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Chapter 8: Arrays and Strings

TRUE/FALSE

1. All components of an array are of the same data type.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 507

2. The array index can be any integer less than the array size.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 509

3. The statement int list[25]; declares list to be an array of 26 components, since the array
index starts at 0.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 509

4. Given the declaration int list[20]; the statement list[12] = list[5] + list[7];
updates the content of the twelfth component of the array list.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 509

5. Suppose list is a one dimensional array of size 25, wherein each component is of type int. Further,
suppose that sum is an int variable. The following for loop correctly finds the sum of the elements
of list.

sum = 0;

for (int i = 0; i < 25; i++)

sum = sum + list;

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 512

6. If an array index goes out of bounds, the program always terminates in an error.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 515

7. Arrays can be passed as parameters to a function by value, but it is faster to pass them by reference.

ANS: F PTS: 1 REF: 518

8. When you pass an array as a parameter, the base address of the actual array is passed to the formal
parameter.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 523

9. The one place where C++ allows aggregate operations on arrays is the input and output of C-strings.

ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 539

10. In a two-dimensional array, the elements are arranged in a table form.

 ANS: T PTS: 1 REF: 557

MULTIPLE CHOICE

1. Which of the following statements declares alpha to be an array of 25 components of the type int?
a. int alpha[25]; c. int alpha[2][5];
b. int array alpha[25]; d. int array alpha[25][25];
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 507-508

2. Assume you have the following declaration char nameList[100];. Which of the following
ranges is valid for the index of the array nameList?
a. 0 through 99 c. 1 through 100
b. 0 through 100 d. 1 through 101
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 509

3. Assume you have the following declaration int beta[50];. Which of the following is a valid
element of beta?
a. beta['2'] c. beta[0]
b. beta['50'] d. beta[50]
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 509

4. Assume you have the following declaration double salesData[1000];. Which of the following
ranges is valid for the index of the array salesData?
a. 0 through 999 c. 1 through 1001
b. 0 through 1000 d. 1 through 1000
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 509

5. Suppose that sales is an array of 50 components of type double. Which of the following correctly
initializes the array sales?
a. for (int 1 = 1; j <= 49; j++)
sales[j] = 0;
b. for (int j = 1; j <= 50; j++)
sales[j] = 0;
c. for (int j = 0; j <= 49; j++)
sales[j] = 0.0;
d. for (int j = 0; j <= 50; j++)
sales[j] = 0.0;
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 512

6. Suppose that list is an array of 10 components of type int. Which of the following codes correctly
outputs all the elements of list?

a. for (int j = 1; j < 10; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

b. for (int j = 0; j <= 9; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;
 c. for (int j = 1; j < 11; j++)
cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

d. for (int j = 1; j <= 10; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 512

7. What is the output of the following C++ code?

int list[5] = {0, 5, 10, 15, 20};

int j;

for (j = 0; j < 5; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

a. 0 1 2 3 4 c. 0 5 10 15 20
b. 0 5 10 15 d. 5 10 15 20
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 512

8. What is the value of alpha[2] after the following code executes?

int alpha[5];
int j;

for (j = 0; j < 5; j++)

alpha[j] = 2 * j + 1;

a. 1 c. 5
b. 4 d. 6
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 512

9. What is the output of the following C++ code?

int alpha[5] = {2, 4, 6, 8, 10};

int j;

for (j = 4; j >= 0; j--)

cout << alpha[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

a. 2 4 6 8 10 c. 8 6 4 2 0
b. 4 3 2 1 0 d. 10 8 6 4 2
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 512

10. What is the output of the following C++ code?

 int list[5] = {0, 5, 10, 15, 20};
int j;

for (j = 1; j <= 5; j++)

cout << list[j] << " ";
cout << endl;

a. 0 5 10 15 20 c. 5 10 15 20 20
b. 5 10 15 20 0 d. Code results in index out-of-bounds
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 515-516

11. Suppose that gamma is an array of 50 components of type int and j is an int variable. Which of the
following for loops sets the index of gamma out of bounds?
a. for (j = 0; j <= 49; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
b. for (j = 1; j < 50; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
c. for (j = 0; j <= 50; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
d. for (j = 0; j <= 48; j++)
cout << gamma[j] << " ";
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 515-516

12. Consider the following declaration: int alpha[5] = {3, 5, 7, 9, 11};. Which of the
following is equivalent to this statement?
a. int alpha[] = {3, 5, 7, 9, 11};
b. int alpha[] = {3 5 7 9 11};
c. int alpha[5] = [3, 5, 7, 9, 11];
d. int alpha[] = (3, 5, 7, 9, 11);
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 516

13. In C++, the null character is represented as ____.

a. '\0' c. '0'
b. "\0" d. "0"
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 535

14. Which of the following correctly declares name to be a character array and stores "William" in it?
a. char name[6] = "William";
b. char name[7] = "William";
c. char name[8] = "William";
d. char name[8] = 'William';
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 536

15. Consider the following declaration: char str[15];. Which of the following statements stores
"Blue Sky" into str?
a. str = "Blue Sky";
b. str[15] = "Blue Sky";
c. strcpy(str, "Blue Sky");
d. strcpy("Blue Sky");
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 537
16. Consider the following declaration:
char charArray[51];
char discard;

Assume that the input is:

Hello There!
How are you?

What is the value of discard after the following statements execute?

cin.get(charArray, 51);
cin.get(discard);

a. discard = ' ' (Space) c. discard = '\n'

b. discard = '!' d. discard = '\0'
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 540

17. Consider the following statement: double alpha[10][5];. The number of components of
alpha is ____.
a. 15 c. 100
b. 50 d. 150
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 544

18. Consider the statement int list[10][8];. Which of the following about list is true?
a. list has 10 rows and 8 columns.
b. list has 8 rows and 10 columns.
c. list has a total of 18 components.
d. list has a total of 108 components.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 544

19. Consider the following statement: int alpha[25][10];. Which of the following statements about
alpha is true?
a. Rows of alpha are numbered 0...24 and columns are numbered 0...9.
b. Rows of alpha are numbered 0...24 and columns are numbered 1...10.
c. Rows of alpha are numbered 1...24 and columns are numbered 0...9.
d. Rows of alpha are numbered 1...25 and columns are numbered 1...10.
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 544

20. Which of the following correctly declares and initializes alpha to be an array of four rows and three
columns with the component type int?
a. int alpha[4][3] = {{0,1,2} {1,2,3} {2,3,4} {3,4,5}};
b. int alpha[4][3] = {0,1,2; 1,2,3; 2,3,4; 3,4,5};
c. int alpha[4][3] = {0,1,2: 1,2,3: 2,3,4: 3,4,5};
d. int alpha[4][3] = {{0,1,2}, {1,2,3}, {2,3,4}, {3,4,5}};
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 546

21. After the following statements execute, what are the contents of matrix?
 int matrix[3][2];
int j, k;

for (j = 0; j < 3; j++)

for (k = 0; k < 2; k++)
matrix[j][k] = j + k;

a. 0 0 c. 0 1
1 1 1 2
2 2 2 3
b. 0 1 d. 1 1
2 3 2 2
4 5 3 3
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 548-550

22. Given the following declaration:

int j;
int sum;
double sale[10][7];

which of the following correctly finds the sum of the elements of the fifth row of sale?
a. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[5][j];
b. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[4][j];
c. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[5][j];
d. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[4][j];
ANS: B PTS: 1 REF: 550

23. Given the following declaration:

int j;
int sum;
double sale[10][7];

which of the following correctly finds the sum of the elements of the fourth column of sale?
a. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][3];
b. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 7; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][4];
c. sum = 0;
for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][4];
d. sum = 0;
 for(j = 0; j < 10; j++)
sum = sum + sale[j][3];
ANS: D PTS: 1 REF: 551

24. In row order form, the ____.

a. first row is stored first c. first column is stored first
b. first row is stored last d. first column is stored last
ANS: A PTS: 1 REF: 552

25. A collection of a fixed number of elements (called components) arranged in n dimensions (n>=1) is
called a(n) ____.
a. matrix c. n-dimensional array
b. vector d. parallel array
ANS: C PTS: 1 REF: 557

COMPLETION

1. A data type is called ____________________ if variables of that type can store only one value at a
time.

ANS: simple

PTS: 1 REF: 506

2. In a(n) ____________________ data type, each data item is a collection of other data items.

ANS: structured

PTS: 1 REF: 506

3. Complete the following statement so that it outputs the array sales.

double sales[10];
int index;

for (index = 0; index < 10; index++)

cout << ____________________ << " ";

ANS: sales[index]

PTS: 1 REF: 512

4. The word ____________________ is used before the array declaration in a function heading to
prevent the function from modifying the array.

ANS: const

PTS: 1 REF: 519

5. The ____________________ of an array is the address (that is, the memory location) of the first array
component.
 ANS: base address

PTS: 1 REF: 521

6. The ____________________ sort algorithm finds the location of the smallest element in the unsorted
portion of the list and moves it to the top of the unsorted portion of the list.

ANS: selection

PTS: 1 REF: 530-531

7. For a list of length n, the ____________________ sort makes exactly (n(n - 1))/2 key
comparisons and 3(n-1) item assignments.

ANS: selection

PTS: 1 REF: 535

8. The declaration char str[] = "Hello there"; declares str to be a string of

____________________ characters.

ANS:
12
twelve

PTS: 1 REF: 535-536

9. The function ____________________ returns the length of the string s, excluding the null character.

ANS: strlen(s)

PTS: 1 REF: 537

10. The statement strlen("Marylin Stewart"); returns ____________________.

ANS: 15

PTS: 1 REF: 537-538

11. The following statements store the value ____________________ into len.

int len;
len = strlen("Sunny California");

ANS: 16

PTS: 1 REF: 537-538

12. The header file string contains the function ____________________,which converts a value of type
string to a null-terminated character array.

ANS: c_str
 PTS: 1 REF: 541

13. Two (or more) arrays are called ____________________ if their corresponding components hold
related information.

ANS: parallel

PTS: 1 REF: 542

14. The following statement creates alpha to be a two-dimensional array with

____________________ rows.

int alpha[10][25];

ANS:
10
ten

PTS: 1 REF: 544

15. In the following declaration, the array gamma has ____________________ components.

int gamma[5][6][10];

ANS:
300
three hundred

PTS: 1 REF: 558

Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 ALBA’S DREAM.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ARE YOU MY WIFE?” “A SALON
IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,” ETC.
PART I.

Once upon a time, some sixty years ago, on one of the bleakest
points of the coast of Picardy, high perched like a light-house
overhanging the sea, there was a building called the Fortress. You
may see the ruins of it yet. It had been an abbey in olden times, and
credible tales were told of a bearded abbot who “walked” at high
water on the western parapet when the moon was full. One wing of
the Fortress was a ruin at the time this story opens; the other had
braved the stress of time and tempest, and looked out over the sea
defiant as the rock on which it stood. The Caboffs lived in it. Jean
Caboff was a wiry, lithe old man of seventy—a seafaring man every
inch of him. His wealth was boundless, people said, and they also
said that he had gained it as a pirate on the high seas. There was no
proof that this was true; but every one believed it, and the belief
invested Jean Caboff with a sort of wicked prestige which was not
without its fascination in the eyes of the peaceful, unadventurous
population of Gondriac. Caboff had a wife and three sons; the two
eldest were away fighting with Bonaparte on the Rhine; Marcel, the
youngest, was at home. A shy, awkward lad, he kept aloof from the
village boys, never went bird’s-nesting or fishing with them, but
moped like an owl up in his weather-beaten home. They were
unsocial people, the Caboffs; they never asked any one inside their
door; but the few who accidentally penetrated within the Fortress
told wonderful stories of what they saw there; they talked of silken
hangings and Persian carpets, and mirrors and pictures in golden
frames, and marble men and maidens writhing and dancing in
fantastic attitudes; of costly cabinets and jewelled vases, until the
old corsair’s abode was believed to be a sort of enchanted castle.
The stray visitors were too dazzled to notice certain things that
jarred on this profuse magnificence. They did not notice that the
damp had eaten away the gilded cornices, and the rats nibbled
freely at the rich carpets, or that Jean Caboff smoked his pipe in a
high-backed wooden chair, while Mme. Caboff cut out her home-
spun linen on a stout deal table, the two forming a quaint and not
unpicturesque contrast to the silken splendor of their surroundings.
Some five miles inland, beyond a wide stretch of gorse-grown moor,
rose a wood, chiefly of pine-trees, and within the wood, a castle—a
fine old Gothic castle where the De Gondriacs had dwelt for
centuries. The castle and its owners, their grandeur and state and
power, were the pride of the country, every peasant along the coast
for fifty miles knew the history of the lords of Gondriac as well as,
mayhap sometimes better than, he knew his catechism. The family
at present consisted of Rudolf, Marquis de Gondriac, and his son
Hermann. The Marquis was a hale man of sixty; Hermann a
handsome lad of eighteen, who was at college now in Paris, so that
M. le Marquis had no company but his books and his gun in the long
autumn days. He was a silent, haughty man, who lived much alone
and seldom had friends to stay with him. When Hermann was at
home the aspect of the place changed; the château opened its doors
with ancient hospitality, and laughter and music woke up the echoes
of the old halls, and the village was astir as if a royal progress had
halted on the plain; but when Hermann departed things fell back
into the stagnant life he had stirred for a moment. It was natural
that the young man’s holidays were eagerly looked forward to at
Gondriac. But one August came, and, instead of returning home,
Hermann joined a regiment that was on its way to the frontier. He
went off in high-hearted courage as to the fulfilment of his boyish
dreams. M. le Marquis, who had himself served in the guards of the
Comte d’Artois, was proud of his son, of his soldier-like bearing and
manly spirit, and kept the anguish of his own heart well out of sight
as he bade the boy farewell. “I will come back a marshal of France,
father,” was Hermann’s good-by.
Not long after his departure tidings were received of the death of
Hugues Caboff, the old pirate’s eldest son. He had fallen gloriously
on the field of battle; but glory is a sorry salve for broken hearts,
and there was weeping in the Fortress that day—a mother weeping
and refusing to be comforted. Old Jean Caboff bore his grief with an
attempt at stoicism that went far to soften men’s hearts towards him
—farther than his gold, which they said was ill-got, and his charity,
which they called ostentation.
“Who may tell what will come next?” said Peltran, the host of the
village inn.
“They say that M. le Marquis has been over to see the Caboffs,” said
a customer, who dropped in to discuss the event. People felt for the
Caboffs, but, there was no denying it, this sad news was a break in
the dull monotony of Gondriac life.
“I saw his carriage at the foot of the cliff,” said Peltran; “he stayed
full fifteen minutes up at the Fortress. Père Caboff conducted him
down to his carriage, and Marcel stood watching them till it was out
of sight.”
“It must have consoled them mightily to have M. le Marquis come in
and sit talking to them in that neighborly fashion,” remarked lame
Pierre, a hero who had lost a leg and an eye at Aboukir; “that, and
poor Hugues being killed by a cannon-ball under the emperor’s own
eye, ought to cheer up the Caboffs wonderfully.”
“Ay, ay,” said Peltran; “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”
“M. le Marquis looked as down-hearted as if he had lost a child of his
own,” observed Pierre; “may be he was thinking whose turn it might
be next.”
“There goes Mère Virginie with the little one!” said Peltran; and all
present turned their heads towards the window and looked out with
an expression of interest, as if the objects in view were a rare and
pleasant sight. And yet it was one that met them in their daily walks
by the roadside and on the cliff—the little old lady in her nun-like
dress, with her keen gray eyes and sweet smile, and the dark-eyed,
elfin-looking child whose name was Alba. Alba was always singing.
“Is not your little throat tired, my child?” said Virginie, as the blithe
voice kept on soaring and trilling by her side.
“I am never tired singing, petite mère! Do the angels tire of it
sometimes, I wonder?”
“Nay, the angels cannot tire; they are perfectly happy.”
“And I, petite mère—am I not perfectly happy?”
“Is there nothing you long for, nothing you would be the happier for
having?”
“Oh! many things,” cried Alba: “I wish I were grown up; I wish I
were as beautiful as the flowers; I wish I had a voice like the
nightingale—like a whole woodful of nightingales; I wish I lived in a
castle; I wish I were so rich that I might make all the poor people
happy in Gondriac; I wish everybody loved me as you do. Oh! I
should like them all to adore me, petite mère,” cried the child,
clasping her little hands with energy.
“Nay, my child, we must adore none but God; woe to us if we do!”
said Virginie, and her face contracted as with a sudden pain. “But it
seems to me, with so many wishes unfulfilled, you are a long way off
from perfect happiness yet?”
“But I am always dreaming that they are fulfilled, and that does as
well, you know.”
Yes, perhaps it did, Virginie thought, as she bent a wistful smile on
the young dreamer’s face. Alba’s face was full of dreams—beautiful
and passionate, changeful as the sunbeams, tender and strong,
pleading and imperious by turns. How would the dreams evolve
themselves from out that yearning, untamed spirit that shone with a
dangerous light through the dark eyes? Would they prove a mirage,
luring her on to some delusive goal, and leaving her to perish amidst
the golden waste of sands, or would they be a loadstar beckoning
faithfully to a safe and happy destiny?
The child gave promise of rich fruit; her instincts were pure and
true, her heart was tender; but there was a wild element in her
nature that might easily overrule the rest, and work destruction to
herself and others, unless it were reduced in time to serviceable
bondage. Who could tell how this would be—whether the flower
would keep its promise and prove loyal to the bud, or whether the
fair blossom would perish in its bloom, and the tree bring forth a
harvest of bitter fruit?
“It will be as you will it,” a wise man had said to Virginie; “the
destiny of the child is in the hands of the mother, as the course of
the ship is in the hands of the pilot.”
“Then Alba’s will be a happy one!” Virginie replied; “if love be
omnipotent here below, my treasure is safe.”

Hermann de Gondriac had won his epaulets. Every post brought

letters to the castle full of battles and victories; and though the
young soldier was modest in his warlike narrative, it was clear to M.
le Marquis that Hermann shone like a bright, particular star even in
the galaxy of the grande armée, and that now, as in olden times,
France had reason to be proud of the De Gondriacs. If the boy
would but calm his rhapsodies about Bonaparte! M. le Marquis’
patrician soul heaved at the sight of this enthusiasm for the upstart
who had muzzled his country and usurped the crown of her lawful
princes. But he was a great captain, and it was natural, perhaps,
that his soldiers should only think of this when he led them in
triumph from field to field.
So far Hermann bore a charmed life. Not so the Caboffs. One day,
some eight months after the death of the eldest son, the second
brother followed him—“killed gloriously on the immortal field of
Wagram,” the official letter announced in its most soothing style. M.
le Marquis’ carriage was again seen standing at the foot of the cliff,
and Peltran informed the population that he had remained over
twenty minutes this time at the Fortress.
“M. le Marquis is a true grand seigneur, and never begrudges any
condescension for the good of his inferiors,” observed the old tory
host. “This time it was only Marcel who accompanied him down the
cliff. Old Caboff, they say, was more cut up by this last blow; still,
grief ought not to make a man selfish and unthankful.”
“Just so,” said lame Pierre, who sat puffing in the bar; “and it’s only
what those two poor lads had to expect; moreover, since a man
must die, better be killed in battle than die of the small-pox.”
“All the same, it’s hard on the folks up yonder,” remarked a
bystander, “and it isn’t their money-bags—no, nor even M. le
Marquis’ good words—that can comfort them to-day.”
Soon after this M. le Marquis left Gondriac rather suddenly one
morning. After reading his letters he ordered his valise to be got
ready, and in an hour he was posting to X——. There he dismissed
the postchaise, and no one knew whither or how he had continued
his route. Gondriac busied itself in endless conjectures as to the
purport and destination of this mysterious journey. Had M. le
Marquis been summoned to Paris to assist the government in some
political crisis? Had he gone over to England to pour oil on the angry
waters there? For the king of England was full of wrath and jealousy
against the great emperor, and it was well known at Gondriac that
he was plotting foul play of some sort against France. Or, again,
could M. le Marquis’ hasty departure have had any reference to M. le
Comte? Perhaps M. le Comte was wounded or a prisoner; who could
tell? So the wiseacres gossiped, adopting first one theory, then
another.
A month went by without throwing any light on the mystery. Then
the cold set in suddenly, and the gossips had something else to talk
about. The cruel winter was down upon them, catching them
unprepared, so how were they to face it? They were only in October,
and the wind blew from the northeast as if it were March, keeping
up its shrill, hard whistle day and night, and the sea, as if it were
exasperated by the sound, roared and foamed and thundered, till it
seemed like a battle between them which should make most noise.
And it was hard to say who carried the day.
One night, when the battle was at its fiercest, the wind shrieking its
loudest, and the sea rolling up its biggest waves, Alba sat at her
window watching the tempest with thrills of sympathetic terror.
Virginie thought the child was in bed and asleep hours ago, and she
was glad of it; for the storm drove right against the cottage, and
burst upon it every now and then with a violence that shook her in
her chair and made the walls rock. She was knitting away, but
between the stitches many a prayer went up for those who were out
breasting the fury of the hurricane. Suddenly a sound came up from
the sea that made her start to her feet with a cry. Boom! boom!
boom! it came in quick succession, leaping over the rocks with a
sharp, dull crash. The door of the little sitting-room was thrown
open, and Alba stood on the threshold, white as a ghost, her dark
eyes gleaming. “It is the signal-gun, mother!” she cried. “There is a
ship in distress!”
“How came you up and dressed, child?” exclaimed Virginie.
“Mother, I could not sleep; I have been watching the storm. Hark!
there it is again. Why don’t they answer it? Let us hurry down to the
beach.”
“Of what use would we be there, my child?” said Virginie. “Let us
rather kneel down and pray that help may come.”
“I cannot pray; I cannot stay here safe and quiet while that gun is
firing! Hark! there it is again. Oh! why don’t they make haste?
Mother, I must go! If you won’t come I will go by myself.” Alba, as
she spoke, threw back her head with the wild, free movement that
Virginie knew, and knew that she could no more control than she
could check the flight of a bird on the wing.
“I will go with you,” she cried, and, wrapping a cloak round Alba, she
flung another round herself, and then lighted her lantern, and the
two sallied forth into the storm, clinging fast to one another for
support until they got under the shelter of the overhanging cliff.
Lights were glancing here and there, hurrying down from the
cottages, and a few fishermen were already on the beach watching
the distressed ship, helpless and hopeless. Presently old Caboff
appeared, holding his lantern high above his head—an aged,
shrivelled man, likely to be of little use in this desperate strait; but
such was the prestige which his supposed antecedents lent him in
the eyes of the panic-stricken group that of one accord they turned
to him as to the only one who might give help or counsel. The night
was pitch dark, and the blinding rain and deafening roar of the
breakers seemed to make the darkness thicker. It was impossible to
see the ship, except when the flash of the gun lighted up the scene
for a second. In the lull of the billows—that is, between the heavy
sweep of their rise and fall—the cries of the crew and the whistle of
the captain issuing his commands were faintly audible. How was it
with the ship? Had she struck upon a rock, or was she simply going
down before the storm? It was impossible to say. On finding that her
signals were heard and her position seen from land, she slackened
fire, and the gun only spoke every three minutes or so. In the
interval of unbroken darkness all conjecture as to the immediate
cause of the peril was at a stand-still. Caboff said she had struck
upon a rock; the others thought she was simply disabled and rolling
in the trough of the sea.
“Can we put out a boat? Who is for risking it?” said Caboff, pitching
his voice to a whistle that was heard distinctly above the roar of the
black breakers clamoring for the moon. There was no answer, but
heads were shaken and hands gesticulated in strong dissent.
Alba pushed her way into the midst of the group. “What does it
matter what the danger is? Go and help them!” she cried. “If you
don’t help them they will all perish!”
“We cannot help them, little one,” said an old fisherman. “No boat
could live in such a sea. See how the waves run up in mountains to
our very feet, and think what it must be out yonder! See, now the
signal-gun lights it up! Look! again it flashes.”
It was an appalling sight while the flashes lasted. The waves,
rushing back, left the side of the ship visible, and then, returning
with a tremendous sweep, broke over her and buried her out of
sight in foam. The stoutest heart might well recoil from venturing to
put out in such a sea.
“Naught but a miracle could do it,” said one of the oldest and
hardiest of the fishermen; “and we none of us can work miracles.”
“God can!” cried Alba, and she looked like the spirit of the storm, her
dark hair streaming, the light of courage and scorn and beseeching
hope illuminating her face with an unearthly beauty—“God can, and
he does for brave men; but ye are cowards!”
“Gently, little one; men will risk their lives to do some good, but it is
suicide to rush on death where there is not a chance of saving any
one.”
It was Caboff who spoke, and his words were followed by strong
approval from the rest.
“Ye are cowards!” repeated Alba passionately. “God would work the
miracle, if ye had courage and trusted him. See, there is the light
now!” She pointed to the sky, where, as if to justify her promise, the
moon came forth, and, scattering the darkness, shed her full blue
radiance over sea and shore. The storm was now at its height. The
guns had ceased to give tongue, and the crowd stood watching the
scene in mute horror, while the reverberating shore shook under
their feet at every shock of the furious billows.
Caboff was right. The ship had struck upon the Scissors, and, caught
between the two blade-like rocks, was rapidly falling to pieces. The
deck was deserted. The crew had either gone down into the cabin to
meet their fate or they had been swept away by the devouring
waters. One man alone was descried by Caboff’s keen eyes clinging
to the broken mast. “I will risk it!” cried the old pirate, after watching
the wreck for some minutes intently. “I will risk it; my old life may as
well go out in saving his. Come, boys, help me to push down a boat.
I must have three pairs of hands. Who is to the fore?”
A dozen men rushed forward; the boat was at the water’s edge in a
moment, and after a short scuffle—for now all were fighting for
precedence—three men got into it, and the others, putting their
hands to the stern, launched it with their might. A cheer rang out
from the shore; but close upon it came a cry, piercing and full of
terror. It was Marcel Caboff, who was flying down the cliff, and
reached the scene just as the boat put off.
“Father! father!” cried the lad, and he fell on his knees sobbing.
“Don’t be afraid, Marcel,” said Alba, falling on her knees beside him;
“he is a brave man, and God will protect him!”
Something in the tone of the child’s voice made him turn and look at
her, and as he caught sight of the beam of confidence, almost of
exultation, on her face, he felt his courage rise and despair was
silenced. But what meant that shout?
The boat was no sooner borne out on the receding wave than it
went down into the sea as if never to rise again; there was a
moment of breathless suspense, and then the wave rose and tossed
it violently to and fro, and flung it back upon the shore. The men
who had launched it were still upon the spot, and rushed forward to
seize the boat and help the brave fellows out again. One was so
stunned by the force of the shock that he became insensible and
had to be lifted out. Old Caboff refused to stir.
“It is madness to try it again,” said his companions. “A cork could not
live in such a sea!”
“I will risk no man’s life,” said Caboff. “I will go alone. Here, my men,
lend a hand once more!”
There was a clamor of expostulation from all present; but the old
man was not to be moved.
“I will go with you, father,” said Marcel, stepping in and seizing an
oar.
“You here, lad! And your mother?”
“She sent me to look after you. Allons! mes amis; push us out and
say God speed us!”
But there was now a third figure in the boat. “Now we are three, and
God will make a fourth!” cried Alba; then, turning to the men, “Push
us out,” she said, “and then go home, lest ye take cold here in the
rain!”
“Good God! the child is mad,” cried Virginie, rushing forward to
snatch her away. But it was too late; a heavy wave rolled in and
made the boat heave suddenly, which the men seeing, with one
impulse put their hands to it, till the breaker washed under it and
swept it out to sea once more. Virginie stood there like one turned
to stone, watching in dumb horror the boat drifting away on to the
seething waters. Alba was on her knees, her arms outstretched, her
face uplifted in the moonlight, transfigured into an apparition of
celestial beauty—a heaven-sent messenger from Him who can
unchain the storm and bid the winds and waves be still. The rough
men, subdued by the sublimity of the scene, knelt down like little
children and began to pray.
Gallantly the little boat rode on, now drowned out of sight, now
rising lightly on the crest of the wave, while the sea, as if enraged at
so much daring, redoubled in fury and pitched it to and fro like a
ball. Old Caboff, grown young again, worked away like a sea-horse.
Many a time had he and Death looked into each other’s faces, but
never closer than now; and it was not the old seaman who quailed.
Marcel, feeble Marcel, seemed endowed with the energy and
strength of an athlete. They were now close upon the sinking ship;
but the peril grew as they approached it. There was a lull for one
moment, as if in very weariness the hurricane drew a breath; then a
huge wave rose up like a mighty water-tower, oscillated for a
moment like a house about to fall, and, dashing against the boat,
swallowed it up in an avalanche of foam. Five seconds of mortal
suspense followed; not a gasp broke the horrible silence on the
beach. But the boat reappeared and rode bravely on to within a
stone’s throw of the ship. The solitary man on deck was signalling to
them with one hand, while with the other he clung to the mast. At
last the little skiff was close under the bows. Old Caboff threw up a
rope-ladder; it missed its aim, once, twice, three times. “How the old
fellow is swearing! I can see it by his fury,” cried one of the
fishermen, stamping in sympathetic rage. “Ha! the poor devil has
caught it. Bravo! Hurrah! He is in the boat!”
Then there was a cheer, as if the very rocks had found a voice to
applaud the brave ones who had conquered the storm. Wind and
tide were with them as they returned, the waves pitching the boat
before them like an angry boy kicking a stone, until one final plunge
sent it flying on the beach.
“Vive Caboff! Vive Marcel! Vive la petite Alba!” And every hand was
stretched out in welcome. Then there was a pause, a sudden hush,
as when some strong emotion is checked by another.
“Monsieur le Marquis!”
“Yes, my friends, thanks to these brave hearts I am amongst you
and alive.”
He was the first to step from the boat; then he took Alba in his arms
and lifted her ashore into Virginie’s. Marcel alighted next, and was
turning to assist his father when M. le Marquis pushed him gently
aside and held out both hands to his deliverer. But the old man still
grasped his oar and made no sign.
“Mon père!” cried Marcel, laying a hand on his arm, “mon père!”
But old Caboff did not answer him. He was dead.

The grande armée was still winning famous victories, ploughing up

sunny harvest-fields with cannon-balls, and making homes and
hearts desolate.
“There is one comfort,” said old Peltran, sitting moodily in his
deserted bar: “when things come to the worst they must get better.”
“They’ve not come to the worst yet,” observed a neighbor. “There’s
lots of things that might happen, that haven’t happened yet; the
plague might come, or the blight, or the grande armée might get
beaten. We’ve not come to the worst yet, believe you me.”
“There’s one thing anyhow that can’t happen,” said Peltran: “there
can’t be another recruitment in Gondriac, for there isn’t a man left
amongst us fit to shoulder a musket; we are all either too old, or
lame, or blind of an eye.”
“There’s young Caboff is neither one nor the other. To be sure, he’s
not the stuff to make a soldier out of; but when they’ve used up all
the men they must make the best of the milk-sops.”
“Marcel is a widow’s only son; he’s safe,” said Peltran.
“From one day to another the last reserves may be called out,”
observed the neighbor; “it will be hard on the mother, after two of
her sons going for cannon’s meat. It was a plucky thing of the old
father putting out that night. I wonder if he knew for certain who
was on the deck of the ship.”
“If he didn’t he wouldn’t have been such an ass as to put out,” said
Peltran. “Why should he fling away his bit of life for a stranger that
he owed nothing to?”
“For the matter of that, he owed nothing to M. le Marquis; the
Caboffs, they say, are rich enough to buy up every inch of land in
Gondriac.”
“Folks may owe more than money can pay,” retorted Peltran. “M. le
Marquis was very kind to the old man when his sons were killed,
and, whatever Caboff’s sins may have been, he had a fine sense of
his natural obligations. It didn’t surprise me much when I saw how
handsomely he paid off his debt to M. le Marquis.”
“They say that monseigneur swore to Mme. Caboff that if ever she
asked him a favor, whatever it was, he would grant it,” said the
neighbor.
“Very likely,” remarked the host. “M. le Marquis has a grand-seigneur
way of doing everything. I hope the Caboffs will have the delicacy
never to abuse it.”
Not many days after this conversation Mme. Caboff was to be seen
walking across the moor on her way to the castle. She looked an
older woman than she was; sorrow had broken her down, and it
would take little now to destroy the frail tenure of life that remained
to her.
This was the first time she had ever entered the castle. Under other
circumstances the visit would have thrown the widow into some
trepidation. She would have been pleasantly fluttered at the
prospect of an interview with the great lord in his own halls, and
would have been much exercised on her way thither as to what she
should say to him; but her mind was full of other cares to-day.
M. le Marquis was at home. He had spent the morning over a letter
from Captain Hermann de Gondriac, which contained a graphic
personal narrative of the retreat from Moscow of that disastrous
expedition from which, out of the fifty thousand cavalry who went
forth, only one hundred and twenty-five officers returned. A pang of
anguish and patriotic indignation wrung the old nobleman’s heart as
he read and re-read the terrible story, but tears of deep thankfulness
fell from the father’s eyes at the thought that his son was spared
and was returning safe and unhurt with that decimated army of
starved, exasperated spectres. The marquis was perusing the letter
for the tenth time when Mme. Caboff was announced. He rose to
receive her with a warmth of welcome that boded well for her
petition.
“M. le Marquis, you made me give you a promise once—that night;
do you remember it?” she said, holding his white hand lightly
between her two black-kidded ones, and looking up into his face
with the meek and hungry look of a dog begging for a bone which
may be refused and a kick given instead.
“Remember it? Yes,” replied the Marquis, returning the timid
pressure with a cordial grasp. “You are in trouble; sit down,
madame, and tell me what there is that I can do to make it lighter
for you.”
“My son, my last and only son, Marcel, is called out, M. le Marquis!”
“And you want to find a substitute for him. It shall be done. I will set
about it without an hour’s delay.”
“M. le Marquis, it cannot be done; there are no more substitutes to
be had. I would give every penny I possess to get one, but there are
none left. The widows’ only sons were the last spared, and now they
must go. Marcel has been to the prefecture, and they told him there
was no help for it: he must join the new levy to-morrow at X——M.
le Marquis, have pity on me! It will kill me to let him go; and, oh! it
is so dreadful to see the boy.”
“He is frightened at the prospect of going to battle?” There was an
imperceptible ring of scorn under the courteous tone of the
aristocrat as he put the question.
“He is mad with delight, M. le Marquis; he has always been wild to
follow his brothers and be killed as they were.”
“Brave lad! But he shall not have his wish; he shall not be made food
for Bonaparte’s cannon,” said the Marquis. “Go home in peace,
madame, and break the bad news to him as tenderly as you can.”
“Thank God! God bless you, M. le Marquis!” said the widow fervently.
“But is it indeed possible? I can hardly believe in so great a joy.”
M. le Marquis was silent for a moment, as if making a calculation;
then he said musingly:
“The emperor is in Paris to-day; I will start in an hour from this and
see him to-night. He owes me something. I never thought to have
asked a favor at his hands; but I will stoop to ask him that your son
be exempted from the service.”
“O M. le Marquis!” Mme. Caboff began to cry with joy; but
remembering suddenly that this great emperor was conquering the
whole world and turning kings in and out like valets—for Gondriac
heard of his fine doings and was very proud of them—it occurred to
her that he might by possibility refuse a request proffered even by
so great a man as M. le Marquis. “You think his majesty is sure not
to refuse you, monsieur?” she added timidly.
M. de Gondriac was too well cased in his armor of pride to be
touched by the poor woman’s unconscious insult; he smiled and
replied with a quiet irony that escaped his visitor: “I think that is
very unlikely, Mme. Caboff. Be at rest,” he continued kindly. “I pledge
you my word that your son shall not be taken from you. Instead of
going to-morrow to X——, he had better start off at once with a
letter which I will give him to the prefect.”
He wrote the letter and handed it to Mme. Caboff.

It was late that evening when M. de Gondriac arrived in Paris. He

drove straight to the Tuileries. Time was precious, and he had
travelled in court dress, so as not to lose an hour at the end of the
journey. It did not occur to him that there could be any delay in
reaching the presence of the emperor. Petitioners of his class were
not so common at the great man’s door that it should close upon
them because of some informal haste in their demand for
admittance. He handed in his card and asked to see the lord
chamberlain. After some delay he was shown into the presence of
that high functionary, to whom he stated his desire for an immediate
audience of his majesty. The lord chamberlain smilingly informed
him that this was impossible; mortals were not admitted into the
august presence in this abrupt manner; but he—the lord
chamberlain—would present the request at his earliest opportunity
to-morrow, and communicate in due time with M. le Marquis.
“Things do not proceed so summarily at court,” he added graciously.
The marquis felt his blood boil. This mushroom duke telling a De
Gondriac how things were done at court!
“I know enough of courts to be aware that on occasions etiquette
must yield to weightier reasons,” he replied. “Oblige me, M. le Duc,
by taking my message at once to the emperor.”
There was something in his tone which compelled the obsequious
courtier to obey. He withdrew, and returned presently with a face full
of amazed admiration to announce to the visitor that his majesty
was willing to receive him.
The emperor was standing with his hands behind his back in the
embrasure of a window when M. de Gondriac entered. He did not
turn round at once, but waited until the door closed, and then,
walking up to M. de Gondriac, he said brusquely: “I have invited you
many times, marquis, and you have never come. What brings you
here to-night?” The speech was curt, but not insolent; it did not
even sound uncivil.
“Sire, I am an old man, and it is so long since I have been at court
that I have forgotten how to behave myself. My lord chamberlain
was deeply shocked, I could perceive, at my breach of ceremony in
coming to the palace in this abrupt way without going through the
usual observances. My motive will, I hope, excuse me to your
majesty.”
“Yes, yes, I will let you off easier than Bassano,” said the emperor.
“But what do you want of me?” He had his hands still behind his
back, and, without desiring his visitor to be seated, he turned to
pace up and down the room.
“I have come to ask a favor of your majesty.”
“Ha! that is well. I am glad of that. Do you know, that boy of yours
has behaved admirably,” he said, facing round and looking at the
marquis.
“We are accustomed to fight, sire,” replied M. de Gondriac. “It came
naturally to my son; he had, moreover, the advantage of drawing his
maiden sword under a great captain.”
“I mean to keep him by me. I have appointed him on my own staff.
We are not done with war. I am raising troops for a campaign in the
spring.”
“Sire, I am aware of it; it is precisely about that that I have come to
speak to your majesty. There is in my village a widow whose two
sons have fallen in the service of the country; there remains to her
one more son, a lad of nineteen....”
“And she is ambitious that he should share the glorious fate of his
brothers; that is natural,” broke in the emperor.
“Sire, she is a widow, and this boy is all she has in the world. It is no
longer possible to procure a substitute; therefore I come to crave at
your hands his exemption from the service.”
“What! you would rob France of a soldier, when they are so scarce
that gold cannot buy one? Is this your notion of duty to your
country, M. de Gondriac? Is it thus you aristocrats understand
patriotism?” The emperor confronted him with a flashing eye.
“My son has answered that question, sire.”
“Tut! And because, forsooth, your son has done his duty, you would
have other men’s sons betray theirs! A peasant makes as good a
soldier as a peer, let me tell you. Because your son condescended to
share the glory of the grande armée you expect me to make you a
present of a strong young soldier! I do not understand such
sentimental logic.”
“Neither do I, sire. I was not putting forward the services of my son
as a claim for this poor lad, but those of his two brothers who lost
their lives, one at Wagram, the other at Friedland.”
“What better could have befallen them?”
“Nothing, in my estimation; but their mother....”
“France is their mother; she claims their allegiance and their life
before any one. The man who puts his mother before his country is
a fool or a coward!”
“This young man has not asked to be exempted; his mother came
and besought me to have him spared to her, and, counting on your
gratitude and generosity, sire, I have come to lay her petition at your
feet. The boy himself is frantic to be off and die like his brothers.”
“Then he shall have his wish and France shall count one more hero.
Tell his mother she shall have a pension. Give me her name, and it
shall be done at once.”
“She is not in want of it, sire; she has wealth enough to buy a score
of men, if they were to be had.”
“But they are not, and so her son must go.”
“This is your last word, sire?”
“Yes, marquis, my last.”
“Then I have only to crave your majesty’s forgiveness for my
intrusion.” M. de Gondriac bowed and was moving towards the door,
when the emperor called out:
“Stay a moment. What motive have you in pleading this widow’s
cause so strongly?”
The marquis in a few words told the story of that memorable night
when Caboff saved him at the cost of his own life. The emperor
listened to the end without interrupting him; then he resumed his
walk, and, speaking from the other end of the room, “You are
naturally anxious to pay back so heavy a debt,” he said. “Would this
feeling carry you the length of making some sacrifice?”
How could Bonaparte ask the question? Did not M. de Gondriac’s
presence here to-night answer it exhaustively?
“I think I have proved that, sire,” he answered coldly.
The emperor was silent for a while; then, turning round, he looked
fixedly at the marquis and said:
“I withdraw my unconditional refusal. I will let you know to-morrow
on what terms I consent to exempt the son of your deliverer from
dying on the field of battle.”
M. de Gondriac bowed low. “I have the honor to salute your
majesty.”
“Au revoir, marquis.”
What did he mean, and what was this condition so mysteriously
hinted at, and only to be declared after the night’s preparation?
M. de Gondriac was sitting over his breakfast next morning when an
estafette rode up to his old hôtel, bearing a large official envelope
stamped with the imperial arms and the talismanic words, “Maison
de l’Empereur.” M. le Marquis broke the seal and ran his eye down
the large sheet, and then tossed it from him with an exclamation of
anger and contempt.
“Enter his service! Play lackey at the court of an upstart who is
drenching my country in blood from sheer vanity and ambition—a
usurper who is keeping my liege sovereign in exile, and the best part
of my kindred in idleness, or else in a servitude more humiliating
than the dreariest inactivity! A De Gondriac tricked out in the livery
of a mountebank king like him! Ha! ha! M. de Bonaparte, when you
give that spectacle to the gods, ... je vous en fais mon compliment!”
M. le Marquis laughed a low, musical laugh as he muttered these
reflections to himself. But presently he ceased laughing and his face
took a dark and troubled look. The emperor made his acceptance of
this offer the price of Marcel Caboff’s exemption. If he rejected it,
the lad must join. “Would gratitude carry you the length of a
sacrifice?” When the question had been put to him, it seemed to M.
de Gondriac that he had forestalled it; but the emperor evidently did
not think so, and now he was putting him to the test. It was the
severest he could have chosen. When Hermann de Gondriac took
service under Bonaparte, the old nobleman considered his son was
making a fine sacrifice of personal pride to patriotism; but the
service here, at least, was a noble one, and rendered to France
rather than to the upstart who had captured her. But this other was
of a totally different order. Even in the bygone days, when France
had a legitimate king and real court, the De Gondriacs had been shy
of taking office in the royal household, preferring the service of the
camp, diplomacy abroad, or statesmanship at home; to stoop now to
be a courtier to Bonaparte was a degradation not to be calmly
contemplated. If the tyrant had asked any sacrifice but this, M. le
Marquis said to himself, he would have made it gladly; but this was
impossible. It meant the surrender of his self-respect, of those
principles whose integrity he had hitherto proudly maintained at no
small personal risk and cost. Before he had finished his coffee, the
question was settled, and he rose to write his answer.
Trifles sometimes affect us with the force of great repellant causes.
The act of taking the pen in his hand brought before him vividly the
last time he had held it: it was in his library at Gondriac; the widow
sat watching him with a swelling heart, made glad by his promise
solemnly given: “I pledge you my word that your son shall not be
taken from you.” M. le Marquis laid down his pen and fell to thinking.
“No, I can’t do it,” he said after a long pause. “I can’t belie the
traditions of my race; I can’t stain the old name and turn
saltimbanque in my old age.” He took up the pen and wrote to the
emperor, declining his offer.
The next day the town of X—— was full of excitement. The new
recruits were pouring in, sometimes in boisterous crowds, singing
and hurrahing, sometimes in sober knots of twos and threes,
sometimes singly, accompanied by weeping relatives, mostly women.
There had been an official attempt to get up a show of warlike
enthusiasm, but it had failed; people were growing sick of the
glories of war, sick of sending sons and brothers and husbands to be
massacred for Bonaparte’s good pleasure. The recruits were called
out by name, and answered sullenly as they passed through the
Mairie out to the market-place, where the sergeant was waiting to
give them their first lesson in drill, showing them how to stand
straight and get into position.
“Marcel Caboff!” called out the recruiting agent.
“Remplacé!”
“By whom?”
“Rudolf, Marquis de Gondriac!”
TO BE CONTINUED.
 HIGHER.

I have lifted up my eyes unto the mountains, whence help shall

come to me.—Ps. cxx.
Too late have I known thee, O Infinite Beauty! too late have I loved
thee, O Beauty ever ancient and new!—St. Augustine.

I.

'Mid wide green meadows, made more fair with flowers—

Tall, golden lilies, swaying in the sun,
Slight, clustering rue that web of silver spun—
I lingered dreaming through the day’s first hours.
About me men in work-day toil were bent,
Swift levelling the daisies’ drift of snow,
The clover’s purple sweetness laying low,
And ripened grain whose summer life was spent.
I sat where leafy trees a shadow wrought
Amid the broad, warm sunshine of the plain,
Where, undisturbed, poured forth the wood-birds’ strain
And fancy’s magic played with every thought:
A whole life centred in each daisy-round,
And work-day toil seemed but a slumbrous sound.

II.
Low rippling at my feet a loitering stream
Slipt, murmuring music to each listening stone,
Or flung its silver laughter where soft shone
The slant sunbeam breaking the shadows’ dream;
Betwixt the robins’ song the swift blue-bird
Flashed like a heavenly message through the shade
Where with the sunshine gentlest breezes played,
And quiet shadows to soft motion stirred.
Between me and the meadow’s smitten flow’rs
The fresh June roses wreathed the rude fence bars,
Frail elder trailed its galaxy of stars,
While butterflies sped by in golden show’rs—
Far, far beyond, the earth-haze shining through,
Rose the great mountains’ dim and misty blue.

III.

So far and strange those misty hills! so near

And intimate the little, shady nook,
The skies reflected in the merry brook—
Those distant heights so lonely and austere!
Scarce e’en the busy mowers of the field
Lifted their eyes to those dim gates of blue
Where all their gathered harvest must pass through,
Its grass and stubble be one day revealed.
As grew the day, more clear the summits grew;
Springing from shadow, radiant waterfalls
Flung trails of sunshine o’er the stern rock-walls—
Such sunshine as the valley never knew!
Paled the June roses, fading in my hand,
Tarnished the lowland river’s golden sand!
 IV.

Then seemed to stir the trembling leaves amid,

To mingle with the robins’ cheerful call,
A low, sad voice, as if the hills let fall
Faint, wandering echoes of sweet music hid
In dark ravine, on solitary height.
I dropped my roses, gone their ravishment;
I passed the mowers o’er their harvest bent;
I sought those distant mountain-lands of light.
Wild, thorny brambles stretched across my way,
Sharp rocks were weary pathways for my feet,
Yet ever lured me on those accents sweet
Whose very sadness was my weakness’ stay,
With every step more intimate and near—
“Take heart, poor child! ’tis I; have thou no fear.

V.
“Take heart, and I thy faltering steps will lead
Above the earth-mists and the brier-strewn road
To my far mountain-tops, the pure abode
Of heaven-born stream, and fair enamelled mead
Whose flow’rs immortal fells not any scythe.
Long have I sought thee 'mid the withering flowers
Wherewith thou smiling crown’dst the fading hours,
Weaving fine fancies 'mid the murmuring blithe
Of lowland stream, and birds, and pattering leaves;
Long have I called thee, waiting for thy voice,
So faint it rose above the troublous noise
Of earthly harvesters among their sheaves;
Long have I waited thy dear heart to win,
So long desired to reign with thee therein.”

VI.

O sorrow-stricken Voice, so piercing sweet!

Blinding my eyes with tears, smiting my heart
Like some fire-pointed, swift-descending dart,
And giving strength unto my climbing feet
Seeking those dim and misty hills of blue.
Lo! the great mountains at thy music thrilled,
And all their deep recesses echoes filled—
Near and more near the sunlit summits grew!
The little birds that gathered, unafraid,
On berry-laden boughs beside my way
Mingled thy cadence with their roundelay—
Its joyousness grown sweeter through thy shade.
O Voice of love and grief, sad for my sin,
What ways were thine so poor a thing to win!
 VII.

O thou Almighty Lord of life and death,

Thou that hast led me out the wilderness
And shown me thy great hills’ pure strength to bless,
Guard in my soul, lest still it perisheth!
The cross thou gavest still I strive to bear—
So light it grows that half, at times, I fear
My trust is lost, sign of thy service dear—
Dost thou bear all, dear Lord, for me no share?
So in thy steps to follow still I seek,
The wearing way thy patient feet have pressed,
The blood-stained way thy heavy cross hath blessed—
Dost thou hold me to suffer aught too weak?
E’en when I strive one little thorn to grasp
It turns to tender roses in my clasp.

VIII.
The very stones win smoothness from thy feet,
Beneath whose tread immortal flowers spring,
Holding within their snowy hearts no sting,
And breathing spices for love’s incense meet.
The lark, swift rising thy approach to greet,
The fulness of his heavenly song to pour
No higher than thy breast divine need soar,
There hiding life and song in joy complete!
Though sheltering trees o’ershadow not my way
To ward the sultry glow of noonday sun,
Yet 'neath thy cross the coolest shade is won
That dims no ray of that eternal day
That from yon unstained hills of peace doth shine,
Whereto thou leadest me, O Love Divine!

IX.

Yet many bitter tears I needs must weep,

Remembering the glimmer of the plain
Where nodding lilies and the bending grain
Seemed rarest treasure in their gold to keep;
Those thoughtless hours ere I learned to look
Beyond my roses to the misty hills—
The far-off pastures only God’s hand tills;
Where lost I in the laughter of the brook
And song of earthly birds that loving Voice,
That patient call, alas! too long denied.
Still in my heart in weeping woe must bide,
E’en in His breast who bids my soul rejoice,
The mem’ry of that day’s ingratitude
When God in vain for love his creature sued.
 THE IRON AGE OF CHRISTENDOM.

Our period is emphatically one of historical studies, as we have had

occasion to remark in a former article on the Life and Works of M.
Ozanam. Among other illusions swept away by the light of truth
which these laborious researches have let in upon the obscurity of
the past, there is one great illusion about golden and iron ages. In
respect to the Christian period, specifically, it is manifest that it is
vain to look, in the apostolic, ante-Nicene, mediæval, or modern
ages, for that ideal perfection in real, concrete existence which may
have been in our imagination as a pleasing picture. There has never
been an age of gold unmixed with baser metal for the church any
more than for humanity in general. The analogy of the past, which is
the only sure criterion we can apply to the future, forbids us to
expect that there ever will be such a purely golden age on the earth.
Moreover, those iron ages or dark ages, of Christian or pre-Christian,
historic or pre-historic times, which have been imagined to precede
or to interrupt the epochs of splendor and light, are seen on
inspection not to have been all iron or all darkness. The progress of
mankind towards its destination has been continuous from the
beginning, although, in larger or smaller local extensions or
numerical portions of humanity, there has been in various periods a
stoppage or retrogradation of the movement, in appearance, and in
respect to individual progress. The earth keeps its regular course,
though men walk on its surface in an opposite direction, and they
are carried with it unconsciously. The ship goes on and carries with it
the passenger, while he is walking from the bow to the stern.
Clouds, night, and eclipses are not a destruction or suspension of
the irradiation of light from the sun on the earth, but its partial and
temporary impediments. The ship which makes a long, dangerous,
but successful voyage is making headway while plunging into the
trough of the sea as well as while riding the crest of the waves;
often is less delayed by beating against adverse winds than by calm
weather and light breezes. The bark of Peter, freighted with the
treasures of human hope and destiny, is steadily proceeding, under
the guidance of her heavenly Pilot, over the waves of time, through
calm and stormy seas, toward the port of eternity. Seldom does she
seem to be in safety, and show the speed of her motion, to the
uninstructed eyes of those who do not possess the sublime science
of the stars and charts by which her celestial course is directed.
“Never,” says Lacordaire, “is the triumph of the church visible at a
given moment. If you look at any one point in the expanse of the
ages, the bark of Peter appears to be about to be engulfed, and the
faithful are always prompt to cry out: Lord, save us, we perish! But if
you look at the whole series of times, the church manifests her
strength, and you understand what Jesus Christ said in the tempest:
Man of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?”[75]
There is nevertheless a difference in the character of epochs. The
epochs of Constantine, Charlemagne, Gregory VII., of the thirteenth
and seventeenth centuries, are seen in the retrospect to have a
special light of glory about them. The seventh, tenth, sixteenth, and
eighteenth centuries present a dark aspect. The tenth century
particularly, which we are at present bringing under review, is
generally called “the iron age” even by our modern Catholic
historians, and not without considerable reason, more especially in
respect to the state and condition of the Roman Church and the
sovereign pontificate. Nevertheless, the common notion, derived
from compendious histories and the generalized statements which
form the commonplaces of popular literature, respecting the tenth
age of Christendom is not correct and is extremely confused. It was
not an age of complete barbarism and universal ignorance. Ozanam
says: “Indeed, letters did not, at any time, perish. The truth is that
the period of complete barbarism, supposed at first to extend over a
space of a thousand years, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the
capture of Constantinople, then gradually reduced to narrower limits,
until it remained finally restricted to the seventh and tenth centuries,
vanishes away under a more severe scrutiny.”[76] Cantù remarks:
“This epoch is justly called the iron age, because of the cruel
sufferings endured by individuals and nations; but humanity made a
sensible progress in the face of these trials. We cannot, therefore,
concur in the judgment of those who consider it the most unhappy
period of the human race.”[77] We cannot make logical divisions of
history into epochs exactly corresponding with the numerical
notation of years and centuries. It would be absurd to suppose that
at 12 A.M. of January 1, A.D. 900, to borrow Carlyle’s expression, “the
clock of Time struck and an era passed away”; and that the same
venerable old timepiece, from its corner in the parlor of the universe,
struck again in just a hundred years, announcing the end of the iron
age and the beginning of another of some different metal. The
boundaries of epochs are not quite so determinate, and centuries,
periods, epochs, run into one another, mix, blend, elude precise
delineation. Cantù’s tenth epoch is not the tenth century, but the
period beginning A.D. 800 and ending A.D. 1096. This period, between
Charlemagne and the Crusades, far from presenting the aspect of a
desolate waste to the eye, is crowded and variegated with events
and persons of the most important and interesting character, and
their history is one great act in the European drama, advancing it
sensibly toward the consummation which we are still, in our own
age, hastening forward and awaiting in the near or distant future.
Within this great period are other and lesser cycles, embracing
epochs, phases, temporary states of ecclesiastical and civil
prosperity or adversity, alternations of various kinds, in Christendom,
in Europe, or in portions of the Christian commonwealth, each
having its distinctive notes. That part of it which is in the centre
presents the characteristics of an iron age more distinctly marked
than the preceding or following periods. The latter half of the ninth
and the earlier half of the tenth century, taken together, really
constitute the period which can with strict propriety be called the
iron age. And within this century a period of about forty years,
including the end of the ninth and the first years of the tenth
century, was a sort of crisis in which Christian Europe seemed to
have reached the dead-point in her progress, and, having passed it,
went on again under the attraction of a new force.
This statement must not be taken as rigorously and uniformly
applicable to all Europe and Christendom. The Greek Empire and the
degenerate Eastern Church were in a state of hopeless decadence,
verging toward a permanent downfall. England and Spain, on the
other hand, passed through their worst times earlier, and were going
upward and onward, led by great men and heroes—Alfred and the
forerunners of Ferdinand and the Cid—just at the time when the rest
of Europe was in the most disordered and disastrous condition. The
crisis of the iron age affected chiefly the countries which had
constituted the great domain of Charlemagne—France, Germany,
and Italy. Its phases were various, in respect to time and other
conditions, in these very countries. The whole panorama, as
presented to our view in the pages of historical narrative, is as
shifting, varied, apparently capricious, as mountain scenery in the
changing aspects of light and shade, produced by sunshine, clouds,
and moonlight, by transforming mists and sombre night. It is only
when we rise to the logical order and sequence of events, trace
effects to their causes, enlarge our scope of vision, ascend into the
upper regions of a true philosophy of history whose atmosphere is
the Christian idea and whose light is celestial faith, that a real order,
harmony, and progression toward an intelligible and grand result are
clearly discernible.
Some few general statements borrowed from this higher branch of
historical science must be premised before we can come at a
satisfactory view of our particular and immediate topic and set its
details in systematic order.
The actual evils and miseries which afflicted the Christian people of
Europe during the iron age were invasions of Saracens,
Scandinavians, and Hungarians, incessant wars among greater and
lesser princes, terrible famines and pestilences, and, in general, a
state of turbulence, insecurity, social and moral confusion. This
whole state of things was a relapse into the condition brought about
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