There is an altar here to Notre Dame dels _Desemparats_—the Catalan for
abandoned or forsaken. There are times in every one’s life when one
feels the need of invoking such a Madonna, and she may well be set up
here in a solitude that harmonizes with the feelings of those who have
need to appeal to her. To be friendless is solitude, says Epictetus. The
women of Valencia wear combs on which is graven the image of Nuestra
Señora de los Desemparados, but whether this is by way of bewailing
their forsaken condition, or to announce their readiness to be consoled,
or merely by way of averting the possible contingencies of life, we
cannot say.

A Catalan inscription on the holy-water vase states that it was given by
a hermit of St. Ferréol who had been a slave at Constantinople
twenty-four years. The chapel is specially frequented in time of
epidemics, and on the festivals of SS. Lawrence and Ferréol, when
worship is conducted with great pomp, the _Goigs_ never cease around the
altars.

The hermitage of Notre Dame del Castel is on a mount belonging to the
chain of the Albères, a few miles from the pretty village of Sorrède.
The pathway up the height is bordered with violets, wild thyme, furze,
and various shrubs. You pass three crosses, and a small oratory where
the processions of Rogation week stop on their way to the mount to sing
a hymn to the Virgin. The hermitage is in a fine position, shaded by
trees, the terrace overlooking a vast extent of country with the
immensity of the sea in the distance. In sight are several places of
interest—the rock of Montblanc, where once stood a royal château; the
_Cova de las Encantadas_, or the fairies’ cave; and, on the top of an
isolated peak, the ruins of the old castle of Ultrera, which history
says was taken by Wamba, King of the Visigoths, in the seventh century.
Don Pedro of Aragon received its keys from Don Jaime of Majorca in 1344.
Finally, it became the property of the lords of Sorrède. Marshal
Schomberg took it from the Spanish in 1675, and the place his troops
occupied is still pointed out as the Camp des Français. The castle being
dismantled by order of Louis XIV., Jeanne de Béarn, who had seigneurial
rights over it, took possession, among other things, of the ancient
Madonna in the chapel, and built another to receive it. This statue had
long before been miraculously discovered in a cave of the mountains.
There is a singular expression of sweetness in the face, and both Mother
and Child are considered _muy hermosos_. She is dressed in Spanish
style, the veil that falls around her partly covering the Child. Great
crowds come here on the festivals of the Virgin, where Mass is sometimes
sung at an altar under the trees, and the people, spread around on the
neighboring heights, give it the aspect of an amphitheatre.

Not a mile from the hamlet of La Roca, where Philip le Hardi in his
campaign against Aragon lodged with all his court, is a pleasant valley
watered by a limpid stream and shaded by trees. Out of it rises a low
hill from which you can see the Albères and their forests of cork-trees,
and among them the ruins of the castle of La Roca, where the king of
Majorca took refuge from Don Pedro of Aragon. Here is the hermitage of
Notre Dame de Tanya, with a well before it shaded by fine old
plane-trees. On the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary the people of La
Roca come here in procession. There are daily services during the
octave, among which is the rosary at sunset. On the eighth day there is
a Mass of thanksgiving, after which the people return processionally to
La Roca.

Near the Coll de Prunet, through which passed Hannibal and the hosts of
the Cæsars, is Notre Dame del Coll, shut in by the mountains and their
forests of evergreen oaks and cork-trees—a popular chapel, where people
come to pray to be delivered from the _goître_ and all throat diseases
common in the mountains. The _Goigs_ contain the only accounts of its
history, from which it appears that the chapel was built in the ninth
century to receive a Virgin discovered by means of an ox. There is a
painting over the altar of a herdsman and dog kneeling before the
Virgin. The statue has been gilded, and the dress only allows the head
to be seen. Here are manacles worn by captives in Moorish times, brought
in gratitude for their deliverance and suspended before the image of Him
“whose pierced hands have broken so many chains” other than those of
material bondage. There is an altar, too, to St. Quitterie of Aire, to
whom there are also special _Goigs_. She is invoked for hydrophobia.

About two miles from Argelés is the hermitage of St. Ferréol in a wild,
solitary place among the cliffs of the Albères, the savage aspect of
which is softened by the almond, fig, cherry, and oak trees. Before the
chapel ran the ancient “Carrera de Espagna,” by which Philip le Hardi
went with his army when he undertook the disastrous war against Pedro
III. of Aragon, in 1285, continuing along beneath the castle of Ultrera
to the Coll de la Massane. The chapel used to have two holes in the wall
to receive the alms of the passer-by when the doors were closed. It has
been restored from the ruin into which it had fallen, but is seldom
visited.

On a bare rock not far from Argelés is the hermitage of Notre Dame de
Vic, apparently very ancient, from the thick walls and low heavy arches
of the chapel. Just below is a dark ravine lined with trees, and a
cistern that catches the water trickling down the rocks. A family now
lives in the hermitage. From it you can see over a vast plain, and
beyond is the Mediterranean Sea, a perpetual beauty in itself.

The hermitage of Notre Dame des Abeilles is near the sea-coast, not far
from the Spanish frontier, in a region once noted for its honey. In some
seasons it is approached by the dry bed of a mountain torrent that comes
down in the spring through the undulating hills covered with vines and
olives. As far back as 1657 the chapel was known as the Capilla Antigua,
and was famous for the perpetual miracle of its ever-open door which no
human hand could keep closed. It contained one of those images which was
“not willing to be shut up.” This was an old Madonna, black as that
which Giotto loved to pray before, with a honeycomb in her hand, sweet
to the taste as the knowledge of wisdom to the soul, reminding one of
the spouse of the Canticles, whose lips drop as the honeycomb. People
used to come from Spain to revere this Virgin, but it was removed for
safety in 1793, and is now in the parish church of Banyuls-sur-Mer,
where, as in ancient times, a lamb is offered at her altar on Whit
Tuesday, the feast of Notre Dame des Abeilles, which is afterwards sold
to the highest bidder to defray the expenses of the festival. On the top
of a neighboring mountain, about two thousand feet above the level of
the sea, may be seen the old historic tower of Madeloc.

Three miles from the town of Collioure is the hermitage of Notre Dame de
Consolation, to which you ascend out of vines and plantations of olives,
almonds, and figs by a path cut in the rocks. By the wayside is an
oratory here and there with some saint in the niche, as St. James, St.
Ann, and Our Lady of Many Griefs. You seldom find a more charming spot
in summer. The terrace before the chapel is shaded by alleys of lindens,
chestnuts, and elms, some of which are of enormous size, and beneath
them are fountains that diffuse their cooling waters. Below is a
vineyard noted for its products, and through an opening between two
hills can be seen the fortress of Miradon, the belfry of Collioure, and
the sea in the distance. The ancient image of Our Lady has disappeared,
but there is a modern one in the sculptured retablo. Here on certain
days, as St. Ferréol’s, is a great gathering. The popular _Goigs_ are
sung to airs of simple melody, and every one goes down the eighteen
steps to drink at the miraculous fountain. He who has prayed in this
mountain chapel among the pious peasantry, and wandered in the shady
alleys of the delightful terrace, and drunk of the waters, finds it
difficult to tear himself away.

Such are a few of the ancient hermitages of the Pyrénées Orientales. Not
one is without some beauty of its own that would commend it to the heart
of the poet; not one without the balmy fragrance of some holy legend so
attractive to the imagination; not one without its altar where God has
for ages revealed himself, and the solitude where he loves to speak to
the heart. Well may we exclaim with one[100] who was himself a hermit
for a time on the shores of this very sea: “How delightful this
boundless solitude where nature silently keeps watch! This silence has a
thousand tongues that prompt the soul to soar away to God and wrap it in
ineffable delights. Here no noise is heard but the human voice rising
heavenward. These sounds full of sweetness alone trouble the secret
solitude. Its repose is only interrupted by murmurs sweeter than the
repose itself—the holy murmur of the lowly psalm. From the depths of the
fervent soul rise melodious harmonies, and the voice of man accompanies
his prayer to heaven.”

Footnote 100:

  St. Eucher.

                            ROSARY STANZAS.
                          GLORIOUS MYSTERIES.

I.

PSALM cxxv. 5.

    Once lost and found, again the Lost is found!
    Drinking his voice, and feeding on his face,
    Again her care and grief of heart are crowned;
    Her lifelong grief outmeasured by the grace
    That rained upon her in each moment’s space
    As she beheld Him living who was dead.
    Away the clouds of Time such meetings chase.
    Wells of delight like those by tears are fed;
    The soul to joy like hers by sorrow must be led.

II.

PSALM lxxxiii. 6-8.

    The mountain-roots lie in the lowly vale.
    Mother bereaved! from height to vaster height
    Ever ascending, his last triumph hail!
    On wings of fire her love has taken flight,
    To follow where he is gone beyond her sight;
    Heaven is not far off, Love’s wing is strong.
    She sees the royal portals clothed in light;
    To Son and Mother there high thrones belong:
    Whom dying will unite, life cannot sever long.

III.

ACTS i. 14.

    In the pale light of subterranean glooms,
    Rude art of early centuries portrays
    Upon the wall of Roman Catacombs
    Jesus’ great Mother, Mary, as she prays,
    With arms uplifted, while apostles gaze.[101]
    Even so she prayed before the Spirit came
    To consecrate the Pentecostal days,
    With rushing power and tongues of lambent flame.
    Can aught be then denied, if prayed in her great name?[102]

IV.

CANTIC. ii. 17.

    Shades yield to light. The Twelve from every land
    Are gathered round the dying Mother’s bed;
    Tranquil she lies, awaiting the command
    To arise and come. She hears, and bows her head:
    One _Fiat_ more, and Mary is with the dead;
    But, sought the third day in her empty tomb,
    On wings of angels borne, had upward fled,
    Where flowers of Paradise undying bloom,
    And glories passing thought her future home illume.

V.

JOHN xvii. 22.

    From tiny rills the mightiest rivers grow;
    Insensibly from small to great they glide,
    City and plain rejoicing as they go.
    But never less than great the treasures wide
    Of Mary’s peerless grace. Full they abide
    For evermore; and deep and strong and free
    The current of that overflowing tide;
    Beyond all ear can sound, all eye can see,
    Mingling her glorious wealth with the Everlasting Sea.

Footnote 101:

  _Le Oranti_ of the archæologists.

Footnote 102:

  John xvi. 26.

                      PANTHEISM _VERSUS_ ATHEISM.

Protestantism is very unfortunate in its warfare against modern
unbelief. It is daily losing battles, losing men, and losing ground; and
it feels so little reluctance to give up one dogma after another as to
create the impression that the time is not far off when it will deliver
up its last citadel and accept the yoke of the enemy. The fact is so
well known that it needs no proof; nevertheless, as we have a striking
illustration of it in a phase of the struggle which is now going on
between Protestant and infidel thought on the all-important dogma of the
existence of God, we will make it the subject of a short discussion,
that our readers may form a clearer conception of the suicidal strategy
of some Protestant controversialists.

A work has recently appeared which purports to be a natural history of
atheism.[103] Its author is an accomplished Protestant scholar, a
learned professor, an elegant writer, and an earnest advocate of
religious ideas in accordance with the Bible as interpreted by his
private judgment. His object is to refute atheism. Of course history,
reason, and revelation are all on his side, so he is well armed; whilst
his antagonist, though boisterous and aggressive, is by no means
formidable, having had his strength thoroughly broken by former defeats.
In such a condition of things the victory should evidently belong to the
champion of Divinity. And yet no. Our champion strikes, indeed, some
heavy blows, but while thus struggling with the enemy he falls into a
quagmire. In other words, he grapples with a senseless atheism only to
plunge into an equally senseless pantheism.

With regard to the first chapters of the work we have little to say. The
author proves pretty conclusively that atheism is against reason. He
shows that the belief in the existence of God has been universal not
only among civilized nations but also among barbarous tribes. “Atheism,”
says he, “is a disease of the speculative faculty.” “It indicates a
chaotic state of mind.” “It is a doctrine so averse from the general
current of human sentiment that the unsophisticated mass of mankind
instinctively turn away from it, as the other foxes did from that
vulpine brother who, having lost his tail in a trap, tried to convince
the whole world of foxes that the bushy appendage in the posterior
region was a deformity of which all high-minded members of the vulpine
aristocracy should get rid as soon as possible.” This argument against
atheism was well known to the ancients, who laid great stress upon it,
as they saw that a universal agreement of mankind on the existence of
God could not but proceed from our rational nature; but our author
considers it as a simple “presumption,” rather than a proof in favor of
the theistic doctrine.

He then argues from the principle of causality and from the wonderful
wisdom displayed in the architecture of the universe. This, too, is very
good. Next, he meets the objection drawn from the existence of evil in
the world.

    “If there were no poverty,” says he, “where were charity? If every
    person were equally independent and self-reliant, where would be the
    gracious pleasure on both sides which arises from the support given
    by the strong to the weak? Where again would be the topping virtue
    of moral courage, unless the majority, at some particular critical
    moment, were cowards?... In fact, always and everywhere the
    development of energy implies the existence of that which energy
    must subdue—namely, evil in some shape or other. Therefore the
    existence of evil is not a proof that there is no God; but it is by
    the overcoming of evil constantly that God proves himself to be God,
    and man proves himself to be God-like, when in his subordinate
    sphere he does the same.”

