, foeticide and infanticide are extensively practised under the most aggravating circumstances. … It should be stated that believers in the Roman Catholic faith never resort to any such practices; the strictly Americans are almost alone guilty of such crimes." And Bishop Coxe, of the Protestant Episcopal Church, has published to his people the following: "I have hitherto warned my flock against the blood-guiltiness of ante-natal infanticide. If any doubts existed heretofore as to the propriety of my warnings on the subject, they must now disappear before the fact that the world itself is beginning to be horrified by the practical results of the sacrifices to Moloch which defile our land."

[Footnote 38: Criminal Abortion, p. 55.]
[Footnote 39: Page 69.]

How is it with Protestant England? Dr. Lankester, one of the coroners of London, declares that there are 12,000 mothers in London alone, guilty of infanticide. [Footnote 40] In Prussia, Mr. J. Laing says that, "Chastity, the index virtue of the moral condition of the people, is lower than in almost any part of Europe." [Footnote 41] Let us look at home. Our attention has been so diverted to the vice and immorality of our Catholic neighbors, that we have begun to imagine ourselves the most moral, the most virtuous, the most enlightened people on the face of the earth, while, in reality, we are fast getting to be the most corrupt and abominable. It would be well to call to mind a little oftener the saying of our Lord, "First pull the beam out of thine own eye, and then thou shalt see clearly to pull the mote out of thy brother's eye."

[Footnote 40: Church and World, 1866, p. 57.]
[Footnote 41: Spald. Miscell. p. 484.]

We have thus exposed the untrustworthiness of Mr Seymour's Nights among the Romanists. With the evidence before him, he has kept back any honest and fair statement of it, and only put forward such portion as would serve to substantiate an utterly false conclusion, most injurious to us Catholics, both religiously and personally; for we cannot be looked upon in the mass as corrupt and vicious, without a great deal of personal ill-will and contempt and hatred being engendered.

We call the attention of the Rev. Mr. Bacon to this. He has taken a noble stand against base and unfair practices in the controversy with the Catholic Church, and we hope he will persevere in spite of the opposition he has raised against himself. We feel inclined to forgive him for some sins of his own, in this respect; for example, in speaking of the "Tax-Book of Roman Chancery," when Bishop England has so clearly shown it to be a base forgery. We hope our exposure of Mr. Seymour will be met in a generous and Christian spirit, and that he will promptly disavow all connection with him as an amende honorable for having recommended him.

We see, by The Christian World of September, that the American and Foreign Christian Union are going to reissue this book, and we hope these "eminent and excellent" men, now that their attention is called to it, will clean this out with the rest of the filth of their Augean stable. And also the directors of the American Tract Society are requested to consider seriously whether defamation is exactly the most Christian weapon to fight with, or the one most likely in the long run to overcome the Catholic Church, and whether they should not withdraw from circulation a book so damaging to their reputation as lights of the pure Protestant Gospel, shining amongst the darkness and moral corruptions of Popery.

Heremore-Brandon; Or,
The Fortunes Of A Newsboy.

Chapter VIII.

As might have ben supposed, Dick was at Mr. Brandon's office long before that gentleman made his appearance down-town. It was a sultry morning, with occasional snatches of rain to make the gloomy streets more gloomy, and the depressing atmosphere more depressing. Mr. Brandon was sensitive to heat; he had no cool summer retreat to go to in the evenings, and return from with a rose in his button-hole in the mornings; and as, instead of being grateful for the many years in which he had enjoyed this luxury, he was disposed to consider himself decidedly ill-used in not having it still, so soon as he found Dick waiting for him, he began his repinings in the most querulous of all his tones:

"Pretty hard on a man who has had his own country-place, and been his own lord and master, to come down to this blistering old hole every morning, isn't it, Mr. Heremore? Well, well, some people have no feeling! There are those old nabobs who were hand and glove with me, mighty glad of a dinner with me, and where are they now? Do they come around with 'How are you, Brandon?' and invitations to their dinners? Indeed not!"

"Mr. Brandon, I have come to talk to you about some business," began Dick, who had prepared a dozen introductions, all forgotten at the needed moment; then abruptly, "Mr. Brandon, did you ever hear my name, the name of Heremore before?"

It would be false to say that Mr. Brandon showed any emotion beyond that of natural surprise at the abruptness of the question; but it is safe to add that the surprise was very great, almost exaggerated. He replied, coolly enough, as he hung up his hat and sat down, wiping his face with his handkerchief: "Heremore? It is not, so to say, a common name; and I may or may not have heard it before. One who has been in the world so long as I have, Mr. Heremore, can hardly be expected to know what names he has or has not heard in the course of his life. I suppose you ask for some especial reason."

"I do," said Dick, a little staggered by the other's unembarrassed reply, "Did you not once know a gentleman in Wiltshire, called Dr. Heremore?"

"This is close questioning from a young man in your position to an old gentleman in mine, and I am slightly curious to know your object in asking before I reply."

"I believe you were married twice, Mr. Brandon, and that your first wife's maiden name was Heremore?"

"Well—and then?"

"And that she died while you were away, believing you were dead; and and that she had two children," said Dick, who began to feel uneasy under the steady, smiling gaze of the other—"and that she had two children, a son and a daughter."

"Almost any one can tell you that my family consists of my first wife's daughter, and two sons by my second wife. But that's of no consequence. Two children, a son and a daughter, you were saying."

"Yes, two; although you may have been able to trace only one. She died in great poverty, did she not?"

"I decline answering any questions, I am highly flattered—charmed, indeed—at the interest you show in my family by these remarks; and I can only regret that my fortunes are now so low that I know of no way in which to prove my grateful appreciation of the manner in which you must have labored in order to know so much. In happier times, I might have secured you a place in the police department; but unfortunately, I am a ruined man, unable to assist any one at present."

At this speech, which was delivered in the most languid manner, and in a tone that was infinitely more insulting than the words, Dick was on the point of thrusting his mother's letter before the man's eyes, to show by what means he had obtained his knowledge; but the cool words, the indifferent manner, had a great effect upon our hero, who found it every moment more difficult to believe in the theory that from the first had seemed so likely to be the real one, and so he answered respectfully:

"I assure you, I mean no rudeness to you, Mr. Brandon; but I am engaged in the most serious business in the world, for me. I may be mistaken in you, and shall not know how to atone for the mistake, should I come to know it; but I hope you will be sure of my respectful intention, however I may err."

Mr. Brandon bowed, smiled, and played with his pen, as if the conversation were drawing to a close. Dick, heated and more embarrassed than ever, was obliged to recommence it.

"But was not your first wife's name Heremore? I beg you to answer me this one question, for all depends upon it."

"A very sufficient reason why I should not answer it. But as you to have something very interesting to disclose, perhaps we had better imagine that her name was Heremore before it was Brandon. Permit me to ask if, in that case, I am to own a relation in you? I certainly cannot make such a connection as advantageous as I could a year or so ago; but though I cannot prove the rich uncle of the romances, I shall be glad to know what scion of my wife's noble house I have the honor of addressing."

It seems easy to have answered "your son" but the words would not come. More and more the whole thing seemed a dream. What! a man so hardened that he could sit before his own son, whom by this time he must have known to be his son, and talk after this fashion of his dead wife's house! Impossible! If, then, he should tell his tale, and tell it to an unconcerned listener, what a sacrilege he would commit!

"A very near relative," Dick said at last. "I know that Dr. Heremore's daughter married a Charles Brandon about twenty-five years ago."

"Ah! I see! And you thought there was but one Charles Brandon in in the world! You see I shall have to learn a lesson in politeness from you; for I could conceive that there should be room in this world even two Richard Heremores."

Poor Dick was silenced for the moment. He knew he was taking up Mr. Brandon's time, and so the time of his employer. He walked up and down the little office and thought it all over. Certain passages in his mother's letter came to his mind. In this way, perhaps, had her appeals been sneered at in the olden times!

"Mr. Brandon," he said, standing in front of his tormentor, his whole appearance changed from that of the hesitating, embarrassed boy to the resolute, high-spirited man— "Mr. Brandon, there has been enough trifling. I insist upon knowing if you were or were not the husband of Miss Heremore. If you were not, it is a very simple thing to say so. There are plenty of ways by which I can make myself certain of the fact without your assistance; but out of consideration for you, I came to you first."

"I am deeply grateful," with a mock ceremonious bow.

"But if you persist in this way of treating me, I shall have to go elsewhere."

"And then?"

"Heaven knows I do not ask anything of you, beyond the information I came to seek. I wondered yesterday why she should have given me her father's name instead of mine; now I can understand it. I had doubts while first speaking to you, but now they are gone. I believe it is so. If you will not tell me as much as you know of Dr. Heremore, I can go to his old home for it. It would have saved me time and expense if you had answered my questions; but as you please."

He was clearly in earnest. Mr. Brandon saw it, and stopped him at the door.

"My wife's name was Heremore," he said very indifferently, "and her father has been dead these twenty years. You have your answer. Permit me to ask what you mean to do about it?"

"Dr. Heremore was my grandfather," said Dick, coming back and sitting down.

"Ah! indeed!" politely; "he was a very excellent old gentleman in his way; it is much to be regretted that he and you should have been unable to make each other's acquaintance."

"When my mother—your first wife—died, you knew she left two children."

"One—a daughter. I think you have met her."

"There were two. I was the other."

"Are you quite sure?" asked Mr. Brandon in the same languid tones; but, for the first time, it seemed to Dick that they faltered.

"I am quite sure. You would know her writing."

"Possibly. It was a great while ago, and my eyes are not as good as they were."

"You would recognize her portrait?"

"If one I had seen before, I might."

"I should say this was a portrait of the first Mrs. Brandon," he said, taking that which Dick handed him and, looking at it, not without some signs of embarrassment, "or of someone very like her. And this is not unlike her writing, as I remember it. Oh! you wish me to read this?"

Dick signed assent, watching him while he read. Whatever Mr. Brandon felt while reading that letter, he kept it all in his own heart.

"This is all?" he asked when he had read and deliberately refolded it.

"It is all at present," answered Dick.

Then Mr. Brandon arose, handed the paper back, and said very quietly but deliberately:

"My first wife is dead and gone; her daughter lives with me, and, as long as I had the means, received every luxury she could desire. The past is past, and I do not wish it revived. Understand me. I do not wish it revived. I want to hear nothing more, not a word more, on this subject. If I were rich as I once was, I could understand why you should persist in this thing. I am not yet so poor that the law cannot protect me from any further persecution about the matter. Your mother, you say, named you for your grandfather, not for me. If you wish paternal advice—all that my poverty would enable me to give, however I were disposed—I advise you to go for it to her father, for whom she showed her judgment in naming you. Good morning."

"You cannot mean this! You must have known me as a child, and known my name before, long, long ago, and surely consented to it, or she would not have so named me. Of course, it was by some mistake the Brandon was dropped at first, not by her, but by those who took care of me when she died; she could never have meant such a thing; it was undoubtedly an accident. You cannot mean to end all here—that I am not to know, to see, my sister!"

"I tell you I wish to hear not another word of this matter; do you hear me? Have I not troubles enough now without your coming to bring up the hateful past? You shall not add to your sister's, whatever you may do to mine."

"I insist upon seeing her."

"You shall not. I positively forbid you to go near her. Now leave me! I have borne enough."

"But I cannot let the matter rest here; you know I cannot. The idea of it is absurd! If you do not wish me for a son, I have no desire to force myself upon you. I do not know why you should refuse to own me; I am not conscious of any cause I have given you to so dislike me."

"I don't dislike you, nor do I like you particularly; I have no ill-feeling against you, but I don't want this old matter dragged up. I am not strong enough to bear persecution now."

"But I do not want to persecute you. I want—"

"Well, what do you want?"

"I hardly know. I may have had an idea that you would welcome your oldest child after so many years of loss, however unworthy of you he might be. I may have thought that if you once were not all you should have been to one who, likely, was at one time very dear to you, it might be a satisfaction to you, even at this late day, to retrieve—"

"You thought wrong, and it is not worth while wasting words on the matter. I have got over all that, and don't want it revived. I can't put you out, but I beg you to go; or, if you persist in forcing your words upon me, pray choose some other subject."

"I will go, since you so heartily desire it; but I warn you that I will not give up seeing Miss—my sister."

"As you please. You will get as little satisfaction there, I fancy; though it may not be quite as annoying to her as to me."

"I shall try, at all events."

"Try. Go to her; say anything to her; make any arrangement with her you choose; take her away altogether. I don't care a button what you do, so you only leave me."

"I will leave you willingly, and am indeed sorry to have put you to so much pain."

"Not a word, I pray you," answered Mr. Brandon, now polite and smiling. "You have performed a disagreeable duty in the least disagreeable way you could, I do not doubt. All I ask is, never to hear it mentioned again."

Dick stayed for no more ceremony. Glad to be released from such an atmosphere of selfishness and cowardice, he hardly waited for the answer to his good-morning before turning to the street.

In less than an hour he was in the dreary room, with boarding-house stamped all over its walls, saying good-morning to a stately young lady, very pale and weary-looking, who kindly rose to receive him. The little room was hot and close; there were no shutters to the windows; the shades were too narrow at the sides; besides being so unevenly put up that the eyes ached every time one turned toward them, and the gleaming light was almost worse than the heat.

"I have been trying for the dozenth time to straighten them," said Mary, drawing one down somewhat lower, "but it's of no use."

"Are they crooked?" asked Dick innocently.

"Well, yes, rather," answered Mary, smiling. "I think I never saw anything before that was so near the perfection of crooked."

"I have seen your father this morning," Dick began, taking a chair near the table.

"There is nothing the matter, I hope?" she questioned nervously.

"Nothing that any one but myself need mind. I made some discoveries about myself last evening that I would like to tell you. Have you time?"

"I have nothing to do. I shall be very glad if my attentive listening can do you any service." She moved her chair, in a quiet way, a little farther from his, and looked at him in some surprise. She saw he was very earnest, excited, and greatly embarrassed. She could not help seeing that his eyes were anxiously following her every movement, eagerly trying to read her face.

"I am afraid I shall shock you very much, and you are not well; I am sorry I came. I thought only of my own eagerness to see you; not, until this moment, of the pain I may cause you."

"Do not think of that. I do not think, Mr. Heremore, you are likely to say anything that should pain me. I think you too sensible—I mean, too gentlemanly for that."

"I hope you really mean that. I am sure I must seem very rude and unpolished in your eyes; but I would have been far more so, had it not been for you."

"For me?"

"Yes." And he told her about the Christmas morning in Fourteenth Street.

"And you remembered that little thing all this time!" Mary exclaimed. "And you were once a newsboy!"

"Yes; I was once a great, stupid, ragged newsboy. I do not mean to deny, to conceal anything. I am so very sorry, for your sake; but I hope you will like me in spite of it all. If just those few words and that one smile did so much for me, what is there your influence may not do?"

"Mr. Heremore, I do not in the least understand you."

"I don't know where to begin; this has excited me so that I do not know what I am saying, and now I wish almost that you might never know it; there is such a difference between us that I cannot tell how to begin."

"Is it necessary that you should begin?" asked Mary. "You told me you wished to speak to me, of some discoveries you had made in regard to yourself. To anything about yourself I will listen with interest; but I do not care to have anything said about myself; there can be no connection between the two subjects that I can see; so pray do not waste words on so poor a subject as myself; but tell me the discovery, if you please."

"But it concerns you as much as it does me. Do you know much about your own mother? She died, you told me, long ago."

"I know very little about her. I presume her death was a great grief to papa; for he has never permitted a word to be said about her, and anything that pains papa in that way is never alluded to. The little I do know I have learned from my old nurse."

"You do not remember her?"

"Not in the least; she died when I was a mere baby."

"Did you ever see her portrait, or any of her writing, or hear her maiden name?"

"No, to all your questions. Does papa know you are here, this morning?"

"Yes; I went to him at once. At first he was very determined I should not see you; but in the end, he seemed glad to get me silenced at any price, and I was so anxious to see you that I did not wait for very cordial permission."

"You did not talk to papa about my mother?"

"Yes, that is what I went for."

"How did you dare to do it? Was he not very angry? I am sure you know something about mamma."

"Yes, I do. I have her portrait; this is it."

"Her portrait! My mamma's portrait! O what a beautiful face! Is this really my mamma? Did papa see it? Did he recognize it?"

"I showed it to him. He did not deny it was hers."

"Deny it was hers! What in the world do you mean, Mr. Heremore? Where did you get it?"

Then Dick, in the best way he could, told the whole story of the box, and gave her the letter to read. When Mary came to the part which said, "Will you love your sister always, let what may be her fate? Remember, always, she had no mother to guide her," she turned her eyes, full of tears, to Dick, saying no words.

"She did not know that it would be the other way," Dick replied to her look, his own eyes hardly dry. "She would have begged for me if she had known that—" farther than this he could not get. Mary put her hands in his, and said earnestly:

"No need for that; her pleading comes just as it should. Will you really be my brother—all wearied, sick, and worn-out as I am? Oh! if this had only come two years ago, I could have been something to you!"

But Dick could not answer a word, He could only keep his eyes upon her face; afraid, as it seemed, that it would suddenly prove all a dream.

But the day wore on and it did not prove less real. The heat and the glaring light were forgotten, or not heeded, while the two sat together and talked of this strange story, and tried to fill up the outlines of their mother's history.

"I feel as if our grandpapa were living, or, if not living, there must be somebody who knows something about him," she said.

"I think I ought to go and see. Mr. Staffs was very particular in urging that."

"I think so; even if you learned nothing, it would be a good thing for you just to have tried."

"I know I can get permission to stay away for a few days longer; there's nothing doing at this season, Would it take long?"

"I don't know much about it; not more than two days each way, I should think. There is a steamer, too, that goes to Portland, and you can find out if Wiltshire is near there. The steamer trip would be splendid at this season. Are you a good sailor?"

"I don't know. You have got a great ignoramus for a brother. I have never been half a day's journey from New York in my life."

"Is that so? Well, you must go to Portland. How you will enjoy the strong, bracing sea-breezes; they make one feel a new life!"

Then suddenly Dick's face grew very red, but bright, and he said eagerly: "Would you trust me—I mean could your father be persuaded—would you be afraid to go with me?"

"Oh! I wish I could! I would enjoy it as I never did a journey before! Just to see the sea again, and with a brother! I can't tell you how I have all my life envied girls with great, grown-up brothers. Nobody else is ever like a brother. Fred and Joe are younger than I, and have been away so much that they never seemed like brothers. A journey with you on such a quest would be something never to be forgotten."

"It doesn't seem as if such a good thing could come to pass," answered Dick. "I don't know anything about travelling; you would have to train me; but if you will bear with me now, I will try hard to learn. Do you think your father would listen to the idea?"

"No; he would not listen to ten words about it. He hates to be troubled; he would never forgive me if I went into explanations about an affair that did not please him; but if I say, 'Papa, I am going away for a couple of weeks to New England, unless you want me for something,' he will know where I am going, what for, and will not mind, so he is not made to talk about it; that is his way."

"Will you really go, then, with me? You know I shall not know how to treat you gallantly, like your grand beaux."

"Ah! don't put on airs, Mr. Dick; you were not so very humble before you knew our relationship. Remember, I have known you long."

"I wonder what you thought of me."

"I thought a great deal of good of you; so did papa, so does Mr. Ames."

"You know Mr. Ames?"

"Ah! very well indeed; he comes to see us every New Year's day; he actually found us out this year, and I got to liking him more than ever; he has come quite often since, and we talked of you; he says you are a good boy. I am going to be grande dame to-day, and have lunch brought up for us two, unless Madame the landlady is shocked."

"Does that mean I have staid too long?"

"No, indeed. Mrs. Grundy never interferes with people with clear consciences, at least in civilized communities; in provincial cities, and country towns she will not let you turn around except as she pleases; that's the difference. There are no bells in this establishment, or, if there are, nobody ever knew one to be answered, so I will start on a raid and see what I can discover."

In course of time she returned with a servant, who cleared the little rickety table, and then disappeared, returning at the end of half an hour with a very light lunch for two; but that was not her fault, poor thing!

Then hour after hour passed and still Dick could not leave her; he had gone out and bought a guidebook, which required them to go all over the route again, and there was so much of the past life of each to be told and wondered at, that it was late in the afternoon and Mr. Brandon's hand was on the door before Dick had thought of leaving. Of course he must remain to see Mr. Brandon, who, however, did not seem any too glad to see him. Nothing was said in regard to the matter which had been all day under discussion. Mr. Brandon talked of the news of the day, of the weather, and the last book he had read, accompanied him to the door, and shook hands with him quite cordially, to the surprise of the landlady, who was peeping over the banisters in expectation of high words between them. Mr. Brandon even went so far as to speak of him as a very near relative, as several of the boarders distinctly heard. Mr. Brandon hated to be talked to on disagreeable subjects, but he knew the world's ways all the same.

"Come very early to-morrow morning," Mary said in a low voice as they parted, "and I will let you know if I can go."

Dick did not forget this parting charge, and early the next morning had the happiness of hearing that her father had consented to let her go.

"Papa isn't as indifferent as he seems," she said. "When it is all fixed and settled, he will treat you just as he does the rest of us, only he hates a scene and explanations. I suppose he was unkind to poor mamma, and now hates to say a word about it; but you may be sure he feels it. And now you must take everything for granted, come and go just as if you had always been at home with us, and he will take it so."

"But what will people say?"

"Why, we will tell the truth, only as simply as possible—as if it were an everyday affair—that papa's first wife died while he was away from home, and that when he returned from Paris, where he says he was then, the people told him you were dead too. I don't know why that old woman should have told such a story."

"Nor I, but perhaps, poor, ignorant soul, she thought the boy was better under her charge than given over to a 'Protestant,' who had acted so like a heathen to the child's mother; but good as was her motive, and perhaps her judgment, I hope she did not really tell a lie about it, so peace to her soul. Who knows how much Dick owes to her pious prayers?"

A very proud and happy man was Dick in these days, when he journeyed to Maine with his newly-found sister. It is true that the change in Mr. Brandon's circumstances did not enable Mary to have a new travelling suit for the occasion, and that she was obliged to wear a last year's dress; but last year's dress was a very elegant one, and almost "as good as new;" for Mary, fine lady that she was, had the taste and grace of her station, and deft fingers, quick and willing servants of her will, that would do honor to any station; so her dress was all à la mode, and Dick had reason to be proud of escorting her. She had, however, something more than her dress of which to be proud, or Dick would not have been so grateful for finding her his sister; she had a kind heart, which enabled her always to answer readily all who addressed her, to make her constantly cheerful with Dick, and to keep everything smooth for the inexperienced traveller, who otherwise would have suffered many mortifications; she had, too, a womanly dignity, a sense of what was due to and from her, not as Miss Brandon, but as a woman, which secured her from any incivility and made her always gentle and considerate to every one. Dick could never enough delight in the quiet, composed way in which she received attentions which she never by a look suggested; for the gentle firmness, the self-possession, the quiet composure, the perfect courtesy of a refined and cultivated woman were new things to him; and to say he loved the very ground she walked on would be only a mild way of expressing the feeling of his heart toward her.

Added to all this, giving to everything else a greater charm, Mary's mind was always alive; she had been thoroughly educated, and had mingled all her life with intelligent and often intellectual people, whose influence had enabled her to seek at the proper fountains for entertainment and instruction. Whatever passed before her eyes, she saw; and whatever she saw, she thought about. In her turn, Mary already dearly loved her brother; although two years younger than he, she was, as generally happens at their age, much more mature, and she could see, as if with more experienced eyes, what a true, honest heart, what thorough desire to do right, what patience and what spirit, too, there was in him, and again and again said to herself, "What would he not have been under other circumstances!" But she forgot, when saying that, that God knows how to suit the circumstances to the character, and that Dick, not having neglected his opportunities, had put his talent out to as great interest as he could under other influences. There was much that had to be broadened in his mind, great worlds of art and literature for him to enter; but there was time enough for that yet; he had a character formed to truth and earnestness, and had proved himself patient and energetic at the proper times. It now was time for new and refining influences to be brought to bear; it was time for gentleness and courtesy to teach him the value of pleasant manners and self-restraint; for the conversation of cultivated people to teach him the value of intelligent thoughts and suitable words in which to clothe them; for the knowledge of other lives and other aims to teach him the value or the mistake of his own. These things were unconsciously becoming clearer to him every day that he was with his sister, who, I need hardly say, never lectured, sermonized, or put essays into quotation marks, but whose conversation was simple, refined, and intelligent, whatever was its subject. Others greater than Mary would come after her when her work was done, we may be sure; but at the present time Dick was not in a state to be benefited by such.

To Be Continued.

When?

