Chapter II · (continued 2)

Nor is this Queen of Aragon the only White Lady of the land. The old people of Limoux tell of women in white who once a year come forth by night from a crystal palace in the bowels of the neighboring hill of Taich, and go to the fountain of Las Encantados—the fairies—where with a golden spatula they beat their linen, after the fashion of the country, till the dawn of day. These ghostly laundresses are not confined to the valley of the Aude. In Brittany and Normandy they likewise haunt many regions, but they beat their linen with an iron hand, which they do not hesitate to apply to the ear of the curious intruder.

On the side of a steep hill that descends to the Rebenty, another branch of the Aude, are three narrow arches to the cave of Las Encantados—the grotto of the fairies—where, in the depths, the noise of the turbulent stream is repeated by subterranean echoes, and changed, now into a soft harmonious murmur and now into a solemn roar, giving the effect of an organ in a cathedral. Nothing could be more impressive by night than this mysterious music, which the people formerly ascribed to some weird influence.

But to return to the royal foundation of La Vallée Grasse. That this abbey was really founded under the patronage of Charlemagne is proved by a charter of the year 778, still preserved in the prefecture at Carcassonne, signed with his own imperial monogram. According to this, the name of the first abbot was Nimphridius; and the house appears St. Cucufat on the banks of the Aude, St. Pierre on the Clamoux, and La Palme on the seashore. In fact, favor towards it seemed hereditary in the Carlovingian race. Louis IX. kept up the tradition, and when in Palestine wrote to his mother and the sénéchal of Carcassonne, recommending the abbey of La Grasse to their protection. The kings of Aragon, too, respected its extensive domains in their realm.

The grateful abbey never forgot its illustrious founder. Every morning at the conventual Mass the bread and wine were offered by the lord abbot, or his representative, at the Offertory, for the repose of Charlemagne’s soul, till authorized to render him the cultus due to a saint, from which time the twenty-eighth of January was kept in his honor as a festival of the first class.

It is one of the traditions of this monastery that, when Pope Leo III. was about to dedicate the church, he received a supernatural warning that it had been miraculously consecrated, and on approaching the altar he discovered the marks of the divine hand, which remained visible till the end of the fourteenth century, when the greater part of the church was consumed by fire. It was then rebuilt in a style corresponding to the wealth of the abbey, with numerous chapels, a choir with rare carvings, and a silver retablo with twelve silver statues in the niches, all plated with pure gold. The monastic buildings were surrounded by fortified walls of vast circuit. They were grouped around an immense cloister, the arcades of which were supported by marble columns. On the east side were the church, dormitories, infirmary, and rooms for visitors. At the north were the abbot’s spacious residence, the granary, bakery, stables, etc. South and west were the chapterhouse, the large refectory, and houses appropriated to the aged monks. A hospital, where the poor were fed and sick strangers received gratuitous care, was further off, near the principal gate. There was an extensive park, with avenues of chestnut-trees, watered by the Orbieu, which also turned the grist-mills, oil-mills, and cloth-mills. The water was also brought into the abbey. The library now forms part of the public library of Carcassonne.

The abbey of La Grasse was immediately dependent on the Holy See, in acknowledgment of which it paid an annual tribute of five gold florins. And the Bishop of Carcassonne, and the Archbishop of Narbonne, though the primate, were obliged to recognize its independence of their jurisdiction before they could obtain admittance to the abbey. The abbot from the time of Abbot Nicolas Roger, the uncle of Pope Clement VI., had the right of wearing pontifical vestments. He held legal jurisdiction over eighty-three towns, besides which, three other abbeys, three monasteries, twenty-four priories, and sixty-seven parish churches were dependent on the house of La Grasse.

This great abbey was suppressed in 1790, after existing over a thousand years, and before long was transformed into barracks and

But the town of La Grasse, that sprang up under the mild sway of the old abbots, is still queen of the lower Corbières by its population and historic interest. It is noted for its blanquette—a sparkling white wine, which rivals that of Limoux.

As to the battles in the valley of the Orbieu, it is more certain that the Saracens, on their way to attack Carcassonne, were met by William, Duke of Aquitaine, in this valley, where, though defeated, he performed prodigies of valor, and made the followers of Mahound buy their victory dearly. They soon withdrew into Spain, carrying with them rich spoils from Narbonne, among which were seven statues of silver, long famous in Andalusia, and many marble columns, still to be seen in the famous mosque of Cordova, on which they forced the vast number of prisoners they carried with them to labor.

Nor was the abbey of La Grasse the only famous monastery of this region. There was the Cistercian abbey of Fonfroide, founded in the twelfth century by Ermengarde, Vicomtesse of Narbonne, to whom Pierre Roger, the troubadour, gave the mystic name of Tort n’avez, and so well known from the permanent Court of Love she held in her gay capital. This abbey at one time contained two hundred monks, who were great agriculturists, and understood drainage and all the improvements we regard as modern. They brought vast tracts of land under cultivation, and, by their industry and economy, became wealthy and powerful. In 1341, this abbey had nineteen thousand two hundred and thirty-four animals, including sheep, cattle, mules, swine, etc.

Among the celebrated monks of Fonfroide was Peter of Castelnau, whom the Holy See appointed one of the legates to suppress the heresy of the Albigenses, and who acquired so melancholy a celebrity by his conflicts with Count Raymond of Toulouse and his tragical end. Another member, eminent for his knowledge and piety, of this house was Arnaud de Novelli, uncle of Pope Benedict XII. He was made cardinal by Pope Clement V., and sent as one of the legates to England to make peace between Edward II. and his barons. He died in 1317, and lies buried under the high altar of the abbey church. Pope Benedict XII. himself was a monk at Fonfroide, and succeeded his uncle as abbot of the house. As pope, he is specially celebrated for the part he took among the theologians of the day in discussing the question of the immediate state of the righteous after death, and the decretal which he finally issued in 1355—Benedictus Dominus in sanctis suis—in which he declares that the souls of the justified, on leaving their bodies, are at once admitted to behold the Divine Essence face to face without intermediary; that by this vision they are rendered truly happy, and in enjoyment of everlasting repose; whereas those who die in the state of mortal sin descend immediately into hell.

The abbey of Fonfroide, after seven hundred years’ existence, was closed in 1790, but, more fortunate than La Grasse, it is now inhabited by Bernardins, who seem to have

The tombs of the old vicomtes of Narbonne, who were mostly buried here, are no longer to be seen. William II., by an act of May 25, 1424, ordered his remains to be taken to Fonfroide, wherever he might die. He left two thousand livres for his tomb, which was to be of stone and magnificently adorned, and an annuity of twenty-five livres as a foundation for a daily Mass for the repose of his soul. He was killed by the English at the battle of Verneuil, the following August; his body was fastened to a gibbet, and had to be ransomed before it could be brought to Fonfroide.

Another noted abbey of the country was that of St. Hilaire, built over the tomb of its patron saint—not St. Hilary of Arles, who walked all the way to Rome in the dead of winter, but the first bishop of Carcassonne, who never walked anywhere, dead or alive—at least, out of his own diocese. This abbey was built in the good old days of Charlemagne, who seems to have never missed an opportunity of building a church or endowing a monastery—if we are to believe all the traditions of France—and of course endowed this one. However, Roger I., Count of Carcassonne, enriched it still more. He never went into battle without invoking St. Hilaire, and to him he ascribed the success of his arms. In his gratitude, he had the body of the saint exhumed and placed in a beautiful tomb of sculptured marble, and promised to furnish the twelve monks—all there were at that time—with suitable clothing during the remainder of his life, which says very little in favor of Charlemagne’s endowment. The abbey ultimately became very prosperous, and, among other possessions, owned the most of Limoux. It lost its importance, however, in the sixteenth century, and was finally secularized. In one of the rooms may still be seen the names of its fifty abbots. The beautiful cloister of the fourteenth century is well preserved, and the tomb of St. Hilaire, with its sculptures of the tenth century, representing the legend of St. Saturnin, still serves as the altar of the church. The abbey stands in a bend of the Lauquet, that has escaped from the Aude, with its little village around it, among low hills covered with excellent vineyards. Here blow alternately the Cers and the Marin, the only two winds known in the valley of the Aude, shut in as it is between the Montagne Noire on the north and the Corbières on the south. These winds blow with alternate violence, like two great guns, the greater part of the year, and when one dies away the other generally takes up the blast. The very trees are planted with reference to them. People who would live according to the Delphic principle of “not too much of anything,” should not come to the valley of the Aude. The Cers increases in violence as it approaches the sea, where it seems to put on the very airs of the great planet Jupiter itself, noted for the violence of its winds; whereas the Marin waits till it gets away from the sound of “the jawing wave” before it ventures to come out in its full strength. However, as people often take pride in displaying their very infirmities, as if desirous of being noted for something, so the inhabitants of this valley boast of their winds. They did the same in the days of Seneca the philosopher, who says that though the Circius,

The canal of Languedoc passes through the valley of the Aude. Of course the grand idea of uniting the two seas could have originated with no less a person than Charlemagne himself. Francis the First also agitated the question. The principle on which canals are constructed was known in the Middle Ages. That universal genius, Leonardo da Vinci, was the first to make a practical application of it. In spite of this, the canal of Languedoc required a century and a half of profound study on the part of men of talent before it was decided on. The difficulty of its construction can hardly be realized in these days. It was not till the time of Louis XIV. the work was undertaken by M. de Riquet, who brought down waters from the Montagne Noire to feed the basins in the valley of the Aude. The whole canal was built in seventeen years, and cost about seventeen millions of livres. He did not live to see it opened. That satisfaction was reserved for his sons. The people awaited the day with impatience, and when it was opened, May 15, 1681, there was one great outburst of joy and admiration all the way from the Garonne to the Mediterranean. The intendant of the province, and all the capitouls of Toulouse, assembled in the morning in the cathedral of that city. The archbishop officiated. Nor was M. Riquet forgotten amid the thanksgiving. His sons were present. And at the close of Mass, the archbishop turned and said: Brethren, let us pray for the repose of the soul of Pierre Paul de Riquet. Every head bent a few moments in silent prayer for the benefactor of the country.

A richly carpeted bark, from which floated the national colors, had been prepared. The Abbot of St. Jernin solemnly blessed the waters of the canal, and the dignitaries set out amid the applause of the multitude, followed by two other barks filled with musicians. At Castelnaudary, Cardinal de Bonzi, with several other prelates and lords, joined them in a magnificent galley, amid the noise of cannon and the peal of trumpets, followed by twenty barks full of merchandise. It was not till May 24 this flotilla arrived at Béziers, where it was hailed, as all along the way, with salutes and cries of joy. These demonstrations were warranted by the immense benefit of the canal to the country, and though now in a great measure superseded by the railway, it is still of the greatest utility.

Before the Aude reaches Carcassonne, it flows directly through the pretty, industrious town of Limoux, where the shores are connected by an old Roman bridge. Four hills enclose the charming valley, on the sides of which grow the vines that yield the blanquette of Limoux, which is famous in the wine market. On one of these hills stands a rural chapel held in great veneration by the people around—that of Notre Dame de Marceille, one of the most frequented places of pilgrimage in southern France, which has been sung by poets, studied by archæologists, and sketched by artists. Nothing could be lovelier than its situation. From the plateau

A paved rampe leads up the hillside to Notre Dame de Marceille, more than six hundred feet long, which the pilgrims ascend on their knees, praying as they go. Half-way up, they stop to rest beside a trickling fountain and drink of the water that falls drop by drop. On the arch above is the inscription in letters of gold:

“Mille mali species Virgo levavit aqua.”[172]

The present church dates from 1488, but a sanctuary is known to have existed here as early as 1011. From age to age it has been the object of ever increasing veneration among the people. It belonged at one time to the abbey of St. Hilaire, but in 1207 passed into the hands of the Dominicans of Prouilhe. You enter by a porch, which is supported by slender columns that give it an air of elegance. On the front is inscribed:

“Stay, traveller: adore God, invoke Mary.”

And on the sides:

“O Jesus, we have merited thy wrath. Efface from our hearts every stain of sin, that they may be rendered worthy to become thy dwelling-place!”

“Spotless Maid, Virgin Mother, on whom the Almighty lavishes the gifts of his love, with him, with thee, bring us by thy prayers to dwell for ever in the celestial abode.”

Another fountain near the porch bears also its inscription:

During the cholera of 1855 more than sixty thousand pilgrims flocked to this chapel in the space of three weeks. All the priests of the diocese come here annually to celebrate the mysteries of religion, especially

It was on descending from this consecrated hill we stopped to look back at the sanctuary whence streamed still the soul-stirring hymns. A group was gathered about the archway of the fountain. The base was aflush with the vines. From Limoux came the sound of earthly cares. Harvests covered the plain. The heavens aglow crowned all. It was here we took leave of the Valley of the Aude.

FREE TRANSLATION OF A CHORUS IN THE “HECUBA” OF EURIPIDES.

BY AUBREY DE VERE.

LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER

(FROM THE FRENCH.)

April 22.

Yesterday was the day which the Lord hath made, the day of happiness and of rejoicing in God. Rose at half-past three, and was at Ste. Croix before the time. Kneeling by René, my heart overflowing with felicity, I enjoyed during those too rapid moments all the delights of the Christian life. The procession and Benediction were magnificent; everything that has relation to worship, here possesses a unique and impressive solemnity. Heard two Masses, and then that of the Paschal Communion of the men. I love this spectacle—these long files of communicants, so eloquent a protest against the impieties of the age! Was present at High Mass. Dear Kate! congratulate your Georgina: taking all together, I spent nine hours yesterday in church. But my day was much less sanctified in reality than in appearance; I am so easily distracted. The music transported and the crowds bewildered me. Monseigneur officiated pontifically at the High Mass, after which we had the Papal Benediction. The sermon pleased me much. “When Christ shall be glorified, you also shall be glorified with him.” It was sweet and comforting to hear, and I was greatly touched. “The measure of your sufferings here below is the measure of the happiness which God has in store for you. Our body will be glorified by the absence of all suffering; our understanding, by the Beatific Vision; our heart, by the possession of every possible happiness and felicity; our will, by the accomplishment of its desires. God will to all eternity do the will of his saints.” Then the Benediction, the procession chanting the Laudate Pueri and the In exitu Israël, the hymn of deliverance—what splendor! O festival of Easter! so solemn and so beautiful, how dear thou art to me.

And so Lent is over, and, to indemnify me for my long fast, here is a letter from my Kate. I read it on my knees, like a prayer, and afterwards aloud to the assembled family (except, of course, the private details). It is settled that we are all to be present when you take the veil. Kate dearest! my elder sister, my second mother, who have imparted to me so much of your own soul, the blessed thought of you follows me at every step.

Mme. de T—— has made splendid presents to all her children. I like this fraternal custom. We had been secretly preparing the prettiest surprises imaginable, and in the morning saluted each other as they do in Poland: “Christ is risen!” René has presented me with two beautiful volumes, a novelty, a marvel—the Récit d’une Sœur, by Mrs. Craven, née de la Ferronays. Call to your remembrance one of our loveliest days in Italy, at the Palazzo Borghese, where this family long remained; we have often spoken of it since. This is such attractive reading that it costs me a great effort to tear myself from the book. The weather is glorious; we take long walks through gardens full of lilacs in blossom. O spring! the renewal, the awakening of nature, how sweet and fair it is, and with what joy I have hailed its coming! The children are not to be kept within the house any longer; they are caged birds prettily fluttering [173] Little whisperings are made to Aunt Georgina to receive into her coupé these darling nightingales. Excursions are to be the order of the week.

Our poor have largely shared in our Paschal rejoicings. I took Picciola with me to see Benoni. What a festival it was to her kind heart! She had laden herself with playthings, cakes, and bonbons, and, in a spirit of heroic sacrifice, with a pretty cage which she sat great store by, in which sang two canaries. The joy of the poor family was surpassed by the sweet child’s delight. I watched her with admiration as she went to and fro in the lowly abode, warbling with the brother of the little Jesus, as she calls the darling. What a sunbeam in this dwelling! I wish Madeleine were my daughter. Kate dearest, pray that my wishes may be realized. I am writing to you in my room, near the open window. A delicious perfume of lilac fills the air; I love nothing in the world so much as children and flowers. Lately I have frequently made Alix play. My sister-in-law Johanna has had a severe cold, and I have laid claim to her pretty family during their recreations. Marguerite, the eldest of the little girls, is not more than eight years old, and is always called Lady Sensible, which makes her cheeks glow with pleasure. Alix is four; she is fresh as a rose of May. I love to press my lips against her pure forehead, and imbue myself with the soft innocence which exhales from this young soul. With her deep-blue eyes, her thick, fair hair, and her angel-look, Alix is really charming, and it seems to me that if she were mine I should have floods of tenderness to shed upon her.

Monseigneur is about to leave for Rome. I shall be presented to him before his departure. Au revoir, dear Kate! May God protect us! When shall I see Ireland again? When shall I return to the land from whence my ancestors, those sons of a royal race, were banished? The faith is worth more than a throne.

April 29.

René has undertaken to give you an account of my presentation, dearest Kate, so I need not say anything about it. Nothing is spoken of here but the dead and dying. Mme. de St. M—— has lost her two little girls in two days; it makes one tremble. I have sent Fanny your letter of Wednesday; it seemed as if I should profane your holy pages by transcribing them. Our friends wrote to me yesterday; you ought to have read their letters before I did. Lady W—— tells me that she shall treasure like a relic the consolations of Kate. Dearest, you say well that this world could not be fit for our sweet Mary; but your aspirations after eternity alarm your earthly Georgina. Live to love me, to be my guardian angel!

