With her, we close the few practical examples of the greatness of woman during the ages of martyrdom, but the spirit that made the martyrs did not die with the last of the canonized victims of the pagan persecutions. St. Jerome speaks of a “daily martyrdom, which consists not in the shedding of blood as a testimony, but in the devout and undefiled service of the mind” (_De Laud. S. Paulæ_). This we propose to illustrate in a subsequent article, giving historical instances of the actual honor paid in the church to learned, holy, and influential women, rather than entering into abstract controversy on the subject of what is and is not due to her sex. What we have already said in these pages will tend, please God, to remove prejudices, and at least clear the way for evidence still more appreciable by our ambitious non-Catholic sisters, namely, that which goes to show that not only in social and home life, but also in the wide sphere of statecraft and public influence, the church has marked out a noble margin for women’s genius.
Was ever tale of love like this? The wooing of the Spouse of blood: Who came to wed us to his bliss In those eternal years with God?
Those griefless years, those wantless years, He left them--counting loss for gain-- To taste the luxury of tears, And revel in the wine of pain!
’Twas sin had mixed the cup of woe From Adam passed to every lip: And none could shirk its brimming flow-- For some a draught, for all a sip:
Till Jesus came, athirst to save: Nor sucked content a sinless breast; But grasped the fatal cup, and gave That Mother half, then drained the rest.
Enough the milk without the wine. When first the new-born Infant smiled, ’Twas merit infinite, divine, To cleanse a thousand worlds defiled.
But _we_ must take of both. And how Could love look on, nor rush to share? Or hear us moan: “Death’s darkness now: And _Thou_, at least, wast never there”?
And so he drank our Marah dry: Then filled the cup with wine of heaven. Who would not live--with him to die? Or not have sinned--when so forgiven?
Jans von Steufle was a happy man until he got that donkey. Now, you might think the donkey was left him as a legacy by some dear friend or rich relation, or that Jans found him in the highway some cold wintry night and took him home in pity, or the donkey might have strayed into Jans’ enclosure and refused to go out, but no such thing; Jans bought and paid for all his trouble in good silver coin.