Come, gentle April showers,
And water my May flowers.
The violet—
Blue, white, and yellow streaked with jet—
Thickly in my bed are set;
Gay daffodillies,
Tulips and St. Joseph's lilies;
Bethlehem's star,
Gleaming through its leaves afar;
Merry crocuses, which quaff
Sunshine till they fairly laugh;
And that fragrant one so pale,
Meekest lily of the vale,
All are keeping whist, afraid
Of this late snow o'er them laid.
Come, then, gentle April showers,
And coax out my pretty flowers.
I am tired of wintry days,
Have no longer heart to praise
Icicles and banks of snow.
When will dandelions blow,
And meadow-sweet,
And cowslips, dipping their cool feet
In little rills
Gushing from the mossy hills?
I am weary of this weather.
Vernal breezes, hasten hither,
Bringing in your dappled train,
Tearful sunshine, smiling rain,
And, to coax out all my flowers,
Fall, fall gently, April showers.

Translated From The French Of Le Correspondant.
Influence Of Locality On The Duration Of Human Life.

In every place there are influences which are favorable or unfavorable to the duration of human life. The nature of the soil, the atmospheric changes, the variations of the temperature, the position of one's abode with respect to the points of the compass and its elevation above the level of the sea, act in a powerful manner upon the organization.

A vast forest is one the grandest, most enchanting and enlivening scenes in nature. What an ineffable and touching harmony comes from the varieties of foliage, and what a sweet perfume they lend to the caressing breeze! What a soothing charm in their cool shade, calming the fever of life, purifying the soul from all passion, expanding and elevating the mind, and making man realize more fully his celestial origin. All men who are endowed with superior mental faculties have a natural and powerful inclination for solitude—especially the solitude of a vast forest. The soft light of its open spaces, the deep shades, the endless variety of tones from the quivering leaves, the pungent sweetness of the odors, the air full of vibrations and sparkling light, surround and penetrate them. It seems to them a glimpse of a world of mystery to which they have drawn near, and which harmonizes perfectly with all the thoughts and feelings in which they love to indulge.

Not only persons capable of reading the divine lessons written on space, love to wander in the shades of vast forests, but great noble hearts that have been wounded, also find here a balm. The soothing melancholy they drink in, the divine presence they feel, fill up the void left by some charming illusion that has been dispelled. There are special places where the air we breathe, and every exterior influence, tend to nourish and develop not only physical but intellectual life. A beneficent spirit seems to watch over the safety of humanity and to promote its happiness. The fluids, the emanations that surround us, penetrate our organization and become a part of our being; and in consequence of the wonderful sympathy between the body and soul, it is evident that they also influence our intellectual faculties.

Umbrageous forests are especially favorable to our existence; trees are devoted and faithful friends that never reproach us for their benefits, and their love is susceptible of no change, Plants are for us a real panacea. They are the natural pharmacies which Providence has established on earth for the prevention or cure of our diseases. From their wood, barks, leaves, flowers, and fruits, are exhaled essences which strengthen our organs, purify the blood, and neutralize the noxious air around us.

The history of all ages shows that those regions which are favored with vast forests have always been healthy and propitious to man; but where the forests have been cut down, those same regions have become marshy and the source of deadly miasmas, The marsh fevers which now prevail in certain parts of Asia Minor render them uninhabitable. Nevertheless, ancient authors speak of marshes of small extent, but not of marsh fevers, because then the forests still remained.

A thousand years ago, La Brenne was covered with woods, interspersed with meadows. These meadows were watered by living streams. It was then a country famous for the fertility of its pastures and the mildness of its climate. Now the forests have disappeared. La Brenne is gloomy, marshy, and unhealthy. The same could be said of La Dombe, La Bresse, La Sologne, etc.

The following is a permanent example exactly to the point. In the Pontine marshes, a wood intercepts the current of damp air laden with pestilential miasmas, rendering one side of it healthy, while the other is filled with its destructive vapors. The places where forests have disappeared seem as if inhabited by evil genii, who eagerly seek to enter the human frame under the form of fevers, cholera, diseases of the lungs and liver, rheumatism, etc. For example, it is sufficient to breathe for only a few seconds in certain regions of Madagascar, or some of the fatal islands near by, for the whole organization to be instantly seized with mortal symptoms. The most robust and vigorous young man, who goes full of ardor to those shores with the hope of a bright future, affected by these miasmas, feels as if dying with the venom of the rattlesnake in his veins; and, if he recovers from his agony, it is often to drag out in sorrow the small remnant of his days. How many unfortunate people of this class have I not met during my voyage in the Indian Ocean. What a sacrilege to think of destroying these delicious and mysterious forests, with their atmosphere full of celestial vibrations, and their divine orchestra, where the breeze murmurs in a thousand tones the hymn which reveals the Creator to the creature! Every sorrow is soothed in the depths of those beneficent shades. There the soul, as well as the body, finds a repose which regenerates it. The divinity descends; we feel its presence. It moves us to the depths of our souls. It caresses us like the breath of the mother we adore!

Man may live to an advanced age in almost every climate, in the torrid as well as the frigid zone; but he cannot everywhere attain the utmost limit of human life. The examples of extreme longevity are more common in some countries than in others. Although, in general, a northern climate may be favorable to long life, too great a degree of cold is injurious. In Iceland, in the north of Asia—that is, in Siberia—man lives, at the longest, but sixty or seventy years. The countries where people of the most advanced age have been found, of late years, are Sweden, Norway, Denmark, and England. Individuals of one hundred and thirty, one hundred and forty, and one hundred and fifty years of age, have been found there. Ireland shares with England and Scotland the reputation of being favorable to the duration of life. More than eighty persons above fourscore years of age have been found in a single small village of that country, called Dumsford. Bacon said that he did not think you could mention a single village of that country where there was not to be found at least one octogenarian. Examples of longevity are more rare in France, in Italy, and especially in Spain. Some cantons of Hungary are noted for the advanced age to which their inhabitants attain. Germany also has a good many old people, but few who live to a remarkable age. Only a small number are to be found in Holland. It is seldom that any one reaches the age of one hundred in that country. The climate of Greece, which is as healthy as it is agreeable, is considered now, as it formerly was, favorable to longevity. The island of Naxos is specially noted in this respect. It was generally admitted in Greece that the air of Attica disposed those who breathed it to philosophy.

Examples of longevity are to be found in Egypt, and in the East Indies, principally in the caste of Brahmins and among the anchorets and hermits, who, unlike the rest of the inhabitants, do not abandon themselves to indolence and excesses of every kind.

A careful computation of the comparative longevity, in the different departments of France, has been made for 1860 and the preceding years. The medium annual number of deaths in France, at the age of one hundred years and upward, is 148. The following fifteen départements, given in decreasing order, are those which have the greatest number: Basses-Pyrenees, Dordogne, Calvados, Gers, Puy-de-Dôme, Ariége, Aveyron, Gironde, Landes, Lot, Ardèche, Cantal, Doubs, Seine, Tarn-et-Garonne. It will be seen that a great number of mountainous districts are to be found in these departments. It is surprising to see that of la Seine on this list. Nevertheless these departments do not hold the same rank in respect to the ordinary duration of life; which would seem to prove that some examples of extreme longevity are not a sufficient index that a country is favorable to long life. I give their numbers in order: Basses-Pyrénées, 7; Dordogne, 42; Calvados, 2; Gers, 9; Puy-de-Dôme, 30; Ariége, 48; Aveyron, 34; Gironde, 18; Landes, 52; Lot, 33; Ardèche, 43; Cantal, 23; Doubs, 25; Seine, 53; Tarn-et-Garonne, 13.

The fifteen departments in which ordinary life is most prolonged are: Orne, Calvados, Eure-et-Loir, Sarthe, Eure, Lot-et-Garonne, Deux-Sèvres, Indre-et-Loire, Basses-Pyrenees, Maine-et-Loire, Ardennes, Gers, Aube, Hautes-Pyrenees, et Haute-Garonne.

It is evident that places need not be very remote from each other to produce a different influence on the duration of life.

That cold is injurious to the nerves, remarks M. Reveille-Parise, is a truth almost as old as the medical art. A low temperature produces not only a painful effect upon the skin, but it benumbs and paralyzes the nerves of the extremities, and diminishes the circulation of the fluids, and this gives rise to all sorts of diseases.

Men of intellectual pursuits, having an extremely nervous susceptibility, are particularly affected by change of temperature. It is not surprising, then, to find that the mental faculties have attained their utmost degree of perfection in certain climates. Choice natures, such as poets and other men of genius, only produce the finest fruit under the influence of an ardent sun and a pure and brilliant atmosphere. It is only in warm and temperate climates that nature and life are most lavish of their treasures; there we find genuine creations; elsewhere are imitations only, with the exception of the physical sciences, which depend on continued observation. It is remarkable that, if the men of the North have conquered the South, the opinions of the South have always held sway in the North. Besides, fertility of the soil and a mild temperature set man free, in southern countries, from all present care and all anxiety respecting the future, and infuse that blissful serenity of soul so favorable to the flights of the imagination. In the misty climate of the north, he has to struggle incessantly against the influence of the weather, which so greatly diminishes the powers of the mind. This struggle is almost always a disadvantage to the minds of men, who are particularly impressible and often reduced to a state of muscular enervation. Cold, dampness, fogs, violent winds, sudden changes of temperature, frequent rains, endless winters, uncertain summers with their storms and unhealthy exhalations, are fearful enemies to an organization which is delicate, nervous, irritable, suffering, and exhausted.

The state of the atmosphere, then, acts powerfully on the mental faculties. There are really days when the mind is not clear. The thoughts, sometimes so free and abundant, are suddenly arrested. The sources of the imagination are expanded and contracted according to the degrees of the barometer and thermometer. The different seasons of the year have more influence than may be thought, upon the master-pieces of art, upon the affections, the events of life and even upon political catastrophes. History relates that Chancellor de Cheverny warned President de Thou that if the Duke de Guise irritated the mind of Henry III during a frost, (which rendered him furious,) the king would have him assassinated; and this really happened on the twenty-third of December, 1588.

The Duchess d'Abrantès says:

"Napoleon could not endure the least cold without immediate suffering. He had fires made in the month of July, and did not understand why others were not equally affected by the least wind from the northeast. It was Napoleon's nature to love air and exercise. The privation of these two things threw him into a violent condition. The state of the weather could be perceived by the temper he displayed at dinner. If rain or any other cause had prevented him from taking his accustomed walk, he was not only cross but suffering."

We read in the Journal of Eugénie de Guerin:

"With the rain, cold winds, wintry skies, the nightingales singing from time to time under the dead leaves, we have a gloomy month of May. I wish my soul were not so much influenced by the state of the atmosphere and variations of the seasons, as to be like a flower that opens or closes with the cold and the sun. It is something I do not understand, but so it is as long as my soul is imprisoned in this frail body."

Ask the poets, artists, and men of thought, if a lively feeling of energy and of joy, prompting to action and labor; or, otherwise, if a certain state languor—of strange and undefinable uneasiness—does not make them dependent on the state of the atmosphere.

It may be considered, then, as an established principle, that a temperate climate, mild seasons, and pure air constantly, renewed constitute not only the highest physical enjoyment but the indispensable conditions of health.

The physical character of places has a truly astonishing effect upon man. A distinguished traveller, M. Trémaux, has endeavored to prove, in several mémoires to the Académie des Sciences, that man be changed from the Caucasian to the negro type simply by this influence. He calls attention to the coincidences that exist between the physical types and the geological nature of the countries acting especially through their products. The least perfect, or rather, the type which is farthest removed from our own, belongs to the oldest lands, and, in a subsidiary manner, to climates the least favored. The most perfect belongs to the countries which, within the smallest limits, offer the greatest variety of formations, allowing the most recent to predominate, and, in a subsidiary manner, to the most favored climates. The type is also influenced by other causes of a more secondary nature which are very complex.

The geological chart of Europe, says Mr. Trémaux, shows that the greatest surface of primitive rock formations is in Lapland, which possesses also the most inferior people; going to the south of Scandinavia, gneiss and granite occupy also a great part of the country, but that region is also connected with others more varied. It contains many lakes, and its climate is more favored, as well as its inhabitants. As to the Scandinavians of Denmark, they have a purely Germanic type and are, in effect, upon the same soil.

Russia possesses different formations of a medium age, but the extended surface of each kind does not permit its people to profit by the resources of those adjoining, and, consequently, they are but indifferently favored. If we turn to the countries which are in the best condition, we distinguish in general all the west and south of Europe, and more particularly France, Italy, Greece, the eastern part of Spain, and the north-east of England. It is here, in truth, that civilization and the intellectual faculties have most sway.

Race does not change while it remains upon the same soil and under the same natural influences; whereas, it is gradually modified, according to its new position, when it is removed to another place.

The physical influences of a region, and of mixture of race, have a distinct manner of acting. By cross-breeding, the features are at once strongly modified in individuals, but especially according to the region in which it takes place. Thus, in Europe, the mixed race is more strongly inclined to the type of the white man; in Soudan, to that of the negro. A type seems to be more readily improved than degenerated. The physical character of a place does not act in detail, but in a general manner, beginning by modifying the complexion more and more in each generation. It acts less quickly upon the hair, and more slowly still upon the features. Cross-breeding is considered the principal modifying agent only because its effects are at once perceptible, but it can explain evident facts only in an imperfect manner.

The elevation of a place above the level of the sea has a radical influence upon phthisis. With the design of indicating the regions and the degrees of elevation within which this malady is rare or completely unknown, Dr. Schnepp has made a compilation from a series of meteorological observations, made in the Pyrenees and at Eaux Bonnes, and from analogous documents furnished by travellers who have lived upon the elevated and inhabited plateaux of the old and new world.

The document on this subject which he sent to the Academy of Sciences shows that, in the choice of a healthy locality for invalids, people are too exclusively influenced by a warm temperature, disregarding the more formal indications of nature in distributing the maladies of the human race over the surface of the globe. For instance, phthisis exists in the tropical zone. In Brazil, it causes one fifth of the cases of mortality; in Peru, three tenths, and in the Antilles, from six to seven, in every thousand inhabitants. In the East Indies, the greater part of the English physicians report, among the causes of death, two cases from phthisis to every thousand people. In the temperate zones, phthisis is one of the most devastating of diseases. It generally attacks from three to four in every thousand inhabitants. The three countries in which it was not to be found, Algiers, Egypt, and the Russian steppes of Kirghis, have also been invaded by it, although in a smaller proportion, In Algeria, the deaths from phthisis are, to those from other causes, in the proportion of one to every twenty-four or twenty-seven; in Egypt, in the proportion of one to eight.

This old malady becomes more rare as we approach the higher latitudes. It is supposed not to exist at all in Siberia, in Iceland, and in the Faroe Islands. Thus, diseases of the lungs seem to be more rare in certain cold countries than in warm countries. It is also observed that at a certain altitude the number of cases greatly diminish, and even completely disappear. Brockman testifies that phthisis is rare on the plateaux of the Hartz mountains at the height of two thousand feet above the level of the sea; and C. Fuchs, stating the same fact concerning certain elevations in Thuringia and the Black Forest, was the first to advance the theory that phthisis diminishes according to certain altitudes.

Dr. Brüggens, also, has since testified to the infrequency of this disease in the Swiss Alps, at the height of 4500 to 6000 feet in the Engaddine; nor is it found among the monks of the Great Saint Bernard at the altitude of 6825 feet. According to M. Lombard, it completely disappears among these mountains at the height of 4500 feet.

The populous cities of the American continent, which are situated in the tropical zone at an altitude of six thousand feet above the level of the sea, are exempt from lung diseases; although, in the same latitude, phthisis is common in lower regions, This immunity exists on the other hemisphere in the same zone—on the elevated plateaux of Hindostan and the Himalaya. In examining the state of the climate on the heights in which phthisis is seldom or never found, we find there, even on the equator, a medium temperature sufficiently low throughout the year; between twelve and fifteen degrees on the heights below 9000 feet; between three and five degrees on those between 9000 and 12,000 feet.

In the temperate zone it is still lower. But the warmest months upon tropical heights do not vary more than six or eight degrees from the medium temperature. It is the same on the plateaux of the Alps and in Iceland, and is a general and common characteristic of the regions in which phthisis is not found. The deviations below the annual medium, appear even to increase this immunity. If sufficient observations have not been made to decide upon the degree of comparative humidity on the heights above 12,000 feet, we know that the elevation at which phthisis is wanting, is in a hygrometrical condition more nearly approaching saturation than the lower regions, and that the rains are also more abundant there.

It is desirable that the heights of Cévennes, the Pyrenees, the Alps, and, above all, the elevated parts of our Algerian possessions should be carefully studied, with a view to the treatment of lung diseases, which are the great scourge of the human race, and which annually cause the death of more than three millions of its number.

It is useful, not only to study different countries with respect to their salubrity, but also to observe the different situations in the same locality, and the different quarters of the same city. M. Junod presented to the Academy of Sciences, some years since, an essay on this subject, which is full of interest. In considering the distribution of the population in large cities, we are struck by the tendency of the wealthy class to move toward the western portions, abandoning the opposite side to the industrial pursuits, It seems to have divined, by a kind of intuition, the locality which would have the greatest immunity in the time of sore public calamities. For example, let us speak first of Paris. From the foundation of the city, the opulent class has constantly directed its course toward the west. It is the same in London, and generally, in all the cities of England. At Vienna, Berlin, St. Petersburg, and, indeed, in all the capitals of Europe, this same fact is repeated; there is the same movement of the rich toward the west, where are assembled the palaces of the kings, and the dwellings for which only pleasant and healthy sites are desired.

In visiting the ruins of Pompeii and other ancient cities, I have observed, as well as M. Junod, that this custom dates from the highest antiquity. In those cities, as is seen at Paris in our day, the largest cemeteries are found in the eastern parts, and generally none in the western. M. Junod, examining the reason of so general a fact, thinks it is connected with atmospheric pressure. When the mercury in the barometer rises, the smoke and injurious emanations are quickly dispelled in the air. When the mercury lowers, we see the smoke and noxious vapors remain in the apartments and near the surface of the earth. Now every one knows that, of all winds, that from the east causes the mercury in the barometer to rise the highest, and that which lowers it most is from the west. When the latter blows, it carries with it all the deleterious gases it meets in its course from the west. The result is, that the inhabitants of the eastern parts of a city not only have their own smoke and miasmas, but also those of the western parts, brought by the west wind. When, on the contrary, the east wind blows, it purifies the air by causing the injurious emanations to rise, so that they cannot be thrown back upon the west. It is evident, then, that the inhabitants of the western parts receive pure air from whatever quarter of the horizon it comes. We will add, that the west wind is most prevalent, and the west end receives it all fresh from the country.

From the foregoing facts, M. Junod lays down the following directions: First, persons who are free to choose, especially those of delicate health, should reside in the western part of a city. Secondly, for the same reason, all the establishments that send forth vapors or injurious gases should be in the eastern part. Thirdly and finally, in erecting a house in the city, and even in the country, the kitchen should be on the eastern side, as well as all the out-houses from which unhealthy emanations might spread into the apartments.

M. Elie de Beaumont has since mentioned some facts which tend to prove the constancy and generality of the rule laid down by M. Junod. He noticed in most of the large cities this tendency of the wealthy class to move to the same side—generally, the western—unless hindered by certain local obstacles. Turin, Liége, and Caen are examples of this. M. Moquin-Tandon has observed the same thing at Montpellier and at Toulouse. Paris and London also present analogous facts, although the rivers which traverse those two great centres flow in a diametrically different direction. Paris increased in a north-easterly direction at the time when the Bastille, the Palais des Tournelles, the Hotel St. Paul, etc., were built; but the inhabitants were then influenced by fear of the aggressive Normans, whose fleets ascended the Seine as far as Paris, and were only arrested by the Pont-au-Change. At that time, and as long as this fear lasted, they must have felt unwilling to live in Auteuil or Grenelle, But since the foundation of the Louvre, and especially since the reign of Henri Quatre, the current has resumed its normal direction. M. Elie de Beaumont is inclined to believe that, among the causes of this phenomenon, we should reckon the temperature and the hygrometrical state of the air, which is generally warmer and more moist during the winds from the west and south-west than during the east and north-east winds.

What most contributes to prolong existence is a certain uniformity in heat and cold, and in the density and rarity of the atmosphere. This is why the countries in which the barometer and thermometer are subject to sudden and considerable changes are never favorable to the duration of life. They may be healthy, and man may live a long time there; but he will never attain a very advanced age, because the variations of the atmosphere produce many interior changes which consume, to a surprising degree, both the strength and the organs of life.

Too much dryness or too much humidity are equally injurious to the duration of life; yet the air most favorable to longevity is that which contains a certain quantity of water in dissolution. Moist air being already partly saturated, absorbs less from the body, and does not consume it as soon as a dry atmosphere; it keeps the organs a longer time in a state of suppleness and vigor; while a dry atmosphere dries up the fibres and hastens the approach of old age. It is for this reason, doubtless, that islands and peninsulas have always been favorable to old age. Man lives longer there than in the same latitude upon continents. Islands and peninsulas, especially in warm climates, generally offer everything that contributes to a long life: purity of air, a moist atmosphere, a temperature often at one's choice, wholesome fruit, clear water, and a climate almost unvariable. I had an opportunity, long desired, of traversing the ocean as far the Tristan Islands, and of returning to the Indian Ocean by doubling the Cape of Good Hope with a captain who wished to observe the different islands on the way. I was thus able, in going as well as returning, to visit these numerous islands, and I can speak of them from reasonable observation. But it is sufficient to mention, from a hygienic point of view, the Isle of Bourbon, (where I lived for many years,) to give an idea of the sanitary condition of islands in general. Like most isles, the Isle of Bourbon has a form more or less pyramidal. The shore, almost on a level with the sea, is the part principally inhabited. There are few villages in the interior of the island, but many private residences. The temperature on the shore, though very high, is less intense than is supposed: the medium temperature being between 40° and 50°. The sea and land breezes, which succeed each other morning and evening, refresh the atmosphere and maintain a healthy moisture. It hardly ever rains except during the winter, Besides, it is very easy to choose the temperature one prefers. As the mountains are very lofty, they afford every season at once. On the summit are seen snow and ice, while at the foot the heat is tropical; so that it is sufficient to ascend for ten or fifteen minutes to find a marked change of temperature, And the colonists of but little wealth are careful to profit by this precious favor of nature. They select two or three habitations at different heights, in order to enjoy a continual spring, During the cool season, they reside on the sea-shore. Then they go to their dwelling a little above, where the temperature is mild. And in the hot season, they ascend to still higher regions.

It is impossible to express the pleasure of thus having several dwellings at one's choice, in some one of which desirable temperature can be enjoyed in any season. I had three: one at St. Denis, capital of the colony, one at La Rivière-des-Pluies, and another at La Ressource. La Rivière-des-Pluies, belonging to M. Desbassayns, a venerable old man and president of the general council, is the finest situation on the island. It was formerly called the Versailles of Bourbon. I inhabited a summer-house above which the surrounding trees crossed their tufted branches, forming a dome of verdure in which the birds came to warble. Regular alleys, extending as far as the eye could reach, formed by superb mango-trees, were enclosed by parterres, groves, gardens, woods, and all the surroundings of a small village. Each large habitation in the colony had every resource within itself, and was the faithful copy of the old feudal castles.

La Ressource, a dwelling for the hottest season, belonging also to M. Desbassayns, presented another kind of beauty. There was less artistic luxury about it, but nature had lavished on it all her splendor. After dinner, admiring the panorama which was spread out as far as the horizon, I remarked to M. Desbassayns that I did not believe it possible for the entire world of nature to furnish a more beautiful perspective. "I have travelled a great deal," said he, "and in truth I have never seen anything like it, not even from the most magnificent points of view in America." The venerable old man then took me by the arm and invited me to visit his estate. He made me first look at his woods, with their tufted foliage; the cane-fields; the deep ravines; the streams, with their windings rising one above the other in such a manner that the lower ones were perfectly visible, and extending in successive circuits more or less varied to the shore of the sea, which gleamed like a mirror as far as the eye could reach, and upon the azure surface of which stood clearly out, like silver clouds, the white sails from all parts of the world which had given each other rendezvous here, and were constantly approaching this isle of lava, flowers, shadows, and light, which they had taken as the centre of réunion.

He made me afterward notice the verdant fields which had formerly belonged to the parents of Virginia, the heroine of the romance of Bernardin de St. Pierre. He related to me the true history of Virginia, who was his cousin. Her death happened nearly as described by the celebrated romancer. He made me notice, upon his genealogical tree, the branch that bore upon one of its leaves the name of Virginia!

M. Desbassayns had promised me some reliable notes respecting her, and I was glad to offer them to my illustrious friend, Count Alfred de Vigny, who, in giving me a farewell embrace, had commissioned me to bear his most tender expressions of love to the region which had inspired the touching narrative of St. Pierre. But alas! remorseless death warns us to remember the uncertainty of life, even when everything disposes us to forget it.

