Chapter IV · (continued 2)

Poor Nelly! how well I understand her. I hope, I hope; who knows what passes in that supreme moment, in that terrible grappling of death with life, between divine mercy and the sinner, who may in one instant make an act of perfect contrition and love?

Would you like to have a page out of Hélène’s journal, the receptacle of her inmost and most secret confidences, which she left with her mother, and which René and I read with enthusiasm? “‘Knowest thou the land where the orange tree blossoms?’ was the vague question of the melancholy Mignon to all around him; and I, for my part, ask everywhere, ‘Knowest thou the land whither flows all my love? Knowest thou the land to which mount my desires? Knowest thou Carmel, the sacred mountain where I shall possess my God?’ I also could say, “Knowest thou this beloved home, where I have so often sat with gladness in my heart? Knowest thou this mother who loves me with so true a love, this father so fond and tender, these kind, indulgent brothers, this noble-hearted grandmother, all this charming family who have made my life so sweet and golden?… O nature! and I am about to leave all these! I communicated this morning, the Feast of St. Teresa, the illustrious and seraphic lover of God, the fairest flower of Carmel, the glory of the church, a soul so strong and lofty in her perfection that she no longer desired any happiness in this world, and repeated, ‘Lord, let me suffer or die!’ Edouard Turquety, the sweet Catholic poet, has written some beautiful verses on this sublime thought. O great St. Teresa, eagle of love! whose flight reached to such heights, draw me after you; detach me from earth, gain for me that I forget for God all which is not God!

Dear Kate, do you not doubly love our Hélène?

October 21.

Do you know the Meditations on the Way of the Cross, by the Abbé Perreyre? I find in this book a comprehension of suffering which can only belong to a superior mind, and one which has drunk from one of the bitterest cups of life. There are passages in it which seemed to thrill me, especially this thought, that “trial breaks souls and forces them to shed around them floods of love.” I like to pass before your kind eyes all that I read and admire. René yesterday quoted me a beautiful thought of Mgr. of Orleans on La Moricière: “A man is a prism; the rays of God pass through him; it is not he who is beautiful—it is the rays, it is God; but without him we should not see them.” Read on Sunday, by the same genius, the postscript to the M. Rattazzi; it is admirable for its power, expression, and lofty feeling. The Archbishop of Rennes has written a few lines to Mgr. Dupanloup full of warmth and energy. It is said that our troops are going to Rome. God grant that it may be so, for his own glory, for the safety of Pius IX., and for the honor of our poor France! Oh! must it be written on the page of our history that the eldest daughter of the church has forfeited her mission, and that she has failed to say to the abettors of the revolution, “You strike not my father with your sacrilegious hand without first passing over my body”? I am indignant and amazed at beholding the Catholic world remain as if stupefied when it ought to rise as one man to defend the holy Pontiff. René and his brothers have all served under the Breton hero in the cause of Pius IX. Adrien’s two sons are gone to fight under his banner; they set out of their own accord, after receiving the blessing of their father, mother, and grandmother. Pray for them, my Kate! Gertrude is on her Calvary. Our Brittany will be worthily represented at Rome. Sursum corda! God keep you, my well-beloved!

October 31.

Splendid weather! the air full of warm, poetic odors. I have been rather unwell, but am better again; do not be uneasy about me, dearest. Good news from every quarter, but sadness at home, for Gertrude and Adrien are leaving us, having heard that one of their sons is ill at Rome; so they hasten thither with all speed. I should like to accompany them, it is so delightful to travel. Mgr. of Orleans has written to his clergy, requesting prayers for the Pope and the army of Italy. There is just now a certain movement of religious enthusiasm in France. Numerous volunteers are enrolling themselves in the pontifical army, and there are among them those who leave their children, their young wife, or their betrothed; and the bishop says that if there are at the present time mothers weeping over a son who has died a martyr in the holiest of causes, there are those who weep still more bitterly because they have no son.… Is not this the highest expression of Christian patriotism? Rome is the fatherland of the Catholic universe; happy indeed are her defenders!

Evening.—I have just come in from a long walk, alone, on the sands. René is gone with his brother as far as Tours, whence he will not return before to-morrow; my mother had to write, and to pray; the good abbé had undertaken the charge of all the children; the grown-up people were variously occupied; I wanted to enliven my solitude, and have been to visit my poor people, and in the presence of immensity have lifted up my soul. It was the hour of twilight, which had therefore a double attraction. I love solitude in the evening; the soul, disposed by the calm of nature for meditation and prayer, rises without effort to God. I do not like to shorten these moments, and willingly prolong them until it is dark. There is always a certain solemnity which attaches to things that end. If we thought of it well, how much we should be impressed by the close of a day! How many souls there are who will not see another! How many sheep have this very day quitted the green pastures of the Good Shepherd! How many tears have the angels gathered up! white-winged seraphs, inscribe in the Book of Life the good and evil of this day; while, in the splendor of eternal light, the heavenly concert incessantly continues.… Oh! when shall we behold this day?… Pale dawns of this world, fleeting hours, days without beauty, you are but a point in a life, and this life has but one day; and this day, what is it “in the ocean of ages,” what is it in Eternity?

Hélène speaks to me of heaven: “Oh! day of deliverance, cloudless day, when I shall behold my God, when I shall drink of the torrent of eternal delights, and mingle my feeble voice with the harmonies of the heavenly Jerusalem, my soul sighs for thee!…”

Edward and Lucy return to us to-morrow, glad and happy; their mother is recovered. Good-night, my Kate!

TO BE CONTINUED.

ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

It was the December of 1775. The British colonies in America were agitated with wild excitement. News had been received of the unsuccessful attack on Quebec by the Continental troops under Montgomery and Arnold, and of the fall of the brave Montgomery.

The friends of the colonial cause had set great hopes on the success of this enterprise, which would give them the command of the St. Lawrence, and deprive the British of a most important arsenal for their permanent supply of troops and munitions of war. They were grieved and desponding over the disastrous result, while the loyalists, rejoicing at the check thus given to the progress of the rebellion, looked confidently for its speedy close, the restoration of the royal governments, and the return of the several provincial governors who had discreetly abdicated at the first outbreak, and retired to safer quarters. No doubt their enthusiastic public demonstrations of joy assisted in fanning to a

Near a pleasant village in the northern part of New Jersey there stood—and may be standing yet, for the builders of those days had an eye to permanency in the solid structures they reared—a farmhouse of spacious dimensions, built in the favorite gambrel-roofed style then customary in country dwellings. Mr. Foote, the owner of the mansion, and of many broad acres around it, was a fine specimen of a country gentleman after the old English pattern. Bigoted in his attachment to everything English, he clung tenaciously to all the customs and traditions which his father, in transplanting them to American soil, had cultivated with an ardor all the more vehement for the difficulty of assimilating them to an order of things so entirely different from that in which they had formerly existed. These traditional treasures he had bequeathed to his children as a sacred legacy of far more value than the paltry lands, tenements, and appurtenances they would inherit from him, and so his son continued religiously to regard them.

Early in life he married a lady from the neighboring village who had been reared in the same sentiments of devotion to the mother country. After a few years of happy domestic life in their retired home, she died, leaving him with a family of five lovely daughters. Some years later he married a widow from Philadelphia, whose only child by her former marriage was the wife of a banker in that city, Mr. von Francke.

Not far from the dwelling of Mr. Foote, and still nearer to the village, was the residence of Mr. Thorpe, a handsome building conformed to the fashion of European suburban mansions. He was also an Englishman in his tastes and habits, but of a less tenacious cast than his neighbor, whom he often annoyed by assailing some of his cherished whims and humors. Nevertheless, they lived on terms of the most cordial intimacy and friendship.

Mr. Thorpe married the only child of Mr. Earle, a banker in Philadelphia, who was the senior partner of Mrs. Foote’s son-in-law. She was a beautiful and highly accomplished lady. Endowed with rare ability, discrimination, and firmness, no sophistry could mislead the nice sense of justice which governed all her decisions. Her father’s position and financial operations

She brought to her secluded home all the refined graces and elegant embellishments of her former one, and sustained perfectly, in the midst of her rural associations, the quiet dignity that had always distinguished her; while she continued to exercise the generous hospitality to which she had been accustomed in her father’s house.

Some years previous to the beginning of the war of independence, her father retired from active business, left his affairs in the hands of his partner, Mr. von Francke, and went to share his daughter’s home, now adorned with seven fair sons, so tenderly beloved by their grandfather that he could not bear to be separated from them. New Jersey was then, as it is still, a thoroughfare between the States of the Atlantic coast. From the first settlement it had been the most turbulent of the provinces. Always violently agitated by territorial and political questions, it was prepared to enter with vehemence into the merits of those which had arisen between the colonies and the mother country. In none of them were the exciting topics of the day discussed more fiercely, pro and con, than in this.

During the stirring events of the years immediately preceding and following the memorable “’76” the house of Mr. Thorpe, much to the chagrin of his intolerant neighbor, became the rendezvous of many prominent men, most of them old friends of his father-in-law, of all shades of political opinion, and of every religious and non-religious party.

