Volume 26 — VOL. XXVI., No. 154.—JANUARY, 1878. (continued 5)

Yet there was one golden hour in his leaden existence—the hour of nine post meridian, when he was dismissed to bed. Although behind her back he sometimes made faces at madame, and even went so far as to set up an image of her for the perverse pleasure of sticking pins in it, he forgave all at bedtime. After saying his prayers he would, with all the ecstasy of which his phlegmatic nature was capable, jump into his straw pallet, bound to solve an abstruse but agreeable problem which had engaged his thoughts nightly since his advent in his new home—viz., What to do with his first hundred guilders when he had earned them? But he never got much beyond the disposal of a twentieth part of the sum. That much he generously devoted to little Hans; but before he could decide whether the latter should have the skates, a miniature ship, a new jacket, or unlimited gingerbread, or all of these good things together, his fancies and finances became entangled. Hans’ face shone with guilders; gingerbread sailors, in blue jackets, floated serenely away in a big ship till quite out of sight; anon they trooped rapidly past his entranced eyes, now scurrying all together, now slowly one by one; then there was a blank; again starting into view, the last fleeting image swept softly down the dim vista, fading—fading—gone! and he was a king in happy oblivion.

Thus time passed tardily enough with The Ferret, the all-absorbing thought of his waking hours now being how to escape.

1095Among the customers of Mme. Gemmel was one who had had several business transactions with her. This was a peripatetic showman, the delight of gaping children at country fairs. His entertainment consisted of music (mangled fragments of opera airs on a weazened key-bugle) and his wonderful and versatile puppets. These latter, when they had become too well known as hunters and huzzars, he would transform into knights and ladies, or Chinese mandarins, as circumstances might require or fancy suggest. The transforming process was very simple; it consisted merely of supplying them with new costumes and coats—of paint—at Mme. Gemmel’s.

This worthy was none other than our friend Floog. Even such as he have their place in art. They are pioneers who lead to the base of an æsthetic temple whose dome is elevated in circling azure, surrounded by golden stars.

In the practice of his art, The Ferret it was on whom now devolved the duty of transforming Floog’s automatons and kindred jobs. Whether owing to the satisfaction he gave, or to the occult, and often unaccountable, influences governing our sympathies and antipathies, certain it is that Floog had taken a violent fancy to him, and determined to entice him away at the first opportunity. The showman’s moral sensibilities were, as has already been intimated, somewhat flexible, and yielded too readily, I am afraid, to the exigencies of the situation.

Alas! how rigid are the inexorable verities of history. I cannot picture him as I would—not even as a half-formed Bayard, who, if not quite sans peur, might be at least sans reproche; but as I had no 1096hand in the formation of his character, I am not the apologist of his delinquencies. Did he recognize the violation of a right in his contemplated procedure? Oh! no; he placed his motive on a high moral pedestal, triumphant, unassailable—the interests of humanity, the welfare of the boy. He never told us how far his own welfare entered into his calculations. He felt, therefore, no scrupulous qualms as to the rectitude of his determination. What puzzled him was the how. Of that, however, he had no notion. Indeed, his thoughts upon the subject, so far from assuming a practical shape, were rather the pleasant emotions experienced in the contemplation of a cherished project, leaving out of sight the means of its attainment, even the possibility of its realization. A few days previous to his appearance in Steenwijkerwold he left his puppets to undergo the customary metamorphosis at Mme. Gemmel’s, his head full of the pleasing fancy of securing The Ferret as a travelling companion and assistant. More than all this, he came to regard him with a rapture akin to that of an enamored lover for the mistress of his heart.

The short winter day was closing in misty and chill around Arnhem. Away in the northwest the sun was setting through yellowish fog into the gray cold sea; the restless wail of the wind was heard now and again, presaging a storm. It was about half-past four o’clock in the afternoon of this same day that Floog, undaunted by the threatening aspect of the weather, and pensively whistling his musical programme by way of rehearsal, arrived at Mme. Gemmel’s. He found, upon inquiry, that his puppets were not quite finished. Wouldn’t he 1097wait? She expected them ready in a few minutes, and escorted him to the workshop in the third story, where they found The Ferret as busily engaged as his chill nose, his numb fingers, and the light of two tallow candles would allow. His mistress, after an authoritative command to her subordinate to make haste and finish his work, went down-stairs, leaving Floog to direct the work as he might see fit. The Ferret was shy by nature and by reason of his forced seclusion, and though the interruption disconcerted him a good deal, he made pretence of continuing labor without appearing to notice his visitor, whom he had several times seen, but never spoken to. Floog, after eyeing him a moment, asked if he was cold. The answer, though not quite courtly, was sufficiently explicit: “Yes, I am.” “Why don’t you work down-stairs in the back room, where ’tis warmer?” A frown passed over the boy’s face, but he made no reply. “Here,” said Floog in a kindlier tone, and, taking from his pocket a handful of lozenges, offered them to The Ferret, who hesitated a moment, looking at the donor, and then took them with a “Thank you, sir.” In that moment the child’s heart was gained and a deep sympathy established between the two, reciprocal, self-satisfying.

Floog was no more a diplomat than a hero; for his next proposal was illogical, and would have been startling but for the peculiar circumstances that rendered it acceptable. “Run away from Mme. Gemmel and come with me,” he said. The Ferret did not hesitate this time, but answered eagerly: “I will; I hate Mme. Gemmel. Let us go away now.” This ready acquiescence staggered Floog, who, 1098not being prepared for it, was at a loss how to proceed. Gathering all his faculties to meet the requirements of the crisis, he tried to devise some means of escape for The Ferret; but the more he pondered the more undecided he became, till at length, in sheer desperation, he said: “When Mme. Gemmel sends you home with the puppets to-night we will go away together.” With that he hurried down-stairs, paid for the puppets, asked Mme. Gemmel if she would send them to his lodging, stating that he would want them for an exhibition early the next day. This the obliging lady promised to do, whereupon Floog took his departure, his agitated manner escaping the notice of the doll-maker, who, although she had the vision of a lynx for money, to everything into which money did not enter as a factor was as blind as Cupid. Less than two hours after The Ferret, Floog, and the precious puppets were all in the mail-coach, rattling along for freedom and Steenwykerwold.

As not unfrequently happens, mere chance afforded a better opportunity than elaborately-concocted plans would have done; for when, by appointment, The Ferret came, Floog precipitately, and without taking time to think of their destination, hurried with him to the coach-yard, where he learned that the night coach going north was ready to start, and secured passage for Steenwykerwold, whither Mme. Gemmel would be little likely to follow. So they arrived in the manner already related, amid hail and storm.

III.

After a storm comes a calm. Who was it that enshrined that remark in the sanctity of a proverb? 1099This is like saying that day comes after night—a truism that most of us will believe without the aid of any proverbial philosophy. If the calm comes not after the storm, a person disposed to be critical might ask, When does it come? We will leave the solution of this problem to interpreters as profound as the proverb-maker, and follow the fortunes of Floog and The Ferret.

Calm had succeeded storm as they turned their backs to the hostelry of Mijnheer Pilzer and bade adieu to its professional hospitalities. Not the listless calm of summer skies, of dreamy fields and waters. Clear and cutting, the icy air of morning quickened the nerves and caused the blood in livelier currents to tingle in the veins, so that even the sluggish Ferret, wincing, heightened his pace to a sturdy trot to keep abreast of Floog. The sun was up, burnishing the chimney-pots and sharp gables of the tall, bistre-colored houses, and converting into rare jewelry the fantastic frost-wreaths that adorned their eaves. Early as it was, the Nieu Strasse was astir with pedestrians. The shop-windows, already unshuttered, were decorated gaily with ivy and palm. Unusual bustle and activity were everywhere discernible; and why not? Was it not Christmas Eve and fête-day at Van der Meer Castle?

It was a beautiful and time-honored custom at Van der Meer Castle on every Christmas Eve to give a party to all the children of the neighborhood. Rich and poor, lofty and lowly, all were welcome. But although all were welcome, all did not come. The children of the rich, and those who had the means of indulging in the season’s festivities at home, mostly kept aloof, or were made to keep aloof, lest they 1100should incur by implication a suspicion of that fearful malady, poverty; for the light of nineteenth-century civilization had penetrated the by-ways of the world, and even Steenwykerwold had caught some of its oblique rays—those that distort instead of illuminating, by which poverty is made to appear as the sum of all social crime. Well, then, the poor children for many years had had the party and banquet all to themselves, and such, in fact, was the desire of their present entertainer.

The proprietor of the place and inheritor of its wealth and traditions was Leopoldine Van der Meer, who had been left an orphan in early childhood. I saw her once, and can never forget that sweet, serene face; for it is ineffaceably stamped on my memory. Although time had then added another score of years to her term of life, and sprinkled with silver the bands of dark-brown hair smoothed on either side of her placid forehead, still it dealt gently with that gentle lady, as if the old reaper had thrown down his reluctant sickle, unwilling to mark his passage by any tell-tale furrow, but softly breathed on her in passing, lulling her into a more perfect repose. At the time when the incidents I am relating took place, however, she was young and fresh and fair beyond expression. Her features, clear and well defined, possessed the delicate tracery and perfection of outline that sculptors dream of. Her air and carriage, her every gesture, from the movement of her shapely head to the light footfall, all queenly yet unaffected, might have inspired the genius of Buonarotti when he painted his wonderful Sibyls, while the gentle, half-shy, liquid gray eyes, tenderly glancing from behind 1101their silken-fringed lids, would have graced the canvas of Murillo.

