of the day to descant upon the feebleness of the Catholic Church. They
judge her as a purely human institution, good in her day; but her day
is gone. She was a good nurse, who held the leading-strings which
mankind needed in early childhood. But we have grown to the ripeness
of perfection; and the good nurse has grown old and past work: she may
be allowed therefore to potter about the world, as an old servant
round her master's hall and grounds, till she dies and is buried away.
We may render some little service if we point to one more instance of
her present vigor and vitality in our own day; if we can show that she
is stamping her impress upon the lettered horde that has overrun the
western shore, as she did formerly upon the unlettered hordes that
possessed themselves of the plains of Italy or of the wolds of
England. We believe that she is by degrees assimilating into herself
the strange mass of the Californian population; she is standing out in
the midst of them as the only representative of religions unity,
order, and revelation. She is executing her commission in California
to-day as faithfully as she did when Peter entered Rome, or {801}
Augustine Kent, or Xavier Asia, or Solano the wilds of South America.
The work of grace, through the Church of Christ, is gaining sensibly
and irresistibly upon the population of California. We are far from
foreseeing a day when all its inhabitants will be of one faith and one
mind, or from saying that the number of conversions to the faith is
prodigious and unheard-of. But we affirm that the Catholic Church,
with a far greater rapidity than in England, is daily attaining a
higher place in the estimation of the people, is becoming more and
more the acknowledged representative of Christianity, and is actually
gaining in numbers, piety, and authority. The sects there, as
elsewhere in America, are ceasing by degrees to exercise any religious
or spiritual influence upon the people; they act as political and
social agents, and hold together as organizations by the force of
local circumstances, which are wholly independent of religion. As
forms of religion, the people see through them, and have no confidence
in them; the consequence is, that an immense proportion are without
any religion at all, and many join the Catholic Church. It was the
policy of imperial Rome to open her gates to every form of heathenism:
every god was tolerated, every god was accepted, no matter how
incongruous or contradictory its presence by the side of others. The
empire was intent upon one thing, self-aggrandizement; and for
religion it did not care. Thoughtful men smiled or sneered at those
mythologies and divinities, and their forms of worship; and the people
became cold and indifferent to them. They were dying of this contempt,
when behold the newly imported presence of the Fisherman into their
midst, with his Catechism of Christian Doctrine, inspired one and all
with a new life and energy; the gods began to speak, and the people
began to hear them. It was not that a new faith had been awakened in
their old idolatry; but a new hostility and hatred had been aroused
against the majesty of consistent truth, which stood before them
humble, yet confounding them. They began to believe themselves to be
devout pagans, and to prove the sincerity of their convictions by
endeavoring to smite down the divine figure of the Catholic Church,
which claimed a universal homage and a universal power. Events
strangely repeat themselves in the world. That which occurred among
the sects of ancient Rome is now taking place among the sects of
America. Men smile at their pretensions; their convictions are not
moulded by them, and they will not submit to their discipline or bow
to their authority. But the sects object to death, and they think to
prolong the term of their existence not by a life of faith, but by a
life of sustained enmity against the religion which is slowly gaining
upon them, and supplanting them in the mind and affection of the
people.
There are many who believe that the day is not far distant when the
Catholics of America will have to brace themselves up to go through
the fire, for American religious persecution would be like an American
civil war, determined and terrible. It would carry us beyond the
limits of our scope to attempt to trace the steps by which persecution
is approaching. This spirit has ever existed in the New England
states. _Know-nothingism_ was a political and social form of it which
failed for a time; and the knowledge of the immense progress made by
the Church amidst the din of war, in the camp and in the hospital, in
North and South, among officers and men, has quickened this movement.
The government is not to blame for this. We believe the American
government, in point of religion, to be perfectly colorless. It is
noteworthy that nowhere in the world has religion made more rapid
progress in this century than in the United States.
We cannot doubt that the Church is repairing in America the losses she
{802} has suffered in Europe through the pride, abuse of grace, and
apostacy of many of her children.
In California the Church has no easy task before her. It is no longer
the simple and rude Vandal, Dane, or Lombard she has to lead into her
fold, but a population composed of men of keen wits, of the most
varied, world-wide experiences, and drawn from countries in which they
have been more or less within the reach of Catholic teaching. These
are the men whom she has now to reduce into the obedience of faith.
We are not of those who imagine that Almighty God has lavished all the
treasures of natural virtues upon one nation, and has withheld them
proportionately from others. In intellectual gifts men differ much
less one from another than is often supposed, as with their physical
strength and stature the difference, on the whole, is not very large.
And so their moral natural gifts, if considered in their full circle,
will be found before the tribunal of an impartial judge to be on the
whole pretty evenly distributed among the nations. One nation has
faith and trust, another understanding and subtlety, another mercy and
compassion, another truthfulness and fidelity, another tenderness and
love, another humility and docility, another courage and energy,
another determination and patience, another purity, another reverence.
These natural virtues may be elevated into supernatural, and then that
nation is _really_ the _greatest_ which has made best use of the grace
of God. The bounteous hand of God has enriched every part of the
canopy of heaven with stars and planets, differing infinitely in
light, color, distance, size, and combination, and he leaves no
portion in absolute poverty or darkness; and the "distilling lips" and
"shining countenance" have scattered in every direction over his
immortal creation precious gifts of natural virtues, set like gems in
the souls of men the moment his fingers first fashioned them. It will,
no doubt, often require the study and patient love of an apostle's
heart to discover them, so defiled and obscured have they become; but
they are ever there, though dormant, and when once they become subject
to the touch of divine grace, it is surprising what inclination and
facility toward their eternal Father break forth and become apparent.
Now, in speaking of the sufferings of the Church in California, we
have been marking some of the worst features of the Anglo-Saxon
invasion. But in viewing, as we are about to do, the future prospects
of the Church, we must, at the outset, point toward some of those
better qualities and characteristics, upon which, under God, the
Church has to build her hopes.
If once turned to God from materialism and mammon-worship, we are
persuaded that the American would rank among the foremost Catholics of
the world; not shining, perhaps, in the extraordinary gifts of faith,
and in the offices of the contemplative life, like the children of
Italy and Spain, but fruitful and overflowing in good works and in
pushing forward every active operation of charity.
Of the Californians it may be said that they are bold and independent
adventurers, and that they admire these qualities in others. They are
quick and devoted in their own business, and appreciate devotedness in
the business (the Chinese call it "sky business") of priests and nuns.
They are practical and determined, and failure after failure does not
discourage them. Health and life have no value when any temporal end
is to be gained. And, therefore, they are struck by the Catholic
Church, her bishops and missionaries, steadily pursuing her
supernatural end, in spite, of the allurements, distractions, and
threats of the world; preaching always and at all times the same
doctrines of faith and charity; ready day and night to obey the call
of her poorest member, in the camp and the battle-field, in the penury
and hardship of' emigration, in {803} pestilence and fever-wards, in
no matter what clime or among what people; always alike joyful to save
the soul of the negro, the red man, or the white man; esteeming
suffering, illness, contempt, poverty, and persecution, when endured
for God or for his souls, as so many jewels in her crown, and holding
life itself cheap and contemptible in comparison with the one end she
has in view.
The Californians are a singularly inquisitive and intelligent race.
Everybody is able to read and write; and even the common laborer has
his morning newspaper brought every day of his life to his cottage
door. The state prison of St. Quintin shows some curious statistical
of the proportion of native Americans and foreigners who are able to
read and write. The comparison, as will be seen, is in favor of the
United States: January 1, 1862, there were 257 prisoners, natives of
the United States; of these only 29 were unable to read or write. And
there were 333 of foreign birth; of these 141 were unable to read or
write. The spirit of free inquiry and private judgment, which brought
about the apostacy of the sixteenth century, is carried by
Californians to its legitimate conclusions. They are not stopped
half-way as Anglicans are by love or reverence for what may appear to
be a venerable, time-honored establishment, full of nationality and
wealth, and hoary with respectability. They wish to learn the reason
_why_ of everything, and they are little inclined to take anything
upon a mere _ipse dixit._They love knowledge, and desire to obtain it
easily, so they are great frequenters of lectures and sermons; and
will go anywhere to hear them when they believe them to be good. This
gives the Catholic priest a strong and solid advantage over every
other minister. He is able to give an account of his faith, to show
the reasonableness of submission, to prove that faith rests upon an
infallible basis, that religion is not a caprice of reason, not a mere
expedient, not a police, which was useful in ignorant days, and may be
still useful for superstitious minds and a leading-string for children
and the weak. Show the American that the submission of his intellect
to the divine intellect of the Church of God is not its destruction,
but its perfection, and elevation, and his intellectual pride will
yield as quickly as any man's. Explain to them the doctrine of the
Holy Ghost and his indwelling life in the Church and in the
individual, and they will be ready to call out, "Give us also the Holy
Ghost." There are some natures so confiding and so simple that it is
enough to address them as the centurion did his soldiers, or to tell
them what to believe, and they believe at once. It is a blessed thing
to have the grace of little children to believe from the first; but
there are some who have placed themselves out of the pale of this
great grace, or have been born outside it, on account of the sins of
their parents, and the mould they have been formed in. This is the
case with the Anglo-Saxon race, and pre-eminently so with the
American. And the Church accommodates herself to the peculiarities of
the human mind, with infinite charity and condescension, seeking the
surest avenue to the conversion of the soul to God, in faith, hope,
and charity. She is ready to meet the American on his own ground, and
to give the clearest and most convincing of explanations. Again, the
Americans are what has been called "viewy," and with all their
practical power and love for the positive, they prefer to have the
truth presented to them as in a landscape, in which the imagination is
able to throw the reason into relief on the foreground. Compare the
instructions and sermons of Peach, Gother, Fletcher, and Challoner,
excellent and solid though they be, where the imagination has no play,
with those of Cardinal Wiseman, Archbishop Manning, Dr. Newman, and
our meaning is at once illustrated.
{804}
A priest who should draw his sermons out of Suarez or Petavius, rather
than from Perrone or Bouvier, or some hand-book of controversy--his
homilies on the gospel from, _e.g._, Dionysius the Carthusian,
illustrating them from such works as "Burder's Oriental Customs,"
"Harmer's Observations," etc., rather than heap up platitudes and
common generalities, or should even take our common little catechism
and develop its doctrine and popularize it by abundant illustrations
from Scripture, history, from the arts, science, commerce,
government--familiar themes to the American mind--would be certain to
attract around his pulpit large audiences of anxious souls, and, by
God's blessing, to win them to Catholic truth with astonishing
facility.
The Americans are keenly alive to coarse or rough manners in a priest.
They will not suffer masterful or domineering language from him in the
pulpit or in private. Above all, they consider the "brogue" to be a
capital sin--_talem devita_. This is a little inconsistent in men who
are not themselves remarkable either for the _suaviter in modo_ or for
a reticence of provincialisms and cant words and phrases. But still we
consider, unhesitatingly, that the brogue is more prejudicial to a
clergyman's influence upon Americans than upon Englishmen; and also
that a priest, through refinement of mind and manners, can effect more
in America than in England. Whether the reason for this fact is that
the latter qualities are rarer in the States than here, or that having
no hereditary titles, Americans attach greater value to adornments of
mind and manners, we may not pause to consider.
