Chapter II (4)

At a quarter past eight, the bishop arrived with a numerous suite of clergy: as on Sunday, it was with difficulty he made his way through the sitting, kneeling, becrinolined, and betrained crowd that encumbered the centre of the church.

Very shortly after, a flourish of trumpets outside announced the coming of the captain-general. The great door was again thrown open, and he entered, preceded by the mace-bearers, and attended by Señor Don Dionisio Lopez Roberts, superior political governor of Havana, and a brilliant _cortége_ of noblemen, gentlemen, and military and civil chiefs. When all were seated, the scene as viewed from my bench was very striking. The resplendent sepulchre; the illuminated altar, at which the mitred prelate and his assistant priests were officiating, all robed in white and gold; the long row of handsome uniforms on each side of the nave; the gay _parterre_ of fair ladies, and the crowd of spectators of every shade of color from white to black that filled the spaces between the massive pillars and served as a background, all contributed to form a whole most picturesque and unique.

The beautiful service of Maundy-Thursday now commenced; during the celebration of it, the ceremony of blessing the holy oils was performed; and when the _Gloria in excelsis_ was chanted, the bell was rung for the last time until Holy Saturday. At the elevation, I heard the silver staff of the _pertiguero_ resound several times upon the pavement. The _pertiguero_ is, like the _perrero_, a functionary peculiar to the cathedral; his duty is to enforce _kneeling_ at the elevation on all strangers visiting that church at the moment. He carries a long silver staff, called a _pertiga_, which he strikes with a clang upon the marble floor when he perceives any one inattentive to the strict rule of the church--prostration in presence of the host.

After the mass, the blessed sacrament was carried in solemn procession to the sepulchre, the captain-general and the governor bearing the banner of the _Agnus Dei_, and all the grandees and municipality joining in it. The staves and cross-rods of the banner and of the magnificent dais held over the holy sacrament were all of silver, and appeared to be very heavy. The host was deposited in the sepulchre, which was then locked, and the golden key fastened to a chain suspended by the bishop around the neck of the captain-general, to be brought back to the church by him on Good-Friday. The beautiful hymn, _Pange lingua_, was sung very sweetly the whole time; the Latin, which seems so hard and harsh in our English pronunciation, sounding very grand and harmonious in these Spanish mouths.

The church cleared very rapidly after the mass; and when the last carriage had conveyed its last occupant home, no vehicle of any kind was permitted to pass through the streets of Havana. The soldiers now carried their arms reversed, and all Spanish flags were at half-mast. The city was in mourning.

I was taken possession of by some kind friends as I left the cathedral, and accompanied them to their house close by, where we found a welcome breakfast awaiting us. It consisted of fish and vegetables. We commenced with turtle-soup; but not of the kind so loved by Cockney aldermen, redolent of spiced force-meat balls and luscious green fat; this was an orthodox meagre soup, incapable of doing harm. Then came a nice fried fish called _rabi rubio_--red tail, and fried lobster, all hot, which, however, I did not like as well as boiled lobster cold with a _mayonnaise_ sauce. To these succeeded shrimp fritters, roast turtle, and a very delicate fish, the _pargo_, the best in these seas, and sometimes caught as large as a large salmon, which it is not unlike in form. Our vegetables were white rice, eaten with black Mexican beans stewed; yam, yucca, and slices of green plantain fried of a fine gold color, and very delicious. Good bread, excellent claret, and native coffee with an aroma resembling that of the best Mocha, completed this agreeable repast, which had been enlivened by the pleasant conversation of an intelligent, generous-hearted Spaniard, and the smiles and jests of his pretty Cuban wife and children.

Breakfast over, my friend Pepilla and I, with the two eldest girls, Dolores and Luisita, sallied forth into the silent streets to visit some of the churches, previous to attending the ceremony of the _Lavatorio_--washing of feet--which was to be performed in the cathedral at three o'clock.

The quaint old church of _San Juan de Dios_ was the first we entered. Its floor of hard-beaten earth was encumbered with kneeling worshippers, mostly colored, in earnest prayer before a figure as large as life, representing our blessed Saviour dressed in a dark purple velvet robe, embroidered with gold; his hands tied together with a rope; his head crowned with a gilded crown of thorns. Long black ringlets of shiny hair shaded his emaciated cheeks and fell far down on his shoulders behind.

The high altar, which is a curious work of bad taste, decorated with little carved wooden angels wearing black Hessian boots, was screened by hangings of gold and silver tinsel; and a gilded sepulchre, surrounded by a great number of wax tapers, to be lighted in the evening, was placed in front of it.

As we came out of the poor little church, a dirty negro boy, followed by a dozen others, ran by us in the street, making a great noise with a _matraca_, to the delight of his suite. This _matraca_ is a piece of wood about eighteen inches long and ten wide; on each side of it are affixed one or two thick iron wires of the usual size and shape of those old-fashioned metal handles to drawers and trunks, which always used to slip out of their sockets when one gave a strong pull. When the instrument is shaken, these rattle against the wood, and in the hands of an adept, and all colored boys are such, made a terrible clatter. From the _Gloria_ on Maundy-Thursday until the _Gloria_ on Holy Saturday, _matracas_ are employed instead of bells and clocks, and boys from the churches run through the streets with them, to announce each hour of the day.

The sepulchre at _San Felipe_, a church whose interior is remarkable for its air of bright cleanliness, was very tastefully arranged with flowers and tapers, and promised to look very brilliant when lighted up. There also was an image of our Saviour similar to that we had just seen.