This answer is tolerably good; but we doubt if the atheist will be
silenced by it. The author should have distinguished physical from moral
evil. The existence of physical evil he could have shown to be perfectly
reconcilable with God’s infinite goodness and providence; whereas the
existence of moral evil should have been shown to be in no manner
derogatory to his infinite sanctity. This has been done very fully by a
multitude of philosophers and theologians; but it could not be done
consistently by our pantheistic writer, because, as we shall see, all
moral evil, according to his pantheistic theory, would either emanate
from God or be immanent in him, with a total ruin of his infinite
sanctity. Hence the atheist, after all the reasonings of the learned
professor, may still urge that the existence of a God is incompatible
with the existence of sin; and we think that the professor will be at a
loss how to answer the difficulty so long as he holds to his pantheistic
views.

As to the genesis of atheism the author makes many good and thoughtful
remarks. There is a sort of atheism which arises from an absolute
feebleness or babyhood of intellect. This he calls “atheism of
imbecility”; but, says he, “we need not detain ourselves with this type
of intellectual incapability. It is not atheists of this class that we
are likely to meet with in the present age; and if we did meet them we
should be much more likely to remit them summarily to some hospital of
incurables than to a thinking school.”

The next type of the atheistic disease has its origin in moral
depravity. There are men whose career is “like a piece of music made up
of a constant succession of jars, which shakes the strings so much by
unkindly vibrations that the instrument, from the force of an unnatural
strain, cracks itself into silence prematurely. Now, unharmonized
characters of this description are naturally indisposed, and practically
incapacitated from recognizing order, design, and system in the
constitution of the universe, and of course cannot see God.” This root
of atheism is very well illustrated by Mr. Blackie. Here is a beautiful
passage:

    “It occurs to me to set down here the features of one of the most
    notable of those disorderly characters who lived in ancient Rome at
    the same epoch when the hollow atheism of Epicurus was dressed up
    for a day in the garb of poetical beauty by a poet of no mean genius
    called Lucretius. The man I mean is Catiline. Hear how Sallust in a
    well-known passage describes him: ‘Lucius Catiline, born of a noble
    family, a man of great strength, both of mind and body, but of a
    wicked and perverse disposition. To this man, from his youth
    upwards, intestine broils, slaughters, rapines, and civil wars were
    a delight; and in these he put forth all the energy of his youth. He
    could boast of a bodily frame capable of enduring heat and cold,
    hunger and watching, beyond all belief; he had a spirit daring,
    cunning, and full of shifts, ready alike to simulate what he was not
    and to dissimulate what he was, as occasion might call. Greedy of
    others’ property, he was lavish of his own; in passion fiery, in
    words copious, in wisdom scant. His unchastened ambition was
    constantly desiring things immoderate, incredible, and beyond human
    reach.’ This is exactly the sort of character, to whose completeness
    if anything like a philosophy is to be attributed, atheism will be
    that thing.”

In our age, however, according to the author, all the varieties of
speculative and practical atheism which we meet with in common life are
“weeds sprung from the rank soil of irreverence.” Man being naturally a
religious animal, atheism can then only spring up when, in the
individual or in society, any influence arises which nips the natural
bud of reverence in the soul. Thus power may foster a strong feeling of
independence, which may end in a monstrous self-worship. But liberty
also, as the author well remarks, when unlimited, leads to godlessness.
There is an atheism of democracy no less than of despotism. From extreme
democracy, as from a hot-bed, atheism in its rankest stage naturally
shoots up. There is nothing in the idea of mere liberty to create the
feeling of reverence. The desire of unlimited liberty is an essentially
selfish feeling, and has no regard for any Power from above. The
fundamental maxim of all pure democracy is simply this: “I am as good as
you, and perhaps a little better; I acknowledge nobody as my master,
whether in heaven above or on earth beneath; I will not be fettered.”

But, continues the author, unlimited power and unlimited liberty are not
the only social forces that are apt to run riot in the exaggerated
assertion of the individual and the negation of all superhuman
authority. There is the irreverence begotten of pride of intellect.
Knowledge, of course, does not directly produce irreligion or extinguish
piety, on the contrary, the more a wise man knows of the universe, the
more he is lost in admiration of its excellence. But the knowing faculty
is not the whole of a living man, and to bring forth its healthy fruits
it must go hand-in-hand with a rich moral nature; divorced from this,
knowledge begets intellectual pride and opens the way to godlessness.

Here the author points out the fact that there is something in the
researches of modern science, at least in certain conditions of the
intellectual atmosphere, not apparently favorable to the growth of piety
and the cultivation of religious reverence. In not a few modern books of
physical science we find nothing but “a curious fingering of wretched
dumb details utterly destitute of soul. Whatever is in the book, depend
upon it, God is not there. You will hear no end of talk about laws and
forces, developments and evolutions, metamorphic forms, transmuted
energies, and what not; but it is all dead—at least all blind. For
seeing intellect and shaping reason there is no place in such systems.”
The author strongly condemns this godless science, and shows at length
its fickleness and unwisdom; and we might almost mistake him for a
Catholic apologist, were it not that he ventures to speak of “non-sense”
in connection with the Council of Trent, at which he irreverently
sneers.

In the next chapter he treats of polytheism, whose origin he traces to
misdirected reverence towards the powers of nature. He shows that
polytheism was not atheism, and that polytheistic society could reach a
certain degree of morality not to be found among atheists. To our mind,
this chapter, though learned, is nearly superfluous; for it has scarcely
any bearing on the history of atheism. In like manner we think that the
chapter on Buddhism, which comes immediately after, and which fills
seventy pages, was uncalled for. The author says that the British
atheism of Bradlaugh, John Stuart Mill, Miss Martineau, Tyndall, and
others called his attention to the assertion that in the far East
atheism had been publicly professed for more than two thousand years,
and was at present the corner-stone of the faith of more than four
hundred millions of the human race. Could such an assertion be true? He
could not believe it. To talk of a religion without God was, to his
mind, “as to talk of the propositions in Euclid without the postulates
on which they depend.” He therefore determined to get at the root of the
matter, and thus he discovered that Buddhism was not atheism. It is to
show this that he gives an elaborate explanation of the Buddhistic
system. We need not discuss it, though we believe that some Buddhistic
errors which he points out are somewhat exaggerated. We only repeat that
the natural history of atheism would have lost nothing, and perhaps
gained something, if this long digression on Buddhism had been omitted.

And now we have reached the last chapter of the work, where the author
endeavors to make theologians responsible for a kind of modern atheism
which he calls “atheism of reaction,” and where he makes his strange and
foolish profession of pantheism. It is with this chapter alone that we
shall be concerned in the following pages; for it is the evil doctrine
contained in this objectionable chapter that spoils the whole work and
gives it a totally anti-Christian character. Is the author a Freemason?
Is he the mouth-piece of the Scotch and English lodges, whose members
are anxious not to be ranked among atheists, though they have no
definite creed? We do not care to know. But we may well affirm that his
book is full of the Masonic spirit, and answers so well the present
needs of British Freemasonry that we cannot be much mistaken if we call
it a Masonic work. It is well known that the English Freemasonry, either
because less advanced or because more prudent than the Masonry of
France, thought it necessary to protest against a suicidal resolution
lately passed by the latter, which permits the admission of candidates
to membership irrespective of their belief or disbelief in the Great
Architect of the universe. This resolution was strongly condemned by the
English lodges, which lost no time in sending out a public official
declaration that, so far as the English fraternity was concerned, no
member would be recognized who did not profess to believe in the Great
Architect, according to the old Masonic constitution. The wisdom of this
measure cannot be doubted; for the English Masonry enjoys still a
certain degree of respectability, which must not be compromised by a low
sympathy with the desperate atheism of the French communists.
Nevertheless, so long as they talk of a “Great Architect of the
universe” without explaining more particularly what they mean by these
words, there is reason to fear that their protest against the French
infidels is a deceit. The pantheist, the Buddhist, and the agnostic, and
even the materialist and the fatalist, can admit an Architect of the
universe, provided they are allowed to put upon these words a free
construction. One will identify him with Law, another with Nature, a
third with Force, a fourth with Matter, and perhaps a fifth with Satan
himself; for, as the old Manichæans held that this material world was
the work of a bad principle, so there are now men (not unknown to
Freemasonry) who consider Satan as their friend, their master, and their
god. There are lodges where the “Great Leonard,” a satanic apparition,
is an object of worship. No doubt these lodges recognize him as the
“Great Architect of the universe.” And Proudhon was so bold as to
publish that he was in love with Satan: “_Viens, Satan; viens, que je
t’embrasse!_”

At any rate, if the book we are criticising has been written in the
interest of the British Freemasons, it fails to show that they are more
orthodox than their French brothers whom they have excommunicated. The
pantheism professed in the book is just as worthless as the French
atheism; for pantheism, just as much as atheism, makes all religion
impossible. Hence a book which refutes atheism in order to establish
pantheism, however filled with Scriptural quotations to make it look
religious, is an anti-Christian book.

The atheism of reaction, of which the author speaks in the first part of
this chapter, is, according to him, “a recoil” from the exaggerations
and dictatorial imperiousness of theological orthodoxy. “Even theism,”
he remarks, “the only reasonable theory of the universe, in the
blundering fashion in which you state it, may possibly produce atheism,
the most unreasonable of all theories.” The Reformation “was
unquestionably a reaction from the excess of sacerdotal assertiveness,
and the abuse of ecclesiastical power in the latter centuries of the
middle ages.” This excess “gave sharp offence to the delicate conscience
of Martin Luther, and roused his sleeping wrath into a thunder-storm of
holy indignation.” How? “By parading the public places, and marching
through the highways of Christendom with a sacerdotal gospel of
salvation by works—by conventional and arbitrary works, penances, and
payments of various kinds imposed by authority of the all-powerful
clergy, and having little or nothing in common with the morality of a
pure life and a noble character.” “Against this abuse Luther protested
exactly in the same way, and with similar effect, as St. Paul protested
against the ritualism of the Jews.” “_The just liveth by faith._ This
great doctrine has saved the world twice, once from the cumbrous and
narrow-minded ceremonialism of the Jews, and again from the despotic and
soul-stupefying sacerdotalism of the Romanists.”

All this trash is beneath discussion; it only shows that the author is
little acquainted with the men and the doctrines to which he refers. He
seems never to have reflected that such “delicate consciences” as that
of Martin Luther had as little scruple about falsifying history as they
had about marrying nuns, rebelling against authority, or shedding blood.
Even Protestants would now smile at the “thunder-storm of holy
indignation” roused in the good soul of Luther at the thought of a
gospel of salvation by works of penance. Well might even Lucifer’s
“delicate conscience” have burst into a storm of “holy indignation,” as
he could not work out his salvation without controlling his pride; and
he might have protested against God’s orders, just as Luther did, by
alleging that “the just liveth by faith.” How the reformers succeeded in
“saving the world” by this doctrine of salvation without works, can be
argued from the fact, attested by our author himself, that “anarchy and
confusion, with the braying of a theological ass here, the cackling of a
clerical goose there, and the raving of a sectarian madman in a third
quarter, began to show face to such a degree that sensible and
quietly-disposed men, like Erasmus, became seriously alarmed before the
spirits they had conjured up, and retreated, with a devout timidity,
into the sacred ark of the old Catholic Church.” This confession speaks
volumes.

The author describes a sort of rampant orthodoxy which delights in
doctrinal exaggeration of mysteries, and which is never so happy as when
it can plant itself behind the broad shield of unintelligible formulas
and traditionary shibboleths, to pluck Reason by the beard, and bid open
defiance to the grand principle of the Scottish philosophy called common
sense. And this, he says, excites an atheistical reaction. We really do
not know of any orthodoxy which delights in “plucking Reason by the
beard.” The Scotch Presbyterians may have done something of the kind,
but they have no claim to orthodoxy. True orthodoxy is nowhere but in
the church whose centre is Rome. But the Roman Church never used
unintelligible formulas, never had shibboleths, and never plucked Reason
by the beard, but on the contrary made use of the plainest language and
the best cultivated reason to teach the revealed truth, and to defend it
against heretics and unbelievers. Had the Protestant sects as much
regard for Reason, and for the great principle of the Scottish
philosophy called common sense, they would soon perceive that their
claim to orthodoxy is nonsensical and their Christianity a delusion. And
if they were logical, they would not, when their ministers pluck Reason
by the beard, feel inclined to an “atheistical reaction,” but would only
conclude that their ministers do not belong to God’s church, and have
neither grace nor mission to teach Christianity.

The author admits the necessity of faith; but he scouts the doctrine
that whoso believes not every dogma about the divine nature shall be
eternally damned.

    “The spirit,” he says, “from which damnatory declarations of this
    kind proceed is a mingled spirit of ignorance, conceit, presumption,
    insolence, and pedantry, and has more to answer for in the way of
    creating atheism than any other fault of Christian preachers that
    has come under my observation. Against declarations of this kind,
    however solemnly made, and however traditionally hallowed, the moral
    and intellectual nature of the most soundly-constituted minds rises
    up in instinctive rebellion: the intellectual nature, because the
    propounding of dogmas in a scholastic form about the nature of the
    Supreme Being shows an utter ignorance of the proper functions and
    limits of the human intellect; and the moral nature even more
    emphatically, because to make fellowship in any religion conditional
    on the merely intellectual acceptance of an abstract proposition
    addressed to the understanding, is to remove religion altogether out
    of its own region, where it can bear fruit, and to transplant it
    into a soil where it can show only prickles that fret the skin, and
    thorns that go deeply into the flesh.”

