Chapter VI.

"Chione in grief, and a prey to despair!"

It was the Christian bishop who spoke, and his interlocutor was

Lotis.

"Even so, my lord. During her illness the report was that she was

beset by the furies. When I saw her, it seemed as though the hand

of some avenging god lay heavy on her. If, my lord, you

Christians are adepts in magic, as many people believe I would

ask you to disenthrall her from the influence under which she

suffers, whatever it may be."

"And it is Chione who is this famous Leontium, who has made so

great a sensation in the eastern cities?" continued Dionysius, as

if not hearing the last speech of Lotis.

"It is so."

"From what I have heard, her eloquence is something unusual."

"I too have heard so; but for myself, I was never present at one

of her instructions. I saw her alone, bowed down as it were

beneath the weight of the truth she was carrying; but unable to

speak the last word, that word which promised to be the key to

all the rest, the solution of mystery, the harmonizer of ideas.

That last word was not spoken at Nauplia; her pupils awaited it,

but her tongue was as it were paralyzed. Some powerful influence

seemed ever to prevent her from speaking it."

"Poor Chione!"

"My lord, may I venture to ask of you, do you believe, as some

do, that Chione is in possession of a truth she dare not declare?

that some divine hand is pressing down within her the word that

is panting for expression? Is Chione bewitched?"

"She is suffering from a supernatural influence, that is

certain."

"And can you deliver her? Why else did she send me to you?"

"If she so _will_, she may be delivered; but the

supernatural Word she cannot speak has been offended; the

sacrifice he demands is great; will she make it?"

"If in her power, I think she will. She is a mystery to me, as

all life seems to be. What is that Word Chione has offended? how

did she offend? what must she do to appease the divine wrath?"

"My child," said the old Areopagite solemnly, "truth is not a

plaything wherewith to amuse the intellect, not a toy to while

away a tedious hour with. Truth is the manifestation of the

eternal harmonies, those harmonies which man has interfered with,

into which he has introduced a discord, the discord of sin. The

_humility_ of man, the recognition of sin, such a

recognition as brings the voluntary humiliation of self, must

precede his admission to the kingdom where those harmonies are

restored. The vainglory of philosophy, the pride of science,

however correct may be their surmises, are without _life_.

{813}

They can neither restore these harmonies, nor catch a glimpse of

the glory of that eternal comprehensive Unity, in which all

beauty, melody, and good reside; that eternal idea of which

matter is the varied type. A type now deranged by man's act so

hopelessly, that human power is utterly inadequate to its

restoration."

"But the restorer comes; the expectation of nations points to

this," said Lotis; "and that expectation is everywhere; in India

as in Cathay, in Greece and among the barbarians."

"The deliverer is come already," said Dionysius.

"Then why is he not proclaimed? Is this the unspoken word that

Chione might not utter? Why, if the deliverer is here, is he not

announced?"

"Because, before the disorder of exterior things can be remedied,

the _interior_ remedy must be applied to the soul. Exterior

forms obey the interior impulse. Man is lord of matter, and man's

disordered soul reflects itself upon the material subject to him.

The disorder manifest throughout exterior creation will be

remedied when the disordered spirit of man is healed. Therefore

is it that, now that the restorer is come, he is not recognized;

for he insists on the purification of the spirit, on the

annihilation of selfishness, on the necessity of being reunited

in spirit with the essential good as a precursor of other

renovations. That done, exterior good follows as of course."

"Even as wealth follows industry, and health the practice of

temperance," said Lotis.

"Natural virtue brings its results sometimes," said the venerable

teacher, "when justice rules; but as matters stand now, the

winner of wealth has often the least share. Oppression is one of

the inevitable results of making self-love the centre of action

instead of taking the justice of the eternal God for our guide.

Man's soul was created in the image of God. Hence its affinity

for beauty, its appreciation of lofty idea, its glowing

enthusiasm at recital of heroic deeds: but man's will snapped the

cord that bound it to the eternal will. Enamored of his own

charms, he forgot the source of his beauty; proud of his mighty

intellect, he has ceased to adore the God of all understanding;

freeing himself from the shackles of duty, he cast away alike the

nourishment of his beauty and the food of his towering intellect.

Man's _will_ must be directed to DESIRE God ere he can

regain good. Hence the work of the Redeemer is interior; it is

the implanting of the Holy Spirit as the necessary step to the

true redemption."

"Chione's philosophy resembles this in some degree," said Lotis.

Dionysius did not answer, Lotis resumed.

"Who is this _Word_ of whom Chione speaks?"

The answer came slowly, solemnly, deliberately, and it fell on

the ear of Lotis, as if a divine power accompanied it:

"Jesus Christ."

"The Saviour anointed," whispered she to herself, as she

translated the words: "The Saviour of men, anointed by God."

There was evidently a revelation to her, conveyed by the words;

one of those miraculous influences which, in the early days,

"long ago," were so common among truth-seeking souls. Her reverie

lasted long, and the good bishop did not interrupt her. He knew

that the Holy Spirit was shedding his influence upon her.

Suddenly she turned upon him with the question:

{814}

"And is Jesus Christ an inspired man, or is he God?"

"Jesus Christ is the Word of God, and the Word was made flesh,

and dwelt among us," answered the bishop.

Lotis replied not. The bishop continued in a very low voice:

"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and

the Word was God. The same was in the beginning with God. All

things were made by him: and without him was not anything made

that was made. In him was life; and the life was the light of

men: and the light shineth in darkness; and the darkness

comprehended it not." (St. John i. 1-5.)

And Lotis fell on her knees, saying, "Lead me to him, to the

Divine Word, to Jesus Christ, for I will have no other master."

"It is well, my child," said the good bishop, laying his hand

solemnly on her head. "It is well. May he who has thus directed

your choice give you the further grace to continue unto the end.

But, Lotis, you must learn the price of redemption; you must know

who the Master is you have chosen."

And the venerable bishop, in a few short but impressive words,

traced the history of the world from Adam's fall, through the

line of patriarchs, through the perversion of morals which called

forth the deluge. He spoke of the call of Abraham, of the mission

of Moses, of the succession of the prophets unto John the

Baptist; and finally, of the advent of our Lord himself; of his

coming to his own, and of his own receiving him not; of his life,

miracles, and crucifixion; of his death, resurrection, and

ascension; and finally, of the descent of the Holy Spirit.

Lotis listened and believed, and demanded to be washed from her

sins, that she might understand. She, yet a neophyte, seemed to

comprehend that sin forms the darkness which hinders the soul

from contemplating God. "Wash me from my sins," she said, "that I

may see the light."'

To Be Continued.

---------

Affairs In Italy.

Though the disgraceful part which the Italian monarchy has played

in the late invasion of Rome by marauding bands is now a matter

of common notoriety, elaborate efforts are still being made by a

majority of the Italian, and a certain portion of the European,

press to deny the well-known facts of the case. These organs are,

however, only following the illustrious example set to them by

Victor Emmanuel and Count Menabrea, whose official declarations

that the revolutionists had acted entirely without the authority

and knowledge of the Italian government are certainly the most

pitiful subterfuges to which the king and the premier of a great

power could possibly have been reduced. Indeed, we can hardly

conceive a more humiliating spectacle than that which the Italian

government presents in solemnly assuring the world that it had

not been secretly leagued with filibusters, while, to crown the

disgrace of the spectacle, nobody believes a word of its denial.

{815}

But General Menabrea has attempted even more than this. In his

answer to the invitation to the European Conference, dated

November 19th, 1867, he had the assurance to state that Rome, not

Italy, was the real cause of the present trouble. On another

occasion he ventured upon a somewhat similar statement by saying

that experience had taught Italy the impossibility of maintaining

friendly relations with her neighbor on the Tiber! It is

difficult to believe that any public man should care so little

for his reputation for truth as to utter such reckless

falsehoods. The whole history of the past eight years gives him

the lie, for it proves clearly that every provocation has come

from that Piedmont which is now styled Italy. Provocations by

resort to the revolution, as in the seizure of the Legations in

1859, and again in that of the Marches and Umbria in 1860, when

Viterbo, the capital of the patrimony, was also taken by force;

provocations by resort to legislation, as in the breach of the

concordats, in the civil marriages in an unchristian form, in the

suppression of the spiritual orders, in the confiscation of the

ecclesiastical property, in the violent measures adopted against

the episcopate, and in the parliamentary resolutions about Rome;

provocations by the personal speeches and acts of King Victor

Emmanuel, whom neither the sense of his exalted station nor the

traditions of his strictly orthodox dynasty have deterred from

expressions which he will yet have cause to deplore when the

fruits they are destined to bear become fully apparent; in a

word, all the provocations have come from the side of Italy. All

the evidences of moderation and conciliation (as was seen to the

very last in the case of the bishoprics) have come from the side

of the Holy Father; but they were always repaid with the blackest

ingratitude. The piratical raid against the church state was

merely the fit ending and the logical result of that long series

of aggressive measures which furnishes the counts in the

indictment against the Italian monarchy. We need not recapitulate

the provocations that have for years preceded the invasion of

Garibaldi's filibusters; for everybody will readily recall to

mind the machinations to excite a spirit of discontent in the

holy city and the surrounding districts; the aid and comfort

extended to the self-styled Roman Revolutionary Committee, which

has its seat at Florence; the libels against the person of the

supreme pontiff and his sacred office, which have disgraced not

only the press, but the floor of the two chambers; the

encouragement afforded to every incendiary and fugitive from

Roman justice, and the marked favor shown to all such characters

by the authorities. Indeed, but for the agency which the Italian

monarchy had in bringing about the invasion, that demonstration

would never have become what it is, one of the most flagrant

outrages known to the law of nations in modern days. In the midst

of profound peace, without a shadow of an excuse or a pretext on

the other side, Italy has not only tolerated, but sanctioned, the

publication of the most indecent attacks on the head of the

church. She has permitted the circulation of revolutionary

manifestoes and appeals against a neighboring state, whose

integrity the honor of the nation was pledged to respect and

enforce.

