tion, but awful one.' She confesses thatshe never reads sermons, 'but I readnovelettes and my Bible.' Tom Jonesand Gray's Elegy, she concludes, are 'bothexcellent and much spoke of by both sex,particularly by the men.'

Her Calvinistic belief in 'unquestion-able [? unquenchable] fire' is unhesitat-ing, and she is decided on the point that'fighting is what ladies is not qualifiedfor, they would not make a good figurein battle or in a duel. We females areof little use to our country.'

Here is one of her last letters:

MY DEAR LITTLE MAMA.—I was trulyhappy to hear that you were all well. Weare surrounded with measles at present onevery side, for the Herons got it, and Isa-bella Heron was near Death's Door, and one

night her father lifted her out of bed, andshe fell down as they thought lifeless. MrHeron said, "That lassie's deed noo"—"I'mino deed yet." She then threw up a big.worm nine inches and a half long.

But the dainty, bright thing is about ito flee—to come 'quick to confusion.'The measles she writes of seized her, andshe died on December 19, 1811. Dowe make too much of this little child?We may of her cleverness—not of heraffectionateness, her nature. What a pic-ture the animosa infans gives us of her-self, her vivacity, her passionateness, herprecocious love-making, her passion fornature, for swine, for all living things,her reading, her turn for expression, hersatire, her frankness, her little sins andrages, her great repentances!

JournalEUGENIE DE GUERIN

BORN in 1805, Eugenie was five years older than her poet brother Maurice de Guerin,her passionate attachment to whom, together with her profound religious devotion,

was the chief note of her quiet life. Her Journal, which covers a period of seven years,was written for Maurice while he lived, and after his death from consumption in 1839 wascontinued, addressed to Maurice in Heaven. Three of the manuscript books in which the

Journal was written were lost, but the remaining twelve were publishd in 1861.

I—THOUGHTS OF DEATH AND HEAVEN

No one here is speaking of anythingbut illnesses and deaths; the bellat Andillac has been tolling, these

days, from hour to hour. The malignantfever is ravaging the countryside as itdoes every November. We are all sor-rowing for a young woman of your ownage, the most beautiful and virtuous inthe parish, who has left a tiny infant.Last Sunday I went to hold the hand ofa dying girl of eighteen; she knew me,poor child, gave me a word, and tookto prayer again. I wanted to speak toher, but knew not what to say—the dyingspeak better than we do. What thoughtscome to one over these new graves! 0my God, how quickly one slips out of thisworld! All my imaginations are inmourning, and the word seems to meone tomb.

Yet in all this, your letters have givenme a ray of joy; at last your futurebegins to take shape; I see you will havea social position, a foothold in material

life. God be praised! It is what I havemost desired in this world for you andfor me. since my future belongs to yours.I have had many happy dreams on thissubject—perhaps I will let you knowthem some day.

I have written nothing for three days,my dear; I haven't had time to sit down.Everything is calm, without and within,in the house and in my heart—a happystate that leaves little to say. I wouldwillingly make a vow of enclosure atCayla; no place in the world pleases melike home. How I pity you, poor exile!A thousand times a day I look forwardto your return and our happiness.

How beautiful the heaven of heavensmust be! That's what I have been think-ing, looking at the grand winter sky. Ialways open my window before going tobed, and to-night I could hardly leaveit, the night is so glorious. I have beenthinking of God, who has made our prisonso radiant, of the saints who have these

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wonderful stars beneath their feet, of youwho are very likely looking at themtoo.

I have closed St. Augustine, my soulsteeped in those gracious words of his,'Throw yourself on the breast of Godas on a bed of repose.' We should in-deed find a happy relaxation if we knewhow to do that, as the saints know. Theygo to him as children to their mother;there they sleep, they pray, they weep,they live. God is the home of the saints;but our earthliness knows nothing but theearth, this black, dry earth, sad as iffrom a curse. Nothing has happened to-day; we haven't seen the sun; only thisevening some crows have flown past. Ihaven't been out, nor have my thoughtsbeen out; they go only upward.

This morning, before dawn, my fingerswere raking in the ashes, seeking fire tolight the candle with. Quickly dressed,and said my prayers, and on the road.It was bad weather, and I could not seethe mountain or the dear country that Igaze on when it's fine. The confessionalwas occupied, and I was glad of it; Ilike to have plenty of time before goingin, to review all my soul before God.Often that takes a long time, because mythoughts are scattered like leaves. Atten o'clock I was kneeling, listening tothe best teaching in the world, and Icame away much the better for it. Weare far lighter when every burden hasbeen laid down; the soul can rise onwings! I gain relief and strength everytime I say 'mea culpa.'

II—HAPPY DAYS

CLOAKS, umbrellas, a whole stock ofwinter things were sent out after us

this morning to Andillac, where we spentthe day in church and presbytery. I lovethat Sunday life, so full, so active, sovarious. I love meeting all the little fam-ily groups, and chatting with the womenabout poultry, cattle, husbands and chil-dren, as we go up the road. I like kiss-ing the children and seeing them hidetheir shy faces in their mothers' skirts.They are afraid of me, as of somethingunknown. One of them said to her grand-mother, who was speaking of coming here,"Don't you go to the castle, gran; there'sa black jail there!" I wonder why castlesare so fearful. Possibly because of thehorrors of old times.

I don't care for news, unless it be newsof friends; the news of the world andof those tiresome politics are so uninter-esting. Nothing makes me yawn so soonas a newspaper. It used to be otherwise,but tastes change, and the heart lets goof something every day. Time and ex-perience disillusion us. I can look backon all my affections—first, dolls, toys, thebirds and butterflies that I loved; thenreading, talk, dress a little, and thedreams, the beautiful dreams! Now it isSunday. I have just returned from thefirst Lenten mass, and I am happy in mylittle room with the most delectable calmin the world. The glory of the morninginvades me. Good-bye.

It is long since I wrote in my diary.Can you guess why? Because I think the

time is lost that I spend in writing. Wehave to give an account of our minutes,and to record these fleeting days is hardlya good use of them. Still, in twentyyears, if I live, it will be pleasant indeedto find myself here as in a mirror of myyoung days. Such as it is, I mean togive myself this pleasure. I think it isinnocent. Very likely the good God isless rigorous than my conscience. Letme set down here a great happiness thatbefel me yesterday—a kiss from a poorman to whom I gave an alms.

It has become necessary for me towrite, if it were only two words. Writingis the sign of my life, as to flow is thelife of a fountain. You will understand;others would think me mad. I have toopen my soul before God and beforesomeone—I say 'someone,' because thispaper is yourself. But to-day is againthe post-day, and yet no letter from you.Whatever, are you thinking of, my friend?How fast this night has passed, spent inwriting to you! Dawn has come, and Ithought it midnight. I have seen manystars passing along; I see the sky, frommy table, and consult it from time totime; and it seems as though an angeldictated to me. Surely they come fromabove, those tender, high, pure thoughtsthat fill my heart when I speak to you.

The letter written to-night will reachyou on Tuesday; may it do you good;may it distract you from your state ofweakness and of weariness! If only Iknew what is wrong with you! Often I

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think it can be nothing but a little ofthat black humour that so saddens theheart in which it is allowed to spread.People possessed of sadness are almost

as good as lost. There is not a dutythat they can fulfil; they can do nothingfor God or for themselves except whaitheir murky mood desires.

Ill—ANXIETIES FOR MAURICE

AT last a letter from you! But I don't. know you in it; you open your head

to me when I wanted your heart. Iwanted to know your tastes, your moods,your principles, to wander through yourcorners and recesses. How I wish youwere at home!

I have missed from my bookshelf theLetters of St. Teresa, and saw one of theservants with the book. Very likely sheunderstands it better than I do, for holythings are open to every devout heart andmind. I have often known an ignorantand simple person profoundly versed, in-tellectually in divine matters; and, on theother hand, many an acute mind is inthis connection utterly stupid. Yet eventhe peasantry are touched with scep-ticism ; there are some who will take uponthem to interpret the Council of Trent,but will not say 'Our Father.'

This is what a false education does forour country districts; it makes our peo-ple think that they know because theycan read. Formerly they believed all;now they require the faith to be demon-strated. Their contact with books hasbrought them nothing but yet anotherignorance besides that which they hadbefore; it has brought them ignorance oftheir duties. How I pity these poor peo-ple! Far better not to be able to read,unless they are taught what reading isgood for them. The true purpose ofschooling should be to teach religion andto make good Christians.

Another letter! You have been ill, youare better, you are coming home! I ammore happy than I can say; I thank Godfor your good news! Meanwhile, youare not going out, nor risking your health,nor seeing people; in the midst of Baby-lon you write in solitude. O brother, welove you so much! If you knew howmuch that love of ours costs us, if youknew the sacrifices that we make, youwould not so rashly expose your dearhealth or your dear soul! Heaven knowswhat I would give to banish your suffer-ings of body or of soul.

My dearest, why don't you have yourself raised by some touch of heaven?!Most ills come from the soul; and yoursmy dear, is so far from health! I knowwell, and you know, too, what would heal,1

or at least relieve it; to make it Christian1

again, to bring it into relations with God1

by doing your religious duties, to makeit live in faith, to establish it in a stateiconformable to its real nature. Then you1

would have peace and happiness, as much1

as is possible to man.But you don't pray; it is sad to think

of. Not a day passes but I feel theipower of faith in my soul, to calm it, toistrengthen or to raise it. This morning,I suffered; death, tears, separations, alllour sad life, were killing me. Well, I amicalm now, and I owe it to nothing but1

an act of faith. I think of our mother.,of death, of an eternity without fear onsuffering. A divine stillness broods ovenall the sorrows; it is the suavity of God IAnd it is hopeless, at such times, to tryianything else; nothing human consoles onsustains.

Nineteen years ago your little Carolinewas born by the Ganges; she has becomethe charming girl who is to be your wifeI am happy in your happiness, and inGod's care for the companion He hasgiven you, in this Eve who has arisenfrom the east with so many graces andcharms. And I find in her such qualitiesof the heart, such sweetness, goodness,devotion and candour; she is a treasurefrom heaven. May you be united andhappy!

I have a letter from her, and read thatyou are better. But she says, too,'Maurice is sad; I see it in his eyes.'My poor friend, are you not content withlife, even at its happiest? Are you not!happy in this sweet, good child who lovesyou, and in your coming marriage, andin your future? But, indeed, I believesthat nothing now pleases you, and thata joy once tasted is dead for you. I seethere is something in you that poisonsand will kill you, unless God delivers you

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IV—TO MAURICE IN HEAVEN

MAURICE is dead! I think that if itwere not for my father I should

go and join the Sisters of St. Joseph atAlgiers. My life would then at least beuseful. What can I do with it now? Ihad given it all to you, my brother! Youbegged me not to leave you, and I stayedbeside you only to see you die. How thissilence daunts me! Forgive me, my God,all this my fear. What has the soul tofear, that is united to you? Shall I notlove you, my God, who are the only andtrue and eternal love? And indeed Ithink I do love you, as timorous Petersaid he did, but not like John, who restedon your heart. That divine repose is un-known to me. But what can I hope for increatures? I, who have lived with death,cannot make a pillow of a human breast.Let me lean, rather, on your crown ofthorns.

How I love his dear letters, those let-ters which come no more! My God, re-ceive all my sufferings, the pains of mylove for my brother. See, I mourn forhis soul; I am anxious for his state; Iwould gladly suffer death to win himheaven. Illumine, attract, touch that soulso fitted to know and to serve You, myGod!

How dreadful it is to see such fine in-telligences erring, to see such noble crea-tures, beings whom God has made mostnearly in His image, wandering away!How are they to be pitied; how often mysoul weeps for them with our Saviour!Would that all might profit by the re-demption, which extends to the wholerace! Yet has the heart its chosen ones,and for these one has a hundred timesmore desire and fear. This is not for-bidden. Let all those live in life eternalwhom I love! This is my only prayer;it is for that life, not for this one, that Ilove them.

It costs me much to write the sad storyof his death, though it is ever in mymind. Even sorrow turns sweet when it

sleeps in the heart; but these memoriesrend the soul on leaving it. On July 8,twenty days after leaving Paris, we camein sight of Cayla. My poor brother hadlong been thinking of nothing but thefields of home; I never knew him moreeager, and the eagerness became keeneras we came nearer. It was as if he wantedto be at home in time to die; possiblyhe knew, or felt, that the end was com-ing. When he caught sight of Cayla hepointed to it with the gayest excitement;but I had never thought anything moresad.

