THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.

A
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
OF
General Literature and Science.

VOL. XXI.
APRIL, 1875, TO SEPTEMBER, 1875.

NEW YORK:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
9 Warren Street.
1875.

Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

JOHN ROSS & CO., PRINTERS, 27 ROSE STREET, NEW YORK.

CONTENTS.

• Anne of Cleves, [403].
• Are You My Wife? [41], [162], [306], [451], [590], [742].
• Blessed Nicholas von der Flüe, [836].
• Blumisalpe, Legend of the, [285].
• Brother Philip, [384], [509].
• Calderon’s Autos Sacramentales, [32], [213].
• Cardinalate, The, [359], [472].
• Charities, Specimen, [289].
• “Chiefly Among Women,” [324].
• Craven’s The Veil Withdrawn, [18].
• Cross in the Desert, [813].
• Daniel O’Connell, [652].
• Dr. Draper, [651].
• Dom Guéranger and Solesmes, [279].
• Dominique de Gourges, [701].
• Draper’s Conflict between Religion and Science, [178].
• Early Annals of Catholicity in New Jersey, [565].
• Education, The Rights of the Church over, [721].
• Episode, An, [805].
• Exposition of the Church in View of Recent Difficulties and Controversies, and the Present Needs of the Age, [117].
• First Jubilee, The, [258].
• Flüe, Blessed Nicholas von der, [836].
• Fragment, A, [628].
• Future of the Russian Church, The, [61].
• German Reichstag, The Leader of the Centrum in the, [112].
• Gladstone’s Misrepresentations, [145].
• Greville and Saint-Simon, [266].
• Guéranger and Solesmes, [279].
• House of Joan of Arc, The, [697].
• Ireland in 1874, A Visit to, [765].
• Irish Tour, [497].
• Joan of Arc, The House of, [697].
• Jubilee, The First, [258].
• Kentucky Mission, Origin and Progress of the, [825].
• Ladder of Life, The, [715].
• Lady Anne of Cleves, [403].
• Leader of the Centrum in the German Reichstag, The, [112].
• Legend of Friar’s Rock, The, [780].
• Legend of the Blumisalpe, [285].
• Legend of the Rhine, A, [541].
• Lourdes, Notre Dame de, [682].
• Lourdes, On the Way to, [368], [549].
• Maria Immacolata of Bourbon, [670].
• Modern Literature of Russia, The, [250].
• New Jersey, Early Annals of Catholicity in, [565].
• Notre Dame de Lourdes, [682].
• Odd Stories—Kurdig, [139].
• O’Connell, Daniel, [652].
• Old Irish Tour, An, [497].
• On the Way to Lourdes, [368], [549].
• Origin and Progress of the Kentucky Mission, [825].
• Persecution in Switzerland, The, [577].
• Philip, Brother, [384], [509].
• Pius IX. and Mr. Gladstone’s Misrepresentations, [145].
• Religion and Science, [178].
• Religion in Our State Institutions, [1].
• Rhine, A Legend of the, [541].
• Rights of the Church over Education, The, [721].
• Roman Ritual, The, and its Chant, [415], [527], [638].
• Russia, The Modern Literature of, [250].
• Saint-Simon and Greville, [266].
• Scientific Goblin, The, [849].
• Space, [433], [614], [790].
• Specimen Charities, [289].
• Stray Leaves from a Passing Life, [68], [200], [341], [486].
• Substantial Generations, [97], [234].
• Switzerland, The Persecution in, [577].
• Tondini’s Russian Church, [61].
• Tragedy of the Temple, The, [84], [223].
• Ultraism, [669].
• Veil Withdrawn, The, [18].
• Visit to Ireland in 1874, A, [765].
• “Women, Chiefly Among,” [324].

POETRY.

• Art and Science, [637].
• Assumption, The, [848].
• Bath of the Golden Robin, The, [159].
• Blind Beggar, The, [305].
• Coffin Flowers, [589].
• Corpus Christi, [450].
• Dunluce Castle, [789].
• Happy Islands, The, [852].
• Horn Head, [485].
• I am the Door, [222].
• In Memoriam, [83].
• In Memory of Harriet Ryan Albee, [414].
• Little Bird, A, [564].
• March, [31].
• On a Charge Made after the Publication of a Volume of Poetry, [340].
• Sonnet, [700].
• Spring, [96].
• Submission, [526].
• Why Not? [548].

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

• Adhemar de Belcastel, [428].
• Archbishop, The, of Westminster’s Reply to Mr. Gladstone, [142].
• Balmes’ Criterion, [428].
• Be not Hasty in Judging, [428].
• Biographical Readings, [859].
• Boone’s Manual of the Blessed Sacrament, [570].
• Brann’s Politico-Historical Essay, etc., [859].
• Breakfast, Lunch, and Tea. [719].
• Bridgett’s Our Lady’s Dowry, [288].
• Bulla Jubilæi, 1875, [288].
• Catholic Premium-Book Library, [720].
• Child, The, [573].
• Classens’ Life of Father Bernard, [429].
• Coffin’s Caleb Krinkle, [144].
• Coleridge’s The Ministry of S. John Baptist, [143].
• Cortes’ Essays, [431].
• Craven’s The Veil Withdrawn, [143].
• Deharbe’s A Full Catechism of the Catholic Religion, [576].
• De Mille’s The Lily and the Cross, [143].
• Donnelly’s Domus Dei, [431].
• Droits de Dieu, Les, et les Idées Modernes, [855].
• Dunne’s Our Public Schools, etc., [429].
• Dupanloup’s The Child, [573].
• Eggleston’s How to make a Living, [430].
• Essays on Catholicism, Liberalism, and Socialism, [431].
• Fessler’s True and False Infallibility, [141], [428].
• First Christmas, The, [859].
• Full Catechism of the Catholic Religion, A, [576].
• Fullerton’s Life of Father Henry Young, [143].
• Fullerton’s Seven Stories, [288].
• Fullerton’s The Straw-Cutter’s Daughter, etc., [430].
• Gahan’s Sermons for Every Day in the Year, etc., [576].
• Gross’ Tract on Baptism, [428].
• Hedley’s (Bishop) The Spirit of Faith, [576], [716].
• Herbert’s Wife, [719].
• Higginson’s Brief Biographies, [429].
• History of England, Abridged, [720].
• Internal Mission of the Holy Ghost, The, [426].
• Irish World, The, [421].
• Kostka, S. Stanislaus, The Story of, [859].
• Lambing’s The Orphan’s Friend, [430].
• Life of Father Henry Young, [143].
• Life of Father Bernard, [429].
• Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ, [571].
• Lingard’s History of England, Abridged. [720].
• McQuaid’s (Bishop) Lecture on the School Question, etc., [429].
• Madame de Lavalle’s Bequest, [719].
• Manning’s (Archbishop) Reply to Mr. Gladstone, [142], [428].
• Manning’s (Archbishop) The Internal Mission of the Holy Ghost, [426].
• Manual of the Blessed Sacrament, [570].
• Mary, Star of the Sea, [427].
• Memoirs of General William T. Sherman, [856].
• Ministry of S. John Baptist, [143].
• Montagu’s (Lord Robert) Reply to Mr. Gladstone, [142].
• Moore’s and Jerdan’s Personal Reminiscences, [287].
• Newman’s Postscript to a Letter to the Duke of Norfolk, [287].
• Old Chest, The, [430].
• O’Reilly’s The Victims of the Mamertine, [576].
• Orphan’s Friend, The, [430].
• Our Lady’s Dowry, [288].
• Our Public Schools, etc., [429].
• Ozanam’s Land of the Cid, [576].
• Postscript to a Letter to the Duke of Norfolk, [287].
• Readings from the Old Testament, [288].
• Sherman, General William T., Memoirs of, [856].
• Shields’ Religion and Science, [716].
• Spalding’s Young Catholic’s Sixth Reader, [286].
• Spirit of Faith, The, [576], [716].
• Stewart’s Biographical Readings, [859].
• Story of a Convert, The, [430].
• Story of S. Stanislaus Kostka, [859].
• Straw-Cutter’s Daughter, etc., [430].
• Syllabus for the People, The, [286].
• Thiéblin’s Spain and the Spaniards, [574].
• Thompson’s Paparchy and Nationality, [428].
• Tract for the Missions, on Baptism, [428].
• True, The, and the False Infallibility of the Popes, [141], [428].
• Tyler’s Discourse on Williston, [572].
• Ullathorne’s (Bishop) Reply to Mr. Gladstone, [142].
• Vatican Decrees, The, and Civil Allegiance, [428].
• Vaughan’s (Bishop) Reply to Mr. Gladstone, [142].
• Veil Withdrawn, The, [143].
• Vercruysses’ New Practical Meditations, [718].
• Veuillot’s The Life of Our Lord Jesus Christ, [571].
• Victims of the Mamertine, The, [576].
• Wann spricht die Kirche unfehlbar? etc., [720].
• Warren’s Physical Geography, [718].
• Wenham’s Readings from the Old Testament, [288].
• Wilson’s Poems, [144].
• Whitcher’s The Story of a Convert, [430].
• Young Catholic’s Fifth and Sixth Readers, [286].
• Young Ladies’ Illustrated Reader, The, [860].

THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXI., No. 121.—APRIL, 1875.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T. Hecker, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

RELIGION IN OUR STATE INSTITUTIONS.

“No member of this State shall be disfranchised or deprived of any of the rights or privileges secured to any citizens thereof, unless by the law of the land or the judgment of his peers.”

“The free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or preference, shall for ever be allowed in this State to all mankind.”—Constitution of the State of New York, Art. i. Sects. 1 and 3.

The first article of all the old English charters which were embodied in, and confirmed by, the Great Charter wrung from King John, was, “First of all, we wish the church of God to be free.” In the days when those charters were drawn up there was no dispute as to which was “the church of God.” The religious unity of Christendom had not yet been reformed into a thousand contending sects, each of which was a claimant to the title of “the church of God.” The two sections of our own constitution quoted from above, which establish in their fullest sense the civil and religious liberty of the individual, are taken from those grand old charters of Catholic days. The only thing practically new in them is the substitution, for the “church of God,” of “the free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or preference.” The reason for this alteration is plain. Civil liberty is impossible without religious liberty. But here the founders of our constitution were confronted with a great difficulty. To follow out the old Catholic tradition, and grant freedom to the “church of God,” was impossible. There were so many “churches of God,” antagonistic to one another, that to pronounce for one was to pronounce against all others, and so establish a state religion. This they found themselves incompetent to do. Accordingly, leaving the title open, complete freedom of religious profession and worship was proclaimed as being the only thing commensurate with complete civil liberty and that large, generous, yet withal safe freedom of the individual which forms the corner-stone of the republic.

This really constitutes what is commonly described as the absolute separation of church and state, on which we are never weary of congratulating ourselves. It is not that the state ignores the church (or churches), but that it recognizes it in the deepest sense, as a power that has a province of its own, in the direction of human life and thought, where the state may not enter—a province embracing all that is covered by the word religion. This is set apart by the state, voluntarily, not blindly; as a sacred, not as an unknown and unrecognized, ground, which it may invade at any moment. It is set apart for ever, and as long as the American Constitution remains what it is, will so remain, sacred and inviolate. Men are free to believe and worship, not only in conscience, but in person, as pleases them, and no state official may ever say to them, “Worship thus or thus!”

