The treatment meted out to the other patriotic bishops has been

marked by a similarly brutal and vindictive spirit. Some of them are

prisoners in Siberia; some, like Bishop Lubinski, have died on the

way out; some languish in foreign exile. Their dioceses have been

conferred on ecclesiastics who are in the interest of Russia, and

therefore execrated and despised as traitors by their own countrymen.

All intercourse and dealings between the Catholic hierarchy in

Poland and the see of Rome have been interdicted and rendered almost

impossible. With a view of preserving appearances, a Catholic synod

has, by force and threats, been convened under the auspices of the

imperial government at St. Petersburg. The members of this body

have been clothed with jurisdiction in all ecclesiastical affairs.

The lower clergy, stripped of their revenues and endowments, have

been made dependent on a state subsidy, which may be withdrawn at

discretion by the temporal authorities. Laymen, without properly

defined duties and powers, completely ignorant of the wants and aims

of the church, preside over the priesthood and prescribe the ritual

and the ecclesiastical discipline. The majority of the convents and

religious houses, as well as the schools connected with them, have

been closed, and the superintendence which the religious formerly

exercised over the education and training of youth has been entirely

taken away. A number of the finest Roman Catholic church edifices has

been appropriated for the use of the Greek Orthodox Church, which has

in addition been endowed out of the property and funds of the former.

The concordat with Rome has been abrogated, and though the St.

Petersburg cabinet denies that M. de Meyendorff, its ambassador to

the holy see, told the supreme pontiff to his face that "Catholicism

is synonymous with revolution," yet the treatment of the Catholic

Church of Poland has been exactly in accordance with such a theory.

The United Greek Church, previously on the most cordial terms with

her Roman relative and the Polish nationality, has been entirely

estranged from Rome, and placed under the influence of anti-Polish,

Russo-maniac Ruthenians, expressly imported with this view from

Galizia. With such spiritual guides to direct them, it was expected

that many would be gradually brought over to the Greek Church, as

had indeed been attempted once before, but with rather indifferent

success, in Lithuania, during the reign of the Emperor Nicholas. But

we need not enlarge on this theme. Whole volumes might be filled

with accounts of the persecutions to which the national church and

her servants have been subjected by the Russian government. Who does

not still remember the heart-rending scenes enacted at Warsaw during

the revolutionary years, when the Cossacks forced their way into the

sanctuaries and dragged thousands of worshippers from the steps of

the altar to the dungeons of the citadel, or the still more recent

attempt to compel the Catholic clergy to perform divine service in

the Russian language? These specimens of Muscovite tyranny in times

of peace have sent a thrill of horror and loathing throughout the

entire Christian world, and are still too fresh in the memory of the

living to be forgotten.

Passing from the spiritual administration of the kingdom to the

temporal, we find it intrusted to a class of men who are as hostile

and foreign to the nation as to every established theory of good

government. This is especially the case in the provinces, where

all the authority rests in the hands of Stock-Russians, natives of

a country whose political and economical systems, whose physical

and historical life, whose character, customs, laws, views,

ideas, etc., are in every respect the very opposite to those of

Poland. Selected almost exclusively from among the subalterns of

the army, their profession has taught them to laugh at civil and

constitutional guarantees, to disregard the delicately adjusted and

carefully balanced interests of the community, and it is therefore

not surprising that their misgovernment should exceed all belief.

Of the wisdom, moderation, and forbearance which the peculiar state

of affairs in Poland demands, there is no trace. It matters very

little that Field-Marshal Count Berg, the viceroy of the kingdom,

and some of the generals who preside over certain branches of

the administration, should personally be honest, conscientious,

well-meaning, and just men. The training, antecedents, principles,

and habits of their subordinates are such as unfit them for civil

positions. Yet this deplorable want of all administrative talent

and experience in the colonels, captains, and lieutenants who are

appointed to govern the provinces, does not constitute the greatest

and most serious objection to them. Besides the very small amount of

intelligence possessed by the average Russian subaltern, he is noted

for some far more offensive traits. This class is proverbial for its

rapacity, dishonesty, venality, intemperance, and immorality; and as

every Russian looks upon himself in the light of a conqueror among

a treacherous, rebellious people, he naturally regards all Poles,

and especially the refined and educated among them, as his personal

enemies, whom he only refrains from plundering and oppressing so long

as he is bribed.

Before the insurrection of 1863, the administration of the kingdom

was in all essential features autonomic and distinct from that of

the Russian empire, a privilege which Finland still enjoys at this

day. A minister for Polish affairs had a place in the St. Petersburg

cabinet, and through his hands passed all the public business which

the conquered country transacted with the imperial government and the

sovereign himself. At Warsaw sat an administrative council, a kind

of Polish ministry, over whose deliberations the viceroy presided in

person. The members of the Warsaw administration were also the chiefs

of the several public departments, such as that of the interior, of

justice, of education, of religion, etc. Within the last four years

the management of these departments has, however, been transferred

to St. Petersburg, while the viceroy, in spite of his title as the

representative of majesty, now only retains a mere nominal authority.

Instead of the administrative council, an administrative and even

legislative inquisition, which interferes arbitrarily with the

different branches of the public service, and completely neutralizes

the viceregal influence, has been established. This overshadowing

power, the so-called Committee of Organization--named thus because

it was originally created to arrange the differences between the

landlords and serfs which arose out of the emancipation ukase of

1864--has usurped supreme legislative, judicial, and executive

functions, so that without its coöperation the viceroy is absolutely

powerless. Under the unassuming title of a corresponding member of

the committee, the celebrated Panslavist, Solowjeff, is the real

leader of the Russian government at Warsaw, while Count Berg, the

viceroy, has become the bearer of an empty dignity, and is only saved

from the unpleasant position of a puppet by his rank as a marshal

of the empire, and commander-in-chief of the forces in the Warsaw

district.

It may well be doubted whether the civilized world has ever seen

such military-bureaucratic anarchy as modern Poland now presents.

Those who witness this state of things from a distance must find

it impossible to form an adequate conception of the semi-barbaric,

semi-refined confusion which is its chief characteristic. And yet,

all the wrong, all the injustice, all the inconsistency of this

administrative chaos, with its long train of social, political,

and religious embarrassments and entanglements, is outdone by the

interference with a most holy and inalienable right of not only every

citizen, but of every human being. That right is the sacred right

of education and instruction, with which the Russian government

has meddled in a most unwarranted and despotic manner. The moral

violence to which it has resorted in this matter outrages every

thing that the human race considers peculiarly sacred and dear. All

the atrocities committed by heathen tyrants, which history records,

appear insignificant by the side of the infamous system, deliberately

devised and enforced under a monarch who advocates progress at

home, while in the affairs of Poland he is ruled by a terroristic

faction that labors with fanatic zeal for the moral dismemberment,

emasculation, and degradation of the rising generation of a vigorous,

living, Christian people, who have shared for more than ten centuries

in the blessings of western culture.

This language may appear too strong, but it is more than justified

by the provocation and offence. No other government but the Russian

has, within historical times, been known to prohibit, under severe

penalties, private instruction in the elementary branches and

religion in the national tongue. There is no instance on record of

a civilized state whose rulers have devoted all their energies to

the suppression and reduction of the number of existing educational

establishments, or to the discouragement of attendance at school

by raising the cost of tuition, the price of school-books, and by

generally resorting to other equally disreputable expedients for

the purpose of rendering the means of education inaccessible to an

oppressed and impoverished population.[186] It is only in Poland that

entire faculties--which contained many foreign professors invited

to the country with assurances of permanent positions--have been

suddenly ordered to adopt a strange language insufficiently developed

for scientific purposes; and no government but the czar's would

have dared to make non-compliance with such a preposterous demand

a cause for summary dismissal without compensation. In no other

land would the public schools have been placed under the control of

individuals notoriously incompetent in a scientific, educational,

social, and moral point of view for this grave responsibility; men

so little superior in intellect and manners to the semi-civilized,

non-commissioned officers under them, that they have frequently been

known to assail the professors in the presence of their scholars

with the foulest abuse, and even with blows. Where else, save in

Russia, would public functionaries have overlooked gross breaches of

discipline in the students, for the sake of tempting them to disgrace

themselves by demonstrations against the land of their birth? Where

else, save there, could have originated the monstrous idea of

perverting the compositions of school children so that they appeared

to reflect the darker sides of the national character; or where else

would these juvenile emanations have been published to the world as

evidences of the degradation of a whole people? What other Christian

and civilized government would have stooped to the incredible infamy

of turning the seminaries for the education of the future wives

and daughters of the land into schools for coquetry and places for

promiscuous intercourse between the sexes, in the hope of thus

debauching and demoralizing both the present and the next generation?

Yet all this, and all that a fiendish ingenuity could possibly

invent or suggest in the same direction, has actually been done,

openly and in the broad light of day, by the Russian government in

Poland, more especially since the middle of the present decade. To

make this tyranny still more oppressive and hideous, the Polish

child is not allowed to be educated in its native tongue, but in one

instinctively repulsive to it, difficult to acquire by reason of its

peculiar characters, and far less adapted to intellectual uses than

the Polish. Not even religious consolation and instruction--though

they address themselves to the holiest feelings of our nature--are

permitted to reach the oppressed people in any language but the

abhorred Russian. A terrorism like this acts with the effects of

poisonous dew upon excitable temperaments, and explains how the most

exemplary piety and the fiercest thirst for vengeance may dwell side

by side in the national heart. To crown, as it were, these wrongs and

insults, the Russian authorities have lately forbidden the pupils

of the public schools to speak their own language even during the

hours allotted for play. The design, of course, is to completely

Russianize the young Polish generation. It is for the same reason

that the pupils of the public schools are compelled to wear a Russian

uniform, and to salute, after the fashion of private soldiers, every

military officer whom they may happen to encounter in-doors or out.

That no Polish father or mother may easily evade the pernicious

effects which such an education as the public schools afford must

exert upon their offspring, the refined absolutism of Russia has

taken care to discourage by all means in its power the employment of

private tutors and attendance at foreign institutions of learning.

