Chapter VIII: Avowals (9)

The true basis of American liberty is in the assertion of the rights of God, represented by the church, or by religion, as bounding or limiting the power of the state, whether imperial or popular. But under Protestant influences, the rights of God are resolved into the rights of man, and the Christian republic becomes simply a humanitarian republic, which can offer no solid foundation for liberty of any sort. The rights of man are no more sacred and inviolable than the rights of the prince or the state. It is only when the rights of man are resolved into the rights of God in and over man, that they are sacred and inviolable, or inalienable. But the American people have ceased so to resolve them, if, indeed, they ever did it, and recognize no more ultimate basis for liberty than humanity itself. If, as many of them do, they insist on religion as necessary to the maintenance of liberty, it is only as an external prop or support, not as its logical basis, or root, out of which it grows, and from which it derives all its sap and vigor.

No humanitarian republic is or can be a free republic, because, though it recognizes the people as the state, and establishes universal suffrage and eligibility, it has nothing but humanity, nothing above the people, to limit or restrict their power as the state. The people are humanity in the concrete, and a humanitarian republic therefore simply transfers the absolutism from the monarch to the people, and substitutes democratic Cæsarism for monarchical Cæsarism, the pagan republic for the pagan empire. Absolutism is absolutism, whether predicated of the one or of the many. We in the United States are rapidly losing sight of the Catholic principle retained by the Puritans, and rushing into democratic absolutism; we assert the omnipotence of the will of the people, and treat constitutions as simply self-imposed restrictions, which bind no longer than the people will. Demagogues, politicians, and statesmen tell the people that their will is supreme; and vainly would he seek their suffrages who should deny it. The opposition to the extension of the church in this country grows precisely out of the well-known fact, that she does not emanate from the people, is not subject to the will of the people, and would restrict their omnipotence--an opposition that proves that she, not Protestantism, is the defender of liberty. Certainly, if she were to become predominant here, she would soon put an end to the absolutism of the state, sustained by all our leading journals, and reëstablish the Christian republic, in place of the humanitarian or pagan republic, to which we are pushed by the Protestant spirit of the age, the veritable _Welt-Geist_, or prince of this world, as all Protestant movements amply prove.

The abbé shows a strict alliance between contemporary Protestantism and the revolution, or revolutionary movements in all European nations. With these revolutionary movements we have the authority of the chief magistrate of the Union for saying the American people generally sympathize. We lend, at least, all our moral support to these movements wherever we see them. They owe their origin, in fact, to Protestantism; and, so far at least as they are confined to Catholic nations, are fomented and encouraged by Protestant emissaries and Protestant associations and contributions; yet these movements are, under the name of liberty, purely humanitarian, and their success would simply substitute the absolutism of the people for the absolutism of the monarch--democratic Cæsarism, or rather, demagogic Cæsarism, for imperial Cæsarism. In the sixteenth century, the sovereigns embraced or inclined to the Reformation, because it removed the restraints that the church imposed on their absolute power and arbitrary will; demagogues and revolutionists in the nineteenth century glorify it, because it removes all restrictions on the will of the people as the state. In each case the church is opposed to it, and for the same reason, because she asserts the rights of God as the basis of the rights of man; and, as their divinely constituted guardian and representative, interposes them as a limit to the absolute power of the state, whether monarchical or democratic, the only security possible for the reign of justice, of just laws, and therefore of real liberty, individual, civil, and political.

There is no doubt that Protestantism, since the culmination of monarchical absolutism in the seventeenth century, has agitated for the revival of what it calls liberty, but what we call the humanitarian or pagan republic. The people moved by it have, no doubt, supposed they were marching toward real liberty; but they have nowhere gained it, and have only removed the day of its acquisition. Under its influence we have smothered the principle of liberty, and lost most of the guarantees which Providence gave us in the outset. We have lost not only the principle of liberty, but also its correlative, the principle of authority; and have no basis for either freedom or government, for the basis of neither can be found in humanity. Great Britain, to a certain extent, has popularized her administration; but through all her changes of dynasties and constitutions, she has never ceased to assert the omnipotence of the state as the state, supreme in spirituals as in temporals. On the continent, the revolution, attempted in the name of humanity, has nowhere founded liberty. Its momentary success in France from 1792 to 1795, inclusive, is universally recognized as the Reign of Terror, when religion was suppressed and virtue was punished as a crime. France, after a century of revolutions, is not as free to-day as she was even under her old monarchical institutions. The French are just now trying anew the experiment of parliamentary government which the Anglo-maniacs consider only as another name for liberty; but whether the experiment succeeds or fails, liberty will gain nothing; for the parliamentary government is as absolute as the personal government of Napoleon III., and most likely will have even less regard for the rights of God. The one no more than the other will recognize the spiritual power as a restriction on the power of the temporal.

In the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the spirit of the age was for the revival of pagan imperialism; the spirit of the age is now, and has been since the middle of the last century, the pagan republic; but there is just as little liberty under the one as under the other, or, if any difference, there is less under pagan republicanism than under pagan imperialism; for the Roman empire was really an improvement on the Roman republic. Under the one the monarch is the state; under the other the people or the ruling classes are the state; and under both the state is alike supreme, and acknowledges no limit to its power. The republican party is now, here and in all Europe, as hostile to the church as were the sovereigns in the sixteenth century, and for the same reason. The party knows perfectly well that it is impossible for her to approve any form of absolutism in the state. Having decided that the humanitarian republic it seeks to establish, and to which the spirit of the age tends, is liberty, it holds, and public opinion sustains it, that its success depends on sweeping her away, and destroying all religion that does not emanate from the people, or that claims to be a power independent of the state, and authorized to declare the law for the people instead of receiving it from them. Because she resists the madmen of this party, and seeks to save herself and society, they denounce her as opposed to liberty, as the upholder of despots and despotism, as at war with the spirit of the age, and the bitter enemy of modern civilization. "If," said the accusers of our Lord to the Roman procurator, "thou lettest this man go, thou art not Cæsar's friend." "If," said the reformers in the sixteenth century, "thou sparest the pope or the church, thou art no friend, but a traitor to the king;" "if," say their children in this nineteenth century, "thou upholdest the church, thou art no friend, but a traitor to the sovereign people, and false to liberty;" and the nineteenth century believeth them. We disbelieve them, and believe the Lord, who hath bought us with his own precious blood and made us free.

These madmen are animated and carried away by the spirit of the age, and suppose all the time that they are battling for liberty against its most dangerous enemies. They carry the people with them, and induce them to crucify their God as a malefactor. What is to restrain them? The strong arm of power? That were only to establish the reign of force. Reason? What can reason do with madmen, or against the multitude blinded by false lights and moved onward by an unreasoning passion? The intelligence of the age? Are they not carried away by the age, and is it not from the very madness of the age that they need to be saved? When the very light in the age is darkness, how great must be its darkness! It is only a power that draws its light from a source of light above the light of the age, and acts with a wisdom and strength that is above the people, above the world, that can restrain them and convert them into freemen.

If there is any truth in history, or any reliance to be placed on the inductions of reason, the author has amply proved, in opposition to the pretensions of Protestants and revolutionists, that society under the direction and influences of the Catholic Church marches steadily toward a true and regular liberty--a liberty which is grounded in the rights of God, and therefore secures the rights of man. He has also proved conclusively, as experience itself proves, that just in proportion as the influence of the church in society is weakened, liberty disappears, and absolutism, either of king or people, advances. He has shown that the Reformation, instead of founding or aiding liberty, has interrupted it, and prevented the development of the germs of free institutions deposited in society during the much-maligned and little-understood middle ages. Protestantism, even when, as in our own time, professing to labor for liberty, only falsifies it, and interposes insurmountable obstacles to its realization. Protestantism--and we have studied it both as a Protestant and as a Catholic--is made up of false pretences; is, as Carlyle would say, an unveracity, and loses not only the eternal world, but also this present world. The Divine Thought after which the universe is created and governed is one and catholic, and the law by which we gain our final end is one and holy; and without obedience to it there is no good possible, here or hereafter, either for society or for the individual. The present can have its fulfilment only in the future, and the temporal has its origin, medium, and end only in the spiritual, and finds its true support as its true law only in the one eternal law of God, the universal Lawgiver, declared and applied by the one Holy Catholic Church, which he himself has instituted for that purpose, and which is his body, which he animates, and in which he dwells, teaches, and governs.

It remains for us to consider the respective relations of Protestantism and Catholicity to religious liberty, or the freedom of conscience.

FOOTNOTE:

[176] _De l'Avenir du Protestantisme et du Catholicisme._ Par M. l'Abbé F. Martin. Paris: Tobra et Haton. 1869. 8vo, pp. 608.

UNTYING GORDIAN KNOTS.

VI.

George Holston was wandering thoughtfully back and forward in his writing-room, in a listless way, unusual in a man of his active temperament. An ardent sight-seer, a student of the politics of all countries, a visitor of every kind of institution for the amelioration of every kind of difficulty he gave little time to lounging. Pausing at last before one of the windows looking out on the garden, his attention became fixed, and an expression at once of displeasure and of amusement came over his face.

Under the tree sat Lady Sackvil, half reclining on a garden chair; before her stood Vane, answering her indifferent words with eager interest, his expressive face full of enthusiasm. Whatever his arguments were, they took effect, to judge by the change which gradually mastered her; rousing her from the careless posture to one of attention, drawing her eyes from the flower she had been idly pulling to pieces, to meet his earnest gaze. Whatever the question might be, he had conquered, and was gazing at her beautiful upturned face with a look of enchantment.

"Confound it!" muttered George. "What would I give to banish her to the coast of Guinea this very moment! Enough to evangelize the natives, if money would do it." He resumed his desultory walk and his meditations. "That idiot is going to destruction for the lack of something to do. No more in love with her than I am; just idleness and a love of excitement."

Going to his desk, he took out a letter written in copying-ink, and bearing date of three weeks back.

"I've scotched the snake, at least, with this," he said aloud, and sat down to a re-perusal of the epistle. It was as follows:

"DEAR EVANS: I see by the newspapers that three officers of the
U. S. A. have been appointed to visit the Crimea, and study
the position and progress of affairs in the French and English
armies. You will oblige me extremely by going to General Scott, on
receipt of this, and asking him, in my name, to obtain a fourth
appointment in the person of Captain Vane, of the --th Cavalry, U.
S. A., subject to Vane's approval. For several reasons, too long
to explain, I do not mention this plan to him before writing; but
I have no doubt that he will jump at the proposal when it comes.
The general and the secretary of war will need no explanations.
They know that Vane has been on the sick-list for wounds received
in frontier service, and they are much interested in him and
his family; therefore no apologies are necessary for making the
proposal.

"Vane is a constant and serious student of military matters,
and no man is more likely than he to make a good use of such an
opportunity.

"If objections are made on the grounds of extra pay, you may say
that no such increase is necessary, as Captain Vane has a large
private fortune.

"Hoping soon to have a chance to reciprocate the kindness I ask of
you, my dear Evans, I am

"Yours always truly,

"GEORGE HOLSTON."

George put away the letter and went to the window.

"If I had asked his leave before doing this, he would have been too weak to grant it, hampered as he is by this renewal of old associations. By the time the appointment gets here, he will be thankful to find some way of escape from his own folly open to him. A fool he is--a traitor he is not."

Then, casting a glance out of the window, as he passed before it to take down a volume from a bookcase, he said softly, "Poor Mary! the truest, noblest woman that ever married an idiot!"

George Holston might well say "poor Mary!" He had not been the only witness of the interview in the garden. This was the day of Mrs. Vane's first visit to the _primo piano_ since her illness. She had come in a young mother's glory, bringing little Georgina in her christening dress to see her godmother. While Mrs. Holston was tending the baby, Mary stood at the window, playing with a curtain-tassel and watching her husband and Lady Sackvil. She saw him give Amelia the oleander she pulled to pieces, saw her grow eager and interested as he talked to her, stood transfixed to see the intensity with which he followed up his advantage; and then, suddenly recollecting herself, turned away, thinking bitterly, "I will not spy upon him."

"What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Holston anxiously. "You were looking so well when you came in, and now you are as white as a handkerchief. Are you faint? Debby, ring the bell, and I will send for some wine."

"Oh! please not," said Mary, putting her hand to her head. "I'm well enough, only so very tired. This is my first visit, you know," she added, laughing faintly, "and the excitement is too much for me. I will leave the baby with you, and nurse can bring her to me when you are tired of her. No, don't come, Debby; I shall be better for resting a little while."

And lying quietly on the couch in her own room, the bitter conviction came to her, that what she had seen that day stung her so deeply only because it confirmed doubts crushed out of sight. Doubts? Certainty it was now, that she was no longer her husband's chosen companion. Startled by his anger when her first groundless jealousy betrayed itself on the day of Lady Sackvil's arrival, she had smothered every succeeding pang. Her uneasiness had come from no lack of kindness on her husband's part. He had been, if possible, more attentive during her illness than she had expected. But to her, who had been his exclusive confidant, the one chosen sympathizer in all hopes and projects, the charm had gone. It was evident that he needed more excitement than her companionship afforded, that he came to her from a sense of duty, not for pleasure. She had been too loyal to question or doubt until this afternoon, when an accident had given the proofs she would have refused to seek. Now she was too clear-sighted to withhold belief. Lady Sackvil stood between her and her husband.

She was too completely stunned, too grieved and wounded, to look beyond the present shock, to question the hopelessness of her situation. Above the couch hung an ivory crucifix yellow with age. Nicholas had found it in some curiosity-shop near the Rialto, and brought it to her. She took it down and looked at it, not only reverently but curiously, wondering whose agony it had soothed; if ever any one had pressed it to a heart so wronged and tortured as hers; if it were yellowed by the tears shed upon it, as well as by age. "You will be yellow as gold before my eyes have cried themselves out," she thought, and longed for the relief of tears. Her thoughts were so thick, so hopelessly thick and inextricable! Afraid of revealing her sufferings if she should go to dinner, she went to bed with a furious headache. The baby, sharing its mother's discomposure, wept and wailed, as babies always do when quiet is most desirable. Nicholas dined alone, spent an hour in his wife's room in the kindest manner, putting cold water on her head, and ice to her heart at the same moment. At last, believing her to be asleep, he went down to spend the evening with the Holstons; leaving her to be regaled with distant sounds of playing and singing, and to be racked by the conviction that a trial had fallen upon her with which she was utterly incapable of coping.

A night-light burned in the corner of the room, giving a faint suggestion of surrounding objects. Through the half-open nursery-door came the sound of Deborah lulling the baby to sleep with old songs and moral axioms. There was something soothing in the half-light and subdued tones which tended to restore the quivering nerves to their balance. Mary sat up in bed and tried to collect her ideas. What was the first thing to be done? The exact reverse of what she had done that evening, at all events. She had made the baby fretful, and driven Nicholas into the very temptation she most dreaded for him.

The first and immediate step to be taken was to conquer the nervous prostration which bound her. All was now quiet in the nursery. She rang her hand-bell softly, bringing Deborah to the nursery-door with the inseparable roll of violet-perfumed flannel in her arms.

"Put baby down by me, nurse, and give me some valerian; there's a good soul."

Then she lay down to contemplate the baby and let the sedative work. Her thoughts turned to a few words of fatherly advice from her old friend, Padre Giulio, when she had mentioned with bitter self-upbraiding in confession, two months before, her momentary paroxysm of jealousy. "In five cases out of ten," he had said, "an injured wife holds her fate in her own hands. She must prove to her husband that she is better worth loving than any other woman in the world. She should speak of her wrongs to no one if she can possibly bear them in silence. Each confidant of these delicate matters may become a new obstacle to reconciliation. Loyalty is most important between married persons. So much for jealous wives, my daughter; and God grant that you may never have occasion to remember what I have said!" And now the occasion had come!

"O God!" she prayed, "make me very lovely in his eyes. I don't ask it for vanity's sake, but for his honor and mine. I thank you, from the depths of my heart, that it is best for him and for me, and for your divine glory, that he should love me more than any other creature. But accomplish this, dear Lord, by making him love you best of all." Then she fell asleep, lulled by the soft breathing of the sleeping infant.

She was waked by hearing Nicholas come gently into the room.

"I am sorry I roused you," he said. "But I longed to know if you were relieved."

"I am much better," she answered cordially. "Thank you for coming to inquire. Have you had a pleasant evening?"

"Quite pleasant," he replied absently. "Did the piano disturb you?"

"Only just at first. I got through the evening very comfortably, and expect to be bright and well by to-morrow. Kiss me, darling."

"Good night, Mary. God bless you!"

When he had left her, she took the ancient crucifix again in her hands, and kissed the five wounds silently. There is no better prayer. It is the prayer of conquered self; the acceptance of our sufferings in union with those of Christ.

"I must get well and be his second guardian angel," she said.

Vane spent half the night in studying and reading. Once he said out loud, "God help me through it!" Then came the thought, "How dare I ask for help, when I myself have sought temptation? Oh! if Mary would only get well and be my better self once more. What did she say once about the inefficacy of vicarious goodness?"

VII.

"May I come in?" asked Mary at the door of Lady Sackvil's music-room.

"By all means. I am going to play something for George and Flossy that will fascinate your maternal fancy." And with the little boy and girl on either side, she played the _Scenes from Childhood_, with little paraphrases of explanation full of merriment or pathos, as the case might be. The children were bewitched. Mary looked at her lovely face, her tasteful dress, her graceful though rather large hands, moving on the piano as in a native element; she listened to her exquisitely sympathetic playing, to her charming talk with the children, and a sense of despair came over her.

"How can I win him back?" she thought. "O God! it is so hard to bear, just because I am not handsome or clever. Surely my love, my fidelity must be more beautiful than her beauty, if he could only see clearly. It is useless for me to compete with this exquisite creature on any natural grounds. And yet, how strange it all is! I don't suppose he is the most attractive man in existence; and yet, it would no more occur to me to measure him with other men than if he were an archangel."

Lady Sackvil was singing now--little songs for children, by Taubert, cradle songs, and _Volkslieder_. George and Flossy were twins, and this was their birthday. "Aunt Milly" was as much bent on fascinating her juvenile audience as any _prima donna_ in a royal theatre. She had not much voice; but her singing had the same sympathetic quality which made her playing delight every one, learned or unlearned. Those who were incapable of appreciating her sound musical training, her clever interpretation of the best compositions, her freedom from mannerism, whether pedantry or sentimentality, could derive pleasure from her delicious touch and the indefinable grace of her playing.

After a while Mrs. Holston and Captain Vane joined the audience. Mary glanced involuntarily at Lady Sackvil, and saw a rosy flush suffuse cheek and brow and neck. She passed on from song to song without leaving the piano; but she was singing for grown people now, and the children felt it. Mary made a sign to them to come to her, and gave them the presents she had prepared for the great day so long anticipated. Mere trifles they were--a suit of doll's furs for Flossy, a box of colored crayons for George--but it was quite enough to restore the birthday equanimity.

Vane had noticed the little scene, and Mary saw his eyes rest upon her with a tenderness she had missed for many weeks. When Lady Sackvil stopped singing, he rose rather abruptly and returned her greeting with a certain coldness. Then turning to his wife, he said, "I have been looking for you everywhere. Can you come up-stairs with me now?"

Mary was nearer happiness than she had thought to be again. At least he was trying to do right.

VIII.

LADY SACKVIL'S JOURNAL.

I wonder what sin is? Some people would say I ought to know; but I do not. We are born with inclinations, affections, passions which disappear or develop according to circumstances. We are not to be praised if they disappear; we are not to be blamed if they develop. Religionists make sins and virtues to suit themselves, and form thereon a moral code. If they really believe in a merciful, thoughtful Creator, a tender Redeemer, who has lived to exemplify these virtues and died to atone for these sins, of course they do right to bow to his will. I do not believe there is a God who interests himself in our virtues or vices, so-called. I know that I myself am the creature of necessity, and I mean to prove this for my own satisfaction by a review of my career.

I was educated by my poor Aunt Louisa, who taught me to call myself a Catholic and behave like a pagan. Was that my fault? She never, to my knowledge, acted from a disinterested motive. She never taught me to obey any thing but my own will--except hers, when our wills crossed. This was very seldom; for we, both of us, wanted simply the greatest amount of worldly enjoyment that was to be had, for asking, in my case, and scheming, in hers. Was that my fault? I loved Nicholas Vane, who was a tyrant. Just when his tyranny weighed too heavily to be borne, Lord Sackvil appeared. He suited me. His position corresponded to the dreams my aunt had nursed in me from childhood. Circumstances conquered me. Vane accused me of flirting, and broke off our private engagement. Aunt Louisa besought me to accept an offer which would realize her fondest hopes for me. I yielded, and married Sackvil, and never dreamed of regretting the step. He was the kindest and most indulgent of husbands, and sympathized with all my tastes. But here again any religious tendencies I might have had remained unnourished. Educated a Catholic, he never practised his religion. People think me obstinate; on the contrary, I am led completely by others--_when it suits me_. What of that? How could it be otherwise, with my training? I am the victim of circumstances. As I had no children, Sackvil House passed to a distant relation of my husband. I was left singularly alone in the world. My one near relative living in Venice, I naturally came to her, after leading a wandering life in Germany for two years. Who should be living in the same house and on terms of closest intimacy with my sister's family but Captain Vane? Was that my fault? I did not know the fact. Flora knows nothing of our engagement; indeed, no one knew of it except Aunt Louisa, and, probably, George Holston. I fully intended to cultivate Mrs. Vane intimately. In the first place, however, she is not inclined to intimacy. Though very young, she has a reserve and independence of character which would make friendship a matter of slow growth with her. In the second place, she has been ill or ailing ever since I came here. Is that my fault? Is it my fault that at thirty I am prettier than ever before in my life; that I have a trick of fascinating people; that I play and sing like--like--like a fallen angel? This is conceit, or pride, or vanity, I suppose. No, it is not. It is a recognition of facts. If I were ugly or unattractive, I should recognize the fact and poison myself. Is it my fault that Vane is morally weak, as the term goes? That is to say, that his personal wishes weigh more heavily upon him than the force of tradition? Is it my fault that, with the energy, the ambition, and the intellectual tastes of a man, I am bound by worldly maxims within limits which restrict all growth except spiritual growth?

I wonder what would make a Christian of me? This one experience--hypothetical, of course: the sight, the close, intimate perception of a purely disinterested soul; of one who, tested in the sorest manner, should act according to principles formed in a time of peace and security. I am a pagan from having seen people behave like pagans, no matter what they professed. The antidote must be adapted to the poison. Is a cure to be desired? I imagine not. A Christian life would entail great discomfort; for be it known that if ever I am a Christian I will be a genuine one. My difficulties are not metaphysical. I could just as easily believe one thing as another; indeed, the more the better, if there is any believing to be done. I am inclined to suppose that the Catholic Church will have the honor to reclaim me, if ever I am reclaimed. It is the oldest, widest, strongest, and it demands more of its adherents than any other church. Besides, if ever I find my disinterested Christian, it will probably be in the Catholic Church--a soul bred upon works of supererogation and a thirst after perfection.

IX.

Mary was reading in her morning room when Lady Sackvil was announced. "Ask her to come in here," she said with her lips; and in her heart prayed, "Help me to do and say the right thing."

Lady Sackvil came in very softly, seeing the little basket-cradle with drawn curtains beside the mother's chair, and said in a low tone, "Thank you very much for admitting me to your own room."

"We need not speak low," Mary said; "poor little Georgina has had to learn to sleep under all circumstances. I knew it was useless to try to make Captain Vane whisper, and I wanted him to come here freely when the child was with me; so I have made her a philosopher early in life, superior to outward influences."

"She will be the first person that ever was superior to circumstances, I fancy," remarked Lady Sackvil; and added after a moment's pause, "my belief is, that our characters are completely controlled by outward influences. They have regulated mine, I know."

Mary took up a stole she was embroidering in bullion, and arranged the sewing materials accurately before answering. Amelia's mere presence irritated her, and the off-hand manner in which her ladyship settled questions aroused in her a spirit of opposition. It was in an unruffled tone, however, that she answered, "Of course they have a great deal to do with the formation of character; but not every thing. I used to hear a good deal of talk on the subject in my father's library. An intimate friend of his was a necessitarian--that's the term, is it not?--and used to bring forward many clever arguments in support of his theory."

"And convinced you?" asked Amelia with interest.

"Not at all. He worried me a good deal at first. I remember that he generally chose Sunday evenings for the discussion, and Sunday evening has ever since been uncomfortably associated in my mind with necessity and free-will."

"I cannot fancy on what grounds his opinion could be combated," said Lady Sackvil.

"Neither did I at first. It is easier to argue in favor of necessity than of free-will. The theory rests upon tangible facts, evident even to superficial observers. The truth rests largely upon supernatural facts, too subtle to be fully appreciated except through personal experience."

"May I ask how you satisfied yourself?" asked Amelia with the faintest shade of contempt in her voice. She was feeling "out of sorts," and controversy suited the mood of the moment better than ordinary conversation.

Mary renewed the gold thread in her needle and the patience in her soul, and then answered, "By reading the lives of the saints, and especially of holy penitents. I became satisfied that even if ordinary souls are controlled by circumstances, (though even that point I did not concede,) the development of the saints has often been not only independent of circumstances, but inconsistent with them. Women, enslaved by vanity or passion, breaking through every bond and trampling on temptation to embrace a life of penance at which flesh trembles! Men, enthralled by false philosophy, becoming little children in faith and simplicity! I knew that this could not be the result of circumstances. Then carrying the investigation into my own moral experience, I found that even I could be noble under the same circumstances where I had been petty. I do not attempt to speak philosophically. I argue from practical facts."

"If I placed much faith in the lives of saints, perhaps we might think alike," answered Amelia; "but most of them are quite mythical, no doubt."

"The lives of St. Augustine, St. Jerome, and many more are as well authenticated as the Norman conquest," Mary said; "and those whose careers are most mysterious experienced nothing which is incomprehensible to any one who studies interior life, and knows the capacities of his own soul for receiving supernatural graces."

"The capacities of _my_ soul are extremely limited, I think," replied Lady Sackvil. "Like you, I found my impressions on practical facts, not on metaphysics; so that our argument is at an end, I suppose."

"Apparently," said Mary good-humoredly. "I've not heard the piano lately. Why is that?"

"I am tired to death of playing," said Lady Sackvil; "at times it is an unutterable bore. For a composer it is, of course, different. The exercise of the creative faculty must be simply rapture; but mere interpretation palls frightfully at times."

"Is there no new music to interest you?"

"Very seldom. I am familiar with the whole range of musical literature. Don't look at me as if I were a wonder. It's no great thing for a well-trained musician to say. Musical literature, as compared with the world of books, is very limited. The present age is idle and unproductive; and so there come times when I shut the piano and feel that my 'occupation's gone.'"

She rose, and going gently to the cradle, knelt down beside it to watch the sleeping child. A tenderness came over her face, before so full of weariness and pain.

"I would have been a different woman if I had been a mother," she said, looking up at Mary with tears in her eyes. "Love of children and vanity are the only traits I have," she added, smiling sadly.

Mary made no answer, but looked at the tossed, selfish, whimsical being before her with an interest she had not felt hitherto.

"Isn't it heavenly sweet to have a child?" asked Amelia; "to hold that creature close to you, and feel that it is your own as your heart is your own?"

"Yes, it is heavenly sweet," answered Mary, bending over the baby, who just then opened her violet eyes. The mother took the little creature into her arms and kissed her softly. "It _is_ heavenly sweet," she repeated.

Lady Sackvil drew down her veil and rose to go. "Good-by," she said huskily. "Don't think that I usually make such eccentric morning calls." And was gone before Mary could ring for a servant to open the door.

TO BE CONTINUED.

CHURCH MUSIC.

III.

We have one question to ask of such of our readers who have taken the trouble to read our former articles on the subject of church music. Is it not a false tradition that the music in our churches exhibits the character of a musical concert performed during Mass, or replacing the office of Vespers? One thing is certain--it is a Protestant tradition, an Anglo-Saxon Protestant tradition. Although we owe the "classical masses" chiefly to German and Italian composers, the style of the performance, the _matériel_ of the choir, and the _choir-gallery_ are the offspring of the "chapel" and the "conventicle." It has doubtless been observed that we have been arguing for a twofold reform in this matter: firstly, in the music, and secondly, in its performance. We use the word reform in its proper sense, and desire by our remarks to call our brethren back to the old paths of the Holy Church, not to introduce some new fashion in doctrine or devotion. We would renovate, not innovate. We have been too long deprived of that spiritual food which is so abundantly supplied by the sacred offices of the Church. Protestantism has given us nothing but husks to eat, and we confess to being hungry. By the defection of England and the greater part of Germany, we were robbed of our holy sanctuaries, and in our poverty have been forced to content ourselves with buildings to which, indeed, we give the name of churches, but which are nothing better than convenient shelters for an altar crowded to its very steps by the people. The new-fangled doctrine drove out our monks, and perverted the devout clerics who once filled the stalls of real _choirs_, and whose duty and glory it was to sing the divine office. When the novel worship that replaced the Holy Sacrifice built new tabernacles for its meagre and unmeaning rites, it invented the _singing-gallery_ and the modern _choir_, all-sufficing, we acknowledge, for the Anglican "common prayer," and "worship" after the Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, and other such modes, but wholly out of place in a Catholic church, and totally inadequate for the holy offices of our religion.

Surely there is no one who will not heartily agree with us that we need a thorough reform, in this respect, in our church architecture. We build chapels, but not churches. The place for the altar is in the Choir, an inclosure specially set apart for the sacred ministers and the singers, who at the public functions form one officiating body. We have followed the example of Protestants, and made use of the pencil of the Protestant architect; and the result is, that if the gates of hell ever incited another "glorious reformation," like that of the sixteenth century, the new reformers would have the advantage over the first in finding churches not only ready made, but admirably adapted to their requirements, the change of altar into pulpit, should the new doctrine need such an appurtenance in its meeting-houses, being a matter of small expense. They would not be put to their wits to know what to do with our choirs "of mysterious depth," as of yore, but would find an appropriate gallery for their hired singers, already fitted up, with its abominable rood-screen of green curtains over the doorways. We have heard our holy rites and ceremonies nicknamed as the "rags of popery." What has Protestantism done but to rend the "rags" into tatters?

Nor are we ready to admit the poverty of our resources as a full justification of our imitation of Protestant service in the style of our sacred music and its performance. Throughout the continent of Europe, where Protestant influences have not been at work, there are countless country churches of small size, but not one is without its sanctuary choir; and the people would as soon think of putting their robed priests into dress-coat and pantaloons as of banishing their surpliced chanters from the sanctuary, and erecting a choir-gallery behind their backs. We bring no railing accusation. We deprecate that style of argument which is successful only in provoking opposition; but are endeavoring, with no end in view save the glory of God and the honor of religion, to put in a plain light the causes of our departure from the common authorized usages of the church; usages to which the want of conformity will always be the measure of the loss of faith and devotion.

Our controversialists have been arguing against the false doctrines of Protestantism, and have done their work in a masterly and effective manner. If ever there was a dead doctrine awaiting burial, it is Protestantism. Now let us turn our attention to its false traditions, possessing more vitality because they have obtained a sort of parasitical subsistence through our partial admission of their encroachments. We mean that the "choir-gallery" is, both in its entity and object, a parasite of Protestant tradition clinging to our holy temples, disfiguring their fair proportions and spiritually cramping the growth of liturgical devotion, destroying its charm, and stifling its inspirations.

We propose to get rid of this piece of uncatholic tradition; to locate the singers in the place prescribed by the ritual, and abolish the musical concert. We desire to see the distinct decrees of the Church carried out to the letter, which require the divine office to be sung, as well as the Mass to be said, in the sanctuary, before the people, and not behind them. We have already alluded to the efforts made in England to bring this matter into perfect conformity with the ritual. His Grace the Archbishop of Westminster has forbidden any new church to be opened unless there is provision made for a _sanctuary choir_; and the cardinal vicar, in his instruction of November 18th, 1856, after administering a severe reprimand for the want of observance of regulations made in former instructions, prescribes, among other things, that galleries for singers shall not be placed over the doors of churches. Evidently the good cardinal has not only studied rubrics, but the science of acoustics as well. An elevated gallery near the ceiling is a wretched place for singers, and not much better for an organ. Ask any organ-builder whether he would not much prefer placing his instrument on the floor of the church, to hiding it away in some loft or second-story alcove in a tower. The impropriety is so glaring, and the arrangement is at once so incongruous and unartistic, that we deem further discussion on this point useless. The able writer in _The Dublin Review_, whom we have already quoted, very pertinently remarks:

"In this respect we have been equally out of harmony with
ecclesiastical tradition and practice; and if we are to save
ourselves from disappointment with our choristers, we must
make up our minds to give them the advantage of all the sacred
associations which that system provides. In other words, we must
substitute a proper choral arrangement in connection with the
sanctuary for that now prevailing, and with which so many abuses
are unhappily connected. There need, we think, be no practical
difficulty about this, and we would suggest it as a matter worthy
of serious consideration by our clergy and Catholic architects
who are about to build or restore churches. The time is surely
gone by for the stereotyped plan of an east end with an altar
under a large window, flanked by a smaller altar on either side,
involving, besides other inconveniences, the impossibility of
making any provision for the proper choral arrangements. Several
instances might be adduced of churches recently erected in
which the beautiful and convenient feature of side altars has
been introduced, thus allowing the choir to occupy their proper
place--the organ, of course, being placed at the side, and ample
space being still left for the sanctuary proper. We should say
that, even in cases where boys cannot be at once procured for the
choir, it is very unadvisable to plan a building in such a way as
to preclude a proper arrangement afterward."

Have we any objections to urge against coming into harmony with ecclesiastical tradition and practice in this matter? A friend at our side urges one, doubtless in the mind of many of our readers: Then you would banish all female voices from our choirs?

We will allow a much better authority than ourselves to answer for us. The following extract is from a decree of the Provincial Synod of Holland, held at Utrecht, and highly commended by the Holy Father:

"In the same way as the object of church music is quite frustrated
when it is of such a character as only to gratify the ears with
vain pleasures, so, too, the dignity of divine worship is not
preserved unless the singers also are such as to beseem the
church. Women's voices are not admitted by ecclesiastical usage
into the choir of singers, since the rules of divine worship
and the dignity of ecclesiastical music evidently require their
exclusion. For in the same way as they are withheld from all
share in the ministry of the holy liturgy, so also every thing
effeminate ought to be quite excluded from church singing; and
hence the presence of women in an ecclesiastical choir is opposed
to the very sense of the faithful. Therefore, we decree and order
that women be altogether excluded from the choir of singers,
unless in the churches or chapels of nuns. And if hereafter, in
violation of this injunction of this Provincial Synod, women be
employed in any church as singers or organists, let the rectors
of those churches be aware that they will have to render a most
strict account to the ordinary for such an infraction of the law."
(Syn. Prov. Ultrajectan., tit. 5, cap. 6.)

And again:

"The tradition of the church in excluding women from choirs is so
universal and inflexible that it is not easy to understand how it
should have been so widely forgotten in this country. I can only
conceive that the confusion of all things under the penal laws,
the shattered and informal state of the church in England after
its emancipation, our poverty, not only of money, but of culture
to do better; and, finally, the force of custom in rendering
us insensible to many anomalies, have been the real causes of
our ever admitting, and of our so long passively tolerating, so
visible a deviation from the tradition and mind of the Church. It
is strange that you should have to argue a case which the Church
has decided." (Letter of Archbishop Manning to Canon Oakeley.)

The argument of the very reverend canon, to which his grace alludes, contains much that would interest our readers, but our space does not permit us to give it entire. We cannot refrain, however, from making a short quotation:

"That a choir of male voices is actually that provision for
the solemn celebration of divine worship which the Church
contemplates, to the exclusion of every other, is, I think, a
fact which cannot reasonably be disputed. The Church no more
recognizes female choristers than female sacristans, though she
may tolerate either in case of necessity. The single exception
to the rule is in convents, for obvious reasons. According to
the ancient arrangement of churches, the choir is immediately
connected with the sanctuary; and those who take part in it are
most appropriately habited as clerics. The circumstances of modern
times have led to some deviation from this practice, so far as it
depends upon the architectural arrangements of our churches; but
even where the choir is detached from the sanctuary, the ancient
and universal rule of the Church which excludes females (probably
in accordance with apostolical tradition) from taking, any active
and ministerial part in divine worship, is still rigidly observed.
Not only in Rome, but in countries which retain certain national
peculiarities in the sacred administration of the Church, such
as France and Belgium, the practice of employing females in the
musical department of divine worship is, I believe, unknown. It
is almost entirely confined to those countries, such as Great
Britain, parts of Germany, and the United States of America, in
which Protestantism prevails and produces a certain impression on
the outward aspect even of the Church herself. In our own country
the type of the ancient worship, which has been innovated on among
ourselves, is preserved in the national cathedrals, in which the
large endowments derived from Catholic munificence enable the
present usurpers to represent the true ecclesiastical form of
the choral service with a facility which is denied to those to
whom it belongs by undisputed inheritance. Meanwhile, this type
had till recently suffered considerable decay among ourselves.
Dethroned from our rightful position, we had in this, as in other
far more important respects, fallen in with the ways of the sects
around us. But the revival of the ecclesiastical spirit which
has come in with the events of the last few years, has brought
home to us some of the anomalies which had grown up in the day of
our depression, while increased communication with the continent
has tended to bring our external worship into more and more of
union with general practice. It is hardly necessary to observe
that the admission of females into the church choir is absolutely
fatal to the retention of the proper cathedral type of worship,
while in parish churches it is sometimes productive of obvious
evils, and even in the best regulated administrations is adverse
to the spirit which should animate every part of divine worship,
and especially one so intimately connected with its dignified
celebration as that of the choir."

It will be observed that our judgment about the influences of Protestant tradition upon our church music has not been made unadvisedly.

In Germany, female singers were introduced into the churches for no better reason, that we can discover, than to exhibit the musical talent of its great masters. These compositions were not written to supply any want for such music felt in the churches, but at the instance and under the patronage of nobles and princes, who vied with each other in giving grand sacred musical feasts in their private chapels, as _gourmands_ pride themselves on giving costly and _recherché_ dinners to show off the science of their _chef de cuisine_. If we imagine that these musical masses were gotten up to excite greater devotion in the gay and worldly courtiers, we are much mistaken. It was, in fact, a nice little bit of cheap luxury, it being less expensive to keep a private chapel and entertain a private chaplain, than to support an opera-house with its company of artists, scene-shifters, and hangers-on.

Composers themselves have sought to obtain at least a general permission for the singing of their masses from the ecclesiastical authorities, but have invariably been met with a polite expression of regret that such application had been presented, as it was entirely out of the power, etc., etc. Rossini petitioned the present pope for permission to include females in church choirs, but of course without success. The report of his own funeral obsequies shows that more thought was given to enjoy a rare musical entertainment than to pray for his soul:

"The church bore the appearance of a concert-room or theatre.
People came in with their hats on, talking and laughing. After
each piece of music was sung, their _bravos_ were barely
restrained, and more than once applauding cries seemed about to
break forth. The majority of the congregation, forgetting both
the altar and the corpse of the deceased, turned their faces
toward the tribune of the singers, talking in a loud voice, and
using their opera-glasses; and this at the very moment of the
_elevation_, when the soldiers who served as a guard of honor, at
the command of their officer, were falling on their knees. This
scandal was deplored not only by religious persons, but even by
the true friends of art, because it served once more to prove that
such musical solemnities, in this age and in this country, are
incompatible with the respect due to the sanctity of churches."