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 Another Random Document on
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in a Pardon, only some of the chief of the Rebels were executed for
this last Rebellion.”
Most of the Monasteries, “seeing their Dissolution drawing near,
made voluntary Surrenders of their Houses in the 29th year of Hen.
VIII., in Hopes by this means to obtain Favor of the King; and after
the Rebellion, the rest of the Abbots, both great and small, did the
like; for some of them had encouraged the Rebels, others were
convicted by the Visitors of great Disorders, and most of them had
secured all the Plate, Jewels and Furniture belonging to their
Houses, to make Provision for them and Relations and then
surrendered their Monasteries.”
“Afterwards, Anno 31 Hen. VIII., a Bill was brought into the
House of Peers to confirm these surrenders. There were 18
Abbots[32] present at the first Reading, 20 at the second, and 17 at
the third. It soon passed the Commons and the Royal Assent; and by
this Act all the Houses, etc., were confirmed to the King.”
“‘Tis true, the Hospitallers, Colleges and Chanteries, etc., were
not yet dissolved.... These had large endowments to support
themselves and to entertain Pilgrims,” etc.
“But notwithstanding the King was declared to be the Supreme
Head of the Church, yet these Hospitallers would not submit,” etc.,
“and therefore, Anno 32 Hen. VIII. cap. 24, The Parliament gave
their lands to the King and dissolved their Corporation.”
“The Colleges and Chanteries still remained; but the Doctrine of
Purgatory being then grown out of Belief[33] and some of those
Fraternities having resigned in the same manner as the Monasteries,
the Endowments of the rest were then thought to be for no purpose,
and therefore, Anno 37 Hen. VIII., all these Colleges, Free Chapels,
Chanteries, etc., were given to the King by Act of Parliament.”
“Thus in the Compass of a few years, the Power and Authority of
the See of Rome was suppressed in this Kingdom. And because
frequent Attempts have been made to revive it, therefore, in
succeeding Times, several Laws have been made to keep them in
subjection.”
 Among those were the following: Recusant Convict above 16
must go to his place of Abode and not remove 5 miles without
license or otherwise abjure the Realm. Not departing within the time
limited by the Justices, or returning without license from the Queen,
was felony without Benefit of Clergy. 35 Eliz. cap. 2.
“To absolve or to be absolved by Bulls from the Bishop of Rome
was High Treason.” 13 Eliz. cap. 2.
“Bringing an Agnus Dei hither, or offering it to any Person to be
used, both he and the Receiver incurs a Premunire.[34] 13 Eliz. cap.
2. All Armour shall be taken from Recusants by order of four
Justices.” 7 Jac. cap. 6.
Bringing over Beads or offering them to any person, both he and
the Receiver incur a Premunire. 13 Eliz. cap. 2.
“Two Justices may search Houses for Books and Relicks, and
burn them.” 3 Jac. cap. 5.
“Every Popish Recusant must be buried in Church or Church yard
according to the Ecclesiastical Laws, or his Executor or Administrator
forfeits £20.” 3 Jac. cap. 5.
“Children of Recusants must be baptized by a lawful Minister, or
the Parent forfeits £100.” 3 Jac. cap. 5.
“Popish Recusant, if he sue any person, the Defendant may plead
it in Disability.”
He “shall not be Executor, Administrator, or Guardian.” 3 Jac. cap.
5.
A married woman, a Popish Recusant convict, “not conforming
within 3 months after conviction, may be committed by two Justices
until she conform, unless her Husband will pay to the King 10
shillings per month or a third part of his Lands.” 7 Jac. cap. 6.
“Popish Recusant marrying otherwise than according to the
Forms of the Church of England shall forfeit £100. If a woman, not
have her Dower or Jointure or Widow’s Estate.” 3 Jac. cap. 5.
“Saying Mass forfeits 200 marks, hearing it 100 Marks.”
 “Jesuits, Seminary Priests, etc., and other Ecclesiastical Persons
born within the Queen’s Dominions, coming in or remaining in the
said Dominions, is guilty of Treason.” 27 Eliz. cap. 2.
“Any knowing a Jesuit or Priest to be here and not within 12 days
afterwards discovering him to a Justice of Peace shall be committed
and fined.” 27 Eliz. cap. 2.
“Per Stat. 3 Jac. cap. 4, to move any one to promise Obedience
to the See of Rome or other Prince is High Treason in the Mover and
he that promiseth Obedience.”
“Recusant Convict must not practice the Art of Apothecary, Civil
Law, Common Law, Physick, or be an officer in any Court or
amongst Soldiers, or in a Castle, Fortress or Ship.” 3 Jac. cap. 5.
“Sending Persons beyond Sea to be instructed in Popish Religion
forfeits £100, and the Persons sent are incapable to take any
Inheritance.” 1 Jac. cap. 4.
“Children shall not be sent beyond Sea without License from the
Queen or six of her Privy Council, whereof the Principal Secretary of
State to be one.”
“Notwithstanding all these Laws, the Parliament (11 and 12 Will.)
was of Opinion that Popery increased, and therefore to prevent its
growth a Law was made That if any person should take one or more
Popish Bishop, Jesuit or Priest, and prosecute him till he is convicted
of saying Mass or exercising any other part of the Office or Function
of a Popish Bishop or Priest,” he shall have a reward of £100.
“If any Popish Bishop, Priest or Jesuit, shall be convicted of
saying Mass, etc., or any Papist shall Keep School, etc., he shall be
adjudged to perpetual Imprisonment in such place where the Queen
by Advice of her Council shall think fit.”
“Every Papist, after the 10th of April, 1700, is made incapable of
purchasing Lands, etc., either in his own Name or the name of other
Person, to his use.”

The Sabbath.—“Shoemaker putting Boots or Shoes to sale forfeits

3s. 4d. and the goods.” 1 Jac. I. cap. 11.
 “Carriers, Drivers, Waggoners, travelling on that day forfeit 20s.”
3 Car. I. cap. 1.
“Butchers killing or selling, or causing to be killed or sold or privy
or consenting to kill or sell Meat on that day, forfeit 6s. 8d.” 3 Car. I.
cap. 1.
By 29 Car. II. cap. 7 “Public and private Duties of Piety are
enjoined, all worldly business is prohibited, and all above the Age of
14 forfeit 5s.”
“Drovers or their servants coming to their Inns on that day forfeit
20s.”
“If the Offender is not able to pay the Forfeiture, he shall be put
in the Stocks for two Hours.”
“Meeting together out of their own Parish for any Sports or
Pastimes, forfeit 3s. 4d.” 1 Car. I. cap. 1.

