[Transcriber's notes]
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This text includes Volume II;
Number 7—October 1865
Number 8—November 1865
Number 9—December 1865
Number 10—January 1866
Number 11—February 1866
Number 12—March 1866
[End Transcriber's notes]

THE CATHOLIC WORLD.
A
Monthly Eclectic Magazine
OF
GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.

VOL. II.
OCTOBER, 1865, TO MARCH, 1866.

NEW YORK:
LAWRENCE KEHOE, PUBLISHER, 7 Beekman Street.
1866.

CONTENTS.

Adventure, The, [843].
Anglican and Greek Church, Attempt at Union between the, [65].
All-Hallow Eve; or, The Test of Futurity, [71], [199], [377], [507], [697], [816].
Ancient Laws of Ireland, The, [129].
Anglicanism and the Greek Schism, [429].
Ancient Faculty of Paris, The, [496], [681].
Bell Gossip, [32].
Birds, Migration of, [57].
Bruges, The Capuchin of, [237].
Bossuet and Leibnitz, [433].
Catholic Congresses at Malines and Würzburg, [1], [221], [331], [519]Constance Sherwood, [37], [160], [304], [455], [614], [759].
Chinese Characteristics, [102].
Catholic Settlements In Pennsylvania, [145].
Capuchin of Bruges. The, [237].
Christmas Carols, A Bundle of, [349].
Christendom, Formation of, [856].
Calcutta and its Vicinity, A Ride through, [386].
Christmas Eve: or, The Bible, [397].
Charles II. and his Son, Father James Stuart, [577].
Canton, Up and Down, [656].
California and the Church, [790].
Charles II.'s Last Attempt to Emancipate The Catholics, [827].
Duc d'Ayen, The Daughters of the, [252].
Epidemics, Past and Present, [420].
Formation of Christendom, The, [356].
Gallitzin, Rev. Demetrius Augustin, [145].
Gertrude, Saint, Thoughts on, [406].
Genzano, The Inflorata of, [608].
Glastonbury Abbey, Past and Present, [662].
Handwriting, [695].
Inside the Eye, [119].
Ireland before Christianity, [541].
Kingdom without a King, [705].
Leibnitz and Bossuet, [433].
Law and Literature, [560].
Malines and Würzburg, Catholic Congresses in, [1], [221], [332], [519].
Marie Louise, Napoleon's Marriage with, [12].
Migrations of European Birds, [57].
Miscellany, [136], [276], [563], [714], [853].
Moricière, General De La, [289].
Malta, Siege of, [483].
Mistaken Identity, [707].
Mary, Queen of Scots, The Two Friends of, [813].
Natural History of the Tropics, Gleanings from, [178]Novel Ticket-of-leave, A, [707].
Pierre Prévost's Story, [110].
Pen, Slips of the, [272].
Paris, The Ancient Faculty of, [496], [681].
Pusey, Dr., on the Church of England, [530].
Positivism, [791].
Plain-Work, [740].
Procter, Adelaide Anne, Poems of, [837].
Récamier, Madame, and her Friends, [79].
Rome, Facts and Fictions about, [325].
Religious Statistics of the World, [491].
Rhodes, The Colossus of, [544].
Steam Engine, The Inventor of, [211].
Saturnine Observations, A Few, [266].
Slips of the Pen, [272].
Saints of the Desert, [274], [453], [655], [835].
Saint Catharine of Siena, Public Life of, [547].
Saint Patrick, The Birth place of, [744].
True to the Last, [110].
The Eye, Inside of, [119].
Tropics, Gleanings from the Natural History of, [178]The Clouds and the Poor, [213]The Bible; or, Christmas Eve, [397].
The Adventure, [848].
World, Religious Statistics of the, [491].

POETRY.

An English Maiden's Love, [27].
Better Late than Never, [454].
Books, [495].
Children, The, [70].
Christmas Carol, A, [419], [559].
City Aspirations, [680].
"Dum Spiro Spero," [159].
Falling Stars, [348].
Inquietus, [704]
Kirkstall Abbey, [36].
Keviaar, Pilgrimage to, [127].
Little Things, [836].
Properzia Rossi, [235].
Patience, [812].
Resigned, [654].
Song of the Year, [490].
Saint Elizabeth, [529].
Tender and True and Tried, [385].
The Round of the Waters, [396].
The Better Part, [757].
Unshed Tears, [789].
Winter Signs, [198].

{iv}

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Archbishop Hughes's Complete Works, [282].
American Republic, The, [714].
Andrew Johnson, Life of, [856].
Banim's Works, [286].
Baker, Rev. F. A., Memoir and Sermons of, [566].
Brownson's American Republic, [714].
Brincker, Hans, [719].
Catholic Anecdotes, [287].
Cobden, Richard, Career of, [860].
Complete Works of Archbishop Hughes, [282].
Croppy, The, [859].
Darras' History of the Church, [143].
De Guérin, Eugénie, Journal of, [716].
Draper's Civil Policy of America, [858].
England, Froude's History of, [676].
Faith, the Victory, Bishop McGill's, [575].
Hedge's Reason in Religion, [430].
Holmes, Oliver W., Humorous Poems, [576].
Lives of the Popes, [288].
Mother Juliana's Sixteen Revelations, [281].
Metropolites, The, [287].
Memoir and Sermons of Rev. F. A. Baker, [566].
Manning's Temporal Mission of the Holy Ghost, [568].
Merry Christmas, A Cantata, [719].
Monthly, The, [719].
Mozart, Letters of, [856].
Newman's, Rev. Dr., History of Religious Opinions, [139].
Nicholas of the Flue, [718].
Remy St. Remy, [287].
Reason in Religion, [430].
Sixteen Revelations of Mother Juliana, [281].
Sherman's Great March, Story of, [283].
Saint John of the Cross, Works of, [432].
Spelling Book, The Practical Dictation, [576].
Spare Hours, [718].
St. Teresa, Life of, [855].
Thoreau's Cape Cod, [283].
The Old House by the Boyne, [26].
The Christian Examiner, [573], [717].
United States Cavalry, History of, [858].
Vade Mecum, The Catholic's, [859].

[{1}]

THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. II., NO. 7.—OCTOBER, 1865.

Translated from the German.
MALINES AND WÜRZBURG.
A SKETCH OF THE CATHOLIC CONGRESSES HELD AT MALINES AND WÜRZBURG
BY ANDREW NIEDERMASSER.

CHAPTER I.

The Catholic Congresses in Belgium are of more recent date than the general conventions of all Catholic societies in Germany. The political commotions of 1848 burst the chains which had fettered the German Church, and ushered in a period of renewed religious life and activity. This new and glorious era was inaugurated by the council of twenty-six German bishops at Würzburg, which lasted from Oct 22 to Nov. 16, 1848. There it was that our prelates boldly seized the serpent of German revolution, and in their hands the serpent was turned into a budding rod, the stay alike of Church and state.

Since then sixteen years have rolled by; sixteen general conventions have been held, each of which gained for its participants the respect of the public. Powerful was the influence exerted by these meetings on the religious life of the laity, as is shown both by the numerous and active associations that arose everywhere, and by the general spirit of enterprise which they fostered. By their means, the spirit and principles of the Church were made known to the Catholic laity, whose actions they were not slow to influence.

To these meetings may be traced, directly or indirectly, whatever good was accomplished within the past sixteen years in Catholic Germany; every part of Germany has felt their beneficial effects; they were well suited to perform the task allotted them; and have thus far at least attained the end for which they were called into existence.

These meetings were associations of laymen; of laymen penetrated with the spirit of faith, devoted to the Church, and fully convinced that in matters relating to the government of the Church, to the realization of the liberty and independence due to the Church, their only duty was to listen to the voice of their pastors, and to follow devotedly the lead of a [{2}] hierarchy they respected and revered. Though for the most part but one third of the members of the annual conventions were laymen, the lay character of the conventions is still theoretically asserted, and appears to some extent at least in practice, inasmuch as the president of the convention is always a layman, and the principal committee is mainly composed of laymen. The preference is also given to lay orators. The society of laymen submitted the constitution drafted and adopted at its first meeting, held at Mayence in 1848, not only to the Holy Father, but to all the bishops of Germany, who joyfully approved its sentiment, and expressed their interest in the welfare of the society. The same course is pursued to the present day; each of the sixteen general conventions maintained the most intimate relations with the German bishops and the Holy See.

In honor of the present pontiff, Pius IX., these associations at first adopted the name of Piusvereine, thus paying a just tribute of respect to the Holy Father. For Pius IX., during his long pontificate of almost twenty years, has become the leading spirit of the age; we live in the age of Pius IX. It was he who brought into vogue modern ideas, and he was the first to do justice to the wants of the age. As the historian now speaks of the age of Gregory VII. and Innocent III., so will the future historian write of the age of Pius IX. The true sons of the nineteenth century are gathered to fight under the banners of the many Catholic associations which, founded for the purpose of putting to flight the threatening assaults of infidelity, have spread during the pontificate of Pius IX. over every portion of the globe. In Switzerland the original name of these societies is retained; in Germany, owing to their branching out into numerous similar associations, it has disappeared, and we now speak of a "general convention of the Catholic associations in Germany."

The first general convention took place toward the beginning of October, 1848, in the ancient electoral palace at Mayence. Hundreds of noble spirits from every quarter of Germany met here, as if by magic; the Spirit of God had convened them. Meeting for the first time, they felt at once that they were friends and brothers. There was no discord, no embarrassment, for on all hearts rested a deep consciousness of the unity, the power, and the charity of their common faith. Whoever was present at this first gathering of the Catholics of Germany, owned to himself that by no scene which he had previously witnessed had he been so profoundly impressed. Opposite the stand from which the speakers were to address the meeting sat Bishop Kaiser, of Mayence, whilst most prominent among the orators of the occasion appeared his destined successor, Baron Emmanuel von Ketteler, who was at that time pastor of the poor and insignificant parish of Hopsten. Writing of him, Beda Weber said: "His determined character is a fresh and living type of the German nation, of its universality, its history, and its Catholic spirit. In his heart he bears the great and brave German race with all its countless virtues, and hence springs the peculiar boldness of his words, asserting that the revolution is but a means to rear the edifice of the German Church, an edifice destined to be far statelier than the cathedral of Cologne. His form was tall and powerful, his features marked, expressing at once his fearlessness, his energy, and his Westphalian devotion to God and the Church, to the emperor and the nation. The words of Baron von Ketteler acted irresistibly on all present, for they were but the echo of their own sentiments." Such was the impression then produced by the man who is now looked upon by the Catholics of Germany as their standard-bearer.

The voice of Beda Weber too was heard on that occasion. Frankfort had not as yet become the scene of his [{3}] labors as pastor, for he was still professor at Meran. He was a member of the German parliament, then holding its sessions at Frankfort, and like many other Catholic fellow members had come to Mayence for the purpose of assisting at the first general reunion of the Catholic societies. His eloquence likewise called forth immense enthusiasm. Strong and energetic, sometimes pointed and unsparing, a vigorous son of the mountains, manly, noble, and respected, he came forth at a most opportune moment from the solitude of his mountains and his cell, in order to take part in the struggles of his age and become their historian. A master at painting characters, he has written unrivalled sketches of the German parliament and clergy. Equally successful as an orator, a poet, a historian, and a contributor to periodical literature, Beda Weber was distinguished no less by a childlike heart and a nice appreciation of the beautiful in nature and art, than by manly force and an untiring zeal for what is true and good. His deep and extensive learning has proved a useful weapon at all times. His writings were read throughout Germany, and to the rising generation Beda Weber has been an efficient instructor and director.

Döllinger of Munich was also present; he spoke for the twenty-three members of the German parliament, maintaining that the concessions granted to Catholics by that body would necessarily lead to the entire independence of the Church and the liberty of education. At a meeting of the Rhenish-Westphalian societies, held at Cologne in May, 1849, the learned provost delivered another speech, which was at that time considered one of the best, most timely, and most telling efforts of German eloquence. Döllinger's speech at the third general convention, which took place at Regensburg in October, 1849, was hailed as one of the few consoling signs of that gloomy period. It was a masterpiece of oratory, that brought conviction to all minds, and which will prove a lasting monument of German eloquence. The interest Döllinger displayed in these conventions should not be forgotten. He is entitled to our respect and gratitude for his aid in laying the foundations of the edifice; its completion he might well leave to others.

The other members of the parliament that spoke at Mayence were Osterrath, of Dantzic; von Bally, a Silesian; A. Reichensperger, of Cologne; Prof. Sepp, of Munich; and Prof. Knoodt, of Bonn. One of the most impressive speakers was Forster of Breslau, at that time canon of the Metropolitan church of Silesia, now prince-bishop of one of the seven principal sees in the world. Germany looks upon him as her best pulpit orator. Listen to the words of one who heard Forster at Mayence: "The chords of his soul are so delicate that every breath calls forth a sound, and as he must frequently encounter the storms of the world, we may readily pardon the deep melancholy which tinges his words. As he spoke, his heart was weighed down by the troubles of the times, and grief was pictured in his countenance, for he saw no prospect of reconciliation between the conflicting elements. He has no faith in a speedy settlement of the relations between Church and state, such a settlement as will allow freedom of action to the former. To him the revolution appears to be a divine judgment, punishing the clergy for their negligence, and chastising the laity for their crimes. His voice possesses a rich melody, which speaks in powerful accents to the heart. It sounds like the solemn chimes of a bell, waking every mind to the convictions which burst forth from the depth of his soul. He is an orator whose words seem like drops of honey, and whose faith and devotion call forth our love and our gratitude."

The best known of the Frankfort representatives were, Arndts, of Munich; Aulicke, of Berlin; Flir, of [{4}] Landeck; Kutzen, of Breslau; von Linde, of Darmstadt; Herman Müller, of Würtzburg; Stülz of St. Florian; Thinnes, of Eichstädt; and Vogel, of Dillingen.

The noble Baron Henry von Andlaw also assisted at the convention in Mayence. For sixteen years this chivalric and devoted defender of the Church has furthered by every means in his power the success of the Catholic conventions, and his name will often appear in these pages. Chevalier Francis Joseph von Buss, of Freiburg, was president of the meeting at Mayence. Buss is the founder of the Catholic associations in Germany; to him above all others was due the success of the convention at Mayence, and he it was who laid down the principles on which are based the Catholic societies throughout Germany, and which are the chief source of their efficacy. In 1848 Buss was in the flower of his age, fresh and vigorous in body and mind. All Germany was acquainted with his writings, his exertions, his sufferings, and his struggles. He was no novice on the battle-field, for he had passed through a fiery ordeal, and bore the marks of wounds inflicted both by his own passions and by the broken lances of his enemies. Naturally an agitator, and an enthusiast for ideas, bold, quick, and intrepid, he united restless activity and unquenchable ardor with the most self-sacrificing devotion. He is distinguished for extensive learning, a powerful imagination, and for the force and flow of his language. So constant and untiring have been his exertions for the liberty and independence of the Church, that one who is no mean painter of men and character has lately styled him the Bayard of the Church in the nineteenth century. The last time I saw and heard the Chevalier von Buss was in the convention held at Frankfort in 1862. His imposing figure, his bold commanding eye, his fiery patriotic heart, his glowing fancy, his powerful ringing voice, all were unchanged. His speeches exert the magic influence which belongs to an enthusiastic, powerful, and penetrating mind. Age has whitened his hair, wrinkles furrow his noble features, his life is on the wane. A glance at Catholic Germany and the growth of the Church during the past sixteen years, will reflect a bright consoling radiance on the evening of his life.

We must still mention one of the founders and chief stays of the Catholic general conventions, and one who, alas, is no more. I refer to Dr. Maurice Lieber, attorney and counsellor at Camberg in Nassau, one of the most active members at Mayence in 1848; he was elected president of the second general convention at Breslau in 1849. He was present at the first seven general meetings, and at Salzburg in 1857 filled the chair a second time. At Cologne, in 1858, this honor would again have been conferred on him had he not declined. Maurice Lieber seems by nature to have been designed to preside at these assemblies. Of a noble appearance, he combined dignity with gentleness, force and decision with moderation; his remarks were always to the point. An able and spirited writer and journalist, he contributed in a great measure to make the public acquainted with the aim and object of the newly founded association. He never grew weary of scattering good and fruitful seed, and his writings as well as his speeches were life-inspiring, strengthening, purifying productions. The name of Maurice Lieber will ever be honored.

Beside the eminent men above mentioned, those whose exertions aided in calling into existence the Catholic general conventions in Germany are Lennig, vicar-general at Mayence, Prof. Riffel, Himioben, now dead, and lastly, Heinrich and Moufang, who have been present at almost every meeting.

So many illustrious names are connected with the foundation of the [{5}] Catholic congress in Belgium that to do all justice will be extremely difficult.

The political and religions status of Belgium is sufficiently well known. In Belgium there are but two parties; the one espouses the cause of God, the other supports that of Antichrist. These parties are on the point of laying aside entirely their political character and of opposing each other on religious grounds. War is inevitable, war to the knife; either party must perish. "To be or not to be, that is the question."

Outnumbering the Catholics in parliament, the followers of Antichrist eagerly use their superiority to trample their opponents in the dust and, if possible, annihilate them. The people is the stronghold of the latter; for the great majority of the Belgians are Catholics, sincere, fervent, self-sacrificing Catholics. They yield support neither to the rationalists nor to the solidaires and affranchis. Day by day the influence of the Catholic leaders increases; they are whetting their swords, and gathering recruits to fight for Christ and his Church. The congress at Malines is their rendezvous, as it were. Even the first congress, that of 1863, exerted a magic influence; the drowsy were aroused from their lethargy, and the faint-hearted were inspired with confidence; they saw their strength and felt it. In that congress we see the beginning of a new epoch in the religious history of Belgium.

The Belgium congresses are imitations of the Catholic conventions in Germany. A number of men used their best endeavors to bring about the congress of 1863, and for this they deserve our respect and gratitude. We shall mention but a few of the many.

Dumortier will head our list. He is one of the most powerful speakers in Belgium, a ready debater, a valiant champion of the Catholic cause, whose delight it is to fight for his principles. Dumortier has the power of kindling in his hearers his own enthusiasm, as he proved in 1863 at Aix-la-chapelle. He has all the qualities of an agitator, and these qualities were the cause of his success in bringing about the congress of 1863. When indignant, Dumortier inspires awe; his brow is clouded, and like a hurricane he sweeps everything before him. It is the anger of none but noble spirits that increases our affection for them. Once only I saw Dumortier swell with just indignation, and I seldom witnessed a spectacle more sublime.