{816}

She has suffered the raising of money and arms for avowedly

hostile and unlawful purposes; the opening of recruiting stations

in public places, and under the direct patronage of high

officials; the discussion of general plans for the campaign; the

concentration of armed bands along her frontiers, and that under

the eyes of troops ostensibly stationed there to disperse and

prevent all such gatherings. She has enacted a farce, as foolish

as it was discreditable, in regard to the chief conspirator

himself, and carried this so far as to order her navy to blockade

a deserted rock, while he was held in reserve, to be turned loose

when the loyalty of the pope's subjects and the incapacity of the

minor chiefs threatened to defeat the whole enterprise. All these

are well-authenticated facts, and have since been proved by the

admissions made by the Italian press. Thus, for instance, the

Florence _Diritto_, of November 25th, 1867, uses the

following significant language: "All the world," says this

popular organ of the Italian democracy, in an article sharply

criticising the past policy of Ratazzi's cabinet, "will remember

that the Garibaldian movement, _which was openly tolerated in

its last phase by the government_, had given rise to the

general belief that the authorities were aware of everything

going on, and fully prepared to assume all the consequences.

Public opinion and the public press, as they beheld the

government borne along by the mighty popular torrent, unanimously

approved of the supposed determination of the ministry, and

rejoiced to think that such a patriotic and exalted object as the

acquisition of Rome should at once have the support of

Garibaldi's irregular action and the avowed sanction of the

government. The whole nation fancied that the ministry had taken

all the precautions necessary to attain its ends in one way or

other, and in any case. .... It is therefore impossible for us to

describe how bitter the disappointment was when France intervened

at the most critical moment. Rome remained quiet, Prussia gave no

sign of moving, and the Italian army proved entirely unprepared

for the emergency." It is in the face of such admissions as these

that King Victor Emmanuel has ventured to issue a manifesto

denouncing the invasion of St. Peter's patrimony as having been

undertaken without the authority and knowledge of his government,

and that his prime minister has dared to say it was Rome, not

Italy, which should be blamed for the renewed interference of

France.

It is the perfidy and lawless ambition of the Italian monarchy

which have brought the French back to Rome. If this be regarded

as a misfortune--as, no doubt, in a certain sense it is, for a

foreign occupation always gives rise to an abnormal condition,

whose evils are great and whose effects often prove lasting--to

whom does the guilt attach? Not to the Holy Father, not to the

Romans, who have turned a deaf ear to the whispers of treason,

although their temptation was not great when we take into account

the present state and prospects of the monarchy! But there is no

need for us to indulge in sinister prognostications. Even had the

Italian forces stationed on the line, where they neither

protected the papal territory nor indicated the good faith of

their own government, really prevented the invasion, the crisis

must have come sooner or later. It was unavoidable from the very

nature of the relations between the two neighbors. But it is

extraordinary that the party who is alone to blame for it should

claim as a reward to be released from the obligations contracted

by the September convention.

{817}

We cannot bring ourselves to believe for a moment that the recent

outrage will result to the advantage of its authors and abettors.

In the sense of the parliamentary resolutions passed at Turin and

Florence, the solution of the Roman problem means nothing less

than the destruction of the papal rights, and the spoliation and

the oppression of the church. It will be well to bear this fact

distinctly in mind. The new monarchy has unmistakably shown how

it means to respect its most solemn obligations and the vested

rights of others; and, above all, it has shown how it would like

to treat the head of the church. And this Italy dares to demand

that the gate of the papacy should be intrusted to her

safe-keeping? Were it possible to obliterate the whole history of

the last eight years from men's recollection, the occurrences of

the last few months would alone suffice to warn Christendom

against listening to such a proposition. The Roman Catholic

community will hardly feel disposed to see Victor Emmanuel the

intestate heir of Garibaldi at Rome, as it has seen him once

before at Naples.

The Roman problem requires, no doubt, a solution, for the French

are merely a momentary expedient. The subject is one that

interests the whole world, and which demands a settlement that

will not again expose the supreme pontiff to the danger of being

besieged at the Vatican, as was his handful of defenders in the

Bicoque Monte Rotondo, where they fought one against ten. We

shall not even touch here upon the claims of the pope as a mere

temporal ruler, and the most ancient on earth at that. Our

religious sentiment rebels against dragging a question whose two

component elements are indivisible into the narrow sphere of

politics, and still more into the sphere of revolutionary

politics which has made the nationality idea its god. The

Catholic sentiment resents the base suggestion of peril to the

independence of the church and its head. It cannot conceive a

popedom like the one to which the Byzantine exarchs have been

reduced. It wants no repetition of a Greek patriarchate among

Greeks and Turks. This is a question which concerns the entire

civilized Christian world, and not the Roman Catholic powers

alone. The royal speech from the throne to the North German Diet

contained a passage alluding to the important interests which

Germany and Italy are supposed to hold in common, and the chances

of Prussia's support in the case of a war with France about Rome

have, no doubt, entered largely into the calculations of the

Florence cabinet. But Prussia alone has over eight millions of

Roman Catholic subjects, who will never consent to the total

destruction of the foundation on which the independence of their

church rests, and who will therefore oppose every attempt to rob

the pope of his temporality. Such, at least, is the inference

which we are warranted in drawing from the spirit displayed

during the last month in Germany, and especially at the Mainz

meeting, where two thousand leading Catholics from all parts of

the country discussed the dangers of the church state. The

following are the resolutions which were passed unanimously on

that occasion:

{818}

"1. Divine Providence has made the successor of St. Peter the

sovereign of the Roman church state, and raised him above all

mere national interests, that he might be the subject of no

political power, but manage the religious affairs of all

Christian nations in perfect independence. This sovereign

right, conferred by God and confirmed by more than ten

centuries possession, is neither to be surrendered by the

Catholic Church, nor to be taken away from it by diplomatic

treaties or a revolutionary popular vote. The arbitrary and

chimerical scheme to make Rome the capital of Italy can never

be considered in comparison with the rights and interests of

Catholic Christendom.

2. The assertion that the pope, as a priest, is unfit to be the

head of a political government, and therefore unable to promote

the temporal welfare of his subjects, is an untruth

sufficiently refuted by the history of a thousand years. The

maintenance and restoration of the pope's political authority

in its original integrity is the only means to save Italy from

the demoralization which threatens her from the secret

societies and King Victor Emmanuel's policy. To have the Holy

Father in her midst constitutes to-day, as it has during her

whole Christian past, the highest honor, the true greatness,

and the blessing of Italy.

3. It is the duty of princes, and of every sovereign power, to

protect the independence of the head of the church to which

their Catholic subjects belong; and the Catholics of all

nations are entitled to demand that these obligations should be

sacredly observed. A government which countenances the

violation of the supreme pontiffs rights makes itself the

accomplice of the revolution. To suffer the government of

Victor Emmanuel to encourage with impunity or to undertake

itself enterprises tending to imperil the security of the Roman

church state, is to undermine all respect for the law of

nations and the principles of justice.

4. Love gifts, raised by the free, unanimous, and untiring

devotion of all Catholics, must supply the Holy Father with

that assistance which is indispensable for the government of

the church, as long as treachery and force withhold from him

the enjoyment of the estates bestowed on him in the past for

the advantage of all Christendom. For this purpose a general

organization must be formed.

5. In view of the present crisis, the maintenance of the army

which the Holy Father requires for the protection of his own

person and that of his loyal subjects is a matter which

profoundly concerns the whole Catholic world. It should be a

question of honor for every nation to be represented among its

ranks, and Germans could not dedicate their lives to a nobler

cause."