These external graces were but tokens of a kindly heart and true soul—a nature that imparted a breath of its own sweet essence to all who came within the charmed sphere of its influence. The festival looked forward to with such ardent longings by the young ones was now near at hand. It was Christmas Eve.

The festival was held in the spacious banqueting-hall of the castle—an oblong apartment, across the upper end of which extended a gallery for musicians, reached by a balustraded stairway on either side. The walls were gracefully festooned with wreaths of bright evergreens gemmed with haws and scarlet berries. In the centre stood a large table, upon which was placed a gigantic Christmas tree, sparkling with a thousand colored crystals and loaded with every variety of toy.

Floog, who was acquainted with the annual custom, desirous of recompensing his youthful friend, made haste to conduct him thither. The Ferret needed neither introduction nor credential, his age and appearance being sufficient passports. He was kindly welcomed and ushered in. The grand hall, beaming with lustrous lamps and adorned with varied decorations, dazzled his eyes. The splendor, the music, and the toys nearly overpowered him, and he stood as if fixed in a trance, so like a brilliant dream did it all seem, which a stir, a breath might dispel. Gradually recovering his dazed faculties, he began to revel in the thrilling sense of its reality—yes, real for himself as well as for the rest.

When the children were all assembled they were marshalled into 1102ranks two deep, the girls first, and marched twice round the room, singing. It was a simple Christmas carol, the refrain familiar to most of them; for it had been sung on similar occasions by similar choirs from time immemorial, and is, I hope, sung there yet:

“Christmas time at Van der Meer,

Love, and mirth, and pleasant cheer;

Happy hearts from year to year

Hail each coming Christmas.”

If any misgivings had crept into their minds that they were to undergo the trying ordeal of a regular school drill for the delectation of patronizing visitors, their apprehensions were soon quieted. With the song ended all the formality. They appreciated their freedom, made the most of it, and abandoned themselves to unrestrained fun in uproarious hilarity. The Ferret caught the infection. Though not quite recovered from the fatigue of the last twenty-four hours, he forgot it, forgot his little cares, forgot his solitude, forgot all in the blessed dissipation of the hour. Unfortunately, he outdid himself.

Floog had meanwhile betaken himself to the nearest tavern, intending to come for his little friend when the festivities were over. He did not retire to bed, but paid for a lodging on a settee in the tap-room. In a few minutes he was sound asleep. How long he slept he did not know, but some time during the night he awoke with a sudden start. A bell was pealing wildly in the still night air. A man partially dressed, his heavy shoes in his hand, dashed past and out into the street. Immediately there was commotion, and the sound of voices was heard in loud and eager discussion. In another moment the tap-room was full of men. Floog hurriedly arose, and, joining 1103the excited group, they all went out. When they came to the triangular opening formed by the confluence of three streets—The Square, as it was rather inappropriately called—they were met by a crowd of men and women as anxious and excited as themselves, and all evidently at a loss what to do or whither to proceed.

Louder and more clamorous the bell rang out its portentous notes; fitfully and frantically it rang in the ears of the now aroused populace. All at once it would stop suddenly, but for a moment only, as if pausing to take breath and gather fresh strength; then it would recommence wilder than before, producing an effect weird and terrifying. It was the old alarm-bell at Van der Meer Castle.

This bell was very ancient, and it hung in a tower behind the castle, connected with it by an arched causeway. It was placed there in feudal times to call together the vassals and adherents of the place in cases of raid or invasion, if for no worthier purpose; and in later times a superstition attached to it that its reawakening portended some calamity, the nature of which, not being specifically stated, was left to conjecture, and gave scope to the prognostications of the wise-acres. Yes, these would say, with the self-complacent air of oracles, when the bell rings it will ring the death-knell of our liberties, and Holland will pass to an alien race. This was the interpretation generally received and accredited by those who had faith in the tradition—a goodly number, which included almost all the old inhabitants. On the other hand, many among the junior members of the community ridiculed the whole thing, scoffed at the prophetic 1104legend as an old woman’s tale, and, spurred perhaps by what they termed the foolish credulity of the elders, who professed an abiding belief in it, they rushed to the opposite extreme, even to the extent of doubting, at least of denying, the very existence of the bell. At any rate it had long ago fallen into disuse, and those who heard it now heard it for the first time.

In the market square this old civic story was anxiously revived and earnestly discussed, while the ominous import of the ringing was speculated upon with troublous forebodings, even by the sceptical, and its inharmonious clangor added tenfold significance to its history. In the midst of the tumult the crowd swayed with a sudden movement, and presently began to waver and divide, as a stalwart form appeared, forcing a passage, and shouting with a persuasive vigor heard above the din: “To the dike! to the dike!” It was Peter Artveldt, the ship-carpenter. His words and example had the effect of an electric shock on the panic-stricken multitude. Shaking off their stupor, they followed him through the town, echoing his cry, “To the dike! to the dike!” and, gathering strength as they proceeded, soon reached the dike, half a mile beyond the northern limit of the town.

Imagination had diverted their fears, not allayed them; and, singular as it seems, no one thought of the dike until the voice of the ship-carpenter like a thunder-clap sounded a warning of the real danger. Up to that moment the dike was to them, as it had been for generations, the firm and effective bulwark of the land.

Their worst fears were realized. The water was flowing through several 1105fissures in the dike, noiselessly stealing in upon the land, until it had flooded the ground up to the cemetery palings. This was not all nor the worst. A hasty survey disclosed the appalling fact that at one point the force of the storm had sapped the foundation; some of its stones, having been displaced, were lying loose in the soft sand and ooze. An instant revealed their peril and the imminence of the danger; had they been but half an hour later nothing could have averted their fate—Steenwykerwold would have been as effectually and irretrievably swallowed up by water as old Herculaneum was by fire, and sadder the story of its chroniclers.

However, it was not a time for reflection, but for action. With such implements as in their haste they had been able to provide themselves after the real nature of the danger became known, they set to work with a will, aided by the invigorating example of Artveldt, who with heroic energy put forth his strenuous powers and directed all their movements. In less than ten minutes they had felled four or five of the cemetery trees; breaking through the gate, they dragged these to the dike, making an effective temporary barrier to the advance of the cruel waters. Yet to guard against a possible recurrence of danger from a renewal of the storm or any untoward accident, until the damage should be permanently repaired, an organized force was appointed, divided into squads of eight, whose duty it was to watch constantly, relieving each other every six hours. These precautions completed, the multitude, in the delirious joy of their deliverance, grew wild with delight and manifested symptoms of frantic 1106disorder. Here again the ascendent spirit of Artveldt made itself felt. “Brothers,” said he, “we have finished a brave night’s work; let us not undo it by making fools of ourselves. No; we will go peaceably to our homes, and a grateful country will say: ‘They were as orderly in the hour of triumph as they were brave in the hour of peril.’ Posterity will keep sacred your memory and look back with grateful eyes to this day, and every future Christmas will be happier for your deed.”

After this speech they were ready and willing to obey him. He now ranged the men in line of march, requesting them not to break rank until they reached Van der Meer Castle, where it was agreed they should disperse; then, with a long, full cheer, they returned triumphantly through the town, and Steenwykerwold was saved.

After having been hospitably entertained at the castle, and thanking Lady Leopoldine for the timely warning whereby the threatened disaster was averted, they gave a parting salute—three hearty cheers—and then, as agreed upon, quietly dispersed.

At that very time there was commotion within the castle. The eventful night was yet to be made memorable by another incident, as yet known only to its inmates, having been wisely withheld from the knowledge of the men who stemmed the fateful waters.

The ringing had some time ceased. Now, every one supposed that Lady Leopoldine had caused the bell to be rung, knowing or divining their danger; but such, in fact, was not the case. She no more than the rest mistrusted the safety of the dike. You may imagine, then, her terror when first she heard 1107the appalling sound. Like a summons from the grave it smote her ear. Was it a summons from the grave? At first she could scarce refrain from thinking that it was, so strange and startling on the pulseless air of night fell the unfamiliar peal. Again she believed herself the victim of some wild hallucination. She rose at once and summoned the servants.

It was no illusion—they had all heard it; they could not choose but hear, and it was while listening in agonizing suspense that the summons of their mistress reached them. It was obeyed with more than customary alacrity. They all rushed pell-mell into the hall. Lady Leopoldine instantly dismissed her own fears and allayed theirs, and caused a vigorous search to be made.

The astonishment and alarm of the household will perhaps be more readily understood when it is remembered that the bell was entirely inaccessible. The tower was about sixty-five feet high, of somewhat rude construction. Walls of large, rough stones to an altitude of sixteen feet formed the base. Inside of these walls heavy oaken buttresses were placed, which had the appearance of strengthening them, but which in reality formed the support of the bell suspended above and hidden in a curious network of trellised beams. No appliances for reaching it were visible; and how it got there was a mystery. Indeed, the ringing of the bell on that night, as well as the bell itself and all its appurtenances, were regarded as very mysterious; and we may well excuse the simple-minded people, not yet imbued with modern materialism, if they conceived the whole affair to be the work of superhuman agency.

1108No one had entered the causeway from the house, it was evident; no trace of disturbance could anywhere be discovered. Two of the men, the coachman and his assistant, braver than the rest, volunteered to go into the passage and thoroughly examine the premises. Providing themselves with lanterns, they went round to the old door in the rear of the tower. One glance convinced them that no one had recently gone in that way. The bolts were firm in the sockets, wedged tight by the rust of a century. With much exertion they were forced back, the door was unfastened, and the men entered. The damp, chill air caused them to shudder, and their first impulse was to beat a precipitate retreat. Pausing in doubtful perplexity of their next movement, afraid to advance, and ashamed to go back, they stood near the door, which they had considerately left ajar, fearing, yet hoping for some perceptible excuse to run. None came. The silence was broken only by the flutter of some startled bats aloft; the dingy walls alone met their scrutinizing gaze as they peered cautiously around, the glare of the lanterns shooting sharply-defined rays of yellowish gray light through the humid gloom. The first feeling of nervous trepidation past, reason asserted itself; they grew accustomed to the gloom and began to explore the passage deliberately and carefully. After having traversed it the entire length without making any discovery, they were about to retrace their steps when their attention was arrested by some fragments of mortar or plaster lying loosely on the flagged pavement about four feet from the further end next the house. These had the appearance of having recently 1109fallen from the wall. Here was a probable clue. With renewed interest they now proceeded to examine the wall, and were rewarded by finding a small door, level with its surface and nearly concealed by a thin coating of plaster. On forcing it open they were surprised to find another passage, parallel with the main one, but so narrow as to admit of entrance only by single file. Another door, as secret as the first, opened from this narrow passage into a sort of recess behind the stairway, which, it will be remembered, led to the gallery in the banqueting-hall. The recess was known to the occupants of the castle, but never used by them. Its original purpose may have been a subject of momentary conjecture, but they did not trouble themselves much about it, being content, if they thought of it at all, to consider it an eccentricity of some former proprietor. Least of all did they dream of its communication with a hidden passage to the bell-tower. Following the passage back to the other end, their surprise was greatly augmented by the further discovery that, instead of opening into the main enclosure, 1110like the large passage, as they naturally expected, it terminated in a sort of square sentry-box, enclosed at all sides except the top—in reality a large wooden shaft. It was no other than what appeared from without to be a combination of four solid beams. In it hung the bell-rope. At the bottom lay the bell-ringer, The Ferret, exhausted and insensible.

They carried him out into the hall. The mistress of the mansion sent at once for a physician, and, gently lifting his head, with delicate hand she chafed the poor pale brow and applied restoratives. Soon the doctor came, but his services were not needed.

Another morning dawned. Again the slanting daybeams pierced the misty levels. The vapor of earth, as it felt the ray, was dissolved into purest ether, and, restoring to earth its grosser particles, ascended calmly to its native sky. Thus, too, The Ferret’s Christmas carol, begun on earth, was finished in heaven, and another voice on that happy Christmas morning was added to the celestial choir singing, “Glory to God on high, and on earth peace to men of good will.”

1111

THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1877.

There is little beyond the Russo-Turkish war that will mark this year apart from others in the annals of universal history. Questions, national and international, that we have touched upon time and again come up now unsettled as ever. It is tedious and profitless to go over well-trodden ground; to repeat reflections that have already been repeated; and to attempt a solution of problems, social, political, and religious, that are still working themselves out. We purpose, therefore, in the present review to follow up a few of the broad lines that have marked the year and given to it something of an individual and special character. If these are very few, perhaps it is the better for mankind. The more nations are occupied with their own affairs the better it is for the world at large.

To begin with ourselves. We had a very vexed and very delicate problem to solve—no less than to determine, on the turn of a single disputed electoral vote, who was to be our President. The circumstances that created this difficulty were dealt within our last year’s review; they are in the recollection of our readers. On the casting of a single disputed vote lay the election to the Presidency of the United States. Such a contingency, accompanied as it was by peculiarly aggravating circumstances, had never before arisen in the history of this country. The wisest were in doubt what to do; the country was in a fever of expectation. The republic was on trial in itself and before the world. The written lines of the Constitution were found inadequate to meet so unlooked-for and peculiar a matter. It was not the mere fact of one disputed vote that was to turn the scale. There were many disputed votes, which rested with States whose administration was not above suspicion. Only in the event of all of these turning in favor of one of the candidates could the Presidency be awarded to him. Any one of them going to his opponent—who, as far as the votes of the people went, had a decided and unmistakable majority—would have settled the question at once. There was room and occasion for grave 1112doubt on both sides. By mutual agreement of the representatives of the two parties that divide the country, a national court of arbitration, supposed to be, and doubtless with reason, above suspicion, was appointed to inquire into and decide upon the electoral returns. The court was chosen from both parties. It so turned out that a preponderating vote lay with one party. It might have rested with the other. It was a matter of accident; and it is to be hoped that, if not exactly a matter of accident, it was a matter of honesty that divided the court on each moot point into strict party lines, with, as final result, an award of the Presidency to Mr. Hayes, the Republican candidate. There the matter rested. The court had discharged itself of the very delicate task imposed upon it, and there was nothing left the country and the rival parties to do but accept a decision of its own creation, which might have gone the other way, but did not. It was the shortest way, perhaps, out of an immediate and pressing difficulty. It was none the less a strain on the Constitution and on the conscience of the people—a strain that could not well be stood again. The republic cannot afford to hand this settlement down to posterity as a lawful and satisfactory precedent. The right way in which to regard it is as one of those unforeseen accidents that occur in the history of all peoples, that adjust themselves somehow for the time being, and that stand as a warning rather than a guide to future conduct.

The country honestly and wisely accepted the decision. Of course there were sore feelings; there would have been sore feelings in any case; yet men breathed freely when what was a real, a painful, and a dangerous crisis was over. There are men—sensible and patriotic men, too, as well as a vast multitude neither patriotic nor sensible—who are ever ready to despair of the republic when events do not turn out exactly as they had predicted or desired. Let them take comfort. The republic is not yet dead; and it seems to us very far from dying. In other days, and perhaps in 1113other peoples to-day who enjoy the privilege of a monarchical government, such a question would have resulted in a war of dynasties. The dynasty of Mr. Hayes or of Mr. Tilden troubles us but little. The disaffected may bide their time. They still hold their votes, and it is for them to see that they are not robbed of them. Mr. Hayes has taken to heart the lesson of the last elections, which pronounced not so much against a party as against the administration of his predecessor. The present administration has thus far, in the main, contrasted well with that which went before it. The President seems to be a man of right impulses and feeling and possessed of a good judgment. He has discarded many embarrassing associates and evil allies—political parasites who battened on the life-blood of the state. If his moral vision is only broad enough to see that he is the President not of a party, but of a great people, with varied wants and some sore troubles and internal difficulties that need very cautious and delicate adjusting; if he honestly and persistently aims at doing right, the people, regardless of party, will be with him and support him. Thus far he has manifestly striven to do well. His beginning has been good. Trials will doubtless come. He has already shown himself too good for many influential men in the party that voted for him. If he only continues to disregard and brave all pettiness, he can safely turn from partisans to the people, and the people know how to judge and value honesty—a quality that it was coming to be thought had almost died out of politics.

There have been some indications of a revival of business; but such a revival, to be sure and general, must be slow. Our people have not yet recovered from the demoralizing effect of the rush of good-fortune which they so foolishly squandered. They look for miracles in finance and business, for a revival in a day. This cannot well come. The way for general prosperity, and that even of very moderate dimensions, must be paved by a return to general honesty in commercial dealings and in private life. Public honesty can alone restore public confidence, and public honesty is a matter of growth, education, and the apprehension and following of right principles. It can only come from faith in God and a sense of personal responsibility to 1114God, as true faith in man can only come from true faith in God. The religion that constantly impresses this upon men’s minds is the religion that will preserve and save from all dangers not this republic only but every government. These feelings, penetrating the hearts of the people, will best solve the vexed questions between labor and capital, between black and white and red and yellow. For a right sense of personal responsibility to God necessarily involves a right sense of personal responsibility to one another, of the duties we owe to society, of the duties we owe to the state. This country of all others is open to the free workings of religion. Indeed, it is as open to the devil as to God; and if the devil, according to some, seems to get the best of the battle, it can only be because “the children of darkness are wiser in their generation than the children of light”; because Christians are not really and wholly true to Christ, and by their lives do not show forth the faith that is in them.

THE RUSSO-TURKISH WAR.