Through the holidays of Christmas and New Year’s the two families always entertained a multitude of friends, and there was a round of festivities between them, in which the neighboring villagers participated. Mr. Foote, who, as might be expected, was a Tory of the most malignant type, selected his guests from the class who were in sympathy with him, and accused his more moderate neighbor of treason, because he, his father-in-law, and his lovely wife tolerated persons of different views, and acknowledged the force of their objections to British rule.

Fifty years later it was my good fortune, among the felicitous chances of a specially favored childhood, to pass the greater portion of three years under the roof of a house built after the precise pattern of Mr. Foote’s, though of somewhat smaller dimensions, in a little village on the south bank of the St. Lawrence. Here his youngest daughter, Anna, resided, and shared her home with her step-sister, Mrs. von Francke, from Philadelphia, the widow of Mr. Earle’s partner, who occupied a suite of rooms set apart for her use, and was always attended by her waiting-woman, a smiling German matron somewhat advanced in years and very fond of children.

As I have said, she was then past eighty, but the certainties of a position which placed her out of the reach of such cares and anxieties as surround ordinary lives, united with a serene temperament alive to all tender sympathies, had preserved the youth of her heart to atone for the ravages of time and adorn the decaying shrine with undying verdure and sweetness.

After the lapse of more than fifty years, how well do I remember the graceful attitudes of the erect form, the carefully-adjusted drapery of her rich, old-time costume, and, above all, the loving gleam of her mild black eye as it rested upon me at such times! The maternal instinct of her affectionate heart, never having found its proper object in offspring of her own, overflowed towards all the young within her reach, and her room was a perfect museum of winking and crying dolls, strange puzzles, dissected pictures, flocks of magnetized ducks and geese, with miniature ponds wherein to exercise them by aid of a steel pencil—of all wonderful toys, in short, which she procured on her annual trips to Philadelphia, and was wont to set as traps to catch the little folk she so dearly loved. Her waiting-woman was an apt assistant in pursuit of such small game; and it has often been a wonder to me since how, with their precise, methodical ways and exquisitely tidy, punctilious habits, they could endure much less enjoy, the dire confusion and anarchy which resulted from these captures.

For my own part, I was by nature a quiet, reserved child. Though I could join tolerably well in a wild frolic, I preferred the chimney-corner and a story, for which I was a most persistent beggar when there was any chance of success. From my earliest childhood stories relating to history, and especially to the history of our own country, enthralled me beyond all others. This fancy had been fed by constant association in my own home with grandparents who had borne an active part in the scenes of the Revolution. They entertained many old friends whose memories were also stored with incidents and anecdotes of that period. Thus their interest was kept alive and their conversation constantly directed to the political and social events of those days, which opened the mind of their eager young listener, almost prematurely, to subjects of grave import quite beyond what would seem natural or appropriate for one of tender years.

What a treasure, then, was “Auntie Francke” to me when I was taken from my quiet home in the Tales of the Arabian Nights melted into utter insipidity before the wondrous sketches she could give of “the times that tried men’s souls.” For she had entertained daily at her home in Philadelphia, as familiar friends, General Washington, Pulaski, De Kalb, Rochambeau, La Fayette, De Grasse—all the foreign worthies, in short, together with a host of our own countrymen whose names will be household words as long as our nation exists. Her husband was brought into constant intercourse with such men by virtue of his occupation, and his inclination led him to extend to them most freely the hospitalities of his home.

When my companions would break into my chosen hiding-place in search of me, and find me the fascinated listener of their aged relative, they would warn her to beware what yarns she spun for my amusement; “for,” they said, “she will surely write them down and keep the record. If you could see what she puts upon her slate in school that has no relation to the horrors of arithmetic, you would believe she is to be of the unhappy number who take such notes!”

Whether acting upon the hint or no, I did indeed, when pondering in my own little nest of a room over what I had heard, jot down from time to time many scraps in the words of my kind old friend, from portions of which the following sketch is gathered.

* * * * *

On the 24th of December, 1775, a large assemblage met at the house of Mr. Thorpe. The guests, many of them former friends and acquaintances of Mr. Earle, were brought together from different cities of the Atlantic States, with a sprinkling of the country friends of Mr. and Mrs. Thorpe. At the same time an equally large party assembled at the residence of my step-father, Mr. Foote, among them, of course, my husband and myself. The object of both was to celebrate the festivals of Christmas and the New Year according to old-time customs. It was arranged that they should all join in Christmas festivities at Mr. Foote’s, and open the New Year with Mr. Thorpe.

At that period, when the minds of the country were fermenting over questions of vital importance, it was not to be hoped that such leaders of the disaffected as were entertained under Mr. Thorpe’s friendly roof—with whom it was half-believed that he and his family were in perfect accord—would mingle very harmoniously with the guests selected by Mr. Foote for their high-toned loyalty to king and church. I confess to having watched the social results of intercourse between such discordant elements with great trepidation. Thanks, however, to the crystallizing power of courtly etiquette, now lamentably on the decline, the mutual irritation was suppressed or kept within limits of strict decorum, and the wonted hilarities of the joyous season were undisturbed by anything more serious than certain heart-burnings connected with questions of precedence on the line of march to the

It was amusing to see how the “tables were turned” when it became the part of Mr. Thorpe to play the host. I was placed near my step-father, and listened carefully to his remarks addressed sotto-voce, as the different courses were brought in and removed, to his particular friend, the former private secretary of the ex-governor of New Jersey.

“To think,” he exclaimed indignantly, “of that young upstart Carroll, an acknowledged papist and open promoter of disaffection and disloyalty, being invited to take precedence of such as you in the house of a friend of mine!”

“I yield the precedence with pleasure, I assure you,” was the reply. “This young Carroll is a man of no ordinary mark. Of his political errors, if errors they must be called, I can only say it is to be deplored that British rule should have furnished him with the weapons he wields so powerfully against it. He is likely to prove a weighty and influential foe in politics and in his profession. I have been present in court when he was unwinding webs cunningly woven by leaders of the Maryland bar; and, analyzing them thread by thread, he would expose their flimsiness with such convincing clearness and simplicity that the most unlettered juryman could comprehend it as fully as the learned jurists. He has wonderful command of language, and, with no attempt at eloquence, astonishing power in swaying the judgments and feelings of his audience.”

“The more shame for him!” exclaimed Mr. Foote; “when he might exert so potent an influence for king and country, that he should stoop to pervert his powers, and become the demagogue of a vile mob, for purposes of paltry private ambition!”

“That could hardly be his object. The suggestions of private ambition are all in the opposite direction. He has everything to lose in the probabilities before him, and but little to gain from the bare possibility of success in the future for the cause he has embraced.”

“Yes, thank God! there is scarcely the bare possibility of such a result. With the whole power of Great Britain against them, the rebels have little to hope for, and the punishment of this nefarious rebellion will be speedy and sure! Already the first note of triumph is sounded in the defeat of their troops before Quebec!”

“Perhaps you are right,” his friend replied; “but I have not been a careless observer of what is passing, and, if I do not greatly mistake the temper of this people, that disaster will only inspire them with new energy and determination. I regard the selection of George Washington to command their forces as a far more threatening token for British interests than this defeat at Quebec is for theirs. With such a leader, and the great mass of the people perfectly united through the length and breadth of

“No doubt they will fight desperately, and will be sure of every papist in the country to a man! We have been altogether too tolerant with these seditious subjects of the pope. The rascals have crept in silently, until the provinces are filled with them. Scarcely a place of any size, except Boston, can be found that has not a popish Mass-house in full operation. They are gaining influence rapidly, too, with the American people. Observe, for instance, the company invited by our host. Yonder, next to that arch-traitor from Boston, John Hancock, and the plebeian philosopher, Ben. Franklin, sit a number of printers, five of whom, from as many different cities, are rank papists, kindred spirits of the guild, though not very polished. It is surprising to notice how many of the pope’s emissaries are printers! Convenient for disseminating error and sedition, you know; make good fighters, too. Then, on the opposite side of the table, are those fiery Irishmen, Fitzsimmons, Barry, and Moylan, with a long line of their fellows—rebels and papists all! Moylan has three brothers, I am told, of the same stamp. Near to us are French and Germans, of whom I know nothing but that they too belong to the pope, so it is fair to suppose they favor the rebellion. Then there is the Maryland delegation, led by Carroll—a pretty strong showing for his Holiness at the New Year’s banquet of a private Protestant gentleman! It is too late to remedy the evil now, but it ought to have been taken in hand long ago. If it had been dealt with effectually in the beginning, I greatly doubt whether the colonies would now be in the condition we deplore.”

“It is not easy to deal with it effectually. The province of Massachusetts Bay was very vigilant and severe from the start to keep them out, or to exterminate them when they crept in, but they are there now in considerable force.”

“Yes, indeed; for I have been credibly informed that they not only lent their aid in that villanous tea-riot, but that the Puritan ranks at Lexington and Bunker Hill were largely increased by the pestilent dogs, who fought like tigers, and could not be made to understand when they were soundly whipped! Well, well! we shall see what is to come. It looks dark enough now, and, if matters are to go on as they threaten, I shall accept the invitation of the home government to loyal subjects, and remove my family to Nova Scotia.”

Here he struck the key-note of the strain that thrilled my heart with apprehension. I fell into a painful reverie, which so absorbed me that I heard no more. I knew well that secret agents had been through the country describing large and desirable tracts of land in Canada and Nova Scotia, to be given to all who would withdraw from the sections in revolt; and proclamations to that effect had also been recently published.

Should he fulfil his threat, my beloved mother would be removed to a great distance from me, and the difficulties of travelling in

Indeed, as I meditated upon the public, social, and domestic aspect of affairs, I could see nothing cheering or encouraging. Here was this little rural village, whose inhabitants were entirely divided among themselves—a type of the national condition: fathers against sons, wives opposed to their husbands, sons and daughters-in-law against their fathers-in-law. It seemed to form a present and dismal realization of the description given by our Lord.

The minds of old and young, and of all classes in society, were so pervaded with a sense of impending evil as to cast a dark shadow over the festive season, and cause its gay assemblies to take the character of political meetings, where matters of fearful import were discussed with bated breath.

It was well known that Mr. Thorpe, his father-in-law, and their distinguished guests, with other leaders of the disaffected who were constantly arriving and departing, held conclaves every night that extended far into the “wee sma’ hours,” many of which my husband was summoned to attend, to the intense displeasure of my irascible step-father, who denounced them all as a pack of infamous traitors, for whose treasonable practices hanging was the only proper remedy. Upon the whole, rankling irritation on the one part, and gloomy forebodings on the other, took the place of the cheerfulness proper to the season; and when the parties at the two houses dispersed to go their several ways, the leave-taking was a sad one for all.

Another year passed, and the Christmas of 1776 arrived. What changes those few months had wrought! Mr. Thorpe and his three oldest sons, John, Nathan, and Charles, had joined the Continental army early in the year. The father commanded the regiment of militia in which his sons served as privates. In one of the first engagements John was killed. Soon after Mr. Thorpe himself was brought home wounded and dying. He survived long enough to bequeath the cause to his wife and her father, and to receive the assurance that their lives and those of his surviving sons, with all their earthly possessions, should be devoted to its interests.

Mr. Foote had fulfilled his threat, and removed his family to Nova Scotia about the time when his life-long friend joined the “rebel” army. I had a brief and mournful interview with my mother before they left, and a stormy parting with my surly step-father, who was too much incensed against my husband and myself, for embracing the cause he so cordially hated, to be even coolly civil. His indignation was increased by the suspicion that we had influenced my mother’s sympathies in the same direction, though she very

With him went a multitude of Church-of-England folk who were greatly regretted in that neighborhood; for they very generally acted from a sincere conviction of duty, and did not meddle unpleasantly with the opinions and decisions of their neighbors. A still greater number of Methodists went from New Jersey and Maryland to Canada and Nova Scotia, and their departure was the occasion for universal rejoicing to the friends of the country. The only regret was that they left a sufficient faction of their brethren to act as spies and informers in every village and neighborhood, and to bring all who differed from them in politics into serious trouble. We used to think we defined their position and character when we said, “They are all hand and glove with the Hessians!”

The Declaration of Independence on the 4th of July in that year had placed the day high in the calendar of those which mark the most glorious epochs in the world’s history. Meantime, discouragements had accumulated along the track of our army, until they culminated in that dreary autumnal retreat through New Jersey before the British forces which dispersed the hopes of our people as the winds scatter the leaves of the season. A little later the British took possession of Rhode Island. In the despair which followed these disastrous events society became utterly disorganized; and when Lord Howe and his brother-commanders of the British land and marine forces issued proclamations offering full indemnity and protection to all who would “return to their allegiance,” multitudes, among whom were many who had been accounted our most steadfast friends, accepted the offer from alarm, even while their sympathies and best wishes were with the cause they thus abandoned. Not one Catholic was of their number; they had no faith in British promises.

Great was the revulsion when our troops rallied to such glorious purpose at Trenton and Princeton! Those who had fallen away in the hour of adversity, and found to their sorrow how utterly worthless were Lord Howe’s paper “protections” to shield them from the vile outrages of the plundering Hessians, now returned in crowds, offering themselves and all they possessed to General Washington to further his efforts. His headquarters were made that winter in a town near the little village where Mrs. Thorpe resided. Mr. von Francke visited him frequently at his quarters during the winter as the financial agent of many friends of the cause in New England and the Southern States. I improved those occasions to accompany him and visit my dear friend, Mrs. Thorpe.

She was exerting all her energies, time, and money to prepare clothing for the soldiers and necessary supplies for the army. The buzz of spinning-wheels and the clack of domestic looms were heard in her house from day-dawn until late at night. That house was a workshop of tailors and shoemakers, and her agents ransacked the country for leather wherewith to make shoes. Every friend who visited her was pressed into the service, and during each precious moment the busy needles were plied and the knitting-needles clicked while we were visiting and chatting of

My heart ached for poor Charles, dejected and lonely in his separation from Anna, and grieving over the stern refusal of her father to permit any intercourse between them unless he would abandon the rebels and join the standard of King George. To add to his distress, he had heard, through a friend of Anna, that her father had determined she should accept the suit of an influential officer of the government in Nova Scotia, a very dissolute man, who was captivated by her beauty upon their first meeting at a dance in the house of the governor. Charles knew so well her father’s despotic rule over his family that he feared she might be compelled to comply with his commands.

Deeply as I sympathized with the young people, I could not afford them the aid they entreated for communicating with each other through my letters to my mother. The principles of my religion forbade that I should do any act to encourage disobedience to a father. Yet I could not regret that the kindness of General Washington made amends for my refusal, by furnishing better facilities for their purpose than I could have furnished.

The three following years passed on, marked by fluctuating fortunes and many hardships for our devoted troops and their dauntless leader. The surrender of Burgoyne in the autumn of ’77, and the alliance with France which followed, had awakened bright hopes of a speedy and successful termination of the conflict, but crushing reverses and bitter disappointments soon came.

The state of the currency baffled the strongest efforts and exhausted the resources of wise and able financiers. My husband, who was accounted extremely clever in affairs connected with the exchequer, was often driven to his wits’ end to provide for fearful contingencies, and then to confess his utter inability to meet further demands.

Mr. Earle placed his large fortune at the disposal of his country, and died soon after. His daughter gave better treasures when, with Spartan firmness, she yielded all her noble sons, one after another, for its defence.

In the terribly hard winter of 1779-80 General Washington again established his headquarters in New Jersey, in Mrs. Thorpe’s immediate neighborhood, and I went frequently to visit her when it was necessary for Mr. von Francke to go on financial missions to that place. Upon one of these occasions, early in the spring, what was my surprise to be greeted on the threshold by my beloved Anna, and to find that she was the happy bride of my desponding young friend of yore, Charles Thorpe, now a dashing lieutenant and prime favorite with the commander-in-chief. Their happiness was not unclouded, however; for they had been married without her father’s knowledge or consent. He had made every arrangement for her immediate marriage with the man whom he had chosen and whom she despised, and sent her to Boston to procure her trousseau. Very opportunely, General Washington made a journey to Boston about that time, with Charles in company aides. The wedding took place at the house of the friend with whom she was stopping. Many of Mr. Earle’s distinguished friends were present, and General Washington gave away the bride.

Her father was so enraged when he heard of it that he forbade her to enter his house again, or to expect that he would ever own her as his daughter.

* * * * *

When Mrs. von Francke reached this point in her story, she gave a bunch of keys and spoke some words in German to her waiting-woman, who soon brought forth from some hidden recess a small mother-of-pearl casket, with silver binding and clasps, of exquisite workmanship, and a package neatly folded and enclosed in an embroidered white linen case. The casket was first opened, and displayed a superb set of pearl jewelry, consisting of various ornaments for the coiffure, ear-rings, necklace, bracelets, brooch, waist-clasp, and buckles for the slippers. It was presented to Anna by Mr. von Francke when she departed for Nova Scotia. From the other package, after undoing many fastenings, designed to shield its contents from any possible contact with the air and dust, she drew a magnificent white satin dress, made in the old-time fashion, with an immensely wide skirt—for the crinoline of those days attained an amplitude far beyond the most extravagant expansion achieved a few years since by the leaders of ton—and a very long train. Around the lower part of the skirt a heavy pattern in leaves and flowers was embroidered with pure silver spangles and bugles[208] drawn on with silver thread; a tiny pair of white satin shoes which would rival in size the celebrated glass slippers of the fairy tale, embroidered with material and pattern to match the dress, with the toes pointed, and the points turned back until they nearly reached the pearl buckle on the instep; a splendid white thread-lace over-dress, much in the mode of the modern polonaise; a very long veil of the same material, attached by the inevitable orange-flowers—these completed the suit, and, with the pearls, formed the bridal costume fifty years before of Anna Foote, now Mrs. Charles Thorpe.

After showing me two miniatures, painted on ivory in the most finished and delicate style, and mounted in elegant gold lockets—the one of Anna in her bridal dress, and the other of Charles in the full military costume of that day—the articles were all carefully returned to their receptacle and Mrs. von Francke resumed her narrative.

* * * * *

During the long visit I paid Mrs. Thorpe at that time—the spring of 1780—the village where the army was quartered, and the town near by, were the scenes of many parties, balls, and entertainments of every kind.

The French minister, M. Luzerne, successor of the first minister from France, M. Gerard, came to pass some weeks at the headquarters of the commander-in-chief. He was accompanied by many distinguished foreigners. Among them was Don Juan de Miralles, resident at Philadelphia, from the Spanish court. He had visited us frequently in that city with Count Pulaski and MM. Gerard and Luzerne. He was a most affable and accomplished gentleman and an exemplary Christian.

Upon their arrival the gay festivities

When Charleston, S. C., was taken by the British in May, 1780, Nathan Thorpe was severely wounded. He was carried to the house of a German Catholic in that city to whom Mr. von Francke had given him letters of introduction. There he lingered between life and death, as it were, for many weeks. He was faithfully attended night and day by a disabled Irish Catholic soldier, who brought an Irish priest to instruct him and administer the last consoling rites of the church to him in his extremity. His youth and a robust constitution prevailed, however, and he recovered. During this interval an attachment had been formed between him and a lovely daughter of his kind host, to whom he was married the ensuing autumn. As his health was not sufficiently reinstated to permit his return to the army, he entered upon the practice of his profession as a lawyer in Charleston, and finally achieved brilliant success and a large fortune therein.

In June of that year Knyphausen, with his Hessians, made a destructive raid through New Jersey, sparing neither friend nor foe; not even their Methodist cronies and instigators escaped rough treatment and severe losses, for which they received but slight commiseration from their fellow-sufferers, whose interests they had done all they could to injure and betray. Mrs. Thorpe’s property was seriously damaged and many valuable animals slaughtered by the merciless ruffians.

In July of the same year the French fleet under Count de Grasse arrived, and was welcomed with great joy by the whole country. The French troops commanded by Count Rochambeau were transported on these vessels. Soon after their arrival we became acquainted with that illustrious commander. I saw him for the first time at the celebration of Mass in our humble chapel. He was accompanied by Marquis La Fayette and Count de Grasse. After Mass Mr. von Francke, who had been in correspondence with them before, introduced me to them, and invited them to dine with us in our home, which invitation they accepted, and from that time they never failed to visit us when they were in Philadelphia.

In August the Continental forces, under General Gates, fought the bloody battle of Camden, S. C., and were defeated chiefly through the shameful failure of the militia to do their duty. The Maryland regiments, however—many of whom were Catholics—under their brave Catholic commander, Baron de Kalb, fought with unyielding firmness and desperation, atoning as far as possible for the poltroonery of their Protestant comrades of Virginia and North Carolina.

Through the remainder of that year, and during the spring and summer of 1781, discouragements in every form, and disasters that would have utterly dismayed a less determined people, surrounded our hapless country. The baseless currency became so depreciated as to be almost worthless. The iniquity of speculators, and the flood of counterfeits poured upon the colonies by Lord Howe, greatly increased difficulties sufficient in themselves to overwhelm the nation. Yet the courage and resolution of the people never faltered, and were fully responded to and sustained by the firmness of their representatives in the legislative assemblies of the different States and in Congress.

The heavy clouds began to break and our national prospects to brighten in the early autumn of 1781. We had so often seen our fairest hopes suddenly blighted that we hardly dared to accept such promising tokens as seemed to be given from time to time only to save us from utter despair. Now, however, we were destined to witness a consummation, sudden, unlooked-for, and beyond the wildest expectations of the most sanguine, in the entire defeat and surrender of the British troops under Cornwallis, on the 19th of October in that year—an event which virtually closed the war and secured our independence.

Intelligence of this astounding event was conveyed through the whole country, with the speed of the wind, by special couriers despatched in every direction. It was said that the fine horses of Methodist Tories—which had been spared by the British troops when they captured all that were of any value belonging to our people—performed splendid exploits of speed in disseminating the glorious news, to the unutterable indignation of their crestfallen owners!

Our nation, so long accustomed to desolating evils, now burst forth into frantic demonstrations of joy. Bonfires blazed on every hill. Public parades, and processions with banners, crowded the streets of every town. Illuminations and fireworks turned the darkness of night into noonday splendor. The rural populations, old and young, flocked to the villages and cities to join in the universal expressions of jubilant patriotism. Services of thanksgiving were held by Protestants. High Masses were offered in Catholic churches, and the Te Deum was chanted there by Catholics marching in procession under the floating colors of the triumphant “Stars and Stripes.”

New Jersey was more noisy than all the other States in her public manifestations of triumph. Nor was it unfit that she should be, since none had suffered so much in furnishing a common battle-ground and thoroughfare for the conflicting forces. Neither was it strange that she showed little toleration for the Tories at whose hands she had received persecutions, injuries, and insults of untold numbers and magnitude. Here, as elsewhere, the Catholic voice, the first that was raised in support of the conflict for independence, was also the first to plead, through both clergy and laity, for toleration and leniency toward these relentless foes of our country in her darkest hours.

Early in November we entertained a large and joyful party at our house. At our request General Washington and his lady presided at the reception of the guests. All the French and German officers with their attendants, the foreign ministers, and many of our own distinguished countrymen, military and civic, were present. Charles and Anna Thorpe were of my household at that time.

A succession of splendid private entertainments and public banquets was given in Philadelphia.

The joyful excitement was kept up by the nation through the following winter, and Mr. von Francke was absent frequently as the invited guest at public festivals which would not excuse him from attendance, although his health was rapidly declining.

In May, 1782, my rejoicing was quenched for ever by the painful event which left me a widow. The long-sustained strain and mental anxiety to which my husband was subjected during all those years of national embarrassment had so worn upon his frame that, when final success was assured and the strain no longer required, he sank into a decline, for the arrest of which all remedies proved unavailing, and survived only a few weeks. No hero that gave his life on any of those bloody battle-fields was, more truly than he, a martyr for his country.

Mrs. Thorpe, Charles, and Anna were with me during the distressing scene and until I had consigned my beloved to his final resting-place. He had for so many years belonged to the public that it claimed the right to conduct the ceremonial, outside of the church; and it was celebrated with most impressive solemnity, both as a religious and civic rite.

From that time Philadelphia became intolerable to me. I closed my house and accompanied my kind and gentle friend to the home in New Jersey which was always open to the afflicted. Here I remained until Charles removed to St. Lawrence County, N. Y. —”then a dense wilderness—with his family. He had received a grant of lands from the government, which he exchanged for an extensive territory in that vicinity.

To that wilderness I came with my dear Anna to share the hardships and privations inseparable from the attempt to found a home

The one sole cloud over Anna’s happiness has been the stern refusal of my obstinate step-father, who still lives at a very advanced age, to forgive the daughter he so cruelly banished from his heart and home. I have often thought that, if the colonies had been subdued, he would have welcomed her back long ago. She has written many letters to him, but they are always returned unopened. My own dear mother died the year following Anna’s marriage. I saw her but once after her removal to Nova Scotia. The separation from her was one of the greatest trials of my life. Few indeed who have lived so long have suffered less from severe afflictions than I, and my heart swells with gratitude daily when I recall the varied blessings which the beneficent hand of Providence has poured upon my lengthened pilgrimage.

* * * * *

Some years later, when Mrs. von Francke was past ninety, I was on a visit to the dear friends of whom I have discoursed in this rambling sketch, when they received a message from Nova Scotia that the aged Mr. Foote was dying, and could not leave the world in peace until he had seen and been reconciled with his long-banished daughter. He requested that Charles should go with her.

There was bustling and packing in great haste. In a few hours after the message arrived they were on board a steamer, bound for Quebec, en route for Nova Scotia. Mr. Foote lived some weeks after their arrival, and would not allow them to leave him for an hour. They remained until after the funeral.

Mrs. von Francke survived her step-father but a few months. All the elder members of the family have long since passed away.

It is many years since I have seen the lovely home of my childhood, or that other one, on the bank of the dear old St. Lawrence, where I passed so large a portion of childhood’s happy hours; but the memories connected with both, and with the dear friends who made those hours so happy, will never pass away.

CONSUELO.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

A HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

XIII.

In the meantime Sir Thomas More had returned to his home at Chelsea. He felt at first a slight decree of uneasiness on account of the indiscretions of the Holy Maid of Kent, the evident malice with which Cromwell had drawn them out, and the eagerness with which he had interpreted them.

But as he was accustomed to resign into the hands of God the entire care of his future, and as there appeared to be nothing with which he could reproach himself in the short and accidental relations he had had with that woman, he soon recovered his former tranquillity, and thought no more but of how he might be able to render some new service to the queen. He knew she had set out for Leicester Abbey, and he had already found means of writing to the abbot, whom he remembered having received at the chancelry on some particular business concerning the rights of the abbey, and the father abbot had appeared, as well as he could remember, to be an honest and intelligent man.

Feeling satisfied that the queen had, ere that time, received his communications, he had gone towards evening to take a walk with his children in the country.

They were all seated on the green slope at Chelsea. The Thames flowed at their feet; the freshness of the verdure, the perfumed breeze

“See, dear father,” said Margaret, who was sitting at his feet (she always kept as near him as possible), “see how beautiful the river is! How it comes with its silver waves to kiss the rich and verdant meadow which extends so far before us! Look at those flocks of sheep, following the shepherds to the fold; how docile they are and obedient to their voices! And those dogs, how active and intelligent! Oh! how I love the evening, when the horizon yet burns with the red glow of the sun as he descends to light up other skies.” And Margaret paused to admire in silence the pure and inspiring beauties of nature by which she was surrounded, while her eyes sought those of her father, as if to interrogate him.

More smiled as he regarded her.

“Well, my dear daughter,” he said, “why not speak thy whole thought?”

For he loved to listen to the forcible sentiments she sometimes expressed, so characteristic of her melancholy and enthusiastic temperament.

“Why ask that, father?” she replied; “for my thought is sad—sad as all things that end. The day has gone, never more to return! It is like a precious pearl that has been unstrung from a necklace where all are carefully numbered.”

“Thou art right, my daughter, and may be the happiness I have enjoyed this day in the midst of you will never more return!”

“What sayest thou, my father?” cried Margaret, alarmed. “Nay, wouldst thou leave us, then, and couldst thou live without thy children?”

“No, my child, no; but observe you not how the days of man are like the swift shuttle that flies to and fro in the hands of the weaver, and which he uses to trace, one after another, divers designs?”

“This one pleases me much,” said Margaret, smiling, “and I would like it to stop here.”

As she said this, she extended her hand toward Roper, who brought her a large bouquet of daisies[209] he had gathered for her in the fields.

“Here is my name written on my forehead by the hand of Roper,” she continued; and she placed the pretty white flowers amid the dark tresses of her lovely hair.

The father admired his beautiful young daughter, in whom, indeed, youth and beauty were united in all their brilliancy. Her small hands rested one upon the other; her white robe hung in graceful folds around, defining her perfectly-moulded form; her eyes, calm and serene in expression, yet shone with a thousand fires; one could read in their depths the strength and vigor of this young soul just entering upon life. Those features so calm and lovely, that union of charms and perfections, brought joy and happiness to the depths of the devoted father’s soul. He gazed at her in silence.

“Beauty?” replied Margaret, smiling at the unexpected question; and she raised towards him her eyes, whose lovely expression anticipated her answer.… “Well, … beauty is an undefinable thing,” she continued. “We recognize it in everything. Our souls are made to see it, to admire and love it; but I cannot, I believe, define it. It is there, and immediately we are enraptured with it. It is a ray of the glory of God; it is his power which flashes before our eyes, and our hearts are at once transported. The beautiful animal, full of life, strength, and agility, whose light and rapid steps seem scarcely to bend the delicate herbage of the field, his glossy coat permitting you to count his veins and admire the graceful and elegant proportions of his form; the plants rich with flowers and weighty with fruits; the birds with variegated plumage and tints of a thousand colors; the pure, azure skies of summer, the stars of night—such is beauty, my father; I feel it, but I cannot describe it to you otherwise.”

“Then, my dear child, what think you of the Being who has drawn all these things out of nothing, and who, by his powerful word, has given them everything, and preserves and watches over them all?”

“That he is,” replied Margaret earnestly, “the source and the veritable plenitude of all beauty; and that if we could see him either with the eyes of the body or those of the soul, we should be perfectly happy, since he must be, and is necessarily, the sovereign perfection of all that delights in this world. And if you speak to me of eloquence, that moral beauty of soul which subdues and carries everything before it, I find in it but a new expression of that Sovereign Intelligence who has placed in our hearts the faculty of feeling and loving beauty, the strength and elevation of thought, which an Intelligence superior to our own is charged by it to communicate to us.”

“Then, my dear child, what think you of the unbeliever?”

“What do I think of him?” said Margaret, intently regarding Sir Thomas. “I will tell you: I do not think he exists.”

“How say you! that he exists not?”

“No, he does not exist, because he cannot. God has created us free, but that freedom has bounds. We cannot uncreate or make ourselves cease to be, and in the same way we cannot destroy our reason beyond a certain point; we may deny the truth with our lips, but we cannot prevent our hearts from believing it; we may arrange, assert, relate, or invent a falsehood, but we cannot convince ourselves that it is true. The sad science of the atheist compels him to remove God as far as possible from himself; to call him by a name formed of several strange syllables which do not represent him under any form to his mind; then when he has come to drive him beyond the bounds of his narrow intelligence, he denies his Creator with that tongue, with that life, and in the name of that reason which he received from him. Such a man must be a liar, although

More smiled at the strong comparison of Margaret; and as he derived an extreme pleasure from these philosophical conversations, he continued thus:

“You believe, then, there are no atheists?”

“No,” replied Margaret, “there is not one in good faith, because the most ordinary reason is enough to prevent all doubt that the admirable chain of all being, over whom man is established master and king, has not been created by itself, and that it is the work of a Sovereign Intelligence who has foreseen and established all things by a science of prevision and of power far beyond all that we are able to see, all that we can feel, and all that we possess.”

“Nevertheless, Margaret, they will tell you that there is a force, a blind power, who has created all that.”

“Then,” replied Margaret ironically, “I will ask them what they understand by a ‘blind power’; for power means, it seems to me, that which can; but that which is blind can do, can will naught. Those, then, who by a happy chance see, wish, and know something, I would ask to add to the stature of a man the height of one cubit; to organize a head that understands how to solve mathematical problems, to compose music, poetry, to learn, remember, and speak. What think you, my father: would it not be very convenient to have in your cabinet some of those thinking heads, arranged on a shelf, as are pitchers and pipkins? Miserable creatures!” she continued, indignantly, “how they degrade and dishonor mankind! And how do they dispose of their consciences? Why have they a conscience which commands them to do right and reproaches them for doing wrong, if it is not that man, born immortal, must one day render an account of all his deeds, and receive from God either a reward or punishment? No, it is not in weakness of the intellect that we must search for the origin of atheism, but in the corruption of the heart. If, then, the atheist denies God, he thereby testifies to his justice and power, even as the faithful bear witness to his goodness and mercy in acknowledging and honoring him. The one fears him because of the crimes he has committed; the other hopes in him because of the virtues he practises: behold the sole and only difference between the two men.”

“Well, my dear daughter,” replied More; “but the greater number of men who call themselves atheists follow only their own reasoning, as do you this moment, being almost always most profoundly ignorant of themselves and of their own nature, and entirely indifferent about the means of being instructed. Occupied solely with the present life, they attach themselves to mere sensual enjoyments, and, feeling that it would be necessary to abandon these in order to deliver their souls from the yoke of matter, they prefer thus to vegetate in forgetfulness of themselves and of all their duties.”

“Then, my father, you see that you agree with me on the point from whence I started out, which was that there are really no atheists, that the word is false, that it is taken in a false acceptation, and that it can only be properly defined in this way: ‘One who in his own heart is a liar.’”

“Father, here is some one coming!” cried the youngest of More’s daughters.

And she ran, followed by the house dog, with which she had been very busy fixing on its neck a collar of leaves.

“It is a gentleman dressed all in black, who has a beautiful chain hanging round his neck.”

As she finished speaking Cromwell appeared.

“Ah! it is you, Master Cromwell,” said More, rising graciously. “Let me welcome you among us. How fares it with you?”

For the more Sir Thomas thought he had to complain of any one, the more he exerted himself by his kind and polite manner to assure him that he felt no bitterness in his heart; this was the cause of the cordial reception he gave Cromwell, whom he would otherwise have avoided.

“Well, I thank you,” replied Cromwell, casting, as was his custom, a furtive glance on all around him.

He at once encountered the eyes of Margaret, which were fixed upon him with an expression of anger and scorn; for she could not endure him, having learned from the Bishop of Rochester how he had conducted himself in the hall of convocation, with what impudence he had sat himself in the midst of the assembly, and the manœuvres he had used to extort from the bishops an oath which must be followed by such fatal consequences.

He laughed to himself at the young girl’s displeasure, and made her a profound salutation. But she did not return it; and passing from the other side, she went and seated herself near her stepmother, who was knitting the leg of a stocking—the only employment in which she was passably skilled.

Cromwell remarked this movement; and if he was indifferent to it, he at least drew from it an inference as to the feeling of the family with regard to present affairs.

“Sir Thomas,” he said in a tone tinged with raillery, “I come, on the part of the king, to announce great news to you; it depends on yourself whether you find it good or bad. The king, our most gracious sovereign, is married, and he has espoused my lady Anne Boleyn.”

“The king married!” said Sir Thomas. “The king married!” he repeated. But he felt that Cromwell, who was aware of his great attachment to the queen, had only come to enjoy his discomfiture, or to watch him with some malicious design. He at once put himself on his guard, but turned visibly pale.

“He is married,” continued Cromwell. “The clergy laughed at him; but, by my troth, he has in his turn laughed at them! It was necessary that all this should come to an end. Yesterday his majesty advised the lords of his

“Cromwell, can it be?” said Sir Thomas More, struck with consternation. “How rapidly all this has been brought about! And the queen, where is she?”

“Which one?” replied Cromwell, already affecting the tone of the court.

“Queen Catherine!” added More with a profound sigh.

“Ah! I understand. More obstinate than ever,” replied Cromwell in a tone of badinage. “She has retired to Easthampstead. We are occupied with her case now in council; she will be summoned to Dunstable, where an ecclesiastical commission will cut short all of her demands. Oh! all is over so far as she is concerned.”