Words would be wasted in dwelling on this point. There is not a member of the state who has not the law, as it were, born in his blood. No man ever dreams of interfering with the worship of another. Catholic church and Jewish tabernacle and Methodist meeting-house nestle together side by side, and their congregations come and go, year in year out, and worship, each in its own way, without a breath of hindrance. Conversion or perversion, as it may be called, on any side is not attempted, save at any particular member’s good-will and pleasure. Each may possibly entertain the pious conviction that his neighbor is going directly to perdition, but he never dreams of disputing that neighbor’s right of way thither. And the thought of a state official or an official of any character coming in and directly or indirectly ordering the Catholics to become Methodists, or the Methodists Jews, or the Jews either, is something so preposterous that the American mind can scarcely entertain it. Yet, strange as it is painful to confess, just such coercion of conscience is carried on safely, daily and hourly, under our very noses, by State or semi-state officials. Ladies and gentlemen to whom the State has entrusted certain of its wards are in the habit of using the powers bestowed on them to restrain “the free exercise of religious profession and worship,” and not simply to restrain it, but to compel numbers of those under their charge to practise a certain form of religious profession and worship which, were they free agents, they would never practise, and against which their conscience must revolt.

This coercion is more or less generally practised in the prisons, hospitals, reformatories, asylums, and such like, erected by the State for such of its members or wards as crime or accident have thrown on its hands. Besides those mainly supported by the State, there are many other institutions which volunteer to take some of its work off the hands of the State, and for which due compensation is given. In short, the majority of our public institutions will come within the scope of our observations. And it may be as well to premise here that our observations are intended chiefly to expose a wrong that we, as Catholics, feel keenly and suffer from; but the arguments advanced will be of a kind that may serve for any who suffer under a similar grievance, and who claim for themselves or their co-religionists “the free exercise of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or preference.” If the violation of this article of the constitution to-day favors one side under our ever-shifting parties and platforms, it may to-morrow favor the other. What we demand is simply that the constitution be strictly maintained, and not violated under any cover whatsoever.

The inmates of our institutions may be divided into two broad classes, the criminal and the unfortunate. From the very fact of their being inmates of the institutions both alike suffer certain deprivation of “the rights and privileges” secured to them as citizens. In the case of criminals those rights and privileges are forfeited. They are deprived of personal liberty, because they are a danger instead of a support to the State and to the commonwealth. The question that meets us here is, does the restriction of personal involve also that of religious liberty and worship?

Happily, there is no need to argue the matter at any length, as it has already been pronounced upon by the State; and as regards the religious discipline in prisons, our objection is as much against a non-application as a misapplication of the law. “The free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and worship” is never debarred any man by the State. On the contrary, it is not only enjoined, but, where possible, provided. Even the criminal who has fallen under the supreme sentence of the law, and whose very life is forfeit to the State, is in all cases allowed the full and free ministry of the pastor of his church, whatever that church may be. Nothing is allowed to interfere with their communion. Even the ordinary discipline of the prison is broken into in favor of that power to which, from the very first, the State set a region apart. And it is only at the last moment of life that the minister, be he Catholic, Methodist, or Jew, yields to the hangman.

Is it possible to think that the State, which, in the exercise of its last and most painful prerogative, shows itself so wise, just, tender even, and profoundly religious—so true, above all, to the letter and the spirit of the constitution—should, when the question concerns not the taking, but the guarding, of the criminal’s life, and, if possible, its guidance to a better end, show itself cruel, parsimonious, and a petty proselytizer? Does it hold that freedom of religious profession and worship is a privilege to be granted only to that superior grade of criminal whose deeds have fitted him before his time for another world, and not to the lesser criminal or the unfortunate, who is condemned to the burden of life, and who has it still within his power to make that life a good and useful one? Such a question is its own answer. And yet the system of religious discipline at present prevailing in many of our prisons, as in most of our institutions, would seem to indicate that the State exhausts its good-will over murderers, and leaves all other inmates, in matters of religion, to the ministry of men in whom they do not believe and creeds that they reject. A certain form of religious discipline is provided, which is bound to do duty for all the prisoners, Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant alike. If that is not good enough for them, they may not even do without it; for all are bound to attend religious worship, which, in the case of Catholic prisoners at least—for we adhere to our main point—is beyond all doubt the severest coercion of conscience. The worst Catholic in this world would never willingly take part in the worship of any but his own creed. It is idle to ask whether some worship is not better for him than none at all. The fact remains that he does not believe in any other but his own church, in the sacredness of any other ministry but his own, in the efficacy of any means of grace save those that come to him through the church of which he is a member. More than this, he knows that it is a sin not to approach the sacraments and hear Mass, and that, without frequenting them, he cannot hope to lead a really good life. The perversion of discipline prevents him either hearing Mass or frequenting the sacraments, often even from seeing a priest at all.

There is no need to dwell on the fact that of all men in this world, those who are in prison or in confinement stand most in need of constant spiritual aid and consolation. Indeed, in many cases the term of imprisonment would be the most favorable time to work upon their souls. The efficacy of religion in helping to reform criminals is recognized by the State in establishing prison chaplains, and even making attendance at worship compulsory. But this compulsion is not intended so much as an act of coercion of conscience as an opportunity and means of grace. As seen in the case of murderers, the State is only too happy to grant whatever spiritual aid it can to the criminal, without restriction of any kind.

Laying aside, then, as granted, the consideration that spiritual ministry is of a reforming tendency in the case of those who come freely under its influence, we pass on at once to show where in our own State we are lamentably deficient and unjust in failing to supply that ministry.

In this State there are three State prisons: those of Sing Sing, Auburn, and Clinton. In no one of them is there proper provision for the spiritual needs of Catholic prisoners.

There are also in this State seven penitentiaries: Blackwell’s Island, New York; Kings County, Staten Island, Albany, Syracuse, Rochester, and Buffalo. Of these seven, in three only is Mass celebrated and the sacraments administered, viz., Blackwell’s Island, Kings County, and Albany.

The State boasts also of four reformatories: the Catholic Protectory, Westchester County; House of Refuge, New York; Juvenile Asylum, New York; Western House of Refuge, Rochester. Of these, at the first named only is Mass celebrated and the sacraments administered.

This is a very lamentable state of affairs, and one that ought to be remedied as speedily as possible. It is being remedied in many places, for it prevails practically throughout the country. Catholics, unfortunately, add their quota to the criminal list, as to every grade and profession in life. But there is no reason why Catholic criminals alone should be debarred the means which is more likely than the punishment of the law to turn their minds and hearts to good—the sacraments and ministry of their church. But the fault, probably, in the particular case of prisons, consists in the fact that the grievance has not hitherto been fairly set before the authorities in whose hands the remedy lies. The application of the remedy, indeed, is chiefly a question of demand, for it consists in conformity to the constitution.

The Catholic Union of New York has been at pains to collect testimony on this subject, and the testimony is unanimous as to the advisability of allowing Catholic prisoners free access to priests, sacraments, and Mass. In Great Britain, where there really is a state religion, Catholic as well as Protestant chaplains are appointed to the various prisons and reformatories, as also to the army and navy. In answer to an inquiry from the Catholic Union respecting the system on which British reformatories are managed in regard to the religious instruction afforded to their Catholic inmates, the following letter was received:

“Office of Inspector of Reformatory and Industrial Schools, No. 3 Delahay Street, December 7, 1874.

“Sir: In reference to your letter of the 20th ultimo, I beg to forward you a copy of the last report of the Inspector of Reformatory and Industrial Schools.

“You will observe that almost all the schools are denominational; one reformatory (the Northeastern) and one or two industrial schools alone receiving both Protestant and Roman Catholic children.

“In these cases the children of the latter faith are visited at stated times by a priest of their own religion, and allowed to attend service on Sundays in the nearest Catholic chapel.

“The Catholic schools are solely and entirely for Catholics.

“I am, sir, your faithful servant,

“William Costeker.

“Dr. E. B. O’Callaghan.”

In the British provinces on this continent the same system prevails. Equal religious freedom is guaranteed in all reformatories and prisons. In the Province of Quebec, where the French population and Catholic religion predominate, the system is the same. Throughout Europe it is practically the same. Rev. G. C. Wines, D.D., the accredited representative of our government to the International Penitentiary Congress at London, in his report to the President, February 12, 1873, gave most powerful testimony on this point. A few extracts will suffice for our purpose.

In England “every convict prison has its staff of ministers of religion. For the most part, the chaplains are not permitted to have any other occupations than those pertaining to their office, thus being left free to devote their whole time to the improvement of the prisoners.”

In Ireland, in this respect, “the regulations and usages of the convict prisons are substantially the same.”

In France, in the smaller departmental prisons, “some parish priest acts as chaplain.” In the larger, as well as in all central prisons, “the chaplain is a regular officer of the establishment, and wholely devoted to its religious service.” “Liberty of conscience is guaranteed to prisoners of all religions.” If the prisoner, who must declare his faith on entering, is not a Catholic, “he is transferred, whenever it is possible, to a prison designed to receive persons of the same religious faith as himself.”

In Prussia “chaplains are provided for all prisons and for all religions. They hold religious service, give religious lessons, inspect the prison schools,” etc.

In Saxony “the religious wants of the prisoners are equally regarded and cared for, whatever their creed may be.”

In Würtemberg “in all the prisons there are Protestant and Catholic chaplains. For prisoners of the Jewish faith there is similar provision for religious instruction.”

In Baden “chaplains are provided for all prisons and for all religions.”

In Austria, “in the prisons of all kinds, chaplains and religious teachers are provided for prisoners of every sect.”

In Russia “in all the large prisons there are chapels and chaplains. Prisoners of all the different creeds receive the offices of religion from ministers of their own faith, even Jews and Mussulmans.”

In the Netherlands, “in all the central prisons, in all the houses of detention, and in the greater part of the houses of arrest, the office of chaplain and religious services are confided to one of the parish ministers of each religion, who is named by the Minister of Justice.”

In Switzerland “ministers of the reformed and of the Catholic religion act as chaplains in the prisons. The rabbi of the nearest locality is invited to visit such co-religionists as are occasionally found in them.”

Is it not sad, after testimony of this kind, to come back to our own country, and, with the law on the point so plain, to find the practice so wretchedly deficient? In New York State Mass is celebrated in three penitentiaries and one reformatory only, and that solitary reformatory is denominational. It was only last year that a Mass was celebrated for the first time in a Boston prison, and a chaplain appointed to it. In Auburn prison a priest has only recently been allowed to visit the Catholic prisoners, hear confessions, and preach on Sunday afternoons. But the prisoners are compelled to attend the Protestant services also.

In the State prison at Dannemora, Clinton Co., N. Y., where a Catholic chaplain has only of late been appointed, the prisoners hear Mass but once a month.

In the Western House of Refuge, a branch house of an establishment in this city, to which attention will be called presently, it was only after a severe conflict[1] that in December of last year permission was granted “to Catholic and all ministers” of free access to the asylum “to conduct religious exercises, etc.,” and that Catholic children be no longer compelled “to attend what is called ‘non-sectarian’ services.” Such testimony might be multiplied all over the country. Indeed, as far as our present knowledge goes, the State of Minnesota is the only State wherein “liberty of conscience and equal rights in matters of religion to the inmates of State institutions” have been secured, and they were only secured by an act approved March 5, 1874.