Ducpetiaux was the soul of the congresses at Malines. To singular talent for organization he joins a burning zeal for the interests of Catholicity, and to them he devotes every day and hour of his life. No sacrifice is too great, no labor too exhausting, if it is needed to further the Catholic cause. As general secretary, he is in communication with the leading men of Catholic Europe. At his call Catholics from every country flocked to Malines. Ducpetiaux was the ruling mind of the congress, for the president had intrusted him, to a great extent, with its management. Cautious, subtle, and quick, he is prompt in action, though no great speaker. The most numerous assembly would be obedient to his nod. Ducpetiaux is no stranger to Germany, for he was among us at Aix-la-chapelle in 1862, and at Würzburg in 1864, and the whole-souled remarks made by him on the latter occasion will long ring in our memory. He is an international character, a type of the nineteenth century. By the interest a man takes in the movements and ideas of his age, and by his intercourse with prominent characters, we may easily estimate his influence. To Germany a general secretary like Ducpetiaux would be of inestimable advantage.

Viscount de Kuckhove must not be passed over in silence. A thorough well bred gentleman, he is familiar with the nations and languages of [{6}] Europe. He is a man of mind, energy, and prudence, and of a dazzling appearance. He seems the embodiment of elegance. His speeches sparkle with delicate touches and are distinguished for refinement. His voice is somewhat shrill and sharp, but melodious withal. In Belgium the viscount ranks as an orator equal to Dechamps and Dumortier. His favorite scheme, to the promotion of which he gives his entire energies, is the closest union among Catholics of all countries. At times he expresses this idea so forcibly that he is misunderstood, but in itself the scheme is praiseworthy, and has been more or less realized in the age of Pius IX.

Baron von Gerlache now demands our attention. He was president of the congress both in 1863 and in 1864. If I were writing his biography, how eventful a life would it be my lot to portray! Baron Gerlache is identified with Belgian history since 1830; for more than forty years he has been acknowledged by the Catholics in Belgium as their head. In 1831 he had no mean share in forming the Belgian constitution, a constitution based on political eclecticism, which at that time satisfied all parties, and which promised even-handed justice to all. Gerlache has ever been the loyal defender of this constitution; Belgium has not a more devoted son. He is a historian and a statesman. But the Church too claims his affection, the great and holy Catholic Church. All Belgium listens to his voice, and his words sometimes become decrees. He speaks with dignity and moderation, with caution and prudence; he is always guided by reason, and never loses sight of facts. His energies spent in the course of a life of seventy-two years, he is no longer understood as well as formerly; his voice has become too weak to address an assemblage of six thousand persons; but there is in it something so solemn, so moving, that his hearers seem spell-bound. His language is appropriate, and at times approaches sublimity. Baron Gerlache is as much the idol of the Catholics of Belgium as O'Connell was of the Irish; he is as respected as Joseph von Grörres was in Germany; he is the Godfrey de Bouillon of the great Belgian crusade of the nineteenth century. Great men seldom appear alone; around them are grouped many minor characters, well worthy of a niche in the temple of fame. The most prominent of those who have fought side by side with Baron von Gerlache are the Count de Theux, a veteran in political warfare, generous, able, and experienced in the art of governing; the Baron della Faille, a man distinguished for the dignity of his demeanor and the nobility of his character; his manners are captivating, and his features bear the impress of calmness, moderation, and judgment; the Viscount Bethune of Ghent, a venerable old man, whose countenance beams with piety, and who in the course of a long career has gathered a store of wisdom and experience; General Capiaumont, a man immovable as a rock, and full of chivalrous sentiments. These venerable men were seated on each side of the President von Gerlache. But the other members are no less worthy of notice. To hear and see such men produces a profound impression.

Dechamps, the mighty Dechamps, the lion of Flanders and Brabant, must not be forgotten. He stands at the head of the Belgian statesmen, brave as Achilles, the terror of the so-called liberals. Dechamps was one of the pearls of the last congress; his mere appearance had a magic effect; the few words he addressed to the assembly before its organization called forth a storm of applause; he electrifies his hearers by his bold and sparkling ideas.

We must next call attention to Joseph de Hemptinne. The owner of immense factories, he employs thousands of laborers, and freely devotes his fortune to the cause of the Church. He also contributed to the success of [{7}] the congress of Malines. His employés owe him a debt of gratitude. Like a father, he cares for their corporal and spiritual welfare, accompanies them when going to assist at mass, and with them he says the beads and receives the sacrament. De Hemptinne is entirely devoted to his country and his faith; his countenance is a mirror that reflects a pure and guileless soul, deeply imbued with religious feeling. It has seldom been my good fortune to meet as amiable a man as Joseph de Hemptinne.

Perin next demands our notice. He fills a professorship at Louvain, and is well known to the public by his writings. In the congress be was noted as an adroit business man. Possessing a refined mind, stored with manifold attainments, he exerts a peculiar, I might almost say magic, influence on those with whom he deals. His fine piercing eye beams with knowledge, not mere book learning, but the knowledge of men, whilst his noble forehead is stamped with the seal of uncommon intellectual power. In his language as well as in his actions Perin is extremely graceful; he might not inaptly be styled the doctor elegantissimus. Count Villermont of Brussels is well known in Germany, and respected for his historical researches. At Malines he displayed extraordinarily activity. True, he seems to be no favorite of the graces—the warrior appears in all his actions. On seeing him, I imagined I beheld the colonel of one of Tilly's Walloon regiments. This circumstance must surprise us all the more, as the count is not only a diligent student of history and a generous supporter of the Catholic press in Belgium, but also a man who takes a lively interest in every charitable undertaking and in the social amelioration of his country. Would to God that Germany had many Counts Villermont! Monsignor de Ram the rector magnificus of the university of Louvain, was the representative of Belgian science at Malines. Ever since its establishment, he has been at the head of that institution, which he has governed with a firm and steady hand. He is the pride of Belgium, eminent, perhaps the most eminent, among all her sons. His authority is most ample, and to it we must probably trace the majestic calmness that distinguishes his whole being, for to me de Ram appears to be the personification of dignity. At the proper moment, however, he knows how to display the volubility and affable manners of the Roman prelate.

Many illustrious Belgian names might still be mentioned, but we will speak of them in a more appropriate place.

The Belgian congresses differ in some respects from the Catholic conventions in Germany, for the latter are by no means so well attended as the former. At the German meetings, the number of members never exceeded fifteen hundred; only six hundred representatives were present at the convention of Frankfort in 1863, whilst that of Breslau in 1849 mustered scarcely two hundred members. In 1863 four thousand, and in 1864 no less than five thousand, were present at the Malines congress. The sight of this army, full of fervor and of zeal to do battle for the faith, involuntarily reminds us of the warriors who were marshalled under the banners of Godfrey for the purpose of achieving the conquest of Jerusalem and the Holy Land. Or it recalls to our mind the great council of Clermont (Nov., 1095), at which the entire assembly, hurried away by the eloquent appeals of Urban II., shouted with one accord "Deus lo volt," "God wills it," and swore to deliver Jerusalem from the tyranny of the Moslems. The members of the Catholic congresses are the crusaders of the nineteenth century, for in their own way they too battle for Christendom against its enemies, falsehood and malice.

Belgium is a small kingdom, Malines the central point where all its railroads converge; it is a Catholic [{8}] country, boasting of a numerous clergy both secular and regular; it is an international country, the Lombardy of the north. Its position has made it the connecting link between the Romanic and Teutonic races, between the continent and England. Thus situated, Belgium is a rendezvous equally convenient for the German, the Frenchman, and the Briton. Moreover, Belgium has ever been the battle ground of Germany and France: where can be found a more suitable spot on which to decide the great struggle for the freedom of the Church? This explains sufficiently the numerous attendance of the Belgium congress. In addition to the foreign element, the congress at Malines calls forth the entire intellectual strength of Belgium, both lay and clerical No one remains at home; all are brethren fighting for the same cause; all wish to imbibe new vigor, to gather new courage for the struggle, for the congress acts like the spiritual exercises of a mission.

Very different is the situation of Germany. Much larger than Belgium, its most central point is at a considerable distance from its extremities. Beside, the conventions do not even meet at the most convenient point, but change their place of meeting every year. Suppose, therefore, the convention is held in some city on the French border, say Freiburg, or Treves, or Aix-la-chapelle, this arrangement will render it very difficult for the delegates from the opposite extremity of the empire to attend, the more so since it is not likely that the German railroad companies will reduce their fares to half price, as was done by the Belgium government roads. Lastly, our language, difficult in itself, and especially so to the Romanic races, who are not distinguished for extensive philological learning, will prevent many from attending our meetings.

For these reasons, the German reunions are hardly an adequate representation of the Church militant; comparatively few can attend, the majority must remain at home. For the most part, our conventions are chiefly composed of delegates from the district or diocese in which they are held. Nevertheless, every German tribe has its representative, and Germany, with its many tribes and states, is by no means an inappropriate emblem of the European family of nations.

The hall of the Petit Seminaire at Malines, where the Belgian congress meets, is spacious and well fitted for its purpose; it will seat six thousand persons. Nevertheless, only such as have admission tickets, which cannot be obtained except at extravagant prices, can assist at the sessions. The public in general are excluded, and but few seats are reserved for ladies. On the other hand, the German convention, which meets now in one city, then in another, desires and encourages, above all things, the attendance of the inhabitants of the city where it meets. In every city it has scattered fruit-producing seed. At one place, the convention called into existence a society for the promotion of Christian art; at another, an altar society, a conference of St. Vincent de Paul, or a social club; and in many cities it inspired new religious life and activity. In fact, if the city for some reason cannot assist at the meetings, as was the case in Würzburg, one of the most important ends of the convention is defeated. The congress at Malines is too numerous to travel from place to place; moreover, its meetings are not annual, as are those of the German conventions.

The congress of Malines, like the German convention, claims to be a congress of laymen. But though here, too, the principal committee is mainly composed of laymen, the assembly has almost lost its lay character. Among the laymen, however, who attend the Belgian congress, there are many excellent speakers, in fact these are more numerous than in Germany.

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All the Belgian bishops were present at Malines. Whilst in Germany but one or two bishops assist at the convention, the daily meetings of the Malines congress were attended by the primate of Belgium, Cardinal Sterex, and the bishops of Bruges, Namur, Ghent, Liege, and Doornik. The bishops took part in the debates, and in 1864 the speech of Monseigneur Dupanloup was the event of the day, whilst the congress of 1863 had been distinguished by the presence of the illustrious archbishop of Westminster, Cardinal Wiseman. Whenever the bishops appeared, they were welcomed with bursts of enthusiasm. For a full week might be witnessed the most friendly intercourse between the bishops and the other members of the congress, and thus the bonds of affectionate love already existing between the hierarchy, the clergy, and the laity were drawn still closer.

The nobility too of Flanders and Brabant, nay of all Belgium, was well and worthily represented. On the rolls of the Malines congress we meet the most illustrious Belgian names, names pregnant with historic interest. The German nobles, on the contrary, have thus far paid little attention to what is nearest and dearest to mankind, the interests of humanity and religion. True, the Rhenish-Westphalian nobility appeared in considerable numbers and displayed praiseworthy zeal at the conventions of Aix-la-chapelle, Frankfort, and Würzburg, nevertheless there is still room for improvement. Thus far the Bavarian and Franconian nobles have taken no part in furthering the restoration of the Church in Germany, and of the same indifference the Austrian nobility were accused by Count Frederick von Thun, of Vienna. Still, what a blessing for the nobility if they devoted their influence to the service of the Church! The consequence would be the regeneration of the German nobility. May God grant that the German nobles, like those of Belgium, will join in cordially promoting our great and sacred cause. Leaders are not wanting, men of talent, energy, and devotion, such as the Prince Charles of Löwenstein, Werthheim, and Prince Charles of Isenburg-Birstein.

The professors of the university at Louvain were not only present at Malines, but worked with their usual energy and ability in the different sections of the congress. They presented to the world the noble spectacle of laymen uniting learning with zeal for religion and devotion to the Church, a spectacle seldom witnessed in Germany. Of the two thousand professors and fellows of the twenty-two German universities, how many are there who, untainted by pride and self-sufficiency, call the Church their mother? It is the union of knowledge and piety that produces genuine men, worthy of admiration, and at Malines such men were not scarce.

At Malines the foreigners were well represented; in the German conventions but few make their appearance. Twice did France send her chosen warriors to the congress—the first time in 1863, led by Montalembert, at present the most brilliant defender of the Church, and again in 1864, under the Bishop of Orleans, called by some the Bossuet of our day. In August, 1863, the Tuileries were anxiously occupied with the speeches held in the Petit Seminaire at Malines, for in France despotism has gagged free speech, and there a congress of Catholic Europe is an impossibility; the Caesar's minions would tolerate no such assembly.

Next to the French delegation, the German, led by A. Reichensperger, of Cologne, was the most numerous. There might also be seen a noble band of Englishmen, and their speaker, Father Herman the convert, seemed another St Bernard preaching the crusade. Spain, Italy, Ireland, Hungary, Poland, Brazil, the United States, Palestine, the Cape of Good Hope, almost every country on the globe, were represented at Malines. True, the assembly was by no means [{10}] as large as the multitude that met in Rome on June 8, 1862, when Pius IX. saw gathered around him in St. Peter's church three hundred prelates, thousands of priests, and forty to fifty thousand laymen, representing every nation of the earth. Still, the congress at Malines brings to recollection those immense gatherings of bygone times, where princes and bishops, nobles and priests, met to provide for the welfare of the nations committed to their charge.

The Malines congress is in its infancy, still the general committee has displayed rare ability. All business matters are intrusted to a few, whilst in Germany there is a great want of order, owing partly to the inexperience of the local committees, and partly to the scarcity of men versed in parliamentary proceedings. At the Mayence convention in 1848, want of preparation might be excused; the subsequent meeting had not the same claims on our indulgence. The Frankfort reunion in 1863 attempted to remedy the evil and partly succeeded, but until an efficient general committee be established, many irregularities must be expected. At Malines the delegates are furnished with a programme of the questions to be discussed in the different sections; at Würzburg, on the contrary, the convention seemed at first scarcely to know the purpose for which it had been convened. In Germany, the bureau of direction is composed of three presidents and sundry honorary members and secretaries; at Malines it consists of fifty to sixty officers of the congress, and the list of honorary vice-presidents is at times very formidable. In Belgium secret sessions are unknown, whilst in Germany it often happens that the most important proceedings are decided upon in secret session, whereas the public meetings are mainly devoted to the delivery of brilliant speeches. At Malines the resolutions adopted by the different sections are passed upon in a short session, seldom attended by more than one-fifth of all the delegates. One evil at the Belgium congress is the imperfect knowledge of the German character and of the religious status of Germany. As the Romanic nations will never learn our language, it remains for us to supply the deficiency. We must go to Malines, and expound our views in French both in the sections and before the full congress. A. Reichensperger pursued the proper course in the section of Christian art. With surpassing ability he defended the principles of the Church, triumphantly he came forth from the contest, and many were prevailed upon to adopt his views. No doubt men like Reichensperger are not found every day, nevertheless we might easily send one or two able representatives to every section of the congress. If some one were to do for Germany what Cardinal Wiseman did for England in 1863, when he set forth in clear and forcible language the state of Catholicity in that country, he would deserve the everlasting gratitude of the Romanic races.

Leaving these considerations aside for the present, one thing is certain, we must profit by each other's wisdom and experience. Whatever may be the defects of the Belgian congresses or of the German conventions, they mark the beginning of a new era for Belgium and Germany. For when in the spring of 1848 the storm of revolution swept away dynasties built on diplomacy and police regulations, the Catholics, quick to take advantage of the liberty granted them, made use of the freedom of assembly, of speech, and of the press to defend the interests of religion and of the Church. To Germany the liberty thus acquired for the Church has proved a blessing. This liberty, attained after so many years of Babylonian captivity, acted so forcibly, that many called the day on which the first general convention met a "second Pentecost, revealing the spirit, the force, and the charity of Catholicism." We Catholics have learned the language of freedom, we [{11}] know the power of free speech. Next to the liberty of speech, it is their publicity that gives a charm to these conventions. Whoever addresses these assemblies speaks before the whole Church, and his words are re-echoed in every country. There the prince and the mechanic, the master and the journeyman, the refined gentleman and the child of nature, all alike have the right to express their opinions. They afford a general insight into the social and religions condition of our times, disclosing at once their defects and their fair side. How inspiring it is to see men, thorough men, with sound principles, full of vital energy, and of experience acquired in public life, men of intellectual vigor and mental refinement! Hence arise great and manifold activity, unity of sentiment, and zeal for the weal of all, in short, feelings of true brotherly love. Great events arouse deep feelings, and the glory of one casts its radiance over many. There is something beautiful and grand in these Catholic reunions. They tend to awaken society to a consciousness of its nobler feelings and to spread Catholic ideas; they give strength and unity to the exertions of all who endeavor seriously to promote the interests of Catholicity; they are, as it were, a mirror that reflects an exact image of the life of the Church. Before their influence narrow-mindedness withers; we take an interest in men and things that had never before come within the scope of our mental vision, and on our return from the congress to the ordinary pursuits of life, we forget fossil notions and take up new ideas. As we feel the heat of the sun after it has set, so long after the adjournment of each convention do we feel its influence. The eloquent words of the champion of their faith kindle in the hearts of Catholic youth a glowing ardor which promises a bright and glorious future. All are impressed with the conviction that it is only by unflinching bravery that victories are won.

"As in nature," says Hergenröther, "individuals are subordinate to species, species to genera, and these again to a general unity of design, thus in the Catholic Church all submit freely to the triple unity of faith, of the sacraments, and of government. Whether they come from the north or the south, from beyond the Channel or from the banks of the Rhine, from the Scheldt or the Danube, from the March or the Leitha, all Catholics of every country and every clime are brethren, members of the same family, all speak but one language, the lips of all pronounce the same Catholic prayer, and all offer to their Heavenly Father the same august sacrifice. Every Catholic convention is a symbol of this great, this universal society. And as in nature we admire the most astonishing variety, and the wonderful display of thousands of hues and tints, so in the Church we behold a gathering of countless tribes and nations, differing in their institutions, their customs, and in their application of the arts and sciences."

Some of my readers, perhaps, are impatient of the praise here lavished on contemporaries. Fame, it is true, has ever dazzled mortal eyes, but I am not now dealing with the miserable characters who consider fame as merchandise that can be bought and sold, who are always panting for honied words, and who never lose sight of themselves. No; I am in the presence of Catholic men, purified by Catholic doctrine and discipline, who hold fame to be vain trumpery. Claiming to be no infallible judge of men, my aim has been to note down what I have seen and heard, for I have been at no special pains to study the characters of those here mentioned.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

[Page 221]

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From The Month.
NAPOLEON'S MARRIAGE WITH MARIE-LOUISE.

