Part 11 — CHAPTER XXII.

EXPLANATIONS.

“We have had a delightful sail, mamma, and are all well. I hope that you have not been anxious. Mr. Rowan fell overboard, for a diversion, and, of course, got wet; but Captain Cary got him out, and he is all right now. Good-night, mamma, for me and the girls, and Carl. We are all here.”

However late her children might be out, Mrs. Yorke could not close her motherly eyes till she knew that they were safe under the home-roof again. Then she turned upon her pillow, and dropped asleep, giving thanks. She felt a slight uneasiness when Melicent, before breakfast the next morning, asked her to send Patrick down to enquire for Dick.

“Why, was he hurt? Is he not coming up, this morning?” she asked.

“I presume that he is very well, mamma,” the daughter replied. “But it would look pleasant to be attentive.”

This was said with an air of reserve, and the young woman evidently did not wish to say any more. In an equally diplomatic manner, she announced that Edith had a headache, and was not coming down to breakfast. Melicent was one of those persons who, when in possession of a secret, as James Russell Lowell has said, “will not let the cat out of the bag, but they give its tail a pull to let you know that it is there.”

Mrs. Yorke said no more. She found this manner annoying. But she observed at breakfast that Carl ate nothing, and that Clara kept up a constant stream of talk, that seemed designed to cover some embarrassment. She noticed, also, that no mention was made of Dick Rowan or their sail of the day before. When she arose from the table, and went toward the entry-door, her eldest daughter interposed, with an air of being in the charge of affairs. “I would not disturb Edith now, mamma.”

“Melicent!” exclaimed her mother haughtily, and waved the young woman aside.

Edith was lying on her bed, dressed as on the day before, her face hidden in the pillow. She started when her aunt spoke to her, and turned a pale and tear-wet face. It did not need this to tell Mrs. Yorke that her niece’s headache came from the heart.

“My head does ache, Aunt Amy,” Edith said. “But I am distressed about Dick. He is displeased with me. I do not wish to speak of it to any one but him.”

“I have sent Patrick down, my dear,” her aunt said; “and you shall know as soon as he returns.”

Mrs. Yorke and her two daughters sat together, pretending to read and sew, but all watching the avenue gate for the return of their messenger. When he had delivered his news, and gone, the mother spoke with authority.

“Girls, I insist on knowing, at once, the meaning of this!”

“You had better ask Carl, mamma; he is the one to explain,” answered Melicent. “But I must say that Mr. Rowan has behaved ill. A young man whom one of our family has promised to marry should at least act like a gentleman.”

“Send Carl to me,” Mrs. Yorke said, rising. “And, Clara, say to Betsey that I shall see no one to-day, then go up and tell Edith.”

Carl was pacing one of the garden paths, and, for the first time that day, his manner showed agitation. He had already heard Patrick’s news, and his first thought was to echo Melicent’s opinion that one who had

“I thought the fellow had more spirit!” he muttered. “But it isn’t in him to act like anything but a rustic.”

As he said this, an inner voice made answer; not the voice of conscience, for that acquitted him, but the voice which he expected to hear from without: “Neither is it in him to speak or sing love to another man’s promised wife, though silence should break his heart.”

“And what if it broke hers?” asked Carl, as though he had been spoken to.

He glanced up at the window of Edith’s chamber. The curtain was down, hanging in close, white folds, shutting her in.

Then came Melicent to call him.

Carl found his mother in a tiny room, where she always took her siesta in summer, and where she held all her private conferences. It was a cosy, shady nook, with only a sofa, and table, and chair in it, and seemed intended as a place for confidential communion. In that room, with nothing to save him from her steady eyes, Mr. Griffeth had stammered out his apologies to Mrs. Yorke for misleading her son; there, her daughters came for advice and admonition; and there she herself retired when she wished to be alone. It was a place where a rebel could be brought to submission, or a penitent comforted. It is almost impossible to be confidential in a large, well-lighted room.

“Have you had any quarrel with Mr. Rowan, Carl?” his mother asked, the moment he appeared.

“Not an unpleasant word has passed between us, mother,” he answered.

She had been standing, but sank back into the sofa as he spoke, and he closed the door, and came and stood before her, doubting, at first, what the tone of their interview would be. Her question had been imperative, and that he could not bear. There are times in the life of the most dutiful when they feel that there is for them then no legitimate human authority outside themselves. But he saw that her face was pale, though the red curtain lowered over the one window behind her warmed all the light that entered; and her voice was entreating when she spoke again:

“My son, have you nothing to tell me?”

He sat down on the hassock at her feet, and leaned on her lap; and she knew all before he had uttered a word.

“My child,” she whispered, leaning toward him, “your happiness is my dearest wish; but there is honor!”

He took her trembling hands, and met her look firmly. “Yes, mother, there is honor,” he said. “But listen to me, before you conclude that it should be mentioned here in the subjunctive sense. You know, mother, I could not speak of love to a child. I did not wish to. It was enough for me to see that Edith was surely, though unconsciously, drawing toward me. If you had a rare plant, with a single bud on it, would you thank the one who would pluck that bud open before its time for blooming? And what flower is so delicate and sacred as a young girl’s heart? Besides, such a thought comes to a man also, when it comes first, with a feeling of silence. To my mind, it would have been rude what that answer would be; and when she came down-stairs the next morning to meet him, I felt sure that it was to refuse him. I stood in the entry when she passed, and she knew that I was there, but would not look at me. She was very pale, I saw, and I thought it was for his sake. It seems it was for her own sake. No matter what I felt when I heard the words with which they met. I went away, you know; I did not choose to make a scene. When I came back, I had made up my mind to speak to him clearly, and as friendly as I could, and ask that he should give her back her promise, and leave her free to choose again. He would have done it, mother; I am sure he would. Had he been too loverlike, I should have made no delay; but, as it was, I thought best to wait till his visit was over. You could scarcely expect me to be perfectly cool and reasonable always. Under the circumstances, I think that I have shown as much fairness as any one has a right to require of me. I meant to see him last night, after the girls had come home—went to the sail with that intention. But he made me angry at starting. He stood there, and sang that ballad from Le Misanthrope,

‘Si le roi m’avoit donné’

—sang it before me, and with such an air of triumph and certainty as made me feel anything but pitiful toward him for a little while. Edith was offended, too. I saw her color with resentment. ‘Ma mie!’ It was too public a claiming. When we came back—you know what a night it was, mother.” Carl stopped, his face growing very red. “There are some things not easy to tell,” he said.

Mrs. Yorke put her arm around him, and drew his head to her bosom.

In that sweet confessional, he went on with his story. “It was such a scene as gives one that faint swaying of the brain that just shows the points in our prudent resolutions. The moonlight, the music, the air, the water, our very motion, were intoxicating. And Edith was there, and so beautiful!—an Undine, drooping over the boat-side, as though she might any moment slip into the water, and disappear, if I did not stay her. I sang what I would have said. I called her, and she turned to me!”

Carl lifted his head, caught his mother’s hands, and kissed them joyfully, then stood up before her with an air as triumphant as Dick Rowan’s own. “The time had come, and she was mine!” he exclaimed. “Edith belongs to me, mother!”

For the moment, everything else was forgotten; and the mother forgot, too, till she saw his face cloud over.

“Poor fellow!” said Carl, and knelt on the hassock again. “My heart aches for him. When he saw Edith look at me, he fainted. It seems cruel to be so happy at such a cost. I went up to Hester’s, last night, to see him, but he was not there, and it was too late to go to the ship. I would have borne any reproach from him. I would have been patient, and have explained everything to him. I think, mother, that I could even have made a friend of him. He is generous. But it is too late now.”

“You must go away at once, Carl,” Mrs. Yorke said presently. “It is the only proper thing to do. The family are pledged to Mr. Rowan, and, till all is settled between him and Edith, you must have no intercourse with her here. My position is one of great delicacy. I cannot even advise Edith.”

While they talked, Edith had risen, and written two letters, one to Dick Rowan, the other to Father Rasle. Both were short, the former only a line.

“You have no right to treat me so,” she wrote. “If you go away without seeing me, never call yourself my friend again!”

It seemed hard; but she had said to herself: “If he leaves me here with Carl, I shall not be able to be true to him.”

She dressed herself to go out and post these letters, and had just come down-stairs, when she met Carl in the entry. She stopped abruptly at sight of him, and a deep crimson mantled her face as she waited for him to let her pass.

It was a new blush for Edith, for she knew why she blushed. But the Spartan spirit he had admired in the child was not dead, and she was herself the next moment. She bade him a quiet “Good-morning, Carl!” and was passing on, when he asked to see her in the parlor.

“Certainly!” she said, too proud to shrink.

Carl smiled as he held the door open for her to pass, and closed it after them. He was pleased with her dignity.

“I have been talking with my mother,” he said, “and she tells me that I must go away immediately. Do you agree with her?”

Possibly she had seen, and misunderstood his smile, for she chose to be very high with him. “I do not know why you should go,” she said coldly.

“Shall I tell you why it seemed to us that I should?” he asked.

Her look changed at the tone of his voice, which seemed reproachful.