Catholics are content to believe that the main difficulty in the way of affording Catholic instruction to the Catholic inmates of such institutions has hitherto rested with themselves. Either they have not sufficiently exposed the grievance they were compelled to endure, or, more likely, such exposure was useless, inasmuch as the paucity of priests prevented any being detailed to the special work of the prisons and public institutions. This, too, is probably the difficulty in the army and navy of the United States, which boast of two Catholic chaplains in all, and those two for the army only. But the growth of our numbers, resources, dioceses, and clergy is rapidly removing any further obstruction on that score; so that there is no further reason why Catholic priests should not be allowed to attend to and—always, of course, at due times—perform the duties of their office for inmates of institutions who, by reason of their confinement, are prevented from the free exercise of their religious profession and worship laid down and guaranteed in the constitution to all mankind for ever.

But over and above the strictly criminal class of inmates of our State institutions there is another, a larger and more important class, to be considered—that already designated as unfortunate. Most of its members, previous to their admission into the institutions provided for their keeping, have hovered on that extreme confine where poverty and crime touch each other. Many of them have just crossed the line into the latter region. Inmates of hospitals and insane asylums will come, without further mention, within the scope of our general observations. Our attention now centres on those inmates of State or public institutions who, for whatever reasons, in consequence either of having no home or inadequate protection at home, are thrown absolutely upon the hands of the State, which is compelled in some way or other to act towards them in loco parentis. In the majority of cases there is hope that they may by proper culture and care be converted, from a threatened danger to the State, to society at large, and to themselves, into honest, creditable, and worthy citizens.

This class, composed of the youth of both sexes, instead of diminishing, seems, with the spread of population, to be on the increase. From its ranks the criminal and pauper classes, which are also on the increase, are mainly recruited. The criminal, in the eye of the law, who has led a good life up to manhood or womanhood, is the exception. Crime, as representative of a class, is a growth, not a sudden aberration. It is, then, a serious and solemn duty of the State to cut off this criminal growth by converting the class who feed it to good at the outset. At the very lowest estimate it is a duty of self-preservation. This being so, there is no need to dwell on the plain fact that it is the duty of the State to do all that in it lies to lead the lives of those unfortunates out of the wrong path into the right. Every means at its disposal ought to be worked to that end. There is still less reason to dwell on the fact, acknowledged and recognized by the State and by all men, that, in leading a life away from evil and up to good, no influence is so powerful as that of religion. The fear of man, of the power and vengeance of the law, is undoubtedly of great force; but it is not all, nor is it the strongest influence that can be brought to bear on the class indicated, not yet criminal. At the best it represents to their minds little more than the whip of the slave-driver—something to be feared, but something also to be hated, and to be defied and broken where defiance may for the time seem safe. But the moral sense, the sense of right and wrong, of good and evil, which shows law in its true guise as the benignant representative of order rather than the terror of disorder, is a higher guide, a truer teacher, and a more humane and lasting power.

This sense can only come with religion; and so convinced is the State of this fact that, as usual, it calls in religion to its aid, and over its penitentiaries and reformatories sets chaplains. It goes further even, and, as in prisons, compels the inmates of such institutions to attend religious services, practise religious observances, and listen to religious instruction. There is no State reformatory—it is safe to say no reformatory at all—without such religious worship and instruction.

This careful provision for the spiritual wants of so extensive and important a class we of course approve to the full. The idea of a reformatory where no religious instruction is given the inmates would be a contradiction. The State empowers those into whose hands it entrusts the keeping of its wards to impart religious instruction—in short, to do everything that may tend to the mental, moral, and physical advancement of those under their charge. All that we concede and admire. But the State never empowers those who have the control of such institutions to draw up laws or rules for them which should in any way contravene the law of the State, least of all that article of the constitution wherein the free exercise of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or preference, is allowed to all mankind in this State for ever. But it is just in this most important point that our public institutions signally fail.

Here is our point: In our public institutions there is, in the case of Catholic inmates, a constant and persistent violation of the constitution of the State regarding freedom of religious profession and worship. In those institutions there is a stereotyped system of religious profession and worship, which all the inmates, of whatever creed, are compelled to accept and observe. They have no freedom of choice in the matter. They may not hold any religious intercourse with the pastors of their church, save, in impossible instances, on that stereotyped plan. Practically, they may not hold any such intercourse at all. Once they become inmates of these institutions, the freedom of religious profession and worship that they enjoyed, or were at liberty to enjoy, before entering, is completely cut off, and a new form of religious profession and practice, which, whether they like it or not, whether they believe it or not, they are compelled to observe and accept as their religion until they leave the institution, is substituted. No matter what name may be given this mode of worship and instruction, whether it be called “non-sectarian” or not, it is a monstrous violation of human conscience, not to speak of the letter and the spirit of the constitution of this State. Its proper name would be the “Church Established in Public Institutions.” From the day when a Catholic child crosses the threshold of such an institution until he leaves it, in most cases he is not allowed even to see a Catholic clergyman; he is certainly not allowed to practise his religion; he is not allowed to read Catholic books of instruction; he is not allowed to hear Mass or frequent the sacraments. For him his religion is choked up and dammed off utterly, and his soul left dry and barren. Nor does the wrong rest even here; for all the while he is exposed to non-Catholic influences and to a direct system of anti-Catholic instruction and worship. He is compelled to bow to and believe in the “Church Established” in the institution.

There is, unfortunately, a superabundance of evidence to prove all, and more than all, our assertions. There will be occasion to use it; but just now we content ourselves with such as is open to any citizen of the State, and as is given in the Reports of the various institutions. Of these we select one—the oldest in the State—the Society for the Reformation of Juvenile Delinquents, which has this year published its fiftieth Annual Report. Within these fifty years of its life 15,791 children, of ages ranging from five to sixteen, of both sexes, of native and foreign parentage, of every complexion of color and creed, have passed through its hands. The society has, on more than one occasion, come before the public, more especially within the last two or three years, in anything but an enviable light. But all considerations of that kind may pass for the present, our main inquiry being, What kind of religion, of religious discipline, instruction, and worship, is provided for the hundreds of children who year by year enter this asylum?

The “Circular to Parents and Guardians,” signed by the president, Mr. Edgar Ketchum, sets forth the objects of the institution and the manner in which it is conducted. “For your information,” says Mr. Ketchum to the parents and guardians, “the managers deem it proper to state that the institution is not a place of punishment nor a prison, but a reform school, where the inmates receive such instruction and training as are best adapted to form and perpetuate a virtuous character.” An excellent introduction! Nothing could be better calculated to allay any scruples that an anxious parent or guardian might entertain respecting the absolute surrender of a child or ward to the institution, “to remain during minority, or until discharged by the managers, as by due process of law.” Of course the Catholic parent or guardian who receives such a circular will have no question as to the “instruction and training best adapted to form and (above all) to perpetuate a virtuous character”! The training up of “a virtuous character” is, by all concession, mainly a purely religious work, and the Catholic knows, believes in, and recognizes only one true religion—that taught by the Catholic Church. Whether he is right or wrong in that belief is not the question. It is sufficient to know that the constitution recognizes and respects it.

A few lines lower the Catholic parent or guardian receives still more satisfactory information on this crucial point. After a glowing description of the life of the inmates, he is informed that they, “on the Sabbath, are furnished with suitable religious and moral instruction.” Just what is wanted by the child! “Sabbath,” it is true, has come to have a Protestant sound; but as for “suitable religious and moral instruction,” there can be no doubt that the only religious instruction suitable for a Catholic child is that of the Catholic religion, and such as would be given him outside in the Sunday-school by the Catholic priest or teacher. He is just as much a Catholic inside that institution as he was outside; and there is no more right in law or logic to force upon him a system of non-Catholic and anti-Catholic instruction within than without its walls. Let us see, then, of what this moral and religious instruction consists; if Catholic, all our difficulties are over.

Turning a few pages, we come to the “Report of the Chaplain.” The chaplain! The chaplain, then, is the gentleman charged with furnishing “on the Sabbath” the “suitable religious and moral instruction” of the Catholic child. The chaplain is the Rev. George H. Smyth, evidently a clergyman of some denomination. His name is not to be found in the Catholic directory. He is probably, then, not a Catholic priest. However, his report may enlighten us.

It occupies five and a half pages, and renders an admirable account of—the Rev. George H. Smyth, who, to judge of him by his own report, must be an exceedingly engaging person, and above all a powerful preacher. No doubt he is. He informs us that the children have shown, among other good qualities, “an earnest desire to receive instruction, both secular and religious.” That is cheering news. It is worthy of note, too, the distinction made between the secular and religious instruction of the children. That is just the Catholic ground. Children require both kinds of instruction—instruction in their religion, as well as in reading, writing, ciphering, and so on. The Catholic parent or guardian congratulates himself, then, on the fact that his child or ward will not be deprived of instruction in his religion while an inmate of the institution. All satisfactory so far; but let us read Mr. Smyth a little more.

“Often have the chaplain’s counsel and sympathy been sought by those striving to lead a better life.” Very natural! “And as often have they been cordially tendered.” Still more natural. Then follow some pleasing reminiscences from the boys and girls of the chaplain’s good offices. He even vouchsafes, almost unnecessarily, to inform us that “the children have it impressed on them that the object of the preaching they hear is wholly to benefit them.” It could not well be otherwise. And Mr. Smyth’s preaching evidently does benefit them, for one of the boys remarked to him, casually: “Chaplain, you remember that sermon you preached”—neither the sermon nor its text, unfortunately, is given—“that was the sermon that led me to the Saviour.” Happy lad! It is to be regretted that he ever came back. We are farther informed of “the close attention given by the children to the preaching of the Gospel Sabbath after Sabbath.” “On one occasion a distinguished military gentleman and statesman—an ambassador from one of the leading courts of Europe—was present. The sermon was from the text Cleanse thou me from secret faults.” So powerful was Mr. Smyth’s sermon on that occasion that the reverend gentleman graciously informs us it so moved the “distinguished military gentleman and statesman” from Europe that at the close he rose, and, “taking the chaplain by the hand, said with great warmth of feeling, ‘That sermon was so well suited to these children they must be better for it. I saw it made a deep impression upon them; but I rose to thank you for myself—it just suited me.’”

And there the story ends, leaving us in a painful state of conjecture respecting the state of that “distinguished military gentleman and statesman’s” conscience. These little incidents are thrown off with a naïve simplicity almost touching, and are noticed here as they are given, as establishing beyond all doubt the clear and marked distinction in nature and grace between the Rev. Mr. Smyth and the dreadful characters, whether ambassadors or youthful pickpockets, with whom Mr. Smyth is brought in contact. But the main question for the Catholic parent or guardian is, What religious and moral instruction is my child to receive? For it is clear that Mr. Smyth is not a Catholic clergyman. It seems that Mr. Smyth being “the chaplain,” there is no Catholic chaplain at all, and no Catholic instruction at all for Catholic children. Are the Catholic children compelled, then, to attend Mr. Smyth’s preaching and Mr. Smyth’s worship, and nothing but Mr. Smyth, excellent man though he be? Mr. Ketchum has already, in the name of the managers, informed us that the institution is not “a place of punishment.” Far be it from us to hint, however remotely, that it is a punishment even to be compelled to listen to the preaching of such a man as Mr. Smyth. With the evidence before us, how could such a thought be entertained for a moment? But at least how is this state of things reconcilable with that solemn article of the constitution already quoted so often?