More felt pierced to the heart, and each new expression of Cromwell wounded him afresh. He could not doubt but this cruel man had been sent to take an exact account of his slightest gesture and most insignificant word; he therefore vainly endeavored to restrain his feelings, but sorrow and the honest frankness of his nature carried him beyond the limits of prudence.

“Master Cromwell,” he said with dignity, “I know not why the king has sent you to me; but I think you know me so well that it would be useless for me, standing face to face with you, to disguise my sentiments; I therefore candidly acknowledge that what you have told me penetrates me with a mortal sorrow. My heart is deeply attached to Queen Catherine, but I am, by my duty, still more devoted to the king. It is with the deepest grief that I see those who surround him, far from telling him the truth, think only of flattering him, that they may obtain new favors from his hands. And you, who are his adviser, I exhort and conjure you never to tell him what he can do, but what he ought to do; because, if the lion knew his strength, who would be able to subdue him? Until this time, as you know, we have not walked in the same road, nor have our eyes been turned to the same end; but now that I have entirely withdrawn from public life, when I can no longer cause you suspicion, when my sole and only desire is to live in obscurity, surrounded by my children, occupying myself with naught but the affairs of my eternal salvation, it seems to me I can disclose to you my inmost thoughts. I esteem you too highly to fear that you would abuse my confidence. Use your influence, then, with the king, if there yet be time, and try to arrest the disasters with which church and state are threatened!”

Cromwell felt confounded; come as a master, a triumphant enemy, he endeavored, but was unable, to recover himself in the presence of the calm and magnanimous virtue of a great man who seemed to place with confidence his destiny in his hands, and to esteem him sufficiently to exhort him still to fulfil his duty to his king and country. He experienced a momentary inspiration of good; but corrupt souls stifle such inspirations with the same facility that they are followed by the pure in heart. An instant’s

“That is an easy thing for you to say,” he replied, “having now, as you have just remarked, retired from public life. But for me it is very different; every day convinces me how dangerous it would be to resist the king, and I confess that I am by no means tired of life, and do not desire to lose my head on the scaffold, nor to die in poverty like that poor cardinal of defunct memory. That is why I must continue to act as I have done in Parliament, and I advise you to do the same; for, hearken, Sir Thomas: I have not come here of my own accord, but on the part of the king, to announce to you his intentions, and at the same time say to you that he has learned with great indignation of the correspondence you have kept up with that nun called the Holy Maid of Kent; that, notwithstanding, he will exercise toward you the utmost clemency, that he will strike your name from the bill of high treason which is entered against her, if he has reason hereafter to be satisfied with your conduct, and if you will publicly abjure the prejudices you have until this time manifested against Queen Anne, his spouse.”

“What say you, Master Cromwell?” cried Sir Thomas More. “I am implicated in the proceedings they have instituted against that woman?”

And the unhappy father looked round upon his children, who had gathered around him, and whom terror and alarm had rendered motionless.

“Master Cromwell,” he continued after a moment’s silence, “your visit is a cruel one; my children, at least, were not guilty, if any one else here is.” And his eyes rested on Margaret, who stood pale and trembling with horror and surprise.

But Cromwell knew very well what he had come to do; it was part of his design that the grief and solicitations of More’s children should break down his resolution, and induce him to yield to all they wished to demand of him.

“Margaret! my beloved child,” said More, especially concerned for her, “grieve not. I fully hope to prove, as clearly as the light of day, that I have nothing with which to reproach myself toward my king, and that I am an entire stranger to the follies of that woman. Listen, Master Cromwell,” he continued, turning towards him, without manifesting the least emotion, “I pray you say to the king, my sovereign, that nothing could afflict me more than to know I had incurred his displeasure. Nevertheless, I hope to prove that he is mistaken with regard to the acquaintance I have had with that woman. I have seen her but once, in the Sion Convent, in a chapel, and then because the fathers urged me to converse with her a few moments, and tell them what I thought of her virtue. She appeared to me simple and true in her conversation. The replies she made to the few questions I addressed her seemed to proceed from an humble heart and a pious soul. Since that day 1 have not seen her. This winter some one spoke to me about her, and told me she had made some predictions about the king, and asked me if I wanted to hear them. To which I replied—and I remember it perfectly—that I wanted to hear nothing about it, and, if it was true she had anything to reveal to the king, it seemed to me at least entirely superfluous for any other man to inquire into it. This is the whole truth, and I beg you,

“This woman is only an instrument,” replied Cromwell, affecting not to reply to what Sir Thomas had said; “they have only used her and her pretended revelations in order to cause the conduct of the king to be censured by his people. I very much fear they will be severely punished—those, at least, who have employed her for that purpose.”

“I know not what will come of it,” replied Sir Thomas in a cold and quiet manner. “If it is true that there is a criminal impostor disguised under the appearance of virtue, they would do well to expose and punish her rigorously.”

And there the conversation ended. However much Cromwell desired that it should be prolonged, he neither knew how to renew nor to continue it. He concluded, therefore, to affect a degree of zeal and friendship, and summoned all his hypocrisy to his assistance.

“Dear Sir Thomas,” he said, “as you said but now, we have not always been of the same way of thinking. Some day I may change my opinions; but at this time I cannot begin to tell you how much anxiety I feel on account of the king’s anger in your regard. It appears that they have excited him most terribly against you. You must have some secret enemy who is using these means for the purpose of lessening you in his estimation and making you lose his favor.”

More listened, thinking if indeed it could be Cromwell who spoke in this manner.

“Verily,” he answered, “I must fain think as you do, for I have naught on my conscience touching that woman; and would to God I was in his sight as free from sin as I feel myself free from any thought of wrong or any transgression against our sovereign lord and king!”

“Sir Thomas, you have let your attachment to Queen Catherine show too plainly, and it is right well known that you are against the spiritual supremacy of the king.”

More made no reply. Tears arose in his eyes. He looked at Margaret. The young girl held one of her stepmother’s long iron knitting-needles, and seemed mechanically trying to sharpen the point with the end of her finger, which she turned rapidly around it. If Margaret had held a poignard, it was evident that she would have wished to plunge it into the heart of the traitor who stood before her. She said nothing, but her flashing eyes followed every movement he made. The others sat motionless, and Cromwell felt oppressed by the attention of all these souls weighing upon his own. He no longer knew what to say; he looked around, he hesitated, he tried to resume the conversation, and again broke down.

Sir Thomas, always kind, always considerate, wished to relieve him from this painfully embarrassing situation.

“Master Cromwell,” he said, “I see that you find it somewhat painful to tell me all you have learned that would be disagreeable to me; therefore let us retire from here. If it please you to sup with us, we will return to the house.”

“I do not think Master Cromwell is hungry,” said Margaret, changing color. “He is one of those men who subsist on evil as well as bread; it is a stronger and more bitter nourishment, the savor of

“You are charming, charming, damsel!” replied Cromwell, turning toward her with that trifling manner, coarse and familiar, which he considered suitable to adopt in his intercourse with women farthest above himself.

“Margaret does not like compliments,” replied Sir Thomas More, who endeavored to repair, without seeming to have noticed them, the expressions of anger and scorn Margaret had permitted to escape her. “She is very sensitive,” he added.

“And very frank, it seems to me,” answered Cromwell quickly, in a tone insolent and easy.

“A little too much so, perhaps,” replied Sir Thomas gently; “but that is better than to be deceitful.”

“Are all these fields yours?” asked Cromwell.

“No, indeed, sir. I own very little land around my dwelling; besides, I gave a portion of it to Margaret, my daughter, when she became affianced to young Roper.”

Saying this, Sir Thomas turned and walked with Cromwell and his family towards the house. On their arrival Sir Thomas conducted Cromwell into his private cabinet.

“Listen, sir,” he said, after he had closed the door: “I would not wish to conceal from you that you have deeply wounded me by declaring in presence of my children that I had been accused of high treason. I have not been chief-justice so long without learning that this is the weight they will let fall on my head, and I know perfectly well that this accusation of high treason is like a glove, which they can make to fit any hand. As to what I think about the supremacy of the king, that I shall reveal to no man living. But, at least, be so good as to tell me how this action against me began, and who are my accomplices.”

“The nun,” replied Cromwell (perfectly well instructed in the particulars of an affair he had invented and intended to direct)—“the nun is accused of high treason toward the king. Her accomplices are Master Richard, Dr. Baking, Richard Risby, Biering, Gold, Lawrence Thwaites, John Adisson, and Thomas Abel. As to yourself and the Bishop of Rochester, you are accused of connivance; but, after what you have told me, I doubt not you will be able to prove your innocence easily, and your name will be stricken out at the commencement of the prosecution.”

“The Bishop of Rochester!” exclaimed Sir Thomas, his hands resting on the table, and entirely absorbed in reflection. He recalled the night when Fisher, seated in the same chair now occupied by Cromwell, had implored him not to accept the seal of state, and, upon his refusing to take his advice, prayed God never to permit them to be separated, but that their lives might terminate in the same manner and at the same moment. Lost in the recollection of his tender friendship, More forgot the frightful character of Cromwell, which no one, however, better understood than himself. He took him affectionately by the hand.

“Dear Cromwell,” he exclaimed, “how is this? The Bishop of Rochester? Ah! I implore you have his name removed. Let them be revenged on me, but not on him. Mercy for my friend!”