“No, Carl,” she said, “you need not tell me, and you must say nothing to me that you would not say to a married woman. I trust you, Carl. You have always been honorable. You are very dear to me, and I trust you perfectly. It is best that you should go.”

The last words were spoken rather faintly, and she had turned from him, and opened the door.

“I shall go to Boston,” he said, “and stay there. In a few weeks you will all come up, and I shall see you.”

She stood in the door now, with her face half turned, and her forehead resting against the door-frame, so that he saw only her profile. And, so leaning, as though from faintness, she put her hand back, and held out her letters to him, and he took them.

“Read them both,” she said, “and mail them for me. And, Carl, I shall not see you again before you go. And”—she stopped, as though her voice had failed her.

“I will not ask you to,” he said.

“And, afterward,” she went on, “I shall not see you in Boston. If you are at home, I shall go to stay with Dick’s mother.”

She did not look round again, but went up-stairs quickly, and shut herself into her room. It is not for us to intrude in that privacy wherein a young heart fought its first battle.

No one saw her that day; but the next morning she came out, and went about her usual employments, much in her usual manner. Whether, like that Russian empress, she was “too proud to be unhappy,” or she had been soothed by that trust in God which makes every yoke easy and every burden light, or the elasticity of youth made continued pain seem impossible, we do not pretend to say. Human motives are not always easy to be read by human eyes.

Everybody tried to act as though nothing were the matter, and there was enough for all to do. Many things had to be planned and arranged in preparation for their leaving Seaton, and Edith had her own business to attend to. There were the Pattens needing double care since they were so soon to lose her; and the Catholic school to visit, that being permitted now; and a great deal of shopping to be done for her little flock of pensioners.

Within a fortnight came a letter from Carl to his mother, taken up chiefly with business details. But he wrote: “I called yesterday on Mrs. Williams to ask for her son. He was not at home, and I have not seen him yet. He has given up his ship, for this voyage, to Captain Cary.”

Carl could have added, but did not, that the call had not been a pleasant one. Mrs. Williams had just seen Captain Cary, and gleaned from him all that he had thought best to tell, which was, merely, that there seemed to be a slight misunderstanding between Dick and Edith. Her suspicions pointed at once to Carl, and she had not scrupled to express them to him when he came to her house.

“I am sorry not to see Mr. Rowan,” he had said, when he got a chance, ignoring her accusations and reproaches; and, with that, had taken a ceremonious leave.

“A pretty mother-in-law for Edith!” was his conclusion.

A few days after came a letter from Mrs. Williams to Edith. It was what might have been expected from

Poor Dick! could he have foreseen that such a letter would be written, he would have sacrificed himself a good deal in order to prevent it.

Edith dropped the letter at her feet after reading it, and said, not for the first time since Carl went away, “Oh! that Father Rasle would come!”

As she said it, and for a moment let slip the leash that held her hidden feelings, one could see that, however calm she might have been outwardly, there had been an inward gnawing all the time. A smile and bright words can mask a good deal. When she dropped them, there was visible a whiteness about the mouth, shadows under the eyes, and even a thinning of the cheeks—the work of that short time.

Hearing her aunt’s voice at the chamber-door asking admittance, Edith caught the letter up again, and her self-control with it.

Mrs. Yorke came in with an air of quiet decision, and took a seat by her niece. “I saw the outside of your letter, my dear girl, and know whom it was from,” she said; “and I have no intention of allowing you to be killed by others, or to kill yourself. I understand and respect a mother’s feelings, Edith, and I respect the obligation of a promise. But there are common sense and justice to be taken into account. Feelings, and, especially, the feelings of a young person who has scarcely learned to know herself, are not to be weighed and measured, like iron and lumber, and stored away, and left unchanged, till called for. You know, my dear, that I have a great affection for Mr. Rowan, and would do him no unkindness nor injustice, do you not?”

“You were very kind to him, aunt,” Edith replied quietly. “I am not afraid of anything that you will say or do.”

“You need not be,” Mrs. Yorke said. “I will not ask you if you have learned to think that promise of yours a hasty one; but there are certain points which I wish to insist upon. They are of general application. Honor does not require that one should keep a bad promise. The fault, if fault there be, is in the making, not the breaking. Also, a woman cannot make a worse promise than one to marry a man whom she does not love. Many very good and pious people will tell you that esteem is enough, and that you will grow to love your husband after a time. That is false. You may learn to endure him, but it will be after all the bloom is wiped from your feelings, and love and delicacy both are dead in you. Let no one make you believe that your feelings are romantic folly. Believe, rather, that your adviser is coarse, though honest. One other dictum: there is no favor, nor obligation, nor affection which a man can confer on you, for which your hand is not too high a price to pay. Give gratitude, affection, even service, but not yourself. Do not sell your hand for any price: it should be a free gift. This is all that I can pronounce positively upon. For the rest, do not act hastily and without advice; for, aside from the question of your personal good, you might bitterly wrong some one else. If you have been hasty, it is a pity; but that cannot be helped now, and

“But, Aunt Amy,” Edith said, after a moment’s thought, “if a woman, out of gratitude, and from an utter impossibility of allowing herself to give such pain to a friend, should promise never to marry any one else, would that be right?”

“A man worthy of inspiring such a resolution would not accept the promise,” was the reply; “and the woman has no right to make it. But if she should offer to wait till he is reconciled, that might be soothing to both. Is there anything else you wish to say?”

“Nothing now, thank you, aunt. You are very kind.”

This conversation soothed Edith; but, still, she returned to her wishing for Father Rasle; not entirely for his own sake, though that was much, but because her need of confession and communion had become a great longing.

Her wish was destined to be speedily gratified; for the very next day, when Mr. Yorke came home to dinner, he brought his niece a letter from the priest.

She read it immediately, in presence of the family, and her face brightened. “How delightful!” she exclaimed. “He will say Mass here next Sunday. He is to come Saturday, that is, the day after to-morrow He sends his regards to you all. Let no one know that he is coming, he writes, but Miss Churchill, and Mr. and Mrs. Kent, at whose house he will stop. There will be time enough to notify the people when he has arrived. How glad they will be! That was a letter worth bringing, Uncle Charles!”

Looking up with her smile of thanks, she saw his face clouded. “Is there any trouble?” she asked anxiously.

“If he had come while Carl, and Rowan, and Captain Cary were here, I should have been better pleased,” Mr. Yorke replied evasively. “He has, however, the right to come whenever he chooses. Answer his letter to-day, Edith, and invite him to stop with us.”

“Dear Uncle Charles!” murmured Edith, and glanced enquiringly at her aunt.

“Tell him, for me, that we should all be very happy to have him as a guest,” said Mrs. Yorke.

A smiling nod from Melicent and from Clara confirmed this assertion.

“Dear me!” Edith sighed out, wiping her eyes, “I do think that you are the most beautiful people I ever knew.”

They all laughed at her way of saying it, and the little cloud disappeared. Mr. Yorke did not think it best to tell them that the Know-Nothings had called a public meeting for the next evening. There had been no such meeting for several months, and this might not be of any consequence.

The invitation was written, and sent, and on Saturday morning the answer came, only a few hours preceding Father Rasle.

He thanked them for their kindness, but found it necessary to decline their invitation. He must be where all the Catholics could come to him, bringing their infants to be baptized, and going to confession themselves. Besides the distance, he could not think of subjecting their house to such a visitation, which was likely to continue till late in the evening. His flock needed every moment of his time.

But, meanwhile, between the letter and its answer, the public meeting had taken place, and it had been of consequence.

THE NEW “OUTSPOKEN STYLE.”

POPULAR OBJECTIONS TO PAPAL INFALLIBILITY.

You say, “The Council, by its decree defining the Pope when teaching the universal church to be infallible or exempt from error in all matters pertaining to faith and morals, makes the Pope God, clothes him with the incommunicable attributes of the Divinity, and consequently requires us to reverence and worship him as God.” Are you not a little hasty in this conclusion? You tell me that you

Now, were these inspired penmen, prophets, apostles, and evangelists each God, or clothed with the incommunicable attributes of the Divinity? You do not believe it. Why, then, does the declaration of the Pope’s infallibility declare him to be God? The sacred penmen, you believe, were infallible in what they wrote, and yet without becoming God, or ceasing to be men; why may not the Pope, then, be infallible without being God, or ceasing to be a man like you and me? Do you say the sacred writers were infallible by the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, not by nature? Well, do Catholics pretend that the Pope is infallible by nature, or otherwise than through the supernatural assistance of the Holy Ghost protecting him from error in teaching the faith taught by the prophets and apostles? I am not aware that they do.

Catholics, I am told, make a distinction between divine inspiration and divine assistance. The prophets and apostles were divinely inspired to reveal truth; the Pope, according to Catholics, is divinely assisted to teach infallibly the truth revealed through the prophets and apostles, or as taught to the apostles by our Lord himself while he was yet with them. Now, if the inspiration which rendered the prophets and apostles infallible in revealing the truth which was hitherto hidden did not clothe them with the incommunicable attributes of God, how can you pretend that the assistance of the Spirit to teach infallibly what God revealed through them, which is far less, makes the Pope God, or clothes his nature with the attributes of God? If more did not do it in their case, how can less do it in his?

