Volume 27 — CONRAD AND WALBURGA. CHAPTER III.

“Moida! Moida! you were right; you knew him better than I did: Conrad Seinsheim has already proposed,” were Walburga’s first words as she entered her home in Fingergasse, where her friend was awaiting her to go out for a walk.

“Oh! good, good. How delighted I am! You’ll soon be back in your old castle,” cried the joyous Moida, springing up from her seat by the window and dancing round the room.

“Alas! I scarcely dare yet to give full rein to hope,” added Walburga, shaking her head.

“What is that? I didn’t understand you!” said the other, abruptly pausing in her merry skips. “Of course you said yes to him? Of course you did?”

“I said neither yes nor no; he is to return in three days for an answer.”

“O you naughty, puzzling creature! Why didn’t you tell the poor fellow yes on the spot, as I did to my darling Ulrich?”

“Why?” said Walburga, looking pensively at her; then, after hesitating a moment: “Well, Moida, it was because I have thus far adroitly, but perhaps foolishly, concealed something from him; you know what I mean. And, like a coward, when the crisis arrived, when he asked for my hand, I still put off the revelation for a brief space.”

“Well, Mr. Seinsheim will be a fool, a big fool, if he doesn’t marry you; that’s all I can say,” replied Moida, tenderly twining her arms about her friend’s neck. “And, what’s more, if I didn’t think we were all of us going to live near one another at Loewenstein, I’d hate him for trying to take you away from me.”

“Well, you and I have certainly been very happy together, have we not, Moida?”

“Oh! very, very, very; and you should have kept your pretty nightingale, so as to have brought him with us to Tyrol.”

“Perhaps I ought,” answered Walburga, her countenance now clearing up; for hope, sweet hope, was just at this moment flashing its rays into her bosom and inspiring her to believe that Conrad would surely accept her, accept her exactly as she was, and, like a brave, good husband, bear upon his own shoulders as much of her cross as he was able.

A few minutes later the two friends were passing through the park on their way to Foering. This place is simply a beer-garden—one of the many within an hour’s walk of Munich. Here on the warmest summer day the air is cool, for the spot is high and commanding, and, moreover, well shaded by elm-trees. But better than breeze or shade is the beer—beer such as one can taste only in Southern Bavaria. In the middle of the garden is a platform elevated a few inches above the ground, where those who are fond of dancing may trip it merrily to the music of a fiddle, harp, and flute, dropping now and again a copper into the 488tin plate which one of the minstrels passes through the crowd.

When Moida and Walburga arrived Foering was well-nigh deserted, and they had no difficulty in being helped at once to whatever they wanted, for the good-natured waiter-girl had only them to wait on. But ere long other people began to come. First appeared a husband and wife, the former carrying the baby—the best of all babies, of course—and so bound up in swaddling-clothes that the little thing could do naught except wink. Then followed a soldier hand-in-hand with a buxom lass, with nature’s own rouge glowing on her cheeks; and hand-in-hand these two sat down, and hand-in-hand they quenched their thirst out of the same mug, the beverage tasting all the more like nectar for this sweet communion of lips.

Presently a pursy gentleman waddled into the garden, his respiration so laborious that you could hear him from afar, and dropped heavily down upon the same bench where Moida and Walburga were seated. To judge by his appearance you would have declared there was not a spark of sentiment in his whole composition; he looked to be a sheer mass of beer-drenched humanity. Yet this was wide, wide of the truth. Herr Wurst was organist of the cathedral, was passionately fond of poetry, and knew by heart every song of the Minnesingers. In short, he was a Bavarian every inch of him, and never was so much soul hidden in a sausage.

And thus on, on the people came, all jovial, all orderly, and to look at them you might have fancied they had not a care or trouble in the world. Then by and by the music commenced. ’Twas a waltz from Strauss, and the corpulent organist, who knew our young friends—for they both sang in his choir—danced thrice round the platform with each; and the baby in swaddling-clothes lay upon the bench like a little Stoic while its daddy and mammy whirled round too; and the buxom lass and the soldier likewise danced—danced so hard, threw such life into their motions, that when at length they paused to give their hearts a rest you might have thought they had been out in a shower of rain.

“How often dear Ulrich and I have enjoyed ourselves here!” spoke Moida, when she and Walburga were once more seated over their beer-mugs. “I do believe we once danced a whole hour without stopping. And oh! how sweet it was to coo and whisper our love to each other while we flew round. Why, I don’t think I knew what life was till I became his betrothed.”

“Well, I hope you each had a glass of your own to sip the beer from,” remarked Walburga, smiling.

“No indeed; we went halves in everything. And now—just think—we are soon going to be married! And you too. O Walburga! Walburga!”

The latter, who was still under the radiant influence of hope, and who seemed to feel anew the warm touch of Conrad’s lips, cried: “Yes, yes, my future is bright, and I will prove by my devotion to him how grateful I am; and there’ll be no happier husband than Conrad Seinsheim!”

Presently, however, her countenance fell, and in a low, grave tone she added: “But suppose all this were not to happen? Everything 489must remain in doubt and uncertainty till I meet him again, you know.”

“Oh! but he is so full of good sense, so unlike the rest of the world, that you may dispel all doubt. Conrad is sure to take you—sure,” answered Moida.

Cheered by these words, Walburga, who was not blest with the same even temperament as her friend, and who too easily flew from one extreme to the other, became once more blithe and cheerful, and she proceeded to speak of Conrad in a strain which their brief acquaintance hardly justified. But love engenders love; and excited by the thought that she was loved by him (Walburga had never had a lover before), a tender, responsive passion now inspired her tongue, and during the rest of the afternoon even Moida’s high spirits did not soar higher than her own.

“And now,” said Walburga, when the sun was verging near the horizon—“now let us seek the grove into which my dear nightingale flew; I long to hear him singing his song in liberty.”

“And making love to some other pretty bird,” returned Moida, as she rose from the table.

Accordingly, they wended their way back to the park; and in about half an hour Walburga came to a halt and said: “Here is the spot; just among these bushes he disappeared.” Then, after listening a moment, she added: “And that is his voice. Hark!”

“May it not be another nightingale?” observed Moida.

“Well, let us approach softly and try to get a peep at the one that is now singing; if ’tis mine I’ll know him by a bit of blue ribbon I tied about his neck.”

Presently they caught a glimpse of the little songster amid the green leaves, and, by the ribbon he wore, ’twas undoubtedly Walburga’s pet.

“Oh! how glad I am I set him free,” spoke the latter in an undertone, as if she feared to disturb his roundelay. Then, pointing towards a neighboring bush: “And look! look! Yonder is his mate.”

Walburga had scarcely breathed these words when the other bird took wing and perched itself close beside hers. And now the song waxed softer and more melodious, and a tear glistened in her eye as she gazed upon this happy scene of love-making.

Presently a rushing, swooping sound was heard; ’twas like a blast of wild wind, and the girl gave a start. Moida was startled, too, and wondered what it was. But before either of them could utter a cry or hasten one step to the rescue, a hawk had pounced upon Walburga’s sweet warbler and carried him away.

The next three days were anxious ones for Conrad and Walburga. The former endeavored to beguile his thoughts by watching the work which was going on at the castle, and spent as much time as possible beside Ulrich, under whose skilful hand the pristine beauty of the interior of the tower was fast returning.

Whenever the youth spoke of Moida, Conrad’s face would light up, and he would exclaim: “Yes, yes, a happy day is coming for her and you and all of us.” Yet down deep in his heart he felt a strange misgiving. He remembered the pensive look which more than once had shadowed Walburga’s countenance whilst they were conversing together; nor did Conrad forget 490the tear—the tear he had been so tempted to kiss away. “And there was a shyness, too, about her which I cannot understand,” he said to himself. “She seemed afraid to look at me. And when finally I proposed, instead of answering yes or no she put me off for three long days.”

Conrad’s own temperament, as Moida Hofer had discerned, was not unlike Walburga’s; and now the thought of waiting this space of time was very trying to him. At one moment he was full of hope; at another he was certain that he would be rejected, and then he was plunged in despair.

Yet, singular to relate, when at length the dawn of the third day did arrive, Conrad was seized with a mysterious impulse not to leave Loewenstein; and Ulrich, to whom he had opened his heart and confided all his thoughts, was unable to comfort him and give him courage to shake off the gloom which had come over his spirits.

“I had a dream last night,” spoke Conrad—“a dream that has wrought on me a most vivid, painful impression. I believe I shall never get over it—never!”

“Pray, what was the dream?” inquired Ulrich.

“I thought I was standing on the brink of a river, whose dark waters as they rolled by me gave forth a moaning, melancholy sound; and ever and anon along the surface of the flood there passed a human head; and every face of the many, of the thousands, I saw float by wore traces of pain and woe, while some were stamped with a sorrow perfectly indescribable. And, oh! one of these faces”—here Conrad shuddered—“was the face of Walburga. And she watched me and watched me until she disappeared in the distance with a mournfulness no human tongue can express. Then when she was gone I heard a voice cry out: ‘This stream hath its fountain in the heart of poor humanity; and these waters are all the tears which have been shed since Paradise was lost.’”