Sacrament.—“Depraving or doing any Thing in contempt of the

Sacrament must be committed.” 1 Ed. VI. cap. 1, 1 Eliz. 2, 3 Jac. 4.

Schoolmaster.—“Not coming to church or not allowed by the

Bishop of the Diocese, forever disabled to teach Youth, and shall be
committed for a year without bail.” 23 Eliz. cap. 1.

Tythes.—“A canon was made Anno 1585 for payment of Tythes as

founded on the Law of God and the ancient Custom of the Church.”
“When Glanville wrote (about 1660), a Freeholder was allowed to
make a Will, so as he gave the best Thing he had to the Lord
Paramount, and the next best to the Church.”
“They are said to be Ecclesiastical Inheritances collateral to the
Estate of the Land, out of which they arise, and are of their own
Nature due only to Spiritual Persons.”
Certain Lands were, however, exempt. “Most orders of Monks
were first exempted; but in time this was restrained to three orders
—Cistertians, Hospitallers, Templars.”
 Dissenters.—After the various laws against “Popish Recusants,” as
they were called, had had the effect of rendering somewhat firm the
establishment of the English Protestant Church, and about the time
of the reign of Queen Elizabeth, a new trouble arose from those who
dissented from that church, in its forms and in some of its principles,
and government then began to interfere with them.
In the 1st Year of the reign of William and Mary these
“Dissenters” were exempted from the statutes of 1 Eliz. cap. 2, 23
Eliz. cap. 1, 3 Jac. cap. 4, above mentioned. “But they must not
assemble in Places with Doors locked, barred, or bolted, nor until the
place is certified to the Bishop of the Diocese or to the Arch Deacon
or to the Justices at the Quarter Sessions, and registered there and
they have a certificate thereof.”
Their Preachers must declare their Approbation, and subscribe
the “Articles of Religion,” except the 20th, 34th, 35th, and 36th
articles, and must take the oaths and subscribe the Declaration
prescribed Dy certain statutes, and that at the Quarter Sessions
where they live.
So that, from the reign of Elizabeth, through the reign of James
I., and until the the troubles which ended in the civil war and the
Protectorate of Cromwell, Dissenters were subject to many of the
restrictions which had been imposed on the Roman Catholics; and
even when those troubles finally ended in the flight of James II., and
the elevation of William and Mary to the throne, freedom of religion
was not allowed to the Dissenters, but they were permitted to enjoy
their dissent from the forms and ceremonies of the Church of
England only by declaring their assent to many of its most important
tenets of faith or doctrine.
The oaths of allegiance and supremacy enjoined by the statutes
of 1 Eliz. and 3 Jac. were abrogated by the Statute of 1 Will., and
Mar. cap. 8, and the following substituted:
“I, A. B., do sincerely promise and swear that I will be faithful
and bear true allegiance,” etc.
“I, A. B., do swear that I do from my Heart abhor, detest and
abjure as Impious and Heretical, that damnable Doctrine and
Position that Princes excommunicated or deprived by the Pope or
any authority of the See of Rome may be deposed by their subjects
or any other whatsoever; and I do declare that no Foreign Prince,
Person, Prelate, State or Potentate, hath or ought to have any
Jurisdiction, Power, Superiority, Pre-eminence or Authority,
Ecclesiastical or Spiritual, within the Realm. So help me God.”
 JOSEPH IN EGYPT A TYPE OF
CHRIST.

Look down, O Lord, holy Father, from thy sanctuary, and from thy
high and heavenly dwelling, and behold this all-holy Victim, which
thy great High-priest, thy holy Child Jesus, offers thee for the sins of
his brethren; and have mercy on the multitude of our iniquities. Lo!
the voice of the blood of Jesus our Brother cries to thee from the
cross. For what is it, O Lord, that hangs on the cross? Hangs, I say;
for past things are as present with thee. Own it, O Father! It is the
coat of thy Joseph, thy Son; an evil wild beast hath devoured him,
and hath trampled on his garment in its fury, spoiling all the beauty
of this his remanent corpse, and, lo! five mournful gaping wounds
are left in it. This is the garment which thy innocent holy Child Jesus,
for the sins of his brethren, has left in the hands of the Egyptian
harlot, thinking the loss of his robe a better thing than the loss of
purity; and choosing rather to be despoiled of his coat of flesh and
go down to the prison of death than to yield to the voice of the
seductress for all the glory of the world.—S. Anselm.
 MADAME AGNES.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.

CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH WE ARE MADE ACQUAINTED WITH MADAME AGNES.