However, let us first dismiss Mr. Smyth, after ascertaining, if possible, what it is he does teach. Here we have it in his own words: “The truths preached to these children [all the inmates of the institution] have been those fundamental truths held in common by all Christian communions, and which are adapted to the wants of the human race, and must ever be the foundation of pure morals and good citizenship. Studious care has been taken not to prejudice the minds of the inmates against any particular form of religious belief.”

Here lies the essence of what we have called the “Church Established in Public Institutions.” The favorite term for it is “non-sectarian” teaching; and on the ground that it is “non-sectarian,” that it favors no particular church or creed, but is equally available to all, it has thus far been upheld and maintained in our public institutions. It is well to expose the cant and humbug of this non-sectarianism once for all.

In the first place, no such thing exists. Let us adhere to the case in point. Mr. Smyth, who is styled “reverend,” is the chaplain of the society we are examining. What is the meaning of the word chaplain? A clergyman appointed to perform certain clerical duties. Mr. Smyth is a clergyman of some denomination or other, we care not what. He is not a self-appointed “reverend.” He must have been brought up in some denomination and educated in some theological school. There is no such thing as a “reverend” of no church, of a non-sectarian church. Every clergyman has been educated in some theological school, or at least according to some special form of doctrine and belief, and has entered the ministry as a teacher and preacher of that special form of belief and doctrine. If he leaves it, he leaves it either for infidelity—in which case he renounces his title as a clergyman—or for some other form of doctrine and belief to which he turns, and of which, so long as he remains in the ministry, he is the teacher, propagator, and upholder. If he is not this, he is a humbug. To say that he is or can be non-sectarian—that is, pledged to preach no particular form of doctrine, or a form of doctrine equally available for all kinds of believers or non-believers—is to talk the sheerest nonsense. In all cases a clergyman is, by virtue of his office and profession and belief, pledged to some form of doctrine and faith, which unless he teaches, he is either a coward or a humbug. Anything resembling a “non-sectarian” clergyman would be exactly like a soldier who bound himself by oath to a certain government, yet held himself free not to defend that government, or, when he saw it attacked, to be particularly careful not to do anything that might possibly offend or oppose the foe. The world and his own government would stamp such a man as the vilest of beings—a traitor. The union of such diametrically opposite professions is a sheer impossibility.

Let us test the doctrine Mr. Smyth himself lays down here, or which the managers of the institution have laid down for him, and show how sectarianism, which is the one thing to be avoided, or, to use a kinder term, denominationalism, must inevitably meet the teacher or preacher at every turn. “The truths preached to these children have been those fundamental truths held in common by all Christian communions.” Mr. Smyth has told us already that “the chaplain’s counsel and sympathy are sought by those striving to lead a better life, and with good results.” There must, then, be questioning on the part of the children. Indeed, how could instruction possibly go on without question, explanation, objection, and answer? Let us begin, then, with the very foundation of his doctrine. The first question that would occur to any one would be, What are “those fundamental truths held in common by all Christian communions”? Mr. Smyth does not mention one. Where shall we find one? A fundamental truth held in common by all Christian communions might at least be supposed to be a belief in Christ. Very well. Then who is Christ? Where is Christ? Is Christ God or man, or both? How do we come to know him? Is Christ not God, is he not man? What is his history? Where is it found? In the Bible? What is the Bible? Who wrote the Bible? Why must we accept it as the Word of God? Is it the Word of God? Why “all Christian communions” are at war right on this “fundamental truth,” from which they derive their very name of Christian, and not a single question can be put or answered without introducing denominationalism of some kind or another, and so at least prejudicing the minds of the inmates against some particular form of religious belief.

Take another supposition. Surely, belief in God would be “a fundamental truth held in common by all Christian communions.” Here we begin again. Who is God? What is God? Where is God? Is God a spirit? Is God a trinity or a unity? Is there only one God? Do all men believe in and worship the same God? All at sea again at the very mention of God’s name!

Take the belief in a future. Does man end here? Does he live again after death? Will the future be happy or miserable? Is there a hell or a heaven? Is there an everlasting life? What is Mr. Smyth’s own opinion on such “fundamental truth”? There is not a single “fundamental truth” “held in common by all Christian communions.” What is truth itself? What is a fundamental truth? Fundamental to what? Why, there is not a single religious subject of any kind whatever that can be mentioned to “Christian communions” of a mixed character which will not on the instant create as many contentions as there are members of various Christian communions present. Let Mr. Smyth try it outside, and see. Let him preach on “fundamental truth” to any mixed congregation in New York; let there be free discussion after, and what would be the result? It is hard to say. But in all probability the discussion would end by the State, in the persons of its representatives, stepping in to eject the fundamental truths from the building.

One need not go beyond this to show how necessarily sectarian must Mr. Smyth’s religious instruction and preaching be. But the very next sentence bristles with direct antagonism to Catholic teaching: “What delinquent children need is not the mere memorizing of ecclesiastical formularies and dogmas, which they can repeat one moment and commit a theft the next.” In plain English, Catholic children do not need to learn their catechism, which is the compendium of Christian doctrine. What is the use of learning it, asks Mr. Smyth, when they can “commit a theft the next moment”? He had better go higher, and ask Christian members of Congress how they can address such pious homilies to interesting Young Men’s Christian Associations, while they know they have been guilty of stealing. He might even ask the Rev. George H. Smyth how he could reconcile it with his conscience to take an oath or make a solemn promise on entering the ministry to preach a certain form of doctrine, and profess to throw that oath and promise to the winds immediately on being offered a salary to teach something quite different on Randall’s Island. “But they do need, and it is the province of the State to teach them that there are, independent of any and all forms of religious faith, fundamental principles of eternal right, truth, and justice, which, as members of the human family and citizens of the commonwealth, they must learn to live by, and which are absolutely essential to their peace and prosperity. These principles are inseparable from a sound education, and must underlie any and every system of religion that is not a sham and a delusion.”

That sounds very fine, and it is almost painful to be compelled to spoil its effect. One cannot help wondering in what theological school Mr. Smyth studied. He will insist on his “fundamental principles,” which, in the preceding paragraph, are “common to all Christian communions,” but have now become “independent of any and all forms of religious faith.” Is there any “fundamental principle of eternal right, truth, and justice” which, to “members of the human family,” is “independent of any and all forms of religious faith”? Is there anything breathing of eternity at all that comes not to us in and through “religious faith”? If there be such “fundamental principles of eternal right, truth, and justice,” in God’s name let us know them; for they are religion, and we are ready to throw “any and all forms of religious faith” that contradict those eternal principles to the winds. This we know: that there is not a single “principle of eternal right, truth, and justice” which, according to Mr. Smyth, “it is the province of the State to teach delinquent children,” that did not come to the State through some form or another of religious faith; for in the history of this world religion has always preceded and, in its “fundamental principles of eternal right, truth, and justice,” instructed and informed the state. The Rev. George H. Smyth is either an infidel or he does not know of what he is writing.

What kind of “moral and religious instruction” is likely to be imparted to all children, and to Catholic children of all, by the Rev. George H. Smyth, may be judged from the foregoing. Whether or not his teaching can approve itself to a Catholic conscience may be left to the judgment of all fair-minded men. His report is only quoted further to show how completely subject the consciences of all these children are to him:

“The regular preaching service each Sabbath morning in the chapel has been conducted by the chaplain, one or more of the managers usually being present; also, the Wednesday lecture for the officers. In the supervision of the Sabbath-schools in the afternoon he has been greatly aided by managers Ketchum and Herder, whose valuable services have been gratefully appreciated by the teachers and improved (sic) by the inmates.

“The course of religious instruction laid down in the by-laws and pursued in the house for fifty years has been closely adhered to.” That is to say, for fifty years not a syllable of Catholic instruction has been imparted to the Catholic inmates of the House of Refuge. The number of those Catholic inmates will presently appear.

Among the gentlemen to whom the chaplain records his “obligations” for their gratuitous services in the way of lectures are found the names of nine Protestant clergymen and two Protestant laymen. No mention of a Catholic. The Sabbath-school of the Reformed Church, Harlem, is thanked for “a handsome supply” of the Illustrated Christian Weekly. The librarian reports that one hundred copies of the Youth’s Companion are supplied weekly, one hundred copies of the American Messenger, and one hundred and twenty-five copies of the Child’s Paper. There is no mention of a Catholic print of any kind. The chaplain and librarian are under no obligations for copies of the Young Catholic, or the New York Tablet, or the Catholic Review, or any one of our many Catholic journals. They are all forbidden. Yet they are not a whit more “sectarian” than the Christian Weekly. In addition, the Bible Society is thanked “for a supply of Bibles sufficient to give each child a copy on his discharge.”

We turn now to the report of the principal of schools. It is chiefly an anti-Catholic tirade on the public school question, but that point may pass for the present. What we are concerned with here is the species of instruction to which the Catholic children of the institution are subjected. Mr. G. H. Hallock, the principal, is almost “unco guid.” A single passage will suffice. “But underneath all this intellectual awakening there is a grander work to be performed; there is a moral regeneration that can be achieved. Shall we stand upon the environs of this moral degradation among our boys, and shrink from the duty we owe them, because they are hardened in sin and apparently given over to evil influences? Would He who came to save the ‘lost’ have done this?

“Nothing can supply the place of earnest, faithful religious teaching drawn from the Word of God. I have the most profound convictions of the inefficacy of all measures of reformation, except such as are based on the Gospel and pervaded by its spirit. In vain are all devices, if the heart and conscience, beyond all power of external restraints, are left untouched.”

It were easy to go on quoting from Mr. Hallock, but this is more than enough for our purpose. Catholics too believe in the efficacy of the Word of God, but in a different manner, and to a great extent in a different “Word” from that of Mr. Hallock. It is plain that this man is imbued with the spirit of a missionary rather than of a principal of schools, though how Catholic sinners would fare at his hands may be judged from the tone of his impassioned harangue. The missionary spirit is an excellent spirit, and we have no quarrel with Mr. Hallock or with his burning desire to save lost souls; we only venture to intimate that Mr. Hallock is even less the kind of teacher than Mr. Smyth is the kind of preacher to whom we should entrust the spiritual education of our Catholic children. By the bye, this excellent Mr. Hallock’s name occurred during the trial of Justus Dunn for the killing of Calvert, one of the keepers of this very institution, in 1872. One of the witnesses in that eventful trial, a free laborer in the house, testified on oath concerning the punishment of a certain boy there:

“Q. What was the boy punished for?

“A. For not completing his task and not doing it well. He was reported for this to the assistant-superintendent, Mr. Hallock. He (Mr. Hallock) carried him down to the office by his collar, and there punished him for about fifteen minutes with his cane, so that the blood ran down the boy’s back; then the assistant-superintendent brought him back into the shop to his place, and there struck him on the side of the head, telling him that if he did not do his work right, he would give him more yet. Then the boy cried out, ‘For God’s sake! I am not able to do it.’ So he took him by his neck, and carried him to the office, where he caned him again. After that he brought the boy back to his place in the shop, and treated him then as he did on the other occasion. The boy could not speak a word after that. Then the assistant carried him down to the office, and caned him for the third time. After this caning the boy could not come upstairs, so they took him to the hospital, where he died in about four days. After his death a correspondent wrote a letter to the New York Tribune, stating the facts, and asking for an investigation, which took place. The punishment of Mr. Hallock was his deposition from his office as assistant superintendent, and installation as teacher of the school. The eye-witnesses of the occurrence were not examined, but the whole matter was settled in the office of the institution.”