There are many circumstances where even an excess of caution may not be injudicious, and few things can be more important than to ascertain the veracity of historical facts. Therefore we would fain preface this second episode drawn from the memoirs of Cardinal Consalvi, by pointing out the grounds on which their authenticity rests. We pass over the editor himself, Monsieur Crétineau-Joly, to arrive at the account he gives of the manner in which these papers fell into his possession. Written for the most part by the cardinal during his exile at Rheims, they were hastily penned, and carefully concealed from the French officials that surrounded him. When dying, Cardinal Consalvi intrusted these important documents to friends on whom he could rely. They have since been transmitted as a sacred deposit from one fiduciary executor to another. The last clause of his will relates to this matter, and runs thus:

"My fiduciary heir (and those who shall succeed him in the administration of my property) will take particular care of my writings: on the conclave held at Venice in 1799 and 1800; on the concordat of 1801; on the marriage of the Emperor Napoleon with the Archduchess Marie-Louise of Austria; on the different epochs of my life and ministry. These five papers (of which some are far advanced, and I shall set about the others) are not to be published till after the death of the principal personages named therein. As the memoirs upon the conclave, the concordat, the marriage, and my ministry relate more especially to the Holy See and the pontifical government, my fiduciary heir will be solicitous to present them to the reigning pontiff; and he will beg the Holy Father to have these writings carefully preserved in the archives of the Vatican. They may serve the Holy See more than once; especially if the history of events therein related comes to be written, or if there were some false account to refute. As to the memoirs concerning the different epochs of my life, the extinction of my family leaving no one whom they may interest, these writings can remain in the hands of my fiduciary heir and his successors in the administration of my property (or they might go with the others to the archives of the Vatican if they are thought worth preserving). My only desire is, that if hereafter, as will probably be the case, the lives of the cardinals are continued, these pages written by me may then be made known. For I wish that nothing contrary to truth should be published concerning me; being desirous to preserve a good reputation, as is recommended by holy Scripture. With regard to the truth of the facts contained in my writings, it suffices me to say: 'Deus scit quia non mentior.'
"(Signed) E. Card. Consalvi." "Rome, 1st August, 1822."

In 1858 it was deemed that the time for publication had come. Monsieur Crétineau-Joly was then staying at Rome; and the papers were confided to him for that purpose by "those eminent personages who, through gratitude or respect, had accepted the deposit of Consalvi's manuscripts." Accordingly, a part did come out the following year, and the remainder is now before the public. The part which appeared first, embodied in "L'Eglise Romaine en face de la Révolution," won for M. Crétineau-Joly in 1861 a flattering brief from Pope Pius IX., which heads the third edition of the work.

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Nine years had rolled on since the concordat. Ten months after the Pope's presence had given solemnity to his coronation, Napoleon caused the French troops to occupy Ancona; Pius VII., having refused to become virtually a French prefect, was deprived of his temporal sovereignty, and then at last dragged from his capital to be transferred a prisoner to Florence, Grenoble, and finally Savona. Excommunication had been pronounced against those who perpetrated these deeds of violence. Meanwhile, Napoleon, at the summit of earthly grandeur, longed for an heir to whom he might transmit his vast dominions. The repudiation of Josephine offered some difficulty to his heart, we believe; but his strong will soon triumphed over that and every other obstacle. Proud Austria stooped to court his preference. Napoleon, disappointed in his wish for a Russian alliance, but in too much haste to wait negotiations, let his choice fall with equal pleasure on a daughter of the house of Hapsburg; Marie-Louise, just then eighteen, came a willing bride to share the splendors of the imperial throne. To prepare for her reception, a state comedy had been enacted at the Tuileries, when Napoleon, holding his good and well-beloved Josephine by the hand, read from a written paper his heroic determination to renounce her for the public weal. Poor Josephine could not get on so well; sobs choked her utterance when she essayed to read her paper in turn. Convulsive fainting-fits had followed when Napoleon first broached in private the resolve he had taken, and called upon her to aid it by consenting to become, instead of his wife, his best and dearest friend. But all that was over now.

One only difficulty had arisen, which even the imperious will of Napoleon failed wholly to break. It was the same that had ever thwarted him. He could destroy all temporal barriers to his ambition; but the spiritual element would rise up and protest. How cut asunder the religious tie that linked him to Josephine? For the Church's blessing had been given to their union ere the Pope would consent to perform the ceremony of the coronation. Full well Napoleon knew that he could with an iron hand put down clamor for the present; but would that dispel the feeling in men's consciences? would that suffice to establish the legitimacy of a future heir to the throne?

M. Thiers gives a curious account of the whole transaction. Cardinal Fesch, usually so pliant to all his nephew's wishes, appears to have been the first to start the difficulty; M. Cambaérès, the chancellor, transmitted his observations to Napoleon. The latter was highly indignant, declaring that a ceremony which had taken place privately, in the chapel of the Tuileries, without any witnesses, and with the sole view of quieting Josephine's scruples and those of the Pope, could not be binding. Finally, however, it was agreed to look at the marriage religiously as well as civilly, and to dissolve both ties. For both, annulment was preferred to the ordinary form of divorce, as more honorable for Josephine; and a defect in procedure or a great state reason were to constitute the grounds of dissolution. It was resolved that no reference should be made to the Pope in any way, as his feelings toward Napoleon under present circumstances could not be friendly. The civil marriage had been easily dissolved by mutual consent of the parties and for public reasons, as seen above, when Napoleon and Josephine read their respective papers before the assembled council. With the views just stated, a committee of seven bishops was formed to pronounce on the religious tie. They declared the marriage irregular; as having taken place without witnesses, and without sufficient consent of the parties concerned. With regard to the absence of witnesses, M. Thiers puts in a note: "It was through a false indication given [{14}] by a contemporary manuscript that I before mentioned MM. de Talleyrand and Berthier as having been present at the religious marriage privately celebrated at the Tuileries on the eve of Napoleon's coronation. The author of this manuscript held the facts from the lips of the Empress Josephine, and had been led into error. Official documents which I have since procured enable me to rectify this assertion."

What more likely than that Josephine told the simple truth, and that official papers were made to meet future contingencies? If it had not been intended to annul the marriage by any means, why was the certificate of it wrested from Josephine?

Agreeably to the decision of the bishops, it was resolved to pursue the annulment of the marriage as defective in form before the diocesan officialty in the first instance, and afterward before the metropolitan authority. Canonical proceedings were quietly instituted, and witnesses summoned. These witnesses were Cardinal Fesch, MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc. The first was to testify as to the forms observed; and the three others as to the nature of the consent given by both parties concerned. Cardinal Fesch declared he had received dispensations from the Pope authorizing the omission of certain forms, and thus justified the absence of witnesses and of the parish curé. MM. de Talleyrand, Berthier, and Duroc affirmed having heard from Napoleon several times that he only intended to allow a mere ceremony for the purpose of reassuring the Pope's conscience and that of Josephine; but that his formal determination had ever been not to complete his union with the empress, being unhappily convinced that he must one day renounce her for the good of his empire.

A strange conscience is here manifested by Napoleon. Josephine does not appear to have been summoned to tell her tale.

After this inquiry, the ecclesiastical authority recognized that there had not been sufficient consent; but out of respect to the parties this ground of nullity was not specially insisted on. The causes assigned for dissolving the marriage rested on the absence of all witnesses, and of the parish curé. The general dispensations granted to Cardinal Fesch were not considered to have superseded these necessities. M. Thiers says on this point, "En conséquence, le mariage fut cassé devant les deux jurisdictions diocésaine et métropolitaine, c'est à dire, en première et en seconde instances, avec le décence convenable, et la pleine observance du droit canonique! Napoleon était donc` libre."

M. Thiers makes no reference to the Pope, who surely must be supposed to have known whether the ceremony performed for the sole purpose of allaying his and Josephine's scruples were perfectly valid by canon law. It is not possible to admit that he could have insisted on the same, and being present on the spot could yet have failed to ascertain beyond doubt the religious legality of the marriage; more especially as he could have at once removed the obstacle by a dispensation.

This topic must have been mentioned between the Pope and Cardinal Consalvi; it is evident from the conduct of the latter that he and many other cardinals considered the marriage with Josephine as binding in a religious point of view. The character of Consalvi precludes the possibility of supposing any petty motives for his opposition; conscience alone could have dictated it. Evidently he yielded as far as he could; and what he withheld from duty was with manifest peril to himself, and, humanly speaking, even to the Church, whose interests were so dear to him. As to the number of cardinals holding opposite views, or at least acting as if they did, the weakness of human nature, alas, and the selfishness of human interests, too well explain that [{15}] circumstance. Grave historians and writers of genius do not always take sufficient account of conscience in their estimate of men and things, and thence flow many errors. Those who are politicians also, from their wide knowledge of human vices, fall still more readily into this mistake. Thus Napoleon probably never believed the Pope to be in earnest, of at least his mind could not hold such an idea long together. To himself state policy was all, or nearly all. His negotiations with the Holy See, his appreciations of Consalvi, all bear the stamp of that starting-point; to him it was a trial of strength in will, or of skill in diplomacy: he ignored conscience. In the same way, a mind eminently lucid as that of M. Thiers judges facts in a very different manner than he would do if he could see that with some minds conscience is the spring of action. If this were not the case, he could not, while speaking of the Pope with due respect, pass over his motives so slightly; nor would he construe as he does Consalvi's conduct with regard to the marriage and that of the other black cardinals. The opinions of such men deserved to raise a doubt in the mind of the historian, and to lead to investigation that might have had other results. We purposely lay stress on this matter because M. Thiers is popular with a large class of readers, who justly admire his talent, but who erroneously consider him a fair exponent on ecclesiastical affairs. He does respect religion; but evidently fails to apprehend the idea of men constantly swayed by duty and conscience; whose judgments may err, as all things human do, but whose supernatural principle of action ever lives.

Toward the close of January, 1810, the conclusion of a matrimonial alliance to take place between Napoleon and the Archduchess Marie-Louise was made public in Paris. The ceremony was to be performed by proxy at Vienna in the early part of March; the Archduke Charles being chosen to represent Napoleon on this occasion, and Berthier was the ambassador extraordinary named to ask formally the hand of the princess. The subsequent fêtes at Paris were to vie in splendor with those given at Vienna. Napoleon wished to surround himself with all the members of the Sacred College; a large number had already been summoned to Paris soon after the Pope's captivity; they had been ordered to partake in the festivities of the capital, and we regret to say that they complied. Rome, it must not be forgotten, was now called a French provincial town; Napoleon was progressing on to become the emperor of the West, with the Pope, the spiritual father of Christendom, as his satellite. The other cardinals in Rome were called to Paris. Some found pretexts for delaying obedience; Cardinals Consalvi and di Pietro replied that they could not think of leaving without the Pope's permission, but would immediately refer to him, at the same time declining the pension offered in Paris. After the lapse of a few days an express order enjoined them to quit Rome within twenty-four hours. They alleged that no answer had yet arrived from the Pope. But at the expiration of the period fixed, French soldiers visited their houses to carry them off by force. Yielding to violence they departed, and reached Paris together on the 20th January, 1810.

Twenty-nine cardinals, including Fesch, were then assembled in the French capital. How they should act with regard to the new marriage became soon a subject of grave consultation for them. Consalvi and di Pietro had not long arrived when it was publicly announced. Napoleon seemed disposed to treat them with courtesy. Consalvi had his audience six days after his arrival. Five other cardinals, new comers also, were presented at the same time. They were ranged together on one side, while the other cardinals remained opposite. Further on were the nobles, ministers, kings. [{16}] queens, princes, and princesses. When the emperor appeared, Cardinal Fesch stepped forward and began presenting the five. "Cardinal Pignatelli," said he. "Neapolitan," replied the emperor, and passed on. "Cardinal di Pietro," continued Fesch. The emperor stopped a moment, and said, "You have grown fat; I remember having seen you here with the Pope at my coronation." "Cardinal Saluzzo," said Fesch, presenting the third. "Neapolitan," replied the emperor, and walked on. "Cardinal Desping," said Fesch, as the fourth saluted. "Spanish," replied the emperor. "From Majorca," cried Desping, in alarm. But Napoleon had already reached Consalvi, and ere Cardinal Fesch could say the name, he exclaimed, in the kindest tone, and standing still, "Oh, Cardinal Consalvi; how thin you have become! I should hardly have recognized you." "Sire," replied Consalvi, "years accumulate. Ten have passed since I had the honor of saluting your majesty." "That is true," resumed Napoleon; "it is now almost ten years since you came for the concordat. We made that treaty in this very hall; but what purpose has it served? All has vanished in smoke. Rome would lose all. It must be owned, I was wrong to displace you from the ministry. If you had continued in that post, things would not have been carried so far."

Listening only to the fear of having his actions misconstrued by the public, Consalvi instantly replied with energy, "Sire, if I had remained in that post, I should have done my duty." Napoleon looked at him fixedly, made no answer, and then going backward and forward through the half-circle formed by the cardinals, began a long monologue, enumerating a number of grievances against the Pope and against Rome for not having adhered to his will by refusing to adopt the system offered. At length, being near Consalvi, he stopped, and said a second time, "No, if you had remained at your post, things would not have gone so far." Again Consalvi replied, "Your majesty may believe that I should have done my duty." Napoleon gave the cardinal another fixed glance, and then without reply recommenced his walks, continuing his former discourse. At last he stopped near Cardinal di Pietro, and said for the third time, "If Cardinal Consalvi had remained secretary of state, things would not have gone so far." Consalvi was at the other end of the little group of five, and need not have answered; but earnest to exonerate himself from all suspicion, he advanced toward Napoleon, and seizing his arm, exclaimed, "Sire, I have already assured your majesty that had I remained in that post, I should certainly have done my duty." The emperor no longer containing himself, and with eyes steadily bent on Consalvi, burst forth into these words, "Oh! I repeat it, your duty would not have allowed you to sacrifice spiritual to temporal things." After this he turned his back on Consalvi, and going over to the cardinals opposite, asked if they had heard his words. Then returning to the five, he observed that the College of Cardinals was now nearly complete in Paris, and that they would do well to see among themselves if there was anything to propose or regulate concerning Church affairs. "Let Cardinal Consalvi be of the committee," added Napoleon; "for if, as I suppose, he is ignorant of theology, he knows well the science of politics."

At a second and third audience, Napoleon showed similar kindness to Consalvi, always asking after his health, and remarking that he was getting fatter now. The cardinal only answered by deep salutations. Principally through Consalvi's influence, the cardinals, in a collective letter addressed to the emperor, declined acting in any way while separated from their head, the Pope. Napoleon had angrily torn their letter to pieces; but even this opposition to his will had not changed his courtesy [{17}] toward Consalvi, as seen above. He was bent on creating a schism between them and the Pope. Fesch, his ready instrument, proposed several steps as beneficial to religion, but the majority of cardinals refused to do anything. Unlike many of his colleagues, Consalvi held aloof from all society. Beside the prohibition of the Pope, who at Rome had forbidden the members of the Sacred College to assist at festivities while the Church was in mourning, he considered it unworthy conduct for them to take part in amusements while their head remained in captivity, or to seem to court one who had brought such calamities on the Holy See.

While invited to discuss ecclesiastical matters in committee for presentation to the emperor, the cardinals were not by any means requested to give an opinion on the new marriage. But it became very necessary that they should have one as the time approached for the arrival of Marie-Louise, and for the celebration of the marriage ceremonies in Paris.

She reached Compiègne on the 27th of March. Napoleon, to spare her the embarrassment of a public meeting, had surprised her on the road, and they entered the little town together. A few days after they proceeded to St. Cloud. Four ceremonies were to take place. First there was to be a grand presentation on the 31st of March, at St. Cloud, of all the bodies in the state, the nobles and other dignitaries. The next morning the civil marriage was to be celebrated also at St Cloud. The 2d of April was fixed for the grand entrance of the sovereigns into Paris, and for the solemnity of the religious marriage in the chapel of the Tuileries; the following morning another presentation of the state bodies and the court was to take place before the emperor and the new empress seated on their thrones.

Twenty-seven cardinals had taken counsel together; for Fesch, as grand-almoner to the emperor, was out of the question, and Caprara was dying. They had decided, after deliberate research, that matrimonial cases between sovereigns belong exclusively to the cognizance of the Holy See, which either itself pronounces sentence at Rome, or else through the medium of the legates names local judges for instituting the affair.

According to Consalvi's account, the diocesan officialty of Paris on this occasion refused at first to intervene, on the ground of incompetency; but the emperor caused competency to be declared by a committee of bishops assembled at Paris, and presided over by Cardinal Fesch. The words, however, "declared competent," were not eventually inserted in the documents drawn up of the meeting; it was pretended instead that access could not be had to the Pope. But this pretended impossibility could of course arise only from the will of Napoleon.

Consalvi assures us that the preamble used by the committee in the first instance ran thus:

"The officialty, being declared competent, and without derogating from the right of the sovereign pontiff, to whom access is for the moment forbidden, proclaims null and void the marriage contracted with the Empress Josephine, the reasons for such decision being stated in the sentence." But when it was remarked how prejudicial this avowal would be, the government made it disappear from among the acts of the ecclesiastical curia. For it had been previously arranged that all papers relative to this affair should be submitted to government. According to general report in Paris, some of the papers were burnt, and others changed. A person belonging to the officialty succeeded, however, in secretly saving a part, and especially the beginning of the sentence, which was as given above.

Consalvi does not so much as name the validity or invalidity of the marriage; the point to establish for him was that the right of cognizance [{18}] belonged solely to the Holy See. The incident he mentions of the papers destroyed has no other importance than as showing how conscience at first pronounced and how a strong hand silenced its expression.

Thirteen cardinals resolved to brave any consequences rather than consent to a dereliction of duty; for their oath, when raised to the purple, binds them to maintain at all hazards the rights of the Church. The names of these thirteen were: Cardinals Mattei, Pignatelli, della Somaglia, di Pietro, Litta, Saluzzo, Ruffo Scilla, Brancadoro, Galeffi, Scotti, Gabrielli, Opizzoni, and Consalvi. The other fourteen held different shades of opinion, and only agreed in deciding not to oppose the emperor.

The sole means by which the thirteen could protest, under the circumstances, was not to sanction the new marriage by appearing at the ceremonies. This resolve was accordingly taken, and the fourteen were apprised. Mattei, the oldest cardinal among the thirteen, called upon most of the fourteen to acquaint them with the resolution; other members of the thirteen likewise spoke of it to their colleagues; but no result was produced on the minds of the fourteen. To the shame of the latter it must be said that they afterward untruly declared themselves ignorant of the line of conduct which the thirteen had intended to adopt. Consalvi positively asserts that such was not the case. The thirteen spoke with the caution commanded by prudence on so delicate a matter, not seeking ostensibly to prevent the others from following their own opinions, and anxious to avoid giving any pretext for the accusation of exciting a feeling against the government. But this reserve did not prevent them from clearly expressing their intention to uphold the rights of the Pope and of the Holy See by abstaining from all participation in the marriage ceremonies.

