Chapter VIII · (continued 3)

The Fortnightly Review (Jan. 15, 1866) has published “A Lay Sermon delivered at St. Martin’s Hall on Sunday, January 7, 1866, ON THE ADVISABLENESS OF IMPROVING NATURAL KNOWLEDGE, by Prof. T. H. Huxley.” The lay preacher thinks that the improvement of natural knowledge, besides giving us the means of avoiding pestilences, extinguishing fires, and providing modern society with material comfort, has produced two other wonderful effects: “I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas that can alone still spiritual cravings”—this is the first. “I say that natural knowledge, in desiring to ascertain the laws of comfort, has been driven to discover those of conduct, and to lay the foundation of a new morality”—this is the second. Though Mr. Huxley is a great professor, or rather because he is a great professor, we make bold to offer him a few remarks on the subject which he has chosen, and especially on the manner in which he has treated it. The reader, of course, will understand that when we speak of Mr. Huxley we mean to speak, not of the man, but of the preacher.

That natural knowledge is a good Pg 534 thing, and its improvement an advisable thing, is universally admitted and requires no proof. Hence we might ask: What is the good of a lay sermon on the advisableness of improving natural knowledge? Does any man in his senses make sermons on the advisableness of improving one’s purse, or health, or condition? A student of rhetoric would of course take up any unprofitable subject as a suitable ground for amplification or declamation; but a professor cannot, in our opinion, have had this aim in view in a lay sermon delivered at St. Martin’s Hall. Had Mr. Huxley been under the impression that natural knowledge is nowadays, for some reason or other, in a deplorable state, every one would have seen the advisableness of remedying the evil, if shown to be real. Had he proved in his sermon that natural knowledge nowadays is superficial, sophistical, or incoherent with other known truths, the opportunity of talking about the advisableness of improving it would have struck every eye and stirred every soul. But this was not the case. Natural knowledge is assumed by the lay preacher to be in a splendid and glorious state; our scientific men are accounted great men, our conquests in science admirable, and our uninterrupted progress unquestionable.

“Our ‘mathematick,’” says he, “is one which Newton would have to go to school to learn; our ’staticks, mechanicks, magneticks, chymicks, and natural experiments, constitute a mass of physical and chemical knowledge, a glimpse at which would compensate Galileo for the doings of a score of inquisitorial cardinals; our ‘physick’ and ‘anatomy’ have embraced such infinite varieties of being, have laid open such new worlds in time and space, have grappled, not unsuccessfully, with such complex problems, pp. 628, 629).

Such being the state of things, we might have expected a sermon on the means of diffusing and promoting natural knowledge; but a sermon laying stress on such a triviality as the advisableness of improving natural knowledge, when natural knowledge is quite flourishing and dazzling, seems to us to have no object at all. Unfortunately, the lay preacher did not see that it was a triviality, or, if he saw that it was, thought that his own way of dealing with it was so new and untrivial that the merit of his novel conceptions would redeem the triviality of the subject. Let us see, then, what such novel conceptions are.

That natural knowledge may help us to keep back pestilences and to extinguish fires is not a discovery of the lay preacher; we all knew it. His first discovery is that pestilences are not punishments of God, and that fires have little to do with human malice.

“Our forefathers had their own ways of accounting for each of these calamities. They submitted to the plague in humility and in penitence, for they believed it to be the judgment of God. But towards the fire they were furiously indignant, interpreting it as the effect of the malice of man, as the work of the republicans or of the Papists, according as their prepossessions ran in favor of loyalty or of Puritanism. It would, I fancy, have fared but ill with one who, standing where I now stand, in what was then a thickly-peopled and fashionable part of London, should have broached to our ancestors the doctrine which I now propound to you—that all their hypotheses were alike wrong; that the plague was no more, in their sense, a divine judgment than the fire was the work of any political or of any religious sect; but that they were themselves Pg 535 the authors of both plague and fire, and that they must look to themselves to prevent the recurrence of calamities to all appearance so peculiarly beyond the reach of human control—so evidently the result of the wrath of God or of the craft and subtlety of an enemy” (pp. 626, 627).

We think that natural knowledge will not be much improved by this Huxleyan discovery. God’s existence and providence are notoriously a most substantial part of natural knowledge; so the relegation of Deity out of the world, and the suppression of his providence over it, is no less a crime against science than against God himself, and shows no less ignorance than impiety. We cannot admit that pestilences “will only take up their abode among those who have prepared unswept and ungarnished residences for them,” nor that “their cities must have narrow, unwatered streets, foul with accumulated garbage,” nor that “their houses must be ill-drained, ill-lighted, ill-ventilated,” nor that “their subjects must be ill-washed, ill-fed, ill-clothed” (p. 630). Our reasons for denying such conclusions are many. To cite one only—of which we think that Mr. Huxley will not fail to appreciate the value—we read in one of the most authentic historical books the following:

“The word of the Lord came to Gad the prophet and the seer of David, saying: Go, and say to David: Thus saith the Lord: I give thee the choice of three things: choose one of them which thou wilt, that I may do it to thee. And when Gad was come to David, he told him, saying: Either seven years of famine shall come to thee in thy land: or thou shalt flee three months before thy adversaries: or for three days there shall be a pestilence in thy land. Now therefore deliberate, and see what answer I shall return to him that sent me. And David said to Gad: I am in a great strait: but And the Lord sent a pestilence upon Israel, from the morning unto the time appointed, and there died of the people from Dan to Bersabee seventy thousand men. And when the angel of the Lord had stretched out his hand over Jerusalem to destroy it, the Lord had pity on the affliction, and said to the angel that slew the people: It is enough: now hold thy hand” (2 Kings xxiv.)

This fact is as historical as the London plague; nor is it the only one that could be adduced. Hence we are at a loss to understand how natural knowledge can be improved by a theory which is annihilated by the most positive facts.

The next discovery of the lay preacher is no less remarkable: “I say that natural knowledge, seeking to satisfy natural wants, has found the ideas which can alone still spiritual cravings” (p. 632). What great ideas has natural knowledge introduced into men’s minds? 1st. That the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows whither, through illimitable space (p. 634); 2d, that what we call the peaceful heaven above us is but that space, filled by an infinitely subtle matter, whose particles are seething and surging like the waves of an angry sea (ibid.); 3d, that there are infinite regions where nothing is known, or ever seems to have been known, but matter and force (ibid.); 4th, that phenomena must have had a beginning, and must have an end; but their beginning is, to our conception of time, infinitely remote, and their end is as immeasurably distant (ibid.); 5th, that all matter has weight, and that the force which produces weight is co-extensive with the universe (ibid.); 6th, that matter is indestructible (p. 635); Pg 536 7th, that force is indestructible (ibid.); 8th, that everywhere we find definite order and succession of events, which seem never to be infringed (ibid.); 9th, that man is not the centre of the living world, but one amidst endless modifications of life (ibid.); 10th, that the ancient forms of existence peopling the world for ages, in relation to human experience, are infinite (ibid.); 11th, that life depends for its manifestation on particular molecular arrangements or any physical or chemical phenomenon (ibid.); 12th, that “the theology of the present has become more scientific than that of the past; because it has not only renounced idols of wood and idols of stone, but begins to see the necessity of breaking into pieces the idols built up of books and traditions and fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs, and of cherishing the noblest and most human of man’s emotions by worship, ‘for the most part of the silent sort,’ at the altar of the Unknown and Unknowable” (p. 636).

It appears that Mr. Huxley assumes that these ideas have been of late “implanted in our minds by the improvement of natural knowledge,” that they suffice to “still spiritual cravings,” and that they alone suffice, as “they alone can still spiritual cravings.” Now, the indestructibility of matter is not a new idea implanted in men’s minds by modern science. The ancient and the mediæval philosophers knew it as well as Mr. Huxley, and, if we may be allowed to state a simple truth, even better, as they could give a very good reason of the fact—a thing which would probably puzzle those great men who despise “the products of mediæval thought,” and dedicate themselves exclusively to the acquirement of

What a refreshing thought for “stilling spiritual cravings” to know that phenomena must have had a beginning and must have an end! What a consoling idea to think that the earth is but an atom among atoms, whirling no man knows whither! What a subject of delicious contemplation—the infinite regions, where nothing is known but matter and force! And then what a happiness to know that what we call “heaven” is but space filled by an infinitely subtle matter; to know that all matter has weight; to be certain that all matter is indestructible! At such thoughts, surely, the heart of man must wax warm, and spiritual cravings be stilled! Is not this a very strange discovery?

With regard to the idea that “man is not the centre of the living world, but one amid endless modifications of life,” we must confess our ignorance. We thought that such a view had been ere now peremptorily condemned as absurd by all Pg 537 competent men. But if Mr. Huxley, in a future lay sermon, is able to show that natural knowledge obliges him to reckon crabs, monkeys, and gorillas among his own ancestors, we do not see how much “our spiritual cravings” will be gratified at the thought of such a noble origin. In any case, we shall leave to Mr. Huxley the privilege of enjoying personally all the glory of a bestial genealogy.

