The solitary task of the weaver was far less painful. Why? Because he could muse. Machinery allows no reverie, no musing. Would you for a moment lessen the movement, with liberty to increase it afterwards, you could not. The indefatigable chariot, with its hundred spindles, is scarcely thrust back before it returns to you. The hand-weaver weaves fast or slow, even as he breathes; he acts as he lives; the occupation conforms to man. But there, on the contrary, man must conform to the occupation; and the being of flesh and blood, in whom life varies with the hours, must submit to the unchangeableness of this being of steel.

It happens in the manual labours subject to our impulse, that our inmost thought becomes identified with the work, puts it in its proper place; and the inert instrument, to which we impart the movement, far from being an obstacle to the spiritual movement, becomes its aid and companion. The mystic weavers of the middle ages were famous under the name of Lollards, because, in fact, whilst working, they lulled, or sang in a low tone, some nursery rhyme, at least in spirit. The rhythm of the shuttle, pushed forth and pulled back at equal periods, associated itself with the rhythm of the heart; in the evening it often happened that, together with the cloth, a hymn, a lamentation, was woven to the self-same numbers. What a change, then, for him who is forced to leave domestic work to enter the manufactory! To quit his poor home, the worm-eaten furniture of the family, so many old cherished objects, is hard; but harder still is it to renounce the free posses

sion of his soul.

-

The condition of the intelligent artisan of the present times, is contrasted with that of the ignorant but joyous workman of past ages; and it is not easy to say in whose favour the balance of happiness is struck, though few besides our paradoxical writer will hesitate to affirm the superiority of the modern workman, whether in mind, character, or social condition. The workman of the past,Enjoying a sort of monopoly, suffered none of the cares of our workman. He gained much less, but he was seldom without work. He was a gay, active companion, who travelled much. Wherever he found work, he remained. His master most generally lodged him, and occasionally fed him with wholesome, light food. In the evening, when he had eaten his dry bread, he went up to his garret under the tiles, and slept contented.

How many changes have taken place in his condition, but for the worse! A material amelioration, but an inconstant uneasy condition, the sombre security of fate! A thousand new elements of moral sufferings ! Let us sum up these changes in one word: He has

become a man!

To be a man in the true sense, is first, and especially, to have a wife.* The workman, generally single in former times, is often a married man at the present day. Married or not, he generally finds, on his return, a female in his house; a home, a fireside, a wife.-Oh!

life has been transformed!

A wife, a family children presently! Expense,

misery! If work failed?

It is very affecting to see all these hard-working men in the evening, striding homewards at a rapid pace. See this man, after his long day's labour, often at a league from home, after a miserable breakfast and a solitary dinner, who has been standing for fifteen hours, - see how active he is at night! He is hastening to his nest. To be a man one hour a-day, in fact, is not too much. A sacred sight! He is carrying bread home, and, when once arrived, he rests himself; he is no longer any thing, but gives himself up, like a child, to his wife. Nourished by him, she nourishes and warms him; they both serve the child, who does nothing, but is free, and

* A very French definition this of Man.

The rich man never tastes this delightful enjoyment, this supreme blessing of man, to feed his family every day with the essence of his lifehis work. The poor man alone is a father; every day he creates anew, and reproduces his family.

This grand mystery is better felt by woman than by the sages of the world. She is happy in owing every thing to man. That alone imparts a singular charm to the poor household. There, nothing is foreign or indifferent; every thing bears the stamp of a beloved hand, the seal of the heart. Man very often little knows the privations she endures, in order that, on his return, he may find his dwelling modest, yet adorned. Great is the ambition of woman for the household, clothes, and linen. This last article is new; the linen closet, the pride of the countrywoman, was unknown to the wife of the town workman, before the revolution in industry which I have mentioned. Cleanliness, purity, modesty, those graces of woman, then enchanted the house; the bed was surrounded with curtains; the child's cradle, dazzling with whiteness, became a paradise - the whole cut out, and sewed in a few evenings. Add, moreover, a flower at the window. What a surprise! the husband, on his return, no longer knows his own home!

This taste for flowers, which has spread, (there are now several markets for them here,) and this little expenditure to ornament the interior, are they not lamentable, when these people never know whether they have any work on the morrow?-Call it not expenditure, say rather economy. It is a very great one, if the innocent the husband, and can keep him there. Let us ornament, attraction of the wife renders this house charming to I beseech you, both the house and the wife! ells of printed cotton make her another woman. See, she is regenerated, and become young again. evening; she casts her arms round his neck, and saves "Remain here, I entreat you." This is on Saturday her children's bread that he was about to squander away.

