Chanting the hymn _Pange lingua gloriosi_, the priests and people now

descend to the stone of unction, where the Redeemer was wrapped in fine

linen after he had been taken down from the cross. This is midway between

Calvary and the scpulchre, and on a level with the floor of the great

church and the holy tomb. The nine verses of the hymn admirably express the

thoughts and feelings which crowd the mind and heart. Redemption is

accomplished, and through Christ's death we live. Antiphon, etc.: "Joseph

and Nicodemus took the body of Jesus, and HERE bound it in linen with

spices, as is the custom of the Jews to bury. Thy name is as oil poured

out; therefore have the young loved thee. O Lord Jesus Christ, who,

condescending to the devotion of thy faithful in thy most holy body, didst

permit it HERE to be anointed by them, that they might reverence thee the

true God, King, and Priest, grant that by the unction of thy grace our

hearts may be preserved from all infection of sin: who livest and reignest

for ever and ever. Amen."

The joyful hymn _Aurora lucis rutilat_ is sung as the procession moves

on to the most glorious scpulchre where was laid the Hope of the world, and

whence he rose on Easter morn, triumphant over death and the grave.

Antiphon, etc.: "The angel here said to the women, 'Fear not; ye seek Jesus

of Nazareth crucified; he hath risen, he is not here: behold the place

where they laid him. Alleluia.' The Lord hath risen from this sepulchre,

alleluia, who for us hung upon the wood, alleluia. O God, who by the

triumphant resurrection of thy Son, didst here bestow the remedy of

salvation on the world, and, having conquered death, hast unlocked for us

the way of eternal life, by thine assistance further our earnest desires

which thou hast put into our hearts; through the same Christ our Lord.

Amen."

{235}

Then, going to the place where Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalene in the

habit of the gardener, the hymn _Christus triumphum gloriae_ is sung.

Antiphon, etc.: "Jesus, rising early on the morning of the first day of the

week, appeared HERE to Mary Magdalene, out of whom he had cast seven

demons, 'Mary, touch me not, for I have not yet ascended to my Father.' We

beseech thee, O Lord God, that we may be helped by the prayers of blessed

Mary Magdalene, at whose entreaty thou didst not only raise up her brother

who had been four days dead, but didst show thyself after thy resurrection

here as the living Lord: who livest and reignest for ever and ever. Amen."

Lastly, going to the place where, according to tradition, Jesus appeared to

his holy mother (this station being in the chapel of the Latins, in front

of the altar of the blessed sacrament), the procession returns to the spot

whence it started, singing the hymn,

"Jesum Christum crucifixum

Ob peccatorum crimina,

Hunc vidisti et flevisti,

O gloriosa Domina," etc.

The above is an outline of the procession which is made every day in the

church of the Holy Sepulchre. But to have a full understanding of its

impressiveness, one must be in Jerusalem, and take part in it. In other

countries, when reading of the passion and death of our Lord, we are left

to imagine the appearance of places which are thousands of miles away; and

this consciousness of distance will ever hinder that vivid realization of

the incidents which may be had on the spot where they occurred. When the

word HIC (here) is said by the officiating priest, all bow down and kiss

the floor; and it is enough to melt a heart of stone to be so close to

these most sacred spots when the mention of what our Lord has here done and

suffered for our sins is made. There is no attempt to work upon the

imagination or excite the feelings. The singing and praying are in a

natural but reverent tone. It is felt that the devout Christian needs only

to be _here_ when the prayers are said, to have his heart subdued and

filled with penitence and adoring gratitude and love.

------

Original.

At Threescore.

There was but one in all the world,

Fond heart,

To whom thou gayest all, nor kept

A part;

And that was John.

None e'er so gentle, nor so brave as he,

None other's arm so strong or sweet to me

To lean upon.

'Twas down upon the ocean shore

One day,

The heart I once had some one took

Away;

And that was John.

Strange moment! for it seemèd then to me

As if the rocks and sands and clouds and sea

And all were gone.

{236}

You understand, I do not mean

Quite all:

Some one was there, so handsome, straight,

And tall;

And that was John:

But he was all to me, and nothing there

Nor aught in this wide world with him could bear

Comparison.

Long years have passed, and now my step

Is slow.

Though weak his arm, yet strong his heart,

I know,

To lean upon.

Beside me seated in his high-backed chair,

I see a tall old man with silvered hair;

And that is John.

My day of life has always been

Most bright,

But now the shadows longer grow,

And night

Is coming on.

I fear it not, for when my course is run,

I look beyond the grave to meet with One

More dear than John.

------

Translated from the Spanish.

The Revenge Of Conscience.

Though one brief spring restores to earth the flowers

Swept from her lap by autumn's stormy hours,

Back to man's breast a lifetime will not win

The heart's ease lost through one frail moment's sin.

White as a nest of gulls, in the cleft of a rock on the wild sea-shore,

gleams Cadiz from the concavity of her walls. So audaciously is she seated

in the very midst of the billows that the land reaches out an arm to retain

her. This slender arm of stone and sand, wearing La Cortadura, a fortress

constructed during the glorious war of independence, as a bracelet,

separates the violent waves of the ocean from the tranquil waters of the

harbor, and conducts to the city of San Fernando, which, situated in the

curve of the bay, opens its dock-yards of La Carraca as hospitals to the

vessels that return home, maltreated and bruised, from their perilous

expeditions.

Poor wanderers, to whom the tempests are ever repeating what the blasts of

the world unceasingly say to mortals, "On, on!" When they reach their

country, they lay hold of her with their anchors, as children clasp the

necks of their mothers with their little hands.

{237}

Beyond the city of San Fernando, the beautiful and worthy neighbor of

Cadiz, with its splendid Calle Larga, and its houses solid and shining as

if built of massive silver, and beyond the bridge Zuazo, so ancient that

its construction is attributed to the Phoenicians, the road divides into

two branches the one on the left continuing to follow the curve of the bay,

and that on the right taking the direction of Chiclana. It enters this

pleasant town through a grove of white poplars, which, settled like hoary

patriarchs in the midst of green fields, seem by their whisperings to be

encouraging the weaker plants to strengthen themselves and stand like them

against the heavy south-west winds. The town is large, and divided into two

parts by the river Liro.

From two neighboring heights it was overlooked in former times by a Moorish

tower on the one, and a Christian chapel on the other; symbols of its past

and present. Within a few years the tower has disappeared and the chapel

has become a ruin.

There was a temple and an altar, where

The lonely heart might weep and lay its care:

I wept. Once more I passed that way,

And it was fallen to decay:

Whereat I wept again!

The chapel was under the invocation of St. Anna. It was round and encircled

by a colonnade, which commanded the view, in all directions, of a

magnificent landscape.

At the foot of the isolated and abandoned tower lay a cemetery. Mouldering

humanity creeping sympathetically into the shadow of the decaying ruin.

This tower--this seal of stone upon the archives of the place; this

inheritance of generations, which the district had guarded like the remains

of a dead chief, embalmed by the aroma of the flowers of the field; this

austere ruin, which had no longer any relations except with the departed,

who were turning to skeletons at its feet; with the birds of night which

hid themselves in its obscure recesses from the noise and light of day, and

with the winds that came to moan sadly through its branches--this

inoffensive tower could not escape modern vandalism.

Neither respect for the memories it evoked, nor reverence for the burial

place it so appropriately guarded, nor the romantic in its aspect, nor the

historic in its origin, could avail it. They demolished it under the sage

protest that it was "ruinous." A ruin "ruinous!" A tower that bore the

centuries as you wear days, "ruinous, ruinous!" That petrified mass which

would have outlasted all your constructions of wood and clay!

The chapel, also, closed and forsaken, has become the prey of destruction,

and its noble colonnade has fallen. Groves, convents, feudal castles, and

palaces, the very ruins are disappearing, and they are not even building

factories or planting orchards where they stood; to clothe the noble matron

Spain, at least with muslin and flowers, instead of the tissues and jewels

of which they despoil her. What, then, will remain to us? Pastures wherein

to breed the ferocious beast, whose contests afford the refined and gentle

diversion that enjoys, above all others, the favor of the people. My God!

can it be that the natural ferocity and cruelty of man, like the atmosphere

that discharges its electricity in thunder, lightning, and tempest, must

have vent and expression?

In the times when Cadiz was the Rothschild among cities, times in which,

according to strangers of note and credibility, her merchants lived with

the pomp and splendor of ambassadors of kings, the greater part of them had

in Chiclana country houses, built and furnished with marvellous richness

and taste. Tarnished vestiges still remain of that elegant luxury to which

the coming of Napoleon's Frenchmen gave the death-blow.

In the present epoch, in which we often see fulfilled the saying, "Ramparts

fall and dust heaps exalt themselves," when old men recount the splendors

of those days, _new_--we will not say _young_--men receive their

stories as tales of the thousand and one nights, with incredulity and

criticism alternating upon their lips.

{238}

In their opinion, gallantry, generosity, and munificence afford material

for an appendix to Don Quixote as fantastic virtues which can only exist in

over-excited brains.

At the close of the last century, when the events which we are about to

relate began to take place, Chiclana was at the zenith of her splendor.

Cadiz shone with gold, and, like the sun, shed glory upon all her environs.

Nowhere now do they throw away doubloons as they then did here, with the

simple indifference of children tossing soap-bubbles into the air, and the

lordliness of princes who neither count nor value what they spend in

compliment to others. In this epoch occurred the incident which is told of

the celebrated Duchess of Alba and the youth, who, seeing twenty thousand

dollars upon her table, observed, in her hearing, that this sum, which to

her was such a trifle, would make a man's fortune. "Would you like to have

it?" asked the duchess. The youth admitted that he would. The lady sent him

the money and--closed her doors upon him. In these days the contrary would

have succeeded. The money would not have been given, nor would the doors

have been closed upon one who, by any means whatever, had acquired it.

In one of the wide, cheerful streets of the above-named town stood a house

of more distinguished appearance than the others, though it consisted of

but one story, which was somewhat elevated from the ground and reached by a

flight of marble steps. The door was of mahogany, studded with great nails

of shining metal. The front of the house was surmounted by the arms of the

family, carved in marble. Nobility and riches seek each other; in former

times they were sisters, in these they are not even cousins. The house

porch, the court, and all the apartments, even to the inferior offices,

were paved with magnificent blocks of blue and white marble. Columns of

jasper supported the four galleries which surrounded the court, and in the

area, in the midst of towering plants and alabaster statues, a fountain

flowed unceasingly, singing the same pure and infantile melody to the bud

half opened in hope, and to the flower falling in leafless despair. Between

column and column, embowered in green and flowery tapestries of jassamine

and musk rose, hung the gilded cages of bright-hued birds. A canvas awning,

cut in points at the edges, and bound with red, shaded the court and

preserved its refreshing coolness. The walls of the parlor were of white

stucco upon a blue ground; the chairs and sofa were made of ebony, with

heavy silver ornaments and coverings of azure _gros de Tours_. The

furniture was of slight and simple form and in the Greek style, which the

Revolution had brought into favor, making it the order of the day, as it

had also introduced the Phrygian cap, the names of Antenor, Anacharsis,

Themistocles, Aristides, and other things less inoffensive than these. Upon

the table, which was supported by four straight-fluted legs, stood a clock,

constructed of white marble and bronze. At that time the taste for the

pastoral and idyllic in art had passed, dispossessed by the grave and

classic allegories which were presently to be superseded by the cannon,

banners, and warlike laurel wreaths with which Napoleon would dispel in

wide air the ardor and zeal of the Revolution. In its turn the epoch of the

Restoration, which put an end to the supremacy of the sword as the sword

had terminated the rule of the democracy, brought back monarchical ideas

and religious sentiments with the chivalry, loyalty, and ancient faith

which were to introduce the Romantic in literature and the Gothic in arts

and customs. Following closely upon these came the taste for the fashions

of the times called "of Louis the Fourteenth" and "Louis the Fifteenth."