But apart from the influence of these eight millions of Roman

Catholics in Prussia, no state which recognizes the binding force

of its own civilizing mission, and claims to be governed by law,

could take part in such a dangerous violation of international

unity, whatever its political affinities and antecedents might

otherwise happen to be. Germany may or may not have vast

interests in common with the Italian nationality, and may even

desire their realization. But the interests of religion rank far

above those of Italian nationality, with which, as we have seen,

the Roman question is constantly being confounded. The Italian

monarchy, as at present constituted, can inspire little

confidence and respect at home or abroad. Independent of all

other considerations, it is difficult to perceive how any true

friend of Italy, any patriot, could, even from a purely

politico-national stand-point, approve of the Garibaldian raid,

and the policy pursued by the Florence government in relation to

it. What the new monarchy stands most in need of at present is

something quite different from the Utopian completion of its

unity.

{819}

If this object has not been reached already because Rome and its

half a million of people are ruled by the pope, it will never be

accomplished. The monarchy wants to strengthen itself internally,

not to extend externally. A strong, able, and honest government,

an efficient administration, a restored finance, a thorough

system of public instruction, a development of its commerce,

agriculture, and industry, and, above all, peace and

harmony--these are the indispensable conditions to its future

welfare, even to its existence. Nothing could therefore have been

more fatal, even from the narrowest and most selfish point of

view, than the breach of the September convention. It was, upon

the whole, the most statesmanlike programme which the Italian

government has yet adopted during its brief life, and should have

been sacredly observed. Neither the treaty of alliance with

Prussia, which gave Italy the chance to acquire Venetia, nor the

peace of Vienna, which ratified that acquisition, could have

exerted so far-reaching an influence on the domestic and foreign

position of the country. The alliance with Prussia, it is true,

contained the germs of advantages which might eventually have

extended much beyond the settlement of the Venetian question and

the abandonment of the Quadrilateral by the Austrians. But the

fruition of these promises required time; for, as soon as Venetia

was disposed of, it became evident that the connection between

Italy and Prussia would have to remain long less intimate and

important than the connection between Italy and France. As long

as the latter power remained at Rome, the attention of the

Italian statesmen would have to continue fixed rather on Paris

than on Berlin. According to the intentions of its Italian

framers, the convention of September 15th was to serve gradually

to loosen the ties which bound Italy to France, and which began

then already to be borne with impatience by the nation. By the

evacuation of the Eternal City the Roman question was to be

changed into an exclusively Italian question. But this project

the conduct of the Italian monarchy, or, to speak more precisely,

that of the statesmen who succeeded in office those who had

devised the programme, has defeated, as we shall hereafter fully

explain; and the result is, that the Roman problem has once more

assumed a diplomatic, international phase, pending again between

Florence and Paris.

The September convention has failed to put an end to these

further pretexts for foreign interference in the domestic affairs

of Italy, because its terms were never observed, and because its

authors were not afforded a chance to carry their policy out.

Nothing could have been more inauspicious than the fact that the

statesmen who concluded the convention should have been driven

from office on account of the Turin difficulties, at the very

time when their measures had received the approbation of a large

majority of the nation, and the sanction of the majority of the

two chambers. The fall of the Minghetti ministry was an anomaly

utterly contrary to all ideas of constitutional government. An

important programme, which changed the entire policy of the

country and committed it to a new one for the next future, had

been accepted. It could never have been adopted without the

sanction of the sovereign, nor without the approval of the

country and its representatives in parliament. And yet those who

had originated it and assumed all its responsibilities were

compelled to resign power to men that accepted the legacy only

because they could not help themselves, and whose views differed

totally from those of their predecessors in office.

{820}

The Minghetti cabinet, which had to retire in consequence of the

excitement caused among the people of Piedmont by the transfer of

the national capital stipulated for in the September convention,

was succeeded by the La Marmora, composed chiefly out of

Piedmontese elements, although it repudiated all the principles

of the Minghetti, while pretending to recognize the obligations

resulting from the convention itself. It is easy to conceive the

profound agitation produced by this change in the ranks of the

moderate party, which had hitherto constituted the parliamentary

majority. The most energetic element of this party had been the

Piedmontese. Through its intimate relations with the reigning

house, its long parliamentary experience, its business knowledge,

its marked predominance in the administration and the army, the

Piedmontese had always been the most trustworthy supporters of

the moderate cause, the strongest bulwark against the incessant

encroachments of radicalism. It was the majority of this element

that now coalesced with the radicals for the purpose of fighting

by their side against the late moderate leaders, whom they could

not pardon for having severed the hegemony of Piedmont and Turin

by the transfer of the capital to Florence. In addition to the

desertion of the bulk of the Piedmontese, the remainder of the

moderates split among themselves. Some refused to desert their

fallen leaders; others, and especially such as had joined the new

administration, while still content to adhere to a moderate

policy and to accept the September convention as a part of it,

yet thought they might safely venture to sacrifice the authors of

the latter to the prejudices of Piedmont, and that without

serious injury to the material features of the programme. This

division between the supporters of the old cabinet, the so-called

"Consorteria," and the new, became most conspicuous at the

elections in the autumn of 1865, when the latter opposed, or

permitted its followers to oppose, the candidates of the former,

which resulted in large accessions to the radicals. The Ricasoli

cabinet, formed in the spring of 1866, also hoped to strengthen

itself by conciliating the radicals, while it continued to

maintain the unfriendly attitude of its predecessors toward the

Consorteria. But the result was, that the Ricasoli ministry

failed to secure a majority when it dissolved parliament in

February, 1867.

Is the steady decadence of the Italian monarchy due to the

disintegration of the moderate party, or is this disintegration

of the party of order merely a symptom of the general decline of

the old country and the new kingdom? It will suffice to throw out

these queries, and to contestate at the same time the

circumstance that the influence of the government has diminished

in the same ratio as that of the radicals has increased; that the

confusion and disorder in all departments of the public service

have kept pace with the financial embarrassment. Although every

ministry called to office since 1864 has been more or less

recruited from the _débris_ of the old moderate party, each

succeeding administration has proved itself less capable of

resisting the advances of the radicals and the Piedmontese

opposition, and the last Ratazzi ministry was forced at the start

to depend altogether on their support and forbearance.

{821}

These being the facts, it is only natural that the programme of

the moderates in relation to the Roman and the ecclesiastical

questions should have lost authority year after year, session

after session, until it has finally become impracticable of

execution. The non-intervention policy presupposed first of all a

government strong and honest enough to enforce a pacific course

toward the pope. But no such government has ever yet been known

in Italy. The secret negotiations with Rome, conducted by the La

Marmora and the Ricasoli cabinets, (through Vegezzi and Tonello,)

related only to spiritual affairs; but even these were defeated

by the machinations of the radicals in parliament and in the

press. This party desires no dealings whatever with the papal

government, neither in relation to temporal nor spiritual

matters. It is an uncompromising opponent of Cavour's maxim,

_Libero chiesa in libero stato_, which it considers the

greatest misfortune that could befall the country. Between the

radicals of Italy and the Church of Rome the war is one of life

and death. They charge the papacy with having caused the division

and subjugation of the peninsula. They hold up the whole

institution as the mortal foe of every national aspiration for

unity and independence. They say that only doctrinarians and

disguised clericals can draw a line of demarcation between Rome's

temporal and spiritual rule, and openly boast that it is their

mission to complete at once the unity of Italy, and to free the

world from papacy. These are the leading points in the radical

programme, and they are, therefore, the exact opposite to those

laid down in the September convention.

But, despite the disintegration of the moderate party, despite

the feebleness of the consecutive ministries in office since

1864, a programme which substitutes the subjugation of the church

for its freedom, the physical conquest of Rome for its moral,

would perhaps have less rapidly gained ground, had not an

entirely new factor entered into the relations between the

Italian and the papal governments--between church and state; and

this factor was the all-engrossing financial question. The

radicals cunningly used it to hasten the solution of the Roman

problem by advocating the confiscation of the ecclesiastical

property, and they succeeded in persuading the moderates to

countenance a policy which was felt to be an outrage to all

justice. The latter, instead of acting in accordance with the

principle of a free church in a free state, accepted the radical

postulates. The influence of the radicals constantly grew,

because they were perfectly united, decided, and logical on all

questions relating to church and state, while, the moderates only

reluctantly, and with the secret consciousness of their own

inconsequence, assented to measures which endangered both the

discipline and possessions of the church. A party which fights

boldly under its own colors may be vanquished to-day, yet rally

again to-morrow and conquer at last; but a party which is

compelled to hide its colors and to hoist those of its foes

resigns all hopes of resuming the contest after the first

reverse. As far as the interests of the papacy are, therefore,

concerned, there is very little difference between the radicals

and the moderates of Italy. Both would like to obtain Rome, only

that the latter differ in regard to the means. While the radicals

would resort to brute force, the moderates would trust to cunning

and plotting; for they know that the Roman question is not, like

the Venetian, a mere question of national independence and unity,

which can be solved permanently by war or revolution.

{822}

Their object is not simply the destruction of the worldly power

of the pope and the annexation of the small strip of territory

still left to him. The supreme pontiff has more than once lost

his temporality; but his ascendency over the minds of men was

rather strengthened than weakened by his adversity, and with the

aid of his moral authority, his spiritual influence, he has every

time regained what he had lost. To deprive him, once for all, of

his worldly power, he must first be reduced to a condition which

will not allow him to avail himself again of his moral authority

as the head of the church, and it is to this end that the

moderates have been working in various ways.

In relation to the proposed European congress we have nothing to

say, except that it is an impossibility. As the pastoral letter

of the Bishop of Orleans forcibly remarked, such a conference

could only be composed of kings; for the fate of the supreme

pontiff should never be left to the decision of a Gortschakoff or

a Bismarck.

Since the above article was written, the debates in the Italian

chambers have shown to us anew that the Holy Father can expect

nothing from the monarchy. They have proved again that the Roman

question is considered by them to be a mere political question,

and this without the slightest reference to its religious and

international features. Cavour once announced, with the

approbation of parliament, that Italy _must_ have Rome; but

General Menabrea knows full well the pressure under which the

modern Machiavelli, the man of impromptu and chicane, was forced

to resort to this expedient. Menabrea may, perhaps, never make

common cause with Garibaldi as Ratazzi has done, not even for the

sake of Rome; but he is equally destitute of moral principles.

Italy, it appears, has not been rendered one whit the wiser or

more honest by the deep humiliation which she has recently

undergone; otherwise, she would not have the audacity to ask that

the Catholic world should confide the fate of the church to a

state which has for years persistently derided, oppressed, and

plundered the church. Italy has too recently been leagued with

one who never ceases to utter the vilest invectives and threats

against the papacy, and she is quite ready to avail herself again

of the next opportunity to outrage the law of nations by

proclaiming the law of the revolution. Italy, even had she the

wish, which she has not, would not have the power to protect the

church, for she has unchained every element most hostile to it,

and can now herself only exist by a chain of negations. To a

state like this, to which nothing has been sacred since Charles

Albert's revolt against Austria, in May, 1848, and which is so

feeble internally, the Catholic world could never dream of

intrusting its holiest and highest interests. Whole Europe would

first have to take leave of its senses. It is not solely the

Catholic powers which--unless, indeed, they aim, like Russia, at

the total destruction of Catholicism--are profoundly concerned in

this question. Every existing state has a vital interest in

opposing this openly avowed scheme to unsettle all fundamental

principles of equity and justice. Should the Italian doctrine

triumph, as Menabrea dares to prophesy, the old feudal times,

when might made right and brute force ruled supreme, would return

on earth in this nineteenth century. The church state exists

since eleven centuries, the Italian monarchy not yet as many

years; the church state owes its rise to the consent of its

populations, the Italian monarchy to a series of intrigues and

violence, rendered successful through foreign support.

{823}

And now the Italian monarchy comes again, in the midst of peace,

without cause or provocation, without the wish of those most

deeply interested in the question, the Romans themselves, to

declare once more, "Rome is mine!" Hers? how? Through those

boasted moral means, which have turned out to be a band of

filibusters, the accomplices of the banditti who selected the

evening of the twenty-second day of October, 1867, for the

purpose of inaugurating their heroic achievements with deeds of

murder and arson? This is the policy--these are the

principles--which General Menabrea, the putative father of the

September convention and of a "moral solution" of the Roman

question, has the unblushing hardihood to proclaim in the face of

civilized and christianized Europe! What answer will the two

hundred millions of Roman Catholics return?

--------

The Love Of The Pardoned.

"He to whom less is forgiven,

the same loveth less."

Disciple.

"Sweet Lord,

'Tis true thy love no measure knows;

And yet thou must agree,

A love within my bosom glows

Thou canst not feel for me--

The love that springs in pardoned hearts

With all the joy such love imparts.

I long, but why I do not know,

That thou, dear Lord, couldst love me so."

Master.

"My child,

Thy brethren are my images.

Wherefore I said to thee:

Whate'er thou doest unto these

Thou doest unto me.

Shall I have joy if thou dispense

Thy bounty on their need,

And if thou pardonest their offence

Feel not the loving deed?

That which _thou_ doest is divine.

Doubt not; _their_ love is also mine!"

--------

{824}

What Doctor Marks died of.

Some one at our camp-fire had chanced to mention Dr. Marks, which

called forth the comment that the doctor had died of

heart-disease--been found dead in his bed.

Major Arnold lifted his dark, bright eyes from dreaming over the

coals, and looked steadily at the last speaker. "Died of

heart-disease?" he repeated, with a slightly sceptical

inflection.

"Yes, sir!"--very positively.

The major looked into the fire again, and thoughtfully thridded

his beard through his fingers, while he appeared to weigh the

pros and cons of some impulse in his mind. The pros tilted the

beam, and the major spoke. But he first drew his hand down across

his eyes, and swept away, with that pass, the present scene of

myriad tents, ghostly-white in the moonlight, or shining crimson

in the light of scattered fires; of closely-crowding,

shadow-haunted southern crags and forests that lifted themselves

from our feet to the horizon, their black and ragged rim standing

boldly out against a sky that was flooded with the mellow

radiance of the full moon, all its stars and all its purple

swamped in that silent and melancholy tide.

"Poor Anne Atherton!" I had not thought that our rough major

could speak so softly. "I had been going to the door every day,

for weeks, to ask how she was, hoping in spite of the doctors.

But one morning, when I reached the steps, I saw a strip of crape

tied round the bell-knob. No need of questions that day. Poor

little Anne was gone!

"I call her little; but she was eighteen, and well-grown. It is

only a fond way of intimating that she crept into all our hearts.

People liked her for her honest beauty, her ready smile, and her

cheerful voice. Anne was not one of your bilious-sublime sort,

but a strong, sweet, sensible girl, with an apple-blossom

complexion and a clear conscience. Her family were old friends of

mine, and Anne was engaged and about to be married to my

particular crony--John Sharon--one of the best fellows that ever

trod shoe-leather. Poor John! My heart ached for him as I went

down-town that day.

"There's a little Scottish poem that reminded me, the first time

I read it, of John Sharon's loves and hates:

'Tweed said to Till,

"What gars ye rin sae still?"

Till said to Tweed,

"Though ye rin wi' speed,

And I rin slaw,

Whar ye droon ae man,

I droon twa."'

"The current of John's feelings was like the current of Till

river.

"That evening I went up to the house with my arms full of white

flowers. Minnie Atherton wanted me to go in to see her sister;

but I hesitated. I had always disliked to look at a corpse, and I

hated to lose from my mind the picture it held of that

rosy-cheeked girl, and take in its place ever so fair an image of

death.

"'She looks very peaceful,' Minnie said tearfully, seeing my

unwillingness. 'And you may be able to comfort John. We can't get

him away from her.'

{825}

"I never was much at comforting people. All that I know how to

say to a crying woman is, 'Now, don't, my dear!' and to a crying

man I couldn't utter a word. Since then I have marched up to a

battery with less shaking of the nerves than I felt on that day

when I went into the darkened room where Anne Atherton lay dead,

and John Sharon sat looking at her. There were no tears in his

eyes, there was no trembling in his lip or voice. He looked as

though he had so long gazed upon and studied that face of hers

that his own had learned the secret of its frozen calm. I could

not tell which of the two was whiter.

"How beautiful she was! There was still a faint pink in her lips;

but where that marvellous rich color had bloomed in the cheeks,

and a fainter tint in the small ears and rounded chin, there was

now only pure white. But that pallor revealed many an exquisite

outline which had been unnoted when her color dazzled the eyes.

Her head was turned aside, with one hand under the cheek, and her

long, fair hair was put back from the face, and lay in shining

ripples down her shoulders and back. She wore her bridal dress

and veil, some filmy, frosty stuff, that looked as though it

might melt, being so near the cluster of candles that burned at

her head. There was no light in the room but from those candles.

"Minnie scattered my flowers over her sister's hair and dress. 'I

am glad that you brought tuberoses,' she said, 'Anne always loved

them.'

"A long, slow sigh heaved John Sharon's breast. He carefully took

up one of the blossoms and looked it all over--the flower that

Anne had loved! Then he laid it tenderly back again. Not all the

blooms of earth could, for any other reason, have won a glance

from him at that moment; but I know that he has a tuberose

engraven as sharply upon his memory as you ever saw any white

flower cut upon a tomb-stone.

"Presently Minnie left the room, glancing at me as she went. I

ventured to lay my hand on John's shoulder. I know it, Arnold,'

he said quietly. 'You would help me if you could. But there is no

help on earth. Don't worry about me. I can't leave while she is

above ground. There will be time enough, by and by, for rest.'

"'I have no word of consolation to offer,' I said.

"'But I have a thought that consoles me,' he replied, leaning

forward with tender passion to lay his hand on hers; 'I have not

altogether lost her. I shall meet her again, my darling! I shall

meet her again!'