This en passant. It is pleasing, after having read it, to be able to testify to Mr. Hallock’s excellent sentiments, as shown in the extract already given from his report, which concludes in this touching fashion: “We are left to labor in the vineyard amid scenes sometimes discouraging, severe, and depressing even. But, amid all, the sincere and earnest worker may hear the voice of the Great Teacher uttering words of comfort and consolation: Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” Those words of consolation may be read in more senses than one.

In keeping with all this is the report of the president, Mr. Edgar Ketchum. He also has the Catholics in his eye. He is strong on the moral training of the children and “the mild discipline of the house,” of which the public knows sufficient to warrant our letting Mr. Ketchum’s ironical expression pass without comment. He is “far from discouraging any effort to extend Christian sympathy and aid to a class who so deeply need them.” He believes that “religion, in her benign offices, will here and there be found to touch some chord of the soul, and make it vibrate for ever with the power of a new life.” What religion and what offices? He is of opinion that “the interests of society and the criminal concur; and if his crimes have banished him from all that makes life desirable, they need not carry with them also a sentence of exclusion from whatever a wise Christian philanthropy can do in his behalf.”

We quite agree with Mr. Ketchum. Christian philanthropy, as far as it extends in this world, with the solitary exception of this country, has, as already seen, by unanimous action, annulled, if ever it existed, that “sentence of exclusion” which shut off the criminal, or the one whom Mr. Ketchum designates as “the victim of society,” from the free profession and practice of his religion, whether he were Catholic, Protestant, Jew, or Mahometan. That same “Christian philanthropy,” as Mr. Ketchum is pleased to call it, never peddled over by-laws, or rules, or regulations, or “difficulties” whose plain purpose was to hinder Catholic children, confined as are those in the house of which he is president, from seeing their priest, hearing their Mass, going to confession, frequenting the sacraments, and learning their catechism. The same wise Christian philanthropy framed that section of the constitution, binding alike on Mr. Ketchum and his charges, that was precisely framed to prevent the “sentence of exclusion” which Mr. Ketchum so justly and with such eloquence denounces. Christian philanthropy can do no work more worthy of itself than allowing these unfortunate children, foremost and above all things, the practice of that form of Christianity which, were they free agents, they would undoubtedly follow; nor could it do anything less worthy of itself than force upon them a system of worship and religious training which their hearts abhor and their consciences reject. It could not devise a more heinous offence against God and man, or a more hateful tyranny, than that very “sentence of exclusion” which, under the “mild discipline of the house,” prevails in the society of which Mr. Ketchum is president.

There is nothing left now but to turn to the superintendent’s report, in order to ascertain the number of Catholic children who, for the last fifty years, have suffered this “sentence of exclusion” from their faith, its duties, and its practices. We are only enabled to form a proximate idea of their number, but sufficiently accurate to serve our purpose. The superintendent’s figures are as follows:

Of these, 12,545 were boys and 3,246 girls. The statistics for the first four decades are more accurate than for the last, and show the relative percentage of the children of native and foreign parents, as follows:

It will be seen from this that the percentage of the entire number is enormously in favor of the children born of foreign parents. This is only natural from a variety of reasons, chief among which is that the foreign-born population, including their children in the first degree, has, within the last half-century, been vastly in excess of the native, in this city particularly. Full statistics of the various nationalities of the children are only given for the last year (1874). Of the 636 new inmates received during the year, a little more than half the number (334) were of Irish parentage; 8 were French; 3 Italian; 1 Cuban. All of these may be safely set down as Catholics. There were 88 of German birth, of whom one-third, following the relative statistics of their nation, might be assumed as of the Catholic faith. The remainder, whom we are willing to set down in bulk as non-Catholic, were divided as to nationality as follows:

At all events, figure as we may, it may be taken as indisputable that more than one-half the children committed during the past year to the House of Refuge were of Catholic parents. Their average age, according to the statistics, was thirteen years and eight months. Consequently, the children were quite of an age to be capable of distinguishing between creed and creed, and six years beyond the average age set down by the Catholic Church as a proper time to begin to frequent the sacraments of Confession and Communion, to prepare for Confirmation, and to hear Mass on all Sundays and holydays of obligation, under pain of mortal sin. From the moment of their entering the institution the “wise Christian philanthropy” of which Mr. Edgar Ketchum is so eloquent an exponent has pronounced against them a dread “sentence of exclusion” from all these practices of faith and means of grace, as well as from instruction of any kind whatever in their religion. And not only has this been the case, but they have been subjected to the constant instruction of such men as Mr. Smyth and Mr. Hallock. Multiply these children throughout the last fifty years, as far as the relative percentage given will allow us to form an opinion of their creeds, and the picture that presents itself of these poor little Catholics is one that rends the heart. In the present article we are only presenting the general features of the case, basing our argument for the admission of a Catholic chaplain to this and all similar institutions from which a Catholic chaplain is excluded, on the law of the land, on the letter and spirit of the constitution, which we Catholics love, revere, and obey. We simply set the case in its barest aspect before our fellow-citizens, of whatever creed, and ask for our children what they would claim for their children—the right of instruction in the religion in which they were born; the right of the free practice and profession of the religion in which they believe; the right to repel all coercion, in whatever form, of conscience, whether such coercion be called sectarian or non-sectarian. In a word, we ask now, as at the beginning, what we ask for all, and what Catholics, where they have the power, as already seen, freely and without compulsion, or request even, grant to all—that great privilege and right which the constitution of this State guarantees to all mankind: “the free exercise and enjoyment of religious profession and worship, without discrimination or preference.”

THE VEIL WITHDRAWN.

TRANSLATED, BY PERMISSION, FROM THE FRENCH OF MME. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY,” “FLEURANGE,” ETC.

CONCLUDED.

XLIV.

This was the spring of the year 1859. In spite of the retirement in which we lived and Lorenzo’s assiduous labors, which deprived him of the leisure to read even a newspaper, the rumors of a war between Austria and Italy had more than once reached us and excited his anxiety—excited him as every Italian was at that period at the thought of seeing his country delivered from the yoke of the foreigner. On this point public sentiment was unanimous, and many people in France will now comprehend better than they did at that time, perhaps, a cry much more sincere than many that were uttered at a later day—the only one that came from every heart: Fuori i Tedeschi. But till the time, when the realization of this wish became possible, it was only expressed by those who labored in secret to hasten its realization; it seemed dormant among others. Political life was forbidden or impossible. An aimless, frivolous life was only embraced with the more ardor, and this state of things had furnished Lorenzo with more than one excuse at the time when he snatched at a poor one.

I had often heard him express his national and political opinions, aspirations, and prejudices, but these points had never interested me. I loved Italy as it was. I thought it beautiful, rich, and glorious. I did not imagine anything could add to the charm, past and present, which nature, poetry, religion, and history had endowed it with. From time to time I had also heard a cry which excited my horror, and conveyed to my mind no other idea than a monstrous national and religious crime: Roma capitale! These words alone roused me sufficiently from my indifference to excite my indignation, and even awakened in me a feeling bordering on repugnance to all that was then called the Italian resorgimento.

Stella did not, in this respect, agree with me. It was her nature to be roused to enthusiasm by everything that gave proof of energy, courage, and devotedness—traits that patriotism, more or less enlightened, easily assumes the seductive appearance of, provided it is sincere. No one could repeat with more expression than she:

“Italia! Italia! …

De’h fossi tu men bella! O almen piu forte!”[2]

Or the celebrated apostrophe of Dante:

“Ahi serva Italia! di dolore ostello!”[3]

Never did her talent appear to better advantage than in the recitation of such lines; her face would light up and her whole attitude change. Lorenzo often smilingly said if he wished to represent the poetical personification of Italy, he would ask Stella to become his model. As to what concerned Rome, she did not even seem to comprehend my anxiety. If a few madmen already began to utter that ominous cry, the most eminent Italians of the time declared that to infringe on the majesty of Rome, deprive her of the sovereignty which left her, in a new sense, her ancient title of queen of the world—in short, to menace the Papacy, “l’unique grandeur vivante de l’Italie,” would be to commit the crime of treason against the world, and uncrown Italy herself.

Alas! now that the time approached for realizing some of her dreams and the bitter deception of others, Stella, absorbed in her grief, was indifferent to all that was occurring in her country, and did not even remark the universal excitement around her! As for me, who had always taken so little interest in such things, I was more unconcerned than ever, and scarcely listened to what was said on the subject in Mme. de Kergy’s drawing-room. I was far from suspecting I was about to be violently roused from my state of indifference.

It was Easter Sunday. I had been to church with Lorenzo. We had fulfilled together the sweet, sacred obligations of the day; the union of our souls was complete, and our hearts were at once full of joy and solemnity—that is, in complete harmony with the great festival. At our return we found breakfast awaiting us. Ottavia, who, with a single domestic, had the care of our house, had adorned the table with flowers, as well as with a little more silver than usual, in order to render it somewhat more in accordance with the importance of the day. By means of colored-glass windows and some old paintings suspended on the dark wainscotting, Lorenzo had given our little dining-room an aspect at once serious and smiling, which greatly pleased me, and I still remember the feeling of happiness and joy with which, on my return from church, I entered the little room, the open window of which admitted the sun and the odor of the jasmine twined around it. The three conditions of true happiness we did not lack—order, peace, and industry—and we were in that cheerful frame of mind which neither wealth, nor gratified ambition, nor any earthly prosperity is able to impart.

We took seats at the table. Lorenzo found before him a pile of letters and newspapers, but did not attempt to open them. He sat looking at me with admiration and affection. I, on my part, said to myself that moral and religious influences had not only a beneficial effect on the soul, but on the outward appearance. Never had Lorenzo’s face worn such an expression; never had I been so struck with the manly beauty of his features. Our eyes met. He smiled.

“Ginevra mia!” said he, “in truth, you are right. The life we now lead must suit you, for you grow lovelier every day.”

“Our life does not suit you less than it does me, Lorenzo,” said I. “We are both in our element now. God be blessed! His goodness to us has indeed been great!”

“Yes,” said he with sudden gravity, “greater a thousand times than I had any right to expect. I am really too happy!”

This time I only laughed at his observation, and tried to divert his mind from the remembrances awakened.

“Where are your letters from?”

He tore one open, and his face brightened.

“That looks well! Nothing could suit me better. Here is an American who wishes a repetition of my Sappho, and gives me another order of importance. And then what? He wishes to purchase the lovely Vestal he saw in my studio. Oh! as for that, par exemple, no!… The Vestal is mine, mine alone. No one else shall ever have it. But no matter, Ginevra; if things go on in this way, I shall soon be swimming in money, and then look out for the diamonds!”

He knew now, as well as I, what I thought of such things. He laughed, and then continued to read his letters.

“This is from Lando. It is addressed to us both.”

He glanced over it:

“Their honeymoon at Paris is still deferred. They cannot leave Donna Clelia.”

After reading for some time in silence, he said in an animated tone:

“This letter has been written some time, and it seems there were rumors of war on all sides at the time, and poor Mariuccia, though scarcely married to her German baron, had to set out for her new home much sooner than she expected.”

I listened to all this with mingled indifference and distraction, when I suddenly saw Lorenzo spring from his seat with an exclamation of so much surprise that I was eager to know what had caused his sudden excitement.

He had just opened a newspaper, and read the great news of the day: the Austrians had declared war against Italy. The beginning of the campaign was at hand.

Alas! my happy Easter was instantly darkened by a heavy cloud!