Though called upon by duty to act in the way mentioned, the thirteen cardinals naturally wished to avoid, as much as possible, wounding Napoleon. With this view Mattei was deputed to seek an interview with Fesch, for the purpose of informing him what course they felt obliged to pursue. At the same time Mattei gave him to understand that all publicity might be avoided, or any bad effect on the public obviated, by addressing partial, instead of general, invitations to the cardinals. This was to be done with regard to the senate and the legislative body, and, indeed, the smallness of the enceinte offered a plausible pretext; for it was impossible that all entitled to appear on the occasion could be present. Cardinal Fesch evinced great surprise and anger, endeavoring to reason Mattei out of this view; but finding it was of no use, he promised to speak to the emperor, who was then at Compiègne.

According to Fesch's account, Napoleon flew into a violent passion on learning the decision come to by the thirteen; but he declared that they would never dare to carry out their plot, and utterly rejected the idea of not inviting all the members of the Sacred College.

At the proper time a special invitation reached each cardinal. There was no possibility of escape. To feign illness or invent a pretext they rightly deemed would be unworthy.

Nevertheless, anxious as they were to avoid offence, when they came to consider more closely the nature of the different ceremonies, it was considered by some that they might, without failing in duty, assist at the two presentations that were to take place before and after the marriages. Consalvi was among those opposed to this view on grounds of honor at least; but, not to provoke any further schism in their ranks, the minority yielded, and this mode of proceeding was decided on. Both marriages were to be eschewed; but they would assist at both presentations. The cardinals hoped thus to prove that they did all [{19}] they possibly could to please Napoleon consistently with their sense of duty. It was also considered highly desirable to shield the fourteen from remark as much as could be, for it was a grievous matter to right-minded men to see the honor and dignity of the Sacred College thus abased.

Accordingly, on the evening fixed, all the cardinals went to St Cloud. Together with the other dignitaries, they were in the grand gallery waiting the arrival of Napoleon and his new empress, when Fouché, the minister of police, came up. Consalvi had been very intimate with him, but having paid scarcely any visits since his return to Paris, from the motives stated above, they had not hitherto met. Fouché drew him aside, and asked with much cordiality and interest if it were true that several cardinals refused to be present at the emperor's marriage.

Consalvi was silent at first, not wishing to name any one in particular. But when Fouché insisted, saying that, as minister of police, he knew of course all about it, and only asked through politeness, Consalvi replied that he belonged to the number.

"Oh, what do you say?" exclaimed Fouché. "The emperor was speaking of it this morning, and in his anger named you; but I affirmed that it was not likely you should be of the set."

Fouché then pointed out the dangerous consequences of such a proceeding, saying that the non-intervention of the cardinals would seem to blame the state, the emperor, and even to attack the legitimacy of the future succession of the throne. He tried to persuade Consalvi to be present himself at leasts or if the whole thirteen would not come to the civil marriage, to attend, however, the religious ceremony. Consalvi could not of course consent; but he told the efforts they had made to avoid invitations for all, and promised, at Fouché's request, to repeat this conversation to the twelve.

Their discourse was interrupted by the appearance of the emperor and empress. Napoleon came in holding Marie-Louise by the hand, and he pointed out each person to her by name as he drew near. On approaching the members of the Sacred College, he exclaimed, "Ah, the cardinals!" and presented them, one after the other, with great courtesy, naming each, and mentioning some qualification. Thus Consalvi was designated as he who arranged the concordat.

It was said afterward that Napoleon's kindliness had been intended to win them over.

They all bowed in return, without speaking. When this ceremony was over, the thirteen returned to Paris and met at the house of Cardinal Mattei. Consalvi then related his conversation with Fouché; they saw clearly what there might be to apprehend, but none wavered in the resolution taken.

The following day, the civil marriage was celebrated at St Cloud. The thirteen cardinals abstained from appearing. Of the fourteen, eleven were present: one was ill, and two, seized with tardy misgiving, said they were.

Monday, the 2d of April, had been fixed for the triumphal entrance of the sovereigns into Paris, and for the religious marriage in the chapel of the Tuileries. A successful representation of the arch of triumph was made; afterward reproduced in the one at the top of the Champs Elysées. Napoleon passed under it, with Marie-Louise at his side, in a carriage that afforded a fair view of both to the spectators. Arrived at the gate of the Tuileries, on the Place de la Concorde, they alighted, and he led her through the gardens till they arrived at the chapel of the palace, prepared for the nuptial ceremony.

It was crowded densely, and many more persons longed to enter, but there were thirteen vacant seats!

It had been hoped that Fouché's words would produce some effect, and [{20}] that the thirteen cardinals might, at least, be induced to attend the religions marriage. Their seats had been left up to the last moment; but as Napoleon drew near, they were hastily removed. His eye, however, fell immediately on the group of cardinals, always conspicuous from their red costume, and as he marked the smallness of their number, anger flashed from his countenance.

Indeed, only twelve cardinals, including Fesch, were present One was really too ill to go, and two others, as before, pretended sickness. But, as they wrote to this effect, they were considered as absent from accident. And they encouraged this version.

During both these days and nights, the thirteen remained at home, carefully abstaining, as became their position, from all semblance of participation in any rejoicings.

On the morrow was to take place the final ceremony of presentation to both sovereigns seated on their thrones. All the cardinals went, and, according to injunction, in full costume. Two hours passed waiting for the doors of the throne-room to be opened.

Then the stream began to move toward the spot in the middle of the grand gallery that connects the Tuileries with the Louvre, where Napoleon and Marie-Louise were seated on their respective thrones, surrounded by the members of the imperial family and officers of state.

The crowd entered slowly, one by one, according to the rule of precedence prescribed, and each individual, stopping before the throne, made a profound obeisance, passing out afterward by the door of the saloon beyond.

In conformity with French etiquette at that time, the senators were first introduced; and Fesch had the littleness to go in with them, rather than with the Sacred College. After these followed the councillors of state and the legislative body, and then came the turn of the cardinals. But at this moment, Napoleon, with imperious gesture, beckoned an officer toward him, and gave a hasty order to have all the cardinals who had not been present at the marriage immediately expelled from the ante-chamber, as he should not condescend to receive them. The messenger was precipitately quitting the hall, when Napoleon, with rapid change of thought, called him back, and ordered that only Cardinals Opizzoni and Consalvi should be turned out But the officer, confused, did not clearly seize this second order, and imagining that the two cardinals named were to be more particularly designated, acted accordingly.

The scene that followed may be conceived. It rises up vividly. The order for expulsion was as publicly intimated as it had been publicly given; and scores of eager eyes turned on the thirteen culprits so ignominiously dismissed. The report of what was coming got whispered from hall to hall, and flew on to the numerous groups that thronged even the vestibule and staircase; if the buzz ceased as the cardinals drew near, it followed swiftly on their receding steps, while they traversed each apartment. Friends began to tremble for their personal safety: the bloody tragedy of Vincennes rose up in remembrance to many an anxious heart.

Their equipages had disappeared in the confusion of the day. The Parisian crowd were astounded that morning to mark thirteen rich scarlet dresses wending about in search of conveyances or homes.

Within the palace, meanwhile, precedence, contrary to custom, had been given the ministers; but after them the other cardinals were at length introduced. As each, in turn, drew near the thrones, and, not feeling very pleasantly we may believe, made his respectful salutation. Napoleon was giving way to a rapid flow of violent language. Sometimes he addressed the empress, or sometimes those standing near. The Sacred College, as a body, came in for its share of abuse; but two cardinals were special objects [{21}] of reproachful epithets. "He might spare the others," said Napoleon, "as obstinate theologians full of prejudice; but Cardinals Consalvi and Opizzoni he never could forgive." Opizzoni was ungrateful, owing, as he did, to him (Napoleon) the archbishopric of Bologna, and the cardinal's hat; but Consalvi was the most guilty of all. "Consalvi," cried the emperor, warming as he went on, "does not act from theological prejudice: he is incapable of that; but he hates me for having caused his fall from the ministry. And this is now his revenge. He is a deep politician, and he seeks now to lay a subtle snare, whereby hereafter to attack the legitimacy of a future heir to the throne."

Marie-Louise, accustomed to the stalely etiquette of Austria, must have been rather surprised at this outburst. Perhaps her own destiny, as bride of that crowned soldier of fortune, did not then look quite so brilliant to her. It is easy to fancy courtiers around with their varied shades of amaze, horror, and fear at such delinquency, and its consequences, painted on their faces.

Consalvi tells us in his memoir on the marriage, and also in that of his private life, that the fury of Napoleon on the day of the religious ceremony had been so intense, that on coming out from chapel he actually ordered three cardinals to be shot, afterward confining the sentence to Consalvi alone. And the cardinal each time says that he probably owed his life to the intervention of Fouché.

But in a note which M. Crétineau-Joly mentions as detached from the memoirs, Consalvi writes thus of Napoleon: "In his fits of anger,—often more feigned than real, especially at first,—he would threaten to have persons shot, as he frequently did with regard to myself; but I am persuaded that he never would have signed the order for execution. More than once I have heard his devoted followers and intimate confidants relate that the murder of the Duke d'Enghien had been a surprise rather than a deliberate act of will. I should not be astonished at the truth of this, for it was a useless crime, leaving only shame and remorse, which Bonaparte might easily have spared himself."

The contradiction in these passages is remarkable. M. Crétineau-Joly does not give the date of the note, so we are reduced to conjecture. It seems likely to have been written at a later period, when the downfall of Napoleon would naturally call forth from Consalvi the deepest charity and most lenient interpretations. The two memoirs, it will be remembered, were penned during the cardinal's captivity at Rheims.

The day after their expulsion, those among the cardinals who were bishops had orders to resign their sees immediately, under pain of imprisonment. They signed the deed as required, but with the proviso of the Pope's consent. At eight o'clock on the same evening each one received a short note from the minister of public worship, enjoining him to wait on that functionary in an hour's time, for the purpose of hearing the emperors' orders.

The whole thirteen met in the minister's ante-chamber, and were introduced together to his cabinet. Fouché was with him, and from a kindly intention, says Consalvi. Both seemed grieved at the business they had to transact.

As soon as Fouché perceived Consalvi, he exclaimed,

"Ah, cardinal, I warned you the consequences would be terrible. What pains me most is that you should be of the number."

Consalvi thanked him for his sympathy, but said he was prepared for all that might follow.

The thirteen were then made to sit down in a circle, and the minister of public worship began a long discourse, which could not much have benefitted the culprits, as only three understood French. The substance of it was that they had committed a [{22}] state crime, and were guilty of treason, having conspired against the emperor. The proof of this lay in the secrecy they had observed toward him (the minister) and toward the other cardinals. They ought to have spoken to him as their superior, and he would have enlightened them with regard to their erroneous idea of the privative right belonging to the Pope in matrimonial cases between sovereigns. Their crime, he said, might have the most serious consequences on the public tranquillity, unless the emperor succeeded in obviating them, for their mode of acting had tended to nothing less than to cast doubts on the legitimacy of the succession to the throne. He concluded by declaring that the emperor, judging the cardinals to be rebels guilty of conspiracy, had ordered them to be informed:

1. That they were from that moment deprived of all their property, ecclesiastical and patrimonial, for the sequestration of which measures had been already taken.

2. That his majesty no longer considered them as cardinals, and forbade them henceforth to wear any ensigns of that dignity.

3. That his majesty reserved to himself the right of afterward deciding with regard to their persons.

And the minister gave them to understand that a criminal action would be brought against some.

Even going back as fully as we can to the ideas of the times, there is something equally startling and absurd in the notion of a lay minister of state undertaking to enlighten princes of the church on matters of canon law, coolly naming himself as their superior, and treating them to a long homily on their duties and misdemeanors. The same pretensions are doubtless reproduced in all revolutionary times; but still the absurdity strikes us forcibly as we read this account.

Consalvi replied that they were erroneously accused of conspiracy and rebellion—crimes unworthy of the purple, and also of their individual characters. No secret, he said, had been made of their opinion to the other cardinals, though it had been expressed without seeking to gain proselytes. If they had not communicated with the minister, they had nevertheless spoken quite openly to Cardinal Fesch, their own colleague and the emperor's uncle, begging him to lay their determination, founded solely on motives of conscience, before Napoleon. Consalvi also explained how they endeavored to avoid all the blame now laid to their charge by requesting partial invitations, which request, if complied with, would have prevented their views from being made public. The other two cardinals who could speak French likewise expressed themselves in similar terms.

Both ministers appeared convinced, and, regretting the emperor had not himself heard their defence, suggested that they should write it out for his perusal. No difficulty was made in complying with this proposal. The ministers then said that the cardinals must not, however, bring forward the real motive of their absence, namely, the Pope's right, as that was just what irritated Napoleon; but lay the cause to sickness, or some excuse of that kind. The cardinals declined taking this course, as incompatible with their duty.

Here we must remark that the whole scene appears to us got up to make them yield at last; but Consalvi, ever charitable, says not a word to that effect.

One of the ministers then tried to make out a draft of a letter for the emperor that should be satisfactory to both parties; and one of the cardinals had the imprudence to copy these rough sketches, for the purpose of comparing them and seeing afterward what could be done. The minister insisted much on having the paper then and there drawn up, as Napoleon was going to travel, and would leave Paris immediately. But Consalvi, pleading his colleagues' ignorance of the French language, [{23}] succeeded at length in obtaining consent for them to retire together and deliberate among themselves.

It was eleven o'clock when they withdrew; and some of the cardinals had the further imprudence to assure the ministers that the expressions used by the latter had been faithfully copied.

As soon as Consalvi was alone with his colleagues and could speak freely, he showed them the full meaning of the French terms suggested, and the impropriety, to say the least, of using them. All agreed to hold staunchly to their duty. But now appeared the further difficulty, created by having copied the ministers' words, which it would thus be impossible to seem to forget. Fouché was to see Napoleon soon after leaving them, and would doubtless hasten to assure him that the cardinals were writing a letter conformable to his wishes. Thus Napoleon, prepared for submission, would give way to tenfold anger on finding the reverse.

The letter was dictated by conscience alone, but its expressions were as much as possible tempered by prudence. Every word was carefully weighed; and five hours passed in drawing it up. By its tenor, they sought to exculpate themselves from all suspicion of revolt and treason, saying that the real cause of their absence was because the Pope was excluded from the matter; that they had not pretended thereby to institute themselves judges, or cast any doubts among the public either on the validly of the first marriage, or the legitimacy of the children that might follow the second. In conclusion, they assured Napoleon of their submission and obedience, without making any request for the restoration of their property or their purple. The thirteen signed by order of seniority in the cardinalate.

Cardinal Litta immediately conveyed this document to the minister of public worship, who pronounced himself tolerably satisfied. But Napoleon quitted Paris the next day sooner than had been anticipated, and without giving the audience to the minister which had been agreed on. Consequently the latter could not give the letter then, and he informed the cardinals that they must therefore conform to the orders already received. Accordingly they laid aside the ensigns of their dignity, and hence arose the designation of black and red cardinals. Their property was immediately confiscated, and their revenues, contrary to custom, were thrown into the public treasury.

After a short excursion in the Netherlands, Napoleon returned to Paris. Meanwhile the cardinals had put down their carriages, and hired more modest abodes, better suited to their fallen fortunes. Contradictory rumors were afloat abroad as to their fate. Two months and a half passed ere any change took place.

But on the 10th of June each cardinal received a note from the minister of public worship, appointing a time for him to call; two cardinals being designated for each successive hour. Cardinals Consalvi and Brancadoro were those summoned for the first hour. When they reached his cabinet, the minister informed them that they were to set out for Rheims in twenty-four hours, and to remain there until further orders should be given. Passports were in readiness. All the other cardinals successively received a similar sentence; the only difference lay in the place of abode. They were exiled by twos, and care was taken to separate those supposed to be intimate. The minister offered to each cardinal fifty louis for the expenses of his journey; some accepted, and others declined; Consalvi being among the latter. Soon after their arrival in the towns designated, each cardinal had an intimation from the minister that a monthly pension of 250f. would be duly paid. Consalvi refused to profit by this allowance, and he thinks the others did the same. On the 10th of January, 1811, both he and his [{24}] companion received a note from the sub-prefect of Rheims, requesting them to call and give information on certain orders that had arrived from the supreme authority in Paris. The two cardinals went. The sub-prefect then informed them that he was required to ask what sums they had received for their subsistence since their exile at Rheims, through what conveyance or persons, from whom, and to what amount Consalvi was able to answer that he had not accepted a penny from any one. "But how then do you live, since the government has seized all your property?" "My banker at Rome sends the necessary sums through his correspondent at Paris. Under other circumstances I would have borrowed from my friends."

This measure of the government was caused by irritation on learning that charitable persons had united to make up a general fund every month for the support of the cardinals, and it was wished to put a stop to the proceeding. Consalvi concludes the memoirs of his private life about this time, expressing a fear that the business mentioned above will not end with the interrogatory, but may bring about disastrous consequences. He also says, "We live in exile; foregoing all society, as becomes our situation and that of the Holy See and the sovereign pontiff our head. The red cardinals, I am told, remain in Paris, and go much in the world, but are not esteemed for their late conduct."

It is curious to contract with the preceding account the manner in which M. Thiers disposes of this same episode. "On the day of the emperor's marriage," says that historian, "thirteen out of twenty-eight cardinals failed to be present at the ceremony. The motive, which they dared not assign, but which it was desired to make the public understand, was that, without the Pope, Napoleon could not divorce, and thence, the first marriage still subsisting, the second was irregular. This motive was unfounded, since no divorce had taken place (for in effect divorce being forbidden by the Church could only have been pronounced by the Pope), but simply annulment of the marriage with Josephine, pronounced by the ordinary after all the degrees of ecclesiastical jurisdiction had been exhausted." [Footnote 1]

[Footnote 1: M. Thiers here falls into a grave error: divorce being contrary to the law of God, no Pope can pronounce one. The question was whether Josephine were lawfully married or not.]

In reality, however, this conduct of the thirteen cardinals, acting in conformity with their head, Pope Pius VII., though cut off from all communication with him, was the protest of the Church against temporal despotism in things spiritual. The Church was in chains, but God had left her a living voice to proclaim her rights. Consalvi never for one instant quits his ground—the Church's right of judgment—to give a shadow of personal opinion on the matter in question. It is a fine spectacle also to see him with his few colleagues, deserted by so many of their own body, quietly discussing what degree of excommunication Napoleon had incurred, whether all contact was forbidden, while they inhabited his very capital, and knew well the stem nature of that inexorable will.

