Volume 26 — VOL. XXVI., No. 156.—MARCH, 1878. (continued 3)

The lecturer goes on to say that Newton’s book substituted mechanical force for the finger of Providence; and thus “the reign of law, that great essential to the theory of evolution, was solidly established.” This sentence contains three errors. 1539The first is that the Newtonian theory of mechanical force suppresses Providence. The second is that the reign of law was not solidly established before the publication of Newton’s work. The third is that the establishment of the law of mechanical forces lends support to the theory of evolution. Is this the result of “intellectual development,” as understood by Dr. Draper? Newton, whose intellect was undoubtedly more developed than that of the lecturer, did not substitute mechanical force for the finger of Providence, but continued to acknowledge the finger of Providence as the indispensable foundation of his scientific theory. Nor did he imagine that his theory was calculated to establish the reign of law. The reign of law was already perfectly established, so much so that it was on this very ground that Newton based his deductions. Finally, neither Newton, nor any really “developed intellect,” ever confounded the mechanical with the vital forces so as to argue from the law of gravitation to the law of animal propagation. From this we can form an estimate of the intellectual development of man by free-thought. The lecturer blunders in philosophy by contrasting law against Providence; he blunders in history by attributing to Newton the discovery of the reign of law; and he blunders in logic by tracing the theory of evolution to a mere law of mechanics.

Further on Dr. Draper gives a sketch of Lamarck’s theory. Lamarck was Darwin’s precursor. He advocated the doctrine of descent. According to him, organic forms originated by spontaneous generation, the simplest coming first, and the complex being evolved from them.

1540“So far from meeting with acceptance,” says Dr. Draper, “the ideas of Lamarck brought upon him ridicule and obloquy. He was as much misrepresented as in former days the Arabian nature-philosophers had been. The great influence of Cuvier, who had made himself a champion of the doctrine of permanence of species, caused Lamarck’s views to be silently ignored or, if by chance they were referred to, denounced. They were condemned as morally reprehensible and theologically dangerous.”

The fact is, however, that there had been no necessity of “misrepresenting” Lamarck’s ideas, and that his infant Darwinism was condemned not only as morally reprehensible and theologically dangerous, but also as scientifically false. Cuvier had certainly the greatest influence on the views regarding this branch of knowledge; but his influence was not the result of a Masonic conspiracy, as is the case with certain modern celebrities, but the honest result of deep knowledge and strict reasoning; for men were not yet accustomed to believe without proofs, and scientists had not yet forgotten philosophy.

Dr. Draper tells his audience that Geoffroy St. Hilaire “became the opponent of Cuvier, and did very much to break down the influence of that zoölogist.” Yes; but did he succeed in his effort? Did he destroy the peremptory arguments of the great zoölogist? Did he convince the scientific world, or make even a score of converts? No. The influence of Cuvier remained unimpaired, and evolution did not advance a step. Then Mr. Darwin came. Mr. Darwin is, we have reason to believe, the mouthpiece or chief trumpeter of that infidel clique whose well-known object is to do away with all idea of a God. Owing to this circumstance, he was sure to have followers. A 1541few professors in Germany, and a few others in England, proclaimed with boldness the new theory; they wrote articles, delivered lectures, printed pamphlets in his honor; his works were widely advertised and strongly recommended; and the curiosity of the public, which had been raised by all these means, was carefully entertained by the scientific press. People read Darwin and smiled; read Wallace, the friend of Darwin, and were not converted; read Huxley, the great Darwinian oracle, and remained obdurate. Only two classes of men took to the new theory—professors of unbelief and simpletons. Thus Darwinism in Europe, in spite of the great efforts of its friends, has been a failure. Here in America the same means have been employed with the same effect. No sooner was anything published in England or Germany in support of the new theory than some worthy associate of the European infidels republished it for the American people. New original articles were also added by some of our professors; and even Mr. Huxley did not disdain to devote his versatile eloquence to the enlightenment of our free but benighted citizens concerning the subject of evolution. What has been the result? Are the American people converted to the new doctrine? No. They laugh at it. The failure of Darwinism is as conspicuous and as complete in America as it has been in Europe.

Has Dr. Draper, after all, converted any of the Unitarian ministers who attended his lecture? We think not; and the lecturer himself seems to have felt that his words fell on sceptical ears and failed to work on the brains or touch the hearts of his hearers. Towards 1542the end of his lecture he exclaims: “My friends, let me plead with you. Don’t reject the theory of evolution!” It is manifest from this exhortation that the audience, in the opinion of the lecturer himself, was still reluctant to accept the theory. Had the lecturer thought otherwise, he would have said: “My friends, I need not plead with you. You have heard my arguments. I leave it to you to decide whether the theory of evolution can be rejected by intelligent men.” This language would have shown the earnest conviction of the lecturer that he was right, and that his reasonings were duly appreciated and approved. But to say, “Don’t reject the theory,” is to acknowledge that the arguments had not commanded the assent of the intellect, and that no other resource remained than a warm appeal to the good-will of the hearers. Such an appeal, in a scientific lecture, may seem out of place; but it is instructive, for it leads us to the conclusion that even Dr. Draper was convinced of the futility of his attempt.

The only argument which we could find in his lecture in support of the Darwinian theory is so puerile that we believe not one of the assembled ministers can have been tempted to give it his adhesion. After pointing out that “each of the geological periods has its dominating representative type of life,” the lecturer introduces his argument in the following form:

“Perhaps it may be asked: ‘How can we be satisfied that the members of this long series are strictly the successive descendants by evolution from older forms, and in their turn the progenitors of the latter? How do we know that they have not been introduced by sudden creations and removed by sudden extinctions?’ Simply for this reason: 1543The new groups make their appearance while yet their predecessors are in full vigor. They come under an imperfect model which very gradually improves. Evolution implies such lapses of time. Creation is a sudden affair.”

O admirable philosophy! The predecessors were still vigorous when the successors made their appearance; therefore the former were the progenitors of the latter! And why so? Because “evolution implies lapse of time,” whilst “creation is a sudden affair”! Even a child, we think, would see that such reasoning is deceptive. But, since Dr. Draper is bold enough to take his stand upon it, we must be allowed to ask him two questions.

First, admitting that “creation is a sudden affair,” does he believe that God could not create the successors before the disappearance of their predecessors? If God could do this, what matters it that creation is “a sudden affair”? And if God could not do this, what insuperable obstacle impeded the free exertion of his power?

Secondly, is there no alternative between genetic evolution and creation strictly so-called? If between these two modes of origination a third can be introduced, the doctor’s argument falls to pieces. Now, “production” from pre-existing materials (earth, water, etc.) in obedience to God’s command is neither genetic evolution nor creation strictly so-called, and need not be “a sudden affair.” And this mode of origination is just the one which seems more clearly pointed out by the Sacred Scriptures;^[181] and therefore it should not have been ignored by the lecturer, if he wished to argue against 1544the Scriptural record. Why did he, then, keep out of view this excellent explanation of the origin of species? Is it because it was convenient to conceal a truth which could not be refuted?

Thus the only reason by which Dr. Draper attempts to prove the theory of evolution is a demonstrated fallacy, and the theory falls to the ground, in this sense, at least: that it remains unproved. But if every attempt at proving it involves some logical blunder, if it implies contradictories, if it is based on unscientific assumptions, as is evident from the argumentations of Darwin, Huxley, Youmans, and other advanced writers on evolution, and if history, geology, and philosophy unitedly oppose the theory with arguments which admit of no reply, as is known to be the case, then we must be allowed to conclude that the theory, besides being unproved, is fabulous and absurd.

Dr. Draper, after citing some controvertible facts, of which he gives a yet more controvertible explanation from the Darwinian assumptions, says:

“Now I have answered, and I know how imperfectly, your question, ‘How does the hypothesis of evolution force itself upon the student of modern science?’ by relating how it has forced itself upon me; for my life has been spent in such studies, and it is by meditating on facts like those I have here exposed that this hypothesis now stands before me as one of the verities of Nature.”

Yes. The student of modern science, if he is unwilling to admit creation, must appeal to evolution, and call it “one of the verities of Nature”; but, though he may call it a “verity,” he also admits that it is a mere “hypothesis,” by which the origin of organisms cannot be accounted for and against which a 1545host of facts and reasons are daily objected by science and philosophy.

“In doing this I have opened before you a page of the book of Nature—that book which dates from eternity and embraces infinity.” Is this a “verity,” a hypothesis, or an imposture?

“No council of Laodicea, no Tridentine Council, is wanted to endorse its authenticity, nothing to assure us that it has never been tampered with by any guild of men.” This is an allusion to the declarations of councils regarding the authenticity of the Bible. Does, then, modern science transform educated men into sorry jesters? If so, why does not Mr. Draper derive the monkey from the gentleman?

“Then it is for us to study it as best we may, and to obey its guidance, no matter whither it may lead us.” Yes, it is for us to study the book of nature as best we may; but we must not forget that the author of this book is God, and that God does not contradict in the book of nature what he teaches in the book of Genesis. It is for us “to obey its guidance.” Yes; and therefore it is not for us to pervert its evidences, as Dr. Draper does, in order to exclude “the intervention of the divine power.”