And now we must say a word on “the theology of the present, which has become more scientific than that of the past.” The improvement of knowledge, according to our lay preacher, led theology first to renounce the idols of wood and the idols of stone. Very good; yet we may observe that such an improvement of knowledge had its origin in divine revelation, not in experimental science, and that the sect which now preaches the progress of natural knowledge has had no part in breaking the idols either of wood or stone. Then the improvement of knowledge must lead theology to break into pieces—What? “Books, traditions, fine-spun ecclesiastical cobwebs”! And men—that is, Mr. Huxley’s friends—“begin to see the necessity” of breaking all such things. This is but natural. As the outlaw detests the police and the army, and “begins to see the necessity” of breaking both into pieces, so these lovers of matter detest books and traditions on higher subjects, and their “spiritual (!) cravings” cannot be stilled unless they break traditions and books into pieces. At this we do not wonder; but as for “ecclesiastical cobwebs,” what are they? Does Mr. Huxley know any cobwebs but his own—and those, too, not very “fine-spun?”

Next comes “the worship, ‘for improved natural knowledge by proclaiming that the noblest and most human of man’s emotions is cherished by a worship which is a moral, not to say physical, impossibility.

We have now reached the bottom of the “new philosophy”; we are edified about the improvement of natural knowledge; we know what is aimed at in the lay sermons on the advisableness of improving natural knowledge; and we thank Mr. Huxley, not without a deep sense of melancholy, for his open profession of infidelity, which will very likely make harmless all lay sermons which he may venture to preach henceforward. At one thing only we are astonished; that is, that the champion of such a cause—a professor—has not been able to deal with his subject except by a strain of whimsical assertions. Is it necessary for us to teach a professor that mere assertions are good for nothing in science? A professor like Mr. Huxley should have understood that, in the case Pg 538 of new theories, the absence of proof makes men suspect the intellectual poverty of the orator. Still, the fact remains: the lay-preacher asserted much, and proved nothing. The only excuse which we think he can offer may be that a layman has no special vocation and no special grace for preaching; or, perhaps, that nemo dat quod non habet; or, lastly, that the improvement of natural knowledge is in no need of proof, the assertion of any professor being considered as a sufficient demonstration. And this leads us to the third of Mr. Huxley’s discoveries.

Let us hear him. He asks: “What are among the moral convictions most fondly held by barbarous and semi-barbarous people?” And he answers:

“They are the convictions that authority is the soundest basis of belief; that merit attaches to a readiness to believe; that the doubting disposition is a bad one, and scepticism a sin; that when good authority has pronounced what is to be believed, and faith has accepted it, reason has no further duty. There are many excellent persons who yet hold by these principles, and it is not my present business or intention to discuss their views. All I wish to bring clearly before your minds is the unquestionable fact that the improvement of natural knowledge is effected by methods which directly give the lie to all these convictions, and assume the exact reverse of each to be true.”

Then he adds:

“The improver of natural knowledge absolutely refuses to acknowledge authority as such. For him, scepticism is the highest of duties, blind faith the one unpardonable sin. And it cannot be otherwise; for every great advance in natural knowledge has involved the absolute rejection of authority, the cherishing of the keenest scepticism, the annihilation of the spirit of blind faith; and the most ardent votary of science holds his firmest convictions, not because the pp. 636, 637).

This language is undoubtedly clear, and its meaning unmistakable. All Englishmen who have any disposition to believe on good authority, from Queen Victoria down to the meanest of her subjects, are to be ranked among barbarians or semi-barbarians. And as Mr. John Stuart Mill has already decided, in his high wisdom, that barbarians can be justly compelled (for their own good, of course) to bear the yoke of a tyrant, we can, by a genial union of the views of these two great men, substantiate the result of their combined teaching. “Barbarians, for their own good, can be subjected to tyranny”—this is the major proposition drawn from Mr. Mill. “But Englishmen who respect authority and believe are but barbarians”—this is the minor of Mr. Huxley. The consequence is brutal but evident, and gives us the measure of the liberality of a certain class of liberals. Fortunately, Prof. Huxley is a very amiable man, and perhaps he does not hold without limitation the aforesaid principle of his philosophical friend. He even condescends to declare that “there are many excellent persons who yet hold those convictions of barbarous people,” and says that “it is not his present business or intention to discuss their views.” Still, we are sorry that these “excellent persons” are condemned without a Pg 539 hearing; and as for discussion, our impression is that Mr. Huxley is much afraid of it, at least “for the present.” We should prefer that our views were discussed before we are insulted on account of them. Who knows whether the issue of such a discussion would not show that the true barbarians, after all, are those very worshippers of “scepticism” or of the “Unknown” and of the “Unknowable”?

But let us abstain from retaliation; we are barbarians, and our word is worth nothing as long as we continue to hold that “authority is the soundest basis of belief.” And yet we fancy that the London plague could only be believed because the authority of a great number of eye-witnesses was the soundest basis of belief. Mr. Huxley will say that we are mistaken, as “the improver of natural knowledge absolutely refuses to acknowledge authority as such”; but he has forgotten to tell us on what grounds he himself believes the London plague. Is it perchance because “his experience teaches him that, whenever he chooses to bring his convictions into contact with their primary source, nature—whenever he thinks fit to test them by appealing to experiment and observation—nature will confirm them”? We are exceedingly anxious to know the truth. Will the lay preacher, who is so kind, enlighten us by a clear answer?

We have just said that a little discussion would very likely show that Mr. Huxley’s remarks apply to his equals rather than to those whom he endeavors to stigmatize. And as we do not belong to the school or sect of which Mr. Huxley is the representative, and accordingly do not enjoy the privilege

Mr. Huxley believes that “man is not the centre of the living world, but one amid endless modifications of life.” Whence does this conviction come? The learned professor cannot be ranked among civilized people unless he be able to show that his conviction is not grounded on authority, but on scepticism, which is “the highest duty” of an improver of knowledge. He must be prepared to show that “he holds it, not because the men he most venerates hold it, not because its verity is testified by portents and wonders, but because his experience teaches him that, whenever he thinks fit to test it by appealing to experiment and observation, nature will confirm it.” Unfortunately for him, and in spite of his uncommon power of making broad assertions, he cannot have recourse to such an answer, inasmuch as it would be received with loud peals of laughter even by his devout flock of St. Martin’s Hall. In conclusion, he has caught himself in his own trap, and we are afraid he must declare himself to be (horrible to say!) a barbarian, and an awful barbarian too; for it is with open eyes, and with other aggravating circumstances, that he has done what, according to him, only “barbarous people” do.

This being the case, no one needs to ask why Mr. Huxley informs us that it is not his present business or intention to discuss the views of those “excellent persons” who still believe. He believes himself more than they believe. They believe “when good authority has pronounced”; the lay preacher believes even without good authority. Those Pg 540 “excellent persons” smile with the “keenest scepticism” at his theory of the Unknown and of the Unknowable; but the lay preacher believes in his theory without proof and against proof, and thinks that “reason has no further duty.” And it is remarkable that he does not content himself with believing what may appear to be a view of the present or a fact of the past. This would be too little for him; he believes a great deal more: he believes in what may be called a dream of the future. Yes:

“If these ideas be destined, as I believe they are, to be more and more firmly established as the world grows older; if that spirit be fated, as I believe it is, to extend itself into all departments of human thought, and to become co-extensive with the range of knowledge; if, as our race approaches its maturity, it discovers, as I believe it will, that there is but one kind of knowledge, and but one method of acquiring it—then we, who are still children, may justly feel it our highest duty to recognize the advisableness of improving natural knowledge” (p. 637).

Who would have thought or imagined that a man could be so ill-advised as to condense three professions of blind faith in the very lines in which he intends to conclude in favor of scepticism?

The consequence of all this is appalling. For how now can Mr. Huxley again present himself to his devout congregation of St. Martin’s Hall? What can he say in his defence? The best would be to dissemble, if possible, and to ignore with a lofty unconcern his numerous blunders; but men are shrewd, and the expedient might seem an implicit confession of failure. As for “discussing the views of those excellent persons” who still hold the principles of faith, there can be Lay Sermon to be delivered at St. Martins Hall on a day not yet appointed.

The exordium might contain the following thoughts: “My friends, a sorrowful duty calls me to speak unto you. On January 7, 1866, a professor from this very place preached a sermon on the improvement of natural knowledge by unbelief, and maintained that to believe on good authority was a principle of barbarous or semi-barbarous people.… That professor, alas! was myself.… Well, it is my painful duty to tell you to-day that you have been humbugged.… Pg 541 (Cheers from the audience.) Do not cheer; have pity on me, my dear brethren. I have sinned against myself, against you, and against mankind. This is the distressing truth of which I am now ready to make the demonstration.”