At _Santo Domingo_, a large, handsome edifice, we found a magnificent sepulchre, in severer taste than the two we had visited. In one of the aisles, also, there was a group large as life, and painfully life-like. It represented our blessed Lord on the cross, the blood streaming from his nose and down his pale, thin cheeks from the wounds inflicted by the cruel thorns of his crown; a ghastly gash in his side; his hands tom by the dreadful nails; his wrists bruised and cut by the cords with which he had been bound; his knees so horribly scarified by being dragged over the rough ground that the bones of the joints were visible; his feet mangled, his whole body cut and scratched and discolored by stones and blows. At the foot of the cross stood the holy Virgin, tearless, but with so heart-broken an expression that to look at her was to weep. St. Mary Magdalen, her face pale, her eyes swollen and red, was kneeling near her. I could not bear the sight of this agony, and turned away, saying to myself, "Yes, it must have been like this!"

In each of these three churches a nun was sitting at a small table with a tray before her, to collect the charitable, voluntary offerings of visitors. This was the first time I had seen the slightest approach to money-asking in the Cuban churches. During the rest of the year there never are collections of any kind made in them. Nevertheless, the ladies of Havana are very ready to contribute, and do contribute liberally toward all religious and charitable purposes; but privately, not publicly. Indeed, both Spaniards and Cubans are remarkably compassionate and generous to the begging poor, whom they gently style _Pordioseros_--"For-God-sakers;" and whom they never send harshly away when unpleasantly importuned or unable to give, as we Anglo-Saxons so often do; but refuse with a soft _Perdone, por Dios, hermano_--"Pardon me, for God's sake, brother;" or, _Perdone, por Dios, hermanita_--"Pardon me, for God's sake, little sister."

It was now time to return to the cathedral to secure places to see the _Lavatorio_. We found but few persons there yet, and consequently had a choice of seats. Some colored men were busy placing an image of our Saviour, similar to that we had seen in the church of _San Juan de Dios_, on one of the altars in the southern aisle, and it was touching to see the veneration and love with which one or other of them would raise from time to time a ringlet of the shiny black hair and kiss it.

Just before three o'clock two long benches were set on the epistle side of the altar, and presently a large number of youths, attired in dark red robes, entered the chancel--students from the _Seminario de San Carlos_, the theological college attached to the cathedral.

The beautiful anthem that is chanted during the ceremony of the washing of feet, _Mandatum novum do vobis_, "A new command I give unto you," contains the distinctive precept of our pure and holy religion, "Love one another;" and I could not help thinking, when the Bishop of Havana girded himself with a linen napkin and knelt humbly to do his lowly task, that he looked as if it were to him a real labor of love, so charitable an expression was there in his eyes, such venerable grace in his manner. He was assisted by several priests, one of whom carried a large silver basin, another a silver ewer full of water. The water was poured over one foot only; the prelate knelt as he wiped it, and then kissing it, rose and passed to the foot of the next boy, and so on. When all were washed and wiped, the bishop, looking heated and tired, resumed the white and gold chasuble he had laid aside, and, crowned with his mitre, took his seat in front of the high altar, surrounded by his clergy.

The sermon then commenced; the subject was, as always on this day, the institution of the holy eucharist. The preacher was a rather young man, of agreeable aspect, earnest in gesture and manner. His voice was loud and clear, and the magnificent Spanish language resounded in harmonious and eloquent periods through the vaulted nave. I remembered, as I listened admiringly, the old Spanish boast that theirs is the tongue in which the Almighty can be least unworthily addressed, and it did not seem to me so vain and unmeaning as I once deemed it.

With the conclusion of the sermon, all the joy and love that had marked the first part of the services of Holy Thursday disappeared, and grief and mourning now began again. Vespers and the _Tenebræ_ were chanted, and then the faithful withdrew.

In the evening all the inhabitants of Havana poured into the streets: the captain-general, attended by his staff; the bishop, followed by his clergy; the governor and the municipality; the various corporations; large family parties, and bands of young men and boys; all went from one illuminated church to another, seven being the prescribed number, to kneel before the splendid sepulchres, and pray with more or less devotion. And having accomplished this duty, all adjourned to the _Plaza de Armas_, a handsome square, on one side of which is the palace of the captain-general, for the _retreta_; that is, to promenade while they listened to the military band, which played some sacred music very finely, and to eat ices, the pious taking care that theirs were _water-ices_.

The brilliant moon of the tropics lighted up the scene, making all visible as in the day, but with softer tones; beneath her beams the beautiful eyes of the ladies seemed of a more velvety black, and their white teeth glistened whiter between their smiling lips. A gentle breeze, laden with the sweet odors peculiar to night in Cuba, sighed in the leafy boughs of the _Laurel de India_, and all seemed to me peace and good-will among men, until I overheard one Creole lady say to another, "Your husband was a Spaniard, I believe?"

"I have been the wife of two Spaniards," replied the _Cubana_; "but I am happy to say that I have buried them both!"

So I returned to my home deeply meditating on the loveliness of nature and the perversity of mankind.

GOULD'S ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT OF RELIGIOUS BELIEF.[11]

In this book the author considers what are the natural religious wants of man's soul; he shows how these cravings have given birth to various religious systems; he considers to what extent these systems are capable of satisfying man's moral nature, including in this survey every ancient and modern belief except Christianity; and proves that they have all failed in a greater or less degree. In a second volume he intends "to show how that Christianity by its fundamental postulate--the Incarnation--assumes to meet all these instincts; how it actually does so meet them; and how failure is due to counteracting political or social causes." (P. 6.)