For men are, like children, enthusiasts of the new, and ever trampling with

contempt upon the idol of the moment before. Shakespeare has said.

"Frailty, thy name is woman!" Well might he have added, "Fickleness, thy

name is man!"

{239}

The clock formed a group, composed of an effigy of time, under the figure

of an old man; two nude young girls with arms interlaced, leaning upon the

old man, and representing innocence and truth; and two other figures,

wrapped in dark veils, symbolizing sin and mystery flying from time, who,

with raised finger, appeared to threaten them. The effigy of time was well

and expressively executed; and when the clear and sonorous voice of the

hour, counting its dead sisters, was added to its expressive gesture, it

seemed like the warning voice of an austere patriarch, and could not fail

to affect him who, meditating upon the sense of the allegory, heard the

measured echo of its strokes. On each side of the clock was a bronze

candlestick, in the form of a negro standing upon a marble pedestal and

adorned with brazen chains. The negro carried upon his head and in his

hands baskets of flowers. In the centres of the flowers the candles were

set. The ceiling was painted to represent light, floating clouds of gray

and white, through which was seen a nymph of the air, apparently holding in

her hands the tasselled cords of azure silk which sustained an alabaster

lamp, destined to filter a light as mild and soft as that of the moon, a

light extremely flattering to female beauty, and therefore adopted for

select reunions. In the middle of the room, upon a mosaic stand, rested a

great glass globe. In it swam fishes of those lovely colors which the water

displays in emulation of the air that has its gorgeous birds, and the earth

that parades its charming flowers. Here they lived, silent and gentle,

unvexed by the circuit which bounded their action, like pretty idiots,

seeing everything with their great eyes, and comprehending nothing. The

globe was surmounted by a smaller one filled with flowers, of which there

was also a profusion arranged in jars in the recesses of the windows. The

windows were hung with lace-edged muslin curtains, like those now used,

except that the muslin was Indian instead of English, and the lace thread,

made by hand, instead of cotton woven. As it was summer time, only a dim

light was allowed to penetrate the drawn blinds. The atmosphere of the

apartment was perfumed with flowers and pastilles of Lima.

Upon the sofa reclined a woman of extraordinary beauty. One alabaster hand,

hidden in a mass of auburn curls, supported her head upon the pillow of the

sofa. A loose cambric dress, adorned with Flanders lace, robed her youthful

and perfect form. Through the lace of her robe just peeped the point of a

little foot encased in a silken stocking and white satin slipper. At that

time no other shoe was used by ladies of distinction upon any occasion, and

luxury reached even to the wearing of lace slippers lined with colored

satin.

The apostles of the last foreign fashion, admirers of the buskin, regard

with sovereign contempt this rich and elegant custom, which, in their eyes,

is guilty of two mortal sins--that of being old-fashioned, and that of

being Spanish. The lady's left hand was adorned with a splendid brilliant,

and held a cambric handkerchief of Mexican embroidery, with which, from

time to time, she dried a tear that slid slowly down her pearly cheek.

The reader thinks that he divines the cause of this solitary tear shed by a

woman, young, beautiful, and surrounded by the evidences of a luxurious and

enviable position. He has decided that it must be the token of wounded

affection, and has guessed wrong. Respect for truth, even at the sacrifice

of admiration for the heroine of our story, obliges us to confess that this

tear was not of love, but of spite. Yes, that brilliant drop, falling from

eyes as blue as the sky of evening, gliding between those long, dark

lashes, and across those delicately glowing cheeks, was the evidence of

spite.

{240}

But before we proceed it is necessary to explain the cause of the ill-humor

of our heroine.

Chapter II.

The young lady we have been describing was called Ismena, and was the only

child of Don Iago O'Donnell, whose family, in common with many others, had

emigrated from Ireland in the time of William of Orange. After the

capitulation of Limerick, the troops, who belonged to the most noble

families of Ireland, entered the service of France and Spain. Philip the

First, as was to have been expected, welcomed them, and they formed, in

1709, the regiments of Ibernia and Ultonia, and, later, a third called the

Irlanda. These troops were commanded by James Stuart, duke of Berwick,

natural son of James the Second by Arabella Churchill, sister of the famous

Duke of Marlborough. The Duke of Berwick gained the battle of Almansa and

took Barcelona by assault, and the king rewarded his great services with

the dukedoms of Liria and Jerica, and made him a grandee of Spain. This

gallant general had two sons, the elder was naturalized in Spain and

inherited the titles of Berwick, Liria, and Jerica, to which he afterward

united, by his marriage, that of the noble house of Alba, which had

descended to a female. The second son established himself in France, where

his descendants still exist and bear the title of dukes of Fitz-James.

The above-mentioned regiments are represented in our days by the

descendants of the loyal men who composed them, for, as we have been

informed, there are now ninety Irish surnames in the Spanish army, names

which, for their traditional loyalty and bravery, and their hereditary

nobility, honor those who bear them.

Don Iago O'Donnell married a Spanish lady, and his daughter, Ismena, united

in her person the beauty of both types. Her slight and graceful Andalusian

form was clothed in the white rose-tinted skin of the daughters of misty

Erin, to which the impassible coldness of its possessor gave a transparent

pearliness and purity that nothing ever disturbed. Her large violet eyes

beamed from beneath their dark lashes with the haughty and expressive

glance of the south. Her carriage, though somewhat lofty, was free and

natural. Naturalness is, indeed, but another name for that "Spanish grace"

which has been so justly famed and eulogized. The irresistible attraction

which is born of it, and which, in former times, women shed around them as

the flame sheds light and the flowers perfume, they owed to the men, who

used to abhor whatever was put on, affected, or studied; anathematizing it

in a masculine way under the expressive epithet "monadas." [Footnote 50] In

naturalness there is truth, and without truth there is no perfection; in

naturalness there is grace, and without grace there is no real elegance.

Taste at present appears to lie in the opposite extreme, as if the

Florentines should dress their _Venus di Medicis_ as a show figure.

[Footnote 50: Monkey airs, splashness.]

The spirit of Ismena was far less richly endowed than her person. She

possessed the cold, calm temperament of her father united to the haughty

and domineering disposition she had inherited from her mother, and these

qualities were exaggerated in her by the overbearing pride of the rich,

beautiful, and spoiled child. Her mind was ever occupied in framing for

herself a future as illustrious and brilliant as those which

fortune-tellers prognosticate, and so she rejected all the lovers who

offered her their affections, not one of them appearing likely to realize

her dreams of greatness. But changes of fortune, like the transformations

in magic comedies, come unlooked for and suddenly. Ismena's father lost his

whole fortune within a few months; thanks to the treachery of the English,

who seized so many of our ships and so much treasure before making a formal

declaration of war with Spain.

{241}

The fatal war which brought upon us the fatal family compact! Don Iago, who

had just lost his wife, retired, ruined, to his country house in Chiclana.

But this retreat did not long remain to him, for the house was advertised

for sale by his creditors. The first person who presented himself as a

purchaser was the General Count of Alcira. General Alcira had just returned

from a long residence in America. Though he counted but fifty-five years,

he appeared much older in consequence of the destructive action of that

climate, which, with its hot miasms, impairs the European even as it

corrodes iron. Notwithstanding his age, the general had become the heir of

a young nephew, from whose title the rule of succession excluded females.

On his return he went to Seville, his native city, where he was received by

his sister-in-law (who looked upon him as one come to deprive her and her

daughters of the riches and title they had possessed) with such bitterness

and hostility that, although he was one of the most generous of men, he was

justly indignant, and determined to leave Seville and establish himself in

Cadiz, and he decided well.

At that period, Seville, the staid, religious matron, with rosary in hand,

still more the buckram stays and the high powdered promontory--that,

without the hair, must have been a weight in itself--and the hoops with

which a lady could pass with ease only through a very wide door. At her

austere entertainments she played Baciga or Ombre with her canons, her

judges, her aldermen; and her cavaliers. She had no theatre, being withheld

therefrom by a religious vow. She had for illumination only the pious

lights that burned before her numerous pictures of saints. She had no

pavements, no _Paseo de Cristiana_.

Of course there were no steamboats, those swift news-bearers which have

since united in such close friendship these sister cities, the twin jewels

of Andalusia, Cadiz, even more beautiful than she is now, wore her drapery

in the low-necked Greek fashion which we still see in portraits of the

beauties of those days. Cadiz, the seductive siren of naked bosom and

silver scales, bathed in a sea of water, a sea of pleasure, and a sea of

riches. She knew well how to unite the art and culture of foreign elegance

with the dignity, ease, and spontaneity of Spanish grace, and, though the

fair Andalusian had adopted certain things and forms that were foreign, she

was none the less essentially Spanish in her delicate taste and

circumspection, and her attachment to her own nationality.

For, strange to tell, in those days the pompous and high-sounding

assumption of the "Spanish" which now fills the unholy sheets of the public

press, and resounds through all discourses like hollow and incessant

thunders, was unknown. It did not blare in lyric compositions, nor was it

made the instrument of a party for the promotion of such or such ideas, nor

was the bull Señorito [Footnote 51] chosen with enthusiasm as its symbol.

[Footnote 51: The famous bull that, in 1850, in Seville, fought and

killed a large tiger.]

But that which was Spanish was had with simplicity, as the brave man has

his intrepidity without proclaiming it, and as the fields have their

flowers without parading them, Spanish patriotism was not upon the lips,

but in the blood, in the being; it was the genius of the people; and it

became them so well, was so refined and generous, so gentle and chivalric,

so in harmony with the gracious southern type, that it came to be the

admiration and delight of strangers. But we have apostatized from it, do

not understand it, hold it in slight esteem, and, unlike the ass that

covered himself with the rich golden skin of the lion, we, more stupid than

he, instead of smoothing and cultivating that which nature has bestowed

upon us, wrap ourselves in one that is inferior to it.

{242}

Then the most candid gayety blended with an exquisite refinement pervaded

social intercourse. There were neither clubs nor casinos, only reunions, in

which gallantry was governed by the code contained in these ancient verses

of Suarez:

"You are feared and worshiped;

You to be obeyed:

We saw humble worshipers,

Of your frowns afraid.

You the lovely conquerors;

We your bondsman true:

Ladies dear in vanquishers,

We are slaves to you.

You the praised and honored;

Fairest under sun:

We the lowly servitors,

By your smiles undone."

The expression "to acquire a manner" was not then in use, but the practice

of good manners was a matter of course and of instinct. The officers of the

marine, brave and gentlemanly as they are now, but richer and more gallant,

constituted the chief ornament of the society of Cadiz. They had formed

themselves into a gay fraternity, at the head of which were the officers of

the man-of-war San Francisco de Paula, and which, in playful allusion to

the motto of the saint of this name--Caritas bonitas--styled itself "La

devota Hermandad de las Caritas Bonitas" [Footnote 52] (The devoted

Brotherhood of Beauty). In the theatre the national pieces of our own poets

were played, and the farces of Don Ramon de la Cruz were enthusiastically

applauded: at the brilliant fairs of Chiclana the inhabitants of Cadiz and

Puerto congregated like flocks of gorgeous birds; and Cadiz retained, long

years after, charms sufficient to inspire the song of Byron, that

discriminating appreciator of the beautiful.

[Footnote 52: Caritas bonitas, Pretty faces.]

The General Count of Alcira desiring to buy a country house, that of Don

Iago O'Donnell was proposed to him, and be went to look at it. The

unfortunate proprietor threw it open to his inspection as soon as he

presented himself. The count was charmed with all that he saw in the

elegant mansion we have already described, and, above all, with the

daughter of its master, whom they encountered writing in a retired cabinet

that received light and fragrance from the garden. She was dressed in deep

mourning, and weeping bitterly while she answered letters from two of her

friends who had just married--one an English lord, and the other a nobleman

of Madrid. How bitterly those letters caused Ismena to feel the contrast

between the lot of her friends and that which compelled her, single and

poor, to abandon even this house, the only thing that remained to her of

the brilliant past.