First, no government appointment, not even the most petty and least

remunerative post, can be obtained unless the candidate understands

Russian; and, as there is a great dearth of private tutors, who

are either natives of Russia or who have mastered its language, a

large majority of the Polish children are indirectly compelled to

go to the public schools, where the only branch of study thoroughly

cultivated is the Russian literature and language. Then every

conceivable obstacle has been placed in the way of the employment

of private instructors, either natives or foreigners, even by those

families who could otherwise afford the expense. Under the reign of

Nicholas, foreign professors and teachers were almost banished from

the country, and those who had not the official influence necessary

to evade the law, were obliged to bring them across the frontier

in the disguise of servants after having bribed the police and the

custom-house officials. This rule has been made still more stringent

of late. No private instructor is allowed to follow his calling until

he has first submitted to an examination in the Russian language--the

sole test of proficiency and qualification--before a government

board expressly instituted for this purpose; and the result is,

that hundreds of foreigners have resigned their places and left the

country. The surveillance of the police is carried to an extent which

can hardly be credited abroad, and their espionage makes any evasion

of the interdict difficult, if not impossible. To keep the children

of all save the wealthiest parents from being sent abroad for an

education, the price of passports has been raised to a figure which

virtually amounts to a total prohibition of foreign residence and

travel.

These few unvarnished facts may suffice to give the reader a faint

conception of the present state of domestic and social life in

Poland. The child, bred from infancy in accordance with certain

specific national customs and habits, in disposition, speech,

thought, sentiment, and expression, moulded in a decidedly Polish,

Roman Catholic, West-European form, is, upon its admission to

school, forced not merely to reject all it has imbibed with its

mother's milk, but to accept the very opposite of what nature and

duty have taught it to hold sacred at home. With the Russian school

uniform--the badge of degradation and slavery--the Polish boy is

expected to put on a manner and speech hostile to his nationality and

religion; for upon his doing so depends both his own success in life

and the safety of his parents. Must not all piety and loyalty, under

such an accursed system, all manhood and morality, be destroyed, and

the character of the entire people deteriorate? After ten years or

more of this training and preparation, the boy becomes a man. Two

roads through life now open before him: he either enters the service

of the state, in which case he becomes so thoroughly Russianized that

he continues in all essential features to live up to the system

of the school, and hardens gradually into a genuine Tschinownik;

or he returns home to ripen into a conspirator and plotter. Is it

then surprising that such a course of education should have made the

number of shipwrecked Catilinian existences so much larger in Poland

than in any other land? Is it strange that under such a government

the national prosperity, which might otherwise be susceptible of

great development, should steadily decline, and be replaced by an

augmenting wretchedness?

Did we not know that at any time violent political catastrophes may

occur and impart to the current of things a direction different

to that which a majority of professional and non-professional

politicians anticipate, we might easily predict to what such a state

of society must inevitably lead. But irrespective of the possibility,

even the probability, of great political complications, which would

prevent the coöperation of the three-partite powers hereafter, there

lies, despite its weaknesses and faults, a vitality and capacity of

resistance in the Polish nationality that spurns unconditionally

the supposition of such an extermination as the one attempted by

Russia; and this it will be well to consider in every attempt for

the reconstruction of the country. When a nation is to disappear and

be absorbed by another, this task can only be accomplished when it

is fused with a nation physically and mentally its superior. Such

is, however, far from being the case in the present instance. The

Russian nationality, as its colonization experiments in Lithuania

have sufficiently demonstrated, can send only smaller, never

larger masses into Poland, and the assimilative capacities of the

Polish nationality are, in spite of its political subjection, so

preponderating, by reason of a superior culture, that the Russians

will much sooner become Poles, than the Poles will become Russians.

All the ukases, all the religious and educational tyranny and

injustice, all the bayonet rule and oppression of the latter can

never bridge the gulf between the two peoples. The Russification of

Poland is, and must always remain, a physical and moral impossibility

which no Murawieffs, Katkoffs, or Solowieffs, can hope to bring

about. An imperfect, hastily-prepared insurrection, commanded by

inexperienced leaders, nearly destitute of arms and resources, defied

the Russian colossus nearly a year and a half. And even for this

tardy victory over a country of five millions of inhabitants, who

had been for more than a decade governed by martial law, Russia was

chiefly indebted to the passive attitude of the neighboring states;

for, had either Austria or Prussia abandoned their neutrality, the

insurrection would yet be alive. The alleged right and mission of the

czars to govern the Poles are actually and morally as unfounded as

they are politically and legally an insult to the age and to the law

of civilized nations.

FOOTNOTE:

[186] This barbarous conduct of the Russian government has been once

equalled and even surpassed. We allude to the laws by which England,

after she had been enlightened by the Reformation, prohibited all

education among the Irish people. We wish to call most particular

attention to the fact that in both cases distinctively Catholic

nations have struggled earnestly for the right of instruction which

bitterly anti-Catholic ones have withheld. Yet we are daily told that

Catholicity is the great foe, and anti-Catholicity the great fosterer

of popular education!--ED. CATH. WORLD.

FRIEDEMANN BACH.

PART FIRST.

On New Year's eve of the year 1736, a brilliant company was

assembled in the _salons_ of the Count von Bruhl, lord premier to

the Elector of Saxony. The mansion, opposite the castle in Dresden,

was illuminated so brightly that the whole street in front was light

as day. In a shadow of the castle wall stood a man wrapped in a

cloak, gazing up at the windows, behind which could be seen the gay

confusion of guests. Presently one--a lady splendidly dressed--came

close to one of the windows, opened it, and stepped out upon the

balcony. The light gleamed on the jewels in her coronet. She stood

but an instant in the air, being called back; the window was closed,

and she was lost in the throng.

The solitary watcher outside, with a deeply-drawn sigh, turned to

depart. His hand was seized as he did so by a passer-by--a man in the

dress of the court pages.

"Good evening!" cried a cheery voice. "How glad I am to find you at

last! What were you doing here?"

The other laughed, evading an answer, and, drawing his cloak about

him, complained of the cold.

"Come to Seconda's!" cried the page. "You will find plenty of hot

punch there."

The two walked on to the celebrated Italian restaurant near the old

market. The scene there was as brilliant as at the premier's. A gay

company was assembled in the largest room, where the new-comers took

seats at the table. As they threw off their hats and cloaks, the page

was seen to be a man of about forty years of age, with a face deeply

lined with the marks of free living. His eyes were bright and merry,

and his mouth was liberal in smiles. His companion was a strikingly

handsome man of twenty-five, with a pale and haughty countenance, and

a form well proportioned and majestic. His expression was grave, and

a satirical curl was in his lip when he spoke; his large, dark eyes

were now fiercely flashing, now dreamy and melancholy, and they were

often downcast and shaded by long, heavy lashes.

"You are dull to-night, _mon ami_!" cried the jovial page, whose name

was Von Scherbitz. "Banish your gloom; it is no time for it."

"Have patience with me," said the young man in a low tone, and with

an attempt at a laugh. "I cannot always keep even with you. I have

served but a two years' brotherhood, you know."

"In our club, yes; yet _one_ year has spread your fame in music

over all Europe! Friedemann Bach has but one rival in renown--the

admirable Sebastian!"

A flush mounted to the young man's brow.

"Call him not a rival!" he exclaimed. "I have to thank my father for

all I have ever done; and I feel my own insignificance beside his

greatness. I feel, too, how unworthy I am of his love."

"Nonsense!" cried Scherbitz. "Your good father is strict, perhaps;

_pourquoi_? he is old; you are young and impetuous; you have your

liberal ideas and your adventures, and keep them from his knowledge,

to spare him chagrin. Where is the harm in this?"

Friedemann was leaning his head on his hand, which he passed slowly

across his forehead, as if waving away the trouble of discussing

the point. The punch was placed before them, and the tankards were

filled. The guests at the round table drank, as they did; and others

came in; among them military officers, painters, and musicians. As

a party of distinguished-looking persons entered, the page rose to

greet one of them, calling him "Signor Hasse." The gentleman glanced

around the company, but declined a seat at the table, retreating to a

distant corner. Here he bade the waiter remove the light from a small

table in front of him, and bring him supper by himself.

The page called Friedemann's attention to the solitude and gloom

chosen by the famous musician. Yet he was well known to be fond of

good company, and was universally respected.

"Is it on account of his wife?" asked young Bach.

"Exactly; the brilliant Faustina Hasse, the admired singer, the

idolized of all Dresden. They do not live happily."

"You cannot help seeing," observed Friedemann, "that strength is

wanting in his character--it is wanting in his compositions. They

have softness and melody; but how little of manly power!"

"Yet he is the favorite composer in the world of fashion."

More guests came in, and the general merriment waxed loud. The

glasses were rapidly filled and emptied. The conversation among the

younger part of the company was that of jovial revellers, intent on

as much amusement as they could obtain out of a gayly-dressed officer

of the elector's guard, and a chamberlain he had brought in to serve

as a butt for their jokes. Friedemann observed them with haughty

gravity, stealing a glance now and then at Signor Hasse in his corner.

The chamberlain was flippant with tales of court scandal, at which

there were uproarious bursts of laughter. Presently, half-drunk, he

was reciting some verses; and at the close he filled his glass and

toasted Signora Hasse.

All were silent as Hasse rose and approached the table.

"Gentlemen," he said with dignity, "I have the honor to wish you all

a good evening, and farewell. To-morrow morning I leave Dresden."

"To go whither?" asked Scherbitz.

"To Italy."

The company knew by his tone that he meant not to return. There was a

moment's deep silence, and then an officer asked:

"Does the signora go with you?"

"No; she remains in Dresden," replied the composer.

Hasse then turned to Friedemann, and grasped his hand.

"Commend me to your father, Monsieur Bach," he said warmly. "Tell him

he shall yet hear something good of Scarlatti's disciple."

There was a faltering in his tone as he spoke these last words, and

turning away, he left the room. Friedemann sighed deeply as he looked

after him, and pushed away his glass, which Scherbitz had just filled.