In other words, we have here a treatise on religion from the _à priori_, rationalistic or philosophic stand-point. The work is done as well as we could expect from a non-Catholic author. But like most other books of the same stamp, written by those outside of the church, it contains many errors and false statements of facts. As it has attracted no little attention, and may be considered as a type of a large class, we will give some quotations from it, to show how cautiously these books are to be read, and how little confidence can be placed in their assertions.

In his preface, the author says that, besides the historical revelation, "We have a revelation in our own nature.... On this revelation the church of the future must establish its claims to acceptance." (P. 6.) If Christ was God, as we firmly believe, or even an inspired teacher sent by God, the first and only thing necessary is to know _what he taught_. We must examine extrinsic evidence which bears on the inspiration, authenticity, and genuineness of the historical documents in which his teaching is contained. Intrinsic evidence derived from the examination of that teaching, and the consideration of its complete harmony with man's spiritual nature, must be assigned a second, not a first place.

In the following passages, which are certainly not a little ridiculous, we have naturalism and materialism:

"Mysticism is produced by the combustion of the gray vascular
matter in the sensorium--the thalami optici and the corpora
striata." (P. 355.)

"Prayer is a liberation of force. When the emotions are
excited, rapid combustion of nervous tissue ensues, and the
desire that inevitably follows to do something is the signal
that an amount of power has been generated, and equilibrium is
disturbed." (P. 387.)

"Pantheism," we are told, p. 292, "is the philosophy of reason--of reason, it may be, in its impotence," (most assuredly!) "but of such reason as man is gifted with here."

On page 319, speaking of Kant, he says, "All the arguments advanced by metaphysicians to prove the existence of God crumbled into dust beneath his touch." The truth is precisely the opposite. Kant has "crumbled into dust," and "all the arguments adduced by metaphysicians to prove the existence of God" remain as unshaken as before he was born.

We are told, on page 79, that the chief reason why all men have believed in the immortality of the soul, is because they could not form even a conception of its annihilation. On the contrary, any one who has ever slept soundly can conceive its annihilation without any difficulty, though he might experience a good deal in endeavoring to picture to himself an existence without end. The doctrine of the immortality of the soul, however, even in philosophy, does not rest on any such weak arguments.

That most wonderful fact of history, in which the finger of God evidently appears, namely, the preservation of the Jewish people and their belief for the past eighteen hundred years, in the face of causes which, according to every natural law, ought long ago to have destroyed both creed and nation, is accounted for (p. 205) simply by their possession of "the Talmud, which is a minute rule of life," etc. _Credat Judæus Apella._

"A man of thought will not steal, because he knows he is violating a law of sciology." (P. 278.) Were all the men in the world "sciologists," and "men of thought," we would not be in the least inclined to trust our property to the slender protection afforded by a law of "sciology."

Every native of the "Gem of the Ocean" will be delighted to learn that "The suffering Celt has his Brian Boroimhe, ... who will come again ... to inaugurate a Fenian millennium," (p. 407;) and students of history will be surprised to know that

"Marie Antoinette was informed of the execution of Robespierre
by a woman in the street below the prison putting stones in her
apron, and then, with her hand falling on them, scattering them
on the ground." (P. 187.)

Marie Antoinette was not alive when Robespierre was executed. The above incident occurred in the life of Josephine Beauharnais.

On pages 133-134, we are told substantially that for the first three or four centuries after Christ, God governed the Christian world directly! Then, for a time, through the priests alone! Afterward, for several centuries, through kings alone! Now the whole Christian world is ruled solely by "the open Bible!" This is a good example of how most non-Catholic writers, when speaking of religion, are always ready to sacrifice historical truth for the sake of a generalization or a rhetorical flourish.

"Its primitive organization (that is, of the church) was purely democratic. It recognized the right of the governed to choose their governor." (P. 201.) We never knew before that the people of Ephesus elected Timothy to be their ruler, or the people of Crete, Titus. We thought St. Paul appointed both of them, and that he told Timothy, "The things which thou hast heard from me before many witnesses, the same commend to faithful men who shall be fit to teach others also," (Epis. to Timothy ii. 2;) and that he wrote to Titus, "... ordain priests in every city, as I also appointed thee." (Epis. to Titus i. 5.)

"When Hildebrand gathered up the reins of government in
his powerful hand to transmit them to his successors, the
ecclesiastical elective primacy became an absolute supremacy."
(P. 201.)

In the _Arabian Nights_, if any difficulty occurs to interfere with the plot of a story, genii or fairies are straightway introduced, perform very coolly some astounding act, and _presto!_ all goes smoothly again. So, when Protestant authors, in writing history, come across any fact that stands in the way of their preconceived anti-Catholic theories, and logic cannot remove it, they introduce "priestcraft," "Hildebrand," "the cunning Jesuits," etc.; these prodigies shoulder the difficulty, walk off with it, and then "it is all perfectly clear." "Priestcraft," for instance, invented the whole sacramental system and foisted it on the church, _no one knows when, where, or how_. "Hildebrand" created the papal power. It did not exist before his time. "The cunning Jesuits"--ah! it would require more than a _Thousand and One Arabian Nights_ to recount all the wondrous achievements of these mythological characters. Their latest act has been the convocation of the present œcumenical council, which they rule with an iron hand. In fact, the editor of this magazine, who is a member of the council, has written to us privately that now their power and tyranny have become so great that when the council is in full session you have to ask a special permission of "the cunning Jesuits" _if you desire to sneeze or even wink_! (Isn't it awful, reader? But this, you know, is strictly _entre nous_. You mustn't mention it to any body on any consideration, unless, of course--as is not at all impossible--you should hereafter learn the same thing from the Atlantic Cable!)