Again, they have been for the greater part cut off from the traditions
of home and family. The parish clergyman or district minister under
whom they once sat, the bitter zeal of old ladies who consider
Catholicity to be a species of sorcery, priests to be all Jesuits,
Jesuits to be one with the devil in cunning and malice, and who know
how to insert a sting into the life of the friend who withdraws from
their opinions; the quiet humdrum of life in the States or in Europe,
so favorable to the _status in quo_--all these anti-Catholic
influences are far away, and there is little substitute for them in
California, where there is a singular absence of public opinion and of
social despotism.
On the other hand it may be said that they have come into the presence
of the life of Catholicity in ways which impress them by the novelty
of their situation. In the first place, their belief in the
possibility of living for an invisible and supernatural end is
quickened by their experience of the country they have come to. They
came to seek for fortune, and they thought they were the first, but
they found that the Catholic Church had been there long before them,
perfectly satisfied without the gold and silver which has drawn
_them_, in the accomplishment of her mission of peace and salvation.
For long years Catholic missioners had abandoned home and civilization
in order to reside on the rolling plains, or valleys, or sea-coast,
with the untutored and debased Indian, with no other recompense than
one they looked for hereafter. They had not become savages and wild
men as men often do, conforming to the Indian, who lived upon
grasshoppers, and worms, and insects, or roots and grasses or fruits,
or at best on the produce of the chase. But by the constraining power
of love, and with a divine message, they had drawn the wild Indians
around them, taught them various arts and trades, the growth of the
olive, of the vine, and of corn, how to spin and weave, the first
elements of peace and commerce. They had instructed them in the
Christian faith and helped them on the way to heaven. The old remains
of their work are scattered over the country in some five-and-twenty
principal mission establishments. The great "adobe" walls of their
churches, varying from four to eight feet thick, {805} the rude
sculpture, the gaudy frescoes, the paintings and carvings brought all
the way from Spain and Mexico, the little square belfry standing
alone, the cemetery, and the avenue of trees planted by the friars
along the roads which lead up to the mission; the orchards still
fruitful, where the swine besport themselves and the coney burrows, as
at Santa Clara; the mournful olive-trees of the mission, which, in
spite of age, yield the best oil in the country; the crosses,
memorials of piety and faith, set up here and there, and the Christian
traditions still left among a few survivors of the old inhabitants,
often speak solemnly and instructively to the heart of the pioneer who
has come in hot haste to seek a fortune. How can he help at times
being touched, when he is with his own thoughts in solitude, perhaps
in sadness and disappointment, in the presence of these old remnants
which tell of pioneers who came with another and holier end in view
than that in which he sees himself foiled and mistaken? We will
venture to say that these ancient memorials of the faith and
devotedness of the Catholic missionaries are as sweet, and as dear,
and as impressive to many a Californian, as the gorgeous old piles of
Catholic piety in England are to the dense and civilized Protestant
population which lives around them and profits by their revenues.
Among the first pioneers of California, before the discovery of gold,
in search of an agricultural district and of a genial climate, came a
hardy band of earnest Irishmen. They were in a high sense pioneers,
for they were the first caravan that found a way across the plains and
Rocky Mountains from the Eastern states. They passed many long months
on the road, and were exposed to every imaginable hardship and
difficulty. They had to clear the forest as they went, to make a
passage for their wagons. Sometimes they would spend a week breaking a
road through great rocks and enormous boulders, which obstructed a
river-bed or a mountain-pass; their wagons often came to pieces
through hardship and exposure; they cut down trees to mend them, and
had to extemporize wheels and harness as they journeyed slowly on.
They had placed all their trust and confidence in God--in the rain and
wind, in the thick forest, and on the snowy mountain, they always
turned to him--they served and worshipped him as well as the
circumstances would allow, and he led them at last into the land of
promise which they looked to.
After them came another caravan from the States, but formed of men of
a very different stamp. License, crime, and disorder of the most
appalling character marked their steps. We will enter into no details.
They suffered innumerable hardships, they fell so short of provisions,
and were reduced to such straits, that, finally, in despair of ever
reaching the rich plains of California, they killed one of their
party, and made their evening meal upon human flesh. The next morning
one mile off they descried the land they longed for, and immense herds
of elk feeding on the plains. They felt that the hand of God had
struck them. The Irish Catholics soon rallied round the few pastors
who remained in the country; they established themselves near the
missions. Soon they lifted up their voice calling for more spiritual
assistance. The riches of earth were of little value to them without
the blessings of heaven. The zeal of the Holy See anticipated their
own. Missionaries were on the way to the scene of labor, and a devoted
bishop was soon appointed to rule over them.
When, after 1849, the rush to the diggings took place, and all men
were suffering from "the gold fever" and "silver on the brain,"
spending their money in wholesale gambling, making fortunes one week
and losing them the next, and every man's head seemed to be turned by
the helter-skelter excitement, the Catholic Church, in {806} her calm
majesty, was growing up in the midst of the turmoil, and occupying her
position as the city on the mountain, and the light shining before
men. The zeal of the archbishop and clergy and faithful Irish knew no
limits. Churches sprang up on the conspicuous eminences of the city of
San Francisco, and in the principal thoroughfares. And that vast
assemblage of men, who had come together from all parts, without
religion or God in their hearts, began to see that they were in the
presence of the Catholic Church, and that the shadow of the Catholic
towers and crosses had fallen upon them. As soon as the Holy See gave
to San Francisco an archbishop, the zealous sons of St. Patrick
determined to build him a cathedral. The wages of a common hodman were
£2, 10s. a day; nevertheless, while the Catholic with one hand worked
or scrambled for wealth, with the other he freely gave to that which
is always dearest to his heart. The deep foundations of the cathedral
were sunk, the walls arose, its massive time-keeping tower crowned the
city, its solemn services were inaugurated. It was the result of
fabulous sums of money, and of heroic devotedness on the part of
pastors and people. Nor was this all. Large and handsome churches have
sprung up in various parts of the city, like St. Ignatius's and St.
Francis's, and others, such as the French church, St. Patrick's, St.
Joseph's, the German church, and a number of smaller chapels. The
unbelieving speculator, the "smart" trader, the land-owner, and the
miner, on his visit to the city, were all struck with these visible
tokens of sincerity and zeal, without stint of generous alms, put
forth by the Catholic Church from the very outset. Later, and
stimulated by Catholic example, the various sects of Protestantism,
Jews, infidels, and pagans, erected in several places their churches,
temples, chapels, lecture-halls, and joss-houses. In point of
churches, in numbers and construction, the Catholic communion in San
Francisco stands far ahead of all others. But it is not in the
erection of churches alone that Catholicity has, with the vigor of her
perpetual youth, outstripped the sects, all of which, before they
attain to half a century, become old and decrepit; for no sooner did
the population roll in from the ocean and across the plains, than new
wants at once arose--hospitals for the sick from the city, the
country, and the mines; homes for the orphans who were left alone in a
far-off country, where men die in thousands from accident and
violence, as well as from disease and natural causes; and schools for
children, who are born more numerously, it is said, in California than
in any other country. Here again the Catholic Church was first in
devoted charity and anxious zeal for souls.
As to popular schools, before the Atlantic and Pacific oceans were
bridged together by the iron rails of Panama, the gentle and devoted
Sisters of the Presentation from Ireland, ladies by birth, tradition,
and refinement, left their tranquil convents for the storm and
troubles of life into the midst of which they were to be thrown in San
Francisco. They, in their strict and peaceful inclosure, were to be
calm, like the point which even in the whirlwind is always to be still
and at rest. There, day by day, they teach one thousand children from
infancy up to womanhood, the poor according to their wants, and the
rich according their requirements, and all this entirely _gratis_,
looking to God alone to be their "reward exceeding great." Moreover,
the only school in the state of California for Indians and negroes is
established and taught by them. In the state schools no colored child
would be allowed to set his foot. Thousands of children of Catholic,
of Protestant, and infidel parents have passed out into the world from
under their considerate and enlightened care, and they bless them
everywhere evermore. Such disinterested charities, such daily
self-denial, such {807} gentle and kindly sympathy, are not lost upon
the wayward, go-ahead, and hardened Yankee. These are the lives which
touch and melt and win him. This, he says, is practical religion.
Next, in a state like California, orphanages became an early and a
primary want. The Sisters of Charity first supplied them. Then
hospitals were needed; and the Sisters of Mercy from Ireland said,
"Here are hospitals." They possess the best hospital in the state.
They watch the sick with a mother's care; and many a man learns on his
bed of pain from their lips lessons which he has never heard in
childhood, or has forgotten in manhood. In all these departments of
popular instruction, orphanages, and hospitals, the Catholic Church in
California leads the way, extending aid and care to all, without
distinction of creed or nation. The Catholic convents and
establishments stand out conspicuously to all the world on the heights
and in the principal thoroughfares of San Francisco. These are all
works which we attribute to the zeal of the Irish, and which prove to
Americans, and they admit the proof, the faith and charity of the
Catholic Church. They are an appeal to their heart and to their
reason. And now for the appeal to their sense of honesty and justice.
Take the Catholics of California as a body, and they stand before any
other body for honesty in business. They nearly all came to the state
poor men; some had to borrow money for their journey; but they have
worked their way up; and now, though the Jews are the largest
capitalists, and the Yankees, from being more numerous, hold
absolutely a greater amount of wealth, the Irish and Catholics, as a
class, are more uniformly well off. The mean of comfort and
sufficiency is probably higher among them than among others. And they
have obtained for themselves a high reputation for honesty and
honorable conduct in business. It is impossible for a person without
experience to form an idea of the amount of cheating and rascality
which is often practised in trade and commerce. Robbery and lying,
upon however large or mean a scale, when successful, will be called by
a great number only "smart conduct." A man is not tabooed and banished
the exchange and the market for cheating his creditors, and defrauding
the public, as he would be in London or Liverpool. He can live down
such public opinion as there is, and many of his friends extend a
misplaced pity to him, or think none the worse of him for his
behavior. A man may become bankrupt three or four times, and become
richer each time; this is not uncommon; and there are certain persons
with whom it is taken for granted that they are thus "making their
pile." "So and so has just caved in," said a merchant; "and he had
$20,000 worth of goods from me last week, and all that's 'run into the
ground,' and no two ways about that. He'll be through the courts
white-washed in a few weeks." "Well," said the interlocutor, "you
won't let him have more goods without ready money?" "Yes, I shall.
He'll just come to me for goods to set up again; and he knows I'll let
him have them, for he's a 'smart' fellow; he will be better able to
pay me then than he ever has been before." In confirmation of our
general statement, we may quote the words of Mr. Hittel:
"Insolvencies legally declared and cancelled by the courts are more
frequent in San Francisco, in proportion to its population, than in
any other part of the world. Our laws provide that any man who
declares himself unable to pay his debts, and petitions to be
released from them, may obtain a judicial discharge, unless he has
been guilty of fraud; and as the fraud must be distinctly proved
upon him before the discharge will be denied, the release is almost
invariably obtained."
From this testimony of a long resident and man of business in
California {808} it will be readily understood how closely men's
personal character for honesty will be scrutinized by persons who are
not anxious to suffer in dealing with them. Now, inquiries have been
made in various parts of the country, and it has been ascertained
beyond a doubt that the Irish, or American Irish Catholics, are
considered the safest class of men to do business with. Whether it be
early training, religion, the confessional, or the influence of the
priests, so it is; they are trusted by a Yankee more readily than
others are. Far be it from us to impeach the honesty, and sense of
honor, of all save the Irish and Catholics. These natural virtues
shine with the greatest brilliancy in many an unbelieving man of
business. We but record a fact which is highly creditable to the
Irish, and spreads the good odor of the religion they profess.