“What a curious dream!” said Ulrich. “But I beg you to forget it. ’Tis only a dream.”

Walburga, too, was impatient and anxious for the time to fly by. And now while she sat at her easel waiting for Conrad to appear—’twas the morning of the day she had named—her heart fluttered at every footstep that approached. Her countenance was paler than usual, and on it were marks of grief. Nor ought we to smile at the girl for feeling so acutely the death of her nightingale; it was such a cruel death, and she had loved the bird so much. Indeed, it was her very love for it that had prompted her to set it free. Only for this her pet would still have been warbling in its cage; now nothing remained of it save a few scattered feathers.

“Alas! will my heart, perhaps, be torn like his?” she sighed, as she waited and listened.

But hour after hour went by, and still Conrad did not come; nor did he show himself at all this day, nor the following day either.

And then Walburga murmured to herself: “Ah! I might have known it would be so. He has been told by somebody else what I should have let his own eyes discover. Now I shall see him no more.”

The evening of the sixth day, after having waited for him at the Pinakothek, but, as before, in vain, the poor girl went her way home, where she might bow her head on 491Moida’s breast and silently lament. But lo! on reaching her humble abode her friend was not to be found—Moida was gone! On the pin-cushion was found a slip of paper, whereon was written: “Stay calm, dear Walburga, and trust in me; I’ll be back to-morrow.” Moida did not reveal that she was gone to Loewenstein to learn what had become of Conrad Seinsheim.

As changeable in spirits as the one whom he so passionately loved, Conrad arrived in Munich, his heart ravished with joy at the prospect before him; for Moida had assured him beyond the shadow of a doubt that ere the clock struck noon Walburga would be his affianced bride.

“She has been expecting you day after day,” said Moida; “and I can hardly forgive you for putting her patience to such a trial.”

The day was anything but pleasant; the rain poured down like a deluge, and the streets were gloomy and deserted. But when there is blue sky in our heart all the clouds in the heavens cannot shut it out; and so Conrad did not heed the tempest in the least. At length he reached the Pinakothek; and when Walburga found him once more by her side, she had to call forth all her resolution, in order to preserve a mien of calm and dignity.

Only by a great effort she succeeded; at least her eyes did not stray from the canvas, and, except for a flush of color which came over the paleness of her cheek, one might have fancied she was not even aware of his presence.

“Gracious lady,” began Conrad in faltering accents, “I am come late—very late, I know. But I hope not too late?”

“Oh! no, sir. I forgive you,” answered Walburga, with a smile which at once doubly assured him that the happy moment was indeed close at hand. “But pray be patient yet a little while,” she added, “and watch well what I am about to do; ’tis the finishing touch to my picture.”

“Your beautiful picture!” ejaculated Conrad. “How I long to see it hanging in Loewenstein Castle.”

And now, while Walburga went on with her brush, he fell into attentive silence. But he said within himself: “Only for what Miss Hofer has told me of you, of your kind heart, I should set you down as the cruelest of mortals for keeping me in a fever of suspense during such an age as a single minute.”

Presently Conrad’s expression became one of amazement, and, quite unable to contain himself, he exclaimed, “Why, what are you doing?”

But without making any response the girl continued her work; and her hand was wonderfully steady, considering that Conrad’s trial, great as it was, was not greater than her own. Nay, the agony of waiting was tenfold more poignant for her than for him.

In a few minutes she had finished, and then again he cried out, this time loud enough to be heard in the main gallery: “Why, why do you disfigure your chef d’œuvre by a hideous birthmark?”

With a tremor and cheek white as death Walburga here let her brush fall, then abruptly cut short Conrad’s exclamations of regret at what she had done by saying:

“Pray listen, sir; I am about to answer the solemn question you put to me a week ago.” But before going further she paused a 492moment, perhaps to smother a wail of anguish that was ready to burst from her lips; and while she paused Conrad leaned towards her to catch the coming words, and you might have heard the beating of his heart. Then Walburga spoke: “My response, sir, is—No!”

There are times in life when we scarce can put faith in what our ears plainly tell us; to Conrad Seinsheim this was such a time. His expression when these words reached him, it were impossible to describe; he stood like one petrified.

In another moment, with astonishment, and wrath, and grief struggling madly in his breast, he turned and hastened out of the Pinakothek; and as he went, oh! bitterly did he curse the hour, the fatal hour, when he first laid eyes on this beautiful but utterly heartless and deceiving woman.

O Conrad, Conrad, Conrad! why didst thou not stay thy rash flight an instant—only an instant—and give Walburga one other glance? Hadst thou done this, we verily believe, nay, we are certain, thy flashing eyes would have softened to tenderness and pity.

For at the sound of thy departing steps she turned round towards thee, and her face was as the face thou sawest in thy dream. But destiny shaped it otherwise: thou didst not pause, and Walburga floated down the dark stream, away from thee for ever and for ever.

Ulrich retired to rest, the night which closed the stormy day when Conrad went to Munich, in a very happy mood. Not only did he believe himself on the high-road to success, for Conrad had promised to find him steady employment, but the absence of his benefactor made the youth confident that Walburga had put an end to his suspense by giving him a favorable answer. “Yes, Conrad told me that if she accepted him I need not expect him back till to-morrow, or the day after at the very soonest.”

Nor even when five days elapsed, and the owner of the castle still remained absent, did Ulrich think it strange. “I am sure,” he said to himself, “I didn’t leave my Moida’s side for five days after we were betrothed—no indeed.”

But why none of them dropped him a line to impart the glad tidings did surprise him a little; Moida, at least, might have written two words. Finally, a letter did come from Moida, but it brought anything save good news; and when the poor fellow had read it through he sank down on the grass near the ancient tombstone and wept bitterly.

When this day closed Loewenstein was quite deserted, except by Caro, the aged poodle, who wandered all about the dusky ruin, whining and wondering what had become of his master. Yet, cheerless as Loewenstein was this evening and many an evening afterwards, ’twas less cheerless than the erewhile happy home in Fingergasse.

But Conrad Seinsheim knew naught of this; he believed all the grief, all the lamentations, to be his own. And, indeed, he suffered much. From hateful Munich he sped away he did not care whither: to Nuremberg, to Dresden, to Prague—on, on he travelled, half distracted; until by and by, after three weeks of aimless, feverish wandering—his heart spoke to him and said: “Thou hast been hasty; return to the Pinakothek and ask Walburga once more to be thy spouse.” And Conrad listened 493to the voice of his heart and went back.

Three weeks have passed away since Walburga pronounced that doomful No—only three weeks. Yet what changes may be wrought in this brief space of time! Is yonder haggard visage moving through the Pinakothek the visage of Conrad Seinsheim?

Yes, it is he; and how his deep-sunken eyes glow as he draws nigh to the spot where hangs Carlo Dolce’s picture of Innocence! Like sparks out of a tomb they seem.

But she whom Conrad is looking for is gone. “Pray tell me,” he said, addressing one of the custodes—“tell me where is the young lady who was copying this painting a few weeks since. Is she anywhere in the gallery?”

“She is dead, sir,” answered the other, quietly tapping a little black box with his knuckles and taking out a pinch of snuff; “and she is to be buried to-day.”

“Dead!” repeated Conrad, starting back. “Dead!”

In another moment he was hastening with winged feet to the God’s-acre. And as he sped along the streets, every merry laugh that reached his ears sounded like a dismal croak; and the sky overhead, albeit never so cloudless and bright, seemed to shadow every object like a vast funeral pall.

How bitterly did Conrad now reproach himself for the rash words he had uttered when he saw Walburga tracing the birthmark on her picture!

“Fool, fool, fool that I was! I should have divined in an instant what she thus meant to convey to me, and I should have answered: ‘Even so, dear girl, I will take thee and cherish thee!’”

When Conrad reached the Leichen-Haus^[107] the funeral bell was already tolling—the Leichen-Haus, whose ghastliness cannot be dissipated by all the bright-burning tapers and garlands of sweet-scented flowers which surround the dead. Breathless he turned to the sheet of paper posted by the doorway, whereon are written the names and station in life of those who are to be buried; and breathless he read the names.

Walburga’s stood third on the list, and, as coffin number two was just passing out of the building, Conrad saw that he was not more than in time. He pushed his way through the crowd, and in another moment found himself beside Walburga. She was the only one of the departed who retained any look of life about her; you might almost have fancied she was blushing at the curious eyes which were staring upon her, as she lay still and motionless in the narrow box, and that she heard them whispering, “How handsome she would have been, except for that ugly birthmark!”

We need not tell what Conrad felt at this moment; those who noticed him nudged one another, and said in undertones:

“Her lover, perhaps. Poor fellow!”

Not many followed Walburga to her last resting-place; for she had been of a retiring nature, and had kept much to herself and her one devoted friend. There might have been five or six persons in all who saw her lowered into the grave; and among the few who sprinkled holy water upon her there was Conrad Seinsheim. As he did so an inner 494voice whispered to him and said: “Walburga is near thee; she sees thee; she is immortal and happy for ever.”

Then, when the last clod of earth had been well packed down by the grave-digger’s spade, Conrad turned away to seek Moida Hofer. Ulrich accompanied him, and when they gained the high-up chamber where Walburga had lived so many peaceful years, they found Moida standing beside a table on which lay Master Eckart and Blessed Henry Suso’s Little Book of Eternal Wisdom, an empty bird-cage, and a tress of golden hair.

“She loved you truly,” spoke the girl, looking at Conrad through her tears. “She told me so; they were almost her last words to me.”

“Oh! I know it now, but, alas! too late. She is gone!” replied Conrad; and the word gone sounded through the room with long-drawn pathos. ’Twas as if his voice had passed the word on to other voices, who kept repeating: “Gone! gone! gone!”

Here Moida and Ulrich fell to weeping; and when by and by they uncovered their faces, they were surprised to find that Conrad had disappeared. He must indeed have glided away like a spirit, for neither of them had heard his footstep; and, to their further wonder, the sunshiny curl had vanished too.

“How strangely things turn out!” spoke Moida to her betrothed one evening, as they were seated side by side at the foot of Loewenstein tower, watching the sun go down.

“Strangely, strangely!” answered Ulrich.

“Poor Conrad!” went on Moida. “Had he come back only a few days sooner—and he came with the full intention of proposing again—if he had arrived even one day before the saddest of all the days I have known, Walburga might have lived.”

To this the youth made no response; he could not speak, and his tears set Moida weeping again; while old Caro, who perceived that his mistress was in sorrow, let droop his head, and his tail ceased to wag. Presently the sun disappeared. But still in the twilight the lovers remained thinking of the past.

By and by a voice was heard singing within the tower, and after listening a moment and sighing, “Poor, poor Conrad!” Moida rose up and peeped through the lowest of the grated windows. Ulrich did the same, and what did they behold? Wrapped in a long, flowing gown, and pacing round and round the room, was Conrad Seinsheim. Yet not everybody would have recognized him; for his hair, which now reached down to his shoulders, was turned quite gray, and so was his beard, and you might have taken him for an aged man.

The song he was singing was one full of tenderness and love; and ever and anon Conrad would pause and listen, and press to his lips a lock of sunny hair.

Then suddenly, like a person who hears an answering voice, his ghostlike visage would glow with rapture, and you might have fancied he had caught a vision of heaven.

“Really, I sometimes think Conrad is not mad at all,” observed Moida solemnly. “At this moment I do believe he sees dear Walburga. Look! look! He is beckoning!”

“It may be so,” returned Ulrich. “At any rate, he is infinitely happier, judging by his expression and 495his songs, than many a man who is not mad.”

“Well, I’ll not say ‘Poor Conrad!’ any more,” added Moida. “For I verily believe he knows Walburga is ever hovering near him; nay, that at times he actually sees her. There, look again! look! How he smiles! And his outstretched hands may indeed be clasping hers now, albeit they are invisible to you and me.”

Here there was a brief silence, after which Ulrich remarked, “I am very pleased, my love, that you keep the little lamp so nicely trimmed before the image of our Blessed Mother: for the image belonged to Walburga. See, now Conrad is praying before it.”

“Oh! ’tis not I who trims the light,” replied Moida. “Conrad takes entire charge of the shrine; I merely bring him oil and tapers.”

“But, darling,” continued Ulrich somewhat abruptly, and with a look of seriousness, “if Conrad’s mysterious condition last much longer ’twill plunge us into still greater difficulties; will it not? Why, already all your slender means have been swallowed up, as well as the few florins I had, in paying off the swarm of laborers who were employed upon this ruin. Now all work is stopped, and ’twill be a bitter cold place to spend the coming winter in. Yet what can we do? We must surely stay by Conrad, for he was extremely generous to you and me; and if we abandoned him in this dark hour ’twould be very cruel.”

“Ay, let us prove his stanch friends, now that he is unable to help himself,” answered the girl, brushing away a tear.

“Well, if he could only sleep he might grow better,” pursued Ulrich.

“Our kind friend hasn’t closed his eyes in ever so many nights,” said Moida. “Nor does he take enough nourishment to keep another person from starvation. In fact, his condition is exceedingly mysterious. An inward fire seems to be consuming him; you can see it shooting out of his eyes; but still on he lives—on and on; apparently happy, too, withered to a skeleton though he is.”

“Ay, what can keep good Conrad alive?” said Ulrich.

“Might it be that Walburga’s spirit feeds him?” spake Moida, in an awe-stricken whisper.

Here the subject of their remarks rose up from his knees and began again to sing:

“Und weil es nicht ist auszusagen,

Weil’s Lieben ganz unendlich ist,

So magst du meine Augen fragen,

Wie lieb du mir in Herzen bist!”^[108]

When the song, of which we have given but a stanza, was ended, Caro uttered a melancholy howl that awakened the echoes far up the mountain and set the owls in the ruin hooting; then following his mistress, who passed into the tower to make sure that Conrad’s door was properly fastened for the night, the old dog curled himself up on a rug and was soon asleep.

Moida, however, went out again to spend a half-hour more with her betrothed, watching the stars and wondering what fate was in store for herself and him.

“If these stones could only speak, what tales they’d tell!” observed Ulrich, after she had nestled down beside him and flung half her shawl about his shoulders, for the air was rather chilly.

“Yes, very interesting stories no 496doubt,” returned Moida. “They’d tell us of many a brave knight and fair lady, of many a pageant and tournament. But remember, dear boy, what I have often said to you: beware of dwelling on those dead and buried days. And I, too, must beware; for, do you know, since I am here I occasionally feel myself drifting into a dreamy state, and I might almost fancy this ruin is enchanted and that it has thrown a spell over me. But believe me, Ulrich, believe me, the past is past and can never, never come back. Whatever your forefathers were, however wealthy and noble and powerful—some of them even placed kings on the throne—you, at least, must toil to win your daily bread; and I mean to help you. Therefore be of stout heart and look only to the future. And even if we have to live like these owls we will marry some time or other; and happy days are in store for us yet.”

Moida had scarcely spoken these words when she and her betrothed were startled by a loud, wailful cry which seemed to proceed from Conrad’s chamber. Nor can we wonder that it made them both spring to their feet; for not once since poor Seinsheim had been confined had he wept a tear or uttered a single lamentation. Yet ’twas undoubtedly his voice they had just heard. But what could have wrought this sudden change in him?

In another moment they were within the tower. Then Moida with trembling hand turned the key of his door and entered, followed closely by Ulrich.

“O Moida! Moida!” cried Conrad, as she advanced toward him, “why did you wake me? Why did you not let me sleep on? ’Twas a celestial vision I had—oh! celestial. But, alas! now I am awake—stark awake; and now it all comes back to me—all, all. She is dead! dead! dead!”

Here he burst into a paroxysm of grief, and uttered anew the shriek of woe which had been heard a minute before.

“I do believe his reason is restored,” whispered the girl, turning to her betrothed.

“Oh! let us thank God,” answered Ulrich.

“Conrad, dear, good Conrad,” spoke Moida, now gently taking his hand in hers, “you have been living indeed in a vision for many days past; but now you appear to be yourself again. So do not mourn; rather kneel and pray, and I will pray with you, and so will Ulrich. Let us offer thanks to God for your happy recovery.”

“Well, yes, I will pray—pray to be taken where Walburga is,” answered Conrad, in a somewhat calmer tone, yet still weeping bitterly. “O Moida! if you only knew how happy I have been. Why, blessed Walburga was near me all the while; and every time I sang she responded in a strain such as only angel lips can breathe. But now—now her face has disappeared, her voice is silent—she is gone! O Moida! if my blissful vision was madness, then would to God I had stayed mad!”

“Well, dear friend, Walburga is no doubt in heaven, and I believe she does often hover round you; for she loves you, and knows that you love her; and I am confident nothing would so rejoice her soul as to have you pray—to see you back once more in the faith of your youth. On her dying bed this was her ardent hope. Oh! do, do.”

“I am what I used to be in my 497early years,” replied Conrad, a glad smile lighting up his wan face. “I am, indeed. Blessed Walburga led me back—and— But hark! She is calling me! Hark! Hark!”

Here Conrad sank slowly to his knees, while an expression came over him which filled the other two with alarm. Then Ulrich, without losing a moment, hastened with all speed to the monastery for a priest. The path down the mountain was a difficult one, especially at this hour. On the way back the good father and Ulrich might have gone astray and arrived too late, but for their meeting a man with a lantern, who offered to light them up the rugged ascent.

Nigh unto death as he was, Conrad’s soul lingered yet an hour in its mortal tenement—a long enough time for him to be shriven and to receive the last sacrament of the church; after which the man with the lantern—and who, by a happy providence, turned out to be the village notary—drew up in brief words Conrad’s will and testament, whereby Loewenstein Castle, and all his other property besides, was bequeathed to Ulrich.

“And now, ere I depart hence,” spoke Conrad in a voice barely loud enough to be heard, and placing Moida’s hand in the hand of her betrothed, “let me see you joined in matrimony. Ay, let the holy bond be made right here by my couch, and do thou, reverend father, pronounce them man and wife.”

Such a ceremony at such a time and place the latter had never yet performed. But so urgent was Conrad’s appeal to have it done on the spot, without an instant’s delay, that he overcame a little scruple.

Then, just as Conrad’s immortal part was winging its flight, Moida, the patient, faithful Moida, who had waited so long for this golden moment to arrive, found herself the bride of her own dear Ulrich; and like a bright rainbow illumining a rain-beaten landscape, a gleam of joy, great joy, shone through her tears, and never before was happiness so strangely blended with sorrow as here in this chamber of death.

Then, kneeling down side by side, Moida and Ulrich breathed a prayer for the repose of the soul of him who had been so very good to them. And may we not hope that near them at that solemn moment was the soul of Walburga, greeting the spirit of the one whom she loved, and ready to be his guide in the dark, dismal region which Conrad had still to pass through ere he came to the home of the blest?

END.

498

DANTE’S PURGATORIO. TRANSLATED BY T. W. PARSONS. CANTO SEVENTEENTH.

Now, that thy mind with more expanded powers

May conceive this, give me thy mind, nor shun

To reap some harvest from this halt of ours.

Bethink thee, reader, if thou e’er hast been

Among the Alps o’ertaken by a cloud,

Through which all objects were as blindly seen

As moles behold things through their visual shroud;

How, as the vapors dank and thick begin

To thin themselves, the solar sphere’s faint ray

Scarce pierces them,—and readily may’st thou

Conceive (when first I saw it) in what way

To me the sun looked that was setting now.

From such a cloud, and following as I went

My master’s faithful steps with even pace,

I came to where the day’s last rays were spent

On the low border of the mountain’s base.

O gift imaginative! that dost so

Of ourselves rob us, that oft-times a man

Heeds not though round him thousand trumpets blow!

If thee sense move not, whence the power that can?

A light moves thee, Heaven-kindled, that doth flow

By will divine directed, or its own.

My fancy with her fury was engrossed

Who took the shape of that sweet bird^[109] well known

To be of his own song enamored most;

And here my mind was in itself so chained

That it received no object from outside.

Then into my high fantasy there rained

The image of a person crucified,^[110]

Fierce in his aspect, with a face of hate,—

And in this look despitefully he died.

499Round him there stood Ahasuerus great,

Esther, his spouse, and Mordecai the true,

Of whose just word just action still was mate.

And, as this image from my mind withdrew,

Of itself breaking, as a bubble does,

Failing the water under which it grew,

A damsel^[111] weeping on my vision rose,

Moaning aloud and crying: “Why, O queen!

Hast thou through anger wished thyself undone?

Not to lose thy Lavinia, thou hast ta’en

Thy life and lost me! Mother, I am one

Doomed to mourn thee before a husband slain!”

Even as our slumber, when a flash of light

A sleeper’s eyes doth suddenly confront,

Is broken, quivering ere it dieth quite;

So fell my vision, as a beam past wont

In its excess of splendor smote my sight.

I turned to see where ’twas I had been brought,

When a voice called to me: “Climb here the hill!”

This put all other purpose from my thought,

And gave such eagerness unto my will

Of him who counselled thus to mark the mien,

As rests not wholly satisfied until

Face unto face the speaker may be seen.

And, as one sees not the sun’s figure clear,

Through light’s great superflux that blinds our gaze,

So was my visual virtue wanting here.

“This is a heavenly spirit” (Virgil says),

“That with his splendor veils him from thine eye,

And guides us our way up, nor waits for prayer.

He does by us as men would be done by;

For who sees need, and doth, till asked, forbear,

Already seems ill-purposed to deny.

Such invitation let our feet obey!

Haste we to mount before the darkness grow,

For then we could not till return of day.”

So spake my leader: I beside him slow

Pacing, we bended toward a stair our way;

And, as my foot the first ascension pressed,

I felt a movement near me as of wings

Fanning my face, and then a voice said: “Blest

Are the peacemakers! them no bad wrath stings.”

500Already overhead the sun’s last rays

Were so uplifted, followed by the night,

That round us many a star began to blaze.

And, as I felt my body’s waning might,

“Why dost thou fail me, O my strength?” I said:

But having come now where we climbed no more,

On the stair’s brink we ceased our toilsome tread,

Fixed as a vessel that arrives at shore.

I stopped awhile, and waited as to hear

In this new circle aught perchance of sound;

Then thus addressed my lord: “My Father dear!

Say, what offence is punished in this round?

Stay not thy speech although thy feet are stayed.”

“The love of good,” thus Virgil me bespoke,

“Wherein deficient here is perfect made;

Here the slow oar receives amending stroke.

But that thy mind with more expanded powers

May conceive this, give me thy mind, nor shun

To reap some harvest from this halt of ours.

“Never creator”^[112] (he began), “my son,

Was without love; nor anything create;

Either love natural, or that nobler one

Born of the mind; thou know’st the truth I state.

Natural love ne’er takes erroneous course;

Through ill-directed aim the other may,

Or from excess, or from a want of force.

While o’er its bent the Primal Good hath sway,

While with due check it seeks the inferior good,

It cannot be the source of wrong delight.

But when it swerves to ill, or if it should

Seek good with more or less zeal than is right,

Against the maker doth his work rebel.

Whence may’st thou^[113] comprehend how love in you

Must of all virtue be the seed, as well

As of each action to which pain is due.

Now since love must look ever towards its own

Subjects’ well-being, things are from self-hate

Saved; and since naught can be supposed alone

To exist, from the First Being separate,

Hatred of Him is also spared to men.^[114]

501Remains (if rightly I divide, I say)

The ill that’s loved must be a neighbor’s then,

And in three modes this love springs in your clay.

One, through the crushing of his fellow, fain

Would come to eminence, with sole desire

His greatness o’er that other’s to maintain.

One at another’s rising feareth loss

Of power, fame, favor, and his own good name;

So sickens, joying in his neighbor’s cross.

And there is one whom wrong so weighs with shame,

That greed of vengeance doth his heart engross;

And such must needs work evil for his brother.

This threefold bad love those mourn here below:

Now I would have thee learn about another,

Which runs to good but doth no measure know.

All vaguely apprehend a good wherein

The soul may rest itself; and all men woo

This imaged good, and seek its peace to win.

To look thereon if languid love^[115] draw you,

Or ye be slow to seek it, such a sin,

After meet penitence, on this round ye rue.

There is another good,^[116] but far from bliss!

Nor makes man happy: it is not the true

Essence, of all good fruit the root: To this

The love which too much doth itself resign

Is mourned for in three cornices above;

But how tripartite^[117] I will not define;

Thou shalt, by seeing, learn about that love”.

502

THE TRACTARIAN MOVEMENT IN ITS RELATION TO THE CHURCH.

A generation has passed away since the beginning of that which is commonly known as the Tractarian movement in the Church of England; the early leaders of the little band whose influence has been and still is felt throughout the length and breadth of the land have, with two exceptions, gone from among us; the names of Father Newman and Doctor Pusey are known to all our readers, the one as that of a devoted son of Holy Church, the other as that of an Anglican still firmly attached to the cause which he espoused in early life.

Which of these eminent men is to be taken as a fair example of the results of the movement? What is the tendency of the High-Church party? Do its doctrines and practices lead people to the Catholic Church or keep them out of it? Questions like these can hardly fail to occur to the mind of any intelligent observer of the state of religion in England in the present day, and on them must chiefly centre the interest of Catholics in the subject.

The different parties contained in the Church of England give contrary answers to the questions we have proposed. Low-Church or Evangelical Anglicans are unanimous in their denunciations of “Puseyism” and “Ritualism” as the high-road to Rome; some of them even go so far as to say that the Jesuits are the hidden but real promoters of what they look upon as a return to the errors and evils swept away by the Reformation. The High-Church portion of the Church of England is equally earnest and positive in the assertion that what it calls the revival of Catholic teaching and Catholic practice does not lead men to Rome, but keeps them, to use its own language, true to the faith of their baptism.

In face of these conflicting statements we turn to the testimony of Catholic priests engaged in the work of conversion, and to the personal experience of converts. We believe that every priest who has experience in conversions will unhesitatingly endorse the statement that most of the converts received into the Catholic Church come from the ranks of the High-Church or Tractarian section of the Anglican communion. Many of these converts, especially of those who were formerly Anglican clergymen, have felt it right to lay before the public the motives which determined them to take a step so serious in its nature and consequences. We have therefore a considerable number of published documents to refer to, and the testimony that they bear is in perfect accordance with that of our priests. The question, however, is not so easily settled. If you lay these facts before a Ritualist he will at once assure you that those who have left the Church of England were weak, or unstable, or impatient, or that they were driven from their position by the imprudence or fault of others, most probably by the errors of their bishops. They will, in fact, deny that conversions are the natural and legitimate 503result of High-Church teaching, and will treat them as exceptional cases, to be blamed, indeed, and deplored, but not to be viewed as indicating a general tendency.

It will therefore be interesting to examine a little into the work of the High-Church movement, and to judge for ourselves how it bears on the interests of the church.

We begin at once by admitting that the High-Church party is opposed to the Catholic Church—deliberately and actively opposed. The language in which it condemns converts is at least as strong as that in use among Evangelicals. The principle of private judgment, which furnishes the convert with an argument unanswerable in the case of his Low-Church opponent, is not recognized by the High-Churchman, although we do him no injustice in saying that it underlies his whole course of action. The High-Churchman’s belief in Anglican orders, coupled with his ignorance as to the meaning of jurisdiction, enables him to suppose that the Catholic Church in England is schismatical, and to denounce those who submit to her authority as guilty of grave, if not of unpardonable, sin.

If, then, the High-Church or Tractarian party does in any sense or to any degree promote the cause of conversion, or prepare the way for souls to return to God’s church, we must say that such work is done unconsciously and involuntarily.

The original principle of the High-Church movement was reverence for antiquity; it was, in the intention of its leaders, a return to the old paths. The past has ever had a charm for minds of a certain order; to those who have not realized the supernatural character of the church, who have not grasped the great fact that, in virtue of the promise of her divine Lord and of the power of his Spirit, she is ever the same, ever preserved from error, ever guided unto all truth, antiquity is a matter of primary importance. Ignorant of the existing Divine authority, the Protestant who believes that our Lord founded a church upon earth goes back to the earliest days of its history; he traces the stream to its source; he thinks that there it must needs be purest. It may be that the labor is great, that the study required is beyond the reach of many, and that, after all, the materials at his command are too often insufficient, and that he is ultimately compelled to fall back on the exercise of his private judgment; but in the absence of a living authority there is nothing that he deems more likely to guide him aright. The view, we must admit, is from his position perfectly reasonable, and we may bless God that the reverent and conscientious study of the past has brought many of the best and most gifted of the Anglican body to bow their heads in allegiance to the Vicar of Christ; they have found that the truth they sought is, to use the words of Moses, not above them nor far off from them, but very nigh unto them.

But the influence of this awakening of reverence for the past has told upon many who have not joined the Catholic Church; it has even left its mark on material things. The old churches which our Catholic forefathers built, wherein they worshipped and beneath whose shadow they rest, have been restored; through the length and breadth of the country they stand in their venerable beauty, and seem at once to bear testimony to the piety of former ages and to await England’s return to the faith.

504We believe the High-Church section of the Anglican communion to be promoting the cause of conversion in several ways.

First, by the valid administration of baptism. High-Church clergymen know what is essential to the validity of baptism; they believe baptism to be a sacrament and necessary to salvation, and consequently they are very careful in instructing their people as to its importance and in giving it properly. In former days, and in the case of ministers who did not believe that baptism really affected the eternal salvation of an infant, there is reason to fear that there was an immense amount of neglect. By baptism, as we know, the habit of faith is implanted in the soul, and accordingly in converts from Anglicanism we often find a wonderful power of grasping the truths of the Catholic religion; as soon as a doctrine is presented to them the mind seems at once to respond to it; faith is there, as it is in the soul of the baptized child.

Most of the doctrines of the Catholic Church are preached and taught by the High-Church clergy with more or less distinctness; and here we must observe that in speaking of the High-Church or ritualistic body we are compelled to use terms whose signification is somewhat vague. The Church of England may be said to contain three different schools of opinion, High Church, Low Church, and Broad Church; but no one of these has any definite standard. Among those who are called, and who would call themselves, High-Churchmen there are many varieties and shades of opinion; the writings or sermons of one High-Church clergyman may, of course, be disavowed by another. Up to the present time Dr. Pusey, who more than any other man might seem to have been a leader, does not feel it necessary to adopt the ritual for which some of his disciples are so earnestly contending. All that we can, therefore, hope to do is to give a general idea of High-Church and ritualistic teaching, premising that on most points there is more or less divergence amongst the teachers.

It is not surprising that many of those who look back to the past for guidance and instruction should have come to view the so-called Reformation with regret. The ordinary Protestant boldly declares it to have been a necessity, but many High-Churchmen openly deplore it; they repudiate the name of Protestant, and, in defiance at once of history and of etymology, call themselves Catholics. There is something, however, in a name, and we may fairly believe that the disavowal of the epithet Protestant tends to educate people out of the idea of protesting; it is certainly true that if the Church of England ceases to be Protestant, she cuts the very ground from under her feet, and abolishes her only plausible raison d’être; but the English mind, with all its good qualities, is not, generally speaking, logical, and words are too often used without a very accurate idea of their derivation or import.

Those Catholic doctrines which have been most fiercely opposed and most grossly misrepresented in England are now openly and earnestly inculcated. We may almost say that the conflict is gradually being narrowed to the one subject of the authority of the Holy See and the questions immediately depending on it. For the High-Church Anglican believes that our Lord founded a church; he professes 505to take that church as his guide, though he strangely persuades himself that its authority is at present in abeyance. He would obey the voice of a general council, but in order to have a general council it is absolutely necessary that his bishops should take part in the deliberations; in the expectation of an impossible conjuncture of circumstances he practically disobeys every one who in the meantime claims his allegiance.

But a vast amount of Catholic teaching is, as we have said, finding its way into the minds and hearts of Englishmen; Catholic practices and devotions are being revived, the way is being prepared for the church. There is a wonderful connection between the different doctrines of our holy faith; the soul that earnestly and devoutly believes one truth is, if we may so speak, predisposed to believe the next that may be presented to it, and this not only from a reasonable perception of the beauty, the fitness, and the mutual relations of the different truths, but from the habit of mind which is produced and cultivated by acts of faith. Each act of faith contains or implies an act of homage to the truth of God; the soul that worships is on the way to receive fuller light.

We have in a former paper^[118] dwelt at some length on the subject of confession in the Church of England; we have shown that it is habitually practised by a considerable number of earnest Anglicans, and that it is publicly urged upon people by some of the clergy as the ordinary remedy for post-baptismal sin. It is quite certain that confession is believed in very much more widely than it is practised. The most extreme of Anglicans cannot possibly maintain that the Church of England requires it of every one; to the majority of people, especially if early habit has not facilitated the practice, there can be no doubt that it is painful and difficult. We therefore often find persons who thoroughly believe that the English clergy possess the power of the keys, and yet never themselves seek for the benefit of absolution. The matter is left quite optional, or rather the penitent is to be judge in his own case, and to decide whether he does or does not require this special means of grace. The scanty utterances of the Book of Common Prayer seem to imply that peace of mind is the principal object to be attained by confession. If, therefore, an Anglican can “quiet his own conscience,” he is quite justified in doing so without any extraneous aid; and, indeed, in so doing he would seem to be carrying out the intention of the framers of the Prayer-Book.

The doctrine of the Real Presence is perhaps the one which has taken the deepest root in the mind of advanced Anglicans. We might multiply extracts from their books of devotion and instruction conveying the Catholic faith on this point in its completeness. Our prayer-books, especially the Golden Manual and the Garden of the Soul, are largely used. Many Catholic books of devotion have been translated for Anglicans, and, although most of the translations are more or less spoiled by a process of adaptation, in many of them the doctrine of the Holy Eucharist is unimpaired. The Lauda Sion, the Pange Lingua, and the Rythma of St. Thomas are preserved and 506faithfully translated. Nor is the teaching confined to words; the meaning of the ritual, of which we hear so much in the present day, is to be found in the belief in the Presence of our Lord which it expresses and inculcates. The so-called altars of many Anglican churches are decked with flowers; the crucifix stands upon them; lights are burned; the clergy wear vestments like those used in the church; celebrations of the communion are multiplied—it is made the central act of worship; fasting communion is insisted on; confession is recommended as the fitting preparation for communion. A confraternity has been founded with the name of the Confraternity of the Blessed Sacrament, and with the object of promoting the devotion which naturally flows from a belief in the Real Presence of our Lord. Attendance of non-communicants at the communion service is in many churches recommended and encouraged, and devotions for such worshippers have been published. Incense and music are employed in the service; chancels are richly adorned. In some chapels communion is reserved, and a rite, evidently imitated from the Catholic Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament, is practised.

Ritualists have also learned to invoke Our Lady and the saints. Fifty years ago Keble wrote:

“Ave Maria! Thou whose name

All but adoring love may claim!”

and now the Angelus and the Memorare, the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin and the Rosary, are in use in the English Church. The saints are honored and their intercession is sought. Extreme Unction is considered to be a lesser sacrament, and sick persons are anointed. The dead are prayed for in the touching and beautiful words which holy church puts into the mouths of her children.

It is needless to say that the doctrine of apostolic succession is most firmly maintained by High-Churchmen. Not only are the Catholic doctrines which have furnished the chief mark for Protestant hostility and the principal subjects of misrepresentation now maintained and inculcated, but others which, without being formally contradicted, have been obscured and neglected are now brought forward with a clearness which leaves little to be desired. The Catholic devotions to the Sacred Heart, to the Holy Child, to the Incarnation, Passion, and Resurrection of our Lord, cannot fail to make those who use them enter more and more into the great mystery which lies at the very foundation of the Christian faith.

Moreover, the idea of duty, of conscience, of a work to be done in the sanctification of one’s own soul, is constantly kept before the mind. Daily self-examination is part of the rule of life. The fasts of the church are observed often, indeed, with a severity greater than that required by the church, but natural among those who have no guide save their own conscience for the details of their practice. Her sacred feasts are also kept, and thus our separated brethren have some share in the holy teaching which each season of the ecclesiastical year impresses on the heart. During the Holy Week which has just passed the Tenebræ were sung in many ritualistic churches. On Good Friday the Three Hours’ Agony was preached in several places, the Reproaches were sung, and a devotion somewhat resembling 507that of the Stations of the Cross was practised. On Easter day the communion was celebrated as early as five o’clock and repeated several times. The histories of the saints are being made familiar to people’s minds. The literature of Ritualism might of itself furnish the subject of an interesting study. The Imitation of Christ is one of the most familiar books of piety, and among the books adapted from Catholic sources are the Spiritual Combat, many of the works of Fénelon and Bossuet, Rodriguez, Courbon, Pinart, Avrillon, and other spiritual and ascetic writers. Faber’s hymns are constantly sung in churches. The Catechism of Christian Doctrine, with some variations, is in the hands of the children of Ritualists. The Catholic Breviary has furnished the material for the day and night Hours used in many of the religious houses, and the very prayers of the Mass have been interwoven in the Anglican Office for Communion. An ample supply of juvenile literature places the doctrines of which we have spoken in an attractive form before the minds of children. Catholic pictures are to be seen everywhere. Several newspapers and magazines are devoted to the publication and discussion of matters relating to the interests of the High-Church party.

A very important feature in the revival of the last thirty years is the foundation of religious houses in the Church of England. There are now upwards of thirty Anglican convents, in which women lead a life of seclusion and devote themselves to the practice of works of charity and piety; they are in many cases bound by vows and live in obedience to authority. A few communities of men also exist. These Anglican religious call themselves monks and nuns, and wear a dress unlike that of secular persons. They keep the canonical hours of prayer, they give up all earthly ties, and their rule is in some cases taken from one of those originally framed by a saint and sanctioned by the church.

Retreats and missions more or less resembling our own are given by some of the Anglican clergy. We have recently heard that in a place where the conversion of some of the clergy seemed likely to be followed by that of a considerable body of their congregation, a retreat has been given with the special object of settling the minds of the waverers in their allegiance to the Church of England.

After all that we have said it will not surprise our readers to hear that people are often received into the church who thoroughly believe every Catholic doctrine, and, on making their submission, have no difficulty to surmount and nothing new to learn.

Prejudices are being dispelled; an interest in that body which has ever held the doctrines now recovered by Anglicans has been awakened. On their own principles High-Church people who go abroad feel bound to attend Catholic churches; the Catholic religion is better understood than it used to be, our ceremonies are imitated, our works of charity and devotion appreciated.

A work, then, is being done by that party in the Church of England commonly known as the Tractarian or High-Church party. Its influence has reached many whom we could not have hoped to reach. It has put many in a position where they are accessible to conversion. It has taught many souls the need 508and the value of sacraments. It has awakened a hunger and thirst whose ultimate satisfaction is only to be found in the church. It has trained souls to habits of self-examination, of self-denial, of earnestness, of meditation, and of generosity. It has, we may trust, kept many from ever falling into grievous sin; and while we are of course unable to admit the validity of Anglican orders, and consequently of sacraments dependent on such orders, we rejoice to think that what the devout soul believes to be a sacramental communion may prove a spiritual communion and be a means of grace and blessing.

Can we, then, as Catholics hold out the right hand of fellowship to those Anglicans who believe so much of Catholic doctrine, and who would fain persuade us that they have a right to the name we bear? Can we bid them God-speed and wish them success? Alas! we cannot. Whilst we appreciate their self-denying labors, whilst we admire their devotion and believe that the grace of God is leading them on to better things, we are constantly and sadly reminded that as yet they are in schism, that they are defying or ignoring the authority which in the name of Christ claims their obedience.

The opposition to the church is a feature of the very advanced party which we cannot overlook; it is impossible to say how many souls its influence has kept out of God’s church. The means used to hinder the work of conversion are various and too often successful. We began by the statement that most of our converts come from the ranks of Ritualism, but we must in some degree qualify it by saying that to many it has only been the final stage; that they have passed through it on their way from dissent or Low-Church Protestantism into the church. Whether they would have come to their true home more speedily if they had not on the way been attracted by that which has so great a semblance of truth we cannot say. Conversion is of course a work of God’s grace; but we cannot help feeling that while High-Churchmen have got rid of many of the prejudices and misconceptions which keep other Protestants out of the church, they are themselves surrounded by influences hard to overcome. There is more to satisfy both taste and devotional feeling in Ritualism than in ordinary Protestantism; there is more to keep the mind back from honest inquiry. The ordinary Protestant is bound to “prove all things and hold fast that which is good.” If he has a doubt, on his own principles he ought to follow it up, to question, to examine, and reason till he arrives at conviction. The Ritualist is too often taught to put away a doubt or question as a sin. He is hedged in on every side. He is forbidden to inquire. If he be in perplexity he is recommended to devote himself to good works; he is told to avoid controversy.

The branch theory and the dream of corporate reunion are constantly brought forward to combat the convictions of those who are drawing near to the church, and to defend a position which is felt to be exceptional. The branch theory maintains that the church of Christ is divided into three distinct branches, the Roman, the Greek, and the Anglican; each one of these, according to its adherents, has preserved all the essentials of a church, and each one claims with equal authority the obedience of 509the faithful over whom it reigns. The Catholic Church, accordingly, is the teacher appointed by God for Christians who live in Italy or Spain; the Greek Church is in the same manner the guide of the inhabitants of Russia, and the Anglican Church of those in England and her dependencies. The divergence or contradiction that may be observed in the teaching of these three bodies is ignored, or it is asserted that they are one on all essential points. The church, according to this view, is more or less a national institution. St. Paul, indeed, declared that there was neither barbarian nor Scythian; but this theory boldly asserts the distinction between Englishmen and Romans, and again between Englishmen and Russians. Perhaps national vanity may find some satisfaction in the idea of a branch church specially for British subjects. Some curious consequences follow from the view we have explained. In the first place, a man is bound to change his religion as often as he crosses the Channel. The Anglican would, he is told, be guilty of an act of schism by worshipping in a Catholic church in England; as soon as he arrives at Calais, however, it becomes his bounden duty to attend Mass on all Sundays and days of obligation, and if he were to be present at any Protestant worship, even though conducted by one of his own ministers, he would commit an act of schism. Church and schism, in fact, change places.

No Protestant is stronger in his condemnation of those who become Catholics than are many of the clergy who hold the branch theory. It might, indeed, appear that if each of the three branches has an equal claim to be called a church there could be little objection to the change; and yet these teachers declare it to be in England a sin even to enter a church belonging to the “Roman branch,” and to become a Catholic is said to be risking one’s salvation.

Closely connected with this theory is what we must call the dream of corporate reunion. It is of course evident to all who have read our Lord’s words in his Gospel that all Christians ought to be one, and though people may persuade themselves of an invisible unity in essentials, few can feel that the present state of things is altogether as it should be.

The wish for union, coupled with an absolute confidence in the reality of Anglicanism, has led to the hope that terms may at some time be made with the Catholic Church. The duty of submission is thus evaded; people are told that they are bound to wait till common action can be taken. It is hoped that in some mysterious manner “Rome” will yet be induced to see her errors in regard to England. People who have a strong leading idea look at everything through a medium of their own. They grasp at straws; the kindly courtesy of some good priest, or the ignorant credulity of some poor peasant, is taken as a token of the coming amalgamation. The fact that the Catholic Church has in the strongest manner condemned the scheme of reunion is ignored, the insuperable obstacles which at once present themselves are unheeded, and for the sake of an unreal and unfounded dream those who would fain submit to God’s church are held back.

Besides the expression of these general principles there is a vast amount of special and personal action 510hostile to the church. It is not enough to assure the poor famishing soul that the Church of England supplies its every want, that it has never turned the graces already bestowed to sufficient account; it is also warned that it is a sin even to think of leaving its present position. The obedience claimed by and rendered to Anglican directors is such as would astonish Catholics. The Anglican director, generally speaking, has not learned to obey, and this may be the reason why his manner of ruling is so absolute. It is no uncommon thing to find people forbidden to enter a Catholic church, although the director himself believes our Lord to be present on its altar; conversation or correspondence with Catholic friends about the church is in some cases prohibited, as well as the reading of Catholic books. The director will sometimes promise to answer for the soul that blindly obeys him. Means such as these are used to bind the conscience, and it is probable that they keep back many who would bravely face persecution.

It is to be feared that the temper of mind prevalent among the ritualistic clergy is one little likely to lead to submission to the church; for we must receive the kingdom of God as little children, and nothing can seem less indicative of the childlike spirit than the tone of insubordination constantly to be met with. The authority of the crown is set at naught; that of their own bishops is defied; obedience is little known amongst them; nevertheless by God’s grace many a soul from among the clergy as well as from among the laity bursts the trammels that have bound it, and finds its true home and rest. It is said that the present year is bringing into the church a harvest greater than that of any year since the time of Father Newman’s conversion; and if it be so, we may well appeal to all Catholic hearts for the aid of their prayers.

We look towards these separated brethren with a longing sympathy. We feel that the grace of God is appealing to their hearts in a very special manner. We acknowledge that the difficulties which keep them back are of no common order. We admire their earnestness, their devotion and charity; we appreciate the courage and constancy with which they suffer for what they believe to be the truth; and if we are compelled at times to use language which has a tone of harshness or sternness, it is because we are solemnly bound to be faithful to God’s church, and because we know that we can do them no greater kindness than to convince them that they are spending their labor for that which cannot satisfy them, and to lead them on to the enjoyment of all the blessings which the Precious Blood has purchased for them.

We believe that the influence of the Tractarian movement has been felt even in America, and we hope that the sketch here given of its bearing on the great work of conversion may not be devoid of interest to those who would deem it a joy and a privilege to help a soul into God’s church—a work for which the power of sympathy and the intelligent comprehension of its position and difficulties are most important qualifications.

511

THE NEWSPAPER PRESS OF NEW YORK.

One of the most remarkable features of this most remarkable century is the unparalleled growth of that branch of ephemeral literature known par excellence as the press. This increase has not been confined to any particular nation or locality, but is as observable in conservative Europe as in expansive America. Still, in this country, and particularly in New York, newspapers have multiplied during the last fifty years with a rapidity that has astonished not only the public but even their projectors and proprietors. It is within the memory of many now living when our city knew not the luxury of a daily journal, and its most inquisitive and anxious inhabitants were obliged to wait a whole week for current news and editorial comments thereon. Now we are so imbued with a craving for early information that few persons in active life are satisfied with a morning paper, but must have likewise two or three evening editions. The last generation were content to wait for an indefinite period for intelligence of what was going on in the Old World; to-day we are sadly disappointed if we cannot read over our toast and coffee of what has happened a few hours previously at the principal points of interest throughout Christendom. Business enterprise, competition, steam power, and the telegraph have been mainly instrumental in changing the character of journalism and creating wants hitherto unfelt; increase of population and a love of superficial reading, which, like jealousy, makes the food it feeds on, have done the rest.

Before proceeding to point out some of what seem to us to be the grave defects of the secular press, we freely and thankfully admit that its tone as regards the Catholic Church has greatly improved within the last few years. Those who remember the scoffs and sneers, the outrageous calumnies and downright falsehoods, which were usually associated with everything Catholic in so many New York journals a quarter of a century ago, now look with more than complacency on the comparative fairness which at present characterizes their reports, correspondence, and editorials. The manner in which the life and death of the late Pope, the venerable Pius IX., was treated and commented upon is a notable example of this growing spirit of liberality and good sense alike gratifying to their Catholic readers and honorable to themselves. Now and then, of course, we found expressions and sentiments opposed to our sense of historical truth and moral rectitude; but as a whole the non-Catholic press have expressed very just and impartial views of the multifarious labors and shining virtues which distinguished the career of the wonderful man who was lately called to his reward. The same may be said of their allusions to his successor, Leo XIII. Abandoning the senseless and mischievous course of their European contemporaries previous to the meeting of the conclave, they gave us a truthful and succinct account of the meeting of that august body, the result of its solemn deliberations, 512and excellent sketches of the life and services of the illustrious prelate selected to bear the burden laid down by Pius IX. For all this, considering how Catholic questions were formerly treated, we ought to be, and are, thankful. Again, looking nearer home, the services and ceremonies of the church are described with much more regard to their sanctity and less to the gratification of idle curiosity and insensate popular prejudice than formerly. Some of the press accounts of the nature and reason of fasts and feasts, abstinence, prayer, and good works, which are especially enjoined at particular periods, have been so precise and discriminating that the conviction is forced upon us of their having been written, or at least dictated, by persons fully in accord with Catholic teachings.

Yet while we cannot but admit this salutary change and admire the variety, system, and attention to details exhibited in the mechanical arrangement of news, and the extraordinary industry displayed in the general manufacture of our modern newspapers, it must be confessed with regret that in elevation of tone and honesty of purpose there has been little or no improvement on the slower and less attractive productions of our ancestors. We may take as an example the metropolitan press of New York, which in point of ability, influence, and circulation far surpasses that of any other city on the continent. Let any impartial person, after the careful perusal of any one of our five or six prominent daily newspapers which are supposed to control and lead public opinion, ask himself what there is in its pages to command the attention of the moralist, or to move the sceptical or thoughtless to a sense of his duty to God and his neighbor: what stern rebuke has been administered to the growing spirit of peculation and heathenism which is constantly gnawing at the vitals of society. How seldom do we find in the labored essays, the disjointed platitudes, the pretentious diatribes, the ornate editorials, or the epigrams which distinguish our prominent journals a sentiment or an argument based on sound views of morality and religion! With a constituency at least professedly Christian, they bandy with words and phrases, opinions and speculations, essentially anti-Christian. One sneers at the Catholic Church and everything we hold sacred; another patronizes us in a manner more insulting than complimentary; while the others, when not openly misrepresenting and maligning us, allude to our faith in a manner even more objectionable. All without exception, possibly without knowing it, are the advocates of the secret societies abroad, which are endeavoring to undermine the fabric of social order and Christian civilization, and the apologists for those home fanatics who seek to excite public prejudice against us, and oppose class to class and creed to creed for their own selfish and diabolical ends.

Of course we do not expect secular newspapers to become active exponents of the great truths of religion, nor should it even be required of them to give undue prominence to the publication of matters of a religious character. That is not their province. But appearing as they do in a Christian community, and being supposed to reflect in a great measure the feelings, views, and moral status of the people who support them, we have a right to 513demand that they adhere to the teachings of that moral law which ought to govern us all, and that when they treat of sacred things, and deal with questions affecting faith and religion, it shall be done with that serious reverence which persons are bound to observe in social life. Neither do we ask that they advocate the superior claims of Catholics, nor even enter upon our defence against the many unscrupulous enemies who are constantly rising up against us; but we do insist that we shall not be insulted, that our opinions be respected, and that the code of morals which all who profess to be Christians acknowledge be not constantly and persistently outraged.

The secret of this apparently unanimous anti-Catholic feeling which we lament in the New York daily press is to be found in the mental, not to say moral, inferiority of the editorial fraternity as a class. Since the death of Greeley and Raymond and the practical retirement of Bryant we have had no really able journalist among us; while, unlike Paris, Berlin, London, and other European cities, where the foremost statesmen and most profound thinkers scorn not to take up the editorial pen occasionally, we have no voluntary contributors above the level of mediocrity. A New York editor is usually a man paid to write something or anything on certain subjects, whether he be familiar with them or not. He writes not to express his own well-considered convictions, or to give the public the benefit of his study and experience of a particular topic, but simply to meet a special emergency, and to embody, more or less lamely, the half-formed notions of his employer, who is as likely as not an uncultured man himself. Hence the greater number of what are called leading articles which appear in our daily papers, instead of presenting clear views, sound reasoning, and reliable information artistically epitomized, are seldom other than a mass of hasty, crude, and shallow speculations on topics of the greatest importance. With the mass of casual readers, who are too busy to look beneath the surface, such productions pass for gospel truths, and therefore are likely to do more harm than more elaborate articles; but to the intelligent reader it soon becomes obvious either that the heads of the writers are astray or that their hearts are not in their work. The latter surmise, we are inclined to believe, is more generally correct. How can a Hebrew, for instance, write a eulogium on the glories of the Catholic Church; a Catholic, no matter how lukewarm, praise the Communists and applaud the Carbonari; or a follower of the stern precepts of Calvin glorify free love and exalt the doctrines of universalism? Yet such anomalies are frequently found in New York journalism, where every man seems to be in the wrong place. The well-known fact that the editorial staff of all our large dailies is principally made up of persons of diverse nationalities, creeds, and opinions accounts for the discordance noticeable in every one of their pages. They have no fixed principles. No matter what political party journals may support, and how emphatic they may be in their advocacy of this or that public measure, when they come to treat a great social question, or one of vital importance to the honor and reputation of the republic, one column of the same paper is usually found to contradict the other, and the principles 514advanced to-day are in imminent danger of being condemned to-morrow.

To this rule, however, there is an exception. It seems to be a canon of the press of this city, and we might add of the entire country, that Catholics can be abused, scoffed at, and misrepresented with impunity. Their religion is unfashionable; their social, commercial, and political influence small in comparison with their numbers; the world is not their friend, nor the world’s law, and therefore the generous and large-minded editors of our newspapers, when at a loss for something else to say, have always an arrow in their quiver for the “tyranny of Rome,” and the dangers to which their beloved country is exposed from the “machinations and encroachments of Romanism.” Vulgar nicknames and insulting epithets applied to the church and the religious orders, which have long since been banished from the vocabularies of other countries, are freely used with a coolness and a facility which show that the writers are either too ignorant to know when they are vulgar, or so barren of ideas and expressions that they are compelled to borrow those which have done service in the days of a bigoted and fanatical generation.

But turning from the editorial page to what constitutes the bulk of our journals, we find their dangerous character revealed. What mainly fills their capacious pages and constitutes their principal attraction for the generality of purchasers? Extended reports of divorce cases, criminal trials, matrimonial escapades, and the minutiæ of executions; “spicy” paragraphs and indecent anecdotes to which the ordinary and instructive news of the day is only an adjunct. The sensational style of reporting, the dressing-up of disgusting topics in romantic phraseology, though unknown a few years ago, or confined to a few disreputable weekly papers, is fast becoming a distinctive feature in New York journalism. It is a growing evil, as well as a most insidious one, and the keen competition which exists between proprietors of daily journals for popular patronage has a direct tendency to develop it still further. So much, indeed, do our papers, big and little, vie with each other in catering to the depraved taste of a certain portion of the people that it has become a matter of serious consideration with many persons whether they can safely introduce into their families the papers they are obliged to take for business purposes.

It is very safe to assert that too many of those who collect the city and suburban news for the daily press are as devoid of conscience in their method of communicating as they are often shameless in their manner of procuring their information. They seem to think that a reporter, in his official capacity, has no moral responsibility, and act consistently with the supposition. They fairly revel in scandal; consider vice only something to be elaborately depicted in their respective newspapers, and crime, no matter how heinous, a fitting theme for their nimble and facile pens. Their excuse for all this prostitution of ability which might be turned to some good account is that the public demand this highly-seasoned style of reporting, forgetting that they themselves have excited this prurient taste, and that if, repenting of their past misdeeds, they were to return to the old-fashioned 515method their present admirers would soon follow them.

It is certain that the degeneracy of the newspaper press in this respect is fast sapping the morals of the community, particularly the younger portion of it. Once familiarized with crime of every sort and degree through the florid descriptions of the reporters, our young men and women must necessarily become mentally debased. Their thoughts, unbidden, will stray to matters of which they have lately read, a dangerous curiosity will be excited, and from constant reflection they will begin to lose that horror of sin which is one of the safeguards of virtue, which every pure-minded youth should keep constantly before his eyes. The mind once disturbed, the imagination led astray, every defaulter and swindler, if he be a criminal on a large scale, is apt to appear to them as “a smart fellow”; the betrayer of female innocence, the faithless husband or disloyal wife, as one more sinned against than sinning; and even the murderer, whose sayings and doings are faithfully chronicled, and whose solemn exit from the world is made the occasion of a grand dramatic scene, becomes in some degree a hero and a victim of revengeful law.

Of course it is easier to point out the evils which disgrace the editorial profession, and so materially impair the usefulness of the press, than to suggest an adequate remedy for them. It is useless to appeal to the conductors of newspapers; for as long as Catholics can be abused with impunity, and the moral sense of the community be shocked by vile and obscene descriptions of crime and criminals with profit to themselves, they will heed neither advice nor remonstrance. The cure rests with the public who purchase and support such journals. As far as Catholics are concerned, the true course would be to establish a daily paper of their own, which would reflect their sentiments and opinions, and furnish them with reliable foreign and domestic news collated in unobjectionable style; but this, it seems, is impossible at present. The embarrassed financial condition of the country is opposed to the initiation of such an enterprise. Our only present resource, as long as so many of us must read daily papers, is to concentrate our patronage on that journal which presents the least objectionable features, and, by encouraging it to do better things, prove to its contemporaries by the strongest of all arguments to them—their decreased circulation—that the Catholics of this city and vicinity will no longer pay to be abused and calumniated. But there are many among us who from habit take daily papers with which we can well dispense. We advise them to discontinue their misdirected patronage and bestow it on our struggling weekly Catholic journals. They will thus administer a wholesome lesson to bigotry and immorality, and at the same time give encouragement and life to Catholic serial literature.

There are, however, other and more cogent reasons why the reading of daily papers, now so prevalent, should be discouraged, or at least confined within reasonable limits. There can be little doubt that their constant and persistent perusal is apt to create a distaste for more profound and healthful reading. Drawing our opinions mainly from the hastily composed contributions of overworked correspondents and editors, we are pretty 516sure to fall into the habit of reaching conclusions and entertaining views of life neither logical nor well considered. Like those who feast overmuch on sweets, we conceive a dislike for solids and as the body suffers in the one case, the mind naturally is impaired by indulgence in the light and meretricious literature of which newspapers are, if not the worst, certainly the most widespread and exemplary, types.

Americans, to paraphrase a well-known expression, are a newspaper-ridden people. We must have some sort of paper at breakfast, dinner, and supper. We are not even satisfied with one each day, but require two or three more every twenty-four hours. The time that should be devoted to the study of good books, wherein can be found solid instruction and food for reflection, is thus too often wasted on the lucubrations and speculations of half-informed men who are as incapable of emitting sound ideas as they are of appreciating the immoral drift of much that daily falls from their own pens. Hence inordinate readers of newspapers necessarily become shallow-minded, superficial thinkers; their intellectual tastes are vitiated, and their judgment is weakened and perverted. Like a shattered mirror, their minds are incapable of reflecting one entire well-defined image, but present only fragments of thought in forms indefinite and distorted. The higher aspirations of our nature, those sublime conceptions which lift us above the grosser things of earth, and, even in this life, bring us nearer and nearer to our Creator, can never be generated by ephemeral newspaper literature. While we may feel compelled by business considerations or a natural political curiosity to glance over the columns of our daily journals, we should not forget that the intellect receives neither health nor strength from prolonged indulgence in such enervating pursuits. Newspapers undoubtedly have their use and mission; they have become an important factor in our present system of civilization, and are capable of accomplishing much good in their own sphere; but their effect and scope are limited, and should be circumscribed so that they be not permitted to interfere with the reading of solid history, the works of our best writers, and the essential duties of life, among which must be considered the pursuit of Christian knowledge and the elevation and purification of the immortal part of our being.

517

MY FRIEND MR. PRICE. A STORY OF NEWPORT.

The summer was upon me, and with it the yearning for the dulcet plash of the salt sea wave.

“Whither?” became the vexed question of the hour, and Newport made reply to it.

To Newport I accordingly transported myself. I shall not say whether it was last season, or the season before, or even the season before that again. The readers of this narrative must determine the exact date. I refuse point-blank to do so.

Newport was in the height of the season when I entered my humble name, John V. Crosse, Lexington Avenue, New York, on the leaf of the register at the Ocean House.

It was a lovely evening in August, and the piazza of the hotel was crowded with high, mighty, and fashionable humanity. Dinner was a thing of the past, and the drive was looming in the near future. Ladies were chatting in parti-colored groups, men smoking in acrobatic postures. A delicious stillness prevailed—a warm, life-caressing glow. A wooing message from the sea, laden, as it sped upon its errand inland, with the perfume of a myriad glowing flowers, fanned the cheek. The sun shot bars of molten gold between the trellised branches of the slumbering trees, and the indolence of waking repose descended upon everything like a rosy cloud.

I went on the piazza, and, selecting an able-bodied wooden chair, flung myself into it, placing my feet on the iron railing in front of me, ere proceeding to light a cigar. When I had succeeded in emitting half a dozen puffs of my most excellent weed I looked right and left of me.

On my right sat a man of about thirty, or perhaps more, apparently tall, and slender to leanness. He was dark as a gipsy, with coal-black hair waving naturally but sparse upon the temples—he had removed his hat—which had a craggy look. His large eyes were deep-set, while his mouth wore an expression of superb self-complacency. He was clean-shaved, except for a fringe of long, silky black whisker far back upon the cheek, but both moustache and beard were clearly marked by the blue-black shade on his lip and jaw. The man was not ugly—just escaping ugliness by a very narrow margin. He was well dressed in a suit of light Scotch tweed that fitted him like “the paper on the wall,” whilst a certain je ne sais quoi bespoke the Englishman.

On my left lounged a handsome young fellow with clear blue eyes, a fair moustache, and one of the brightest smiles I have ever seen upon a human countenance. He twirled an unlighted cigar between his red lips, and as vehicle after vehicle dashed up to the “ladies’ entrance” fair dames and damosels gave him cheery and gracious salutation, cheerily and graciously responded to, accompanied by the flourish of a rakish little straw hat perched on the side of his superbly-set head.

518With these two personages the narrative has much to do.

I sat smoking the one post-prandial cigar allowed me by my doctor, contemplating with indolent satisfaction the fragrant greenery in front of me, when my meditations apropos of nothing were brought up with a sudden jerk by the young fellow on my left asking to be permitted to light his cigar from mine.

Now, as a matter of fact, I have a very decided and deep-rooted objection to surrendering my cigar to anybody, rich or poor, gentle or simple; I like no one to handle it but myself; and therefore, instead of transferring the glowing weed to his expectant fingers, I dived into the breast-pocket of my coat, and producing a tin box containing wax matches, placed it, together with its contents, at his disposal.

“You are an Englishman,” he gaily exclaimed, extracting a vesta as he spoke.

“No, but very English on the subject of the handling of my baccy,” I laughed.

“You are not far astray. You should have seen the tramp that deprived me of a genuine Lopez this morning. I couldn’t refuse him, so I left him the weed.”

“I consider that the——”

“Per Bacco! there she goes,” he suddenly interposed, and, flinging my match-box into my lap, he vaulted over the railing into the carriage-drive beneath.

Two ladies seated in a pony-phaeton flashed past.

“I’m English,” exclaimed my right-hand man, tapping the ash from his cigar with a finger white and delicate as wax, “and I’m glad to find that one American sees the abomination of handing every cad his cigar who chooses to ask for it.”

Being very Starry and Stripey, I was about to defend the practice in vogue amongst my countrymen, although thoroughly against my convictions, when he asked: