Volume 22 — THE CATHOLIC WORLD. VOL. XXII., No. 130.—JANUARY, 1876. (continued 4)

“In recurring to the expressions employed by the fathers, the members of the Bonn Conference have made choice of some of those which are vague and least explicit, instead of others which convey to the mind a clear idea. We are fully aware that, from a historical point of view, the question of the Filioque presents some difficulties. At Nicæa, in 325, the question of procession was not even mentioned, from the fact of its not having up to that time been raised. At Constantinople, in 381, in order to cut short discussions which were tending to result in a denial of the Trinity, the addition had been made to the Creed that the Holy Ghost proceeds from the Father, without mention of the Son. At the Third Council of Toledo, in 589, the faith of the church in the double procession was clearly indicated by the addition of the Filioque—an addition, which was adopted by several particular councils, and which became general in France. The popes, however, foreseeing that the Orientals—always inclined to be ill-disposed towards the West—would make this addition an excuse for breaking off into schism, appeared at first but little in favor of a modification which, although expressing with greater accuracy the faith of the church, would furnish fresh fuel to theological disputes. It was a question of prudence. But when the truth was once placed in peril, they hesitated no longer. All the West chanted the Filioque; and the Greeks themselves, on repeated occasions, and notably at the Council of Florence in 1438, confessed the double procession to be an article of the Catholic faith.”

The Old Catholics of Bonn have thus made, as it seems to us, a retrogression on this question. Will this help to secure “the union of the Christian churches” which was the object of the Conference? In outward appearance possibly it may, because all the separated communities willingly join hand in hand against the true church of Christ; but in reality, no, for the Greeks will continue to reject the procession through the Son, as the Anglicans will continue to accept it; and we have no need to say that the Catholic Church will never cease to confess the double procession, and to sing: Qui ex Patre Filioque procedit.

With regard to other subjects discussed by the meeting at Bonn, we will briefly mention that Canon Liddon spoke against the invocation of saints, and Dr. von Döllinger talked of “making a clear sweep” of the doctrine of purgatory and indulgences; although, in stating the belief of his co-religionists, he was obliged to reaffirm the doctrine of purgatory in terms nearly equivalent to those of the Creed of Pope Pius IV. On this matter, whatever the Greeks might do, how many of the Anglicans would agree with the Old Catholics? Not only are the people who go to these conferences from England in no sense representatives of the body to which they belong, but even they themselves do not always abide by what they have agreed to.[207] Dean Howson, in a statement he read at the last Conference, put a Low-Church interpretation on the resolution of last year’s Conference about the Eucharist, which interpretation Canon Liddon immediately repudiated. Before Greek or German schismatics can unite with the Church of England, they will have to make up their minds as to which of at least four theological systems is Anglicanism, and then to get that admitted by the other three.

As to the validity of Anglican orders, Dr. von Döllinger appears to have considered it as resting on the certainty of Parker’s consecration, without going into the really more important questions of Barlow’s orders, or the sufficiency of form or intention, all of which are matters of such grave doubt as to be practically worthless to any one insisting upon the necessity of certainty that the communion to which he belongs possesses the apostolic succession.

We cannot conclude this sketch of the Bonn Conference without presenting our readers with a portrait of its chief, Dr. von Döllinger, drawn by a friendly hand—that of a French apostate priest, and one of the members of the Conference—which we reproduce from the pages of the Indépendance Belge.

“M. Döllinger,” he writes, “pronounced three long and eloquent discourses, marked by that seriousness and depth which so especially characterize his manner of speaking; but notwithstanding their merit, they have not resulted in any new conclusion. May not the blame be in some measure due to M. Overbeck, who … introduced into the discussion authorities posterior to the epoch of the separation of East and West, and mingled the question of the seven œcumenical councils with that of the Filioque?… At all events, both obscurity and coldness found their way into the debates.…

“Truly, this excellent M. Döllinger seems fated to go on from one contradiction to another, and to accept one year that which he refused in the preceding. For instance, in 1871, at the congress at Munich, he energetically opposed the organization of Old-Catholic parishes; afterwards he resigned himself to consent to this. In 1871 he desired the Old Catholics to confine themselves, after his example, to protesting against the excommunication they had incurred; but later on he is willing that their priests should take upon themselves the full exercise of their ministry. In 1871 and 1872 he wished to maintain the decisions of the Council of Trent; in 1873 he decided to abandon them, as well as the alleged œcumenicity of this council. In 1872 … he considered the attempts made to establish union between the Old Catholics and the Oriental churches as at any rate imprudent, if not even compromising. In 1874 he adopted the idea of which he had been so much afraid, and has since that time used every endeavor to promote the union of the churches. Last year a proposal [for a committee to examine on what points the earliest fathers harmonized] was rejected by M. Döllinger with a certain disdain, as impracticable and even childish. Now, however, we find him obliged to come back to it, at least in part.”[208] “It is by no means in reproach but in praise that we say this,” continues the writer, adding: “He accepted with the best grace possible, in one of the sittings of the Conference this year, the observations of Prof. Osinnin on the manner of studying texts; and when an erudite and venerable man like M. Döllinger knows how to correct himself with such humility, he does but raise himself in the esteem of sincere men.”

We would here venture to observe that when “so erudite” a man as Dr. von Döllinger, and one who is acknowledged by an entire sect as its most distinguished doctor and its leader, is so little sure of his doctrine that he is continually altering it, he and his followers are surely among the last people who ought to refuse to the Pope the infallibility which he in fact arrogates to himself in setting himself above an œcumenical council, as was that of the Vatican.

If the head is represented by one of the members as being in a chronic state of uncertainty, so are the members themselves represented by another. In the Church Review (Anglican) for Sept. 18, 1875, is an article entitled “Old-Catholic Prospects,” the greater part of which consists of one of the most abusive and malignant attacks against the Catholic Church, and in an especial manner against the Jesuits, that it has ever been our lot to come upon, even in the journal in which it appears. After informing his readers that “Jesuitism has led the Pope into the egregious heresy of proclaiming his own infallibility,” and that “the Spirit of Christ, who would not rest in the Vatican Council, where all was confusion, restraint, and secrecy, (!) has brooded over the humble (?) Conference of trusting hearts” at Bonn, etc., etc., this person, with a sudden sobriety, ventures on a closer inspection of the favored sect for which he had just profanely claimed the guidance of the Eternal Spirit, while denying it to the œcumenical council where the whole episcopate of the Catholic Church was assembled with its head, the Vicar of Christ.

This writer perceives that, “on the other hand, there are dangers in the future. At present,” he says, “the Old-Catholic body is kept in order by two master minds—Dr. Döllinger and Prof. Schulte. There are innumerable elements of discord” (he adds) “manifest enough, but they are as yet subdued by reverence for Dr. Döllinger, and beat down by the sledge-hammer will of the lay professor. If either of these pilots were removed, it is impossible to say into how many fragments Old Catholicism might split. Its bishop has no means of control over minds, as have Schulte and Döllinger. Michaelis is simply abusive and violent, ready to tear down with hands and teeth, but incompetent to build. Repulsive in personal appearance, his work is that of detraction, denunciation, and destruction. To human eyes the movement is no movement at all; it contains in itself no authority to hold its members personally in check; and yet, in spite of every disadvantage, the Old-Catholic society is the expression of true feeling,” etc., etc.

But we have dwelt long enough on this picture; let us in conclusion turn to a very different one. “Rome accepts no compromise; she dictates laws,” says M. Henri Vignaud,[209] contrasting her in no friendly spirit with the sect we have been contemplating, but yet in a spirit of calmness and candor.

And this, which he intends as a reproach, is in reality a commendation. It is the true church only which can accept no compromise when the truth is in question, of which she is the faithful depository; and whatever laws she dictates are to guard the truth, dogmatic or moral, issued in God’s name and with his authority.

M. Vignaud acknowledges this in the following remarkable manner: “That cannot be conciliated which is by nature irreconcilable. There can be no compromise with faith.… Either man forges to himself the truths which must illuminate his path, or he receives them from the Deity, in which case he must submit to accept the dogma of infallibility; for without this the whole theory falls. It is for this reason that the apostolic Roman Catholicity is so strong. Subordinating reason to faith, it does not carry within it the germ of any scepticism. There can be no transacting with it, and whoever goes out of it enters, whether he is aware of the fact or not, into rationalism, of which the logical outcome is the elimination of the divine action in human affairs.”[210]

It would be scarcely possible to show more clearly that there are but two logical positions in the world of intelligences—namely, Catholicity and scepticism, or, as it is called in the present day, positivism. The next step after refusing God all action in human affairs is to refuse him existence.

The Conference at Bonn, however little it may have done in other respects, has already produced one result which was far from the intention of its promoters. It has furnished an additional proof that there is one church only which is capable of resisting the invasion of scepticism and unbelief, and that this church is the Catholic and Roman.

