Chapter III (7)

Contemplate, again, the world of wealth, fashion, and pleasure. Behold the pomp, the luxury, and the numerous sensual enjoyments which make up so largely its sum of life. Follow the votaries of pleasure in their daily and nightly rounds, sit at their epicurean tables, accompany them to routs, balls, play-houses, and innumerable other places of resort, which temptingly beckon them on every hand. Be with them also in their sleeping, and at their early morning hours, when the inevitable reactions manifest themselves; when pains, lassitude, and nervous and mental depression overtake them. Read their interior convictions, thoughts and regrets for ill-spent time, and for perversions of the higher faculties. Consult the epicure, who "lives to eat" and to stimulate his artificial appetite daily with highly seasoned dishes. He will discourse eloquently upon the pleasures of the table; but he can depict also the horrors of indigestion, hypochondria, and not unfrequently of paralysis, apoplexy, and kindred ailments. Consult the wine-bibber and the whiskey-drinker. They can point to the enormous revenues which the government derives from their patronage; to the innumerable drinking-saloons which cover the land, and which are sustained and enriched by them; to the numerous dens, above-ground and under-ground, where the poor congregate to imbibe fiery poisons that steal away their brains and the bread of their wives and children; to the untold millions which are expended in their traffic by men of all classes and conditions.

These men can portray the temporary delights and excitements of such exhilarating beverages. They can tell you how the brain glows, how the pulse rises, and how all the organs and faculties are roused to preternatural energy under the influence of these potent agents. But alas! what multitudes have experienced the dreadful reactions which always follow their habitual use! What multitudes have gone down to the grave prematurely with Bright's disease, liver-complaint, softening of the brain, dropsy, insanity, paralysis, delirium tremens, etc., victims of these insidious poisons! In the United States especially, the prevalence and the evils of whiskey-drinking are truly monstrous. It is the dominant curse, the crying evil of the day. It pervades all of the ramifications of social life. {121} It numbers its victims by millions of all ages, sexes, and conditions. It corrupts and undermines the very foundation of health, perverts and degrades the intellectual and moral faculties, and depresses men deep, deep into the lower strata of humanity.

Thousands have become habitual drinkers, and ultimately confirmed inebriates, through the advice of their medical advisers. In accordance with some absurd hypothesis, or perchance to please their patients, too many medical men, during the past twenty years, have ordered the habitual use of whiskey, rum, brandy, and other stimulants. The calamities thus entailed are fearful to contemplate; and those thoughtless physicians who have contributed so largely in extending this great national vice will bear to their graves a dreadful responsibility.

So far, then, as eating and drinking are concerned, it is evident that the precepts of the Christian religion are far better calculated to promote the welfare of mankind than are those of the man of pleasure. Religion inculcates simplicity, frugality, temperance; and the fruits are physical and mental vigor and tranquil enjoyment. Irreligion encourages unrestrained convivial excesses; and the results are disease, pain, and general debasement.

Note, again, the devotees of fashion, whose pleasure consists in unnatural and artificial excitements, who regard the ordinary affairs and duties of life as tame and irksome, who convert night into day, and who are happy only when in the midst of the exaggerations, the frivolities, the romances of life. Do these individuals employ their faculties or their time in accordance with the laws of nature, or with reference to the duties and destinies which manifestly pertain to them? The excitements of the play-house, the ballroom, the race-course, and similar places of fashionable resort are prone to divert the mind from the serious duties of life, to engender morbid tastes and sentiments, and to implant feelings of discontent with reference to ordinary duties and occupations. When indulged in to such an extent, these amusements are unchristian, and therefore derogatory to health and happiness. Not in the gilded saloons of fashion are to be found peace, contentment, and charity. Not in the souls of pleasure-seeking devotees are to be found real satisfaction and enjoyment. But among those who lead religious lives, whether high or low, rich or poor, wise or simple, will be found the highest developments of love, virtue, health, and true happiness.

A worldly life develops and fosters all that is sensual and selfish in man. It continually rouses the organs and faculties of the system into abnormal activity and excitement. It perverts the delicate and sensitive functions of the organism from their legitimate uses to the gratification of transient impulse, passion, and caprice. It plays with the thousand living nerves and fibres as upon the inanimate strings of an instrument, heedless whether the overstrained and palpitating chords of life snap asunder under the exciting ordeal. Its fruits, consequently, are demoralizing, and in the highest degree detrimental to health, usefulness, and happiness.

In a religious life how great a contrast is presented! Such a life develops and fosters the highest and purest attributes of the soul. It rouses into ever-living activity the divine sentiments of love and charity, and puts far away sensuality, selfishness, and inordinate and unlawful self-indulgence. {122} It inculcates temperance, moderation, disinterested benevolence, chastity, and the cultivation of those virtues and graces which secure health, contentment, and tranquil happiness.

From a strictly material point of view, then, we may rest assured that a truly religious life is far more conducive to genuine pleasure and to longevity than a mere worldly one. A simple contemplation of the complicated and sensitive human organism, of its physiology and its subjection to certain natural laws and requirements, renders the justness of our position manifest. Health can only be maintained by a just equilibrium in the action of all the organs, functions, and faculties. Every overaction, every undue excitement, is followed by a corresponding reaction which is depressing, debilitating, and productive of more or less disorder and suffering.

The thoughts, energies, and hopes of men of business are too generally absorbed in the eager pursuit of wealth. Their ideas, aspirations, and daily and hourly actions pertain solely to this world. From childhood to old age the idea of eternity is almost entirely put from them. Practically, these men are infidels, because every act of their lives, from waking to sleeping, has sole reference to the present life. They live and think and act as if they were to remain for ever on this earth. They put far from them the momentous realities of the near future, and cling to the riches, the pomps, the vanities, and the frivolities of this world like monomaniacs. Follow them to their counting-rooms, to their clubs, to their places of recreation, to their homes, and see how much of care, anxiety, and suffering, and how small an amount of tranquil happiness, attend them. Contrast the lives and the deaths of these devotees of business and riches with those of the humble and exemplary Christian. Is there a doubt on which side health, contentment, and true enjoyment of life will be found? "Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth; but lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven: for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also. ... Ye cannot serve God and mammon." (Matt. vi. 19, 20, 21, 24.)

Let it not be thought that we are opposed to a reasonable devotion to material and worldly affairs, or that we would place a single obstacle in the way of human progress, whether pertaining to trade, commerce, or the useful and ornamental arts. Every man in his sphere has duties to perform; but it must not be forgotten that these duties are neither exclusively material nor yet spiritual. Let it not be forgotten that the _soul_ has its wants and necessities as also the _body_. And let it not be forgotten that, while the physical man is but for a day, the spiritual man is for eternity. The wise man, therefore, will recognize the fact that there is a time for all things--for business, for recreation, for mental culture, and (chief of all) for spiritual duties; and he will best accomplish the just ends of his existence who rightly appreciates and acts upon this great truth.

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{123}

Translated From The French.

Faith And Poetry Of The Bretons.

Continued.

Saint-Thêgonnec
Cemeteries
Calvaries
Character Of The People.

We need not traverse the whole of Brittany to have a perfect idea of the works of architecture which faith has embellished. In one little borough-town, Saint-Thégonnec, between Morlaix and Landerneau, we find all the types of Christian art in Brittany concentrated--church, funereal chapel, burying-vault, calvary, and sculptures.

The Breton cemeteries closely resemble each other; nearly everywhere they surround the church, and are enclosed by a low wall, often without gates of any kind, merely a small ditch preventing the cattle from trespassing on the abode of the dead. [Footnote 21] A cross, or a calvary, where the scenes of the passion are represented, or sometimes the kneeling statue of a loved or lamented pastor's venerated image that recalls his virtues to his faithful people, these are the only monuments of the cemeteries of the Breton villages. The tombs are marked by small heaps of earth, pressed each against the other, and surmounted by a cross. Some are covered by a stone, and in this stone is indented a little cup that gathers the dew and rain from heaven, and offers to the mourning relative--the mother, son, the friend--the blessed asperges to accompany the prayer for him who lies beneath. [Footnote 22] These cemeteries, placed in the midst of towns and villages, cannot be of any great extent; soon, therefore, they are filled with extinct generations, and these bodies must be exhumed to make place for new-comers. In one village, Plouha, after the sons had disinterred the bodies of their fathers, they decorated the façade of the church with the stones of the tombs, that they might be cold witnesses of their memories, or, at least, might never cover the bodies of others. The general resting-place for these exhumed bones is a mortuary chapel constructed by the side of the church; and if a glance is taken through the Gothic arch which opens on this charnel-house, bones upon bones may be seen heaped up and mingled like blades of straw. These were men who have walked on the earth, now solitary and forsaken until the eternal resurrection.

[Footnote 21: At Goueznon, at Plabennec, etc.]

[Footnote 22: We see in Algeria little cups hollowed in the
sepulchral stones of the Mussulmans; but this water is only
used by the birds to satisfy their thirst, or to water the
flowers that decorate the tombs.]

But at Saint-Thégonnec a more respectful and tender sentiment has tried to preserve intact at least a portion of these bodies so rudely torn from the earth. Before entering the church, we are struck by an unexpected sight; from every projection of the building, on the porches, on the prominent cornices, are laid or hung and suspended, one above the other, a multitude of small boxes arranged as a chaplet; these little boxes, surmounted each by its cross, are coffins, and enclose the skull of an ancestor, his head, or, according to the expressive word of the old language, _le chef_, that which is most noble in man, and which may be resumed. An inscription indicates the date and name:

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"_Here lies_ LE CHEF _de_ ..."

Another touching symbol may be seen through the openings, the funeral archives of families preserved in the shadow of the church, that rising generations may discover them, so that they may not be forgotten, as they would be, immured in their own homes. [Footnote 23]

[Footnote 23: At Locmariquer there are not only coffins with
heads, but miniature ones enclosing all the bones, piled one
above the other like bales of goods, in the place apportioned
them.]

Here and there on the cornice, exposed to the air, are skulls of the dead, poor creatures once without friends or family to give them burial, painted green, their eyes filled with sand and blades of grass projecting from them, often leaning against each other; here, one supported perhaps by him who was his bitter enemy.