Lorenzo seized his hat, and immediately went out to obtain further details concerning the affair, leaving me sad and uneasy. Oh! how far I lived from the agitations of great political disturbances! How incapable I was of comprehending them! For a year my soul had been filled with emotions as profound as they were sweet. After great sufferings, joys so great had been accorded me that I felt a painful shrinking from the least idea of any change. But though the power of suffering was still alive in my heart, all anxiety was extinguished. Whatever way a dear hand is laid on us, we never wish to thrust it away. I remained calm, therefore, though a painful apprehension had taken possession of my mind; and when Lorenzo returned, two hours later, I was almost prepared for what he had to communicate.

Yes, I knew it; he wished to go. Every one in the province to which his family belonged was to take part in this war of independence. He could not remain away from his brothers and the other relatives and friends who were to enroll themselves in resisting a foreign rule.

“It is the critical moment. Seconded by France, the issue cannot be doubtful this time. You know I have abhorred conspiracies all my life, and my long journeys have served to keep me away from those who would perhaps have drawn me into them. But now how can you wish me to hesitate? How can you expect me at such a time to remain inactive and tranquil? You would be the first, I am sure, to be astonished at such a course, and I hope to find you now both courageous and prompt to aid me, for I must start without any delay. You understand, my poor Ginevra, before to-morrow I must be on my way.”

He said all this and much more besides. I neither tried to remonstrate nor reply. I felt he was obeying what he believed to be a call of duty, and I could use no arguments to dissuade him from it. What could I do, then? Only aid him, and bear without shrinking the unexpected blow which had come like a sudden tempest to overthrow the edifice, but just restored, of my calm and happy life!

The day passed sadly and rapidly away. I was occupied so busily that I scarcely had time for reflection. But at last all I could do was done, and Lorenzo, who had gone out in the afternoon, found, on returning at nightfall, that everything was ready for his departure, which was to take place that very night.

We sat down side by side on a little bench against the garden-wall. Spring-time at Paris is lovely also, and everything was in bloom that year on Easter Sunday. The air even in Italy could not have been sweeter nor the sky clearer. He took my hand, and I leaned my head against his shoulder. For some minutes my heart swelled with a thousand emotions I was unable to express. I allowed my tears to flow in silence. Lorenzo likewise struggled to repress the agitation he did not wish to betray, as I saw by his trembling lips and the paleness of his face.

I wiped my eyes and raised my head.

“Lorenzo,” said I all at once, “why not take me with you, instead of leaving me here?”

“To the war?” said he, smiling.

“No, but to Italy. You could leave me, no matter where. On the other side of the Alps I should be near you, and … should you have need of me, I could go to you.”

He remained thoughtful for a moment, and then said, as if speaking to himself:

“Yes, should I be wounded, and have time to see you again, it would be a consolation, it is true.”

We became silent again, and I awaited his decision with a beating heart. Finally he said in a decided tone:

“No, Ginevra, it cannot be. Remain here. It is my wish. You must.”

“Why?” asked I, trying to keep back the tears that burst from my eyes at his reply—“why? Oh! tell me why?”

“Because,” replied he firmly, “I have no idea what will be the result of the war in Italy. Very probably it will cause insurrections everywhere, perhaps revolutions.”

“O my God!” cried I with terror … “and you expect me not to feel any horror at this war! Even if it had not come to overturn my poor life, how can I help shuddering at the thought of all the misery it is about to produce?”

“What can you expect, Ginevra? Yes, it is a serious affair. God alone knows what it will lead to. You see Mario writes Sicily is already a-flame. No one can tell what will take place at Naples. I should not be easy about you anywhere but here.… No, Ginevra, you cannot go. You must remain here. I insist upon it.”

I knew, from the tone in which he said this, it was useless to insist, and I bent my head in silence. He gently continued, as he pressed my hand in his:

“The war will be short, I hope, Ginevra. If I am spared, I will hasten to resume the dear life we have led here. But if, on the contrary.…”

He stopped a moment, then, with a sudden change of manner and an accent I shall never forget, he continued:

“But why speak to you as I should to any other woman? Why not trust to the inward strength you possess, which has as often struck me as your sweetness of disposition? I know now where your strength comes from, and will speak to you without any circumlocution.”

I looked at him with surprise at this preamble, and by the soft evening light I saw a ray of heaven in his eyes; for they beamed with faith and humility as he uttered the following words:

“Why deceive you, Ginevra? Why not tell you I feel this is the last hour we shall ever pass together in this world?”

I shuddered. He put his arm around my waist, and drew me towards him.

“No, do not tremble!… Listen to me.… If I feel I am to die, I have always thought a life like mine required some other expiation besides repentance. The happiness you have afforded me is not one, and who knows if its continuation might not become a source of danger to me? Whereas to die now would be something; it would be a sacrifice worthy of being offered … and accepted.”

My head had again fallen on his shoulder, and my heart beat so rapidly I was not able to reply.

“Look upward, Ginevra,” said he in a thrilling tone; “raise your eyes towards the heaven you have taught me to turn to, to desire, and hope for. Tell me we shall meet there again, and there find a happiness no longer attended by danger!”

Yes, at such language I felt the inward strength he had spoken of assert itself, after seeming to fail me, and this terrible, painful hour became truly an hour of benediction.

“Lorenzo,” said I in a tone which, in spite of my tears, was firm, “yes, you are right, a thousand times right. Yes, whatever be your fate and mine, let us bless God!… We are happy without doubt; but our present life, whatever its duration, is only a short prelude to that true life of infinite happiness which awaits us. Let God do as he pleases with it and with us! Whatever be the result, there is no adieu for us.”

Do I mean to say that the sorrow of parting was extinguished? Oh! no, assuredly not. We tasted its bitterness to the full, but there is a mysterious savor which is only revealed to the heart that includes all in its sacrifice, and refuses nothing. This savor was vouchsafed us at that supreme hour, and we knew and felt it strengthened our souls.

XLV.

The two weeks that succeeded this last evening seem, as I look back upon them, like one long day of expectation. Nothing occurred to relieve my constant uneasiness. A few lines from Lorenzo, written in haste as he was on the point of starting to join the army, where the post of aide-de-camp to one of the generals had been reserved for him, were the last direct news I received. From that day I had no other information but what I gathered from the newspapers, or what Mme. de Kergy and Diana obtained from their friends, who, though most of them were unfavorable to the war in which France was engaged, felt an ardent interest in all who took part in it. But there were only vague, confused reports, which, far from calming my agitation, only served to increase it.

One evening I remained later than usual at church. Prostrate before one of the altars, which was lit up with a great number of tapers, I could not tear myself away, though night had come and the church was almost deserted. It was one of those dark, painful hours when the idea of suffering fills us with fear and repugnance, and rouses every faculty of our nature to resist it; one of those hours of mortal anguish that no human being could support had there not been a day—a day that will endure as long as the world—when this agony was suffered by Him who wished us to participate in it in order that he might be for ever near us when we, in our turn, should have to endure it for him!…

Oh! in that hour I felt in how short a time I had become attached to the earthly happiness that had been granted me beyond the realization of my utmost wishes. What tender, ardent sentiments! What sweet, delightful communings already constituted a treasure in my memory which furnished material for the most fearful sacrifice I could be called upon to make! Alas! the human heart, even that to which God has deigned to reveal himself, still attaches itself strongly to all it is permitted to love on earth! But this divine love condescends to be jealous of our affection, and it is seldom he spares such hearts the extreme sacrifices which lead them to give themselves to him at last without any reserve!

When I left the church, I saw a crowd in the street. Several houses were illuminated, and on all sides I heard people talking of a great victory, the news of which had just arrived at Paris.

I returned home agitated and troubled. At what price had this victory been won? Who had fallen in the battle? What was I to hear? And when would the anguish that now contracted my heart be relieved … or justified? Mme. de Kergy, who hastened to participate in my anxiety, was unable to allay it. But our suspense was not of long duration. The hour, awaited with the fear of an overpowering presentiment, was soon to arrive!…

Two days after I was sitting in the evening on the little bench in the garden where we held our last conversation, when I received the news for which he had so strangely prepared me. His fatal prevision was realized. He was one of the first victims of the opening attack. His name, better known than many others, had been reported at once, and headed the list of those who fell in the battle.

No preparation, no acceptation of anticipated misfortune, no effort at submission or courage, was now able to preserve me from a shock similar to the one I have related the effects of at the beginning of this story. As on that occasion, I lost all consciousness, and Ottavia carried me senseless to my chamber. As then, likewise, I was for several days the prey to a burning fever, which was followed by a weakness and prostration that rendered my thoughts confused and incoherent for some time. And finally, as when I was but fifteen years old, it was also a strong, sudden emotion that helped restore my physical strength and the complete use of my senses and reason.

The most profound silence reigned in the chamber where I lay, but I felt I was surrounded by the tenderest care. At length I vaguely began to recognize voices around me; first, that of Ottavia, which made me shed my first tears—tears of emotion, caused by a return to the days of my childhood. I thought myself there again. I forgot everything that had happened since. But this partial relief restored lucidness to my mind, and with it a clear consciousness of the misfortune that had befallen me. Then I uttered a cry—a cry that alarmed my faithful nurse. But I had the strength to reassure her at once.

“Let me weep, Ottavia,” said I in a low tone—“I know, … I recollect. Do not be alarmed; I am better, Ottavia. God be blessed, I can pray!”

I said no more, and closed my eyes. But a little while after I reopened them, and eagerly raised my head. What did I hear? Mme. de Kergy and Diana were there. I recognized their voices, and now distinguished their faces. But whose voice was that which had just struck my ear? Whose sweet face was that so close to mine? Whose hand was that I felt the pressure of?

“O my Stella!” I cried, “is it a dream, or are you really here?” …

XLVI.

No, it was not a dream. It was really Stella, who had torn herself from her retreat, her solitude and her grief, and hastened to me as soon as she heard of the fresh blow that had befallen me. She had not ceased to interest herself in all that concerned my new life, and the distant radiance of my happiness had been the only joy of her wounded heart. Now this happiness was suddenly destroyed.… I was far away; I was in trouble; I was alone; the state of affairs, which became more and more serious, detained my brother in Sicily; but she was free—free, alas! from every tie, from every duty, and she came to me as fast as the most rapid travelling could bring her. But when she arrived, I was unable to recognize her, and, when I now embraced her, she had watched more than a week at my bedside!

This was the sweetest consolation—the greatest human assistance heaven could send me, and it was a benefit to both of us. For each it was beneficial to have the other to think of.

My health now began to improve, and my soul recovered its serenity. I felt a solemn, profound peace, which could not be taken from me, and which continually increased; but this did not prevent me from feeling and saying with sincerity that everything in this world was at an end for me.

Yes, everything was at an end; but I resigned myself to my lot, and when, after this new affliction, I found myself before the altar where I prayed that evening with so many gloomy forebodings, I fell prostrate, as, after some severe combat or long journey, a child falls exhausted on the threshold of his father’s house, to which he returns never to leave it again!

If I had then obeyed my natural impulse, I should have sought some place of profound seclusion, where I could live, absorbed and lost in the thought continually present to my mind since the great day of grace which enabled me to comprehend the words: God loves me! and to which I could henceforth add: And whom alone I now love!

But it is seldom the case one’s natural inclinations can be obeyed, especially when they incline one to a life of inaction and retirement. There is but little repose on earth, and the more we love God, the less it is permitted to sigh after it. I was forced to think of others at this time, and, above all, of the dear, faithful friend who had come so far to console me.