You will not read Le Récit d’une Sœur, dear, busy one? This book contains beauties of the highest order; it is like the expression of the splendor of the beautiful. How those hearts loved, and how much they suffered! But love like theirs must give strength to bear such sufferings. How can I describe to you these incomparable volumes? Your faithful memory has well recalled to you all the personages; imagine, then, the mutual outpourings of those great souls, the marriage of Albert and Alexandrine, so closely followed by so much heart-rending Mme. de la Ferronays, the mother, the wife who had been, as it were, on the cross for so many years, and always serene, always generous, dying in the arms of her Pauline on the 14th of November, 1848, the same year as her daughter-in-law. By the side of these souls who have passed away figure several personages of the time: M. de Montalembert, the intimate friend of Albert, and the ever-faithful friend of Alexandrine, whom he called his “sister”; M. Gerbet, the author of L’Esquisse de Rome Chrétienne;[174] Père Lacordaire, Mme. Swetchine, Père de Ravignan, Confalonieri, the learned M. Rio—all this related by a sister, Mrs. Craven, of whom Mme. —— spoke to us so much. Remark these two thoughts from St. Augustine: one, the motto, is, “We never lose those whom we love in him whom we can never lose”; the other, written by Albert in his journal and several times underlined: “All which ends is not long.” There is also this other, of Alexandrine’s: “I do not believe that affections are injurious to affections. Our soul is made in the image of God, and in her power of loving she possesses something of the infinite.” What a family!—an assembly of chosen souls, all of them winning and sympathetic, all knowing how to love as those souls only know who love God above all things. I should like to know Mrs. Craven. I pity and admire her: I pity her for having seen all those die whom she so loved, for having witnessed the departure of souls so intimately united that they were as if melted into one alone; I admire her for having had the power of retracing so many memories at the same time sweet and distressing, and which at every page must have renewed her grief. Is not Albert’s offering of his life for the conversion of Alexandrine the most admirable type of Christian love?

We are going to eternize ourselves at Orleans, dear Kate. My mother-in-law finds the Rue Jeanne d’Arc very agreeable; the children attend some of the cours.[175] We are not all, I except the gentlemen, who, in their hearts, prefer the country, but do not say a word to that effect.

A letter from Margaret, charmed to be at Rome, “that fatherland of sorrow.” Amid the ruins of the queen of cities she walks with her immense disappointment. Oh! what trial. No woman better deserves to be loved. Do you remember Mère Athanase saying of Margaret: “Beautiful as Eve in Paradise, attractive as Rachel, a musician like Miriam the sister of Moses, she is also learned as Anna Comnena, and a poetess like Marie de France”? I answered: “May I be the good Samaritan to this wounded soul!”

Duchesse is much afflicted; a new frock quite untakable, as she says, is the cause. On Marguerite’s gravely asking, “Is not Thérèse going out again? what misfortune has happened to her?” Arthur replied: “Lady Sensible, look well at Thérèse; there is a wrinkle on her forehead. She has lost … her toilette.” And the giddy boy twirled Marguerite round and round, who cannot understand, serious little thing that she is, how any one should be in trouble for so small a matter. This reminds me of the following verses, copied by Hélène in her journal:

A thousand kisses to my Kate.

May 3.

O month of graces and of heavenly favors, how I welcome your return! To-day, my beloved Kate, René and I have piously celebrated the anniversary of your birth. May God bless you, my very dear one, and may he bless all that you do! Oh! how many times have I thanked God that he has granted me to receive the love that Joseph had for Benjamin. Kate, I am too happy. Ask our Lord that I may not lose the fragrance of these days of peace and gladness; that I may not be an unprofitable servant; that I may do good, much good; that I may labor for the salvation of souls. O souls, souls! You know how, when a child, I cried when I found that I could not be a missionary. I wanted to be one of the laborers among the whitening harvests. I have kept my desire, and René shares my aspirations. Adrien, who heard us yesterday talking together, called out: “Quick, quick! a professor of Hindostani and Chinese for these two apostles.” My mother-in-law was very much amused by this sally, and the conversation became general. A good work has come out of it: there were in the house only four associates of the Propagation of the Faith, and now there are thirty, and I am chief of the dizaines, or sets of ten, by unanimous vote. It is not to Asiatic idolaters that I am desirous of preaching the Gospel, but, wherever my duty shall place me, to those who are ignorant of it; and by way of a beginning I have this winter been teaching the catechism to three little children, beggars by profession. I shall continue the same thing in Brittany. Dearest, can I do too much for Him who overwhelms me with such magnificent profusion?

The opening of the month of

I leave you now, as my mother-in-law sends Picciola to request my company. “If,” says the gentle little ambassadress, “it is to Madame Kate that you are writing, tell her especially that I love her with all my heart; and let me put a kiss upon the page.”

By the side of this sweet, pure kiss I place my tender messages, or rather ours, loving you as we both do.

May 6.

The spiritual enjoyments of this fairest of months are infinitely sweet to me, my sister. I had minutely described your oratory to Lucy and Hélène, and these two affectionate girls have prepared me a heartfelt enjoyment. In a small, unoccupied drawing-room I found all my souvenirs of Ireland, … all … excepting only your dear presence, my devoted Kate. Tell me how it is that so many hearts agree together in strewing with flowers the path of your Georgina.

The Odeurs de Paris, by Louis Veuillot, is much spoken of. This book is a sequel to the Parfum de Rome—a sort of set-off or contrast between the unseemliness of Babylon and the beauties of Sion. I wanted to read it, but Adrien dissuaded me, and René read me the preface, which contains some remarkable thoughts. The modern Juvenal says of Paris: “A city without a past, full of minds without memories, of hearts without tears, of souls without love”; and elsewhere: “To paint Paris, Rousseau discovered the suitable expression of ‘a desert of men.’” There is also a touching complaint respecting the continual confusion and, as it were, overturning of this city, which Gabourd calls the city of the Sovereign People: “Who will dwell in the paternal house? Who will find again the roof which sheltered his earliest years?…” Read the Souvenirs of Mme. Récamier, and Marie-Thérèse, by Nettement. The latter is written with a royalist and Christian enthusiasm which delighted me. My mother-in-law is passionately fond of poetry, and has selected me as reader. I am gradually becoming her pet bird; she is so kind and good in her continual solicitude for her youngest daughter! Master Arthur, l’enfant terrible, confided to Picciola that I was grandmamma’s spoiled child. The fact is that, having my time more free than my sisters-in-law, who are absorbed by their maternal cares, I can occupy myself more in anything which may please Mme. de T——, whose innate refinement knows how to appreciate the smallest attentions. Then, yesterday my mother-in-law sent me a nice little packet, carefully sealed; guess what I found in it? A Shakspere and a Lamartine, bound with my monogram, and a choice little volume by Marie Jenna, a name

Ah! yes; no happiness is worth the happiness of loving and praising God.

Hélène waited for the month of Mary to reveal her beautiful vocation to her mother—this choice of heaven which will necessarily be at the same time the glory and the martyrdom of our hearts. None of the austerities of her future life will take by surprise the newly-chosen one; she has prepared herself for everything. It is on the 10th, four days hence, that she will speak.… Help us with your prayers, my dearest Kate!…

I am hastening off with René to Sainte Croix. A thousand loving messages.

May 9.

The evening of the day before yesterday was a beautiful triumph: the festival of Joan of Arc had begun. All day long the belfry resounded; a touching and patriotic as well as Christian idea seemed, as it were, to call back the past to life; and in the evening a large crowd followed in the torch-light procession, which was beautiful to see from the memories which are attached to it. With more than four centuries between, these souvenirs are still living with an imperishable life. O pure and fair Joan of Arc! my chosen heroine, how I love the fidelity of Orleans to thy dear memory! Scarcely had the cortège reached the cathedral when … but let me transcribe for you the description of these splendors by a more skilful hand than mine—by the pencil of an artist, and an artist of genius. This is what was spoken by Mgr. Mermillod, on the 8th of May, 1863: “Yesterday evening, gentlemen, under the vaulted roof of your basilica, I followed your priests and your pontiff, who were proceeding towards the portico. The interior of your church was in silence and obscurity; one little light alone was gleaming before the tabernacle, announcing the Master’s presence. When I reached the threshold, tears filled my eyes, while my heart beat with an indescribable emotion. I had before me, in an incomparable scene, a vision of your history, of your heroic splendors, of your providential destinies. You, gentlemen, were there, ranged in this place; your children, your wives, your aged men, the great ones and the lowly ones of your city, were present at this solemn assembly. Suddenly the clarions sound, bands of inspiriting music fill the air, drums beat, the artillery thunders, the bells fling into space their triumphant clangor, and the choir of Levites raises on high the hymn of victory. The standard of Joan of Arc is advancing, borne by the magistrates of the city, hailed by all the united voices of the army and the church. Is not this the most eloquent address, the most moving panegyric, the living incarnation of an undying remembrance?… Your

“The pontiff invokes the name of the Lord, the multitude answers; soldiers, priests, and people bend the knee; the benediction falls upon these souls.… My gaze mounted from earth towards heaven, and it seemed as if I could perceive above the towers of your basilica forms more luminous than earthly fires, the ancient witnesses and workers of the greatness of your France—Ste. Geneviève, Ste. Clotilde, St. Rémy, St. Michael, Ste. Catherine, Ste. Margaret, Joan of Arc; your own saints, St. Aignan and St. Euvertus, blessing you by the hand of their worthy successor. Clergy and people intoned the psalm of thanksgiving: ‘Praise the Lord, ye peoples: praise him, O ye nations! for God hath remembered his goodness; he hath confirmed his loving-kindness towards us. The truth of the Lord endureth for ever. Praise the Lord.’

“I seemed to hear the stones of your cathedral, the ramparts of your city, your own souls, the saints of heaven, the past, the present, all your centuries, unite in one immense acclamation, and repeat the song of gladness: ‘Glory to the Father, who is strength; glory to the Son, who is sacrifice; glory to the Holy Spirit, who is light; glory to God, who made worlds for himself, the church for eternity; France for the church, and Joan of Arc for France!’”

Dear Kate, what can I say to you after this? Who would venture to speak after Mgr. Mermillod, “write after Châteaubriand, or paint after Raphael”? Yesterday the town was rejoicing; it was the anniversary of the deliverance. Was present at the panegyric by M. l’Abbé Freppel, professor of sacred eloquence at the Sorbonne. He asks for the canonization of Joan of Arc. His text was a sentence out of the Book of the Machabees. Divisions: 1. The life of Joan of Arc was marked by all the virtues which characterize sanctity. 2. She uttered prophecies and performed miracles. It was very fine and elevated. There was an imposing assemblage. At half-past twelve we went out and hurried to the hotel to see the procession pass by. What a cortège! All the parishes, each headed by its banner; the court, the authorities, the troops, the corporations, and I know not what. It was indeed a day of excitement. Dearest Kate, in the midst of this encombrement[178] I thought of you. Our drawing-rooms were overflowing with people; from time to time I went noiselessly away to Hélène, whom a headache excused from appearing, and we spoke of God and the sweetness of his service. I am so fond of these conversations. In the evening, Month of Mary: I would not dispense myself from this for anything in the world.

I am going to read Sainte Cécile, by Dom Guéranger. Letter from Lizzy, who announces a most joyful piece of news: all the M——s are abjuring Protestantism. “Make haste and sing the hymn of St. Ambrose and St. Augustine; Ellen consents to say the Lætatus; it is Mary who has obtained this miracle.” When I told you, dear Kate, that one ought to sing alleluia over

I am sending to the post; I wish not to delay your happiness.

May 11.

To write to my Kate is the condition sine quâ non of my existence. A beautiful sermon yesterday by M. Baunard, a young and eloquent curate of Sainte Croix, on visits and conversations, “in which the Christian ought always to have three charming companions—Charity, Humility, and Piety.” Went to the museum with René and Adrien, the most learned and agreeable of ciceroni. I was captivated by the hall of zoölogy, and that of botany also.

To-morrow Hélène will have with her mother the conversation which I dread. René proposed to his niece to select this day, which will recall to Gertrude (Mme. Adrien) a remarkable favor due to the protection of Our Lady of Deliverance. Pray for all these hearts which are about to suffer, dear Kate. We set out for Paris on the 1st of June; my mother has taken an entire house there. We are going to breathe the burning atmosphere of the capital, as Paul says, wiping his forehead; and your Georgina adds: We are going to see Kate. All the beauties of the much-vaunted Exposition would affect me little if you were not in Paris, dear sister of my soul. What gladness to embrace you, to speak to you! This paper irritates me; it answers me nothing. It is you, you that I need; I thirst for your presence. And then a new separation, a new rending away—you will take the veil, and be no more of this world. Kate, I want not to think of it.

Could you to-morrow have several Masses said at Notre Dame des Victoires? Hélène begs that you will; there she is, near my bureau, leaning her pretty, pensive head against an arm-chair. Ah! we understand each other so well; I love her so much, and am scarcely older than she is. I was mistaken as to her age; she is not yet eighteen, and was like a sister given me by God to console me for having my Kate no longer; and she also is now to go away.

May all the angels of Paradise be with you, and may they be to-morrow with Hélène!

May 13.

Thanks, dear Kate! The heavenly spirits were almost visible in our home during the eventful day. Adrien and Gertrude received, with a profound faith, the confidences of Hélène, and I know not whether to admire most the heroism of the parents or that of the young virgin. Her father’s grief is inexpressible; he had formed the brightest projects for the future of his daughter. She was his especial darling; … but he is a Christian of the ancient days, and says with Job: “The Lord gave and the Lord taketh away …” Gertrude is like Mary at the foot of the cross, mute and immovable, with death in the heart, and yet happy at the divine choice. Adrien undertakes to prepare his mother; … it is for her that I fear most.

“This is my Calvary,” said Hélène to me this morning. “To see them suffer through me! And I cannot hesitate!…” I have read Sainte Cécile, and I made Gertrude read it, who thanked me with a smile that went to my heart. René is afflicted. “This,” he says, “is the first bird that leaves the nest, to reenter it no more. There will be from this time a great void in our réunions, a source of distress to my brother—a subject we shall fear to touch upon. Georgina, you were saying that we had not a single shadow in our sky!” Alas! I feel only too keenly how painful it is, but also how happy Hélène will be! Thanks for having made me understand this, dear Kate. Gertrude, the wounded eagle, takes refuge with me to speak about her daughter.

Good-by for a short time, carissima sorella.

May 15.

A splendid benediction yesterday, on account of the Perpetual Adoration. The sanctuary was enkindled with light. Behind the altar, a cathedral of lighted tapers—yes, dear, the towers of Sainte Croix in miniature; all around it pyramids of lights, clusters of flowers with long, luminous stems, lustres hanging at an infinite height, the arches and smaller arcades, etc., illuminated. An O Salutaris and a Regina Cœli were sung that seemed to carry one away. I stood on the earth, but my heart was in heaven; and near to me René, absorbed in God, brothers and sisters, Hélène, Thérèse, Madeleine, and grandmother, who was in tears.… How touched I was! Adrien had spoken.… It was a thunder-clap! And the choir chanted the glories of the King of Virgins, and all those beloved countenances beamed with fervor, as we bent our heads beneath the benediction of the Almighty!…

This morning Mme. de T—— asked for Hélène. Their conversation lasted two hours. After déjeuner[179] my mother said, smiling: “It is decided we have a Carmelite!” The children opened their eyes in wonder. Lucie began to sob; Picciola, pale and trembling, kissed the happy Hélène a hundred and a hundred times over. The sacrifice is, as it were, accomplished.

Johanna, the dear Creole, is astonished at the promptitude of this decision. The babies will no more be persuaded to leave the side of the tall cousin “who did not know that she was so much loved,” she says. This morning she received a long, beautiful letter from an intimate friend inviting her to a marriage. It is impossible to refuse; this will be the last worldly festivity at which that sweet face, made to delight the angels, will be seen. The word marriage made Mme. de T—— start, and she afterwards said to me: “I had planned a brilliant earthly alliance for Hélène; how much there is of human and material within us that I should still regret it when a divine alliance is secured to her! Here, Georgina, read me again the chapter on abandonment to God.” I read, and, seeing her meditative afterwards, I opened a book of Ozanam which Lucy lent me. I will give you the Christian theory of marriage from this great mind, who too soon disappeared from a world that wondered at his works: “In marriage there is more than a contract; above all, there is a sacrifice, or rather two sacrifices: the woman sacrifices that which God has given her of irreparable, that which causes the solicitude of her mother—her first beauty, often her health, and that power of loving which women only once possess; the man on his part sacrifices the liberty of his youth, the incomparable years which will return no more, the power of devoting himself

Good-night, dearest Kate!

May 20.

The house is transformed into a convent, dear Kate; so, at least, Arthur declares, finding in this fact an excellent reason for Hélène’s being detained in it. Since her departure has been seriously thought of, every one is wanting to have the enjoyment of her company, and she is literally torn away first by one and then by another; and if you could see her lending herself with her bright smile to all the exactions of this affection, tyrannical as it has become!

We took a long excursion yesterday into the open country, among the wheat; the rustling of the ears of corn, the charm of the sunny solitude, the verdure with its soft lights and shadows, all the renewal of the spring, the beauty of the landscape, which showed in the far distance the fine towers of the cathedral—all this smiled upon us; and yet sadly, like an adieu, we shall return, we shall look again next year upon this same picture, but without Hélène.… Why is she so engaging, so sympathetic?

Letter from Margaret, who will be at Paris in June. What joy, dear Kate! It seems to me that our friend is more tranquil; she describes like a poet her enthusiasm for Italy and for the Pope. At Florence she met with our poor mistress Annah, who had some trouble to recognize in this brilliant lady the pale little girl of former times. Annah is giving English lessons. Lord William, seeing Margaret’s affectionate demonstrations, proposed to her to secure the independence of the aged mistress, which he has done, to the great satisfaction of the two persons interested. I like that, and am convinced that Margaret deceives herself.

Another happiness, darling Kate: here is your letter, in the joyful hands of Picciola, who recognizes your handwriting. Five days without saying a word to you! René sends you quite a volume. Love always your Georgina.

May 26.

Was present at the ordination. What an imposing ceremony! I had never seen one, and I followed all the details with the greatest interest. Sixty young men giving themselves to God, devoting themselves to a life of sacrifice! I prayed for and envied them: how much good will they not be able to Te Deum, that heavenly song. Oh! that all these souls to-day consecrated to the Lord may one day sing the Sanctus and Hosanna before the throne of the Lamb.

On arriving yesterday at Sainte Croix (the weather was splendid) I saw myriads of swallows joyously flying about and warbling among the towers. René began to hum, “Oh! that I had wings, to fly away to God.” You dear swallows who have made your nests on the roof of the temple of the Lord, in the bell-turrets, and among the towers; ye swallows, my sisters, as said the Seraph of Assisi, you who fly so high, have you seen heaven? You who in sweet warblings sing the praises of the Eternal, have you touched with your wing the portals of the celestial Eden? Sing, and cease not, O gentle swallows! who know not what it is to offend God.

Gertrude has confided to me that for some time past she had divined Hélène, and, as she treats me entirely as a sister, she has given me the journal to read which she wrote whilst her daughter was at the convent. Observe this passage: “My beloved girl is seventeen years old to-day; her father and I have duly observed this anniversary as a festival. Poor dear child! What will be thy will for her, my God? One of these pure creatures, seraphs left upon earth to sanctify it, whose life is spent beneath thy watchful eye, in the shade of the sanctuary? … O my God! Once I thought not that it would be possible for me to live far from her, no more to rest my gaze on her fresh countenance, so bright and open. Thou hadst, O Lord! united us so closely that it seemed as if my soul had passed into hers. Sweet angel, return to spread your white wings over the maternal nest! Oh! I fear lest you should be the first of all to leave it; but if you leave us for God, may you be blessed, my well-beloved!”

O ye mothers! who may sound the depths of your sorrows? Happy as mothers are in their enchanted life of love and innocence, yet they are also martyrs, and who knows whether the gall in their chalice does not absorb the honey?

Beloved, in a few days I shall embrace you.

May 29.

God be praised, who is about to bring us together again, dear sister of my soul! It is settled that we are to return on the 1st of July, once more to salute Orleans. Hélène will at this date enter the novitiate at ——. The town is beginning to lose its inhabitants. Hélène and I traverse it in all directions to have another look at its curiosities: the fine old houses richly and deeply sculptured, historic dwellings, which remain standing after their inmates have disappeared. We are shown the house of Joan of Arc, of Francis I., of Agnes Sorel, of Diana of Poitiers—names with very dissimilar associations. One more visit to Benoni, a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Miracles, a halt at my bookseller’s, and my preparations will be ended.

Wrote to Sister Louise. I like to return to her twice in the year, to pay her this tribute of the heart with my tenderest affection. What a fine nature—an ideal! A soul

Good-by for the present, dear Kate. René, my so dear and gentle René, is more happy because of my happiness than I am myself—happiness moistened with tears, the tears of sacrifice. “What matters it where one weeps, or wherefore, since tears buy heaven?”

Hélène has given me a share of her heritage—a paralytic old woman whose succoring angel she has been. Every morning she went to the lowly room of the poor invalid, whom she dressed, and then with her patrician hands she made the bed, swept the room, and prepared the repast. After this she read to her out of some pious book, conversed with her a few minutes, and on leaving called a little girl of ten years old, who was charged to keep the poor woman company. I shall continue Hélène’s work.… In summer it is a neighbor who, for a slight remuneration, does all that is necessary; but Mariette, the femme de chambre, who is often employed to carry little comforts to the invalid, said to me with tears: “Nothing replaces mademoiselle, and the old woman says, ‘Summer is winter to me, for it takes away my sunshine!’” What praise, Kate, is it not? Can you not understand how Gertrude may well be proud of the treasure which is about to be taken from her? Cannot you understand also how much I sympathize with her?—for my heart is bleeding from the same wound. Be happy, beloved Kate; we shall meet again where there are no separations to be feared, in our true fatherland.

May 31.

Our departure is postponed; my mother being unwell, enough so to keep her bed, and the doctor does not yet know what to say about her. Pray for us, my sister. René fears inflammation of the lungs. Mme. de T——, who is very austere with herself, never complains until the last extremity.

O my sweet Mother in heaven! your beloved month is drawing to its close, and these lines are the last which I shall trace before the latest hours of May have fallen into eternity. Oh! I entreat you, you who are all-powerful with the Heart of your Divine Son, Our Lady of the Sacred Heart, hear our prayers!

A thousand kisses, dear Kate.

June 3.

A mucous fever has declared itself; the danger is imminent; we are scarcely alive. Never was mother more adored. She has been delirious; her wanderings were those of a saint. God, the angels, her dear ones, both living and dead, pass in turn before her mind; when she recovers her sense of the reality, she finds the most consoling and heavenly words wherewith to comfort us. Her room, now haunted by the shadow of death, is become our universe, and we fraternally share amongst us the sorrowful sweetness of attending upon this beloved sick one. All our poor are in prayer; two tapers are continually burning before the black Virgin. Thanks, beloved! I have read your letter to my mother, who said to me:

Dear Georgina, I am happy to

June 4.

She is as ill as she can be. René proposed to make a vow. Kneeling all together around this dying bed, with one voice and one heart we have promised to go to Notre Dame de la Salette. Now we wait.… Unite your vows to ours, we love her so much! Oh! if you could see her, so weakened, and with only a breath of life, and yet in possession of all her presence of mind, all her attentive solicitude, thinking of everything and everybody, pressing me to take a little rest! This scene reminds me of my mother, her peaceful death, whilst she commended us to the Father of orphans. Will not God spare her to us? One cannot lose a mother twice! Picciola has assembled all the babies for a perpetual Rosary.

Tears choke me; and yet I still have hope. She has received the Holy Viaticum, and Extreme Unction; it seems as if she were already in heaven.

June 5.

Always the same hopeless state; extreme weakness, and no life left but in the look, which beams with love. We are all here, more silent than shadows, starting at the slightest sound. I did not know that I loved so strongly this mother worthy of my René. Yesterday evening, seeing me leaning over her bed, she made a supreme effort to say to me: “You will comfort him!” O my God, my God! can it be that mourning is about to darken our youth, and that this first year of marriage should contain so great a sorrow?

June 7.

Nothing but a breath, … yet I hope still. Something tells me that she must live.

June 9.

Yes, dearest, she will live; let us thank God. A reaction has taken place; it is now a resurrection. How happy I am! You would scarcely recognize René, so greatly is he altered; but he smiles now, recovering with our beloved sufferer. Your letter of yesterday brought balm to my heart; and an hour afterwards the good doctor assured us that all danger was over, though the recovery will be very gradual. And so this beautiful and glorious Feast of Pentecost finds us all radiant. My mother has insisted on sending us to the services, but the others could not refuse to let me remain. “Grandmother and Aunt Georgina are Ruth and Noemi,” observed Arthur. My mother heard him, and sighed at the thought of her dear ones dead; and now having cheered, comforted, and attended to her, I see that she has sunk into a quiet sleep, and so begin to write to you. My darling Kate, a Te Deum!

They are returned. I went to the door with my finger on my lips, and now I am alone again.… No, René is by me, light as a sylph, and together we watch the blessed slumber which will not be the last. Kate, I am going to pray with my brother, who invites me to do so, and at the same time sends his love to you.

June 11.

What a new and delightful aspect everything has regained! We are now longing to accomplish our vow. Why are you not here, my sweet

Picciola enters; my pretty fairy whispers in my ear that she would very much like to look at grandmamma asleep. She is now kneeling at her feet, saying her Rosary with the fervor of an angel.

A well-known step, although it makes itself aërial in order not to disturb this restoring sleep: it is René! He smiles and retires: he knows that I am writing to Kate. Dear sister of my soul, my better self, it is to your prayers that we are indebted for this cure! Lucy is anxious. The pretty baby is cutting his teeth; he cries and screams, so they are obliged to keep him at a distance from Mme. de T——‘s rooms; and Lucy is not fond of solitude.

Hélène is impatient to know you. How useful she has made herself to every one during these sad days! Kate, dearest, may God be our guard.

TO BE CONTINUED.

WAS MILES STANDISH A CATHOLIC?

In the quaint old town of Leyden, somewhere in the year 1619, an English soldier, who had seen service on the battle-fields of the Continent, came in contact with a little community of men of his own country, hard-working, unhappy people, who had left England to enjoy greater freedom in the practice of their religious ideas than they could expect at home. But if the people of the United Provinces harmonized with them in doctrinal standards and principles, their lives and practice were far from unison with the English refugees, and these last were planning a settlement beyond the Atlantic.

The soldier did not share their religious views. He did not join the church at Leyden or swell the number of the worshippers in the church of the Beguines, which, on the principle of religious liberty as they understood it, the Dutch had wrested from the Sisters to give to the strangers. But, how or why no one knows, the hot-tempered, good-hearted soldier contracted a strong friendship for Robinson, the pastor of the English flock, and that sturdy upholder of Puritan views seems to have entertained a warm affection for the soldier.

When the Mayflower, after breasting the waves of the Atlantic, neared at last the shore on which the colony proposed to begin a settlement in midwinter, daring in the worst season of the year what many had failed to effect with all the advantages of the balmiest spring, a compact for civil government was drawn up and signed by the chief

New England historians and scholars seem puzzled to account for the fact of his never having joined the church. His life was beyond reproach. He brought from his experience of camp and garrison no habits to shock the sober, rigid men with whom his career was cast. It could not be, they admit, that the Pilgrims found any objection to his admission. He evidently never sought it. He was no hypocrite to seek admission as a church-member like Captain Underhill, whose life set morality at defiance, or like Mayor Gibbons, whose questionable dealings with pirates show his unworthiness. Contrasted with these men, Standish stands out as a noble, consistent figure. As Dr. Ellis remarks: “Of the two captains in the early Indian warfare, and in the straits of dangerous enterprise, the uncovenanted Standish is to be preferred.” He is comparing him with Underhill; the comparison will still hold good in regard to Gibbons or Patrick.

Some years since, the writer threw out in our American Notes and Queries the suggestion that Miles Standish, the military hero of the Mayflower, of the Pilgrims, and of Plymouth Rock, was a Catholic. A correspondent, using the initials J. W. T., which seem to denote an historical scholar of no mean repute in New England, one who has shown real research and sound judgment, lost all self-command at the suggestion, and raved in this style: “If Miles Standish was a Roman Catholic, he was also a hypocrite; till proof of the latter, he must be considered what the Pilgrims believed him to be—and never before doubted—a Protestant and an honest man. Miles Standish was not the man to sail under false colors. He was bold, brave, impetuous, open as the day, and not double-faced. His memory should have been safe from insult.”

No distinct assertions are made, and the grave historical scholar forgot to cite authorities. The language infers that the Pilgrims believed Standish to be a Protestant, and that he professed to be one. But there is no evidence at all to sustain this. The late S. G. Drake, whose acquaintance with the sources of New England history was certainly very great, expressly says on this point: “I do not remember ever having seen it stated that he belonged to any church,” and no one has ever cited an authority that connects him with any Protestant church. Governor Hutchinson, in his History of Massachusetts (vol. ii., p. 411), says: “It seems Standish was not of their church at first, and Mr. Hubbard says he had more of his education in the school of Mars than in the school of Christ. He acquired, however, the esteem of the whole colony.” Baylies, in his History of Plymouth, says: ii., p. 21). Palfrey, the author of the History of New England, with all the researches of the present century, says of Standish: “He was not a member of the Leyden Church, nor subsequently of that of Plymouth, but appears to have been induced to join the emigrants by personal good-will, or by love of adventure, while to them his military knowledge and habits rendered his companionship of great value” (vol. i., p. 161). Later on in the same work, Palfrey reiterates the assertion: “Standish was no religious enthusiast. He never professed to care for, or so much as to understand, the system of doctrine of his friends, though he paid it all respect as being theirs. He never was a member of their church” (vol. ii., p. 407-8). At the laying of the corner-stone of the Standish monument on Captain’s Hill, Duxbury, Oct. 7, 1872, the Rev. Dr. Ellis, endeavoring as a clergyman on that day to say all that could be said, makes him only a sort of “proselyte of the gate,” but admits distinctly that “he was not a man of ‘professions,’ nor, so far as we know, of ‘confessions.’ He was never ‘sealed’ or ‘covenanted.’ We are at a loss for the explanation of this fact, considering the standard and the expectations of his associates.”[180] On the same occasion, Charles Deane, who certainly did not speak without examination of his subject, said: “He was not a member of Plymouth Church, and there are strong suspicions that the doctrine of the perseverance of the saints had not taken strong hold of him.”[181]

It was not that Standish preferred the platform of Massachusetts Bay. He went to Boston, but never seemed to harmonize with them or relish their system of management. He was no adherent of Mrs. Hutchinson, Roger Williams, or the Baptists; no one ever claimed him as a disciple of Fox; no treasured Book of Common Prayer or any other proof of adherence to the Church of England has been preserved to justify Episcopalians in claiming him.

Where, then, is his Protestantism? He certainly avowed himself a member of no Protestant denomination whatever, and made no professions of the kind; so that, if he really was a Catholic, there can be no charge of hypocrisy, for there is not the slightest tittle of evidence that he ever pretended to be a Protestant. He was an extremely valuable man to the little community at Plymouth, and rendered important services. At that time, to have proclaimed himself a Catholic would have compelled the Pilgrims to exclude him, and exposed himself to annoyance when visiting other colonies or England. That the leaders knew him to be a Catholic, too firm in his faith to be shaken, would explain much that seems now inexplicable to New England writers.

The question, then, comes up, whether there is any direct ground for supposing the famous Captain of the Pilgrims to be a Catholic. In his will, he left to his eldest son, Alexander, “all my lands as heir aparent, by lawfull decent, in Ormistock, Boscouge, Wrightington, Maudsly, Newburrow, Crawston, and in the Isle of Man, and [182]

This gives a clue to his family, and another is found in the name of the town which he planted—Duxbury. Some of the earlier writers of this century made a fanciful derivation for this. Duxbury, according to them, was from Dux, captain; that Duxbury meant Captain’s town, and was an allusion to his position in the colony.[183] But turning to English authorities, we find at once in Lancashire an ancient family of Standish, of which there are two branches, Standish of Standish Hall, and Standish of Duxbury. Their arms—three silver plates on a field azure—meet you on tombs and on the churches erected by them centuries ago.

When the young king Richard II. rode out to meet Wat Tyler at the head of his rebels, John Standish was one of the king’s esquires—the very one who slew Tyler. A Sir John Standish won fame by his prowess at Agincourt, and the name occurs frequently during the French wars of Henry V. and Henry VI. When the eighth King Henry sought a divorce from his faithful wife, Queen Catharine, Henry Standish, a Franciscan, Bishop of St. Asaph’s (1519-1535), a most learned man, assisted the unhappy queen throughout the shameful trial. After the change of religion, the Standish family adhered to the old faith, one of them writing vigorously in its defence; and down to this day they are reckoned among the Catholic families of England. Standish Hall, the seat of the elder branch, is close to Wigan, twenty miles northeast of Liverpool; and Duxbury Hall, the seat of the younger branch, is only two miles distant from Standish Hall. There have been frequent litigations between the two branches, and in one of these, doubtless, the immediate ancestor of the Plymouth soldier lost the property alluded to in his will.

The family remained Catholic, and after the fall of James II. was among his sturdy adherents. The famous Lancashire plot, formed in 1692 with the object of replacing James on the throne of England, was hatched in Standish Hall.

The wrong of which the gallant soldier of Plymouth complained was one that he could have had redressed promptly, even if not in accordance with the rules of justice. Had he appeared as a Protestant claimant for the broad acres of an old Catholic house, courts and juries would have bent law and fact to place him in possession. How the feeling operates we have seen by instances in our own day. The feeling in favor of the Tichborne claimant in England was deeply imbued with the desire to place the heritage of an old and well-known Catholic family in the hands of one who was to all intents and purposes a Protestant—one whose Catholicity, if he ever had any, had completely vanished in a brutalizing Australian life. In the claim of Earl Talbot, a Protestant, to the earldom of Shrewsbury, so long identified with the Catholic cause, we see what slight evidence, or show of evidence, satisfied the House of Peers. Had the circumstances been reversed, a Catholic claiming a Protestant peerage, the doubts of the tribunal would have required tenfold proof, and the investigation lasted a generation.

Here and there, one who gave the reins to his wild passions, some man sunk in vice like Mervyn, Lord Audley, or the Duke of Norfolk at the close of the last century, would conform to the state church, though every decent Protestant shrank from contact with them; or some nobleman deprived of his estates, like Lord Baltimore, would renounce his faith to recover a province like Maryland, wrongfully detained from him; or, like Lord Dunboyne, give up the faith, even after teaching it for years as an honored priest, in order to live as seemed to become his title; or, led by ambition, to rise at court like Waldegrave; but for one to join a body of dissenters there is on record scarcely an example.

Descendants of old Catholic families emigrating to America, like the Dongans, Townleys, and others, fell away; but in the Old World a sense of honor made them cling to the oppressed faith when to desert it seemed to imply cowardice or vice. The opening words of Moore’s Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of Religion embody this feeling.

As a necessary consequence, the conversion of one of the members of an ancient Catholic house by the Protestant party was a triumph, and the new-comer was well rewarded. The conversion of one of the Standishes would have found mention somewhere among the events of the day, and there would be some trace of office or rank bestowed on the man who at last conformed. Yet the county annals of Lancashire and the memoirs of the time chronicle no such defection on the part of Miles Standish, and it is equally evident that no post was bestowed upon him as a reward.

That Miles Standish was one who, turning his thoughts to the great religious questions then rife, fell into doubts as to the solidity of the claims of the Catholic Church, and with all zeal and fervor embraced some form of Protestantism, is a theory too wild for consideration. The whole mass of Pilgrim testimony establishes the fact that he was one who took no interest in the religious systems of Protestantism; that he was utterly devoid of any such enthusiasm in them as would mark a convert from conviction.

From what we know of his origin, the presumption is strong that he was and always remained a Catholic, and we cannot shield his memory from insult except by adopting this presumption. Neither a life of vicious indulgence nor ambitious hopes, and certainly no conviction, led him to renounce the religion of his family and embrace Protestantism.

Let us, then, gather what is known of the life of this Catholic soldier of early New England annals.

He was born about 1584, at Duxbury, in Lancashire, England, as is supposed, from the fact that he preserved the name in the town he established; I., the elder branch of two in that county, the other being the Standishes of Duxbury. With this last he claims no connection, although the inference is probable that he was born at that place. As his just inheritance at Standish was, he asserts, surreptitiously detained from him, it may be that his father, unjustly deprived of his patrimony, took refuge at Duxbury under the protection of the other branch. Both branches were Catholic, John Standish being a distinguished writer against the Reformation. A Robert Standish figures in Parliament in 1654; Captain Thomas Standish, of the Duxbury house, was killed at Manchester fighting bravely for the king. The Standishes of Duxbury, as their genealogy shows, intermarried with the old Catholic houses of Howard and Townley. Richard Standish was made a baronet after the Restoration, in 1676.

The estates to which he asserts his rights lay, as expressed in the will, in Ormistock, Bouscouge, Wrightington, Maudsley, Newburrow, Cranston, and in the Isle of Man.

The latest history of Lancashire, by Baines, unfortunately gives no detailed pedigree of the house of Standish of Standish, that of Duxbury being given to some extent, though not in the line of descent of the younger sons. As, however, he does not claim at all to have belonged to the Duxbury branch, it is useless to look there for him.

Standish Hall, the seat of the branch from which he was descended, “is a large brick house, irregular in form, to which is attached an ancient Catholic chapel, still used for that purpose” (Baines, Hist. Lancashire, iii., p. 505). Standish forms a parish in the Hundred of Leyland. “The extensive and fertile township of Duxbury, at the northern extremity of the parish of Standish, stands on the banks of the Yarrow, by which the township and parish is divided from the parish of Chorley” (Ib., p. 517).

Ormistock is evidently Ormskirk, an adjoining parish, in which Baines mentions that there are two Catholic chapels (iv., p. 244). In the Buscouge of the Plymouth record we easily recognize Burscough, where once flourished a famous priory, suppressed by Henry VIII. The Lancashire historian notes that there was formerly a Catholic chapel at Burscough Hall (iv., p. 256). Of the next place mentioned in Standish’s will, Baines says: “Adjoining Wrightington Hall stands a small Catholic chapel for the use of the family” (iii., p. 481); Mawdsley or Mawdesley is an extensive flat and fertile township between Croston and Wrightington (iii., p. 404); Newbury and Croston are in the same Hundred (iii., 171, 391-5).

He was thus of Catholic stock, and born and brought up amid families where the old faith is still cherished to this day. Almost every place mentioned in his will is linked with Catholic life in his time and the present.

Of his early life not a tradition or trace has been preserved. In that day the younger men of Catholic families constantly went abroad to gain an education and to seek service in the Continental armies, many too to study for the priesthood, and return to England, unawed by the terrible fate that awaited them if they fell into the

That Miles Standish should have sought service abroad is therefore natural. Ignoring his Catholic origin, New England writers have sought to explain his military career on the Continent. All seem to assume that he served in the Low Countries. Baylies, in his History of Plymouth (part ii., p. 21), says explicitly that “he served as an officer in the armies of Queen Elizabeth in the Low Countries, when commanded by her favorite, the Earl of Leicester.”

Captain Wyman, at the laying of the corner-stone in 1872, goes further: “In early life he was trained to the hardships and trials of war, having been commissioned at the age of twenty a lieutenant in the army serving in the Low Countries against the armies of the Inquisition.” The Rev. G. E. Ellis and Charles Deane on the same occasion limit themselves to the assertion that he served in the Low Countries (pp. 21, 24).

Palfrey is less positive, as he was writing history, not pronouncing eulogies. “The ‘cautionary towns’ of the Netherlands had been garrisoned by British regiments for thirty years, and Miles Standish had probably been employed on this service” (History of New England, i., p. 161). “Probably while serving in an English regiment in the Netherlands he fell in with the company of English peasants” (ii., pp. 407-8).

There seems to be no really authentic foundation for all this theory. Standish died in 1656, aged 72, and must have been born, according to this, in 1584. Leicester was sent to the Low Countries with eleven thousand men in 1585-7; but we can scarcely believe that this precocious scion of a Catholic house served as an officer in this campaign when only one year old, or three at the most.

The assertion that the Catholic soldier was commissioned a lieutenant at the age of twenty, that is, in 1604, when James was ruining the Catholic families by extorting all the arrears of fines, and producing the spirit of exasperation which culminated in the Gunpowder Plot, can scarcely find any support in sober history. The armies of the Inquisition which James was fighting in 1604 elude research.

Savage, in his Genealogical Dictionary, though on what authority we know not, says that Standish had been at Leyden some years before 1620. All that is positively known is that he had seen military service on the Continent, and was living in Leyden with his wife Rose when the followers of Robinson proposed to emigrate. A strong friendship, not based on harmony of religious views, existed between Miles Standish and the pastor of the exiles. Writing subsequently to Plymouth after receiving tidings of Standish’s first Indian fight, Robinson says: “Let me be bould to exhorte you seriously to consider ye dispossition of your Captaine, whom I love, and am persuaded ye Lord in great mercie and for much good hath sent you him, if you use him aright. He is a man humble and meek amongst you; and towards all in ordinarie course.”[184] This strong feeling of personal friendship was reciprocal. In his will Standish writes: “Further, my will is that Marrye Robenson, whom I tenderly love for her grandfather’s sacke, shall have three pounds in som thing to goe forward for her two yeares after my decease.”

His wife Rose, of whom we know only her name, agreed evidently to join him in the voyage. True wife of a brave man, she was ready to face all danger and to share all hardships with him. Nothing is recorded from which to glean whether she was some fair English girl from his own Lancashire, or some one whom he won on the Continent. Her name, her faith, and her country are alike unknown. We know that they embarked together at Delft Haven, and formed part of the memorable body on the Mayflower. Among them Miles Standish was a man of importance. When the compact for their government in America was drawn up, he signed it, and the place of his signature shows the esteem in which he was held and his recognized position among them.

That document is purely a civil one, and contains nothing that could not be signed by the strictest Catholic.

Reaching in November the poorest, sandy part of the coast, the little colony had a fearful career of hardship. Standish was one of the pioneers in exploring the land. After they landed at Plymouth Rock in December, he saw his companions sink under their hardships and breathe their last. Though his own rugged health triumphed over everything, his wife Rose sank beneath the unwonted trials, and died on the 29th day of January, 1621, leaving him alone in the diminishing body of settlers, without a tie to bind him to them or the settlement which they had undertaken. But he was not one to falter or easily give up.

During that winter of terrible suffering so heroically borne he was one of the six or seven who were untouched by disease, and his care and devotion to the sick and afflicted are mentioned with gratitude. When spring at last gladdened them, and they resolutely set about the labors of building, cultivating, and otherwise preparing for a permanent residence, Miles Standish had been made the first military commander of the colony, and, as we may infer from some statements, he turned his engineering skill to a peaceful channel, laying out the lines of the new town and surveying the plots taken up by the settlers. The first military organization of Plymouth dates from February, 1621. It was not formidable in numbers, but it was necessary to make it as imposing as possible. Standish felt all this. He threw up defensive works, a little fort on the hill above the dwellings mounted with five guns, and prepared to make the Indians respect the power of the settlers.

As the best linguist, he was sent out to meet the deputations of Indians who came to observe the new-comers; and he was constantly sent to explore the country or test the feelings of the natives. It was doubtless a specimen of Standish’s style of correspondence with them that we find recorded in Governor Bradford’s reply to arrows hid in a snake-skin which Canonicus sent to the settlement. The snake-skin filled with powder and ball was an answer which announced to the savages that Standish was ready to meet them.

From his slight frame, the Weston people at Wessagusset (now Weymouth) seem to have given Standish the nickname of Captain Shrimp, and the Indians had taken up the slighting tone and openly braved him. Feeling that the danger was imminent, Standish went in March, 1623, to Wessagusset with eight men, to suppress the plot by striking a blow that would convince the Indians of his prowess and of the force of the colony. He found the warrior who had attempted to take his life, and when the Indian taunted Standish, he with two of his men attacked the Indian party without firearms, and after a desperate struggle Standish despatched his antagonist with his own weapon wrested from his hand, and the whole band was cut off. This encounter established Standish’s reputation. The Weston colony broke up, and an ascendency was soon acquired over the Indians.

It was on receipt of the intelligence of this first collision with the natives that Robinson, after deploring the fact that they had not converted some Indians before killing any, expressed his affection to Standish, and urged the leaders of the colony not to molest him, as though there were some ground, which he did not care to express, why he anticipated that in some way their military leader might not be altogether at ease in the place.

But Standish seems to have had no idea of abandoning his associates. The ship Anne, bearing the third body of emigrants, had among the number a young woman named Barbara, whom he subsequently married, and thus formed new ties in the land. He is said first to have sought the hand of Priscilla Mullins, but, having sent Alden to open the matter for him, found that he had acted unwisely, as the lady bade Alden speak for himself. Longfellow bases on this incident his “Courtship of Miles Standish.” He was elected one of the governor’s assistants, and for nineteen years held that responsible position. De Rasiere leaves us a pen-picture of the colony assembling by beat of drum at Standish’s door, “each with his musket or firelock. They had their cloaks on, and placed themselves in order three abreast, and were led by a sergeant. Behind came the governor in a long robe; beside him on the right hand came the preacher with his cloak on, and on the left hand the captain, with his side-arms and cloak on, and with a small cane in his hand; and so they march in good order, and each sets his arms down near him. Thus they are constantly on their guard night and day.” This military organization was Standish’s work.

But his labors were not confined to organizing the colony for military purposes, or maintaining peace with Indian neighbors or troublesome white neighbors. In 1625, he

We next find him as a trader. To put the settlement on a better financial footing, after releasing themselves through his exertions from the London partners, Standish, with seven other settlers, in July, 1627, entered into an agreement with the colony to farm its trade for a term of six years. They assumed the debts of the colony, and agreed to bring over certain goods annually, in consideration of a small payment in corn or tobacco from each colonist. They put up a house on the Kennebec, and made it the centre of a prosperous trade.

In 1630, leaving Plymouth, he crossed to the north side of the harbor, and took up his residence on a spot still called Captain’s Hill, where his house has stood till our day, and the spring remains as kerbed with stone in his time. This place, probably after his birth-place in England, he called Duxbury, a name it still retains.

We find him reducing Morton; marching to defend the Pokanokets, allies of Plymouth, against the Narragansetts; going to Boston to maintain his colony’s rights to the Kennebec trade after a collision there with a Boston trader; sent in 1635 to recover Penobscot from the French; commanding the Plymouth quota in the Pequot war; engaged against the Narragansetts in 1651, against the Mohawks and their allies in New York; and finally, in 1653, when very old, appointed to command the troops which Plymouth raised in anticipation of hostilities with the Dutch of New Netherland.

This was his last public service. He died in his house at Duxbury, October 3, 1656, leaving several sons, and his widow Barbara. His descendants at the present time must be many. “Nature endowing him with valor, quickness of apprehension, and good judgment, had qualified him for business or war. Of his other peculiarities, nothing has been recorded except that he was of small stature and of hasty temper. He had no ambition except to do for his friends whatever from time to time they thought fit to charge him with—whether it was to frighten the Narragansett or Massachusetts natives, to forage for provisions, or to hold a rod over disorderly English neighbors, or to treat with merchants on the London exchange. In the misery of the early settlement especially, the reader does not fail to reflect what relief must have been afforded by reliance on a guardian so vigilant and manful” (Palfrey).

On the 7th of October, 1872, the Standish Monument Association, incorporated by the State of Massachusetts, laid the corner-stone of a monument to this Catholic soldier, a round tower, to be surmounted by a bronze figure of the first captain of Plymouth colony. The Ancient and Honorable Artillery

But it may be asked, how can we claim Miles Standish as a Catholic? He was of a known Catholic family, then, since, and now Catholic. Though associated with Robinson’s flock, he never became a member of their church in Leyden, Plymouth, or Duxbury. His Catholic convictions give the simplest reason for this, which one of the New England historians regards as “an anomaly in human nature” (Baylies). If amid all the temptations from the associations around him he thus persistently declined to connect himself even nominally with the Protestant Church, it shows that he still clung to that of his family.

But why should a Catholic thus isolate himself from all the ministrations of the church, and throw himself into a Protestant community? Deprived of the heritage he claimed, he had to seek his fortune elsewhere. In England, the number of Catholics in proportion to the population was less than in Holland; but he probably found life more congenial with these countrymen of another faith than with men of the same faith but of another country. Circumstances, too, control our paths in life. Catholics count in this country by millions, yet there is many a Catholic thrown almost entirely into Protestant circles.

But Standish, it may be said, married out of the church, and allowed his children to be brought up as Protestants. So did Gerard, one of the founders of Maryland, although there were priests in the colony and no Protestant minister; so did Matthew Carey; so did Chief-Justice Taney—yet all are regarded as Catholics, though we regret their indifference to the salvation of their children. It will not do on these grounds to deny his Catholicity.

There was not, so far as we know, a single apostate Catholic in the community at Plymouth, not one who, having tasted the pure Gospel, known the divinely given faith and the divinely instituted worship, turned to wallow in the mire of man-made creeds and worship devised by shallow men. Standish cannot be accused of being in league with known apostates. Yet even had he been guilty of such a step, we cannot judge him too harshly, for even in our days one may address a notorious and scandalous apostate in terms of eloquent welcome, and yet be deemed Catholic enough to lecture before pre-eminently Catholic bodies, and address the young graduates of our literary institutions as one fit to guide their future career.

But, it may be said, he must have lived in utter neglect of his duties as a Catholic. Who can tell this? Like Le Baron, the French surgeon wrecked and captured on the coast, he may have clung to the faith to the end, performed his devotions as he might, and died with the crucifix over his heart. The opportunities for approaching the sacraments from time to time were given him, and his position gave him greater ease in embracing those opportunities. The trading-houses of Plymouth in Maine stood near Mgr. Urban Cerri and the French colonial documents show that, for the benefit of Catholics in New England, English-speaking priests were sent to those points and maintained in Canada on the frontiers. Who can say that Standish, who was frequently in Maine on colonial matters and for trade, meeting these priests and speaking French, for his powers as a linguist are mentioned, did not avail himself of the opportunity of hearing Mass and approaching the sacraments. It is not likely that when he did he went with a file of soldiers and a drum-beating, or that he made a special report to the Plymouth government. It would be a fact of which evidence would not be heralded.

In his last days, 1651, Father Druillettes visited Boston and Plymouth with his Plymouth friend Winslow, where he must have met the aged Standish.

His library, it may be urged, as shown by the inventory, contains no Catholic works, and several devotional and doctrinal works of the Puritan school. As his wife was a Protestant, we may well suppose this part of the family library to have been her reading. Surely, when all New England authorities concur in admitting “that he never cherished any strong impressions of their religion,” or took any interest in it, we may put down Rogers’ Seaven Treatises, Wilcock’s works, Burrough’s Christian Contentment, Davenport’s Apology, and the Comentary on James Ball Catterkesmer, as her reading and not his; while we readily recognize the soldier’s taste in Cæser’s Comentaryes, Banft’s Artillery, the History of the World, Turkish History, Chronicle of England, Ye History of Queen Elizabeth, The State of Europe, the Garmon (German) History, and Homer’s Iliad.

The whole case is now before the reader. Miles Standish has been always classed as a Protestant, but there is certainly grave doubt on the point. He never renounced the Catholic faith in which he was undoubtedly born; and therefore, we Catholics have some claim to his name and fame. No descendant of his, to the writer’s knowledge, is now a Catholic, but some have been in our day pupils of Catholic institutions. These will, we trust, follow up our labors, and bring from the records of the past more conclusive evidence of the lifelong Catholicity of Miles Standish.

VITTORIA COLONNA

Twelve miles from Rome, on an almost isolated knoll of the Alban range of hills, more than thirteen hundred feet above the sea, which glimmers in the distance beyond the Campagna, rises the picturesque, mediæval town of Marino. Many quiet Romans spend the villeggiatura there, to enjoy its pure air and the shady promenades and beautiful views around it; but few foreigners do more than visit, on the way, a classical spot, a deep and wooded glen at the foot of the hill, where the representatives of the Latin tribes used to meet for deliberation on public matters down to the year 340 B.C., and which is noted for the tragic end of Turnus Herdonius, an influential chief of the league, who was treacherously accused, condemned, and drowned, at the request of Tarquin the Proud, in the clear pool of water—called by Livy caput aquæ Ferentinæ—which wells up so innocently

We do not intend to sketch the history of Marino or describe its local monuments, however interesting, but will simply remark that during the middle ages it passed successively from the Counts of Tusculum to the Frangipanis, the Orsinis, and, under Pope Martin V., to the Colonnas, in whose favor it was erected into a dukedom in 1424. The large baronial palace of the sixteenth century which stands in the middle of the town is full of curiosities and ancestral portraits of this powerful family, although the rarer and more interesting ones have long since been removed to the princely headquarters near the Santi Apostoli, in Rome. The stone-work and towers which still surround Marino and add so much to its feudal aspect, were raised in the year 1480, and the ruins of the castle, with its battlements and proud armorial signs upon the walls, are on the most precipitous side of the town, overlooking the noisy little stream of Aqua Ferentina. It was in this castle—which, having been made by the Colonnas their principal stronghold in that part of the Roman States, was then in the pride of all its freshness and strength of portals, merlons, and machicolations—that a daughter was born in the year 1490 to Don Fabrizio Colonna and his wife, the Lady Agnes of Montefeltro. As soon as possible she was held up at a window to be seen by her father’s retainers and saluted with the discharge of artillery, peal of trumpets, and shouts of men-at-arms.

This infant was Vittoria Colonna, who became one of the most celebrated women of the sixteenth century, and who is even remembered in Italy to this day for her learning, her poetry, beauty, conjugal affection, piety, and sorrows; and yet, strange as it may seem, although hardly singular—for illustrious names of the same period have fallen into a like obscurity—no date more precise than that of the year can be assigned to her birth; and certainly one of the benefits derived by biographers from the reforms which followed the Council of Trent is the better keeping of baptismal registers, by means of which—in countries, at least, where the church was not persecuted nor war made on parochial books—sometimes the very hour, often the day of the week, always that of the month, of an individual’s birth may be found.