As to “whither it may lead us” we have no doubts; but the lecturer seems to believe that it may lead in two opposite directions. Here are his words:

“I have spoken of the origin and the progress of the hypothesis of evolution, and would now consider the consequences of accepting it. Here it is only a word or two that time permits, and very few words must suffice. I must bear in mind that it is the consequences from your point of view to which I must allude. Should I speak of the manner in 1546which scientific thought is affected ... I should be carried altogether beyond the limits of the present hour. The consequences! What are they, then, to you? Nobler views of this grand universe of which we form a part, nobler views of the manner in which it has been developed in past times to its present state, nobler views of the laws by which it is now maintained, nobler expectations as to its future. We stand in presence of the unshackled, as to Force; of the immeasurable, as to Space; of the unlimited, as to Time. Above all, our conceptions of the unchangeable purposes, the awful majesty of the Supreme Being become more vivid. We realize what is meant when it is said: ‘With him there is no variableness, no shadow of turning.’ Need I say anything more in commending the doctrine of evolution to you?”

These are, then, the consequences “from the point of view” of the Unitarian ministers, as the lecturer very explicitly declares As to the consequences “from the point of view” of advanced scientists, the lecturer gives only a hint, because, had he spoken of the manner in which scientific thought is affected, the lecture would have proved rather too long. It is apparent, however, that the “verity” or the “hypothesis” which leads the Unitarians to a “Supreme Being” can lead Dr. Draper and the scientific mind to something different, according to the manner in which scientific thought is affected. We may well say, although Dr. Draper preferred not to say it, that it leads to atheism or to pantheism; for the new “verity” was invented with the aim of escaping “the intervention of the divine power” and of subjecting everything in the world to the “universal reign” of an abstraction called “Law.” Dr. Draper himself tells us, as we have just seen, that the book of Nature (with a capital N) “dates from eternity and embraces 1547infinity”; and surely, if the world is eternal and infinite, Nature is everything, and a personal God becomes an embarrassing superfluity. It seems, then, that Dr. Draper, when he mentions the divine power or the Supreme Being, does not speak the language of his “scientific” conscience, but the language which he considers to express the convictions of the Unitarian body. Perhaps it would have been more in keeping with the requirement of the subject, if he had frankly stated the “consequences” which he, as a scientist, would draw from the “verity” he had proclaimed; but, as he may have feared that a frank statement would have created a little scandal, we are inclined to acquit him of the charge of “scientific” dishonesty—the more so as the consequences which he deduces, taken in connection with the rest of the lecture, give a sufficient clue to the private views of the speaker.

It is difficult, however, to understand how the acceptance of the theory of evolution can lead to “nobler views of this grand universe,” or to “nobler views of the manner in which it has been developed,” or to “nobler views of the laws by which it is now maintained.” To us these “consequences” are incomprehensible; for is it nobler to view this grand universe as a mere mass of matter than to view it as full of the divine power of which it is the work? or is it nobler to derive man from the brute than to view him as the son of God and the image of his Creator? On the other hand, the laws by which the universe is now maintained are in direct opposition to the theory of evolution, as all men of science confess; hence a view of such laws suggested by the 1548theory of evolution must be a false and contradictory view, and Dr. Draper, when calling it a “nobler view,” amuses himself at the expense of his audience. Fancy an assembly of grave men listening in silence to such rhetoric! and fancy a professor of materialism seriously engaged in the highly scientific business of beguiling such a grave audience!

It is no less difficult to understand how the theory of evolution makes us “stand in presence of the unshackled, of the immeasurable, and of the unlimited.” These epithets do not designate God, for it is manifest that the theory of evolution has no claim to the honor of showing God as present in his creatures; nor can they be applied to the universe, for it is not true that the universe is “unshackled as to Force, immeasurable as to Space, and unlimited as to Time”; and, even were it true, it would not be a “consequence” of evolution. What do they mean, then?

But the most unintelligible of all such “consequences” is that by the acceptance of the theory of evolution “our conceptions of the unchangeable purposes, the awful majesty of the Supreme Being become more vivid.” What “purposes” can the Supreme Being have formed with reference to a universe which is not subject to “the intervention of the divine power”? Is it wise to entertain purposes which one has no power to carry out? Or is the “Supreme Being” of Dr. Draper so unwise as to cherish purposes which must be defeated by “universal, irreversible law”? We strongly suspect that his “Supreme Being” is nothing but the universe itself, and that it is for this reason that he 1549writes Force, Space, and Time with capital letters, thus forming a mock Trinity “unshackled, immeasurable, and unlimited,” but consisting of material parts and controlled by the laws of matter, with which “there is no variableness, no shadow of turning.” If so, then Dr. Draper has no God but the universe, the sun, the moon, and the stars, light, heat and electricity, gravitation, affinity, and motion; and this is “the awful majesty” before which he bends his knee in scientific adoration.

Having drawn these devout “consequences” for the edification of the meeting, the lecturer, with a happy stroke of audacity, asks his hearers: “Need I say anything more in commending the doctrine of evolution to you?” As if he said: “Do you expect that an infidel has anything more to say in favor of your Supreme Being? Have I not given you a sufficient proof of deference and self-abnegation by putting together a few equivocal phrases in honor of your divinity? Need I torture my brain any longer for the sake of a view which is not mine?” But, fortunately for Dr. Draper, a sudden recollection of the fact that Unitarianism and infidelity agree in rejecting the authority of the Index Expurgatorius suggested to him the following words:

“Let us bear in mind the warning of history. The heaviest blow the Holy Scriptures have ever received was inflicted by no infidel, but by ecclesiastical authority itself. When the works of Copernicus and of Kepler were put in the Index of prohibited books the system of the former was declared, by what called itself the Christian Church, to be ‘the false Pythagorean system, utterly contrary to the Holy Scriptures.’ But the truth of the Copernican system is now established. There are persons who declare of the hypothesis of evolution, as 1550was formerly declared of the hypothesis of Copernicus, ‘It is utterly contrary to the Holy Scriptures.’ It is for you to examine whether this be so, and, if so, to find a means of reconciliation.”

We do not doubt that the lecturer honestly believes what he says about the “heaviest blow” inflicted on the Holy Scriptures. But we would inform him that the Congregation of the Index does not make definitions of faith, and that its authority, however respectable, is disciplinary, not dogmatic. If he consulted our theologians, he would learn that not even œcumenical councils are considered infallible as to the reasons by which they support their decisions, but only as to the decisions themselves. Much less can the theologians of the Index bind our judgment by giving expression to their theological views. The books which they forbid are forbidden; but the reasons for which they are forbidden are not all necessarily incontrovertible, and this suffices to show that it is not “the Christian Church” that declared the Copernican system contrary to the Holy Scriptures, for the church never defined such a point; such a declaration was the expression of a theological view which was then common, but which had no dogmatic consequences and could give no “blow” to the Holy Scriptures. Dr. Draper remarks that evolution, too, has been declared to be “contrary to the Holy Scriptures.” The fact is true; but he should have added that the same hypothesis has been refuted by philosophy as a logical blunder, and rejected by science as a monstrous falsehood. Hence the two cases are not similar.

“Let us not be led astray,” continues Dr. Draper, “by the clamors of those who, not seeking the truth and not caring 1551about it, are only championing their sect or attempting the perpetuation of their profits. My friends, let me plead with you. Don’t reject the theory of evolution. There is no thought of modern times that more magnifies the unutterable glory of Almighty God!”

How edifying! how pathetic! but how ludicrous on the lips of an unbeliever! For the God of the lecturer is no creator, as creation is inconsistent with the pretended eternity of matter; he is not omnipotent, for he cannot work miracles; he is not provident, for Dr. Draper rejects all intervention of the divine power in the government of the universe, and says that “the capricious intrusion of a supernatural agency has never yet occurred”; whence we see that God, according to him, would be an intruder, and even a capricious one, if he dared to meddle with the affairs of the material, moral, or intellectual world. Such being the God of the evolutionist, who does not see that the only meaning which can be legitimately attached to Dr. Draper’s words is that the theory of evolution “magnifies the unutterable glory of almighty matter” and does its best to suppress Almighty God?

He gives another grave warning to his clerical hearers:

“Remember, I beseech you, what was said by one of old times: ‘Ye men of Israel, take heed to yourselves what ye intend to do. And now I say unto you, if this counsel be of men it will come to naught; but if it be of God, ye cannot overthrow it, lest haply ye be found to be fighting against God.’ Shall I continue the quotation?—‘And to him they all agreed.’”

This quotation from a speech of Gamaliel in the Jewish council would be appropriate, if the evolutionists, like the apostles, had 1552wrought public miracles to prove their divine mission. In the case of the apostles all tended to prove that they were right, and that God was on their side. They spoke languages that they had never learned, they cured the sick without medicine, by a word or by their shadow, and filled the city with wonders which their enemies could not deny. When Mr. Darwin or Dr. Draper shall give us like evidences of their divine mission, we will “take heed to ourselves what we intend to do” with their doctrine; but, as things are now, everything compels us to look on them as emissaries and ministers of the kingdom of darkness. We cannot put in the same balance evolution and creation; for all the weight would be on the side of the latter. A dream, a nonentity, an unscientific fiction, a paralogism, have no weight; whilst effects without causes, conclusions without premises, phrases without meaning, weigh only on the conscience of modern thinkers, but without affecting in the least the balance of truth. Thus we are not afraid that we “be found fighting against God” while fighting for creation against evolution. The matter is too evident to need further explanation.

We are tired of following Dr. Draper through his tortuous reasonings, and the reader is probably equally tired. On the other hand, there is little need of exposing the mischievous glorification of modern science in which the lecturer indulges in the interest of his materialistic views. When we are told that “profound changes are taking place in our conceptions of the Supreme Being,” or that “the doctrine of evolution has for its foundation not the admission of incessant 1553divine intervention, but a recognition of the original, the immutable fiat of God”—of a God, however, who did not create matter, and who must respect the dominion of universal and irreversible law under pain of being stigmatized as a “capricious intruder”—or when we are told that “the establishment of the theory of evolution has been due to the conjoint movement of all the sciences,” and that “Knowledge, fresh from so many triumphs, unfalteringly continues her movement on the works of Superstition and Ignorance,” we need no great acumen to understand the meaning of this “scientific” slang. Declamation is the great resource of demagogues and charlatans. Unfortunately, there are charlatans and demagogues even among the doctors of science, 1554and their number, though small, is apt to increase in the same proportion as their vagaries are diffused among the rising generation. Catholics, thank God! are less exposed to seduction than sectaries who have no guide but their inconsistent theories; but even Catholics should be on their guard lest they, too, be poisoned by the foul and infectious atmosphere in which they live. Indeed, all the modern errors have been refuted; but when a taste for error becomes predominant, and such fables as evolution are styled “science,” then human weakness and human pride are easily drawn into the vortex of scepticism; and then we must be watchful and pray, for the time is at hand when even the elect, as the Gospel warns us, shall be in danger of seduction.

1555

AFTER CASTEL-FIDARDO.

A SOLDIER’S LETTER.

FROM THE ITALIAN.

Wounded, my friend, and dying,

Waiting the end, I lie—

A sword-cut in my right leg,

A ball in my left thigh;

Dying, and ever hoping—

And in that hope I die—

One day—not here—to see you,

But in our home on high.

Of this our earth all thought now

For me has useless grown,

All its bright days are ended,

Its last dark shadow thrown.

1556For my dear faith so freely

My blood with joy I gave,

And for the Holy Father,

His earthly realm to save.

Content am I, and fortunate,

My duty to have done;

And valorous too, as truly

Became the church’s son.

Yet now our dear Lord calleth,

And in his hands I leave

My cause so dearly cherished:

May he all loss retrieve

Who will not me abandon,

Nor valiant comrades mine,

Nor yet his church, nor Vicar

Who guards his spouse divine!

Dear friend, to me be pitiful;

Pray unto God for me;

Leaving the world, this charity

I beg so earnestly.

This world I leave untroubled,

Save by this one regret:

That none of mine are near me—

Kind eyes that would be wet

With tears of long-tried loving.

My friends, in mercy pray

For my poor soul, that draweth

So near eternal day!

A kiss my blood has tinted

I beg each one receive

That now I send you, waiting

From life a last reprieve;

Hoping one day to give you

The blessed kiss of peace

In our dear, common country—

Fair-shining Paradise.

E’en as I am, earth leaving,

Your true and loving friend,

So shall I be in heaven

With love that knows no end.

1557

MICHAEL THE SOMBRE.

AN EPISODE IN THE POLISH INSURRECTION, 1863–1864.

CONCLUSION.

On my arrival at the camp I found Father Benvenuto already installed as head chaplain and everything prepared for my reception. The poor general had died only two hours after my departure. He had been buried at Gory; but his soldiers, having heard that the Russians intended to dig up his body in order to mutilate it in their barbarous fashion, dug up the coffin and carried it to Koniec-Pol.

The Russians, furious at finding the grave empty, hanged the parish priest of the village for having given permission for the removal of the body. The mother of the priest, who was seventy-five years of age, was dragged to the foot of the gibbet, and, like the Mother of Dolors, was made to assist at the execution of her only son. When they tried to remove her she fell down dead. Her soul had flown to heaven after that of her boy.

No sooner had I entered on my new duties than I determined to start immediately with my squadron to protect Countess L——’s flight. But General C——, at the head of the Russian garrison from Kielce, never ceased pursuing and attacking us, harassing our march day and night; so that it was not for fifteen days after my departure from the castle that I was enabled to carry out my plan. My troops, who always saw me with a frown, which I had adopted to keep them at a greater distance, had nicknamed me “Michael the Sombre,” and I signed all orders in that name.

1558After repeated marches and counter-marches we managed at last to escape from our enemies, and arrived one evening at Syez after a forced march of ten hours, I encamped my men in a field about twenty minutes from the castle, whither I galloped, accompanied only by my orderly, whom I left at the outer gates to keep watch, while I asked an audience of Countess L—— for “Michael the Sombre.” A footman admitted me directly without recognizing me in the least, and took me into a room where a lamp with a dark-green globe prevented any object from being easily distinguished. Overcome with fatigue, I threw myself into an arm-chair. I was full, however, of thankful emotion. God had indeed heard my prayer and brought me back in safety to be the preserver of those whom I held so dear. The door opened; the countess and her sister appeared, and began by the usual formal words of welcome and courtesy, asking me to be seated—for I had, of course, risen on their entrance. As I did not answer, and continued looking at them with my eyes full of tears, they suddenly looked up too, and, with a joint cry, threw themselves into my arms. I had suffered terribly from hunger, cold, and fatigue during the past fortnight; but that moment of intense joy made me forget everything. Five minutes after I was surrounded by all the children; the youngest had scrambled up on my knees and thrown her arms 1559tightly around my neck; Sophia had seized my helmet, and, putting it on before the glass, compared herself to Minerva. Stanislas had unhooked my sword, and Stephen was trying to take off my spurs. Half the night was spent in telling one another all that had passed in that eventful fortnight; and although I made light of my difficulties and position, yet I saw that the poor countess could hardly bear to realize what I must still go through before I was released from my command.

This, however, was not a moment for doubt or hesitation. It was necessary to move immediately before the Russian spies could give the alarm; so that by daybreak the following morning the countess’ carriage, escorted by my flying column, started on the road to the frontier. Fortunately, we were not molested on the way, and, when we arrived at about a quarter of a mile from Myszkow, I halted my soldiers, and, putting on the ordinary dress of a civilian, I accompanied the ladies to the station and busied myself with their passports, tickets, and baggage with all the feverish anxiety of one who strove to forget the terrible ordeal through which I had yet to pass before I should be able to rejoin them. When the train came up I brought the ladies out on the platform, and, having procured a special compartment for them, made them get into it with the children. Then at last I could breathe freely. No one had discovered them—they were safe! “Adieu!” I exclaimed, as I shook hands with them at the carriage-door. “You are now out of danger, for which I thank God with my whole heart. You will tell the count that I have fulfilled my promise to him, will you not? And 1560you will not forget me?” I added with a faltering voice.

They looked at me as if stupefied. “But, Mika,” exclaimed the countess, “we cannot go without you! You must be joking. It is not possible for you to stay behind. What on earth is there to detain you?”

“You forget,” I replied as calmly as I could, “my promise to the dying general; my vow to remain with his troops until replaced, if he would only grant me this escort; Poland, which I have sworn to defend.”

“But this is dreadful!” murmured the poor countess. “How can we enjoy our liberty, purchased at such a price?”

Mme. de I—— said nothing. She was as white as a sheet; her hand tightened on mine, and she fixed her eyes on me as if she were turned into stone. More fully than the countess did she realize the full peril of the position. I was broken-hearted; but, fearing lest this scene should attract the attention of the officials or of any Russian spies, I left the carriage-door under pretence of having forgotten something. When I returned the train was already moving out of the station. The countess rushed to the window and wrung my hand convulsively for the last time. She could not speak. My eyes followed the receding train with a feeling of despair in my heart. It was carrying off all I loved best on earth, and I was alone. All of a sudden I heard my name called out with a cry of anguish from the carriage, and then, I think, for a moment I lost consciousness, as if struck by lightning, and remained motionless and stunned. Till that moment I had not realized the full bitterness of 1561the sacrifice. I woke from this kind of stupor to hear voices in hot dispute behind me. I turned round and saw a Polish soldier, covered with dust and in a tattered uniform, struggling with two of the porters of the railroad, who were trying to stop him.

“What do you want to do?” I exclaimed. “Who are you looking for?”

“Michael the Sombre,” replied the soldier.

“I am the man,” I replied quietly, drawing him aside out of the station to a part of the road where we could talk without being heard.

“O sir! make haste,” the poor fellow cried. “Generals O——, De la Croix, and Zaremba are fighting at Koniec-Pol and are being overwhelmed by the superior forces of the enemy. If they be not reinforced by two o’clock they will all be cut to pieces.”

I instantly sent off a messenger to General Chmielinski to warn him of the danger; and then, without giving myself time to put on my uniform, I buckled my sword over my black coat, and galloped as hard as I could to the scene of action. I divided my squadron into three columns, and sent each, under the command of an officer, in three different directions. The Russian sentinels consequently gave the alarm on three sides at once, and the Russians, fancying themselves surrounded by a large force, were seized with an uncontrollable panic and fled in the direction of Shepca; Chmielinski’s column, advancing exactly in that direction, met them, and the three infantry companies of which they were composed were literally cut to pieces. During the charge a ball had passed through my boot and wounded me in the right leg. Father Benvenuto was at my 1562side in a moment and had me removed to Chezonstow, where the good Mother Alexandra, of whom I have before spoken, was at the head of the ambulance. She gave me up her own cell and would allow no one but herself to nurse me. During my illness a division arose among my troops. They dispersed; some went home, others joined a corps under the orders of Langewiecz, while the remainder followed Norbut. When sufficiently recovered from my wound, finding I was still too lame for active service, I accepted a mission for the Central Polish Committee at P——, but was unable to obtain my release. From thence I started for N——, where I made my will and a general confession, and then started again for the front, having my passport drawn up under the name of Michael L——. This time I enlisted as a common soldier under the orders of General Sokol. After the first engagement I was appointed quartermaster and interpreter to a French officer, Ivon Amie, dit De Chabrolles. On the next brush we had with the enemy I was promoted to be sub-lieutenant for having rescued the national flag from a Russian. Between Secemin and Rudnick we were attacked by six hundred Russians with two field-pieces. We were only two hundred and fifty men, with no cannon. Chabrolles, in his mad zeal, rushed forward, pistol in hand, and fired straight at the men who were loading their guns at only twenty paces off. Then he turned to give an order, and the enemy’s fire (both pieces being pointed in his direction) carried off part of his shoulder. Regardless of his wound, he cheered on his men by word and deed, and they were on the point of capturing the guns when a Cossack thrust 1563him through and through with his lance. I was by Chabrolles’ side and fired at his adversary, who fell before he had had time to draw out his weapon. This sad office devolved upon one of our own men. Chabrolles, when falling, gave me his hand. “My brother,” he said faintly, “if you get back to France go to Paris and see my mother. She is at 37 Rue Clerc au Gros Caillou. Tell her that her son has died as a brave Christian should die.” Unable to reply, I tore my crucifix out of my breast and presented it to him. He made a last effort, kissed it with fervor, made the sign of the cross, and expired, his eyes raised to heaven.

Our detachment was then entirely defeated. In vain I tried to rally our men; they fled in the utmost disorder. With a few braver spirits than the rest I managed, at least, to protect our retreat. I was just beginning to congratulate myself on our escape when a Cossack, with his lance at rest, rode straight at me. I had fired off my last pistol. With one hand I seized my sword to parry the charge; with the other I pressed my crucifix to my breast. The lance turned aside, went through the sleeve of my uniform and out at my back without touching my flesh. If I never believed in a miracle I should at this moment, when I realized that I was really unhurt, although death had seemed so inevitable. In this terrible fight we lost, besides Chabrolles, Major Zachowski and Captains Piotraszkiewicz and Krasmicki. At the close of the day I was promoted to be lieutenant of the Uhlans.

One day I was ordered to convey some arms and ammunition to a distant outpost, and loaded the bottom of a britzska with about twenty guns and swords and fifty 1564revolvers. I was in plain clothes, and my orderly, Badecki, acted as coachman. The road was supposed to be quite safe. Judge, then, of our fright when we discovered a large body of Russian cavalry riding directly towards us. It was too late to think of beating a retreat. A shudder passed through me; for it was the worst kind of death which threatened us—not a glorious one on the field of battle, but a slow torture, or else to be hanged on the nearest tree. I prayed with my whole heart for deliverance, and felt that the hand of God alone could save us. After this moment of recollection calm again fell upon me and my presence of mind returned. The officer who commanded the corps came up a few seconds after and asked me who I was and where I was going. I replied “that I was the German tutor of Princess Ikorff (a Russian lady), and that I was going to Kielce to buy books.” My story was confirmed by my Berlin accent; and as at this moment the Prussians were in odor of sanctity with their brethren, the Russians, the officer simply bowed and let us pass without interruption or suspicion. But the last Cossack of the band drew near to the carriage-door. “Noble Sir!” he exclaimed in that cringing voice which is natural to the race, “give me some kopecks to drink your health.” In the state of excitement I was in I did not think of what I was doing, and threw him three ducats instead of kopecks. The poor fellow was so amazed that he hastened to show his gratitude after the Cossack fashion—that is, by kissing my feet—and calling me by every imaginable title: prince, duke, etc. This was a terrible moment for me. The guns were under my feet, only 1565hidden by a slight covering of hay, the least displacement of which would have exposed them. God, in his mercy, did not allow it, and my Cossack, after a thousand obeisances and calling down on my head every blessing from St. George and St. Nicholas, left me and rejoined his companions. I arrived at my destination without further alarms, my heart filled with thankfulness to Him who had so mercifully preserved us from the worst of deaths.

About the beginning of September Gen. Iskra was attacked by a strong corps, and I was sent off to his relief with about one hundred men. The Russians were repulsed; but we lost in this skirmish our Italian doctor, M. Vigani, and M. Loiseau, a French officer of artillery. During the night the Russians, having received reinforcements, returned to the attack. We were too few in numbers and too exhausted to attempt to fight, and retreated on Pradla. During this retreat my horse, which belonged to a private in the corps, made a false step and fell. I had fired the last barrel of my revolver, and one of my legs had got doubled up under my horse, which made me powerless. At this moment a Cossack galloped straight at me. I felt that my last hour was come, and recommended my soul to God.

“Yield thyself, rebel!” he cried out in bad Polish.

“A Frenchman dies, but never yields,” I replied.

My enemy hesitated for a moment, and then lowered his sword, which he had already raised to cut me down.

“Listen,” he said: “In the Crimea a Frenchman who had me at his mercy spared my life; for his sake I will spare thine. But give me all the money thou hast.”

1566I threw my purse to him, which contained about twenty roubles. The Cossack helped me to rise, and then said:

“Now fly for thy life; for my comrades are at hand, and they will not spare thee!”

During the whole war this was the only instance of humanity I ever heard of on the part of the Cossacks, and I gladly record it here.

The following day Princess Elodie C—— came to the camp, at the head of a deputation of Polish ladies, to thank me for my devotion to the cause of Poland.

One day I was sitting, sadly enough, under a pine-tree. My troops, silent and sombre, were warming themselves by a great fire. For two days we had eaten nothing. As for me, I was thinking of the absent, and felt terribly lonely. When I looked up I saw two beautiful, intelligent heads watching me, as if saying: “Are we, then, nothing to you—we who have shared all your sufferings and dangers?” They were my two only friends and companions: Al-Mansour, my Arab horse, and Cæsar, my faithful Newfoundland dog. I got up and caressed them both. “O my best friends!” I exclaimed, “you will be with me till death, and if you survive me you will mourn for me more than any one else.” And as I kissed them my eyes filled with tears. Al-Mansour laid his head on my shoulder, and Cæsar licked my hand. They were my only comfort. One minute after a courier arrived to beg for reinforcements. Gen. Iċzioranski was fighting `c at Piaskowa-Scala. I whistled to Cæsar, who was an excellent bearer of despatches, and would even fight to defend them, and fastened a note under his collar. Then, 1567showing him the direction he was to take, I cried: “Hie quickly, Cæsar! and return as soon as you can.” And the dog started off like a shot.

We mounted and galloped to Piaskowa-Scala. The action was short, and we managed to free Iċzioranski, who was surrounded on all sides. At the very moment when the Russians were giving way Al-Mansour bounded with me up in the air, gave a terrible cry, and fell. I had hardly time to get my feet out of the stirrups. He had been shot by a ball in the chest. The poor beast had a moment of convulsion, and then turned his beautiful, soft eyes towards me, as if to implore my help; then his legs stiffened and he trembled again all over. I bent over him and passed my hand through his thick and beautiful mane, calling him for the last time; and then ... I covered my face with both hands and sobbed like a little child. Al-Mansour had been a real friend to me. I had had him when quite young and unbroken; I had trained him entirely myself, and from Breslau to Warsaw I defy any one to have found a more beautiful or intelligent animal. I alone could ride him; he never would allow any one else on his back. For four years I had ridden him every day. The countess had given him to me, and I had brought him with me to the camp. Alas! he was no longer the splendid beast which used to excite the admiration of everybody in the castle stables. Fatigue and privations of all kinds had reduced him to a skeleton, so that his old grooms would not have known him again. I only loved him the more; and it used almost to break my heart when I saw him, for want of hay, 1568oats, or even straw, eating the bark of trees to deaden the pangs of his hunger. He loved me as much as I loved him. I used to talk to him, and he understood me perfectly and answered me after his fashion. Although people who read this may laugh at me, it was yet a fact, which I am ready to maintain, that when I was wounded Al-Mansour had tears in his eyes; and nothing on earth will ever efface his memory from my heart.

Another anecdote which I must relate here refers to a lad—a very child—whom I had in my squadron, and whose name was Charles M——. At fifteen years of age he was a perfect marvel of cleverness, and had received, besides, an excellent education. He was born in Paris, his father being a Polish exile, and his mother, after twenty years’ residence in France, still yearned for the arid plains and marshes of Poland. “Boze è Polska!” (God and Poland)—those were the first words she taught her boy to pronounce; and Charles could never separate his worship of one from the other. This double love, strengthened by all the surroundings of his childhood, became in him a kind of fanaticism. When the insurrection broke out in Poland Charles was a boarder in the Polish college of Batignolles. He was just fifteen. From that moment his life became a continual fever. To go to Poland to fight, and, if necessary, to die for the soil of his fathers were the thoughts which took such possession of the lad that they became irresistible. He saved from his pocket-money and from whatever he gained in prizes the sum necessary for the journey, and, when he thought he had enough, he escaped from the college, leaving a note to 1569explain his intentions, and, after many difficulties, arrived at the camp.

I was then in command of the second squadron of Uhlans, under Gen. Sokol. Charles came straight to me to be enrolled. I flatly refused to accept him, saying he was too young and too weak to bear arms.

“What does it matter if one’s arm be weak,” he exclaimed, “if hatred for our oppressors drive my blows home? It is true that I have only the height of a child, but in my love for Poland I have the heart of a man, and I will fight like a man!”

I remained inflexible. At that moment the general came into my tent and asked what was the question in dispute. I told him. After a moment or two of reflection he turned to me and said:

“You must accept him. I am apt to judge of character by people’s heads; and this one is filled with indomitable energy and courage.”

Charles was consequently enlisted, to his intense joy. I got him a little pony, and arms proportioned to his size, and he fought by my side like a lion in every encounter.

After the fight at Piaskowa-Scala we returned to the camp, having fortunately found some provisions. The night was so dark that we were obliged to light torches, which the soldiers carried at certain distances. Passing before a pine-tree, the new horse I was riding suddenly shied and nearly threw me. I looked to see what had frightened him, and discovered a black object hanging from a branch of the tree. I called a soldier to bring his torch, that we might find out what it was. The light fell on the hanging form; it was my dear dog, Cæsar. On the 1570trunk of the tree was fastened a paper with this inscription: “We hang the dog until we can hang his master.” I was thunderstruck. Al-Mansour, Cæsar, both my friends in one day, perhaps at the very same hour! “Nothing, then, is left to me!” I exclaimed with bitterness, feeling that my poor dog was quite cold—“nothing, not even those poor faithful beasts who loved me so much.”

“Yes,” said a voice in my ear, “a countryman is left to you, and, if you will, a friend!”

I turned round; it was little Charles, who was holding out his hand to me with looks full of sadness and sympathy. I pressed the child’s hand. “Charles!” I exclaimed, “we will try and avenge them.” And spurring my horse, I left the fatal spot far behind me in a few minutes.

A day or two later we went to join the larger corps of General Chmielinski at the camp at Tedczyjowa. When I say “camp” I make a mistake. None existed; we had only a few miserable tents and hardly any baggage. The men slept by parties of ten in the woods, on the cold ground, with such coverings or sheepskins as they could get together; many had only cloth cloaks. At break of day the réveil sounded, ordinarily at the entrance of some glade where the vedettes could embrace a wide space. At the first bugle sound the soldiers emerged from the forest. The men were gentle and sad. The indomitable and calm energy of their souls was reflected on their faces, though blanched with cold and worn with hunger and sufferings of every description. They had a kind of interior brightness in their look that cast over them a sort of sacred halo, before which I 1571believe the veriest sceptic would have bowed with reverence. These men were all possessed with one idea: to die for their faith and their country. Nothing else, indeed, was left for them. The struggle was becoming more hopeless every day, and they knew it; yet they never dreamt of giving it up. The roll-call over and the sentries relieved, Father Benvenuto came in the midst of us, and every knee was bowed before the sacred sign he bore—the sign of our redemption. There was indeed something glorious in that prayer in the open air, joined in audibly by all those men, united in one thought and in one wish, who were fighting with the certainty of eventual defeat, but who only asked of God the grace not to falter or turn back from the path which duty and the love of their country had marked out for them, albeit that path might have no issue but exile or death. Happy were those who fell in battle! They went at once to swell the glorious army of martyrs. The others, when not hanged, chained in a long and mournful procession, were sent to Siberia after that terrible word of farewell addressed to fathers and mothers, and wives and children, gathered sobbing by the roadside: “Do nie widzenia!”—Never to meet again. Many of these poor fellows were fastened to an iron bar, sometimes ten of them together, and carried off in the direction of Kiew. Those who survived the horrors of the march or the lash of their drivers were taken across Greater Russia. A “soteria,” or company, of Cossacks surrounded these innocent men on every side as they toiled on and on, loaded with chains and treated worse than the vilest criminals. The lance and the 1572whip were the only answer to pleas of exhaustion or sickness. A resigned silence was the sole refuge from the brutality of their escort, whose only orders were not to spare the blood of those Polish dogs. Any complaint brought down a hailstorm of blows on the unfortunate victims, even when not followed by death. Truly, the sufferings endured by the Poles will never be known till the day when all things shall be revealed.

When we arrived at the camp we found that Father Benvenuto had preceded us by four or five hours. He had been commissioned to receive about one hundred volunteers who had arrived that morning from Galicia. The greater part of them were dressed in the gray kontusz (or Bradenburg greatcoat), with the large leathern girdle of a géral (a mountaineer). On their heads they wore the roqatka (a kind of square cap, something like the czapka of the Lancers). They generally had a common fowling-piece with two barrels, and a little hatchet in their waistbands. Each had a canvas bag and a hunting-pouch. These might be considered as the flower of the flock. They were mostly students from Lemberg and Cracow. Others were peasants dressed in short tunics with scythes in their hands. These were the kopynicry (or mowers), half-soldiers, half-peasants, and famous in all the struggles of Poland. Besides these there were men of every age and condition of life, but all animated with the same patriotic spirit: citizens, villagers, Catholics, Protestants, Jews even, some wearing black coats, others workmen’s blouses. Their arms were as varied as their costumes: parade swords, sabres blunted in the great wars with Napoleon, old 1573muskets of Sobieski’s days, halberds, and even old French weapons. Some had only hunting-knives and sticks. This curious assemblage of discordant elements, which anywhere else would have seemed grotesque, assumed under the circumstances an imposing, and even a touching, character.

At the extreme end of the glade Father Benvenuto was praying before a great Christ stretched on his cross. When he rose he fastened an amaranth and white flag (which was the Polish banner) to the end of a lance. This flag bore on one side the picture of Notre Dame de Czenstochowa, the patroness of Poland; on the other a Lithuanian cavalier with the white eagle. He fixed the lance in the ground before the cross, and then made a sign to the volunteers to lay down their arms and draw near. When each had taken his place the good priest remained for a moment in silent prayer and recollection. His thin cheeks with their prominent cheekbones, his long white beard, his forehead furrowed with wrinkles and glorious wounds, and his tall and commanding figure gave him an appearance of energy, strength, and majesty which impressed the beholders with deep and affectionate veneration.

“Brothers!” at last he said, “it is a holy and yet a fearful cause to which you are about to devote yourselves. It is one beyond mere vulgar or animal courage; and before you enroll yourselves in our ranks—before, in fact, you engage yourselves any further in the matter—it is right you should know and fully realize what awaits you and what is expected of you.”

The patriots listened respectfully, their heads bare, standing before the crucifix and the banner. 1574Around them, and as if to protect them, stretched the virgin forests, those fortresses of the Polish insurgents, while the sun shed its pale rays over the whole scene.

“What you have to expect,” continued the good father, “is this: You will suffer daily from hunger, for we have no stores; you will have to sleep on the bare ground, for we have no tents; you will have to march more often with bare feet than with shoes and stockings; you will shiver with cold under clothes which will be utterly insufficient to protect you from the rigors of this climate. If you are wounded, you will fall into the hands of the Muscovites, who will torture you. If you are afraid and refuse to go forward, your own comrades have orders to shoot you.”

“We are prepared for everything,” they replied simply.

The good father continued:

“Have you a family? They may as well mourn for you beforehand; for we have no leave in our ranks, except to go to the mines of Siberia or to death. Have you reconciled yourselves to God? I can only lead you to death and prepare you to meet it. Are you ready to die for your country?” He paused, and then added: “There is still time to draw back. I can facilitate your return to your homes. Weigh the matter well before you decide.”

“No, no!” they exclaimed with one voice, “we will not turn back. We wish to fight to-day, to-morrow—when you will—but to fight and die for our country. A cheer for Poland! Another cheer for our Mother!”

“My brethren,” began the venerable priest again, “do not give way to illusions. You are lost if 1575you imagine that you can conquer the enemy in a few months. Woe be to us all if we forget that it is a giant’s struggle in which we are engaged, and that a whole generation must perish before we can expiate the sins of our fathers! Therefore I ask you again: Are you ready to march to battle, knowing that in the end you must be defeated, that you must be overpowered by numbers, and that you have nothing to hope for either in victory or defeat—nothing, not even glory, which lays its crowns of laurel on the graves of the brave?”

Here his voice faltered; but, mastering his emotion, the venerable old man, lifting his eyes to heaven and stretching out his hands towards the crucifix, exclaimed with almost superhuman enthusiasm: “O my God! thou who knowest the hearts of all men, give to these thy servants the spirit of courage, self-sacrifice, and faith. Blot out the memory of our beloved Warsaw from their hearts, and with it the remembrance of their mothers, their sisters, their betrothed! Let them henceforth see naught but the glorious army of martyrs and their mother Poland, torn and blood-stained. Let their ears be closed to all whispers of home, and be open only to hear the laments of the widows and orphans, the groans from the depth of the dungeons, the cries which the east wind brings us across Muscovy from the Siberian mines! May they have but one thought, one wish, one will—to pursue and annihilate this Russian vampire, which for nearly a century has fastened on the breasts of our Virgin of Poland, and has become drunk with her tears and with her blood!”

“May God hear and grant thy prayer!” replied the volunteers 1576with one voice. “What thou willest we will; what thou commandest we will do. Lead us to death or to torture; we will not shrink from either.”

A look of deep joy lit up for a moment the old man’s face and made him seem as one inspired. He blessed the banner, and then gave out the Polish national hymn, Boze cós Polske przesz tak licznie wieki, of which the following is an English translation:^[182]

I.

O God! who gave Poland her wonderful dower

Of faith through long ages, of strength and of glory,

And now spreadst that faith like a shield o’er an hour

The saddest and darkest of all in her story

Chorus.

Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come;

Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.

II.

O thou who, in pity, and touched by her fall,

Still strengthenst thy children to fight in thy name.

And showeth the world, ‘midst her sorrow and thrall,

The deeper her suffering, the brighter her fame;

III.

O God! whose all-powerful arm can o’erthrow

The proudest of kingdoms, like huts built on sand,

Avert from thy children these dark clouds of woe.

Raise the hopes of the Poles; give them back their dear land.

IV.

Give back to old Poland her bright days of yore,

To her fields and her cities the blessings of peace.

Give plenty, give freedom, give joy as before;

Oh! cease to chastise us and fill us with grace.

V.

O merciful God! by thy marvellous might

Keep far from us slaughter and war’s fierce despair;

‘Neath the sway of the angel of peace and of light

Let all be united in love and in prayer.

Great God! to thine altars we suppliants come;

Give us back the blest freedom of faith, hearth, and home.

1577The soldiers, kneeling, repeated this in chorus, and, rising, gave another cheer for Poland. Then Gen. Chmielinski, who was standing to the right of Father Benvenuto, turned to them and said: “Now, my children, go and rest and recruit your strength. You will need it all; for the enemy we have to fight is strong and numerous, and many among us will appear before God to-morrow.”

The soldiers did as they were bid, and prepared themselves to pass the night as comfortably as they could, feeling that it was indeed the last many would spend on earth. I was going to do the same when I was sent for by Gen. Sokol, whom I found talking over plans with Gen. Chmielinski. “Lieut. L——,” he said to me, “we are very anxious for exact information as to the amount of the Russian force. Are you tired?”

“Yes, but not enough to refuse a perilous mission. What is there to be done?”

“To go with a picked body of men on whom you can rely, and reconnoitre the Russian strength and position; but, for heaven’s sake, be very prudent. You know the full extent of the danger.”

“Yes. Thanks for having chosen me,” I replied; and, bowing to the two officers, I withdrew and told Badecki to have my horse saddled immediately. Whilst I was looking to the loading of my pistols young Charles M—— came up.

“Lieutenant,” he exclaimed, “you are going to reconnoitre the Russian army?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Will you let me go with you?”

“No, my boy. To-morrow’s fight may be a serious one, for 1578which you will need all your strength.”

The poor little fellow made a wry face, but went and lay down again at the foot of a tree. I only took with me Badecki and an old soldier named Zeromski, who had distinguished himself in the campaign of 1830. He had an austere and severe countenance, which, however, brightened into the sweetest and gentlest smile possible when you spoke to him. He was as laconic as a Spartan and kept himself always aloof; but under fire his bravery was heroic, and almost amounted to rashness. His comrades had nicknamed him Stalowy-serce (heart of steel).

We reconnoitred the enemy’s position without being discovered, and were returning towards the edge of the camp, when my horse stumbled against the root of a tree and fell on one knee. My orderly, Badecki, looked at me anxiously, shook his head, coughed, sighed, and turned uneasily in his saddle.

“What on earth is the matter, Badecki?” I exclaimed. “One would think you were sitting on a wasp’s nest.”

“Lieutenant,” he answered, sighing, “it is because your horse stumbled just now.”

“Well, and what is that to you?” I replied.

“Don’t you know, lieutenant, that if a horse stumbles before a battle it forebodes misfortune to his rider? I always remarked that in the campaign of 1830.”

“Oh! you believe that, do you?” I said, smiling. “And you, Zeromski—have you remarked it too?”

“No, I have not done so myself, but I have been always told so.”

Arrived at the camp, I hastened 1579to give in my report to General Sokol. He thanked me warmly, and added:

“Now is your opportunity, lieutenant, to win your captain’s epaulets.”

“Yes, general, or a good sabre-cut. I hope it may be one or the other.”

Sokol laughed and said:

“It is certain that, if these unlicked cubs of Russians are as numerous as you say, they will give us trouble.”

Leaving the general’s quarters, I went and wrapped myself up in my bear-skin, and, throwing myself under a tree, fell asleep in a moment. I was completely worn out with fatigue.

Only two hours later, however, I was awakened by the sentries being relieved. The day had just dawned. The first thing which recurred to my memory was Badecki’s words. I had a sort of presentiment that they would turn out to be true. After a few moments of fervent prayer I took out my pocket-book and made a slight sketch of the spot where the battle would most likely be fought, and where, perhaps, that very night they would dig my grave. I wrote a few lines with the sketch, folded them up, and directed it.

Scarcely had I made my last preparations in this way than our advanced posts gave the signal that the enemy was approaching. It was part of the army of Gen. C——, and consisted of two battalions of infantry, several soterias of Cossacks and dragoons, and four pieces of artillery. They numbered upwards of three thousand men. We had only twelve hundred, many of whom were but raw recruits.

Very soon every soul was on the 1580alert and armed. Father Benvenuto was the first to appear.

“My children!” he cried, “many amongst us will fall this day. You are all, thank God! prepared for whatever may be his will. Kneel, and I will give you all a last absolution and benediction.”

Every one knelt with the venerable priest, who prayed for a few minutes in a low voice and commended us all to God. Then, rising, he added with emotion:

“My children, I absolve you and bless you all, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.”

“Amen!” we all responded, and rose filled with fresh strength and courage.

“Let every one of you do his duty,” continued he; “that is all I will say at this moment to patriots who wish to free our dear and holy Poland or die in the attempt.”

The men went silently to take each his place in the ranks. Gen. Zaremba was to assume the chief command that day.

“What will do us the most mischief and paralyze our operations,” he said, “are those field-pieces. If they had not those cannon we should win.”

Count S——, captain of artillery, came forward. “If you will give me leave, general, I will go and spike their guns. Are there two hundred men amongst you who will follow me to certain death? Let them make the sacrifice of their lives for the safety of all.”

Nearly a thousand men volunteered for this terrible service, though they knew perfectly well that, in all probability, not one would return alive.

“Well,” exclaimed the general, “we are twelve hundred men; let us draw lots.”

1581A few minutes later the two hundred, favored by fate and their own heroism, separated themselves from the rest and gathered round their intrepid leader, forming what might well be called the phalanx of death. Charles M—— burst into tears at not having been one of those selected.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said to him; “to-day we shall all be equally favored.”

The general then disposed of his small force in the best manner he could. He desired no one to fire a single shot till the enemy was within one hundred paces. Those among the sharpshooters and zouaves who had breech-loaders were to reserve their second shots till those who had only single-barrelled guns were reloading. In the event of confusion or defeat I was ordered with my Uhlans to charge the fugitives, always taking care to double back with my column behind the fusileers. These dispositions having been made, and distinct orders given to each corps, we all remained at our posts in silence, awaiting the enemy’s approach. On they came, in the well-known serried masses of the Russian troops, and not a shot was fired till they arrived at the appointed distance. Then, with a shout and a sharp cry, the signal was given, our men fired, and upwards of one hundred Russians fell. So unprepared were they for this sudden discharge that the men behind the front rank fell back, in spite of the efforts of their officers, and, scattering to the right and left, became the victims of my Uhlans or were cut to pieces by the scythes of the kopinicry. Then the Russians in their turn fired, and twenty of our Poles fell. This was the moment chosen by Count 1582S—— and his two hundred heroes to dash in amidst the Russian artillery and try and silence their cannon. Passing through the Russian ranks like a flash of lightning, the count and my brave old Zeromski succeeded in spiking two of their field-pieces. Whilst ramming in his gun a ball broke the count’s arm; the next took off his head. Zeromski had his head broken by the butt-end of a musket, and fell at the very moment when he had succeeded in spiking a gun to the cry of “Niech zeja Polske!” (Hurrah for Poland!)

We could not look on in cold blood and see the horrible massacre of these two hundred. Comrades and all with one accord threw themselves into the enemy’s ranks. The voice of our officers fell on dead ears; we were engaged in a hand-to-hand fight with equal fury on both sides. Now and then, when our Poles gave way before superior numbers, the Russian artillery had time to load their remaining guns, and when our poor fellows came back to the charge they were simply mowed down before the heavy fire that opened upon them. But still no one thought of self-preservation, only how to deal the hardest blows. All strategy or tactics had become impossible, and officers and men alike fought inch by inch for their lives. From the first moment when the fighting had become general I was attacked by a quartermaster of dragoons. We both fought with swords; but I was so exhausted that I could hardly keep my saddle, and all I could do was to try and parry the strokes of my adversary. All of a sudden a violent cramp seized my right arm; but at that critical moment I heard the voice of little 1583Charles behind me: “Hold on for a minute longer!” he cried; and, galloping with his pony across a heap of dead, he fired off his pistol close to the head of my enemy, who dropped without a word. But at the same instant I saw the heroic child stagger and turn deadly white; a ball had struck him in the chest.

“Adieu, lieutenant! Adieu, brother!” he murmured, as he slipped off his horse to the ground. “My poor mother! How she will cry! My Lord and my God, have mercy upon me!”

Those were his last words. I bore him on my shoulders, and carried him out of the field of battle, and laid him down under a tree. I put my hand on his heart; it had ceased to beat. The generous child had died to save me. He had a beautiful smile on his face, and two tears glistened on his cheeks. I closed his eyes, and, kissing his forehead, said: “Sleep in peace, my brave boy! If I survive this day I will carry these tears to your poor mother.”

I called two of the pioneers, and told them to dig a separate grave for poor Charles, that his body might not fall into the enemy’s hands; and then, jumping on the horse of a Cossack who had just been killed, I threw myself again into the fray. All my strength had come back. I fought like one possessed; and this over-excitement lasted till I felt the cold steel going through me. A Cossack had thrust his lance into my left breast. I lifted up my heart to God for one moment, and then fell, pressing my crucifix convulsively. My orderly, seeing me fall, carried me off rapidly to a carriage which was already full of wounded men. Thanks to Father Benvenuto, who 1584never ceased watching over me, I came back to life again and met the loving and sisterly eyes of Mother Alexandra, who again insisted on my sharing her cell. I was in great danger for five days, and, if I did not sink under my sufferings, it was owing to the devoted care of which I was the object. One night my secret was well-nigh discovered. Mother Alexandra had been called away to some other patient and had left me to the care of a young sister. My fever ran high, and, being delirious, I tore off the bandages from my wound and threw them away. Frightened at my state, the sister luckily ran to fetch Mother Alexandra, exclaiming: “Come as quickly as you can; the lieutenant is dying!” She flew back to me, and remained alone by my bedside. Her presence calmed me at once, and I allowed her to bandage me up again and stop the blood, which had burst out in streams from the wound.

In the same house we had forty-five wounded from this battle, wherein the Poles had displayed prodigies of valor. The Russian loss was very great, and if they were not altogether crushed, it was owing to their numerical superiority. As it was, they retired in good order, for we had not sufficient men to follow them in their retreat. When I was allowed to go out of my cell I went to see my comrades. I helped the sisters in dressing their wounds, and, when my strength would allow me, I used to read aloud to them as we sat round the stove. At the end of a month, out of forty-five wounded thirty-two were convalescent.

At the end of six weeks I felt myself strong enough to bear the motion of a horse, and so accepted a mission for my old general, 1585who, by the orders of the Central Committee, came to take the command of the forces in the place of General Iskra, who had been condemned to death for high treason. As ill-luck would have it, on this occasion my usual good-fortune deserted me and I fell into the hands of a Russian patrol, who seized me, tied my hands behind my back, and marched me off to the little town of Kielce. As I was still very weak and walked with difficulty, they accelerated my march by blows from the butt-ends of their muskets. At Kielce I was taken straight to the headquarters of Gen. C——. All Polish soldiers who had fallen into the hands of this brute since the beginning of the war had been hanged. From the window, close to which I had been placed, I could see the gibbet, with two shapeless bodies hanging from it on which birds of prey were already feasting. The sight filled me with horror, and feeling sure this time that my last hour was at hand, I recommended my soul to God, made a fervent act of contrition, and prepared myself as well as I could to die.

The general came in for the usual interrogatory, and frowned when he looked at me.

“You are from the rebel army?” he exclaimed in bad Polish.

“I do not know any rebels,” I replied proudly. “I am of the army of the Crusaders.” (We called the war a Crusade, and all of us wore a white cross sewed on our uniforms.)

At this reply General C——’s face darkened and, with a furious gesture, he made a step toward me. “Do you know,” he cried, “to what fate you have exposed yourself by falling into my hands?”

“Yes, perfectly,” I replied, turning 1586my head in the direction of the dead bodies.

“And you are not afraid?”

“No. I belong to a nation which does not know the feeling.”

“Yet you are very pale.”

“Oh!” I replied eagerly, “do not think it is from fear. Six weeks ago I was wounded in an engagement with your troops, and to-day I have gone out for the first time.”

Here the Muscovite smiled.

“What is your age? Nineteen? Do you know that there are very few Poles as young as you are who would face death in this way without a shudder?”

“But I am not a Pole; I am French.”

“Do you speak the truth?”

“I never lie,” I replied, presenting him my man’s passport.

He examined it carefully.

“This saves you,” he said at last, beginning to be almost civil. “We have not yet the right to hang the French, even though they may have fought with the rebel troops. I shall send you with an escort across the frontier of Silesia; but if ever you again set foot on Russian soil you will be hanged without mercy and without shrift.”

I was sent out of his presence, escorted by two Cossacks, thoroughly unlicked bears, who had orders to shoot me on the least suspicious movement on my part. I had the pleasure of these gentlemen’s society in a third-class carriage during the whole journey from Myszkow to Szczakowa—that is, for four mortal hours. You can imagine, therefore, that I did not breathe freely till I had stepped out of the carriage and found myself once more on Silesian soil, released from their attentions.

I felt now that my vow had been kept and my promise fulfilled. I 1587had shed my blood for Poland, and any further effort on my part would have been worse than useless.

I determined, therefore, to rejoin the countess and her children, who were at that moment at the waters of Altwasser. I pass over the joy of our reunion. We soon went on to Dresden for the winter, and once more that happy family were together, though in exile.

I heard soon after that Father Benvenuto had been struck by a ball in the heart at the battle of Swientz-Krszysz, at the very moment when he was lifting up the crucifix to bless his soldiers. The memory of this saint will be for ever revered in Poland, and in the hearts of all those who had the happiness of knowing him. With his heroic death I close my account of this episode in a war which, however mistaken on the part of those who first conceived so hopeless an attempt, was carried on to the last with a faith, a courage, and a patriotism that deserve to be immortalized in the history of any country, and will redound to the eternal honor of this persecuted and unhappy people.

1588

THE LATE DR. T. W. MARSHALL.

The renaissance of English Catholic literature has been a growth of the last quarter of a century. From the time when Dr. Newman became a convert to the church there has been a continual stream of the most ardent Catholic literature, didactic, controversial, and devotional. Of devotional works we need hardly speak at all, since they are much the same in all Catholic countries, and are mostly modelled on one spirit of one faith. Of works which are didactic it is superfluous to say anything, for all teachers of the Catholic faith teach the same thing. But of works which are controversial it is desirable to take notice, because they indicate the peculiar spirit of the age, the nature of the anti-Catholic opposition, and the growth or the decay of old prejudices. There is probably no literature in any country in the world which is so full of original lines of pure controversy as that of the modern English school of Catholic converts. Nor is there any difficulty in accounting for this fact. When we remember that English converts have stepped across that huge gulf which divides old-fashioned Protestantism from Catholicity; that they have brought with them from the “Establishment” the most perfect knowledge of all the arguments which can be devised against the acceptance of “the faith”; that they are often highly educated men, who have been as “intellectually” as they have been “spiritually” converted—we should be surprised if they did not sometimes write controversy with both a newness and a richness of intuition.

For example, let us take the great Dr. Newman, whose vast stores of digested learning often sparkle or are sweetened with delicious touches of the perception of the humorous—a boon to his readers which is not only due to his wit but to the 1589drolleries of the old heresy which he has left. Or let us take Dr. Faber—that “poet of Catholic dogmas,” as a Protestant lady has described him—and note the exquisite appreciation with which he contrasts Catholic truths with their denial or their imitation in Protestantism. These two writers could not have written as they have done unless they had been brought up as Protestants. They might have been equally luminous and profound; they might have wanted nothing of Catholic science; but their appreciation of contrast, which is one of the essentials of humor, could not have been nearly so developed.

Yet, delightful as it would be to dwell on the rich gifts of these two writers—the profound Newman and the poetical Faber—it is with reference to another writer that we would say something at this time—to one who has but recently passed away. Dr. T. W. Marshall, who twice visited the United States, and who gained great repute as a lecturer, was among the most gifted of the controversialists—in some senses he was unique—who have contributed to English Catholic literature. We are not speaking of his learning, though this was considerable; nor of his reasoning power, though this, too, was very striking; for there are many English Catholic writers who, both in learning and in reasoning, may be esteemed to have surpassed Dr. Marshall; but we are speaking of him as a “pure controversialist,” as one who made controversy his sole pursuit, or who, at least, will be always remembered as a polemic, and this both as a speaker and as a writer. Now, in the capacity of a polemic—of a “popular” polemic—we have affirmed that Dr. 1590Marshall was unique; and let us indicate briefly in what respects.

We have spoken at the beginning of the immense advantage which is possessed by those Catholics who attempt to write controversy when their first years have been passed in the camp of the Anglican “Establishment,” and so they have learned all its secrets. Dr. Marshall was “bred and born” an Anglican. He was the descendant of a long line of Protestants. He was educated at two English public schools, and subsequently spent three years at Cambridge; emerging from the university to “take orders” in the Establishment, and soon becoming incumbent of a parish. Finding his lot cast in a pleasant rural district, where he had but very few clerical duties, he devoted his spare time to the study of the Fathers; and, while reading, he made copious notes. The present writer, who had the happiness to be his pupil, remembers well with what avidity he used to devour the big tomes which he borrowed from the not distant cathedral library. Finding, as he read on, that the Fathers were “strangely Roman Catholic,” that “they most distinctly were none of them Protestants,” he may be said to have read and to have written himself into the faith, which he embraced the moment that he realized it. And no sooner was he received into the Catholic Church than he devoted all his talents to the proving to English Protestants the truths of which he himself was convinced. Christian Missions was his first great work, though it had been preceded by more than one brilliant pamphlet; and My Clerical Friends and Protestant Journalism followed in much later years. Besides these works there was the 1591unceasing contribution to more than one of the English Catholic papers, to several magazines or periodicals, and also to a few secular weeklies. It may be remembered with what raciness, and at the same time with what depth, he used to punish “our Protestant contemporaries” for their inventions and their puerilities about the church. His series on the “Russian Church” was especially brilliant, and produced much sensation among High-Churchmen. But his many other series, such as “Fictitious Appeals to a General Council,” “Sketches of the Reformation,” “Two Churches,” “Modern Science,” were all deserving of most careful digestion, and produced their due effect upon Anglicans. It was when probing the Ritualists, week after week, with the most terrible weapons of Catholic logic, that Dr. Marshall was seized with his last illness, and he laid aside for ever that pen which, for thirty years, had been the dread of many insincere Protestants.

If we examine critically into the merits and demerits of this accomplished theologian and controversialist, we shall find three points in particular which mark him off from other men, and which render him, as we have said, unique. First, he had the capacity of uniting extensive learning with a lightness, even a gayety, of style; weaving scores of quotations into a few pages of easy writing, without ever for a moment becoming dull. He played and he toyed with any number of quotations, as though he had them all at his fingers’ ends; and he “brought them in” in such a way that, instead of cumbering his pages, they made them more diverting and light. Let it be asked whether this one particular art is 1592not worthy of universal imitation? Nine out of every ten of even good polemical writers “drag their quotations in by the head and shoulders,” or hurl them down upon the pages as though they had been carted with pitch-forks and had to be uncarted in similar fashion. A lightness and a tripping ease in the introduction of quotations is one of the most captivating of gifts; for it takes the weight off the learning, the drag off the style, the “bore” off the effort of controversy. It would be very easy to name half a score of good books, vastly learned and admirably fitted for the shelves, which are simply rendered unreadable by that after-dinner sleepiness which comes from too heavy a table. Now, is it not desirable that even wise men should make a study of this art of trippingly weaving quotations?—for, as a matter of fact, a quotation badly used might just as well not be used at all. Dr. Marshall made quotations a grace of his style, instead of an interruption of his text; and so neatly did he “Tunbridge-ware” them into his pages that they fitted without joint and without fissure. This is, we think, a great merit; and if Dr. Marshall had done nothing more than suggest to learned writers that it is possible to quote immensely yet trippingly, he would have rendered a service to all polemics. He has been, perhaps, “an original” in this respect; or, if not an original, he has at least been unique in the excellence of the practice of the art.

The second feature in his writings which strikes us as admirable is an individuality in the neatness of expression. Short sentences, quite as pithy as short, with a calm grace of defiant imperturbability, make his writings equally caustic and gay. Scholarly those writings 1593certainly are; they have all the honeyed temperance of art and much of the perfection of habit. No one could write as Dr. Marshall could write unless he had made writing his study. No doubt style “is born, not made”; but most styles are better for education, and we could name but few writers of whom we could say that their style was apparently more natural than it was acquired. Of Dr. Newman it might be said “the style is the man,” for there is a personal repose in his writings; and we could imagine Dr. Newman, even if he had not been a great student, still writing most beautifully and serenely. “The perfection of Dr. Newman’s style is that he has no style” was a very good remark of a learned critic; but then we cannot talk of such very exceptional men as giving a rule for lesser writers. Now, Dr. Marshall had a very marked style. It was ease, with equal art and equal care. The care was as striking as the ease. This, it will be said, proves at once that Dr. Marshall was not what is called “a genius.” Well, no one ever pretended that he was. A man may be both admirable and unique without having one spark of real genius; and a man may have graces of style, with highly cultured arts of fascination, and yet be no more than just sufficiently original to attract a marked popular attention. Few men attain even to this standard; and certainly, as writers of controversy, very few men even approach to it. What we assert is that to be “controversially unique” a writer must be exceptional in certain ways, and especially in the two ways we have particularized—namely, light quoting and light writing. We return, then, to the opinion that for neatness of phraseology; 1594for the “art,” if you will, of suave cuttingness; for the clever combination of the caustic with the calm, of the profoundly indisputable with the playful, Dr. Marshall was really remarkable. He could say a thing quietly which, if robbed of its quietness, would have been, perhaps, a veritable insult. Perhaps it was the more pungent because quiet; and here we touch the third and last of the literary characteristics which we propose to notice briefly at this time.

“Milk and gall are not a pleasing combination,” observed a gentleman—who was an Anglican at the time—after reading Our Protestant Contemporaries. He added that he did not care for milk—he was too old to find it sufficiently stimulating—but he objected to gall, at least when it was directed against some favorite convictions of his own mind. Most persons will agree with this old gentleman, who, however, became a convert to the church. Yet it may be said that there are two apologies which may be offered for this defect—if defect, indeed, it be—of “milk and gall.” First, let it be remembered that the keen perception of the ridiculous, which is generally a characteristic of superior minds, finds its richest exploration in what, from a certain point of view, may be regarded as those immense fields of folly which are popularly denominated English Protestantism. To the humorous mind there is nothing so humorous as the mental gymnastics of Protestants. To suppress this humorous sense becomes impossible to any writer who does not look on gloom as a duty. Dr. Newman only suppresses it in this way: that his huge mind works above the mere playground, or avoids it as too provocative 1595of games. He descended into it once in Loss and Gain, and he became fairly romping towards the close; now and then, too, we can detect the laughing spirit which only veils itself, for decorum, in his grave writings; but he feels probably that his weapons are too sharp to need satire, for he is not a controversialist, but a reasoner. When he does, for the moment, write satire, he shows what he could do, if he would; but we are glad that the normal attitude of his mind is rather didactic than playful.

Of lesser writers we cannot expect that their discrimination should be hampered by a grave sense of doctorship; it is not necessary that they should sit in professors’ chairs; they are writing for the million, whose perceptions of what is true must be aided by their perceptions of what is false. Moreover, the English mind, not being normally humorous—which is a great national loss in all respects—requires to be jolted and jerked into an attitude which would be most useful for the intelligence of truth. If we could only get Englishmen to see the comedy of heresy, they might soon want the gravity of truth; but they are constitutionally dull in apprehending those fallacies which southern peoples can see through in a moment. Now, a writer who can teach Englishmen to laugh at their Protestantism, to appreciate its anomalies and its shams, to see the difference between a parson and a priest, between ten thousand opinions and one faith, and generally to get rid of morbid sentiment and prejudice, and to look at things in a thoroughly healthful way, has “taken a line” which is as salutary for feeble souls as is bright mountain air for 1596feeble bodies. Dr. Marshall used to laugh with Protestants at their shams much more than he used to laugh at the victims. But it is true that there was sometimes an acerbity in his remarks which gave offence to those who loved not the humor. Could this be helped? Be it remembered that acerbity, in the apparent mood of expression, is often more intellectual than it is moral; it is simply an attitude of conviction, or it is the natural vexation of a profound religious faith which cannot calm itself when protesting against folly. Nor do we think it at all probable that, if there were no gall in controversy, more converts would be made to the truth. And, after all, what do we mean by the word “gall”? Is humor gall? Is satire gall? Is even acerbity, when it is obviously but vexation, a fatal undoing of good? Much will depend on the mood of the reader. Some readers like spice and cayenne even in their “religious” opponents. Most readers know that mere literary temperament cannot make a syllogism out of a fallacy. All readers distinguish between caprices of temperament and the attitude of the reason and the soul. It is only on account of the mental babes among Protestants that it is to be regretted that all Catholics are human. For the ordinary, strong reader a good dash of human nature is much better than is too much of “the angel.” Take mankind for what they are, and we like the honesty of the irritation which sometimes puts the gall into the milk. It might be desirable that our first parent had not fallen. If he had not fallen we should not have had controversy. But since he has fallen, and since we must have 1597controversy, we must also of necessity have gall.^[183]