"Nostra autem sententia est, Ecclesiam unam et veram esse

cœtum hominum ejusdem Christianæ fidei professione, et

eorundem sacramentorum communione colligatum sub regimine

legitumorum pastorum ac præcipue unius Christi in terris

Vicarii Romani Pontificis."[169]

"Our doctrine is, that the one true church is that society

of men which is bound together by the profession of the same

Christian faith under the government of their lawful pastors,

and especially of one vicar of Christ on the earth, the Roman

pontiff."

The following passages would exhibit the ultramontane doctrine of

infallibility and its consequences:

"God has gone to sleep, because in his place his ever-wakeful

and infallible vicar on earth rules, as lord of the world, and

dispenser of grace and punishment." (P. 32.)

"The inevitable result of the principle would speedily bring

us to this point, that the essence of infallibility consists

in the pope's signature to a decree hastily drawn up by a

congregation or a single theologian." (Preface, xxv.)

"Rome is an ecclesiastical address and inquiry-office, or

rather, a standing oracle, which can give at once an infallible

solution of every doubt, speculative and practical.... With

ultramontanes, the authority of Rome, and the typical example

of Roman morals and customs, are the embodiment of the moral

and ecclesiastical law." (P. 35.)

"What is called Catholicity can only be attained in the eyes

of the court of Rome, by every one translating himself and his

ideas, on every subject that has any connection with religion,

into Italian." (P. 37.)

"Infallibility is a principle which will extend its dominion

over men's minds more and more, till it has coerced them into

subjection to every papal pronouncement in matters of religion,

morals, politics, and social science."

"Every pope, however ignorant of theology, will be free to make

what use he likes of his power of _dogmatic creativeness_, and

to erect his own thoughts into the common belief, binding on

the whole church." (P. 39.)

"A papal decision, itself the result of a direct divine

inspiration."

"Every other authority will pale beside the living oracle of

the Tiber, which speaks with plenary inspiration."

"What use in tedious investigation of Scripture, what use

in wasting time on the difficult study of tradition, which

requires so many kinds of preliminary knowledge, when a single

utterance of the infallible pope ... and a telegraphic message

becomes an axiom and article of faith?" (P. 40.)

"And how will it be in the future?" asks _Janus_; "the rabbis

say, on every apostrophe in the Bible hang whole mountains of

hidden sense, and this will apply equally to papal bulls." (P.

41.)

We have been rather copious in our extracts from _Janus_ in order to

give him a fair hearing. The question which first presents itself to

a candid mind is, Has _Janus_ given a just and authentic explanation

of the doctrine of infallibility? We answer most emphatically,

No! Never has a doctrine been more unfairly represented than this

"ultramontane" one by our authors. No one will choose to call it

fair and equitable to disfigure and distort in divers ways the

doctrine of an opponent, how much soever it may be against our own

convictions. Those who make parade of their "scientific criticism"

can least resort to such tactics with a view to seek popularity and

win the smiles of the uninformed and ignorant among their readers,

as the authors of _Janus_ have done. Who would fain recognize this

doctrine under the colors and shades of this portrait sketched by

_Janus_? Bellarmine is the great champion of infallibility. (P. 318.)

Yet, nowhere does this eminent divine teach that a papal decision

is the result of _divine_ inspiration, nor does he attribute to the

pope any power of dogmatic _creativeness_--much less that he can

erect his own thoughts into universal belief binding the church.

"The sovereign pontiff," says Bellarmine,[170] "when he teaches the

universal church, cannot err either in his decrees of faith or in

moral precepts which are binding on the whole church, and in such

things as are necessary to salvation and in themselves, that is,

_essentially_ good or evil." Another authority well known has the

following clear _exposé_ of this question: "The subject-matter of

such irreformable judgments of the sovereign pontiff is limited to

questions of dogmatic and moral import. We distinguish a two-fold

character in the pope, namely, considering him as a private

individual or _doctor privatus_, and by virtue of his office as chief

pastor and as the universal doctor and teacher of all the faithful,

appointed by Christ. The pope is considered as _universal teacher_

when, using his public authority as the supreme guide of the church,

(_supremus ecclesiæ magister_,) he proposes something to the whole

church, obliging all the faithful under anathema, or pain of heresy,

to believe the article thus proposed with internal assent and divine

faith. The pope when teaching under these conditions is said to speak

_ex cathedra_. We do not here speak of the pope as an individual

teacher, (_doctor privatus_,) since every one agrees on this, that

the pope, just as well as other men, is liable to err, and his

judgment may be reversed."[171]

Now, _Janus_ does away with this distinction by comparing it to

"wooden iron" invented merely as an expedient hypothesis, whereas all

theologians of repute agree on this difference, as well as on the

_essential_ conditions of the _ex cathedra_ decisions. If there be

some difficulties and minor differences among theologians on papal

decrees, this by no means affects the value of this important and

necessary distinction itself. Even the decrees of an œcumenical

council may give rise to similar differences among theologians. It is

nothing less than a falsehood on the part of _Janus_ that the cause

of this inerrancy claimed for the pope as universal teacher is due to

direct divine and plenary inspiration. All theologians are unanimous

in asserting merely a _divine assistance_ to guard against error,

just as the church herself is divinely guided by the Holy Spirit,

promised by Christ to reside with her for ever. There cannot be any

necessity for substituting inspiration or a new revelation, since the

infallible _magisterium_ in the church is exercised in the two-fold

duty of teaching and preserving _all those truths_ which she has

received as a _sacred deposit_ from her divine Founder. Moreover, it

is supposed that the pope when issuing such decrees to the universal

church, binding all the faithful, proceeds with that caution and

prudence which such weighty acts demand, that he has full liberty to

assure himself of all human counsel and human means to find the true

and genuine sense of Scripture and tradition. Alluding, therefore, to

_ignorant popes_ making use of their power of dogmatic creativeness

and erecting their "own thoughts" into dogmas of faith, is an appeal

to prejudice and commonplace mockery wholly unworthy of writers who

would be admired for their calm and dignified scientific labors.

Other opponents of papal infallibility have never gainsaid that _at

least_ this doctrine has always found many and able adherents, who

have advanced strong arguments claiming the serious consideration of

every theologian and thinking Christian, and therefore recommended by

most respectable authority. But _Janus_ comes forward to stamp this

"ultramontane doctrine" with the stigma of absurdity and ridicule,

and declares its advocates to be miserable sycophants, devoid of all

learning or honesty of intention. (P. 320.)

The references we have given exhibit the doctrine of infallibility

in such colors as scarcely to be recognized, and all advocates of

the doctrine will repudiate such an unfair and arbitrary statement.

The cunning insinuation that infallibility invests the popes with

personal sanctity and integrity of morals, is no less captious and

shallow. To what purpose those tirades on the private lives of the

popes, or the extravagances of the _Curia_, and the administrative

measures of the civil government, etc.? The supposition as though

the whole church, that is, all the faithful, would have to accept

falsehood for truth, vice for virtue, is a play of _Janus's_

imagination. For those who uphold papal infallibility exclude the

possibility of such an issue on account of the intimate union

necessarily existing between the church and its spiritual head.

According to the promises of Christ, that union--eminently one of

faith--will never be severed, since Christ himself commanded this

obedience of the flock to Peter and his successors. It cannot for a

moment be supposed that the wise Lord of his vineyard sanctioned an

obligation to accept falsehood for truth, or vice for virtue. The

infallible _magisterium_ of the church would be fatally compromised

if the faithful were commanded by lawful authority to give interior

assent to a false doctrine. So much for the intrinsic falsehood of

the hypothesis of _Janus_. Yet he attempts to surround it with an

authoritative garb by citing Bellarmine as maintaining "that if the

pope were to err by prescribing sins and forbidding virtues, the

church would be bound to consider sins good and virtues evil, unless

she chose to sin against conscience." (P. 318.)

Who does not at once see this terrible alternative by which _Janus_

triumphantly proves from the author quoted "that whatever doctrine

it pleases the pope to prescribe, the church must receive"? Having

the work of Bellarmine before our eyes, with the above passage in the

context, we were greatly amazed, to say the least, to see how the

_entire_ proposition conveys just the very opposite meaning of what

_Janus_ would induce his readers to believe. Here is the argument in

question:

"The pope cannot err in teaching doctrines of faith, nor is he

liable to err in giving moral precepts binding the whole church

in matters of _essential_ good and evil. For if this were the

case, that is, if the pope erred in matters of essential good

or evil, he would necessarily err also in faith; for Catholic

faith teaches that every virtue is good and every vice evil.

Now, if the pope erred by commanding vices or prohibiting

virtues, the church would be bound to believe vices good and

virtues evil, unless she chose to sin against conscience."[172]

Bellarmine's meaning evidently is that such an issue becomes

impossible. This _reductio ad absurdum_, or showing to what

contradiction a denial of his thesis would lead, has been exhibited

by our authors as a _bona fide_ tenet of Bellarmine! The passage

itself is _partly_ transcribed with minute reference, so that it is

beyond the courtesy of even a mild critique to exonerate _Janus_ from

the charge of deliberate dishonesty in this instance.

Hitherto we have confined ourselves to a critical examination of a

doctrine against which _Janus_ directs his assaults. In the first

place, we submitted his version of the same, and afterward the

authentic explanation by those whom our authors acknowledge to be

its most able exponents. The inevitable conclusion which forces

itself on every mind is, that _Janus_ has developed the doctrine of

infallibility to suit his own fancy, and consequently the arguments

he brings forward, supposing them true for discussion's sake, would

indeed undermine the position assumed by himself, but in no way

affect the genuine one propounded by his opponents. In order to make

good his arguments from church history and canonical sources against

the stand-point taken by the acknowledged advocates of infallibility,

these three conditions must be verified, 1st. That the pope acted

in his capacity of universal teacher, using his public authority

as supreme head of the church; 2d. That his judgments appertain to

matters of doctrinal belief and moral law necessary to salvation. 3d.

That he proposes such things to the faithful, under pain of heresy,

to be believed with interior assent as of divine faith, that is, a

revealed truth. There is the simple issue between _Janus_ and his

adversaries. Has he advanced one single decree of any pope, invested

with these essential conditions, obliging to believe falsehood

and heresy or commanding to commit an evil and absolutely vicious

action under the name of virtue? We doubt whether any candid and

discriminating historian will maintain that _Janus_ has accomplished

any such task. However, that the reader may not suspect us of

narrowing the domain of papal infallibility, we will quote a passage

from an able and warm adherent of this doctrine, whose writings are

well known as by no means liable to any suspicion of under-statement:

"In the case of any given document, we have to consider, from

the context and circumstances, which portion of it _expresses_

such doctrine; for many statements, even doctrinal, may be

introduced, not as authoritative determinations, but in the

way of argument and illustration. Many papal pronouncements,

though they may introduce doctrinal reasons, yet are not

doctrinal pronouncements at all, but disciplinary enactments;

the pope's immediate end in issuing them is, not that certain

things may be believed, but that certain things may be done.

If the doctrinal reasons, even for a doctrinal declaration,

are not infallible, much less can infallibility be claimed

for the doctrinal reasons of a disciplinarian enactment. Then

again, the pope may give some doctrinal decision as head of

the church, and yet not as universal teacher. Some individual

may ask at his hands, and receive, practical direction on the

doctrine to be followed in a particular case, while yet the

pope has no thought whatever of determining the question for

the whole church and for all time. Much less, as Benedict

XIV. remarks, does the fact of his acting officially on some

moral opinion fix on it the seal of infallibility as certainly

true. Nor, lastly, can any conclusive inference be drawn in

favor of some doctrinal practice, from the fact of its not

having been censured or prohibited. The pontiff of the day,

whether from intellectual or moral defect, may even omit

censures and prohibitions which are greatly desirable in the

church's interest, or enact laws of an unwise and prejudicial

character."[173]

As we have already insinuated, _Janus_ makes this infallibility

extend to the private conduct of the popes, to their particular

sayings and to all other things which were merely preliminary steps

to their official measures. Now, it is certain, as is frequently

urged by ultramontanes, that the pope, in becoming pope, does not

cease to be a man, and to have his own private opinions, and not

being infallible in these, by the very force of terms, they may be

erroneous.

