Chapter V: An Outside Glimpse (3)

Thus nearly two years passed away in London, and, sick at heart and enfeebled in body, he felt thousands and thousands of times, as he writes to his parents, that he could have lain down quietly and died at once, and been forgotten for ever. But in this his darkest hour a ray of hope unexpectedly crossed his gloomy path, and with all the hopefulness of a rejuvenated spirit he hailed it as the harbinger of a new and more prosperous epoch. A Mr. Foster, having accidentally become acquainted with his almost hopeless condition, procured him employment at fifty pounds a year as reader and corrector for a publisher, and his gifted countryman Maginn, immediately upon hearing of his reduced circumstances, obtained for him a situation on _The Literary Gazette_, which soon led to a profitable connection with other journals of a like character. To all these he contributed articles in prose and poetry on every imaginable topic, and displayed such an adaptability and versatility of talent that his services were not only well rewarded by their respective publishers, but very generally appreciated by the reading community. Many of the tales and sketches which at this time came from his pen were sent in and published anonymously, or simply signed "Joseph," his name in confirmation, so strictly did he endeavor to preserve his incognito, and trust to the intrinsic merits of his contributions for their acceptance. Though he wrote to his mother that by reason of his new employment he was enabled to pay off all the debts he owed at the close of the year 1825, his varied productions could not have been very remunerative, certainly not in proportion to the labor expended on them; for we find him during the next session of Parliament engaged as a reporter in the House of Commons.

The vehemence with which he seized hold of this opportunity, and the ardor with which he pursued his new calling as reporter and journalist, show that he felt he had at last discovered a clue that would lead him out of the labyrinth of his difficulties, and his success fully justified the confidence in his own powers which had never forsaken him. Opportunity, so much desired by all young men of ability, which comes to some unsought, and as persistently flies the approach of others, had at length presented itself to Gerald Griffin, and he lost no time in profiting by the occasion. Association with authors whose works he was obliged to examine, criticise, and sometimes revise, naturally led him to compare his own capacity for production with theirs, and to arrive at the conclusion that he also was able to produce works of prose fiction equally meritorious, and as worthy the commendation of moralists as epic poetry or the drama. Satisfied on this point, he at once relinquished his dramatic aspirations, and prepared himself with all the enthusiasm of his nature to enter the lists as a novelist. In his "small room in some obscure court, near St. Paul's," he called up the recollections of past days, of the lovely Shannon, the mountain ranges of Clare, the wakes, fairs, and festivals of the Munster peasantry, the humor, shrewdness, pathos, and frolic he as a child had witnessed, and perhaps to some extent shared, and he resolved to essay an Irish novel illustrative of these familiar scenes. Having first tried short stories for the literary weeklies, and found them eagerly read and highly appreciated, he commenced a series of tales to be published in book form, which he designed to call _Anecdotes of Munster_, but which were afterward known under the general title of _Holland-Tide_.

Pending the appearance of this his first continued effort, his labors were as varied and as unremitting as ever--correcting for the press the lucubrations of unskilled writers, reviewing in the weekly papers the various books that the metropolitan publishers were constantly inflicting on the public, writing theatrical criticisms, sketches, poetry, and political articles--doing any thing and every thing, in fact, no matter how foreign to his tastes, as long as they honorably secured him present competency and a reasonable prospect of finally accomplishing his grand purpose. At one time he describes himself as busy revising a ponderous dictionary; at another, collecting materials for a pamphlet on Catholic emancipation. Now he is promised £50 for a piece for the English opera, and again he acknowledges the receipt of several pounds for reports furnished a Catholic newspaper recently started. His leisure moments, if he can be said to have had any, were devoted to versification, while his parliamentary duties kept him out of bed till three, and sometimes five o'clock in the morning. His brother William, who visited him in London in 1826, thus describes his altered appearance and his methodical manner of life:

"I had not seen him since he left Adare, and was struck with
the change in his appearance. All color had left his cheek,
he had grown very thin, and there was a sedate expression of
countenance unusual in one so young, and which in after years
became habitual to him. It was far from being so, however, at
the time I speak of, and readily gave place to that light and
lively glance of his dark eye, that cheerfulness of manner and
observant humor, which from his very infancy had enlivened
our fireside circle at home. Although so pale and thin as I
have described him, his tall figure, expressive features,
and his profusion of dark hair, thrown back from a fine
forehead, gave an impression of a person remarkably handsome
and interesting.... He was indefatigable at his work; rose
and breakfasted early, set to his desk at once, and continued
writing till two or three o'clock in the afternoon; took a turn
round the park, which was close to his residence; returned and
dined; usually took another walk after dinner, and returning to
tea, wrote for the remainder of the evening, after remaining up
to a very late hour."