He took me to one after another of the most interesting trees, particularly to the arbre du voyageur, a kind of banana, the leaves of which are inserted within one another like those of the iris, so as to form, at the height of eight or nine feet, a vast fan. Rain-water, and particularly dew, accumulates at the bottom of these leaves, as in a natural cup, and is kept very fresh; and if the base is pierced with a narrow blade, the liquid will flow out in a thread-like stream, which it is easy to receive in the mouth. The venerable old man opened one of their vegetable veins by way of example, and I soon lanced a great number of these providential trees, and refreshed myself with their limpid streams.

Finally, he conducted me by a narrow path to the edge of a deep ravine in which flowed an abundant torrent, forming capricious cascades as it wound its way. After passing over a rustic bridge, an admirable spectacle was presented to our view. An alley was formed through a wilderness of bamboos, so sombre, so narrow, and high, that it would be difficult to give an idea of it. It was as if pierced through a forest of gigantic pipes; and when they were agitated by a storm, they produced a harmony so plaintive, so languid, and at the same time so terrible and full of poetry, that I often passed the entire night in listening to it. I am not astonished by what is related of these tall and sonorous culms.

In those fortunate countries that are shaded by the bamboo, it is said that happy lovers and suffering souls make holes in these long pipes and combine them in such a way that, when the wind blows, they give out a faithful expression of their joy or their grief. Nothing is sweeter than the tones that are thus produced by the evening breeze which attunes these harmonious reeds, rendering them at once aeolian harps and flutes. As soon as I found out this magical pathway, I betook myself there every day at the dawn, to read, to meditate, and to take notes till the hour of dinner. The next day after this visit, I had the curiosity to destroy one of the arbre du voyageur. It inundated me with its fresh stream, but I came near being punished for this profanation of nature, at the moment I expected it the least. A most formidable centipede escaped from the splinters which I made fly, and only lacked a little of falling directly on my face. M. Desbassayns was greatly astonished to see it; for it is generally believed, he said, that these venomous insects avoid this beneficent tree.

The enchanting heavens of that privileged region are always serene, and the air is so pure that no gray tint ever appears on the horizon; the mountains, hills, meadows, every remote object indeed, instead of fading away in a dim atmosphere, beam out against a sky of cloudless azure. This is what renders the equatorial nights so resplendent. The astonished eye thinks it beholds a new heavens and new stars. How charming is the moonlight that comes in showers of light through a thousand quivering leaves which murmur in the breath of the perfumed breeze! and when to that is joined the far-off moan of the sea, and the sounds that escape from the ivory keys or resounding chords, which accompany the sweet accents of a Creole voice, we feel as if in one of those islands of bliss which surpass the imagination of the poets.

One of the things that travellers have not sufficiently noticed, and which gives us a kind of homesickness for that beautiful region, is the enchanting harmony which results from the noise of the sea and the murmur of the breeze in the different kinds of foliage, a harmony which calms the agitation of the soul as well as the fever of the body. As there is every variety of temperature, so there is a great variety of trees. There is one especially remarkable, namely, the pandanus, which resembles both the pine and the weeping willow, Its summit is lost in the blue sky, and its numerous branches, borne by a pliant and elegant stem, support large tassels of leaves, long, cylindrical, and fine as hair; and when the breeze makes them tremble in its breath, they murmur in plaintive melancholy notes that, when once heard, we long to hear again and again.

The cocoanut or palm-trees, with their leaves long, hard, and shining like steel, give out a sound like the clash of arms. The gigantic leaves of the banana are the echo of the voice of an overflowing torrent, piercing the air like the vast pipes of an organ. The bamboos, with their tall reeds which moan and grind as they bend, uttering long groans which, mingling with the tones, the wailing, and the murmurs of a thousand other kinds of foliage, with the deep roar of the agitated sea afar off, and the sound of the waves breaking on the shore, form an immense natural orchestra, the varied sounds of which, rising toward heaven, seem to bear with them, in accents without number, all the joys and all the griefs of the world.

These trees with their tall, slender stems, and thick foliage, are continually bending in the incessant breeze, In the brilliant light of that climate their shadow looks black; and, as it is continually moving, you would think everything animate, and that sylphs and fairies were issuing forth on all sides.

There is a constant succession of flowers with the strongest perfume; and when those of the wood are in bloom, you would think that every blade of grass, every leaf and every drop of dew gave out an essence which the wind, in passing, absorbed in order to perfume with it the happy dwellers in this Eden.

Those enchanted regions have inhabitants worthy of their abode. The hospitality of the Creoles is proverbial. Every family is glad to receive the stranger and soon considers him as a friend and brother. The Creole women have the elegance of their palm-trees. They are as fresh and blooming as the corolla that expands at the dawn. Their kind courtesy envelops you like the penetrating odors which come from the wonderful vegetation that surrounds them. A Frenchman who meets another Frenchman in these far-off countries regards him as a part of France which has come to smile an him, and the intimacy, which is formed, is indissoluble.

The traveller can never forget the touching scenes of the varangue, the enchanting evenings passed there, and the joyous cup of friendship there interchanged; sweet emotions contributing to longevity more than is commonly believed.

One finds one's self in that fortunate land surrounded by hygienical influences which are most favorable to a long life. Let us add that the alimentary productions are of the first quality. The water in the stony basins is limpid, and the succulent fruits are varied enough to almost suffice for the nourishment of the inhabitants. How can one be a favorite of fortune and a prey to spleen without going to visit these places, which exhale a sovereign balm?

Nevertheless, under that sky brilliant with pure light, in that atmosphere of freshness of perfume and of harmony, it seemed to me that a tint of infinite melancholy was everywhere diffused. I regarded the glorious sky, I listened to the trembling foliage, I breathed the penetrating odors, but something was everywhere wanting. When I sought what it was that I missed, I found it was the trees of my native land, which do not grow in every zone, and where they do grow are not so fine as here. I instinctively sought the wide-spreading oak, the lofty walnut, the chestnut with its tender verdure, the tall slender poplar, the modest willow, and the birch with its light shadow. I recalled the odor of their foliage, associated with my dearest remembrances, but in vain. I felt then an immense and inexpressible void that nothing could fill, and tears naturally sprang from these vague and profound impressions. I hungered, I thirsted for the odor of the trees that had overshadowed my infancy—an insatiable hunger, a thirst nothing could satisfy. On returning from that remote voyage, especially during the first weeks, I went to the nursery of the Luxembourg, (alas! poor nursery!) I sought the fresh shades of the Bois de Boulogne, and there, during long rambles, I crushed the leaves in my hands and inhaled the perfume they gave out. I felt my lungs expand, as if a new life was infused into them with the odor I breathed. This invisible aliment which we derive from the exhalations of the plants to which we have been accustomed from infancy, had become for me an absolute necessity, a condition of health.

A climate, a country may not at all times be favorable to longevity, or at all times unhealthy. The predominance of one industrial pursuit over another, the choice of one material instead of another for building houses, or a sudden change in the general habits, necessarily modifies, in a great degree, the conditions of longevity. This is what has happened in the Isle of Bourbon. Till within a few years, no epidemic or contagious malady was known in that fortunate island; no fever, no cholera, no throat complaints, no small-pox, etc. But all these diseases have attacked its inhabitants since our manures, our materials for building, and our products in general, have been used by them in large quantities.

The drying up of a marsh, the cutting down of a forest, the substitution of one crop for another, may effect atmospheric changes through an extended radius, which will strengthen or weaken the vitality of the people. Some years since, there was a marsh behind the city of Cairo, which was separated from the desert by a hill. It was always noticed that the pestilential epidemics appeared to spring from that unhealthy spot and finally to spread throughout the east. The Pacha of Egypt, without thinking of this coincidence, noticed, on the other hand, that the hill behind the marsh entirely concealed the fine view which he would have from his palace, if it were removed. He gave orders to cut the hill down and to fill up the marsh with its débris, so that the winds which were formerly checked, had free circulation and purified the atmosphere, while the soil, thoroughly modified, ceased to emit the pestilential effluvia, Since that event the plague has not reappeared. A caprice of the Pacha effected more than all the quarantines and all the efforts of science, He has freed the world, perhaps for ever, from the most terrible of scourges.

It is known that the cholera comes from India. It is engendered in the immense triangular space formed by two rivers: the Ganges and the Brahmapootra. It is the East India Company according to M. le Comte de Waren, that should be accused of treason to humanity. It is that power which has destroyed the canals and the derivations of the two finest rivers in the world. During the last twenty-five years of English occupation the number of pools in a single district, that of Nort Arcoth, which burst or were destroyed, amounted to eleven hundred. In the time of the Mogul conquerors, a fine canal, the Doab, extending from Delhi, fertilized two hundred leagues in its course. This canal is destroyed, and the lands, once so fertile and healthy, are now the infectious lair of wild beasts, having been depopulated by disease and death.

The hygienic condition of different countries, then, may be modified in various ways. In 1698, Bigot de Molville, president à mortier of the Parliament of Normandy, found, after careful research, that, of all the cities of France, Rouen possessed the greatest number of octogenarians and centenarians. Toward the middle of the last century this superiority was claimed by Boulogne-sur-mer, which retained it for nearly fifty years, and was then called the patrie des vieillards.

In a recent communication to the Academy, M. de Garogna remarked that, in the printed or manuscript accounts we possess respecting the former eruptions of Santorin, many very interesting details are found concerning the different maladies occasioned by these eruptions, and observed at that epoch in the island, which support what we have said of the variable hygienic state of different places. According to these reports, the pathological result of the different eruptions included especially alarming complications, serious cerebral difficulties, suffocation, and derangement in the alimentary canal. He proved that morbid influences were only manifest when the direction of the wind brought the volcanic emanations. The parts of the island out of the course of the wind showed no trace of the maladies in question. Moreover, the sanitary condition of the places within reach of the wind became worse or improved according to the rise and fall of the wind. It should also be noticed that the morbid influence of the volcanic emanations extended to islands more or less remote from Santorin.

From this report the following conclusions are to be drawn:

1. The eruption in the Bay of Santorin, while in action, had a manifest influence on the health of the people in that island.
2. It especially occasioned complicated diseases, throat distempers, bronchitis, and derangement of the digestive organs.
3. The acidiferous ashes were the direct cause of the complications, while the other morbid complaints should be attributed to sulphuric acid.
4. Vegetation was likewise affected by the eruption while active, and particularly plants of the order Siliaceae.
5. The changes in the vegetation were probably produced by hydrochloric acid, at the beginning of the eruption.
6. The hydro-sulphuric emanations appear, on the contrary, to have had a beneficial effect on the diseases of the grape-vine. It perhaps destroyed the oidium.

It is evident that the question of local influences upon the duration of life is a most comprehensive and fruitful one. Nature gives us some formal indications, in dividing the maladies of the human race; and the study of places and climates in a hygienic point of view, although in its infancy, has already brought to our notice many valuable facts. This study is full of interest. We shall doubtless arrive at a knowledge of the exact relation between such a malady, such an epidemic, and such a place, or site, or position with respect to the points of the compass, as well as of the beneficial and special influence exercised upon our principal organs by the exhalations from different places, which might well be called the genii of those regions.

The Bishops of Rome.

[Footnote 42]

[Footnote 42: Harper's New Monthly Magazine. The Bishops of Rome. New York: Harper and Brothers, January, 1869.]

Harper's Magazine, we are told, has a wide circulation, and some merit as a magazine of light literature; but it does not appear to have much aptitude for the scholarly discussion of serious questions, whatever the matter to which they relate, and it is guilty of great rashness in attempting to treat a subject of such grave and important relations to religion and civilization, society and the church, as the history of the bishops of Rome. The subject is not within its competence, and the historical value of its essay to those who know something of the history of the popes and of mediaeval Europe is less than null.

Of course, Harper's Magazine throws no new light on any disputed passage in the history of the bishops of Rome, and brings out no fact not well known, or at least often repeated before; it does nothing more than compress within a brief magazine article the principal inventions, calumnies, and slanders vented for centuries against the Roman pontiffs by personal or national antipathy, disappointed ambition, political and partisan animosity, and heretical and sectarian wrath and bitterness, so adroitly arranged and mixed with facts and probabilities as to gain easy credence with persons predisposed to believe them, and to produce on ignorant and prejudiced readers a totally false impression. The magazine, judging from this article, has not a single qualification for studying and appreciating the history of the popes. It has no key to the meaning of the facts it encounters, and is utterly unable or indisposed to place itself at the point of view from which the truth is discernible. Its animus, at least in this article, is decidedly anti-Christian, and proves that it has no Christian conscience, no Christian sympathy, no faith in the supernatural, no reverence for our Lord and his apostles, and no respect even for the authority of the Holy Scriptures.

The magazine, under pretence of writing history, simply appeals to anti-Catholic prejudice, and repeats what Dr. Newman calls "the Protestant tradition." Its aim is not historical truth, or a sound historical judgment on the character of the Roman pontiffs, but to confirm the unfounded prejudices of its readers against them. It proceeds as if the presumption were that every pope is antichrist or a horribly wicked man, and therefore every doubtful fact must be interpreted against him, till he is proved innocent. Everything that has been said against a pope, no matter by whom or on what authority, is presumptively true; everything said in favor of a Roman pontiff must be presumed to be false or unworthy of consideration. It supposes the popes to have had the temper and disposition of non-Catholics, and from what it believes, perhaps very justly, a Protestant would do—if, per impossibile, he were elevated to the papal chair, and clothed with papal authority—concludes what the popes have actually done. It forgets the rule of logic, Argumentum a genere ad genus, non valet. The pope and the Protestant are not of the same genus. We have never encountered in history a single pope that did not sincerely believe in his mission from Christ, and take it seriously. We have encountered weakness; too great complaisance to the civil power, even slowness in crushing out, in its very inception, an insurgent error; sometimes also too great a regard to the temporal, to the real or apparent neglect of the spiritual, and two or three instances in which the personal conduct of a pope was not much better than that of the average of secular princes; but never a pope who did not recognize the important trusts confided to his care, and the weighty responsibilities of his high office.

We have studied the history of the Roman pontiffs with probably more care and diligence than the flippant writer in Harper's Magazine has done, and studied it, too, both as an anti-papist and as a papist, with an earnest desire to find facts against the popes, and with an equally earnest desire to ascertain the exact historical truth; and we reject as unworthy of the most fanatic sectarian the absurd rule of judging them which the magazine adopts, if it does not avow and hold that the presumption is the other way, and that everything that reflects injuriously on the character of a bishop of Rome is presumptively false, and to be accepted only on the most indubitable evidence. We can judge in this matter more impartially and disinterestedly than the anti-catholic. The impeccability of the pontiff, or even his infallibility in matters of mere human prudence, is no article of Catholic faith. The personal conduct of a pontiff may be objectionable; but unless he officially teaches error in doctrine, or enjoins an immoral practice on the faithful, it cannot disturb us. There are no instances in which a pope has done this. No pope has ever taught or enjoined vice for virtue, error for truth, or officially sanctioned a false principle or a false motive of action. With one exception, we might, then, concede all the magazine alleges, and ask, What then? What can you conclude? But, in fact, we concede nothing. What it alleges against the bishops of Rome is either historically false, or if not, is, when rightly understood, nothing against them in their official capacity.

The exception mentioned is that of St. Liberius. The magazine repeats, with some variations, the exploded fable that this Holy Pope, won by favors or terrified by threats, consented to a condemnation of the doctrine of Athanasius, that is, signed an Arian formula of faith. It has not invented the slander, but it has, after what historical criticism has established on the subject, no right to repeat it as if it were not denied. We have no space now to treat the question at length; but we assert, after a very full investigation, that St. Liberius never signed an Arian formula, never in any shape or manner condemned the doctrine defended by St. Athanasius, and consequently never recanted, for he had nothing to recant. The most, if so much, that can be maintained is, that he approved a sentence condemning the special error of the Eunomians, in which was not inserted the word "consubstantial," because it was not necessary to the condemnation of their special error, and the error they held in common with all Arians had already been condemned by the council of Nicaea. Not a word can be truly alleged against the persistent orthodoxy of this great and holy pontiff, who deserves, as he has always received, the veneration of the church.

The magazine repeats the slander of an anonymous writer, a bitter enemy of the popes, against St. Victor, St. Zethyrinus, and St. Callistus, three popes whom the Church of Rome has held, and still holds, in high esteem and veneration for their virtues and saintly character. It refers to the Philosophoumena, a work published a few years ago by M. E. Miller, of Paris, variously attributed to Origen, to St. Hippolytus, bishop of Porto, near Rome, to Caius, a Roman Presbyter, and to Tertullian. The late Abbé Cruice—an Irishman by birth, we believe, but brought up and naturalized in France, where he was, shortly before his death, promoted to the episcopate—a profoundly learned man and an acute critic, has unanswerably proved that these are all unsustainable hypotheses, and that historical science is in no condition to say who was its author. Who wrote it, or where it was written, is absolutely unknown, but from internal evidence the writer was a contemporary of the three popes named, and was probably some Oriental schismatic, of unsound faith, and a bitter enemy of the popes. The work is not of the slightest authority against the bishops of Rome, but is of very great value as proving, by an enemy, that the papacy was fully developed—if that is the word—claiming and exercising in the universal church the same supreme authority that it claims and exercises now, and was as regular in its action in the last half of the second century, or within fifty or sixty years of the death of the apostle St. John, as it is under Pope Pius IX. now gloriously reigning. [Footnote 43]

[Footnote 43: Vide Histoire de l'Eglise de Rome sous les Pontificats de St. Victor, de St. Zephirin, et St. Calliste. Par L'Abbé M. P. Cruice. Paris: Didot Frères. 1856.]

When the magazine has nothing else to allege against the popes, it accuses them of "a fierce, ungovernable pride."

"The fourth century brought important changes in the condition of the bishops of Rome. It is a singular trait of the corrupt Christianity of this period that the chief characteristic of the eminent prelates was a fierce and ungovernable pride. Humility had long ceased to be numbered among the Christian virtues. The four great rulers of the Church, Bishop of Rome, and the Patriarchs of Constantinople, Antioch, and Alexandria, were engaged in a constant struggle for supremacy. Even the inferior bishops assumed a princely state, and surrounded themselves with their sacred courts. The vices of pride and arrogance descended to the lower orders of clergy; the emperor himself was declared to be inferior in dignity to the simple presbyter, and in all public entertainments and ceremonious assemblies the proudest layman was expected to take his place below the haughty churchman, As learning declined and the world sank into a new barbarism, the clergy elevated themselves into a ruling caste, and were looked upon as half divine by the rude Goths and the degraded Romans. It is even said that the pagan nations of the west transferred to the priest and monk the same awestruck reverence which they had been accustomed to pay to their Druid teachers. The Pope took the place of their Chief Druid, and was worshipped with idolatrous devotion; the meanest presbyter, however vicious and degraded, seemed, to the ignorant savages, a true messenger from the skies."

There was no patriarch of Constantinople in the fourth century, and it was only in 330 that the city of Constantinople absorbed Byzantium. The bishop of Byzantium was not a patriarch, or even a metropolitan, but was a suffragan of the bishop of Heraclea. It was not till long after the fourth century that the bishop of Constantinople was recognized as patriarch, not, in fact, till the eighth general council. There was no struggle in the fourth nor in any subsequent century, for the supremacy, between Rome and Antioch, or Rome and Alexandria; neither the patriarch of Antioch nor the patriarch of Alexandria ever claimed the primacy; but both acknowledged that it belonged to the bishop of Rome, as do the schismatic churches of the East even now, though they take the liberty of disobeying their lawful superior. In the fifth Century, when St. Leo the Great was pope, the bishop of Constantinople claimed the second rank, or the first after the bishop of Rome, on the ground that Constantinople was the new Rome, the second capital of the empire. St. Leo repulsed his claim, not in defence of his own rights, for it did not interfere with his supremacy, or primacy, as they said then, but in defence of the rights of the churches of Antioch and Alexandria. He also did it because the claim was urged on a false principle—that the authority of a bishop is derived from the civil importance of the city in which his see is established.

It is not strange that the magazine should complain that the pontifical dignity was placed above the imperial, and that the simple presbyter took the step of the proudest layman; yet whoever believes in the spiritual order at all, believes it superior to the secular order, and therefore that they who represent the spiritual are in dignity above those who represent only the secular. When the writer of this was a Protestant minister, he took, and was expected to take, precedence of the laity. The common sense of mankind gives the precedence to those held to be invested with the sacred functions of religion, or clothed with spiritual authority.

That St. Jerome, from his monastic cell near Jerusalem, inveighs against the vices and corruptions of the Roman clergy, as alleged in the paragraph following the one we have quoted, is very true; but his declamations must be taken with some grains of allowance. St. Jerome was not accustomed to measure his words when denouncing wrong, and saints generally are not. St. Peter Damian reported, after his official visit to Spain, that there was but one worthy priest in the whole kingdom, which really meant no more than that he found only one who came, in all respects, up to his lofty ideal of what a priest should be. Yet there might have been, and probably were, large numbers of others who, though not faultless, were very worthy men, and upon the whole, faithful priests. We must never take the exaggerations of saintly reformers, burning with zeal for the faith and the salvation of souls, as literal historical facts. St. Jerome, in his ardent love of the church and his high ideal of sacerdotal purity, vigilance, fidelity, and zeal, no doubt exaggerated.

There can be nothing more offensive to every right and honorable feeling than the exultation of the magazine over the abuse, cruelties, and outrages inflicted on a bishop of Rome by civil tyrants. The writer, had he lived under the persecuting pagan emperors, would have joined his voice to that of those who exclaimed, Christianos ad leones; or had he been present when our Lord was arrested and brought as a malefactor before Pontius Pilate, none louder than he would have cried out, Crucifige eum! crucifige eum! His sympathies are uniformly with the oppressor, never, as we can discover, with the oppressed; with the tyrant, never with his innocent victim, especially if that victim be a bishop of Rome. He feels only gratification in recording the wrongs and sufferings of Pope St. Silverus. This pope was raised to the papacy by the tyranny of the Arian king Theodotus, and ordained by force, without the necessary subscription of the clergy. But after his consecration, the clergy, by their subscription, healed the irregularity of his election, as Anastasius the Librarian tells us, so as to preserve the unity of the church and religion. He appears to have been a holy man and a worthy pope; but he was not acceptable to Vigilius, who expected, by favor of the imperial court, to be made pope himself, nor to those two profligate women, the Empress Theodora and her friend Antonina, the wife of the patrician Belisarius. Vigilius and these two infamous women compelled Belisarius to depose him, strip him of his pontifical robes, clothe him with the habit of a monk, and send him into exile; where, as some say, he was assassinated, and, as others say, perished of hunger. The magazine relates this to show how low and unworthy the bishops of Rome had become! Vigilius succeeded St. Silverus, and it continues:

"Stained with crime, a false witness and a murderer, Vigilius had obtained his holy office through the power of two profligate women who now ruled the Roman world. Theodora, the dissolute wife of Justinian, and Antonina, her devoted servant, assumed to determine the faith and the destinies of the Christian Church. Vigilius failed to satisfy the exacting demands of his casuistical mistresses; he even ventured to differ from them upon some obscure points of doctrine. His punishment soon followed, and the bishop of Rome is said to have been dragged through the streets of Constantinople with a rope around his neck, to have been imprisoned in a common dungeon and fed on bread and water. The papal chair, filled by such unworthy occupants, must have sunk low in the popular esteem, had not Gregory the Great, toward the close of sixth century, revived the dignity of the office."

We know of nothing that can be said in defence of the conduct of Vigilius prior to his accession to the papal throne. His intrigues with Theodora to be made pope, and his promises to her to restore, when he should be pope, Anthemus, deposed from the see of Constantinople by St. Agapitus for heresy, and to set aside the council of Chalcedon, were most scandalous; and his treatment of St. Silverus, whether he actually exiled him and had a hand in his death or not, admits, as far as we are informed, of no palliation; but his conduct thus far was not the conduct of the pope; and after he became bishop of Rome, at least after the death of his deposed predecessor, his conduct was, upon the whole, irreproachable. He conceded much for the sake of peace, and was much blamed; but he conceded nothing of the faith; he refused to fulfill the improper promises he had made, before becoming pope, to the empress, confessed that he had made them, said he was wrong in making them, retracted them, and resisted with rare firmness and persistence the emperor Justinian in the matter of the three chapters, and fully expiated the offences committed prior to his elevation, by enduring for seven long years the brutal outrages an indignities offered him by the half-savage Justinian, the imperial courtiers, and intriguing and unscrupulous prelates of the court party—outrages and sufferings of which he died after his liberation on his journey back from Constantinople to Rome.

We have touched on these details for the purpose of showing that the principal offenders in the transactions related were not the bishops of Rome, but the civil authorities and their adherents, that deprived the Roman clergy and the popes of their proper freedom. If the papal chair was filled with unworthy occupants, and had sunk low in the public esteem, it was because the emperor or empress at Constantinople and the Arian and barbarian kings in Italy sought to raise to it creatures of their own. They deprived the Roman clergy, the senate, and people of the free exercise of their right to elect the pope; and the pope, after his election, of his freedom of action, if he refused to conform to their wishes, usually criminal, and always base. Yet Harper's Magazine lays all the blame to the popes themselves, and seems to hold them responsible for the crimes and tyranny, the profligacy and lawless will of which they were the victims. If the wolf devoured the lamb, was it not the lamb's fault?

St. Gregory the Great was of a wealthy and illustrious family, and therefore finds some favor with the magazine; yet it calls him "a half-maddened enthusiast," and accuses him of "unsparing severity," and "excessive cruelty" in the treatment of his monks before his elevation to the papal chair. But his complaisance to the usurper Phocas, which we find it hard to excuse, and especially his disclaiming the title of "Universal Bishop," redeem him in its estimation.

"A faint trace of modesty and humility still characterized the Roman bishops, and they expressly disclaimed any right to the supremacy of the Christian world. The patriarch of Constantinople, who seems to have looked with a polished contempt upon his western brother, the tenant of fallen Rome and the bishop of the barbarians, now declared himself the Universal Bishop and the head of the subject Church. But Gregory repelled his usurpation with vigor. Whoever calls himself Universal Bishop is Antichrist,' he exclaimed; and he compares the patriarch to Satan, who in his pride had aspired to be higher than the angels."

John Jejunator, bishop of Constantinople, did not claim the primacy, which belonged to the bishop of Rome, nor did Gregory disclaim it; but called himself "oecumenical patriarch." The title he assumed derogated not from the rights and privileges of the apostolic see, but from those of the sees of Antioch and Alexandria. It was unauthorized, and showed culpable ambition and an encroaching disposition. St. Gregory, therefore, rebuked the bishop of Constantinople, and alleged the example of his predecessor, St. Leo the Great, who refused the title of "oecumenical bishop" when it was offered him by the Fathers of Chalcedon. It is a title never assumed or borne by a bishop of Rome, who, in his capacity as bishop, is the equal, and only the equal, of his brother bishops. All bishops are equal, as St. John Chrysostom tells us. The authority which the pope exercises over the bishops of the Catholic Church is not the episcopal, but the apostolical authority which he inherits from Peter, the prince of the apostles. St. Gregory disclaimed and condemned the title of "universal bishop," which was appropriate neither to him nor to any other bishop; but he did not disclaim the apostolic authority held as the successor of Peter. He actually claimed and exercised it in the very letter in which he rebukes the bishop of Constantinople. The magazine is wholly mistaken in asserting that Gregory disclaimed the papal supremacy. He did no such thing; he both claimed and exercised it, and few popes have exercised it more extensively or more vigorously.

The magazine is also mistaken in asserting that St. Leo III. crowned Charlemagne "Emperor of the West." Charlemagne was already hereditary patrician of Rome, and bound by his office to maintain order in the city and territories of Rome, and to defend the Holy See, or the Roman Church, against its enemies. All the pope did was to raise the patrician to the imperial dignity, without any territorial title. Charles never assumed or bore the title of Emperor of the West. His official title was "Rex Francorum et Longobardorum Imperator." The title of "Emperor of the West," or "Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire," which his German successors assumed, was never conferred by the pope, but only acquiesced in after it had been usurped. The pope conferred on Charlemagne no authority out of the papal states.

We have no space to discuss the origin of the temporal sovereignty of the bishops of Rome, nor the ground of that arbitratorship which the popes, during several ages, unquestionably exercised with regard to the sovereign princes bound by their profession and the constitution of their states to profess and protect the Catholic religion. We have already done the latter in an article on Church and State in our magazine for April, 1867. But we can tell Harper's Magazine that it entirely misapprehends the character of St. Gregory VII., and the nature and motive of the struggle between him and Henry III., or Henry IV., as some reckon, king of the Germans, for emperor he never was. Gregory was no innovator; he introduced, and attempted to introduce, no change in the doctrine or discipline of the church, nor in the relations of church and state. He only sought to correct abuses, to restore the ancient discipline which had, through various causes, become relaxed, and to assert and maintain the freedom and independence of the church in the government of her own spiritual subjects in all matters spiritual.

"His elevation was the signal for the most wonderful change in the character and purposes of the church. The pope aspired to rule mankind. He claimed an absolute power over the conduct of kings, priests, and nations, and he enforced his decrees by the terrible weapons of anathema and excommunication. He denounced the marriages of the clergy as impious, and at once there arose all over Europe a fearful struggle between the ties of natural affection and the iron will of Gregory. Heretofore the secular priests and bishops had married, raised families, and lived blamelessly as husbands or fathers, in the enjoyment of marital and filial love. But suddenly all this was changed. The married priests were declared polluted and degraded, and were branded with ignominy and shame. Wives were torn from their devoted husbands, children were declared bastards, and the ruthless monk, in the face of the fiercest opposition, made celibacy the rule of the church. The most painful consequences followed. The wretched women, thus degraded and accursed, were often driven to suicide in their despair. Some threw themselves into the flames; others were found dead in there beds, the victims of grief or of their own resolution not to survive their shame, while the monkish chroniclers exult over their misfortunes, and triumphantly consign them to eternal woe.

"Thus the clergy under Gregory's guidance became a monastic order, wholly separated from all temporal interests; and bound in a perfect obedience to the church. He next forebade all lay investitures or appointments to bishoprics or other clerical offices, and declared himself the supreme ruler of the ecclesiastical affairs of nations. No temporal sovereign could fill the great European sees, or claim any dominion over the extensive territories held by eminent churchmen in right of their spiritual power. It was against this claim that the Emperor of Germany, Henry IV., rebelled. The great bishoprics of his empire, Cologne, Bremen, Treves, and many others, were his most important feudatories, and should he suffer the imperious pope to govern them at will, his own dominion would be reduced to a shadow. And now began the famous contest between Hildebrand and Henry, between the carpenter's son and the successor of Charlemagne, between the Emperor of Germany and the Head of the Church."

This heart-rending picture is, to a great extent, a fancy piece. The celibacy of the clergy was the law of the church and of the German empire; and every priest knew it before taking orders. These pretended marriages were, in both the ecclesiastical courts and the civil courts, no marriages at all; and these dispairing wives of priests were simply concubines. What did Gregory do, but his best to enforce the law which the emperors had suffered to fall into desuetude? The right of investiture was always in the pope, and it was only by his authority that the emperors had ever exercised it. The pope had authorized them to give investiture of bishops at a time of disorder, and when it was for the good of the church that they should be so authorized. But when they abused the trust, and used it only to fill the sees with creatures of their own, or sold the investiture for money to the unworthy and the profligate, and intruded them into sees, in violation of the canons, and sheltered them from the discipline of the church—causing, thus, gross corruption of morals and manners, the neglect of religious instruction, and dangers to souls—it was the right and the duty of the pontiff to revoke the authorization given, to dismiss his unworthy agents, and to forbid the emperors henceforth to give investiture.

The magazine says that if the emperor should suffer the imperious pope to be allowed to govern at will the great bishoprics of Cologne, Bremen, Treves, and many others, which were the most important feudatories of his empire, his own dominion would be reduced to a shadow. But if the emperor could fill them with creatures of his own, make bishops at his will, and depose them and sequester their revenues if they resisted his tyranny, or sell them, as he did, to the highest bidder—thrusting out the lawful occupants, and intruding men who could have been only usurpers, and who really were criminals in the eye of the law, and usually dissolute and scandalous in morals—where would have been the rightful freedom and independence of the church? How could the pope have maintained order and discipline in the church, and protected the interests of religion? At worst, the imperious will of the pontiff was as legitimate and as trustworthy as the imperious will of such a brutal tyrant and moral monster as was Henry. The pope did but claim his rights and the rights of the faithful people. It was no less important that the spiritual authority should govern in spirituals than it was that the secular authority should govern in temporals. The pope did not interfere, nor propose to interfere, with the emperor in the exercise of his authority in temporals; but he claimed the right, which the emperor could not deny, to govern in spirituals; and resisted the attempt of Henry to exercise any authority in the church, which, whatever infidels and secularists may pretend, is of more importance than the state, for it maintains the state. He never pretended to any authority in the fiefs of the empire, or to subject to his will matters not confessedly within his jurisdiction.

Does the writer in the magazine maintain that the Methodist General Conference would be wrong to claim the right of choosing and appointing its own bishops, and assigning the pastors, elders, and preachers to their respective circuits; and that it could justly be accused of seeking to dominate over the state if it resisted, with all its power, the attempt of the state to take that matter into its own hands, and appoint for all the Methodist local conferences, districts, and circuits, bishops and pastors, itinerant and local preachers, and should appoint men of profligate lives, who scorned the Book of Discipline, Unitarians, Universalists, rationalists, and infidels, or the bitter enemies of Methodism; those who would neglect every spiritual duty, and seek only to plunder the funds and churches to provide for their own lawless pleasures, or to pay the bribes by which they obtained their appointment? We think not. And yet this is only a mild statement of what Henry did, and of what Gregory resisted. The pope claimed and sought to obtain no more for the church in Germany than is the acknowledged right of every professedly Christian sect in this country, and which every sect fully enjoys, without any let or hindrance from the state. Why, then, this outcry against Gregory VII.? Do these men who are so bitter against him, and gnash their teeth at him, know what they do? Have they ever for a moment reflected how much the modern world owes for its freedom and civilization to just such great popes as Hildebrand, who asserted energetically the rights of God, the freedom of religion, and made the royal and imperial despots and brutal tyrants who would trample on all laws, human and divine, feel that, if they would wear their crowns, they must study to restrain their power within its proper limits, and to rule justly for the common good, according to the law of God?

What Germany thought of the conduct of Henry is evinced by the fact that when Gregory struck him with the sword of Peter and Paul, everybody abandoned him but his deeply injured wife and one faithful attendant. The whole nation felt a sense of relief and breathed freely. An incubus which oppressed its breast was thrown off. The picture of the sufferings of Henry traversing the Alps in the winter and standing shivering with cold in his thin garb, as a penitent before the door of the pontiff, is greatly exaggerated, and the attempt to excite sympathy for him and indignation against the pontiff can have no success with those who have studied with some care the history of the times. Henry was a bad man; a capricious, unprincipled, tyrannical, and brutal ruler, and his cause was bad. The pope was in the right; he was on the side of truth and justice, of God and humanity, pure morals and just liberty. Leo the historian, a Protestant, and Voigt, a Protestant minister, both Germans, have each completely vindicated Gregory's conduct toward Henry of Germany, though Harper's historian is probably ignorant of that fact, as he is of some others.

As to the pope's subjecting Henry to the discipline of the church, and depriving him of his crown, all we need say is, that all men are equal before God and the church, and kings and kaisers are as much amenable to the discipline of the church, acknowledged by them to be Christ's kingdom, as the meanest of their subjects. The pope assumed no more than the kirk session assumed when it sent their King Charles II. to the "cuttie stool." The revolutionists of Spain have just deprived Isabella Segunda of her crown and throne, with the general applause of the non-Catholic world, and no pope ever deprived a prince who denied his jurisdiction, or his legal right to sit in judgment on his case, nor, till after a fair trial had been had, and a judicial sentence was rendered according to the existing laws of his principality. We see not why, then, the popes should be decried for doing legally, and after trial, what revolutionists are applauded for doing without trial and against all law, human and divine—unless it be because the pope deprived only base and profligate monsters, stained with the worst of crimes; and the revolutionists deprive the guiltless, who violate no law of the state or of the church, The pope deprived for crime; the revolutionists usually for virtue or innocence, only under pretence of ameliorating the state, which they subvert.

But our space is nearly exhausted, and we must hurry on. Innocent III. is another of those great bishops of Rome that excite the wrath of Harper's Magazine—probably because he was really a great pope, energetic in asserting the faith, in removing scandals, in enforcing discipline on kings and princes as well as on their subjects; in repressing sects, like the Albigenses, that struck at the very foundations of religion and society, or of the moral order; in defending the purity of morals and the sanctity of marriage, and in espousing the cause of the weak against the strong, of oppressed innocence against oppressive guilt. This is too much for the endurance of the magazine. It indeed does not say that Innocent did not espouse the cause of justice in the case of Philip Augustus and his injured queen, Ingeburga; but it contends that he did it from unworthy motives, for the sake of extending and consolidating the papal authority over kings and princes. Though he admits John Lackland was a moral monster, and opened negotiations with a Mohammedan prince to the scandal of Christendom, offered to make himself a Mussulman, and would have embraced Islamism if the infidel prince had not repelled him with indignation and contempt; it yet finds that Innocent was altogether wrong in taking effective measures to restrain his tyranny, cruelty, licentiousness, and plunder of the churches and robbery of his subjects. His motive was simply to monopolize power and profit for the papal see. He also, for like reasons, was wrong in resisting Frederic II. of Germany, who, he says, preferred Islamism to Christianity, as itself probably prefers it to Catholicity.

The article closes with a tirade against Alexander VI., and his children, Caesar and Lucretia Borgia, Roscoe, a Protestant or rationalist, has vindicated the character of Lucretia, that accomplished, capable, and most grossly calumniated woman, who, in her real history, appears to have been not less eminent for her virtues than for her beauty and abilities. Caesar Borgia we have no disposition to defend, though we have ample grounds for believing that he was by no means so black as Italian hatred and malice have painted him. Alexander was originally in the army of Spain, and his manners and morals were such as we oftener associate with military men than with ecclesiastics, He lived with a woman who was another man's wife, and had two or three children by her. But this was while he was a soldier, and before he was an ecclesiastic or thought of taking orders. He was called to Rome for his eminent administrative ability, by his uncle, Pope Callixtus III.; took, in honor of his uncle, the name of Borgia; became an ecclesiastic; was, after some time, made cardinal, and finally raised to the papal throne under the name of Alexander VI. After he was made cardinal, if, indeed, after he became an ecclesiastic, nothing discreditable to his morals has been proved against him; and his moral character, during his entire pontificate, was, according to the best authorities, irreproachable. The Borgias had, however, the damning sin of being Spaniards, not Italians; and of seeking to reduce the Italian robber barons to submission and obedience to law, and to govern Italy in the interests of public order. They had, therefore, many bitter and powerful enemies; hence, the aspersions of their character, and the numerous fables against them, and which but too many historians have taken for authenticated facts. The alleged poisonings of Alexander and his daughter Lucretia are none of them proved, and are inventions of Italian hatred and malice. Yet, though Alexander's conduct as pope was irreproachable, and his administration able and vigorous, his antecedents were such that his election to the papal throne was a questionable policy, and Savonarola held it to be irregular and null.

The magazine indulges in the old cant about the contrast between the poverty and humility of Peter and the wealth and grandeur of his successors; the simplicity of the primitive worship, and the pomp and splendor of the Roman service. There is no need of answering this. When the Messrs. Harper Brothers started the printing business in this city, we presume their establishment was in striking contrast to their present magnificent establishment in Cliff street. When the world was converted to the church, and the supreme pontiff had to sustain relations with sovereign princes, to receive their ambassadors, and send his legates to every court in Christendom to look after the interests of religion—the chief interest of both society and individuals—larger accommodations than were afforded by that "upper room" in Jerusalem were needed, and a more imposing establishment than St. Peter may have had was a necessity of the altered state of things. Even our Methodist friends, we notice, find it inconvenient to observe the plainness and simplicity in dress and manners prescribed by John Wesley their founder. He forbids, we believe, splendid churches, with steeples and bells; and the earliest houses for Methodist meetings, even we remember, were very different from the elegant structures they are now erecting. We heard a waggish minister say of one of them, "Call you this the Lord's house? you should rather call it the Lord's barn."

The Catholic Church continues and fulfils the synagogue, and her service is, to a great extent, modelled after the Jewish, which was prescribed by God himself. The dress of the pontiff, when he celebrates the Holy Sacrifice, is less gorgeous than that of the Jewish high-priest. St. Peter's is larger than was Solomon's temple, but it is not more gorgeous; and the Catholic service, except in the infinite superiority of the victim immolated upon the altar, is not more splendid, grand, or imposing than was the divinely prescribed temple service of the Hebrews. The magazine appears to think with Judas Iscariot, that the costly ointment with which a woman that had been a sinner anointed the feet of Jesus, after she had washed them with her tears and wiped them with her hair, was a great waste, and might have been put to a better use. But our Lord did not think so, and Judas Iscariot did not become the prince of the apostles. We owe all we have to God, and it is but fitting that we should employ the best we have in his service.

Here we must close. We have not replied to all the misstatements, misrepresentations, perversions, and insinuations of the article in Harper's Magazine. We could not do it in a brief article like the present. It would require volumes to do it. We have touched only on a few salient points that struck us in glancing over it; but we have said enough to show its animus and to expose its untrustworthiness. Refuted it we have not, for there really is nothing in it to refute, It lays down no principles, states no premises, draws no conclusions. It leaves all that to be supplied by the ignorance and prejudices of its readers. It is a mere series of statements that require no answer but a flat denial. It is not strange that the magazine should calumniate the popes, and seek to pervert their history. Our Lord built his church on Peter, being himself the chief cornerstone; and nothing is more natural than that they who hate the church should strike their heads against the papacy. The popes have always been the chief object of attack, and have had to bear the brunt of the battle. Yet they have labored, suffered, been persecuted, imprisoned, exiled, and martyred for the salvation of mankind. What depth of meaning in the dying words of the exiled Gregory VII., "I have loved justice, and hated iniquity; therefore I die in exile." Alas! the world knows not its benefactors, and crucifies its redeemers!

March Omens.

[Footnote 44]

[Footnote 44: From Irish Odes and other Poems, by Aubrey De Vere, just Issued by the Catholic Publication Society.]

ON ivied stems and leafless sprays
The sunshine lies in dream:
Scarcely yon mirrored willow sways
Within the watery gleam.
In woods far off the dove is heard,
And streams that feed the lake:
All else is hushed save one small bird,
That twitters in the brake.
Yet something works through earth and air,
A sound less heard than felt,
Whispering of Nature's procreant care,
While the last snow-flakes melt.
The year anon her rose will don;
But to-day this trance is best—
This weaving of fibre and knitting of bone
In Earth's maternal breast.

Translated From The German
By Richard Storrs Willis.
Emily Linder.
A Life-portrait.

The circle of those who were witness to the blossom-period of the city of Munich, that glorious epoch of twenty or thirty years which dawned upon the Bavarian capital when Louis I. ascended the throne, is gradually narrowing, and every year contracts it still further. The name of her to whom this sketch is dedicated belonged to this circle, and is closely associated with the best of those who aided in inaugurating this brilliant epoch, and rendering Munich a hearthstone of culture which attracted the gaze of the educated world. Sunny period of old Munich! They of that time speak of it with the same enthusiasm as of their own youth. Yet to a future generation will their testimony sound like some beautiful tradition.

To not a few, the name of Miss Emily Linder appeared for the first time, as the intelligence of her death passed through the public journals of February, 1857. Yet was her life no ordinary one; and though it never tended to publicity, she accomplished more in her great seclusion than many a noisy and feted celebrity. Hers was a quiet and unassuming nature; she belonged to those who speak little and accomplish much. It is therefore befitting, now that she has gone to her home, here to speak of her. Not so much to praise her, for she shrank from all earthly praise; but to keep her memory fresh among her friends and to present to a selfish, distracted age, poor in faith, the animating example of a pure, faith-inspired, and symmetrical character a life full of fidelity, unselfishness, and enthusiasm.

Swiss by birth and unchangeably devoted to her circumscribed home, Emily Linder little dreamed, probably, when in early life she wandered to Munich, that she would yet close a long life there. But over this life, swiftly as it glided along, there watched a special, directing Providence; and no one could more cheerfully have recognized this Providence than did she. What originally attracted her to Munich was Art: she probably contemplated, at first, only brief and transient visit there; but the metropolis of German art became a second home to her—even more than this.

Emily Linder belonged to a wealthy mercantile family of Basle, and was born at that place on the 11th of October, 1797. She received a careful religious education, (in the reformed faith of her parents,) and that varied instruction which rendered her unusually wakeful mind susceptible to topics of deeper import. She seemed to have inherited from her grandfather, who was a lover and collector of artistic objects, a fondness for fine art. Following this predilection, the gifted girl decided to seize the pallet and devote herself to painting as an occupation. Such was her entirely independent position as to fortune, that nothing but inward enthusiasm could have led her to this step, or have confined her from thenceforth to the easel.

The home of Holbein's genius offered her at first, doubtless, inspiration enough. But a new star had arisen in German art, and the youthful Swiss was drawn powerfully by its leading away from home—to Munich. The modest city on the verdant Iser began at that period to prove the goal of pilgrimage to every ambitious disciple of art. Miss Linder also heard of it, and, instead of going to Dresden, as she had intended, she turned for her further improvement to Munich. On her arrival in this city she had attained to an age of twenty-seven years; but her devotion to her chosen profession was so earnest, that she entered as a simple pupil the Academy of Fine Arts. In the catalogue of the academy, Emily Linder is inscribed as historical painter, on the 4th of November, 1824. But she frequented the studios only a few weeks. At that time it was customary to accept ladies as pupils; but she soon perceived that the position was hardly a becoming one, surrounded by so many young people of various characters, and all beginners like herself. She therefore had recourse to Professor Schlotthauer for private instruction. Under the guidance of this excellent master, "a veritable house-father in the painter's academy," as Brentano characteristically termed him, she pursued her studies in good earnest, and, according to the representation of her teacher, made rapid progress in the severer style of drawing, in which she had hitherto been less practised than in painting. She soon perfected herself to such an extent that she was enabled to complete her own compositions, and thus derived double satisfaction from her profession.

It was indeed a pleasure in those days, competing with so many enthusiastic young artists and with the newly-appearing works in constant view, to labor and strive onward with the rest. This was the time, too, when Cornelius assumed the directorship of the Munich Academy and inaugurated, in grand style, the new era of German art. A wondrous life dawned upon Munich art at that period. Cornelius himself, in his old age, recalled with emotion and enthusiasm this youthful period of new German art. At Rome, thirty years later, on the occasion of the Louis festival of German artists, 20th May 1855, while he was delivering an address so celebrated for its many piquant flashes, he thus painted the joyous industry of those days:

"But when King Louis ascended the throne of his fathers, then began the sport. Zounds! what moulding, building, drawing, and painting! With what eagerness, with what hilarity each went to his work! But it was an earnest hilarity: … nor was Munich at that time a mere hot-house of art. The warmth was a healthy and vital one, born of the flaming fire of inspiration, the evidence of which every work, whatever its defects, bore upon its very face. Those men who worked together in brotherly unity knew that there confronted them the art tribunal of posterity and of the German nation. It concerned them, now, that German genius should open a new pathway in art, as it had already so gloriously done in poetry, in music, in science."

In this glorious time of youthful aspiration, bold conception, and joyful industry, Miss Linder began her artistic career in Munich. Is it a wonder then that the city pleased her daily better, and imperceptibly gained a home-like power over her? Nor had she, by any means, a lack of intellectual incitement. Her independent position and rare culture secured to her the most agreeable social position. In the family of Herr von Ringseis, to which she had brought an introduction from Basle, and where gathered the nobility of the entire fatherland, she came into contact with the most eminent artists and scholars. Chief among these was Cornelius, who welcomed her to his family circle. The old master of German art remained a life-long friend of hers and warmly attached to her. Among her more intimate companions, she numbered also the two Eberhards, Heinrich Hess, Franz von Baader. Somewhat later, by the transfer of the university to Munich, were added to these Schubert, Görres, Schelling, Lasaulx. Also the two Boiseree, who in the autumn of 1827 came to Munich with their art collection, which had been purchased by King Louis, were soon numbered among her nearer acquaintances.

Amid so choice a circle there unfolded itself for the young artist a spiritual and intense life, to which she abandoned herself with all the joyous simplicity and freshness of an artistic nature; a nature which was susceptible also to the beautiful and the grand in other things—in poetry, in music, and in science. The quiet, friendly lady-artist became everywhere a favorite.

But, amid all these manifold occupations, there was ever a certain earnestness, a striving out of the temporal into the eternal. Even art was not to her a mere amusement. Genuine art possesses an ennobling power, and she experienced what Michael Angelo once said to his friend Vittoria Colonna, "True painting is naturally religious and noble; for even the struggle toward perfection elevates the soul to devotion, draws it near to God and unites it with him." Attracted by the pure and lofty in art, Miss Linder gave preference to religious painting, a taste which was encouraged by her sterling master: and it caused her, though a Protestant, special gratification, while ever seeking the best studies, to paint or copy, whenever she could, devotional church pictures.

In order to become acquainted, through actual observation, with the principal works of Christian art, she determined on a journey to Italy. Her first visit she decided to confine to the cities of upper Italy, and in company with Professor Schlotthauer and his wife, this plan was carried out during the summer and autumn of 1825. Milan, Verona, Padua, Venice, Bologna, were visited, and, led by the hand of her intelligent master, they all passed under her examination. The goal of her travel was to be Florence. But the long-continued, fine autumn weather attracted the travellers further and further, and at length they came to Perugia, the middle point of the Umbrian school, and thence to the neighboring, picturesque-lying Assisi. At this place a little circumstance occurred which became of deep significance in the after life of the artist.

The vetturino, familiar with the land and the people, called the attention of the travellers to the fact that in Assisi there was a monastery of German Franciscan nuns. A colony of poor German women in the middle of Italian lands! That was enough to decide the party to visit the monastery and greet their pious countrywomen in the language of home. But they found the sisterhood in evident distress. As they stood before the lattice, the history of the monastery was briefly related to them by the superior. It owed its origin to the patrician family Nocker of Munich, and according to the terms of its establishment was intended only for Germans, and more particularly for Bavarian maidens. Under Napoleon I. it was suspended, and the nuns were cared for in private dwellings, where, hoping for better times, they still continued, as well as they could, the practice of their vocation. These better times came. After the fall of the Napoleonic dynasty, the purchasers of the monastery consented to relinquish it, and the poor Franciscans could at least reoccupy the building. But it went so hard with them, that they were sometimes obliged to ring the distress-bell, and the number of inmates diminished. At the time of the arrival of our three travellers, they numbered but twelve. An increase of numbers under such circumstances was hardly to be hoped for, and the existence of the monastery seemed again endangered. Municipal abolishment was threatened, with the unavoidable prospect to the nuns of being distributed among the various Italian monasteries. Now to maintain themselves as a German order was everything to these Franciscans; and thus the superior represented it to her travelling country-people, with all simple-heartedness, closing her narration with the entreaty that, on their return to Munich, they would not forget the little German monastery in Assisi, but care for it as they might be able, and cause younger sisters to come to them from Bavaria, in order to save the establishment from utter extinction.

The three travellers took their leave filled with sympathy, and promising to bear in mind the petition of the superior. They commenced their homeward travel from Assisi, passed through Genoa and reached Munich again in November. Miss Linder vigorously recommenced her artistic occupations, filled with animation at her new experiences. But during the winter evenings the Italian trip often formed the topic of conversation in the Schlotthauer family, and generally closed with the question, How shall we manage to increase the number of candidates in the monastery at Assisi? But at that period this was not so easy. The secular spirit had spread itself broadly in German lands: the current of fresh, Catholic life flowed mostly in hidden courses. But with surprise they soon learned of its continued activity. Through one of those invisible channels which Providence avails itself of, in its own good time—in every-day life termed accident—the cry for help of the superior at Assisi penetrated to to a village where pious hearts were prepared for it. One day there came a letter for Professor Schlotthauer from Landshut, addressed to him by an unknown maiden of the humbler class named Therese Frish, stating that she had heard of the monastery at Assisi, and the request of the superior: in Landshut was a goodly number of young girls who had long cherished the desire in their hearts for convent life, and only waited for an opportunity to realize their wishes: several of them, some possessed of means, were ready at any moment to leave for Assisi. This was welcome intelligence, and the friends of the superior in Munich were not backward in performing their part. Thus in the spring they had the happiness of seeing a little band of candidates departing for Assisi. The monastery was rescued, and commenced from that time, through the ever-increasing sympathy in Germany, a new and beneficent career. From year to year, assisted by the people of Munich, there wandered true-hearted though indigent maidens to this quiet asylum of piety, to reach which, as Brentano wrote twelve years later, (1838,) was the dearest wish of these pious children.

Her art trip had thus recompensed the maiden of Basle in a manner little dreamed of or counted on. The impression which this peculiar experience made upon her susceptible nature could not well be a transient one. The little monastery at Assisi—what could be more natural?—from thenceforth lay very closely to her heart, and its memories became most dear to her. The personality of the superior herself, her simple worth and naturalness, gratefully appealed to her; and several years later, on making her second Italian trip, she gladly revisited Assisi. A friendly relation resulted, which, fostered by a regular correspondence, became more intimate every year. She now began to understand the true meaning of a voluntary Christian poverty: the contemplation of which must naturally make a profound impression upon a nature like hers. She had frequent occasion, by active assistance, to prove herself a warm friend of the monastery. Particularly at the time of the great earthquake, (1831,) when this monastery of women was in great want and distress, she stood by the nuns most generously. Ever after, indeed, she remained a constant benefactress of the German daughters of the holy St. Francis; and there, in the birth-place of the saint, was she most assiduously prayed for. In Assisi lay the earliest germ of her quietly-ripening, late-maturing conversion.

In the year 1828, Miss Linder returned to her native city, Basle, in order to prepare for a more lengthened visit to Rome. Like every genuine artist-heart, a powerful influence attracted her to the ancient capital of art, to the eternal city. On her journey thither, she touched at Assisi, having the happiness to escort to the monastery of the Franciscans a new candidate from Munich and to find the nuns there in happiest tranquillity. Cornelius and Schlotthauer reported the same of them, when they passed through, a year and a half later. They received permission from the bishop to hold an interview with the German sisters in the claustral. The innocent joyousness and deep peace of the German nuns was very touching to them. The bishop gave the two artists the best testimony of them in his assurance that he constantly presented these pious Germans to their Italian sisters as an example for imitation.

Accompanied with the nuns' blessing Miss Linder hastened toward the eternal city, where a new world opened itself to her. Bright, blissful days did she pass in Rome, and so well did it please her, that she remained there nearly three years. Here again her associates were the brightest spirits of the German art circle, and their similarity of aim induced a friendly geniality which in many ways enhanced the pleasure of her stay. Scholars and artists of the German colony sought her society with equal delight. Here she met Overbeck—that St. John among the artists—whose friendship to her and to her subsequent life was of such significance. Neher and Eberle received from her commissions. With the painter Ahlborn she read Dante. The venerable Koch was charmed with the society of the genial Swiss, and passed many a winter's evening with her. Also Thorwaldsen, Bunsen, and Platen were among her intimate acquaintance in Italy.

From Rome Miss Linder made a trip to Naples and Sorrento. With a party of Germans, among whom was Platen, she passed there the summer of 1830. The wondrous poetry of the landscape and skies of Sorrento impressed with their fullest power the sensitive soul of the artist. All three arts, poetry, music, and painting, were brought into requisition to give adequate expression to her enchantment and delight. She became herself a poetess under the influence of all these glories, and described to her friends, who remained behind at Rome, with veritable southern warmth of coloring, her "captivating paradise." As in Rome she listened with the veneration of an intelligent musician to the ancient classic music of the Sistine chapel, so at the Bay of Naples she bestowed her attention upon the popular Italian ballads. Theirs was a genial company, and they sang much together; of their songs and melodies she made a collection, and took home with her. Platen, in his subsequent letters, reminded her of those days, and, writing from Venice, requested of her the music of "triads and octaves," which they had sung together in Sorrento.

On her return to Rome, late in the autumn of the same year, she found Cornelius and his family there, and the friendly relations which subsisted in Munich were warmly renewed. The presence of the honored master created, in the Roman art world, an animated and exhilarating activity, and the rest of her stay was thus enlivened in the most agreeable manner. The following year, in company with Cornelius, she started for home. It was hard parting, as finally, in July, 1831, with a wealth of beautiful and deep impressions, she bade farewell to the Hesperian land which had become so dear to her, to return to Basle; and we must not censure the artist that she found it difficult, as her letters indicate, to forget the blue skies of Italy and accustom herself again to the gray hues of the German heaven. The sharpness of the contrast gradually softened, however, and the old home feeling asserted itself. But the life in Rome remained a bright spot in her memory, and even in later years, when the conversation turned upon it, the habitually quiet lady became warm and animated.

In Rome, on the other hand, the artists were equally loth to part with the aesthetic Swiss. The venerable Koch sent her word, through the the painter Eberle, how much he regretted that he could no longer pass his winter evenings with her. Overbeck and others held with her an animated correspondence. But she remained in hallowed remembrance with the German art-colony, from the assistance she rendered to youthful talent, and her encouragement by actual commissions. The historical painter Adam Eberle, particularly, a pupil of Cornelius, friend and countryman of Lasaulx—a highly gifted and lofty mind, but struggling in the deepest poverty—to him she proved a generous benefactress; and we can truly say, that through her goodness his last days—he died at Rome, 1832—were illumined with a final gleam of sunshine. The letters which she received from the youthful departed, partly during her stay in Rome, partly after her departure, give ample testimony of this, and indicate the manner, generally, of her benevolence in such cases. Immediately on their first meeting in Rome, and learning of his condition, she gave him a commission for an oil painting; with deep emotion he thanked the friendly lady "for the confidence she had thus reposed in a nameless painter." Subsequently she purchased also several drawings of Eberle, each, like the oil painting, of a religious nature; among others, one that she particularly prized, and afterward caused to be engraved, "Peter and Paul journeying to the Occident."

On forwarding this drawing to Basle, together with another, the subject of which was taken from the Old Testament, "as the product of his muse since her departure," Eberle thus writes:

"What chiefly attracts me to these Bible subjects is the healthy and unaffected language, which I endeavor to translate into my art. Regard this work of mine as a study which is necessary for my taste. That which is lacking in it, I know full well, without the power of supplying it. Accept it, therefore, as it is. Altogether bad it is not. At a very sad period was it undertaken, and many a tear has fallen upon it, which, like a vein of noble metal, seven times purified in its earthen crucible, glistens through it. I have, indeed, some assurance that I have not fruitlessly worked, in Overbeck's judgment upon it, whom you saw at Bunsen's: and this not a little cheers me."

Her generous watchfulness wearied not in rescuing him, at the times of his greatest need, and Eberle, with overflowing gratitude, testified to these constant proofs of her goodness, and, even more, to the great delicacy and the kindly words which accompanied every act.

Her personal intercourse at Rome seemed also to have exerted a favorable influence upon his religious sentiments. The taste for mystical writings which, encouraged by Baader, she was cultivating at that period, grew also upon him; and when, shortly after her departure, Lasaulx came to Rome, Eberle was very happy that he could continue with him this favorite and elevating study. He writes to her at Basle on the 25th of September, 1831:

"An old friend of my youth and countryman of mine, C. Lasaulx, is now my almost exclusive companion: he will probably remain the winter here and share my dwelling with me. He is, as you know, a zealous disciple of Schelling, is deeply versed in the new philosophy, and, what to me is of still more value, in the mysticism of the middle ages. I rejoice to have gained in him some compensation for the loss of your society; yet I cannot share the expectations which he bases upon the new philosophy. Although my acquaintance with him has divested me of many a former prejudice, I find myself, nevertheless, attracted only the more to the 'one thing needful,' assured that only at the fountain of living waters, Jesus Christ, can our thirst be quenched."

He adds, however, concerning his friend:

"Lasaulx has nevertheless a very substantial Christian basis, and if ever his Knowing goes hand in hand with his Willing, and his Willing with his Knowing, we may certainly expect something very sterling from him."

It was Lasaulx himself who communicated the news to their mutual friend, in Germany, of the sudden death of Eberle. Eberle's plan had been to pass yet a year in Rome, then return to Germany, and, seeking again the sheltering wing of his master, Cornelius, in Munich, there to close his art-wanderings. Thus he himself wrote in a letter of the 7th of March, 1832. But a month later he was no more. He succumbed to a disease of the stomach. Shortly before his death, Miss Linder had cheered the invalid by a remittance. On the 24th of April, 1832, Lasaulx thus wrote from Rome:

"Our friend Adam Eberle, at five o'clock in the afternoon of the 15th of April, after a hard death-struggle, recovered from the malady of this life. Good-Friday morning we bore him home. Three days before his death he had the great joy of receiving your last letter, and that which your love enclosed with it. He was one of the few whose souls are washed in the blood of the Lamb, offered from the beginning of the world. The Lamentations and the Miserere of the divine old masters Palestrini and Allrgri which you begged our friend to listen to for you, I have listened to for both of you."

Munich had now so grown upon the affections of the artiste that she again removed thither from Basle in 1832. After her life in Rome, a residence in the German art-metropolis could not but be a necessity to her, and the Bavarian capital was thenceforth her home. Her house became more and more the peaceful abode of the fine arts. Her fortune enabled her, by a succession of commissions, gradually to collect a wealth of pictures and drawings in which the Corypheans of Christian art were represented. Among these Overbeck took the foremost place with a series of subjects from the Evangelists, the choicest of drawings, which during a period of thirty years gradually came into her possession. A beautiful oil painting by Overbeck, which she esteemed most highly, "The death of St. Joseph," was also produced at this time, an elevated delineation of the death of the just. From Cornelius she secured three cartoons of the wall pictures in the Louis-church, ("The Creation,") in which this mighty intellect was worthily represented. In like manner an altar-piece by Conrad Eberhard, one of the most thoughtful compositions of this admirable master, and intended originally for one of the new church edifices of King Louis, took its place among the gems of this house—just as the venerable master himself, in all his purity of soul and pious simplicity, took his place high in the friendship of the hostess.

Next to painting, the two sister arts, poetry and music, were specially cultivated in the home of the artist. She had a clear perception of the true and elevated in poetry, and kept pace, even to old age, with the literary productions of the new era. Her own poetic effusions were confined to the eye of her more intimate friends; but there were some poems upon which Brentano himself placed high value. Her library was a choice one, and her knowledge of languages kept her acquainted with the best productions of the modern cultivated nations. Her aesthetic and scientific acquirements became her well, inasmuch as the cultivation of the mind and of the heart with her kept even pace.

Miss Linder applied herself to music in full earnest. She not only practised several instruments—the aeolodicon and harp were always seen in her drawing-room—but she had herself instructed by Ett in thorough-bass and the history of music. She followed his instructions in harmony with practical exercises. In musical history it was the religious department again which most appealed to her: her researches went back to the earliest times, the development of the true church style, and for the unfolding of this subject she had found in Ett the right man. Moreover, she stood in friendly exchange of views with Proske of Regensburg, a profound student of ancient church music. Sometimes musical gatherings were held, to which Ett brought singing-boys from the choir of St. Michael's Church: ancient religious cantatas, the compositions of Orlando di Lasso, Handel, Abbé Vogler's hymns, and the like, were performed. Conrad Eberhard, an enthusiastic admirer of music and of the master Ett, who with Schlotthauer regularly attended the historical lectures on music, in his ninetieth year spoke with loving recollection of these ennobling evenings at Miss Linder's.

By this varied and earnest devotion to art, as well as artistic and scientific enterprises, to which she constantly brought willing and generous offerings, her life began to assume more and more an ideal significance, and to gain that expansiveness of horizon and completeness which secured for her a position in society as peculiar as it was agreeable. If we would ask what it was that identified this quiet spirit with so distinguished a circle and made her house a rendezvous for scholars and artists, in which the most brilliant and the most profound so gladly met, the explanation would be just this—it was the awakened intelligence which she brought to all intellectual topics, the simple-hearted abandonment to the views of great minds, the readiness with which she recognized and admired the true and the beautiful in all things. It was equally the unselfish, uncalculating enthusiasm, and the perfect purity of soul, which compelled the respect of all. An unvarying geniality blended with a quiet earnestness; a clear intelligence with a golden goodness; a profound view of life in all its phases, from the very heights of a sunny existence—herein resided the gentle attractiveness with which she drew to herself the sympathies of the noblest souls and held them fast.

A character of such a type is best reflected in its friends. Her life for the most part flowed on so quietly and evenly that it rose clearly to the view of only those who were nearest to her. It seems, therefore, befitting that from among her many friends we should select a few who, like her, are now at rest, and mention some of their salient characteristics.

The foremost place is due to the painter-prince of the new art-epoch himself, Cornelius—who was a friend from her very youth, and only a few months after her, even in these latter days, closed his earthly pilgrimage. The fame of the man and the sense of his loss, still so freshly felt, will justify us in dwelling somewhat more at length on him and his letters. It was, indeed, the opinion of Emily Linder, toward the close of her life, that the letters which she had received from Cornelius might some day be of use in his biography.

At the time Miss Linder started from Munich upon her journey to Switzerland and Italy, her relations with the family of the celebrated painter had already become so intimate, that it was continued in correspondence. Ordinarily it was an Italian-German or double letter, from Carolina and Peter Cornelius, which greeted her; they both recall, with friendly warmth, her residence in Munich, and the message, "We miss you!" was repeatedly wafted after her as she remained longer away. Frau Carolina Cornelius evinced for her a very tender attachment. The genial master himself honored her with confidences from time to time, as to his artistic plans and undertakings. Particularly was this the case when he was commissioned to prepare designs for the Louis-church in Munich, whereby he saw the early realization of a long-cherished and favorite idea of his; when the history of mankind in grand outline, the creation, the redemption, the sending of the Holy Ghost to the church, the last judgment, presented itself to his mind. Then he felt impelled to open his heart to his absent friend, and the postscript, which he appended to a letter of his wife, rises into a veritable dithyrambic. He writes on the 20th of January, 1829:

"I cannot better close this letter than by communicating a thing which transports me and in which you, my dear friend, will sympathize. Fancy my good fortune! After completing the Glyptothek, I am to paint a church. It is now sixteen years that I have been going about with the idea of a Christian epic in painting—a painted comoedia divina—and I have had hours, and longer periods, when it seemed I had a special mission for this. And now my heavenly love comes like a bride in all her beauty to me—what mortal after this can I envy? The universe opens itself before my eyes: I see heaven, earth, and hell; I see the past, the present, and the future; I stand on Sinai and gaze upon the new Jerusalem; I am inebriated and yet composed. All my friends must pray for me, and you, my dear Emily. With brotherly love greets you CORNELIUS."

The artistic heroism of this soul—this man whose ideas grasped the world—breathes in these lines with certainly wonderful freshness. In other letters of this happy period his natural humor gains the ascendant, and he indulges in sallies of mirth, afterward begging her indulgence and a friendly remembrance of "the crazy painter Peter Cornelius." Her replies were in a simpler and graver tone, but full of that refreshing independence, which appeared to a nature like his more than aught else. She allowed his geniality full play without compromising her sincerity, or her dignity. He is thus both "charmed and edified" by her letters, and once made the remark of them, "All that your personality led me to fancy of the beautiful and the good finds more artless, more forcible and vivid expression in your letters. It becomes you uncommonly well, whenever you fairly assert yourself."

In the year 1831 the cholera threatened, for a time, to visit Munich. The preparations of the sanitary authorities to meet this uncomfortable guest were already completed. Miss Linder was in Basle, and sent thence a friendly invitation to Cornelius and his family to take refuge at her domestic hearth. The knightly response of the master, dated Munich, 15th of November 1831, is as follows:

"Your friendly suggestion from the shelter of your hospitable hearth to laugh at the cholera, and by the same opportunity, perhaps, to reproduce a Decameron, corresponding thereto, has an indescribable attraction for me, and I should have acted upon it had I not been afraid to be afraid. From sheer cowardice at the possible death of my honor, I must stand the cartridges of the cholera. From the spot where my king and so many admirable and honorable men stand their ground, must Cornelius never run away. You will take in good part the informality of this letter from your fanciful friend, yet he craves of you an indulgenza plenaria while he ends with the bold declaration that he indescribably loves and honors you.

P. V. CORNELIUS."

At this period an idea seized Cornelius, which long occupied his attention, namely, to record the noteworthy incidents of his own eventful artist-life; a plan which certainly would have enriched literature by at least one original work and have proved of inestimable value to the history of modern art. Unfortunately, the plan was never carried out; but it affords a proof of his high esteem for his friend that Cornelius intended the memoirs to be written in the form of letters addressed to her, as will appear from the two following letters. They are written under the influence of the same exuberant spirits in which the grand conception of his "Christian epic" had placed him:

"Munich, February 12, 1832.

"Very Dear Friend: This is not meant as an answer to the welcome and beautiful letter which you sent me through H. Hauser; it is only a slight expression of my gratitude and my great delight at the kindliness and the loyal friendship which your dear letter breathes for me, unworthy. I have lately been asking myself why this letter-writing, which, as you and all the world knows, is a horror to me, since my correspondence with you has set me back into that happy period when one can write an entire library and yet not be satisfied. Had I more leisure, I would carry out an old project to write the history of my life in letter-form, after the manner of many French memoirs, and addressed to you. Although for the present this is not to be thought of, I by no means abandon the plan.

"Heroes and artists—in the most liberal way of viewing it—have their truest and clearest appreciation in the pure souls of women. Only Hebe might serve the nectar to Alcides; only Beatrice conducts the singer into Paradise; Tasso's delirium is a vague searching in a labyrinth where Ariadne's thread is broken; Michael Angelo would have been as great a painter as was Dante a poet had Beatrice opened heaven to him; Raphael's thousand-feathered Psyche bore a material maiden into the realm of the stars; her human blood enkindled his and slew him. When I write my memoirs, you will see how it has gone with me in this respect. In the mean time I allow you a peep through the keyhole of my private drawer—it is a poor poem of my youth, which as penance you must read, because you mockingly called me a poet. [Footnote 45]

[Footnote 45: It is truly a very youthful poem, addressed "To the Muse," commencing:
"Confided have I alone
in thee, O Muse," etc. ED.]

"I know not why I send these poor stanzas to you; it appears to me as though you exercised some charm over the spirits of my life, who must perforce appear before you. Perhaps one of these days this letter might serve for a dedication to the book in question, because, like an overture, it contains in itself the leading motive. Now farewell, and take no offence at this gay carnival-arabesque, The ladies of my family heartily greet you: we have good news from Rome. Heaven bless you, vouchsafe you cheerfulness and bliss, and bring you soon to us. Meantime, however, write soon, and often send tidings to your most devoted friend,

"P. Cornelius."

Four months later, he reverts to the same subject, on the occasion of sending to her, while at Basle, a sketch of his latest composition for the walls of the Louis-church, ("The Epiphany,") accompanying which he writes:

Munich, June 21, 1832.

"Herewith you find a little sketch of a drawing just completed for a large cartoon (the corresponding piece to the Crucifixion,) and instead of interpreting it to you, I beg your own interpretation of it; it would have such a charm for me to read in your mind my own conceptions ennobled and beautified. What coquetry! I hear you laughingly say; and yet I hope to be pardoned. If it be true that artists have many feelings in common with women, those which prompt us to try to please those we love should meet with some indulgence.

"I occupy myself often, on my lonely walks, with the plan of my intended memoirs; the material begins to assume shape; but unless you apply to it the finishing touch, it will not be presentable. I never could bring myself to entrust it to other hands. In the retrospect of my life I find the material more abundant than I had supposed. Very difficult will be the shaping of much of it. How easily does many a tie and relation in this life lose its true coloring and significance by omissions; and yet must these very often occur, if the work is to appear during my lifetime. Before beginning to write, I shall communicate to you, orally, dearest friend, some portions of the memoirs, and we can then discuss them at leisure—a welcome plan to me, for thus will the undertaking fairly ripen. With inmost respect and love, your devoted

"Peter Von Cornelius."

Finally, it may be allowable to make mention of a letter which he addresses to her from Rome, on the 12th of October, 1833, while he was working on his drawing of the Last Judgment. In this letter we recognize his playful, working humor—and does he not term these periods of creative activity his wedding time? In several remarks, however, we discern both sides of his nature.

"My Noble Friend: It is really too bad! has he not yet written? not even answered that charming letter from Salzburg? Well, I must say, I am curious to see how he will justify himself.

"Thus I hear Schlotthauer exclaim; even Schubert ominously shakes his head; but you are silent and thoughtful. I should be in despair for an excuse for myself, having already shot off my best arrows at you on similar occasions, exhausted my adroitest terms—my best rhetoric. I say I should be in despair, if that stupendous, that tremendous thing, 'The Last Judgment,' did not take me under its protecting wing. Never has a man, probably, with more sublimity asked pardon of a lady! And now, laying the universe at your feet, I await composedly my sentence. From this moment is my tongue loosed; and I can say to you that I am celebrating my blissfullest time—my wedding time—the harvest season of my holiest aspirations. How few mortals attain to such happiness! and how ill-calculated is this world to afford it!

"Gladly would I show you the work I am at present engaged upon. Yet for a nature so quiet as yours, you appear to me far too forcible and positive. Overbeck must love you a thousand fold more than I: with me you suffer indulgence to take the place of impartial justice. How I once fretted about such things!

"What a treasure is a deep, positively incurable pain! Better than the most unalloyed bliss which this poor world has to offer, it brings us near to the Holy One. It is more faithful, far less variable. It draws us into solitude, into ourselves.

"You surmise, doubtless, what I mean. Daily do I thank Heaven that through you such knowledge was to come to me. This is bitter medicine; administered, to a child, upon sweet fruit. But why do I entertain you with such trivialities? In all books of all nations we read the same thing; and yet when the poor human heart is pressed with its heavy burthen, it feels just as profoundly and acutely as in the very days of Troy itself; and the utterances of joy and of love, like those of pain, are ever new and their method inexhaustible; ever does one cast himself upon the breast of a loving, sympathetic soul.

"Accept for the moment this confused scribble and remain friendly and well-disposed toward me. Continue to peep through my fingers, and leave me just five of them. I claim to myself, however, the privilege of an unlimited love and veneration for you. My entire household and all your friends send heartfelt greeting; foremost of all, however, your

P. V. CORNELIUS."

The correspondence was interrupted when Cornelius removed to Berlin; but not the friendship, which endured to the end. Nor did the exchange of letters cease entirely; so that the ink-shy master once asserted in Berlin, that he had written to no lady so often as to her.

Among the earliest acquaintances of Emily Linder, was Father Franz von Baader; as the nine letters indicate, which were addressed to her, and published in the complete works of Baader. The first of these was dated as early as the 25th of May, 1825, therefore at the commencement of her residence in Munich; and the contents indicate the immediate cause of their mutual attraction. This letter has somewhat the nature of a memorial, in which the philosopher draws a parallel between the art of painting and the God-like art of benevolence; closing with the following words:

"Herewith commends himself to Miss Emily Linder—she who rendered her memory so dear, so imperishable to him by an act kindness performed at his request to a poor family—

Franz Baader."

The tie between them therefore lay in the admirable activity of that quality by which Emily Linder quietly accomplished so much—a high-hearted love for her neighbor.

From that time forward Baader regularly sent her his pamphlets and works, and we can appreciate to what extent he tasked her intellect when he forwarded her a copy of his Speculative Dogma or, Social-Philosophic Treatise. He regarded it as a pleasant duty to acquaint her from time to time with his literary labors: and she spared herself to no trouble to follow even such grave and abstruse topics. He succeeded in specially interesting her in Jacob Böhme. Her intelligent remarks on Baader's article upon the doctrine of justification led him to remark that her letter afforded him a more satisfactory proof than many a criticism that he had succeeded in reaching both the head and the heart. In the year 1831, Baader dedicated to her a philosophic paper entitled Forty Propositions from a Religious Exotic," (Munich: Franz, 1831.) In the brief dedication of this "little work on great subjects" we read, "While you in ancient Rome are dedicating heart, soul, eye, and hand to art, it may not be unwelcome to you to hear over the stormy Alps a friendly voice, reminding you of that holy alliance of the three graces of a better and eternal life, Religion, Speculation, and Poetry, adding to these also, Painting." In the letter which accompanies this pamphlet he places before her the leading thoughts of the little work in a lucid manner:

"When the teachers of religion say that the whole Christian faith rests upon the knowledge and conviction that God is love; and that in this religion the love of God, of man, of nature, is made a duty; so that, in fact, a oneness of love and duty is announced, it would seem seasonable this unloving and duty-forgetful age so to present the identity of these two, love and duty, that mankind can discern the laws of religion in those of love, and those of love in religion; which, I trust, has been done in this pamphlet in a new, albeit rather a homoeopathic manner."

Next to Baader is to be named his intellectual son-in-law, Ernst von Lasaulx. He started, in the same year that Emily Linder left Rome, upon his long journey through Italy and Greece, to the Orient. They met in Florence, the 27th of July, 1831, and he promised the artist a description of his travels. In conformity with this promise ensued a series of letters recording his experiences and impressions in Greece and the promised land, fresh and warm to a degree seldom found, and full of classic beauty. By whom could antiquity be better realized to this art-enthusiast than by Lasaulx, the zealous student of Grecian art-history, and equally a master of artistic prose! Poetic sensibility and literary clearness go refreshingly hand in hand in these letters; now in a description of his rides to that "eloquent rock-architecture" of Cyclopean edifices, the Titanic walls of the Acropolis of Tiryns and Mikene; or his solitary wanderings among the prostrate, ruined glories strewn from Corinth to Magara and Athens. At the first view of distant Athens, the Acropolis and the Parthenon, the temple of Theseus and the city behind the dark olive-woods he exclaims:

"Here is Greece, all of a departed glory worthy of the name, which the noiseless waste of time and the insane fury of man has left to the after-world. Never in my experience, and in no other city, have I known such emotions. It is as though my heart were turned into an AEolian harp, and the night winds were sighing through its broken strings."

Despite all his predilections, however, for the classic land, he did not suffer himself to be deceived as to a new Greece by the occasion of the 12th of April, 1833, when he was present at the formal surrender of the Acropolis to the Bavarian troops, when Osman Effendi withdrew the Turkish forces, and the Bavarian commander, Baligand, planted the Greek flag upon the northern rampart. He remarks, in this description:

"It was a remarkable spectacle; the noisy, confused crowd of Turks, Greeks, Bavarians and whatever other inquisitive Franks had collected in the dusky colonnades of the Parthenon. As I could not bring myself to any faith in the regeneration of Greece, the rampant irony of this insane funeral wake only added to my deep depression."

Written in the year 1833, and, hardly ten years later, what confirmation!

Glorious passages does the traveller indite to his distant friend over his pilgrimage through Palestine; profound melancholy at the present condition of the holy land; devout emotions amid holy places. On entering Jerusalem, Sunday, September 15. 1833, he says:

"Burning tears and a cold shudder of the heart were the first, God grant not the only, tributes which I offered for his love and that of his Son."

His delineations inspired his friend with a holy longing, and she entertained for some time afterward the idea of a journey to the holy land. She had, indeed, made preparations (1836) for a pilgrimage thither in company with Schubert, and only considerations of health compelled her at last to abandon the plan.

Subsequently, at the close of his life, Lasaulx crowned his friendship for Miss Linder with a special literary tribute. He dedicated to her his last great work, The Philosophy of the Fine Arts, Architecture, Sculpture, Painting, Music, Poetry, Prose, (Munich, 1860.) As though from a presentiment of his death, he felt impelled to bring his esthetic studies to a close, sensible as he was that here and there were still omissions to supply. But the book is the thoughtful labor of many years, and a masterwork of style. In the dedication, which serves as preface, and which was written in the Bavarian inn, at Castle Lebenberg, in the Tyrol, on the 25th of September, 1859, after speaking of the origin of the work, he refers, in the following words, to his friend:

"That I dedicate this work particularly to you will be found natural enough on a moment's self-examination. I met you, for the first time, thirty years ago, at Munich, in a delightful circle of friendly men and women, so many of whom are constantly departing from us, that those who are still left have to move nearer and nearer to each other at your hospitable table. A few years later, I saw you in Florence again, as you came from Rome and I went thither. The death of our early-maturing friend, Adam Eberle, resulted in an association with you as a correspondent, and since then you have proved to me, my wife and daughter, both in bright and gloomy days, so dear and true a friend, that it is now a necessity with me to express my gratitude to you, even with this very work, whose subjects are so akin to your own studies, and in writing which, at this fortress of Lebenberg, I have so often thought of you and our mutual friends, dead and living, chiefest among whom should to yourself this book be a tribute."

A year and a half later, the noble and true soul of Lasaulx had passed, and his grateful friend founded for him a memorial after her own peculiar taste, the pious memorial of a stated mass for his soul.

An early friend, also, and one true till death, was Gotthilf Heinrich von Schubert, who met Miss Linder shortly after he was called to the University of Munich. The amiable personality of this savant of child-like nature particularly appealed to her. His fundamental views of religion accorded with her own; and therefore, the elements of a spiritual harmony were already at hand. Miss Linder was associated with his family during the period of an entire human life, in the closest and purest friendship, which particularly one test safely withstood—that of her conversion. In his autobiography, Schubert alludes, in a few words, to this friend of his household; and the comparison he draws between her and the Princess Gallitzin shows how high a position he accorded her. Speaking of the circle of friends in which he chiefly moved, he mentions the names of Roth, Puchta, Schnorr, Cornelius, Ringseis, Schlotthauer, Boisseree, Schwanthaler, and then remarks:

"The gathering-point of many of these friends was the house of the noble Swiss, Emily. At all times and in all places, in larger as in smaller social circles, will each with pleasure thus recall that grand life-picture, which was similarly presented to a former generation at Münster, in the fair friend of Hamann, of Stolberg, of Claudius."

Emily Linder was certainly the first, in her deep humility, to deprecate such a comparison; but it is for both equally creditable that the venerable sage felt constrained to bear such testimony, even after her union with the Catholic Church.

Next to the testimony of scholars and artists, we will finally quote an opinion from a female writer, a literary lady of the higher walks of life. In the summer of 1841, came Emma von Niendorf to Munich. She was in friendly relation with Schubert and Brentano, and, several years later, recorded her reminiscences of those sunny days at Munich in a lively and imaginative little work. At Schubert's she formed the acquaintance of Emily Linder, and was attracted closely to her. She refers to her in glowing and expressive terms, depicting this art-loving woman in the repose of her home:

"A noble Swiss, and for this reason remarkable, that, fortified by exterior means and the most positive convictions, she presented to me an ideal existence in a ripe and unwedded old age, having achieved happiness. She lived only for science, for art, for all that is beautiful and good. But everything was illumined with the glory of a genuine Christian spirit. And how this spirit reflected itself in all her surroundings! I shall never forget it; the sitting-room, with work-basket, books, flowers, harp, drawings by Overbeck; a drawing-room separating these from a little house-chapel, which a painting of Overbeck also embellished. And, where the organ awaited the skilful fingers, a Madonna of the school of Leonardo da Vinci smiled from the wall, while the little side-altar encased a drawing of Albrecht Dürer. I found, also, in the house of this lady a portrait of Maria Mori, in the Tyrol, admirably drawn by her friend, the well-known lady artist, Ellenrieder, somewhat idealized; a profile, with folded hands; long, brown, down-flowing hair; the large, dark eye full of devotion, full of sensibility, the stigmata in the hands not to be forgotten. … This lady is a Protestant. The deepest coloring of her soul is, perhaps, shading toward Catholicism; yet she doubtless finds satisfying harmonies in the Gospel. By one of those wonderful providences which life is so full of, this earnest soul was planted between two strongly pronounced natures—two opposite polarities of friendship, both deep and sincere—Clemens Brentano and Schubert, who were on equal terms of intimacy with her."

At the very time Emma von Niendorf put her work to press, she knew not that the lady to whom these lines referred had already attained that toward which "the deepest coloring of her soul seemed to be shading." Emily Linder had sought and found "satisfying harmonies" in the faith of the one, universal, apostolic church.

Conclusion In The Next Number.

Xavier De Ravignan.

[Footnote 46]

[Footnote 46: The Life of Father de Ravignan, of the Society of Jesus. By Father de Ponlevoy, of the same Society. Translated at St. Beuno's College, North Wales. 12mo, pp. 693. New York: The Catholic Publication Society. 1869.]

Father De Ponlevoy's life of his friend and colleague, the celebrated orator of Notre Dame, violates many of the canons of biographical composition, and is nevertheless an admirable book. As a narrative, it lacks clearness and symmetry; but as a picture of the interior of a great and beautiful soul, it is wonderfully vivid. It could only have been written by one who sympathized completely with the subject, and understood the interior illuminations and trials, and the complete detachment from the world, which distinguished the illustrious preacher whose fame at one time filled all Catholic Europe. Father de Ponlevoy has given us therefore a valuable work. He has looked at De Ravignan's life from the right point of view—the only point in fact from which it offers any important material to the biographer. In a worldly sense, the life was not an eventful one. He came of a noble yet hardly a distinguished family, who preserved their faith in the midst of the storm of revolution, and brought up their children to love the church. Gustave Xavier was born at Bayonne on the 1st of December, 1795. As a child he was remarkable for a gravity and intelligence far beyond his years, a warm affection for his parents, and a very pious disposition. After completing his school and college education in Paris, he resolved to devote himself to the law, and at the age of eighteen entered the office of M. Goujon, a jurist of some distinction at the capital. He had scarcely begun his studies, however, when France was thrown into confusion by the return of Napoleon from Elba. The young man threw down his books, enlisted in a company of royalist volunteers, and after preparing himself for the campaign by receiving holy communion, marched with his command toward the Spanish frontier. His company belonged to that unlucky detachment under General Barbarin, which was surprised and cut to pieces at Hélette, in the Lower Pyrénées. General Barbarin fell, severely wounded, and would have fallen into the enemy's hands, when De Ravignan rushed forward through the fire and attempted to carry him off the field. It was a generous but desperate act, which would have led to the sacrifice of both. Barbarin saw the danger of the young hero, and, freeing one of his arms, shot himself through the head. Covered with the blood of his unfortunate commander, Gustave sought safety in flight, wandered afoot and alone through the Basque country, in the disguise of a peasant, and, after many hardships and escapes, rejoined the army on Spanish soil. He now received a commission as lieutenant of cavalry, and was attached to the staff of the Count de Damas, who sent him on a confidential mission to Bordeaux. Before he had any further opportunity of winning distinction, the war was over, and although tempting offers were made him to continue in the army, he determined to adhere to the law, and was soon hard at work again. The indomitable resolution, amounting even to sternness, which distinguished him in after life, was already one of his most remarkable characteristics. Whatever he did, was done with all his might. He studied with the most intense application, and, not satisfied with the reading necessary for his profession, applied himself closely to the German and English languages, and such lighter accomplishments as drawing and music. In due time he was appointed a conseiller auditeur in the royal court of Paris, then under the presidency of Séguier. The influence of the Duke d'Angoulême got him the appointment—not, however, without some difficulty—and his colleagues received him coldly. He awaited his time in patience, beginning each day by hearing Mass, and studying thoroughly, systematically, and indefatigably. At last, one day when the advocates happened to be out of court, a civil cause of a very tedious nature was unexpectedly called. The president turned, rather maliciously, to De Ravignan, and handed him the papers, saying, "Let us see for once what can be done by this young gentleman, whose acquaintance we have yet to make." On the appointed day the "young gentleman" presented a clear and logical report, and delivered it with a perfection of utterance which caused the whole court to listen with astonishment. His success at the bar was assured from that moment, and soon afterward he was appointed deputy procureur général.

His life at this time presents a curious and instructive study. He devoted a part of each day regularly to religious exercises; he was a zealous member of a Sodality of the Blessed Virgin; he had already in fact formed the idea of entering the priesthood, if not of joining the Society of Jesus. But while he remained in the world, he never neglected his professional pursuits, he mingled freely in society, and showed himself, in the true sense of the term, an accomplished gentleman. He was a great favorite in company. "In him," says Father de Ponlevoy, "interior and exterior were in perfect harmony. It would be impossible to imagine a more perfect type of a young man: the expression of his countenance was excellent, his forehead high and full of dignity, his features fine and characteristic, his eyes deep and blue, by turns animated and affectionate, his figure slight and graceful. To this picture must be added scrupulous attention to person and dress, perfect politeness, and a nameless something, the reflection of a lofty mind, a great intellect, and a pure and affectionate heart." Many years afterward, when he visited London, to preach at the time of the World's Fair, one of the principal Protestant noblemen of England said of him, "He is the most finished gentleman I ever saw." His modesty, like many of his other virtues, leaned toward severity. At a great dinner-party one day, before he had embraced the religious life, he was placed next a young lady whose dress was rather too scanty. He sat stiff and silent until the unlucky girl ventured to ask, "M. de Ravignan, have you no appetite?" He replied in a half-whisper, "And you, Mdlle., have you no shame?"

He was twenty-six years of age when, after a retreat of eight days, he entered the Seminary of Saint Sulpice. The resolution had been gradually formed, yet it took everybody except his mother and his spiritual director by surprise. His professional friends and associates did all they could to draw him back to the world. They sought out his retreat, and went after him in crowds. "Ah!" he exclaimed, when he saw them, "I have made my escape from you."

De Ravignan remained only six months in the seminary, and then removed to the novitiate of the Society of Jesus, for which he had made no secret of his preference. The life of a novice offers little matter for the biographer. We are only told that his course here was distinguished by a devotion which approached heroism, a zeal that tended toward excess, and a strictness that was often too hard and stern. Throughout his life, severity toward himself, far more than toward others, was his principal defect; but as years went on, this rigidity of character, always more apparent than real, disappeared little by little in the sunshine of divine love. He never spared himself in anything. He surpassed all in his ambition for humiliation and suffering; the only trouble was, that he sometimes went too far in attempting to lead weaker brethren by the hard path he himself had trodden. A novice once asked somebody for advice, and was recommended to apply to Brother de Ravignan. "In that case," he rejoined, "I know beforehand what I must do: I have only to choose the most difficult course." In the scholasticate, he was known by the sobriquet of "Iron Bar." When the time came for his admission to holy orders, after nearly four years passed in the scholasticate at Paris and at Dôle, he was sent with five other candidates to the Diocesan Seminary at Orgelet, where the sacrament of ordination was to be administered. Before the party set out, Brother de Ravignan was appointed superior for the journey. His companions were seized with fear when they heard who had been placed in charge over them; but their alarm was groundless. "Nothing," said one of the company, "could exceed the kindness, the affability, the attentiveness to small wants, the simple joy of the young superior. He availed himself of his character only to claim the right of choosing the last place, and of making himself the servant of all." He was ordained priest on the 25th of July, 1828.

The war against the Jesuits in France was approaching its crisis, and the ordinance which deprived them of the liberty of teaching and shut up all their colleges was promulgated just about the time of Father de Ravignan's ordination. Cut off from the privilege of secular instruction, the society resolved to devote itself more zealously than ever to the theological training of its own members. Father de Ravignan was assigned a chair of theology at Saint Acheul, near Amiens; for he was not only a thorough scholar, but he possessed a rare talent for teaching, and according to the testimony of his pupil, Father Rubillon, fully realized "the idea of a professor of theology such as is depicted by St. Ignatius." The poor fathers, however, were not to be left here in peace. In 1829, they received notice to suspend their classes; but Father de Ravignan hastened to Paris, saw the Minister of Public Instruction, and caused the order to be set aside. The next year came the revolution of July. Late in the evening of the 29th, a mob, led by an expelled pupil, attacked the college, burst in gates, and with cries for "The King and the Charter!" "The Emperor!" "Liberty!" and "Down with the priests!" and "Death to the Jesuits!" proceeded to sack the building. While some of the fathers took refuge in the chapel, and others, expecting death, were busy hearing one another's confessions, Father de Ravignan went upon a balcony, and tried to make himself heard by the rioters. He persisted until a stone struck him on the temple, and he was led away bleeding. To what lengths the fury of the mob would have gone it is impossible to say; but fortunately, in the course of their devastation they stumbled into the wine-cellar, and all got drunk. The arrival of a troop of cavalry dispersed the reeling crowd in the twinkling of an eye, and the Jesuits were left to mourn over the ruins. The next day it seemed certain that the attack would be renewed. The college was deserted, and its inmates scattered in different directions, Father de Ravignan being sent to Brigue in Switzerland to resume his courses of theological instruction.

It was not until the close of 1834 that he came back to France. Then we find him once more at Saint Acheul, where, since classes were prohibited, a house had been opened for fathers in their third year of probation. Three years later, he was appointed superior of a new house at Bordeaux. There he remained until 1842.

In the mean time he had entered, imperceptibly, so to speak, upon the great work of his life. He had preached many retreats at different times to his own brethren, and to other religious communities, but had rarely been heard in a public pulpit until, during the Lent of 1835, while he was living at Saint Acheul, he was selected to preach a series of conferences in the cathedral of Amiens. He was forty years of age when he began this apostleship, and he had been withdrawn from the world ever since he was twenty-seven; yet he had not been forgotten. There was a lively curiosity among his old friends to hear him; the members of the bar in particular were constant in their attendance; and the impression produced in Amiens was not only deep, but rich in spiritual fruit. In Advent, he was appointed to preach a similar course at the same place; and in Lent of the next year, we find him preaching in the church of St. Thomas Aquinas, in Paris. Nothing exactly like these conferences and courses of sermons, so common in France, has ever been known to our country, and some of our readers may find it difficult to appreciate the magnitude and importance of the labor in which Father de Ravignan was now engaged. The audiences whom he had to address were not only poor, unlettered sinners, whose consciences needed arousing; to these of course he must speak, but with them came hundreds of the most cultivated and critical listeners, who studied the speaker's language and manner as they would a literary essay or an exercise in elocution. The court, the army, the learned professions, and the leaders of fashionable society crowded around the Lent and Advent pulpits. The appearance of a new preacher was the sensation of the metropolis. The newspapers criticised the performance as they would criticise a play at the theatre. To satisfy the exactions of such an audience as this, and yet to preserve that unction without which preaching is a waste of breath—to please the critical ear, and yet to move the callous heart, required qualifications which few men combined. The most famous of all the series of conferences had been those in the great cathedral of Notre Dame in Paris. Father Lacordaire had there roused an extraordinary enthusiasm, and at the height of his fame had abandoned the pulpit and gone to Rome for the purpose of restoring the Dominican order to France. He earnestly desired that Father de Ravignan should be his successor at Notre Dame, and it is interesting to know that it was partly through Lacordaire's agency, that the Jesuit was obliged in 1837 to begin that grand series of discourses, extending over ten years, by which he will be chiefly remembered. "No one could claim to be the apostle of such an assembly as met in Notre Dame," says Father de Ponlevoy,

"unless he were first of all a philosopher. The subject chosen for the first year was accordingly a kind of Catholic philosophy of history, depicting the broad outlines of the struggle between truth and error. This idea is analogous to that which inspired the City of God of St. Augustine; it was carried on in the station of 1838 by an explanation of fundamental doctrines, beginning with the personality and action of God, in opposition to the abstractions of the pantheists, the ill-defined forms of deism and fatalism; proceeding on to liberty, the immortality of the soul and the end of man, against materialism. For all this, it was necessary to go to first principles, to recall slumbering belief to life, and again to establish doctrines which had been corrupted by numberless errors. Some portion of the hearers were from this time forward led to embrace the last practical conclusions, and already F. de Ravignan had some consoling returns to the faith to report. At the end of the station of 1838, he wrote:

"'The attendance has been large and remarkable for the great number of distinguished persons, members of the present and former ministries, peers, deputies, academicians, well known Protestants, foreigners of rank, and a troop of young men.

"'There have been symptoms of approval, sometimes too freely manifested; conversions, a few, but not many. Moreover, no expressions of hostility, either in the newspapers or among the audience. God be praised!

"'I have been forced to have some intercourse with a great many people, and some of them persons of note. M. de Chateaubriand paid me a visit; two interviews were arranged for me with M. de Lamartine; several physicians and men of science have sought to see me; some have been to confession. How many great men there are ignorant of the faith, and sick in mind and heart.

"'God has supported me. I have felt his grace, his help to our society, and the benefit of the prayers offered for my work. I took care that none of the journals should employ short-hand writers, that my words might not be published in a distorted form.'"

From the very outset, Father de Ravignan had contemplated the establishment of an annual retreat by way of a complement to his conferences; but wishing to give his influence time to work before he carried out this plan, he waited until 1841, and then resolved to begin in the small church of the Abbaye-aux-Bois, which with great crowding holds no more than 1000 or 1200 people. Should the attendance be too large for this church, it was arranged that he should remove to St. Eustache. He describes the result of his experiment as follows:

"I gave notice of a retreat for men during Holy Week, only on Palm-Sunday at Notre Dame before the conference; an instruction every evening at eight o'clock till Holy Saturday inclusively. On the Monday evening I went to the Abbaye-aux-Bois about half-past seven. I found an extraordinary crowd, and difficulty in getting places; and there was not a single woman. I had kept them all out. For nearly two hours the whole church had been full, and already a hundred people had gone away unable to get in. I wanted to cross the bottom of the church, but I could not get along. I was recognized, and with great earnestness, but without uproar, I was asked to adjourn elsewhere. I promised to do so. From the pulpit I was struck by this throng of men, almost all young, who filled the doorways, the altars and no disturbance. After having warmly congratulated them, I appointed Saint-Eustache for the next day. Then I bade them all rise for prayer. They all rose like one man. We recited the Veni Creator, and the instruction followed on these words: Venite seorsum et requiescite pusillum—Come aside, and rest a little. I advised them all to remain for benediction. All remained.

"Next day Saint-Eustache was filled five hours before the service, and the following days they came even earlier.

"My heart is full of gratitude to God. His help has been plain. I do not know that such a churchful of men was ever seen. The iron gates at the doors, the bases of the pillars, the rails, everything, was covered with people hanging on; the nave and aisles filled and crowded beyond conception, and the deepest, most religious silence—not one disturbance, no police—3000 or 4000 men's voices singing the Miserere, the Stabat Mater. The sight affected me deeply.

"I at once adopted perfect apostolic freedom of language, and, without preface, began to speak of sin, of hell, of confession, etc. I delivered my address, and appointed six hours every day which I would devote to men who might wish to see me. They have come in shoals. I have been hearing confessions all the week, six or seven hours a day, of men of all ages and positions in life—all very much behindhand. God has given me consolation. The prayers offered on all sides for this work have had a visible effect. There has been a marked movement in Paris. More Easter Communions everywhere. Our fathers have received many more confessions of men. I have not declined a single one, and I am still busy in finishing them.

"A good many came to tell me of their difficulties, and I said to them, 'Well, believe me, there is but one way; take your place there;' and all, with a single exception, made their confessions.

"On Good-Friday the Passion sermon exhausted my strength; the following day I had no voice left. I was unable to give the closing instruction of the retreat on Holy Saturday. I wrote a scrap of a note to inform the Curé of Saint-Eustache, and he bethought him of reading it from the pulpit. All went off quietly; the people waited for benediction and went home."

Lacordaire was a far more brilliant and poetical preacher than De Ravignan, but the styles of the two men were so entirely different that there can be no comparison between them. The conferences of the Jesuit orator, studied in the cold light of print, lack color and imagination; but they can only be judged fairly by those who heard them delivered. The principal characteristic of his delivery we should judge must have been force—a force which amounted to majesty. He spoke with a commanding air of authority, as one whose convictions were as fixed as the everlasting hills. His power of assertion was tremendous; with all this he was animated and impassioned, although he generally commenced with a slow and measured cadence. His style was a little rough, but nervous and striking. He did not captivate, but he conquered. His gestures were dignified and impressive; his attitude was modest but commanding; his personal presence was noble. When he entered the pulpit, he remained a long time motionless, with eyes cast down, waiting until the assemblage became perfectly still. Then he made the sign of the cross with a pomp and stateliness which became famous. A Protestant minister who witnessed this solemn exordium exclaimed, "He has preached without speaking a word!" It used to be said, "When Father de Ravignan shows himself in the pulpit, no one can tell whether he has just ascended from earth or come down from heaven." One day he had been describing the wilful misery of the unbeliever—his doubts, fears, melancholy, repinings, and despair; the picture was drawn with a terrible force; the audience sat as if paralyzed. Suddenly, want of breath compelled the orator to pause. He folded his arms, and with inimitable emphasis brought the climax to an end with these words: "And we— we are believers!" The effect was overpowering. The people forgot themselves, and a signal of applause ran through the church. The priest was indignant. With glowing countenance and arm raised in air, he cried, "Silence!" in a voice of awful reproof, and the assembly was instantly hushed.

Still more effective, though less celebrated than the conferences, were Father de Ravignan's retreats. In these he was unapproached. He followed strictly the exercises of St. Ignatius, to which he gave such unremitting study that he might well be called a man of one book. His conferences were prepared with great elaboration, but the retreats were improvisations. As years went on, he devoted himself more and more closely to these latter exercises, until they became at last his proper work in the ministry; and when sickness, and the loss of his voice had compelled him to abandon formal preaching, he continued to conduct the retreats at Notre Dame, while Lacordaire resumed his place in the pulpit.

It must not be supposed that the success of the Jesuit's oratory was any indication of a growing favor for the society in France. The opposition to its existence was still active, and the government refused to acknowledge that as a society it had any existence in the kingdom at all. The wildest stories about it were published and believed. One day, in the midst of a distinguished party assembled at the Tuileries to celebrate the king's birthday, a person of influence disclosed a horrible plot: the Jesuits had arms stored in the cellars of Saint Sulpice, and only the day before, Father de Ravignan had been there concerting measures with his accomplices. "Oh! yes," interrupted a lady of the court, "I was at that meeting. We were drawing a raffle for the poor. There were two or three hundred families so lucky as to be set up with a coffee-pot or a sauce-pan." As a general thing, however, whatever might be said of the society, Father de Ravignan was treated with respect. Guizot made no secret of his esteem for him, and Royer-Collard used to say, "Father de Ravignan is artless enough to imagine himself a Jesuit." In the little book which De Ravignan accordingly wrote about this time—On the Existence and the Institute of the Jesuits—there was a double purpose to be gained. He wished to identify himself as thoroughly and as publicly as he could with the society to which he had given his heart, and he wished to share in the gallant battle which Lacordaire was fighting for the right of the religious orders to exist in France under the protection of the laws. The opposition in the legislative chambers had been insisting that they ought not to exist; the ministry replied that they did not exist; and right in the midst of the dispute appears Father de Ravignan, like the poor prisoner who called a lawyer to get him out of jail. "But this is preposterous," said the counsel; "you can't be arrested on such a charge as that!" "I don't know," said the prisoner, "but I am arrested." "Why, I tell you, you can't be: it is not legal; they have no right to put you in jail." "Well, I only know that I am in jail, and I want you get me out." Father de Ravignan showed clearly enough that they did exist, and had a right to legal protection. If they were to be driven out of the kingdom, the government must face the responsibility, and do it openly. A few days after the appearance of the book, Lacordaire, being present at a meeting of the Catholic Club under the presidency of the Archbishop of Paris, exclaimed, "If we were in England, I should propose three cheers for Father de Ravignan." The cheers were given with a will.

We have no space to follow Father de Ravignan in the varied occupations of the next ten years. His health, always precarious, broke down completely in 1847, and for the rest of his life he was condemned to alternations of intense suffering, and of forced inaction which was worse to him than pain. He was tormented with chronic neuralgia, with dropsy on the chest, and a severe affection of the larynx, that for long periods deprived him entirely of the power of preaching. During these ten years of suffering, he wrote his history of "Clement XIII. and Clement XIV," a book which under the guise of an apology for the course of the latter pontiff in the suppression of the Jesuits was in reality an apology for the society, and a reply to the recently published work of Father Theiner on the same subject. He founded the sodality known as the Children of Mary, assisted in the establishment of the Congregation of the Oratory, and was zealously and constantly employed in the direction of souls and the guidance of converts—gathering up, as Father de Ponlevoy well expresses it, the fruit of his ten years' preaching. There is hardly a distinguished name in the history of France at that day which does not appear in connection with his. Madame Swetchine was one of his co-laborers. Madame de la Ferronnays, whose charming life has recently been told under the title of A Sister's Story, was his devoted friend. Chateaubriand, Count Molé, Walckenaër, Camper the celebrated navigator, Marshal St. Arnaud, General Cavaignac, Prince Demidoff, Montalembert, De Falloux, and Bishop Dupanloup—these are some of the illustrious names which occur most frequently in his correspondence. A celebrity of a very different sort with whom he had some intercourse is thus alluded to in Father de Ponlevoy's Life:

"We cannot conclude this chapter without making some mention of that well-known American Medium, who possessed the unfortunate talent of turning other things besides tables, and of calling up the dead for the amusement of the living. Much has been said, even in the newspapers, about his close and pious intimacy with F. de Ravignan; and it seems that an attempt has been made to use an honored name as a passport to introduce into France, and establish there, these wonderful discoveries of the new world.

"The facts, in all their simplicity, are as follows: It is quite true that, after the young foreigner had been converted in Italy, he was furnished at Rome with an introduction to F. de Ravignan; but by this time he had given up his magic at the same time that he gave up his Protestantism, and he was received with the interest which is due from a priest to every soul ransomed with the blood of Jesus Christ, and especially, perhaps, to a soul which is converted and brought back to the bosom of the church. On his arrival in Paris, he was again absolutely forbidden to return in any way to his old practices. F. de Ravignan, agreeably to the principles of the faith which proscribe all superstition, prohibited, under the severest penalties he could inflict, all participation in or presence at these dangerous and sometimes guilty proceedings. Once the unhappy Medium, beset by I know not what man or devil, was unfaithful to his promise; he was received with a severity which prostrated him; I chanced at the time to come into the room, and I saw him rolling on the ground, and writhing like a worm at the feet of the priest, so righteously indignant. The father was touched by a repentance which led to such bodily agony, raised him up, and pardoned him; but, before dismissing him, exacted a written promise confirmed by an oath. But a notorious relapse soon took place, and the servant of God, breaking off all connection with this slave of the spirits, sent him word never again to appear in his presence."

We shall not undertake, in the brief space that remains, to describe the beauty of Father de Ravignan's character—his touching humility, his rare sweetness of soul, his complete detachment from earth, his patience, his charity, and his unflagging zeal. He was once asked how he had attained such mastery over himself. "There were two of us," he replied; "I threw one out of the window, so that only I remained where I was." Father de Ponlevoy applies to him the description which St. Francis Xavier gave of St. Ignatius: "His character is made up of three elements; a humility of mind which we can scarcely understand, a force of soul superior to all opposition, and an incomparable kindness of heart."

In the spring of 1857, a severe attack of sickness obliged him to remove to Saint Acheul. He came back to Paris in the autumn, apparently restored to as good health as he had experienced of recent years, but he was already far gone in consumption. On the 3d of December, he passed a long time at the Convent of the Sacred Heart, conversing with a poor person who wanted to enter the church. Then he went into the confessional, and remained there until physically exhausted. One of his penitents on that occasion remarked that he spoke more than ever like a man who no longer belonged to this world. He got home with great difficulty. This was the last of his ministry. On the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, he celebrated mass for the last time; but it was not until the 26th of February that he passed to that blessed rest for which he had yearned so long with an eagerness that he used to call "homesickness." The account of his last days is too beautiful to be abridged. With the awe inspired by the sublime narrative, we prefer to drop our pen at the opening of this final chapter, wherein the gates of heaven seem to stand ajar, and our eyes are dazzled by the awful light which streams from the divine presence.

The Educational Question.

The articles upon popular education which have heretofore appeared in this journal seem to have produced the effects which were anticipated by the writer. The public interest has been unusually excited by the discussion; and two classes of antagonists have ventured to make an issue with the advocates of a just distribution of the school fund. The first in order, but much the least important in all other respects, is that confessed fossil, the "no-popery" party, which ever and anon intrudes itself upon the unwilling attention of our republican society, braying itself hoarse with rage because it can neither command the confidence of enlightened and liberal Protestants nor escape the galling ridicule of six millions of its Catholic fellow-citizens. This class is well represented in an elaborate tract lately issued from the office of the American and Foreign Christian Union, 27 Bible House, New York City, and purporting to be a review of the article in the January number of The Educational Monthly, presenting The Roman Catholic View of Education in the United States. It requires no great amount of logical acumen to enable the least intelligent of men to see that this tract affords the most apt illustration of one of the principal arguments we have advanced in support of the Catholic claim. We have remained silent for the last three months, resting satisfied that it would be impossible for "the stereotyped class of saints and philosophers" to rush to the rescue of a cherished injustice, without forthwith exposing its odious features in their struggle to carry it victoriously through the battle-field of a public controversy. The veil of Mokanna has fallen even before the false prophet had time to secure a victim! or, to speak more in accordance with scriptural analogies, the cloven foot has discovered itself under the clerical robe and the wickedness of the heart has burst out from the tongue. Quare fremuerunt gentes! Why, indeed, shall they rage and devise vain things? Have they not fulfilled this prophecy of the royal David for three hundred years; and have they not suffered the derision threatened in the fourth verse of the second Psalm? Where shall we find a more convincing proof than this very tract of what the enemies of the Catholic faith and people design to accomplish by a school system which they insincerely profess to advocate on account of its intrinsic merits, in the face of the historical fact that, wherever and whenever they have had the power to control the state—as the early days of all New England and of several of the other American States—they never failed to use the school-room as an ante-chamber to the conventicle! After they had been stripped of this power by such men as Jefferson, Madison, Hamilton, and the liberal founders of American institutions, they still struggled for many years to accomplish by indirect means the injustice and iniquity which could not be openly maintained under the constitutions and the laws of the federal government and the several States. We all well remember how the poor Catholic boys and girls of the free schools were harassed by colporteurs and proselytizers, who carried baskets filled, not with bread for the hungry children of poverty, but with oleaginous tracts, cunningly devised to destroy in those little pupils of the state the faith of their fathers and the religious practices of their devout mothers. Teachers were selected with especial regard to their bitter hatred of the Catholic Church and their zeal for "Evangelical" propagandism. When this failed to make any very perceptible impression upon the numerical strength of the Catholic people, then commenced the wholesale child-stealing, under the pious pretext of cleaning out the moral sewers of society; and tens of thousands of little children, stolen or forcibly wrested from the arms of Catholic parents—too poor and friendless to protect the natural and legal rights of themselves and their offspring—were hurried off to the far West, their names changed, and their temporal and eternal hopes committed to the zealous charge of pious and vigorous haters of the popish anti-Christ! In spite of all this, the Catholic population of the United States continued steadily to rise like a flood tide, not only through foreign immigration, but by reason of virtuous wedlock and the watchful and severe faith and discipline of a church which forbids and effectually prevents child-murder! The reader will find this matter discussed in an article elsewhere in this number, entitled, "Comparative Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries."

The writer of the tract issued from 27 Bible House is annoyed by the comparison which the author of the article in The Educational Monthly instituted between the violent crimes of our ancestors and the stupendous sins which have supplanted them in modern times. The comparison was close-fitting as the shirt of Nessus, and quite as uncomfortable. The Bible House replies to this with a contrast between the intellectual, material, moral, and religious advancement of the masses in England, the United States, and every other Protestant country, in the nineteenth century, and the debasement of the people of Spain, Italy, Mexico, and South America. In the first place, we reply that our present controversy concerns popular education in the United States now and for a hopeful future, and not the past nor the present of European or South American nations. In the next place, we say that this is but another evidence of the malignant spirit to which we are required to intrust the training of our Catholic youth. They are to be taught that the church of their fathers is the nursery of ignorance and vice; and that all the knowledge, civilization, and virtue which the world enjoys are the offspring of the so-called Reformation. They are to learn nothing of the true history of Spain, Portugal, France, Italy, Belgium, Switzerland, Austria, Bavaria, and the Catholic principalities of Continental Europe. They are never to hear of the vast libraries of Catholic learning; the rich endowments of Catholic education all over the world for ages; the innumerable universities, colleges, academies, and free schools established by their church, or by governments under her auspices, throughout Christendom. They are not to be told how Oxford and Cambridge were founded by their Catholic forefathers and plundered from their lawful possession. The Bible House tractarian would not willingly read to them from the Notes of a Traveller by that eminent Scotch Presbyterian, Samuel Laing, such passages as these:

"The comparative education of the Scotch clergy of the present generation, that is to say, their education compared to that of the Scotch people, is unquestionably lower than that of the Popish clergy compared to the education of their people. This is usually ascribed to the Popish clergy seeking to maintain their influence and superiority by keeping the people in gross ignorance. But this opinion of our churchmen seems more orthodox than charitable or correct. The Popish clergy have in reality less to lose by the progress of education than our own Scotch clergy; because their pastoral influence and their church services being founded on ceremonial ordinances, come into no competition or comparison whatsoever in the public mind with anything similar that literature or education produces; and are not connected with the imperfect mode of conveying instruction which, as education advances, becomes obsolete and falls into disuse, and almost into contempt, although essential in our Scotch church. In Catholic Germany, in France, Italy, and even Spain the education of the common people in reading, writing, arithmetic, music, manners, and morals is at least as generally diffused, and as faithfully promoted by the clerical body, as in Scotland. It is by their own advance and not by keeping back the advance of the people, that the Popish priesthood of the present day seek to keep ahead of the intellectual progress of the community in Catholic lands; and they might, perhaps, retort on our Presbyterian clergy, and ask if they, too, are in their countries at the head of the intellectual movement of the age? Education is in reality not only not repressed but is encouraged by the Popish Church, and is a mighty instrument in its hands and ably used. In every street in Rome, for instance, there are at short distances public primary schools for the education of the children of the lower and middle classes in the neighborhood Rome, with a population of 158,678 souls, has 372 public primary schools with 482 teachers; and 14,099 children attending them. Has Edinburgh so many public schools for the instruction of those classes? I doubt it. Berlin, with a population about double that of Rome, has only 264 schools. Rome has also her university with an average attendance of 660 students; and the Papal States with a population of 2,500,000 (in 1846) contain seven universities. Prussia with a population of 14,000,000 has but seven."

Neither would our Bible House tractarian teach his Catholic pupils to discriminate between times, circumstances, opportunities, characteristics of race, influences of climate, ancient traditional habits, and the complicated causes which affect the life and development of each nation; so as to contrast Protestant England with Protestant Denmark, and Catholic France with Catholic Portugal; or, again, to compare each of these with itself at different epochs of its own history. They are not to be told that Spain was never as powerful, covering the seas with her commerce and the earth with her conquests, and lighting up Europe by her genius, as at the time when she was the most thoroughly Catholic and the least tainted with that revolutionary infidelity which was born of Calvin and has grown to be a giant destroyer under Mazzini and Garibaldi. They are to be told, however, that the glory of a Christian nation is to be measured by its national debt, its fleets and armies, its opium trade, its Coolie traffic, its bankrupt laws, its work-houses, its prodigious fortunes mocking squalid poverty, its twenty millions of people who own no foot of land and its vicious nobles and gentry who firmly grasp it all, its telegraphic wires and cables, its huge ships and thundering factories, its luxurious merchants who toil not, and its starving able-bodied paupers who can find no work to do, its grotesque mixture of the beautiful and the vile, of the grand and the infamous, of the light of the skies and the darkness of the obscene coal-pits, of the pride of science and the ignorance of barbarism, of the perfume of fashionable churches and the stench of gin-shops, of the industrial slavery of great towns and the rotting idleness of vast lazar-houses, which make up the boasted civilization of haughty England, and extort from the Bible House the prayerful cry, "Thank God, we are not like unto these Romish Publicans!" Happy Pharisees! we certainly do not desire to disturb their self-complacency; but we wish to teach our Catholic children that the simple habits, the earnest piety, the manly truth and courage of the little Catholic Republic of San Marino, which has preserved its liberties and independence for over eight hundred years without losing its religion, are for the citizens of this great democratic empire a more profitable study than the doctrines of Malthus or the history of cotton-gins. As we have said in our former articles, we already have here quite enough of the material, and a superabundance of animal spirits and vigor; and that what we stand in need of is a well-defined faith, moral duties clearly understood, and habits of practical virtue firmly fixed in the daily life of all the people, Without that, even temporal prosperity must be evanescent; as it was with all heathen nations that have successively ruled the world and perished. Without that, temporal prosperity is a curse, and not a blessing; for what will it profit a man if he gain the whole world and lose his own soul? Men make nations; and nationalities are of no value before God, except only in so far as they conduce to the end of each individual man's creation. The Indian who goes to heaven from his wigwam in the forest attains his end. The philosopher who goes to hell from his palace in London or Paris has wofully miscalculated the worth of all human philosophy, statesmanship, and national grandeur, as the idols of his worship. The pagans measured human life and society by the standard of the Bible House, No. 27, if we are to judge it by this tract!

So also, according to this tract, our Catholic children should be taught in the schools that Voltaire became an infidel because he had been a Catholic and was trained at a Jesuit college. It will nowhere appear in the lesson that he became an infidel because he rebelled against the teachings of his church, and renounced the maxims of his Jesuit tutors. When he so zealously defended his thesis in vindication of Julian the Apostate, his own apostasy was foretold by his master. His death was the answer to his life. In his agony he called for a priest; but three-score years of blasphemy had won to him the avenging disciples who then encircled his bed like a wall of fire; and no priest could reach the dying enemy of Christ!

This tract would also teach our children in the schools that it was the teachings of the "Romish Church" which drove revolutionary France from the altars of God. It would not be explained to them how that revolutionary rage was but the outburst of a volcano of passion which had smouldered during ages of long suffering under the rule of kings and nobles; and that the instincts of the people remained so true, that in the very same generation they returned, like the people of Israel, to the worship of God; and rushed to the altars of their fathers with tears of repentance and joy. They did not become Protestants! How has it been with the descendants of the godly men of Plymouth Rock? Quietly and with exquisite decorum they have settled down into deists, pantheists, freethinkers, free-lovers, spiritualists, and philosophers! Will they go back to Puritanism?

"Facilis descensus Averni!"

The tract tells our children that Gibbon left the Protestant Church for the Catholic, and finally landed in infidelity. Why did he not go back to Protestantism?

The tract also tells our children that this is a Protestant country; which means that all its glories are Protestant, and that the Catholic, with Italy and Spain before his eyes, should be thankful that he is tolerated here. Are our children to learn this lesson at the schools? Now, in the first place, if Bishop Coxe and other Protestant witnesses are reliable,[Footnote 47] our Bible House friends may as well begin to prepare their nerves to see our great country become Catholic, at least as much of it as will remain Christian at all. Perhaps they will then value the wisdom and liberality of that admonitory sentence in the article of The Educational Monthly which reads thus:

[Footnote 47: See page 61 of this number.]

"We are quite sure that if the Catholics were the majority in the United States, and were to attempt such an injustice," (as that involved in this school question.) "our Protestant brethren would cry out against it, and appeal to the wise and liberal examples of Prussia and England, France and Austria! Now, is it not always as unwise as it is unjust to make a minority taste the bitterness of oppression? Men governed by the law of divine charity will bear it meekly and seek to return good for evil; but all men are not docile; and majorities change rapidly and often, in this fleeting world! Is it not wiser and more politic, even in mere regard to social interests, that all institutions intended for the welfare of the people should be firmly based upon exact and equal justice? This would place them under the protection of fixed habit, which in a nation is as strong as nature; and it would save them from the mutations of society. The strong of one generation may be the weak of the next; and we see this occurring with political parties within the brief spaces of presidential terms. Hence we wisely inculcate moderation and of retribution."

In the next place, although the present majority of the American people are non-Catholic, we deny that they are Protestants, as a nation, in a political sense. The institutions of the country are neither Catholic nor Protestant. They recognize no one faith more than another. Christian morality is accepted as the basis of public and private duties by common consent; that is all. Religious liberty was not born of the theocracy of New England. Hancock and Adams, under the lead of Jefferson, departed very far from the instincts of Calvinism and the traditions of Plymouth Rock when they laid the foundations of this government; and this is one of the things which we certainly intend to have our children taught. We do not intend that they shall be "poor boys at the feast," humbly thankful for such crumbs as our Bible House friends may magnanimously bestow upon the "Romish aliens;" but they shall be told to hold up their heads, with the full consciousness that they are American citizens, the peers of all others, and in no way disqualified, by the doctrines or morals of their church, to perform every duty as faithfully and as ably as any other men of any other creed. They shall not be terrified with the "raw head and bloody bones" of "degraded Italy," "besotted Spain," and the other terrible examples of the destroying influence of their old mother church. We shall teach them not to trust any morality which does not rest upon a clear faith; and we shall show them how that faith commands obedience to lawful authority, purity of motive in all public acts, and universal charity for all men.

Some of our readers may be surprised that we have devoted so much space to this tract. Our motive should be apparent. We said, in the beginning of this article, that this tract sounds like the voice of one of the two classes of opponents who are arrayed against us on this question; and that in itself it affords a perfect illustration of our main argument, which is this, clearly stated in the following paragraph from the article in The Educational Monthly:

"And more than this, Catholics know by painful experience that history cannot be compiled, travels written, poetry, oratory, or romance inflicted upon a credulous public, without the stereotyped assaults upon the doctrines, discipline, and historical life of their church. From Walter Scott to Peter Parley, and from Hume, Gibbon, and Macaulay to the mechanical compilers of cheap school literature, it is the same story told a thousand times oftener than it is refuted; so that the English language, for the last two centuries, may be said without exaggeration to have waged war against the Catholic Church. Indeed, so far as European history is considered, the difficulty must always be insurmountable; since it would always be impossible for the Catholic and Protestant to accept the same history of the Reformation or of the Papal See, or the political, social, and moral events resulting from or in any degree connected with those two great centres and controlling causes. Who could write a political history of Christendom for the last three hundred years and omit all mention of Luther and the pope? And how is any school compendium of such history to be devised for the use of the Catholic and Protestant child alike?"

Now, it is very well understood that, with all their doctrinal differences and sectarian antipathies, all the Protestant sects can nevertheless, as a general rule, accept any Protestant history of the so-called Reformation, and of the wars, diplomacies, public events, and moral results springing from or connected with that episode in the religious annals of our race; but can Catholics accept such? Will you compel Catholic parents to accept for their children histories written in the spirit of this Bible House tract, which tells us (p. 3.) that the Catholic faith "taught the people that a Romish priest is to them in the place of God; that a Romish priest can create his Creator!"

The very encyclopedia, quoted by our tractarian is another Roundhead trooper armed against the papal anti-Christ! And so, the bright Catholic boy will be amused with the antics of the feasting and fighting monk in Ivanhoe; whilst graver calumnies will convince him that the church of his fathers, and of the great-grandfathers of her modern revilers, is truly a den of thieves and a house of abominations.

It may as well be distinctly understood, once and for all, that we cannot consent that our children shall receive secular education without religious training; and that we understand very well that such religious knowledge as we desire them to possess cannot be imparted by those who are hostile to us. We intend also to teach them to respect and uphold all the rights, social, political, and religious, of their fellow-citizens, upon the plain injunction of the Scriptures that they shall do unto others precisely as they would have others do unto themselves. At the same time we will teach them to love and revere their ancient mother church, as the custodian for fifteen hundred years of that Bible which she is falsely accused by this tract of "fearing;" as the munificent patroness of every art and the mistress of every science; as the friend and supporter of liberty when united to order and justice; as the enemy of pride, license, and disobedience to lawful authority; as the guardian of the sanctity of marriage against the pagan concupiscence of the divorce courts; as the sword of vengeance uplifted over the heads of the child-murdering destroyers of populations; in fine, as the hope and future salvation of this republic and all its precious endowments of personal manhood, honor, virtue, and faith, and all its national institutions of self-governing popular sovereignty, equal rights, and faithful citizenship, based, not upon infidel revolutionary "fraternity," but upon a noble Christian brotherhood. Certainly, even if we were mistaken in our estimate of the fruitfulness and power of the Catholic faith, it would be no less an evidence of our sincere patriotism, that we are anxious to impress upon the children of the church the conviction that in faithfully serving their country they are only obeying the commands of their religion.

As we do not intend that our children shall be either untaught or mistaught in regard to this sublime knowledge and duty, we shall insist on educating them ourselves, with or without receiving our just share of the public taxes, to which we do contribute very largely, the declaration of the Bible House tract to the contrary notwithstanding.

We have devoted more space to this first, class of objectors than they could claim from our courtesy, because we believe that they nominally represent many honest men who will cheerfully admit the truth when they see it.

There is another and a far different class of persons who take issue with us upon this question, and for whom we entertain a perfect respect—first, because they treat the subject with evident fairness and commendable civility; and secondly, because from their stand-point, there would appear to be much good reason in their objections to our claim. It gives us very great pleasure to use all our honest endeavors to remove their difficulties. This class is represented by the editorial articles which appeared in The Chicago Advance, The Troy Daily Press, and several other papers, criticising the article of The Educational Monthly. The objections may be summed up as follows:

First, (and the most important.) That denominational education would prevent the complete amalgamation or "unification" of American citizenship, and tend to increase sectarian bitterness, to the prejudice of republican institutions.

Secondly. That it would destroy the harmony and efficiency of the general school system.

Thirdly. That the Catholic people are richer in the jewels of the Roman matron, their children, than they are in the images of Caesar, the coin of the country! and that therefore they would draw from the common fund an amount much in excess of the taxes paid by them; which would not be just.

We shall candidly consider these objections in the order in which we have stated them.

As to the first: It would be fortunate, in a temporal point of view, if all the people were of one mind in religion, especially if they happen to have the true faith; inasmuch as nothing so conduces to the general harmony and good will as the total absence of all religious strife. But we see that such a state of things cannot be hoped for here. Not only is the community divided into Protestants, Catholics, and a large body of citizens professing no faith at all, but the Protestant community itself is subdivided into innumerable conflicting sects. In defiance of any system of public education, these various religious organizations will always be widely separated from each other, and from the Catholic Church, on questions of doctrinal belief. The issue then remains nakedly before us, Shall public education be entirely divorced from revealed religion, and shall we commit the morals of our children to the saving influences of a little "reading, writing, and arithmetic;" or, shall we have them educated in some form or another of practical Christianity? The arguments on this point have been so fully elaborated in our articles heretofore published, that it would be superfluous to repeat them now. We may, however, recall to mind the conclusive evidence afforded us of the correctness of our theory by the actual experience of such governments as those of England, France, Prussia, and Austria; under which, as we have shown in those articles, the denominational system is carried out to the fullest extent, producing harmony, instead of discord, in populations composed, as here, of numerous religious bodies. It is an old adage that one fact is worth a dozen arguments.

We find that, after long years of earnest study of this difficult question, and after exhausting every half-way expedient, the statesmen of the countries we have named adopted with singular unanimity the views which we are presenting for the serious and candid consideration of the American public. We shall quote briefly from a few of those statesmen who are well-known leaders of opinion in the European Protestant world.

Lord Derby: "Public education should be considered as inseparable from religion;" the contrary system is declared by him to be "the realization of a foolish and dangerous idea."

Mr. Gladstone: "Every system which places religious education in the background is pernicious."

Lord John Russell insisted that in the normal schools, which he proposed to have established, "religion should regulate the entire system of discipline."

M. de Raumer: "They have acquired in Prussia a conviction, which becomes daily more settled, that the fitness of the primary school depends on its intimate union with the church." In 1854, he writes that "education should repose upon the basis of Christianity, the true support of the family, of the commune, and of the state."

M. Guizot, the former very eminent Protestant prime minister of France, deserves to be specially quoted, although we are but repeating the extracts which we gave in another article. His words should be written in letters of gold. Let the enemies of religious education, if they can, present a satisfactory answer to this superb declaration:

"In order to make popular education truly good and socially useful, it must be fundamentally religious. I do not simply mean by this, that religious instruction should hold its place in popular education, and that the practices of religion should enter into it; for a nation is not religiously educated by such petty and mechanical devices. It is necessary that national education should be given and received in the midst of a religious atmosphere, and that religious impressions and religious observances should penetrate into all its parts. Religion is not a study or an exercise to be restricted to a certain place, and a certain hour; it is a faith and a law, which ought to be felt everywhere, and which after this manner alone can exercise all its beneficial influence upon our minds and our lives."

The first Napoleon, the restorer of order and religion in France, influenced, at the time, merely by human considerations, and speaking only as a wise lawgiver, and not as a practical Christian, insisted upon the necessity of making the precepts of religion the basis of education in the university, whose halls had echoed the blasphemous unbelief of the disciples of Voltaire.

At our very door, we have likewise the judgment and example of our Canadian neighbors, demonstrating the feasibility of connecting secular education with the most thorough instruction in the doctrines and practices of the different churches. Such opinions and facts should have some weight with our friends here who are fearful of the proposed experiment.

We know, by our own personal experience, that young men educated at the exclusively Catholic College of Mt. St. Mary's, in Maryland, and other young men, graduates of Yale and Princeton, where Catholics are rarely if ever seen, meet afterward in the world of business or politics, and immediately learn to value each other according to intrinsic personal worth, and to exchange all the mutual courtesies and discharge all the reciprocal duties of social life. It is the same with Catholics and Protestants educated together at the many Catholic colleges in the United States, where the Catholic pupils are nevertheless invariably instructed, with the utmost exactness, in all the doctrines and practices of their church. There are thousands of such living witnesses throughout the country, ready to attest the correctness of our statement. It proves this, (what we know to be true without the proof,) that the education received by Catholics at their own schools, whilst rigidly doctrinal, uniformly inculcates charity, urbanity, and every duty of good citizenship. There is not, therefore, and never can be any difficulty, on the part of Catholics, to meet their Protestant fellow-citizens in all the relations of life, private and public, with the utmost frankness, fraternity, and confidence, provided that they are not repelled by harshness or chilled by distrust. Their religion teaches them that such is their duty. Certainly, if such happy results are realized even in England, Prussia, and Austria, where all barriers, whether social or religious, are traditionally more difficult to surmount, how can it be that we must expect animosities to be engendered under the free action and the liberal intercourse of our republican society?

We must, therefore, consider the fear expressed by this first objection as wholly groundless. But even were it otherwise, what then? Should we, therefore, sacrifice to such an apprehension the far more momentous considerations that our republican, self-governing community can never safely trust itself in the great work of perpetuating the liberties of a Christian nation without planting itself upon the morality of the Gospel; that the revealed doctrines of Christ are the foundation of his moral code, and that to practise the one faithfully the people must be taught to believe the other firmly; and that religion so taught, as M. Guizot admirably expresses it, "is not a study or an exercise, to be restricted to a certain place and a certain hour; it is a faith and a law which ought to be felt everywhere;" and that "national education should be given and received in the midst of a religious atmosphere!"

What would the advantage of a more perfect amalgamation or unification of citizenship avail us, if, to obtain it, we were to strike from under our institutions the only solid basis upon which they can rest with any hope whatever of being able to withstand the rude shocks of time, to which all mortal works are subject, and which destroyed the grandest structures of pagan power, solely because they rested upon human wisdom and human virtue, unaided by revealed religion and supernatural grace? We cannot, therefore, admit any force in the first objection.

As to the second: How can the harmony or efficiency of the school system be disturbed by permitting a school to be organized for Catholic children in any district or locality where the requisite number may be found to render it practicable, in accordance with the general policy of the law? It is presumed that the law contemplates the education of all these children, and we cannot see that the harmony of the system consists in putting them into any one school-room rather than another. It is not proposed to withdraw them from the general supervision of the state, or to deny to the state the authority to regulate the standard of education, and to see that its requirements are complied with. This is done in every one of the countries of which we have spoken. No one is so unreasonable as to expect that separate schools shall be organized where the number of pupils may be below a reasonable uniform standard; as it is not proposed to increase the expense of the system. On the contrary, as far as concerns the education of our Catholic children in the city of New York, we propose to reduce the cost considerably, as we shall explain before we close this article. It is said that the several Protestant denominations may demand the same privilege. Suppose that they do. If they have a sufficient number of children in any particular locality for the proper organization of a separate school under the law, and are willing to fulfil its requirements, how can the general system be impaired by allowing them to do so? This is the condition annexed to the privilege in all those countries which have adopted this liberal policy. The proposition seems too plain for argument. When a college contains five hundred boys, two hundred may be classed in the higher division, three hundred in the lower, and each may have separate playgrounds and recitation halls. So, if a district contains two hundred of one faith, and three hundred of another, or of several other creeds, surely the two hundred may be organized into one school and the three hundred into another, or into several others, according to the standard of numbers, as may be required by the law. The whole question, therefore, is purely one of distribution, not at all above the capacity of a drill-sergeant! The same number of children would be educated, probably in the same number of schools, and at the same cost, as now. The course of secular education prescribed by the state could be rigidly enforced in all such schools without assailing the conscience of any one, because we suppose that the state would not object that Catholics should learn English history from Lingard, whilst others might prefer Hume and Macaulay. We presume that there would be no disagreement in regard to reading, writing, arithmetic, mathematics, natural philosophy, and those things which constitute the general studies of primary and high schools. It is only with such that the state has any right to intermeddle, and it is only such that the state professes to secure to its pupils. The state may say, "The public welfare requires that the citizens of a self-governing nation shall receive sufficient intellectual culture to enable them to discharge their duties understandingly;" but the state has no right to say that its pupils shall take their knowledge and form their opinions of the great moral events of history from D'Aubigné or from Cardinal Bellarmin. It was this that troubled the great Catholic and Protestant governments of Europe, until experience discovered to them the simple solution of the difficulty which we are so earnestly endeavoring to commend to the acceptance of the American people. Have we not at least a right to expect that our motives will not be misrepresented; and that we shall be believed when we say that we are not hostile to the public schools, but, on the contrary, most earnestly anxious to secure for them the widest usefulness and the greatest efficiency. We know that that cannot be if religion be excluded; and that it must be excluded where so many conflicting creeds confront each other.

As to the third: If it were true that the Catholic people contributed almost nothing to the school fund, as is no doubt sincerely believed by some who are not disposed to do us injustice, a very serious question would, nevertheless, be suggested by such a statement as this, which we copy from the article in The Chicago Advance already referred to: "Our American population is principally Protestant, partly Romish, slightly Jewish, and increasingly rationalistic or infidel." Now, it is unquestionably true that the infidels in this country can count but very few amongst their number who ever knelt at a Catholic altar. Still, it is the theory of our opponents that ignorance is, in itself, the source of all evil, and the parent of impiety. It would certainly, therefore, be a terrible calamity for the country if the children of six millions of Catholics were deprived of education because their fathers paid no taxes! To educate them would be unanimously regarded as a public necessity; just as our police authorities remove contagion at the public expense. If this view of public economy be true, (and we need not dispute it in this argument,) then it follows that the question of educating the Catholics is altogether independent of what they do or do not contribute to the treasury. Educated they must be; but suppose that they steadily refuse to receive the knowledge offered, except upon the condition that their consciences shall not be violated, and their parental responsibilities disregarded, by subjecting their children to a training inconsistent with the spirit of their religion; how then? Will you consign the six millions to what you call the moral death of ignorance, and suffer their carcasses to putrefy upon the highway of your republican progress, poisoning the fountains of your national life? Or will you prefer, in the spirit of your institutions, to respect their conscientious opinions, and to enable them, in the manner we have already indicated, to coöperate with you in the full development of your great and noble policy of universal popular education?

But, is it true that the Catholic people have no substantial claim as tax-payers? Such might have been the case twenty-five years ago; but every well-informed man knows that it is not so now. Wealth, amongst the Catholic population, may perhaps be less perceptible, because it is more diffused than it is amongst some other bodies of our citizens; but no man who is familiar with the cities of New York, Brooklyn, Baltimore, St. Louis, Chicago, Milwaukee, and all others, from the sources of the Mississippi to the Gulf, and from the Atlantic to the Pacific, or with the Catholic farm-settlements of the Western States, can shut his eyes to the fact that our Catholic people are thrifty and well-to-do in the world; and that very many of them possess large wealth. A member of the British Parliament, in a recent work upon the Irish in America, has demonstrated this by undeniable statistics. The same is true of Catholics here of all other nationalities. We have not the time nor space, neither is it necessary, to go into the details of this question. We suppose our readers to be intelligent and well-informed, and that they can readily recall to their minds the facts which substantiate the truth of our assertion.

Are there those, sharp at a bargain, who will say, "Well! the Catholics have the resources to educate themselves, and are doing so now; let them continue the good work without calling upon the state for any portion of the public funds, to which they contribute by their taxes"? The dishonesty of such a proposition is shown in the simple statement of it. It is true, as we have said over and over again, that the Catholic people, after paying their taxes to the state, have, with a generous self-sacrifice amounting to heroism, established all over this country more universities, colleges, academies, free schools, and orphan asylums than have ever been founded by all the rest of the nation through private contributions. A people capable of such great deeds in the cause of civilization and religion are not to be despised, can never be repressed, and certainly should not be denied justice, when they ask no more!

We hope that we have satisfactorily answered the objections of those honest adversaries, with whom we will always be happy to interchange opinions in a spirit of candor and sincere respect.

In order that our readers may obtain some idea of what the Catholic people, unaided by the state, have done and are doing for popular education in this country, we shall now present a brief summary or synopsis from Sadlier's Catholic Directory for 1868-9.

In the archdiocese of Baltimore, there are ten literary institutions for young men, twelve female academies, and nine orphan asylums. We shall include the latter, in all instances, because they invariably have schools attached for the instruction of the orphans. There are in the same archdiocese about fifty parish and free schools, the average attendance at which, male and female, exceeds ten thousand.

In the archdiocese of Cincinnati, comprising a part of the State of Ohio, there are three colleges, nine literary institutes for females, two orphan asylums, and seventy-six parochial schools, at which the average attendance is about twenty thousand.

In the archdiocese of New Orleans, there are twenty academies and parochial schools for females, and ten academies and free schools for males; attended by seven thousand five hundred scholars; and one thousand four hundred orphans in the asylums.

The archdiocese of New York comprises the city and county of New York, and the counties of Westchester, Putnam, Dutchess, Ulster, Sullivan, Orange, Rockland, and Richmond. We have lately examined a carefully prepared list of schools, more complete than that given in the directory, by which it appears that there are forty-nine, with a daily attendance of upward of twenty-three thousand children. Of these schools, twenty-six are in the city and county of New York, and have a daily attendance of over nineteen thousand pupils. We shall have occasion to speak more particularly of New York City at the close of this article.

In the archdiocese of San Francisco, there are three colleges, three academies, thirty-two select and parochial schools, and two orphan asylums, providing for nearly seven thousand children, of whom about four hundred are orphans in the asylums, and upward of three thousand are free scholars.

In the archdiocese of St. Louis, there are three literary institutions for males, nine for females, and twenty parochial or free schools, with seven thousand five hundred pupils in daily attendance, besides nine hundred orphans in four asylums.

In the diocese of Albany, comprising that part of the State of New York north of the forty-second degree and east of the eastern line of Cayuga, Tompkins, and Tioga counties, there are six academies for males, and six for females, seven orphan asylums, ten select schools, and fifty-eight parochial schools, with an average attendance of between ten and eleven thousand.

The diocese of Alton, comprising a portion of the state of Illinois, has two colleges for males and six academies for females, one orphan asylum, and fifty-six parochial schools, with an attendance of about seven thousand five hundred scholars.

The diocese of Boston comprises the State of Massachusetts, and has two colleges, three female academies, thirteen parochial or free schools, five thousand eight hundred scholars, and five hundred and fifty orphans in the asylums.

The diocese of Brooklyn comprises Long Island, and has one college in course of erection, eight female academies, nineteen parish schools, attended by over ten thousand scholars, and three asylums, and one industrial school, containing seven hundred orphans.

The diocese of Buffalo comprises twelve counties of the State of New York, and has five literary institutions for males, sixteen for females, three orphan asylums, and twenty-four parochial schools, the attendance on which is specifically set down at something over eight thousand; but it is stated (page 137) that between eighteen and twenty thousand children attend the Catholic schools of that diocese.

The diocese of Chicago comprises a portion of the State of Illinois, and has eight academies for females, seven colleges and academies for males, two orphan asylums, and forty-four parochial schools, attended by over twelve thousand children.

The diocese of Cleveland, comprising a part of Ohio, contains one academy for males and six for females, four asylums sheltering four hundred orphans, and twenty free schools educating six thousand scholars.

The diocese of Columbus, comprising a part of Ohio, has one female academy, twenty-three parochial schools, with over three thousand pupils; the exact number is not given.

The diocese of Dubuque comprises the State of Iowa, and contains twelve academies and select schools, and parochial schools at nearly all the churches of the diocese, educating ten thousand children.

The diocese of Fort Wayne comprises a part of Indiana, and has one college, one orphan asylum, eleven literary institutions, and thirty-eight parish schools.

The diocese of Hartford comprises Rhode Island and Connecticut, and contains three literary institutions for males and six for females, twenty-one male and twenty-three female free schools, the former attended by forty-two hundred, and the latter by fifty-one hundred scholars, besides four hundred orphans in four asylums.

The diocese of Milwaukee has two male and four female academies, and thirty-five free schools, attended by between six and seven thousand children, and four orphan asylums, containing over two hundred orphans.

The diocese of Philadelphia contains eight academies and parochial schools, under the charge of the Christian Brothers, with twenty-five hundred scholars; forty-two other parochial schools, attended by ten thousand pupils; twenty-four academies and select schools for females; three colleges for males; and five asylums, now containing seven hundred and seventy-three male and female orphans.

The above statement embraces but nineteen of the fifty-two dioceses and archdioceses in the United States, as it would extend this article to an unreasonable length were we to undertake to give the statistics of each; which, in regard to many of them, are not sufficiently full in the Directory to enable us to present satisfactory results. Although in many of them the Catholic population is small and sparse, our readers would nevertheless be surprised, no doubt, to see how each one has struggled to supply itself with schools and charitable institutions; and how amazingly they have succeeded, when we consider the comparative scantiness of their resources. We have, however, given enough to afford some idea to our Protestant brethren of the vast interest which their Catholic fellow-citizens have in this question of the public-school fund, and of the great claim to the sympathy and good-will of the country which they have established by their unparalleled efforts in the cause of popular education.

As we have shown above, the Catholics of the archdiocese of New York are educating twenty-three thousand of their children, nineteen thousand within the city limits. The value of their school property is placed at eleven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. For the education of these twenty-three thousand, it is estimated that their annual expense does not exceed one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. The actual cost of the Catholic free schools in New York City is put down at $104,430 for nineteen thousand four hundred and twenty-eight scholars; which is about five dollars and a half for each. We have before us the Report of the Board of Education for 1867, from which it appears that "the cost per head for educating the children in the public schools under the control of the Board of Education for the year ending 1867, based upon the cost for teachers' salaries, fuel and gas, was $19.75 on the average attendance, or $8.50 on the whole number taught." Adding the cost of books and stationery, each pupil cost $21.76 on the average attendance, or $9.40 on the whole number taught. The basis of the above calculation is: Teachers' salaries, $1,497,180.88; fuel, (estimated in a gross amount of expenses,) $163,315.12, and gas, $13,998.96, making a total of $1,674,496.96. But in fact the actual expenditures for 1867 were $2,973,877.41; which cover items that enter equally into the estimate we have given of the Catholic expenditures for school purposes. In that year New York City paid to the state as its proportion of school tax $455,088.27; out of which it received back by apportionment $242,280.04, a little more than one half, the rest being its contribution to the counties; at the same time the city raised for its own schools nearly $2,500,000; being the ten-dollar tax for each scholar taught, and the one twentieth of one per cent of the valuation of the real and personal property of the city. From this our readers will gather some idea of what popular education can cost, even with the best management.

It is well known that the Catholic people, through their church organizations, and by the unpaid assistance of their religious orders, such as the Christian Brothers, possess peculiar advantages, which enable them to conduct the largest and best-arranged schools at the smallest possible cost. Why will not the state permit us to do it? Or, rather, why will not the state do us the justice to reimburse the actual expenses which we make in doing it? For it is a thing which we have already accomplished to a great extent. Suppose that the city of New York was now educating the nineteen thousand children who attend our schools; at $19.75 each, it would cost $375,250; or at $8.50 each it would cost $161,500, this last sum being sixty thousand dollars more than we pay for the same! We have shown, however, that this calculation cannot be made to rest upon the basis given by the board, when you come to institute a comparison between the expenditures for the public schools and for ours. We are willing, nevertheless, to rest our claim even upon such a contrast as those figures show; and we ask the tax-payers of New York whether they are willing to follow the lead of our adversaries and add a few hundred thousand dollars extra to the annual taxes, for the satisfaction of doing us injustice?

It is universally conceded that the school-rooms of New York are dangerously over-crowded; and the Board of Education finds it almost impossible to meet the growing necessities of the city. There are still thousands of Catholics and Protestants unprovided for. Give us the means, and we will speedily see that there is no Catholic child in New York left without the opportunity of education. We will do this upon the strictest terms of accountability to the state. We will conduct our schools up to the highest standard that our legislators may think proper to adopt for the regulation of the public school system. We shall never shrink from the most rigid official scrutiny and inspection. We shall only ask that, whilst we literally follow the requirements of the state as to the course of secular education, we shall not be required to place in the hands of our children books that are hostile to their faith, or to omit giving to their young souls that spiritual food which we deem to be essential for eternal life.

In all sincerity and truth we must say, that we have not yet heard an argument which could shake our faith in the justice of our cause; and that it will ultimately prevail, by the blessing of Providence, we cannot possibly doubt; for, we have an abiding confidence in the integrity and generosity of the American people.

The Omnibus Two Hundred Years Ago.

"I allays thought till to-day," remarked elegant John Thomas to Jeames, as they were clinging to the back of their mistress's carriage during a shopping drive in Bond street, London, "that them 'air nuisances the 'busses was inwented in this 'ear nineteen centry."

"I allays thinked so," responded Jeames sententiously.

"Not a bit," resumed John Thomas, "them air celebrated people the Romans, the same as talked Lat'n, you know, 'ad plenty of 'em.

"'Ow d'you know that?" inquired Jaemes.

"I seed it this blessed morning in one o' master's Lat'n books. I was a tryin' what I could make out of Lat'n, and I seed that word 'omnibus' ever so many times; and that's the correc' name for 'bus—' bus is the wulgar happerlation."

"I know that," growled Jeames.

"'Ow true it is, as King David singed to 'is 'arp, there's nothing new under the sun!" exclaimed John Thomas enthusiastically.

The carriage stopped at this moment and the interesting conversation was interrupted.

But although people who understand more Latin than John Thomas have not yet discovered that the Romans were acquainted with that cheap and convenient mode of conveyance, they may have believed, like him, that omnibuses were a modern invention, and may be surprised to learn that, more than two hundred years ago, in the reign of Louis the Fourteenth, Paris possessed for a time a regular line of these now indispensable vehicles.

Nicolas Sauvage, at the sign of St. Fiacre, in the Rue St. Martin, had been accustomed for many years to let out carriages by the hour or day; but his prices were too high for any but the rich; and so in the year 1657, a certain De Givry obtained permission to "establish in the crossways and public places of the city and suburbs of Paris such a number of two-horse coaches and caleches as he should consider necessary; to be exposed there from seven in the morning until seven in the evening, at the hire of all who needed them, whether by the hour, the half-hour, day, or otherwise, at the pleasure of those who wished to make use of them to be carried from one place to another, wherever their affairs called them, either in the city and suburbs of Paris, or as far as four or five leagues in the environs," etc., etc.