Her tears moved and interested the good general to such an extent that,

having bought the house, he begged the occupant to remain in it and admit

him, the buyer, as a member of his family and the husband of his daughter.

It is hardly necessary to add that Don Iago received this proposition as a

message of felicity, and that his daughter hailed it as a means of escaping

lower depths of the abyss into which fortune had hurled her. To paint the

rage of the aunt's sister-in-law when she heard of the projected alliance

would be a difficult task. She spread calumnies upon Ismena, ridiculed the

marriage, and spit out her venom in bitter sarcasms, prophesying that the

union of the ambitious beggar with the worn-out valetudinarian would remain

without issue; in short, that Providence would mock their calculations, and

cause the title, for lack of a male inheritor, to return to her own family.

The excessive pride of Ismena, more than ever susceptible since her

misfortune, was stung beyond endurance by those gibes and revilings. And

she was still more chagrined when, after having been married two years

without giving birth to a child, she seemed to see the prophecies of her

enemy realized. It appeared that God would deny the blessing of children to

the wife who desired them not from the holy instinct of maternal love, but

to satisfy a base pride and a contemptible covetousness; not for the

blessed glory of seeing herself surrounded by her offspring, but from the

haughty and miserable desire of humiliating a rival--of triumphing over an

enemy.

{243}

It is at this time and under the influence of these feelings that we have

introduced Ismena, Countess of Alcira, bathed in tears. And for this we say

that these drops, so cold and bitter, were not tokens of wounded love, but

of rage and spite.

Chapter III.

The general had learned that the house in Chiclana was for sale from his

secretary, who was the son of Don Iago's housekeeper. A few words will

explain this.

The general, when young, had for many years an orderly whom he loved well.

The Spanish orderly is the model domestic, the ideal servant. He is wanting

in nothing, has always more than enough, and does whatever is asked of him

unquestioningly and with pleasure. If he were bidden, he would, like St.

Theresa, plant rotten onions through the same spirit of blind obedience. He

has the heart of a child, the patience of a saint, and the attachment of

that type of devoted affection, the dog. Like him he loves and cares for

all that belongs to his master, and, most of all, for his children, if he

has any. And to such a degree does he carry this devotion, that one of our

celebrated generals has said that "an orderly makes the very best of dry

nurses." He has no will of his own, does not know what laziness is, is

humble and brave, grateful and obliging. And in the household, where his

coming may have occasioned the natural irritation and repulsion caused by

whatever invades the domestic circle, his departure is always sincerely

felt.

Before he left Spain the general, then a captain, had lived for a long time

with his orderly in the greatest friendship, without the latter having lost

the least grain of his respect for his chief. When the general went to

America, his orderly, to the great grief of both, left him, and returned to

his native town of Chiclana to marry the bride who, with a constancy not

unusual in Spain, had waited for him fifteen years. A few years later the

orderly died leaving one child, a son, to the care of his disconsolate

widow. The poor woman, accompanied by a little niece she had adopted, took

service with Don Iago O'Donnell. As for the boy, who was godson to the

general, the latter sent for him, had him educated under his own care, and

afterward made him his secretary. In this capacity he brought him back to

Spain. Lázaro--so he was named--was one of those beings who are sealed by

nature with the stamp of nobility, and who, aided by circumstances, become

unconscious heroes by simply following their natural instincts.

Having learned from his mother that the house in which she lived was for

sale, he had informed the general, who bought it, and with it his young and

beautiful wife.

A beautiful woman she was; as fair and delicate as an alabaster nymph; as

cold, also, and as void of feeling; a being who had never loved anything

but herself; insipid and without sweetness; a jessamine flower that had

never felt the rays of the sun.

Later in the afternoon, an attendant called Nora entered the room in which

we found Ismena, to open the windows. Nora had been Ismena's nurse, and had

never left her. She was a proud and cunning woman, and had done much to

develop the perverse dispositions of the girl.

"Always weeping," she said with a gesture of impatience at the sight of

Ismena's tears. "You will lose your good looks, and when your husband dies,

all you have beside will be gone, youth, consideration, and wealth. You

will then have no recourse but to turn pious and spend your days dressing

up the holy images."

"I know too well that I shall lose everything, that is why I weep," replied

Ismena.

{244}

"And who says that your lot may not be different?" answered Nora. "It is

not your sister-in-law that has the disposition of your future; you

yourself can do more to make your fortune than she to unmake it. Hope is

the last thing lost, but then one must not cross one's arms while they can

be of use."

"Idle talk," returned Ismena. "You know that my hopes are as vain as my

marriage is sterile."

"It will amount to the same thing," said Nora, "whether you give birth to a

son or adopt one."

The lady fixed her great blue eyes upon the woman as she exclaimed, "The

count would never consent!"

"He need not know it," replied Nora.

"A fraud, a crime, a robbery! Are you beside yourself?"

"All that sounds very lofty, yet in reality you will only be doing some

poor wretch an act of charity. Your nieces are well married; your

sister-in-law has a rich jointure, and does not need the count's money. If

they desire to have it, it is through ambition, and that you may not enjoy

it."

"Never! never!" said Ismena. "Better to lose rank and position than become

the slave of a secret which may bring us to dishonor. Never!" she repeated,

shaking her head as if she wished to shake the fatal thought from her mind.

"I only shall know the secret, and I alone will be responsible. So it will

be more secure in my breast than in your own."

"You will have to employ another person."

"Yes, but without confiding in him. I have already found the person. Your

husband is about to embark for Havana. When he returns, be will find a son

here."

"Nora, Nora! there is no wickedness of which you are not capable!"

"I am capable of anything that may result in benefit to you."

"But to deceive a man like the count would be the most unpardonable of

crimes!"

"Ismena, I have often heard you sing:

'Deceit, a faithful friend art thou;

'Tis truth that is our bane.

Pain without sickness she doth give;

Thou, sickness without pain.'

But to-day you appear to be more high flown than the poets themselves."

"But the text alludes to love quarrels."

"It is very applicable to everything else in life. As if you had never

known the case I have suggested to be put into practice; and is it not a

thousand times worse when combined with infidelity?"

At this moment the count entered. "Ismena, my child," he said, approaching

his wife, "I have come to take you out, your friends are already waiting

for you in the Cañada. How is it that these lovely spring afternoons do not

inspire you with a desire to go out and enjoy the free, balmy air?"

"I dislike to walk, and people worry me," answered Ismena, who had lost

color at sight of her husband.

"You look pale, my child," replied the count with tenderness, "and for some

time past you have seemed low-spirited. Are you not well?"

"There is nothing the matter with me," answered Ismena.

"At most," said Nora, "your sickness is not one that requires the attention

of a doctor." And she glanced at the count with a meaning smile.

Irritation and shame sent the hot blood mounting to Ismena's face.

"Nora," she exclaimed, "are you crazy? Be silent!"

"I will be silent, sir count, for, as the saying is, 'the more silent the

coming the more welcome the comer.'"

In the general's benevolent face glowed the light of a pure paternal hope.

"Is this certain?" he said, looking tenderly at his wife.

{245}

"Sir," said Nora, "have you not noticed for some time past her want of

appetite and her general languor without apparent cause? _She_ does

not believe it, and will not be convinced, but I who have more experience

am sure."

"Nora, it is false!" exclaimed Ismena, appalled.

"Time will show," replied Nora, with perfect composure.

"Time!" repeated Ismena indignantly.

At this moment they were interrupted by six deep measured strokes of the

clock.

"That fixes the time for the event," said Nora, with an affected laugh;

"six months from now, it says."

Chapter IV.

Six months after these scenes the general, in an affectionate letter to his

wife, announced his return from Havana, whither he had been upon important

business. Ismena went to Cadiz to meet him, accompanied by a nurse who

carried in her arms the supposed heir.

This child had been brought from the Iocluso, [Footnote 53] and the secret

of the deception was known only to Ismena, to Nora, and to Lázaro; the

latter being the person selected by Nora to obtain the infant from the

asylum. How she had been able to persuade the good young man to bend

himself to her wicked plot can be understood only when it is known that he

believed it to have been sanctioned and arranged by his master. Lázaro

doubted until Nora, who had foreseen his opposition, and was prepared to

meet it, showed him the following passages in the last letter the general

had written to his wife:

[Footnote 53: Establishment for the reception of abandoned infants.]

"The sails which are to bear me from you, and, with you, from all the

sweetness of my life, are already spread. Adieu, therefore: I hope on my

return to find you with a child in your arms, which will render our

happiness complete.

"As I have told you before, you may, in the affair of which we know, and

in all other's, trust Lázaro, in whom I place the most implicit

confidence."

The letter ended with some tender expressions and the signature of the

general.

Nora, quick to perceive the use she could make of the above passages in

proving to Lázaro that the "affair of which we know," which was in reality

a matter relating to money, was the same she had in hand, had kept the

letter.

Lázaro, therefore, with the deepest sorrow, but the most entire devotion to

his benefactor, brought the innocent little one; which thus passed from the

bosom of an abandoned woman into the hands of a traitoress.

A little before the time at which we take up the thread of our story the

babe had been reclaimed, and the administrator of the asylum had demanded

it of Lázaro. Nora could find no means of escape from the difficulty this

demand occasioned them but to send Lázaro out of the country. Ismena also

vehemently urged his departure, and the devoted victim consented to go,

knowing that his absence, without apparent cause and without explanation,

would break the heart of his mother and of his young cousin, to whom he was

soon to have been married.

He embarked secretly in a small coasting vessel bound for Gibraltar, which,

being overtaken by a tempest off the perilous coast of Conil, was capsized,

and all on board were lost.

This catastrophe, of which she believed herself to be the cause, overcame

Ismena, and her suffering was augmented by a threatening presentiment that

would allow her to fix her thoughts neither upon the past nor future

without shuddering. The one reproached and the other appalled her.

{246}

Alas for the wretch that between these two phantoms drags out a miserable

existence! Happy is he who, by keeping his conscience pure, preserves, amid

misfortunes and sorrows, his peace of soul, the supreme good which God has

promised man in this exiled state.

Chapter V.

For many years the beautiful house at Chiclana remained unoccupied, the

countess obstinately refusing to go there to enjoy the spring. Alas! for

her there was neither spring nor pleasure, for, through divine justice, the

results of her crime, a crime committed in cold blood and without a single

excuse, weighed heavily upon her, as if the Most High had wished, by the

force of circumstances, to impress upon her hard and daring spirit that

which the sentiments of humanity had failed to communicate.

And these circumstances were indeed terrible, for she had borne the count,

successively, two sons, whose birth filled the heart of their mother with

consternation. To increase her chagrin, she saw the oldest of the three

boys was growing up beautiful, brave, and sincere, occupying the first

place in her husband's heart. For not only did Ramon--so the boy was

called--sympathize with the general, but the equitable old man, seeing the

hostility with which the countess regarded him, redoubled his

manifestations of interest and affection toward the victim of her ill

temper, and thus, by the force of a terrible retribution, God had brought

remorse to that hard heart, and remorse had driven her from the house in

which everything reminded her of her crime.

Remorse! Thou that bindest the temples with a crown of thorns, and the

heart with a girdle of iron prongs; thou that makest the sleep so light and

the vigil so heavy; thou that interposest thyself to cloud the clear glance

that comes from the soul to the eyes, and to embitter the pure smile that

rises from the heart to the lips; thou so silent in face of the seductive

fault, so loud in thy denunciations when it is past, and there is no

recalling it. Cruel and inexorable remorse! by whom art thou sent? Is it by

the spirit of evil, that he may rejoice in his work and drive guilty man to

despair; or by God, to warn him, in order that he may yet expiate his

faults? For through thee two ways are opened to the soul--the way of death

and the way of repentance. Weak wills and lukewarm spirits fluctuate

between the two, shrinking alike from the furnace which would purify them,

and the bottomless sea of anguish in whose bitter abysses the impenitent

soul must writhe eternally.

