Rome was on the alert. Duke Orsini is admitted to offer his obeisance

to the Pontiff Sixtus V. amid the solemn assembly of cardinals, foreign

envoys, and Roman princes and senators; the expression of his liege

words, his prostration at the sovereign’s throne, and his courtly homage

meet with the simple response of a look from Sixtus. That look gave

rise to the most clashing interpretations in the observing minds of the

beholders; it was a look of benignity, weighty with authority, crushing

with power, such as to subdue at once the haughty and defiant princely

ruffian. From that moment Paolo Orsini never raised his head; his day was

gone. Within a few days a sovereign decree, worded as only Sixtus V. knew

how to pen them, in terms at which no one would dare to cavil, Orsini was

forbidden to shelter outlaws. The duke solicited an audience; of what

occurred at that meeting no one could ever surmise; but Orsini found no

more charm in what he could heretofore call _his_ Rome. Accordingly,

within two months after the inauguration of Sixtus’ pontificate, he

left the papal city. In sooth, he was an exile, voluntary, as if by

courtesy. Great was the bitterness galling Vittoria’s heart, and she was

pitied by all--the victim of a mother’s rash ambition, she had to flee

that Rome where she could still have reigned the queen of society for

her beauty, her great gifts, and close relationship to the sovereign.

Donna Camilla reigned in her stead. Nor was this all. The handsome,

youthful, accomplished niece of Sixtus was then the slavish, unhappy wife

of a cumbrous quinquagenarian prince, covered with loathsome blotches

from the sole of his feet to the crown of his head, the penalty of his

dissipations; one of his legs so ulcered with cancer that it had swollen

to the size of a man’s waist, and had to be kept bandaged (the chronicler

says), with slices of _some other animal’s meat_, that the acrid humor

would not eat into _his own_ live flesh--a fretful old debauchee,

overbearing, universally loathed for his lecherous habits, hated for his

cruelties, and made intractable by a conscience gnawed by despair.

Poor Vittoria! On their way to Salò, near the lake of Garda in Lombardy,

her husband, consumed by ulcers and tortures of soul, died suddenly

whilst being bled in his arm!

Forlorn Vittoria! the first paroxysm of grief being over, raised a

pistol to her head, but it was happily snatched from her in time by her

brother Giulio, and she was spared a violent, unprepared, and cowardly

death! Thus left alone, unprotected in her beauty and youth, she was at

the mercy of Ludovico Orsini, her husband’s cousin, who despised her

on account of the great disparity of their birth. Her late husband had

indeed bequeathed to her one hundred thousand crowns, besides silver

plate, horses, carriages, and jewelry without stint. All this Ludovico

coveted, and stepped forward under pretence of protecting the rights of

Flaminio Orsini, Giordano’s son by his former wife; but unable to break

the will, he summoned one Liverotto Paolucci of Camerino to come to

Padua--whither Vittoria had repaired immediately, and, aided by such as

he might chose, to murder Vittoria and her brother! The bloody ruffian

answered the summons, and entering the princess’ apartment through a

window, in the depth of the night, his men fell at first upon Giulio,

and into his breast discharged the contents of three muskets. The victim

crawled to his sister’s room and crouched under her bed. There he was

finished with _seventy-three_ thrusts of white arms, encouraged all the

time by Vittoria, anxiously repeating--“Forgive, Giulio; beg God’s mercy,

and willingly accept death for his sake.”

It is recorded in the life of her sainted brother, the Bishop of

Fossombrone, that, upon the death of the duke, he without delay wrote

to his sister, exhorting her to amend her life, and devote herself to

works of atonement and piety; for, said he, “your days will not be many.”

And we have it from authenticated records of those times that she did

truly repent of her worldliness, and, having placed herself under the

protection of the Republic of Venice, retired to Padua, where she lived

in great retirement, dividing her time between practices of devotion in

the church, deeds of charity, and protracted orisons at home. She also

begged of the Pope leave to repair to Rome, the asylum of the wretched,

and spend the remainder of her life in a convent, for which purpose her

generous uncle had signed a remittance of five hundred gold crowns on

the very day he received the sad account of her death. Her brother, the

bishop, had so strong a presentiment, some say a revelation from above,

of the impending catastrophe, that on the 22d of December he ordered

special prayers to be offered by the clergy of his diocese in her behalf.

And she _did_ fall a victim to Ludovico’s dagger on the 22d of that month!

After Giulio had breathed his last, bathed in his own blood, Count

Paganello, one of Liverotto’s band, took hold of the devoted woman by

both arms, and holding her in the kneeling posture in which she had been

found at her prayers, bade one of his bravoes to tear open her dress on

the right side, whereupon she indignantly protested that she should be

allowed to die in her dress, as it became an honest woman and the _wife

of Giordano Orsini_! The brute plunged a stiletto into her bosom, and

kept trepanning towards the left side in search of the heart. She offered

no resistance, but during the horrid butchery of her form she ceased not

repeating, “I pardon you, even as I beg of God to forgive me.… Jesus!…

Jesus!… Mercy and forgiveness!” And with these words of forgiveness dying

on her lips she fell lifeless on the floor.

Thus ended, by a cruel death, yet heroically met, one of the most

remarkable women of her time--a woman renowned for her admirable beauty,

talents, and misguided ambition. Having been the pet of European society,

she died almost an outlaw; the niece of Pope Sixtus V., she died without

a home of her own; a lamentable instance of the ignominious end awaiting

those who have been endowed by a kind Providence with the noblest of

gifts, but have made a wrong use of them.

THE CROSS IN THE DESERT.

Some few years ago a pilgrim sailed across the blue waters of the

Mediterranean, smitten with the love of the cross, and bearing in his

hand “the banner with the strange device.”

It was a lovely summer’s evening. The fierce African sun was sinking to

his rest behind the hill on which the ruins of the old city of Hippo

stand; and as the pilgrim, who had climbed to its summit, stood gazing

around him, the glow of the western sky bathed his dusty garments in a

golden light, touching the ruins with a splendor of its own, and lighting

up the sea, that heaved gently down below, with the brightness of amber

and gold.

This, then, was all that remained of the proud old city whose name

Augustine had made famous to the end of time!

These crumbling walls were once the school where he taught, the halls

where his youthful eloquence fired the hearts of the great scholars of

the day; here were the baths where he lounged in his idle hours with

pleasure-loving companions; here the streets where every day he came

and went from Monica’s quiet home to the busy haunts of learning, of

sophistry, and science; here was the place where she had wept so bitterly

over him, the spot where that salutary fountain of a mother’s tears had

had its source; here he had sinned; hence he had gone forth in search of

truth, and, having found it, hither he had come back, transformed into

a confessor and a doctor of the church; here, finally, he died, full of

years, leaving behind him a name great amongst the greatest saints whom

the church has raised to her altars.

And what now remained to Africa of this light which had shed such glory

on her church? Where did his memory live? And the faith that he had

practised--whither had it fled?

The pilgrim sat down upon a stone, and, after indulging in reflections

such as these for some time, he rose and descended slowly towards the

plain.

Was it a fancy born of recent musings, or did he hear a voice issuing

from the massive fragment of a wall which still supported a majestic

dome, once probably the thermæ of the luxurious and wealthy citizens of

Hippo? Did he really see a light burning, or was it an hallucination

born of the mystic hour and the suggestive surroundings? He drew closer,

looked in, and beheld two white-bearded Arabs placing each a light on the

highest point of the wall. Was it some idolatrous rite, a spell, or an

incantation they were performing?

“What are you doing?” inquired the pilgrim.

“We are burning lights to the great Christian,” was the reply.

“Who is that? What is his name?”

“We do not know it; but we honor him because our fathers taught us to do

so.”

So, then, the memory of Augustine survived in the land, though his name

had perished!

The pilgrim murmured a prayer to the great Christian, as the Arabs

called him, and turned away, carrying in his heart a hope that he had

not known an hour ago--a hope that Augustine was still watching for the

resurrection of the cross in the land of his birth, and hastening its

advent by his intercession at the throne of Him whom he described as

“patient because he is eternal.”

It is a fact, as striking as it is consoling, that within the last few

years the faith has been making rapid conquests amidst the barbarous

nations, where in the days of S. Augustine, and long after, it flourished

so magnificently. Perhaps it is more surprising that this result should

not have been universal after nearly half a century of the rule of a

Catholic power; but the mistaken policy of the French government, and,

alas! we must add, the evil example of the French themselves, instead

of breaking down existing barriers, have raised new and insurmountable

ones against the spread of Christianity amongst the conquered tribes.

France proclaimed her intention of not alone tolerating, but protecting,

Islamism throughout her African dominion. She carried this policy so

far for many years that it was made punishable by French law to convert

a Mussulman to the Catholic faith, whilst, on the other hand, it was

perfectly lawful for any number of Catholics to turn Mussulmans. The

priests who went out as missionaries were thwarted at every step by the

French authorities. “Our adversaries, the men who worry us and stand

in the way of our making converts, are not the Arabs or even their

marabouts,” said one of these devoted men to us only a few days ago;

“it is our own countrymen, Frenchmen calling themselves Catholics, _whom

we have chiefly_ to contend against.” And he went on to describe how,

during the famine of 1867, when the Arabs were dying like flies all

over the country, the French authorities were constantly on the alert

to prevent the missionaries baptizing them, even _in extremis_. They

actually sent detachments of spahees to the various places where the poor

famine-stricken creatures congregated in greater numbers to die; and when

the priest was seen approaching them, as they lay gasping in their agony,

the soldiers rushed forward to stop him from administering the sacrament

of regeneration. One little missionary father contrived to outwit the

authorities, however, and, in spite of the lynx-eyes that were fixed on

him, he managed to baptize numbers from a little bottle of water hid

under his burnose.

No wonder the Arabs make small account of men who set such pitiful store

by their religion. They, call the French “sons of Satan,” and the French

priests and good Christians among the seculars will tell you themselves

that the name is well deserved; that the employees of the government,

military and civil, make the most deplorable impression on the natives,

and by their lives present a practical example of all the vices which it

is the boast of civilization to destroy. They are so untruthful that the

French missionaries declare they surpass even the Arabs in lies. The Arab

is abstemious by nature, and the law of the Koran compels him to the most

rigid sobriety; the Christians give him an example of excesses in eating

and drinking which excite his disgust and contempt.

There is a legend current amongst the Arabs in the French dominions that

on a certain day Mahomet will arise and precipitate the sons of Satan

into the sea. When a Frenchman, in answer to this prophecy, points to

the strength of his government, its enormous resources, the power of

steam, and the monuments he has built in Algeria, the Mussulman with grim

contempt replies in his grave, sullen way: “Look at the ruins of the old

Roman monuments! They were mightier than any you have raised; and yet,

behold, they lie in ruins throughout the land, because Allah so willed.

It is written: Allah will cast you into the sea as he did the Romans.”

All those who can speak from experience agree that there are no people

so difficult to evangelize as the Mussulmans; the pure idolater is

comparatively an easy conquest to the missionary, but it requires almost

the miraculous intervention of divine grace to make the light of the

Gospel penetrate the stolid fatalism of the Mahometan.

One of the greatest obstacles to the reception of truth in the Arab is

the intuitive pride of race which arms him against the idea of receiving

religious instruction from a race of men whom he despises with a scorn

which is actually a part of his religion, and who in their turn look down

on the children of the desert, and treat their manners and customs with

contempt. In order to overcome this first obstacle towards the success

of their ministry, the missionaries conceived the idea of identifying

themselves, as far as possible, with the natives, adopting their dress,

their manner of eating and sleeping, and in every way assimilating

outwardly their daily lives to theirs.