A few

The Sunday comes, and the wife has conquered. The husband, shaved and changed, allows her to clothe him in a good warm garment. That is soon done. But that which is a long, serious business, is the child, such as then set out, the child walks on before, under his they would like to dress him out on that day. They mother's eye; let him take especial care not to spoil her capital work.

Look well at these people, and be well assured that how high soever you go, you will never find any thing cular charm of unaffected reason and address to govern morally superior. This woman is virtue, with a partiThat man is the strength, without being aware of it. strong, the patient, the courageous, who bears for society A true companion of the heaviest load of human life. duty, (a noble title of compagnonage!) He has stood dangerous his trade, the more sure is his morality. A strong and firm, like a soldier at his post. The more knew them well, said one day to a friend of mine," The celebrated architect, sprung from the people, and who most honest men I have known were of this class. They know, at their departure in the morning, they may pos

sibly not return in the evening, and they are always ready to appear before God." Still, such a profession, however noble it may be, is not that which a mother desires for her son. Hers promises much; he will go

far.

much. His drawings, holiday compliments, and writingThe Frères speak highly of him, and caress him specimens, already ornament the room, between Napoleon and the Sacred Heart. He will be certainly sent to the free school for drawing. The father asks why? Drawing, replies the mother, will always be serviceable

to him in his business.

This is at least beautiful writing. But now the ambition of the modern workman's wife comes into play, and ruins all. Her son must rise above his father's trade. He must be made an artist, and a

miserable fate awaits him; but as this, if not wholly fanciful, is much more unreal than the happier lot of his humbler father, and as there are but a small number of workmen's sons who can be exposed to the penalties of a mother's idle and restless ambition for her children, we let this pass at its worth, along with the hard-heartedness, and faint human aspirations of the great manufacturers. In this country it is generally, if not indeed universally, remarked, that the workmen employed by the great masters are in the best condition, and the reasons for this superiority are obvious; but, according to M. Michelet, they do not always hold in France. But, whether great or small, this is the unfortunate master's personal condition :

He must conquer or die; make a fortune, or jump into

the river.

A man in this state of mind is not very tender-hearted. It would be a miracle if he were gentle and kind to his people, his workmen. See him as he strides along his vast workshops, with a sullen, unfeeling air. When he is at one end, the workmen, at the other, say in a whisper, "How furious he is to-day! how he has treated the foreman!" He treats them as he has just been treated himself. He has just returned from the moneymarket-say, from Bâsle to Mulhausen, or from Rouen to Déville. He bawls, and they are astonished; they little know that the Jew has just taken from his body a pound of flesh !

From whom will he try to get it back? From the consumer? The latter is on his guard. The manufacturer falls back upon the workman. Wherever there is no apprenticeship, wherever apprentices are imprudently multiplied, they present themselves in crowds, and offer themselves at a low price, and the manufacturer profits by the fall of wages.

My light, one that will not deceive me, is France. The French sentiment, the devotedness of the citizen to his native country, is my standard for estimating these men and these classes; a moral, but also a natural standard; in every living thing, every part is especially valuable by its relation to the whole.

and you will find it increases; in the inferior layers it In nationality as in geology, heat is below. Descend, is burning hot.

The poor love France, as being under an obligation towards her, and having duties towards her. The rich love her as belonging to them, and being under obligations to them. The patriotism of the former, is the sentiment of duty; that of the others is a demand, the pretension to a right.

in

legitimate marriage; she is his wife for ever; he is The peasant, as we have said, has espoused France one with her. For the artisan, she is a handsome past existence, her glory. Free from local ideas, he mistress; he has nothing, but he has France, her noble adores grand unity. He must be very miserable, enslavwithin him;-it is never extinct. ed by hunger or by toil, when this sentiment fades

The unhappy bondage of interest still augments if we ascend to the manufacturers and tradespeople. They tight rope. Bankruptcy! to avoid a partial bankruptcy, feel themselves always in danger, and walk as if upon a they would rather risk making a general one. They have made and unmade July.

contrary, the very large and powerful establishments, which, founded upon solid fortunes, are sheltered from the ordinary disquietudes of trade. All the intermediate space is a pitiless battle-field.