It did not require a long time for Mme. de Kergy to discern the heroic greatness of Stella’s character, and still less for her maternal heart, that had received so many blows, to sympathize with the broken heart of Angiolina’s mother. The affection she at once conceived for Stella was so strong that I might have been almost jealous, had it not exactly realized one of my strongest desires, and had not Mme. de Kergy been one of those persons whose affection is the emanation of a higher love which is bestowed on all, without allowing that which is given to the latest comer to diminish in the least the part of the others.

She at once perceived the remedy that would be efficacious to her wounded heart, and what would be a beneficial effort for mine, and she threw us both, if I may so express myself, into that ocean of charity where all personal sufferings, trials, and considerations are forgotten, and where peace is restored to the soul by means of the very woes one encounters and succeeds in relieving.

No fatigue, no fear of contagion, the sight of no misery, affected Stella’s courage; no labor wearied her patience, no application or effort was beyond her ability and perseverance. For souls thus constituted it is a genuine pleasure to exercise their noble faculties and be able to satisfy the thirst for doing good that devours them. Her eyes, therefore, soon began to brighten, her face to grow animated, and from time to time, like a reflection of the past, her lips to expand with the charming smile of former days.

There is a real enjoyment, little suspected by those who have not experienced it, in these long, fatiguing rounds, the endless staircases ascended and descended, in all these duties at once distressing and consoling, and it can be truly affirmed that there is more certainty of cheerfulness awaiting those who return home from these sad visits than the happiest of those who come from some gay, brilliant assembly. It is to the former the words of S. Francis de Sales may be addressed: “Consider the sweetest, liveliest pleasures that ever delighted your heart, and say if there is one worth the joy you now taste.…”

Thus peace and a certain joy returned by degrees, seconded by the sweetest, tenderest, most beneficial sympathy. Notwithstanding the solitude in which we lived, and the mourning I never intended to lay aside, and which Stella continued to wear, we spent an hour every evening at Mme. de Kergy’s, leaving when it was time for her usual circle to assemble. This hour was a pleasant one, and she depended on seeing us, for she began to cling to our company. Diana, far from being jealous, declared we added to the happiness of their life; and one day, in one of her outbursts of caressing affection, she exclaimed that the good God had restored to her mother the two daughters she had mourned for so long.

At these words Mme. de Kergy’s eyes filled with tears, which she hastily wiped away, and, far from contradicting her daughter, she extended her arms and held us both in a solemn, tender, maternal embrace!

XLVII.

What Stella felt at that moment I cannot say. As for me, my feelings were rather painful than pleasant. I comprehended only too well the sadness that clouded the dear, venerable brow of Gilbert’s mother, and his prolonged absence weighed on my heart like remorse. Of course I did not consider myself the direct cause. But I could not forget that he merely left his country for a few weeks, and it was only after his sojourn at Naples he had taken the sudden resolution to make almost the tour of the world—that is, a journey whose duration was prolonged from weeks into months, and from months into years. I felt that no joy could spring up on the hearth he had forsaken till the day he should return, and it seemed to me I should not dare till that day arrived enjoy the peace that had been restored to my soul.

Months passed away, however, autumn came for the second time since Stella’s arrival, and the time fixed for her departure was approaching. I had made up my mind to accompany her, and pass some time at Naples with her, in order to be near my sister; but various unforeseen events modified her plans as well as mine.

I went one day to the Hôtel de Kergy at a different hour from that I was in the habit of going. Diana and her mother had gone out. I was told they would return in an hour. I decided, therefore, to wait, and, as the weather was fine, I selected a book from one of the tables of the drawing-room, and took a seat in the garden.

While I was looking over the books, my attention was attracted to several letters that lay on the table awaiting Mme. de Kergy’s return, and, to my great joy, I recognized Gilbert’s writing on one of them. His long absence had this time been rendered more painful by the infrequency and irregularity of his letters. Whole months often elapsed without the arrival of any. I hoped this one had brought his mother the long-wished-for promise of his return, and cheered by this thought, I opened my book, which soon absorbed me so completely that I forgot my anxiety, and hope, and everything else.…

The book I held in my hand was the Confessions of S. Augustine, and, opening it at hazard, the passage on which my eyes fell was this:

“What I know, not with doubt, but with certainty; what I know, O my God! is that I love thee. Thy word penetrated my heart and suddenly caused it to love thee. The heavens and the earth, and all they contain, do they not cry without ceasing that all men should love thee? But he on whom it pleaseth thee to have mercy alone can comprehend this language.”[4]

O words, ancient but ever new, like the beauty itself that inspired them! What a flight my soul took as I read them again here in this solitude and silence. Though centuries had passed since the day they were written, how exactly they expressed, how faithfully they portrayed, the feelings of my heart! How profound was the conviction I felt, in my turn, that, without the mercy and compassion of God, I should never have been able to understand their meaning!

I was deeply, deeply plunged in these reflections, I was lost in a world, not of fancy, but of reality more delightful than a poet’s dreams, when an unusual noise brought me suddenly to myself. First I heard the rattling of a carriage which I supposed to be Mme. de Kergy’s. But I instantly saw two or three servants rush into the court, as if some unexpected event had occurred. Then the old gardener, at work in the parterre before me, suddenly threw down his watering-pot and uttered a cry of surprise and joy:

“O goodness of God!” exclaimed he in a trembling voice, “there is Monsieur le Comte!”

“Monsieur le Comte?” cried I, hastily rising.…

But I had not time to finish my question. It was really he—Gilbert. He was there before me, on the upper step of the flight that led to the drawing-room. I sprang towards him with a joy I did not think of repressing or concealing, and, extending both hands, I exclaimed:

“Oh! God be blessed a thousand times. It is you! You have returned! What a joyful surprise for your mother! For Diana! For me also, I assure you!…”

I know not what else I was on the point of adding when, seeing him stand motionless, and gaze at me as if incapable of answering a word, a faint blush rose to my face. Was he surprised at such a greeting, or too much agitated? Perchance he was deceived as to its signification. This doubt caused a sudden embarrassment, and checked the words I was about to utter.

At length he explained his unexpected arrival. His letter ought to have arrived before. He supposed his mother was notified.… He wished to spare her so sudden a surprise.…

“I knew you were at Paris,” continued he, in a tone of agitation he could not overcome. “Yes … I knew it, and hoped to see you again. But to find you here … to see you the first, O madame! that was a happiness too great for me to anticipate, and I cannot yet realize it is not, after all, a dream.…”

While he was thus speaking, and gazing intently at me as if I were some vision about to vanish from his sight, my joyful greeting and cordiality were changed into extreme gravity of manner, and I looked away as his eyes wandered from my face to my mourning attire, and for the first time it occurred to me he found me free, and perhaps was now thinking of it!

Free!… Oh! if I have succeeded in describing the state of my soul since that moment of divine light which marked the most precious day of my life; if I have clearly expressed the aspect which the past, the present, the future, and all the joys, all the sufferings, in short, every event of my life, henceforth took in my eyes; if, I say, I have been able to make myself understood, those who have read these pages are already aware what the word free now signified to me.

Free! Yes, as the bird that cleaves the air is free to return to its cage; as the captive on his way to the shores of his native land is free to return and resume his chains; so is the soul that has once tasted the blessed reality of God’s love free also to return to the vain dreams of earthly happiness.

“I would not accept it!” was the exclamation of a soul[5] that had thus been made free, and it is neither strange nor new. No more than the bird or the captive could it be tempted to return to the past.…

I did not utter a word, however, and the thoughts that came over me like a flood died away in the midst of the joyful excitement that put an end to this moment of silence. Mme. de Kergy and Diana, who had been sent for, arrived pale and agitated. But when I saw Gilbert in his mother’s arms, I felt so happy that I entirely forgot what had occurred, and was not even embarrassed when, as I was on the point of leaving, I heard Diana say to her brother that her mother had two new daughters now, and he would find three sisters instead of one in the house.

I returned home in great haste. It was the first time for a long while my heart had felt light. I searched for Stella. She was neither in the house nor garden. I then thought of the studio, where, in fact, I found her. Everything remained in the same way Lorenzo had left it, and Stella, who had a natural taste for the arts, knew enough of sculpture to devote a part of her time to it. She had succeeded in making a bust of Angiolina which was a good likeness, and she was at work upon it when I entered.

She looked at me with an air of surprise, for she saw something unusual had taken place.

“Gilbert has returned!” I exclaimed, without thinking of preparing her for the news, the effect of which I had not sufficiently foreseen.

She turned deadly pale, and her face assumed an expression I had never known it to wear. I was utterly amazed. Rising with an abrupt movement, she said, in an altered tone:

“Then I must go, Ginevra!” And, suddenly bursting into tears, she pressed her lips to the little bust, the successful production of her labor and grief.

“O my angel child!” said she, “forgive me. I know it; I ought to love no one but thee. I have been punished, cruelly punished. And yet I am not sure of myself, Ginevra. I do not wish to see him again. I must go.”

It was the first time in her life Stella had thus allowed me to read the depths of her heart. It was the first time the violence of any emotion whatever broke down the wall of reserve she knew how to maintain, and made her rise above her natural repugnance to speak of herself. It was the first time I was sure of the wound I had so long suspected, but which I had never ventured to probe.

God alone knows with what emotion I listened to her. What hopes were awakened, and what prayers rose from my heart during the moment’s silence that followed these ardent words. She soon continued, with renewed agitation:

“Yes, I must start at once. I had no idea he would arrive in this way without giving me time to escape!…”

Then she added, in a hollow tone:

“Listen, Ginevra. For once I must be frank with you. He loves you, you well know, and now there is nothing more to separate you; now you are free.…”

But she stopped short, surprised, I think, at the way in which I looked at her.

“She also! Is it possible?” murmured I, replying to my own thoughts.

And my eyes, that had been fixed on her, involuntarily looked upward at the light that came from the only window in the studio. I soon said in a calm tone:

“You are mistaken, Stella. I am not free, as you suppose. But let us not speak of myself, I beg.…”

She listened without comprehending me, and her train of thought, interrupted for a moment, resumed its course. I was far from wishing to check a communicativeness her suffering heart had more need of than she was aware. I allowed her, therefore, to pour out without hindrance all that burdened her mind. I suffered her to give way to her unreasonable remorse. I did not even contradict her when she repeated that her sweet treasure would not have been ravished from her, had she been worthy of possessing it, if no other love had been allowed to enter her heart. I did not oppose this fancy, which was only one of those perfidies de l’amour, as such imaginary wrongs have been happily styled, which, after the occurrence of misfortune, often add to one’s actual sorrow a burden still heavier and more difficult to bear.

On the contrary, I assured her we would start together, and she herself should fix the day of our departure.

I only begged her not to hasten the time, and, by leaving Paris so abruptly, afflict our excellent friend at the very hour of her joy, and make Diana weep at the moment when she was so pleased at the restoration of their happiness. At last I induced her to consent that things should remain for the present as they were. She would return to the Hôtel de Kergy, and Gilbert’s return should in no way change the way of life we had both led for a year.

XLVIII.

Nothing, in fact, was changed. Our morning rounds, our occupations in the afternoon, and our evening reunions, all continued the same as before. Apparently nothing new had occurred except the satisfaction and joy which once more brightened the fireside of our friends, and things were pleasanter than ever, even when Gilbert was present. This time he seemed decided to put an end to his wandering habits, and settle down with his mother, never to leave her again.