They tried it, and the system has already worked wonders. How, indeed,

could it be otherwise? If faith can move mountains, cannot love melt

them? Love, the irresistible, the conqueror who subdues all hard things

in this hard world--why should it fail with these men, who have human

souls like our own, fashioned after the likeness of our common God? Just

five years ago a handful of priests, Frenchmen, gone mad with the sweet

folly of the cross, heard of how these Arabs could not be persuaded to

receive the message of Christ crucified, but repulsed every effort to

reach them. They were seized with a sudden desire to go and try if they

could not succeed where others had failed; so they offered themselves to

the Archbishop of Algiers as missionaries in his diocese. The offer was

gladly accepted; but when the first presented himself to obtain faculties

for saying Mass in the villages outside Algiers and in the desert, the

archbishop signed the permission with the words _visum pro martyrio_,

and, handing it to the young apostle, said: “Do you accept on these

conditions?”

“Monseigneur, it is for that I have come,” was the joyous reply. And

truly, amongst all the perilous missions which every day lure brave souls

to court the palm of martyrdom, there is not one where the chances are

more in favor of gaining it than in this mission of Sahara, where the

burning sun of Africa, added to material privations that are absolutely

incredible, makes the life of the most fortunate missionary a slow

and daily martyrdom. His first task, in preparation for becoming a

missionary, is to master the language and to acquire some knowledge of

the healing art, of herbs and medicine; then he dons the dress of the

Arabs, which, conforming in all things to their customs, he does not

quit even at night, but sleeps in it on the ground; he builds himself

a tent like theirs, and, in order to disarm suspicion, lives for some

time in their midst without making the least attempt at converting them;

he does not even court their acquaintance, but waits patiently for an

opportunity to draw them towards him; this generally comes in the form of

a sick person whom the stranger offers to help and very frequently cures,

or at least alleviates, cleanliness and the action of pure water often

proving the only remedy required. The patient, in his gratitude, offers

some present, either in money, stuffs, or eatables, which the stranger

with gentle indignation refuses. Then follows some such dialogue as this:

“What! you refuse my thank-offering? Who, then, pays you?”

“God, the true God of the Christians. I have left country and family and

home, and all my heart loves best, for his sake and for his service; do

you think you or any man living can pay me for this?”

“What are you, then?” demands the astonished Arab.

“I am a marabout of Jesus Christ.” And the Mussulman retires in great

wonder as to what sort of a religion it can be whose marabouts take

neither money nor goods for their services. He tells the story to the

neighbors, and by degrees all the sick and maimed of the district come

trooping to the missionary’s door. He tends them with untiring charity.

Nothing disgusts him; the more loathsome the ulcers, the more wretched

the sufferer, the more tenderness he lavishes on them.

Soon his hut is the rendezvous of all those who have ailments or wounds

for miles round; and though they entreat him, sometimes on their knees,

to accept some token of thanks for his services, he remains inexorable,

returning always the same answer: “I serve the God of heaven and earth;

the kings of this world are too poor to pay me.”

He leads this life for fifteen months before taking his vows as a

missionary. When he has bound himself to the heroic apostleship, he is in

due time ordained, if not already a priest, and goes forth, in company

with two other priests, to establish a mission in some given spot of

Sahara or Soodan, these desolated regions being the appointed field of

their labors. The little community follows exactly the same line of

conduct in the beginning of its installation as above described; they

keep strictly aloof until, by dint of disinterestedness and of devotion

and skilful care of the sick, they have disarmed the fierce mistrust

of the “true believers,” and convinced them that they are not civil

functionaries or in any way connected with the government. The Arab’s

horror of everybody and of everything emanating from French headquarters

partakes of the intense character of his fanaticism in religious matters.

By degrees the natives become passionately attached to the foreign

marabouts, who have now to put limits to the gratitude which would invest

them with semi-divine attributes. The great aim of the missionaries is

of course to get possession of the children, so as to form a generation

of future missionaries. Nothing short of this will plant the cross in

Africa, and, while securing the spiritual regeneration of the country,

restore to that luxuriant soil its ancient fertility. Once reconciled

to civilization by Christianity, those two millions of natives, who are

now in a state of chronic suppressed rebellion against their conquerors,

would be disarmed and their energies turned to the cultivation of the

land and the development of its rich resources by means of agricultural

implements and science which the French could impart to them. Nor is it

well to treat with utter contempt the notion of a successful rebellion

in Algeria. At the present moment such an event would be probably

impossible; but there is no reason why it should be so in years hence.

The Arabs are as yet not well provided with arms and ammunition; but they

are making yearly large purchases in this line at Morocco and Tunis,

and the study of European military science is steadily progressing.

The deep-seated hatred of the Mussulmans for the yoke of the stranger

is moreover as intense as in the first days of their bondage; and if

even to-morrow, unprepared as they are materially, the “holy war” were

proclaimed, it would rouse the population to a man. The marabouts would

get upon the minarets, and send forth the call to every son of Mahomet to

arise and fight against the sons of the devil, proclaiming the talismanic

promise of the Koran: “Every true believer who falls in the holy war is

admitted at once into the paradise of Mahomet.” The number who would call

on the prophet to fulfil the promise would no doubt be enormous, and the

French would in all human probability remain masters of the desert; but

a kingdom held on such tenure as this state of feeling involves is at

best but a sorry conquest. If the Gospel had been, we do not even say

enforced, but simply encouraged and zealously taught, by the conquerors,

their position would be a very different one in Algeria now. After all,

there is no diplomatist like holy church. “Our little systems have their

day” and fall to pieces one after another, perishing with the ambitions

and feuds and enthusiasms that gave them birth, and leave the world

pretty much as they found it; but the power of the Gospel grows and

endures and fructifies wherever its divine policy penetrates. No human

legislation, be it ever so wise, can cope with this divine legislator;

none other can take the sting out of defeat, can make the conquerors

loved by the conquered, and turn the chains of captivity from iron to

silk. Even on the lowest ground, in mere self-interest, governments

would do well to constitute themselves the standard-bearers of the

King who rules by love, and subdues the stubborn pride of men by first

winning their hearts. The supremacy of this power of love is nowhere more

strikingly exemplified than amidst these barbarous Arab tribes.

The story of every little dark-eyed waif sheltered at the Orphanage of

S. Charles, lately established outside Algiers, would furnish a volume

in itself; but an incident connected with the admission of one of them,

and related to us a few days ago by a missionary just returned, is so

characteristic that we are tempted to relate it. The archbishop was

making a visitation in the poor villages sixty miles beyond Algiers; the

priest presented to him a miserable-looking little object whose parents

still lived in a neighboring desert tribe, but who had cast off the child

because of its sickliness and their poverty. Could his lordship possibly

get him taken in as an orphan? The thing was not easy; for every spot

was full, and the fact of the parents being still alive militated against

the claim of the little, forlorn creature. But the archbishop’s heart

was touched. He said he would arrange it somehow; let the boy be sent

on to Ben-Aknoun at once. This, however, was easier said than done; who

would take charge of him on such a long journey? His grace’s carriage

(a private conveyance dignified by that name) was at the door. “Put

him in; I will take him,” he said, looking kindly at the small face

with the great dark eyes that were staring wistfully up at him. But the

priest and every one present exclaimed at the idea of this. The Arabs

are proverbial for the amount of _light infantry_ which they carry about

with them in their hair and their rags; and the fact of their presence in

myriads on the person of this little believer was evident to the naked

eye. The archbishop, however, nothing daunted, ordered him to be placed

in the carriage; then, finding no one would obey him, he caught up the

little fellow in his arms, embraced him tenderly amidst the horrified

protestations of the priest and others, carried him to the carriage,

seated him comfortably, and then got in himself and away they drove. A

large crowd had assembled to see the great marabout depart, and stood

looking on the extraordinary scene in amazement. A few days later several

of them came to see the priest, and ask to be instructed in the religion

which works such miracles in the hearts of men, and to offer their

children to be brought up Christians.

This Orphanage of S. Charles is the most precious institution which

Catholic zeal has so far established in Algiers. It comprises a school

for boys, and one for girls conducted by nuns. The description of the

life there sounds like some beautiful old Bible legend. It is a life of

constant privation, toil, and suffering, both for the fathers and for

the sisters; but the results as regards the children are so abundant and

consoling that the missionaries are sometimes moved to exclaim, “Verily,

we have had our reward!”

The full-grown Arab is perhaps as wretched a specimen of unregenerate

human nature as the world can furnish. Every vice seems natural to him,

except gluttony, which he only acquires with the spurious civilization

imported by his conquerors. He is relentless and vindictive; false,

avaricious, cruel, and utterly devoid of any idea of morality; yet the

children of these men and women are like virgin soil on which no evil

seed has ever fallen. Their docility is marvellous, their capacity for

gratitude indescribably touching, and their religious sense deep, lively,

and affective. They accept the teaching of the missionaries and the nuns

as if piety were an inherited instinct in them; and the truths of our

holy faith act upon their minds with the power of seen realities.

One of the fathers told us, as an instance of this, that the children

were allowed to play in the fruit garden once when the trees were in

full bearing; and not a single fig, orange, or any other fruit being

touched, some visitor asked the children in surprise if they never pulled

any when their superiors were not looking; but they answered in evident

astonishment: “Oh! no; God would see us, and he would be angry!” We

quite agreed with the narrator that such a general example of obedience

and self-denial from such a principle might be vainly sought for in

our most carefully-taught schools in Europe and--would it be a calumny

to add?--America. The children also show a spirit of sacrifice that is

very striking, the girls especially. If they are ill and some nauseous

medicine is presented to them, the little things seize the cup with

avidity, and with a word, such as “For thee, dear Jesus!” drain it off at

once. They realize so clearly that every correction imposed on them is

for their good that it is nothing rare to see them go to the presiding

father or sister and ask to be punished when they have committed some

little misdemeanor unobserved. One little mite of six felt very sulky

towards a companion, and, after a short and vain struggle to overcome

herself, she went to the nun and begged to be whipped, “because she

could not make the devil go away.” Their vivid Oriental imaginations

paint all the terrible and beautiful truths of the faith in colors

that have the living glow of visible pictures. They have the tenderest

devotion to our Lord in the Blessed Sacrament, and nothing pleases them

more than to be allowed to spend their hour of recreation in prayer

before the tabernacle. Their sense of gratitude for the blessing of the

faith makes them long with an indescribable yearning to share it with

their people. All their prayers and little sacrifices are offered up

with this intention. Those among them who were old enough to remember

the wretchedness they were rescued from, speak of it continually with

the most touching gratitude to God and their instructors. One of

their greatest pleasures is to count over the good things they have

received from God. A sister overheard two of them one day summing

them up as follows: “He gives us bread and the sunshine and a house;

he has preserved us from dying in the night-time; he prevents the sea

overflowing and drowning us; he has given us monseigneur and our mammas

[the nuns]; he came on earth to teach us to be obedient; he brought us

the Gospel; he has given us the Blessed Virgin to be our mamma, and then

our angels, and then the Holy Father; he forgives us our sins; he has

given us sacraments for our soul and body; he stays always with us in the

chapel; he is keeping our place in heaven; he looks at us when we are

naughty, and that makes us sorry, and then he forgives us.” And so they

go on composing canticles out of their innocent hearts that must make

sweet music in His ears who so loved the little ones.

The deaths of some of these little barbarians are as lovely as any we

read of in the lives of the saints. One of them, who was baptized by

the name of Amelia, has left a memory that will long be cherished in

Ben-Aknoun. She was dying of a lingering, terrible disease; but her

sufferings never once provoked a murmur. She was as gay as a little bird

and as gentle as a lamb; her only longing was to see God. “And what will

you do besides in heaven?” asked one of her companions. “I will walk

about with the angels,” she replied, “and be on the watch to meet our

mammas when they come to the beautiful gates.” In her sleep she used to

pray still; many a time the nuns found her muttering her rosary with

clasped hands while sleeping the sound sleep of a tired child. She fought

against death as long as she could, insisting on getting up and going

to the chapel, where sometimes she would lie exhausted with pain and

weakness on the step of the altar, breathing her prayers softly until

she dropped asleep. Her only fear was lest she should not make her First

Communion before she died; but her extreme youth (she was not quite eight

years old) was compensated for by her ardent piety. They gave her our

Blessed Lord after giving her Extreme Unction. The expression of her

face was seraphic in its joy and peace. All her little companions were

kneeling round her bed, their eyes fixed in admiration on the beaming

countenance of the dying child. One of them, called Anna, who was her

chosen friend, an orphan from a remote desert tribe like herself, drew

near to say good-by. The two children clasped each other in silence; but

when they parted, the tears were streaming down Amelia’s cheeks. “Why did

you make her cry, my child?” whispered the nun to Anna reproachfully. “I

did not do it on purpose,” was the reply. “I only said, ‘O Amelia! you

are too happy; why can’t you take me with you?’ and then we both cried.”

The happy little sufferer lingered on in great pain for another day and

night, constantly kissing her crucifix, thanking those around her for

their kindness and patience.

Towards the evening of the second day the pains grew rapidly worse, and

she entreated to be carried to the chapel, that she might look once more

upon the tabernacle. The nun took her in her arms, and laid her on the

step of the altar, when her sufferings instantly ceased, and she sank

into a sleep which they thought was the last one. She was carried back

and laid on her bed, but soon opened her eyes with a look of ecstatic

joy, and cried out, gazing upwards, “See! how beautifully it shines. And

the music--do you hear? Oh! it is the _Gloria in Excelsis_.” No one heard

anything; only _her_ ears were opened to the heavenly harmonies that were

sounding through the half-open doors of Paradise. She continued listening

with the same rapt expression of delight, and then, clasping her little

hands together, she cried, “Alleluia! alleluia!” and fell back and spoke

no more. She had passed the golden portals; the glories of heaven were

visible to her now.

What wonder if the apostolic souls who reap such harvests as these

count their labors light, and rejoice in the midst of their poverty and

self-imposed martyrdom!

But there are homelier and less pathetic joys in the Orphanage every now

and then than these blessed deaths. When the boys and girls have learnt

all they need learn, and have come to the age when they must leave the

fathers and the nuns, they are perfectly free to return to their native

tribes; and it is a convincing argument in favor of the strength of their

newly-acquired principles and affections that they almost invariably

refuse to do so. The proportion of those who go back to the old life is

one in every hundred. The next thing to be considered is what to do with

those who refuse to go back. The plan of marrying the orphans amongst

each other suggested itself as the most practical method of securing

lasting results from their Christian education. The chief difficulty in

the execution of this plan was the reluctance of the Arab girls to marry

men of their own race; they had learned the privileges which women owe to

Christianity, and they had no mind to forego their dignity and equality,

and sink back into the degraded position of an Arab’s wife. “We will

not marry to be beaten,” they argued. “Find us Frenchmen, and we will

marry them and be good wives.” No doubt they would, but the Frenchmen

unfortunately could not be induced to take this view of the case; and

it required all the influence of their superiors to make the girls

understand that Christianity, in raising woman from the condition of a

slave to that of man’s equal, compels him to respect and cherish her.

The way in which the courtship and marriage proceed between the sons and

daughters of the great marabout (as the archbishop is called) is curious

in its picturesque simplicity.

A band of fifteen couples were lately married from the Orphanage of

Ben-Aknoun. The fathers informed the archbishop they had fifteen

excellent boys who were about to leave, and whom they wished to find

wives for and settle in the nearest Christian village. The archbishop

asked the superior of the girls’ school if she could supply fifteen

maidens who would go and share the humble homes of their brother orphans.

The superior replied that she had precisely the number required--girls

who must leave the shelter of the convent in a few months, and whom she

was most anxious to see provided for. The grapes were ripe, and the

vintage, which was close at hand, would furnish an opportunity for a

meeting between the parties. So one morning, in the cool, sweet dawn,

they set out to the vineyard, the maidens conducted by a sister, the

youths by one of the priests; the latter took one side and culled the

grapes, while at the other side the maidens gathered up the branches

and bound them into bundles. As they went they sang hymns and canticles

to lighten their labor; and when the day’s task was done, they left the

vineyard in two distinct bands, as they had come, and returned to their

separate convents.

“Well,” said Mgr. de la Vigerie to the presiding father next day, “have

the young men chosen each his maiden, and is the choice approved?”

“Alas! monseigneur, they did not even look at each other,” replied the

disconsolate matchmaker. “They never raised their eyes from their work.

Sister C---- and I watched them like lynxes.”

“You have brought up the children too well, my good father,” cried the

archbishop in despair. “What is to be done with them now?”

“Have a little patience, my lord, and it will come in good time,” replied

the father encouragingly.

Next day the two bands of maidens and youths sallied forth again to the

vineyard, and so every day for a week.

Then the father came in triumph to the archbishop to announce the

successful issue of the scheme. One by one the youths had plucked up

courage and peeped through the tendrils of the vine, and, thanks to some

magnetic sympathy, two dark eyes had been simultaneously raised to meet

theirs, and they smiled at each other. A little further on the green

leaves were fluttered by a whisper asking the fair one’s name; she told

it, and another whisper told her his. So the flower blossomed in the

thirty young hearts, and the priest and the sister who watched the gentle

growth looked on delighted.

But what wily diplomatists they are, these holy missionaries! How they

know the human heart, and how cunningly they can play upon it! Not a

word did they say; but, feigning complete blindness to the pretty little

comedy, marshalled the laborers home as if nothing had occurred to change

the still current of their young lives. A month went by, and then, when

the time came for the youths to leave the Orphanage, the father inquired,

with seeming innocence, if they thought of marriage by and by.

The question was evaded at first shyly; then by degrees the confession

came out--they had each determined to marry one of the maidens of the

vineyard. The father threw up his hands in amazement, shook his head, and

expressed grave doubts as to the possibility of their obtaining such a

prize. These maidens were pearls worthy to be set in fine gold; they had

been reared like delicate plants in the shadow of the sanctuary; their

hearts were pure as lilies, guileless as the flowers of the field; they

were strong in faith and adorned with all the virtues. Were poor Arab

youths worthy of such wives? But, brave with the boldness of true love,

the suitors answered in one voice: “We will be worthy; we will work for

them and serve them faithfully; we will love them and be fathers and

mothers to them! Give us the maidens of the vineyard!”

The missionary heaved a sigh, looked mightily perplexed, but promised to

speak to the archbishop and see what could be done. After several solemn

interviews, in which the young men were severely catechised and warned,

and made to pledge themselves to strive with all their might to make the

maidens happy, to treat them reverently, and serve them humbly, the

archbishop undertook to intercede for them. The fair ones, being of the

race of Eve, were a trifle coy at first; but soon the truth was elicited,

and each confessed that, since she needs must marry some one, Ben-Aïssa,

or Hassan, or Scheriff, would be less distasteful than another. So the

great affair was settled, and soon came the day of the weddings. The

archbishop himself was to perform the ceremony.

The fathers and sisters were afoot before sunrise, you may be sure; for

what an event was this! Fifteen Christian marriages celebrated between

the children of this fallen race of idolaters! And now see! the two

processions are approaching the church, the bridegrooms draped in the

native white burnose, with the scarlet turban on their heads; the brides

clad in spotless white, a soft white veil crowned with white flowers

covering them from head to foot. Slowly, with the simple majesty inherent

in their race, they advance to the altar and kneel side by side before

the archbishop, who stands awaiting them, robed in his gala vestments.

He looks down upon the thirty young souls whom his love has brought here

to the foot of the altar--the altar of the true God; thirty souls whom

he has had the unspeakable joy and happiness of rescuing from misery in

this life and--may he not hope?--in the next. He must speak a few words

to them. He tries; but the father’s heart is too full. The tears start to

his eyes and course down those careworn cheeks; he goes from one to the

other, and silently presses his hands on the head of each. The marriage

rite begins; the blessing of the God of Abraham is called down upon this

new seed that has sprung up in the parched land of the patriarch, once

so fertile in saints; the music plays, and songs of rejoicing resound

on every side as the fifteen brides issue from the church with their

bridegrooms.

And now do you care to follow them to their new homes, and to see where

their after-life is cast? The earthly providence which has so tenderly

fostered them thus far follows them still into the wide world where they

have embarked.

The archbishop’s plan from the start was to found Christian villages

in the desert, and to people them with these new Christians educated

by the missionaries. The cost of founding a village, including the

purchase of the land, the building of twenty-five huts, furnishing the

inhabitants with European implements of labor, building a little church

and a house for the fathers and one for the sisters, an enclosure for the

cattle, a well to supply that first element of life and comfort--pure

water in abundance--amounts to forty thousand francs (or say eight

thousand dollars), and this only with the utmost economy. The Society

for the Propagation of the Faith--that glorious institution, to which

Christendom owes a debt that can only be paid in heaven--comes nobly to

the assistance of Mgr. de la Vigerie. He supplies the rest himself out of

the resources of his apostolic heart, so inexhaustible in its ingenious

devices of charity; he prays and begs, and sends his missionaries all

over the world begging.

One of them has lately come over to Paris on that most heroic of

Christian enterprises--a begging tour--and has brought with him a little

black boy from Timbuctoo, who had been bought and sold seven times before

falling into the hands of these new masters for the sum of three hundred

francs. He is not yet ten years old--a mild-faced little fellow, who,

when you ask him in French if he likes the father, answers by a grin too

significant to need further comment, as he turns his ebony face up to

Père B---- and wriggles a little closer to him. Père B---- told us the

child belonged to a man-eating tribe, and turned up the corner of his lip

to show some particular formation of the teeth peculiar to that amiable

race of _gourmands_. He says that the same charming docility which marks

the young Arabs is observable in most of the savage tribes; they are far

more susceptive and easily moulded and impressed than the children of the

civilized races.

The capture and purchase of these unhappy little slaves all along

the coast and in the northern parts of Africa is part of the mission

which brings the fathers the greatest consolation. It is of course

attended with immense risk, sometimes danger even to life; but the human

merchandise which they thus obtain “is worth it all and ten times more,”

the Père B---- declared emphatically, as he dilated on the fervor of

these poor children’s faith and the intensity of their gratitude. The

great and constant want for the carrying on of the mission is--need we

mention it in this XIXth century, when we can scarcely save our own

souls, much less our neighbors’, without it?--money. People say money is

the root of all evil; but really, when one sees what precious immortal

goods it can buy, one is tempted to declare it the root of all good. The

archbishop has recently sent one of his missionaries, the Père C----, to

beg in America, and we are heartily glad to hear it. A French priest,

speaking about begging for good works the other day, said to the writer:

“I wish I could go to America and make the round of the States with my

hat in my hand. They are a delightful people to beg of. Somehow they are

so sympathetic to the Catholic principle embodied in begging for our Lord

that they take all the sting out of it for one; but, oh! what a bitter

cud it is to chew in Europe.” We hope the good father’s experience did

not represent the general one on the latter point, but is well founded

as to the generous spontaneity of our American fellow-Catholics towards

those who have “held out the hat” to them in the name of our blessed

Lord. Sweet bond of charity! how it welds the nations together, casting

its silver nets and drawing all hearts into its meshes! It matters not

whether the fisher come from a near country united to us by ties of blood

or clanship, or from some distant clime where the very face of man is

scarce that of a brother whom we recognize; he comes in the name of our

common Lord, and asks us to help in the saving of souls that cost as

dear to ransom as ours. He may labor sometimes all the night, and take

nothing; but the dawn comes, when he meets Jesus in the persons of those

generous souls who love him and have his interests at heart, and are

always ready to befriend him; and then the net is cast into deep waters,

and the draught is plentiful. Can we fancy a sweeter reward to stimulate

our zeal in helping the divine Mendicant who holds out his hand to us

for an alms than the scene which at this moment many multitudes of these

faithful souls may contemplate in imagination as they have helped to

create it.

A gathering of small, low houses--huts, if you like--set in smiling

patches of garden round a central building whose spire, pointing like

a silent finger to the skies, tells us at once its character and

destination. The time is towards sundown; the bell breaks the stillness

of the desert air, and with its silvery tongue calls the villagers to

prayer. The entire population, old and young, leave their work and

rise obedient to the summons; the children quit their play and troop

on together, while the elders follow with grave steps. The priest is

kneeling before the altar, where the lamp of the sanctuary, like a throb

of the Sacred Heart within the tabernacle, sheds its solemn radiance

in the twilight. The father begins the evening prayer; pardon is asked

for the sins and forgettings of the day, thanks are offered up for its

helps and mercies, blessings are invoked on the family assembled, then

on the benefactors far away. One who assisted at this idyl in the desert

declares that when he heard the officiating priest call down the blessing

of the Most High on “all those dear benefactors whom we do not know,

but who have been kind and charitable to us”; and when the voices of

the Arabs answered in unison, repeating the prayer, he felt his heart

bursting with joy at the thought that he was included amongst those on

whom this blessing was nightly invoked.

The Litany of Our Lady is then sung, and the assistants quietly disperse

and go home. The cattle are lowing in the park. The stars, one by one,

are coming out in the lovely sapphire sky. Angels are flying to many of

the white huts with gifts and messages. Some are speeding afar, eastward

and westward, bearing graces just granted in answer to those grateful

prayers; for who can tell the power of gratitude with God, or his loving

inability to resist its wishes--he who was so lavish in his thanks for

the smallest act of kindness, nay, of courtesy, when he lived amongst us,

and who declared that even a cup of cold water should not go without its

reward?

ORIGIN AND PROGRESS OF THE MISSION OF KENTUCKY.

FROM THE FRENCH.[184]

The Diocese of Bardstown, Kentucky, is a part of that vast extent of

country known in our ancient geographies by the name of Louisiana. It

is situated in the centre of the United States of North America, and is

bounded on the north by the Ohio, on the west by the Mississippi, on the

south by the State of Tennessee, and on the east by Virginia.

When, in 1792, it was admitted into the Union as a State, its population

was about seventy thousand; but it has since then increased tenfold.

About twenty poor Catholic families from Maryland, descendants of the

English colonists, came here to reside in 1785, as then good land could

be procured here almost for nothing.[185]

Their number rapidly increased, and in the year 1788 Father Wheelan, an

Irish Franciscan, was sent to them. As they were then at war with the

natives, and as this was continued until 1795, this missionary, two of

his successors, and the colonists were compelled to cross the hostile

country to arrive at the mission, even on reaching which their lives

were sometimes exposed to imminent dangers. Besides being at a distance

from a priest, they had also to struggle against poverty, heresy, and

vulgar prejudices with regard to the pretended idolatry of Catholics,

etc. Finally, Father Wheelan, at the expiration of two years and a half,

abandoned a post so difficult to hold, without even the satisfaction of

seeing a single chapel built. It was then impossible to find another

missionary to succeed him, and the faithful “were afflicted because they

had no shepherd” (Zach. x. 2). Finally, Holy Orders were conferred in

1793 for the first time in this part of the world, where the Catholics

had but so recently suffered under the penal laws of England. The

illustrious Bishop Carroll, first bishop of Baltimore, there ordained a

priest, M. Badin, from Orleans, whom he then sent to Kentucky. Besides

the difficulties which his predecessor met, the inexperience of the

young ecclesiastic, his slight knowledge of the English language and of

the habits of the country, made his task still more difficult. One can

easily conceive how painful must have been the situation of a novice thus

isolated and deprived of guidance in a ministry the weight of which would

have been burdensome for the angels even, say the holy fathers of the

church.

It is true he started from Baltimore with another French priest who

was invested with the power of vicar-general. But this priest was soon

discouraged by the wandering habits of the people and their style of

life. Four months had scarcely elapsed when he returned to New Orleans.

M. Badin was thus in sole charge of the mission during several years,

which mission, since the conclusion of peace with the savage tribes,

continually increased by the influx of the Catholics who came here in

large numbers from Maryland and other localities.

In addition to the fatigue of travelling, to controversy with

Protestants, to his pastoral solicitude, and to the frequent scruples

of conscience natural to one in a situation so critical, he had to

exert himself still more to form new parishes, prepare ecclesiastical

establishments at suitable distances, and finally to erect churches

or chapels in the different places where the Catholic population

established itself. Nevertheless, by the divine mercy he obtained from

time to time profitable advice through the letters which the charity

of the neighboring priest, who, though at a distance of seventy miles,

found means to write him. M. Rivet, formerly professor of rhetoric in

the College of Limoges, in the year 1795 came to reside as _curé_ and

vicar-general at Post Vincennes, on the Wabash, in Indiana.

But the respective needs of the two missions never permitted them to

cross the desert in order to visit one another or to offer mutual

encouragement and consolation in the Lord. Oh! how much anguish, how many

prayers and tears, arise from such isolation! And did not our divine

Saviour send his disciples in couples to preach the Gospel?--_misit illos

binos_ (S. Luc. x.)

Finally, two priests from the Diocese of Blois--MM. Fournier and

Salmon--came successively, in the years 1797 and 1799, to the rescue of

the pastor and his flock.

Divine Providence rendered useful to Kentucky and to several other

portions of the Diocese of Baltimore the talents and virtues of a great

number of ecclesiastics whom the French Revolution threw on the shores of

America. In the same year, 1799, there arrived a fourth missionary--M.

Thayer, the Presbyterian minister of Boston, who was converted through

the miracles of blessed Labre. At first he ridiculed this humble servant

of God and the miracles which were attributed to him, but afterwards he

investigated them with all the prejudices of a sectarian. He brought

to bear upon them his severest criticism, and finished by becoming a

Catholic at Rome, a priest at Paris, and a missionary in his own country,

where he had formerly propagated error. He found himself forced to write

several English works of controversy, which are lucid and deservedly

appreciated. His conversion, his writings, and his sermons excited either

the interest or the curiosity of all classes of society, and he hoped to

serve the cause of religion in multiplying himself, if one may speak

thus. He travelled over the United States, Canada, and a great part of

Europe, and died, beloved and revered, at Limerick, in Ireland.

The missionaries of Kentucky are obliged to ride on horseback nearly

every day of the year, and to brave often alone the solitude of the

forests, the darkness of night, and the inclemency of the seasons, to

minister to the sick and to visit their congregations on the appointed

days.[186]

Without this exactitude it would be difficult to assemble the families

scattered so far apart. M. Salmon was without doubt an excellent

ecclesiastic, though but a poor horseman. His zeal induced him, on the

9th of November, 1799, to visit a distant parish where he was instructing

a Protestant who has since then embraced the faith.

Being already feeble and just convalescing from a severe illness, a

fall from his horse carried him to the grave in less than thirty-six

hours. The accident happened towards noon at a little distance from a

residence. A servant who found him half-dead in the woods went to solicit

aid, which was denied him by an impious and cruel farmer, simply because

the unfortunate man was a priest. It was only towards night that a good

Catholic of the neighborhood--Mr. Gwynn--was informed of the fact. It

must nevertheless be admitted that this farmer’s revolting conduct is

in nowise American, and can but be attributed to his individual hate

for the true religion. Perhaps, also, he was ignorant of the extremity

to which M. Salmon was reduced. This fatal event, the departure of M.

Thayer for Ireland, and the equally sudden death of M. Fournier in

February, 1803, left M. Badin for about seventeen months in sole charge

of the mission, then consisting of about a thousand families scattered

over a space of from seven to eight hundred square miles. The death

of M. Rivet, which took place in February, 1803, deprived him of the

comforting letters of this friend, who expired almost in the arms of

the governor of the province, whose esteem and affection he enjoyed. At

this unfortunate period the nearest priest was a M. Olivier from Nantes,

an elderly gentleman, who resided at a distance of one hundred and

thirty miles in an Illinois village called Prairie du Rocher. Moreover,

he ministered to Kaskaskia, where the Jesuits had formerly instituted

a novitiate; Cahokia, St. Louis, capital of Missouri, St. Genevieve,

etc., on the banks of the Mississippi. M. Richard, a zealous and pious

Sulpitian, resided at the same distance at Detroit, on Lake St. Clair, in

Michigan.[187]

Finally, there were then but three priests in an extent of country larger

than would be France and Spain if united, and which country constitutes

to-day but one diocese, called Bardstown, formed in 1808 by the reigning

Pope, as will be seen in the sequel.

It is true that the most distant parishes can be visited but seldom, and

it is especially in these instances that the zeal of faith and the fervor

of piety are most evident.

One finds a great many persons who undertake fatiguing trips in order to

fulfil their Christian duties. They are seen at times to spend the night

in church, in order to make sure of having access to the sacred tribunal,

where the missionaries are to be found from early dawn.

They are obliged to say, and sometimes even to chant, Mass at noon, and

occasionally several hours afterwards, in order that all those who are

prepared for the tribunal of Penance may also receive Holy Communion.

Neither the fast, nor the late hour, nor the fatigues of the morning

exempt them from instructing the people; otherwise it would never be

done, as the faithful are assembled but once a day. A sermon, or at least

an impromptu exhortation, on controversy, morals, or the discipline of

the church, is always in order. After divine service there are the dead

to be buried, the children to be baptized, marriages to be performed,

etc., and then the departure for another station, which being reached

the next day, the same services are to be repeated. Often it so happens

that there is not one day of rest during the entire week, especially when

several sick persons who live far apart are to be visited.

While the confessor is occupied with his priestly functions the

catechists instruct the children and the negroes, sing canticles, and

recite the rosary, etc. To in a manner fill the vacancy caused by their

absence, the priests recommended public prayer in families, catechism,

and nightly examination of conscience; Mass prayers, devotions of S.

Bridget, the litanies, spiritual reading on Sundays and feast-days. Pious

persons add to this the rosary, and their devotion to the Blessed Virgin

causes them every day to recite some special prayer in her honor.

The fear of God, respect for the priesthood, or filial piety often causes

good Christians to bend the knee before their fathers and mothers, their

sponsors, and their priests, to ask their blessing after prayer, in the

streets of the city or on the highways. English books on controversy are

being rapidly multiplied, and the majority of the country-people know

how to read them, and there are some persons in every congregation who

really study them in order to render themselves capable of sustaining a

discussion with Protestants.

By this means, as also by their piety and honesty, they assist from

time to time in gaining conversions to the faith. The number of these

good works greatly increased when Providence sent to us, in 1804, a new

missionary, M. Nérinckx, a Flemish priest, who pursued his apostolic

labors unceasingly. He instituted three monasteries, which were of great

benefit in educating poor girls, either Catholics or non-Catholics. These

religious women, who are called Friends of Mary at the Foot of the Cross,

remind us of the days of the primitive church. Their manner of life is

exceedingly laborious; they observe perpetual silence, and are almost

enveloped in their veil.[188]

A short time after M. Nérinckx arrived at the mission he was followed

there by a colony of Trappists, and by two pious and learned English

priests of the Order of S. Dominic. The one, Father Wilson, afterwards

became provincial; and Rev. Father Tuite is at present master of novices.

The Trappists organized a school for gratuitous education, but failed

to find among the poor Catholics of the neighborhood sufficient means

to maintain this charitable institution. Father Urbain Guillet, their

superior, had conceived the idea of rendering himself useful to the

savages by educating their children for them, hoping in this way to

facilitate their conversion.

In pursuance of this idea he formed a new establishment near Cahokia.

These good religious greatly edified the country by their austerity,

their silence, and their good works; but as missions were not the objects

of their order, they returned to France at the Restoration. We must now

speak of the natives, and by so doing gratify the very natural curiosity

of our readers. The majority of the savages believe in the existence,

in the spirituality, and in the unity of God, whom they style the Great

Spirit, the Master of Life, or Kissernanetou. They even appear to believe

somewhat in his providence; they offer him prayers, and sometimes even

sacrifices according to their fashion. Here is an example, which is

authentic, as it was told the author of this work by Gen. Todd, one of

the leading men of Kentucky. A native, annoyed by the extreme drought,

offered his pipe, or wampum, his most valuable article, to the Great

Spirit; then, seated pensively on the banks of a river, he supplicated

him thus: “Kissernanetou! thou knowest how highly the Indian prizes his

wampum; well, then, give us rain, and I will give thee my wampum.” And

as the Indian said this, he threw his pipe in the river, fully persuaded

that the Great Spirit would hear his prayer. They also believe in a

future state, as with their dead they bury their guns or cross-bows to

enable them to hunt in the next world; also their pipe and tobacco, meat,

etc. Those who were instructed by the Jesuits, although deprived of

missionaries for about fifty years, still retain some idea of the true

religion, as will be seen from letters of M. Olivier, from which letters

we will give a few examples; the first, being dated the 16th of May,

1806, is addressed to Father Urbain Guillet; the second, dated the 6th of

August, 1806; and the third, the 15th of March, 1807, were written to M.

Badin:

1. “Among the savage tribes who from the time of the Jesuits (whom they

called Black Gowns) had embraced Christianity and had erected churches in

which the greatest regularity existed, to-day, notwithstanding I am their

pastor, I do nothing but baptize their children, although among those of

Post Vincennes there are some who come to confession; which leads me to

think that you might procure some of their children.

2. “Since the banishment of the Jesuit fathers religion has decreased

by degrees, until now there remain but a few traces which would remind

one of extinct piety. I am not forgetting the desire expressed by Father

Guillet, superior of the Trappists--namely, to have in his community some

of the children of these savages. The chief of the nation, who is at

Kaskaskia, promised to ask his brethren to send some here.

3. “The chief of those at Kaskaskia, in selling his lands to the

government of the United States, required that it should build him a

church; and there is a provision of 300 piastres and 100 piastres to be

paid yearly to the missionary priest for seven years. Can these missions

be revived? The mercy of God is great, etc.…”

Yes, the mercy of God is great, and it may be hoped that Mgr. Dubourg and

his missionaries, who for some years have been living in the vicinity of

the Missouri and the Mississippi, will have all desired success, which

they must undoubtedly obtain if they succeed, as did the Jesuits, in

procuring the assistance of the French government.

The religious of S. Dominic succeeded tolerably well in their

establishments in Kentucky and Ohio.

Father Edward Fenwick, born in Maryland, had become a member of this

order, and professor at the College of Bornheim, in Flanders, where he

had been educated. Upon his return to his native country he spent his

inheritance in founding the Convent of S. Rose and a school which is

situated in Washington County. Two zealous missionaries, Father Fenwick

and his nephew, Father Young, were the first to devote themselves, two

years ago, to preach the faith in the State of Ohio, north of Kentucky,

and three churches have already been built there.[189]

The congregations in the interior are composed of Germans, Irish, and

Americans; but on the lakes that separate the United States from Canada

they are formed of French colonies. In the State and on the right bank of

the Ohio is situated Gallipolis, principal seat of the county of Gallia,

where in 1791 some French colonists tried to establish themselves; but

they were victims of a miserable speculation, and the majority of them

left the country.

MM. Barrières and Badin baptized in this place about forty children in

the year 1793, and then went to Kentucky. The entire village revived at

the sight of these two priests, their fellow-countrymen, at the singing

of the sacred canticles, and the celebration of the Holy Mysteries.

In this part of America entire liberty of conscience and religion are

enjoyed. One does not fear being molested if Christian burial be refused

to those who have lived a scandalous life. On the contrary, it is

expected that such will be the case, as it is the rule of the church;

hence the increased dread of dying without the Last Sacraments. Marriages

according to the Catholic rite are legal, and divorce and polygamy are

unknown among Catholics.

We march in procession around our cemeteries; we erect crosses on them;

we preach in the hotels and other public places, and even in Protestant

churches, for want of chapels, and all the sects come in crowds. During

the Mass they behave in a respectful and attentive manner--some of them

even bring us their children to baptize, and entrust the education of

their daughters to our religious--and sometimes we are greatly astonished

to see non-Catholics undertake to defend our belief. We also meet with

great respect in social life; for the Americans are very fond of the

French, whose politeness and gayety they try to emulate.

They remember with pleasure and gratitude the services they received from

the Martyr-King. Finally, the government of Kentucky has incorporated

or commemorated French names in its institutions; hence we have Bourbon

County, of which Paris is the principal town. We also find a Versailles,

a Louisville, etc. In this last place we built, with the aid of the

Protestants, the beautiful church of S. Louis, King of France.

Having the greatest esteem for learned men, they received the French

priests with generous hospitality, and our bishops are revered by

all sects. M. Carroll, formerly professor of theology among the

Jesuits, bishop and finally archbishop of Baltimore, was one of the

most distinguished men in America, and he was universally beloved and

respected. He was consecrated in England the 15th of August, 1790.

Two years afterwards he convoked a synod in Baltimore, where he was

successful in assembling twenty-five priests. His modesty and his piety

were as much admired as his learning. Finally, by his urbanity and his

inexhaustible charity, he won all hearts, even those of the Protestant

clergy.

His edifying death, mild and patient in the greatest sufferings, took

place the 3d of December, 1815--the day on which the church celebrates

the Feast of S. Francis Xavier, the glory of the Jesuits.

His death caused universal grief in a country where his memory has never

ceased to be venerated. It is incredible how he could have been equal to

all the tasks he had to accomplish, besides all the mental labor that

fell to his share. He afterwards obtained from the Holy See a coadjutor,

M. Neale, like himself an American and an ex-Jesuit. His Diocese embraced

all the United States; and he was, moreover, administrator of the diocese

of New Orleans. Our Holy Father, the Pope, has since then been entreated

to create four new bishoprics--namely, Philadelphia, New York, Boston and

Bardstown.[190]

M. Flaget, a Sulpitian, arrived in America with MM. David and Badin

in the year 1792, and was appointed to this last-named bishopric. His

humility was alarmed. He thought he neither possessed the talent nor the

other qualifications necessary to fill so high a position; and for two

years he persisted in his refusal, but he was finally obliged to submit

to the express mandate of the Pope, and undertook the task, for which he

was evidently destined by divine Providence. He is doubtless the poorest

prelate of the Christian world, but he is none the less zealous and

disinterested.

“Blessed is the rich man that is found without blemish; and that hath not

gone after gold, nor put his trust in money, nor in treasures. Who is he,

and we will praise him? for he hath done wonderful things in his life”

(Ecclesiasticus xxxi. 8, 9).[191]

In a limited number of years he founded so many institutions, undertook

so many voyages, underwent so much fatigue, both of mind and body, and

succeeded so well in all his projects for extending the kingdom of Jesus

Christ, that we must attribute his success and the diffusion of religion

to the special blessing of God which accompanied him unceasingly. M.

David, superior of the seminary, consecrated bishop-coadjutor the 15th

of August, 1819, co-operated with him in his good works: in the founding

of the seminary, which has already produced eight or ten priests; in the

founding of several convents for the Sisters of S. Vincent de Paul; in

the building of the cathedral of Bardstown, etc.[192]

It is in this little village, situated in the centre of the country, that

the episcopal seat has been fixed. The smallest seed becomes a large

tree, said our Saviour in the Gospel. This diocese embraces six large

States--Tennessee, Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, and Illinois.[193]

In all this country, where the population, the sciences and the arts,

agriculture and commerce, have in the last twenty years progressed

wonderfully, fifty years ago could be seen dense forests and limitless

prairies, inhabited only by wild beasts or scattered Indian tribes. But

there are to-day in this diocese twenty-five priests, seven convents, two

seminaries or colleges, thirty-five churches or chapels,[194] and about

forty thousand Catholics out of a population of two million inhabitants

of all denominations.

In all these States priests and churches are found except in Tennessee,

which, owing to its great distance and other drawbacks, has been visited

but four times by the oldest missionary in Kentucky. He gathered

together a little flock at Knoxville, the capital. With regard to this

place may these words of the prophet be fulfilled: “I will whistle for

them and gather them together; I have redeemed them; and I will multiply

them as they were multiplied before. And I will sow them among peoples,

and from afar they shall remember me.” The bishop has been trying to

establish a free school for the poor Catholics who have not made their

First Communion. Half of their time is employed in cultivating the ground

to defray their expenses, and the other half is devoted to reading,

writing, and instructions in Christian doctrine. With fifty such schools

we could renovate the entire diocese, and gather into the fold a great

many souls which otherwise would be deprived of the means of salvation.

Thus it is evident that what has been done is nothing in comparison

with what remains to be done. Our institutions, besides the incidental

and the daily expenses of the sanctuary, the voyage, etc., cost more

than 300,000 francs; and the bishop, who receives but 600 francs of

ecclesiastical revenue, owes more than 25,000 for his cathedral, which is

not yet finished, much less decorated. Unforeseen events precluded the

possibility of the subscribers making their payments; and if to-day they

were forced to do so according to the rigor of the law, it would be of

material injury to religion, and would produce the most baneful effect

on the minds and the hearts of both Catholics and Protestants, who are

also subscribers. The church in Kentucky owns some land, to be sure; but

to clear this land, and then to cultivate it, laborers are lacking, and

consequently this uncultivated property produces no revenue. The majority

of the students, both at the seminary and the monastery, pay no board.

The missionaries receive no assistance from the state; they are entirely

dependent on their parishioners, who often do not even defray their

travelling expenses, and perquisites are unheard of.

The spirit of religion obliges us to make a great many sacrifices and to

endure innumerable privations to avoid being considered avaricious, and

frequently it is necessary to make presents. Sometimes they ask us for

prayer-books or books of controversy, sometimes for catechisms, rosaries,

etc., etc. Moreover, when the necessary expenses for the support of two

or three hundred persons[195] are calculated and contrasted with our

limited resources, that they suffice seems incredible; and the mystery

thereof can only be solved by referring it to that infinite Providence

which feeds the birds of the air and gives to the lilies of the valley a

glory more dazzling than that of Solomon.

This paternal Providence, after having accomplished such wonders, will

not abandon us in our present distress. After making use of his ministers

as means of operation, he will also inspire religious souls with the

desire to co-operate in these good works, and crown his gifts in crowning

the merits of their charity.

The writer of this notice was a witness to the greater number of events

he relates--“Quod vidimus et audivimus, hoc annuntiamus vobis” (1 Joan.

i.) After working twenty-five years in this mission, he returned to

France to take a little rest and to solicit aid from his countrymen,

according to the instructions of his bishop. Although weakened by a

serious illness which he had undergone the preceding fall, and which

nearly exhausted his means, he proposed, together with M. Chabrat, a

missionary from the same country, to recross the ocean and undertake

a journey of nearly four hundred miles to reach Kentucky, where his

services are still required.

If some ecclesiastics felt themselves called to accompany him to America,

they will doubtless be persuaded from the perusal of this truthful

narrative that they will also have to travel the way of the cross,

which we know to be the way to heaven. It will also be expedient that

they procure all the books according to the ritual of Rome; theological

and Biblical works in French, English, and Latin; chalices, ciboriums,

crucifixes, vestments and church ornaments, altar pictures--in fact,

everything relating to divine service. Surely they will be assisted

through the piety of their friends and acquaintances. How many persons in

France possess ecclesiastical or theological works which are not printed

in America, as also sacred ornaments which are of no use to them; whereas

these articles could be employed in so useful and so holy a manner in

these new missions, which are in need of everything and possess nothing!

We hope through the charity of pious and wealthy souls that they will

generously offer to the service of God this small portion of the gifts

they have received from him in abundance. Faith teaches us that he will

not allow himself to be outdone in generosity, and what they sacrifice to

his glory will be returned a hundred-fold. As for us, our gratitude will

cause us to recommend our benefactors to the prayers of the missionaries,

of the religious orders, and of the laity who are thus benefited; and

we promise to celebrate a solemn Mass of thanksgiving, to which we will

invite all good Christians, to whom we will suggest a general Communion

to be offered to God for the same intention.

S. T. BADIN,

_American Missionary_.

PARIS, February 7, 1821, Seminary of S. Nicholas, Rue S. Victor.

_Extract of a letter from Bishop Flaget to Father Badin._

ST. ETIENNE, February 19, 1820.

BELOVED COLABORER: Probably this letter, written from a place with which

you are familiar, and to which you are doubtless attached, will be handed

you by Father Chabrat. I earnestly desired to be in Kentucky at the time

of your departure; that which I have often said to you I repeat to-day--I

have always felt strongly inclined to love you; let us love one another

as brothers.

I will give you none of the diocesan details; Father Chabrat knows them

as well as I do, and he will be greatly pleased to answer your numerous

questions. The departure of this young man, that of Father Nérinckx,

and yours cause a great void in my diocese, and leave a burden which

would certainly overpower me if God, who has sustained me so far, did

not continue to shower his favors upon me. I still feel all the vigor of

youth to buckle on my armor. I am to take charge of Father Nérinckx’s

_religieuses_, who to-day form quite a little congregation. My coadjutor

will give his attention to the senior seminary and to the college, which

I am to open to-morrow.

MM. Dérigaud and Coomes direct the junior seminary and the parish of St.

Thomas, and their success astonishes every one. M. Abell is causing the

“Barrens” to prosper. Thus, my dear friend, will the diocese be managed

during your absence, while you, I hope, will make collections for our

poor parishes, which are in great want. I am going to re-employ your

brother, who is as pious and studious as ever, at the senior seminary

in Bardstown. I earnestly desire to see him a priest, and I am sure

that he is sufficiently informed either to direct the children in the

boys’ school or to take charge of Father Nérinckx’ _religieuses_. Bishop

Dubourg is endeavoring to have a bishop assigned to New Orleans, another

to Detroit, and a third to Cincinnati. If he succeeds, I will have less

extent of country to traverse, and as many opportunities as I now have of

making priests.

Thus the prospects of my diocese are daily becoming more promising.

Hasten to return; for God has not bestowed upon you so perfect a

knowledge of the language and habits of this country to no purpose.

Accept, I beg of you, sentiments of the most sincere friendship.

BENOÎT-JOSEPH, _Bishop of Bardstown_.

BLESSED NICHOLAS VON DER FLÜE.

Of the many beautiful views from the Rigi, none seemed so determined to

imprint itself on our memories during our stay at Kaltbad as that looking

up the Valley of Sarnen. At whatever hour we wandered to the Känzli,

early or late, in bright weather or in dull, it was all the same. Somehow

the sun was always lighting up the valley; either resting placidly on

its velvety pastures, shining broadly over its small lake, and making

it glitter like a brilliant dewdrop amidst the encircling verdure, or,

at the very least, darting shy gleams across its waters from behind the

clouds which lowered on all else around. The lake of Zug was much nearer

to us, lying right beneath one angle of the Rigi; but it had not the

like powers of fascination. Moreover, we noticed that exactly in the

same degree that Sarnen attracted the sun Zug seemed to repel it. At all

events, the lasting remembrance of Zug is dark, bleak, and unfriendly;

that of Sarnen, on the contrary, peaceful and sunny. It seemed, too, as

though it were tenderly watched over by all its neighbors. Mt. Pilatus

guards the entrance to it from Lucerne, hills enclose the valley on three

sides, while above and beyond, as seen from Kaltbad, rise those giants of

the Oberland which give such sublimity to these scenes, and enhance their

beauty by the constant variety of their aspect.

Undoubtedly the associations connected with Sarnen had something to do

with our love for it. In the village of Sachslen, on the borders of its

lake, Blessed Nicholas von der Flüe was born and lived, and there his

remains are now preserved.

And here, behind this promontory of the Bürgenstock, just opposite

the Känzli, lies Stanz, the capital of Nidwalden--as this division of

Unterwalden is now called--whither Blessed Nicholas hurried, and, by his

influence with the Assembly, succeeded in saving his country from civil

war.

A visit to Sachslen held a special place in the programme sketched out

for us by Herr H----. There were some days, too, still to spare before

the feast at Einsiedeln on the 14th; so we determined to lose no further

time in making our pilgrimage to “Bruder Klaus,” as my Weggis guide and

all the people hereabouts affectionately call him.

It was easy to trace the route when standing at the Känzli, and to

perceive that, by crossing over to Buochs, we might drive thence to

Sachslen. Dismissing, therefore, all fears of the railway descent from

our minds, we started by the eleven o’clock train from Kaltbad, which it

cost us many a pang to leave, with its dear little church, its lovely

views, and its bright, invigorating air. Crossing then in the steamer

from Vitznau to Buochs, we speedily engaged carriages to take us to

Sachslen, and to bring us back from thence on the following day.

Our road led through Stanz, the home of Arnold von Winkelried, where we

lingered long, although determined not to visit the Rathhaus until our

return from the sanctuary of its hero. But we had two statues of Arnold

to admire--one, in fact, a handsome white marble group commemorating his

noble feat at Sempach, and erected by national subscription--to catch

a view of Winkelried’s house in a distant meadow; to see in the church

statues of “Bruder Klaus” and Konrad Scheuber--who also led a solitary

life of holiness in the Engelberg valley close by, and whose highest

honor it was to call himself the “Daughter’s Son” of the great hermit--to

read the tablet in the mortuary chapel in memory of the four hundred

and fourteen priests, women, and children who had fallen victims to

the French soldiery in 1798; and to hear tales of the desolation their

unbridled vengeance caused all this country. Pretty Stanz! now looking

so happy, smiling, and prosperous that it is difficult to realize it

ever could have been laid in ashes some seventy years ago. No district

in Switzerland is more fruitful at present; cultivated like a garden,

dotted over with fine timber, and making a beautiful picture backed by

the Engelberg line of mountains stretching away behind.

An avenue of stately walnut-trees leads to the little port of Stanzstadt,

and on the way we passed the chapel of Winkelried, where an annual fête

is held, and close to which the bodies of eighteen women were found,

after the fight in 1798, lying beside those of their fathers, husbands,

and brothers--so completely had it then become a war _à outrance_, in

defence of hearths and homes.

From Stanzstadt the road turned abruptly westward, at first along

the edge of the small lake of Alpnach, the ruins of Rossberg Castle

perceptible on the opposite shore--the first Austrian stronghold taken by

the Rütli confederates on the memorable New Year’s morning of 1308.

Thence the hills grew lower and the landscape more pastoral than

Alpine, until we reached Sarnen, above which formerly rose the castle

of Landenberg, the famous imperial vogt who put out the eyes of old

Anderbalben, of the Melchthal, in punishment for his son’s misdemeanors

when the latter evaded his pursuit. This barbarous act was the immediate

cause of the Rütli uprising; but, like all the others, the castle was

taken by surprise, and Landenberg’s life was spared. The terrace where it

stood is still called the Landenberg, and there the cantonal assembly has

annually met since 1646. Of this spot it is that Wordsworth speaks in his

desultory stanzas:

“Ne’er shall ye disgrace

Your noble birthright, ye that occupy

Your council-seats beneath the open sky

On Sarnen’s mount; there judge of fit and right,

In simple democratic majesty;

Soft breezes fanning your rough brows, the might

And purity of nature spread before your sight.”

The panorama thence is said to be magnificent, and it was easy to

conceive it all-inspiring to a patriotic orator; but the evening had

closed in before we crossed the Sarnen bridge, and it was hopeless to

attempt the ascent thither.

Whilst Mrs. C---- was inquiring about rooms we hastened to a church near

where a bell had been tolling as we entered the town. “Only a chapel,”

answered an old woman; “for the Blessed Sacrament is not kept there.” But

the “chapel” contained the cheering sight of troops of children saying

their night prayers aloud, headed by some of their elders. The inn is a

modest, clean establishment, but in any case it would have been dear to

us, all the rooms being full of pictures of “Bruder Klaus” and of every

incident in his life. Herr H---- had said that “no house in Obwalden

is without his picture,” and this quick fulfilment of our expectations

enchanted us. Instantly we stormed the _Kellnerinns_ with questions; but,

alas! they were Bernese maidens, and, whether from prejudice or stolid

ignorance, they only gave us the old stereotyped answer that “they were

‘Reformed,’ from the other side of the Bruning pass, and knew nothing,

nor ever inquired about such matters.”

Accustomed as we had been of late to the large tourist hotels, everything

seemed preternaturally quiet, when suddenly, late that evening, a deep

voice sounded in the distance, advancing steadily onwards. We had

scarcely time to reflect on this singular intrusion on the peaceful

village when it became evident that it was that mediæval institution,

“the watchman going his rounds,” which none of us ever before had an

opportunity of becoming acquainted with; and as he came along the streets

he distinctly sang:

“The clock has struck ten;

Put out fire and light,

Pray God and his Mother

To save and protect us!”

And constantly during the night the same appealing voice returned, merely

changing the hour as time ran on.

Next morning the sun again befriended us, and Mass was “at the convent

hard by,” said our hostess--“the convent of Benedictines, who teach all

our girls.” And she said truly; for not only did we find their chapel

crowded by the villagers, men, women, and children, while the nuns’

choir was hidden behind the altar, but High Mass was being sung at that

early hour of half-past seven, with exposition of the Blessed Sacrament,

ending by Benediction. Mr. C---- and George visited the Rathhaus and

its portraits; but we were in feverish haste to get on to Sachslen,

“two miles off,” said a peasant woman we accosted on the road, and who

also said she was on her way thither to pray at the shrine of “Bruder

Klaus.” Immediately after breakfast, therefore, taking leave of our

comely hostess and of this capital of Obwalden, still so primitively

good, although in the close vicinity of the “great world,” and feeling

an increased aversion to the Bernese maidens, whose spirit is unmoved by

things supernatural, we drove along the flat borders of the Sarnen lake,

caught sight of the Rigi and its Känzli, and in less than half an hour

found ourselves at Sachslen.

This village is very small, but at once tells its own tale; for the

church stands, according to the fashion of “holy places,” in a large

open space surrounded by good-sized houses, that serve as inns and

resting-places for the crowds of pilgrims who flock here at stated

periods. Now all was quiet and the church nearly empty; the Masses

of the day--unfortunately for us--were long since over. After paying

our visit to the Blessed Sacrament we wandered through the edifice,

admiring its size and beauty, but unable to discover any sign of the

shrine whose fame had brought us hither. At length George succeeded

in finding the sacristan, a wrinkled, toothless octogenarian, who, as

far as looks went, seemed quite ancient enough to have been himself a

contemporary of “Bruder Klaus.” His German, too, was so intensely local,

and consequently, to us, obscure, that we had the utmost difficulty

in understanding him. But he pointed to the altar in the centre with

an inscription in golden letters on its black marble frontal. And

certainly it was worth looking at; for a more remarkable specimen of

phonetic spelling is seldom to be found, exactly following the local

dialect, even in its total disregard of grammar. On the other hand, this

earnest simplicity in such strange contrast to the refined material that

perpetuates it is deeply touching and in perfect keeping with everything

connected with Blessed Nicholas and this pious people. It ran thus:

“Allhier Buwet die gebein des Seeligen

Bruder Claus von Flüe--dahero gesetzt da

Man die Kirche gebüwet anno 1679.”[196]

As soon as the aged sacristan felt satisfied that we had read the lines,

without another word he drew back the picture over the altar as he

might a curtain, and disclosed “Bruder Klaus” himself confronting us!

Never shall I forget the thrilling sensation of beholding the hermit’s

skeleton in kneeling posture right above the tabernacle and facing the

congregation, clothed in his coarse habit, his hands clasped in prayer,

the cavity of his eyes filled by two large emeralds, his nose by one

enormous long, yellow topaz, while in the centre of the ribs, near

his heart, hung a large jewelled cross, and round his neck a number

of military orders. It was startling! We had expected from the word

“gesetzt” to find him reposing in a shrine, and should have preferred, it

must be confessed, to have seen more refinement and delicacy shown in

the use of those precious stones as ornamentation. But were they not the

precious stones of simple, firm faith and true love of God? This peasant

population never had any pretension to “high art or learning.” Blessed

Nicholas himself had naught but the refinement of that exalted piety

which in itself transcends even the highest flights of human culture, and

is, after all, the “one thing needful.” With such thoughts to guide us

we could only admire and respect the desire, albeit crudely expressed,

to show reverence to one whose own simple nature despised those “earthly

treasures.” His countrymen, however, had that deep “art and learning”

which taught them to appreciate Blessed Nicholas’ devotion to the

Blessed Sacrament; for they could think of no resting-place more dear

to him than that close to the dwelling of his Lord. Tender piety, too,

prompted the offerings; but no votive tablets recorded their stories,

as in the little church at Kaltbad, and we longed in vain to know their

histories. The orders alone, we discovered, had been won in different

countries by his descendants, and have been offered up by them, as well

as various swords and trophies by other Unterwaldeners, in thanksgiving

for the prayers and protection of the saintly hermit. A striking example

of the enduring value of a noble, self-denying, God-fearing character

it is thus to see the aid of this simple peasant still sought and the

influence of his memory so powerful on the minds and better natures even

of this material age. It was impossible not to pray that he may now more

than ever watch over his beloved fellow-countrymen, and obtain for them

that steadfastness in their faith and principles which they so sorely

need during the terrible struggle they are now passing through. There is

little else belonging to Blessed Nicholas to be seen--for was he not a

hermit, and the poorest of saints?--but in a case near the wall the old

clerk displayed his rosary and another habit, which we liked to fancy

might have been made from the piece of stuff presented to him by the town

of Freyburg after his successful intervention at the diet of Stanz.

Our thoughts now turned to his hermitage at Ranft, but only to meet with

severe disappointment. It was too far for “ladies to walk,” said every

one, and no horses could be had without previous orders, of which no one

had once thought. Had we only slept here, instead of stopping at Sarnen,

all would have been easy, and we should, moreover, have been able to have

heard Mass at the shrine. The “Engel” of Sachslen was larger than, though

scarcely so inviting as, the “Golden Eagle” of Sarnen, yet he would at

least have watched over our spiritual interests; and “when one undertakes

a pilgrimage,” exclaimed George, “ladies should despise comforts.”

“It was Herr H----’s plan,” retorted Caroline, determined that we should

not be blamed, “and _we_ should not be ungrateful; for remember that he

had also to think of us Protestants! All we can now do is to warn other

pilgrims, and advise them to come on here straight.”

It was provoking beyond measure to be thus deprived by mismanagement of

this point in our visit. But Mr. C---- and George were determined not

to give it up; they would go on foot, and report all to us, if only

we would wait patiently for a few hours. Where was the use of further

grumbling? Like good children, we cried out, “What can’t be cured must be

endured,” and, summoning all the piety we could command to our aid, we

offered up the disappointment in the spirit of true pilgrims in honor of

“Bruder Klaus,” and bade our friends “God speed” and depart.

Anna and the two young ladies, soon discovering pretty points of

view, settled themselves to sketch, while Mrs. C---- and I took a

ramble through the village. Though without any pretension to an Alpine

character, none is more genuinely Swiss than Sachslen. Leaving the

square, we wandered among the detached houses, scattered here and there

in the most capricious manner on the slope of a hill that rises gently

behind, and which, dotted with timber throughout its fresh pastures,

forms a most beautiful background to the picture. The wood-work,

delicately, nay elaborately, carved, the windows glazed in many instances

with bull’s-eye glass, the low rooms with heavy cross-beams, are all many

centuries old, perhaps from the very days of Blessed Nicholas; but beyond

all doubt the “Holy Cross,” “Engel,” and other hostelries, of which the

place is chiefly composed, owe their origin to his memory. Photographs

of the church and the hermitage hung in the window of the “library” of

the village, which was opened for us, after some delay, by an active,

tidy matron. “These are quiet days and few purchasers,” she said in an

apologetic tone. “But the ladies would find it very different on feast

days; on the 21st of March above all. Then ten and twelve thousand

people often come from all quarters; every house far and near is full,

stalls are erected in the square, and the church is crowded from morning

till night. This is the _Litany_ chanted during the processions,” she

added, handing us a small book, which also contained “Prayers by Brother

Klaus,” collected from old writings by a priest. Nothing could be more

beautiful or simple than the latter; but the _Litany_ in particular

was a pre-eminently striking composition, every sentence showing that

remarkable union of patriotism and piety which runs through the whole

being of every Swiss Catholic. It begins by invoking the hermit, simply

as “Blessed Brother Klaus,” to “Pray for us,” and, going on through every

phase of his life, implores his intercession in a more emphatic manner

wherever his love of country or of justice had been most conspicuous.

And here it must be remembered that Blessed Nicholas has as yet only

been beatified. Hence those who style him “saint” transgress the proper

limits, which are never forgotten by the Swiss themselves. For this

reason it is that in no prayer is he ever addressed except as “Blessed

Nicholas,” and in popular parlance ranks no higher than their “dear

Bruder Klaus.” But that he may some day be canonized is the fond hope of

every Swiss Catholic, and one, it is said, which can be justified by many

miracles.

Mrs. C---- and I carried off the _Litany_, etc., and, sitting down on a

bench near the church, drew out other books we had with us, determined to

refresh our memories regarding this great servant of our Lord.

Of these, two small documents, written during his lifetime, are the most

interesting. One is a _Memoir_ by John von Waldheim, a gentleman from

Halle in Germany, giving an account of his visit to Brother Nicholas

in February, 1474, and found in the Wolfenbüttel Library; the other

a similar report of his pilgrimage to the Hermit of Ranft, addressed

to the clergy and magistrates of the town of Nuremberg, by Albert von

Bonstetten, canon of Einsiedeln, whom the historian, J. von Müller, calls

“the most learned Swiss of his age,” and found in the archives of the

town of Nuremberg in 1861, and wherein he states that, “as so many fables

had been circulated about the hermit, he felt convinced they would be

glad to know what he had himself seen.” Other contemporaries also allude

to their visits; but these two, though short, bear such internal evidence

of truth in the quaint freshness of their style and language, place

us so completely face to face with all concerned, give such a picture

of Blessed Nicholas’ humility and unsophisticated nature, and such an

insight into the habits of thought of that period, that no others equal

them, and we can only regret that space does not permit of more than

merely a passing quotation.

All authorities agree that Blessed Nicholas was born in this then obscure

hamlet on March 21, 1417. Zschokke, however, alone mentions that his

family name was Löwenbrugger--a fact ignored by others, so completely

had “Von der Flüe,” or “of the Rocks,” become his own, even during his

lifetime. Yet all his biographers begin by explaining that this cognomen

“came from his living at the rocks of Ranft.” Bonstetten also naïvely

asks “how any inhabitant of this region can avoid coming into the world

except under some one rock or another.” His parents were very poor,

and Nicholas labored hard, in the fields especially, from his tenderest

years. Grown to manhood, he married young, had ten children, and became

distinguished above his fellows, in his public and private capacity, as

“a model son, husband, father, and citizen.” He even served as soldier,

like others, in the Thurgau war, where he was equally noted for deeds

of valor and for compassion towards the sick and wounded. So high was

his reputation amongst his neighbors that they several times elected

him Landamman and resorted to him as arbitrator in their disputes.

“The virtues he displayed to all around him,” writes Bonstetten, “were

quite marvellous. For a long time he continued to lead this honorable

existence, considerate, affectionate, true to every one, importunate to

none.” At length a yearning for greater perfection became stronger than

all else, and at fifty years of age he determined to seek for closer

union with his Lord. Several of his children were already married and

settled in the neighborhood. To those that remained and to his wife he

handed over the house that he had built and the fields he had cultivated

from early youth upwards, and, taking leave of his family and of all that

he held most dear, he left his home for ever. Von Waldheim states that he

at first intended merely to wander as a pilgrim from one holy place to

another, but that, “on reaching Basel, he had a revelation, which made

him choose a hermit’s life in preference, and in consequence of which he

turned back to Unterwalden and to his own house. He did not, however,

allow himself to be seen by wife, children, or any one, but, passing the

night in his stables, he started again at dawn, penetrated for about a

quarter of a mile into the forest behind Sachslen, gathered some branches

of trees, roofed them with leaves, and there took up his abode.” At all

events, it was in this spot, known as “the solitude of Ranft,” at the

opening of the Melchthal, that he passed the remaining twenty years of

his saintly life.

But although _he_ had withdrawn from the world, that world soon followed

him. Before long the fame of his sanctity spread abroad; above all,

rumors were circulated that he never tasted earthly food, and that

his life was sustained solely by the Blessed Eucharist, which some

authorities say he received once a month, others on every Friday. This

celestial favor, however, was at first the cause of great suffering to

Blessed Nicholas. Calumnies were heaped upon him, insults offered. Still,

he remained impassive, taking no heed of men. Some would not doubt him.

“Why should they suppose that a man who had so long lived amongst them,

whose honor had been so well tried and recognized, and who had abandoned

the world merely to lead a hard life in the desert, would now try to

deceive them?” But others declared that he only wanted to impose on the

vulgar, and that he had food brought to him secretly. “What did the

landamman and elders do,” says Bonstetten, “in order to prevent their

being accused of playing the part of dupes? They selected trusty men,

made them take an oath to speak the truth, and placed them as guards

round the hermitage, to watch whether food was brought to Nicholas from

any quarter, or whether he procured any for himself.” For a whole month

this severe surveillance was maintained; but in the end it only proved in

a most convincing manner that the hermit neither ate nor drank anything

except that nourishment with which our Lord himself provided him. Two

Protestant writers, J. von Müller and Bullinger, give details of this

inquiry, of which they raise no doubt; and some years after it took

place, during the lifetime of Blessed Nicholas, the following entry was

made in the public archives of Sachslen:

“Be it known to all Christians, that in the year 1417 was

born at Sachslen, Nicholas von der Flüe; that, brought up in

the same parish, he quitted father, mother, brother, wife,

and children to come to live in the solitude called Ranft;

that there he has been sustained by the aid of God, without

taking any food, for the last eighteen years, enjoying all his

faculties at this moment of our writing, and leading a most

holy life. This we have ourselves seen, and this we here affirm

in all truth. Let us, then, pray the Lord to give him eternal

life whenever he shall deign to call him from this world.”

As a natural consequence of this investigation, a strong reaction at once

occurred. The villagers built him a chapel with a cell adjoining, and

soon the Bishop of Constance came to consecrate it.

But the bishop was also determined to test the fact of his total

abstinence, and ordered him to eat in his presence. Various are the

versions concerning this event, the majority asserting that Blessed

Nicholas was seized with convulsions the instant he swallowed the

first mouthful. But J. von Waldheim, who seems to have experienced no

difficulty in asking direct questions, gives us the hermit’s own words on

the subject, brimful of truthfulness and humility. After stating that

he had been entertaining Nicholas by an account of his own pilgrimages

to holy places, and amongst others to the sanctuary of Blessed Mary

Magdalen, in whose honor the Ranft chapel was dedicated, and having

brought tears into the eyes of the venerable hermit by the beautiful

legends regarding her which he told him, Waldheim proceeds:

“I said: ‘Dear Brother Nicholas! in my own country, as well as

here, I have heard it maintained that you have neither eaten

nor drunk anything for many years past. What may I believe?’

‘God knows it!’ he answered, and then continued: ‘Certain folk

asserted that the life I lead proceeds not from God, but from

the evil spirit. In consequence my Lord the Bishop of Constance

blessed three pieces of bread and a drop of wine, and then

presented them to me. If I could eat or drink, he thought I

should be justified; if not, there could no longer be any doubt

that I was under the influence of the devil. Then my Lord the

Bishop of Constance asked me what thing I considered the most

estimable and meritorious in Christianity. ‘Holy obedience,’ I

answered. Then he replied: ‘If obedience be the most estimable

and meritorious thing, then I command you, in the name of

that holy virtue, to eat these three pieces of bread and to

drink this wine.’ I besought my lord to dispense me from this,

because this act would grieve me to excess. I implored him

several times, but he continued inflexible, and I was obliged

to obey, to eat and to drink.’ I then asked Brother Nicholas,”

continued Waldheim: ‘And since that time you have neither eaten

nor drunk any thing?’ But I could extract no other answer from

him save the three words, ‘God knows it.’”

Numberless were the reports concerning his mysterious ways. He often went

to Einsiedeln, yet it was said that no one ever met him on the road!

“How does he get there?” asks Waldheim. “God alone knows.” His

appearance, too, was said to be unearthly.

Waldheim had heard, too, that his body was emaciated and devoid of

natural warmth, his hands icy, and his aspect like that of a corpse. He

lays particular stress, therefore, on the fact that Nicholas possessed a

natural bodily heat, like any other man, “in his hands especially, which

I and my valet Kunz touched several times. His complexion was neither

yellow nor pale, but that of one in excellent health; his humor pleasant,

his conversation, acts, and gestures those of an affable, communicative,

sociable, gay being looking at every thing from the bright side. His hair

is brown, his features regular, his skin good, his face thin, his figure

straight and slight, his German agreeable to listen to.”

A few years later Père Bonstetten heightens this picture by a minuteness

that rivals the _signalements_ of old-fashioned passports. He describes

Brother Nicholas as being “of fine stature, extremely thin, and of a

brown complexion, covered with freckles; his dark hair tinged with gray,

and, though not abundant, falling in disorder on his shoulders; his beard

in like manner, and about an inch long; his eyes not remarkable, except

that the white is in due proportion; his teeth white and regular; and his

nose in harmony with the rest of his face.”

And as we read this clear description, Mrs. C---- and I could not

help regretting that posterity had not been satisfied with such a

recollection, without having endeavored by emeralds and precious stones

to fill up the voids which nature had since created; but when the motives

had been so pure and loving, it was not for us to find fault with the

manner of their reverence, nor do more than admire its earnestness and

simplicity.

There seems to have been a certain difficulty in obtaining admittance

to the hermit; for even Père Bonstetten had to be introduced by the

landamman, and Von Waldheim took with him the Curé of Kerns. Brother

Nicholas, it must be remembered, though an anchorite, was still not

ordained; hence a priest was to him always a welcome visitor. His family,

too, seem at all times to have had free access to him. Both writers

commenced their visits by hearing Mass in his little chapel, where

Brother Nicholas knelt behind a grating; but after their introduction he

let them into his adjoining cell. Here he impressed them deeply by his

humility, politeness, and gentleness, and both remark his sweet-toned

voice and his kindliness in shaking hands with every one, “not forgetting

a single person.” Père Bonstetten, more than Waldheim, seems to have

retained his self-possession; for he says: “I kept my eyes wide open,

looking right and left around the room, attentively considering

everything. The cell was not half warm. It had two small windows, but no

sleeping place, unless a raised portion at one end may be used for that

purpose.” Nor could he see a table, nor furniture of any kind, nor sign

even of a mattress on which this servant of God could ever repose. But

he dwells with emphasis on his simplicity and truthfulness, saying that

he answered his many questions, “not in the fashion of a hypocrite, but

simply as became an unlettered man.”

And like these visitors came others from every quarter to see and

consult him--magistrates to ask the advice of one who, in the words

of the _Litany_, had been like that “just judge whose decisions were

altogether dictated by conscience and justice,” and that “wise statesman

who administered his offices solely for the honor of God and the good

of his fellow-men”; soldiers to see the “brave warrior who took up

arms for God and fatherland, and was a model of virtue to the army”;

those in affliction to beg the prayers of that “most perfect follower

of Jesus, who, by meditation on the life and sufferings of our Lord,

had been so like unto him”; sinners to implore that “pious hermit, who

left the world from desire of greater perfection,” to teach them how to

subdue their passions. For all and each he had some word of comfort and

exhortation. One of these pilgrims was so captivated by his heavenly

admonitions that he resolved to remain near Blessed Nicholas and lead the

same life. He built himself a chapel and cell close by, and soon became

remarkable for his sanctity; but his antecedents are veiled in mystery,

and he has descended to posterity simply as “Brother Ulrich, once a

Bavarian gentleman.” Blessed Nicholas, however, evidently held him in

high regard; for, after praising him warmly, he urged both Waldheim and

Père Bonstetten to visit him before leaving Ranft. The naïve Waldheim

takes no pains to conceal that he was prejudiced against poor Ulrich by

reason of the mystery surrounding him; although “he is educated,” he

says,“whereas Brother Nicholas is a simple layman who does not know how

to read.” The learned monk of Einsiedeln, on the contrary, is at once

prepossessed in his favor by the tincture of culture which he quickly

detects. He notes that Ulrich “talks more and shows less dislike for the

society of men than Brother Nicholas. No doubt,” he adds, “because he is

more instructed. He is somewhat of a Latin scholar. At the same time, his

books are in German. He showed them to me. I think that I perceived the

_Gospels_ and the _Lives of the Fathers_ translated into German”--a fact

which we may further note as a remarkable proof that such translations

of the Gospels into the vernacular, mentioned thus incidentally by Père

Bonstetten, were common before the days of printing, in the very midst of

the so-called “dark ages.”

Amongst the many traits for which Blessed Nicholas was distinguished,

Père Bonstetten records that conformity to the will of God and love of

peace were pre-eminent. “He preaches submission and peace--that peace

which he never ceases to recommend to the confederates.” And a time was

coming when all his power and influence would be needed to preserve it.

Some years after these two accounts were written, and while Blessed

Nicholas and Brother Ulrich were praying and fasting in their “solitude

at Ranft,” great deeds were being done in other parts of Switzerland.

The battles of Grandson and Morat were fought and won, Charles the Bold

driven back into Burgundy, and the rich spoils of his army became the

property of the Swiss. But what union and heroism had gained victory

and prosperity well-nigh destroyed. Soleure and Freyburg, in virtue of

their hard fighting, claimed admission into the confederacy, which claim

the older states disdainfully rejected; while the enormous Burgundian

booty likewise became a fruitful source of discord. Numerous diets were

held, without avail, for the settlement of these questions, each only

increasing the trouble. At length a diet assembled at Stanz purposely

in order to come to a final decision; but the disputes reached such a

pitch that the deputies were about to separate, although the return to

their homes would have been the signal for civil war. Blessed Nicholas,

though so near, knew nothing of these proceedings until one morning,

when one of his oldest and most esteemed friends unexpectedly arrived

at the hermitage. It was the curé of Stanz; a worthy priest and a

true patriot, who, in despair at the state of affairs, and mindful of

Nicholas’ patriotism and love of peace, came to implore his help. Without

an instant’s delay the hermit took up his staff, walked across the paths

he knew so well, and marched straight into the hall at Stanz where the

deputies were assembled. Zschokke, the Protestant writer, thus describes

the scene:

“All with one accord rose from their seats as they beheld in

their midst this old man of emaciated aspect, yet full of

youthful vigor, and deeply venerated by every one. He spoke

to them with the dignity of a messenger from heaven, and in

the name of that God who had given so many victories to them

and to their fathers, he preached peace and concord. ‘You have

become strong,’ he said, ‘through the might of united arms.

Will you now separate them for the sake of miserable booty?

Never let surrounding countries hear of this! Ye towns! do not

grieve the older confederates by insisting on the rights of

citizens. Rural cantons! remember that Soleure and Freyburg

have fought hard beside you, and receive them into fellowship.

Confederates! take care, on the other hand, not to enlarge your

boundaries unduly! Avoid all transactions with foreigners!

Beware of divisions! Far be it from you ever to prefer money

to the fatherland.’ This and much more did Nicholas von der

Flüe say, and all hearts were so deeply touched, so stirred, by

the words of the mighty hermit, that in one single hour every

disputed point was settled. Soleure and Freyburg were that

day admitted into the confederacy; old treaties and compacts

were renewed; and at the suggestion of the pious Nicholas it

was decided that in future all conquered territory should be

distributed amongst the cantons, but booty divided amongst

individuals! This done,” continues Zschokke, “the hermit

returned to his wilderness, each deputy to his canton. Joy

abounded everywhere. From all the church-towers of the land

festive peals announced the glad tidings, from the furthest

Alps even unto the Jura.”

The cantons vied with each other in the effort to express their gratitude

to Blessed Nicholas. But in vain; he would take nothing from them except

a few ornaments for his small chapel. Freyburg alone was favored by his

acceptance of a piece of stuff to repair his worn-out habit, which was

then in shreds; and this it was which we liked to think identical with

the relic shown to us by the old sacristan in the church at Sachslen.

Bern, in a spirit widely different from that of its degenerate posterity,

presented him with a chalice, which elicited from him a letter full of

patriotism and tender Christian feeling: “Be careful,” he writes in

answer, “to maintain peace and concord amongst you; for you know how

acceptable this is to Him from whom all good proceeds. He who leads a

godly life always preserves peace; nay, more, God is that sovereign

peace in whom all can repose. Protect the widows and orphans, as you

have hitherto done. If you prosper in this world, return thanks to God,

and pray that he may grant you a continuance of the same happiness in

the next. Repress public vice and be just to all. Deeply imprint in your

hearts the remembrance of the Passion of our Lord Jesus Christ. It will

console and strengthen you in the hour of adversity.” Then, as if in

prophetic strain to the proud town, he adds: “Many people in our day,

tempted by the devil, are troubled with doubts on faith. But why have any

doubts? The faith is the same to-day that it ever has been.”

What wonder, after all this, that, in spite of himself, Blessed Nicholas

became the arbiter of Switzerland during the few remaining years of his

life? Every dispute was referred to him, and, as one writer adds, “In

that solitude, where he thought only of serving God, by the simple fact

of his sanctity he became of all his compatriots the most pleasing to God

and the most useful to his neighbor.” At length the holy hermit lay down

on the bare ground, which had so long been his couch, and, full of years

and honor, he “fell asleep in the Lord” on the 21st of March, 1487--on

the very day that he had fulfilled seventy years of his most spotless and

saintly life.