“Either Jesus Christ never organized a church, or the Catholic is the church which he organized.”[211]

MIDNIGHT MASS IN A CONVENT.

I have lately been reading some remarks on the curious association existing between certain tastes and odors and an involuntary exertion of the memory by which the recurrence of those tastes or odors recalls, with a vividness not otherwise to be obtained, a whole series of incidents of past life—incidents which, with their surrounding scenes, would otherwise be quite forgotten and buried out of sight by the successive overlaying of other events of greater interest or importance. Montaigne has some singular illustrations of this peculiar fact of consciousness, and there is a brief reference to the subject made in some recently republished recollections of William Hazlitt. Connected with this is the powerful influence known to be exercised in many well-authenticated cases upon the nervous sensibilities by the exhalation of particular perfumes or the scent of certain kinds of flowers harmless or agreeable to all other persons. There is a reciprocal motion of the mind which has also been noted, by which a particular train of thought recalls a certain taste or smell almost as if one received the impression from the existing action of the senses. An illustration is given in the discussion just noted, where a special association of ideas is stated to have brought back to the writer, with great vividness, the “smell of a baker’s shop in Bassorah.” Individual experiences could doubtless be accumulated to show that this mysterious short-hand mind-writing, so to term it, by means of which the memory records on its tablets, by the aid of a single sign imprinted upon a particular sense, the history of a long series of associated recollections, is not confined to the senses of taste and smell alone, but makes use of all.

The recollection of one of the happiest days of my life—a day of strong excitement and vivid pleasure, but not carried to the pitch of satiety—is inseparably associated with the warm, aromatic smell of a cigar which I lighted and puffed, walking alone down a country road. In this case the train of thought is followed by the impression on the sense. But in another instance within my experience the reciprocal action of thought and sense is reversed; the sight of a particular object in this latter case invariably bringing back to my mind, with amazing distinctness, a scene of altogether dissimilar import, lying far back in the memory. The circumstances are these:

’Tis now some years since I visited the seaport town of Shippington. It is, or was, one of those sleepy provincial cities which still retain an ante-Revolutionary odor about its dock-yard and ordnance wharves. A group of ragged urchins or a ruby-nosed man in greasy and much-frayed velveteen jacket might be seen any sunny morning diligently fishing for hours off the end of one of its deserted piers for a stray bite from a perch or a flounder. The arrival of the spring clipper-ship from Glasgow, bringing a renewal of stock for the iron merchants, or of a brig with fruit from the Mediterranean, used to set the whole wharf population astir. Great changes have taken place of late years. Railroads have been built. Instead of a single line of ocean steamships, whose fortnightly arrival was the event of the day, half a dozen foreign and domestic lines keep the port busy. Fashion, which was once very exclusive and confined to a few old families, has now asserted its sway over wider ranks, and the officers of her majesty’s gallant Onety-Oneth, and the heavy swells of Shippington society whose figures adorn the broad steps of the Shippington Club-House, have now the pleasure of criticising any fine morning a (thin) galaxy of female beauty and fashion sweeping by them, whose modes rival those of Beacon Street or Murray Hill.

But at the time of which I write—when I was a school-boy, a quarter of a century ago—it had not been much stirred by the march of these modern improvements. Her Britannic majesty was then young to the throne, and a great fervor of loyalty prevailed; and when the Royal Welsh Fusileers used to march down to the parade-ground for morning drill, with the martial drum-major and its great bearded Billy-Goat, presented by the queen, dividing the honors of the head of the regiment, it would be hard to exaggerate the enthusiasm that swelled the bosoms of the small boys and African damsels who stepped proudly along with the band. Those were grand days, quorum pars magna fui, when I too marched down the hill from the citadel, with a mind divided between awe and admiration of the drum-major—curling his mustache fiercely and twirling his staff with an air of majesty—and a latent terror of the bearded pet of the regiment, whom report declared to have destroyed three or four boys in Malta. But rare indeed were those holidays, for I was impounded most of the time in a college, where the study of the Latin Delectus gave little opportunity for the pursuit of those more attractive branches of a liberal education. About half a dozen of the boys, of whom I was one, were proficients at serving Mass. It was therefore with great joy at the distinction that we found ourselves named, one frosty Christmas Eve, to accompany Father W—— to the Convent of the Sacred Heart, about a mile distant, where he was to celebrate midnight Mass. Oh! how the snow crisped and rattled under our feet as we marched along, full of importance, after Father W——, each boy with his green bag, containing his surplice and soutane, swung over his arm! What a jolly night it was; and how the stars twinkled! We slapped our hands together, protected by our thick blue mitts, and stamped our feet like soldiers on the march to Moscow. It was after ten o’clock, and the streets were dark and nearly deserted. To us, long used to be sound asleep at that hour in our warm dormitory, each boy in his own little four-poster, with the moonlight streaming in through the windows on its white counterpane—and not daring, if we were awake, so much as to whisper to the boy next to us, under pain of condign punishment in the morning—there was something mysterious and almost ghostly in this midnight adventure. As we passed the guard-house near the general’s residence, the officer of the night, muffled in his cloak, came along on the “grand rounds.” The sentry, in his tall bear-skin hat, stops suddenly short in his walk.

“Who goes there?” he calls out in a loud, fierce voice, bringing down his bayonet to the charge.

We clung closer to Father W——’s skirts. “Rounds,” replies the officer in a voice of command, his sword rattling on the ground, iron-hard with the frost. “What rounds?” “Grand rounds!” “Advance, grand rounds, and give the countersign!” Then the sergeant of the guard, the alarm being given, rushes out into the street with his men, all with bayonets drawn and looking terrible in the moonlight. They form in line, and the officer advances. A whispered conversation takes place; the soldiers present arms and march back into the warm guard-house; and the officer passes silently on to the next guard.

While this scene was going on we stood half terrified and fascinated, hardly knowing whether to take to our heels or not. But the calm voice of Father W——, as he answered “A friend” to the sentry’s challenge, reassured us. Soon we reached the convent gate, and, entering the grounds, which were open for the occasion, found the convent all ablaze with lights. The parents and friends of the young lady pupils were permitted to attend the midnight Christmas Mass. The convent, and convent chapel which communicated with it, stood in the midst of winding walks and lawns very pretty in the summer; but the tall trees, now stripped of their leaves, swung their bare branches in the wind with a melancholy recollection of their faded beauty. Groups, in twos and threes, walked silently up the paths, muffled in cloaks and shawls, and disappeared within the chapel. We were received by the lady-superior, Mme. P——, whose kind voice and refined and gentle manners were sadly maligned by a formidable Roman nose, that struck our youthful minds with awe. What unprincipled whims does Nature sometimes take thus to impress upon the countenance the appearance of a character so alien to our true disposition! Nor is it less true that a beautiful face and a form that Heaven has endowed with all the charms of grace and fascinating beauty may hide a soul rank with vice and malice. The Becky Sharpes of the world are not all as ferret-featured as Thackeray’s heroine, whom, nevertheless, with much truth to art, he represents as attractive and alluring in her prime. But dear Mme. P——’s Roman nose was not, I have reason to believe, without its advantages; the fortuitous severity of its cast helping to maintain a degree of discipline among her young lady boarders, which a tendency to what Mr. Tennyson calls “the least little delicate curve” (vulgo, a pug), or even a purely classical Grecian, might have failed to inspire. Forgive me the treason if I venture even to hint that those young ladies in white and blue who floated in and out of Mme. P——’s parlors on reception-days, like angels cut out from the canvas on the walls, were ever less demure than their prototypes!

We altar-boys were marshalled into a long, narrow hall running parallel with the chapel. There we busied ourselves in putting on our red soutanes and white surplices, and preparing the altar for Mass. But we had a long time to wait, and while we stood there in whispering silence, and the chapel slowly filled, suddenly appeared Mme. P—— with a lay sister, carrying six little china plates full of red and white sugar-plums, and some cakes not bigger than a mouthful, to beguile our tedium. To this day the sight of one of those small plates, filled with that kind of sugar-plums, brings back to my mind with wonderful minuteness all the scenes I have described and those that followed. The long walk through the snow, the guard-house, the convent grounds, the figures of Mme. P—— and her lay sister advancing towards us, rise before me undimmed by time; and even now as I write the flavor of the sugared cassia-buds seems to be in my mouth, though it is over twenty years ago since I cracked them between my teeth with a school-boy’s relish for sweetmeats.

The feeling of distant respect engendered by the sight of Mme. P——’s nose gave way all at once to a profound sympathy and admiration for that estimable lady, as she handed us those dainties. Yet, as they disappeared before our juvenile appetites, sharpened by the frost, we could not help feeling all a boy’s contempt for the girls that could be satisfied with such stuff, instead of a good, solid piece of gingerbread that a fellow could get two or three bites at! We had no doubt that the convent girls had a congé that day, and that this was a part of the feast that had been provided for them.