We have now to notice the direct action of the archbishop and of the
clergy upon the population. The bishop is the "forma gregis facta ex
animo," "the city on the hill," "the candle placed high upon the
candlestick," giving its light around; and on each prelate bestows
what gifts he pleases. With these he illumines the world in the person
of his minister.
Go, then, up California street, turn round the cathedral of St.
Mary's, and you will enter a miserable, dingy little house. This is
the residence of the Archbishop of San Francisco and his clergy, who
live with him in community. To the left are a number of little yards,
and the back windows of the houses in which the Chinamen are swarming.
Broken pots and pans, old doors, and a yellow compost, window-frames,
fagots, remnants of used fireworks, sides of pig glazed and varnished,
long strings of meat--God only knows _what_ meat--hanging to dry,
dog-kennels, dead cats, dirty linen in heaps, and white linen and blue
cottons drying on lines or lying on rubbish--such is the view to the
left. The odors which exhale from it who shall describe? A spark would
probably set the whole of these premises in a conflagration; and one
is tempted to think that even a fire would be a blessing. To the
right, adjoining the cathedral, is the yard where the Catholic boys
come out to play; and in this yard stands a little iron or zinc
cottage, containing two rooms. This is where the archbishop lives; one
is his bedroom, the other his office, where his secretaries are at
work all day. No man is more poorly lodged in the whole city; and no
man preaches the spirit of evangelical poverty, a detachment in the
midst of this money-worshipping city, like this Dominican Spanish
Archbishop of San Francisco. From ten in the morning to one p.m. every
day, and for two or three hours every evening, his grace, arrayed in
his common white habit, and with his green cord and pectoral cross,
receives all who come to consult him, to beg of him, to converse with
him, be they who they may--emigrants, servants, merchants, the
afflicted, the ruined, the unfortunate. The example of such a life of
disinterested zeal, holy simplicity, and poverty has told upon the
inhabitants of San Francisco with an irresistible power. It has been
one of the Catholic influences exercised by the Church on the
population.
On taking possession of his see, when San Francisco was yet forming
and building itself up, the first thing Dr. Alemany looked around for
was an edifying and zealous body of clergy. There were, indeed,
already before him some few who are laboring in the vineyard to this
day, but there was also there the refuse of Europe, men of scandalous
life, and men affecting to be priests who were impostors. Whereupon he
went over to Ireland, and entering into relations with the College of
All Hallows, which had supplied so many devoted priests to other
parts, he began to draw from that splendid seminary apostles for
California: of whom, we believe, the first was the present bishop at
{809} Marysville, Dr. O'Connell, so distinguished for his gentleness,
learning, piety, and zeal for the salvation of the Indian as well as
of the white man. May that college long continue to send forth its
heroic bands of laborers, who may be recognized everywhere as they are
in California, as a virtuous and exemplary clergy! But the archbishop,
with the eye of a general, perceived that in order to make a deep
impression upon the masses which were forming themselves with
incredible activity in San Francisco and the country, it was
necessary, in addition to the secular clergy, which were stationed in
pickets through the city and country, to form a strong body of
indefatigable men, who should act upon the population with all the
accumulated power of a compact square. He therefore called into the
field the Jesuit fathers. They came down in little numbers from Oregon
and the Rocky Mountains, from the Eastern states, and from Piedmont.
He assigned to them the old mission of Santa Clara, about forty miles
from San Francisco, in order that they should at once open a college
for the better classes; and also a site in San Francisco, among the
sand-hills, in order to form a day college for the inhabitants of the
city; and a church in which they should bring into play all those
industries of devotion, retreats, sermons, lectures, novenas, and
sodalities, which constitute so considerable an element of their
influence in Rome, and upon the various populations in the midst of
which they establish themselves.
We have already shown that the Church was foremost in the formation of
hospitals, orphanages, and schools for the poor. She is also first in
reputation for the excellence and solidity of her higher education.
The College of Santa Clara has a public name all down the western
coast, in Mexico and Peru, as being, the most efficient house of
education on the Pacific. But in order to appreciate the value of this
work, it is necessary to understand something of the infidelity,
immorality, and vice against which it acts as a barrier. Precocity in
vice in California exceeds anything we know in England; and the
domestic inner life of the family, except among the Irish, who still
maintain its sanctity in a wonderful degree, and a certain small
minority of others, has probably less existence than in the Eastern
states. In the state system, boys and girls attend the same schools up
to seventeen and eighteen. We have heard of a college in which boys
and girls were educated together and live under the same roof; and we
have been told of even girls' boarding-schools having been broken up
on account of vice and disease. But rather than speak ourselves, we
prefer to quote the published evidence of a Californian as to the
moral state of society:
"In no part of the world is the individual more free from restraint.
Men, and women, and children are permitted to do nearly as they
please. High wages, migratory habits, and bachelor life are not
favorable to the maintenance of stiff social rules among men, and
the tone of society among women must partake to a considerable
extent of that among men, especially in a country where women are in
a small minority, and are therefore much courted. Public opinion,
which as a guardian of public morals is more powerful than the forms
of law, loses much of its power in a community where the inhabitants
are not permanent residents. A large portion of the men in
California live either in cabins or in hotels, remote from women
relatives, and therefore uninfluenced by the powers of a home. It is
not uncommon for married women to go to parties and balls in company
with young bachelor friends. The girls commence going into "society"
about fifteen, and then receive company alone, and go out alone with
young men to dances and other places of amusement. In this there is
a great error: too much liberty is allowed to girls in the states on
the Atlantic slope, and still greater {810} liberty is given here,
where, as they ripen earlier, they should be more guarded."
[Footnote 146]
[Footnote 146: "Resources of California," p, 364. ]
Again:
"The relation between the sexes is unsound. Unfortunate women are
numerous, and separations and divorces between married couples
frequent. No civilized country can equal us in the proportionate
number of divorces. Our laws are not so lax as those of several
states east of the Mississippi; but the circumstances of life are
more favorable to separation. The small proportion of women makes a
demand for the sex, and so when a woman is oppressed by her husband
she can generally find somebody else who will not oppress her, and
she will apply for a divorce. The abundance of money is here felt
also. To prosecute a divorce costs money, and many cannot pay in
poorer countries. During 1860, eighty-five divorce suits were
commenced in San Francisco, and in sixty-one of these, or
three-fourths of the cases, the wives were the plaintiffs."
We need add no comment. Such being the tone and condition of society,
of what inestimable value must not good Catholic colleges be to the
whole country! They are highly appreciated by many who are not
Catholics: for they send their children to Santa Clara, and to the
convents of Notre Dame, being fully persuaded that they will not only
be educated in the soundest principles of morality, and be fenced in
from evil, but will receive a higher intellectual training than they
could elsewhere. Society, indeed, must modify any particular system of
education; and the Jesuits have had to depart from their traditional
practice of a thorough classical training, in favor of positive
sciences, especially chemistry and mineralogy, and to adopt the
utilitarian line of instruction rather than that which is the habit in
Europe. Their colleges in Santa Clara and in San Francisco, and the
schools of Notre Dame, must be marked as the principal educational
establishments in California; and they are telling steadily upon the
people.
The archbishop has also opened another college in behalf of the middle
classes, which no doubt will bear its fruit. All are thus amply
provided for; and no one points a finger of scorn toward the Catholic
Church for ignorance and neglect of education; rather she is looked
upon as pre-eminent in her training, and men external to her communion
send their children to learn wisdom at her establishments.
The sand-hills in the midst of which the college and church of St.
Ignatius were placed, have long since been carried away by the
vigorous application of steam-power, and these religious buildings
stand out prominent upon the widest street in California.
A brief allusion to the work carried on in this church, and we come to
a conclusion. We have already referred at some length to the sermon
and lecture-going habit of the Americans, and to the conquests which
the Catholic Church alone has the power to make among them, by
addressing herself to their good qualities, and thus leading them to
God by the cords of Adam. Long ago the archbishop perceived this, and
acted promptly by planting in the capital, in addition to the busy,
active secular clergy, this community of St. Ignatius, with its
leisure, talent, and training, to meet special requirements; and
statistics would show with what success his grace's plans have been
crowned. But we must pass on, and confine our notice to a particular
industry of the society, which at San Francisco has received a special
blessing. Or rather, it is not a specialty of the society, but a
common arm in the armory of the Church; we refer, to the system of
sodalities and confraternities. The idea was first introduced by St.
Francis and St. Dominic in their third orders, and was perfected and
practically {811} applied to various devout ends by St. Charles, St.
Ignatias, and St. Philip, in the sixteenth century St. Charles covered
his diocese with confraternities as with so many nets. St. Philip
organized the little oratory, and the Jesuits wherever they establish
themselves are careful to found the sodality of the B. Virgin, and
that of St. Joseph as the patron of the _Bona Mors_, in their colleges
or among the frequenters of their public churches. Nothing can exceed
the importance of these sodalities and confraternities, and we dwell
on the subject all the more willingly, because of our own need of
their more perfect development and spread among ourselves. It strikes
us that such associations are more than ever desirable in countries
like England and America, where external dangers and seductions are so
numerous and insidious, and ecclesiastical influence so limited.
In Catholic countries the population is studded with religious houses,
convents, and communities, and the priesthood is numerous, visible to
the eye of the public, clothed in its own dress, affecting all classes
of society, and holding a political and national status of its own.
Their influence, therefore, is strong and ever present. It is
otherwise with the English clergy, who have not one of the advantages
alluded to, but are absorbed in begging and building with one hand,
while with the other they hastily baptize, absolve, and anoint the
new-born, the viator, and the dying. Now well-organized sodalities of
laymen supply the absence of those more powerful influences, of which
we daily lament the loss. They are a security to each member against
himself, and they quicken him with a new zeal and activity for his
neighbor. In San Francisco there is a sodality for men and one for
women. They hold their respective meetings, sing the office of the
Blessed Virgin, receive instructions, and frequent the sacraments on
appointed days: they have also their library. The object is purely
spiritual, and we believe there is no kind of obligatory subscription.
Is a youth being led away, or in the midst of dangers, his friend
induces him to join him in the sodality. It is a spiritual citadel
into which all may enter, and find a new armor and strength against
self and the world. Those newly born to the faith are gradually and
easily edified and perfected in their new religion, by contact with
the more fervent members whom they find in the sodality. Such a system
cannot be too widely spread. Why should not a sodality be established
in every considerable parish? After a time, all would loudly proclaim
that they had built up a tower of strength within the Church. But we
may not dwell longer on these topics.
The great spiritual dangers in California are rank infidelity and
unblushing naturalism: the one and only promise of religion, the one
hope of salvation, is in the attitude and position of the Catholic
Church. Mr. Hittel sums up the relative numbers thus: about fourteen
per cent, of the male population frequent some place of worship; of
the remaining eighty-six per cent., one-third occasionally go to
church, according to the attraction there, and two-thirds never go
near a church, and are not to be counted as Christians. He estimates
the Protestants at 10,000, of whom the Episcopalians are numbered at
only 600 communicants, with twenty churches and eighteen clergymen;
the Jews at 2,000. The Catholic priests, he adds, claim 80,000
communicants in their church, and they are more attentive to the forms
of their faith than are the Protestants. In a word, Catholicity is in
the ascendant, the sects are in the decline, and the battle is between
paganism with a mythology of dollars, and the Church of God with her
precepts of self-denial and her promises of eternal life.
------
{812}
From The Month.
PATIENCE.
FROM THE GERMAN.
All through this earth we live in
A silent angel goes,
Sent by the God of mercy
To soften earthly woes.