In Europe the event of the year that calls for most attention is the war between Russia and Turkey. On this subject we can say little or nothing probably that will not have already suggested itself to others. All have watched the progress of the painful struggle from day to day; have formed their own conclusions as to the manner in which it has been carried on on both sides; as to the necessity of such a war having taken place at all; as to its probable results to both parties and to Europe at large.

At the time of our last review war between Russia and Turkey was thought imminent. We then wrote—and we may be pardoned for quoting our own words, as some of them, at least, seem to us to apply equally well to the present situation—as follows:

“If we may hazard an opinion, we believe that there will be no war, at least this winter. As for the alarm at the anticipated occupation of Constantinople by Russia, while—if the Russian Empire be not dissolved before the close of the present century by one of the most terrific social and political convulsions that has ever yet come to pass—that occupation seems to lie very much within the order of possibilities, we 1115doubt much whether it will occur so soon as people think.... It would seem to us difficult for Russia to occupy Constantinople without first mastering and garrisoning Turkey, and Turkey is an empire of many millions, whom fanaticism can still rouse to something like heroic, as well as to the most cruel and repulsive deeds.”

Those words seem to us to have forecast fairly enough the general aspects of the war. The war was declared because Russia burned to go to war—Russia, or the Russian administration. The invasion of Turkey by Russia was not a thing of the past year. It was foreordained. It was dreaded from the close of the war in the Crimea. The only question with the other powers was how long or by what means could it be staved off. That Russia would invade Turkey as soon as she thought she could do so without much danger of outward interference and with good prospects of success was probably a fixed thought in the minds of all men who chose to give a thought to the matter. For almost a quarter of a century has Russia been girding herself for a fight that had become an essential part of her national policy. Within that period, under the wise guidance of Prince Gortschakoff, she has more than repaired the terrible losses sustained in the Crimean war. She grew stealthily up to a power and a status unexampled in her history. She guarded her finances, lived within her means, prospered, refused steadily to enter into any embarrassing European complications. She saw the European alliance that had crushed her in 1854 hopelessly dissolve, and a new and friendly power rise up and take the lead in European affairs. As a military power she was looked upon as having only one superior, or rival perhaps, in the world, and that her friendly neighbor. So strong was she, and so singularly had every change in European politics told in her favor, that when her opportunity came, with a word, a beck, a stroke of her chancellor’s pen, she snapped asunder the iron gyves forged for her and laid on her by a united Europe, and no power dared whisper a protest. All the world saw whither she was drifting. She was drifting to the sea, stretching out her giant arms to clasp for ever those golden shores that she claimed as hers by destiny. The hour of destiny struck at last. 1116The strifes of exhausted nations and the jealousies of others left her alone to deal with the power that held those shores and that to Russia was an hereditary foe. She proceeded cautiously to the last. She did all things with becoming decorum. She invited the nations to a conference, held in the Turkish capital, to determine once for all what was to be done with the Turk, while she mobilized her armies in order to give effect to her peaceful protest.

What the conference of European diplomatists did, or rather did not do, is now matter of picturesque history. “Death before dishonor!” was the ultimatum of the Turk. “Death, then, be it,” said Russia, and the new “crusade” began.

It has been a sad “crusade” for both parties, a disastrous one for Russia and the Romanoffs, even though there can be little doubt as to the final victory of Russia. What we may call the great Russian illusion has been dispelled by this war. It was speedily discovered that the feet of the giant who was running so swiftly and surely to the goal of his ambition were of clay. Why, victory invited him, danced before him, strewed flowers in his path. It was a very race with fortune. To a great military power half the battle was won before a single engagement worthy of the name had been fought. But it has stopped at that half. Russia is still knocking at the gates of Plevna, and even when Plevna is opened, as it will be probably soon, the inglorious victory will have been so dearly won that Russia herself may, with too much reason, be anxious for the peace which she wantonly broke.

Fortune was too good to Russia at the opening of the war. Her smiles begat an overweening confidence. The destruction of a stubborn and warlike race was looked upon as a thing of a few months, as a game of war. Reverses came fast and thick—reverses that were invited. Comparative handfuls of splendid soldiers were sent to destroy armies entrenched in natural fortresses. Then leaked out a fatal secret. Russia had everything but generals and competent military officers, or, if she had them, they were not with her armies, or were not allowed to take the lead. The dress parade to Constantinople was speedily and effectually checked, and Russia is to all intents and purposes as far from 1117that city to-day as she was in the summer.

The details of the campaigns must be looked for elsewhere. We can here only look at results. There are two or three reflections regarding the war itself which seem to us worthy of attention as affecting other interests than those immediately engaged in the contest.

In the first place, the fact of the war having been declared at all showed the powerlessness of Europe to shape or deal with grave questions of international interest when any one strong power chooses not to be advised, coerced, or led. This practically places the peace of Europe in the hands of any power. For instance, there is no means of preventing Germany from declaring war against France to-morrow, should the German government so will. Early in the year, and at the invitation of Russia, the leading European powers sent their representatives to Constantinople to prevent, if possible, the outbreak of this war. These were doubtless experienced diplomatists. There is no reason to doubt that all of them—save, perhaps, the Russian representative, General Ignatieff—wished honestly and strove by every means in their power to prevent, or at least stave off, the war. They failed, because it was meant by the strongest there that they should fail. The only argument to sway Europe to-day is the sword.

Thus the representatives of united Europe, backed by all the vast resources of their empires, could do nothing to prevent a war which at the outset looked as though it incurred the gravest consequences to Europe; and it may incur them still. Why was this? Simply because there is no such thing as a united Europe. The family and comity of European nations was, as we pointed out last year in dealing with this very subject, broken up by the Protestant Reformation. The catholicity of nations, which in the order of events would have become an accomplished and saving fact, from that date yielded to selfish and narrow nationalities which made a separate world of each people, bounded by their own domain. But humanity is greater than nationality, and the world wider than a kingdom—a truth that will never be felt until one religion plants again in the leading nations of the world the great unity of heart and soul that God alone can give.

1118As for Russia, however, the tide of events may turn; she has lost more than she will probably gain even by victory. Not in men and money and material alone has she lost, but in morale and prestige. The czar may return in triumph to St. Petersburg, but his victorious ranks will show a grim and ominous gap of something like a hundred thousand of his bravest men, lost in less than a year against a foe whom Russia despised, and thousands of whom were sacrificed to incapacity. A careful estimate made in September last set the daily cost of the Russian army at about $750,000. That figure must have since increased; but take it as an average, and spread it over eight months, and we have the enormous sum of $184,500,000 as the cost of the campaign from May to December. Loans must be raised to meet such expenditure, and loans are only obtained at high interest.

Victories bought at such prices are dear indeed. Taking the Russian victory for granted, it is likely after all to prove a barren one. The Turk is an impracticable foe, and, though the signs of his exhaustion are multiplying, he has made such a fight as, by force of arms at least, to vindicate his title to national existence. Indeed, his terms are apt to go up instead of down. Loss of money is nothing to him, for he has none to lose. His empire was bankrupt before the war. For trade or commerce he cares little. His life is easy and simple. He cares for little more than enough to eat, and a little of that seems to satisfy him. His fatalism robs life of the charm it has for other men. He would as lief die fighting as not, and he would sooner fight the Russian than any other foe. You cannot reason with men of this kind. They see one thing: that single-handed they made a very good fight against a most powerful antagonist; that they have hurt him badly, even if they have been worsted. The whole struggle can only be likened to an attack by a giant on a poor little wretch who was thought to be half-dead. If it takes the giant six months to thrash such an antagonist; and if during the fight the giant gets something very like a sound thrashing himself from his puny foe; and if, when both are pretty well exhausted, he succeeds in throttling the pugnacious little chap at last, the verdict of the world will be that there is something the matter with the giant, and 1119the self esteem of the little fellow will rise proportionately.

Of course it is idle to speculate on the end. Russia has lost so heavily that she may insist upon very tangible fruits of victory. On the other hand, the war has been such a butchery that humanity cries out against it, and the European powers will undoubtedly strive at the first opportunity to make a more effectual appeal than before to both the combatants. Peace rests on this: How much will Russia ask? How much will Turkey concede? How much will the jealousies of other powers allow Russia to take?—questions all of them that are sure to be asked, but which we confess our inability to answer.

FRANCE.

The armed struggle in the East has scarcely attracted more universal attention than the civil struggle in France. France is trying to solve problems that touch her very life, and they are problems in which all men have a personal interest. The French questions are eminently questions of the day and of the age. The struggle going on there is one between the elements of society. MacMahon, Gambetta, “Henri Cinq,” “Napoléon Quatre”—these are but names. The fight is not on them and their personal merits or demerits. It is at bottom between the men who find the “be-all and the end-all here” in this world, and the men who believe that there is a God who made this world for his own purposes, who is to be obeyed, loved, and served, and according to whose law human society must conform itself, if it would fulfil the end for which it was created, have happiness in this world, and eternal happiness in the next.

The first class is not restricted to the men and women who figured in the Commune. These only compose its rank and file, and their sin is less, for multitudes of them sin through ignorance. It embraces also the men of the new science, the professors in the atheistic universities; statesmen of the Falk and Lasker type; preachers of the Gospel as expounded by Dean Stanley; philosophers and scientists, like Darwin or Herbert Spencer, like Huxley and Tyndall, like, descending a grade, Professor Fisk or Youmans; women like some we know 1120here at home, who tread the platform with so masculine a stride; the men of “progress” such as Brigham Young was, such as, in a more intellectual sense, John Stuart Mill was, such as “tribunes of the people” like Charles Bradlaugh, or his friend M. Gambetta, or Garibaldi, are; poets like Victor Hugo or Algernon Swinburne. The men who have the teaching power in the secularized and secular universities of the day, who shape a purely secular education, who edit too many of our leading newspapers, who preach atheism or blasphemy from pulpits supposed to be consecrated to the service of Christ, are equally members of this party with the outcasts of society and the avowed conspirators against order. This it was that gave its significance to the late French elections; that induced men to study so carefully the name, character, antecedents, and political color of each man elected; that caused to be telegraphed on the very day of the elections the long files of the deputies to England, to Germany, to Austria, to Italy, even to these distant shores. Why, such a fact as that last mentioned is unexampled. For the time being the world centred in France.

This is a dangerous pre-eminence for France. The country is for ever in a fever. It is in a constant state of crisis. Ministry after ministry is tried, found wanting, and thrown aside. The truth is the parties cannot coalesce. There is a barrier between them that it seems cannot be overthrown. The elections decided nothing. They left the country and parties in much the same condition as before. As a matter of fact the conservatives, if any, gained, but the gain was too small to indicate the will of the country. We doubt if the country has a will beyond the desire to be at peace, which the contentions of its own parties alone threaten. M. Gambetta, the leader of the radicals, is for ever clamoring for a republic. Well, he has a republic; why not make the most of it? He has certainly as good a republic as he could make. The difficulty with him is that the republic which he wishes to lead must be founded on the negation of Christianity. In France the dividing lines between creeds are very clearly drawn. Protestantism counts for nothing there, and the little that there was of it has gone to pieces. Gambetta’s bête-noir is “clericalism”—i.e., Catholicity. 1121He would abolish the Catholic Church, not merely as an adjunct of the state but altogether. No Catholicity must be taught in the schools; that is a vital principle with him. The pope must have nothing to say to Catholics in France. The clergy must receive no pay, scanty as it is, from the state. No such thing as a free Catholic university is to be tolerated. The children of France are to be brought up and educated free-thinkers, and be made to turn out true Gambettists. In a word, the foundation of M. Gambetta’s scheme for the regeneration of France is to abolish the Christian religion there. Irreligion is to be the corner-stone of his republic.

This is a pleasing prospect for French Catholics, and it may be necessary to remind our able editors who denounce “clericalism” so lustily, and see no hope for France but in the republic of M. Gambetta, that there are still Catholics in France; that the bulk of the nation is Catholic. It is a pleasing prospect, we say, for them to contemplate the suppression of their religion at the word of M. Gambetta. Is it very surprising that the oracle of the new republic should only bring hatred on the very name of republic to men who can see in it, as expounded by its oracle, nothing but the most odious tyranny? It was John Lemoinne, if we remember rightly, who in the anti-Christian Journal des Debats said, on the retirement of Mr. Gladstone from office, that religion lay at the bottom of all the great questions that move the world. If that be so, and it is so, why not recognize the fact? Must the French republic which M. Gambetta advocates and our republican editors on this side advocate be first and above all an irreligious despotism? Must it begin with religious persecution? M. Gambetta says that it must.

We are not accusing him wrongfully. His own words express his meaning plainly enough. It must be borne in mind that the epithet “clericalism,” in the mouths of French radicals, means Catholicity. Every French Catholic who believes in and practises his religion is a “clerical”; so every Catholic who believes and does the same all the world over is, in the mouths of anti-Catholics, an “ultramontane.” If there is one lurid page in all history that sears the eyes of humane and sensible men, it 1122is that of the French Revolution—the most awful revolt, save its offspring, the Commune, against all order, human and divine, that the world has witnessed. Yet “the French Revolution,” and none other, is M. Gambetta’s oriflamme.

Just on the eve of the elections he addressed an immense meeting at the Cirque Américain in Paris. “Amongst those present,” says the correspondent of the London Daily Telegraph, “I observed the most prominent members of the various groups of the Left. When the great orator of the evening (M. Gambetta) appeared, he was received with a shout of welcome, renewed and continued for several minutes. There were only two cries issued from every lip: ‘Vive la République!’ and ‘Vive Gambetta!’ ... On the latter rising to speak he was received with another storm of cheers.”

Well, and what had he to say to this enthusiastic assembly and to the leading deputies of the Left? We can only find space for a few sentences, though the whole speech is instructive, as giving the character and aims of the man:

“What is at stake?” he asked. “The question is the existence of universal suffrage and of the French Revolution (Loud cheers). That is the question.” This declaration, which was so uproariously cheered, needs no comment. He made a little prophecy, that was unfortunate for him, regarding the returns of the elections. The prophecy turned out to be false, even though M. Gambetta assured his friends by saying: “I should not risk my credit with you five days before the event on a rash statement.” “The country will say,” he thundered on, “at the forthcoming elections that she wants the republic administered by republicans, and not by those who obey the voice of the Vatican.” He appealed to the example of this country, where he said, with brilliant vagueness, “law has taken the place of personal vanity, and conscience that of intrigue.” We accept the example. There are millions of good enough republicans in this country who certainly “obey the voice of the Vatican” as faithfully as any “clerical” in all France, and who find that voice agreeing admirably with their republicanism. Indeed, that same voice has recently, with justice and openly, proclaimed that in the republic the Pope is 1123more Pope than in any other country; and we have yet to learn that the republic has suffered any hurt from that declaration.

“There is no principle,” said M. Gambetta, “that binds together the three parties which are now opposed to us, and the nation will do justice to their monstrous alliance. There is but one binding force, and that is called clericalism. Those parties wanted a word of order to rally a formidable army against us; they found it in Jesuitism.” And he closed his speech by saying:

“I feel that what Europe fears most is that France should again fall into the hands of the Ultramontane agents. I fear that the universal suffrage may not take sufficient account of surprise and intimidation. We must look this question in the face, and be able to say to Europe, pointing to clericalism, Behold the vanquished!”

As we said, M. Gambetta made a little mistake in his prophecy. Catholicity is not dead in France; Catholics are not a small fraction of the people, and in the government of the country of which they form so important a part they must be taken into account. They will not and cannot submit to have convictions which are sacred to them disregarded, to have necessary and national rights trampled under foot at the will either of M. Gambetta or of anybody else. He assumes altogether too much. What did the figures of the election show? As M. de Fourtou pointed out in his speech in the Chamber of Deputies, November 14, 1877: The Opposition had flattered itself that it would return with four hundred, and yet it lost fifty votes. “It required an astonishing amount of assurance for the Opposition, after such a check, to pretend to claim power in defiance of the rights of the Senate.”

“The Opposition,” he continued, “had obtained 4,300,000 and the Government 3,600,000 votes, France thus dividing herself into two almost equal parties. Instead of striving to oppress the one by the other, it would be better to seek a common link to bind themselves together. Candidates presented themselves to be elected in the name of a menaced Constitution, the public peace in jeopardy, and in the name of modern liberties and civil societies. But if the Opposition only asked for that, it had no adversaries; if it asked for something 1124else it had no mandate. (Applause from the Right.)”

There is no denying the force of this reasoning. The parties in France show themselves almost equal, and the only hope of governing the country is by mutual concession and good-will. M. Gambetta must let the church alone, if he is so very anxious for peace.

Frenchmen not blinded by passion might have taken warning from the attitude of Germany and Italy previous to and during the elections. These two powers—for Italy has now become a sort of tender to Germany—were earnest for the success of the party led by Gambetta. Why so? What sympathy can Prince Bismarck possibly have with Gambetta? What sympathy could he be supposed to have with a republic of the Gambetta stripe, of the red revolutionary stripe, as his next-door neighbor, while he so dreads his own socialists? The cause of his new-born sympathy for a red republic, or a republic of any color, is not far to find. It was the same sympathy that he had with the Commune during the siege of Paris. He knows Gambetta, and has had a taste of “the tribune’s” effective generalship and governing qualities. He was in France when M. Gambetta made that famous “pact with death” of which we heard so much and so little came. He knows thoroughly the elements that make up the strength, the very explosive strength, of M. Gambetta’s party, and there is probably nothing he would better enjoy than to see the fou furieux at the helm of state once more. A few months of the Gambetta régime, and Prince Bismarck might say of France, as he said of Paris, “Let it fry in its own fat.” France is now a most dangerous foe to Germany—negatively so, at least. She is growing more dangerous every year. Every year of quiet is an enormous gain to her. She is vastly richer than Germany. She can stand the strain of her immense army far more easily than Germany. She is winning back something of the old love and admiration of the outer world, which she had lost on entering into the war with Germany. She is patient, laborious, industrious, desirous of peace with all the world, and day by day becoming more able to maintain that peace even against Germany. But a revolution in France would destroy all this and throw the nation years 1125behind. And so sure as Gambetta attained to power a revolution would follow; i.e., if he adhered—and there is no doubt that he would—to the programme of a republic which he has sketched in such bold colors. Once in power, once the strong but quiet hand of Marshal MacMahon was removed from the helm, the ship of the French state, with or without Gambetta’s will, would go to speedy wreck.