Passing there double rows of coffins, we enter the church, and this is but a repetition of all the Breton churches; everything here--an elegant font, sculptured mouldings, pulpit of choice wood and of marvellous workmanship--_chef-d'oeuvre_ of the end of the Renaissance, and one of the finest pulpits in Brittany--pictures on wood, chisel paintings, ever perpetuating the patriarchs, the kings, and prophets of the Old Testament mounting from earth to heaven; even to the Blessed Virgin; vault of gold and azure fairly sparkling in its complete beauty; the choir, the altar, and the side chapels filled with statues, wreathed columns, heads of angels, flowers, garlands, gilded and painted in every color, a perfect stream of gold, verdure, brilliant crimson, and azure.

From this refulgent and living whole, a single door rises on the side, high and naked; no sculpture, no ornament; the stones sweat their dampness; the bricks, that have assumed a blackened tint, separated by their white cement, present a lugubrious aspect; a great mourning veil seems spread before the eyes--this is the gate of death. You open, and you pause enchanted. Before you lies the cemetery. At your right, at your left, monument upon monument breaks upon your gaze. Under the porch where you stand are the statues in line of the twelve apostles; and opposite you, a large gate with three arches, the gate of the cemetery, in its imposing style, an arch of triumph, as if the Bretons, passing under it the perishable body, had typified the life eternal, the glory and the joy of the imperishable soul. At the right, a mortuary chapel of the style of the Louvre of Henry IV. is erected, its sculpture from the bottom to the top, an immense _châsse_ pictured in granite; at your left is the calvary, one of those complicated calvaries, found only in Brittany, a whole people of statues; eighty or a hundred personages in the most natural and simple attitudes--disciples, prophets, holy women, thieves on their crosses, guards on horseback, and, towering over all this crowd, the tree of the cross, colossal in its structure, of several stones, cross upon cross, and holding on its branches statues of the Virgin, Saint John, the guards, and others, and, in immensity of size and above all, the Christ himself, with his arms extended over the world, and his eyes uplifted to heaven. Angels are there, too, suspended in the air, and collecting in their chalices the precious blood from his hands. [Footnote 24]

[Footnote 24: The calvaries of Plougastel and Pleyben--towns
so remarkable for their beautiful churches are more
complicated and grand, perhaps, but not so striking, as this
one.]

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And this is not all: enter the crypt of the mortuary chapel, and there you will find yourself face to face with another _chef-d'oeuvre_--the entombing of Christ, the scene which has ever inspired the greatest artists, and in colossal proportions. These are painted statues, and the painting adds to the impression, giving to the deeply moved personages the appearance of life. You hear them cry, you see their tears course down their pallid faces; the Virgin-Mother with her pressed lips on the livid feet of her divine Son, the Magdalen overwhelmed with grief and still beautiful in the midst of her sorrow. Can you fail to become an actor in this impassioned scene? You are rooted to the spot; the terrible blow that made them surfer becomes your reality, and, grieved to the depths of your soul, you feel your own tears flow; the lapse of ages is forgotten, and you are living in that Calvary scene.

And when we think that these works of religious art are spread all over Brittany with the same profusion; that in towns apparently the most remote from any road or centre, at Saint-Herbot in the Black Mountains, at Saint-Fiacre, which is only a little village of Laouet, and even less than a village, a miserable hamlet of five or six houses, in the chapel of Rozegrand near Quimperlé, a modest manor which hardly merits the name of a castle--we find in all these places galleries of sculptured wood, painted, gilded, and figured with fifty or more persons, rivalling the most costly churches; works so admirably reproducing the history, the miracles, and the mysteries of religion, while they preserve among the people and reanimate and increase their ardor and faith, we cannot but ask, What is the cause of such a multitude of works of art appearing everywhere on the surface of the country, and what has been the inspiration which has produced such fruit--richness of invention, truth of gesture, expression of physiognomy, a true and deep sentiment of everything divine in scenery and action? In all these monuments of the middle ages, there is to be found the same truth, the same power of imagination, while the artist never repeats himself and never tires you. He leads you on like the musician, scarcely giving you time to recover from one melody ere you are soul-entranced with another still more beautiful.

But this creative power has a cause; this society--as a man arrived at maturity with all his work accomplished for the end he would attain--had been prepared by previous ages. Disengaged from the swaddling-clothes of antiquity, its tongue was formed, its religious ideas fixed, and with its new-formed Christianity, it was logically constituted--it became a unity. Still in possession of such power, this people struggles only to create; never led by contrary tastes or carried away by disorderly and unregulated motives, so justly named in our day _caprice_, they cling to what preceding ages have sought for, gathered, and inculcated. The materials are ready to their hands, they seize them, and, with the genius of the age, reproduce, in a thousand forms, new beauties; the well-filled vase has only to diffuse itself and overflow with treasures. Thus, imagination bursts out everywhere lively and colored; the same mind, in literature as in art, reproduces the varied ornaments of churches, invents fables and legends, and finds at every moment new images to represent manners, ideas, opinions; and this imagination, far from exhausting itself, grows and increases, not as the forced plant of the hot-house, but the natural flower of their own spring. Ages train on, and the last one bears the crown.

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We see, too, why such artists--authors of such exquisite works--are so obscure, so unknown. They have not rendered their own ideas simply, but those of their race; the sentiments of their ancestors, of the fathers with whom they have been born and raised, have penetrated their whole being, and they have merely expressed their surroundings. Thus, these monuments of art are not only proof of talent and their sojourn on earth, but witnesses of their piety and faith--the worship of a people.

So, the faith of days past still lives in Brittany: could one doubt it, let him look at the evidences of an unweakened piety which meet him at every step. See the gifts of the women of the aristocracy, beautiful scarfs of cashmere, covering the altars of the cathedral of Tréguier, and the offerings of the poor, bundles of crutches, left at Folgoat by the infirm "made whole." Then the pilgrimages, vast armies of men and women, moving yearly to their favorite shrine of Saint Anne d'Auray, and the miraculous pictures, decking from top to bottom this church of the Mother of the Virgin, too small for a Christian museum replenished so constantly. At every step arise new chapels and churches: at Saint-Brieuc several were built at once; Lorient, a town peopled with soldiers and sailors, has just raised at its gate a church in the style of Louis XIV.; Vitré gives to its church a new bell and a sculptured pulpit; the little villages put up in their cemeteries calvaries with figures of the middle ages; the calvary of Ploëzal, between Tréguier and Guingamp, is dated 1856; Dinan restores and enriches its beautiful church of Saint Malo; Quimper throws to the air two noble spires from the towers of its cathedral; the chapel of Saint Ilan, a model of elegance and grace, rises in pure whiteness on the borders of the sea, in the midst of the calm roofs of its pious colony; Nantes, while she builds several new churches, finishes her immense cathedral, its dome of Cologne and Brittany, to which each age has given a hand, and in constructing this beautiful church of Saint Nicholas, proves what the piety and zeal of a pastor and devoted flock could accomplish, in less than ten years, by alms and gifts. A few years since, at Guingamp, a chapel was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin outside the church; the statues are painted of the twelve apostles, the altar is magnificent, and the roof azure and stars of gold. No expense was spared, no decoration too great to ornament the sanctuary of the Virgin. Fifty thousand persons were there the day of the inauguration. These are the national holy-days of the Bretons. Elsewhere, people rush to the inauguration of princes or the revolutions which presage their downfall; but here they come from all parts of Brittany to assist in the coronation of the Queen of heaven. And what piety, what recollection, what gravity in the deportment of these men and women, kneeling on the pavements of the churches! As at La Trappe, so here is seen the same complete absorption of the human being in the thoughts that fill the soul; the functions of life seem annihilated, and, immovable in prayer, they remain in that absolute contemplation in which the saints are represented, overwhelmed by sentiments of veneration, submission, and humility: the man is forgotten, the Christian only exists. More expressive even than the monuments are these daily acts of devotion, that evidence the habitual state of the soul.

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Walk, on a market-day, through the square of some city or town of Finistère. How varied and animated it appears! Rows of little wagons standing around, and on these all sorts of merchandise: velvet ribbons and buckles for the men's caps; woollen ornaments made into rosettes for the head-dresses of the women; variegated pins, ornamented with glass pearls; pipe-holders of wood; little microscopic pipes and instruments to light them, with other useful and ornamental wares. Under the tents of these movable shops, a crowd of men and women are seen. The women with head-dresses of different forms, their large white handkerchiefs rounded at the back and carefully crossed on the breast; the men with their pantaloons narrowly tightened, falling low, and resting on the hips, so that the shirt may be seen between them and the vest, their caps with broad brims covering their long hair, often tucked up behind, and walking with measured steps, carrying their canes, never hurried, always calm and dignified. Twelve o'clock is heard; from the high bell-tower of the neighboring church comes the echoing peal of mid-day; twelve times it slowly strikes, and then all is hushed. Every one pauses, is silent. With simultaneous movement, the men doff their hats and their long hair falls over their shoulders. All are on their knees, the sign of the cross is made, and one low murmur tells the Angelus. A stranger in such a crowd must kneel; involuntarily he bends his knee with the rest. The prayer to the Virgin finished, they rise again; life and motion commence, and a din is heard, the almost deafening noise of the roar of the sea.

Again I see them in the church of Cast, (Finistère.) It was Sunday, at the hour of vespers. The bell of the church-tower had sounded from the break of day, and crowds of men and women surrounded the church, talking in groups, gently and noiselessly. The bell ceased; the groups broke up and separated into two bands, on one side the men, on the other the women, all directing their steps to the church. The women entered first, and in a moment the nave was filled; the young women of the Confraternity of the Blessed Virgin took their places in the middle of the church, all in white, but their costume ornamented with embroidery of gilt and silver, gilded ribbons on their arms, belts of the same encircling their graceful figures, and falling in four bands at the back on the plaited petticoat, and the heart of gold and cross on the breast of each; in the side aisles, the matrons ranged themselves, wives and mothers, in more varied costumes, gayly colored, head-dresses of deep blue and yellow, blue ribbons with silver edges on the brown jackets, red petticoats, and clock stockings embroidered in gold. All knelt on the pavement, their heads inclined, their rosaries in their hands, and in collected silence.

