Chapter X: Aline’s Hopes (8)

To this he added a few words concerning the actual condition of Florence, which made them wonder at the intimate knowledge he possessed of its affairs. Shortly afterward in the sacristy of S. Mark’s, in the presence of several persons, he said that the affairs of Italy would soon change, for that the Pope, the King of Naples, and Il Magnifico had not long to live.

The ill-will of the Mediceans was naturally strengthened by such an incident as this. Their murmurs increased, and, coming from a small but influential portion of the citizens, Savonarola took it into serious consideration whether he should not give up for the time the prophetic strain of his sermons, and confine himself to the inculcation of moral and religious precepts. There is but little doubt that he struggled earnestly and conscientiously to bring himself to this resolution, and he has himself left the record of it in his _Compendio di Rivelazione_. “I deliberated with myself,” he says, “as to suppressing the sermon on the visions I had prepared for the following Sunday’s cathedral service, and for the future to abstain from them. God is my witness that throughout the whole of Saturday and during the entire night I lay awake; and every other way, every doctrine but that, was taken from me. At daylight, fatigued and exhausted by my long vigil, while I prayed, I heard a voice which said to me, ‘Fool, seest thou not that God wills that thou shalt persevere in thy path?’ And that day, I preached a terrible sermon.”[124]

It was, doubtless, as he says, “una predica tremenda,” for, persuaded as he was of his divine mission, he no sooner entered the pulpit than, with his imagination excited, his senses in febrile agitation from the effect of vigils and fastings, his subject carried him away into bursts of denunciatory eloquence that frightened while they charmed his hearers. In his excitement he again sees the nocturnal visions of his cell, loses consciousness of his own personality, and confounds the words there heard with the language of Scripture, for in his sermons he frequently, in the rush of language, cites as passages from the Bible the phrases of his own visions. Among these was his famous _Gladius Domini super terram cito et velociter_.

THE NEW PRIOR.

Meantime, in the interior of his convent, the learning, the simplicity, the profound piety and purity, and benevolence of Fra Girolamo had won for him the love and veneration of all his brethren. At the election of a new superior in 1491, they naturally chose him for their prior. Savonarola, who had always felt and sought to inculcate the higher appreciation of the dignity of the church and its ministers, seized this occasion to protest practically against a ceremony, which to him seemed not only compromising but degrading. Ever since the reign of the Medici, it was the custom for every newly elected prior of S. Mark to render homage and swear fealty to the reigning chief. Savonarola gave no sign of conforming to it, and from his silence might have been supposed to be ignorant of it. Some of the older monks reminded him of it as a formality which they had always considered obligatory. This view of it was natural enough from the fact that the Medici really founded the convent and had been its most generous benefactors. The new prior’s reply was characteristic: “Is it God or Lorenzo de’ Medici who has named me prior? I acknowledge my election as from God alone, and to him only will I swear obedience.” This was carried to Lorenzo, who said: “You see, a stranger comes into my house, and deigns not even to visit me.”

It must be conceded that, considering his position and personal character, Lorenzo acted with great moderation, for he evidently desired to conciliate the prior of the convent and to avoid the scandal of a quarrel with a religious. More than once he attended Mass at S. Mark’s and afterwards strolled in its garden. On these occasions some brother would run to the prior to tell him of the distinguished personage who was walking alone in the garden. “Did he ask to see me?” was Savonarola’s answer. “No, but ...”—“Then let him walk there as long as he pleases.”

The monk judged Lorenzo severely, and acted in consequence, for he knew all the injury to public morals he had done, and looked upon him not only as the enemy and destroyer of liberty, but as the most serious obstacle to any amelioration and christianizing of the people. Failing in one course, Lorenzo began to send to the convent liberal alms and rich gifts, but this only increased Savonarola’s contempt for him, and he even made scornful allusion to it in the pulpit, intimating that such an attempt only confirmed him in his former resolution. Shortly afterward were found in the “alms-box” of S. Mark’s a number of pieces of gold. The prior understood perfectly that they came from Lorenzo, as in fact they did, and, separating the princely gold from the modest offerings of the faithful, he sent it to the Buoni Uomini of the city for distribution among the poor, with the message that “silver and copper sufficed for the wants of the convent.”

Thus far thwarted at every turn, Lorenzo was not the man to give up a struggle once entered upon, and he was determined to turn, if possible, the rising tide of the Dominican’s popularity. The preacher most admired at that period in Florence had for some time been Padre Genazzano—the same whose sermons were attended by crowds when Fra Girolamo could scarce retain a dozen or two of people to listen to him. Lorenzo requested the former to resume his preaching. He did so, and his sermon was announced for Ascension Day. All Florence rushed to hear him. Taking for his text, “Non est vestrum nosse tempora vel momenta”—“It is not for you to know the times or seasons”—he imprudently presumed too far upon his princely patronage, and violently attacking Savonarola by name, qualifying him as a false and foolish prophet, a sower of discord and scandals among the people, so revolted his auditory by his intemperate speech and uncharitable denunciation that, in the short hour of his discourse, he utterly lost the reputation of long years’ acquisition. On the same day, Savonarola preached upon the same text, and, so far as the popular judgment was concerned, remained master of the field. Lorenzo, seeing the total failure of his scheme, and suffering from the rapid advances of a malady that was soon to become mortal, fatigued, moreover, with the struggle against a man whom, in spite of himself, he felt forced to respect, he left him henceforth to preach unmolested.

SAVONAROLA’S SERMONS,

as printed, give us, on reading them, but a very imperfect idea of their effect as delivered. Of that tremendous power he wielded in the pulpit, and concerning which the amplest testimony of both his friends and enemies entirely agree, the source cannot be traced in the published copies of his sermons. The earliest of these are those preached in 1491, on the first Epistle of S. John. It would be a difficult task to present a general idea of this collection. In form, they offer no unity of subject nor connection of parts, added to which, the strong originality and waywardness of Savonarola’s style and studies make it difficult for a modern reader to bring order out of this apparent disorder. He always commences with a citation from Scripture, grouping around it all the ideas theological, moral, and political which it suggests to his mind, resting these in their turn upon fresh Biblical texts. The apparent result to him who reads them to-day is a heterogeneous mass of discordant materials of which the confusion is hopeless. But these sermons were actually preached by Savonarola with a very different result. To him everything was clear. These words before him in manuscript are but the dry bones which he clothes with the magnetic life of inspiration, and to which he gives voice in the thunders of his own eloquence. The fire of his imagination kindles, figures of gigantic power present themselves to his mind, his gesture is animated, his eyes flame, and, abandoning himself to his originality, he becomes what he really was—a great and powerful orator. At times, he appears to fall back into a mass of artificial ideas without connection, again and again to free himself by force of natural talent, for, born orator as he was, he needed the arts of oratory; and it was only when his subject mastered him, and carried him away, that nature took the place of art, and he was eloquent in spite of himself. Of his originality and depth of thought some idea may be gained from the following extract taken from one of his nineteen sermons upon the first Epistle of S. John, in which he explains at length the mysteries of the Mass, giving in it religious precepts and counsels to the people:

“The word we utter proceeds out of our mouths separated and divided by a succession of syllables, in such manner that, while one part exists, the other part is already extinct, and, when the whole word is pronounced, it exists no longer. But the Verb, or the Divine Word, has no divisions; it is one in its essence, it is diffused throughout the created world, and lives and endures throughout eternity like the celestial light which is its companion. Therefore it is the Word of Life, and one with the Father. We accept, it is true, this Word in various senses. By ‘life’ we sometimes mean the natural being of mankind, sometimes we mean by it their occupation. Hence we say, the life of this man is science, the life of the bird is singing. But there is but one true life which is in God, for in him all things have their being. And this is that blessed life which is the object of man, and in which he may find infinite and eternal happiness. Earthly life is not only fallacious, but powerless to give us happiness from its want of unity in itself. If you love riches, you must give up sensual pleasures; if you are abandoned to these, you must renounce the acquisition of knowledge; and if you give up the acquisition of knowledge you cannot obtain offices of responsibility and honor. But the joys of life eternal are all comprised in the vision of God, which is supreme felicity.”

DEATH OF LORENZO.

With a mortal disease fastened upon him, Lorenzo the Magnificent had retired to his villa at Careggi. Hope of his recovery there was none, for the physicians had exhausted the last resources of their art. Even the renowned Lazzaro da Ficino had been called from Pavia, and had administered his wonderful draught of distilled gems without result. Death approached rapidly, and in this solemn hour Lorenzo’s mind turned seriously on his religious duties. He seemed entirely changed. When Holy Communion was to be administered to him, he made a superhuman effort to rise from his bed, and, supported in the arms of those around him, to receive it kneeling, but the priest, perceiving his weakness and his agitation, insisted on his being returned to his couch. It was impossible to calm him. The past rose up before him in horrible visions. As he approached his end, his crimes assumed gigantic proportions, and became every moment more menacing, filling him with a wild dismay, and depriving him of the peace and comfort he would otherwise have derived from the consolations of religion. Having lost all confidence in men,[125] he even doubted the sincerity of his own confessor. Accustomed to have his slightest wish obeyed, he began to doubt if that ecclesiastic had acted with entire freedom. His remorse became harder and harder to bear. “No one ever dared say ‘No’ to me,” he thought within himself, and this reflection, once a source of pride, now became his most cruel punishment. Suddenly the image of Savonarola in its grave severity presented itself to his mind, and he remembered that he at least had never been influenced either by threats or flatteries. “He is the only true _frate_ I know,” he exclaimed, and expressed a desire to make his confession to him. A messenger was instantly sent to S. Mark’s for Savonarola, who was so astonished at the strange and unlooked-for summons that it seemed to him incredible. He gave answer that it appeared to him useless to go to Careggi because his words would not be well received by Lorenzo. But when he was made to understand the gravity of Lorenzo’s condition, and the fact that he had really sent for him, he set off instantly. That day Lorenzo felt himself rapidly sinking. Summoning his son Piero, he gave him his last instructions and his dying farewell. He afterwards expressed a wish to see Pico di Mirandola, who came immediately, and the pleasure of his society had a soothing effect upon the moribund. Scarcely had Pico left, when the prior of S. Mark was announced. He advanced respectfully to the bedside of the dying man. Three sins in particular lay heavy upon his conscience. These were: the sack of Volterra; the plunder of the treasure set apart for the dowry of poor Florentine damsels, which had driven many of them to evil lives; the blood he had shed to revenge the conspiracy of the Pazzi.

While speaking, Lorenzo’s agitation increased alarmingly. But Savonarola, in order to calm him, kept repeating, “God is good, God is merciful.”

“But,” he added, when Lorenzo had finished, “three things are necessary.”

“What are they, father?” asked Lorenzo.

Savonarola’s countenance became grave, and, reckoning upon his fingers, he said: “First, you must have a firm and lively faith in the infinite mercy of God.”

“I have it fully.”

“Second, you must make restitution of all money unjustly acquired, or charge your son to do it for you.”

At this Lorenzo was sorely grieved and perplexed, but with a great effort he signified assent by nodding his head.

Savonarola then rose, and, drawing himself up to his full height, said with solemn countenance and impressive voice, “Lastly, you must restore to the people of Florence their freedom.” He fastened his eyes upon those of Lorenzo, awaiting his answer. The dying man, gathering what little strength was left him, disdainfully shrugged his shoulders without deigning to utter a single word.

Thus—so runs the story—Savonarola left him, and Lorenzo the Magnificent, lacerated with remorse, soon afterwards breathed his last sigh (8th of April, 1492).[126]

The death of Lorenzo seriously affected the public affairs of Tuscany and of Italy. His personal influence over other princes, his prudence and ability, had made him in some sort the moderator of Italian politics. Piero, his son and successor, was in every respect his opposite. Of handsome and powerful physique, he abandoned himself to athletic sports and to gallantry. He possessed a certain facility of improvisation and a pleasing address, but centred his highest ambition on horsemanship, tournaments, and games of strength and dexterity.

He inherited from his mother all the pride of the house of Orsini, but from his father none of that simplicity and modesty of manner which had so powerfully contributed to render him popular. His manners were rough and displeasing to all: he yielded frequently to transports of rage, and one day, in the presence of many persons, gave his cousin a violent blow with his fist. These things were looked upon in Florence as worse than an open violation of the law, and of themselves sufficed to create for him a great number of enemies. Not only to his subjects were his manners displeasing, but from the very commencement of his reign he so disgusted all the Italian princes that Florence soon lost the preeminence which Lorenzo had gained for her. He utterly neglected the public affairs, and was solicitous only to concentrate in himself all the power of the government. Day by day he successively swept away even the few remaining semblances of liberty which Lorenzo had taken great care to leave intact, and to which the people naturally clung with affection. General dissatisfaction spread rapidly, and swept into a threatening opposition even many of the strongest partisans of the Medicean dynasty. A certain uneasy expectation of a change in public affairs began to manifest itself, a change the more necessary and desirable as Piero, deserted by citizens of repute, was forced to surround himself by men either unknown or incapable.

Meantime the multitude pressed around the pulpit of Savonarola, and looked up to him as the preacher of the anti-Mediceans. The fact that Lorenzo, at the approach of death, had desired him for a confessor, gained him many adherents among the admirers of that prince, who rapidly fell away from Piero on account of his personal faults and defective administration. The populace, moreover, recollected that Savonarola, in the sacristy of S. Mark’s, had predicted the approaching deaths of Lorenzo, of the Pope, and of the King of Naples. One portion of this prediction had been verified, and the fulfilment of another seemed close at hand. The vital powers of Pope Innocent VIII. were rapidly failing him, and he died on the 25th of April, 1492. The death of the King of Naples, it was known, must soon follow. And now all eyes were involuntarily turned to the man who had predicted the disasters which seemed impending over Italy, and whose prophecies seemed so strangely fulfilled. The universal belief in his prophecies seemed to confirm Savonarola’s confidence in his own power, and spread his name throughout the world. He was at once the cause and the victim of his own visions. His exaltation increased. The time he had foretold seemed close at hand. He read and re-read the books of prophecy, and preached with greater fervor. It is but little to be wondered at that in this frame of mind his visions went on increasing in number.

Toward the end of the same year, while preaching the Advent sermons, he had a dream which to him appeared like a vision, and which he did not hesitate to look upon as a divine revelation. He seemed to see in the heavens a hand holding a sword on which was written: _Gladius Domini super terram cito et velociter_. He heard many voices, clear and distinct, promising mercy to the good, but menacing punishments to the wicked, and crying out that the wrath of God was nigh at hand. Suddenly the sword points to the earth, the sky is overcast, it rains swords and arrows, the lightnings flash, the thunders roll, and the whole earth is given up a prey to war, famine, and pestilence.

The vision ceased with a command to Savonarola to menace the people with approaching punishments, to inspire them with the fear of God, and induce them to beseech the Lord to send good pastors to his church, who would seek and save the souls in danger of being lost. In later years we find this vision represented in an infinite number of engravings and medals, and become, as it were, a symbol of Savonarola and of his doctrine.

TO BE CONTINUED.

DANTE’S PURGATORIO.

CANTO NINTH.

FORTH from the arms of her beloved now,
Whitening the orient steep, the concubine
Of old Tithonus came, her lucent brow
Adorned with gems whose figure formed the sign
Of that cold animal whose tail with dread
Strikes trembling nations; and the night, where we
Now were, had made of her ascending tread
Two of her paces and was making three,
With wings through weariness less fully spread,
When I, in whom the weakness was alive
Of Adam’s nature, sank in slumber’s power
Where sat already on the grass all five.

Near to the dawning and about the hour
When first the little swallow wakes her lays
(Haply remembering her old woes afresh),
And when our mind, relieved of thinking, strays
More of a pilgrim from its cage of flesh
Till to its vision ‘tis almost divine,
Dreaming, I seemed to see in heaven suspended
An eagle that with golden plumes did shine
And with spread wings as he to swoop intended:
And in that place it seemed to be, methought,
Where Ganymede, abandoning his own,
Was up to heaven’s high consistory caught.
Then I considered; haply here alone
His wont to strike is, and he scorns elsewhere
To bear up what he snatches in his feet;
Methought he next wheeled somewhat in the air,
Then struck like lightning, terrible and fleet,
And rapt me up to the empyrean: there
We burned together in so fierce a heat,
And such of that imagined fire the smart,
My dream perforce was by the scorching broke.
Not otherwise Achilles with a start
Rolled his amazed eyes round him, newly woke,
And knowing nothing where he was, when flying
His mother bore him, slumbering on her breast,
From Chiron to the isle of Scyros hieing,
Whence the Greeks, after, forced him with the rest,
Than I too started! so that all repose
Fled from my features; deadly pale and chill
I grew, like one whom fear hath well-nigh froze.
Sole stood my Comforter beside me still;
My face was towards the sea-shore turned; the sun
Was risen already more than two hours high.
“Fear not,” my Lord said, “we have well begun:
Shrink not! but every way enlarge thy strength;
Thou hast arrived at Purgatory! See
Yon cliff that circles it; behold at length
The entrance, parted where it seems to be.”

In the white light that comes before the morn
While slumbering in thee lay thy soul, there came
Over the flowers this valley that adorn
A woman, saying, “Lucia is my name:
This man here sleeping let me take in care;
So shall I speed him forward on his way.”
Sordello, with his gentle comrades there,
Remained: she took thee and, at dawn of day,
Up hither sped, and I behind her straight.
Here she reposed thee; first with her fair eyes
Showing the aperture of yonder gate,
Then vanished and thy sleep in even wise.
As a man, doubting, comforteth his fear
At truth’s discovery, confident once more,
So did I change; and seeing me appear
Without inquietude, my Guide up o’er
The cliff moved on, I following in his rear.

Reader, thou well observ’st to what a height
I lift my matter, therefore wonder not
If with more art I strengthen what I write.
We still approached and now had reached the spot
Where that which first had seemed to me a rent,
Like to a fissure in a wall, my view
Made out a gate, and leading to it went
Three steps, and each was of a different hue;
A guardian sat there keeping the ascent.
As yet he spake not, and as more and more
Mine eyes I opened, on the topmost stair
I saw him sitting, and the look he wore
Was of such brightness that I could not bear.
The rays were so reflected from his face
By a drawn sword that glistened in his hand
That oft I turned to look in empty space:
Then he began: “Speak ye from where ye stand!
What seek ye here? who leads you to this place?
Take heed lest climbing upward from the strand
You come to harm!” My Master answered thus:
“A heavenly lady, of such things aware,
Spake in these words not long ago to us:
‘Go ye up yonder, for the gate is there.’
And may she speed you on your way to good!”
Rejoined that gracious guard. “Up to our flight
Advance you then!” We therefore came and stood
At the first stair, which was of marble white,
So clear and burnished, that therein I could
Behold myself, how I appear to sight.
The second was a rough stone, burnt and black
Beyond the darkest purple; through its length
And crosswise it was traversed by a crack.
The third whose mass is rested on their strength
Appeared to me of porphyry, flaming red,
Or like blood spouting from a vein; thereon
God’s Angel kept with planted feet his tread
Sitting upon the threshold’s gleaming stone,
Which seemed to me of adamant. My Guide
Led me with my good will up that ascent,
Saying, “Beg humbly that the bolt may slide!”
And at those hallowed feet devout I bent.
“In mercy open to me!” I implored,
But first I smote me thrice upon my breast.
He on my forehead with his pointed sword
Traced P. seven times, then spake me this behest:
“Wash thou these wounds when thou hast past the door.”
Ashes or dry heaps dug from gravelly earth
Were of one color with the robe he wore,
From under which two keys he next drew forth.
One was of gold, one silver; first he plied
The white, then used the yellow on the gate,
In such sort as my spirit satisfied;
Then said: “To none is passable the strait
When either of these keys be vainly tried,
And in the wards without response it grate.
One is more precious, one more asketh wise
Counsel and intellect the lock to free,
Because ‘tis this which error’s knot unties.
From Peter’s hand I hold them. He on me
Enjoined this rule, that I should rather err
In opening unto penitents, than be
Slow to unbind, if at my feet they were.”
Then of that pass he pushed the sacred gate,
Saying—“Go in; but be ye warned, before
You enter! who looks back returneth straight.”
And when the hinge-bolts of the holy door,
Which are of strong and sounding metal, rolled
Round in their sockets, the Tarpeian rock,
When robbed of good Metellus and its gold,
Rung not so loud nor yielded such a shock.
At the first thunder, as the portal swung
I looked about, and as I stood intent
Heard _Te Deum laudamus_! clearly sung,
And the gate’s music with the song was blent.
The same impression what I heard gave me
As on the listener’s hearing is begot
When men with organs join their voice, and we
Now hear the words, and now we hear them not.

UNITY.

HE who holds not this unity of the church, does he think that he holds the faith? He who strives against and resists the church, is he assured that he is in the church? For the blessed Apostle Paul teaches this same thing, and manifests the sacrament of unity, thus speaking: _There is one Body and one Spirit, even as ye are called in one Hope of your calling; one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God_. This unity firmly should we hold and maintain, especially we bishops presiding in the church, in order that we may approve the Episcopate itself to be one and undivided. Let no one deceive the brotherhood by falsehood; no one corrupt the truth of our faith by a faithless treachery. The Episcopate is one; it is a whole, in which each enjoys full possession. The church is likewise one, though she be spread abroad, and multiplies with the increase of her progeny; even as the sun has rays many, yet one light; and the tree boughs many, yet its strength is one, seated in the deep-lodged root; and as, when many streams flow down from one source, though a multiplicity of waters seems to be diffused from the bountifulness of the overflowing abundance, unity is preserved in the source itself. Part a ray of the sun from its orb, and its unity forbids this division of light; break a branch from the tree, once broken it can bud no more; cut the stream from its fountain, the remnant will be dried up. Thus the church, flooded with the light of the Lord, puts forth her rays through the whole world, with yet one light, which is spread upon all places, while its unity of body is not infringed. She stretches forth her branches over the universal earth in the riches of plenty, and pours abroad her bountiful and onward streams; yet is there one Head, one Source, one Mother, abundant in the results of her fruitfulness.—_S. Cyprian._

THE TROWEL OR THE CROSS;

FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.

“_This is your hour, and the power of darkness._”—S. Luke xxii. 53.

BOLANDEN’S stories have been received with such marked favor, both in the original and translation, that we have thought a short biographical sketch of the author would be acceptable to the readers of The Catholic World.

Joseph Edward Charles Bishoff, better known as Conrad von Bolanden, was born August 9, 1828, at lower Gailbach, a village of the Palatinate, formerly belonging to Lorraine.

His father was a wealthy merchant, and, when his son had reached a suitable age, he placed him under the direction of a private tutor; but the child gave no indication of talent, and made slow progress in his studies. He exhibited an equally backward disposition in the Latin school at Blieskastel, which he attended at the age of eight years. When his parents afterwards moved to Fischbach in Breisgau, it was his delight to roam through the forests, and remain many hours among the ruins of Hohenburg, situated upon the summit of a high mountain. To his close observation of the beauties of nature at this early age we are doubtless indebted for the graphic descriptions of natural scenery which we find in his works.

Having studied Latin for some time with the reverend pastor of Schönau, he entered, at the age of thirteen years, the Bishop’s Seminary of Speyer. Here also he was accounted a very dull scholar, for the reason that the method of instruction was unsuited to him, and because he had already commenced to write poetry and romances.

In the year 1849, he became a student of the University of Munich, and applied himself diligently to the study of theology, for he felt within himself the vocation to become a priest. During this time, he wrote a _feuilleton_ for the _Volkshalle_, published at Cologne, in which he describes an incident of the French Revolution. On the 20th day of August, 1852, he was ordained priest by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Nicholas von Weiss, in the seminary-church of Speyer, and became assistant priest of the cathedral. He devoted himself with zeal and enthusiasm to his new sphere of duty; but, at the end of two years, the bodily strength of the young assistant was completely exhausted, and he was made pastor of Kirchheim Bolanden, a small city at the Donnersberg. The parish numbered 1,303 souls, who were distributed among not less than 40 stations, in the midst of Protestants. Here again was a hard and fatiguing field of labor, but the experience which he acquired during his sojourn in Bolanden concerning the nature of Protestantism, was the foundation of his _Wedding-tour of M. Luther_. In memory of this his first mission as pastor, he called himself Conrad von Bolanden.

Ten months later, he was made pastor of Boerrstadt. There he wrote, within three years, _Eberhard of Falkenstein, or the Power of Faith_, _Franz von Sickingen_, and _Queen Bertha_.

From the year 1859 to 1869, he was pastor of Berghausen, about two miles from Speyer. Now followed in rapid succession novels and historical romances, which were at once translated into all the living languages, and gave the author a more than European fame, since his writings were printed and read also in America. His social romance, _The Progressionists_, lately reproduced in this magazine, became very popular. Workingmen of all classes made up funds to buy the book. Among the higher class also, and even in the family of a certain prince, this work created a furor; but it was the cause of great trouble to the author. A man of exalted rank and power, whose scandalous habits were known far and wide, imagined that he saw himself depicted in _The Progressionists_. The wrath of this person was the reason why many, out of fear of incurring his displeasure, avoided the presence of Bolanden. His shattered health, as well as the loss of friends, induced him, in the year 1869, to resign of his own accord his position as pastor, especially as the compensation he had received for his works had secured him an independent fortune. He purchased for himself a comfortable house in Speyer surrounded by a large garden, and there he now lives, always employed in writing, but in strict retirement.

His method of life is very regular. Every morning at nine o’clock he appears in his garden, where he occupies himself with his flowers and fruit-trees, after which he reads the newspapers and letters he has received. He never writes either in the morning or late at night. He commences work at two in the afternoon, and ceases at five.

Having no sisters, brothers, or other near relatives, Von Bolanden’s house is presided over by his aged mother, Eleonore Languet, a venerable matron, whose motherly love is never exhausted, and whose devotion is repaid by the respectful and childlike affection of her distinguished son.

One of the peculiarities of Von Bolanden is his decided aversion to travelling, and to stopping at hotels. “I feel uneasy when out of my house.” he often remarks. Like many literary men, he is very absent-minded; he will look at the clock to ascertain a day or date, and, during the hottest days of summer, he will approach an empty stove to light his cigar.

His great merits as a Catholic novelist, and his fearless exposure of historical falsehoods, as well as his efforts for the religious enlightenment of the people, have been recognized by Pope Pius IX., who has made him a Monsignore. This distinction is important, inasmuch as it implies the approval of Bolanden’s works by the highest authority on earth.

God grant that the intrepid author may be spared for many years to uphold the banner of truth, and increase his merits by waging a combat against the enemies of the Catholic Church.