The confirmation would have three parts. In the first he might say: “I have sinned against myself in two ways: First, because I uttered assertions calculated to show that I am more credulous than those whom I reprehend. Now, if men are condemned by me on the ground that they believe ‘on good authority,’ what will be the sentence reserved for me, who believe on bad authority and on no authority? Secondly, because I put myself in an awkward position as a scientific man. The distance of the earth from the sun I hitherto admitted on authority; the specific weight of most bodies on authority; the discovery of certain geologic curiosities on authority; the ratio of the circumference to the diameter on authority, etc., etc. Verification would have taken too many years of work; and this seemed to me a good excuse for assuming that there was no harm in believing. But now, as I have declared ‘scepticism to be the highest of duties,’ to be consistent, I shall be obliged to appeal without intermission to experiment and observation, and even to calculation; ‘for the man of science has learned to believe in justification not by faith, but by verification.’ And so good-by to my lay sermons! It will be quite impossible for me, while calculating anew the basis of the Napierian logarithms or the circumference of the circle, or while testing Faraday’s discoveries by actual experiments, or travelling to verify the assertions of

After developing these or similar thoughts, he would pass to the second part and say: “I have sinned against you; for the principal aim of my sermon was to make you believe what I was then saying. How is it possible, dear friends, that I should have taken pleasure in thus treating you as barbarians or semi-barbarians? Civilized men, according to the theory which I then advanced, ‘refuse to acknowledge authority as such.’ ‘Scepticism,’ according to the same theory, ‘is the highest of duties,’ and ‘blind faith an unpardonable sin.’ Such was my doctrine on January 7. Yet this very sin, this unpardonable sin, I suggested to you on that same day, and you committed it! In fact, you have believed me.… Now, for this no one is more responsible than myself. I have been your tempter; I did my best to extort your belief; I caused you to believe on my authority, to believe as barbarians believe! I plead guilty. Still, as you are so kind, I hope that you will excuse me. I admitted, after all, that ‘there are many excellent persons who yet hold the principle that merit attaches to a readiness to believe,’ and therefore both you and myself, in spite of all that you have believed, may be excellent persons. Another very good reason in my favor is that the subject of that sermon was ‘the advisableness of improving natural knowledge’; now, our common fault is a very good demonstration of such an advisableness. I might add a third reason. I told you, and I trust that you have not forgotten it, that ‘we are still children.’ Now, children, when they err, deserve indulgence, etc., etc.”

In the third part he would say Pg 542 something like the following: “I have sinned against mankind; for my sermon was calculated to create the impression that those who believe ‘when good authority has pronounced what is to be believed’ are all barbarians or semi-barbarians. This, I must be allowed to say, was a very great mistake, and perhaps an ‘unpardonable sin.’ The London plague is believed ‘on good authority,’ by all Englishmen at least, and yet—let me frankly say it—Englishmen are not all barbarians. All civilized nations believe that there has been a king called Alexander the Great, a mathematician called Archimedes, a woman called Cleopatra, an emperor called Caligula, and they believe it only ‘on good authority’; and how could this be, if belief were the lot of barbarous or semi-barbarous people? What I say of profane history must be said of the Biblical also, and even of the ecclesiastical. No doubt, dear brethren, there has been a man called Moses, who was a great legislator and prophet; there has been a man called Solomon, who was wiser than you and myself; there has been a man called Jesus, who wrought miracles in the very eyes of obstinate unbelievers, and rose from death (a thing which we, men of progress, have not yet learned to do), thereby showing that he was no mere man, but man and God. To say that this God is ‘unknown’ or ‘unknowable’ is therefore one of the greatest historical blunders. Men have known him, have loved him, and have obeyed him. Those who have believed in him became models of sanctity, of charity, and of generosity; millions among them were ready to die, and really died, for his honor, and many of them were the greatest and most cultivated

In the peroration he might say: “And now we come to our conclusion. The conclusion evidently is that true barbarians are not those who believe ‘on good authority,’ but those who endeavor to ‘still spiritual cravings’ with purely material objects. No, dear brethren, spiritual cravings cannot be stilled by knowledge of material things alone. Spiritual cravings imply the existence of a spiritual soul: and a spiritual being cannot be satisfied with the knowledge of matter alone, etc. etc. As for the idea of drawing ‘a new morality’ from the improved natural knowledge, I need scarcely tell you that it was only a joke. You know too well that morality transcends the physical laws, and cannot come out of matter; and you know also that a ‘new’ morality is as impossible as a new God, etc.” And here the orator Pg 543 might give way to the fulness of his feelings, according to the penitent disposition of the moment.

Hitherto we have addressed ourselves to the lay preacher exclusively; we will now address a word to the man. We trust that Professor Huxley will not feel offended at our remarks and suggestions. It is true that unbelievers, whilst ready, and even accustomed, to attack all mankind, are often very sensitive when they themselves are either unmasked or criticised. But we feel persuaded that Professor Huxley will not be angry with us. Our reason is, first, that we might have smiled in secret at the lay sermon on the advisableness of improving natural knowledge by unbelief; and if we did it the honor of a lengthy refutation, we have given the orator a greater importance than he himself would have expected. On the other hand, we have been attacked; and, accordingly, we would have been cowards had we been afraid of answering. Moreover, we have treated him not only fairly, but with great indulgence. What we have said is only a small part of what we might have said. We made no remark on his proposition that “whether these ideas (which alone can still spiritual cravings) are well or ill founded, is not the question” (p. 636); and yet this assertion on account of its neutrality between truth and error, would have supplied abundant matter for criticism; but we abstained. We could have animadverted on the very phrase “natural knowledge,” which he takes as meaning the blind faith,” on account of the latent assumption that faith is not prompted by reasonable motives and has no reasonable grounds. We might have pointed out the recklessness of the proposition: “There is but one kind of knowledge and but one method of acquiring it”—a proposition which, considering the general spirit of the sermon, would mean that philosophy, theology, and religion are a heap of impostures. We might have dwelt on the assertion that “verities testified by portents and wonders” are not to be admitted on this ground by the votary of science; as if portents and wonders were not facts, or as if the votary of science were obliged by his profession to blind himself to the natural evidence of supernatural facts.

It appears, then, that we had copious materials for further criticism; but we have not found it necessary to dwell upon them. What we have said is, in our opinion, sufficient for the defence of those principles which every enlightened man most cherishes as the very foundations of human society. We have remained, therefore, within the limits of a fair and equitable reply; and if we have laughed at the ignorance of the unbeliever, we have respected as far as possible the person of the professor.

Pg 544

A CHRISTMAS LEGEND.

’Twas midnight, and the Christmas bells were chiming loud and clear:

Peal after peal glad tidings bore to Christians far and near.

Those throats of metal seemed to chant in solemn tones and slow:

En puer nobis natus est: laus Jesu Domino.

The night winds heard, and thereupon took up the holy song

First learned by them when angel hosts surprised the shepherd throng.

The very river caught the strain, and whispered as it ran:

“Glory to God in heaven above; on earth be peace to man.”

The ocean from the river took the tidings glad and good;

Like monks white-cowled its crested waves in mighty chorus stood;

Then, hastening on with joyous shout, cried loud from shore to shore:

The Christ is born: let all the world its King and God adore.

Floating flakes of fleecy snow fell fast o’er frozen earth,

Just as they fell that winter night that saw the Saviour’s birth;

Through painted casements all ablaze with saintly forms and fair

Streamed light that tinged the drifted snow with color here and there;

The mighty organ loudly pealed and mingled in accord

With holy voices chanting high the anthems of their Lord:

“Venite Adoremus” sang the choristers that night

Within the old cathedral church, which shone with many a light;

“Et Verbum Caro factum est,” thus sung the chant again,

While clouds of fragrant incense rose and floated through the fane.

Many a frocked and cowléd monk and many a hooded friar,

Many a knight of high degree and many a faithful squire,

Many a youth and many a maid and many a lady fair,

Knelt side by side, and, kneeling, prayed upon the pavement bare.

But, lo! beside a pillar’s base where scarce the taper’s ray

Could light the gloom that hung around or pierce the shadows gray;

There knelt a son of Israel’s creed, whose dark and swarthy face,

Black raven hair, and liquid eyes bespoke his Jewish race.

What did he there, that Hebrew boy, that scion of the East?

Why knelt he there ’mid Christian souls to keep a Christian feast?

Why were his eyes devoutly fixed upon an image fair?

Why prayed that unbaptizéd child, why sang, why knelt he there?

* * * * *

Of wealthy Jewish parents born, young David oft had heard

The boys of that old city tell of Jesus Christ the Word,

Who, of a Jewish Virgin born, came down on earth to dwell,

To save mankind from sin and death; and oft had heard as well

How Mary, God’s dear Mother, loved all Christians great and small,

And how she never failed to hear a contrite sinner’s call.

So he, too, learned to love her well, and each and every day

That Jewish lad would clasp his hands and most devoutly say

“O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race!

Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.”

Pg 545

Thus day by day and month by month young David ever cried,

And more to learn of Christian truth with fondest ardor sighed.

On Christmas Eve he heard the bells ring sweetly from the spire,

And of one Mark, a chorister, did earnestly inquire:

“Dear Mark, why chime thy church’s bells so joyously to-night,

While all the painted windows shine with such unwonted light?”

“O David!” quick his friend rejoined, “the bells are ringing clear.

