Donahoe's Magazine, Volume 15, No. 4, April, 1886

It has been noticed that boiler explosions are especially frequent in the morning. Take, for example, an engine which works during the day with steam at six atmospheres. The workmen leave the factory at seven o'clock P.M., and about six o'clock the fireman reduces his fires and leaves the boiler with the gauge at four atmospheres. On returning the next morning at half-past five, he generally finds the gauge at 1.5 or two atmospheres, with a fine water level. He profits by the reserved heat, which represents a certain expenditure of fuel; as an economist he utilizes it, and drives his fires, to be ready for the return of the workmen, without suspecting the dangers concealed in the water which has been boiling all night. He does not feed his boilers, because they are at a good level. In other words, he prepares, unconsciously, the conditions which are most favorable to superheating, and a consequent sudden and terrible explosion, which will be attributed to some mysterious and unknown cause.

Southern Sketches

XIX.FROM HAVANA TO MATANZAS – THE VALLEY OF THE YUMURI

There are two railways leading from Havana to Matanzas, one called the via Baya (Bay line) runs along the sea coast through a mountainous and romantic country. This is much shorter than the other route, which passes through the interior, affording the traveller an excellent opportunity of observing the rural tropical scenes of the island.

I decided to go the latter way by the train, which was to start from the depot near the Campo de Marte at 2.40 P.M. The fare from Havana to Matanzas either way, second-class, is $7.10 in Cuban currency. This class is well patronized by respectable travellers. Negroes, Chinese and the poorest Cubans take the third. The carriage in which I rode was built and furnished somewhat like those in the United States, except that the seats had no cushions, and the windows no glass. The train started at the appointed time, and we soon found ourselves rushing through narrow streets, past many colored buildings.

The Yanza, or Chinese quarter, presents an extremely wretched and filthy appearance, thus contrasting wonderfully with the splendid attractions of other parts of the city. The suburbs were soon reached, and the hot and dusty town gave place to the clear, refreshing country. Hurrying past the gardens of the captain-general, with their avenues of royal and cocoa palms, their fountains, waterfalls and pyramids of flowers, we beheld ahead verdant, green hills, beautiful mansions, and here and there very ancient stone buildings, forts, cottages and gardens. All kinds of vegetables and blossoming plants were seen growing down to the railroad track. There were waving meadows through which streams of a pale blue, transparent tint, wandered gracefully, bending bamboos, slanting palms, and thousands of wild vines full of flowers grew on the banks. As the train rushed by these silent Edens, the splendid paroquets and other gorgeous birds, browsing goats, mules and cattle started at the sound, paused in wonder as we passed, and then relapsed into their previous occupations. Half-naked Chinese farm-hands carried water in buckets suspended from yokes fixed on their shoulders. We saw fields of corn and sugar-cane stretching away for miles. Here and there, out of this bright, green sea arose an odd planter's mansion, painted sky-blue with its pillars, railings, and towers of white and gold. One of these houses stood a few hundred feet from the track. It was two stories high, solid and Corinthian in its architecture, of a cream color, while its lofty colonnades were painted in delicate crimson and blue. Large, costly vases, full of flowers, decorated the entrance, and this was reached through an antique gateway that was covered with roses. Now we swept by large banana groves whose trees were loaded with fruit. We rushed by rocks, dells and fields adorned with grasses as glossy as satin and of every color. We saw fruit trees of all kinds, stone fences covered with century plants, cacti and other flowers; enchanting vales, fields of shrubbery, and avenues of royal palms over fifty feet high, ever stately and beautiful whether in groups or alone.

The soil of the island is of a deep red color, and contrasts splendidly with the rich green of the trees. The cattle looked fat and large, and numerous queer-looking domestic fowl were seen in the fields. The "Ingenio" or sugar plantation, was readily recognized, whether rising above the cane fields or partly shaded by trees. It consisted of a group of buildings generally painted white, out of which arose a very tall furnace chimney. Negroes and Chinese were seen steering oxen with carts full of cane from the fields to the mill.

The chief agricultural industry of the island consists in the cultivation of this product. Cane fields almost boundless in extent appeared here and there in the luxuriant landscape. The railroad stations at the villages where we stopped were crowded with hogsheads of sugar and molasses, ready to be sent to Havana, and shipped from there to foreign seaports. Black and white coolies were noticed cutting the cane and often greedily devouring it, while the rich juice ran down their naked chests. This could be had for almost nothing at the depots from the dealers who also sold oranges, pineapples, tamarinds, caimetoes, cocoanuts and other luscious fruit. I stepped out of the cars at Guines, where the train was to stop for a few minutes, and bought for a couple of cents two cocoanuts, each as large as an ordinary sized mushmelon. The rind was perfectly green, soft and easily broken, the juice fresh and delicious, and the pulp was tender and sweet, much richer in flavor than that which one eats in the North. On the journey I often noticed the tall and handsome ceiba tree, with its smooth trunk and gracefully-spreading limbs and branches full of verdant leaves. Now we passed by the house of the montero, or sporting peasant. It was a rather rude-looking dwelling thatched with palm leaves, and open at the sides to the mild, pure air. This montero usually possesses but a few acres, which yield him fruit, cane and vegetables enough to make his life easy and contented. The streams give him lots of fish, and the sunny blue skies look down with favor upon him, as he languidly reclines on the grass and eats his melting bananas. The sisal hemp fields look very attractive, and as the train rushes on, we catch glimpses of laughing children, who are playing amid a wilderness of roses. We soon reached the town of Catalina. It looked wonderfully charming, with its handsome church and houses, surrounded by groves of bananas and oranges. We saw pine apples growing in the gardens. The colored leaves of these plants were conspicuous for their variety and beauty. The motion of the train developed a steady breeze, and this, laden with the odors of millions of blossoms and fruits, afforded us the greatest delight. The eye could never tire of the beauty of these tropical scenes. When it withdrew from immediate objects, it wandered away to rest with delight on the softly lit-up mountains, crowned with palms. How splendid those mountains looked, covered to their summits with verdure, and now as the sun was sinking, becoming enveloped in purple and crimson mists. The glory of the rosy sunset on field and wood was brought into deeper relief by the shadows of the trees and hills. On getting on the rear of the train, I was enabled to take in the receding landscape and the views to the right and left. The whole seemed a poetic reality, a region of luxurious delight. The heavens assumed most exquisite hues, forms and colors peculiar to tropical skies. Clouds lately gorgeous, passed into shapes still brighter, and their softness, delicacy and glory seemed to illumine the landscapes. The grand, royal palms which carried one's thoughts to the Holy Land and the time of our Saviour, the mountains tipped with the moving mists, the peaceful valleys where droves of fat cattle feasted, the gaps in the hills, the groves of fruit trees and the flowing streams – all rested tranquilly and brightly under the belts of gold in seas of blue and green, the tongues of fire, rivers of light, silvery hills, purple and crimson isles, castles, vases, columns and thrones that were traced in the clouds. No language can sufficiently describe the beauty of this tropical region; it must be seen to be adequately appreciated.

Night was just falling, when we arrived at Matanzas. The drive to the Hotel de St. Francis, where I determined to stay while in the city, led through a number of narrow and hilly streets, lined on both sides by low, jail-like stone houses, painted as at Havana, in every imaginable color. In the course of about twenty minutes I arrived at the hotel which stands on the Calzada De Tirry, the principal street near the bay. The host, Signor Juan Gonzalez, with a Scotch interpreter who knew Spanish well, received me very heartily at the door. After passing several refreshment saloons and reaching the office, I requested to be shown to my room. I found that it opened, like all the others, on a courtyard, and being the best that could be had, I agreed to remain a guest at the house for $2.50 per day, in gold. Dinner being the next on the programme, I soon found myself at the head of a large table, on both sides of which a number of swarthy, black-eyed, dark-haired coolies and Spaniards were seated. Recognizing me as a padre cure, all bowed and ceased talking as I entered, exchanged courtesies and then resumed an exciting conversation. The meal consisted of a variety of courses. The meats were ingeniously spiced, but rather redolent of garlic. Tropical fruits and vegetables, cooked in all manners of ways, were served up in abundance, and each guest was treated to a bottle of Catalonian wine, which is a very pure and favorite claret in Cuba. This wine is imported from Spain, and a pipe containing one hundred and twenty-five gallons costs about fifty dollars in gold. When dinner was over I retired to my room to find it containing two windows without glass, enclosed by heavy green shutters. The plainest kind of furniture was visible in the apartment. The bed, scantily supplied with clothing, was adorned by a large mosquito net. Anticipating colder evenings in Matanzas than I supposed were peculiar to Havana, owing to the former's situation on so many hills, I requested the waiter to bring me a blanket. This article (being rather unusually used at the Hotel de St. Francis) it took him a long time to find. At last he procured me a peculiar specimen of one, so, resolving to make a virtue of necessity, I placed myself under the protection of heaven and retired to rest. After a sound sleep I was awoke before dawn by the hopping and cooing of numerous doves, whose cots were established not far from my bedroom. The morning soon followed their waking, and eager to gaze on the city and its environs, I made haste to dress and go abroad. The view which greeted my eyes the moment I stood on the balcony outside my door, seemed to me very strange and delightful. The sun was just rising in the east, and in such a soft and lovely sky as the tropics only know. Its calm, golden light fell on the city before me, and on the emerald mountains behind, giving to the villas and gardens that sat on the hills an aspect of unearthly beauty. The doves, finding their society invaded, flocked together and flew over a grassy square, in the midst of which stood immense stores for sugar and molasses. I walked down to the courtyard, admired its fountain, gold-fish, peacock, and tame flamingo. All in the hotel were up before I rose from bed. Cubans take advantage of the early morning, as it is much cooler, and consequently pleasanter to work then than later on in the day. Each guest enjoys a cup of coffee after getting up and takes breakfast about ten o'clock. The coffee in Cuba is well made, and has a most delicious aroma. After taking a cup I went out and saw the street alive with Chinese laborers, who were employed by the city in making extensive repairs. I sauntered towards the Church de San Carlos to hear Mass. On crossing the bridge that spans the San Juan River, which shone in the sunlight as it flowed into the sea, I observed curious-shaped boats, lighters and other craft moving on it, all occupied by queerly-dressed, bronzed, bustling men. Numerous drays and strings of packed mules, carrying heavily laden panniers, raised clouds of dust, from which I was glad to escape on entering the narrow streets near the church. Over the doors of the stores were the customary fancy signs and names. There seemed to be no end to the picturesque street-venders even at this early hour of the morning. A Chinaman, dressed in loose, blue shirt and yellow trousers, passed with a long, flat box on his head, striking it loudly with a short, thick stick, and crying out, "dulces, dulces," – "sweet meats, sweet meats." A panadero (baker) balanced on his cranium a big basket full of rolls, and carried on each arm also a palm-leaved bag full of bread. A tall negress turned a corner, holding a weighty basket, and shouting out at the top of her voice, "Naranges, dulces, naranges, dulces," "sweet oranges, sweet oranges." Soldiers, lottery-ticket venders, and an occasional negro calasero dressed in gorgeous blue jacket, fringed with gold, jack boots reaching to the hips, high silk hat and silver-plated spurs, lent variety to the scene. I soon saw the church of San Carlos, a large building of dark stone, with two lofty towers, one of which had a splendid chime of bells. The edifice within was long and high; its gigantic pillars and great marble altar looked very imposing. When the service was over I returned to my hotel, intending to visit the priests after breakfast. When the meal was despatched, eleven o'clock found me in the presence of Father Francisco de P. Barnada, Cura Vicario Parroco Ecclesiastico, and Phro Jose Saenz, one of his assistants. Being a stranger, the pastor had some slight suspicions about my orthodoxy; but these were soon dispelled when he read my letters of introduction. I could see at once that, though strict, he was a very cheerful, hospitable gentleman. His bright and pleasing features indicated the presence of a brilliant mind and a tender heart. Father Jose Saenz was the life and soul of cheerfulness and kindness. I found myself at home immediately with these excellent priests, and we chatted together very pleasantly for about an hour, on a variety of subjects. Bits of Latin, English and Spanish were our channels of expression. The quarters of the priests were simple, but comfortable, and communicated directly with the church.

On suggesting that I would like to see the famous valley of the Yumuri, Father Barnada had me introduced to an engaging and intelligent young Cuban named Signor Joaquin Mariano, who volunteered at once to accompany me on my ramble.

The most interesting though longest way to the valley is to walk along the banks of the Yumuri River from a point a little above the beautiful bridge near that part of the town called Versailles. Here the costly and grand church of St. Peter's can be seen rising, with its beautiful spires, above every other building. On our way to the valley we were at first obliged to pass objects not very inviting, such as city rubbish, luxuriant weeds, yelping dogs, grunting pigs, tanneries and dilapidated houses; but these soon yielded to grassy lanes, charmingly picturesque little dwellings perched on rocks in regular staircase position, and gardens full of exquisite fruit trees and flowers. The road is now perfectly clean and level, edged on one side by the bright, placid river, and on the other by steep rocks and quarries, in the cool nooks of which large, lovely ferns, air plants, and numerous wild flowers bloom. Here we noticed a handsome private residence, fronted by a stone wall crowned with cacti, and guarded at the rear by stupendous cliffs. Sago and date palms grew near the narrow road. We saw tremendous openings in the bare-ribbed mountains on the other edge of the stream. Pieces of rock overhead looked down like dead sea-lions and quarters of beef. Blossoms of every hue peeped out through the old black rocks beside us; millions of insects rushed pell-mell out of the crevices of the shining stone, and while we looked, the breeze from the rippling river shook millions of neighboring flowers, scattered their perfumes broadcast, and thus afforded us an exquisite treat away from the heat, dust, and noise of the city. Gazing up, we saw birds' nests in the limbs of trees, naked roots of large bushes and vines clinging like net-work to their rocky bed, and century plants growing in profusion where they could scarcely get an inch of soil. These cliffs must have been two hundred feet high, and on looking up one would imagine that the almost disjointed masses of hanging rock would fall down at any moment and crush us to pieces. Turkey buzzards, with their black bodies and pink bills, were screaming overhead on the tops of big limbs, and anxiously looking out for prey. The fair blue sky above looked down on the lines of green, wild shrubs that flourished amid beds of solid rock. Sun and candelabra flowers, big as cups and orange in hue, with stalks like the bananas or Indian corn, sprung out of the cliffs to the height of twenty feet. Morning glories, rare lichens, violets, dresinas, and century plants grew by their side, while the silky Spanish moss, suspended from a higher point, threw a veil of beauty over all. A curve in the walk brought us into the valley. On the other side of the river we saw sand-hills crowned with emerald mountains and groves of palm. The plain, as far as it could be seen, was one sheet of verdure, and the stream widening at this point into a lake, was adorned with woody islands. Birds, breezes and the echoes of the hammer's sound in the quarries supplied natural music. As far as the eye could see, the valley was surrounded by mountains. The lofty, rocky wall continued to the left, exposing to our view its beautiful cream-colored layers of granite, fringed with lichens and ferns, and surrounded by weirdly-carved roots and branches of gray stone. All before us looked charming. The narrow foot-path in the long grass, the wild flowers everywhere, the old kiln, embraced by parasites, convolvulus and jasmines, the brushwood rustling with little reptiles, the flying fish in the stream, an old negro rolling a barrow full of leaves, the Indian mounds having figures of lions and human heads carved out of the rock, the ever-royal palm with its mistletoes and berries, its blood-red tassels on the smooth, hard trunk, its long, feathery leaves, ever falling like ribbons or streamers into various situations by the force of the breeze; all, all looked beautiful. And to add to our delight the sounds of the Angelus from the tower of the church of Monserrat, at the top of the mountain at hand came down on our ears like music from heaven. The mountains around this valley of peace seemed to echo the melodies of God. The cross on the beautiful Corinthian Church, shone between the hills and the sky, reminding us of Him who died for us, and who holds all creation in His hands. All the lovely objects in this tropical vale seemed to murmur His praises. The palms reminded us of His wanderings in the desert, when a child, of His domestic life at Nazareth, and His latter years in and around Jerusalem and Galilee.

Our course now led through winding walks under waving palms, by a house in the rocks, past doves, ducks, chickens, arches, arbors, flowering thickets, wild lime, sour orange and paw-paw trees. We inhaled the most delicious fragrance at every step. On emerging from the glades into an open field, we began to climb the hill to the church of Monserrat. As we ascended, the view of the valley grew wider. Scenes, unobserved from the level, now appeared enriching the picture. We crept rather than walked up the great hill, at one time gazing upon gullies and wells, at another, admiring big beautiful berries, but ever and anon pausing to take in the view of the vale. When the summit of the Cumbre was gained, I felt well rewarded for my toil, for never before did I see a landscape so brimful of poetry and repose. There it lay extending in every direction for miles, bounded on all sides by mountains with picturesque gaps, spurs, peaks and openings; it seemed to me more like a scene in a dream than a reality, – the character of the prospect was so ethereal, a fit retreat for celestials, – lovelier than the most delightful panorama. Still, it was a reality, and not a painting of indescribably happy combinations of contrasts in color, vegetation, lights, shadows, and forms, like the garden of Eden, and far fairer than the happy valley described in Rasselas. The Yumuri River flowed through it looking like a silver thread. Billowy fields of cane, rich pastures, clumps of feathery palms and shrubs with golden flowers adorned the vale. It is like a glimpse of Paradise to see it at sunset.

I turned with regret from this feast of nature, and walked with my companion along the extensive plateau on which the church and other buildings stood. A venerable, mild-looking old gentleman approached us. He was Migael Darna, the sexton and bell-ringer of Monserrat, living like a hermit on the top of the Cumbre. A handsome little boy with dark eyes and coal-black hair accompanied him. This was his son, of whom he seemed to be very fond. At a sign from Migael we entered the church. Its interior, like the outside, was very pretty. Behind the altar and around the side walls of the sanctuary stood a miniature mountain of cork, on the top of which rested a statue of the Blessed Virgin resembling the image supposed to be made by St. Luke, which graces the monastery of Monserrat in Spain. Flowers and gifts of various kinds were attached to the cork by faithful doners. On our way to the tower, I could see from the clever manner in which young Darna played the organ, that on the hills his father had not neglected his musical education.

After gaining the top we beheld a prospect, which, for grandeur and extent, could scarcely be surpassed. The valley to the left looked even more mysteriously enchanting than before, owing to its greater distance and depth. On the right the glorious ocean burst upon us, its blue and green waters in some places as smooth as glass, in others worked up into angry billows. We saw the ships in the bay, the coral reefs washed by the waves – the city with its sloping streets, quaint, gaudy buildings and villas resting below us like lords looking down on the scene. In front we observed brown, grassy, shrubby hills, cliffs, precipices and vast fastnesses. Behind us flowed the San Juan River by low, rich meadows, past numerous houses till it rested in the sea. Beyond appeared a chain of mountains, whose dark-blue peaks were almost lost in the clouds. The view of the country and city from the tower of this church is certainly the finest in all Cuba, and it was with the greatest reluctance that I turned from it to follow my companions down stairs. Bidding good-by to Migael, Signor Mariano and myself descended to the city over a grassy road, full of blue, white and yellow flowers. We noticed on one of the lowest slopes of the Cumbre one of the handsomest villas in Matanzas built in the midst of gardens, and surrounded by a pretty stone wall. Numerous statues and fountains adorned the grounds. Signor Mariano, being acquainted with the family, offered to introduce me. We were received at the door of this fine stone villa by Signora Torres who is regarded by the priests and people of Matanzas as the foremost Catholic lady in the city. The recent death of her husband and brother sorely afflicted her, but she endured this trial with Christian fortitude, and an ever-present desire to please and do good could readily be noticed even in the midst of her sorrow. As we moved through the house, I admired the lofty ceilings, handsome stained-glass windows, black and white marble floors, and splendid furniture that graced the several apartments. Coolness and shade, so desirable in the tropics, reigned here, and were rendered further agreeable by the sight of occasional rosy beams, the odor of flowers and songs of birds. The rich antique vases and fine old paintings on the the wall looked very beautiful. The most precious woods of the island were seen in the wainscoting and furniture. The chapel looked a rich and graceful little temple. All the rarest valuables seemed to be reserved for here. When the chaplain is home (as he generally is) Mass is celebrated in the villa every morning.

After saying a little prayer, we walked out on the front piazza. This had a fine tiled floor and several pretty iron seats and sofas. Its numerous vases were full of flowers. Its balustrades were of stone, with blue and gold, porcelain finish. Rustic baskets hung around it in appropriate numbers and graceful order. It faced the city and the bay. Down in the garden were all kinds of fruits and flowers. Oranges, bananas, pomegranates, caimetoes, pineapples, oleanders, cacti, allspice trees, enormous fuchsias, canicas, kaladiums, and numerous other varieties, bloomed in abundance, each and all emitting a fragrance quite irresistible. Prince Alexis of Russia, while on his visit to Matanzas, spent a few weeks in this villa and garden. He could not have selected a more charming spot in Cuba. As time was precious, we took our leave, thanking the good Senora for her kindness, and pursued our journey down the hill. On the right and left of us were high walls of calcareous rock, over the tops of which hung thousands of brilliant, sweet-scented flowers. The Casus de Benefecentia, a long, yellow stone building, with great pillars and piers, rested on a hill a short distance away, and on the edge of the street on which we walked, stood the handsome, sky-blue dwelling of a cure, who was attached to a charitable institution conducted by the sisters. I visited these buildings on an after occasion, accompanied by two priests, and was greatly edified and delighted with all I saw in them. Before we came to the Church of St. Carlos, we passed through the Plaza de Armas, the most beautiful square in Matanzas. A magnificent fountain ornamented the centre of a circular row of palms. Numerous fragrant shrubs and flowers flourished near at hand, and iron seats were provided for all who wished to rest. Beautiful stores and private dwellings line the enclosure, which is surrounded by gas lamps, sofas and wide-paved walks. The palace of the comandant, or governor, of the department, is situated on the east side. The Licco, or lyceum and club-house, stand on the north. The military band plays in the Plaza on Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday evenings. Thither all classes come then to hear the music, observe the fashions, form acquaintances, and chat with friends. On our arrival at the priest's house, Padre Barnada invited me to celebrate Mass, in the church, on the following morning (Ash Wednesday). I cheerfully consented, and then took my leave, intending to see more of the town. The attractions of Matanzas are greatly marred by the clouds of dust that are almost constantly drifting. As rain seldom falls the streets become very dry, and the steady passing and repassing of mules and heavy ox-carts, laden with sugar and molasses, cause the calcareous sand to rise and envelop everything. The Chinaman occupies a conspicuous place in the life scenes of Matanzas. He can be readily recognized whether attired in the long, loose, shabby shirt of the laborer, or the citizen's dress of the storekeeper. His peculiar gait, hair and countenance are very characteristic. He associates familiarly with the negro, is zealous, parsimonious, and so sensitive that he will even kill himself if he becomes incapable of revenging an insult. Most of these people in Cuba remain in a beastly state of degradation, while others of the race rise in the ranks, own elegant stores, and other establishments. A certain Chinaman in Havana owns the finest silk establishment in that city. Another keeps a hotel in Matanzas, styled the "Flower of America." Their diet chiefly consists of rice, fruit and vegetables. They are generally vaccinated on the tip of the nose. Chinese free railroad hands receive sixty dollars per month, in currency, and street laborers get twelve reals a day.

    Rev. M. W. Newman.