This is wisdom! Therefore, according to this writer, to believe in three
divine Persons, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, is unnecessary for
salvation, and to say the contrary is conceit, insolence, and pedantry.
It is difficult to conceive how a Christian could fall into such
absurdity. The mystery of the Holy Trinity is the very base of
Christianity. It is in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy
Ghost that we are baptized; it is by the Son of God that we are
redeemed; it is by the Holy Spirit that we are sanctified. Without this
faith there is no Christianity, and without Christianity there is no
salvation. We need not be afraid that “the moral and intellectual nature
of the most soundly-constituted minds should rise up in instinctive
rebellion” against this doctrine; for the history of eighteen centuries
proves very conclusively that soundly-constituted minds have never
rebelled against dogma. Nor do we see why the intellectual nature should
denounce the use of the scholastic form in the propounding of dogmas.
Such a form is clear, precise, and full of meaning; it is therefore the
best intellectual form. And as to the moral nature, we can only say that
nowhere is it more cultivated than in the Catholic Church—a truth which
no one disputes—whilst the assumption that “the _merely_ intellectual
acceptance of an abstract proposition” suffices to qualify a man for
religious fellowship, is a clear proof that the author has never read
our Christian catechism.

“But,” says he, “it is not only in their way of presenting faith
generally, but in their rash and unreasoned statement of special points
of Christian belief, that our theologians have greatly erred.” And he
mentions the doctrine of predestination and reprobation, the doctrine of
original sin, the doctrine of eternal punishment, the doctrine of
creation out of nothing, and the doctrine of God’s providential
intervention in human affairs. We do not deny that the doctrine of
predestination and reprobation has been discussed rashly and in an
irreverent manner so as to create scandal and discord; but it is on the
Protestant, and especially on the Calvinistic, preachers and writers
that lies the responsibility of such deplorable quarrels. It was their
private judgment pushed to excess and their pride that roused the storm.
Of course our Catholic theologians could not look silently on such a
wanton perversion of truth; to defend human liberty on the one side and
God’s justice on the other they had to take part in the difficult
controversy. They often differed in matters of detail, but their
conclusions as to the main point—that is, as to the dogma—were uniform
and irreproachable. Mysteries, however, do not cease to be true because
men cannot unravel them. Theologians do not claim the privilege of
tearing asunder the veil through which mysteries are seen; but they
claim the honor of defending the objective truth of mysteries against
the attacks of heresy and unbelief. This is why theologians investigate
and expound mysteries; and to contend that the result of their labors is
to encourage atheism is to abandon “the great principle of the Scottish
philosophy called common sense,” or, to use another phrase of the
author’s, “to pluck Reason by the beard.”

The author says that he has brought forward this matter (of
predestination and reprobation) specially because the Calvinistic view
of it, as laid down in the catechism used in the elementary schools of
Scotland, occasions “no small amount of misery and self-torture to young
persons beginning seriously to look into the great truths of religion
and morals.” We agree with him. The Calvinistic doctrine of reprobation
makes man the helpless victim of a tyrannical and cruel God, destroys
all the seeds of piety, and fosters despair. But if its adoption may
lead to atheism, it is not the fault of theology; it is the fault of
Calvin’s rebellion against the church.

The next good service done by theologians to the anti-Christian
tendencies of some “respectable” (?) classes of the community has been,
according to our author, their inculcation of the doctrine of original
sin. “Original sin,” says he with Coleridge, “is not a doctrine but a
_fact_”; by which he means, we suppose, that the first man sinned, but
that from this fact we cannot conclude that his children are born in
sin.

    “Moral merit and demerit are in the very nature of things personal;
    to imagine their transference is to destroy their definition. If
    every baby when born, in virtue of an act of transgression committed
    some six or eight thousand years ago by the father of the race, must
    be confessed a ‘hell-deserving sinner,’ and lying on the brink of
    eternal damnation as soon as it lies on its nurse’s lap, then every
    man of sound moral feeling is entitled to protest against a doctrine
    of which such a cruel absurdity is a necessary postulate.”

Here again the author is at fault. The dogma of the inheritance of guilt
from our first parent is not an invention of theologians, but an
explicit doctrine of the New and even of the Old Testament. To omit
other quotations, St. Paul the apostle, whose authority is so frequently
appealed to by our author, declares that Adam sinned, and that _in him
all men have sinned_. Now, if St. Paul cannot be charged with doing a
good service to anti-Christianity by preaching this doctrine, why should
theologians be denounced for preaching it?

The author argues that “merit and demerit are personal,” and that “to
imagine their transference is to destroy their definition.” Yes; but the
dogma of original sin does not imply any such transference. The original
sin is _personal_ and _inherited_, not _transferred_. “Out of good
seed,” as the author tells us, “a good plant will grow, and out of bad
seed a bad plant.” Is the badness of the plant _transferred_? No; it is
inherited. And so it is with the stain of original sin. We are born of a
degraded father, and we are a degraded race—degraded not only physically
but morally; that is, deprived of the supernatural grace which
accompanied the original justice in which man had been created. This is
what St. Paul expresses by saying that we are born “children of wrath.”
It is not in virtue of an act committed six thousand years ago that
every baby is _formally_ a sinner; he is a sinner owing to his own
personal destitution of supernatural grace, just as the child of a
redskin is _formally_ a redskin, not by the skin of his father but by
his own. This doctrine has been taught and held from the origin of
Christianity by the most learned, the most acute, and the most holy men,
without their sound moral sense being hurt by it; it was reserved to our
vicious and ignorant generation to take scandal at the pretended cruelty
involved in such divine dispensation. What a pity that God, in shaping
his decrees, forgot to consult our learned professor of Greek![104]

The doctrine of eternal punishment is, according to Mr. Blackie, another
“stone of stumbling” set up by the Christian doctors. The ancient
Greeks, he remarks, had also taught this doctrine; but they taught it in
a very modified form. Only a few flaming offenders were condemned to a
state of helpless reprobation and inexhaustible torture. But the
Christian churches “committed themselves to a theology drawn up by
scholastic persons in a series of formal propositions which challenge
contradiction and refuse compromise. Therefore the doctrine of infinite
torture for finite sins is still stoutly maintained as a point of
Christian faith, and as stoutly disowned by a large class of benevolent
and thoughtful persons, who look upon such a doctrine as utterly
inconsistent with the conception of a wise and benevolent Being.” He
then adds that if there were not a great deal of dogmatic obstinacy, a
fair amount of hermeneutical ignorance, and a considerable vein of
cowardice also in the ecclesiastical minds, this stumbling-block might
easily be removed. For “it does not require any very profound
scholarship to know that the word αἰώνιος, which we translate
_everlasting_, does not signify eternity absolutely and metaphysically,
but only popularly, as when we say that a man is an eternal fool,
meaning only that he is a very great fool.”

This last argument is easily answered. In fact, it does not require any
very profound scholarship to know that the word αἰώνιος here means
_everlasting_ in the sense of perpetual duration. This is evident from
collateral passages of Scripture, from which we know that the fire of
hell “shall not be extinguished,” that, the smoke of the torments of the
wicked “shall ascend for ever and ever,” that their worm “shall never
die,” etc., all which expressions, according to our “hermeneutical
ignorance,” more than suffice to annihilate the professor’s pretension.
Besides, the ancient translators of the Bible were as good professors of
Greek, to say the least, as Mr. Stuart Blackie; but they never suspected
that there would come a time when such slang as “an eternal fool” would
mean “a very great fool.” It is too late now for any professor to
pretend that the ancient Greek had no correct interpretation till
English slang made its appearance.

The other argument consists in saying that a finite sin cannot deserve
an infinite punishment. This, too, is easily answered. The act of sin is
finite, but it violates the infinite majesty and sanctity of God, and on
this account it partakes of infinity. However, let us drop this
consideration, which is too scholastic to be understood by certain
modern professors of Protestant institutions. We have another answer. A
man can dig out his eyes in less than a minute; the act is finite, but
its result is perpetual blindness. In like manner a man loses, by
sinning, his fitness to see God in his glory; the act is finite, but the
consequent unfitness is, of its nature, everlasting. God alone can
restore the sinner to his previous condition; but this he is not obliged
to do. The rehabilitation of a sinner is a real miracle, just as the
resuscitation of Lazarus, and miracles are not the rule but the
exception. God warns us that “the hope of the sinner shall perish,” that
“now is the acceptable time,” and that after death “there is no
redemption.” And yet we are accused of “dogmatic obstinacy” because we
do not renounce this doctrine of faith!

We are told that there is a large class of “benevolent and thoughtful
persons” who look upon such a doctrine “as utterly inconsistent with the
conception of a wise and benevolent Being.” But our “dogmatic obstinacy”
compels us to remark that this wise and benevolent Being knows much
better than those “benevolent and thoughtful persons” what his wisdom
and benevolence require; and therefore it is from his word, not from
those “thoughtful persons,” that we must accept the solution of the
problem. It may be that in doing so, we exhibit “a considerable vein of
cowardice”; but it is wise to fear God. We are weak and he is almighty.

    “Another stumbling-block which theologians have laid in the way of
    the devotee of physical sciences is _the creation out of nothing_.
    This dogma, which, as every scholar knows, is not necessarily
    contained in any place, whether of the Old or New Testament, arose
    in the Jewish Church, and has been stamped with orthodox authority
    in Christendom, partly from a pious desire to magnify the divine
    Omnipotence; partly from the timid stupidity of clinging to the
    letter instead of breaching the spirit of Scripture; and partly also
    from the evil trick which we have just mentioned of importing
    metaphysics and scholastic definitions into the Bible, from which
    all the Scriptures are the furthest possible removed. Now, the
    objection to this doctrine on the part of modern thinkers I conceive
    to be this: that, though not perhaps absolutely impossible, it is
    contrary to all known experience, and highly improbable if we are to
    judge of the constitution of things from what we see, not from what
    we choose to imagine. It is the vulgar imagination which delights to
    represent the Supreme Being as a sort of omnipotent harlequin,
    launching the _fiat_ of his volition, as the nimble gentleman in the
    pantomime strikes the table with his wand, and out comes a man, or a
    monkey, or something else, out of nothing. This is man’s crude
    conception; but God’s ways are not as man’s ways, and his way is
    _evolution_. Nothing is created out of nothing; and mere volition,
    even of an omnipotent Being, cannot be conceived as bringing into
    existence a thing of an absolutely opposite nature, called matter.”

To answer these reckless assertions in detail would take a volume.
Fortunately, however, we may be dispensed from such a task, as there are
hundreds of excellent books, both philosophical and theological, where
the dogma of creation is fully established and victoriously vindicated.
On the other hand, our professor does not give any proof of his infidel
view; he merely asserts what has no possibility of proof. “Nothing is
created out of nothing,” says he; but philosophy demonstrates that
nothing is, or can be, created but out of nothing. “God’s way is
evolution.” No; God’s way is creation. Evolution is man’s way, as Mr.
Darwin and all his admirers know; and, since (as the author reminds us)
God’s ways are not as man’s ways, it follows on his own showing that
God’s way is not evolution. Evolution is impossible without antecedent
creation. The subject of evolution is matter, and matter is a created
being. To deny the creation of matter is to assume that matter is
eternal and self-existent, or, in other terms, to make it an independent
being or an appurtenance of Divinity; and this colossal absurdity even
the author must reject, as he confesses that the nature of matter is
“absolutely opposite” to the nature of Divinity.

The author imagines that the absolute opposition between God and matter
makes it impossible for God to create matter, because “mere volition,
even of an omnipotent Being, cannot be conceived as bringing into
existence a thing of an absolutely opposite nature.” These words show
the author’s philosophical ignorance of the law of causation. The law is
that efficient causes must always be of a nature entirely different from
that of their effects. The efficient cause of gravitation at the earth’s
surface is the substance or matter of the earth itself; but gravitation
is neither matter nor substance, but something entirely different. The
soul is the efficient cause of the voluntary movements produced in our
organism; and yet those movements have nothing common with the substance
of the soul. And the same is to be said of all other effects as compared
with their efficient causes.[105] Hence it is idle to argue that an
omnipotent Being, owing to his spirituality, cannot create matter. The
author will say that every effect must be contained in its cause, and
that matter is not contained in God. To which it must be answered that
effects are _eminently_ and _virtually_, not _formally_, contained in
their efficient causes. If the effect existed formally in its cause its
production by the cause would become a contradiction; for the effect
would exist before its effection. Effects are said to be pre-contained
in their causes only in this sense: that causes possess a power
competent to produce their effects. Causation is action, and action is
the production of an act. Every act produced is the formal principle of
a new existence, or of a new mode of existence. To say that God cannot
create matter is to say that God cannot produce an act giving formal
existence to matter; which amounts to the denial of omnipotence. Still,
the existence of matter must be accounted for. Matter undergoes
modifications and is subject to natural agents; it is therefore
essentially potential and contingent. How, then, did it come into
existence? And how is it potential, if it is not created out of nothing,
since nothingness is the only source of potentiality?