The saints of the Catholic Church in modern times, we read, (p. 362,) "are ecstatics, crazy nuns, and sentimental boys." Such, therefore, were Sts. Alphonsus Liguori, Ignatius, Francis Xavier, Vincent de Paul, Charles Borromeo, Francis of Sales, Theresa, Jane de Chantal, and the two Catherines! Well, we live to learn!

Mr. Gould, in order, it would appear, to give an air of originality--or, more correctly, aboriginality--to his book, chooses to employ the term _idol_ as signifying any representation of the Deity, (whether it receive divine worship or not,) even the intellectual conception or purely philosophic idea! "Idolatry, then, is the outward expression of the belief in a personal God." (P. 176.) According to this new nomenclature, we must style all Christians _idolaters_!

"A fetish is a concentration of spirit or deity upon one point." (P. 177.) So with sticks, stones, and snakes, he ranks the Sacred Host--the _Catholic fetish_!

"The attribution to the Deity of wisdom and goodness is every whit as much anthropomorphosis as the attribution of limbs and passions." (P. 175.) So all worshippers of the Deity (for the impersonal "God" of pantheism is simply no God at all) are _anthropomorphists_ as well as "idolaters"!

The last remark we have quoted from the author is not true. The soul _alone_ is not the man; neither is the body alone; but _soul and body_ together. Whoever, therefore, attributes to God only the spiritual attributes of man, cannot be properly termed an anthropomorphist. In any case, however, we most decidedly object to any one's applying to sacred things terms rendered opprobrious by long and correct usage. The effect of such an act is to confuse the reader, and its tendency is to bring what is holy into contempt. Perhaps this was the author's intention.

As might easily be supposed from the foregoing examples, the writer of this book is one of the nineteenth century _illuminati_, and in favor of "unrestrained freedom of thought," etc., (the chief enemies of which are historical facts, sound logic, and common-sense.) We will now listen for a moment while, in good orthodox Protestant fashion, he is "shouting the battle-cry of freedom."

"Sacerdotal despotism succeeded in the middle ages in
concentrating all power over consciences and intelligences in
the hands of an order whose centre was in Rome." (P. 138.)

"The Reformation was a revolt against that oppressive despotism
of the Roman theocracy which crushed the human intellect and
paralyzed freedom of action." (P. 139.)

"Under an infallible guide, regulating every moral and
theological item of his (man's) spiritual being, his mental
faculties are given him that they may be atrophied, like the
eyes of the oyster, which, being useless in the sludge of its
bed, are reabsorbed." (P. 140.)

"Theocratic legislation hampers every man's action from the
cradle to the grave.... The Israelites are a case in point.
They were tied down ... lest they should desert monotheism for
idolatry." (P. 204.)

"In a theocracy there is neither individuality, personality,
nor originality.... It has restrained independence, shackled
commerce, conventionalized art, mummified science, cramped
literature, and stifled thought," etc. (Pp. 207, 208.)

What a pity that we poor "Romanists" are so "benighted," etc., etc., that we don't in the least appreciate these modern Solons, who seem to think that every one should be "progressive;" that is, spend his life in dragging himself out of one humbug only to fall into another; or, as the wise critic of _The Nation_ put it a short time ago, in speaking of a story in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, a young man ought to be _like a ship_, and devote his existence to _sailing about_--on the boundless ocean, we suppose, of infidel nonsense![12]

Finally, we read, (pp. 138, 139.)

"'Strange destiny, that of theology, to be condemned to be for
ever attaching itself to those systems which are crumbling
away,' writes M. Maury; 'to be essentially hostile to all
science that is novel, and to all progress!'"

We shall only remark that, were religion to spend her time in pinning her faith to all the "novel," "scientific," "progressive" systems that spring up every day and straightway begin to crumble, even while these learned "sciologists" are tossing high their caps in air and shouting out in impressive chorus, "Where now is theology?"--it would, we think, be even stranger still.

We have devoted this much space to showing up some of the falsehoods in this book because it is not all false nor all stupid; it is a philosophic and, to some extent, a learned work; it is written in a brilliant and attractive style. This class of works dazzle; but when written by non-Catholics, they are not to be trusted. _The only deep, and, at the same time, sound scholarship in the world is in the Catholic Church._ Those who protest against her protest against the truth; even the most learned among them, on many most essential matters, are surprisingly ignorant; but what they want in knowledge they make up generally in flash rhetoric and humbug novelty, and that suits this enlightened age just as well.

Too many persons, however, when they see much that is true in a book, are inclined to believe it all true; and so with a considerable amount of food they will swallow a great deal of poison. This is a mistake. No author is ever wholly wrong. The falsest say many things that are true.

To show how error and truth may be found side by side in the same work, we will give some quotations from our author in which his ideas are sufficiently, or even strikingly, correct.

He thus speaks of asceticism:

"From whatever motive an ascetic life is undertaken, the result
is accumulation of force. The ascetic cuts himself off, as much
as possible, from all means of liberating force. His voluntary
celibacy and abstinence from active work place at his disposal
all that force which would be discharged by a man in the world
in muscular action and in domestic affection.... Withdrawal
from society intensifies his individuality, and, unless the
ideas formed in his brain be such as can excite his emotion,
he becomes completely self-centred. But if the object of his
contemplation be one which is calculated to draw out his
affections, the result is a coördinate accumulation of mental
and affectional power." (P. 348.)