You say, “All men are fallible, and no man can teach infallibly.” All men are fallible, it is true, in their own nature; but that no man by supernatural inspiration and assistance can teach infallibly, neither you nor I believe. We both hold, for instance, that St. Peter was a man, and yet that he was an infallible teacher of the word of God. We hold the same of St. Paul, of St. John, of St. Matthew, of St. Mark, and of St. Luke. Say you they were infallible not by their natural endowments, but only through the supernatural external assistance of the Holy Ghost? But Catholics, if I understand them, hold the Pope to be infallible not by nature or by his own natural powers, but only by the supernatural assistance of the Holy Ghost. Grant the supernatural assistance of the Holy Ghost, and there is no more difficulty in believing the Pope is infallible in his teachings than in believing, as you and I do, that St. Peter and St. Paul were infallible in teaching the revelation of God, whether by word or letter.

Indeed, my dear Philo, Catholics claim no more for the Pope than our old Presbyterian parson claimed for himself and for each and every individual of the regenerate or true people of God. He taught us, as you well know, that the regenerate soul is guided by the Spirit into all truth, and protected from all error, at least as to essentials. Some, perhaps most Protestants, go farther than this, and claim to have an infallible authority for their faith in the Bible interpreted by private judgment, and therefore claim for private judgment pretty much the same infallibility that the Council of the Vatican claims for the Pope. Either, then, all regenerate souls, nay, all men, if Protestants are right, are each God, or else the declaration of the Council does not, actually or virtually, declare the Pope to be God, or anything more or less than a man supernaturally assisted by the Holy Ghost to perform the duties of the office to which the Council holds he is supernaturally appointed by Him who has all power in heaven and earth, and is King of kings and Lord of lords.

You say, “The supposition of an infallible Pope is repugnant to the rights and activity of the mind.” I do not see it. The human mind can hardly be said to have any rights in presence of its Creator. If any right it has, it is the right to be governed by the word of God alone, and not to be held subject to any human authority or opinions of men. My mind is outraged when it is subjected to the fallible opinions of men, and obliged to hold them as truth, when I have no adequate authority for believing that they are not erroneous. How then its rights can be denied by its being furnished with an infallible guide to the truth, to the word of God, its supreme law, instead of the words of man, is what I do not exactly comprehend, and I do not believe you can comprehend any better than I. An infallible authority lessens the activity of the mind in groping after truth, if you will; but truth being the element of the mind,

You say, again, that “an infallible authority destroys man’s free agency and takes away his moral responsibility.” The intellect, you are aware, my dear Philo, if prescinded from the will, is not free. I am not free in regard to pure intellections. I cannot, if I would, believe that two concretes are five, or only three; and I am obliged to admit that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right angles. I may refuse to turn my attention to one or another class of subjects, but I see and judge as I must, not as I will or choose. Free agency and moral responsibility, therefore, attach to the will, not to the intellect, and are enhanced in proportion to my knowledge or understanding of the truth. The authority teaching me infallibly the truth, I am bound by the law of God to accept and obey. So far from destroying free agency, it manifestly confirms it, and, instead of taking away moral responsibility, raises it to the highest possible pitch; for it leaves the mind without the shadow of an excuse for not believing. You forget, my dear Philo, that infallible authority presenting infallible truth is not only a command to the will, but the highest possible reason to the understanding. But at any rate, the objection is as valid against the infallibility of the Bible, asserted by Protestants, as against the infallibility of the Pope, asserted by Catholics.

You say, furthermore, “The claim of infallibility for the Pope is incompatible with civil and religious liberty. If the Pope is infallible in all questions touching faith and morals, his authority is supreme, overrides all other powers, and subjects to him our whole life, religious, moral, domestic, social, and political.” But if so, what, then, if he is infallible? You forget that this is no more than Protestants themselves claim for the Bible. Do you admit that any state, sovereign prince, head of a family, or individual has the right, in thought, word, or deed, to contradict or go counter to the law of God as contained in the infallible Bible? Do you not hold that every one is subject in all things whatsoever to the infallible authority of the Holy Scriptures? Well, how can the subjection of our whole life—religious, moral, domestic, social, and political—to the authority of an infallible book be less incompatible with civil and religious liberty than its subjection to an infallible Pope? If the Pope is really infallible, he can enjoin nothing in faith or morals not enjoined by the law of God. Do you pretend that subjection to the law of God is incompatible with civil and religious liberty? If so, you must say with Proudhon, “God is a tyrant, and you must either abolish God or give up the defence of liberty. Once admit God, and you must admit the Catholic Church, Pope, and all.” Now, I am not in the habit, any more than Catholics are, of regarding God and liberty as antagonistic, the one to the other. I have always been accustomed to regard liberty not as freedom from all restraint, but as simply freedom from all unjust restraint, or restraint not imposed by the law of

What you really object to, my dear Philo, is not, it strikes me, an infallible, but a fallible Pope claiming to be infallible. But suppose the Pope to be infallible in the sense defined by the Council, it is absurd to object to him as dangerous to liberty, civil or religious, because the Holy Ghost prevents him from declaring anything to be the law of God which is not so, and because, being assisted by the same Holy Ghost, he is always able to decide infallibly what that law does or does not require; and as long as the law as he declares it is observed, no one can be subjected to an unjust authority, oppressed, or deprived of any of his rights.

“You concede,” you say, “the supremacy of the law of God, and that all laws which contravene it, or are not transcripts of it, are violences, not laws, and are null and void from the beginning; but this is something very different from subjecting all individuals and the whole secular order to the authority of an infallible Pope upheld by the whole hierarchy, and backed by a huge corporation that extends over the whole world.” But where is the difference, if the Pope, by divine assistance and protection, is really infallible? The Pope, if infallible, can be so only from the supernatural appointment and assistance of God as his vicar, and, if infallible, he can declare and apply only what is the law of God or authorized by the law of God. You are wrong, then, old friend, in objecting to the infallible authority; for that is what is needed to establish the divine order in human affairs, and to make the church really the kingdom of God on earth. Your objection and your reasoning are misdirected, and should be directed to prove that Catholics assert infallibility for a Pope who, in fact, is not infallible, but fallible.

You and all Protestants claim infallible authority for the Bible read and interpreted by each individual for himself, or, rather, by each sect for itself. Unless this interpretation is by an infallible authority, which it confessedly is not, you have in the Bible practically only a fallible authority, yet claim to have an infallible authority; and hence you claim and seek to enforce in the name of the Bible your own very fallible and contradictory opinions or theories. You are guilty, then, of precisely the offence you charge against Catholics, that of claiming infallibility for a fallible authority, and of which it is possible Catholics are not guilty, and, if the Pope be infallible, not only are not, but cannot be guilty. You have, as I have said—even conceding, as I do, the Bible in its true meaning to be infallible—practically no infallible authority. You have no infallible authority to determine and declare the law of God contained in the Bible. You have not the law itself, but only your view of it, which is only a human view, and therefore fallible. To subject men to a mere human view or to a mere human authority, I need not say, is intolerable despotism; and hence your Protestantism is incompatible either with civil or religious liberty, for all men

Hence, as you and I both know, there is no solid basis or security for liberty under Protestantism. If Protestants grow indifferent and do not attempt to govern in the name of the Bible, there may be license, anarchy, a moral and political chaos; but if they are in earnest, and attempt to enforce the authority of the Bible as they understand it, they only enforce their own view of it, and, consequently, can establish only a spiritual despotism either in church or state. In Geneva, Scotland, in every state in Europe that became Protestant, in Virginia, in Massachusetts, in Connecticut, the dominant sect, you know, in early times established an odious tyranny, and would tolerate no opinion hostile to its own. Owing to certain reminiscences of principles inculcated in pre-Reformation times, and to the growing indifference of Protestants to their religion at the time our republic was instituted, and still more to the dissensions among Protestants themselves, civil and religious liberty were recognized here in the United States, but it had and has no basis and no guarantee, except in parchment constitutions, not worth the parchment on which they are engrossed, and which the people may alter at will; and even now the Evangelical sects are trying to unite their forces to abolish religious liberty, without which civil liberty is an empty name. The founder of Methodism was no friend to civil liberty, and he proved himself the bitter enemy of religious liberty by creating, or doing more than any other man to create, the shameful Gordon riots in England in 1780. Let the Methodists become, as they bid fair to become, the dominant sect in the country, and able to command a majority of the votes of the American people, and both civil and spiritual despotism will be fastened on the country, for Methodism has only a human authority.

The sort of security Protestantism gives to religious liberty may be seen in the proceedings of the general government against the Mormons. It does not interfere with their religion: it pretends it only enforces against them the laws of the Union—laws, by the way, made expressly against them. All the government needs to suppress any religion or religious denomination it does not like is to pass laws prohibiting some of its practices on the plea that they are contrary to morality or the public good, and then take care to execute them. Queen Elizabeth held religious liberty sacred, and abhorred the very thought of persecuting Catholics. She only executed the laws against them. She enacted a law enjoining an oath of supremacy, and making it high treason to refuse to take it, and which she knew every Catholic was obliged in conscience to refuse to take; and then she could hang, draw, and quarter them, not as Catholics, but as traitors. Her judges only executed the laws of the realm against them. I have, as you well know, no sympathy with the Mormons, and I detest their peculiar doctrines and practices, but the principle on which the government proceeds against them would justify it, or any sect that could control it, in suppressing the church, and all Protestant sects even but itself.

Laws in favor of liberty amount to nothing, for all laws may be repealed. The Bible is no safeguard. Under it and by its supposed authority, Catholics have suffered the most cruel persecutions; even when not deprived of life, they have been deprived

You object, finally, my dear Philo, that the assertion of the infallibility of the Pope is incompatible with the assertion of the sovereignty of the people and the independence of secular government. The people and all secular governments, you have conceded, are subject to the law of God. Neither the people nor secular governments are independent of the divine law, and have only the authority it gives them, and the freedom and independence it allows them. How can they lose any right or authority they have or can have by having the divine law, under which they hold, infallibly declared and applied? It is singular, my old schoolfellow, that so acute, subtle, and so able a lawyer as I know you to be, should have the misfortune, as a theologian, to object to the very thing you really wish to maintain, and which can alone save you from the evils you seek to avoid. Now, what it is necessary to know in order to determine the rights and powers of government, is to know precisely what in relation to government the law of God—including both the natural law and the revealed law, which are really only two parts of one and the same divine law—ordains, what it prescribes, and what it forbids. This knowledge can only in part be derived through natural reason, because the law is in part supernatural, and can be known only by faith: it cannot be derived with certainty from the Scriptures interpreted by our own fallible judgment or by any human authority: it can be obtained infallibly from the teaching and decisions of an infallible Pope, if really infallible. The infallible Pope will give to the people all the sovereignty they have under the law of God, and maintain for civil government all the rights and powers, all the freedom and independence of action, the law of God gives it. What more do you want? What more dare you assert for civil government or for popular sovereignty? Would you put the people in the place of God, and raise the secular order above the spiritual, man above God? Certainly not, at least not avowedly either to yourself or to others. Then, how can you pretend the Papal infallibility is incompatible with the sovereignty of the people and the independence of civil government? Do you want the line unsettled, and the law of God

The fact is, my dear Philo, you and many others in your own minds regard liberty and authority as mutually hostile powers. It is the error of the age, and hence we see the nations alternating between the mob and the despot, each hostile alike to liberty and authority. Both liberty and authority are founded in the divine order, and without recognizing and conforming to that order neither can be maintained. To restrain liberty by an authority that rests on a human basis alone is to destroy it; as to restrain authority by liberty not defined by the law of God, or by popular sovereignty to be defined by popular sovereignty, is to lose all authority, and to rush into anarchy and universal license. There is no true liberty and no legitimate government independent of the divine order; consequently, none without an infallible authority to present and maintain it. The question is, Has God, or has he not, established an infallible authority to declare his law? Yours affectionately,

Damian.

THE FOXVILLES OF FOXVILLE.

A TALE OF THE PERIOD.

I.

At a huge country-house, not many years ago, some few days after the close of the Christmas and New Year’s festivities, the usual family circle, with one exception, met at the breakfast-table. A man on horseback had just pulled up at the house-door with the family letter-bag from the nearest town. The letters and papers were handed to the head of the family, who glanced over the addresses with the quick eye of a practised man of business, and placed one of the letters on an empty plate reserved for the absent member of the party.

“Oh! For Susy!” exclaimed a young lady, who seemed put to her wits’ end to make herself still younger, for she was the elder daughter of the house, past twenty-six, and disengaged. “I should like to know whom that’s from! A gentleman’s hand, I declare!” And she eyed the characters with a searching scrutiny, but they would tell no more tales.

“Don’t be so curious, Matilda. I shall recommend Susy to keep her letter a secret,” said an obnoxious brother, by name Augustus, one year the junior of the first speaker.

“Yes! you would encourage her in every kind of deception, you would! She is quite artful enough,” answered Matilda. “If I were papa,

“No, child!” said a white-headed old gentleman, Mr. Foxville, the happy father of Matilda, Augustus, and Susan, his stock of direct descendants, and all told, “I never meddle with other people’s business. Susy is a good girl, and she will let me have any news that may interest me.”

“You are quite right; but she has a duty to her mamma,” said Mrs. Foxville, with a grand matronly air. “Papa allows me to open all his letters, though he never opens mine: and that’s as it should be. If Susy does not come down soon, as I am privileged, I will open the letter. It is a genteel hand, I perceive.

“Well, well,” observed Mr. Foxville, “patience, patience! We can wait.”

“She is my child, Mr. Foxville,” replied the matron.

“Shall I fetch Susy down?” asked Matilda, with curiosity fermenting within her.

“Do, my dear,” said Mrs. Foxville, laboring under the same complaint, but affecting more indifference.

With much nimbleness the sprightly Matilda dashed out of the room, having first made an attempt to carry off the letter.

“Stop!” cried Augustus, putting his hand on it. “Suppose you bring Susy to the letter, and not the letter to Susy! Fair is fair,” he added, with something like distrust in the fair letter-carrier.

In a few seconds Matilda and Susy entered the room, the arm of the elder affectionately wound round the waist of the younger sister.

“Are you not well, Susy?” asked Mr. Foxville kindly.

“Perfectly!” replied Susy, giving her papa his morning kiss.

“There is a letter for you,” said the enviable father.

“Thank you,” answered Susy, and she slipt the letter unopened into a little dress pocket, coloring and tremulous as she did so.

“I could not wait like you for the news, Susy,” said her mother frankly, as she watched her daughter closely.

“I would not be so rude as to read letters before others,” answered Susy.

“Not at all rude!” observed Mrs. Foxville, with one of her grand airs. “There is nobody here but the family: that makes all the difference. I would wish to make you sensible of that, my child. Etiquette should not be pushed too far when we are en famille.”

The last words were delivered with a deal of self-importance, as if she had just solved a new problem of politeness and was vain of her discovery.

“Of course!” cried Matilda. “Do not hesitate, Susy. I should not. I could not take matters so coolly. The letter may be from some dear, dear friend!”

“Take my advice, Susy,” said that horrible Augustus. “Breakfast first, and dessert afterwards.”

“Dessert indeed! It may be some dreadful intelligence. So none of

“Then I would not spoil my appetite; and my recommendation holds good,” pursued that provoking brother.

“Ay! ay,” said Foxville senior; “your breakfast first, girl.” And this put an end to the dispute, for the old gentleman saw that Susy was pained at the discussion.

II.

It was true, as Miss Matilda Foxville had observed, that her sister Susy was the most regular in that exemplary household whenever there was a demand on her energies in domestic affairs, or on her good nature in diffusing happiness and cheerfulness around her. The fact that she had deviated from her usual course into the exceptional irregularity referred to, naturally called for comment such as any strange occurrence would provoke; and the uninitiated as naturally puzzled themselves with unsatisfactory conjectures. But the plain truth was this: Susy’s absence was caused by nothing less than a consciousness that a particular letter would arrive for her that morning. She imagined that she should betray less concern about the letter, and keep her nerves more under control, by an apparently accidental absence of a few minutes from the breakfast-table, than if she ran the risk of being present at the opening of the post-bag, and of manifesting her expectation and her too probable excitement at its realization.

Susy had, as we have seen, only partially succeeded; but, under shelter of the timely command of her father, she managed to conceal a great deal of her uneasiness at the expense of a charge of indifference toward her correspondents—a charge she was disposed to invite rather than disprove.

This little ruse, however, she was unable to carry very much further; for Matilda, more and more perplexed, and proportionably more curious, than ever, became, after the morning meal, more endearing in both manner and speech towards her sister than was customary with one who generally adopted the language of admonition or complaint. It was very clear that these famous time-honored weapons for eliciting obedience and respect would fail in the present instance; and Matilda had not spent twenty-six years of her valuable existence without acquiring an amount of knowledge that led her to that certain conclusion. But wheedling and an implied solicitude for her sister’s welfare were more insidious and keener instruments to open the confidence-chest of the unsuspecting Susy.

“I hope you will have good news,” began Matilda when the sisters were alone. Then she added, as if some sudden idea struck her, “But I forgot! I will leave you and come again presently, Susy dear; you would like to read and answer your letter?”

What it was that Miss Matilda professed to have forgotten would puzzle most men; but it was a phrase habitual to her, and coming from a person of her experience, it probably conveyed all she intended to those of her own sex who enjoyed her familiarity. Susy, whether she understood the form of expression or not, was attracted by her sister’s winning ways and most unusual condescension, and was quite prepared to open her heart to her.

“Don’t go, Till,” she said, blushing. “I have something to say to you.”

“It is the letter,” said Susy.

“Oh! that’s quite private,” pursued Matilda, “if I might judge by your putting it aside unopened.”

“But there is confidence between sisters?”

“Most undoubtedly. Would I not unbosom myself to you?”

“You shall, then, be the first to learn the news, but it must soon be family property,” said Susy, opening the letter, and reading it as Matilda looked over her shoulder. “I ought, perhaps, to show it to papa first,” she added, as a glow diffused itself over her face and neck.

“Yes; it is indeed matter for papa’s consideration: it is meant for him. But whom is it from?” said Matilda, in a fever to see the name on the last page, which Susy had not yet turned to.

“Nathaniel Wodehouse!” said Susy, in trembling accents, as she sank down on a chair to support herself in her novel situation.

“That trumpery fellow! faugh!” exclaimed Matilda boldly. “I would soon settle his business. Let me pen you a reply, will you?”

“Matilda! sister Till!” cried Susy in amazement, and recalled to herself. “How often have I heard you say what a charming, handsome man he is!”

“I! I!” said Matilda, ascending the gamut in her ejaculations. “I call him charming and handsome!” Then, with tremendous emphasis inspired by rage, she added, “Never!”

“Well, then,” followed up her merciless witness, roused by her sister’s vain denial, “he is charming and handsome! And you know it.”

III.

Mr. Foxville was a retired butcher who had made a fortune, and still did a little business on ‘Change to keep his hand in, and preserve his mental faculties from rusting. Besides the newspaper, which many will contend was his “best public instructor,” he had not many intellectual resources; and as he allowed himself little recreation, he devoted a great deal of time to journal-reading and the study of stocks and the share-list. Here was a fair amount of work for a busy mind; and very busy was Mr. Foxville in keeping a sharp eye on his investments.

Being fond of a country life, he bought several acres of land when he gave up business; and he had built himself an unwieldy mansion, and was erecting smaller houses and cottages at a respectful distance from his own. This cluster of dwellings he proposed to call Foxville, while his own big, special habitation he called Foxville House. The name was not adopted without reflection, and more than one debate between himself and wife.

Foxville’s patronymic was simply Fox. That did very well for business, but it was deemed unsuited for higher exigencies. Foxtown was invented and discussed, but it gave no satisfaction. Was there anything distinguished in Foxtown? Nothing! Husband and wife were one on that point.

At length, Mrs. Fox bethought her of a French tutor to her girls, and that excellent gentleman bore the name of Portville. Monsieur Portville was a very agreeable man, to ladies especially; and that circumstance associated something pleasant with his name to the ear of Mrs. Fox. It was a habit with Mr. Fox,

Mrs. Foxville was the daughter of a grocer, who had so many daughters that all he could do for them was to make them a home and allow them a limited portion for their wardrobe—totally insufficient, according to their unanimous opinion, for their position! Mrs. Foxville was the oldest, and was the first to enter into wedlock. She would have scorned an alliance with a butcher, so superior did she think her father’s calling, though on what grounds she never clearly stated; but the prosperity of young Fox proved a compensation strong enough to convert a woman’s uprising negative into a positive affirmative.

The correctness of the lady’s judgment could not be questioned in the days that lengthened Fox into Foxville. She continued, however, to regard herself as more than the equal of her husband; and she always spoke of my house, my family, my children Matilda, Augustus, and Susy, as if poor Foxville had no concern or partnership in the property. Sometimes he would slip in ‘our’ in place of ‘my,’ and he always spoke in this manner himself, but both the correction or amendment and the example had no effect on the ‘singular’ appropriation, which seemed, it may be supposed, to convey higher origin and standing than if lowered by a joint ownership.

Miss Matilda Foxville’s characteristics have sufficiently developed themselves, and Augustus, beyond being a plague to his elder sister, had no character at all. He was an existence, and little more; still, he was not without importance as the heir of a goodly estate.

Foxville House never failed to throw open its hospitable portals during Christmas week, and, not many days before the receipt of Susy’s letter, a large number of guests had found a warm welcome within them. Nathaniel Wodehouse was invariably the life of these social gatherings, and in the estimation of the Misses Foxville evidently he possessed qualifications for the prominent part he took. He stood high in favor with Miss Matilda, there is no denying the fact. For him more than for any other male thing, she chignoned, and painted, and got herself up in the best style of fashion. She nearly succeeded in reducing twenty-six to twenty by other than arithmetical rules. But what, after all, are twenty-six summers? No great span in the life of a really handsome woman; yet, in Miss Matilda, so unpliable was her disposition, and so set was her general deportment, that candor must admit that the six years beyond twenty had produced a perceptible difference. She made the best of them, however, for Nathaniel Wodehouse.

Can it be wondered at, therefore, that she thought he had some appreciative empressement than Matilda did to revisit Foxville House. Susy was shy and reserved; Matilda had outlived all that, and safely pronounced Nathaniel excellent company: so did Mrs. Foxville—so did Mr. Foxville. Augustus had no settled conviction on this head; and Susy was silent.

Even when Matilda spoke to her under sisterly secrecy, and used the epithets which she subsequently wished to revoke, Susy committed herself no further than by an exclamation of “Do you think so?” accompanied by a smile of doubtful acquiescence. When, however, Matilda, repenting of her admission, boldly denied it, Susy, as we have seen; held her to it unflinchingly.

It is sometimes good to come after others, and Scripture, politeness, and good sense forbid our presumptuously taking the best places. Susy enjoyed in this respect an advantage which nature had given her. She had all the benefit of being eight years younger than her sister, for she was at once the youngest, the prettiest, and the most amiable of the Foxvilles. Nathaniel would have been blind indeed if he had not made that discovery; and what that discovery led to, the intimated tenor of his letter has abundantly proved. One result, however, he had not foreseen, and that was the burning jealousy it excited in the bosom of Matilda Foxville, although he was prepared to incur her displeasure.

IV.

Foxville House always was in commotion when Matilda had a hand in it. When she was agitated, her agitation vibrated in every part of that spacious dwelling; and now she was stung to madness in such a way by Susy’s taunt that she rushed about like a maniac on fire. It was her worst policy, but she had lost the rudder of her discretion, and she cast herself adrift on the surging waves of her own fury.

From one apartment to another she flew in a whirlwind of passion in search of her mother, whom she would have found very near to Susy’s room if she had not darted downstairs with headlong precipitation. Up-stairs she flew again, and at length flounced into the room in which Mrs. Foxville was eagerly awaiting the issue of the consultation between her daughters.

“What has happened, Matilda?” asked Mrs. Foxville. “Your look startles me.”

“You will be startled!” gasped Matilda.

“Calm yourself, my child, and tell at your leisure what is amiss,” replied the mother, her words being at variance with her feverish anxiety for the news.

“What do you think, mamma? Nathaniel Wodehouse has had the audacity to propose to Susy!”

“Nathaniel Wodehouse! Without means! A beggar! I shall put a stop to that. No genteel poverty for me or either of my girls!”

“I was sure that you would save poor Susy! What is the use of his gentility with nothing to support it?”

“You always were sensible, Matilda; and no doubt Susy is wise enough to see the matter in the same light.”

“There you mistake, mamma; Susy is such a weak fool! The silly thing is over head and ears in love with

“Oh! that’s it, is it? And without asking my opinion? Deliberate disobedience! Let me see her this moment. I must talk to her!”

Forthwith the mother and elder daughter sought out the unfortunate Susy, and joined in giving her one of those ‘talkings to,’ as they termed them, which only ladies can inflict on one another. Susy let fall a tear or two, made very short replies, for she could scarcely squeeze a word in, and bore her rebukes with exemplary patience, contenting herself with asserting that she would comply with the request of the letter and lay it before her father.

“Let me catch you showing the letter to your father this day!” exclaimed Mrs. Foxville indignantly.

“To-morrow will do,” replied Susy. “Papa must see it.”

It was then agreed that Susy should reserve the letter for her father’s perusal next day, on Mrs. Foxville consenting to take the blame for delay on her own shoulders; and it was finally stipulated that both the elder Foxville and Augustus should be kept in the dark for the next twenty-four hours.

Mrs. Foxville did not, however, consider herself bound by this contract, though not the least important of the high contracting parties. In fact, she intended to turn the interval to what she deemed the best account. Accordingly, she seized the opportunity which Mrs. Caudle, as depicted by Douglas Jerrold, devoted to curtain lectures, and plainly gave Mr. Foxville to understand that “she wouldn’t have it,” meaning the match in question, for she stated she knew that Wodehouse was as poor as a church mouse. “He was all outside show,” she said—“all flimsy, with no backbone.” She added that “that wouldn’t do for her girls,” and, having warned her husband at great length and with great force, she concluded her lecture by observing, “And now you know your duty to my child, and I shall expect you to perform it.”

“Our child, my dear—our dear Susy is entitled to the best counsel I can give her.”

“I knew you would take her part!” cried Mrs. Foxville. “Dear Susy, indeed! She is a very bad Susy. I would have you, Mr. Foxville, respect a mother’s feelings!”

“Well, well; yes, yes, to be sure I will,” replied the husband, who was as valiant as an ox and nearly as strong in muscle, but was now in dread of a second lecture. “I will, you may depend upon it.”

With this promise on his lips he composed himself to sleep, after having first noticed its soothing effect—for which he took credit to himself—on his partner.