Strange homecoming! My father wasshocked at his appearance; Marie weptwhen she saw him. He was so changed,so pale, so feeble; his aspect was dread-ful; the journey had killed him. He couldnever have reached home if his desirehad not kept him up. He seemed in asort of ecstasy as we approached thecastle, yet he was able to wave a greetingto the men in the harvest field as wepassed and took the hands of all theservants who had crowded to the door."Ah," he said, "how good it is to behere!"

We hoped much from the climate, thenative air, the warmth of the South, buthe became daily feebler. One morning Iwent in to see him as early as possible,and was struck by his expression. It hada strange, fixed look. The doctor sooncame, and told us that Maurice was muchworse. We sent for the parish priest, andI told Maurice that he was coming, andleft him to prepare for his confession.With great calmness and entire lucidity ofmind he received the last rites. Hepressed the hand of the priest, who wasspeaking to him of heaven, touched withhis lips a cross which his wife held beforehim; then fell weaker and, as we kissedhim, he died. Eleven days after his re-"turn home. Eight months after his mar-riage. Let us throw our hearts into eter-nity!

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Literature and DogmaMATTHEW ARNOLD

ARNOLD devoted his energies for many years to combating English indifference to1\. ideas in literature, politics, and religion. In literature his chief attack on the intellec-tual apathy of the public was made in the essays entitled Culture and Anarchy, publishedin 1869. A more scientific method in politics was advocated in Friendship's Garland(1871). Of the books embodying his views on theological subjects, one of the best knownis Literature and Dogma: An Essay towards a Better Apprehension of the Bible, publishedin 1873. It is mainly for the value of Arnold's prose—consistently dignified, calm, lucid

and felicitous—that his essays will be read and remembered.

I—INTRODUCTORY

THE Churches and the Clergy areunanimous in lamenting that re-ligion, the religion of the Bible,

has little hold on the masses. We regretthe act as much as they do; but the timehas come when we must state definitelythat the religion of the Bible cannot bemade acceptable so long as it is identi-fied with the current dogmatic theologyof the Churches and sects, and so long asan equal and infallible authority is claimedfor all parts of the Bible alike. For whatthe Bible itself presents to us is not the-ology, not an abstruse intellectual sys-tem scientifically elaborated on the basis

of an unverifiable axiom, but religionwhich is morality touched with emotion,and the expressions of it in the Biblevary infinitely. It is not till we canbring to bear upon the Bible a criticismresting upon Culture—knowledge of thebest that has been known and thought inthe world, which is Literature—that wecan get the power to estimate the proportion and relation in what we read inthe Bible. To understand that the Ianguage of the Bible is fluid, passing and1

literary, not rigid, fixed and scientific, isthe first step to a right understanding otthe religion of the Bible.

II—THE OLD TESTAMENT

R ELIGION is morality but with some-thing superadded—emotion. Its lan-

guage is consequently not precise and defi-nite, but poetic and imaginative. Bothmorality and religion are practical, deal-ing with conduct which is at least three-fourths of life. Dogma is not practical,not concerned with conduct; it istheoretic. 'Live as you were meant tolive'; that is morality. 'Lay hold oneternal life'; that is religion. 'The Holy

'Ghost is not made, nor created, nor be-gotten, but proceeding from the Fatherand the Son'; that is theology.

The Hebrews were the people whowere possessed with the supreme im-portance of religion, of the sense ofrighteousness, the joy of righteousness,the Eternal Righteousness, the somethingnot ourselves that makes for righteous-ness; of righteousness as the fulfilment ofour being. The Eternal was necessarilypresented anthropomorphically, poeticallypersonified, not metaphysically defined.

Other peoples arrived at a morality; onlyithe Hebrews so concentrated upon it thattheir morality, touched with emotion,their emotional realization of the Eternal 1Something not ourselves that makes forrighteousness, became a religion—the re-ligion of the Bible.

From beginning to end of the Old Tes-tament, that is the religion their prophets 1constantly proclaim in the plainest terms,Israel goes astray when Israel forgets tofollow after righteousness; the way of Ipeace is the return to righteousness,righteousness is the way of happiness, theway of salvation. Holiness and Power areall the attributes of the Eternal; thereis no license of defining Him, no GreatFirst Cause, no 'moral and intelligent gov-ernor of the universe,' no 'consubstantia-tion of persons.' Imaginatively, poeti-cally, the Eternal is personified, for 'mannever knows how anthropomorphic he is.'

Imaginatively, poetically, the law ofrighteousness—the original intuition, or

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