In greeting to the holiest feast throughout the Christian year;

For on this night, long years agone, was born our Blessed Lord,

By Mary in a manger laid, by angel hosts adored.

But see, dear friend, I cannot now to speak with you delay;

For swiftly to the sacristy I needs must haste away.

I am a chorister, you know,” he said with honest pride;

Then added, as he turned to leave his young companion’s side:

“My voice to-night in holy song to faithful souls shall tell

How Jesus Christ, the Son of God, came down on earth to dwell.

Good-night, good-night,” at last he said, and then away he ran.

Poor David’s eyes were filled with tears, his cheeks were pale and wan;

But as he listened to the chimes that quivered on the air,

From out his inmost heart the boy sent up his simple prayer:

“O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race!

Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.”

While thus he prayed he turned his steps towards the sacred fane,

Nor paused until he gained the porch, where such a wondrous strain

Of holy music greeted him that, trembling, half with fear

And half with joy, he hid himself, and there saw passing near

A noble rank of men and boys in wonderful array,

With flambeaux in their hands which made the church as light as day.

First came a fair-haired Christian boy, of figure tall and slight,

A smoking censer in his hand, and clad in robe of white.

Then came two acolytes, who bore two candlesticks of gold,

With tapers tall of perfumed wax of costliness untold.

A young subdeacon slowly marched these acolytes between;

A massive silver cross he bore aloft with reverent mien.

Then, two and two, came choristers in linen fair and white;

The younger first, in order due, each holding to the light

His psalter, silver-clasped, and all in vellum richly bound.

Here David gazed intently, and, so gazing, quickly found

His little friend, the chorister, who walked with steady pace,

Whose silvery voice in ringing tones filled all the holy place.

The bishop then with lordly train walked last of all the band,

A golden mitre on his head, a crosier in his hand.

His vestments ’broidered were with pearls, and rays of green and red

From emeralds fair and rubies bright on every side were shed.

When all had passed, poor David crept from out his hiding-place,

And slowly followed up the throng with soft and stealthy pace.

Then, fearing lest his Jewish dress might some attention draw,

He sank down at the pillar’s base where first his form we saw.

Then, as the holy service rose to God, and voice of prayer,

And hymns and canticles of praise filled all the listening air,

Pg 546

The Hebrew lad fell prone upon his face, and there adored,

Whilst once again to Mary he the oft-said prayer outpoured:

“O Mary of the Christians, who wast born of Israel’s race!

Take pity on a Hebrew boy who longs to see thy face.”

“Thou seest it!” cried at David’s side a clear and heavenly voice,

Whose very tones, though soft and low, made David’s heart rejoice.

He raised his face, and forthwith saw a vision standing nigh,

Around whose head there brightly shone the glory of the sky.

’Twas Mary’s self, and thus she spoke in accents sweet and mild:

“Fear not. Arise and come with me, my well-belovéd child.”

The lad arose; Our Lady dear then grasped his trembling hand,

And led him to the chancel gates unseen by all the band.

Just as they stood beneath the Rood loud rang the sacring-bell,

Which did to all the holy time of Consecration tell.

This when she heard, our Mother knelt upon the marble floor;

For Mary’s Son is Mary’s God and Lord for evermore.

She then arose and stood unseen till Holy Mass was o’er,

Then forward stepped, and, with the lad, the prelate stood before.

“Behold,” she said, and as she spoke the church was filled with light,

And all fell down upon their knees in wonder at the sight.

“Behold. I bring you here a soul who, though he knew me not,

Has ever called upon my name, and aye bewailed his lot

Because he knew not as he wished the true, the Christian creed:

I bring him that he may become an Israelite indeed.”

She spoke, and bright the radiance gleamed around her saintly head,

And odors most celestial were throughout the building shed.

Then, as the whole assembly gazed on all with mute surprise,

She vanished in a silver cloud from ’fore their wondering eyes.

The holy bishop first found voice, and thus devoutly said:

“Mother of God, thy blest command shall be at once obeyed.

Divine behests brook no delay; so here, before the night

Doth older grow, let me bestow the laver’s saving rite.”

The water brought, redemption’s stream o’er David flowed that hour,

And sparkled on his forehead white like dewdrops on a flower.

“Te Deum laudamus” chanted then the choristers with joy,

And rushed to give a kiss of peace unto the happy boy.

But what is this? He does not stir nor lift his bended head!

David, his white robe yet unstained, was kneeling calm and dead.

On that Te Deum’s outstretched wings his soul had upward soared

To keep in heaven its Christmas morn with Mary and his Lord.

Pg 547

SIR THOMAS MORE.

A HISTORICAL ROMANCE

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

XVII.

When the great city lay buried in that obscurity which the mantle of night had thrown over all, and while she seemed to sleep, resting on her bed of earth, by the banks of the river that flowed for ever with a measured sound—when she seemed to sleep at last, although neither the scholar, nor the afflicted, nor the criminal whom she enclosed in her bosom could have extinguished in the depths of their being the fire of intelligence which consumed them—there was to be seen a silent and fugitive figure gliding along by the walls of the Tower, upon which a noble and slender form was reflected. The light footfall made no sound, the sighs of her heart were stifled, and the folds of her veil hung motionless. She seated herself on the stone threshold of the awful gate, and for a long time wept in silence.

“Naught!” she said. “Not a sound to be heard. These walls are like the hearts of the judges. Children weep,” she said again. “What are tears but weakness and water? Not a gleam! It seems they have here neither fire nor life. What is this that consumes my heart? Weep, women! weep in your silken robes, under your downy coverings! As for me, it is the night wind dries my tears, and the damp earth drinks them up! When wilt thou cease to weep, and when will the heart of Margaret feel revived?… But why be astonished to feel it tremble? Has it not been broken like a precious

“‘Come, Margaret, white Margaret!’ they used to say when you trod on the grass of the fields, Come, death, or yet a moment of life.”

And the young girl, standing on tiptoe, with strong arm and powerful effort, raised the heavy bronze griffin, which fell resounding upon the brass of the doors, and then she started, for at times she was a woman.

But there was no response; and when the sound of the iron had ceased to vibrate, and, it seemed to her, had exhausted itself in the air, nothing was heard but the monotonous dashing of the waves which came to die at the foot of the wall; and nothing more disturbed the silence of the night.

“Deaf as the pity in their souls!” she said after some moments.

And this time she knocked without flinching; for already Margaret had recovered from her fears. But a long and mournful silence continued to reign.

Whilst she was trying so ineffectually to reach her father, Sir Thomas re-entered the Tower, exhausted by fatigue. He had been confined in a still more gloomy and narrow cell. A miserable lamp, high placed, dimly lighted the obscurity. He was seated in a corner, and, alone at least, he went over in his mind the agonies he had endured Pg 548 in that fatal journey. “Where is my daughter now?” he said to himself. “Alas! I saw her but an instant going out from before the judges. She will have seen that axe turned toward me. She will have said to herself there is no more hope; that I was branded with the seal of the condemned; that what she had heard was indeed true. If only she had returned to Chelsea! For they will not permit me to linger: Cromwell’s eyes gleamed with a ferocious light. Yet what have I done to this man to make him hate me so intensely? My God, permit me not to be betrayed into an emotion of hatred against” (Sir Thomas hesitated)—“against my brother,” he continued with courage; “for, after all, he is a man like myself, formed in the same mould, animated by the same intelligence; and it is better to be persecuted than to be the persecutor. Pardon him, then, O my God! Let your mercy be extended toward him, surround him on all sides, and never remember against him the evil he has wrought on me.”

While reflecting thus Sir Thomas suddenly heard a slight noise. He paused, and, seized with inexpressible anxiety, listened almost without breathing.

“It was in such manner he walked! It is he! It is Rochester!” he cried. “But no, I am mistaken; that cannot be,” he said, casting his eyes around him. “They have changed my cell; alas! I could not hear him even should he be there. It is an error of my troubled imagination.”

But the noise increased, and Sir Thomas soon heard them opening the doors which led to his cell. Some one was approaching.

“Again!” he said. “They will not, then, allow me a moment of

Pope approached More and presented the paper.

Sir Thomas calmly took it from his hands, and, looking at Pope, said: “What! Master Pope, the king has already signed the death-warrant?” Glancing over the paper, he saw that his execution was set down for the next morning at nine o’clock.

“The king, in his ineffable clemency,” said Pope with an air of constraint, “commutes your punishment to that of decapitation.”

“I am much beholden to his majesty,” said Sir Thomas. “Still, good Master Pope, I hope that my children and my friends may never have need of any such favor.”

More smiled at first; then he regarded Pope with an expression of indefinable melancholy, and was silent.

“It is true—it is too true,” stammered Pope, “that this is not a great favor. But permit me, Sir Thomas, to avow to you that your conduct appears to me so strangely obstinate that I cannot explain it, and that you yourself seem to have had the wish to irritate the king against you to the last degree. Thus, you abandon your family, you leave your home, you lose your head, and all rather than take an oath to which our bishops have readily consented.”

“Yes, consented, and not wished to take,” replied Sir Thomas, “partly through fear, partly through surprise. They have taken it, you say; but I fear that they may be already repenting it. Good Master Pope, if you live you will surely see many strange events taking place in our unhappy country. In separating herself, in spite of the law of God, Pg 549 from the Church of Rome, you will see England change her face; intestine wars will rend her; the blood of her children will flow in every direction for centuries, perchance. Who can foretell whither the path of error will lead us when once we have taken the first step? Doubtless we are still Christians; but Christians who, separated from the mother that gave them birth, will soon have lost the revivifying spirit they have received from her. The Catholic faith, I know, cannot perish from the earth; but it can depart from one country into another. If, in three hundred years from now, we were permitted to return, you and I, to this world, we should find the faith, as to-day, pure from all error, one, and resting upon the indivisible truth, yet submitting to that supreme Head, to this key of St. Peter, which indeed some mortal men shall have carried a moment in their hands, and which is so violently attacked to-day. But my country, this land that I love—for it holds the ashes of my father—what is it destined to undergo? The incoherence and diversity of human opinions; the violence, the absurdities of the passions which shall have dictated them. Divided into a thousand sects, a thousand clashing opinions, you will not find a single family, perhaps, where they are united in one common faith, in the same hope and the same charity! And this divine Word, the Sacred Scriptures, which we have received from our fathers, abandoned to the ignorance and the pride of a pretended liberty, will have, perhaps, become only the source of horrible crimes and frightful cruelties, in place of being the foundation of all good and of every virtue!”

“Verily, Sir Thomas,” said Pope,

“He may not, as you say,” replied Sir Thomas; “but he will exercise it nevertheless, and at least I shall not have to reproach myself with having contributed to it. Oh! no,” he continued, “no; and I am happy to shed my blood in testimony of this truth. For listen, Master Pope: I have not sacrificed twenty years of my life in the service of the state without having studied what were her true interests, and consequently those of society, which is at the same time her foundation and support; and I declare to you that I have recognized and am thoroughly convinced that the Catholic religion, the realization of the figurative and prophetic law given to the Jews, the development and complete perfection of the natural law, can alone be the foundation of a prosperous and happy society, because it alone possesses the highest degree of morals possible to attain; it alone bears fruit in the heart; it alone can restrain, and is able even to destroy, that selfishness, natural to man, which leads him to sacrifice everything to his desires and gratifications—a selfishness which, abandoned to itself and carried to its greatest length, renders all social order impossible, and transforms men into a crowd of enraged enemies bent on mutual destruction.

“All that tends to disrupt, then, all that would alter or attack, this excellent religion, is a mortal blow Pg 550 aimed at the country and its citizens, and necessarily tends to deprive them of that which ensures their dignity, their safety, their happiness, their hopes, and their future. Look around you at the universe, and behold on its surface the people of those unhappy countries where the light of the Catholic faith has been extinguished or has not yet been kindled. Study their governments, and behold in them the most monstrous despotisms, where blood flows like water, and the life of man is considered of less value than that of the frivolous animal which amuses him. Read the cruel laws their ferocity has dictated; learn the still more crying acts of injustice they commit, and how they pursue, as with a tearing lash, those whose weakness and stupidity have delivered them up as slaves; tremble at the recital of the tortures and barbarities they inflict before death, to which they condemn their victims without appeal as without investigation; behold the arts, spiritual affection, sublime poesy, perish there; ignorance, instability, misery, and terror succeed them, and reign without interruption and without restraint. Ah! these noble ideas of right, of justice, of order and humanity, which govern us, and ensure among us the triumph of the incredulous and proud philosopher, which makes him say and think that they alone are sufficient for society—he perceives not, blind as he is, that these are prizes in the hand of religion, who, extends them to him, and that, if he speaks like her, she speaks still better than he. I do not say—no, I do not say—that we will fall as low as the Turk, the Indian, or the American savage. So long as one glimmer of the Gospel, one souvenir of its maxims, shall remain standing in the midst

Pope listened to Sir Thomas without daring to interrupt him, and felt his heart touched by what he said. For this admirable man possessed the faculty of attracting all who saw him immediately toward him; and when they heard him speak, the strength, the justness of his thoughts and his arguments penetrated little by little into their minds, until, almost without perceiving it, they found themselves entirely changed, and astonished to feel that they were of the same opinion as himself.

Pope leaned against a stool which was there, and remained very thoughtful; for he had taken the oath himself, without dreaming that it could result in such serious consequences. Neither his convictions, however, nor his courage were such as would make him desire to give his life for the truth; but he could not refrain from admiring this devotion in the illustrious man before him. He looked at him without speaking, and seemed entirely confounded.

Mistaking the cause, and seeing him abstracted and silent, Sir Thomas supposed the conversation had wearied Pope; he therefore ceased speaking, and, taking up the death-warrant, he read it a second time. At the end his eyes filled with tears and his sight grew dim.

Pg 551 “It is, then, fixed for to-morrow!” he exclaimed—“to-morrow morning. One night only! Oh! how I wish they would permit me to write to Erasmus.[143] Pope,” said he, “shall I not be permitted to see once more, for the last time, my dearly-beloved daughter? I fear that she may be still in the city. I would like her to be sent away—that Roper should take her. Ah! Master Pope, it is not the riches or honors of this world which are difficult to sacrifice, but the affections of the heart, of the soul that lives within us, which is entirely ourselves, without which the rest is nothing.” And he again relapsed into silence.

“I do not think you will be able to see her,” said Pope, replying to the question of Sir Thomas; “and—even—” he added with painful hesitation, “I am also charged to ask you not to make any remarks to the people on the scaffold. The king hath expressly so willed, and then he will permit your wife and children to assist at your interment.”

“Ah!” replied Sir Thomas, “I thank his majesty for manifesting so much solicitude about my poor interment; but it matters little where these miserable bones be laid when I have abandoned them. God, who has made them out of nothing, will be able to find the ashes and recall them a second time into being when it shall please him to restore them to that indestructible life which he has so graciously vouchsafed to promise them.”

“You wish to speak, then?” answered Pope. “Nevertheless, I believe

“No, no!” replied Sir Thomas, “my dear Master Pope, you are mistaken. Since the king desires it, I will not speak. Most certainly I intended doing so; but since he forbids it, I will forbear. If they refuse me permission to see my daughter,” replied Sir Thomas, “I hope, at least, I may be able to see the Bishop of Rochester; since he has taken the oath, they will not fear.”

“Taken the oath!” cried Pope. “Why, he has been executed; he died to-day!”

“He died to-day!” repeated Sir Thomas. “My friend died to-day! O Cromwell! May God, whose power is infinite, hear my voice, grant my requests: may the same dangers unite us, that, following close in thy footsteps, my last sigh may be breathed with thine!”

And More, plunged in the deepest grief, slowly repeated the memorable words, the solemn words, which the holy bishop had pronounced in presence of the Lord and of his friend during the vigil of St. Thomas, when they were alone together in his home at Chelsea.

“Rochester would not take the oath, then!” continued More in a stifled voice, clasping his hands and elevating them toward heaven.

“Alas! no,” replied Pope.

“Cromwell told me he had.”

“He lied,” answered Pope, and his eyes filled with tears.

“He would not swear?”

“Never!”

“Pope,” said More, “I beg you to let me write to Erasmus. To-morrow I shall be no more! You are the last living man to whom I shall be able to speak.”

“Ah! Sir Thomas,” cried Pope Pg 552 uneasily, “if that letter were seized, what would become of me?”

“Let me write a few words on this leaf,” replied Sir Thomas, looking at a leaf of white paper belonging to the book which contained his condemnation—“a word on this leaf,” he continued. “Pope, you can cut it off and send it later when there will be no danger for you. Nay, good Pope, grant me this favor,” he added. “I have neither pen nor ink; but I have here a piece of charcoal, which I have already tried to sharpen.”

“Ah! Sir Thomas,” replied Pope, “I have not the heart to refuse you; however, I shall have cause, perhaps, to repent it.”

“No! no!” cried Sir Thomas. “If you cannot send him this last farewell without being afraid, you can burn it.”

“Write, then; I consent,” said Pope; and he handed the death-warrant to Sir Thomas, who had returned it to him.

More seized it, and wrote the following words:

“Erasmus! O Erasmus! my friend, this is the last time I shall have the happiness of pronouncing your name. An entire life, O my friend! is passed; it has glided by in a moment. Behold one about to end like a day that is closed. I have loved you as long as I have had breath; as long as I have felt my heart throb in my bosom the name of Erasmus has reigned there. Alas! I have so many things to say to you. Though the words die on my lips, your heart alone will be able to comprehend mine. May it enter; may it hear in my soul all that More has wished to say to Erasmus!

“When you receive this page, I shall be no more; it is still attached to the writ which contains my sentence of death. Erasmus, I am going to leave Margaret. I abandon my children! Our friend Pierre Gilles is here. I saw him for a moment—the moment when they were pronouncing sentence on me. Without doubt, to-morrow morning, I

“Erasmus, to live for ever, to love for ever! Farewell.

“Your brother, your friend,

“Thomas More.”

The charcoal began to crumble in his hands. He was scarcely able to trace the last words. He pressed his lips on them and returned the book to Pope.

Meanwhile, Margaret, tired of Pg 553 knocking, and losing all hope of reaching her father, was seated upon the stone step before the door of the prison, and, being wrapped in her veil, she remained motionless and mute, like a statue of stone whose head, bowed upon its garments, is the personification of sorrow and silence.

Thus she sat absorbed in thought, and the burning tears had bathed her hands and ran down on her knees, when the footstep of a man who was approaching from the quay aroused her from her reverie. Alarmed, she arose abruptly, and, placing her hand upon a long and sharp dagger she had attached to her side, she stood awaiting the intruder; but she recognized Roper.

“Margaret,” he exclaimed, “what are you doing there?” And he spoke these few words to her in a melancholy tone of voice more expressive of pain than reproach; because he sought her, knowing well where he would find her.

“It is you, Roper,” said the young girl, and she resumed her seat as before. William Roper then came and seated himself by her side; taking her cold and wet hand, he pressed it to his lips with an inexpressible oppression of heart. “O Margaret!” he said at last with a deep sigh, “why stay you here?”

“To see him again to-morrow—yes, to-morrow! But tell me, Roper, why I feel so weak; why my blood runs so cold in my veins; why I no longer have either strength or energy; why, in fact, I feel myself dying, without being able to cease to exist! O William! look at that dark river in front of us, and that black hill lifting its head beyond. Well! when the sky begins to grow white on that side, that will be the light of to-morrow which will dawn; that will be the hour of the execution St. Thomas; for that is to-morrow, and to-morrow they will come to see my father die. Then all that I love will be torn from me, and nothing more will remain to me on earth. Oh! how happy are the strong: they break or perish. Roper, speak to me of Rochester. I loved him also, that venerable man. No, do not speak of him. Hush! I know all; I have seen everything. They dragged him to the scaffold; he prayed for them while holding his feeble, attenuated neck upon the fatal block; and, detached from the earth, his soul continued in heaven the canticle it had commenced in this world.”

“Alas! yes,” said Roper. “They had to carry him to the scaffold on a chair, because he was no longer able to sustain himself.”

“Ah! Roper,” cried Margaret, “behold the fatal light! Here is the day!” And she fell, almost deprived of consciousness.

“No, Margaret, no; the hour strikes, but it strikes only the small hours of the night. It is not yet day, my beloved—it is not day!”

“Oh! how cold I am,” said the young girl, shaking the veil which enveloped her, all humid with the dews of night. “Roper, is there no more hope, then? Do you believe it? Do you believe there is no more hope—that to-morrow I will see my father die?”

“Alas!” said Roper, “Pierre Gilles has gone to seek the queen and throw himself at her feet.”

Pg 554 “Say not the queen!” cried Margaret. “Give not the name of queen to that woman!”

“At least, so they call her,” said Roper. “She is all-powerful; if she would only ask his pardon! But they press her so much! But, no, she will not do it, Margaret; she is a hyena covered with a beautiful skin. She managed to procure the head of Rochester, and with her foul hand dealt it an infamous blow.[144] Ah! Margaret, I have done wrong in speaking to you thus.” And Roper was silent, regretting the words that indignation had forced him to utter.

“She struck it!” cried Margaret. “She recoiled not before those white locks dripping with the blood her crimes caused to flow! William, I shudder at it! Oh! can you believe it? The only time that I have seen my father he spoke to me of her with tears in his eyes; he said that he prayed God to raise her soul from out the miserable depths into which she had fallen. Roper, look!—there is day!”

“No, Margaret, no!”

“But it will come! Ah! how the hours fly, and yet I would be willing.… No! no! nothing. William, I feel as though I were dying! Yet I would wish to see him again—again once more!”

Roper took the hand of his affianced. It was burning; the irregular and rapid throbbing of her veins betokened the agony that her soul endured.

“Well,” she continued after a moment’s silence, “speak, then—speak

“Margaret, I can talk no more; I feel so crushed by the excess of these afflictions that I have not even dared to glance at them.”

“Yes, you were deaf and blind; you always will be, and for a long time I have been telling you so. It is a long time, also, since I saw all, since I felt this horrible hour coming on, since I measured the weakness of my hands and curbed the strength of my mind. It is long since I knew that I must remain alone in this world; for this life will not depart from my breast, and without crime I cannot tear it away! I must live, and live deprived of everything. Do you see this weapon, Roper?” And Margaret drew the poignard, the blade of which flashed. “Were I not the daughter of More; feared I not the Lord; if his law, like a seal of brass, had not engraven his commandments on my lips and in my heart, you should see if I would not deliver my father—if Cromwell, if Henry, struck down suddenly by the arm and the hatred of a woman, would not have already, while rolling in the dust and pronouncing my name, cried to the universe that cursed was the day when they had resolved to assassinate my father! In giving my life I became mistress of theirs! Ah! where would they be to-day—this brave king, this powerful favorite? A little infected dust, from which the drunken grave-digger would instinctively turn away! But, William, raise your eyes; look at those numberless stars that gleam so brightly above our heads! The word of Him who has suspended them thus in the immensity of the heavens humbles my spirit, enchains my will. He ordains, I am silent; Pg 555 he speaks, I obey. Impotent by his prohibition alone, I can die, but not resist him.”

And Margaret, pressing her lips upon the blade of the threatening weapon, cried: “Yes, I love thee because thou art able to defend or avenge me; and if thy tempered blade remains useless in my hands, say that it is God himself who has ordered it. Let them render thanks, then, to that God whom they provoke and despise; let them return thanks to him; for neither their guards nor their pride, their crimes nor their gold, could have prevented Margaret from sweeping them from the earth which they pollute, and breaking their audacious power like a wisp of straw that is given to the winds!”

She turned toward Roper, transported by courage and grief. But she saw that he was not listening, and that, entirely crushed by the misery he experienced, he had not sufficient energy in his soul to try to resist it.

“He is already resigned!” she said. An expression of scorn and disgust contracted the features of the young girl; she abruptly withdrew the hand he held in his own; moving away from him, she went and seated herself farther off, and, remaining with her eyes fixed upon the east, awaited the moment of harrowing joy which, while restoring her father to her, would tear him away from her for ever.

As the hours slowly tolled, each one awaking a dolorous echo in her heart—when at last she saw the first rays of morning stealing over the heavens, and the rosy tint which precedes the flame of Aurora—she turned again toward Roper; but, happy mortal! his heavy eyelids had lulled his afflicted soul to sleep. As a reaper reposes sweetly in a field

Margaret arose instantly, and, seized with indignation, she advanced toward him, and, with her hands clasped, stood regarding him. “He sleeps!” she said—“he sleeps! Truly, man is a noble being, full of courage, of energy, of impassibility, of strength of mind. It is thus that they accomplish such great things! Dear Roper, you belong to this mass of men which crowds us in on every side, absorbing and devouring our lives! You are their brother, their friend; like them, during the day, you love that which laughs, that which sings, and you sleep during the night. Well! I will laugh with you, with them. Are you worthy of beholding me weep? No; my father alone shall have my last tears, and carry with him the secret of my soul.”

And Margaret, seizing the hand of Roper, shook it violently. He awoke, startled.

“It is day!” he said. “Ah! it is day! Margaret—eh! you are weeping.”

“No, I am not weeping,” replied the young girl. “I have slept also, slept very well—and I am comforted!”

“Comforted! What do you mean? Has Pierre Gilles obtained his pardon? Have they granted his freedom?”

“Yes, they have granted his freedom—from life. In a word, they will shorten it, they will drag him from the midst of you. Is that a misfortune or a benefit, an injury or a favor? This is what I cannot decide. But as for me, I remain here!”

“Margaret,” cried Roper, “what is wrong with you?” And he gazed at her, astonished at the cutting Pg 556 irony and the bitter despair expressed in the tone of her voice and imprinted on her features. “I no longer recognize you.”

“Yes, I am changed, Roper. Henceforth you shall be my only model. Who is that young woman dressed in gauze, crowned with flowers, whom the light and rapid dance carries far from the banquet and the cups filled with fragrant cordials—who casts far away from her the memory of her father, and has forgotten the grave of her mother? That is the wife of William, Margaret Roper. No, I do not want that name. Go, keep it; give it to some one who resembles yourself, to whom you may bear presents, and who, on hearing you say it, will believe that one can be happy—yes, will believe that it is possible to be happy!”

“Margaret,” said Roper, more and more surprised, “I cannot comprehend what you would say.”

“Nor do I any more,” replied the young girl, wiping her forehead; for she was warm. “But do you understand at least, Roper, that the city is awake, that they are preparing the scaffold down below, that the soldiers are astir within, that I hear the clanking of their arms, that we are very soon going to see my father pass? Tell me, Roper, how do you contrive to become so unfeeling, to love nothing, to regret nothing? Have you a secret for this? Give it to me—give me that which makes one neither feel nor speak; that one can sleep beside the axe and the prison, when within the prison lies a father whom they are about to immolate!”

And she fixed her piercing eyes on him.

“Ah! Margaret. Yes, I have slept, I have done wrong; but fatigue overcame me. It seemed to me I

“Yes, your dreams are always happy; but look, Roper, here is the reality.”

Margaret withdrew to one side under the walls of the Tower; for the door of the fortress was opened, and they saw a troop of soldiers, fully armed, preparing to march out.

“Tower Hill!” cried their commander; and they filed out in great numbers. Others succeeded them; they arranged themselves in two columns, which extended from the gate of the lower to the place of execution, still dyed with the blood of Rochester.

Meanwhile, the rumor spread abroad rapidly that they had sent for the two sheriffs; that Sir Thomas More, former lord chancellor, was going to be executed; and from all directions crowds of people rushed precipitately—some remembering the lofty position the condemned had occupied; the greater number, without thinking of anything (coming to see the criminal as they would come to see any other), impelled by instinct, habit, or want of occupation, arrived without aim, as without reflection.

Who can paint the anguish of Margaret when she felt herself surrounded, jostled, elbowed, by this turbulent throng, crowding and shouting, which pushed her up against the prison walls, threatening to carry her forcibly from the inch of ground which she had held all night; and more still by this ignoble mob of malefactors, vagabonds, of adventurers of all kinds, who came in those days of murder to learn in the public square what their own end would be, and to behold the funeral couch society had destined for them on the day they should fail in audacity or skill. Pg 557 Who can describe, express, or feel the shame that overwhelmed her soul in spite of her reason, and suffused her pure brow with the blush of ignominy, when she heard them pronounce the name of her father, howling and clapping their hands because the criminal was slow in appearing and the tragedy they awaited did not begin? Her weary eyes sought Pierre Gilles in this tumult, and he was not there. He, at least, would have understood Margaret. She was unable to explain his absence; he had no more hope—unless the queen had detained him. But he must know that the execution was near, that the hour had arrived. And if he had obtained it, and should this pardon arrive too late! A thousand times Margaret, rendered desperate, was on the point of addressing the fickle crowd surrounding her. She wanted to say to them: “I am his daughter! Oh! save my father. He who sacrificed his life, his comforts, his happiness, to govern you wisely, to render you full justice, to reconcile your families, is going to perish unjustly!” But her anxious gaze fell only on faces coarse, stupid, indolent, impassible, or vicious. Then she felt the words die on her lips, while courage and hope expired in her heart.

The hours glide away in these mortal agonies; for they pass as rapidly in the excess of sorrow as during the intoxicating seasons of joy and happiness. Presently Margaret heard a confused noise arise. The masses moved; the soldiers drew up closer, brandishing their arms—they were afraid of being overwhelmed. The crowds climbed on everything they could find: the quay, the carts, carriages, steps—they took possession of all, made ladders of everything. Margaret

“My daughter! my daughter!” said More, pressing her to his heart; “oh! what anguish to see you here.”

And his cheeks, pale and furrowed by suffering, were wet with tears that brought no relief to his soul.

At this spectacle the guards themselves were moved. “That is his daughter, his poor daughter!” they exclaimed on all sides; and by a unanimous movement of respect and compassion they stepped aside, Pg 558 forming a circle around him, while the tears flowed from all eyes.

“How beautiful she is!” said the men. “How young she is!” exclaimed the women.

“My father! my beloved father!” cried Margaret, shuddering, “beg of God that I may not survive you; that I also may soon leave this world when you abandon it! O my father! bless me again, and swear to me that you will ask God to let me die also.”

She threw herself on her knees without letting go his hands, which she bathed with a torrent of tears and pressed against her face as though without power to release them.

“Dearly beloved daughter!” said More, resting his hand upon her long, dishevelled locks, “oh! yes, may the Lord bless you as I love and bless you myself. You have been a sacred charge, a treasure of joy and happiness which he has given me; I return it to him! He is your first Father—he will never abandon you; and one day—a day not far distant, for the life of man is but a breath that passes in a moment—we shall be reunited, to be no more separated, in a blessed eternity! Margaret, since I have had the happiness of seeing you before I die, take my blessing to your brothers and your sisters; tell them, and also all my good friends, to pray the Lord for me! You know them? O Margaret! let Pierre Gilles learn from you how much I have loved him; how deeply I am touched, and grateful for this voyage he made, I doubt not for me alone. Alas! if I feel a regret in dying, it is because of not being able to tell him this myself. Why is he not with you? But I perceive Roper, my beloved daughter; give him also a thousand blessings. You know that I

“Let me follow you!” she gasped in a low voice; for she was no longer able to speak.

“Margaret, you give me pain.”

“I would follow you,” she said in still more stifled tones.

“Ah! Kingston,” exclaimed More (and the perspiration poured from his forehead), “my good friend, assist me in placing her in the hands of her husband.”

“I will do it,” cried a bellowing voice well known to Sir Thomas.

“Master Roper, come and take your wife away.” And they saw the hideous face of Cromwell pass, who surveyed those who accompanied the condemned.

In the meantime William Roper had succeeded in pushing his way through the crowd; he took the hand of More, and kissed it, weeping.

“Take her, my son,” said More, entirely occupied with Margaret. “I confide her to you, I give her to you; be her support, her friend, her defender!” And he turned to resume his march.

Margaret, observing this movement, again endeavored to rush toward him; but the crowd hurried on, the guards closed around, and she found herself separated from her father.

He cast upon her a last look, which he carried to the skies. She uttered a piercing cry; but already he had moved on and far away.

She rushed forward, endeavoring Pg 559 again to break through the crowd; but curiosity had made them form like a rampart, growing every instant around her.

She heard the commands of the military authorities; already she could not see beyond the group that surrounded her; then she almost lost the use of reason. “Save my father! save him!” she cried, extending her suppliant hands toward those who environed her, whose sympathies were diversely excited according to their different characters.

“Why have they brought this young woman to this place?” said the good ones. “His daughter, his poor daughter!” murmured the more compassionate. “She looks like a lunatic!” replied the others. “She will die from this; it will kill her. It is most cruel! If the king had only granted his pardon! He might have done it.”

“Yes, pardon, pardon!” repeated Margaret, frenzied and wandering. “They have granted his pardon, I assure you. Pierre Gilles has been to Hampton Court to find that woman. Roper, is it not so? Roper, I am dying; take me away.” And she grew pale and seemed ready to faint. Three or four hands were immediately advanced to sustain her; but Roper would not suffer them to touch her, and, raising her in his arms, he asked them to make way for him to lead her out of the crowd and from the place. The crowd opened with respect, and he assisted Margaret to the same place where she had passed the night awaiting, with her eyes fixed on the horizon, the terrible day which was to remove her for ever from her father.

“It is daylight, daylight,” said Margaret. “Yonder, Roper! And when night comes on, he will be

She kept her eyes fast closed, and poor Roper regarded her with anxiety.

“They have forced him away! You know the place where the soldiers have taken him. I have seen it—I have seen everything. But that was yesterday, Roper. I have lost my reason,” she suddenly exclaimed, opening her eyes, filled with terror. “Tell me, where is he? They will let me bury his body, will they not? I will kiss his face, I will embalm him; and you will bury me beside him, will you not, Roper? They will not leave it on the bridge—that head; I will remain on my knees until they give it to me! O Heaven! dost thou hear—dost thou hear the cries of the people? All is ended; the crime is consummated! My father has left the earth! Roper, let us go to the church; I want to pray—to pray until eternity!”

Alas! Margaret spoke truly. Arriving at the scaffold, More, after having embraced the executioner and given him a gold angel in token of forgiveness, was beheaded by the same axe, upon the very block on which the head of his friend Rochester had fallen a few hours before.

Thus perished these two illustrious men, the glory and honor of England. Thus began the cruel schism which since then has torn so many children from the church, separated a great number of Christians from the common trunk, and deprived, in the course of centuries, so many souls of the knowledge of the eternal and indivisible truth.

And now, when old England unrolls before the eyes of the eager Pg 560 explorer of the past the long list of her kings, she places one of her fingers upon the bloody diadem which encircles the brow of Henry VIII., and with the other she points out to the moved heart the spot where, their dust mingled together, sleep within the walls of her most ancient fortress the victims of the fury of this king. For she also, that first cause of so many woes—the young Anne Boleyn, so proud of her fatal beauty—passed from the throne to the scaffold at the very moment when Catherine was dying of misery, pain, and neglect in the depths of an obscure city. The odious Cromwell, who had guided her to that scaffold, was not long in following her, and his ignoble blood was at last brought to expiate in the same place that of the illustrious More.

* * * * *

Such, reader, is the recital which as a faithful historian I resolved to set before you. A book is a thought. Mine has been written to emphasize a truth in our days too often forgotten—which is, that religion alone can lead men to happiness and perfection; that, being the most perfect law which it is possible to conceive of or attain, it is to her alone we should attach ourselves, and it is by her alone the state will see reared in its midst wise and just rulers or noble and generous citizens; that all, in fine, will see wisdom, science, order, and prosperity flourish.

Princesse de Craon.

THE END.

ADVENT.

Pg 562

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1876.

The year has been one of grave anxiety to all the world. It opened in shadow; it closes in gloom. Among nations as among individuals there prevails a feeling of uneasiness, of dread at a something impending. Here at home we are happily removed from the dangers that the European nations have for centuries invited. We have no national crimes to answer for. We have not persecuted God’s church. We have not martyred his confessors. We have not sealed our Constitution with heresy. We have not betrayed a faith committed to our keeping. And these are things worth priding ourselves on, worth confirming ourselves in, in the centennial year of our Republic. They are the brightest jewels in the nation’s crown, and may they shine there for ever!

Of course we have had our faults—abundance of them. We have made mistakes, and in the course of human events will probably make many more, for nations never become great without suffering and sacrifice; they can no more hope to escape these fiery proofs than individuals. But at least we have, as a nation, been guiltless of the graver sins against God, his church, and humanity. And it is on this fact above all that men who believe in a God ruling over this world found their hopes for the future.

It is not our purpose here even to glance at our history in the past hundred years. Our present business is with the year just closing. Looking at the plain, level facts before us, we confess that they wear an ugly aspect. It is painful to be compelled to acknowledge that the dawn of the hundredth year of our national existence might have been far brighter. Unhappily, the legacy of many years of mistakes, misgovernment, and—let it be confessed with pain—of malfeasance in high places, both in State and national offices, has accumulated to fall upon this year of all others. One good, at least, has come from it. The nation, in American fashion, injured as it was, has at length faced the evil, which is in itself and due to no extraneous influence at all. The year opened with investigations. Væ victis! There was an army of political heroes waiting for their reward. There are more ways than one of sacking a city. In these days we sack nations—as witness Germany and France—and arrange the terms of the sacking in peaceful convention. There are insects that thrive and grow fat on corruption. Some of these set on the carcase of the dead South. Others settled on the offices of national, State, and municipal government. They have been eating their way into the body politic for sixteen years. There is only a rotten shell left, and this year that shell fell to pieces.

In treating of the last Presidential election in our annual review of four years back, we wrote: “General Grant was re-elected. The opposition arrayed against him … utterly broke down. General Grant’s is undoubtedly a national election; we trust, therefore, that his future term may correspond with the confidence placed in his rule by the nation; may be productive of all the good which we expect of it for the nation at large; may heal up old wounds still sore; and may lead the country wisely into a new era of prosperity and peace.”

It is plain that we bore no ill-will to the President. What shall we say of his administration to-day? What need we say in face of the action of the country regarding the administration?

The heart sickens at going over the record of the year. It is only the culmination of the preceding years of ill-government which have been duly noted in this review, and which there is no special reason now to enumerate. We would not undertake to say that the government under President Grant has, as a whole, been a failure; but in great part it undoubtedly has been. We use a studiously Pg 563 mild term in describing it as eminently unsatisfactory, and the verdict of the nation, as given in the recent Presidential elections, endorses our opinion. Whoever may be seated in the President’s chair for the next four years, President Grant and his party have been condemned by the feeling and vote of the county, not because he was so foolish as to aspire to a third term on the strength of an administration that fell to pieces of its own rottenness and on a proposed anti-Catholic ticket, but simply because the country was sick of it. The disgrace and fall of the Secretary of War, the recall of the American Minister at the English court, the disclosures of corruption and inexcusable expenditure in the civil service, the plain traces of corruption in every department of the public service down to the most obscure, such as the peddling in post-traderships by the brother of the President—all of which came to a head within the present year; the stanch support given by the President to men whom he had appointed to office, many of whose dealings were shown to be of a most doubtful character, so much so that some of them just escaped the fate of thieves by technicalities of the law that in themselves were moral condemnation—all this was only the rotten ripeness of a growth diseased from the beginning.

But if the year, notwithstanding gloomy forebodings, to which we had grown accustomed, has been one of disgrace and disaster where pride and glory ought to have had place, it has not been without its bright side. The Presidential elections have been a series of surprises. Late in last year, as we noted at the time, President Grant made what not only we but all the world regarded as a bold and infamous bid for a third term in his speech at Des Moines. He aimed at riding into power on that favorite, and too often successful, hobby of a hard-pressed politician—an anti-Catholic ticket. This, in politics in these days, we take to be the last resource of an ignoble mind. Nevertheless, the bid was undoubtedly well timed. All the world is up in arms against the Catholic Church. No government dare hold out a hand to help her and hope to live. It is only recently that the President of Ecuador did so, and what was the result? He fell at the hand of an assassin, as De Rossi fell before him. The sentiment

This was undoubtedly a clever diversion for the Republican party. Dark clouds hovered over them, but there stood the Pope. He was their old ally in difficulties, and, if only they held him up to execration, the bull they were goading would turn aside from the lancers who were drawing his life-blood, and charge only on the red rag. How miserably they misread the people of this country has been seen.

The real issue was between a corrupt and an incorrupt government. No “making of demonstrations” could conceal this fact from an outraged people. To use homely but expressive language, “the pious dodge would not work,” especially in the hands of men like Grant and Blaine. The Pope was not the author of the rings, small and great, throughout the country; he had nothing to do with post-traderships; he had not stolen a penny from the civil service; Kellogg and Chamberlain were ruling in the South, and not he; Schenck was not his Minister to London, Babcock his private secretary, Belknap his Secretary of War, Robeson his Secretary of the Navy, Pierrepont and Williams his legal advisers, Shepherd his trusted confidant, and Chandler his pet minister. The time had gone by to fight with shadows when there were such glaring realities before the people. The corruption was homespun, unfortunately. Pg 564 It was of native growth. It had aggravated and increased the financial depression, in which foreign countries had a hand to some extent. It had fostered a lavish display and gilded vulgarity which were not only unbecoming republicans but rational beings of any class or kind. It had laid the road open to constitutional dangers, and honest citizens had good reason to dread a prolongation of the term of a man who had too military a way of looking at civil affairs, and regarded lawful opposition somewhat in the light of military insubordination. These things were before the people, and they laughed at the idea of dragging the Pope in.

General Grant was thrown aside; Blaine was thrown aside. A man whose record seems to be stainless was named in his place—Mr. Hayes, the Governor of Ohio. A far abler man was set up as the Democratic candidate—Mr. Tilden, the Governor of New York. The election was probably the most stubbornly contested ever known, and the day after showed Mr. Tilden with 184 electoral votes and his opponent with 166. Three States remained doubtful—three Southern States where the negro vote predominated, and two at least of which, by the confessions of both Republicans and Democrats, had been vilely misgoverned since the war. The country had to wait, as we still wait, for the returns from those States. At the very utmost they could only give the Republican candidate a majority of one in the Electoral College, while, whatever way they went, the votes of a vast majority of the people were undoubtedly given to the Democratic candidate. The fact was undeniable: the voice of the American people was for a total change.

Then ensued a scene unexampled, perhaps, in history, certainly in the history of this country. The administration came out in all its force. State rights were invaded by the military in South Carolina—as in the opening of the year they had been invaded in Louisiana for the purpose of sustaining the Republican candidates, right or wrong—while a nation looked sullenly on.

The country has undoubtedly been on the verge of danger; but we cannot despair of the Republic while so magnificent an exhibition is given by the people of calmness, forbearance, and good sense through days and weeks fraught with every incentive to exasperation and

We have not space to deal with national topics of lesser moment, though of great interest and importance. With the centennial year came our first International Exhibition. It brought the eyes of friendly nations upon us, and, while the exhibition of the products of other and older peoples was a lesson to ourselves, a still greater lesson to them was the exhibition of our own industry and productiveness. The advance in the art and industry of the United States attracted the admiration of competent critics from all civilized nations. A more significant sign even than this is the alarm in England at the rapid growth of our iron trade, while our grain floods English markets. Ten years ago forty-four per cent. of the grain sent to England came from Russia, fourteen per cent. from the United States. Now forty four per cent. is sent from this country, and twenty-one per cent. from Russia; this, too, at a time when business generally at home was never duller—a dulness that the Presidential crisis has confirmed. Yet even at our present condition we are, as a people, more prosperous than most of the European nations. The money that people generally squandered, and that was allowed to be squandered in the national, State, and municipal governments, has at least not been spent in the forging of cannon and the mustering of dread armaments of war, in which so keen a rivalry is exhibited by the European monarchs. Such comfort, at least, as this consideration affords is fairly open to us.

THE PRESENT CONDITION OF EUROPE.

And now we turn to Europe. It would take the eye of a prophet to read the future, the pen of a Jeremias to paint the present, of the continent to which God, through his church, gave the leadership of the world. The European crisis that all men saw coming seems come at last. Four years ago we closed Pg 565 our review by saying: “War looms on the European horizon, gathers in silent thunder-clouds all around. A flash is enough to kindle the combustion and make the thunder speak. Who shall say when or whence it comes? Europe is arming, and we have good authority for saying that ‘the next war will rage over half a century’—Bismarck himself. For the church we foresee an increase of bitter and severe trials.…”