Sweet peace and gracious pity
In his meek eyes abide;
That angel's name is Patience--
Oh, take him for your guide.
His gentle hand will lead thee
Through paths of grief and gloom;
His cheering voice will whisper
Of brighter days to come;
For when thy heart is sinking,
His courage faileth not;
He helps thy cross to carry,
And soothes the saddest lot.
He turns to chastened sadness
The anguished spirit's cry;
The restless heart he calmeth
To meek tranquillity;
The darkest hour will brighten
At his benign command,
And every wound he healeth
With slow but certain hand.
He dries, without reproving.
The tears upon thy cheek;
He doth not chide thy longings.
But makes them calm and meek;
And if, when storms are raging,
Thou askest, murmuring, "Why?"
He answers not, but pointeth
With quiet smile on high.
He hath not ready answer
For every question here;
"Endure," so runs his motto--
"The time for rest is near."
So, with few words, beside thee
Fareth thine angel-friend;
Thinking not of the journey,
But of its glorious end.
------
{813}
From The Literary Workman.
THE TWO FRIENDS OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS.
The first attraction to all Catholics who visit Antwerp is its
cathedral, which still remains after so many tempests of war and
sedition the glory of the city.
But there exists in one of the other churches a monument which has an
interest for English and Scotch Catholics almost personal; it is in
the church of St. Andrew, which was founded in the year 1529. Like
most of the churches in Belgian towns, it is of considerable size and
lofty. It contains one of the pulpits for which Belgium, more than any
other country in Europe, is famous. On the floor of the church, in
front of the pulpit, and immediately under the preacher, is a
representation in carved wood of the great event recorded in the
sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth verses of the first chapter of
St. Mark's Gospel:
"And passing by the sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and Andrew his
brother casting nets into the sea, for they were fishermen: and Jesus
said to them, Come after me and I will make you to become fishers of
men. And immediately leaving their nets, they followed him."
The same event is recorded in St. Matthew. The whole scene is
represented in the most life-like manner. The figures of our blessed
Lord, of St. Peter and St. Andrew, are of the size of life, or nearly
so. Our blessed Lord stands by himself, toward the east, looking down
the church. One of the apostles is seated in a boat round which
shallow waves are rippling. The other stands by the boat on the shore.
A net contains fish, which show all the attitudes of fish just caught
and brought to land. The figure of our blessed Lord, and the attitude
of the future apostles listening to him with the utmost reverence, are
given with profound truth, and are full of the purest sentiment of
religion. The pulpit has a sounding-board on which stands the cross of
St Andrew, supported by small angelic figures. It is however the scene
on the floor of the church which is the great object of admiration.
The pulpit is fixed against one of the pillars of the nave, and a
little eastward of it, beyond the next pillar, is an altar inclosed by
a marble screen. Against the pillar nearest to the altar, and behind
it, is placed the monument which has so great an attraction for
Catholics speaking the English tongue.
It is called in the guide-books, "A marble monument raised to the
memory of Mary Stuart by two English ladies."
But this is not exactly true. It is the monument, as will be seen, of
two English ladies: and it was obviously intended also to honor the
memory of their sovereign and mistress the queen. It is placed high up
the pillar, quite out of reach; but the inscription upon it can be
read perfectly by spending some time and trouble in considering it.
The inscription occupies the whole centre of the monument. It is in
Latin, and the following is a literal translation of it:
"Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and France, mother of James, King of
Great Britain, coming into England in the year 1568, for the sake of
taking refuge, was beheaded through the perfidy of her kinswoman
Elizabeth, reigning there, and through the jealousy of the heretical
parliament, {814} after nineteen years of captivity for the sake of
religion. She consummated her martyrdom in the year of our Lord 1587,
and in the 45th year of her age and of her reign.
"Sacred to God, beat and greatest.
"You behold, oh traveller, the monument of two noble matrons of Great
Britain who, flying to the protection of the Catholic king from their
country, for the sake of orthodox religion, here repose in the hope of
the resurrection.
"First, Barbara Mowbray, daughter of the Lord John, Baron Mowbray,
who, being lady of the bedchamber to the most serene Mary Stuart,
Queen of Scotland, was given in marriage to Gilbert Curle, who for
more than twenty years was privy councillor. They lived together
happily for twenty-three years, and had eight children. Of these six
have passed to heaven; two sons, still alive, were trained in liberal
studies. James entered the Society of Jesus at Madrid, in Spain;
Hippolytus, the younger, made his choice to be enrolled in the army of
Christ in the Society of Jesus in the province of French Flanders. He,
sorrowing, and with tears, made it his care to place this monument to
the memory of his admirable mother, who, on the last day of July, in
the year 1616, and in the 57th year of her age, exchanged this
unstable life for the life of eternity.
"Secondly, the memory of Elizabeth Curle, his aunt, of the same noble
race of the Curles, who also was the faithful companion of the chamber
and the imprisonment of Queen Mary for eight years; and to whom the
queen at her death gave her last kiss; who never married, and lived a
life eminent for piety and chastity. Hippolytus Curle, son of her
brother, in great good will, in memory of her deserts, and as an
expression of his own love and gratitude, placed this monument here.
She ended her life in the year of our Lord 1620, on the 29th day of
May, in the 60th year of her age.
"May they rest in peace. Amen."
Opposite to your left hand, as you look at the monument, by the side
of the inscription, is the figure of a female saint holding a book,
and underneath, in large letters, ST. BARBARA.
On the other side of the inscription is another female saint, holding
up her dress, with gold loaves in it, under her left arm, and one gold
loaf in her right hand. Underneath her is written ST. ELIZABETH. This
is St. Elizabeth of Hungary. At the top of the monument, inclosed in a
pediment of marble, is a very agreeable painting of the queen, and at
the bottom of the monument, below the inscription, is a lozenge of
white marble, showing the arms of Scotland, France, and England,
carved, but not colored.
Miss Strickland, in the last volume of her life of Mary, Queen of
Scots, gives a version of this epitaph, and mentions the fact of the
burial of these ladies in the church of St. Andrew. The version of the
epitaph which we have given is more exact than that given by Miss
Strickland; and Miss Strickland is mistaken in saying that the church
of St. Andrew is a "small Scotch church."
Indeed it is difficult to know how such an expression could be applied
to St. Andrew's church. It is certainly not a small church, as we have
said; and is certainly not a Scotch church, in any intelligible sense
of that expression. It was built in 1529, under the government of
Margaret of Austria, Duchess of Parma. Miss Strickland mentions the
painting at the top of the monument as having been brought over to
Antwerp by Elizabeth and Barbara Curle. But in speaking of the family,
of Mowbray she has failed to do justice to the religion of these
ladies.
She says that "Barbara and Gillies Mowbray, the two youngest daughters
of the Laird of Barnborough, a leading member of the Presbyterian
Congregation, . . . sought and succeeded in obtaining the melancholy
privilege of being added to the prison-household {815} of their
captive queen--a favor they might probably have solicited in vain if
they had not been Protestants, and their father, Sir John Mowbray, a
staunch adherent of the rebel faction" (p. 380).
She gives no authority for her statement as to the religion of the
daughters, Barbara and Gillies, and the probabilities, in the absence
of evidence, seem all to lie the other way. But in any case, it is
obvious that they were Catholics in Antwerp.
Miss Strickland, in describing the absurd travestie of a funeral
performed by the Protestant ministers in Peterborough cathedral over
the body of the Scotch queen, five months after she had been murdered,
mentions that none of the queen's train would attend at the Protestant
services, "with the exception of Sir Andrew Melville and the two
Mowbrays, who were members of the Reformed Church."
If it is true that those two ladies did consent to be present when all
the others refused, with great contempt, there certainly is a
presumption that at that time they continued in the religion of Knox.
The fact is, indeed, capable of another very natural explanation. They
might have chosen to see the last of their mistress; remaining present
without taking any part in the shameful ceremonies.
One significant statement in the epitaph which we have given, and
which Miss Strickland has omitted, makes it certain that if Gillies
Mowbray continued in Knox's or any other form of heresy, her sister
Barbara Mowbray, wife of Gilbert Curie, was a Catholic before leaving
England. The words omitted by Miss Strickland we now reprint in
italics: "You behold, oh traveller, the monument of two noble matrons
of Great Britain, _who, flying to the protection of the Catholic king
from their country for the sake of orthodox religion, here repose in
the hope of the resurrection._"
Miss Strickland's account of the monument also omits to notice the
queen's arms which we have mentioned. This Widow's Lozenge tells the
whole case against her rival Elizabeth. Persons who understand the
laws of heraldry see its meaning at once. But for general readers it
is enough to say that the arms of Scotland are put first, then the
arms of England as they were used at that period by English
sovereigns. Now, if Elizabeth had been legitimate, and had a just
title to the throne, Queen Mary would have had no just right to place
the English arms in her lozenge. The act of placing these arms on the
monument of the Curles was a protest against the illegitimate usurper
who had murdered the true heir.
Miss Strickland furnishes the date of the marriage of Gilbert Curie
and Barbara Mowbray. It took place in Tutbury Castle, in
Staffordshire, in November, 1586, a few weeks after the sisters had
arrived there to attend upon the queen. Very soon afterward, at
Fotheringay, they had to attend her on her way to death. Elizabeth
Curle was one of the two, Jane Kennedy being the other, who were
allowed by the wretches who directed her murder to stand by her and
see it done.
Miss Strickland mentions that the conduct of the attendants of Queen
Mary at Peterborough was probably the reason why they were sent back
to Fotheringay Castle, instead of being liberated after the pompous
funeral of their murdered mistress. "They were cruelly detained there
nearly three months, in the most rigorous captivity, barely supplied
with the necessaries of life, and denied the privileges of air and
exercise."
Among those so detained were Gillies Mowbray, and Barbara (Mowbray)
Curle, and Elizabeth Curle. James, then King of Scotland only, sent
Sir John Mowbray to Elizabeth to remonstrate on the treatment of Queen
Mary's servants and to demand their release. Then, having been joined
by Gilbert Curle, {816} Barbara's husband, they sought the protection
of the Catholic king in Antwerp.
There they rest in the church of the great apostle, the patron of
Scotland.
The unhappy woman who occupied the English throne obtained entire
success--she gained the English crown, murdered her rival, and pursued
Catholics with death, ruin, and exile. But probably no well informed
person--certainly no Catholic--will doubt that these ladies, in their
exile, their devout lives and pious deaths, enjoyed happiness unknown
to Elizabeth in her guilty prosperity.
Our readers will not be displeased to receive this short memoir of two
ladies who were the attendants of Mary, Queen of Scots, during life,
and at her death.
------
From The Lamp.
ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.
BY ROBERT CURTIS.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The moment it had been ascertained that Emon-a-knock had been so
seriously hurt, _somebody_ thought--oh, the thoughtfulness of some
people!--that some conveyance would be required, and she was
determined to take time by the forelock. Jamesy Doyle it was who had
been despatched for the jennet and cart, with a token to the only
servant-woman in the house to put a hair-mattress--she knew _where_ to
get it--over plenty of straw in the cart, and to make no delay.
Jamesy Doyle was the very fellow to make no mistake, and to do as he
was bid; and sure enough there he was now, coming up the boreen with
everything as correct as possible. Phil M'Dermott and Ned Murrican led
poor Emon to the end of the lane just as Jamesy Doyle came up.
"This is for you, my poor fellow," said he, addressing Emon. "An' I'm
to lave you every foot at your own doore--them's my ordhers from th'
ould masther himsel'."