And in this battle-field very unfair advantages are taken. The consumer is cheated by bad goods; the workman and the apprentices are reduced in their wages, and also defrauded as to the quantity of work done by them. Sad rogues these French master-manufacturers must be. But they have, some of them, one greatly redeeming virtue, "They have nobly prosecuted the war against England," against her spinning-jennies, her looms, her workshops and forges.

We thank them for their heroic efforts to raise the stone under which she expected to crush us. Their industry struggling against her, under every disadvantage, (often at one-third more of expense !) has nevertheless defeated her on several points, even those which required the most brilliant faculties, the most exhaustless richness of invention. She has conquered by art. . . They buy-patterns, which they go and copy, ill or well, at home. Many an Englishman has declared, in an inquiry, that he has a house in Paris to have patterns. A few pieces purchased at Paris, Lyons, or in Alsatia, and afterwards copied abroad, are sufficient for the English or German counterfeiter to inundate the world. It is like the book trade; France writes and Belgium sells. Thus matters look ill enough for France, who invents and writes for the whole world, and reaps little benefit from her talents and ingenuity. Physical pains and moral sufferings press upon

What chillness, if I ascend higher! It is like the cold among the Alps. I reach the snowy region. Moral vegetation gradually disappears, the national flower grows pale. It is like a world seized in one night by a sudden chill of egotism and fear. Should I ascend one step higher, even fear has ceased; it is the pure egotism of the calculator who had no country; no more men, only ciphers. An actual glacier abandoned by nature.

There is thus little hope from the artisan, although he has employment, as that may fail, nor yet from the manufacturers, unless they are impelled by the dread of bankruptcy, and the rich are impregnable to the sentiments of patriotism, save through their fears. "What," it is said,

What can be more melancholy than to fall ever lower, and never to be able to effect any act of the will that night restore you? From being a Frenchman to dwindle to a cosmopolite, to any kind of man, and from man to the molusca !

What I ought to hope from the rich and the bourgeois, towards a broad, frank, generous association, I know cured. But, I confess, I have still some hope in their not. They are very ill; people so far gone are not easily sons. Those young men, such as I behold them in our

schools, before my chair, have a better tendency. They have ever welcomed with a generous heart every sentence in favour of the people. Let them do more; let them give them their hands, and form early with them the alliance of common regeneration.

But after this gloomy view, hope revives. The pure mass of the People is not to be judged by the floating scum. The sentiment of military glory is in their breasts, ever renewed by heroic traditions,-by the songs of Beranger too, it might

Ah! my hope is in the flag! that it may save France, the France of the army! May our glorious army, upon which the eyes of the world are fixed, maintain itself pure! May it be a sword against the enemy, a buckler against corruption! may a spirit of police never enter there! and may it ever have a horror for traitors, villanous proposals, and backstairs promotion.

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What a deposit in the hands of those young soldiers! what a responsibility for the future! On the day of the last grand battle between civilisation and barbarism, (who knows but it may be to-morrow?) the judge must find them irreproachable, their swords pure, and their bayonets gleaming without spot! Every time I see them pass, my heart bounds within me: Here, and here only, strength and mind, valour and right, those two blessings, separated throughout the earth, go hand in hand. If the world is saved by war, you will save it. Holy bayonets of France! watch that nothing may darken that glory, impenetrable to every eye, now hovering above you.

Our readers have by this time seen enough of the wildfire of Michelet; sheet-lightning merely, innocuous, though it flashes so madly.

The degeneration, the faults, nay the vices of "the People," are not wholly overlooked; but the consolation is always at hand, that the English, of the same class, are much more vicious and degenerate: and again, only one thing is wanted to transform the lowest of Frenchmen into heroes.

Take from that man, now so repulsive by his vulgarity, his old clothes, put him in uniform, with a sabre, a gun, a drum, and a flag before him. He is no longer to be recognised; he is another man. Where is the former-Impossible to find him.

This depression, this degeneration, is only superficial. The ground-work remains. This race has always wine in its blood; even in those who seem the most extinct you will find a spark. Ever a military energy; ever a brave carelessness; ever a grand exhibition of an independent spirit. This independence, which they know not where to place, (shackled, as they are, on every side,) they too often throw into vicious courses, and boast of being worse than they are. Exactly the reverse of the English.

Shackles without, and a strong life broaching its claims within, this contrast produces many false movements, a discordance in word and deed, which shocks at first sight. It is the cause, also, why 'aristocratic Europe delights to confound the people of France with the imaginative and gesticulating nations, such as the Italians, the Irish, the Welsh, &c.

What distinguishes our people from them, in a very decided and distinct manner, is, that in their greatest transports, in their sallies of imagination, in what people are pleased to call their fits of Don Quixotism, they still

and he censures the novelists for painting the corruption and vices of their countrymen, because Europe will take French society on their representations, which are false or exaggerated, if not entirely exceptional. But again, France engrosses the whole literature of the age-of all Europe; and writing chiefly about herself, foolishly gives herself a very bad name. But hear M. Michelet.

Europe, long little inventive, receives with avidity the produce of our literature. The English scarcely write any thing now-a-days but articles in reviews: as for German books, who reads them but the Germans ?

France has this serious point against herself,-that she shows herself naked to the nations. All others, in a manner, remain clothed, and dressed. Germany,-nay, even England, with all her inquiries, all her publicity, are, in comparison, little known. They cannot see themselves, not being centralized.

Every aristocracy, English, Russian, or German, needs only to point out one thing as testimony against her,viz., the portraits she makes of herself by the hand of her great writers, most of whom are friends of the people and of advancement. "Are not the people thus described the terror of the world? Have we armies and fortresses enough to pen them up, and watch them till a favourable opportunity occurs to crush them altogether?"

Some classic and immortal novels, revealing the domestic tragedies of the wealthy classes, have firmly established in the mind of Europe, that domestic ties no longer exist in France.

fantastic colours, have represented the common life of Others, of great talent, and with the darkest and most our cities as nothing but a point round which felons, escaped from justice or the galleys, are congregated by the police.

A sketcher of manners, admirable for his genius for tavern for rogues and thieves; and beneath this hideous details, delights in depicting a horrible country cabaret, a sketch he boldly writes a word which is the name of most of the inhabitants of France.

Europe reads it eagerly; admires and recognises this or that petty detail. From some minute accident, of which she feels the truth, she easily infers the truth of the whole.

No people could stand such a test. This singular mania of slandering one's self, of exposing one's wounds, and, as it were, courting shame, would be fatal in the long run. Many, I am aware, thus denounce the present, to hasten on a better future.

M. Michelet, at all events, is not guilty of their error: he has not slandered France. She is the soul of the world: if she perished, its vitality were gone! And France is also the first and the holiest sentiment that warms the breast of her sons, and lingers the last in that of the most debased among them. There is indeed something stirring and exalting in the enthusiasm with which M. Michelet's eloquence occasionally invests the feeling of nationality.

Say not, I beseech you, that it is nothing at all to be born in the country surrounded by the Pyrenees, the Alps, the Rhine, and the Ocean. Take the poorest man, starving in rags, him whom you suppose to be occupied solely with material wants. He will tell you it is an inheritance of itself to participate in this immense glory, this unique legend which constitutes the talk of the world. He well knows that if he were to go to the most remote desert of the globe, under the equator or the poles, he would find Napoleon, our armies, our grand history, to shelter and protect him; that the children

orders!

would come to him, that the old men would hold their peace and entreat him to speak, and that to hear him only mention those names, they would kiss the hem of his garment.

For our part, whatever happens to us, poor or rich, happy or unhappy, while on this side the grave, we will ever thank God for having given us this great France for our native land. And that, not only on account of the many glorious deeds she has performed, but because in her we find especially at once the representative of the liberties of the world, and the country that links all others together by sympathetic ties, the initiation to universal love. This last feature is so strong in France, that she has often forgotten herself. We must, at present, remind her of herself, and beseech

her to love all the nations less than herself.

Doubtless, every great nation represents an idea important to the human race. But, gracious Heaven! how

much more true is this of France!

M. Michelet's earnest entreaty that France would not wholly forget herself in her stronger love for all other nations, is not in the least meant for a joke, though there are more nations than one who might fancy this advice a piece of delicate

irony.

There is no end to the glory and glorification of France.

How many men like better to live here than in their own country! As soon as ever they can break for a moment the thread that binds them, they come, poor birds of passage, to settle, take refuge, and enjoy here at least a moment's vital heat. They tacitly avow that this is the universal country.

The day when France, remembering that she was, and must be, the salvation of mankind, will place her

children around her, and teach them France, as faith

and as religion, she will find herself living, and firm as the globe.

Germany and England are naught in every respect, when compared with France. They want a great something which we do not pretend quite to understand-they want a complete "national and universal legend." The legends they do possess, are "like isolated points of light;" but,—

The natural legend of France is an immense, uninterrupted stream of light, a true milky way, upon which the world has ever its eyes fixed.

in free national schools and asylums. And what?

The country, as a dogma and a principle. Next, the country, as a legend: our two redemptions, by the holy Maid of Orleans and by the Revolution; the enthusiasm of '92; the miracle of the young flag; our young generals admired and mourned by the enemy; the purity of Marceau; the magnanimity of Hoche; the glory of Arcola and Austerlitz; Cæsar and the second Cæsar, in whom our greatest kings reappeared still greater, &c. &c. Child, let this be thy first gospel, thy staff of life, the aliment of thy heart.

The child will know the world, but he must first know himself, the best part of himself, I mean France.

The rest he will learn from her. It will be for her to initiate him, and tell him her tradition. She will tell how Rome him the three revelations she has received; taught her the Just, Greece the Beautiful, and Judea the Holy.

It is thus M. Michelet calls upon France to save those children who are to be the salvation of the world. But,

and the world, only in one way :

You will save your children, and with them France, Found their faith. Faith in devotedness, sacrifice, and the grand association, where all sacrifice themselves for all, I mean, our native country.

If any one on this side of the Channel were to write in this strain about this heroic and glorious little England,-what she has been, what she has done for liberty, and for mankind, and of the hopes placed in her, with whose destinies the freedom and happiness of universal man are bound up, the orator would undoubtedly be laughed at, if not hooted unless the effusion were merely a flourish to grace an after-dinner speech. Now, difference of latitude makes little difference in sound judgment and sober sentiment; and, saving the courtesy due to a foreigner, whose manners differ from ours, we cannot think M. Michelet's harangues entitled to a much better reception. They are worse than idle; they are, in their tendency, if not in their purpose, mischievous. But the consolation occurs, that they are not likely to have much influence of any sort; while the regret remains, that what in this work is really true, useful, and beautiful, loses its natural effect when found in such equivocal neighbourhood. We must also regret that, limited in space, we have found it a duty to give more way to the blemishes than can be afforded to the beauties of this singular composition. Had we

their instruction.

The world will surely take the lesson. Germany has no great man on whom to found a legend, not Luther, not Frederick the Great; and as for England, "where is her complete man or woman on whom a legend might be founded?" She has neither a Maid of Orleans, a Henri Quatre, a Louis XIV. nor a Napoleon. Yet, alas! France, in spite of her "complete legend," has degenerated. With her citizen-king, her cautious Bourgeoisie, her cowardly Middle Class, and growing industrial spirit, she has sunk; and the only hope of her renovation lies, not in Young, but in Infant France. But first of all, Infant France must be taught

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the character and habits of thought of M. Michelet were formed, we should have given the reader a clue to much that is extravagant or eccentric in his compositions. The son of a poor master-printer in Paris, self-taught, and probably self-willed, very lonely," as he describes his boyhood, "very free; left entirely to myself by the excessive indulgence," [in other words, negligence,]" of my parents, I was all imagination." And still, whether very lonely as a teacher and author, or living in his study among old chronicles, and legends, whether ancient or recent, of the glory of France, M. Michelet continues to be "all imagination." The predominance of this faculty is visible in all that he does. It vivifies his writings, beautifies every page with the sparkling, changeful lights of

This is

genius, and lessens their moral weight. peculiarly felt in his exposure of the Jesuits, or of the true character of their Institutions, in which evident exaggeration mars the effect of both argument and fact. There is some excuse for the warmth or occasional bitterness with which M. Michelet speaks of a fraternity which not only tried to crush the spirit of liberty in France, but, while attempting to usurp the most dangerous power, persecuted and inflicted serious injury on himself and his personal friends. His picture of the Jesuits is, therefore, in some respects, a caricature, but one which yet preserves a remarkable likeness. Giant and hideous shadows of actual substances are cast upon the wall, by the dexterous management of light.

The Jesuits, whom the admirers of the principle of centralization ought to regard as its most perfect type, have, once more, unsuspectedly, grown up in France, and through the whole civilized world, into a mighty power,-mighty from the character, consolidation, and preternatural activity of the fraternity. In France, they now number one thousand. But what is a thousand Jesuits in such a country as France? Much, it would appear; for they have already, for one thing, enslaved the forty thousand regular clergy, and all the other religious orders! A thousand Jesuits have, in a few years, subjugated forty thousand clergymen, and the yoke they have silently imposed is galling. The Jesuit is every where: he even takes possession of the parish pulpit-"the priest hides himself."

The Sulpicians have confined themselves to the education of priests, to the seminary routine, leaving the world to the Jesuits. Saint Sulpice seems to have been created for the joy of the latter; as long as the priest is brought up there, they have nothing to fear. What can they desire more than a school that teaches nothing, and will not have any thing taught? The Jesuits and Saint Sulpice now live on good terms together: a contract has been tacitly made between death and emptiness.

What is done in those seminaries, so closely shut up from the law, is scarcely known except by the nullity of the results. What we know also are their books of education, superannuated, rejected as rubbish every where else, but ever inflicted on the unfortunate young priests. Slighted by the world, ill-treated by their own class, the parish priest (look at him as he walks in the street) sneaks along sadly, often with a timid and bashful mien, giving you the wall of his own accord!

But do you want to see a man? See the Jesuit walk along. Why do I say a man? Several in one. His voice is meek, but his step is firm. His gait says, without his speaking, "My name is legion." Courage is an easy thing for him who feels he has an army with him to support him, who sees himself defended, urged on, both by that great body of Jesuits and by a whole world of titled individuals and noble ladies, who, if necessary, would agitate the world for him.

He has made a vow of obedience - to reign; to be a pope with the pope, to have his share in the great kingdom of the Jesuits, diffused throughout all the kingdoms of the earth. He pursues its interest by intimate correspondence, from Belgium to Italy, and from Bavaria to Savoy. The Jesuit lives in Europe, yesterday at Fribourg, to-morrow at Paris; the priest lives in

one parish, in the little damp street adjoining the church wall; he resembles but too much the sickly drooping gillyflower which he raises at his window.

Let us see these two men at work. And, first of all, let us see on which side that thoughtful person will turn, who is now crossing the square, and seems to be still hesitating. On the left, is the parish priest; on the right, the house of the Jesuits.

On one side, what will she find? a decent sort of man, a good-hearted man perhaps, under that stiff and awkward form, who is all his life striving to stifle his passions, that is to say, to be more and more ignorant of the things about which people come to consult him. matter in question, he divines the precedents, very The Jesuit, on the contrary, knows beforehand the easily finds extenuating circumstances, arranges the thing in a godly, occasionally in a worldly way.

The priest bears the Law and the Decalogue, like a weight of lead; he is slow, full of objections and diffifinds still more; your case seems to you bad: he thinks culties! You speak to him of your scruples, and he it very bad. Much good you have got by consulting him! It is your own fault. Why do you not rather go to that gaudy coquettish Italian chapel? Though it be comforted and speedily relieved. rather dismal, be not afraid; enter; you will soon be Your case is very trifling; there is a sensible man there to prove it to you. Why did they speak of the Law? The Law may reign yonder; but here is the Kingdom of Grace, here the Sacred Heart of Jesus and Mary. The good Virgin is

so kind! *

Where shall we find to-day a bishop bold enough to doubt whether the Jesuit be himself the rule and the law?

People say there are no longer any serfs in France. There are forty thousand. I advise them to be silent,

to swallow their tears, and try to smile.

Many would consent to this silence and vegetate in some corner. But they are not let off so cheap. They must bark, bite, and damn Bossuet from the pulpit.

But the power of the Jesuits would have been slight if it stopped here. The subjugation of the clergy was but a consequence of previous scheming and mining.

While we slept, they had crept stealthily, and surprised people off their guard,-priests, women, and religious houses.

It is hardly conceivable how many good easy people, simple minds, humble friars, charitable sisters, have been thus deluded. How many convents have opened their gates to them, deceived by their whining tone; but now, they speak out boldly, and people are afraid, and smile while they tremble, and do whatever they are commanded.

Let us be shown any one rich œuvre (work of charity) in which they have not the principal influence, distributing as they will, and to whomsoever they please. So, it was high time that every poor corporation (Missionaries, Picpus friars, Lazarists, and even Benedictines) should go to them to receive the watchword. now all those are like a vast army, which the Jesuits are bravely leading to the conquest of the age.

And

Astonishing!-In so short a time to have brought together such forces! However high an opinion one may form of the cunning of the Jesuits, it would never be sufficient to explain such a result. There is a mysterious hand therein :-that hand which, well directed, has, from the first day of the world, performed with docility the miracles of stratagem. A feeble hand, which nothing withstands,-the hand of woman. The Jesuits have employed the instrument of which Saint Jerome speaks: "Poor little women, all covered with sins!"

To entice a child to us, we show it an apple. Well! they showed women pretty little feminine devotional

VOL. XIII.-NO. CLII.

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