"Luther, a man of coarse and vigorous animalism, was no ascetic." (P. 350.)

The doctrine of Zwinglius, he tells us, was simply pantheism, and that of Calvin he considers undeserving the name of Christianity.

"Alongside of Mohammedanism must be placed a parallel
development in Europe, which, though nominally Christian, is
intrinsically deistic. Consciously it was not so, but logically
it was; and in its evolution it proved a striking counterpart
to Islamism.

"Zwinglius had taught that God was infinite essence, absolute
being, (τὸ Esse.) The being of creatures, he said, was not
opposed to the being of God, but was in and by him. Not man
only, but all creation, was of divine race. Nature was the
force of God in action, and every thing is one. Sin he held to
be the necessary consequence of the development of man, and to
be, not a disturbance of moral order, but the necessary process
in the development of man, who has no free-will.

"Calvin's idea of God was quite as absolute as that formed
by Zwinglius, but it was not so pantheistic, though he did
not shrink from calling nature God. The Deity was to him the
great autocrat, whose absolute will allotted to man his place
in time and in eternity. Beyond the pale of the church, he
taught, there was no remission to be hoped for, nor any chance
of salvation; for the church was the number of the predestined,
and God could not alter his decision without abrogating his
divinity." (P. 266.)

"He swept away the sacramental system; if he held to
Christianity, it was in name, not in theory, for his doctrine
excluded it as a necessary article. He deprived the atonement
of its efficacy and significance, and he left the Incarnation
unaccounted for, save by the absolute decree of the divine and
arbitrary will which he worshipped as God." (P. 267.)

He thus speaks of the Reformation and of its cardinal principle:

"But what was the result of the Reformation? The establishment
of a royal along side of a biblical theocracy. The crown became
the supreme head to order what religion is to consist of, how
worship is to be conducted, and what articles of faith are to
be believed." (P. 139.)

"The Scriptures were then assumed to be the ultimate authority
on doctrine and ethics; they were supposed to contain 'all
things necessary to salvation, so that whatsoever is not read
therein, nor may be proved thereby, is not to be required of
any man, that it be believed as an article of the faith, or be
thought requisite or necessary to salvation.'

"This mode of arresting modification is not, however, final,
and cannot in the nature of things be final; for, firstly, the
significance of the terms in which the revelation is couched
must be subject to the most conflicting interpretations; and
secondly, the authority of the revelation will be constantly
exposed to be questioned, and the genuineness of the documents
to be disputed." (P. 134.)

Buddhism he calls the _Protestantism_ of the East.

"Its cold philosophy and thin abstractions, however they might
exercise the faculties of anchorites, have proved insufficient
of themselves to arrest man in his career of passion and
pursuit; and the bold experiment of influencing the heart and
regulating the conduct of mankind by the external decencies
and the mutual dependencies of morality, unsustained by higher
hopes, has proved in this instance an unredeemed and hopeless
failure." (P. 353.)

"In confiding all to the mere strength of the human intellect,
and the enthusiastic self-reliance and determination of the
human heart, it makes no provision for defence against those
powerful temptations before which ordinary resolution must give
way." (P. 354.)

"The mass of the population are profoundly ignorant of, and
utterly indifferent to, the tenets of their creed.... 'The
same results appear in the phases of Buddhism beyond India,'
says M. Maupied; 'in the north of Asia and in China it has
arrived at a sort of speculative atheism, which has not only
arrested proselytism, but which is self-destructive, and which
in the end will completely ruin it.' It is not a religion but a
philosophy. (P. 355.)

"This close resemblance seems to have been felt on first
contact of Calvinism and Buddhism; for we find in 1684 the
Dutch government _importing at its own expense Buddhist
missionaries_ from Arracan to Ceylon to oppose the progress of
Catholicism." (P. 353.)

He is not in line with those, so numerous in this age and country, who hold to the Chinese notion that intellectual and material progress is every thing.

"On the whole, it will be found that the amount of happiness in
a race not highly civilized is far more general, and its sum
total far higher, than that of an over-civilized race. The rude
and simple Swiss peasantry are thoroughly happy, while in a
large city like London, the upper stratum of society is engaged
in nervous quest of pleasure which ever eludes them, while
the lower is plunged in misery. Besides, what is really meant
by the progress of the species? The only tangible superiority
of a generation over that which has preceded it, appears to
consist in its having within its reach a larger accumulation
of scientific or literary materials for thought, or a greater
mastery over the forces of inanimate nature; advantages
not without their drawbacks, and at any rate of a somewhat
superficial kind. Genius is not progressive from age to age;
nor yet the practice, however it may be with the science, of
moral excellence. And, as this progress of the species is only
supposed, after all, to be an improvement of its condition
during men's first lifetime, the belief--call it, if you will,
but a dream--of a prolonged existence after death _reduces the
whole progress to insignificance_. _There is more_, even as
regards quantity of sensation, _in the spiritual well-being of
one single soul_, with an existence thus continuous, _than in
the increased physical or intellectual prosperity_, during one
lifetime, _of the entire human race_." (P. 59-60.)

Nor does he appear to believe in the Protestant method of converting people, and causing them to "experience religion." We read on page 358 that, while Wesley was preaching at Bristol,

"'one, and another, and another,' we are told, 'sank to the
earth. They dropped on every side as thunderstruck.' Men and
women by 'scores were sometimes strewed on the ground at
once, insensible as dead men.' During a Methodist revival in
Cornwall, four thousand people, it is computed, fell into
convulsions. 'They remained during this condition so abstracted
from every earthly thought, that they staid two, and sometimes
three days and nights together in the chapels, agitated all
the time by spasmodic movements, and taking neither repose
nor refreshment. The symptoms followed each other usually
as follows: A sense of faintness and oppression, shrieks as
if in the agony of death or the pains of labor, convulsions
of the muscles of the eyelids--the eyes being fixed and
staring--and of the muscles of the neck, trunk, and arms;
sobbing respiration, tremors, and general agitation, and all
sorts of strange gestures. When exhaustion came on, patients
usually fainted, and remained stiff and motionless until their
recovery.'" (P. 358.)