Sir Thomas was on the point of telling Cromwell that he had heard them both accused on that fatal

“Alas!” continued Sir Thomas, “if I have offended the king, let them punish me; but Rochester, what has he done? Devoid of ambition, occupied entirely with the duties of his bishopric, devoted to the king, at whose birth he attended, loved, esteemed by him, how can they suspect him of wishing to injure his beloved sovereign? Master Cromwell, I beseech you intercede for him!”

That prayer was very well understood by Cromwell, but he feigned not to hear it. He had not come to sympathize with, but rather to enjoy the sufferings of a just man, one whom he still feared, although he had entirely supplanted him.

“Sir Thomas,” he replied, “I cannot see why you supplicate me in behalf of the Bishop of Rochester, as though I were able to do anything in the matter. Justice is there, to be rendered to him, and to you also, if you prove that you are entirely innocent of this charge.”

“In sooth,” said Sir Thomas, “I swear to you that I know nothing about it. I have never considered it of sufficient importance to investigate the character and veracity of that woman. I believe, and am very well convinced, that being the creatures and the children of God, in whom we exist and from whom we have received all things, he will sometimes, in his goodness, manifest his will to us by some extraordinary means and supernatural ways, and also that he can change or interrupt in a moment events of which he has himself marked out the course; but, at the same time, I believe that this truth can be abused either by weakness of the mind, by error, or by folly. That woman, then, is perhaps guilty of no other crime than of having mistaken dreams for revelations; and if it is thus, I find that the more importance we give to trivial things, the more dangerous we make them, if in the beginning they were the cause of any inconvenience.”

“That is true,” said Cromwell; “but the king is very much wroth, and intends that this woman and all those who have believed in her shall be punished.”

“That alters the case,” replied Sir Thomas; and he paused thoughtfully.

“However,” said Cromwell, “there is a very sure way of conciliating his majesty, which is by praying my lady Anne to be your intercessor. If you wish it, I will request her, in your name, to intercede with the king for the Bishop of Rochester.”

“Ah!” said Sir Thomas.

He felt as though Cromwell had thrust a dagger into his heart. He bowed his head and was unable to utter a word. To save his friend by condescending to a base action—he had not courage to accept the condition.

“That is an assured way,” said Cromwell (and the vile wretch secretly applauded himself on the astute and skilful means he employed)—“infallible; a word from her will suffice.”

“No,” cried More, “no! The honor of my friend is as dear as my own. He would not will it.”

“He would not will it!” replied Cromwell, in an ironical tone. “What! would you, then, consider yourselves dishonored because she had interceded for him?”

“Ah! Cromwell,” cried Sir Thomas, regretting what he had said, “I implore you do not betray my situation!”

On hearing this proposal Sir Thomas looked steadily at him.

“Sir,” he said, “I thank you. I now understand what they ask of me, and why they have placed my name and that of my friend on the list of the accused, which, in reality, would not be able to reach or injure us. Now I have no longer any doubt. When will the trial begin?”

“What do you say?” interrupted Cromwell. “What! you refuse?”

“I refuse nothing,” said Sir Thomas modestly; “I only ask when the trial will take place, and when I must present myself at the bar.”

“But reflect on the wrong you do!” replied Cromwell.

“I have considered everything,” responded Sir Thomas.

“Ah! well, then, do as you please.… To-morrow the commission will assemble in the Tower, and I very much fear, from your obstinacy, that you will remain there.”

“In that event I will make my preparations to-night,” replied Sir Thomas.

At that moment Margaret hurriedly entered and announced supper, Cromwell took advantage of the occasion. He saw with great vexation the firmness of Sir Thomas, and, having promised the king that he would make him yield, he supposed the young girl would assist him in renewing the conference.

“Damsel,” he said, inclining toward her,” I am glad you have come; for, although you have treated me but ill, I am here to render an important service to your father. Persuade him, then, to listen to me, and not consent to separate himself from you, perhaps for ever!”

“My God!” cried Margaret, “my father separate himself from us? What do you mean? Speak! what do you mean? With how many maledictions, then, do you come prepared to strike our house?”

“To-morrow Sir Thomas is summoned to appear before the council. Let him promise to take the oath the king requires, and his life will be spared!”

“Stop, sir!” cried Sir Thomas. “My children are not in the habit of judging my conduct nor of designating the path I should follow! Your pity is of the cruellest, sir! May God grant you a more sincere friend and a more genuine compassion than that you have offered me to-day! Go, Margaret; go tell your mother I wait for her.”

To this formal and decided expression of her father’s will Margaret dared not reply; she left the room, but felt that a fearful calamity had befallen her, of which she knew not yet the entire extent, and she descended slowly, pausing on each step of the stairway, wrapped in painful reflection.

Sir Thomas soon entered the hall with Cromwell, to whom he gave the first place at table, and who accepted without remorse such cordial hospitality on the part of a man whom he had resolved to corrupt or ruin entirely.

* * * * *

When night was far advanced, and Cromwell had departed from the abode into which he had entered only to bring sorrow and desolation,

“To-morrow,” he exclaimed, “to-morrow I shall have to leave this abode where I have so long tended and seen my father die, where I have welcomed my first dear wife, where my children have been born!… When the swallow leaves her nest, she has a hope of returning to it again; but I, can I indulge in that sweet delusion? Is it not certain that my ruin is resolved on, and that the king’s indignation means death? To-morrow, when the day shall have dawned, I must assume a cheerful countenance, a serene composure, and say to them: ‘Adieu, my cherished children! I will return very soon.’ I will return very soon! Shall I be able to utter words that are so foreign to my heart? And Margaret—Margaret will weep for me all the days of her life. I shall never behold her young children, nor bless them when for the first time their eyes are opened to the light of day, and I shall never hear them try to repeat my name. Alas! why must it be that the king is annoyed at my breathing the air?—a man, too, confounded among a million of his subjects! Of what importance to him are the thoughts that lie hidden in the bottom of my heart? Why, Lord,” he cried, raising his hands toward heaven, “hast thou not stricken me from his memory, and why hast thou suffered this prince of the earth to remember my name? Grant me an asylum where I may be able to finish out the days thou hast allotted me; the birds of the air find a shelter, the bears and ferocious beasts of the earth possess their dens, and no one comes to force them away! However, let thy will be done, and not mine.”

More remained for a long time leaning on the table. He then arose and walked the floor to and fro. He moved from place to place in the room; for he would be there no more, if they should summon and compel him to cave for ever his modest and beloved abode.

“They are all asleep,” he said. “I have consoled them. They have seen Cromwell with me, but they have not suspected that he brought the death-warrant of their father. A few hours of peace still remain for them, and to-morrow—to-morrow they will weep and feel that I am no longer with them! My eyes will no more behold my beloved ones; I shall no more hear their voices. They will seek me, but they will find me no more on earth.”

Here Sir Thomas was unable longer to contemplate with calmness the picture his imagination presented of the desolation and abandonment of his children. Looking around to be assured that he was entirely alone, he sank into a chair, and, bursting into tears, abandoned himself to the most bitter grief.

For a long time he remained thus. At length he arose; seeing that the clock in his cabinet was about to strike the hour of midnight, he returned to his table.

Taking up an enormous portfolio, he opened all the drawers. He

He untied the letters and threw them into the fire, where they were immediately consumed; for he knew with whom he had to deal, and how the most innocent things, the most trivial acts, would be brought up and construed into crimes against those who had held any intercourse with him. Those which concerned these persons he destroyed without regret; but when they had been entirely devoured by the flames, he turned with sadness to those of Margaret and the Bishop of Rochester, and could not summon sufficient resolution to cast them into the fire.

He looked at them and turned them over in his hands; they had given him so much pleasure! Those of his daughter had been dictated by the tenderest love; the virtues of his friend shone in every page of his, and proofs of attachment were inscribed upon every line, recalling the joys, the sorrows, and different events that had occurred during his entire life!

“Come!” he said with bitterness, “when Margaret shall no longer have a father, who will then have any use for these letters? Who will treasure them up? And thou, O my friend! No, we shall not remain separated; for, O my God! thou hast declared that he who giveth up that which he loves for thy sake shall find it again; and if man, thy creature, gives thee an atom, thou wilt return him an entire world. Have we not received all things from thee? And what thou takest from us for a moment, is it not to return it to us again in eternity?”

He cast the letters into the fire, but turned away that he might not see them consumed. He then examined his book of accounts, and saw that they were correct. Besides, his estate was so small he found but little difficulty in administering it. After retiring from office he had divided his lands between his children, and each one of them knew the lot assigned her.

When he had finished all that, he again began to walk the room, and went toward the window; the night was intensely dark and the heavens obscured by a mass of black clouds.

“Well! I have some time yet,” he said, and turned to sit down. “Everything is arranged; Margaret will send my books. Now I am prepared to depart. It would seem that I am dead, and they come already to blot all traces of my existence from this place. Ah! how harrowing is the thought. My God! my courage fails. Help me, Lord! Animate by a breath of thy strength the weakness of thy servant; for I am the work of thy hands! Have mercy on me and succor me; for sorrow hath fallen upon me and I am utterly cast down!”