Emon was about to speak, or to endeavor to do so; but M'Dermott
stopped him.
"Don't be desthroyin' yourself, Emon, strivin' to spake; but let us
lift you into the cart--an' hould your tongue."
Emon-a-knock smiled; but it was a happy smile.
Of course there was a crowd round him; and many a whispered
observation passed through them as poor Emon was lifted in, fixed in a
reclining position, and Jamesy Doyle desired "to go on," while Phil
M'Dermott and big Ned Murrican gave him an escort, walking one on each
side.
"It was herself sent Jamesy Doyle for the jennit, Judy; I heerd her
tellin' him to put plenty of straw into the cart."
"Ay, Peggy, an' I heerd her tellin' him to get a hair-matt_ress_, an'
pat it atop of it. Isn't it well for the likes of her that has
hair-matt_resses_ to spare?"
"Ay, Nelly Gaffeny, an' didn't I hear her tellin' him to dhrive fur
his life!"
"In troth an' you didn't, Nancy; what she said was, 'to make no
delay;' wasn't I as near her as I am to you this minute?"
"Whist, girls!" broke in (as Lever would say) a sensible old woman--
"it was ould Ned Cavana himself {817} sent Jamesy off; wasn't I
lookin' at him givin' him the kay of the barn to get the sthraw? Dear
me, how pleasant ye all are!"
"Thrue for you, Katty avrone; but wasn't it Winny that put him up to
it, an' the tears coming up in her eyes as she axed him? an' be the
same token, the hankicher she had in her hand was for all the world
the very color of Emon-a-knock's cap an' sleeves."
There was a good deal of truth, but some exaggeration, in the above
gossip.
It was old Ned Cavana himself who had despatched Jamesy Doyle for the
jennet and cart, and he had also given him the key of the barn--old
Katty was quite right so far.
Now let it be known that there was not a man in the parish of
Rathcash, who was the owner of a horse and cart, who would not have
cheerfully sent for it to bring Emon-a-knock home, when the proper
time arrived to do so--and Winny Cavana knew that; she knew that her
father would be all life for the purpose, the moment it was mentioned
to him; and she was determined that her father should be "first in the
field." There was nothing extraordinary in the fact itself; it was the
relative positions of the parties that rendered it food for the gossip
which we have been listening to. But old Ned never thought of the
gossip in his willingness to serve a neighbor. Winny had thought of
it, but braved it, rather than lose the chance. It was she who had
suggested to her father to send Jamesy for the jennet, and to give him
the key of the barn where the _dry_ straw was. If the gossips had
known this little turn of the transaction, doubtless it would not have
escaped their comments.
But we must return to the common, and see how matters are going on
there.
Tom Murdock had witnessed from no great distance the arrival of the
jennet and cart; and of course he knew them. He did not know, however,
that it was Winny Cavana who had sent for them--he only guessed that.
He saw "that----whelp"----he put this shameful addition to it in his
anger--lifted into it; and if he had a regret as to the accident, it
was that the blow had not been the inch-and-a-half lower which Father
Farrell had blessed his stars had not been the case. This was the
second time his eyes had seen the preference he always dreaded. He had
not forgotten the scene with the dog on the road. He had not been so
far that he could not see, nor so careless that he did not remark, the
handkerchief; nor was he so stupid as not to divine the purport of the
amicable little battle which apparently took place between them about
it. The color of Lennon's cap and sleeves now also recurred to his
mind, and jealousy suggested that it was _she_ who made them.
But his business was by no means finished on the common. He could not,
as it were, abscond, deserting his friends; and ill as his humor was
for what was before him, he must go through with it. It would help to
keep him from thinking for a while, at all events. Beside, the sooner
he saw Winny Cavana now the better. He would explain the accident to
her as if it had happened to any other person, not as to one in whom
he believed there was a particular interest on her part. To be silent
on the subject altogether, he felt would betray the very thing he
wished to avoid.
The hurling match over, it had been arranged that the evening should
conclude with a dance, to crown the amicable feelings with which the
two contending parishes had met in the strife of hurls. The boys and
girls of Rathcash and Shanvilla, whichever side won, were to mingle in
the mazy dance, to the enlivening lilts of blind Murrin the piper,
who, as he could not see the game, had been the whole afternoon
squealing, and droning, and hopping the brass end of his pipes {818}
upon a square polished-leather patch, stitched upon the knee of his
breeches.
There now appeared to be some sort of a hitch as to the dance coming
off at all, in consequence of the "untoward event" which had already
considerably marred the harmony of the meeting; for it would be idle
to deny that dissatisfaction and doubt still lingered in the hearts of
Shanvilla. Both sides had brought a barrel of beer for the occasion,
which by this time it was almost necessary to put upon "the stoop;"
Tom Murdock superintending the distribution of that from Rathcash, and
a brother of big Ned Murrican's that from Shanvilla.
Blind Murrin heard some of the talk which was passing round him about
the postponement of the dance. Like all blind pipers he was sharp of
hearing, and somewhat cranky if put at all out of tune.
"Arra, what would they put it off for?" said he, _looking_ up, and
closing his elbow on the bellows to silence the pipes. "Is it because
wan man got a cut on the head? I heerd Father Farrell say there
wouldn't be a haporth on him agen Sunda' eight days; an' I heerd him,
more be token, tellin' the boys to go an' ask the Rathcash girls to
dance. Arra, what do ye mane? Isn't the counthry gotthered now; an'
the day as fine as summer, an' the grass brave an' dhry, an' lashin's
of beer at both sides, an' didn't I come eleven miles this mornin' a
purpose, an' what the diowl would they go an' put off the dance for?
Do you mane to say they're _onshioughs_ or _aumadhawns_, or--what?"
"No, Billy," said a Shanvilla girl, with good legs, neat feet, black
boots, and stockings as white as snow,--"no, Billy; but neither the
Shanvilla boys nor girls have any heart to dance, after Emon-a-knock
bein' kilt an' sent home."
"There won't be a haporth on him, I tell you, agen Sunda'. Didn't I
hear Father Farrell say so, over an' over again? arra _badhershin_,
Kitty, to be sure they'll dance!"
While blind Murrin was "letting off" thus, Phil M'Dermott was seen
returning by a short cut across the fields toward them.
"Here's news of Emon, anyway; he's aither better or worse," continued
Kitty Reilly; and some dread that it was unfavorable crept through the
Shanvillas.
"Well, Phil, how is he? well, Phil, how is he?" greeted M'Dermott from
several quarters as he came up.
"All right, girls. He's much better, and he sent me back for fear I'd
lose the first dance--for he knew I was engaged;" and he winked at a
very pretty Rathcash girl with soft blue eyes and bright auburn hair,
who was not far off.
"Arra, didn't I know they'd dance?" said Murrin, giving two or three
dumb squeezes with his elbow before the music came, like the three or
four first pulls at a pump before the water flows.
It then ran like lightning through the crowd that the dance was going
to begin, and old Murrin blew up in earnest at the top of his power.
He had, with the help of some of the best dancers amongst the girls on
both sides, selected that spot for the purpose, before the game had
commenced; and he had kept his ground patiently all through, playing
all the planxties in Carolan's catalogue. But not without wetting his
whistle; for as he belonged to neither party, he had been supplied
with beer alternately by both.
Phil M'Dermott whispered a few words to the pretty Rathcash girl, and
left her apparently in haste. But she was "heerd" by one of our
gossips to say, "Of course, Phil; but I will not say 'with all my
heart;' sure, it is only a pleasure postponed for a little,--now
mind, Phil."
"Never fear, Sally." And he was off through the crowd, with his head
up.
Phil's expedition was to look for Winny Cavana, to whom Emon-a-knock
had been engaged for the first dance; and as he knew where the {819}
bonnet trimmed with broad blue ribbon could be seen all day, he made
for the spot. As he came within a few perches of it, he saw Tom
Murdock in seemingly earnest conversation with the object of his
search, and he hung back for a few minutes unperceived.
Tom Murdock, we have seen, was not a man to be easily taken aback by
circumstances, or to stand self-accused by any apparent consciousness
of guilt. Guilty or not, he always braved the matter out, whatever it
might be, as an innocent man would, and ought. As the dance was now
about to begin, and old Murrin's pipes were getting loud and
impatient, Tom made up to Winny. He had watched an opportunity when
she was partly disengaged from those around her; and indeed, to do
them justice, they "made themselves scarce" as he approached.
"They are going to dance, Winny; will you allow me to lead you out?"
he said.
Winny had been pondering in her own mind the possibility of what had
now taken place; and after turning and twisting her answer into twenty
different shapes, had selected one as the safest and best she could
give, with a decided refusal. Now, when the anticipated moment had
arrived, and she was obliged to speak, she was almost dumb. Not a
single word of any one of the replies she had shaped out--and least of
all the one she had rehearsed so often as the best--came to her aid.
"Will you not even answer me, Winny?" he added, after an unusually
long pause.
"I heard," she said hesitatingly, "that, as a proof of the good-will
which was supposed to exist between the parishes, the Rathcash men
were to ask the Shanvilla girls, and Shanvilla the Rathcash."
"That may be carried out too; but surely such an arrangement is not to
prohibit a person from the privilege of asking a near neighbor."
"No; but you had better begin, as leader, by setting the example
yourself. You were head of the Rathcash men all day, and they will be
likely to take pattern by you."
"Well, I shall _begin_ so, Winny; but say that you will dance with me
by-and-by."
"No, Tom, I shall not say any such thing, for I do not intend to do
so. I don't think I shall dance at all; but if I do, it shall be but
once--and that with a Shanvilla man."
"Do you mean to say, Winny, that you came here to-day intending to
dance but once?"
"I mean to say," she replied rather haughtily, "that you have no right
to do more than ask me to dance. That is a right I can no more deny
you than you can deny me the right to refuse. But you have no right to
cross-question me."
"If," he continued, "it is in consequence of that unfortunate
accident, I protest--"
"Here, father," said Winny, interrupting him and turning from him;
"shall we go up toward the piper? I see they are at it."
Tom stood disconcerted, as if riveted to the spot; and as old Ned and
his daughter walked away, he saw Phil M'Dermott come toward them. He
watched and saw them enter into conversation.
The first question old Ned asked, knowing that Phil had gone a piece
of the way home with him, was of course to know how Emon was.
"So much better," said Phil, "that he had a mind to come back in the
cart an' look on at the dancin'; but of course we would not let him do
so foolish a turn. He then sent me back, afeerd Miss Winny here would
be engaged afore I got as far as her. He tould me, Miss Winny, that he
was to take you out for the first dance yourself; an' although Phil
M'Dermott is a poor excuse for Emon-a-knock in a dance, or anywhere
else, for that matther, I hope, Miss Winny, you will dance with me."
{820}
"_Ceade mille a faltha_, Phil, for your own sake as well as for his,"
said Winny, putting her arm through his, and walking up to where they
were "at it," as she had said.
Tom Murdock had kept his eye upon her, and had seen this transaction.
Winny, although she did not know it, felt conscious that he was
watching her; and it was with a sort of savage triumph she had thrust
her arm through Phil M'Dermott's and walked off with him.
"Surely," said Tom to himself, "it is not possible that she's going to
dance with Phil M'Dermott, the greatest clout of a fellow in all
Shanvilla--and that's a bold word. Nothing but a bellows-blower to
his father--a common nailor at the cross-roads. Thank God, I put Emon,
as she calls him, from dancing with her, any way. He would be bad
enough; but he is always clean at all events, that's one thing--_neen
han an shin_. See! by the devil, there she's out with him, sure
enough. I think the girl is mad."
Now Tom Murdock's ill-humor and vexation had led him, though only to
himself, to give an under-estimate of Phil M'Dermott in more respects
than one. In the first place, Phil's father, so far from being a
common nailor, was a most excellent smith-of-all-work. He made
ploughs, harrows, and all sorts of machinery, and was unequivocally
the best horse-shoer in the whole country. People were in the habit of
sending their horses five, ay ten, miles to Bryan M'Dermott's
forge--"establishment" it might almost be called--and Tom Murdock
himself, when he kept the race-mare, had sent her past half-a-dozen
forges to get her "properly fitted" at Phil M'Dermott's.
Phil himself had served his time to his father, and was no less an
adept in all matters belonging to his trade; and as to "driving a
nail," there never was a man wore an apron could put on a shoe so
safely. A nail, too, except for the above purpose, was never made in
their forge. If sometimes Phil threw up his bare hairy arm to pull
down the handle of the bellows, it was only what his father himself
would do, if the regular blower was out of the way.
In fact, "Bryan M'Dermott and Son, Smiths," might have very justly
figured over their forge-door; but they were so well known that a
sign-board of any kind was superfluous.
Then as to being a _clout_, Phil was the very furthest from it in the
world, if it can have any meaning with reference to a man at all.
There are _nails_ called _clouts_; and perhaps as a nailor was
uppermost in Tom's cantankerous mind, it had suggested the epithet.
We have now only to deal with the dirt--the _neen han an shin_ of his
spite.
That Phil M'Dermott was very often dirty was the necessary result of
his calling, at which the excellence of his knowledge kept him
constantly employed. But on this occasion, as on all Sundays and
holidays, Phil M'Dermott's person could vie with even Tom Murdock's,
"or any other man's," in scrupulous cleanliness. Now indeed, if there
were some streaks and blotches of blood upon the breast of his shirt,
he might thank Tom Murdock's handiwork for that same.
Such as he was, however, bloody shirt and all, Winny Cavana went out
to dance with him before the whole assembly of Rathcash boys,
speckless as they were.
Kate Mulvey had been endeavoring to carry on her own tactics privately
all the morning, and had refused two or three Shanvilla boys, saying
that she heard there would be no dance, but that if there was, she
would dance with them before it was over. She now _accidentally_ stood
not very far from where Tom had been snubbed and turned away from by
her bosom friend, Winny Cavana. Tom Murdock saw her, and saw that she
was alone as far as a partner was concerned.
Determined to let Winny see that there were "as good fish in the sea
as {821} ever were caught," and that she had not the power to upset
his enjoyment, Tom made up to Kate, and, assuming the most amiable
smile which the wicked confusion of his mind permitted, he asked her
to dance.
"How is it that you are not dancing, Kate? Will you allow me to lead
you out?"
"I would, Tom, with the greatest possible pleasure; but I heard the
Rathcash boys were to dance with the Shanvilla girls, and so by the
others with the Rathcash girls."
"That's the old story, Kate. It was thrown up to me just now; but
there is no such restriction upon any of us at either side. And I'll
tell you what it is, Kate Mulvey--not a Shanvilla girl I'll dance with
this day, if I never struck a foot under me!"
Kate was not sorry to find him in this humor. If she could soothe
round his feelings on her own account now, all would be right. Under
any phase of beauty, Kate's expression of countenance was more amiable
than Winny Cavana's, although perhaps not so regularly handsome, and
she felt that she was now looking her best.
"Fie, fie, Tom; you should not let that little accident put you
through other like that, to be making you angry. I heard that was the
rule, and I refused a couple of the Rathcash boys. But if you tell me
there is no such rule, sure I'll go out with you, Tom, afore any man
in the parish."
"Thank you, Kate; and if you wish to know the truth, there's not a
girl in Rathcash, or Shanvilla either, that I'd so soon dance with."
"Ah,_na bocklish_, Tom; you'll hardly make me b'lieve that."
"Time will tell, Kate dear," said he, and he led her to the ring.
Kate made herself as agreeable as possible; amiable she always was.
She rallied her partner upon his ill-humor. "It is a great shame for
you, Tom," she said, "to let trifles annoy you--"
"They are not trifles, Kate."
"The way you do, where you have so much to make you happy; plenty of
money and property, and everybody fond of you."
"No, not everybody."
"And you can do just as you like."
"No, I can't."
"And there won't be a pin's-worth the matter with young Lennon in a
few days; and sure, Tom, every one knows it was an accident."
"No, not _every_ one," thought Tom to himself. The other interruptions
were aloud to Kate; but she kept never minding him, and finished what
she had to say.
"It is not that all but, Kate," said Tom.
"Oh, I see! I suppose Winny has vexed you; I saw her laying down the
law."
"She'd vex a saint, Kate."
"Faix, an' you're not one, Tom, I'm afeerd."
"Nor never will, _I'm afeerd_," said he, forgetting his manners, and
pronouncing the last word as she had done, although he knew better.
She saw he was greatly vexed, but she did not mind it.
"If I were you, Tom," she continued, "I would not be losing my time
and my thoughts on the likes of her."
This last expression was not very complimentary to her friend; but
Kate knew she would excuse it (for she intended to tell her), as it
was only helping her out.
"You are her bosom friend, Kate," he went on, "and could tell me a
great deal about her, if you liked."
"I don't like, then; and the sorra word I'll tell you, Tom. If you're
not able to find out all you want yourself, what good's in you?"
"Well, keep it to yourself, Kate; I think I know enough about her
already."
"See that, now; an' you strivin' to pick more out of me! This much
I'll tell you, any way, for you're apt to find it out yourself--that
she's as stubborn a lass as any in the province of Connaught What she
says she won't do, she _won't_."
{822}
"And what I say I will do, I _will_; and I'll take that one's pride
down a peg or two, as sure as my name is Tom Murdock, and that before
Easter Monday."
"Whist, Tom agra; she's not worth putting yourself in a passion about:
and she's likely enough to bring her own pride low enough. But betune
you an' me, I don't think she has very much. Whisper me this, Tom; did
she ever let on to you?"
"Never, Kate; I won't belie her."
"Answer me another question now, Tom; did she ever do th' other
thing?'
"You are sifting me very close, Kate. Do you mean did she ever refuse
me?"
"I do, just; and what I'm saying to you, Tom, is for your good. I'm
afeerd it's for her money you care, and not much for herself. Now,
Thomas Murdock, I always thought, an' more than myself thought the
same thing, that the joining of them two farms in holy wedlock was a
bad plan, and that _one_ of you would find it a dear bargain in the
end."
"Which of us, Kate?"
"Not a word you'll tell, Tom avic. There's the floore idle; come out
for another dance;" and she gave him one of her most beautiful looks.
He was glad, however, that her volubility prevented her from observing
that he had not answered her _other_ question.
Kate succeeded during this second dance in putting Tom into somewhat
better humor with himself. He had never thought her so handsome
before, nor had he until now ever drawn a comparison between herself
and Winny Cavana as to beauty of either face or figure, neither of
which it now struck him were much, if at all, inferior to that
celebrated beauty; and he certainly never found her so agreeable. He
listened with a new pleasure to her full rich voice, and looked
occasionally, unperceived (as he thought) into her soft swimming eyes,
and were it not for pure spite toward "that whelp Lennon," and indeed
toward that "proud hussy" Winny Cavana herself he would, after that
second dance, have transferred his whole mind and body to the said
Kate Mulvey on the spot. He considered, at all events, that he had
Kate Mulvey hooked, however slightly it might be. But he would play
her gently, not handle her too roughly, and thus keep her on his line
in case he might find it desirable to put the landing-net under her at
any time. He never thought she was so fine a girl.
But then he thought again: to be cut out, and hunted out of the field,
with all his money, by such a fellow as that, a common day-laborer,
was what he could not reconcile himself to. As for any real love for
Winny Cavana, if it had ever existed in his heart toward her, it had
that day been crushed, and for ever; yet notwithstanding the favorably
circumstances for its growth, it had not yet quite sprung up for
another. A firm resolve, then, to see his spite out, at any cost to
himself, to her, and to "that whelp," was the final determination of
his heart after the day closed.
Winny Cavana, having danced with Phil M'Dermott until they were both
tired, sat down beside her father on a _furrum_. Several of the
Shanvilla, and some of the Rathcash, boys "made up" to her, but she
refused to dance any more, pleading fatigue, which by-the-bye none of
them believed, for it was not easy to tire the same Winny Cavana
dancing. After sitting some time to cool, and look on at the neighbors
"footing it," she proposed to her father to go home; and he, poor old
man, thought "it was an angel spoke." He would have proposed it to
Winny himself long before, but that he did not wish to interfere with
her enjoyment. He thought she would have danced more, but was now glad
of the reprieve; for to say the truth it was one to him. He, and
Winny, and Bully-dhu, who had been curled up at his feet all day, then
stood up, and went down the boreen together; Bully careering and
barking round them with his usual activity.
{823}
We need not remain much longer at the dance ourselves. In another half
hour it was "getting late," the beer was all out, Murrin's pipes were
getting confused, and Rathcash and Shanvilla were seen straggling over
the hills in twos and threes and small parties toward their respective
homes.
We cannot do better than end this chapter with a hearty Irish wish--
"God send them safe!"
CHAPTER XXV.
This great hurling match, although much spoken of before it came off,
was so universally believed to be a mere amicable, a _bona-fide_ piece
of holiday recreation, and not an ostensible excuse for the ulterior
purposes of Ribbonism, or a fight, that no precautions had been deemed
necessary by the police to detect the one or to prevent the other. The
sub-inspector (then called chief constables) had merely reported the
fact that it would take place to the _resident_ magistrate--_lucus à
non_. But "in the absence of sworn informations" of an intended row,
he would neither attend himself, nor give orders for the police to do
so, leaving the responsibility, if such existed, entirely to the
judgment and discretion of the chief in question; who, wishing to
enjoy the day otherwise himself, was satisfied with the report he had
made, and did not interfere by his own presence or that of his men
with the game. Thus, as "in the absence of sworn informations" the
resident magistrate would not attend, and in the absence of the
resident magistrate the chief would not attend, Rathcash and Shanvilla
had it all to themselves. Perhaps it was so best for the _denouement_
of this story; for had the police been present, the whole thing from
that point might have ended very differently.
But although it had not been thought necessary that a police-party
should put a stop to the day's sport on the common, it is not to be
supposed that they could hear of a man "having been murdered" on the
occasion without being instantly all zeal and activity. Like the three
black crows, the real fact had been exaggerated, and so distorted as
to frighten both the chief and the resident magistrate, but
principally the latter, as the intended assembly had been reported to
him. However, "better late than never." They heard that the man was
not yet dead, and away they started on the same jarvey, to visit him,
on the morning after the occurrence.
Their whole discussion during the drive--if an explanation by the
magistrate could be called a discussion--was on the safest and the
most legal method of taking a dying man's depositions, and wondering
if he knew who struck the fatal blow in this instance, and if the
police had him in custody, etc.
They soon arrived at the house, but saw no sign of a crowd, or of
police, whom the chief would have backed at any odds to have met on
the road with a prisoner.
"Is he still alive?" whispered the resident magistrate to the father,
who came to the door.
"Oh yes, your honor, blessed be God! an' will soon be as well as
ever," he replied. "It was a mere scratch, an' there won't be a
haporth on him in a day or two. He wanted to go back to look at them
dancin', but I kep' him lying on the bed."
"Does he know you?" said the magistrate, believing that the man wanted
to make light of it, as is generally the case.
"Does he know me, is it? athen why wouldn't he know his own father?"
"Oh, he is sensible, then?"
"Arrah, why wouldn't he be sensible? the boy was never anything else."
{824}
"That's right. Does he know who struck the blow?"
"Ochone, doesn't every one know that, your honor? Sure, wasn't it Tom
Murdock? an' isn't his heart bruck about it?"
Here the constable and two men of the nearest police station came up
at the "double" wiping their faces, to make inquiries for report; so
that they were not so remiss after all, for it was still early in the
morning.
Old Lennon was annoyed at all this parade and show about the place,
and continued, "Athen, your honor, what do ye's all want here, an'
these gentlemen?" inclining his head toward the police; "sure there's
nothing the matther."
"We heard the man was killed," said the chief.
"And we heard the same thing not an hour ago," said the constable.
"Arrah, God give ye sinse, gentlemen! Go home, an' don't be making a
show of our little place. I tell you there's not a pin's-worth upon
the boy, and the tip he did get was all accidents."
"I must see him nevertheless, my good man; and you need not be
uncivil, at all events."
"I ax your honor's pardon; I didn't mane it. To be sure you can see
him; but there's no harm done, and what harm was done was an accident.
Sure Emon will tell you the whole thing how it was himself."
"That is the very thing I want Let me see him."
Lennon then led the way into the room where Emon was sitting up in the
bed; for he had heard the buzz of the discussion outside, and caught
some of its meaning.
Lennon took care "to draw" the police into the kitchen; for there was
nothing annoyed him more--and that, he knew, would annoy his son--than
that they should be seen about the place. He had taken his cue from
Emon, who did not wish the matter to be made a blowing-horn of.
A very few words with the young man sufficed to show the magistrate
and the chief that their discussion upon the subject of taking a dying
man's deposition had been unnecessary in this instance, however
profitable it might prove on some future occasion. Emon, except that
his bead was still tied with a handkerchief, showed no symptom
whatever of having received an injury. He cheerfully explained how the
matter had happened, untied the handkerchief promptly at the request
of the magistrate, and showed him "the tip," as he called it, he had
received from Tom Murdock's hurl. There was no mystery or hesitation
in Emon's manner of describing the matter. Murdock himself had been
the very first to admit and to apologize for the accident; and they
did not wish that any fuss should be made about it As to prosecuting
him for the blow, which had been casually asked, he might as well
think of prosecuting a man who had accidentally jostled him in the
street.
All this was a great relief to the magistrate, who at once took the
sensible view of the case, and said he was delighted to find that the
whole matter had been exaggerated both as to facts and extent, and
congratulated both himself and the police upon this happy termination
to their zeal.
The magistrate then spoke of the propriety of "the doctor" seeing
young Lennon, saying that these sort of "tips" sometimes, required
medical care, and occasionally turned out more serious than might at
first be anticipated. But Emon told him that Father Farrell, who was
an experienced doctor himself, had examined the wound, and declared
that it would not signify.
The fact was that the magistrate, in his justifiable fright, had on
the first report of the "murder" sent off four miles for the
dispensary doctor, in case "the man might not be yet dead," and he
expected his arrival every moment, as the point at which his valuable
aid would be required was plainly to be explained to him by the
messenger.
{825}
Finding that matters were much less serious than rumor had made them,
and perceiving that the Lennons were far from gratified at the
exhibition already made, he was not anxious that it should appear he
had sent for the doctor to raise, as it were, young Lennon from the
dead. He was therefore determined to watch his approach, and to
pretend he was passing by on other business, and that it was as well
to bring him in. But the doctor had not been at home when the
messenger called; he had been at a _real_ case--not of murder, but of
birth; and the magistrate and chief could not now await his arrival
without awkwardness for the delay.
The magistrate was annoyed; but the chief soon set him to rights by
telling him that the doctor could not come there except by the road by
which they should go home, and that if on his way they must meet him,
and so they did--_powdhering_ on his pony, truly as if for life or
death.
"I suppose it is all over, and that I am late," he said, pulling up.
"No, you are time enough," said the chief. "It is nothing but a
scratch, and was a mere accident."
"And there is nothing then for me to do," said the doctor.
"Nothing but to go _'bock again'_ like the Scotchman."
"No trepanning, nor 'post-mortem,' doctor," added the R.M. He was a
droll fellow, was the R.M.
It was a great satisfaction to each of these officials, as they
secretly considered their positions in this affair, that no person had
been seriously hurt, and that the slight injury which had really taken
place was entirely accidental. The R.M. felt relieved upon the grounds
that the intended assembly had been officially reported to him and
that he had declined to attend, or to give any directions to the chief
to use any precautions to preserve the peace. But then he reconciled
himself with the burthen of his excuse upon all such occasions, that,
"in the absence of sworn informations," he would have been safe under
any circumstances. Still he was better pleased as it was.
The chief was relieved, because he had some idea that having reported
the intended assembly to the resident magistrate might have been
deemed insufficient, had a real homicide taken place, and that he
should upon his own responsibility have had a party of police in
attendance. These officials were therefore both ready to accept,
without much suspicion, the statement of young Lennon, that the blow
was purely accidental, and that the consequence would be of a trifling
nature. But they were "dark" to each other as to the grounds upon
which their satisfaction rested.
The doctor finding that there was no chance of earning a fee from the
coroner, turned his horse's head round and followed the car at a much
easier pace than he had met it. He of all the officials--for he was
constab. doc--was least gratified with the favorable position of
affairs. He had not only started without his own breakfast, but had
brought his horse out without a feed; and they had galloped four miles
upon two empty stomachs. No wonder that he was dissatisfied as
compared with the magistrate and the chief. But we must recollect that
there was no responsibility upon him, beyond his skill involved in the
affair; with its origin, or the fact of its having been permitted to
occur at all, he had nothing to do. There were, therefore, no points
of congratulation for him to muse upon, and he was vexed accordingly.
From his experience of himself in the treatment of broken heads in the
district, he had no doubt that his attendance would have "ended in
recovery," and that at least three pounds would have come down,
"approved" by the government upon the chiefs report, which would be
much better than the coroner's one-pound note. The disappointment had
completely taken away his own hunger, but he forgot that his horse did
not understand these things, so he grumbled slowly home.
{826}
A contemplative silence of some minutes ensued between the two
executives on the car, which was ultimately broken by the magistrate.
He, like the doctor, had had no breakfast, so certain was he of a
murder; but the whole thing being a bottle of smoke, he was now both
hungry and cross. It was the chiefs car they were on, and he was
driving--the R.M. "knocked that much out of him, at all events"--so
there was no driver to damp the familiarity of conversation.
"It was fortunate for you, my young friend, that nothing more serious
occurred at this same hurling match," said the magistrate.
(Certainly he was no prig in his choice of language. He was of course
much older than the chief and considered that he could carry a high
hand with "a mere boy" without any experience.)
"I am extremely glad," replied the chief, "for _both_ our sakes, that
it was a mere trifle and an accident."
"For both our sakes! Oh, you know, my dear young friend, that, in the
absence of sworn informations, I was not concerned in the matter at
all. I conceive that the whole responsibility--if there be any--in a
mere casual meeting of the kind, where there is admittedly no
apprehension of a breach of the peace, rests entirely upon your own
judgment and discretion. To be plain with you, except where a breach
of the peace may be fairly anticipated, and sworn informations lodged
to that effect, I do not think the magistrate's time should be
interfered with. I might have lost a petty-sessions to-day, inquiring
into a mere accident."
"But it might not have been one; and we could not have known until we
saw the injured man and made inquiries. But the absence of sworn
informations, and the fact that there was no apprehension of a row,
would have exonerated me from all blame as well as you. Beside, I so
far took the precaution of reporting the intended assembly to you,
with its professed object, and I took your instructions upon the
subject."
"No, you didn't; for I did not give you any."
"Well, I reported the meeting to you, and asked for instructions."
"That is the very thing which I object to--making reports without
sufficient grounds. I should decline to act again under similar
circumstances."
"That you would do so, I have no doubt; but that you _should_ do so, I
have some."
"I am right, young sir, as well in my grammar as in my view of the
case; _ought_ is the word you _should_ have used, to have properly
expressed what you intended."
The chief was nettled. He was not quite certain that the R.M. was not
right, and merely replied:
"Perhaps so, sir; but it really was not of _Lindley Murray_ I was
thinking at the time."
The magistrate was softened. He felt that he had been sparring rather
sharply with a lad not much more than one-third of his age.
"Well, I really beg your pardon," he said; "I did not intend to be so
sharp."
"Granted," said the chief, laughing; for he was not an ill-tempered
fellow. "But here we are at my box; come in and have some breakfast,
and I'll drive you to petty-sessions after."
"Thank you very much, I'll take breakfast; for I came away in a horrid
fuss without saying a word as to when I should be back again. I will
not trespass upon you, however, to do more than you have already done
in the driving way. I had some fears when we started that we should
have breakfasted at dinner, some time this evening, after a coroner's
inquest. But this is better."
They then gave "the trap" to the "private orderly," and proceeded to
punish the tea, toast, eggs, and cold ham in a most exemplary manner.
TO BE CONTINUED.
------
{827}
Translated from Etudes Religieuses, Historiques et Littéraires, par
des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus.
THE LAST EFFORT OF CHARLES II. FOR
THE EMANCIPATION OF THE CATHOLICS OF ENGLAND.
We have already seen what fruit grew from the mission of Father James
Stuart to Whitehall; how the Duke of York and, in all probability,
King Charles also, abjured the Protestant faith; and how the royal
neophyte, in the presence of his brother and his trusty counsellors,
Arundel, Clifford, and Arlington, declared his readiness to suffer
anything, to undertake any enterprise, in order to secure liberty of
worship for himself and his Catholic subjects.
The king knew that his conversion would arouse violent opposition,
would perhaps become a signal for revolt and civil war. He felt that
he could do nothing without the assistance of the King of France. To
secure his aid he secretly dispatched to Versailles Lord Arundel of
Wardour and Sir Richard Bellings, the same prudent ambassador whom he
had formerly dispatched to Pope Alexander VII. Out of this embassy
resulted the treaty of Dover and the offensive alliance of France and
England against Holland. Up to the present time an impenetrable veil
has concealed from us the real object of this treaty, and the details
of the negotiations which led to it. Charles has been almost
universally accused of submitting himself to a disgraceful vassalage
to the French monarch, and of selling to the Bourbon for money the
glory, the liberty, and the religion of his country. But the
unexpected disclosures of the diplomatic archives now enable us to
shed a new light upon this subject, and to ascertain whether Charles
was really moved by religions impulse when he asked Louis XIV. for
assistance in the reestablishment of Catholicism in England, or was,
as Lingard says, all the while trying to deceive his royal ally.