The women all placed, another door opened at the side of the church, and the men's turn came. With grave and measured steps they walked in file, and strange and imposing was the sight--in comparison with the variegated and gay dress of the women, so opposingly sombre was that of the men; and yet the attention was not so much riveted by their uniform attire, their long brown vests, their large puffed breeches; but their squared heads, their long features, the quantity of straight hair, covering their foreheads like thick fleece, and falling in long locks on their shoulders and down their backs. {128} All, children and men grown, wore the same costume, this long black hair, which in the air assumed a sombre reddish tint, and falling on the thick, heavy eyebrows, gave to their eyes an expression of energy, of almost superhuman firmness. They scarcely seemed men of our time and country; the grave, immovable faces, with the brilliant eyes scrutinizing at once the character and appearance of the stranger among them, the uncultivated heads of hair, weighing down their large heads like the manes of wild animals, gave the idea of men apart; men from the wilds of some far country moving among the modern races, with silent gesture and solemn step, and uttering brief and pithy sentences, as if they alone held the secrets of the past, the knowledge of the mysteries and truths of the olden time.

They defiled one by one, prostrating themselves before the altar, and kneeling in turn on the stone floor, surrounding entirely the grating of the choir. True assemblage of the faithful! The men, a strong soldiery in front, the women behind, a more humble crowd, but each forgetting the other, living but for one thought--for God. For God is not for these _barbarians_ what he is for us; we, _civilized inhabitants_ of cities, we try to explain God, and even on our knees in his temples we analyze him, comment upon his acts, and even doubt if he exists. They spend no time in such vain thoughts, barren meditations: for them God is; they know and believe in him. He made the heaven over their heads, the earth that produces their harvests, made them themselves, and preserves them or takes them to him. He is the Invisible who can do everything, from the heights of the heavens, and everywhere at once; and in comparison with this All-Powerful they feel their littleness, prostrate themselves and adore.

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Count De Montalembert.

In that drear twilight, herald of the day
On which new faith, new hope, new love were born,
And while my heart still pressed against the thorn
Of unbelief, like some fresh matin lay
Of forest warbler in his own loved May,
Broke, Montalembert, on my trance forlorn,
Elizabeth's young voice, which sang death's scorn
In carols with celestial transports gay.
Now, when cool evening's earliest pensive shade
Creeps o'er my life, as clear and jubilant
As that wild mocking-bird's, is heard the chant
Of mighty abbots, whose processions fade
Into the dark of ages, made by thee
New themes for thought and holy minstrelsy.

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{129}

Rings.

Looking over an old jewel-case, the other day, I found a ring; no treasured heirloom or _gage d'amour_ of by-gone days, but a simple black circlet, whose sole ornament was a silver heart, on which were engraved in rude fashion the letters VA. The sight of it recalled a stormy day during the winter of 1864, when a pale and emaciated Confederate soldier knocked at our door and asked for shelter. Of course, it was cheerfully granted.

On questioning him we learned that he had suffered the rigor of prison life for two years; had just been released, and was _en route_ to join his regiment before Petersburg. Upon leaving, he thanked me for our hospitality, and begged my acceptance of this little ring, the making of which had served to while away the tedium of captivity. I put it carefully aside, and the lapse of time and other more stirring events had almost obliterated the circumstance from my mind, until it was thus revived.

As I gazed upon it, how many memories were revived by it! In it I traced the life of the donor, and in him the vain hopes and aspirations of his comrades and the ruin which befell them. I heard the call to arms; saw the leave-taking and departure for the field; followed him amid the sanguinary contests of battle; till at length defeat, like a black cloud, lowers over his decimated legions, and he finds himself within a prison's walls. There, chafing against captivity, listening eagerly for tidings of release, and sick with hope deferred, I see him beguiling the weary hours in fashioning this little trinket. At last the hour of liberty arrives, and with bounding pulse, to the tune of "Home, sweet home," he turns his back on prison-bars. Once again he is a soldier of the army of Northern Virginia; but gone are the high hopes which animated his breast, and gone are most of the brave comrades who once stood shoulder to shoulder with him; hardship, hunger, and death have done their work, and the end is near; a few more suns, and he and his cause fall to rise no more!

Such is the story that I read in that little hoop of black horn. How many startling events, how many passions of the human heart crowded into a tiny compass!

And this, methought, is not the only ring about which might be woven a tale of joy or sorrow. The "lion-hearted" king, notwithstanding his pilgrim guise, by means of one was betrayed to his relentless Austrian foe; and, centuries later, the gallant Essex entrusted his life to such an advocate. Trifling baubles as they are, which may be hid in the hollow of a baby's hand, they have, from their first introduction to the world, acted a conspicuous part in its history.

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The Persians maintain that Guiamschild, fourth king of the first race, introduced the ring. Whether this be true or not, it is certainly of ancient date, since mention is made of it in Genesis as being worn by the Hebrews as a signet. It was also in use among the Egyptians; for we are told that, after the interpretation of the dream, "Pharaoh took off his ring from his hand, and put it on Joseph's hand," as a mark of royal favor. The Sabines used this ornament during the time of Romulus, and perhaps the glittering jewels on the fingers of the women may have enhanced their attractions in the eyes of the bold Roman youths when they so unceremoniously bore them off. But it is not certain at what precise period the Romans adopted rings; for there are no signs of them on their statues prior to those of Numa and Servius Tullius. They were commonly made of iron, and Pliny says that Marius wore his first gold one in his third consulate, the year 650 of Rome. Senators were not allowed to wear them of this metal unless distinguished as ambassadors in foreign service; but in after days golden rings became the badge of knighthood; the people wearing silver, the slaves iron.

In tracing its history, we can readily imagine that the ring was invented merely as an accompaniment to bracelet and necklace; afterward it became a badge of distinction; and finally, when the art of engraving and cutting stones was introduced, it attained an importance which no other trinket can boast of. Ornamented with initials, armorial crests, or mystic characters, it has been used for centuries as a seal for state documents and secret despatches, a sort of _gage de foi_ of their authenticity. There are numerous instances in the sacred writings of its peculiar significance when thus employed. For example, when Ahasuerus, giving ear to the counsels of his favorite, consented to exterminate the Jews, it is recorded that "the king took his ring from his hand, and gave it unto Haman;" and, concerning the proclamation, "in the name of King Ahasuerus was it written, and sealed with the king's ring." We also read elsewhere that the den into which Daniel was thrown was sealed by the king "with his own signet, and with the signets of his lords, that the purpose might not be changed concerning Daniel."

It is supposed that the Greeks did not know the ring at the time of the Trojan war; for Homer does not speak of it, and instead of sealing, they secured their letters by means of a silken cord. Although this people encouraged learning and the fine arts, they do not seem to have possessed that of engraving, which they borrowed from the Egyptians, who excelled in this branch to a remarkable degree.

The rage for signets soon became universal, no patrician was without his ring, and in Rome the engravers were forbidden to make any two seals alike. In such esteem were they held, that it is related, when Lucullus visited Alexandria, Ptolemy could find no more acceptable present to offer him than an emerald, on which was engraved a portrait of himself. Julius Caesar had on his ring the image of Venus, armed with a dart; and the seal of Pompey was a lion holding a sword, while that of Scipio Africanus bore the portrait of Syphax, the Libyan king whom he had vanquished.

The manner of wearing the signet differed greatly, the Hebrews preferring to ornament the right hand, the Romans the left. The Greeks put it on the fourth finger of the left hand, because of the belief that a nerve connected that member with the heart; hence the same custom is observed with the wedding-ring.

After the advent of Christianity, it assumed a spiritual as well as political value, the episcopal ring, as it is called, being used as a pledge of spiritual marriage between the bishop and the church. {131} This custom is of ancient date, since there is mention in the proceedings of the fourth Council of Toledo, A.D. 633, that a bishop condemned for any offence by one council, if found innocent upon a second trial, should have his ring restored. The popes also wore seals, and at the present time the revered Father of the Catholic Church has two--one which he uses to sign apostolical briefs and private letters, called the _fisherman's ring,_ representing St. Peter drawing in his net full of fishes; the other, with which he seals his bulls, is ornamented with the heads of St. Paul and St. Peter, with a cross between the two.

The Hebrew used the wedding-ring, though some writer maintains that it was not a pledge of love, but given in lieu of a piece of money. It is evident that the Christians adopted the practice in their marriage rites at an early period, some of the oldest liturgies containing the vows with regard to it.

Being esteemed in a political and religious sense, it is no matter of wonder that Cupid's minions have also, from time immemorial, made the ring a seal of undying constancy, accepting its circular form as a type of eternity. Thus, Portia, after bestowing her riches upon Bassanio, says:

"I give them with this ring;
Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
Let it presage the ruin of your love,
And be my vantage to exclaim on you."

But lovers, not content with the emblem of shape, also added mottoes, and it became the fashion to engrave verses, names, and dates within the ring. Alluding to the custom, Hamlet asks, "Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?" And in the last act of _The Merchant of Venice_, when Portia exclaims:

"A quarrel, ho, already? What's the matter?"

Gratiano answers:

"About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
That she did give me; whose posy was
For all the world like cutler's poetry
Upon a knife--_Love me, and leave me not_."

The wedding-ring of Lady Catharine Grey, sister of Lady Jane Grey, consisted of five golden links, and on the four inner ones were these lines of her husband's composition:

"As circles five by art compact, shewe but one ring in sight,
So trust uniteth faithfull mindes with knott of secret might;
Whose force to breake but greedie Death noe wight possesseth power,
As time and sequels well shall prove. My ringe can say no more."

The famous ring given by Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex is said to be still extant, and in the possession of Lord John Thynne, a descendant of Lady Frances Devereux, the earl's daughter. It is of gold, the sides engraved, with a cameo head of Elizabeth in a sardonyx setting.

Before ending this paper, I must relate a curious legend, told of the Emperor Charlemagne, prefacing my story by saying, that in those times certain precious stones were thought to possess peculiar virtues which had an influence on the wearers or those around them. At the court of Charlemagne there lived a woman, neither young nor handsome, but who appeared to have a wondrous fascination for the monarch. So potent were her charms, that he neglected the affairs of his empire, and allowed his sword to rust. At last, to the great joy of all, the woman died; but Charlemagne mourned grievously, and even when her body was prepared for burial, refused to allow it to be carried out of his sight. {132} However, there was in the palace a bishop, learned in the arts, and acquainted with the superstitions of the time; and one day, when the king had gone hunting, he resolved to examine the corpse. His search was successful; for under the woman's tongue he found a ring, which he immediately secured. On his return from the chase, the emperor repaired to the room where the body lay; but instead of lingering near it, he ordered it to be interred, and seemed to have entirely recovered from the spell that bound him. That night a ball was given at court; and many a fair cheek flushed in anticipation of being the choice of Charlemagne in the dance; but lo! when the music struck up, the emperor stepped forward and requested the bishop to be his partner. The good priest, resenting the indignity, escaped from the hall, and feeling assured that the ring in his possession was the cause of such conduct, threw it into a lake beneath the palace walls. Thereupon Charlemagne recovered his senses, but ever after was devoted to the spot, and built there the town of Aix. Some old chronicler also asserts that, when the monarch was on his death-bed, he said that it was impossible for him to depart in peace from this world until a certain ring was restored to him. The secret of its hiding-place being revealed, the lake was dragged and the charm found. Charlemagne received it with many signs of joy, and requested that it might be buried with him.

For the truth of this legend I do not vouch; but it is averred that, years afterward, when the tomb of the mighty Frank was opened, on his breast was found an antique ring.

----------

In The School-room. [Footnote 25]

[Footnote 25: _In the School-Room; Chapters in the
Philosophy of Education._ John S. Hart, LL.D., Principal
of the New Jersey State Normal School. Eldredge & Brother:
Philadelphia.

_The Scientific Basis of Education_, demonstrated by an
analysis of the temperaments and of phrenological facts, in a
series of letters to the Department of Public Instruction in
the city of New York. By John Hecker. Published by the
Author, 56 Rutgers Street, New York.]

The author of this volume has evidently spent much time in the school-room, and has not spent it in vain. He writes like a practical man, in a clear, vigorous style. As he says in his preface, he takes "a pretty free range over the whole practical field of inquiry among professional teachers, and presents to us thoughts suggested in the school-room itself in short, detached chapters." The work is not a _philosophy_ of education, but rather a laudable attempt to contribute something toward it.

In the first chapter, on "What is Teaching?" he brings out forcibly the truth that teaching is not simply telling, nor is talking to a class necessarily teaching, as experience shows that a class may be told a thing twenty times over, and talked to in the most fluent manner, and still make little advancement in knowledge.

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This truth deserves more attention from those engaged in teaching. The work of universal education which is required in our country is so vast, that necessity has forced many to assume the office of teachers who have very little knowledge of what teaching is. "Teaching," as the author well says, "is causing one to know. Now, no one can be made to know a thing but by the act of his own powers. His own senses, his own memory, his own powers of reason, perception, and judgment must be exercised. The function of the teacher is to bring about this exercise of the pupil's faculties."

The second chapter, on "The Art of Questioning," states that a "most important and difficult part" of the teacher's art is to know how to ask a question, but he gives none of the principles that underlie the art. The earnest reader will say: If so much depends on skilful questioning, why does he not tell us how to do it? The little work of J. G. Filch, M.A., on _The Art of Questioning_ appears to us much more philosophical and satisfactory. According to him, questions as employed by teachers may be divided into three classes, according to the purposes which they may be intended to serve. There is, first, the _preliminary_ or _experimental_ question, by which an instructor feels his way, sounds the depths of his pupil's knowledge, and prepares him for the reception of what it is designed to teach.

There is, secondly, the question employed in _actual instruction_, by means of which the thoughts of the learner are exercised, and he is compelled, so to speak, to take a share in giving himself the lesson.

Thirdly, there is the question of _examination_, by which a teacher tests his own work, after he has given a lesson, and ascertains whether it has been soundly and thoroughly learned. By this method, as an eminent teacher has said, one first questions the knowledge into the minds of the children, and then questions it out of them again.

The following chapters on the order of development of the mental faculties are very good. We think, however, he lays too much stress on the necessity of knowledge before memory. The memory, being strongest and most retentive in youth, should then be stored with those germinating formulas which will bear fruit in after life. When the reasoning powers are developed at a later period, they then have something upon which to act.

The chapters on "Loving the Children" and "Gaining their Affections" are excellent.

The high salaries paid in our public schools induce many to engage in teaching, merely because it affords them honorable and lucrative employment. They have no love for the children, and are, therefore, unfit for the work. They have no sympathy for the children of the poor with bright eyes and tattered garments. It is painful to go into the school of such teachers. They seem to regard the children as pawns on a chessboard, or as _things_ which they are paid to manage and keep in order. Such teachers should study well the chapters on loving the children for what they are in themselves.

He then introduces a chapter on "Phrenology," in which he details several instances where a professor of phrenology, as he says, was misled, and gave an incorrect delineation of character. We suppose he wishes us to conclude, phrenology is therefore a humbug. But such an inference is evidently unwarranted from any _data_ he has given. {134} One might as well say that several instances of malpractice on the part of physicians prove the science of medicine to be a humbug. There is no doubt that, by phrenology, physiognomy, and various temperamental peculiarities, a person's general character and disposition may be discerned. The wise teacher will study these, that he may intelligently vary his government and teaching to suit the various characters of the pupils under his charge.

The work of Mr. John Hecker on _The Scientific Basis of Education_ shows to how great an extent a knowledge of phrenology and of the different temperaments may assist the teacher in the instruction and government of children. His work is worthy the attention of every teacher.

The chapters on "Normal Schools" and "Practice Teaching" are important. It by no means follows that, because a person knows a thing, he is therefore prepared to teach.

The art of communicating one's knowledge to others is quite a distinct acquirement.

No one who has compared the results obtained by teachers who have been trained for the work with those who have not can fail to appreciate this. We hope the time will come when all who occupy the position of teachers will be required to attend to this matter, and keep pace with the progress made in the art of teaching.

The chapter on cultivating a habit of attention should be studied by every teacher.

The freaks into which an uncultivated ear may be led for the want of attention will be best illustrated by one of the author's examples. A class at the high-school was required to copy a passage from dictation. The clause,

"Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice,"

appeared with the following variations:

Every breach of veracity indicates some latent vice.
Every bridge of rasality indicates some latest vice.
Every breech of ferocity indicates some latinet vice.
Every preach of erracity indicates some late device.
Every branch of vivacity indicates some great advice.
Every branch of veracity indicates some late advice.
Every branch of veracity indicates some ladovice.
Every branch of veracity indicates some ladened vice.
Every branch of veracity in the next some latent vice.
Every reach of their ascidity indicates some advice.

Every one who is called upon to give out "notices" or to speak in public knows full well how great a portion of what is said in the plainest manner is misapprehended for the want of this habit of attention.

The volume closes with a lengthy "Argument for Common Schools." It would be more properly called an "apology." His first point is, "that without common schools we cannot maintain permanently our popular institutions." The necessity of universal education to secure the permanence of our popular institutions is conceded by all. But education, according to the author's own definition, is the "developing in due order and proportion whatever is good and desirable in human nature." Therefore, not only the intellect, but also the moral and religious nature must be developed. This the common schools fail to do.

A man is not necessarily a good citizen because he is intelligent, without he also possesses moral integrity. According to the author's own admission, his education is incomplete. As the public schools fail to give any moral training, they fail to make reliable citizens, and are therefore insufficient to secure the permanence of our democratic form of government.

To this objection he replies "that many of the teachers are professing Christians, and exert a continual Christian influence." But many more are non-professors, and exert an anti-christian influence.

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In visiting schools, we have been able to tell the religious _status_ of the teachers in charge by the general tone of the exercises. One presided over by a zealous Methodist resembled a Methodist Sunday-school or conference meeting. Another, under the care of a "smart young man," delighted in love songs, boating songs, etc., and had the general tone of a young folks' glee-club. In another of our most celebrated public schools, one of the professors was an atheist, and it was a matter of common remark among the boys that Prof. ---- said there was no God.

In another, one of the teachers was overheard sneering at a child because she believed in our Lord Jesus Christ, and had a reverence for religious things. We admit that the familiar intercourse and intimate relations of the teachers with the children give them a great influence over their plastic minds, but, to our sorrow, we know that it is not always for good. We do not, therefore, consider it a recommendation of a system to say that the moral tone of its teaching depends altogether on the caprice and character of the different teachers it happens to employ.

Again, he says the law of trial by jury requires that every citizen should be intelligent, as they are thus called to take part in the administration of justice. True; but it requires much more that jurymen should possess moral principle. What makes courts of justice so often a mockery, but the want of principle and of conscience in those who administer the law? If his estate, life, or reputation depended on the decision of twelve men, would he feel easy if he knew them to be unprincipled, immoral men, open to bribery and corruption, however intelligent they might be? No; the constitution of our government, the popular institutions of our country, require that here, more than in any country of the world, the young should receive a sound moral and religious training, which cannot be done where, as here, religion is excluded from our common schools.

But, he says, the children attend the Sunday-school, which supplements the instructions of the weekday-school. True; but every earnest pastor who has any positive creed or doctrine to teach his children will tell you that one or two brief meetings on Sunday are not enough for this purpose. We ourselves are forced to the painful conclusion that the Sunday-school system does not give sufficient control over the children to form in them any earnest Christian character. It is like reserving the salt which should season our food during the week, and taking it all in a dose on Sunday.

The Sunday-school should be diligently used to supply, as far as may be, the lack of religious instruction in the common schools, but that it alone is inadequate to this purpose is shown by the constantly increasing number of our young who follow not the footsteps of their parents in the ways of a Christian life.

The author then, changing his base, argues that intellectual education alone tends to prevent sensuality and crime, and adduces statistics to show that the majority of convicts in our prisons are from the uneducated class. But if he attended to other statistics recently brought to light by Rev. Dr. Todd, Dr. Storer, of Boston, and others, he would discover that sensuality, _only more refined_, is permeating American society, and that hidden crime is depopulating some of the fairest portions of our land. It is true, perhaps, that those crimes which are taken cognizance of by the police courts may be more numerous among the uneducated, but it is those secret crimes against God and the moral law that corrupt society and endanger a nation's life.

{136}

In New England, which the author holds up as the ideal of what the common-school system can produce, physicians testify that immorality and hidden crime prevail to such an extent that the native American stock is literally dying out, the number of deaths far exceeding the number of births. Intellectual culture _alone_ will not preserve American society from corruption, any more than it did pagan Greece and Rome.