The black cardinals continued to inhabit their different places of exile until Napoleon, working on the weakness and the affections of the aged pontiff, drew from him that semblance of a second concordat dated the 25th of January, 1813. Then, restored to liberty, they hastened to the feet of Pius VII.; and found him overwhelmed with grief at the concessions he had made, at what he called his guilt. Truly he had but yielded in his feebleness to the unceasing persuasions of the red cardinals, backed by Napoleon's promises in favor of the Church, and to the charm exercised by that mighty genius when he stooped to court affection. The proviso made that the new concordat, to become binding, should first be submitted to the Sacred College assembled, [{25}] happily afforded the opportunity of annulling it. That was fully and worthily done by the papal letter addressed to the emperor on the 24th of March following.

When the course of events in Europe brought about such a change in his own position, Napoleon, still powerful notwithstanding, began to wish for a reconciliation with the Holy See. On the 23d of January, 1816, Pius VII. was allowed to set out for Rome, restored to his paternal sovereignty. Strangely, however, Consalvi was not permitted to accompany him. He received instead a note from the minister of public worship, informing him that orders would shortly be transmitted concerning himself, the execution of which admitted neither appeal nor yet delay.

And accordingly, two days after the Pope's departure, a letter came from the Duc de Rovigo, minister of police, telling Consalvi that he was condemned to another exile in the town of Béziers, and was to set out immediately for that destination in the strictest incognito, and escorted during the whole journey by an officer of gendarmerie.

Nothing more is said of this incident. Consalvi does not carry his memoirs beyond 1812. Two notes found among his correspondence, and signed by the functionaries above named, reveal the orders for this second exile. Napoleon abdicated on the 4th of April, 1816. On the 19th of May, in the same year, Pius VII. officially recalled Consalvi to his office of secretary of state.

Thus did Providence terminate the struggle between the spiritual and temporal powers; thus closed for Consalvi the exile consequent on his opposition to the imperial marriage.

On the very day that restored Consalvi to his councils, Pius VII. learned that all the nations of Europe refused to receive within their territories the proscribed family of Napoleon. Rome opened her gates.

Madame Mère, as she was called, the mother of Napoleon, wrote thus to Consalvi, 27th May, 1818:

"I wish and I ought to thank your eminence for all you have done in our favor since the burden of exile has fallen on my children and myself. My brother, Cardinal Fesch, did not leave me ignorant of the generous way in which you received the request of mom grand et malheureux proscrit de St. Hélène. He said that on learning the emperor's prayer, so just and so Christian, you had hastened to interpose with the English government, and to seek out priests both worthy and able. I am truly the mother of sorrows; and the only consolation left me is to know that the Holy Father forgets the past, and remembers solely his affection for us, which he testifies to all the members of my family.
"My sons, Lucian and Louis, who are proud of your unchanging friendship toward them, have been much touched likewise by all that the Pope and your eminence have done, unknown to us, to preserve our tranquillity when menaced by the different powers of Europe. We find support and an asylum in the pontifical states only; and our gratitude is as great as the benefit. I beg your eminence to place the expression of it at the feet of the holy pontiff, Pius VII. I speak in the name of all my proscribed family and especially in the name of him now dying by inches on a desert rock. His holiness and your eminence are the only persons in Europe who endeavor to soften his misfortunes, or who would abridge their duration. I thank you both with a mother's heart,—and remain always, eminence, yours very devotedly and most gratefully,
"Madame."

Another letter, from the ex-king of Holland, father of the present emperor of the French, addressed to Cardinal Consalvi, still further demonstrates the charity shown by Rome, and suggests many reflections. With these extracts from Consalvi's [{26}] correspondence as a sequel, we shall close our episode of the imperial marriage; the circumstances they recall form a not uninstructive commentary on an event that seemed to place Napoleon at such a high point of worldly greatness.

"Eminence,—Following the advice of the Holy Father and of your eminence, I have seen Mgr. Bernetti, who is specially charged with the affair in question; and he, with his usual frankness, explained the nature of the complaints made by foreign powers against the family of the Emperor Napoleon. The great powers, and principally England, reproach us with always conspiring. They accuse us of being mixed up, implicitly or explicitly, with all the plots in existence; they even pretend that we abuse the hospitality granted us by the Pope to foment divisions in the pontifical states, and stir up hatred against the august person of the sovereign.
"I was fortunately able to furnish Mgr. Bernetti with proofs to the contrary; and he will himself tell you the effect produced on his mind by my words. If the emperor's family, owing so much to Pope Pius XII. and to your eminence, had conceived the detestable design of disturbing Europe, and if it had the means of so doing, the gratitude that we all feel toward the Holy See would evidently arrest us on such a course. My mother, brothers, sisters, and uncle owe too much respectful gratitude to the sovereign pontiff and to your eminence to draw down new disasters on this city, where, while proscribed by the whole of Europe, we have been received and sheltered with a paternal goodness rendered yet more touching by past injustice. We are not conspiring against any one, and still less against God's representative on earth. We enjoy in Rome all the rights of citizens; and when my mother learned in what a Christian manner the Pope and your eminence were avenging the captivity of Fontainebleau and the exile of Rheims, she could only bless you in the name of her grand et malheureux mort, shedding sweet tears for the first time since the disasters of 1814.
"To conspire against our august and sole benefactor would be an infamy that has no name. The family of Bonaparte will never merit such a reproach. I convinced Mgr. Bernetti of it, and he will himself be our surety with your eminence. Deign then to listen to his words, and to grant us the continuance of your favor, together with the protection of the Holy Father.—In this hope, I am, eminence, your very respectful and most devoted servant and friend,
"L. DE SAINT-LEU."
"Rome, 30th Sept. 1821."

[{27}]

From Once A Week.
AN ENGLISH MAIDEN'S LOVE.

I read this incident when a mere girl in a very stupid old novel founded upon it, which I never could succeed in meeting with again. The preface stated that in some church in England there yet remained the monument of the knight with his noble one-armed wife beside him. I should be glad if any of your readers could tell me where this monument is to be seen, and the real names (which I have forgotten) of the knight and lady.

'Twas in the grand heroic days,
When Coeur de Lion reigned and fought;
An English knight ta'en in those frays
To Sultan Saladin was brought.
The sultan sat upon his throne,
His courtiers stood around;
And emir, prince, and padisha
Bent lowly to the ground.
They served him upon bended knee—
"To hear is to obey;"—
For the fierce and cruel Moslem race
An iron hand must sway.
The monarch gazed on each stem face;
"Ye Moslem chiefs are brave;
But I know a braver man than ye,
Bring forth the Christian slave!"
The slave was brought, and at a sign
The scimitar waved high,
But the English captive gazed unmoved,
With calm unshrinking eye.
Then spoke the sultan: "Hugh de Vere,
I've need of men like thee,
And thou shalt be the first man here,
In this land, after me.
"Thou shalt have gold, and gems, and land,
Palaces shall be thine.
And thou shalt wed a queenly bride,
And be a son of mine.
"Only forsake thy fathers' faith,
Mah'med and God adore,
And forget thy love and fatherland.
Which thou shalt see no more."
Then Hugh de Vere obeisance made;—
"Since I must make reply,
I will not change my love or faith,
Far liever would I die.
[{28}] "I have a God who died for me.
His soldier I am sworn.
Shall I, whose shoulder bears the cross,
Upon the cross bring scorn?
"I have a love, a gentle girl.
Whom I love as my wife;
I cannot bear a Moslem name.
Nor wed a Moslem wife."
"Bethink thee now," the sultan said;
"How knowest thou that the maid
Is not now wed, since thy return
Hath been so long delayed?
"Fickle and false is woman's heart,
It changes like the sky;
The showers that fall so fast to-night
To-morrow' sun will dry.
"Nor—trust me—e'er was maiden yet
Constant as is the dove,
Who dies of grief for her lost mate,
And knows no second love."
Then at the monarch's feet bowed low
The saintly frères who came
To ransom slaves, bound by their vow,
For Jesu's holy name.
And at his footstool wealth untold
With lavish hands they pour:
"His bride sends thee her gems and gold;
Sir Hugh de Vere restore!"
The sultan spoke: "The other knights
And men may go with thee.
But not for gold or jewels bright
Shall Hugh de Vere go free.
"I love him with a brother's love,
His love I hope to win.
And in this land raise him above
All men save Saladin.
"What is a woman's love to mine?
A hundred slaves I'll give,
Let him his Christian faith resign,
And in my shadow live.
"His lady-love sends pearls and gold,
She'd give them for a shawl,
But she must give a dearer thing
Before I yield my thrall.
[{29}] "I'll try how Christian maidens love—
This answer to her bear,
'Thy faith and fealty to prove,
Give what is far more dear.
"'This is the ransom I demand,
No meaner thing I'll take,
Thy own right arm and lily hand
Cut off for thy love's sake."
"Return, good frères," Sir Hugh then said,
"To my betrothed bride,
And speak of me henceforth as dead,
Since here I must abide.
"For rather would I die this day
Beneath the paynim swords,
Than ye should bear Agnes de Bray
The sultan's cruel words.
"For well I know her faithful heart
Both arm and life would give
To ransom mine;—and will not prove
Her death, that I may live."
Then mournfully the ransom sent
The good frères took once more.
And with the captives they had freed
Sailed to the English shore.
And Earl de Bray's castell they sought,
And to fair Agnes told,
How that her lover could not be
Ransomed for gems or gold.
And that the cruel sultan asked,—
Nor meaner thing would take,—
Her own right arm and lily hand,
Cut off for her love's sake.
A shudder ran through all who heard,
Her mother shrieked aloud,
Her father, crimsoning, clutched his sword,
And death to Moslems vowed.
Her little sister to her ran,
And clasped her tightly round:
"Sure, sister, such a wicked man
Cannot on earth be found?"
But Agnes smoothed the child's long hair
And kissed her, then spoke low,
"That cruel is the ransom asked.
My dear ones, well I know.
[{30}] "But did not God for ransom give
His own beloved Son?
And do not churls and nobles give
Their lives for king and throne?
"Has not my lord and father bled
By Coeur de Lion's side?
And would he bid his daughter shirk
Duty—whate'er betide?
"Am I not Hugh de Vere's betrothed,
Fast pledged to be his wife?
Do not I owe him fealty,
Even though it cost my life?
"What is my life? Long days and years
In vain repining spent,
And orisons to God to end
My dear love's banishment.
"And he has heard. At last my prayers
Have reached up to God's throne
God gives me back my long lost one,
Nor leaves me sad and lone.
"Only, he asks a sacrifice,
A proof my love is pure:
For such great gain, a little pain.
And shall I not endure?"
* * * * *
Once more the Sultan Saladin
Sat in his royal court,
At his right hand stood Hugh de Vere
Grave-eyed and full of thought.
A herald came. "Sultan, our lord,
The Christians' holy men
Who come to ransom captive slaves,
An audience crave again."
The friars came, and, bowing low,
They placed before the throne
A silver casket richly chased:
And spoke in solemn tone.
"Monarch, to whom women are slaves,
Toys of an idle hour,
Learn in a nobler faith than thine
Love's purity and power.
"The cruel ransom thou didst ask
For Hugh de Vere here take,
His love's right arm and lily hand
"Cut off for her love's sake."
[{31}] Then Hugh de Vere, beside himself,
The casket seized, and said,
"O cruel monks, why told ye her?
I bade ye call me dead.
"O fair sweet arm! O dear white hand!
Cut off for my poor sake!"
And to his breast prest it and sobbed,
As if his heart would break.
But Saladin the casket oped,
And lo! embalmed there lay
The fair white arm and lily hand
Sent by Agnes de Bray.
And as he gazed his tears flowed down,
His nobles also wept
"Oh I would ere I such words had said
I'd with my fathers slept!"
The lily hand full reverently
And like a saint's he kissed.
"O gentle hand! what noble heart
Thee owned, I never wist.
"I never dreamed that woman lived
Who would, to save her lord,
Thus freely give her own right arm
And hand unto the sword.
"Mah'med and God witness for me,
I loved Sir Hugh de Vere!
And thought if I this ransom asked
I should retain him here.
"Fair arm, fair hand, and true brave love!
My kingdom I'd resign—
Richer than any king of earth
In such a love as thine!
"Take, Hugh de Vere, thy freedom, won
So nobly by thy love;
Take gems, and silks, and gold,—all vain
Saladin's grief to prove.
"Tell her I yield my selfish love:
Well may she claim thy life!
She who was such a noble love
Will be a noble wife!
"Unloose the sails, make no delay,
Depart ere close the day.
While I among my precious things
Thy ransom stow away.
"That, 'mid my treasure placed, it may
To future ages prove
How holy Christians' plighted troth,
How pure their maidens' love!"

[{32}]

From Chamber's Journal.
BELL GOSSIP.

There are some competent artistic observers who contend that bells were the origin, the cause, the ruling motive, of one of the most important parts of a Christian church—perhaps the most important, in regard to external appearance. The Rev. J. H. Sperling, in a paper read recently before the Architectural Institute, dwells at considerable length on the influence of the turret, campanile, or bell-tower in determining the character of a church. As a means of summoning the faithful to mass (there were no Protestant churches, because no Protestants, in those days), or to bid them pray wherever they might be, a bell was needed with a sound that would reach to a distance; and this could only be insured by placing it in a tower at some elevation. The Gothic architects made everything contribute to the design of their cathedrals and churches; and this elevation of the bell was just the thing to call forth their ingenuity. They made the bell-tower one of the chief features in their design. It was often entirely detached from the building, and was known generally as the campanile. Examples of this are observable at Canterbury and Chichester cathedrals, at Beccles, at Ledbury, and at West Walton in Norfolk. Salisbury cathedral had originally a campanile; but modern wiseacres, who thought they knew better than the men of old, removed it. The central towers of cathedrals and churches were intended as lanterns to let in light, not as turrets to contain bells; this was a later innovation. Many towers have been altered from their original purpose to convert them into bell-towers, but injuriously—as at Winchester and Ely. Mr. Sperling, as a matter of usefulness as well as of style, advocates the detached or semi-detached campanile; and recommends architects to direct their attention more frequently to this matter.

Another way in which church bells manifest, if not a scientific or artistic, at least a historical value, is in their connection with the saints of the Catholic Church; they are still existing records of a very old ecclesiastical custom. The bell of a church was frequently, if not generally, named after the patron saint of that church; and if there were more bells than one, the lowest in tone was named after the patron saint, and the others after saints to whom altars, shrines, or chapels within the edifice were dedicated. Probably, in such case, each bell was appropriated to the service of its own particular saint; for the use of many bells in a peal is comparatively modern. At Durham cathedral, and at the church of St Bartholomew the Great near Smithfield, are (or were recently) examples of a family of bells receiving names bearing special relation to the particular fabric for which they were intended.

Archaeologists claim for church bells a certain value in regard to the inscriptions which they nearly always bear, and which serve as so many guide-posts directing to facts belonging to past ages. Each great bell-founder (and many of them belonged to monastic institutions) had his own particular style of ornamentation, and his own favorite inscription, monogram, or epigraph. Sometimes it was only his own name; sometimes a name and a date; sometimes a pious ejaculation. The towns of Norwich, Lynn, Colchester, Salisbury, etc., had all celebrated families of bell-founders, in the days when the later Gothic cathedrals and churches were built. [{33}] The earliest known dated bell is at Fribourg, bearing the year 1258, and the inscription: "O Rex Gloriae, veni cum pace; me resonante pia populo succurre Maria." The oldest in England is supposed to be that at Duncton in Sussex, dated 1319. London can boast one a little over four centuries old, at All Hallows Staining, Mark Lane. The inscriptions on the bells, in the days when saints patronized them, were mostly in Latin, in most cases including the entreaty, "Ora pro nobis" (Pray for us). Sometimes the mottoes adverted to the many uses which church bells subserved, such as:

"Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum,
Defunctos ploro, pestem fugo, festa decoro."

Even this did not exhaust the list; for we meet with an enumeration of nearly twenty purposes answered by church bells—some of which we should be little disposed to recognize in these scientific days of ours. The following is not an actual motto on a bell, but an elegy on the subject:

"En ego Campana, nunquam denuntio vana,
Laudo Deum verum, plebem voco, congrego clerum.
Defunctos plango, vivos voco, fulmina frango,
Vox mea, vox vitae, voco vos, ad sacra venite.
Sanctos collaudo, tonitrua fugo, funera claudo,
Funera plango, fulgura frango, Sabbatha pango,
Excito lentos, dissipo ventos, paco cruentos."

Occasionally, some of the more peculiar of these uses were expressed in English:

"Sometimes joy, sometimes sorrow.
Marriage to-day, and Death to-morrow."

They generally lose their point when they lose their Latinity.

The mottoes on old bells, other than those which were dictated by the reverential feeling of the middle ages, comprise instances of vanity, ignorance, and silliness, such as would hardly be expected in these matters. Sometimes a kind of moral aphorism is attempted, with more or less success.

"Mankind, like us, too oft are found
Possessed of nought but empty sound.
When backward rung, I tell of fire;
Think how the world shall thus expire.
When souls are from their body torn,
'Tis not to die, but to be born."

One, very short, bids us to

"Embrace trew musick."

A bell-founder named Pleasant used to put all kinds of punning mottoes on his bells suggested by his name. Some record the financial virtues of the persons who supplied the money for casting the bell:

"I'm given here to make a peal,
And sound the praise of Mary Neale."
"All ye who hear my solemn sound.
Thank Lady Hopton's hundred pound."
"Robert Forman collected the money for casting this bell:
I'll surely do my part as well."

The name of the founder is sometimes supplanted by that of the churchwarden, or they may appear in companionship.

"John Martin of Worcester he made wee,
Be it known to all that do wee see."
"John Draper made, as plainly doth appeare.
This bell was broake and cast againe wich
tyme churchwardens were,
Edward Dixon for the one who stode close to his tacklin.
And he that was his partner then was Alexander Tacklyn."

The rhymster was evidently driven to his wits' end by the name of Tacklyn. Some had a touch of loyalty in them:

"God save the Church,
Our Queen, and Realme,
And send us peace in Xt."

The following are examples of a more or less childish class, marvels to find perpetuated in hard metal:

"My sound is good, my shape is neat:
Perkins made me all complete."
"I am the first, although but small,
I will be heard above you all."
"I sound aloud from day to day:
My sound hath praise, and well it may."
"I ring to sermon with a lusty boom,
That all may come, and none may stay at home."
"Pull on, brave boys; I am metal to the backbone,
I'll be hanged before I'll crack."

The letters of the inscription are not, as some persons may suppose, cut or engraved on the metal by hand: they are formed in intaglio or sunk in the sand of the mould, and thus appear in relief on the outside of the bell when cast. What can be done in this way by that strange people the [{34}] Chinese may be seen in the British Museum; we might search long enough to find an English bell equal in elaborate ornamentation to the Chinese bell there deposited.

The musical tone of a bell unquestionably depends on the scientific principles of acoustics as applied to music. The pitch of any one bell is determined conjointly by the size and the thickness. Of two bells equally large, the thicker gives the higher note; of two bells equally thick, the smaller gives the higher note. But then bell-founders look to the quality of the tone as well as to the pitch; and on this point there is much divergence of opinion among them. Concerning the metal used, some combination of copper and tin predominates in nearly all church bells; generally from two to three times as much copper as tin. Small additions of other metals are occasionally made, according to the theoretical views of the founder. The popular belief that silver improves the tone of a bell, is pronounced by Mr. Sperling and Mr. Denison to be a mistake; if added in large quantity, it would be as bad as so much lead; if in small quantity, it does neither good nor harm. Whether there is or is not really silver in two well-known bells, called the "Acton Nightingale" and the "Silver Bell" of St John's College, Cambridge, it is believed by these authorities that the sweetness of the tone is due to other causes. A feeling of piety probably influenced the wealthy persons who, in old days, were wont to cast silver into the furnace containing the molten bell-metal. Mr. Sperling thinks that the old bells were, as a rule, better than the modern, by having more substance in them—obtaining depth and fulness of tone by largeness in height and diameter, rather than by diminishing the thickness at the part where the hammer or clapper strikes. "Nothing is more easily starved than a church bell." A long-waisted bell (high in the sides) is considered to give forth a more resonant tone than a shallow or low waist, because there is more metal to act as a kind of sounding-board; but a lower bell is easier to ring in a peal; hence, as Sperling thinks, a reason for the difference in the richness of tone in old and modern bells. There are indications that the old founders sometimes tuned a set of bells in what is called the minor mode, the source of much that is tender and plaintive in Scotch and Irish melodies; but in our days they are always in the major mode. Where the ringing is done by clock-work, the sounds of several bells constitute a chime—where by hand, a peal—but in either case the actual tone or note of each bell is fixed beforehand. It is by many persons believed that the quality of the tone is improved by age, owing to some kind of molecular change in the metal; this is known to be the case in some old organs, and in instruments of the violin class, in the metal of the one and the wood of the other; and so far there is analogy to support the opinion. For good peals of bells, the founders generally prefer D or E as the note for the tenor or largest bell.

As to largeness in a bell, its intention bears relation rather to loudness than to pitch, as a means of throwing the sound to a great distance. This is the reason for the mighty bells that we are told of—St. Paul's weighing something like 13,000 lbs.; Antwerp, 16,000 lbs.; Oxford, 17,000 lbs.; Rome, 18,000 lbs.; Mechlin, 20,000 lbs.; Bruges, 23,000 lbs.; York, 24,000 lbs.; Cologne, 25,000 lbs.; Montreal, 29,000 lbs.; Erfurt, 30,000 lbs.; "Big Ben," at the Houses of Parliament, 31,000 lbs.; Sens, 34,000 lbs.; Vienna, 40,000 lbs.; Novgorod, 69,000 lbs.; Pekin, 119,000 lbs.; Moscow, 141,000 lbs.; and, giant of all the giants, another Moscow bell weighing 192 tons, or 430,000 lbs. Our own Big Ben is more than twice as heavy as our own St. Paul's bell, which used to be regarded as one of our wonders, and its sound travels much further; but whether its quality of tone is equal, is a point on which opinions differ. [{35}] The history of the two Big Bens must be more or less familiar to most of our readers—how that three chief commissioners of works, and two architects, and three bell-founders, and two bell-doctors, quarrelled year after year; how that both the Bens cracked, and got into disgrace; how that one of them recovered its voice again; and how that we have paid the piper to the tune of something like four thousand pounds for the two Big Bens and the four smaller bells. If a musical reader wishes to know, he may be told that the four quarter-bells give out the notes B, E, F++, G++, and that Big Ben's tone is E, an octave below the first E. Remember, when Big Ben is heard six miles off, it is half a minute behind time, seeing that sound takes about half a minute to travel that distance.

As to bell-ringing, the adepts insist upon it that this is a science; and they give it the name of campanology. We all know, ever since we learnt about permutation and combination at school, that if there are six, eight, ten, or any number of distinct things, we may arrange them in an enormous number of ways, each way differing from every other. The things in this case are bells of different tones; and according to the order in which they are struck by the hammer or clapper so many changes may we produce. Out of the almost infinite number of these changes, campanologists select certain groups which to their ear seem most musical and agreeable; and these changes are known by the names of their proposers or inventors, just as we speak of a work by a great artist. It is not clearly known whether change-ringing began earlier than the seventeenth century; but it is certain that the art is practised much more in England than in any other country. There are peals from two or three to ten or twelve bells. Sixteen of twelve bells, and fifty of ten bells, are mentioned in the books as peals now existing in England. The largest peals now in England are at Bow church, Exeter, and York, each of ten bells; at Bow church and at York they vary from eight hundredweights to fifty-three hundredweights each; at Exeter from eight to sixty-seven hundredweights. From these weights, it must be evident that it is no small labor for men to pull such bells for several hours at a time. Just as the achievements of celebrated pedestrians and race-horses are placed upon record, so are the fraternity proud to refer to the bell-ringing exploits of their crack pullers. Twenty-four changes per minute are frequently reached. We are told that in 1787, 5,040 changes were rung in three hours and a quarter; and that on other occasions there were 6,876 changes rung in four hours and a quarter, 7,000 in four hours, 10,008 in six hours and three quarters, 14,224 in eight hours and three quarters, and (the magnum opus) 40,320 changes rung by thirteen men in twenty-seven hours, working in relief gangs. In one of the old churches, North Parret in Somerset, the belfry contains a set of rhyming rules, purporting that a six-pence fine shall be imposed on the ringers for cursing or swearing, for making a noise or telling idle stories, for keeping on their hats, for wearing spurs, or for overturning the bell. This overturning does sometimes occur, even to the loss of life. One ringer was killed about the time when his brother was drowned; and the following delectable epitaph records the double catastrophe:

"These 3 youths were by misfortun serounded;
One died of his wound, and the other was drownded."

Whether bell-pinging is really a science, or whether it is only an ingenious art, as most people would prefer to call it, certainly the technical terms are most profuse and puzzling. Let the reader make what he can out of the following, taken at random from one of the books on the subject: Treble lead, plain work, course, call word, reverse method, direct method, double, method, balance, hold up, cut down, following, handstroke, rounds, [{36}] backstroke, plain hunt, touches, course ends, hunting up, hunting down, place making, dodging, double dodging, Bob doubles, singles, observation, grandsire doubles, slow course, principle, Bob minor, double Bob minor, treble Bob, superlative surprise, wrong way, Bob triple, tittums. Bob caller, Bob major, double Bob major, treble Bob major, Bob caters, grandsire caters, Bob royals, Bob cinques, Bob maximus, treble Bob maximus. Bob certainly seems to be in the ascendant here. When the reader has marvelled at these funny names, let him try to understand the directions for ringing one particular set of changes: "Call two Bobs on 9, O, x; bring them round. Or, if the practitioner pleases, he may call the tenth and eleventh to make the ninth's place; the former will be a six before the course end comes up. Then a Bob when the tenth and eleventh dodge together behind completes it. In this course the bells will be only one course out of the tittums"—which it is very satisfactory to hear. Once more; and here we would ask whether the directions do not suggest the idea of a damsel going through a sort of country-dance with seven swains all rejoicing in the name of Bob? "When the seventh has been quick, call a Bob when she dodges the right way behind, which will make her quick again; then, if the sixth goes up before the seventh, keep her behind with Bobs, until the seventh comes up to her; but if the sixth does not go up before the seventh, call her the right way behind again, and the sixth is sure to be up before her the next time." After a little more of these extraordinary evolutions—"If not out of course, Bob with the seventh down quick till the fourth comes home; if out of course, a single must be called when the seventh goes down quick, to put them right. But if it happens that the fourth is before the fifth comes home, call when the seventh does her first whole term, and down quick with a double." And we hope that they lived happy ever afterward.

From The Month
KIRKSTALL ABBEY: A SONNET.

Roll on by tower and arch, autumnal river;
And ere about thy dusk yet gleaming tide
The phantom of dead day hath ceased to glide,
Whisper it to the reeds that round thee quiver—
Yea, whisper to those ivy-bowers that shiver
Hard by on gusty choir and cloister wide:
"My bubbles break; my weed-flowers seaward glide:
My freshness and my mission last for ever!"
Young moon, from leaden tomb of cloud that soarest,
And whitenest those hoar elm-trees, wrecks forlorn
Of olden Airedale's hermit-haunted forest,
Speak thus: "I died; and lo, I am reborn!"
Blind, patient pile, sleep on in radiance! Truth
Fails not; and faith once more shall wake in endless youth.
AUBREY DE VERE.

[{37}]

From The Month.
CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
CHAPTER XIII.

One day there was a great deal of company at Mistress Wells's house, which was the only one I then haunted, being as afore said, somewhat sickened of society and diversions. The conversation which was mostly ministered amongst such as visited there related to public affairs and foreign countries, and not so much as in some other houses to private scandals and the tattle of the town. The uncertainty I was in concerning my father's present abode and his known intent soon to cross over the sea from France worked in me a constant craving for news from abroad, and also an apprehensive curiosity touching reports of the landing of seminary priests at any of the English ports. Some would often tarry at Mr. Wells's house for a night who had lately come from Rheims or Paris, and even Rome, or leastways received letters from such as resided in those distant parts. And others I met there were persons who had friends at court; and they often related anecdotes of the queen and the ministers, and the lords and ladies of her household, which it also greatly concerned me to hear of, by reason of my dearest friend having embarked her whole freight of happiness in a frail vessel launched on that stormy sea of the court, so full of shoals and quicksands, whereby many a fair ship was daily chanced to be therein wrecked.

Nothing notable of this kind had been mentioned on the day I speak of, which, howsoever, proved a very notable one to me. For after I had been in the house a short time there came there one not known, and yet it should seem not wholly unknown to me; for that I did discover in his shape and countenance something not unfamiliar, albeit I could not call to mind that I had ever seen this gentleman before. I asked his name of a young lady who sat near to me, and she said she thought he should be the elder brother of Mr. Hubert Rookwood, who was lodging in the house, and that she heard he tabled there also since he had come to town, and that he was a very commendable person, above the common sort, albeit not one of such great parts as his brother. Then I did instantly take note of the likeness between the brothers which had made the elder's face not strange to me, as also perhaps that one sight of him I had at Bedford some years before. Their visages were very like; but their figures and mostly their countenances different. I cannot say wherein that great differency did lie; but methinks every one must have seen, or rather felt it. Basil was the tallest and the handsomest of the twain. I will not be so great a prodigal of time as to bestow it on commendations of his outward appearance whose inward excellences were his chiefest merit. Howsoever, I be minded to set down in this place somewhat touching his appearance; as it may so happen that some who read this history, and who have known and loved Basil in his old years, should take as much pleasure in reading as I do in writing the description of his person, and limning as it were the resemblance of him at a period in this history wherein the hitherto separate currents of his life and mine do meet, like a noble river [{38}] and a poor stream, for to flow onward in the same channel.

Basil Rookwood was of a tall stature, and well-proportioned shape in all parts. His hair of light brown, very thickly set, and of a sunny hue, curled with a graceful wave. His head had many becoming motions. His mouth was well-made, and his lips ruddy. His forehead not very high, in which was a notable dissemblance from his brother. His nose raised and somewhat sharply cut. His complexion clear and rosy; his smile so full of cheer and kindliness that it infected others with mirthfulness. He was very nimble and active in all his movements, and well skilled in riding, fencing, and dancing. I pray you who have known him in his late years, can you in aught, save in a never-altered sweetness mixing with the dignity of age, trace in this picture a likeness to Basil, your Basil and mine? I care not, in writing this plain showing of mine own life, to use such disguises as are observed in love-stories, whereby the reader is kept ignorant of that which is to follow until in due time the course of the tale doth unfold it. No, I may not write Basil's name as that of a stranger. Not for the space of one page; nay, not with so much as one stroke of my pen can I dissemble the love which had its dawn on the day I have noted. It was sudden in its beginnings, yet steady in its progress. It deepened and widened with the course of years, even as a rivulet doth start with a lively force from its source, and, gathering strength as it flows, grows into a broad and noble river. It was ardent but not idolatrous; sudden, as I have said, in its rise, but not unconsidered. It was founded on high esteem on the one side, on the other an inexpressible tenderness and kindness. Religion, honor, and duty were the cements of this love. No blind dotage; but a deathless bond of true sympathy, making that equal which in itself was unequal; for, if a vain world should have deemed that on the one side there did appear some greater brilliancy of parts than showed in the other, all who could judge of true merit and sound wisdom must needs have allowed that in true merit Basil was as greatly her superior whom he honored with his love, as is a pure diamond to the showy setting which encases it.

Hubert presented to me his brother, who, when he heard my name mentioned, would not be contented till he had got speech of me; and straightway, after the first civilities had passed between us, began to relate to me that he had been staying for a few days before coming to town at Mr. Roper's house at Richmond, where I had often visited in the summer. It so befel that I had left in the chamber where I slept some of my books, on the margins of which were written such notes as I was wont to make whilst reading, for so Hubert had advised me, and his counsel in this I found very profitable; for this method teaches one to reflect on what he reads, and to hold converse as it were with authors whose friendship and company he thus enjoys, which is a source of contentment more sufficient and lasting than most other pleasures in this world.

Basil chanced to inhabit this room, and discovered on an odd by-shelf these volumes so disfigured, or, as he said, so adorned; and took such delight in the reading of them, but mostly in the poor reflections an unknown pen had affixed to these pages, that he rested not until he had learnt from Mr. Roper the name of the writer. When he found she was the young girl he had once seen at Bedford, he marvelled at the strong impulse he had toward her, and pressed the venerable gentleman with so many questions relating to her that he feared he should have wearied him but his inquiries met with such gracious answers that he perceived Mr. Roper to be as well pleased with the theme of his discourse as himself, and as glad to set [{39}] forth her excellences (I be ashamed to write the words which should indeed imply the speaker to have been in his dotage, but for the excuse of a too great kindness to an unworthy creature) as he had to listen to them. And here I must needs interrupt my narrative to admire that one who was no scholar, yea, no great reader at any time, albeit endowed with excellent good sense and needful information, should by means of books have been drawn to the first thoughts of her who was to enjoy his love which never was given to any other creature but herself. But I pray you, doth it not happen most often, though it is scarce to be credited, that dissemblance in certain matters doth attract in the way of love more than resemblance? That short men do choose tall wives; lovers of music women who have no ear to discern one tune from another; scholars witless housewives; retired men ambitious helpmates; and gay ladies grave husbands? This should seem to be the rule, otherways the exception; and a notable instance of the same I find in the first motions which did incline Basil to a good opinion of my poor self.

But to return. "Mistress Sherwood," quoth Basil, "Mr. Roper did not wholly praise you; he recited your faults as well as your virtues."

I answered, it did very much content me he should have done so, for that then more credit should be given to his words in that wherein he did commend me, since he was so true a friend as to note my defects.

"But what," quoth he, archly smiling, "if the faults he named are such as pleased me as well as virtues?"

"Then," I replied, "methinks, sir, the fault should be rather in you than in her who doth commit them, for she may be ignorant, or else subject to some infirmity of temper; but to commend faults should be a very dangerous error."

"But will you hear," quoth he, "your faults as Mr. Roper recited them?"

"Yea, willingly," I answered, "and mend them also if I can."

"Oh, I pray you mend them not," he cried.

At which I laughed, and said he should be ashamed to give such wanton advice. And then he:

"Mr. Roper declares you have so much inability to conceal your thoughts that albeit your lips should be forcibly closed, your eyes would speak them so clearly that any one who listed should read them."

"Methinks," I said, willing to excuse myself like the lawyer in the gospel, "that should not be my fault, who made not mine own eyes."

"Then he also says, that you have so sharp an apprehension of wrongs done to others, that if you hear of an injustice committed, or some cruel treatment of any one, you are so moved and troubled, that he has known you on such occasions to shed tears, which do not flow with a like ease for your own griefs. Do you cry mercy to this accusation, Mistress Sherwood?"

"Indeed," I answered, "God knoweth I do, and my ghostly father also. For the strong passions of resentment touching the evil usage our Catholics do meet with work in me so mightfully, that I often am in doubt if I have sinned therein. And concerning mine own griefs, they have been but few as yet, so that 'tis little praise I deserve for not overmuch resentment in instances wherein, if others are afflicted, I have much ado to restrain wrath."

"Ah," he said, "methinks if you answer in so true and grave a manner my rude catechizing. Mistress Sherwood, I be not bold enough to continue the inventory of your faults."

"I pray you do," I answered; for I felt in my soul an unusual liking for his conversation, and the more so when, leaving off jesting, he said, "The last fault Mr. Roper did charge you with was lack of prudence in matters wherein prudence is most needed in these days."

[{40}]

"Alas!" I exclaimed; "for that also do I cry mercy; but indeed, Master Rookwood, there is in these days so much cowardice and time-serving which doth style itself prudence, that methinks it might sometimes happen that a right boldness should be called rashness."

Raising my eyes to his, I thought I saw them clouded by a misty dew; and he replied, "Yea, Mistress Constance, and if it is so, I had sooner that myself and such as I have a friendship for should have to cry mercy on their death-beds for too much rashness in stemming the tide, than for too much ease in yielding to it. And now," he added, "shall I repeat what Mr. Roper related of your virtues?"

"No," I answered, smiling. "For if the faults he doth charge me with be so much smaller than the reality, what hope have I that he should speak the truth in regard to my poor merits?"

Then some persons moving nearer to where we were sitting, some general conversation ensued, in which several took part; and none so much to my liking as Basil, albeit others might possess more ready tongues and a more sparkling wit. In all the years since I had left my home, I had not found so much contentment in any one's society. His mind and mine were like two instruments with various chords, but one key-note, which maintained them in admirable harmony. The measure of our agreement stood rather in the drift of our desires and the scope of our approval, than in any parity of tastes or resemblance of disposition. Acquaintanceship soon gave way to intimacy, which bred a mutual friendship that in its turn was not slow to change into a warmer feeling. We met very often. It seemed so natural to him to affection me, and to me to reciprocate his affection, that if our love began not, which methinks it did, on that first day of meeting, I know not when it had birth. But if it be difficult precisely to note the earliest buddings of the sweet flower love, it was easy to discern the moment when the bitter root of jealousy sprang up in Hubert's heart. He who had been suspicious of every person whose civilities I allowed of, did not for some time appear to mislike the intimacy which had arisen betwixt his brother and me. I ween from what he once said, when on a later occasion anger loosened his tongue, that he held him in some sort of contempt, even as a fox would despise a nobler animal than himself. His subtle wit disdained his plainness of speech. His confiding temper he derided; and he had methinks no apprehension that a she-wit, as he was wont to call me, should prove herself so witless as to prefer to one of his brilliant parts a man notable for his indifferency to book learning, and to his smooth tongue and fine genius the honest words and unvarnished merits of his brother.