But we are told that creation out of nothing “is contrary to all known
experience.” This shows what new kind of philosophers nowadays we have
to deal with. They want to see God making a few acts of creation before
they consent to believe, just as they want a lecturer to prove his
theories by a series of visible experiments. God, of course, will not
satisfy their curiosity; he has given them the light of reason and the
light of revelation, which are quite enough. But were God to condescend
to their yearning, would they believe even then? Would not these men,
who have the impudence to speak of an “omnipotent Harlequin,” declare
with equal profanity any visible fact of creation to be jugglery?

The author tells us also that “if we are to judge of the constitution of
things from what we see, not from what we choose to imagine,” we shall
find out that creation is improbable. At this we need not wonder; for
the author is a great enemy of scholastic definitions and of
metaphysics—that is, of intellectual light. He sees with the eyes of his
body, but he shuts the eyes of his reason. Had he less horror of
metaphysics, he might learn that “the constitution of things” proclaims
in the loudest and most unmistakable language the fact of creation; and
that every change or movement in the universe furnishes a peremptory
demonstration of it. But what can a man see who discards definitions and
disregards the principles of real philosophy?

And now let us see to what conclusions the author is led by his style of
reasoning. He says:

    “To us dependent ephemeral creatures all existence is a divine
    miracle; and the continuity of that divine miracle in the shape of
    what we call growth is, so far as we can see, the eternal form of
    divine creativeness. The absolute dualism of mind and matter which
    is implied in the received orthodoxy of the church is not warranted
    by any fact that exact science can recognize; nowhere do we find
    mind acting without a material instrument, nowhere matter absolutely
    divorced from the action of inherent forces, inasmuch as even the
    most motionless statical condition of things most solid is always
    produced by a balance of forces in some way or other—forces which,
    if they are not blind, but acting according to a calculated law, as
    they manifestly do, are only another name for Mind. This view of the
    constitution of the universe ... is generally disowned with a
    certain pious horror as pantheism, a word to which a great chorus of
    thoughtless and ill-informed people are straightway ready to echo
    back atheism, with the feeling that the two terms, though
    etymologically as opposed as white and black, are practically the
    same.... Pantheism, scientifically understood, has nothing to do
    either with materialism or with atheism. It ... simply denies the
    existence of two opposite entities in the world of divine reality,
    while it asserts the existence of only one. The world is essentially
    one; and the All, though externally many, is, when traced to its
    deepest roots, not different from the One; as the human body, for
    instance, is both one and many.... The term pantheism, therefore, is
    not opposed to unity, or to the principle of unity in the world,
    which is God; and a pantheist, as Hegel well said of Spinoza, may
    more properly be said to deny the world than to deny God.”

This is the quagmire into which the professor, as we said at the
beginning of this article, has fallen. The view he takes of “the
constitution of the universe,” the assertions he makes, and the
arguments he employs are a mass of confusion to which no more
appropriate name can be given than _nonsense_. We are “dependent
ephemeral creatures.” Yes. But how could he call us “creatures,” he who
denies creation? or “dependent,” he who makes us one with God? or
“ephemeral,” he who includes us in the eternal All? Is not this a
flagrant contradiction?

To us “all existence is a divine miracle.” If so, the author cannot
consistently be a pantheist. Miracles are facts transcending the power
and exigencies of nature. Pantheism divinizes nature, and admits of
nothing transcending the power and exigencies of nature; and therefore
pantheism can admit of no miracle.

“Growth is, so far as we can see, the eternal form of divine
creativeness.” Growth implies change, whereas the eternal form of divine
creativeness is altogether unchangeable. Hence, so far as we can see
(and we see it most evidently), growth is _not_ what the professor
imagines.

“The absolute dualism of mind and matter is not warranted by any fact
that exact science can recognize.” If so, then exact science should find
a way of reconciling the well-known inertia of matter with the equally
well-known immanent and reflex self-activity of mind. For, as the latter
excludes the former, their existence is the most incontrovertible
evidence of the absolute dualism of matter and mind; and this evidence
is quite scientific, too, for it is the result of universal and
unexceptionable experience. But our men of science, who profess to deal
with nothing but matter, are not the best judges about the attributes of
mind. They are gross and material; they must see, and touch, and smell,
and subject everything to chemical analysis; and spiritual substances
refuse to be thus manipulated. Hence no wonder if these latter
substances are not recognized in any fact of exact science so long as
“exact science” is confined to the study of matter.

“Nowhere do we find mind acting without a material instrument.” Be it
so; it does not follow that matter and mind are one and the same thing.
The organ is not the organist, and the instrument is not the artist.

“Nowhere do we find matter divorced from the action of inherent forces.”
Quite true; but these forces of matter are absolutely blind. The author
pretends that they are not blind, because “they act according to a
calculated law”; but this is a new blunder. It is not the forces of
matter that have calculated the law, it is God that subjected them to
the law; and their acting according to the law is a mechanical
necessity. The very fact of their inviolable subjection to the law
proves their utter blindness; for were they intelligent, they would have
given before now some instances of proud rebellion at least in the hands
of the torturing chemist.

“This view ... is generally disowned as pantheism.” Certainly. Let the
author remember “the principle of the Scottish philosophy called _common
sense_,” and let him ask himself if a view generally disowned deserves
the honor of being adopted by a professor of a Scotch university.

“Pantheism, scientifically understood, has nothing to do with atheism.”
May we ask how pantheism can be “scientifically understood”? Science is
concerned only with material phenomena. God, mind, and spiritual things
in general are beyond its reach. How, then, can what is above science be
understood “scientifically”? And, again, how can pantheism be
“understood” at all, since it is as contradictory as a changeable
immutability, a compounded simplicity, or a sinful holiness? That the
terms “pantheism” and “atheism” are etymologically opposed is quite
clear; but our question is one of things, not of mere terms. The atheist
says to God: “Thou hast no existence”; the pantheist says: “Thou art a
compound of matter.” Which of them is better? Which is less
irrational—the one who degrades his Creator, or the one who merely shuts
his eyes that he may not see him? After all, neither the one nor the
other has an object of worship—the atheist because he denies its
existence, the pantheist because he denies its superiority; and thus the
atheist and the pantheist are twin-brothers, with this only difference:
that the latter wears a mask of hypocrisy, that he may the easier seduce
those who would be disgusted with the impudence of the former.

“The world is essentially one.” No greater blunder could be uttered.

“The All, though externally many, is not different from the One.” The
truth is that things cannot be “externally many” unless they be also
intrinsically and substantially many. Thus in the human body, which the
author brings forward as a fit illustration of his view, the limbs are
many because each one substantially differs from each other. It is the
negation of identity that makes things be many; and no such negation can
be conceived without entities intrinsically distinct. Hence, if the All
is “many,” it must intrinsically differ from the One.

“Pantheism is not opposed to the principle of unity in the world, which
is God.” To this we say, first, that pantheism is opposed to the fact of
plurality in the world. This fact is so manifest that no professor can
plead ignorance of it. We say, secondly, that the world has unity of
design, of composition, and of government, but no unity of substance.
This, too, is as evident as noonday.

“Spinoza may more properly be said to deny the world than to deny God.”
Were this granted, it would still be supremely foolish to trust and
follow a leader who denies the world. But Spinoza denies God as well, if
not explicitly, at least by implication. To set up a mass of
contradictions, and to call it “God,” is to declare that there can be no
God; and this is just what Spinoza did, through ignorance, we suppose,
rather than malice, though not without a sovereign arrogance and
presumption.

Before we end we must take notice of an attempt, on the part of Prof.
Blackie, at answering the objection that pantheism destroys religion,
“because it destroys human personality, and denies individual
responsibility, on the foundation of which all human society, as well as
all religious obligation, is constituted.” He answers thus: “Freedom,
personality, and responsibility are facts which no theological or
metaphysical theories can meddle with, any more than they can with
generation, or appetite, or digestion.... The answer to all such
speculative objections from transcendental theories, when brought into
the world of practice, is a fact and a flogging.”

Bravo! Freedom, personality, and responsibility are facts. The
pantheistic theory contradicts them, but cannot interfere with them any
more than with generation, appetite, and digestion. Hence when any one
argues from the pantheistic theory against freedom, personality, and
responsibility, he must be answered with “a fact and a flogging.” And,
_vice versa_, if any one from freedom, personality, and responsibility
argues against the pantheistic theory which makes these things
inexplicable and impossible, he, too, must be answered with “a fact and
a flogging.” Does the reader understand the excellence of this
liberalistic logic? Yes, with a fact and a flogging; for the eloquence
of the scourge sometimes replaces with advantage the doubtful efforts of
a hesitating tongue: _Si non prosunt verba, prederunt verbera_. What a
candid confession of pantheistic impotence! But then, if flogging is to
be resorted to, who shall be found more worthy of it than the pantheist
himself, who wantonly contradicts by his theory what his common sense
recognizes to be a fact?

The book we have thus far examined contains many other errors on
important points of religion; but our readers need not be detained any
longer in their refutation. The author admits a general providence, but
a providence which imparts particular favors in reward of prayer he does
not admit. Answers to prayers he considers to be “as ridiculous as
interpretations of judgments are presumptuous.” For him “the idea of a
God, constantly interfering in answer to prayer, or otherwise, is one of
the most anthropomorphic of theological conceptions.” “Asceticism and
monkery form a very sad and lamentable chapter in the history of the
church.” Abstinence and mortification are “a pedantic and ridiculous
sort of virtue,” and they are “abnormal, monstrous, inhuman, and
absurd.” Then “there is, and can be, no such thing as a priesthood in
Christianity.” It would take too long to enumerate all his theological,
philosophical, and historical blunders, for his book is full of them; so
we must give up the task.

In the last pages of the work we find a fairly good refutation of
atheism, as maintained by Miss Martineau, Mr. Atkinson, and Prof.
Tyndall. But what is the use of such a refutation, if it is intended
merely as a first step towards pantheism? A pantheist has no right to
refute atheism. Whatever he may say against it can always, in one manner
or another, be retorted against himself; and when the retorsion is
pushed on to its last consequences, his defeat takes the aspect of an
atheistic victory. Thus nothing is gained, and discussions become
interminable, to the great satisfaction of the sceptics. It is for this
reason that most of the Protestant controversies on religious topics
cannot be settled. Truth, if mixed with error, has little, if any,
chance of victory; and books in which truth is compelled to minister to
error are all the more pernicious because their poison is less
recognizable. If this _Natural History of Atheism_ is what we assume it
to be—a Masonic work—then we must confess that the Scottish Masons could
not be served better than by such a baneful mixture of Calvinistic
dogmatism and pantheistic dreams.

Footnote 103:

  _The Natural History of Atheism._ By John Stuart Blackie, Professor of
  Greek at the University of Edinburgh. New York: Scribner, Armstrong &
  Co. 1878.

Footnote 104:

  Children dying in original sin, though children of wrath, are not
  necessarily “hell-deserving sinners,” as the author objects. Most
  Catholic theologians maintain with good reasons that they will be in a
  state of _natural_ happiness, though debarred from the vision of God.

Footnote 105:

  See THE CATHOLIC WORLD for February, 1874, where we have proved that
  _all efficient cause is infinitely more perfect and of an infinitely
  better nature than any of its effects_ (“The Principles of Real
  Being,” p. 584).

                        THE CREATED WISDOM.[106]
                           BY AUBREY DE VERE.
                                   I.

    Created Wisdom at the gate
      Of Heaven, ere Time began, I played;
    The Eternal Wisdom Uncreate
      Beheld me ere the worlds were made.

    I danced the void abyss above:
      Of lore unwrit the characters
    I traced with wingèd feet, and wove
      The orbits of the unshaped stars.

    When first the sun and moon had birth,
      When seas rushed back, and hills up sprang,
    Before God’s eyes in sacred mirth
      Once more I circled, and I sang.

    I flashed—a Thought in light arrayed—
      Beneath the Eternal Wisdom’s ken:
    When came mine hour I lived, and played
      Among the peopled fields of men.

    Blessed is he that keeps my ways,
      That stands in reverence on my floor,
    That seeks my praise, my word obeys,
      That waits and watches by my door.

Footnote 106:

  Proverbs, cap. viii.

                          CONRAD AND WALBURGA.
                              CHAPTER III.

“Moida! Moida! you were right; you knew him better than I did: Conrad
Seinsheim has already proposed,” were Walburga’s first words as she
entered her home in Fingergasse, where her friend was awaiting her to go
out for a walk.

“Oh! good, good. How delighted I am! You’ll soon be back in your old
castle,” cried the joyous Moida, springing up from her seat by the
window and dancing round the room.

“Alas! I scarcely dare yet to give full rein to hope,” added Walburga,
shaking her head.

“What is that? I didn’t understand you!” said the other, abruptly
pausing in her merry skips. “Of course you said yes to him? Of course
you did?”

“I said neither yes nor no; he is to return in three days for an
answer.”

“O you naughty, puzzling creature! Why didn’t you tell the poor fellow
yes on the spot, as I did to my darling Ulrich?”

“Why?” said Walburga, looking pensively at her; then, after hesitating a
moment: “Well, Moida, it was because I have thus far adroitly, but
perhaps foolishly, concealed something from him; you know what I mean.
And, like a coward, when the crisis arrived, when he asked for my hand,
I still put off the revelation for a brief space.”

“Well, Mr. Seinsheim will be a fool, a big fool, if he doesn’t marry
you; that’s all I can say,” replied Moida, tenderly twining her arms
about her friend’s neck. “And, what’s more, if I didn’t think we were
all of us going to live near one another at Loewenstein, I’d hate him
for trying to take you away from me.”

“Well, you and I have certainly been very happy together, have we not,
Moida?”

“Oh! very, very, very; and you should have kept your pretty nightingale,
so as to have brought him with us to Tyrol.”

“Perhaps I ought,” answered Walburga, her countenance now clearing up;
for hope, sweet hope, was just at this moment flashing its rays into her
bosom and inspiring her to believe that Conrad would surely accept her,
accept her exactly as she was, and, like a brave, good husband, bear
upon his own shoulders as much of her cross as he was able.

A few minutes later the two friends were passing through the park on
their way to Foering. This place is simply a beer-garden—one of the many
within an hour’s walk of Munich. Here on the warmest summer day the air
is cool, for the spot is high and commanding, and, moreover, well shaded
by elm-trees. But better than breeze or shade is the beer—beer such as
one can taste only in Southern Bavaria. In the middle of the garden is a
platform elevated a few inches above the ground, where those who are
fond of dancing may trip it merrily to the music of a fiddle, harp, and
flute, dropping now and again a copper into the tin plate which one of
the minstrels passes through the crowd.

When Moida and Walburga arrived Foering was well-nigh deserted, and they
had no difficulty in being helped at once to whatever they wanted, for
the good-natured waiter-girl had only them to wait on. But ere long
other people began to come. First appeared a husband and wife, the
former carrying the baby—the best of all babies, of course—and so bound
up in swaddling-clothes that the little thing could do naught except
wink. Then followed a soldier hand-in-hand with a buxom lass, with
nature’s own rouge glowing on her cheeks; and hand-in-hand these two sat
down, and hand-in-hand they quenched their thirst out of the same mug,
the beverage tasting all the more like nectar for this sweet communion
of lips.

Presently a pursy gentleman waddled into the garden, his respiration so
laborious that you could hear him from afar, and dropped heavily down
upon the same bench where Moida and Walburga were seated. To judge by
his appearance you would have declared there was not a spark of
sentiment in his whole composition; he looked to be a sheer mass of
beer-drenched humanity. Yet this was wide, wide of the truth. Herr Wurst
was organist of the cathedral, was passionately fond of poetry, and knew
by heart every song of the Minnesingers. In short, he was a Bavarian
every inch of him, and never was so much soul hidden in a sausage.

And thus on, on the people came, all jovial, all orderly, and to look at
them you might have fancied they had not a care or trouble in the world.
Then by and by the music commenced. ’Twas a waltz from Strauss, and the
corpulent organist, who knew our young friends—for they both sang in his
choir—danced thrice round the platform with each; and the baby in
swaddling-clothes lay upon the bench like a little Stoic while its daddy
and mammy whirled round too; and the buxom lass and the soldier likewise
danced—danced so hard, threw such life into their motions, that when at
length they paused to give their hearts a rest you might have thought
they had been out in a shower of rain.

“How often dear Ulrich and I have enjoyed ourselves here!” spoke Moida,
when she and Walburga were once more seated over their beer-mugs. “I do
believe we once danced a whole hour without stopping. And oh! how sweet
it was to coo and whisper our love to each other while we flew round.
Why, I don’t think I knew what life was till I became his betrothed.”

“Well, I hope you each had a glass of your own to sip the beer from,”
remarked Walburga, smiling.

“No indeed; we went halves in everything. And now—just think—we are soon
going to be married! And you too. O Walburga! Walburga!”

The latter, who was still under the radiant influence of hope, and who
seemed to feel anew the warm touch of Conrad’s lips, cried: “Yes, yes,
my future is bright, and I will prove by my devotion to him how grateful
I am; and there’ll be no happier husband than Conrad Seinsheim!”

Presently, however, her countenance fell, and in a low, grave tone she
added: “But suppose all this were not to happen? Everything must remain
in doubt and uncertainty till I meet him again, you know.”

“Oh! but he is so full of good sense, so unlike the rest of the world,
that you may dispel all doubt. Conrad is sure to take you—sure,”
answered Moida.

Cheered by these words, Walburga, who was not blest with the same even
temperament as her friend, and who too easily flew from one extreme to
the other, became once more blithe and cheerful, and she proceeded to
speak of Conrad in a strain which their brief acquaintance hardly
justified. But love engenders love; and excited by the thought that she
was loved by him (Walburga had never had a lover before), a tender,
responsive passion now inspired her tongue, and during the rest of the
afternoon even Moida’s high spirits did not soar higher than her own.

“And now,” said Walburga, when the sun was verging near the horizon—“now
let us seek the grove into which my dear nightingale flew; I long to
hear him singing his song in liberty.”

“And making love to some other pretty bird,” returned Moida, as she rose
from the table.

Accordingly, they wended their way back to the park; and in about half
an hour Walburga came to a halt and said: “Here is the spot; just among
these bushes he disappeared.” Then, after listening a moment, she added:
“And that is his voice. Hark!”

“May it not be another nightingale?” observed Moida.

“Well, let us approach softly and try to get a peep at the one that is
now singing; if ’tis mine I’ll know him by a bit of blue ribbon I tied
about his neck.”

Presently they caught a glimpse of the little songster amid the green
leaves, and, by the ribbon he wore, ’twas undoubtedly Walburga’s pet.

“Oh! how glad I am I set him free,” spoke the latter in an undertone, as
if she feared to disturb his roundelay. Then, pointing towards a
neighboring bush: “And look! look! Yonder is his mate.”

Walburga had scarcely breathed these words when the other bird took wing
and perched itself close beside hers. And now the song waxed softer and
more melodious, and a tear glistened in her eye as she gazed upon this
happy scene of love-making.

Presently a rushing, swooping sound was heard; ’twas like a blast of
wild wind, and the girl gave a start. Moida was startled, too, and
wondered what it was. But before either of them could utter a cry or
hasten one step to the rescue, a hawk had pounced upon Walburga’s sweet
warbler and carried him away.

The next three days were anxious ones for Conrad and Walburga. The
former endeavored to beguile his thoughts by watching the work which was
going on at the castle, and spent as much time as possible beside
Ulrich, under whose skilful hand the pristine beauty of the interior of
the tower was fast returning.

Whenever the youth spoke of Moida, Conrad’s face would light up, and he
would exclaim: “Yes, yes, a happy day is coming for her and you and all
of us.” Yet down deep in his heart he felt a strange misgiving. He
remembered the pensive look which more than once had shadowed Walburga’s
countenance whilst they were conversing together; nor did Conrad forget
the tear—the tear he had been so tempted to kiss away. “And there was a
shyness, too, about her which I cannot understand,” he said to himself.
“She seemed afraid to look at me. And when finally I proposed, instead
of answering yes or no she put me off for three long days.”

Conrad’s own temperament, as Moida Hofer had discerned, was not unlike
Walburga’s; and now the thought of waiting this space of time was very
trying to him. At one moment he was full of hope; at another he was
certain that he would be rejected, and then he was plunged in despair.

Yet, singular to relate, when at length the dawn of the third day did
arrive, Conrad was seized with a mysterious impulse not to leave
Loewenstein; and Ulrich, to whom he had opened his heart and confided
all his thoughts, was unable to comfort him and give him courage to
shake off the gloom which had come over his spirits.

“I had a dream last night,” spoke Conrad—“a dream that has wrought on me
a most vivid, painful impression. I believe I shall never get over
it—never!”

“Pray, what was the dream?” inquired Ulrich.

“I thought I was standing on the brink of a river, whose dark waters as
they rolled by me gave forth a moaning, melancholy sound; and ever and
anon along the surface of the flood there passed a human head; and every
face of the many, of the thousands, I saw float by wore traces of pain
and woe, while some were stamped with a sorrow perfectly indescribable.
And, oh! one of these faces”—here Conrad shuddered—“was the face of
Walburga. And she watched me and watched me until she disappeared in the
distance with a mournfulness no human tongue can express. Then when she
was gone I heard a voice cry out: ‘This stream hath its fountain in the
heart of poor humanity; and these waters are all the tears which have
been shed since Paradise was lost.’”

“What a curious dream!” said Ulrich. “But I beg you to forget it. ’Tis
only a dream.”

Walburga, too, was impatient and anxious for the time to fly by. And now
while she sat at her easel waiting for Conrad to appear—’twas the
morning of the day she had named—her heart fluttered at every footstep
that approached. Her countenance was paler than usual, and on it were
marks of grief. Nor ought we to smile at the girl for feeling so acutely
the death of her nightingale; it was such a cruel death, and she had
loved the bird so much. Indeed, it was her very love for it that had
prompted her to set it free. Only for this her pet would still have been
warbling in its cage; now nothing remained of it save a few scattered
feathers.

“Alas! will my heart, perhaps, be torn like his?” she sighed, as she
waited and listened.

But hour after hour went by, and still Conrad did not come; nor did he
show himself at all this day, nor the following day either.

And then Walburga murmured to herself: “Ah! I might have known it would
be so. He has been told by somebody else what I should have let his own
eyes discover. Now I shall see him no more.”

The evening of the sixth day, after having waited for him at the
Pinakothek, but, as before, in vain, the poor girl went her way home,
where she might bow her head on Moida’s breast and silently lament. But
lo! on reaching her humble abode her friend was not to be found—Moida
was gone! On the pin-cushion was found a slip of paper, whereon was
written: “Stay calm, dear Walburga, and trust in me; I’ll be back
to-morrow.” Moida did not reveal that she was gone to Loewenstein to
learn what had become of Conrad Seinsheim.

As changeable in spirits as the one whom he so passionately loved,
Conrad arrived in Munich, his heart ravished with joy at the prospect
before him; for Moida had assured him beyond the shadow of a doubt that
ere the clock struck noon Walburga would be his affianced bride.

“She has been expecting you day after day,” said Moida; “and I can
hardly forgive you for putting her patience to such a trial.”

The day was anything but pleasant; the rain poured down like a deluge,
and the streets were gloomy and deserted. But when there is blue sky in
our heart all the clouds in the heavens cannot shut it out; and so
Conrad did not heed the tempest in the least. At length he reached the
Pinakothek; and when Walburga found him once more by her side, she had
to call forth all her resolution, in order to preserve a mien of calm
and dignity.

Only by a great effort she succeeded; at least her eyes did not stray
from the canvas, and, except for a flush of color which came over the
paleness of her cheek, one might have fancied she was not even aware of
his presence.

“Gracious lady,” began Conrad in faltering accents, “I am come late—very
late, I know. But I hope not too late?”

“Oh! no, sir. I forgive you,” answered Walburga, with a smile which at
once doubly assured him that the happy moment was indeed close at hand.
“But pray be patient yet a little while,” she added, “and watch well
what I am about to do; ’tis the finishing touch to my picture.”

“Your beautiful picture!” ejaculated Conrad. “How I long to see it
hanging in Loewenstein Castle.”

And now, while Walburga went on with her brush, he fell into attentive
silence. But he said within himself: “Only for what Miss Hofer has told
me of you, of your kind heart, I should set you down as the cruelest of
mortals for keeping me in a fever of suspense during such an age as a
single minute.”

Presently Conrad’s expression became one of amazement, and, quite unable
to contain himself, he exclaimed, “Why, what are you doing?”

But without making any response the girl continued her work; and her
hand was wonderfully steady, considering that Conrad’s trial, great as
it was, was not greater than her own. Nay, the agony of waiting was
tenfold more poignant for her than for him.

In a few minutes she had finished, and then again he cried out, this
time loud enough to be heard in the main gallery: “Why, why do you
disfigure your _chef d’œuvre_ by a hideous birthmark?”

With a tremor and cheek white as death Walburga here let her brush fall,
then abruptly cut short Conrad’s exclamations of regret at what she had
done by saying:

“Pray listen, sir; I am about to answer the solemn question you put to
me a week ago.” But before going further she paused a moment, perhaps to
smother a wail of anguish that was ready to burst from her lips; and
while she paused Conrad leaned towards her to catch the coming words,
and you might have heard the beating of his heart. Then Walburga spoke:
“My response, sir, is—No!”

There are times in life when we scarce can put faith in what our ears
plainly tell us; to Conrad Seinsheim this was such a time. His
expression when these words reached him, it were impossible to describe;
he stood like one petrified.

In another moment, with astonishment, and wrath, and grief struggling
madly in his breast, he turned and hastened out of the Pinakothek; and
as he went, oh! bitterly did he curse the hour, the fatal hour, when he
first laid eyes on this beautiful but utterly heartless and deceiving
woman.

O Conrad, Conrad, Conrad! why didst thou not stay thy rash flight an
instant—only an instant—and give Walburga one other glance? Hadst thou
done this, we verily believe, nay, we are certain, thy flashing eyes
would have softened to tenderness and pity.

For at the sound of thy departing steps she turned round towards thee,
and her face was as the face thou sawest in thy dream. But destiny
shaped it otherwise: thou didst not pause, and Walburga floated down the
dark stream, away from thee for ever and for ever.

Ulrich retired to rest, the night which closed the stormy day when
Conrad went to Munich, in a very happy mood. Not only did he believe
himself on the high-road to success, for Conrad had promised to find him
steady employment, but the absence of his benefactor made the youth
confident that Walburga had put an end to his suspense by giving him a
favorable answer. “Yes, Conrad told me that if she accepted him I need
not expect him back till to-morrow, or the day after at the very
soonest.”

Nor even when five days elapsed, and the owner of the castle still
remained absent, did Ulrich think it strange. “I am sure,” he said to
himself, “I didn’t leave my Moida’s side for five days after we were
betrothed—no indeed.”

But why none of them dropped him a line to impart the glad tidings did
surprise him a little; Moida, at least, might have written two words.
Finally, a letter did come from Moida, but it brought anything save good
news; and when the poor fellow had read it through he sank down on the
grass near the ancient tombstone and wept bitterly.

When this day closed Loewenstein was quite deserted, except by Caro, the
aged poodle, who wandered all about the dusky ruin, whining and
wondering what had become of his master. Yet, cheerless as Loewenstein
was this evening and many an evening afterwards, ’twas less cheerless
than the erewhile happy home in Fingergasse.

But Conrad Seinsheim knew naught of this; he believed all the grief, all
the lamentations, to be his own. And, indeed, he suffered much. From
hateful Munich he sped away he did not care whither: to Nuremberg, to
Dresden, to Prague—on, on he travelled, half distracted; until by and
by, after three weeks of aimless, feverish wandering—his heart spoke to
him and said: “Thou hast been hasty; return to the Pinakothek and ask
Walburga once more to be thy spouse.” And Conrad listened to the voice
of his heart and went back.

Three weeks have passed away since Walburga pronounced that doomful
No—only three weeks. Yet what changes may be wrought in this brief space
of time! Is yonder haggard visage moving through the Pinakothek the
visage of Conrad Seinsheim?

Yes, it is he; and how his deep-sunken eyes glow as he draws nigh to the
spot where hangs Carlo Dolce’s picture of Innocence! Like sparks out of
a tomb they seem.

But she whom Conrad is looking for is gone. “Pray tell me,” he said,
addressing one of the _custodes_—“tell me where is the young lady who
was copying this painting a few weeks since. Is she anywhere in the
gallery?”

“She is dead, sir,” answered the other, quietly tapping a little black
box with his knuckles and taking out a pinch of snuff; “and she is to be
buried to-day.”

“Dead!” repeated Conrad, starting back. “Dead!”

In another moment he was hastening with winged feet to the God’s-acre.
And as he sped along the streets, every merry laugh that reached his
ears sounded like a dismal croak; and the sky overhead, albeit never so
cloudless and bright, seemed to shadow every object like a vast funeral
pall.

How bitterly did Conrad now reproach himself for the rash words he had
uttered when he saw Walburga tracing the birthmark on her picture!

“Fool, fool, fool that I was! I should have divined in an instant what
she thus meant to convey to me, and I should have answered: ‘Even so,
dear girl, I will take thee and cherish thee!’”

When Conrad reached the Leichen-Haus[107] the funeral bell was already
tolling—the Leichen-Haus, whose ghastliness cannot be dissipated by all
the bright-burning tapers and garlands of sweet-scented flowers which
surround the dead. Breathless he turned to the sheet of paper posted by
the doorway, whereon are written the names and station in life of those
who are to be buried; and breathless he read the names.

Walburga’s stood third on the list, and, as coffin number two was just
passing out of the building, Conrad saw that he was not more than in
time. He pushed his way through the crowd, and in another moment found
himself beside Walburga. She was the only one of the departed who
retained any look of life about her; you might almost have fancied she
was blushing at the curious eyes which were staring upon her, as she lay
still and motionless in the narrow box, and that she heard them
whispering, “How handsome she would have been, except for that ugly
birthmark!”

We need not tell what Conrad felt at this moment; those who noticed him
nudged one another, and said in undertones:

“Her lover, perhaps. Poor fellow!”

Not many followed Walburga to her last resting-place; for she had been
of a retiring nature, and had kept much to herself and her one devoted
friend. There might have been five or six persons in all who saw her
lowered into the grave; and among the few who sprinkled holy water upon
her there was Conrad Seinsheim. As he did so an inner voice whispered to
him and said: “Walburga is near thee; she sees thee; she is immortal and
happy for ever.”

Then, when the last clod of earth had been well packed down by the
grave-digger’s spade, Conrad turned away to seek Moida Hofer. Ulrich
accompanied him, and when they gained the high-up chamber where Walburga
had lived so many peaceful years, they found Moida standing beside a
table on which lay _Master Eckart_ and Blessed Henry Suso’s _Little Book
of Eternal Wisdom_, an empty bird-cage, and a tress of golden hair.

“She loved you truly,” spoke the girl, looking at Conrad through her
tears. “She told me so; they were almost her last words to me.”

“Oh! I know it now, but, alas! too late. She is gone!” replied Conrad;
and the word gone sounded through the room with long-drawn pathos. ’Twas
as if his voice had passed the word on to other voices, who kept
repeating: “Gone! gone! gone!”

Here Moida and Ulrich fell to weeping; and when by and by they uncovered
their faces, they were surprised to find that Conrad had disappeared. He
must indeed have glided away like a spirit, for neither of them had
heard his footstep; and, to their further wonder, the sunshiny curl had
vanished too.

“How strangely things turn out!” spoke Moida to her betrothed one
evening, as they were seated side by side at the foot of Loewenstein
tower, watching the sun go down.

“Strangely, strangely!” answered Ulrich.

“Poor Conrad!” went on Moida. “Had he come back only a few days
sooner—and he came with the full intention of proposing again—if he had
arrived even one day before the saddest of all the days I have known,
Walburga might have lived.”

To this the youth made no response; he could not speak, and his tears
set Moida weeping again; while old Caro, who perceived that his mistress
was in sorrow, let droop his head, and his tail ceased to wag. Presently
the sun disappeared. But still in the twilight the lovers remained
thinking of the past.

By and by a voice was heard singing within the tower, and after
listening a moment and sighing, “Poor, poor Conrad!” Moida rose up and
peeped through the lowest of the grated windows. Ulrich did the same,
and what did they behold? Wrapped in a long, flowing gown, and pacing
round and round the room, was Conrad Seinsheim. Yet not everybody would
have recognized him; for his hair, which now reached down to his
shoulders, was turned quite gray, and so was his beard, and you might
have taken him for an aged man.

The song he was singing was one full of tenderness and love; and ever
and anon Conrad would pause and listen, and press to his lips a lock of
sunny hair.

Then suddenly, like a person who hears an answering voice, his ghostlike
visage would glow with rapture, and you might have fancied he had caught
a vision of heaven.

“Really, I sometimes think Conrad is not mad at all,” observed Moida
solemnly. “At this moment I do believe he sees dear Walburga. Look!
look! He is beckoning!”

“It may be so,” returned Ulrich. “At any rate, he is infinitely happier,
judging by his expression and his songs, than many a man who is not
mad.”

“Well, I’ll not say ‘Poor Conrad!’ any more,” added Moida. “For I verily
believe he knows Walburga is ever hovering near him; nay, that at times
he actually sees her. There, look again! look! How he smiles! And his
outstretched hands may indeed be clasping hers now, albeit they are
invisible to you and me.”

Here there was a brief silence, after which Ulrich remarked, “I am very
pleased, my love, that you keep the little lamp so nicely trimmed before
the image of our Blessed Mother: for the image belonged to Walburga.
See, now Conrad is praying before it.”

“Oh! ’tis not I who trims the light,” replied Moida. “Conrad takes
entire charge of the shrine; I merely bring him oil and tapers.”

“But, darling,” continued Ulrich somewhat abruptly, and with a look of
seriousness, “if Conrad’s mysterious condition last much longer ’twill
plunge us into still greater difficulties; will it not? Why, already all
your slender means have been swallowed up, as well as the few florins I
had, in paying off the swarm of laborers who were employed upon this
ruin. Now all work is stopped, and ’twill be a bitter cold place to
spend the coming winter in. Yet what can we do? We must surely stay by
Conrad, for he was extremely generous to you and me; and if we abandoned
him in this dark hour ’twould be very cruel.”

“Ay, let us prove his stanch friends, now that he is unable to help
himself,” answered the girl, brushing away a tear.

“Well, if he could only sleep he might grow better,” pursued Ulrich.

“Our kind friend hasn’t closed his eyes in ever so many nights,” said
Moida. “Nor does he take enough nourishment to keep another person from
starvation. In fact, his condition is exceedingly mysterious. An inward
fire seems to be consuming him; you can see it shooting out of his eyes;
but still on he lives—on and on; apparently happy, too, withered to a
skeleton though he is.”

“Ay, what can keep good Conrad alive?” said Ulrich.

“Might it be that Walburga’s spirit feeds him?” spake Moida, in an
awe-stricken whisper.

Here the subject of their remarks rose up from his knees and began again
to sing:

    “Und weil es nicht ist auszusagen,
      Weil’s Lieben ganz unendlich ist,
    So magst du meine Augen fragen,
      Wie lieb du mir in Herzen bist!”[108]

When the song, of which we have given but a stanza, was ended, Caro
uttered a melancholy howl that awakened the echoes far up the mountain
and set the owls in the ruin hooting; then following his mistress, who
passed into the tower to make sure that Conrad’s door was properly
fastened for the night, the old dog curled himself up on a rug and was
soon asleep.

Moida, however, went out again to spend a half-hour more with her
betrothed, watching the stars and wondering what fate was in store for
herself and him.

“If these stones could only speak, what tales they’d tell!” observed
Ulrich, after she had nestled down beside him and flung half her shawl
about his shoulders, for the air was rather chilly.

“Yes, very interesting stories no doubt,” returned Moida. “They’d tell
us of many a brave knight and fair lady, of many a pageant and
tournament. But remember, dear boy, what I have often said to you:
beware of dwelling on those dead and buried days. And I, too, must
beware; for, do you know, since I am here I occasionally feel myself
drifting into a dreamy state, and I might almost fancy this ruin is
enchanted and that it has thrown a spell over me. But believe me,
Ulrich, believe me, the past is past and can never, never come back.
Whatever your forefathers were, however wealthy and noble and
powerful—some of them even placed kings on the throne—you, at least,
must toil to win your daily bread; and I mean to help you. Therefore be
of stout heart and look only to the future. And even if we have to live
like these owls we will marry some time or other; and happy days are in
store for us yet.”

Moida had scarcely spoken these words when she and her betrothed were
startled by a loud, wailful cry which seemed to proceed from Conrad’s
chamber. Nor can we wonder that it made them both spring to their feet;
for not once since poor Seinsheim had been confined had he wept a tear
or uttered a single lamentation. Yet ’twas undoubtedly his voice they
had just heard. But what could have wrought this sudden change in him?

In another moment they were within the tower. Then Moida with trembling
hand turned the key of his door and entered, followed closely by Ulrich.

“O Moida! Moida!” cried Conrad, as she advanced toward him, “why did you
wake me? Why did you not let me sleep on? ’Twas a celestial vision I
had—oh! celestial. But, alas! now I am awake—stark awake; and now it all
comes back to me—all, all. She is dead! dead! dead!”

Here he burst into a paroxysm of grief, and uttered anew the shriek of
woe which had been heard a minute before.

“I do believe his reason is restored,” whispered the girl, turning to
her betrothed.

“Oh! let us thank God,” answered Ulrich.

“Conrad, dear, good Conrad,” spoke Moida, now gently taking his hand in
hers, “you have been living indeed in a vision for many days past; but
now you appear to be yourself again. So do not mourn; rather kneel and
pray, and I will pray with you, and so will Ulrich. Let us offer thanks
to God for your happy recovery.”

“Well, yes, I will pray—pray to be taken where Walburga is,” answered
Conrad, in a somewhat calmer tone, yet still weeping bitterly. “O Moida!
if you only knew how happy I have been. Why, blessed Walburga was near
me all the while; and every time I sang she responded in a strain such
as only angel lips can breathe. But now—now her face has disappeared,
her voice is silent—she is gone! O Moida! if my blissful vision was
madness, then would to God I had stayed mad!”

“Well, dear friend, Walburga is no doubt in heaven, and I believe she
does often hover round you; for she loves you, and knows that you love
her; and I am confident nothing would so rejoice her soul as to have you
pray—to see you back once more in the faith of your youth. On her dying
bed this was her ardent hope. Oh! do, do.”

“I am what I used to be in my early years,” replied Conrad, a glad smile
lighting up his wan face. “I am, indeed. Blessed Walburga led me
back—and— But hark! She is calling me! Hark! Hark!”

Here Conrad sank slowly to his knees, while an expression came over him
which filled the other two with alarm. Then Ulrich, without losing a
moment, hastened with all speed to the monastery for a priest. The path
down the mountain was a difficult one, especially at this hour. On the
way back the good father and Ulrich might have gone astray and arrived
too late, but for their meeting a man with a lantern, who offered to
light them up the rugged ascent.

Nigh unto death as he was, Conrad’s soul lingered yet an hour in its
mortal tenement—a long enough time for him to be shriven and to receive
the last sacrament of the church; after which the man with the
lantern—and who, by a happy providence, turned out to be the village
notary—drew up in brief words Conrad’s will and testament, whereby
Loewenstein Castle, and all his other property besides, was bequeathed
to Ulrich.

“And now, ere I depart hence,” spoke Conrad in a voice barely loud
enough to be heard, and placing Moida’s hand in the hand of her
betrothed, “let me see you joined in matrimony. Ay, let the holy bond be
made right here by my couch, and do thou, reverend father, pronounce
them man and wife.”

Such a ceremony at such a time and place the latter had never yet
performed. But so urgent was Conrad’s appeal to have it done on the
spot, without an instant’s delay, that he overcame a little scruple.

Then, just as Conrad’s immortal part was winging its flight, Moida, the
patient, faithful Moida, who had waited so long for this golden moment
to arrive, found herself the bride of her own dear Ulrich; and like a
bright rainbow illumining a rain-beaten landscape, a gleam of joy, great
joy, shone through her tears, and never before was happiness so
strangely blended with sorrow as here in this chamber of death.

Then, kneeling down side by side, Moida and Ulrich breathed a prayer for
the repose of the soul of him who had been so very good to them. And may
we not hope that near them at that solemn moment was the soul of
Walburga, greeting the spirit of the one whom she loved, and ready to be
his guide in the dark, dismal region which Conrad had still to pass
through ere he came to the home of the blest?

END.

Footnote 107:

  A building in the Munich cemetery to which all are taken immediately
  after death—no exception, save for the royal family.

Footnote 108:

  Words by Jean Paul.

        “And as ’tis not for tongue to tell,
           For love knows naught of time or space,
         So diving down my eyes’ deep well,
           Find graven on my heart thy face.”

                          DANTE’S PURGATORIO.
                      TRANSLATED BY T. W. PARSONS.
                           CANTO SEVENTEENTH.

      Now, that thy mind with more expanded powers
    May conceive this, give _me_ thy mind, nor shun
      To reap some harvest from this halt of ours.

     Bethink thee, reader, if thou e’er hast been
    Among the Alps o’ertaken by a cloud,
      Through which all objects were as blindly seen
    As moles behold things through their visual shroud;
      How, as the vapors dank and thick begin
    To thin themselves, the solar sphere’s faint ray
      Scarce pierces them,—and readily may’st thou
    Conceive (when first I saw it) in what way
      To me the sun looked that was setting now.
    From such a cloud, and following as I went
      My master’s faithful steps with even pace,
    I came to where the day’s last rays were spent
      On the low border of the mountain’s base.

    O gift imaginative! that dost so
      Of ourselves rob us, that oft-times a man
    Heeds not though round him thousand trumpets blow!
      If thee sense move not, whence the power that can?
    A light moves thee, Heaven-kindled, that doth flow
      By will divine directed, or its own.
    My fancy with her fury was engrossed
      Who took the shape of that sweet bird[109] well known
    To be of his own song enamored most;
      And here my mind was in itself so chained
    That it received no object from outside.
      Then into my high fantasy there rained
    The image of a person crucified,[110]
      Fierce in his aspect, with a face of hate,—
    And in this look despitefully he died.
      Round him there stood Ahasuerus great,
    Esther, his spouse, and Mordecai the true,
      Of whose just word just action still was mate.
    And, as this image from my mind withdrew,
      Of itself breaking, as a bubble does,
    Failing the water under which it grew,
      A damsel[111] weeping on my vision rose,
    Moaning aloud and crying: “Why, O queen!
      Hast thou through anger wished thyself undone?
    Not to lose thy Lavinia, thou hast ta’en
      Thy life and lost me! Mother, I am one
    Doomed to mourn thee before a husband slain!”

      Even as our slumber, when a flash of light
    A sleeper’s eyes doth suddenly confront,
      Is broken, quivering ere it dieth quite;
    So fell my vision, as a beam past wont
      In its excess of splendor smote my sight.
    I turned to see where ’twas I had been brought,
      When a voice called to me: “Climb here the hill!”
    This put all other purpose from my thought,
      And gave such eagerness unto my will
    Of him who counselled thus to mark the mien,
      As rests not wholly satisfied until
    Face unto face the speaker may be seen.
      And, as one sees not the sun’s figure clear,
    Through light’s great superflux that blinds our gaze,
      So was my visual virtue wanting here.
    “This is a heavenly spirit” (Virgil says),
      “That with his splendor veils him from thine eye,
    And guides us our way up, nor waits for prayer.
      He does by us as men _would_ be done by;
    For who sees need, and doth, till asked, forbear,
      Already seems ill-purposed to deny.
    Such invitation let our feet obey!
      Haste we to mount before the darkness grow,
    For then we could not till return of day.”
      So spake my leader: I beside him slow
    Pacing, we bended toward a stair our way;
      And, as my foot the first ascension pressed,
    I felt a movement near me as of wings
      Fanning my face, and then a voice said: “Blest
    Are the peacemakers! them no _bad_ wrath stings.”
      Already overhead the sun’s last rays
    Were so uplifted, followed by the night,
      That round us many a star began to blaze.
    And, as I felt my body’s waning might,
      “Why dost thou fail me, O my strength?” I said:
    But having come now where we climbed no more,
      On the stair’s brink we ceased our toilsome tread,
    Fixed as a vessel that arrives at shore.
      I stopped awhile, and waited as to hear
    In this new circle aught perchance of sound;
      Then thus addressed my lord: “My Father dear!
    Say, what offence is punished in this round?
      Stay not thy speech although thy feet are stayed.”
    “The love of good,” thus Virgil me bespoke,
      “Wherein deficient here is perfect made;
    Here the slow oar receives amending stroke.
      But that thy mind with more expanded powers
    May conceive this, give _me_ thy mind, nor shun
      To reap some harvest from this halt of ours.

    “Never creator”[112] (he began), “my son,
      Was without love; nor anything create;
    Either love natural, or that nobler one
      Born of the mind; thou know’st the truth I state.
    Natural love ne’er takes erroneous course;
      Through ill-directed aim the other may,
    Or from excess, or from a want of force.
      While o’er its bent the Primal Good hath sway,
    While with due check it seeks the inferior good,
      It cannot be the source of wrong delight.
    But when it swerves to ill, or if it should
      Seek good with more or less zeal than is right,
    Against the maker doth his work rebel.
      Whence may’st thou[113] comprehend how love in you
    Must of all virtue be the seed, as well
      As of each action to which pain is due.
    Now since love must look ever towards its own
      Subjects’ well-being, things are from self-hate
    Saved; and since naught can be supposed alone
      To exist, from the First Being separate,
    Hatred of Him is also spared to men.[114]
      Remains (if rightly I divide, I say)
    The ill that’s loved must be a neighbor’s then,
      And in three modes this love springs in your clay.
    One, through the crushing of his fellow, fain
      Would come to eminence, with sole desire
    His greatness o’er that other’s to maintain.
      One at another’s rising feareth loss
    Of power, fame, favor, and his own good name;
      So sickens, joying in his neighbor’s cross.
    And there is one whom wrong so weighs with shame,
      That greed of vengeance doth his heart engross;
    And such must needs work evil for his brother.
      This threefold _bad_ love those mourn here below:
    Now I would have thee learn about another,
      Which runs to good but doth no measure know.
    All vaguely apprehend a good wherein
    The soul may rest itself; and all men woo
      This imaged good, and seek its peace to win.
    To look thereon if _languid_ love[115] draw you,
      Or ye be slow to seek it, such a sin,
    After meet penitence, on this round ye rue.
      There is another good,[116] but far from bliss!
    Nor makes man happy: it is not the true
      Essence, of all good fruit the root: To this
    The love which too much doth itself resign
      Is mourned for in three cornices above;
    But _how_ tripartite[117] I will not define;
      Thou shalt, by seeing, learn about _that_ love”.

Footnote 109:

  “Who took the shape of that sweet bird.” Reference is here made to the
  story of Procne, wife of Tereus, King of Thrace, and sister of
  Philomela. To revenge herself on her husband, Procne murdered their
  child, Itys, cut him into pieces, and served up the flesh to the
  father. Tereus, discovering the truth, pursued and was on the point of
  overtaking her when, at her prayer, she was changed by the gods into a
  nightingale, and her sister Philomela into a swallow, according to
  Probus, Libanius, and Strabo.—_Purg._ ix. 15.

Footnote 110:

  This is Haman, who was _hanged_ upon the gallows that he had prepared
  for Mordecai, as we read in the Book of Esther; but Dante’s word is
  _crocifisse_.

Footnote 111:

  “A damsel,” etc. This was Lavinia, daughter of King Latinus and Amata.
  Lavinia had been secretly promised in marriage by her mother to
  Turnus, King of the Rutuli. The marriage was displeasing to the gods,
  and the oracles declared that Lavinia should marry a foreign prince.
  The foreign prince was Æneas, who, on his arrival in Italy, became the
  friend and ally of Latinus, and won his favor as suitor to Lavinia.
  Turnus thereupon declared war against both, and was killed in battle
  by Æneas. Amata, having been informed prematurely of the death of
  Turnus, and enraged at being unable to prevent the marriage of Lavinia
  with Æneas, hanged herself in despair.

Footnote 112:

  “Never Creator ...” In this passage Virgil explains to Dante the
  nature of love according to the mediæval philosophy, viz., God is
  love. “_Deus caritas est_,” and so are all created things, as derived
  from him. Love in man is natural or rational—that is, of the mind.
  Natural love, or the love towards all things necessary to one’s
  preservation, cannot err. Rational love can err in three ways: first,
  when directed to a bad aim—that is, to evil; secondly, when directed
  excessively to earthly pleasures; thirdly, when directed feebly to
  those things truly worthy of love, the celestial. As long as love
  turns to the Primal Good, the celestial, or seeks with due check the
  inferior, or terrestrial, it cannot be the source of wrong, or sin.
  “But when it swerves to ill,” ... etc.

Footnote 113:

  “Whence may’st thou ...” Love is the source of good works, as of bad
  ones; thus, according to St. Augustine, “_Boni aut mali mores sunt
  boni aut mali amores_.”

Footnote 114:

  “Hatred of Him ...” Love cannot turn against its subjects (viz., men
  cannot hate themselves); and as these subjects cannot exist separate
  from their First Being, they cannot therefore hate God. (Men may deny
  or blaspheme, but not hate, God.) It follows, therefore, that, as no
  _bad_ love can be directed against one’s self or against God, that it
  can only be against one’s neighbor, and this can be in three forms:
  viz., by Pride, or the love of good to ourselves and of evil to
  others; by Envy, or the love of evil to others, without cause of good
  or evil to us; by Anger, or the love of evil to others on account of
  real or imaginary evil to us.

Footnote 115:

  “... Languid love ...” Sloth; indolence to seek the true good, which
  is God.

Footnote 116:

  “There is another good ...”—the love of this world and earthly
  pleasures.

Footnote 117:

  “Tripartite ...”—three other _bad_ loves: Avarice, Gluttony, Lust.

         THE TRACTARIAN MOVEMENT IN ITS RELATION TO THE CHURCH.

A generation has passed away since the beginning of that which is
commonly known as the Tractarian movement in the Church of England; the
early leaders of the little band whose influence has been and still is
felt throughout the length and breadth of the land have, with two
exceptions, gone from among us; the names of Father Newman and Doctor
Pusey are known to all our readers, the one as that of a devoted son of
Holy Church, the other as that of an Anglican still firmly attached to
the cause which he espoused in early life.

Which of these eminent men is to be taken as a fair example of the
results of the movement? What is the tendency of the High-Church party?
Do its doctrines and practices lead people to the Catholic Church or
keep them out of it? Questions like these can hardly fail to occur to
the mind of any intelligent observer of the state of religion in England
in the present day, and on them must chiefly centre the interest of
Catholics in the subject.

The different parties contained in the Church of England give contrary
answers to the questions we have proposed. Low-Church or Evangelical
Anglicans are unanimous in their denunciations of “Puseyism” and
“Ritualism” as the high-road to Rome; some of them even go so far as to
say that the Jesuits are the hidden but real promoters of what they look
upon as a return to the errors and evils swept away by the Reformation.
The High-Church portion of the Church of England is equally earnest and
positive in the assertion that what it calls the revival of Catholic
teaching and Catholic practice does not lead men to Rome, but keeps
them, to use its own language, true to the faith of their baptism.

In face of these conflicting statements we turn to the testimony of
Catholic priests engaged in the work of conversion, and to the personal
experience of converts. We believe that every priest who has experience
in conversions will unhesitatingly endorse the statement that most of
the converts received into the Catholic Church come from the ranks of
the High-Church or Tractarian section of the Anglican communion. Many of
these converts, especially of those who were formerly Anglican
clergymen, have felt it right to lay before the public the motives which
determined them to take a step so serious in its nature and
consequences. We have therefore a considerable number of published
documents to refer to, and the testimony that they bear is in perfect
accordance with that of our priests. The question, however, is not so
easily settled. If you lay these facts before a Ritualist he will at
once assure you that those who have left the Church of England were
weak, or unstable, or impatient, or that they were driven from their
position by the imprudence or fault of others, most probably by the
errors of their bishops. They will, in fact, deny that conversions are
the natural and legitimate result of High-Church teaching, and will
treat them as exceptional cases, to be blamed, indeed, and deplored, but
not to be viewed as indicating a general tendency.

It will therefore be interesting to examine a little into the work of
the High-Church movement, and to judge for ourselves how it bears on the
interests of the church.

We begin at once by admitting that the High-Church party is opposed to
the Catholic Church—deliberately and actively opposed. The language in
which it condemns converts is at least as strong as that in use among
Evangelicals. The principle of private judgment, which furnishes the
convert with an argument unanswerable in the case of his Low-Church
opponent, is not recognized by the High-Churchman, although we do him no
injustice in saying that it underlies his whole course of action. The
High-Churchman’s belief in Anglican orders, coupled with his ignorance
as to the meaning of jurisdiction, enables him to suppose that the
Catholic Church in England is schismatical, and to denounce those who
submit to her authority as guilty of grave, if not of unpardonable, sin.

If, then, the High-Church or Tractarian party does in any sense or to
any degree promote the cause of conversion, or prepare the way for souls
to return to God’s church, we must say that such work is done
unconsciously and involuntarily.

The original principle of the High-Church movement was reverence for
antiquity; it was, in the intention of its leaders, a return to the old
paths. The past has ever had a charm for minds of a certain order; to
those who have not realized the supernatural character of the church,
who have not grasped the great fact that, in virtue of the promise of
her divine Lord and of the power of his Spirit, she is ever the same,
ever preserved from error, ever guided unto all truth, antiquity is a
matter of primary importance. Ignorant of the existing Divine authority,
the Protestant who believes that our Lord founded a church upon earth
goes back to the earliest days of its history; he traces the stream to
its source; he thinks that there it must needs be purest. It may be that
the labor is great, that the study required is beyond the reach of many,
and that, after all, the materials at his command are too often
insufficient, and that he is ultimately compelled to fall back on the
exercise of his private judgment; but in the absence of a living
authority there is nothing that he deems more likely to guide him
aright. The view, we must admit, is from his position perfectly
reasonable, and we may bless God that the reverent and conscientious
study of the past has brought many of the best and most gifted of the
Anglican body to bow their heads in allegiance to the Vicar of Christ;
they have found that the truth they sought is, to use the words of
Moses, not above them nor far off from them, but very nigh unto them.

But the influence of this awakening of reverence for the past has told
upon many who have not joined the Catholic Church; it has even left its
mark on material things. The old churches which our Catholic forefathers
built, wherein they worshipped and beneath whose shadow they rest, have
been restored; through the length and breadth of the country they stand
in their venerable beauty, and seem at once to bear testimony to the
piety of former ages and to await England’s return to the faith.

We believe the High-Church section of the Anglican communion to be
promoting the cause of conversion in several ways.

First, by the valid administration of baptism. High-Church clergymen
know what is essential to the validity of baptism; they believe baptism
to be a sacrament and necessary to salvation, and consequently they are
very careful in instructing their people as to its importance and in
giving it properly. In former days, and in the case of ministers who did
not believe that baptism really affected the eternal salvation of an
infant, there is reason to fear that there was an immense amount of
neglect. By baptism, as we know, the habit of faith is implanted in the
soul, and accordingly in converts from Anglicanism we often find a
wonderful power of grasping the truths of the Catholic religion; as soon
as a doctrine is presented to them the mind seems at once to respond to
it; faith is there, as it is in the soul of the baptized child.

Most of the doctrines of the Catholic Church are preached and taught by
the High-Church clergy with more or less distinctness; and here we must
observe that in speaking of the High-Church or ritualistic body we are
compelled to use terms whose signification is somewhat vague. The Church
of England may be said to contain three different schools of opinion,
High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church; but no one of these has any
definite standard. Among those who are called, and who would call
themselves, High-Churchmen there are many varieties and shades of
opinion; the writings or sermons of one High-Church clergyman may, of
course, be disavowed by another. Up to the present time Dr. Pusey, who
more than any other man might seem to have been a leader, does not feel
it necessary to adopt the ritual for which some of his disciples are so
earnestly contending. All that we can, therefore, hope to do is to give
a general idea of High-Church and ritualistic teaching, premising that
on most points there is more or less divergence amongst the teachers.

It is not surprising that many of those who look back to the past for
guidance and instruction should have come to view the so-called
Reformation with regret. The ordinary Protestant boldly declares it to
have been a necessity, but many High-Churchmen openly deplore it; they
repudiate the name of Protestant, and, in defiance at once of history
and of etymology, call themselves Catholics. There is something,
however, in a name, and we may fairly believe that the disavowal of the
epithet Protestant tends to educate people out of the idea of
protesting; it is certainly true that if the Church of England ceases to
be Protestant, she cuts the very ground from under her feet, and
abolishes her only plausible _raison d’être_; but the English mind, with
all its good qualities, is not, generally speaking, logical, and words
are too often used without a very accurate idea of their derivation or
import.

Those Catholic doctrines which have been most fiercely opposed and most
grossly misrepresented in England are now openly and earnestly
inculcated. We may almost say that the conflict is gradually being
narrowed to the one subject of the authority of the Holy See and the
questions immediately depending on it. For the High-Church Anglican
believes that our Lord founded a church; he professes to take that
church as his guide, though he strangely persuades himself that its
authority is at present in abeyance. He would obey the voice of a
general council, but in order to have a general council it is absolutely
necessary that his bishops should take part in the deliberations; in the
expectation of an impossible conjuncture of circumstances he practically
disobeys every one who in the meantime claims his allegiance.

But a vast amount of Catholic teaching is, as we have said, finding its
way into the minds and hearts of Englishmen; Catholic practices and
devotions are being revived, the way is being prepared for the church.
There is a wonderful connection between the different doctrines of our
holy faith; the soul that earnestly and devoutly believes one truth is,
if we may so speak, predisposed to believe the next that may be
presented to it, and this not only from a reasonable perception of the
beauty, the fitness, and the mutual relations of the different truths,
but from the habit of mind which is produced and cultivated by acts of
faith. Each act of faith contains or implies an act of homage to the
truth of God; the soul that worships is on the way to receive fuller
light.

We have in a former paper[118] dwelt at some length on the subject of
confession in the Church of England; we have shown that it is habitually
practised by a considerable number of earnest Anglicans, and that it is
publicly urged upon people by some of the clergy as the ordinary remedy
for post-baptismal sin. It is quite certain that confession is believed
in very much more widely than it is practised. The most extreme of
Anglicans cannot possibly maintain that the Church of England requires
it of every one; to the majority of people, especially if early habit
has not facilitated the practice, there can be no doubt that it is
painful and difficult. We therefore often find persons who thoroughly
believe that the English clergy possess the power of the keys, and yet
never themselves seek for the benefit of absolution. The matter is left
quite optional, or rather the penitent is to be judge in his own case,
and to decide whether he does or does not require this special means of
grace. The scanty utterances of the _Book of Common Prayer_ seem to
imply that peace of mind is the principal object to be attained by
confession. If, therefore, an Anglican can “quiet his own conscience,”
he is quite justified in doing so without any extraneous aid; and,
indeed, in so doing he would seem to be carrying out the intention of
the framers of the Prayer-Book.

The doctrine of the Real Presence is perhaps the one which has taken the
deepest root in the mind of advanced Anglicans. We might multiply
extracts from their books of devotion and instruction conveying the
Catholic faith on this point in its completeness. Our prayer-books,
especially the _Golden Manual_ and the _Garden of the Soul_, are largely
used. Many Catholic books of devotion have been translated for
Anglicans, and, although most of the translations are more or less
spoiled by a process of adaptation, in many of them the doctrine of the
Holy Eucharist is unimpaired. The _Lauda Sion_, the _Pange Lingua_, and
the _Rythma_ of St. Thomas are preserved and faithfully translated. Nor
is the teaching confined to words; the meaning of the ritual, of which
we hear so much in the present day, is to be found in the belief in the
Presence of our Lord which it expresses and inculcates. The so-called
altars of many Anglican churches are decked with flowers; the crucifix
stands upon them; lights are burned; the clergy wear vestments like
those used in the church; celebrations of the communion are
multiplied—it is made the central act of worship; fasting communion is
insisted on; confession is recommended as the fitting preparation for
communion. A confraternity has been founded with the name of the
Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, and with the object of promoting
the devotion which naturally flows from a belief in the Real Presence of
our Lord. Attendance of non-communicants at the communion service is in
many churches recommended and encouraged, and devotions for such
worshippers have been published. Incense and music are employed in the
service; chancels are richly adorned. In some chapels communion is
reserved, and a rite, evidently imitated from the Catholic Benediction
of the Blessed Sacrament, is practised.

Ritualists have also learned to invoke Our Lady and the saints. Fifty
years ago Keble wrote:

    “Ave Maria! Thou whose name
    All but adoring love may claim!”

and now the _Angelus_ and the _Memorare_, the Little Office of the
Blessed Virgin and the Rosary, are in use in the English Church. The
saints are honored and their intercession is sought. Extreme Unction is
considered to be a lesser sacrament, and sick persons are anointed. The
dead are prayed for in the touching and beautiful words which holy
church puts into the mouths of her children.

It is needless to say that the doctrine of apostolic succession is most
firmly maintained by High-Churchmen. Not only are the Catholic doctrines
which have furnished the chief mark for Protestant hostility and the
principal subjects of misrepresentation now maintained and inculcated,
but others which, without being formally contradicted, have been
obscured and neglected are now brought forward with a clearness which
leaves little to be desired. The Catholic devotions to the Sacred Heart,
to the Holy Child, to the Incarnation, Passion, and Resurrection of our
Lord, cannot fail to make those who use them enter more and more into
the great mystery which lies at the very foundation of the Christian
faith.

Moreover, the idea of duty, of conscience, of a work to be done in the
sanctification of one’s own soul, is constantly kept before the mind.
Daily self-examination is part of the rule of life. The fasts of the
church are observed often, indeed, with a severity greater than that
required by the church, but natural among those who have no guide save
their own conscience for the details of their practice. Her sacred
feasts are also kept, and thus our separated brethren have some share in
the holy teaching which each season of the ecclesiastical year impresses
on the heart. During the Holy Week which has just passed the _Tenebræ_
were sung in many ritualistic churches. On Good Friday the Three Hours’
Agony was preached in several places, the Reproaches were sung, and a
devotion somewhat resembling that of the Stations of the Cross was
practised. On Easter day the communion was celebrated as early as five
o’clock and repeated several times. The histories of the saints are
being made familiar to people’s minds. The literature of Ritualism might
of itself furnish the subject of an interesting study. The _Imitation of
Christ_ is one of the most familiar books of piety, and among the books
adapted from Catholic sources are the _Spiritual Combat_, many of the
works of Fénelon and Bossuet, Rodriguez, Courbon, Pinart, Avrillon, and
other spiritual and ascetic writers. Faber’s hymns are constantly sung
in churches. _The Catechism of Christian Doctrine_, with some
variations, is in the hands of the children of Ritualists. The Catholic
Breviary has furnished the material for the day and night Hours used in
many of the religious houses, and the very prayers of the Mass have been
interwoven in the Anglican Office for Communion. An ample supply of
juvenile literature places the doctrines of which we have spoken in an
attractive form before the minds of children. Catholic pictures are to
be seen everywhere. Several newspapers and magazines are devoted to the
publication and discussion of matters relating to the interests of the
High-Church party.

A very important feature in the revival of the last thirty years is the
foundation of religious houses in the Church of England. There are now
upwards of thirty Anglican convents, in which women lead a life of
seclusion and devote themselves to the practice of works of charity and
piety; they are in many cases bound by vows and live in obedience to
authority. A few communities of men also exist. These Anglican religious
call themselves monks and nuns, and wear a dress unlike that of secular
persons. They keep the canonical hours of prayer, they give up all
earthly ties, and their rule is in some cases taken from one of those
originally framed by a saint and sanctioned by the church.

Retreats and missions more or less resembling our own are given by some
of the Anglican clergy. We have recently heard that in a place where the
conversion of some of the clergy seemed likely to be followed by that of
a considerable body of their congregation, a retreat has been given with
the special object of settling the minds of the waverers in their
allegiance to the Church of England.

After all that we have said it will not surprise our readers to hear
that people are often received into the church who thoroughly believe
every Catholic doctrine, and, on making their submission, have no
difficulty to surmount and nothing new to learn.

Prejudices are being dispelled; an interest in that body which has ever
held the doctrines now recovered by Anglicans has been awakened. On
their own principles High-Church people who go abroad feel bound to
attend Catholic churches; the Catholic religion is better understood
than it used to be, our ceremonies are imitated, our works of charity
and devotion appreciated.

A work, then, is being done by that party in the Church of England
commonly known as the Tractarian or High-Church party. Its influence has
reached many whom we could not have hoped to reach. It has put many in a
position where they are accessible to conversion. It has taught many
souls the need and the value of sacraments. It has awakened a hunger and
thirst whose ultimate satisfaction is only to be found in the church. It
has trained souls to habits of self-examination, of self-denial, of
earnestness, of meditation, and of generosity. It has, we may trust,
kept many from ever falling into grievous sin; and while we are of
course unable to admit the validity of Anglican orders, and consequently
of sacraments dependent on such orders, we rejoice to think that what
the devout soul believes to be a sacramental communion may prove a
spiritual communion and be a means of grace and blessing.

Can we, then, as Catholics hold out the right hand of fellowship to
those Anglicans who believe so much of Catholic doctrine, and who would
fain persuade us that they have a right to the name we bear? Can we bid
them God-speed and wish them success? Alas! we cannot. Whilst we
appreciate their self-denying labors, whilst we admire their devotion
and believe that the grace of God is leading them on to better things,
we are constantly and sadly reminded that as yet they are in schism,
that they are defying or ignoring the authority which in the name of
Christ claims their obedience.

The opposition to the church is a feature of the very advanced party
which we cannot overlook; it is impossible to say how many souls its
influence has kept out of God’s church. The means used to hinder the
work of conversion are various and too often successful. We began by the
statement that most of our converts come from the ranks of Ritualism,