About twenty years ago, I lived in a town in France which I may

be allowed to call Philopolis. It need not be sought on the map: it
will not be found there, at least under the name I think it proper to
call it by, in order to avoid all appearance of indiscretion. The story I
am about to relate is really a true one.
I had just finished my school-days, and, having carefully thought
over the different professions which seemed to accord with my
tastes, I felt—and it may be imagined how bitterly—that not one of
them was within my means. To embrace any of them would have
required a larger sum than I had the least hope of. Under such
unfavorable circumstances, I became a tutor in a Lycée.
God preserve my very enemies, if I have any, from so trying an
occupation! At the end of three months, worn out with my labors,
and overwhelmed with humiliations and sadness, I had fallen into
such a state of discouragement, not to say of despair, that I
regarded myself as the most unfortunate of men.
To those who wish to be distinguished from the crowd, there is
something peculiarly attractive in looking upon themselves as more
unhappy than common mortals. I gave myself up to this notion, at
first through vanity. But this kind of superiority is by no means
cheering, I assure you, so I soon sought consolation. Thank God, I
had not far to go. My old friend, Mme. Agnes, was at hand. I sought
refuge with her. I speak as if she were advanced in years, but it
must be acknowledged she would have seemed a mere child to
Methuselah. She was thirty-six years of age; but I was only
eighteen, and thought her old.
Mme. Agnes lived on a broad and pleasant quay that gently
sloped towards a noble river. Not fifty steps from the house rolled
the swift current of the Loire. Beyond was an extensive plain from
which rose innumerable spires.
When I arrived, I found my friend in her usual seat near the
window. She was in a large arm-chair, with a table before her, on
which were all the materials necessary for a painter of miniatures.
Mme. Agnes was renowned in Philopolis as an artist. Her uncommon
talent enabled her to support her mother and young sister in a
comfortable manner. Alas! poor lady, she had been a paralytic for ten
years.
According to her custom, she laid aside her work when I entered,
and welcomed me with a smile. But this expression of pleasure gave
place to one of motherly anxiety when she observed the sad face I
wore.
“What is the matter, my poor child?” said she. “You have grown
frightfully thin.”
“I cannot say I am ill,” I replied, “but I am down-hearted, and
have so much reason to be, that things cannot continue long in this
way: I should die.”
Thus saying, I leaned my head against Mme. Agnes’ chair, like a
great child as I was, and cried heartily. I had so long restrained my
tears!...
Mme. Agnes softly placed her hand on my head, and consoled
me with a kindness truly maternal. When my explosion of grief had
passed away, she made me give her an account of my troubles. I
told her, perhaps for the tenth time, what an inclination I had for a
literary life, only I was absolutely too poor to embrace it. I added
that my duties as a tutor were repugnant; the pupils were insolent
and unfeeling; in short, I concealed nothing that afflicted me. At
length I ended with these words:
“You now see, Mme. Agnes, that I could not be more wretched
than I am. This must end. Give me, I beg, some of the good advice I
have so many times received from you. Tell me what I must do.”
“Have patience, my child, and wait till God makes the way
smoother.”
“Wait! when one suffers as I do?... When I abhor my position?...
When I feel how happy I could be elsewhere!... Ah! Mme. Agnes, if
you knew what I have to endure—if you only comprehended my
complete despair!”
“Poor child, your trials are bitter, I acknowledge; but you are
young, capable, and industrious, and will get a better position by-
and-by.”
“To be forced to endure it only a year would be beyond my
strength. Neither my disposition, nor tastes, nor health could stand
what I have to bear.”
“How many others are in a similar position, but without even the
hope you have of soon exchanging an employment without results—
detestable, if you like—for one more congenial! The task they are
pursuing must be that of their whole lives. They know it, and resign
themselves to it. You, who have only to bear your trials for a certain
time, must imitate their example. Come, come, my friend, every one
has his cross here below. Let us bear ours cheerfully, and it will soon
seem light.”
These consoling words were uttered in a sympathetic tone, as if
they came from the heart. I was touched. I began to look at Mme.
Agnes more attentively than ever before, and the thought occurred
to me like a revelation: “How much this woman must have suffered,
and how instructive would be the account of her life!”
 “Mme. Agnes,” said I, “your advice is excellent, but example
would produce a still greater impression on me. I beg you to relate
the history of your life. You have evidently gone through much
suffering, and with great patience, I am confident. I will endeavor to
conform to your example.”
“You require a sad task of me,” she replied; “but no matter, I will
gratify you. My story—and who of us has not one?—will prove useful
to you, I think. But you must not be so ready to declare me a saint.
I never was one, as you will soon see. Yes, I have suffered, as you
suppose—greatly suffered, and have learned that the best means of
mitigating our sufferings is to submit to God’s will, and to cherish it.
The lesson to be derived from my history will be of use to you, I
trust, and therefore I yield to your request.
“One word more before commencing. I would observe that the
account of my own life is closely interwoven with the lives of several
persons whom you will not reproach me for making you acquainted
with. By a concurrence of circumstances which would appear to me
almost inexplicable did I not behold the hand of God therein, my life
for many years was identified, so to speak, with theirs. I witnessed
the struggles these loved ones had to make; I shared their very
thoughts; I sympathized in their sorrows, as they in mine; and I also
had the happiness of participating in their joys.
“When, therefore, I invoke these remembrances you wish me to
recall, I find all along the pathway of my life these friends now gone.
I could not relate my own history without relating theirs. But
everything encourages me to go on. The task is pleasant. It is sweet
to speak of those we have loved! The faithful picture I am going to
draw of their lives will be as full of instruction to you, my friend, as
that of my own.”

CHAPTER II.
PROVIDENCE SENDS A LODGER.
 To begin: my father, a worthy man and a sincere Christian, was a
Chef de Division at the Préfecture. A sudden illness bereft me of his
care when I was barely fifteen years old. My mother, my young
sister, and myself were left in quite limited circumstances, being
wholly dependent on the rent of this small house, which had
belonged to the family many years. Some time after, a pension of
five hundred francs was added to our income by the government
which my father had faithfully served. Our position was very sad,
and the more so because, during my father’s life, we had everything
in abundance. But our misfortunes offered us a thousand
inducements to draw nearer to God. It is only ill-balanced souls—at
once proud and weak—that disregard him who chastises them. Poor
souls! they are doubly to be pitied, for they suffer and do not have
recourse to him who alone can console them! As for us, God granted
us the grace to recognize his agency. He sustained us, and we
humbly submitted to his divine decrees. Misfortune only rendered us
the more pious.
I had had a special taste for painting from my childhood, but still
lacked proficiency, notwithstanding the lessons I had taken. I now
set to work with ardor, though I had no master. At the end of a year
I had made so much progress that an old teacher of mine, the
principal of a boarding-school—an excellent person, who took an
interest in our affairs—received me as teacher of drawing in her
establishment. She also made me give English lessons to beginners.
This additional resource restored ease in a measure to our
household. Nevertheless, we were obliged to practise the strictest
economy. To enable us to get on swimmingly, as my mother said
with a smile, we at last resolved to rent the spacious ready-furnished
apartments on the ground floor. The first story was occupied by a
lodger, who was, at the same time, a friend of ours. As for us, we
lived in the second story.
Things went on thus for some years. I was nearly twenty, when
one day a young man, whom neither my mother nor myself knew,
called to say he had heard our furnished rooms were vacant, and
that he would like to occupy them. My mother was greatly pleased
with his frank, open manner. She is very social, you know, and made
the stranger sit down. They entered into conversation, and I sat
listening to them.
“Am I mistaken, monsieur?” said my mother, after a while; “it
seems as if I have already met you somewhere.”
“Yes, madame,” replied the young man, “I have had the honor of
seeing you more than once.”
“But where?”
“At M. Comte, the apothecary’s. I was the head clerk there.”
“That is it!... I remember now.... And you have left him?”
“Under the most singular circumstances. It seems I am a writer
without being aware of it.”
“How so?”
“You know the Philopolis Catholic Journal?”
“Certainly: an excellent paper. It is a great pity it is not so
successful as it deserves to be. But between us, it is partly its own
fault: it lacks interest and ability. It has only one able contributor—
Victor Barnier, but he does not write often enough.”
“The poor fellow cannot help it. His duties at the apothecary’s
shop have naturally superseded his taste for journalism.” ...
“What! are you Victor Barnier?”
“Yes, madame.”
“Ah! well, young man, you do not lack talent.”
“Others have said the same, madame. I hope you are not all
mistaken, especially for the sake of the Catholic Journal, of which I
have been appointed the principal editor. I refused the post at first,
the responsibility seemed so great. They insisted. The position
surpassed my wishes. Without any one’s knowing it, I had for many
years ardently longed to be a writer. But like so many others, the
limited circumstances of my family prevented it. Now, thanks to this
unexpected offer, the opportunity of following my natural inclinations
is so tempting that I cannot resist it. My good mother tells me it is a
perilous career, and that I shall meet with more trouble than
success. No matter! I am so fond of literary pursuits that, were they
to afford me only one day of happiness in my life, I should still cling
to them. And then, I say it without boasting, I love above all things
the cause I am to defend, and hope through divine assistance to
become its able champion. I have, therefore, left M. Comte’s, though
not without some regret. I enter upon my duties to-morrow, and—
am in want of lodgings.”
“Oh! well, that is all settled. You shall come here and be well
taken care of.”
After this, Victor left us. I have only given you the substance of
the conversation in which I more than once took part. I must
confess Victor won my esteem and good-will at this first interview.
He merited them. He was at once an excellent and a talented man—
that was to be seen at the first glance. The better he was known,
the more evident it became that his outward appearance, pleasing
as it was, was not deceptive. He was then twenty-five years old, but,
though young, he had had many trials, I assure you—trials similar to
yours, my young friend, but much more severe.

CHAPTER III.
TRUE LOVE—HAPPY UNION.

The following day Victor took up his abode with us. Before a
fortnight had elapsed, my mother was enchanted with her new
lodger. She sounded his praises from morning till night. This may
perhaps astonish you, but you must know that she and I were
always in the habit of telling each other our very thoughts. This
reciprocal confidence was so perfect that it might be truly said we
concealed nothing from each other.
And I must confess Victor showed himself every day more worthy
of my mother’s admiration. He was the most modest, amiable,
industrious, and orderly of young men—a genuine model for
Christian men of letters. He rose every morning at an early hour, and
worked in his room till about eight o’clock. Then, unless his
occupations were too pressing, he heard Mass at a neighboring
church. After that, he went to the Journal office, where he remained
till noon; then he returned to breakfast. He left again at one, came
back at three, worked till dinnertime, then studied till ten at night,
and often later.
“Why do you work so hard?” said my mother to him one day.
“The life of a journalist, according to you, is that of a galley-slave. I
never should have thought an editor had so hard a time. You have
all the four large pages of the Journal to write yourself, then, M.
Victor?”
“By no means, dear madame. I write the leading article every
day, and in a short time, too, for I have the peculiarity of not writing
well when I write slowly. This done, I look over the other articles for
the paper. As I am responsible for them, I do not accept them till
they are carefully examined. This is my whole task—apparently an
easy one, but tedious and difficult in reality.”
“Yes; I see you have a great deal to do at the office; but why do
you continue to work at home?”
“Two motives oblige me to study—to increase my knowledge,
and prevent ennui. Having risen from a mere apothecary’s clerk to
be the chief editor of an important journal, I have to apply myself to
keep apace with my new profession. A journalist must be imprudent
or dishonest who discusses any subject on which he has not
sufficient information. And think of the multitude of questions
connected with politics, political economy, legislation, literature, and
religion itself which I have in turn to treat of! In the Paris
newspapers, each editor writes on the subjects he understands the
best. The work is thus divided, to the great advantage of the paper
and its editors. Here, I alone am often responsible for everything.
Nevertheless, the care of my health, as well as my indolence, would
induce me to rest a few hours a day; but where shall I pass them?—
At the café? I go there sometimes to extend my knowledge of
human nature; but one cannot go there much without being in
danger of contracting injurious habits.—With my friends? I have
none, and am in no hurry to make any. The choice of a friend is such
a serious thing! One cannot be too cautious about it.”
“Come and see us,” said my mother, with her habitual cordiality.
“When you have nowhere else to go, and your mind is weary, come
up and pass an hour in the evening with your neighbors.”
Victor came, at first occasionally, then every day. Only a few
weeks elapsed before I felt that I loved him. His companionship was
so delightful; he had so much delicacy in little things; he was so
frank, so devoted to all that is beautiful and good! Did he love me in
return? No one could have told, for he was as timid as a young girl.
But this timidity was surmounted when my feast-day arrived. He
came in blushing with extreme embarrassment—poor dear friend! I
can still see him—holding a bouquet in his left hand, which he
concealed behind him, while with the other he presented my mother
with an open paper. She took it, glanced at it, and, after reading a
few words, said:
“But this is not addressed to me. Here, Agnes, these stanzas are
for you, my child! And I see a bouquet!”
Victor presented it to me in an agitated manner. I myself was so
confused that I longed to run away to hide my embarrassment. I
concealed it as well as I could behind the sheet on which the stanzas
were written, and read them in a low tone. They gracefully thanked
my mother for all her kindness to him, and ended with some wishes
for me—wishes that were ardent and touching. In a tremulous tone I
expressed my gratitude with a sincerity which was quite natural. Our
embarrassment was not of long continuance. It soon passed off, and
we spent the evening in delightful conversation. One would have
thought we had always lived together, and formed but one family.
The next morning, when I returned from giving my lessons, what
was my astonishment to find Victor with my mother!
“Here she is to decide the question,” exclaimed the latter joyfully.
“M. Victor loves you, and wishes to know if you will be his wife.”
“Mother,” I replied, “must I be separated from you?”
“Less than ever,” cried Victor.
 My delightful dream was realized! I was to be united to the man I
loved with all my heart—whom I esteemed without any alloy! And
this without being obliged to separate from her of whom I was the
sole reliance.
I extended my hand to Victor, and threw myself into my mother’s
arms, thanking her as well as I could, but in accents broken by
tears....
A month after, we were married, and happy—as happy, I believe,
as people can be here below.

CHAPTER IV.
SAD PRESENTIMENTS.

Thenceforth began a life so sweet that I am unable to describe it.

Victor and I lived in the most delightful harmony. Our love for each
other increased daily. We had but one heart and one soul. Our very
tastes accorded.
Oh! how charming and happy is the wedded life of two Christian
souls! What mutual sympathy! How they divine each other’s
thoughts! How readily they make the concessions at times so
necessary, for the best matched people in this world do not always
agree! A life more simple than ours cannot be imagined, and yet it
was so sweet!
I worked beside Victor in the morning and during a part of the
afternoon, looking at him from time to time, saying a few words, or
listening as he read what he had just composed. He said he first
tried the effect of his writings on me. How happy I was when he
thus gave me the first taste of one of his spirited articles, in which
he defended his principles with an ardor of conviction and a vigor of
style which impressed even those who were sceptical.
Before dinner we went to walk together. I persuaded Victor to
devote a part of each day to physical exercise as well as mental
repose. Our conversation always gave a fresh charm to these walks.
And yet we did not talk much, but we infused our whole souls into a
word or two, or a smile. How often I dreamed of heaven during
those delicious hours! It is thus, I said to myself, the angels above
hold communion with each other. They have no need of words to
make themselves understood.
Among the pleasant features of that period, I must not forget
that of Victor’s success. Before he was appointed editor, the poor
paper vegetated. There were but few subscribers. No one spoke of
the obscure sheet which timidly defended sound principles and true
doctrines. What a sad figure it made in the presence of its
contemporary, The Independent—a shameless, arrogant journal
which boasted of despising all religious belief, and scoffed at the
honest people foolish enough to read it!
Victor had scarcely been chief editor of this despised paper three
months before there was a decided change. Every day added to the
list of subscribers. The Catholic Journal was spoken of on all sides.
The sceptical, even, discussed it. As to The Independent, it was
forced to descend into the arena. In spite of itself, it had to engage
in conflict against an adversary as skilled in irony as in logic. I
acknowledge I was proud of Victor’s success, and, what was more, it
made me happy. For a long time, young as I was, I had groaned at
seeing Catholic interests so poorly defended. They were now as ably
sustained as I could wish, and by the man whom I loved. All my
wishes were surpassed!
Nevertheless, there is no perfect happiness in this world. Even
those blissful years were not exempt from sorrow. God granted me
twice, with an interval of two years, the long-wished-for joy of being
a mother, but each time Providence only allowed its continuance a
few months. My first child, a boy, died at the end of six months. The
second, a daughter, was taken from me before it was a year old. You
are young, my friend and cannot understand how afflicting such
losses are. A mother’s heart, I assure you, is broken when she sees
her child taken from her, however young it may be. My husband
himself was greatly distressed when our little boy was carried off
after an illness of only a few hours. But his grief was still more
profound when our little girl died. Dear child! though only nine
months old, her face was full of intelligence, her eyes were
expressive, and she had a wonderful way of making herself
understood. She passed quietly away, softly moaning, and gazing at
us with affection. Her father held her in his arms the whole time of
her long agony. It seemed as if he thus hoped to retain her. She,
too, was sad, I am sure. She seemed to know we were in grief, and
to leave us with regret. Her sweet face only resumed its joyful
expression after her soul had taken flight for heaven; then a celestial
happiness beamed from her features consecrated by death. Victor
stood gazing at her a long time as she lay on the bed with a crucifix
in her innocent hands. His lips murmured a prayer in a low tone. It
seemed to me he was addressing our angel child—begging her to
pray that God would speedily call him to dwell for ever with her in
his blissful presence. The thought made me shudder. It seemed as if
I had at that moment an interior revelation. I knew that was Victor’s
prayer, and I had a presentiment it would be heard.
From that day, though we had a thousand reasons to consider
ourselves happy, we were no longer light-hearted as we once had
been. There was a something that weighed on our minds and kept
us anxious, and empoisoned all our joys. Life seemed unsatisfactory,
and we drew nearer to God. We were constantly speaking of him
and the angel who had flown from us, and we often approached the
sacraments together. It was thus that God was secretly preparing
Victor to return to him, and me to endure so terrible a blow.

CHAPTER V.
AN UNEXPECTED ASSAULT.