The Church and Modern Progress

Vaticination, if we are to believe George Eliot, is only one of the innumerable forms in which ignorance finds expression. In the olden time prophecy for the most part assumed a sombre guise, denunciatory of woe and wrath to come. In these latter days prophecy appears under the form of taffy, which, perhaps, is indispensable for a generation whose religious emotions find adequate musical expression in that popular hymn, "The Sweet Bye and Bye" – heaven being apparently a sort of candy-shop on a large scale. Artemus Ward's famous advice, "Do not prophesy until after the event," is scarcely applicable to modern prophets, inasmuch as the fulfilment of their predictions is not at all necessary to their character and standing, unless, of course, they should chance to be weather prophets.

The modern prophet dearly loves to take up some dominant idea of his time, of such vastness and hazy indistinctness, as will afford ample room and verge enough for his wildest speculations, and allow him to disport at will within its undefined limits. An idea of this kind is that which appertains to the progress of the species of humanity. With this for his theme, the modern prophet, whether in the guise of a popular lecturer, or masquerading as a writer in the current literature of the day, rarely forgets, while weaving his rose-colored visions of the future, to indulge in a fling at the Catholic Church as the irreconcilable foe of progress in all its forms. Ask him what progress means, in what respect the Catholic Church is opposed to it – the answer will prove to be rather unsatisfactory. The constant cry of old Aristotle – "Define, Define," is to him the voice of one calling in the wilderness. If he ever read Cicero, it must have been in some expurgated edition, "Pueris Virginibusque," in which the following passage found no place: "Omnis quæ ratione suscipitur de aliqua re institutio debet a definitione proficisi, ut intelligatur quid sit id de quo disputetur." De offic., 1, 2. The prophet of progress has an instinctive dread of the bull-dog grip of a definition, and will not readily run the risk of being pinned to the ground, and perhaps rolled over in the dust. And yet the chief cause of controversy, of the heat with which it is carried on, and its customary lack of decisive results, lies in the fact that the disputants do not attach a definite meaning to words, and do not understand them in the same sense.

I

Progress means "motion forward." This supposes a starting-point and a definite end or goal. Without these two requisites there may be motion, but no progress. Now there is such a thing as "progress" in the life of individuals and of nations. Indeed, the magic of this word "progress," its power to sway the minds of men, goes to show that the conception rests on some underlying basis of truth. A lie pure and simple has no such power. It must clothe itself in the garb of truth if it would win converts and adherents.

The very life that throbs within us impels to progress, for all life is but a motion and a striving towards a destined end, and implies the growth and development of all our faculties to the full perfection of their being. Death alone is a resting and a standing still.

This visible nature around us pulsates with the spirit of life and progress. The stars wheel onward in the courses marked out for them by their Creator. The interior of the earth is heaving and palpitating with a hidden life of its own, which is ever manifested in richer fulness and strength, in higher and more perfect forms. Nay, the very stone that seems so motionless, the inert metal in the bowels of the earth, comes under the influence of this universal law of life and progress. And what is this but the creative breath of God streaming through the universe, and ever shaping it into new and diverse forms of life?

But this law of progress under which the physical universe lies, affects man likewise in a manner worthy of him as the crowning masterpiece of creation. So essentially is progress a law of our being that while material things, in the process of their development, cannot overstep the limits marked out for them, man is called upon to progress even beyond the limits of his nature. God Himself, in all His greatness and Holiness, is the exalted ideal towards which all our aspirations should tend. "Be ye perfect as my Heavenly Father is perfect."

Nay, more: not alone is progress a law of man's being; it is a positive duty and command which he is obliged to fulfil. And herein lies another point of difference between the laws of progress, which are stamped into the nature of man, and those we perceive operating in the visible world around us. In nature no backward steps are possible. Every object in the physical universe, in its growth and development, moves within the fixed, unchanging limits of law which God has marked out for it. As a consequence, there is no falling back in the world of nature from a higher to a lower type of existence. The plant ever remains a plant; the mineral ever remains a mineral. But in the case of man, he cannot stand still – he can only retrograde, sink beneath his own level, if he does not continually move forward, in order, by degrees, to reach the supreme end and aim of his existence. Thus does the Catholic Church not alone recognize progress as a great law of our being; she insists upon it, as a divine duty which we are obliged to fulfil.

II

From these preliminary remarks, it will be seen that those who charge the Catholic Church with being opposed to progress, must mean material progress; that is, a larger knowledge of the laws of the physical universe, and a wider diffusion and application of the various arts and contrivances which minister to the comforts and conveniences of man's earthly existence, leaving out of account altogether the moral and spiritual advancement of humanity.