As he pronounced these words he thought he heard a sigh; he paused to listen, but heard nothing more, and came to the conclusion

Margaret turned around in alarm.

“My father!” she cried, “here at this hour!” And she ran to him and folded her arms around him, while her tears began to flow afresh.

“Margaret, what do you here?” he asked as he sank into a chair.

“My father, my father!” She burst into a torrent of tears, and could say no more.

“I thought you slept,” she added.

“Margaret, you should be in bed!” said Sir Thomas, endeavoring to control his feelings.

She fell on her knees before him, and, burying her face in her hands, sobbed aloud; her hair, loosened from its fastening, hung in dishevelled masses down to her feet.

“Margaret, you are weak!” said More in an altered voice. “Is this the fruit of the lessons I have given you?”

“Dare you, then, say that I am weak, and reproach me because I weep for my father?” she replied, raising her head haughtily. “Do you no longer remember that I have never known a mother’s love, and that, since the day I left my cradle, you alone have directed all my movements, that in you alone have been centred all my affections, and to you have I always confided the most secret thoughts of my heart? You say that I am weak, when not a word of complaint has escaped my lips, when I have concealed my tears, weeping in the darkness of night, and when I have sat at table face to face with your executioner!”

“Margaret, my Margaret!” cried Sir Thomas; and he bowed his head on the shoulder of the child he so cherished, and pressed her to his bosom.

“Have I asked you,” she continued, turning away from him, “what you would do to escape from these tigers thirsting for blood? Have I advised you to recoil before them and lick the prints of their feet? No; I have come in silence to take counsel of the dead, some advice as to the crimes of the human race, because I have thought you would conceal your secret in your heart, and I would not be admitted to share it; that you would tell me what you did not believe, and I would not receive the truth from you. The truth!” she cried vehemently, and with a strength only lent her by excitement and suffering. “I know it now! I know, I feel, I have found out that very soon I shall see you no more; that I shall be alone upon the earth where I have found such joy and happiness in existing; that nothing

“Margaret,” said Sir Thomas, “have compassion on your father!”

She then said no more, and they sat in silence, she with her arms clasped around his neck. She wept, and the tears continued to course slowly down her cheeks, whilst the lamp she had brought cast a feeble glimmer of light throughout the lengthy apartment, and over the rows of books arranged on the shelves; and thus the hours fled rapidly toward the fatal moment which she saw advancing with an agony indescribable.

O wicked and voluptuous prince! raise your head from your bed of down, draw aside the triple draperies of silk and gold that surround you; for your crimes keep vigil around your couch, and the justice of God numbers every tear you have caused to be shed! Far better would it be for you to sleep on an infected dunghill, in some obscure retreat; that your limbs, weary with toil and the heat of the mid-day sun, should tremble beneath the frosts of night, and that your hands were pure and free from iniquity in the presence of the most high God; for we cannot believe that man oppresses man without justice being meted out to him, or that the weak shall remain the prey of the strong. The day will come when a terrible vengeance shall fall upon the head of the impious, and he will see arrayed before him all the crimes he has committed. Then shall he cry aloud: “Why have I ever lived, and why has my mother ever borne me in her womb?” But light then will no longer be measured, night will have disappeared, century will no more follow century, and time shall be no more.

TO BE CONTINUED

A PROTESTANT BISHOP ON CONFESSION.

BY A CATHOLIC LAYMAN.

Bishop Atkinson, of North Carolina, in a “Charge” to the clergy of his diocese, took occasion to inveigh against auricular confession. To this Bishop Gibbons replied. The Protestant prelate now appears in “A Defence,” the purport of which we propose here to examine. Omitting any comment on the personal retort, we make our first quotation from the eighth page of this pamphlet:

“To object to the power of the priest to forgive sins is, according to this [the Roman Catholic] view, equivalent to objecting to the power of Christ to forgive sins. Is this to be maintained? Is this true?” Since to doubt Christ’s declaration is to call his power in question, we affirm that this is true and is to be maintained. If the words of Christ are fallible, it must follow that he who spoke them is also fallible. “Whose sins ye shall forgive they are forgiven,” and “Whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven”: Falsify these statements, and we make God a liar. Of the exercise of this power St. Paul says to the Corinthians: “If I forgave any, for your sakes forgave I it, in the person of Christ”; and in condemning the incestuous Corinthian he judges him “with the power of our Lord Jesus Christ.” Now, if St. Paul was indeed acting with the power of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in his person, his absolution and condemnation were identical with Christ’s. If not, his arrogations were blasphemous and vain.

Here is a confounding of things wholly different—the power of absolution, and knowledge infallible. Forgiveness does depend upon the state of the soul, and, whether it be Christ or one of his ambassadors pronouncing absolution, the conditions requisite are absolutely one. Nor Christ nor his priest can pardon the impenitent; but infallible knowledge of the state of the soul affects in no way the power of absolution. God reveals to any man his own soul’s condition, but to no man is given the power of self-absolution. So, also, he grants the power of absolution apart from the gift of infallible knowledge. The things are distinct and separate from each other. The latter of these powers our Lord alone possesses, but he seems not unfrequently, in the exercise of his ministry, to have purposely excluded all its influence over the former, to teach us that the two have no necessary dependence. Thus, he invests St. Peter with the power of the keys a short time before the fall of that apostle, and administers to Judas the clean Bread of Angels when he knows him to be a devil. Could a priest’s want of insight have results more appalling? But Bishop Atkinson here proposes a method most ingenious for testing priestly power, a “practical test” to be applied as follows: “When the power of Christ to forgive sins was doubted, he wrought a miracle to prove it, and thereby silenced the gainsayers. When the power of the priest to forgive sins is doubted, as it very frequently and very seriously is, can he work a miracle to demonstrate it?”

To demand a miracle in the sacrament of penance as a “practical test” of sacerdotal power is also to require it in every other sacrament and sacerdotal function. Has Bishop Atkinson tested by this rule his baptisms, confirmations, communions, and, first of all, his orders? A “practical test” is of general application. When a child is baptized, the Episcopal clergyman thus speaks to the sponsors: “Seeing now, dearly beloved brethren, that this child is regenerate and grafted into Christ’s church, let us give thanks unto Almighty God for these benefits.” Here, should his “practical test” be demanded to verify this statement, could the bishop produce it? Again, at the end of a marriage he says: “I pronounce you man and wife,” and “Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.” Is the clergyman then God? Else whence this change from first to third person?

How far, we are asked, in the judgment of a “thorough-going Roman Catholic”—one who is blind enough to take God at his word, while all the world smiles at his childish credulity—does the priest’s power of absolution actually extend? In the ordination service of the Episcopalian Prayer-Book stands this Catholic formula:

“Receive the Holy Ghost for the office and work of a priest in the church of

* * * * *

Now, the Catholic believes the church means what she affirms; that the literal declaration is the literal truth, since God himself spake it. He therefore receives the priest in Christ’s person, believing that the sins which he remits are remitted. But he knows the conditions upon which depends his cure when he seeks divine remedies. He knows that Christ himself cannot pardon the impenitent, and that the humble priest is not greater than his Master; but, upon the same conditions that the Son of God required, he believes the priest’s decision must be ratified in heaven. He remembers, too, the promises vouchsafed to those receiving, and the overwhelming curse pronounced on those rejecting, the messenger of Christ—a judgment more dread than that on Tyre and Sidon.

Though Bishop Atkinson denounces auricular confession, we are not to understand that he opposes all confession. Nay, he deems it sometimes salutary, “sometimes even obligatory, from the ignorance and doubts of the penitent, from the enormity of his crime, from his consequent tendency to despair. But it is a drastic medicine, not to be taken regularly, for thus taken it enfeebles the patient.” Does Bishop Atkinson really mean to tell us that a state of too great sanctity is one to be discouraged? that some bile of imperfection is essential to the health of the moral constitution? and that this the drastic medicine would too thoroughly remove? If not, what does he mean? Did he look upon confession as a wicked imposition, we could readily comprehend his aversion to its practice; but this he denies, directing his attacks against auricular confession, which by the Council of Trent is thus defined: “A confession of all mortal sins, however secret, with all their circumstances, to a priest, in secret.” Here the bishop shudders—that secret mortal sins, with their attendant circumstances, should be matter of confession, and to a priest, in secret! To commit them in broad daylight would not be half so terrible! Confessing them in secret is that which most appalls him. Such, he gravely tells us, is not the rightful mode. The proper thing to use is a very mild dilution of this potent, drastic medicine—something that will soothe and lull the troubled conscience, not purge it of its guilt. To support his strong assertions, he appeals to Holy Scripture and to the early fathers. Here we have a long quotation from a work of Bishop Hopkins. From this we learn that “the apostles exercised their office of remitting or retaining sins; for the sins of those whom they thought fit (mark well the restriction) were remitted in baptism, while the sins of those whom they judged unfit were retained.” Again: “These inspired men required repentance towards God and faith towards our Lord Jesus Christ, and then administered baptism for the remission of sins to those whom they judged to be truly penitent.” In a word, they acted always in accordance with their judgment. Now, the basis of sound judgment is a thorough understanding of the cause to be adjudged, and without this understanding there can be no prudent judgment. Were our Lord’s apostles