Nothing was changed, therefore. And yet before the end of the year I alone remained the same as the day of Gilbert’s arrival, the day when Stella was so desirous of going away that she might not meet him again; the day when (as I must now acknowledge) he thought if he was deceived by the pleasure I manifested at seeing him again, if my sentiments did not respond to his, if some new insurmountable barrier had risen in the place of that which death had removed, then he would once more depart, he would leave his country again, he would exile himself from his friends … and—who knows?—perhaps die—yes, really, die of grief with a broken heart!…

It was somewhat in these terms he spoke to me some time after his return, and I looked at him, as I listened, with a strange sensation of surprise. He was, however, the same he once was, the same Gilbert whose presence had afforded me so much happiness and been such a source of danger. There was no change in the charm of his expression, his voice, his wit, the elevation of his mind and character, and yet … I tried, but in vain, to recall the emotions of the past I once found so difficult to hide, so painful to combat, so impossible to overcome. I could not revive the dreams, the realization of which was now offered me, and convince myself it was I who had formerly regarded such a destiny as so happy a one and so worthy of envy—I, who now found it so far below the satisfied ambition of my heart. Ah! it was a good thing for me to see Gilbert again; it was well to look this earthly happiness once more in the face, in order to estimate the extent the divine arrow had penetrated my soul and opened the only true fountain of happiness and love!

It was not necessary to give utterance to all these thoughts. There was something inexpressible in my eyes, my voice, my language, my tranquillity in his presence, in my friendship itself, so evident and sincere, which were more expressive than any words or explanation, and by degrees produced a conviction no man can resist unless he is—which Gilbert was not—blind, presumptuous, or inflated with pride.

“Amor, ch’ a null’ amato amar perdona,”[6]

says our great poet. But he should have added that, if this law is not obeyed, love dies, and he who loves soon grows weary of loving in vain.

Gilbert was not an exception to this rule. The time came for its accomplishment in his case. The day came when he realized it. It was a slow, gradual, insensible process, but at length I saw the budding, the progress, the fulfilment of my dearest hopes.

The “sang joyeux” which once enabled my dear Stella to endure the trials of her earlier life now diffused new joy and hope in her heart, brought back to her eyes and lips that brilliancy of color and intensity of expression which always reflected the emotions of her soul, and made her once more what she was before her great grief!…

I saw her at last happy—happy to a degree that had never before been shed over her life. I should have left her then, as I intended, to see Livia again; but, while the changes I have just referred to were taking place around me, the heavy, unmerciful hand of spoliation had been laid on the loved asylum where my sister hoped to find shelter for life. Soldiers’ quarters were needed. The monastery was appropriated, the nuns were expelled. A greater trial than exile was inflicted on their innocent lives—a trial as severe as death, and, in fact, was death to several of their number. They were separated from one another; the aged were received in pious families; some were dispersed in various convents of their order still spared in Italy by the act of suppression; others, again, sought refuge in countries not then affected by the tempest which, from time to time, rises against the church and strikes the religious orders as lightning always strikes the highest summits, without ever succeeding in annihilating one, but leaving to the persecutors the stigma of crime and the shame of defeat!

My sister Livia was of the number of these holy exiles. A convent of her order, not far from Paris, was assigned her as a refuge, and it was there I had the joy of once more seeing her calm, angelic face. How much we had to say to each other! How truly united we now were! What a pleasure to again find her attentive ear, her faithful heart, and her courageous, artless soul! But when, after the long account I had to give her, I asked her to tell me, in her turn, all she had suffered from the sudden, violent invasion, the profanation of a place so dear and sacred to her, and the necessity of bidding farewell to the cloudless heavens, the beautiful mountains, and all the enchanting scenery of the country she loved, she smiled:

“What difference does all that make?” said she. “Only one thing is sad: that they who have wronged us should have done us this injury. As for us, the only real privation there is they could not inflict on us; the only true exile they could not impose. Domini est terra et plenitudo ejus! No human power can separate us from him!”

And now there remains but little to add.

The happiness of this world, such as it is, in all its fulness and its insufficiency, Gilbert and Stella possess. Diana also, without being obliged to leave her mother, has found a husband worthy of her and the dear sanctuary of all that is noble. Mario makes frequent journeys to France to visit his sisters, each in her retreat, and his former asperities seem to grow less and less. Lando and Teresina also come to see me every time they visit Paris, and I always find in him a sincere and faithful friend; but it is very difficult to convince him I shall never marry again, and still more so to make him understand how I can be happy.

Happy!… Nevertheless I am, and truly so! I am happier than I ever imagined I could be on earth; and if life sometimes seems long, I have never found it sad. Order, peace, activity, salutary friendship, a divine hope, leave nothing to be desired, and like one[7] who, still young, likewise arrived through suffering to the clearest light, I said, in my turn: Nothing is wanting, for “I believe, I love, and I wait!”

Yes, I await the plenitude of that happiness, a single ray of which sufficed to transform my whole life. I bless God for having unveiled the profound mystery of my heart, and enabled me to solve its enigma, and to understand with the same clearness all the aspirations of the soul which constitute here below the glory and torment of our nature! I render thanks to him for being able to comprehend and believe with assurance that the reason why we are so insatiable for knowledge, for repose, for happiness, for love, for security, and for so many other blessings never found on earth to the extent they are longed for, is because “we are all created solely for what we cannot here possess!”[8]

MARCH.

Ready is Time beneath her brooding wing

To break with swelling life the brown earth’s sheath;

And fondly do we watch th’ expectant heath

For bloom and song the days are ripe to bring.

Our heralds even vaunt the birth of spring,

While yet, alack! the winter’s blatant breath

Defieth trust, and coldly shadoweth

With drifts of gray each hope that dares to sing.

Yet still we know, as deepest shades foretell

The coming of the morn, and lovely sheen

Of living sunshine lies asleep between

A snow-bound crust and joys that upward well,

So, sure of triumph o’er the yielding shell,

Are ecstasies of song and matchless green!

CALDERON’S AUTOS SACRAMENTALES.
I.

I.

Villemain, in his Lectures on the Literature of the Middle Ages, while speaking of the Mysteries performed by the Confrères de la Passion, exclaims, “It is to be regretted that at that period the French language was not more fully developed, and that there was no man of genius among the Confrères de la Passion.

“The subject was admirable: imagine a theatre, which the faith of the people made the supplement of their worship; conceive religion, with the sublimity of its dogmas, put on the stage before convinced spectators, then a poet of powerful imagination, able to use freely all these grand things, not reduced to the necessity of stealing a few tears from us by feigned adventures, but striking our souls with the authority of an apostle and the impassioned magic of an artist, addressing what we believe and feel, and making us shed real tears over subjects which seem not only true, but divine—certainly nothing would have been greater than this poetry!”

Such a poet and such poetry Spain possesses in Calderon and his Autos Sacramentales, which may be regarded as the completion and perfection of the religious drama of the Middle Ages.

Of the modern nations which possess a national popular drama, Spain is the only one where, by the side of the secular stage, there has grown up and been carefully cultivated a religious drama; for this, in England, died with the Mysteries and Moralities.

The persistence of the religious drama in Spain is to be explained by the peculiar history of the nation, especially the struggle of centuries with the Moors—a continual crusade fought on their own soil, which inflamed to the highest degree the religious enthusiasm of the people.

The Reformation awoke but a feeble echo in Spain, and only served to quicken the masses to greater devotion to doctrines they saw threatened from abroad.

The two dogmas of the church which have always been especially dear to the Spaniards are those of the Immaculate Conception and Transubstantiation.

The former, as more spiritual and impalpable, remained an article of faith, deep and fervent, only represented to the senses by the mystic masterpieces of Murillo. Transubstantiation, on the other hand, was embodied in a host of symbols and ceremonies, and had devoted to it the most gorgeous of all the festivals of the church—that of Corpus Christi, established in 1263 by Urban IV., formally promulgated by Clement V. in 1311, and fifty years later amplified and rendered more magnificent by John XXIII.

This festival was introduced into Spain during the reign of Alfonso X., and its celebration there, as elsewhere, was accompanied by dramatic representations.

In Barcelona, even earlier than 1314, part of the celebration consisted in a procession of giants and ridiculous figures—a feature, as we shall afterwards see, always retained.

It seems established that from the earliest date dramatic representations of some kind always accompanied the celebration of Corpus Christi.

These plays, constituting a distinct and peculiar class, received a name of their own, and were at first called autos (from the Latin actus, applied to any particularly solemn act, as autos-da-fe), and later more specifically autos sacramentales.

We infer from occasional notices that these religious dramas were performed without interruption during the XIVth and XVth centuries. What their character was during this period we do not know, as we possess none earlier than the beginning of the XVIth century.

From this last-named date notices of the secular drama begin to multiply, and we may form some idea of the early autos sacramentales from the productions of Juan de la Enzina and Gil Vicente.

The former wrote a number of religious dialogues or plays, which he named eclogues, probably because the majority of the characters were shepherds.

One of these eclogues is on the Nativity, another on the Passion and Death of our Redeemer.

The word auto, as we have stated, was applied to any solemn act, and did not at first refer exclusively to the Corpus Christi dramas, so we find among the works of Gil Vicente an auto for Christmas, and one on the subject of S. Martin, which, although having nothing to do with the mystery of the Eucharist, was performed during the celebration of Corpus Christi in 1504, in the vestibule of the Church of Las Caldas in Lisbon.

These sacred plays were undoubtedly at first represented only in the churches by the ecclesiastics; they were not allowed to be performed in villages (where they could not be supervised by the higher clergy), or for the sake of money.

The abuses in their performance, or perhaps the large number of spectators, afterwards led to their representation in the open air.

The stage (as in the beginning of the classical drama) was a wagon, on which the scenery was arranged; when the autos became more elaborate, three of these wagons or carros were united.

We may see what these primitive stages were like in Don Quixote (part ii. chap. 11), the hero of which encountered upon the highway one of these perambulating theatres:

“He who guided the mules and served for carter was a frightful demon. The cart was uncovered and opened to the sky, without awning or wicker sides.

“The first figure that presented itself to Don Quixote’s eyes was that of Death itself with a human visage. Close by him sat an angel with painted wings. On one side stood an emperor, with a crown, seemingly of gold, on his head.

“At Death’s feet sat the god called Cupid, not blindfolded, but with his bow, quiver, and arrows.

“There was also a knight completely armed, excepting only that he had no morion or casque, but a hat with a large plume of feathers of divers colors.

“With these came other persons, differing both in habits and countenances.”

To Don Quixote’s question as to who they were the carter replied:

“Sir, we are strollers belonging to Angulo el Malo’s company. This morning, which is the octave of Corpus Christi, we have been performing, in a village on the other side of yon hill, a piece representing the Cortes or Parliament of Death, and this evening we are to play it again in that village just before us; which being so near, to save ourselves the trouble of dressing and undressing, we come in the clothes we are to act our parts in.”

The character of the autos changed with the improvements in their representation; from mere dialogues they developed into short farces, the object of which was to amuse while instructing.

Like the secular plays, they opened with a prologue, called the loa (from loar, to praise), in which the object of the play was shadowed forth and the indulgence of the spectators demanded.

The loa was originally spoken by one person, and was also called argumento or introito, and was in the same metre as the auto; although it consisted sometimes of a few lines in prose, as in the auto of The Gifts which Adam sent to Our Lady by S. Lazarus: