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VOL. I. 






Ancient Saints of God, The, 19. 

Ars, A Pilgrimage to, 24. 

Alexandria, The Christian Schools of, 33, 721. 

Animal Kingdom, Unity of Type in the, 71. 

Art, 136, 286, 420. 

Art, Christian, 246. 

Authors, Royal and Imperial, 323. 

All-Hallow Eve, or the Test of Futurity, 500, 657, 

Arks, Noah's, 513. 

Babou, Monsieur, 106. 

Blind Deaf Mute, History of a, 826. 

Church in the United States, Progress of the, 1. 

Constance Sherwood, 78, 163, 349, 482, 600, 748. 

Catholicism, The Two Sides of, 96, 669, 741. 

Cardinal Wiseman in Rome, lli 

Catacombs, Recent DiscoveriePln the, 129. 

Chastellux, The Marquis de, 181. 

Church of England, Workings of the Holy 

Spirit in the, 289. 
Cochin China, French, 369. 
Consalvi's Memoirs, 377. 

Church History, A Lost Chapter Recovered, 414. 
Canova, Antonio, 598. 
Cathedral Library, The, 679. 
Catholic Philosophy in the Thirteenth Century, 


De Guerin, Eugenie and Maurice, 214. 
Divina Commedia, Dante's, 268. 
Dinner by Mistake, A, 535. 
Dramatic Mysteries of the Fifteenth and Six- 
teenth Centuries, 577. 
Dublin May Morning, A, 825. 

Extinct Species, 526. 
Experience, Wisdom by, 851. 

Falconry, Modern, 493. 

Fifth Century, Civilization in the, 775. 

Guerin, Eugenie and Maurice de, 214. 

Glacier, A Night in a, 345. 

Grand Chartreuse, A Visit to the, 830. 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland, 145. 

Heart and tho Brain, 623. 
Irish Poetry, Recent, 466. 
Jem McGowan's Wish, 56. 

Legends and Fables, The Truth of, 433. 
London, Catholic Progress in, 703. 
London, 836. 
Laborers Gone to their Reward, 855. 

Mont Cenis Tunnel, The, 60. 
Mongols, Monks among the, 158. 
Mourne, The Building' of, 225. 
Memoirs, Consalvi's, 377. 
Maintenon, Madame de, 799. 
Miscellany, 134, 280, 420, 567, 712, 858. 

Nick of Time, The, 124. 

Perilous Journey, A, 198. 

Poucette, 260. 

Prayer, What came of a, 697. 

Russian Religious, A, 306. 

Saints of God, The Ancient, 19. 

Science, 134, 280, 712. 

Streams, The Modern Genius of, 233. 

Stolen Sketch, The, 314. 

Swetchine, Madame, and her Salon, 456. 

Shakespeare, William, 548. 

St. Sophia, The Church and Mosque of, 641. 

Species, The Origin and Mutability of, 845. 

Three Wishes, The, 31. 
Terrene Phosphorescence, 770. 

Upfield, Many Years Ago at, 393. 
Vanishing Race, A, 708. 

Wiseman, Cardinal in Rome, 117. 
Winds, The, 207. 
Women, A City of, 514. 
Wisdom by Experience, 851. 

Young's Narcissa, 797. 

A Lie, 245. 

Avignon, The Bells of, 783. 

Domine Quo Vadis ? 76. 

Dream of Gerontius, The, 517, 630. 

Dorothea, Saint, 666. 

ExHumo, 33. 

Gerontins, The Dream of, 517, 630. 

Hans Euler, 237. 


Limerick Bells, Legend of, 195. 

Mary, Queen of Scots, Hymu by, 337. 
Martin's Puzzle, 739. 

Saint Dorothea, 666. 
Speech, 829. 

Twilight in the North, 344. 
Unspiritual Civilization, 747. 




Archbishop Spalding's Pastoral, 144. 
At Anchor, 287. 

American Annual Cyclopaedia, US. 
A Man without a Country, 720. 

Banim's Boyne Water, 286. 
Beatrice, Miss Kavanagh's, 574. 

Cardinal Wiseman's Sermons, 139. 
Cummings' Spiritual Progress, 140. 
Christian Examiner, Reply to the, 144. 
Correlation and Conservation of lorces, Ihe, 

288, 425. 

Confessors of Connaught, 574. 
Cure of Ars, Life of the, 575. 
Ceremonial of the Church, 720. 

Darras' History of the Church, 141, 575, 860. 
England, Froude's History of, 715. 
Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, 428. 
Grace Morton, 574. 

Heylen's Progress of the Age, etc., 142. 
Household Poems, Longfellow's, 719. 

Irvington Stories, 143. 
Irish Street Ballads, 720. 

John Mary Decalogne, Life of, 576. 
Lamotte Fouque's Undine, etc 142. 

La Mere de Dieu, 432. 
Life of Cicero, 573. 

Moral Subjects, Card. Wiseman's Sermons oil 


Mystical Rose, The, 288. 
Mater Admirabilis. 429. 
Month of Mary, 720. 
Martyr's Monument, The, 860. 

New Path, The, 288, 576. 
Our Farm of Four Acres, 143. 

Protestant Reformation, Abp. Spalding'a His- 
tory of the, 719. 

Real and Ideal, 427. 
Religious Perfection, Bayma's, 431. 
Russo-Greek Church, The, 576. 
Retreat, Meditations and Considerations for a, 

Songs for all Seasons, Tennyson's, 719. 
Sybfl, A Tragedy, 860. 

Translation of the Iliad, Lord Derby's, 570. 
Trubner's American and Oriental Literature, 

William Shakespre, 860. 
Whittier'e Poems; 860. 

Youne Catholic's Library, 432. 
Year of Mary, 719. 



VOL. L, NO. 1. APRIL, 1865. 

From Le Correspondant. 



[THE following article will no doubt 
be interesting to our readers, not only 
for its intrinsic merit and its store of 
valuable information, but also as a 
record of the impressions made upon 
an intelligent foreign Catholic, during 
a visit to this country. As might have 
been expected, the author has not es- 
caped some errors in his historical and 
statistical statements most of which 
we have noted in their appropriate 
places. It will also bs observed that 
while exaggerating the importance of 
the early French settlements in the 
development of Catholicism in the 
United States, he has not given the Irish 
immigrants as much credit as they de- 
serve. But despite these faults, which 
are such as a Frenchman might readily 
commit, the article will amply repay 
reading. ED. CATHOLIC WORLD.] 

AFTER the Spaniards had discovered 
the New World, and while they were 
fighting against the Pagan civilization 
of the southern portions of the conti- 
nent, the French made the first [per- 
manent] European settlement on the 
.shores of America. They founded 
Port Royal, in Acaclia, in 1604, and 
from that time their missionaries be- 
gan to go forth among the savages of 

the North. It was not until 1620 that 
the first colony of English Puritans 
landed in Massachusetts, and it then 
seemed not improbable that Catholi- 
cism was destined to be the dominant 
religion of the New World ; but sub- 
sequent Anglo-Saxon immigration and 
political vicissitudes so changed mat- 
ters, that by the end of the last cen- 
tury one might well have believed 
that Protestantism was finally and 
completely established throughout 
North America. God, however, pre- 
pares his ways according to his own 
good pleasure ; and he knows how to 
bring about secret and unforeseen 
changes, which set at naught all the 
calculations of man. The weakness 
and internal disorders of the Catholic 
nations, in the eighteenth century, re- 
tarded only for a moment the progress 
of the Catholic Church ; and Provi- 
dence, combining the despised efforts 
of those who seemed weak with the 
faults of those who seemed strong, 
confounded the superficial judgments 
of philosophers, and prepared the way 
for a speedy religious transformation 
of America. 

This transformation is going on in. 
our own times with a vigor which 
seems to increase every year*. The 


The Progress of the Church 

causes which have led to it were, at 
the outset, so trivial that no writer of 
the last century would have dreamed 
of making account of them. Yet, 
already at that time, Canada, where 
Catholicism is now more firmly es- 
tablished than in any other part of 
America, possessed that faithful and 
energetic population which has in- 
creased so wonderfully during the last 
half century ; and even in the United 
States might have been found many 
an obscure, but a patient and stout- 
hearted little congregation a relic of 
the old English Church, which after 
three centuries of oppression was to 
arise and spread itself with a new life. 
But no one set store by the poor 
French colonists ; England and Prot- 
estantism, together, it was thought, 
would soon absorb them ; and as for 
the Papists of the United States, the 
wise heads did not even suspect their 
existence. The writer who should 
have spoken of their future would 
only have been laughed at. 

The English Catholics, like the 
Puritans, early learned to look toward 
America as a refuge from persecution, 
and in 1634, under the direction of 
Lord Baltimore, they founded the col- 
ony of Maryland. Despite persecu- 
tion from Protestants whom they had 
freely admitted into their community, 
they prospered, increased, and became 
the germ of the Church of the United 
States, now so large and flourishing. 

In the colonial archives of the Min- 
istry of the Navy we have found a 
curious manuscript memoir upon Aca- 
dia, by Lamothe Cadillac, in which 
it is stated that in 1G86 there were 
Catholic inhabitants in New York, and 
especially in Maryland, where they had 
seven or eight priests. Another paper 
preserved in the same archives men- 
tions a Catholic priest residing in New 
York ; and William Penn, who had 
established absolute toleration in the 
colony adjoining that of Maryland, 
speaks of an old Catholic priest who 
exercised the ministry in Pennsyl- 

The Catholics at this tune are said 

to have composed a thirtieth part of 
the whole population of Maryland. 
This estimate seems to us too low. 
At all events, the increase of our un- 
fortunate brethren in the faith was 
retarded by persecution and difficulties 
of all kinds which surrounded them. 
In the Puritan colonies of the North, 
they were absolutely proscribed. In 
the Southern colonies, of Virginia, 
Georgia, and Carolina, their condition 
was but little better ; in New York they 
enjoyed a precarious toleration in the 
teeth of penal laws. In Maryland and 
Pennsylvania alone they were granted 
freedom of worship, and a legal status ; 
though even in those colonies they 
were exposed to a thousand wrongs 
and vexations. Maryland persecuted 
them from time to time and banished 
their priests ; and William Penn, in 
his tolerant conduct toward them, was 
bitterly opposed by his own people. 

Nevertheless, despite difficulties and 
violence, the Anglo-American Catho- 
lics increased by little and little, wher- 
ever they got a foothold ; the descen- 
dants of the old settlers multiplied ; 
new ones came from England and 
Ireland ; and a German immigration 
set in, especially in Pennsylvania, 
where several congregations of Ger- 
man Catholics were formed at a very 
early period. In the archives of this 
province we have found several valu- 
able indications of the state of the 
Church in 1760. There were then 
two priests, one a Frenchman or an 
Englishman, named Robert Harding, 
the other a German of the name of 
Schneider. It seems probable that they 
were both Jesuits.* In a letter to 
Governor Loudon, in 1757, Father 
Harding estimates the number of Cath- 
olics in Philadelphia and its immediate 
neighborhood at two thousand Eng- 
lish, Irish, and German ; but in the 
absence of Father Schneider he could 
not be positive as to these figures. A 
letter from Gouverneur Morris in 1756 

* In De Courcy and Shea's " Catholic Church in 
the United States " pp. -Jl 1 , -21 -2, an account will be 
found of both these missionaries. The first men- 
tioned was an Englishman. Both were Jesuits. 
ED. C. W. 

in the United States. 


speaks of the Catholics of Maryland 
and Pennsylvania as being very nu- 
merous and enjoying freedom of wor- 
ship, and adds, that in Philadelphia 
there is a Jesuit who is a very able 
and talented man. The Abbe* Robin, 
a chaplain in Rochambeau's army in 
1781, informs us in his narrative that 
there were several Catholic churches 
at Fredericksburg, Va., and even a 
Catholic congregation at Charleston, 

s. c. 

The toleration accorded to the Jes- 
uits in the United States was preca- 
rious, but it amounted in time to a 
pretty complete freedom ; and as they 
were not disturbed when the order was 
suppressed in Europe, some of their 
brethren from abroad took refuge with 
them; so that in 1784, we find, ac- 
cording to Mr. C. Moreau, in his ex- 
cellent work on the French emigrant 
priests in America,* nineteen priests 
in Maryland, and five in Pennsylvania. 
To these we must add the priests of 
Detroit, Mich., Vincennes, Ind., and 
Kaskaskia and Cahokia, 111., all four 
originally French - Canadian settle- 
ments which were ceded to England 
along with Canada, and after the 
American Revolution became parts 
of the United States. Counting, 
moreover, the missionaries scattered 
among the Indian tribes, we may 
safely say that the American Republic 
contained at the period of which we 
are speaking not fewer than thirty or 
forty ecclesiastics. The number of 
the faithful may be set down as 
16,000 in Maryland, 7,000 or 8,000 
in Pennsylvania, 3,000 at Detroit and 
Vincennes, and about 2,500 in southern 
Illinois ; in all the other states together 
they hardly amounted to 1,500. In a 
total population therefore of 3,000,000 
they numbered about 30,000, and of 
these 5 5 500 were of French origin. 
Such was the condition of the Church 
in the United States when it was regu- 
larly established in 1789 by the erec- 
tion of an episcopal see at Baltimore, 
and the appointment, as bishop, of Mr. 

* One vol. 12mo. Paris : Douniol. 

Carroll, an American priest, born of 
one of the oldest Catholic families of 
Maryland. The dispersion of the 
clergy of France, in 1790, soon after- 
ward supplied America with numerous 
evangelical laborers, who gave a new 
impulse to the development which was 
just becoming apparent in the infant 

A few years before the French Revo- 
lution, Mr. Emery, superior of Saint 
Sulpice, guided by what we must term 
an extraordinary inspiration, came to 
the assistance of the American Church, 
and with the help of his brother Sul- 
pitians and at the cost of the society, 
founded a theological seminary at Bal- 
timore. His plans were already well 
matured when Bishop Carroll, soon 
after his appointment, entering heartily 
into the project, promised him a house 
and all the assistance he could give. 
Four Sulpitians accordingly set out 
from Paris in 1790, taking with them 
five Seminarians. They were supplied 
with 30,000 francs to defray the cost 
of their establishment, and to this 
modest sum the crisis which soon over- 
took the parent establishment allowed 
them to add but little ; but this mite, 
bestowed by the Church of France 
in the last days of her wealth, was 
destined to become, like the widow's 
mite, the price of innumerable bless- 

Between 1791 and 1799 the storm 
of revolution drove twenty-three 
French priests to the United States. 
As the first apostles, when they set out 
from Rome, portioned out Germany 
and Gaul among themselves, so they 
divided this country, and most of them 
organized new communities of Chris- 
tians, or by then* zeal awakened com^ 
munities that slept. Six of them, 
Flaget, Cheverus, Dubourg, Marechal, 
Dubois, and David, became bishops. 

The base of operations from which 
these peaceful but victorious invaders 
went forth was Baltimore, the episco- 
pal see around which were gathered 
the old American clergy and the 
greater part of the Catholic popula- 
tion. It was here that the Sulpitians 

The Progress of the Church 

had their seminary, and this establish- 
ment became a centre of attraction 
for a great many of these exiled priests 
who belonged to the Society of Saint 
Sulpice. Some (as MM. Ciquard, 
Matignon, and Cheverus) bent their 
steps from Baltimore toward the labo- 
rious missions among the intolerant 
and often fanatical Puritans of the 
North, where the Catholics a mere 
handful were found scattered far 
and wide; isolated in the midst of 
a Protestant population ; deprived of 
priests and religious services, and in 
danger of totally forgetting the faith 
in which they had been baptized. 
Nothing discouraged these apostolic 
men. Aided by divine grace, they 
awakened the indifferent, converted 
heretics, gathered about them the few 
Catholics who immigrated from Eu- 
rope, attracted all men by their affable 
and conciliating manners, their intelli- 
gence and education, and the disinter- 
estedness of their lives. Soon on 
this apparently sterile soil Catholic 
parishes grew up and flourished in 
the midst of people who had never 
before seen a priest. Thus were 
founded the churches of Massachu- 
setts, Maine, and Connecticut so 
quickly that, in 1810 (that is to say, 
only eighteen years after the begin- 
ning of the missions), it was deemed 
advisable to erect for them another 
bishopric. Congregations had sprung 
up on every side as if by enchant- 
ment, and the venerable Abbe* Che- 
verus was appointed their first bishop. 
Others went westward. The Abbes 
Flaget, Badin, Barriere, Fournier, 
and Salmon carried the faith into 
Kentucky. There they found a few 
Catholic families who had emigrated 
from Maryland. "With them they 
organized churches, which increased 
with prodigious rapidity, and were 
the origin of the present dioceses of 
.Louisville, Covington, Nashville, and 

The Abbe's Richard, Levadour, 
Dilhiet, and several others, passed 
through the forest and the wilderness, 
and joined the old French colonies 

which still survived around the ruins 
of the French military posts in the 
Northwest and in the valley of the Mis- 
sissippi. They found there a few mis- 
sionaries, whom the Canadian Church 
still maintained in those distant coun- 
tries ; but their ranks were thin, and 
they were old and feeble. This pre- 
cious reinforcement enabled them to 
give a fresh impetus to the French 
Catholic congregations over whom 
they kept watch in the forest. De- 
troit, Vincennes, Cahokia, Kaskaskia, 
and afterward St. Genevieve and St. 
Louis in Missouri, ceded to the United 
States in 1803, received the visits of 
these new apostles, and experienced 
the benefits of their intelligence and 
zeal. Nearly all the places where 
they fixed themselves have since 
given their names to large and flour- 
ishing bishoprics. 

Several of the emigrant priests re- 
mained in Maryland and Virginia, 
and enabled the Sulpitians to com- 
plete the organization of their sem- 
inary, while at the same time they 
assisted Bishop Carroll in providing 
more perfectly and regularly for the 
wants of those central provinces 
which might be called the first home 
of American Catholicism. The num- 
ber of the faithful everywhere in- 
creased remarkably. We can hardly 
estimate the extraordinary influence 
which these French missionaries ex- 
ercised by their exemplary lives, their 
learning, their great qualities as men, 
and their virtues as saints ; and the 
Anglo-Saxon inhabitants (who are- 
thoroughly Protestant if you will, but 
for all that religious at bottom) were 
struck by their character all the more 
forcibly because it was so totally dif- 
ferent from what their prejudices had 
led them to expect of the Catholic 

There is something patriarchal and 
Homeric in the lives of these men, 
which read like the poetic legends in 
which nations have commemorated 
the histoiy of their first establishment. 
We have seen the journal of one of 
these missionaries the Abbe Bourg, 

in the United States. 

who labored further North, in New 
Brunswick and Nova Scotia. His 
life was one long, perpetual Odyssey. 
In the spring he used to start from 
the Bay of Chaleur, traverse the 
northern coasts of New Brunswick, 
pass down the Bay of Fundy, make 
the entire circuit of the peninsula of 
Nova Scotia, and after a journey of 
five hundred leagues, performed in 
nine or ten months, visit the islands 
in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, and so 
come back to his point of departure. 
From place to place, the news of hits 
approach was sent forward by the set- 
tlers, so that whenever he stopped he 
found the faithful waiting for him, 
and whole families came fifteen or 
twenty leagues to meet him. Hardly 
had he arrived before he began the 
round of priestly labor, of confession 
and baptism, of burial and marriage. 
He was the arbiter of private quar- 
rels, and often of public disputes. He 
found time withal to look after the 
education of the children at least to 
make sure that they were well taught 
at home. Thus he would stay fifteen 
days perhaps in one place, a month 
in another, according to the number of 
the inhabitants. The first communion 
of the children crowned his visit. 
Then the man of God, with a last 
blessing on his weeping flock, disap- 
peared for a whole year ; and when 
the apparition so long desired, but so 
transitory, had passed, it left behind 
a halo of superhuman glory, which 
seemed to these pious people the glory 
rather of a prophet than of an ordin- 
ary man. 

In such ways the marks of a messen- 
ger from God seemed more and more 
clearly and unmistakably stamped 
upon the Catholic missionary, and 
Protestants themselves began to yield 
to the subtle influence of so much 
real virtue and self-devotion. Con- 
versions were frequent even among 
the descendants of the stern Puritans. 
Many of the most fervent Catholic 
families in the United States date 
from this period. A rich Presbyterian 
minister of Boston (Mr. John Thayer) 

was converted, and became a priest 
and an apostle. So God scattered the 
seed of grace behind the footsteps of 
his poor, persecuted children, who, de- 
.spite their apparent misery, bore con- 
tinually with them the wealth of the 
soul, the power of the Word, and the 
marvellous attraction of their sacrifices 
and virtues. 

Providence, however, had not de- 
ployed so strong a force for no purpose 
beyond the capture of these converts. 
A very few missionaries might have 
sufficed for that ; but it was now time 
to prepare the land for the great 
European immigration which was to 
cause the astonishing growth of the 
United States. Spreading themselves 
over the vast area of the Union, the 
emigrants found everywhere these 
veteran soldiers whom the French 
Revolution had sent forth into the 
New World as pioneers, tried both by 
the pains of persecution and the labors 
of apostleship. Before this great 
human tide the old emigrant priests 
were like the primitive rocks which 
arrest and fix geological deposits, 
The Catholic part of the tossing flood 
invariably settled around them and 
their disciples. All over the West 
the churches founded by the old French 
settlers increased, and new ones sprang 
up wherever a Catholic priest estab- 
lished himself. From that moment 
the grand progressive movement has 
never ceased. The blood of the mar- 
tyrs of France, the spirit of her 
banished apostles, became fruitful of 
blessings, of which the American 
churches are daily sensible. 

The first bishop in the United 
States had been appointed in 1789. 
Four years afterward another see 
was erected at New Orleans, La., 
which, ten years later, became a part 
of the United States ; and in 1808, so 
rapid had been the Catholic develop- 
ment, that three new bishops were 
consecrated one for Louisville, Ky., 
another for New York, and the third 
for Boston, Mass. Two of these sees 
were occupied by the French mission- 
aries who had founded them Bishop 


The Progress of the Church 

Flaget at Louisville, and Bishop Che- 
verus at Boston. That of New York 
was entrusted to a venerable priest 
of English [Irish] origin the Rev. 
Luke Concanen. In the whole United 
States there were then sixty-eight 
priests and about 100,000 Catholics. 
Lei us now glance at the rapid in- 
crease of the American Church up to 
our own day. 

From the States of Maryland and 
Pennsylvania the Church was not 
long in spreading into Virginia, New 
York, Kentucky, and Ohio. The es- 
tablishment of sees at Louisville and 
New York was followed by the erec- 
tion of others at Philadelphia m 1809, 
and Richmond and Cincinnati in 1821. 
The two Carolinas, in which the 
Catholics had hitherto been an obscure 
and rigorously proscribed class, re- 
ceived a bishop at Charleston in 1820. 
New Orleans, a diocese of French 
creation, was divided in 1824 by the 
erection of the bishopric of Mobile. 
The old French colonies in the far 
West were the nucleus around which 
were formed other churches. The 
dioceses of St. Louis, Mo. (organized 
in 1826), Detroit, Mich. (1832), and 
Vincennes, Ind. (1834), all took their 
names from ancient French settle- 
ments, and were peopled almost ex- 
clusively by descendants of the French 
Canadians who were their first inhab- 

Thus, in the course of twenty-six 
years, we see eight new sees erected, 
making the number of bishops in the 
United States thirteen. The number 
of the clergy amounted in 1830 to 
232, and in 1834 probably exceeded 
300. At the date of the next offi- 
cial returns (1840) there were 482 
priests and three more bishoprics 
those of Natchez, Miss., and Nashville, 
Tenn., both established in 1837, and 
that of Monterey in California, a 
country of Spanish settlement which 

had recently been annexed to the 
United States.* 

But this increase was not compar- 
able to that which followed between 
1840 aiid 1850. In ten years the 
number of bishops was doubled by the 
erection of fifteen [seventeen} new sees. 
In 1840 there were sixteen; in 1850 
thirty-one [thirty-three]. The growth 
during this period was most percepti- 
ble in the North and West. Among 
the new sees were Hartford, Conn., 
Albany and Buffalo, N. Y., Pittsburg, 
Penn., Cleveland, O., Chicago, 111., 
Milwaukee, Wis., St. Paul, Minn., 
Oregon City and Nesqualy, Oregon, 
and Wheeling in Northern Virginia. 
The others were Little Rock, Ark., 
Savannah, Ga., Galveston, Texas, and 
Santa F4, New Mexico.f The clergy 
in 1850 numbered 1,800, having con- 
siderably more than doubled [nearly 
quadrupled] their number in ten years. 

Thus we see that the Church was 
pressing hard and fast upon the old 
New England Puritans. They soon 
began to feel uneasy, and to oppose 
sometimes a violent resistance to her 
progress. In some of the States, es- 
pecially Connecticut and New Hamp- 
shire, there were laws against the 
Catholics yet unrepealed ; so that the 
dominant party had more ways of 
showing their hatred of the Church 
than by mere petty vexations. In 
Boston things went so far that a nun- 
nery was pillaged and burned by a 
mob. It is from this time that we 
must date the origin of the Know- 
Nothing movement, directed ostensi- 
bly against foreigners, but undoubt- 
edly animated in the main by hatred 
of Catholicism and alarm at its prog- 
ress. The fretting and fuming of 
this political party was the last effort 
of Puritan antipathy. The Church 
prospered in spite of it; so the Puri- 
tans resigned themselves to witness 
her gradual aggressions with the best 
grace they could assume. 

* Monterey was not a part of the United States 
until 1 H4, nor a bishop's see until 1 sj(J. In place 
of it we should substitute Dubuque, made a see in 
1837. ED. C. W. 

t And San Francisco and Monterey ED C. W. 

in the United States. 

Ten new sees ^were established be- 
tween 1850 and 1860, and eight of 
these were in the North or West 
viz., Erie, Newark, Burlington, Port- 
land, Fort Wayne, Sault St. Marie, 
Alton, and Brooklyn. Two were in 
the South Covington and Natchito- 
ches. There were thus in the United 
States, in 1860, forty-three bishoprics, 
with 2,235 priests. Let us now see 
how many Catholics were embraced 
in these dioceses, and what proportion 
they bore to the total population. 

The number of the faithful it is not 
easy to determine accurately; for a 
false delicacy prevents the Americans 
from including the statistics of re- 
ligious belief in their census-tables. 
Estimates are very variable. A work 
printed at Philadelphia in 1858 by a 
Protestant author sets down the num- 
ber of Catholics as 3,177,140. Dr. 
Baird, a Protestant minister, pub- 
lished at Paris in 1857 an essay on 
religion in the United States an es- 
say, be it remarked, which showed 
the Catholics no favor in which he 
estimated their number at 3,500,000. 
But neither of these estimates rests 
upon trustworthy data. They were 
certainly below the truth when they 
were made, and are therefore far from 
large enough now, for the yearly in- 
crease is very great. 

Our own calculations are drawn 
partly from our personal observa- 
tion, and partly from official docu- 
ments published by various ecclesias- 
tical authorities. The best criterion is 
undoubtedly the rate of increase of the 

It must be evident that in America, 
more than in any other country, there 
is a logical relation between the num- 
ber of the faithful and the number of 
the priests. As the clergy depend 
entirely upon the voluntary contribu- 
tions of their people, there must be a 
fixed ratio between the growth of the 
flocks and the multiplication of pas- 
tors. If the clergy increase too fast, 
they endanger their means of support. 
Now, if priests cannot live in America 
without a certain number of parish- 

ioners to support them, we may take 
this number as a basis for calculating 
the minimum of the Catholic population ; 
and we may safely say that the popu- 
lation will be in reality much greater 
than this minimum ; because, as we can 
testify from experience, the churches 
never lack congregations, and in most 
places the number of the clergy is insuf- 
ficient to supply even the most press- 
ing religious wants of the people. One 
never sees a priest in the United States 
seeking for employment. On the con- 
trary, the cry of spiritual destitution 
daily goes up from parishes and com- 
munities which have no pastors. 

Calculations founded upon the stat- 
istics of " church accommodations " 
given in the United States census 
that is, of the number of persons the 
churches are capable of holding are 
not applicable to our case; because 
the Catholic churches, especially in the 
large cities, are thronged two or three 
times every Sunday by as many dis- 
tinct congregations, while the Protest- 
ant churches have only one service 
for all. The capacity of the churches 
therefore gives us neither the actual 
number of worshippers nor the pro- 
portion between our own people and 
those of other denominations. We 
have taken, then, as the basis of our 
estimate, the ratio between the number 
of priests and the number of the faith- 
ful, correcting the result according to 
the circumstances of particular places. 
The first point is to establish this ratio, 
and we are led by the concurrent re- 
sults of careful estimates made in some 
of the States, and special or general 
calculations which we have had oppor- 
tunity of making in person, to fix it at 
the average of one priest for every 
2,000 Catholics. But we have a very 
trustworthy method of verifying this 
estimate, and that is by comparison 
between the United States and the con- 
tiguous British Provinces, in which the 
statistics of religious belief are included 
in the general census. Setting aside 
Lower Canada, where the Catholic 
population is as compact as it is in 
France, we find that in Upper Can- 


The Progress of the Church 

ada, a country which resembles the 
Western United States, the ratio in 
1860 was one priest for every 1,850 
Catholics, and in New Brunswick, a 
territory very like New England, one 
for every 2,400. Our average ratio of 
one for every 2,000 cannot, therefore, 
be far from the truth. We have made 
due account of all data by which this 
ratio could be either raised or lowered 
in particular times and places. We 
have ourselves made investigations in 
certain districts, and persons well quali- 
fied to speak on the subject have given 
us information about others. The re- 
sult of our corrected calculation gives 
us 4,400,000 as the Catholic popula- 
tion of the United States in 1860, the 
date of the last general census. We 
shall give presently the distribution of 
this total among the several states ; 
but we wish first to call attention to 
another fact of great importance which 
appears from our figures. In 1808 
the Catholics were 100,000 in a total 
population of 6,500,000, or l-65th of 
the whole ; in 1830 they were 450,000 
in 13,000,000, or l-29th of the whole; 
in 1840, 960,000 in 17,070,000, or 
l-18th; in 1850,2,150,000 in 23,191,- 
000, or 1-1 1th; and finally, in 1860 
they were over 4,400,000 in 3 1,000,000, 
or l-7th of the total population. It 
thus appears that for fifty years the 
Catholics have increased much faster 
than the rest of the inhabitants, and 
especially during the last two decades. 
Between 1840 and 1850 their ratio 
of increase was 125 per cent., while 
that of the whole population was only 
36; and from 1850 to 18 60 their ratio 
of increase was 109 per cent., while 
that of the whole people was 35.59. 
These figures, to be sure, are not 
mathematically certain, for they are 
deduced partly from estimates ; but we 
are confident that, considering the im- 
perfect materials at our disposal, we 
have come as near the exact truth as 
possible, both in the ratio of increase 
and in the total population. Official 

returns in the British Provinces con- 
firm our calculations in a most remark- 
able manner ; and we believe that, 
estimating the future growth on the 
most moderate scale, the Catholics will 
number in 1 870 one-fifth of the whole 
population, and in 1900 not far from 


Having traced the progress of the 
Church step by step in the United 
States, it will now be equally interest- 
ing and instructive to see how this 
progress has been made in different 
places. The Catholics are by no 
means uniformly dispersed over the 
country, and their increase has not 
been equally rapid in all the states. 
It will be worth our while to see in 
which quarters they are settled with 
the most compactness and in which 
they are widely dispersed; and thus 
we may predict without great risk 
which regions are destined to be the 
Catholic strongholds in the New World. 
We have already said that the pro- 
portion of the Catholics to the whole 
people in 1860 was as one to seven; 
but if we divide the country into two 
parts we shall find that in the South- 
ern states there are only 1,200,000 
Catholics in a population of 12,000,000 
that is, they are l-10th of the whole ; 
while in the North they number 
3,200,000 in 19,000,000, or more than 
l-6th. Even these figures give but a 
very general idea of the distribution 
of the faithful. If we take the whole 
country, state by state, we shall find 
the proportions still more variable. 
In some places the Catholic element is 
already so strong that its ultimate pre- 
ponderance can hardly be doubted, 
while its slow development in other 
quarters promises little for the future. 
The following tables will enable our 
readers to comprehend at once the 
distribution of the Catholics among 
the various states : 

in the United States. 



5 - 

* d 


Per cent, 
of Catholic 





Maine. . 

649,958 ) 

New Hampshire 

320,072 J 






* * 



460,670 ) 

Rhode Island . . 

174,621 ) 






Vermont . 






New York 

New Jersey 









Pennsylvania ... . . 























































60 000 






143 645 















Oregon and Washington . . 










1 586 






1 * 


Per cent, 
of Catholic 





Missouri ... 


240 000 






1 145 477 

150 000 





681 565 ) 

District of Columbia 

75,321 ( 
1,012,053 ) 













North Carolina 

1 008 350 ) 


South Carolina 

715 367) 








25 000 

2 30 






2 10 





955 619 

50 000 





Mississippi . . . 

886 660 

30 000 

3 40 




440 775 

18 000 






666 431 

200 000 






Texas . 

604 400 

100 000 






145 697 

8 000 




80 000 







12 548 335 

1 226 000 

9 75 



I 9 



Progress of the Church 

These tables show at a glance the 
disproportion between the Catholics 
of the North and those of the South. 
In only one Northern state (that of 
Maine) is the proportion of Catholics 
as small as 5.45 per cent, of the whole 
population ; while there are no fewer 
than five Southern states in which it 
is less than three per cent. If we 
leave out New Mexico, Texas, Louis- 
iana, Missouri, and Maryland, where 
the preponderance of the faithful is 
due to special causes, we find that in 
the other Southern states the average 
proportion is not above four per cent. 
In other words, in these regions the 
Church has little better than a nominal 
existence. This is partly because the 
stream of European immigration has 
always flowed in other directions, and 
partly because the negroes generally 
adhere to the Baptist or Methodist 
sects in preference to the Church. 

But when we examine the tables 
more in detail, we see that in both 
sections the ratio of Catholics varies 
greatly in different states. It is easy 
to account for this difference in the 
South. Six states only have any con- 
siderable number of Catholic inhabit- 
ants. Louisiana and Missouri owe 
them to the old French colonies around 
which the Catholic settlers clustered. 
In New Mexico, more than three- 
fourths of the people are of Spanish- 
Mexican origin. Texas derives a great 
number of her inhabitants from Mexico, 
and has received a large Catholic emi- 
gration both from Europe and from the 
United States. Maryland, the germ 
of the American Church, owes her 
religious prosperity to the first English 
Catholic settlers; and the Church in 
Kentucky is an offshoot of that in 
Maryland. Such are the special causes 
of the great differences between the 
churches of the various Southern states. 
In the North there is less disparity. 
European immigration has produced 
a much more decided effect in this sec- 
tion than in the preceding. From 
this source come most of the faithful 
of New York, Oregon, California, 
Ohio, and New Jersey. In Ohio the 

Germans have done the principal part, 
and they have done much also in 
Pennsylvania and Wisconsin. The 
effect of conversions is more percep- 
tible in Connecticut, Rhode Island, 
Massachusetts, and New York than 
elsewhere. In many of the states, 
however, and especially in Pennsylva- 
nia, we find numerous descendants of 
English Catholic settlers, while the 
old French colonies of the West have 
had their influence upon the popula- 
tion of Michigan, Wisconsin, Minne- 
sota, and Illinois, and also of the north- 
ern part of New York, where the 
French Canadians are daily spreading 
their ramifications across the frontier. 
If we look now at the localities in 
which the proportion of Catholics is 
greatest, we shall notice several inter- 
esting points touching the laws which 
have determined the direction of the 
principal development of the Church, 
and which will probably promote it in 
the future. In the South there are 
what we may call three groups of 
states in which the Catholic element 
is notably stronger than in the others. 
One belongs exclusively to the South- 
ern section, and consists of Louisiana, 
Texas, and New Mexico, having an 
aggregate Catholic population of 380,- 
000 in 1,363,800, or 28 per cent. The 
other groups (Missouri, that is to say, 
and Maryland and Kentucky) form 
parts of much larger groups belonging 
to the Northern states. The first of 
these latter, and that to which Mary- 
land and Kentucky are attached, con- 
sists of Pennsylvania, New York, New 
Jersey, and Ohio. Its aggregate pop- 
ulation is 11,647,477, of whom the 
Catholics are 2,240,000, or nineteen 
per cent. This group contains the 
ancient establishments of Maryland 
and Pennsylvania good old Catholic 
communities, in which the zeal and 
piety of the faithful possess that firm 
and decided character which comes of 
long practice and time-honored tradi- 
tions. It contains, too, the magnifi- 
cent seminary of Baltimore, founded 
and still directed by the Sulpitians. 
This is the largest and most complete 

in the United States. 


establishment of the kind in the United 
States, and derives from its connection 
with the Sulpitian house in Paris spe- 
cial advantages for superintending the 
education of young ecclesiastics, and 
training accomplished ministers for 
the sanctuary. Kentucky, likewise, 
has some important and noteworthy 
institutions, such as the seminary of 
St. Thomas and the college of St. 
Mary, both of which are in high repute 
at the West, and the magnificent Abbey 
of Our Lady of La Trappe at New 
Haven, with sixty-four religious, eight- 
een of whom are choir-monks. The 
Kentucky Catholics deserve a few 
words of special mention. The de- 
scendants, for the most part, of the 
first settlers of Maryland, who scattered, 
about a century ago, in order to people 
new countries, they partake in an emi- 
nent degree of the peculiar character- 
istics which have given to Kentuckians 
a reputation as the flower of the Ameri- 
can people. They are more decidedly 
American than the Catholics of any 
other district, and they are remarkable 
for their homogeneousness, their ed- 
ucation, and their attachment to the 
faith and traditions of the Church. 

The most important and numerous 
Catholic population is found in the 
state of New York, where the faithful 
amount to no fewer than 800,000. 
They have here religious establish- 
ments of every kind. This condition 
of things is the result, in great meas- 
ure, of the well-known ability of Arch- 
bishop Hughes, whose death has left a 
void which the American clergy will 
find it hard to fill. His reputation 
was not confined to the Empire City. 
He was as well known all over the 
Union as at his own see, and was 
everywhere regarded as one of the 
great men of the country. Although 
the progress of the faith in New York 
has been owing in a very great degree 
to immigration, it is in this city and in 
Boston that conversions have been 
most numerous ; and in effecting these, 
Archbishop Hughes had a most im- 
portant share. It is not surprising, then, 
that his death should have caused a 

profound sensation in the city, and 
that all religious denominations should 
have united in testifying respect for 
his memory. 

It is difficult to apply a statistical 
table to the study of the question of 
conversions. These are mental opera- 
tions of infinite variety, both in their 
origin and in their ways ; for the meth- 
ods of Providence are as many and as 
diverse as the shades of human thought 
upon which they act. It may be re- 
marked, however, that the different 
Protestant sects furnish very unequal 
contingents to the little army of souls 
daily returning to the true faith ; and 
it is a curious fact that the two sects 
which furnish the most are the Epis- 
copalians, who, in their forms and tra- 
ditions, approach nearest to the Catho- 
lic Church, and the Unitarians, who 
go to the very opposite extreme, and 
appear to push their philosophical and 
rationalistic principles almost beyond 
the pale of Christianity. These two 
sects generally comprise the most 
enlightened and intellectual people of 
North America. On the other hand, 
the denominations which embrace the 
more ignorant portions of the popula- 
tion (such as the Baptists, the Wesley- 
an Methodists, etc., etc.) furnish, in 
proportion to their numbers, but few 
converts. The principal Catholic re- 
view in the United States (J3rownson's 
Review, published in New York) is 
edited by a well-known convert, whose 
name it bears, and who was formerly a 
Unitarian minister. 

Further North in New England 
there is another Catholic group, of 
recent origin, formed of the Puritan 
states of Connecticut, Massachusetts, 
and Rhode Island. The first see here 
was established by Bishop Cheverus 
only sixty years ago. These bishop- 
rics, however, have already acquired 
importance ; for in the diocese of Hart- 
ford the Catholics are now sixteen 
per cent, of the whole population, and 
the rapidity of their increase and the 
completeness of their church organiza- 
tion give us ground for bright hopes 
of their future progress. Immigration 


The Progress of the Church 

here does much to promote conver- 
sions, and it will not be extravagant to 
anticipate that in the course of a few 
years the number of the faithful will 
be doubled. The Pilot, the most im- 
portant Catholic journal in the coun- 
try, is published in Boston. 

The far West, only a few years 
ago, was a great wilderness, with only 
a few French posts scattered here and 
there in the Indian forest, like little 
islands in the midst of a great ocean. 
Now it is divided into several states, 
and counts millions of inhabitants. In 
this rapid transformation, Catholicism 
has not remained behind. Many dio- 
ceses have been established, and the 
quickness of their growth has already 
placed this group in the second rank 
so far as regards numerical import- 
ance, while all goes to show that Cath- 
olicism is destined here to preponderate 
greatly over all other denominations. 
The states of Missouri, Illinois, 
Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota 
contained, in 1860, 4,575,000 souls, of 
whom 890,000, or 19 per cent., were 
Catholics. This is as large a propor- 
tion as we find in the central group. 
It is, moreover, rapidly rising, and 
only one thing is necessary to make 
these states before long the principal 
seats of Catholicism in the Union 
that is, an adequate supply of priests. 
It is of the utmost importance that the 
demand for missionaries in these dio- 
ces be supplied at whatever cost. 

The principal causes of this remark- 
able increase are, first, the crowds of 
immigrants attracted by the great ex- 
tent of fertile land thrown open to set- 
tlers ; and, secondly, the fact that the 
Catholic immigrants on then- arrival 
clustered, so to speak, around the old 
French settlements, where the mission- 
aries still maintained the discipline 
and worship of the Church. At first, 
therefore, it was easy to direct this 
great influx of people, since they nat- 
urally tended toward the pre-existing 
centres of faith. The consequence 
was that the Church lost by apostacies 
fewer members than one might have 
supposed, and fewer than were lost 
in other places. But now the daily 

augmenting crowds of immigrants are 
dispersing themselves through less sol- 
itary regions. They are coming un- 
der more direct and various influ- 
ences ; and hence the necessity for in- 
creasing the number of churches and 
parish priests becomes daily more and 
more urgent. At the same time, the 
means at the disposal of the bishops 
become daily less and less adequate 
for supplying this want, especially 
since the people of the country, new 
and unsettled as they are, and ab- 
sorbed in material cares, furnish but 
few candidates for the priesthood. 
Here we see a glorious field for the 
far-reaching benevolence of the So- 
ciety for the Propagation of the Faith. 
Nowhere, we believe, will the sending 
forth of pious and devoted priests 
produce fruits comparable to those of 
which the past gives promise to the 
future in this part of the United States. 
We spoke just now of the old French 
colonies, and our readers will perhaps 
be surprised that we should have made 
so much account of those poor little 
villages, which numbered hardly more 
than from 500 to 1,500 souls each 
when the Yankees began to come into 
the country. Nevertheless, we have 
not exaggerated their importance. It 
is not only that they served as centres 
and rallying-points ; but so rapid is 
the mutiplication of families in Amer- 
ica that this French population which, 
if brought together in one mass in 
1800, would have counted at most 
14,000 souls, now numbers, including 
both the original settlements and the 
swarms of emigrants who have gone 
from them to the West, not fewer 
than 80,000. Their descendants are 
always easily recognized. Detroit, 
and its neighborhood in Michigan, 
Vincennes (Ind.), Cahokia and Kas- 
kaskia (111.), St. Louis, St. Genevieve, 
Carondelet, etc. (Mo.), Green Bay and 
Prairie du Chien (Wte.), St. Paul 
(Minn.) all these old settlements have 
preserved the deep imprint of our 
race. Even in the new colonies which 
were afterward drawn from them, the 
French population have uniformly 
kept up the practice of their religion, 

in the United States. 


the use of their mother tongue, and a 
lively recollection of their origin. Of 
this fact we have obtained proof in 
several instances from careful personal 
observation. Small and poor, there- 
fore, as these settlements were, they 
had a powerful moral influence upon 
the great immigration of the nine- 
teenth century. The Catholic immi- 
grants felt drawn toward them by the 
attraction of a community of thought 
and customs ; and God, whose Provi- 
dence rules our lives, directed the 
movement by his own inscrutable 


While the Catholic element was in- 
creasing at the rate of 80, 125, and 
109 per cent, every ten years, other 
religious denominations showed an in- 
crease of only twenty or twenty-five 
per cent. Some remained stationary, 
and a few even lost ground. Whence 
comes this continued and increasing 
disparity in the development of differ- 
ent portions of the same people ? The 
principal reason assigned for it is the 
immense emigration from Ireland to 
America. As the number of Catho- 
lics in the United States when the 
emigration began was very small, 
every swarm of fresh settlers added 
much more to their ratio of increase 
than to that of other denominations. 
Ten added to ten gives an increase of 
100 per cent. ; but the same number 
added to 100 gives only ten per cent. 
At first sight, this seems a sufficient 
explanation ; but we shall find, when 
we come to examine it, that it does 
not really account for our increase. 
If the growth of the American Catho- 
lic Church were the result wholly of 
immigration, we should find that as 
the number of Catholic inhabitants 
increased, the apparent effect of this 
immigration would be diminished. In 
other words, the ratio of increase 
would gradually fall to an equality 
with that of other denominations. But, 
so far from this being the case, the 
difference between our ratio of in- 

crease and that of the Protestant sects 
is as great as ever is even growing 
greater. The ratio which was ten 
per cent, a year between 1830 and 
1840, rose to 12.50 per cent, a year 
between 1840 and 1850, and was 
10.09 per cent, between 1850 and 
1860. There are other causes, there- 
fore, beside European emigration to 
which we must look for an explana- 
tion of Catholic progress in America. 
If we study with a little attentiDn the 
extent to which immigration has in- 
fluenced the development of the whole 
population of the country, and the ex- 
act proportion of the Catholic part of 
this immigration, we shall find con- 
firmation of the conclusions to which 
we have been led by the simple tes- 
timony of figures. Immigration has 
never furnished more than six or seven 
per cent, of the decennial increase of 
the population of the United States, 
the growth of which has been at the 
rate of thirty-five per cent, during the 
same period. Immigration, therefore, 
contributed to it only one-fifth. Again, 
of these immigrants, including both 
Irish and Germans, not more than 
one-third have been Catholics. More- 
over, we must take account of the con- 
siderable number of members that the 
Church has lost in the course of their 
dispersion all over the country. 

Clearly, then, the influence of immi- 
gration is not enough to account for 
the rapid progress of the faith. A 
careful analysis of the Catholic popu- 
lation at different tunes, and in different 
places, enables us to specify two other 

1. The Catholics are principally 
distributed at the North among the 
free states, where the population in- 
creases much faster than it does at the 
South ; and the Catholic families, it 
has been observed, multiply much 
faster than the others, in consequence, 
no doubt, of their more active and 
regular habits of life, sustained moral- 
ity, respect for the marriage tie, and 
regard for domestic obligations. This 
difference in fecundity is quite percep- 
tible wherever the Catholic element 


The Progress of the Church 

is strong as in Canada, and the 
states of New York, Pennsylvania, 
Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin, 
etc., and, among the Southern states, 
in Louisiana, Maryland, and Missouri. 
2. Another cause of increase is the 
conversion of Protestants a cause 
which operates slowly, quietly, and, 
at first, imperceptibly, but with that 
constant and uniform power remind- 
ing us of the great operations of nature 
which is almost always the sign 
of a Providential agency. Eloquent 
theorists and brilliant writers on sta- 
tistics, preferring salient facts and 
striking phenomena what they call 
the great principles of science too 
often overlook or despise those obscure 
movements which act quietly upon 
the human conscience. Yet how much 
more powerful is this mysterious ac- 
tion like the continual dropping of 
water than the showy effects which 
captivate so many thinkers, whose 
organs of perception seem dazzled by 
the glow of their imagination ! Such 
was the nature of the invisible opera- 
tion which was inaugurated by the 
preaching of the martyrs of the faith 
whom the French Revolution cast forth 
like seed all over the world. The 
rules of political economy had nothing 
to do with it. It acted in the secret 
chambers of men's hearts and the re- 
tirement of their meditative moments, 
and it has gone on without interrup- 
tion to the present moment, increasing 
year by year. The Church seizes 
upon the convictions of grown men ; 
reaches the young by her admirable 
systems of education; impresses all 
by her living, persuasive propagand- 
ism, made beautiful by the zeal and de- 
votion and holiness of her missionaries. 
Simple and dignified, without the af- 
fectation of dignity austere, without 
fanaticism their presence alone roots 
up old prejudices, while their preach- 
ing and example fill the soul with 
new lights and with anxieties which 
nothing but their instructions can set 
at rest. Thus, wherever they go, the 
thoughts and comparisons which they 
suggest multiply conversions all around 

them. You have only to question a 
few Catholic families in the older 
states about their early religious his- 
tory, and you will see how important 
an element in the prosperity of the 
Church is this force of attraction so 
important, that the following state- 
ment may almost be taken as a gen- 
eral law : Wherever a Catholic priest 
establishes himself, though there be 
not a Catholic family in the place, it 
is almost certain that by the end of a 
tune which varies from five to ten 
years, he will be surrounded by a 
Catholic community large enough to 
form a parish and support a clergy- 
man. This rule seems to us to have 
no exception except in some of the 
southern states. We have no hesi- 
tation in stating it broadly of even 
those parts of New England in which 
the anti- Catholic feeling is now strong- 

We shall presently have occasion 
to show that the only thing which pre- 
vents the American Church from in- 
creasing, perhaps doubling, the rapid- 
ity of its progress, is the scarcity of 
ecclesiastics and missionaries, from 
which all the dioceses are suffering. 

We have explained the important 
part which converts have played in 
this progress. The inquiry naturally 
arises : Whence come so many conver- 
sions ? What are the causes which 
generally lead to them? These are 
delicate and difficult questions. We 
have no wish to speak ill of the Prot- 
estant clergy. Most of them are cer- 
tainly honorable men, estimable hus- 
bands and good fathers ; but we can- 
not help observing that they lack the 
sacerdotal character so conspicuous 
in the Catholic priest. Their minis- 
try and their teaching cannot fully 
satisfy the soul ; and whenever a calm 
and unprejudiced comparison is drawn 
between them and the Catholic clergy, 
it is strange if the former do not suffer 
by the contrast, and behold their 
flocks, little by little, passing over to 
the side of the Church. This com- 
parison is one motive which often 
leads Protestants, not precisely into 

in the United States. 


the bosom of the faith, but to the 
study of Catholic doctrine ; and this is 
a step by no means easy to persuade 
them to take ; for, of every ten Prot- 
estants who honestly study the faith, 
seven- or eight end by becoming Cath- 
olics. The Americans are a people 
of a strong religious bent. Nothing 
which concernh the great question of 
religion is indifferent to them. They 
study and reflect upon such matters 
much more than we skeptical and 
critical Frenchmen. The conversions 
resulting from such frequent consider- 
ation of religious matters ought, there- 
fore, to be far more numerous in 
America, and even in England, than 
in other countries. 

There are doubtless many other 
causes which contribute to the same 
result. Among them are mixed mar- 
riages, which generally turn out to the 
advantage of the Church, especially 
in the case of educated people in the 
upper ranks in society. Not only are 
the children of these marriages brought 
up Catholics, but almost always, as 
experience has shown us, the Protest- 
ant parent becomes a Catholic too. 

The excellent houses of education 
directed by religious orders are another 
active cause of conversions. If ele- 
mentary education is almost universal 
in the United States, it is nevertheless 
true that the higher institutions of 
learning are exceedingly defective. 
The colleges and boarding-schools 
founded under the direction of the 
Catholic clergy, though inferior to those 
of France in the thoroughness of the 
education they impart and the amount 
of study required of their pupils, are 
yet vastly superior to all other Ameri- 
can establishments in their method, 
their discipline, and the attainments 
of their professors. The consequence 
is that they are resorted to by num- 
bers of Protestant youth of both sexes. 
No compulsion is used to make them 
Catholics ; no undue influence is ex- 
erted ; the press, free as it is, rarely 
finds excuse for complaint on this 
score ; but facts and doctrines speak 
for themselves. The good examples 

and affectionate solicitude which sur- 
round these young people, and the 
friendships they contract, leave a deep 
impression on their minds, and plant 
the seed of serious thought, which 
sooner or later bears fruit. Various 
circumstances may lead to the final 
development of this seed. Now per- 
haps a first great sorrow wakens it into 
life ; now it is quickened by new ideas 
born of study and experience ; in one 
case the determining influence may be 
a marriage ; in another, intercourse 
with Catholic society ; and not a few 
may be moved by the falsity of the 
notions of Catholicism which they find 
current among Protestants, and which 
their own experience enables them to 
detect. This motive operates oftener 
than people suppose, and generally 
with those who at school or college 
seemed most bitterly hostile to the 
faith. In fine, those who have been 
educated at Catholic institutions are 
less prejudiced and better prepared 
for the action of divine grace, which 
Providence may send through any one 
of a thousand channels. 

And lastly, Catholicism acts upon 
the Americans through the medium of 
the habits and customs to which it 
gradually attaches them, the result of 
which is that in the growth of the 
population the Church makes a con- 
stant, an insensible, and what we might 
call a spontaneous increase. It is a 
well-known fact that the Catholic fami- 
lies of North America, as a general 
rule, are distinguished by a character 
of stability, good order, and modera- 
tion which is often wanting in the 
Yankee race. Now this turns to the 
advantage of the Church; for it is 
evident that a people which fixes itself 
permanently where it has once settled, 
which concentrates itself, so to speak, 
has a better chance of acquiring a pre- 
dominance in the long run than one of 
migratory habits, always in pursuit of 
some better state which always eludes 
it. This truth is nowhere more appar- 
ent than in a county of Upper Canada 
where we spent nearly three years. 
The county of Glengarry was settled 


The Progress of the Church 

in 1815 by Scotchmen, some of whom 
were Catholics. The colony increased 
partly by the natural multiplication of 
the settlers, partly by immigration, 
until about 1840, when immigration 
almost totally ceased, all the lands 
being occupied. The population was 
then left to grow by natural increase 
alone. The Protestants at that time 
were considerably in the majority ; but 
by 1850 the proportions began to 
change, and out of 17,576 inhabitants 
8,870 were Catholics. In 1860 the 
majority was completely reversed, and 
in a population of 21,187 there were 
10,919 Catholics ; in other words, the 
latter, by the regular operation of natu- 
ral causes, had gained every year from 
one to two per cent, upon the whole. 
It would not be easy to give a detailed 
explanation of this fact ; we are only 
conscious that some mysterious and 
irresistible agency is gradually aug- 
menting the proportion of the Catholic 
element in American society and weak- 
ening the Protestant. 

American society might be compared 
to a troubled expanse of water hold- 
ing various substances in solution. 
The solid bottom upon which the waters 
rest is formed by the deposit of these 
substances, and day after day, during 
the moments of rest which follow 
every agitation of the waves, more and 
more of the Catholic element is pre- 
cipitated which the waters bring with 
them at each successive influx, but fail 
to carry off again. It is by this hu- 
man alluvium that our religion grows 
and extends itself; and if this growth 
is wonderful, it may be that the effect 
of the infusion of so much sound doc- 
trine into American society will prove 
equally astonishing and precious. 

Great stress has often been laid 
upon the good qualities of the Ameri- 
can people, but comparatively few have 
spoken of their faults ; not because 
they had none, but because their faults 
were lost sight of in the brilliancy of 
their material prosperity. But recent 
events have led to more reflection 
upon this point ; so it will not astonish 
our readers if we point oat one or two, 

such as the decay of thoughtful, sys- 
tematic, methodical intelligence among 
them, in comparison with Europeans ; 
their narrowness of mind ; their inapti- 
tude for general ideas ; and their sen- 
sibly diminishing delicacy of mind. 
These defects show an unsuspected but 
serious and rapid degeneracy of the 
Anglo-American race, and the decline 
has already perhaps gone further than 
one would readily believe. If Cath- 
olicism, which tends eminently to de- 
velop a spirit of method and order, 
broadness of view and delicacy of 
sentiment, should combat successfully 
these failings, it would render a signal 
service to the United States in return 
for the liberty which they have 
granted it. 

But Catholics, we should add, are 
indebted to the United States for some- 
thing more than simple liberty. They 
have there learned to appreciate their 
real power. They have learned by 
experience how little they have to fear 
from pure universal liberty, how much 
strength and influence they can acquire 
in such a state of society. There is 
this good and this evil in liberty 
that it always proves to the advantage 
of the strong ; so that when there is 
question of the relations between man 
and man, it must be a well-regulated 
liberty, or it will result in the oppres- 
sion of the weak. But the case is dif- 
ferent when it comes to a question of 
discordant doctrines : man has every- 
thing to gain by the triumph of sound, 
strong principles and the destruction 
of false and specious theories. In 
such a contest, let but each side appear 
in its true colors, and we have nothing 
to fear for the cause of truth. The 
United States will at least have had 
the merit of affording an opportunity 
for a powerful demonstration of the 
truth; and great as are the advant- 
ages which the Catholic Church can 
confer upon the country, she herself 
will reap still greater advantages by 
conferring them ; for it will turn to 
her benefit in her action upon the 
world at large. 

In fact, the experience of the Church 

in the United States. 


in America has doubtless gone for 
something in the familiarity which re- 
ligious minds are gradually acquiring 
with the principles of political liberty ; 
and thus the growth of American 
Catholicism is allied to the world-wide 
reaction which is now taking place 
after the religious eclipse of the last 
century. This transformation of the 
United States, in truth, is only one 
marked incident in the intellectual 
revolution which is drawing the whole 
world toward the Catholic Church 
England as well as America, Germany 
as well as England, even Bulgaria in 
the far East. The foreign press brings 
us daily the signs of this progress ; 
and nothing can be easier than to point 
them out in France under our own 
eyes. But unfortunately we have been 
too much in the habit, for the last cen- 
tury, of leading a life of continual 
mortification, too conscious that we 
were laughed at by the leaders of pub- 
lic opinion. We crawled along in fear 
and trembling, creeping close to the 
walls, dreading at every step to give 
offence, or to cause scandal, or to lose 
some of our brethren. Accustomed 
to see our ranks thinned and whole 
files carried off in the flower of their 
youth, we stood in too great fear of the 
deceitful power of doctrines which 
seemed to promise everything to man 
and ask nothing from him in return. 
And therefore many of us still find 
it hard to understand the new state of 
things in which we are making prog- 
ress without external help. This 
progress, however, inaugurated by the 
energy of a few, the perseverance of 
all, and the overruling hand of divine 
Providence, is unquestionably going 
on, and may easily be proved. We 
have only to visit our churches, attend 
some of the special retreats for men, 
or look at the Easter communions, to 
see what long steps faith and religious 
practice have taken within the last 
forty years. The change is most per- 
ceptible among the educated classes 
and in the learned professions. We 
have heard old professors express their 
astonishment in comparing the schools 


of the present time with those of their 
youth. It was then almost impossible 
to find a young man at the Ecole Poly- 
technique, at St. Cyr, or at the cole 
Centrale, with enough faith and enough 
courage openly to profess his religion ; 
now it may be said that a fifth or per- 
haps a fourth part of the students 
openly and unhesitatingly perform their 
Easter duty. We ourselves remem- 
ber that no longer ago than 1830 it 
required a degree of courage of which 
few were found capable to manifest any 
religious sentiment in the public ly- 
ceums. Voltairianism or to speak 
better, an intolerant fanaticism de- 
lighted to cover these faithful few with 
public ridicule ; while now, if we may 
believe the best authorized accounts, 
it is only a small minority who openly 
profess infidelity. We can affirm that 
in the School of Law the change is 
quite as great, and it has begun to 
operate even in that tune-honored 
stronghold of materialism, the School 
of Medicine. 

But what must strike us most forcibly 
in the examination of these questions 
is the fact, already pointed out by the 
Abbe Meignan, that the progress of 
religion has kept even pace with the 
extension of free institutions. Wher- 
ever the liberal regime has been estab- 
lished, the reaction in favor of religion 
has become stronger, no doubt because 
liberty places man face to face with 
the consequences of his own acts and 
the necessities of his feeble nature. 
Man is never so powerfully impelled 
to draw near to God as when he be- 
comes conscious of his own weakness ; 
never so deeply impressed with the 
emptiness of false doctrines as TOhen 
he has experienced their nothingness 
in the practical affairs of life. The 
violence of external disorder soon leads 
him to, reflect upon the necessity of 
solid, methodical, moral education, such 
as regulates one's life, and such as the 
Church alone can impart. And there- 
fore the great change of sentiment of 
which we have spoken is perceptible 
chiefly among the educated and liberal 
classes, while with the ignorant and 


The Progress of the Church. 

vulgar infidelity holds its own and is 
even gaining. The educated classes, 
more thoughtful, knowing the world 
and having experience of men, see 
further and calculate more calmly the 
tendency of events ; with the common 
people reason and plain sense are often 
overpowered by the violence of their 
temperament and the impetuosity of 
their passions. Ignorance and inordin- 
ate desires do the rest, and they im- 
agine that man will know how to con- 
duct without knowing how to govern 

Whatever demagogues may say, 
history proves that the head always 
rules the body. The period of dis- 
couragement and apprehension is past. 
We shall yet, no doubt, have to go 
through trials, and violent crises, and 
perhaps cruel persecutions ; but we 
may hope everything from the future. 
And why not ? If we study the his- 
tory of the Jewish people, we shall see 
how God chastises his people in order 
to rouse them from their moral torpor, 
and raise them up from apparent ruin 
by unforeseen means. Weakness, in 
his hand, at once becomes strength ; 
he asks of us nothing but faith 
and courage. We have traced his 
Providence in the methods by which 
he has stimulated the growth of the 
American Church -methods all the 
more effectual because, unlike our own 
vain enterprises, they worked for a 
long time in silence and obscurity. 
These Western bishoprics remained al- 
most unknown up to the day when, the 
light bursting forth all at once, the 
world beheld a Church already organ- 
ized, already strong, where it had not 
suspected even her existence. 

There is a magnificent and instruc- 
tive scene in Athcdie, where the veil of 
the temple is rent, and discloses to the 
eyes of the terrified queen, Joas, whom 
she had believed dead, standing in his 
glory surrounded by an army. Even 
so, it seems to us, was the American 
Church suddenly revealed in all her 
vigor to the astonished world, when her 
bishops came two years ago to take 
their place in the council at Rome. 

And the same progress is making all 
over the globe. Noiseless and un- 
obtrusive, it attracts no attention from 
the world ; it is overlooked by Utopian 
theorists ; it goes on quietly in the do- 
main of conscience ; but the day will 
come when its light will break forth 
and astonish mankind by its brightness. 
Such are the ways of God ! 

NOTE. The greater part of the 
materials for the preceding article 
were written or collected during the 
course of a journey which we made in 
the United States in 1860. Since 
then the progress of Catholicism has 
necessarily been somewhat checked by 
the events of the lamentable civil war 
which is desolating the country ; but 
the check has been far less serious 
than might have reasonably been ap- 
prehended. Religion has been kept 
apart from political dissensions and 
public disorders; it has only had to 
suffer the common evils which war, 
mortality, and general impoverishment 
have inflicted upon the whole people. 
If all these things are to have any 
bad effect upon the progress of the 
Church, it will be in future years, not 
now. In fact, all the documents which 
we have been able to collect show that 
the numbers of both the faithful and 
the clergy, instead of falling off, have 
gone on increasing. In thirty-eight 
dioceses there are now 275 more priests 
than there were in 1860 ; from the 
five other sees, namely, those of New 
Orleans, Galveston, Mobile, Natchi- 
toches, and Charleston, we have no 
returns. This increase is confined 
almost entirely to the regions in which 
the Church was already strongest; 
elsewhere matters have remained about 

Of this number of 275 priests added 
to the Church in the course of three 
years, 251 belong to the following four- 
teen dioceses, namely : Baltimore, 
Pittsburg, Cincinnati, Cleveland, 
Brooklyn, Albany, Alton, Chicago, 
Milwaukee, St. Paul, Detroit, Fort 
Wayne, Vincennes, and Hartford. 
The last-named belongs to the North- 

The Ancient Saints of God. 


eastern or New England group, all 
the others to the Central and Western. 
Thus fourteen dioceses alone show 
nine-tenths of the total increase, and 
the others divide the remaining tenth 
among them in very minute fractions. 
From some states, it is true, the re- 
turns are very meagre, and from 

others they are altogether wanting; 
but the disproportion is so strong as 
to leave no doubt that the future con- 
quests of the Church in the United 
States will be gained, as we have al- 
ready said, principally in the Middle 
and Western States. 

E. R. 

From The Month. 






WE often practically divide the 
saints into three classes. The ancient 
saints, those of the primitive age of 
Christianity, we consider as the patrons 
of the universal Church, watching 
over its' well-being and progress, but, 
excepting Rome, having only a gen- 
eral connection with the interests of 
particular countries, still less of indi- 

The great saints of the middle age, 
belonging to different races and coun- 
tries, have naturally become their pat- 
rons, being more especially reverenced 
and invoked in the places of their 
births, their lives, and still more their 
deaths; whence, St. Willibrord, St. 
Boniface, and St. Walburga are more 
honored in Germany, where they 
died, than in England, where they 
were born. 

The third class includes the more 
modern saints, who spoke our yet 
living languages, printed their books r 
followed the same sort of life, wore 
the same dress as we do, lived in 
houses yet standing, founded institu- 
tions still flourishing, rode in carri- 
ages, and in another generation would 
have traveled by railway. Such are 

St. Charles, St. Ignatius, St. Philip, 
St. Teresa, St. Vincent, B. Benedict 
Joseph, and many others. Toward 
these we feel a personal devotion in- 
dependent of country; nearness of 
time compensating for distance of 
place. There is indeed one class 
of saints who belong to every age 
and every country; devotion toward 
whom, far from diminishing, in- 
creases the further we recede from 
their time and even their land. For 
we are convinced that a Chinese con- 
vert has a more sensitive and glowing 
devotion toward our Blessed Lady, 
than a Jewish neophyte had in the 
first century. When I hear this 
growth of piety denounced or re- 
proached by Protestants, I own I 
exult in it. 

For the only question, and there is 
none in a Catholic mind, is whether 
such a feeling is good in itself; if so, 
growth in it, age by age, is an im- 
mense blessing and proof of the di- 
vine presence. It is as if one told 
me that there is more humility now in 
the Church than there was in the first 
century, more zeal than in the third, 
more faith than in the eighth, more 
charity than in the twelfth. And so, 
if there is more devotion now than 
there was 1,800 years ago toward the 
Immaculate Mother of God, toward 


The Ancient Saints of God. 

her saintly spouse, toward St. John, 
St. Peter, and the other Apostles, I 
rejoice ; knowing that devotion toward 
our divine Lord, his infancy, his pas- 
sion, his sacred heart, his adorable 
eucharist, has not suffered loss or 
diminution, but has much increased. 
It need not be, and it is not, as John 
the Baptist said, " He must increase, 
and I diminish." Both here increase 
together; the Lord, and those who 
best loved him. 

But this is more than a subject of 
joy : it is one of admiration and con- 
solation. For it is the natural course 
of things that sympathies and affec- 
tions should grow less by time. We 
care and feel much less about the con- 
quests of William I., or the prowess 
of the Black Prince, than we do about 
the victories of Nelson or Welling- 
ton ; even Alfred is a mythical per- 
son, and Boadicea fabulous ; and so it 
is with all nations. A steadily in- 
creasing affection and intensifying de- 
votion (as in this case we call it) for 
those remote from us, in proportion as 
we recede from them, is as marvellous 
nay, as miraculous as would be 
the flowing of a stream from its source 
up a steep hill, deepening and widen- 
ing as it rose. And such I consider 
this growth, through succeeding ages, 
of devout feeling toward those who 
were the root, and seem to become 
the crown, or flower, of the Church. 
It is as if a beam from the sun, or a 
ray from a lamp, grew brighter and 
warmer in proportion as it darted 
further from its source. 

I cannot but see in this supernatu- 
ral disposition evidence of a power 
ruling from a higher sphere than that 
of ordinary providence, the laws of 
which, uniform elsewhere, are modi- 
fied or even reversed when the dis- 
pensations of the gospel require it; 
or rather, these have their own proper 
and ordinary providence, the laws of 
which are uniform within its system. 
And this is one illustration, that what 
by every ordinary and natural course 
should go on diminishing, goes on in- 
creasing. But I read in this fact an 

evidence also of the stability and per- 
petuity of our faith ; for a line that is 
ever growing thinner and thinner 
tends, through its extenuation, to inani- 
tion and total evanescence; whereas 
one that widens and extends as it ad- 
vances and becomes more solid, thereby 
gives earnest and proof of increasing 

When we are attacked about prac- 
tices, devotions, or corollaries of faith 
"developments," in other words 
do we not sometimes labor needlessly 
to prove that we go no further than 
the Fathers did, and that what we do 
may be justified from ancient authori- 
ties ? Should we not confine ourselves 
to showing, even with the help of an- 
tiquity, that what is attacked is good, 
is sound, and is holy ; and then thank 
God that we have so much more of it 
than others formerly possessed? If 
'it was right to say " Ora pro nobis " 
once in the day, is it not better to say 
it seven times a day ; and if so, why 
not seventy times seven ? The rule 
of forgiveness may well be the rule 
of seeking intercession for it. But 
whither am I leading you, gentle 
reader ? I promised you a story, and 
I am giving you a lecture, and I fear 
a dry one. I must retrace my steps. 
I wished, therefore, merely to say that, 
while the saints of the Church are 
very naturally divided by us into 
three classes holy patrons of the 
Church, of particular portions of it, 
and of its individual members there 
is one raised above all others, which 
passes through all, composed of pro- 
tectors, patrons, and nomenclators, of 
saints themselves. For how many 
Marys, how many Josephs, Peters, 
Johns, and Pauls, are there not in the 
calendar of the saints, called by those 
names without law of country or age ! 

But beyond this general recognition 
of the claims of our greatest saints, 
one cannot but sometimes feel that 
the classification which I have de- 
scribed is carried by us too far ; that 
a certain human dross enters into the 
composition of our devotion ; we per- 
haps nationalize, or even individualize, 

The Ancient Saints of God. 


the sympathies of those whose love is 
universal, like God's own, in which 
alone they love. We seem to fancy 
that St. Edward and St. Frideswida 
are still English; and some persons 
appear to have as strong an objection 
to one of their children bearing any 
but a Saxon saint's name as they 
have to Italian architecture. We may 
be quite sure that the power and in- 
terest in the whole Church have not 
been curtailed by the admission of 
others like themselves, first Christians 
on earth, then saints in heaven, into 
their blessed society; but that the 
friends of God belong to us all, and 
can and will help us, if we invoke 
them, with loving impartiality. The 
little history which I am going to re- 
late serves to illustrate this view of 
saintly intercession ; it was told me by 
the learned and distinguished prelate 
whom I shall call Monsig. B. He 
has, I have heard, since published the 
narrative ; but I will give it as I heard 
it from his lips. 



ON the 30th of last month I am 
writing early in August we all com- 
memorated the holy martyrs, Sts. Ab- 
don and Sennen. This in itself is 
worthy of notice. Why should we in 
England, why should they in Amer- 
ica, be singing the praises of two Per- 
sians who lived more than fifteen hun- 
dred years ago ? Plainly because we 
are Catholics, and as such in com- 
munion with the saints of Persia and 
the martyrs of Decius. Yet it may 
be assumed that the particular devo- 
tion to these two Eastern martyrs is 
owing to their having suffered in 
Rome, and so found a place in the 
calendar of the catacombs, the basis 
of later martyrologies. Probably af- 
ter having been concealed in the house 

of Quirinus the deacon, their bodies 
were buried hi the cemetery or cata- 
comb of Pontianus, outside the present 
Porta Portese, on the northern bank 
of the Tiber. In that catacomb, re- 
markable for containing the primitive 
baptistery of the Church, there yet 
remains a monument of these saints, 
marking their place of sepulture.* 
Painted on the wall is a " floriated " 
and jewelled cross ; not a conventional 
one such as mediaeval art introduced, 
but a plain cross, on the surface of 
which the painter imitated natural 
jewels, and from the foot of which 
grow flowers of natural forms and 
hues ; on each side stands a figure in 
Persian dress and Phrygian cap, with 
the names respectively running down 
in letters one below the other : 


The bodies are no longer there. 
They were no doubt removed, as 
most were, in the eighth century, to 
save them from Saracenic profanation, 
and translated to the basilica of St. 
Mark in Rome. There they repose, 
with many other martyrs no longer 
distinguishable ; since the ancient usage 
was literally to bury the bodies of 
martyrs in a spacious crypt or cham- 
ber under the altar, so as to verify the 
apocalyptic description, " From under 
the altar of God all the saints cry 
aloud." This practice has been ad- 
mirably illustrated by the prelate to 
whom I have referred, in a work on 
this very crypt, or, in ecclesiastical 
language, Confession of St. Mark's. 

One 30th of July, soon after the 
siege of Rome in 1848, the chapter of 
St. Mark's were singing the office and 
mass of these Persian martyrs, as 
saints of their church. Most people 
on week-days content themselves with 
hearing early a low mass, so that the 
longer offices of the basilica, especially 
the secondary ones, are not much fre- 
quented. On this occasion, however, 
a young French officer was noticed by 

* See Fabiola, pp. 362, 303. 


The Ancient Saints of God. 

the canons as assisting alone with 
great recollection. 

At the close of the function, my 
informant went up to the young man, 
and entered into conversation with 

" What feast are you celebrating to- 
day ?" asked the officer. 

u That of Sts. Abdon and Sennen," 
answered Monsignor B. 

" Indeed ! how singular !" 

" Why ? Have you any particular 
devotion to those saints ?" 

"Oh, yes; they are my patron 
saints. The cathedral of my native 
town is dedicated to them, and pos- 
sesses their bodies.'* 

" You must be mistaken there : 
their holy relics repose beneath our 
altar ; and we have to-day kept their 
feast solemnly on that account." 

On this explanation of the prelate 
the young officer seemed a little dis- 
concerted, and remarked that at P 
everybody believed that the saints' 
relics were in the cathedral. 

The canon, as he then was, of St. 
Mark's, though now promoted to the 
" patriarchal " basilica of St. John, ex- 
plained to him how this might be, in- 
asmuch as any church possessing con- 
siderable portions of larger relics be- 
longing to a saint was entitled to the 
privilege of one holding the entire 
body, and was familiarly spoken of as 
actually having it ; and this no doubt 
was the case at P . 

"But, beside general grounds for 
devotion to these patrons of my native 
city, I have a more particular and 
personal one ; for to their interposition 
I believe I owe my life." 

The group of listeners who had 
gathered round the officer was deeply 
interested hi this statement, and re- 
quested him to relate the incident to 
which he alluded. He readily com- 
plied with their request, and with the 
utmost simplicity made the following 
brief recital. 



" DURING the late siege of Rome I 
happened to be placed in an advanced 
post, with a small body of soldiers, 
among the hillocks between our head- 
quarters hi the villa Pamphily-Doria 
and the gate of St. Pancratius. The 
post was one of some danger, as it 
was exposed to the sudden and un- 
sparing sallies made by the revolu- 
tionary garrison on that side. The 
broken ground helped to conceal us 
from the marksmen and the artillery 
on the walls. However, that day 
proved to be one of particular danger. 
Without warning, a sortie was made 
in force, either merely hi defiance or 
to gain possession of some advanta- 
geous post; for you know how the 
church and convent of St. Pancra- 
tius was assailed by the enemy, 
and taken and retaken by us several 
tunes in one day. The same hap- 
pened to the villas near the walls. 
There was no time given us for specu- 
lation or reflection. We found our- 
selves at once in presence of a very 
superior force, or rather in the middle 
of it; for we were completely sur- 
rounded. We fought our best; but 
escape seemed impossible. My poor 
little picket was soon cut to pieces, 
and I found myself standing alone in 
the midst of our assailants, defending 
myself as well as I could against such 
fearful odds. At length I felt I was 
come to the last extremity, and that in 
a few moments I should be lying with 
my brave companions. Earnestly de- 
siring to have the suffrages of my holy 
patrons in that my last hour, I in- 
stinctively exclaimed, ' Sts. Abdon and 
Sennen, pray for me!' What then 
happened I cannot tell. Whether a 
sudden panic struck my enemies, or 
something more important called off 
their attention, or what else to me 
inexplicable occurred, I cannot say ; 
all that I know is, that somehow or 
^ther I found myself alone, unwounded 

The Ancient Saints of God. 


and unhurt, with my poor fellows lying 
about, and no enemy near. 

" Do you not think that I have a 
right to attribute this most wonderful 
and otherwise unaccountable escape to 
the intercession and protection of Sts. 
Abdon and Sennen ?" 

I need scarcely say that this simple 
narrative touched and moved deeply 
all its hearers. No one was disposed 
to dissent from the young Christian 
officer's conclusion. 



IT was natural that those good ec- 
clesiastics who composed the chapter 
of St. Mark's should feel an interest 
in their youthful acquaintance. His 
having accidentally, as it seemed, but 
really providentially, strolled into their 
church at such a time, with so singu- 
lar a bond of sympathy with its sacred 
offices that day, necessarily drew them 
in kindness toward him. His ingen- 
uous piety and vivid faith gained their 

In the conversation which followed, 
it was discovered that all his tastes 
and feelings led him to love and visit 
the religious monuments of Rome; 
but that he had no guide or companion 
to make his wanderings among them 
as useful and agreeable as they might 
be made. It was good-naturedly and 
kindly suggested to him to come from 
time to time to the church, when some 
one of the canons would take him with 
him on his ventidue ore walk after 
vespers, and act the cicerone to him, 
if they should visit some interesting 
religious object. This offer he readily 
accepted, and the intelligent youth and 
his reverend guides enjoyed pleasant 

afternoons together. At last one 
pleasanter than all occurred, when in 
company with Monsignor B. 

Their ramble that evening led them 
out of the Porta Portuensis, among 
the hills of Monte Verde, between it 
and the gate of St. Pancratius per- 
haps for the purpose of visiting that 
interesting basilica. Be it as it 
may, suddenly, while traversing a 
vineyard, the young man stopped. 

" Here," he exclaimed, " on this 
very spot, I was standing when my 
miraculous deliverance took place." 

"Are you sure ?" 

"Quite. If I lived a hundred 
years, I could never forget it. It is 
the very spot." 

"Then stand still a moment," re- 
joined the prelate ; " we are very 'near 
the entrance to the cemetery of Pon- 
tianus. I wish to measure the dis- 

He did so by pacing it. 

" Now," he said, " come down into 
the catacomb, and observe the direc- 
tion from where you stand to the 
door." The key was soon procured. 

They accordingly went down, pro- 
ceeded as near as they could judge 
toward the point marked over-head, 
measured the distance paced above, 
and found themselves standing before 
the memorial of Sts. Abdon and 

"There," said the canon to his 
young friend ; "you did not know that, 
when you were invoking your holy 
patrons, you were standing immedi- 
ately over their tomb." 

The young officer's emotion may be 
better conceived than described on 
discovering this new and unexpected 
coincidence in the history of his suc- 
cessful application to the intercession 
of ancient saints. 


A Pilgrimage to Ars. 

From The Lamp. 


I WENT to Lyons for the express 
purpose of visiting the tomb of the 
Cure* of Ars ; for I knew the village 
of Ars was not very far from that 
city, though I had but a vague idea 
as to where it was situated or how 
it was to be reached. I trusted, how- 
ever, to obtaining all needful informa- 
tion from the people at the hotel where 
I was to pass the night ; and I was 
not mistaken in my expectations ; but 
I must confess, to my sorrow, that I 
felt for a moment a very English sort 
of shamefacedness about making the 
inquiry. Put to the waiter of an 
Engh'sh hotel, such a question would 
simply have produced a stare of as- 
tonishment or a smile of pity. A visit 
to the tomb of the Duke of Wel- 
lington at St. Paul's, or a descent 
into kingly vaults for the wise purpose 
of beholding Prince Albert's coffin, 
with its wreaths of flowers laid there 
by royal and loving hands these 
things he would have sympathized 
with and understood. But a pilgrim- 
age to the last resting-place of a man 
who, even admitting he were at that 
moment a saint in heaven, had been 
but a simple parish-priest upon earth, 
would have been a proceeding utterly 
beyond his capacity to comprehend, 
and he would undoubtedly have pro- 
nounced it either an act of insanity or 
one of superstition, or something par- 
taking of the nature of the two. I 
forgot, for a moment, that I was in a 
Catholic country, and inquired my 
way to Ars with an uncomfortable ex- 
pectation of a sneering answer in re- 
turn. Once, however, that the ques- 
tion was fairly put, there was nothing 
left for me but to be ashamed of my 
own misgivings. 

" Madame wished to visit the tomb 
of the sainted Cure* ? mais oui. It 
was the easiest thing in the world. 
Only an hour's railway from Lyons to 

Villefranche ; and an omnibus at the 
latter station, which had been estab- 
lished for the express purpose of ac- 
commodating the pilgrims, who still 
flocked to Ars from every quarter of 
the Catholic world." 

I listened, and my way seemed sud- 
denly to become smooth before me. 
Later on in the evening, I found that 
the housemaid of the hotel had been 
there often ; and two or three tunes at 
least during the lifetime of the Cure. 
I asked her for what purpose she had 
gone there; whether to be cured of 
bodily ailments or to consult him on 
spiritual matters ? " For neither one 
nor the other/' she answered, with great 
simplicity ; " but she had had a great 
grief, and her mother had taken her 
to him to be comforted." There was 
something to me singularly lovely in 
this answer, and in the insight which 
it gave me into the nature of that mis- 
sion, so human, and yet so divine, 
which the Cure had accomplished in 
his lifetime. God had placed him 
there, like another John the Baptist, 
to announce penance to the world. 
He preached to thousands he con- 
verted thousands he penetrated into 
the hidden consciences of thousands, 
and laid his finger, as if by intuition, 
upon the hidden sore that kept the soul 
from God. Men, great by wealth and 
station, came to him and laid their 
burden of sin and misery at his feet. 
Men, greater still by intellect, and 
prouder and more difficult of conver- 
sion (as sins of the intellect ever make 
men), left his presence simple, loving, 
and believing as little children. For 
these he had lightning glances and 
words of fire ; these by turns he repri- 
manded, exhorted, and encouraged; 
but when the weak and sorrowful of 
God's flock came to him, he paused in 
his apostolic task to weep over them 
and console them. And so it was with 

A Pilgrimage to Ars. 


Jesus. The great and wealthy of the 
earth came to him for relief, and he 
never refused their prayers ; but how 
many instances do we find in the gos- 
pel of the gift of health bestowed, un- 
asked and unexpected, upon some poor 
wanderer by the wayside, or the yet 
greater boon of comfort given to some 
poor suffering heart, for no other 
reason that we know of than that it 
suffered and had need of comfort! 
The cripple by the pool of Bethsaida 
received his cure at the very moment 
when he was heartsick with hope de- 
ferred at finding no man to carry him 
down to the waters ; and the widow of 
Nain found her son suddenly restored 
to life because, as the gospel express- 
ly tells us, he was " the only son of 
his mother, and she was a widow." 

The heart of the Cure of Ars seems 
to have been only less tender than that 
of his divine Master; and in the 
midst of the sublime occupation of 
converting souls to God, he never dis- 
dained the humble task of healing the 
stricken spirit, and leading it to peace 
and joy. 

" My husband died suddenly," the 
young woman went on to say, in answer 
to my further questions ; " and from 
affluence I found myself at. once re- 
duced to poverty. I was stunned by 
the blow ; but my mother took me to 
the cure ; and almost before he had 
said a word, I felt not only consoled, 
but satisfied with the lot which God 
had assigned me." And so indeed she 
must have been. When I saw her, 
she was still poor, and earning her 
bread by the worst of all servitude, 
the daily and nightly servitude of a 
crowded inn ; but gentle, placid, and 
smiling, as became one who had seen 
and been comforted by a saint. She 
evidently felt that she had been per- 
mitted to approach very near to God 
in the person of God's servant, and 
every word she uttered was so full of 
love and confidence in the sainted cure 
that it increased (if that were possible) 
my desire to kneel at his tomb, since 
the happiness of approaching his living 
person had been denied me. 

The next morning I set off for 
Villefranche. It is on the direct line 
to Paris, and at about an hour's rail- 
road journey from Lyons. When I 
reached it, I found three omnibuses 
waiting at the station, and I believe 
they were all there for the sole pur- 
pose of conveying pilgrims to Ars. 
One of the conductors tried every 
mode of persuasion and there are 
not a few in the vocabulary of a 
Frenchman to inveigle me into his 
omnibus. "I should be at Ars in 
half an hour, and could return at 
two, three, four o'clock in short, at 
any hour of the night or day that 
might please me best." It was 
with some difficulty I resisted the 
torrent of eloquence he poured out 
upon me ; but, in the first place, I felt 
that he was promising what he himself 
would have called " the impossible," 
since a public conveyance must neces- 
sarily regulate its movements by the 
wishes of the majority of its passen- 
gers ; and in the next, I had a very 
strong desire to be alone in body as 
well as in mind during the few hours 
that I was to spend at Ars:. 

At last I found an omnibus destined 
solely for visitors to Villefranche itself, 
and the conductor promised that he 
would provide me a private carriage to 
Ars if I would consent to drive first to 
his hotel. Cabaret he might have 
called it with perfect truth, for cabaret 
it was, and nothing more a regular 
French specimen of the article, with 
a great public kitchen, where half the 
workmen of the town assembled for 
their meals, and a small cupboard sort 
of closet opening into it for the accom- 
modation of more aristocratic guests. 
Into this, bon gre, mal gre, they wished 
to thrust me, but I violently repelled 
the threatened honor, and with some 
difficulty carrying my point, succeeded 
in being permitted to remain in the 
larger and cooler space of the open 
kitchen until my promised vehicle 
should appear. It came at last, a sort 
of half-cab, half-gig, without a hood, 
but with a curiously contrived harness 
of loose ropes, and looking altogether 


A Pilgrimage to Ars. 

dangerously likely to come to pieces 
on the road. Luckily, I am not natu- 
rally nervous in such matters, and, 
consoling myself with the thought that 
if we did get into grief the " bon cure" 
was bound to come to my assistance, 
seeing I had incurred it solely for the 
sake of visiting his tomb, I was soon 
settled as comfortably as circumstances 
would permit, and we set off at a brisk 

The country around Villefranche is 
truly neither pretty nor picturesque ; 
and though we were not really an hour 
on the road, the drive seemed tedious. 
Our Jehu also, as it turned out, had 
never been at Ars before ; so that he had 
not only to stop more than once to in- 
quire the way, but actually contrived at 
the very last to miss it. He soon dis- 
covered the mistake, however, and re- 
tracing his steps, a very few minutes 
brought us to the spot where the saint 
had lived forty years, and where he 
now sleeps in death. His house stands 
beside the church, but a little in the 
rear, so it does not immediately catch 
the eye ; and the church, where his real 
life was spent, is separated from the 
road by a small enclosure, railed off, 
and approached by a few steps. We 
looked around for some person to con- 
duct us, but there was no one to be 
seen ; so, after a moment's hesitation, 
we ascended the steps and entered the 
church. If you wish to know what 
kind of church it is, I cannot tell you. 
I do not know, in fact, whether it is 
Greek or Gothic, or of no particular 
architecture at all; I do not know 
even if it is in good taste or in bad 
taste. The soul was so filled with a 
sense of the presence of the dead saint 
that it left no room for the outer sense 
to take note of the accidents amid 
which he had lived. There are two or 
three small chapels a Lady chapel, 
one dedicated to the Sacred Heart, and 
another to St. John the Baptist. There 
is also the chapel of St. Philomena, 
with a large lifelike image of the 
" bonne petite sainte" to whom he loved 
to attribute every miracle charity com- 
pelled him to perform j and there is 

the confessional, where for forty years 
he worked far greater wonders on the 
soul than any of the more obvious 
ones he accomplished on the body. 
All, or most of all, this I saw in a 
vague sort of way, as one who saw 
not ; but the whole church was filled 
with such an aroma of holiness, there 
was such a sense of the actual pres- 
ence of the man who had converted it 
into a very tabernacle in the wilder- 
ness a true Holy of Holies, where, 
in the midst of infidel France, God 
had descended and conversed almost 
visibly with his people that I had 
neither the will nor the power to con- 
descend to particulars, and examine it 
in detail. 

My one thought as I entered the 
church was, to go and pray upon his 
tomb ; but in the first moment of doubt 
and confusion I could not remember, if 
indeed I had been told, the exact spot 
where he was buried. The chapel of 
St. Philomena was the first to attract 
my notice, and feeling that I could not 
be far wrong while keeping close to hia 
dear little patroness, I knelt down there 
to collect my ideas. 

The stillness of the church made 
itself felt. There were indeed many 
persons praying in it, but they prayed 
in that profound silence which spoke 
to the heart, and penetrated it in a way 
no words could have ever done. 

I was thirsting, however, to ap- 
proach the tomb of the saint, and at 
last ventured to whisper the question 
to a person near me. She pointed to 
a large black slab nearly in the centre 
of the church, and told me that he lay 
beneath it. Yes, he was there, in the 
very midst of his people, not far from 
the chapel of St. Philomena, and op- 
posite to the altar whence he had so 
many thousands of times distributed 
the bread of life to the famishing souls 
who, like the multitude of old, had 
come into the desert, and needed to be 
fed ere they departed to their homes. 
Yes, he was there ; and with a strange 
mingling of joy and sorrow in the 
thought I went and knelt down beside 

A Pilgrimage to Ars. 


Had I 'gone to Ars but a few years 
before, I might have found him in his 
living person ; might have thrown my- 
self at his feet, and poured out my 
whole soul before him. Now I knelt 
indeed beside him, but beside his body 
only, and the soul that would have 
addressed itself to mine was far away 
in the bosom of its God. Humanly 
speaking, the difference seemed against 
me, and yet, in a more spiritual point 
of view, it might perhaps be said to be 
in my favor. 

The graces which he obtained for 
mortals here he obtained by more 
than mortal suffering and endurance 
by tears, by fastings, and nightly 
and daily impetrations ; now, with his 
head resting, like another St. John, 
on the bosom of his divine Lord, sure- 
ly he has but to wish in order to draw 
down whole fountains of love and ten- 
derness on his weeping flock below. 
And certainly it would seem so ; for 
however numerous the miracles ac- 
complished in his lifetime, they have 
been multiplied beyond all power of 
calculation since his death. 

Later on in the day, when the pres- 
ent cure showed me a room nearly 
half full of crutches and other memen- 
tos of cures wrought " These are 
only the ones left there during his life- 
time," he observed, in a tone which 
told at once how much more numerous 
were those which cure had made use- 
less to their owners since his death. 

I had not been many minutes kneel- 
ing before his tomb, when the lady 
who had pointed it out to me asked 
if I would like to see the house 
which he had inhabited hi his lifetime. 
On my answering gladly in the af- 
firmative, she made me follow her 
through a side-door and across a sort 
of court to the house inhabited by the 
present curd. This house had never 
been the abode of M. Vianney, but 
had been allotted to the priests who 
assisted him in his missions. The one 
which he actually inhabited is now a 
sort of sanctuary, where every relic 
and recollection of him is carefully 
preserved for the veneration of the 

faithful. We were shown into a sort 
of salle a manger, sufficiently poor to 
make us feel we were in the habita- 
tion of men brought up in the school 
of a saint, and almost immediately 
afterward the present cure* entered. 
He had been for many years the zeal- 
ous assistant of the late cure ; and, in 
trying to give me an idea of the influx 
of strangers into Ars, he told me that, 
while M. Vianney spent habitually 
from fifteen to seventeen hours in the 
confessional, he and his brother priest 
were usually occupied at least twelve 
hours out of the twenty-four in a simi- 
lar manner. Even this was probably 
barely sufficient for the wants of the 
mission, for the number of strangers 
who came annually to Ars during the 
latter years of the cure's life was 
reckoned at about 80,000, and few, if 
any, of these went away without hav- 
ing made a general confession, either 
to M. Vianney himself, or, if that were 
not possible, to one or other of the as- 
sisting clergy. 

It was pleasant to talk with one 
who had been living in constant com- 
munication with a saint; and I felt as 
if something of the spirit of M. Vian- 
ney himself had taken possession of 
the good and gentle man with whom I 
was conversing. Among other things, 
he told me that the devout wish of the 
saint had of late years been the erec- 
tion of a new church to St. Philomena; 
and he gave me a fac-simile of his 
handwriting in which he had promised 
to pray especially for any one aiding 
him in the work. The surest way, 
therefore, I should imagine, to interest 
him in our necessities now that he is 
in heaven would be to aid in the 
undertaking which he had in mind 
and heart while yet dwelling on earth. 
Even in his lifetime there had been 
a lottery got up for raising funds ; 
and as money is still coming in from 
all quarters, his wish will doubtless 
soon be accomplished. I saw a very 
handsome altar which has been al- 
ready presented, and which has been 
put aside in one of the rooms of the 
cure until the church, for which it is 


A Pilgrimage to Ars. 

intended, shall have been completed. 
M. le cure* showed me one or two 
small photographs, which had been 
taken without his knowledge during 
the lifetime of the saint; and also a 
little carved image, which he said was 
a wonderful likeness, and far better 
than any of the portraits. Afterward 
he pointed out another photograph, as 
large as life, and suspended against 
the wall, which had been procured 
after death. It was calm and holy, 
as the face of a saint in death should 
be, and I liked it still better in its 
placid peace than the smile of the 
living photograph. Even the smile 
seemed to tell of tears. You know 
that he who smiles is still doing battle 
cheerfully and successfully indeed, 
but still doing battle with the enemies 
of his soul; while the grave calmness 
of the dead face tells you at once that 
all is over the fight is fought, the 
crown is won ; eternity has set its seal 
on the good works of time, and all is 
safe for ever. 

I could have looked at that photo- 
graph a long time, and said my pray- 
ers before it it seemed to repose in 
such an atmosphere of sanctity and 
peace but the hours were passing 
quickly, and there was still much to 
see and hear concerning the dead 
saint. I took leave, therefore, of the 
good priest who had been my cicerone 
so far, and sought the old housekeeper, 
who was in readiness to show me the 
house where M. Vianney had lived. 
We crossed a sort of court, which led 
us to a door opposite the church. 
When this was opened, I found my- 
self in a sort of half-garden, half-yard, 
in the centre of which the old house 
was standing. 

It is hard to put upon paper the 
feelings with which a spot the habita- 
tion of a saint just dead is visited. 
The spirit of love and charity and peace 
which animated the living man still 
seems brooding over the spot where his 
life was passed, and you feel intensely 
that the true beauty of the Lord's 
house was here, and that this has been 
the place where his glory hath de- 

lighted to dwell. The first room I 
entered was one in which the crutches 
left there by invalids had been depos- 
ited. It was a sight to see. The 
crutches were piled as close as they 
could be against the wall, and yet the 
room was almost half full. The per- 
sons who used those crutches must 
have been carried hither, lame and 
suffering, and helpless as young chil- 
dren ; and they walked away strong 
men and cured. Truly "the lame 
walk and the blind see ;" and the Lord 
hath visited his people in the person 
of his servant. 

My next visit was made to the salle 
a manger, where M. Vianney had al- 
ways taken the one scanty meal which 
was his sole support during his twenty- 
four hours of almost unbroken labor. 
It was poverty in very deed pover- 
ty plain, unvarnished, and unadorned 
such poverty as an Irish cabin might 
have rivalled, but could scarcely have 
surpassed. The walls were bare and 
whitewashed ; the roof was merely 
raftered ; and the floor, which had once 
been paved with large round stones, 
such as are used for the pavement of 
a street, was broken here and there 
into deep holes by the removal of the 
stones. During his forty years' resi- 
dence at Ars, M. Vianney had proba- 
bly never spent a single sou upon any 
article which could contribute to his 
own comfort or convenience ; and this 
room bore witness to the fact. How, 
indeed, should he buy anything for 
himself, who gave even that which 
was given to him away, until his best 
friends grew well-nigh weary of be- 
stowing presents, which they felt would 
pass almost at the same instant out of 
his own possession into the hands of 
any one whom he fancied to be in 
greater want of them than he was ? 
I stood in that bare and desolate apart- 
ment, and felt as if earth and heaven 
in their widest extremes, their most 
startling contrasts, were there in type 
and reality before me. All that earth 
has of poor and miserable and unsight- 
ly was present to the eyes of the 
body; all that heaven has of bright 

A Pilgrimage to Ars. 

and beautiful and glorious was just as 
present, just as visible, to the vision of 
the soul. It was the very reverse of 
the fable of the fairy treasures, which 
vanish into dust when tested by real- 
ity. All that you saw was dust and 
ashes, but dust and ashes which, tried 
by the touchstone of eternity, would, 
you knew, prove brighter than the 
brightest gold, fairer than the fairest 
silver that earth ever yielded to set in 
the diadem of her kings ! My reflec- 
tions were cut short by the entrance of 
one of the priests, who invited us to 
come up stairs and inspect the vest- 
ments which had belonged to the late 
cure, and which were kept, I think, 
apart from those in ordinary use in 
the church. There was a great quan- 
tity of them, and they were all in 
curious contrast with everything else 
we had seen belonging to M. Vianney. 
Nothing too good for God ; nothing 
too mean and miserable for himself 
that had been the motto of his life ; 
and the worm-eaten furniture of the 
dining-room, the gold and velvet of 
the embroidered vestments, alike bore 
witness to the fidelity with which he 
had acted on it. The vestments were 
more than handsome some of them 
were magnificent. One set I remem- 
ber in particular which was very 
beautiful. It had been given, with 
canopy for the blessed sacrament 
and banners for processions, by the 
present Marquis D'Ars, the chief of 
that beloved family, who, after the 
death of Mdlle. D'Ars, became M. 
Vianney's most efficient aid in all his 
works of charity. The priest who 
showed them to us, and who had also 
been one of the late cure's missiona- 
ries, told us that M. Vianney was ab- 
solutely enchanted with joy when the 
vestments arrived, and that he instant- 
ly organized an expedition to Lyons 
in order to express his gratitude at 
the altar of Notre Dame de Fourriere. 
'- 'ic whole parish attended on this 
occasion. They went down the river 
in boats provided for the purpose, and 
with banners flying and music play- 
ing, marched in solemn procession 

through the streets of Lyons, and up 
the steep sides of Fourriere, until they 
reached the church of Notre Dame. 
There the whole multitude fell on 
their knees, and M. Vianney himself 
prayed, no doubt long and earnestly, 
before the miraculous image of Our 
Lady, seeking through her intercession 
to obtain some especial favor for the 
man who, out of his own abundance, 
had brought gifts of gold and silver to 
the altar of his God. 

I asked the priest for some infor- 
mation about the granary which was 
said to have been miraculously filled 
with corn. He told me he had been 
at Ars at the time, and that there 
could be no doubt that the granary 
had been quite empty the night before. 
It was, I think, a tune of scarcity, and 
the grain had been set aside for the 
use of the poor. M. Vianney went 
to bed miserable at the failure of his 
supplies ; but when he visited the gran- 
ary again early the next morning, he 
found it full. It was at the top of his 
own house, I believe, and was kept, 
of course, carefully locked. Nobody 
knew how it had been filled, or by 
whom. In fact, it seemed absolutely 
impossible that any one could have 
carted the quantity of grain needed for 
the purpose and carried it up stairs 
without being detected in the act. The 
priest made no comment on the mat- 
ter; indeed, he seemed anything but 
inclined to enlarge upon it, though he 
made no secret of his own opinion as 
to the miraculous nature of the occur- 
rence. As soon as he had answered 
my inquiries, he led us to the room 
which had been the holy cure's own 
personal apartment. It was, as well 
as I can remember, the one over the 
dining-room. No apostle ever lived 
and died in an abode more entirely 
destitute of all human riches. It was 
kept exactly in the same state in which 
it had been during his lifetime a few 
poor-looking books still on the small 
book-shelf, a wooden table and a chair, 
and the little bed in the corner, smoothed 
and laid down, as if only waiting his 
return from the confessional for the 


A Pilgrimage to Ars. 

few short hours he gave to slumber 
if, indeed, he did give them; for no 
one ever penetrated into the mystery 
of those hours, or knew how much of 
the time set apart apparently for his 
own repose was dedicated to God, or 
employed hi supplicating God's mer- 
cies on his creatures. 

The history of that room was the 
history of the saint. A book-shelf 
filled with works of piety and devotion ; 
a stove, left doubtless because it had 
been originally built into the room, but 
left without use or purpose (for who 
ever heard of his indulging in a fire?) ; 
a table and a chair that was all ; but 
it was enough, and more than enough, 
to fill the mind with thought, and to 
crowd all the memories of that holy 
life into the few short moments that I 
knelt there. How often had he come 
back to that poor apartment, his body 
exhausted by fasting, and cramped by 
long confinement in the confessional, 
and his heart steeped (nay, drowned, 
as he himself most eloquently expressed 
it) in bitterness and sorrow by the 
long histories of sins to which he had 
been compelled to listen sins com- 
mitted against that God whom he 
loved far more tenderly than he loved 
himself! How often, in the silence 
and darkness of the night, has he 
poured forth his soul, now in tender 
commiseration over Jesus crucified 
by shiners, now over the sinners by 
whom Jesus had been crucified ! How 
often has he (perhaps) called on God 
to remove him from a world where 
God was so offended ; and yet, moved 
by the charity of his tender human 
heart, has besought, almost in the same 
breath, for the conversion of those sin- 
ners whose deeds he was deploring 
the cure of their diseases and the re- 
moval or consolation of their sorrows ! 
Like a mother who, finding her chil- 
dren at discord, now praya to one to 
pardon, now to another to submit and 
be reconciled, so was that loving, pity- 
ing heart ever as it were hi contradic- 
tion with itself weeping still with 
Jesus, and yet still pleading for his foes. 

The mere action of such thoughts 

upon the human frame would make 
continued life a marvel ; but when to 
this long history of mental woe we 
add the hardships of his material life 
the fifteen or seventeen hours passed 
in the confessional, in heat and cold, 
in winter as in summer; the one 
scanty meal taken at mid-day ; the four 
hours of sleep, robbed often and often 
of half their number for the sake of 
quiet prayer when we think of these 
things, there is surely more of miracle 
in this life of forty years' duration 
than in the mere fact that it won mira- 
cles at last from heaven, and that God, 
seeing how faithfully this his servant 
did his will here on earth, complied 
in turn with his, and granted his de- 

No one, I think, can visit that spot, 
or hear the history of that life, as it is 
told by those who knew him as it 
were but yesterday, without an in- 
crease of love, an accession of faith, a 
more vivid sense of the presence of 
God in the midst ef his creatures, and 
a more real comprehension of the ex- 
tent and meaning of those words, "the 
communion of saints," which every 
one repeats in the creed, and yet 
which few take sufficiently to their 
heart of hearts to make it really a por- 
tion of their spiritual being- a means 
of working out their own salvation by 
constant and loving communication 
with those who have attained to it al- 
ready. Thousands will seek the liv- 
ing saint for the eloquence of his 
words, the sublimity, of his counsels, 
the unction of his consolations ; but, 
once departed out of this life, who vis- 
ists him in his tomb? who turns to 
him for aid? who lift their eyes to 
heaven, to ask for his assistance thence, 
with the same undoubting confidence 
with which they would have sought it 
had he been still in the flesh beside 
them? In one sense of the word, 
many; and yet few indeed compared 
to the number of those to whom " the 
communion of saints" is an article of 
faith, or ought at least to be so, in 
something more than the mere service 
of the Up. It was amid some such 

The Three Wishes. 


thoughts as these that I left the town 
of Ars, grieved indeed that I had not 
seen the holy cure in his lifetime, and 
yet feeling that, if I had but faith 
enough, I was in reality rather a 
gainer than a loser by his death. He 
who would have prayed for me on 
earth would now pray for me in 
heaven. He who would have dived 
into my conscience and brought its 
hidden sins to light, would obtain wis- 
dom and grace for another to put his 
finger on the sore spot and give it 
healing. He who would perhaps have 
cured me of my bodily infirmities, 
could do so (if it were for the good of 
my soul) not less efficiently now that 
he was resting on the heart of his 
divine Lord. God had granted his 
prayers while he was yet upon earth 
a saint indeed, and yet liable at any 
moment to fall into sin would he re- 

fuse to hear him now that he had re- 
ceived him into his kingdom, and so 
rendered him for ever incapable of of- 
fending ? I hoped not, I felt not; and 
in this certainty I went on my way 
rejoicing, feeling that it was well for 
this sinful world that it had yet one 
more advocate at the throne of its 
future Judge, and well especially for 
France that, in this our nineteenth 
century, she had given a saint to God 
who would have been the glory of the 
first. For truly the arm of the Lord 
is not shortened. What he has done 
before, he can do again ; and, there- 
fore, we need not wonder if the mira- 
cles of the Apostles are still renewed 
at the tomb of this simple and unlet- 
tered, priest, who taught their doctrines 
for forty years in the unknown and far- 
off village of which Providence had 
made him pastor. 

From Once A Week. 


THE Eastern origin of this tale seems 
evident ; had it been originally com- 
posed in a Northern land, it is probable 
that the king would have been repre- 
sented as dethroned by means of bribes 
obtained from his own treasury. In 
an Eastern country the story-teller who 
invented such a just termination of his 
narrative would, most likely, have ex- 
perienced the fate intended for his 
hero, as a warning to others how they 
suggested such treasonable ideas. 
Herr Simrock, however, says it is a 
German tale ; but it may have had its 
origin in the East for all that. Noth- 
ing is more difficult, indeed, than to 
trace a popular tale to its source. 
Cinderella, for example, belongs to 
nearly all nations; even among the 
Chinese, a people so different to all 
European nations, there is a popular 
story which reads almost exactly like 

it. Here is the tale of the Three 

There was once a wise emperor 
who made a law that to every stran- 
ger who came to his court a fried fish 
should be served. The servants were 
directed to take notice if, when the 
stranger had eaten the fish to the bone 
on one side, he turned it over and be- 
gan on the other side. If he did, he 
was to be immediately seized, and on 
the third day thereafter he was to be 
put to death. But, by a great stretch 
of imperial clemency, the culprit was 
permitted to utter one wish each day, 
which the emperer pledged himself to 
grant, provided it was not to spare hia 
life. Many had already perished in 
consequence of this edict, when, one 
day, a count and his young son pre- 
sented themselves at court. The fish 
was served as usual, and when the 


The Three Wishes. 

count had removed all the fish from 
one side, he turned it over, and was 
about to commence on the other, when 
he was suddenly seized and thrown 
into prison, and was told of his ap- 
proaching doom. Sorrow-stricken, the 
count's young son besought the em- 
peror to allow him to die in the room 
of his father ; a favor which the mon- 
arch was pleased to accord him. The 
count was accordingly released from 
prison, and his son was thrown into 
his cell in his stead. As soon as this 
had been done, the young man said to 
his gaolers " You know I have the 
right to make three demands before I 
die ; go and tell the emperor to send 
me his daughter, and a priest to marry 
us." This first demand was not much 
to the emperor's taste, nevertheless he 
felt bound to keep his word, and he 
therefore complied with the request, 
to which the princess had no kind of 
objection. This occurred in the times 
when kings kept their treasures in a 
cave, or in a tower set apart for the 
purpose, like the Emperor of Morocco 
in these days ; and on the second day 
of his imprisonment the young man 
demanded the king's treasures. If his 
first demand was a bold one, the sec- 
ond was not less so ; still, an emperor's 
word is sacred, and having made the 
promise, he was forced to keep it; 
and the treasures of gold and silver 
and jewels were placed at the pris- 
oner's disposal. On getting possession 
of them, he distributed them profusely 
among the courtiers, and soon he had 
made a host of friends by his liberality. 

The emperor began now to feel ex- 
ceedingly uncomfortable. Unable to 
sleep, he rose early on the third morn- 
ing and went, with fear in his heart, 
to the prison to hear what the third 
wish was to be. 

"Now," said he to his prisoner, 

" tell me what your third demand is, 
that it may be granted at once, and 
you may be hung out of hand, for I 
am tired of your demands." 

"Sire," answered his prisoner, "I 
have but one more favor to request of 
your majesty, which, when you have 
granted, I shall die content. It is 
merely that you will cause the eyes of 
those who saw my father turn the fish 
over to be put out." 

" Very good," replied the emperor, 
"your demand is but natural, and 
springs from a good heart. Let the 
chamberlain be seized," he continued, 
turning to his guards. 

"I, sire!" cried the chamberlain; 
" I did not see anything it was the 

" Let the steward be seized, then," 
said the king. 

But the steward protested with tears 
in his eyes that he had not witnessed 
anything of what had been reported, 
and said it was the butler. The but- 
ler declared that he had seen nothing 
of the matter, and that it must have 
been one of the valets. But th'ey pro- 
tested that they were utterly ignorant 
of what had been charged against the 
count ; in short, it turned out that no- 
body could be found who had seen the 
count commit the offence, upon which 
the princess said : 

" I appeal to you, my father, as to 
another Solomon. If nobody saw the 
offence committed, the count cannot be 
guilty, and my husband is innocent." 

The emperor frowned, and forthwith 
the courtiers began to murmur ; then 
he smiled, and immediately their vis- 
ages became radiant. 

" Let it be so," said 'his majesty ; 
" let him live, though I have put many 
a man to death for a lighter offence 
than his. But if he is not hung, he is 
married. Justice has been done." 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


From The Month. 



SHOULD you dream ever of the days departed- 
Of youth and morning, no more to return 
Forget not me, so fond and passionate-hearted ; 

Quiet at last, reposing 

Under the moss and fern. 

There, where the fretful lake in stormy weather 
Comes circling round the reddening churchyard pines, 
Rest, and call back the hours we lost together, 

Talking of hope, and soaring 

Beyond poor earth's confines. 

If, for those heavenly dreams too dimly sighted, 
You became false why, 'tis a story old : 
I, overcome by pain, and unrequited, 

Faded at last, and slumber 

Under the autumn mould. 

Farewell, farewell ! No longer plighted lovers, 
Doomed for a day to sigh for sweet return : 
One lives, indeed ; one heart the green earth covers- 
Quiet at last, reposing 
Under the moss and fern. 

From The Dublin Review. 


S. Olementis Alexandrini Opera Om- 
nia. Lutetice. 1629. 

Geschichte der Christlicher Philosophic, 
von Dr. Hdririch Ritter. Ham- 
burg: Perthes. 1841. 

IF any country under the sun bears 
the spell of fascination in its very 
name, that country is Egypt. The 
land of the Nile and the pyramids, of 
the Pharaohs and the Ptolemies the 
land where art and science had mys- 
terious beginnings before the dawn of 
history, where powerful dynasties held 
sway for long generations over the the land where, 


fertile river-valley, and built for them- 
selves mighty cities Thebes, the hun- 
dred-gated, Memphis, with its palaces, 
Heliopolis, with its temples and left 
memorials of themselves that are at- 
tracting men at this very day to Luxor 
and Carnak, to the avenue of sphynxes 
and the pyramids Egypt, where 

Uttered its oracles sublime 
Before the Olympiads, in the dew 
And dusk of early time 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

Northward from its Nubian springs, 
The Nile, for ever new and old, 

Among the living and the dead 
Its mighty, mystic stream has rolled 

Egypt seems destined to be associated 
with all the signal events of every 
age of the world. Israel's going into 
and going out of Egypt is one of the 
epic pages of Holy Scripture; Sesos- 
tris, King of Egypt, left his name 
written over half of Asia ; Alexander, 
the greatest of the Greeks, laid in 
Egypt the foundation of a new em- 
pire; Cleopatra, the captive and the 
captor of Julius Caesar and Mark An- 
tony, killed herself as the old land 
passed away for ever from the race of 
Ptolemy ; Clement and Origen, Por- 
phyry and Plotinus, have left Egypt 
the classic land of the Church's battle 
against the purest form of heathen 
philosophy ; St. Louis of France has 
made Egypt the scene of a glorious 
drama of heroism and devotion ; the 
pyramids have lent their name to 
swell the list of Napoleon's triumphs ; 
and the Nile is linked for ever with 
the deathless fame of Nelson. 

In the last decade of the second 
century, about the time when the pa- 
gan virtues of Marcus Aurelius had 
left the Roman empire to the worse 
than pagan vices of his son Commo- 
dus, Egypt, to the learned and weal- 
thy, meant Alexandria. What Tyre 
had been in the time of Solomon, what 
Sidon was in the days of which Homer 
wrote, that was Alexandria from the 
reign of Ptolemy Soter to the days of 
Mahomet. In external aspect it was 
in every way worthy to bear the name 
of him who drew its plans with his 
own hands. Its magnificent double 
harbor, of which the Great Port had 
a quay-side six miles in length, was 
the common rendezvous for merchant 
ships from every part of Syria, Greece, 
Italy, and Spain ; and its communica- 
tions with the Red Sea and the Nile 
brought to the warehouses that over- 
looked its quay the riches of Arabia 
and India, and the corn and flax of 
the country of which it was the capi- 
tal. The modern traveller, who finds 

Alexandria a prosperous commercial 
town, with an appearance half Euro- 
pean, half Turkish, learns with won- 
der that its 60,000 inhabitants find 
room on what was little more than 
the mole that divided the Great Port 
from the Eunostos. But it should be 
borne in mind that old Alexandria 
numbered 300,000 free citizens. The 
mosques, the warehouses, and the pri- 
vate dwellings of the present town are 
built of the fragments of the grand 
city of Alexander. The great con- 
queror designed to make Alexandria 
the capital of the world. He chose a 
situation the advantages of which a 
glance at the map will show ; and if 
any other proof were needed, it may 
be found in the fact that, since 1801, 
the population of the modern town 
has increased at the rate of one thou- 
sand a year. He planned his city on 
such vast proportions as might be 
looked for from the conqueror of 
Darius. Parallel streets crossed other 
streets, and divided the city into square 
blocks. Right through its whole 
length, from East to West that is, 
parallel with the sea-front one mag- 
nificent street, two hundred feet wide 
and four miles in length, ran from the 
Canopic gate to the Necropolis. A 
similar street, shorter, but of equal 
breadth, crossed this at right angles, 
and came out upon the great quay di- 
rectly opposite the mole that joined 
the city with the island of Pharos. 
This was the famous Heptastadion, or 
Street of the Seven Stadia, and at its 
South end was the Sun-gate; at its 
North, where it opened on the harbor, 
the gate of the Moon. To the right, 
as you passed through the Moon-gate 
on to the broad quay, was the ex- 
change, where merchants from all 
lands met each other, in sight of the 
white Pharos and the crowded ship- 
ping of the Great Port. A little back 
from the gate, in the Heptastadion, 
was the Caesareum, or temple of the 
deified Caesars, afterward a Christian 
church. Near it was the Museum, 
the university of Alexandria. Long 
marble colonnades connected the uni- 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


versity with the palace and gardens of 
the Ptolemies. On the opposite side v 
of the great street was the Serapeion, 
the magnificent temple of Serapis, 
with its four hundred columns, of 
which Pompey's Pillar is, perhaps, all 
that is left. And then there was the 
mausoleum of Alexander, there were 
the courts of justice, the theatres, the 
baths, the temples, the lines of shops 
and houses all on a scale of gran- 
deur and completeness which has 
never been surpassed by any city of 
the world. Such a city necessarily 
attracted men. Alexandria was fitly 
called the "many-peopled," whether 
the epithet referred to the actual num- 
ber of citizens or to the varieties of 
tongue, complexion, and costume that 
thronged its streets. The Greeks, 
the Egyptians, and the Jews, each 
had their separate quarter ; but there 
were constant streams of foreigners 
from the remote India, from the lands 
beyond the black rocks that bound the 
Nile-valley, and from the Ethiopic 
races to which St. Matthew preached, 
where the Red Sea becomes the In- 
dian Ocean. At the time we speak 
of, these discordant elements were 
held in subjection by the Roman con- 
querors, whose legionaries trod the 
streets of the voluptuous city with 
stern and resolute step, and were not 
without occasion, oftentimes, for a dis- 
play of all the sternness and resolu- 
tion which their bearing augured. 

Alexandria, however, in addition to 
the busy life of commerce and pleasure 
that went on among Greeks, Egyp- 
tians, Jews, and Africans, was the 
home of another kind of life, still more 
interesting to us. Ptolemy Soter, who 
carried out Alexander's plans, was a 
man of no common foresight and 
strength of character. He was not 
content with building a city. He per- 
formed, in addition, two exploits, either 
of which, from modern experience, we 
should be inclined to consider a title 
to immortality. He invented a new 
god, and established a university. The 
god was Serapis, whom he imported 
from Pergamus, and who soon became 

popular. The university was the 
Museum, in which lived and taught 
Demetrius of Phalerus, Euclid, Stilpo 
of Megara, Philetas of Cos, Apelles 
the painter, Callimachus, Theocritus, 
Eratosthenes, Apollonius Rhodius, and 
a host of others in philosophy, poetry, 
geometry, astronomy, and the arts. 
Here, under successive Ptolemies, 
professors lectured in splendid halls, 
amid honored affluence. All that we 
have of the Greek classics we owe to 
the learned men of the Museum. 
Poetry bloomed sweetly and luxuri- 
antly in the gardens of the Ptolemies ; 
though, it must be confessed, not vig- 
orously, not as on Ionic coast-lands, 
nor as in the earnest life of Athenian 
freedom save when some Theocritus 
appeared, with his broad Doric, fresh 
from the sheep-covered downs of 
Sicily. The name of Euclid suggests 
that geometry was cared for at the 
Museum; Eratosthenes, with his vo- 
luminous writings, all of which have 
perished, and his one or two discov- 
eries, which will never die, may stand 
for the type of geography, the science 
for which he lived ; and Hipparchus, 
astronomer and inventor of trigonom- 
etry, may remind us how they taught 
at the Museum that the earth was the 
centre of the universe, and yet, not- 
withstanding, could foretell an eclipse 
almost as well as the astronomer 
royal. In philosophy, the university 
of Alexandria has played a peculiar 
part. As long as the Ptolemies 
reigned in Egypt, the Museum could 
boast of no philosophy save commen- 
taries on Aristotle and Plato, consist- 
ing, in great measure, of subtle 
obscurities to which the darkest quid- 
dities of the deepest scholastic would 
appear to have been light reading. 
But when the Roman came in, there 
sprang up a school of thought that has 
done more than any other thing to 
hand down the fame of Ptolemy's uni- 
versity to succeeding ages. Alexan- 
dria was the birthplace of Neo-Pla- 
tonism, and, whatever we may think 
of the philosophy itself, we must allow 
it has bestowed fame on its alma 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

mater. At the dawn of the Christian 
era, Philon the Jew was already ran- 
sacking the great library to collect 
matter that should enable him to 
prove a common origin for the books 
of Plato and of Moses. Two hun- 
dred years afterward that is, just at 
the time of which we speak Plotinus 
was listening to Ammonius Saccas in 
the lecture-hall of the Museum, and 
thinking out the system of emanations, 
abysms, and depths of which he is the 
first and most famous expounder. 
Porphyry, the biographer and enthusi- 
astic follower of Plotinus, was proba- 
bly never at Alexandria in person ; 
but his voluminous writings did much 
to make the Neo-Platonist system 
known to Athens and to the cities of 
Italy. In his youth he had listened 
to the lectures of Origen, and thus 
was in possession of the traditions 
both of the Christian and the heathen 
philosophy of Alexandria. But his 
Christian studies did not prevent him 
from being the author of that famous 
book, " Against the Christians," which 
drew upon him the denunciations of 
thirty-five Christian apologists, in- 
cluding such champions as St. Jerome 
and St. Augustine. The Neo-Pla- 
tonist school culminated and expired 
in Proclus, the young prodigy of Al- 
exandria, the ascetic teacher of Athens, 
the " inspired dogmatizer," the " heir 
of Plato." Proclus died in 485, and 
his chair at Athens was filled by his 
foolish biographer Marinus, after 
which Neo-Platonism never lifted up 
its head. 

Between the time when Philon as- 
tonished the orthodox money-getting 
Hebrews of the Jews' quarter by his 
daring adoption of Plato's Logos, and 
the day when poor old Proclus his 
once handsome and strong frame 
wasted by fasting and Pythagorean 
austerities died, a drivelling old man, 
in sight of the groves of the Academe 
and the tomb of Plato, not far from 
whom he himself was to lie, many a 
busy generation had trodden the halls 
of the Museum of Alexandria. All 
that time the strife of words had never 

ceased, in the lecture-hall, in the gar- 
dens of the departed Ptolemies, round 
the banquet-table where the professors 
were feasted at the state's expense. 
All that time the fame of Alexandria 
had gathered to her Museum the 
young generations that succeeded each 
other in the patrician homes and weal- 
thy burghs of Syria, Greece, and Italy. 
They came in crowds, with their 
fathers' money in their purses, to be 
made learned by those of whose ex- 
ploits report had told so much. Some 
came with an earnest purpose. To 
the young medical student, the Alex- 
andrian school of anatomy and the 
Alexandrian diploma (in whatever 
shape it was given) not to mention 
the opportunity of perusing the works 
of the immortal Hippocrates in forty 
substantial rolls of papyrus were 
worth all the expense of a journey 
from Rome or Edessa. To the law- 
yer, the splendid collections of laws., 
from those of the Pentateuch to those of 
Zamolxis the Scythian, were treasures 
only to be found in the library where 
the zeal of Demetrius Phalerius and 
the munificence of Ptolemy Philadel- 
phus had placed them. But the vast 
majority of the youth who flocked to 
the Museum came with no other pur- 
pose than the very general one of fin- 
ishing their education and fitting them- 
selves for the world. With these, the 
agreeable arts of poetry and polite 
literature were in far greater request 
than law, medicine, astronomy, or 
geography. If they could get a sight 
of the popular poet of the hour in his 
morning meditation under the plane- 
trees of the gardens, or could crush 
into a place in the theatre when he 
recited his new " Ode to the Empress's 
Hair ;" or if they attended the lecture 
of the most fashionable exponent of 
the myths of the Iliad, and clapped 
him whenever he introduced an al- 
lusion to the divine Plato, it was con- 
sidered a very fair morning's work, 
and might be fitly rewarded by a 
boating party to Canopus in the after- 
noon, or a revel far into the night in 
any of those thousand palaces of vice 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


with which luxurious Alexandria was 
so well provided. And yet there is 
no doubt that the young men carried 
away from their university a certain 
education and a certain refinement 
an education which, though it taught 
them to relish the pleasures of intel- 
lect, in no wise disposed them to forego 
the enjoyments of sense ; and a refine- 
ment which, \sjiile imparting a grace- 
ful polish to the mind, was quite com- 
patible with the deepest moral deprav- 
ity. Pagans as they were, they were 
the fairest portion of the whole world, 
for intellect, for manliness, for gener- 
osity, for wit, for beauty and strength 
of mind and body natural gifts that, 
like the sun and the rain, are bestowed 
upon just and unjust. Their own in- 
tercourse with each other taught them 
far more than the speculations of any 
of the myth-hunting professors of the 
Museum. They crowded in to hear 
them, they cheered them, they would 
dispute and even fight for a favorite 
theory that no one understood, with 
the doubtful exception of its inventor. 
But it was not to be supposed that 
they really cared for abysms or mys- 
tical mathematics, or that they were 
not a great deal more zealous for sup- 
pers, and drinking bouts, and boating 
parties. These latter employments, 
indeed, may be said to have formed 
their real education. Greek intellect, 
Greek taste, wit, and beauty, in the 
sunniest hour of its bloom, mingled 
with its like in the grandest city that, 
perhaps, the earth has ever seen. 
The very harbors, and temples, and 
palaces were an education. The first 
rounding of the Pharos when the 
six-mile semicircle of granite quay 
and marble emporia burst on the 
view, with the Egyptian sun flashing 
from white wall and blue sea, and 
glancing and sparkling amidst the dense 
picturesque multitude that roared and 
surged on the esplanade disclosed a 
sight to make the soul grow larger. 
The wonderful city itself was a teach- 
ing: the assemblage of all that was 
best and rarest in old Egyptian art, 
and all that was freshest and most 

lovely in the art of Greece, left no 
corner of a street without its lesson to 
the eye. Indoors, there was the Mu- 
seum, with its miles of corridors and 
galleries, filled with paintings and 
sculptures ; outside, the Serapeion, the 
Caesareum, the exchange, the palace, 
the university itself, each a more ef- 
fective instructor than a year's course 
in the schools. And after all this 
came the library, with its 700,000 
volumes ! 

In the year of our Lord 181, ships 
filled the Great Port, merchants con- 
gregated in the exchange, sailors and 
porters thronged the quays ; crowds 
of rich and poor, high and low, flocked 
through the streets ; youths poured in 
to listen to Ammonius Saccas, and 
poured out again to riot and sin ; phi- 
losophers talked, Jews made money, 
fashionable men took their pleasure, 
slaves toiled, citizens bought and sold 
and made marriages ; all the forms of 
busy life that had their existence 
within the circuit of the many-peopled 
city were noisily working themselves 
out. In the same year, Pantaenus 
became the head of the catechetical 
school of the patriarchal Church of 

It was the time when those who had 
lived and walked with the Apostles 
had passed away, and when the third 
generation of the Church's rulers was 
already growing old. St. Irenseus was 
near his glorious end ; St. Eleutherius, 
of memory dear to Britain, had just 
closed his pontificate by martyrdom, 
and St. Victor sat in his place. The 
echoes of the voice of Peter had hard- 
ly died out in Rome and Antioch ; 
the traditions of Paul's bodily pres- 
ence were yet living in Asia, in Greece, 
and the Islands ; and the sweet odor 
of John's life still hung about the 
places where his sojourning had been : 
many a church of Greece and Egypt 
and of the far East had the sepulchre 
of its founder, an Apostle or an apos- 
tolic man, round which to pray. It 
was the age of the persecutions, and 
the age of the apologies. In every 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

city that was coming about which from 
the first had been inevitable. The 
Church was laying hold of human 
learning, and setting it to do her own 
work. i fixing upon Alexandria as 
the spot where, at this period, the con- 
test between Christian science and 
Gentile learning, Gentile ignorance 
and Gentile brute force, was most in- 
teresting and most developed, we must 
pass by many other Churches, not in 
forgetfulness, though in silence. We 
must pass by Rome, the capital of the 
world, not because there were not 
learned men there whom Jesus Christ 
had raised up to battle with heathen 
philosophy ; for it was but a few years 
since Justin Martyr had shed his blood 
for the faith, and Apollonius from his 
place in the senate had spoken his 
" apology" for his fellow Christians. 
But the enemies which the Gospel had 
to meet at Rome were not so much 
the learning and science of the heathen 
as his evil passions and vicious life; 
and the sword of persecution, at Rome 
hardly ever sheathed, kept down all 
attempts at regularity or organization 
in public teaching. We must pass by 
Athens, still the intellectual capital of 
the world, not because there were not 
at Athens also worthy doctors of the 
wisdom of the cross witness, to the 
contrary, Athenagoras, the Christian 
philosopher, who presented his apolo- 
gy to Marcus Aurelius. But Athens, 
though at the end of the second cen- 
tury and long afterward she was the 
mother of orators, poets, and philoso- 
phers, seems to have been too thor- 
oughly steeped in the sensuous idola- 
try of Greece to have harbored a 
school of Christianity by the side of the 
Porch and the Lyceum. If the same 
was true of Athens then as a century 
afterward, her smooth-tongued, " bab- 
bling" sophists, and her pagan charms, 
must have had to answer for the soul 
of many a poor Christian youth that 
went to seek learning and found per- 
dition. We pass by Carthage, in spite 
of Tertullian's great name ; Antioch, 
notwithstanding Theophilus, whose 
labors against the heathen still bore 

fruit ; Sardis, in spite of Melito, then 
just dead, but living still in men's 
mouths by the fame of his learning, 
eloquence, and miracles ; and Hierapo- 
lis, in spite of Apollinaris, who, like so 
many others, approached the emperor 
himself with an apology. All over 
the Church there were men raised up 
by God, and fitted with learning to con- 
front learning, patience to instruct ig- 
norance, and unflinching fortitude to 
endure persecution men in every way 
worthy to be the instruments of that 
great change which was being wrought 
out through the wide world of the 
Roman empire. 

But at Alexandria, the school of 
Christianity existed under interesting 
and peculiar conditions . St. Mark had 
landed on the granite quay of the 
Great Port with Peter's commission ; 
he had been martyred, and his succes- 
sors had been martyred after him; 
and for a long time Christianity here, 
as everywhere else, had been contempt- 
uously ignored. It spread, however, as 
we know. In time, more than one 
student, before he attended his lecture 
in the splendid halls of the Museum, 
had given ear to a far different lesson 
in a different school. The Christian 
catechetical school of Alexandria is 
said to have been founded by St. 
Mark himself. If so, it is only what 
we might naturally expect ; for wher- 
ever heathens were being converted, 
there a school of teachers had to be 
provided for their instruction ; and we 
read of similar institutions at Jerusa- 
lem, at Antioch, and at Rome. But 
the catechetical school of Alexandria 
soon assumed an importance that no 
other school of those times ever at- 
tained. Whether it was that the in- 
fluence of the university gave an im- 
petus to regular and methodical teach- 
ing, or that the converts in Alexandria 
were in great measure from a culti- 
vated and intellectual class, it appears 
to have been found necessary from the 
earliest times to have an efficient 
school, with a man of vigor and intel- 
lect at its head, capable of maintain- 
ing his position even when compared 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

with the professors of the university. 
The first of the heads or doctors of the 
school of whom history has left any 
account, is Pantaenus. Panticnus is 
not so well known as his place in 
Church history and his influence on 
his age would seem to warrant. He 
was appointed to his important post 
at a time when Christians all over 
the world must have been rejoicing. 
The fourth persecution was just dying 
out. For twenty years, with the ex- 
ception of the short interval immedi- 
ately after the miracle of the Thun- 
dering Legion, had Marcus Aurelius, 
imperial philosopher of the Stoic sort, 
continued to command or connive at 
the butchery of his Christian subjects. 
What were the motives that led this 
paragon of virtuous pagans to lower 
himself to the commonplace practices 
of racking, scourging, and burning, is 
a question that depends for its answer 
upon who the answerer is. Philoso- 
phers of a certain class, from Gibbon 
to Mr. Mill, are disposed to take a 
lenient, if not a laudatory, estimate of 
his conduct in this matter, and think 
that the emperor could not have 
acted otherwise consistently with his 
principles and convictions, as handed 
down to us in his "Meditations." 
Doubtless he had strong convictions on 
the subject of Christianity, though it 
might be questioned whether he came 
honestly by them. But his convictions, 
whatever they were, would probably 
have ended in the harmless shape 
of philosophic contempt, had it not 
been for the men by whom he was 
surrounded. They were Stoics, of 
course, like their master, but their 
stoicism was far from confining itself 
to convictions and meditations. They 
were practical Stoics, of the severest 
type which that old-world Puritanism 
admitted. As good Stoics, they were 
of all philosophers the most conceited, 
and took it especially ill that any sect 
should presume to rival them in their 
private virtues of obstinacy and en- 
durance. It is extremely probable that 
the fourth persecution, both in its com- 
mencement and its revival, was owing 

to the good offices of Marcus Aurelius's 
solemn-faced favorites. But, whatever 
be the blame that attaches to him, he 
has answered for it at the same dread 
tribunal at which he has answered for 
the deification of Faustina and the 
education of Commodus. 

However, about the year 180, per- 
secution ceased at Alexandria, and 
the Christians held up their heads and 
revived again, after the bitter whiter 
through which they had just passed. 
Their first thoughts and efforts appear 
to have been directed to their school. 
The name of Pantaenus was already 
celebrated. He was a convert from 
paganism, born probably in Sicily, but 
certainly brought up in Alexandria. 
Curiously enough, he had been a 
zealous Stoic, and remained so, in the 
Christian sense, after his conversion. 
There is no doubt that he was well 
known among the Gentile philosophers 
of Alexandria. Perhaps he had lec- 
tured in the Museum and dined in the 
Hall. Probably he had spent many a 
day buried in the recesses of the great 
libraries, and could give a good account 
of not a few of their thousands of vol- 
umes. He must have known Justin 
Martyr perhaps had something to 
say to the conversion of that brilliant 
genius, not as a teacher, but as a friend 
and fellow-student. He may have come 
across Galen, when that lively medical 
man was pursuing his researches on 
the immortal Hippocrates, or enter- 
taining a select circle, in the calm of 
the evening, under one of the porticos 
of the Heptastadion. No sooner was 
he placed at the head of the Christian 
school than he inaugurated a great 
change, or rather a great development. 
Formerly the instruction had been in- 
tended solely for converts, that is, cate- 
chumens, and the matter of the teach- 
ing had corresponded with this object. 
Pantgenus changed all this. The ces- 
sation of the persecution had, perhaps, 
encouraged bolder measures ; men 
would think there was no prospect of 
another, as men generally think when 
a long and difficult trial is over ; so 
the Christian schools were to be opened 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

to all the world. If Aristotle and 
Plato, Epicurus and Zeno, had their 
lecturers, should not Jesus Christ have 
schools and teachers too ? And what 
matter if the Christian doctrine were 
somewliat novel and hard was not 
Ammonius the Porter, at that very 
time, turning the heads of half the 
students in the city, and filling his 
lecture-room to suffocation, by ex- 
pounding transcendental theories about 
Plato's Logos, and actually teaching 
the doctrine of a Trinity? Shame 
upon the Christian name, then, if they 
who bear it do not open their doors, 
now that danger is past, and break the 
true bread to the hungry souls that 
eagerly snatch at the stones and dry 
sticks that others give ! So thought 
Pantsenus. Of his teachings and 
writings hardly a trace or a record has 
reached us. We know that he wrote 
valued commentaries on Holy Scrip- 
ture, but no fragment of them remains. 
His teaching, however, as might have 
been expected, was chiefly oral. He 
met the philosophers of Alexandria 
on their own ground. He showed 
that the fame of learning, the earnest- 
ness of character, the vivid personal 
influence that were so powerful in the 
cause of heathen philosophy, could 
be as serviceable to the philosophy 
of Christ. The plan was novel in the 
Christian world at least, in its sys- 
tematic thoroughness. That Pantaenus 
had great influence and many worthy 
disciples is evident from the fact that 
St. Clement of Alexandria, his succes- 
sor, was formed in his school, and that 
St. Alexander of Jerusalem, the cele- 
brated founder of the library which 
Eusebius consulted at Jerusalem, writ- 
ing half a century afterward to Alex- 
andria, speaks with nothing less than 
enthusiasm of the " happy memory" of 
his old master. If we could pierce the 
secrets of those long-past times, what 
a stirring scene of reverend wisdom 
and youthful enthusiasm would the for- 
gotten school of the Sicilian convert 
unfold to our sight ! Doubtless, from 
amidst the confused jargon of all man- 
ner of philosophies, the voice of the 

Christian teacher arose with a clear 
and distinct utterance ; and the fame 
of Panteenus was carried to far coun- 
tries by many a noble Roman and 
many an accomplished Greek, zealous, 
like all true academic sons, for the 
glory of their favorite master. 

After ten years of such work as this, 
Pantaenus vacated his chair, and went 
forth as a missionary bishop to con- 
vert the Indians. Before passing on 
to his successor, a few words on this 
Indian mission, apparently so inoppor- 
tune for such a man at such a time, 
will be interesting, and not unconnect- 
ed with the history of the Christian 

In the "many-peopled" city there 
were men from all lands and of all 
shades of complexion. It was noth- 
ing strange, then, that an embassy of 
swarthy Indians should have one day 
waited on the patriarch and begged 
for an apostle to take home with them 
to their countrymen. No wonder, 
either, that they specified the celebrated 
master of the catechisms as their dig- 
nissimus. The only wonder is that he 
was allowed to go. Yet he went ; he 
set out with them, sailed to Canopus, 
the Alexandrian Richmond, where the 
canal joined the Nile; sailed up the 
ancient stream to Koptos, where the 
overland route began ; joined the cara- 
van that travelled thence, from well 
to well, to Berenice, Philadelphus's 
harbor on the Red Sea ; embarked, 
and, after sailing before the monsoon 
for seventy days, arrived at the first 
Indian port, probably that which is 
now Mangalore, in the presidency of 
Bombay. This, in all likelihood, was 
the route and the destination of Pan- 
teenus. Now those among whom his 
missionary labors appear to have lain 
were Brahmins, and Brahmins of great 
learning and extraordinary strictness 
of life. Moreover, there appears to 
be no reason to doubt that the Church 
founded by St. Thomas still existed, 
and even flourished, in these very parts, 
though its apostolic founder had been 
martyred a hundred years before. 
It was not so unreasonable, then, that 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


a bishop like Pantasnus should have 
been selected for such a Church and 
such a people. Let the reader turn 
to the story of Robert de' Nobili. and 
of John de Britto, whose field of labor 

mortalized in history as Clement of 
Alexandria. He had sat under Pan- 
tamus, but he was no ordinary scholar. 
Like his instructor, he was a convert 
from paganism. He was already a 

extended to within a hundred miles of master in human learning when the 

the very spot where Pantaenus prob- 
ably landed. St. Francis Xavier had 
already found Christians in that region 
who bore distinct traces of a former 
connection with Alexandria, in the 
very points in which they deviated 

grace came. He had sought far and 
wide for the. truth, and had found it in 
the Catholic Church, and into the lap 
of his new mother he had poured 
all the treasures of Egyptian wisdom 
which he had gathered in his quest. 

from orthodoxy. De' Nobili's trans- Athens, Southern Italy, Assyria, and 

formation of himself into a Brahmin 
of the strictest and most learned caste 
is well known. He dressed and lived 

Palestine had each been visited by 
the eager searcher ; and, last of all, 
Egypt, and Alexandria, and Pantaanus 

as a Brahmin, roused the curiosity of had been the term of his travels, and 

his adopted brethren, opened school, 
and taught philosophy, inculcating 
such practical conclusions as it is un- 
necessary to specify. De Britto did 
the very same things. If any one 
will compare the Brahmins of De 
Britto and De' Nobili with those 
earlier Brahmins of Pantaanus, as de- 
scribed, for instance, by Cave from 
Palladius, he will not fail to be struck 
with the similarity of accounts ; and 
if we might be permitted to fill up the 
picture upon these conjectural hints, 
we should say that it seems to us very 
likely that Pantaenus, during the years 
that he was lost to Alexandria, was 
expounding and enforcing, in the flow- 
ing cotton robes of a venerable Sanias- 
tes, the same deep philosophy to 
Indian audiences as he had taught to 
admiring Greeks in the modest pallium 
of a Stoic. Recent missionary experi- 
ence has uniformly gone to prove that 
deep learning and asceticism are, hu- 
manly speaking, absolutely necessary 

had given to his lofty soul the "ad- 
mirable light" of Jesus Christ. When 
Pantaenus went out as a missioner to 
India, Clement, who had already as- 
sisted his beloved master in the work 
of the schools, succeeded him as their 
director and head. It was to be Cle- 
ment's task to carry on and to develop 
the work that Pantaenus had inaugu- 
rated to make Christianity not only 
understood by the catechumens and 
loved by the faithful, but recognized 
and respected by the pagan philoso- 
phers. Unless we can clearly see the 
necessity, or, at least, the reality of 
the philosophical side of his character, 
and the influences that were at work 
to make him hold fast to Aristotle and 
Plato, even after he had got far be- 
yond them, we shall infallibly set him 
down, like his modern biographers, as 
a half-converted heathen, with the shell 
of Platonism still adhering to him. 

It cannot be doubted that in a so- 
ciety like that of Alexandria hi its palmy 

in order to attempt the conversion of days there were many earnest seekers 

Brahmins with any prospect of success : 
and the mission of Pantaanus seems at 
once to furnish an illustration of this 
fact, and to afford an interesting glimpse 
of " Christian Missions" in the second 
century. But we must return to Alex- 

The name that succeeds Pantaanus 
on the rolls of the School of the Cate- 
chisms is Titus Flavius Clemens, im- 

of the truth, even as Clement himself 
had sought it. One might even lay it 
down as a normal fact, that it was the 
character of an Alexandrian, as dis- 
tinguished from an Athenian, to specu- 
late for the sake of practising, and not 
to spend his time in "either telling 
or hearing some new thing." If an 
Alexandrian was a Stoic, never was 
Stoic more demure or more intent on 
warring against his body, after Stoic 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

fashion ; if a geometrican, no disciple 
of Bacon was ever more assiduous in 
experimentalizing, measuring, compar- 
ing, and deducing laws ; if a Platon- 
ist, then geometry, ethics, poetry, and 
everything else, were enthusiastically 
pressed into the one great occupation 
of life the realizing the ideal and the 
getting face to face with the unseen. 
That all this earnestness did not uni- 
formly result in success was only too 
true. Much speculation, great earn- 
estness, and no grand objective truth 
at the end of it this was often the lot 
of the philosophic inquirer of Alexan- 
dria. The consequence was that not 
unfrequently, disgusted by failure, he 
ended by rushing headlong into the 
most vicious excesses, or, becoming a 
victim to despair, perished by his own 
hand. So familiar, indeed, had this 
resource of disappointment become to 
the philosophic mind, that Hegesias, a 
professor in the Museum, a little be- 
fore the Christian era, wrote a book 
counselling self-murder ; and so many 
people actually followed his advice as 
to oblige the reigning Ptolemy to turn 
Grand Inquisitor even in free-thinking 
Egypt, and forbid the circulation of 
the book. Yet all this, while it re- 
vealed a depth of moral wretchedness 
which it is frightful to contemplate, 
showed also a certain desperate earn- 
estness ; and doubtless there were, even 
among those who took refuge in one 
or other of these dreadful alternatives, 
men who, in their beginnings, had 
genuine aspirations after truth, min- 
gled with the pride of knowledge and 
a mere intellectual curiosity. Doubt- 
less, too, there was many a sincere 
and guileless soul among the philoso- 
phic herd, to whom, humanly speak- 
ing, nothing more was wanting than 
the preaching of the faith. Their eyes 
were open, as far as they could be 
without the light of revelation : let 
the light shine, and, by the help of 
divine grace, they would admit its 
beams into their souls. 

There are many such, in every form 
of error. In Clement's days, especial- 
ly, there were many whom Neo-Platon- 

ism, the Puseyism of paganism, cast 
up from the ocean of unclean error 
upon the shores of the Church. Take 
the case of Justin Martyr : he was a 
young Oriental of noble birth and con- 
siderable wealth. In the early part 
of the second century, we find him 
trying first one school of philosophers 
and then another, and abandoning 
each in disgust. The Stoics would 
talk to him of nothing but virtues and 
vices, of regulating the diet and curb- 
ing the passions, and keeping the in- 
tellect as quiet as possible a conve- 
nient way, as experience taught them, 
of avoiding trouble; whereas Justin 
wanted to hear something of the Ab- 
solute Being, and of that Being's deal- 
ings with his own soul a kind of 
inquiry which the Stoics considered 
altogether useless and ridiculous, if 
not reprehensible. Leaving the Stoics, 
he devoted himself heart and soul 
to a sharp Peripatetic, but quarrelled 
with him shortly and left him in dis- 
gust; the cause of disagreement be- 
ing, apparently, a practical theory 
entertained by his preceptor on the 
subject of fees. He next took to the 
disciples of Pythagoras. But with 
these he succeeded no better than 
with the others ; for the Pythagoreans 
reminded him that no one ignorant 
of mathematics could be admitted into 
their select society. Mathematics, hi 
a Pythagorean point of view, included 
geometry, astronomy, and music all 
those sciences, in fact, in which there 
was any scope for those extraordinary 
freaks of numbers which delighted the 
followers of the old vegetarian. Jus- 
tin, having no inclination to undergo a 
novitiate in mathematics, abandoned 
the Pythagoreans and went elsewhere. 
The Platonists were the next who 
attracted him. He found no lack of 
employment for the highest qualities 
of his really noble soul in the lofty 
visions of Plato and the sublimated 
theories of his disciples and commen- 
tators ; though it appears a little sin- 
gular that, with his propensities to- 
ward the ideal and abstract, he should 
have tried so many masters before he 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


sat down under Plato. However, be 
that as it may, Plato seems to have 
satisfied him for a while, and he be- 
gan to think he was growing a very 
wise man, when these illusions were 
rudely dispelled. One day he had 
walked down to a lonely spot by the 
sea-shore, meditating, probably, some 
deep idea, and perhaps declaiming 
occasionally some passage of Plato's 
Olympian Greek. In his solitary 
walk he met an old man, and entered 
into conversation with him. The 
event of this conversation was that 
Justin went home with a wonderfully 
reduced estimate of his own wisdom, 
and a determination to get to know a 
few things about which Plato, on the 
old man's showing, had been wofully 
in the dark. Justin became a con- 
vert to Christianity. Now, Justin had 
been at Alexandria, and, whether the 
conversation he relates ever really took 
place, or is merely an oratorical fiction, 
the story is one that represents sub- 
stantially what must Tiave happened 
over and over again to those who 
thronged the university of Alexandria, 
wearing the black cloak of the phi- 

Justin lived and was martyred some 
half a century before Clement sat in 
the chair of the catechisms. But it 
is quite plain that, in such a state of 
society, there would not be wanting 
many of his class and temperament 
who, in Clement's tune, as well as fifty 
years before, were in search of the true 
philosophy. And we must not forget 
that in Alexandria there were actually 
thousands of well-born, intellectual 
young men from every part of the 
Roman empire. To the earnest among 
these Clement was, indeed, no ordinary 
master. In the first place, he was 
their equal by birth and education, 
with all the intellectual keenness of 
his native Athens, and all the ripeness 
and versatility of one who had " seen 
many cities of men and their man- 
ners." Next, he had himself been a 
Gentile, and had gone through all 
those phases of the soul that precede 
and accompany the process of conver- 

sion. If any one knew their difficul- 
ties and their sore places, it was he, the 
converted philosopher. If any one 
was capable of satisfying a generous 
mind as to which was the true philoso- 
phy, it was he who had travelled the 
world over in search of it. He could 
tell the swarthy Syrian that it was of 
no use to seek the classic regions of 
Ionia, for he had tried them, and the 
truth was not there ; he could assure 
him it was waste of time to go to 
Athens, for the Porch and the Garden 
were babbling of vain questions he 
had listened in them all. He could 
calm the ardor of the young Athenian, 
his countryman, eager to try the banks 
of the Orontes, and to interrogate the 
sages of Syria ; for he could tell him 
beforehand what they would say. He 
could shake his head when the young 
Egyptian, fresh from the provincial 
luxury of Antinoe, mentioned Magna 
Graecia as a mysterious land where 
the secret of knowledge was perhaps 
in the hands of the descendants of the 
Pelasgi. He had tried Tarentum, he 
had tried Neapolis ; they were worse 
than the Serapeion in unnameable 
licentiousness less in earnest than 
the votaries that crowded the pleasure- 
barges of the Nile at a festival of the 
Moon. He had asked, he had tried, 
he had tasted. The truth, he could 
tell them, was at their doors. It was 
elsewhere, too. It was in Neapolis, 
in Antioch, in Athens, in Rome; but 
they would not find it taught in the 
chairs of the schools, nor discussed by 
noble frequenters of the baths and the 
theatres. He knew it, and he could 
tell it to them. And as he added many 
a tale of his wanderings and search- 
ings many an instance of genius 
falling short, of good-will laboring in 
the dark, of earnestness painfully at 
fault many of those who heard him 
would yield themselves up to the vig- 
orous thinker whose brow showed both 
the capacity and the unwearied ac- 
tivity of the soul within. He was the 
very man to be made a hero of. What- 
ever there was in the circle of Gentile 
philosophy he knew. St. Jerome calls 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

him the " most learned of the writers 
of the Church," and St. Jerome must 
have spoken with the sons of those 
who had heard him lecture noble 
Christian patricians, perchance, whose 
fathers had often told them how, 
in fervent boyhood, they had been 
spell-bound by his words in the Chris- 
tian school of Alexandria, or learned 
bishops of Palestine, who had heard 
of him from Origen at Caesarea or St. 
Alexander at Jerusalem. From the 
same St. Alexander, who had listened 
to Panteenus by his side, we learn that 
he was as holy as he was learned ; 
and Theodoret, whose school did not 
dispose him to admire what came from 
the catechetical doctors of Alexandria, 
is our authority for saying that his 
"eloquence was unsurpassed." In the 
fourth edition of Cave's " Apostolici," 
there is a portrait that we would fain 
vouch to be genuine. The massive, 
earnest face, of the Aristotelian type, 
the narrow, perpendicular Grecian 
brow, with its corrugations of thought 
and care, the venerable flowing beard, 
dignifying, but not concealing, the 
homely and fatherly mouth, seem to 
suggest a man who had made all 
science his own, yet who now valued a 
little one of Jesus Christ above all 
human wisdom and learning. But we 
have no record of those features that 
were once the cynosure of many eyes 
in the " many-peopled" city ; we have 
no memorial of the figure that spoke 
the truths of the Gospel in the words 
of Plato. We know not how he looked, 
nor how he sat, when he began with 
his favorite master, and showed, with 
inexhaustible learning, where he had 
caught sight of the truth, and, again, 
where his mighty but finite intellect 
had failed for want of a more " admir- 
able light ;" nor how he kindled when 
he had led his hearers through the 
vestibule of the old philosophy, and 
stood ready to lift the curtain of that 
which was at once its consummation 
and its annihilation. 

But the philosophers of Alexandria, 
so-called, were by no means, without 
exception, earnest, high-minded, and 

well-meaning. Leaving out of the 
question the mob of students who came 
ostensibly for wisdom, but got only a 
very doubtful substitute, and were quite 
content with it, we know that the Mu- 
seum was the headquarters of an 
an ti- Christian philosophy which, in 
Clement's time, was in the very spring 
of its vigorous development. Exactly 
contemporary with him was the cele- 
brated Ammonius the Porter, the 
teacher of Plotinus, and therefore the 
parent of Neo-Platonism. Ammonius 
had a very great name and a very 
numerous school. That he was a 
Christian by birth, there is no doubt ; 
and he was probably a Christian still 
when he landed at the Great Port and 
found employment as a- ship-porter. 
History is divided as to his behavior 
after his wonderful elevation from the 
warehouses to the halls of the Museum. 
St. Jerome and Eusebius deny that he 
apostatized, while the very question- 
able authority of the unscrupulous 
Porphyry is the only testimony that 
can be adduced on the other side ; but, 
even if he continued to be a Christian, 
his orthodoxy is rather damaged when 
we find him praised by such men as 
Plotinus, Longinus, and Hierocles. 
Some would cut the knot by asserting 
the existence of two Ammoniuses, one 
a pagan apostate, the other a Chris- 
tian bishop a solution equally con- 
tradicted by the witnesses on both 
sides. But, whatever Saccas was, 
there is no doubt as to what was the 
effect of his teaching on, at least, half 
of his hearers. If we might hazard a 
conjecture, we should say that he ap- 
pears to have been a man of g-eat 
cleverness, and even genius, but too 
much in love with his own brilliancy 
and his own speculations not to come 
across the ecclesiastical authority in a 
more or less direct way. He supplied 
many imposing premises which Origen, 
representing the sound half of his au- 
dience, used for Christian purposes, 
whilst Plotinus employed them for re- 
vivifying the dead body of paganism. 
The brilliant sack-bearer seems to 
have been, at the very least, a liberal 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


Christian, who was too gentlemanly to 
mention so very vulgar a thing as the 
Christian "superstition" in the classic 
gardens of the palace, or at the serene 
banquets of sages in the Symposium. 

The question, then, is, How did 
Christianity, as a philosophy, stand 
in relation to the affluent professors 
of Ptolemy's university? That they 
had been forced to see there was such 
a thing as Christianity, before the time 
of which we speak (A.D. 200), it is im- 
possible to doubt. It must have dawn- 
ed upon the comprehension of the most 
imperturbable grammarian and the most 
materialist surgeon of the Museum that 
a new teaching of some kind was slow- 
ly but surely striking root in the many 
forms of life that surrounded them. 
Rumors must long before have been 
heard in the common hall that execu- 
tions had taken place of several mem- 
bers of a new sect or society, said to 
be impious in its tenets and disloyal in 
its practice. No doubt the assembled 
sages had expended at the time much 
intricate quibble and pun, after heavy 
Alexandrian fashion, on the subject of 
those wretched men ; more especially 
when it was s put beyond doubt that no 
promises of reward or threats of pun- 
ishment had availed to make them 
compromise their " opinions " in the 
slightest tittle. Then the matter would 
die out, to be revived several times in 
the same way ; until at last some one 
would make inquiries, and would find 
that the new sect was not only spread- 
ing, but, though composed apparently 
of the poor and the humble, was clear- 
ly something very different from the 
fantastic religions or brutal no-religions 
of the Alexandrian mob. It would be 
gradually found out, moreover, that 
men of name and of parts were in its 
ranks; nay, some day of days, that 
learned company in the Hall would 
miss one of its own number, after the 
most reverend the curator had asked 
a blessing if ever he did and it 
would come out that Professor So- 
and-so, learned and austere as he was, 
had become a Christian ! And some 
would merely wonder, but, that past, 

would ask their neighbor, in the equiv- 
alent Attic, if there were to be no more 
cakes and ale, because he had proved 
himself a fool ; others would wonder, 
and feel disturbed, and think about 
asking a question or two, though not 
to the extent of abandoning their seats 
at that comfortable board. 

The majority, doubtless, at Alexan- 
dria as elsewhere, set down Christian- 
ity as some new superstition, freshly 
imported from the home of all super- 
stitions, the East. There were some 
who hated it, and pursued it with a 
vehemence of malignant lying that can 
suggest only one source of inspiration, 
that is to say, the father of all lies him- 
self. Of this class were Crescens the 
Cynic, the prime favorite of Marcus 
Aurelius, and Celsns, called the Epi- 
curean, but who, in his celebrated 
book, written at this very time, appears 
as veritable a Platonist as Plotinus 
himself. Then, again, there were 
others who found no difficulty in re- 
cognizing Christianity as a sister phi- 
losophy who, in fact, rather welcomed 
it as affording fresh material for dia- 
lectics good, easy men of routine, 
blind enough to the vital questions 
which the devil's advocates clearly 
saw to be at stake. Galen is pre-emi- 
nently a writer who has reflected the 
current gossip of the day. He was a 
hard student in his youth, and a learn- 
ed and even high-minded man in his 
maturity, but he frequently shows him- 
self in his writings as the "fashionable 
physician," with one or two of the 
weaknesses of that well-known char- 
acter. He spent a long time at Alex- 
andria, just before Clement became fa- 
mous, studying under Heraclian, con- 
sulting the immortal Hippocrates, and 
profiting by the celebrated dissecting- 
rooms of the Museum, in which, unless 
they are belied, the interests of science 
were so paramount that they used to 
dissect not live horses; but living 
slaves. He could not, therefore, fail 
to have known how Christianity was 
regarded at the Museum. Speaking 
of Christians, then, in his works, he 
of course retails a good deal of non- 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

sense about them, such as we can 
imagine him to have exchanged with 
the rich gluttons and swollen philoso- 
phers whom he had to attend profes- 
sionally in Roman society ; but when 
he speaks seriously, and of what he 
had himself observed, he says, frankly 
and honestly, that the Christians de- 
served very great praise for sobriety 
of life, and for their love of virtue, in 
which they equalled or surpassed the 
greatest philosophers of the age. So. 
thought, in all probability, many of the 
learned men of Alexandria. 

The Church, on her side, was not 
averse to appearing before the Gen- 
tiles in the garb of philosophy, and it 
was very natural that the Christian 
teachers should encourage this idea, 
with the aim and hope of gaining ad- 
mittance for themselves and their good 
tidings into the very heart of pagan 
learning. And was not Christianity 
a philosophy ? In the truest sense of 
the word and, what is more to the 
purpose, in the sense of the philoso- 
phers of Alexandria it was a philoso- 
phy. The narrowed meaning that in 
our days is assigned to philosophy, as 
distinguished from religion, had no ex- 
istence in the days of Clement. Wis- 
dom was the wisdom by excellence, the 
highest, the ultimate wisdom. What 
the Hebrew preacher meant when he 
said, " Wisdom is better than all the 
most precious things," the same was 
intended by the Alexandrian lecturer 
when he offered to show his hearers 
where wisdom was to be found. It 
meant the fruit of the highest specula- 
tion, and at the same time the neces- 
sary ground of all-important practice. 
In our days the child learns at the 
altar-rails that its end is to love God, 
and serve him, and be happy with him ; 
and after many years have passed, the 
child, now a man, studies and specu- 
lates on the reasons and the bearings 
of that short, momentous sentence. In 
the old Greek world the intellectual 
search came first, and the practical 
sentence was the wished-for result. 
A system of philosophy was, therefore, 
in Clement's time, tantamount to a re- 

ligion. It was the case especially with 
the learned. Serapis and Isis were all 
very well for the " old women and the 
sailors," but the laureate and the as- 
tronomer royal of the Ptolemies, and 
the professors, many and diverse, of 
arts and ethics, in the Museum, scarce- 
ly took pains to conceal their utter 
contempt for the worship of the vul- 
gar. Their idols were something more 
spiritual, their incense was of a more 
ethereal kind. Could they not dispute 
about the Absolute Being? and had 
they not glimpses of something inde- 
finitely above and yet indefinably re- 
lated to their own souls, in the Logos 
of the divine Plato ? So the Stoic 
mortified his flesh for the sake of some 
ulterior perfectibility of which he could 
give no clear account to himself; the 
Epicurean contrived to take his fill of 
pleasure, on the maxim that enjoyment 
was the end of our being, " and to- 
morrow we die ;" the Platonist specu- 
lated and pursued his " air-travelling 
and cloud-questioning," like Socrates 
in the basket, in a vain but tempting 
endeavor to see what God was to man 
and man to God; the Peripatetic, the 
Eclectic, and all the rest, disputed, 
scoffed, or dogmatized about many 
things, certainly, but, mainly and fin- 
ally, on those questions that will uever 
lie still: Who are we? and, Who 
placed us here ? Philosophy included 
religion, and therefore Christianity was 
a philosophy. 

When Clement, then, told the phi- 
losophers of Alexandria that he could 
teach them the true philosophy, he was 
saying not only what was perfectly 
true, but what was perfectly under- 
stood by them. The catechetical school 
was, and appeared to them, as truly a 
philosophical lecture-room as the halls 
of the Museum. Clement himself had 
been an ardent philosopher, and he 
reverently loved his masters, Socrates 
and Plato and Aristotle, whilst he had 
the feelings of a brother toward the 
philosophers of his own day. He be- 
came a Christian, and his dearest ob- 
ject was to win his brethren to a par- 
ticipation in his own good fortune 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


He did not burn his philosophical 
books and anathematize his masters; 
like St. Paul, he availed himself of the 
good that was in them and commended 
it, and then proclaimed that he had the 
key of the treasure which they had 
labored to find and had not found. 
This explains how it is that, in Clement 
of Alexandria, the philosopher's man- 
tle seems almost to hide the simple 
garb of the Christian. This also ex- 
plains why he is called, and indeed 
calls himself, an Eclectic in his sys- 
tem ; and this marks out the drift and 
the aim of the many allusions to phi- 
losophy that we find in his extant 
works, and in the traditions of his 
teaching that have come down to us. 
If Christianity was truly called a phi- 
losophy, what should we expect in its 
champion but that he should be a 
philosopher ? Men in these days read 
the Stromata, and find that it is, on 
the outside, more like Plato than like 
Jesus Christ; and thus they make 
small account of it, because they can- 
not understand its style, or the reason 
for its adoption. The grounds of ques- 
tions and the forms of thought have 
shifted since the days of the catechet- 
ical school. But Clement's fellow- 
citizens understood him. The thrifty 
young Byzantine, for instance, under- 
stood him, who had been half-inclined 
to join the Stoics, but had come, in his 
threadbare pallium, to hear the Chris- 
tian teacher, and who was told that 
asceticism was very good and com- 
mendable, but that the end of it all was 
God and the love of God, and that 
this end could only be attained by a 
Christian. The languid but intellectual 
man of fashion understood him, who 
had grown sick of the jargon of his 
Platonist professors about the perfect 
man and the archetypal humanity, and 
who now felt his inmost nature stirred 
to its depths by the announcement and 
description of the Word made flesh. 
The learned stranger from Antioch or 
Athens, seeking for the truth, under- 
stood him, when he said that the Chris- 
tian dogma alone could create and per- 
fect the true Gnostic or Knower ; he 

understood perfectly the importance of 
the object, provided the assertion were 
true, as it might turn out to be. Un- 
less Clement had spoken of asceticism, 
of the perfect man, and of the true 
Gnostic, his teaching would not have 
come home to the self-denying student, 
to the thoughtful sage, to the brilliant 
youth, to all that was great and gener- 
ous and amiable in the huge heathen 
society of the crowded city. As it was, 
he gained a hearing, and, having done 
so, he said to the Alexandrians, " Your 
masters in philosophy are great and 
noble : I honor them, I admire and 
accept them ; but they did not go far 
enough, as you all acknowledge. Come 
to us, then, and we will show what is 
wanting in them. Listen to these old 
Hebrew writers whom I will quote to 
you. You see that they treated of all 
your problems, and had solved the 
deepest of them, whilst your fore- 
fathers were groping in darkness. All 
their light, and much more, is our in- 
heritance. The truth, which you seek, 
we possess. ' What you worship, with- 
out knowing it, that I preach to you/ 
God's Word has been made flesh has 
lived on this earth, the model man, the 
absolute man. Come to us, and we 
will show you how you may know God 
through him, and how through him God 
communicates himself to you." But 
here he stopped. The " discipline of 
the secret" allowed him to go no fur- 
ther in public. The listening Chris- 
tians knew well what he meant ; his 
pagan hearers only surmised that there 
was more behind. And was it not 
much that Christianity should thus 
measure strength and challenge a con- 
test with the old Greek civilization on 
equal terms, and about those very mat- 
ters of intellect and high ethics in which 
it especially prided itself? 

But the contest, never a friendly 
one, save with the dullest and easiest 
of the pagan philosophers, very soon 
grew to be war to the knife. We have 
said that the quiet lovers of literature 
among the heathen men of science 
were perfectly ready to admit the 
Christian philosophy to a fair share 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

in the arena of disputation and discus- 
sion, looking upon it as being, at worst, 
only a foolish system of obtrusive nov- 
elties, which might safely be left to 
their own insignificancy. But, quite 
unexpectedly and startlingly for easy- 
going philosophers, Christianity was 
found, not merely to claim the pos- 
session of truth, but to claim it wholly 
and solely. And, what was still more 
intolerable, its doctors maintained that 
its adoption or rejection was no open 
speculative question, but a tremendous 
practical matter, involving nothing less 
than all morality here and all happi- 
ness hereafter; and that the unfortu- 
nate philosopher, who, in his lofty 
serenity, approved it as right, and 
yet followed the wrong, would have 
to undergo certain horrors after death, 
the bare suggestion of which seemed 
an outrage on the dignity of the philo- 
sophical character. This was quite 
enough for hatred; and the philoso- 
phers, as their eyes began to open, 
saw that Crescens and Celsus were 
right, and accorded their hatred most 
freely and heartily. 

But Christianity did not stop here. 
With the old original schools and their 
offshoots it was a recognized principle 
that philosophy was only for philoso- 
phers ; and this was especially true of 
Clement's most influential contempor- 
aries, the Neo-Platonists. The vul- 
gar had no part in it, in fact could not 
come within the sphere of its influence ; 
how could they ? How could the sail- 
ors, who, after a voyage, went to pay 
their vows in the temple of Neptune 
on the quay, or the porters who drag- 
ged the grain sacks and the hemp 
bundles from the tall warehouses to 
the holds of Syrian and Greek mer- 
chantmen, or the negro slaves who 
fanned the brows of the foreign prince, 
or the armorers of the Jews' quarter, 
or the dark-skinned, bright -eyed 
Egyptian women of the Rhacotis 
suspected of all evil from thieving 
to sorcery, or, more than all, the 
drunken revellers and poor harlots 
who made night hideous when the 
Egyptian moon looked down on the 

palaces of the Brucheion how could 
any of these find access to the sublime 
secrets of Plato or the profound com- 
mentaries of his disciples ? Even if 
they had come in crowds to the lec- 
ture-halls which no one wanted them 
to do, or supposed they would do 
they could not have been admitted 
nor entertained ; for even the honest 
occupations of life, the daily labors 
necessary in a city of 300,000 free- 
men, were incompatible with imbibing 
the divine spirit of philosophy. So 
the philosophers had nothing to say 
to all these. If they had been asked 
what would become of such poor 
workers and sinners, they would pro- 
bably have avoided an answer as best 
they could. There were the temples 
and Serapis and Isis and the priests 
they might go to them. It was certain 
that philosophy was not meant for the 
vulgar. In fact, philosophy would be 
unworthy of a habitation like the Mu- 
seum would deserve to have its pen- 
sions stopped, its common hall abolish- 
ed, and its lecture-rooms shut up if 
ever it should condescend to step into 
the streets and speak to the herd. It 
was, therefore, with a disgust unspeak- 
able, and a swiftly-ripening hatred, 
that the philosophers saw Christianity 
openly proclaiming and practising the 
very opposite of all this. True, it had 
learned men and respected men in its 
ranks, but it loudly declared that its 
mission was to the lowly, and the 
mean, and the degraded, quite as 
much as to the noble, and the rich, 
and the virtuous. It maintained that 
the true divine philosophy, the source 
of joy for the present and hope for the 
future, was as much in the power of 
the despised bondsman, trembling un- 
der the lash, as of the prince-go \ 7 ernor, 
or the Cgesar himself, haughtily wield- 
ing the insignia of sovereignty. We 
know what its pretensions and tenets 
were, but it is difficult to realize how 
they must have clashed with the no- 
tions of intellectual paganism in the 
city of Plotinus how the hands that 
would have been gladly held out in 
friendship, had it come in respectable 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


and conventional guise, were shut and 
clenched, when they saw in its train 
the rough mechanic, the poor maid- 
servant, the negro, and the harlot. 
There could be no compromise be- 
tween two systems such as these. 
For a time it might have seemed as 
if they could decide their quarrel in 
the schools, but the old Serpent and 
his chief agents knew better : and so 
did Clement and the Christian doctors, 
at the very time that they were taking 
advantage of fair weather to occupy 
every really strong position which the 
enemy held. The struggle soon grew 
into the deadly hand-to-hand grapple 
that ended in leaving the corpse of 
paganism on the ground, dead but not 
buried, to be gradually trodden out of 
sight by a new order of things. 

It must not, however, be supposed 
that the Christian school of Alexan- 
dria was wholly, or even chiefly, em- 
ployed in controversy with the schools 
of the heathen. The first care of the 
Church was, as at all times, the house- 
hold of the faith : a care, however, in 
the fulfilment of which there is less 
that strikes as novel or interesting at 
first sight than in that remarkable ag- 
gressive movement of which it has 
been our object to give some idea. 
But even in the Church's household- 
working there is much that is both 
instructive and interesting, as we get 
a glimpse of it in Clement of Alexan- 
dria. The Church in Alexandria, as 
elsewhere, was made up of men from 
every lot and condition of life. There 
were officials, civil and military, mer- 
chants, shop-keepers, work-people 
plain, hard-striving men, husbands, 
and fathers of families. In the wake 
of the upper thousands followed a long 
and wide train the multitude who 
compose the middle classes of a great 
city ; and it was from their ranks that 
the Church was mainly recruited. 
They might not feel much interest 
in the university, beyond the fact that 
its numerous and wealthy students 
were a welcome stimulus to trade ; 
but still they had moral and intellect- 


ual natures. They must have craved 
for some kind of food for their minds 
and hearts, and cannot have been satis- 
fied with the dry, unnourishing scraps 
that were flung to them by the super- 
cilious philosophers. They must have 
felt no small content those among 
them who had the grace to hearken 
to the teachings of Clement when he 
told them that the philosophy he taught 
was as much for them as for their mas- 
ters and their betters. They listened 
to him, weighed his words, and ac- 
cepted them ; and then a great ques- 
tion arose. It was a question that was 
being debated and settled at Antioch, 
at Rome, and at Athens, no less than 
at Alexandria; but at Alexandria it 
was Clement who answered it. " We 
believe your good tidings," they said ; 
" but tell us, must we change our lives 
wholly and entirely ? Is everything 
that we have been doing so far, and 
our fathers have been doing before 
us, miserably and radically wrong?" 
They had bought and sold ; they had 
married and given in marriage ; they 
had filled their warehouses and freight- 
ed their ships ; they had planted and 
builded, and brought up their sons and 
daughters. They had loved money, 
and the praise of their fellow-men; 
they had their fashions and their cus- 
toms, old and tune-honored, and so in- 
terwoven with their very life as to be 
almost identified with it. Some of their 
notions and practices the bare an- 
nouncement of the Gospel sufficiently 
condemned ; and these must go at once. 
But where was the line to be drawn ? 
Did the Gospel aim at regenerating 
the world by forbidding marriage and 
laying a ban on human labor; by 
making life intolerable with asceti- 
cism ; by emptying the streets and the 
market-places, and driving men to 
Nitria and the frightful rocks of the 
Upper Nile ? And what made the 
question doubly exciting was the two- 
fold fact, first, that in those very days 
men and women were continually flee- 
ing from home and family, and hiding, 
in the desert ; and secondly, that there 
were in that very city congregations of 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

men calling themselves Christians, who 
proclaimed that it was wrong to marry, 
and that flesh-meat and wine were sin- 
ful indulgences. 

The answer that Clement gave to 
these questionings is found mainly in 
that work of his which is called Ptzda- 
ffogus, or "The Teacher." The an- 
swer needed was a sharp, a short, and 
a decisive one. It needed to be like a 
surgical operation rapidly performed, 
completed, with nothing further to be 
done but to fasten the bandages, and 
leave the patient to the consequences, 
whatever they might be. Society had 
to be reset. We need not repeat for 
the thousandth time the fact of the un- 
utterable corruptness and rottenness of 
the whole pagan world. It was not 
that there were wanting certain true 
ideas of duty toward the state, the 
family, the fellow-citizen : the evil lay 
far deeper. It was not good sense that 
was wanting ; it was the sense of the 
supernatural. " Let us eat and drink, 
for to-morrow we die," was the formula 
that expressed the code of popular mo- 
rality ; and because men could not " eat 
and drink" comfortably and luxurious- 
ly without some sort of law, order, and 
mutual compact, it followed as a neces- 
sary consequence that there must be 
law, order, and compact. It was not, 
therefore, that Clement had merely to 
hold up the Gospel and show them its 
meaning here and its application there. 
He had to shift the very groundwork 
of morality, to take up the very foun- 
dations of the moral acts that go to 
make up life as viewed in the light of 
right and wrong. He had to substi- 
tute heaven for earth, hereafter for 
here, God for self. And he did so 
in a fashion not unknown in the Catho- 
lic Church since, as indeed it had been 
not unknown to St. Paul long before. 
He simply held up to them the cruci- 
fix. Let any one turn to the com- 
mencement of the Pcedagogus, and 
he will find a description of what a 
teacher ought to be. At the begin- 
ning of the second chapter he will 
read these words : " My children, our 
teacher is like the Father, whose Son 

he is ; in whom there is no sin, great 
or small, nor any temptation to sin ; 
God in the figure of a man, stainless, 
obedient to his Father's will ; the 
Word, true God, who is in the Father, 
who is at the Father's right hand, true 
God in the form of a man ; to whom 
we must strive with all our might to 
make ourselves like." It sounds like 
the commencement of a children's re- 
treat in one of our modern cities to 
hear Clement proclaim so anxiously 
that the teacher and model of men is 
no other than Jesus, and that we must 
all become children, and go and listen 
to him and study him ; yet it is a sen- 
tence that must have spoken to the 
very inmost hearts of all who had a 
thought or care for their souls in 
Alexandria ; and one can perceive, 
in the terms used in the original 
Greek, a conscious adaptation of epi- 
thets to meet more than one Platonic 
difficulty. It was the reconciliation of 
the true with the beautiful. The Alex- 
andrians, Greek and Egyptian, with 
their Greek longings for the beautiful, 
and their Egyptian tendings to the 
sensible, were- not put off by Clement 
with a cold abstraction. A mathema- 
tical deity, formed out of lines, rela- 
tions, and analogies, such as Neo- 
Platonism offered, was well enough 
for the lecture-room, but had small 
hold upon the heart. Christianity 
restored the thrilling sense of a per- 
sonal God, which Neo-Platonism de- 
stroyed, but for which men still sighed, 
though they knew not what they were 
sighing for ; and Christianity, by 
Clement's mouth, taught that the liv- 
ing and lovely life of Jesus was to be 
the end and the measure of the life of 
all. They were to follow him : " My 
angel shall walk before you," is Clem- 
ent's own quotation. And having 
thus laid down the regenerating prin- 
ciple God through Jesus Christ 
he descends safely and fearlessly into 
details. Minutely and carefully he 
handles the problems of life, and sets 
them straight by the light of the life of 

These details and these directions, 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


as left to us by Clement in the Pceda- 
gogus, are only what we might antici- 
pate from a Christian teacher to his 
flock ; and yet they are very interest- 
ing, and disclose many facts that are 

phers themselves really understood and 
practically followed : " Let us eat and 
drink !" Again, a navigable river, a 
rainless sky, and a climate perhaps the 
finest in the world, offered both induce- 

full of suggestion to one who reads by ments and facilities for parties of pleas- 

the light of the Catholic faith. Who 
would not like to hear what Clement 
said to the Church of Alexandria about 
dress, beauty, feasting, drinking, fur- 
niture, conversation, money, theatres, 
sleep, labor, and housekeeping ? We 
know well that there must have been 
ample scope for discourse on all these 
topics. The rich Alexandrians, like 
the rich Romans, and the rich Corin- 
thians, and the rich everywhere, were 
fearfully addicted to luxury, and their 
poorer neighbors followed their exam- 
ple as well as they could. But there 
were circumstances peculiar to Alex- 
andria that enabled it to outdo the rest 
of the world in this matter ; putting 
Rome, of course, out of the question. 
It was the market for India ; and see- 
ing that almost everything in the way 
of apparel came from India, Alexan- 
dria had the pick of the best that the 
world could afford, and seems not to 
have been behindhand in taking ad- 
vantage of its privilege. Nobody en- 
joyed more than the Alexandrian 
whether he were a descendant of the 
Macedonian who came in with the 
Conqueror, or a, parvenu of yesterday 
grown great by his wheat-ships or his 
silk-bales >to sweep the Heptastadion, 
or promenade the Great Quay, or 
lounge in the gardens of the Museum, 
in what ancient tailors and milliners 
would call a synthesis of garments, as 
ample, and stiff, and brilliant as Indian 
looms could make them. Then, again, 
Alexandria was a university town. 
Two hundred years of effeminate 
Ptolemies and four hundred of wealthy 
students had been more than enough 
to create a tradition of high, luxurious 
living. The conjunction of all that 
was to be got for money, with any 
amount of money to get it with, had 
made Alexandria a model city for car- 
rying out the only maxim which the 
greater number even of the philoso- 

ure and conviviality in general. It is 
true the river was only a canal : one 
thing was wanting to the perfection 
of Alexandria as a site for an empire 
city, viz., the Nile ; but that the canal 
was a moderate success in the eyes of 
the Alexandrians may be inferred from 
the fact that Canopus, where it finished 
its short course of thirteen or fourteen 
miles, and joined the Nile, was a per- 
fect city of river-side hotels, to which 
the boats brought every day crowds of 
pleasure-seekers. Very gay were the 
silken and gilded boats, with their 
pleasant canopies and soothing music ; 
and very gay and brilliant, but not 
very reputable, were the groups that 
filled them, with their crowns of flow- 
ers, their Grecian attitudinizing, and 
their ingenious arrangements of fan- 
working slaves. This was the popu- 
lation which it was Clement's work to 
convert to purity and moderation. 

It is very common with Clement's 
modern critics, when making what our 
French allies would call " an appreci- 
ation" of him, to set him down as a 
solemn trifler. They complain that 
they cannot get any "system of 
theology" out of his writings ; indeed, 
they doubt whether he so much as had 
one. They find him use the term 
" faith" first in one sense and then in 
another, and they are especially of- 
fended by his minute instructions on 
certain matters pertaining to meat, 
drink, and dress. To any one who 
considers what Clement intended to do 
in his writings, and especially in the 
Pcedagogus, there is no difficulty in 
seeing an answer to a difficulty like 
this. He did not mean to construct a 
" system of theology," and therefore it 
is no wonder if his critics cannot find 
one. He did not even mean to state 
the broad, general principles of the 
Gospel: his hearers knew these well 
enough. What he did mean to do was, 

The Clmsiian Schools of Alexandria. 

to apply these general rules and prin- 
ciples to a variety of cases occurring 
in everyday life. And yet, as a mat- 
ter of fact, it is to be observed that he 
always does lay down broad principles 
before entering into details. In the 
matter of eating, for instance, regard- 
ing which he is very severe in his de- 
nunciations, and not without reason, 
he takes care to state distinctly the 
great Catholic canon of mortification : 
"Though all things were made for 
man, yet it is not good to use all, nor 
at all times." Again, in the midst of 
his contemptuous enumeration of an- 
cient wines, he does not forget to say, 
" You are not robbed of your drink : 
it is given to you, and awaits your 
hand ;" that which is blamed is excess. 
He sums up what he has been saying 
against the voluptuous entertainments 
then so universal by the following 
sentence a novelty, surely, to both 
extremes of pagan society in Alexan- 
dria " In one word, whatever is natu- 
ral to man must not be taken from 
him ; but, instead thereof, must be 
regulated according to fitting measure 
and time." 

In deciding whether Clement was a 
"solemn trifler," or not, there is 
another consideration which must not 
be omitted, and that is his sense of the 
humorous. It may sound incongruous 
when speaking of a Father of the 
Church, and much more of a reputed 
mystical Father like Clement, but we 
think no one can deny that he often 
supplements a serious argument by a 
little stroke of pleasantry. As many 
of his sentences stand, a look or a 
smile would lighten them up and make 
them sparkle into humor. Paper and 
ink cannot carry the tone of the voice 
or the glance of the eye, and Clement's 
voice has been silent and his eye 
dimmed for many a century ; but may 
we not imagine that at times something 
of archness in the teacher's manner 
would impart to his weighty words a 
touch of quaintness, and the habitual- 
ly thoughtful eye twinkle with a gleam 
of pleasantry ? He would be no true 
follower of Plato if it were not so. 

Who shall say he was not smiling 
when he gave out that formal list of 
wines, of eatables, and of scents most 
affected by the fashionables of those 
days ? He concludes an invective 
against scandalous feats by condemn- 
ing the universal crown of roses as a 
" nuisance :" it was damp, it was cold ; 
it hindered one from using either his 
eyes or his ears properly. He advises 
his audience to avoid much curious 
carving and ornamenting of bed-posts; 
for creeping things, he says, have a 
habit of making themselves at home 
in the mouldings. He asks if one's 
hands cannot be as well washed in a 
clay basin as in a silver one. He 
wonders how one can dare to put a 
plain little loaf on a grand "wing- 
footed" table. He cannot see why a 
lamp of earthenware will not give as 
good a light as one of silver. He al- 
ludes with disgust to "hissing frying- 
pans," to " spoon and pestle," and even 
to the " packed stomachs" of their pro- 
prietors ; to Sicilian lampreys, and At- 
tican eels ; shell-fish from Capo di 
Faro, and Ascrean beet from the foot 
of Helicon ; mullet from the Gulf of 
Thermae, and pheasants from the 
Crimea. We hear him contemptuous- 
ly repeat the phrases of connoisseurs 
about their wines, the startling variety 
of which we know from other sources 
besides his writings : he speaks of the 
" scented Thasian," the aromatic " Les- 
bian," the " sweet wine of Crete," the 
"pleasant Syracusan." The articles 
of plate which he enumerates to con- 
demn would be more than sufficient to 
furnish out a modern wedding break- 
fast. To scents he gives no quarter. 
We have heard a distinguished pro- 
fessor of chemistry assert, in a lecture, 
that wherever there is scent on the 
surface there is sure to be dirt beneath ; 
and, from the well-known fact that in 
Capua there was one whole street oc- 
cupied by perfumers, he could draw 
no other inference than that Capua 
must have been " a very dirty city." 
It would appear that Clement of Al- 
exandria was much of this opinion. 
He gives a picture of a pompous per- 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


sonage in a procession, " going along 
marvellously scented, for the purpose 
of producing a sensation, and yet un- 
derneath as foul as he could be." He 
enumerates the absurd varieties of 
ointments in fashion, and orders them 
to be thrown away. He is indignant 
at the saffron-colored scented robe 
that the gentlemen wore. He will 
have no flowing or trailing vestments ; 
no " Attic buskins," no " Persian san- 
dals." He complains that the ladies 
go and spend the whole day at the 
perfumer's, the goldsmith's, and the 
milliner's, just as if he were speaking 
of " shopping" in the nineteenth cen- 
tury, instead of A.D. 200. He blames 
the men for frequenting the barbers' 
shops, the taverns, and the dicing- 
houses. It is amusing in these days 
to read of his denunciations of shaving. 
He has no patience with " hair-haters :" 
a man without the hair that God gave 
him is a " base sight." " God attached 
such importance to hair," he says, 
" that he makes a man come to hair 
and sense at the same time." But, 
in reality, this vehement attack on the 
" smooth men," as he calls them, points 
to one of the most flagrant of heathen 
immoralities, and reveals in the con- 
text a state of things to which we may 
not do more than allude. He con- 
demns luxury in furniture, from "beds 
with silver feet, made of ivory and 
adorned with gold and tortoise-shell," 
down to "little table-daggers," that 
ancient ladies and gentlemen used in- 
differently to their food and to their 
slaves. All this is not very deep, but 
it is just what Clement wanted to say, 
and a great deal more useful in its 
place and connection than a " system 
of theology." We may add that it is 
a great deal more interesting to us, 
who know pretty well what Clement's 
" system of theology" was, but not so 
well what were the faults and failings 
of his Christian men and women in 
those far-off Alexandrian times. 

There is another epithet bestowed 
upon Clement, more widely and with 
better authority than that of " trifler." 
He is called a mystic. He deals in 

allegorical interpretations of Holy 
Scripture, in fanciful analogies, and 
whimsical reasonings ; he was carried 
away by the spirit of Neo-Platonism, 
and substituted a number of idle myths 
for the stern realities of the Gospel. 
It is not our business at present to 
show, by references, that this accusa- 
tion is untrue ; but we may admit at 
once that it is not unfounded, and we 
maintain that it points to an excellence, 
rather than a defect, in his teaching. 
From the remarks made just now, the 
reader will be prepared to expect that 
a teacher in Alexandria in Clement's 
days must have been a mystic. It 
was simply the fashion ; and a fashion, 
in thought and speech, exacts a certain 
amount of compliance from those who 
think or speak for the good of its fol- 
lowers. Neo-Platonism was not ex- 
tant in his time as a definite system, 
but ever since the days of Pinion its 
spirit had been the spirit of the Mu- 
seum. Nature, in its beauty and va- 
riety, was an allegory of the soul so 
said the philosophers, and the crowd 
caught it up with eagerness. The 
natural philosopher could not lecture 
on Aristotle De Animalibus with- 
out deducing morals in the style of 
JEsop. The moralist, in his turn, 
could hardly keep up his class-list 
without embodying his Beautiful and 
his Good in the eesthetical garb of a 
myth the more like Plato, the better. 
The mathematician discoursed of num- 
bers, of lines, and of angles, but the 
interesting part of his lecture was 
when he drew the analogy from lines 
and numbers to the soul and to God. 
Alexandria liked allegory, and be- 
lieved, or thought she believed, that 
the Seen was always a type of the 
Unseen. Such a belief was not un- 
natural, and by no means hopelessly 
erroneous ; nay, was it not highly use- 
ful to a Christian teacher, with the 
Bible in his hand, in which he would 
really have to show them so many 
things, per allcgoriam dicta ? Clement 
took up the accustomed tone. Had 
he done otherwise, he would have been 
strange and old-fashioned, whereas he 


The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 

wanted to get the ear of his country- 
men, and therefore thought it no harm 
to fall in with their humor for the 
mythical ; just as good Father Faber 
preached and wrote like a modern 
Englishman, and not like an antique 
Douai controversialist, or a well-mean- 
ing translator of " Sermons from the 
French." But, say the objectors, 
Clement's interpretation of Scripture 
is so very forced and unnatural. The 
whole subject of allegorical interpreta- 
tion of Sacred Scripture is too wide to 
be entered upon here; but that the 
Bible, especially the Old Testament, 
has an allegorical sense, no one de- 
nies, and the decision of what is the 
true allegorical sense depends more 
upon the authority of the teacher than 
upon the interpretation itself. In the 
time of Clement, when the Gnostics 
were attributing the Old Testament to 
the Evil Principle, there was a special 
necessity for a warm and loving ac- 
knowledgment that it was the voice 
and the teaching of God to man ; and 
it is no wonder, therefore, that he al- 
lows himself, with the brilliant fancy 
of an Athenian, even if sometimes 
with the fantasticalness of an Alexan- 
drian, to extract meanings out of the 
sacred text which our sober eyes could 
never have discovered. As it is, we 
owe to his mysticism no small portion 
of the eloquence and beauty of his 
writings ; we may instance that charm- 
ing passage in the P<sdagogus where 
he alludes to the incident related in 
the twenty-sixth chapter of Genesis 
"Abimelech, King of the Palestines, 
looking out through a window, saw 
Isaac playing with Rebecca his wife." 
Isaac represents, the little one of 
Christ, and is interpreted to be joy ; 
Rebecca is patience ; the royal Abim- 
elech signifies heavenly wisdom. The 
child of Jesus Christ, joyful with a joy 
that none but that blessed teacher can 
give, lovingly sports with his " help- 
mate," patience, and the wisdom that 
is from above looks 0:1 and wonderingly 
admires. The beauty of conception 
and perfection of form that is insepa- 
rable from true Greek art, whether in 

a statue or a medal, an epic or an 
epigram, is by no means wanting to 
the first of the Greek Fathers. A 
reader who should take up the Pceda- 
gogus for no other than literary reas- 
ons would not be disappointed ; he 
would receive, from his reading, a very 
high idea of the wisdom, the eloquence, 
and, above all, the saintly unction of 
the great Catholic doctor and philoso- 
pher who first made human science 
the handmaid of Christian theology. 

The witnessing to the truth before 
heathen philosophers and the teaching 
the children of the faith might have 
fully employed both the zeal and the 
eloquence of Clement. But there was 
another and a sadder use for words, 
in the task of resisting the heresies 
that seemed to grow like foul excres- 
cences from the very growth of the 
Church herself. Alexandria, the city 
of Neo-Platonism, was also with 
nearly as good a title the city of 
Gnosticism. To examine the his- 
tory of Gnosticism is not a tempting 
undertaking. On the one side, it is 
like walking into a fog, as dense and 
unpleasant as ever marked a London 
November ; on the other, it is to dis- 
turb a moral cess-pool, proverbially 
better left alone. Of the five groups 
of the Gnostic family, which seem to 
agree in little beside worshipping the 
devil, holding to "emanations," and 
owing their origin to Simon Magus, 
the particular group that made Alex- 
andria its headquarters acknowledged 
as its leading names Basilides, Valen- 
tine, and Mark, each of whom outdid 
the other in the absurdity of his ravings 
about eons, generations, and the like, 
and in the abominableness of his prac- 
tical licentiousness. Valentine and 
Mark were contemporaries of Clem- 
ent, if not personally (Valentine is 
said to have died A.D. 150) at least 
in their immediate influence. No one 
can tell satisfactorily what made these 
precious followers of Simon Magus 
spend their days in patching up second- 
hand systems out of the rags of cast- 
off Oriental mysticism. No doubt 
their jargon appeared somewhat less 

The Christian Schools of Alexandria. 


unnatural in their own days than it 
does in ours. They lived nearer the 
times when the wrecks of primeval 
revelation and history had been 
wrought into a thousand fantastic 
shapes on the banks of the Indus, the 
Euphrates, and the Nile, and when, in 
the absence of the true light, men occu- 
pied themselves with the theatrical illu- 
minations of Bel, Isis, and Vishnu. 
But these Gnostics, in the clear dawn of 
the Gospel, still stuck to the fulsome 
properties of the devil's play-house. 
Unsavory and dishonest, they deserve 
neither respect for sincerity nor allow- 
ance for originality ; they were mere 
spinners of " endless genealogies," and, 
with such a fig-leaf apron, they tried 
to conceal for a while the rankness of 
the flesh that finally made the very 
pagans join in hounding them from 
the earth. The infamous Mark was 
holding his conventicles in Alexandria 
about the very time that Panteenus 
and Clement were teaching. To read 
of his high-flown theories about eons 
and emanations, his sham magic, his 
familiarity with demons, his impo- 
sitions on the weaker sex, and the 
frightful licentiousness that was the 
sure end of it all, is like reading the 
history of the doings of the Egyptian 
priests in the Serapeion rather than 
of those who called themselves Chris- 
tians. And yet these very men, these 
deluded Marcosians, gave out to 
learned and unlearned Alexandria that 
they alone were the true followers of 
Christ. We may conceive the heart- 
breaking work it would be for Clement 
to repel the taunts that their doings 
brought upon his name and profession, 
and to refute and keep down false 
brethren, whose arguments and strength 
consisted in an appeal to curiosity 
and brute passion. And yet how nobly 
he does it, in that picture of the true 
Gnostic, or Knower, to which he so 
often returns in all his extant works! 

But philosophers, faithful, and here- 
tics do not exhaust the story of Clem- 
c-nt's doing-*. It lends a solemn light 
to the memorable history we are not- 
ing, to bear in mind that the Church's 

intellectual war with Neo-Platonist 
and Gnostic was ever and again inter- 
rupted by the yells of the blood-thirsty 
populace, the dragging of confessors 
to prison, and all the hideous appara- 
tus of persecution. Which of us would 
have had heart to argue with men who 
might next day deliver us to the hang- 
man ? Who would have found leisure 
to write books on abstract philosophy 
with such stern concrete realities as 
the scourge and the knife waiting 
for him in the street? Clement's 
master began to teach just as one per- 
secution was ceasing; Clement him- 
self had to flee from his schools before 
the "burden and heat" of another; 
these were not times, one would sup- 
pose, for science and orderly teaching. 
Yet our own English Catholic annals 
can, in a manner, furnish parallel cases 
in more than one solid book of con- 
troversy and deep ascetical tract, 
thought out and composed when the 
pursuivants were almost at the doors. 
So true it is that when the Church's 
work demands scientific and written 
teaching, science appears and books 
are written, though the Gentiles are 
raging and the peoples imagining their 
vain things. 

Here, for the present, we draw to a 
close these desultory notes on the Chris- 
tian Schools of Alexandria. They 
will have served their purpose if they 
have but supplied an outline of that 
busy intellectual life which is associat- 
ed with the names of Pantaenus and 
Clement. There is another name that 
ought to follow these two the name 
of Origen, suggesting another chapter 
on Church history that should yield 
to none in interest and usefulness. 
The mere fact that in old Alexandria, 
in the face of hostile science, clogged 
and put to shame by pestilent heresies, 
ruthlessly chased out of sight ever and 
again by brute force in spite of all 
this, Catholic science won respect from 
its enemies without for a moment neg- 
lecting the interests. of its own children, 
is a teaching that will never be out of 
date, and least of all at a time like 
ours, and in a country where learning 


Jem M-Gowaris Wish. 

sneers at revelation, where a thousand 
jarring sects invoke the sacred name 
of Christ, and where public opinion 
the brute force of the modern world, 

as the rack and the fagot were of the 
ancient never howls so loudly as 
when it catches sight of the one true 
Church of the living and eternal God. 

From The Lamp. 


" I WISH I were a lord," said Pat 
M' Go wan, a lazy young fellow, as he 
stretched over his grandmother's turf- 
fire a pair of brawny fists that were as 
red as the blaze that warmed them. 

" You wish to be a lord !" answered 
Granny M'Gowan ; " oh, then, a mighty 
quare lord you would make ; but, as 
long as you live, Pat, never wish again ; 
for who knows but you might wish in 
the unlucky minute, and that it would 
be granted to you ?" 

" Faix, then, granny, I just wish I 
could have my wish this minute." 

"You're a fool, Pat, and have no 
more sense in your head than a cracked 
egg has a chance of a chicken inside 
of it. Maybe you'd never cease re- 
penting of your wish if you got it." 

" Maybe so, granny, but for all that 
Fd like to be a lord. Tell me, granny, 
when does the unlucky minute come 
that a body may get their wish ?" 

"Why, you see, Pat, there is one 
particular little bit of a minute of time 
in every twenty-four hours that, if a 
mortal creature has the unlucky chance 
to wish on that instant, his wish, 
whether for good or for bad, for life or 
death, fortune or misfortune, sickness 
or health, for himself or for others, the 
wish is granted to him; but seldom 
does it turn out for good to the wisher, 
because it shows he is not satisfied 
with his lot, and it is contrary to what 
God in his goodness has laid down for 
us all to do and suffer for his sake. 
But, Pat, you blackguard, I see you 
are laughing at your old granny be- 
cause you think I am going to preach 
a sermon to you ; but you're mistaken. 

I'll tell you what happened to an uncle 
of my own, Jem M'Gowan, who got 
his wish when he asked for it." 

" Got his wish oh, the lucky old 
fellow !" cried Pat. " Do, granny, tell 
me all about him. Got his wish ! oh, 
how I wish I was a lord !" 

" Listen to me, Pat, and don't be 
getting on with any of your foolish 
nonsense. My uncle, Jem M'Gowan, 
was then something like yourself, Pat 
a strapping, able chap, but one that, 
like you too, would sooner be scorch- 
ing his shins over the fire than cutting 
the turf to make it, and rather watch- 
ing the potatoes boiling than digging 
them out of the ridge. Instead of 
working for a new coat, he would be 
wishing some one gave it to him. 
When he got up in the morning, he 
wished for his breakfast; and when he 
had swallowed it, he wished for his 
dinner ; and when he had bolted down 
his dinner, he began to wish for his 
supper; and when he ate his supper, 
he wished to be in bed ; and when he 
was in bed, he wished to be asleep 
in fact, he did nothing from morning to 
night but wish, and even in his dreams 
I am quite sure he wished to be awake. 
Unluclcy for Jem, his cabin was con- 
vanient to the great big house of 
Squire Kavanagh ; and when Jem 
went out in the morning, shivering 
with cold, and wishing for a glass -of 
whisky to put spirits in him, and he 
saw the bedroom windows of Squire 
Kavaiiagh closed, and knew that the 
squire was lying warm and snug in- 
side, he always wished to be Squire 
Kavanagh. Then, when he saw the 

Jem M'Gowan's Wish. 


squire driving the horse and the hounds 
before him, and he all the while work- 
ing in the field, he wished it still more ; 
and when he saw him dancing with 
the beautiful young ladies and illigant 
young gentlemen in the moonlight of 
a summer's evening, in front of his 
fine hall-door and under the shade of 
the old oak-trees, he wished it more 
than ever. The squire was always 
coming before him ; and so happy a 
man did he seem that Jem was al- 
ways saying to himself, ' I wish I was 
Squire Kavanagh,' from, cockcrow to 
sunset, until he at last hit upon the 
unfortunate minute in the twenty-four 
hours when his wish was to be granted. 
He was just after eating his dinner 
of fine, mealy potatoes, fresh-churned 
buttermilk, and plenty of salt and salt- 
butter to relish them, when he stretched 
out his two legs, threw up his arms, 
and yawned out, 'Oh, dear, I wish I 
was Squire Kavanagh !' 

"The words were scarce uttered 
when he found himself, still yawning, 
in the grand parlor of Kavanagh 
House, sitting opposite to a table laid 
out with china, and a table-cloth, silver 
forks, and no end of silver spoons, and 
a roaring hot beefsteak before him. 
Jem rubbed his eyes and then his 
hands with joy, and thought to him- 
self, ' By dad, my wish is granted, and 
I'll lay in plenty of beefsteak first of 
all.' He began cutting away ; but, 
before he had finished, he was inter- 
rupted by some people coming in. It 
was Sir Harry M'Manus, Squire Brien, 
and two or three other grand gentle- 
men; and says they to him, 'Kava- 
nagh, don't you know this is the day 
you're to decide your bet for five hun- 
dred pounds, that you will leap your 
horse over the widest part of the pond 
outside ?' 

"'Is it me? says Jem. 'Why, I 
never leaped a horse in my life !' 

"'Bother!' says one; 'you're joking. 
You told us yourself that you did it 
twenty times, and there's the English 
colonel that made the bet with you, 
and he'll be saying, if you don't do it, 
that the Irish are all braggers ; so, my 

dear fellow, it just comes to this you 
must either leap the pond or fight me ; 
for, relying upon your word, I told the 
colonel I saw you do it myself.' 

"'I must fight you or leap the pond, 
is it ?' answered Jem, trembling from 
head to foot. 

" ' Certainly, my dear fellow,' re- 
plied Sir Harry. 'Either I must 
shoot you or see you make the leap ; 
so take your choice.' 

"'Oh! then, bring out the horse,' 
whimpered Jem, who was beginning 
to wish he wasn't Squire Kavanagh. 

" In a minute afterward, Jem found 
himself out in the lawn, opposite a 
pond that appeared to him sixty feet 
wide at the least. ' Why,' said he, 
'you might as well ask me to jump 
over the ocean, or give a hop-step-and- 
a-leap from Howth to Holyhead, as get 
any horse to cross that lake of a pond.' 

" ' Come, Kavauagh,' said Sir Hen- 
ry, 'no nonsense with us. We know 
you can do it if you like ; and now that 
you're in for it, you must finish it.' 

" ' Faix, you'll finish me, I'm afeerd,' 
said Jem, seeing they were in earnest 
with him ; ' but what will you do if I'm 
drowned ?' 

" ' Do ?' says Sir Henry. ' Oh, make 
yourself aisy on that account. You 
shall have the grandest wake that ever 
was seen in the country. We'll bury 
you dacently, and we'll all say that the 
bouldest horseman now in Ireland is 
the late Squire Kavanagh. If that 
doesn't satisfy you, there's no pleasing 
you ; so bring out the horse immedi- 

"'Oh! murder, murder!' says Jem 
to himself ; ' isn't this a purty thing, 
that I must be drowned to make a 
great character for a little spalpeen 
like Squire Kavanagh? Oh, then, it's 
I that wish I was Jem M' Go wan 
again ! Going to be drowned like 
a rat, or smothered like a blind kitten ! 
and all for a vagabond I don't care a 
straw about. I, that never was on a 
horse's back before, to think of leaping 
over an ocean ! Bad cess to you, 
Squire Kavanagh, for your boastin' 
and your wagerin' !' 


Jem M-Gowarfs Wish. 

"Well, a fine, dashing, jumping, 
rearing, great big gray horse was led 
up by two grooms to Jem's side. 'Oh, 
the darling!' said Sir Harry; 'there 
he goes ! there's the boy that will win 
our bets for us! Clap him at once 
upon the horse's back,' says he to the 
grooms. The sight left Jem's eyes 
the very instant he saw the terrible 
gray horse, well known as one of the 
most vicious bastes in the entire coun- 
try. If he could, he'd have run away, 
but fright kept him standing stock- 
still; and, before he knew where he 
was, he was hoisted into the saddle. 
* Now, boys,' roared Sir Harry, ' give 
the horse plenty whip, and my life for 
it he is over the pond.' 

"Jem heard two desperate slashes 
made on the flanks of the horse. The 
creature rose on his four legs off the 
ground, and came down with a soss 
that sent Jem up straight from the 
saddle like a ball, and down again 
with a crack fit to knock him into a 
hundred thousand pieces, not one of 
them bigger than the buttons of his 
waistcoat. ' Murder !' he shrieked ; 
' I wish I was Jem M' Go wan back 
again !' But there was no use in say- 
ing this, for he had already got his 
wish. The horse galloped away like 
lightning. He felt rising one instant 
up as high as the clouds, and the next 
he came with a plop into the water, 
like a stone that you would make take 
a ' dead man's dive.' He remembered 
no more till he saw his two kind 
friends, Sir Harry M'Manus and Squire 
Brien, holding him by the two legs in 
the air, and the water pouring from 
his mouth, nose, and every stitch of 
his clothes, as heavy and as constant 
as if it was flowing through a sieve, or 
as if he was turned into a watering- 

" ' I'm a dead man/ says he, looking 
up in the face of his grand friends as 
well as he could, and kicking at the 
same time to get loose from them. ' I'm 
a dead man ; and, what's worse, I'm a 
murdered man by the two of you.' 

" ' Bedad, you're anything but that,' 
said Sir Harry. ' You're now the 

greatest man in the county, for, though 
you fell into the pond, the horse leapt 
it ; and I have won my bet, for which 
I am extremely obliged to you.' 

" After shaking the water out of him, 
they laid him down on the grass, got a 
bottle of whisky, and gave him as much 
as he chose of it. Jem's spirits began 
to rise a little, and he laughed heartily 
when they told him he had won 500 
from the English colonel. Jem got 
on his legs, and was beginning to walk 
about, when who should he see coming 
into the demesne but two gentlemen 
one dressed like an officer, with under 
his arm a square mahogany box, the 
other with a great big horsewhip. Jem 
rubbed his hands with delight, for he 
made sure that the gentleman who car- 
ried the box was going to make Squire 
Kavanagh that is, himself some 
mighty fine present. 

" ' Kavanagh/ said Sir Harry, ' you 
will want some one to stand by you as 
a friend in this business ; would you 
wish me to be your friend ?' 

" ' In troth, I would,' says Jem. * I 
would like you to act as a friend to 
me upon all occasions.' 

" ' Oh, that's elegant!' said Sir Har- 
ry. ( We'll now have rare sport.' 

" ' I'm mighty glad to hear it,' Jem 
replied, 'for I want a little sport after 
all the troubles I had.' 

"'Oh, you're a brave fellow/ said 
Sir Harry. 

" ' To be sure I am/ answered Jem. 
'Didn't I leap the gray horsQ over the 
big pond ?' 

" The gentleman with the box and 
whip here came up to Jem and his 
friends ; and the whip-gentleman took 
off his hat, and says he, ' Might I be 
after asking you, is there any one of 
the present company Squire Kava- 
nagh ?' 

" Jem did not like the looks of the 
gentleman, and Sir Harry M'Manus 
stepped before him, and said 'Yes ; he 
is here to the fore. What is your busi- 
ness with him ? I am acting as his 
friend, and I have a right to ask the 

" ' Then, I'll tell ye what it is/ said 

Jem MGowan's Wish. 


the gentleman. f He insulted my sis- 
ter at the Naas races yesterday.' 

" ' Faix/ says Jem, * that's a lie ! 
Sure, I wasn't near Naas races.' 

" The word was hardly out of his 
mouth when he got a crack of a horse- 
whip across the face, that cut, he 
thought, his head in two. He caught 
hold of the gentleman, and tried to 
take the whip out of his hand ; but, in- 
stead of the strength of Jem M' Go wan, 
he had only the weakness of Squire 
Kavanagh, and he was in an instant 
collared ; and, in spite of all his kick- 
ing and roaring, lathered with the big 
whip from the top of his head to the 
sole of his foot. The gentleman got at 
last a little tired of beating him, and, 
flinging him away from him, said 
'You and I are now quits about the 
lie, but you must give me satisfaction 
for insulting my sister.' 

" ' Satisfaction !' roared out Jem, as 
lie twisted and turned about with the 
pain of the beating. ' Beclad, I'll never 
be satisfied till every bone in your ugly 
body is broken.' 

" ' Very well,' said the gentleman. 
'My friend, Captain M'Ginnis, is come 
prepared for this.' 

" Upon that, Jem saw the square 
box opened that he thought was filled 
with a beautiful present for him ; and 
he saw four ugly-looking pistols lying 
beside each other, and in one corner 
about two dozen of shining bran-new 
bullets. Jem's knees knocked together 
with fright when he saw Captain 
M'Ginnis and Sir Harry priming and 
loading the pistols. 

" ' Oh ! murder, murder ! this is 
worse than the gray horse,' he said. 
' Now I am quite sure of being killed 
entirely.' So he caught hold of Sir 
Harry by the coat, and stuttered out, 
* Oh, then, what in the world are ye 
going to do with me ?' 

" ' Do ?' replied his friend ; * why, 
you're going to stand a shot, to be 

" ' The devil a shot I'll stand,' said 
Jem. ' I'll run away this minute.' 

" ' Then, by my honor and veracity, 
if you do/ replied Sir Harry, ' I'll stop 

you with a bullet. My honor is con- 
cerned in this business. You asked 
me to be your friend, and I'll see you 
go through it respectably. You must 
either stand your ground like a gentle- 
man, or be shot like a dog.' 

" Jem heartily wished he was no 
longer Squire Kavanagh ; and as they 
dragged him up in front of the gentle- 
man, and placed them about eight 
yards asunder, he thought of the quiet, ,"'^ . 
easy life he led before he became a' 
grand gentleman. He never while a 
laboring boy was ducked in a pond, or 
shot like a wild duck. But now he 
heard something said about 'making 
ready ;' he saw the gentleman raise 
his pistol on a level with his head ; he 
tried to lift his arm, but it stuck as fast 
by his side as if it was glued there. 
He saw the wide mouth of the wicked 
gentleman's pistol opened at his very 
eye, and looking as if it were pasted 
up to his face. He could even see the 
leaden bullet that was soon to go 
skelpin' through his brains ! He saw 
the gentleman's finger on the trigger ! 
His head turned round and round, and 
in an agony he cried out ' Oh, I wish 
I was Jem M' Go wan back again !' 

" ' Jem, you'll lose half your day's 
work,' said Ned Maguire, who was 
laboring in the same field with him. 
' There you've been sleeping ever since 
your dinner, while Squire Kavanagh, 
that you are always talking about, was 
shot a few minutes ago in a duel that 
he fought with some strange gentleman 
in his own demesne.' 

" ' Oh,* said Jem, as soon as he 
found that he really wasn't shot, 'I 
wouldn't for the wealth of the world 
be a gentleman. Better to labor all 
day than spend half an hour in the 
grandest of company. Faix, I've had 
enough and to spare of grand company 
and being a gentleman since I have 
gone to sleep here in the potato-field ; 
and Squire Kavanagh, if he only knew 
it, had much more reason, poor man, 
to wish he was Jem M'Gowan than I 
had to wish I was Squire Kavanagh/ 

"And ever after that, Pat," con- 


The Mont Cenis Tunnel. 

eluded the old lady, " Jem M'Gowan 
went about his work like a man, in- 
stead of wasting his time in nonsensical 

" Thankee, granny," yawned Pat 
M' Go wan, as he shuffled off to bed. 
" After that long story, I don't think 
I'll ever wish to be a lord again." 

From Chambers's Journal. 


THE tunnel through the Alps at 
present being pierced to connect the 
railway system of France and Italy, 
has acquired the title of the " Mont 
Cenis Tunnel ;" but its real position 
and direction have very little in com- 
mon with that well-known Alpine pass. 
On examining a chart of the district 
which has been selected for this im- 
portant undertaking, we shall observe 
that the main chain of the Cottian 
Alps extends in a direction very near- 
ly East and West, and that this portion 
of it is bounded on either side by two 
roughly parallel valleys. On the North 
we have the valley of the Arc, and on 
the South the valley of the Dora Ri- 
pari, or, more strictly speaking, the 
valley of Rochemolles, a branch of 
the Dora. The AJC, flowing from East 
to West, descends from Lanslebourg to 
Modane, and from thence, after joining 
the Isere, empties itself into the Rhone 
above Valence. The torrent Roche- 
molles, on the other hand, flowing from 
West to East, unites itself with the 
Dora Ripari at Oulx, descends through 
a narrow and winding valley to Susa, 
and thence along the plain to Turin. 
The postal road, leaving St. Michel, 
mounts the valley of the Arc as far as 
Lanslebourg, then turns suddenly to 
the South, passes the heights of the 
Mont Cenis, and reaches Susa by a 
very steep descent. On mounting the 
valley of the Arc, and stopping about 
eighteen miles West of Mont Cenis, 
and a mile and a half below the Al- 
pine village of Modane, we arrive at a 

place called Fourneaux. Here, at 
about three hundred feet above the 
level of the main road, is the Northern 
entrance of the tunnel ; the Southern 
entrance is at the picturesque village 
of Bardonneche, situated at about 
twenty miles West of Susa, in the val- 
ley of Rochemolles. 

The considerations which decided 
the Italian engineers upon selecting 
this position for the contemplated tun- 
nel, were principally the following: 
first, it was the shortest route that 
could be found ; secondly, the differ- 
ence of level between the two extrem- 
ities was not too great ; and, thirdly, 
the construction of the connecting lines 
of railway on the North, from St. 
Michel to Fourneaux,and on the South, 
from Susa to Bardonngche were, as 
mountain railways go, practicable, if 
not easy. The idea of a tunnel 
through the Alps had long occupied the 
minds of engineers and of statesmen 
both in France and Italy ; but it is to 
the latter country that we must give 
the credit of having worked the idea 
into a practical shape, and of having 
inaugurated one of the most stupend- 
ous works ever undertaken by any 
people. To pierce a tunnel seven and 
a half English miles long, by ordinary 
means, through a hard rock, in a posi- 
tion where vertical shafts were impos- 
sible, would be an exceedingly diffi- 
cult, if not, in a practical point of 
view, an impossible undertaking, not 
only on account of the difficulties of 
ventilation, but also on account of the 
immense time and consequent expense 
which it would entail. It was evident, 

The Mont Cenis Tunnel 


then, that if the project of a tunnel 
through the Alps was ever to be real- 
ized, some extraordinary and com- 
pletely new system of mining must be 
adopted, by means of which not only 
a rapid and perfect system of ventila- 
tion could be insured, enabling the 
miners to resume, without danger, their 
labors immediately after an explosion, 
but which would treble, or at least 
double, the amount of work usually 
performed in any given time by the 
system hitherto adopted in tunnelling 
through hard rock. To three Pied- 
montese engineers, Messrs. Grandis, 
Grattoni, and Sommeiller, is due the 
merit of having solved this most diffi- 
cult problem ; for whether the opening 
of the Alpine tunnel take place in ten 
or twenty years, its ultimate success is 
now completely assured. 

A short review of the history of this 
undertaking, and a summary of the 
progress made, together with a de- 
scription of the works as they are con- 
ducted at the present time, derived 
from personal observation, cannot fail 
to be interesting to English readers. 

Early in 1857, at St. Pier d' Arena, 
near Genoa, a series of experiments 
was undertaken before a select govern- 
ment commission, to examine into the 
practicability of a project for a me- 
chanical perforating-engine, proposed 
by Messrs. Grandis, Grattoni, and Som- 
meiller, for the more rapid tunnelling 
through hard rock, and with a view to 
its employment in driving the proposed 
shaft through the Alps. This ma- 
chine was to be worked by means of 
air, highly compressed by hydraulic or 
other economical means ; which com- 
pressed air, after performing its work 
in the perforating or boring machines, 
would be an available and powerful 
source of ventilation in the tunnel. 
These experiments placed so complete- 
ly beyond any doubt the practicability 
of the proposed system, that, so soon 
as August of the same year, the law 
permitting the construction of the tun- 
nel was promulgated. 

At this time, absolutely nothing had 
been prepared, with the exception of a 

very general project presented by the 
proposers, and the model of the ma- 
chinery with which the experiments 
had been made before the government 
commission ; we cannot, therefore, be 
much surprised on finding that' $ome 
considerable time elapsed before f the 
new machinery came into su^Qessful* 
operation, the more particularly when 
we consider the entire novelty - df : the 
system, and the unusual difficulties na- 
turally attending the first starting of 
such large works, in districts so wild 
and uncongenial as those of Four- 
neaux and Bardonne^he. Fourneaux 
was but a collection of mountain-huts, 
containing about four hundred inhabi- 
tants, entirely deprived of every means 
of supporting the wants of any in- 
crease of population, and where out- 
side-work could not be carried on for 
more than six months in the year, 
owing to its ungenial climaHj?" Nor 
was the case very different at Bardon- 
neche, a small Alpine village, situated 
at more than thirteen hundred metres 
(4,225 feet) above the level of the sea, 
and populated by about one thousand 
inhabitants, who lived upon the pro- 
duce of their small patches of earth, 
and the rearing of sheep and goats, 
and with their only road of communi- 
cation with the outer world in a most 
wretched and deplorable condition. 
Under these circumstances, we can 
imagine that the task of bringing to- 
gether large numbers of workmen, 
and their competent directing staff, 
must have been by no means easy ; 
and that the first work of the direc- 
tion, although of a nature really most 
arduous and tedious (requiring, above 
all, time and patience), was also of a 
nature that could scarcely render its 
effects very apparent to the world at 
large for some considerable time. 
Again, it was necessary in this time to 
make the detailed studies not only of 
the tunnel itself, but of the compress- 
ing and perforating machinery on the 
large scale proposed to be used. This 
machinery had to be made and trans- 
ported through a country abounding in 
difficulties. Then, as might be ex- 


The Mont Cents Tunnel. 

pected, actual trials showed serious de- 
fects in the new machines for the com- 
pression of air ; and, in perfecting the 
mechanical perforators, unexpected dif- 
ficulties were encountered, which often 
threatened to prove insurmountable. 
The total inexperience and unskilful- 
ness of the workmen, and the necessi- 
ty of giving to them the most tedious 
instruction; accidents of most dis- 
heartening and discouraging kinds 
all tended to delay the successful ap- 
plication of the new system. 

The first important work to be un- 
dertaken was the tracing or setting out 
of the centre line of the proposed tun- 
nel. It was necessary first to fix on 
the summit of the mountain a number 
of points, in a direct line, which should 
pass through the two points chosen, or 
rather necessitated by the conditions 
of the locality, for the two ends of the 
tunnel in the respective valleys of the 
Arc and of Rochemolles ; secondly, 
to determine the exact distance be- 
tween these two ends ; and thirdly, to 
know the precise difference of level 
between the same points. These op- 
erations commenced toward the end 
of August, 1857. Starting from the 
Northern entrance at Fourneaux, a 
line was set out roughly in the direc- 
tion of Bardonneche, which line was 
found to cut the valley of Rochemolles 
at a point considerably above the pro- 
posed Southern entrance of the tunnel. 
On measuring this distance, however, a 
second and corrected line could be 
traced, which was found to be very 
nearly correct. Correcting this second 
line in the same manner, always de- 
parting from the North end, a third line 
was found to pass exactly through 
the two proposed and given points. 
The highest point of this line was 
found to be very nearly at an equal 
distance from each end of the tunnel, 
and at but a short distance below the 
true summit of the mountain-point, 
called the Grand Vallon." The line 
thus approximately determined, it was 
necessary to fix definitely and exactly 
three principal stations or observato- 
riesone on the highest or culminat- 

ing point of the mountain, perpendic- 
ularly over the axis of the tunnel ; 
and the other two in a line with each 
entrance, in such a manner that, from 
the centre observatory, both the others 
could be observed. At the Southern 
end, owing to the convenient conform- 
ation of the mountain, the observatory 
could be established at a point not 
very far from the mouth of the tunnel ; 
but toward the North, several project- 
ing points or counterforts on the moun- 
tain necessitated the carrying of the 
Northern observatory to a very consid- 
erable distance beyond the entrance of 
the gallery not, however, so far as 
not to be discerned clearly and dis- 
tinctly, and without oscillation, by the 
very powerful and excellent instru- 
ment employed. These three points 
permanently established, remain as a 
check for those intervening, and serve 
as the base of the operations for the 
periodical testing of the accuracy of 
the line of excavation. 

The first rough tracing out of the 
line was completed before the winter 
of the year 1857, and it was consid- 
ered sufficiently correct to permit the 
commencement of the tunnel at each 
end by the ordinary means manual 
labor. In the autumn of 1858, the 
corrected line was traced, and the ob- 
servatories definitely fixed, and all 
other necessary geodetic operations 
completed. Contemporaneously was 
undertaken a careful levelling be- 
tween the two ends, taken along the 
narrow path of the Colle di Frejus, 
and bench-marks were established at 
intervals along the whole line. All 
the data necessary for an exact profile 
of the work were now obtained. The 
exact length of the future tunnel was 
found to be twelve thousand two hun- 
dred and twenty metres, or about seven 
and a half English miles ; and Ihe dif- 
ference of level between the two 
mouths was ascertained to be two hun- 
dred and forty metres, or seven hun- 
dred and eighty feet, the Southern or 
Bardonneche end being the highest. 
Under these circumstances, it would 
have been easy to have established a 

The Mont Cenis Tunnel 


single gradient from Bardonneche 
down to Fourneaux of about two 
centimetres per metre that is, of about 
one in fifty. But a little reflection 
will show, that in working both ends of 
the gallery at once, in order to effect 
the proper drainage of the tunnel, it 
would be necessary to establish two 
gradients, each inclining toward the 
respective mouths, and meeting in some 
point in the middle. This, in fact, has 
been done, and the two hundred and 
forty metres' difference of level has 
been distributed in the following 
manner : From Bardonnche, the gra- 
dient mounts at the rate of 0.50 per 
one thousand metres that is, one in 
two thousand as far as the middle of 
the gallery ; here it descends toward 
Fourneaux with a gradient of 22.20 
metres per one thousand, or about one 
in forty-five. The highest point of the 
Grand Vallon perpendicularly over 
the axis of the tunnel is 1615.8 metres, 
or 5251.31 feet. 

The difficulties encountered in the 
carrying out of these various geodetic 
operations can scarcely be exagge- 
rated. It is true that nothing is more 
easy than to picket out a straight line 
on the ground, or to measure an angle 
correctly with a theodolite ; but if we 
consider the aspect of the locality in 
which these operations had to be con- 
ducted, repeated over and over again, 
and tested in every available manner 
with the most minute accuracy, we 
shall be quite ready to accord our 
share of praise and admiration to the 
perseverance which successfully car- 
ried out the undertaking. In these 
regions, the sun, fogs, snow, and terrific 
winds succeed each other with truly 
marvellous rapidity, the distant points 
become obscured by clouds, perhaps 
at the very moment when an important 
sight is to be taken, causing most vex- 
atious delays, and often necessitating a 
recommencement of the whole opera- 
tion. These delays may in some cases 
extend for days, and even weeks. To 
these inconveniences add the necessity 
of mounting and descending daily with 
delicate instruments from three thou- 

sand to four thousand feet over 
rocks and rugged mountain-paths, the 
time occupied in sending from one 
point to another, and the difficulty of 
planting pickets on elevated positions 
often almost inaccessible. All these 
inconveniences considered, and we must 
admit the unusual difficulties of a series 
of operations which, under other cir- 
cumstances, would have offered noth- 
ing peculiarly remarkable. 

As has already been pointed out, 
the excavation of the gallery at both 
ends had already been in operation, 
by ordinary means, since the latter 
part of the year 1857 ; this work con- 
tinued without interruption until the 
machinery was ready ; and the prog- 
ress made in that time affords a val- 
uable standard by which to measure 
the effect of the new machinery. In 
the interval between the end of 1857 
and that to which we have now ar- 
rived, namely, the end of 1858, many 
important works had been pushed for- 
ward. At Bardonneche, the commu- 
nications had been opened, and bridges 
and roads constructed for facilitating 
the transport of the heavy machinery. 
Houses for the accommodation of the 
workmen had been rapidly springing 
up, together with the vast edifices for 
the various magazines and offices. The 
canal, more than a mile and a half in 
length, for conveying water to the air- 
compressing machines, was construct- 
ed, and the little Alpine village had 
become the centre of life and activity. 
At Fourneaux, works of a similar 
character had been put in motion; 
only here the transport of the water 
for the compressors was more costly 
and difficult, the water being at a low 
level. At first, a current derived from 
the Arc was used to raise water to the 
required height, but afterward it was 
found necessary to establish powerful 
forcing-pumps, new in their details, 
which are worked by huge water- 
wheels driven by the Arc itself. Early 
in the month of June, 1859, the first 
erection of the compressing machinery 
was commenced at Bardonneche. The 
badness of the season, however, and 


The Mont Oenis Tunnel 

the Italian campaign of this year, de- 
layed the rapid progress, and even 
caused a temporary suspension of this 
work. The results obtained by the 
experiments which had previously 
been made on a small scale at St. 
Pier d' Arena, failed completely in sup- 
1 lying the data necessary to insure a 
practical success to the first applica- 
tions of the new system ; numberless 
modifications, both in the compressing- 
engines and in the perforating-ma- 
chines, were found necessary ; and 
several months were consumed in ex- 
perimenting with, modifying, and im- 
proving the huge machinery ; so that 
it was not before the 10th of Novem- 
ber, 1860, that five compressors were 
successfully and satisfactorily at work. 
On the 12th, however, two of the large 
conducting-pipes burst, and caused a 
considerable amount of damage, with- 
out causing, however, any loss of life. 
This accident revealed one or two very 
serious defects in the manner of work- 
ing the valves of the engine ; and in 
order to provide against the possibility 
of future accidents of the same na- 
ture, further most extensive modifica- 
tions were undertaken. 

By the beginning of January, 1861, 
the five compressors were again at 
work; and on the 12th of this month 
the boring-engine was introduced for 
the first time into the tunnel. Very 
little useful result was, however, ob- 
tained for a long and anxious period, 
beyond continually exposing defects 
and imperfections in the perforators. 
The pipes conducting the compressed 
air from the compress Ing-machines to 
the gallery gave at first continued 
trouble and annoyance ; soon, however, 
a very perfect system of joints was 
established, and this source of difficulty 
was completely removed. After much 
labor and patience, and little by little, 
the perforating-machines became im- 
proved and perfected, as is always the 
case in any perfectly new mechanical 
contrivance having any great assem- 
blage of parts. Actual practice forced 
into daylight those numberless little 
defects which theory only too easily 

overlooks ; but there was no lack of 
perseverance and ingenuity on the 
part of the directing engineers ; one 
by one the obstacles were met, encoun- 
tered, and eventually overcome, and 
the machines at last arrived at the 
state of precision and perfection at 
which they may be seen to-day. About 
the month of May, 1861, the work 
was suspended for about a month, in 
consequence of a derangement in the 
canal supplying water to the compress- 
ors ; and it was considered necessary 
to construct a large reservoir on the 
flank of the mountain, to act as a de- 
posit for the impurities contained in 
the water, and which often caused 
serious in convenience in the compress- 
ors. In the whole of the first year, 

1861, the number of working days was 
two hundred and nine, and the advance 
made was but one hundred and seven- 
ty metres (five hundred and fifty feet), 
or about eighteen inches per day of 
twenty-four hours, an amount less than 
might have been done by manual 
labor in the same time. In the year 

1862, however, in the three hundred 
and twenty-five days of actual work, 
the advance made was raised to three 
hundred and eighty metres (one thou- 
sand two hundred and thirty-five feet), 
giving a mean advance of 1*17 metres, 
or about three feet nine inches per day. 
In the year 1863, the length done 
(always referring to the South or Bar- 
donneahe side) was raised to above 
four hundred metres; and no doubt 
this year a still greater progress will 
have been made. 

At the Fourneaux or Northern end 
of the tunnel owing to increased dif- 
ficulties peculiar to the locality the 
perforation of the gallery was much 
delayed. A totally different system of 
mechanism for the compression of air 
was necessitated ; and it was not be- 
fore the 25th of January, 1863, that 
the boring-machine was in successful 
operation on this side, or two years 
later than at Bardonneslie. The ex- 
perience, however, gained at this latter 
place, and the transfer of a few skilful 
workmen, soon raised the advance 

The Mont Cenis Tunnel. 


made per day to an amount equivalent 
to that effected at the Southern en- 
trance. Thus, on the South side 
(omitting the first year, 1861) since 
the beginning of 1862, and on the 
North side since the beginning of 1863, 
the new system of mechanical tunnel- 
ling may be said to have been in regu- 
lar and successful operation. 

In the beginning of September of 
this year were completed in all three 
thousand five hundred and seventy 
metres of gallery. From this we de- 
duct sixteen hundred metres done by 
manual labor, leaving, for the work 
done by the machines, a length of 
nineteen hundred and seventy metres. 
From this we can make a further de- 
duction of the one hundred and seventy 
metres executed in the first year of 
experiment and trial at Bardonneche, 
so that we have eighteen hundred 
metres in length excavated by the 
machines in a time dating from the 
beginning of 1862 at the South end, 
and from the beginning of 1863 at the 
North end of the tunnel. Thus, up to 
the month of September, 1864, we 
have in all four j'ears and six months ; 
and eighteen hundred metres divided 
by 4*5 gives us four hundred metres as 
the rate of progress per year at each 
side, or in total, eight hundred metres 
per year. Basing our calculation, 
then, on this rate, we find that the 
eight thousand six hundred and fifty 
metres yet to be excavated will re- 
quire about ten and a half more years ; 
so that we may look forward to the 
opening of the Mont Cenis tunnel at 
about the year 1875. The directing 
engineers, who have given good proof 
of competency and skill, are, however, 
of opinion that this period may be 
considerably reduced, unless some 
totally unlooked-for obstacles are met 
with in the interior of the mountain. 
As has been indicated above, sixteen 
hundred metres in length of the tun- 
nel was completed by manual labor 
before the introduction of the mechani- 
cal boring-engines, in a period of five 
years at the North and three years at 
the South side, equal to four years at 

each end ; and eight hundred metres 
in four years gives us two hundred 
metres per year, or just one-half exca- 
vated by the machine in the same 

In using the machines, up to the 
present time, a perfect ventilation of 
the tunnel has been secured by the 
compressed air escaping from the ex- 
haust of the boring-engines ; or by 
jets of air expressly impinged into the 
lower end of the gallery to clear out 
rapidly the smoke and vapor formed 
by the explosion of the mine. It 
should be remembered, moreover, that 
in working a gallery of this kind, 
where vertical shafts are impossible, 
by manual labor, a powerful and costly 
air-compressing apparatus would have 
been necessary for the ventilation of 
the tunnel alone, so that the economy 
of the system, as applied at the Mont 
Cenis over the general system of tun- 
nelling in hard rock, is evident. I pro- 
pose, in the second portion of this 
article, to give a short description of 
the machinery employed and the sys- 
tem of working adopted, both at the 
South and North ends of the Mont 
Cenis gallery. 


Travellers who are given to pedes- 
trian exercises may easily visit the 
works being carried on for the per- 
foration of the tunnel through the 
Alps, both at Bardonneche and at 
Modane, passing from one mouth of 
the tunnel to the other by the Colle 
di Frejus ; and in fine weather, the 
tourist would not repent the eight 
hours spent in walking from Bar- 
donneche to Susa a distance of about 
twenty-five miles. The road descends 
the valley of the Dora Ripari, and 
abounds in beautiful scenery. The 
raihvay to be constructed along this 
narrow defile will be found to tax 
the skill of the engineer as much 
as any road yet attempted. Its 
total length, from the terminus at 
Susa to the mouth of the Mont 
Cenis tunnel, will be forty kilome- 


The Mont Cenis Tunnel. 

tres, or about twenty-four miles ; and 
the difference of level between these 
two points is about two thousand five 
hundred feet, the line having a maxi- 
mum gradient of one in forty, and a 
minimum of one in eighty -four. There 
will be three tunnels of importance, 
having a total length of about ten 
thousand feet; three others of lesser 
dimensions, having a total length of 
five thousand five hundred feet; and 
twelve other small tunnels, of lengths 
varying from two hundred and twenty 
to eight hundred and fifty feet, their 
total length being five thousand four 
hundred feet. Thus, the total length 
of tunnel on these twenty-four miles 
of railway will be nearly twenty-one 
thousand feet, or about four miles 
just one-sixth of the whole line. There 
will also be several examples of bridges 
and retaining walls of unusual dimen- 

The works being carried on at Bar- 
donneche are on a larger scale than 
at Modane ; so we will, with our read- 
ers' permission, suppose ourselves ar- 
rived in company at the former place, 
and the first point which we will visit 
together will be the large house con- 
taining the air-compressing machinery. 
Before entering, however, we will throw 
a glance at the exterior of the building. 
We find before us, as it were, two 
houses, in a direct line one with the 
other one situated at the foot of a 
steep ascent ; and the other at about 
seventy or eighty feet above it, on the 
side of the mountain. These two houses 
are, however, but one, being joined by 
ten rows of inclined arch-work. Along 
the summit of each row of arches is a 
large iron pipe, more than a foot in 
diameter. These ten pipes, inclined 
at an angle of about forty-five degrees, 
come out of the side of the upper house, 
and enter the side of the lower house, 
and serve to conduct the water from 
the large reservoir above to the air- 
compressing machinery, which is ar- 
ranged in the house below, exerting 
in this machinery the pressure of a 
column of water eighty-four feet six 
inches in height. On entering the 

compression-room, we have before us 
ten compressing-machines, precisely 
the same in all their parts five on 
the right hand, and five on the left, 
forming, as it were, two groups of five 
each. In the centre of these two 
groups are two machines, in every 
respect like a couple of small steam- 
engines, only they are worked by com- 
pressed air instead of steam, and which 
we will call aereomotori. Each of these 
aereomotori imparts a rotary motion to 
a horizontal axis extending along the 
whole length of the room, and on 
which are a series of cams, which 
regulate the movements of the valves 
of the great compressors. This axis 
we will call the "main shaft." One 
group of five compressors is totally in- 
dependent of the other, and has its ae- 
reomotore with its main shaft ; but still, 
with one single aereomotore, by means 
of a simple connecting apparatus, it is 
possible to work one or the other 
group separately, or both together; 
also, any number of the ten compress- 
ors can be disconnected for repairs 
without affecting the action of the rest, 
or may be injured without conveying 
any injury to the others. In front of 
each of the ten compressors are placed 
cylindrical recipients, in every respect 
like large steam-boilers, except that 
they have no fire-grate or flues, each 
having a capacity of seventeen cubic 
metres, or five hundred and eighty- 
three cubic feet. These recipients are 
put into communication one with the 
other by means of a tube similar to 
a steam-pipe connecting a series of 
steam-boilers ; and each connection is 
furnished with a stop-valve, so that 
any one recipient can be isolated from 
the rest. 

Let us now examine the end and 
action of this machinery. As the 
aereomotori which work the valves 
of the machines for forcing air into 
the recipients are themselves worked 
by compressed air coming from the 
recipients, it is evident that before we 
can put the compressing-machines in 
motion, we must have already some 
supply of compressed air in the cylin- 

The Mont Cenis Tunnel 


drical vessels. This supply of air, 
compressed to a pressure of six at- 
mospheres, is obtained in the follow- 
ing manner : Each group of five re- 
cipients, filled with air at the ordinary 
atmospheric pressure, is put in com- 
munication with a large pipe which 
enters into a cistern placed in the 
side of the mountain at about one 
hundred and sixty-two feet above the 
floor of the compressing-room. The 
first operation, then, is to open the 
equilibrium valves placed at the bot- 
tom of the two pipes (one from each 
group of recipients) ; water then rushes 
into the vessels, compressing the ordi- 
nary air therein contained to about a 
pressure of six atmospheres. A com- 
munication is now opened between this 
compressed air and the cylinders of 
the aereomotori, which commence their 
action precisely as a steam-engine 
would do on the admission of steam ; 
a rotary motion is given to the main 
shaft ; and the equilibrium valves, 
placed in chambers at the bottom of 
each of the ten pipes coming from the 
cistern of water placed in the house 
above, are opened. We will observe 
the operation in one of the ten lines 
of action, as it were, consisting of the 
pipe conducting the water from the cis- 
tern, the compressing-machine, and the 
cylindrical recipient. The equilibrium 
valve at the bottom of the pipe being 
opened in the manner above explained, 
the water, with its head of eighty-four 
feet six inches, rushes past it, along 
a short length of horizontal pipe (in 
which is an exhaust valve, now closed), 
and begins to mount a vertical column 
or tube of cast-iron about ten feet high 
and two feet in diameter : the air in 
this column undergoes compression 
until it has reached a pressure suffi- 
cient to force open a valve in a pipe 
issuing from the summit of the tube, 
and connecting it with the recipient. 
This valve being already weighted 
with the pressure of the air com- 
pressed to six atmospheres by the 
means previously explained, a cer- 
tain quantity of air is thus forced 
into the vessel; at this moment, an* 

other revolution of the main shaft 
causes the equilibrium valve* at the 
bottom of the conducting-pipe to be 
shut, and at the same time opens the 
exhaust valve at the foot of the verti- 
cal column. The head of water being 
now cut off, and the exhaust open, the 
water in the vertical column begins to 
sink by its own gravity, leaving a 
vacuum behind it, if it were not for 
a small clack-valve opening inward 
in the upper part of the compressing 
column, which opens by the external 
pressure of the air, so that by the time 
all the water has passed out of the 
exhaust valve, the compressor is again 
full of atmospheric air ; the valve in 
connection with the recipient being 
closed by the compressed air impris- 
oned in the vessel. The aereomotori 
continue their motion, another revolu- 
tion of the main shaft shuts the ex- 
haust and opens the equilibrium or 
admission valve ; the column of water 
is again permitted to act, and the same 
action is repeated, more air being forced 
into the recipient at each round or pul- 
sation of the machine. Now, supposing 
no consumption of the compressed air 
to take place beyond that used for 
driving the aereomotori, it seems evi- 
dent that the water in the vessels 
would be gradually forced out, owing 
to the growing pressure of the air in- 
side, above the pressure of the column 
of water coming from the higher cis- 
tern ; but the communication with this 
higher cistern is always kept open, the 
column of water acting, in fact, as a 
sort of moderator or governor to the 
compressing-machine, rising or falling 
according to the consumption of the 
compressed air, and always insuring 
that there shall be a pressure of six 
atmospheres acting against the valve 
at the summit of the vertical column. 
A water-tube placed on the outside 
of each group of recipients, with a 
graduated scale marked on it, indicates 
at a glance the consumption of air. If 
the perforating-machines in the tunnel 
cease working, the pressure augments 
in the recipients, and the water in them 
falls until an equilibrium is established, 


The Mont Cenis Tunnel. 

between the pressure of the column 
of water and the force of the com- 
pressors, until, in fact, these work with- 
out being able to lift the valve at the 
summit of the vertical compressing 
column. On the other hand, if more 
air than usual be used for ventilating 
the tunnel, or by an accidental leakage 
in the conducting-pipes, the water rises 
rapidly in the recipients, and conse- 
quently in the water-gauge outside, 
and in thus creating an equilibrium, 
indicates the state of things. By this 
means a continual compensation of 
pressure is kept up, which prevents any 
shock on the valves, and causes the 
machine to work with the regularity 
and uniformity of a steam-engine pro- 
vided with a governor. In every turn 
of the main shaft, a complete circle of 
effects take place in the compressors; 
and experience has shown that three 
turns a minute of the shaft that is, 
three pulsations of the compressing- 
machine per minute are sufficient. It 
will thus be seen that a column of 
water, having the great velocity due to 
a head of eighty-four feet six inches, 
acts upon a column of air contained 
in a vertical tube ; the effect of this 
velocity being to inject, as it were, a 
certain quantity of air into a recipient 
at each upward stroke of the column, 
and at each downward stroke drawing 
in after it an equivalent quantity of 
atmospheric air as a fresh supply. The 
ten recipients charged with air com- 
pressed to six atmospheres (ninety 
pounds on the square inch) in the man- 
ner above explained, serve as a reser- 
voir of the force required for working 
the boring-engines in the tunnel, and 
for ventilating and purifying the gal- 
lery. The air is conducted in pipes 
about eight inches in diameter, having 
a thickness of metal of about three- 
eighths of an inch. Much doubt had 
previously been expressed as to the 
possibility of conveying compressed 
air to great distances without a very 
great and serious loss of power. The 
experience gained, however, at the 
Mont Cenis has shown that, conveyed 
to a distance of thirteen English miles, 

the loss would be but one-tenth of the 
original force ; and that the actual 
measured loss of power in a distance 
of six thousand five hundred feet, a 
little more than a mile and a quarter, 
was less than 1-1 2 7th of the original 
pressure in the recipients. 

The mouth of the tunnel is but a 
few hundred yards from the air-com- 
pressing house we will now proceed 
thither. For nearly a mile in length 
the gallery is completed and lined with 
masonry. At the first view, we are 
struck with the bold outline of its sec- 
tion and its ample dimensions. Ex- 
cepting, perhaps, the passage of an 
occasional railway-truck, laden with 
pieces of rock and rubbish, we find 
nothing to remind us of the numbers 
of busy workmen and of the powerful 
machines which are laboring in the 
tunnel. All is perfectly quiet and 
solitary. Looking around us as we 
traverse this first and completed por- 
tion, we observe nothing very different 
from an ordinary railway-tunnel, with 
the exception of the great iron pipe 
which conveys the compressed air, and 
is attached to the side of the wall. At 
the end of about a quarter of an hour 
we begin to hear sounds of activity, 
and little lights flickering in the dis- 
tance indicate that we are approaching 
the scene of operations. In a few 
moments we reach the second division 
of the tunnel, or that part which is 
being enlarged from the comparatively 
small section made by the perforating- 
machine to its full dimensions, pre- 
viously to being lined with masonry. 
In those portions where the workmen 
are engaged in the somewhat dan- 
gerous operation of detaching large 
blocks of stone from the roof, the tun- 
nel is protected by a ceiling of mas- 
sive beams, under which the visitor 
passes not, however, without hur- 
rying his pace and experiencing a 
feeling of satisfaction when the dis- 
tance is completed. Gradually leav- 
ing behind us the bee-like crowd 
of busy miners, with the eternal ring 
of their boring-bars against the hard 
rock, we find the excavated gallery 

The Mont Cenis Tunnel. 


getting smaller and smaller, and the 
difficulties of picking our way in- 
creasing at every step ; the sounds be- 
hind us get fainter and fainter, and in 
a short time we are again in the midst 
of a profound solitude. 

The little gallery in which we are 
now stumbling our way over blocks of 
stone and rubbish, only varied by long 
tracts of thick slush and pools of 
water, is the section excavated by the 
boring-machine in dimension about 
twelve feet broad by eight feet high. 
The tramway which has accompanied 
us all the way is still continued along 
this small section. In the middle por- 
tion underneath the rails is the canal, 
inclined toward the mouth of the tun- 
nel, for carrying off the water ; and in 
this canal are now collected the pipes 
for conveying the compressed air to 
the machines, and the gas for illumin- 
ating the gallery. At the end of a few 
minutes, a rattling, jingling sound in- 
dicates that we are near the end of 
our excursion, and that we are ap- 
proaching the perforating-machines. 
On arriving, we find that nearly the 
whole of the little gallery is taken up 
by the engine, the frame of which, 
mounted upon wheels, rests upon the 
main tramway, so that the whole can 
be moved backward or forward as 
necessary. On examining the arrange- 
ment a little closely, we find that in 
reality we have before us nine or ten 
perforators, completely independent of 
one another, all mounted on one frame, 
and each capable of movement in any 
direction. Attached to every one of 
them are two flexible tubes, one for 
conveying the compressed air, and the 
other the water which is injected at 
every blow or stroke of the tool into 
the hole, for the purpose of clearing 
out the debris and for cooling the 
point of the "jumper." In front, 
directed against the rock, are nine or 
ten tubes (according to the number of 
perforators), very similar in appear- 
ance to large gun-barrels, out of which 
are discharged with great rapidity an 
equal number of boring-bars or jump- 
ers. Motion is given to these jumpers 

by the direct admission of a blast of 
compressed air behind them, the re- 
turn stroke being effected by a some- 
what slighter pressure of air than was 
used to drive them forward. We will 
suppose the machine brought up for 
the commencement of an attack. The 
points most convenient for the boring 
of the holes having been selected, the 
nine or ten perforators, as the case 
may be, are carefully adjusted in front 
of them. The compressed air is then 
admitted, and the boring of the holes 
commences. On an average, at the end 
of about three-quarters of an hour, the 
nine or ten holes are pierced to a depth 
of two feet to two feet six inches. An- 
other ten holes are then commenced, 
and so on, until about eighty holes 
are pierced. The greater number of 
these holes are driven toward the cen- 
tre of the point of attack, and the rest 
round the perimeter. The driving of 
these eighty holes to an average depth 
of two feet three inches, is usually 
completed in about seven hours, and the 
second operation is then commenced. 

The flexible tubes conveying the 
compressed air and the water are de- 
tached from the machines, and placed 
in security in the covered canal. The 
perforating-machine, mounted on its 
frame or truck, is drawn back on the 
tramway behind two massive folding- 
doors of wood. Miners then advance 
and charge the holes in the centre with 
powder, and adjust the matches ; fire 
is given, and the miners retire behind 
the folding-doors, which are closed. 
The explosion opens a breach in the 
centre part of the front of attack. 
Powerful jets of compressed air are 
now injected, to clear off the smoke 
formed by the powder. As soon as 
the gallery is clear, the other holes 
in the perimeter are charged and 
fired, and more air is injected. Then 
comes the third operation. Gangs of 
workmen advance and clear away the 
debris and blocks of stone detached 
by the explosion of the mine, in little 
wagons running on a pair of rails 
placed by the side of the main tram- 
way. This done, the main line is pro- 


The Mont Cenis Tunnel. 

longed to the requisite distance, and 
the perforating engine is again brought 
forward for a fresh attack. Thus, we 
have three distinct operations first, 
the mechanical perforation of the holes ; 
secondly, the charging and explosion 
of the mine ; and thirdly, the clearing 
away of the debris. By careful regis- 
ters kept since the commencement of 
the work, it is found that the mean 
duration of each successive operation 
is as follows : for the perforation of 
the holes, seven hours thirty-nine min- 
utes ; for the charging and explosion 
of the mine, three hours twenty-nine 
minutes ; for the clearing away of the 
debris, two hours thirty-three minutes ; 
or, in all, nearly fourteen hours. Oc- 
casionally, however, the three opera- 
tions may be completed in ten hours, 
all depending upon the hardness of the 
rock. It has been found practically 
more expeditious to make two series of 
operations in twenty-four hours. 

Whatever may be the nature of the 
rock, if it is very hard, the depth of 
the holes is reduced ; that is, the per- 
foration is only continued for a certain 
given time about six and a half hours 
which, for the eighty holes with ten 
perforaters, gives us about three-quar- 
ters of an hour for each hole. The 
rock is generally of calcareous schist, 
crystallized, and exceedingly hard, 
traversed by thick veins of quartz, 
which often break the points of the 
boring-tools after a few blows. Each 
jumper gives about three blows per 
second, and makes one-eighteenth of a 
revolution on its axis at each blow, or 
one complete revolution every six sec- 
onds. Thus, in the three-quarters of 
an hour necessary to drive a single 
hole to the depth of twenty-seven 
inches, we have four hundred and fifty 
revolutions of the bar, and eighteen 
hundred violent blows given by the 
point against the hard rock, and that 
under an impulse of about one hundred 
and eighty pounds. These figures 
will give us some idea of the wear and 
tear of the perforating-machines. It is 
calculated that on an average one per- 
fo rating-machine is worn out for every 

six metres of gallery, so that more than 
two thousand will be consumed before 
the completion of the tunnel. The 
total length completed at the Bardon- 
neche side at the present time is just 
two thousand three hundred metres, 
or nearly a mile and a half. 

At the north or Modane end, the 
mechanical perforators are precisely 
the same as at Bardonneche, as also is 
the system of working in the gallery. 
The machinery for the compression of 
air, however, is very different, more 
simple, and in every way an improve- 
ment upon that at the South end. Not 
finding any convenient means of obtain- 
ing a head of eighty-four feet of water 
sufficient in quantity for working a 
series of compressors, as at Bardon- 
ne"che, there has been established at 
Modane a system of direct compres- 
sion, the necessary force for which 
is derived from the current of the 
Arc. Six large water-wheels moved 
by this current give a reciprocating 
motion to a piston contained in a large 
horizontal cylinder of cast iron. This 
piston, having a column of water on 
each side of it, raises and lowers al- 
ternately these two columns, in two 
vertical tubes about ten feet high, 
compressing the air in each tube alter- 
nately, and forcing a certain quantity, 
at each upward stroke of the water, 
to enter into a cylindrical recipient. 
There is very little loss of water in 
this machine, which in its action is 
very like a large double-barreled com- 
mon air-pump. It is a question open 
to science whether the employment of 
compressed air for driving the perfor- 
ating engines in a work such as is in 
operation at the Mont Cenis, could not 
be advantageously and economically 
exchanged for the employment of a 
direct hydraulic motive force, the ven- 
tilation of the tunnel being provided 
for by other means. The system, how- 
ever, employed at Modane has many 
advantages, which it is impossible to 
overlook, and its complete success has 
given a marked and decided impulse 
to the modern science of tunnelling 
through hard rock. 

Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom. 


Translated from tho Civilta Cattolica. 


The generation of a human creature 
takes place neither by the development 
of a being which is found in the germ, 
sketched as it were like a miniature, 
nor by a sudden formation or an in- 
stantaneous transition from potential 
to actual existence. It is effected by 
the true production of a new being, 
which pre-exists only virtually in the 
activity of the germ communicated by 
the conceiver, and the successive trans- 
formation of the potential subject. 

This truth, an a priori postulate of 
philosophy, and demonstrated by phys- 
iology a posteriori, was illustrated by 
us in a preceding dkrticle. Here we 
must discard an error which has sprung 
from this truth. For there have been 
materialists who maintained that there 
was but one type in the whole animal 
kingdom, that is, man, as he unites in 
himself in the highest possible degree 
perfection of organism and delicacy of 
feelings ; and that all the species of infe- 
rior animals were so many stages in the 
development of that most perfect type. 
This opinion is thus expressed by 
Milne-Edwards in his highly esteemed 
lectures on the Physiology and Com- 
parative Anatomy of Man and Ani- 
mals : 

" Every organized being undergoes 
in its development deep and various 
modifications. The character of the 
anatomical structure, no less than its 
vital faculties, changes as it passes 
from the state of embryo to that of a 
perfect animal in its own species. Now 
all the animals which are derived from 
the same type move during a certain 
time in the same embryonic road, and 
resemble each other in that process of 
organization during a certain period 
of time, the longer as their zoological 
relationship is closer; afterward they 

deviate from the common road and 
each acquires the properties belong- 
ing to it. Those that are to have a 
more perfect structure proceed further 
than those whose organization is com- 
pleted at less cost. It results from 
this that the transitory or embryonic 
state of a superior animal resembles, 
in a more or. less wonderful manner, 
the permanent state of another animal 
lower hi the same zoological series. 
Some authors have thought right to 
conclude from this that the diversity 
of species proceeds from a series of 
stages of this kind taking place at dif- 
ferent degrees of the embryonic devel- 
opment ; and these writers, falling into 
the exaggerations to which imitators 
are especially liable, have held that 
every superior animal, in order to 
reach its definitive form, must pass 
through the series of the proper forms 
of animals which are its inferiors in 
the zoological hierarchy; so that man, 
for instance^ before he is born, is at 
first a kind of worm, then a mollusk, 
then a fish, or something like it, be- 
fore he can assume the characters be- 
longing to his species. An eminent 
professor has recently expressed these 
views in a concise form, saying that 
the embryology of the most perfect 
being is a comparative transitory anat- 
omy, and that the anatomic table of 
the whole animal kingdom is a fixed 
and permanent representation of the 
movable aspect of human organoge- 

Thus, according to this opinion, man 
is the only type of animal life ; and 
every inferior species is but an im- 
itation, more or less perfect, of the 
same; an inchoation stopped in its 
course at a greater or shorter distance 
from the term to which the work of 
nature tends in its organization of 
the human embryo. In short, an en- 


Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom. 

toma in difetto, to use the language of 

The doctrine is not new in the 
scientific world. It was proclaimed 
in the last century by Robinet, who 
held that all inferior beings are but 
so many proofs or sketches upon which 
nature practises in order to learn how 
to form man. In the beginning of the 
present century Lamarck, in Germany, 
following Kielmayer, reproduced the 
same theory. According to him all 
the species of animals inferior to man 
are but so many lower steps at which 
the human embryo stops in its gradual 
development. Man, on the contrary, 
is the last term reached by nature 
after she has travelled all through 
the zoological scale, to fit herself for 
that work. About the same time the 
celebrated naturalist, Stephen Geof- 
froy Saint Hilaire, began to dissemi- 
nate in France analogous ideas under 
the name of stages of development 
(arret de developpement) ; and these 
ideas, exaggerated by some of his dis- 
ciples, amounted in their minds to 
the same doctrine of Lamarck, just 
alluded to. Among them Professor 
Serres holds the first rank, and it is 
to him that Milne-Edwards alludes in 
the passage just cited. He expresses 
himself thus : 

" Human organogeny is a compara- 
tive transitory anatomy, as compara- 
tive anatomy is the fixed and perma- 
nent state of the organogeny of man ; 
and, on the contrary, if we reverse the 
proposition, or method of investiga- 
tion, and study animal life from the 
lowest to the highest, instead of con- 
sidering it from the highest to the 
lowest, we shall see that the organ- 
isms of the series reproduce incessant- 
ly those of the embryos, and fix them- 
selves in that state which for animals 
becomes the term of their develop- 
ment. The long series of changes of 
form presented by the same organ- 
ism in comparative anatomy is but 
the reproduction of the numerous series 
of transformations to which this or- 
ganism is subjected in the embryo in 
the course of its development. In the 

embryo the passage is rapid, in virtue 
of the power of the life which ani- 
mates it ; in the animal the life of the 
organism is exhausted, and it stops 
there, because it is not permitted to 
follow the course traced for the human 
embryo. Distinct stages on the one 
hand, progressive advance on the 
other, here is the secret of develop- 
ment, the fundamental difference which 
the human mind can perceive between 
comparative anatomy and organogeny. 
The annual series thus considered in 
its organisms is but a long chain of 
embryos which succeed each other 
gradually and at intervals, reaching 
at last man, who thus finds his physi- 
cal development in comparative or- 

Thus speaks Serres. And in an- 
other place : 

"The whole animal kingdom ap- 
pears only like one animal in the 
course of formation in the different 
organisms. It stops here sooner, there 
later, and thus at the time of each in- 
terruption determines, by the state in 
which it then is, the distinctive and 
organized characters of classes, fami- 
lies, genera, and species." 



The futility of the above doctrine is 
manifest, in the first place, from the 
weakness of the foundation on which 
it rests. That foundation is no other 
than a kind of likeness which appears 
at first sight between the rudimental 
forms which, in the first steps of its 
development, are assumed by the hu- 
man embryo, and the forms of some 
inferior animals. For the germ, by 
the very reason that it has not, as it 
was once believed, all the organism of 
the human body in microscopic pro- 
portions, but in order to acquire it 
must pass from potential to actual 
existence by that very reason, is 

Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom. 


subjected to continual metamorphoses, 
that is, to successive transformations, 
which give it different aspects, from 
that of a little disc to the perfect hu- 
mah figure. Now, it is clear that, 
in this gradual transition from the 
mere power to the act of perfect or- 
ganization, a kind of analogy or like- 
ness to some of the numberless forms 
of inferior organizations of the animal 
kingdom may, and must, be fonud in 
its intermediate and incomplete state. 

But, evidently, between analogy and 
identity there is an immense difference ; 
and the fact of there being an analogy 
with some of those forms, gives us no 
right to infer that there is one with all. 
Hence this theory is justly despised by 
the most celebrated naturalists as the 
whim of an extravagant fancy. 

" According to Lamarck," says Fre*- 
dault, in speaking of this, theory, " all 
the animals are but inferior grades at 
which the human germ stopped in its 
development, and man is but the re- 
sult of the last efforts of a nature which 
has passed successively through the 
grades of its novitiate, and has arrived 
at the last term of its perfection. Pre- 
sented in this view, the doctrine of 
epigenesis raised against itself the most 
simple and scientific common sense, as 
being manifestly erroneous. Numer- 
ous works on the development of the 
germ have demonstrated that appear- 
ances were taken for realities, and 
that imagination had created a real 
romance. It has been proved that if, 
at certain epochs of its development, 
the human germ has a distant resem- 
blance either to a worm or a reptile, 
such resemblance is very remote, and 
that on this point we must believe 
as much as we would believe of the 
assertion of a man who, looking at the 
clouds, should say that he could dis- 
cover the palaces and gardens of Ar- 
mida, with horsemen and armies, and 
all that a heated imagination might 

However, laying aside all that, the 
opinion which we are now examining 
originates, with those who uphold it, in 
a total absence of philosophical con- 

ceptions. That strange idea of the 
unity of type and of its stages, in order 
to establish the forms of inferior ani- 
mals, would never have risen in the 
mind of any one who had duly consid- 
ered the immutability of essences and 
the reasci of the formation of a thing. 
The act of making differs from the 
thing made only as the means differs 
from the end. Both belong to the 
same order one implies movement, 
the other rest. Their difference lies 
only in this : that what in the term is 
unfolded and complete, in its progress 
toward the term is found to be only 
sketched out, and having a tendency 
to formation. Hence it follows that, 
whatever the point of view from which 
we consider the embryo of each ani- 
mal, it is nothing else but the total 
organism of the same in the course of 
formation ; and, therefore, it differs as 
substantially from every other organ- 
ism as the term itself toward which it 
proceeds. And what we affirm of the 
whole organism must be said of each 
of its parts, which are essentially re- 
lated to the whole and follow the na- 
ture of the whole. The first rudi- 
ments, for instance, of the hands of 
man could not properly be compared 
to the wings of a bird. As they are 
hands after being made, so they are 
hands in the process of formation ; as 
their structure is different, so is their 
being immutable. 

Whatever may be the likeness be- 
tween the first appearances of the hu- 
man embryo and the forms of lower 
animals, they are not the effect of a 
stable existence, but of a transitory 
and shifting existence, which does not 
constitute a species, but is merely and 
essentially a movement toward the 
formation of the species. On the con- 
trary, the forms presented by animals 
already constituted in their being be- 
long to a stable and permanent exist- 
ence, which diversifies one species from 
another. The difference, then, be- 
tween the former and the latter is in- 
terior and substantial, and cannot be 
changed into exterior and accidental, 
as it would be if it consisted in stop- 


Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom. 

ping or in travelling further on. The 
movement or tendency which takes 
place in the germ to become another 
thing until the said germ assumes a 
perfect organization relative to the be- 
ing it must produce, is not a quality 
which can be discarded, since it is in- 
timately combined with the subject it- 
self in which it is found. The essence 
itself must be changed in it in order to 
obtain stability and consistency. But 
if the essence be changed, we are out 
of the question, since in that case we 
should have, not the human embryo 
arrested at this or that stage on its 
road, but a different being substituted 
for it; of analogous exterior appear- 
ance, perhaps, but substantially differ- 
ent, which would constitute an annual 
of inferior degree. 

In short, each animal is circumscribed 
in its own species, like every other being 
in nature. If to reach to the perfec- 
tion required by its independent exist- 
ence it needs development, every step 
in that journey is an inchoation of the 
next, and cannot exist but as such. 
To change its nature and to make it a 
permanent being, is as impossible as 
to change one essence into another. 

Again : From the opinion we are re- 
futing it would follow that all animals, 
man excepted, are so many monsters, 
since they are nothing else but de- 
viations, for want of ulterior develop- 
ment, from what nature really intends 
to do as a term of its action. Thus 
anomaly is converted into law, disor- 
der into order, an accidental case into 
a constant fact. 

Finally, in that hypothesis we should 
have to affirm not only that the infe- 
rior and more imperfect species ap- 
peared on earth before the nobler and 
the more akin to the unique and per- 
fect type, but also that on the appear- 
ance of a more perfect species the pre- 
ceding one had disappeared ; being in- 
ferior in the scale of perfection. For 
what other reason could be alleged for 
nature's stopping at a bird when it in- 
tends to make a man, but that the 
causes are not properly disposed, or 
that circumstances are not quite favor- 

able to the production of that perfect 
animal? Then when the causes are 
ready, and the circumstances propi- 
tious, it is necessary that man be fash- 
ioned and that the bird disappear. 
Now all that is contrary to experience. 
For all the species, together with the 
type, are of the same date, and we see 
them born constantly in the same cir- 
cumstances which are common to all, 
either of temperature or atmosphere 
or latitude, etc. 

The theory, then, of the unity of 
type in the animal kingdom and of 
stages of development falls to the 
ground, if we only look at it from a 
philosophical point of view. 



However, physiological arguments 
have more force in this matter 
than the philosophical ; since they 
are more closely connected with the 
subject, and have in their favor the 
tangible evidence of fact. 

We shall take our arguments from 
three celebrated naturalists as the rep- 
resentatives of an immense number, 
whom want of space forbids us to 

Flourens shows the error of that 
opinion by referring to the diversity 
of the nervous system. The nervous 
system is the foundation of the ani- 
mal organism ; it is the general instru- 
ment of vital functions, of sensation, 
and of motion. If then one archetyp- 
al idea presides over the formation of 
the different organisms, only one ner- 
vous system ought to appear in each, 
more or less developed or arrested. 
But experience teaches us the contra- 
ry. It shows nervous systems differ- 
ing in different animals ordained to 
different functions, each perfect in its 
kind. " Is there a unity of type ?" 
asks this celebrated naturalist. "To 
say that there is but one type is 
to say that there is but one form of 

Unity of Type in the Animal Kingdom. 


nervous system ; because the form of 
the nervous system determines the 
type ; that is, it determines the general 
form of the animal. Now, can we 
affirm that there is but one form of 
nervous system ? Can we hold that the 
nervous system of the zoophyte is th.e 
same as that of the mollusk, and this 
latter the same as that of the articula- 
ta, or this again the same as that of the 
vertebrata? And if we cannot say that 
there is only one nervous system, can 
we affirm that there is only one type ?" 

He speaks likewise of the unity of 
plan. Every creature is built differ- 
ently, and the difference is especially 
striking between members of the sev- 
eral grand divisions of the animal 
kingdom. The plan then of each is 
different, and so is the typical idea 
which prescribes its formation. No 
animal can then be considered as the 
proof or outline of another. 

" Is there a unity of plan ? The plan 
is the relative location of the parts. 
One can conceive very well the unity 
of plan without the unity of number ; 
for it is sufficient that all the parts, 
whatever their number may be, keep 
always relatively to each other the 
same place. But can one say that the 
vertebrate animal, whose nervous 
system is placed above the digestive 
canal, is fashioned after the same plan 
as the mollusk, whose digestive canal 
is placed above the nervous system? 
Can one say that the crustacean, 
whose heart is placed above the spinal 
marrow, is fashioned after the same 
pattern as the vertebrate, whose spinal 
marrow is placed above the heart? 
Is the relative location of the parts 
maintained ? On the contrary, is it not 
overthrown ? And if there is a change 
in the location of parts, how is there a 
unity of plan ?" 

Miiller draws nearer to the con- 
sideration of the development of the 
human embryo, and forcibly illustrates 
the falsehood of the pretended theory. 
" It is not long since it was held with 
great seriousness that the human 
foetus, before reaching its perfect state, 
travels successively though the differ- 

ent degrees of development which 
are permanent during the whole life 
of animals of inferior classes. That 
hypothesis has not the least foundation, 
as Baer has shown. The human em- 
bryo never resembles a radiate, or an 
insect, or a mollusk, or a worm. The 
plan of formation of those animals 
is quite different from that of the 
vertebrate. Man then might at most 
resemble these last, since he himself 
is a vertebrate, and his organization is 
fashioned after the common type of 
this great division of the animal king- 
dom. But he does not even resemble 
at one time a fish, at another a reptile, 
a bird, etc. The analogy is no greater 
between him and a reptile or a bird, 
than it is between all vertebrate 
animals. During the first stages of 
their formation, all the embryos of 
vertebrate animals present merely 
the simplest and most general delin- 
eations of the type of a vertebrate ; 
hence it is that they resemble each 
other so much as to render it very 
difficult to distinguish them. The fish, 
the reptile, the bird, the mammal, and 
man are at first the simplest expression 
of a type common to all; but hi pro- 
portion as they grow, the general re- 
semblance becomes fainter and fainter, 
and their extremities, for instance, after 
being alike for a certain time, assume 
the characters of wings, of hands, of 
feet, etc." 

Mr. Milne-Edwards takes the same 
view of embryonic generation: 

" I agree with Geoffrey Saint Hilaire, 
that often a great analogy is observed 
between the final state of certain parts 
of the bodies of some inferior animals, 
and the embryonic state of the same 
parts of other animals belonging to 
the same type the organism of which 
is further developed, and with the 
same philosopher, I call the cause of 
the state of permanent inferiority ar- 
rests of development. But I am far 
from thinking with some of his dis- 
ciples that the embryo of man or of 
mammals exhibits in its different de- 
grees of formation the species of the 
less perfect of animate creation. No ! a 


Domine, Quo Vadis? 

mollusk or an annelid is not the embryo 
of a mammal, arrested in its organic 
development, any more than the mam- 
mal is a kind of fish perfected. Each 
animal carries within itself, from the 
very origin, the beginning of its speci- 
fic individuality, and the development 
of its organism, in conformity to the 
general outline of the plan of struc- 
ture proper to its species, is always a 
condition of its existence. There is 
never a complete likeness between an 
adult animal and the embryo of an- 
other, between one of its organs and 
the transitory state of the same in the 
course of formation ; and the multiplic- 
ity of the products of creation could 
never be explained by a similar trans- 
mutation of species. We shall see 
hereafter, that in every zoological 
group composed of animals which 
seem to be derived from a common 
fundamental type, the different species 
do not exhibit at first any marked dif- 
ference, but soon begin to be marked 
by various particularities of construc- 
ture always growing and numerous. 
Thus each species acquires a character 
of its own, which distinguishes it from 
all others in the way of development, 

and each of its organs becomes differ- 
ent from the analogous part of every 
other embryo. But the changes which 
the organs and the whole being un- 
dergo after they have deviated from 
the common genesiac form, are gen- 
erally speaking the less considerable 
in proportion as the animal is destined 
to receive a less perfect organism, and 
consequently they retain a kind of re- 
semblance to those transitory forms." 

Reason then and experience, theory 
and fact, philosophy and physiology, 
agree in protesting against the arbi- 
trary doctrine of the unity of type in 
the animal kingdom ; a doctrine which 
has its origin in an absence of sound 
scientific notions and a superficial ob- 
servation of the phenomena of nature. 
Through the former defect men failed 
to consider that if the end of each 
animal species is different, different 
also must be its being, and therefore 
a different type must preside as a rule 
and supreme law over the formation 
of the being. By the latter, some 
very slight and partial analogies have 
been mistaken for identity and univer- 
sality, and mere appearances have 
been assumed as realities. 

From Blackwood's Magazine. 



THERE stands in the old Appian Way, 
Two miles without the Roman wall, 

A little ancient church, and grey : 
Long may it moulder not nor fall ! 

There hangs a legend on the name 

One reverential thought may claim. 

'Tis written of that fiery time, 
When all the angered evil powers 

Leagued against Christ for wrath and crime, 
How Peter left the accursed towers, 

* See Mrs. Jameson's "Sacred and Legendary Art," p. 180. 

Domine, Quo Vadis? 77 

Passing from out the guilty street, 
And shook the red dust from his feet. 

Sole pilgrim else in that lone road, 

Suddenly he was 'ware of one 
Who toiled beneath a weary load, 

Bare-headed, in the heating sun, 
Pale with long watches, and forespent 
With harm and evil accident. 

Under a cross his weak limbs bow, 

Scarcely his sinking strength avails. 
A crown of thorns is on his brow, 

And in his hands the print of nails. 
So friendless and alone in shame, 
One like the Man of Sorrows came. 

Read in her eyes who gave thee birth 

That loving, tender, sad rebuke ; 
Then learn no mother on this earth, 

How dear soever, shaped a look 
So sweet, so sad, so pure as now 
Came from beneath that holy brow. 

And deeply Peter's heart it pierced; 

Once had he seen that look before ; 
And even now, as at the first, 

It touched, it smote him to the core. 
Bowing his head, no word save three 
He spoke " Quo vadis, Domine V 

Then, as he looked up from the ground, 

His Saviour made him answer due 
" My son, to Rome I go, thorn-crowned, 

There to be crucified anew ; 
Since he to whom I gave my sheep 
Leaves them for other men to keep." 

Then the saint's eyes grew dim with tears. 

He knelt, his Master's feet to kiss 
" I vexed my heart with faithless fears ; 

Pardon thy servant, Lord, for this." 
Then rising up but none was there 
No voice, no sound, in earth or air. 

Straightway his footsteps he retraced, 

As one who hath a work to do. 
Back through the gates he passed with haste, 

Silent, alone and full in view ; 
And lay forsaken, save of One, 
In dungeon deep ere set of sun. 

Then he who once, apart from ill, 

Nor taught the depth of human tears, 


Constance Sherwood. 

Girded himself and walked at will, 

As one rejoicing in the years, 
Girded of others, scorned and slain, 
Passed heavenward through the gates of pain. 

If any bear a heart within, 

Well may these walls be more than stone, 
And breathe of peace and pardoned sin 

To him who grieveth all alone. 
Return, faint heart, and strive thy strife ; 
Fight, conquer, grasp the crown of life. 

From The Month. 




I HAD not thought to write the story 
of my life ; but the wishes of those 
who have at all times more right to 
command than occasion to entreat 
aught at my hands, have in a man- 
ner compelled me thereunto. The di- 
vers trials and the unlooked-for com- 
forts which have come to my lot during 
the years that I have been tossed to 
and fro on this uneasy sea the world 
have wrought in my soul an ex- 
ceeding sense of the goodness of God, 
and an insight into the meaning of the 
sentence in Holy Writ which saith, 
" His ways are not as our ways, nor 
his thoughts like unto our thoughts." 
And this puts me in mind that there 
are sayings which are in every one's 
mouth, and therefore not to be lightly 
gainsayed, which nevertheless do not 
approve themselves to my conscience 
as wholly just and true. Of these is 
the common adage, " That misfortunes 
come not alone." For my own part, 
I have found that when a cross has 
been laid on me, it has mostly been a 
single one, and that other sorrows 

were oftentimes removed, as if to 
make room for it. And it has been 
my wont, when one trial has been 
passing away, to look out for the next, 
even as on a stormy day, when the 
clouds have rolled away in one direc- 
tion and sunshine is breaking over- 
head, we see others rising in the dis- 
tance. There has been no portion of 
my life free from some measure of 
grief or fear sufficient to recall the 
words that " Man is born to trouble as 
the sparks fly upward ;" and none so 
reft of consolation that, in the midst of 
suffering, I did not yet cry out, " The 
Lord is my shepherd; his rod and 
his staff comfort me." 

I was born in the year 1557, in a 
very fair part of England, at Sher- 
wood Hall, in the county of Stafford. 
For its comely aspect, commodious 
chambers, sunny gardens, and the 
sweet walks in its vicinity, it was as 
commendable a residence for persons 
of moderate fortune and contented 
minds as can well be thought of. 
Within and without this my paternal 
home nothing was wanting which might 
please the eye, or minister to tranquil- 

Constance Sherwood. 


lity of mind and healthful recreation. 
I reckon it amongst the many favors I 
have received from a gracious Provi- 
dence, that the earlier years of my life 
were spent amidst such fair scenes, 
and in the society of parents who ever 
took occasion from earthly things to 
lead my thoughts to such as are im- 
perishable, and so to stir up in me a 
love of the Creator, who has stamped 
his image on this visible world in 
characters of so great beauty ; whilst 
in the tenderness of those dear parents 
unto myself I saw, as it were, a type 
and representation of his paternal 
love and goodness. 

My father was of an ancient family, 
and allied to such as were of greater 
note and more wealthy than his own. 
He had not, as is the manner with 
many squires of our days, left off re- 
siding on his own estate in order to 
seek after the shows and diversions of 
London ; but had united to a great hu- 
mility of mind and a singular affection 
for learning a contentedness of spirit 
which inclined him to dwell in the 
place assigned to him by Providence. 
He had married at an early age, and 
had ever confonned to the habits of 
his neighbors in all lawful and kindly 
ways, and sought no other labors but 
such as were incidental to the care of 
his estates, and no recreations but 
those of study, joined to a moderate 
pursuit of field-sports and such social 
diversions as the neighborhood afford- 
ed. His outward appearance was rath- 
er simple than showy, and his man- 
ners grave and composed. When I 
call to mind the singular modesty of 
his disposition, and the retiredness of 
his manners, I often marvel how the 
force of circumstances and the urging 
of conscience should have forced one 
so little by nature inclined to an unset- 
tled mode of life into one which, albeit 
peaceful in its aims, proved so full of 
danger and disquiet. 

My mother's love I enjoyed but for 
a brief season. Not that it waxed 
cold toward me, as happens with some 
parents, who look with fondness on the 
child and less tenderly on the maiden ; 

but it pleased Almighty God to take 
her unto himself when I was but ten 
years of age. Her face is as present 
to me now as any time of my life. No 
limner's hand ever drew a more faith- 
ful picture than the one I have of her 
even now engraved on the tablet of my 
heart. She had so fair and delicate 
a complexion that I can only liken it 
to the leaf of a white rose with the 
lightest tinge of piak in it. Her hair 
was streaked with gray too early for 
her years ; but this matched well with 
the sweet melancholy of her eyes, 
which were of a deep violet color. Her 
eyelids were a trifle thick, and so were 
her lips ; but there was a pleasantness 
in her smile and the dimples about 
her mouth such as I have not noticed 
in any one else. She had a sweet 
womanly and loving heart, and the 
noblest spirit imaginable ; a great zeal 
in the service of God, tempered with 
so much sweetness and cordiality that 
she gave not easily offence to any one, 
of howsoever different a way of think- 
ing from herself ; and either won them 
over to her faith through the suavity 
of her temper and the wisdom of her 
discourse, or else worked in them a 
personal liking which made them pa- 
tient with her, albeit fierce with others. 
When I was about seven years of 
age I noticed that she waxed thin and 
pale, and that we seldom went abroad, 
and walked only in our own garden 
and orchard. She seemed glad to sit 
on a bench on the sunny side of the 
house even in summer, and on days 
when by reason of the heat I liked to 
lie down in the shade. My parents 
forbade me from going into the vil- 
lage ; and, through the perverseness 
common to too many young people, on 
account of that very prohibition I 
longed for liberty to do so, and wearied 
oftentimes of the solitude we lived in. 
At a later period I learnt how kind 
had been their intent in keeping me 
during the early years of childhood 
from a knowledge of the woful divi- 
sions which the late changes in reli- 
gion had wrought in our country; 
which I might easily have heard from 


Constance Sherwood. 

young companions, and maybe in such 
sort as to awaken angry feelings, and 
shed a drop of bitter in the crystal cup 
of childhood's pure faith. If we did 
walk abroad, it was to visit some sick 
persons, and carry them food or cloth- 
ing or medicines, which my mother 
prepared with her own hands. But 
as she grew weaker, we went less 
often outside the gates, and the poor 
came themselves to fetch away what 
in her bounty she stored up for them. 
I did not notice that our neighbors 
looked unkindly on us when we were 
seen in the village. Children would 
cry out sometimes, but half in play, 
" Down with the Papists !" but I wit- 
nessed that their elders checked them, 
especially those of the poorer sort; 
and " God bless you, Mrs. Sherwood !" 
and " God save you, madam !" was 
often in their mouths, as she whom I 
loved with so great and reverent an 
affection passed alongside of them, or 
stopped to take breath, leaning against 
their cottage-palings. 

Many childish heartaches I can 
even now remember when I was not 
suffered to join in the merry sports of 
the 1st of May ; for then, as the poet 
Chaucer sings, the youths and maidens 
go ' 

" To fetch the flowers fresh and branch and bloom, 
And these, rejoicing in their great delight, 
Efee each at other throw the blossoms bright." 

I watched the merry wights as they 
passed our door on their way to the 
groves and meadows, singing mirthful 
carols, and bent on pleasant pastimes ; 
and tears stood in my eyes as the 
sound of their voices died away in the 
distance. My father found me thus 
weeping one May-day, and carried me 
with him to a sweet spot in a wood, 
where wild-flowers grew like living 
jewels out of the green carpet of moss 
on which we sat; and there, as the 
birds sang from every bough, and the 
insects hovered and hummed over ^ve- 
ry blossom, he entertained me with such 
quaint and pleasant tales, and moved 
me to merry laughter by his witty de- 
vices ; so that I set down that day in 

my book of memory as one of the joy- 
fullest in all my childhood. At Easter, 
when the village children rolled pasch 
eggs down the smooth sides of the 
green hills, my mother would paint me 
some herself, and adorned them with 
such bright colors and rare sentences 
that I feared to break them with rude 
handling, and kept them by me 
throughout the year, rather as pictures 
to be gazed on than toys to be played 
with in a wanton fashion. 

On the morning of the Resurrec- 
tion, when others went to the top of 
Cannock Chase to hail the rising sun, 
as is the custom of those parts, she 
would sing so sweetly the psalm which 
speaketh of the heavens rejoicing and 
of the earth being glad, that it grieved 
me not to stay at home ; albeit I some- 
times marvelled that we saw so little 
company, and mixed not more freely 
with our neighbors. 

When I had reached my ninth birth- 
day, whether it was that I took better 
heed of words spoken in my hearing, 
or else that my parents thought it was 
time that I should learn somewhat of 
the conditions of the times, and so 
talked more freely in my presence, it 
so happened that I heard of the 
je % opardy in which many who held the 
Catholic faith were, and of the laws 
which were being made to prohibit in 
our country the practice of the ancient 
religion. When Protestants came to 
our house and it was sometimes hard 
in those days to tell who were such at 
heart, or only in outward semblance 
out of conformity to the queen's pleas- 
ure I was strictly charged not to 
speak in their hearing of aught that 
had to do with Catholic faith and wor- 
ship ; and I could see at such times on 
my mother's face an uneasy expres- 
sion, as if she was ever fearing the 
next words that any one might utter. 

In the autumn of that year we had 
visitors whose company was so great 
an honor to my parents, and the occa- 
sion of so much delight to myself, that 
I can call to mind every little circum- 
stance of their brief sojourn under our 
roof, even as if it had taken place but 

Constance Sherwood. 


yesterday. This visit proved the first 
step toward an intimacy which greatly 
affected the tenor of my life, and pre- 
pared the way for the direction it was 
hereafter to take. 

These truly honorable and well-be- 
loved guests were my Lady Mount- 
eagle and her son Mr. James Laboura, 
who were journeying at that time from 
London, where she had been residing 
at her son-in-law the Duke of Nor- 
folk's house, to her seat in the coun- 
try; whither she was carrying the 
three children of her daughter, the 
Duchess of Norfolk, and of that lady's 
first husband, the Lord Dacre of the 
North. The eldest of these young 
ladies was of about my own age, and 
the others younger. 

The day on which her ladyship was 
expected, I could not sit with patience 
at my tambour-frame, or con my les- 
sons, or play on the virginals; but 
watched the hours and the minutes in 
my great desire to see these noble 
wenches. I had not hitherto consorted 
with young companions, save with Ed- 
mund and John Genings, of whom I 
shall have occasion to speak hereafter, 
who were then my playmates, as at 
a riper age friends. I thought, in the 
quaint way in which children couple 
one idea with another in their fantastic 
imaginations, that my Lady Mount- 
eagle's three daughters would be like 
the three angels, in my mother's mis- 
sal, who visited .Abraham in his tent. 

I had craved from my mother a 
holiday, which she granted on the 
score that I should help her that fore- 
noon in the making of the pasties and 
jellies, which, as far as her strength 
allowed, she failed not to lend a hand 
to ; and also she charged me to set the 
bed-chambers in fair order, and to 
gather fresh flowers wherewith to 
adorn the parlor. These tasks had 
in them a pleasantness which whiled 
away the time, and I alternated from 
the parlor to the store-room, and the 
kitchen to the orchard, and the poul- 
try-yard to the pleasure-ground, run- 
ning as swiftly from one to the other, 
and as merrily, as if my feet were 

keeping time with the glad beatings of 
my heart. As I passed along the ave- 
nue, which was bordered on each side 
by tall trees, ever and anon, as the 
wind shook their branches, there fell 
on my head showers of red and gold- 
colored leaves, which made me laugh ; 
so easy is it for the young to find occa- 
sion of mirth in the least trifle when 
their spirits are lightsome, as mine 
were that day. I sat down on a stone 
bench on which the western sun was 
shining, to bind together the posies I 
had made ; the robins twittered around 
me; and the air felt soft and fresh. It 
was the eve of Martinmas- day Hal- 
low tide Summer, as our country folk 
call it. As the sun was sinking behind 
the hills, the tread of horses' feet was 
heard in the distance, and I sprang in 
on the bench, shading my eyes wit-i 
my hand to see the approach of that 
goodly travelling-party, which was 
soon to reach our gates. My paren's 
came out of the front door, and beck- 
oned me to their side. 1 held my po- 
sies in my apron, and forgot to so! 
them down; for the first sight of my 
Lady Mounteagle, as she rode up th.? 
avenue with her son at her side, and 
her three grand-daughters with theh* 
attendants, and many richly-attired 
serving-men beside, filled me with awe. 
I wondered if her majesty had looked 
more grand on the day that she rod 3 
into London to be proclaimed queen. 
The good lady sat on her paltry in so 
erect and stately a manner, as if age 
had no dominion over her limbs and 
her spirits ; and there was something 
so piercing and commanding in her 
eye, that it at once compelled rever- 
ence and submission. Her son had 
somewhat of the same nobility of mien, 
and was tall and graceful in his move- 
ments ; but behind her, on her pillion, 
sat a small counterpart of herself, in- 
asmuch as childhood can resemble old 
age, and youthful loveliness matronly 
dignity. This was the eldest of her 
ladyship's grand-daughters, my sweet 
Mistress Ann Dacre. This was my 
first sight of her who was hereafter to 
hold so great a place in my heart and 


Constance Sherwood. 

in my life. As she was lifted from the 
saddle, and stood in her riding-habit 
and plumed hat at our door, making a 
graceful and modest obeisance to my 
parents, one step retired behind her 
grandam, with a lovely color tinging 
her cheeks, and her long lashes veil- 
ing her sweet eyes, I thought I had 
never seen so fair a creature as this 
high-born maiden of my own age ; and 
even now that time, as it has gone by, 
has shown me all that a court can dis- 
play to charm the eyes and enrapture 
the fancy, I do not gainsay that same 
childish thought of mine. Her sisters, 
pretty prattlers then, four and six 
years of age, were led into the house 
by their governess. But ere our guests 
were seated, my mother bade me kiss 
my Lady Mounteagle's hand and com- 
mend myself to her goodness, praying 
her to be a good lady to me, and over- 
look, out of her great indulgence, my 
many defects. At which she patted 
me on the cheek, and said, she doubted 
not but that I was as good a child as 
such good parents deserved to have; 
and indeed, if I was as like my mother 
in temper as in face, I must needs be 
such as her hopes and wishes would 
have me. And then she commanded 
Mistress Ann to salute me ; and I felt 
my cheeks flush and my heart beat 
with joy as the sweet little lady put 
her arms round my neck, and pressed 
her lips on my cheek. 

Presently we all withdrew to our 
chambers until such time as supper 
was served, at which meal the young 
ladies were present; and I marvelled 
to see how becomingly even the young- 
est of them, who was but a chit, knew 
how to behave herself, never asking 
for anything, or forgetting to give 
thanks in a pretty manner when she 
was helped. For the which my mother 
greatly commended their good man- 
ners; and her ladyship said, "In truth, 
good Mistress Sherwood, I carry a 
strict hand over them, never suffering 
their faults to go unchastised, nor per- 
mitting such liberties as many do to 
the rum of their children." I was 
straightway seized with a great confu- 

sion and fear that this was meant as a 
rebuke to me, who, not being much 
used to company, and something over- 
indulged by my father, by whose side 
I was seated, had spoken to him more 
than once that day at table, and had 
also left on my plate some victuals not 
to my liking; which, as I learnt at 
another time from Mistress Ann, was 
an offence for which her grandmother 
would have sharply reprehended her. 
I ventured not again to speak in her 
presence, and scarcely to raise my eyes 
toward her. 

The young ladies withdrew early to 
bed that night, and I had but little 
speech with them. Before they left 
the parlor, Mistress Ann took her sis- 
ters by the hand, and all of them, 
kneeling at their grandmother's feet, 
craved her blessing. I could see a 
tear in her eye as she blessed them ; 
and when she laid her hand on the 
head of the eldest of her grand-daugh- 
ters, it lingered there as if to call down 
upon her a special benison. The next 
day my Lady Mounteagle gave per- 
mission for Mistress Ann to go with 
me into the garden, where I showed 
her my flowers and the young rabbits 
that Edmund Genings and his brother, 
my only two playmates, were so fond 
of; and she told me how well pleased 
she was to remove from London unto 
her grandmother's seat, where she 
would have a garden and such pleas- 
ant pastimes as are enjoyed in the 

"Prithee, Mistress Ann," I said, 
with the unmannerly boldness with 
which children are wont to question 
one another, " have you not a mother, 
that you live with your grandam?" 

"I thank God that I have," she an- 
swered ; " and a good mother she is to 
me ; but by reason of her having lately 
married the Duke of Norfolk, my 
grandmother has at the present time 
the charge of us." 

" And do you greatly love my Lady 
Mounteagle?" I asked, misdoubting in 
my folly that a lady of so grave aspect 
and stately carriage should be loved 
by children. 

Constance Sherwood. 


"As greatly as heart can love," was 
hex pretty answer. 

"And do you likewise love the Duke 
of Norfolk, Mistress Ann?" I asked 

" He is my very good lord and fath- 
er," she answered; " but my knowledge 
of his grace has been so short, I have 
scarce had time to love him yet." 

" But I have loved you in no time," 
I cried, and threw my arms round her 
neck. " Directly I saw you, I loved 
you, Mistress Ann." 

"Mayhap, Mistress Constance," she 
said, " it is easier to love a little girl 
than a great duke." 

" And who do you affection beside 
her grace your mother, and my lady 
your grandam, Mistress Ann ?" I said, 
again returning to the charge; to which 
she quickly replied : 

"My brother Francis, my sweet 
Lord Dacre." 

"Is he a child?" I asked. 

" In truth, Mistress Constance," she 
answered, "he would not be well pleased 
to be called so ; and yet methinks he 
is but a child, being not older, but 
rather one year younger than myself, 
and my dear playmate and gossip." 

" I wish I had a brother or a sister 
to play with me," I said ; at which 
Mistress Ann kissed me and said she 
was sorry I should lack so great a com- 
fort, but that I must consider I had a 
good father of my own, whereas her 
own was dead ; and that a father was 
more than a brother. 

In this manner we held discourse all 
the morning, and, like a rude imp, I 
questioned the gracious young lady as 
to her pastimes and her studies and the 
tasks she was set to ; and from her in- 
nocent conversation I discovered, as 
children do, without at the time taking 
much heed, but yet so as to remember 
it afterward, what especial care had 
been taken by her grandmother that 
religious and discreet lady to instil 
into her virtue and piety, and in using 
her, beside saying her prayers, to be- 
stow alms with her own hands on pris- 
oners and poor people ; and in particu- 
lar to apply herself to the cure of dis- 

eases and wounds, wherein she herself 
had ever excelled. Mistress Ann, in 
her childish but withal thoughtful way, 
chid me that in my own garden were 
only seen flowers which pleased the 
senses by their bright colors and per- 
fume, and none of the herbs which 
tend to the assuagement of pain and 
healing of wounds ; and she made me 
promise to grow some against the time 
of her next visit. As we went through 
the kitchen-garden, she plucked some 
rosemary and lavender and rue, and 
many other odoriferous herbs ; and sit- 
ting down on a bench, she invited me 
to her side, and discoursed on their 
several virtues and properties with a 
pretty sort of learning which was mar- 
vellous in one of her years. She 
showed me which were good for pro- 
moting sleep, and which for cuts and 
bruises, and of a third she said it eased 
the heart. 

"Nay, Mistress Ann," I cried, "but 
that must be a heartsease ;" at which 
she smiled, and answered : 

" My grandam says the best medi- 
cines for uneasy hearts are the bitter 
herb confession and the sweet flower 

" Have you yet made your first com- 
munion, Mistress Ann ?" I asked in a 
low voice, at which question a bright 
color came into her cheek, and she re- 
plied : 

" Not yet ; but soon I may. I was 
confirmed not long ago by the good 
Bishop of Durham ; and at my grand- 
mother's seat I am to be instructed by 
a Catholic priest who lives there." 

" Then you do not go to Protestant 
service ?" I said. 

"We did," she answered, "for a 
short time, whilst we stayed at the 
Charterhouse ; but my grandam has 
understood that it is not lawful for 
Catholics, and she will not be present 
at it herself, or suffer us any more to 
attend it, neither in her own house nor 
at his grace's." 

While we were thus talking, the 
two little ladies, her sisters, came from 
the house, having craved leave from 
the governess to run out into the gar- 


Constance Sherwood. 

den. Mistress Mary was a pale deli- 
cate child, with soft loving blue eyes ; 
and Mistress Bess, the youngest, a 
merry imp, whose rosy cheeks and 
dimpling smiles were full of glee and 

" What ugly sober flowers are these, 
Nan, that thou art playing with ?" she 
cried, and snatched at the herbs in her 
sister's lap. " When I marry my Lord 
William Howard, I'll wear a posy of 
roses and carnations." 

"When I am married," said little 
Mistress Mary, " I will wear nothing 
but lilies." 

" And what shall be thy posy, Nan ?" 
said the little saucy one again, " when 
thou dost wed my Lord Surrey?" 

" Hush, hush, madcaps !" cried Mis- 
tress Ann. " If your grandam was to 
hear you, I doubt not but the rod would 
bo called for." 

Mistress Mary looked round affright- 
ed, but little Mistress Bess said in a 
funny manner, " Prithee, Nan, do rods 
then travel ?" 

"Ay; by that same token, Bess, 
that I heard my lady bid thy nurse 
take care to carry one with her." 

"It was nurse told me I was to 
marry my Lord William, and Madge 
my Lord Thomas, and thee, Nan, my 
Lord Surrey, and brother pretty Meg 
Howard," said the little lady, pouting ; 
" but I won't tell grandam of it an it 
would be like to make her angry." 

" I would be a nun !" Mistress Mary 

" Hush!" her elder sister said ; "that 
is foolish talking, Madge ; my grand- 
mother told me so when I said the 
same thing to her a year ago. Chil- 
dren do not know what Almighty God 
intends them to do. And now methinks 
I see Uncle Labourn making as if he 
would call us to the house, and there 
are the horses coming to the door. We 
must needs obey the summons. Prithee, 
Mistress Constance, do not forget me." 

Forget her ! No. From that day 
to this years have passed over our 
heads and left deep scars on our 
hearts. Divers periods of our lives 
have been signalized by many a strange 

passage ; we have rejoiced, and, oftener 
still, wept together; we have met in 
trembling, and parted in anguish ; 
but through sorrow and through joy, 
through evil report and good report, 
in riches and hi poverty, in youth and 
in age, I have blessed the day when 
first I met thee, sweet Ann Dacre, the 
fairest, purest flower which ever grew 
on a noble stem. 


A YEAR elapsed betwixt the period 
of the so brief, but to me so memorable, 
visit of the welcomest guests our house 
ever received to wit, my Lady Mount- 
eagle and her grand-daughters and 
that in which I met with an accident, 
which compelled my parents to carry 
me to Lichfield for chirurgical advice. 
Four times in the course of that year 
I was honored with letters writ by 
the hand of Mistress Ann Dacre ; 
partly, as the gracious young lady 
said, by reason of her grandmother's 
desire that the bud acquaintanceship 
which had sprouted in the short-lived 
season of the aforesaid visit should, 
by such intercourse as may be carried 
on by means of letters, blossom into 
a flower of true friendship ; and also 
that that worthy lady and my good 
mother willed such a correspondence 
betwixt us as would serve to the sharp- 
ening of our wits, and the using our 
pens to be good servants to our 
thoughts. In the course of this 
history I will set down at intervals 
some of the letters I received at divers 
times from this noble lady; so that 
those who read these innocent pictures 
of herself, portrayed by her own hand, 
may trace the beginnings of those 
virtuous inclinations which at an 
early age were already working in 
her soul, and ever after appeared 
in her. 

On the 15th day of January of the 
next year to tliat in which my eyes 
had feasted on this creature so em- 
bellished with rare endowments and 

Constance Sherwood. 


accomplished gracefulness, the first 
letter I had from her came to my 
hand ; the first link of a chain which 
knit together her heart and mine 
through long seasons of absence and 
sore troubles, to the great comforting, 
as she was often pleased to say, of 
herself, who was so far above me in 
rank, whom she chose to call her 
friend, and of the poor friend and 
servant whom she thus honored 
beyond her deserts. In as pretty a 
handwriting as can well be thought 
of, she thus wrote : 

Though I enjoyed your company 
but for the too brief time during 
which we rested under your honored 
parents' roof, I retain so great a sense 
of the contentment I received there- 
from, and so lively a remembrance of 
the converse we held in the grounds 
adjacent to Sherwood Hall, that I am 
better pleased than I can well express 
that my grandmother bids me sit down 
and write to one whom to see and to 
converse with once more would be to 
me one of the chiefest pleasures in 
life. And the more welcome is this 
command by reason of the hope it 
raises in me to receive in return a 
letter from my well-beloved Mistress 
Constance, which will do my heart 
more good than anything else that 
can happen to me. 'Tis said that 
marriages are made in heaven. When 
I asked my grandam if it were so, she 
said, ' I am of opinion, Nan, they are 
made in many more places than one ; 
and I would to God none were made 
but such as are agreed upon in so 
good a place.' But methinks some 
friendships are likewise made in hea- 
ven ; and if it be so, I doubt not but that 
when we met, and out of that brief 
meeting there arose so great and sud- 
den a liking in my heart for you, 
Mistress Constance, which, I thank 
God, you were not slow to reciprocate, 
that our angels had met where we 
hope one day to be, and agreed to- 
gether touching that matter. 

" It suits ill a bad pen like mine to 

describe the fair seat we reside in at 
this present time the house of Mr. 
James Labourn, which he has lent 
unto my grandmother. 'Tis most 
commodious and pleasant, and after 
long sojourn in London, even in 
winter, a terrestrial paradise. But, 
like the garden of Eden, not without 
dangers ; for the too much delight I 
took in out-of-doors pastimes and 
most of all on the lake when it was 
frozen, and we had merry sports upon 
it, to the neglect of my lessons, not 
heeding the lapse of time in the pur- 
suit of pleasure brought me into 
trouble and sore disgrace. My grand- 
mother ordered me into confinement 
for three days in my own chamber, 
and I. saw her not nor received her 
blessing all that time ; at the end of 
which she sharply reproved me for 
my fault, and bade me hold in mind 
that 'twas when loitering in a garden 
Eve met the tempter, and threatened 
further and severe punishment if I 
applied not diligently to my studies. 
When I had knelt down and begged 
pardon, promising amendment, she 
drew me to her and kissed me, which 
it was not her wont often to do. 
' Nan,' she said, * I would have thee 
use thy natural parts, and improve 
thyself in virtue and learning; for 
such is the extremity of the tunes, 
that ere long it may be that many 
first shall be last and many last shall 
be first in this realm of England. But 
virtue and learning are properties 
which no man can steal from another ; 
and I would fain see thee endowed 
with a goodly store of both. That 
great man and true confessor, Sir 
Thomas More, had nothing so much 
at heart as his daughter's instruction ; 
and Mistress Margaret Roper, once 
my sweet friend, though some years 
older than my poor self, who still 
laments her loss, had such fine things 
said of her by the greatest men of 
this age, as would astonish thee to 
hear ; but they were what she had a 
right to and very well deserved. And 
the strengthening of her mind through 
study and religious discipline served 


Constance Sherwood. 

her well at the time of her great 
trouble; for where other women 
would have lacked sense and courage 
how to act, she kept her wits about 
her, and ministered such comfort to 
her father, remaining near him at the 
last, and taking note of his wishes, 
and finding means to bury him in a 
Christian manner, which none other 
durst attempt, that she had occasion 
to thank God who gave her a head as 
well as a heart. And who knows, 
Nan, what may befal thee, and what 
need thou mayst have of the like 
advantages ? ' 

My grandmother looked so kindly 
on me then, that, albeit abashed at the 
remembrance of my fault, I sought to 
move her to further discourse; and 
knowing what great pleasure she had 
hi speaking of Sir Thomas More, at 
whose house in Chelsea she had often- 
times been a visitor in her youth, I 
enticed her to it by cunning questions 
touching the customs he observed in 
his family. 

" < Ah, Nan !' she said, that house 
was a school and exercise of the 
Christian religion. There was neither 
man nor woman in it who was not 
employed in liberal discipline and 
fruitful reading, although the principal 
study was religion. There was no 
quarrelling, not so much as a peevish 
word to be heard ; nor was any one 
seen idle; all were in their several 
employs : nor was there wanting sober 
mirth. And so well-managed a gov- 
ernment Sir Thomas did not maintain 
by severity and chiding, but by gen- 
tleness and kindness.' 

"Methought as she said this, that 
my dear grandam in that matter of 
chiding had not taken a leaf out of 
Sir Thomas's book ; and there was no 
doubt a transparency in my face which 
revealed to her this thought of mine ; 
for she straightly looked at me and 
said, ' Nan, a penny for thy thoughts !' 
at the which I felt myself blushing, 
but knew nothing would serve her but 
the truth ; so I said, in as humble a 
manner as I could think of, 'An if 
you will excuse me, grandam,! thought 

if Sir Thomas managed so well with- 
out chiding, that you manage well 
with it.' At the which she gave me a 
light nip on the forehead, and said, 
' Go to, child ; dost think that any but 
saints can rule a household without 
chiding, or train children without whip- 
ping ? Go tliy ways, and mend them 
too, if thou wouldst escape chastise- 
ment; and take with thee, Nan, the 
words of one whom we shall never 
again see the like of in this poor 
country, which he used to his wife or 
any of his children if they were dis- 
eased or troubled, " We must not look 
at our pleasures to go to heaven in 
feather-beds, or to be carried up thither 
even by the chins." ' And so she dis- 
missed me ; and I have here set down 
my fault, and the singular goodness 
showed me by my grandmother when 
it was pardoned, not thinking I can 
write anything better worth notice than 
the virtuous talk with which she then 
favored me. 

"There is in this house a chapel 
very neat and rich, and an ancient 
Catholic priest is here, who says mass 
most days ; at the which we, with my 
grandmother, assist, and such of her 
servants as have not conformed to the 
times ; and this good father instructs 
us in the principles of Catholic re- 
ligion. On the eve of the feast of 
the Nativity of Christ, my lady stayed 
in the chapel from eight at night till 
two in the morning ; but sent us to bed 
at nine, after the litanies were said, 
until eleven, when there was a ser- 
mon, and at twelve o'clock three mass- 
es said, which being ended we broke 
our fast with a mince-pie, and went 
again to bed. And all the Christmas- 
time we were allowed two hours after 
each meal for recreation, -instead of 
one. At other times, we play not at 
any game for money ; but then we 
had a shilling a-piece to make us 
merry ; which my grandmother says is 
fitting in this time of mirth and joy 
for his birth who is the sole origin 
and spring of true comfort. And 
now, sweet Mistress Constance, I must 
bid you farewell ; for the greatest of 

Constance Sherwood. 


joys has befallen me, and a whole 
holiday to enjoy it. My sweet Lord 
Dacre is come to pay his duty to my 
lady and tarry some days here, on his 
way to Thetford, the Duke of Norfolk's 
seat, where his grace and the duchess 
my good mother have removed. He 
is a beauty, Mistress Constance ; and 
nature has so profusely conferred on 
him privileges, that when her majesty 
the queen saw him a short time back 
on horseback, in the park at Rich- 
mond, she called him to her carriage- 
door and honored him with a kiss, and 
the motto of the finest boy she ever 
beheld. But I may not run on in 
this fashion, letting my pen outstrip 
modesty, like a foolish creature, mak- 
ing my brother a looking-glass and 
continual object for my eyes ; but 
learn to love him, as my grandam says, 
in God, of whom he is only borrowed, 
and not so as to set my heart wholly 
on him. So beseeching God bless 
you and yours, good Mistress Con- 
stance, I ever remain, your loving 
friend and humble servant, 


Oh, how soon were my Lady Mount- 
eagle's words exalted in the event! 
and what a sad brief note was penned 
by that affectionate sister not one 
month after she writ those lines, so 
full of hope and pleasure in the pros- 
pect of her brother's sweet company ! 
For the fair boy that was the continu- 
al object of her eyes and the dear 
comfort of her heart was accidentally 
slain by the fall of a vaulting horse 
upon him at the duke's house at Thet- 

(she wrote, a few days after his la- 
mentable death), "The lovingest 
brother a sister ever had, and the 
most gracious creature ever born, is 
dead ; and if it pleased God I wish I 
were dead too, for my heart is well- 
nigh broken. But I hope in God his 
soul is now in heaven, for that he was 
so young and innocent; and when 
here, a short time ago, my grand- 

mother procured that he should for the 
first, and as it has pleased God also 
for the only and the last, time, confess 
and be absolved by a Catholic priest, 
in the which the hand of Providence 
is visible to our great comfort, and 
reasonable hope of his salvation. 
Commending him and your poor friend, 
who has great need of them, to your 
good prayers, I remain your affection- 
ate and humble servant, 


In that year died also, in childbirth, 
her grace the Duchess of Norfolk, 
Mistress Ann's mother; and she then 
wrote in a less passionate, but withal 
less comfortable, grief than at her 
brother's loss, and, as I have heard 
since, my Lady Mounteagle had her 
death-blow at that time, and never 
lifted up her head again as heretofore. 
It was noticed that ever after she 
spent more time in prayer and gave 
greater alms. Her daughter, the 
duchess, who at the instance of her 
husband had conformed to the times, 
desired to have been reconciled on her 
deathbed by a priest, who for that end 
was conducted into the garden, yet 
could not have access unto her by 
reason of the duke's vigilance to hin- 
der it, or at least of his continual 
presence in her chamber at the tune. 
And soon after, his grace, whose wards 
they were, sent for his three step- 
daughters to the Charterhouse ; the 
parting with which, and the fears she 
entertained that he would have them 
carried to services and sermons in the 
public churches, and hinder them in 
the exercise of Catholic faith and 
worship, drove the sword yet deeper 
through my Lady Mounteagle's heart, 
and brought down her gray hairs with 
sorrow to the grave, notwithstanding 
that the duke greatly esteemed and 
respected her, and was a very moral 
nobleman, of exceeding good temper 
and moderate disposition. But of 
this more anon, as 'tis my own history 
I am writing, and it is meet I should 
relate in the order of time what events 
came under my notice whilst in Lich- 


Constance Sherwood. 

field, whither my mother carried me, 
as has been aforesaid, to be treated by 
a famous physician for a severe hurt I 
had received. It was deemed con- 
venient that I should tarry some time 
under his care ; and Mr. Genings, a 
kinsman of her own, who with his 
wife and children resided in that town, 
one of the chiefest in the county, 
offered to keep me in their house as 
long as was convenient thereunto a 
kindness which my parents the more 
readily accepted at his hands from 
their having often shown the like unto 
his children when the air of the coun- 
try was desired for them. 

Mr. and Mrs. Genings were of the 
religion by law established. He was 
thought to be Catholic at heart; 
albeit he was often heard to speak 
very bitterly against all who obeyed 
not the queen hi conforming to the 
new mode of worship, with the ex- 
ception, indeed, of my mother, for 
whom he had always a truly great 
affection. This gentleman's house 
was in the close of the cathedral, and 
had a garden to it well stored with 
fair shrubs and flowers of various 
sorts. As I lay on a. low settle near 
the window, being forbid to walk for 
the space of three weeks, my eyes 
were ever straying from my sampler 
to the shade and sunshine out of 
doors. Instead of plying at my nee- 
dle, I watched the bees at their sweet 
labor midst the honeysuckles of the 
porch, or the swallows darting in and 
out of the eaves of the cathedral, or 
the butterflies at their idle sports over 
the beds of mignonette and heliotrope 
under the low wall, covered with ivy, 
betwixt the garden and the close. 
Mr. Genings had two sons, the eldest 
of which was some years older and 
the other younger than myself. The 
first, whose name was Edmund, had 
been weakly when a child, and by 
reason of this a frequent sojourner at 
Sherwood Hall, where he was carried 
for change of air after the many ill- 
nesses incident to early age. My 
mother, who was some years married 
before she had a child of her own, 

conceived a truly maternal affection 
for this young kinsman, and took 
much pains with him both as to the 
care of his body and the training of 
his mind. He was an apt pupil, and 
she had so happy a manner of im- 
parting knowledge,' that he learnt 
more, as he has since said, in those 
brief sojourns in her house than at 
school from more austere masters. 
After I came into the world, he took 
delight to rock me in my cradle, or 
play with me as I sat on my mother's 
knee ; and when I first began to walk, 
he would lead me by the hand into the 
garden, and laugh to see me clutch 
marigolds or cry for a sunflower. 

" I warrant thou hast an eye to gold, 
Con," he would say ; " for 'tis the yel- 
low flowers that please thee best." 

There is an old hollow tree on the 
lawn at Sherwood Hall where I often 
hid from him in sport, and he would 
make pretence to seek me elsewhere, 
till a laugh revealed me to him, and a 
chase ensued down the approach or 
round the maze. He never tired of 
my petulance, or spoke rude words, as 
boys are wont to do ; and had a more 
serious and contemplative spirit than 
is often seen in young people, and like- 
wise a singular fancy for gazing at 
the sky when glowing with sunset 
hues or darkened by storms, and most 
of all when studded at night with 
stars. On a calm clear night I have 
noticed him for a length of time, for- 
getting all things else, fix his eyes on 
the heavens, as if reading the glory of 
the Lord therein revealed. 

My parents did not speak to him of 
Catholic faith and worship, because 
Mr. Genings, before he suffered his 
sons to stay in their house, had made 
them promise that no talk of religion 
should be ministered to them in their 
childhood. It was a sore trial to my 
mother to refrain, as the Psalmist saith, 
from good words, which were ever 
rising from her heart to her lips, as 
pure water from a deep spring. But 
she instructed him in many things 
which belong to gentle learning, and 
in French, which she knew well ; and 

Constance Sherwood. 


taught him music, in which he made 
great progress. And this wrought 
with his father to the furtherance of 
these his visits to us. I doubt not but 
that, when she told him the names of 
the heavenly luminaries, she inwardly 
prayed he might one day shine as a 
star in the kingdom of God ; or when 
she discoursed of flowers and their 
properties, that he should blossom as a 
rose in the wilderness of this faithless 
world ; or whilst guiding his hands to 
play on the clavichord, that he might 
one day join in the glorious harmony 
of the celestial choirs. Her face itself 
was a preachment, and the tones of 
her voice, and the tremulous sighs she 
breathed when she kissed him or gave 
him her blessing, had, I ween, a privi- 
lege to reach his heart, the goodness of 
which was readable in his countenance. 
Dear Edmund Genings, thou wert in- 
deed a brother to me in kind care and 
companionship whilst I stayed in Lich- 
field that never-to-be-forgotten year! 
How gently didst thou minister to the 
sick child, for the first time tasting the 
cup of suffering ; now easing her head 
with a soft pillow, now strewing her 
couch with fresh-gathered flowers, or 
feeding her with fruit which had the 
bloom on it, or taking her hand and 
holding it in thine own to cheer her to 
endurance! Thou wert so patient and 
so loving, both with her who was a 
great trouble to thee and oftentimes 
fretful with pain, and likewise with 
thine own little brother, an angel in 
beauty and wit, but withal of so petu- 
lant and froward a disposition that 
none in the house durst contradict him, 
child as he was ; for his parents were 
indeed weak in their fondness for him. 
In no place and at no time have I seen 
a boy so indulged and so caressed as 
this John Genings. He had a pretty 
wilfulness and such playful ways that 
his very faults found favor with those 
who should have corrected them, and 
he got praise where others would have 
met with chastisement. Edmund's 
love for this fair urchin was such as 
is seldom seen in any save in a parent 
for a child. It was laughable to see 

the lovely imp governing one who 
should have been his master, but 
through much love was his slave, and 
in a thousand cunning ways, and by 
fanciful tricks, constraining him to do 
his bidding. Never was a more way- 
ward spirit enclosed in a more win- 
some form than in John Genings. 
Never did childish gracefulness rule 
more absolutely over superior age, or 
love reverse the conditions of ordinary 
supremacy, than in the persons of these 
two brothers. 

A strange thing occurred at that 
time, which I witnessed not myself, 
and on which I can give no opinion, 
but as a fact will here set it down, and 
let such as read this story deem of it 
as they please. One night that, by 
reason of the unwonted chilliness of 
the evening, such as sometimes occurs 
in our climate even in summer, a fire 
had been lit in the parlor, and the 
family were gathered round it, Ed- 
mund came of a sudden into the room, 
and every one took notice that his face 
Avas very pale. He seemed in a great 
fear, and whispered to his mother, 
who said aloud "Thou must have 
been asleep, and art still dreaming, 
child." Upon which he was very ur- 
gent for her to go into the garden, and 
used many entreaties thereunto. Upon 
which, at last, she rose and followed 
him. In another moment she called 
for her husband, who went out, and 
with him three or four other persons 
that were in the room, and I remained 
alone for the space of ten or fifteen 
minutes. "When they returned, I heard 
them speaking with great fear and 
amazement of what they had seen ; and 
Edmund Genings has often since de- 
scribed to me what he first, and after- 
ward all the others, had beheld in the 
sky. He was gazing at the heavens, 
as was his wont, when a strange spec- 
tacle appeared to him in the air. As 
it were, a number of armed men with 
weapons, killing and murdering others 
that were disarmed, and great store of 
blood running everywhere about them. 
His parents and those with them wit- 
nessed the same thing, and a great 


Constance Sherwood. 

fear fell upon them all. I noticed 
that all that evening they seemed 
scared, and could not speak of this 
appearance in the sky without shud- 
dering. But one that was more bold 
than the rest took heart, and cried, 
" God send it does not forbode that 
the Papists will murder us all in our 
beds !" And Mistress Genings, whose 
mother was a French Huguenot, said, 
"Amen!" I marked that her hus- 
band and one or two more of the 
company groaned, and one made, as 
if unwittingly, the sign of the cross. 
There were some I know in that town, 
nay and in that house, that were at 
heart of the old religion, albeit, by 
reason of the times, they did not give 
over attending Protestants' worship. 

A few days later I was sitting alone, 
and had a long fit of musing over the 
many new thoughts that were crowd- 
ing into my mind, as yet too childish 
to master them, when Edmund came 
in, and I saw he had been weeping. 
He said nothing at first, and made 
believe he was reading ; but I could 
see tears trickling down through his 
fingers as he covered his face with 
his hands. Presently he looked up 
and cried out, 

" Cousin Constance, Jack is going 
away from us." 

" And if it please God, not for a 
long time," I answered; for it grieved 
me to see him sad. 

" Nay, but he is going for many 
years, I fear," Edmund said. " My 
uncle, Jean de Luc, has asked for him 
to be brought up in his house at La 
Rochelle. He is his godfather, and 
has a great store of money, which he 
says he will leave to Jack. Alack! 
cousin Constance, I would that there 
was no such thing in the world as 
money, and no such country as France. 
I wish we were all dead." And then 
he fell to weeping again very bitterly. 

I told him in a childish manner 
what my mother was wont to say to 
me when any little trouble fell to my 
lot that we should be patient, and 
offer up our sufferings to God. 

" But I can do nothing now for 

Jack," he cried. "It was my first 
thought at waking and my last at 
night, how to please the dear urchin; 
but now 'tis all over." 

" Oh, but Edmund," I cried, " an if 
you were to be as good as the blessed 
saints in heaven, you could do a great 
deal for Jack." 

" How so, cousin Constance ?" he 
asked, not comprehending my mean- 
ing ; and thereupon I answered : 

" When once I said to my sweet 
mother, 'It grieves me, dear heart, 
that I can give thee nothing, who 
gives me so much,' she bade me take 
heed that every prayer we say, every 
good work we do, howsoever imper- 
fect, and every pain we suffer, may be 
offered up for those we love ; and so 
out of poverty, and weakness, and 
sorrow, we have wherewith to make 
precious and costly and cheerful gifts." 

I spoke as a child, repeating what I 
had heard; but he listened not as a 
child. A sudden light came into his 
eyes, and methinks his good angel 
showed him in that hour more than 
my poor lips could utter. 

" If it be as your sweet mother 
says," he joyfully cried, "we are rich 
indeed ; and, even though we be sin- 
ners and not saints, we have some- 
what to give, I ween, if it be only our 
heartaches, cousin Constance, so they 
be seasoned with prayers." 

The thought which in my simplicity 
I had set before liim took root, as it 
were, in his mind. His love for a 
little child had prepared the way for 
it ; and the great brotherly affection 
which had so long dwelt in his heart 
proved a harbinger of the more per- 
fect gift of charity ; so that a heaven- 
ly message was perchance conveyed 
to him that day by one who likewise 
was a child, even as the word of the 
Lord came to the prophet through the 
lips of the infant Samuel. From that 
time forward he bore up bravely 
against his grief; which was the 
sharper inasmuch that he who was the 
cause of it showed none in return, but 
rather joy in the expectancy of the 
change which was to part them. He 


Constance Sherwood. 


would still be a-prattling on it, and 
telling all who came in his way that 
he was going to France to a good 
uncle ; nor ever intended to return, for 
his mother was to carry him to La 
Rochelle, and she should stay there 
with him, he said, and not come back 
to ugly Lichfield. 

" And art thou not sorry, Jack," I 
asked him one day, " to leave poor Ed- 
mund, who loves thee so well ?" 

The little madcap was coursing 
round the room, and cried, as he ran 
past me, for he had more wit and 
spirit than sense or manners : 

" Edmund must seek after me, and 
take pains to find me, if so be he would 
have me." 

These words, which the boy said in 
his play, have often come back to my 
mind since the two brothers have at- 
tained unto a happy though dissimilar 

When the tune had arrived for Mis- 
tress Genings and her youngest son 
to go beyond seas, as I was now im- 
proved in health and able to walk, my 
father fetched me home, and prevailed 
on Mr. Genings to let Edmund go 
back with us, with the intent to divert 
his mind from his grief at his brother's 

I found my parents greatly dis- 
turbed at the news they had had 
touching the imprisonment of thirteen 
priests on account of religion, and of 
Mr. Orton being likewise arrested, 
who was a gentleman very dear to 
them for his great virtues and the 
steadfast friendship he had ever shown 
to them. 

My mother questioned Edmund as 
to the sign he had seen hi the heavens 
a short time back, of which the report 
had reached them ; and he confirming 
the truth thereof, she clasped her 
hands and cried : 

" Then I fear me much this fore- 
bodes the death of these blessed con- 
fessors, Father Weston and the rest." 

Upon which Edmund said, in a 
humble manner : 

" Good Mistress Sherwood, my dear 
mother thought it signified that those 

of your religion would murder in their 
beds such as are of the queen's re- 
ligion ; so maybe in both cases there 
is naught to apprehend." 

" My good child," my mother an- 
swered, " in regard of those now in 
durance for their faith, the danger is 
so manifest, that if it please not the 
Almighty to work a miracle for their 
deliverance, I see not how they may 

After that we sat awhile in silence ; 
my father reading, my mother and I 
working, and Edmund at the window 
intent as usual upon the stars, which 
were shining one by one in the deep 
azure of the darkening sky. As one 
of greater brightness than the rest 
shone through the branches of the old 
tree, where I used to hide some years 
before, he pointed to it,. and said to me, 
who was sitting nearest to him at the 
window : 

" Cousin Constance, think you the 
Star of Bethlehem showed fairer in 
the skies than yon bright star that has 
just risen behind your favorite oak? 
What and if that star had a message 
for us !" 

My father heard him, and smiled. 
" I was even then," he said, " reading 
the words of one who was led to the 
true religion by the contemplation of 
the starry skies. In a Southern clime, 
where those fair luminaries shine with 
more splendor than in our Northern 
heavens, St. Augustine wrote thus ;" 
and then he read a few sentences in 
Latin from the book in his hand, 
" Raising ourselves up, we passed by 
degrees through all things bodily, even 
the very heavens, whence sun and 
moon and stars shine upon the earth. 
Yea, we soared yet higher by inward 
musing and discourse and admiring of 
God's works, and we came to our own 
minds and went beyond them, so as to 
arrive at that region of never-feiling 
plenty where thou feedest Israel for 
ever with the food of truth." These 
words had a sweet and solemn force in 
them which struck on the ear like a 
strain of unearthly music, such as the 
wind-harp wakes in the silence of the 


Constance Sherwood. 

night. In a low voice, so low that it 
was like the breathing of a sigh, I 
heard Edmund say, " What is truth ?" 
But when he had uttered those words, 
straightway turning toward me as if to 
divert his thoughts from that too pithy 
question, he cried : " Prithee, cousin 
Constance, hast thou ended reading, I 
warrant for the hundredth time, that 
letter in thine hand ? and hast thou not 
a mind to impart to thy poor kinsman 
the sweet conceits I doubt not are 
therein contained ?" I could not choose 
but smile at his speech ; for I had 
indeed feasted my eyes on the hand- 
writing of my dear friend, now no 
longer Mistress Dacre, and learnt off, 
as it were by heart, its contents. And 
albeit I refused at first to comply with 
his request, which I had secretly a 
mind to ; no sooner did he give over 
the urging of it than I stole to his 
side, and, though I would by no means 
let it out of my hand, and folded down 
one side of the sheet to hide what was 
private in it, I offered to read such 
parts aloud as treated of matters 
which might be spoken of without 

With a smiling countenance, then, 
he set himself to listen, and I to be the 
mouthpiece of the dear writer, whose 
wit was so far in advance of her years, 
as I have since had reason to observe, 
never having met at any time with one 
in whom wisdom put forth such early 

(thus the sweet lady wrote), 
" Wherefore this long silence and neg- 
lect of your poor friend ? An if it be 
true, which pains me much to hear, 
that the good limb which, together 
with its fellow, like two trusty foot- 
men, carried you so well and nimbly 
along the alleys of your garden this 
time last year, has, like an arrant 
knave, played fast and loose, and failed 
in its good service, wherein, I am 
told, you have suffered much incon- 
venience, is it just that that other ser- 
vant, your hand, should prove rebel- 
lious too, refuse to perform its office, 

and write no more letters at your bid- 
ding ? For I'll warrant 'tis the hand 
is the culprit, not the will ; which nev- 
ertheless should be master, and com- 
pel it to obedience. So, an you love 
me, chide roundly that contumacious 
hand, which fails in its duty, which 
should not be troublesome, if you but 
had for me one-half of the affection I 
have for you. And indeed, Mistress 
Constance, a letter from you would be 
to me, at this tune, the welcomesi 
thing I can think of; for since we left 
my grandmother's seat, and came to 
the Charterhouse, I have new friends, 
and many more and greater than I de- 
serve or ever thought to have ; but, 
by reason of difference of age or of 
religion, they are not such as I can 
well open my mind to, as I might to 
you, if it pleased God we should meet 
again. The Duke of Norfolk is a 
very good lord and father to me ; but 
when there are more ways of thinking 
than one in a house, 'tis no easy mat- 
ter to please all which have a right to 
be considered ; and, in the matter of 
religion, 'tis very hard to avoid giving 
offence. But no more of this at pres- 
ent; only I would to God Mr. Fox 
were beyond seas, and my lady of 
Westmoreland at her home in the 
North ; and that we had no worse com- 
pany in this house than Mr. Martin, 
my Lord Surrey's tutor, who is a gentle- 
man of great learning and knowledge, 
as every one says, and of extraordinary 
modesty in his behavior. My Lord 
Surrey has a truly great regard for 
him, and profits much in his learning 
by his means. I notice he is Catholic 
in his judgment and affections ; and 
my lord says he will not stay with him, 
if his grace his father procures minis- 
ters to preach to his household and 
family, and obliges all therein to fre- 
quent Protestant service. I wish my 
grandmother was in London ; for I am 
sometimes sore troubled in my mind 
touching Catholic religion and con- 
forming to the times, of which an 
abundance of talk is ministered unto 
us, to my exceeding great discomfort, 
by my Lady Westmoreland, his grace's 

Constance Sherwood. 


sister, and others also. An if I say 
aught thereon to Mistress Fawcett (a 
grave and ancient gentlewoman, who 
had the care of my Lord Surrey du- 
ring his infancy, and is now set over 
us his grace's wards), and of misliking 
the duke's ministers and that pestilent 
Mr. Fox (I fear me, Mistress Con- 
stance, I should not have writ that un- 
beseeming word, and I will e'en draw 
a line across it, but still as you may 
read it for indeed 'tis what he is; 
but 'tis from himself I learnt it, who 
in his sermons calls Catholic religion a 
pestilent idolatry, and Catholic priests 
pestilent teachers and servants of An- 
tichrist, and the holy Pope at Rome 
the man of sin) she grows uneasy, 
and bids me be a good child to her, and 
not to bring her into trouble with his 
grace, who is indeed a very good lord 
to us in all matters but that one of 
compelling us to hear sermons and the 
like. My Lord Surrey mislikes all 
kinds of sermons, and loves Mr. Mar- 
tin so well, that he stops his ears when 
Mr. Fox preaches on the dark mid- 
night of papacy and the dawn of the 
gospel's restored light. And it angers 
him, as well it should, to hear him 
call his majesty King Philip of Spain, 
who is his own godfather, from whom 
he received his name, a wicked popish 
tyrant and a son of Antichrist. My 
Lady Margaret, his sister, who is a 
year younger than himself, and has a 
most admirable beauty and excellent 
good nature, is vastly taken with what 
she hears from me of Catholic reli- 
gion ; but methinks this is partly by 
reason of her misliking Mr. Fulk and 
Mr. Clarke's long preachments, which 
we are compelled to hearken to ; and 
their fashion of spending Sunday, 
which they do call the Sabbath-day, 
wherein we must needs keep silence, 
and when not in church sit still at 
home, which to one of her lively dis- 
position is heavy penance. Methinks 
when Sunday comes we be all in dis- 
grace ; 'tis so like a day of correction. 
My Lord Surrey has more liberty ; 
for Mr. Martin carries him and his 
brothers after service into the pleasant 

fields about Westminster Abbey and 
the village of Charing Cross, and suf- 
fers them to play at ball under the 
trees, so they do not quarrel amongst 
themselves. My Lord Henry How- 
ard, his grace's brother, always main- 
tains and defends the Catholic religion 
against his sister of Westmoreland ; 
and he spoke to my uncles Leonard, 
Edward, and Francis, and likewise to 
my aunt Lady Montague, that they 
should write unto my grandmother 
touching his grace bringing us up as 
Protestants. But the Duke of Nor- 
folk, Mrs. Fawcett says, is our guar- 
dian, and she apprehends he is re- 
solved that we shall conform to the 
times, and that no liberty be allowed 
us for the exercise of Catholic reli- 

At this part of the letter I stopped 
reading ; and Edmund, turning to my 
father, who, though he before had 
perused it, was also listening, said: 
" And if this be liberty of conscience, 
which Protestants speak of, I see no 
great liberty and no great conscience 
in the matter." 

His cheek flushed as he spoke, and 
there was a hoarseness in his voice 
which betokened the working of strong 
feelings within him. My father smiled 
with a sort of pitiful sadness, and 
answered : 

" My good boy, when thou art some- 
what further advanced in years, thou 
wilt learn that the two words thou art 
speaking of are such as men have 
abused the meaning of more than any 
others that can be thought of; and I 
pray to God they do not continue to do 
so as long as the world lasts. It seems 
to me that they mostly mean by ' lib- 
erty' a freedom to compel others to 
think and to act as they have them- 
selves a mind to ; and by * conscience/ 
the promptings of their own judgments 
moved by their own passions." 

" But 'tis hard," Edmund said, 'tis 
at times very hard, Mr. Sherwood, 
to know whereunto conscience points, 
in the midst of so many inward clam- 
ors as are raised in the soul by con- 
flicting passions of dutiful affection 


Constance Sherwood. 

and filial reverence struggling for the 
mastery. Ay, and no visible token of 
God's will to make that darkness light. 
Tis that," he cried, more moved as he 
went on, " that makes me so often gaze 
upward. Would to God I might see 
a sign in the skies ! for there are no 
sign-posts on life's path to guide us on 
our way to the heavenly Jerusalem, 
which our ministers speak of." 

" If thou diligently seekest for sign- 
posts, my good boy," my father an- 
swered, "fear not but that he who 
said, ' Seek, and you shall find,' will 
furnish thee with them. He has not 
left himself without witnesses, or his 
religion to be groped after in hopeless 
darkness, so that men may not discern, 
even in these troublous times, where 
the truth lies, so they be in earnest in 
their search after it. But I will not 
urge thee by the cogency of arguments, 
or be drawn out of the reserve I have 
hitherto observed in these matters, 
which be nevertheless the mightiest 
that can be thought of as regards the 
soul's health." 

And so, breaking off this discourse, 
he walked out upon the terrace ; and 
I withdrew to the table, where my 
mother was sitting, and once more 
conned over the last pages of my ladys 
letter, which, when the reader hath 
read, he will perceive the writer's rank 
and her right to be thus titled. 

"And now, Mistress Constance, I 
must needs inform you of a matter I 
would not leave you ignorant of, so 
that you should learn from strangers 
what so nearly concerns one whom you 
have a friendship to and that is my 
betrothal with my Lord Surrey. The 
ceremony was public, inasmuch as was 
needful for the solemnising of a con- 
tract which is binding for life ' until 
death us do part,' as the marriage ser- 
vice hath it. How great a change this 
has 'wrought in my thoughts, none 
knows but myself ; for though I be but 
twelve years of age (for his grace 
would have the ceremony to take 
place on my birthday), one year older 
than yourself, and so lately a child 
that not a very long time ago my 

grandmother would chastise me with 
her own hands for my faults, I now am 
wedded to my young lord, and by his 
grace and all the household titled 
Countess of Surrey! And I thank 
God to be no worse mated ; for my 
lord, who is a few months younger than 
me, and a very child for frolicksome 
spirits and wild mirth, has, notwith- 
standing, so great a pleasantness of 
manners and so forward a wit, that one 
must needs have pleasure in his com- 
pany ; and I only wish I had more of it. 
Whilst we were only friends and play- 
mates, I used to chide and withstand 
him, as one older and one more staid 
and discreet than himself; but, ah me ! 
since we have been wedded, 'tis grand 
to hear him discourse on the duty of 
wives, and quote the Bible to show they 
must obey their husbands. He carries 
it in a very lordly fashion ; and if I 
comply not at once with his commands, 
he cries out what he has heard at the 
play-house : 

' Such duty as the subject owes the prince 
Even such a woman oweth to her husband ; 
And when she's froward, peevish sullen, sour, 
And not obedient to his honest will, 
What is she but a foul contending rebel 
And graceless traitor to her loving lord ? 
I ana ashamed that women are so simple 
To offer war where they should kneel for peace ; 
Or seek for rule, supremacy, or sway, 
Where they are bound to serve, love, and obey.' 

He has a most excellent memory. If 
he has but once heard out of any En- 
glish or Latin book so much read as is 
contained in a leaf, he will forthwith 
perfectly repeat it. My Lord Henry, 
his uncle, for a trial, invented twenty 
long and difficult words a few days 
back, which he had never seen or heard 
before ; yet did he recite them readily, 
every one in the same order as they 
were written, having only once read 
them over. But, touching that matter 
of obedience, which I care not to gain- 
say, 'tis not easy at present to obey my 
lord my husband, and his grace his 
father, and Mistress Fawcett, too, who 
holds as strict a hand over the Count- 
ess of Surrey as over Mistress Ann 
Dacre ; for the commands of these 
my rulers do not at all times accord : 
but I pray to God I may do my duty, 
and be a good wife to my lord ; and I 

Constance Sherwood. 


wish, as I said before, my grandmother 
had been here, and that I had been 
favored with her good counsel, and 
had had the benefit of shrift and 
spiritual advice ere I entered on this 
stage of my life, which is so new to me, 
who was but a child a few weeks ago, 
and am yet treated as such in more 
respects than one. 

" My lord has told me a secret which 
Higford. his father's servant, let out to 
him; and 'tis something so weighty 
and of so great import, that since he 
left me my thoughts have been truants 
from my books, and Monsieur Sebas- 
tian, who comes to practice us on the 
lute, stopped his ears, and cried out 
that the Signora Contessa had no mer- 
cy on him, so to murther his composi- 
tions. Tis not the part of a true wife 
to reveal her husband's secrets, or else 
I would tell you, Mistress Constance, 
this great news, which I can with 
trouble keep to myself; and I shall 
not be easy till I have seen my lord 
again, which should be when we walk 
in the garden this evening ; but I pray 
to God he may not be off instead to 
the Mall, to play at kittlepins ; for then 
I have small chance to get speech with 
him to-day. Mr. Martin is my very 
good friend,- and reminds the earl of 
his duty to his lady; but if my lord 
comes at his bidding, when he would 
be elsewhere than in my company, 'tis 
little contentment I have in his visits. 

" 'Tis yesterday I writ thus much, 
and now 'tis the day to send this let- 
ter; and I saw not my lord last night 
by reason of his grandfather my Lord 
Arundel sending to fetch me unto his 
house in the Strand. His goodness to 
me is so great, that nothing more can 
be desired ; and his daughter my Lady 
Lumley is the greatest comfort I have 
in the world. She showed me a fair 
picture of my lord's mother, who died 
the day he was born, not then full 
seventeen years of age. She was of 
so amiable a disposition, so prudent, 
virtuous, and religious, that all who 
knew her could not but love and es- 
teem her. And I read a letter which 
this sweet lady had written in Latin 

to her father on his birthday, to his 
great contentment, who had procured 
her to be well instructed in that lan- 
guage, as well as in her own and in 
all commendable learning. Then I 
played at primero with my Lord Arun- 
del and my Lady Lumley and my 
uncle Francis. The knave of hearts 
was fixed upon for the quinola, and I 
won the flush. My uncle Francis 
cried the winning card should be titled 
Dudley. 'Not so,' quoth the earl; 
* the knave that would match with the 
queen in the suit of hearts should 
never win the game.' And further 
talk ensued ; from which I learnt that 
my Lord Arundel and the Duke of 
Norfolk mislike my Lord Leicester, 
and would not he should marry the 
queen; and my uncle laughed, and 
said, 'My lord, no good Englishman 
is there but must be of your lord- 
ship's mind, though none have so good 
reason as yourself to hinder so base a 
contract ; for if my Lord of Leicester 
should climb unto her majesty's throne, 
beshrew me if he will not remember 
the box on the ear your lordship min- 
istered to him some time since ;' at 
which the earl laughed, too ; but my 
Lady Lumley cried, ' I would to God 
my brother of Norfolk were rid of my 
Lord Leicester's friendship, which has, 
I much fear me, more danger in it 
than his enmity. God send he does 
not lead his grace into troubles greater 
than can well be thought of!' Alack, 
Mistress Constance, what uneasy times 
are these which we have fallen on ! for 
methinks 'troubles' is the word in 
every one's mouth. As I was about 
to step into the chair at the hall-door 
at Arundel House, I heard one of my 
lord's guard say to another, 'I trust 
the white horse will be in quiet, and so 
we shall be out of trouble.' I have 
asked Mr. Martin what these words 
should mean ; whereupon he told 
me the white horse, which indeed I 
might have known, was the Earl of 
Arundel's cognisance; and that the 
times were very troublesome, and plots 
were spoken of in the North anent 
the Queen of Scots, her majesty the 


Two Sides of Catholicism* 

queen's cousin, who is at Chates- 
worth ; and when he said that, all of a 
sudden I grew red, and my cheeks 
burned like two hot coals ; but he took 
no heed, and said, 'A true servant 
might well wish his master out of 
trouble, when troubles were so rife/ 
And now shame take me for taking 
up so much of your time, which should 
be spent in more profitable ways than 
the reading of my poor letters ; and I 
must needs beg you to write soon, and 
hold me as long as I have held you, 
and love me, sweet one, as I love you. 
My Lady Margaret, who is in a sense 
twice my sister, says she is jealous of 
Mistress Constance Sherwood, and 
would steal away my heart from her ; 
but, though she is a winsome and cun- 
ning thief in such matters, I warrant 
you she shall fail therein. And so, 
commending myself to your good 
prayers, I remain 

" Your true friend and loving ser- 
vant, "ANN SURREY." 

As I finished and was folding up my 
letter the clock struck nine. It was 
waning darker without by reason of a 
cloud which had obscured the moon. 
I heard my father still pacing up and 
down the gravel-walk, and ever and 
anon staying his footsteps awhile, as if 
watching. After a short space the 
moon shone out again, and I saw the 
shadows of two persons against the 
wall of the kitchen garden. Presently 
the hall-door was fastened and bolt- 
ed, as I knew by the rattling of the 
chain which hung across it. Then 
my father looked in at the door and 
said, " 'Tis time, goodwife, for young 
folks to be abed." Upon which my 
mother rose and made as if she 
was about to withdraw to her bed- 
chamber. Edmund followed us up 
stairs, and, wishing us both good- 
night, went into the closet where he 
slept. Then my mother, taking me 
by the hand, led me into my father's 


Translated from Der Katholik. 


THE Church is, in a twofold respect, 
universal or catholic. While, on the 
one hand, she extends herself over the 
whole earth, and encircles the entire 
human race with the bond of the same 
faith and an equal love, on the other 
she makes known, by this very act, 
the most special inward character of 
her own being. Thus the Church is 
the Catholic Church, both in her in- 
terior being and in her exterior mani- 

The ground of the well-known say- 
ing of St. Ambrose, "Where Peter 
is, there is the Church,"* lies in the 
thought, that the nature of the Church 

admits of only one form of historical 
manifestation. The idea of the true 
Church can only be realized where 
Peter is, in the communion of the legi- 
timate Pope as the successor of Peter. 
This proposition has its proximate 
justification in that clear expression of 
the will of Jesus Christ, the founder of 
the Church, in which he designates the 
Apostle Peter as the rock on which he 
will build his Church. Moreover, it is 
precisely this rock-foundation which 
is to make the Church indestructible.* 
From this it follows that, in virtue of 
the ordinance of Jesus, the office of 
Peter, or the primacy given him in 
the Church, was not to expire with 
the death of the apostle. For, if the 

Ubi Petnis ibi ecclesia. In Ps. xl. No. 30. 

* Matt. xvi. 18. 

Two Sides of Catholicism. 


Church is indestructible precisely on 
account of her foundation upon the 
rock-man Peter, he must remain for 
all time the support of the Church, 
and historical connection with him is 
the indispensable condition on which 
the Church can be firmly established 
in any part of the earth. This con- 
stant connection with the Apostle Peter 
is maintained through the bishop of 
Rome for the time being. For these 
two offices, the episcopate of Rome 
and the primacy, were connected with 
each other in the person of the Apos- 
tle Peter. Consequently the same su- 
perior rank in the Church which Peter 
possessed is transmitted to the legiti- 
mate bishop of Rome at the same time 
with the Roman episcopal see. Thus 
the Prince of the Apostles remains in 
very deed the rock-foundation of the 
Church, continually, in each one of 
his successors for the time being. 

In the view of Christian antiquity, 
the unity of the Church was the par- 
ticular object for which the papacy 
was established.* This unity, appre- 
hended in its historical development, 
gives us the conception of catholicity .f 

Both these marks of the Church 
must embody themselves in the form 
of an outwardly perceptible historical 
reality. The Church being indebted 
for her unity, and by necessary conse- 
quence for her catholicity, precisely to 
her historical connection with Peter, 
catholicity is thus rooted in the idea 
of the papacy. But does its ultimate 
and most profound principle lie there- 

The argument, briefly sketched 
above, obliges us to rest the catho- 
licity of the Church on the actual 

* St. Cyprian, De Unit Eccl. Primatus Petro da- 
fur, ut una Christi ecclesia et cathedra una monstretur 
The primacy is given to Peter, that the Church of 
Christ may be shown to be one, and the chair one. 

t Ibid. Ecclesia quoque. una est, qua in multitud- 
inem. latius increm^nto f<xcunditatis extcnditur . . 
ecclesia Domini luce perfusa per obem totam radios 
suos porrifjit. Unum tamen lumen est, quod ubique 
diffund/tur, nee unitas corporis separatur. 

The Church also is on-j, which is extended to a 
very great multitude by the increase of fruitful- 
ness . . . the Church of the Lord pervaded with 
light extends its rays over the whole world. Nev- 
ertheless the light which is everywhere diffused is 
one, and the unity of the body is never separated. 

institution of Christ. We can, how- 
ever, inquire into the essential reason 
of this institution. Does this reason 
lie simply in a free, voluntary deter- 
mination of Christ, or in the interior 
essence of the Church herself ? In the 
latter case, the Church would appear 
as Catholic, because the end of her es- 
tablishment could be fulfilled under no 
other condition. There would be in 
her innermost being a secret determi- 
nation, by force of which the idea of 
the Church is completely incapable 
of realization under any other form 
than that of catholicity. A Christian 
Church without the papacy were, 
therefore, entirely inconceivable. If 
this is actually the case, there lies 
hidden under the rind of the Church's 
visible form of catholicity, a still deep- 
er catholicity, in which we are bound 
to recognize the most profound princi- 
ple of the outward, historical side of 

But that inward principle, the mar- 
row of the Church, where are we to 
look for it ? Our theologians, follow- 
ing St. Augustine, teach that the 
Church, like man, consists of soul and 
body. The theological virtues form 
the soul of the Church, and her body 
is constituted by the outward profession 
of the faith, the participation of the 
sacraments, and exterior connection 
with the visible head of the Church.* 
St. Augustine, indeed, also designates 
the Holy Ghost as the soul or the 
inner principle of the Church. This 
is the same thought with the one 
which will be presently evolved, in 
which the inner principle of cathol- 
icity will be reduced to the concep- 
tion of the supernatural. This, how- 
ever, considered in itself, is withdrawn 
from the region of historical manifes- 
tation. In order that it may pass 
from the region of the invisible into 
that of apprehensible reality, it needs 
a medium that may connect together 
both orders, the invisible order of the 
supernatural and the order of histori- 
cal manifestation. It is only in this 

* Bellarm., DeJSccl. miliL, cap. ii. 


Two Sides of Catholicism. 

way that catholicity can acquire for 
itself a historical shape, and assume 
flesh and blood. 

We might be disposed to regard the 
sacraments as this medium, because 
they are the instruments by which 
grace is conferred, in a manner appre- 
hensible through the senses. Never- 
theless, we cannot find the constitutive 
principle of the Church in the sacra- 
ments alone. It is well known that 
Protestantism has set forth the legiti- 
mate administration of the sacraments 
as a mark of the true Church. A 
searching glance at the Protestant 
conception of the Church will here- 
after give us a proof that a bare com- 
munication in sacraments, at least from 
the Protestant stand-point, cannot pos- 
sibly verify itself as making a visible 
Church. According to the Protestant 
doctrine of justification, a sacrament is 
indebted for its grace-giving efficacy 
solely to the faith of the receiver. In 
this view, therefore, the connection of 
the invisible element of the superna- 
tural with the historically manifested 
reality, and consequently the making 
visible of the true Church, is depend- 
ent on conditions where historical ful- 
filment is not provable. "Who can 
prove whether the recipient of a sacra- 
ment has faith ? It is true that, ac- 
cording to the Catholic view, an ob- 
jective efficacy is ascribed to the sacra- 
ment, i. e., the outwardly perceptible 
completion of the sacramental action 
of itself permits the invisible element 
of the supernatural to penetrate into 
the sphere of the visible. 

Notwithstanding this, the Catholic 
sacrament is, by itself alone, no suffi- 
cient medium through which the being 
of the true Church can be brought into 
visibility. Did she embody herself 
historically only in so far as a sensible 
matter and an outward action are en- 
dued with a supernatural efficacy, the 
element of the supernatural would 
come to a historical manifestation only 
as the purely objective. A profound 
view of the essence of the Church 
would not find this satisfactory. The 
Church, even on her visible side, is 

not a purely objective, or merely out- 
ward, institution. The ultimate prin- 
ciple of catholicity and this state- 
ment will make our conception intelli- 
gible although implanted in the world 
as a supernatural leaven from above, 
has nevertheless its seat in the deepest 
interior of the human spirit. Thence 
it penetrates upward into the sphere 
of historical manifestation, and thus 
proves itself a church-constitutive prin- 
ciple. Such a connection of the region 
of the interior and subjective with that 
of historical and visible reality is 
caused by the objective efficacy of a 
sacrament, only in the case where the 
same is productive of its proper effect. 
This, however, according to Catholic 
doctrine, presupposes an inward dis- 
position on the part of the recipient, 
the presence of which cannot be mani- 
fested to outward apprehension. A 
Church, whose essence consisted mere- 
ly in the bond established through the 
sacraments, could either not be veri- 
fied with certitude, or would have an 
exclusively exterior character. Ac- 
cordingly, we have not yet found, in 
the Catholic sacramental conception, 
the middle term we are seeking, by 
which the essence of catholicity can 
be brought into visible manifestation. 
Rather, this process has to be already 
completed and the conception of the 
Church to be actualized, before the 
sacrament can manifest its efficacy. 
Through this last, the element of the 
supernatural, i. e., the invisible germ 
of the Church, must be originally 
planted or gradually strengthened in 
individual souls. But this is effected 
by the sacrament as the organ and in 
the name of the Church, though in 
particular cases outside of her com- 

The continuous existence of Cathol- 
icity is essentially the self-building 
of the body of Christ. It produces its 
own increase through the instrument- 
ality of the sacraments.* The union 
between the supernatural and the his- 
torical actuality, or the bond of cathol 

* Eph. iv. 16. 

Two Sides of Catholicism. 


icity, is not tlien first established in 
the sacraments. These only mediate 
for individual souls the reception into 
the union, or confirm them in their or- 
ganic relation to it, and are signs of 
fellowship. In addition to what has 
been already said, there is another rea- 
son, and one of wider application, to be 
considered, as bearing on this point. 
The principle of a new life which has 
to be infused into individual souls 
through the sacraments is sanctifying 
grace. In this, therefore, by logical 
consequence, we should be obliged to 
recognize the interior constitutive prin- 
ciple of the Church, if it were true 
that the connection between the inner 
being of the Church and her historical 
manifestation were brought to pass 
through the efficacy of the sacraments. 
According to this apprehension of the 
subject, only the saints would belong 
to the true Church. 

One might seek to evade this last 
conclusion by averring that in the in- 
stance of baptism, the sacrament pro- 
duces in the soul of the recipient, be- 
side sanctifying grace, still another 
effect, independently of the disposi- 
tion, namely, the baptismal character. 
This character is an indelible mark 
impressed on the soul. Here, then, is 
given us a supernatural principle which 
penetrates the deepest interior of the 
human spirit, and which is, at the same 
time, capable of verifying itself as a 
historical fact ; inasmuch as it is infal- 
libly infused into the soul through an 
outward, sensible action, and thereby, 
through the medium of the latter, be- 
comes visible. Beside this, one might 
be still more inclined to regard the 
baptismal character as the Church's 
formative principle, because the same 
is stamped upon the soul through a 
sacrament, whose special end is to in- 
corporate with the body of Christ its 
individual members; for which reason, 
also, baptism is designated in the lan- 
guage of the Church as the gate of 
the spiritual life, vitas spiritualis 

Decret. pro Armenia. 

We must, however, in this imme- 
diate connection, put in a reminder, 
that it is a disputed point in theology, 
whether baptism is really, in all cases, 
the indispensably necessary condition 
of becoming a member of the Church. 
In the opinion of prominent theolo- 
gians, a mere catechumen can, under 
certain circumstances, be a member of 
the Church.* Be that as it may, no 
one will certainly dispute the fact that 
a catechumen, whose soul is glowing 
with divine love, belongs at least to the 
soul of the Church. In him, therefore, 
the inner germ of the Church's life 
really exists before the reception of 
the baptismal character. Beside this, 
it appears to us that the sacramental 
character, precisely in view of its de- 
terminate end, is not so qualified that 
we can put it forward as the interior 
principle of catholicity. The bap- 
tismal character is intended for a dis- 
tinctive mark ; by it the seal of Church 
membership is stamped on the soul. It 
is true that the same action by which 
the character is impressed on the soul 
also makes the baptized person a mem- 
ber of the Church, or, that in the same 
act which plants the inner germ of the 
Church's being in the heart, the soul 
receives also the characteristic outward 
impress of that being. But in so far 
as it is the immediate and proper facul- 
ty of the baptismal character to impress 
the stamp of the Church in indelible 
features upon the soul, the very concep- 
tion of this character presupposes neces- 
sarily the conception of the Church, as 
prior to itself; which shows that we 
cannot find the principle of the interior 
being of the Church in the baptismal 
character. This is confirmed by the 
additional consideration that the bap- 
tismal character is not effaced from 
those souls which have broken off 
every kind of connection with the 
Church, and have absolutely nothing 
remaining in them by which they com- 
municate in her being. Finally, the 
existence of the Church, at least so far 
as her inner being or soul is concerned, 

* Suarez, De Fide. Disp. ix., $ i., No. 18. 


Two Sides of Catholicism. 

does not date its origin from the insti- 
tution of baptism. We must, therefore, 
go one step further, in order to discover 
the interior source of catholicity. As 
has been heretofore pointed out, this 
source lies in that region which we are 
usually wont to designate as the Super- 
natural Order. Let us, therefore, make 
a succinct exposition of the interior 
law of development in this order. 

According to the Catholic doctrine, 
faith is the beginning of human salva- 
' turn, the ground and root of justifica- 
tion,* i. e., of the supernatural life of 
the soul. St. Paul designates faith 
" the substance of things hoped for."f 
That is to say, the beatific vision of 
God, and with it the point toward 
which the whole supernatural order 
tends and in which it rests, has its 
foundation laid in faith, and is already 
in germ contained in it. Christ, and 
with him the fountain of our super- 
natural life, dwells in us through faith. J 
Is Christ, therefore, called the founda- 
tion, beside which no other can be 
laid, then is faith recognized in the 
basis of the supernatural order, be- 
cause by faith we are immediately 
brought into union with Christ. 
Wherefore the apostle makes our par- 
ticipation in the fruits of the work of 
redemption precisely dependent on the 
condition, " If so ye continue in the 
faith, grounded and settled."|| The 
same portion as foundation, which 
faith has in the inner life of grace in 
the soul, is also accorded to it in rela- 
tion to the exterior structure of the 
Church. The visibility of the true 
Church is only the historical embodi- 
ment of the element of the supernat- 
ural. The divine building of the 
Church has for its foundation the 
apostles,^[ that is, as the sense of the 
passage evidently is, through the faith 
which they preached. Very remark- 
able is the form of expression in the 
well-known saying of the apostle : 
" One Lord, one &ith, one baptism."** 

* Trid. Sess. vi. , cap. 8. 
$ Eph iii. 17. 
II Coloss. i. 2 {. 
** Eph. iv. 5. 

t Heb. xi. i. 
I) ! Cor. iii. 11. 
IT Eph. ii. 20. 

Here the unity of faith is given the 
precedence of the unity produced 
through baptism, as being its necessa- 
ry pre-requisite. The one baptism is 
the bond of unity of the Church only 
in the second line. Through it, name- 
ly, the fruitful germ of the one faith 
in which exclusively the unity of the 
Church has its root, is continually 
planted in individual souls, an actual 
confession of that faith being also in- 
cluded in the ceremony of baptism 

The Church herself makes use of 
language which clearly shows that she 
regards faith as the deepest principle 
of her being.* The Catechism of the 
Council of Trent defines the Church 
as " the faithful dispersed throughout 
the world."f 

According to St. Thomas, also, the 
unity, and consequently the catholicity 
of the Church, is radically grounded 
in faith. The angelic doctor means 
here living faith, or fides formata. 
According to this view, the principle 
of catholicity pervades the inner- 
most depth of subjectivity. At the 
same time it is clear how the same 
comes to an historical manifestation. 
This takes place in the symbol of the 
Church. The faith which finds its 
historical expression in the ecclesiasti- 
cal symbol is to be regarded as fides 
formata,l for this reason, because it is 
a confession of faith made in the name 
and by the personality of the collec- 
tive Church, which possesses its in- 
ward principle of unity in the fides 
formata, or living faith. Moreover, 
the symbol of the Church is a con- 
stant warning for those of her mem- 
bers who have not the grace of sanc- 
tification to make their faith living 
through charity . 

In the foregoing doctrinal exposi- 
tion St. Thomas has marked out for 
us the path to be followed in seeking 

* Condi. Lateran., iv. cap. Firmiter : Unafidelium 
uninersalis ecclesia. 

t Catech. Rom. , pars 1 , cap. x. . qu. 2. 

i That is, faith made perfect by charity as it ex- 
ists in a person who is in the state of grace, in 
contradistinction from the faith of a sinner. 

Secunda Secundce, qu. 1. a. q. ad 3. 

Two Sides of Catholicism. 


for the medium of union between the 
exterior and ulterior catholicity of the 
Church. Our argument must start, 
therefore, from the position that the 
unity of the Church in the first line is 
a unity in faith. In this notion we 
have the speculative middle term be- 
tween the inner being of the Church 
and her historical form of manifesta- 
tion. From the blending of both 
these elements is formed the full, ade- 
quate idea of catholicity. This last 
exhibits itself as a force acting in two 
distinct spheres, that of the inward 
subjectivity and that of historical ob- 
jectivity. Consequently, the exterior 
and interior catholicity of the Church, 
or the two sides of Catholicism, must 
be reduced to the same principle. A 
further evolution of this thought will 
make it clear, why the being of the 
true Church can only find its true ac- 
tualization in the historical form of 

The catholic visible form of the 
Church, as pointed out above, is indi- 
cated in the papacy. But in what re- 
lation does the latter stand to the in- 
terior catholicity of the Church ? In 
order to find the right answer to this 
decisive question, we must first more 
exactly define in what sense the pa- 
pacy must be regarded as the bond of 
the historical unity of the Church. It 
must be so regarded, precisely in so 
far as the primacy has been instituted 
for the special end of preserving the 
faith incorrupt. According to the 
teaching of the Fathers of the Church, 
Peter is the Church's foundation of 
rock, in virtue of his faith.* By this, 
of course, is not meant the personal 
confession of the Apostle Peter, but 
the object-matter of the same, the 
contents of the faith to be preached by 
Peter and his successors. Peter, 
says Leo the Great, is called by 
Christ the Rock, on account of the 
solidity of the faith which he was to 
preach, pro soliditate fidei quam erat 
prcsdicaturus.^ This is not the place 

* See the relevant passages from the fathers in 
Ballerini, De vi ac rations primatus Rom. Pont., cap. 
xiL, U, No. 1. t Serm. 02. 

to develop further in what way the 
papacy proves itself in act the cement 
of the unity of faith. We shall 
speak of that later. It is enough for 
our purpose, in the meanwhile, to take 
note of the judgment of the ancient 
Church. According to the doctrine of 
the Fathers of the Church, the funda- 
mental significance which the papacy 
has for the Church, rests upon a rela- 
tion of dependence between her faith 
and the faith of Peter, including by 
consequence that of his successors. 
In this sense St. Hilarius distinctly 
calls the faith of the Apostle Peter 
the foundation of the Church.* The 
same view is found in St. Ambrose,f 
expressed in nearly the same words. 
But if Peter is the Church's founda- 
tion of rock precisely through his 
faith, that mutual relation between 
the inner catholicity of the Church 
and the papacy is no longer doubtful. 
For that the Church, according to her 
inward essence, verifies herself as the 
Catholic Church, she owes precisely 
to her faith, as likewise, on the other 
side, her catholic visible form is con- 
ditioned by the outward profession of 
the same faith. Consequently, the 
papacy as guardian of the unity of 
faith, stands also in a necessary con- 
nection with the inner being of the 
Church. Here then we have the 
uniting member we have been seeking 
between inward and outward catho- 
licity, the essence and the manifesta- 
tion of the Church. In so far as the 
historical connection with Peter must 
be conceived as a bond of faith, in 
this same connection or in the form of 
Catholicism, the true Church, even as 
to her inner being, comes historically 
into visible manifestation. 

Faith, which we affirm to be the 
essential kernel of Catholicism, has 
two sides, one which is interior and 
subjective, and another which comes 
to outward manifestation. With the 
heart we believe unto justification, but 
with the mouth confession is made 
unto salvation.]: A revealed truth 

* De Trin., vi. 37. 
$ Eom. x. 10. 

t De Incarn., cap. 5. 


Two Sides of Catholicism. 

corresponds to supernatural faith as 
its necessary object. Therefore, it 
may be remarked in passing, the sub- 
jective act of faith is equally infalli- 
ble with the divine testimony itself, 
upon which it is essentially based.* 
This revealed object of faith, without 
which a supernatural faith is entirely 
inconceivable, is mediated or set forth 
through an organ directly instituted by 
God for this purpose. An individual, 
who thinks that he has discovered, 
through private investigation or in 
any other way, a particular point of 
doctrine, which hitherto has not been 
universally received as such, to be a 
revealed truth, can only make it an 
object of supernatural faith, when he 
is able to judge with certainty that 
this supposed new doctrine of faith 
would be approved by the infallible, 
divinely appointed organ of revealed 

This mediating organ is, however, 
as we shall fully show in the course of 
our further exposition, no other than 
the Apostle Peter, and through the 
relation which he bears to him, his le- 
gitimate successor in office. Peter is 
the support and the strength of his 
brethren, inasmuch as his faith, to 
which the dogmatic utterance of his 
successors gives a new expression ac- 
cording to the needs of the Church, 
forms a criterion for the faith of the 
Church. Peter, preaching of the faith, 
continually apprehensible through the 
papal definitions of faith, gives to the 
faith of the Church the specific form 
under which the same incorporates 
itself historically in an ecclesiastical 
confession. But in the Church-con- 
fession of faith, -as we have before 
shown, its inner being comes into visi- 
ble manifestation. As medium of Pe- 
ter's preaching of the faith, the papacy 
is consequently also a Church-consti- 
tutive principle, inasmuch as through 
the actualization of the supreme power 
delegated to him by Christ, the being 
of the Church is made visible, and ob- 

* St. Thomas, Secunda Secunda, q. 1 a. 3. 

t Suarez, DeFide. Disp. iii., Sect, xiii., No. 9. 

tains an historical form. This is the 
sense of the words, " On this Rock I 
will build my Church." 

As we have, in the foregoing re- 
marks, conceived of the papacy as the 
angle at which the two sides of Ca- 
tholicism meet, the uniting bond of the 
outward and inward catholicity of the 
Church, we are further bound to show 
why precisely the papacy is the appro- 
priate organ to establish that union 
between the essence and the manifesta- 
tion of Catholicism, and thereby to 
mediate the actualization of the true 
idea of the Church. For this purpose 
we must endeavor to penetrate some- 
what deeper into the inner being or 
soul of the Church. We shall there 
find a tendency which makes the Cath- 
olic form of manifestation of the 
Church a postulate of her being. This 
tendency lies in the character of the 
supernatural. In the conception of the 
supernatural we shall endeavor to 
point out the radical conception of Ca- 
tholicism. The papacy, and the Cath- 
olic visible form of the Church medi- 
ated by it, is, in our opinion, the ne- 
cessary consequence of the supernat- 
urality of her being. 

Thus far we have sketched in brief 
outlines the mutual relation of the two 
sides of Catholicism. We must re- 
serve for a subsequent article the de- 
tailed theological proof of that which 
we have for the present suggested as 
a new theory. Meanwhile we would 
like to exhibit, in a few words, the in- 
terest which an investigation of this 
subject claims for itself at this partic- 
ular period of time. 


The distinction between an exterior 
and interior catholicity of the Church 
is but slightly touched upon in our 
books of dogmatic instruction. No 
one need wonder at this circumstance. 
It is well known that the controversy 
with Protestantism gave occasion to 
the usual modern method of treating 
of the marks of the Church. The 

Two Sides of Catholicism. 


method of the great controversialists 
of the age of the Reformation has, at 
least in regard to the present ques- 
tion, remained, to a considerable ex- 
tent, the model for the dogmatic writ- 
ers of the present time. The theolo- 
gians of a former time, however, found 
no necessity for expressly distinguish- 
ing between the catholicity of the be- 
ing of the Church and that of her 
manifestation. It was enough for their 
purpose to prove that the Church, in 
her historical manifestation, is the Cath- 
olic Church. 

The Protestantism of the epoch of 
the Reformation claimed for its con- 
gregations the honor of having actual- 
ized the true idea of the Church. The 
churches of Wittenberg, Zurich, and 
Geneva each pretended to be the true 
copy of the evangelical primitive 
Church. It was easy for Catholic 
polemics to destroy this pretension. 
It was only necessary to inspect the 
particular Protestant churches a little 
closely. Such a reconnoissance con- 
ducted necessarily to the indubitable 
conclusion that none of those com- 
munions had the marks of the true 
Church upon it, and that these were 
realized only in the Church in com- 
munion with the Pope. 

Modern Protestantism is much more 
modest in its pretensions. The present 
champions of the Protestant cause 
characterize, without disguise, the at- 
tempt of the Reformers to bring the 
essence of the true Church historically 
into manifestation in their commun- 
ions as a gross error and a backsliding 
into Catholicism. They will have it, 
that the characteristic principle of 
Protestantism lies precisely in the ac- 
knowledgment that the true essence of 
the Church can find its correlative ex- 
pression in none of the existing 
churches. The true Church, accord- 
ing to this notion, remains an unat- 
tainable ideal as long as the world 
stands. Not to actualize the idea of 
the Church, only to strive after its ac- 
tualization, is the task of a religious 
communion. The Protestantism of the 
day accordingly recognizes it as its vo- 

cation "to give Christianity precisely 
the expression and form which best 
corresponds to the necessities of the 
time, the demands of an advanced 
science and culture, the grade of intel- 
lectual and moral development of the 
Christian nations."* 

Protestant polemic theology makes 
the following use of this view. Over 
against the magnificent historical man- 
ifestation of the Catholic Church, the 
torn and rent condition of the Prot- 
estant religious community presents a 
striking contrast. The proximate con- 
clusion that the true Church can only 
be found within the circle of Catholi- 
cism, they seek now to anticipate on 
the Protestant side by the observation 
th#t already from the outset one makes 
a false start who would wish to recog- 
nize the true Church by her form of 
historical manifestation. According to 
the Protestant view, the mark of cath- 
olicity verifies itself exclusively in the 
inner being of the Church, and not in 
her outward manifestation. For, owing 
to the constant progress of human de- 
velopment, and the extremely diversi- 
fied individuality of single nations, the 
historical manifestation of the Church 
must be multiform to the same extent 
as the intellectual and moral wants of 
the different peoples are various. Nev- 
ertheless, in spite of the manifold dif- 
ferences which distinguish the paiticu- 
lar churches in their historical mani- 
festation, the members of the same 
blend themselves together into a great 
invisible spiritual kingdom. This is 
the ideal Church. 

This is the response which modern 
Protestantism makes when Catholic 
criticism places before its eyes the 
melancholy picture of its inward di- 
visions and the history of its variations. 
From the historical manifestation of a 
church to its inner being they say the 
conclusion is invalid. In order, there- 
fore, to make Catholic polemics effec- 
tive, the relation between the essence 
and the manifestation of the Church 
must be first of all theologically es- 

* Schenkel, ; ' Essence of Prot.," p. -J. 


Two Sides of Catholicism. 

tablished. It is only after this has 
been done that the comparison between 
"the Church and the churches" can be 
exhibited in its entire argumentative 

The theory of the ideal church is 
not yet effectively refuted, when we 
on the Catholic side content ourselves 
with proving that the true Church 
must become visible. This general 
proposition does not exclude the pro- 
position of our opponents. For, ac- 
cording to the Protestant doctrine, also, 
the creative power of the spirit of 
Christianity exhibits itself in the con- 
struction of visible congregations, and 
the gradual actualization of the ideal 
Church is conditioned by a sensibly 
apprehensible mediation. The fimal 
decision of this question must there- 
fore be sought in the demonstration of 
the proposition that the inmost being 
of the Church can only realize itself 
historically in the one specific form ; 
that a catholicity of the essence of the 
Church without a catholicity in her 
manifestation is entirely inconceivable. 
Only by this demonstration will the 
retreat of Protestant polemics into the 
ideal Church be for ever cut off. 

Some have argued against the Prot- 
estant view, that as Christian truth is 
one so the visible Church can also be 
but one.* The argument is valid only 
in the prior supposition that there can 
be but a single form of historical mani- 
festation for the inner being of the 
Church. This, however, Protestant- 
ism denies in the sense, that from its 
stand-point every particular church 
represents the idea of the Church,f 

* Moehler, " Symbolism." 

t This is also the theory of High-Church Episcopa- 
lianism. Mr. Sewall has defined it more logically 
than any other writer of that school. According to 
him, the unity of the Church consists in this, that 
all churches are formed after one ideal model, or on 
one principle, and the separate churches of indi- 
vidual bishops are each a perfect organic whole. 
That is. Catholic unity is an abstract unity, concret- 
ed in each particular bishop and diocese. Hence 
there can be no organized unity of the universal 
Church, but only union or friendly communion of 
independent churches. This notion was highly 
approved by Bishop Whittingham, who expressed 
it in this way, that the true communion of church- 
es with each other is in speculo Trinitatis. It is 
pure Congregationalism, bating the difference be- 
tween a dioceso governed by a chief and inferior 
pastors, and a single congregation under one pas- 

even though it may be on one side 
only. According to the diversified 
stages of cultivation in the Christian 
people, so they say, now one, now 
another side of Christian truth attains 
to its expression in the particular con- 
fessions, but in none the full and entire 
truth. The contradiction existing be- 
tween these, therefore, in nowise falls 
back upon the Christian verity itself. 
This Protestant evasion can also be 
alone met in the way above designated, 
by establishing the relation between 
the essence and the manifestation of 

It has been further argued that a 
Church of the Nations, which the 
Christian Church must be, according 
to its idea, is entirely inconceivable 
without the papacy at its summit.* 
Here, also, it is presupposed, as already 
proved, that the conception of univer- 
sality which is essentially connected 
with the idea of the true Church must 
also necessarily impress itself upon her 
actual explication of herself in time. 
But it is precisely against this notion 
that modern Protestantism contends. 
Therefore, if our polemic arms are to 
bring down their man, the affair must 
begin with a sharper delineation of the 
mutual relation between the essence 
and the visible form of the Church. 

Beside the polemic advantages to be 
gained in the course which has been 
suggested, there is another in the in- 
terest of pacification. Under the rub- 
bish of the Protestant Church-idea 
there still lies buried a remnant of 

tor or several of the same order. But it is the only 
logical conception of a visible church possible, 
when the papacy, or principle of universal organic 
unity, is denied. It is the logical result of the 
schismatical position of the Greeks, who have no 
unity among themselves except that which is na- 
tional, but are divided into several independent 
bodies. Hence, the so-called "union movement," 
as clearly shown by Cardinal Patrizi in the Decree 
sent to the English bishops, is one which proceeds 
from a denial of Catholic unity, and therefore can 
never lead to unity, but only aim at union, or vol- 
untary co-operation of distinct churches with each 
other. The High-Church theory differs from that 
of the German Protestants in this that the former 
requires that all churches should be alike, and each 
one represent completely the ideal Church ; but 
both are based on the same principle, that of an 
abstract, invisible unity and catholicity, concreted 
in an individual and not a generic and universal 
* DSllinger, ' The Church and the Churches." 

Two Sides of Catholicism. 


Catholic truth. "We ought not to shun 
the trouble of bringing this to light. 
It is the Christian truth contained in 
his confession which binds the believ- 
ing Protestant to it. Catholic theology 
has to reclaim this as its own property. 
It has the mission intrusted to it to show 
how the religious satisfaction, which the 
deeper Protestant mind thinks it finds 
in the doctrinal conception of its con- 
fession, is imparted to it in richer abun- 
dance and morally purified through 
the dogma of the Church. Through 
this conciliatory method, an understand- 
ing of the Catholic truth can be much 
more easily and effectually imparted 
to the unprejudiced Protestant mind 
than by a rough polemical method. 
This end is most essentially served 
by the distinction between the es- 
sence and the manifestation of Cath- 

Protestant piety makes a great 
boast of its deep spirituality. The 
modern ideal theory of the Church 
owes a great share of its popularity to 
its aptitude of application in this direc- 
tion. By means of this conception, 
the Protestant Church is expected to 
exhibit itself in a new light as the 
church of the interior and spiritual 
life. Does one attain the same depth 
of view from the Catholic stand-point? 
All doubt on this point must disappear 
on thorough consideration of what we 
have above named, the inner side of 

There is another ground for the 
favor with which this ideal theory of 
the Church is at present received. 
Protestant theology regards it as a 
means of its own resuscitation. The 
old doctrine of justification by faith 
alone has in great part lost the charm 
it once exercised over the hearts of the 
German people. The once mighty 
battle-cry of inward, subjective faith 
is no longer to the taste of our age. 
Therefore, in our time, instead of the 
antiquated idea of immediate union 
with Christ, the world-moving power 
of the mind, the creative power of the 
idea, is set up as the distinguishing 
principle of Protestantism. The latter 

is thus made to appear as the most 
powerful protector of the liberal as- 
pirations of the age. 

Catholic controversy must take some 
cognizance of this, if it would make 
its own proper principle prevail. 
While Protestantism seeks to gain 
the favor of the contemporary world 
by obsequiously yielding to the caprices 
of the spirit of the age, the inner 
principle of Catholicism raises it above 
the vacillations which sway particular 
periods. Only a Church which, thanks 
to its native principle, is not borne 
along by intellectual and social periodi- 
cal currents, can effectually correct 
their movement. In order, therefore, 
to measure accurately the influence 
which the Church, by virtue of her in- 
stitution, is called to exercise upon 
human society, we must penetrate into 
her innermost essence, to the very 
point where Catholicism has its deep- 
est principle. First from this point 
can we correctly understand in how 
far the Church is a social power. 
From this point of view alone can we 
comprehend her aptitude to be the 
teacher of the nations. And precisely 
of this social and instructive vocation 
have our contemporaries lost the right 
understanding to a great extent. It 
is one of the mightiest tasks of our 
modern theology to make the minds of 
men once more capable of apprehend- 
ing this truth.* 

The high importance of authority 
in the system of Catholicism is well 
known. This fundamental principle 
runs a danger of being placed in a 
false light, when it is depressed to the 
level of the historical and exterior side 
of the Church. Ecclesiastical authori- 
ty, separated from the ground which 
lies back of it and which is above the 
temporal order, may appear even to 
the well-disposed as a mere brake for 
the stoppage of all intellectual prog- 
ress. This suggests a temptation to 
desire a compromise between the 
Church and the spirit of the age. 
"When one takes a merely exterior and 

* A few sentences rather digressive from the main 
topic of the article are hero omitted. TRANSLATOB. 


Monsieur JBabou. 

historical view of church authority, 
the proper spirit of joyousness which 
ought to belong to faith is wanting in 
the submisssion which is rendered to 
its decrees. It is very easy, then, to 
fall into a sort of diplomatic way of 
acting toward the Church as teacher of 
doctrine. One seeks to accommodate 
one's self to her doctrine through sub- 
tile distinctions. On the contrary, the 
boldest scientific mind frankly and 
cheerfully bows itself under the yoke 

of the obedience of faith, when it sees 
that the Church, in her doctrinal de- 
cision, is acting from her own interior 

Our doctrinal exposition requires 
now that we should go into a more 
thorough argument respecting the im- 
manent principle of Catholicism, which 
we shall first of all undertake to do 
on Scriptural grounds. This part of 
the subject will be treated hi an ensu- 
ing article. 

From The CornMll Magazine. 


IN the immediate vicinity of the 
capital of the kingdom of Lilliput 
there is a charming village called 
" Les Grenouillettes." This rural re- 
sort of the citizens of Mildendo con- 
sists, mainly, of three hotels, thirty 
public-houses, and five ponds. The 
population I should reckon at about 
ten millions, inclusive of frogs, who 
are the principal inhabitants, and who 
make a great noise in the world there. 

Hither flock the jocund burgesses, 
and dance to the sound of harp and 
viol. . . . 

It occurs to me that, sprightly as I 
may think it to call Belgium Lilliput, 
the mystification! miight possibly be- 
come tiresome and inconvenient if per- 
sisted in throughout this narrative, be- 
side becoming absolutely unnecessary. 
As for the village in question, I have 
a reason or two for not calling it by its 
right name. 

About half-a-dozen years ago, my 
brother (Captain John Freshe, R. N.), 
his wife, and I had been wearily jog- 
ging all a summer's day in search of 
country lodgings for a few weeks in 
the immediate neighborhood of Brus- 

sels. Now nothing can be more diffi- 
cult to find in that locality, except 
under certain conditions. 

You can live at a village hotel, and 
pay a maximum price for minimum 

You can, possibly, lodge in a public- 
house, where it will cost you dear, 
however little you pay. 

Or you can, in some villages, hire 
empty rooms in an entirely empty 
house, and hire furniture from Brus- 
sels, and servants, if you have none, 
by the month. 

This last alternative has the advan- 
tage of ennobling your position into a 
quasi-martyrdom, by, in a measure, 
compelling you to stay where you are, 
whether you like it or not. 

Toward the end of that longest of 
the long days, we began to regard life 
and circumstance with the apathy of 
despair, and to cease to hope for any- 
thing further from them except din- 

The capital of the kingdom of Lilli- 
put appeared to be partially sur- 
rounded by a vast and melancholy 
campagna of turnips. These wilds, 
immeasurably spread, seemed length- 
ening as we went. Village after vil- 

Monsieur Babou. 


had we reached, and explored 
in vain. Judging by our feelings, I 
should say we had ransacked at least 
half-a-hundred of those rural colonies. 
Almost all these villages possessed at 
least six public-houses and two ponds. 
Some few had no ponds, but all had six 
public-houses. Rural, dusty, cracked 
public-houses; with frowzy gardens, 
with rotten, sloppy tables and benches ; 
with beery gorillas playing at quoits 
and ninepins. 

The names of none of these settle- 
ments seemed to us pronounceable by 
human beings, with the exception of 
two, which sounded like Diggum and 
Hittumontheback. But our city driver 
appeared to be acquainted with the 
Simian tongue, and was directed from 
village to village by the good-natured 
apes whom he interrogated. 

About sunset we came to a larger 
and quite civilized place, with a French 
name, signifying "The Tadpoles" 
the place I have described at the com- 
mencement of this narrative. Our 
dusty fly and dejected horse turned 
into the carriage entrance of the first 
little hotel we saw. It stood sideways 
to a picturesque little lake, with green 
shores. The carriage entrance went 
through the house. Beyond, we had 
caught sight of a paved yard or court, 
and of a vista of green leafmess that 
looked cool and inviting. We heard 
the noisy jangling of a barrel-organ 
playing a polka, and we found a per- 
formance going on in the court that 
absorbed the attention of the whole 
household. No one seemed to hear, 
or at least to heed, the sound of our 
wheels, but, when our vehicle fairly 
stopped in the paved yard, a fishy-eyed 
waiter came toward us, jauntily flipping 
time with his napkin. We begged 
him to get us dinner instantly. 

" Way, Mosou," replied that official, 
in the sweet Belgian-French language, 
and let us out of the fly. We had 
been so long cramped up in it that we 
were glad to walk, and stand, and look 
about the court while our food was got 

The organ-grinder had not ceased 

grinding out his polka for a moment. 
The wiry screams of his infernal ma- 
chine seemed to charm him as much 
as they did the rest of the company 
assembled. He was the usual Savoy- 
ard, with a face like a burnt crust ; all 
fire-brown eyes, sable ringlets, and in- 
sane grimace. He leaned against a 
low stone post, and ground out that 
horrible bray, like a grinning maniac. 
We walked to a short distance, and 
took in the scene. 

A little sallow young man, having a 
bushy mustache, stood near a door into 
the house, with a dish in his hand, as 
if he had been transfixed in the act of 
carrying it somewhere. Beside him, 
on the step of the door, sat a blonde 
young woman, with large blue eyes 
and a little mouth as pretty and as 
fade as a Carlo-Dolcian Madonna. Evi- 
dently these were the landlord and his 

On a garden-bench, by the low wall 
that divided the court from the garden 
beyond, sat, a little apart, a young per- 
son of a decidedly French aspect, 
dressed quite plainly, but with Parisian 
precision, in black silk. In her hand 
and on her lap lay some white em- 
broidery. She was not pretty, but 
had neat, small features, that wore a 
pleasant though rather sad smile, as 
she suspended her work to watch what 
was going on. An old woman in a 
dark-blue gown and a clean cap, with 
a pile of freshly-ironed linen in her 
arms, stood at the top of some steps 
leading into a little building which was 
probably the laundry. She was wag- 
ging her old head merrily to the dance 
tune. Other lookers-on lounged about, 
but some of them had vanished since 
our arrival for instance, the fishy- 
eyed waiter and a burly individual in 
a white nightcap. 

The centre of attraction remains to 
be described. Within a few paces of 
the organ-grinder, a little girl and boy 
danced indefatigably on the stones, to 
the unmusical music of his box. The 
little boy was a small, fair, sickly child, 
in a linen blouse, and about four years 
old. He jumped, and stamped, and 


Monsieur Bdbou. 

laughed excitedly. The little girl 
looked about a year older. She was 
plump and rosy, dressed in a full pink 
frock and black silk apron. She had 
light brown hair, cut short and 
straight, like a boy's. She danced 
very energetically, but solemnly, with- 
out a smile on her wee round mouth. 
She poussetted, she twirled her pink 
frock spread itself out like a parasol. 
Her fat little bare arms akimbo, she 
danced in a gravely coquettish, thor- 
oughly business-like way ; now cross- 
ing, changing places with her partner ; 
now setting to him, with little pattering 
feet; now suddenly whisking and 
whirling off. The little boy watched 
her, and followed her lead : she was 
the governing spirit of the dance. 
Both children kept admirable time. 
They were dancing the tarantella, 
though they had never heard of it; 
but of all the poetry of motion K the 
tarantella is the most natural measure 
to fall into. 

The organ-grinder ground, and 
grinned, and nodded; the landlord 
and his wife exchanged looks of 
admiration and complacency whenever 
they could take their eyes off the little 
dancing nymph: it was easy to see 
they were her proud parents. The 
quiet young lady on the bench looked 
tenderly at the tiny, sickly boy, as he 
frisked. We felt sure she was his 
mother. His eyes were light blue, 
not hazel ; but he had the same neat 
little features. 

All of a sudden, down from an open 
window looking into the court, there 
came an enormous voice 

" Ah, ah ! Bravo ! Ah, ah, Mon- 
sieur Babebibo-BOU ! " 

The little boy stopped dancing ; so 
did the little girl, and every one looked 
up at the window. The little boy, 
clapping his hands and screaming 
with glee, ran under it. No one 
could be seen at that aperture, but 
we had caught a momentary glimpse 
of a big blond man in a blue blouse, 
who had instantly dropped out of 
sight, and who was crouching on the 
floor, for we saw, though the child 

below could not, the top of his straw 
hat just above the window-edge. The 
little boy screamed, "Papa,- papa!" 
The great voice, making itself preter- 
natnrally gruff, roared out 

" Qui est la ? Est-ce par chance 
Monsieur Babebibo-BOU ? " (The first 
syllables very fast, the final one ex- 

" Way, way ! C'est Mosou Babi- 
bou ! " cried the child, trying to imi- 
tate the gruff voice, and jumping and 
laughing ecstatically. 

Out of the window came flying a 
huge soft ball of many colors, and 
then another roar: "Avec les com* 
pliments du Roi de tous les joujoux, a 
Monsieur Babebibo-BOU ! " 

More rapture. Then a large white 
packet, palpably sugar-plums, " Avec 
les compliments de la Reine de tous 
les bonbons, a Mademoiselle Marie, et 
a Monsieur Babebibo-BOU ! " 

Rapture inexpressible, except by 
shrill shrieks and capers. The plump 
little girl gravely advances and assists 
at the examination of the packet, 
popping comfits into her tiny mouth 
with a placid melancholy, which I 
have often observed in fat and rosy 

Meanwhile, the organ-grinder has 
at last stopped grinding, has lowered 
his box, and is eating a plateful of 
cold meat and bread which the old 
woman has brought out to him. The 
landlord and his wife have disappeared. 
The young Frenchwoman on the gar- 
den-bench has risen, and come toward 
the children ; and now, from a door- 
way leading into the house, issues the 
big blond man we caught a momentary 
glimpse of at the window. 

The little boy abandons the sugar- 
plums to his playfellow, and crying 
"Papa! papa!" darts to the new 
comer, who stoops and gathers him 
up to his broad breast, in his large 
arms and hands, kissing him fondly 
and repeatedly. The child responds 
with like effusion. The father's great 
red face, with its peaked yellow beard, 
contrasts touchingly, somehow, with 
the wee pale phiz of his little son. 

Monsieur Babou. 


The child's tiny white puds pat the 
jolly cheeks and pull the yellow beard. 
Then the man in the blouse sets his 
son carefully on the ground, and kisses 
the young Frenchwoman who stands 

The big man has evidently been 
absent awhile from his family. " How 
goes it, my sister ? " says he. 

"Well, my brother," she answers 
quietly. " Thou hast seen Auguste 
dance. Thou hast seen how well, 
and strong, and happy he is the 
good God be thanked." 

"And after him, thee, my good 
sister," says the big man, affec- 

We had been called in to dinner by 
this time, but the open window of our 
eating-room looked into the court close 
to where the group stood. We ob- 
served that Mademoiselle Marie had 
remained sole possessor of the packet 
of sweets; and that the little boy, 
content to have got his papa, made no 
effort to assert his rights in them. 
The big papa interfered, saying, 
"Mais, mals, la pstite .... Give 
at least of the bonbons to thy comrade. 
It is only fair." 

" Let her eat them, Jean," put in 
his sister, with naive feminine gen- 
erosity and justice. " They are so 
unwholesome for Auguste, seest thou ?" 

The big man laughed, lit his pipe, 
and the three went away into the little 
garden, where they strolled, talking 
in the summer twilight. 

We came happily to an anchor 
here, in' this foggy little haven, and 
finding we could secure, at tolerably 
moderate charges, the accommodation 
we required, made up our minds to 
stay at this little hotel for the few 
weeks of our absence from Brussels. 


Next morning we were breakfasting 
in the garden under a trellis of hop- 
leaves, when the big man in the blouse 
came up the gravel-walk, with his 
small son on his shoulder. 

They were making a tremendous 
noise. The little boy was pulling his 
father's great red ear ; he affected to 
bellow with anguish, his roaring voice 
topped by the child's shrill, gleeful 
treble. We saluted the new comers 
in a neighborly manner. 

" A beautiful day, Madame," said 
the big man, in French, taking off his 
hat and bowing politely to John's wife, 
at the same time surrounding his son 
safely with his left arm. 

" Madame and these Messieurs are 
English, is it not ?" 

"A pretty place," we went on to 
say, after owning our nationality, " and 
very pleasant in this hot weather after 
the glare of Brussels." 

" It is that ; and I am here as often 
as possible," returned our new ac- 
quaintance. "My sister is staying 
here for the advantage of this little 
man. . . . Monsieur Auguste, at your 
service. Salute then the society, Au- 
guste. You must know he has the 
pretension to be a little delicate, this 
young man. An invalid, if you please ; 
consequently his aunt spoils him! It 
is a ruse on his part, you perceive. 
Ah, bah ! An invalid ! My word, he 
fatigues my poor arm. Ah h ! I 
cannot longer sustain him. I faint 
I drop him down he goes . . . la- 
a a!" 

Here, lowering him carefully, as if 
he were crystal, he pretended to let 
his son suddenly tumble on a bit of 

"At present" (grumbling) "here 
he is, broken to pieces probably ; we 
shall have the trouble of mending 
him. His aunt must bring her needle 
and thread." 

Monsieur Auguste was so enchanted 
with this performance that he encored 
it ecstatically. His father obeyed, and 
then sent him off running to call out 
his aunt to breakfast, which was laid 
under a neighboring trellis. 

" He is strong on his legs, is it not, 
Madame ?" said the father, looking af- 
ter him ; his jolly face and light blue 
eyes a little grave, and wistful. "His 
spirits are so high, see you ? He is 


Monsieur Bdbou. 

too intelligent, too intellectual he has 
a little exhausted his strength; that 
says all. He is well enough ; he has 
no malady ; and every day he is get- 
ting stouter, plainly to the eye." 

Here the aunt and nephew joined 
us. Our new acquaintance introduced 

" Ma belle-soeur. Ma chere, Mad- 
ame and these Messieurs are English. 
They are good enough to take an in- 
terest in this infant Hercules of ours." 

He tossed the child on his shoulder 
again; established on which throne 
his little monarch amused himself by 
ornamenting the parental straw-hat 
with a huge flaring poppy and some 
green leaves, beneath which the jovial 
face bloomed Bacchic. 

Meanwhile the quiet young French- 
woman, smiling affectionately at those 
playfellows as they went off together, 
sat down on a chair we offered her, 
and frankly entered into conversation. 

In a few minutes we knew a great 
deal about this little family. The man 
in the blouse was a Belgian painter, 
Jean Baudin, and " well seen in the 
expositions of Paris and Brussels." 
" His wife was my sister : we were of 
Paris. When our little Auguste was 
born, my poor sister died. She was 
always delicate. The little one is very 
delicate. Ah, so delicate, also. It is 
impossible to be over-careful of him. 
And his father, who is so strong so 
strong ! But the little one resembles 
in every manner his mother. His 
poor father adores him, as you see. 
Poor Jean ! he so tenderly loved his 
wife, who died in her first youth. . . . 
She had but eighteen years she had 
six years less than I. In dying she 
begged me to be to her infant a moth- 
er, and to her poor Jean a sister. Jean 
is a good brother, bon et brave homme. 
And for the little one, he is truly a 
child to be adored judiciously, it is 
understood, madame : I spoil him not, 
believe me. But he is clever to as- 
tonish you, that child. So spirituel, 
and then such a tender little good 
heart a disposition so amiable. Hard- 
ly he requires correction. . . . Au- 

guste! how naughty thou art! Au- 
guste ! dost thou hear ? Jean ! take 
him then off the dusty wall, and wipe 
him a little. Mon ami, thou spoilest 
the child ; one must be judicious." 

We presently left the garden, and, 
in passing, beheld Monsieur Auguste 
at breakfast. He was seated between 
his papa and aunt, and was being 
adored by both (judiciously and inju- 
diciously) to the heart's content of all 

We stayed a month at this little ho- 
tel at The Tadpoles. The English 
family soon fraternized with that of 
Jean Baudin, the Flemish painter, also 
sojourning there, and the only other 
resident guests. 

John's wife and Mademoiselle be- 
came good friends and gossips, and sat 
at work and chat many a summer hour 
under the hop trellises. Mademoiselle 
Rose Leclerc was the Frenchwoman's 
name, but her name of ceremony was 
simply " Mademoiselle." John and I 
used to walked about the country, 
among the lanes, and woods, and han> 
lets which diversify the flats on that 
side of Brussels, accompanying Jean 
Baudin and his paint-box. We sat 
under a tree, or on a stone fence, 
smoking pipes of patience, while Jean 
made studies for those wonderful, elab- 
orate tiny pictures, the work of his big 
hands, by which he and his little son 
lived. I remember, in particular, a 
mossy old cottage, rough and grey ; 
the front clothed with vines, the quaint 
long gable running down behind to 
within a yard of the ground. Baudin 
sketched that cottage very often ; and 
often used its many picturesque fea- 

Sometimes it was the rickety, black- 
timbered porch, garlanded with vine ; 
a sonsy, blond-haired young Flemish 
maiden sat there, and twirled the bob- 
bins on a lace-cushion, in a warm yel- 
low flicker of sunshine. Sometimes 
Jean went right into the porch and 
into the cottage itself, and presently 
brought us out an old blue-gowned, 
black-coifed creature, knitting as she 
kicked the grand-babe's clumsy cradle 

Monsieur Babou. 


with her clumsy sabot ; a ray through 
the leafy little window-hole found the 
crone's white hair, and the infant 
cheek. Honest Jean only painted 
what he saw with his eyes. He could 
copy such simple poetry as this, and 
feel it too, though he could indite no 
original poems on his canvas pages. 
He was a hearty good fellow, and we 
soon got to like him, and his kindly, 
unpretentious, but not unshrewd, 
talk that is, when it could be got off 
the paternal grooves which, to say 
the truth, was seldomer than we (who 
were not ourselves at that period the 
parents of prodigies) may have se- 
cretly desired. 

In the summer evenings we used to 
sit in the garden all together, the 
ladies graciously permitting us to 
smoke. We liked to set the children 
a-dancing again on the grass-plot be- 
fore us ; and I must here confess that 
they saltated to a mandolin touched 
by this hand. I had studied the in- 
strument under a ragged maestro of 
Naples, and flattered myself I per- 
formed on it with credit to both, and 
to the general delight. 

Sometimes Jean Baudin would tie 
to his cane a little pocket-handkerchief 
of Monsieur Auguste, and putting this 
ensign into his hand, cause him to go 
through a certain vocal performance 
of a martial and defiant character. 
The pale little man did it with much 
spirit, and a truculent aspect, stamping 
fiercely at particular moments of the 
strain. I can only remember the 
effective opening of this entertain- 
ment. Thus it began " Les Beiges " 
(at this point the small performer 
threw up the staff and flag of his 
country, and shouted ff) " SONT 
BRAVES IT Papa and aunt re- 
garded with pride that ferocious cham- 
pion of his valiant compatriots, look- 
ing round to read our astonishment 
and rapture in our faces. 

We all got on excellently with the 
hotel folk, ingratiating ourselves chief- 
ly by paying a respectful court to the 
solid and rosy little princess of the 
house. Jean Baudin painted her, sit- 

ting placid, a little open-mouthed, 
heavy-lidded, over-fed, with a lapful of 
cherries. We all made much of her 
and submitted to her. John's wife 
presented her with a frock of English 
print, of a charming apple-green ; 
out of which the fat pink face bloomed 
like a carnation-bud out of its calyx. 

The young landlord would bring us 
out a dish to our garden dinner-table, 
on purpose that he might linger and 
chat about England. That country, 
and some of its model institutions, ap- 
peared to excite in his mind a mixture 
of awe and curiosity, wonder and 
horror. For instance, he had heard 
he did not altogether believe it (dep- 
recatingly) that not only were the 
shops of London closed, with shutters, 
on the Sunday, but also the theatres ; 
and not only the theatres, but also the 
expositions, the gardens and salons of 
dance, of music, of play. How ! it 
was actually the truth ? 

" Certainly, what Madame was good 
enough to affirm one must believe. 
But then what do they? No busi- 
ness, no amusement what then do 
they, mon Dieu ! " 

" They go to church, read the Bible, 
and keep the Sabbath day holy," as- 
serts Mrs. Freshe, in perfect good 
faith, and severely and proudly, as 
becomes a Protestant Britishwoman. 

"Tiens, tiens! But it is triste, 

that . Is it not that it is triste, 

Madame ? Tiens, tiens ! And this is 
that which is the Protestantism. 
Since Madame herself affirms it, one 
can doubt no longer." 

And he goes pondering away, to 
tell his wife ; with no increased ten- 
dency to the reformed faith. 

Even Joseph, the stolid and fishy- 
eyed waiter, patronized us, and grave- 
ly did us a hundred obliging services 
beyond his official duty. 

On a certain evening, Mademoiselle, 
John, John's wife, and I, sat as usual 
at book or work under the trellises ; 
while the two children, at healthful 
play, prattled under the shade of the 
laurel-bushes hard by. As usual, the 
solid little Flemish maiden was tyr- 


Monsieur Babou. 

annizing calmly over her playfel- 
low. We constantly heard her small 
voice, quiet, slow, and dominating: 
"Je le veux." "Je ne le veux pas." 
They had for playthings a little hand- 
bell and a toy-wagon, and were play- 
ing at railways. Auguste was the 
porter, trundling up, with shrill cries, 
heavy luggage-trucks piled with grav- 
el, gooseberry-skins, tin soldiers, and 
bits of cork. Marie was a rich and 
haughty lady about to proceed by the 
next convoi, and paying an immense 
sum, in daisies, for her ticket, to 
Auguste, become a clerk. A disputed 
point in these transactions appeared 
to be the possession of the bell ; the 
frequent ringing of which was indeed 
a principal feature of the perform- 
ance. Auguste contended hotly, but 
with considerable show of reason, to 
this effect : That the instrument be- 
longed to him, in his official capacities 
of porter and clerk, rather than to the 
rich and haughty lady, who as a pas- 
senger was not, and could not be, en- 
titled to monopolize the bell of the 
company. Indeed, he declared him- 
self nearly certain that, as far as his 
experience went, passengers never 
did ring it at all. But Marie's " Je 
le veux" settled the dispute, and car- 
ried her in triumph, after the crushing 
manner of her sex, over all frivolous 
masculine logic. 

Mademoiselle sat placid beside us, 
doing her interminable and elaborate 
satin-stitch. She was working at a 
broad white slip, intended, I under- 
stood, to form the ornamental base of 
a petticoat. It was at least a foot 
wide, of a florid and labyrinthine pat- 
tern, full of oval and round holes, 
which appeared to have been cut out 
of the stuff in order that Mademoiselle 
might be at the pains of filling them 
up again with thready cobwebs. She 
would often with demure and innocent 
complacency display this fabric, in its 
progress, to John's wife (who does not 
herself, I fancy, excel in satin-stitch), 
and relate how short a time (four 
months, I think) she had taken to 
bring it so near completion. Mrs. 

Freshe regarded this work of art 
with feminine eyes of admiration, and 
slyly remarked that it was really 
beautiful enough " meme pour un 
trousseau." At the same time she 
with difficulty concealed her disap- 
proval of the waste of precious time 
incurred by the authoress of the petti- 
coat-border. Not that Mademoiselle 
could be accused of neglecting the 
severer forms of her science ; such as 
the construction of frocks and blouses 
for Monsieur Auguste adorned, it 
must be admitted, with frivolous and 
intricate convolutions of braid. And 
the exquisite neatness of the visible 
portions of Monsieur Jean's linen also 
bore honorable testimony to Made- 
moiselle's more solid labors. 

Into the midst of this peaceful gar- 
den-scene entered a new personage. 
A man of middle height, with a knap- 
sack at his back, came up the gravel- 
walk : a handsome brown-faced fellow 
of five-and-thirty, with a big black 
beard, and a neat holland blouse, and 
a grey felt hat. 

Mademoiselle and he caught sight 
of each other at the same instant. 

Both gave a cry. Her rather sal- 
low little face flushed like a rose. She 
started up; down dropped her petti- 
coat-work; she ran forward, throwing 
out her hands ; she stopped short 
shy, and bright, and pretty as eighteen ! 
The man made a stride and took her 
in his arms. 

" Ma Rose ! ma Rose ! Enfin !" cried 
he in a strangled voice. 

She said nothing, but hung at his 
neck, her two little hands on his should- 
ers, her face on his breast. 

But that was only for a moment. 
Then Mademoiselle disengaged her- 
self, and glanced shamefacedly at us. 
Then she came quickly up came to 
John's wife, slid an arm round her 
neck, and said rapidly, tremulously, 
with sparkling, tearful eyes : 

" C'est Jules, Madame. C'est mon 
fiance depuis quatre ans. Ah, Mad- 
ame, j'ai honte mais," and ran back 
to him. She was transformed. In 
place of that staid, almost old-maidish 

Monsieur Babou. 


little person we knew, lo! a bashful, 
rosy, smiling girl, tripping, skipping, 
beside herself with happy love ! And 
her little collar was all rumpled, and 
so were her smooth brown braids. 
Monsieur Jules took off his felt hat, and 
bowed politely when she came to us, 
guessing that he was being introduced. 
His brown face blushed a little, too: it 
was a happy and honest one, very 
pleasant to see. 

The children had left off playing, 
and stared wide-eyed at these extra- 
ordinary proceedings. Mademoiselle 
ran to her little nephew, and brought 
him to Jules. 

"I recognize well the son of our 
poor Lolotte," said he, softly, lifting 
and kissing him. "And that dear 
Jean, where is he?" 

Even as he spoke there came a 
familiar roar from that window over- 
looking the court-yard, by which the 
painter sat at his easel almost all day. 
" Qhe ! Monsieur Ba-Bou !" 
The little boy nearly jumped out of 
his new friend's arms. 

"Papa! papa! Laissez-moi, done, 
Mosou! Papa!" 

"Is it that thou art by chance this 
monsieur whom they call?" laughed 
Jules, as he put him down. 

"Way, way!" cried the little man 
as he pattered off, with that gleeful 
shriek of his. " C'est moi, Mosou Ba- 
Bou ! Ba-Bou!" 

" Thou knowest that-great voice of 
our Jean," said Mademoiselle; "when 
he has finished his day's labor he 
always calls his child like that. Hav- 
ing worked all day for the little one, 
he goes now to make himself a child 
to play with him. He calls that to 
rest himself. And truly the little one 
idolizes his father, and for him will 
leave all other playfellows even me., 
Come, then, Jules, let us seek Jean." 

And with a smiling salute to us the 
happy couple went arm-in-arm out of 
the garden. 


We did not see much of our friends 


the next day. After their early din- 
ner, Jean came up the garden all alone, 
to smoke a pipe, and stretch his legs 
before he returned to his work. We 
thought his good-natured face was a 
little sad, in spite of his cheerful abord, 
as he came to our garden parlor and 
spoke to us. 

" It is a pleasure to see them, is it 
not ?" said he, looking after the lovers, 
just vanishing under the archway of 
the court-yard, into the sunny village 
road. ' Mademoiselle had left off her 
sober black silk, and floated hi the 
airiest of chintz muslins. 

" My good little Rose merits well 
her happiness. She sent that brave 
Jules marching four years ago, because 
she had promised my poor wife not to 
abandon her helpless infant. Truly 
she has been the best of little mothers 
to my Auguste. Jules went away an- 
gry enough ; but without doubt he must 
have loved her all the better when he 
came to reflect. He has been to Italy, 
to Switzerland, to England know I 
where ? He is artist-painter, like 
me of France always understood. 
Me, I am Flemish, and very content 
to be the compatriot of Rubens, of 
Vandyke. But Jules has very much 
talent : he paints also the portraits, and 
has made successes. He is a brave 
boy, and deserves his Rose." 

" Will the marriage take place now, 
at last ?" we ventured to ask., 

"As I suppose," answered Jean, his 
face clouding perceptibly. 

"But you will not separate; you 
will live together, perhaps," suggested 
John's wife. 

"Ah, Madame, how can that be? 
Jules is of France and I of Belgium!, 
When I married I brought my wife to 
Brussels ; naturally he will carry his 
to Paris. C'est juste." 

"Poor little Auguste will miss his 
aunt," said John's wife, involuntarily, 
"and she will hardly bear to leave 
him, I think." 

"Ah, Madame," said Jean, with ever 
so little bitterness in his tone, " what 
would you? The little one must 
come second now; the husband will 


Monsieur Babou. 

be first. Yes, yes, and it is but fair ! 
Auguste is strong now, and I must 
find him a good bonne. I complain 
not. I am not so ungrateful. My 
poor Rose must not be always the 
sacrifice. She has been an angel to 
us. See you, she has saved the life 
of us both. The little one must have 
died without her, and apparently I 
must have died without the little one. 
C'est simple, n'est ce pas?" smiling. 
Then he gave a sigh, truly as if he 
could not repress it, and walked away 
hastily. "We looked after him, com- 
passion in our hearts. 

" That sickly little boy will hardly 
live if his aunt leaves him," said Mrs. 
Freshe, " and his father knows it." 

" But what a cruel sacrifice if she 
stayed !" said John. 

" And can her lover be expected to 
wait till Auguste has grown up into a 
strong man ?" I put in. 

The day after was Sunday. Com- 
ing from an early walk, I heard a tre- 
mendous clamor, of woe or merriment, 
proceeding from a small sitting-room 
that opened into the entrance passage. 
The door was wide, and I looked in. 
Jean Baudin was jammed up in a 
corner, behind a barricade of chairs, 
and was howling miserably, entreating 
to be let out. His big sun-browned 
face was crowned by a white coif made 
of paper, and a white apron was tied 
round his great waist over his blue 
blouse. Auguste and Marie danced 
about the barricade with shrill screams, 
frantic with joy. 

When Baudin saw me he gave a 
dismal yell, and piteously begged me 
to come to his assistance. " See, then, 
my dear young gentleman, how these 
bandits, these rebels, these demons, 
maltreat their poor bonne! Help, 
help !" and suddenly, with a roar like 
a small Niagara, he burst out of his 
prison and took to his heels, round and 
round the court and up the garden, 
the children screaming after him the 
noise really terrific. Presently it died 
away, and he came back to the door- 
step where I stood, Auguste on his 
shoulder and the little maiden demure- 

ly trotting after. " At present, I am 
the bonne," said he. " Rose and her 
Jules are gone to church; so is our 
hostess. In the meanwhile, I under- 
take to look after the children. Have 
you ever seen a little bonne more 
pretty ? with my coquette cap and my 
neat apron hein ?" 

That evening the lovers went out in 
a boat on the great pond, or little lake, 
at the back of the hotel. They car- 
ried Auguste with them. We all went 
to the water's edge ; the rest remained 
a while, leaning over the rails that 
partly skirted the parapet wall ex- 
cept Jean, who strolled off with his 
tiny sketch-book. A very peaceful 
summer picture was before us, which 
I can see now if I shut my eyes I 
often see it. A calm and lovely Au- 
gust evening near sunset ; a few gold- 
en feathers afloat in the blue sky. 
Below, the glassy pond that repeats 
blue sky, red-roofed cottages, green 
banks, and woody slopes repeats, 
also, the solitary boat rowed by Jules, 
the three Jight-colored figures it con- 
tains, and a pair of swans that glide 
stately after. The little boy is throw- 
ing bits of bread or cake to them. 

As we stood there and admired this 
pretty little bright panorama, John's 
wife observed that the child was fling- 
ing himself dangerously forward, in 
his usual eager, excited way, at every 
cast he made. 

"I wonder," said she, "that his aunt 
takes no notice. She is so absorbed 
in talk with Jules she never turns her 
head. Look! look! A h!" 

A dreadful shriek went up from 
lake and shore. The poor little fellow, 
had overbalanced himself, and had 
gone headlong into the lake. Some 
one had flashed over the parapet wall 
at the same moment, and struck the 
water with a splash and a thud. Some 
one was tearing through it like a steam- 
engine, toward the boat. It was my 
brother John. We saw and heard 
Jules, frantic, and evidently impotent 
to save ; we saw him make a vain 
clutch at something that rose to the 
surface. At the same time we per- 

Monsieur Bdbou. 


ceived that he had scarce power to 
keep Rose with his left hand from 
throwing herself into the water. 

Hardly three minutes had yet passed, 
yet half the population seemed throng- 
ing to the lake-side, here, where the 
village skirted it. 

And suddenly we beheld a terrible 
a piteous sight. A big, bareheaded 
man, that burst through the people, 
pale, furious, awful ; his teeth set, his 
light blue eyes flaring. He seemed to 
crash through the crowd, splintering 
it right and left, like a bombshell 
through a wall, and was going crazy 
and headlong over the parapet into 
the water. He could swim no more 
than Jules. 

" Sauve ! sauve* !" cried John's wife, 
gripping his hand and hanging to it as 
he went rushing past. " My husband 
has found him. See ! see there, Jean 
Baudin! He holds up the dear child." 

She could not have kept him back a 
moment probably he did not feel her 
touch ; he was only dragging her with 
him. But his wild eyes, fixed and 
staring forward, had seen for them- 
selves what he never heard her say. 

Fast, fast as one arm could oar him, 
my brother was bringing Jean his lit- 
tle one, held above water by the other 
hand. Then that poor huge body 
swayed and shivered; the trembling 
hands went out, the face unlocked a 
little, there came a hoarse sob, and 

e a thin, strangled cry in a dream 

" Mon petit ! mon petit I" 

But strong again, and savage with 
ve, how he snatched the pale little 
burden from John, and tore up the 
bank to the hotel. There were wooden 
back-gates that opened into the court 
on the lake-side, but which were un- 
used and locked. At one mighty kick 
they yawned open before Jean, and 
he rushed on into the house. Here all 
had been prudently prepared, and the 
little dripping body was quickly strip- 
ped and wrapped in hot blankets. The 
village doctor was already there, and 
two or three women. Jean Baudin 
helped the doctor and the women with 
a touching docility. All his noisy 


roughness was smoothed. He tamed 
his big voice to a delicate whisper. 
He spoke and moved with an affecting 
submissive gentleness, watching what 
there was he could do, and doing it 
exactly as he was bid. Now and then 
he spoke a word or two under his 
breath " One must be patient, I know, 
Monsieur le Medecin ; yes, yes." And 
now and then he muttered piteously 
" Mon petit ! mon petit !" But he was 
as gentle as a lamb, and touchingly 
eager to be helpful. 

In half an hour his pain got the bet- 
ter of him a little. 

" Mais, mon Dieu, mon Dieu !" he 
moaned, "how I suffer! Ah, Mon- 
sieur, is it not that he breathes a little, 
my dear little one? Ah, my God, 
save me him! Mon petit! mon petit!" 

He went into a corner of the room, 
and stood with his forehead against 
the wall, his shoulders heaving with 
silent sobs. Then he came back quiet 
and patient again. 

" Priez, priez pour moi, Madame," 
said he, once, to John's wife. 

" I am praying without ceasing, my 
poor friend," said she. And once she 
hastily laid a handkerchief soaked in 
essence on his forehead, for she thought 
he was surely going to faint, when the 
hope, long, long deferred, began to turn 
his heart sick. 

All this time John and I lingered in 
the dusky passage, in which that door 
ajar made a cleft of yellow light. 
Every now and then a dim figure stole 
up to us with an eager sad whisper, 
asking, " How goes it ? how goes it ?" 
and slipped away down-stairs with the 
comfortless answer. 

It was poor Jules, who could do 
nothing for his Rose but this. She 
had thrown herself on the floor in a 
darkening room, and lay there moan- 
ing. Her dire anguish, sharp as a 
mother's for the little one, was cruelly 
and unduly aggravated by self-re- 
proach, and by the self-inflicted agony 
of her exile from that room up-stairs. 
She dared not enter Jean's presence. 
She felt that he must for ever abhor 
the sight of her; she was afraid he 


Monsieur Batiou. 

might curse her! She rejected all 
kindness, all sympathy, especially from 
Jules, whom she quite fiercely ordered 
to quit her. But when it got quite 
dark, the poor fellow took in a candle, 
and set it on a table ; and he spent the 
time in going up and down-stairs to 
fetch her that whisper of news, which, 
perhaps, he sweetened with a little 
false hope before he offered it to her. 

At last we outside heard a move- 
ment a stifled exclamation ; and then 
one of the women ran out. 

" The child has opened his eyes !" 
said she, as she hurried down-stairs 
for some article required. 

Presently we heard a man sobbing 
softly ; and then yes, a faint tiny 
voice. And after that nothing, for a 
long while. But at last at last! a 
miserable, awful cry, and a heavy, 
heavy fall. And then came out John's 
wife, at sight of whose face we turned 
sick at heart, and followed her silently 
down-stairs. We knew what had hap- 
pened : the little one was dead. 

He had opened his eyes, and had 
probably known his father; for the 
light that his presence always kindled 
there had come into the little white 
face. Jean, too ready to clutch the 
delusive hope, fell a-sobbing with rap- 
ture, and kissing the little fair head. 
The child tried to speak, and did 
speak, though but once. 

" He said, ' Ba-Bou' quite distinct- 
ly," said John's wife, " and then such 
a pretty smile came ; and it's it's 
there still, on his little dear dead face, 

Here she broke down, and went into 
a passion of tears, sobbing for " poor 
Jean ! poor Jean !" 

He had fainted for the first time in 
his strong life, and so that blessed un- 
consciousness was deadening the first 
insupportable agony of his dreadful 
wound. They carried him out, and 
laid him on his bed, and I believe the 
doctor bled him. They hoped he 
would sleep afterward from sheer ex- 

Presently poor Jules came to us, 
crying like a i-hild, and begging us to 

go to his Rose to try to rouse her, if 
only to make her weep. She had fall- 
en into a dry depth and abyss of de- 
spair an icy crevasse, where even his 
love could not reach her. 

Since she had known the child was 
dead, she had not stirred, except to 
resist, moaning, every attempt to lift 
her from the floor, where she had cast 
herself, and except that she shuddered 
and repulsed Jules, especially, when- 
ever he went near her. 

We went into the room where she 
lay. My good brother stooped, and 
spoke to her in his tender, manly fash- 
ion, and lifted her, with a resolution 
to which she yielded, and seated her 
on a sofa beside his wife, whose kind 
arms closed round her suffering sister. 

And suddenly some one had come 
in whom Rose could not see, for her 
eyes were pressed to that womanly bo- 
som. John's wife made a little warn- 
ing gesture that kept us others silent. 

It was poor Jean himself; he came 
in as if in search of somewhat ; he 
was deadly pale, and perhaps half 
unconscious what he did. He was 
without shoes, and his clothes and 
blond hair and beard were tumbled 
and disordered just as when they had 
laid him on his bed. When he saw 
Rose, he came straight up to her, and 
sat down on her other side. 

" Ma pauvre Rose," said he piteous- 

She gave a cry and start of terror, 
and turned and saw him. The poor 
fellow's broken heart was in his face ; 
she could not mistake the sweet- 
natured anguish there. Half bewil- 
dered by his inconceivable grief, he 
had gone to her, instinctively, like a 
child, for sympathy and comfort. 

" Ma pauvre Rose," said he, broken- 
ly ; " notre petit " 

Passionately she took his great head 
between her hands, and drew it down 
on her bosom, and kissed it passion- 
ately weeping at last. 

And we all came out softly, and left 
them left them to that Pity which 
sends us the wholesome agony of such 

Cardinal Wiseman in Rome. 



"!T was in the year 1863," says 
Monsignore Manning, in his funeral 
oration on the great prince of the 
Church whose loss the whole Catholic 
world is now deploring, " that the 
sovereign pontiff, speaking of the 
cardinal, described him as * the man 
of divine Providence for England.' " 
And truly it seems to us that the di- 
rect inspiration of the Holy Ghost 
has seldom been so clearly apparent 
in the choice of a bishop as it was in 
the case of him who has filled the 
cathedral chair of Westminster for 
the last fifteen years. When we re- 
member the peculiar circumstances 
under which he began his pastorship 
the reaction which was steadily, though 
as yet almost imperceptibly, going on 
in favor of the Church ; the doubt 
and perplexity and wavering with 
which a crowd of wandering souls 
were groping in darkness for the por- 
tals of divine truth ; and then the 
outburst of anger with which the na- 
tion at large read the bulls of the 
Holy Father, raising up the English 
Church from the humiliation in which 
she had lain for three hundred years, 
we shall readily understand that a 
rare union of qualities was required 
in the man who should understand 
and direct those honest seekers after 
truth, and breast successfully that 
storm of popular fury. That Nicholas 
Wiseman, who had left England at 
the age of sixteen, and passed twenty 
years of his youth and early man- 
hood at Rome absorbed, just at the 
time when the character is most liable 
to be moulded by external associations, 
in the theological studies and cere- 
monies and sacred traditions of the 
ecclesiastical capital that he, we say, 
should have displayed such a remark- 
able fitness for both these works, is 
not only an indication of the great 
qualities of the man, but an instruc- 
tive commentary on the school in 
which he had been formed. It shows 

us that a Roman education, while it 
enlarges the view and sweeps away 
local prejudices, yet leaves untouch- 
ed the salient points of national 
character. For his success in dealing 
with the Catholic movement which 
followed the emancipation act of 1829, 
Cardinal Wiseman was largely in- 
debted to the quickness and accuracy 
of perception in theological matters 
which he had acquired during his long 
residence at the centre of the Chris- 
tian Church ; what helped him most 
in his victory over the burst of Prot- 
estant fury which followed the restora- 
tion of the English hierarchy, and 
found official expression in the eccle- 
siastical titles bill, was his thorough 
English boldness and honesty of 
speech and manly bearing. He ap- 
pealed to his countrymen's traditional 
love of fair-play ; they heard him ; 
and before long all classes learned to 
love and respect him. 

Of the twenty years' schooling by 
which he prepared himself for his 
work in England, the cardinal has 
left us some admirable sketches, scat- 
tered through his books. Dr. Man- 
ning alluded briefly to the influence of 
his Roman education. We propose 
to gather up what the cardinal him- 
self has said about it ; to paint with 
his own pencil a picture of his life of 
preparation ; leaving other hands, if 
they will, to paint his subsequent life 
of labor. 

Nicholas Wiseman was born at Se- 
ville, in Spain, on the second of 
August, 1802. % His father was an 
English merchant, his mother an Irish 
lady. He lost his father in infancy, 
and at the age of six, in consequence 
of those wars of invasion which for 
a time made Spain no longer habitable, 
was taken to Ireland to be educated. 
After spending one or two years at a 
boarding-school near Waterford, his 
mother went with him to England, and 


Cardinal Wiseman in Rome. 

placed him at St. Cuthbert's college, 
Ushaw, near Durham. Dr. Lingard 
was then vice-president of the col- 
lege, "and I have retained upon my 
memory," wrote the cardinal, nearly 
fifty years afterward, " the vivid rec- 
ollection of specific acts of thoughtful 
and delicate kindness, which showed 
a tender heart, mindful of its duties 
amidst the many harassing occupations 
just devolved on him through the 
death of the president and his own 
literary engagements ; for he was re- 
conducting his first great work through 
the press. But though he went from 
college soon after, and I later left the 
country, and saw him not again for 
fifteen years, yet there grew up an in- 
direct understanding first, and by de- 
grees a correspondence and an inti- 
macy which continued to the close of 
his life."* 

It was in the course of the eight 
years which he passed at this rev- 
erend seat of learning lineal de- 
scendant of the old English college of 
Douay that he determined to be- 
come a priest. Here he first began 
to manifest that deep affection for the 
city of St. Peter which distinguished 
him down to the end of his life. " Its 
history," he says, " its topography, its 
antiquities, had formed the bond of a 
little college society devoted to this 
queen of cities, while the dream of its 
longings had been the hope of one day 
seeing what could then only be known 
through hearsay tourists and fabulous 
plans." But the hope was fulfilled 
soon and unexpectedly. In 1818, 
Pope Pius VII. restored the English 
college at Rome, " after it had been 
desolate and uninhabited during al- 
most the period of a generation." 
Nicholas Wiseman was one of a band 
of young men sent out to colonize it. 
He gives a charming description of 
the arrival of the little party at their 
Roman home, and the delight and 
surprise with which they roamed, 
alone and undirected, through the 
solemn building, with its wide cor- 

* Recollections of the Last Four Popes. Leo Xn. 
Cliap. vii. 

ridors ; its neat and cheerful rooms ; 
its wainscotted refectory, from whose 
groined ceiling looked down St. George 
and the dragon ; its library heaped 
with tumultuous piles of unorganized 
volumes ; its garden, glowing with the 
lemon and orange, and presenting to 
one's first approach a perspective in 
fresco by Pozzi ; and, above all, its 
chapel, illuminated from floor to roof 
with saints of England and celestial 
glories ; or, better still, adjoining the 
college, the old roofless church of the 
Holy Trinity, where in generations 
long past many a pilgrim from the 
British Isles had knelt to pray when 
the good priests of his nation fed and 
lodged him on his visit to the tomb of 
the apostles. Pleasant must have 
been the meeting, on that December 
afternoon in the year 1818, between 
these six young men and their appoint- 
ed rector Dr. Gradwell, who, being ab- 
sent when they arrived, came home 
that evening and found himself at the 
head of a college, and his frugal meal 
appropriated by the hungry students. 

The happiness of that day casts a 
glow over the page on which, when he 
was an old man, the cardinal recorded 
the incidents. On Christmas eve he 
was presented, with some of his com- 
panions, to the venerable Pius VII. 
We can imagine the feelings of awe 
with which he approached this saintly 
man, released only a few years before 
from the French capitivity. " There 
was the halo of a confessor round the 
tiara of Pius that eclipsed all gold 

and jewels Instead of 

receiving us, as was customary, seated, 
the mild and amiable pontiff rose to 
welcome us, and meet us as we ap- 
proached. He did not allow it to be a 
mere presentation, or a visit of cere- 
mony. It was a fatherly reception, 
and in the truest sense our inaugura- 
tion into the duties that awaited us. 
The friendly and almost na- 
tional grasp of the hand, after due 
homage had been willingly paid, be- 
tween the head of the Catholic Church, 
venerable by his very age, and a youth 
who had nothing even to promise ; 

Cardinal Wiseman in Rome. 


the first exhortation on entering a 
course of ecclesiastical study its very 
inaugural discourse from him whom 
he believed to be the fountain of spir- 
itual wisdom on earth ; these surely 
formed a double tie, not to be broken, 
but rather strengthened, by every sub- 
sequent experience." 

Doubtless his early dreams of Rome 
were now surpassed by the reality of 
his daily life. It was unalloyed spirit- 
ual and intellectual enjoyment. Study 
was no task ; it was only a sort of 
pleasure; and the hours of relaxation 
became a source of mental schooling, 
even while he was pursuing the most 
delightful recreations. It is not diffi- 
cult to imagine how he must have 
spent his holidays roaming through 
the field of art, or resting at some seat 
of the Muses, or wandering along the 
stream of time, bordered by monu- 
ments of past greatness every foot- 
step awakening the echoes of classic 
antiquity, or calling up the most sacred 
memories of the early suffering 
Church. Even the solitude of buried 
cemeteries, "where the tombs them- 
selves are buried, where the sepulchres 
are themselves things decayed and 
mouldering in rottenness," is no solitude 
to him ; for he peoples it with the 
shadowy forms of the Scipios and Na- 
sones whose ashes are there deposited. 
How often, in after years, did he not 
recur with fond delight to the " images 
of long delicious strolls, in musing 
loneliness, tlirough the deserted ways 
of the ancient city ; of climbings among 
its hills, over ruins, to reach some 
vantage-ground for mapping the subja- 
cent territory, and looking beyond on 
the glorious chains of greater and 
lesser mountains, clad in their imperial 
hues of gold and purple ; and then 
perhaps of solemn entrance into the 
cool solitude of an open basilica, 
where the thought now rests, as the 
body then did, after the silent evening 
prayer, and brings forward from many 
well-remembered nooks every local 
inscription, every lovely monument of 
art, the characteristic feature of each, 
or the great names with which it is as- 

sociated Thus does 

Rome sink deep and deeper into the 
soul, like the dew, of which every 
separate drop is soft and weightless, 
but which still finds its way to the root 
of everything beneath the soil, im- 
parting there to every future plant its 
own warm tint, its own balmy fra- 
grance, and its own ever rejuvenescent 

Such were his hours of recreation : 
still more delightful were his hours of 
study, especially in " the great public li- 
braries, where noiseless monks brought 
him and piled round him the folios 
which he required, and he sat as still 
amidst a hundred readers as if he had 
been alone." Every day his love, his 
enthusiasm, for his work seemed to in- 
crease. So he passed six or seven 
years, " lingering and lagging behind 
others," and revelling in spiritual and 
intellectual luxury. " Every school- 
fellow had passed on, and was hard at 
his noble work at home, was gaming a 
crown in heaven to which many have 
passed." Our young student had kissed 
the feet of the dead Pius VIL, as he 
lay in state in one of the chapels of 
St. Peter's; had mourned over the 
departure of the great minister Con- 
salvi; had presented himself to Leo 
XIL, and told him, " I am a foreigner 
who came here at the call of Pius 
VIL, six years ago ; my first patrons, 
Pius VII., Cardinals Litta, De Pietro, 
Fontana, and now Consalvi, are dead. 
I therefore recommend myself to your 
Holiness's protection, and hope you 
will be a father to me at this distance 
from my country." He had obtained 
the Holy Father's promise. Already 
he was known for a youth of marvel- 
lous talents and learning. He had 
maintained a public disputation in 
theology, and been rewarded for his 
success by the title of D.D. At last 
came the jubilee-year of 1825. " The 
aim of years, the goal of long prepar- 
ation, the longed-for crown of unwa- 
vering desires, the only prize thought 
worthy of being aspired to, was at- 
tained in the bright jubilee spring of 
Rome. It marks a blessed epoch in a 


Cardinal Wisvman in Rome. 

life to have had the grace of the priest- 
hood superadded to the exuberant ben- 
edictions of that year." 

Fortunately for the English college, 
and fortunately, perhaps we should 
add, for England, he was not yet to 
depart for the field of his great labor. 
To use his own modest words, he was 
found to be at hand in 1826, when 
some one was wanted for the office of 
vice-rector of the English college, and 
so was named to it; and when, in 
1828, the worthy rector, Dr. Grad- 
well, was appointed bishop, Dr. Wise- 
man was, by almost natural sequence, 
named to succeed him. 

Thus he continued to drink in the 
spirit of catholicity, and devotion, and 
steadiness in faith, of which Rome is 
the fountain on earth. With reverent 
affection he traced out the mementos 
of primitive Christianity,, the tombs of 
the martyrs and saints, the altars and 
hiding-places and sacred inscriptions 
of the catacombs. These holy retreats 
had for him a fascination such as no 
other spot even in Rome possessed. 
Again and again he recurs to them in 
his writings, lingering fondly around 
the hallowed precincts, and inspiring 
his readers with the love for them that 
burned so ardently in his own breast. 
One of the last pieces that came from 
his pen was the little story of a mar- 
tyr's tomb, which we have placed in 
this number of our magazine. 

Other studies were not neglected. 
While his companions were indulging 
in the mid-day sleep, which almost 
everybody takes in Rome, he was at 
his books. Often he passed whole 
nights in study, or walking to and 
fro, in meditation, through the cor- 
ridors of the English college. The 
seasons of vacation he would often 
spend collating ancient manuscripts 
in the Vatican library, and one of the 
fruits of that labor was his fforce Sy- 
riacce, published when he was only 
twenty-five years old. In the same 
year (1827), he was appointed 
though without severing his connec- 
tion with the English college pro- 
fessor of oriental languages in the 

Roman university. It is no doubt 
to these two events that he alludes 
in the following extract from his 
"Recollections" of Leo XII., though 
he tells the story as if he had been 
only a witness of the circumstances: 
"It so happened," he says, "that a 
person connected with the English 
college was an aspirant to a chair 
in the Roman university. He had 
been encouraged to compete for it, on 
its approaching vacancy, by his pro- 
fessors. Having no claims of any 
sort, by interest or connection, he 
stood simply on the provision of the 
papal bull, which threw open all pro- 
fessorships to competition. It was but 
a secondary and obscure lectureship 
at best ; one concerning which, it was 
supposed, few would busy themselves 
or come forward as candidates. It 
was, therefore, announced that this 
rule would be overlooked, and a per- 
son eveiy way qualified, and of con- 
siderable reputation, would be named. 
The more youthful aspirant unhesi- 
tatingly solicited an audience, at which 
I was present. He told the Pope 
frankly of his intentions and of his 
earnest wish to have carried out, in 
his favor, the recent enactments of 
his Holiness. Nothing could be more 
affable, more encouraging, than Leo's 
reply. He expressed his delight at 
seeing that his regulation was not a 
dead letter, and that it had animated 
his petitioner to exertion. He assured 
him that he should have a fair chance, 
1 a clear stage and no favor,' desiring 
him to leave the matter in his hands. 
" Time wore on ; and as the only 
alternative given in the bull was proof, 
by publication of a work, of proficiency 
in the art or science that was to be 
taught, he quietly got a volume through 
the press probably very heavy ; but 
sprightliness or brilliancy was not a 
condition of the bull. When a va- 
cancy arrived, it was made known, 
together with the announcement that 
it had been filled up. All seemed lost, 
except the honor of the pontiff, to 
which alone lay any appeal. An- 
other audience was asked, and in- 

Cardinal Wiseman in Rome. 


stantly granted, its motive being, of 
course, stated. I was again present, 
and shall not easily forget it. It was 
not necessary to re-state the case. ' I 
remember it all/ the Pope said most 
kindly ; * I have been surprised. I 

have sent for C , through whom 

this has been done ; I have ordered 
the appointment to be cancelled, and 
I have reproved him so sharply that 
I believe it is the reason why he is 
laid up to-day with fever. You have 
acted fairly and boldly, and you shall 
not lose the fruits of your industry. 
I will keep my word with you and the 
provisions of my constitution.* With 
the utmost graciousness he accepted 
the volume now treasured by its au- 
thor, into whose hands the copy has 
returned acknowledged the right to 
preference which it had established, 
and assured its author of fair play. 

" The Pope had, in fact, taken up 
earnestly the cause of his youthful 
appellant; instead of annoyance, he 
showed earnestness and kindness ; and 
those who had passed over his preten- 
sions with contempt were obliged to 
treat with him and compromise with 
him on terms that satisfied all his de- 
sires. Another audience for thanks- 
giving was kindly accorded, and I wit- 
nessed the same gentle and fatherly 
temper, quietly cheerful, and the same 
earnest sympathy with the feelings of 
him whose cause had been so gracious- 
ly carried through. If this young 
client gained no new energies, gath- 
ered no strength from such repeated 
proofs of interest and condescension ; 
if these did not both direct and impel, 
steer and fill, the sails of his little bark 
through many troubled waters; nay, 
if they did not tinge and savor his 
entire mental life, we may write that 
man soulless and incapable of any 
noble emotions." 

We must not suppose, however, that 
all this while he was so lost among his 
books as to have forgotten that land 
for whose conversion he was destined 
to labor through the best part of his 
life. He told a dear friend how, hav- 
ing to wait one day at the Sapienza 

for the Hebrew lecture, he went into 
the Church of St. Eustachio to pray ; 
and there, before the altar of the Bless- 
ed Sacrament and the altar of the 
Holy Virgin Mother, the thought came 
into his mind that, as his native coun- 
try, in the oath which she imposes 
upon the chief personages of the state, 
solemnly abjures these sacred mys- 
teries, it was his duty to devote him- 
self to the defense and honor of those 
very doctrines in England. And no 
one who has read his sermons and 
lectures and pastorals can have failed 
to notice the burning love for the Eu- 
charist and the Blessed Virgin which 
inspired him. 

The time was not yet for his mission 
to England; and it is so hard, when 
the mind has been long running in one 
groove, to break out of it and take a 
totally different course, that perhaps 
he might have come in time to look 
upon the Roman theological schools 
as the ultimate sphere of usefulness 
for which God had destined him, had 
he not been suddenly called forth 
from his studious retirement by the 
voice of the supreme pontiff. It was 
in 1827 that Leo XII. determined to 
institute in the church of Gesu e 
Maria a course of English sermons, 
to be attended by all colleges and re- 
ligious communities that spoke the 
language, and by as many other per- 
sons as chose to listen. It was in- 
tended, of course, principally for the 
benefit of strangers. His Holiness 
appointed Dr. Wiseman preacher. 
" The burden was laid there and 
then," says the cardinal, describing 
the audience at which he received 
this commission, "with peremptory 
kindness, by an authority that might not 
be gainsaid. And crushingly it pressed 
upon the shoulders. It would be im- 
possible to describe the anxiety, pain, 
and trouble which this command cost 
for many years after. Nor would 
this be alluded to were it not to illus- 
trate what has been kept in view 
through this volume how the most 
insignificant life, temper, and mind 
may be moulded by the action of a 


Cardinal Wiseman in Rome. 

great and almost unconscious power. 
Leo could not see what has been the 
influence of his commission, hi merely 
dragging from the commerce with the 
dead to that of the living one who 
would gladly have confined his time 
to the former, from books to men, 
from reading to speaking. Nothing 
but this would have done it. Yet 
supposing that the providence of one's 
life was to be active, and in contact 
with the world, and one's future duties 
were to be in a country and in times 
where the most bashful may be driven 
to plead for his religion or his flock, 
surely a command overriding all in- 
clination and forcing the will to un- 
dertake the best and only preparation 
for those tasks, may well be contem- 
plated as a sacred impulse and a 
timely direction to a mind that wanted 
both. Had it not come then, it never 
more could have come ; other bents 
would have soon become stiffened and 
unpliant; and no second opportunity 
could have been opened after others 
had satisfied the first demand." 

From this time it would seem as if 
England had a stronger hold upon his 
heart than ever. The noble purpose 
which worldly men have since laugh- 
ed at as a wild dream of devoting 
himself to the conversion of England, 
became the ruling idea of his life. 
And often alone at night in the college 
chapel he would " pour out his heart 
in prayer and tears, full of aspirations 
and of a firm trust; of promptings 
to go, but fear to outrun the bidding 
of our divine -Master." He offered 
himself to the Pope for this great 
work ; but still the time was not come ; 
and he was told to wait. 

But if he was not to go yet himself, 
he had his part to perform in making 
others ready. He well knew that to 
fit his pupils for their work, he must 
teach them something beside theology. 
Englishmen were a sort of Brahmins ; 
the missionary who went among them 
must go as one versed in all learning, 
or he would not be listened to. He 
saw how the natural sciences were 
growing to be the favorite pursuit 

we may almost say the hobby of 
modern scholars, and in a preface to a 
thesis by a student of the English 
college he insisted on the necessity of 
uniting general and scientific know- 
ledge to theological pursuits. As 
another instance of the personal in- 
fluence which several successive pon- 
tiffs exercised over his studies, and the 
many kind marks of interest which 
contributed to attach him so strongly 
to their persons, we may repeat an 
anecdote which he tells in reference 
to this little essay. He went to pre- 
sent it to Pius VIII., but the Holy 
Father had it already before him, and 
said, " You have robbed Egypt of its 
spoil, and shown that it belongs to the 
people of God." The same idea 
which he briefly exposed in this essay, 
he developed more fully and with 
great wealth of illustration in a course 
of lectures on the Connection between 
Science and Revealed Religion, de- 
livered first to his pupils and after- 
ward to a distinguished audience at 
the apartments of Cardinal Weld. 
It was partly with a view to the re- 
vision and publication of these lectures 
that he visited England in 1835. 

During his stay in London, he 
preached a series of controversial dis- 
courses in the Sardinian chapel dur- 
ing the Advent of 1835, and another 
in St. Mary's, Moorfields, in Lent, 
1836. The latter were published un- 
der the title of Lectures on the Prin- 
cipal Doctrines and Practices of the 
Catholic Church. They exhibit in a 
remarkable degree the qualities, so 
rare in polemical literature, of kind- 
ness, moderation, and charity for all 
men. The odium theologicum, indeed, 
has less place at Rome than anywhere 
else in the Christian world. It was 
at the very centre and chief school of 
the science of divinity that he learned 
to fight against error without temper, 
and expose falsehood without hard 
language. " I will certainly bear will- 
ing testimony," he says, "to the ab- 
sence of all harsh words and uncharit- 
able insinuations against others in pub- 
lic lectures or private teaching, or even 

Cardinal Wiseman in Rome. 


in conversation at Rome. One grows 
up there in a kinder spirit, and learns 
to speak of errors in a gentler tone than 
elsewhere, though in the very centre 
of highest orthodox feeling." Dr. Wise- 
man went back to the English college, 
leaving among his countrymen at home 
an enviable reputation for honesty, 
learning, and good sense. 

A few years more passed in fre- 
quent contact with the Holy Father, 
and under the continuous influence 
of the sacred associations with which 
eighteen centuries have peopled the 
Christian capital, and Nicholas Wise- 
man was then ready to go forth to his 
work. The recollection of number- 
less favors and kind words from the 
supreme pontiff went with him, and 
strengthened him, and colored his 
thoughts. He has told of the cordial 
and paternal treatment with which he 
was honored by Gregory XVI. in par- 
ticular. " An embrace would supply 
the place of ceremonious forms on 
entrance. At one time a long, famil- 
iar conversation, seated side by side ; 
at another a visit to the penetralia of 
the pontifical apartment (a small suite 
of entresols, communicating by an in- 
ternal staircase) occupied the time. 

What it has been my 

happiness to hear from him in such 
visits, it would be betraying a sacred 
trust to reveal ; but many and many 
words there spoken rise to the mind 
in times of trouble, like stars, not only 
bright in themselves, but all the bright- 
er in their reflection from the bright- 
ness of their mirror. They have been 
words of mastery and spell over after 
events, promises, and prognostics which 
have not failed, assurances and sup- 
ports that have never come to 

* He gives an amusing account of a perplexing 
situation from which this same Pope once unwit- 
tingly delivered him, while he was engaged in his 
course of lectures on Science and Revealed Relig- 

In 1840 it was determined to in- 
crease the number of vicars apostolic in 
England from four to eight, and Dr. 
Wiseman, at the same time, was ap- 
pointed coadjutor to Bishop Walsh at 
Wolverhampton. " It was a sorrowful 
evening," he says, " at the beginning 
of autumn, when, after a residence in 
Rome prolonged through twenty-two 
years, till affection clung to every old 
stone there, like the moss that grew 
into it, this strong but tender tie was 
cut, and much of future happiness had 
to be invested in the mournful recol- 
lections of the past." 

Here we leave him. It was not 
until ten years later that he became 
cardinal, but though from 1840 to 1850 
he filled only a subordinate position, 
he was working hard and well during 
this period, and fast rising to be the 
foremost man of all the Catholics of 
England. And his work never ceased. 
He lived to see the hierarchy estab- 
lished, and the conversion of his coun- 
trymen making steady if not rapid 
progress ; but his energy never flagged 
when a part of his task was done ; he 
passed on from one labor to another, 
until that last day, when " he entered 
into the sanctuary of God's presence, 
from which he never again came forth.'* 

ion at the apartments of Cardinal Weld. " On one 
of the days of delivery," says he, " I had been pre- 
vented from writing the lecture in time, and was 
laboring to make up for my delay, but in vain. 
Quarter after quarter of each hour flew rapidly on, 
and my advance bore no proportion to the matter 
before me. The fatal hour of twelve was fast ap- 
proaching, and I knew not what excuse I could 
make, nor how to supply, except by a lame re- 
cital, the important portion yet unwritten of my 
task for an index to the lectures had been printed 
and circulated. Just as the last moment arrived, a 
carriage from the palace drove to the door, with a 
message that I would step into it at once, as His 
Holiness wished to speak to me. This was, indeed, 
a deus ex machinathe only and least thought of 
expedient that could have saved me from my em- 
barrassment. A messenger was despatched to in- 
form the gathering audience of the unexpected 
cause of necessary adjournment of our sitting till 
the next day. The object of my summons was one 
of very trifling importance, and Gregory little knew 
what a service he had unintentionally rendered 


The Nick of Time. 

rrom All The Year Bound. 


LET us suppose a case that might 
occur if it has not occurred. 

John Mullet, immersed (say) in the 
button trade at Birmingham, has made 
money in business. He bequeaths his 
property by will, and is in due time 
gathered to his fathers. His two 
sons, Jasper and Josiah, take certain 
portions ; and other portions are to go 
either to the family of Jasper or to that 
of Josiah, according as either one of 
those brothers survives the other. Jas- 
per remains in England ; but Josiah 
goes out to Australia, to establish some- 
thing that may make his children 
great people over there. Both broth- 
ers, twelve thousand miles apart,, die 
on the same day, May 1st, one at noon 
(Greenwich time), the other at noon 
(Sydney time). Jasper's children 
have been on pleasant cousinly terms 
with Josiah's ; but they are aware of 
the fact that it would be better for 
them that Josiah should die before 
their own father, Jasper. Josiah's 
children, on the other hand, be they 
few or many, although they always 
liked uncle Jasper, cannot and do not 
ignore the fact that their interests 
would be better served by the surviv- 
orship of Josiah than that of Jasper. 
The two sets of cousins, therefore, 
plunge into a contest, to decide the 
question of survivorship between the 
two sons of old John Mullet. 

This is one variety of a problem 
which the courts of law and equity are 
often called upon to settle. Occasion- 
ally th'.j question refers to two persons 
who die at the same time, and in each 
other's company. For instance : To- 
ward the close of the last century, 
George Netherwood, his children by 
his first wife, his second wife, and her 
son, were all wrecked during a voyage 
from Jamaica to England. Eight 
thousand pounds were left by will, in 
such a way that the relations of the 

two wives were greatly interested in 
knowing whether the second Mrs. 
Netherwood did or did not survive her 
husband, even by one single minute 
a matter which, of course, could not 
be absolutely proved. Again, in 1806, 
Mr. Mason and one son were drowned 
at sea ; his remaining eight children 
went to law, some of them against the 
others ; because, if the father died be- 
fore the son, 5,000 would be divided 
equally among the other eight children ; 
whereas, if the son died before the 
father, the brothers only would get it, 
the sisters being shut out. A few 
years afterward Job Taylor and his 
wife were lost in a ship wrecked at 
sea ; they had not much to leave be- 
hind them ; but what little there was 
was made less by the struggles of two 
sets of relatives, each striving to show 
that one or other of the two hapless 
persons might possibly have survived 
the other by a few minutes. In 1819 
Major Colclough, his wife, and four 
children, were drowned during a voy- 
age from Bristol to Cork; the hus- 
band and wife had both made wills ; 
and there arose a pretty picking for 
the lawyers in relation to survivorships 
and next of kin, and trying to prove 
whether the husband died first, the 
wife first, or both together. Two 
brothers, James and Charles Corbet, 
left Demerara on a certain day in 1828, 
in a vessel of which one was master 
and the other mate; the vessel was 
seen five days afterward, but from 
that time no news of her fate was 
ever received. Their father died about 
a month after the vessel was last seen. 
The ultimate disposal of his property 
depended very much on the question 
whether he survived his two sons or 
they survived him. Many curious 
arguments were used in court. Two 
or three captains stated that from 
August to January are hurricane 

The Nick of Time. 


months in the West Indian seas, and 
that the ship was very likely to have 
been wrecked quite early in her voy- 
age. There were, in addition, certain 
relations interested in James's dying 
before Charles ; and they urged that, 
if the ship was wrecked, Charles was 
likely to have outlived by a little space 
his brother James, because he was a 
stronger and more experienced man. 
Alas for the "glorious uncertainty!" 
One big-wig decided that the sons sur- 
vived the father, and another that the 
father survived the sons. About the 
beginning of the present reign, three 
persons, father, mother, and child, were 
drowned on a voyage from Dublin to 
Quebec ; the husband had made a 
will, leaving all his property to his 
wife ; hence arose a contest between 
the next of kin and the wife's relations, 
each catching at any small fact that 
would (theoretically) keep one poor 
soul alive a few minutes longer than 
the other. About ten years ago, a 
gentleman embarked with his wife and 
three children for Australia : the ship 
was lost soon after leaving England ; 
the mate, the only person who was 
saved among the whole of the crew 
and passengers, deposed that he saw 
the hapless husband and wife locked 
in each other's arms at the moment 
when the waves closed over them. 
There would seem to be no question 
of survivorship here ; yet a question 
really arose ; for there were two wills 
to be proved, the terms of which would 
render the relatives much interested in 
knowing whether husband or wife did 
really survive the other by ever so 
small a portion of time. 

These entangled contests may rest 
in peace, so far as the actual decisions 
are concerned. And so may others 
of a somewhat analogous nature. Such, 
for instance, as the case of an old lady 
and her housekeeper at Portsmouth. 
They were both murdered one night. 
The lady had willed all her property 
to the housekeeper, and then, the law- 
yers fought over the question as to 
which of the women died first. Or, 
the case of a husband who promised, 

on his marriage-day, to settle 1,200 
on his wife "in three or four years." 
They were both drowned about three 
years after the marriage ; and it was 
not until after a tough struggle in 
chancery that the husband's relatives 
conquered those of the wife albeit, 
the money had nearly vanished in law 
expenses by that time. Or, the case 
of a man who gave a power of attor- 
ney to sell some property. The prop- 
erty was sold on the 8th of June, but 
the man was never seen after the 8th 
of the preceding March, and was sup- 
posed to have been wrecked at sea; 
hence arose a question whether the 
man was or was not dead on the day 
when the property was sold- a ques- 
tion in which the buyer was directly 
interested. The decisions in these 
particular cases we pass over ; but it 
is curious to see how the law some- 
times tries to guess at the nick of time 
in which either one of two persons 
dies. Sometimes the onus of proof 
rests on one of the two sets of rela- 
tions. If they cannot prove a survi- 
vorship, the judgment is that the 
deaths were simultaneous. Sometimes 
the law philosophizes on vitality and 
decay. The Code Napoleon lays 
down the principle that of two persons 
who perish by the same calamity, if 
they were both children, the elder 
probably survived the younger by a 
brief space, on account of having 
superior vital energy; whereas, if 
they were elderly people, the younger 
probably survived the elder. The 
code also takes anatomy and physiol- 
ogy into account, and discourses on 
the probability whether a man would 
or would not float longer alive than a 
woman, in the event of shipwreck. 
The English law is less precise in this 
matter. It is more prone to infer sim- 
ultaneous death, unless proof of sur- 
vivorship be actually brought forward. 
Counsel, of course, do not fail to make 
the best of any straw to catch at. Ac- 
cording to the circumstances of the 
case, they argue that a man, being 
usually stronger than a woman, prob- 
ably survives her a little in a case of 


The Nick of Time. 

simultaneous drowning; that, irrespect- 
ive of comparative strength, her great- 
er terror and timidity would incapaci- 
tate her from making exertions which 
would be possible to him ; that a sea- 
faring man has a chance of surviving 
a landsman, on account of his ex- 
perience in salt-water matters; that 
where there is no evidence to the con- 
trary, a child may be presumed to 
have outlived his father ; that a man 
in good health would survive one in 
ill health ; and so forth. 

The nick of time is not less an im- 
portant matter in reference to single 
deaths, under various circumstances. 
People are often very much interested 
in knowing whether a certain person 
is dead or not. Unless under specified 
circumstances, the law refuses to kill 
a man that is, a man known to have 
been alive at a certain date is pre- 
sumed to continue to live, unless and 
until proof to the contrary is adduced. 
But there are certain cases in which 
the application of this rule would in- 
volve hardship. Many leases are de- 
pendent on lives; and both lessor 
and lessee are concerned in knowing 
whether a particular life has terminated 
or not. Therefore, special statutes 
have been passed, in relation to a lim- 
ited number of circumstances, enacting 
that if a man were seen alive more 
than seven years ago, and has not 
since been seen or heard of, he may 
be treated as dead. 

The nick of time occasionally affects 
the distribution or amount of property 
in relation to particular seasons. 
Some years ago the newspapers re- 
marked on the fact that a lord of 
broad acres, whose rent-roll reached 
something like 40,000 a year, died 
"about midnight" between the 10th 
and llth of October; and the possi- 
ble consequences of this were thus 
set forth : " His rents are payable at 
* old time,' that is, old Lady-day and 
old Michaelmas -day. Old Michael- 
mas-day fell this year on Sunday, the 
llth instant. The day begins at mid- 
night. Now, the rent is due upon the 
first moment of the day it becomes 

due; so that at one second beyond 
twelve o'clock of the 10th instant, 
rent payable at old Michaelmas-day is 
in law due. If the lord died before 
twelve, the rents belong to the parties 
taking the estates ; but if after twelve, 
then they belong to and form part of 
his personal estate. The difference of 
one minute might thus involve a 
question on the title to about 20,000." 
We do not know that a legal difficulty 
did arise ; the facts only indicate the 
mode in which one might have arisen. 
Sometimes that ancient British insti- 
tution, the house clock, has been at 
war with another British institution, 
the parish church clock. A baby was 
born, or an old person died, just be- 
fore the house clock struck twelve on 
a particular night, but after the church 
clock struck. On which day did the 
birth or death take place yesterday 
or to-day ? And how would this fact 
be ascertained, to settle the inherit- 
ance of an estate ? We know an in- 
stance (not involving, however, the 
inheritance to property) of a lady 
whose relations never have definitely 
known on which day she was born ; 
the pocket watch of the accoucheur 
who attended her mother pointed to a 
little before twelve at midnight, where- 
as the church clock had just struck 
twelve. Of course a particular day 
had to be named in the register ; and 
as the doctor maintained that his 
watch was right, there were the mate- 
rials for a very pretty quarrel if the 
parties concerned had been so dis- 
posed. It might be that the nick of 
time was midnight exactly, as meas- 
ured by solar or sun-dial time : that 
is, the sun may have been precisely in 
the nadir at that moment ; but this 
difficulty would not arise in practice, 
as the law knows only mean time, not 
sun-dial time. If Greenwich time 
were made legal everywhere, and if 
electric clocks everywhere established 
communication with the master clock 
at the observatory, there might be 
another test supplied ; but under the 
conditions stated, it would be a nice 
matter of Tioeodledum and Tweedledee 

The Nick of Time. 


to determine whether the house clock, 
the church clock, or a pocket watch, 
should be relied upon. All the pocket 
watches in the town might be brought 
into the witness-box, but without avail ; 
for if some accorded with the house 
clock, others would surely be found to 
agree better with the church clock. 

This question of clocks, as com- 
pared with time measured by the sun, 
presents some very curious aspects in 
relation to longitude. What's o'clock 
in London will not tell you what's 
o'clock in Falmouth, unless you know 
the difference of longitude between the 
two places. The sun takes about 
twenty minutes to go from the zenith 
of the one to the zenith of the other. 
Local time, the time at any particular 
town, is measured from the moment 
of noon at that town ; and noon itself 
is when the sun comes to the me- 
ridian of that place. Hence Fal- 
mouth noon is twenty minutes after 
London noon, Falmouth midnight 
twenty minutes after London mid- 
night; and so on. When it is ten 
minutes after midnight, on the morn- 
ing of Sunday, the 1st of January, in 
London, it is ten minutes before mid- 
night, on Saturday, the 31st of De- 
cember, at Falmouth. It is a Sab- 
bath at the one place, a working-day 
at the other. That particular mo- 
ment of absolute time is in the year 
1865 at the one, and 1864 at the 
other. Therefore, we see, it might 
become a ticklish point in what year a 
man died, solely on account of this 
question of longitude, irrespective of 
any wrong-going or wrong-doing of 
clocks, or of any other doubtful points 
whatever. Sooner or later this ques- 
tion will have to be attended to. In 
all our chief towns, nearly all our 
towns indeed, the railway-station clocks 
mark Greenwich time, or, as it is 
called, " railway time ;" the church 
clocks generally mark local tune ; and 
some commercial clocks, to serve all 
parties, mark both kinds of time on 
the same dial-face, by the aid of an 
additional index hand. Railway time 
is gradually beating local time ; and 

the law will by-and-by have to settle 
which shall be used as the standard in 
determining the moment of important 
events. Some of the steamers plying 
between England and Ireland use 
Greenwich time in notifying the de- 
partures from the English port, and 
Dublin time in notifying those from 
the Irish port; a method singularly 
embarrassing to a traveller who is in 
the habit of relying on his own watch. 
Does a sailor get more prog, more 
grog, more pay, within a given space 
of absolute time when coming from 
America to England, or when going 
from England to America ? The dif- 
ference is far too slight to attract 
either his attention or that of his em- 
ployers ; yet it really is the case that 
he obtains more good things in the 
former of these cases than in the lat- 
ter. His days are shorter on the 
homeward than on the outward voy- 
age ; and if he receive so much pro- 
visions and pay per day, he interprets 
day as it is to him on shipboard. 
When in harbor, say at Liverpool, a 
day is, to him as to every one else 
who is stationary like himself, a pe- 
riod of definite length ; but when he 
travels Eastward or Westward, his 
days are variable in length. When 
he travels West, he and the sun run a 
race; the sun of course beats; but 
the sailor accomplishes a little, and 
the sun has to fetch up that little be- 
fore he can complete what foot-racers 
call a lap. In other words, there is a 
longer absolute time between noon 
and noon to the sailor going West, 
than to the sailor ashore. When he 
travels East, on the contrary, he and 
the sun run toward each other ; inso- 
much that there is less absolute time 
in the period between his Monday's 
noon and Tuesday's noon than when 
he was ashore. The ship's noon is 
usually dinner-time for the sailors ; 
and the interval between that and the 
next noon (measured by the sun, not 
by the chronometer) varies in length 
through the causes just noticed. Once 
now and then there are facts recorded 
in the newspapers which bring this 


The Nick of Time. 

truth into prominence a truth de- 
monstrable enough in science, but not 
very familiar to the general public. 
When the Great Eastern made her 
first veritable voyage across the At- 
lantic in June, 1860, she left South- 
ampton on the 17th, and reached New 
York on the 28th. As the ship was 
going West, more or less, all the 
while, she was going with or rather 
after the sun ; the interval was great- 
er between noon and noon than when 
the ship was anchored off Southamp- 
ton ; and the so-called eleven days of 
the voyage were eleven long days. 
As it was important, in reference to a 
problem in steam navigation, to know 
how many revolutions the paddles 
made in a given time, to test the power 
of the mighty ship, it was necessary to 
bear in mind that the ship's day was 
longer than a shore day ; and it was 
found that, taking latitude and longi- 
tude into account, the day on which 
the greatest run was made was nearly 
twenty-four and a half hours long; 
the ship's day was equal to half an 
hour more than a landsman's day. 
The other days varied from twenty- 
four to twenty-four and a half. On 
the return voyage all this was reversed ; 
the ship met the sun, the days were 
less than twenty-four ordinary hours 
long, and the calculations had to be 
modified in consequence. The sailors, 
too, got more food in a homeward 
week than an outward week, owing to 
the intervals between the meals being 
shorter albeit, their appetites may 
not have been cognizant of the differ- 

And this brings us back to our hy- 
pothetical Mullets. Josiah died at noon 
(Sydney time), and Jasper died on the 
same day at noon (Greenwich time). 
Which died first? Sydney, although 
not quite at the other side of the world, 
is nearly so ; it is ten hours of longi- 
tude Eastward of Greenwich ; the sun 
rises there ten hours earlier than with 
us. It is nearly bed-time with Sydney 
folks when our artisans strike work for 
dinner. There would, therefore, be 
a reasonable ground for saying that 

Josiah died first. But had it been 
New Zealand, a curious question might 
arise. Otago, and some other of the 
settlements in those islands, are so 
near the antipodes of Greenwich, that 
they may either be called eleven and 
three-quarter hours East, or twelve 
and a quarter hours West, of Green- 
wich, according as we suppose the 
navigator to go round the Cape of 
Good Hope or round Cape Horn. At 
six in the morning in London, it is 
about six in the evening at New Zea- 
land. But of which day? When it 
is Monday morning in London, is it 
Sunday evening or Monday evening 
in New Zealand ? This question is 
not so easy to solve as might be sup- 
posed. When a ship called at Pitcairn 
Island several years ago, to visit the 
singular little community that had de- 
scended from the mutineers of the 
Bounty, the captain was surprised to 
find exactly one day difference between 
his ship's reckoning and that of the isl- 
anders; what was Monday, the 26th, 
to the one, was Tuesday, the 27th, to 
the other. A voyage East had been 
the origin of one reckoning, a voyage 
West that of the other. Not unlikely 
we should have to go back to the voy- 
age of the Bounty itself, seventy-seven 
years ago, to get to the real origin of 
the Pitcairners' reckoning. How it 
may be with the English settlers in 
New Zealand, we feel by no means 
certain. If the present reckoning be- 
gan with some voyage made round 
Cape Horn, then our Monday morn- 
ing is New Zealand Sunday evening ; 
but if with some voyage made round 
the Cape of Good Hope, then our 
Monday morning is New Zealand 
Monday evening. Probabilities are 
perhaps in favor of the latter sup- 
position. We need not ask, " What's 
o'clock at New Zealand ?" for that can 
be ascertained to a minute by counting 
the difference of longitude ; but to ask, 
"What day of the week and of the 
month is it at New Zealand?" is a 
question that might, for aught we can 
see, involve very important legal con- 

fiecent Discoveries in the Catacombs. 


From the Dublin Review. 


The chromo-lithographic press, es- 
tablished at Rome by the munificence 
of Pius IX., has issued its first publi- 
cation, four sheets in large folio, 
Imagines Selectee Deiparce Virginis 
in Ccemeteriis Suburbanis Udo depictce, 
with about twenty pages of text from 
the pen of the Cavaliere G. B. de 
Rossi. The subject and the author 
are amply sufficient to recommend 
them to the Christian archaeologist, 
and the work of the artists employed 
is in every way worthy of both. It 
is by no means an uncommon idea, 
even among Catholics who have visited 
Rome and done the catacombs, that 
our Blessed Lady does not hold any 
prominent place in the decorations of 
those subterranean cemeteries. Prot- 
estant tourists often boldly publish 
that she is nowhere to be found there. 
The present publication will suffice to 
show, even to those who never leave 
their own homes, the falsehood of this 
statement and impression. De Rossi 
has here set before us a selection of 
four different representations of Holy 
Mary, as she appears in that earliest 
monument of the Christian Church; 
and, in illustrating these, he has taken 
occasion to mention a score or two of 
others. Moreover, he has vindicated 
for them an antiquity and an impor- 
tance far beyond what we were pre- 
pared to expect ; and those who have 
ever either made personal acquaintance 
with him, or have studied his former 
writings, well know how far removed 
he is from anything like uncritical and 
enthusiastic exaggerations. Even such 
writers as Mr. Burgon (" Letters from 
Rome") cannot refrain from bearing 
testimony to his learning, moderation, 
and candor; they praise him, often 
by way of contrast with some Jesuit 
or other clerical exponent of the 
mysteries of the catacombs, for all 
those qualities which are calculated to 


inspire us with confidence in his inter- 
pretations of any nice points of Chris- 
tian archaeology. But we fear his 
Protestant admirers will be led to 
lower their tone of admiration for him, 
and henceforward to discover some 
flaw in his powers of criticism, when 
they find him, as in these pages, 
gravely maintaining, concerning a 
particular representation of the Ma- 
donna hi the catacombs, that it is of 
Apostolic, or quasi- Apostolic antiquity. 
It is a painting on the vaulted roof of 
an arcosolium in the cemetery of St. 
Priscilla, and it is reproduced in the 
work before us in its original size. 
The Blessed Virgin sits, her head 
partially covered by a short slight 
veil, holding the Divine Infant in her 
arms ; opposite to her stands a man, 
holding in one hand a volume, and 
with the other pointing to a star which 
appears between the two figures. 
This star almost always accompanies 
our Blessed Lady in ancient paintings 
or sculptures, wherever she is repre- 
sented either with the Magi offering 
their gifts, or by the manger's side 
with the ox and the ass ; but with a 
single figure, as in the present instance, 
it is unusual. Archaeologists will pro- 
bably differ in their interpretation of 
this figure ; the most obvious conjecture 
would, of course, fix on St. Joseph; 
there seem to be solid reasons, how- 
ever, for preferring (with De Rossi) 
the prophet Isaias, whose predictions 
concerning the Messias abound with 
imagery borrowed from light, and who 
may be identified on an old Christian 
glass by the superscription of his 
name. But this question, interesting 
as it is, is not so important as the 
probable date of the painting itself; 
and here no abridgment or analysis of' 
De Rossi's arguments can do justice 
to the moderation, yet irresistible force, 
with which he accumulates proofs of" 


Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs. 

the conclusion we have already stated, 
viz., that the painting was executed, if 
not in Apostolic times and as it were 
under the very eyes of the Apostles 
themselves, yet certainly within the 
first 150 years of the Christian era. 
He first bids us carefully to study 
the art displayed in the design and 
execution of the painting; he com- 
pares it with the decorations of the 
famous Pagan tombs discovered on the 
Via Latina in 1858, and which are 
referred to the times of the Anton- 
inuses ; with the paintings in the pon- 
tifical cubiculum in the cemetery of St. 
Callixtus, and with others more re- 
cently discovered in the cemetery of 
Pretextatus, to both of which a very 
high antiquity is conceded by all com- 
petent judges ; and he justly argues 
that the more classical style of the paint- 
ing now under examination obliges us to 
assign to it a still earlier date. Next, 
he shows that the catacomb in which 
it appears was one of the oldest, St. 
Priscilla, from whom it receives its 
name, having been the mother of 
Pudens and a contemporary of the 
Apostles (the impress of a seal, with 
the name Pudens Felix, is repeated 
several times on the mortar round the 
edge of a grave in this cemetery) ; 
nay, further still, it can be shown that 
the tombs of Sts. Pudentiana and 
Praxedes, and therefore, probably, of 
their father St. Pudens himself, were 
in the immediate neighborhood of the 
very chapel in which this Madonna is 
to be seen ; moreover, the inscriptions 
which are found there bear manifest 
tokens of a higher antiquity than can 
be claimed by any others from the 
catacombs: there is the complete 
triple nomenclature of pagan times, 
e. g., Titus Flavius Felicissimus ; the 
epitaphs are not even in the usual 
form, in pace, but simply the Apostolic 
salutation, Pax tecum, Pax tibi ; and 
finally, the greater number of them 
are not cut on stone or marble slabs, 
but written with red paint on the tiles 
which close the graves a mode of 
inscription of which not a single ex- 
ample, we believe, has hitherto been 

found in any other part of the cata- 
combs. This is a mere outline of the 
arguments by which De Rossi estab- 
lishes his conclusion respecting the 
age of this painting, and they are not 
even exhibited in their full force in 
the present publication at all. For a 
more copious induction of facts, and a 
more complete elucidation both of the 
history and topography of the cata- 
combs, we must be content to wait till 
the author's larger work on Roma 
Sotterranea shall appear. 

The most recent painting of the 
Madonna which De Rossi has here 
published is that with which our 
readers will be the most familiar. It 
is the one to which the late Father 
Marchi, S. J., never failed to introduce 
every visitor to the catacomb of St. 
Agnes, and has been reproduced in 
various works ; the Holy Mother with 
her hands outstretched in prayer, the 
Divine Infant on her bosom, and the 
Christian monogram on either side of 
her and turned toward her. This 
last particular naturally directs our 
thoughts to the fourth century as the 
date of this work ; and the absence of 
the nimbus and some other indications 
lead our author to fix the earlier half 
of the century in preference to the 
later. Between these two limits, then, 
of the first or second, and the fourth 
century, he would place the two others 
which are now published ; he distin- 
guishes them more doubtfully, as be- 
longing respectively to the first and 
second half of the third century. In 
one, from the cemetery of Domitilla, 
the Blessed Virgin sits holding the 
Holy Child on her lap, whilst four 
Magi offer their gifts ; the other, from 
the catacomb of Sts. Peter and Mar- 
cellinus, represents the same scene, 
but with two Magi only. In both 
there is the same departure from the 
ancient tradition of the number of the 
wise men, and from the same cause, 
viz., the desire to give a proper 
balance and proportion to the two 
sides of the picture, the Virgin occu- 
pying the middle place. Indeed, in 
one of them, it is still possible to trace 

Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs. 


the original sketch of the artist, 
designing another arrangement with 
the three figures only ; but the result 
did not promise to be satisfactory, and 
he did what thousands of his craft 
have continued to do ever since, sacri- 
ficed historic truth to the exigencies 
of his art. 

We trust our readers will be in- 
duced to get this valuable work and to 
study it for themselves ; the text may 
be procured either in French or in 
Italian, so that it is readily accessible 
to all. At the same time we would 
take the opportunity of introducing to 
them another work by the same inde- 
fatigable author, which is also pub- 
lished both in French and in Italian. 
At least, such is the announcement of a 
prospectus now lying before us, which 
states that the French translation is 
published by Vives, in Paris. We 
have ourselves only seen the original 
Italian. It is a short monthly period- 
ical, with illustrations, Bollettino di 
Archeologia Cristiana, and is addressed 
not merely to savans, Fellows of Royal 
Societies, and the like, but rather to 
all educated men who care for the his- 
tory of their religion and are capable 
of appreciating its evidences. De 
Rossi claims for the recent discoveries 
in the Roman catacombs the very 
highest place among the scientific 
events of the day which have an im- 
portant religious bearing, and we think 
that the justice of his plea must be ad- 
mitted. Unfortunately, however, the 
vastness of the subject, the multiplied 
engagements of the author, and (not 
least) the political vicissitudes of the 
times, have hitherto prevented the 
publication of these discoveries in a 
complete and extended form. We are 
happy to know that the work is satis- 
factorily progressing ; but meanwhile 
he has been persuaded by the sugges- 
tions of many friends, and by the con- 
venience of the thing itself, to publish 
this monthly periodical, which will 
keep us au courant with the most im- 
portant additions that are being made 
from time to time to our knowledge of 
those precious memorials of primitive 

Christianity, and also supply much in- 
teresting information on other archaeo- 
logical matters. In these pages the 
reader is allowed to accompany, as it 
were, the author himself in his sub- 
terranean researches, to assist at his 
discoveries, to trace the happy but 
doubtful conjecture of a moment 
through all its gradual stages, until it 
reaches the moral certainty of a con- 
clusion which can no longer be called 
in question ; <?. ^., the author gives us a 
portion of a lecture which he delivered 
on July 3, 1852, to the Roman Ponti- 
fical Academy of Archaeology. In 
this lecture he maintained, in opposi- 
tion to the usual nomenclature of the 
catacombs, and entirely on the strength 
of certain topographical observations, 
that a particular cemetery, into which 
a very partial opening had been made 
in 1848, was that anciently called by 
the name of Pretextatus, and in which 
were buried St. Januarius, the eldest 
of the seven sons of St. Felicitas, Fe- 
licissimus and Agapitus, deacons of St. 
Sixtus, Pope Urban, Quirinus, and 
other famous martyrs. Five years 
passed away, and this opinion had 
been neither confirmed nor refuted; 
but in 1857, excavations undertaken 
for another purpose introduced our* 
author into a crypt of this cemetery, 
of unusual size and richness of orna- 
ment, where one of the loculi bore an 
inscription on the mortar which had 
secured the grave-stone, invoking the 
assistance of "Januarius, Agatop us (for 
Agapitus), and Felicissimus, mar- 
tyrs !" This, of course, was a strong 
confirmation of the conjecture which 
had been published so long before; 
but this was all which he could pro- 
duce in the first number of his Bollet,- 
tino in January, 1863. In the second 
number he could add that, as he was 
going to press (February 21), small 
fragments of an inscription on marble 
had been disinterred from the same 
place, of which only single letters had 
yet been found, but which, he did not 
hesitate to say, had been written by 
Pope Damasus and contained his 
name, as well as the name of St. Jan- 


Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs. 

uarius. In March he published the 
twelve or fourteen letters which had 
been discovered, arranging them in 
the place he supposed them to have 
occupied in the inscription, which he 
conjecturally restored, and which con- 
sisted altogether of more than forty 
letters. In ^pril he was able still 
further to add, that they had now re- 
covered other portions ; amongst the 
rest, a whole word, or rather the con- 
traction of a word (episcop. for epis- 
copus), exactly in accordance with 
his conjecture, though, at the time he 
made the conjecture, only half of one 
of the letters had yet come to light. 

We need not pursue the subject 
further. Enough has been said to 
satisfy those of our readers who have 
any acquaintance with the catacombs, 
both as to the kind and the degree of 
interest and importance which belong 
to this publication. Its intelligence, 
however, is by no means confined to 
the catacombs. The basilica of San 
Clemente ; the recent excavations at 
San Lorenzo, fuori le mura; the post- 
script of St. Pamphilus the Martyr at 
the end of one of his manuscript copies 
of the Bible, reproduced in the Codex 
Sinaiticus lately published by Tischen- 
dorf ; the arch of Constantine; ancient 
scribblings on the wall (graffiti) of 
the palace of the Caesars on the Pala- 
tine, etc., etc., are subjects of able and 
learned articles in the several numbers 
we have received. With reference to 
the graffiti, one singular circumstance 
mentioned by De Rossi is worth re- 
peating here. Most of our readers 
are probably acquainted with the graf- 
fiti from this place, published by P. 
Garrucci, in which one Alessamenus 
is ridiculed for worshipping as his God 
the figure of a man, but with the head 
of an ass, nailed to a cross. P. Gar- 
rucci had very reasonably conjectured 
that this was intended as a blasphemous 
caricature of the Christian worship; 
and recently other graffiti in the very 
same place have been discovered with 
the title Episcopus, apparently given 
in ridicule to some Christian youth; 
for that the room on whose walls these 

scribblings appear was used for educa- 
tional purposes is abundantly proved 
by the numerous inscriptions an- 
nouncing that such or such a one exit 
de pcedagogio. We seem, therefore, 
in deciphering these rude scrawls, to 
assist, as it were, at one of the minor 
scenes of that great struggle between 
paganism and Christianity, whereof 
the sufferings of the early martyrs, the 
apologies of Justin Martyr, etc., were 
only another but more public and his- 
torical phase. History tells us that 
Caracalla, when a boy, saw one of 
his companions beaten because he 
professed the Christian faith. These 
graffiti seem to teach us that there 
were many others of the same tender 
age, de domo G<z$aris, who suffered 
more or less of persecution for the 
same cause. Other interesting details 
of the same struggle have been brought 
together by De Rossi, carefully gleaned 
from the patrician names which appear 
on some of the ancient grave-stones, 
sometimes as belonging to young vir- 
gins or widows who had dedicated 
themselves to the service of Christ 
under the discipline of a religious com- 
munity. That such a community was 
to be found early in the fifth century, 
in the immediate neighborhood of S. 
Lorenzo fuori le mura, or, at least, that 
the members of such a community 
were always buried about that time in 
that cemetery, is one of the circum- 
stances which may be said to be clear- 
ly proved by the recent discoveries. 
The proofs are too numerous and min- 
ute for abridgment, but the student 
will be interested in examining them 
as they appear in the Bollettino. 

Another feature in this archaeological 
publication is its convenience as a sup- 
plement to the volume of Christian 
Inscriptions published by the same 
author. That volume, as our readers 
are already aware, contains only such 
inscriptions of the first six centuries 
as bear a distinct chronological note 
by the names of the chief magistrates, 
or in some other way. Additional 
specimens of these are not unfrequent- 
ly discovered in the excavations still 

Recent Discoveries in the Catacombs. 


in progress on various sides of the 
city ; and these De Rossi is careful to 
chronicle, and generally also to illus- 
lustrate by notes, in the pages of his 
Bollettino. The chief value of these 
additions, perhaps, is to be found in 
the corroboration they uniformly give 
to the conclusions which De Rossi had 
already deduced, the canons of chron- 
ological distinction and distribution 
which he had established, from the 
larger collection of inscriptions in the 
work referred to whether as to the 
style of writing or of diction and sen- 
timents, etc. canons, the full import- 
ance of which will only be recognized 
when he shall have published the sec- 
ond volume of the collection of epitaphs 
bearing upon questions of Christian 
doctrine and practice. 

In the earlier numbers of the Bollet- 
tino for the present year there is a 
very interesting account of the recent 
discoveries in the Ambrosian basilica 
of Milan, where there seems no room 
to doubt but that they have brought to 
light the very sarcophagus in which 
the relics of the gre^ St. Ambrose, as 
well as those of the martyrs Sts. Ger- 
vasius and Protasius, have rested for 
more than ten centuries. The history 
of the discovery is too long to be in- 
serted here, and too interesting to be 
abridged. One circumstance, however, 
connected with it is too important to 
be omitted. The sarcophagus itself 
has not yet, we believe, been opened ; 
but, from the two sepulchres below and 
on either side of it, where the bishop 
and the martyrs were originally de- 
posited, and where they remained until 
their translation in the ninth century, 

many valuable relics have been gleaned. 
We will only mention one of them 
viz., portions of an ampulla such as 
are found in the catacombs, and con- 
cerning which Dr.- Biraghi, the libra- 
rian of the Bibliotheca Ambrosiana 
(to whose zeal we are indebted for the 
whole discovery, and for the account 
of it to his learning), assures us that 
it has been subjected to a chemical 
examination, and is shown to have 
contained blood. This, as De Rossi 
truly remarks, is the most notable in- 
stance which has yet come before us 
of this ampulla having been placed in 
the sepulchre of famous and historical 
martyrs, and it is of very special im- 
portance as throwing a flood of light 
on those words of St. Ambrose about 
these relics so often quoted in the 
controversy on this subject Sanguine, 
tumulus madet; apparent cruoris tri- 
umphales notes; inviolatce reliquice loco 
suo et ordine repertce. And it is cer- 
tainly singular that this discovery 
should have been made at a moment 
when the validity of these ampullce, as 
sure signs of martyrdom, has been so 
much called in question. The Sacred 
Congregation of Rites had only recent- 
ly reaffirmed their former sentence on 
this matter; and this fact now comes 
most opportunely from Milan to add 
further weight to their decision, by 
giving a historical basis to an opinion 
which before had been thought by 
some rather to rest upon theory and 
conjecture. It will go far, we should 
think, toward rehabilitating in the minds 
of Christian archseologists the pious 
belief of former ages upon this subject, 
wherever it may have been shaken. 





The Mason-Spider of Corfu. A corre- 
spondent of a London journal gives an 
interesting account of certain habits of 
this insect, which belongs to the myga- 
lidce family. The mygales are chiefly 
found in hot climates, and include the 
largest specimens of spiders known. 
They are called mason-spiders, from the 
curious manner in which they build 
their houses. " The mygale nest," says 
the correspondent, " varies much in 
size, from one inch in length to three or 
four, and even six or seven inches. In 
the West Indies, where the spiders are 
crab-like, the insects measure six inches 
over. One nest, especially mentioned 
and minutely described by Mr. Oudo- 
uin, was three inches and a quarter long 
and eight- tenths of an incli wide. The 
nest, of cylindrical form, is made by 
boring into the earth ; making his exca- 
vation, the next thing, having decided 
upon the dimensions of his habitation, 
is to furnish it, and most beautiful are 
his paper-hangings. The whole of the 
interior is lined with the softest possi- 
ble silk, a tissue which the 'major do- 
mo' spins all over the apartment until 
it is padded to a sufficient thickness and 
made soft enough. Silk lining like this 
gives the idea of the mygale having a 
luxurious turn. This done, and the in- 
terior finished, the mygale shows his 
peculiarity by taking steps to keep out 
the o Tro/Uoi of intruders by making not 
only a door, and that self-closing, but a 
door with swinging hinge, and some- 
times one at each end of his nest, which 
shows that he has a very good opinion 
of his own work within, and knows how 
to take care of it. Not having met with 
any case where any one had seen the 
positive operation of making the door 
of these nests, I thought the details 
would be interesting, the more so as 
they corroborated preconceived ideas 
of their construction, and were noticed 
by a friend quartered at Corfu, who 
brought home the nest with him. The 
following is the description he gave me : 

" Lying out in one of the sandy pla- 
teaux covered with olive groves with 
which Corfu abounds, enjoying his cigar 
and lounging about in the sandy soil, he 

came to a spider's nest. Examining it, 
he found the lid or door would not open, 
and seemed held firmly within by the 
proprietor as if Jack were at home so 
he applied forthwith the leverage of a 
knife-blade, upon which the inmate re- 
tired to his inner chamber. The aggres- 
sor decided not to disturb him any more 
that day, but marking the place , most 
necessary thing to do thought he would 
explore further the next day, if fine. 

" Accordingly, the next day my i'riend 
called early, intending to take off the 
door and to watch the progress of res- 
toration, and how it would be accom- 
plished. After waiting a long time, out 
came Monsieur Mygale, and looking 
carefully round, and finding all quiet, 
commenced operations by running his 
web backward and forward across the 
orifice of his nest, till there was a layer 
of silken web ; upon this he ejected a 
gluten, over which he scratched the fine 
sand in the immediate neighborhood of 
his nest ; this done, he again set to 
work webbing, then gluten, sand ; then 
again web, gluten, sand, about six times ; 
this occupied in all about eight hours. 
But the puzzling part was that this time 
he was cementing and building himself 
out from his own mansion, when, to the 
astonishment and delight of his anxious 
looker-on, he began the finishing stroke 
by cutting and forming the door by fix- 
ing his hind legs in the centre of the 
new covering, and from these as a cen- 
tre he began cutting with his jaws right 
through the door he had made, striking 
a clear circle round, and leaving about 
one-eighth of the circumference as a 
hinge. This done, he lifted the door up 
and walked in. My friend then tried to 
open the door with a knife, but the in- 
sect pulled it tight from the inside. He 
therefore dug round him and took him 
off bodily mygale and nest complete. 
The hinge is most carefully and beauti- 
fully formed ; and there appears to be 
an important object in view when the 
spider covers over the whole of the ori- 
fice, for immediately the door is raised 
it springs back as soon as released ; and 
this is caused by the elasticity of the 
web on the hinge and the peculiar form- 
ation of the lid or door, which is made 
thicker on the lower side, so that its 


own weight helps it to be self-closing, 
and the rabbeting of the door is wonder- 
fully surfaced. Bolts and Chub locks 
with a latch-key the mygale family do 
not possess, but as a substitute the 
lower part of the door has clawholding 
holes, so that a bird's beak or other 
lever being used, Mons. Mygale holds 
on to the door by these, and with his 
legs against the sides of his house, 
offers immense resistance against all 

Instinct of Insects. One of the regular 
course of free scientific lectures deliv- 
ered at the Paris Sorbonne this last 
winter, under the auspices of the Minis- 
ter of Public Instruction, was by the 
distinguished naturalist M. Milne-Ed- 
wards, on the instinct and intelligence 
of animals. Taking for his text the say- 
ing of Linnseus, Natura maxime miranda 
in minimis, he spoke principally of the 
instinct of insects, and especially of sol- 
itary bees. These hymenoptera, in fact, 
afford one of the most striking examples 
known of that faculty which impels an 
animal, either for its own preservation 
or for the preservation and development 
of its offspring, to perform the most com- 
plicated and intelligent actions, readily 
and skilfully, yet without having learned 
how to do them. One species, the car- 
penter-bee (xylocopa), bores in the trunks 
of trees galleries running first horizon- 
tally and then vertically to a considerable 
depth. She then collects a quantity of 
wax and honey. The honey she kneads 
into a little ball of alimentary matter, in 
the midst of which she deposits her 
first egg. With the wax she constructs 
a horizontal partition, formed of concen- 
tric annular layers ; this encloses the 
cell. On this partition she deposits a 
second egg, enclosed like the first in the 
provision destined for the support of 
the future larva ; and over it builds an- 
other partition of wax ; and so on, to the 
top of the vertical cavity. Then she 
dies ; she never sees her offspring. The 
latter, so long as they remain larvae, feed 
upon the honey which the maternal fore- 
sight provided for them ; and so soon as 
they have passed through their second 
metamorphosis and become winged in- 
sects, issue forth from their retreat, to 
perform in their turn a similar labor. 

Another species of solitary bee, whose 
larva is carnivorous, resorts to a still 
more wonderful, but, it must be con- 
fessed, very cruel, expedient to supply 

the worm-like progeny with food. She 
constructs a gallery or tunnel in the 
earth, and crowns it with a chimney 
curved somewhat like a crosier, so as 
to keep out the rain. Then she goes 
a-huntiug, and brings back to her den a 
number of caterpillars. If she kills 
them at once, they will spoil before her 
eggs are hatched ; if she lets them alone, 
they will run away. What shall she do? 
She pierces the caterpillars with her 
venomous little dart, and injects into 
them a drop of poison, which Mr. 
Claude Bernard no doubt will analyze 
some day. It does not kill, it only par- 
alyzes them ; and there they lie, torpid 
and immovable, till the larvae come into 
the world and feast off the sweet and 
succulent flesh at their leisure. 

Everybody is familiar with the habits 
and wonderful industry of hive-bees, 
wasps, and ants. These insects seem to 
be governed by something more than 
blind instinct: it is hardly too much to 
say that they give indubitable signs of 
intelligence. They know how to modify 
their course according to circumstances, 
to provide against unexpected wants, to 
avert dangers, and to notify to each 
other whatever is of consequence to be 
known by their whole community. Hu- 
ber, the celebrated bee-keeper of Gene- 
va, relates the following anecdote : One 
of his hives having been devastated one 
night by a large sphinx-moth, the bees 
set to work the next morning and plas- 
tered up the door, leaving only a small 
opening which would just admit them, 
one at a time, but which the sphinx, 
with its' big body and long wings, could 
not pass. As soon as the season arrived 
when the moths terminate their short 
lives, the bees, no longer fearing an in- 
vasion, pulled down their rampart. The 
next season, as no sphinx appeared to 
trouble them, they left their door wide 

Ostrich-keeping. By late news from 
the Cape of Good Hope we learn that 
the farmers of that colony are beginning 
to find it profitable to keep flocks of 
ostriches, for the feathers of those birds 
are worth 25 sterling the pound. For 
thirty-five ostriches, there must be three 
hundred acres of grazing-ground. The 
plucking takes place once in six months ; 
the yield of feathers from each bird 
being worth from 10 to 12, 10s. The 
original cost of the young ostriches 
is said to be 5 each. Some of the 



farmers who have tried the experiment 
are of opinion that ostrich-feathers will 
pay better than any other produce of 
the colony. 

Extraordinary Inland Navigation. We 
hear from South America that a steamer 
built in England for the Peruvian ^ gov- 
ernment, for the exploration of rivers, 
has penetrated the great continent from 
the Atlantic side to a distance of ninety- 
five leagues only from the Pacific, or 
nearly all across. The vessel, which 
draws seven feet water, steamed seven 
hundred leagues up the Amazon, two 
hundred up the Ucayati, and thence into 
the Pachitea, which had never before 
been navigated except by native canoes. 
What a magnificent extent of inland 
navigation is here opened to commercial 
enterprise ! The mind becomes some- 
what bewildered in imagining the future 
of those vast river- valleys when hund- 
reds of steamers shall navigate the 
streams, trading among millions of popu- 
lation dwelling on their banks. 

Is the Sun getting Bigger ? It is known 
that various speculations have been put 
forward as to the cause or source of the 
sun's heat. Among those who consider 
that it consists in the falling of asteroids 
or meteorites into the sun, is Mr. J. R. 
Mayer, of Heilbronn, who states that 
the surface of the sun measures 115,000 
million square miles, and that the aster- 
oids falling thereon form a mass every 
minute equal in weight to from 94,000 to 
188,000 billion kilogrammes. It might 
be supposed that this enormous Shower 
would increase the mass and weight of 
the sun, and by consequence produce an 
appreciable effect on the motion of the 
planets which compose our system. For 
instance, it would shorten our year by 
a second or something less. But the 
calculations of astronomers show that 
this effect does not take place ; and Mr. 
Mayer states that to increase the appar- 
ent diameter of the sun a single second 
by the shower of asteroids would re- 
quire from 33,000 to 66,000 years. 

Teaching the Deaf and Dumb to Speak. 
Dr. Houdin, director of an institution 
for the deaf and dumb at Passy, lately 
announced to the French Academy, that 
after twenty-five years' experience he 
had proved the possibility of communi- 
cating the faculty of speech, in a certain 
degree, to deaf mutes. A commission 

appointed by the Academy and the Fac- 
ulty to investigate the subject, reports 
that the learned doctor has really suc- 
ceeded in several instances in teaching 
these unfortunate beings to speak and 
even comprehend spoken language so 
well that it is difficult to believe that 
they are not guided by the ear. The 
patients conversed with the members of 
the commission, and answered the dif- 
ferent questions put to them. They were 
found to be perfectly familiar with the 
use and mechanism of speech, though 
destitute of the sense of hearing, and 
they comprehended what was said to 
them, reading the words upon the lips 
of the speaker with a marvellous facility. 
Thus they become fit to enter into so- 
ciety and capable of receiving all man- 
ner of instruction. 

But here is another case still more 
wonderful. What would you do if you 
had to instruct and prepare for first 
communion a child who was at the same 
time deaf, dumb, and blind? The case 
is not an imaginary one ; it has occurred 
in an asylum for deaf-mutes at Notre 
Dame de Larnay, in the diocese of Poi- 
tiers. A nun was there charged with 
the instruction of a child in this unfor- 
tunate state, to whom she could appeal 
only by the sense of touch. Yet the 
child, who astonishes everybody by her 
sensibility and intelligence, has come 
by that means to a knowledge of the 
spiritual life, of God and his divine 
Son, of religion and its mysteries and 
precepts has been prepared, in fine, for 
a worthy reception of the Eucharist. 


THE past winter in New York has 
scarcely kept pace with its immediate 
predecessor in the number and merit of 
the collections of pictures opened to 
public inspection or disposed of at auc- 
tion. The unprecedented prices ob- 
tained for the really excellent collection 
of Mr. Wolfe, in Christmas week of 1863, 
seemed to have inoculated art collectors 
and dealers with what may be called a 
cacoethes vendendi, and until far into the 
succeeding summer the picture auction- 
eers were called upon to knock down 
dozens of galleries of " private gentle- 
men about to leave the country/' vary- 
ing in merit from respectable to posi- 
tively bad. In these sales the moderns 
had decidedly the best of it, the few 



"old masters" who ventured to appeal 
to the sympathies and pockets of our 
collectors being at last treated with 
proper contempt. But the prices real- 
ized by the Wolfe gallery, even when 
reduced to a specie basis, were too high 
to become a recognized standard of 
vafue, and gradually the interest in such 
sales, as well as the bids, declined, until 
the sellers became aware (the purchas- 
ers had become aware some time pre- 
vious) that the market was overstocked 
and the demand for pictures had ceased. 
The contributions of the foreign artists 
to the New York Sanitary Fair brought 
probably less than a third of the money 
that would have been obtained for them 
had they been sold in January instead 
of June, and such collections as have 
been scraped together for sale during 
the present season have met with but 
moderate pecuniary success. It is grati- 
fying to know, however, that our resi- 
dent artists, both native and foreign- 
born, have for the most part been busily 
and profitably employed, and that in 
landscape, and in some departments of 
genre, their works have not suffered in 
competition with similar ones by reput- 
able European painters. Without wish- 
ing in any respect to recommend or sug- 
gest a protective system for fostering 
native art, we cannot but rejoice that the 
overthrow of the late exaggerated prices 
for foreign works will tend to encourage 
and develop American artists. 

The principal art event in anticipation 
is the opening of next exhibition of the 
National Academy of Design in the 
building now hastening to completion at 
the corner of Fourth avenue and Twen- 
ty-third streets. It is to be hoped that 
the contributions will be worthy of the 
place and the occasion. Recent exhi- 
bitions have not been altogether credit- 
able to the Academy. 

Durand, the late president of the 
Academy, and one of our oldest and 
most careful landscape painters, has a 
characteristic work on exhibition at 
Avery's Art Agency, corner of Fourth 
street and Broadway. It is called " A 
Summer Afternoon," and is pervaded by a 
soft, pensive sentiment of rural repose. 
In the elaboration of the trees and in 
the soft, mellow distances the artist 
shows his early skill, albeit in some of 
his later pieces the timid handling in- 
separable from age is discernible. 

A collection of several hundred 
sketches and studies of no special 

merit, by Hicks, has recently been dis- 
posed of at auction. The essays of this 
gentleman in landscape are not happy, 
and the specimens in this collection had 
better, perhaps, have been excluded. 

Rossiter's pictures representing Adam 
and Eve in Paradise, now on exhibition 
in New York, have excited more remark 
than commendation. It may be said 
briefly, that they fail to do justice to 
the subject. 

Curnmings's " Historic Annals of the 
Academy of Design" have been pub- 
lished, and constitute an interesting ad- 
dition to the somewhat meagre collection 
of works illustrating American art his- 

Mr. Thomas Ball, the well-known 
sculptor of Boston, is about to depart 
for Italy, with the intention of remain- 
ing several years in Florence, and exe- 
cuting there in marble a number of 
plaster models. Among these are a life- 
size statue of Edwin Forrest in the part 
of " Coriolanus," and busts of the late 
Rev. Thomas Starr King and Edward 
Everett. The latter is sard to be an ad- 
mirable likeness. 

M. J. Heade. an American artist, for- 
merly of Boston and Providence, is pub- 
lishing in London a work upon the hum- 
ming-birds of Brazil, illustrated from 
designs by himself. 

The United States Senate was recently 
the scene of a somewhat animated de- 
bate on art matters, arising out of a 
proposition to authorize the artist Pow- 
ell to " paint a picture for the Capitol at 
a cost not to exceed $25,000." The 
scheme was defeated, chiefly through 
the opposition of Senator Sumner, who 
thought the present an improper time 
to devote so large a sum to such a pur- 

A very remarkable picture by Gerdme, 
the most original ,arid realistic of living 
French painters, is now on exhibition at 
Goupil's, in this city. It is entitled 
" The Prayer of the Arab in the Desert," 
and in a small space presents a complete 
epitome of Oriental life. 

In London the General Exhibition of 
water-color drawings, and collections of 
works of Holman Hunt, Madox Brown, 
and the late David Roberts, have recently 
been opened. The last named contains 
900 pictures, drawings, and sketches, 
showing the amazing industry of the 
artist, and his skill as a draughtsman. 

A monument to Shakespeare, from pen- 


ny subscriptions, is to be erected on 
Primrose Hill, near London. 

The sale of the celebrated Pourtales 
collection at Paris has been the all-ab- 
sorbing art topic abroad. The gallery, 
at last accounts, was daily crowded with 
representatives from all parts of Europe, 
and the prices surpassed the estimates 
of the experts. The value set upon the 
whole collection was upward of 3,000,- 
000 francs, but that sum will probably 
fall far short of the real total. The 
bronzes and terra-cotta occupied four 
days, and produced over 150,000 francs. 
The following are among the most re- 
markable items : A very small statuette 
of Jupiter, found at Besancon in 1820, 
8,000 francs ; another small statuette of 
the same, seated, formerly in the Denon 
collection, 12,000 francs ; the celebrated 
statuette of Apollo, supposed to date 
from the sixth century B.C., from the 
Neri collection, 5,000 francs ; small stat- 
uette of Minerva, arms missing, found 
at Besancon, 19,200 francs ; armor found 
at Herculaneum, and presented by the 
Queen of Naples to Josephine, pur- 
chased by the Emperor for 13,000 francs ; 
a small Roman bust, supposed by Vis- 
con ti to be a Balbus, bought for the 
Louvre for 4,550 francs ; a tripod, found 
in the ruins of the town of Metapont, 
and described by Panofka, purchased 
for the Berlin gallery, 10,000 francs ; fine 
old Roman seat, in bronze, bought for 
the Louvre, 5,300 francs ; vase from 
Locres, 7,000 francs ; another vase, found 
in one of the tombs of the Vulci, 9,000 

At the sale of the collection of the 
Marquis de Lambertye, in Paris, a charm- 
ing work by Meissonier, ' Reynard in 
his Study, reading a Manuscript," was 
purchased for 12,600 francs ; had it not 
been for the effect of the Pourtales sale 
on the art market, the work would have 
fetched considerably more money. It 
was purchased of the artist himself, for 
16,000 francs, by the late marquis. An- 
other and smaller picture, not six inches 
by four, also by Meissonier, was sold on 
the same occasion subject, "Van de 
Velde in his Atelier " for 7,020 francs. 
In the same collection were four works 
by Decamps, whose pictures are in great 
request. One of these, an Eastern land- 
scape, sold for 15,500 francs ; another, a 
small work, a peasant girl in the forest, 
for 4,240 francs ; and two still smaller 
and less important works, "Tide Out, 

with Sunset," and " Gorges d'Ollioule," 
for 1,500 francs each. Three small works 
by Eugene Delacroix, a " Tiger attack- 
ing a Serpent," " Combat between Moors 
and Arabs," and "The Scotch Ballad," 
sold, respectively, for 1,820 francs, 1,300 
francs, and 2,300 francs. A minute pic- 
ture by Paul Delaroche, " Jesus on the 
Mount of Olives," sold for 2.200 francs ; 
Diogenes sitting on the edge of an im- 
mense jar, holding his lantern, by Ge- 
r6me, 1,950 francs ; and " Arnauts at 
Prayer," by the same, 3,900 francs. " The 
Beach at Trouville," by the lately de- 
ceased painter, Troyon, 4,000 francs, and 
"Feeding the Poultry," by the same, 
4,850 francs. 

At the sale of a collection of the 
works of M. Cordier, the sculptor, who 
has earned considerable popularity by 
his variegated works, composed of mar- 
bles, onyx and bronze, and variously 
tinted and decorated, a marble statue, 
called "La Belle Gallinara," sold for 
4,100 francs ; a young Kabyle child car- 
rying a branch loaded with oranges, in 
Algerian onyx and bronze, and partly 
colored, 3,000 francs ; an Arab woman, a 
statue of the same materials as the pre- 
ceding, intended to support a lamp or 
candelabrum, purchased by the Due de 
Morny for 6,825 francs. 

There is a report that the collections 
of pictures and curiosities belonging to 
the Comte de Chambord will shortly be 
dispersed by the hammer in Paris. 

The scaffolding before the north front 
of the cathedral of Notre Dame, in Paris, 
has been removed, and the fapade, with 
the magnificent Gothic window, forty 
feet in diameter, can now be seen to 
great perfection, all the rich sculptures 
having been admirably restored. 

A Paris letter says : " The celebrated 
painting of the ' Assassination of the 
Bishop of Liege,' by Eugene Delacroix, 
was recently sold at auction at 35,000 
francs. The ' Death of Ophelia,' in pen- 
cil, by the same painter, was knocked 
down for 2,020 francs, which was con- 
sidered a large sum for a sketch. ' St. 
Louis at the Bridge of Taillebourg,' in 
water-colors, fetched 3,100 francs. Some 
copper-plates engraved by Eugene Dela- 
croix himself were^likewise sold." 

At the sale of the collection of the 
Chevalier de Knyff, at Brussels, the Vir- 
gin with the host and surrounded by 
angels, by Ingres, was withdrawn at 
28,500 francs. 

Book Notices. 


Among the works of art destroyed in 
the recent conflagration of the ducal 
palace at Brunswick was the colossal 
bronze figure of Brunonia, the patron 
goddess of the town, standing in a car 
of victory, drawn by four horses. It 

was executed by Professor Howalclt and 
his sons, after a design by Rietschel. 

The colossal bronze statue of Her- 
cules, lately exhumed at Rome, has been 
safely deposited in the Vatican. 


nence Cardinal "Wiseman. 8vo., pp. 
421. New York : D. & J. Sadlier & 

Coming to us almost in the same mo- 
ment in which we hear of Cardinal Wise- 
man's death, these sermons will be read 
with a deep and peculiar interest, now 
that the eloquent lips which uttered 
them are closed for ever. Most of them 
were preached in Rome, some so long 
ago as 1827. These were addressed to 
congregations composed parly of eccle- 
siastics, partly of Catholic sojourners in 
the Eternal City, and partly of Protest- 
ants. At least one was delivered in 
Ireland in 1858. But although some of 
the discourses belong to the period of 
the author's noviceship in the pulpit, 
and between some there is an interval 
of more than thirty years, we are struck 
by no incongruity of either thought or 
style. The earliest have the finish and 
elegance of maturity ; the latest all the 
vigor and enthusiasm of youth. 

They are not controversial, and hardly 
any of them can even be called dogmatic 
sermons. They are addressed more to 
the heart than directly to the under- 
standing, although reasoning and ex- 
hortation are often so skilfully blended 
that it is hard to say where one begins 
and the other ends. They are the out- 
pourings, in fact, of a warm and loving 
heart and a full brain. The argument is 
all the more effective because the cardi- 
nal covers his frame-work of logic with 
the rich drapery of his brilliant rheto- 
ric. And yet, with all their gorgeous 
phraseology, they are characterized by 
a simplicity of thought which brings 
them down to the level of the com- 
monest intellect. 

The greater part of them were preached 

during the seasons of Lent and Advent, 
and the subjects will therefore be found 
especially appropriate to the present 
period. Here is a beautiful passage in 
reference to our Lord's agony in the 
garden : 

<{ There are plants in the luxurious East, 
my dearly beloved brethren, which men 
gash and cut, that from them may distil 
the precious balsams they contain ; but that 
is ever the most sought and valued which, 
issuing forth of its own accord, pure and 
unmixed, trickles down like tears upon the 
parent tree. And so it seems to me, we 
may without disparagement speak of the 
precious streams of our dear Redeemer's 
blood. "When forced from his side, in 
abundant flow, it came mixed with another 
mysterious fluid ; when shed by the cruel 
inflictions of his enemies, by their nails, 
their thorns, and scourges, there is a painful 
association with the brutal instruments that 
drew it. as though in some way their defile- 
ment could attaint it. But here we have 
the first yield of that saving and life-giving 
heart, gushing forth spontaneously, pure 
and untouched by the unclean hand of man, 
dropping as dew upon the ground. It is the 
first juice of the precious vine ; before the 
wine-press hath bruised its grapes, richer 
and sweeter to the loving and sympathizing 
soul, than what is afterward pressed out. 
It is every drop of it ours ; and alas, how 
painfully so ! For here no lash, no impious 
palm, no pricking thorn hath called it forth ; 
but our sins, yes, our sins, the executioners 
not of the flesh, but of the heart of Jesus, 
have driven it all out, thence to water that 
garden of sorrows ! Oh, is it not dear to 
us ; is it not gathered up by our affections, 
with far more reverence and love than by 
virgins of old was the blood of martyrs, to 
be placed for ever in the very sanctuary, yea, 
within the very altar of our hearts ?" 

From the discourse on the "Triumphs 
of the Cross," we select the closing par- 
graph : 


Book Notices. 

" blessed Jesus, may the image of these 
sacred wounds, as expressed by the cross, 
never depart from my thoughts. As it is a 
badge and privilege of the exalted office, to 
which, most unworthy, I have been raised, 
to wear ever upon my breast the figure of 
that cross, and in it, as in a holy shrine, a 
1'raement of that blessed tree whereon thou 
didst hang on Golgotha, so much more let 
the lively image of thee crucified dwell 
within my bosom, and be the source from 
which shall proceed every thought, and 
word, and action of my ministry ! Let me 
preach thee, and thee crucified, not the 
plausible doctrines of worldly virtue and 
human philosophy. In prayer and medita- 
tion let me ever have before me thy likeness. 
as thou stretchest forth thine arms to invite 
us to seek mercy and to draw us into thine 
embrace. Let my Thabor be on Calvary ; 
there it is best for me to dwell. There thou 
hast prepared three tabernacles ; one for 
such as, like Magdalen, have offended much, 
but love to weep at thy blessed feet; one for 
those who, like John, have wavered in 
steadfastness for a moment, but long again 
to rest their head upon thy bosom ; and one 
whereinto only she may enter whose love 
burns without a reproach, whose heart, al- 
ways one with thine, finds its home in the 
centre of thine, fibre intertwined with fibre, 
till both are melted into one in that furnace 
of sympathetic love. With these favorites 
of the cross, let me ever, blessed Saviour, 
remain in meditation and prayer, and loving 
affection for thy holy rood. I will venerate 
its very substance, whenever presented to 
me, with deep and solemn reverence. I will 
honor its image, wherever offered to me, 
with lowly and respectful homage. But 
still more I will hallow and love its spirit 
and inward form, impressed on the heart, 
and shown forth in the holiness of life. 
And oh ! divine Redeemer, from thy cross, 
thy true mercy-seat, look down in compas- 
sion upon this thy people. Pour forth 
thence abundantly the streams of bless- 
ing, which flow from thy sacred wounds. 
Accomplish within them, during this week 
of forgiveness, the work which holy men 
have so well begun,* that all may worthily 
partake of thy Paschal feast. Plant thy 
cross in every heart ; may each one embrace 
it in life, may it embrace him in death; and 
may it be a beacon of salvation to his de- 
parting soul, a crown of glory to his im- 
mortal spirit 1 Amen. " 

What follows is from the sermon on 
the "Veneration of the Blessed Vir- 

" If, then, any one shall accuse me of 
wasting upon the mother of my Saviour 

* Alluding to the mission just closed by the 
Fathers of the Institute of Cliarity. 

feelings and affections which he hath jeal- 
ously reserved for himself. I will appeal 
from the charge to his judgment, and lay 
the cause before him, at any stage of his 
blessed life. I will go unto him at the crib 
of Bethlehem, and acknowledge that, while, 
with the kings of the East, I have presented 
to him all my gold and frankincense and 
myrrh, I have ventured, with the shepherds, 
to present an humbler oblation of respect to 
her who was enduring the winter's frost in 
an unsheltered stable, entirely for his sake. 
Or I will meet him, as the holy fugitives re- 
pose on their desert-path to Egypt, and con- 
fess that, knowing from the example of 
Agar, how a mother cast forth from her 
house into the wilderness, for her infant's 
sake, only loves it the more, and needs an 
angel to comfort her in her anguish (Gen. 
xxi. 17), I have not restrained my eyes from 
her whose fatigues and pain were a hundred- 
fold increased by his, when I have sympa- 
thized with him in this his early flight, en- 
dured for my sins. Or I will approach a 
more awful tribunal, and step to the foot of 
his cross, and own to him, that while I 
have adored his wounds, and stirred up in 
my breast my deepest feelings of grief and 
commiseration for what I have made him 
suffer, my thoughts could not refrain from 
sometimes glancing toward her whom I saw 
resignedly standing at his feet, and sharing 
his sorrows ; and that, knowing how much 
Respha endured while sitting opposite to her 
children justly crucified by command of God 
(2 Kings xxi. 10), I had felt far greater 
compassion for her, and had not withheld 
the emotions, which nature itself dictated, 
of love, and veneration, and devout affec- 
tion toward her. And to the judgment of 
such a son I will gladly bow, and his meek 
mouth shall speak my sentence, and I will 
not fear it. For I have already heard it 
from the cross, addressed to me, to you, to 
all, as he said : ' Woman, behold thy son ; ' 
and again : ' Behold thy mother.' (John 
xix. 26, 27.)" 

An appendix to the volume contains 
six beautiful pastorals, on devotion to 
the Sacred Heart of Jesus, in connection 
with education. 

mings, D.D., LL.D., of St. Stephen's 
Church, New York City. 12mo., pp. 
330. New York : P. O'Shea. 

We cannot better state the purpose 
of this excellent little book than in the 
words of the author's preface : " Spir- 
itual Progress is a familiar exposition of 
Catholic morality, which has for its ob- 
ject to tell people of common intelli- 
gence what they are expected to do in 

Boole Notices. 


order to be good Christians, and how 
they shall do it, and the results that 
will follow." It is written not for those 
strong, heroic souls, whose faith is firm, 
whose devotion is ardent, and who crave 
strong spiritual food ; but for that nu- 
merous class of weak Christians, recent 
converts, honest inquirers, and fervent 
but uninstructed Catholics, who are not 
yet prepared to accept the more diffi- 
cult counsels of perfection; who are 
ready perhaps to do what God says they 
must do ; but need a little training be- 
fore they can be brought to do any 
more. To put an ascetic work into the 
hands of such persons would often be 
like giving beef to a young baby : it 
would hurt, not help them. Dr. Cum- 
mings's book, in fact, is a sort of spirit- 
ual primer for the use of those who are 
just beginning their spiritual education. 
It is simple, straightforward, and prac- 
tical. There is a charm in the style so 
clear, so terse, often almost epigrammatic, 
and sometimes rising to the poetical 
which carries the reader along in spite 
of himself. The tone is not conversa- 
tional ; 3 r et when you read, it seems as 
if you were not so much reading as lis- 
tening. And that argues great literary 

Here is an extract from the chapter 
on "Faults of Conversation:" 

" Gossip is the bane of conversation, for it 
is the name under which injustice makes 
her entrance into society. There is an ele- 
ment in the breast of the most civilized 
communities, even in times of great refine- 
ment, that explains how man may, under 
certain circumstances, become a cannibal. 
It is exhibited in the turns our humor takes 
in conversation. We are not ill-natured, 
nor disposed to lay a straw in the way of 
any one who has not injured us, and yet, 
when spurred on by the stimulus of talking 
and being talked to, we can bring ourselves 
to mimic, revile, and misrepresent others, 
traduce and destroy their good name, reveal 
their secrets, and proclaim their faults ; and 
all this merely to follow the lead of others, 
or for the sake of appearing facetious and 
amusing, or for the purpose of building up 
ourselves by running down those whom in 
our hearts we know and believe to be better 
than we are But as the gos- 
sip attacks the absent because the absent 
cannot defend himself or herself, shall not we r 
dear readers, form a society to assist the weak 
and the persecuted? Shall we not enter 
into a compact to defend those who cannot 
defend themselves? Let us answer as a 
love of fair play suggests. If we are at all 

influenced by regard for Christian charity, 
let us remember that it takes two to carry 
on a conversation against our neighbor, and 
tbat if our visitor is guilty of being a gossip, 
a false witness, or a detractor, we are also 
guilty by consenting to officiate as listeners." 

In a chapter on the " Schooling of the 
Imagination," Dr. Cummings shows how 
the imaginative faculty may be made to 
serve the cause of religion, especially in 
the practice of meditation, and how dan- 
gerous it becomes when it is not held 
in check : 

" We hear songs and the flutters of many 
wings at Bethlehem, and see the light 
streaming from heaven upon the face of the 
new-born Saviour. We look out over the 
blue waters of the Lake of Genesareth, 
and see the quaint little bark of Peter 
as it lay near the shore when Jesus 
preached to the people from its side, or as it 
flew before the wind when the sea waxed 
wroth, and a great storm arose, he mean- 
while sleeping and they fearing they would 
perish. With the aid of this wonderful 
faculty we see him before us in the hour of 
his triumph, surrounded by the multitudes 
singing, ' Hosanna to the son of David ,' 
and in that sad day of his final sorrow, 
when the same voices swelled the fearful 
cry, ' Crucify him, crucify him.' " 

TIME. By M. L'Abbe J. E. Darras. 
First American from the last French 
edition. With an Introduction and 
Notes, by the Most Rev. M. J. Spald- 
ing, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. 
Parts 1, 2, and 3. 8vo. New York : P. 

This valuable work, which Mr. O'Shea, 
with a laudable spirit- of enterprise, is 
giving us by instalments, is intended for 
just that class of readers who stand 
most in need of a readable and pretty 
full Church history. When completed 
it will fill four portly volumes, imperial 
octavo ; yet it is a work adapted more 
especially to family reading than to the 
use of the scholar in his closet. The 
Abbe Darras has judiciously refrained 
from obstructing the flow of his narra- 
tive by minute references and quota- 
tions, nor has he suffered his pen to run 
away into long discussions of contro- 
verted questions. What he says of the 
chronology which he has followed, he 
might have said, if we have read him 


Book Notices. 

aright, of his whole work : " We have 
adopted a system already completed, not 
that it may perhaps be the most exact 
in all its details, but because it is the 
one most generally followed." This 
seems to be the principle which he has 
kept before his eyes throughout; and 
considering the purpose for which he 
wrote, we think it a good one. With 
all the simplicity and modesty of his 
style, however, he shows a thorough 
knowledge of the intricacies of his sub- 
ject, and an acquaintance with what the 
best scholars have written before him. 
His history, therefore, fills a void which 
has long been aching. 

The translation, made by a lady well 
known and respected by the Catholics 
of the United States, reads smoothly, 
and we doubt not is accurate. It has 
been revised by competent theologians, 
and has the special sanction of the Arch- 
bishop of Baltimore, beside the appro- 
bation of the Archbishops of New York 
and Cincinnati. The work in the origi- 
nal French received the warmest enco- 
miums from the European clergy, and 
the author was honored, at the conclu- 
sion of his labors, by a kind letter from 
the Pope. 

The mechanical execution of the book 
is beautiful. The paper is good, and 
the type large and clear. We thank 
Mr. O'Shea for giving us so important a 
work in such a rich and appropriate 

GER OF THE AGE. Two lectures deliv- 
ered before the St. Xavier Conference 
of the St. Vincent de Paul Brother- 
hood in the Hall of St. Louis Univer- 
sity. By the Rev. Louis Heylen, S. J. 
12rno., pp. 107. Cincinnati: John P. 

These two lectures formed parts of a 
course delivered during the winter of 
1862-63, by some of the professors of 
the St. Louis University. They are ad- 
mirable compositions, redolent of good 
sense, learning, and ripe thought, and 
deeply interesting. The style has a 
true oratorical ring. In the first lecture 
Father Heylen, after adverting to the 
fact that every age since the days of 
Adam has been marked by some special 
characteristic, examines the claim set 
forth by our own century to be emphat- 
ically the age of progress. In part he 
admits and in part he denies it. In ma- 

terial progress, and in the natural sci- 
ences, especially as applied to the pur- 
poses of industry and commerce, it 
stands at the head of ages. But moral 
progress is not one of its characteris- 
tics. Here I feel," says he, " that I am 
entering upon a difficult question. Has 
there been, in the last fifty j'ears, any 
marked increase of crime ? Is our age, 
all things considered, really worse than 
preceding ages ? This question I shall 
not undertake to decide ; but there are 
some forms of crime which appear to 
me decidedly peculiar to our age." A 
brief review of these sins of the day 
leads naturally to the subject of the 
second lecture. Father Heylen sees our 
greatest danger in that practical mate- 
rialism which places material interests 
and materialistic passions above the in- 
terests of the soul and the claims of vir- 
tue. He considers successively its ex- 
tent, its effects, and the means to avert 
it the last being, of course, the ennob- 
ling and spiritualizing influence of Cath- 

We advise those who wish to see 
how a scholar and an orator can throw a 
fresh charm into a stale subject, to read 
Father Heylen's review of the startling 
discoveries of modern science in the 
first lecture, and his brilliant descrip- 
tion in the second of the ruins with 
which materialism has spread the pages 
of history and the new life which Cath- 
olicism has infused into effete civiliza- 

Prefixed to the little volume before 
us is a short biographical sketch of 
Father Heylen, who died in 1863. 



the German of Friedrich de la Motte 
Fouque. 1 vol. 12mo., pp. 238. New 
York : James Miller. 

From the German of the Baron de la 
Motte Fouque. 12mo., pp. 308. New 
York : James Miller. 

For a man of refined and cultivated 
taste we know of hardly any more de- 
lightful literary recreation than to turn 
from the novels of our own day to one 
of the exquisite romances of La Motte 
Fouque. There is a nobleness of senti- 
ment in his wild arid beautiful fancies 
which seems to lift us out of this world 
into a higher sphere. All his writings 
are pervaded by an ideal Christian chiv- 

airy, spiritualizing and refining the 
supernatural machinery which he is so 
fond of borrowing from the old Norse 
legends. No other author has ever 
treated the Northern mythology so well ; 
because no other has attempted to give 
us its beauties without its grossriess. 
The gods and heroes of the Norsemen 
have been very much in fashion of late 
years ; but take almost any of the Scan- 
dinavian tales recently translated tales 
which, if they have any moral, seem to 
inculcate the morality of lying and cheat- 
ing, and the virtue of strong muscles 
and how immeasurably finer and more 
beautiful by the side of them appear the 
fairy legends which Fouque interweaves 
with his romances, mingling old super- 
stitions with Christian faith and virtues, 
in so delicate a manner that we see no 
incongruity in the association. This 
mutual adaptation, if we may call it so, 
he effects partly by transporting us back 
to those early times when the faith was 
as yet only half-rooted in the Northern 
soil, and when even many Christian con- 
verts clnng almost unconsciously to some 
of their old pagan beliefs ; partly by 
the genuine religious spirit which in- 
spires every page of his books, no mat- 
ter what their subject ; and partly by 
the allegorical significance which his 
romances generally convey. So from 
tales of water-sprites and evil spirits, 
devils, dwarfs, and all manner of super- 
natural appearances, we rise with the 
feeling that we have been reading a les- 
son of piety, truth, integrity, and honor. 
Carlyle calls the chivalry of Fouque 
more extravagant than that which we 
supposed Cervantes had abolished ; but 
we are far from agreeing in such a judg- 
ment. A chivalry which rests upon 
" wise and pious thoughts, treasured in 
a pure heart," deserves something better 
to be said of it. 

The three tales whose titles are given 
above are specimens of three somewhat 
different styles in which Fouque treats 
his darling subject of Christian knight- 
hood. The story of "Undine" has al- 
ways been a pet in every language of 
Europe. Sir Walter Scott called it 
"ravishing;" Coleridge expressed un- 
bounded admiration of it ; the author 
himself termed it his darling child. For 
the tale of " Sintram" we have a particu- 
lar affection. As a work of art, it is 
not to be compared with the former: it 
has but little of that tender aerial fancy 
which makes the story of the water- 

Booik Notices. 


sprite so inexpressibly graceful ; but 
there is a sombre beauty in it which is 
not less captivating. It is a story 
of temptation and trial, of battle with 
self and triumph over sin. Its allegori- 
cal meaning is more distinct than that 
of Undine ; it speaks more unmistak- 
ably of faith and heroic virtue. " Thio- 
dolf,the Icelander," is a picture of Norse 
and Byzantine manners in the tenth cen- 
tury, and presents an interesting con- 
trast between the rough manliness of 
the former and the luxury of the court 
of Constantinople. To the merits of 
wealth of imagination, skilful delinea- 
tion of character, and dramatic power of 
narration, it is said to add historical ac- 

MONEY WE MADE BY IT. 12mo., pp. 128. 
New York : James Miller. 

It is no slight proof of the merit of 
this little book that it has gone through 
at least twelve editions in England, and 
had so many imitators that it may al- 
most be called the founder of a school 
of literature. Its popularity is still un- 
diminished, and promises long to con- 
tinue so. Hardly any one can fail of 
being interested in this simple narra- 
tive of the blunders, mishaps, and final 
triumphs of two city-bred sisters, in 
their effort to keep a little farm and make 
it pay; but to those who, either for 
health's sake or economy, are about en- 
tering on a similar enterprise, we can- 
not too strongly recommend it. It is so 
practical that we. cannot doubt it is all 
true indeed its directness and air of 
truth and good sense are the secrets of 
its remarkable success. We commend 
it to our readers as an interesting exem- 
plification of a truth which ought to be 
more widely known than it is that 
with proper management a small family 
on a small place in the country can raise 
all their own vegetables, not only to their 
great comfort, but with considerable 
pecuniary profit. Men who spend half- 
a-year's income in the rent of a city 
house would do well to take to heart 
the lessons of this little book. 

Illustrated by F. 0. C. Darley. IGrno., 
pp. 256. New York : James O'Kane. 

This is a collection of tales for young 
people, manufactured with considerable 


Book Notices. 

taste and neatness. Some of the stories 
bear a good moral, distinctly brought 

pp. 24. Boston : Patrick Donahoe. 

The Christian Examiner for January, 
1865, contained an article on "The Order 
of St. Paul the Apostle, and the New- 
Catholic Church/' in which the writer, 
after describing a visit to the Paulist 
establishment in Fifty-ninth street, and 
representing Father Hecker and his 
companions as being engaged in the at- 
tempt to found a new Catholic Church, 
passed on to the consideration of the 
question what form of religion is best 
adapted to the wants of the American 
people. It was a remarkable article 
remarkable not only for its graceful dic- 
tion, but for its curious admissions of 
the failure of Protestantism as a reli- 
gious system. "The process of disinte- 
gration," says the Examiner, "is going 
forward with immense rapidity through- 
out Protestant Christendom. Organiza- 
tions are splitting asunder, institutions 
are falling into decay, customs are be- 
coming uncustomary, usages are perish- 
ing from neglect, sacraments are deserted 
by the multitude, creeds are decompos- 
ing under the action of liberal studies 
and independent thought.'' But from 
these falling ruins mankind will seek 
refuge not in the bosom of the Catholic 
Church, says the Christian Examiner, but 
in Naturalism. The object of the pam- 
phlet before us is to show, after cor- 
recting certain misstatements concern- 

ing the congregation of Paulists, that 
Naturalism is utterly unable to satisfy 
those longings of the heart which, as 
the Examiner confesses, no Protestant 
sect can appease. 

DEMNED. 8vo., pp. 43. Baltimore: 
Kelly & Piet. 

In promulgating the jubilee lately pro- 
claimed by the sovereign pontiif, the 
Most Rev. Archbishop Spalding takes 
occasion to make a few timely remarks 
on the Encyclical, the character of Pius 
IX., the temporal power of the Popes, 
and the errors recently condemned. He 
explains the true purport of the much- 
abused Encyclical, shows against whom 
it is directed namely, the European 
radicals and infidels and proves that it 
never was the intention of the Pope, as 
has been alleged, to assail the institu- 
tions of this country. In view of the 
absurd mistranslations of the Encyclical 
which have been published by the Prot- 
estant press, Catholics will be glad to 
have the correct English version of that 
important document, which is given by 
way of appendix to the pastoral. 

We have received the First Supplement 
to the Catalogue of the Library of the Young 
Men's Association of the City of Milwau- 
kee, with the annual report of the Board 
of Directors for 1863. 



VOL. I., NO. 2. MAY, 1865. 

From the Dublin Review. 


HEDWIGE was the youngest daugh- 
ter of Lewis, nephew and successor to 
Casimir the Great, who, on account of 
the preference he evinced for his Hun- 
garian subjects, drew upon himself the 
continued ill-will of the nation he was 
called upon to govern. Finding he 
was unable to cope with the numerous 
factions everywhere ready to oppose 
him, he, not without many humiliating 
concessions to the nobles of Poland, 
induced them to elect as his successor 
his daughter Maria, wife of Sigismund, 
Marquis of Brandenburg (afterward 
emperor), and having appointed the 
Duke of Oppelen regent of the king- 
dom, retired to his native Hungary, 
unwilling to relinquish the shadow of 
the sceptre which continually evaded 
his grasp. 

On his death, which happened in 
1382, Poland became the theatre of 
intestine disorders fomented by the 
turbulent nobles, who, notwithstanding 
'the allegiance they had sworn to the 
Princess Maria, refused to allow her 
even to enter the kingdom. Sigismund 
was not, however, -inclined thus easily 
to forego his wife's claims ; and as the 
Lord of Mazovia at the same time as- 
pired to the vacant throne, many of the 
provinces became so desolated by civil 
war that the leaders of the adverse 
factions threw down their arms, and 


simultaneously agreed to offer the 
crown to the Princess Hedwige, then 
residing in Hungary under the care of 
her mother Elizabeth. By no means 
approving of a plan which thus uncer- 
emoniously excluded her eldest daugh- 
ter from the throne, the queen dowa- 
ger endeavored to oppose injustice by 
policy. Hedwige was at the time only 
fourteen years of age, and the deputies 
were informed that, as the princess was 
too young to undertake the heavy re- 
sponsibilities of sovereignty, her broth- 
er-in-law Sigismund must act in her 
stead until such time as she herself 
should be considered capable of as- 
suming the reins of government. This 
stratagem did not succeed; the duke 
was not allowed to cross the frontiers 
of Poland, and Elizabeth found herself 
compelled to part with her daughter, 
if she would not see the crown placed 
on the brow of whomever the diet 
might elect. 

Now commenced the trials of the 
young Hedwige, who was thus early 
called upon to exercise those virtues 
of heroic fortitude, patient endurance, 
and self-denial which rendered her life 
a sort of continual martyrdom, a sac- 
rifice daily offered up at the shrines of 
religion and patriotism. At the early 
age of four years she had been affi- 
anced to William, Duke of Austria, 


Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 

who, in accordance with the custom of 
the times, had been educated in Hun- 
gary ; his affection for his betrothed 
growing with his growth, and increas- 
ing with his years. Ambition hatf no 
charms for Hedwige; her fervent 
piety, shrinking modesty, and feminine 
timidity sought to conceal, not only her 
extraordinary beauty, but those rare 
mental endowments of which she was 
possessed. Bitter were the tears shed 
by this gentle girl, when her mother, 
alarmed at the menaces of the Polish 
nobles, informed her she must imme- 
diately depart for Cracow, under the 
protection of Cardinal Demetrius, Bish- 
op of Strigonia, who was pledged to 
deliver her into the hands of those 
whom she was disposed to regard 
rather as her masters than as her sub- 
jects. There had been one stipulation 
made, which, had she been aware of its 
existence, would have added a sharper 
pang to the already poignant anguish 
of Hedwige : the Poles required that 
their young sovereign should marry 
only with the consent of the diet, and 
that her husband should not only re- 
side constantly in Poland, but pledge 
himself never to attempt to render that 
country dependent on any other power. 
Although aware of the difficulties thus 
thrown in the way of her union with 
Duke William, her mother had sub- 
scribed to these conditions; and Hed- 
wige, having been joyfully received by 
the prelates and nobles of her adopted 
country, was solemnly crowned in the 
cathedral at Cracow, October 15, 1385, 
being the festival of her patron, St. 
Hedwige. Her youth, loveliness, grace, 
and intellectual endowments won from 
the fierce chieftains an enthusiastic af- 
fection which had been denied to the 
too yielding Lewis ; their national pride 
was flattered, their loyalty awakened, 
by the innocent fascinations of their 
young sovereign, and they almost 
sought to defer the time which, in her 
husband, would necessarily give them 
a ruler of sterner mould. Nor was 
Hedwige undeserving of the exalted 
station she had been compelled to fill : 
a worthy descendant of the sainted 

Lewis, her every word and action waa 
marked by a gravity and maturity 
which bore witness to the supernatural 
motives and heavenly wisdom by which 
it was inspired ; and yet, in the silence 
of her chamber, many were the tears 
she shed over the memory of ties sev- 
ered, she feared, for ever. Amongst 
the earliest candidates for her hand 
was Ziemovit, Duke of Mazovia, al- 
ready mentioned as one of the com- 
petitors for the crown after the death 
of her father; but the Poles, still 
smarting from the effects of his un- 
bridled ambition, dismissed his mes- 
sengers with a refusal couched in terms 
of undisguised contempt. The ques- 
tion of her marriage once agitated, the 
mind of Hedwige naturally turned to 
him on whom her heart was unaltera- 
bly fixed, and whom from her child- 
hood she had been taught to con- 
sider as her future husband ; but an 
alliance with the house of Austria 
formed no part of Polish policy, and 
neither the wishes nor the entreaties 
of their queen could induce the diet 
to entertain the idea for a moment ; in 
short, their whole energy was employed 
in bringing about a union which, how- 
ever disagreeable to the young sove- 
reign, was likely to be in every way 
advantageous to the country and favor- 
able to the interests of religion. 

Jagello, the pagan Duke of Lithua- 
nia, was from his proximity and the 
extent of his possessions (comprising 
Samogitia and a large portion of Rus- 
sia*) a formidable enemy to Poland. 
Fame was not slow in wafting to his 
ears rumors of the beauty and accom- 
plishments of Hedwige, which being 
more than corroborated by ambassa- 
dors employed to ascertain the truth, 
the impetuous Jagello determined to 
secure the prize, even at the cost of 
national independence. The idolatry 
of the Lithuanians and the early be- 
trothal of Hedwige to Duke William 
were the chief obstacles with which he 
had to contend ; but, after a brief de- 

* The territories of many of the Russian or Eu- 
thenian dukea which were conquered by the Lith- 
uanian pagans. 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 


liberation, an embassy was despatched, 
headed by Skirgello, brother to the 
grand-duke, and bearing the most cost- 
ly presents; Jagello himself being 
with difficulty dissuaded from accom- 
panying them in person. The envoys 
were admitted into the presence of the 
council, at which the queen herself 
presided, and the prince proceeded to 
lay before the astonished nobles the 
offers of the barbarian suitor, offers 
too tempting to be weighed in the bal- 
ance against such a trifle as a girl's 
happiness, or the violation of what 
these overbearing politicians were 
pleased to term a mere childish en- 
gagement, contracted before the par- 
ties were able to judge for themselves. 
After a long harangue, in which Skir- 
gello represented how vainly the most 
illustrious potentates and the most 
powerful rulers had hitherto endeav- 
ored to effect the conversion of Lithu- 
ania, he offered as " a tribute to the 
charms of the queen" that Jagello 
and his brothers, together with the 
princes, lords, and people of Lithuania 
and Samogitia, should at once embrace 
the Catholic faith ; that all the Chris- 
tian captives should be restored un- 
ransomed ; and the whole of their ex- 
tensive dominions be incorporated with 
Poland ; the grand-duke also pledging 
himself to reconquer for that country 
Pomerania, Silesia, and whatever other 
territories had been torn from Poland 
by neighboring states ; and, finally, 
promising to make good to the Poles 
the sum of two hundred thousand 
florins, which had been sent to Wil- 
liam of Austria as the dowry forfeited 
by the non-fulfilment of the engage- 
ment entered into by their late king 
Lewis. A murmur of applause at 
this unprecedented generosity ran 
through the assembly ; the nobles 
hailed the prospect of so unlooked- 
for an augmentation of national power 
and security ; and the bishops could 
not but rejoice at the prospect of res- 
cuing so many souls from the darkness 
of heathenism, and securing at one 
and the same time the propagation of 
the Catholic faith and the peace of 

Poland. But the queen herself shared 
not these feelings of satisfaction : no 
sooner had Skirgello ceased than she 
started from her seat, cast a hasty 
glance round the assembly, and, as if 
reading her fate in the countenances 
of the nobles, buried her face in her 
hands and burst into a flood of tears. 
All attempts to soothe and pacify her 
were in vain : in a strain of passionate 
eloquence, which was not without its 
effect, she pleaded her affection for 
Duke William, the. sacred nature of 
the engagement by which she was 
pledged to become his wife, pointed 
to the ring on her finger, and reminded 
an aged prelate who had accompanied 
her from Hungary that he had himself 
witnessed their being laid in the same 
cradle at the ceremony of their be- 
trothal. It was impossible to behold 
unmoved the anguish of so gentle a 
creature ; not a few of the younger 
chieftains espoused the cause of their 
sovereign ; and, at the urgent solici- 
tation of Hedwige, it was finally de- 
termined that the Lithuanian ambas- 
sadors, accompanied by three Polish 
nobles, should repair to Buda for the 
purpose of consulting her mother, the 
Queen of Hungary. 

But Elizabeth, though inaccessible 
to the temptations of worldly ambition, 
was too pious, too self-denying, to allow 
maternal affection to preponderate over 
the interests of religion. Aware that 
the betrothal of her daughter to the 
Duke of Austria had never been re- 
newed from the time of their infancy, 
she, without a moment's hesitation, re- 
plied that, for her own part, she de- 
sired nothing, but that the queen 
ought to sacrifice every Imman feeling 
for the glory of Christianity and the 
welfare of Poland. To Hedwige her- 
self she wrote affectionately, though 
firmly, bidding her lay every natural 
inclination at the foot of the cross, and 
desiring her to praise that God who had 
chosen so unworthy an instrument as 
the means by which the pure splendor 
of Catholicity should penetrate the 
darkness of Lithuania and the other 
pagan nations. Elizabeth was aware 


Hedwiye, Queen of Poland. 

of the real power of religion over the 
mind of her child, and doubted not 
but that, after the first paroxysm of 
grief had subsided, she should be able 
to overcome by its means the violence 
of her daughter's repugnance to the 
proposed measure. In order "to give a 
color of impartiality to their proceed- 
ings, a diet was convoked at Cracow, 
immediately on the return of the em- 
bassy, to deliberate on the relative 
claims of Jagello, William of Austria, 
and the Dukes of Mazovia and Oppe- 
len, all of whom aspired to the hand 
of Hedwige and the crown of Poland. 
The discussion was long and stormy, 
for amongst those nobles more imme- 
diately around the queen's person 
there were many, including a large 
body of ecclesiastics, who, although 
convinced that no lawful impediment 
existed to the marriage, yet shrank 
from the cruelty of uniting the gentle 
princess to a barbarian ; and these 
failed not to insist upon the insult which 
would be implied by such a choice to 
the native Catholic princes. The ma- 
jority, however, were of a different 
opinion, and at the close of the diet it 
was decided that an ambassador should 
be despatched to Jagello, inviting him 
to Cracow for the purpose of continu- 
ing the negotiations in his own person. 
But William of Austria was too se- 
cure in the justice of his cause and 
the affection of his betrothed to resign 
his pretensions without an effort ; and 
his ardor being by no means diminished 
by a letter which he received from the 
queen herself, imploring him to hasten 
to her assistance, he placed himself at 
the head of a numerous retinue, and, 
with a treasure by which he hoped to 
purchase the good-will of the adverse 
faction, appeared so suddenly at Cracow 
as to deprive his opponents of their 
self-possession. The determination of 
Hedwige to unite herself to the object 
of her early and deep affection was 
loudly expressed, and, as there were 
many powerful leaders among others, 
Gniewosz, Vice-chamberlain of Cracow 
who espoused her cause, and rallied 
round Duke William, the Polish nobles, 

not daring openly to oppose their sov- 
ereign, were on the point of abandon- 
ing the cause of Jagello, when Dobes- 
las, Castellain of Cracow, one of the 
staunchest supporters of the Lithuanian 
alliance, resolved at any risk to pre- 
vent the meeting of the lovers, and 
actually went so far as to refuse the 
young prince admission into the castle, 
where the queen -at the time was re- 
siding, not only drawing his sword, 
but dragging the duke with him over 
the drawbridge, which he commanded 
to be immediately lowered. William, 
thus repulsed, fixed his quarters at the 
Franciscan monastery ; and Hedwige, 
fired by the insult, rode forth accom- 
panied by a chosen body of knights 
and her female attendants, determined 
by the completion of her marriage to 
place an insuperable bar between her 
and Jagello. 

In the refectory of the monastery, 
the queen and the prince at length 
met ; and, after several hours spent in 
considering how best to avert the sep- 
aration with which they were threat- 
ened, it was arranged that William 
should introduce himself privately into 
the castle of Cracow, where they were 
to be united by the queen's confessor. 
Some time elapsed before this plan 
could be carried into execution ; for 
although even Dobeslas hesitated to 
confine his sovereign within her own 
palace, the castle gates were kept shut 
against the entrance of the Duke of 
Austria. Exasperated at this contin- 
ued opposition, and her affection aug- 
mented by the presence of its object, 
from whom the arrival, daily expected, 
of Jagello would divide her for ever, 
Hedwige determined to admit the 
prince disguised as one of her house- 
hold, and a day was accordingly fixed 
for the execution of this romantic pro- 
ject. By some means or other the 
whole plan came to the knowledge of 
the vigilant castellain ; the adventur- 
ous prince was seized in a passage 
leading to the royal apartments, loaded 
with insult, ancH driven from the pal- 
ace, within the walls of which the 
queen now found herself a prisoner. 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 


It was in vain she wept, and implored 
to be allowed to see her betrothed once 
more, if only to bid him farewell ; her 
letters were intercepted, her attendants 
became spies on her movements, and, 
on the young prince presenting himself 
before the gates, his life was threatened 
by the barons who remained within the 
fortress. This was too much ; alarmed 
for her lover's safety, indignant at the 
restraint to which she was subjected, 
the passion of the girl triumphed over 
the dignity of the sovereign. Quitting 
her apartment, she hurried to the great 
gate, which, as she apprehended, was 
secured in such a manner as to baffle 
all her efforts ; trembling with fear, 
and eager only to effect her escape, 
she called for a hatchet, and, raising it 
with both hands, repeatedly struck the 
locks and bolts that prevented her 
egress. The childish simplicity of the 
attempt, the agony depicted in the 
beautiful and innocent countenance of 
their mistress, so touched the hearts of 
the rude soldiery, that, but for their 
dread of the nobles, Hedwige would 
through their means have effected her 
purpose. As it was, they offered no 
opposition, but stood in mournful and 
respectful silence ; when the venerable 
Demetrius, grand-treasurer of the 
kingdom, approached, and falling on 
his knees, implored her to be calm, 
and to sacrifice her own happiness, if 
not to the wishes of her subjects and 
the welfare of her country, at least to 
the interests of religion. At the sight 
of that aged man, whose thin white 
hairs and sorrowful countenance in- 
spired both reverence and affection, 
the queen paused, and, giving him her 
hand, burst into an agony of tears ; 
then, hurrying to her oratory, she 
threw herself on the ground before an 
image of the Blessed Virgin, where, 
after a sharp interior conflict, she suc- 
ceeded in resigning herself to what 
she now believed to be the will of God 
embracing for his sake the heavy 
cross which she was to bear for the 
remainder of her life. 

Meanwhile Duke William, to escape 
the vengeance of the wrathful barons, 

was compelled to quit Poland, leaving 
his now useless wealth in the charge 
of the vice-chamberlain, who still ap- 
parently continued his friend. Not 
long after his departure, Jagello, at the 
head of a numerous army, and attended 
by his two brothers, crossed the fron- 
tiers, determined, as it seemed, to prose- 
cute his suit. At the first rumor of 
his approach, the most powerful and 
influential among the nobles repaired 
to Cracow, where prayers, remon- 
strances, and even menaces were em- 
ployed to induce the queeir to accept 
the hand of the barbarian prince. But 
to all their eloquence Hedwige turned 
a deaf ear: in vain did agents, de- 
spatched for the purpose, represent the 
duke as handsome in person, princely 
and dignified in manner ; her con- 
science was troubled, duty had enlisted 
on the same side as feeling, and the 
contest again commenced. Setting in- 
clination aside, how dared she break 
the solemn compact she had made with 
the Duke of Austria? She persisted 
in regarding her proposed marriage 
with Jagello as nothing short of an act 
of criminal infidelity ; and, independ- 
ently of the affliction of her heart, 
her soul became a prey to the most 
violent remorse. To obtain the con- 
sent of Duke William to their separa- 
tion was of course out of the question ; 
and before the puzzled council could 
arrive at any decision, JTagello entered 
Cracow, more in the style of a con- 
queror than a suitor, and repaired at 
once to the castle, where he found the 
queen surrounded by a court surpass- 
ing in beauty and magnificence all that 
his imagination had pictured. Pale 
as she was from the intensity of her 
sufferings, he was dazzled, almost be- 
wildered, by the childlike innocence and 
winning loveliness of Hedwige ; and 
his admiration was expressed the fol- 
lowing day by the revenues of a prov- 
ince being laid at her feet in the shape 
of jewels^and robes of the most costly 
description. But the queen was more 
obdurate than ever. With her know- 
ledge and consent Duke William had 
returned to Cracow, though compelled 


ffedwige, Queen of Poland. 

to resort to a variety of disguises to 
escape the fury of the barons, now de- 
termined to put an end to his preten- 
sions and his existence together ; and 
it is said that, in order to avoid his in- 
defatigable enemy, Dobeslas, he was 
once compelled to seek refuge in a 
large chimney. Forced eventually to 
quit the capital without seeing Hed- 
wige, he still loitered in the environs ; 
nor did he return to Austria until her 
marriage with Jagello terminated those 
hopes which he had cherished from 
his earliest infancy. In order to quiet 
the queen's religious scruples, a letter 
is said to have arrived from Rome, 
in which, after pronouncing that the 
early betrothal involved no impediment 
to the marriage, the Holy Father 
placed before her the merits of the of- 
fering she was called upon to make, 
reminding her of the torments so 
cheerfully suffered by the early mar- 
tyrs for the honor of God, and calling 
upon her to imitate their example. 
This statement, however, is not suf- 
ficiently authenticated. 

After the severest interior trials, 
days spent in tears, fasting, and the 
most earnest petitions to the throne 
of Divine grace, the queen received 
strength to consummate the sacrifice 
demanded from her. Naturally ar- 
dent and impulsive, and at an age 
when every sentiment is freshest and 
most keen, she was called upon to ex- 
tirpate from her heart an affection not 
only deep but legitimate, to inflict a 
wound on the object of her tenderest 
love, and, finally, to transfer her devo- 
tion to one whom she had hitherto re- 
garded with feelings of unqualified 
aversion. The path of highest, be- 
cause self-sacrificing duty, once clear 
before her, she determined to act with 
generosity toward a God from whom 
she had received so much : her beauty, 
talents, the virtues with which she was 
adorned, were so many precious gifts 
to be placed at the disposal of Mm by 
whom -they had been bestowed. Cov- 
ering herself with a thick black veil, 
she proceeded on foot to the cathedral 
of Cracow, and, repairing to one of 

the side chapels, threw herself on her 
knees, where for three hours, with 
clasped hands and streaming eyes, she 
wrestled with the violent feeling that 
struggled in her bosom. At length 
she rose with a detached heart, having 
laid at the foot of the cross her affec- 
tions, her will, her hopes of earthly 
happiness; offering herself, and all 
that belonged to her, as a perpetual 
holocaust to her crucified Redeemer, 
and esteeming herself happy so that 
by this sacrifice she might purchase 
the salvation of those precious souls 
for whom he had shed his blood. Be- 
fore leaving the chapel she cast her 
veil over the crucifix, hoping under 
that pall to bury all of human infirm- 
ity that might still linger round her 
heart, and then hastened to establish a 
foundation for the perpetual renewal of 
this type of her " soul's sorrow." This 
foundation yet exists : within the same 
chapel the crucifix still stands, cov- 
ered by its sable drapery, being com- 
monly known as the Crucifix of Hed- 

The queen's consent to the Lithua- 
nian alliance endeared her still more 
to the hearts of her subjects, who re- 
garded her as a martyr to the peace ' 
Poland. On the 14th of Febi 
1386, her marriage was celebrs 
with becoming solemnity, Jagello hai 
ing previously received the sacrament 
of baptism ; shortly afterward he was 
crowned, in the presence of Hedwige, 
under his Christian name of Wladis- 
las, which he had taken in deference 
to the wishes of the Poles. The un- 
assuming piety, gentle disposition, and 
great learning of the young queen 
commanded at once the respect and 
admiration of her husband. So great, 
indeed, was his opinion of her pru- 
dence, that, being obliged to march 
into Upper Poland to crush the rebel- 
lion of the Palatine of Posnia, he took 
her with him in the capacity of media- 
trix between himself and the disaffect- 
ed leaders who had for months deso- 
lated that province. This mission of 
mercy was most acceptable to Hed- 
wige ; after the example of the saint- 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 


ed Elizabeth of Hungary, her gene- 
rosity toward the widows, orphans, and 
those who had lost their substance 
in this devastating war, was boundless ; 
whilst ministering to their wants, she 
failed not, at the same time, to sympa- 
thize with their distress ; and, like an 
angel of peace, she would stand be- 
tween her husband and the objects of 
his indignation. On one occasion, to 
supply the necessities of the court, so 
heavy a contribution had been laid 
upon the peasants that their cattle did 
not escape ; watching their opportu- 
nity, they, with their wives and chil- 
dren, threw themselves in the queen's 
path, filling the air with their cries, 
and conjuring her to prevent their ut- 
ter ruin. Hedwige, deeply affected, 
dismounted from her palfrey, and, 
kneeling by their side, besought her 
husband not to sanction so flagrant an 
act of oppression ; and when the satis- 
fied peasants retired fully indemnified 
for their loss, she is said to have ex- 
claimed, "Their cattle are restored, 
but who will recompense them for 
their tears?" Having reduced the 
country to obedience, it was time for 
Wladislas to turn his attention to his 
Lithuanian territories, more especially 
Russia Nigra, which, although gov- 
erned by its own princes, was com- 
pelled to do homage to the house of 
Jagello. Poinerania, which by his 
marriage articles he was pledged to 
recover for Poland, had been usurp- 
ed by the Teutonic Knights, who, sen- 
sible with how formidable an opponent 
they had to contend, endeavored to 
frustrate his intentions, first by carry- 
ing fire and sword into Lithuania, and 
then by exciting a revolution in favor 
of Duke Andrew, to whom, as well as 
to the heathen nobles, the alliance (by 
which their country was rendered de- 
pendent on Poland) was displeasing. 
Olgerd, the father of Wladislas, was a 
fierce pagan, and his thirteen sons, if 
we except the elder, inherited his cru- 
elty, treachery, and rapacity. The 
promised revolution in religion was 
offensive to the majority of the people ; 
and, to their shame be it spoken, the 

Teutonic Knights (whose order was 
first established to defend the Chris- 
tian faith against the assaults of. infi- 
dels) scrupled not to adopt a crooked 
policy, and, by inciting the Lithuan- 
ians against their sovereign, threw 
every impediment in the way of their 
conversion. Before the king had any 
suspicion of his intentions, the grand- 
master had crossed the frontiers, the 
duchy was laid waste, and many im- 
portant fortresses were already in the 
hands of the order. 

Wladislas, then absent in Upper 
Poland, despatched Skirgello into 
Lithuania, who, though haughty, licen- 
tious, and revengeful, was a brave and 
skilful general. Duke Andrew fled 
before the forces of his brother, and 
ttfe latter attacked the Knights with 
an impetuosity that compelled them 
speedily to evacuate their conquests. 
The arrival of the king, with a number 
of learned prelates, and a large body 
of clergy, proved he was quite in 
earnest regarding the conversion of 
his subjects, hitherto immersed in the 
grossest and most degrading idola- 
try. Trees, serpents, vipers, were 
the inferior objects of their adoration ; 
gloomy forests and damp caverns their 
temples ; and the most disgusting and 
venomous reptiles were cherished in 
every family as household gods. But, 
as with the eastern Magi, fire was the 
principal object of the Lithuanian wor- 
ship ; priests were appointed whose 
office it was to tend the sacred flame, 
their lives paying the penalty if it 
were allowed to expire. At Wilna, 
the capital of the duchy, was a temple 
of the sun ; and should that luminary 
chance to be eclipsed, or even clouded, 
the people fled thither in the utmost 
terror, eager to appease the deity by 
rivers of human blood, which poured 
forth at the command of the Ziutz, or 
high priest, the victims vieing with 
each other in the severity of their self- 
inflicted torments. 

As the most effectual method of at 
once removing the errors of this infat- 
uated people, Wladislas ordered the 
forests to be cut down, the serpents to 


Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 

be crushed under the feet of his sol- 
diers, and, after extinguishing with 
his own hand the sacred fires, he 
caused the temples to be demolished ; 
thus demonstrating to the Lithuanians 
the impotency of their gods. With 
the cowardice ever attendant on ig- 
norance and superstition, the pagans 
cast themselves with their faces to the 
earth, expecting to see the sacrilegious 
strangers blasted by the power of the 
profaned element ; but, no such results 
following, they gradually lost confi- 
dence in their deities, and of their own 
free will desired to be instructed in the 
doctrines of Christ. Their theological 
knowledge was necessarily confined to 
the Lord's Prayer and the Creed, and 
a day was fixed for the commencement 
of the ceremony of baptism. As, 6*h 
account of the number of catechumens, 
it was impossible to administer the sac- 
rament to each individual separately, 
the nobles and their families, after 
leaving the sacred font, prepared to act 
as sponsors to the people, who, being 
divided into groups of either sex, were 
sprinkled by the bishops and priests, 
every division receiving the same 

Hedwige had accompanied her hus- 
band to Lithuania, and was gratified 
by witnessing the zeal with which he 
assisted the priests in their arduous 
undertaking ; whilst Wladislas, aware 
of the value of his young auxiliary, 
was not disappointed by the degree of 
enthusiastic veneration with which the 
new Christians regarded the sovereign 
who, at the age of sixteen, had con- 
ferred upon them peace and the light 
of the true faith. Hedwige was admi- 
rably adapted for this task: in her 
character there was no alloy of pas- 
sion, pride, or frivolity ; an enemy to 
the luxury and pomp which her sex 
and rank might have seemed to war- 
rant, her fasts were rigid and her 
bodily mortifications severe. Neither 
did her fervor abate during her sojourn 
in the duchy. By her profuse liber- 
ality the cathedral of St. Stanislas of 
Wilna was completed. Nor did she 
neglect the other churches and reli- 

gious foundations which, by her advice, 
her husband commenced in the prin- 
cipal cities of his kingdom. Before 
quitting Lithuania, the queen's heart 
was wrung by the intelligence she re- 
ceived of a domestic tragedy of the 
deepest dye. Her mother, the holy 
and virtuous Elizabeth of Hungary, 
had during a popular insurrection 
been put to a cruel death ; whilst 
her sister Maria, who had fallen into 
the power of the rebel nobles, having 
narrowly escaped the same fate, was 
confined in an isolated fortress, subject 
to the most rigorous and ignominious 

Paganism being at length thor- 
oughly rooted out of Lithuania, a bish- 
opric firmly established at Wilna, and 
the seven parishes in its vicinity amply 
supplied with ecclesiastics, Wladislas, 
preparatory to his return to Poland, 
appointed his brother Skirgello viceroy 
of the duchy. This was a fatal error. 
The proud barbarians, little disposed 
to dependence on a country they had 
been accustomed to despoil at pleas- 
ure, writhed under the yoke of the 
fierce tyrant, whose rule soon became 
odious, and whose vices were rendered 
more apparent by the contrast which 
his character presented to that of his 
cousin Vitowda, whom, as a checl 
upon his well-known ferocity, Wlad- 
islas had designated as his colleague. 
Scarcely had the court returned to 
Poland, when the young prince, ami- 
able, brave, and generous, by oppos- 
ing his cousin's unjust and cruel ac- 
tions, drew upon himself the vengeance 
of the latter, and, in order to save his 
life, was obliged to seek refuge in 
Pomerania, from whence, as his hon- 
or and patriotism alike forbade his 
assisting the Teutonic Knights in 
their designs upon his country, he 
applied to the king for protection. 

Wladislas, of a weak and jealous 
disposition, was, however, at the time 
too much occupied in attending to foul 
calumnies uttered against the spotless 
virtue of his queen to give heed to 
the application. Notwithstanding the 
prudence of her general conduct, and 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 


the tender devotion evinced by Hed- 
wige toward her husband, the admi- 
ration which her beauty and sweet- 
ness of disposition commanded from 
all who approached her was a contin- 
ual thorn in his side. Her former love 
for the Duke of Austria and repug- 
nance to himself haunted him night 
and day, until he actually conceived 
suspicions injurious to her fidelity. In 
the polluted atmosphere of a court 
there were not wanting those who, for 
their own aggrandizement, were base 
enough to resort to falsehood in order 
to destroy an influence at which the 
wicked alone had cause to tremble. 
It was whispered in the ear of the un- 
fortunate monarch that his queen had 
held frequent, and of course clandes- 
tine, interviews with Duke William, 
until, half frantic, he one day publicly 
reproached her, and, turning to the 
assembled bishops, wildly demanded a 
divorce. The proud nobles indignant- 
ly interposed, many a blade rattled in 
its sheath, eager to vindicate the inno- 
cence of one who, in their eyes, was 
purity itself; but Hedwige calmly 
arose, and with matronly dignity de- 
manded the name of her accuser, and 
a solemn trial, according to the custom 
of her country. There was a dead 
silence, a pause ; and then, trembling 
and abashed before the virtue he had 
maligned, the Vice-chamberlain Gnie- 
wosz, before mentioned as the friend 
of Duke William (whose wealth he 
had not failed to appropriate), stepped 
reluctantly forward. A murmur of 
surprise and wrath resounded through 
the council-chamber: many a sword 
was drawn, as though eager for the 
blood of the offender ; but the eccle- 
siastics having at length calmed the 
tumult, the case was appointed to be 
judged at the diet of Wislica. 

The queen's innocence was affirmed 
on oath by herself and her whole 
household, after which the castellain, 
John Tenczynski, with twelve knights 
of noble blood and unsullied honor, 
solemnly swore to the falsehood of the 
accusation, and, throwing down their 
gauntlets, defied to mortal combat all 

who should gainsay their assertion. 
None, however, appeared to do battle 
in so bad a cause ; and the convicted 
traitor, silenced and confounded, sank 
on his knees, confessed his guilt, and 
implored the mercy of her he had so 
foully aspersed. The senate, in def- 
erence to the wishes of Hedwige, 
spared his life ; but he was compelled 
to crouch under a bench, imitate the 
barking of a dog, and declare that, 
like that animal, he had dared to snarl 
against his chaste and virtuous sover- 
eign.* This done, he was deprived of 
his ofnce, and banished the crfurt ; and 
Wladislas hastened to beg the forgive- 
ness of his injured wife. 

Meanwhile Prince Vitowda, despair- 
ing of assistance and pressed on all 
sides, after much hesitation joined the 
Teutonic Knights in an incursion 
against Lithuania. The country was 
invaded by a numerous army, the 
capital taken by storm, abandoned to 
pillage, and finally destroyed by fire ; 
no less than fourteen thousand of the 
inhabitants perishing in the flames, 
beside numbers who were massacred 
without distinction of sex or age. 
Fortunately the upper city was gar- 
risoned by Poles, who determined to 
hold out to the last. The slight forti- 
fications were speedily destroyed ; but, 
being immediately repaired, the siege 
continued so long that Skirgello had 
time to assemble an army before 
which the besiegers were eventually 
obliged to retreat. Vitowda, now too 
deeply compromised to draw back, 
though thwarted in his designs on Up- 
per Wilna, gained possession of many 
of the frontier towns, and, encouraged 
by success, aimed at nothing less than 
the independent sovereignty of Lithu- 
ania. He was, however, opposed dur- 

* This was a portion of the punishment special- 
ly awarded by the penal code of Poland to the 
crime of calumny. Like many other punishments 
of those ages, it was symbolical in its character. 
(See the valuable work of Albert du Boys, His- 
toire du Drolt Criminel des Peuples Modernes, liv. ii. ; 
chap. vii. ) Similar penalties had been common in 
Poland from early times. Thus we find Boloslas 
the Great inviting to a banquet and vapor bath no- 
bles who had been guilty of some transgression ; 
after the bath he administered a paternal reproof 
and castigation. Hence the Polish proverb, "to 
give a person a bath." 


Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 

ing two or three campaigns by Wlad- 
islas in person, until, wearied of the 
war, the king had the weakness not 
only to sue for peace, but to invest 
Vitowda with the government of the 
duchy. This, as might be expected, 
gave great umbrage to Skirgello, and 
to another brother, Swidrigal, so that 
Lithuania, owing to the ambition of 
the rival princes, became for some 
time the theatre of civil discord. 

Among her other titles to admira- 
tion, we must not omit to mention that 
Hedwige was a munificent patroness 
of learning. She hastened to re-estab- 
lish the college built by Casimir II., 
founded and endowed a magnificent 
university at Prague for the education 
of the Lithuanian youth, and super- 
intended the translation of the Holy 
Scriptures into Polish, writing with 
her own hands the greater part of the 
New Testament. Her work was in- 
terrupted during her husband's ab- 
sence by the attack of the Hungarians 
on the frontiers of Poland ; and it was 
then that, laying aside the weakness 
of her sex, she felt herself called upon 
to supply his place. A powerful army 
was levied, of which this youthful 
heroine assumed the command, direct- 
ing the councils of the generals, and 
sharing the privations of the meanest 
soldier. When she appeared on horse- 
back in the midst of the troops, nothing 
could exceed the enthusiasm of these 
hardy warriors; and the simplicity 
with which they obeyed the slightest 
order of their queen was touching in 
the extreme. Hedwige led her forces 
into Russia Nigra, and, partly by force 
of arms, partly by skilful negotiations, 
succeeded in reconquering the whole 
of that vast province, which her father 
Lewis had detached from the Polish 
crown in order to unite it to that of 
his beloved Hungary. This act of in- 
justice was repaired by his daughter, 
who thus endeared her name to the 
memory of succeeding generations. 
The conquering army proceeded to 
Silesia, then usurped by the Duke of 
Oppelen, where they were equally suc- 
cessful; so that Wladislas was in- 

debted for the brightest trophies of his 
reign to the heroism of his wife 

Encouraged by her past success, 
he determined to reconduct her into 
Lithuania, in hopes by her means to 
settle the dissensions of the rival 
princes. Accordingly, in the spring 
of 1393, they proceeded thither, when 
the disputants, subdued by the irresisti- 
ble charm of her manners, agreed to 
refer their claims to her arbitration. 
Of a solid and mature judgment, Hed- 
wige succeeded in pacifying them ; and 
then, by mutual consent, they entered 
into a solemn compact that in their 
future differences, instead of resorting 
to arms, they would submit their cause 
unreservedly to the arbitration of the 
young Queen of Poland. 

Notwithstanding its restoration to 
internal tranquillity, this unfortunate 
duchy was continually laid waste by 
the Teutonic Knights ; and Wladislas, 
determined to hazard all on one de- 
cisive battle, commanded forces to be 
levied not only in Lithuania, but in 
Poland. Before the preparations were 
completed, an interview was arranged 
to take place between the king and 
the grand-master, Conrad de Jungen 
but the nobility, fearing lest the irrita- 
ble temper of Wladislas would prove 
an insurmountable obstacle to all 
commodation, implored him to allo^ 
the queen to supply his place. On his 
consent, Hedwige, accompanied by the 
ecclesiastics, the barons, and a mag- 
nificent retinue, proceeded to the place 
of rendezvous, where she was met by 
Conrad and the principal knight-com- 
manders of the order. The terms 
she proposed were equitable, and more 
lenient than the Teutonic Knights had 
any reason to expect ; but, under one 
trifling pretext or another, they refused 
the restitution of the usurped territo- 
ries on which the king naturally in- 
sisted, and the queen was at length 
obliged to return, prophesying, says 
the chronicler, that, after her death, 
their perversity would receive its de- 
served punishment at the hands of her 
husband. Her prediction was fulfilled. 
Some years afterward, on the plains 

between Grurmervaldt and Tannen- 
berg, the grand-master, with fifty thou- 
sand knights, was slain, and by this 
decisive victory the order was placed 
at the mercy of Poland, though, from 
the usual indecision of its king, the 
fruits of this splendid action were less 
than might have been expected. 

Until her early death, Hedwige con- 
tinued the guardian angel of that be- 
loved country for which she had made 
her first and greatest sacrifice ; and it 
is likely that but for her watchfulness, 
its interests would have been frequent- 
ly compromised by the Lithuanian 
union. Acting on this principle, she 
refused to recognize the investiture of 
her husband's favorite, the Palatine of 
Cracow, with the perpetual fief of 
Podolia; and, undazzled by the appa- 
rent advantages offered by an expe- 
dition against the Tartars headed by 
the great Tamerlane, she forbade the 
Polish generals to take part in a cam- 
paign which, owing to the rashness of 
Vitowda, terminated so fatally. 

It was shortly after her unsuccess- 
ful interview with the Teutonic Knights 
that, by the death of her sister Maria, 
the crown of Hungary (which ought 
to have devolved on her husband Sig- 
ismund) became again an object of 
contention. The Hungarians, attract- 
ed by the report of her moderation, 
wisdom, and even military skill not an 
uncommon accomplishment in females 
of those times determined to offer it 
ro Hedwige ; but her brother-in-law, 
trusting to her sense of justice, hast- 
ened to Cracow, praying her not to ac- 
cept the proposal, and earnestly solicit- 
ing her alliance. The queen, whom 
ambition had no power to dazzle, con- 
sented, and a treaty advantageous to 
Poland was at once concluded. 

Hedwige was a good theologian, and 
well read in the fathers and doctors of 
the Church ; the works of St. Bernard 
and St. Ambrose, the revelations of St. 
Bridget, and the sermons of holy men, 
being the works in which she most de- 
lighted. In Church music she was an 
enthusiast ; and not long after the 
completion of the convent of the Vis- 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 


itation, which she had caused to be 
erected near the gates of Cracow, she 
founded the Benedictine abbey of the 
Holy Cross, where office was daily 
recited in the Sclavonian language, 
after the custom of the order at 
Prague. She also instituted a college 
in honor of the Blessed Virgin, 
where the Psalms were daily chant- 
ed, after an improved method, by six- 
teen canons. 

It was toward the close of the year 
1398 that, to the great delight of her 
subjects, it became evident that the 
union of Wladislas and Hedwige would 
at length be blessed with offspring. To 
see the throne filled by a descendant 
of their beloved sovereign had been 
the dearest wish of the Polish people, 
and fervent had been the prayers of- 
fered for this inestimable blessing. 
The enraptured Wladislas hastened to 
impart his expected happiness to most 
of the Christian kings and princes, not 
forgetting the Supreme Pontiff, Boni- 
face IX., by whom the merits of the 
young queen were so well appreciated 
that, six years after her accession, he 
had addressed to her a letter, written 
with his own hand, in which he thanked 
her for her affectionate devotion to the 
Catholic Church, and informed her 
that, although it was impossible he 
could accede to all the applications 
which might be transmitted to the Holy 
See on behalf of her subjects, yet, by 
her adopting a confidential sign-man- 
ual, those requests to which she indi- 
vidually attached importance should 
be immediately granted. The Holy 
Father hastened to reply in the warm- 
est terms to the king's communication, 
promising to act as sponsor to the 
child, who, if a boy, he desired might 
be named after himself. 

Unfortunately, some tune before the 
queen's delivery, it became necessary 
for her husband to quit Cracow, in 
order to direct an expedition against 
his old enemies the Teutonic Knights. 
During his absence, he wrote a long 
letter, in which, after desiring that the 
happy event might be attended with 
all possible magnificence, he entered 


Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 

into a minute detail of the devices and 
embroidery to be used in the adorn- 
ment of the bed and chamber, particu- 
larly requesting that the draperies and 
hangings might not lack gold, pearls, 
or precious stones. This ostentatious 
display, though excusable in a fond 
husband and a powerful monarch about 
to behold the completion of his dearest 
wishes, was by no means in^consonance 
with Hedwige's intense love of Chris- 
tian simplicity and poverty. We find 
her addressing to her husband these 
few touching words, expressing, as the 
result proved, that presentiment of her 
approaching end which has often been 
accorded to saintly souls : " Seeing that 
I have so long renounced the pomps 
of this world, it is not on that treach- 
erous couch to so many the bed of 
death that I would willingly be sur- 
rounded by their glitter. It is not by 
the help of gold or gems that I hope 
to render myself acceptable to that Al- 
mighty Father who has mercifully re- 
moved from me the reproach of bar- 
renness, but rather by resignation to 
his will, and a sense of my own noth- 
ingness." It was remarked after this 
that the queen became more recollect- 
ed than ever, spending whole hours in 
meditation, bestowing large alms, not 
only on the distressed of her own 
country, but on such pilgrims as pre- 
sented themselves, and increasing her 
exterior mortifications ; wearing a hair 
shirt during Lent, and using the disci- 
pline in a manner which, considering 
her condition, might have been deemed 
injudicious. She had ever made a 
point of spending the vigil of the anni- 
versary of her early sacrifice at the 
foot of the veiled crucifix, but on this 
occasion, not returning at her usual 
hour, one of her Hungarian attendants 
sought her in the cathedral, then but 
dimly lighted by the massy silver lamp 
suspended before the tabernacle. It 
was bitterly cold, the wind was moan- 
ing through the long aisles, but there, 
on the marble pavement, in an ecsta- 
cy which rendered her insensible to 
bodily sufferings, lay Hedwige, she 
having continued in this state of ab- 

straction from the termination of 
complin, at which she invariably 

At length, on the 12th of June, 1399, 
this holy queen gave birth to a daugh- 
ter, who was immediately 'baptized in 
the cathedral of Cracow, receiving 
from the Pope's legate, at the sacred 
font, the name of Elizabeth Bonifacia. 
The babe was weak and sickly, and 
the condition of the mother so precari- 
ous that a messenger was despatched 
to the army urging the immediate re- 
turn of Wladislas. IJe arrived in time 
to witness the last sigh of his so ar- 
dently desired child, though his disap- 
pointment was completely merged in 
his anxiety for his wife. By the ad- 
vice of the physicians it had been de- 
termined to conceal the death of the 
infant, but their precautions were vain. 
At the very moment it occurred, Hed- 
wige herself announced it to her as- 
tonished attendants, and then humbly 
asked for the last sacraments of the 
Church, which she received with the 
greatest fervor. She, however, lin- 
gered until the 17th of July, when, the 
measure of her merits and good works 
being full, she went to appear before 
the tribunal of that God whom she had 
sought to glorify on earth. She died 
before completing her twenty-ninth 

A few days previously she had taken 
a tender leave of her distracted hus- 
band; and, mindful to the last of the 
interests of Poland, she begged him to 
espouse her cousin Anne, by whose 
claim to the throne of the Piasts his 
own would be strengthened. She then 
drew off her nuptial ring, as if to de- 
tach herself from all human ties, and 
placed it upon his finger, and although, 
from motives of policy, Wladislas suc- 
cessively espoused three wives, he 
religiously preserved this memorial 
of her he had valued the most ; be- 
queathing it as a precious relic (and a 
memento to be faithful to the land 
which Hedwige had so truly loved) to 
the Bishop of Cracow, who had saved 
his life in battle. Immediately after 
t her funeral, he retired to his Russian 

Hedwige, Queen of Poland. 


province, nor could he for some time 
be prevailed upon to return and as- 
sume the duties of sovereignty. 

There was another mourner for her 
loss, William of Austria, who, not- 
withstanding the entreaties of his 
subjects, had remained single for her 
sake. He was at length prevailed 
upon to espouse the Princess Jane of 
Naples, but did not long survive the 

The obsequies of Hedwige were 
celebrated by the Pope's legate with 
becoming magnificence. All that 
honor and respect from which she 
had sensitively shrunk during life was 
lavished on her remains; she was 
interred in the cathedral of Cracow 
on the left of the high altar; her 
memory was embalmed by her people's 
love, and was sanctified in their eyes. 
Numerous miracles are said to have 
been performed at her tomb : thither 
the afflicted in mind and body flocked 
to obtain through her intercession that 
consolation which during her life she 
had so cheerfully bestowed. Contrary to 
the general expectation, she was never 
canonized ;* her name, however, con- 
tinued to be fondly cherished by the 
Poles, and by the people who under 
God were indebted to her for their 
first knowledge of Christianity, and of 
whom she might justly be styled the 
apostle. On her monument was 
graven a Latin inscription styling her 
the " Star of Poland," enumerating 
her virtues, lamenting her loss, and 
imploring the King of Glory to receive 
her into his heavenly kingdom. 

The life of Hedwige is her best 
eulogium. As it has been seqn, she 
combined all the qualities not only of 
her own, but of a more advanced age. 
The leisure which she could snatch 
from the au#irs of government she 
employed in study, devotion, and works 
of charity. True to her principles, 
she at her death bequeathed her jew- 
els and other personal property in 
trust to the bishop and castellain of 

* Polish writers give her the title of saint, though 
her name is not inserted in the Martyrologies. 
Butler's Lives of the Saints, October 1 7th. 

Cracow, for the foundation of a col- 
lege in that city. Two years after- 
ward her wishes were carried into 
effect, and the first stone was laid of 
the since celebrated university. 

Wladislas survived his wife thirty- 
five years. In his old age he was 
troubled by a return of his former 
jealousy, thereby continually embit- 
tering the life of his queen, a Lithuan- 
ian princess, who, although exculpat- 
ed by oath, as Hedwige had formerly 
been, was less fortunate, inasmuch as 
she was the continual victim of fresh 
suspicions. The latter years of his. 
reign were much disturbed by the hos- 
tilities of the Emperor Sigismund, and 
by the troubles occasioned in Lithu- 
ania by the rebels, who had again 
combined with the Teutonic Knights. 

Wladislas died in 1434, at the age 
of eighty years. It is said that he 
contracted his mortal sickness by be- 
ing tempted to remain exposed too 
long to the night air, captivated by 
the sweet notes of a nightingale. Not- 
withstanding his faults, this monarch 
had many virtues ; his piety was great, 
and he practised severe abstinences ; 
and although he at times gave way to 
a suspicious temper, his general char- 
acter was trusting, frank, and generous 
even to imprudence. His suspicions, 
in fact, did not originate with himself. 
They sprang, in the case of both his 
wives, from the tongues of calumnia- 
tors, to whom he listened with a hasty 
credulity. He raised the glory and 
extended and consolidated the domin- 
ion of Poland. He was succeeded by 
his son, a child of eleven years, who 
had previously been, elected to the 
throne, but not until Jagello had con- 
firmed and even enlarged the privileges 
of the nobles. His tardy consent, at 
the diet of Jedlin, roused their pride, 
so that it was not until four years later 
that they solemnly gave their adhe- 

It has not been our purpose to give 
more than a page out of the Polish 
annals illustrative of the patriotic and 
Christian spirit of sacrifice for which 
Poland's daughters have, down to the 


Monks among the Mongols. 

present day, been no less noted than 
her sons. The mind naturally reverts 
to the late cruel struggle in which this 
generous people has once more succumb- 
ed to the overwhelming power of Rus- 
sia, and her unscrupulous employment 
of the gigantic forces at her command. 
Europe has looked on apathetically, 
and, after a few feeble diplomatic re- 
monstrances, has allowed the sacrifice to 
be completed. But the cause of Poland 
is essentially the cause of Catholicism 
and of the Church ; and this, perhaps, 
may account for the small degree of 
sympathy it has awakened in Euro- 
pean governments. Russia's repres- 
sion of her insurgent subjects became 
from the first a religious persecution. 
Her aim is not to Russify, but to de- 
catholicize Poland. The insurrection, 
quenched in blood, has been followed 
by a wholesale deportation of Poles in- 
to the eastern Russian provinces, where, 
with their country, it is hoped they 
will, ere long, lose also their faith. 
These are replaced by Russian colon- 

ists transplanted into Poland. To 
crush, extirpate, and deport the nobil- 
ity to leave the lower class alone 
upon the soil, who, deprived of their 
clergy martyred, exiled, or in bonds 
may become an easy conquest to the 
dominant schism such is the plan of 
the autocrat, as we have beheld it ac- 
tively carried out with all its accom- 
panying horrors of sacrilege and ruth- 
less barbarity. One voice alone that 
of the Father of Christendom has 
been raised to stigmatize' these revolt- 
ing excesses, and to reprove the ini- 
quity of "persecuting Catholicism in 
order to put down rebellion."* The 
same voice has exhorted us to pray 
for our Polish brethren, and has en- 
couraged that suffering people to seek 
their deliverance from the just and 
compassionate Lord of all. 

* The terms of the Holy Father's address have 
been strangely exaggerated in many continental 
journals, where he is made to refer to the subject 
politically, and loudly to proclaim the justice of 
the Polish insurrection in that regard. The Pope 
entirely restricted his animadversions on the Czar- 
to his persecution of the faith of his subjects. 

From The Lamp, 


IN tracing the progress of the various 
branches of science during the Middle 
Ages, there is nothing more striking 
than the slow stages by which a 
knowledge of the truth was reached 
on the subject of the earth's form, and 
the relative positions of the various 
countries which compose it. Though 
from the very earliest period the sub- 
ject necessarily occupied a consider- 
able amount of attention, and though 
facts began to be observed bearing 
upon it in the first ages after the diffu- 
sion of mankind, and were largely mul- 
tiplied in proportion as the formation 
of colonies and intercommunication for 
purposes of commerce or war became 
more frequent, yet we find very little 

advance made in geographical know- 
ledge from the days of Ptolemy, when 
the observations of the ancients were 
most systematically collected and ar- 
ranged, till some centuries after, when 
the maritime enterprise of the Portu- 
guese impelled them to the series of 
discoveries which led to the doubling 
of the Cape of Good Hope, and in- 
cited the genius of Columbus to the 
discovery of a new world. 

The cause of this slow advance of 
geographical, in comparison with other 
branches of knowledge, was owing in 
some measure to the absence of any 
exact records of the discoveries made, 
by which they might have been com- 
municated to others, and become the 

Monks among the Mongols. 


starting-point for further investiga- 
tions ; but still more to the imperfect 
means of navigation in existence, and 
to those barbarian uprisings and migra- 
tions which for centuries, at least, were 
perpetually changing the state of Eu- 
rope and Asia, and, by removing the 
landmarks of nations, obliging geog- 
raphy to begin as it were anew. 
During the whole of this period, how- 
ever, we find evidences of the patient 
cultivation of this, as of all other 
branches of human knowledge, within 
the walls of those monastic institutions 
which ignorant prejudice still regards 
as the haunts of idleness, but to which 
the learned of all creeds and countries 
acknowledge their deep debt of obliga- 
tion. Formal accounts of some dis- 
tant land, either written by the travel- 
ler himself or recorded from the oral 
information he communicated ; histori- 
cal chronicles, in which not alone the 
events, but all that was known of the 
country is recorded, and maps in which 
the position of various places is at- 
tempted to be laid down, were to be 
found in every monastery both on the 
continent and in our own island. The 
holy men, too, who preached the gos- 
pel to pagan nations were usually care- 
M also to enlarge their contempora- 
ries' knowledge concerning the places 
and the people among whom they la- 
bored. Thus the great St. Boniface 
not only converted the Sclavonic na- 
tions to Catholic truth, but, at the spe- 
cial injunction of the Pope, wrote an 
account of them and of their country. 
St. Otho, bishop of Bamberg, did the 
same for the countries upon the shores 
of the Baltic ; the holy monk Anscaire 
for Scandinavia, where he carried on 
his apostolic labors ; and many others 
might be mentioned. 

Among the most valuable of the 
contributions to the geography of the 

ilization, and whose enterprises, em- 
barked in at the call of duty, are in 
many respects interesting. 

History, whether ancient or modern, 
has few chapters so remarkable as 
that which records the rise of the 
Mongol power. A great chief, who 
had ruled over an immense horde of 
this hitherto pastoral people, died, leav- 
ing his eldest son an infant, and unable 
to command the adhesion of his rude 
subjects. The young chief, as he 
grew to man's estate, found his horde 
dispersed, and only a few families will- 
ing to acknowledge his sway. Deter- 
mined, however, to regain his power 
and carry out the ambitious design 
which he had formed of conquering 
the world, he caused an assembly of 
the whole people to be summoned on 
the banks of the Selinga. At this as- 
sembly one of the wise men of the 
tribes announced that he had had a vis- 
ion, in which he saw the great God, the 
disposer of kingdoms, sitting upon his 
throne in council, and heard him decree 
that the young chief should be " Zingis 
Khan," or " Greatest Chief" of the 
earth. The shouts of the Mongols 
testified their readiness to accept the 
decree ; Zingis Khan was raised to 
supreme power over the whole Mongol 
race. He soon subdued the petty op- 
position of his neighbors, and, establish- 
ing the seat of his empire at Karako- 
rum, spread his conquests in every 
direction with extraordinary rapidity, 
and died the ruler of many nations, 
bequeathing his power to sons and 
grandsons as warlike and ambitious 
as himself. One of these, Batoo Khan, 
invaded Europe with an immense 
army. He overran Russia, taking 
Moscow and its other principal places ; 
subdued Poland and burnt Cracow; 
defeated the king of Hungary in a 
great battle; penetrated to Breslau, 

Middle Ages were those furnished by which he burned ; and defeated, near 

some monks of the order of St. Fran- 
cis, who in the middle of the thirteenth 
century penetrated into the remote 
east, on special missions to the bar- 
barian hordes that then threatened 
the very existence of religion and civ- 

Liegnitz, an army composed of Chris- 
tian volunteers from all lands; one 
of the bloodiest battles ever fought 
against the eastern hordes. 

It was four years after this great 
battle, namely, in 1246, and when all 


Monks among the Mongols. 

Europe was trembling at the expec- 
tation of another invasion of the 
Mongols (who, having devastated the 
country with fire and sword, had re- 
tired loaded with spoils), that two em- 
bassies were despatched by the Pope, 
Innocent IV., to endeavor to induce 
them to stop their progress into Eu- 
rope, and to embrace Christianity. 
These important missions were in- 
trusted to monks of the Franciscan 
order; Jean du Plan Carpini being 
despatched toward the north-east, 
where the camp of Batoo was fixed, 
and Nicholas Ascelin, the year after, 
sent into Syria and Persia. 

Ascelin's mission, which comprised 
three other monks of the same order 
beside himself, was the most rapidly 
terminated. Following the south of 
the Caspian Sea, the party traversed 
Syria, Mesopotamia, and Persia, and 
at length reached the Mongol or Tatar 
encampment of Baiothnoy Khan. Be- 
ing asked their object as they ap- 
proached, the holy men boldly but 
undiplomatically declared that they 
were ambassadors from the head of the 
Christian world, and that their mission 
was to exhort the Tatars to repent of 
their wicked and barbarous attacks 
upon God's people. Being asked what 
presents they brought to the khan, ac- 
cording to eastern custom, they further 
replied that the Pope, as the vicar of 
God, was not accustomed to purchase 
a hearing or favor by such means, 
especially from infidels. The Mongols 
were astonished at this bold language 
used toward a race accustomed to 
strike terror into all who came into 
contact with them. They were still 
more astonished when the holy men 
refused, as a reprehensible act of idol- 
atry, to make the usual genuflexions 
on being admitted to the presence of 
the khan, unless he first became a 
Catholic and acknowledged the Pope's 
supremacy, when they offered to do so 
for the honor of God and the Church. 
Hitherto the barbarians had borne pa- 
tiently the display of what they doubt- 
less regarded as the idiosyncrasies of 
the good friars, but this last refusal in- 

cited their rage ; the ambassadors and 
their master the Pope were insulted 
and threatened, and it was debated in 
council whether they should not be 
flayed alive, their skins stuffed with 
hay, and sent back to the Pope. The 
interposition of the khan's mother 
saved their lives, however ; but the 
Mongols could never understand how 
the Holy Father, who they found from 
Ascelin kept no army and had gained 
no battles, could have dared to send 
such a message to their victorious mas- 
ter, whom they styled the Son of 
Heaven. Ascelin and his companions 
were treated during their stay with 
scant courtesy, and were dismissed 
with a letter to the Pope from Baioth- 
noy Khan, commanding him, if he 
wished to remain in possession of his 
land and heritage, to come in his own 
person and do homage to him who held 
just sway over the whole earth. They 
reached as speedily as possible the 
nearest Syrian port, and embarked for 
France. They brought back to EU-: 
rope some valuable information re- 
specting the country of the Mongols, 
though small Compared with that of 
the other ambassadors whom we hav< 
to mention. 

Carpini was a ma.n better fitted 
the office of ambassador, and abl 
without sacrificing his principles or 
dignity, to become " all things to 
men." He travelled with a nume 
suite through Bohemia and Poland to 
Kiow, then the Russian capital. A 
quantity of skins and furs was given 
him in the northern capitals, as pres- 
ents to the Tatar chiefs, and all Eu- 
rope watched with interest the result 
of the embassy. On the banks of the 
Dnieper they first encountered the 
barbarians. The purpose of their 
journey being demanded, they replied 
that they were messengers from the 
Pope to the chief of the Tatar people, 
to desire peace and friendship between 
them, and request that they would em- 
brace the faith of Christ, and desist 
from the slaughter of the Pope's sub- 
jects, who had never injured or at- 
tempted to injure them. Their bear- 

Monks among the Mongols. 


ing made a very favorable impression. 
They were conducted to the tent of 
the chief, where they did not hesitate 
to make the usual salutations ; and by 
his command post-horses and a Mon- 
gol escort were given them to conduct 
them to Batoo Khan. They found 
him at a place on the borders of the 
Black Sea ; and, before being admitted 
to an audience, had to pass between 
two fires, as a charm to nullify any 
witchcraft or evil intention on their 
parts. They found Batoo seated on 
a raised throne with one of his wives, 
and surrounded by his court. They 
again made the usual genuflexions, 
and then delivered their letters, which 
Batoo Khan read attentively, but with- 
out giving them any reply. For some 
months they were " trotted about," with 
a view to show them the wealth, pow- 
er, and magnificence of the people 
they were among ; and in order that 
they might communicate at home what 
they saw. The holy men passed Lent 
' among the Mongols ; and, notwith- 
standing the fatigues they had passed 
through, observed a strict fast, taking, 
as their only food for the forty days, 
millet boiled in water, and drinking 
only melted snow. They witnessed 
the imposing ceremony of the investi- 
ture of a Tatar chief, at which a large 
number of feudatory princes were pres- 
ent, with no less than four thousand 
messengers bearing tribute or presents 
from subdued or submitted states. Af- 
ter the investiture, they also were ush- 
ered into the presence ; but, alas, the 
gifts intrusted to them and their whole 
substance were already consumed. The 
Tatars, however, considerately 'dis- 
pensed with this usual part of the pro- 
ceedings ; for the coarse garb of the 
monks, contrasting as it did with the 
rich silks and garments of gold and 
silver which they describe as being 
worn generally during the ceremonies, 
must have marked them as men who 
possessed little of tin's world's goods. 

The ceremonials of investiture over, 
Carpini was at length called upon to 
deliver his message to the newly- 
appointed khan ; and a reply was given, 


which he was desired to translate into 
Latin, and convey to the Pope. It 
contained only meaningless expressions 
of good-will ; but the fact was, that 
the khan intended to carry the war into 
Europe, though he did not desire to 
give notice of his intent. He offered 
to send with them an ambassador to 
the Pope ; but Carpini seems to have 
surmised his purpose, and that this 
ambassador would really be only a 
spy ; and he therefore found means to 
evade the offer. They returned home- 
ward through the rigors of a Siberian 
whiter, accompanied by several Gen- 
oese, Pisan, and Venetian traders, who, 
following the papal envoys, had found 
their way, in pursuit of commerce, to 
the Tatar encampment. The hard- 
ships the good men endured on the 
return journey were of tho most fear- 
ful kind. Often, in crossing the exten- 
sive steppes of that country, they were 
forced to sleep all night upon the 
snow, and found themselves almost 
buried in snow-drifts in 'the morning. 
Kiow was at length reached ; and its 
people, who had given up the adven- 
turous travellers as lost, turned out to 
welcome them, as men returned from 
the grave. The rest of Carpini's life 
was spent in similar hardships, while 
preaching the gospel to the savage peo- 
ples of Bohemia, Hungary, Denmark, 
and Norway ; and death came to him 
with his reward, at an advanced age, 
in the midst of his apostolic labors. 

A few years after the missions of 
Ascelin and Carpini, another Francis- 
can, named William Van Ruysbroeck, 
better known as Rubriquis, a native of 
Brabant, was sent by Saint Louis of 
France on a similar errand to the Mon- 
gols, one of whose khans, it was report- 
ed, had embraced Christianity. He 
found the rumor void of foundation ; 
and, though received courteously, as 
Carpini had been, could perceive not 
the slightest disposition among the bar- 
barians to receive or even hear the 
truth. At the camp of Sartach Khan, 
Rubriquis was commanded to .appear 
before the chief in his priestly vest- 
ments, and did so, carrying a missal 


Monks among the Mongols. 

and crucifix in his hands, an attendant 
preceding him with a censer, and sing- 
ing the Salve Regina. Everything 
he had with him was examined very 
attentively by the khan and his wives, 
especially the crucifix ; but nothing 
came of this curiosity. Like Carpini, 
the party were frequently exposed to 
great privations, both at the encamp- 
ments and on their journeys ; and on 
one occasion Rubriquis piously re- 
cords : " If it had not been for the 
grace of God, and the biscuit which 
we had brought with us, we had 
surely perished." On one journey 
from camp to camp, they travelled 
for five weeks along the banks of 
the Volga, nearly always on foot, 
and often without food. Rubriquis* 
companion Barthelemi broke down un- 
der the fatigues of the return journey ; 
but Rubriquis persevered alone, and 
traversed an immense extent of coun- 
try, passing through the Caucasus, 
Armenia, and Syria, before he took 
ship for France, to report the failure 
of his mission to the pious king. 

Bootless as these journeys proved, 
so far as their main object was con- 
cerned, there is no doubt that in many 
ways they effected a large amount of 
good. The religious creed of the 
Mongols appears to have been confined 
to a belief in one God, and in a place 
of future rewards and punishments. 
For other doctrines, or for ceremonies 
of religion, they appear to have 
cared little. They trampled the Ca- 
liph of Bagdad, the " successor of the 
Prophet," beneath their horses' hoofs 
at the capture of that city ; and they 
tolerated at their camps our Christian 
monks, as well as a number of profes- 
sors of the Nestorian heresy. It was 
only on becoming Mohammedans that 

they, and the kindred but rival race of 
Ottomans, became intolerant. But it 
is to be observed that Islamism, which 
allowed polygamy, and avoided inter- 
ference with their other national habits 
and customs, would be likely to at- 
tract them, in consequence of their re- 
ligious indifference, as naturally as 
Christianity, which sought to impose 
restraints upon their ferocity and sen- 
sualism, would repel them. It is no 
wonder, therefore, that the efforts of 
the zealous Franciscans were unsuc- 
cessful. But their zeal and disinter- 
estedness, their irreproachable lives 
and simple manners, were not without 
producing an effect upon the savage 
men with whom their embassies brought 
them into contact ; and by their inter- 
course, and that mercantile communi- 
cation for which their travels pioneered 
the way, the conduct of the Mongols 
toward the Christian races was sensi- 
bly affected beneficially, while on the 
other side they taught Europe to re- 
gard the Mongols as a people to be 
feared indeed, and guarded against, 
but not as the demons incarnate they 
had been pictured by the popular ii 
agination. The benefit these devc 
monks conferred upon the progress 
science and civilization is scarcely 
be over-estimated; as not only die 
they acquaint Europe with a numl 
of minute, and in the main accurate, 
details respecting a vast tract of coun- 
try previously unknown, and the peo- 
ples by whom it was inhabited, but 
they opened up new realms to com- 
merce, in the exploring of which Marco 
Polo, Clavijo, and subsequent travel- 
lers, pushed onward to China, Japan, 
and India, and prepared the way for 
the great maritime discoveries of the 
succeeding century. 

Constance Sherwood. 


From The Month. 





As I entered the library, which my 
father used for purposes of business 
as well as of study, I saw a gentleman 
who had often been at our house before, 
and whom I knew to be a priest, though 
he was dressed as a working-man of 
the better sort and had on a riding 
coat of coarse materials. He beck- 
oned me to him, and I, kneeling, re- 
ceived his blessing. 

"What, up yet, little one ?" he said ; 
" and yet thou must bestir thyself be- 
times to-morrow for prayers. These 
are not days in which priests may 
play the sluggard and be found abed 
when the sun rises." 

" At what hour must you be on foot, 
reverend father?" my mother asked, 
as sitting down at a table by his side 
she filled his plate with whatever might 
tempt him to eat, the which he seemed 
little inclined to. 

" Before dawn, good Mrs. Sherwood," 
he answered ; " and across the fields 
into the forest before ever the laboring 
men are astir ; and you know best when 
that is." 

"An if it be so, which I fear it 
must," my father said, "we must e'en 
have the chapel ready by two o'clock. 
And, goodwife, you should presently 
get that wench to bed." 

"Nay, good mother," I cried, and 
threw my arms round her waist, 
" prithee let me sit up to-night ; I can lie 
abed all to-morrow." So wistfully and 
urgently did I plead, that she, who had 
grown of late somewhat loth to deny 
any request of mine, yielded to my en- 
treaties, and only willed that I should 
lie down on a settle betwixt her chair 
and the chimney, in which a fagot was 

blazing, though it was summer-tune, 
but the weather was chilly. I gazed 
by turns on my mother's pale face and 
my father's, which was thoughtful, and 
on the good priest's, who was in an 
easy-chair, wherein they had compelled 
him to sit, opposite to me on the other 
side of the chimney. He looked, as I 
remember him then, as if in body and 
in mind he had suffered more than 
he could almost bear. 

After some discourse had been min- 
istered betwixt him and my father of 
the journey he had been taking, and 
the friends he had seen since last he 
had visited our house, my mother said, 
in a tremulous voice, " And now, good 
Mr. Mush, an if it would not pain you 
too sorely, tell us if it be true that your 
dear daughter in Christ, Mrs. Clithe- 
row, has indeed won the martyr's 
crown, as some letters from York re- 
ported to us a short time back ?" 

Upon this Mr. Mush raised his head, 
which had sunk on his breast, and said, 
" She that was my spiritual daughter 
in times past, and now, as I humbly 
hope, my glorious mother in heaven, 
the gracious martyr Mrs. Clitherow, 
has overcome all her enemies, and 
passed from this mortal life with rare 
and marvellous triumph into the peace- 
able city of God, there to receive a 
worthy crown of endless immortality 
and joy." His eye, that had been be- 
fore heavy and dim, now shone with 
sudden light, and it seemed as if the 
cord about his heart was loosed, and 
his spirit found vent at last in words 
after a long and painful silence. More 
eloquent still was his countenance than 
his words as he exclaimed, " Torments 
overcame her not, nor the sweetness of 
life, nor her vehement affection for hus- 


Constance Sherwood. 

band and children, nor the flattering 
allurements #nd deceitful promises of 
the persecutors. Finally, the world, 
the flesh, and the devil overcame her 
not. She, a woman, with invincible 
courage entered combat against them 
all, to defend the ancient faith, wherein 
both she and her enemies were bap- 
tized and gave their promise to God to 
keep the same until death. O sacred 
martyr !" and, with clasped hands and 
streaming eyes, the good father went 
on, "remember me, I beseech thee 
humbly, in thy perfect charity, whom 
thou hast left miserable behind thee, 
in time past thy unworthy father and 
now most unworthy servant, made ever 
joyful by thy virtuous life, and now 
lamenting thy death and thy absence, 
and yet rejoicing in thy glory." 

A sob burst from my mother's breast, 
and she hid her face against my father's 
shoulder. There was a brief silence, 
during which many quickly - rising 
thoughts passed through my mind. Of 
Daniel in the lions' den, and the Mach- 
abees and the early Christians ; and of 
the great store of blood which had been 
shed of late in this our country, and of 
which amongst the slain were truly mar- 
tyrs, and which were not ; of the vision 
in the sky which had been seen at Lich- 
field ; and chiefly of that blessed wo- 
man Mrs. Clitherow, whose virtue and 
good works I had often before heard of, 
such as serving the poor and harbor- 
ing priests, and loving God's Church 
with a wonderful affection greater than 
can be thought of. Then I heard my 
father say, "How was it at the last, 
good Mr. Mush ?" I oped my eyes, 
and hung on the lips of the good priest 
even as if to devour his words as he 
gave utterance to them. 

" She refused to be tried by the 
country," he answered, in a tremulous 
voice ; " and so they murthered her." 

" How so ?" my mother asked, shad- 
ing her eyes with her hand, as if to 
exclude the mental sight of that which 
she yet sought to know. 

" They pressed her to death," he 
slowly uttered ; " and the last words 
she was heard to say were ' Jesu, Jesu, 

Jesu ! have mercy on me !' She was 
in dying about a quarter of an hour, 
and then her blessed spirit was re- 
leased and took its flight to heaven. 
May we die the death of the right- 
eous, and may our last end be like 
hers I" 

Again my mother hid her face in my 
father's bosom, and methought she said 
not " Amen" to that prayer ; but turn- 
ing to Mr. Mush with a flushed cheek 
and troubled eye, she asked, "And 
why did the blessed Mrs. Clitherow 
refuse to be tried by the country, rev- 
erend father, and thereby subject her- 
self to that lingering death ?" 

" These were her words when ques- 
tioned and urged on that point," he an- 
swered, " which sufficiently clear her 
from all accusation of obstinacy or 
desperation, and combine the rare dis- 
cretion and charity which were in her 
at all times : ' Alas !' quoth she, ' if I 
should have put myself on the country, 
evidence must needs have come against 
me touching my harboring of priests 
and the holy sacrifice of the mass in 
my house, which I know none could 
give but only my children and ser- 
vants ; and it would have been to me 
more grievous than a thousand deatl 
if I should have seen any of the 
brought forth before me, to give 
dence against me in so good a cause 
and be guilty of my blood ; and, sec- 
ondly,' quoth she, ' I know well the 
country must needs have found me 
guilty to please the council, who so 
earnestly seek my blood, and then all 
they had been accessory to my death 
and damnably offended God. I there- 
fore think, in the way of charity, for 
my part to hinder the country from 
such a sin ; and seeing it must needs 
be done, to cause as few to do it as 
might be ; and that was the judge him- 
self.' So she thought, and thereupon 
she acted, with that single view to 
God's glory and the good of men's 
souls that was ever the passion of her 
fervent spirit." 

" Her children ?" my mother mur- 
mured in a faint voice, still hiding her 
face from him. " That little Agnes 

Constance Sherwood. 


you used to tell us of, that was so dear 
to her poor mother, how has it fared 
with her ?" 

Mr. Mush answered, " Her happy 
mother sent her hose and shoes to her 
daughter at the last, signifying that 
she should serve God and follow her 
steps of virtue. She was committed 
to ward because she would not betray 
her mother, and there whipped and 
extremely used for that she would not 
go to the church and hear a sermon. 
When her mother was murthered, the 
heretics came to her and said that un- 
less she would go to the church, her 
mother should be put to death. The 
child, thinking to save the life of her 
who had given her birth, went to a 
sermon, and thus they deceived her." 

" God forgive them !" my father 
ejaculated ; and I, creeping to my 
mother's side, threw my arms about 
her neck, upon which she, caressing 
me, said : 

" Now thou wilt be up to their de- 
ceits, Conny, if they should practice 
the same arts on thee." 

" Mother," I cried, clinging to her, 
" I will go with thee to prison and to 
death ; but to their church I will not 
go who love not our Blessed Lady." 

" So help thee God !" my father 
cried, and laid his hand on my head. 

" Take heart, good Mrs. Sherwood," 
Mr. Mush said to my mother, who was 
weeping ; " God may spare you such 
trials as those which that sweet saint 
rejoiced in, or he can give you a like 
strength to hers. We have need in 
these times to bear in mind that com- 
fortable saying of holy writ, ' As your 
day shall your strength be.' " 

" 'Tis strange," my father observed, 
" how these present troubles seem to 
awake the readiness, nay the wish, to 
suffer for truth's sake. It is like a 
new sense in a soul heretofore but too 
prone to eschew suffering of any sort : 
'tis even as the keen breezes of our 
own Cannock Chase stimulate the frame 
to exertions which it would shrink 
from in the duller air of the Trent 

" Ah ! and is it even so with you, 

my friend ?" exclaimed Mr. Mush. 
" From my heart I rejoice at it : such 
thoughts are oftentimes forerunners of 
God's call to a soul marked out for 
his special service." 

My mother, against whom I was 
leaning since mention had been made 
of Mrs. Clitherow's daughter, began to 
tremble ; and rising said she would go 
to the chapel to prepare for confession. 
Taking me by the hand, she mounted 
the stairs to the room which was used 
as such since the ancient faith had 
been proscribed. One by one that 
night we knelt at the feet of the good 
shepherd, who, like his Lord, was 
ready to lay down his life for his sheep, 
and were shriven. Then, at two of 
the clock, mass was said, and my pa- 
rents and most of our servants re- 
ceived, and likewise some neighbors 
to whom notice had been sent in se- 
cret of Mr. Mush's coming. When 
my mother returned from the altar to 
her seat, I marvelled at the change in 
her countenance. She who had been 
so troubled before the coming of the 
Heavenly Guest into her breast, wore 
now so serene and joyful an aspect, 
that the looking upon her at that time 
wrought in me a new and comfortable 
sense of the greatness of that divine 
sacrament. I found not the thought 
of death frighten me then ; for albeit 
on that night I for the first time fully 
arrived at the knowledge of the peril 
and jeopardy in which the Catholics of 
this land do live ; nevertheless this 
knowledge awoke in me more exulta- 
tion than fear. I had seen precautions 
used, and reserves maintained, of which 
I now perceived the cause. For some 
time past my parents had prepared the 
way for this no-longer-to-be-deferred 
enlightenment. The small account 
they had taught me to make of the 
wealth and comforts of this perishable 
world, and the histories they had re- 
counted to me of the sufferings of 
Christians in the early times of the 
Church, had been directed unto this 
end. They had, as it were, laid the 
wood on the altar of my heart, which 
they prayed might one day burn into 


Constance Sherwood. 

a flame. And now when, by reason 
of the discourse I had heard touching 
Mrs. Clitherow's blessed but painful 
end for harboring of priests in her 
house, and the presence of one under 
our roof, I took heed that the danger 
had come nigh unto our own doors, my 
heart seemed to beat with a singular 
joy. Childhood sets no great store on 
life : the passage from this world to 
the -next is not terrible to such as have 
had no shadows cast on their paths by 
their own or others' sins. Heaven is 
not a far-off region to the pure in 
heart ; but rather a home, where God, 
as St. Thomas sings, 

"Vitam sine termino 
Nobis donet in patria." 

But, ah me! how transient are 
the lights and shades which flit across 
the childish mind ! and how mutable 
the temper of youth, never long im- 
pressed by any event, however grave ! 
Not many days after Mr. Mush's visit 
to our house, another letter from the 
Countess of Surrey came into my 
hand, and drove from my thoughts for 
the time all but the matters therein 

(my lady wrote), "In my last letter 
I made mention, in an obscure fashion, 
of a secret which my lord had told 
me touching a matter of great weight 
which Higford, his grace's steward, 
had let out to him ; and now that the 
whole world is speaking of what was 
then in hand, and that troubles have 
come of it, I must needs relieve my 
mind by writing thereof to her who is 
the best friend I have in the world, if 
I may judge by the virtuous counsel 
and loving words her letters do con- 
tain. 'Tis like you have heard some- 
what of that same matter, Mistress 
Constance; for much talk has been 
ministered anent it since I wrote, 
amongst people of all sorts, and with 
various intents to the hindering or the 
promoting thereof. I mean touching 
the marriage of his grace the Duke of 
Norfolk with the Queen of Scots, 

which is much desired by some, and 
very little wished for by others. My 
lord, as is reasonable in one of his 
years and of so noble a spirit, and his 
sister, who is in all things the counter- 
part of her brother, have set their 
hearts thereon since the first inkling 
they had of it ; for this queen had so 
noted a fame for her excellent beauty 
and sweet disposition that it has 
wrought in them an extraordinary 
passionate desire to title her mother, 
and to see their father so nobly mated, 
though not more than he deserves ; 
for, as my lord says, his grace's estate 
in England is worth little less than the 
whole realm of Scotland, in the ill 
state to which the wars have reduced 
it ; and when he is in his own tennis- 
court at Norwich, he thinks himself as 
great as a king. 

" As a good wife, I should wish 
as my lord does; and indeed this 
marriage, Mistress Constance, would 
please me well ; for the Queen of 
Scots is Catholic, and methinks if his 
grace were to wed her, there might 
arise some good out of it to such as 
are dependent on his grace touching 
matters of religion ; and since Mr. 
Martin has gone beyond seas, 'tis very 
little I hear in this house but what is 
contrary to the teaching I had at my 
grandmother's. My lord saith this 
queen's troubles will be ended if she 
doth marry his grace, for so Higford 
has told him ; but when I spoke there- 
of to my Lady Lumley, she prayed 
God his grace's might not then begin, 
but charged me to be silent thereon 
before my Lord Arundel, who has 
greatly set his heart on this match. 
She said words were in every one's 
mouth concerning this marriage which 
should never have been spoken of but 
amongst a few. * Nan,' quoth she, ' if 
Phil and thou do let your children's 
tongues wag anent a matter which 
may well be one of life and death, 
more harm may come of it than can 
well be thought of.' So prithee, Mis- 
tress Constance, do you be silent as 
the grave on what I have herein 
written, if so be you have not heard 

Constance Sherwood. 


of it but from me. My lord had a 
quarrel with my Lord Essex, who is 
about his own age, anent the Queen 
of Scots, a few days since, when he 
came to spend his birthday with him ; 
for my lord was twelve years old last 
week, and I gave him a fair jewel to 
set in his cap, for a love-token and for 
remembrance. My lord said that the 
Queen of Scots was a lady of so great 
virtue and beauty that none else could 
be compared with her; upon which 
my lord of Essex cried it was high, 
treason to the queen's majesty to 
say so, and that if her grace held so 
long a time in prison one who was her 
near kinswoman, it was by reason of 
her having murthered her husband 
and fomented rebellion in this king- 
dom of England, for the which she 
did deserve to be extremely used. 
My lord was very wroth at this, and 
swore he was no traitor, and that the 
Queen of Scots was no murtheress, 
and he would lay down his head on 
the block rather than suffer any should 
style her such ; upon which my lord 
of Essex asked, ' Prithee, my Lord 
Surrey, were you at Thornham last 
week when the queen's majesty was 
on a visit to your grandfather, my 
Lord Arundel ?' * No,' cried my lord, 
* your lordship being there yourself in 
my Lord Leicester's suite, must needs 
have noticed I was absent; for if I 
had been present, methinks 'tis I and 
not your lordship would have waited 
behind her majesty's chair at table 
and held a napkin to her.' ' And if 
you had, my lord,' quoth my Lord 
Essex, waxing hot in his speech, ' you 
would have noticed how her grace's 
majesty gave a nip to his grace your 
father, who was sitting by her side, 
and said she would have him take 
heed on what pillow he rested his 
head.' ' And I would have you take 
heed,' cries my lord, 'how you suffer 
your tongue to wag in an unseemly 
manner anent her grace's majesty and 
his grace my father and the Queen of 
Scots, who is kinswoman to both, and 
even now a prisoner, which should 
make men careful how they speak of 

her who cannot speak in her own 
cause ; for it is a very inhuman part, 
my lord, to tread on such as misfor- 
tune has cast down.' There was a 
nobleness in these words such as I have 
often taken note of in my lord, though 
so young, and which his playmate 
yielded to ; so that nothing more was 
said at that time anent those mat- 
ters, which indeed do seem too weighty 
to be discoursed upon by young folks. 
But I have thought since on the lines 
which 'tis said the queen's majesty 
wrote when she was herself a prisoner, 
which begin, 

1 O Fortune! how thy restless, wavering state 
Hath fraught with cares my troubled wit ; 
Witness this present prison, whither fate 
Could bear me, and the joys I quit ' 

and wondered she should have no 
greater pity on those in the same 
plight, as so many be at this time. Ah 
me ! I would not keep a bird in a cage 
an I could help it, and 'tis sad men 
are not more tender of such as are of 
a like nature with themselves ! 

" My lord was away some days af- 
ter this at Oxford, whither he had 
been carried to be present at the 
queen's visit, and at the play of Pa- 
lamon and Arcite, which her majesty 
heard in the common hall of Christ's 
Church. One evening, as my lady 
Margaret and I (like two twin cher- 
ries on one stalk, my lord would say, 
for he is mightily taken with the 
stage-plays he doth hear, and hath a 
trick of framing his speech from them) 
were sitting at the window near unto 
the garden practising our lutes and 
singing madrigals, he surprised us 
with his sweet company, in which I 
find an ever increasing content, and 
cried out as he approached, 'Ladies, 
I hold this sentence of the poet as 
a canon of my creed, that whom 
God loveth not, they love not music.' 
And then he said that albeit Italian 
was a very harmonious and sweet lan- 
guage which pleasantly tickleth the 
ear, he for his part loved English 
best, even in singing. Upon which, 
finding him in the humor for discreet 


Constance Sherwood. 

and sensible conversation, which, al- 
beit he hath good parts and a ready 
wit, is not always the case, by reason 
of his being, as boys mostly are, prone 
to wagging, I took occasion to relate 
what I had heard my Lord of Arun- 
del say touching his visit to the court 
of Brussels, when the Duchess of 
Parma invited him to a banquet to 
meet the Prince of Orange and most 
of the chief courtiers. The discourse 
was carried on in French; but my 
lord, albeit he could speak well in that 
language, nevertheless made use of an 
interpreter. At the which the Prince 
of Orange expressed his surprise to 
Sir John Wilson, who was present, 
that an English nobleman of so great 
birth and breeding should be ignorant 
of the French tongue, which the earl 
presently hearing, said, ' Tell the prince 
that I like to speak in that language 
in which I can best utter my mind 
and not mistake/ ' And I perceive, 
my lord/ I said, ' that you are of a 
like mind with his lordship, and no 
lover of new-fangled and curious 

" Upon which my dear earl laughed, 
and related unto us how the queen 
had been pleased to take notice of 
him at Oxford, and spoke merrily to 
him of his marriage. 'And prithee, 
Phil, what were her highness's words? ' 
quoth his prying sister, like a true 
daughter of Eve. At which my lord 
stroked his chin, as if to smooth his 
beard which is still to come, and said 
her majesty had cried, ' God's pity, 
child, thou wilt tire of thy wife afore 
you have both left the nursery.' 
' Alack,' cried Meg, ' if any but her 
highness had said it, thy hand would 
have been on thy sword, brother, and 
I'll warrant thou didst turn as red as 
a turkey-cock, when her majesty thus 
titled thee a baby. Nay, do not frown, 
but be a good lord to us, and tell Nan 
and me if the queen said aught else.' 
Then my lord cleared his brow, and 
related how in the hunting scene in 
the play, when the cry of the hounds 
was heard outside the stage, which 
was excellently well imitated, some 

scholars who were seated near him, 
and he must confess himself also, did 
shout, * There, there he's caught, 
he's caught !' upon which her grace's 
majesty laughed, and merrily cried out 
from her box, ' Those boys in very troth 
are ready to leap out of the windows !' 
'And had you such pleasant sports 
each day, brother?' quoth our Meg. 
' No, by my troth,' my lord answered ; 
' the more's the pity ; for the next day 
there was a disputation held in physic 
and divinity from two to seven; and Dr. 
Westphaling held forth at so great 
length that her majesty sent word to him 
to end his discourse without delay, to 
the great relief and comfort of all pres- 
ent. But he would not give over, lest, 
having committed all to memory, he 
should forget the rest if he omitted 
any part of it, and be brought to 
shame before the university and the 
court.' ' What said her highness when 
she saw he heeded not her com- 
mands ?' Meg asked. ' She was an- 
gered at first,' quoth my lord, ' that he 
durst go on with his discourse when 
she had sent him word presently to 
stop, whereby she had herself been 
prevented from speaking, which 
Spanish Ambassador had asked 
to do ; but when she heard the 
it move^ her to laughter, and she 
him a parrot.' 

" ' And spoke not her majesty at all ?' 
I asked ; and my lord said, ' She 
would not have been a woman, Nan, 
an she had held her tongue after being 
once resolved to use it. She made 
the next day an oration in Latin, and 
stopped in the midst to bid my Lord 
Burleigh be seated, and not to stand 
painfully on his gouty feet. Beshrew 
me, but I think she did it to show the 
poor dean how much better her mem- 
ory served her than his had done, for 
she looked round to where he was 
standing ere she resumed her dis- 
course. And now, Meg, clear thy 
throat and tune thy pipe, for not an- 
other word will I speak till thou hast 
sung that ditty good Mr. Martin set to 
music for thee.' I have set it down here, 
Mistress Constance, with the notes as 

Constance Sherwood. 


she sung k, that you may sing it also ; 
and not like it the less that my quaint 
fancy pictures the maiden the poet sings 
of, in her ' frock of frolic green/ like 
unto my sweet friend who dwells not 
far from one of the fair rivers therein 

A knight, as antique stories tell, 
A daughter had named Dawsabel, 

A maiden fair and free ; 
She wore a frock of frolic green, 
Might well become a maiden queen, 

Which seemly was to see. 

The silk well could she twist and twine, 

And make the fine March pine, 

And with the needle work ; 

And she could help the priest to say 

His matins on a holy day, 

And sing a psalm in kirk. 

Her features all as fresh above 
As is the grass that grows by Dove, 
And lythe as lass of Kent ; 
Her skin as soft as Leinster wool, 
And white as snow on Penhisk Hull, 
Or swan that swims on Trent. 

This maiden on a morn betime 

Goes forth when May is in its prime, 

To get sweet setywall, 

The honeysuckle, the hurlock, 

The lily aud the lady-smock, 

To deck her father's hall. 

" ' Ah,' cried my lord, when Meg had 
ended her song, beshrew me, if Mon- 
sieur Sebastian's madrigals are one- 
half so dainty as this English piece of 
harmony.' And then, -for his lord- 
ship's head is at present running on 
pageants such as he witnessed at 
Nonsuch and at Oxford, he would 
have me call into the garden Madge 
and Bess, whilst he fetched his brothers 
to take part in a May game, not in- 
deed in season now, but which, he 
says, is too good sport not to be fol- 
lowed all the year round. So he must 
needs dress himself as Robin Hood, 
with a wreath on his head and a sheaf 
of arrows in his girdle, and me as Maid 
Marian ; and Meg, for that she is taller 
by an inch than any of us, though 
younger than him and me, he said 
should play Little John, and Bess 
Friar Tuck, for that she looks so glee- 
some and has a face so red and round. 
'And Tom,' he cried, ' thou needst not 
be at pains to change thy name, for we 
will dub thee Tom the piper.' < And 
what is Will to be ?' asked my Lady 
Bess, who, since I be titled Countess 

of Surrey, must needs be styled My 
Lady William Howard.' 'Why, 
there's only the fool left,' quoth my 
lord, ' for thy sweetheart to play, Bess.' 
At the which her ladyship and his 
lordship too began to stamp and cry, 
and would have sobbed outright, but 
sweet Madge, whose face waxes so 
white and her eyes so large and blue 
that methinks she is more like to an 
angel than a child, put out her little 
thin hands with a, pretty gesture, and 
said, ' I'll be the fool, brother Surrey, 
and Will shall be the dragon, and Bess 
ride the hobby-horse, an it will please 
her.' ' Nay, but she is Friar Tuck/ 
quoth my lord, ' and should not ride.' 
* And prithee wherefore no ?' cried the 
forward imp, who, now she no more 
fears her grandam's rod, has grown 
very saucy and bold; 'why should 
not the good friar ride, an it doth 
pleasure him ?' 

" At the which we laughed and fell 
to acting our parts with no little mer- 
riment and noise, and sundry repre- 
hensions from my lord when we mis- 
took our postures or the lines he 
would have us to recite. And at the 
end he set up a pole on the grass-plat 
for the Maying, and we danced and 
sung around it to a merry tune, which 
set our feet flying in time with the 
music : 

Now in the month of maying, 
When the merry lads are playing, 

Pa, la, la. 

Each with his bonny lasse, 
Upon the greeny grasse, 

Fa, la, la. 

Madge was not strong enough to dance, 
but she stole away to gather white and 
blue violets, and made a fair garland 
to set on my head, to my lord's great 
content, and would have me unloose 
my hair on my shoulders, which fell 
nearly to my feet, and waved in the 
wind- in a wild fashion ; which he said 
was beseeming for a bold outlaw's bride, 
and what he had seen in the Maid Ma- 
rian, who had played in the pageant 
at Nonsuch. Mrs. Fawcett misdoubt- 
ed that this sport of ours should be 
approved by Mr. Charke, who calls all 


Constance Sherwood. 

stage-playing Satan's recreations, and 
a sure road unto hell ; and that we 
shall hear on it in his next preach- 
ment ; for he has held forth to her at 
length on that same point, and up- 
braided her for that she did suffer 
such foolish and profane pastimes to 
be carried on in his grace's house. Ah 
me ! I see no harm in it ; and if, when 
my lord visits me, I play not with him 
as he chooses, 'tis not a thing to be ex- 
pected that he will come only to sing 
psalms or play chess, which Mr. Charke 
holds to be the only game it befits 
Christians to entertain themselves with. 
'Tis hard to know what is right and 
wrong when persons be of such differ- 
ent minds, and no ghostly adviser to be 
had, such as I was used to at my 
grandmother's house. 

" All, Mistress Constance ! when I 
last wrote unto you I said troubles 
was the word in every one's mouth, 
and ere I had finished this letter 
which I was then writing, and have 
kept by me ever since what, think 
you, has befallen us ? "Tis anent the 
marriage of his grace with the Queen 
of Scots ; which I now do wish it had 
pleased God none had ever thought 
of. Some weeks since my lord had 
told me, with great glee, that the 
Spanish ambassador was about to pe- 
tition her majesty the queen for the 
release of her highness's cousin ; and 
Higford and Bannister, and the rest 
of his grace's household whom, since 
Mr. Martin went beyond seas, my 
lord spends much of his time with, and 
more of it methinks than is beseeming 
or to the profit of his manners and ad- 
vancement of his behavior have told 
him that this would prepare the way 
for the greatly-to-be-desired end of 
his grace's marriage with that queen ; 
and my lord was reckoning up all the 
fine sports and pageants and noble en- 
tertainments would be enacted at Ken- 
ninghall and Thetford when that right 
princely wedding should take place ; 
and how he should himself carry the 
train of the queen-duchess when she 
went into church ; who was the fair- 
est woman, he said, in the whole 

world, and none ever seen to be com- 
pared with her since the days of Gre- 
cian Helen. But when, some days 
ago, I questioned my lord touching the 
success of the ambassador's suits, and 
the queen's answer thereto, he said: 
' By my troth, Nan, I understand that 
her highness sent away the gooseman, 
for so she entitled Senor Guzman, 
with a flea in his ear ; for she said 
he had come on a fool's errand, and 
gave him for her answer that she 
would advise the Queen of Scots to 
bear her condition with less impa- 
tience, or she might chance to find 
some of those on whom she relied 
shorter by a head/ ' Oh, my lord,' I 
cried ; ' my dear Phil ! God send she 
was not speaking of his grace your 
father !' ' Nan,' quoth he, ' she looked 
at his grace the next day with looks 
of so great anger and disdain, that 
my lord of Leicester that false and 
villainous knave gave signs of so 
great triumph as if his grace was 
even on his way to the Tower. Be- 
shrew me, if I would not run my ra- 
pier through his body if I could !' 
' And where is his grace at present ?' 
I asked. ' He came to town 
night,' quoth my lord, 'with my 
Arundel, and this morning went 
JKenninghall/ After this for some 
days I heard no more, for a new tutor 
came to my lord, who suffers him not 
to stay in the waiting-room with his 
grace's gentlemen, and keeps so strict 
a hand over him touching his studies, 
that in his brief hours of recreation he 
would rather play at quoits, and other 
active pastimes, than converse with his 
lady. Alack ! I wish he were a few 
years older, and I should have more 
comfort of him than now, when I must 
needs put up with his humors, which 
be as changeful, by reason of his great 
youth, as the lights and shades on the 
grass 'neath an aspen-tree. I must be 
throwing a ball for hours, or learning 
a stage-part, when I would fain speak 
of the weighty matters which be on 
hand, such as I have told you of. 
Howsoever, as good luck would have it, 
my Lady Lumley sent for me to spend 

Constance Sherwood. 


the day with her ; and from her lady- 
ship I learnt that his grace had written 
to the queen that he had withdrawn 
from the court because of the pain he 
felt at her displeasure, and his mortifi- 
cation at the treatment he had been sub- 
jected to by the insolence of his foes, by 
whom he has been made a common ta- 
ble talk ; and that her majesty had laid 
upon him her commands straightway 
to return to court. That was all was 
known that day ; but at the very time 
that I was writing the first of these wo- 
ful tidings to you, Mistress Constance, 
his grace whom I now know that I 
do love dearly, and with a true daugh- 
ter's heart, by the dreadful fear and 
pain I am in was arrested at Burn- 
ham, where he had stopped on his road 
to Windsor, and committed to the Tow- 
er. Alack ! alack ! what will follow ? 
I will leave this my letter open until I 
have further news to send. 

" His grace was examined this day 
before my Lord-keeper Bacon, and my 
Lords Northampton, Sadler, Bedford, 
and Cecil ; and they have reported to 
her majesty that the duke had not put 
himself under penalty of the law by 
any overt act of treason, and that it 
would be difficult to convict him with- 
out this. My Lord of Arundel, at 
whose house I was when these tidings 
came, said her majesty was so angered 
at this judgment, that she cried out in 
a passion, * Away ! what the law fails 
to do my authority shall effect ;' and 
straightway fell into a fit, her passion 
was so great ; and they were forced to 
apply vinegar to restore her. I had a 
wicked thought come into my mind, 
Mistress Constance, that I should not 
have been concerned if the queen's 
majesty had died in that fit, which I 
befear me was high treason, and a 
mortal sin, to wish for one to die in a 
state of sin. But, alack ! since I have 
left going to shrift I find it hard to 
fight against bad thoughts and naughty 
tempers ; and when I say my prayers, 
and the old words come to my lips, 
which the preachments I hear do con- 
tradict, I am sometimes well-nigh 
tempted to give over praying at all. 

But I pray to God I may never be so 
wicked ; and though I may not have 
my beads (which were taken from 
me), that the good Bishop of Durham 
gave me when I was confirmed, I use 
my fingers in their stead ; and whilst 
his grace was at the Tower I did say 
as many ' Hail Maries' in one day 
as I ever did in my life before ; and 
promised him, who is God's own dear 
Son and hers, if his grace came out 
of prison, never to be a day of my 
life without saying a prayer, or giving 
an alms, or" doing a good turn to those 
which be in the same case, near at hand 
or throughout the world ; and I ween 
there are many such of all sorts at this 

" Your loving servant to command, 
whose heart is at present heavier than 
her pen, 


" P. S. My Lord of Westmoreland 
has left London, and his lady is in a 
sad plight. I hear such things said on 
all sides touching Papists as I can 
scarce credit, and I pray to God they 
be not true. But an if they be so bad 
as some do say, why does his grace 
run his head into danger for the sake 
of the Popish queen, as men do style 
her? They have arrested Higford 
and Bannister last night, and they are 
to taste of the rack to-day, to satisfy 
the queen, who is so urgent on it. My 
lord is greatly concerned thereat, and 
cried when he spoke of it, albeit he 
tried to hide his tears. I asked him 
to show me what sort of pain it was ; 
whereupon he twisted my arm till I 
cried out and bade him desist. God 
help me ! I could not have endured 
the pain an instant longer ; and if they 
have naught to tell anent these plots 
and against his grace, they needs must 
speak what is false when under the 
rack. Oh, 'tis terrible to think what 
men do suffer and cause others to 
suffer !" 

This letter came into my hand on a 
day when my father had gone into 
Lichfield touching some business ; and 


Constance Sherwood. 

he brought with it the news of a rising 
in the north, and that his Grace of 
Northumberland and my Lord of West- 
moreland had taken arms on hearing 
of the Duke of Norfolk's arrest ; and 
the Catholics, under Mr. Richard Nor- 
ton and Lord Latimer, had joined their 
standard, and were bearing the cross 
before the insurgents. My father was 
sore cast down at these tidings ; for 
he looked for no good from what was 
rebellion against a lawful sovereign, 
and a consorting with troublesome 
spirits, swayed by no love of our holy 
religion but rather contrary to it, as 
my Lord of Westmoreland and some 
others of those leading lords. And he 
hence foreboded fresh trials to all such 
as were of the ancient faith all over 
England ; which was not long in ac- 
cruing even in our own case ; for a 
short time after, we were for the first 
time visited by pursuivants, on a day 
and in such a manner as I will now 
briefly relate. 


ON the Sunday morning which fol- 
lowed the day on which the news had 
reached us of the rising in Northum- 
berland, I went, as wais my wont, into 
my mother's dressing-room, to crave 
her blessing, and I asked of her if the 
priest who came to say mass for us 
most Sundays had arrived. She said 
he had been, and had gone away again, 
and that she greatly feared we should 
have no prayers that day, saving such 
as w.e might offer up for ourselves ; " to- 
gether," she added after a pause, " with 
a bitter sacrifice of tears and of such 
sufferings as we have heard of, but 
as yet not known the taste of our- 

Again I felt in my heart a throbbing 
feeling, which had in it an admixture 
of pain and joy made up, I ween, of 
conflicting passions such as curiosity 
feeding on the presentment of an ap- 
proaching change ; of the motions of 
grace in a soul which faintly discerns 

the happiness of suffering for con- 
science sake ; and the fear of suffer- 
ing natural to the human heart. 

" Why are we to have no mass, 
sweet mother ?" I asked, encircling her 
waist in my arms ; " and wherefore 
has good Mr. Bryan gone away ?" 

" We received advice late last evei 
ing," she answered, " that the queen* 
pursuivants have orders to search tl 
day the houses of the most noted i< 
cusants in this neighborhood ; and 't 
likely they may begin with us, wl 
have never made a secret of our fa 
and never will." 

"And will they kill us if th( 
come ?" I asked, with that same trei 
bling eagerness I have so often knoi 
since when danger was at hand. 

" Not now, not to-day, Conny,' 
answered ; " but I pray to God they 
do not carry us away to prison ; fo 
since this rising in the north, to be 
Catholic and a traitor is one and tl 
same in their eyes who have to jud< 
us. We must needs hide our bool 
and church furniture ; so give me tlrj 
beads, sweet one, and the cross fr 
thy neck." 

I waxed red when my mother 
me unloose the string, and tigl 
clasped the cross in both my hanc 
" Let them kill me, mother," I crk 
" but take not off my cross." 

" Maybe," she said, " the qut 
officers would trample on it, and 
injure their own souls in dishonoring 
a holy symbol." And as she spoke 
she took it from me, and hid it in a 
recess behind the chimney ; which no 
sooner was done, than we heard a 
sound of horses' feet in the approach ; 
and going to the window, I cried out, 
" Here is a store of armed men on 
horseback !" Ere I had uttered the 
words, one of them had dismounted 
and loudly knocked at the door with 
his truncheon ; upon which my mother, 
taking me by the hand, went down 
stairs into the parlor where my 
father was. It seemed as if those 
knocks had struck on her heart, so 
great a trembling came over her. 
My father bade the servants throw 

Constance Sherwood. 


open the door; and the sheriff came 
in, with two pursuivants and some 
more men with him, and produced a 
warrant to search the house ; which 
my father having read, he bowed his 
head, and gave orders not to hinder 
them in their duty. He stood himself 
the while in the hall, his face as white 
as a smock, and his teeth almost run- 
ning through his lips. 

One of the men came into the 
librar} r , and pulling down the books, 
scattered them on the floor, and cried : 

" Look ye here, sirs, what Popish 
stuff is this, fit for the hangman's 
burning ! " At the which another an- 
swered : 

" By my troth, Sam, I misdoubt 
that thou canst read. Methinks thou 
dost hunt Popery as dogs do game, by 
the scent. Prithee spell me the title 
of this volume." 

" I will have none of thy gibing, 
Master Sevenoaks," returned the 
other. " Whether I be a scholar or 
not, I'll warrant no honest gospeller 
wrote on those yellow musty leaves, 
which be two hundred years old, if 
they be a day." 

" And I'll warrant thee in that cre- 
dence, Master Samuel, by the same 
token that the volume in thy hand is a 
treatise on field-sports, writ in the days 
of Master Caxton ; a code of the laws 
to be observed in the hunting and 
killing of deer, which I take to be no 
Popish sport, for our most gracious 
queen God save her majesty ! 
slew a fat buck not long ago in "Wind- 
sor Forest with her own hand, and 
remembered his grace of Canterbury 
with half her prey ;" and so saying, he 
drew his comrade from the room ; I 
ween with the intent to save the books 
from his rough handling, for he seemed 
of a more gentle nature than the rest 
and of a more moderate disposition. 

When they had ransacked all the 
rooms below, they went upstairs, and 
my father followed. Breaking from my 
mother's side, who sat pale and still as 
a statute, unable to move from her 
seat, I ran after him, and on the land- 
ing-place I heard the sheriff say 

somewhat touching the harboring of 
priests ; to the which he made answer 
that he was ready to swear there was 
no priest in the house. "Nor has 
been?" quoth the sheriff; upon which 
my father said: 

" Good sir, this house was built in 
the days of Ijer majesty's grandfather, 
King Henry VH. ; and on one occa- 
sion his majesty was pleased to rest 
under my grandfather's roof, and to 
hear mass in that room," he said, 
pointing to what was now the chapel, 
" the church being too distant for his 
majesty's convenience: sopriestshave 
been within these walls many tunes 
ere I was born." 

The sheriff said no more at that 
time, but went into the room, where 
there were only a few chairs, for that 
in the night the altar and all that 
appertained to it had been removed. 
He and his men were going out again, 
when a loud knocking was heard 
against the wall on one side of the 
chamber; at the sound of which my 
father's face, which was white before, 
became of an ashy paleness. 

" Ah !" cried one of the pursuivants, 
"the lying Papist! The egregious 
Roman ! an oath is in his mouth that 
he has no priest in his house, and here 
is one hidden in his cupboard." 

"Mr. Sherwood!" the sheriff 
shouted, greatly moved, "lead the 
way to the hiding-place wherein a 
traitor is concealed, or I order the 
house to be pulled down about your 

My father was standing like one 
stunned by a sudden blow, and I 
heard him murmur, " 'Tis the devil's 
own doing, or else I am stark, staring 

The men ran to the wall, and 
knocked against it with their sticks, 
crying out in an outrageous manner 
to the priest to come out of his hole. 
" We'll unearth the Jesuit fox," cried 
one; "we'll give him a better lodg- 
ing in Lichfield gaol," shouted 
another ; and the sheriff kept threat- 
ening to set fire to the house. Still the 
knocking from within went on, as if 


Constance Shenoood. 

answering that outside, and then a 
voice cried out, " I cannot open : I am 
shut in." 

" 'Tis Edmund !" I exclaimed ; 
" 'tis Edmund is in the hiding-place." 
And then the words were distinctly 
heard, "'Tis I; 'tis Edmund Gen- 
ings. For God's sake, open ; I am 
shut in." Upon which my father drew 
a deep breath, and hastening for- 
ward, pressed his "finger on a place in 
the wall, the panel slipped, and Ed- 
mund came out of the recess, looking 
scared and confused. The pursuivants 
seized him ; but the sheriff cried out, 
surprised, " God's death, sirs ! but 'tis 
the son of the worshipful Mr. Gen- 
ings, whose lady is a mother in Israel, 
and M. Jean de Luc's first cousin ! 
And how came ye, Mr. Edmund, to 
be concealed in this Popish den? 
Have these recusants imprisoned you 
with some foul intent, or perverted 
you by their vile cunning ?" Edmund 
was addressing my father in an agi- 
tated voice. 

" I fear me, sir," he cried, clasping 
his hands, " I befear me much I have 
affrighted you, and I have been my- 
self sorely affrighted. I was passing 
through this room, which I have never 
before seen, and the door of which 
was open this morn. By chance I 
drew my hand along the wall, where 
there was no apparent mark, when the 
panel slipped and disclosed this recess, 
into which I stepped, and straight- 
way the opening closed and I re- 
mained in darkness. I was afraid no 
one might hear me, and I should die 
of hunger." 

My father tried to smile, but could 
not. " Thank God," he said, " 'tis no 
worse ;" and sinking down on a chair 
he remained silent, whilst the sheriff 
and the pursuivants examined the 
recess, which was deep and narrow, 
and in which they brandished their 
swords in all directions. Then they 
went round the room, feeling the walls ; 
but though there was another recess 
with a similar mode of aperture, they 
hit not on it, doubtless through God's 
mercy ; for in it were concealed the 

altar furniture and our books, with 
many other things besides, which they 
would have seized on. 

Before going away, the sheriff ques- 
tioned Edmund concerning his faith, 
and for what reason he abode in a Po- 
pish house and consorted with recu- 
sants. Edmund answered he was no 
Papist, but a kinsman of Mrs. Sher- 
wood, unto whose house his father had 
oftentimes sent him. Upon which he 
was counselled to take heed unto him- 
self and to eschew evil company, which 
leads to horrible defections, and into 
the straight road to perdition. Where- 
upon they departed; and the officer 
who had enticed his companion from 
the library smiled as he passed me, 
and said : 

"And wherefore not at prayers, lit- 
tle mistress, on the Lord's day, as all 
Christian folks should be?" 

I ween he was curious to see how 
I should answer, albeit not moved 
thereunto by any malicious intent. 
But at the time I did not bethink mi 
self that he spoke of Protestant 
vice ; and being angered at what 
passed, I said : 

" Because we be kept from prajj 
by the least welcome visit ever mi 
to Christian folks on a Lord's 
morning." He laughed and cried : 

" Thou hast a ready tongue, young 
mistress ; and when tried for recu- 
sancy I warrant thou'lt give the judge 
a piece of thy mind." 

" And if I ever be in such a pres- 
ence, and for such a cause," I an- 
swered, " I pray to God I may say to 
my lord on the bench what the blessed 
apostle St. Peter spoke to his judges : 
* If it be just in the sight of God to 
hear you rather than God, judge ye.' '* 
At which he cried : 

" Why, here is a marvel indeed a 
Papist to quote Scripture !" And laugh- 
ing again, he went his way ; "and the 
house was for that time rid of these 
troublesome guests. 

Then Edmund again sued for par- 
don to my father, that through his rash 
conduct he had been the occasion of 
so great fear and trouble to him. 

Constance Sherwood. 


"I warrant thee, my good boy," 
quoth my father, " thou didst cause me 
the most keen anguish, and the most 
sudden relief from it, which can well be 
thought of; and so no more need be 
said thereon. And as thou must needs 
be going to the public church, 'tis tune 
that thou bestir thyself; for 'tis a long 
walk there and back, and the sun wax- 
ing hot." 

When Edmund was gone, and I 
alone with him, my father clasped me 
in his arms, and cried : 

" God send, my wench, thou mayest 
justify thy sponsors who gave thee thy 
name in baptism ; for 'tis a rare con- 
stancy these tunes do call for, and 
such as is not often seen, saving in 
such as be of a noble and religious 
spirit ; which I pray to God may be 
the case with thee." 

My mother did not speak, but went 
away with her hand pressed against 
her heart ; which was what of late I 
had often seen her to do, as if the pain 
was more than she could bear. 

One hour later, as I was crossing 
the court, a man met me suited as a 
farmer ; who, when I passed him, laid 
his hand on my shoulder; at the 
which I started, and turning round 
saw it was Father Bryan ; who, smil- 
ing as I caught his hand, cried out : 

"Dost know the shepherd in his 
wolf's clothing, little mistress?" and 
hastening on to the chapel he said 
mass, at the which only a few assisted, 
as my parents durst not send to the 
Catholics so late in the day. As soon 
as mass was over, Mr. Bryan said he 
must leave, for there was a warrant 
ssued for his apprehension ; and our 
house famed for recusancy, so as he 
might not stay in it but with great 
peril to himself and to its owners. We 
stood at the door as he was mounting 
his horse, and my father said, patting 
its neck : 

" Tis a faithful servant this, rever- 
nd father ; many a mile he has car- 
ried thee to the homes of the sick and 
dying since our troubles began." 

"Ah! good Mr. Sherwood," Mr. 
Bryan replied, as he gathered up the 

bridle, " thou hast indeed warrant to 
style the poor beast faithful. If I were 
to shut my eyes and let him go, no 
doubt but he would find his way to the 
doors of such as cleave to the an- 
cient faith, in city or in hamlet, across 
moor or through thick wood. If a 
pursuivant bestrode him, he might dis- 
cover through his means who be re- 
cusants a hundred miles around. But 
I bethink me he would not budge with 
such a burthen on his back ; and that 
he who made the prophet's ass to speak, 
would, give the good beast more sense 
than to turn informer, and to carry the 
wolf to the folds of the lambs. And 
prithee, Mistress Constance," said the 
good priest, turning to me, " canst keep 
a secret and be silent, when men's 
lives are in jeopardy ?" 

" Aye," cried my father quickly, 
" 'tis as much as worthy Mr. Bryan's 
life is worth that none should know he 
was here to-day." 

" More than my poor life is worth," 
he rejoined ; " that were little to think 
of, my good friends. For five years I 
have made it my prayer that the day 
may soon come and I care not how 
soon when I may lay it down for his 
sake who gave it. But we must e'en 
have a care for those who are so rash 
as to harbor priests in these evil 
times. So Mistress Constance must 
e'en study the virtue of silence, and 
con the meaning of the proverb which 
teacheth discretion to be the best part 
of valor." 

"If Edmund Genings asketh me, 
reverend father, if I have heard mass 
to-day, what must I answer ?" 

" Say the queen's majesty has for- 
bidden mass to be said in this her 
kingdom ; and if he presseth thee more 
closely thereon, why then tell him the 
last news from the poultry-yard, and 
that the hares have eat thy mignon- 
ette ; which they be doing even now, 
if my eyes deceive me not," said the 
good father, pointing with his whip to 
the flower-garden. 

So, smiling, he gave us a last bless- 
ing, and rode on toward the Chase, 
and I went to drive the hares away 


Constance Sherwood. 

from the flower-beds, and then to set 
the chapel in fair order. And ever 
and anon, that day and the next, I 
took out of my pocket my sweet Lady 
Surrey's last letter, and pictured to 
myself all the scenes therein related ; 
so that I seemed to live one-half of my 
life with her in thought, so greatly was 
my fancy set upon her, and my heart 
concerned in her troubles. 


NOT many days after the sheriff and 
the pursuivants had been at our house, 
and Mr. Bryan, by reason of the 
bloody laws which had been enacted 
against Papists and such as harbor 
priests, had left us, though intending 
to return at such times as might serve 
our commodity, and yet not affect our 
safety, I was one morning assisting 
my mother in the store-room, wherein 
she was setting aside such provisions as 
were to be distributed to the poor that 
week, together with salves, medicines, 
and the like, which she also gave out 
of charity, when a spasm came over 
her, so vehement and painful, that for 
the moment she lost the use of speech, 
and made signs to me to call for help. 
I ran affrighted into the library for my 
father, and brought him to her, upon 
which, in a little time, she did some- 
what recover, but desired he would 
assist her to her own chamber, whither 
she went leaning on his arm. When 
laid on her bed she seemed easier; 
and smiling, bade me leave them for 
awhile, for that she desired to have 
speech with my father alone. 

For the space of an hour I walked 
in the garden, with so oppressive a 
grief at my heart as I had never be- 
fore experienced. Methinks the great 
stillness in the air added thereunto 
some sort of physical disorder ; for 
the weather was very close and heavy ; 
and if a leaf did but stir, I started as 
if danger was at hand ; and the noise 
of the chattering pies over my head 
worked in me an apprehensive melan- 

choly, foreboding, I doubt not, what 
was to follow. At about eleven 
o'clock, hearing the sound of a horse's 
feet in the avenue, I turned round, 
and saw Edmund riding from the 
house ; upon which I ran across the 
grass to a turning of the road where he 
would pass, and called to him to stop, 
which he did ; and told me he was 
going to Lichfield for his father, 
whom my mother desired presently 
to see. "Then thou shouldst not 
tarry," I said ; and he pushed on and 
left me standing where I was ; but the 
bell then ringing for dinner, I went 
back to the house, and, in so doing, 
took notice of a bay-tree on the lawn 
which was withered and dried-up, 
though the gardener had been at pains 
to preserve it by sundry appliances and 
frequent watering of it. Then it came 
to my remembrance what my nurse 
used to say, that the dying of that 
sort of tree is a sure omen of a death 
in a family ; which thought sorely dis- 
turbed me at that time. I sat down 
with my father to a brief and silent 
meal; and soon after the physician he 
had sent for came, whom he con- 
ducted to my mother's chamber, 
whereunto I did follow, and slipped in 
unperceived. Sitting on one side of 
the bed, behind the curtains, I heard 
her say, in a voice which sounded 
hollow and weak, " Good Master 
Lawrenson, my dear husband was 
fain to send for you, and I cared not 
to withstand him, albeit persuaded 
that I am hastening to my journey's 
end, and that naught that you or any 
other man may prescribe may stay 
what is God's will. And if this be 
visible to you as it is to me, I pray 
you keep it not from me, for it will be 
to my much comfort to be assured 
of it," 

When she had done speaking, he 
did feel her pulse ; and the while my 
heart beat so quick and, as it seemed 
to me, so loud as if it must needs im- 
pede my hearing ; but in a moment I 
heard him say : " God defend, good 
madam, I should deceive you. While 
there is life, there is hope. Greater 

Constance Sherwood. 


comfort I dare not urge. If there be 
any temporal matter on your mind, 
'twere better settled now, and likewise 
of your soul's health, by such pious 
exercises as are used by those of 
your way of thinking." 

At the hearing of these his words, 
my father fetched a deep sigh; but 
she, as one greatly relieved, clasped 
her hands together, and cried, " My 
God, I thank thee !" 

Then, steah'ng from behind the cur- 
tain, I laid my head on the pillow nigh 
unto hers, and whispered, " Sweet 
mother, prithee do not die, or else take 
me with thee." 

But she, as one not heeding, ex- 
claimed, with her hands uplifted, " O 
faithless heart ! O selfish heart ! to 
be so glad of death !" 

The physician was directing the 
maids what they should do for her 
relief when the pain came on, and he 
himself stood compounding some med- 
icine for her to take. My father asked 
of him when he next would come ; 
and he answered, " On the morrow ;" 
but methinks 'twas even then his be- 
lief that there would be no morrow 
for her who was dying before her 
time, like the bay-tree in our garden. 
She bade him farewell in a kindly 
fashion ; and when we were alone, I 
lying on the bed by her side, and my 
father sitting at its head, she said, 
in a low voice, rf How wonderful be 
God's dealings with us, and how fath- 
erly his care ; in that he takes the 
weak unto himself, and leaves behind 
the strong to fight the battle now at 
hand! My dear master, I had a 
dream yesternight which had some- 
what of horror in it, but more me- 
thinks of comfort." My father break- 
ing out then in sighs and tears as if 
his heart would break, she said, " Oh, 
but thou must hear and acknowledge, 
my loved master, how gracious is 
God's providence to thy poor wife. 
When thou knowest what I have suf- 
fered not in body, though that has 
been sharp too, but in my soul it 
will reconcile thine own to a parting 
which has in it so much of mercy. 


Thou dost remember the night when 
Mr. Mush was here, and what his dis- 
course did run on ?" 

u Surely do I, sweet wife," he an- 
swered ; " for it was such as the mind 
doth not easily lose the memory of; 
the sufferings and glorious end of the 
blessed martyr Mrs. Clitherow. I 
perceived what sorrowful heed thou 
didst lend to his recital; but has it 
painfully dwelt in thy mind since ?" 

" By day and by night it hath not 
left me ; ever recurring to my 
thoughts, ever haunting my dreams, 
and working in me a fearful apprehen- 
sion lest in a like trial I should be 
found wanting, and prove a traitor to 
God and his Church, and a disgrace 
and heartbreak to thee who hast so 
truly loved me far beyond my deserts. 
I have bragged of the dangers of the 
times, even as cowards are wont to 
speak loud in the dark to still by the 
sound of their own voices the terrors 
they do feel. I have had before my 
eyes the picture of that cruel death, 
and of the children extremely used for 
answering as their mother had taught 
them, till cold drops of sweat have 
stood on my brow, and I have knelt 
in my chamber wringing my hands 
and praying to be spared a like trial. 
And then, maybe an hour later, sit- 
ting at the table, I spake merrily of 
the gallows, mocking my own fears, as 
when Mr. Bryan was last here ; and 
I said that priests should be more 
welcome to me than ever they were, 
now that virtue and the Catholic cause 
were made felony ; and the same would 
be in God's sight more meritorious 
than ever before : upon which, ' Then 
you must prepare your neck for the 
rope,' quoth he, in a pleasant but 
withal serious manner ; at the which a 
cold chill overcame me, and L very 
well-nigh faulted, though constraining 
my tongue to say, ' God's will be 
done ; but I am far unworthy of so 
great an honor.' The cowardly heart 
belied the confident tongue, and fear 
of my own weakness affrighted me, 
by the which I must needs have 
offended God, who helps such as trust 


Constance Sherwood. 

in him. But I hope to be forgiven, 
inasmuch as it has ever been the wont 
of my poor thoughts to picture evils 
beforehand in such a form as to scare 
the soul, which, when it came to meet 
with them, was not shaken from its 
constancy. When Conny was an 
infant I have stood nigh unto a win- 
dow with her in my arms, and of a 
sudden a terror would seize me lest I 
should let her fall out of my hands, 
which yet clasped her ; and methinks 
'twas somewhat of alike feeling which 
worked in me touching the denying of 
my faith, which, God is my witness, 
is dearer to me than aught upon 

"'Tis even so, sweet wife," quoth 
my father ; " the edge of a too keen 
conscience and a sensitive apprehen- 
sion of defects visible to thine own 
eyes and God's never to mine, who 
was ever made happy by thy love and 
virtue have worn out the frame 
which enclosed them, and will rob 
me of the dearest comfort of my life, if 
I must lose thee." 

She looked upon him with so much 
sweetness, as if the approach of death 
had brought her greater peace and 
joy than life had ever done, and she 
replied : " Death comes to me as a 
compassionate angel, and I fain would 
have thee welcome with me the kindly 
messenger who brings so great relief 
to the poor heart thou hast so long 
cherished. Now, thou art called to 
another task ; and when the bruised, 
broken reed is removed from thy side, 
thou wilt follow the summons which 
even now sounds in thine ears." 

" Ah," cried my father, clasping her 
hand, " art thou then already a saint, 
sweet wife, that thou hast read the 
vow slowly registered as yet in the 
depthg of a riven heart?" Then his 
eyes turned on me; and she, who 
seemed to know his thoughts, that 
sweet soul who had been so silent in 
life, but was now spending her last 
breath in never-to-be-forgotten words, 
answered the question contained in 
that glance as if it had been framed in 
a set speech. 

" Fear not for her," she said, laying 
her cheek close unto mine. " As her 
days, so shall her strength be. Me- 
thinks Almighty God has given her 
a spirit meet for the age in which her 
lot is cast. The early training thou 
hast had, my wench ; the lack of such 
memories as make the present twofold 
bitter ; the familiar mention round thy 
cradle of such trials as do beset Cat 
lies in these days, have nurtured 
thee a stoutness of heart which wil 
stand thee in good stead amidst 
rough waves of this troublesome 
world. The iron will not enter int 
thy soul as it hath done into mine." 
Upon which she fell back exhausted 
and for a while no sound was heai 
in or about the house save the barkii 
of our great dog. 

My father had sent a messenger 
a house where we had had notice 
days before Father Ford was stayii 
but with no certain knowledge he 
still there, or any other priest hi 
neighborhood, which occasioned hii 
no small disquietude, for my mother's 
strength seemed to be visibly sinkii 
which was what the doctor's words he 
led him to expect. The man he 
sent returned not till the evening; 
in the afternoon Mr. Genings and 
son came from Lichfield, which, when 
my mother heard, she said God was 
gracious to permit her once more to 
see John, which was Mr. Genings' 
name. They had been reared in the 
same house ; and a kindness had al- 
ways continued betwixt them. For 
some time past he had conformed to 
the times ; and since his marriage with 
the daughter of a French Huguenot 
who lived in London, and who was a 
lady of very commendable character 
and manners, and strenuous in her 
own way of thinking, he had left off 
practising his own religion in secret, 
which for a while he used to do. When 
he came in, and saw death plainly writ 
in his cousin's face, he was greatly 
moved, and knelt down by her side 
with a very sorrowful countenance ; 
upon which she straightly looked at 
him, and said : " Cousin John, my 

Constance Sherwood. 


breath is very short, as my time is also 
like to be. But one word I would 
fain say to thee before I die. I was 
always well pleased with my religion, 
which was once thine and that of all 
Christian people one hundred years 
ago ; but I have never been so well 
pleased with it as now, when I be about 
to meet my Judge." 

Mr. Genings' features worked with 
a strange passion, in which was more 
of grief than displeasure, and grasping 
his son's shoulder, who was likewise 
kneeling and weeping, he said : " You 
have wrought with this boy, cousin, to 
make him a Catholic." 

"As heaven is my witness," she 
answered, "not otherwise but by my 

" Hast thou seen a priest, cousin 
Constance?" he then asked: upon 
which my mother not answering, the 
poor man burst into tears, and cried : 
" Oh, cousin cousin Constance, dost 
count me a spy, and at thy death-bed ?" 

He seemed cut to the heart ; where- 
upon she gave him her hand, and said 
she hoped God would send her such 
ghostly assistance as she stood in need 
of; and praying God to bless him and 
his wife and children, and make them 
his faithful servants, so she might meet 
them all in perpetual happiness, she 
spoke with such good cheer, and then 
bade him and Edmund farewell with 
so pleasant a smile, as deceived them 
into thinking her end not so near. 
And so, after a while, they took their 
leave ; upon which she composed her- 
self for a while in silence, occupying 
her thoughts in prayer ; and toward 
evening, through God's mercy, albeit 
the messenger had returned with the 
heavy news that Father Ford had left 
the county some days back, it hap- 
pened that Mr. Watson, a secular priest 
who had lately arrived in England, 
and was on his way to Chester, stopped 
at our house, whereunto Mr. Orton, 
whom he had seen in prison at London, 
had directed him for his own conven- 
ience on the road, and likewise our 
commodity, albeit little thinking how 
great our need would be at that time 

of so opportune a guest, through whose 
means that dear departing soul had 
the benefit of the last sacraments with 
none to trouble or molest her, and such 
ghostly aid as served to smooth her 
passage to what has proved, I doubt 
not, the beginning of a happy eternity, 
if we may judge by such tokens as the 
fervent acts of contrition she made 
both before and after shrift, such as 
might have served to wash away ten 
thousand sins through his blood who 
cleansed her, and her great and peace- 
able joy at receiving him into her 
heart whom she soon trusted to behold. 
Her last words were expressions of 
wonder and gratitude at God's singu- 
lar mercy shown unto her in the quiet 
manner of her death in the midst of 
such troublesome times. And me- 
thinks, when the silver cord was 
loosed, and naught was left of her on 
earth save the fair corpse which re- 
tained in death the semblance it had 
had in life, that together with the nat- 
ural grief which found vent in tears, 
there remained in the hearts of such 
as loved her a comfortable sense of the 
Divine goodness manifested in this her 
peaceable removal. 

How great the change which that 
day wrought in me may be judged of 
by such who, at the age I had then 
reached to, have met with a like afflic- 
tion, coupled with a sense of duties to 
be fulfilled, such as then fell to my lot, 
both as touching household cares, and 
in respect to the cheering of my father 
in his solitary hours during the time 
we did yet continue at Sherwood Hall, 
which was about a year. It waxed 
very hard then for priests to make 
their way to the houses of Catholics, 
as many now found it to their interest 
to inform against them and such as 
harbored them ; and mostly in our 
neighborhood, wherein there were at 
that time no recusants of so great rank 
and note that the sheriff would not be 
lief to meddle with them. We had 
oftentimes had secret advices to beware 
of such and such of our servants who 
might betray our hidden conveyances 
of safety ; and my father scarcely durst 


Constance Sherwood. 

be sharp with them when they offend- 
ed by slacking their duties, lest they 
might bring us into danger if they re- 
vealed, upon any displeasure, priests 
having abided with us. Edmund we 
saw no more since my mother's death ; 
and after a while the news did reach 
us that Mr. Genings had died 'of the 
small-pox, and left his .wife in so dis- 
tressed a condition, against all expec- 
tation, owing to debts he had incurred, 
that she had been constrained to sell 
her house and furniture, and was living 
in a small lodging near unto the school 
where Edmund continued his studies. 

I noticed, as tune went by, how 
heavily it weighed on my father's heart 
to see so many Catholics die without 
the sacraments, or fall away from their 
faith, for lack of priests to instruct 
them, like so many sheep without a 
shepherd ; and I guessed by words he 
let fall on divers occasions, that the in- 
tent obscurely shadowed forth in his 
discourse to my mother on her death- 
bed .was ripening to a settled purpose, 
and tending to a change in his state 
of life, which only his love and care 
for me caused him to defer. What I 
did apprehend must one day needs 
occur, was hastened about this time by 
a warning he did receive that on an 
approaching day he would be appre- 
hended and carried by the sheriff be- 
fore the council at Lichfield, to be ex- 
amined touching recusancy and har- 
boring of priests ; which was what he 
had long expected. This message was, 
as it were, the signal he had been 
waiting for, and an indication of God's 
will in his regard. He made instant 
provision for the placing of his estate 
in the hands of a friend of such singu- 
lar honesty and so faithful a friendship 
toward himself, though a Protestant, 
that he could wholly trust him. And 
next he set himself to dispose of her 
whom he did term his most dear earth- 
ly treasure, and his sole tie to this 
perishable world, which he resolved to 
do by straightway sending her to Lon- 
don, unto his sister Mistress Congleton, 
who had oftentimes offered, since his 
wife's death, to take charge of this 

daughter, and to whom he now de- 
spatched a messenger with a letter, 
wherein he wrote that the times were 
now so troublesome, he must needs 
leave his home, and take advantage of 
the sisterly favor she had willed to 
show him in the care of his sole child, 
whom he now would forthwith send 
London, commending her to her 
keeping, touching her safety and 
ligious and virtuous training, and 
he should be more beholden to 
than ever brother was to sister, and, 
long as he lived, as he was bound 
do, pray for her and her good husbanc 
"When this letter was gone, and ord< 
had been taken for my journey, whic 
was to be on horseback, and in tl 
charge of a maiden gentlewoman wl 
had been staying some months in 
neighborhood, and was now about 
two days to travel to London, it seeim 
to me as if that which I had long e 
pected and pictured unto myself 
now come upon me of a sudden, 
in such wise as for the first time 
taste its bitterness. For I saw, wit 
out a doubt, that this parting was 
the forerunner of a change in my fat 
er's condition as great and weighty 
could well be thought of. But of 
howbeit our thoughts were full of 
no talk was ministered between us. 
He said I should hear from him in 
London ; and that he should now travel 
into Lancashire and Cheshire, changing 
his name, and often shifting his quar- 
ters whilst the present danger lasted. 
The day which was to be the last to 
see us in the house wherein himself 
and his fathers for many centuries 
back, and I his unworthy child, had 
been born, was spent in such fashion 
as becometh those who suffer for con- 
science sake, and that is with so much 
sorrow as must needs be felt by a 
loving father and a dutiful child in a 
first and doubtful parting, with so much 
regret as is natural in the abandon- 
ment of a peaceful earthly home, 
wherein God had been served in a 
Catholic manner for many generations 
and up to that time without discontinu- 
ance, only of late years as it were by 

The Marquis de Chastellux. 


night and stealth, which was linked in 
their memories with sundry innocent, 
joys and pleasures, and such griefs as 
do hallow and endear the visible scenes 
wherewith they be connected, but 
withal with a stoutness of heart in him, 
and a youthful steadiness in her whom 
he had infested with a like courage 
unto his own, which wrought in them 
so as to be of good cheer and shed no 
more tears on so moving an occasion 
than the debility of her nature and the 
tenderness of his paternal care extort- 
ed from their eyes when he placed her 
on her horse, and the bridle in the 

hand of the servant who was to ac- ( 
company her to London. Their last 
parting was a brief one, and such as I 
care not to be minute in describing; 
for thinking upon it even now 'tis like 
to make me weep ; which I would not 
do whilst writing this history, in the 
recital of which there should be more 
of constancy and thankful rejoicing in 
God's great mercies, than of womanish 
softness in looking back to past trials. 
So I will even break off at this point ; 
and in the next chapter relate the 
course of the journey which was begun 
on that day. 


Abridged from Le Correspondant. 


IN the bleak region of Upper Bur- 
gundy, not far from the domain of 
Vauban, stands the old manor of 
Chastellux, famous since the fifteenth 
century as the birth-place of two 
brothers, one of whom became an ad- 
miral, the other a marshal of France. 
From this feudal stronghold came 
forth one of the most amiable of the 
courtiers of Louis XVI. a disciple 
of Voltaire and Hume, a rival of Tur- 
got and Adam Smith, a friend of 
Washington and Jefferson, a forerun- 
ner of the revolutionists of 1789, a phil- 
osopher, an historian, a political econo- 
mist, something of a poet, something 
of a naturalist, something of an artist, 
a man of taste, an enthusiastic student, 
a brilliant talker, and an elegant writ- 
er. The rude Sieurs de Chastellux 
would have been not a little astonished 
could they have foreseen what charac- 
ter of man was destined to inherit 
their title. 

Frangois Jean de Beauvoir, first 
known as Chevalier and afterward 
Marquis de Chastellux, was born at 
Paris in 1734. He was a son of the 

Count de Chastellux, lieutenant-gen- 
eral of the armies of the king, by 
Mile. d'Aguesseau, daughter of the 
chancellor. His mother, being left a 
widow at an early period, withdrew 
thereupon into the privacy of domes- 
tic life, and the young marquis had the 
good fortune to be brought up under 
the eyes of the Chancellor d'Agues- 
seau himself. He entered the army 
at sixteen, and was hardly twenty-one 
before he had risen to be colonel. He 
distinguished himself highly during 
the campaigns of the Seven Years' 
"War, and it was as a reward of his 
gallantry no less than out of compli- 
ment to his hereditary rank that he 
was selected on one occasion to pre- 
sent to the king the flags of a con- 
quered city. It is hard to understand 
how, in the midst of such an active 
life, he could find time for study ; but 
for all that he knew Greek, Latin, 
English, and Italian, and had some 
acquaintance with every branch of 
science cultivated in his time. From 
boyhood he showed a zealous interest 
in every sort of invention or discovery 
which promised to be of practical use 


The Marquis de Chastellux. 

,to mankind. When the principle of 
inoculation for small-pox was first 
broached in Europe, everybody shrank 
in alarm from the experiment. The 
young marquis had himself inocu- 
lated without his mother's knowledge, 
and then, running to Buffon, who 
knew his family, exclaimed joyfully, 
" I am saved, and my example will be 
the means of saving many others. " 

When peace was declared in 1763, 
he was not yet thirty. With his emi- 
nent gifts of mind and person, a bril- 
liant career in society lay open to him, 
but he aimed to be something more 
than a mere man of fashion. His first 
literary productions were biographical 
sketches of two of his brother officers, 
MM. de Closen and de. Belsunce, 
which appeared in the Mercure, in 
1765. He wrote a lively and grace- 
ful little essay on the " Union of 
Poetry and Music," the same subject 
which Marmontel afterward treated 
in his poem of Polymnie. The great 
quarrel between the schools of Gluck 
and Piccini did not break out until 
ten years later ; but mutterings of the 
coming tempest were heard already. 
Itah'an music had its enthusiastic ad- 
mirers and its implacable foes, and in 
the midst of their disputes Monsigny 
and Gretry had just given to France 
a lyric school of her own by creating 
the comic opera. M. de Chastellux, 
like everybody else in those days, was 
passionately fond of the theatre, and 
he espoused the cause of Italian music 
with the ardor that characterized ev- 
erything he did. About the same 
time he fell into the society of the En- 
cyclopoedists, and allied himself with 
Helvetius, d'Alembert, Turgot, and 
the rest of the philosophical party, 
who received the illustrious recruit 
with open arms. 

About the same time that M. de 
Chastellux left the army, and made 
his debut in civil life, the Scottish his- 
torian and philosopher, David Hume, 
arrived in Paris, with the British am- 
bassador, Lord Hertford. He became 
the lion of the day. Courtiers and 

philosophers fell down and worship- 
ped him ; his skeptical opinions were 
eagerly imbibed, and the three years 
that he spent in the French capital 
became, owing to his extraordinary 
influence, one of the most important 
epochs in the literary history of the 
eighteenth century. M. de Chastellux 
shared in the general enthusiasm ; and 
the " Essays" and " Political Discours- 
es" of Hume, together with the Essai 
sur les mceurs et I'esprit des nations 
of Voltaire, which had appeared a few 
years before, wrought upon his mind 
a deep and lasting impression. The 
united influence of these two authors 
led him to a course of study wKich re- 
sulted in a work upon which his reputa- 
tion was finally established. This was 
his celebrated treatise, " On Public Fe- 
licity; or, Considerations on the Con- 
dition of Man at different Periods of 
his History," in two volumes. It bears 
a resemblance to both its parents. It 
is historical, like the Essai sur 
mceurs, and dogmatic, like the " 
says" and " Discourses." And that 
one of its defects. The " Consid( 
tions" on the condition of man at 
ous periods serve by way of introdi 
tion to the author's theory of public 
felicity ; lout the second part is inferior 
to the first, The body of the book is 
sacrificed to the introduction. 

This was four years before the ap- 
pearance of Adam Smith's " Wealth 
of Nations." The Marquis de Mira- 
beau and others of his school had be- 
gun to write ; but their notions of po- 
litical economy were still unfamiliar 
to the public. M. de Chastellux may 
therefore be regarded as one of the 
first supporters of that doctrine of 
human perfectibility which lies at the 
bottom of all the prevailing opinions 
of the eighteenth century. To this he 
added another theory, that the only 
end of government ought to be " the 
greatest happiness of the greatest pos- 
sible number." Nearly one hundred 
years ago, therefore, he discovered 
and developed the principle which is 
now one of the most popular epitomes 
of social science. His style is good, 

The Marquis de Chastellux. 


but neither very concise nor very bril- 
liant. It is now and then obscure, 
sometimes digressive, sometimes de- 
clamatory ; but for the most part clear, 
lively, and abounding in those happy 
touches which show the writer to be 
a man of the world as well as an 

It is said that the immediate occasion 
of his writing the book was a conver- 
sation with Mably, the author of " Ob- 
servations on the History of France," 
who maintained that the world was 
constantly degenerating, and that the 
men of to-day were not half so good 
as their grandfathers. The young 
philosopher, his head full of the new 
ideas, resolved to demonstrate the su- 
periority of the present over the past. 
The first edition of his work appeared 
in 1772, two years before the death of 
Louis XV. It was printed anony- 
mously in Holland. Everywhere it 
was read with avidity, abroad as well 
as in France. It was translated into 
English, German, and Italian. Vol- 
taire read it at Ferney, and was so 
much struck by it that he covered his 
copy with marginal notes not always 
of approbation which were repro- 
duced in a new edition of the work by 
the author's son, in 1822. 

Despite great merits, which cannot 
be denied it, the essay "On Public 
Felicity " is now almost forgotten. In 
the historical portion, M. de Chastel- 
lux passes in review all the nations of 
ancient and modern times, for the pur- 
pose of showing that the general con- 
dition of man has never before been so 
good as it is now. The fundamental 
principle of his work is disclosed in 
the following profession of faith : " To 
say that man is born to be free, that 
his first care is to preserve his liberty 
when he enjoys it, and to recover it 
when he has lost it, is to attribute to 
him a sentiment which he shares with 
the whole animal kingdom, and which 
cannot be called in question. And if 
we add that this liberty is by its very 
nature indefinite, and that the liberty 
of one individual can only be limited 
by that of another, we do but express 

a truth which few in this enlightened 
age will be found to contradict. Look 
at society from this point of view, 
and you will see nothing but a series 
of encroachments and resistances ; and 
if you Avant to form a just idea of 
government, you must consider it as 
the equilibrium which ought to result 
from these opposing struggles .... 
Government a.nd legislation are only 
secondary and subordinate objects. 
They ought to be regarded merely as 
means through which men may pre- 
serve in the social state the greatest 
possible portion of natural liberty." 

It is melancholy to see how, in a 
work that has so much to recom- 
mend it, the chapter which treats 
of the establishment of Christianity is 
disfigured by the skeptical philosophy 
of the age. Our regret at this is per- 
haps the more keen because the fault 
was altogether without excuse. Tur- 
got had argued before the Sorbonne, 
only a few years previously, that a 
belief in the progress of the human 
race, so far from being incompatible 
with the doctrine of redemption, is its 
necessary consequence. De Chas- 
tellux might have shown that, if the 
coming of our Lord did not immedi- 
ately effect a sensible reformation 
throughout the civilized world, it was 
because the vices and bad passions of 
the old pagan society long survived 
the overthrow of the old pagan gods. 
But there is this to be said for him : 
if he does not evince an adequate 
appreciation of the great moral revo- 
lution effected by Christianity, he at 
least does not speak of it in the same 
insolent tone that was fashionable in 
his day. "When he comes down to 
modern times, and treats of density of 
population in its relation to national 
prosperity, he repeats the popular 
fallacy that the multiplication of 
religious orders exerts a pernicious 
influence upon the progress of popula- 
tion. But when from general views 
he descends to statistics, he refutes 
his own arguments. " The number 
of monks in France," he says, 
" according to a careful enumeration 


The Marquis de Chastellux. 

made by order of government, a few 
years ago, was 26,674, and it cer- 
tainly is not less now." In point 
of fact, the real number when the 
property of the clergy was confiscated 
in 1790 was only 17,000; and what 
is that in a population of 24,000,000 
or 26,000,000 ? The army withdraws 
from the marriage state twenty times 
that number of men, in the vigor of 
their age; whereas the greater part 
of the monks are men in the decline of 

It is a matter of astonishment that 
a work which professes to treat of 
"public felicity" should devote itself 
entirely to the material well-being of 
society, and have nothing to say of the 
moral condition of mankind, which is 
the more important element of the two 
in making up the sum of human happi- 
ness. Every author, of course, has a 
right to fix the limits of his subject; 
but then he must not promise on the 
title-page more than he means to per- 

The authorship of the essay on 
"Public Felicity" was not long a 
secret; but de Chastellux received 
perhaps as much annoyance as glory 
from the discovery. His ideas did 
not please everybody, and among those 
who fell foul of him for his philosophi- 
cal errors were some of his own fam- 
ily. He made little account of their 
opposition, and in 1774 came out 
boldly with an eulogy on Helvetia s, 
with whom he had lived for a long 
tune on the most intimate terms. Two 
years later, he published a second edi- 
tion of his previous treatise, with the 
addition of a chapter of "Ulterior 
Views," in which he points out the 
danger of some of the revolutionary 
opinions which were then coming more 
and more into vogue, and the futility 
of trying to realize in actual life that 
form of government which might be 
theoretically the best. If he had been 
alive in 1789, he would have belonged 
to the monarchical party in the Con- 
stituent Assembly ; and, after having 
done his part in paving the way for 

the revolution, he would have perished 
as one of its victims. Among political 
and social reformers, he must be classed 
with the school of Montesquieu rather 
than with that of Rousseau. 

The attention of France, however, 
was now fixed more and more firmly 
upon the conte&t going on in America 
between Great Britain and her re- 
bellious colonies. Louis XVI., after 
some resistance, yielded to the demand 
of public opinion, and, in 1778, not 
only recognized the independence of 
the United States, but sent a fleet 
under Count d'Estaing to help them. 
A second expedition was despatched 
under Count de Rochambeau. M. de 
Chastellux, who then held the grade 
of marechal de camp [equivalent to 
something between brigadier and 
major-general in the present Unil 
States army ED.], obtained permit 
sion to join it, and was appoint 
major - general. The expedition! 
corps arrived at Newport, capital 
the state of Rhode Island, July II 
1780. It consisted of eight ships 
the line, two frigates, two gunl 
and over 5,000 troops. The ne: 
year came a reenforcement of 3,0( 
men. Lord Cornwallis, who 
manded the English forced was shi 
up in Yorktown, Va., and, being close- 
ly besieged by the allies and invested 
by land and sea, was compelled to sur- 
render in October, 1781. This forced 
England to conclude a peace, and the 
auxiliary corps re-embarked at Boston 
on their return to France at the close 
of 1782. It had been two years and 
a half in America, and during this time 
the republic had achieved its independ- 

During his visit to America, M. de 
Chastellux employed the brief periods 
of leisure left him from military occu- 
pations in making three tours through 
the interior. He wrote down as he 
travelled a journal of his observations, 
and printed at a little press on board 
the fleet some twenty copies of it, ten 
or twelve of which found their way to 
Europe. So great was the eagerness 

The Marquis de Chastellux. 


with which people there seized upon 
every book relating to America, that a 
number of copies were surreptitiously 
printed, and a publisher at Cassel 
brought out an imperfect edition. The 
author then pubh'shed the book himself 
in 1786 (2 vols., 12mo, Paris), under 
the title, Voyages de M. le Marquis de 

Chastellux dans I'Amerique septentri- 
onale en 1780, 1781, et 1782. Though 
written originally only for his friends, 
it has a general interest, and presents 
a curious picture of the condition of 
North America at the period of which 
it treats. 

The author set out from Newport, 
where the troops had landed and gone 
into winter-quarters, in order to visit 
Pennsylvania. Accompanied by two 
aides-de-camp, one of whom was the 
Baron de Montesquieu, grandson of 
the author of the Esprit des lois, and 
by five mounted servants, he started, 
November 11, 1780, on horseback, for 
that was the only means of travelling 
that the country afforded. The ground 
was frozen hard, and already covered 
with snow. The little party directed 
their steps first toward Windham, 
where Lauzun's hussars, forming the 
advance-guard of the army, were en- 
camped. They found the Duke de 
Lauzun at the head of his troops, and 
this meeting between the grandsons of 
d'Aguesseau and Montesquieu, and a 
descendant of the Lauzuns and Birons, 
all three fighting for the cause of lib- 
erty in the wilds of America, was a 
curious beginning of their adventures. 
It was this same Duke de Lauzun, a 
friend of Mirabeau and Talleyrand, 
who became Duke de Biron after the 
death of his uncle, was chosen a mem- 
ber of the States General in 1789, 
commanded the republican army of 
La Vendee, and finished his career on 
the scaffold. 

^ The travellers crossed the mount- 
ains which separated them from the 
Hudson, and, after passing through a 
wild and almost desert country, ar- 
rived at West Point, a place celebrated 
at that time for the most dramatic in- 
cidents of the war of independence (the 

treason of General Arnold and the 
execution of Major Andre), and now 
famous as the seat of the great mili- 
tary school of the United States. The 
American army occupying the forts of 
"West Point, which Arnold's treachery 
had so nearly given over to the enemy, 
saluted the French major-general with 
thirteen guns one for each state in 
the confederation. " Never," says he, 
" was honor more imposing or majestic. 
Every gun was, after a long inter- 
val, echoed back from the opposite 
bank with a noise nearly equal to that 
of the discharge itself. Two years 
ago, West Point was an almost inac- 
cessible desert. This desert has been 
covered with fortresses and artillery 
by a people who, six years before, had 
never seen a cannon. The well-filled 
magazines, and the great number of 
guns in the different forts, the pro- 
digious labor which must have been 
expended in transporting and piling up 
on the steep rocks such huge trunks of 
trees and blocks of hewn stone, give 
one a very different idea of the Ameri- 
cans from that which the English min- 
istry have labored to convey to Parlia- 
ment. A Frenchman might well be 
surprised that a nation hardly born 
should have spent in two years more 
than 12,000,000 francs in this wilder- 
ness ; but how much greater must be 
his surprise when he learns that these 
fortifications have cost the state noth- 
ing, having been constructed by the 
soldiers, who not only received no ex- 
tra allowance for the labor, but have 
not even touched their regular pay! 
It will be gratifying for him to know 
that these magnificent works were 
planned by two French engineers, M. 
du Portail and M. Gouvion,* who 
have been no better paid than their 

West Point stands on the bank of 

* MM. du Portail and Gouvion went to America 
with Lafayette, and returned with him. Each rose 
afterward to the rank of lieutenant-general in the 
French army. The former, through the influence 
of Lafayette, was appointed minister-of-war in 
1790 ; he fled -to the United States during the Reign 
of Terror. The other was created major-general of 
the National Guard of Paris in 1769 ; ho fell in bat- 
tle in 1792. 


The Marquis de ChasteUux. 

the Hudson, in a situation which may 
well be compared with the most beau- 
tiful scenery of the Rhine. M. de 
ChasteUux describes it with the live- 
liest admiration; but he remained 
there only a short time, because he 
was in haste to reach the head-quarters 
of Washington. 

" After passing thick woods, I found 
myself in a small plain, where I saw a 
handsome farm. A small camp which 
seemed to cover it, a large tent pitched 
in the yard, and several wagons 
around it, convinced me that I was at 
the head-quarters of His Excellency, 
for so Mr. Washington is called, in the 
army and throughout America. M. 
de Lafayette was conversing in the 
yard with a tall man about five feet 
nine inches high, of a noble'and mild 
aspect: it was the general himself. 
I was soon off my horse and in his 
presence. The compliments were short ; 
the sentiments which animated me and 
the good-will which he testified for me 
were not equivocal. He led me into 
his house, where I found the company 
still at table, although dinner had long 
been over. He presented me to the 
generals and the aides-de-camp, adju- 
tants, and other officers attached to his 
person, who form what is called in 
England and America the family of 
the general. A few glasses of claret 
and madeira accelerated the acquaint- 
ances I had to make, and I soon felt at 
my ease in the presence of the greatest 
and best of men. The goodness and 
benevolence which characterize him 
are evident from everything about 
him; but the confidence he inspires 
never gives occasion to familiarity, for 
it originates in a profound esteem for 
his virtues and a high opinion of his 

The next day Washington offered 
to conduct his guest to the camp of 
the marquis : this was the appellation 
universally bestowed in America upon 
Lafayette, who commanded the ad- 
vance of the army. 

" We found his troops in order of 
battle, and himself at their head, ex- 
pressing by his air and countenance 

that he was better pleased to receive 
me there than he would be at his es- 
tate in Auvergne.* The confidence 
and attachment of his troops are inval- 
uable possessions for him, well-earned 
riches of which nobody can deprive 
him ; but what, in my opinion, is still 
more flattering for a young man of his 
age (he was not more than twenty- 
three) is the influence and conside 
tion he has acquired in political 
well as military matters. I do not ex- 
aggerate when I say that private let 
ters from him have often produ( 
more effect upon some of the stat( 
than the most urgent recommenda- 
tions of the Congress. On seeing him, 
one is at a loss to decide which is the 
stranger circumstance that a rm 
so young should have given such ex- 
traordinary proofs of ability, or tl 
one who has been so much trk 
should still give promise of such a 
career of glory. Happy his country, 
should she know how to make use 
his talents! happier still, should sh< 
never stand in need of them !" 

This last remark shows that M. 
ChasteUux, with all his enthusiasm fo 
the present, was not without anxietj 
for the future. He spent three 
at head-quarters, nearly all the wl 
at table, after the American fashk 
At the end of each meal nuts wei 
served, and General Washington si 
for several hours, eating them, " toast- 
ing/' and conversing. These long 
conversations only increased his com- 
panion's admiration. 

" The most striking characteristic of 
this respected man is the perfect accord 
which exists between his physical and 
moral qualities. This idea of a per- 
fect whole cannot be produced by en- 
thusiasm, which would rather reject it, 
since the effect of proportion is to di- 
minish the idea of greatness. Brave 
without rashness, laborious without 
ambition, generous without prodigality, 
noble without pride, virtuous without 
severity, he seems always to have con- 

* M. de ChasteUux was cousin-german by the 
mother's side to the Duchess of Ayen, the mother 
of Madame de Lafayette. 

The Marquis de OhasteUux. 


fined himself within those limits where 
the virtues, by clothing themselves in 
more lively but more changeable and 
doubtful colors, may be mistaken for 

The city of Philadelphia was the 
capital of the confederation and the 
seat of the Congress. M. de Chastel- 
lux did not fail to visit it. He en- 
joyed there the hospitality of the Chev- 
alier de la Luzerne, French minister 
to the United States, and had the pleas- 
ure of meeting several young French 
officers, some in the service of the 
United States, others belonging to the 
expeditionary corps, whom the inter- 
ruption of military operations had left 
at liberty, like himself. Among them 
were M. de Lafayette, the Viscount de 
Noailles, the Count de Damas, the 
Count de Custine, the Chevalier de 
Mauduit, and the Marquis de la Roue- 
rie. Let us give a few particulars 
about these " Gallo- Americans," as 
our author calls them. The Viscount 
de Noailles, brother-in-law of Lafay- 
ette, and colonel of the chasseurs of 
Alsace, was afterward a member of 
the States General, and principal 
author of the famous deliberations of 
the 4th of August. The Count Charles 
de Damas, an aide-de-camp of Roch- 
ambeau, in after years took part, on 
the contrary, against the revolutionists, 
and, attempting to rescue Louis XVI. 
at Varennes, was arrested with him. 
The Count de Custine, colonel of. the 
regiment of Saintonge infantry, is the 
same who was general-in-chief of the re- 
publican armies in 1792, and who died 
by the guillotine the next year, like 
Lauzun. The Chevalier de Mauduit 
commanded the American artillery. 
At the age of fifteen, with his head full 
of dreams of classical antiquity, he 
ran away from college, walked to Mar- 
seilles, and shipped as cabin-boy on 
board a vessel bound for Greece, in 
order to visit the battle-fields of Pla- 
teea and Thermopylae. The same spirit 
of enthusiasm carried him, at the age 
of twenty, to America. Appointed, 
after the war, commandant at Port au 
Prince, he was assassinated there by 

his own soldiers in 1791. The history 
of the Marquis de la Rouerie, or Rou- 
arie, is still more romantic. In his 
youth he fell violently in love with an 
actress, and wanted to marry her. 
Compelled by his family to break off 
this attachment, he oletermined to be- 
come a Trappist ; but he soon threw 
aside the monastic habit and went to 
America, where he commanded a 
legion armed and equipped at his own 
cost. He abandoned his surname and 
title, and would only be known as Col- 
onel Armand. After his return to 
France, he was concerned, with others 
of the nobility of Brittany, in the 
troubles which preceded the revolution. 
He was one of the twelve deputies 
sent in 1787 to demand of the king 
the restoration of the privileges of that 
province, and as such was committed 
to the Bastile. The next year he had 
occasion to claim the same privileges, 
not from the king, but from the Third 
Estate. In 1791 he placed himself at 
the head of the disaffected, and organ- 
ized the royalist insurrection in the 
west. Denounced and pursued, he 
saved himself by taking to the forest, 
lay hid in one chateau after another, 
fell sick in the middle of winter, and 
died in a fit of despair on hearing of 
the execution of Louis XVI. 

The Chevalier de la Luzerne, 
brother of the Bishop of Langres, 
afterward cardinal, so distinguished for 
his noble conduct in 1789, was a man 
of more coolness and deliberation, but 
not less devoted to the cause of the 
United States. He had given abun- 
dant proof of his friendship by con- 
tracting a loan on his own responsibili- 
ty for the payment of the American 

" M. de la Luzerne," says de Chas- 
tellux, " is so formed for the station he 
occupies, that one would be tempted to 
imagine no other could fill it but him- 
self. Noble in his expenditure, like 
the minister of a great monarchy, but 
plain in his manners, like a republican, 
he is equally fit to represent the king 
with the Congress, or the Congress 
with the king. He loves the Ameri- 


The Marquis de Chastellux. 

cans, and his own inclination attaches 
him to the duties of his administration. 
He has accordingly obtained their con- 
fidence, both as a private and a public 
man ; but in both these respects he is 
inaccessible to the spirit of party 
which reigns but too much around him. 
He is anxiously courted by all parties, 
and, espousing none, he manages all." 
In acknowledgment of his services 
in America, the Chevalier was appoint- 
ed, after the peace, minister at London ; 
rather an audacious action on the 
part of the government of Louis XVI. 
to choose as their representative in 
England the very man who had con- 
tributed most of all to the independ- 
ence of the United States. The state 
of Pennsylvania, in gratitude for his 
acts of good-will, gave the name of 
Luzerne to one of her counties. 

The principal occupation of these 
officers, during their stay at Philadel- 
phia, was to visit, notwithstanding the 
inclemency of the weather, the scenes 
of the recent conflicts near that city, 
or to discuss the causes which had 
turned the fortune of war, now in favor 
of the Americans, and now against 
them. Our author here shows himself 
in a new light, as a tactician who, with 
a thorough knowledge of the art of 
war, points out the circumstances which 
have led to the success or failure of 
this or that manoeuvre. Those affairs 
in which the French figured especially 
attracted his attention. Bravery, gen- 
erosity, disinterestedness, all the na- 
tional virtues were conspicuous in these 
volunteers who had crossed the ocean 
to make war at their own expense, and 
who softened the asperity of military 
operations by the charm of their ele- 
gant manners and chivalric bearing. 

Among the battle-fields which these 
young enthusiasts, while a waiting some- 
thing better to do, loved to trace out 
was that of Brandy wine, where M. de 
Lafayette, almost immediately after 
his landing in America, received the 
wound in the leg of which he speaks 
so gaily in a letter to his wife. La- 
fayette himself acted as their guide, 
and recounted to his friends, on the 

very scene of action, the incidents of 
this day, which was not a fortunate 
one for the Americans. He did the 
honors of another expedition to the 
heights of Barren Hill, where he had 
gained an advantage under rather cu- 
rious circumstances. He had with him 
there about two thousand infantry with 
fifty dragoons and an equal number 
of Indian's, when the English, who oc- 
cupied Philadelphia, endeavored to 
surround and capture him. 

" General Howe [Sir Henry Clin- 
ton ED.] thought he had now fairly 
caught the marquis, and even carried 
his gasconade so far as to invite ladies 
to meet Lafayette at supper the next 
day ; and, whilst the principal part of 
the officers were at the play, he put in 
motion the main body of his forces, 
which he marched in three columns. 
The first was not long in reaching the 
advanced posts of M. de Lafayette, 
which gave rise to a laughable adven- 
ture. The fifty savages he had wit 
him were placed in ambuscade in tl 
woods, after their own manner ; 
is to say, lying as close as rabbit 
Fifty English dragoons, who had nev< 
seen any Indians, entered the w( 
where they were hid. The Indh 
on their part, had never seen dragooi 
Up they start, raising a horrible cry, 
throw down their arms, and escape by 
swimming across the Schuylkill. The 
dragoons, on the other hand, as much 
terrified as they were, turned tail, and 
fled in such a panic that they did not 
stop until they reached Philadelphia. 
M. de Lafayette, finding himself in dan- 
ger of being surrounded, made such 
skilful dispositions that he effected his 
retreat, as if by enchantment, and 
crossed the river without losing a man. 
The English army, finding the bird 
flown, returned to Philadelphia, spent 
with fatigue, and ashamed of having 
done nothing. The ladies did not see M. 
de Lafayette, and General Howe [Clin- 
ton] himself arrived too late for supper." 
By the side of these admirable mil- 
itary sketches, we have an account of 
a ball at the Chevalier de la Luzerne's. 
" There were near twenty women, 

The Marquis de Cha&tellux. 


twelve or fifteen of whom danced, each 
having her ' partner,' as the custom is 
in America. Dancing is said to be at 
once the emblem of gaiety and of love ; 
here it seems to be the emblem of legis- 
lation and of marriage : of legislation, 
inasmuch as places are marked out, 
the country-dances named, and every 
proceeding provided for, calculated, and 
submitted to regulation ; of marriage, 
as it furnishes each lady with a part- 
ner, with whom she must dance the 
whole evening, without being permitted 
to take another. Strangers have gen- 
erally the privilege of being compli- 
mented with the handsomest women ; 
that is to say, out of politeness, the 
prettiest partners are given to them. 
The Count de Damas led forth Mrs. 
Bingham, and the Viscount de Noailles, 
Miss Shippen. Both of them, like true 
philosophers, testified a great respect 
for the custom of the country by not 
quitting their partners the whole eve- 
ning ; in other respects they were the 
admiration of the whole assembly from 
the grace and dignity with which they 
danced. To the honor of my country, 
I can affirm that they surpassed that 
evening a chief justice of Carolina, and 
two members of Congress, one of whom 
(Mr. Duane) passed for being by ten 
per cent, more lively than all the 
other dancers." 

At Philadelphia, as in camp, a 
great part of the day was passed at 
table. -The Congress having met, M. 
de Chastellux was invited to dinner 
successively by the representatives 
from the North and the representa- 
tives from the South ; for the political 
body was even then divided by a geo- 
graphical line, each side having sepa- 
rate reunions at a certain tavern which 
they used to frequent: so we see the 
differences between North and South 
are as old as the confederation itself. 
He made the acquaintance of all the 
leading members, and especially of 
Samuel Adams, one of the framers of 
the Declaration of Independence.* He 

* A mistake of the reviewer's. Samuel Adams 
had no hand in writing the Declaration, nor does 
de Chastellux say that he had. ED. C. W. 

saw also the celebrated pamphleteer, 
Thomas Paine, who ten years after- 
ward came to France, and was chosen 
a member of the National Convention. 
Together with Lafayette, our author 
was elected a member of the Academy 
of Philadelphia. Despite so many 
circumstances to prepossess him in fa- 
vor of the Americans, he appears not 
a very ardent admirer of what he wit- 
nesses about him. He shows but little 
sympathy with the Quakers, whose 
" smooth and wheedling tone" disgusts 
him, and whom he represents as wholly 
given up to making money. Phila- 
delphia he calls "the great sink in 
which all the speculations of the Unit- 
ed States meet and mingle." The city 
then had 40,000 inhabitants; it now 
contains 600,000. 

We can easily conceive that, in con- 
trasting the appearance of this republic- 
an government with the great French 
monarchy, he should have found abun- 
dant food for study and reflection. He 
speaks with great reserve, but what 
little he says is enough to show that 
he was not so much enamored of 
republican ideas as Lafayette and 
most of his friends. The disciple of 
Montesquieu loses much of his ad- 
miration for the American constitu- 
tions when he sees them in opera- 
tion, and seems especially loath to 
introduce them into his own coun- 
try. The constitution of Pennsyl- 
vania strikes him as particularly de- 

" The state of Pennsylvania is far 
from being one of the best governed of 
the members of the confederation. 
The government is without force ; nor 
can it be otherwise. A popular gov- 
ernment can never have any whilst 
the people are uncertain and vacillat- 
ing in their opinions; for then the 
leaders seek rather to please than to 
serve them, and end by becoming the 
slaves of the multitude whom they 
pretended to govern." 

This constitution had one capital 
defect : it provided only for a single 
legislative chamber. After a disas- 
trous trial, Pennsylvania was com- 


The Marquis de Chastellux. 

pelled to change her laws, and adopt 
the system of two chambers, like the 
other states of the Union. 

Our author betrays his misgivings 
most clearly in his narrative of an in- 
terview with Samuel Adams. His 
report of the conversation is especially 
curious, as it shows how entirely the 
two speakers were preoccupied by dif- 
ferent ideas. Samuel Adams, who 
has been called " the American Cato," 
bent himself to prove the revolution 
justifiable, by arguments drawn not 
only from natural right but from his- 
torical precedent. The thoroughly 
English character of mind of these in- 
novators led them to make it a sort 
of point of honor to find a sanction 
for their conduct in tradition. M. de 
Chastellux, like a true Frenchman, 
made no account of such reasonings. 

" I am clearly of opinion that the 
parliament of England had no right to 
tax America without her consent ; but 
I am still more clearly convinced that, 
when a whole people say, ' We will be 
free !' it is difficult to demonstrate that 
they are in the wrong. Be that as it 
may, Mr. Adams very satisfactorily 
proved to me that New England was 
peopled with no view to commerce and 
aggrandizement, but wholly by individ- 
uals who fled from persecution, and 
sought an asylum at the extremity of 
the world, where they might be free to 
live and follow their own opinions ; 
that it was of their own accord that 
these colonists placed themselves un- 
der the protection of England; that the 
mutual relationship springing from this 
connection was expressed in their 
charters, and that the right of impos- 
ing or exacting a revenue of any kind 
was not comprised in them." 
There was no question between the 
two speakers of the Federal Constitu- 
tion, for it did not yet exist. The 
states at that time formed merely a 
confederation of sovereign states, with 
a general congress, like the German 
confederation. They had no president 
or central administration. The con- 
stitutions spoken of in this conversa- 
tion were simply the separate constitu- 

tions of the individual states, and Sam- 
uel Adams, being from Massachusetts, 
referred particularly to that state. M. 
de Chastellux, accustomed to the com- 
plex social systems of Europe, was 
surprised that no property qualifica- 
tion should be required of voters ; the 
Americans, on the contrary, who had 
always lived in a democratic commun- 
ity, both before and since the decla- 
ration of independence, could not com- 
prehend the necessity of such a restric- 
tion. Both were doubtless right ; for 
it is equally difficult to establish polit- 
ical inequality where it does not al- 
ready exist, and to suddenly abolish it 
where it does exist. The constitution 
of Massachusetts, superior in this 
spect to that of Pennsylvania, provk 
ed for a moderating power by 
creation of a governor's council, el 
ed by property-holders. 

Our author's first journey terminat 
in the north, near the Canada frontiei 
He crosses the frozen rivers in a sleij 
in order to visit the battle-field of 
atoga, the scene, three years before, 
the capitulation of General Burgoym 
the most important success which 
Americans had achieved previous 
the arrival of the French. Returnii 
to Newport in the early part of 1781 
after having travelled, in the course 
two months, more than three hundi 
leagues, on horseback or in sleighs, '. 
passed the rest of the year solely oc- 
cupied in the duties of the glorious cam- 
paign which put an end to the war. 
He wrote a journal of this campaign, 
but it has not been published. He 
speaks of it in the narrative of his 
travels. From the Memoires of Ro- 
chambeau, however, we learn some- 
thing of his gallant behavior at the 
siege of Yorktown, where, at the head 
of the reserve, he repulsed a sortie of 
the enemy. 

His second journey was made imme- 
diately after the surrender of Cornwal- 
lis, and was directed toward Virginia, 
the most important of the southern, as 
Pennsylvania was of the northern, 
states. It was the birth-place of Wash- 
ington, of Jefferson, of Madison, and 

The Marquis de ChasteUux. 


of Monroe ; the state which shared 
most actively in the war of independ- 
ence, and which is now the principal 
battle-field of the bloody struggle be- 
tween North and South. This second 
journey did not partake of the military 
and political character of the first. 
Now that the destiny of America 
seemed settled, the author gave his at- 
tention, principally, to natural history. 
In every phrase we recognize the pupil 
and admirer of Buffon. His chief 
purpose was to visit a natural bridge 
of rock across one of the affluents of 
the James river, in the Appalachian 
mountains. He describes this stupen- 
dous arch with great care, and illus- 
trates his narrative with several draw- 
ings which he caused to be made by 
an officer of engineers. 

A propos of this subject, he indulges 
in speculations upon the geological 
formation of the New "World, quite after 
the manner of the author of j&poques 
de la nature. On the road he amused 
himself by hunting. He describes the 
animals that he kills, and gives an ac- 
count of the mocking-bird, which al- 
most equals Buffon's in vivacity, and 
excels it in accuracy. He gives sev- 
eral details respecting the opossum, 
that singular animal which almost 
seems to belong to a different creation. 
All natural objects interest him, and 
he studies them with the zeal of a first 
discoverer. His description of the 
mocking-bird is well worth reproduc- 
ing : 

"I rose with the sun, and, while 
breakfast was preparing, took a walk 
around the house. The birds were 
heard on every side, but my attention 
was chiefly attracted by a very agree- 
able song, which appeared to proceed 
from a neighboring tree. I approached 
softly, and perceived it to be a mock- 
ing-bird, saluting the rising sun. At 
first I was afraid of frightening it, but 
my presence, on the contrary, gave it 
pleasure ; for, apparently delighted at 
having an auditor, it sang better than 
before, and its emulation seemed to 
increase when it saw a couple of dogs, 
which followed me, draw near to the 

tree on which it was perched. It kept 
hopping incessantly from branch to 
branch, still continuing its song ; for 
this extraordinary bird is not less re- 
markable for its agility than its charm- 
ing notes. It keeps perpetually rising 
and sinking, so as to appear not less 
the favorite of Terpsichore than Poly- 
hymnia. This bird cannot certainly 
be reproached with fatiguing its audit- 
ors, for nothing can be more varied 
than its song, of which it is impossible 
to give an imitation, or even to furnish 
any adequate idea. As it had every 
reason to be satisfied with my atten- 
tion, it concealed from me none of its 
talents ; and one would have thought 
that, after having delighted me with a 
concert, it was desirous of entertaining 
me with a comedy. It began to coun- 
terfeit different birds ; those which it 
imitated the most naturally, at least to 
a stranger, were the jay, the raven, the 
cardinal, and the lapwing. It ap- 
peared desirous of detaining me near 
it ; for, after I had listened for a quar- 
ter of an hour, it followed me on my 
return to the house, flying from tree to 
tree, always singing, sometimes its 
natural song, at others those which it 
had learned in Virginia and in its 
travels ; for this bird is one of those 
which change climate, although it 
sometimes appears here during the 

Continuing his journey, the trav- 
eller visited Jefferson at his country- 
home, situated .deep in the wilderness, 
on the skirts of the Blue Ridge. This 
visit gives him opportunity for a new 
historical portrait : 

" It was Jefferson himself who built 
his house and chose the situation. 
He calls it Monticello [' little mount- 
ain'], a modest title, for it is built 
upon a very high mountain ; but the 
name indicates the owner's attach- 
ment to the language of Italy, and 
above all to the fine arts, of which that 
country was. the cradle. He is a man 
not yet forty, of tall stature and a 
mild and pleasant countenance ; but 
his mind and understanding are ample 
substitutes for every external grace. 


The Marquis de Chastellux. 

An American who, without having 
ever quitted his own country, is skilled 
in music and drawing ; a geometri- 
cian, an astronomer, a natural phil- 
osopher, a jurist and a statesman ; a 
senator who sat for two years in the 
congress which brought about the 
revolution, and which is never men- 
tioned without respect, though un- 
happily not without regret;* a 
governor of Virginia, who filled this 
difficult station during the invasions of 
Arnold, of Phillips, and of Corn- 
wallis ; in fine, a philosopher in 
voluntary retirement from the world 
and public affairs, because he only 
loves the world so long as he can 
flatter himself with the conviction that 
he is of some use to mankind. A 
mild and amiable wife, charming chil- 
dren, of whose education he himself 
takes charge, a house to embellish, 
great possessions to improve, and the 
arts and sciences to cultivate these 
are what remain to Mr. Jefferson after 
having played a distinguished part on 
the theatre of the New World. Before 
I had been two hours in his company, 
we were as ultimate as if we had 
passed our whole lives together. 
Walking, books, but above all a con- 
versation always varied and interest- 
ing, sustained by that sweet satisfac- 
tion experienced by two persons whose 
sentiments are always in unison, and 
who understand each other at the 
first hint, made four days seem to me 
only so many minutes. No object 
had escaped Mr. Jefferson's atten- 
tion ; and it seemed as if from his 
youth he had placed his mind, as he 
has done his house, on an elevation 
from which he might contemplate the 

At the period of this visit, Mr. Jef- 
ferson thought only of retirement ; but 
when M. de Chastellux's Voyages en 
Amerique appeared, three years after- 
ward, he was minister-plenipotentiary 
of the United States in Paris. The 

* The United States were then passing through 
a crisis of anarchy, which lasted until the adoption 
of the Federal Constitution in 1 7^8, and the eleva- 
tion of Washington to the presidency. 

death of his wife had determined him 
to return to public life. He formed a 
solid friendship for M. de Chastellux, 
of which his correspondence contains 
abundant proof. The brilliant French 
soldier introduced the solitary of Mon- 
ticello, the " American wild-man of the 
mountains," to the salons of Paris ; and 
the republican statesman, with the 
manners of an aristocrat, entered, noth- 
ing loath, into the society of the gay 
and polished capital, where he received 
the same welcome and honors that 
were accorded to Franklin. 

This portion of the Journal closes 
with some general remarks upon Vir- 
ginia, which possess a new interest 
now that the people of that state re- 
appear upon the scene in the same 
bellicose and indomitable character 
which they bore of old. 

" The Virginians differ essentially 
from the people of the North, not only 
in the nature of their climate, soil, and 
agriculture, but in that indelible char- 
acter which is imprinted on every 
nation at the moment of its origin, 
and which, by perpetuating itself from 
generation to generation, justifies the 
great principle that ' everything which 
is partakes of that which has been. 5 
The settlement of Virginia took place 
at the commencement of the seventeenth 
century. The republican and demo- 
cratic spirit was not then common in 
England ; that of commerce and navi- 
gation was scarcely in its infancy. 
The long wars with France and Spain 
had perpetuated the military spirit, 
and the first colonists of Virginia 
were composed in great part of gen- 
tlemen who had no other profession 
than that of arms. It was natural, 
therefore, for these colonists, who were 
filled with military principles and the 
prejudices of nobility, to carry them 
even into the midst of the savages 
whose lands they came to occupy. 
Another cause which operated in form- 
ing their character was the institution 
of slavery. It may be asked how 
these prejudices have been brought to 
coincide with a revolution founded on 
such different principles? I answer 

The Marquis de Chastellux. 


that they have perhaps contributed to 
produce it. While the insurrection in 
New England was the result of reason 
and calculation, Virginia revolted 
through pride." 

The third and last journey of M. de 
Chastellux led him through New 
Hampshire, Massachusetts, and north- 
ern Pennsylvania. This was during 
the months of November and Decem- 
ber, 1782, on the eve of his return to 
France. He started from Hartford, 
the capital of Connecticut, and, after 
visiting several other places, went to 
Boston, for he could not leave America 
without seeing this city, the cradle of 
the revolution. He found at this port 
the French fleet, under command of 
M. de Vaudreuil, which was to carry 
back the expeditionary corps to France. 
He closes his Journal with an interest- 
ing account of the university at Cam- 
bridge, which Ampere, who was, like 
him, a member of the French Academy, 
visited and described seventy years 
afterward. In the appendix to his 
book he gives a letter written by him- 
self on board the frigate F$meraude, 
just before sailing, to Mr. Madison, 
professor of philosophy in William 
and Mary College. It is upon a sub- 
ject which has not yet lost its ap- 
propriateness the future of the arts 
and sciences in America. A demo- 
cratic and commercial society, always 
in a ferment, seemed to him hardly 
compatible with scientific, and still less 
with artistic, progress. But, in his 
solicitude for the welfare of the coun- 
try he had been defending, he would 
not allow that the difficulty was in- 
superable. Some of his remarks upon 
this subject are extremely delicate and 

The question which troubled him is 
not yet fully answered, but it is in a 
fair way of being settled. The United 
States have really made but little 
progress in the arts, though they have 
produced a few pictures and statues 
which have elicited admiration even in 
Europe at recent industrial exhibitions. 
They are beginning, however, to have 


a literature. Even in the days of the 
revolution they could boast of the 
writings of Franklin, which combined 
the-most charming originality with re- 
finement and solid good sense. Now they 
can show, among novelists, Fenimore 
Cooper and the celebrated Mrs. Beech- 
er Stowe, whose book gave the signal 
for another revolution; among story- 
tellers, Washington Irving and Haw- 
thorne; among critics, Ticknor; among 
historians, Prescott and Bancroft; 
among economists, Carey ; among 
political writers, Everett ; among mor- 
alists, Emerson and Channing ; among 
poets, Bryant and Longfellow. In 
science they have done still more. 
They have adopted and naturalized 
one of the first of modern geologists, 
Agassiz; and the hydrographical 
labors of Maury, [late] director of 
the Washington Observatory, are the 
admiration of the whole world. Their 
immense development in industrial 
pursuits implies a corresponding prog- 
ress in practical science. It was 
Fulton, an American, who invented 
the steamboat, and carried out in his 
own country the idea which he could 
not persuade Europe to listen to ; and 
only lately the reaping-machine has 
come to us from the shores of the 
great lakes and the vast prairies of 
the Far West. 

When the Voyages en Amerique ap- 
peared, the revolutionary party in 
France were still more dissatisfied 
with the book than they had been with 
the Felicite publique. They were an- 
gry at the wise and unprejudiced judg- 
ments which the author passed upon 
men and things in the New World ; 
they were angry that he found some 
things not quite perfect in republic- 
an society, that his praises of democ- 
racy were not louder, his denuncia- 
tions of the past not more sweeping. 
Brissot de Warville, whose caustic pen 
was already in full exercise, published 
a bitter review of the book. Some of 
the hostile criticisms found their way 
to the United States, and M. de Chas- 
tellux, in sending a copy of his work to 
General Washington, took occasion to 


The Marquis de Chastellux. 

defend himself. He received from the 
general a long and affectionate reply, 
written at Mount Vernon, in April, 

M. de Chastellux also wrote a " Dis- 
course on the Advantages and Disad- 
vantages which have resulted to Eu- 
rope from the Discovery of America," 
and edited the comedies of the Mar- 
chioness de Gle'on. This lady, cele- 
brated for her wit and beauty, was the 
daughter of a rich financier. At her 
house, La Chevrette, near Montmo- 
rency, she entertained all the literary 
world, and gave representations of her 
own plays. Her friend, M. de Chastel- 
lux, was himself the author of a few dra- 
matic pieces, performed either at La 
Chevrette or at the Prince de Conde's, 
at Chantilly ; but they have never 
been published. We shall respect his 
reserve, and refrain from giving our 
readers a taste either of these compo- 
sitions or of his " Plan for a general 
Reform of the French Infantry," and 
other unpublished writings. 

After his return from America, de 
Chastellux was appointed governor of 
Longwy. He had reached the age of 
nearly fifty and was still unmarried, 

when he met at the baths of Spa, 
which were still the resort of all the 
good company in Europe, a young, 
beautiful, and accomplished Irish girl, 
named Miss Plunkett, with whom he 
fell over head and ears in love. He 
married her in 1787, but did not long 
enjoy his happiness, for he died the 
next year. Like most men who de- 
vote themselves to the pubh'c welfare, 
he had sadly neglected his private af- 
fairs. Being the youngest of five chil- 
dren, his fortune was not large, and it 
gave him little trouble to run through 
it. General officers in those days 
took a pride in their profuse ex- 
penditures in the field : he ruined him- 
self by his American campaign. His 
widow was attached in the capacity of 
maid of honor to the person of the esti- 
mable daughter of the Duke de Pen- 
thievre,the Duchess of Orleans, mother 
of King Louis Philippe. This princess 
adopted, after a certain fashion, his pos- 
thumous son, who became one of the 
chevaliers d'honneur of Madame Ade- 
laide, the daughter of his patroness. 
He was successively a deputy and 
peer of France after the revolution 
1830. He published a short memoir 
of his father, prefixed to an edition 
of the Felicite publique. 

The jLcgend of Limerick Bells. 195 

Prom The Month. 



THERE is a convent on the Alban hill, 

Round whose stone roots the gnarled olives grow ; 
Above are murmurs of the mountain rill, 

And all the broad Campagna lies below ; 
Where faint gray buildings and a shadowy dome 
Suggest the splendor of eternal Rome. 

Hundreds of years ago, these convent-walls 

Were reared by masons of the Gothic age : 

The date is carved upon the lofty halls, 

The story written on the illumined page. 

What pains they took to make it strong and fair 

The tall bell-tower and sculptured porch declare. 

When all the stones were placed, the windows stained, 
And the tall bell-tower finished to the crown, 

Only one want in this fair pile remained, 

Whereat a cunning workman of the town 

(The little town upon the Alban hill) 

Toiled day and night his purpose to fulfil. 

Seven bells he made, of very rare devise, 

With graven lilies twisted up and down ; 

Seven bells proportionate in differing size, 
And full of melody from rim to crown ; 

So that, when shaken by the wind alone, 

They murmured with a soft .ZEolian tone. 

These being placed within the great bell-tower, 
And duly rung by pious skilful hand, 

Marked the due prayers of each recurring hour, 
And sweetly mixed persuasion with command. 

Through the gnarled olive-trees the music wound, 

And miles of broad Campagna heard the sound. 

And then the cunning workman put aside 

His forge, his hammer, and the tools he used 

To chase those lilies ; his keen furnace died;' 

And all who asked for bells were hence refused. 

With these his best, his last were also wrought, 

And refuge in the convent-walls he sought. 

There did he live, and there he hoped to die, 
Hearing the wind among the cypress-trees 

196 The Legend of Limerick Bells. 

Hint unimagined music, and the sky 

Throb full of chimes borne downward by the breeze ; 
Whose undulations, sweeping through the air, 
His art might claim as an embodied prayer. 

But those were stormy days in Italy : 

Down came the spoiler from the uneasy North, 
Swept the Campagna to the bounding sea, 

Sacked pious homes, and drove the inmates forth ; 
Whether a Norman or a German foe, 
History is silent, and we do not know. 

Brothers in faith were they ; yet did not deem 
The sacred precincts barred destroying hand. 

Through those rich windows poured the whitened beam, 
Forlorn the church and ruined altar stand. 

As the sad monks went forth, that self-same hour 

Saw empty silence in the great bell-tower. 

The outcast brethren scattered far and wide ; 

Some by the Danube rested, some in Spain : 
On the green Loire the aged abbot died, 

By whose loved feet one brother did remain 
Faithful in all his wanderings : it was he 
Who cast and chased those bells in Italy. 

He, dwelling at Marmontier, by the tomb 

Of his dear father, where the shining Loire 

Flows down from Tours amidst the purple bloom 

Of meadow-flowers, some years of patience saw. 

Those fringed isles (where poplars tremble still) 

Swayed like the olives of the Alban hill. 

The man was old, and reverend in his age ; 

And the " Great Monastery" held him dear. 
Stalwart and stern, as some old Roman sage 

Subdued to Christ, he lived from year to year, 
Till his beard silvered, and the fiery glow 
Of his dark eye was overhung with snow. 

And being trusted, as of prudent way, 

They chose him for a message of import, 

Which the " Great Monastery" would convey 
To a good patron in an Irish court ; 

Who, by the Shannon, sought the means to found 

St. Martin's off-shoot on that distant ground. 

The old Italian took his staff in hand, 

And journeyed slowly from the green Touraine 
Over the heather and salt-shining sand, 

Until he saw the leaping crested main, 

The Legend of Limerick Bells. 197 

Which, dashing round the Cape of Brittany, 
Sweeps to the confines of the Irish Sea. 

There he took ship, and thence with laboring sail 

He crossed the waters, till a faint gray line 
Rose in the northern sky ; so faint, so pale, 

Only the heart that loves her would divine, 
In her dim welcome, all that fancy paints 
Of the green glory of the Isle of Saints. 

Through the low banks, where Shannon meets the sea, 

Up the broad waters of the River King 
(Then populous with a nation), journeyed he, 

Through that old Ireland which her poets sing ; 
And the white vessel, breasting up the stream, 
Moved slowly, like a ship within a dream. 

When Limerick towers uprose before his gaze, 

A sound of music floated in the air 
Music which held him in a fixed amaze, 

Whose silver tenderness was alien there ; 
Notes full of murmurs of the southern seas, 
And dusky olives swaying in the breeze. 

His chimes ! the children of the great bell-tower, 

Empty and silent now for many a year, 
He hears them ringing out the vesper hour, 

Owned in an instant by his loving ear. 
Kind angels stayed the spoiler's hasty hand, 
And watched their journeying over sea and land. 

The white-sailed boat moved slowly up the stream ; 

The old man lay with folded hands at rest ; 
The Shannon glistened in the sunset beam; 

The bells rang gently o'er its shining breast, 
Shaking out music from each lilied rim : 
It was a requiem which they rang for him. 

For when the boat was moored beside the quay, 

He lay as children lie when lulled by song ; 
But never more to waken. Tenderly 

They buried him wild-flowers and grass among, 
Where on the cross alights the wandering bird, 
And hour by hour the bells he loved are heard. 


A Perilous Journey. 

From London Society. 



There is a tide in the affairs of men, 

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune 

So says the sage, and it is not to 
be gainsayed by any man whom forty 
winters have chilled into wisdom. 
Ability and opportunity are fortune. 
Opportunity is not fortune ; otherwise 
all were fortunate. Ability is not 
fortune, else why does genius slave ? 
Why ? But because it missed the op- 
portunity that fitted it? 

What I have wife, position, inde- 
pendence I owe to an opportunity 
for exercising the very simple and 
unpretending combination of qualities 
that goes by the name of ability. But 
to my story. 

My father was a wealthy country 
gentleman, of somewhat more than 
the average of intelligence, and some- 
what more than the average of gen- 
erosity and extravagance. His young- 
er brother, a solicitor in large practice 
in London, would in vain remonstrate 
as to the imprudence of his course. 
Giving freely, spending freely, must 
come to an end. It did ; and at 
twenty I was a well educated, gentle- 
manly pauper. The investigation of 
my father's affairs showed that there 
was one shilling and sixpence in the 
pound for the whole of his creditors, 
and of course nothing for me. 

The position was painful. I was 
half engaged to that is, I had gloves, 
flowers, a ringlet, a carte de visite of 
Alice Morton. That, of course, must 
be stopped. 

Mr. Silas Morton was not ill-pleased 
at the prospect of an alliance with his 
neighbor Westwood's son while there 
was an expectation of a provision for 
the young couple in the union of estates 
as well as persons ; but now, when 
the estate was gone, when I, Guy 
Westwood, was shillingless in the 

world, it would be folly indeed. Nev- 
ertheless I must take my leave. 

" Well, Guy, my lad, bad job this ; 
very bad job ; thought he was as safe 
as the Bank. Would not have be- 
lieved it from any one not from any 
one. Of course all that nonsense 
about you and Alice must be stopped 
now ; I'm not a hard man, but I can't 
allow Alice to throw away her life in 
the poverty she would have to bear as 
your wife; can't do it; wouldn't be 
the part of a father if I did." 

I suggested I might in time. 

"Time, sir! time! How much? 
She's nineteen now. You're broi _ 
up to nothing ; know nothing that wil 
earn you a sixpence for the next si: 
months ; and you talk about tii 
Time, indeed ! Keep her waiting 
she's thirty, and then break her 
by finding it a folly to marry at all.' 

" Ah ! Alice, my dear, Guy's cor 
to say ' Good by :' he sees, with me, 
that his altered position compels him, 
as an honorable man, to give up any 
hopes he may have formed as to the 

He left us alone to say * Farewell!' 
a word too hard to say at our ages. 
Of course we consulted what stould be 
done. To give each other up, to bury 
the delicious past, that was not to be 
thought of. We would be constant, 
spite of all. I must gain a position, 
and papa would then help us. 

Two ways were open ; a commis- 
sion in India, a place in my uncle's 
office. Which ? I was for the com- 
mission, Alice for the office. A re- 
spectable influential solicitor; a posi- 
tion not to be despised; nothing but 
cleverness wanted; and my uncle's 
name, and no one to wait for ; no lirer 

A Perilous Journey. 


complaints ; no sepoys ; no sea voya- 
ges ; and no long separation. 

" Oh, I'm sure it is the best thing." 

I agreed, not unnaturally then, that 
it was the best. 

" Now, you young people, youVe 
had time enough to say ' Good by,' 
so be off, Guy. Here, my lad, you'll 
need something to start with," and the 
old gentleman put into my hands a 
note for fifty pounds. 

" I must beg, sir, that you will not 

God bless the boy! ' Insult!' Why 
Fve danced you on my knee hundreds 
of times. Look you, Guy," and the 
old fellow came and put his hand on 
my shoulder, " it gives me pain to do 
what I am doing. I believe, for both 
your sakes, it is best you should part. 
Let us part friends. Come now, Guy, 
you'll need this ; and if you need a 
little more, let me know." 

" But, sir, you cut me off from all 
hope ; you render my life a burden to 
me. Give me some definite task ; say 
how much you think we ought to 
have ; I mean how much I ought to 
have to keep Alice I mean Miss 
Morton in such a position as you 
would wish." 

Alice added her entreaties, and the 
result of the conference was an under- 
standing that if, within five years from 
that date, I could show I was worth 
500 a year, the old gentleman would 
add another 500 ; and on that he 
thought we might live for a few years 

There was to be no correspondence 
whatever ; no meetings, no messages. 
We protested and pleaded, and finally 
he said 

Well, well, Guy ; I always liked 
you. and liked your father before you. 
Come to us on Christmas day, and 
you shall find a vacant chair beside 
Alice. There, now ; say * Good by,' 
and be off." 

I went off. I came to London to 
one of the little lanes leading out of 
Cannon street. Five hundred a year 
in five years ! I must work hard. 
I My uncle took little notice of me ; 

I fancied worked me harder than the 
rest, and paid me the same. Seventy- 
five pounds a year is not a large sum. 
I had spent it in a month before now, 
after the fashion of my father : now, I 
hoarded; made clothes last; ate in 
musty, cheap, little cook-shops; and 
kept my enjoying faculties from abso- 
lute rust by a weekly half-price to the 
theatres the pit. 

The year passed. I went down on 
Christmas, and for twenty-four hours 
was alive ; came back, and had a rise 
of twenty pounds in salary for the next 
year. I waited for opportunity, and 
it came not. 

Thi jog-trot routine of office-work 
continued for two years more, and at 
the end of that time I was worth but 
my salary of 135 per year- 135 ! a 
long way from 500. Oh, for oppor- 
tunity? I must quit the desk, and 
become a merchant; all successful 
men have been merchants ; money be- 
gets money. But, to oppose all these 
thoughts of change, came the memory 
of Alice's last words at Christmas, 
" Wait and hope, Guy, dear ; wait 
and hope." Certainly ; it's so easy to. 

" Governor wants you, Westwood. 
He's sharp this morning ; very sharp ; 
so look out, my dear nephy." 

" You understand a little Italian, I 
think ?" said my uncle. 

" A little, sir." 

"You will start to-night for Flor- 
ence, in the mail train. Get there as 
rapidly as possible, and find whether 
a Colonel Wilson is residing there, 
and what lady he is residing with. 
Learn all you can as to his position 
and means, and the terms on which he 
lives with that lady. Write to me, 
and wait there for further instructions. 
Mr. Williams will give you a cheque 
for 100 ; you can get circular notes 
for 50, and the rest cash. If you 
have anything to say, come in here at 
five o'clock; if not, good morning. By- 
the-by, say nothing in the office." 

I need not say that hope made me 
believe my opportunity was come. 

I hurried to Florence and dis- 
charged my mission ; sent home a 


A Perilous Journey. 

careful letter, full of facts without com- 
ment or opinion, and in three weeks' 
time was summoned to return. I had 
done little or nothing that could help 
me, and in a disappointed state of 
mind I packed up and went to the 
railway station at St. Dominico. A 
little row with a peasant as to his de- 
mand for carrying my baggage caused 
me to lose the last train that night, 
and so the steamer at Leghorn. The 
station-master, seeing my vexation, 
endeavored to console me : 

" There will be a special through 
train to Leghorn at nine o'clock, or- 
dered for Count Spezzato : he is good- 
natured, and will possibly let you go 
in that." 

It was worth the chance, and I hung 
about the station till I was tired, and 
then walked back toward the village. 
Passing a small wine-ahop, I entered, 
and asked for wine in English. I don't 
know what whim possessed me when 
I did it, for they were unable to un- 
derstand me without dumb motions. I 
at length got wine by these means, 
and sat down to while away the time 
over a railway volume. 

I had been seated about half an 
hour, when a courier entered, accom- 
panied by a railway guard. Two 
more different examples of the human 
race it would be difficult to describe. 

The guard was a dark, savage-look- 
ing Italian, with ' rascal' and ' bully' 
written all over him ; big, black, burly, 
with bloodshot eyes, and thick, heavy, 
sensual lips, the man was utterly re- 

The courier was a little, neatly- 
dressed man, of no age in particular ; 
pale, blue-eyed, straight-lipped, his 
face was a compound of fox and rab- 
bit that only a fool or a patriot would 
have trusted out of arm's length. 

This ill-matched pair called for 
brandy, and the hostess set it before 
them. I then heard them ask who 
and what I was. She replied, I must 
be an Englishman, and did not under- 
stand the Italian for wine. She then 

They evidently wanted to be alone, 

and my presence was decidedly disa- 
greeable to them ; and muttering that 
I was an Englishman, they proceeded 
to try my powers as a linguist. 
The courier commenced in Italian, 
with a remark on the weather. I 
immediately handed him the Newspa- 
per. I didn't speak Italian, that was 
clear to them. 

The guard now struck in with a 
remark in French as to the fineness of 
the neighboring country. I shrugged 
my shoulders, and produced my cigar 
case. French was not very familiar 
to me, evidently. 

"Those beasts of English think 
their own tongue so fine they are too 
proud to learn another," said the 

I sat quietly, sipping my wine, and 

" Well, my dear Michael Pultuski," 
began the guard. 

" For the love of God, call me 
by that name. My name is Alexis 
Alexis Dzentzol, now." 

" Oh ! oh !" laughed the guard ; 
"you've changed your name, you fox ; 
it's like you. Now I am the 
that you knew fifteen years ago, Cc 
rad Ferrate to-day, yesterday, am 
for life, Conrad Ferrate. Come, 
tell us your story. How did you 
out of that little affair at Warsaw? 
How they could have trusted you, with 
your face, with their secrets, I can't 
for the life of me tell ; you look so 
like a sly knave, don't you, lad ?" 

The courier, so far from resenting 
this familiarity, smiled, as if he had 
been praised. 

" My story is soon said. I found, 
after my betrayal to the police of the 
secrets of that little conspiracy which 
you and I joined, that Poland was too 
hot for me, and my name too well 
known. I went to France, who values 
her police, and for a few years was 
useful to them. But it was dull work ; 
very dull ; native talent was more es- 
teemed. I was to be sent on a secret 
service to Warsaw ; I declined for ob- 
vious reasons." 

" Good ! Michael Alexis ; good, 

A Perilous Journey. 


Alexis. This fox is not to be trapped." 
And he slapped the courier on the 
shoulder heartily. 

"And," resumed the other, "Ire- 
signed. Since then I have travelled 
as courier with noble families, and I 
trust I give satisfaction." 

" Good ! Alexis ; good Mich good 
Alexis ! To yourself you give satis- 
faction. You are a fine rascal ! the 
prince of rascals! So decent; so 
quiet ; so like the cure* of a convent. 
Who would believe that you had sold 
the lives of thirty men for a few hun- 
dred roubles ?" 

" And who," interrupted the courier, 
" would believe that you, bluff, honest 
Conrad Ferrate, had run away with 
all the money those thirty men had col- 
lected during ten years of labor, for res- 
cuing their country from the Russian ?" 

" That was good, Alexis, was it 
not ? I never was so rich hi my life 
as then ; I loved I gamed I drank 
on the patriots' money." 

" For how long ? Three years ?" 

"More and now have none left. 
Ah! Tunes change, Alexis; behold 
me." And the guard touched his but- 
tons and belt, the badges of his office. 
" Never mind here's my good friend, 
the bottle let us embrace the only 
friend that is always true if he does 
not gladden, he makes us to forget." 

" Tell me, my good Alexis, whom 
do you rob now? Who pays for the 
best, and gets the second best ? Whose 
money do you invest, eh ! my little 
fox ? Why are you here ? Come, tell 
me, while I drink to your success." 

" I have the honor to serve his Ex- 
cellency the Count Spezzato." 

"Ten thousand devils! My ac- 
cursed cousin!" broke in the guard. 
"He who has robbed me from his 
birth; whose birth itself was a vile 
robbery of me me, his cousin, child 
of his father's brother. May he be 
accursed for ever !" 

I took most particular pains to 
appear only amused at this genuine 
outburst of passion, for I saw the 
watchful eye of the courier was on me 
all the time they were talking. 

The guard drank off a tumbler of 

" That master of yours is the man 
of whom I spoke to you years ago, as 
the one who had ruined me ; and you 
serve him ! May he be strangled on 
his wedding night, and cursed for 

" Be calm, my dearest Conrad, calm 
yourself; that beast of an Englishman 
will think you are drunk, like one of 
his own swinish people, if you talk so 
loud as this." 

" How can I help it ? I must talk. 
What he is, that /ought to be : I was 
brought up to it till I was eighteen; 
was the heir to all his vast estate ; 
there was but one life bet wee a me and 
power my uncle's and he, at fifty, 
married a girl, and had this son, this 
son of perdition, my cousin. And 
after that, I, who had been the pride 
of my family, became of no account ; 
it was * Julian/ ' sweet Julian !' " 

" I heard," said the courier, " that 
some one attempted to strangle the 
sweet child, that was ?" 

" Me you fox me. I wish I had 
done it ; but for that wretched dog 
that worried me, I should have been 
Count Spezzato now. I killed that 
dog, killed him, no not suddenly ; may 
his master die like him !" 

"And you left after that little 
affair ?" 

" Oh yes ! I left and became what 
you know me." 

" A clever man, my dear Conrad. 
I know no man who is more clever 
with the ace than yourself, and, as to 
bullying to cover a mistake, you are an 
emperor at that. Is it not so, Con- 
rad ? Come, drink good health to my 
master, your cousin." 

"You miserable viper, I'll crush 
you if you ask me to do that again. 
I'll drink here, give me the glass 
Here's to Count Spezzato: May he 
die like a dog! May his carcase 
bring the birds and the wolves to- 
gether ! May his name be cursed and 
hated while the sun lasts ! And may 
purgatory keep him till I pray for his 
release !" 


A Perilous Journey, 

The man's passion was something 
frightful to see, and I was more than 
half inclined to leave the place ; but 
something, perhaps a distant murmur 
of the rising tide, compelled me to stay. 
I pretended sleep, allowing my head 
to sink, down upon the table. 

He sat still for a few moments, and 
then commenced walking about the 
room, and abruptly asked : 

" What brought you here, Alexis?" 

" My master's horse, Signor Con- 
rad." " 

" Good, my little fox ; but why did 
you come on your master's horse ?" 

"Because my master wishes to 
reach Leghorn to-night, to meet his 
bride, Conrad." 

"Then his is the special train 
ordered at nine, that I am to go with ?" 
exclaimed the guard eagerly. 

" That is so, gentle Conrad ; and 
now, having told you all, let me pay 
our hostess and go." 

" Pay ! No one pays for me, little 
fox ; no, no, go ; I will pay." 

The courier took his departure, and 
the guard kept walking up and down 
the room, muttering to himself: 

" To-night, it might be to-night. If 
he goes to Leghorn, he meets his 
future wife ; another life, and perhaps 
a dozen. No, it must be to-night or 
never. Does his mother go ? Fool 
that I am not to ask ! Yes ; it shall 
be to-night ; " and he left the room. 

What should be " to-night ?" Some 
foul play of which the count would 
be the victim, no doubt. But how ? 
when? That must be solved. To 
follow him, or to wait which? To 
wait. It is always best to wait ; I had 
learned this lesson already. 

I waited. It was now rather more 
than half-past eight, and I had risen to 
go to the door when I saw the guard 
returning to the wine-shop with a man 
whose dress indicated the stoker. 

" Come in, Guido ; come in," said 
the guard ; " and drink with me." 

The man came in, and I was again 
absorbed in my book. 

They seated themselves at the same 
table as before, and drank silently for 

a while ; presently the guard began a 
conversation in some patois I could 
not understand ; but I could see the 
stoker grow more and more interested 
as the name of Beatrix occurred more 

As the talk went on, the stoker 
seemed pressing the guard on some 
part of the story with a most vin- 
dictive eagerness, repeatedly asking, 
" His name ? The accursed ! His 
name ?" 

At last the guard answered, " The 
Count Spezzato." 

" The Count Spezzato !" said the 
stoker, now leaving the table, and 
speaking in Italian. 

" Yes, good Guido ; the man who 
will travel in the train we take to-night 
to Leghorn." 

"He shall die! The accursed! He 
shall die to-night !" said the stoker. 
" If I lose my life, the betrayer of my 
sister shall die !" 

The guard, returning to the un 
known tongue, seemed to be endeavor- 
ing to calm him ; and I could only 
catch a repetition of the word 
" Empoli " at intervals. Presently 
the stoker took from the seats beside 
him two tin bottles, such as you may 
see in the hands of mechanics who dine 
out ; and I could see that one of them 
had rudely scratched on it the name 
"William Atkinson." I fancied the 
guard produced from his pocket a 
phial, and poured the contents into 
that bottle ; but the action was so 
rapid, and the comer so dark, that I 
could not be positive ; then rising, they 
stopped at the counter, had both 
bottles filled with brandy, and went 

It was now time to get to the I 
station ; and, having paid my modest \ 
score, I went out. 

A little in front of me, by the light 
from a small window, I saw these two 
cross themselves, grip each other's 
hands across right to right, left to left, 
and part. 

The stoker had set down the bottles, 
and now taking them up followed the 
guard at a slower pace. 

A Perilous Journey. 


"How much will you give for your 
life, my little fox ?" said the guard. 

"To-day, very little; when I am 
sixty, all I have, Conrad." 

" But you might give something for 
it, to-night, sweet Alexis, if you knew 
it was in danger ?" 

" I have no fear ; Conrad Ferrate 
has too often conducted a tram for me 
to fear to-night." 

" True, my good Alexis ; but this is 
the last train he will ride with as guard, 
for to-morrow he will be the Count 

" How ? To-morrow ? You joke, 
Conrad. The brandy was strong ; but 
you who have drunk so much could 
hardly feel that." 

" I neither joke, nor am I drunk ; 
yet I shall be Count Spezzato to-mor- 
row, good Alexis. Look you, my gen- 
tle fox, my sweet fox ; if you do not 
buy your life of me, you shall die to- 
night. That is simple, sweet fox." 

" Ay ; but, Conrad, I am not in dan- 
ger." ' 

" Nay, Alexis ; see, here is the 
door " (I heard him turn the handle). 
" If you lean against the door, you 
will fall out and be killed. Is it not 

" But, good Conrad, I shall not lean 
against the door." 

"Oh, my sweet fox, my cunning 
fox, my timid fox, but not my strong 
fox ; you will lean against the door. 
I know you will, unless I prevent 
you; and I will not prevent you, 
unless you give me all you have in 
that bag." 

The mocking tone of the guard 
seemed well understood, for I heard 
the click of gold. 

" Good, my Alexis ; it is good ; but 
it is very little for a life. Come, what 
is your life worth, that you buy it 
with only your master's money ? it has 
cost you nothing. I see you will 
lean against that door, which is so 

" What, in the name of all the dev- 
ils in hell, will you have ?" said the 
trembling voice of the courier. 
" Only a little more ; just that belt 


A Perilous Journey. 

that is under your shirt, under every- 
thing, next to your skin, and dearer to 
you; only a little soft leather belt 
with pouches in. Is not life worth a 
leather belt?" 

" Wretch ! All the earnings of my 
life are in that belt, and you know it." 

" Is it possible, sweet fox, that I 
have found your nest ? I shall give 
Marie a necklace of diamonds, then. 
Why do you wait ? Why should you 
fall from a train, and make a piece of 
news for the papers ? Why ?" 

"Take it; and be accursed in 
your life and death !'* and I heard the 
belt flung on the floor of the carriage. 

" Now, good Alexis, I am in funds ; 
there are three pieces of gold for you ; 
you will need them at Leghorn. Will 
you drink? No? Then I will tell 
you why, without drink. Do you 
know where we are ?" 

"Yes; between St. Dominico and 

" And do you know where we are 

"Yes; to Leghorn." 

"No, sweet Alexis, we are not; 
we are going to Empoli : the train 
will go no further. Look you, little 
fox ; we shall arrive at the junction 
one minute before the Sienna goods 
train, and there the engine will break 
down just where the rails cross ; for 
two blows of a hammer will convert 
an engine into a log ; I shall get out 
to examine it; that will take a little 
time ; I shall explain to the count 
the nature of the injury; that will 
take a little time ; and then the goods 
train will have arrived; and as it 
does not stop there, this train will go 
no further than Empoli, and I shall 
be Count Spezzato to-morrow. How 
do you like my scheme, little fox ? Is 
it not worthy of your pupil ? Oh, it 
will be a beautiful accident; it will 
fill the papers. That beast of an Eng- 
lish who begged his place in the train 
will be fortunate ; he will cease, for 
goods trains are heavy. Eh ! but it's 
a grand scheme the son, the mother, 
the servant, the stranger, the engine- 
driver, all shall tell no tales." 

" And the stoker?" said the courier. 

" Oh, you and he and I shall escape. 
We shall be pointed at in the street 
as the fortunate. It is good, is it not, 
Alexis, my fox? I have told him 
that the count is the man who be- 
trayed his sister. He believes it, and 
is my creature. But, little fox, it was 
not my cousin, it was myself, that 
took his Beatrix from her home. Is 
it not good, Alexis ? Is it not genius ? 
And Atkinson he, the driver is 
now stupid : he has drunk from his 
can the poppy juice that will make 
him sleep for ever. I will be a poli- 
tician. I am worthy of office. I 
will become the Minister of a Bour- 
bon when I am count, my dear fox, 
and you shall be my comrade again, as 
of old." 

I was, for a time, lost to every 
sensation save that of hearing. The 
fiendish garrulity of the man had all 
the fascination of the serpent's rattle. 
I felt helplessly resigned to a certain 

I was aroused by something white 
slowly passing the closed window of 
the carriage. I waited a little, then 
gently opened it and looked out. The 
stoker was crawling along the foot- 
board of the next carnage, holding on 
by its handles, so as not to be seen by 
the occupants, and holding the signal 
lantern that I had noticed at the back 
of the last carriage in his hand. The 
meaning of it struck me in a moment : 
if by any chance we missed the goods 
train from Sienna, we should be run 
into from behind by the train from 

The cold air that blew in at the 
open window refreshed me, and I 
could think what was to be done. The 
train was increasing its pace rapidly. 
Evidently the stoker, in sole charge, 
was striving to reach Empoli before 
the other train, which we should fol- 
low, was due : he had to make five 
minutes in a journey of forty-five, and, 
at the rate we were going, we should 
do it. We stopped nowhere, and the 
journey was more than half over. 
We were now between Segua and 

A Perilous Journey. 


Montelupo; another twenty minutes 
and I should be a bruised corpse. 
Something must be done. 

I decided soon. Unfastening my 
bag, I took out my revolver, without 
which I never travel, and looking 
carefully to the loading and capping, 
fastened it to my waist with a hand- 
kerchief. I then cut with my knife 
the bar across the middle of the win- 
dow, and carefully looked out. I 
could see nothing ; the rain was falling 
fast, and the night as dark as ever. 
I cautiously put out first one leg and 
then the other, keeping my knees and 
toes close to the door, and lowered 
myself till I felt the step. I walked 
carefully along the foot-board by side 
steps, holding on to the handles of the 
doors, till I came to the end of the 
carriages, and was next the tender. 
Here was a gulf that seemed impass- 
able. The stoker must have passed 
over it ; why not I ? Mounting from 
the foot-board on to the buffer, and 
holding on to the iron hook on which 
the lamps are hung, I stretched my 
legs to reach the flat part of the buffer 
on the tender. My legs swung about 
with the vibration, and touched no- 
thing. I must spring. I had to hold 
with both hands behind my back, and 
stood on the case of the buffer-spring, 
and, suddenly leaving go, leaped for- 
ward, struck violently against the 
edge of the tender, and grasped some 
of the loose lumps of coal on the top. 
Another struggle brought me on my 
knees, bruised and bleeding, on the top. 
I stood up, and at that moment the 
stoker opened the door of the furnace, 
and turned toward me, shovel in hand, 
to put in the coals. The bright red 
light from the fire enabled him to see 
me, while it blinded me. He rushed 
at me, and then began a struggle that 
I shall remember to my dying day. 

He grasped me round the throat 
with one arm, dragging me close to 
his breast, and with the other kept 
shortening the shovel for an effective 
blow. My hands, numbed and bruised, 
were almost useless to me, and for 
some seconds we reeled to and fro on 

the foot-plate in the blinding glare. 
At last he got me against the front of 
the engine, and, with horrible ingen- 
uity, pressed me against it till the 
lower part of my clothes were burnt 
to a cinder. The heat, however, re- 
stored my hands, and at last I man- 
aged to push him far enough from my 
body to loosen my pistol. I did not 
want to kill him, but I could not be 
very careful, and I fired at his shoul- 
der from the back. He dropped the 
shovel, the arm that had nearly throt- 
tled me relaxed, and he fell. I pushed 
him into a corner of the tender, and 
sat down to recover myself. 

My object was to get to Empoli be- 
fore the Sienna goods train, for I knew 
nothing of what might be behind me. 
It was too late to stop, but I might, by 
shortening the journey seven minutes 
instead of five, get to Empoli three 
minutes before the goods tram was 

I had never been on an engine be- 
fore in my life, but I knew that there 
must be a valve somewhere that let 
the steam from the boiler into the 
cylinders, and that, being important, it 
would be in a conspicuous position. I 
therefore turned the large handle in 
front of me, and had the satisfaction 
of finding the speed rapidly increased, 
and at the same time felt the guard 
putting on the break to retard the train. 
Spite of this, in ten minutes I could 
see some dim lights ; I could not tell 
where, and I still pressed on faster and 

In vain, between the intervals of 
putting on coals, did I try to arouse the 
sleeping driver. There I was, with 
two apparently dead bodies, on the foot- 
plate of an engine, going at the rate of 
forty miles an hour, or more, amidst a 
thundering noise and vibration that 
nearly maddened me. 

At last we reached the lights, and I 
saw, as I dashed by, that we had 
passed the dread point. 

As I turned back, I could see the 
rapidly-dropping cinders from the tram 
which, had the guard's break been suf- 
ficiently powerful to have made me 


A Perilous Journey. 

thirty seconds later, would have utterly 
destroyed me. 

I was still in a difficult position. 
There was the train half a minute be- 
hind us, which, had we kept our time, 
would have been four minutes in front 
of us. It came on to the same rails, 
and I could hear its dull rumble rush- 
ing on toward us fast. If I stopped 
there was no light to warn them. I 
must go on, for the Sienna train did 
not stop at Empoli. 

I put on more fuel, and after some 
slight scalding, from turning on the 
wrong taps, had the pleasure of seeing 
the water-gauge filling up. Still I 
could not go on long ; the risk was 
awful. I tried in vain to write on a 
leaf of my note-book, and after search- 
ing in the tool-box, wrote on the iron 
lid of the tank with a piece of chalk, 
"Stop everything behind me. The 
train will not be stopped till three red 
lights are ranged in a line on the 
ground. Telegraph forward." And 
then, as we flew through the Empoli 
station, I threw it on the platform. 
On we. went ; the same dull thunder be- 
hind warning me that I dare not stop. 

We passed through another station 
at full speed, and at length I saw the 
white lights of another station in the 
distance. The sound behind had al- 
most ceased, and in a few moments 
more I saw the line of three red lamps 
low down on the ground. I pulled 
back the handle, and after an ineffec- 
tual effort to pull up at the station, 
brought up the train about a hundred 
yards beyond Pontedera. 

The porters and police of the station 
came up and put the train back, and 
then came the explanation. 

The guard had been found dead on 
the rails, just beyond Empoli, and the 
telegraph set to work to stop the train. 
He must have found out the failure of 
his scheme, and in trying to reach the 
engine, have fallen on the rails. 

The driver was only stupefied, and 
the stoker fortunately only dangerously, 
not fatally, wounded. 

Another driver was found, and the 
train was to go on. 

The count had listened most atten- 
tively to my statements, and then, 
taking my grimed hand in his, led me 
to his mother. 

" Madam, my mother, you have from 
this day one other son: this, my 
mother, is my brother." 

The countess literally fell on my 
neck, and kissed me in the sight of 
them all; and speaking in Italian 

" Julian, he is my son ; he has saved 
my life ; and more, he has saved your 
life. My son, I will not say much; 
what is your name ?" 

" Guy Westwood." 

" Guy, my child, my son, I am your 
mother ; you shall love me." 

" Yes, my mother ; he is my brother, 
I am his. He is English too ; I like 
English. He has done well. Blanche 
shall be his sister." 

During the whole of this time both 
mother and son were embracing me 
and kissing my cheeks, after the impul- 
sive manner of their passionate natures, 
the indulgence of which appears so 
strange to our cold blood. 

The train was delayed, for my 
wounds and bruises to be dressed, and 
I then entered their carriage and went 
to Leghorn with them. 

Arrived there, I was about to say 
" Farewell." 

" What is farewell, now ? No ; you 
must see Blanche, your sister. You 
will sleep to my hotel : I shall not let 
you go. Who is she that in your great 
book says, ' Where you go, I will go ?' 
That is my spirit. You must not leave 
me till till you are as happy as 
I am." 

He kept me, introduced me to 
Blanche, and persuaded me to write for ! 
leave to stay another two months, when 
he would return to England with me. ! 
Little by little he made me talk about | 
Alice, till he knew all my story. 

"Ah! that is it; you shall be un- 
happy because you want 500 every 
year, and I have so much as that. ; 
I am a patriot to get rid of my money, i 
So it is that you will not take money. I 
You have saved my life, and you will ! 

The Winds. 


This is not conspiracy ; it is not plot ; 
it is not society with ribbons ; but it is 
what Italy, my country, wants. I grow 
poor; Italy grows rich. I am not 
wise in these things ; they cheat me, 
because I am an enthusiast. Now, 
Guy, my brother, you are wise ; you 
are deep ; long in the head ; in short, 
you are English ! You shall be my 
guardian in these things you shall 
save me from the cheat, and you shall 
work hard as you like for all the 
money you shall take of me. Come, 
my Guy, is it so ?" 

Need I say that it was so ? The 
count and his Blanche made their 
honeymoon tour in England. They 
spent Christmas day with Alice and 
myself at Mr. Morton's, and when they 
left, Alice and I left with them, for our 
new home in Florence. 

From The Cornhffl Magazine. 


O wild raving west winds .... 

Oh ! where do ye rise from, and where do ye die? 

THE question which is put in these 
lines is one which has posed the in- 
genuity of all who have ever thought 
on it ; and though theories have re- 
peatedly been propounded to answer 
it, yet one and all fail, and we again 
recur to the words of him who knew 
all things and said, " The wind blow- 
eth where it listeth, and thou hearest 
the sound thereof, but canst not tell 
whence it cometh or whither it goeth." 

However, though we cannot assign 
exactly the source whence the winds 
rise or the goal to which they tend, 
the labors of meteorologists have been 
so far successful as to enable us to un- 
derstand the causes of the great cur- 
rents of air, and even to map out the 
winds which prevail at different sea- 
sons in the various quarters of the 

globe. The problem which has thus 
been solved is one vastly more simple 
than that of saying why the wind 
changes on any particular day, or at 
what spot on the earth's surface a 
particular current begins or ends. 
Were these questions solved, there 
would be an end to all uncertainty 
about weather. There need be no 
fear that the farmer would lose his 
crops owing to the change of weather, 
if the advent of every shower had been 
foretold by an unerring guide, and the 
precise day of the break in the weather 
predicted weeks and months before. 
This is the point on which weather- 
prophets ' astro-meteorologists ' they 
call themselves now-a-days still ven- 
ture their predictions, undismayed by 
their reported and glaring failures. 


The Winds. 

It has been well remarked that not 
one of these prophets foretold the dry 
weather which lasted for so many weeks 
during the last summer ; yet, even at 
the present day, there are people who 
look to the almanacs to see what 
weather is to be expected at a given 
date ; and even the prophecies of " Old 
Moore " find, or used to find within a 
very few years, an ample credence. 
In fact, if we are to believe the opin- 
ions propounded by the positive phil- 
osophers of the present day, we must 
admit that it is absurd to place any 
limits on the possibility of predicting 
natural phenomena, inasmuch as all 
operations of nature obey fixed and 
unalterable laws, which are all discov- 
erable by the unaided mind of man. 

True science, we may venture to 
say, is more modest than these gentle- 
men would have us to think it ; and 
though in the particular branch of 
knowledge of which we are now treat- 
ing daily prophecies (or ' forecasts,' 
as Admiral Fitzroy is careful to call 
them) of weather appear in the news- 
papers, yet these are not announced 
dogmatically, and no attempt is made 
in them to foretell weather for more 
than forty-eight hours in advance. 
We are not going to discuss the ques- 
tion of storms and storm-signals at 
present, so we shall proceed to the 
subje'ct in hand the ordinary wind- 
currents of the earth ; and in speak- 
ing of these shall confine ourselves as 
far as possible to well-known and re- 
corded facts, bringing in each case the 
best evidence which we can adduce to 
support the theories which may be 

What, then, our readers will ask, 
is the cause of the winds ? The simple 
answer is the sun. Let us see, now, 
how this indefatigable agent, who ap- 
pears to do almost everything on the 
surface of the earth, from painting 
pictures to driving steam-engines, as 
George Stephenson used to maintain 
that he did, is able to raise the wind. 

If you light a fire in a room, and 
afterward stop up every chink by 
which air can gain access to the fire, 

except the chimney, the fire will go 
out in a short time. Again, if a lamp 
is burning on the table, and you stop 
up the chimney at the top, the lamp 
will go out at once. The reason of 
this is that the flame, in each case, 
attracts the air, and if either the supply 
of air is cut off below, or its escape 
above is checked, the flame cannot go 
on burning. This explanation, how- 
ever, does not bear to be pushed too 
far. The reason that the fire goes 
out if the supply of air is cut off is, 
that the flame, so to speak, feeds 
on air ; while the sun cannot be 
said, in any sense, to be dependent on 
the earth's atmosphere for the fuel for 
his fire. We have chosen the illus- 
tration of the flame, because the facts 
are so well known. If, instead of a 
lamp in the middle of a room, we were to 
hang up a large mass of iron, heated, 
we should find that currents of air set 
in from all sides, rose up above it, and 
spread out when they reached the 
ceiling, descending again along the 
walls. The existence of these currents 
may be easily proved by sprinkling a 
handful of fine chaff about in the room. 
What is the reason of the circulation 
thus produced? The iron, unless it 
be extremely hot, as it is when 
melted by Mr. Bessemer's process, 
does not require the air in order 
to keep up its heat; and, in fact, 
the constant supply of fresh air cools 
it, as the metal gives away its own 
heat to the air as fast as the particles 
of the latter come in contact with it. 
Why, then, do the currents arise ? Be- 
cause the air, when heated, expands 
or gets lighter, and rises, leaving an 
empty space, or vacuum, where it was 
before. Then the surrounding cold 
air, being elastic, forces itself into the 
open space, and gets heated in its turn. 
From this we can see that there 
will be a constant tendency in the air 
to flow toward that point on the earth's 
surface where the temperature is high- 
est or, all other things being equal^ 
to that point where the sun may be at 
that moment in the zenith. Accord- 
ingly, if the earth's surface were either 

The Winds. 


entirely dry land, or entirely water, 
and the sun were continually in the 
plane of the equator, we should ex- 
pect to find the direction of the great 
wind-currents permanent and un- 
changed throughout the year. The 
true state of the case is, however, that 
these conditions are very far from be- 
ing fulfilled. Every one knows that 
the sun is not always immediately 
over the equator, but that he is at the 
tropic of Cancer in June, and at the 
tropic of Capricorn in December, pass- 
ing the equator twice every year at 
the equinoxes. Here, then, we have 
one cause which disturbs the regular 
flow of the wind-currents. The effect 
of this is materially increased by the 
extremely arbitrary way in which the 
dry land has been distributed over the 
globe. The northern hemisphere 
contains the whole of Europe, Asia,, 
and. North America, the greater part 
of Africa, and a portion of South 
America ; while in the southern hem- 
isphere we only find the remaining 
portions of the two last-named contin- 
ents, with Australia and some of the 
large islands in its vicinity. Accord- 
ingly, during our summer there is a 
much greater area of dry land exposed 
to the nearly vertical rays of the sun 
than is the case during our winter. 

Let us see for a moment how this 
cause acts in modifying the direction of 
the wind-currents. We shall find it eas- 
I ier to make this intelligible if we take an 
llustration from observed facts. It 
takes about five times as much heat to 
raise a ton weight of water through a 
certain range of temperature, as it 
loes to produce the same effect in the 
ease of a ton of rock. Again, the ten- 
dency of a surface of dry land to give out 
leat, and consequently to warm the air 
ibove it, and cause it to rise, is very 
much greater than that of a surface 
of water of equal area. Hence we can 
at once see the cause of the local 
winds which are felt every day in calm 
weather in islands situated in hot 
climates. During the day the island 
become* very hot, and thus what the 
French call a courant ascendant 


is set in operation. The air above 
the land gets hot and rises, while the 
colder air which is on the sea all 
round it flows in to fill its place, and 
is felt as a cool sea-breeze. During 
the night these conditions are exactly 
reversed : the land can no longer get 
any heat from the sun, as he has set, 
while it is still nearly as liberal in 
parting with its acquired heat as it 
was before. Accordingly, it soon be- 
comes cooler than the sea in its neigh- 
borhood ; and the air, instead of rising 
up over it, sinks down upon it, and 
flows out to sea, producing a land- 

These conditions are, apparently, 
nearly exactly fulfilled in the region 
of the monsoons, with the exception 
that the change of wind takes place at 
intervals of six months, and not every 
twelve hours. In this district which 
extends over the southern portion of 
Asia and the Indian ocean the wind 
for half the year blows from one point, 
and for the other hah from that which 
is directly opposite. The winds are 
north-east and south-west in Hindos- 
tan ; and in Java, at the other side of 
the equator, they are south-east and 
north-west. The cause of the winds 
monsoons they are called, from an 
Arabic word, mausim, meaning season 
is not quite so easily explained as 
that of the ordinary land and sea 
breezes to which we have just referred. 
Their origin is to be sought for in the 
temperate zone, and not between "the 
tropics. The reason of this is that the 
districts toward which the air is sucked 
in are not those which are absolutely 
hottest, but those where the rarefac- 
tion of the air is greatest. When the 
air becomes lighter, it is said to be 
rarefied, and this rarefaction ought ap- 
parently to be greatest where the tem- 
perature is highest. This would be 
the case if the air were the only con- 
stituent of our atmosphere. There is, 
however, a very important disturbing 
agent to be taken into consideration, 
viz., aqueous vapor. There is always, 
when it is not actually raining, a quan- 
tity of water rising from the surface of 


The Winds. 

the sea and from every exposed water- 
surface, and mingling with the air. 
This water is perfectly invisible : as it 
is in the form of vapor, it is true steam, 
and its presence only becomes visible 
when it is condensed so as to form a 
cloud. The hotter the air is, the more 
of this aqueous vapor is it able to hold 
in the invisible condition. 

We shall naturally expect to find a 
greater amount of this steam in the air 
at places situated near the coast, than 
at those in the interior of continents, 
and this is actually the case. The 
amount of rarefaction which the dry 
air on the sea-coast of Hindostan un- 
dergoes in summer, is partially com- 
pensated for by the increased tension 
of the aqueous vapor, whose presence 
in the air is due to the action of the 
sun's heat on the surface of the Indian 
ocean. In the interior of Asia there 
is no great body of water to be found, 
and the winds from the south lose most 
of the moisture which they contain in 
passing over the Himalayas. Ac- 
cordingly the air is extremely dry, 
and a compensation, similar to that 
which is observed in Hindostan, can- 
not take place. It is toward this dis- 
trict that the wind is sucked in, and 
the attraction is sufficient to draw a 
portion of the south-east trade-wind 
across the line into the northern hem- 
isphere. In our winter the region 
where the rarefaction is greatest is the 
continent of Australia ; and according- 
ly, in its turn, it sucks the north-east 
trade-wind of the northern hemisphere 
across the equator. Thus we see that 
in the region which extends from the 
coast of Australia to the centre of Asia 
we have monsoons, or winds which 
change regularly every six months. 
As to the directions of the different 
monsoons, we shall discuss them when 
we have disposed of the trade-winds 
which ought by rights, as Professor 
Dove observes, rather to be considered 
as an imperfectly developed monsoon, 
than the latter to be held as a modifi- 
cation of the former. 

The origin of the trade-winds is to 
be sought for, as before, in the heating 

power of the sun, and their direction 
is a result of the figure of the earth, 
and of its motion on its axis. When 
the air at the equator rises, that in 
higher latitudes on either side flows in, 
and would be felt as a north wind or 
as a south wind respectively, if the 
earth's motion on its axis did not affect 
it. The figure of the earth is pretty 
nearly that of a sphere, and, as it re- 
volves round its axis, it is evident that 
those points on its surface which are 
situated at the greatest distance from 
the axis, will have to travel over a 
greater distance in the same time than 
those which are near it. Thus, for in- 
stance, London, which is nearly under 
the parallel of 50, has only to travel 
about three-fifths of the distance which 
a place like Quito, situated under the 
equator, has to travel in the same time. 
A person situated in London is carried, 
imperceptibly to himself, by the mo- 
tion of the earth, through 15,000 miles 
toward the eastward in the twenty-four 
hours ; while another at Quito is car- 
ried through 25,000 miles in the same 
time. Accordingly, if the Londoner, 
preserving his own rate of motion, 
were suddenly transferred to Quito, he 
would be left 10,000 miles behind the 
other in the course of the twenty-four 
hours, or would appear to be moving 
in the opposite direction, from east to 
west, at the rate of about 400 miles 
an hour. The case would be just as 
if a person were to be thrown into a 
railway carriage which was moving at 
full speed ; he would appear to his j 
fellow-passengers to be moving in thei 
opposite direction to them, while in re- 
ality the motion of progression was in 
the train, not in the person who was I 
thrown into it. The air is transferred 
from high to low latitudes, but this; 
change is gradual, and the earth, ac- 
cordingly, by means of the force oi 
friction, is able to retard its relative 
velocity before it reaches the tropics 
so that its actual velocity, though stil 
considerable, is far below 400 miles ar 

This wind comes from high latitudes 
and becomes more and more easterly 

The Winds. 


reaching us as a nearly true north-east 
wind ; and as it gets into lower lati- 
tudes becoming more and more nearly 
east, and forming-a belt of north-east 
wind all round the earth on the north- 
ern side of the equator. In the south- 
ern hemisphere, there is a similar belt 
of permanent winds, which are, of 
course, south-easterly instead of north- 
easterly. These belts are not always 
at equal distances at each side of the 
equator, as their position is dependent 
on the situation of the zone of maxi- 
mum temperature for the time being. 
When we reach the actual district 
where the air rises, we find the easter- 
ly direction of the wind no longer so 
remarkable, as has been noticed by 
Basil Hall and others. The reason is, 
that by the time that the air reaches 
the district where it rises, it ha,s ob- 
tained by means of its friction with the 
earth's surface a rate of motion round 
the earth's axis nearly equal to that 
of the earth's surface itself. 

The trade-wind zones, called, by the 
Spaniards, the "Ladies' Sesf'MGolfo 
de las Damas because navigation on 
a sea where the wind never changed 
was so easy, shift their position ac- 
cording to the apparent motion of the 
sun in the ecliptic. In the Atlantic 
the north-east trade begins in summer 
in the latitude of the Azores ; in win- 
ter it commences to the south of the 

In the actual trade-wind zones rain 
very seldom falls, any more than it 
does in these countries when the east 
wind has well set in. The reason of 
this is, that the air on its passage from 
high to low latitudes is continually be- 
coming warmer and warmer. Accord- 
ing as its temperature rises, its power 
of dissolving (so to speak) water in- 
creases also, and so it is constantly 
increasing its burden of water until it 
reaches the end of its journey, where 
it rises into the higher regions of the 
atmosphere, and there is suddenly 
cooled. The chilling process con- 
denses, to a great extent, the aqueous 
vapor contained in the trade-wind air, 
and causes it to fall in constant dis- 

charges of heavy rain. Throughout 
the tropics the rainy season coincides 
with that period at which the sun is in 
the zenith, and in this region the 
heaviest rain-fall on the globe is ob- 
served. The wettest place in the 
world, Cherrapoonjee, is situated in the 
Cossya hills, about 250 miles north- 
east of Calcutta, just outside the torrid 
zone. There the ram-fall is upward 
of 600 niches in the year, or twenty 
times as much as it is on the west 
coasts of Scotland and Ireland. How- 
ever, in such extreme cases as this, 
there are other circumstances to be 
taken into consideration, such as the 
position of the locality as regards 
mountain chains, which may cause the 
clouds to drift over one particular spot. 

To return to the wind : "W^en the 
air rises at the equatorial edge of the 
trade-wind zone, it flows away above 
the lower trade-wind current. The 
existence of an upper current in the 
tropics is well known. Volcanic ashes, 
which have fallen in several of the 
"West Indian islands on several occa- 
sions, have been traced to volcanoes 
which lay to the westward of the lo- 
cality where the ashes fell, at a time 
when there was no west wind blowing 
at the sea-level. To take a recent in- 
stance : ashes fell at Kingston, Jamai- 
ca, in the year 1835, and it is satisfac- 
torily proved that they had been eject- 
ed from the volcano of Coseguina, on 
the Pacific shore of Central America, 
and must consequently have been borne 
to the eastward by an upward current 
counter to the direction of the easterly 
winds which were blowing at the tune 
at the sea-level. 

Captain Maury supposes that when 
the air rises, at either side of the 
equator, it crosses over into the oppo- 
site hemisphere, so that there is a 
constant interchange of air going on 
between . the northern and southern 
hemispheres. This he has hardly 
sufficiently proved, and his views are 
not generally accepted. One of the 
arguments on which he lays great 
stress in support of his theory is that 
on certain occasions dust has fallen in 


The Winds. 

various parts of western Europe, and 
that in it there have been discovered 
microscopical animals similar to those 
which are Found in South America. 
This appears to be scarcely an incon- 
trovertible proof; as Admiral Fitzroy 
observes : " Certainly, such insects 
may be found in Brazil ; but does 
it follow that they are not also in 
Africa, under nearly the same paral- 

This counter-current, or "anti-trade," 
as Sir J. Herschel has called it, is at 
a high level in the atmosphere be- 
tween the tropics, far above the top of 
the highest mountains ; but at the ex- 
terior edge of the trade-wind zone, it 
descends to the surface of the ground. 
The Canary islands are situated close 
to this edge, and accordingly we find 
that fhere is always a westerly wind 
at the summit of the Peak of Tener- 
iffe, while the wind at the sea-level, in 
the same island, is easterly through- 
out the summer months. Professor 
Piazzi Smyth, who lived for some time 
on the top of that mountain, making 
astronomical observations, has record- 
ed some very interesting details of 
the conflicts between the two currents, 
which he was able to observe accu- 
rately from his elevated position. In 
winter the trade-wind zone is situated 
to the south of its summer position in 
latitude, and at this season the south- 
west wind is felt at the sea-level in 
the Canary islands. Similar facts to 
these have been observed in other 
localities where there are high mount- 
ains situated on the edge of the trade- 
wind zone, as, for instance, Mouna 
Loa, in the Sandwich islands. There 
can, therefore, be no doubt that the 
warm, moist west wind, which is felt 
so generally in the temperate zones, 
is really the air returning to the poles 
from the equator, which has now as- 
sumed a south-west direction on its 
return journey, owing to conditions 
the reverse of those which imparted 
to it a north-east motion on its way 
toward the equator. This, then, is our 
south-west wind, which is so prevalent 
in the North Atlantic ocean that the 

voyage from Europe to America is 
not unfrequently called the up-hill 
trip, in contradistinction to the down- 
hill passage home. These are the 
" brave west winds" of Maury, whose 
refreshing action on the soil he never 
tires of recapitulating. 

The south-west monsoons of Hin- 
dostan, which blow from May to Oc- 
tober, and the north-west monsoons 
of the Java seas, which are felt be- 
tween November and April, owe their 
westerly motion to a cause similar to 
that of the anti-trades which we have 
just described. To take the case of 
the monsoons of Hindostan : we have 
seen above how the rarefaction of the 
air in Central Asia attracts the south- 
east trade-wind of the southern hemi- 
sphere across the equator. This air, 
when it moves from the equator into 
higher latitudes, brings with it the 
rate of motion, to the eastward, of the 
equatorial regions which it has lately 
left, and is felt as a sonth-west wind. 
Accordingly, the directions of the mon- 
soons are thus accounted for. In the 
winter months the true north-east 
trade-wind is felt, in Hindostan ; while 
in the summer months its place is 
taken by the south-east trade of the 
southern hemisphere, making its ap- 
pearance as the south-west monsoon. 
In Java, conditions exactly converse 
to these are in operation, and the 
winds are south-east from April to 
November, and north-west during the 
rest of the year. 

The change of one monsoon to the 
other is always accompanied by rough 
weather, called in some places the 
" breaking out" of the monsoon ; just 
as with us the equinox, or change of 
the season from summer to winter, 
and vice versa, is marked by " windy 
weather," or " equinoctial gales." 

The question may, however, well 
be asked, why there are no monsoons 
in the Atlantic Ocean ? 

In the first place, the amount of 
rarefaction which the air in Africa and 
in Brazil undergoes, in the respective 
hot seasons of those regions, is far less 
considerable than that which is ob- 


served in Asia and Australia at the 
' corresponding seasons. 

Secondly, in the case of the Atlan- 
tic ocean, the two districts toward 
which the air is attracted are situated 
within the torrid zone, while in the In- 
dian ocean they are quite outside the 
tropics, and in the temperate zones. 
Accordingly, even if the suction of the 
air across the equator did take place 
to the same extent in the former case 
as in the latter, the extreme contrast 
in direction between the two monsoons 
would not be perceptible to the same 
extent, owing to the fact that the same 
amount of westing could not be im- 
parted to the wind, because it had not 
to travel into such high latitudes on 
either side of the equator. A ten- 
dency to the production of the phe- 
nomena of the monsoons is observable 
along the coast of Guinea, where 
winds from the south and south-west 
are very generally felt. These winds 
are not really the south-east trade- 
wind, which has been attracted across 

e line to the northern hemisphere, 
ey ought rather to be considered 
of the same nature as the land and 
ea breezes before referred to, since 
find it to be very generally the 
that in warm climates the ordi- 

ary wind-currents undergo a deflection 
a greater or less extent along a 
oast-line such as that of Guinea, 

razil, or north of Australia. 

Our readers may perhaps ask why 
t is, that when we allege that the whole 
f the winds of the globe owe their 

igin to a regular circulation of the air 
roni the Polainregions to the equator, 
back again, we do not find more 
efinite traces of such a circulation in 
he winds of our own latitudes? The 
mswer to this is, that the traces of 

lis circulation are easily discoverable 

we only know how to look for them, 
tn the Mediterranean sea, situated near 

le northern edge of the trade-wind 

le, the contrast between the equa- 

rial and polar currents of air is very 
lecidedly marked. The two conflict- 
ids are known under various 
les in different parts of the dis- 

The Winds. 


trict. The polar current, on its way 
to join the trade-wind, is termed the 
" tramontane," in other parts the 
" bora," the " maestral," etc. ; while the 
return trade-wind, bringing rain, is 
well known under the name of the 
" sirocco." In Switzerland the same 
wind is called the " Fohn," and is a 
warm wind, which causes the ice and 
snow to melt rapidly, and constantly 
brings with it heavy rain. 

In these latitudes the contrast is not 
so very striking, but even here every 
one knows that the only winds which 
last for more than a day or two at a 
time are the north-east and the south- 
west winds, the former of which is 
dry and cold, the latter moist and 
warm. The difference between these 
winds is much more noticeable in win- 
ter than in summer, inasmuch as in 
the latter season Russia and the north- 
ern part of Asia enjoy, relatively to 
the British Islands, a much higher 
temperature than is the case in winter; 
so that the air which moves from those 
regions during the summer months 
does not come to us from a climate 
which is colder than our own, but from 
one which is warmer. 

So far, then, we have attempted to 
trace the ordinary wind-currents, but 
as yet there are very many questions 
connected therewith which are not 
quite sufficiently explained. To men- 
tion one of these, we hear from many 
observers on the late Arctic expedi- 
tions, that the most marked character- 
istic of the winds in the neighborhood 
of Baffin's Bay, is the great predomi- 
nance of north-westerly winds. It is 
not as yet, nor can it ever be satisfac- 
torily, decided how far to the north- 
ward and westward this phenomenon 
is noticeable. The question then is, 
Whence does this north-west wind 

As to the causes of the sudden 
changes of wind, and of storms, they 
are as yet shrouded in mystery, and 
we cannot have much expectation that 
in our lifetime, at least, much will be 
done to unravel the web. Meteorology 
is a very young science if it deserves 


Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 

the title of science at all and until 
observations for a long series of years 
shall have been made at many stations, 
we shall not be in the possession of 
trustworthy facts on which to ground 
our reasoning. It is merely shoving 
the difficulty a step further off to as- 
sign these irregular variations to at- 
mospheric waves. It will be time 

enough to reason accurately about the 
weather and its changes when we as- 
certain what these atmospheric waves 
are, and what causes them. Until 
the " astro-meteorologists" will tell us 
the principles on which their calcula- 
tions are based, we must decline to 
receive their predictions as worthy of 
any credence whatever. 

From The Month. . 


THE life of Eugenie de Gue'rin 
forms a great contrast with those 
which are generally brought before 
the notice of the world. Not only did 
she not seek for fame, but the circum- 
stances of her life were the very 
ones which generally tend to keep a 
woman in obscurity. Her life was 
passed in the deepest retirement of a 
country home. The society even of 
a provincial town was not within her 
reach. Poverty placed a bar between 
her and the means for study in con- 
genial society. The routine of her 
life shut her out from great deeds or 
unusual achievements. In fact, her 
life, so far from being a deviation 
from the ordinary track which women 
have to tread, was a very type of the 
existence which seems to be marked 
out for the majority of women, and at 
which they are so often wont to mur- 
mur. The want of an aim in life, the 
necessity of some fixed, engrossing oc- 
cupation, and the ennui which follows 
on the deprivation of these, forms the 
staple trial of thousands of women, 
especially in England, where tliere is 
much intellectual vigor with so little 
power for its exercise. That the re- 
action from this deprivation is shown 
by " fastness," or an excessive love of 
dress and amusement, is acknowledged 
by the most keen observers of human 

nature. But to the large class of 
women who, disdaining such means 
of distraction, bear their burden pa- 
tiently, Eugenie de Guerin's Journal 
et Lettres possess an intense interest. 
Her life was so uneventful that it ab- 
solutely affords no materials for a biog- 
raphy, but her character is so full of 
interest that her name is now a fa- 
miliar one in England and France. 

Far away in the heart of sunny 
Languedoc stands the chateau of Le 
Cayla, the home of the de Gue'rins. 
They were of noble blood. The old 
chateau was full of reminiscences 
of the deeds of their ancestors. De 
Guerin, Bishop of Senlis and Chan- 
cellor of France, had gone forth, with 
a valor scarcely befitting his episcopal 
character, to animate the troops at 
the battle of Bouvines ; and from the 
walls of Le Cayla looked down from 
his portrait de Guerin, Grand Master 
of the Knights of Malta in 1206. A 
cardinal, a troubadour, and countless 
gallant and noble soldiers filled up the 
family rolls the best blood in France 
had mingled with theirs ; but now the 
family were obscure, forgotten, and 
poor. But these circumstances were 
no hindrances to the happiness of 
Eugenie's early life. 

" My childhood passed away like 
one long summer-day," said she after- 

Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 


ward. Thirteen happy years fled by. 
There was the father, cherished with 
tender, self-forgetting love ; the brother 
Eranbert; the sister Marie, the young- 
est pet of the household ; the beauti- 
ful and precocious Maurice; and the 
mother, the centre of all, loving and 
beloved. But a shadow suddenly fell 
on the sunny landscape, and Mad- 
ame de Guerin lay on her death-bed, 
when, calling to her Eugenie, her eld- 
est child, she gave to her especial 
charge Maurice, then aged seven, and 
his mother's darling. The dying lips 
bade Eugenie fill a mother's place to 
him, and the sensitive and enthusiastic 
girl received the words into her heart, 
and never forgot them. 

From that day her childhood, al- 
most her youth, ended ; and it is with- 
out exaggeration we may say that the 
depth of maternal love passed into 
her heart. Henceforth Maurice was 
the one object and the absorbing 
thought of her heart, second only to 
one other, and that no love of earth. 
Sometimes, indeed, that passionate 
devotion to Maurice disputed the sway 
of the true Master, as we shall here- 
after see, but it was never ultimately 
victorious. It was not likely that 
their lives should for long run side 
by side. The extraordinary brilliancy 
of Maurice's gifts made his father 
determine upon cultivating his mind. 
As soon as possible, he was sent first 
to the petit seminaire at Toulouse, and 
then to the college Stanislaus at Paris. 

Maurice de Guerin was a singular- 
ly endowed being. He possessed that 
kind of personal beauty so very rare 
among men, and which is so hard to 
describe a spiritual beauty, which 
insensibly draws the hearts of others 
to its possessor. Added to this, he 
had that sweetness of tone and man- 
ner, that instinctive power of sym- 
pathy, that sparkling brilliance which 
made him idolized by those who knew 
him, which rendered him literally the 
darling of his friends. "7/ etait leur 
vie? said those who spoke of him after 
he was gone from earth. 

The early and ardent aspirations of 

this gifted being were turned heaven- 
ward. His youthful head was de- 
voutly bowed in prayer. The coun- 
try people called him "lejeune saint;" 
and his conduct at the petit seminaire 
gave such satisfaction that the Arch- 
bishop of Toulouse, and also the Arch- 
bishop of Rouen, offered to take the 
whole charge of his future education 
on themselves ; but his father refused 
both. The temptations of a college 
life had left him scathless, and the 
longing of his soul was for the conse- 
cration of the priesthood. What he 
might have been, had he fallen into 
other hands, cannot now be known. 
Whether there was an inherent weak- 
ness and effeminacy in the character 
which would have unfitted him for the 
awful responsibilities of the priestly 
office, we know not. At all events, 
he was attracted, as many minds of 
undoubted superiority were at that 
time, by the extraordinary brilliancy 
and commanding genius of de Lamen- 
nais; and Maurice de Guerin found 
himself in the solitude of La Chesnaie, 
a fellow-student with Hippolyte La- 
cordaire, Montalembert, Saint-Beuve, 
and a group of others. Here some 
years of his life were spent, divided 
between prayer, study, and brilliant 
conversation, led and sustained by M. 
de Lamennais. Maurice, of a shy 
and diffident disposition, does not seem 
to have attached himself to Lamen- 
nais, although he admired and looked 
up to him, and although the insidious 
portion of his teaching was making 
havoc with his faith. 

And now, it may be asked, what of 
Eugenie ? Dwelling in an obscure 
province, with no other living guide 
than a simple parish cure, with 
a natural enthusiastic reverence for 
genius, and a predilection for all Mau- 
rice's friends, was she not dazzled 
from afar off by this great teacher of 
men's minds, this earnest reformer of 
abuses ? The instinct of the single in 
heart w.as hers. Long ere others had 
discerned the canker eating away the 
fruit so fair to look on, Eugenie, with 
prophetic voice, was warning Maurice. 


Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 

Lacordaire's noble soul was yet en- 
snared. Madam Swetchine's remon- 
strances had not yet prevailed ; while 
this young girl in the country, whose 
name no one knew, was watching and 
praying for the issue of the delibera- 
tions at La Chesnaie. 

At length the break-up came the 
memorable journey to Rome was over. 
Submission had been required, and 
Lacordaire had given it. " Silence is 
the second power in the world," he had 
said to Lamennais ; and he had with- 
drawn with hmi to La Chesnaie for a 
time of retreat, where he was soon 
undeceived as to Lamennais' inten- 
tions. And these two great men 
parted one to reap the fruits of pa- 
tient obedience in the success of one 
of the greatest works wrought in his 
century, to gain a mastery over the 
men of his age, and to die at last worn 
out by labors before his time, the be- 
loved child of the Church, whose bor- 
ders he had enlarged, whose honor he 
had defended ; the other, to follow the 
course of self-will, and to quench his 
light in utter darkness. 

The students of La Chesnaie went 
away, and Maurice was thrown on the 
world with no definite employment. 
An unsuccessful attachment deepened 
the natural melancholy of his sensitive 
nature. He went to Paris, and was 
soon in the midst of the literary world. 
He wrote, and obtained fame ; he was 
admired and sought after ; but the 
beautiful faith of his youth faded away 
like a flower, and the innocent pleas- 
ures of his childhood, and the passion- 
ate love of his sister, had no attractions 
for him compared to the brilliant cir- 
cles of Parisian society. 

And thus was Eugenie's fate marked 
out. From afar off her heart followed 
him; and, partly for his amusement, 
partly to relieve the outpourings of 
her intensely-loving heart, she kept a 
journal, intended for Maurice's eye 
only. A few letters to Maurice and 
one or two intimate friends make up 
the rest of the volume, which was, 
after her death, most fortunately given 
to the world. In these pages her 

character stands revealed, and no long 
description of her mode of life could 
have made us more thoroughly ac- 
quainted with her than these words, 
written sometimes in joy, sometimes 
in sorrow, in weariness and depression, 
in all weathers, and at all times ; for, 
believing that she pleased her brother, 
nothing would prevent her from keep- 
ing her promise of a daily record of 
her life and thoughts. Its chief beauty 
lies in that she made so much out of 
so little. "I have just come away 
very happy from the kitchen, where I 
stood a long time this evening, to per- 
suade Paul, one of our servants, to go 
to confession at Christmas. He has 
promised me, and he is a good boy 
and will keep his word. Thank God, 
my evening is not lost! What a hap- 
piness it would be if I could thus every 
day gain a soul for God ! Walter 
Scott has been neglected this evening; 
but what book could have been worth 
to me what Paul's promise is ? . . . 
The 20th. I am so fond of the snow! 
Its perfect whiteness has something 
celestial about it. To-day I see nothing 
but road-tracks, and the marks of the 
feet of little birds. Lightly as they 
rest, they leave their little traces in a 
thousand forms upon the snow. It is 
so pretty to see their little red feet, as 
if they were all drawn with pencils of 
coral. Winter has its beauties and 
its enjoyments, and we find them every- 
where when we know how to see them. 
God spreads grace and beauty every- 
where. ... I must have another 
dish to-day for S. R., who is come to 
see us. He does not often taste good 
things that is why I wish to treat him 
well ; for it is to the desolate that, it 
seems to me, we should pay attentions. 
No reading to-day. I have made a 
cap for a little child, which has taken 
up all my time. But, provided one 
works, be it with the head or the fin- 
gers, it is all the same in the eyes of 
God, who takes account of every work 
done in his name. I hope, then, that 
my cap has been a charity I have 
given my time, a little material, and a 
thousand interesting lines that I could 

Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 


have read. Papa brought me yester- 
day Ivankoe, and the Siecle de Louis 
XIV. Here are provisions for some 
of our long winter evenings." 

Then she had a keen sense of en- 
joyment, and a wonderful faculty of 
making the best of things. Thus a 
simple pleasure to her was a source of 
delight. Here is her description of 
Christmas night in Languedoc : 

"Dec. 31. I have written nothing 
for a fortnight. Do not ask me why. 
There are times when we cannot speak, 
things of which we can say nothing. 
Christmas is come that beautiful fete 
which I love the most, which brings 
me as much joy as the shepherds of 
Bethlehem. Truly our whole soul 
sings at the coming of the Lord, which 
is announced to us on all sides by 
hymns and by the pretty nadalet.* 
Nothing in Paris can give an idea of 
what Christmas is. You have not 
even midnight mass.| We all went 
to it, papa at our head, on a most 
charming night. There is no sky 
more beautiful than that of midnight : 
it was such that papa kept putting his 
head out of his cloak to look at it. 
The earth was white with frost, but 
we were not cold, and, beside,. the air 
around us was warmed by the lighted 
fagots that our servants carried to 
light us. It was charming, I assure 
you, and I wish I could have seen you 
sliding along with us toward the church 
on the road, bordered with little white 
shrubs, as if they were flowering. The 
frost makes such pretty flowers ! We 
saw one wreath so pretty that we 
wanted to make it a bouquet for the 
Blessed Sacrament, but it melted in our 
hands ; all flowers last so short a time. 
I very much regretted my bouquet ; it 
was so sad to see it melt drop by drop. 
I slept at the presbytery. The cure's 
good sister kept me, and gave me an 
excellent reveillon of hot milk." Then, 
again, the grave part of her nature 
prevails, and she continues : 

* A particular way of ringing the bells during 
the fifteen days which precede the feast of Christ- 
mas, called in patois nodal. 

t Since the period at which Mdlle. de Guerin 
wrote, midnight maos has been resumed in Paris. 

" These are, then, my last thoughts ; 
for I shall write nothing more this year; 
in a few hours it will be over, and we 
shall have begun a new year. Oh, how 
quickly time passes ! Alas, alas, can 
I say that I regret it ? No, my God, 
I do not regret time, or anything that 
it brings ; it is not worth while to throw 
our affections into its stream. But 
empty, useless days, lost for heaven, 
this causes me regret as I look back 
on life. Dearest, where shall I be 
at this day, at this hour, at this min- 
ute, next year ? Will it be here, else- 
where ; here below, or above ? God 
only knows ; I am before the door of 
the future, resigned to all that can 
come forth from it. To-morrow I will 
pray for your happiness, for papa, 
Mimi, Eran [her other brother and sis- 
ter], and all those whom I love. It is 
the day for presents ; I will take mine 
from heaven. I draw all from thence, 
for truly there are few things which 
please me on earth. The longer I live, 
the less it pleases me, and I see the 
years pass by without sorrow, because 
they are but steps to the other world. 
Do not think it is any sorrow or trouble 
which makes me think this. I assure 
you it is not, but a home-sickness 
comes over my soul when I think of 
heaven. The clock strikes ; it is the 
last I shall hear when writing to 

The following is an account of what 
she called " a happy day :" " God be 
blessed for a day without sorrow. 
They are rare in this life, and my soul, 
more than others, is soon troubled. A 
word, a memory, the sound of a voice, 
a sad face, nothing, I know not what, 
often troubles the serenity of my soul 
a little sky, darkened by the small- 
est cloud. This day I received a let- 
ter from Gabriejle, the cousin whom 
I love so for her sweetness and beau- 
tiful mind. I was uneasy about her 
health, which is so delicate, having 
heard nothing of her for more than a 
month. I was so pleased to see a 
letter from her, that I read it before 
my prayers. I was so eager to read it. 
To see a letter, and not to open it, is 


Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 

an impossible thing. Another letter 
was given to me at Cahuzac. It was 
from Lili, another sweet friend, but 
quite withdrawn from the world; a 
pure soul a soul like snow, from its 
purity so white that I am confounded 
when I look at it a soul made for the 
eyes of God. I was coming from 
Cahuzac, very pleased with my letter, 
when I saw a little boy, weeping as if 
his heart were broken. He had broken 
his jug, and thought his father would 
beat him. I saw that with half a franc 
I could make him happy, so I took 
him to a shop, where we got another 
jug. Charles X. could not be happier 
if he regained his crown. Has it not 
been a beautiful day ?" 

Here is another instance of the way 
she had of beautifying the most simple 
incidents : " I must notice, in passing, 
an excellent supper that we have had 
papa, Muni, and I at the corner of 
the kitchen-fire, with the servants : 
soup, some boiled potatoes, and a cake 
that I made yesterday with the dough 
from the bread. Our only servants were 
the dogs Lion, Wolf, and Tritly, who 
licked up the fragments. All our peo- 
ple were in church for the instruction 
which is given for confirmation ;" and, 
she adds, "it was a charming meal." 

The daily devotions of the month 
of Mary were very recently established 
when Eugenie wrote ; she speaks thus 
of them : on one first of May when 
absent from home, she writes: "On 
this day, at this moment, my holy Mi- 
mi (a pet name for her sister) is on 
her knees before the little altar for the 
month of Mary in my room. Dear 
sister, I join myself to her, and find a 
chapel here also. They have given 
me for this purpose a room filled with 
flowers ; in it I have made a church, 
and Marie, with her little girls, serv- 
ants, shepherds, and all the household, 
assemble together every evening be- 
fore the Blessed Virgin. They came 
at first only to look on, for they had 
never kept the month of Mary before. 
Some good will result to them of this 
new devotion, if it is only one idea, a 
single idea, of their Christian duties, 

which these people know so little of, 
and which we can teach them while 
amusing them. These popular devo- 
tions please me so, because they are 
so attractive in their form, and thereby 
offer such an easy method of instruc- 
tion. By their means, salutary truths 
appear most pleasing, and all hearts 
are gained in the name of our Lady 
and of her sweet virtues. I love the 
month of Mary, and the other little 
devotions which the Church permits ; 
which she blesses ; which are born at 
the feet of the Faith like flowers at 
the mountain-foot." 

Speaking of St. Teresa, to whom 
she had a great devotion, she says: 
" I am pleased to remember that, when 
I lost my mother, I went, like St. 
Teresa, to throw myself at the feet 
of the Blessed Virgin, and begged her 
to take me for her daughter." At an- 
other time she says : " To-day, very 
early, I went to Vieux, to visit the 
relics of the saints, and, in particular, 
those of St. Eugenie, my patron. I 
love pilgrimages, remnants of the an- 
cient faith ; but these are not the days 
for them ; in the greater number of 
people the spirit for them is dead. 
However, if M. le Cure" does not have 
this procession to Vieux, there will be 
discontent. Credulity abounds where 
faith disappears. We have, however, 
many good souls, worthy to please the 
saints, like Rose Drouille, who knows 
how to meditate, who has learnt so 
much from the rosary ; then Frangon 
de Gaillard and her daughter Jacquette, 
so recollected in church. This holy 
escort did not accompany me ; I was 
alone with my good angel and Mimi. 
Mass heard, my prayers finished, I left 
with one hope more. I had come to 
ask something from St. Eugene ? The 
saints are our brothers. If you were 
all-powerful, would you not give me 
all that I desired? This is what I 
was thinking of while invoking St. 
Eugene, who is also my patron. We 
have so little in this world, at least let 
us hope in the other." 

Those who are not of the same faith 
as Eugenie de Guerin have not failed 

Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 


to be attracted by the depth and ardor 
of her faith and piety. A writer in 
the Cornhill Magazine observes, " The 
relation to the priest, the practice of 
confession assume, when she speaks of 
them, an aspect which is not that under 
which Exeter Hall knows them." 

" In my leisure time I read a work 
of Leitniz, which delighted me by its 
catholicity and the pious things which 
I found in it like this on confession : 

" t j regard a pious, grave, and pru- 
dent confessor as a great instrument 
of God for the salvation of souls ; for 
his counsels serve to direct our affec- 
tions, to enlighten us about our faults, 
to make us avoid the occasions of sin, 
to dissipate our doubts, to raise up our 
broken spirit ; finally, to cure or to 
mitigate all the maladies of the soul ; 
and, if we can never find on earth any- 
thing more excellent than a faithful 
friend, what happiness is it not to find 
one who is obliged, by the inviolable 
law of a divine sacrament, to keep 
faith with us and to succor souls ?' 

" This celestial friend I have in M. 
Bories, and therefore the news of his 
departure has deeply affected me. I 
am sad with a sadness which makes 
the soul weep. I should not say this 
to any one else ; they would not, per- 
haps, understand me, and would take 
it ill. In the world they know not 
hat a confessor is a man who is a 
d of our soul, our most intimate 
fidant, our physician, our light, our 
her a friend who binds us to 
and is bound to us ; who gives us 
e, who opens heaven to us, who 
,ks to us while we, kneeling, call 
, like God, our father ; and faith 

ly makes him God and father. 

hen I am at his feet, I see nothing 

e in him than Jesus listening to 

,gdalen, and pardoning much be- 
cause she has loved much. Confes- 
sion is but an expansion of repentance 
in love." 

Again she writes : " I have learnt 
that M. Bories is about to leave us 
this good and excellent father of my 
soul. Oh, how I regret him ! What 
a loss it will be to me to lose this good 

guide of my conscience, of my heart, 
my mind, of my whole self, which God 
had confided to him, and which I had 
trusted to him with such perfect free- 
dom ! I am sad with the sadness 
which makes the soul weep. My God, 
in my desert to whom shall I have 
recourse? Who will sustain me in 
my spiritual weakness? who will 
lead me on to great sacrifices ? It is 
in this last, above all, that I regret M. 
Bories. He knew what God had put 
into my heart. I needed his strength 
to follow it. The new cure* cannot 
replace him ; he is so young ; then he 
appears so inexperienced, so unde- 
cided. It is necessary to be firm to 
draw a soul from the midst of the 
world, and to sustain it against the 
assaults of flesh and blood. 

" It is Saturday the day of pilgrim- 
age to Cahuzac. I will go there ; 
perhaps I shall come back more tran- 
quil. God has always given me some 
blessing in that chapel, where I have 
left so many miseries ... I was 
not mistaken in thinking that I should 
come back more tranquil. M. Bories 
is not going ! How happy I am, and 
how thankful to God for this favor. 
It is such a great blessing to me to 
keep this good father, this good guide, 
this choice of God for my soul, as St. 
Francis de Sales expresses it. 

" Confession is such a blessed thing, 
such a happiness for the Christian 
soul ; a great good, and always greater 
in measure when we feel it to be so ; 
and when the heart of the priest, into 
which we pour our sorrow, resembles 
that Divine Heart which has loved us 
so much. This is what attaches me 
to M. Bories ; you will understand it." 

Nevertheless, when the trial of 
parting with this beloved friend did 
come, at length, it was borne with gen- 
tle submission. 

* Our pastor is come to see us. I 
have not said much to you about him. 
He is a simple and good man, know- 
ing his duties well, and speaking bet- 
ter of God than of the world, which he 
knows little of. Therefore, he does 
not shine in conversation. His con- 


Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 

versation is ordinary, and those who 
do not know what the true spirit of a 
priest is would think little of him. He 
does good in the parish, for his gentle- 
ness wins souls. He is our father 
now. I find him young after M. Bor- 
ies. I miss that strong and powerful 
teaching which strengthened me ; but 
it is God who has taken it from me. 
Let us submit and walk like children, 
without looking at the hand which 
leads us." 

Eugenie's life revolved round that 
of Maurice. No length of separation 
could weaken her affection, nor make 
her interest in his pursuits less en- 
grossing. His letters, so few and so 
scanty, were treasured up and dwelt 
upon in many a lonely hour. She 
suffered with him, wept over his dis- 
appointments, and prayed for his re- 
turn to the faith of his youth with all 
the earnestness of her soul. With 
exquisite tact she avoided preaching 
to him. It was rather by showing him 
what religion was to her that she strove 
to lead him back to its practice. 

" Holy Thursday. I have come 
back all fragrant from the chapel of 
moss, in the church where the Blessed 
Sacrament is reposing. It is a beau- 
tiful day when God wills to rest among 
the flowers and perfumes of the spring- 
time. Mimi, Rose, and I made this 
reposoir, aided by M. le Cure. I 
thought, as we were doing it, of the 
supper-room, of that chamber well 
furnished, where Jesus willed to keep 
the pasch with his disciples, giving 
himself for the Lamb. Oh, what a 
gift ! What can one say of the Euch- 
arist? I know nothing to say. We 
adore ; we possess ; we live ; we love. 
The soul is without words, and loses 
itself in a,n abyss of happiness. I 
thought of you among these ecstasies, 
and ardently desired to have you at 
my side, at the holy table, as I liad 
three years ago." 

Mademoiselle de Guerin occasionally 
composed ; her brother was very anx- 
ious she should publish her productions, 
but she shrank from the responsibility. 
" St. Jean de Damas," she remarks, 

" was forbidden to write to any one, 
and for having composed some verses 
for a friend he was expelled from the 
convent. That seemed to me very 
severe ; but one sees the wisdom of it, 
when, after supplication and much 
humility, the saint had been forgiven, 
he was ordered to write and to employ 
his talents in conquering the enemies 
of Jesus Christ. He was found strong 
enough to enter the lists when he had 
been stripped of pride. He wrote 
against the iconoclasts. Oh, if many 
illustrious writers had begun by a les- 
son of humility, they would not have 
made so many errors nor so many 
books. Pride has blinded them, and 
thus see the fruits which they produce, 
into how many errors they lead the 
erring. But this chapter on the science 
of evil is too wide for me. I should 
prefer saying that I have sewn a sheet. 
A sheet leads me to reflect, it will 
cover so many people, so many differ- 
ent slumbers perhaps that of the 
tomb. Who knows if it will not be 
my shroud, and if these stitches which 
I make will not be unpicked by the 
worms? While I was sewing, papa 
told me that he had sent, without my 
knowledge, some of my verses to 
Bayssac, and I have seen the letter 
where M. de Bagne speaks of them 
and says they are very good. A little 
vanity came to me and fell into my 
sewing. Now I tell myself the thought 
of death is good to keep us from sin. 
It moderates joy, tempers sadness, 
makes us see that all which passes by 
us is transitory." 

Again she writes : " Dear one, I 
would that I could see you pray like 
a good child of God. What would it 
cost you ? Your soul is naturally lov- 
ing, and prayer is nothing else but 
love ; a love which spreads itself out 
into the soul as the water flows from 

the fountain." 


" Ash- Wednesday. Here I am, with 
ashes on my forehead and serious 
thoughts in my mind. This ' Remem- 
ber thou art dust !' is terrible to me. 
I hear it all day long. I cannot ban- 

Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 


ish the thought of death, particularly 
in your room, where I no longer find 
you, where I saw you so ill, where I 
have sad memories both of your pres- 
ence and your absence. One thing 
only is bright the little medal of Our 
Lady, suspended over the head of your 
bed. It is still untarnished and in the 
same place where I put it to be your 
safeguard. I wish you knew, dearest, 
the pleasure I have in seeing it the 
remembrances, the hopes, the secret 
thoughts that are connected with that 
holy image. I shall guard it as a 
relic ; ana, if ever you return to sleep 
in that little bed, you shall sleep again 
near the medal of the Blessgd Virgm. 
Take from, me this confidence and 
love, not to a bit of metal, but -to tfce 
image of the Mother of God. I 
should like to know, if in your neT% 
room I should see St. Teresa, wrho 
used to hang in your other room near 
the lenitier: 

pu toi, necessitous 
Befaillant, tu prenais 1'aumone dans ce creui.' 

You will no longer, I fear, seek alms 
there. Where will you seek them? 
Who can tell ? Is the world in which 
you live rich enough for all your neces- 
sities ? Maurice, if I could but make 
you understand one of these thoughts, 
breathe into you what I believe, and 
what I learn in pious books those 
beautiful reflections of the Gospel if 
I could see you a Christian, I would 

give life and all for that." 


Maurice's absence was the great 
trial of Eugenie's life ; but there were 
minor trials also, concerning the lit'tle 
things that make up the sum of our 
happiness. She suffered intensely and 
constantly from ennui. Her active, 
enterprising mind had not sufficient 
food to sustain it, and bravely did she 
fight against this constant depression 
and weariness. 

A duller life than hers could hardly 
be found ; she had literally " nothing 
to do." She had no society, for she 
lived at a distance from her friends. 
Sometimes the cur^ called, sometimes 

a priest from a neighboring parish, and 
then the monotonous days went on 
without a single incident. There was 
no outward sign of the struggle going 
on. Speaking of her father, she says : 
" A grave look makes him think there 
is some trouble, so I conceal the pass- 
ing clouds from him ; it is but right 
that he should only see and know my 
calm and serene side. A daughter 
should be gentle to her father. We 
ought to be to them something like 
the angels are to God." 

Nor would she distract her thoughts 
by any means which might injure her 
soul. " I have scarcely read the author 
whose work you sent, though I admired 
him as I do M. Hugo ; but these 
geniuses have blemishes wmjKh wound 
a woman's eye. I detest to meet with 
wlllPt I dfc not wish to see ; and this 
makes me close so many books. I 
have had Notre Dame de Paris under 
my hands a hundred times to-day ; and 
the style, Esmeralda, and so many 
pretty things in it, tempt me, and say 
to me, 'Read look.' I looked; I 
turned it over ; but the stains here and 
there stopped me. I read no more, 
and contented myself with looking at 
the pictures." At another time, when 
she is staying at a " deserted house," 
rather duller than her own, she writes : 
" The devil tempted me just now in a 
little room, where I found a number of 
romances. ' Read a word,' he said to 
me ; ' let us see that ; look at this ;' 
but the titles of the books displeased 
me. I am no longer tempted now, 
and will go only to change the books 
in this room, or rather to throw them 
into the fire." 

There was one sovereign remedy 
for lier ills, and she sought for it with 
fidelity, and reaped her reward. 

" This morning I was suffering. 
Well, at present, I am calm ; and this 
I owe to faith, simply to faith, to an 
act of faith. I can think of death and 
eternity without trouble, without alarm. 
Over a deep of sorrow there floats a 
divine calm, a serenity, which is the 
work of God only. In vain have I 
tried other things at a time like this ; 


Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 

nothing human comforts the soul, noth- 
ing human upholds it. 

' A 1'enfant il faut sa mere, 
A mon ame il faut mon Dieu.' " 

At another time of suffering she 
writes : " God only can console us 
when the heart is sorrowful: human 
helps are not enough ; they sink be- 
neath it, it is so weighed down by sor- 
row. The reed must have more than 

other reeds to lean on." 


"To distract my thoughts, I have 
been turning over Lamartine, the dear 
poet I love his hymn to the nighfct 
ingale, and many other of his ' Har* 
monies i but they are far from having 
the effec\on me that his ' Meditations' 
used tfr have. I was ravished and in 
ecstacy with them. I was flut sixl^n, 
and time changes many things. The 
great poet no longer makes my heart 
vibrate ; to-day he has not even power 
to distract my thoughts. I must try 
something else, for I must not cherish 
ennui, which injures the soul. What 
can I do ? It is not good for me to 
write, to communicate trouble to others. 
I will leave pen and ink. I know 
something better, for I have tried it a 
hundred times ; it is prayer prayer 
which calms me when I say to my 
soul before God, ' Why art thou sad, 
and wherefore art thou troubled ?' I 
know not what he does in answering 
me, but it quiets me just like a 
weeping child when it sees its mother. 
The Divine compassion and tenderness 

is truly maternal toward us." 


And, further on: "Now I have 
something better to do than write : I 
will go and pray. Oh, how I love 
prayer! I would that all the world 
knew how to pray. I would that chil- 
dren, and the old, and the poor, the 
afflicted, the sick in soul and body 
all who live and suffer could know 
the balm that prayer is. But I know 
not how to speak of these things. We 
cannot tell what is ineffable." 

She had said once, as we have seen, 
that she would give life and all to see 

Maurice once more serving God. She 
had written to him thus, not carelessly 
indeed, but as we are too wont to write 
not counting the cost, because we 
know not what the cost is. She wrote 
thus, and God took her at her word, 
and he asked from her not life, as she 
then meant it, but her life's life. First 
came the trial of a temporary estrange- 
ment. Her journal suddenly stops; 
she believed it wearied him, and, with- 
out a word of reproach, she silenced 
her eager pen. Maurice, however, 
declared she was mistaken, and she 
joyfully resumed her task with words 

which would evidence, if nothing else 
^gre left, us, the intense depth of her 
love for her brother. " Vas in the 
\-ong. So much the better; for I 
had feared it had been your fault." 
Then Maurice's health, which had al- 
wa*^s been delicate, began to fail, and 
her heart was tortured at the thought 
of him suffering, away from her loving 
care, unable to send her news of him. 

" I have, been reading the epistle 
about the child raised to life by Elias. 
Oh, if I knew some prophet, some 
one who would give back life and 
health, I would go, like the Shunamite, 
and throw myself at his feet." 

And again, most touchingly, she 
says: "A letter from Felicite, which 
tells me nothing better about you. 
When will those who know more 
write ? If they knew how a woman's 
heart beats, they would have more 

Maurice recovered from these at- 
tacks, and in the autumn of 1836 mar- 
ried a young and pretty Creole lady. 
He had not the violent attachment as 
to the "Louise" of his early youth; 
but the union seemed a suitable one 
on both sides. One of Eugenie's brief 
visits to Paris was made for the pur- 
pose of being present at her brother's 
marriage. It was a romantic scene. 
It took place in the chapel of the old 
and quaint Abbaye aux Bois. The 
church was filled with brilliant and ad- 
miring friends. The bride and bride- 
groom, both so beautiful, knelt before 
the altar; the Pere Bugnet, who had 

Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 


known Maurice as a boy, blessed the 
union. The gay procession passed 
from the church, and met a funeral 
cortege ! It fell like an omen on 
Eugenie's heart. Six short months 
went by, and Eugenie was again sum- 
moned to Paris, to Maurice's sick-bed 
his dying-bed it indeed was, but his 
sister's passionate love would not re- 
linquish hope. The physicians, catch- 
ing at a straw, prescribed native air, 
and the invalid caught at the proposal 
with feverish impatience. That eager 
longing sustained him through the 
long and terrible journey of twenty 
days ; for, the moment he revived, he 
would be laid in the salon, and see 
the home-faces gathered round him. 
Then he was carried to his room, and 
soon the end came. At last Euge'nie 
knew that he must go, and all the pow- 
ers of her soul were gathered into that 
one prayer, that he might die at peace 
with God. Calmly she bent over him, 
and kissed the forehead, damp with 
the dews of death. 

" Dearest, M. le Cure* is coming, 
and you will confess. You have no 
difficulty in speaking to M. le Cure ?" 
" Not at all," he answered. " You will 
prepare for confession, then?" He 
asked for his prayer-book, and had 
the prayers read to him. 

When the priest came, he asked for 
more time to prepare. At last the 
cure was summoned. 

" Never have I heard a confession 
better made," said the priest after- 
ward. As he was leaving the room, 
Maurice called him back, and made 
a solemn retraction of the doctrines of 
M. de Lamennais. Then came the 
Viaticum and the last anointing. 
Life ebbed away; he pressed th 
hand of the cure*, who was by him to 
the last, he kissed his crucifix, and 
died. Eugenie's prayer was heard. 
He died, but at home ; a wanderer 
come back ; an erring child, once more 
forgiven, resting on his Father's breast. 

And he was gone ! " king of my 
heart ! my other self!" as she had 
called him and Euge'nie was left 
behind. She had loved him too well 

for her eternal peace, and it was 
necessary that she should be purified v 
in the crucible of suffering. Very 
gradually she parted from him; the 
gates of the tomb closed not on her 
love ; slowly she uprooted the fibres 
of her nature which had been entwined 
in his. Her journal did not end, and 
she wrote still to him to Maurice in 
heaven : " Oh, my beloved Maurice ! 
Maurice, art thou far from me ? hear- 
est thou me ? Sometimes I shed tor- 
rents of tears ; then the soul is dried 
up. All my life Avill be a mourning 
one ; my heart is desolate." Then, 
reproaching herself, she turns to her 
only consolation : " Do I not love thee, 
my God ? only true and Eternal Love ! 
It seems to me that I love thee as the 
fearful Peter, but not like John, who 
rested on thy heart divine repose 
which I so need. What do I seek in 
creatures ? To make a pillow of a hu- 
man breast ? Alas ! I have seen how 
death can take that from us. Better 

to lean, Jesus, on thy crown of thorns. 


" Tin's day year, we went together 
to St. Sulpice, to the one o'clock mass. 
To-day I have been to Lentin in the 
rain, with bitter memories, in solitude. 
But, my soul, calm thyself with thy 
God, whom thou hast received to-day, 
in that little church. He is thy 
brother, thy friend, the well-beloved 
above all ; whom thou canst never see 
die ; who can never fail thee, in this 
world or the next. Let us console 
ourselves with this thought, that in 
God we shall find again all we have 

One great desire was, however, left 
to her; that of publishing the letters 
and writings of Maurice, and of whi- 
ning for her beloved one the fame 
which she so despised for herself. A 
tribute to his memory appeared the 
year after his death, in the Revue des 
deux Mondes, from the brilliant pen of 
Madame Sand ; but it was the source 
of more pain than pleasure to Eugenie. 
With the want of candor which is so 
often a characteristic of the class of 
writers to whom Madame Sand be- 


Eugenie and Maurice de Guerin. 

longs, she represented Maurice as a 
man totally without faith. Eugenie 
believed that he had never actually 
lost it, although it had been darkened 
and obscured ; and she was certainly 
far more in his confidence than any of 
his friends. 

For some time before his death he 
had gradually been returning to relig- 
ious exercises; and, as we have seen, 
on his death-bed , he had most fully 
retracted and repented of whatever 
errors there had been in his life. But 
Madame Sand was not very likely to 
trouble herself about the dying mo- 
ments of her friend, while it was an- 
other triumph to infidelity to let the 
world think this brilliant young man 
lived and died in its ranks. 

"Madame Sand makes Maurice a 
skeptic, a great poet, like Byron, and 
it afflicts me to see the name of my 
brother a name which was free from 
these lamentable errors 4;hus falsely 
represented to the world." And again : 
" Oh, Madame Sand is right when she 
says that his words are like the dia- 
monds linked "together, which make a 
diadem; or, rather, my Maurice was 
all one diamond. Blessed be those who 
estimated his price; blessed be the 
voice which praises him, which places 
him so high, with so much respect and 
enthusiasm ! But on one point this 
voice is mistaken when she says he 
had no faith. No; faith was not 
wanting in him. I proclaim it, and 
attest it by what I have seen and 
heard ; by his prayers, his pious read- 
ing ; by the sacraments he received ; 
by all his Christian actions; by the 
death which opened life unto him a 
death with his crucifix." 

This article of Madame Sand only 
increased Eugenie's desire to vindicate 
her brother, by letting the world judge 
from his own writings and letters what 
Maurice really was. Many projects 
were set on foot for publishing this 
work. Rather than leave it undone, 
Eugenie would have undertaken it her- 
self, though her broken spirit shrank 
more than ever from any sort of noto- 
riety, or communication with the busy 

world outside her quiet home. But 
she would greatly have preferred the 
task should be accomplished by one of 
his friends ; and much of her corre- 
spondence was devoted to the purpose. 
Time passed, and plan after plan fell 
to the ground. This last satisfaction 
was not to be hers. She was to see, as 
she thought, the name of her beloved 
one gradually fading away, and for- 
gotten as years went on. To the very 
last drop she was to drain the cup of 
disappointment and loss. Her journal 
ceased, and its last sentence was, " Tru- 
ly did the saint speak who said, ' Let 
us throw our hearts into eternity.' " 

There are a few fragments and let- 
ters, which carry us on some years 
later ; and in one of the last of these 
letters, dated 15th of June, 1845, we 
find these consoling words : " I have 
suffered ; but God teaches us thus, 
and leads us to willingly place our 
hearts above. You are again in mourn- 
ing, and I have felt your loss deeply. 
I mean the death of your poor brother. 
Alas! what is life but a continual 
separation? But you will meet in 
heaven, and there will be no more 
mourning nor tears ; and there the 
society of saints will reward us for 
what we have suffered in the society 
of men. And, while waiting, there is 
nothing else to do than to humble one's 
self, as the Apostle says, 'under the 
mighty hand of God, that he may 
exalt you in the time of visitation ; 
casting all your care upon him, for 
he hath care of you.' " 

These are almost her closing words ; 
and thus we see God comforted her. 
Three years more passed, of which 
we have no record ; and we cannot 
fcut deeply regret the determination of 
M. Trebutien not to give any account 
of her beyond her own words. As 
long as they lasted, they are indeed 
sufficient ; but we would have fain fol- 
lowed her into the silence of those last 
years, and have seen the soul grad- 
ually passing to its rest. We would 
have liked to know if the friends she 
loved soothed her dying hours 
whether M. Bories, with his "strong 

The Building of Moume. 


and powerful words," was by her side 
in her last earthly struggle. But a 
veil falls over it all. We feel assured, 
as we close the volume, that whatever 
human means were wanting, the God 
she had faithfully served consoled his 
child to the last, and sustained her 
mortal weakness till she reposed in 
him. After her death, her heart's 
wish was fulfilled, and abundant honor 
has been rendered to Maurice de 
Gue'rin. Nay, more ; for homage is 
ever given to the majesty of unselfish 

love ; and from henceforth, if Maurice 
the poet shall be forgotten, Maurice 
the brother of Eugenie will never be. 
She has embalmed his memory with 
her deep and fond devotion ; and she 
has left 'a living record of how, in the 
midst of a wearisome, an objectless, a 
monotonous life, a woman may find 
work to do, and doing it, like Eugenie, 
with all her might, leave behind her a 
track of light by which others may fol- 
low after her, encouraged and con- 
soled. F. 




ROME, according to the old aphor- 
ism, was not built in a day. Neither 
was the old town of Mourne, although 
it was destroyed in a day, and made 
fit almost for the sowing of salt upon 
its foundations, by the great Lord of 
Thomond, Murrough of the Ferns, when 
he gathered around it his rakehelly 
kerns, as Spenser in his spleen called 
them, and his fierce galloglasses and 
roving hobbelers. But the present 
story has naught to do with the spo- 
liation and burning of towns. Far 
different, indeed, was the founding of 
Mourne, to the story of the disastrous 
termination of its prosperity. You will 
look in vain to the histories for a suc- 
cinct or circumstantial account of the 
building of this ancient town ; but 
many a more famous city has its early 
annals involved in equal obscurity 
Rome, for instance. What tangible 
fact can be laid hold of with regard to 
its early history, save the will-o'-the- 
wisp light emanating from the tradi- 
tions of a more modern day ? A cim- 
merian cloud of darkness overhangs 
its founding and youthful progress, 
through which the double-distilled mi- 


croscopic eyes of the historian are 
unable to penetrate with any degree of 
certainty. Mourne, however, though 
it cannot boast of a long-written his- 
tory, possesses an oral one of remark- 
able perspicuity and certainty. The 
men are on the spot who, with a mathe- 
matical precision worthy of Archi- 
medes or Newton, will relate every- 
thing about it, from its foundation to 
its fall. The only darkness cast upon 
their most circumstantial history is the 
elysian cloud from their luxuriant 
dudheens, as they whiff away occasion- 
ally, and relate 

That there was long ago a certain 
Dhonal, a nobleman of the warlike race 
of Mac Caurha, who ruled over Duhal- 
low, and the wild mountainous terri- 
tories extending downward along the 
banks of the Blackwater. This noble- 
man, after a long rule of prosperity 
and peace, at length grew weary of 
inaction, and manufactured in his pug- 
nacious brain some cause of mortal 
affront and complaint aginst a neigh- 
boring potentate, whose territory ex- 
tended in a westerly direction on the 
opposite shore of the river. So he 


The Building of Mourne. 

mustered his vassals with all imagin- 
able speed, and prepared to set out for 
the domains of his foe on a foray of 
unusual ferocity and magnitude. 
Before departing from his castle, 
which stood some miles above Mallow, 
on the banks of the river, he held a 
long and confidential parley with his 
wife, in which he told her, if he were 
defeated or slain, and if the foe should 
cross the Blackwater to make repris- 
als, that she should hold out the fort- 
ress while one stone would stand upon 
another, and especially that she should 
guard their three young sons well, 
whom, he doubted not, whatever 
might happen, would one day gain 
prosperity and renown. After this, 
he set out on his expedition, at the 
head of a formidable array of turbu- 
lent kerns and marauding horsemen. 
But his neighbor was not a man to be 
caught sleeping ; for, at the crossing of a 
ford near Kanturk, he attacked Dhonal, 
slew him in single combat, and put 
his followers to the sword, almost to a 
man. After this he crossed the Black- 
water, laid waste the territories of the 
invader, and at length besieged the 
castle, where the widowed lady and 
her three sons had taken refuge. For 
a long time she held her own bravely 
against her enemy ; but in the end the 
castle was taken by assault, and she 
and her three young sons narrowly es- 
caped with their lives out into the wild 
recesses of the forest. 

After wandering about for some 
time, the poor lady built a little hut of 
brambles on the shore of the Clydagh, 
near the spot where stand the ruins of 
the preceptory of Mourne, or Ballina- 
mona, as it is sometimes called. Here 
she dwelt with her children for a long 
time, in want and misery. Her sons 
, grew up without receiving any of 
those accomplishments befitting their 
birth, and gained their subsistence, like 
the children of the common people 
around, by tilling a little plot of land 
before their hut, and by the products of 
the chase in the surrounding forest. 
One day, as Diarmid, the eldest, with 
his bow and arrows ready for the chase, 

was crossing a narrow valley, he met 
a kern, one of the followers of the 
great lord who had slain his father. 
Now, neither Diarmid nor his brothers 
recollected who had killed their father, 
nor the high estate from which they 
had fallen, for their mother kept them 
carefully in ignorance of all, fearing 
that they might become known, and 
that their enemies would kill them 
also. So the kern and himself wended 
their way for some time together 
along the side of the valley. At 
length they started a deer from its bed 
in the green ferns. Each shot his 
arrow at the same moment, and each 
struck the deer, which ran downward 
for a short space, and at last fell dead 
beside the little stream in the bottom of 
the valley. 

" The deer is mine !" said the 
strange kern, as they stood over its 

"No!" answered Diarmid, "it is 
not. See ! your arrow is only stickin' 
in the skin of his neck, an' mine is af- 
ther rattlin' into his heart, through an' 
through !" 

" No matther," exclaimed the kern, 
with a menacing look. " I don't care 
how he kem by his death, but the 
deer I must have, body an' bones, 
whatever comes of it ! Do you think 
sich a sprissawn as you could keep me 
from it, an' I wantin* its darlin' car- 
kiss for the table o' my lord, the Mac 

Now Diarmid recollected that his 
mother and brothers were at the same 
time almost dying in their little hut for 
want of food. So without further 
parley he drew his long skian from its 

" Very well," said he, " take it, if 
you're a man ; but before it goes, my 
carkiss must lie stiff an' bloody in its 
place !" 

The kern drew his skian at the 
word, and there, over the body of the 
fallen deer, ensued a combat stern and 
fierce, which at last resulted in Diar- 
mid's plunging his skian through and 
through the body of his foe into the 
gritty sand beneath them. 

The Building of Mourne. 


Diarmid then took the spear and 
other weapons of the dead kern, put 
the deer upon his broad shoulders, and 
marching off in triumph, soon gained 
his mother's little hut. There, after 
eating a comfortable meal, and telling 
his adventure, Diarmid began to lay 
down his future plans. 

" Mother," he said, " the time is 
come at last when this little cabin is too 
small for me. I'm a man now, an' 
able to meet a man, body to body, as 
I met him to-day ; so I'll brighten up 
my weapons, an' set off on my adven- 
tures, that I may gain renown in the 
wars. Donogh here, too, has the 
four bones of a man," continued he, 
turning to his second brother; " so let 
him prepare, an' we'll thramp off to- 
gether as soon as we can, an' perhaps 
afther all we'd have a castle of our 
own, where you could reign in glory, 
as big an' grand as Queen Cleena o' 
the Crag !" 

" Well, then," answered his mother, 
" if you must go, before you leave me, 
you and your brothers must hunt in 
the forest for a month, and bring in as 
much food as will do me and Rory 
here for a year and a day." 

" But," said Rory, the youngest, or 
Roreen Shouragh, or the Lively, as he 
was called, inconsequence of the 'cute 
and merry temperament of his mind 
" but, Diarmid, you know I am now 
beyant fifteen years of age, an' so, if 
you go, I'll folly you to the worldt's 

" You presumptious little atomy of 
a barebones," answered his eldest 
brother, " if I only see the size of a 
thrush's ankle of you follyin' us on 
the road, I'll turn back an' bate that 
wiry an' freckled little carkiss o' yours 
into frog's jelly ! So stay at home in 
pace an' quietness, an' perhaps when 
I come back I might give you a good 
purse o' goold to begin your forthin 

" That for your mane an' ludiacrous 
purse o' goold!" exclaimed Roreen 
Shouragh, at the same time snapping 
his fingers in the face of his brother. 
"Arrah! do you hear him, mother? 

But never mind. Let us be off into 
the forest to-morrow, an' we'll see 
who'll bring home the most food before 
night !" 

" Well," said his mother, whether 
he stays at home or goes away, I fear 
he'll come to some bad end with that 
sharp tongue of his, and his wild 

" With all jonteel respect, mother," 
answered Shouragh again, " I mane to 
do no such thing. I think myself as 
good a hairo this minnit because I 
have the sowl an' heart o' one as 
King Dathi, who was killed in some 
furrin place that I don't recklect the 
jography of, or as Con o' the Hun- 
dhert Battles, or as the best man 
amongst them, Fion himself an' I'll 
do as great actions as any o' them yet !" 

This grandiloquent boast of Roreen 
Shouragh's set his mother and broth- 
ers into a fit of laughter, from which 
they only recovered when it was time to 
retire to rest. In the morning the three 
brothers betook themselves to the for- 
est, and at the fall of night returned with 
a great spoil of game. From morning 
till night they hunted thus every day for 
a month, at the end of which time 
Diarmid said that they had as much 
food stored in as would last his mother 
and Rory for a year and a day. 

On a hot summer noon the two 
brothers left the little hut, with their 
mother's blessing on their heads, and 
set off on their adventures. After 
crossing a few valleys, they came at 
length to the shore of the Blackwater. 
and sat down in the shade of a huge 
oak-tree on the bank to rest them- 
selves. Beneath them, in a clear, 
shady pool, a huge pike, with his vora- 
cious jaws ready for a plunge, was 
watching a merry little speckled trout, 
which in its turn was regarding with 
most affectionate eyes a bright blue fly, 
that was disporting overhead on the 
surface of the water. Suddenly the 
trout darted upward into the air, 
catching the ill-starred fly, but, in its 
return to the element beneath, unfor- 
tunately plumped itself into the 
Charybdis-like jaws of the villanous 


The Building of Mourne. 

pike, and was from that in one 
moment quietly deposited in his stom- 

" Look at that !" said Diarmid to his 
brother. " That's the way with a man 
that works an* watches everything 
with a keen eye. He'll have all in the 
end, just as the pike has both fly and 
throut an' just as I have both fly, an' 
throut, an' pike !" continued he, giv- 
ing his spear a quick dart into the 
deep pool, and then landing the luck- 
less pike, transfixed through and 
through, upon the green bank. 
" That's the way to manage, and the 
divvle a betther sign o' good luck we 
could have in the beginning of our 
journey, than to get a good male so 
aisy !" 

" Hooray !" exclaimed a voice be- 
hind them. " That's the way to man- 
age most galliantly. "What a nate din- 
ner the thurminjous monsther will 
make for the three of us !" and on 
turning round, the two brothers beheld 
Roreen Shouragh, accoutred like them- 
selves, and dancing with most exube- 
rant delight at the feat beside them on 
the grass. 

" An' so you have follied us afther 
all my warnin', you outragious little 
vagabone !" exclaimed Diarmid, mak- 
ing a wrathful dart at Roreen, who, 
however, eluding the grasp, ran and 
doubled hither and thither with the 
swiftness of a hare, around the trunks 
of the huge oak-trees on the shore. In 
vain Diarmid tried every ruse of the 
chase to catch him. Roreen Shouragh 
could not be captured. At length the 
elder brother, wearied out, returned to 
Donogh, who, during the chase, was 
tumbling about on the grass in convul- 
sions of laughter. 

"'Tis no use, Donogh," he said, 
" we must only let him come with us. 
He'll never go back. Come here, you 
aggravatin' young robber," continued 
he, calling out to Roreen, who was still 
dancing in defiance beneath a tree, 
some distance off "come here, an' 
you'll get your dinner, an' may folly us 
if you wish." 

Roreen knew that he might depend 

on the word of his brother. " I 
towld ye both," said he, coming up to 
the spot, "that I'd folly ye to the 
worldt's end ; so let us have pace, an' I 
may do ye some service yet. But may I 
supplicate to know where ye're pream- 
blin' to at present ; for if ye sit down that 
way in every umberagious coolin' spot, 
as the song says, the divvle a much 
ye'll have for yeer pains in the ind ?" 

" I'll tell you then," answered Don- 
ogh, now recovered from his fit of 
laughing. " We're goin' off to Corrig 
Cleena, to see the Queen o' the Fairies, 
an' to ask her advice what to do so as 
to win wealth an' renown." 

" 'Tis aisier said than done," said 
Roreen, "to see Queen Cleena. But 
howsomdever, when we're afther de- 
vourin' this vouracious thief of a pike 
here, we'll peg off to the Corrig as 
swift as our gambadin'-sticks will carry 

After the meal the three brothers 
swam across the river, and proceeded 
on their way through the forest toward 
Corrig Cleena. On gaining the sum- 
mit of a little height, a long, straight 
road extended before them. 

On and on the straight road they 
went, till, turning up a narrow path in 
the forest, they beheld the great grey 
boulders of Corrig Cleena towering 
before them. They searched round its 
base several times for an entrance, but 
could find none. At length, as they 
were turning away in despair, they 
saw an extremely small, withered old 
atomy of a woman, clad all in sky blue, 
and sitting beside a clump of fairy 
thimbles, or foxgloves, that grew on a 
little knoll in front .of the rock. They 
went up and accosted her : 

" Could you tell us, ould woman," 
asked Diarmid, ' < how we can enter 
the Corrig ? We want to speak to the 

"Ould woman, inagh!" answered 
the little atomy in a towering passion. 
" How daar you call me an ould woman, 
you vagabone? Offwid you thramp, 
I say, for if you sted there till your 
legs would root in the ground, you'd 
get no information from me !" 

The Building of Mourne. 


" Be aisy, mother," said Donogh, 
in a soothing voice ; " sure, if you can 
tell us, you may as well serve us so 
far, an' we'll throuble you no more." 

"Ould woman an' mother, both!" 
screamed the little hag, starting up 
and shaking her crutch at the brothers ; 
" this is worse than all. You dirty an' 
insultin' spalpeens, how daar ye again, 
I say call me sich names ? What for 
should I be decoratin' my fingers wid 
the red blossoms o' the Lusmore, if I 
was as ould as you say ? Be off out 
o' this, or be this an' be that, I ruinate 
ye both wid a whack o' this wand o' 
mine !" 

" Young leedy," said Roreen Shou- 
ragh, stepping up cap in hand at this 
juncture, and making the old hag an 
elaborately polite bow "young, an' 
innocent, an' delightful creethur, p'r'aps 
you'd have the kindness to exercise 
that lily-white hand o' yours in pointin' 
out the way for us into Queen Cleena's 
palace !" 

"Yes, young man," answered the 
crone, greatly mollified at the hand- 
some address of Roreen. " For your 
sake, I'll point out the way. You at 
laste know the respect that should be 
paid to youth an' beauty !" 

" Allow me, my sweet young dar- 
lint," said Roreen at this, as he step- 
ped up and offered her his arm " al- 
low me to have the shuprame pleasure 
of'conductin' you. I'm sure I must 
have the honor an' glory of ladin' on 
my arm one of the queen's maids of 
honor. May those enticin' cheeks o' 
yours for ever keep the bloomin' an* 
ravishin' blush they have at the pres- 
ent minnit, an' may those riglar ivory 
teeth o' yours, that are as white as the 
dhriven snow, never make their con- 
jay from your purty an' delightful 
mouth !" 

The "delightful young creethur" 
allowed herself, with many a gratified 
smirk, to be conducted downward by 
the gallant Roreen toward the rock, 
where, striking the naked wall with 
her crutch, or wand as she was 
pleased to call it, a door appeared 
before them, and the three brothers 

were immediately conducted into the 
presence of the fairy queen. 

It would be long, but pleasant, to 
tell the gallant compliments paid by 
Roreen to the queen, and the queen's 
polite and gracious acceptance of them ; 
merry to relate the covert laughter of 
the lovely maids of honor, as Roreen 
occasionally showered down praises 
on the head of the " young leedy" who 
so readily gained him admittance to 
the palace, and who was no other than 
the vain old nurse of the queen ; but, 
despite all such frivolities, this history 
must have its course. At length the 
queen gave them a gentle hint that 
their audience had lasted the proper 
time, and as they were departing she 
cast her bright but love-lorn eyes upon 
them with a kindly look. 

" Young man," she said, " you ask 
my advice how to act so as to gain 
wealth and renown. I could give 
you wealth, but will not, for wealth 
thus acquired rarely benefits the pos- 
sessor. But I will give you the advice 
you seek. Always keep your senses 
sharp and bright, and your bodies 
strong by manly exercise. Look 
sharply round you, and avail your- 
selves honorably of every opportunity 
that presents itself. Be brave, and 
defend your rights justly ; but, above 
all, let your hearts be full of honor 
and kindness, and show that kindness 
ever in aiding the poor, the needy, and 
the defenceless. Do all this, and I 
doubt not but you will yet come to 
wealth, happiness, and renown. Fare- 
well !" 

And in a moment, they knew not how, 
they found themselves sitting in the 
front of the Rock of Cleena, upon the lit- 
tle knoll where Roreen had so flatter- 
ingly accosted the "young leedy." 
Away they went again down to the 
shore, swam back across the river, and 
wandered away over hill and dale, till 
they ascended Sliabh Luchra, and lost 
themselves in the depths of the great 
forest that clothed its broad back. 
Here they sat down in a green glade, 
and began to consider what they should 
further do with themselves. At length 


The Building of Mourne. 

they agreed to build a little hut, and 
remain there for a few days, in order 
to look about the country. No sooner 
said than done. 

To work they went, finished their hut 
beneath a spreading tree, and were soon 
regaling themselves on a young fawn 
they had killed as they descended the 
mountain. Next day they went out 
into the forest, killed a deer, brought 
him back to the hut, in order to pre- 
pare part of him for their dinner. 
Diarmid undertook the cooking for 
the first day, while his two younger 
brothers went out along the back of 
the mountain to kill more game. With 
the aid of a small pot, which they had 
borrowed from a forester at the north- 
ern part of the mountain, and a ladle 
that accompanied it, Diarmid began 
to cook the dinner, stirring the pieces 
of venison round and round over the 
fire, in order to have some broth ready 
at the return of his brothers. As he 
was stirring and tasting alternately 
with great industry, he heard a light 
footstep behind him, and on looking 
round, beheld sitting on one of the 
large mossy stones they used for a 
seat a little crabbed-looking boy, with 
a red head almost the color of scarlet, 
a red jacket, and tight-fitting trowsers 
of the same hue, which, reaching a 
little below the knee, left the fire- 
bedizened and equally rubicund legs 
and feet exposed in free luxury to the 
air. His face was handsomely formed, 
but brown and freckled, and he had a 
pair of dark, keen eyes, which seemed 
to pierce into the very soul of Diar- 
mid as he sat gazing at him. There 
was a wild, elfish look about him alto- 
gether, as, with a vivacious twinkle of 
his acute eye, he saluted Diarmid po- 
litely, and asked him for a ladleful 
of the broth. Diarmid, however, in 
turning round from the pot, had spilt 
the contents of the ladle on his hand, 
burning it sorely, and was in conse- 
quence not in the most amiable hu- 

" Give you a ladle of broth, indeed, 
you little weasel o' perdition!" ex- 
claimed he. " Peg off out o' my house 

this minute, or I'll catch you by one 
o' them murtherin' legs o' yours, an' 
bate your brains out against one o' the 
stones !" 

" I'm well acquainted with the cozy 
an' indestructible fact, that a man's 
house is his castle," said the little fel- 
low, at the same time thrusting both 
his hands into his pockets, inclining 
his head slightly to one side, and look- 
ing up coolly at Diarmid ; " but some o' 
that broth I must have, for three rai- 
sons. First, that all the wild-game o' 
the forest are mine as well as yours ; 
second, that I'm a sthranger, an' you 
know that hospitality is a virthue in 
ould Ireland; an', third an' best, be- 
cause you darn't refuse me ! So, sit 
down there an' cool me a good rich 
ladleful, or, be the hole o' my coat ! 
there'll be wigs on the green bethune 
you an' me afore you're much ouldher !" 

" Ther's for your impidence, you 
gabblin' little riffin !" said Diarmid, 
making a furious kick at the imper- 
turbable little intruder, who, however, 
evaded it by a nimble jump to one 
side ; and then leaping up suddenly, 
before his assailant was aware, hit 
him right and left two stunning blows 
with his hard and diminutive fists in 
the eyes. Round and round hopped red- 
head, at each hop striking the luckless 
Diarmid right in the face, till at length, 
with one finishing blow, he brought 
him to the ground, stunned and sense- 

" There," he said, as he took a ladle- 
ful o' broth and began to cool it de- 
liberately, "that's the most scientific 
facer I ever planted on a man's fore- 
head in my life. I think he'll not re- 
fuse me the next time I ask him." 

With that he drank off the broth at 
a draught, laid the ladle carefully in 
the pot, stuck his hands in his pockets, 
and jovially whistling up, "The 
cricket's rambles through the hob," he 
left the hut, and strutted with a light 
and cheerful heart into the forest. 

When Diarmid's brothers returned, 
they found him just recovering from 
his swoon, with two delightful black 
eyes, and a nose of unusual dimensions. 

The Building of Mournc. 


He told them the cause of his mishap, 
at which they only laughed heartily, 
saying that he deserved it for allowing 
himself to be beaten by such an in- 
significant youngster. Next day, Di- 
armid and Roreen went out to hunt, 
leaving Donogh within to cook the 
dinner. When they returned, they 
found the ill-starred Donogh lying 
almost dead on the floor, with two 
black eyes far surpassing in beauty 
and magnitude those received on the 
preceding evening by his brother. 

" Let me stay within to-morrow," 
said Roreen, " for 'tis my turn ; an' if 
he has the perliteness o' payin' me a 
visit, I'll reward him for his conde- 

"Arrah!" said both his brothers, 
"is it a little traneen like you to be 
able for him, when he bate the two 
of us?" 

"No matther," answered Roreen; 
" tis my turn, an' stay I will, if my 
eyes were to be oblitherated in my pur- 
ricranium !" 

And so, when the morrow came, 
Diarmid and Donogh went out to hunt, 
and Roreen Shouragh stayed within 
to cook the dinner. As the pot com- 
menced boiling, Roreen kept a sharp 
eye around him for the expected visitor, 
whom he at length descried coming up 
the glade toward the door of the hut, 
whistling cheerfully as he came. 

" Good-morrow, youngster !" said the 
chap as he entered, and made a most 
hilarious bow ; " you seem to have the 
odor o' charity from your handsome 
face here, at laste it comes most aro- 
matically from the pot, anyhow." 

" Ah, then ! good-morrow kindly, 
my blushin' little moss-rose !" said 
Roreen, answering the salutation with 
an equally ornamental inclination of 
his head " welcome to the hall o' my 
fathers. P'r'aps you'd do me the thur- 
minjous honor o' satin' that blazin' little 
earkiss o' yours on the stone foment 
me there." 

" With all the pleasure in the uni- 
varse," answered the other, seating him- 
self ; "but as the clay is most obsthrep- 
orously hot an* disthressin' to the dis- 

solute traveller, p'r'aps you'd have the 
exthrame kindness o' givin' me a ladle- 
ful o' broth to refresh myself." 

" Well," said Roreen, " I was always 
counted a livin' respectacle o' the hos- 
pitality of ould Ireland. Yet, although 
the first law is not to ask the name of 
a guest, in regard to the unmerciful 
way you thrated my brothers, I must 
make bowld, before I grant your re- 
quest, to have the honor an' glory of 
hearin' your cognomen." 

"With shuprame pleasure," an- 
swered the visitor. " My name, accord- 
in' to the orthography o' Ogham charac- 
ters, is Shaneen cus na Thinne, which, 
larnedly expounded, manes John with 
his Feet to the Fire. But the ferlos- 
ophers an' rantiquarians of ould Ire- 
land, thracin' effect from cause, call me 
Fieryfoot, an' by that name I shall be 
proud to be addhressed by you at pres- 

"Well," rejoined Roreen, "it only 
shows their perfound knowlidge an' 
love for truth, to be able to make out 
such a knotty ploberm in derivations ; 
an' so, out o' compliment to their oceans 
o' larnin', you'll get the broth ; but," 
continued he, as he took up a ladleful 
and held it to cool, " as there are a few 
questions now and then tlirublin' my 
ruminashins, p'r'aps you may be so 
perlite as to throw a flash o' lightnin' on 
them, while we're watin'. One is in 
nathral history. I've heerd that of 
late the hares sleep with one eye shut 
an' th' other open. What on earth is 
the raison of it ?" 

"That," answered Fieryfoot, "is 
aisily solvoluted. Tis on account o' the 
increase o' weasels, and their love for 
suckin' the blood o' hares in their sleep. 
So the hares, in ordher to be on their 
guard an' prevent it, sleep with only 
one eye at a time, an' when that's rested 
an' has slept enough, they open it an* 
shut the other !" 

"The other," said Roreen, "is in 
asthronomy, an' thrubbles me most of 
all, sleepin' an' noddin', aitin' an' dhrink- 
in'. Why is it that the man in the 
moon always keeps a rapin'-hook in his 
hand, and never uses it ?" 


The Building of Mourne. 

" Because," answered Fieryfoot, get- 
ting somewhat impatient, "because, 
you poor benighted crathure, he's not 
a man at all, but the image of a man 
painted over the door of Brian Airach's 
shebeen there, where those that set off 
on a lunarian ramble go in to refresh 
themselves, as I want to refresh myself 
with that ladle o' broth you're delayin' 
in your hand !" 

" Oh ! you'll get it fresh an' fastin' !" 
exclaimed Roreen, and with that he 
dashed the ladleful of scalding broth 
right into the face of Fieryfoot, who 
started up with a wild cry, and rushed 
half-blinded from the hut. Away went 
Roreen in hot pursuit after him, with 
the ladle in his hand, and calling out 
to him, with the most endearing names 
imaginable, to come back for another 
supply of broth away down the glades, 
till at length, on the summit of a smooth, 
green little knoll, Fieryfoot suddenly 
disappeared. Roreen went to the spot, 
and found there a square aperture, 
just large enough to admit his body. 
He immediately went and cut a sap- 
ling with his knife, stuck it by the side 
of the aperture, and placed his cap 
on it for a mark, and then returned to 
the hut, and found his brothers just 
after coming in. He related all that 
happened, and they agreed to go to- 
gether to the knoll after finishing their 
dinner. When the dinner was over, 
the three brothers went down to the 
knoll, and easily found out the aper- 
ture through which Fieryfoot had dis- 

" An' now, what's to be done ?" asked 

"What's to be done, is it?" said 
Roreen ; " why just to have me go down, 
as I'm the smallest smallest in body 
I mane for, to spake shupernathrally, 
my soul is larger than both of yurs 
put together ; an', in the manetime, to 
have ye build another hut over the spot 
an' live there till I return with a power 
o' gold an' dimons, and oceans o' re- 
nown an' glory !" 

With that he crept into the aperture, 
while his brothers busied themselves 
in drawing brambles and sticks to the 

spot in order to build a hut as he Lad 
directed. As Roreen descended, the 
passage began to grow more broad and 
lightsome, and at length he found him- 
self on the verge of a delightful country, 
far more calm and beautiful than the 
one he had left. Here he took the 
first way that presented itself, and trav- 
elled on till he came to the crossing of 
three roads. He saw a large, dark- 
looking house, part of which he knew 
to be a smith's forge, from the smoke, 
and from the constant hammering that 
resounded from the inside. Roreen 
entered, and the first object that pre- 
sented itself was Fieryfoot, as fresh 
and blooming as a trout, and roasting 
his red shins with the utmost luxuri- 
ance and happiness of heart before the 
blazing fire on the hob. 

" Wisha, Roreen Shouragh," ex- 
claimed Fieryfoot, starting from his seat, 
spitting on his hand for good luck, and 
then offering it with great cordiality, 
" you're as welcome as the flowers o* 
May ! Allow me to offer you my con- 
gratulations, ad infinitum, for your su- 
perior cuteness in the art of circum- 
wentin' your visitors. I prizhume 
you'll have no objection to be present- 
ed to the three workmen I keep in the 
house the smith there, the carpenter, 
.an' the mason. Roreen Shouragh, 
gentlemin, the only man in the world 
above that was able to circumwint your 
masther !" 

" A cead mille failte*, young gintle- 
man !" said the three workmen in a 

Roreen bowed politely in acknow- 

" Any news from the worldt above ? M 
asked the smith, as he rested his pon- 
derous hammer on the anvil. 

"Things are morthially dull," an- 
swered Roreen, giving a sly wink at 
Fieryfoot. " I've heard that the Danes 
are making a divarshin in Ireland; 
that a shower o' dimons fell in Dublin ; 
that the moon is gettin' mowldy for 
want o' shinin' ; and that there's a say 
in the west that is gradually becoming 
transmogrified into whiskey. I hum- 
bly hope that the latther intelligence 

The Building of Mourne. 

is unthrue, for if not, I'm afraid the 
whole worldt will become drunk in the 
twinklin' of a gooldfrinch's eye !" 

" Mile, mile gloire !" exclaimed the 
three workmen, " but that's grate an* 
wondherful intirely ! P'r'aps masther," 
continued they, addressing Fieryfoot, 
and smacking their lips at the thought 
of whiskey, " p'r'aps you'd have the 
goodness o' givin' us a few days' lave 
of absence !" 

" Not at present," answered Fiery- 
foot ; " industry is the soul o' pleasure, 
as the hawk said to the sparrow before 
he transported him to his stomach, so 
ye must now set to work an' make a 
sword, for I want to make my frind 
here a present as a compliment for his 
superior wisdom." 

To work they went. The smith 
hammered out, tempered, and polished 
the blade, the carpenter fashioned the 
hilt, which the mason set with a bril- 
liant row of diamonds ; and the sword 
was finished instantly. 

" An' now," said Fieryfoot, present- 
ing the sword to Roreen, " let me have 
the immorthial pleasure o' presenting 
you with this. Take it and set off on 
your thravels. Let valior and magna- 
nimity be your guide, and you'll come 
to glory without a horizintal bounds. 
In the manetime I'll wait here till you 

" I accept it with the hottest grati- 
tudinity an' gladness," said Roreen, 
taking the sword and running his eye 
critically along hilt and blade. " "Tis 
a darlin', handy sword ; 'tis sharp, 
shinin', an' killin', as the sighin' lover 
said to his sweetheart's eyes, an' alto- 
gether 'tis the one that matches my 
experienced taste, for 'tis tough, an* 
light, and lumeniferous, as Nero said 
to his cimitar, whin he was preparin' 
to daycapitate the univarsal worldt wid 
one blow !" 

Saying this, Roreen buckled the 
sword to his side, bade a ceremonious 
farewell to the polite Fieryfoot and his 
workmen, left the house, and proceed- 
ed on his adventures. He took the 
west and broader road that led by the 
forge, and travelled on gaily till night. 

For seven days he travelled thus, 
meeting various small adventures by 
the way, and getting through them with 
his usual light-heartedness, till at 
length he saw a huge dark castle 
before him, standing on a rock over a 
solitary lake. He accosted an old 
man by the way-side, who told him 
that a huge giant of unusual size, 
strength, and ferocity dwelt there, and 
that he had kept there in thrall, for 
the past year and a day, a beautiful 
princess, expecting that in the end 
she'd give her consent to marry him. 
The old peasant told him also that the 
giant had two brothers, who dwelt far 
away in their castles, and that they 
were the strangest objects ever seen 
by mortal eyes ; one being a valiant 
dwarf as broad as he was long, and the 
other longer than he was broad, for he 
was tall as the giant, but so slightly 
formed that he was designated by the 
inhabitants of the country round 
Snohad na Dhial, or the Devil's Needle. 
Roreen thanked the old man with great 
urbanity, and proceeded on his way 
toward the castle. When he came to 
the gate, he knocked as bold as brass, 
and demanded admittance. He was 
quickly answered by a tremendous 
voice from the inside, which demanded 
what he wanted. 

" Let me in, ould steeple," said Ro- 
reen ; " I'm a poor disthressed boy 
that's grown wary o' the worldt on ac- 
count o' my fatness, an' I'm come to 
offer myself as a volunthary male for 
your voracious stomach !" 

At this the gate flew open with a 
loud clang, and Roreen found himself 
in the great court-yard of the castle, 
confronting the giant. The giant was 
licking his lips expectantly while open- 
ing the gate, but seemed now not a 
little disappointed as he looked upon 
the spare, wiry form standing before 

" If you're engaged, ould cannibal," 
said Horeen again, "in calkalatin' a 
gasthernomical ploberm, as I'm aweer 
you are, by the way you're lookin' at 
me, allow me perlitely to help you in 
hallucidatin' it. In the first place, if 


The Building of Mourne. 

you intend to put mt in a pie, I must 
tell you that you'll nofc get much gravy 
from my carkiss, an' in the next, if you 
intend to ate me on the spot, raw, I 
must inform you that you'll find me as 
hard as a Kerry dimon, an' stickin* in 
your throat, before you're half acquaint- 
ed with the politics of your abdominal 
kingdom !" 

As an answer to this the giant did 
precisely what Roreen Shouragh ex- 
pected he would do. He stooped down, 
caught him up with his monstrous 
hand, intending to chop off his head 
with the first bite ; but Roreen, the mo- 
ment he approached his broad, hairy 
chest, pulled suddenly out the sword 
presented to him by Fiery foot, and 
drew it across the giant's windpipe, 
with as scientific a cut as ever was 
given by any champion at the battle of 
Gaura, Clontarf, or of any other place 
on the face of the earth. The giant 
did not give the usual roar given by a 
giant in the act of being killed. How 
could he, when his windpipe was cut ? 
He only fell down simply by the gate 
of his own castle, and died without a 
groan. Roreen, by way of triumph, 
leaped upon his carcass, and with a 
light heart cut a few nimble capers 
thereon, and then proceeded on his ex- 
plorations into the castle. There he 
found the beautiful princess sad and 
forlorn, whom he soon relieved from 
her apprehensions of further thraldom. 
She told him that she was not the only 
lady whose wrongs were unredressed 
in that strange country, for that the 
two remaining brothers of the giant, to 
wit, the dwarf and the Devil's Needle, 
had kept, during her time of thrall, her 
two younger sisters in an equally cruel 

" An' now, my onrivalled daisy," said 
Roteen, after some conversation had 
passed between them, " allow me, while 
I'm in the humor for performin* deeds 
o' valior, to thramp off an' set them 
free !" 

" But," said the princess, " am I to 
be left behind pining in this forlorn 
dungeon of a castle ?" 

"Refulgint leedy," answered Ro- 

reen, " a pair of eyes like yours, when 
purferrin' a request, are arrisistible, 
but this Kerry-dimon' heart o' mine is. 
at present onmovable ; and in ferloso- 
phy, when an arrisistible affeer con- 
glomerates against an onmovable one, 
nothin' occurs, an' so I must have the 
exthrame bowldness of asking you to 
stay where you are till I come back, 
for 'tis always the maxim of an expa- 
rienced an' renowned gineral not to 
oncumber himself with too much bag- 
gage when settin' out on his advin- 
thures !" 

And so the young princess consent- 
ed to stay, and Roreen, with many 
bows and compliments, took his leave. 
For three days he travelled, till at 
length he espied the castle of the dwarf 
towering on the summit of a great hill. 
He climbed the hill as fast as his 
nimble legs could carry him, blew the 
horn at the gate, and defied the dwarf 
to single combat. To work they went. 
The skin of the dwarf was as hard 
and tough as that of a rhinoceros, but 
at length Roreen's sword found a pas- 
sage through it, and the dwarf fell 
dead by his own gate. Roreen went 
in, brought the good news of her sis- 
ter's liberation to the lady, and after 
directing her to remain where she was 
till his return, set forward again. For 
three days more he travelled, till he 
came to the shore of a sea, where he 
saw the castle of Snohad na Dhial 
towering high above the waves. He 
climbed up the rock on which the castle 
stood, found the gate open, and whis- 
tling the romantic pastoral of " The 
piper in the meadow straying," he jo- 
vially entered the first door he met. 
On he went, through room after room, 
and saw no one, till at last he came 
before an exceedingly lofty door, with 
a narrow and perpendicular slit in it, 
extending almost from threshold to 
lintel. He peeped in through the open 
slit, and beheld inside the most beauti-. 
ful young lady his eyes ever rested 
upon. She was weeping, and seemed 
sorely troubled. Roreen opened the 
door, presented himself before her, and 
told her how he had liberated her sis- . 

The Building of Mourne. 


ters. In return she told him how that 
very day she was to be married to 
Snohad na Dliial, and wept, as she 
further related that it was out of the 
question to think of vanquishing him, 
for that he was as tall as the giant, yet 
so slight that the slit in the door served 
him always for an entrance, but then 
he was beyond all heroes strong, and 
usually killed his antagonist by knot- 
ting his long limbs around him and 
squeezing him to death. 

"No matther," said Roreen. "I'll 
sing a song afther my victory, as the 
gamecock said to the piper. An' now, 
most delightful an' bloomin' darlint o' 
the worldt, this purriliginious heart o' 
mine is melted at last with the con- 
shumin' flame o' love. Say, then, the 
heart-sootherin' an' merlifluous word 
that you'll have me, an' your thrubbles 
are over in the twinklin' " 

" Not over so soon !" interrupted a 
loud, shrill voice behind them, and Ro- 
reen, turning round, beheld Snohad na 
Dhial entering at the slit, with deadly 
rage and jealousy in his fiery eyes. 
Snohad, however, in his haste to get 
in and fall upon Roreen, got his middle 
in some way or other entangled in the 
slit, and in his struggles to free him- 
self, his feet lilted upward, and there 
he hung for a few moments, inward 
and outward, like the swaying beam 
of a balance. For a few moments only ; 
for Roreen, running over, with one 
blow of his faithful sword on the waist 
cut him in two, and down fell both 
halves of Snohad na Dhial as dead as 
a door-nail. After this Roreen got the 
heart-sootherin' answer he so gallantly 
implored. He then bethought himself 
of returning. After a few weeks he 
found himself with the three sisters, 
and with a cavalcade of horses laden 
with the most precious diamonds, 
pearls, and other treasures belonging 
to the three castles, in front of the forge 
where he had met Fieryfoot, and talk- 
ing merrily to that worthy. 

" An' now," said Fieryfoot, after he 
had complimented the ladies on their 
beauty, and Roreen on his success and 
bravery, " I am about to give my three 

workmen lave of absence. But they 
must work seven days for you first. 
Then they may go on their peregrina- 
tions about ould Ireland. Farewell. 
Give my ondeniable love to the ladle, 
and remember me to your brothers 
balligerently !" 

"With that the two friends embraced, 
on which Fieryfoot drew out a small 
whistle and blew a tune, which set 
Roreen Shouragh and the three prin- 
cesses into a pleasant sleep ; on awak- 
ening from which they found them- 
selves by the side of the little hut on 
the knoll, with the three workmen be- 
neath them, holding the horses and 
guarding their loads of treasure. Ro- 
reen's two brothers had just returned 
from the chase, and were standing 
near them in mute wonderment at the 
spectacle. After some brief explana- 
tions, the whole cavalcade set out on 
their journey home, and travelled on 
till they came to the hut of the lonely 
widow on the banks of the Clydagh. 
It was nightfall when they reached the 
place. Roreen told the three work- 
men that he wanted to have a castle 
built on the meadow beside the hut, 
and then went in and embraced his 
mother. The workmen went to the 
meadow, and when the next morning 
dawned, had a castle of unexampled 
strength and beauty built for Roreen 
and his intended bride. The two suc- 
ceeding mornings saw two equally 
splendid castles built for the two broth- 
ers and their brides elect, for they 
were about to be married to the two 
elder princesses. By the next morn- 
ing after that they had a castle finished 
for Roreen's mother. On the second 
morning afterward they had a town 
built, and at length, on the seventh 
morning, when Roreen went out, he 
found both castles and town' enclosed 
by a strong wall, with ramparts, gate- 
ways, and every other necessary ap- 
pliance of defence. The three work- 
men then took their leave, and by the 
loud smacking of their lips as they de- 
parted, Roreen knew that they were 
going off to the west in search of the 
" say " of whiskey. After this the three 


The Building of Mourne. 

brothers were married to the three 
lovely princesses, mercenary soldiers 
flocked in from every quarter, and took 
service under their banners ; the in- 
habitants of the surrounding country 
removed into the town, and matters 
went on gaily and prosperously. The 
name of Roreen's wife was Mourne 
Blanaid, or the Blooming, and on a 
great festival day got up for the pur- 
pose, he called the town Mourne, in 
honor of her. In a pitched battle they 
defeated and killed the slayer of their 
father, and drove his followers out of 
their patrimony, and after that they 
lived in glory and renown till their 

For centuries after the town of 
Mourne flourished, still remaining in 
possession of the race of the Mac Car- 
thys. At length the Normans came 
and laid their mail-clad hands upon it. 
In the reign of King John, Alexander 
de St. Helena founded a preceptory 
for Knights Templars near it, the ruins 
of which stand yet in forlorn and soli- 

tary grandeur beside the little river. 
Still the town flourished and throve, 
though many a battle was fought with- 
in it, and around its gray walls, till at 
length, according to Spenser, Murrogh 
na Ranagh, prince of Thomond, burst 
out like a fiery flame from his fast- 
nesses in Clare, overran all Munster, 
burnt almost every town in it that had 
fallen into the possession of the Eng- 
lish, and among the rest Mourne, 
whose woful burning did not content 
him, for he destroyed it altogether, 
scarcely leaving one stone standing 
there upon another. And now only a 
few mounds remain to show the spot 
where Roreen Shouragh got his town 
built, and where he ruled so jovially. 

And so, gentle reader, if you look 
with me to the history of Troy, Rome, 
the battle of Ventry Harbor, the Pyra- 
mids, or Tadmor hi the Desert, I think 
you will say that there is none of them 
so clear, so circumstantial, and so trust- 
worthy as the early history of the old 
town of Mourne. 

Hans Euler. 237 



, " HARK, child again that knocking! Go, fling wide the door, I pray ; 
Perchance 'tis some poor pilgrim who has wandered from his way. 
Now save thee, gallant stranger! Sit thou down and share our cheer : 
Our bread is white and wholesome see ! our drink is fresh and clear." 

" I come not here your bread to share, nor of your drink to speak. 
Your name ?" " Hans Euler." " So ! 'tis well : it is your blood I seek. 
Know that through many a weary year I've sought you for a foe : 
I had a goodly brother once : 'twas you who laid him low. 

" And as he bit the dust, I vowed that soon or late on you 
His death should be avenged ; and mark ! that oath I will keep true." 
" I slew him ; but in quarrel just. I fought him hand to hand : 
Yet, since you would avenge his fall, I'm ready ; take your stand. 

" But I war not in my homestead, by this hearth whereon I tread ; 
Not in sight of these my dear ones for whose safety I have bled. 
My daughter, reach me down yon sword, the same that laid him low ; 
And if I ne'er come back again, Tyrol has sons enow." 

So forth they fared together, up the glorious Alpine way, 
Where newly now the kindling east led on the golden day. 
The sun that mounted with them, as he rose in all his pride, 
Still saw the stranger toiling on, Hans Euler for his guide. 

They climbed the mountain summit ; and behold ! the Alpine world 
Showed clear and bright before them, 'neath the mists that upward curled. 
Below them, calm and happy, lay the valley in her rest, 
With the chalets in her arms, and with their dwellers on her breast. 

Amidst were sparkling waters ; giant chasms, scarred and riven ; 
Vast, crowning woods ; and over all, the pure, blest air of heaven : 
And, sacred in the sight of God, where peace her treasures spread, 
On every hearth, on every home, the soul of freedom shed ! 

Both gazed in solemn silence down. The stranger stayed his hand. 
Hans Euler gently pointed to his own beloved land : 
" 'Twas this thy brother threatened ; such a wrong might move me well. 
'Twas in such a cause I struggled : 'twas for such a fault he fell." 

The stranger paused : then, turning, looked Hans Euler in the face ; 
The arm that would have raised the sword fell powerless in its place. 
u You slew him. Was it, then, for this for home and fatherland ? 
Forgive me ! 'Twas a righteous cause. Hans Euler, there's my hand !" 



The Modern Genius of the Streams. 

From All the Year Round. 


WATER to raise corn from the seed, 
to clothe the meadow with its grass, 
and to fill the land with fruit and 
flowers ; water to lie heaped in fan- 
tastic clouds, to make the fairy-land of 
sunset, and to spread the arch of 
mercy in the rainbow ; water that 
kindles our imagination to a sense of 
beauty ; water that gives us_ our meat, 
and is our drink, and cleans us of dirt 
and disease, and is our servant in a 
thousand great and little ways it is 
the very juice and essence of man's 
civilization. And so, whether we 
shall drag over cold water, or let hot 
water drag us, is one way of putting 
the question between canal and steam 
communication for conveyance of our 
heavy traffic. The canal-boat uses its 
water cold without, the steam-engine 
requires it hot within. Before hot 
water appeared in its industrial char- 
acter to hiss off the cold, canals had 
all the glory to themselves. They are 
not yet hissed off their old stages and 
cat-called into contempt by the whistle 
of the steam-engine, for canal commu- 
nication still has advantages of its 
own, and canal shares are powers in 
the money market. 

Little more than a century ago, not 
only were there neither canals nor 
railroads in this country, but the com- 
mon high-roads were about the worst 
in Europe. Corn and wool were sent 
to market over those bad roads on 
horses' or bullocks' backs, and the 
only coal used in the inland southern 
counties was carried on horseback in 
sacks for the supply of the black- 
smiths' forges. Water gave us our 
over-sea commerce, that came in and 
went out by way of our tidal rivers ; 
and the step proposed toward the fos- 
tering of our home industries was a 
great one when it occurred to some- 
body to imitate nature, by erecting 

artificial rivers that should flow where- 
ever we wished them to flow, and* 
should be navigable along their whole 
course for capacious, flat-bottomed 

The first English canal, indeed, was 
constructed as long as three hundred 
years ago, at Exeter, by John Trew, a 
native of Glamorganshire, who ena- 
bled the traders of Exeter to cancel 
the legacy of the spite of an angry 
Countess of Devon, who had, nearly 
three hundred years before that time, 
stopped the ascent of sea-going vessels 
to Exeter by forming a weir across 
the Exe at Topham. Trew contrived, 
to avoid the obstruction, a canal from 
Exeter to Topham. three miles long, 
with a lock to it. John Trew ruined 
himself in the service of an ungrateful 

After this time, improvements went 
no further than the clearing out of 
some channels of natural water-com- 
munication, until the time of James 
Brindley, the father of the English 
canal system. 

James Brindley was born in the 
year 1716, the third of the reign 
of George the First, in a cottage 
in the parish of Wormhill, mid- 
way between the remote hamlets of 
the High Peak of Derby. There his 
father, more devoted to shooting, hunt- 
ing, and bull-running, than to his 
work as a cottier, cultivated the little 
croft he rented, got into bad company 
and poverty, and left his children 
neglected and untaught. The idle 
man had an industrious wife, who 
taught the children, of whom James 
was the eldest, what little she knew ; 
but they must all.help to earn as soon 
as they were able, and James Brind- 
ley earned wages at any ordinary 
laborer's work that he could get 
until he was seventeen years old. 

The Modern Genius of the Streams. 


He was a lad clever with his knife, 
who made little models of mills, and 
set them to work in mill-streams of 
his own contrivance. The machinery 
of a neighboring grist-mill was his 
especial delight, and had given the 
first impulse to his modellings. He 
and his mother agreed that he should 
bind himself, whenever he could, to a 
millwright ; and at the age of seventeen 
he did, after a few weeks' trial, be- 
come apprentice for seven years to 
Abraham Bennett, wheelwright and 
millwright, at the village of Sutton, 
near Macclesfield, which was the 
market-town of Brindley's district. 

The millwrights were then the only 
engineers ; they worked hy turns at 
the foot-lathe, the carpenter's bench, 
and the anvil ; and, in country places 
where there was little support for 
division of labor, they had to find skill 
or invention to meet any demand on 
mechanical skill. Bennett was not a 
sober man, his journeymen were a 
rough set, and much of the young 
apprentice's time was at first occupied 
in running for beer. He was taught 
little, and had to find out everything 
for himself, which he did but slowly ; 
so that, during some time, he passed 
with his master for a stupid bungler, 
only fit for the farm-work from which 
he had been taken. But, after two 
years of this sort of pupilage, a fire 
having injured some machinery in a 
small silk-mill at Macclesfield, Brind- 
ley was sent to bring away the dam- 
aged pieces ; and, by his suggestions on 
that occasion, he showed to Mr. Mil- 
ner, the mill superintendent, an intel- 
ligence that caused his master to be 
applied to for Brindley's aid in a 
certain part of the repairs. He was 
unwillingly sent, worked under the 
encouragement of the friendly super- 
intendent with remarkable ability, and 
was surprised that his master and 
the other workmen seemed to be 
dissatisfied with his success. When 
they chaffed him, at the supper cele- 
brating the completion of the work, 
his friend Milner offered to wager a 
gallon of the best ale that, before the 

lad's apprenticeship was out, he would 
be a cleverer workman than any of 
them there present, master or man. 
This was a joke against Brindley 
among his fellow-workmen ; but in 
another year they found " the young 
man Brindley " specially asked for 
when the neighboring millers needed 
repairs of machinery, and sometimes 
he was chosen in preference to the 
master himself. Bennett asked " the 
young man Briudley" where he had 
learnt his skill in mill-work, but he 
could tell no more than that it " came 
natural like." He even suggested 
and carried out improvements, espe- 
cially in the application of the water- 
power, and worked so substantially 
well, that his master said to him one 
day, "Jem, if thou goes on i' this 
foolish way o' workin', there will 
be very little trade left to be done 
when thou comes oot o' thy time: 
thou knaws firmness o' wark's h' ruin 
o' trade." 

But presently Jem's "firmness o' 
wark" was the saving of his master. 
Bennett got a contract to set up a 
paper-mill on the river Dane, upon 
the model of a mill near Manchester. 
Bennett went to examine the Manches- 
ter mill, brought back a confused and 
beery notion of it, and, proceeding 
with the job, got into the most hope- 
less bewilderment. An old hand, who 
had looked in on the work, reported, 
over his drink at the nearest public- 
house, that the job was a farce, and 
that Abraham Bennett was only 
throwing away his employer's money. 
Next Saturday, after his work, young 
Jem Brindley disappeared. He was 
just of age, and it was supposed he 
had taken it into his head to lea^e his 
master and begin life on his own ac- 
count. But on Monday morning, 
there he was at his work, with his 
coat off, and the whole duty to be 
done clear in his head. He had taken 
on Saturday night a twenty-five mile 
walk to the pattern mill, near Man- 
chester. On Sunday morning he 
had asked leave of its proprietor to 
go in and examine it. He had spent 


The Modem Genius of the Streams. 

some hours on Sunday in the study of 
its machinery, and then had walked 
the twenty-five miles back, to resume 
his work and save his master from a 
failure that would have been disas- 
trous to his credit. The conduct of 
the work was left to him ; he undid 
what was amiss, and proceeded with 
the rest so accurately, that the con- 
tract was completed within the ap- 
pointed time, to the complete satis- 
faction of all persons concerned. 
After that piece of good service, 
Bennett left to James Brindley the 
chief care over his business. When 
Bennett died, Brindley carried on to 
completion all work then in hand, and 
wound up the accounts for the benefit 
of his old master's family. That done, 
he set up in business on his own ac- 
count at the town of Leek, in Stafford- 
shire ; he was then twenty-six years 
old, having served seven years as an 
apprentice and two years as journey- 

Leek was then but a small market- 
town, with a few grist-mills, and Brind- 
ley had no capital; but he made 
himself known beyond Leek as a 
reliable man, whose work was good 
and durable, who had invention at the 
service of his employers, and who 
always finished a job within the stipu- 
lated time. He did not confine him- 
self to mill-work, but was ready to 
undertake all sorts of machinery con- 
nected with the draining of mines, the 
pumping of water, the smelting of 
iron and copper, for which a demand 
was then rising, and became honora- 
bly known to his neighbors as " the 
Schemer." At first he had no jour- 
neyman cfr apprentice, and he cut the 
tree for his own timber. While work- 
ing as an apprentice, he had taught 
himself to write in a clumsy, half-illeg- 
ible way he never learnt to spell 
and when he had been thirteen years 
in business, he would still charge an 
employer his day's work at two shil- 
lings for cutting a big tree, for a mill- 
shaft or for other use. When he was 
called to exercise his skill at a dis- 
tance upon some machinery, he added 

a charge of sixpence a day for extra 

When the brothers John and Thom- 
as Wedgwood, potters in a small way 
at the outset of their famous career, 
desired to increase the supply of flint- 
powder, they called " the Schemer" to 
their aid, and the success of the flint- 
mill Brindley then erected brought him 
business in the potteries from that time 

About this time, also, a Manchester 
man was being married to a young 
lady of mark in the potteries, and, 
during the wedding festivities, conver- 
sation once turned on the cleverness 
of the young millwright of Leek. The 
Manchester man wondered whether 
he was clever enough to get the water 
out of some hopelessly drowned coal 
mines of his, and thought he should 
like to see him. Brindley was sent 
for, told the case and its hitherto insu- 
perable difficulties, went into a brown 
study, then suddenly brightened up, 
and told in what way he thought that, 
without great expense, the difficulty 
might be conquered. The gist of his 
plan was to use the fall of the river 
Irwell, that formed one boundary of 
the estate, and pump the water from 
the pits by means of the greater 
power of the water in the river. His 
suggestion was thought good, and, 
being set to work upon this job, he 
drove a tunnel through six hundred 
yards of solid rock, and by the tunnel 
brought the river down upon the 
breast of an immense water-wheel, 
fixed in a chamber thirty feet below 
the surface of the ground ; the water, 
when it had turned the wheel, was 
carried on into the lower level of the 
Irwell. That wheel, with its pumps, 
working night and day, soon cleared 
the drowned outworkings of the mine ; 
and for the invention and direction of 
this valuable engineering work, he 
seems only to have charged his 
workman's wages of two shillings a 

An engineer from London had been 
brought down to superintend the 
building of a new silk-mill at Congle- 

The Modern Genius of. the Streams. 


ton, and Brindley was employed un- 
der him to make the water-wheel and 
do the common work of his trade. 
The engineer from London got his 
work into a mess, and at last was 
obliged to confess his inability to carry 
out his plan. " The Schemer " Brind- 
ley was applied to by the perplexed 
proprietor. Could he put the confu- 
sion straight? James Brindley asked 
to see the plans ; but the great engineer 
refused to show them to a common 
millwright. " Well, then," said Brind- 
ley to the proprietor of the mill, " tell 
me exactly what you want the machin- 
ery to do, and I will try to contrive 
what will do it. But you must leave 
me free to work in my own way." 
He was told the results desired, and 
not only achieved them, but achieved 
much more, adding new contrivances, 
which afterward proved of the great- 
est value. 

After this achievement, Brindley 
was employed by the now prospering 
potters to build flint-mills of more 
power upon a new plan of his own. 
One of the largest was that built for 
Mr. Baddely, of which work there is 
record in such trade entries of his as 
March 1 5, 1757. With Mr. Baddely 
to Matherso about a now " (newj " flint- 
mill upon a windey day 1 day 3s. 6d. 
March 19 draing a plann 1 day 2s. 6d. 
March 23 draing a plann and to sat 
out the wheelrace 1 day 4s." 

At this time Brindley is also exer- 
cising his wit on an attempt at an 
improved steam-engine ; but though his 
ideas are good, it is hard to bring them 
into continuously good working order, 
and after the close of entries about it 
in his memorandum-book, when it 
seems to have broken down for a 
second time, he underlines the item 
" to Run about a Drinking Is. 6d." 
But he confined his despair to the 
loss of a day and the expenditure of 
eighteen pence. Not long afterward 
he had developed a patent of his 
own, and erected, in 1763, for 
the Walker Colliery at Newcastle, 
a steam-engine wholly of iron, which 
was pronounced the most " complete 


and noble piece of iron- work " that had 
up to that time been produced. But 
the perfecting of the steam-engine was 
then safe in the hands of Watt, and 
Brindley had already turned into his 
own path as the author of our Eng- 
lish canal system. 

The young Duke of Bridgewater, 
vexed in love by the frailty of fair 
woman, had abjured interest in their 
sex, had gone down to his estate of 
Worsley, on the borders of Chat Moss, 
and, to give himself something more 
wholesome to think about than the 
sisters Gunning and their fortunes, 
conferred with John Gilbert, his land 
steward, as to the possibility of cutting 
a canal by which the coals found 
upon his Worsley estate might be 
readily taken to market at Manches- 
ter. Manchester then was a rising 
town, of which the manufacturers 
were yet unaided by the steam-engine, 
and there was no coal smoke but that 
which arose from household fires. 
The roads out of Manchester were so 
bad as to be actually closed in winter, 
and in summer the coal, sold at the 
pit mouth by the horse-load, was con- 
veyed on horses' backs at an addition 
to its cost of nine or ten shillings a 

When the duke discussed with Gil- 
bert old abandoned and new possible 
schemes of water conveyance for his 
Worsley coal, Gilbert advised the 
calling in of the ingenious James 
Brindley of Leek, "the Schemer." 
When the duke came into contact 
with Brindley, he at once put trust in 
him, and gave him the direction of 
the proposed work ; whereupon he 
was requested to base his advice 
upon what he enters in his memoran- 
dum-book of jobs done, as an " ochilor," 
(ocular) " servey or a ricconitering." 

Brindley examined the ground, and 
formed his own plan. He was against 
carrying the canal down into Irwell by 
a flight of locks, and so up again on 
the other side to the proposed level, 
but counselled carrying the canal by 
solid embankments and a stone aque- 
duct right over the river upon one 


The Modern Genius of the Streams. 

level throughout. The duke accepted 
his opinion, and had plans prepared 
for a new application to parliament, 
Brindley often staying with him at 
work and in consultation for weeks to- 
gether, while still travelling to and fro 
in full employment upon mills, water- 
wheels, cranes, fire-engines, and other 
mechanical work. Small as his pay 
was, he lived frugally. He had by 
this time even saved a little money, 
and gained