Chapter XII.

So As By Fire.

When spring came again, the letters from Mr. Granger were less

frequent, and as weather and work grew warmer, the family had to

content themselves with a few lines at irregular and sometimes

long intervals.

They were not to be anxious, he wrote, even if they should not

hear from him for several weeks. As the newspapers and the

speech-makers had it, we were making history every day, and he

must write his little paragraph with the rest. It took both hands

to wield the pen, and he must have a care to make no blots. Which

was a roundabout way of saying that his military duties required

all his time. They must remember that "no news is good news," and

try to possess their souls in patience.

On his next furlough he would

"Shoulder his crutch,

and tell how fields were won,"

or lost; but till then a hasty scrawl must suffice. He thought of

them whenever he lay down to rest; and sometimes, when he was in

the midst of the hurry and noise of battle, he would catch a

flitting vision of the peaceful fireside where friends sat and

thought of him. That home was to him like the headland beacon to

the mariner far away on the rough horizon, and threw its point of

tender light on every dark event that surged about him.

"I shall be there before long. Meantime, good-by, and don't

worry."

From Mr. Southard they had heard less frequently, and less at

length. His monthly letters to his congregation were usually

accompanied by a few lines addressed to Mr. or Mrs. Lewis,

telling them in rather formal fashion where he was, and as little

as possible of what he was doing. At present, the regiment of

which he was chaplain still had their quarters at New Orleans.

"I am afraid he thinks that we don't care much to hear from him,"

Margaret said, the three ladies sitting together, and talking the

matter over. "Suppose we all write just as freely as we do to Mr.

Granger? We can tell him all the little household events, and how

his chair and his place at the table are still called his, and

kept for him. I think he would be pleased, don't you, Aura?"

"I do. It isn't a wonder that he writes formally to us when he

gets such ceremonious answers."

"To complain of cold replies to cold letters is like the wolf

accusing the lamb of muddying the brook," retorted Mrs. Lewis. "I

shall waste none of my sweetness on the desert air, and you will

be a pair of simpletons if you do. We might expend ourselves in

those gushing epistles to him, and after a month or two we should

probably get about three lines apiece in return, each line cooler

than the last, and not an intimation that he wasn't bored."

"But I think he would be pleased," repeated Margaret doubtfully,

beginning to waver.

"What right or reason have you to think so when he never says

that he is?" Mrs. Lewis persisted. "For my part, I think that

friendship is worthy of acknowledgment from king or kaiser--that

is, if he wants it; and if Mr. Southard isn't an iceberg, then he

is a very selfish and arrogant man, that's all.

{589}

You may do as you like. But I shall never again try to get a

sunbeam out of that cucumber. I have spoken."

The entrance of Mr. Lewis put an end to their discussion. He came

in with a very cross face.

"Here I've got to start for Baltimore, with the thermometer at

eighty degrees, and the Confederates swarming up the Shenandoah

by tens of thousands, and ready to pounce on anybody south of New

York!' Why have I got to go?' Why, my agent is on the point of

absconding with the rents, and the insurance policies on my

houses are out, and I can't renew them in Boston or New York for

love or money; and if things are not seen to there, we shall be

beggars. You needn't laugh, madam! It's no joke. I've just seen a

man straight from Baltimore, and he says that rascal is all but

ready to start on a European tour with my money in his pocket. I

shall get a sunstroke, or have an apoplexy; I know I shall."

"A cabbage-leaf in your hat might prevent the sunstroke," his

wife said serenely. "As to the apoplexy, I am not so safe about

that, if you keep on at this rate. When do you start?"

"To-night; and now it is two o'clock. The rails may be ripped up

at any hour. You see now, Mrs. Lewis, the disadvantage of living

in one town and having your property in another. You would come

to Boston. Nothing else would suit you. And the consequence is,

that I've got to go posting down to Baltimore in July, to collect

my rents."

Mrs. Lewis laughed merrily.

"'The woman whom thou gavest me'--that's the way, from Adam

down. Who would think, girls, that this is the very first

intimation I ever had that Mr. Lewis would rather live in

Baltimore than Boston! But, bless me! I must see to his valise,

and have an early dinner. As for the raid panic, I will risk you.

I don't believe there's much the matter."

Margaret had been looking steadily at Mr. Lewis ever since he

began speaking. She said not a word while the others exclaimed

and questioned, and finally went out to prepare for his journey;

but some sharp work was going on in her mind, an electric

crystallization of vague and floating impressions, impulses, and

thoughts into resolve.

It had been weeks since they heard from Mr. Granger. She had not

been very much troubled about it--had, indeed, wondered that she

felt so little anxiety; but her quietude was by no means

indifference or security. She could not have defined her own

feelings. For the last week she had not uttered his name, had

shrunk with an unaccountable reluctance from doing so, and, worse

yet, had found it impossible to pray for him.

Her other prayers she said as usual; but when she would have

prayed for his safe return, the words died upon her lips. She was

neither excited nor distressed; she was, perhaps, more calm than

usual. Her hands were folded, her face upraised, she had placed

herself in the presence of God; but if a hand had been laid upon

her lips she could not have been more mute. A physical weakness

seemed to deprive her of the power of speech. This was not once,

but again, and yet again.

Margaret had the most absolute faith in the power of prayer. She

believed that we may sometimes obtain what we had better not

have, God giving for his word's sake to those who will not be

denied, but chastening the petitioner for his lack of submission

by means of the very gift he grants

{590}

She had said to herself, "If a sword were raised to strike one I

love, it could not fall while I prayed. He has promised, and I

believe."

But now, if the sword hung there indeed, she could utter no word

to stay its falling. She felt herself forbidden, bound by a

restraint she could not throw off. "Well, Margaret," Mr. Lewis

said at length, "what are you thinking of? You look as if your

brain were a galvanic battery in full operation, sending messages

in every direction at once. The sparks have been coming out of

your eyes for the last five minutes."

The crystallizing process was over, and her resolution lay there

in her mind as bright and hard as though it were the work of

years.

"I'm going to Washington," she said. "I have been thinking of it

this week. I will go with you tonight, if you please."

Of course there were wonderments, and questions, and objections.

According to all the canons of propriety, it was highly improper

for a lady to go South under the existing state of things, unless

there were bitter need. It was warm, and it was hard travelling

night and day, as he would have to do. He would like to have her

company, of course, but he didn't see--

"No matter about your seeing," interrupted Miss Hamilton, rising.

"If you won't have me with you, I'll go alone. Please don't say

any more. Cannot you understand, Mr. Lewis, that there are times

when trivial objections and opposition may be very irritating? We

will not discuss canons of propriety just now. I have something

of more consequence to attend to."

"Well, don't be cross," he said good-naturedly. "I won't say

another word. If you can stand the journey, I shall be glad to

have you go. But you will have to be quicker in getting your

traps ready than my wife and Aurelia ever are."

"I can be ready in fifteen minutes to go anywhere," was the

reply. "Now I will go tell Mrs. Lewis."

Mrs. Lewis saw at a glance that opposition was useless. Moreover,

she was one of those persons who can allow for exceptional cases,

and distinguish between rashness and inspiration.

"I know it seems odd," Margaret said to her; "but I must go. I

feel impelled. I would go if I had to walk. You will be good, and

take my part, won't you? Don't tell anybody where I have

gone--nobody has any right to know--and take care of my little

Dora. I'm going up to the State House now, but will be back by

the time dinner is ready."

"I wouldn't venture to stop her if I could," Mrs. Lewis said.

"Margaret is not given to flying off on tangents, and this start

may mean something. She has perception at every pore of her."

In the messenger's room at the State House a score of persons

were in waiting.

"I would like to see the governor a few minutes," Margaret said.

"You will have to wait your turn, ma'am," answered a very

authoritative individual. "The gov'ner's tremendously

busy--overwhelmed with work--hasn't had time to get his dinner

yet. Just sit down and wait, and I will let him know as soon as

there is a chance. If you tell me your business, I might mention

it to him."

"Thank you! Which is his room?"

He pointed to a door. "But you can't go in now. I'll tell him

presently, if you give me your name."

{591}

With the most sublime disregard for formalities, Miss Hamilton

walked straight toward the door indicated.

"But I tell you you can't go in there," said the messenger

angrily, attempting to stop her.

For answer, she opened the door, and walked into the room where

the governor sat at a table, with a secretary at each side of

him. He looked up with a frown on seeing a visitor enter

unannounced, but rose immediately as he recognized her.

"That's right. I'm glad you did not wait," he said. Then as she

glanced at his companions, added, "Come in here," and led her

through a small ante-room where two young ladies sat waiting, and

into the vacant council-chamber.

I will detain you but a minute," she said hastily. "I am going to

start for Washington to-night, and I want to visit the hospitals

there. Will you give me a letter to some one who will get me

permission? I am not sure that I shall find an acquaintance in

the city at this season, except the family to whose house I shall

go, and they are people of no influence. Besides, I do not wish

to have any delay!"

"Certainly; with pleasure! I will give you letters that will take

you through everything without a question. But what in the world

are you going there now for? It is hardly safe. My autograph will

stand a pretty good chance of falling into the hands of Mosby."

"I am uneasy about Mr. Granger," she replied directly. "We

haven't heard from him for weeks, and I must know if there is

anything the matter. He has been a good friend to me. He saved my

life once, and I owe him everything. We are only friends, you

know; but that word means something with me. Do you think there

is any impropriety in my going? Mr. Lewis goes with me as far as

Baltimore."

"Not the least impropriety in life," was the prompt reply. "I

won't say a word against your going. I always think that when any

person, man or woman, gets that raised look that I see in your

face, slow coaches had better roll off the track. Come, now, and

I'll write your letters."

"You are worth a million times your weight in gold!" Margaret

exclaimed. "You are one of the few persons who don't carry a wet

blanket about in readiness to extinguish people. I cannot tell

how I thank you!"

The gentleman laughed.

"Rather an extravagant valuation, considering the present

percentage, and my pounds avoirdupois. As for wet blankets, I

never did much believe in 'em."

While the governor wrote, Margaret stood at his elbow and watched

the extraordinary characters that grew to life beneath his pen.

"Are you sure they will understand what those mean?" she asked

timidly.

"They will know the signature," he replied, making a dab over a

letter, to indicate that an _i_ was somewhere in the

vicinity. "You can use them as

_cartes_--well--_noires_, I suppose, on the strength of

which you are to ask anything you please. Choate and I"--here a

polysyllable was dashed across the whole sheet--"had a vocation

for lettering tea-boxes, you know. There! now you had better use

either of these first, if it is just as convenient, and keep Mr.

Lincoln's till the last. But aren't you afraid of being stopped

on the way? Everything is in a heap down there."

"So I hear; but I feel as if we shall get through."

"Don't mention to any one about my going, will you?" she

whispered, as they went to the door.

{592}

He laughed. "To nobody but the council. Good-bye. Good luck to

you!"

An hour later she saw the city slowly disappearing as the cars

rolled out over the new lands.

Mr. Lewis settled himself comfortably in his seat. "And now for

Maryland, my Maryland!"

"By George!" he exclaimed presently, putting his hand into his

pocket, "here is a letter from Mr. Southard. It will serve to

amuse us; but I am sorry that the others hadn't seen it."

He opened the letter, and they read it together. Mr. Southard had

been ill, he wrote, and was yet only able to dawdle about the

wards of the hospital and gossip with the patients. He had been

offered private quarters, but had preferred a hospital. It

chanced that the Sisters of Charity had charge of the one to

which he was sent, and they had given him the best of care.

