interpret alike the Bible and the creeds. And thus, deliberately and logically, he went to Rome.

And, so far as logic is concerned, there is no reason why the whole of Christendom should not arise at once and follow him. Of all that curse the human reason in these days, or say that it is cursed, none are so brave, so thorough-going, so consistent, as was he. But even he, with all his intellectual rigidity, with logical acumen such as is not given to ten men in a century, would not perhaps have gone to Rome, if he had not been taunted, scourged, and vilified; if his steps had not been dogged; if men's heated brains had not gone on for ever forging lies. Not that these things carried him there; but they helped to neutralize the forces which would perhaps have kept him in his place but for this counteraction. Not the least beautiful portion of this record is that which proves how dearly Dr. Newman loved his friends. It must have been as terrible as death to part with them. Then, too, he was the recognized leader of the greatest movement that his Church had known for many a day. And he delighted in the exercise of power. It could not have been an easy thing for him to sink at once into the merest nobody. And then there were so many looking to him for help. Alas! if they should think that he had cheated them! In view of all these things, not one man in a thousand would have gone to Rome; no, not though they had been hounded on even more furiously than he.

And, since it was so hard for him to go where logic manifestly led the way, we shall not be surprised if the great body of the Christian world prefer to be illogical, and to stay just. where they are. It is the whole man that reasons, and logic is so small a part of us that it is not very often that it has its way. But the rationale of the matter is not changed. It is still true, that, between the premises that we have named and the conclusion in which Dr. Newman now reposes, we cannot logically pause. But is there no alternative if we do not care either to go to Rome, or to convict ourselves of cowardice by deserting, at the last moment, the stately ship in which we have embarked? Yes, one and but one. It is to set our

faces just the other way; to walk with Francis Newman, rather than with John, forward into the realm of freedom, not backward into that of clanking chains. We can go behind the premises which all the world accept, and see if they are worth accepting. Let it be proved, if possible, that man has undergone some "terrible original calamity," by which he has been robbed of his ability to know the truth, and to commune with God. Or let it be shown that these are facts inherent in the human constitution. And then let it be proved that man is only to be saved by truth rolled up into a dogma, and swallowed down as if it were a pill. These are the camels of theology; and, when a man has swallowed them, there is no need of straining out the gnats of miracle and superstition that still remain in the flagon. The Roman Catholic does not care to do this; but Protestants, who pretend to use their reason, are very careful of their intellectual oesophagus. But, to him that believes in miracles, a thousand, more or less, should make no difference. It is absurd to draw a line between the power of St. Paul's body + to work miracles, and that of St. Walburga's bones; to believe in one, and not believe in the other. Nothing is difficult if you can prove the fundamental mysteries of human incapacity and salvation through acceptance of a creed.

But these pretended facts have not a shadow of foundation. The human soul is capable of loving all things beautiful, of doing all things good, of finding out enough of God's own truth to answer all its glorious purposes. So much of intellectual certainty as is needed for our tasks, we can purchase by the modest use of our own powers. There is no need of any oracle outside of the breast. It is there that we must listen for the only words that are infallible. And those there spoken are not infallible for other men, but only for ourselves. And for ourselves to-day, but not to-morrow. Should any

ask, "But is this Christianity?" we should answer, "No, if by Christianity you mean the current faith of Christendom. Yes, if you mean the faith which Jesus cherished, and in which he lived and died."

* Apologia, p. 268.

† Acts xix. 12.

C. E. ibule.

ART. IV.-PIONEERS OF FRANCE IN THE
NEW WORLD.

Pioneers of France in the New World. By FRANCIS PARKMAN, Author of the Conspiracy of Pontiac, Prairie and Rocky Mountain Life, &c. Boston: Little, Brown, & Co.

THE written history of North America begins where Henry the VII., "the English Solomon," wrote in his privy-purse account-book, "To him that found the new isle, ten pounds." This was as early as August 10, 1497. Between that early date and 1574, there is hardly a word of America in the archives of England. From 1497 quite down to 1607, when Newport and John Smith at last got firm foothold of Virginia, there is more than a century of adventure, of experiment, and of waiting, a century which is to be called the century of the dawn, to which belongs all the mythic history that we have, a great store of romance, should civilization ever start up new romances, and of which the general student wonders that so little is recorded or widely known. Before that century was past, Mexico and South America had really passed through the most imposing and eventful crises of their history. The cities and cathedrals were built; Santa Rosa, our one American Saint, was born and had died; and the rivers of gold and silver had overflowed for the destruction of Spain, and had begun to run dry. Yet, of that period, general history tells of the country north of Mexico a most scanty story of a little fishing, and a little quest at the north for India; hints at a little squabbling about title between Spain and England; but, on the whole, lets the century drift by, as if it had as little to do with America as the century before.

Into one of the great halls of history, as empty and dark as this, Mr. Parkman walks boldly; throws open the shutters; brushes the dust off the pictures; shall we say, takes the linen covers from the statues; and shows that the sun was as bright and the world as active — that men were as

brave, as noble, and as manly—that adventure was as desperate and passions as hot, north of the line of Mexico, as they were south of it, for these hundred years of preparation, before Protestant America was born. He begins with Florida, the most tropical of our States, the oldest of our colonies, the most mysterious in her history, shall we not say, the most hopeful in her future? He tells very brieflyrather too briefly - the stories of Ponce de Leon, of the fountain of Youth, and De Soto; for the Spanish adventurers are not his heroes, but the French. Thus he opens up for us the history of the French colonies in Carolina and Florida. As early as 1550, there is the curious episode of Villegagnon's Huguenot colony in Rio Janerio. This failed, and the next French Protestant colony tried its fortune in Port Royal Bay.

"At length (in 1562) they reached a scene made glorious in afteryears. Opening betwixt flat and sandy shores, they saw a commodious haven, and named it Port Royal. On the 27th of May they crossed the bar, where the war-ships of Dupont crossed three hundred years later. They passed Hilton Head, where, in an after generation, rebel batteries belched their vain thunder; and, dreaming of nothing of what the rolling centuries should bring forth, held their course along the peaceful bosom of Broad River."

The object of this expedition was not immediate settlement, but exploration; but so enthusiastic were the voyagers, as they saw the beauties of that region in early June, that a company of volunteers, thirty in number, were left to attempt a settlement. Wholly unprepared they were, and wholly ignorant of the undertaking before them. The story of the colony is a story of famine, misery, and death, like one before it, and like so many which come after it. The European races had passed so many centuries since their last exodus, that they had lost the art of colonizing, now so well known again; and they had all to learn by cruel experience. The next year closed on Port Royal without one Frenchman on its shores; on North America, without one white man north of Mexico. All was to be begun again.

The new beginning was made by Laudonnière with another

Huguenot colony, in 1564. He landed in the River of May, which we call the River of St. John. Remember him, new colonists, who shall carry a new religion, new laws, and the new-tested rights of men into that river, in the new birth of Florida! Ribaut, who had led the last colony, had landed on those lonely shores; and he and his Frenchmen were tenderly remembered there. They made themselves the friends of the savages from the very beginning. Made welcome by the prestige they had gained, the colony of Laudonnière established itself at Fort Caroline. The story of their adventures and intrigues with one and another sept or tribe of the Indians; the story of their relief by Hawkins, the inventor of the slave-trade and prince of legalized buccaneers; the story of their conflict with Menendez, the Spanish leader, who came to rout them out from the empire of Spain, discovered them, outnumbered and overmastered them, broke faith with their starving fugitives, and for ever tainted the names of Catholic and of Spaniard by his treatment of them, -all these stories give full material for a narrative of melodramatic interest. Then comes poetical justice. Menendez, the Spanish leader, hanged Ribaut and his other prisoners, with the inscription, "I do this, not as to Frenchmen, but as to Lutherans." Nothing in the recent annals of Southern warfare has been more brutal or barbarous than the treatment which the Jesuit leader inflicted on his Huguenot captives. The French king at home had no ear for the tale. But Dominique de Gourgues, a private Huguenot gentleman, read of these cruelties; collected a crew of men willing to avenge his countrymen; sailed in 1568 for the River of May; found the Indians willing to join him against the Spaniards, and, in a whirlwind assault, took them prisoners in their turn. Grimly he arrayed his prisoners before the trees where Menendez had hanged his captives. They were hanged there in turn, with the inscription," I do this, not as to Spaniards, nor as to Morescoes, but as to traitors, robbers, and murderers."

1 Marane, which we render "Morescoes," was a term of ignominy. As one might say "nigger" of a white man.