The merry company was again convulsed with the sallies of the

intoxicated chamberlain; and loud applause, cries of "bravo!" and

toast after toast urged him on. When he fell back, helplessly drunk,

the young men pulled off his court dress, put on a dark one, carried

him out, and gave him to the watch as a drunken vagabond to be taken

to the guard-house. Then they laughed to think of his consternation

at finding himself in the cold cell, on New Year's morning.

Midnight struck in the midst of this boisterous revelry; the last

hour of the dying year. There was a wild storm without, and clamorous

shouting and singing within. The revellers reeled homeward; young

Bach, the only one whose gait was steady, though he had drunk as

deeply and as madly as the rest.

When he rose on the following morning, he saw a letter on his

table, in a well-known hand, which he quietly opened and read with

deep emotion. Then he began to pace up and down the room, till the

door was abruptly opened and Scherbitz came in, wishing him the

compliments of the season. He read the letter Friedemann handed him

in silence.

"A charming old gentleman is that good papa of yours," he said as he

gave it back. "His heart is full of kindness. May his life be long

and happy! But look not so woe-begone, _mon ami_! How is it possible

for you to satisfy the claims of such exalted, old-fashioned virtue?

The time will come when we, madcaps as we are, shall be pointed out

as models of propriety for our juniors. Let the wheel of time roll

on."

"To crush us in the dust!" moaned Friedemann.

"Look at me--a page forty years old! I have no fear of reverse as

long as I serve my lord faithfully. I might have stood up heroically

against the all-powerful minister, and I should have been hailed as

one of her deliverers by my country; but I kept my place and pension,

and remain a page in comfortable quarters."

"You are not the first whose life is a failure."

"Nor shall I be the last. Why should I despair? Come, be reasonable,

_mon ami_! you are too self-condemnatory. Have you forgotten Handel,

whom you welcomed here three years since?"

"How could I forget him?"

"Yet Handel is unlike your father. His fantasy is more powerful, his

force more developed; he soars like an eagle, while Sebastian Bach

sails over the calm waters like a majestic swan. Bach's activity is

calm, silent--the offspring of concentrated thought. Handel reaches

his aim amid storm and tumult--through strife to victory. Can you

blame him for the difference? His path is your own. _En avant, mon

ami!_"

"Handel has had, indeed, a restless and stormy life," replied

Friedemann; "but he has never lost himself."

"Had he been born in the present century, instead of the last, his

views might have been more liberal. Before he was of your age, he did

as others do. Faustina Hasse could tell you some wild tales--"

"He never played the hypocrite to his father!" said Friedemann

bitterly.

"It was not worth while. Now, my good fellow, do not flatter yourself

you can deceive a page forty years old. Your so-called profligacy and

keen self-reproach have another cause than that you choose to assign.

You dread the unmasking of what you term your hypocrisy less than the

discovery of another secret!"

Friedemann started to his feet, and his face glowed like fire. The

page laughed.

"You must govern your eyes better, _mon ami_, if you want to keep

your secret when you hear the name of 'Natalie.' I did not need to

witness your behavior last night opposite the minister's palace, to

show me the truth!"

Friedemann was now pale as death. With a violent effort he mastered

his feelings, and said,

"You will be silent, will you not?"

"As the grave--assuredly! Only be cautious before others. No more!

I am going to the guard-house to release the victim chamberlain.

Now go to church, and afterward come to Seconda's to breakfast. _Au

revoir!_" And Scherbitz went out.

Friedemann Bach had been organist of the church of St. Sophia since

the elector, at the solicitation of his father that he would befriend

his boy, had given him the appointment. He hurried to his post,

and splendidly performed his part in the imposing service. As the

last tones of the organ died along the vast arches, he arose, closed

the instrument, and descended from the choir. At the door a pair

of vigorous arms were flung around him, and, with a joyful cry, he

embraced his father.

The old man pronounced a solemn blessing as he pressed his son to

his heart, and warmly praised his morning's work. He had entered the

church alone, to enjoy the music of his dearest pupil, whom he now

declared his best.

"To your lodgings now, Master Court-organist!" he cried. "Philip is

there, and unpacking. We shall stay a week with you." He took his

son's arm, and walked on, talking pleasantly all the time.

Philip Emmanuel Bach had grown a stately youth and a ripe scholar in

his art since Friedemann had left the paternal home at Leipzig, three

years before. They chatted of the old times, when their mother in her

snowy cap and apron smiled on their boyish sport; when they roasted

apples on the stove of Dutch tiles, and their young sisters chid

them, and the little Christopher laughed at them from his mother's

lap. Philip had been lonely at school, and was delighted at these

reminiscences. The two sons sympathized with the triumph of the good

Sebastian when he told them again of his first summons to Dresden,

of the note that had come to him from the Minister von Bruhl, on the

part of the Elector Augustus of Saxony and Poland: an invitation to

play at the church in Dresden. The rector in Leipzig had opposed the

departure of the organist of St. Thomas's school; but the elector's

own carriage stood at Bach's door to fetch him, and he saw future

good for both his sons. He felt that through them the lovers of

Hasse should hear music more sublime than the voluptuous melodies of

Italy. Then the reception at Dresden; the entrance of the elector

into the choir to greet Bach; his words, "O master! if I might hear

you play thus at the hour of my death"--all the scene was lived over

by the grateful old man. Philip, then a stripling, remembered how

a beautiful lady--the famous Faustina Hasse--had rushed in, and,

weeping, had kissed his father's hand; Hasse's greeting too, he

remembered; and the elector's bidding to ask any favor at his hands.

These recollections and the conversation were interrupted by the

entrance of a servant in a rich livery, who presented a note to

Friedemann. The young man blushed as he took the note, which he

opened and read hastily.

"I will come," he said to the servant, "at the hour named."

The man withdrew.

Sebastian smiled.

"Our court-organist," he said, "appears to have distinguished

acquaintances."

"The livery was the lord premier's," remarked Philip.

"Indeed!" asked Sebastian. "You know his excellency, my son?"

"The note came from his niece, the Countess Natalie," answered

Friedemann, in a confusion which he could not conceal.

"And you visit the young countess?"

"She is my pupil in music. She has sent for me to arrange a concert,

which she is to give on her aunt's birthday."

"I thought M. Hasse managed all those matters."

"I can't well avoid the commission; and such things help one's

reputation," faltered the young man. "As to M. Hasse, he has left

Dresden."

"Hasse gone--the excellent Hasse!" exclaimed Sebastian.

The good, pious composer was grieved to hear of his unhappiness.

Then, changing the subject, he began innocently to advise his son

as to the polished manners necessary in the house of the premier.

Friedemann pressed his hand and thanked his unsuspecting monitor.

When the elder Bach asked what he had done lately in music,

Friedemann replied that what he had done did not satisfy him. His

father put aside his plea that the highest and best could alone avail

in art.

"We have not reached that," he said; "yet we can rejoice in the

success granted us. There is much that I like in your _Fughetten_."

From music he passed to other questions; and asked, smiling, how long

the court-organist meant to remain unmarried.

"Dear father, I need not be in haste."

"'Early wooed has naught rued.'"

"It is a serious step, father."

"Surely, and not to be taken precipitately; but, dear son, let it not

be long. If my first grandchild is a boy, I will teach him music. Ay,

marriage is a serious matter! I have toiled hard to give bread to my

boys and girls, and brought you all up--have I not?--to be good men

and skilful artists. From my great-grandfather, all the Bachs have

had musical talent. I was once ambitious, my boy, to write something

that might win enduring fame. Now, I have but one wish. It is--that

all the Bachs may meet in the kingdom of heaven, and join in singing

to the glory of God, among the hallelujahs of the angels! Friedemann,

child of my heart, let me not miss you there!"

With a sob of anguish, Friedemann sank at his father's feet.

Sebastian laid both hands on his head, saying devoutly,

"God's peace be with you, my son, now and for ever!"

Unable to control his agitation--which his pious father thought a

burst of filial emotion--Friedemann left the room. Closing the door

softly, he rushed through the hall, out of the house, and through the

streets to the open country, where he flung himself on the frozen

earth and wept aloud.

At dinner the father conversed with his two sons, and much was said

of the splendors of the Polish-Saxon court under the administration

of the luxurious and prodigal Count von Bruhl. It was then time for

Friedemann to go to the minister's palace. He changed his dress and

hastened there.

As he passed into the hall, the door of one of the side-rooms opened,

and the premier came out. He was a small man, with marked and

expressive features, and keen, clear blue eyes. He was sumptuously

dressed, and wore a star on his breast. Friedemann stopped and bowed

to him.

"Good day, M. Bach, and a happy new year!" said the minister in

bland, soft tones. "My niece has sent for you. I am pleased with your

promptness. I am grateful for your readiness to meet our wishes at

all times, and shall remember it. The countess expects you!"

He nodded, smiled graciously, and walked lightly out of the front

door, entering his carriage, which presently drove away.

Friedemann looked after him apprehensively.

"What does this mean?" he murmured. "The smile of that man ever bodes

disaster. Let it be so! What can make me more miserable than I am?"

Crossing the hall, he passed on through one of the galleries.

A female servant stood at the door of the ante-room of the countess's

cabinet. She opened the door of the inner room, and Bach entered.

A young girl of about twenty, in a costume coquettishly pretty,

reclined on a sofa. Her form and her face were both beautiful; a nose

slightly aquiline, and well-defined eye-brows, gave her features a

character of pride and decision, contradicted by the soft tenderness

of the full, rosy lips, and the languishing, violet eyes, shaded by

their long lashes. Her hair floated in golden curls over her neck.

A faint rose-tint came to her pale cheeks as she rose to receive

Friedemann.

The young man stood still, and did not raise his eyes. The countess

came nearer, laid her little white hand on his shoulder, and said,

almost tenderly,

"What were you doing, Bach, opposite our house last night?"

One glance Friedemann darted from his flashing eyes into her own, but

made no other answer.

"I saw you plainly," said Natalie, "as I stepped out on the balcony.

You were leaning against the castle wall. Were you waiting for any

one? Tell me."

The young man shivered with the violent emotion that shook his whole

frame. After a pause, he said with forced calmness,

"You sent for me, most gracious countess, to honor me with your

commands respecting the arrangement of a concert."

The countess turned angrily away.

"These are my thanks, proud man, for my trust, for my love. Out upon

ingratitude!" she cried.

The young man flushed crimson at these reproachful words.

"What can I say?" he answered in a deep, hoarse voice, full of the

wild agony he was vainly striving to repress. "Look at me, and

enjoy your triumph! You have made me wretched. Leave me the only

consolation that remains--the conviction that I suffer alone!"

"Friedemann," said the countess, shocked to see him thus, "compose

yourself, I entreat you! Spare me!"

"I will _not_ spare you!" burst forth Friedemann, unable longer to

master his agitation. "You have torn open my bleeding heart-wounds in

cruel sport! I will not spare you! I have bought the right to speak

with my happiness here and hereafter. I gave you all, Natalie--truth

for falsehood, pure, faithful love for frivolous, heartless mockery!"

"I did not mock you!" cried Natalie.

"Did you love me, then?"

"I can not answer that."

"Tell me, Natalie--did you love me?"

"What good can it do? Are we not parted for ever?"

"No; by my soul, _no_! Nothing shall part us if you love me! But, I

must be convinced of that. If you have not--if you do not--I ask you,

why did you tempt the free-hearted youth, who lived but for his art,

with encouraging looks and flattering words?"

"Be silent!" cried the girl.

Friedemann's burst of grief was convulsive, and he covered his face

with his hands.

At length Natalie said,

"I honored your genius--your heart--"

"You loved me not then, and you do not love me now. If you love me,

how can you bear to think of becoming the wife of another?"

"Alas! you know; my station, the will of my uncle--"

"_My_ happiness, _my_ peace is nothing to you?"

"My affection is still yours. I shall never love another. Will not

that content you?"

Friedemann's pale face crimsoned; he stamped his foot fiercely.

"Hypocrite! liar! coward that I am," he cried; "and all for a

coquette!"

Natalie protested against his injustice. She reminded him of her

history: her noble birth and orphaned condition; the state and

splendor with which her uncle had surrounded her; her scorn of mere

pomp and luxury; her isolation in the midst of flatterers and smiling

fools; her discernment of the manhood in him--her lover.

"Then be my wife, Natalie!"

She shook her head.

"You will not? You will marry the creature of your uncle, whom you

regard with aversion?"

"You know, Friedemann, I do not take this step from interest, but a

sense of duty."

"Duty! Toward whom?"

"Yourself! I could never be happy, nor make you happy, as your wife.

You are a great artist; but you can never rise to my sphere. And

should I sacrifice all for you, would not my incensed uncle pursue us

with his vengeance? If we found shelter in solitude, how long would

you or I bear this concealment?"

Friedemann grew pale, and looked down.

"We could not be happy," resumed the countess. "All I can do is to

keep my heart for you. You can live for your art and me."

"And love you in secret?" asked the young man bitterly.

"I would bear condemnation for your sake."

"You shall _not_! The woman for whose sake I am miserable, for whom I

have deceived father, brother, friends, shall never know the world's

scorn. Farewell, Natalie! We never meet again. Be unlike your future

husband--be noble and true. Crushed as I am, you shall yet esteem

me, knowing that all virtuous resolution has not left my heart!"

"O Friedemann! how I honor and admire you," exclaimed the weeping

girl, as she flung her arms around his neck.

The maid entered quickly, announcing the minister.

Natalie retreated to the sofa.

"Ha! M. Bach," said the count, as he came in. "I am delighted to see

you again."

"Is it all arranged about the concert, my dear niece?"

"I hope so, uncle," answered Natalie.

"Charming, charming! Madame von Bruhl will be enchanted, M. Bach. You

will certainly arrange all for the best. Come very often to visit us;

very often. I assure you, my highest esteem is yours."

Friedemann, somewhat bewildered, bowed his thanks, and took leave.

The minister looked after him, while he took a pinch from his

jewelled snuff-box.

"He has great, very great talent," he said musingly; and added other

praises. Then he chatted a little on other subjects, and, looking at

his watch, touched the white forehead of his niece with his lips,

suffered her to kiss his hand, and retired from the room.

Friedemann left the house with confused thoughts. Suddenly M.

Scherbitz ran round the corner, and seized his hand.

"I am going home," said young Bach.

"You are not! Come instantly with me to Faustina Hasse's."

"Are you mad?"

"Not so near it as yourself, _mon ami_! The blind bird will not see

the trap."

"What do you mean?"

"_Sacré bleu!_ Come to Faustina's with me, or you are to-night on

the road to Königstein. The lord minister knows all!"

* * * * *

All that afternoon Sebastian had spent in reading the latest

exercises and compositions of his son Friedemann, handing sheet after

sheet, when he had read it, to Philip. They called for lights as dusk

came on. At length Sebastian asked his younger son what he thought of

his brother.

Philip knew not what to answer.

"I admire Friedemann," he said. "His works move me. I seem at times

to be reading your music, father; then comes something strange

and different. I feel disturbed--I can not tell why. I like these

compositions; but they give me not untroubled pleasure."

"You are right, Philip," said Sebastian, with a grave and thoughtful

smile. "His works have something in them strange and paradoxical. I

find this in his sketches more than in his elaborate compositions.

But I am not disturbed thereby: I rejoice."

Philip looked surprised.

"Your own light, glad spirit, Philip, accords not with the earnest,

oft gloomy character of Friedemann's works. He is not yet settled.

There is something great in him, hardly yet developed; the form of

expression is not defined. Friedemann seeks a new path to the goal.

Every strong spirit has done so. Art ever advances, and her temple is

not yet finished. The perfect dwells not on earth."

Philip suggested that his brother's imagination, supplying nobler

images than his industry had produced, still soared beyond the reach

of practical achievement, and thus left him unsatisfied.

There was a loud knock at the door; two men entered, asked for the

court-organist, and, hearing that he was expected every moment, sat

down to wait for him. Sebastian tried to enter into conversation

with them; but their gruff monosyllables repelled him, and an

awkward silence ensued. In about fifteen minutes the door was opened

unceremoniously, and M. von Scherbitz entered. He saluted the elder

Bach and looked keenly at the two strangers. He then announced his

name to the astonished Sebastian, and said he was Friedemann's friend.

"He will soon return," said the father; "these gentlemen, also his

friends, are waiting for him."

"Friends!" echoed the page; and placing himself in front of the two

men, he gazed at them searchingly. After a while he said,

"Messieurs, his excellency has lost no time in sending you,

I perceive; but you are too late. Give the lord minister the

compliments of the page, M. von Scherbitz, and tell him he will find

the court-organist, M. Bach, at the house of Signora Hasse. I have

just had the honor of leaving him there. He will see the elector."

The two men started up without speaking, and hastily left the room.

The page threw himself into a chair and laughed long and loudly. The

father and son stood in blank surprise, not knowing what to make of

the scene.

At last Scherbitz recovered his composure. He addressed Sebastian,

and said he had something to communicate to him in private.

"But where is Friedemann?" asked both father and son.

"As I said, at the house of Signora Hasse."

"What does he there?" asked the father.

"That is what I came to tell you."

Philip was sent out of the room. Sebastian seated himself, and with

dignity inquired what the gentleman who called himself Friedemann's

friend had to communicate.

"I am his friend," replied the page, "and have proved it not for the

first time to-day."

"And those two strangers--"

"Were officers sent to arrest him."

The page went on to tell his story, the bold levity of his manner

somewhat subdued before the dignity of the excellent old man, who

sat with his clear, searching eyes fastened upon him. He began with

a preamble about the strict manner in which Sebastian had brought up

his sons, and the difference between Friedemann and his brothers.

"You are too innocent of knowing the world," he continued, "to be

able to shield him against all the dangers that beset the path of

youth. Till he came to Dresden, your son knew nothing of life beyond

the paternal dwelling and the church of St. Thomas. He has been

received here as the son of an illustrious artist; he has won a proud

distinction for himself. Can you wonder that applause and flattery

have turned his head a little? He might have got over that; but, as

ill-luck would have it, the Countess Von Bruhl employed him as her

music-master. He fell in love with her."

"Is the boy mad?" exclaimed Bach, rising from his chair.

"Friedemann's first thought afterward was of his father. His union

with the girl he loved was impossible; equally so his voluntary

separation from her society. Her uncle bade her receive a rich and

noble suitor. Compelled to give up hope, the victim of the wildest

remorse and anguish, Friedemann fled to dissipation for relief. I

strove in vain to help him; but his grief was too new, too fierce and

consuming; I looked to time only for the cure. In wild company only

could he find diversion from maddening thoughts, and I feared the

worst if that resource were denied him. Now he has taken a prudent

step. He has broken off his acquaintance with the countess."

"Heaven be praised!" cried the father clasping his hands.

"But her uncle, the minister, had discovered their intimacy. He has

sworn the destruction of your son. I have been fortunate enough to

baffle him. But Friedemann must instantly leave Dresden."

"He shall!" cried Sebastian. "My poor son needs comfort; he can find

it only at home."

"Then he may come to you?"

"Could a father repel his unhappy child? I know, alas! his fiery

soul, his need of sympathy. Bring him to his loving father's arms."

Scherbitz caught the old man's hand and warmly pressed it.

"Friedemann is saved!" he exclaimed.

He left the room and the house, promising soon to return. Sebastian

sat long in a mournful reverie. Then seating himself at the piano, he

played a soft prelude, and sang a beautiful melody by Paul Gerhard.

The music swelled into majestic harmony, and many a passer-by in the

street stopped to listen, drinking in peace and consolation from the

heavenly sounds.

* * * * *

Faustina Hasse, the most beautiful woman in Dresden, and the greatest

dramatic singer not only of her own, but perhaps of all times, was

reclining on a sofa in a luxuriously-furnished room in her palace.

Flowers stood on a table beside her, and several costly trifles

were thrown about; but she was simply dressed in white muslin, with

a necklace and bracelets of pearls. Her little foot in its satin

slipper beat impatiently the footstool on which it rested; there was

a tint of painful excitement on her cheek; and a touch of melancholy

about her mouth softened the pride that usually masked her lovely

features.

A waiting-maid had just presented the card of a visitor on a silver

plate.

"I will see him," was the careless answer.

The maid retired and ushered in the Count von Bruhl, who made a

low and courtly obeisance. The signora bent her head slightly, and

motioned the count to a seat.

"You are surprised at a visit so late in the evening, signora?" the

minister asked gently, after an embarrassed silence.

"I do not know its object," was her calm reply.

"Easily explained," with a bland smile. "I am known for a fond

husband; in a fortnight I shall give a _fête_ for my wife's birthday.

It will surpass all other _fêtes_ in splendor, if the Signora Hasse

will favor it with her presence. May I hope that she will do so?"

"I do not sing, my lord minister."

"The signora has misunderstood my humble petition. Even the elector,

whose admiration of the signora's genius is well known, would not

venture to solicit such a favor."

"Will his highness be there?"

"He promised to honor me."

"I will come."

"Signora, my gratitude is unbounded!" He raised her hand to his lips,

and retired with a low bow.

Faustina sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing fire.

"Stop, monsieur!" she cried.

The minister stood still.

"Where is Friedemann Bach?" demanded the lady.

The minister started visibly, but suppressed all sign of emotion.

With a courtly smile he endeavored to evade reply.

"Where is Friedemann Bach?" still more angrily asked Faustina.

Something in her face warned the count not to trifle with her.

"He is probably on his way to Königstein," answered the premier.

"For what offence?" asked the lady with a smile of scorn.

"Oh! he needs discipline. The whole parish is disgusted at the

scandalous life led by their court-organist. He edifies the

devotional with his organ-playing on Sunday morning; but joins his

fellow-rioters in the wildest orgies at Seconda's, on Sunday night."

"What have you done with his fellow-rioters?"

"They belong to high families," answered the count with a significant

shrug.

"And pass uncensured. Very fair, my lord minister! But you are

mistaken. Bach is not on the road to Königstein. He has just had an

interview with his highness, here, in my house. I am known to have

some influence with the elector; and have used it."

"What have you done, signora?" exclaimed the minister, shocked into a

real expression of his feelings.

"Silence!" said Faustina haughtily. "His highness knows all; knows

why you have persecuted the unhappy youth, why you would bring misery

on the whole family--such a family! Heartless courtier! What can you

know of the worth of such a man? Friedemann leaves Dresden; but you

must provide him with another place, and one worthy of his genius.

The elector wills it so."

She passed out of the room. The count walked to the window,

looked out into the dark night, and drummed on the pane in some

embarrassment. There was a storm in his breast, but it was necessary

to suppress all agitation. Presently he turned around, and saw

Friedemann Bach and the page, Von Scherbitz, standing in the room.

The minister walked toward them, and said in a gentle tone,

"Monsieur Bach, I am concerned that you must leave us; but it is

necessary. You will go as soon as possible to Merseburg. The place of

organist in that cathedral is vacant, and I have appointed you to it.

I wish you a pleasant journey."

And with a bow he retired.

"_Bravissimo, mon comte!_" cried the page, laughing heartily.

"Roscius was a bungling actor to him. Come now, _mon ami_," turning

to Friedemann--"to your father. He knows all."

Friedemann followed him out with a look of despair. It was a clear,

starry winter night. As they came to Bach's house, they heard the

hymn Sebastian was singing. As they entered the room, he rose and

bade his son welcome.

"Can you forgive me, father?" murmured Friedemann gloomily.

"I have forgiven you; for I trust in your ability to amend."

"No word of reproach?"

"Your conscience does that; my part is to comfort you. Come home to

Leipzig."

"No," said Friedemann resolutely; "I will not go home till I am again

worthy to be received there."

"Are you so resolved?"

"My life henceforward shall show that I am true to you, father. I

will strive to overcome the anguish and remorse that have wrecked me.

If I succeed, all will be well. If I fail in the struggle--"

"Then come to my heart, Friedemann!"

"I will."

The son threw himself into his father's arms.

The next morning Sebastian and Philip returned to Leipzig, while

Friedemann set out on his journey to Merseburg.

PART SECOND.

Madam Anna Bach, the wife of Sebastian, was at home in Leipzig with

her daughters and her youngest son, Christian, waiting for the father

to join them after he had dismissed his pupils for the day. Thirteen

years had elapsed since the occurrences related.

Johann Sebastian Bach came in presently. He was still a stately and

handsome man, bright-eyed, and steady in his carriage; but the once

smooth forehead was furrowed with care; his cheeks had fallen in, and

their livid hue betrayed internal disease.

He held out his hand to his wife, as he placed himself in his

arm-chair.

"You seem exhausted to-day," Madame Bach remarked. "I am glad the

lessons are over."

Sebastian smiled.

"I have strength left," he said, "to make good scholars; and so long

as I can work, none shall find me remiss. You look so pleased; what

have you there?"

"A letter for you, from Philip."

"Ho! ho!" cried Sebastian joyfully; "has the scapegrace at last

found time to write to his old father? I have sometimes thought he

has forgotten how to write since he has been concert-master in the

service of his Majesty of Prussia! Well, what says he?" And he opened

and read the letter.

It was a dutiful but rather stiff epistle from a young man unused to

literary composition. He described life in Berlin, and the concerts

given at court two or three times a week, with the private musical

entertainments the king had in his cabinet, where Philip Emmanuel

accompanied on the piano his majesty's performance on the flute. The

king, he wrote, played the flute surprisingly; but was capricious as

to time, following the notes less than his own will and pleasure.

"He always," the letter concluded, "inquires after my esteemed

father; and often says, 'Will not your papa come once more to

Berlin?' I can promise that if my dear and esteemed father will visit

us, he will be received with joy and honors by all. Be pleased to

pardon my hasty writing; convey my best love and duty to my most

honored mother, my beloved brothers and sisters, and make me happy

with a speedy answer.

"Your dutiful son,

"PHILIP EMMANUEL BACH."

As Sebastian refolded the letter, his wife asked what he thought of

another visit to Berlin.

"It would do me good," said Sebastian. "I would gladly see the king

once more. Twice in my life have I believed there was something

good in me: the first time was in the year 1717, when my contest

was appointed with M. Marchand, and he took himself quietly off the

evening before it; the second time was three years ago, when the

great King of Prussia came into the antechamber to welcome me, and

when some rude chamberlains laughed at my expressions of duty and

homage, his majesty chid them with, '_Messieurs, voyez vous, c'est le

vieux Bach_.' That pleased Friedemann so much!"

"Then you will go to Berlin?"

"If I can get leave of absence, and if I find a small overplus of

money in the purse. Strange, that in my old days I should be seized

with a roving propensity! I had nothing of it in youth. Well, let us

go in to dinner."

It was near the close of day, and Sebastian sat outside the door of

his dwelling, surrounded by his family, under the stately lindens

that shaded the avenue leading to the old Thomas's school. The mother

and her daughters were occupied in needlework and knitting; the

younger sons were listening to their father's anecdotes of the old

organist, Reinecken, his instructor in Hamburg. The setting sun shone

on a lovely picture.

Caroline, who had her eyes turned toward the corner of Cloister

street and Thomas's churchyard, suddenly uttered a cry of joy, and

sprang to her feet.

The others rose and asked what was the matter; the venerable father

alone kept his seat. A tall figure was seen crossing the churchyard;

and now Sebastian rose, for he recognized his son Friedemann.

"Father," cried Friedemann, "I have come to stay with you!"

The father stretched out his arms and warmly embraced his son. The

others crowded round him, bidding him a joyous welcome. Nearly an

hour passed in the delightful confusion of such a reunion.

Later in the evening, Sebastian was alone with his son, and asked

what had brought him home so suddenly.

Friedemann had overmastered the sorrow that had crushed his spirit

thirteen years before. But a thousand difficulties were in his way,

and the struggle preyed on his mind. He began to despair of ever

doing any thing truly great in art. He had wished to strike out a new

path; the motive of his efforts was pure, and he did not design to

neglect the excellent old school.

"But I have been slandered, insulted!" he exclaimed bitterly. "My aim

has been ridiculed, my endeavors have been maliciously criticised, my

merits decried."

"By whom, Friedemann?"

Friedemann colored as he answered, "I know I am wrong to be disturbed

by the malignity of a shallow fool; but I cannot help it. There is a

critic in Halle, one schoolmaster Kniffe, who passes for a luminary

in the musical horizon, and writes reviews."

"I have seen them; they are absurd," said Sebastian. "He must cause

some sport in Halle."

"On the contrary, he is dreaded on account of his malice; and his

base libels please the ill-natured and envious."

"And know you not," asked his father, "that only the base and evil

array themselves against the good? Is there a more certain proof of

elevated worth than the impotent rage and opposition of the vicious?

I never taught you to look with pride or arrogance on your equals

or inferiors; but to be calm and self-possessed, and to maintain

your ground in reliance on Him to whom alone you are accountable.

Do that, Friedemann, and no stupid or malicious critic can make you

dissatisfied with yourself."

Here Caroline came in, announcing that a stranger wished to speak

with her father.

"He would not," she said, "give his name."

Sebastian bade her bring him in. Presently a sharp voice called out,

"_Bon soir, mon cher_ papa!" and the stranger entered and took the

old man's hand. "Do you not know me?"

Friedemann recognized him, and saluted Monsieur von Scherbitz.

"Ha! our ex-court-organist. The same ill-boding frown between the

brows as in 1737! You are little changed in thirteen years. And I, at

fifty-three, am grown to be a first lieutenant."

"You proved a friend to my son in his danger," said Sebastian, "and

are therefore welcome to me and mine. To what lucky chance am I

indebted for this visit to my quiet home?"

"To the most unlucky, my dear sir! I was so careless, at the prime

minister's last court, as to tread on the left fore paw of his

lady consort's lapdog. The beast cried out; the countess demanded

satisfaction; and in punishment for my misdeed I am marched as first

lieutenant to Poland in the body-guard of his excellency."