Finally, in speaking of the "diverse forms of ceremonial expression," he says,

"Jacob leans on his staff to pray, Moses falls flat on his
face, the Catholic bows his knee, and _the Protestant settles
himself into a seat_." (P. 114.)

We don't know whether to prefer Protestant taste, or Feejee, or Hindoo.

"Thus, out of love to a mother, _the Feejee eats her_, and the
European erects a mausoleum. The sentiment is the same, but the
mode of exhibition is different." (P. 115.)

"The Hindoo represents Brahm, the Great Absolute, absorbed
in self-contemplation, as a man wrapped in a mantle, _with
his foot in his mouth_, to symbolize his eternity and _his
self-satisfaction_." (P. 188.)

We remarked before that the author of this book displays considerable learning. Here is a specimen which gives some pleasant information about the old Saxon laws:

"Three shillings were deemed sufficient compensation for a
broken rib, while a fine of twenty shillings was inflicted
for a dislocation of the shoulder. If a man cut off the foot
or struck out the eye of another, he was compelled to make
satisfaction with fifty shillings. Each tooth had its fixed
price: for a front tooth, six shillings were demanded; for a
canine tooth, four; and for a molar, only one shilling; the
pain incurred by a loss of a double tooth, however, led King
Alfred to alter this portion of the law, as unjust, and he
raised the price of a molar to fifteen shillings." (P. 364.)

He thinks that the idea of compensation, which is here certainly clearly set forth, gave rise to the religious idea of sacrifice.

We will close with a favorable specimen of his style. He thus describes Greece:

"Under a blue sky, in which the clouds lie tranquil like
lodged avalanches, in the midst of a twinkling sea, strewed
with fairy groups of islands, is a little mulberry-leaf of
land attached to a continental bough, a little land ribbed
with mountain-chains of rough-hewn marble, veined with purple
gorges, pierced with winding gulfs; a land of vineyards and
olive-groves, where roses bloom all the year, and where the
pomegranate holds its glowing cheek to a sun that is never
shorn of its rays." (P. 148.)

We have given these quotations at length, partly because they are a little remarkable as coming from such a source, but chiefly to show that a book may be excellent in some respects, and nevertheless contain very many most false things. Our end will have been attained if we have shown that whatever comes from non-Catholic pens, _even the best, is not to be trusted_, whenever, directly or indirectly, matters pertaining to philosophy, theology, or ecclesiastical history are treated of. These books at best are half-blind guides; and such are never desirable, and generally dangerous.

FOOTNOTES:

[11] _The Origin and Development of Religious Belief._ By S. Baring-Gould, M.A., author of _Curious Myths of the Middle Ages_, _The Silver Store_, etc. Part I. Heathenism and Mosaism. New York: D. Appleton & Co., 90, 92, and 94 Grand street. 1870.

[12] "And some indeed he gave to be apostles, and some prophets and others evangelists, and others pastors and teachers."

"_That we may not now be_ CHILDREN, _tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine_, in the wickedness of men, in craftiness by which they lie in wait to deceive." (St. Paul to the Ephesians, iv. 11, 14.)

PLANGE FILIA SION.

Lone in the dreary wilderness,
Meek, by the Spirit led,
For forty days and forty nights,
Our Saviour hungerèd.

O night winds! did ye fold your wings
Ere, on that brow so pure,
Ye roughly smote the uncovered head
That all things did endure?

O rude winds! did ye on those eves
Only the flowers fill;
Or, with the drops of night, his locks
And sacred body chill?

He, the most lovely, most divine,
So lost in love for us!
Our evil-starred, sin-stricken race,
By him redeemèd thus!

We hear the audacious tempter's words--
Amazed, we hold our breath;
We follow him, the Holy One,
Sorrowful unto death!

Thus, may we to the wilderness
Close follow thee, dear Lord,
These forty days and forty nights,
Obedient to thy word:

Renounce the world, and Satan's wiles,
In blest retreat of prayer,
Self-abnegation, vigilance,
And find our Saviour there.

For vain the sackcloth, ashes, fast,
In vain retreat in prayer,
Unless the sackcloth gird the heart,
True penitence be there;

Sorrow for sins that helped to point
The spear, the thorn, the nail.
O Lord! have mercy upon us,
While we those sins bewail.

And in the lonely wilderness,
From world and sin withdrawn,
Our hearts shall cloistered be in thine
Till glows glad Easter's dawn!

SOPHIA MAY ECKLEY.

UNTYING GORDIAN KNOTS.

X.

LADY SACKVIL'S JOURNAL.

"I have been playing the part of a peri at the gates of paradise. I have been watching Mary Vane with her child. My life looks to me unbearable. I am a blunder on the part of nature. I have the passions of a man and the follies of a woman. This is the last entry I shall make in this book. Once for all I will put my agony into words, and then throw this wretched record of three months into the canal, to rot with the other impurities thrown daily into the sluggish flood.

When first I allowed myself to exercise my power over Vane, it was from mere coquetry and love of excitement. I wished to reassert my sway and punish his former cruelty. Later I dreamed of a Platonic love, _à la_ Récamier and Chateaubriand. True, one pities Mesdames de Chateaubriand, viewing them as a class; but they must suffer for their bad management. I did not recognize, I do not recognize the claims of so-called duty; I lack motive. Virtue as virtue does not attract me; neither does sin as sin attract me. I want to have my own way. Gratified self-will has afforded me the only permanent enjoyment of my life; but it has this disadvantage. While you rule your will and indulge it for fancy's sake, the pleasure is unquestionable. When your will begins to rule you, there is no slavery so galling. I had not thought of this; I know it now.

Once for all, I put my torture into words. _I love him._ Ten years ago I buried my heart--in sand or sawdust, or something else, where grass and flowers cannot grow. It has risen now in an awful resurrection, and taken possession of me. He might have been all mine. I wish to hate his wife, and am forced to honor her profoundly. I _cannot_ leave this place. My will refuses to let me go. Oh! if I stay here and do not say one word, where is the harm? And if he should utter the word I dare not say--"

* * * * *

Amelia paused shuddering. "O subtle--O inexorable horror!" she said. Then, enveloping the book in paper, she carried it out onto the balcony, and dropped it into the canal, and heard the splash, and marked with satisfaction its disappearance beneath the dull green water.

"There--that's gone!" she said, and reëntered the room. Her face, which reflected every change of mood, grew very white.

"It is _not_ gone!" she cried; and pressing her hands to her breast exclaimed, "It is here; it is my double--my bosom serpent! O God! how it gnaws!"

She went to a press, and pulling open drawers and slides, sought something eagerly. Then, as if forgetting the object of her search, paused in deep thought, and finally rang the bell violently.

Josephine came promptly, but unsurprised, being used to vehemence on the part of her mistress.

"You may pack my trunks. I shall leave Venice to-morrow."

The maid proceeded to take out dress after dress and fold them. When one trunk was packed, Lady Sackvil who had been standing on the balcony in the blazing sun, looking down into the water, glanced over her shoulder.

"You may pack the other boxes another day," she remarked calmly; "I shall not go to-morrow. Your dinner-bell is ringing; you can go."

She locked the door behind Josephine, and then returned to her researches in the press. At last she produced a small vial of laudanum, and, sitting down before the toilette-table, poured a little into a glass and paused. "I wish I knew how much to take," she said ponderingly; "it would be so tiresome to take too little or too much." Then she fell to considering herself in the mirror--looked anxiously at the faint commencement of a wrinkle between her eyebrows; and pushing back her hair, revealed a gray hair or two hidden beneath the dark locks so full of sunny gleams. "I will do it," she said, and then took a few drops; then paused again. "I can't--I won't!" she said violently. "I'm afraid; I'm afraid of hell--I'm afraid of that horrid, clammy thing they call death! I'm afraid of making poor, good little Flora miserable! Oh! I'm afraid of myself, dead or alive," she moaned, rocking herself to and fro, in a passion of regret and pain.

At last the paroxysm passed. She poured back the laudanum, washed the glass, replaced every thing accurately, and threw herself on the couch. There, overcome by the drug, to which her healthy frame was wholly unaccustomed, she fell into a heavy sleep.

The plea of weariness afforded an excuse for going early to bed. When she awoke the second time, the Campanile clock was striking two. A rain was falling, pattering on the canal, dripping and trickling from the eaves and from the pointed traceries above the windows. She got up, put on a white wrapper, and went out onto the balcony. The rain felt cool on her burning head. It drenched her to the skin, and dripped from her hair. Yet still she stood there, crying bitter tears that brought no relief, shaken with sobs that she with difficulty prevented from becoming cries. She wrung her hands with grief, and passion, and pain. Night added nothing to the darkness in her soul; dawn brought neither light nor hope of change; and when at last she went in from the cold, gray morning light, to change her wet clothes and creep into bed, it was to a second dose of laudanum that she owed the temporary bliss of oblivion.

XI.

"If you're looking for Mr. Nicholas, Miss Vane, he's gone down to the first floor," said Deborah, the morning after Lady Sackvil's visit.

Mary went to Mr. Holston's writing-room; no one was there; passed on through drawing-rooms, dining-room, and ante-chambers, without meeting a soul, and at last found herself standing outside Lady Sackvil's music-room. Knocking and receiving no answer, she opened the door, which moved noiselessly on its hinges, and lifted the heavy crimson curtain. Her husband was standing with his back to the door, leaning against the mantel-piece. Lady Sackvil stood before him, her face buried in her hands. He spoke, but in a voice so hoarse and dissonant that Mary fancied for an instant there was a third person with them.

"Be satisfied with your success, Amelia," he said. "You have lighted the fire of hell in my heart. You have turned my affections away from my wife, who is too pure for things like you and me to love. It may add to your satisfaction to know that there is one person on earth I despise more than Lady Sackvil, and that person is myself."

He turned, and saw his wife standing in the doorway.

"How much have you heard?" he asked calmly, without showing either surprise or annoyance.

"Enough to make me say, 'God help us both,'" she replied.

"Amen," he said, and left the room. Mary was about to follow him, when a look of entreaty from Lady Sackvil checked her. In another instant Amelia was crouching on the ground, her face buried in the folds of Mary's gown. There was dead silence in the room. The ticking of the Louis Quatorze clock on the mantel and the flap of a window-curtain were the only sounds to be heard. Charity pleaded for the wretched woman kneeling at her feet. Nature cried, "Follow him; tear from him some consolation; make him wake you from this nightmare, and say he loves you!" Charity conquered. Mary bent over Lady Sackvil to raise her from the ground; but at the first touch, Amelia lifted her head, exclaiming, "I will never rise; I will die here unless you say you forgive me!"