To all such it will be enough to observe: the Catholic Church is not opposed to progress in the material order of things. She places no hindrance to the exercise of man's inventive faculties. But above and beyond the highest material progress, above and beyond railroads and telegraphs, steam-engines, and cannons and iron-clads, she places the moral and spiritual progress of the human race. She will never cease to maintain that though railroads and telegraphs girdle the earth a hundred times over, and the telephones penetrate into every private dwelling; though the sails of a nation's commerce whiten every sea, and the face of the land be covered with the most varied and prosperous industries – man will be none the happier, society none the more peaceful and durable when not leavened by the spirit of Christian truth and Christian morality. At every new invention men cry aloud in tones of triumph: See how humanity is advancing; see what victories mind is daily gaining over matter; and dazzled by the splendor of their progress in the material order of things, come to think that therein lies the end of their existence, the supreme aim of all human exertion. To all such the church simply observes: Labor and strive to make what progress you can in art and science, in commerce and industry, in every department of human enterprise and activity: and when you have travelled over the whole field, have exhausted all your resources, and reached the farthest limits of your power, I say to you: You have not progressed far enough. A far nobler and higher ideal is yours. You are born to be a child of God, to bring out into utmost clearness and distinctness the likeness of God that is stamped on your soul, and develop into the full-grown man, "to the measure of the stature and the fulness of Christ." Thus, as regards the higher order of progress, the Catholic Church is in advance of her age. "Excelsior" is the motto emblazoned on her flag.

It is no difficult task for the mere theorist to sketch out, in the domain of religion or politics, systems ideally perfect, serenely ignoring in their application such disturbing elements as the vices and frailties incident to a fallen humanity. But the practical man of affairs who has to deal, not with abstractions, but with the concrete realities of life, soon, alas! perceives that such a dazzling formula, for example, as that of the French republicans, "Liberty, Equality, Fraternity," can be realized on earth by revolutionizing, not only political institutions, but the very nature of man himself. Humanity is a mere empty abstraction, except in so far as we conceive it as composed of individuals. Society is a mere aggregate of individuals. Except to your modern prophet, it is difficult to conceive how there can be progress in society without progress among the individuals who go to compose that society.

Each individual may be viewed, under a threefold aspect: in his relations to himself, to the family, and to the society of which he is a member. Now all progress which deserves the name must make for the well-being and advancement of the individual in these threefold relations of life.

This the Catholic Church claims to do. On the first page of the catechism which she places in the hands of the little child is a decisive, authoritative answer to the heart-piercing cry of modern doubt: "Whence, and great heavens, whither?" She exhorts to the practice of those virtues which alone beget true peace and contentment of mind – to temperance, purity, honesty, self-control, love of God and our neighbor. She claims, furthermore, to be the sole depository and dispenser of these spiritual aids, without which the practice of these virtues is impossible, and without which man can never attain the end of his existence.

The church has blest and sanctified the family relation as the fundamental element in the structure of human society. She is the only institution now in the world which upholds the unity and indissolubility of the marriage tie. She has uplifted woman from the mire of degradation into which paganism had dragged her, has made her the equal, instead of being the slave of man. She counsels mutual love, trust and fidelity, as between husband and wife, and reminds them of their common responsibility in training their offspring in the ways of truth and virtue. She exhorts children to the duties of love, reverence, obedience towards their parents.

She tells the citizen that he owes a strict, conscientious obedience to the laws of the realm, a willing allegiance to the lawfully constituted government under which he lives. She reminds rulers that they have no power except in so far as it has been given to them from above; that they are responsible to the Most High for the use they make of that power; that their authority must be exercised in a spirit of justice, moderation, and regard for the interests of those over whom they are placed; and that, finally, in the sight of God, they are of no more account than the lowliest of their subjects.

This doctrine of the equality of men before God is the fruitful principle which flung forth into the seed-field of time has developed into the kindred doctrine which asserts the equality of all men before the law. The assertion and application of this principle it was which enabled the Church to abolish slavery in Europe, not indeed by the effusion of blood and treasure, but by the calm, winning influence of her persuasiveness and her example. In truth, it may be said that the history of the Catholic Church is the history of human progress on earth. From the day when she stepped down from the little chamber in Jerusalem into the public squares of the city, and took society by the hand to lift it out of the corruption into which paganism had dragged it, dates the first step in the true progress of human society.

III

But, unhappily, in these latter days certain elements have been imported into men's conceptions of progress, of which the Catholic Church is the stern and uncompromising foe. In so far as the advocates of modern progress aim at the destruction of those Christian principles of conduct which should influence the individual man in his relations to himself, to the family, and to the State, they may expect unceasing opposition from the Catholic Church.

In some respects the Church does not consider modern progress, so-called, as progress in the true sense of the word, but rather a retrograde movement – a relapse into the moral corruption, the political and social degradation of ancient paganism. When a man finds himself moving forward at a rapid pace along a road which he discovers to be a wrong one, he is only moving farther away from the end of his journey; he cannot be said to be making progress. Or, when a man is sick of a deadly disease, which is rapidly gaining ground, it cannot be said that he is progressing, since such progress leads to death, not life.

In certain European countries at the present day, advocates of progress insist that the Church should adapt herself to the spirit of the age, and would fain transform her into a mere creature of the civil government, a sort of moral police under its pay and control, or to use the illustration of Cardinal Newman, employ her as a pet jackdaw, useful for picking up the grubs and worms on its master's trim, smooth-shaven lawn.

The Church, however, will not surrender her independence, nor will she change her doctrines to suit the shifting, fallible opinions of men. Her mission is to hold pure from all taint of error, and transmit unimpaired to future generations the word of her master: "Guard that which is entrusted to thee, turning away from the profane babblings and oppositions of knowledge falsely so called."

The Church is opposed to modern progress in so far as it seeks to rob Christian marriage of its sacramental character, and reduce it to the level of a mere contract, which may be dissolved at the will of the contracting parties.

She is opposed to the divorce of religion from education, holding that the development of man's moral and intellectual nature, should go hand in hand. Indeed, among ourselves of late, many serious-minded persons seem to be coming round to the Church's way of thinking on this important matter. They are exerting themselves to find some substitute for religion in the moral training of children, and profess to have discovered it in a knowledge of the elements of physiology. A text-book of this science, which will clearly impress on the youthful mind the dire fattening qualities of alcohol is the unum necessarium. It is fondly hoped that the natural horror which one experiences at the thought of an accumulation of adipose tissue in the intestines will be quite sufficient to deter the rising generation from the use of alcoholic stimulants.

This, however, is only taking a limited view of the matter, for humanity may be conceived as divided into two classes, the fat and the lean. This latter class constitutes a large percentage of the world's population; and in their case the temptation is great of falling back on alcohol as an excellent substitute for padding, forswearing thin potations and addicting themselves to sack.

Furthermore men of science inform us that, owing to the conditions of our environment, climatic and otherwise, there is a tendency among Americans, after a few generations, to develop into a type of man, similar to the Red Indian, tall, muscular, gaunt. If this is so, have we not cause to apprehend the universal use of alcohol as a means of counteracting such a deplorable tendency. We respectfully refer these considerations to the serious attention of those who would place the science of morals on a physiological basis.

Finally then, the only progress which the Catholic Church upholds is that which rests on the foundations, everlasting and unchanging as adamant, of Christian truth and Christian morality. A fair and goodly tree, the higher it grows, the more widely it expands, the deeper must it cast its roots into the ground, if it would not come toppling down and cumber the earth. So must the roots of modern progress strike themselves more and more deeply into the soil of the Christian virtues, that its fine growth of material well-being may not drag down the fair tree, and only serve to hasten its speedy disappearance in corruption and death.

    J. C.

Give Charity While You Live

Lake Shore Visitor: – The many men and women who leave large bequests to religion and to charity do in a certain sense some good. Their means thus disposed of may feed the hungry and bring the erring to a sense of duty. But generally speaking means thus left are not as well husbanded as if they were spent by the testator himself. It is given in a bulk and the legatee not having been put to the trouble and pains of earning the legacy dollar for dollar soon lets the specie fly. It came easy and is very apt to go the same way. It is not necessary for the charitably inclined to wait until the message comes in order to perform an act of charity. We are told that the "poor we always have with us." The orphan may be found in every city and town, and orphanages and hospitals exist in every city. To be really disinterested in our charity, we should give while in health. While giving thus we are making a sacrifice, and plainly proving that our hearts are not very strongly set on the goods of this world. To give when that which we give is about to be snatched away from us is certainly not giving with the hope of obtaining a very great reward. Looking after our own donations would make them more profitable to the cause of good, and giving when we are in health and strength is making a sacrifice that without doubt will meet a reward.

Emmet's Rebellion

At the time when the plans of the United Irishmen were slowly ripening toward revolution, and when Wolfe Tone and Edward Fitzgerald still believed in the immediate regeneration of their country, there were two young men in Dublin University – close personal friends – who were watching with peculiar interest the progress of events. Both were exceptionally gifted young men, and both were destined to leave behind them names that will live forever in the history of the Irish nation. One was Thomas Moore; the other, his junior by a year and his senior by one class in the University, was Robert Emmet.

It was especially natural that two such young men should take the keenest interest in the national movement that was going on about them. It was a movement calculated to attract all the generous and impassioned impulses of youth. Both Moore and Emmet were profoundly ambitious for their nation's welfare; both of them, we may well assume, felt conscious of the possession of abilities beyond the average; and both were animated by a desire to be of active service to their people. The desire, however, which led Moore to become the poetical voice of Ireland's aspirations and regrets, urged Emmet into directer and more decided action. Emmet was a brother of Thomas Addis Emmet. He was, therefore, closely in connection with the revolutionary movement, and did all that lay in his power to advance it by his speeches in the Debating Society and in the Historical Society of the College. Political speeches were, of course, forbidden in such bodies as these two societies; but Emmet always contrived to introduce into his utterances upon any of the themes set down for debate some burning words which those who listened to him, and loved him, could readily interpret into justification of the United Irishmen, and encouragement of their efforts.