Sebastian felt a horror creep over him at the sarcastic, misanthropic

wit of his visitor, and sought to change the conversation. But

Scherbitz went on jesting in his bitter way about his tragical

destiny, concluding with the information that he had come over to

Leipzig simply to see Papa Bach once more in his life; for, on the

word of a first lieutenant, he had loved and honored him since the

first time he had seen him thirteen years ago.

The next morning Scherbitz walked in the little garden behind

Thomas's school, bounded by its high wall. He saw Caroline fastening

a vine to an _espalier_, and came to assist her. In a conversation

with her, he learned that none of the daughters of Bach had any

talent for music. The charming singing he had heard early in the

morning was by Madam Bach. But Caroline had a poetic taste, and was

Friedemann's favorite sister.

In talking with Friedemann, his friend could not fail to discover the

morbid state of his mind. Scherbitz thought it came from thinking too

deeply.

"Not the will," he said, "but action removes mountains. We are but

philosophers, and the slaves of circumstances. Had not the minister

played the spy on you and his pretty niece, had not I stepped on the

lapdog's foot, we might both have been at this moment sitting quietly

in Dresden; you beside Natalie, witching the world with music; I as a

merry page of fifty-three, jesting and enduring."

"Do you know," said Friedemann, and as he spoke his countenance

altered strangely, "I have often prayed that I might be mad, for a

time--not for ever!" In a quick, vehement tone, "Oh! no--no--not for

ever; but mad enough to forget. And yet, the memory of what I have

suffered would even then cling to me!"

He pressed his hands with a wild gesture over his eyes.

"You must not talk so wildly," said the lieutenant soothingly. "You

are yet young, and can accomplish much."

"What can I do?" cried Friedemann with harrowing laughter. "Nothing,

nothing! At eight and thirty all is dead with me; I am older than

you! Ha! mark you not where _madness_ lurks yonder behind the door,

making ready to spring upon my neck as I go out? He dares not seize

on me when my father is near; he shrinks up till he is little, and

hides himself in a spider's web over the window. But he shall not get

hold of me! Ha, ha, ha! I am cunning. I will not leave the chamber

without my father. Look you, old page, I understand a feint as well

as you!"

"_Mon ami! mon ami!_ what is the matter?" cried the lieutenant,

and, seizing his friend by the shoulders, he shook him violently.

"Friedemann Bach! do you not hear me?"

Friedemann stared at him vacantly. At length his face lost its

unnatural expression; his eyes became like living eyes, and he asked

softly what M. von Scherbitz wanted.

"What makes you such an idiot, man? Recollect yourself!" cried

Scherbitz.

Friedemann gave a forced laugh.

"You take a jest deeply," he said. "And you really believe that I am

sometimes mad? Not yet, friend! I am more rational than ever."

"Well, _mon ami_, it was your jest; but one should not paint the

devil on the wall. Sit down, and play me something till I get over

my fright. You acted your part so naturally!"

Friedemann sat down to the instrument and began to play.

"I did not dream of this," muttered the lieutenant; while Friedemann,

after playing half an hour, suddenly let his hands drop, sank back,

and fell fast asleep.

* * * * *

On the morning of the 21st of July, 1750, the church-bells were

ringing a solemn yet cheerful peal, inviting the pious to the house

of God. The sun shone brightly; the old man's heart was renewed in

love and devotion, and even Friedemann's gloomy breast was penetrated

with the beam of comfort, joy, and love. He had spent a part of the

night in studying a masterpiece of his father's, the great Passion

music. Full of the grandeur of the work, his face animated, he was

walking to and fro in his father's chamber, pondering a similar work

which he thought of undertaking.

Sebastian sat in his arm-chair, with folded arms, dressed ready

for church. He followed with his eyes, smiling affectionately, the

movements of his son. After a while, he said,

"I am glad the Passion music pleases you so well. I have a work of

quite another kind, finished, the first idea of which I got from your

_Fughetten_. And you are the first, after me, that shall see it."

He went to his desk, opened it, took out a sealed packet, and gave it

to his son. It was inscribed, "To my son Friedemann."

"I meant it for you, in case of my death before I saw you," said the

old man. "You may break the seal."

Friedemann opened the packet. It contained that nobly conceived,

admirably executed work which from the day of its appearance has

commanded the reverent admiration of all the initiated--_The Art of

Fugues_, by Johann Sebastian Bach.

Friedemann looked over the manuscript with sparkling eyes.

"And _my_ poor attempt," he cried, "has suggested a work destined

to immortalize its author! I have not lived in vain. O my father!

thanks. You have made me a noble present."

"You have rewarded me, Friedemann."

Sebastian went on to pour into his son's heart the kindly words of

wisdom.

"While you labor to deserve the appreciation of your equals," he

said, "strive to instruct those who cannot thus repay you. It is for

man only to show to the best that he belongs to the best. Let your

light shine--else you lower yourself, and rebel against your Master."

The chime of the bells, that had ceased, now recommenced; and

Madam Bach came in with her daughters, young Christian, and the

lieutenant. All were ready for church. Madam Bach gave her husband

his prayer-book and a bunch of flowers; Caroline brought his hat.

Sebastian rose, gave his arm to his wife, and walked to the door.

Turning back an instant, he glanced at the window shaded with

vine-leaves glistening in the sunlight, and said,

"What a lovely morning!"

As he went out of the room, he stopped suddenly, and let fall the

flowers and the prayer-book. The women screamed with fright. The old

man struggled for a few moments, then sank back lifeless into the

arms of his son.

Thus died Johann Sebastian Bach, by a stroke of apoplexy.

* * * * *

Three years had passed. The wealthy Baron von Globig celebrated the

feast of the vintage at his magnificent villa not far from Dresden.

Gilded gondolas, with long and many-colored pennants, were gliding to

and fro over the bosom of the Elbe, landing the distinguished guests.

The profuse splendor that marked all the preparations was worthy of

the favorite of the Count von Bruhl. Nothing the most fastidious

taste could suggest was wanting.

Few in the aristocratic company seemed to notice the host; but his

lovely wife was the observed of all. She was dignified and courteous,

but appeared to take little interest in any thing.

As twilight came on, colored lamps were lighted in the gardens, and

gorgeous illuminations were displayed. Bands of musicians played

alternately; stately men and beautiful women moved in the merry

dance, and general hilarity prevailed.

When the company returned to the great drawing-room, the Prussian

ambassador presented to the lady of the house a distinguished-looking

man as Philip Emmanuel, the second son of the great Sebastian Bach.

The baroness colored, and gave a furtive glance around her. After a

few words of conversation, she asked Bach, in a careless tone, where

was his elder brother.

"We do not know," answered Philip sadly. "None of us has seen

Friedemann since the day of our father's death, when he suddenly

quitted Leipzig."

"Have you heard nothing of him?"

"Nothing--except that he had been at times before subject to fits of

melancholy, which threatened his reason. We fear the worst."

The baroness turned away in silence. The baron came up, and presented

a petition for a little piece of music from the celebrated Monsieur

Bach.

"We are to have some variety," he added; "a bit of fun, by way of

enhancing the effect of your divine playing. A poor, half-crazy

musician from the Prague choir, who plays dances in the villages,

will be permitted to give us a tune in the antechamber. The doors

may be opened; but he must not come into the light, for his dress is

shabby and disordered."

The music sounded from the ante-room. A servant threw open the doors,

and in the imperfect light the guests saw a meanly-dressed man

sitting at the piano, his back toward them. They had expected a joke;

the baron having told many of them what a surprise he had in store.

But when they heard the playing--the wonderful, entrancing melody,

now towering into passion, now sinking to a harmonious plaint, which

the poor, unknown musician drew from the instrument--all were deeply

touched. The baroness and Philip stood, pale as death, looking

inquiringly yet doubtingly upon each other. At a bold turn in the

music, the baroness leaned toward him, whispering,

"'Tis he!" and Philip exclaimed aloud,

"It is my brother--Friedemann!"

The musician turned, sprang up, and rushed into Philip's

arms. At sight of the baroness, he started back with the

exclamation--"Natalie!"

The baroness sank back in a swoon. Friedemann tore himself from

Philip's arms, forced his way through the crowd, and rushed from the

house. The shock had brought on another attack of his awful malady.

* * * * *

An old man, past three score and ten, sat in a room in the upper

story of a house in one of the suburbs of Berlin. He was reading a

pile of music that lay on the table, making notes on the margin with

a pencil. The room was poorly furnished, and lighted by a single

lamp that flared in the currents of air, flinging fitful shadows

on the wall. The storm raging without shook the loose panes in the

window, and twisted the weather-cocks on the roof till they creaked

as they swung. The cold had penetrated the chamber, and the fire in

the grate was scanty. It was the last night of the year.

But all absorbed sat the old man, and heeded not cold or tempest as

he read the music. His form was tall and emaciated; his pale face

showed the ravages of age and disease. His thin, white locks fell

back from his temples; but his large eyes had the brightness of

youthful enthusiasm.

The bell struck midnight. The sounds of festal music, singing, and

shouting came from the streets; and faintly on the wind came the

swell of the _Te Deum_ chanted in a neighboring church.

The old man looked up from his reading, and listened attentively.

There was a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes.

The door opened, and a young man, with a pale and melancholy face,

and a form more meagre than the other's, came into the room.

"What hour struck?" asked the old man.

"Midnight. You had better go to bed."

"I do not need sleep. Look, I have been reading this legacy of my

father. Ah! if you, poor Theodore, could have had such a father. What

year has just begun?"

"Eighty-four."

"Eighty-four! Forty-seven years ago.... We will not speak of that."

"Poor old friend! Will you never tell me who you are?"

"You did not ask me the day I first saw you; when I found a madman

just about to take his own life. I pulled away the weapon; I bade you

live!"

"You saved my life; but what is it worth? You see me old even in

youth."

"You will live many years yet."

"No. I suffer a great deal; I feel that my hours are numbered. But

why not tell me your name?"

"He who composed that noble work," said the old man, pointing to the

music, "was my father."

"The name was on the first leaf, with the title of the music, and you

have torn it out! I do not understand music, you know. Tell me, old

friend, what to call you?"

"'The Old Musician.'"

"So the few who know you in this great city always call you. But your

other name?"

"I have promised to reveal it only to an artist in music."

Then, noticing the pallid and sunken cheek of his young companion, he

said,

"Has the new year brought you nothing, Theodore?"

Theodore took a roll of money from his vest pocket, and threw it on

the table.

"Gold!" exclaimed the old man.

"Yes--when we need it no longer!"

He drew out a flask from the pocket of his cloak.

"Wine, too; the best of Johannisberger! You have tasted no wine

lately; drink to the new year."

The old man turned away; for bitter recollections came up, associated

with the season.

Theodore took two glasses from the buffet, drew up a chair, sat down,

and uncorked the flask. He filled the old man's glass and his own

with the wine, which diffused a rich fragrance.

The old man asked, at length, how he came by such luck.

"I sold my paintings to a lord travelling through the city."

"What a pity you could not exhibit them!"

"Those sketches cost me seven years of more than labor: all I have

thought, lived, suffered; the early dreams of youth; the stern repose

after the struggle with fate! I sacrificed all. I spared not even the

glimmering spark of life; and thought when the work was finished the

laurel would deck my brow in death. All fancies! Wherever I offered

my work, I was repulsed. The publishers thought the undertaking too

expensive. Some advised me to paint scenes from the Seven Years' War;

others called my sketches wild and fantastic."

"Ay, ay!" murmured the old man. "Lessing, who died three years

ago, said to me rightly, 'All the artist accomplishes beyond the

appreciation of the multitude, brings him neither profit nor honor!

The highest must grovel with the worm.'"

"As long as I can remember, old friend, I have had but one

passion--for my art. Yet must I degrade art to the rabble; must paint

apish faces, while visions of divine loveliness float before me; must

feel the genius within me comprehended by none; must be driven to

despair of myself! With all my gifts, I must ask myself, at five and

twenty, Wherefore have I lived?"

"Live on; the answer will come."

"Has it come to you? Had I gained the prize, I might have been like

Raphael; you, like some great master of your art. Success was not for

us; and we are doomed to insignificance."

"Silence!" cried the old man; "that leads to madness. I know the

horror of madness. They tell me I was a long time so."

"No fear of that, old friend. We are both too near a sure harbor.

Come, fill up your glass! Hark to the music and shouting in the

streets. Here we sit, like the gods on the summit of Olympus, sipping

nectar, and laughing at the fools below us. Drink as I do. No more?

Well, yonder is your bed, and here is mine. Good-night to you."

They retired to rest. The storm ceased to beat on the window-panes;

but the bell-ringing and music continued throughout the night.

The bright sunshine of morning flooded the chamber. The old man arose

and went to the window. It was a clear, cold morning; the air was

keen, the sky cloudless; the frost had wrought delicate tracery on

the panes.

The old man threw his cloak over his shoulders, and stood some time

at the window. Then he went to awaken his young friend.

He touched the hand that lay outside the bed-covering; it was cold

and stiff! Poor Theodore had fainted in the struggle with destiny.

Long the prey of heart-disease, he had died in the night.

The old man stood as if paralyzed, gazing on the face of his dead

friend. His last stay was broken!

Sitting down by the body, he remained motionless the whole day. Late

in the afternoon, the woman who kept the house came in with a message

to Theodore, and found the old man exhausted and shivering with the

cold. She led him into a warm room, and gave him nourishment.

When Theodore was buried, the gold he left was given to the old

man, with whom he had lived two years, supplying the wants of both

by his scanty earnings as a portrait-painter and the sale of a

drawing now and then. Now that he had no resource for the future, the

people of the house advised the old man to go to the overseer of the

poor-house. He shook his head, saying, "No; I will go to Hamburg."

"To Hamburg!" echoed the housekeeper. "Hamburg is a long way from

Berlin; you could not bear such a journey."

But the old man soon forgot his purpose. He resumed his wanderings

through the streets of Berlin--his practice before he met with

Theodore--stopping to listen whenever he heard music. He would

sometimes go into the houses where concerts were given; and all who

remembered him were glad to see "the Old Musician" once more.

One evening as he walked about the streets, he stopped to listen to

music sounding from the windows of an illuminated palace. He went

up the steps and was going in; but the porter, a Swiss, pushed him

rudely back. So he stood without in the cold and cutting night wind,

and listened, his whole soul absorbed in the music.

A servant in livery came out, and ran against him. "Ha!" he exclaimed

in surprise; "is that you, Old Musician? How long it is since I have

seen you. Why do you stand there shaking in the cold?"

"Monsieur Swiss would not let me pass," answered the old man.

"Monsieur Swiss is an idiot! Come in with me, old friend; you shall

thaw your old limbs, and have some refreshment. My lord gives a grand

concert." To the porter he said, "You must always let in the Old

Musician; my lord has given orders that it shall be so. He comes to

enjoy the music."

He led the old man to a seat near the fire in one of the ante-rooms,

and drew a folding screen before him. "You are out of view here,"

he said; "but you can hear every thing. I will bring you a glass of

wine."

All that evening the old man listened to music that thrilled his

inmost heart. It was late when the concert ended. Then the man who

had brought him in, came and told him it was time to go, offering to

send a boy home with him.

"That was admirable music," said the old man drawing a deep breath.

"It was," replied the servant. "All you heard was composed by the

same master, who is staying with my lord at present."

"What is his name?"

"It is Master Naumann, chapel-master to the Elector of Saxony."

"Let me speak with him, if he is in the house."

"Certainly, if you want to ask any thing."

"I want to thank him."

"Well, come to-morrow morning."

The next morning the strange visitor was announced to the composer

Naumann.

"Who is the Old Musician?" he asked. The man could not tell. He had

been known by that name for years in Berlin, and was thought to

be partially insane at times. But he was said to have a thorough

knowledge of music.

"Bring him in," said Naumann. The old man entered the room. He had a

dignity of mien that inspired respect, in spite of his poor apparel;

and Naumann rose and advanced to meet him.

"You are welcome, my good friend, though I know not your

name--welcome as a lover of our noble art. Take this chair."

The old man, still standing, answered, "I come to thank you, sir,

for the pleasure of hearing your concert last evening. I was a

listener, privately, and understood that your latest compositions

were performed. I will not conceal my name from you. I am Friedemann

Bach."

Naumann stood petrified with astonishment. "Friedemann Bach!" at

length he repeated; "the great son of the great Sebastian. How

strange, indeed! I saw your brother Philip at Hamburg, only last

year. The excellent old man mourns you as dead."

"I would be dead to all who knew me in better days," was the

melancholy reply. "It would grieve them to know how sad a failure

my life has been. Even in Berlin none know that Friedemann Bach yet

lives; not even Mendelssohn, the friend of Lessing. While he lived, I

had no fear of starving."

Naumann was deeply affected. Philip had told him his brother's

history; his sorrows, his disappointments, his terrible suffering for

years. "What can I do for you?" he asked mournfully.

"Nothing," answered Bach. "You have done every thing in showing me

what I could and should have done. You know how I failed; how my life

was wasted; how I fell short in all my bold and burning schemes.

I fainted, and did not reap. But you need not the warning of my

history. You walk securely and cheerfully in the right path. I can

only thank you for your magnificent works. The blessing of God be

with you! I feel now that I have nothing more to do in this world."

He turned away, and was gone before Naumann could recover from the

emotion his words called forth. He called the servant to ask where he

could be found; but no one could tell him. The boy who had escorted

the old man home had not been suffered to go to his door. At length

he met with Moses Mendelssohn, and told him what had happened.

Mendelssohn was astonished to learn that Friedemann Bach yet lived,

and in Berlin. The only clue he had was his knowledge of Lessing's

old dwelling, where the old musician lived some time before.

The next morning the two went to the Friedrichstadt, and found

Lessing's house. The housekeeper opened the door.

"Does M. Friedemann Bach live here yet?" asked Mendelssohn.

The woman shook her head, lifting the corner of her apron at the same

time to wipe her eyes.

"Pardon me," she cried; "but I cannot help it! Just at this time

yesterday they carried away my poor friend, the Old Musician. He died

three weeks after his young friend, the painter."

Her voice was choked with tears.

There was no need of further inquiry. Poor Bach was a wanderer no

more.

ON ST. PETER DELIVERED FROM PRISON.

This is no mystery

Or juggler's play

Which here is told.

What lock can stay

Him who the key

Of heaven doth hold?

"IT'S WRONG!"

"It's wrong! It's wrong!" the whole day long

My hidden censor has piped the song,

Till my ears are tingling like a gong

With--"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

Out by my chamber window there,

In the mulberry-tops, in the August air,

The mock-bird sings his devil-may-care--

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

Rash birdy! have you no monishing fear--

Chiding a monarch as you do here?

I'm regal in all this little sphere!

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

You laying down law for the village queen,

Who from her envied height serene

Gives a code to its best, I ween!

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

Ha! see, I am decking my "throat of snow"

With his costly gems, (he called it so.)

What if little Barefoot beg below?

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

Look, little sage, in my bright blue eyes!

Their color was caught from the summer skies.

He says it; and ah! he is very wise.

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

Ha! self-wise bird, I am fooling you.

My lover is not more gallant than true,

And we'll go tripping it through the dew--

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

What! wrong to go by the shiny birch

That shades the lane to the village church?

Wrong, may be, to leave you in the lurch?

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

O birdy! I'll be a love-in-the-mist,

In my loom-fog veil, when the bride is kissed,

Blushing through filmy folds--ah! hist!

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

Well, welladay for the wedding-bells!

Arch-misanthrope, what is this he tells

As whistle and chime go down the dells?

"It's wrong! It's wrong!"

BRITISH PREMIERS IN RELATION TO BRITISH CATHOLICS.

CONCLUDED.

Every step toward emancipation, however halting and feeble, was of

great consequence, since it established a precedent--and precedents

in England have often the force of law. Thus, the act fifth, George

IV., chapter seventy-nine, permitted persons to hold office in the

receipt of customs, without taking any oath but that of allegiance.

This was a gain, trivial in itself, yet, under the circumstances,

not to be despised. The same thing was true of Mr. George Bankes's

bill, relieving English Catholics from penalty of double assessment

of land-tax. It was introduced and passed in 1828. While recording

Canning's services to the cause which Catholics had at heart,

we must not forget to show how ready he was, on the other hand,

to combine with his colleagues when Ireland had to be oppressed

and persecuted. In 1825, they agreed, with one mind, to put down

the Irish Catholic Association, because they saw how powerful an

instrument it would become, in O'Connell's hands, for the attainment

of freedom. The bill by which they suppressed it was called, by the

Liberator, "the Algerine Bill." But in the same year an attempt

was made, with very doubtful sincerity, to modify the maddening

effect of this suppression by conferences with O'Connell, Sheil,

and other lay Catholics of influence, by inducing them to assent

to a proposal, made by way of compensation, for the pensioning of

the Catholic clergy, and the disfranchisement of the forty-shilling

freeholders.[187] These were to be "the two wings" of a Catholic

relief bill, and to this offer O'Connell was induced to adhere.

The measure was introduced by Sir Francis Burdett, in April, 1825.

It passed the Commons by a considerable majority; and was then,

as might have been expected, thrown out by the Lords, who were

fortified in their opposition by the Duke of York. Thus the great

work of emancipation was again postponed. Though there had been

points in Canning's conduct which were displeasing to Catholics;

though, with strange inconsistency, he resisted the repeal of the

test and corporation acts, which by relieving dissenters would have

relieved Catholics also; though he was sharply attacked by Brougham,

and charged with pleading their cause without the smallest idea of

success, and with betraying those whom he appeared to befriend, yet

they listened with delight to his speech in behalf of their claims a

few months before his death. They placed their confidence in him, and

looked forward to his premiership as the season of their deliverance.

But as Pitt had resigned office in consequence of his attachment to

the Catholic cause, so it was Canning's fate also to taste the bitter

fruits of befriending an oppressed and hated communion. The frowns

of royalty, the fury of Tories, and the perfidy of Whigs, combined

with the insidious growth of disease to bring him down to the grave

harassed and worn.

A _recess government_ followed. Lord Goderich had been a supporter

of the Catholic claims; but mediocrity such as his could not be

expected to hold its place long at the head of affairs, and still

less to conduct a momentous and vital question to a happy issue.

That question, like all others of equal magnitude, had to be settled

out of parliament before it could be carried within its walls. The

monster meetings assembled in Ireland at the call of O'Connell

brought the matter to a crisis, and convinced all reasonable men that

concession could not long be delayed. Yet the Duke of Wellington, who

succeeded Lord Goderich in 1828, and Sir Robert Peel still ranged

themselves on the side of the opponents of emancipation. The Lords,

in the month of June, rejected a motion pledging them to a favorable

consideration of the measure. Vesey Fitzgerald, however, an Irish

liberal, was made president of the Board of Trade, and required,

according to English law, to be reelected as member of parliament

before he could hold his office in the government. It was a glorious

opportunity for the Irish, and they embraced it manfully. At the

suggestion of Sir David Roos, an Orangeman,[188] and of an intimate

friend named Fitzpatrick, O'Connell proposed himself as a candidate

for Clare, in opposition to the _protégé_ of the government, Mr.

Vesey Fitzgerald. In such a conflict the odds were all but desperate;

yet O'Connell was victorious, although _legally_ ineligible. He was

declared duly returned; and he was the first Catholic elected by an

Irish constituency since the reign of James II.

That election was, in effect, the triumph of emancipation. It sunk

deep into the minds of the chiefs of the opposition. The greatest

statesmen had long been wavering in secret. Lord Liverpool had been

convinced some time before his death that the time for yielding the

point was drawing nigh, and that he would soon have to support the

Catholic claims, if not as a premier, at least as a peer. Sir Robert

Peel had, in 1825, requested Lord Liverpool to relieve him of office

on the ground that emancipation could no longer be deferred. Three

years later, he announced to the Duke of Wellington his resolution

to support the claims he had so long resisted, and declared that,

in pursuit of that "great object," he was ready to sacrifice

"consistency and friendship." Little did the majority, either of

his friends or foes, imagine how deep a change his mind had really

undergone.

It would hardly be too much to say the same of the duke. He was the

only man in England who could carry emancipation, and the only man

who did do it. He was that power in the state which the circumstance

required. He accomplished in England, though with far different aims

and feelings, what the lyre of Thomas Moore effected in Irish homes,

and the eloquence of O'Connell on the fields of Tara and Clontarf.

The test and corporation act being repealed, his way was cleared.

Persons holding office under the crown were no longer obliged to

qualify themselves by receiving the Lord's Supper in the Established

Church. He began, therefore, by speaking on the Catholic claims

with studied ambiguity. Though he declared that his opinions on

this subject were as decided as those of any one in the house, he

added that he should oppose emancipation until he should see a

great change in the question. That change was fast coming over it.

He knew that the Commons would then pass no very arbitrary laws;

that they would not require candidates for a seat in parliament to

take the oaths of allegiance and supremacy on the hustings; that

without emancipation it would be impossible to disfranchise the

forty-shilling freeholders; that others would be elected besides

O'Connell; and that they could not be prevented from taking their

seats and representing their constituents without a civil war. The

duke, though a great general, was not a man of blood. He was not an

impracticable man, though a Tory. He knew how to "take occasion by

the hand," and to do that of which St. Philip Neri says there is not

a finer thing on earth--make a virtue of necessity. He was influenced

in the matter by no abstract principle of justice, no enthusiasm in

favor of the oppressed, no sympathy with a proscribed faith; but he

sincerely loved his country, and he came by degrees to feel convinced

that her interests were consulted best by altering the basis of her

constitution in church and state. He sought, indeed, securities from

those whom he proposed to relieve, and he purchased at their hands

the disfranchisement of the forty-shilling freeholders in Ireland;

but, on the other hand, he was willing to endow the Catholic Church

in the sister isle, and to apply three hundred thousand pounds

per annum toward the payment of the priests. To this part of his

plan Peel could not be induced to consent, and it was subsequently

abandoned. Great as Wellington was in war, he was greater in

peace--greater in his victory over Protestant prejudices, and as the

champion of the rights of an injured people and a persecuted creed.

On the 5th of March, 1829, Sir Robert Peel (then Mr. Peel) brought

forward a bill for the relief of Catholics. It was _the_ bill long

desired, clamored for, dreaded; which was to alter fundamentally

the character of English law, and change the destinies both of

England and Ireland. It was preceded by a bill finally suppressing

the Catholic Association, at the very time when that association

was being dissolved of its own accord. The mind of Peel had been

long and anxiously engaged in the study of the question as regarded

Ireland. Night and day he had been examining evidence, pondering

the difficulties to be overcome, and the chances of success. It

was the nature of his mind to work in secret, and to manifest the

result only when it became absolutely necessary. During the period of

transition he voted against Catholic emancipation, but did so with

manifest repugnance. Whatever decision the house might come to, he

said, he should give it his best acquiescence; and if the measure

should be carried, he should use his earnest endeavors to reconcile

Protestants to it. When it was proposed to admit Catholic lords

into the upper house, he offered but slight opposition to the bill,

nor did he object to granting English Catholics the same electoral

rights as were enjoyed by their brethren in Ireland. His Tory friends

were offended by his moderation; for they loved "the falsehood of

extremes," and they could not comprehend his anxiety to promote

education among the Catholic as well as among the Protestant part

of the population. They would not recollect how many indications he

had given of a possible change in his future conduct in reference

to emancipation. They knew not, or they affected to forget, that two

years before Canning died, he had expressed to Lord Liverpool his

conviction that emancipation must pass, and had offered to resign.

So long ago as 1821, he had declared, in reply to Plunket, that

even if his own views prevailed, "their prevalence must be mingled

with regret at the disappointment which he knew the success of such

opinions must entail upon a great portion of his fellow-subjects."

He should, he said, "cordially rejoice if his predictions proved

unfounded, and his arguments groundless."

There were those who perceived the current his thoughts were taking,

and among them was the Duke of Clarence, afterward William IV. One of

the duke's sons told Cardinal Acton that, when he returned home one

night from a very late division in the House of Commons, of which he

was a member, he went to his father's dressing-room, and was asked by

the duke how the division on emancipation had gone; and when he was

told that the bill had been lost, the duke said,

"That rascal, Peel, will adopt emancipation, will carry it, and take

the glory from us who have fought for it all our lives."[189]

No less remarkable were the words used by the Duke of Clarence

when, at last, Wellington and Peel introduced, with all the weight

of government recommendation, the great bill for Catholic relief.

He wished, he said, that the ministers had been as united in 1825

as they proved in 1829. "It will be forty-six years next month,"

he added, "since I first sat in this house; and I have never given

a vote of which, thank God! I have been ashamed; and never one

with so much pleasure as the vote I shall give in favor of Catholic

emancipation."

It would be foreign to our purpose in this place to relate the

circumstances attending the passing of the bill, and the admission of

O'Connell into the House of Commons. We are concerned, not so much

with these events, as with the premiers who brought them about. Peel

did not acquire the confidence of the Irish whom he had emancipated.

O'Connell regarded him with implacable aversion, and nothing could

exceed the hatred and distrust with which he was treated by the

Tories who had once been his friends. It was nothing to them that the

change of his politics had been the result of long and arduous study;

that he had taken nothing for granted, but required proof of every

statement made by those who sought to convert him to their side.

They had not seen what we possess--the posthumous volumes edited by

Peel's trustees, Lord Stanhope and Mr. Cardwell--and they could not,

therefore, judge of the laborious and conscientious search by which

he arrived at his conclusions; and even if they had seen them, it

is probable that they would have reproached him for investigating

the subject in a hesitating frame of mind, and for beating out for

himself and many of his followers a path of apostasy.