The series of tales, published by Simpkin and Marshall late in this year brought Griffin £70 sterling, and at once established his reputation as a powerful and original writer, and an accurate delineator of Irish peasant character. Its reception by the public and the gentlemen of the critical profession was so generally favorable that, feeling assured he had at length entered on the right road to distinction, and that his future was no longer doubtful, Griffin gave up his various engagements with the press, and not unwillingly, it is to be presumed, laid down for ever the load of literary drudgery which had so long bowed his spirit to the earth. His fortitude had been severely tested, not by one great calamity, but by a series of trials, harder to be borne, and had remained unshaken; his constancy of purpose had been proof against all allurements to swerve from the honorable pursuit of letters; and it is not too much to affirm, on the authority of many who knew him intimately, that his moral character remained unsullied amid all the temptations which usually beset a young man of his isolated condition in every large city. His first success was naturally followed by a desire to revisit his home, a wish in which he had long secretly indulged, but which was now strengthened by intelligence of the dangerous illness of a favorite sister. He arrived at Pallas Kenry, his brother's residence, in February, 1827, but unfortunately a few hours after the death of this young lady, an event which, coupled with his feeble health, destroyed for a time the pleasure which he had anticipated from a trip to Ireland, and the renewal of his acquaintance with those peaceful scenes the remembrance of which had so cheered his absence.

"I started for Limerick at a very early hour to meet him," says
his brother, "and I cannot forget how much I was struck by the
change his London life had made in his appearance. His features
looked so thin and pale, and his cheeks so flattened, and, as
it were, bloodless, that the contrast with what I remembered
was horrid; while his voice was feeble, and slightly raised
in its pitch, like that of one recovering from a lingering
illness. It was affecting, in these circumstances, to observe
the sudden and brilliant light that kindled in his eyes on
first seeing me, and the smile of welcome that played over his
features and showed the spirit within unchanged."

The unremitting attention of his relatives, however, at length assuaged his mental grief and bodily sufferings, and his mind, naturally resigned, gradually resumed its wonted tranquillity. He spent the summer months at Pallas Kenry in the undisturbed enjoyment of home, but still industriously occupied with his pen.

"When engaged in composition, (says his biographer,) he made
use of a manifold writer, with a style and carbonic paper,
which gave him two and sometimes three copies of his work.
One of these he sent to the publisher, the others he kept by
him, in case the first should be lost. He had his sheets so
cut out and arranged that they were not greater in size than
the leaf of a moderate-sized octavo, and he wrote so minute a
hand that each page of the manuscript contained enough matter
for a page of print. This enabled him very easily to tell how
much manuscript was necessary to fill three volumes. His usual
quantity of writing was about ten pages of these in the day.
It was seldom less than this, and I have known it repeatedly
as high as fifteen or twenty, without interfering with those
hours which he chose to devote to recreation. He never rewrote
his manuscript, and one of the most remarkable things I noticed
in the progress of his work was the extremely small number
of erasures or interlineations in it, several pages being
completed without the occurrence of a single one."

The result of this diligent application was the first series of _Tales of the Munster Festivals_, embracing _The Half-Sir_, _The Card Drawers_, and _The Shuil Dhuv_, with which he proceeded to London, and which he disposed of to his publishers for £250, a price that would now be considered totally inadequate, but which forty years ago was looked upon as ample remuneration for that species of labor. The work, though decidedly superior to _Holland-Tide_, was much less favorably received by the critics, and Griffin had now to pay the penalty of success by having the children of his brain held up to public censure, as not being formed true to nature, or as acting in a manner contrary to the canons of London society. Though such strictures generally emanated from persons who either would not or could not understand the peculiarities of the people of Ireland, he felt keenly alive to their praise or censure, particularly the latter; nor does he seem to have exhibited that callousness which his long acquaintance with the press, and the class of men who are sometimes permitted to sit in judgment on their superiors, might have taught him.

Having remained long enough in London to superintend the publication of the tales, he gladly returned to Pallas Kenry, where he spent nearly a year in the undisturbed society of his relatives and a few friends living in his neighborhood. These latter must have been few indeed, for he is described as still of a very shy and reserved disposition, except when among intimate friends; and though shown every mark of esteem and hospitality by his countrymen, he had so great an abhorrence of being lionized that he seldom accepted invitations, save such as could not in ordinary politeness be rejected. Not that his temper was soured or that his conversational powers were deficient, but home was to him the centre and only object of attraction. "Would you wish to view at a distance our domestic circle?" asks his sister in one of her letters to America. "William and I are generally first at the breakfast table, when, after a little time, walks in Miss H----; next Mr. Gerald, and, last of all, Monsieur D----. After breakfast our two doctors go to their patients; Gerald takes his desk by the fire-place and writes away, except when he chooses to throw a pinch or a pull at the ringlets, cape, or frill of the first lady next to him, or gives us a stave of some old ballad."

Under such sweet influences, so different from his wretched life in London, the greater part of his best work, _The Collegians_, was written. Two or three subjects for a successor to _Shuil Dhuv_ had been selected and partly developed; but having the fear of the critics before his eyes, he laid them aside unfinished. The spring and summer of 1828 thus passed away fruitlessly; but at length a theme presented itself that satisfied his judgment, and he set about writing on it with all possible expedition. _The Collegians_ was originally published in three volumes, one and a half of which Griffin brought with him to London in November. The remaining portion was written in that city in such hot haste that he was obliged frequently to deliver his sheets of manuscript without having time to reread or revise them. This work, on its first appearance, was received with the greatest favor; it placed the author at once at the head of the novelists of his own country, and gave him a high rank among the writers of the English language--a verdict which the experience of posterity has fully confirmed.

Of the writers of that day Griffin's favorite, as might be expected, was Sir Walter Scott. He had a profound respect for the historical romances of that great man, and, with an ambition honorable to his patriotism, he resolved to abandon for a time the portraiture of local and modern life, and attempt to do for his native country what the author of _Ivanhoe_ had so admirably done for Great Britain. Accordingly, in the spring of 1829, he removed to Dublin, where he spent several months in the study of ancient history and in visiting on foot several parts of Ireland, the topography of which he designed to introduce into his new work. The fruit of his antiquarian labors was _The Invasion_, which appeared during the winter of the same year, a short time after the publication of a second series of _Munster Festivals_. But though it had an extensive sale and was highly praised by the more learned, it did not, from the very nature of the subject and the remote epoch treated, establish itself in the affections of the public so generally as his previous and subsequent writings. While in the Irish capital, he was introduced to Sir Philip Crampton and other distinguished scholars, from all of whom he experienced the most flattering attention. His fame, indeed, had preceded him among all classes of his countrymen, and their warm and discriminating encomiums, diffident as he was to a fault, must have fallen pleasantly on his ear, and not the less so when they were expressed in the mellifluous accents he was accustomed to hear from his infancy. A closer intimacy with the congenial spirits of his own country appears to have worn off a great deal of his natural reserve; for we now find him mentioning that he had met Miss Edgeworth, and was anticipating the pleasure of an introduction to Lady Morgan and other contemporary celebrities. In the latter part of this year he also formed the acquaintance of a lady residing in the south of Ireland, which soon ripened into a lasting friendship, founded upon similarity of tastes and mutual esteem. The name of the lady is not given in his life, and we know her only as the recipient of several pleasant gossiping letters, addressed to her by the initial "L.," and by the many beautiful poems dedicated in her honor. A married lady, the mother of a numerous family, and Griffin's senior by several years, she exercised a wholesome and judicious influence over a mind naturally sympathetic but peculiarly sensitive, such as none of his own sex could or would have attempted. In company with her husband and relatives he made a prolonged visit to Killarney, the romantic beauty of whose lakes filled him with the most intense delight.

In the winter of 1829, he was again in London, which city he was obliged to visit each succeeding year till 1835, to attend to his subsequent works; _The Christian Physiologist_, _The Rivals_, _The Duke of Monmouth_, and _Tales of My Neighborhood_, appearing in nearly regular annual succession. The intervening time was generally spent in acquiring material for these works, or at the watering-places enjoying his well-earned repose. It was on the occasion of one of those flying trips across the channel, in 1832, that, being requested by the electors of Limerick to present, on their behalf, a request to Moore that he would consent to represent them in Parliament, Griffin deviated from his route and called on that celebrated poet at Sloperton Cottage. In a playful account of this ever-memorable interview, addressed to his friend "L.," he says: "O dear L----! I saw the poet, and I spoke to him, and he spoke to me, and it was not to bid me to 'get out of his way,' as the king of France did to the man who boasted that his majesty had spoken to him; but it was to shake hands with me, and to ask me, 'How I did, Mr. Griffin,' and to speak of 'my fame.' _My_ fame! Tom Moore talk of my fame! Ah the rogue! He was humbugging, L----, I'm afraid. He knew the soft side of an author's heart, and perhaps had pity on my long, melancholy-looking figure, and said to himself, 'I will make this poor fellow feel pleasant, if I can;' for which, with all his roguery, who could help liking him and being grateful to him?"

In 1838, he projected a tour on the continent; but was induced to change his purpose for a shorter one in Scotland, from which he derived not only great pleasure, but restored health. His diary of the trip, originally taken in short-hand notes, has been published, and abounds in good-natured criticisms on the manners and customs of the people he met on his journey, and some very fine descriptions of the scenery of the Highlands, which fell under his observation.

Gerald Griffin's last novel, as we have intimated, appeared in 1835, when only in the thirty-second year of his age. He had succeeded in the fullest sense as a novelist, in giving to the world in half a score of years some of the healthiest and most fascinating books in our language; had won the applause of the gifted and good alike, and, in a pecuniary point of view, had secured himself against all probability of dependence. Still, in a certain sense, he was not content. The pursuit of fame, as he had on more than one occasion predicted, had alone given him pleasure--its acquisition brought him no permanent satisfaction. Whether in abandoning the drama he had departed from his true path, or that his early insight into the mysteries of authorship had led him to underrate the labors of those whom the world is allowed to know only at a distance, or that his mind, naturally of a serious and religious turn, now fully developed, instinctively arrived at the conviction that only in the performance of those duties and sacrifices imposed on the ministers of the Gospel could be found his real sphere of action, or whether all these causes acted upon him with more or less force, certain it is that he now began to contemplate a radical change in his life. We know that he relinquished writing for the stage with reluctance, and that as early as 1828 he commenced the study of law at the London University; but it was not for two or three years afterward that his friends noticed his growing inclination for the life of a religious. From that time his poems, those beautiful scintillations of his soul, began to exhibit a higher fancy and a purer moral power than could be drawn even from patriotism, or the contemplation of mere natural objects. His conversation assumed a graver tone, and his letters to his friends, formerly so pleasantly filled with gossip and scraps of comment on the persons and literature of the day, were mainly taken up with graver topics.

This change, we are satisfied, was the effect of grave and due deliberation, and not the result of caprice or disappointed ambition. It had been remarked that his letters to the different members of his family during his residence in London, while filled with minute details of his literary labors, fears, and aspirations, seldom touched on religious matters, and hence it has been inferred that during his sojourn there he had neglected the practical duties of the faith of his boyhood; but this supposition is altogether gratuitous. In familiar intercourse with men of his own age and pursuits, he may have given expression to crude or speculative opinions without that proper degree of reverence which older minds exercise in dealing with such important questions; but we have the assurance of his nearest relatives and of those few who enjoyed his friendship that this weakness was seldom indulged in. However, Griffin in a spirit of self-condemnation, which we cannot help thinking disproportionate to the supposed offence, inaugurated his new mode of life by endeavoring to remove from the minds of his former associates any wrong impressions such conversations might have produced. In an admirable letter written to a literary friend in London, under date January 13th, 1830, he says:

"Since our acquaintance has recommenced this winter, I have
observed, with frequent pain, that not much (if the slightest)
change has taken place in your opinions on the only important
subject on earth. Within the last few weeks, I have been
thinking a great deal upon this subject, and my conscience
reproaches me that you may have found in the worldliness of
my own conduct and conversation reason to suppose that my
religious convictions had not taken that deep hold of my
heart and mind which they really have. I will tell you what
has convinced me of this. I have compared our interviews this
winter with the conversations we used to hold together, when my
opinions were unsettled and my principles (if they deserved the
name) detestable, and though these may be somewhat more decent
at present, I am uneasy at the thought that the whole tenor of
my conduct, such as it has appeared to you, was far from that
of one who lived purely and truly for heaven and for religion."

With a short visit to Paris and his tour in Scotland, Griffin practically bade adieu to the outside world, and, retiring to Pallas Kenry, prepared himself for admission into the order of the Christian Brothers. We learn from one of his letters to friends in America that he had at first designed to offer himself as a candidate for the holy ministry, and had even commenced a preparatory course of theological study; but distrust of his vocation for a calling requiring so many qualifications led him to select the more quiet but highly meritorious sphere of a humble teacher of little children.

"I had long since relinquished the idea," he writes, "which I
ought never to have entertained, of assuming the duties of the
priesthood; and I assure you that it is one of the attractions
of the order into which I have entered, that its subjects
are prohibited (by the brief issued from Rome in approval
and confirmation of the institute) from ever aspiring to the
priesthood."

Having destroyed all his unpublished manuscripts, including _Matt Hyland_, a ballad of considerable merit of which only a fragment remains, and taken affectionate leave of his friends, the author of _Gisippus_ and _The Collegians_, in the prime of his manhood and the fulness of his fame, left his home for ever, entered as a postulant the institute of the Brothers of the Christian Schools in Dublin, September 8th, 1838, and on the 15th of the following month, the feast of St. Teresa, was admitted to the religious habit.

"I have," he writes, "entered this house, at the gracious call
of God, to die to the world and to live to him; all is to be
changed; all my own pursuits henceforward to be laid aside, and
those only embraced which he points out to me."

Gerald Griffin, or, as we must henceforth know him, Brother Joseph, entered on the performance of his new duties with his characteristic ardor and in a spirit of unostentatious obedience, which elicited the admiration of the community to a greater extent than the display of mere intellectual accomplishments could have done. "Nothing," said the superior general of the order, "could exceed the earnestness with which he discharged every duty; nothing was done by halves; nothing imperfectly; he seemed as if he had nothing else to do but that which he was doing." The following extract from a letter written soon after his removal to the North Cork monastery, the succeeding year, while it shows a touch of his old playful style, illustrates also that cheerfulness of spirit which so preëminently marks the character of the members of all the religious orders of the church, the result of the consciousness of useful labor well done:

"I was ordered off here from Dublin last June, and have been
since enlightening the craniums of the wondering Paddies
in this quarter, who learn from me with profound amazement
and profit that o x spells ox; that the top of the map is
the north, and the bottom is the south, with various other
branches; as also that they ought to be good boys, and do as
they are bid, and say their prayers every morning and evening,
etc.; and yet it seems curious, even to myself, that I feel a
great deal happier in the practice of this daily routine than
I did while I was roving about your great city, absorbed in the
modest project of rivalling Shakespeare and throwing Scott into
the shade."

From this time till his death, which took place a year after his removal from Dublin, Brother Joseph remained in the North Cork monastery, his time divided between teaching the children of the poor and in that inner preparation for the end so unexpectedly near at hand, and to which he no longer looked forward, as he once had done, with apprehension. Until a very short time before his demise, he was in excellent health, and his conduct was marked by that serenity of manner and cheerfulness of speech which showed that the tempest-tossed spirit had at length found a haven of refuge. He visited his home but once, and then for a brief period, returning without pain or regret to his prayers and studies, among the latter of which was the compilation of a series of pious tales, intended for the use of the Brothers' schools, but which were never completed. His death, the result of typhus fever which set in on the 31st of May, and terminated fatally twelve days after, is thus simply but tenderly described by the director of novices, who was one of the witnesses of the edifying scene:

"On the morning of the day when his last illness took an
unfavorable turn, he called the person in attendance on him to
his bedside, and quietly told him 'he thought he should die of
this sickness, and that he wished to receive extreme unction.'
His confessor, by a merciful dispensation of providence, was
then in the house, and expressed his opinion that, as a matter
of precaution, it was best to administer it. He repaired to
his bedside, presented him the holy viaticum, and administered
extreme unction. He received them with the most lively
sentiments of love and resignation, as well as the utmost
fervor and devotion. During his illness, not a murmur or sigh
of impatience escaped him; not a sentiment but breathed love,
confidence, and resignation; not a desire but for the perfect
accomplishment of the will of Him to whom his habits of prayer
had so long and closely united him."

Thus lived and died one whom it would be faint praise to call one of the brightest and purest ornaments which this century has given to English literature. The various creations of his fancy will long hold a high place in the hearts of all who admire the beautiful and revere the good; but the moral of his own life is the noblest heritage he has left us. True to the instincts of his Catholic birth and training, he passed through the temptations of sorrow, poverty, and vanities of a great city for years, preserving his faith unshaken and his morals unsullied; with courage and tenacity of purpose, the attributes of true heroism, he surmounted obstacle after obstacle, which might easily have daunted older and stronger men, till he reached a proud position in the literature of his country; and when surrounded by all that is supposed to make life valuable--personal independence, devoted friends, and worldly applause--he gently and after mature self-examination took off his laurels, laid them modestly on the altar of religion, and, clothed in the humble garb of a Christian Brother, prepared to devote his life to unostentatious charity. Even his very name, that he once fondly hoped to write on the enduring tablets of history, he no longer desired to be remembered; for on the plain stone that marks his last resting-place in the little graveyard of the monastery is engraved simply the words,

BROTHER JOSEPH. DIED JUNE 12, 1840.

THE UNFINISHED PRAYER.

"Now I lay me"--say it, darling;
"Lay me," lisped the tiny lips
Of my daughter, kneeling, bending,
O'er her folded finger-tips.

"Down to sleep"--"to sleep," she murmured,
And the curly head dropped low;
"I pray the Lord," I gently added,
"You can say it all, I know."

"Pray the Lord"--the words came faintly.
Fainter still, "my soul to keep;"
Then the tired head fairly nodded,
And the child was fast asleep.

But the dewy eyes half-opened
When I clasped her to my breast;
And the dear voice softly whispered,
"Mamma, God knows all the rest."

THE FIRST ŒCUMENICAL COUNCIL OF THE VATICAN.

NUMBER FIVE.

For another month the Vatican Council has pursued the path originally marked out for its labors with a calmness and steady perseverance which no outside influences can disturb. In the beginning of its sessions sensational correspondents described what they saw and what they did not see--praised, mocked, or maligned as their humors led them or as their patrons desired, and poured forth abundant streams of amusing anecdotes, acute guesses, and positive assurances. The correspondence of one week was found to contradict that of the preceding week, and was itself contradicted the week following. Now, though wit, and drollery, and sarcasm may please for a time, human nature, after all, desires truth. And as men saw these contradictions, they came to understand how thoroughly untrustworthy were these correspondents; and the writers, ever on the alert to catch the first symptoms of popular feeling, have, in great part, dropped the subject. The only influence which such writings as these have had on the prelates of the council was to supply them with abundant topics for amusement in their hours of relaxation.

Another class of writers have all along treated, and still continue to treat, of the council and its action with earnestness of purpose, and are making strenuous efforts to guide and control or to check its course on subjects which they believe to have come or which may come up before it. We speak of those who are moved by religious or political feelings. Day after day and week after week, Italian, French, German, and English newspapers are taking one side or the other on these subjects, and write on them, if they do not always discuss them. At times you may find an article learned, well written, replete with thought, and suggestive, perhaps instructive. But generally the articles are only such as may be looked for in a newspaper--superficial and with an affectation of smartness. However their brilliancy, ofttimes only tinsel, may please their world of readers, among the bishops in the council they have, and can have, no weight whatever. It would, indeed, be surprising if they had.

Beyond the papers, there come pamphlets, many of them ably and learnedly written. It is to be lamented that too often the writers have allowed themselves to be carried away by excitement, and to use language which calls for censure. Still, they profess to discuss the questions gravely, and to present the strongest arguments in favor of their respective sides. We will not say that such writings are not privately read and maturely weighed by the fathers, and in fact carefully studied, so far as they may throw light on subjects of doctrine or discipline to be examined. But they certainly have not had the power to accelerate or retard, by a single day, the regular course of business before the council.

Some weeks ago, the papers of Europe were filled with articles announcing the approaching action of several governments, and the measures they would take to influence the pope and the bishops, so as to control their action by the apprehension of possible political results. What precise amount of truth and what amount of exaggeration there was in the vast mass of excited utterances on this subject, we are not yet able to say. Perhaps it may hereafter be discovered in sundry green books, red books, and yellow books. This much is certain: the council was not even flurried by it. We are assured that in all the debates not the slightest reference was ever made to the matter. As we write the whole subject seems to be passing into oblivion. Even those who spoke most positively only a few weeks ago, seem to have forgotten their assertions about the intended interference of this, that, or the other government.

There is a majesty in this calm attitude of the sovereign pontiff, and of the council, which does not fail to command the respect even of worldlings and unbelievers. They can with difficulty, if at all, comprehend the great truth on which it is based and which produces it. The Catholic would scarcely look for any other attitude from our prelates. The bishops of the Catholic Church, assembled in council, are not politicians or servants of the world, seeking popularity or fearing the loss of it. They fear not those who can slay only the body, but Him who can slay both body and soul. They are assembled, in the name of Christ our Lord, to do the work to which he appointed them. They must proclaim his doctrines and his precepts; they must promote the extension of his kingdom, and must zealously and unceasingly seek the welfare and salvation of souls for whom he shed his blood on Calvary. They are men, and, as subjects or citizens, they are bound to give, and each in his own home does give, unto Cæsar all that is Cæsar's. But they are Christian bishops, and they must not fail to give, and to instruct and call on all men to give, unto God the things that are God's. Assembled in the Holy Ghost, they do not seek to discover what is popular--what may be pleasing or what contrary to the opinions, or prejudices, or passions of to-day, whether in the fulsome self-adulation, because of our vaunted progress, or in the intrigues and plans of worldly politics and national ambitions. They stand far above all this folly, and are not plunged into this chaos. They have to set forth clearly the one divine truth of revelation, which has been handed down from the beginning, and which they see now so frequently impugned and controverted, or set aside and forgotten. It is precisely because the world is setting it aside, that this council has met and will speak.

Our divine Saviour himself declared that the world would oppose the teachers of his truth as it had opposed him. The history of the eighteen hundred years of her existence is, for the church, but a continuous verification of that prophecy. The fathers of the Vatican Council cannot lose sight of the lesson thus given. It should purify their hearts and strengthen their souls. For they, of all men, must believe most truly and earnestly in the truth and the reality of Christianity and the greatness of the work in which they are engaged. Hence, when the murmurs or the clamors of the opposition of the world come to their ears, they are not filled with fear or with surprise. Of all miracles, they would look on this as the greatest, that, as the Vatican Council speaks, the passions and earthly interests and prejudices of men should at once die out or grow mute, and that no voice should be heard in opposition, no arm be raised to arrest or thwart, if it could, the work of God. This they do not look for. Opposition must come, and they must not fear it, nor shrink from encountering it while at their post of duty. As they become conscious of its approach, they can but gird themselves the more energetically to their work, and seek the guidance and strength of which they have need from on high.

When we closed our last article, the prelates of the council were busily engaged, in accordance with the new by-laws, in writing out their observations and criticisms on several draughts that had been put into their hands. This work, so far as then required, was finished on March 25th. But on the 18th, the meetings of the general congregations, or committees of the whole, were resumed, and have been held since then on the 22d, 23d, 24th, 26th, 28th, 29th, 30th, and 31st of March, and April 1st, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 12th, and 19th.

The business of the council has entered on a new stage. Our readers will remember that early in December last the first draught or schema on matters of faith was placed in the hands of the bishops; and that after some weeks of private study it was taken up for discussion in the general congregation held on the 28th of December. In our second article we gave some account of the character of this discussion, in which no less than thirty-five of the prelates took part. At its conclusion the draught was referred for emendations to the special committee or deputation on matters of faith, to which were also sent full reports of all the discourses in the discussion. This committee held many meetings, and went over the whole matter two or three times with the utmost care, hearing the authors of the draught and weighing the arguments and observations made in the general congregations. They divided the schema or draught into two parts, and now reported back the first part amended, containing an introduction and four chapters, with canons annexed.