Howsoever, one day he either did himself notice some sort of particular kindness to exist between us, or he was advertised thereof by some of the company we frequented, and I saw him fix his eyes on us with so arrested a persistency, and his frame waxed so rigid, that methought Lot's wife must have so gazed when she turned toward the doomed city. I was more frighted at the dull lack of expression in his face than at a thousand frowns or even scowls. His eyes were reft of their wonted fire; the color had flown from his lips; his always pale cheek was of a ghastly whiteness; and his hand, which was thrust in his bosom, and his feet, which seemed rooted to the ground, were as motionless as those of a statue. A shudder ran through me as he stood in this guise, neither moving nor speaking, at a small distance from me. I rose and went away, for his looks freezed me. But the next time I met him this strangeness of behavior had vanished, and I almost misdoubted the truth of what I had seen. He was a daily witness, for several succeeding weeks, of what neither Basil nor I [{41}] cared much to conceal—the mutual confidence and increasing tenderness of affection, which was visible in all our words and actions at that time, which was one of greater contentment than can be expressed. That summer was a rare one for fineness of the weather and its great store of sun-shiny days. We had often pleasant divertisements in the neighborhood of London, than which no city is more famous for the beauty of its near scenery. One while we ascended the noble river Thames as far as Richmond, England's Arcadia, whose smooth waters, smiling meads, and hills clad in richest verdure, do equal whatsoever poets have ever sung or painters pictured. Another time we disported ourselves in the gardens of Hampton, where, in the season of roses, the insects weary their wings over the flower-beds—the thrifty bees with the weight of gathered honey—and the gay butterflies, idlers as ourselves, with perfume and pleasure. Or we went to Greenwich Park, and underneath the spreading trees, with England's pride of shipping in sight, and barges passing to and fro on the broad stream as on a watery highway, we whiled away the time in many joyous pastimes.

On an occasion of this sort it happened that both brothers went with us, and we forecasted to spend the day at a house in the village of Paddington, about two miles from London, where Mr. Congleton's sister, a lady of fortune, resided. It stood in a very fair garden, the gate of which opened on the high road; and after dinner we sat with some other company which had been invited to meet us under the large cedar trees which lined a broad gravel-walk leading from the house to the gate. The day was very hot, but now a cooling air had risen, and the young people there assembled played at pastimes, in which I was somewhat loth to join; for jesting disputations and framing of questions and answers, an amusement then greatly in fashion, minded one of that fatal encounter betwixt Martin Tregony and Thomas Sherwood, the end of which had been the death of the one and a fatal injury to the soul of the other. Hubert was urgent with me to join in the arguments proposed; but I refused, partly for the aforesaid reason, and methinks, also, because I doubted that Basil should acquit himself so admirably as his brother in these exercises of wit, wherein the latter did indeed excel, and I cared not to shine in a sport wherein he took no part. So I set myself to listen to the disputants, albeit with an absent mind; for I had grown to be somewhat thoughtful of late, and to forecast the future with such an admixture of hope and fear touching the issue of those passages of love I was engaged in, that the trifles which entertained a disengaged mind lacked ability to divert me. I ween Polly, if she had been then in London, should have laughed at me for the symptoms I exhibited of what she styled the sighing malady.

A little while after the contest had begun, a sound was heard at a distance as of a trampling on the road, but not discernible as yet whether of men or horses' feet. There was mixed with it cries of hooting and shouts, which increased as this sort of procession (for so it should seem to be) approached. All who were in the garden ran to the iron railing for to discover the cause. From the houses on both sides the road persons came out and joined in the clamor. As the crowd neared the gate where we stood, the words, "Papists—seditious priests—traitors," were discernible, mixed with oaths, curses, and such opprobrious epithets as my pen dares not write. At the hearing of them the blood rushed to my head, and my heart began to beat as if it should burst from the violence with which it throbbed; for now the mob was close at hand, and we could see the occasion of their yells and shoutings. About a dozen persons were riding without bridle or spur or other furniture, on lean and bare horses, which were fastened [{42}] one to the other's tails, marching slowly in a long row, each man's feet tied under his horse's belly and his arms bound hard and fast behind him. A pursuivant rode in front and cried aloud that those coming behind him were certain papists, foes to the gospel and enemies to the commonwealth, for that they had been seized in the act of saying and hearing mass in disobedience to the laws. And as he made this proclamation, the rabble yelled and took up stones and mud to cast at the prisoners. One man cried out, "Four of them be vile priests." O ye who read this, have you taken heed how, at some times in your lives, in a less space than the wink of an eye, thought has outrun sight? So did mine with lightning speed apprehend lest my father should be one of these. I scanned the faces of the prisoners as they passed, but he was not amongst them; however I recognized, with a sharp pain, the known countenance of the priest who had shriven my mother on her death-bed. He looked pale and worn to a shadow, and hardly able to sit on his horse. I sunk down on my knees, with my head against the railings, feeling very sick. Then the gate opened, and with a strange joy and trembling fear I saw Basil push through the mob till he stood close to the horse's feet where the crowd had made a stoppage. He knelt and took off his hat, and the lips of the priests moved, as they passed, for to bless him. Murmurs rose from the rabble, but he took no heed of them. Till the last horseman had gone by he stood with his head uncovered, and then slowly returned, none daring to touch him. "Basil, dear Basil!" I cried, and, weeping, gave him my hand. It was the first time I had called him by his name. Methinks in that moment as secure a troth-plight was passed between us as if ten thousand bonds had sealed it. When, some time afterward, we moved toward the house, I saw Hubert standing at the door with the same stony rigid look which had frighted me once before. He said not one word as I passed him. I have since heard that a lady, endowed with more sharpness than prudence or kindness, had thus addressed him on this occasion: "Methinks, Master Hubert Rookwood, that you did perform your part excellently well in that ingenious pastime which procured us so much good entertainment awhile ago; but beshrew me if your brother did not exceed you in the scene we have just witnessed, and if Mistress Sherwood's looks do not belie her, she thought so too. I ween his tragedy hath outdone your comedy." Then he (well-nigh biting his lips through, as the person who related it to me observed) made answer: "If this young gentlewoman's taste be set on tragedy, then will I promise her so much of it another day as should needs satisfy her."

This malicious lady misliked Hubert, by reason of his having denied her the praise of wit, which had been reported to her by a third person. She was minded to be revenged on him, and so the shaft contained in her piercing jest had likewise hit those she willed not to injure. It is not to be credited how many persons have been ruined in fortune, driven into banishment, yea, delivered over to death, by careless words uttered without so much as a thought of the evil which should ensue from them.

And now upon the next day Basil was to leave London. Before he went he said he hoped not to be long absent, and that Mr. Congleton should receive a letter, if it pleased God, from his father; which, if it should be favorably received, and I willed it not to be otherwise, should cause our next meeting to be one of greater contentment than could be thought of.

I answered, "I should never wish otherwise than that we should meet with contentment, or will anything that should hinder it." Which he said did greatly please him to hear, and gave him a comfortable hope of a happy return.

[{43}]

He conversed also with Mistress Ward touching the prisoners we had seen the day before, and left some money with her in case she should find means to see and assist them, which she strove to do with the diligence used by her in all such managements. In a few days she discovered Mr. Watson to be in Bridewell, also one Mr. Richardson in the Marshalsea, and three laymen in the Clink. Mr. Watson had a sister who was a Protestant, and by her means she succeeded in relieving his wants, and dealt with the gaolers at the other prisons so as to convey some assistance to the poor men therein confined, whose names she had found out.

One morning when I was at Kate's house Hubert came there; and she, the whole compass of whose thoughts was now circled in her nursery, not minding the signs I made she should not leave us alone, rose and said she must needs go and see if her babe was awake, for Hubert must see him, and he should not go away without first he had beheld him walk with his new leading-strings, which were the tastefullest in the world and fit for a king's son; and that she doubted not we could find good enough entertainment in each other's company, or in Mr. Lacy's books, which must be the wittiest ever written, if she judged by her husband's fondness for them. As soon as the door was shut on her, Hubert began to speak of his brother, and to insinuate that my behavior to himself was changed since Basil had come to London, which I warmly denied.

"If," I said, "I have changed—"

"If," he repeated, stopping my speaking with an ironical and disdainful smile, and throwing into that one little word as he uttered it more of meaning than it would seem possible it should express.

"Yes!" I continued, angered at his defiant looks. "Yes, if my behavior to you has changed, which, I must confess, in some respects it has, the cause did lie in my uncle's commands, laid on me before your brother's coming to London. You know it, Master Rookwood, by the same token that you charged me with unkindness for not allowing of your visits, and refusing to read Italian with you, some weeks before ever he arrived."

"You have a very obedient disposition, madam," he answered in a scornful manner, "and I doubt not have attended with a like readiness to the behest to favor the elder brother's suit as to that which forbade the receiving of the younger brother's addresses."

"I did not look upon you as a suitor," I replied.

"No!" he exclaimed, "and not as on a lover? Not as on one whose lips, borrowing words from enamored poets twenty times in a day, did avow his passion, and was entertained on your side with so much good-nature and apparent contentment with this mode of disguised worship, as should lead him to hope for a return of his affection? But why question of that wherein my belief is unshaken? I know you love me, Constance Sherwood, albeit you peradventure love more dearly my brother's heirship of Euston and its wide acres. Your eyes deceived not, nor did your flushing cheek dissemble, when we read together those sweet tales and noble poems, wherein are set forth the dear pains and tormenting joys of a mutual love. No, not if you did take your oath on it will I believe you love my brother!"

"What warrant have you, sir," I answered with burning cheek, "to minister such talk to one who, from the moment she found you thought of marriage, did plainly discountenance your suit?"

"You were content, then, madam, to be worshipped as an idol," he bitterly replied, "if only not sued for in marriage by a poor man."

My sin found me out then, and the hard taunt awoke dormant pangs in my conscience for the pleasure I had taken and doubtless showed in the disguised professions of an undisguised admiration; but anger yet prevailed, [{44}] and I cried, "Think you to advance your interest in my friendship, sir, by such language and reproaches as these?"

"Do you love my brother?" he said again, with an implied contempt which made me mad.

"Sir," I answered, "I entertain for your brother so great a respect and esteem as one must needs feel toward one of so much virtue and goodness. No contract exists between us; nor has he made me the tender of his hand. More than that it behoves you not to ask, or me to answer."

"Ah! the offer of marriage is then the condition of your regard, and love is to follow, not precede, the settlements, I' faith, ladies are very prudent in these days; and virtue and goodness the new names for fortune and lands. Beshrew me, if I had not deemed you to be made of other metal than the common herd. But whatever be the composition of your heart, Constance Sherwood, be it hard as the gold you set so much store on, or, like wax, apt to receive each day some new impress, I will have it; yea, and keep it for my own. No rich fool shall steal it from me."

"Hubert Rookwood," I cried in anger, "dare not so to speak of one whose merit is as superior to thine as the sun outshines a torchlight."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, turning pale with rage, "if I thought thou didst love him!" and clenched his hand with a terrible gesture, and ground his teeth. "But 'tis impossible," he added bitterly smiling. "As soon would I believe Titania verily to doat on the ass's head as for thee to love Basil!"

"Oh!" I indignantly replied, "you do almost constrain me to avow that which no maiden should, unasked, confess. Do you think, sir, that learning and scholarship, and the poor show of wit that lies in a ready tongue, should outweigh honor, courage, and kindliness of heart? Think you that more respect should be paid to one who can speak, and write also, if you will, fair sounding words, than to him who in his daily doings shows forth such nobleness as others only inculcate, and God only knoweth if ever they practise it?"

"Lady!" he exclaimed, "I have served you long; sustained torments in your presence; endured griefs in your absence; pining thoughts in the day, and anguished dreams in the night; jealousies often in times past, and now—"

He drew in his breath; and then not so much speaking the word "despair" as with a smothered vehemence uttering it, he concluded his vehement address.

I was so shaken by his speech that I remained silent: for if I had spoken I must needs have wept. Holding my head with both hands, and so shielding my eyes from the sight of his pale convulsed face, I sat like one transfixed. Then he again: "These be not times, Mistress Sherwood, for women to act as you have done; to lift a man's heart one while to an earthly heaven, and then, without so much as a thought, to cast him into a hellish sea of woes. These be the dealings which drive men to desperation; to attempt things contrary to their own minds, to religion, and to honesty; to courses once abhorred—"

His violence wrung my heart then with so keen a remorse that I cried out, "I cry you mercy, Master Rookwood, if I have dealt thus with you; indeed I thought not to do it. I pray you forgive me, if unwittingly, albeit peradventure in a heedless manner, I have done you so much wrong as your words do charge me with." And then tears I could not stay began to flow; and for awhile no talk ensued. But after a little time he spoke in a voice so changed and dissimilar in manner, that I looked up wholly amazed.

"Sweet Constance," he said, "I have played the fool in my customable fashion, and by such pretended slanders of one I should rather incline to commend beyond his deserts, if that were possible, than to give him vile terms, have sought—I cry you [{45}] mercy for it—to discover your sentiments, and feigned a resentment and a passion which indeed has proved an excellent piece of acting, if I judge by your tears. I pray you pardon and forget my brotherly device. If you love Basil—as I misdoubt not he loves you—where shall a more suitable match be found, or one which every one must needs so much approve? Marry, sweet lady; I will be his best man when he doth ride to church with you, and cry 'Amen' more loudly than the clerk. So now dart no more vengeful lightnings from thine eyes, sweet one; and wipe away the pearly drops my unmannerly jesting hath caused to flow. I would not Basil had wedded a lady in love with his pelf, not with himself."

"I detest tricks," I cried, "and such feigning as you do confess to. I would I had not answered one word of your false discourse."

Now I wept for vexation to have been so circumvented and befooled as to own some sort of love for a man who bad not yet openly addressed me. And albeit reassured in some wise, touching what my conscience had charged me with when I heard Hubert's vehement reproaches, I misdoubted his present sincerity. He searched my face with a keen investigation, for to detect, I ween, if I was most contented or displeased with his late words. I resolved, if he was false, I would be true, and leave not so much as a suspicion in his mind that I did or ever had cared for him. But Kate, who should not have left us alone, now returned, when her absence would have been most profitable. She had her babe in her aims, and must needs call on Hubert to praise its beauty and list to its sweet crowing. In truth, a more winsome, gracious creature could not be seen; and albeit I had made an inpatient gesture when she entered, my arms soon eased hers of their fair burthen, and I set to playing with the boy, and Hubert talking and laughing in such good cheer, that I began to credit his passion had been feigning, and his indifferency to be true, which contented me not a little.

A few days afterward Mr. Congleton received a letter, in the evening, when we were sitting in my aunt's room, and a sudden fluttering in my heart whispered it should be from Basil's father. Mine eyes affixed themselves on the cover, which had fallen on the ground, and then travelled to my uncle's face, wherein was a smile which seemed to say, "This is no other than what I did expect." He put it down on the table, and his hand over it. My aunt said he should tell us the news he had received, to make us merry; for that the fog had given her the vapors, and she had need of some good entertainment.

"News!" quoth he. "What news do you look for, good wife?"

"It would not be news, sir," she answered, "if I expected it."

"That is more sharp than true," he replied. "There must needs come news of the queen of France's lying-in; but I pray you how will it be? Shall she live and do well? Shall it be a prince or a princess?"

"Prithee, no disputings, Mr. Congleton," she said. "We be not playing at questions and answers."

"Nay, but thou dost mistake," he cried out, laughing. "Methinks we have here in hand some game of that sort if I judge by this letter."

Then my heart leapt, I knew not how high or how tumultuously; for I doubted not now but he had received the tidings I hoped for.

"Constance," he said, "hast a mind to marry?"

"If it should please you, sir," I answered; "for my father charged me to obey you."

"Good," quoth he. "I see thou art an obedient wench. And thou wilt marry who I please?"

"Nay, sir; I said not that."

"Oh, oh!" quoth he. "Thou wilt marry so as to please me, and yet—"

"Not so as to displease myself, sir," I answered.

"Come," he said, "another question. [{46}] Here is a gentleman of fortune and birth, and excellent good character, somewhat advanced in years indeed, but the more like to make an indulgent husband, and to be prudent in the management of his affairs, hath heard so good a report from two young gentlemen, his sons, of thy abilities and proper behavior, that he is minded to make thee a tender of marriage, with so good a settlement on his estate in Suffolk as must needs content any reasonable woman. Wilt have him, Conny?"

"Who, sir?" I asked, waxing, I ween, as red as a field-poppy.

"Mr. Rookwood, wench—Basil and Hubert's father."

Albeit I knew my uncle's trick of jesting, my folly was so great just then, hope and fear working in me, that I was seized with fright, and from crimson turned so white, that he cried out:

"Content thee, child! content thee! 'Tis that tall strapping fellow Basil must needs make thee an offer of his hand; and by my troth, wench, I warrant thee thou wouldst go further and fare worse; for the gentleman is honorably descended, heir-apparent to an estate worth yearly, to my knowledge, three thousand pounds sterling, well disposed in religion, and of a personage without exception. Mr. Rookwood declares he is more contented with his son's choice than if he married Mistress Spencer, or any other heiress; and beshrew me, if I be not contented also."

Then he bent his head close to mine ear, and whispered, "And so art thou, methinks, if those tell-tale eyes of thine should be credited. Yea, yea, hang down thy head, and stammer 'As you please, sir!' And never so much as a Deo gratias for thy good fortune! What thankless creatures women be!" I laughed and ran out of the room before mine aunt or Mistress Ward had disclosed their lips; for I did long to be in mine own chamber alone, and, from the depths of a heart over full of, yea overflowing with, such joy as doth incline the knees to bend and the eyes to raise themselves to the Giver of all good—he whom all other goodness doth only mirror and shadow forth—pour out a hymn of praise for the noble blessing I had received. For, I pray you, after the gift of faith and grace for to know and love God, is there aught on earth to be jewelled by a woman like to the affection of a good man; or a more secure haven for her to anchor in amid the present billows of life, except that of religion, to which all be not called, than an honorable contract of marriage, wherein reason, passion, and duty do bind the soul in a triple cord of love?

And oh! with what a painful tenderness I thought in that moving hour on mine own dear parents—my mother, now so many years dead; my father, so parted from his poor child, that in the most weighty concernment of her life—the disposal of her in marriage—his consent had to be presumed; his authority, for so he had with forecasting care ordained, being left in other hands. But albeit a shade of melancholy from such a retrospect as the mind is wont to take of the past, when coming events do cast, as it should seem, a new light on what has preceded them, I could not choose but see, in this good which had happened to me, a reward to him who had forsaken all things—lands, home, kindred, yea his only child, for Christ's dear sake. It minded me of my mother's words concerning me, when she lay dying, "Fear not for her."

I was somewhat loth to return to mine aunt's chamber, and to appear in the presence of Kate and Polly, who had come to visit their mother, and, by their saucy looks when I entered, showed they were privy to the treaty in hand. Mine aunt said she had been thinking that she would not go to church when I was married, but give me her blessing at home; for she had never recovered from the chilling she had when Kate was married, and [{47}] had laid abed on Polly' wedding-day, which she liked better. Mistress Ward had great contentment, she said, that I should have so good an husband. Kate was glad Basil was not too fond of books, for that scholars be not as conversable as agreeable husbands should be. Polly said, for her part, she thought the less wit a man had, the better for his wife, for she would then be the more like to have her own way. But that being her opinion, she did not wholly wish me joy; for she had noticed Basil to be a good thinker, and a man of so much sense, that he would not be ruled by a wife more than should be reasonable. I was greatly pleased that she thus commended him, who was not easily pleased, and rather given to despise gentlemen than to praise them. I kissed her, and said I had always thought her the most sensible woman in the world. She laughed, and cried, "That was small commendation, for that women were the foolishest creatures in the world, and mostly such as were in love."

Ah me! The days which followed were full of sweet waiting and pleasant pining for the effects of the letter mine uncle wrote to Mr. Rookwood, and looking for one Basil should write himself, when licence for to address me had been yielded to him. When it came, how unforeseen, how sad were the contents! Albeit love was expressed in every line, sorrow did so cover its utterance, that my heart overflowed through mine eyes, and I could only sigh and weep that the beginning of so fair a day of joy should have set in clouds of so much grief. Basil's father was dead. The day after he wrote that letter, the cause of all our joy, he fell sick and never bettered any more, but the contrary: time was allowed him to prepare his soul for death, by all holy rites and ghostly comforts. One of his sons was on each side of his bed when he died; and Basil closed his eyes.

CHAPTER XIV.
Basil came to London after the funeral, and methought his sadness then did become him as much as his joyfulness heretofore. His grief was answerable to the affection he had borne unto his father, and to that gentlemen's most excellent deserts. He informed Mr. Congleton that in somewhat less than one year he should be of age, and until then his wardship was committed to Sir Henry Stafford. It was agreed betwixt them, that in respect of his deep mourning and the greater commodity his being of age would afford for the drawing up of settlements, our marriage should be deferred until he returned from the continent in a year's time. Sir Henry was exceeding urgent he should travel abroad for the bettering as he affirmed of his knowledge of foreign languages, and acquirement of such useful information as should hereafter greatly benefit him; but methinks, from what Basil said, it was chiefly with the end that he should not be himself troubled during his term of guardianship with proceedings touching his ward's recusancy, which was so open and manifest, no persuasions dissuading him from it, that he apprehended therefrom to meet with difficulties.

So with heavy hearts and some tears on both sides, a short time after Mr. Rookwood's death, we did part, but withal with so comfortable a hope of a happy future, and so great a security of mutual affection, that the pangs of separation were softened, and a not unpleasing melancholy ensued. We forecasted to hold converse by means of letters, of which he made me promise I should leastways write two for his one; for he argued, as I always had a pen in my hand, it should be no trouble to me to write down my thoughts as they arose, but as for himself, it would cost him much time and labor for to compose such a letter as it would content me to receive. But herein he was too modest; [{48}] for, indeed, in everything he wrote, albeit short and mostly devoid of such flowers of the fancy as some are wont to scatter over their letters, I was always excellently well pleased with his favors of this kind.

Hubert remained in London for to commence his studies in a house of the law; but when my engagement with his brother became known, he left off haunting Mr. Lacy's house, and even Mr. Wells's, as heretofore. His behavior was very mutable; at one time exceedingly obliging, and at another more strange and distant than it had yet been; so that I did dread to meet him, not knowing how to shape mine own conduct in his regard; for if on the one hand I misliked to appear estranged from Basil's brother, yet if I dealt graciously toward him I feared to confirm his apprehension of some sort of unusual liking on my part toward himself.

One month, or thereabouts, after Basil had gone to France, Lady Surrey did invite me to stay with her at Kenninghall, which greatly delighted me, for it was a very long time then since I had seen her. The reports I heard of her lord's being a continual waiter on her majesty, and always at court, whereas she did not come to London so much as once in the year, worked in me a very uneasy apprehension that she should not be as happy in her retirement as I should wish. I long had desired to visit this dear lady, but durst not be the first to speak of it. Also to one bred in the country from her infancy, the long while I had spent in a city, far from any sights or scents of nature, had created in me a great desire for pure air and green fields, of which the neighborhood of London had afforded only such scanty glimpses as served to whet, not satisfy, the taste for such-like pleasures. So with much contentment I began my journey into Norfolk, which was the first I had taken since that long one from Sherwood Hall to London some years before. A coach of my Lord Surrey's, with two new pairs of horses, was going from the Charter-house to Kenninghall, and a chamber-woman of my lady's to be conveyed therein; so for conveniency I travelled with her. We slept two nights on the road (for the horses were to rest often), in very comfortable lodgings; and about the middle of the third day we did arrive at Kenninghall, which is a place of so great magnitude and magnificence, that to my surprised eyes it showed more like unto a palace, yea, a cluster of palaces, than the residence of a private though illustrious nobleman. The gardens which we passed along-side of, the terraces adorned with majestic trees, the woods at the back of the building, which then wore a gaudy dress of crimson and golden hues,—made my heart leap for joy to be once more in the country. But when we passed through the gateway, and into one court and then another, methought we left the country behind, and entered some sort of city, the buildings did so close around us on every side. At last we stopped at a great door, and many footmen stood about me, and one led me through long galleries and a store of empty chambers; I forecasting in my mind the while how far it should be to the gardens I had seen, and if the birds could be heard to sing in this great house, in which was so much fine tapestry, and pictures in high-gilt frames, that the eye was dazzled with their splendor. A little pebbly brook or a tuft of daisies would then have pleased me more than these fine hangings, and the grass than the smooth carpets in some of the rooms, the like of which I had never yet seen. But these discontented thoughts vanished quickly when my Lady Surrey appeared; and I had nothing more to desire when I received her affectionate embrace, and saw how joyful was her welcome. Methought, too, when she led me into the chamber wherein she said her time was chiefly spent, that its rich adornment became her, who had verily a queenly beauty, and a [{49}] presence so sweetly majestic that it alone was sufficient to call for a reverent respect from others even in her young years. There was an admirable simplicity in her dress; so that I likened her in my mind, as she sat in that gilded room, to a pare fair diamond enchased in a rich setting. In the next chamber her gentlewoman and chambermaids were at work—some at frames, and others making of clothes, or else spinning; and another door opened into her bed-chamber, which was very large, like unto a hall, and the canopy of the bed so high and richly adorned that it should have beseemed a throne. The tapestry on the wall, bedight with fruits and flowers, very daintily wrought, so that nature itself hath not more fair hues than therein were to be seen.

"When my lord is not at home, I mislike this grand chamber, and do lie here," she said, and showed me an inner closet; which I perceived to be plainly furnished, and in one corner of it, which pleased me most for to see, a crucifix hung against the wall, over above a kneeling-stool. Seeing my eyes did rest on it, she colored a little, and said it had belonged to Lady Mounteagle, who had gifted her with it on her death-bed; upon which account she did greatly treasure the possession thereof.

I answered, it did very much content me that she should set store on what had been her grandmother's, for verily she was greatly indebted to that good lady for the care she had taken of her young years; "but methinks," I added, "the likeness of your Saviour which died for you should not need any other excuse for the prizing of it than what arises from its being what it is, his own dear image."

She said she thought so too; but that in the eyes of Protestants she must needs allege some other reason for the keeping of a crucifix in her room than that good one, which nevertheless in her own thinking she allowed of.

Then she showed me mine own chamber, which was very commodious and pleasantly situated, not far from hers. From the window was to be seen the town of Norwich, and an extensive plain intersected with trees; and underneath the wall of the house a terrace lined with many fair shrubs and strips of flower-beds, very pleasing to the eye, but too far off for a more familiar enjoyment than the eyesight could afford.

When we had dined, and I was sitting with my lady in her dainty sitting-room, she at her tambour-frame, and I with a piece of patch-work on my knees which I had brought from London, she began forthwith to question me touching my intended marriage, Mr. Rookwood's death, and Basil's going abroad, concerning which she had heard many reports. I satisfied her thereon; upon which she expressed great contentment that my prospects of happiness were so good; for all which knew Basil thought well on him, she said; and mostly his neighbors, which have the chiefest occasions for to judge of a man's disposition. And Euston, she thought, should prove a very commendable residence, albeit the house was small for so good an estate; but capable, she doubted not, of improvements, which my fine taste would bestow on it; not indeed by spending large sums on outward show, but by small adornments and delicate beautifying of a house and gardens, such as women only do excel in; the which kind of care Mr. Rookwood's seat had lacked for many years. She also said it pleased her much to think that Basil and I should agree touching religion, for there was little happiness to be had in marriage where consent doth not exist in so important a matter. I answered, that I was of that way of thinking also. But then this consent must be veritable, not extorted; for in so weighty a point the least shadow of compulsion on the one side, and feigning on the other, do end by destroying happiness, and virtue also, which is more urgent. She made no answer; and I then asked her if she [{50}] liked Kenninghall more than London, and had found in a retired life the contentment she had hoped for. She bent down her head over her work-frame, so as partly to conceal her face; but how beautiful what was to be seen of it appeared, as she thus hid the rest, her snowy neck supporting her small head, and the shape of her oval cheek just visible beneath the dark tresses of jet-black hair! When she raised that noble head methought it wore a look of becoming, not unchristian, pride, or somewhat better than should be titled pride; and her voice betokened more emotion than her visage betrayed when she said, "I am more contented, Constance, to inhabit this my husband's chiefest house than to dwell in London or anywhere else. Where should a wife abide with so much pleasure as in a place where she may be sometimes visited by her lord, even though she should not always be so happy as to enjoy his company? My Lord Arundel hath often urged me to reside with him in London, and pleaded the comfort my Lady Lumley and himself, in his declining years, should find in my filial care; but God helping me—and I think in so doing I fulfill his will—naught shall tempt me to leave my husband's house till he doth himself compel me to it; nor by resentment of his absence lose one day of his dear company I may yet enjoy."

"O my dear lady," I exclaimed, "and is it indeed thus with you? Doth my lord so forget your love and his duty as to forsake one he should cherish as his most dear treasure?"

"Nay, nay," she hastily replied; "Philip doth not forsake me; a little neglectful he is" (this she said with a forced smile), "as all the queen's courtiers must needs be of their wives; for she is so exacting, that such as stand in her good graces cannot be stayers at home, but ever waiters on her pleasure. If Philip doth only leave London or Richmond for three or four days, she doth suspect the cause of his absence; her smiles are turned to frowns, and his enemies immediately do take advantage of it. I tried to stay in London one while this year, after Bess was married; but he suffered so much in consequence from the loss of her good graces when she heard I was at the Charter-house, that I was compelled to return here."

"And hath my lord been to see you since?" I eagerly asked.

"Once," she answered; "for three short days. O Constance, it was a brief, and, from its briefness, an almost painful joy, to see him in his own princely home, and at the head of his table, which he doth grace so nobly; and when he went abroad saluted by every one with so much reverence, that he should be taken to be a king when he is here; and himself so contented with this show of love and homage, that his face beamed with pleasant smiles; and when he observed what my poor skill had effected in the management of his estates, which do greatly suffer from the prodigalities of the court, he commended me with so great kindness as to say he was not worthy of so good a wife."

I could not choose but say amen in mine own soul to this lord's true estimation of himself, and of her, one hair of whose head did, in my thinking, outweigh in merit his whole frame; but composed my face lest she should too plainly read my resentment that the like of her should be so used by an ungrateful husband.

"Alas," she continued, "this joy should be my constant portion if an enemy robbed me not of my just rights. 'Tis very hard to be hated by a queen, and she so great and powerful that none in the compass of her realm can dare to resent her ill treatment. I had a letter from my lord last week, in which he says if it be possible he will soon visit me again; but he doth add that he has so much confidence in my affection, that he is sure I would not will him to risk that which may undo him, if the queen should hear of it. 'For, Nan,' he writes, 'I resemble a man scrambling up unto a slippery rock, who, if he [{51}] gaineth not the topmost points, must needs fall backward into a precipice; for if I lose but an inch of her majesty's favor, I am like to fall as my fathers have done, and yet lower. So be patient, good Nan, and bide the time when I shall have so far ascended as to be in less danger of a rapid descent, in which thine own fortunes would be involved."

She folded this letter, which she had taken out of her bosom, with a deep sigh, and I doubt not with the same thought which was in mine own mind, that the higher the ascent, the greater doth prove the peril of an overthrow, albeit to the climber's own view the further point doth seem the most secured. She then said she would not often speak with me touching her troubles; but we should try to forget absent husbands and lovers, and enjoy so much pleasure in our mutual good company as was possible, and go hawking also and riding on fine days, and be as merry as the days were long. And, verily, at times youthful spirits assumed the lead, and like two wanton children we laughed sometimes with hearty cheer at some pleasantry in which my little wit but fanciful humor did evince itself for her amusement. But the fair sky of these sunshiny hours was often overcast by sudden clouds; and weighty thoughts, ill assorting with soaring joylity, wrought sad endings to merry beginnings. I restrained the expression of mine own sorrow at my father's uncertain fate and Basil's absence, not to add to her heaviness; but sometimes, whilst playing in some sort the fool to make her smile, which smiles so well became her, a sharp aching of the heart caused me to fail in the effort; which when she perceived, her arm was straightway thrown round my neck, and she would speak in this wise:

"O sweet jester! poor dissembler! the heart will have its say, albeit not aided by the utterance of the tongue. Believe me, good Constance, I am not unmindful of thy griefs, albeit somewhat silent concerning them, as also mine own; for that I eschew melancholy themes, having a well-spring of sorrow in my bosom which doth too readily overflow if the sluices be once opened."

Thus spake this sweet lady; but her unconscious tongue, following the current of her thoughts more frequently than she did credit, dwelt on the theme of her absent husband; and on whichever subject talk was ministered between us, she was ingenious to procure it should end with some reference to this worshipped object. But verily, I never perceived her to express, in speaking of that then unworthy husband, but what, if he had been present, must needs have moved him to regret his negligent usage of an incomparable, loving, and virtuous wife, than to any resentment of her complaints, which were rather of others who diverted his affections from her than of him, the prime cause of her grief. One day that we walked in the pleasaunce, she led the way to a seat which she said during her lord's last visit he had commended for the fair prospect it did command, and said it should be called "My Lady's Arbor."

"He sent for the head-gardener," quoth she, "and charged him to plant about it so many sweet flowers and gay shrubs as should make it in time a most dainty bower fit for a queen. These last words did, I ween, unwittingly escape his lips, and, I fear me, I was too shrewish; for I exclaimed, 'O no, my lord; I pray you let it rather be unfitted for a queen, if so be you would have me to enjoy it!' He made no answer, and his countenance was overcast and sad when he returned to the house. I misdoubted my hasty speech had angered him; but when his horse came to the door for to carry him away to London and the court, he said very kindly, as he embraced me, 'Farewell, dear heart! mine own good Nan!' and in a letter he since wrote he inquired if his orders had been obeyed touching his sweet countess's pleasure-house."

[{52}]

I always noticed Lady Surrey to be very eager for the coming of the messenger which brought letters from London mostly twice in the week, and that in the untying of the strings which bound them her hand trembled so much that she often said, "Prithee, Constance, cut this knot. My fingers be so cold I have not so much patience as should serve to the undoing thereof."

One morning I perceived she was more sad than usual after the coming of this messenger. The cloud on her countenance chased away the joy I had at a letter from Basil, which was written from Paris, and wherein he said he had sent to Rheims for to inquire if my father was yet there, for in that case he should not so much fail in his duty as to omit seeking to see him; and so get at once, he trusted, a father and a priest's blessing."

"What ails you, sweet lady?" I asked, seeing her lips quiver and her eyes to fill with tears.

"Nothing should ail me," she answered more bitterly than was her wont. "It should be, methinks, the part of a wife to rejoice in her husband's good fortune; and here is one that doth write to me that my lord's favor with the queen is so great that nothing greater can be thought of: so that some do say, if he was not married he would be like to mount, not only to the steps, but on to the throne itself. Here should be grand news for to rejoice the heart of the Countess of Surrey. Prithee, good wench, why dost thou not wish thy poor friend joy?"

I felt so much choler that any one should write to my lady in this fashion, barbing with cruel malice, or leastways careless lack of thought, this wanton arrow, that I exclaimed in a passion it should be a villain had thus written. She smiled in a sad manner and answered:

"Alas, an innocent villain I warrant the writer to be, for the letter is from my Bess, who has heard others speak of that which she doth unwittingly repeat, thinking it should be an honor to my lord, and to me also, that he should be spoken of in this wise. But content thee; 'tis no great matter to hear that said again which I have had hints of before, and am like to hear more of it, maybe."

Then hastily rising, she prepared to go abroad; and we went to a lodge in the park, wherein she harbored a great store of poor children which lacked their parents; and then to a barn she had fitted up for to afford a night's lodging to travellers; and to tend sick people—albeit, saving herself, she had no one in her household at that time one half so skilful in this way as my Lady l'Estrange. I ween this was the sole place wherein her thoughts were so much occupied that she did for a while forget her own troubles in curing those of others. A woman had stopped there the past night, who, when we went in, craved assistance from her for to carry her to her native village, which was some fifteen miles north of Norwich. She was afraid, she said, for to go into the town; for nowadays to be poor was to be a wicked person in men's eyes; and a traveller without money was like to be whipt and put into the stocks for a vagabond, which she should die of if it should happen to her, who had been in the service of a countess, and had not thought to see herself in such straits, which she should never have been reduced to if her good lady had not been foully dealt with. Lady Surrey, wishing, I ween, by some sort of examination, to detect the truth of her words, inquired in whose service she had lived.