That was the gist of the letter.

How will that read to his congregation, I wonder?" Margaret said.

"I fancy they won't half like it."

"Perhaps not. But I call that a good letter. It is the best we

have had; not a word of religion, from first to last."

"But it breathes the very spirit of charity," was the quick

reply. "How gently he mentions every one! Not a hard word even

for the enemy!"

Mr. Lewis deliberately folded the letter.

"I dare say; and that is the kind of religion I like. When I hear

a man continually calling on God to witness everything he says

and does, I always think that he stands terribly in need of a

backer."

They reached New York the next morning, and learned there that

the panic was increasing rather than diminishing. The track was

yet open, but no one went South who had not pressing business.

"What do you say, Maggie?" asked Mr. Lewis. "On to Richmond, eh?"

"Do let us go!" she begged, her impatience growing with every

obstacle.

"On it is, then. I like your pluck."

"I should think that the lady would rather wait," the conductor

suggested.

"Wait, sir?" said Mr. Lewis bluffly. "By no means! Don't trouble

yourself. She isn't one of the squealing sort."

"Very well," the man replied doubtfully. "But we shall go pretty

fast."

Margaret's heavy eyes brightened. "That is what I want. You

cannot go too fast for me."

On they went again with steadily increasing speed, reaching

Philadelphia ahead of time. There fresh news of disaster awaited

them. On then to Baltimore, where they found the citizens arming,

and every one full of excitement.

"I must and will go through!" Margaret said passionately, seeing

Mr. Lewis about to expostulate.

He resumed his seat. "Then I shall go with you."

They stopped only long enough to be assured that communication

with Washington was still open, then started on the last stage of

their journey, keeping a sharp lookout, since it was not

impossible that at almost any moment they might be saluted by a

volley of musketry, or thrown headlong over an unseen hiatus in

the rail.

{593}

"Seems to me we are getting over the ground at a tearing pace,"

remarked one of the passengers in a lazy drawl. "For my part, I

don't know but I'd as lief stand my chance of a minie-ball as run

the risk of being knocked into railroad-pi. A slug is a neat

thing; but these smash-ups are likely to injure a fellow's

personal appearance."

"There they are!" exclaimed an other, who had been watching

through a glass ever since they left Baltimore. "I should guess

that there's only a score of cavalry; but they may have more

behind. Do you see? Just over the hill. It's a pretty even thing

which of us reaches the crossing first. Not above a mile ahead,

is it?"

He of the drawl, a cavalry captain, turned to Margaret. "Do you

object to fire-arms, ma'am?" he asked, in much the same tone of

voice he would have used in asking if she objected to

cigar-smoke.

"Not when there is need of them," she replied.

He pulled a beautiful silver-mounted revolver out of his pocket,

and carefully examined the barrels.

"This has been like a father to me," he said with great

tenderness. "It's all the family I have. The barrels I call my

six little sisters. Each one has a name. They've got pretty sharp

tongues, but I like the sound of 'em; and they always speak to

the point. Jennie is my favorite--see! her name is engraven, with

the date--ever since she helped me out of a hobble at Ball's

Bluff. I was playing cat and mouse with a fellow there, he with

his rifle aimed, waiting to get a shot at something besides my

boot or the end of my beard, and I hanging on the off-side of my

horse, clinging to saddle and mane. I was brought up on

horseback, and have spent a good part of my time scouring over

the Southwest, Missouri, Texas, and thereabouts; but of course I

couldn't hang there for ever. Well, just as I was thinking that I

should have to drop, or straighten up and take my slug like a

man, I managed to spare a finger and thumb, and got Paterfamilias

here out of my belt. Where can one better be than in the bosom of

his family? says I. I didn't hurt the fellow much; I didn't mean

to. When two men have been dodging and watching that way for some

time, they get to have quite an affection for each other. I

spoilt his aim, though; and I fancy that he will never be a very

good writer any more."

"Aren't you sorry now that you came?" Mr. Lewis asked Margaret.

"No," she said brightly; "I feel as though we shall get through."

A new spirit was beginning to stir in her veins. The speed of the

cars was of itself exciting--those long strides at the full

stretch of the iron racer, when the wheels, instead of measuring

the track with a steady roll, rise up and drop again with a sharp

click, as regular as verse; not that cantering line of Virgil's,

"Quadrupedante" and the rest, but a hard, iambic gallop. Besides

this, the sense of danger and power combined was intoxicating.

For, after all, danger is intolerable only when we have nothing

to oppose to it.

There had been trees and rocks, but they were changed to a buzz,

the road became a dizziness, and the whole landscape swam. There

was something near the track that looked about as much like

horsemen as the shadow of the same would look in broken,

swift-running water; a few shots were heard, there was a little

rattle of shivered glass; then all the men broke into a shout.

"Did you hear Jennie smile?" asked the captain, as he put

Paterfamilias carefully into his belt again.

{594}

Margaret laughed with delight, and gave her handkerchief a little

flutter out the window. "I can guess how chain-lightning feels,"

she said; "only it can't go on minutes and minutes."

Chapter XII.

The Court Of The King.

After their little adventure, our travellers rode triumphantly

into Washington, and Miss Hamilton found her friends glad to

receive her the more so that she came as a boarder, and their

house was nearly empty.

The Blacks had, in their younger days, been humble followers of

Doctor Hamilton; and though their acquaintance with Margaret was

slight, as they felt a kind of duty toward all the connection,

they were proud to receive her.

"I am anxious about friends whom I have not heard from for some

time," she explained; "and I have come here to look round a

little."

"Who do you know in the army?" Mrs. Black inquired, not too

delicately, considering the reserve with which her visitor had

spoken.

Miss Hamilton was not learned in the slippery art of evasion. She

simply ignored the question.

"I am exhausted," she said. "Of course I did not sleep any last

night; and the ride has been fatiguing. I have but one desire,

and that is to rest. Can you show me to my room at once? I feel

as though I should drop asleep as soon as my head touches the

pillow. When I do sleep, please don't wake me."

When she lay down to rest the afternoon sun was gilding the trees

in the square opposite, flaring on the long white-washed walls of

the hospital in their midst, and brightening momentarily the pale

faces pressed close to the window-bars of the jail beyond. When

she woke from the deep and dreamless sleep that seemed to have

almost drawn the breath from her lips, it was night. Some one had

set a star of gas burning in her room, and left a plate of cake

and a glass of wine on the stand at her bedside.

Margaret raised herself like one who has been nearly drowned and

still catches for breath, gathered her benumbed faculties and

recollected where she was. All was quiet within the house; and

without there was stillness of another sort, a silence that was

living and aware, a sense as of thousands waking and watching.

Now and then there came from the hospital across the street some

voice of a sleepless sufferer, the long, low moan of almost

exhausted endurance, the broken cry of delirium, or the hoarse

gasp of pneumonia.

After a while these sounds became deadened, and finally lost in

another that rose gradually, deepening like the roll of the sea

heard at night.

Margaret went to her window and leaned out. The sultry air was

heavily-laden with fragrance from the flower-gardens around, and

in the sky the large stars trembled like over-full drops of a

golden shower descending through the ambient purple dusk.

That sea-roll grew nearer as she listened, and became the

measured tramp of men. Soon they appeared out of the darkness at

the left, marching steadily line after line, and company after

company, to disappear into darkness at the right. They moved like

shadows, save for that multitudinous muffled tread, and save

that, at certain points, a street-light would flash along a line

of rifle-barrels, or catch in a flitting sparkle on a spur or

shoulder-strap. Then, like a dream, they were gone; darkness and

distance had swallowed them up from sight and hearing; and again

there was that strange, live stillness, broken only by the

complaining voices of the sick.

{595}

As Margaret looked, the dim light in one of the hospital-wards

flared up suddenly and showed three men standing by a bed near

one of the windows. They lifted the rigid form that lay there,

and placed it on a stretcher; two of the men bore it out, and the

light was lowered again, After a little while the men appeared

outside bearing that white and silent length between them,

through the dew and the starlight, and were lost from sight

behind the trees. When they returned, they walked side by side;

and what they had carried out they brought not back again.

The watcher's heart sent out a cry: "O Father in heaven! see how

thy creatures suffer."

In the excitement of the last part of her journey, and the

exhaustion following it, she had almost forgotten her object in

coming; but this sight brought it all back. She remembered, too,

that she had been dropping into the old way of taking all the

burden on her own shoulders; and even in crying out for pain, she

recollected the way of comfort. How sweet the restfulness of that

recollection! As though a child, wandering from home, lost,

weary, and terrified, should all at once see the hearth-light

shining before him, and hear the dear familiar voices calling his

name. She thought over the lessons learned during that blessed

retreat, that Mecca toward which henceforth her thoughts would

journey whenever her soul grew faint by the way. The

half-forgotten trust came back. Who but He who had set the

tangles of this great labyrinth could lead the way out of it? Who

but He whose hand had strung the chords of every human heart

could ease their straining, and bring back harmony to discord?

Where but with Him, the centre of all being, could we look for

those who are lost to us on earth?

When, long after sunrise, Mrs. Black entered her visitor's

chamber, she found Margaret kneeling by the window, fast asleep,

with her head resting on the sill.

There was plenty of news and excitement that morning. All

communication with the North was cut off, the President and his

family had come rushing in at midnight from their country-seat,

and there was fighting going on only a few miles out of town. It

was altogether probable that the Confederates would be in the

city before night.

Mrs. Black told all this with such an air of satisfaction in the

midst of her terror that Margaret made some allowance for

embellishment in the story. Evidently the good woman enjoyed a

panic, and was willing to be frightened to the very verge of

endurance for the sake of having it to tell of afterward. She

went about in a sort of delighted agony, gathering up her spoons

and forks, and giving little shrieks at the least unusual sound.

"If they should bombard the city, my dear," she said, "we can go

down cellar. I have an excellent cellar. It is almost certain

that they will come. We must be in a strait when the

treasury-clerks come out. And such a sight! They passed here just

before I went up to call you, all in their shirt-sleeves, and

looking no more like soldiers, dear, than I do this minute. Half

of them carried their rifles over the wrong shoulder, and seemed

scared to death lest they should go off. And no wonder; for the

way the barrels slanted was enough to make you smile, even if

there were a bomb-shell whizzing past your nose.

{596}

The muzzles looked all ways for Sunday, so to speak. There were

little boys with them, too. I don't see where their pas and mas

were, if they've got any. It's a sin and shame. Do eat some more

breakfast, pray! You may as well have a full stomach; for if we

should be obliged to hide in the cellar, we might not dare come

up to get a mouthful for twenty-four hours. I do hope it won't be

a long siege. If they've got to come in, let'em come. I'm sure

they would be too much of gentlemen to molest a houseful of

defenceless females. As for poor Mr. Black, he doesn't count.

Though he is my husband, I have seen braver men, not to speak of

women. I had to threaten him, this morning, within an inch of his

life, to prevent him from running a Confederate flag out of the

window. He keeps one in his trunk, in case it should be needed.

He declared he heard firing in the avenue. Bless me! What is

that?"

"One of the servants has broken a dish."