These agonies to which Ismena was a prey, this remorse, this undying worm,

had gnawed at her heart and life like an incurable cancer, and her tortures

augmented in proportion as she felt her end approaching. In a continual

struggle with conscience, which cannot be compounded with by human reasons

or worldly purposes, because it is in itself a reason from God; every day

more undecided whether to enter upon the course it indicated or to follow

the path into which her pride had led her, Ismena, tearful alike of the

fiery furnace and of the dreadful abyss, was approaching death as a

criminal approaches the scaffold, wishing at the same time to lengthen the

distance and to shorten it. When her end seemed near, the doctors insisted,

as a last recourse, that she should try the air of the country, and the

house at Chiclana was prepared for the reception of its proprietors. The

most exquisite neatness was restored throughout. The awning once more

covered the court, the birds twittered in their gilded cages, and the

plants throve and bloomed, though Maria no longer sang as she watered them.

Announced by the sound of its bells, the carriage slowly approached and

stopped at the door. But she who descended from it, and, supported by the

general and a physician, dragged herself wearily through the marble portal

like a corpse entering its sumptuous mausoleum, is only the wasted shadow

of the once brilliant Ismena.

{247}

At twenty-eight she had lost all the brightness of youth, her splendid eyes

were dimmed and cast down, her golden locks had become gray, and her white

and faded skin was like a shroud that covers a skeleton. A few years had

sufficed to produce this change; for, instead of the gentle and reluctant

hand of time, it had been wrought by the destructive talon of suffering.

The countess was borne to a sofa, upon which she lay for a long while so

prostrated that she appeared unconscious of all that surrounded her. But

when left alone with Nora, she became feverish and agitated, and called for

Maria. Nora, foreseeing the violent shock the sight of this poor old woman,

the unfortunate victim of her fatality, must produce, would have put her

off; but the countess repeated the demand with so much exasperation that it

was necessary to obey. When Maria came in, Ismena extended her arms, and,

embracing her convulsively, laid her burning head upon the bosom of the

faithful friend who had witnessed her birth. But Maria was serene, for in

that bosom beat a pure heart. Her eyes had lost their former expression or

cheerful happiness, but still shone with the light of inward peace.

"Maria," exclaimed Ismena at last, "how have you been able to bear your

misfortune?"

"With the resignation which God gives when he is asked for it, my lady,"

replied the good woman.

"O blessed sorrows with which it is not incompatible!" was the agonized cry

of Ismena's heart.

"I told you one day, my lady, that my son filled me with pride; and God has

permitted that this son, my boast and my glory, should be defamed by all

the appearances of a crime."

"Appearances!" said Nora. "Who says that?"

"Every one," answered Maria with gentle firmness, and, after a moments'

pause, she continued with the same serenity: "A profound mystery hides from

my eyes, as from those of all others, the circumstances of his flight; but,

if anyone has foully caused it, may God forgive him, as I do! He and I know

that my son was not--could not be--a criminal; this is enough for me; I

will be silent and submit."

"And your motherly conviction does not deceive you!" exclaimed Ismena,

falling back upon the pillows of the sofa.

They carried her to her couch, attributing her exhaustion to the excitement

and fatigue of the journey.

Her agitation having been gradually calmed by a narcotic, she was once more

left in the care of the nurse.

The general, with delicate fore-thought, had caused the flow of the

fountain to be stopped, in order that the uncertain repose of his wile

might not be disturbed by the murmur of its water. But the clock in the

parlor struck twelve--twelve warning notes from the lips of time. As if the

old man had counted with inflexible memory the twelve years she had

survived her crime; the twelve years passed in luxury and surrounded by an

areola of respect and public consideration, since, in sacrificing

conscience to pride, she had also sacrificed the life and fair fame of a

noble and innocent man.

Ismena awoke with a start and sat upright in her bed, her perplexed glances

wandering in all directions, and a wild fever burning in her veins. A

devouring inquietude possessed her; the weight upon her breast suffocated

her. She sprang from the couch and rushed to the window; for, like Margret

in the "Faust" of Goethe, she was suffocating for air. Moonlight and

silence reposed without in a tranquil embrace. So profound was the calm

that it weighed upon the burdened soul of Ismena like the still but

oppressive atmosphere which precedes the tempest.

{248}

She leaned her burning forehead against the window bars. The court lay

black beneath--black but gilded; an emblem of her life. Then from a

distance there came to her ears two voices, blended, like faith and hope,

in prayer. They were the voices of Maria and Piedad reciting the rosary.

There was something deeply solemn in the sweet monotony with which the

words, without passion, without variation, without terrestrial modulations,

rose to heaven, as the smoke rises from the incense of the altar, gently,

without color, without impetuosity, as if drawn upward by celestial

attraction. Something very impressive in those words, thousands of times

repeated because thousands of times felt, in those petitions which are a

verbal tradition from Jesus Christ and his apostles; words so perfect and

complete in themselves, that all the progress and all the enlightenment of

the human mind have vainly endeavored to improve them.

At what wretched variance was Ismena's soul with the grave and tranquil

spirit of those words! She longed to unite in them, but could not!

"O my God!" she cried, withdrawing from the window, "I cannot pray."

But presently, drawn by the sacred and irresistible attraction, she

returned. She heard Maria pronounce these words: "For the repose of the

soul of my son Lázaro." And then the prayer of the two pious women

continued without other departure from the accustomed words.

"Ah! holy God!" exclaimed Ismena, wringing her hands, "my voice is not

worthy to unite with these pure tones which rise to thee unsoiled by guilt

and unchecked by remorse!" She prostrated herself with her face to the

floor, and remained until the last "amen" had mounted to heaven; then, as

she rose, shrinking from herself as from a spectre, her eyes fell upon

Nora, who had fallen asleep in a chair. She approached, and, clutching her

with that right hand, once so beautiful, but now like the claw of a bird of

prey, "You asleep!" she cried. "Iniquity asleep while innocence watches and

prays! Wake up, for your repose is more horrible than your crime! You see

her whom you rocked in her peaceful cradle entering--led by your infamous

suggestions--into her coffin, and you sleep while she is agonizing! What do

you see in the past? An unpunished crime; and you sleep! What do you see in

the present? A usurpation, a robbery, a crime committed and continued from

day to day in cold blood; and you sleep! What do you behold in the future?

The divine and universal justice of God; so sweet to the upright, so

terrible to the criminal; and you sleep! But this justice will yet cause to

fall upon your head some of the weight, which oppresses mine! Bear, then,

in addition to God's condemnation, the curse of her you corrupted! For I am

the most guilty of women, and, Nora, Nora, but for you I should never have

been what I am!"

Alarmed by Nora's cries, all the household hurried to the room to find the

countess in a frightful and convulsed state bordering upon madness. Nora,

too, was confused and incoherent, but this was attributed to her grief for

the approaching death of her mistress.

Chapter VI.

During the following day the sick woman remained in a state of terrible

agitation, and at night the doctors were obliged again to administer a

powerful narcotic, which caused her to fall into a deep sleep.

The count was occupied in arranging some papers that were scattered upon an

antique ebony escritoire, ornamented in its various compartments with

exquisite carved work and paintings. In it Ismena kept her papers. It had

been opened that afternoon by her order to take out the writing materials

she had demanded.

{249}

Ismena had learned English from her father, to whom that tongue was

perfectly familiar, and, as the husband replaced the papers, he fixed his

eyes sadly upon a translation she had begun, grieved to think that she

would never finish it. It was from "Hamlet," and his glance rested upon the

last lines she had written--the monologue of King Claudius in the third

act. The writing was indistinct, as if traced by a trembling hand. The

translation, in which one familiar with the original would have noted some

voluntary omissions, ran as follows:

"My crime is already rank; it calls to heaven. Upon it weighs the first

curse that entered the world--that of the fratricide! My desire and my

will impel me to pray, and yet I cannot, for the weight of my crime is

greater than the force of my intention, and, like a man in whom two

powers contend, I vacillate between ceding to the pressure of my guilt or

giving myself up to my good intentions. But for what is mercy, if not to

descend upon the brow of the sinner? And has not prayer the double virtue

of preventing a fall and of lifting the fallen by obtaining his pardon?

Then will I lift my eyes to heaven. But what form of prayer is

appropriate to my crime? Can I ask and hope for forgiveness? Is there

water enough in the gentle clouds to wash the blood from the hand of the

fratricide? Is there remission for him who continues in the enjoyment of

the benefits of his sin--his queen, his crown, his vain-glory? Ah! no,

there cannot be! The gilded hand of iniquity may sink justice in the

corrupted currents of the world, and the very price of guilt may buy the

law of man. But there, on high, it is not so: there artifice obtains

nothing and falsehood is of no avail: there, in the kingdom of truth, the

deed will stand naked, and the sinner will have to be his own accuser.

What, then, remains to us? To try the virtue or repentance? Ah! yes, it

can do all. But, alas! if the sinner would repent and cannot? O wretched

state! O bosom black as death! O soul, that in trying to free thyself

entangled thyself the more in the meshes of thy sin!--angels, hasten to

its aid!--melt, heart of steel!--inflexible knees, be bent! Alas! the

words have flown, but wings are wanting to the heart; and the words that

reach heaven without the heart find no entrance there!"

This imperfect translation, though it gave but a faint idea of the

beautiful and elevated poetry of the writer, filled the general with

admiration, for his was a mind accessible to all things beautiful and good.

But when he glanced at his wife, who lay so pale upon her white bed, like a

withered lily upon the snow, he reflected in all simplicity: "Why seek

these pictures of crime and passion? Why should the dove imitate the boding

cry of the owl? Why should the gentle lamb try to repeat the roar of the

wounded and bloody lion?"

Having put the papers in their place, he seated himself at the foot of his

wife's bed, and lifted his heart to God in a fervent petition for the life

of her he loved.

The alcove in which Ismena lay opened into the parlor, and at this moment,

with the pertinacity of a recollection always repulsed yet for ever

returning, the clock struck eleven. Its metallic strokes, vibrating and

pausing in the silence, suggested the idea of justice knocking at a closed

door--justice, against whom there is no door that can remain for ever

closed!

These clear sounds startled Ismena, and she awoke with a smothered moan.

The general, alarmed by her wild looks and confused words, approached, and,

encircling her with his arms, said:

"Compose yourself, Ismena, for you are better; the healthy sleep you have

had for several hours is restoring your strength."

"Have I been asleep?" she murmured. "Asleep on the brink of my sepulchre as

if it offered me rest! Asleep when so little time remains to arrange my

accounts in this world! Sit down, sir, for so I will address you, and not

as my husband. I am not worthy to be your wife. I do not wish to talk to

you as to a companion, but as a judge whose clemency I implore."

{250}

The general, taking no notice of these strange words, which he attributed

to delirium, endeavored to tranquillize his wife, telling her to put off

the explanations she wished to make until she should be stronger; but

Ismena persisted in being heard, and continued:

"I am about to die, and I leave all the good things of this world without

sorrow; all except one, that I still desire and would fain carry with me to

the grave. You, who have been to me father, husband, and benefactor, do not

deny what none but you can give! For that which I implore, sir, is your

forgiveness."

The general, as he listened, became more and more confirmed in the belief

that his wife was raving, and again begged her not to agitate herself as

she was doing. But Ismena only implored him the more earnestly to listen

without interrupting her.

"If a woman," she said, "who has expiated a crime by all that remorse can

inflict of torture and ruin; by the loss of health, of peace, and of life;

if this wretch, in her dying agony and despair, can inspire the least

compassion, oh! you who have been the most generous of men, you who have

strewn my life with flowers, have one branch of olive for the hour of my

death! Hear, without repulsing me, without deserting me in my last moments,

without making my last agony more intolerable by your curse, a confession

which will prove to you that my heart is not entirely perverted, since I

have the courage to make it."

A cold sweat stood upon the forehead of the dying woman; her stiffening

fingers worked convulsively; the words issued from her lips more

interruptedly and fainter, like the last drops of blood from a mortal

wound. Nevertheless, making one last heroic effort, she went on.