"How can you ask pardon," replied Mary "for an injury you have only just completed?"

Amelia crouched still nearer to the ground.

"So help me heaven!" she said in a voice of agony, "I never meant to speak. He came to-day--oh! you who possess him, can't you see how it happened; how I forgot every thing--resolutions, dignity, decency--and spoke?"

"Why do you say I possess him?" asked Mary bitterly. "You heard him say that you had turned away his heart from me."

"I have not turned it toward myself. He repulsed me like a dog. Oh! if there were a hole underground where I could hide, I would crawl into it." And she flung herself on her face with a despairing groan.

Mary knelt down beside her. "We are both in the presence of God," she said; "and I forgive you now even as I hope to be forgiven."

Amelia rose with difficulty, made an effort to reach the bedroom door, tottered, and would have fallen but for Mary's assistance, who unlocked the door and helped her to a sofa. Then, looking round the room for some restorative, her eye rested on a little vial standing in a crimson wine-glass. She took it up and saw that it was labelled "laudanum."

"Have you taken any of this?" she asked, carrying it to the sofa.

"Only yesterday--never before," Lady Sackvil answered feebly. "It would make me sleep now and do me good. You might give me a few drops; or rather, no, leave it with me," she said, holding out her trembling hand. "I can take it, if necessary, myself."

"Wait a moment," said Mary, and going to the window, she threw the bottle over the railing. Then sitting down beside Amelia, she took the feverish hand in both her own. "Promise me, swear to me, that you will not take that or any other narcotic or stimulant."

"You have prevented me from doing you the only kindness in my power," said Amelia, sitting up and pushing the hair back from her crimson temples. "You have forgiven me; you have treated me like the Christian you profess to be. I meant to repay you by taking myself out of this loathsome world."

"Repay me by living and repenting," answered Mary earnestly. "Promise me not to make an eternity of this passing anguish. There is work for you to do; there is heaven for you to win. Promise me to live, and to live for God."

Lady Sackvil looked at her silently for several minutes. Then she said, "I acknowledge one thing--I acknowledge that you are good, in spite of circumstances." She lay down and turned her face to the wall. "I will live," she said wearily, "if you will help me to live; otherwise I shall die."

"I will help you," Mary said. "Now I must go. Shall I ring for your maid?"

"No. If Flora can come, I will have her; otherwise, I would rather be alone. I feel wretched and heavy, and shall fall asleep presently."

Mary found Mrs. Holston in her sitting-room. "Lady Sackvil is ill, and wants you," she said breathlessly; for, now that her duty was done, every minute seemed an age until she could see Nicholas. "Don't stop me, please; I _must_ go." As she put her hand on the hall door, Mr. Holston opened it from outside. She brushed by him without a word; but he saw her blanched face, and followed her with his eyes as she ran up-stairs. "The blow has fallen," he said to himself, as he hung his hat in the hall. "Poor, poor child!"

She went to the study door and turned the handle. It was locked. She paused a moment, thinking her husband would admit her; then walked on through the gallery to her own room, shut the door, and sat down in her little sewing-chair. She was stunned; mercifully stunned. It all seemed a dream, from which there would soon be an awakening. Of course, it could not be true that her husband had shut her out from his confidence. She felt too dull to understand all this. "God knows what it means," she said half-aloud; "I don't." How far from her eyes seemed the tears, crowded back, as it were, to make the weight on her heart more unbearable. "Some women faint or cry out when they are hurt," she thought idly; "I wonder why I don't? I feel so dumb, so gray, so smothered."

A knock came at the nursery door. Dragging one foot after the other, she went and opened it. Deborah started at sight of her face, but made no comment. "It is time to take baby," she said cheerfully. "The cap'n's asking for you. He can't think what's become of you." Mary darted past her and ran out into the gallery.

XII.

Nicholas was sitting at the study table, looking over papers. He rose and drew forward a chair for her, and then sat down again.

"The best thing that could happen, under the circumstances," he said, "has come to pass. I am appointed to join the French army in the Crimea, for purposes of study. Here is the appointment. These are letters from General Scott and from the Secretary of War. Just glance at them, if you please."

She read them, almost without comprehending their meaning. "When do you go?"

"To-morrow morning. It is the best thing to do, under the circumstances."

"Yes, the best under the circumstances," she repeated after him. He looked at her anxiously, but said nothing.

"What are you to take with you?" she asked, rising from her chair. "I must go and look over your clothes."

"All the military traps I have here, of course; not much besides, for I would rather buy what I want. Don't trouble yourself, my--" He paused. "I will see to every thing."

"No, I want to do it myself," she said.

"I must go and speak to Holston about your money matters while I am gone. He will do every thing a brother could do."

"Every thing," she said. He looked at her again uneasily, and seemed about to speak; then left the room. "I've killed her," he thought; "but words are mere insults now."

He was gone, and without one word of explanation. It was, then, no nightmare, to be dispelled by a change of posture. There was no awakening for her. It was all true!

XIII.

Mary was alone with the baby. Georgina's tiny hand was clasped around her mother's finger; rosy cheek and dewy lip invited many a loving maternal caress. At least here was love, without anxiety or heart-ache. "My love for this child, to whom I have given life, is faint in comparison to God's love for his creatures," she thought. "My soul shall rest on him, as Georgie rests in my arms. He knows the way out of this blackness. I will follow him trustfully."