"The destructive minxes! But where are you going, dear? Over to

the hospital? Oh! they don't admit visitors on Sunday. Even on

week-days you can't get in till after the surgeons have gone

their rounds, and that is never before ten o'clock. It is

military rule, you know; as regular as clock-work. It won't come

ten till sixty minutes after nine o'clock, not if you perish. The

first time I went in there, the soldier on guard came near

running me through with his bayonet, just because I didn't walk

in a certain particular road. I tried to reason with him; but you

might as well reason with stocks and stones. There was the man in

the middle of the road, and there was the point of his bayonet

within an inch of my stomacher; and the upshot of the matter was,

that I had to turn about and walk in a straight road instead of a

curved one, for no earthly reason that I could see. You really

cannot get in to-day. Wait till to-morrow, and I will go over

with you."

Margaret smoothed on her gloves.

"Mrs. Black," she said, "did you ever hear of the man who said

that whenever he saw 'Positively no admittance' posted up

anywhere, he always went in there directly?"

"Well," the lady sighed, "I can't say but you may get in. You are

your grandfather's granddaughter, and he never said fail. Only,

be sure you look your best. You remember the song your mother

used to sing about the chief who offered a boatman a silver pound

to row him and his bride across the stormy ferry; and the

Highland laddie said he would, not for the 'siller bright,' but

for the 'winsome lady.' Many's the time I cried to hear your poor

mother sing that, and how they all perished in the storm, and the

father they were running away from stood on the shore lamenting.

Your grandfather would wipe his eyes on the sly, and wait till

she had finished every word of it; and then he would speak up and

say that she had better be singing the praises of God. May be the

officers over there will be like the Highland boatman, and do for

you what they would n't do for an ugly old woman like me."

Margaret closed her ears to that piercing sentence, "the song

your mother used to sing "--O silent lips!--and going out,

crossed over to the hospital.

As she turned into a curved road that approached the door, a

soldier pacing there presented his bayonet, probably the same one

that had threatened Mrs. Black's plaited linen stomacher.

"You must go the other way," he said with military brevity.

{597}

The smaller the warrior, the greater the martinet. Doubtless this

young man regarded his present adversary with far more fierceness

than he would have shown toward a six-foot Texan grey coat, with

a belt bristling with armor, and two eyes like two blades.

Margaret retreated with precipitance, hiding a smile, and took

the other road.

"Your pass, ma'am," said a second soldier at the step.

"I haven't any," she said pitifully, and looked with appealing

eyes at an officer just inside the door.

He came out immediately.

"What is your pleasure, madam?" he asked, touching his hat.

She told her errand briefly, and handed him the letters she had

brought.

Mrs. Black had not overrated the power of the winsome lady. The

surgeon in charge, for this was he, merely glanced over the

letters to learn the bearer's name and State. He had already

found her face, voice, and gloves such as should, in his opinion,

be admitted anywhere and at all times.

"Please come in," he said courteously. "It is almost inspection

time now, and I must be on duty. But if you will wait in my

office a little while, I shall be happy to escort you through the

wards."

"Thank you! But cannot I go now, by myself?" said Margaret.

He drew himself up stiffly, in high dudgeon at the little value

she set on his escort. "Certainly! You can do just as you

please."

She thanked him again, and went up the hall, utterly unconscious

that she had been greatly honored.

The hall was very long, so long that the door at the furthest end

looked as though only a child could go through without stooping,

and the wards were built out to right and left. She visited every

one, walking up and down the rows of beds, her eager glance

flashing from face to face. There was no face there that she had

ever seen before. With a faint voice she asked for the names of

those who had lately died. The names were as strange as the

faces. Finally she sat down in one of the wards to rest.

The inside of the hospital was altogether less gloomy than the

outside had appeared. They were in a bustle of preparation for

inspection, putting clean white covers on the beds and the

stands, regulating the medicine-table and the book-shelves,

squaring everything, looking out that the convalescents were in

trim, belt-buckles polished, shoes bright, hair smooth, jackets

buttoned up to the chin.

The ward looked fresh and cheerful. The white walls were

festooned with evergreen, green curtains shaded the windows, and

the floor was as white as a daily scouring could make it. Nearly

half of the patients were dressed, and eagerly talking over the

news; and even the sickest there looked on with interest, and

brightened occasionally.

"Fly round here!" cried the ward-master, a fair-faced, laughing

young German. "They've gone into the next ward. Hustle those

clothes out of sight somewhere. Tumble 'em out the window! Kohl,

if you groan while the surgeons are here, I'll give you nothing

but quinine for a week. Can't somebody see to that crazy fellow

up there! He's pulling the wreath down off the wall. Pitch into

him! Tell him that he shan't have a bit of ice to-day if he

doesn't lie still. And there's that other light-head eating the

pills all up. I'll be hanged if he hasn't swallowed twenty-five

copper and opium pills!

{598}

Well, sir, you're dished. Long Tom, mind yourself, and keep your

feet in bed."

"I can't!" whispered Tom, who seemed to be a mere boy, though his

length was something preposterous. "The bed is too short."

"Well, crumple up some way," said the ward-master, laughing.

"I'll have you up next week, fever or no fever. If you lie there

much longer, you'll grow through the other side of the ward."

"It isn't my fault," Tom said pitifully to Miss Hamilton, who sat

near him. "When I went to bed here, five weeks ago, I wasn't any

taller than the ward-master; and now I believe I'm seven feet

long. I believe it was that everlasting quinine!" And poor Tom

burst into tears.

"Here they are!" said the ward-master. "Attention!"

Instantly all was silence. Each convalescent stood at the foot of

his bed, and the nurses were drawn up inside the door. The little

procession of surgeons appeared, marched up one side of the ward

and down the other, and out the door; and the inspection was

over.

As they passed by her, one of them, in drawing his handkerchief

from his pocket, drew with it a card, which, unseen by him,

dropped at Margaret's feet. She took it up, and saw the

photograph of the gentleman who had dropped it, dressed in the

uniform of a Confederate colonel.

"Who was that last surgeon in the line?" she asked of Tom.

"That's our surgeon, Doctor A----. He is a Virginian."

"Who is his guarantee here, do you know?" she inquired.

"He's a friend of Senator Wyly's," Tom said.

An orderly came to the door. "Every man who is able to carry a

rifle get ready to go down to Camp Distribution," he said. "Don't

let any of 'em shirk, Linn. Send some of those fellows down to

the office to be examined. Every man is wanted."

As Margaret went out, she saw Surgeon A---- hasten from one of

the wards, and look along the floor of the hall, as if in search

of something. His face was very pale, she saw, and he looked up

sharply at her as she approached him.

"Perhaps you miss this photograph, Col. A---," she said, offering

it to him.

His face reddened violently as he took it. "Has any one seen it

besides you, madam?" he asked.

"No one."

"Will you give me an opportunity to explain?" he asked eagerly.

"If you would permit me to call on you, or accompany you out

now--"

"By no means," she replied coldly. "I do not wish to hear any

explanation. I am here on business of my own, and shall not,

probably, take any further notice of what I have seen. But if on

second thought I should consider myself obliged to mention it,

you can make your explanation to Mr. Lincoln."

She left him at that, and went home to hear Mrs. Black's

compliments on her success.

There were no more visits that day; but the next morning a close

carriage was sent to the door, and Margaret began her rounds.

In the afternoon she found herself going out Fourteenth street

toward Columbia Hospital. There was a shower, and as the horses

plodded along through the pouring floods of southern rain, she

leaned her face upon her hand and wondered sadly what was to come

of this search of hers, and if that strange, irresistible impulse

on which she had been shot, like Camilla on her spear, over every

obstacle to her coming, had been, after all, but a vain whim.

{599}

Looking up presently, she found that they were in the midst of

what seemed to her an army, soldiers crowding close to the

carriage, and stretching forward and backward as far as she could

see. It was the Sixth corps, one of them told her, going out to

meet Early and Breckinridge.

They were marching in a mob, without order, plodding wearily

through the rain that just served to wash from them the stains of

their last battle. Their faces were browned and sober, their

clothes faded and stained; many, foot-sore with long marches,

carried their shoes in their hands. They were little enough like

the gay troops she had seen march away from home.

When they came to the college hospital, it was found impossible

to reach the side-walk through that crowd, and Margaret ordered

the driver to wait till they should pass. As she leaned back in

her carriage and watched the living stream flow slowly over the

hill, a gentleman came out of the hospital, and, standing on the

sidewalk opposite her, seemed to be looking for some one among

them. Presently his face brightened with a recognizing smile, and

he waved his handkerchief to one who was riding near. As the

horseman drew up between her and the sidewalk, Margaret's heart

seemed to leap into her mouth. He was wrapped in a cloak, and a

wide-brimmed hat, still dripping from the spent shower, shaded

his face; but she knew him at the first glance.

"O Mr. Granger!"

A shout from the convalescents collected outside the tent wards

drowned her glad cry, and the next instant she would not for the

world have repeated it. By a sudden revulsion of feeling, the

face that had flushed with delight now burned with unutterable

shame and humiliation.

For the first time she looked on what she had done as the world

might look upon it--as Mr. Granger himself might look upon it.

Friends or foes, he was a gentleman, and she a lady, and not a

baby. She, wandering from place to place, unbidden, in search of

him, weeping, praying, making a fool of herself, she thought

bitterly, and he sitting his horse there gallantly, safe and

merry, within reach of her hand, showing his white teeth in a

laugh, stroking down his beard with that gesture she knew so

well, taking off his hat to shake the raindrops from it, and loop

up the aigrette at the side!

She had time to remember with a pang of envy the quiet, guarded

women who sit at home, and take no step without first thinking

what the world will say of it.

"If he should think of me at all," she said to herself, "he would

fancy me at home, trailing my dress over his carpets, making

little strokes with a paint-brush, having a care lest I ink my

fingers, or teaching Dora to spell propriety--as I ought to be!

as I ought to be! I need a keeper!"

But still, with her veil drawn close, she looked at him steadily;

for, after all, he was going into battle, and he was her friend.

As she looked, he glanced up at one of the hospital windows, and

immediately his glance became an earnest gaze. He ceased

speaking, and his face showed surprise and perplexity.

"What do you see?" his friend asked.

{600}

"Strange!" he muttered, half to himself. "It is only a

resemblance, of course, but I fancied I saw there a face I know,

looking out at me. It is gone now."

Whatever it was, the sight appeared to sober as well as perplex

him. He took leave of his friend, and, drawing back to join his

regiment, brought his horse round rather roughly against Miss

Hamilton's carriage.

"I beg your pardon, madam!" he said at once, taking off his hat

to the veiled lady he saw there.

He must have thought her scarcely courteous; for she merely

nodded, and immediately turned her face away.

He rode slowly on, looking back once more to the hospital window,

and in a few minutes was out of sight.

"Will you get out now?" asked the driver.

Margaret started.

"Why, yes."

She went in and seated herself in the hall. "I want to rest," she

said to a soldier who stood there. "I don't feel quite well."

A slight, elderly lady in a black dress, and with her bonnet a

little awry, came down the stairs, and stood looking about as

though she expected some one.

"Can you tell me where Miss Blank is to be found?" she asked of

the soldier to whom Margaret had spoken. "She has been out in the

tent wards, and there she comes," he said, nodding toward a young

woman who came in at the door furthest from them, and, with a

face expressive of apprehension, approached the waiting lady.

"You wished to see me?" she asked tremulously.

"Yes," was the reply. "You will be ready to return home

to-morrow, or as soon as communication is reestablished. I will

send your transportation papers to-night. You need not go into

the wards again."

The young woman stared in speechless distress and astonishment,

her eyes filling with tears.

"Is that Miss Dix?" Margaret asked of the soldier.

"Yes," he replied. "She makes short work of it. That is one of

the best nurses, and the best dresser in the hospital."

"Why is she dismissed?"

"Miss Dix has probably heard something about her. She's a good

young woman, but the old lady is mighty particular."

Margaret rose to meet Miss Dix as she came along the hall.

"I am going to stay in Washington a few days," she said, "and I

would like to be useful while I am here. Can I do anything for

you?"

"Who are you?" asked the lady. Margaret presented her

credentials, and Miss Dix glanced them over, then looked sharply

at their owner.

"I am afraid you are too young," she said.

"I am twenty-eight, and I feel a hundred," said Margaret.

"Do you know anything about nursing?"

"As much as ladies usually know."

"Will you go to a disagreeable place?"

"Yes, if it is not out of the city."

"Come, then; my ambulance is at the door."

In two minutes the carriage was dismissed, and Margaret was

seated in the ambulance, and on her way down to the city again.

"You will be very careful who you speak to," the lady began; "you

will dress in the plainest possible manner, wear no ornaments,

and, of course, high necks and long sleeves. Your hair--are those

waves natural?"

"Yes'm!" said Margaret humbly, and was about to add that perhaps

she could straighten them out, but checked herself.

{601}

"Well, dress your hair very snugly, wear clean collars, and don't

let your clothes drag. It looks untidy. Is that dress quite

plain?"

Margaret threw back the thin mantle she wore, and showed a gray

dress of nunlike plainness.

"That will do," the lady said approvingly.

Here they turned into the square, and got out at the door of the

hospital Margaret had visited the day before. She was introduced

to the officer of the day, received an astonished bow from the

surgeon-in-charge in passing, caught a glimpse of Doctor A----,

and was escorted to her ward.

"Be you the new lady nurse?" asked Long Tom.

"So it seems; but I am not quite sure," she said.

"I'm proper glad," said Tom, with an ecstatic grin. "I liked the

looks of you when I saw you yesterday."

"And so here I am 'at the court of the king,'" she thought.

Chapter XIV.

Out Of Harm's Way.

Common sense goes a great way in nursing; and when there is added

a sympathetic heart, steady nerves, a soft voice, and a gentle

hand, your nurse is about perfect, though she may not have gone

through a regular course of training.

Ward six considered itself highly favored in having Miss

Hamilton's ministrations, even for a few days. The nauseous doses

she offered were swallowed without a murmur, fevered eyes

followed her light, swift step, and men took pride in showing how

well they could bear pain when such appreciative eyes were

looking on.

Mrs. Black, rushing over to expostulate and entreat, became a

convert. It was certainly very romantic, she said; and since her

young friend was not treated like a common nurse, but had

everything her own way, it was not so bad. And without, perhaps,

having ever heard the name of Rochefoucauld, the good lady added,

"Anything may happen in Washington now."

Moreover, Miss Hamilton would sleep and take her meals at Mrs.

Black's, which was another palliating circumstance.

Mr. Lewis, with a fund of gibes ready, came also to see the new

nurse. But the sight of her silenced him.

Bending over a dying man to catch the last whisper of a message

to those he would never see again; speaking a word of

encouragement to one who lay with his teeth clenched and with

drops of agony standing on his forehead; mediating in the chronic

quarrel between regulars and volunteers; hushing the ward, that

the saving sleep of an almost exhausted patient might not be

broken--in each of these she seemed in her true place. As he

looked on, he began to realize how impertinent are

conventionalities when life and death are in the balance.

"I don't blame you, Margaret," he said seriously, "though I am

glad that you don't think of staying any longer than I do. I will

give you till Friday afternoon. If we start then, we can reach

home by Sunday morning. The track is open, and I am just off for

Baltimore. Good-by."

She accompanied him to the door. "If you should see Mr. Granger,

or write to him," she said, with some confusion, "don't mention

why I came here. I am ashamed of it."

{602}

"Oh! you needn't feel so," he replied soothingly. "We have had a

nice little adventure to pay us for the journey; and you were

breaking your heart with inaction and anxiety."

"Women should break their hearts at home!" she said proudly, her

cheeks glowing scarlet.

That was Wednesday. Thursday morning, as she rose from a five

o'clock breakfast to go over to the hospital, a carriage stopped

at the door, and, looking out, she saw Mr. Lewis coming up the

walk.

O God! The blow had fallen! No need even to look into his white

and smileless face to know that.

He stopped, and spoke through the open window. "Come, Margaret!"

Morning, was it? Morning! She could hardly see to reach the

carriage, and the earth seemed to be heaving under her feet.

As they drove through that strange, feverish world that the sunny

summer day had all at once turned into, she heard a long, heavy

breath that was almost a groan. "O dear!" said Mr. Lewis.

She reached out her hand to him, as one reaches out in the dark

for support. "Tell me!"

"It is a wound in the head," he said; "and any wound there is

bad. I got the dispatch at Baltimore last night, and came right

back. They forwarded it from Boston. Why did not you tell me that

you saw him Monday?"

"Saw him!"

"Then you didn't know him?" Mr. Lewis said. "I thought it strange

you shouldn't mention it. Louis says that when they were going

out past Columbia College, he glanced up at one of the windows,

and saw you leaning out and looking at him. You were very sober,

and made no motion to speak; and after a moment your face seemed

to fade away. It made such an impression on him that he asked to

be carried there and to that room, though it isn't an officers'

hospital. He was almost superstitious about it, till I told him

that you were really here."

It was true then. The intensity of her gaze, and the

concentration of her thoughts upon him at that moment had by some

mystery of nature which we cannot explain, though guesses have

been many, impressed her image on his mind, and thrown the

reflection of it through his eyes, so that where his glance

chanced to fall at that instant, there she had seemed to be.

"You must try to control yourself, Margie," Mr. Lewis went on,

his own lip trembling. "There is danger of delirium. He is afraid

of it, and watches every word he says. He can't talk much. I'll

give you a chance to say all you want to; and whenever I'm

needed, you can call me. I will wait just outside the door. Give

your bonnet and shawl to the lady. There, this is his room, and

that is yours, just across the entry."

Then they went in.

The pleasant chamber was clean, cool, and full of a soft flicker

of light and shade from trees and vines outside. On a narrow,

white bed opposite the windows lay Mr. Granger. Could it be that

he was ill? His eyes were bright, and his face flushed as if with

health. The only sign of hurt was a little square of wet cloth

that lay on the top of his head. But in health, in anything short

of deadly peril, he would have smiled on seeing her after so long

a time, and when she stood in such need of reassuring. His only

welcome was an outstretched hand, and a fixed, earnest gaze.

She seated herself by the bedside. "I have come to help take care

of you, Mr. Granger." Then smiling, faintly, "You don't look very

sick."

{603}

"I was in high health before I got this," he said, motioning

toward his head.

Perhaps he saw in her face some sharp springing of hope; for he

closed his eyes, and added almost in a whisper, "It isn't as wide

as a barn-door, nor as deep as a well; but it will do."

The room swam round before her eyes a moment, but she kept her

seat.

Presently the surgeon came in, and she gave place to him. But as

he removed the cloth from his patient's head, she bent

involuntarily, with the fascination of terror, and looked, and at

the sight, dropped back into her chair again. She had looked upon

nature in her inmost mysterious workshop, to which only death can

open the door. It was almost like having committed a sacrilege.

Mr. Lewis wet a handkerchief with cologne, and put it into her

hand. The others had not noticed her agitation.

When the surgeon left the room, he beckoned Margaret out with

him. "All that you can do is, to keep his head cool," he said.

"Don't let him get excited, or talk much without resting. He has

kept wonderfully calm so far; but it is by pure force of will. I

never saw more resolution."

There was nothing to do, then, but to sit and wait; to make him

feel that he was surrounded by loving care, and to let no sign of

grief disturb his quiet.

She returned to the room, and Mr. Lewis, after bending to hold

the sick man's hand one moment in a silent clasp, went out and

left them together.

After a little while, when she had resumed her seat by him, Mr.

Granger spoke, always in that suppressed voice that told what a

strain there was on every nerve. "I should have asked you to

marry me, Margaret, if I had gone back safe," he said, looking at

her with a wistful, troubled gaze, as if he wished to say more,

but could not trust himself.

"No matter about that now," she replied gently. "You have been a

good friend to me, and that is all I ever wanted."

"We could be married here, if you are willing," he went on. "Mr.

Lewis will see to everything."

Margaret lightly smoothed his feverish hands. "No," she said, "I

do not wish it. I didn't come for that. We are friends; no more.

Let me wet the cloth on your head now. It is nearly dry."

He closed his eyes, and made no answer. If he guessed confusedly

that his proposal, and what it implied, so made, was little less

than an insult, it was out of his power to help it then. And if

for a breath Margaret felt that all her obligations to him were

cancelled, and that she could not even call him friend again, it

was but for a breath. His case was too pitiful for anger. She

could forgive him anything now.

"I shall always stay with Dora, if you wish it," she said softly.

"Do not have any fears for her. I will be faithful. Trust me. I

could gladly do it for her sake, for I never loved any other

child so much. But still more, I will take care of her for

yours."

"I arranged everything before I came away," he said, looking up

again. And his eyes, she saw, were swimming in tears. "I looked

out for both of you. Your home was to be always with her, and Mr.

Lewis to be guardian for both."

Margaret could not trust herself to thank him for this proof of

his care for her.

"Have you seen the chaplain?" she asked, to turn the subject.

{604}

"Yes; but I don't feel like seeing him again. He does me no good,

and his voice confuses me. You are all the minister I

need"--smiling faintly--"and yours is the only voice I can bear."

While he rested, she sat and studied how indeed she should

minister to him.

Mr. Granger had never been baptized; and, though nominally what

is called an orthodox Congregationalist, he held their doctrines

but loosely. He had that abstract religious feeling which is the

heritage of all noble natures, the outlines of Christianity even

before Christianity is adopted, as Madame Swetchine says; but his

experience of pietists had not been such as to tempt him to join

their number. If a man lived a moral life, were kind, just, and

pure, it was about all that could be required of him, he thought.

Such a life he had lived; and now, though he approached death

solemnly, it was with no perceptible tremor, and no painful sense

of contrition.

She watched him as he lay there, smitten down in the midst of his

life and of health. He was quiet, now, except that his hands

never ceased moving, tearing slowly in strips the delicate

handkerchief he found within his reach, pulling shreds from the

palm-leaf fan that lay on the bed, or picking at the blanket. It

was the only sign of agitation he showed. His face was deeply

flushed, his breathing heavy, and his teeth seemed to be set.

Once he raised himself, and looked through the open window at the

treetops, and the city spires and domes. Margaret wondered if

they looked strange to him, and what thoughts he had; but she

never knew.

After waiting as long as she dared, she spoke to him. "Can I talk

to you a little, Mr. Granger, without disturbing you?" she asked.

"Speak," he said; "you never disturb me."

She began, and without any useless words, explained to him the

fundamental doctrines of the church, original sin, the

redemption, the necessity and effects of baptism. What she said

was clear, simple, and condensed. A hundred times during the last

two years she had studied it over for just such need as this.

"You know of course," she concluded, "that I say this because I

want you to be baptized. Are you willing?"

"I would like to do anything that would satisfy you," he said

presently. "But you would not wish me to be a hypocrite? You

cannot think that baptism would benefit me, if I received it only

because you wanted me to. I don't think that I have led a bad

life. I have not knowingly wronged any one. I am sorry for those

sins which, through human frailty, I have committed. But if I

were to live my life over again, I doubt if I should do any

better. No, child, I think it would be a mockery for me to be

baptized now."

She changed the cloth on his head, laid the ice close to his

burning temples, and fanned him in silence a few minutes.

Then she began again, repeating gently the command of our Saviour

regarding baptism, and his charge to the church to baptize and

teach.

"It is impossible to force conviction," he said. "I cannot

profess to believe what I do not."

The words came with difficulty, and his brows contracted as if

some sudden pain shot through them.

"I am not careless of the future, dear," he said after a while.

"I know that it is awful, and uncertain; but it is also

inevitable! It is too late now for me to change. But I wish that

you would pray for me. Let me hear you. Pray your own way. I am

not afraid of your saints."

{605}

Margaret knelt beside the bed, and repeated the Our Father. He

listened reverently, and echoed the Amen. She repeated the Acts,

and there was no response this time; the Creed, and still there

was no answer. She could not rise. In faltering tones she said

the Memorare, with the request, "Obtain for this friend of mine

the gift of faith, that though lost to me he may not be lost to

himself."

Still he was silent. All the pent emotion of her soul was surging

up, and showing the joints in her mail of calmness. He was going

out into what was to him the great unknown, and she, with full

knowledge of the way, could not make him see it. One last, vain

effort of self-control, then she burst forth with a prayer half

drowned in tears.

"O merciful Christ! I cannot live upon the earth unless I know

that he is in heaven. Thou hast said, Knock, and it shall be

opened unto you. With my heart and my voice I knock at the door.

Open to me for thy word's sake! Thou hast said that whatever we

ask in thy name, we shall receive. I ask for faith, for heaven,

for my friend who is dying. Give them for thy word's sake! Thou

hast said that whoever does good to the least of thy children has

done it unto thee. Remember what this man has done for me. I was

miserable, and he comforted me. I was at the point of death, and

he saved me. I was hungry, and he fed me. I was a stranger, and

he took me in. Oh! look with pity on me, who in all my life have

had only one year of happiness, but many full of sorrow; see how

my heart is breaking, and hear me for thy word's sake! for thy

word's sake!"

As her voice failed, a hand touched her head, and she heard Mr.

Granger's voice.

"I cannot make you distrust the truth of God," he said. "I do not

believe; but also, I do not know. I am willing to do all that he

requires. Perhaps he does require this. Such faith as yours must

mean something. Do as you will."

"May I send for a priest right away? And will you be baptized?"

"Dear little friend, yes!" he said.

"O Mr. Granger! God bless you! I am happy. Doesn't he keep his

promises? I will never distrust him again."

His grave looks did not dampen her joy. Of course it was not

necessary that he should have much feeling. The good intention

was enough. She wet his face with ice-water, laid ice to his

head, put the fan in his hand, in her childish, joyful way,

shutting his fingers about it one by one, then went out to send

Mr. Lewis for a priest.

He stared at her. "Why, you look as if he were going to get

well," he said almost indignantly.

"So he is, Mr. Lewis," she answered. "He is going to have the

only real getting well. I shall never have to be anxious about

him any more. He will be out of harm's way."

She went back to the sick-room then, quiet again. "Forgive me if

my gladness jarred on you," she said. "I forgot everything but

that you were now all safe. You will go straight to heaven, you

know. And of course, since it is to be now, then now is the best

time."

{606}

He said nothing, but watched her with steady eyes, wherever she

moved. What thoughts were thronging behind those eyes, she could

never know. Nothing was said till Mr. Lewis came back with the

priest.

It was sunset when he came, and the father staid till late in the

evening. Then he went, promising to say mass the next morning for

his new penitent, and to come early to see him.

Mr. Granger was evidently suffering very much, and Margaret would

not talk to him. Only once, when he opened his eyes, she said,

"You wish Dora to be a Catholic?"

"Yes, surely! O my child!" with a little moan of pain.

When the priest came up in the morning, they had some difficulty

in rousing Mr. Granger; and when at length he comprehended their

wishes, he looked from one to the other with an expression of

incredulity.

"Communion for me!" he repeated.

The priest sat beside him, and as gently as possible prepared him

for the sacrament.

"What! it is really and indeed the body and blood of Jesus Christ

that is offered me as a viaticum?" he asked, now thoroughly

roused.

"God himself has said so; and who shall dispute his word?"

The patient raised himself upright. "After I have spent all my

life in forgetfulness of him, when I turn to him only on my

death-bed, will he come to me now, and give me all himself?"

"Yes," the priest answered. "He forgives generously, as only God

can. He does not wait, he comes to you. 'Behold! I stand at the

door, and knock.'"

The sick man lifted his face; "O wonderful love!" he exclaimed.

The priest smiled, and put on his stole.

"The angels wonder no less than you," he said.

Left alone with him once more, Margaret knelt, praying

continually, but softly too, so as not to disturb one sacred

thought in that soul for the first time united to its Saviour.

When a half-hour had passed, she touched his folded hands. He had

always before opened his eyes at her faintest touch; but now he

did not.

"He has lost consciousness," the surgeon said, when she called

him. "He will never speak again."

"Oh! never again? What? never again?"

Mr. Lewis took her by the hand. "Try to bear it, Maggie," he

said. "Think what comfort you have."

"But he never said good-by to me! I wanted to say something to

him. I had so much to tell him; but I thought of him first!"

Ah! well. When we go down to the valley of the shadow of death

with our loved ones, and find the iron door that admits them shut

in our faces, then indeed we know, if never before, how precious

is faith. And those who can see the pearly gates beyond the iron

one should take shame to themselves if they refuse to be

comforted.

-------

{607}

Beethoven.

His Youth.

At eighteen, Louis Beethoven became conscious of new perceptions,

and new capacities for joy. A young kinswoman of his mother, a

beautiful, sprightly girl, whose parents lived in Cologne, came

on a visit to Bonn. The voice and smile of Adelaide called his

genius into full life, and he felt he had power to do as he had

never done. But Adelaide could not understand him, nor appreciate

his melodies, which were now of a bolder and higher, yet a

tenderer cast. He never declared his love in language; but his

brother Carl discovered it, and one evening, Louis overheard him

and Adelaide talking of his boyish passion, and laughing at him.

The girl said she "was half inclined to draw him out, it was such

a capital joke!"

Pale and trembling, while he leaned against the window-seat

concealed by the folds of a curtain, Louis listened to this

colloquy. As his brother and cousin left the room, he rushed past

them to his own apartment, locked himself in, and did not come

forth that night. Afterward he took pains to shun the company of

the heartless fair one; and was always out alone in his walks, or

in his room, where he worked every night till quite exhausted.

The first emotions of chagrin and mortification soon passed away;

but he did not recover his vivacity. His warmest feelings had

been cruelly outraged; the spring of love was never again to

bloom for him; and it seemed, too, that the fair blossoms of

genius also were nipped in the bud. The critics of the time,

fettered as they were to the established form, were shocked at

his departure from their rules. Even Mozart, whose fame stood so

high, whose name was pronounced with such enthusiastic

admiration, what struggles had he not been forced into with these

who would not approve of his so-called innovations! The youth of

nineteen had struck out a bolder path! What marvel, then, that,

instead of encouragement, nothing but censures awaited him? His

master, Neefe, who was accustomed to boast of him as his pride

and joy, now said, coldly and bitterly, his pupil had not

fulfilled his cherished expectations--nay, was so taken up with

his newfangled conceits, that he feared he was for ever lost to

real art.

"Is it so indeed?" asked Louis of himself in his moments of

misgivings and dejection. "Is all a delusion? Have I lived till

now in a false dream?"

Young Beethoven sat in his chamber, leaning his head on his hand,

looking gloomily out of the vine-shaded window. There was a knock

at the door; but wrapped in deep despondency, he heard it not,

nor answered with a "come in."

{608}

The door was opened softly a little ways, and in the crevice

appeared a long and very red nose, and a pair of small, twinkling

eyes, overshadowed by coal-black bushy eyebrows. Gradually became

visible the whole withered, sallow, comical, yet good-humored

face of Master Peter Pirad.

Peter Pirad was a famous kettle drummer, and was much ridiculed

on account of his partiality for that instrument, though he also

excelled on many others. He always insisted that the kettle-drum

was the most melodious, grand, and expressive instrument, and he

would play upon it alone in the orchestra. But he was one of the

best-hearted persons in the world. It was quite impossible to

look upon his tall, gaunt, clumsy figure---which, year in and

year out, appeared in the well-worn yellow woolen coat,

buckskin-colored breeches, and dark worsted stockings, with his

peculiar fashioned felt cap--without a strong inclination to

laugh; yet, ludicrous as was his outward man, none remained long

unconvinced that, spite of his exterior, spite of his numerous

eccentricities, Peter Pirad was one of the most amiable of men.

From his childhood, Louis had been attached to Pirad; in later

years, they had been much together. Pirad, who had been absent

several months from Bonn, and had just returned, was surprised

beyond measure to find his favorite so changed. He entered the

room, and walking up quietly, touched the youth on the shoulder,

saying, in a tone as gentle as he could assume, "Why, Louis! what

the mischief has got into your head, that you would not hear me?"

Louis started, turned round, and, recognizing his old friend,

reached him his hand.

"You see," continued Pirad, "you see I have returned safely and

happily from my visit to Vienna. Ah! Louis! Louis! that's a city

for you. As for taste in art, you would go mad with the Viennese!

As for artists, there are Albrechtsberger, and Haydn, Mozart, and

Salieri--my dear fellow, you _must_ go to Vienna." With that

Pirad threw up his arms, as if beating the kettle-drum, (he

always did so when excited,) and made such comical faces, that

his young companion, spite of his sorrow, could not help bursting

out laughing.

"Saker!" cried Pirad, "that is clever; I like to see that you can

laugh yet, it is a good sign; and now, Louis, pluck up like a

man, and tell me what all this means. Why do I find you in such a

bad humor, as if you had a hole in your skin, or the drums were

broken--out with it? My brave boy, what is the matter with you?"

"Ah!" replied Beethoven, "much more than I can say; I have lost

all hope, all trust in myself. I will tell you all my troubles,

for, indeed, I cannot keep them to myself any longer!" So the

melancholy youth told all to his attentive auditor; his unhappy

passion for his cousin; his master's dissatisfaction with him,

and his own sad misgivings.

When he had ended, Pirad remained silent awhile, his forefinger

laid on his long nose, in an attitude of thoughtfulness. At

length, raising his head, he gave his advice as follows: "This is

a sad story, Louis; but it convinces me of the truth of what I

used to say; your late excellent father--I say it with all

respect to his memory--and your other friends, never knew what

was really in you. As for your disappointment in love, that is

always a business that brings much trouble and little profit.

Women are capricious creatures at best, and no man who has a

respect for himself will be a slave to their humors. I was a

little touched that way myself, when I was something more than

your age; but the kettle-drum soon put such nonsense out of my

head.

{609}

My advice is, that you stick to your music, and let her go. For

what concerns the court-organist, Neefe, I am more vexed; his

absurdity is what I did not precisely expect. I will say nothing

of Herr Yunker; he forgets music in his zeal for counterpoint; as

if he should say he could not see the wood for the tall trees, or

the city for the houses! Have I not heard him assert, ay! with my

own living ears, slanderously assert, that the kettle-drum was a

superfluous instrument? Only think, Louis, the kettle-drum a

superfluous instrument! Donner and--! Did not the great

Haydn--bless him for it!--undertake a noble symphony expressly

with reference to the kettle-drum? What could you do with

'_Dies irae, dies illa_,' without the kettle-drum? I played

it at Vienna in _Don Giovanni_, the chapel-master Mozart

himself directing. In the spirit scene, Louis, where the statue

has ended his first speech, and Don Giovanni in consternation

speaks to his attendants, while the anxious heart of the appalled

sinner is throbbing, the kettle-drum thundering away--" Here

Pirad began to sing with tragical gesticulation. "Yes, Louis, I

beat the kettle-drum with a witness, while an icy thrill crept

through my bones; and for all that the kettle-drum is a useless

instrument! What blockheads there are in this world! To return to

your master--I wonder at his stupidity, and yet I have no cause

to wonder. Now, my creed is, that art is a noble inheritance left

us by our ancestors, which it is our duty to enlarge and increase

by all honest and honorable means. My dear boy, I hold you for an

honest heir, who would not waste your substance; who has not only

power, but will to perform his duty. So take courage, be not cast

down by trifles; and take my advice and go to Vienna. There you

will find your masters: Mozart, Haydn, Albrechtsberger, and

others not so well known. One year, nay, a few months in Vienna,

will do more for you than ten years vegetating in this good city.

You can soon learn, there, what you are capable of; only mind

what Mozart says, when you are playing in his hearing."

The young man started up, his eyes sparkling, his cheeks glowing

with new enthusiasm, and embraced Pirad warmly. "You are right,

my good friend!" he cried. "I will go to Vienna; and shame on any

one who despises your counsel! Yes, I will go to Vienna."

When he told his mother of his resolution, she looked grave, and

wept when all was ready for his departure. But Pirad, with a

sympathizing distortion of countenance, said to her, "Be not

disturbed, my good Madame van Beethoven! Louis shall come back to

you much livelier than he is now; and, madame, you may comfort

yourself with the hope that your son will become a great artist!"

Young Beethoven visited Vienna for the first time in the spring

of the year 1792. He experienced strange emotions as he entered

that great city; perhaps a dim presentiment of what he was in

future years to accomplish and to suffer. He was not so fortunate

this time as to find Haydn there; the artist had set out for

London a few days before. He was disappointed, but the more

anxious to make the acquaintance of Mozart. Albrechtsberger,

Haydn's intimate friend, undertook to introduce him to Mozart.

{610}

They went several times to Mozart's house before they found him

at home. At last, on a rainy day, they were fortunate. They heard

him from the street, playing; our young hero's heart beat wildly

as they went up the steps, for he looked on that dwelling as the

temple of art. When they were in the hall, they saw, through a

side-door that stood open, Mozart, sitting playing the piano;

close by him sat a short, fat man, with a shining red face; and

at the window, Madame Mozart, holding her youngest son, Wolfgang,

on her lap, while the eldest was sitting on the floor at her

feet.

The composer greeted Albrechtsberger cordially, and looked

inquiringly on his young companion. "Herr van Beethoven from

Bonn," said Albrechtsberger, presenting his friend; "an excellent

composer, and skilful musician, who is desirous of making your

acquaintance."

"You are heartily welcome, both of you, and I shall expect you to

remain and dine with me to-day," said Mozart; and taking Louis by

the hand, he led him to the window where his wife sat. "This is

my Constance," he continued, "and these are my boys; this little

fellow is but three months old"--and throwing his arm around

Constance's neck, he stooped and kissed the smiling infant.

Louis looked with surprise on the great artist. He had fancied

him quite different in his exterior; a tall man, of powerful

frame, like Handel. He saw a slight, low figure, wrapped in a

furred coat, notwithstanding the warmth of the season; his pale

face showed the evidences of long-continued ill-health; his

large, bright, speaking eyes alone reminded one of the genius

that had created _Idomeneus_ and _Don Giovanni_.

"So you, too, are a composer?" asked the fat man, coming up to

Beethoven. "Look you, sir, I will tell you what to do; lay

yourself out for the opera; the opera is the great thing!"

Louis looked at him in surprise and silence.

"Master Emanuel Schickaneder, the famous impressario," said

Albrechtsberger, scarcely controlling his disposition to laugh.

"Yes," continued the fat man, assuming an air of importance, "I

tell you I know the public, and know how to get the weak side of

it; if Mozart would only be led by me, he could do well! I say if

you will compose me something--by the way, here is a season

ticket; I shall be happy if you will visit my theatre; to-morrow

night we shall perform the _Magic Flute_, it is an admirable

piece, some of the music is first-rate, some not so good, and I

myself play the Papageno."

"You ought to do something in that line," said Mozart, laughing,

"your singing puts one in mind of an unoiled door-hinge."

The impressario took a pinch of snuff, and answered with an

important air, "I can tell you, sir, the singing is quite a

secondary thing in the opera, for I know the public."

Here several persons, invited guests of the composer, came in;

among them Mozart's pupils, Sutzmayr and Holff, with the Abbé

Stadler and the excellent tenorist, Peyerl. After an hour or so

spent in agreeable conversation, enlivened by an air from Mozart,

they went to the dinner-table. Schickaneder here played his part

well, doing ample justice to the viands and wine. The dinner was

really excellent; and the host, notwithstanding his appearance of

feeble health, was in first-rate spirits, abounding in gayety,

which soon communicated itself to the rest of the company. After

they had dined, and the coffee had been brought in, Mozart took

his new acquaintance apart from the others, and asked if he could

be of any service to him.

{611}

Louis pressed the master's hand, and without hesitation gave his

history, and informed him of his plans; concluding by asking his

advice.

Mozart listened with a benevolent smile; and when he had ended,

said, "Come, you must let me hear you play." With that, he led

him to an admirable instrument in another apartment; opened it,

and invited him to select a piece of music.

"Will you give me a theme?" asked Louis.

The master looked surprised; but without reply wrote some lines

on a leaf of paper, and handed it to the young man. Beethoven

looked over it; it was a difficult chromatic fugue theme, the

intricacy of which demanded much skill and experience. But

without being discouraged, he collected all his powers, and began

to execute it.

Mozart did not conceal the sur prise and pleasure he felt when

Louis first began to play. The youth perceived the impression he

had made, and was stimulated to more spirited efforts.

As he proceeded, the master's pale cheek flushed, his eyes

sparkled; and stepping on tiptoe to the open door, he whispered

to his guests, "Listen, I beg of you! You shall have some thing

worth hearing."

That moment rewarded all the pains, and banished all the

apprehensions of the young aspirant after excellence. Louis went

through his trial-piece with admirable spirit, sprang up, and

went to Mozart; seizing both his hands and pressing them to his

throbbing heart, he murmured, "I also am an artist!"

"You are indeed!" cried Mozart, "and no common one! And what may

be wanting, you will not fail to find, and make your own. The

grand thing, the living spirit, you bore within you from the

beginning, as all do who possess it. Come back soon to Vienna, my

young friend--very soon! Father Haydn, Albrechtsberger, friend

Stadler, and I will receive you with open arms; and if you need

advice or assistance, we will give it you to the best of our

ability."

The other guests crowded round Beethoven, and hailed him as a

worthy pupil of art! Even the silly impressario looked at him

with vastly increased respect, and said, "I can tell you, I know

the public-well, we will talk more of the matter this evening

over a glass of wine."

"I also am an artist!" repeated Louis to himself, when he

returned late to his lodgings.

Much improved in spirits, and reinspired with confidence in

himself, he returned to Bonn, and ere long put in practice his

scheme of paying Vienna a second visit.

This he accomplished at the elector's expense, being sent by him

to complete his studies under the direction of Haydn. That great

man failed to perceive how fine a genius had been intrusted to

him. Nature had endowed them with opposite qualities; the

inspiration of Haydn was under the dominion of order and method;

that of Beethoven sported with them both, and set both at

defiance.

When Haydn was questioned of the merits of his pupil, he would

answer with a shrug of his shoulders--"He executes extremely

well." If his early productions were cited as giving evidence of

talent and fire, he would reply, "He touches the instrument

admirably." To Mozart belonged the praise of having recognized at

once, and proclaimed to his friends, the wonderful powers of the

young composer.

-------

{612}

Sauntering.

NO. 11.

Among the churches of Paris which I visited in my saunterings,

whose very stones seemed to have a tongue and cry aloud, was the

interesting one of St. Germain des Près.

"Each shrine and tomb within thee seems to cry."

Here were buried Mabillon and Descartes, and also King Casimir of

Poland, who laid aside his crown for a cowl in 1668, and died

abbot of the monastery in 1672. He is represented kneeling on his

tomb offering his crown to heaven. Two of the Douglases are

likewise buried here, with their carved effigies lying on their

tombs clad in armor. One was the seventeenth earl, who died in

1611. He had been bred a Protestant, but, going to France in the

time of Henry III., was converted to the faith of his fathers,

those old knights of the Bleeding Heart, by the discourses at the

Sorbonne. He returned to Scotland after his conversion, but was

persecuted there on account of his religion, and had the choice

of prison or banishment. So he chose to be exiled, and went back

to France, where he ended his days in practices of piety. He used

to attend the canonical hours at the abbey of St. Germain des

Près, and even rose for the midnight office. It was no unusual

thing in the middle ages for the laity to assist at the night

offices, and the church encouraged the practice. There was a

confraternity in Paris, in the thirteenth century, composed of

devout persons who used to attend the midnight service. This was

not confined to men, but even ladies did the same. Many people

used to pass whole nights in prayer in the churches, as, for

example, King Louis IX. and Sir Thomas More.

There is in this church a statue of the Blessed Virgin, under a

Gothic canopy all of stone, at the west end of the edifice, and

looking up the right aisle. It pleased me so much that I never

passed the church afterward without turning aside for a moment to

say my Ave before it. Tapers were always burning before it, and

there was always some one in prayer, who, like me, would

doubtless forget for a few moments the cares and vanities of life

at the feet of the Mother of Sorrows. This statue was at St.

Denis before the revolution, having been given to that church by

Queen Jeanne D'Evereux.

King Childebert's tomb formerly occupied a conspicuous place in

this church, but it is now at St. Denis, where he is represented

holding a church in his hands, and with shoes which have very

sharp and abrupt points at the ends, like an acuminate leaf. He

was the original founder of this church and the abbey once

adjoining. It was called the Golden Church, because the walls

outside were covered with plates of brass, gilt, and inside with

pictures on a gold ground. It took its name from St. Germain,

Bishop of Paris, who was buried here, and was the spiritual

adviser of Childebert. St. Germaine l'Auxerrois was named from

the sainted bishop of Auxerre of that name, renowned for his

instrumentality in checking Pelagianism in England. He visited

that country twice for that purpose. And at the head of the

Britons he was the instrument of the great Alleluia victory in

430.

{613}

Whatever other people discover, I found a great deal of piety in

Paris. The numerous churches and chapels are frequented at an

early hour for the first masses; and all through the day is a

succession of worshippers. I particularly loved the morning mass

in the Lady Chapel at St. Sulpice, at which a crowd of the common

people used to assist and sing charming cantiques in honor of the

Madonna or the Blessed Sacrament. And at Notre Dame des

Victoires, one of the most popular churches in the city, and

renowned throughout the world for its arch-confraternity to which

so many of us belong, there is no end to the stream of people.

The wonderful answers to prayer and the many miracles wrought

there draw needy and heavily-laden hearts, not only from all

parts of the kingdom, but of the world. The altar of Notre Dame

des Victoires looks precisely as it is represented in pictures.

The front and sides are of crystal, through which are seen the

relics of St. Aurelia, from the Roman catacombs. Seven large

hanging lamps burn before it, and an innumerable quantity of

tapers. On the walls are _ex voto_ and many marble tablets

with inscriptions of gratitude to Mary; such as: "_J'ai invoqué

Marie, et elle m'a exaucé._" "_Reconnaissance à Marie_,"

etc. It is extremely interesting and curious to examine all

these, and they wonderfully kindle our faith and fervor.

Among them is one of particular interest---a silver heart set in

a tablet of marble fastened to one of the pillars of the grand

nave. On it are the arms of Poland and a votive inscription. This

heart contains a portion of the soil of Poland impregnated with

the blood of her martyred people--hung here before her whom they

style their queen, as a perpetual cry to Mary from the bleeding

heart of crushed and Catholic Poland. This was placed here on the

two hundredth anniversary of the consecration of that country to

the Blessed Virgin Mary, by King John Casimir, on the first of

April, 1656. On the same day, 1856, all the Polish exiles in

Paris assembled at Notre Dame des Victoires, to renew their vows

to Mary and make their offering, which was received and blessed

by M. l'Abbé Desgenettes, the venerable curé, and founder of the

renowned arch-confraternity of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. A

lamp burns perpetually before this touching memorial, emblem of

the faith, hope, and charity of the donors.

In the national prayer of the Poles is the following touching

invocation:

"Give back, O Lord! to our Poland her ancient splendor. Look

down on our fields, soaked with blood! When shall peace and

happiness blossom among us? God of wrath, cease to punish us.

At thy altar we raise our prayer; deign to restore us, O Lord!

our free country."

This prayer is a _Parce nobis_ which will be echoed by every

one who sympathizes with the down-trodden and oppressed.

Coming out of the church of Notre Dame des Victoires I heard the

words, "Quelques sous, pour l'amour de la Sainte Vierge," and

looking around I saw an old man holding out his hat in the most

deferential of attitudes--one of the few beggars I met in the

city. I could not resist an appeal made in the holy name of Mary,

and on the threshold of one of her favorite sanctuaries. I

thought of M. Olier, the revered founder of the Sulpicians, who

made a vow never to refuse anything asked in the name of the

Blessed Virgin--a resolution that would not often be put to the

test in the United States, but one which in Catholic countries is

less easy to be kept, where the name of Mary is so often on the

lips.

{614}

M. Olier never left his residence without encountering a crowd of

cunning beggars crying for alms in the name of the Sainte Vierge,

and, when he had nothing more, he would give them his

handkerchief or anything else he had in his pocket.

Some do not approve of indiscriminate charity; but if God were to

bestow his bounties only on the deserving, where should we all

be? Freely ye have received; freely give.

The Sainte Chapelle has peculiar attractions. It was built in the

middle of the thirteenth century for the reception of the

precious relics connected with the Passion of our Lord, given by

Baldwin II., Emperor of Constantinople, to Louis IX., in 1238.

There is a nave with four windows on each side, and a

semi-circular choir with seven windows, all filled with beautiful

old stained glass, representing the principal events of the life

of St. Louis and of the first two crusades.

Among the relics enshrined here was the holy crown of thorns. The

king sent two Dominican friars, James and Andrew, to

Constantinople for it. When it approached Paris, St. Louis, Queen

Blanche his mother, with a great many of the court, went out

beyond Sens to meet it. Entering Paris, the king and his brother

Robert, clad in woollen and with feet bare, bore the shrine on

their shoulders to the church. The bishops and clergy followed

with bare feet. The streets through which they passed were

sumptuously adorned. In 1793, the holy crown was transferred to

the Hotel des Monnaies, where it was taken from its reliquary and

given with other relics to the commission of arts under the care

of Secretary Oudry, from whom the Abbé Barthélemi obtained it in

1794. He was one of the conservateurs of the antique medals in

the Bibliothèque Nationale, where the sacred relic remained till

1804, when the Cardinal de Belloy, Archbishop of Paris, reclaimed

the relics from the ministre des cultes. Every proper means was

taken to identify them, which being satisfactorily done, the holy

crown was transported with great pomp to Notre Dame, August 10,

1806.

A portion of the holy cross, once in the Sainte Chapelle, was

saved in 1793 by M. Jean Bonvoisin, a member of the commission

des arts and a painter. He gave it to his mother, who preserved

it with veneration during the revolution and restored it to the

chapter of Paris, in 1804, after M. Bonvoisin and his mother had

sworn to the truth of these facts in order to authenticate the

relic. It was then allowed to be exposed in the reliquary of

crystal in which we see it.

There were at Paris other portions of the holy and true cross on

which our Saviour was crucified. One was the Vraie Croix

d'Anseau, so called because it was sent in 1109 to the archbishop

and chapter of Paris by Anselle or Anseau, _grand-chantre_

of the church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem, who had

obtained it from the superior of the Georgian nuns in that city,

the widow of David, king of Georgia. In 1793, M. Guyot de St.

Hélène obtained permission to keep the cross of Anseau. He

divided it with Abbé Duflost, guardian of the four crosses made

of the part he kept, of which three only have been restored to

Notre Dame. M. Guyot took the precaution to have them

authenticated, and they were restored to the veneration of the

faithful in 1803.

{615}

Another portion of the true cross was called the Palatine cross,

because it belonged to Anna Gonzaga of Cleves, a Palatine

princess, who left it by her will to the Abbey of St. Germain des

Près, attesting that she had seen it in the flames without being

burnt. This relic was enclosed in a cross of precious stones,

double, like the cross of Jerusalem. This cross had belonged to

Manuel Comnenus, Emperor of Constantinople, who presented it to a

prince of Poland. It is eight inches high, without measuring the

foot of _vermeil_ of about the same height, ornamented with

precious stones. It has two cross-pieces, like the crosses of

Jerusalem, which are filled with the wood of the true cross. It

is bordered with diamonds and amethysts. The Palatine princess

received it from John Casimir, King of Poland, who took it with

him when he retired to France. It was preserved by a curé in

1793, and restored, in 1828, to Notre Dame.

There are two portions of the holy nails at Notre Dame de

Paris--one formerly at the abbey of St. Denis, and the other at

St. Germain des Près. The first was brought by Charles the Bald

from Aix-la-Chapelle, it having been given Charlemagne by the

Patriarch of Jerusalem.

In 1793, M. Le Lièvre, a member of the Institute, begged

permission to take it from the commission des arts to examine and

analyze it as a specimen of mineralogy. He thus saved it from

profanation, and restored it to the Archbishop of Paris in 1824.

The second portion was given to St. Germain des Près by the

Princess Palatine, who had received it from John Casimir of

Poland.

There are many curious old legends respecting the wood of the

cross. Sir John Mandeville says it was made of the same tree Eve

plucked the apple from. When Adam was sick, he told Seth to go to

the angel that guarded paradise, to send him some oil of mercy to

anoint his limbs with. Seth went, but the angel would not admit

him, or give him the oil of mercy. He gave him, however, three

leaves from the fatal tree, to be put under Adam's tongue as soon

as he was dead. From these sprang the tree of which the cross was

made.

One of the first portions of the holy cross received in France

was sent by the Emperor Justin to St. Radegonde. It was adorned

with gold and precious stones. When it arrived with other relics,

and a copy of the four Gospels richly ornamented, the archbishop

of Tours and a great procession of people went out with lights,

incense, and sound of holy chant to bear them into the city of

Poitiers, where they were placed in the monastery of the Holy

Cross founded by St. Radegonde. The great Fortunatus composed in

honor of the occasion the Vexilla Regis, now a part of the divine

office. I quote two verses of a fine translation of this

well-known hymn:

"O tree of beauty, tree of light!

O tree with royal purple dight!

Elect on whose triumphal breast

Those holy limbs should find their rest!

"On whose dear arms, so widely flung,

The weight of this world's ransom hung,

The price of human kind to pay,

And spoil the spoiler of his prey!"

One pleasant morning I took the cars to visit St. Denis, the old

burial-place of the kings of France. As Michelet says, "This

church of tombs is not a sad and pagan necropolis, but glorious

and triumphant; brilliant with faith and hope; vast and without

shade, like the soul of the saint who built it; light and airy,

as if not to weigh on the dead or hinder their spring upward to

the starry spheres."

{616}

Mabillon was at one time the visitor's guide to the tombs of St.

Denis. I do not know whether I should prefer his learned details

and sage reflections over the ashes of the illustrious dead, or

be left as I was to wander alone with my own thoughts through the

church of the crypts. What a great chapter of history may be read

in this sepulchre of kings! What a commentary on the text,

"_Dieu seul est grand,_" is that stained page of the

revolution, when the bones of the mighty dead were torn from

their magnificent tombs and cast into a trench! It was then earth

to earth and ashes to ashes, like the meanest of us. What a long

stride may be made here from King Dagobert's tomb at the

entrance, all sculptured with legendary lore, to the clere-story

window, all emblazoned with Napoleon's glory; from the recumbent

Du Guesclin to the tomb of Turenne, and from the chair of St.

Eloi to the stall of Napoleon III.! A fit place to moralize,

among these statues of kneeling kings and queens, with their

hands folded as if they had gone to sleep in prayer.

"For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground,

And tell sad stories of the death of kings."

I sought out the tomb of one of my favorite knights of the middle

ages--that of Bertrand du Guesclin, who, by his devotion to his

country and his prowess, merited a place here among kings and to

have his ashes mingled with theirs in 1793. There are four of

these knights of the olden time in this chapel, all in stone,

lying in armor on their tombs. I sat down at the feet of Du

Guesclin to read my monographie before going around the church.

My visit was in the octave of the festival of St. Denis and his

companions, and their relics were exposed on an altar covered

with crimson velvet. Huge wax tapers burned around them, and the

chancel was hung around with old tapestry after the designs of

Raphael--

"Whose glittering tissues bore emblazoned

Holy memorials, acts of zeal and love

Recorded eminent."

This church is a monument of the genius and piety of Suger, one

of the most noble and venerable figures in French history, the

Abbot of St. Denis, and a statesman. He has been styled "the true

founder of the Capetian dynasty." He was one of those eminent men

so often found in the church of the middle ages who were raised

from obscurity to positions of authority. In his humility, when

regent of France, he often alluded to his lowly origin, and once

in the following words: "Recalling in what manner the strong hand

of God has raised me from the dunghill and made me to sit among

the princes of the church and of the kingdom."

The princes of France used to be educated in the abbey of St.

Denis, and it was here Louis VI. formed a lasting friendship for

Suger, which led him afterward to make him his prime minister.

The monk Suger was on his way home from Italy in 1122 when he

heard of his election as abbot of St. Denis. He burst into tears

through grief for the death of good old abbot Adam, who had cared

for him in his youth. That very morning he had risen to say

matins before leaving the hostelry where he lodged, and,

finishing the office before it was light, he threw himself again

on his couch to await the day. Falling into a doze, he dreamed he

was in a skiff on the wide raging sea, at the mercy of the waves,

and he prayed God to spare and to conduct him into port. He felt,

on awakening, as if threatened with some great danger, but, as he

afterward said, he trusted the goodness of God would deliver him

from it.

{617}

After travelling a few leagues, he met the deputation from St.

Denis announcing his election as abbot.

When Louis le Jeune, with a great number of nobles, decided to go

to the Holy Land, it was resolved to choose a regent to govern

the kingdom during his absence. The Holy Spirit was invoked to

guide the decisions of the nobles and bishops. St. Bernard

delivered a discourse on the qualities a regent should possess.

The Count de Nevers and Abbot Suger were chosen. The former

declined the office, wishing to enter the Carthusian order. Suger

accepted this office with extreme reluctance, and only at the

command of the pope. He showed himself an able statesman. St.

Bernard reproached him for the state in which he lived while at

court, but he proved his heart was not in such a life by resuming

all his austerities when he returned to his monastery.

He rebuilt the abbey church of St. Denis in a little more than

three years. He assembled the most skilful workmen and sculptors

from all parts. But he himself was the chief architect. The very

people around wished to have a share in the work, believing it

would draw down on them the blessing of Heaven. They brought him

marble from Pontoise, and wood from the forest of Chevreuse,

sixty leagues distant. But he himself selected the trees to be

cut down. Bishops, nobles, and the king assisted in laying the

foundations, each one laying a stone while the monks chanted,

"_Fundamenta ejus in montibus sanctis._" While they were

singing in the course of the service, "_Lapides pretiosi omnes

muri tui,_" the king took a ring of great value from his

finger and threw it on the foundations, and all the nobles

followed his example.

When the church was consecrated, the king and a host of church

dignitaries were present. Thibaud, Archbishop of Canterbury,

consecrated the high altar, and twenty other altars were

consecrated by as many different bishops.

Suger had a little cell built near the church for his own use. It

was fifteen feet long and ten wide. When he built for God his

ideas were full of grandeur, but for himself nothing was too

lowly. This little cell beside the magnificent church was a

continual act of humility before the majesty of the Most High.

"Whatever is dear and most precious should be made subservient to

the administration of the thrice holy Eucharist," said he. We

read how Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny, came to visit St.

Denis. After admiring the grandeur of the church, they came to

the cell. "Behold a man who condemns us all!" exclaimed Peter

with a sigh. The cell had neither tapestry nor curtains. He slept

on straw, and his table was set with strictest regard to monastic

severity. He never rode in a carriage, but always on horseback,

even in old age.

When Abbot Suger felt his end approaching, he went, supported by

two monks, into the chapter room where the whole community was

assembled, and addressed them in the most solemn and impressive

manner on the judgments of God. Then he knelt before them all,

and with tears besought their pardon for all the faults of his

administration during thirty years. The monks only answered with

their tears. He laid down his crosier, declaring himself unworthy

the office of abbot, and begged them to elect his successor, that

he might have the happiness of dying a simple monk. There is a

touching letter from St. Bernard written at this time, which

commences thus:

{618}

"Friar Bernard to his very dear and intimate friend Suger, by

the grace of God abbot of St. Denis, wishing him the glory that

springs from a good conscience, and the grace which is a gift

of God. Fear not, O man of God! to put off the earthly man

--that man of sin which torments, oppresses, persecutes

you--the weight of which sinks you down to earth and drags you

almost to the abyss! What have you in part with this mortal

frame--you who are about to be clothed with glorious

immortality?"

Toward Christmas Suger grew so weak that he rejoiced at the

prospect of his deliverance, but fearing his death would

interrupt the festivities of that holy time, he prayed God to

prolong his life till they were over. His prayer was heard. He

died on the twelfth of January, having been abbot of St. Denis

twenty-nine years and ten months, from 1122 to 1152. His tomb

bore the simple inscription:

"Cy gist l'Abbé Suger."

The charter for the foundation of the abbey of St. Denis was

given by Clovis. It was written on papyrus, and among others the

signature of St. Eloi was attached to it. Pepin and Charlemagne

were great benefactors of the abbey. Pepin was buried before the

grand portal of the old church with his face down, wishing by his

prostrate position to atone for the excesses of his father

Charles Martel. Charlemagne with filial reverence built a porch

to the church, as a covering over his father's tomb, and that he

might not lie without the church. In rebuilding it, Suger had the

porch removed and the body transferred into the interior.

The treasury of the abbey was once exceedingly rich. The old

kings of France left their crowns to it, and on grand festivals

they were suspended before the high altar. Here were the cross

and sceptre of Charlemagne, and the crown and ring of the holy

Louis IX. Philip Augustus gave the abbey in his will all his

jewels and crosses of gold, desiring twenty monks to say masses

for his soul. The chess-board and chess-men of Charlemagne were

kept here for ages. Joubert, the Coleridge of France, says:

"The pomps and magnificence with which the church is reproached

are in truth the result and proof of her incomparable

excellence. Whence came, let me ask, this power of hers and

these excessive riches, except from the enchantment into which

she threw all the world? Ravished with her beauty, millions of

men from age to age kept loading her with gifts, bequests, and

cessions. She had the talent of making herself loved and the

talent of making men happy. It is that which wrought prodigies

for her, it is thence she drew her power."

Sixty great wax candles used to burn around the high altar of St.

Denis on great festivals. Dagobert left one hundred livres a year

to obtain oil for lights, and Pepin allowed six carts to bring it

all the way from Marseilles without toll.

In the middle ages there were fairs near the abbey which lasted

for a month. Merchants came from Italy, Spain, and all parts of

Europe, and, to encourage them to be mindful of their souls as

well as of their purses, indulgences were granted to all who

visited the church.

These are a few notes of my saunterings. Each one of these holy

places, as well as every church in those old lands, has its

history which is interesting, and its legends that are poetical

and full of meaning. They would fill volumes. Travelling is like

eating; what gives pleasure to one only aggravates the bile of

another. Some only find tyranny in the authority of the church, a

love of pomp and display in her splendor, and superstition in her

piety. Thoreau says, "Where an angel treads, it will be paradise

all the way; but where Satan travels, it will be burning marl and

cinders."

-------

{619}

Spiritualism and Materialism.

Professor Huxley, as we saw in a late number of this magazine, in

the article on _The Physical Basis of Life_, while rejecting

spiritualism, gives his opinion that materialism is a

philosophical error, on the ground of our ignorance of what

matter is, or is not. There is some truth in the assertion of our

ignorance of the essence or real nature of matter or material

existence, though the professor had no logical right to assert

it, after having adopted a materialistic terminology, and done

his best to prove the material origin of life, thought, feeling,

and the various mental phenomena. Yet we are far from regarding

what is called materialism as the fundamental error of this age,

nor do we believe that there is any necessary or irrepressible

antagonism between spirit and matter, either intellectual or

moral. In our belief, a profound philosophy, though it does not

identify spirit and matter, shows their dialectic harmony, as

revelation asserts it in asserting the resurrection of the flesh,

and the indissoluble reunion of body and soul in the future life.

The fundamental error of this age is the denial of creation, and,

theologically expressed, is, with the vulgar, atheism, and with

the cultivated and refined, pantheism. Atheism is the denial of

unity, and pantheism the denial of plurality or diversity, and

both alike deny creation, and seek to explain the universe by the

principle of self-generation or self-development. What is really

denied is God THE CREATOR.

There are, no doubt, moral causes that have led in part to this

denial, but with them we have at present nothing to do. The

assertion of moral causes is more effective in preventing men

from abandoning the truth and falling into error than in

recovering and leading back to the truth those who have lost it,

or know not where to find it. We lose our labor when we begin our

efforts, as philosophers, to convert those who are in error by

assuring them that they have erred only through moral perversity

or hatred of the true and the good, the just and the holy,

especially in an age when conscience is fast asleep. We aim at

convincing, not at convicting, and therefore take up only the

intellectual causes which lead to the denial of creation. Among

these causes, we shall, no doubt, find materialism and a

pseudo-spiritualism both playing their part; but the real causes,

we apprehend, are in the fact that the philosophic tradition,

which has come down to us from gentilism, has never been fully

harmonized with the Christian tradition, which has come down to

us through the church.

Gentilism had lost sight of God the Creator, and confounded

creation with generation, emanation, or formation. Why the

gentiles were led into this error would be an interesting chapter

in the history of the wanderings of the human mind; but we have

no space at present for the inquiry. It is enough, for our

present purpose, to establish the fact that the gentiles did fall

into it. The conception of creation is found in none of the

heathen mythologies, learned or unlearned, of which we have any

knowledge; and that they do not recognize a creative God, may be

inferred from the fact that in them all, so far as known, was

worshipped, under obscure symbols, the generative forces or

functions of nature.

{620}

In no gentile philosophy, not even in Plato or Aristotle, do you

find any conception of God the Creator. Père Gratry, indeed,

thinks he finds the fact of creation recognized by Plato,

especially in the _Timaeus_; but though we have read time

and again that most important of Plato's dialogues, we have never

found the fact of creation in it; all we can find in it bearing

on this point is what Plato, as we understand him, uniformly

teaches, the identity of the idea with the essence or _causa

essentialis_ of the thing. As, for instance, the idea of a man

is the real, essential man himself; and is simply the idea in the

divine mind, impressed on a preexisting matter, as the seal upon

wax. God creates neither the idea nor the matter. The idea is

himself; the matter is eternal. Aristotle does not essentially

differ from Plato on this point. The individual existence,

according to him, is composed of matter and form; the form alone

is substantial, and matter is simply its passive recipient. The

substantial forms are supplied, but not created by the divine

intelligence. In no form of heathenism that existed before the

Christian era have we found any conception of creation. The

conception or tradition of creation was retained only by the

patriarchs and the synagogue, and has been restored to the

converted gentiles by the Christian church alone.

St. Augustine, and after him the great medieval

doctors--especially the greatest of them all, the Angel of the

schools--labored assiduously, and up to a certain point

successfully, to amend the least debased gentile philosophy so as

to make it harmonize with Christian theology and tradition. They

took from gentile philosophy the elements it had retained from

the ancient wisdom, supplied their defects with elements taken

from the Christian tradition, and formed a really Christian

philosophy, which still subsists in union with theology.

This work of harmonizing faith and philosophy, or, perhaps, more

correctly, of constructing a philosophy in harmony with faith and

theology, was nearly, if not quite completed by the great western

scholastics or medieval doctors; but, unhappily, the East,

separated from the centre of unity, or holding to it only loosely

and by fits and starts, did not share in the great intellectual

movement of the West. It made little or no progress in

harmonizing gentile philosophy and Christian theology. It

retained and studied the gentile philosophers, especially of the

Platonic and Neoplatonic schools; and when the Greek scholars,

after the taking of Constantinople by the Turks, in 1453, sought

refuge in the West, they brought with them, not only their

schism, but their unmitigated gentile philosophy, corrupted the

western schools, and unsettled to a fearful extent the confidence

of scholars in the scholastic philosophy. We owe the false

systems of spiritualism and materialism, of atheism and

pantheism, to what is called the Revival of Letters in the

fifteenth century, or the Greek invasion of western Christendom.

The scholastics, especially St. Thomas, had transformed the

peripatetic philosophy into a Christian philosophy; but the other

Greek schools had remained pagan; and it was precisely these

other schools, especially the Platonic, and Neoplatonic, or

Alexandrian eclecticism, that now revived in their

unchristianized form, and were opposed to the Aristotelian

philosophy as modified by the schoolmen.

{621}

Some of the early fathers were more inclined to Plato than to

Aristotle, but none of these, not Clemens Alexandrinus, Origen,

or even St. Augustine, had harmonized throughout Plato's

philosophy with Christianity, and we should greatly wrong St.

Augustine, at least, if we called him a systematic Platonist.