We marched gravely into the sanctuary before Father W——, and took our places around the altar-steps while he ascended the altar. A deeper hush seemed to fall on the congregation kneeling with heads bowed down before the Saviour born on that blessed morning. The lights on the altar burned with a mystical halo at the midnight hour. The roses around the Crib of the infant Redeemer bloomed brighter than June. We heaped the incense into the burning censer, and the smoke rushed up in a cloud, and the odorous sweetness filled the air. Then along the vaulted roof of the chapel stole the first notes of the organ, now rising, now falling; and the murmuring voice of the priest was heard reading the Missal. Did my heart stand still when a boy—or is it touched by a memory later?—as, birdlike, the pure tones of the soprano rose, filling the church, and thrilling the whole congregation? Marvellous magic of music! Can we wonder to see an Arion borne by dolphins over the waves, and stilling the winds with his lyre? Poor Mme. L——! She had a voice of astonishing brilliancy and power. Her upper notes I have never heard excelled in flute-like clearness and sustained roundness of tone. When I heard her years later, with a more experienced ear, her voice, though a good deal worn, was still one to be singled out wherever it might be heard. She is since dead. She was a French lady of good family. Her voice had the tone of an exile. She sang the Adeste fideles on that Christmas morning with a soul-stirring pathos that impressed me so much as a boy that the same hymn, sung by celebrated singers and more pretentious choirs, has always appeared to me tame.

It would not serve my present purpose to pursue these recollections farther. Enough has been said to show how quickly the mind grasps at some one prominent point affected by sense, to group around it a tableau of associated recollections. That little china tea-plate with its blue and gilt edge, heaped over with sugar-plums, brings back to me scenes that seem to belong to another age, so radical is the change which time makes in the fortunes and even emotions of men.

When the lights were all out in the chapel, except those that burned around the Crib, and the congregation had silently departed, we wended our way back to the college with Father W—— in the chill morning air more slowly than when we started; sleepy, but our courage still unabated by reason of the great things we had shared in, and the still greater things separated from us by only one more, fast-coming dawn. We slept like tops all the morning, being excused from six o’clock Mass on account of our midnight excursion. When we joined the home circle on Christmas morning, you may be assured we had plenty to talk about. Nor was it until after dinner, and all the walnuts had been cracked, and our new pair of skates—our most prized Christmas gift—tried on and admired, that the recollection of our first Christmas Mass began to fade from our minds. Pure hearts and innocent joys of youth! How smooth the stream—nescius auræ fallacis—on which it sails its tiny craft! How rough the sea it drifts into!

S. LOUIS’ BELL.[212]

FROM CAIRO TO JERUSALEM.

Seated in the spacious hall of the new hotel in Cairo, we discussed a tour through the Holy Land. We had quitted our comfortable and home-like dahabéeah, wherein we had lived for nearly four months upon the waters of the historical Nile. A sad farewell had been said to our trusty sailors, and even those of them who had lingered around the hotel for days after our arrival, to kiss our hands as we came out, had now taken their departure. Old Abiad, our funny man, had for once worn a sober look as he bade us God-speed on our homeward voyage. Said—the indefatigable, hard-working, muscular Said, ever ready for the hardest work, and ever foremost in action—had left us with tearful eyes, and had started on his upward voyage to Keneh, to marry the young Moslem maiden to whom he had pledged his troth some few months before.

Yes, the Nile trip was really over, but on the tablets of memory was painted a most bright and beautiful picture, which time alone could efface. Still another separation: one of our party, having been in the Holy Land the previous year, was about to remain in Egypt, while the rest of us visited Syria. Father H——, Mme. D——, and the writer made the travelling party. The plans were soon settled, and a day was appointed upon which we should depart from Cairo to meet the Russian steamer which was advertised to leave Alexandria on Monday, April the 13th, A.D. 1874. One of the greatest difficulties in travelling in the East is to obtain accurate information concerning the arrival and departure of steamers and trains. When inquiring what time the train would leave Cairo for Rhoda, the terminus of the railway along the Nile, I was informed that it would leave somewhere about seven o’clock in the morning, and would reach Rhoda between six and eight in the evening; this was the most accurate information I could possibly obtain. In point of fact, the train left Cairo at nine A.M., and reached Rhoda at half-past ten at night. On Monday morning, April 13, there was a general clearing out of travellers from the hotel. At nine A.M.—and, for a wonder, punctual to the minute—we left the station at Cairo on the train going to Ismailïa. We passed through some of the richest country of the Delta, teeming with life and activity. The Sagéars, or Persian water-wheels, were sending their streams of life-giving water through the numberless little canals on every hand. Here a line of laden camels march along with stately step. There a family—father, mother, and son—accompanied by the omnipresent donkey, called to mind the flight of the Holy Family into Egypt. And well they may; for here we are in the land of Goshen, at Rameses, the home of the Israelites, the starting-point of their long, dreary wanderings. Now the railroad marks the line between the cultivated land and the sandy plains of the desert; on one side rich vegetation, nurtured by the fresh-water canal, on the other, sandy hillocks stretching away to the line of the horizon; and in a few moments we see the deep, rich blue of the water of Lake Timsah, contrasting most strikingly with the golden sand of its desert bank. Ismailïa! Ere the train has stopped we are surrounded by a crowd of Arabs thirsting for their spoil. A score of them pounce upon our baggage. After considerable shouting and threatening, we compromise, and a truce is proclaimed. We engaged two of them to carry our baggage to the steamer on the lake. O porters of the United States! how you would blush and hang your heads in shame to see these Arabs handle baggage. In my childish and untravelled simplicity I thought it most wonderful to see you lift those heavy boarding-houses, miscalled trunks, and carry them to the fourth story of a hotel. But hereafter, for porters, commend me to the Arabs. We had four or five heavy valises, one of them weighing nearly one hundred pounds, and numberless small parcels. One of the men hung these valises from his neck, and tying the smaller parcels in among them, as though by way of ornament, started off, followed by his brother porter, with our only trunk, a large and very heavy one, strapped on his back. They walked at a brisk pace to the boat, about one mile distant, and did not seem in the least fatigued when they arrived there. As we started to walk down the long avenue leading to the lake, we were beset as usual by the importunities of three or four donkey-boys, each one recounting the praises of his own animal, and speaking disparagingly of the others, yet all in the best possible humor. Running here and there, dragging after them the patient donkey, they cried out: “Him good donkey, sah; look him. Oder donkey no good; him back break. Him exquisite donkey, sah! Him Yankee Doodle!” Suddenly, in a fit of indignation, I turned upon them and howled at the top of my voice:

“Empshy Ya Kelb” (“Get out, O dog!”), when, with a roar of laughter, one little imp jumped in front of me, and exclaimed: “Oh! Howadji can speak Arabic. Him good Arab donkey. Take him, sah; him speak Arabic.” Notwithstanding this great inducement, I did not take him.

Like Aladdin’s palace, Ismailïa has sprung up almost in a single night. In 1860 the site of the present town was a barren waste of sand; but when the fresh-water canal was completed to this place, and the magic waters of the Nile were let loose upon it, the golden sands of the desert gave place to the rich verdure of vegetation; gardens, filled with the choicest fruits and flowers, sprang up on every hand. Indeed, it seems but necessary to pour the waters of the Nile on the desert to produce a soil which will grow anything to perfection. Here we see the pretty little Swiss châlet of M. de Lesseps, and a short distance beyond the palace of the viceroy, built in a few months, for the purpose of entertaining his illustrious guest at the opening of the Suez Canal.

What singular fellows these Arabs are! Our two porters demand three rupees (a rupee is worth about fifty cents) for their services. I quietly take one rupee from my pocket and offer it to them. Indignantly they reject it; and if I will not give them what they ask, they will accept nothing at all; and with loud words and angry gestures they shout and gesticulate most vehemently, complaining of the insignificant pittance I offer them for the hard work they have just gone through. I repocket the rupee, and proceed very leisurely to arrange our places on the little postal boat, which is to leave in about an hour. Having purchased tickets, and seen that everything was properly arranged, I again return to the attack, as I am now upon the offensive, and offer them the rupee. No, they will not have it; but now they will accept two rupees. Well, it being the rule of Eastern negotiations that as one party comes down the other should go up, like a balance, I increase the rupee by a franc, and after much talking they agree to accept it. But now what a change comes over them! Finding that they have extracted from me all that they possibly can, their whole manner changes, and they become as polite and affable as you please. They thank me, proffer their services to do anything for me that I may wish, kiss their hands in respectful salutation, and are off.

Our steamer is somewhat larger than a man-of-war’s boat, and our little company is soon assembled in the cabin. Besides ourselves, there are, first, a voluble young Russian who came with us from Cairo, and who precipitates himself most desperately into the strongest friendships that the time will allow with every one he meets, telling you all about himself and his family, and then finding out as much as he can about you and yours; next, a stolid Saxon, Prussian vice-consul at Cairo, a very pleasant and intelligent young man; and, lastly, a quiet, retiring young Italian lady, who, unable to speak any language besides her own, cannot join in the general conversation, which is carried on principally in French. At six o’clock we left the landing-place at Ismailïa, and, passing out the northeast corner of Lake Timsah, we entered the narrow cutting of El Guisr. The surface of these heights is the highest point in the Isthmus of Suez, being from sixty to sixty-five feet above the level of the sea. In cutting the canal through this part they were obliged to dig down some ninety feet, in order to give the canal its proper depth below the sea level. Just after we entered this cutting, the strong north wind which was blowing at the time caught madame’s parasol, whirled it out of her hand, blew it overboard, and the last we saw of it it was floating placidly along toward Suez. One sees here how perceptibly the sand is filling up the hard-won trench, and the dredging-machines are kept in constant operation to keep the channel clear. At dusk we passed a large English steamer tied up for the night—as large steamers are never allowed to travel in the canal after dark.

We soon entered Lake Menzaleh, and continued through it some twenty-seven miles to Port Said. Fifteen years ago a belt of sand, from six to nine hundred feet in width, occupied the place where Port Said now stands. Here in April, 1859, M. de Lesseps, surrounded by a handful of Europeans and a score of native workmen, gave the first blow of the spade to that great channel of communication between the East and the West. Soon the ground for the future town was made, houses erected, gardens laid out, and to-day Port Said is a town of nearly ten thousand inhabitants, with streets, squares, gardens, docks, quays, mosques, churches, and a very safe and easily-approached harbor. The name Port Said was given to it in honor of the then viceroy, Said Pasha. The next morning, when I went to the office to purchase tickets, I was informed, by the not over-polite clerk in the Russian Steamship Co.’s office, that notwithstanding it was advertised that the steamer would leave Alexandria on Monday, it would not leave until Tuesday, and consequently would not leave Port Said until Wednesday afternoon—another illustration of the uncertainty of travelling information in the East. In the afternoon I determined to go down to the lake and endeavor to shoot some flamingoes or pelicans, both of which abound here in great numbers. Leaving the town, I started to cross the wide, level plain which separated it, as I supposed, from the lake. Some distance ahead I saw numerous birds disporting themselves amid the glistening and sparkling waters of the lake. After walking for nearly an hour, I reached the spot, but no lake was there, and turning around, I saw it at the point from which I had started. Somewhat confused, I turned towards the sea, and there I saw, high up in the air, a sand-bank with women walking upon it, and a little further on two gigantic figures like light-houses moving toward me in the air. In a moment the truth flashed upon me—it was a mirage; and retracing my steps to the town, I found that the lake was in a different direction from the one I had taken. The next day we went on board the steamer, which arrived from Alexandria about ten in the morning. There is considerable excitement on board, and a number of smart-looking boats with trim crews rapidly approaching us announce the arrival of M. de Lesseps with his wife and her two nieces, en route for a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. M. de Lesseps is a man of medium height, rather stout, and with a very good-natured and jovial-looking countenance. He wears a heavy gray mustache, and his hair is silvery white. His appearance is that of a man of great energy and determination, and one to project and carry through the colossal work he has so successfully executed. The ship was very much crowded, or perhaps it would be more correct to say that the accommodations were very limited, as we did not have more than fifty first-class passengers on board, and yet there were not sufficient accommodations for them in the first cabin. Father H—— and I, together with a young Austrian with whom we had become acquainted at Port Said, were obliged to sleep in a second-class cabin. We were told that they would so arrange it that we could eat in the first saloon, and at dinner-time we found a small work-table set for four of us to eat from. However, it was quite large enough for me; for I had not been seated many minutes before I felt an unaccountable desire to go on deck and inhale the fresh air.

Having done so, I retired for the night. Bright and early the next morning I was upon deck, but I found Father H—— there before me. Madame, having a very comfortable room in the first cabin, had not yet risen. The sea was still and calm as a pond, and, turning my face toward the east, I beheld for the first time the mountain ranges of Judæa. Yea, there before me was Judæa, the land promised and given to the seed of Abraham. There, among those hills, Samson had performed his exploits of power. There the royal David and the wise Solomon had lived and reigned. Ay, and there One greater than them all, the Man-God, was born, lived, and laid down his life for the salvation of mankind. And was it really true that I, an inquisitive Yankee of the XIXth century, was soon to tread those sacred spots, hallowed with reminiscences so dear to the heart of every Christian? I could scarce believe it. Was I not in a dream, and would I not soon awake to find it all a beautiful but fleeting vision? No, it was true, and it was made most painfully apparent by the harsh clangor of the Arab boatmen, and their frantic endeavors to take possession of us, as our ship dropped anchor off the town of Jaffa. There is no harbor of any kind here, and when the sea is calm the steamers anchor about one mile from the shore, and passengers and their baggage are landed in small boats. Immediately in front of the town, and but a short distance from it, a series of partially-covered rocks forms a wall, broken only by two channels or gateways, one about ten feet in width, and the other a little wider. Through these the sea dashes with tremendous fury, and as the little boat approaches it is caught upon the summit of some breaker, and dashed through the opening into the quiet haven behind. When it is stormy, the steamers do not stop here at all, but land their passengers a short distance farther up the coast. The bright, genial face of Father Guido (president of the Casa Nuova) soon welcomed us to Palestine. He had come down from Jerusalem to meet M. de Lesseps, and to offer him the hospitality of their convent, which was thankfully accepted. We soon disembarked and entered a small boat, accompanied by our trusty dragoman, Ali Aboo Suleyman, who had travelled with one of our party the previous year, and whom I believe to be one of the best dragomans in the East. Our boat, propelled by the strong arms of a half-score of powerful Arabs, soon brought us alongside of the town. Passing through a narrow gateway, and giving a substantial and material wink to the revenue official, we, with our baggage, were soon deposited at the door of the Latin convent. After greeting the kind and hospitable fathers, and arranging terms with Ali, we started out for a short walk. Traversing the narrow, tortuous streets and filthy alleys, jostled by camels, horses, donkeys, and preceded by Achmud, Ali’s youngest son—a lad of fourteen years, who, with a pompous and authoritative air, pushed aside old men and young, women and children, and would have done the same with the camels had he been able, to make room for the Howadji—we reached the spot where stood in former days the house of Simon the tanner. Here the Apostle Peter resided many days, and here he saw the vision of the clean and unclean beasts, wherein the voice commanded him saying: “Arise, Peter, kill and eat.” A small mosque now occupies the site of the house. The streets were thronged with Russian pilgrims returning from their Easter pilgrimage to the Holy City. Many of them will leave in the afternoon on the steamer which has brought us from Egypt, and in a few short days will be at Odessa, whence the railway will carry them to St. Petersburg. About three in the afternoon, accompanied by an Irish priest who had lived in Malta for several years, we mounted our horses and started for Jerusalem. We had been most hospitably entertained by the kind fathers at the convent; a large room and an excellent breakfast had been provided for us, but no remuneration asked. We, of course, made a donation, which was thankfully received. We rode through the narrow streets, passed out the gate, and in a few moments were among the world-famous orange-groves of Jaffa. The sky was cloudless, the weather like a beautiful May day at home, and the air heavy with the delicious fragrance of the oranges. We rode for nearly a mile through these beautiful groves. Meanwhile, Ali provided himself with numbers of these large oranges, and soon for the first time I tasted an orange that I really enjoyed. Just plucked from the tree, with skin half an inch in thickness, and without seeds, this luscious fruit seems almost to dissolve in the mouth like ice-cream. Ali owns a large grove, from which he gathers about one hundred and fifty thousand oranges per annum. These he sells in large quantities at the rate of two pounds sterling per thousand, yielding him a very nice income, as the expense of taking care of them is very small. Now we are riding along the level plain which separates the Judæan hills from the bright blue waters of the Mediterranean, and a little after six o’clock we drew rein at the Latin convent in Ramleh. It is almost useless for me to speak of the kindness and hospitality of these good Franciscan fathers of the Holy Land, as it is known throughout the world, and abler pens than mine have endeavored, but in vain, to praise them as they deserve. Unselfish, kind, burying self completely in the great work they have undertaken, they have given up their homes, families, and all that was dear to them, to live a monastic life among these sacred spots, to guard these holy places, and, like ministering angels, to assist pilgrims from every clime and of every Christian race and nationality. Clad in the humble garb of their order, they go quietly and unostentatiously through life, sacrificing themselves at every turn for the benefit and comfort of others. They have stood through centuries, a devoted band of chivalrous knights guarding the spots rendered sacred by the presence of their God. May he in his goodness reward them by permitting them to stand as a noble guard of honor around his celestial throne in the heavenly hereafter! After a comfortable night’s rest and a good breakfast, we started at six o’clock, in order to avoid the intense heat of midday. M. de Lesseps and party had preceded us by nearly two hours. As we rode out the convent gate, numbers of lepers, with shrunken limbs and distorted countenances, clamored piteously for alms. We dropped some small coins into their tin boxes, which they carry so that there may be no possibility of contact with the compassionate passer-by who may bestow alms upon them. We rode for some time across a level plain, and near ten o’clock reached Bab-el-Wady (Gate of the Valley), at the foot of the mountain range. Here we found a very comfortable house, which has been erected for the sake of affording accommodation to pilgrims. We lunched here, took a short nap, and started on our way about two in the afternoon. The whole distance from Jaffa to Jerusalem is not over thirty-six miles; but fast riding is not practicable on account of the baggage, which is transported on mules at a very slow pace; consequently, it generally requires two days to make the trip, whereas a moderately fast horse could easily accomplish the journey in seven or eight hours. We now enter Wady Ali. One could scarcely imagine a more suitable place for lurking bandits to conceal themselves in than among the thick undergrowth here. Their musket-barrels might almost touch their unconscious victim’s breast, without being visible, and many a tale has been told and retold around the Howadji’s camp-fire of their exploits of robbery and murder in this place. But now, thanks to the strict though tardy vigilance of the sultan, the pass is free from danger.

What feelings of emotion now fill my breast! The dreams of my childhood are being realized—I am in the Holy Land! Reaching the summit of one of the ridges, a beautiful panorama is spread out before us. At our feet lies the valley of Sharon, dressed in the richest green, and ornamented with the bright, beautiful wild flowers of early spring; beyond lies the plain of Ramleh, and in the distance, like a silver frame, sparkles and glistens the bright waters of the Mediterranean. Anon we see beneath us the beautiful valley of Beit Hanina, and Ali, laying one hand on my shoulder, points to a little village nestled amid the olive-groves in the valley. Yes, that is Ain-Karim, the place of the Visitation of the Blessed Virgin—the spot where was born the “greatest of men.” We check our horses but for a moment; we have no eyes for that now. Every gaze is fixed upon that small yellow house upon the top of the opposite hill; for has not Ali told us that from that point we shall see the Eternal City? Riding rapidly down the mountain-side, we do not even stop as we cross the brook—where David gathered the pebbles with which he slew his gigantic adversary—and push rapidly up the opposite mountain. Father H—— and I are in advance, while madame rides behind with the Irish priest. The shades of evening are now falling, and I fear lest night may come on before we reach the city. Scarce a word is spoken; my heart beats with excitement, such as it has never known before, and seems as though it would break through its prison-house, so eager, so anxious, is it to move quickly on. Unable to restrain my impatience, I give my horse a blow with my riding-whip, and he starts on a full run. Father H—— calls me back. We have travelled so long and shared so many pleasures together, let us together share the great pleasure of the first sight of Jerusalem. I rein in my horse, and ride by his side. Now the top of the hill is reached, and it is yet light; but we have mistaken the house—it is another one still farther on. It is now twilight. We speak not a word, but, bent forward, we scan the horizon with piercing eyes, as though we would penetrate the mountains themselves, so eager are we to see the city. I hail a passing boy: “Fin el Kuds?” (“Where is Jerusalem?”), but with a stupid stare he passes on. A few moments more the house is reached, and Sion, royal city of David, lies before us! Waiting until the rest of the party ride up, we dismount, kneel, kiss the ground, and then recite aloud the psalm Lætatus Sum, a Pater Noster, and an Ave Maria, remount, enter the city by the Jaffa gate, ride to our comfortable quarters at the Latin Hospice, and are in Jerusalem.

At the convent we were entertained in the most hospitable manner, and provided with the neatest and tidiest of rooms. Early the next morning Father H—— and I sallied forth to call on Père Ratisbonne. Following the Via Sacra, we stopped before an iron gate a short distance below the arch Ecce Homo, and little Achmud, picking up a large stone, pounded upon it as though he were repaying a grudge which he had cherished against it for centuries. I ventured to remonstrate, suggesting that they might be displeased at so much noise being made. But he answered very coolly—meanwhile continuing the pounding as if his future happiness depended upon making a hole in the door—that he wanted to inform those inside that some visitors wished to call upon them. I said nothing, but doubted seriously whether that would be the impression produced on their minds. Had it been in America, and had I been inside, I should have imagined that it was an election row, or a fire during the reign of the volunteer fire department. But notwithstanding all this, no one appeared, and we moved away disgusted, only to find that we had been at the wrong place, and to be farther informed that Père Ratisbonne was in Paris.

What shall I say of the sacred spots of Jerusalem, which so many abler pens than mine have attempted to describe?—vainly endeavoring to portray the inexpressible emotions that crowd the breast of every Christian as he kneels before them for the first time! Perhaps I can convey to my readers some idea of the feeling which continually pervaded my whole being. It was as if the curtain of the past had been rolled back, placing me face to face with the living actors in that great tragedy of our Redemption eighteen hundred years ago. What contributed in a great measure to this was that we had lived during the winter in an atmosphere of three or four thousand years ago. We had scarcely esteemed it worth while to look at the ruins of the Ptolemys, they seemed so recent after the massive temples of the Rameses and the Ositarsens, and now the beginning of the Christian era appeared but an affair of yesterday. The Adamic and Mosaic dispensations seemed a little old, ’tis true, but the Christian dispensation was yet to us in all the glory of its early morn. I felt, as I crossed the Kedron and read the Holy Gospels seated beneath the olive-trees in the garden of Gethsemane, as if even I had been a personal follower of the Man-God, and in imagination could hear the hosannas of praise as he rode past me on the ass on the way from Bethany. Before this religion had seemed to me more like an intellectual idea. Now I felt that I knew Him as a friend, and my heart beat earnest acquiescence to Father H——’s remark: “Coming from Egypt, Christ appears a modern personage; and the visit to the sacred places of Palestine adds to the intellectual and moral conviction of the truth of Christianity, the feeling and strength of personal friendship with its Author.”

On Sunday Father H—— celebrated Mass at the altar erected on the spot where the Blessed Virgin stood during the Crucifixion. The hole in the rock wherein the sacred cross was planted belongs to the Greeks, and over it they have erected an altar, loaded down, like all their other altars, with tawdry finery. On another occasion I had the happiness to serve Father H——’s Mass on the spot where our Lord was nailed to the cross. But the greatest happiness of all was reserved for the morning we left the Holy City, when madame and I received Holy Communion from the hands of Father H——, who celebrated Mass, which I served, in the Holy Sepulchre itself. Hic Jesus Christus sepultus est. In that little tomb the three of us, who had shared together the pleasures and dangers of a long voyage in Egypt and Nubia—here on the very spot where He was entombed, we alone, in early morn, received his sacred body and blood, giving fresh life and courage to our souls for our future struggles with the world. How much better, instead of incrusting the sepulchre with marble and gems, to have left it as it was, rude and simple as when the Man-God was laid in it! But one sacred spot is left in its primitive state—the grotto of the Agony. A simple altar has been erected in it, and a marble tablet let into the wall with this inscription upon it: “Hic factus est sudor ejus sicut guttæ sanguinis decurrentis in terram.” The walls and roof of the grotto are to-day as they were that terrible night when they witnessed the sweat as drops of blood rolling down his sacred face.

The limits of this article will not permit me to tell how we wandered reverentially along the Via Sacra, or gazed in admiration from Olivet’s summit on Jerusalem the Golden lying at our feet; of our interesting visit to the residence of the Princesse de La Tour d’Auvergne, on the spot where the apostles were taught the Lord’s Prayer, which she has inscribed on the court-yard walls in every written language. I could tell of our visit to the Cœnaculum to the Temple, the tomb of the Blessed Virgin, our walks through the Valley of Jehoshaphat; but these descriptions are so familiar to every Christian that I will content myself with relating more of the personal incidents which befell us than general descriptions of what we saw.

Father H—— and I left Jerusalem on Tuesday morning, and, after riding several hours, camped for the night near the Greek convent of Mars Saba. No woman is allowed to enter this convent, and men only with permission of the Greek Patriarch of Jerusalem. We visited the tomb of S. Saba, model of anchorites, and saw in one room the skulls of fourteen thousand of his brethren, most of them massacred by the Bedouins. Rev. Mr. Chambers, of New York, with two young friends, was encamped near us, and we spent a very pleasant evening in their tent. At five o’clock the next morning we were in the saddle, en route for the Dead Sea. We had a Bedouin escort, who was attired in a dilapidated, soiled night-shirt, and was scarcely ever with us, either taking short cuts down the mountain-side—as he was on foot—and getting far in advance of us, or lagging equally as far in the rear. Nevertheless, it was a powerful escort—had we not paid the sheik of the tribe five dollars for it? and did it not represent the force and power of a mighty tribe of Bedouins? In sober earnest, this hatless, shoeless escort was a real protection; for if we had been attacked while he was with us, his tribe, or the sheik of it, would have been forced by the authorities to make good our loss, and, moreover, the attacking tribe would have incurred the enmity of our escort’s tribe—a very serious thing in this part of the world, and among men whose belief is: Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed. The Bedouins find this way of robbing travellers more profitable than the old-time system of taking their victim’s property vi et armis, for in the latter instance they are liable to be pursued, caught, and punished; while in the former, by exacting a fee from the traveller and furnishing an escort in return, they make considerable money without fear of punishment. While riding along toward the Dead Sea, I frequently dismounted to shoot partridges, and on remounting I took out the cartridges which had not been used, before handing my gun to the escort, who carried it for me. On one occasion, when near the Dead Sea, I had pursued several partridges, but did not get a shot at them, and returning to my horse, held by the escort, I was about to draw out the cartridges when he requested me to let them remain, so that I should not have the trouble of reloading for the next shot. I shook my head with a negative motion, when he replied in an humble tone: “Very well. I am a Bedouin, and of course you cannot trust me.” And then flashed across my mind that terrible curse pronounced upon Ishmael and his descendants: “His hand shall be against every man, and every man’s against him.” Feeling sorry for the poor fellow, I looked him straight in the eye, as though expressing my confidence in him, and handed him the loaded gun. I was alone with him now, as the rest of the party had ridden on a mile or two in advance. But I felt perfectly safe, because he was walking ahead of me, and, had he meditated treachery, I had my revolver in my belt, and could have killed him before he could raise the gun to shoot. However, I presume that he simply wanted to play sportsman himself; for when he returned me the gun, some hours afterwards, both barrels were empty. About ten o’clock we reached the barren shores of the Dead Sea, passing, very close to it, numberless heaps of cinders, indicating a recent Bedouin encampment. We took a long bath in these buoyant waters. I sank as far as my neck, and then walked through the water as though on land. I remained nearly an hour in the water without touching the bottom. It is very difficult to swim, as, when one assumes the swimming position, the legs are thrown half out of the water. These waters, covering the site of Sodom and Gomorrha, are clear as crystal, yet to the taste are bitter as gall. Riding along the plain for a short hour, we entered the luxurious vegetation on the banks of the Jordan, and dismounted near the place where S. John baptized our Lord. Swift-flowing, muddy, turbulent Jordan! shall I ever forget thee or the pleasant swim I had in thy sweet waters? Father H—— and I dozed for about an hour, took a lunch, and then, remounting, rode across the level plain of Jericho, and about five o’clock reached our tent, pitched on the site of ancient Jericho, at the foot of the Mount of Temptation, where Satan would tempt our Lord with the vain, fruitless riches of this world. After dinner we walked a short distance, and sat down on the limb of a tree overhanging the sweet waters of the heaven-healed fountain of Elisha. Surrounded by armed Bedouins, who watched our every motion with eager curiosity, and occasionally in plaintive tones requested backsheesh, we passed a delightful hour recalling the sacred reminiscences connected with the spots around us. Behind us a crumbling ruin marks the site of once proud Jericho—the city to which the warlike Joshua sent the spies from the Moabitish hills beyond the Jordan; the city destroyed by the Israelitish trumpet-blast, and against which the terrible curse was pronounced: “Cursed be the man before the Lord that riseth up, and buildeth this city Jericho: he shall lay the foundation thereof in his first-born, and in his youngest son he shall set up the gates of it”—a curse which was most fearfully fulfilled. Yonder Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind. Far away in the distance the Dead Sea, hemmed in by its mountain banks, lies calm and placid in the dying sunset. At our feet is the broad plain of Jericho, and at our back the mountains of Judæa. How singular it must have seemed to the Israelites when they first saw mountains covered with trees and verdure! In their old Egyptian home they had seen but sand-mountains, the vegetation in no place extending beyond the level ground; and now for the first time after their dreary desert wanderings they saw the vegetation creeping up the mountain-side even to its summit, and thousands of sheep browsing upon it on every hand. Early the next morning we were in the saddle, en route for Jerusalem, and, passing the spot where the good Samaritan ministered to the poor man who had fallen among thieves, we reached Bethany about noon. Procuring some tapers from an old woman, we descended into the tomb from which the voice of his God had called forth the dead Lazarus. A flight of steps leads down some distance into a small chamber, which is to-day in the same condition as when Martha’s brother, arising from the dead, testified to the assembled crowd the power of Jesus of Nazareth. From here we ascended Olivet, and from its summit looked with admiration upon the beautiful panorama spread out beneath us, and lunched under the venerable olive-trees, which perhaps had cast their shade upon the weary form of our Saviour, and had witnessed the glorious miracle of his Ascension. Soon after we reached our convent home.

The Jews in the Holy City are much fairer than their brethren in America. They wear the old-time gabardine, belted at the waist and extending to the ankles; on the head a high black felt hat with broad brim, while two curls hang down the cheek on either side. They are a sorrowful-looking race, fascinating to gaze upon as connected with the great Drama, yet inspiring me at the same time with a feeling of disgust which I could not control. How striking a picture of their degradation and fall from their once proud estate as the chosen ones of God, is shown as they gather on Fridays to their wailing-place; five courses of large bevelled stones being all that remain of Solomon’s grand Temple! Here are Jews of all ages and of both sexes, crying bitterly over fallen Jerusalem. Old men, tottering up, bury their faces in the joints and cavities, and weep aloud as though their hearts were breaking, while in chorus comes the low, plaintive wail of the women. In and among, and around and about them, with shouts of mirth and laughter, play the children of the Arab conquerors. The Jews are permitted to weep here unmolested.

On Sunday afternoon, accompanied by Father Guido, we went to Bethlehem. We passed the night in the Latin convent, and the next morning madame and I received Holy Communion from the hands of Father H——, who celebrated Mass in the Crib of the Nativity, on the spot where the Wise Men stood when adoring the new-born Babe. The very spot where Christ was born is marked by a silver star, with this inscription upon it: “Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus Natus est.” The star belongs to the Latins, but the altar over it to the Greeks, who have several times attempted to carry off the star, but unsuccessfully. They, of course, will not permit the Latins to celebrate Mass upon the altar. The Greeks, being more powerful, are continually harassing and heaping all sorts of indignities upon the Latins, who are obliged to submit to them. Shame upon the Catholic nations of Europe—nations which in bygone times sent forth those noble bands of Crusaders, sacrificing their lives to rescue the holy places from infidel hands! But Easter a year ago they destroyed the valuable hangings in the Holy Crib, presented to the Latins by the French government, and stole two pictures from their altars valued at six thousand dollars apiece. Nay, more than this: they even severely wounded with a sword the Franciscan brother who endeavored to prevent the execution of their nefarious designs. And again the past Easter, but a few days before we were there, witnessed another of these terrible scenes of barbarism and inhumanity. A number of unoffending pilgrims, just returned from their annual Easter visit to the Jordan, were denied entrance by the Greeks to the basilica over the Holy Crib. And when they insisted upon entering the church—which is common property, and in which they had a perfect right to go—and attempted to force their way in, they were arrested by the Turkish governor of Bethlehem—who is in league with the Greeks—under the pretext that they were inciting to riot, and cast into a loathsome dungeon in Jerusalem. But, thanks to the exertions of M. de Lesseps, they were subsequently released.

I rode over to the hill where the shepherds watched their flocks that eventful night when the angels announced to them the “glad tidings of great joy.” In the afternoon we rode across the mountains to Ain-Karim, the birth-place of S. John the Baptist.

The women in this part of the country, but particularly in Bethlehem and its vicinity, carry all their fortunes on their heads. Dressed in the picturesque garb of the Moabitish women, their coins are hung in great numbers from their caps. One young mother, with her babe in her arms, and with her cap almost covered with rows of gold coins, approached me at Ain-Karim, and begged me in a piteous tone for a copper, and appeared delighted when I gave it to her. They would almost sooner starve than part with these coins, in which they take great pride; but I imagine that after they are married their husbands find means of obtaining possession of them, and then they get into general circulation again. We went to see the scene of the Visitation, over which an altar had been erected in the early ages of Christianity, but which had been concealed for centuries, and only accidentally discovered of late by the Latins in renovating their church. Alongside the altar is the impression of a baby in the rock. It is said that when Herod’s soldiers came to the house of S. Elizabeth to execute their master’s murderous commands to massacre the little innocents, the saintly mother pressed her infant against the wall, which opened, received him, and then, closing again, hid him from view; and thus was he saved to grow up a voice crying in the wilderness, “Make straight the way of the Lord.” We spent the night in the convent built on the site of the house where was born this “greatest of men.” The next day we returned to Jerusalem, visiting en route the Greek church on the spot where grew the tree from which the sacred cross was made.

Shortly after this we left the Holy City, soon bade farewell to our trusty dragoman, and embarked on the Tibre at Jaffa, bound for Marseilles. Oh! what impressions were made upon me by my short sojourn among those sacred places. How my faith was strengthened, and my love and devotion increased, and how earnestly and often I wished, and still wish, that each and every one I know could see what I have seen and feel as I now feel!

A CHRISTMAS VIGIL.

Exeter Beach was divided into two distinct parts by a line of cliff jutting far out into Exeter Bay. Below the eastern face of the cliff lay the Moore estate, and then came the town; but on the west side was an inlet, backed by dense woods, and bounded on the farther extremity by another wall of rock. This was known as Lonely Cove, and deserved its title. From it one looked straight out to the open sea; no island intervened, nor was anything visible on shore save the two long arms of frowning rock, the circuit of pine coming close to the edge of drift-wood that marked the limit of the tide, and, at the far distance, a solitary house. This had once been occupied by a man who made himself a home apart from every one, and died as lonely as he lived; since then it had been deserted, and was crumbling to decay, and many believed it to be haunted.

Along this beach, about three o’clock one Christmas Eve, Jane Moore was walking. It was a dull afternoon, with a lowering sky, and a chill in the air which foreboded rain rather than snow; but, wrapped in her velvet cloak and furs of costly sable, Jane did not heed the weather.

Her heart was full to overflowing. From the first Christmas that she could remember to the one previous to his death, she had taken that walk with her father every Christmas eve, while he talked with her of the joy of the coming day, sang to her old Christmas carols, and sought to prepare her for a holy as well as a merry feast. He had tried to be father and mother both to his motherless girl, but his heart ached as he watched her self-willed, imperious nature, often only to be curbed by her extreme love for him.

“Be patient, my friend,” the old priest who knew his solicitude used to say. “It is a very noble nature. Through much suffering and failure, it may be, but surely, nevertheless, our Jane will live a grand life yet for the love of God.” And so James Moore strove to believe and hope, till death closed his eyes when his daughter was only thirteen years old.

Heiress of enormous wealth, and of a beauty which had been famous in that county for six generations, loving keenly all that was fair, luxurious, and intellectual, Jane Moore was one of the most brilliant women of her day. Dancing and riding, conversation and music—she threw herself into each pursuit by turn with the same whole-hearted abandon which had ever characterized her. Yet the priest who had baptized her, and who gave her special, prayerful care and direction, laid seemingly little check upon her. Such religious duties as were given her she performed faithfully; she never missed the daily Mass or monthly confession; not a poor cottage in the village in which she was not known and loved, though as yet she only came with smiles and money and cheery words, instead of personal tendance and real self-denial. No ball shortened her prayers, no sport hindered her brief daily meditation. The priest knew that beyond all other desires that soul sought the Lord; beyond all other loves, loved him; and that she strove, though poorly and imperfectly and with daily failure, to subject her will to the higher will of God. To have drawn the curb too tightly then might have been to ruin all; the wise priest waited, and, while he waited, he prayed.

This Christmas Eve on which Jane Moore was speeding along the beach was the last she would ever spend as a merry girl in her old home. As a wife, as a mother, she might come there again, but with Epiphany her girlhood’s days must end. Her heart, once given, had been given wholly, and Henry Everett was worthy of the gift; but the breaking of old ties told sorely upon Jane, who always made her burdens heavier than need be by her constant endeavor to gain her own will and way. Her handsome face looked dark and sallow that afternoon; the thin, quivering nostrils and compressed lips told of a storm in her heart.

“I cannot understand it,” she said aloud. “Why must I go away? Surely it was right to wish to live always in my old home among my father’s people. Why should God let Henry’s father live and live and live to be ninety years old, and he be mean and troublesome? and why should my dear father die young, when I needed him? I cannot bear to go away.”

And then came to her mind words said to her that very day—few words, but strong, out of a wise and loving heart—“God asks something from you this Christmas, in the midst of your joy, which I believe he will ask from you, in joy or sorrow, all your life long until he gets it. He wants the entire surrender of your will. I do not know how he will do it, but I am sure he will never let you alone till he has gained his end. Make it your Christmas prayer that he will teach you that his will is better and sweeter than anything our wills may crave.”

She flew faster along the beach, striving by the very motion to find relief for the swelling of her heart.

“I cannot bear it,” she cried—“to have always to do something I do not want to do! I cannot bear it. Yes, I can, and I will. God help me! But I cannot understand.”

On, on, faster still, sobs choking her, tears blinding her. “I wanted so much to live and die here. God must have known it, and what difference could it make to him?”

“Don’t ye! Don’t ye, Tom! Ye’ve no right. Ye mustn’t, for God’s sake.” The words, in a woman’s shrill voice, as of one weak with fasting or illness, yet strong for the instant with the strength of a great fear or pain, broke in upon Jane’s passion, and, coming to herself, she found that she was close to the Haunted House. Fear was unknown to her; in an instant she stood within the room.

Evidently some tramp, poorer than the poorest, had sought shelter—little better than none, alas!—in the wretched place. A haggard woman was crouching on a pile of sea-weed and drift-wood, holding tightly to something hidden in the ragged clothing huddled about her, striving to keep it—whatever it might be—from the grasp of a desperate, half-starved man who bent over her.

“Gie it to me,” he cried. “I tell ye, Poll, I’ll have it, that I wull, for all ye. And I’ll trample it, and I’ll burn it, that I wull. No more carrying o’ crucifixes for we, and I knows on’t. Gie us bread and butter, say I, and milk for the babby there.”

“Nay, nay, Tom,” the woman pleaded. “It’s Christmas Eve. He’ll send us summat the night, sure. Wait one night, Tom.”

“Christmas! What’s him to we? Wait! Wait till ye starve and freeze to death, lass; but I’ll not do’t. There’s no God nowhere, and no Christmas—it’s all a sham—and there sha’n’t be no crucifixes neither where I bes. Ha! I’s got him now, and I’ll have my own way, lass.”

“Stop, man!” Jane stood close beside him, with flashing eyes and her proud and fearless face. “Give me the crucifix,” she said.

But she met eyes as fearless as her own, which scanned her from head to foot. “And who be you?” he asked.

“Jane Moore,” she answered, with the ring that was always in her voice when she named her father’s honored name.

“And what’s that to me?” the man exclaimed. “Take’s more’n names to save this.” And he shook the crucifix defiantly.

“Stop, stop!” Jane cried. “I will pay you well to stop.”

“Why then, miss?”

“Your God died on a cross,” Jane answered. “You shall not harm his crucifix.”

“Speak for yourself, miss! Shall not? My wull’s as strong as yours, I’ll warrant. God! There’s no God; else why be ye in velvets and her in rags? That’s why I trample this ’un.”

In another moment the crucifix would have lain beneath his heel; but Jane flung herself on her knees. All pride was gone; tears rained from her eyes; she, who had been used to command and to be obeyed, pleaded like a beggar, with humble yet passionate pleading, at the feet of this beggar and outcast.

“Wait, wait,” she cried. “Oh! hear me. Truly your God was born in a stable and died upon a cross. He loves you, and he was as poor as you.”

“There be no God,” the man reiterated hoarsely. “It’s easy for the likes o’ ye to talk, all warm and full and comfortable.”

Jane wrung her hands. “I cannot explain,” she said, “I cannot understand. But it must be that God knows best. He sent me. Come home with me, and I will give you food and clothes and money.”

“Not I,” cried the man defiantly. “I knows that trick too well, miss. Food and clothes belike, but a jail too. I’ll trust none. Pay me here.”

Jane turned her pocket out. “I have nothing with me,” she said. “Will you not trust me?” But in his hard-set face she read her answer while she spoke.

“Very well,” she continued. “Take a note from me to my steward. He will pay you.”

“Let’s see’t,” was the brief reply. Hastily she wrote a few words in pencil, and he read them aloud.

“Now, miss,” he said, “it’s not safe for me to be about town much ’fore dark, and, what’s more, I won’t trust ye there neither. Here ye’ll bide the night through, if ye means what ye says.”

“O Tom!” the woman exclaimed, breaking silence for the first time since Jane spoke, “’twull be a fearful night for the like o’ she.”

“Let her feel it, then,” he retorted. “Wasn’t her Lord she talks on born in the cold and the gloom to-night, ’cording to you and she, lass? Let her try’t, say I, and see what she’ll believe come morn.”

Like a flash it passed through Jane’s mind that her last midnight Mass among her own people was taken from her; that, knowing her uncertain ways, no one would think of seeking her till it was too late, any more than her steward, well used to her impulses, would dream of questioning a note of hers, no matter who brought it. Yet with the keen pang of disappointment a thrill of sweetness mingled. Was not her Lord indeed born in the cold and the gloom that night? “I am quite willing to wait,” she said quietly.

The man went to the door. “Tide’s nigh full,” he said, “and night’s nigh here. I’ll go my ways. But mark ye, miss, I’ll be waiting t’other side, to see ye don’t follow. Trust me to wait patient, till it’s too dark for ye to come.”

Jane watched him till he had reached the further line of the cliff; then she buried her face in her hands. Space and time seemed as nothing; again, as for years she had been used to do, she strove to place herself in the stable at Bethlehem, and the child-longing rose within her to clasp the Holy Infant in her arms, and warm him at her heart, and clothe him like a prince. And then she remembered what the man had said: “It’s easy for the likes o’ ye to talk, all warm and full and comfortable.”

There are natures still among us that cannot be content unless they lavish the whole box of ointment on the Master’s feet. Jane turned to the heap of sea-weed where the half-frozen woman lay. “Can you rise for a minute?” she asked gently. “I am going to change clothes with you. Yes, I am strong, and can walk about and bear it all; but you will freeze if you lie here.” And putting down the woman’s feeble resistance with a bright, sweet will, Jane had her way.

Half exhausted, her companion sank back upon her poor couch, and soon fell asleep; and when the baby woke, Jane took it from her, lest its pitiful wailing should rouse the mother, to whom had come blessed forgetfulness of her utter inability to feed or soothe it. She wrapped the child in her rags, and walked the room with it for hours that night. It seemed to her that they must freeze to death if she stopped. For a time the wind raged furiously and the rain fell in torrents; no blessed vision came to dispel the darkness of her vigil; no ecstasy to keep the cold from biting her; she felt its sting sharply and painfully the whole night through. The first few hours were the hardest she had ever spent, yet she would not have exchanged them for the sweetest joy this world had ever given her. “My Lord was cold,” she kept saying. “My Lord was cold to-night.”

By and by—it seemed to her that it must be very late—the storm passed over. She went to the door. The clouds were lifting, and far away the sea was glimmering faintly in the last rays of a hidden and setting moon. Below a mass of dark clouds, and just above the softly-lighted sea, shone out a large white star. Across the water, heaving heavily like one who has fallen asleep after violent weeping, and still sobs in slumber, came to her the sound of the clock striking midnight; and then all the chimes rang sweetly, and she knew that the Mass she had longed for had begun.

“I cannot bear it!” she cried; then felt the child stir on her breast, and, gathering it closer to her, she said slowly: “God understands. His way must be best.” And she tried to join in spirit with those in church who greeted the coming of the Lord.

Surely there was some reason for her great disappointment and for her suffering that night. Reason? Was it not enough to be permitted thus to share His first night of deprivation? And presently she began to plan for herself God’s plan—how the man would return, and find her there wet and cold and hungry, and would learn why she had done it, and would never doubt God again. She fancied them all at home with her, employed by her, brought back to a happy, holy life; and she prayed long and earnestly for each.

He did come, as soon as the gray morning twilight broke—came with haste, bade his wife rise, and take her child and follow him. He gave no time for the words Jane wished to speak; but when the woman said that she must return the garments which had kept her warm, and perhaps alive, that night, Jane cried “No, no! It is as if I had kept our Lady warm for once, and carried her Child, not yours.” And she clasped the baby passionately, kissing it again and again.

The man stood doubtful, then tore the rich cloak from his wife’s shoulders, seized the mean one which it had replaced, wrapped her in it, hiding thus the costly attire, that might have caused suspicion, then looked about the room.

“The crucifix?” he said.

“Is it not mine?” Jane asked.

He pointed to the woman. “It’s her bit o’ comfort,” he said. “Gie it to her, miss. Plenty ye’s got, I wot. I’ll ne’er harm ’un again.”

There was no more farewell than that; no more promise of better things. In a few minutes they had disappeared among the pines; and cold, suffering, disheartened, Jane made her way homeward. To her truest home first; for bells were ringing for first Mass, and Jane stole into church, and, clad in beggar’s rags beneath her velvet cloak, knelt in real humility to receive her Lord. “I do not understand,” she said to him, sobbing softly. “Nothing that I do succeeds as I like. But, my Jesus, I am sure thy will is best, only I wanted so much to help them for thee. Why was it, my Jesus?”

But the years went by, and though Christmas after Christmas Jane remembered with a pang that great disappointment, her longings and her questions remained unanswered.

And so it was in almost everything. Her life after that strange Christmas Eve was one of constant, heroic, personal service for others, in the love of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. The brilliant woman was never seen again at ball or hunt, but beside the beds of the sick and suffering she was daily to be found, making the most painful, repulsive cases her special care. And she, who had delighted in daintiest apparel, never wore again after that Christmas morning jewels or costly clothing. “I have tasted once the sweetness of faring like my Lord,” she said impetuously to her husband. “Do not break my heart by making me all warm and full and comfortable again.” And he, whose high soul answered nobly to her own, never tried to hold her back, but followed her eagerly in her earnest following of her Lord.

Yet the self-willed nature cost its owner many sufferings before it learned submission to the divine Master. It pleased God that Jane Everett should live to an advanced and very strong old age, and it also pleased him through all those years to conform her will to his by constant and peculiar trials. The husband whom she loved with an almost idolatrous love was taken from her, without an instant’s warning, by a fearful accident. Her sons, whom she dedicated to God’s holy priesthood, died in their cradles; her daughters grew into the fairest bloom of womanhood, only to become the brides of death. Yet nothing quenched the fire in her eye, and the cry of her heart for years was still its old cry: “O God! I cannot bear it. Yes, I can. God’s will is best. But I cannot understand.”

One Advent the last remaining friend of her youth sent to her, begging her to come with haste to pass with her the last Christmas they could expect to be together on earth; and the brave old woman, though craving to spend the holy season near her darlings’ graves, went forth to face the inclement weather with as stout a heart as in her youth she had sped along Exeter Beach under the threatening sky. In a little village, with no one near who knew her except her servants, Death laid his hand upon her who had desired him for many days.

“This is a serious illness,” the physician said to her. Then, reading rightly the spirit with which he had to deal, he added: “A sickness unto death, madam.”

“Harness the horses, then,” she said, lifting herself, “and let me get to Ewemouth and die there.”

“Send for a priest,” the doctor answered her. “You have no time to lose.”

“It has been always so, father,” Jane said, looking up pitifully into the face of the priest when at last he came. “From the time that I first earnestly gave myself to God, up to this time, he has thwarted me in every way. Sixty years ago this very Christmas Eve he did it. It all comes back to me as hard to bear as then; and all my life has been like that.” And slowly and with pauses Jane told the story of her night at Lonely Cove.

“It has always been so, father. Whenever I have loved any one or tried to help any one, I have failed or they have left me.”

“My daughter,” the priest replied, “God’s work in a life like yours is far more the subjection of the will than the number of holy actions for others. Be sure that what we think failure is often success in God’s eyes and through his power. He asks one last sacrifice from you. Madam, God has brought you here to add the crowning blessing to your life—the opportunity of a last and entire surrender of your will to his most blessed will. Will you offer to him your whole life, that to you seems so incomplete and marred, judged by your own plans and wishes, saying to him without reserve that you believe, certainly, that his way is far better than yours?”

He held the crucifix before her, and suddenly the long years seemed to vanish like a dream, and she felt once more the biting cold in the haunted house at Lonely Cove, and again a child nestled upon her heart, bringing with it the thought of the manger-bed, and the question, Why should so much suffering be? And from that manger her thoughts returned to the hard couch of the cross; and to all that mystery of suffering came the mysterious answer, “Not my will, but thine, be done.”

She took and kissed the offered crucifix. “Yes, father,” she said meekly. “May the most just, most high, and most amiable will of God be done, praised, and eternally exalted in all things. I had rather die here, O my God! since it is thy blessed will, than in any other place on earth.”

“Amen,” said the priest.

But when the last sacraments had been administered, and Jane lay calm and patient now, waiting her release, the priest drew near to her, and looked with a great reverence upon her face.

“My daughter,” he said “it is at times the will of God to show us even here the use of some part at least of what he has let us do for him. Be sure his Sacred Heart remembers all the rest as well. Sixty years ago this Christmas Eve my father was saved from a great sin, my mother and I from death, by a Christian woman’s love for her Lord. The first confession I ever heard was my own father’s last. He told me that from the time he saw that rich young girl in rags endure the biting cold for God, faith lived in his heart, and would not die. I saw him pass away from earth in penitence and hope. For more than thirty years I have labored among God’s poor as your thank-offering. Madam, my mother by the love of God, God sends you this token that he has worked his own work by means of you all your life long. He sends you this token, because you have given him the thing he most desired of you—your will.”

Jane folded her aged hands humbly. “Not unto us, O Lord!” she said, low and faint, and then a voice as of a son and priest at once spoke clearly, seeing her time had come: “Depart, O Christian soul! in peace.”