No man was ever more fond of domestic life than Victor. The
happiest hours of the day were those we all spent together—he, my
mother, my young sister, and myself—occupied in some useful work,
but often stopping to exchange a few words. It was with regret
Victor sometimes left us at such hours to mingle with the world. He
refused all invitations to dinners, soirées, and balls as often as
possible, but he could not always do so. He had taken the first place
—a place quite exceptional—in local journalism, and it was
impossible for him to decline all the advances made him. Besides, he
wished, as was natural to one of his profession, to ascertain for
himself public opinion on the question of the day. I cannot tell you
how dull the evenings seemed when he was away, or how anxious I
was till he returned. There was something dreadful about his
profession. In vain he resolved to avoid personalities; they were
often discovered when none had been intended. If he was
fortunately able to keep within the limits he had marked out for
himself, and confined himself to the defence of justice, morality, and
religion, he found these three great causes had furious opponents.
Whoever defended them incurred the ardent ill-will of the enemies of
all good. This is what happened to Victor. Their secret hatred burst
forth on an occasion of but little importance.
A renowned preacher of the South, worthy in every respect of his
reputation, came to preach at the cathedral during Advent. This
man, as eloquent as he was good, attacked the vices of the day with
all the ardor of an apostle. Many of the young men of the place who
went to hear him were infuriated at the boldness of his zeal. Some
supposed themselves to be meant in the portraits he drew of vicious
men in a manner so forcible and with such striking imagery as to
make his hearers tremble. At the close of one of these sermons,
there was some disturbance in the body of the church. Threats were
uttered aloud, and women treated with insult. Victor, indignant at
such conduct, had the courage to rebuke the corrupt young men of
the place. Never had he been more happily inspired, and never had
he produced such an effect. The article was everywhere read. It
gave offence, and we awaited the consequences.
The next day Victor received an invitation to a large ball given by
a wealthy banker. The invitation surprised him, for he knew the
banker was a liberal with but little sympathy for the priesthood and
its defenders. I begged Victor to decline the invitation politely. I
feared it was only a pretext to offer him some affront. He gently
reassured me by saying that, though M. Beauvais was a liberal, he
had the reputation of being an honorable man. “I am glad,” added
he, “to become acquainted with those who frequent the banker’s
salon. I shall probably find more than one Christian among them,”
as, in fact, often happened.
When the night came, Victor went away, leaving me quite
uneasy, in spite of all his efforts to reassure me. I made him promise
to return at an early hour. I was beginning to be anxious towards
eleven, when all at once there was a sound of hasty footsteps. I
sprang to the door—I opened it—it was he. As soon as he entered
the room, I noticed he was extremely pale. He vainly endeavored to
appear calm, but could not conceal the agitation that overpowered
him.
“Victor,” I cried, “something has happened!”
“Yes, but not much. Somebody tried to frighten me.”
“Are you wounded?”
“No, they did not wish to take my life.”
“I conjure you to tell me frankly what has happened.”
“Well, here are the facts: I had left M. Beauvais’ house, where I
was politely received, and had gone two streets, when I observed
three men walking swiftly after me on the Place. They seemed well
dressed, which removed my suspicions. I turned into the little Rue
St. Augustine. It is dimly lighted in the evening and almost always
deserted.”
“How imprudent!”
“That is true. I did wrong. I had scarcely gone a hundred yards,
before the three men overtook me.”
“‘Stop!’ exclaimed one of them. I stopped to ascertain what they
wished. The same voice continued in these terms: ‘How much do
those calotins give you to defend them?’
“‘I have only one word to say in reply to your insulting question—
I defend my own principles, above all because I cherish them in the
depths of my soul.’ So saying, I sought to keep on my way.
“One of them detained me. ‘Before going any further,’ said he
who seemed to be the spokesman, ‘swear never to abuse the young
men of this town again!’
“‘I attack no one individually,’ I replied. ‘Am I forbidden to defend
my own cause because it is not yours?—But this is no time or place
for such an interview. It should be at my office and by daylight.
Come to see me to-morrow, and I will answer your questions.’
“The three men were so wrapped up in their bernouses and large
comforters that I could not tell who they were. I thought it time to
disengage myself from the grasp of the one that held me. I made a
violent effort. In the struggle, my cloak fell off. As I stooped to pick
it up, I received several blows. I then called for assistance. Several
windows in the neighborhood opened. The three cowards
disappeared. As you see, I am neither killed nor wounded. On the
whole, no great harm has been done.”
My whole frame trembled during this account. When it was
ended, I became somewhat calmer, and, passionately throwing my
arms around Victor, I begged him to promise me solemnly never to
go out again in the evening. He did so willingly.

CHAPTER VI.
VICTOR AT THE POINT OF DEATH.

The next morning Victor told me he did not feel any effect from
what had occurred. He therefore went to the office as usual, and
wrote a spirited article, in which he made known and energetically
stigmatized the base proceedings of those who had attacked him.
The article attracted particular attention, and gave us the pleasant
satisfaction of realizing to what a degree Victor had won the good-
will of upright men. On all sides they came that very day to express
their indignation at the violence used against him....
 We should neither overestimate nor decry human nature. There
are certainly a multitude of base men with low natures and vile
instincts. But even among those who are the farthest from the truth
there are some souls that have preserved a certain uprightness and
hearts of a certain elevation for whom we cannot help feeling
mingled admiration and pity.
That same evening Victor complained of not being well, but kept
saying it was nothing serious. Without asking his consent, I sent for
a physician, who examined him. Victor was forced to acknowledge
he had been chilled the night before. He was very warm when he
left M. Beauvais’ house, and, to counteract the effect of the keen
north wind, he started off swiftly, and was in a complete perspiration
when overtaken by his assailants. Stopped in the middle of the
street, he was exposed to the cold night air, which was of course
injurious. What was still worse, his cloak fell off, and it was several
minutes before he recovered it.
I was seized with terror at hearing these details. It seemed as if
my poor husband had just pronounced his own death-warrant. At
the same time a horrible feeling sprang up in my heart, such as I
had never experienced before. I was frantic with rage and hatred
against those who were the cause of this fatal chill. I begged, I
implored Victor and the physician to promise to take immediate
steps for their discovery, that no time might be lost in bringing them
to justice in order to receive the penalty they deserved.
“Agnes,” said Victor mildly—“Agnes, your affection for me
misleads you. I no longer recognize my good Agnes.”
But I gave no heed to what he said, and was only diverted from
my hatred by the care I was obliged to bestow on him. In twenty-
four hours my poor husband’s illness had increased to such a degree
that I lost all hope. Poor Victor! he suffered terribly, and I added to
his sufferings instead of alleviating them! I loved him too much, or
rather with too human an affection. I afflicted him with my alternate
outbursts of despair and anger.
“Live without you!” I would exclaim—“that is impossible! Oh! the
monsters who have killed you, if they could only die in your stead!
But they shall be punished and held up to infamy as they deserve! If
there is no one else in the world to ferret them out, I will do it
myself!”
These fits of excitement caused Victor so much sorrow that the
very remembrance of them fills me with the keenest remorse—a
remorse I have reason to feel. His confessor, the physician, my
mother, and he himself tried in vain to soothe me. One told me how
far from Christian my conduct was, and another that I deprived my
husband of what he needed the most—repose. I would not listen to
them. I was beside myself.
One evening I was sitting alone beside the bed of my poor sick
one, and was abandoning myself anew to my unreasonable anger,
when Victor took my hand in his, and said, in a tone that went to my
very heart:
“Agnes, I feel very weak. Perhaps I have not long to live. I beg
you—I conjure you—to spare me the cruel sorrow of having my last
hours embittered by a want of resignation I was far from expecting
of you! Of all my sufferings, this is the greatest—and certainly that
to which I can resign myself the least. What! my dear Agnes, do
you, at the very moment of my leaving you, lay aside the most
precious title you have in my eyes—that of a Christian woman, a
woman of piety and fortitude—which transcends all others?... What!
are you unable to submit to the will of God! Because his designs do
not accord with your views, you dare say that God no longer loves
you—that he is cruel!... My dear, do you set up your judgment
against that of God? Do you refuse him the sacrifice of my life and of
your enmity?... Does not my life belong to him?... And is not your
enmity unchristian?... Did they who have reduced me to this
condition intend doing me such an injury?... I think not. Could they
have done me the least harm if God had not permitted them?... No
matter at what moment the fatal blow falls on us, no matter whence
it comes, it only strikes us at the time and in the manner permitted
by God.—Agnes, kneel here beside me, and repeat the words I am
about to utter. Repeat them with your lips and with your whole
heart, whatever it may cost you. It is my wish. It is essential for your
own peace of mind, and also for mine. Agnes, my dear love, we
have prayed a thousand times together and with hearts so truly
united! Now that you see me ill, perhaps dying ... can you refuse me
the supreme joy of once more uniting my soul with yours before God
in the same prayer?” ...
I burst into tears, and obeyed.
“O my God!” he cried, “whatever thou doest is well done. Nothing
can tempt me to doubt thy goodness. Is not thy loving-kindness
often the greatest when it seems disguised the most?... I firmly
believe so, and I forgive all those who have tried to injure me. I pray
thee to convert them. As for me, I beg thee, O my God, to deal with
me as thou judgest most for thy glory and for my good.”
Victor uttered these words with so much fervor and emotion that
I was stirred to the depths of my soul. A complete change took place
within me which I attributed to my dear husband’s prayers. My eyes,
hitherto tearless, now overflowed. My anger all at once disappeared.
A profound sadness alone remained, mingled with resignation....
Victor’s life continued in danger some days longer. Then—oh!
what happiness!—when I had made the sacrifice and bowed
submissively to the divine will, the physician all at once revived my
hopes. To comprehend the joy with which my heart overflowed at
hearing that perhaps my husband might be restored to life, you
must, like me, pass through long hours of bitterness in which you
repeat, with your eyes fastened on your loved one: “A few hours,
and I shall behold him no more!”
A week after, Victor was convalescent.

CHAPTER VII.
A PROVIDENTIAL EVENT.

Victor and I then entered upon a singular life of which I think

there are but few instances. I felt from the first that his
convalescence was deceptive, and the physician secretly told him so.
We both felt that God allowed us to pass a few more months
together, but no longer. The disease was checked, but it still hung
about my dear one. It assumed a new form, and changed into a
slow malady that was surely accomplishing its work. As frequently
happens in such complaints, Victor was but partially cured of
inflammation of the lungs, and now became consumptive.
A great poet says that no language, however perfect, can
express all the thoughts, all the emotions, that spring up in the soul.
[35] This is true. I have often felt it, and now realize it more than
ever. Ten months elapsed between Victor’s amelioration and his
death—months memorable for great suffering, but which have left
me many delightful, though melancholy, remembrances. I wish I
could impart these recollections to you. I hardly dare attempt it, so
conscious am I of my inability to do them justice.
How, indeed, could I depict the love, stronger than ever, that
bound me to my husband, spared in so unhoped-for a manner,
though but for a brief period—so brief that I could almost count the
hours? How make you understand how elevated, superhuman,
consoling, and yet sorrowful, were our conversations? How many
times Victor said to me: “Agnes, how merciful the good God is! See,
he could have recalled me to himself at once, but still leaves me with
you a few months longer. Oh! how heartily I desire to profit by this
time in order to prepare for death, though I fear it not! I do not wish
to spend one of these last hours in vain. I wish to do all the good in
my power, and love you better and better as the blessed do in
heaven. Oh! how sweet it will be to enter upon that perfect love
above, which we have imagined, and had a foretaste of, here below
—what do I say?—a thousand times sweeter, more perfect. Its
enjoyment will be without any alloy of fear or sadness, for in loving,
we shall have a right to say: ‘It is for ever!’”
But of all the thoughts that occupied Victor’s mind at that period,
that which was most constantly in his heart he expressed in these
simple but significant words: to do all the good possible! Penetrated
with this desire, he resumed his duties at the Journal office as soon
as he was able. His talents had developed under the influence of
suffering. Every one remarked it. But controversy fatigued him, and
he was not able to go out every day. He was, therefore, provided
with an assistant—a young man of ability, to whom he could transfer
most of the labor. He took pleasure in training him for the work,
saying to himself: “He will be my successor. I shall still live in him,
and have some part in the good he will do.”
A part of the day, therefore, remained unoccupied. He employed
these hours in writing a small work—a simple, touching book, which
was published a short time before his death, and is still doing, to my
knowledge, much good among the people.
Training his successor and publishing a useful book were two
good acts he took pleasure in, but, so great was his ardor for
benefiting others, that they did not suffice. He earnestly longed for
some new opportunity of testifying to God how desirous he was of
making a holy use of the last moments of his life. “And yet,” he
added, “I acknowledge this work is perhaps presumptuous. It is
asking a special grace from God of which I am not worthy.” But God
granted him this longed-for opportunity of devoting himself to his
glory, and he embraced it with a heroism that won universal
admiration.
Spring returned, and we fell into the habit of going from time to
time to pass a day in the country with Jeanne, my old nurse. Jeanne
was one of those friends of a lower condition whom we often love
the most. There is no jealousy in such a friendship to disturb the
complete union of soul. It is mingled with a sweet sense of
protection on one side, and of gratitude on the other—which is still
sweeter.
We went there in the morning, walked around awhile, then
breakfasted and resumed our walk. Jeanne lived at St. Saturnin, six
kilomètres from town. It is a charming place, as you are aware. Near
the village flows a stream bordered by poplars and willows that
overshadow the deep but limpid waters. One morning we were
walking in the broad meadow beneath the shade of these trees,
when suddenly we saw a young man on the opposite shore, not six
rods off, throw himself into the stream. Victor still retained a part of
his natural vigor. Before I thought of preventing him, he sprang
forward, and, seeing that the man who had precipitated himself into
the water did not rise to the surface, jumped into the river, swam
around some time, and finally succeeded in bringing the stranger to
shore. I was wild with anxiety and grief. Without allowing him to
stop to attend to the person he had rescued, I forced him to return
to Jeanne’s in order to change his clothing. He gave orders for some
one to hasten to the assistance of the poor man for whom he had so
courageously exposed his life. Several persons hastily left their work,
and in a short time returned with the man who had tried to drown
himself. He was still agitated, but had recovered the complete use of
his faculties. At the sight of my husband in the garb of a peasant, he
at once comprehended to whom he owed his life. He was seized
with a strange tremor; he staggered, and seemed on the point of
fainting. Victor made every effort to bring him to himself, and at
length succeeded. As soon as this young gentleman, who was clad
with uncommon elegance, recovered his strength and self-
possession, he seized my husband’s hand and kissed it with a
respect that excited strange suspicions in my mind. Victor appeared
to know him, but I did not remember ever having seen him before.
Why had he thrown himself into the river? To drown himself, of
course.... Why, then, did he testify so much gratitude and respect for
one who had hindered him from executing his project?...
He requested, in a faint, supplicating tone, to be left alone with
Victor. The rest of us withdrew into the garden. At our return, Victor
whispered to me: “This gentleman is Louis Beauvais, the banker’s
oldest son. He himself will relate his history to you after our return
home.”
The carriage was not to come for us till four o’clock. We therefore
passed several hours together at Jeanne’s. Victor devoted himself to
Louis with an attention that touched me inexpressibly. As to Louis, a
son could not have shown more affection to the best of fathers than
he to Victor.
 The hour of our departure came at last. We entered the carriage,
and were all three at home in half an hour.

TO BE CONTINUED.
 HOME EDUCATION.

As the family is the type and basis of society, so does it contain,

as in a microcosm, all the questions, problems, and difficulties that
agitate the larger world. Marriage is first in importance within the
family and in society, as representing the principle of creation;
education comes next, as representing the principle of development.
Given a new and perfect society, made up of individual couples
whose union should be absolutely satisfactory, and whose motives,
thoughts, and actions absolutely irreproachable, how is it to be
perpetuated in this desirable state? If to the perfection of marriage
were not added the consequent perfection of education, the new
society, for a moment raised up above former standards of
approximative goodness, would, in the course of half a generation,
be reduced lower than any standard of Christian times. This is so
well understood that education has come to be the one cry of all
parties, representing with some the conscientious result of their
religious belief, with others merely their ambition to make a stir in
the political world. Christians look to it as fitting men for heaven;
statesmen turn to it as fashioning the law-abiding citizen; atheists
see in it the means whereby successfully to blind mankind, and
make them swallow the poison hidden under the appearance of
superficial cleverness; the devil grasps it as a tool, or recoils from it
as from a thunderbolt; but to no thinking being can it be a matter of
indifference.
We do not propose to go into that broader question of public
education which, once within the scope of the law, and face to face
with established national systems, immediately sets both
hemispheres in a ferment; but to discuss that preliminary and more
vital training whose silent power shows itself every day in the homes
of thousands, neutralizing on the one hand good examples and
wholesome teaching, and on the other often redeeming from utter
badness its half-corrupted subject. And first taking the literal
meaning of the word education, i.e. to lead up, or out of (e-duco),
we must remark that as education is coeval with the dawn of reason,
so it is also continuous. It begins in the cradle, and goes on hand in
hand with life to the grave. All experience, good or bad, is
education, not only the lessons taught in school-hours, the lectures
given in classes, halls, and colleges, not alone the books we read
and the examinations we undergo, but, more emphatically, the
places we frequent, the people we meet, the misfortunes we go
through, the work we perform. Even prosperity is education, though
seldom in the highest sense, but it is chiefly in the lower walks of
fortune that the more important part of this daily and hourly
education is imparted. For this reason specially, and in view of the
future in which a chance word heard in the street or a stray visit to
some place or person may become of such subtle and paramount
gravity, should home education in the Christian sense of the word be
encouraged to the utmost. More particularly should this be the case
in non-Catholic countries. We have no outward atmosphere of
religion to trust to; no wayside crosses to remind us of the sufferings
which our sins caused our Blessed Saviour; no simple shrines to bid
us remember to pray for our invisible brethren in purgatory; no
street processions to bring vividly before our minds that our King is
more than an earthly lord, and our Mother more than an earthly
parent.
We do not breathe Catholicity in our daily life, and there is
therefore the greater need of our drinking it in with our mother’s
milk. This insensible and gradual instilling of religion into our infant
minds is the essence of Christian “home education.” First among all
the influences that go towards it is example. This extends over every
detail of the household, and can be and should be kept in view in
the poorest as well as the most comfortable home. In the latter,
certainly, the duty is more stringent, the incentives to its
performance lying so near at hand that it requires an absolutely
guilty carelessness to neglect them. In the former, though a
thousand excuses might be made for the neglect of this paramount
duty, it should still be remembered that God’s grace is all-powerful,
and never fails those who seek to do his will. Parents sorely tried
during a day of toil and anxiety are often found more loving and
forbearing towards their helpless children than others who, with no
trouble on their minds, yet delegate the “tiresome” office of nurse to
a hired attendant; and although it is certainly to be deplored that in
so many cases the children of the poor should be nothing but little
men and women already weighed down by cares that ought to
belong only to a later age, still it may be questioned whether even
this is not a lesser evil in the long run than that other sort of neglect
which makes the children of the rich, for the most part, only the
playthings of their parents.
The poor, on the contrary, though necessity may make their
children drudges, yet have in them early friends, while too often
among their more fortunate neighbors children count only as the
ornaments of the house. So that even out of evil comes good, and
God has planted consolations in the path of his poor which go far to
soften the miseries of their inevitable lot. We say inevitable, not as
denying the immense, unexplored possibilities of alleviating this lot
which remain in the power of future philanthropists, but as believing
in our Lord’s prophecy, “The poor you have always with you,” which
blessed promise we count as a staff vouchsafed in mercy to help us
on our way to heaven.
We have said that the duty of good example is incumbent upon
every parent, rich or poor. But not only those broad examples which
could hardly fail to strike even an idiot, such as abstaining from
unseemly brawls, from excesses of language and of self-indulgence
—in plain words, from swearing and drinking—or from manifest
dishonesty; there are subtler things than these, and which produce
indeed greater effect on the child spectator. Gross vice has often
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