"I turned away and left them there hand in hand.

"When I went up the next morning I found John trembling with

excitement. 'I have just restrained myself from taking Dr.

Marks's life!' he said, his teeth fairly chattering. 'What do you

think that the brute dared to propose to me? He wants to make a

_post-mortem_ examination of Anne! That young form that the

hand of man has never touched, to be cut up for the gratification

of a mere professional curiosity! I told him to run for his life,

or I would strangle him.'

"Telling this, John panted like a man out of breath.

"I tried to soothe him. 'These doctors get used to everything,' I

said. 'Marks could have no idea how you feel about it.'

"He wrung his hands, still shivering with loathing of the thought

that had been forced on him. 'I can't get over it!' he said. 'I

am sorry that he was called in at the consultation. If I had

known in season, he should not have come.

{826}

He is a coarse-grained fellow, who, for the sake of gratifying

his curiosity about a disease, would outrage all the decencies of

life. 'I believe, Arnold--' here John choked with the words he

would have uttered.

"'My dear fellow, try to forget it,' I said. 'He has asked, and

you have refused, and there's an end of the matter.'

"'I don't believe that it is ended,' John said, looking at me

strangely.

"'You don't mean--' I began.

"But he lifted his hand as though he could not bear to have the

thought put into words. 'I shall watch her grave every night for

a week,' he said. 'Will you watch with me tonight, Arnold?'

"I promised, and we parted.

"Anne Atherton's case was a peculiar one. They had called it

quick consumption, for want of a better name. She always

persisted in saying that she had swallowed something sharp like a

pin, and that it had entered her left lung; but of all her

physicians, Doctor Marks was the only one who believed it

possible that she might be right. On the strength of this half

agreement he had proposed the examination.

"The South cemetery, just outside the city, used to be the

paradise of body-snatchers. It was in a lonesome neighborhood,

and two sides bordered on the open country. Many a grave in that

cemetery had given up its dead to the dissecting-knife, while the

bereaved ones at home little dreamed that its sacred rest had

been disturbed. The Athertons had a lot there, and Anne was

buried in it. We covered the new-made grave with evergreens,

wreath linked in wreath, the whole sprinkled with white

flowers--a pretty counterpane for the fair sleeper below.

"It was five minutes past nine in the evening when I vaulted over

the stone wall, and walked down the central avenue. The Atherton

lot was not far from the entrance, and instead of a high fence,

with gate and lock like the others, it was surrounded only by a

low rim of granite. As I approached, I saw the tall, white

monument in the centre, and John Sharon leaning against it, and

looking down on the wreath-covered mound at his feet. He started

when he heard my step, and came to meet me, taking my hand in a

strong, cold clasp.

"'We will sit here,' he said, leading me to a shady nook at the

other side of the avenue.

"The place he had selected was a grove of Norway spruces which

formed a half-circle, the open side facing the Atherton lot, and

not more than two rods distant from it. Thoughtful for my

comfort, though indifferent to his own, John had thrown a shawl

over the horizontal slab of marble in the centre of this grave,

and on that we seated ourselves. He had brought, too, a little

flask of brandy, which he pressed into my hand, but would not

taste of himself. It did not come amiss; for the season was the

last of October, and the night chilly, though clear and calm.

"I asked John what he meant to do if the doctor should make his

appearance.

"'I shall frighten him,' he said. 'I have my pistol here, and

mean to fire it. I couldn't bear to have a fight over her grave.'

"We sat there and awaited in silence, John with his eyes fixed on

the mound across the way. The last ray of the setting moon

touched with a white lustre its wreaths, and every little ghost

of a flower, then slipped up the shaft of marble near by, pointed

with a luminous finger to the 'rest in peace,' engraven there,

showed name after name, and date after date, stole up the cross

at the top, lingered an instant on its summit, then melted into

the air.

{827}

Following its flight with my glance, I saw that the sky was of a

pale, transparent gray, with a few large stars in it. Clearly out

against this background stood the roofs and spires of that

sleeping city that breathed while it slept, and more clearly yet

the monuments, and a fine tracery of the bare trees, branch,

stem, and twig showing delicate as lace-work, of that nearer city

which slept in awful, breathless silence, never stirring for

sunrise nor sunset, never starting at any alarm, nor opening its

eyes, let who would go by.

"The evening had been calm, but as it grew toward midnight a

faint and fitful breeze came now and then, like a sigh, setting

that net-work of branches in a shiver, and sweeping the dry

leaves about with a low and mournful rustling. The place and

time, the silence that was only broken by that weird and

spirit-like wind, and yet more, the face of my companion,

affected me strongly. John sat leaning slightly forward, his

hands clasped on his knees, his gaze fixed on that grave he had

come to watch, and as motionless as any stone about us. The

frozen look of his face chilled me. I could not see nor hear that

he breathed; and there was no movement of an eyelid even. I would

have spoken to him if I had dared. I longed for some sound which

would startle him out of that trance; but there he sat

motionless, apparently lifeless.

"I took a swallow of brandy and tried to occupy my thoughts

otherwise. I looked through the interstices of the trees near me

and counted grave-stones. Close by were two old sunken graves

with slate stones leaning awry at their heads, where lay, or had

lain, grandfather and grandmother Sawyer--a later John Anderson

and his wife, who had gone, hand in hand, up and down the hill,

and now slept thegither at the foot. I say they had lain there;

for, in the fifty odd years since their burial, it was most

probable that their dust had left its place beneath those

tumble-down slate stones and gone about other business, rising,

may be, in grasses and flowers. Not much of the old couple left

in their coffins, be sure. Perhaps the children had carried the

last of them away in violets and mayweed, that very summer.

Possibly the birds had pecked them up, in one shape or another.

"Would John Sharon never move?

"I turned and peered back to where a small white cross stood,

looking like a child in its night-gown, with arms extended. I

could fancy some dear little frightened thing coming to me in

that lonely place, silent from fear, or only faintly whimpering,

all of a tremor, poor babe! till I should reach and clasp it

safe. The rustling of the leaves was its little bare feet in

them, the sigh of air was its sobbing breath.

"I gave myself a shake. Well, to be sure! a white marble cross to

mark where a child had been buried a year or two before. I

remembered having seen, in June, a red-ripe strawberry on that

grave, looking as though the little creature's mouth were put up

through the sod to be kissed.

"I turned to John Sharon again. He had not stirred. I looked at

the grave he watched, and wondered if, with that steadfast gaze,

he could pierce the sod, as clairvoyants tell, and see Anne

lying, cold and lovely, far below, with one hand under her cheek

and the other on her breast, and her hair flowing down unbound,

never again to float on any breeze, to toss with any light motion

of hers, to be twisted about his fingers.

{828}

"I turned quickly to touch him, but, as I raised my hand, he

started. A sough of air had arisen, faint but far-reaching; the

leaves rustled and crept all about the many graves; and through

that sound I heard a step.

"John's form came erect, as though stiffened by a galvanic shock,

and he sharply turned his head aside to listen. For one moment

there was silence again, then a sound of feet carefully treading

down the avenue toward us. I heard the breath shiver through

John's teeth, and saw him take something from his breast. Then

two men came stealing across our view, their forms, as we sat

low, defined against the sky. One was unknown to me, but the

other was easy to recognize--Dr. Marks's large, athletic form

loomed against the stars. Both men carried spades, and the doctor

had a sack hanging over his arm. They went directly to the

Atherton lot, and, after whispering together for a moment, the

smaller man stooped to pull away the wreaths from the grave, and

Dr. Marks set his spade to the earth and his foot to the spade.

"'We must make haste,' I heard him say. 'Our time is short.'

"His was shorter than he knew.

"Without looking directly at John, I had seen him come forward

with his knee to the ground, and raise his hand level with his

eyes, and I was aware of a flicker before his face, as of light

on polished metal. There was a faint sound of the spade thrust

through loose gravel, and, as he heard it,' John started, and

cried out as if the thrust had been through his heart. At the

same instant a flame leaped out from the gloom wherein we lurked,

the silence cracked with a sharp report, and both men dropped

their spades and ran.

"John started to his feet, hastened to the grave which he had

saved from profanation, and, after having removed from it, with

loving care, every sign of disturbance, threw himself upon it,

and sobbed as though his heart would break."

The major paused, brushed his hand across his eyes, and gazed a

moment longer into the coals, in which he had seemed to read that

story. Then he looked up quickly, straightened himself, and

became aware again of the southern night, the many tents, and the

fire-lighted faces of soldiers listening toward him.

"I had my suspicions," he resumed, in a changed voice, "that

John's shot was not so harmless as he had intended it to be; but

I said nothing to him, and when he told me to go home, I went.

When I reached the street, I saw two men walking slowly away, one

supporting the other. The next day I heard that Dr. Marks was

dead. Strangely enough, we were able to keep the knowledge from

John. He never left the house, except at night, till after a

week, when we joined our regiments; and since then he has had

enough to think of and to do without inquiring after Dr. Marks's

health.

"The doctor's family said he died of heart-disease; and I don't

blame them for putting the best face they could on the affair.

The hearts of most people, when they die, have something the

matter with them--they are likely to stop."

--------

{829}

Bartoleme Las Casas. [Footnote 76]

[Footnote 76: _The Life of Las Casas_,

"_The Apostle of the Indies_."

By Arthur Helps.

London: Bell & Daldy. 1868. 12mo, pp. 292.

For sale by the Catholic Publication Society, New York.]

Is The Charge In History Against Him Sustained?

Of all the great men of the Spanish race who ever visited the

shores of the American continent, it may with truth be said that

Bartoleme de las Casas, Bishop of Chiapa, was the greatest. His

personal virtues, in which he surpassed others, were only

equalled by the exalted purpose to which his long life was

exclusively devoted. His career was beset with perils that would

have appalled one who had not the courage and the constancy of a

paladin; his toils, privations, and sufferings were without

number. The insults, contumely, scorn, and malice to which he was

daily, hourly exposed, not from a few only, but from all of his

countrymen in the new world, were enough to crush the stoutest

heart. He was, preeminently, the most hated, the most despised,

the most universally unpopular being that crossed the broad

Atlantic from Spain. Sometimes they denied him shelter; sometimes

they refused him food; sometimes they threatened his safety, in

premeditated assaults for his assassination; they fled from his

presence at the altar as they would flee from a pestilence; and

they compelled him often to become a fugitive in order to

preserve his life.

Not only in America, but in Europe also, was he subjected to

abuse and ridicule; but in Europe these were not universal.

Public opinion was there divided. Those who had returned from the

Western Indies, covered with renown and rolling in riches, who

were celebrated in story, not only after the manner of

knights-errant in romance, but in the very words, phrases, and

language of romance--those who went forth from home, poor, needy,

plebeian, and came back with untold wealth, to intermarry with

the families of the highest grandees, to intermix their blood

with the purest hidalgo, poured, forth their concentrated wrath

upon his devoted head. But, on the other hand, courtiers

all-powerful, prime ministers, and sovereigns received him with

open arms, granted him prolonged audience, and commiserated his

troubles, sympathizing deeply in his noble undertaking. In

secret, however, they had often to regret their inability to

render him the aid required for its success. With the clergy, and

especially among the highest prelates, the confessors of royalty,

the professors of the universities, the bishops, the archbishops,

the primates, and cardinals, his return was greeted with the same

satisfaction. From the lowly cloister to the imperial palace the

same good wishes for him prevailed.

In the respectable classes of society at large, a singular

reception awaited him. Although they venerate him as one among

the best of mankind, they manifested their regard in the most

opposite deportment. When he ascended the pulpit to discourse

before the pious upon the unheard-of outrages, the fiendish

wickedness, the appalling cruelties inflicted by Christians, and

moreover, Christians who were their countrymen, upon simple,

confiding, weak, inoffensive thousands and tens of thousands of

Indians in the new world, the horror and abhorrence of

congregations knew no bounds.

{830}

Their fears of Divine vengeance falling upon themselves rose in

the same proportion, until they stood aghast lest a national

calamity should come upon them, like unto that which swept away

of old the cities of the plain. On the other hand, that portion

of the public which is light-minded, full of levity, and for ever

in search of novelty, encountered him elsewhere, on the plaza, in

the college court, on the prado, where he walked under the trees,

or at a posada where he dined; and they paused to listen to his

talk, for he talked much and too often on the same theme--the

rapacity and brutality of the cavaliers to the helpless, the

innocent, the ignorant, defenceless aborigines--the adopted

children of the holy father at Rome, the accepted wards confided

to the tender keeping of the good Queen Isabella of blessed

memory, to christianize and to civilize. While the monk poured

forth an eloquent statement of their wrongs, the when, the where,

and on what occasion, he named no names, in charity to the bad

men; but his hearers made the proper application, well knowing

the persons from common report; those millionaires just returned,

whose mushroom bloom of dunghill beauty, outshone the roseate

lustre of the ancient Guzmans and Colonas.

The successful adventurers to the Indies of the West had already

received the popular and insulting nickname of the Cachopins of

Laredo; they were of the same breed with the Indian nabobs of

England in afterdays, and of the shoddy in our own. While,

therefore, the single-minded monk, in the fervor of his

eloquence, in the overflowing zeal for his cause, narrated what

these people had done to the natives, his audience were learning

how these men had made their money; and the more facts and

indignation exhibited by the speaker, the more highly were they

amused, the more heartily did they shake with silent laughter.

The monk saw the scenes in the most serious light; they saw them

in the most ludicrous aspect; for they were quietly in their mind

contrasting the world-wide extent between Cachopin pretensions

and Cachopin merit. And these, thought they, these baseborn and

brutish fellows, who are receiving patents of nobility by the

score, who aspire to quarter their crests upon the aristocratic

escutcheon possessed by grandees of the first class, emblazoned

with heraldic bears, eagles, lions, elephants, and leopards,

borne, centuries before, upon banners of that chivalry who fought

for Christendom at the cave of Covodonga, and for the preeminence

of Spanish honor, courage, and courtesy over France at the rough

vale of Roncesvalles--these are the fellows who wish to blend

those proud emblematic animals with their new coats of arms, the

tobacco leaf, the tomata, the roasting ear of Indian corn, the

sweet potato, perhaps, the appropriate devices for the conquerors

clubbed with a title taken from a miserable fish-town, in the

meanest, poverty-stricken, peddler-producing province in the

realm. [Footnote 77]

[Footnote 77: The Cachopin figured in the comedies, farces,

romances, and lively pastorals of that age.

In the beautiful pastoral of the _Diana_, by Jorgé

Montemayor, in a scene between Fabio, the page, and

Felismena, who is disguised as a boy, Fabio says:

"I promise you on the faith of a hidalgo, (which I am, for my

father is a Cachopin of Laredo,) that my master has better

terms."--_See Book_ 2, p. 87; _the edition of_

1542.

Don Quixote met the travellers on the road, and of course

described the beauty of his Dulcinea, and when asked who she

was--

"Her lineage, race, ancestry," answered the Don, "is not of

the old Roman Curtius, nor the modern Colonas, nor the

Moncadas of Catalonia, the Guerras of Aragon, nor Gusmans of

Castile, but of Tobosa de la Mancha."

"And mine," said the traveller, "is of the Cachopins of

Laredo."]

{831}

The great object which Las Casas desired to attain was, in its

magnitude, commensurate with the mighty convulsions produced in

the minds of his own nationality. It was not to protect or defend

a parish, or a diocese, or a state from oppression, but to save

from destruction a continent, a hemisphere of the habitable

globe; it was to snatch and to shield millions of the natives in

the Indies of the West from slavery to the white race; for,

enslaved, the feeble Indian was sure to sink under the burdens

imposed, most of them perishing within two months, and none of

them surviving two years. If they went down to the grave in their

ignorance and infidelity, their souls might be without the pale

of salvation in their unregenerate state; if they were civilized,

believed in Christ, and were baptized, what glory would redound

to God, what treasure laid up in heaven for those aiding in their

conversion, what myriads of communicants added to the church!

Natural commiseration for their hard lot in this world, spiritual

considerations for their fate in the next, along with reward held

out to those who alleviated their distress now and prepared them

for eternal happiness hereafter, were the exalted motives that

prompted Las Casas to undertake the herculean task.

With such sublime intentions, his ardor was strengthened to

undergo every toil and privation the body can suffer, to endure

every agony, every indignity the spirit can receive. The measures

he adopted for success, the means he employed to sustain them,

the instruments he made use of, constitute the materials for his

life. These were numerous, varied, dissimilar, and seemingly

discordant. One was the simple being, almost in a state of nature

in the rudest hut, living upon roots, sheltered by a frail canopy

of leaves, clothed with a rabbit-skin or a yard of cotton, or

without any covering at all, and possessed of an intellect just

dawning into consciousness of its faculties, so that the common,

almost universal opinion was that he did not as yet belong to the

human species, but was born to live, to be worked, and to die

like beasts of the field. On the other hand, Las Casas invoked

the assistance of the most illustrious of the age, the refined

and intellectual in the most powerful state in Europe. He

impressed his thoughts upon the august Cesar, seated upon his

imperial throne, who claimed legitimate succession in the divine

line from the celestial deity.

For fifty years was his time devoted to this cause, with varied

hope of success and disaster; but before he lay down to die, much

had been achieved, and with the encouragement that more could be

accomplished in the future. The life of Las Casas is yet to be

written. Those who have essayed it so far have only furnished a

few facts, mixed with many errors. They have not attempted to

combine the materials into general principles, and to analyze the

incentives of those who were his enemies, or who were his

friends, and thus reduce the conduct of all into a general

consistency. Sympathizing with him in his exertions, they

conclude that those who opposed him were all bad men, and those

who encouraged him were all good men. But that is not the temper

in which biography and history ought to be written. Facts or

events are only one part of the work; the causes which preceded

or influenced them should be investigated. Nothing should be left

to ignorant conjecture, to idle inference or gratuitous

suspicion.

{832}

All the surroundings must be explained. In writing his biography

some insight into the learning of that period and into the state

of science at the time should be gained, especially in the

departments of history, of moral philosophy, of the civil law, of

the canon law, and international jurisprudence. Not even the

lighter literature, including the popular poetry, the drama, and

romances, can with safety escape observation. Above all, being at

the era of the revival of learning, along with the first

improvements in the art of printing, the changes made in modern

languages are to be noted. In these transformations, the

significance of many words and phrases was often doubtful.

Sometimes they had to be taken according to their old meaning;

sometimes again in the new. When astrology was banished, its

theory was discarded; but at least two thirds of its terms were

retained: when alchemy suffered the same fate, its vocabulary, as

well as its crucibles, retorts, and alembics, were transferred to

the chemical laboratory: when the practice of medicine was

relinquished, physicians took possession of its expressions for

comments, and wrote out their prescriptions in many of its

hieroglyphics. These mutations were progressing when Columbus was

sailing due west in search of a route to the east. Whether words

were to be interpreted according to science, or according to

suppositions which had prevailed before science, was often a

difficult question to solve.

Illustrations would indicate how far research must go to

understand the times and transitions taking place. It is needless

to add, that nothing of the kind has been noted; nor, from

appearances, will it ever be thought of. His writings have been

glanced at to elucidate some point controverted, and then hastily

thrown aside. What was learned, moreover, was in a confused mass

of facts and dates, which were difficult to comprehend, and more

difficult to reduce to a consistent form. The consequence has

been that, instead of a knowledge of the learning and science at

the period when he lived, to enlarge the circle of their literary

reputations, they have embarrassed some historical subjects, and

well will it be for them if they have not endangered their

laurels. It would seem that many who have treated of Las Casas,

or even touched upon his character, have fallen into some

mistake, error, or curious blunder. Nor is their number confined

to writers of an inferior order; it embraces some names renowned

in Europe and America for justly merited historical excellence.

They learned a few facts; they guessed the rest; and their

guessing, like all loose conjectures in general, leads to false

conclusions, with the consequent danger therefrom.

Las Casas commenced his _History of the Indies_ in 1527.

when he was in his fifty-third year; he concluded it in 1559,

when he was in his eighty-fifth. He had in his possession some

valuable documents obtained from Columbus; but beyond these he

relied for the most part on his own knowledge of events, along

with accredited rumors and reports in circulation. In his will he

directs that the _Historia_ shall not be made public for

forty years after his decease. But reasons exist for the belief

that it was read by Philip the Second, in the Escorial; and it is

certain Antonio de Herrera availed himself of its information

before the year 1600, when he completed his _Description of the

Indies of the West_. The _Historia_ by Las Casas still

remains in manuscript in the Royal Academy of Madrid.

{833}

Herrera, being the chief royal chronicler of the Indies, and

chronicler for Castile, was ordered by the supreme council of the

Indies to prepare his _Description_. It is presented in the

form of annals, where events are recorded in the year in which

they transpired. Consequently the breaks are incessant in the

regular sequence, to conform to chronological arrangement. But

historical effect was not designed; historical accuracy in the

statement of facts being all that was demanded.

To this end, Herrera consulted every book, in print or in

manuscript, known to him, and had access to every official

document in the archives of Simancas and Seville, to insure

accuracy and verify every assertion. He does not often explain

the policy or intentions of the government; because statecraft,

in those days, enjoined the silence of Italian diplomacy and

practised the secrecy of the Venetian Council of Ten. The royal

purpose in what was done or ordered, was above the sphere of the

annalist; the introduction of personal or private biography was

below it. He took for his model and guide, through the intricate

maze of voyages, discoveries, and adventures, the _Historia_

of Las Casas. He adopted that part only, however, which his duty

required; he rejected that which was uncertain, untrue, or purely

of personal interest. In rejecting, he did not discredit Las

Casas, believing him to be of undoubted veracity, and in general

very accurate. But Las Casas had unavoidably fallen into errors,

from defect of memory, with advancing years, and from

misinformation, or from facts misunderstood by the manner in

which they reached him. That Herrera should improve upon him or

defer to his accuracy as a historian is not singular, and

expresses a high appreciation of his excellence. Nor can it be

surprising, when called upon to pronounce, in his

_Description_, between the statements of Las Casas and his

enemies, Oviedo and Gomara, he should decide that Las Casas had

good cause for much feeling against them. When the voluminous

work of Herrera was printed, it was found to be a masterly

production; nor has its authority been seriously questioned

since. At the present day it stands as imputing perfect verity.

It ranks with the _Annual Register_ and _National

Almanac;_ it is of the same class of publications, but far

more extensive in its design.

The imperfections of Las Casas in his _Historia_ and those

portions not quoted by Herrera are the parts which first claim

attention. In understanding his peculiar position toward those

with whom he was thrown in contact, his inferences of the motives

by which they were actuated cannot be implicitly relied on. He

did not comprehend fully their situation; he could not account

for their conduct, because explanations were not made which at a

flash would have revealed the difficulties. In the absence of

those he could not refrain from ascribing bad motives to some

officials, such as Fonseca, Bishop of Burgos. Others he honored,

because they were disinterested, pure, virtuous personages, with

their sensibilities excited at the wrongs done to the aborigines,

and who sympathized with him in his praiseworthy enterprise.

Such, in his opinion, were Cesneros, Cardinal Ximenes, and

Adrian, Cardinal de Tortosa. These prelates were in turn prime

ministers, but their mode of receiving Las Casas was different.

Ximenes was cold and austere in general, with his thoughts

absorbed in affairs of state.

{834}

To Las Casas his deportment was not reserved; he was genial in

his reception, and could read his traits at a glance; his

feelings, too, were all on the same side, and it happened the

interests of the crown were in accordance with his feelings. The

cardinal, therefore, received him with unusual cordiality, and

with much consideration; he listened to the facts communicated,

to think them over, and to act upon them. He was thankful and

considerate to Las Casas for the valuable information imparted,

and sometimes relieved his poverty from his private purse. When

the cardinal had learned all that Las Casas could tell about the

condition of the Indies, he was graciously and quietly bowed out.

For Ximenes had not the time nor inclination to hear more, which

was sure to follow, if he could, with any decency, avoid the

infliction.

Cardinal Adrian, subsequently Pope Adrian, was of a mild, quiet,

disposition. He gave to Las Casas longer interviews, because he

had more to learn, having recently come to Spain for the first

time, from the Low Countries. Adrian therefore was more gracious

still; but when Las Casas, in his nervous excitability,

discoursed upon the never-ending theme of the injustice of Indian

slavery, its sinfulness, its impolicy, its danger to the souls of

persons in high places who tolerated it, and began on the

Scriptures, the fathers, the decretals, the bulls, and the canon

law, and the civil law, and the moral law, with interminable

citations and iterations, the patience of even the meekest of

cardinals would sometimes give way. For both Adrian and Cesneros

understood these matters better than he did; and while assenting

to the truth of what was uttered, they were not inclined to hear

it so often and at such length repeated.

Ximenes, when not wishing to see him, time being too precious,

turned him over to some dean or bishop; but Adrian, when desirous

of more explanations, sent some friend among the Flemish counties

to search for Las Casas, to converse with him, in order to

acquire a thorough knowledge of the Indies, and of his opinions

and plans. One day he met Señor De Bure by appointment, who felt

an interest in the Indies. Las Casas was delighted to find the

Flemish gentleman felt for the poor Indians, and forthwith his

hopes rose that the government would do something. De Bure, in

his eyes, was the very best of human beings. De Bure would listen

to all that could be said, and soon took him to his uncle, De

Laxao, who was the young sovereign's chamberlain, with

inexpressible influence. De Bure was a buffer for Adrian, nothing

more, to keep off Las Casas from that cardinal when he did not

want to see him, but wished to be kept duly advised on Indian

topics.

Fonseca was of a different mould; he was a man of business, rude,

abrupt, with little delicacy in his manners to suppliants. He had

a better acquaintance with the Indies; knew all about the

condition of the natives; and if he had any sympathy for Las

Casas, he did not permit it to be seen, nor for one moment would

he countenance his proposals or listen to his plans. He deemed

them as visionary as he had once viewed the scheme of Columbus to

discover a new continent. He now was equally sure Las Casas could

not civilize that continent when it was discovered. Consequently

Las Casas loved Ximenes and Adrian, and heartily despised the

Bishop of Burgos.

{835}

Every school-boy who ever read of Columbus or Cortez has learned

what a very bad man was Fonseca, and all modern authors know what

was in their school-books; but they know nothing more. Every life

of Columbus, of Cortez, of Las Casas is written in the same vein.

The Bishop of Burgos is abused in all of them. He treated the

discoverer of America shamefully; he insulted the Protector of

the Indians; he persecuted the conqueror of Mexico. These

illustrious men denounced him, and their biographers are in sworn

biographical fealty bound to denounce him also. Their heroes are

never wrong; for what hero in biography or romance can ever be

wrong? In the very nature of such compositions it is an utter

impossibility. Fonseca was never in the right; for what opponent

of their idols could have any reason or justice on his side?

Now, the best of reasons may be found for his policy to Columbus

and Las Casas. They both wanted funds from the treasury when he

was minister, and when no funds could be spared; for the nation

was insolvent--a secret well known to him, but which it was

all-important should not be known to the public. He would not

give a ducat for any exploring voyage or prospective discovery,

or for any expenses after a discovery was made. When Isabella

begged and implored the cold minister to yield to her

importunities for Columbus, he positively refused; nor could any

entreaties induce him to relent. The queen, in consequence, had

to pawn her jewels to equip the armada fitting out at Palos.

Fonseca was not disgraced for his obstinacy; and although nothing

of a courtier, he was too useful to be removed. Las Casas was

served in the same way when Charles was anxious to aid him with

funds. Fonseca was again as surly, and when at last the sovereign

determined in council that, come what might, Las Casas should

have aid, Fonseca washed his hands of the business, and soon

after met him with a smile. This unexpected amiability Las Casas

describes as evincing "some nobleness of nature." How many

meritorious subjects, with honest claims on the treasury, were

disappointed of a pittance thereby, is not considered. Knights

who had spent their estates in prosecuting the wars against the

Moors, who had grown old and poor in the royal service, who had

fought for Christendom at Alhama, conquered at Malaga, and

contributed to the siege and capture of Cordova, may have turned

away heart-sick, in want of a maravedi, and only diminished the

importunate, unsuccessful crowd besieging the doors of ministers,

to swell the number of daily beggars at the hatch of some

convent. In the novel of _Gil Bias_ a picture is presented

of the neglect shown to meritorious subjects, whose necessities

are no less imperative than their deeds were commendable. Captain

Chinchilla is a sample of thousands. He had lost an eye at

Naples, an arm in Lombardy, and a leg in the Low Countries; but

his sovereign had not a ducat to spare. In such condition of the

finances, a minister required a heart of stone to turn away from

starving appeals for a bare pittance or the smallest pension.

Fonseca could not be just; how much less could he be generous? A

man who would endure this for the crown deserved much of the

royal favor. For this was Fonseca invaluable; his nerve to save

every real to the state was a quality much wanted.

But Hernando Cortez never besought the royal bounty; why, then,

should Fonseca persecute him? It is said he exhibited uniform

malignity against all great men; he persecuted Cortez. To this

last instance a reason can be interposed.

{836}

For some cause Fonseca took part in the private quarrel between

him and Velasquez, the Governor of Cuba. What was the minister's

motive is merely conjecture; but if true, it is not worthy of

consideration. Velasquez and Cortez were both villains; and a

controversy between them arose about the division of the Mexican

spoils. The governor furnished the funds for that expedition, and

fitted out the ships on joint account. He complained that Cortez

made no return of the profits, Fonseca took the side of Velasquez

and aided him in his suit. It was difficult to determine who had

the law in his favor; but the man who would cheat his patron and

partner, as Cortez certainly did, who would torture to death an

innocent prisoner and that prisoner a dethroned monarch, as

Cortez in cold blood put Guatomotz to the torture, is not only a

contemptible knave, but a hideous monster in human form.

Velasquez was another of the same breed; and if his infamy was

less, the opportunity for the display of his propensities was

wanting; his field was not so magnificent; but he cultivated to

the utmost extent the smaller space which Cuba presented. Bad

faith toward each other was the common practice among colonial

chiefs. Velasquez owed his appointment to the judges of the

Audiencia of Hispaniola, who fitted him out to do business for

both in the same way that he in turn had commissioned and

supplied Cortez, and as Cortez again nominated certain

confidential friends to govern Mexico when he undertook his

unfortunate expedition to Honduras. Of course these friends

cheated Cortez, as he had cheated Governor Velasquez, and as the

governor had cheated the judges of the Audiencia, and as the

judges were perpetually defrauding their sovereign. Not one spark

of honor or honesty was exhibited by any of them. They were

rapacious, reckless, restrained by no law or teaching or sense of

morality; while the temptation before their eyes was too splendid

and overpowering to resist. The breach of a solemn promise was

cheap as a dicer's oath; it was not even a venal offence; the

torture of the Indians was not a crime; the burning alive at a

slow fire of the royal Aztec was at best only an indiscretion.

Thousands, including girls and boys, had been subjected to the

same treatment, and for the same purpose, to wring the last ounce

of gold-dust from the unhappy creatures.

The proceedings of Governor Velasquez, in Cuba, were not unlike

the conduct of Cortez in Mexico. The governor enslaved, he

tortured, he destroyed; and so did every cavalier who came in

contact with the natives. The only gentlemen in the Antilles were

the buccaneers, the British, Dutch, and French pirates. They, to

be sure, in search of booty, cut the throats of the Spaniards

whom they captured; but they were of too much principle to

conceal the plunder from their companions or to divide unfairly.

But the Castilians did not stop with cutting throats of innocent

Indians; they despoiled each other. They had not the proverbial

honor found among thieves. In such a delightful society, moral

rectitude was not one of the cardinal virtues; and if Fonseca

inclined to Velasquez while popular opinion is with Cortez, the

discrepancy may be ascribed to the fact that popular opinion will

in such cases decide in favor of him whose baseness is the

greater, the more magnificent and successful.

{837}

Las Casas detested Cortez, and preferred the governor; but he

complains of the unjust policy of Ferdinand to Columbus. It is

probable Las Casas is mistaken again; he knew nothing of cabinet

secrets. The character of the great navigator deservedly stands

high, not only for the splendor of his discoveries, but for the

purity of his life. His fame cannot be assailed with any truth or

propriety; while on the other hand, history does not accord much

credit to Ferdinand for his public or private worth. Yet it is

impossible, in considering all the circumstances, to avoid the

conclusion that the king was right, and had at least equity to

sustain him, or rather to justify his counsellors, for it was a

matter of state. It is true, the crown of Castile had entered

into a formal contract with Columbus to confer upon him a high

command over all the countries he should discover. The king now

refused to make good this stipulation; he broke the contract, and

proposed compensation by estates conferred in Castile. Columbus

held the crown to the bond and refused all compromise. He had set

his heart on becoming the man of greatest wealth in the world and

to bestow it all to Christendom in a cruza for the recovery of

the holy places from the infidel. A more sublime purpose could

not be conceived; for at the time, Constantinople was captured,

the islands for the most part in the Levant overrun, Italy in

danger, a foothold gained in Sicily and Sardinia, France hastily

sending troops to the frontiers of Austria, Hungary invaded, the

Knights Templars of St. John far in advance at Rhodes under fire,

and prayers daily offered up by the people in their churches at

Amsterdam, imploring the Almighty to avert the Saracen from their

gates; the crowning victory for the Christians was not gained for

a half-century later at the Gulf of Lepanto.

This brilliant scheme of Columbus to roll back the tide of war,

engrossed his leisure hours. For its accomplishment, he hoped to

obtain riches from the new world; and when made governor of

Hispaniola, was avaricious to amass a stupendous fortune. Among

other measures he sent three hundred natives to Seville, to be

sold as slaves. Queen Isabella, hearing of it, ordered that they

be sent back, declaring no one had a right to enslave her

vassals. Although incensed, she did not reprimand Columbus. He

had enough of difficulties to contend with in his administration,

without the further burden of her displeasure; for it was soon

found out he evinced an incapacity to govern men in civil

society. Successful he might be in ruling sailors on the

forecastle; but that had not taught him how to govern men on

shore. He exacted implicit obedience; he pursued his own plans

without consultation; he compelled cavaliers to assist in manual

labor. Worse than all, he was a foreigner, and it ended in a

revolt with open war. A royal commissioner was sent out to

institute an investigation, which terminated in Columbus being

sent to Seville in chains. Isabella, at this indignity offered to

her favorite admiral, ordered the irons to be removed, but would

not consent, withal, to reinstate him in authority. After her

death, he renewed his application, without a better result; the

king refused to comply with the words of the royal contract. The

promise had been made, but it was made for the state--for the

public benefit--and the opinion of lawyers was, that it could be

broken if it were for the common good not to carry out its

provisions. A proper equivalent could be awarded for the damage

done to the admiral.

{838}

This was the theory of rights then; it is still the theory and

practice of all governments at the present time. But Columbus

refused every offer in the nature of a recompense, which would

have left him rich, and placed him on a level with the highest

grandees in the realm. He nursed his wrongs in silence,

languished in comparative poverty, and died of a broken heart.