"I know that I am about to stab you to the heart, but by this means only

can I die at peace with God. Here," she continued, drawing a sealed paper

from under her pillow, "is a declaration made by me, for the purpose of

preventing a dishonest usurpation, and signed by two reverend witnesses,

which will prove to you that--Ramon--is not our son!" On hearing these

words, the general sprang from his chair, but, overwhelmed with grief and

astonishment, sank back again, exclaiming:

"Ramon! Ramon not my son! Whose, then, is he?"

"Only God knows, for his wretched parents abandoned him; he is a

foundling."

"But with what motive?" The general paused a moment and then continued with

indignation: "I see the motive!--ambition!--pride! Oh! what iniquity!"

"Have pity on my misery!" implored Ismena, wringing her hands.

"You are a base woman!" cried the general, with all the indignation of

probity against dishonesty, and all the aversion of virtue to the thought

of a crime.

Ismena had never before heard the paternal voice of her husband assume the

firm and terrible tone with which he now cast her treachery in her face,

and she sank under it as if struck by lightning. His profound sorrow and

stern condemnation seemed to open an abyss between him and her, and render

it impossible for the lips which had pronounced that severe sentence ever

to utter the pardon she craved more than life. Pardon! most beautiful and

perfect fruit of love, of which the value is so great that God's Son gave

his blood to buy it, and which, therefore, his Father grants for a single

tear, so great is his mercy! Pardon, divine gift, that pride neither asks

nor yields, but that humility both implores and concedes. Pardon, that,

like an efficacious intercession, lifts the sinner to heaven.

Had she perchance waited too long to ask it? For one moment the torrent of

angry blood had swept generosity and sacred mercy from the heart of him she

had injured; and must she die in that moment?

{251}

She sprang from the bed, and, falling upon her knees, laid her clenched

hands against his breast, shrieking in a voice intercepted by the

death-rattle:

"Pardon!"

Her last thought, her last feeling, her last breath dissolved in that last

word. It reached the heart of her husband. Bending forward, he caught her

in his arms, and lifted--a corpse.

And from the clock, as if time had waited for this moment to toll a

voluntary and pious passing bell, there issued twelve slow and measured

strokes.

Chapter VII.

A secret fault, drawing with it its terrible consequences, interlaced one

with another, like a nest of venomous serpents, had already cost the one

who committed it her happiness and life, and the one who conceived it her

reason; for Nora, shocked into insanity by the fearful curse and death of

her mistress, was the inmate of a madhouse. But its hideous trail continued

still, entangling and envenoming the hitherto tranquil life of the General

Count of Alcira. The good old man never ceased to reproach himself for the

cruel epithet indignation had forced from his lips; the only expression he

had ever uttered that could wound the poor worn heart that implored but one

pious word to permit it to cease its beating in peace. Instead of that

word, he had cast the cruel taunt under which it had burst in despair. He

wept burning tears for not having conceded the pardon which could have been

but one instant wanting to his generous soul. And that instant had been her

last. His forgiveness might have soothed her anguish, prolonged her life,

and sweetened her death; and he had refused it. This remembrance became in

its turn a remorse, and poisoned his existence.

The reaction he experienced, with his natural goodness of heart, had the

effect to render almost excusable in his eyes a fault counterbalanced by so

many shining qualities, and blotted out by such unparalleled remorse and by

mortal sufferings; for death, when it takes its prey, has the sweet

prerogative of carrying with it under the earth the evil it has done,

leaving the good behind for an epitaph.

The general atoned for that one moment in which he had forgotten to be a

Christian by multiplied works of charity, offered in sacrifice to obtain

from heaven the pardon earth had denied the penitent, and by incessant

offerings for the repose of her soul. Offerings which the Eternal would

receive; for the Creator has not left man a foundling. He has acknowledged

him as a son, has given him precepts, and promised him, from the cross, a

glorious inheritance.

Every morning a mass was offered for the rest of her whose image dwelt in

the heart of the old man who knelt at the foot of the altar, uniting his

fervent petitions with those of the priest that was sacrificing.

The general's life was still more embittered by the painful secret which

oppressed and involved him and his sons with him, as the serpent in the

group of the Laocoon makes both father and sons his prey. He could not

break the arcanum without sacrificing the one to whom his kind heart clung

with tender affection, without defaming the sacred ashes of the mother of

his children. He, therefore, respecting the youth and innocence of his

boys, kept the fatal secret, which, in truth, he had not the courage to

reveal. The time, he argued within himself, when the veil must be withdrawn

from such a sad and cruel reality will come soon enough. Sometimes he

resolved to let it be buried with him. But what right had he, a man of such

strict principles, to deprive his heirs of their inheritance in favor of a

stranger? Could he make an alien the head of his noble house?

{252}

Allow a foundling to usurp the rights of its lawful representatives?

Worldly fathers would rather listen to the opinion of the world than to the

voice of conscience, placing social considerations above its decisions,

persuading it that they are compelled thereto by circumstances. But let no

one compound with conscience, lest she cease to be conscience; lest she

become a conniver instead of a sentinel, a weather-cock instead of a

foundation; lest she lose the respect and confidence she is bound to

inspire. For she should give her decisions as the sun sends forth his rays,

with nothing to hinder them or turn them from their direction.

The years sped onward. The count grew infirm and saw his end approaching.

Wishing to pass the last days of his life in the society of his children,

and feeling that he ought to reveal the secret he had kept so long, he sent

for them to join him in Chiclana, where he wished to die, in order to be

buried beside his wife, thereby giving her, even after he was dead, a last

public testimony of affection and respect.

The word enlightenment had not then been brought into use, nor had the

colleges been modernized. Yet this did not prevent the three brothers from

being such finished and accomplished gentlemen that the sight of them

filled their father's heart with pleasure and pride.

Ramon, the eldest, came from the school of artillery, where he had been the

companion of Daoiz and Velarde. The second came from the academy of marine

guards, the academy which produced the heroes of Trafalgar, those Titans

who contended with a powerful adversary, with the treachery of an ally, and

with the unchained fury of the elements, and who were crushed, not

vanquished, by the three united. The youngest arrived from the university

of Seville, in which, at that time, or a little before, the Listas,

Reinosas, Blaneos, Carvajales, Arjonos, Roldanes, and the worthy, wise, and

exemplary Maestre, were students. For though Spain has lacked railroads,

hotels, and refined and sensual means of entertainment, she has never, in

any epoch, lacked wise men and heroes.

The general looked at the three in turn with an indefinable expression of

tenderness; but when his glance fell upon Ramon, he lowered his eyes to

hide the tears that filled them.

His vivid pleasure at the sight of his children, mingled with the anguish

of knowing that over the head of the unconscious Ramon the sword of

Damocles was suspended, agitated the old man so much that he passed the

night in feverish wakefulness, and his state on the following morning was

such that his doctors advised him to make his last preparations. The grief

of his children, by whom he was adored, was heart-rending. But the general

was so well prepared to leave the world and appear before the bar of God,

that his last dispositions, though solemn, were short and serene.

Toward night, feeling himself grow weaker every moment, he made

arrangements to be left alone with his sons, who drew near his bed,

repressing their tears in order not to afflict him.

He looked long at them, and then said: "My children, I am about to tell you

a cruel secret, which will make one of you wretched. It has lain for many

years buried deep in my soul; but I am dying, and can be its repository no

longer. O my God! my heart gives the lie to my lips; and, nevertheless, one

of you is not my son, and the mother at whose grave you go to pray never

bore you."

The grieved astonishment which manifested itself in the countenances of the

three youths, left them pale, speechless, and overwhelmed.

"You know well," continued the father, after a pause, "that my interest and

tenderness, in and toward you all have been the same, and that it cannot be

known, even to yourselves, which of you has no right to bear my name. And

you, my children, which one of you is it that does not feel for me the

affection of a son?"

The simultaneous and eloquent reply of the three was to throw themselves,

suffocated by their sobs, into the arms of the good old man.

{253}

"Alas! then," he proceeded, "if your own hearts do not tell you, it is my

cruel duty to declare it."

The youths regarded each other for a moment, and then, with one impulse

embracing each other, exclaimed with one voice:

"Father, we will not know it!"

The father raised his hands and eyes to heaven. "My God," he cried, "I

thank thee! I die contented. My sons, my sons! may the satisfaction of

having hidden for ever an unhappy secret, may the remembrance of having

covered with a mantle of holy fraternal love the misfortune of one of

yourselves, make your lives as happy and tranquil as you have made my

death."

And laying his hands upon the heads of the three brothers, who had knelt at

his bedside, he said: "Let my last words be your recompense. My sons, I

leave you my blessing!"

------

Mercersburg Philosophy.

By A. Protestant.

[As allusion having been made in the article on Dr. Bacon, which appeared

in our April number, "to the German Reformed Presbyterians and Dr.

Nevin," has called forth the following communication. We publish it as

interesting to our readers who will bear in mind in its perusal that it

is from a Protestant source, and while making, therefore, an allowance

for some of its statements, will at the same time be not a little

surprised that one who sees so much Catholic truth should fail to

identify what he sees with the Catholic Church.--Ed. C. W.]

From the mountain village of Mercersburg in Pennsylvania emanated a

philosophy--theology we, who are its prophets and adherents, call it--which

has done much, and is destined to do more, to unprotestantize

Protestantism. Nor do we, who are Protestants, regret this. The longer we

ponder our work the more are we convinced of its utility, and confirmed in

our resolution to pursue it. Well aware, as we are, that the Reformation

has proved a failure, except it be as a preparation for a higher form of

Christianity to follow nearer the old landmarks, and free from the

democratic tendencies that have crept into the Protestant Church from the

institutions of the state, or which, perhaps, more properly have moulded

the institutions of the state themselves as the natural outgrowth of the

system taught by Luther and Calvin, we cannot but rejoice that this is so.

Our people have a natural desire to worship, instead of being compelled to

give an intellectual assent to arguments on points of doctrine, and the

teachers of the Mercersburg philosophy are determined to gratify them.

We see clearly, what many others have failed to see, that New England

Unitarianism, and after it infidelity, to which it leads, are not only the

logical but the actual consequences of Protestantism. But we believe in

historical development; and as this is development in the wrong direction,

we see nothing before us but to profit by the lesson and retrace our steps.

We know that a cult which rejects the Christ and elevates the Jesus will

soon degrade the Jesus too, and that, following an attempt to attain to

merely human excellence, will be a society distorted by the vices of

vanity, avarice, and selfishness, and then a gradual obliteration of all

the virtues. Men are beginning to see, dimly enough, that this age is a

transition period in the world's history, when all our conceptions of

truth, that is, Protestant conceptions of truth, are unsettled and passing

through crucible, as it were, to come out in new and untried forms.

{254}

But they do not understand the law of transition periods, and, while they

acknowledge that the last great transition was the Reformation, they fail

to perceive that the theories embraced at that time have failed. A certain

feeling of disappointment at the work sectarianism has wrought sometimes

oppresses them, but, instead of attempting to bridge over the chasm, they

endeavor to tear away the broken arches which remain.

Everybody can see that Protestantism had a grand start during the first

thirty years of its existence. That Rome would soon give its last

convulsive gasp seemed patent to the eyes of all reformers; but now, after

three hundred years of Protestant endeavor, a leading Protestant clergyman

of New York is constrained to say that "Protestant Christendom betrays

signs of weakness in every part," and to declare, and rejoice in the

declaration, that "Modern life is not 'Christian' in any intelligible

sense. The industrial interest is openly averse to it both at home and

abroad. Political life is, if possible, still more unchristian." But

continues the same authority: "If industry, politics, literature, art, have

abandoned Christ, they have as fully and unreservedly embraced Jesus." Now

this is either sheer nonsense or it is downright infidelity. About the

premises there can be no doubt. It is but a small part of the so-called

Christian church that looks to Christ as the central fact of the

system--the super-natural agency working through the church for the

salvation of men. But the broad churchmen, when they have as fully and

unreservedly embraced what they understand by Jesus as they now believe

they have, will discover that the "touching devotion to the cause of

humanity," about which they talk so eloquently, will develop itself into

pure selfishness, and the rapacity of Wall street and the heartlessness of

Madison square will extend their ramifications through every order of

society.

Seeing that ostentatious wealth is about to be at a premium, and

unobtrusive piety at a discount, we, who believe in the Mercersburg

philosophy, are endeavoring to interpose our hands to stay the sweeping

tide.

I hope I have now laid the grounds with the readers of THE CATHOLIC WORLD

for an enunciation of what we believe and teach.

The cardinal principle of the system we inculcate is the incarnation,

viewed not as a mere speculative fact, but as a real transaction of God in

the world. Thus, our belief is peculiarly christological in its character,

all things being looked at through the person of the crucified and risen

Saviour. The church which he founded is an object of faith--a new creation

in the natural world working through the body of Christ and mediating

super-naturally between him and his people. Its ministers hold a divine

commission from him by apostolical succession. Its sacraments are not mere

signs, but seals of the grace they represent. Baptism is for the remission

of sins. The Eucharist includes the mystical presence of Christ by the

power of the Holy Ghost; that is, the real presence in a mystery. With

these dogmas we started, contending that we had all the attributes that

were ascribed to the church in the beginning--unity, sanctity, catholicity,

and apostolicity.

It is now many years since the work was started--as many, indeed, as were

required for the Reformation in Europe to reach the acme of its success.

Since then a growing culture and enlarged views of doctrine and of worship

have seemed to require an enlargement of the range within which the

movement was originally intended to be confined, and beyond which we did

not conceive of its expansion. The time has been spent in educating the

backward up to the starting-point, and in preparing a better form of

worship for them when they are sufficiently advanced to receive it.

{255}

The movement commenced at Marshall College. "Old Marshall," which started

as a high school for boys and was soon after endowed, though sparingly, as

a college, has since been merged with another with more money, but without

the prestige, and, alas! without the true spirit of the philosophy of the

mountain college. In the same village with this institution is the

theological seminary of a church, respectable for numbers and influence,

though without fashionable appointments or pretensions to popular favor,

which still retains the true ring of the old metal. Some time after its

foundation, it came to be presided over by a man of rare genius as a

theological writer and thinker, who was also president of the college.

Profound in his conceptions of truth and logical in his reasoning, be

possessed an unbounded influence over those who came under his

instructions, and but few young men have sat at the feet of this Gamaliel

without going away fully indoctrinated with his peculiar opinions, and

zealous standard-bearers in carrying forward the work which he had begun.

Many prejudices had to be encountered and overcome in carrying forward this

work. Bigotry and prejudice are barriers against which reason and religion

strike in vain. Many who placed their hands to the plough turned back in

the furrow. Opposition made the seed strike deeper root, and in the very

slowness of the work is an earnest of its ultimate triumph. It may take us

us nearer to Rome than we contemplate just now; it may bring Rome nearer to

us than she at present desires. Come what will of it, it is plain sailing

to us, although we cannot see land on either horizon. Nor do we see such

cause for terror in the "horrors and superstitions of popery" which many

men believe constantly lurks there. It seems to us that what men call

Romanism may not be such a bad thing after all. We know it has done much

good. A church that was a power in the days of the old Roman empire, and

could not be overwhelmed by the tide of barbarism that overturned the power

of the Caesars, but could finally roll back that tide of darkness,

preserving Christianity through ages which have not left a vestige of the

universal wreck behind, has certainly claims upon our profoundest gratitude

and most reverential awe. To us, it would seem strange, indeed, that the

vehicle for the preservation of Christianity through ages when civilization

was blotted out, and which did preserve not only its essence but its form,

should be the mystical Babylon and the man of sin.

Were this, indeed, so, we know in what desperate straits we would be

placed. The form of the primitive church is generally flippantly declared

by Protestants to have been nearer the system of New England than old

England; and the Roman hierarchy is regarded as a long distance from

either, which it certainly is. It is easy to assume that in the earlier

ages of the church there was no papacy, no priesthood, no liturgy, no

belief in a supernatural virtue in baptism, nor of the real presence in the

sacrament, and that everything was quite in accordance with modern ideas of

private judgment, popular freedom, and common sense; but it is not so easy

to prove it, nor indeed is it desirable even for Protestants that it should

be proved. The Reformation has always been understood to have been the

historical product of the church itself; but if these assumptions were well

founded, the church out of whose bosom the Reformation sprang would be no

church at all, and the Reformation no reformation, but only a revolution.

Thus, indeed, Christianity would be the theory of a philosopher, but not

the life of a Christian.

The work we have been doing is different from Puseyism even in its spirit.

The simplicity of Keble and the earnestness and power of Newman, in the

days of their early zeal when these two wrought together, is nearer to what

we intend if different from what we have accomplished or may yet

accomplish. We thank the Roman Catholic Church for its Christian year, its

symbols of faith, its traditions of battle and of conquest, its early

martyrology, and its unceasing and undying purpose.

{256}

Nor do we conceal that there are some things in the Roman Catholic Church

to which we object. These are rather historical defects than present

imperfections, and we see as much in our own history to regret and to

condemn.

I well remember the unpretending little church in which it was my privilege

to worship in a country town of Pennsylvania. The Episcopalians had no

foothold there, and the Presbyterians consequently, combining together at

once the imperiousness and the exclusiveness for which they have ever been

distinguished, pretended to monopolize the fashion and the piety, the

society and the religion, of the village. They, of course, contemned us,

and opened wide their doors for our disorganizers, who were crying out

against innovation when we were seeking to make our church a place of

worship, instead of a bazaar for the display of fine clothing and false

curls. The Methodists, living only the false life of a sickly

sentimentality, and the Lutherans degraded even from the doctrines and

practices Luther taught in his fiery zeal, were absorbed in their childish

schemes of marrying and giving in marriage, engaged in special efforts at

reform by revivals and meetings of religious inquiry, and busied in raising

subscriptions for objects like Mrs. Jellaby's mission at Borrioboola-Gha or

Sunday-school libraries which would not be sectarian, had little time to

think of us after they received their quietus in the "anxious bench"

controversy of 1843. There were, indeed, many solemn conclaves over our

affairs by gossips who neither understood nor wished to understand the work

we were doing, and half in fear that we should be lost for too much

reverence for mother church, and half in joy at the prospect of a few

proselytes, everybody affected to commiserate us. But these, though often

working mischief among our "weaker vessels," were not seriously opposed by

us. Our purpose was steadily kept in view, notwithstanding.

It was by preaching principally that we hoped to accomplish our task, and,

after the stubborn fallow of an unworked field had been broken, to recur

gradually to the forms of the church. But the furrows, we felt, would be an

empty mockery without the teachings that give them force. To inculcate

truth was then our first duty. This was often done by the more earnest and

intelligent of our clergy, by following up the seasons of the Christian

calendar and deriving lessons from each. Incidentally was urged, with more

or less boldness according to the courage and temper of the man whose duty

it was to enforce them, doctrines which for many years sounded strangely to

Protestant ears. Among these, besides those already noticed in this paper,

I may instance, as an example least expected by Catholics to be urged

anywhere outside of mother church itself, the dogma of the Immaculate

Conception. Starting with the proposition that that which is holy cannot be

born of that which is unclean and sinful, I have time and again heard this

theme urged upon his people with force and fervor by an earnest and fervent

pastor. Not with equal boldness, perhaps, but with no less sincerity and

fervor have I heard him urge the ministrations of the Virgin. Often in

declaring these doctrines he would enforce a proposition by putting it in

the form of a question, and one of these, I believe, I shall continue to

hear ringing in my ears while the words of men remain intelligible to me:

Why should we not reverence the mother of our Lord?

These things may be news to Catholics, and may be news even to many in

whose ears they have been thundered for a quarter of a century. The latter

hear without understanding, but the words will be re-echoed in their

hearing until they are not terms without meaning.

{257}

The Mercersburg philosophy is the antagonism in thought and in its social

aspects of New England transcendentalism and Plymouth Rock

conventionalisms, and receives no favor, and merits none, from a people

among whom Dr. Holmes's Elsie Venner is an exponent of the life and

practice of the present, as Cotton Mather's Wonders of the Invisible World

was of past generations. And Pennsylvania, where this philosophy has its

stronghold, being unlike New England, of which Dr. Mather said, "Being a

country whose interests are remarkably inwrapped in ecclesiastical

circumstances, ministers ought to concern themselves in politics," the body

of the people who compose the German Reformed Church, and who look back to

the Heidelberg Catechism as their earliest enunciation of faith, and the

Mercersberg theology as their latest development of truth, have never felt

the need of political preaching. A simple motto includes all their

aspirations, their hopes, and their fears, their preaching, their practice,

and their eternal reward--CHRIST CRUCIFIED.

------

Original.

A Family Motto.

A well proportioned ancient shield,

And on the azure-tinted field

The red crusader's cross:

Words scarce could tell at what a loss

The well-read scholar stood--

In what an earnest, startled mood,

Beneath the ancient, comely shield,

And red cross on the azure field,

This motto's thread

He whispering read,

"_Fortiter gerit crucem_."

A true crusader, staunch and bold,

Was he, my good ancestor old,

Who thus could boast his cross

He bore unmindful of the loss:

"Strong, strong his cross to bear,"

Comes down in characters most fair;

Comes down a glory unto me

Through many a bloody century;

The good seed kept

Though old faith slept,

"_Fortiter gerit crucem_."

{258}

Though old faith slept! a deep blush came

Across his cheek, a blush of shame:

That bold crusader's cross,

Borne in the very teeth of loss,

No longer worn with pride;

His conscience told him, laid aside

Like some base superstitions's sign:

That cross which from high heaven will shine.

When men shall hear,

With joy or fear,

"_Fortiter gerit crucem_."

Years passed; his quickened eye had scanned

The archives rich of many a land.

Yet still a purpose, named

Not to himself, each spoil had claimed;

And day by day to hail

On truth's horizon some new sail,

Strange sweetness sent through all his veins,

Till to his contrite breast he strains

That cross severe,

While angels hear,

"_Fortiter gerit crucem_."

------

From The Month.

"He Went About Doing Good."

The memory of the French _émigrés_ in England must be almost extinct.

A few survivors may remain among us, who can just remember the marquis with

faded decorations who taught them French or drawing, or the venerable abbé

who patted them on the head and whispered his blessing. But the horrors

that led to the sudden appearance on our shores of several thousand French

exiles, the burst of compassion and friendliness with which they were

welcomed, the sustained respect which they continued to excite, the noble

efforts successfully made, under the crushing pressure of a fearfully

expensive war, to provide for their wants, and the recompense that came in

the shape of prejudices cleared away and preparation for the reception of

truth--these things are now matters of history, and we have few traditions

of them to supply the place of recollection. They do not even enter much

into our current literature. In our own younger days the courteous and

dignified, although threadbare, French nobleman, and even the snuff-box and

shoe-buckles and silver hairs of the kind-hearted French priests, not

unfrequently figured in the moderate supply--very different from the

present inundation--of tales and works of fiction which sufficed for the

wants of that remote epoch. We know of no work of note of the present day

in which use is made of the character of an _émigré_, except the Tale

of Two Cities; and that is hardly an exception, since the exiles there

introduced are little more than pegs to the story. We would gladly know

more of the intercourse of our grandfathers with these confessors for the

faith, of the homage which their courage and cheerfulness extorted, and

especially of the working of that influence for good, which, indirectly,

must have had vast effects, and have tended greatly both to accelerate the

removal of the penal laws, and to bring about that reaction toward the

church of which we are now reaping the harvest; and which, even directly,

was probably the cause of very numerous conversions.

{259}

A memorandum found among the papers of Abbé Carron, with the title, "A

little memorandum most precious to my heart and to my faith," contained a

list of fifty-five Protestants received by him into the church before the

year 1803; and many more, whose names did not appear in that list, were

known to have been converted by his ministry. The simple fact that, within

twelve years after the public burning of Catholic chapels and the houses of

Catholics in London, our parliament was voting money by acclamation to

support several thousands of foreign priests who were in exile purely for

their loyalty to the Catholic Church, is at first sight almost startling.