That is why Prince Bismarck so carefully encouraged the Gambetta faction. That is why his press thundered against a “clerical” government in France. That is why the Italian press took up the cry, as it explains in great measure the mysterious comings and goings between the courts of Berlin and the Quirinal. That is why, if France would abide in safety, she must retain her soldier at the head of affairs, and hasten during the next few years of his term to heal her internal discords and become one heart and one soul. Marshal MacMahon has attempted nothing against the republic that was confided to his safe-keeping. There is yet time, before his term of office expires, for all Frenchmen to come together and shape their government so as to ensure peace, freedom, and order in the future. If they cannot do this, the republic is hopeless in France. It will go out as its predecessors have gone out within a century, only to make room for a new usurper.

GERMANY.

There is every year less likelihood of a renewal of the dreaded war between Germany and France. France does not want to fight. Even if Germany did want to fight she must reckon on a far stronger and more dangerous foe than she encountered in 1870. Competent military critics, like the writer in Blackwood’s Magazine, whose articles on the French army attracted such wide and deserved attention, assert that France, though probably unequal to an attack on Germany, is rather more than able to hold her own against attack. A stronger critic yet establishes this fact. In his famous speech in the German Parliament last April, in favor of the increase of one hundred and five captaincies in the army—an increase that was bitterly opposed—Count Von Moltke said:

“What the French press does not 1126speak out, but what really exists, is the fear lest, since France has so often attacked weaker Germany, strong Germany should now for once fall upon France without provocation. This accounts for the gigantic efforts France has made in carrying through within a few years the reorganization of her army with so much practical intelligence and energy. This explains why, from the recent conclusion of peace till to-day, an unproportionately large part of the French army, chiefly artillery and cavalry, is posted, in excellent condition, between Paris and the German frontier—a circumstance which must sooner or later lead to an equalizing measure on our part. It must also be taken into consideration that in France, where the contrast of political parties is even stronger than with us, all parties are agreed on one point—viz., in voting all that is asked for the army. In France the army is the favorite of the nation, its pride, its hope; the recent defeats of the army have been condoned long since.”

“The total strength of all these [the French] battalions,” he said in the same speech, “in times of peace amounts to 487,000 men; whilst Germany, with a much larger population, has but little over 400,000 under arms. The French budget exceeds the German by more than 150,000,000 marks (shillings), not including considerable supplementary sums that are there required. Even so wealthy a nation as the French are will not be able to bear such a burden permanently. Whether this is done at present for a distinct purpose, in order to reach a certain goal placed at not too great a distance, I must leave undecided.”

That speech alarmed Europe at the time. Yet it was only a plain statement of facts which it is as well for Europe to look in the face. It may seem strange that under the circumstances we should feel so sanguine about the preservation of peace between these two armed and hostile nations. But both want peace, and both are too strong to fight. Of course the unexpected may always occur. France does not disguise her purpose of revenge, and she means to “mak siccer” next time. But the gentle hand of Time softens the deepest hatreds; and if even this enforced peace can only be prolonged the war-fever may die away. Politics and administrations will change 1127in both countries. Prince Bismarck will not live for ever. The French had just as bitter a resentment against England after Waterloo. The resentment died with the generation that bore it; and only for the evil legacy left by Prince Bismarck to the empire—the provinces of Alsace and Lorraine—we could fairly hope for better feeling between the two peoples at least within a generation.

The smoke of battle cleared away, Germans are beginning to look around them and investigate civil affairs in a spirit not at all pleasing to a military administration. The word of command is no longer obeyed so blindly as before. Even the cabinet does not move to the tap of Prince Bismarck’s drum as promptly as it was wont. Perhaps, after all, the chancellor did not gain so very much by his bitter prosecution of Count Arnim. There have been some notable resignations within the year, and rumors even, partially confirmed, and again renewed, of the chancellor’s own resignation. The opposition increases at every election; and the response of Catholics to the men who make vacant the sees of their bishops is to return a stronger number of representatives to the Parliament at each new election. The social democrats do the same, and altogether the policy of blood and iron appears to be in strong disfavor.

Even the “orthodox Protestants” have at last openly revolted against the Falk laws, which were good enough for Catholics, and right in themselves so long as the orthodox Protestants did not feel them pinch. They see at last that such laws strike at all religion; that a generation brought up under them would have no religion at all; and that if they would retain the congregations who are so rapidly slipping from their grasp and melting away, they must strike out those laws from the calendar.

The persecution of the Catholics goes on unrelentingly, but we have no doubt that better times are in store. The Catholics, as we pointed out, are gaining in the Parliament. The administration is weakening in unity and in the confidence of the country. Poverty is pressing upon the people. The emperor, in his speech from the throne early in the year, was compelled to allude to the continued depression of trade and industry. He might very easily have given one great reason for a large share of that depression 1128in the vast armaments which he finds it necessary to maintain at a ruinous cost of men, money, and labor to the country. As recently as last November the London Times, which is certainly a friendly critic, in treating of “Prussian Finance,” took occasion to say: “The exaction of the five milliards was thought to crush for ever the growing wealth of France, and to be almost a superfluous addition to the abundant exchequer of Germany.... At least the state was rich for a generation to come. Five years have not yet passed since this huge mass of wealth was transferred, and already we find bankruptcy almost the rule among German traders, and hear cries rising on all sides of the hardness of the times and the impossibility of bearing much longer the crushing weight of taxation. In the hands of the government the French milliards seem for the most part to have melted away and left budgets which vary only in the shifts by which expenses are coaxed into an equality with receipts.”

The conclusion at which the writer arrives is a very suggestive one, and one that it would be well for Germany to take to heart:

“It would be better that Germany should be content to remain for a year or two not quite prepared to meet the world in arms rather than that her citizens should find that the country so impregnably fortified offers them no life worth living. A man does not buy Chubb’s locks for his stable-door when his steed is starving.”

Granting that the general peace of Europe is preserved during the next year, it would not surprise us at all to see a complete change of administration in Germany, and a consequent relaxation in the laws against Catholics. We do hope for this. Even Prince Bismarck must now see that the persecution of the Catholics was, in its lowest aspect, a political blunder. He miscalculated the faith of these German Catholics. The beating of his iron hammer has only welded and proved and tempered that faith, while the world resounded with his blows and all men saw that they were ineffectual. Thus has the very cradle of the Protestant Reformation borne noblest witness in our unbelieving age to the greatness, the strength, the invincibility of the faith and the church that Luther dreamed he had destroyed, 1129out of Germany at least. Here is the result, as pictured by an adversary of the Catholic faith, within the past year: “It pleased Prince Bismarck—whether, as he himself alleged, in consequence of the council or not—to undertake a crusade against the Roman Catholic bishops and clergy which, to the vast body of their co-religionists all the world over, and to many others also, had all the look of downright persecution. They were challenged, not for submitting to the Vatican dogma, but for maintaining what they had always been accustomed to regard, before just as well as after the council, as the inalienable rights and liberties of their church. Only one course was open to them as ecclesiastics or as men of honor—to resist and take the consequences. Some half-dozen bishops have accordingly been fined, imprisoned, or deprived; and several hundred—we believe over a thousand—priests have incurred similar penalties. Whether the policy embodied in the Falk laws was or was not a wise and a just policy in itself is not the point. If we assume for argument’s sake that it has all the justification which its promoters claim for it, the fact remains equally certain that no greater service could well have been rendered to the cause of Vaticanism than this opportune rehabilitation of the German bishops. The bitterness of the antagonism provoked by the Falk legislation may be measured by the startling news recently given in the German papers, that an alliance, offensive and defensive, is being formed between the Catholics and democratic socialists, who can have hardly a single idea in common beyond hostility to the existing state.”—Saturday Review, February 24, 1877.

THE CATHOLIC OUTLOOK.

Of other states there is little that calls for special attention here. Italy is linked with Germany, but Italy can scarcely be regarded as a very strong ally. Its alliance, however, is useful and necessary to the leader of the conspiracy against the Catholic Church—the conspiracy of the kings, into which some have entered in a half-hearted way like the Emperor of Austria, others with the most determined resolve like Prince Bismarck and the German emperor. 1130These powerful men are doing all they can to destroy the Catholic Church; and undoubtedly they impede her growth, and harry and harass her in a thousand ways. It is easy to say that this is the best thing that could possibly happen to the church; that persecution is her very soul; that suffering begets repentance, and chastisement purity of life. That is all very well and true, but there is another aspect to the matter. Catholics have worldly rights as well as heavenly. They are here to live in this world, and to live happily and freely, and to do their work in it. No prince or government introduced them into life; no prince or government escorts them out of life. No prince, or government, or state can absolutely claim human life as theirs. Life is a free gift of God, to be used freely. Government is not divine, save in so far as it conforms to the divinity. Men are not chattels and tools to be used as things of no volition. The government of a people is only a human institution erected for the people, by the people, and of the people. It cannot lay claim to superhuman power, and where it does it is an infamous assumption. The numen imperatorum is more than a myth; it is a devil. The “divine Cæsar” is but a man, and generally a very disreputable man. The assumptions of many modern states to absolute rule over man—states that for the wickedness of those ruling them have been turned topsy-turvy time and again by the subjects whom they absolutely ruled—is a return to paganism, and a very artful return. Obey us, it says, and we will set you free—free from the Christian God and the laws that go against your nature. Obey us, and you need bow the knee to no God; you need have no religious belief or practice; we will abolish sin for you; you shall marry and unmarry as you please, and as often as you please; you shall do what you like and have no one to gainsay you. Fall down and worship us, and all the kingdoms of the world are yours.

This is only a true reading of the pet measures of modern governments: of the divorce court, of civil marriage, of civil baptism, of schools into which everything but God may enter. And this is the drifting of the age: the Gambetta party in France, the revolutionary party in Italy, of which Victor Emanuel is the regal tool and ornament; the 1131Bismarckian and Falk party in Germany; the Josephism of Austria; the “free” thought of all lands. It is this that is in conflict, eternal conflict, with the Catholic Church. It calls itself liberalism; it is the tyranny of paganism. It does not threaten the Catholic Church alone. It only threatens that openly, because it feels it its necessary foe; it threatens the world and carries in its right hand the social and moral ruin of nations. There is no possible modus vivendi between it and men who believe in Christ; and men who believe in Christ form the bulk of all civilized peoples. There will be no peace in the world, no peace among nations, until religion is free to assert itself. While the creeds of Christendom are still divided there must be freedom for all—freedom to adjust their differences and come back once again to the lost unity for which all honest men sigh. Politics are the affairs of a day; religion an affair of Eternity to be settled in Time. It must have freedom to work; and the attempt to restrict and restrain that freedom is the secret of more than half the troubles that afflict mankind.

This freedom is all that the head of the Catholic Church demands. He has no other quarrels with princes than this. He blesses and loves Protestant England, for it recognizes this freedom; he blesses and loves this country, for it also recognizes this freedom. The wonderful reign of Pius IX. will, in after-time, be most memorable for this: that in a deafening and confused time, in a time when all things were called in question and all rights invaded, his voice and vision were for ever clear in upholding the most sacred rights of man, in detecting and exposing what threatened them, and in maintaining the truth by which the world lives, at all hazard and in the face of all sacrifice. The truth of which he is the oracle is the faith in God that makes men free—faith in the undying church founded by the Son of God, in its work and its mission among men, in the present and the future of a human society spreading over the world and built upon that faith. And the world has recognized this. It recognizes in the Pope, not because he is Pius the Ninth, but because he is Pope and head of the Church Catholic, the centre of this society, the head 1132of Christendom; for Christendom is wider than nations; it embraces them in its arms; they are children of it, and the Pope is their spiritual father. Is not this truth plain? Whither have the eyes of the world been turned during the year? Less to the bloody battle-fields of the East, less to the hearts of European nations and the courts and cabinets of kings, than to the sick bed in the Vatican. The gaze of many has been that of brutal intensity; the gaze of many more, and those not all Catholics, has been one of affectionate and tender regard. Speculations as to the future are not in place here. The Pope, of course, will die some day. He has stood the brunt of the battle. He has lived a great life, given a great example, and done great things for the church of God. Not a stain, not a breath or whisper of reproach, mars that long career of mingled triumph and suffering. He has witnessed strange events. He has seen the church discarded by all the powers that were once her faithful children. He has seen the sacred territory of the church invaded and torn from his grasp. He sees himself in his old age and at the close of a stormy life imprisoned in his own palace. He has seen the world and the princes of the world do their worst against the church of which he is the earthly guardian. And yet he sees the church spreading abroad, growing in numbers and in virtue, borne on the wings of commerce and carrying its message of peace and good-will to all lands. There is no faltering in the faith. His eyes have been gladdened, even if saddened, by as noble confessors, of all grades, rising up to testify to it as the church in her history of nineteen centuries has ever known. When he obeys the last call of the Master he has served so well, there will pass from this world the greatest figure of the age, and as holy a man as the ages ever knew. But his work will not pass with him. That will remain, and the lesson of his life will remain to the successor, on whom we believe that brighter times will dawn—a brightness won out of the darkness, and the sacrifice, and the storm braved by the good and gentle man who so resolutely bore Christ’s cross to the very hill of Calvary and lay down on it and died there.

1133

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

Monotheism. The Primitive Religion of Rome. By Rev. Henry Formby. 1 vol. 8vo. London: Williams & Norgate; New York: Scribner, Welford & Co. 1877.

This is a very interesting and, in some respects, a learned work; but we are fain to confess that we have been disappointed in it. If the author, instead of attempting to show that the worship of the one true God was the early religion of Rome, had contented himself with proving it to have been professed by the primitive Gentile nations in general, we should agree with him, and thank him for unfolding in our English language the incontrovertible truth that polytheism and idolatry are but corruptions of great primeval traditions collected, preserved, and handed down by Noe, and that heathen mythology can be made to bear witness to the original idea of the unity and spirituality of God. This view of the religious errors of the ancients has been held up by several eminent writers, and particularly by two who deserve to be rescued from an unjust oblivion—by Monsignor Bianchini (1697) in La Storia Universale provata con Monumenti e figurata con Simboli Antichi; and by Abbé Bergier (1773) in his Origine des Dieux du Paganisme. While we do not accuse our reverend author of a want of modesty precisely in stating his prime opinion about the monotheism of the second king of Rome, we do think that he writes a little too dogmatically and as though he had discovered some historical treasure-trove wherewith to enrich his arguments; whereas no new documents or monuments whatever have been brought to light to throw a different or brighter ray upon the character of Numa Pompilius, in connection with whom, moreover, he seems to us to confound idolatry and polytheism. We confidently believe that the Cœleste Numen of Numa, on which so great stress is laid, like the Deus Optimus Maximus of Tully, or the Divûm pater atque hominum rex of Virgil, was nothing more than another form of man’s continual, almost involuntary, protest against the falling away of the human race from the worship of the 1134Creator, but practically did not betoken more than a recognition of one among many greater than his fellow-gods. While Numa forbade the worship of idols in Rome, and consequently professed a less corrupt error than did many contemporary rulers, he never asserted the unity or, we prefer to say, the oneness of God. He was a prolific polytheist, multiplying divinities and introducing new superstitions among his people. Father Formby has brought up nothing in his favor unknown to Arnobius, Orosius, St. Augustine, and Tertullian. This last writer, although he absolves Numa from the crime of idolatry, distinctly charges upon him a many-parted god: “Nam a Numa concepta est curiositas superstitiosa” (Apol. xxv.)

Our author’s present work is an amplification of a smaller one published in pamphlet form two years ago, in which he shows the “city of ancient Rome” to have been “the divinely-sent pioneer of the way for the Catholic Church.” On this subject we cannot too closely agree with him, or sufficiently thank him for turning towards our students and illustrating for them a side of Roman history which is so important. Our own studies have always pointed in the same direction, and we cannot better conclude this notice of Father Formby’s work and show our sympathy with him than by a brief extract from our commonplace book, made up many years ago in Rome itself:

“The celebrated Gallo-Roman poet and statesman, Rutilius Numatianus, was much attached to the false ancient divinities of Rome and no small help to the political party of Symmachus, which so stubbornly fought St. Ambrose and the Christians. The following lines from his Itinerarium (i. 62 et seq.) are truly beautiful and express a grand idea, but one that is still grander in another sense than his; for if a heathen understood it to be a blessing in disguise upon the conquered peoples of the earth to be brought under the domination of Rome on account of the prosperity and civilization that accompanied her rule, how shall not a Christian admire the action of divine Providence, preparing the 1135world for the New Law, and applaud those triumphs that brought so many countries through the Roman Empire into the Church of Christ. Of Christian less than of pagan Rome we shall interpret the poet’s sentiment:

“‘Fecisti patriam diversis gentibus unam;

Profuit invitis, te dominante, capi;

Dumque offers victis patrii consortia juris

Urbem fecisti quod prius orbis erat.’”

The Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac for 1878. New York: The Catholic Publication Society Co.

This annual, neat, compact, and perfect in all its mechanical arrangements—the labor of many busy and well-stored minds condensed into a portable form—has just been issued. To say that it equals its predecessors, which have found so much favor with the public, would be doing it great injustice. In every respect it is far superior, and shows palpable evidence that its conductors, appreciating the growth in public taste as well as the increasing desire for reliable information on important Catholic subjects, have left no effort untried to satisfy the wishes of their readers. This is particularly noticeable in the illustrations, which we consider to be not only good pictures but genuine works of art. The portraits of Archbishop Bayley, Bishops Von Ketteler and De St. Palais, and the venerable Jesuit Father McElroy are not only excellent likenesses of those deceased prelates, but the best specimens of wood-cut portraiture we have yet seen on this side of the Atlantic. The other engravings, of which there are about a dozen, are alike creditable to the artist and suitable for the pages of such a publication. The reading matter, however, will probably most attract the attention of the majority of purchasers, many of whom will doubtless wonder where a great portion of it could possibly have been discovered. Thus, in addition to the lives of the ecclesiastics above mentioned, and biographical sketches of the venerable Sister Mary Margaret Bourgeois, Frederic Ozanam, Columbus, and others, we have an elaborate History of Printing, a description (with fac-similes) of “The Earliest Irish Madonna,” accounts of the Libraries of the Bollandists and of the Eremites of York; an archæological sketch of the oldest churches of the world, an explanation of the antique 1136Cross of St. Zachary, a résumé of the labors of the Franciscans in California, and a well-digested mass of astronomical, chronological, and statistical information which cannot help proving of incalculable value as matters of reference.

Evidences of Religion. By Louis Jouin, S.J. New York: P. O’Shea. 1877.

There is nothing more gratifying to Catholics who watch the progress of their religion in this country than to find that the church in the United States is beginning to supply her own literature, and more especially her polemical literature, which she needs most of all. Within the last few years several controversial works and books of instruction have been written in this country which are far better adapted to our people than the standard works of foreign authors; and the time, we trust, is not far distant when we shall be fully supplied with a well-adapted course of polemics of our own, and be no longer dependent on the writings of men in lands which are often more or less out of harmony with the American mind. The Evidences of Religion is one of the books of which we stood most in need, and the wonder is that it was not written long before. Perhaps, however, it is as well that no one attempted it before Father Jouin; for we doubt if any other attempt could have been so entirely successful.

The book is a marvel of condensed matter and thought and argument. In its 380 octavo pages are summed up the philosophical treatise De Certitudine and theological tract De Locis Theologicis; and it contains in addition a refutation, short, sharp, and decisive, of the latest errors in philosophy, politics, and religion.

Christianity rests on facts, not on mere theories. The science of the day pretends to deal with facts, and in every case to accept them, so that in our controversies with the pseudo-science of the times there is nothing more important than to bring out clearly and strongly the facts on which the certainty of the Christian faith rests. This Father Jouin has done, and in his book we have the whole groundwork on which Christianity is based spread out before us in perspective; the outline is complete, though of 1137course, in the limited space which he allowed himself, he has not been able to bring out each detail in full. Yet he assures us in his preface that nothing essential has been left out, and we have verified his assertion. Altogether this is just the sort of book, in our opinion, that is needed to combat the errors of the age, and to serve as an antidote to the poison of rank infidelity and materialism with which the very atmosphere around us is charged.

The author tells us that he designs the work more especially as a text-book for students in the higher classes of our Catholic colleges, and we sincerely hope that it may be adopted in every Catholic college throughout the country. Our Catholic instructors fully realize the importance of giving their students a thorough grounding in the evidences of their religion, and Father Jouin’s book in the hands of a good professor can be made the basis of a thorough course of such instruction.

Not alone to students in colleges do we recommend the study of this work, but to every intelligent educated Catholic, who should investigate the reasons on which his religion is founded, and be able to answer for the faith that is in him. Let our Catholic lawyers and doctors and business men take it up, and they will find in it sufficient to convince them of the reasonableness of their creed. It will furnish them, moreover, with conclusive arguments against the absurd theories and false views of religion which are being advanced every day in their hearing.

The greatest enemy that the Catholic Church has to contend with, both without and within, at the present day, is ignorance of her true position and teaching, and we eagerly invite and encourage every study and investigation that may in any way help to dispel it.

It is to be regretted that so valuable a work has not been brought out in a worthy manner. It is neither well printed nor well put together.

The New Vesper Hymn-Book: A companion to The New Vesper Psalter; containing a collection of all the hymns sung at Vespers throughout the year (classified according to metre), set to music, either for unison or four voices, with accompaniment, and including the best of the plain chant melodies, together with the words in 1138full, and the versicles and responses proper to each hymn. The whole compiled and edited by Charles Lewis, Director of the Cathedral Choir, Boston, Mass. Boston: Thos. B. Noonan & Co.

At the present stage of the revival of Gregorian Chant, the true song of the church, we can commend this little work as one which will doubtless be found useful in many churches whose organists are unable to harmonize the chant or the singers to read its proper notation. We wish, however, that the editor had given all the hymns as found in the Vesperale, as the musical airs which are substituted are not worthy to supplant the original melodies. The style of notation is that usually adopted in translations from the old form of four lines and square notes. Could not the editor have done better, so as to give to those unaccustomed to plain chant some idea of its movement and expression? There is no mark given to designate accented from unaccented notes, and, lacking this, we defy any one who is not familiar with the traditional movement of a phrase to give its true expression.

We think the spacing of notes and phrases as given in the old style should be preserved—that is, the notes upon each syllable should be printed close together, and a wider and distinct space left between syllables and words. An intelligent system of writing plain chant upon the modern musical staff is yet to be invented. We have been told that in some places the Tonic Sol-Fa system is being attempted, with what success we have not learned.

Lotos Flowers, gathered in Sun and Shadow. By Mrs. Chambers-Ketchum. New York: D. Appleton & Co. 1877.

Mrs. Chambers-Ketchum is already known to the readers of The Catholic World through her poems, “Advent” and “A Birthday Wish” (appearing under the name of “Twenty-one” in the present collection), published in its pages during the present year. Her verse is pure in thought and written out of a woman’s heart full of love and enthusiasm. With true Southern fervor she revels in the luxuriant flora of her home, and in the landscape of all her pictures she takes a dear delight. Even 1139so unsightly an object as a Mississippi steamboat-landing grows picturesque under her hand, and do we not feel soft Italian air as we read?—

“Peaceful stand

The sentinel poplars in their gold-green plumes

Beside the Enzo bridge. Where late the hoofs

Of flying squadrons scared th’affrighted land

The soft cloud-shadows chase each other now

O’er violet gardens.”

As with many another poet, the ease with which Mrs. Chambers-Ketchum writes is at times a snare, leading her to accept too readily a hackneyed term or word, surrendering after too slight a struggle to the tyranny of rhyme. In her verse, also, there is sometimes a lack of smoothness that would set despair in the heart of the faithful scanner.

Was it because our ears were sick with a certain slang of “culture” that, when we stumbled over Krishna in the “Christian Legend,” we felt a strong desire to banish these Indian immortals to that Hades where languished the gods of Greece until Schiller called them forth to run riot in the field of religion as well as of art? And is not the term “legend” a strange misnomer, for the New Testament narrative of the raising of Lazarus? For Mrs. Chambers-Ketchum’s verse is essentially Christian and womanly, and even so short a notice of it would scarcely be complete without a mention of “Benny,” who, with his kitten and his “baby’s sense of right,” is already dear and familiar to the mothers and children of our whole country, whose kindly hearts will surely give to Benny’s mother their sympathy in his loss.

Surly Tim, and Other Stories. By Francis Hodgson Burnett. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1877.

Unfortunately for our first impression of the merit of the little volume of which “Surly Tim” is the initial story, we began our reading with “Lodusky,” attracted to it by the locality of the tale, its hill people and dialect being a loadstone to us, but lately returned from similar surroundings. But as even in our mountain Edens we find the trail of the serpent, so in “Lodusky” we seemed to be treading the familiar path of moral irresponsibility and the tyranny of personal magnetism, and we craved the flaming 1140sword of the archangel to put the evil to flight.

Nor did our impression grow fairer on turning to “Le Monsieur de la Petite Dame.” But in “One Day at Arle” and in “Seth” we welcomed truly the author’s strong and exquisite pathos. In these pictures of the sorrow of the laboring classes the author draws with a pencil full of feeling, working under a sky whose hue is the leaden monotone of modern French landscape painting; a break of sunshine here and there, but the light seems to fall, after all, on earthly stubble and the dumb, almost soulless faces of patient cattle that know nothing beyond their daily furrow and the mute, faithful service they bear a kindly hand at the plough.

We are reminded of the pathos of Robert Buchanan’s North-Coast verse, and we close the little volume sadly, almost as if all human sorrow wherein is no Christian joy stood at our threshold, asking from us an alms we had no power to give.

Repertorium Oratoris Sacri: Containing Outlines of Six Hundred Sermons for all the Sundays and Holidays of the Ecclesiastical Year; also for other solemn occasions. Compiled from the works of eminent preachers of various ages and nations by a secular priest. With an introduction by the Rt. Rev. Joseph Dwenger, D.D., Bishop of Fort Wayne. New York and Cincinnati: Fr. Pustet, Typographus Sedis Apostolicæ. 1877.