What we might thus far have conceded to _Janus_ without great

injury to the doctrine he opposes, we now proceed to question, and

examine this "history of the hypothesis of papal infallibility,

from its first beginnings to the end of the sixteenth century." He

has indeed resuscitated weighty questions, and not unfrequently

antiquated difficulties which we could point out from works printed

for three hundred years and more. In order to be brief and clear, we

shall begin with the alleged "forgeries" upon which _Janus_ insists

throughout his book, and thereafter interrogate history as to the

many "papal errors," usurpations, and encroachments.

* * * * *

NOTE.--The terms "faith," "heresy," and "under anathema," in the

foregoing article, must be understood in their general and not their

restricted sense. That is to say, whenever the pope declares or

defines any thing which is to be believed with absolute interior

assent, this is to be considered as belonging to faith, whether

it be technically a proposition _de fide_, or one which is only

virtually and implicitly contained in a dogma. So, also, when he

condemns an opinion which is indirectly and virtually contrary to

a dogma of faith, this condemnation is of equal authority with the

condemnation of an opinion technically called heretical. The anathema

need not be formally expressed, or a special censure annexed, if it

is made manifest that all Catholics are forbidden to hold the opinion

condemned under pain of grievous sin. The monition of the Council

of the Vatican at the end of the decree on Catholic faith expressly

enjoins on all Catholics the duty of rejecting not only all heresies,

that is, opinions in point-blank contradiction to the dogmas of

Catholic faith, but all errors approaching more or less to heresy

which are condemned by the holy see.--EDITOR OF CATHOLIC WORLD.

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTES:

[169] _De Eccl. Milit._ lib. iii. cap. 2.

[170] _De Rom. Pontif._ lib. iii. capp. 2, 3, 5.

[171] _Theol. Wirceburg._ tom. i. De Princip. Direct. n. 190.

[172] _De Rom. Pontif._ lib. iv. cap. 5. edit. Venet. 1 vol. p. 779.

[173] _The Authority of Doctrinal Decisions._ By Dr. Ward. Pp. 50, 51.

THE YOUNG VERMONTERS.

CHAPTER VI.

A NEW ADVENTURE.

All went on quietly with our young Vermonters for a long time. They

were engaged in close attention to their studies, in the regular

routine of school duties and recreations of the play-ground, until

late in August, when the peaceful current was again disturbed by the

restlessness of Frank Blair; and it happened in this wise.

In the vicinity of the village lived a farmer whom the boys had named

Old Blue Beech, from his fondness for using a rod of that description

over the backs of lawless juveniles whom he caught trespassing on

his premises. Now, this farmer was very skilful in cultivating

choice fruit, and spared no expense or labor in that department;

rejoicing in an orchard which he held in higher estimation than any

other earthly possession, and which was an object of greedy envy to

the village urchins, who indulged an inveterate spite and aversion

against him, without really knowing why or stopping to inquire. They

seemed to imagine that his keeping guard over his cherished treasures

justified them in making frequent incursions, and waging a perpetual

warfare of petty annoyances against him.

It so happened this year that he had several early pear and

apple-trees, of rare and excellent varieties, in bearing for the

first time, and well laden with most tempting fruit, now nearly ripe.

Frank Blair set his wits about inventing some plan by which he

and his comrades could possess themselves of this fruit without

detection. He formed and dismissed many schemes, at length devising

one that he thought could be safely carried out. Accordingly, on a

certain cloudy evening an assemblage of the boys--among whom I am

sorry to say were Mike Hennessy and Johnny Hart--met by appointment

in a grove near the farm, and from which to the orchard a strip

of woodland extended, furnishing a convenient hiding-place, to

accomplish the project.

It never entered their heads that stealing this fruit was just as

much a theft as to steal one of the farmer's horses. Nothing could

have tempted one of their number to steal, and any confectioner in

the village might have spread his most tempting stores unguarded

before them without losing so much as a comfit; so sacredly would

they have held his right to his own. But boys have a most perverse

and wicked mode of reasoning about fruit. They cannot be made to

regard it as the property of the person who has expended much money

and many years of patient labor to produce it; and while these boys

would have shuddered at the thought of purloining the farmer's gold

watch or his silver spoons, which, perhaps, he would sooner have

parted with, they did not scruple to rob him of what he had taken

infinite pains to cultivate for his own benefit.

On this occasion our young marauders had furnished themselves with

bags and baskets, in which to deposit their plunder; and as the

night advanced, they proceeded through the woods to the orchard very

cautiously, pausing every few steps to listen if any movement was to

be heard. As all was quiet, they hoped the family in the farm-house

were asleep. After they had gathered most of the pears and a large

portion of the apples, they were startled by the low growl of a dog

at some distance.

"I wonder if the old chap keeps a watch-dog?" said Frank. They

listened in perfect silence for some time, hardly daring to breathe;

but hearing nothing further, set about their task with renewed

energy, and were all engaged in stowing away the apples, when

suddenly a glare of light from a large dark-lantern was thrown full

upon the faces of the whole party, at the same moment revealing the

burly form of farmer Brown, and his Frenchman, leading a powerful

watch-dog by a chain. At the instant the farmer turned the light upon

them, he said sternly, "Any boy that attempts to stir from the spot,

I will let the dog loose after him, and I warrant he'll be glad to

come back in a hurry!"

The boys needed no such warning. They were taken so entirely by

surprise that they could not move. The farmer made a low bow, and

said with mock courtesy,

"I am very much obliged to you, young gentlemen, for your kind

assistance in gathering my fruit, though you selected rather an

unseasonable hour for performing the service. Your bags and baskets

will repay me, however, for my broken rest. It is a pity such

friendly labors should go unrewarded, and I shall take pains to

inform your fathers of them to-morrow morning, that they may bestow

the recompense you have so well earned."

With that he gathered together the bags and baskets of fruit, saying,

"Good-night, you young dogs! The next time you undertake to steal

fruit, I advise you to find out first how the orchard is guarded,

and whether there's a dog on the premises stronger and swifter of

foot than yourselves!" and departed.

A more chap-fallen crew than he left behind him cannot well be

imagined! They started for the village by the most direct route, as

there was no further need of concealment, and for a long time the

silence of their rapid homeward march was unbroken. At length the

wrath of Frank Blair found utterance.

"The mean old hunks! who would have thought of his keeping that

sneaking Frenchman on guard that way? If it hadn't been for the dog,

I would have shown fight, and they shouldn't have carried off the

prize without some broken noses; but I knew it was no use to pitch

into a fight with that fierce dog against us! He's an old milksop to

depend on a dog for help."

The boys made no reply, and Frank saw he had gained no renown by

this adventure. He felt heartily ashamed of the whole affair, while

an innate sense of justice assured him and his companions that the

farmer had a right to defend his own property by any means within his

reach.

They all betook themselves to rest with no enviable feelings. Some of

them, who feared to disturb their families, were glad to lie on the

hay in the barn.

In the morning they trudged off to school in good season, with many

gloomy forebodings as to what was in store for them. About the middle

of the forenoon, Mr. Blair made his appearance accompanied by the

farmer, and informed the teacher of the attempt to rob the orchard,

and that he had requested Mr. Brown to come with him to identify the

culprits.

Mr. Brown selected them one by one, and, as each was pointed out, he

had to rise and take his place in the middle of the school-room.

When they were all arranged there, with Frank at their head, Mr.

Blair delivered a sharp reprimand to them, not failing to intimate

that nothing but future ruin was in store for the country if Yankee

boys allowed themselves to be drawn into disgraceful rows and

thieving expeditions by a set of Irish blackguards, and winding up by

severe threats against those of this company in particular, and all

"foreign scum" in general.

After a short consultation between the teacher and Mr. Blair, it was

announced that the punishment of the offenders would be left to Mr.

Brown.

The farmer then stated that he had advised with his wife, and, as

he had been pretty severe upon such culprits hitherto, without much

effect, they had decided to take another course now.

"So, young gentlemen," he added, "she has authorized me to present

her compliments to the school, and request all but the boys who

were engaged in this transaction to come with the principal early

on Saturday morning next, to pass the day with us. I have two boats

engaged, with abundant fishing-tackle, for those who prefer the

water, and fowling-pieces for the woods, where game is plenty; so

you can take your choice of sports on land or water. I promise you a

plentiful feast of the fruit which these youngsters kindly gathered."

The teacher politely accepted the invitation on behalf of himself

and the scholars, and the farmer, after again reminding them to come

early in the day, departed with Mr. Blair.

The feelings of the excluded boys may be imagined, and the teacher

gave them such touching advice in relation to the enticements and

temptations of boyhood--speaking like one who remembered he had

himself been a boy--that they doubted more than ever the fun of

"tip-top times," and the wisdom of following leaders like Frank Blair.

CHAPTER VII.

AN UNWELCOME INTRUDER.

The next morning as the scholars collected, they found Frank Blair

and several of the excluded boys in the play-ground, grouped

together in close discussion. When they approached, Frank called out

exultingly,

"I give you fellows joy of your select party to-morrow! Joe Bundy is

to be one of the company."

This Joe Bundy, whose mother died in the poor-house some years

before, was a vile, depraved boy, somewhat older than the subjects of

our narrative, who never came to school, leading an idle, vagabond

life, and so heartily despised by the boys on account of his vagrant

habits and thievish propensities that they would have nothing to do

with him. They heard with great surprise and indignation, therefore,

that he was among the invited on this occasion, for his character was

well known to the farmer.

In explanation of this singular circumstance, a fact, not made known

to them until long after these events, may as well be communicated

here. On the night when our heroes set out to rob the orchard, it

so chanced that Joe Bundy had entered upon a similar exploit on his

own account, and was concealed in the grove where he overheard their

conversation, and, suddenly relinquishing his own plan, hastened

to inform the farmer, the result of which report has been already

related. Mr. Brown was so well pleased that he included the informer

among the invited, though he knew he was a bad boy and disliked by

all the others.

At noon on that day, Joe saw Michael Hennessy, and called out,

"Hallo, Mike! don't you wish you was going to the farm with the rest

of us? Such precious fun as we shall have, and sights of good eating,

too! An't you sorry you can't go?"

"No, I'm not!" said Michael; "I wouldn't go any way, if you were to

be there!"

Joe turned off, muttering something in a sullen undertone, and

casting a malignant glance at Michael.

At the close of school in the afternoon, the teacher told the

scholars to meet him at the school-house the next morning, that they

might all set out together. Bright and early on as fine a morning as

could be desired, did the merry company gather, with nothing but the

absence of those who were generally foremost in their frolics, and

the presence of Joe Bundy, to mar their pleasure.

After a delightful walk, they were greeted at the farm-house with a

hearty welcome, and found every possible arrangement made for their

enjoyment.

Some betook themselves to the boats provided with means for fishing.

Others, armed with fowling-pieces, sought the woods in quest of

partridges, squirrels, and other game of the season; while a few

strolled off to a sequestered pond, where wild ducks abounded, and

where a small duck-boat was provided to aid in securing the spoils.

At the proper time they were summoned to partake of an excellent

dinner; and so swift had been the flight of the hours that they could

hardly believe the forenoon was gone. At the close of a sumptuous

feast and dessert, they were regaled with an abundant supply of the

captured fruit, to all of which their fine appetites prepared them to

do ample justice.

The whole day was so replete with mirth, frolic, and sunshine that

they saw the time for their return drawing near with regret.

When they left, Mrs. Brown distributed to each a portion of the fruit

for their mothers and sisters, and Mr. Brown invited them to come

again late in the fall, to gather nuts that abounded in the woods.

They could talk of nothing on their way home but the kindness of good

Mr. and Mrs. Brown, and the incidents and pleasures of the day; the

teacher taking occasion to contrast such innocent and simple delights

with the wild excitements and lawless frolics in which boys are too

apt to seek for enjoyment.

CHAPTER VIII.

MISFORTUNE AND GRIEF.

When the scholars assembled on Monday morning, the first news they

heard was that Mr. Brown's splendid and valuable watch-dog had been

poisoned, and died on Saturday night.

Mr. Brown had obtained evidence so convincing against Michael

Hennessy as to cause his arrest.

Great was the indignation of his young friends, and unanimous their

declarations that they knew Michael did not do it.

"A great deal more like that hateful Joe Bundy," said one.

"Oh! it couldn't be him," said another; "for he was one of the party,

and of course it wasn't he. If he hadn't been invited, he might have

done it out of spite; but now he had no object."

Various were the conjectures and discussions at school and in the

whole neighborhood.

The trial was on Tuesday, and Mr. Blair was the prosecuting attorney.

The village apothecary testified that on the Friday previous Michael

Hennessy purchased some poison of him, representing that his mother

sent him for it to poison rats. A neighbor of Mr. Brown's alleged

that he saw Michael passing his residence in the road on Saturday

afternoon, and Joe Bundy averred that he saw him prowling around the

farm buildings about the time indicated by the last witness.

Mrs. Hennessy testified that she sent Michael for the poison to kill

the rats that infested their premises. Mr. Hennessy said he had

mended a hand-reel for a person who lived just beyond Mr. Brown's,

and sent Michael home with it on Saturday afternoon.

Mr. Blair accepted the evidence of the parents, and urged the

probability that a portion of the poison had been reserved by the lad

as an instrument of his spite against Mr. Brown, for the application

of which the errand upon which he was dispatched furnished an

opportunity.

He set forth every circumstance unfavorable to poor Michael in the

strongest possible light, blending with his argument such reflections

and assertions upon the character and training of the children of

foreign parentage as could not fail to influence a prejudiced jury.

Notwithstanding an able defence, the jury, after a short

consultation, returned a verdict of "guilty," and Michael was

sentenced for twelve months to the reform-school.

Nothing could exceed the grief and indignation of his comrades, or

the sympathy of the whole village with poor Mr. and Mrs. Hennessy.

Michael stoutly protested his innocence, and there were but very few

who doubted it; but his father, whose health was very poor and his

family large, was not able to risk an appeal to a higher court, which

would probably, after all, confirm the decision, and Mike was not

willing to have him. So they prepared, with heavy hearts, for the

separation.

"Indeed!" said Mrs. Sullivan to her neighbor Mrs. Mellen--"indeed,

it's a sore thing to be put upon two such decent people, through the

hatred of that miserable old Blair against an Irishman's boy, and him

as innocent as the child in his mother's arms!"

"You knew them before they came here, I have heard," said Mrs.

Mellen, who had not lived long in the place.

"They came over on the vessel with us, and were from the next county

at home; and this was the way of it:

"The two brothers, Pat and Mike Hennessy, married two sisters, Mary

and Bridget Denver. They were decent tradesmen as any in the two

counties, and were well enough to do until the hard times came, when

old Ireland saw her poor children starving on every side so that it

would melt the heart of a stone, or any thing softer than an English

landlord's, to hear tell of it. Well, in the midst of the famine,

Mike agreed that he'd come to America, and prepare a place against

Patrick should come with Mary and Bridget. So when he left them, Pat

set to get all he could together by selling his bits of furniture and

things, and when times grew worse and worse, he would not delay, but

took Mary with her baby of a week old, and Bridget, and came, as I

said, on the vessel with us; and, by the same token, the ship's name

was the Hibernia. A good name with a rough fortune, like the dear old

land; for the weather was boisterous from first to last, and when we

had been out four days, the most awful storm arose, that you'd think

heaven and earth was comin' together. And in the midst of it what

does poor Bridget do but sicken and die with the fright, leaving her

little baby; but it followed its mother that same night which was

God's blessing on it, poor motherless thing, seein' it was baptized

by a priest we had on board, and who attended Bridget at the last.

"When we reached Boston, no tidings was to be heard of Mike; so Pat

staid there hopin' to get news of him, and we came on to Vermont,

where Sullivan's sister's husband came the year before.

"After a while Pat heard that the vessel Mike sailed on was struck by

an iceberg, and went down with all on board; and it was called the

Polar Queen, a name no knowledgeable man would have put on a vessel,

in respect of them same icebergs, that would naturally enough claim

their own.

"So when Pat heard these news, and he not finding such work as he

wanted, seein' it was very costly living in the city, they started

for the West; but hearing at Albany that the cholera was ragin'

there, they turns and they follows us to Vermont, thinking, poor

creatures! that it would be some comfort to be near those who knew

of all their troubles. The church was then a building, and Mr.

Wingate gave him work on it, and has been the best of friends to him

ever since, and he has never wanted for employment; but lately his

health is poor, and I'm afeered this grief will kill him entirely,

and indeed my heart is scalded for them, bein' that we're all as one

family, and their sorrow is our sorrow."

CHAPTER IX.

AFFLICTED AND CONSOLED.

When the morning appointed for the departure of Michael arrived, the

whole school assembled to accompany him to the depot, and take leave

of him. The teacher gave him much good advice, and exhorted him to

conform closely to all the rules of the institution, adding, "And I

have no doubt you will, Michael; for you have always been a good,

attentive, and obedient scholar."

The parting with his parents and the children was inexpressibly

painful; but for their sakes he bore up manfully under it, cheering

them with brave words, and suppressing his grief until the dear home

with all its cherished associations was no longer in sight. Oh! how

bitterly and dismally did the heavy grief he had so struggled with,

and tried so heroically to smother, then press upon him; he still

choked it down until he was ready to suffocate, and then the weary

sense of desolation, of cruel injustice, and of a homesickness which

made the sight of a year's separation from all he loved, that was now

staring him in the face, seem an age of insupportable sorrow, rushed

upon him with overwhelming power, and found relief in floods of tears.

The officer who had him in charge tried to soothe and cheer him;

assuring him that it was a very pleasant place to which he was going,

and that he would be treated with the utmost kindness if he behaved

well. But what was the kindness of strangers to the tenderness of

dear parents from whom he had never before been separated? What could

the place be to him, though ever so comfortable, to which he was

consigned, in his innocence, as a disgraced felon?

No! there was no comfort for him! and again the convulsive sobs shook

his whole frame, and the pride of his honest Irish heart rebelled

against the injustice of his cruel fate; when suddenly he remembered

the words his dear mother whispered softly, amidst sighs and tears,

at parting, "Remember, darling! remember the loving Jesus! and how

he suffered, being innocent, for our sins. When you are tempted to

despair, fly to the wound in his sacred heart, ever open to receive

and comfort the broken-hearted, and you will surely find comfort and

peace." From that moment he became calm. He sought that dear refuge,

and hid himself there from the storm that was raging within and

without.

He had always been a warm-hearted boy, an affectionate, generous, and

dutiful son and brother; but now he reproached himself that he had

never prized his dear ones at half their value, or loved them with

any thing approaching to the degree of affection which they deserved.

Oh! if he could only be with them again, how would he strive to show

his love by the most entire devotion, and the most diligent efforts

to assist and sustain them.

Then how did the memory of the wild frolics in which he had joined,

and for which he had even neglected his religious duties, come back

like accusing spirits to whisper to his afflicted heart that it was

just he should be punished.

After a few hours' ride, they reached the place of their destination,

and the principal, a venerable old man with a most benevolent

countenance and manner, received Michael very kindly, even tenderly.

With strong efforts the poor lad was able to maintain his composure

until he prepared for his bed at night, when the same dark sense

of desolation overwhelmed him, as recollections of his dear home,

and the kneeling circle, where his place was to be so long vacant,

pressed upon him; but the thought of how fondly he would be

remembered in their united prayers this and every other night poured

a ray of light upon his stricken soul. Again recalling his mother's

words, he knelt by his bedside, commending himself and all his

beloved and afflicted ones to his Saviour, and to the prayers of the

tender Virgin Mother who never forsakes her children; and then slept

the peaceful sleep of a tired, exhausted child on that maternal bosom.

The next morning he was duly instructed in the routine of his present

position, and soon found that the most diligent attention to its

duties served to relieve the crushing weight which seemed to be

pressing the very life-blood from his young heart. After a few days,

he won approving smiles from the principal, who was as ready to

appreciate the merits of those under his charge as he was to reprove

their faults.

The Saturday after Michael's arrival, the devoted bishop of the

diocese visited the institution, and heard the confessions of the

Catholic members. This was an unspeakable consolation to Michael; and

his heart felt lighter than he had thought it ever would again after

he had poured the tale of all its sins and all its sorrows into that

paternal ear. The bishop had obtained permission for the Catholic

boys to attend mass at their own chapel in the place, and at his

recommendation they were placed under Michael's care to and from the

church.

Some of these were very wild, reckless boys, hardened in vice and

iniquity, and disposed to "poke fun" at the "new prig," as they

called Michael.

At first, when he was saying his prayers, they would shoot peas at

him, flip buttons in his face, and even repeat portions of prayers

in mocking derision. But he paid no heed to them. After a few days,

two or three others knelt to their prayers at night and morning, and

then he obtained permission from the principal to recite the beads

with these at night. It was not long before they were joined by every

Catholic boy in the dormitory.

There is a wonderful vigor and tenacity in the life our Catholic

Mother--our Mighty Mother, ever ancient, ever new--imparts. When, by

our own fault, we seem to have quenched the last spark of living fire

which she kindled upon the altar of our hearts, a passing breath from

heaven wafted gently through a fitting word kindly spoken, or the

voice of hymn or prayer over the dying embers on the almost abandoned

shrine, will awaken the flame anew, and draw the wanderer back to the

forsaken source of life, of light, and of warmth.

It was very consoling to Michael to witness this returning vitality

in the hearts of his unfortunate companions; and they soon became

so fond of him as to seek his advice and confide all their troubles

to him. The influence he thus acquired was a great relief to the

principal. It was no longer necessary for him to exercise unceasing

vigilance over these, who had been among the most turbulent boys

under his care, to prevent violent outbreaks; for they were now the

most diligent, attentive, and orderly members of the establishment.

And Michael's efforts brought their own reward to himself. The

consciousness of being useful to others brought cheerfulness to his

heart, and lent new wings to old time, whose flight had at first

been so heavy and slow; so that at the end of the first month he was

surprised to find how swiftly it had flown.

CHAPTER X.

THE DYING PENITENT'S DISCLOSURE.

There were many sad hearts in the village of M----, outside of

Michael Hennessy's home, on the day of his departure. The event cast

a gloom over the whole village; for his bright, sunny face was a

joy to many of its residents, and there seemed to be a ray of light

stricken out when he departed.

His young companions could no longer enjoy the sports of the

play-ground; but might be seen gathered in quiet groups discussing

and lamenting the loss of their joyous comrade. None mourned for

him more than Frank Blair; for his grief over the absence of a

loved school-mate was increased by the part his father had taken

in bringing it about. He saw the time approaching for his own

departure, to take his place in the naval school, with a sullen

apathy that alarmed his mother and aunt, and repeatedly expressed his

indifference as to whether he should ever return to M----.

When Michael had been absent about two months, Joe Bundy returned

to M---- from one of his frequent distant rambles; and soon after

his return was taken very ill. The physician pronounced it a very

malignant case of the small-pox, and had him removed to a building

quite out of the village. He was so generally disliked that it was

difficult to find any one to take care of him; but when Mrs. Hennessy

heard of it, she offered to go if Mrs. Sullivan would look after her

house; her oldest daughter, Jane, being old enough to get along with

a little direction. She accordingly went, and found him much worse

than she expected, and suffering intensely. As soon as he saw her, he

became so violently agitated that she thought he was delirious, and

the impression was confirmed by his pleading in the most moving terms

for her forgiveness, and that she would send for the priest, when he

had always been a Protestant. She tried to soothe him; but he only

begged the more earnestly, and assured her that he was not delirious.

So when the physician came, she requested him to send Mr. Hennessy

for the priest.

Upon the arrival of the reverend father, the young man, to his great

surprise, begged to be admitted into the Catholic Church.

The priest, having satisfied himself as to his dispositions, and

imparted the necessary instruction, administered conditional baptism,

and then heard his confession. At its close Joe repeated a portion

to Mrs. Hennessy; and the fact was then disclosed to her that he

had poisoned the dog and perjured himself to gratify his anger at

Michael's scornful remark, and his spiteful feelings toward a boy who

was so generally beloved.

The physician coming in soon after, the same information was conveyed

to him; and he made no delay in communicating it to Mr. Hennessy,

that he might act upon it at once.

The news flew like wild-fire through the village; and great were the

rejoicings on every hand. The school-boys were frantic with joy; and

the teacher announced that the day of Michael's return should be

celebrated by a holiday of triumphant exultation and welcome to their

returning friend.

Measures were instituted for Michael's immediate release; and the

people could hardly await the necessary course of legal formalities.

Meantime poor Joe grew worse; and after improving those last few

days of suffering by manifesting such penitence as the time and

the circumstances would allow, and receiving from the priest those

consolations which the church extends to penitent sinners, he died.

Upon examining his few effects, a roll of counterfeit bills was

discovered; and it was conjectured that his last journey was made to

procure them, as he had told Mrs. Hennessy that he supposed he took

the small-pox on a recent visit to Canada.

When the papers were ready, Mr. Blair claimed the privilege of

going after Michael. He reproached himself so bitterly for his own

injustice that he could not do enough to manifest his regret.

A larger crowd was never assembled in the village than met at

the depot in M---- on the evening of his arrival with his young

companion. They were greeted with joyful cheers, repeated again

and again; and Mr. Blair led Michael to his father, saying, "Let

me congratulate you, Mr. Hennessy, on being able to claim such a

son. During the short time he has been away, among strangers and

under most unfavorable circumstances, he has established a character

that any young man might envy; and it was truly touching to witness

the grief of his unfortunate young companions at parting with him.

The principal also passed the highest encomiums upon his conduct.

Allow me also to express to this assemblage of my fellow-townsmen

my sincere regret that I should have had any part in his unjust

conviction, and allowed myself to be governed by prejudices, too

common in our country, which I now lay aside for ever. There are good

and bad people among natives and foreigners; and the man exhibits but

little good sense who passes sweeping condemnations upon either."

The school-boys, with their teacher at the head, formed a procession

to escort Michael to his father's house; and a happier circle was not

to be found in Vermont than the one that knelt around Mr. Hennessy's

family altar that night, to return fervent thanksgivings to heaven

for having permitted the separated to be again and so speedily

reunited!

TO BE CONTINUED.

TEN YEARS IN ROME.[174]

Rome, the city of the soul! Who is there that does not nowadays feel

his thoughts turning almost involuntarily to the seven-hilled city?

To her many ordinary claims on our minds, there has of late been

added one of startling interest--the Œcumenical Council--which

has not failed to excite the attention of the world. It is the daily

theme of prayer and of hope for the devout child of the church. To

the worldling, it is a theme of curiosity and idle speculation. To

the enemies of the church, the council is a subject of alarm and of

vague apprehensions. In Europe, where men curiously mix politics and

religion, their opposition takes the hue of _odium politicum_; and

journals, reviews, and pamphlets are filled with the most _outré_

accounts of what the writers assert has been done or will be done

in the council, adverse to liberty, progress, and civilization. In

America, where as yet men have not lost the habit of separating

politics from religion, such effusions as these would be looked

on as simply stupid, unreadable nonsense. Here, however, as also

in England, the _odium theologicum_ retains its olden character

and makes use of its olden weapons. It is worth while to note the

apparently systematic efforts made to repeat old calumnies, and to

coin new stories after the old pattern, and to force them on the

public attention, on occasion of this universal interest, in the

evident expectation that they will now be swallowed as credulously as

they might have been fifty years ago. No greater tribute, we think,

could be paid to the real advancement of the public mind than to say

that this expectation has in very great measure proved vain. There

are things and stories which nowadays most men instinctively feel to

be too absurd for belief. Hence it is scarcely worth while to take up

such stories for serious examination. They are simply to be put in a

class together, and to be properly labelled, and to be ranked below

the sensational tales in the _Ledger_. This is especially the case

when they appear in organs specially devoted to the cause which such

stories are intended to support.

Now and then, however, it may be allowed to dissect such a

production, that the evidence of facts may occasionally confirm

and strengthen the true instinct which we already possess. More

especially is this allowable, when the story is peculiarly bold

and prominent, and comes before the public through a channel in

which we are not prepared to look for an exhibition of the old and

unscrupulous hatred.

Such an instance has been presented in several articles in the

_Galaxy_, a monthly periodical published in this city, and aiming to

be a literary and instructive magazine "of value and interest."

Among the writers engaged for the pages of the _Galaxy_ is one who

is represented as having been a Roman Catholic ecclesiastic, and who

contributes a series of articles under the title, "Ten Years in Rome."

According to these articles, the writer is an Englishman, and was

at one time a Catholic priest in Rome. He went to Rome in 1855-56,

bearing letters of introduction, was received at once into the

Propaganda College, increasing the number of Irish, Scotch, and

English students in that college to _nine_, passed from there

to the Vatican, to live "under the same roof with the pope,"

became assistant-librarian to the Congregation of the Index, and

subsequently was the confidential and trusty secretary of the late

Cardinal d'Andrea, whose private papers--or at least some of them--he

claims still to possess. The _Galaxy_ does not give the name of this

writer. But the daily papers informed us, some time ago, that a

reverend gentleman of England delivered a lecture at the lecture-room

of Plymouth Church, Brooklyn, on Rome and its religion and society;

and was qualified to do so, because he had been formerly "an official

of the Roman court, secretary to the late Cardinal d'Andrea, and

assistant librarian in the Index Expurgatorius." The lecturer was

evidently the same individual as the writer for the _Galaxy_. The

papers gave his name, which, we are sorry to say, smacks far more of

the Green Island than of England.

Now, it so happened that we were in a position to test at once and

fully the accuracy of these statements in regard to the past history

of the lecturer and writer; and we reached the following results:

1. No young English youth or clergyman of that name ever was received

into the College of the Propaganda at Rome. This is shown by the

records of the college, and is corroborated by the assurances of the

present rector, who, in 1855, had been for several years vice-rector,

and has ever since been connected with the college, and also by the

recollection of half a dozen Irish and American students, who were

then in the college, and would have been his companions.

2. During the last twenty-five years there never was an officer of

the Roman court, or an English or Irish ecclesiastic connected

with it, in any way, of that name. The list of all such officers

is regularly published every year. This name has never figured

there. Officers of twenty years' standing in the Vatican have no

recollection of him. An Englishman could scarcely have been entirely

overlooked. And at least his brother Englishmen, who are officers of

the court, would have known and remembered him.

3. During the same period, no person of that name has filled

the office of librarian, or assistant-librarian, of the Index

Expurgatorius, or of the Congregation of the Index. The officials of

that congregation are all Dominicans; and the writer does not pretend

that he ever joined that order. We may add the other insignificant

fact, that no such library is known to exist at all, much less to be

so large as to require the services not only of a librarian, but of

one, perhaps of several, assistant-librarians.

4. The late Cardinal d'Andrea never had a secretary of that name.

This is the assurance unanimously given us by the friends and

intimate acquaintances of the cardinal, and by the members of his

household, who had lived with him for twenty years. There can be no

doubt on this fact. We may add one little item. Cardinal d'Andrea

had no secretary. The _secretary_ of a cardinal is an ecclesiastic.

When a layman is chosen to fill the place, he is called, not the

_secretary_, but the _chancellor_ of the cardinal. Cardinal d'Andrea,

from 1852, when he was made cardinal, down to his death, employed as

_chancellor_ an estimable and well-educated gentleman, whom he had

known well, and had been intimately associated with for years before,

and who still lives in Rome.

5. Although, considering that forty or fifty thousand strangers

visit Rome every year, it may be possible that the writer in _The

Galaxy_ did, at some time or other, enter that city, yet we are

pretty certain that he never spent any considerable time there--much

less, ten years--as an ecclesiastic. We have made inquiries of a

number of clergymen, Englishmen and Irishmen, resident in the Eternal

City for thirty years, who from their positions must have heard of

such a one, and could not have escaped becoming acquainted with him

under some circumstances or other. One after another, they assured us

that they had never met, and could not remember ever having heard of

such, an ecclesiastic.

It is unfortunate that, in such striking and important matters of

his own personal history, concerning which he ought to be perfectly

well-informed, the memory of our lecturer and writer fails so

entirely to agree with the recollection and knowledge of so many

others. If this is the case here, what may we look for when he

undertakes to remember what happened to others?

Our writer makes his bow to the readers of _The Galaxy_ in the

number of December last, in the character of "_Secretary of the late

Cardinal d'Andrea_," concerning whom he gives an article of nine

pages, intended to be sensational and artistic. He opens thus:

"The church of San Giovanni in Laterano was filled with an

unusually excited throng. The magnificent edifice, the pope's

cathedral, as bishop of Rome, was draped for a funeral. The

marble pillars," etc., etc.

To be sure, the description of the edifice which follows is rather

misty, to one who knows it, and some things, we suspect, are

introduced which no architect ever saw there. But then, "in the

centre of the church," stands "the chief object of interest," "a

gorgeous catafalque," "entirely covered with black velvet, very

tastefully festooned with silver." "Escutcheons were placed at

intervals, bearing the arms of the deceased. On the bier lay a

cardinal's hat, a pastoral staff, and a mitre. Six gigantic candles

of yellow wax were burning around it." The pope and the cardinals

were to come to the funeral. As the cardinal-minister (Antonelli)

"stepped from his carriage" in front of the church, "there was a deep

hum" from the crowd. For they suspected him of having compassed the

death of the only cardinal they honored, who was to be buried that

day. "His face was very pale;" "he played nervously with the jewelled

cross hanging from his neck." "He could read his doom in hundreds of

scowling faces; the curses, not loud but deep, he well interpreted.

As he ascended the steps of the church, a shrill voice cried out,

'Down with the assassin!'" "The French guards clinched their rifles,"

and "closed in" at a sign to their captain; and so Cardinal Antonelli

entered the church. After praising the exquisite requiem mass of

Mozart, with selections from Palestrina, and the perfect choir of

voices, rendering any instrument superfluous, the writer places the

pope at the head of the catafalque. "He was visibly moved." "There

was a tremor in his clear, harmonious voice." "He whose requiem was

being sung had been a friend and a counsellor." When at length the

services were over, and the pope and the _cortége_ of cardinals had

departed, "the people rushed into the church to render the only

service they could to the departed; and strong men, unused to prayer,

uttered their fervent _requiescat in pace!_"

"This was the funeral of Cardinal d'Andrea, Abbot of Santa

Scolastica, statesman, politician, and patriot. It occurred on the

22d day of March 1865."

Now all this may be a very artistic method of introducing a story.

The chief objection that we have to it is that the writer makes such

a parade about the funeral of Cardinal d'Andrea. We think he rather

overcharges the picture. Had it been any body else's funeral, we

might possibly let it pass. But in the case of this cardinal, we

object; for, to our own knowledge, on this 22d day of March, 1865,

Cardinal d'Andrea was not lying dead on that bier in San Giovanni

in Laterano, as described, but, on the contrary, was alive, if not

perfectly well, in Sorrento, near Naples, whither he had gone over

nine months before for his health. Nor did he die about this time;

but he lived on, and wrote some letters from time to time, which

were published in the papers, and one, if not several, pamphlets,

which were very acceptable to editors in Italy and France, in quest

of themes for their leading articles. As late as the autumn of 1867,

the papers were discussing what step Cardinal d'Andrea would next

take. And they chronicled his return to Rome in December, 1867.

Yes, we decidedly object. We do not think that this writer, however

extraordinary his powers of memory may be, has a right to bury

Cardinal d'Andrea alive, to say nothing of bringing the venerable

pontiff to grief, of frightening Cardinal Antonelli, of making

the French guards clinch their rifles and go through a military

manœuvre, and, last of all, of so terribly exciting a Roman crowd

about the death of one who had not died at all.

Having commenced the performance by this _tour de force_ before his

public, our "secretary of the late Cardinal d'Andrea," like a skilful

actor as he is, jumps a somersault backward two years and a half,

(carrying us to about September, 1862,) and undertakes to give us

some inkling of how Cardinal d'Andrea and Cardinal Antonelli came to

be opposed to each other. There was a plan entered into by several

cardinals and monsignori to induce the pope to recommend Cardinal

Antonelli to resign his office as Cardinal-Minister and Secretary

of State. The "secretary" omits to inform us distinctly whether

Cardinal d'Andrea was a party to the plan or not. But we are left

to infer that he was. It failed. And ever after, Cardinal d'Andrea

did not enjoy the confidence of the pope to the degree he had done

before; and Cardinal Antonelli and his followers hated him. The

_recollection_ of this intrigue, and its failure, is followed by an

exposition of the political sentiments of the cardinal. "He became

the leader of the liberal policy of Cavour, in Rome."

Now, here again we object. That a number of cardinals or monsignori

should think that it would be well if a cardinal secretary of state,

for the time being, should resign; and that affairs would be better

managed, if another incumbent filled the place, is possible; perhaps,

considering the variety of opinions among men, is not improbable. In

the case of Cardinal Antonelli, the matter is complicated, perhaps

we should say, simplified, by the fact that they would find very

few indeed to agree with them. But that a number of cardinals and

monsignori did really entertain such an opinion on the subject, and

did, in September, 1862, or thereabouts, combine in an effort to

oust Cardinal Antonelli, is vouched for, so far as we know, only by

the recollections of our writer. The plan itself was not dreamed of

in well-informed circles in Rome, and the bold and adroit measures

by which Cardinal Antonelli is said to have foiled it failed to

attract attention at the time, or to leave any trace afterward,

either in the diplomatic records of Rome, or in the memory of any one

else besides our writer. It is one other additional instance of the

perversity of the world, which will not remember what he recalls so

distinctly.

As to Cardinal d'Andrea, he had been, since 1860, Cardinal-Bishop of

Sabina, and was also Prefect of the Congregation of the Index. His

health had begun to fail some time before the date we are examining,

and within a few months afterward he was forced, much to the regret

of the pope, to resign the latter office, and to restrict himself to

the duties of his diocese and his private affairs, and could take

but a light share in the work of a cardinal. To make him at that

time a prime mover in the scheme, is as gratuitous as, under the

circumstances, it is absurd.

The statement of his political principles is equally in contradiction

with facts. Cardinal d'Andrea had all his life been a most strenuous

and active supporter of the temporal power of the pope, and was not

a man to change his position and his principles at the close of his

life. He was as uncompromising, and a far more outspoken opponent of

the policy of Cavour, than even Cardinal Antonelli himself, who, as

befits his office and his character, never violates the reserved and

strictly temperate expressions allowed by diplomatic courtesy. All

that our writer "remembers" concerning Cardinal d'Andrea's connection

with and influence over the Roman committee, is a pure effort of

his memory, which, by the by, on this point has played him false.

He remembers, "To his counsel it was due that no revolt occurred on

the withdrawal of the French." Why, the French troops were withdrawn

from Rome in December, 1866, to be sent back in October, 1867, on the

occasion of Garibaldi's attempted invasion of the Papal States. How

could Cardinal d'Andrea, who had died, as the secretary "remembers,"

and whose funeral obsequies had been so pompously celebrated in

the cathedral church of San Giovanni di Laterano, on the 22d day of

March, 1865, be alive to give counsel and use his influence with the

Mazzinians and the party of action a year and nine months afterward?

Has the writer's own memory proved traitor to him, and joined the

crowd of contradictors?

In point of fact, Cardinal d'Andrea was not in Rome in December,

1866, nor for months before and for months afterward. He was at

Naples, or its neighborhood, seeking to restore his shattered and

sinking health.

Our secretary takes a second leap backward, and "endeavors to give a

slight sketch of the Cardinal d'Andrea, necessarily imperfect as pen

and ink sketches always are." The incompleteness we might readily

excuse. But we cannot excuse its utter incorrectness in the details,

an incorrectness so unnecessarily excessive that we can only explain

it on the theory he is entirely guided by that wonderful memory, of

the powers of which we have had such evidences. Especially is this

seen when, leaving generalities aside, the writer ventures to make a

precise and definite statement.

Thus, we are informed that, in his early life, the cardinal "had been

bred for the army, and served in the Noble Guard for three years."

Whereas the cardinal was not born in Rome or the Roman States at all,

and never had any connection whatever with the Noble Guard or any

other military corps. He was born in Naples. His father, the Marquis

Giovanni d'Andrea, was treasurer of the kingdom of Naples. His elder

brother, the present Marquis d'Andrea, is still living near Naples.

Jerome d'Andrea, the future cardinal, at an early age showed an

inclination for the church, and in due time went through the ordinary

course of ecclesiastical studies. At its conclusion, he came to

Rome, and entered the Accademia Ecclesiastica, a college for the

higher and more thorough education of such ecclesiastics as wish to

enter the _carriera_, as it is called, that is, who aspire to become

ecclesiastical officials at Rome. There was nothing military about

the cardinal. He simply had the dignified bearing and the polished

manners of an Italian nobleman.

"He viewed the Jesuits as the foes of reform; his scheme was to

destroy their influence in the public schools." "The mendicant orders

met no favor with him." "He did approve of the dissolution of _their_

monasteries." This posthumous revelation of the cardinal's sentiments

will undoubtedly astonish the Jesuits and the mendicant orders at

Rome, if they ever hear of it, unless indeed they are foolish enough

to trust their own memory of the words and acts of the cardinal in

life, rather than the wonderful memory of this "secretary." The

Jesuits will remember how often and regularly he would visit their

father-general, or Father Perrone, or the more illustrious and

learned members of their society; how fond he was of having some of

them to visit him frequently; how he would invite their counsel and

aid, and how he was careful to omit no proper occasion of publicly

showing his friendship and esteem for them. The members of the

mendicant orders will call to mind their perpetual intercourse with

one who was always a kind father to them. As one of the cardinal's

household expressed it to us, _Era sempre attorniato da lore--He

always had these friars around him_. We fear that, with such

cherished memories in their hearts, they will pay very little regard

to the recollections of our "secretary."

But he becomes more precise in the details of the cardinal's daily

life.

"The cardinal generally rose at six, and spent three hours in reading

ere he said mass and breakfasted. He then received, and at twelve

rode out, except when his presence was required by the pope. The

afternoon was spent in a siesta until six. At half-past nine he

retired."

What a sleepy-head this affectionate and reverential "secretary"

would make the cardinal to be. Retire at half-past nine, and rise

at six. Here we have eight hours for a good night's sleep; ample

allowance, one would think. But no. Each day, after his noon-day

drive, the afternoon until six is spent in a siesta; that is, at

least four hours more given to sleep--twelve hours, on an average,

out of every twenty-four! And this was the ordinary course of things,

only interrupted when his presence was required by the pope! Was

he in any way related to Rip Van Winkle, or is it the secretary

who is dreaming? Certainly Cardinal d'Andrea bore all his life the

reputation of being a remarkably wide-awake, clear-headed, and active

business man.

We presume that he usually rose about six--a little later in winter,

somewhat earlier in summer--such being the custom of Italians of

his standing. By half-past eight, mass and breakfast were over;

for business hours commence at nine, and the cardinal gave the

forenoon to business, whether in the consistories or in the meetings

of congregations or at his own residence, where secretaries,

theologians, and other officials, and all interested parties, would

see him. At half-past one, or at two, as business allowed, he dined.

In summer, he took a siesta for half an hour or so. An hour or more

was given to reciting his breviary and to private study. At four in

winter and five in summer, if the weather allowed, he would drive

out, and when outside the city might indulge in half an hour's active

walk on foot. Reëntering his carriage, he reached home about sunset.

Until nine, he received those who called on him, whether on business

or as friends. Then came his supper, after which he loved to spend an

hour or two in lively conversation on the topics of the day with his

more intimate and esteemed friends. About eleven, he usually retired

to rest; but, too frequently for his health, he would, if he had what

he deemed important business on hand, stay up until one or two in the

morning, studying or writing.

"In his meals he was sparing, attached to the French _cuisine_, and

drank the light native vintage of Monte Fiascone.... He never went

among French society. He gave the French no countenance, regarding

them as witnesses of his country's serfdom."

What the writer means by this last phrase, or how the English and

Germans visiting Rome are not as truly witnesses to things there

as the French can be, we do not understand, and shall not stop to

inquire. The important statements are before us. The cardinal was

attached to the French _cuisine_ and avoided French _society_. Now,

the truth was just the reverse on both these points. The cardinal was

an excellent linguist and a well-read scholar. He delighted in the

company of educated Frenchmen, ecclesiastics, laymen, and military,

and was quite intimate with many of them. But as to his food, he

remained a true Neapolitan to the day of his death, and stuck to

macaroni, vermicelli, and pollenta, as an Englishman sticks to his

roast beef and good mutton.

"The Cardinal d'Andrea was fond of theatricals; indeed, private

representations were among the few enjoyments he had. He relished

them amazingly."

When we repeated this statement to the member of the cardinal's

household to whom we are indebted for our information on the

preceding points, he turned on us a look of bewildered astonishment

which we shall not soon forget. "_Poesie! poesie!_" he exclaimed.

"_All an invention; all an invention._"

Even in his early life, when, as a layman, he could have frequented

the theatre without any breach of decorum, he had avoided it. As a

clergyman, of course he could not go without losing caste. It might

have well happened that, in his travels in France, Switzerland,

Germany, and various parts of Italy, he had at some time or other

chanced to be a guest where courtesy called on him to be present at

private theatricals held in the family. Of this our informant could

not speak, for he had not always been with him on these journeys.

But since he had been made cardinal he had been with him, and could

not recall a single instance where the cardinal had attended such a

private representation. In his own palace he could not have had them.

His own character did not run in that line of amusement; and even if

he had desired it, the size and form of the apartments would have

rendered them impossible.

But such effusions of our "secretary's" poetic or inventive memory

are of themselves too slight and trivial to merit a place in _The

Galaxy_. There must be something of graver import to come. And in

fact these things have only been the preliminaries for the grand

events which are to be recorded of Cardinal d'Andrea; his escape

from Rome by the active aid of this secretary; the espionage over

his words and acts when he returned--an espionage which this

secretary detected, though he could not foil it; the finding of the

cardinal unexpectedly and mysteriously dead in his bed one morning;

and finally, the saving of his important private papers, by this

secretary, from the clutches of Cardinal Antonelli--papers which he

has persistently guarded and still retains, and which hereafter, we

may be allowed to conjecture, can serve to refresh and stimulate his

wondrous powers of memory, if any stimulation be needed.

The scene opens some time during the course of those two years, to

the beginning of which the first jump backward brought our writer.

The plan to oust Cardinal Antonelli from office had been formed, as

we were told, and failed; and Cardinal d'Andrea had lost somewhat

of the pope's favor, and had incurred the bitter enmity of Cardinal

Antonelli and of the Jesuits and ultramontanes. We may reasonably

allow some months for so much. When time had brought things to this

pass, "there was a party in the Piazza di Spagna, given by a Russian

princess, at which the _élite_ of Roman society was assembled.

Among the guests was Cardinal d'Andrea. Madame C----, the wife of

Captain C----, of the French army, was, as usual, coquetting with the

Cardinal di C----a, a prince of the most ancient of Roman houses,

with one of the finest palaces in Rome." The secretary loiters to

describe Captain C----, of the French army, and Madame C----, his

young and handsome wife, and to tell his readers of her notorious

intrigue with the above-named Cardinal Prince di C----a, of the

ancient family and with the fine palace. "Four days after this

party, Captain C---- appeared at his wife's apartments. He was cool

and deliberate. He upbraided her in unmeasured terms. She bitterly

resented.... His rage became terrible. Ere she could utter a prayer

or a cry, he seized the miserable woman and shot her; then shot

himself! The affair created some little sensation."

We should think it would, especially in peaceful, slow-going,

decorous Rome. Even in New-York, or in London, or in Paris, such a

tragedy, in which persons of that social standing were concerned,

would have created quite a sensation.

The Prince di C----a, "of one of the most ancient of Roman houses,

with one of the finest palaces in Rome," can of course be none other

than the Prince _Colonna_. The Roman princes are few in number, and

can easily be counted. No other has a surname to suit. The ancient

family and the fine palace are earmarks also. He means _Colonna_. But

then, many, many years have passed since there was a cardinal of that

family. In fact, take the list of cardinals since 1850, and the only

one whose name the designation C----a could fit is Cardinal Cuesta, a

Spaniard, who at the date of this party, (somewhere, if we follow the

"secretary," in the winter of 1862-63,) was an aged septuagenarian

bishop, zealously ruling his diocese in Spain; moreover, he was

not then a cardinal. He was made cardinal two years afterward.

Furthermore, he resides not in Rome but in Spain, whence he was

lately called to Rome for the present council. He obviously cannot be

the man. And so the Cardinal Prince di C----a vanishes into thin air,

like a poetic phantom, as he is.

Captain C----, of the French army, and his wife, Madame C----, seem

disposed to follow him into empty space. No French officer then in

Rome, and we have consulted several, can remember any French captain

who killed his wife and then committed suicide. The police never

got wind of the double tragedy. It escaped even the keen-scented

newspaper itemizers. The "little sensation" is a feat of memory.

Decidedly our "secretary" is as unlucky at tragedies as he is at

funerals, even though he assures us "the incidents of that reunion

have fixed themselves very much on my memory, for it was the last

time the Cardinal d'Andrea appeared at such assemblies." In fact, he

proceeds to narrate how that very night, by his skilful planning, the

cardinal was able to get out of Rome. This gives us, for the first

time, we may say, in this article, the slightest soundings of truth.

Cardinal d'Andrea did once leave Rome for Naples without the regular

permission which was required for one in his position. We will speak

further on of the motives and circumstances of that departure. Here

we will only state the fact, that he left Rome on the 16th of June,

1864. The writer of this article was in Rome at the time, and, for

peculiar reasons, no such tragedy as that "remembered" and the

sensation it created could have escaped his knowledge. We may add

that in Rome such parties are given in winter and never in summer.

The strangers who visit Rome in winter, and leave after Easter, are

in June in Switzerland or some other cool place. As for the _élite_

of Roman society, they are "out of town."

But let us leave facts aside, and enter on that dream-land, the

incidents of which are so firmly fixed on the memory of our

secretary. Hear him:

"The cardinal retired early, and, it being moonlight and very fine,

resolved to send back the carriage and walk home. He walked in

company with his secretary, a servant, as usual, attending at a

little distance. He had passed into the Corso, when a man suddenly

started out of the small and dark Via Fontanella di Borghese.... It

was a celebrated politician, who dared not have open intercourse

with any one for fear of compromising them, and he conveyed the

unwelcome intelligence that the cardinal's life was in imminent

danger.... Every moment was of importance. A plan was speedily

devised. The Honorable Mr. K---- was leaving at two o'clock in his

private carriage for Civita Vecchia, to catch the French steamer

touching at Civita Vecchia at half-past twelve next day, on her way

to Naples." The secretary disguised himself, and stealthily sought

an interview at once with this Englishman bearing an American title,

and briefly "told his errand." "The generous Englishman proposed

that the cardinal should accompany him, disguised as a friend whose

name appeared in his passport. The friend, on being consulted,

agreed, and the secretary left, promising to be ready at a certain

street with the cardinal, where the carriage was to take him up....

His eminence put on the beard and moustache our English friend had

given us, and, with the aid of a large Inverness cape and white

wide-awake, was splendidly disguised. It wanted two hours and a half

of the time. The cardinal never lost his presence of mind, but was

gloomy and foreboding. At last we called the valet, devoted to his

master, and informed him of the plan. He was to pretend illness on

the part of the cardinal. He listened carefully to his instructions,

and exclaimed, 'Eminence, your shoes and stockings!' We looked down,

and saw that the patent-leather, low, clerical shoes with gold

buckles and the red silk stockings were very obvious betrayals of

the rank of the disguised. No lay shoes and stockings were at hand,

until the valet bethought him of his own. Hastily effecting the

change, the cardinal passed out of the place alone, not suffering

any one to accompany him." Whereby, we presume, he ran some risk of

blundering as to the appointment, and moreover forced the zealous

secretary to break his promise of being "ready at a certain street

with the cardinal, where the carriage was to take him up." "The

whole of the next day passed heavily, but no inquiries were made for

his eminence. As his valet only waited on him, the other domestics

easily believed that he was indisposed. Two days after, the secretary

hastily scanned the _Giornale di Roma_, where he saw the departure of

Mr. K---- announced, and that of his friend. The valet, poor fellow,

though somewhat obese and awkward, executed an eccentric _pas seul_,

in token of his satisfaction at the news, and then broke out into a

fervent _Ave Maria_ for his master's safety. Four days elapsed, and a

summons came to attend the consistory. Then it was announced that the

cardinal had left for Naples."

Now, we confess to having enjoyed this passage of our "secretary's"

_reminiscence_ more than any other. We think it his best effort.

Still, it lacks some touches. He should not have omitted the matter

of the exchange of the cardinal's knee-breeches for the valet's

pantaloons. For obviously, if the cardinal put on the lay shoes

and stockings of the valet, and retained his own knee-breeches, a

space of ten inches at least on each leg would necessarily have been

left bare and uncovered. Such an arrangement, however conducive to

coolness, would have been a very remarkable feature of his costume,

especially noticeable in contrast with the large Inverness cape

which warmly enveloped the upper part of his person, and that in the

month of June. Such an outfit would certainly attract every eye.

Surely the cardinal and the valet must have then and there exchanged

the knee-breeches of the one against the pantaloons of the other,

regardless of how they fitted. Again, the "secretary" ought to have

given us some inkling of how the valet felt and demeaned himself next

morning when he appeared before his fellow-servants rigged out in the

patent-leather, low, clerical shoes with gold buckles, the red silk

stockings, and the knee-breeches of his master, instead of his own

proper habiliments. Could not our secretary have adorned the _Galaxy_

with some of the brilliant things then said and done?

The Honorable Mr. K----, too, acted very strangely. He might have

taken his rest like a sensible man that night, and have left Rome by

the accommodation train starting at six A.M. next morning, reaching

Civita Vecchia at nine; or he might have waited for the express

train, starting at ten A.M., reaching Civita Vecchia at twelve, and

making connection with the steamers, whether bound to Naples or to

Leghorn or to Marseilles. But no. He must lose his night's rest, and

start at two A.M. in a private carriage to travel fifty miles, and

reach a French steamer touching at Civita Vecchia at half-past twelve.

But if our secretary, in his recollections, can spurn facts, it would

be superfluous to ask him to respect mere probabilities.

The real method of the cardinal's departure from Rome and his journey

to Naples was the following very prosaic one:

On the 16th of June, 1864, he drove in his own carriage from his own

residence, the Palazzo Gabrielli, to the railway station in Rome,

and took a ticket for Velletri, to which city he was accustomed to

go, from time to time, to attend to the interests of the estate

Girgenti, of which the family had requested him to become the

administrator during the minority of the heirs. His valet alone

accompanied him. The carriage was ordered to be at the station in

the afternoon, as he might come back by the returning train. At

Velletri, the cardinal was met by his man of business in that city,

who had possibly made the necessary arrangements, and both proceeded

in the same train to Isoletta, on the Neapolitan frontier. The

cardinal continued on to Naples. The agent came back to Rome, found

the carriage at the station, rode in it to the Palazzo Gabrielli,

and informed the cardinal's chancellor and the household that the

cardinal had gone to Naples for his health, and was not able to say

when he would return.

This is the plain, matter-of-fact occurrence which the secretary's

memory has changed into something like a chapter from one of Mrs.

Radcliffe's novels sixty years ago.

We have already said that Cardinal d'Andrea took this step without

the permission which, according to the rules of the Sacred College,

he should have previously obtained. He had asked for that permission,

and it had not been granted. When he publicly violated the rule on

this point, the Italian enemies of the temporal power of the pope

hoped that they had unexpectedly found a cardinal in such a position

that they might, by degrees, make him their tool, and use him

against Pius IX. Voices were heard hinting that it might be proper

even to make him an anti-pope. The wiser ones among them saw from

the beginning how absurd such hopes and plans were; for they knew

the past history and the real character of the cardinal; and they

rightly judged that whatever might be the motives of his present

unexpected and most unusual proceeding, they must be personal. The

step could not spring from any policy opposed to that of the court of

Rome. They knew too well that he had always been a strenuous defender

of the pope; they had often found him their active and energetic

opponent. Later events proved to all that this judgment of theirs was

correct.

We have spoken of the birth and early education of Girolamo d'Andrea,

and his coming to Rome and entrance into the Accademia Ecclesiastica

in that city. Soon after finishing his course of studies there with

considerable reputation, he was made, in 1841, _ponente_, or judge,

in an inferior ecclesiastical court, commencing thus his _carriera_

at the bottom, but with distinction. He was afterward (1843) made

delegate, or governor, of the province of Viterbo; and three years

later went as nuncio or ambassador to Lucerne in Switzerland, which

office he filled at the time of the _Sonderbund_ war. Toward 1849, he

returned to Rome, and was elevated to the very responsible position

of Secretary of the Congregation of the Council. When Pius IX.,

after the public assassination of his prime-minister, Rossi, and the

threats of violence to himself, escaped to Gaeta, Monsignor d'Andrea

of course followed him. He was the prominent and most active man in

reëstablishing the papal government in Umbria and the Marches and

the patrimony. After two years of successful labor, he returned to

Rome, to receive the thanks and the reward due to a delicate task

zealously and satisfactorily accomplished. He was still Secretary

of the Congregation of the Council, one of the highest posts he

could hold, without being cardinal. On the 15th of March, he was

made cardinal-priest, with the title of _Sant' Agnese fuori delle

Mura_. He had thus, in eleven years, reached the highest step of the

Roman _carriera_. All acknowledged, even those whom he had passed,

that the cardinal's hat was, in this case, most fittingly bestowed

on learning, talents, experience, and as the well-deserved reward

of zealous and efficient services. The new cardinal was soon named

Prefect of the Congregation of the Index and Abbate Commendatario

of Santa Scolastica, which last title he retained to his death.

In 1860, he became Cardinal-Bishop of Sabina; and, by the firm

and wise administration of his diocese, was looked on as a model

bishop. In 1862, his health began to fail. Slow fevers seemed to

undermine his constitution, stronger in appearance than in reality.

At times a racking cough and a copious expectoration harassed him,

and he seemed sinking into consumption. Rallying from this, he would

suffer excruciating pains in the intestines; and, at times, he was

subject to fainting fits. Still he struggled against all this, and

kept on at his work. His friends noticed that he gradually became

more silent and despondent. They observed, too, another effect of

this long-continued indisposition. He became inclined to take up

fixed ideas, and, perhaps, crotchets, and to adhere to them the more

tenaciously if opposed. He evidently was not, at all times, the man

he had formerly been. Of course, it took time for all this to be

suspected and reluctantly admitted.

In the spring of 1864, the cardinal took up the idea that his health

would be restored if he went to Naples, his birth-place. He asked

permission to do so.

Special circumstances made the request one to be considered very

maturely. The government at Rome was in a critical and delicate

position, which required it to avoid most carefully any step capable

of a doubtful interpretation, or liable to be made a pretext for

certain false charges then current against it. The ex-king of

Naples was a refugee in Rome. Dethroned sovereigns generally seek

and find an asylum there. His friends and adherents in Naples were

busy concerting measures to get him back on his throne. The Italian

government and the Italian papers charged the court with assenting

to and aiding in these plans. Even France seemed to be growing cold,

and to be manifesting those dispositions which, a few months after,

culminated in the iniquitous convention with Victor Emmanuel for the

withdrawal of the French troops from the duty of protecting Rome.

All these things made the court of Rome trebly cautious to commit no

mistake.

It was felt that for a Roman cardinal to go then to Naples, even

under the pretext of ill-health, more especially a cardinal like

Cardinal d'Andrea, whose family had been for several generations

closely connected with the dethroned royal family, and whose personal

antecedents had been those we have recited, would be too dangerous.

No explanations, however sincere, no disavowals, however explicit,

could silence the charges or avert the troubles that might follow.

Hence the permission asked for was refused, the more readily as the

idea was looked on as the cardinal's own fancy, and was not based

upon the advice of physicians. The pope himself explained the matter

to the cardinal, and offered him permission to go to Malta, to

Spain, to Pau, in France, to Nice, in Savoy, or anywhere else that

the physicians would advise, or he desire. But to Naples, under the

circumstances, it would not do for him to go. The cardinal seemed to

assent at the moment, and to acquiesce in the decision. But, some

time after, he returned to the fixed idea, repeated his request,

waited some weeks, and, not receiving any reply, started on the 16th

of June, 1864, without permission, and, in the manner we have stated,

went to Naples. At first, he spent several months, perhaps a year,

at Sorrento, well known to all who visit southern Italy for their

health. After some time, he moved to the city of Naples itself, and

lived there until his return to Rome.

Concerning the cardinal's stay in Naples, our "secretary" remembers

only two points: "He was located in ill-furnished lodgings on the

Chiaja, at Naples, sorely distressed for money. More than this, his

good name was suffering"--suffering, he means, in the opinion of the

Mazzinians, the followers of the policy of Cavour and "the party

of action." The Roman Committee seems to have been particularly

exercised in reference to him.

Now as to the money matters. In Naples the cardinal kept a suite of

apartments in the Hôtel Crocelles, one of the best in that city.

Moreover, he also kept up his full establishment in the Palazzo

Gabrielli, in Rome. He paid every body and every thing punctually;

as, indeed, he might well do, considering the position of his family

and his own private resources. If his health failed, his purse did

not--which is more than can be said of most men, be they laymen,

ecclesiastics, or even cardinals. When he died, his will gave

legacies to friends and servants, and to religious and charitable

purposes, and returned something to his family.

As to the second point, undoubtedly the cardinal's good name did

suffer. The step he had taken was public; and the newspapers, after

their style, had not failed to herald it over the world as something

striking and important, from which, perhaps, vast results would

follow. Catholics everywhere were pained that a cardinal should

take so false a step, and place himself in a position apparently so

equivocal; perhaps, too, some apprehended ulterior and more painful

results. On the other hand, the Italianissimi waited, and cajoled

him, and hoped. But when he had been away from Rome more than two

years, and they found that they were not succeeding, as they desired,

in making him their tool, they commenced to depreciate and ridicule

him. This last point we rather think to his credit.

The mode of Cardinal d'Andrea's departure from Rome naturally set all

Rome a-talking. His friends tried to explain and to excuse it in the

mode we have stated. The excuse was probably felt to have some force.

Anyhow, it was evident that the mode of his departure prevented the

court of Rome from being compromised by his presence in Naples. Time

and patience are held to be golden remedies at Rome. No official

notice was taken of Cardinal d'Andrea's absence. True, friends

and counsellors and his brother cardinals wrote to him privately,

remonstrating with him and urgently advising him to return without

delay. Had he listened to them, and returned within any reasonable

time, we are satisfied no notice would have been taken of the affair,

and the whole matter would have dropped into oblivion.

But when he had been away two years, it was felt that some official

steps must be taken. Accordingly, the cardinal dean wrote him

officially, rehearsing the law of the church about the residence of

bishops, warning him that he had now been too long absent without

permission, and inviting him to return. Thrice the monition was

given, as required, and given without effect. The diocese of Sabina

was consequently withdrawn from his charges and confided to an

administrator _ad interim_, until other provisions should be made

in regard to it. Still the cardinal declined or delayed to come.

Other official letters warned him of possible further consequences,

even to ejectment from his dignity as cardinal. His friends, also,

renewed their private remonstrances and entreaties more urgently than

ever. And, finally, on the evening of December 14th, 1867, Cardinal

d'Andrea returned to Rome.

Three days later, he had an audience of the holy father, from which

he returned to his palace in a very cheerful mood, and spoke to his

attendants of the kindness of the pope, and declared that every thing

had passed off most satisfactorily.

His long stay in Naples had not benefited his health. He still

coughed, and still, at times, had severe crises of pain in the

abdomen. But he was able in some measure to take up the ordinary work

of a cardinal. The charge of the diocese was not restored to him;

time was required for that. Rome is slow to act, and slow to undo

what has been legally done.

After having fatigued our readers by this long stretch over humdrum

realities, it may be well to seek a little relief in some more of the

wondrous feats of the wondrous memory of "the secretary of the late

Cardinal d'Andrea."

He does not remember that audience at all. Nay, he remembers that

there was none. "Daily," after his return, the cardinal "expected a

summons to the presence of the pope. Then he resolved to assert his

right to an audience, and repaired to the Vatican. He was informed

that all his communications to the pope were to pass through the

hands of the cardinal secretary. To sue to his worst foe--this was

the climax of bitterness. The high spirit of his eminence never

recovered this indignity. The holy father was all this time informed

that the cardinal had returned; but was recusant, and refused all

overtures of reconciliation. After his last repulse, the cardinal

made no further efforts; but it was easy to see that he suffered

acutely."

All bosh! The "secretary" might have ascertained that the papers

of the day announced the return of the cardinal to Rome and his

audience; for the cardinal was then a notoriety. But he is strong

on his powers of memory; or, perhaps, as he had killed the cardinal

and buried him, as we saw, two years and nine months before this--in

March, 1865--he now ran his eye over a file previous to that date;

and, as the papers were published while the cardinal was at Sorrento,

there was no mention then of an audience. But we are loth to believe

the "secretary" has even that little regard for what others remember

which would make him think it at all necessary to look even at a file

of newspapers either for dates or facts.

But he gives us, in lieu, an exquisite production of his own memory.

"The cardinal's enemies," he tells us, "were far too wary to resort

to open acts." They remained so quiet that all suspicion was

lulled to rest, except in the cardinal and his secretary. "It is

remarkable that we sometimes find an idea dart suddenly into the mind

without cause or ramification."(!!) ... This was the case with the

secretary, probably also with the cardinal. The idea took this shape:

"The favorite mode of obtaining secret information in Rome is by

eaves-dropping and espionage. This palace has been for two months at

the bidding of those who knew the cardinal would return to it. They

are anxious to know all he says and does; if possible, all he thinks.

They will study the revelations of his countenance in moments of

_abandon_. And if they have designs"--here the idea seemed going into

extravagance. We decidedly agree with him; we even think the idea

shows signs of _ramification_.

One _pièce_ of the cardinal's apartments was a breakfast-room, in

which there hung a picture of St. Francis meditating. "I was reading

in that room; and the twilight had deepened as I sat thinking over

my book. As I looked up, by the faint red glow of the wood-fire,

I fancied that picture--a St. Francis meditating--had a peculiar

expression about the eyes. The rapt saint looks upward, ignoring

mundane vanities; this looked downward and steadily at me. I felt

inclined to cut it open; but dared not. After all, I imagined the

gloom had deceived me."

Again, two days later, "I was sitting at breakfast with the cardinal,

when he dropped his cup of chocolate, and, rising, went to the

picture, and carefully examined it.... We looked at each other; and

I felt the same idea pass through his mind.... I resolved to make

him understand that I followed his thoughts. 'Do you think,' said

I, 'that St. Francis in his meditations became sometimes a little

_distrait_? that his eyes wandered from heaven, for example, to some

worldly object, say, as to the quality of your eminence's breakfast,

or became suddenly diverted by our conversation.' He looked steadily

at me, then at the picture, which faced him as he sat, but was behind

me. Then, after a moment, replied, 'It is a fatality.' I saw no more

of him that day. I heard from the valet that he was anxious not to be

disturbed."

Here we have espionage of the most wonderful kind caught _in

flagranti delicto_. Is not the "secretary" afraid he has imparted

a new and important lesson to the burglars of New York? Just think

of the details! During the cardinal's absence, his enemies enter

his apartments in the Palazzo Gabrielli freely, notwithstanding the

establishment is kept up, and all the servants are there save the

valet, who is away with his master. No eye sees them, no ear hears

their stealthy footsteps nor any noise they make. No trace of their

work is discovered. They go everywhere, they examine every thing, and

make their preparations. What they did elsewhere we are not told.

But they paid special attention to this breakfast-room, because the

picture hung there. If the wall behind it were of thick masonry,

they must have cut in it a niche deep enough and big enough to

hold a man. That they should do this in an inhabited house without

any one finding it out, is proof of their ability. But what if, as

is most likely, the painting hung on a partition wall only six or

eight inches thick, where could the man stand? What did they do

in that case? We cannot imagine. We think the burglars would be

nonplussed, and would turn for further instruction to the memory

of our "secretary." Beyond this, they provided themselves with

means of entrance and passage from room to room, and of exit, quite

irrespective of ordinary doors and public stairways.

The cardinal returns to his palace, and these means are put in use.

One spy, entering when or how no one knows, and mounting to his place

in an equally mysterious manner, stands behind the picture of St.

Francis meditating, which hangs on the wall of the breakfast-room.

The canvas eyes of the picture have, of course, been cut out; and

the spy fixes his own living eyes in their place, so that he can

see all that is to be seen, as well as hear all that is to be heard.

Ordinarily, we suppose, the eyes are kept turned toward heaven,

ignoring mundane vanities, because such was the original position

of the painted eyes in the picture. But fatigue and duty combined,

from time to time, to call for a change of their position. The eyes

looked down on the breakfast-table, (perhaps longingly; for even

spies behind pictures may get hungry,) or gleamed with intelligence

in response to witticisms of conversation, or unguarded and important

revelations. Yet all was so artistically and naturally done that

the secretary one day imagined the gloom had deceived him; and

two days afterward, the cardinal, after a careful examination and

after looking at it a second time attentively, exclaimed, "It is a

fatality!"

Now, there is a mystery about this espionage which quite puzzles

us, and which we should like to see explained. While the spy held

his eyes thus glued to or inserted in the painting, where were his

eyebrows? And what did he do with his nose?--his big Roman nose. For

who can conceive a keen Roman spy without a large and penetrating

Roman nose? How did he manage to keep that nose from coming in

contact with the painted canvas--from pressing against it and causing

a very prominent bulge, and even pushing the canvas away from the

eyes? This is a point that merits elucidation.

Unfortunately the cardinal, it seems, at once left the room in which

the "fatality" was, shut himself up, and would see no one. The

"secretary" was as wanting in pluck on that occasion as he had been

on another two days before. He felt inclined to cut the painting open

to see what it was; but dared not. If he had had the presence of mind

of a little boy ten years old, he would have ventured to draw the

bottom of the painting a few inches out from the wall, and would have

looked behind to discover the secret. Had he done so, our mystery

would doubtless have been solved, and a very interesting question

would have been answered. What a pity the idea did not assume this

practical "ramification"!

In regard to the death of the cardinal the memory of the "secretary"

is brief, but terribly explicit and pointed.

"Four days" after the fatality-scene, "I was informed that

the cardinal desired me to spend the evening in his private

apartments.... We had dined at five"--a change of hour; it used

to be six. "His eminence had confined himself to his favorite and

insipid Chablis, of which he drank one little flask," (Monte Fiascone

has slipped from the secretary's memory;) "I to a more generous

vintage of Burgundy. The subject of our conversation was exceedingly

important. With the idea upon us like an incubus, we conversed in low

tones; and ever and anon the cardinal rose and examined the outer

door.... The conversation ended by my being intrusted with certain

documents to place in safe keeping.... Knowing the importance of

the documents, I hesitated to keep them in my possession. Sealing

them in a packet, I put on a street dress and hastened to an English

gentleman, who cheerfully undertook their keeping.... Cardinal

Antonelli asked me for the papers I had received on that fatal

night.... I rejoice to say--though strenuous exertions were made to

obtain the papers--they were as persistently guarded; and I have them

now."

Pretty well remembered for these papers. But how about the cardinal?

The secretary says that, on the morning after confiding the

aforesaid sealed packet to the English gentleman, "I rose early and

repaired to the palace. The valet had orders to wake his master

at seven. It wanted but a few minutes. I retired to my own room.

Scarcely a quarter of an hour had elapsed ere the valet rushed in,

pale with affright, exclaiming, 'His eminence is dead!' I followed

him quickly to the apartment, having alarmed the household. The

disposition of the chamber was as ordinary. The cardinal's dress lay

on a chair, as the valet had placed it. His breviary was open at

vespers. The bed was the only thing disturbed. There were certain

indications of a struggle, although very slight. The usually placid

countenance of the cardinal was flushed and discolored. The two

hands grasped the bed-clothes convulsively. A physician was hastily

summoned, who pronounced life to have been extinct some hours.

'From what cause?' I asked. He whispered, 'They will probably say

apoplexy.' For himself, the secretary has no doubt it was a murder

perpetrated by the enemies of Cardinal d'Andrea."

These are the recollections of the _soi-disant_ secretary. They are

well entitled in the whole and in the several details to stand with

his precise recollections of the place and date of the funeral that

followed in San Giovanni in Laterano, on the 22d day of March, 1865.

The papers announced that Cardinal d'Andrea died in Rome, on the 14th

of May, 1868. For the details of his last hours, we are indebted

to those members of his household who were with him and closed his

eyes. It will be seen how different is the account they give from

that of the writer who, if elsewhere he amused us, here fills us with

astonishment at the boldness of his assertions, and sorrow for his

motives.

On Thursday, May 14th, 1868, the cardinal, who had spent the forenoon

in his usual occupations, dined in his usual health, or ill-health,

at half-past one. After dinner he continued to transact business with

his chancellor for a while, and then arranged to resume it on his

return from the usual afternoon drive. He drove out from the Palazzo

Gabrielli at about half-past four. His coachman drove, at the usual

staid gait of a cardinal's carriage, by the Foro Trajano, on by the

Colosseo and San Clemente, to St. John Lateran's, and out of the city

gate near that church, along the Via Appia Nuova. When he had passed

the first mile-stone from the gate, he was surprised by an order to

return. He noticed that the cardinal, who was alone in the carriage,

seemed to be suffering. He accordingly turned and retraced his steps

at the same gentle gait. On the square of St. John's, he received a

second order to go faster; and awhile after, before he reached the

Colosseo, the cardinal ordered him to hurry. A fast trot brought them

to the Palazzo Gabrielli by about half-past five. The chancellor was

there, and assisted the servants to take the cardinal out of the

carriage, and to assist him up to his chamber. He was suffering very

much from a difficulty of breathing, and seemed otherwise in pain.

It was a crisis such as he had had before, but it seemed more severe

than usual. The cardinal sent word to the chancellor not to leave. He

expected the spasm to pass away in a little while, and when it would

be over, they might resume their work as arranged.

The chancellor waited until near seven, when, learning that the

attack still continued, he entered the sickroom. He was not only the

official, but a devoted and confidential intimate friend of nearly

twenty years' standing. He found the cardinal suffering to a degree

that filled him with alarm. A physician was sent for, but was absent

from his residence. An assistant came and prescribed some remedies.

By eight, the physician arrived, and took charge of the case, and did

not leave the patient. About nine, he was asked if it were proper

to administer the sacrament of extreme unction. He replied that, so

far, he did not see sufficient danger to warrant it. Meanwhile the

cardinal lay on his bed tossing restlessly in pain, and panting for

breath, but joining in, as best he could, with the prayers for the

sick, which had been begun, at his request, by his chaplain and the

attendants between seven and eight o'clock. At ten, he asked to be

placed in a large chair in his room. They bolstered him up in it. In

half an hour he began to sink. The chaplain hastily administered the

rites of the church, and by eleven, Cardinal d'Andrea was no more.

Thus, as is not unfrequently the case, death came somewhat suddenly

and unexpectedly, even after years of ill-health.

An autopsy took place, as is customary, we believe, in Rome in the

case of cardinals. It appeared that the immediate cause of his death

was congestion of the lungs. The right lung was found to be nearly

destroyed by tubercles. On one side of the brain a clot or indurated

portion, seemingly of long standing, was discovered. In this lesion

some of the cardinal's friends thought they found a physical cause of

those disordered peculiarities of mind of which we spoke as having

been manifested in his later years.

We may add that, after the official autopsy, the body lay in state

in the Palazzo Gabrielli until Monday, May 18th. On the evening of

that day, it was conveyed in procession to the neighboring parish

church of St. John of the Florentines, near the Castel Sant' Angelo.

In that church, on Tuesday, 19th May, 1868, the funeral obsequies

of Cardinal d'Andrea were celebrated, the pope and the cardinals

assisting, as required by the etiquette of the court when a cardinal

dies in Rome.

By the cardinal's own directions, his mortal remains were interred at

the church of Sant' Agnese fuori delle Mura, of which, as we said, he

had been titular cardinal before becoming Bishop of Sabina.

We have thus followed this _soi-disant_ secretary of the late

Cardinal d'Andrea all through his article. We have overlooked, for

brevity's sake, many minor points. But we have seen fully enough to

establish the character of the article. We have seen that he blunders

as to the date of the cardinal's funeral by three years and two

months. He has blundered as to the church where it was performed by

at least a mile and a half. San Giovanni in Laterano and St. John of

the Florentines are unlike in shape and in rank, and are nearly at

opposite points of the city.

As to the private habits, the acts, and the opinions of the cardinal,

he makes a series of blunders such as we might well look for in one

who gives himself out as having been the confidential secretary of

the late Cardinal d'Andrea, and yet whom no one remembers to have

ever had any connection with the cardinal.

As to the charges of enmity, of espionage, and even of murder, and

the tragedy of the French captain, and various other remarks and

comments _en passant_ throughout the article, by no means to the

honor of the ecclesiastical dignitaries at Rome, and of the tone

and character of society there--are these things only spice to give

a certain piquancy to the article? or is the whole article written

merely as a vehicle to convey these charges to the attention of the

readers?

We incline to the latter opinion. We are led to it by the clearer

and more undisguised tenor of later articles by the same pen in the

_Galaxy_. We may, hereafter, if we find time, pay our respects to one

or more of those articles.

For the present, we will only say that if the proprietors of the

_Galaxy_ have intended to bargain with a writer of fiction, they

are getting the worth of their money in matter and quantity, if not

in quality and style. If, however, they expected to secure a series

of articles instructive because truthful, the case is decidedly the

reverse.

FOOTNOTE:

[174] The _Galaxy_. December, 1869, to June, 1870.

HYMN OF ST. PAUL'S "CHRISTIAN DOCTRINE SOCIETY."

Not ours to ask thee, "What is truth?"

For here it shines the light of light;

And all may see it, age or youth,

Who will but leave the outer night.

'Tis ours to tread, not seek, the way

That "brightens to the perfect day."

But this we ask thee, dearest Lord--

Let faith, so precious, feed and grow;

And make our lives the more accord

With fear and love, the more we know.

For thus, too, shall we point the way

That "brightens to the perfect day."

Nor have we learnt it save to teach;

It is for others we are wise.

The humblest has a charge to preach

Thy kingdom in a nation's eyes:

A nation groping for the way

That "brightens to the perfect day."

O thou, our patron, great St. Paul!

Apostle of the West, to thee

We boldly come and fondly call,

As children at a father's knee:

Come thou, and with us lead the way

That "brightens to the perfect day"!

B. D. H.

LOTHAIR.[175]

Lothair is both a novel and a pamphlet. Two distinct currents of

thought are apparent, running through the work, variously intertwined

and blended, but from time to time asserting definite individuality.

This phenomenon is explained by the two-fold character of the writer,

who is a novelist and man of letters, and at the same time a man

of the world and a statesman. The novel is written apparently to

reassert his powers and demonstrate to the literary world that his

genius is undimmed by age, perhaps also to indulge the exercise of

a favorite and successful art, by which he has raised himself from

an obscure position to one of influence and renown. The pamphlet is

evidently intended for political effect; to throw discredit upon

eminent persons, to disparage the value of conversions among the

higher classes of society, and, through the thin veil of fiction,

inflict all the damage possible upon the court of Rome and the Roman

Catholic Church. It reveals the political character of its writer,

his utter want of principle and consistency, and enables us to

comprehend how he has overcome all the obstacles to his career, by

great industry, acute intelligence, and absolute unscrupulousness

in turning men and women, things and events, to his own personal

advantage. As a novel it adds nothing to the established reputation

of the author. It is rated at a high figure, commercially speaking,

and will no doubt be a remunerative investment for its publishers.

It purports to be a picture of the habits, manners, and mode of life

of people of the highest rank in England, with sketches of persons

of diverse culture and foreign birth, to heighten the contrasts

and bring out the lights and deepen the shadows. Natural scenery,

stately dwellings, ancient trees, sunlight, flowers, music, and

fresh air give life and animation to the varying scenes, and form

the appropriate basis, background, and accompaniment for the living

panorama. Lothair is a youth of pure blood and fair education, the

heir of immense estates and a lofty title. He is good-looking,

athletic, kind-hearted, shy, sensitive, and sentimental.

He has suffered the depression and discouragement of a sour

Presbyterian system of education, from which he was happily rescued

by the honest and determined efforts of one of his guardians,

Cardinal Grandison.

He emerges just before he comes of age, and appears before us in the

midst of an elegant family, in which, fortunately, all the daughters

are married excepting one, who has great beauty and a remarkably fine

voice. He immediately, as in duty bound, falls desperately in love,

and in the most honorable manner possible confides the state of his

feelings to the mother of the object of his affections, who is, by

the way, a fine specimen of a thorough-bred English lady.

The mother wisely and tenderly counsels delay, and we would recommend

her conduct in this interesting occasion to all the middle-aged

ladies of our acquaintance when placed in a similar situation.

Lothair accepts her decision, and in the mean time becomes more and

more intimate with the cardinal, and forms the acquaintance of a

Catholic family distantly connected, and becomes somewhat smitten

with the real heroine of the tale, Clare Arundel. The objective

point of the story now develops itself. A struggle for the rich and

titled youth commences between the English Establishment and the

Church. Political and mercenary motives are, with great impartiality,

ascribed to both the contending powers. The combat between the

rough and honest Scotch Presbyterian uncle and the accomplished and

fascinating cardinal is wisely dropped.

No imagination could suggest the thought that one who had escaped

from evangelicalism could ever return to it. It is, in the author's

mind, simply a political squabble for the influence and vote of the

future peer. His soul is of no account.

The conduct and development of this contest gives the right honorable

romancer an opportunity to introduce the lords and ladies, the dukes

and bishops, cardinals and monsignori, artists, wits, and men about

town, with whom he delights to fill his pages. They all speak in

character, and in the main with artistic consistency, and their

conversation is certainly sprightly, often witty, sometimes wise, and

never offensive on the score of taste and morality. It affords him

the opportunity to flatter and praise, and at the same time exhibit a

power of sarcasm and ridicule, the effective methods of his earlier

writings, by which he climbed to his present position. He exhibits

talents and a knowledge of life which would have made him equally

successful in the role of banker, picture-merchant, diamond-broker,

or even old clo'man. He gloats over the splendors which he describes;

and beauty, rank, fashion, fine clothes, crystal, porcelain,

pictures, jewels, "ropes of pearls," castles, palaces, parks,

and gardens, are dwelt upon with the cherishing fondness of the

gentlemen of keen eyes, hooked noses, and unctuous touch. Character,

conduct, motives, principles, sentiments, affections, passions, and

religion are mingled in admirable confusion, are estimated at the

same value and weighed in the same balance.

There is for him as novelist or pamphleteer no principle but

expediency, no rule of conduct but temporal advantage. He worships a

golden calf. These be thy gods, O Israel! At a critical period, while

our hero is wavering between his Anglican and Catholic mistress, and

the cardinal is striving to acquire a wholesome influence over his

somewhat unstable relative, while he is sailing on the summer sea of

high life and elegant society, he goes to _Oxford to see his horses_.

He has wisely left those useful animals at the university, while he

is pursuing his studies of life and manners in London. At Oxford,

he meets Colonel and Mrs. Campian, and is taken completely off his

feet. Presbyterianism, Anglicanism, Corisande and Clare Arundel, the

Establishment, and Catholicity disappear at once, and Madre Natura in

the splendid physique of the divine Theodora, claims an unresisting

captive and victim.

This is either an inspiration of a romancer's imagination or a study.

If the latter, there is no hope for the right honorable author's

salvation on the score of invincible ignorance.

Lothair basks in the splendor of Theodora's beauty, and surrenders

his reason to the fascination of her false political principles. The

lower or transient good is preferred to the higher, the permanent

good. He chooses the lower, as did Lucifer and Adam, Judas and

Luther, and multitudes have done and are doing. Naturally and

artistically there is no way out of this scrape excepting through a

catastrophe; religiously, excepting through penance. Theodora is

the ideal of Greco-Roman heathenism, and the artist Phœbus is its

high-priest. They are fine creations from an artistic point of view.