The next day, Mr. Foxville had some conversation alone with Susy. A little kindness soon reassured her, and, like a true-hearted daughter, she did not attempt to conceal her attachment to Nathaniel from her father. She opened her mind to him, and promised to abide by his advice; and on the question of questions—that of fortune—she professed her belief that Nathaniel Wodehouse would not be found in the forlorn condition in which her mamma and sister, in spite of her, had insisted. She acknowledged that she had no proof of this but her lover’s word, which, she said, Matilda had derided. Her lover’s word! that was all—sufficient for Susy! But she approved of her father’s fully satisfying himself on this point, as a duty to his family and to her.

“You are a perfect fool!” said Mrs. Foxville to her husband on observing Susy’s cheerful face after the tête-à-tête. “You have not the nerve to manage my child! I must take her in hand, poor noodle that she is. Ha! she is just like you. There’s a nice pair for you!”

Mr. Foxville attached little importance to these disparaging remarks, with the like of which he was familiar; but he invariably did things his own way, and left consequences to take care of themselves. He responded, therefore, good-humoredly:

“Not too hasty, my dear! I shall see Nathaniel Wodehouse, whether you approve of it or not. That is all I have to say.”

And Foxville kept his word, for he resolutely refrained from opening his lips to renew the discussion. Not so Mrs. Foxville. She had a very great deal to say, but eventually wound up by the following menace:

“Beware how you ruin my child! You shall answer for it. I’ll let you know whether I am to be nobody in my own house!”

The tremendous ferment which shook the Foxvilles at length began to act upon Augustus. That young man had his own view of Susy’s conduct.

“I tell you what, Susy,” said he, “Wodehouse is no gentleman. He is a sneak. Didn’t he get the better of me in an examination before old Dr. Playfair, and when I challenged him to fight it out, and prove who was the better man, didn’t he decline? A pretty thing to marry a man like that. Marry him, Susy, and see what I will do!”

Poor Susy was now regarded by all her family, with the exception of her father, who remained silent, as a reprobate and outcast. When she sat down to her meals, she was treated as if she were supported by charity. At other times she was watched like a criminal. Her fortitude and good conscience, nevertheless, sustained her under her unmerited wrongs.

“What good have you done?” sneered Mrs. Foxville, when the meeting was over.

“Our Susy and Nathaniel will be man and wife!” replied the imperturbable Foxville.

“Oh!” was the sole response, in a tone that boded little harmony if the baffled Mrs. Foxville could have her way.

“Ay, ay,” continued Foxville. “Nat’s the richest man within a dozen miles of this place. I tell you, I have proof of it. Look, there’s a little present, as he called it, for you!”

Foxville pulled out of his pocket a magnificent set of jewels in the neatest of morocco cases, and handed the gift to his wife.

What a transformation on the countenance and in the manner of Mrs. Foxville! Who could have suggested such a happy idea to Nathaniel as the magical present which turned out to be such a talisman of power? That secret was never known but to Susy and Nathaniel, and it cannot be divulged.

As Mrs. Foxville gazed with rapture on the jewels, her eyes vied in sparkling with the diamonds.

“Well, I cannot help forgiving him!” exclaimed the pacified lady. “Who would have thought this of Nathaniel Wodehouse? Twelve months ago I know he was scarcely worth a penny. But are you quite sure that you have not been taken in?”

“Trust old Foxville for that, eh? I have seen how he came by his money. Old Simpson, his uncle, died last March, and left him sole heir.”

“Simpson his uncle! A good family! My father knew him well.”

Mrs. Foxville’s was not altogether a vain boast: the late Mr. Simpson had been the best customer at her father’s grocery.

Augustus now joined his parents unexpectedly.

“Gussy, my boy,” cried his father, “Nat is the happy man, after all! He could buy up all of Foxville if he chose. He wants you to dine with him at his club to-morrow. Do as you like. I meddle in no man’s business!”

“Of course I will! He is a better fellow than I took him to be,” said the sensible Augustus. “And here comes Susy,” he added, seeing his sister approaching.

“Susy, we congratulate you,” exclaimed the overjoyed father. “The course of true love runs smoothly a little too soon, eh?”

Susy blushed scarlet.

“Kiss me, my darling girl,” said Mrs. Foxville.

“Bravo!” sang out Augustus.

“I told you I had something to show you,” said he, addressing Matilda. “Look at that picture! We only want Nat to make us thoroughly jolly. You will make a superb bridesmaid, Till, though I say it!”

“Not I indeed!” replied Matilda, with a grand toss of her head.

“You won’t for Susy?” the terrible Augustus went on. “That’s cruel of you; but I’ll give you a chance. So don’t despair; it’s often a first step to matrimony!”

Matilda bit her lip till it nearly bled, but she suffered not a word to escape her.

“For shame, Gussy!” cried Susy, as she flung herself, half-smiling, half-crying, on her sister’s neck.

* * * * *

With great adroitness Nathaniel eventually made his peace with Matilda, though it was rather a truce than a peace; but sufficient harmony was in a little time restored to Foxville House to make Susy’s wedding go off with éclat.

THE MARTYRS OF ARCUEIL.

In the spring of 1863, eighteen months after the death of Father Lacordaire, certain religious of the Third (Teaching) Order of Dominicans, having as their head the Rev. Father Captier, were sent to establish, in the house formerly belonging to Berthollet, a college under the name of the Blessed Albertus Magnus. It

The establishment at Arcueil, founded in trouble, thenceforward prospered without interruption, and grew apace under the watchful and affectionate care of Father Captier. He seemed to know every member of the community to his inmost heart. He cared for every one with a religious and at the same time manly tenderness. There was not one to whom he failed to do good. With the performance of these duties he combined an active interest in all questions relating to the education of youth, and opposed with all his might the encroachment of the system of godless schools which has since been so audaciously imposed upon Parisian families. Appointed a member of the Commission d’Enseignement Supérieur, as the most thorough representative of the free schools, he brought to the service of that board the experience of twenty years, the devout aspirations of his holy community, and the enthusiasm of a spirit earnest in the cause of enlightenment and holy liberty. When he returned to his cell, he resumed the cares of a soul which aimed to be wholly and profoundly immersed in the religious life. He concerned himself about the progress of all his brethren and pupils in observing the rules of the community, well knowing that the best means of doing good to souls is to draw from God the courage and the light which one needs in order to serve them.

Such was the state of affairs at Arcueil when the war broke out. The school then contained nearly three hundred pupils. In an establishment where religion and patriotism were both so warmly cherished, the first thought of every one was to do his utmost to aid France in her struggle against the foreigner. The pupils raised a large contribution for the relief of the victims of the coming campaigns. The religious gave their persons. Three of them joined the ambulances and passed the winter on the fields of battle, while the others devoted themselves in the college premises to taking care of the wounded victims of the siege of Paris. About fifteen hundred sick and wounded soldiers were thus treated in the college ambulance; and it was a devotion all the more meritorious because Arcueil, situated on the French outposts, was constantly under the fire of the German artillery.

After the siege, the school of Arcueil reopened its doors to pupils, and in March resumed its classes and its regular life. Then came the civil war. Placed between Fort Montrouge, Fort Bicêtre, and the redoubt of Hautes Bruyères, the school St. Martha. At first the communists respected this self-sacrifice. The less violent of them were pleased to be so well cared for by the Dominicans of Arcueil. Many requisitions, nevertheless, were made upon the institution, and the house was ransacked from top to bottom, but nothing was found in it except the evidence of a charity which no rebuffs could discourage. The religious continued with unremitting zeal to relieve the wounded on the field of battle, and awaited patiently the triumph of justice and liberty. A number of battalions of the National Guard were thus brought into contact with the school. Several of them showed gratitude and even a sort of sympathy, but so far as that went everything depended upon the officers. Thus, the 101st Battalion, commanded by one Cerisier, a convict “who had been three times sentenced to death, and believed neither in God nor in man,” far from showing any good-will, seemed hardly willing to forgive the religious for their charitable labors in its behalf.

On the 17th of May, several events happened which greatly excited and alarmed the insurgents. A cartridge factory exploded in the Avenue Rapp, that is to say, within the enceinte of Paris, and at least six kilometres from Arcueil. Several posts in the valley of the Bièvre were surprised and overpowered at the point of the bayonet. Finally, a few paces from the school, the château of the Marquis de Laplace, occupied by the federals as a barrack, was burned. It was determined that the communists of Arcueil should be held to an accountability for these wholly unconnected occurrences, and the federals required nothing more to justify them in ordering an arrest.

On Friday, the 19th of May, between four and five o’clock in the afternoon, the school of Arcueil, which then contained twenty wounded brought in the night before from the field of battle, received a visit from Citizens Leo Meillet and Lucy Pyat, envoys from the Commune of Paris, and wearing the red scarf; Thaler, a Prussian, sub-governor of the Fort of Bicêtre; and Cerisier, commander of the 101st Battalion of the Paris National Guard. While these gentlemen were entering at the main door, the 101st and 120th Battalions surrounded the premises, broke down the enclosure, and forced their way in at every entrance, leaving sentinels here and there with orders to shoot anybody who attempted to go out. At the demand of Leo Meillet, Father Captier presented himself. An order from the Commune was shown him, setting forth no complaint or legal excuse, but commanding all the members of the community, from the prior down to the last of the kitchen servants, to submit themselves to the commands of the delegates. Half an hour was granted them for the necessary preparations. The bell was rung to call the household together, and Lucy Pyat, taking this for a suspicious signal, threatened to shoot the child who had committed such a crime. One by one, the religious, the assistant teachers, the sisters,

Then the fatal journey was arranged. The horses and wagons of the school were seized, and the vehicles were first filled with the sisters and female domestics. They were forbidden any communication with each other by word or gesture, or any signal of farewell, under penalty of being shot. They were taken first to the Conciergerie and afterwards to Saint Lazare (the prison for abandoned women), whence they were released on the Tuesday following by the arrival of the Versailles troops, before the miscreants of the Commune could execute the horrid threats of which they were the objects during these four days. The pupils were also to have been carried off, but, thanks to a misunderstanding on the part of the federal chiefs, their arrest was suspended. Later it was proposed to convey them to the Hôtel de Ville, and even to the barricades, but nothing was done, and they remained tolerably at ease in a remote part of the house, under the signally intelligent and devoted care of the young Jacques de La Perrière, whose conduct in these trying days was above all praise.

When all the others were gone, the fathers, the professors, and the male servants were brought down into the first court, and surrounded by the men of the 101st and 120th Battalions. The door opened, and the sad cortège began its march towards the Fort of Bicêtre, situated three kilometres from the school. They first passed through the streets of Arcueil. The inhabitants looked on in silence, though their sympathies were all with the prisoners. “When they passed our door,” said a poor woman, “and I saw Father Captier and all these messieurs, who had done us so much good, marching in the midst of the muskets, I imagined it was Jesus Christ with his disciples going to Jerusalem to be crucified.” At Gentilly, which they were next obliged to traverse, the popular feeling was very different, and the most outrageous language was used towards the prisoners.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the column arrived at the fort. The captives were first locked up in a small room where, insulted in the grossest manner, they were forced to wait their turn to appear before the governor of the fort, and go through the formality of registering on the books of the prison. These formalities lasted a long time, the number was so large. Each man was submitted to the pretence of an examination, though there was no question of any crime or misdemeanor, nor any indictment whatever. Then they were searched, and stripped of everything they carried (even the breviaries were taken away), and conducted to Casemate No. 10, which faces the entrance to the fort.[120] It

This first night was very severe. The casemate contained only a few remnants of damp straw, already spoiled and broken up by some Bavarian soldiers, and each man had to grope for a clean spot on the bare floor. When morning came, they sought for some alleviation of their wretched condition. By dint of earnest representation, they got some bundles of fresh straw, and after a few days the breviaries were restored to the religious. Father Captier succeeded in obtaining paper and pencil, and addressed a communication to the governor of the fort. He thus secured the liberation of two lads, Emile Delaitre and Paul Lair, who had been imprisoned with the other servants of the school. He had more difficulty in obtaining the favor of a serious examination, for thus far the twenty-five prisoners were absolutely ignorant of the cause of their arrest. Something, at any rate, was granted: on Sunday afternoon, Fathers Captier and Cotrault were led before Citizen Lucy Pyat, who, after a long conversation, informed them that they were to be considered neither as condemned nor accused, nor even prisoners, but they were merely held as witnesses. He was a prophet, though he did not know it; for God had chosen them to bear witness, with their blood, to the glory of his holy name.

It was hoped that the examinations would be resumed on the following day (Monday), but this was not done. On the contrary, the officers in command at the fort held no further communication with the prisoners. It is probable that in thus keeping away they yielded to the wishes of their men; for, while the officers preserved an appearance of civility in the presence of the fathers, their subordinates constantly redoubled their outrages, and took all pains to render them more and more gross. Drunken and infamous creatures showed themselves every few minutes before the windows of the casemate, jeering at the prisoners, loading them with unmentionable epithets, or reading aloud, with infinite gusto, the most shameless articles from the Communist newspapers. One day, they saw the sub-governor of the fort, cap in hand, ushering Father Captier into his prison after some sort of an examination. This mark of respect so exasperated the federal soldiers that they raised a great disturbance at the door of the casemate, and thenceforth the provisions for the prisoners were regularly plundered or intercepted on the way; for two days the captives were denied even a cup of water. On Wednesday, the 24th, an execution took place in the courtyard of the fort, directly under their eyes. It was made the occasion of redoubled menaces and heartless allusions. The same day, the Abbé Féron, chaplain of the Hospital of Bicêtre, went in search of the governor of the fort, and asked to be entrusted with the custody of the members [121] As for the prisoners, they belonged to the 101st Battalion and its commander, who would dispose of them according to circumstances.

What were the thoughts of the victims during this long week of agony? Their companions in captivity tell us that a gentle cheerfulness never ceased to prevail in that wretched dungeon. With the exception of some of the servants, married men and fathers of families, whose attitude and manner were somewhat gloomy and dejected, every one pursued his ordinary way of life—not that they forgot or despised death, but because they had offered to God the sacrifice of their lives for France. The religious redoubled their usual devotion, encouraged each other and exhorted their companions. Every evening they said the rosary together, adding the usual mementos for their absent brethren. From time to time, Father Captier, though completely broken down by fatigue and privation, roused himself to give a pious reading, or to address the words of life and salvation to those who looked up to him as their chief. Outside, the federals gathered around to mock at their prayers. One morning, when the horizon was red with flames in the direction of Paris, Father Captier was pacing to and fro, saying his office, and some one cried to him through the window, “Oh, yes! you had better pray God not to let the torpedoes that the city is full of explode!” “I am doing it,” answered the good father sadly and quietly; and then, finishing his breviary, he asked his companions to pray with him.

On Thursday, the 25th, at daybreak, an extraordinary activity was observed inside the fortress. Guns were removed and spiked, and the bugles blew the assembly. At one time, the prisoners believed that the fort had been wholly evacuated, and they had only to wait the arrival of the Versailles troops to secure’ their liberty.

But this hope was of short duration. A body of armed men appeared at the door of the casemate in considerable confusion. As they had not the keys, they forced an entrance with blows from the butt-ends of their muskets, and ordered the captives to start immediately with the column, which was retiring into Paris. “You are free,” said they, “only we must not leave you in the hands of the Versaillists. You must follow us to the mairie of the Gobelins, and then you will go to Paris, or wherever you like.”

The march was long and painful. Every instant the prisoners were threatened with death. The women showed themselves especially furious, and eager to witness the death of these men who wore a sacred garb. They moved down towards the gate of Ivry, and on the road a few rifle-shots from Bicêtre caused a little disturbance, of which Father Rousselin took advantage to slip away and return to Arcueil. The others continued their journey towards Paris. Arriving at the mairie of the Gobelins, in the midst of cries of “death!” from the crowd maddened at the approach of the regular army, it was in vain that they reminded their guard of the liberty promised them. They were told, “The streets are not safe; you will be killed by the people; remain here.” They were taken into the court of the mairie, and made to sit on ces canailles” how the Commune served its enemies. At the end of half an hour an officer appeared, and took them to the prison disciplinaire of the 9th secteur, No. 38 Avenue d’Italie. As soon as they entered, the captives of Arcueil recognized the 101st Battalion and its chief, Citizen Cerisier, that is, the same who had made their arrest. It was then ten o’clock in the morning. About half-past two, a man in a red shirt threw open the door of the hall, and cried out, “Get up, soutanes; they are going to take you to the barricade.” The fathers went out, and, with the Abbé Grancolas and the others, were conducted towards the barricade thrown up in front of the mairie of the Gobelins. There they were offered muskets to fight with. “We are priests,” said they, “and, besides, we are non-combatants in virtue of our service in the ambulance. We shall not take arms. All that we can do is to relieve your wounded and bear away the dead.” “Is this your fixed purpose?” asked the officer of the Commune. “It is.” Then they were taken back to the prison, with an escort of federals and women armed with muskets. Once locked up, they thought of nothing but preparations for the last journey. They all knelt, made a final offering of the sacrifice of their lives, confessed, and received absolution. They were not to have the dying Christian’s last consolation, the divine viaticum. God did not judge this grace necessary for them; and, besides, from the prison to heaven the journey was to be so short!

About half-past four, a new order came from Citizen Cerisier. All the prisoners filed out into the lane which leads up to the prison, while the federals of the 101st Battalion loaded their muskets with significant noise. Already every man was at his place. Platoons were stationed at the corners of all the neighboring streets. It is said that Citizen Cerisier sat in a carriage on the avenue, with a woman by his side. This is the manner in which he presided over executions under the Commune of Paris. Then the word of command was heard: “Go out into the street, one by one!” Father Captier turned half round towards his companions, and said, “Come, my friends; it is for the good God!”

The massacre began at once. Father Cotrault went out first, and fell mortally wounded. Father Captier was hit by a ball which broke his leg, and was struck down by another ball at a distance of more than a hundred metres, near the spot where the insurgents of June, 1848, massacred General Bréa. Father Bourard, also, after receiving one wound, was able to go a few steps in the same direction before he fell under a second discharge. Fathers Delhorme and Chatagneret were shot down instantly. M. Gauquelin fell with them. M. Voland and five of the servants (Aimé Gros, Marce, Cheminal, Dintroz, and Cathala) went out of the lane behind the fathers, and had time to cross the Avenue d’Italie, but were killed before they could find shelter.

The other prisoners managed to escape.[122] The Abbé Grancolas, barely touched by a bullet, got into a house, where a woman disguised him in her husband’s clothes. M. Rézillot was only slightly wounded. MM. Edouard Bertrand, Gauvin, Delaitre, Brouho, and Duché found shelter in

The fury of the assassins was not sated by the massacre. They fell upon the bodies of the dead, tore off their clothing, pierced them with bayonets, and with their axes broke their limbs and crushed their bleeding heads. The soldiers of the 113th Regiment, who passed this spot in triumph after surmounting the barricades, comprehended the glorious fate of the martyrs, and, bending over them, took the rosaries from their girdles, and divided them, bead by bead, as sacred relics. But after they had gone their way, the work of profanation was resumed, and for more than fifteen hours the bodies remained exposed to every imaginable outrage.

The next morning the Abbé Guillemette, a priest of that quarter, came across the corpses, and, noticing that they wore a religious habit, made inquiry into the circumstances of the assassination. He caused the sacred remains to be immediately collected, and taken to the house of the brethren in the Rue du Moulin-des-Prés. There a professor from Arcueil, M. d’Arsac, identified the bodies, indicated the name of each, and claimed for them the respect due to martyrs in a holy cause. At the same time, M. Durand, curé of Arcueil, and M. Eugène Lavenant, the Mayor, were informed of the death of the Dominicans, their friends and their companions in the hour of danger. They both came together to ask for the remains of the victims, and removed them to Arcueil. It was desired to bury them within the enclosure of the school, where Father Rousselin awaited them, with Jacques de La Perrière, and the pupils who had remained faithful to the house. But it would have been necessary to submit to long formalities, and the bodies were so dreadfully bruised that there was no time even to make them coffins. The hearse, followed by a great crowd of people deeply agitated with grief and anger, was driven to the common cemetery. There the martyrs lie side by side in one grave, with no shroud but their blood-stained vestments.

This undistinguished tomb ought not to be the last resting-place of the martyrs of Arcueil. Father Captier and his companions will sleep in the shadow of the school which their labor founded and their blood renders henceforth illustrious. Not only the religious who were the brethren of the victims, and the pupils who were their children, but all who care for religion and country, will come to pray at their sepulchre, and meditate upon the lessons of their death.

VEILED.

“Dilectus meus mihi, et ego illi.”[123] —Cant. ii. 16.

A VISIT TO MAMMOTH CAVE.

solus, some special providence sent to our relief a party of gay young friends, whom we found already assembled in the Louisville depot of the Louisville and Nashville Railroad. Upon this pleasant rencontre we did not cease to congratulate ourself, having been previously warned that the cave is seen to greater advantage by a large party; the number of lights carried, extra guides, etc., all tending to enhance picturesque effects, and promote the comfort of the sight-seers.

Leaving Louisville at the early hour of seven A.M., a very enjoyable ride lay before us; at first through the celebrated blue grass region of Kentucky, and afterward skirting the wilder, more picturesque country, famous, or infamous, as the scene of guerilla warfare during the war and after. Here these desperadoes, entrenched in some of nature’s impregnable fortresses, sallied forth at will, cutting the railroads, stopping trains at all hours of the day and night, and plundering farms for miles in every direction. But we have changed all that! The road boasts a tunnel of some extent. Here the young men of our party perpetrated the time-honored joke of kissing their hands with a resounding smack, bringing out the roses on the cheeks of our pretty girls; when we emerge from darkness, each one of them being fully conscious that she is suspected as the guilty recipient of that kiss.

At noon we reach a station bearing P.M. we hear the welcome sound, “All aboard stage for the cave!” Two vehicles, filled inside with ladies, and outside with the adequate complement of gentlemen and baggage—a nice point, by the way, in these days of woman’s rights and Saratoga trunks! But, ladies, we warn you not to undertake the cave without at least one man whom you own or have a lien on—there are points in the explorations before you when one man, and perhaps several others, will be convenient to lean on.

With a mighty creaking, a few preliminary false starts, resulting in some new and jerky experiences to those unaccustomed to the old-fashioned stages, at last we are fairly off, beginning almost immediately a winding and gradual ascent. We are told by our sanguine driver that there had been an attempt to macadamize the road—then certainly it has been an attempt, and nothing more; on several occasions we rode over smooth stones so large that it was quite a relief from the deep ruts which seamed the road on every side.

High hills surround us, luxuriant in the foliage of June; at rare intervals a farm-house is seen in some distant valley, but there are few evidences of cultivating the soil, which is doubtless of too cavernous a nature to repay the farmer his toil.

After riding a distance of three or four miles, the wildness of the scene is increased by huge formations of rocks; many streams murmur in the distance, and near the only house we approach on the route, a little maid, hurrying barefoot from the spring, presents a pail of water for the benefit of the thirsty stagers. There have been sundry flasks of eau de vie on top, and the gentlemen evince no desire for the milder fluid, quaffed by the ladies with such avidity.

The half-way point is a platform for shade built across the road, and here those who wish to explore Osceola, or Indian Cave, take a short walk down the hill. Not caring to receive any subterra impressions before the great cavern dawned upon us, we joined the ladies in picking wild flowers, which are of great beauty and variety in this region. The exploring party on their return reported Osceola to be mainly a dugout cave, having some interest, but, like its illustrious namesake, very dirty! Nearly an hour having been devoted to resting the horses, we resume the stages, and, the road improving, proceed with accelerated speed, when a sudden halt causes us to look back—the second stage has broken down! What is to be done? Nothing but to squeeze two more ladies in our coach, while we gentlemen resign our places on top to the rest of the feminines, who really make the alarming ascent with grace; but after a short walk our gallantry oozes out at the very tips of our boots, and, one by one, we jump on the steps to talk, thence clamber to the roof to find seats as best we may.

After a nine miles’ drive, we approach a long, low frame-building. An air of quiet and rustic simplicity pervades the spot! This is the “Cave House.” The apartments to which

Being all impressed with the idea that about nine extra hours of sleep were requisite to fit us for the labors of the morrow, we denied ourselves the pleasures of the large ball-room, whence issued the strains, evoked by some black musicians, wooing to the giddy mazes of the dance! Loose flannel suits are kept at the hotel for those who come unprepared for the cool climate and rough climbing of the cave; but we found our baseball toggery to be the very thing we wanted, and, arrayed therein, immediately after an early breakfast assembled on the wide veranda, which surrounds the house and makes a pleasant promenade.

The ladies look charming in their picturesque costumes of bright colors. Being a modest man, we merely mention that our stalwart frame does credit to the uniform of the “Yellow Garters,” of which glorious nine we boast ourself a member.

All in high spirits, we descend a thickly wooded ravine to the right of the house: beautiful ferns and mosses carpet the sides of the funnel-shaped opening surrounding the mouth of the cave, to the bottom of which our winding path is gradually leading us, a descent of forty or fifty feet. Around and above, tall trees stand sentinel on the only approach to this secret underworld.

Our guide remarks that the present is not the original mouth of the cave, which is distant a quarter of a mile on the south bank of Green River. Many, many years ago, the upper crust must have given way, forming this opening into which we are now descending, and filling with earth and stones that first part of the cavern, now called “Dickson’s” and rarely visited. The present entrance was discovered, in 1809, by a hunter running a bear into it. So little was the extent or value of the cave known, that it was soon afterward sold, with two hundred acres of land, for forty dollars. A short, sharp turn in the path brings us facing an archway of rock, over which a silver thread of water is falling. A cold wind rushes from a dark opening, above which the condensed atmosphere floats like a veil. With a sort of awe we descend some rough stone steps, and enter the cave. Already darkness is becoming visible: our party, numbering twenty-five, are furnished with lamps, and all with our “pilgrim staves” set forth on the “short route.”

To give some general idea of the outlines of the cave, we cannot do better than quote the simile of a scientific gentleman who, in writing on this subject, asks the reader to “imagine the channel of a large and winndig river, with tributaries at intervals, some of them the size of the main stream, emptying into the chief river, as, for instance, the Missouri and Ohio joining the Mississippi; these tributaries also receiving their support from creeks and rivulets, some of them quite small and extending but a short distance, while others are much longer, larger, and more beautiful. Now, it is easy to imagine these rivers as being under ground, or having a surface covering of earth and rocks, and that their rugged channels and banks have long ceased from some cause to be bathed with the waters which in ages long past flowed so freely along them; in fact, that they are quite dry, except in a few of the avenues.”

While indulging in these practical and retrospective reflections, we have left our party in the narrow archway, about seven feet high, which is just within the mouth, and called the Narrows. Here there was a slight detention caused by the lamps blowing out: Mat, our black guide, explains this by saying, “The cave’s breathin’ out.” To explain which still further means that, the atmosphere of the cave being at 59°, when the exterior air at the mouth is of a higher temperature, a strong current sets outward; in winter, of course, the current sets inward: thus the cave breathes once a year. This action is felt a short distance. Soon we leave behind everything reminding us of the upper world.