This new and revised draught or schema, so presented to the bishops--in print, of course, as are all the conciliar documents--was again to be submitted to a renewed discussion and examination, first in general on its plan as a whole, and then by parts, first on the introduction, and then successively on each of the four chapters which composed it. A member of the deputation or committee on faith opened the discussion by speaking as the organ of the committee, and explaining and upholding what they had done. Many other fathers took part in the lively discussions which followed. The speeches were very brief and to the point, only one of them exceeding half an hour, and several not lasting more than five minutes. Those who wished to speak sent in their names beforehand to the presiding cardinals, as on former occasions, and were called to the pulpit in their regular order. The spokesman of the committee, or, in fact, any other member, might, during the course of the debate, take the pulpit to give some desired explanation or to reply to a speaker. All who wished to propose further amendments or changes were required to hand them in in writing. This the speakers generally did at the conclusion of their discourses. When at length the discussion on any special part--for example, on the introduction--was terminated, that portion of the schema and all the proposed amendments were referred again to the committee. The amendments were printed, and a few days after, in a general congregation, the whole matter would come up for a vote. The committee announced which of the amendments they accepted. They stated briefly the reasons for which they were unwilling to accept the others. The fathers then voted on each amendment singly, unless, indeed, as sometimes happened, the author, satisfied with the explanation or replies given, asked leave to withdraw it.

This chapter or portion of schema, or draught, was then again printed, introducing into it the amendments that had been thus adopted; and it was again submitted as a whole to the vote of the fathers.

All these votes were taken without unnecessary expenditure of time. When a question was proposed, all in the affirmative were called on to rise, and to remain standing until their number was ascertained. They then sat down, and all in the negative were in their turn summoned to rise, and to remain standing until they were counted.

As there are usually over seven hundred prelates present and voting, it is clear that if the numbers on each side are nearly even, there might be some difficulty in settling the vote. But the evil did not occur. It so happened that on every vote the majority was so preponderating in numbers that an actual count was not necessary. It is said that only on one occasion they were nearly evenly divided. The important question happened to be whether the insertion of a certain comma between two words in the text before them would make the sense more distinct or not. The division of sentiment on so small a matter caused some amusement; but it was evidence of the painstaking care with which even the minutest points are scrutinized and cared for.

When the introduction and each one of the chapters with its accompanying canons had been thus separately passed on, the entire schema as a whole was submitted to the fathers for a more solemn and decisive vote. This was done in the general congregations held on April 12th and April 19th. The vote was taken, not, as in deciding on the details, by the act of rising, but by ayes and noes.

This was first done in the congregation of the 12th, in the following manner: The secretary from the lofty pulpit called the prelates one after the other, according to their ranks and their seniority in their several ranks, naming each one by his ecclesiastical title. The cardinals presiding were called first, the other cardinals next, then the patriarchs, the primates, the archbishops, the bishops, the mitred abbots, and the superiors of the various religious orders and congregations having solemn vows. As each prelate was called, he rose in his place, bowed to the assembly, and voted. The form was _Placet_, if he approved entirely; _Placet juxta modum_, if there were any minor point which he was unwilling to approve; or _Non placet_, if he disapproved. In the second case, he handed in a written statement of his opinion and vote on that point, and assigned the reasons which moved him to this special view. The assessors of the council immediately received these manuscripts, and delivered them to the presiding legates. As the name of each one was called, if not present, he was marked _absent_; if present and voting, two or three of the officials, stationed here and there in the hall, repeated with clear bell-like voices the form of words used by the prelate in voting, so that all might hear them, and that no mistake could be committed as to any one's vote. The whole procedure occupied about two hours. When it was over, the votes were counted before all, and the result declared. This was in reality the most solemn and formal voting of the bishops on the matter so far before them. Each one's judgment is asked, and he must give it. It was evident the bishops voted after mature study, and with an evident singleness and simplicity of heart before God.

The special matters urged in the written and conditional votes were again, and for the last time, examined by the committee or deputation on matters of faith, they reported the result of their discussion in the congregation of April 19th, and the precise form of words was settled, to be decreed and published in the third public session, which will be held on Low-Sunday.

It thus appears that nothing will be put forth by the council without the fullest study and examination.

1. The _schemata_, or draughts, as presented to the council, are the result of the studies and conferences of able theologians of Rome, and of every Catholic country.

2. The _schema_ is subjected to a thorough debate before the general congregation or, committee of the whole, or under the by-laws, it is placed in the hands of each one of the bishops, and every one who thinks it proper gives in writing his remarks on it, and proposes his emendations.

3. The _schema_, and these remarks and proposed amendments, are carefully considered by the deputation or committee to whom they are referred, whose office it is to prepare for the council a revised and amended draught. The twenty-four members of the _deputation_ are picked men, and the examination and discussion of the subjects by them has proved to be all that the fathers looked for--most thorough and searching.

4. Again, on their revised report, the matter is a second time brought before the general committee, and is again discussed by the fathers, who are at liberty still to propose further changes and amendments. As a matter of fact, these turn mostly on minute details and on forms of expression.

5. Again, in the light of those proposed amendments, it is examined and discussed by the committee, who make their final report, accepting or not accepting the several amendments, and assigning to the congregation the reasons for their decision on each point. They thus enjoy the privilege of closing the debate.

6. Then follows the voting. One portion of the _schema_ is taken up. The amendments touching it, so reported on by the committee, are one by one either adopted or rejected, and then the whole portion is passed on. One after the other the remaining portions are taken up, and acted on in the same manner. The amendments are first disposed of one by one, and then each portion is separately voted on. Finally, all the parts as separately adopted are put together, and on the whole _schema_ so composed a more solemn vote is taken by ayes and noes.

This concludes the, so to speak, consultative action of the council on that _schema_. It is now ready for a solemn enactment and promulgation in the next public session of the council. (This session was held on Low-Sunday.--ED. C. W.)

The time is approaching when the first portion of the decisions and decrees of the Vatican Council will be given to the world in the third public session, to be held on Low-Sunday. Already enough has come to light, in the better informed presses of Europe, to let us know the general tenor of what we shall soon hear. As it has become a matter of notoriety, we may speak of the subjects so said to be treated of.

The state of the world, and the errors and evils to be met and condemned in this nineteenth century by the Vatican Council, are very different from those which all previous councils were assembled to resist. The heresies then to be encountered denied this or that doctrine in particular, and erred on one or another point. But they all admitted the existence of God, the reality and truth, at least in a general way, of a revelation from heaven through Christ our Lord, and the obligation of man to receive it, and to be guided by it in belief and practice. Now, the world sees but too many who go far beyond that. Then, so to speak, the outposts were assailed. Now the very citadel of revelation is attacked. Schools of a falsely called philosophy have arisen which, with a pretended show of reasoning, deny the existence of God, of spiritual beings, of the soul of man, and recognize only the existence of physical matter. Or if they speak of God, it is by an abuse of terms, and in a pantheistic sense, holding him to be only the totality of all existing things, a personification of universal nature; or else, if they wish to be more abstruse or more unintelligible, God is, according to them, the primal being, a vague and indefinite first substance, by the changes, evolutions, emanations, and modifications of which all existing things have come to be as they are. Many are the phases of materialism, pantheism, and theopantism in which German metaphysicians revel, and call it high intellectual culture. The pith of all of them is atheism, the denial of the real existence of God.

The English mind is, or believes itself to be, more practical and matter-of-fact. It does not wander through the dreamy mazes of German metaphysics. It has no taste for such excursions. But there is a school in England which, under the pretence of respecting facts, reaches practically the same sad results. It tells its disciples of what has been termed the philosophy of the unknowable and unintelligible, and declares that man, possessed only of such limited powers of knowledge as experience proves us to have, cannot conceive, cannot really know, cannot be made to know, any thing of God, the self-existent and absolute, eternal, infinitely wise and infinitely perfect, and that these words are merely conventional sounds, in reality meaningless, and conveying no real thought to the mind. Hence, he is to be held at once the wisest philosopher and most sensible man who discards them altogether, who throws aside all these useless, cloudy, unintelligible subjects, and occupies himself with the immediate and actual world around him, of which alone, through his senses, his experiments, and his experiences, he can obtain some certain and positive knowledge. This they call independence and freedom of science. In many minds it would be pure atheism, if pure atheism were possible; in many others, it has produced and is producing a haziness of doubt, and an uncertainty on all these points touching the existence and the attributes of God, as in practice leads to almost the same result.

The French mind is active, acute, sketchy, imaginative, logical, and practical. On a minimum quantity of facts or principles it will construct a vast theory. If facts are too few to support the theory, imagination can readily supply all that are lacking. The theory, if logically consistent, must be reduced to practice; opponents must stand aside or be crushed down. The theory must rule. From the days of Voltaire, if not before, France has seen men deny religion under the guise of teaching philosophy. The sarcasms, and at times the brilliancy of their writings, have made French authors the store-house from which infidels in other nations draw their weapons. It was in France that a national decree enacted that there is no God, and it is in France and in Belgium that the societies of so-called _Solidaires_ exist, the members of which solemnly bind themselves to each other to live and die, and be buried, without any act of religion. Too full of confidence in their powers of mind to accept the English system, and to acknowledge there is any subject they cannot master; too impressionable and practical to live in the cloud of German metaphysical pantheism, the French _philosophers_ are prone to deify man, instead of universal nature. Whether they follow Comte in his earlier theories, or Comte in the very different theories of his old age, or whether they devise some other theory, it is generally man they place on the throne of the Deity. This worship of man, this spirit of humanitarianism, and this belief in the progressive and indefinite perfectibility of mankind, which they hold apart from and in antagonism to the belief which worships God as the Creator and Sovereign Lord, and places man the creature subject to him, runs practically through many a phase of their character in modern times.