Lord Arundel had already been discussing the "Catholic project" for
nine months with the French king before Louis' minister, Colbert, was
let into the secret. Colbert de Croissy, the minister's brother and
French ambassador to London, was now made acquainted with Arundel's
propositions and Louis' answers to them, and on the 12th of November,
1669, had an interview with Charles, of which he gives the following
account:
"The King of England was ready to assure me that he had no
unwillingness to make me acquainted with the most important secret
of his life. . . . In reading these papers, I could not help
thinking that he and the persons to whom he had intrusted the
conduct of this matter, were mad to think of re-establishing the
Catholic religion in England. In fact, no one acquainted with the
state of this kingdom and the disposition of the people could
entertain a different opinion; but, in spite of all, he hoped that,
with your majesty's assistance, the great enterprise would be
successful. The Presbyterians and other dissenters are still more
averse to the Anglican Church than to the Catholic. All that these
sectaries want is the free exercise of their own form of worship;
and provided they get that--and his majesty purposes to give it
them--they will not oppose his change of religion. Moreover, he has
good troops who are affectionately disposed toward him; and if the
late king, his father, {828} had had as many, he would have stifled
in their cradle the disturbances which prayed his ruin. He will
increase the army on the best pretexts that he can find. The
arsenals are all at his disposal and are well stocked. He is assured
of the principal places of England and Scotland. The governor of
Hull is a Catholic; those of Portsmouth, Plymouth, and many other
places which he named to me--Windsor among the rest--would never
depart from the obedience which they owe him. As for the troops in
Ireland, he hopes that the Duke of Ormond, who has preserved great
credit there, will always be faithful to him; and even should he
fail in his duty, Lord Orrery, who is a Catholic at heart, and has
still greater influence with that army, will lead the soldiers
wherever he is ordered. . . . . Finally, he told me that he was
driven to declare himself a Catholic both by his conscience and by
the confusion which he saw daily increasing in his kingdom, to the
detriment of his authority; and that, beside the spiritual benefit
which he trusted to obtain, he believed that this was the only means
of establishing the monarchy." (_Letter of Nov._13, 1669.)
But English writers maintain that, behind all this apparent zeal,
Charles concealed an ulterior design, and wished to impose upon Louis
for his own ends. There would be some plausibility in the supposition
if the conversion of England had been a matter so near to the heart of
the French king as is commonly imagined; but, unfortunately, it is now
evident that "the Catholic project" filled only a secondary place in
Louis XIV.'s policy. The object which then employed his chief desires
was the humiliation of Holland; and the more eager he was to secure
the cooperation of England in this enterprise, the less anxious was he
for a sudden return of the royal family of Whitehall to the ancient
faith--a change in which his penetrating eye saw grave danger to
Charles and, by consequence, disappointment to himself. He writes in
reply to Croissy's letter: "I will not commence a war with Holland,
unless the King of England join me;" and the ambassador is instructed
to look upon the Dutch question as the most important affair in hand.
(_Letter of November_ 24, 1669.)
Charles, too, had his plan, and to our thinking a very good one.
Colbert writes, December 5:
"Arlington tells me that the king his master, having weighed all the
reasons for and against, has finally determined to begin by
satisfying his conscience. He adds, nevertheless, that the king may
change his mind; but I see plainly that he will not advise him to do
so; for he is persuaded that his royal master, having Spain, Sweden,
and Holland attached to his interests, and assured at the same time
of your majesty's friendship by a secret treaty, will overpower all
the seditions that might be excited in the kingdom by such a
declaration much more easily than by the way your majesty advises.
Moreover, I do not find him very hot against the Dutch; and I
confess, sire, that I am still doubtful whether the proposition to
attack them, conjointly with your majesty, after the declaration of
Catholicism shall have been successfully made, is sincere, at all
events on the minister's part."
A few days afterward the draft of a treaty was sent by Arlington to
the Marquis de Croissy, in which occurred these words: "The King of
Great Britain, after having declared himself a Catholic, . . . leaves
to the most Christian king liberty to designate the time for making
war, with their united forces, upon the States General."
Louis, on his part, ordered Colbert to stand firm: "It would be well
for you not to allow Lord Arlington and the others to hope that I will
ever consent to what you propose in the last place, that the treaty of
war against Holland should be laid aside, {829} and that we should
agree only upon the two other points; thus the desire which they feel
for assistance in money and troops toward the declaration of
Catholicism, which is what they are most anxious about, may induce
them to further more zealously than they do now the project for a war
against Holland." (_Letter of Feb_. 16, 1670.)
The negotiation dragged along slowly. Disputed points became more and
more numerous; and the effect of all these difficulties and delays
upon such a timid soul as Charles's may easily be imagined. As the
time for openly breaking with Anglicanism drew near, the obstacles in
his way seemed to grow more formidable than ever. His resolution was
not shaken; but his religious ardor gradually cooled, and human
prudence overcame his faith. This change of disposition was observed
by Colbert de Croissy, but does not seem to have alarmed him. He
writes, on the 15th of May, 1670:
"The king has not yet determined when to make his declaration,
notwithstanding the urgency of those to whom he has confided his
secret. M. Bellings informs me that the commissioners themselves are
not agreed about the time; some advising that it be before the
meeting of parliament, and others wishing the declaration to be made
in full assembly of the two houses; that the King of England appears
to favor the latter plan, because it affords more time for delay;
and moreover that it cannot be later than October next, which is the
time for the re-adjournment. I can see that the precautions which
his majesty has taken are not sufficient. The troops in Scotland and
Ireland are nearly all Presbyterians, with whom the concession of
freedom of worship will weigh as nothing in the scale with their
hatred of the Catholics. Even the captain of the royal guard, who
belongs to this party, will probably be opposed to the execution of
his royal master's design. In fine, those who are in the secret are
greatly alarmed at all these dangers. _They cannot alter the kind's
resolution_; but a sort of libertinism (if I may use the word) makes
him procrastinate as much as he can."
But Louis XIV. was prepared with an instrument for overcoming all the
difficulties which Charles threw in his way. The amiable Duchess of
Orleans, the beloved sister of the English monarch, crossed the
Channel for no other purpose than to bring her brother's hesitation to
an end. "All the points of the treaty," says Mignet, "had been agreed
upon by both sides before this interview. Madame had therefore no
questions to negotiate with her brother; but Louis XIV. relied greatly
upon her influence in inducing Charles II. to sign the treaty, to
advance the exchange of ratifications, and, what was of the utmost
consequence to him, to declare war against Holland before declaring
himself a Catholic." On the 30th of May, five days after the arrival
of Henrietta, the French ambassador wrote to his court: "Madame tells
me that she has made an impression upon her brother's mind, and she
can see that he is almost disposed to declare war against the Dutch
before doing anything else." On the 1st of June, 1670, Arlington,
Arundel, Clifford, and Bellings, on the part of England, and Colbert
de Croissy on the part of France, affixed their signatures to the
celebrated treaty of Dover. If the text contains no mention of the
modification obtained by the young duchess, the reason undoubtedly is,
that, to avoid the delay which would have ensued had a new draft been
made out, the two sovereigns instructed their commissioners to sign it
in its present form, with a verbal clause, guaranteed by Charles's
word of honor, that the war against Holland should precede the formal
acknowledgment of the king's conversion.
Such was the mysterious journey of Henrietta of England upon which
Bossuet has conferred so much undeserved celebrity. {830} When, only
twenty-seven days afterward, the unfortunate duchess in the midst of
her vain triumph was overtaken by the pangs of death, it may be
doubted whether the recollection of her zeal for the postponement of
her brother's conversion soothed her conscience or alleviated for her
the terrors of divine judgment.
The Duke of York always looked upon the war with Holland as an
unfortunate complication which frustrated the re-establishment of the
Catholic worship in England. In this part of the treaty of Dover he
beheld the first and perhaps the most dangerous of the rocks among
which the Stuart dynasty ultimately foundered and disappeared for
ever. Charles at first looked at things from a more assuring point of
view. A letter to his sister, the duchess, dated June 6, 1669, shows
him full of hope, almost of enthusiasm, at the thought of this
expedition. The English navy was to take a brilliant revenge for the
insult received a short while before, when the Dutch flag waved
insolently under the walls of affrighted London. He himself,
associated with Louis in glory and good fortune, was finally to
triumph over the disasters of his family, and to enjoy for the rest of
his days the blessings he so ardently desired, liberty of conscience
and peace upon the throne. But these alluring dreams were even then
disturbed by presentiments and uneasiness too well founded to escape
his penetrating mind. If he yielded after a year's resistance, it was
through weakness and weariness, not through conviction.
In concluding this portion of our article, it is not amiss to inquire
what purpose Charles could have had in view in attempting "to deceive
the King of France." To be sure, surrounded as he was at home by
difficulties and dangers without number, he was compelled to look
abroad for assistance and protection. But if he had consulted only his
worldly interests, if he had not been inspired by religious motives,
where would he naturally have sought for aid? Certainly he would have
turned toward the Protestant, not the Catholic, states. His natural
allies would have been warlike Sweden and rich and powerful Holland,
whose last stadtholder, William II., had espoused a princess of the
house of Stuart, Charles's own sister Mary. Nothing was more popular
at that time, throughout Great Britain, than the triple alliance. Why
should he break it? Why should the son of Charles I., overcoming the
unpleasant recollections of his former sojourn at Paris, have so far
offended the instincts and prejudices of his people as to offer the
hand of fellowship and brotherhood to Louis XIV., and intrust to him
his destinies?
A parallel naturally suggests itself here between the two kings; and
perhaps if we had to assign their respective places we should not give
the preference to the abler or the more powerful. Louis, still young
and engrossed, heart and soul, in his projects of greatness and
magnificence, was guilty of the grave wrong of making religion
entirely subordinate to politics. Charles, no doubt, shows himself
through the course of these negotiations just what he always was. Too
sagacious not to see the dangers into which each step conducted him,
and too timid to confront them; now urged forward by the impatient
zeal of the Duke of York, now drawn back by his minister and confidant
Arlington--one hardly knows what he wanted to do. His frivolity, his
inconstancy, his perpetual wavering, his disingenuousness, all the
chief traits of his character, in fine, were displayed in these
negotiations of Dover. We are not disposed to deny that he was
sensible of the temporal advantages which the friendship of his
brother of France seemed to promise him; but, taking all things into
consideration, it is he that shows the greater heart, and with him the
calculations of selfish humanity are sometimes at least forgotten in
the sovereign importance of his eternal interests.
{831}
The treaty of Dover concluded, Charles secretly made preparations for
the war with Holland, which had now been deferred to a more distant
day; but there were other preparations in which he took a much more
lively interest. He knew that a terrible storm would break forth
whenever he should issue his bill of indulgence in favor of those who
disagreed with the state Church. Both French and English writers have
often said that the king hoped to accomplish his plans by means of
abuse of the royal prerogatives, and unconstitutional measures taken
under the protection of that ambitious neighbor across the channel
whom the Stuarts had rashly allowed to interfere in the affairs of the
United Kingdom. But this is a mistake. Without the slightest violence
or transgression of the law, Charles might have anticipated by two
hundred years the emancipation of the Catholics of England. The
constitution gave him no right to change any of the existing laws; but
it gave him power to dispense with the exaction of the penalties
prescribed for their violation. Well, he proposed to make use of this
prerogative in behalf of all dissenters without exception, whether
Protestant sectaries or Catholics, and whenever a fitting opportunity
arrived to lay before parliament a new bill of indulgence.
On the 15th of March, 1672, two days before the declaration of war
with Holland, he issued a proclamation, in which, after remarking that
the experience of twelve years had proved the inutility of coercive
measures in matters of conscience, he declared his good pleasure that
every penal law against nonconformists and recusants of every
description should thenceforth be suspended. Dissenters were
authorized to establish places of worship; but Catholics were not
permitted to assemble for religious exercises except in private
houses. This discrimination against the Catholics was the doing of the
Secretary Bridgman, who stoutly refused to sign the document, and
threatened to resign, if the same privileges granted to other
recusants were also accorded to the Catholics. Bridgman's resignation
would have given the alarm to the hostile parties; so, to avoid a
greater evil, Charles had to submit to this odious restriction.