The British lion must surely have worn rather a puzzled expression of

countenance when he found himself bringing bread to popish priests of the

most thoroughly popish kind, and respectfully licking their hands. While

great admiration is really due to the generosity of the noble animal on

this occasion, it is perhaps only fair, as well as obvious, to remark, that

he probably somewhat confounded the cause of the clergy, who suffered only

for their faith, with that of the exiles in general, and was somewhat

influenced by his hatred first of the _sans-culottes_, and afterward

of Bonaparte. The clergy, however, although for the most part very strongly

attached to the French throne, were quite ready to work on under any

government, and in whatever privations, and were driven into exile or

threatened with death solely for the same sort of offence as that of St.

Thomas of Canterbury, of Fisher and More; that is, for their repudiation of

the wry principle which is the essential basis of the so-called Church of

England.

An exceedingly interesting life,[Footnote 54] notwithstanding its somewhat

superfluous diffuseness, has lately been published at Paris of the

venerable Abbé Carron, to whom the Catholics of London are indebted for the

chapel and schools of the Somers-town Mission, and indirectly, through his

successor Abbé Nerinckx, for the establishment among us of the "Faithful

Companions of Jesus."

[Footnote 54: Vie de l'Abbé Carron, par un Bénédictin de la

Congrégation de France. Paris, 1866.]

We can hardly help envying the good religious who has sent forth this huge

volume of nearly 700 pages, the thorough roominess in which he carries on

his labor of love; omitting no detail that in any way furthers his purpose,

describing not only the holy priest himself, but most of his relations and

intimate friends, and freely inserting letters and documents at full

length. Some of these, such as letters of commendation from royal

personages, and other notabilities, and the official answers, which show

that the "Circumlocution Office" was a French quite as much as an English

institution, we could perhaps forego. But the letters of the abbé himself,

numerous as they are, do not contain a line too many for our taste; for

every line exhales the fragrance of a love the strength of which, as a

natural affection, could seldom have been surpassed, and which, at the same

time, although not so thoroughly predominated over by the supernatural as

in the highest order of saints, is yet always under its influence, and

ready to pass into it. Few men have ever lived less in or for themselves.

He lived for his mother, brother, and sisters, for his nephews and nieces

and adopted children, for his king and country, for his fellow-exiles, and,

above all, for the poor, to whose special service he bound himself by

repeated vows, which were gloriously fulfilled. We cannot see in his most

confidential letters or in his most private memoranda a trace of indulgence

in a single natural pleasure, except that of being loved. Although a very

voluminous writer, he seems to have been absolutely free from literary

vanity. He allowed the Abbé Gérard, the author of Valmont--to whom he

submitted most of his productions--to go on criticising and correcting

without mercy, and was ready to suppress anything at a word from him.

{260}

As he had no vulnerable point, so to speak, but in his affections, it was

here, as is usual with those whom God would train for great things, that

the sharpest wounds were inflicted. The early death of a younger sister

born soon after himself, who had been his confidante and associate in piety

and in all his schemes of devotion and devotedness as a child; the death of

his mother, whom he would have idolized if he could have idolized anything,

but from whose death-bed he went back calmly to sit all the evening in the

confessional; the deaths of several others of those nearest and dearest to

him, and the defection of a few; the overthrow of his gigantic and

successful undertakings in behalf of the poor of his native town; two

deportations and nearly half a life spent in banishment from his beloved

France; banishment from Normandy and from home even after his return to

France; frequent contact with distress greater than even _his_

wonderful ability to relieve; and, perhaps worst of all, his own share,

however innocently, in the ruin of an intimate friend whom he had

encouraged to invest all his property in his favorite undertaking of

workshops at Rennes, and who died broken-hearted, leaving a widow and seven

children destitute: these were the things that made his _way of the

cross_, and moulded his loving and bleeding heart to a greater likeness

of the Crucified.

It was on the 16th of September, 1792, that Abbé Carron, then in the

thirty-third year of his age, and the tenth of his priesthood, landed in

Jersey with 250 other priests, after a tempestuous passage of forty-eight

hours from St. Malo, in which they had narrowly escaped the fate to which

those who forced them to put to sea in a storm had apparently destined

them. These were nearly the last of the exiles. The September massacres

gave the crown of martyrdom to most of the clergy faithful to their vows,

who had not either been alarmed into flight or forcibly banished. The Abbé

Carron, and those who accompanied him, were not, properly speaking,

_émigrés_ but _déportés_. Of the _émigrés_ or fugitives,

again, there were two classes: those who, like most of the nobility, had

fled when their property was seized and their privileges taken away; and

those who, as was the case with most of the clergy, had remained at their

posts till they were exposed to indignities and outrages, and their lives

endangered. But nothing would induce the Abbé Carron and those who were

influenced by his example to fly. The civil character of the clergy had

been decreed by the National Assembly on the 12th of July, 1790, and

unfortunately accepted by Louis XVI on the 24th of August. On the 4th of

January, 1791, the oath which was the test of confessorship had been

demanded of the bishops, and almost unanimously refused; and soon afterward

began the persecution of the priests and the religious who followed their

noble example. On the 11th of May the municipality of Rennes endeavored to

install the schismatical clergy in the chief parishes of the town, and

threatened summary proceedings against all who had refused the oath for any

attempt to discharge their ministry any more. The Abbé Carron, the chief

curate of the large parish of St. Germain, in which he had labored from the

time of his ordination, was one of those specially interdicted. At the same

time, the violent republicans of the town, who, although comparatively

few--for the mass of the inhabitants continued Catholic and loyal--were

prevailing, as elsewhere, over the more moderate, had begun to threaten his

life. He preached the last course of Lent sermons that were heard for many

years to come in his native town, although parties of armed men were known

to be in wait for him; but after Easter, by order of the vicar-general, he

retired to the house of a brother a few leagues out of the town.

{261}

On his way, early in the morning, he was met by forty armed men who had

been searching for him at the very house to which he was going, with the

intention of murdering him, and whose violence had so agitated his brother,

who was in weak health, that he died not long after; but although they

spoke to the abbé, they did not touch him. His life had been still more

wonderfully preserved several years before, when three men--one of whom was

enraged at the conversion by the abbé's preaching of a woman whom he had

seduced--had laid a plot for his assassination, and had entrapped him,

under pretence of his services being required for a wounded man, into a

solitary house on the bank of the river. When he approached the bed in

which his pretended penitent had laid himself ready to strike the murderous

blow, he exclaimed, "You have sent for me too late: the unfortunate man is

no more;" and his companions found that the wretch had suddenly expired.

Carron had not yet finished his work; and, although in a less signally

supernatural manner, the divine hand that had then fallen on his would-be

murderer interposed again and again to protect him. From his retirement,

where he had composed and published a vigorous and pathetic remonstrance to

those religious who were yielding to the storm and breaking their vows, he

returned to his perish, and did not intermit his work till he was seized

and carried to prison, and into forced exile in the August of the next

year. He continued to carry on and even to extend, in addition to his

sacerdotal labors, the weaving, rope and sail-making, and other

manufactures that he had established for the benefit of the poor, and was

actually giving employment and subsistence to 1500 artisans when he was

arrested. At the same time he had expended 100,000 francs on the buildings

where the works were carried on; and when they were taken possession of by

the republicans, the stock in hand was valued at more than 94,000 francs,

and 90,000 more were due to him for sails supplied to the navy from his

establishment. His success in this undertaking was probably the reason for

which, although he was unflinching in his zeal, and resolutely refused to

allow any constitutional priest to officiate in his church, his arrest was

so long delayed. While inflexibly firm in matters of conscience, he was

ready enough to accommodate himself in everything else to the new state of

things, in order to carry on his work. He was willing to be known as

_citoyen Carron_, and to be _tutoyed_ to any extent. He obeyed

the law which ordered all the _imermentés_ to present themselves every

day to the municipal authorities. He implored that, if they thought fit to

imprison him, he might still be permitted to carry on his works of charity,

and offered to visit them accompanied by an officer, and to live

contentedly in confinement. "Although breathing infected air," he said, "I

may still manage to live a few years, and discharge the sacred obligation

of reimbursing the friends who lent me money to do good with. Then I will

make a present of my establishment to my country, and I shall die satisfied

with having undeceived those who think that I had in view to enrich myself

or my family."

But the fatal blow, though delayed, was not very long in coming. On the

10th of August a party of the national guard took him to the _hôtel de

ville_, and thence to the Abbey of St. Melaine, which had been turned

into a prison; and on the 8th of September he and his fellow-prisoners were

escorted to St. Malo to be shipped for Jersey. His bishop, his rector, and

many of his clerical friends had fled months before; but he had kept to his

resolution, more expressively, his biographer says, than grammatically

worded, "_Jamais je n'ai voulu consentir à m'émigrer._" He was in bad

health, and suffering besides from a violent toothache; but neither of

this, nor of his being made to share the single mattress of a prisoner in a

high fever, nor of any of the brutal insults which he received in prison

and on the journey to the coast, does he say a word in the letters which he

managed to send to his sister and nephews.

{262}

He addresses them all by name, longs to fold them to his breast, hopes one

day to see them again, consoles and advises them, and sends the little ones

the few sous that he happened to have in his possession. But his thoughts

of his own sufferings are only such as these:

"Believe me, I do not suffer the hundredth part of what I have deserved.

An unfortunate sinner, a base and too frequent transgressor, such as I

know myself to be, ought not to think anything of such slight drops of

bitterness. My God, when we love you, how sweet, how consoling, how

delicious it is to suffer for you; and how magnificently does the love

which we bear you recompense us for all the miseries of life! Do not, my

dear child, think of your friend's imprisonment, without remembering at

the same time that I deserve to be at the bottom of the most loathsome

dungeon, and under a thousand chains, to bewail the sins of my youth."

His last message, when on the point of embarking, was to M. Paris, whom be

had commissioned to watch over his factories.

"I hope that this letter, in which I enclose my heart, will find you in

good health. Mine has had some variations, but it is at present quite

sound; and I desire, if my God preserves me in it, to consecrate it again

one day entirely to the service of my dear fellow-citizens; for I shall

always love them, and shall always sigh for the moment when, recovering

from their unfounded prejudices, they cease to close their heart to me.

Speak of me now and then to the members of that dear colony whose

prosperity formed the sweetest enjoyment of my youth. Tell them that I

shall always be their father and their friend, and that I shall seek all

my life for the means of making them happy. If I can gain any practical

knowledge of manufactures in England, I shall make haste to apply it to

the improvement of La Piletière,"

He was never permitted to revisit his work at Rennes; but his indefatigable

activity and burning zeal found a still wider field, and achieved still

greater wonders in exile.

It was no slight task that awaited him. The two hundred and fifty penniless

outcasts--of whom he was one--came to swell a crowd of more than three

thousand priests and religious, living in discomfort and distress in the

midst of a population far more bitterly opposed to the Catholic religion

than the people of England, and in danger, from the want of occupation, and

from the cessation of all outward practices of piety, of falling into

disorder. Only the year before, a Catholic lady had tried to get permission

to have mass celebrated in private, and the good people of Jersey had

threatened to throw any priest who ventured to celebrate mass into a

caldron of boiling oil; and when after some time she got a brave Irish

priest to run the risk, her husband, who served his mass, held a naked

sword to be ready for an attack. The Abbé Carron had not been long in the

island before nine masses were said every morning in her parlor. After a

short visit to London, whither he went to consult with the Bishop of Léon

and the rector of his old parish at Rennes--not forgetting at the same time

his promise to obtain information that would be useful at La Piletière--he

settled himself to his work on the 8th of October. He opened an oratory at

once, in which he said mass every day, and preached on Sunday, with some

secrecy at first, but very soon, as the dispositions of the people changed,

without the necessity of any precautions. He gave several courses of

spiritual exercises to the clergy, by which their fervor was rekindled. He

set on foot a large dispensary, in which a priest, who had been a surgeon

before his ordination, made up and administered remedies, and in which

another priest dispensed soup, wine, linen, and other necessaries. Then he

collected a great quantity of books, and opened a library and reading-room,

where the clergy could come from their over-crowded barrack-rooms to study

or pray in silence and in comfort. He provided another collection of books

to form a circulating library for the emigrant laity, many of whom had been

hurried into exile without being able to bring anything with them; and

Catholic books were, of course, unattainable at that time in Jersey.

{263}

By the June after his arrival he had two schools at work for their sons and

daughters, and constituted himself master of the upper division of the

boys' school, but taught the catechism and explained the epistles and

gospels to all the classes in each institution. These were the only

Catholic places of instruction in the whole island. He was, besides, the

common refuge for all the wants, spiritual and temporal, of the whole

colony; he was hard at work at the composition of some of the numerous

volumes which he published to increase his resources of charity; and he

continued, till war broke off the communication between England and France,

to direct, as far as was possible, the factories of La Piletière. Yet, with

all these undertakings on hand, he was living himself in a state of almost

destitution. One room served him for a second chapel, for confessional,

class-room, reception-room, and bedchamber; and having no servant, he had

to move and replace the tables and benches, and sweep and dust several

times a day. And, with all this multifarious work, he made it a rule to

read two chapters of Holy Scripture on his knees every day, to make a visit

every afternoon to the blessed sacrament, to make at least half an hour's

mental prayer, and to read a chapter in the Imitation, another in the

Spiritual Combat, and at least fifteen pages of a manual of theology,

however pressing his occupations might be. He prescribed to himself in a

rule of life, drawn up in Jersey, and found after his death, to rise at

four, however late he might have retired to rest; to say office after his

meditation, and then to celebrate; to fast every day, never taking anything

before dinner, and only milk for his collation, and on Fridays only bread;

never to touch wine, and to confine himself to bread and vegetables when be

dined alone; and in various other ways to deprive himself of comfort, and

to bring his standard of what was necessary far below that which is usual

even with the pious and charitable. The only expensive article that he

retained was a watch, the alarum of which he found needful to wake him; but

be promised, as soon as be had thoroughly acquired the habit of waking

before four o'clock, to give this also away to his "dear friends the poor;

who," he said, "shall have everything that I can deny myself." His rule of

life, which contains also devout aspirations for every different act of the

day, and for times of wakefulness at night, ends with this fervent

petition:

"O incomprehensible and eternal treasure of my soul, the one adorable

object of all the feelings, affections, and emotions of my heart, Jesus,

my Jesus, my love and my all, oh! that I may love you, that I may live

only to love you, and to cause you to be loved upon earth! Grant me, O

Lord! days well filled, a pure life, and a happy death, that may conduct

me to your bosom!"

That such a man should exercise great influence for good, and work wonders,

we cease to be surprised. When his undertakings assumed soon afterward a

still more extended range of responsibility in London, Bishop Douglas

expressed to the Bishop of Léon his amazement and alarm, and was answered:

"Reassure yourself, my lord; I have known Abbé Carron a long time, and I am

accustomed to see him work miracles." Yet we should hardly, perhaps, be

prepared for what he actually effected. When the republican forces under

General Hoche were massed on the coast, apparently for an invasion of our

territories, the English government resolved to fortify Jersey, and deemed

it expedient to transfer the exiles to London. A curious proposal had just

been made by the military commander, that the clergy should take up arms;

which was, however, courteously refused, and the refusal courteously

accepted. In August, 1796, the abbé came to London, charged with the task

of finding accommodation and providing for the wants of the French colony

from Jersey.

{264}

Besides the herculean task of finding lodgings for most of them, he at once

hired two houses in Tottenham-court road and reopened his two schools, and

soon after opened two rooms for public chapels, and established again his

libraries. In less than three years he had also under his care a hospital

for forty aged and infirm ecclesiastics, and another for twenty-five female

patients, an ecclesiastical seminary containing twenty-five students in

training for the priesthood, and a Maison de Providence, on the plan of the

houses of the Sisters of Charity, provided with all necessary supplies for

visiting and relieving the poor. In 1799, to his two day-schools were added

_pensionnats_--the one for eighty boys, and the other for sixty

girls--all the expenses of which, in excess of the twelve or eighteen

guineas per head granted by the British government, fell on the abbé. His

way of returning thanks was to promise some additional work of charity.

Thus, in an effusion of gratitude for the opening of the hospice for old

priests, he bound himself to give a dinner to six poor old men every 28th

of October; when the seminary was opened, he promised to give a dinner

every 1st of December to twelve poor children, to wait on them himself, and

to send them home with new clothes and bread in their hands; and when the

female hospital was opened, to give a marriage portion every 25th of

October to three virtuous young women.

When in peculiarly great difficulties, his plan, like that of many saints,

was to give in alms any little money that remained, in order, as he said,

"to draw down dew from heaven;" and this never failed. Rich Protestants

called and left bank-notes, without giving him time to discover who they

were, or sent anonymous donations. Two gentlemen in drab-colored attire

astonished the pupils, trained to the most exquisite politeness, by coming

in one day without removing their hats; and one of them, who turned out to

be that torment of our infancy, Lindsey Murray, after seeing the whole

establishment, deposited £10 in the abbé's hands. The leading Catholics

were, of course, profuse in their offerings, and all ready to place

themselves at his disposal. The hoarded jewels of the richer exiles melted

into alms for the poor. Actors read plays for his benefit, and the great

Catalani gave a concert for him. He had been encouraged at the outset by

even more striking dispositions of Divine Providence. A rich Englishman,

living at St. Aubin in Jersey, had entreated him to accept his house and

estate and become his heir; but, as the offer involved the condition of

being naturalized and abandoning France, his love for his country, that had

used him so cruelly, prevented his listening to it. Soon after his

settlement in London he found himself without resources, and heavily in

debt. Mr. Desprez, his former rector, met him coming out of his oratory in

a state of great depression, and proposed a walk in the park. It was early,

and no one was to be seen. A man passed them at a rapid pace, and, when a

little in advance of them, drew some packages out of his pocket, one of

which fell to the ground. The abbé picked it up, and found a bundle of

notes. He ran after the man, shouting to him, but in vain, to stop, and at

last overtook him. The other refused to stop, and declared that the notes

did not belong to him, and that he was in a great hurry. "Where do they

come from, then?" was the natural question. "From there, sir," said the

stranger, pointing upward. They amounted, Mr. Desprez recorded, to the

value of some scores of thousands of francs. The abbé used to say that,

while in England, more than a million guineas had passed through his hands.

Yet he was inexorable in his rule of never receiving anything of value for

himself. He refused whatever was clogged with the condition of keeping it

himself.

In 1797, an amnesty for the exiles was voted, and for a week he was hoping

to return to France, and had even closed his schools; but the government,

who were better acquainted with the state of things, refused him a

passport, and the _coup d'état_ of the 4th of September revoked the

amnesty.

{265}

In November, 1799, he settled with all his establishments, except the

seminary for priests, which was now not so much required, at Somers-town.

They occupied ten large houses, the rent of three being paid by the

government, and that of the others by himself. A French journal describes

them as situated outside of London, in good air, and _quite in the

country_.

In 1801, he might have returned to France. The famous concordat was signed

on the 15th of July, and made public on the following Easter, the 12th of

April, 1802. The Bishop of Rennes, who yielded, although with rather too

much of protest, to the invitation from the Holy See addressed to all the

old bishops to resign their sees, in order to facilitate the working of the

concordat, earnestly entreated that Abbé Carron might be his successor; and

the First Consul desired himself to secure him. But the articles

fraudulently added by Napoleon, and against which the pope, when he became

aware of them, vehemently protested, made the abbé feel it to be impossible

to work satisfactorily in France while they were in force.

The schism of the _Petite Eglise_, or Blanchardism as it was called in

England, was a terrible blow to him. More than half the bishops still in

exile and many of the clergy--and among them his dearest friends--held out

against the Holy See. But his fidelity never wavered, not even while the

vicar-apostolic of the London district was acting timidly, and weakening

the effect of Dr. Milner's more energetic measures. The _organic

articles_ were a sore puzzle and distress to him; but he would never

countenance a word of disrespect to the Holy See. In a synod of bishops he

was chosen by Dr. Milner for his theologian, but rejected on the ground of

his being a foreigner. This firmness of his drew upon him ultimately a

fierce persecution, and great attempts were made, but with only partial

success, to alienate from him Louis XVIII. and the other members of the

exiled dynasty, who had themselves remonstrated with the Holy See on the

concordat. But no ecclesiastical dignity was ever offered him after the

restoration. A storm of abusive pamphlets, anonymous letters, and

slanderous reports of the worst kind fell for some time keenly upon him.

Yet in his correspondence with his dear relations in Normandy, which was

now resumed and carried on till war broke out again, there is no allusion

to any of his trials, except that of his continual separation from them. He

longs to see them; he interests himself in all the details of their

families, and gives them advice and encouragement; but he has no space for

his own afflictions. The only thing that disputes with them for his love

--for his love of God is supreme over all--is his love of the poor. "I love

you," he cries; "yes, certainly, I love you with all my heart, and all the

dear ones by whom you are surrounded; but I love my poor still more; they

are my numerous and best-beloved family."

In 1807, the popularity of the French clergy was so great, and had so

increased the favorable feeling toward Catholics generally, that he thought

it time to build a regular church. Hitherto he had officiated in the

largest room of one of the schools. The impossibility of raising

4000_l_. for the purpose was soon surmounted by one to whom nothing

was impossible that the glory of God seemed to require. So the church in

the Polygon soon rose, and was crowded at once on its being opened; and he

added to his other labors the task of giving sermons in English, which it

cost him immense pains to elaborate and learn by heart. As his little flock

of exiles, who were now making their way back to France diminished, his

ministry both among the French settled in London and among the English

increased. He made it a rule to visit all his sick--of whom he had a large

number--at least once a week, and those seriously ill every day.

{266}

He visited one daily, and often twice a day, for six months together. His

poor schools were enlarged and admitted English as well as French

Catholics. His records of conversions became more and more numerous; and

each cost him weeks, and generally months, of careful preliminary

instruction. He was constantly engaged in writing, and published twelve or

thirteen different works in London. He was carrying on also a

correspondence with many Protestants and sceptics; to whose difficulties he

was never weary of replying. Part of his correspondence with one alone

extended to twenty-seven letters, mostly of eight or ten pages each. How he

could multiply himself sufficiently for all that he was doing is one of

those mysteries which we find in the lives of saints alone. When the

demands of the _émigrés_ on his purse were less heavy, he began to

distribute soup and coals to the poor Catholics of London; an express

prohibition from government preventing him from extending this charity to

Protestants, _for fear of conversion_. As the war went on, immense

donations both of money and of all kinds of necessaries were made by him to

the increasing crowds of French prisoners.

In April, 1814, Louis XVIII., who had been nearly seven years in England,

and under whose patronage the abbé's _pensionnats_ for the children of

the _émigrés_ had acquired a sort of title to be deemed royal

institutions, returned to the throne, vacant by the banishment of Napoleon

to Elba; and the abbé only waited for the royal commands respecting the

young French nobility under his care to terminate his twenty-two years of

exile. On the 14th of July he said mass for the last time at Somers-town,

and set off at five in the morning, to escape any attempts of his flock to

prevent his departure. He left England, after all the hundreds of thousands

of pounds that had passed through his hands, as poor as he had come to it,

and was beholden to his friends the Jerninghams for part of the expense of

the journey. A solidly built chapel and two poor schools, containing a

hundred children, with all necessary appliances, were his legacy to the

Catholics of England. What were his feelings toward those whom he was

leaving, and those whom he was expecting to see again, how the sight of

France affected him, and what were his intentions for the future, we must

leave him to express, by extracting some portion of one of several letters

which be wrote on landing: