“Then, pale as privet, took she heart to drink,

And therewithal most strange new thoughts did think,

And unknown feelings seized her, and there came

Sudden remembrance, vivid as a flame,

Of everything that she had done on earth,

Although it all seemed changed in weight and worth,

“Small things becoming great, and great things small;

And godlike pity touched her therewithal

For her old self, for sons of men that die;

And that sweet new-born immortality

Now with full love her rested spirit fed.

Then in that concourse did she lift her head,

And stood at last a very goddess there,

And all cried out at seeing her grown so fair.”

This is the inspiration of true poetry. Nothing at all approaching it

can be found throughout the poetry of Tennyson.

In contrast to the soul led by divine love, the poet depicts her

sisters devoured by envy and hatred, until, deceiving themselves the

while with the dream that they too were objects of delight to divine

love, the one having reached “the bare cliff’s rugged brow,” her end

of life,

“She cried aloud, ‘O Love! receive me now,

Who am not all unworthy to be thine.’

And with that word her jewelled arms did shine

Outstretched beneath the moon, and with one breath

She sprang to meet the outstretched arms of Death,

The only god that waited for her there,

And in a gathered moment of despair

A hideous thing her trait’rous life did seem”;

and the other

“… rose, and, as she might,

Arrayed herself alone in that still night,

And so stole forth, and, making no delay,

Came to the rock a-nigh the dawn of day;

No warning there her sister’s spirit gave,

No doubt came nigh her the doomed soul to save,

But with a fever burning in her blood,

With glittering eyes and crimson cheeks, she stood

One moment on the brow, the while she cried,

‘Receive me, Love, chosen to be thy bride

From all the million women of the world!’

Then o’er the cliff her wicked limbs were hurled,

Nor has the language of the earth a name

For that surprise of terror and of shame.”

Can anything be grander than this imaged suicide of the evil human

soul? And the glowing description of Psyche content to forget her

father and her father’s house, and finding the fondest delight in

sequestering herself alone with her divine Lover, whom she never sees,

only whose voice she hears, is the most exquisite piece of poetic

imagining to be met with anywhere. But the poem deserves a criticism

to itself.

We have here to pause. We had hoped to apply similar canons of

criticism to others of our modern poets. We had selected Buchanan,

Adelaide Procter, Matthew Arnold, Aubrey de Vere, and especially his

father, whose mantle has descended on him. Sir Aubrey de Vere is the

only one of the modern poets who has written a poem belonging to the

highest order of poetry—_Mary Tudor_, a historical drama—which,

although at a long distance from the dramas of “the poet of the

world,” is the nearest to them that has been written since his day.

[76] This epithet, to our mind, is a blemish in a very

beautiful creation. In the midst of lofty and

suggestive natural imagery it abruptly sinks us to a

vulgar matter-of-fact struggle of men at fisticuffs

armed in the product of the blacksmith’s shop.

ON THE FIRST OCCASION OF THE FORTY HOURS’ DEVOTION IN THE NEW

CATHEDRAL OF BOSTON.

“_No word shall be impossible with God._”

O blessed bells! ring joyfully to-day;

O incense clouds! float gladly up to heaven;

All glory, honor, power, and praise be given

To Him whom earth and sea and sky obey.

Behold, the conqueror doth assert his sway

Here where men once would fain have died unshriven,

Proclaimed the Holy Faith unholy leaven,

And drove its followers out as Satan’s prey.

But now, beneath a great cathedral’s dome,

The Sacred Heart doth beat, and men adore;

Our Lord hath found at last a glorious home,

In spite of unbelief that rages still.

“Thy kingdom come,” pray we as ne’er before,

Whose eyes have seen his power to work his will.

MARCH, 1876.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

_A HISTORICAL ROMANCE._ FROM THE FRENCH OF THE PRINCESSE DE CRAON.

VII.

“This is very singular!” cried Sir Roger Lassels, master of the earl’s

household, as they passed the edge of the wood. “I had made a bet with

myself that we would follow the road on the bank of the river. At all

events, the expedition will not be a very long one, since they have

given me no order for provisions. It is true, however, that our poor

young lord’s head is not as sound as it might be. Ah! well, in the

time of the late duke things were not managed in this fashion. When

they were going into the country, the duke would send for me eight

days in advance. ‘Lassels,’ he would say—‘my dear Lassels,’ slapping

me on the shoulder, ‘above all take great care that we shall want for

nothing. Prepare everything in advance; because in matters of cooking,

you know, I hate nothing so much as the uncertainty of the ‘fortune of

the pot.’ He was right, very right, was the duke. The duchess used

always to say on seeing our wagons passing by: ‘With Roger Lassels

they carry everything with them.’”

In the meantime the first rays of the sun were not slow in dissipating

the heavy mists of morning; the air became pure and exhilarating, and

the northern pines, which grew in great profusion in that portion of

the forest, imparted to the atmosphere a sweet, pungent odor. Myriads

of dewdrops, more brilliant than diamonds, were suspended from the

points of the leaves, which the slightest breath of air was sufficient

to call down in a laughing shower. Creeping vines, thickly laden with

blossoms, crossed and recrossed the road, almost hidden by the thick

verdure with which it was overgrown. The birds saluted the return of

day with a thousand joyous songs; the deer and young fawns bounded

beneath the heavy shade of the forest. All nature wore an air of

majestic beauty, calm and tranquil; the heart of man is alone found to

remain always in a state of agitation and unrest.

“Oh! what a beautiful shot,” cried a voice from the crowd, on seeing a

large grouse, its wings dripping with the dew, flying slowly above

their heads.

“Take it, then!” cried another.

“For what purpose?” exclaimed Northumberland.

Sir Walsh, hearing the voice of Lord Percy, took advantage of that

moment to urge his horse beside him, and declare the pain it caused

him to see his friend so deeply depressed.

“What could you expect?” replied Percy. “All is ended with me. I have

renounced everything. I am detached from everything earthly. A single

moment has dissipated all the illusions of my short and miserable

life—illusions in which so many others remain for ever enveloped. I

believed that henceforth a word would be sufficient to answer my every

thought; to suffer alone, while awaiting death, which is only the

beginning of life. Might I not thus believe myself to be almost

shielded by evils, since I was determined to endure them all? One evil

only I had not foreseen—that of being made the cause of suffering to

others; of becoming, in the hands of an unjust and barbarous ruler, an

instrument destined to destroy my friends! Ah! it is this that makes

me rebel, that bows me to the earth and surpasses everything that I

have yet been made to suffer. I go at this moment to arrest the

Archbishop of York—to conduct him, doubtless, on the road to

execution; and the day will come when those who loved him will

exclaim, while they point the finger of scorn at my abode: ‘There

lives the man who arrested the great Wolsey, the venerable friend who

had reared and educated him in his own house!’”

“The great Wolsey!” replied Walsh, astonished.

“Yes, _great_,” said Northumberland. “When he will be no more, then

will they forget his faults and appreciate his great qualities. He has

known how to keep the lion chained, so that you have only seen him

lap; but you will know him better if he ever gets the chance to use

his teeth.”

“Who is this lion?” asked Walsh.

“I cannot name his name,” replied Northumberland angrily; “he is one

whose claws tear the heart and destroy the innocent; one who is—But

never mind!” And he abruptly ceased speaking.

After riding for some time through the forest, they at last emerged

into a vast plain, in the midst of which appeared several villages;

and very soon they found themselves near a church, whose ringing

chimes announced the beginning of the divine Office.

“Ah!” said Sir Roger Lassels to himself, “there is to be Mass at the

chapel of Sir William Harrington.”

At that moment the Earl of Northumberland turned to Sir Walsh. “If

agreeable to you,” he said, “we will stop and hear Mass. We shall, at

any rate, arrive soon enough at Cawood. You will have an opportunity,

if you are curious, of visiting the monuments Sir William Harrington

has had erected to the memory of his parents in this chapel, founded

by him in order that prayers may every day be offered for the repose

of their souls.”[77]

“I ask nothing better,” replied Sir Walsh.

They all entered the chapel, where Mass had already begun. A great

number of the inhabitants of the surrounding country were assembled,

and Lord Percy found himself close beside a woman, still very young,

but whose features seemed to have been entirely changed by misery and

suffering. Two small children knelt beside her and held to her coarse,

black woollen gown.

“Mother, I am very hungry yet!” said the eldest in a voice as sweet as

that of a young dove. “Brother has eaten up all the bread.” And he

laid his head against her shoulder.

The young woman looked at the child, and her eyes filled with tears.

“My dear child,” she replied in a low, choking voice, “I have nothing

more to give you; this evening, may be, I shall find something to buy

bread with. If your father were living, we would be very happy; but,

my son, a poor widow is cast off by all the world, even though she is

too feeble to work for bread for her children.”

Tears streamed from her eyes as she pressed the starving child close

to her bosom.

Northumberland listened to the woman’s mournful complaint, observing

especially that she did not murmur; she only wept. The expression of

her pale and suffering face, as well as the feeling she had expressed

of entire abandonment, filled his soul with pity.

“Such as these,” he said to himself—“such as these indeed have a right

to complain of life and its miseries. I have ignored them. Shut up in

my castle, I have even forgotten the orphan. Of no possible service to

my kind, the earth supports me like an arid, sterile plant. Cruel

selfishness! Is it, then, essential for all to smile around me before

I can think of those who are crushed by poverty and misfortune? My

tears, my sighs, my regrets, have all been in vain, have vanished into

thin air; there remains for me nothing but duty to my neighbor, and

that I have not done!”

Greatly agitated, he remained for an instant motionless, then, leaning

over toward the woman, he requested her to leave the chapel for a

moment.

Surprised that any one should think of speaking to her, she raised her

eyes, all streaming with tears, to his face, while astonishment was

painted on her emaciated features.

She arose, however, and followed him out, and they stopped a short

distance from the chapel.

“You weep!” said Northumberland compassionately. “You are a widow, it

seems. Are you not able to support your children?”

“Alas! sir,” replied the young woman without hesitation, “my husband

died in a strange land while on a voyage which would have secured us a

living; and I, a stranger in this country where he has left me, and

where I have no relations, no friends, to assist me, have been brought

down to extreme poverty. My work has scarcely sufficed to keep us

alive, and to-day it has failed entirely.”

“Poor woman!” said Northumberland, putting some pieces of gold in her

hand, “hereafter have no fears; I will take care of you and your young

children.”

“My God!” cried the woman, falling on her knees—“bread, bread for my

children! Are you an angel sent from heaven to save us? O sir! who

will thank you for me? Ah! it shall be my poor children and your own!

May they love and bless you as I do this moment.”

“Alas!” replied Lord Percy, “I have no children; I shall never have

any! But you, poor mother, can at least rejoice in the happiness of

possessing children to love and cherish you.”

In spite of the painful recollections awakened in his soul, when Percy

returned to the chapel his heart was overflowing with a secret and

sweet consolation; he felt that henceforth he would find brothers and

friends in these unfortunates, whose father he would replace by taking

upon himself their support.

When the Mass was ended, they all remounted their horses to continue

their journey. They had scarcely started when they were joined by a

troop of horsemen as numerous as it was brilliant, being composed of a

great number of the most distinguished gentlemen in the province, who

were proceeding to York to assist at the installation of their

archbishop. At their head rode old Robert Ughtred, chief of one of the

oldest Yorkshire families, whose valor and merit had been admired by

all his contemporaries. Six of his sons accompanied him. At his side

rode Clifton, Lord d’Humanby, his friend and relative; Thomas

Wentworth, of Nettlestead; Sir Arthur Ingram de Temple, Lord of

Newsam; Walter Vavassour; John de Hothum, Lord of Cramwick and of

Bierly; William Aytoun, Swillington; Meynill, Lord of Semer and

Duerteton, together with a crowd of others. They recognized with

astonishment the Earl of Northumberland, and eagerly approached to

salute him.

This meeting, but little agreeable at first, became still less so when

informed of the object of their journey. Percy, however, deemed it

inexpedient to let this opportunity pass of creating for himself a

sort of justification for the future. On being told, therefore, that

they would spend two days at the little village of Cawood before going

to salute the archbishop, he assured them he would be most happy to do

the same and not separate from their company; but he was forced to go

where he had been ordered, and that it was a mission on which he

proceeded with the greatest reluctance and sorrow.

The travellers, astonished at his singular explanation, looked

inquiringly at each other; but as they regarded the Earl of

Northumberland with great deference because of his rank, his

well-known worth, and the affection they cherished for the memory of

his father, they held their peace, and continued their journey until

within a very short distance of Cawood.

* * * * *

Notwithstanding the resolution taken by Cardinal Wolsey that the

ceremony of his installation should be attended by the least possible

_éclat_, he could not prevent the entire nobility of the province from

assembling to do him honor and to express on this solemn occasion

their affection and joy. The little village of Cawood and the castles

around it were crowded with visitors. The archbishop’s courtyard was

constantly filled with carts laden with game, fruits, and all kinds of

provisions, sent to him from every direction to assist in doing honor

to the entertainment it was customary to give on these occasions.

Wolsey felt touched to the heart by these testimonials of friendship

and esteem, in which there was no reason to suspect that self-interest

mingled its destructive poison. Nevertheless, he felt more than ever

depressed, and his spirit was overshadowed by dark and terrible

presentiments, in spite of all his efforts to dispel them.

It was the hour for the repast taken by our fathers at noon, and

Wolsey found himself seated opposite the salt-cellar which divided the

table, and served also to designate the rank of the guests. In those

remote times a common expression prevailed: “It takes place above or

below the salt.”

The chaplains were seated around him, quietly discussing the

foundation of the cathedral of York. Some of them stated that the

Venerable Bede alleged in his writings that it was Edwin the Saxon,

King of Northumberland, who, having embraced the Christian faith in

the year 627, was the first to build a wooden church, which he

afterwards rebuilt of stone. But the others contended, the monument

having been pillaged and devastated by the Danes, then burned by the

Normans, together with a portion of the city, the title of founder

could only be accorded to Archbishop Roger, who commenced the erection

of the superb edifice in 1171, and to his successors, John of Romagna

and William of Melton, who had the honor of completing it after forty

years’ labor. They insisted that it would assuredly be just to include

among them Robert Percy, Lord of Bolton, who had all the wood cut

employed in the construction, and Robert Vavassour, who had furnished

the stone.

The archbishop for a long while had finished eating. He had listened

patiently to their lengthy discussions. When he saw at last they had

nearly concluded, he arose to say grace; but at the moment they were

standing with bowed heads awaiting the act of thanksgiving, the black

velvet robe of Dr. Augustine, his physician, became entangled in the

foot of the large silver cross that was carried before the archbishop.

This cross was standing in one corner, resting against the tapestry,

and the robe made it fall with its entire weight on the head of Dr.

Bonner, who sat on the opposite side of the table. He uttered a

piercing cry.

They all rushed toward him.

“What is the matter with him?” demanded the archbishop, who had seen

nothing of the accident.

“The cross,” explained Cavendish, his master of the horse—“the cross,

which was leaning against the wall, has fallen in Dr. Bonner’s face.”

“In his face! Is he bleeding?” cried Wolsey.

“Yes,” replied several of those who surrounded the wounded man, “but

it is nothing serious; the skin only is broken.”

“Ah!” said Wolsey, and he stood motionless; his head sank on his

breast, as though he had suddenly fallen into a profound reverie.

“Woe is me!” he at length exclaimed, “woe is me!” And the tears

coursed down his cheeks. He quickly wiped them away and retired

immediately to his bedroom, where no one dared follow him without

being summoned.

The attendants of the cardinal, however, were extremely apprehensive,

having remarked the sudden change in his manner and the extreme pallor

which had overspread his countenance. Dr. Bonner especially earnestly

insisted that Cavendish should go to him at once.

He finally resolved to do so. On entering the apartment he found the

archbishop on his knees, and remarked that the floor of his chamber

was wet with tears.

Wolsey made a sign for him to retire; but the faithful servitor stood

near the door and hesitated to obey him. The cardinal then called him

to assist him in rising to his feet, feeling, he said, extremely

feeble.

“Alas! my dear lord,” said Cavendish, “what is it that so deeply

grieves you? and why will you withdraw from your trusty servitors, if

it is in their power to assist you?”

“I thank you, Cavendish,” replied the cardinal, inclining his head,

“but listen to me. My poor friend, I am going to die very soon—I have

a presentiment of it; and God, in his mercy, often sends us these

warnings, in order that we may not be surprised by death. The cross of

York has fallen: it represents myself.”

“Why think you so?” asked Cavendish earnestly. “This cross fell

because it was struck; nothing could have been more natural than such

an accident.”

“No! no!” exclaimed Wolsey, “it was not at all natural, but it is only

too true. York is overthrown! Augustine is my accuser; he makes my own

blood flow in making Bonner bleed, the master of my faculties and

spiritual jurisdiction. My destiny is accomplished. My doom is sealed.

Cavendish, if you doubt it, you will soon be convinced. My shadow, the

sound of my name alone, is sufficient to alarm them; already I am no

more, and yet this remnant of life makes them tremble, even in the

midst of their triumphs. It is necessary for their peace that my last

breath be extinguished; they have resolved and they will accomplish

it!”

“No! no!” cried Cavendish, deeply moved. “The king loves you; he will

defend you! All love you,” he continued warmly. “See with what

eagerness they hasten hither to give you the most earnest assurances

of their devotion.”

“That is true,” replied Wolsey, who was becoming more calm, and was

greatly relieved by the presence of Cavendish. “It is the only feeling

of joy I have experienced in a long time; but I am grieved not to have

received any token of remembrance from the young Earl of

Northumberland. His intellect, goodness, and his many amiable

qualities have always made me regard him with the greatest esteem and

affection. They say he loves solitude, and I am well assured that he

receives no visitors; but I very much fear he cherishes bitter

recollections of the court and Anne Boleyn. However, he should not

take it ill that I have helped to prevent him from marrying such a

woman!”

Whilst Wolsey was speaking a great noise was heard in the courtyard.

Cavendish, at the cardinal’s request, immediately went out to

ascertain the cause.

He had advanced but a few steps when he encountered another equerry,

coming in all haste to announce the arrival of the Earl of

Northumberland.

Overjoyed at hearing the name, Cavendish at once returned to inform

the archbishop.

“Here is Lord Percy himself, who also comes to congratulate your

grace!” he exclaimed the instant he came in sight of Wolsey.

“The dear child!” cried the cardinal, his heart overflowing with a

gush of tenderness. “Cavendish, you are not mistaken. Eh? Ah! I shall

never forget him! Let us go and receive him, Cavendish.”

He advanced with a tottering step, and more rapidly than he was able,

toward the staircase which Northumberland had just ascended. On seeing

the archbishop approaching to meet him Lord Percy felt his heart

suddenly throb with a sensation of inexpressible wretchedness.

“He comes to meet me!” he exclaimed.

He found him so much changed, so old and worn, that without his

vestments he would scarcely have recognized him.

“He also has found the cup of life embittered!” said Northumberland.

“Sorrow carves deep furrows on the brow, and with her haggard finger

impresses every feature.”

He turned anxiously to look for Walsh, but found he was no longer near

him. In the meantime Wolsey advanced rapidly toward him, and, taking

him in his arms, pressed him closely to his heart.

“You are most welcome, my dear lord! How happy I am to see you!” he

exclaimed. “But why have I not been informed of your coming? I should,

at least, have been prepared to give you a better reception; for you

must know that what formerly required but a moment to effect I am now

scarcely able to execute at all. But you will, I hope, appreciate my

good intentions; and if I am ever so happy as to be re-established in

my fortune, I shall then be able to express more worthily the joy I

feel at receiving you in my house.”

“I thank your lordship,” answered Northumberland.

But he was unable to utter another word. However, he embraced Wolsey,

though with great excitement of manner, his hands trembling visibly in

those of the archbishop.

“Let us go,” continued Wolsey glancing at the followers of Lord Percy.

“I am glad to see you have remembered the advice I gave you in your

youth, to love and take care of all your father’s old domestics; that

is why, I suppose, you have brought so many of them with you.”

“Yes, I prefer them,” replied Northumberland. And Wolsey went and took

them each by the hand, praising their fidelity and recommending them

to love their young master as he himself had always done.

The more Wolsey exerted himself to assure Northumberland of the

gratification he experienced at his coming, the less strength Percy

felt to thank him. However, the cardinal begged to be allowed to

accompany him to his bed-chamber, where they might be alone, except

Cavendish, who remained near the door, as his duty required him.

For a moment they sat in silence. Wolsey regarded Lord Percy with

astonishment on observing the latter change color and become every

instant more and more embarrassed. At length, arousing himself

suddenly to a determined degree of resolution, he approached, and,

laying his hand gently on the arm of the archbishop, said in a voice

tremulous with emotion: “My lord, I arrest you on the charge of high

treason!”

Wolsey sat so completely stupefied that he was incapable of uttering a

word; they gazed at each other in mournful silence.

“Who has induced you to do this?” the cardinal at length exclaimed,

“and by what authority do you it?”

“My lord,” replied Northumberland coldly, “I have a commission that

authorizes me; or that compels me, rather,” he continued in a low

voice.

“Where is this commission? Let me see it?”

“No, my lord, I cannot.”

“Then,” cried Wolsey, “I will not submit to your authority.”

As he said this, Sir Walsh pushed Dr. Augustine, whom he had arrested,

rudely into the apartment. “Go in there, traitor,” he cried; but

perceiving the cardinal, he fell on his knees before him, and,

removing his cap, bowed almost to the floor.

Wolsey turned pale on seeing Walsh; he at once recognized him as being

an officer of the king’s palace, and knew he would not be there

without an express order.

“Sir,” he exclaimed, “rise, I implore you! My Lord of Northumberland

comes to arrest me! If he has a commission, and you are with him for

that purpose, you will be pleased to let me see it.”

“My lord,” answered Walsh, “if it please your grace, it is true that I

have one; but we cannot permit you to see it. They have added to the

paper on which it is written some instructions that we are bound not

to make known.”

“Then,” cried Wolsey, melting into tears, “all is over with me! They

deprive me even of the means of defending myself, and my cruel enemies

behold all their schemes accomplished. It is well, sir,” continued the

archbishop, turning his back on the Earl of Northumberland; “I consent

to surrender myself to you, but not to my Lord of Northumberland, who

comes here only to enjoy my discomfiture. As to you, I know you; your

name is Walsh, and you are one of the officers of the king, my master.

Therefore I do not demand your commission; his will is sufficient. I

am perfectly aware that the greatest peer in the realm is liable to be

arrested by the lowest subject, if such be his majesty’s good

pleasure. This is why I shall obey you without delay. Begin, then, to

put your orders into execution. If I had known them, I would have

assisted you myself; but, at least, I submit.”

Saying this, the archbishop seated himself in silence; but the tears

continued to flow rapidly down his cheeks.

Meanwhile, Lord Percy felt so deeply wounded by the suspicion

manifested by the archbishop, and his believing him to be actuated by

a principle of low revenge and cruelty in coming to arrest him, that

he was about to withdraw without offering him a solitary word of

consolation, as he had intended; but a sudden feeling of compassion

induced him to return and take a seat by his side.

Wolsey was deeply moved by this.

“My lord,” he exclaimed, “I swear before God I am innocent of all the

crimes my enemies impute to me, beyond doubt, for the purpose of

securing my death! I have committed many errors, I know; but it has

been against God and against myself that I have committed them, and

not against my king, whom I have always served with an inviolable

fidelity. I have possessed great riches; but I employed them in

founding great and useful establishments. I have held correspondence

with foreign princes, and have acquired great influence in their

councils, but I have always used it in the interests of my king and

the state. And now he has abandoned me to the malice of my enemies,

and does not hesitate an instant to believe all the calumnies they

have heaped upon my head! No, I shall indulge in vain illusions no

longer. I go now to my death; and it is my king who strikes the fatal

blow! Ah!” continued Wolsey, transported by his feelings, “would I

might appear before him, that I might justify myself in the face of

heaven and earth! Then I should fear no man living under the sun. But,

no; it will not be thus. I shall die without vindication, in the

depths of some obscure prison, some noisome dungeon! Not a friend has

remained faithful; not a single voice has been raised in my defence!”

“Friendship,” replied Northumberland, “is but a vain word, a beautiful

sound that dissolves in the air, a shifting sand requiring the one who

reposes on it always to remain on his guard, to beware; for one-half

of the world is too frivolous and the other half too selfish for any

confidence ever to be placed in them.”

“Therefore you yourself feel no compassion for me?” said Wolsey,

looking at him.

“You are unjust!” replied Lord Percy. “God is my judge how deeply I

have suffered in being forced before you in my present capacity. But

tell me, how am I to arrest the destroying tempest or turn aside the

falling thunderbolt? Have they not crushed me also?”

* * * * *

After two long days had passed, during which the archbishop was

entirely deprived of all communication with those around him,

Northumberland came to inform him that everything was arranged for the

journey and it was time to depart.

“Alas! where are you going to take me?” cried Wolsey, to whom this

departure seemed the first step toward condemnation and death.

In that fatal moment he felt an attachment for every stone and every

spot connected with the abode which, until this time, he had regarded

as the most gloomy place of exile.

“Not to be able to die in peace!” he mournfully exclaimed. “Where are

you going to take me, Lord Percy?”

“I cannot accompany you,” sadly replied Northumberland, who had

endeavored during the preceding days to make him regard his condition

with less terror; “but I know that Sir Walsh has orders to deliver you

at Sheffield Park, and place you in the hands of my father-in-law, the

Earl of Shrewsbury; and you need suffer no anxiety, nor doubt but that

he will gladly exert himself to have you well treated as far as

depends on him. To-night you will sleep at Pomfret.”

“At the castle?” demanded Wolsey.

“No, no,” replied Lord Percy: “at the abbey. I am certain of it. I

swear it! I have myself sent the order for you to be received there. O

my father!” continued Percy, who felt more and more deeply grieved, “I

must now leave you.” (And he fell on his knees before the archbishop.)

“May God be with you! But first give me your blessing. I indeed have

need of it! I have never forgotten the care you bestowed on me in my

childhood.”

“My dear son,” said the archbishop, “may the Lord Almighty, the God of

Israel and of Jacob, for ever bless you! We shall meet no more but in

him.”

As the archbishop extended his hands and laid them on the head of

Percy, and while he bent affectionately over him, Walsh entered,

followed by a number of armed men; and the sound of smothered sighs

and stifled cries was heard.

“What is that?” exclaimed Wolsey in alarm.

“Nothing, my lord,” answered Walsh in an imperious tone. “As you could

only take four of your men with you, I feared the others would make

too much disturbance at your departure; consequently, I had them shut

up in the chapel.”

“Sir,” cried Wolsey indignantly, “I will not leave this place until I

have seen and bade farewell to all my servants. You cannot have been

authorized to treat me with such a degree of cruelty. My Lord

Northumberland, since you have seized for the king’s benefit the

little money I possessed, and have left me nothing to give them, at

least permit me to thank them for their services and mingle my tears

with theirs.”

“We thought it would be painful for you to witness their grief,”

replied Northumberland, “and wished to spare you the infliction. But

they shall be summoned.”

As soon as the door of the chapel was opened they gathered in a crowd

around Wolsey, kissing his hands and his vestments. “My children,” he

said to them, “weep not; we shall meet again very soon, I hope. My

Lord Northumberland, I recommend them to you! You will take care of

them—I feel assured of it.”

He then hastened to depart, feeling his courage ready to desert him.

At every step he took his anguish redoubled; and when he reached the

great courtyard, he turned his eyes for a moment toward the high,

black walls of the castle he was leaving, then glanced at the mule

assigned him to ride. Cavendish followed with his almoner and two of

his valets. But a new grief awaited Wolsey, already overwhelmed with

sorrow. Scarcely had they opened the outer gate of the castle, when

they perceived without a crowd of gentlemen of the province, whom

Walsh had summoned, in the king’s name, to come and secure the arrest

of the archbishop; because the whole country was in a state of

commotion, and more than three thousand men had gathered along the

route, in the plain, and as far as the moats of the castle, around

which they assembled as soon as they were informed of his arrest. They

were powerless to oppose his departure, but followed him for several

miles, shouting incessantly: “God save his grace, and perish his

enemies who have forced him from us!” They regarded the noblemen who

surrounded him with wrathful scowls, without reflecting that, while

feeling it necessary to obey the king, the lords were as deeply

disaffected as themselves, and in their turn accused the Earl of

Northumberland of having seconded Walsh in this enterprise.

During the journey they unceasingly manifested the greatest regard for

the archbishop, and only left him after seeing him committed into the

hands of the Earl of Shrewsbury, whose castle was situated near the

confines of Yorkshire, a short distance from the town of Doncaster.

TO BE CONTINUED.

[77] The son has now ceased to invoke in this once

hallowed spot the divine mercy on the souls of his

fathers; the bells no more announce the vows nor the

regrets of the heart; the august Sacrifice is never

offered up but in the gloomy silence imposed by

persecution.

SENNUCCIO MIO, BENCHE DOGLIOSO E SOLO.

FROM PETRARCH.

My own Sennuccio, though bereft of thee,

Weeping and lonely, me this thought sustains:

That from this breathing tomb, these fleshly chains,

Thy soaring spirit nobly set thee free.

Now the twin poles by thee discovered are,

The wheeling lights, and all the starry ways:

Thou seest our seeing falter from afar;

So thy delight the pain of loss allays.

But I beseech thee in that far third sphere

Greet Franceshino and the bard divine,

Cino, Guitton, and all thy comrades there;

And tell my Love, tell her what tears are mine,

And what dark moods of wilder sorrow breeds

The thought of her sweet face and saintly deeds.

SCANDERBEG.

“Oh! how comely it is, and how reviving

To the spirits of just men long oppressed,

When God into the hands of their deliverer

Puts invincible might

To quell the mighty of the earth, th’ oppressor,

The brute and boist’rous force of violent men,

Hardy and industrious to support

Tyrannic power, but raging to pursue

The righteous and all such as honor Truth.”

—_Samson Agonistes._

The Turks, from their first appearance upon European soil, have been a

danger to the peace and civilization of Christendom. When their fierce

hordes crossed the Bosporus, bearing aloft the standard of the

crescent, it was a boast among them that the sign was but a temporary

emblem of their power, and that when she had waxed to the fulness of

her orb—_donec Lunæ totus impleatur orbis_, as was insolently said to

an ambassador of the West—her silvery sheen would change to the golden

glory of the sun, and blaze from an eastern sky over prostrate and

Mohammedan Europe.

With one foot upon Constantinople and the other on Rome,[78] the

colossus of Islam would have projected an awful shadow over the

Christian world. Efforts tremendous and long sustained were made to

lift itself up; but this it could never do, and it has fallen and is

broken, but in its fall covers fair provinces and crushes a multitude

of unfortunate Christians. If the Turks have ceased to be a stirring

menace to the nations, we must ascribe the curbing of their power to

divine Providence, which brought forward at critical times a number of

men mighty by the sword or through the word—Huniades, Matthias

Corvinus, Ladislas of Hungary, St. John Capistran, Cardinal Julian

Cesarini, Scanderbeg, St. Pius V., Don John of Austria, Mark Anthony

Colonna, Sobieski, and others—who fought their advance towards the

Adriatic and along the Danube. As this great Ottoman inundation rose

higher and higher, until it seemed as though the work of the church

for a thousand years would be swept away in fewer days, God spoke: “I

set my bounds around it, and made it bars and doors; and I said:

Hitherto thou shalt come, and shalt go no further: and here thou shalt

break thy swelling waves.” (Job xxxviii.)

In the fifteenth century several independent princelings, called

_despots_ by the Greeks, were in possession of the rich and populous

district of Albania, which stretches along the coast of the Adriatic

and Mediterranean Seas, and corresponds geographically to the Epirus

of the ancients. One of the noblest of these chiefs was John Castriot,

who came of an ancient family in Lower Macedonia. His wife, Woïzava,

presented him with nine children, and among them that George, born in

1404, who was destined to become the defender of his persecuted race,

the Christian Gideon, as he was hailed by Pope Paul II., and the hero

of his native country against the Turks. Several omens are reported to

have accompanied his birth and signified his future greatness. Without

denying that these may have been something more than mere accidents or

freaks of the imagination, we only certify that as the child grew up

he developed a strength of character and an aptitude for arms which

his after-successes amply justified and the inherent nobility of his

parents had prepared.

“_Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis;

… nec imbellem feroces

Progenerant aquilæ cotlumbam._”[79]

—_Horace._

Sultan Mohammed I. had invaded Albania in 1413, and obliged John

Castriot to deliver up his four young sons to him as hostages. He

immediately, and against the solemn promise made to their father,

caused them to be circumcised and educated in the Mussulman religion.

George, our hero, was the youngest. He was endowed with a prodigious

memory, and soon learned to speak the Greek, Turkish, Arab, Illyrian,

and Italian languages. A handsome person, unusual bodily strength, and

vigorous mental qualities won for him the warm affection of the

next sovereign, Amurath II., who changed George’s name to

_Scanderbeg_—_i.e._, Beg or Lord Alexander—and at the early age of

eighteen gave him the rank of sangiac and command of five thousand

horsemen on the confines of Anatolia. His personal prowess and

military skill in Asia Minor brought him into considerable notice, and

he was given a command in the European provinces of the empire. This

was a difficult position to be placed in; for he had not forgotten

that he was born a Christian and had been impressed into his present

service. He felt a great dislike to turn his arms against

co-religionists and countrymen. His brothers were dead, and now his

father died in 1432. At this juncture the sultan very unjustly took

possession of his hereditary dominion, and, sending his mother and

sister Mamisa into exile, put a pasha over the country. Scanderbeg did

not immediately pronounce himself against this act of treacherous

spoliation, although several Albanian noblemen, proud of his renown

and convinced that he was not at heart attached to his new creed,

corresponded with him secretly, urging him to come and put himself at

the head of the Christian population to free the country from the

infidel. The Albanians have always been distinguished for their spirit

of nationality, and, like the inhabitants of all mountainous regions

are remarkable for independence and love of home.

The favorable moment to declare himself had not arrived but his plans

were maturing. At last, after a great battle lost by the Turks at

Morava on the 10th of November, 1443, he concerted with his nephew

Hamza and a few trusty friends of Christian origin, forced, like

himself, to serve the foreign tyrant, and by a skilful ruse and very

sudden irruption at the head of six hundred Albanians, who hastened to

join him as soon as his defection was known, he obtained possession of

Croia, the capital of his paternal dominions. The Turkish garrison,

not so much by his orders as from an uncontrollable impulse of

outraged feelings in the populace, was put to the sword. Scanderbeg

was just twenty-nine years old. He publicly renounced Mohammedanism

and renewed his profession of the Catholic faith. The chiefs of

Albania were then invited to meet him. When they came together at

Croia, they called him their deliverer, unanimously proclaimed him

Prince of Epirus, and soon collected an army of about twelve thousand

men. While the troops were being raised, the civil service and

revenues of the state were reorganized. Besides a large immediate

contribution from his own countrymen, he obtained two hundred thousand

ducats from his neighbors, the Venetians, and had a large source of

income in the salt-mines near Durazzo.

Petralba was next taken, and this success brought new accessions of

men and means to prosecute the war. Within a month after the first

blow had been struck every fortress except one was captured, and every

Turk either killed, a prisoner, or in flight. Sfetigrad could not be

surprised, and, leaving a force of three thousand men to watch it and

cut off supplies, Scanderbeg retired with the rest of the army to

Croia for the winter, and occupied himself in making an alliance with

the republic of Venice, which held several towns along the coast of

Dalmatia, and in preparing for the inevitable struggle the sultan

would make to recover the country. Amurath did not dissemble his anger

at the revolt of one whom he had treated, he said, with so much

kindness and taught the use of the arms he was now turning against

him. Being engaged at the time against the Hungarians, he put off

revenge until the spring, thinking that he could at any moment easily

subdue the undisciplined bands of Albania; but when a truce was

concluded and spring opened with fair weather for an imposing

campaign, he sent Ali Pasha in command of forty thousand men, his

orders being to crush the insurrection at a single blow. Scanderbeg

had by this time reduced Sfetigrad and strongly fortified and

garrisoned the more important towns. He now took the field with only

fifteen thousand troops, knowing that in such a country as the one he

was to defend a very large force would be difficult to handle and

impossible to feed. His tactics were generally those of partisan

warfare. His little army was composed partly of cavalry from the

northern, and partly of a hardy and active infantry from the southern

section of the country. His object was to wear out the enemy by a

stout resistance at every point, and harass the retreats which the

very vastness of the Turkish armies would necessitate by the

impossibility, if for no other reason, of providing for so many

mouths. Only occasional raids were made in force upon the fertile

plains of Thessaly and Macedonia to capture horses, cattle, sheep, and

to gather in grain to be stored in the fortified towns. During the war

of Albanian independence, which lasted a quarter of a century, the

Turks always, except towards the end, repeated the fatal blunder of

sending immense armies, consisting in some cases of two hundred

thousand men, into a country where they could be maintained only for a

single and brief campaign, and to fight a general who was sure, from

his bravery, skill, and thorough knowledge of every torrent, mountain

pass, road, and valley, to turn defeat into overwhelming disaster. It

was thus that the army of Ali Pasha was drawn by wily manœuvres into a

narrow district only ninety miles from Croia and opening into the very

heart of Albania. The upper end was very contracted, and here

Scanderbeg drew up his main body of troops, to the number of ten

thousand, which were posted in three divisions _en échelon_. As soon

as the enemy was well engaged in the valley three thousand horsemen,

who had been watching their slow advance, came down at its lower end,

which had been left quite unguarded, while fifteen hundred irregular

infantry lay in ambush on either side amidst the woody acclivities. As

soon as the Turks came up to the Albanians they halted, tried to

deploy, but could not, repeatedly charged and swept up in heavy

columns against the small but solid masses who evenly filled the gap

and made it impossible to flank them. The Turks after a while began to

waver and fall into still greater disorder. Ali Pasha had blundered.

The Albanians now took the offensive. The signal-clarions sounded,

and, while the Turks were attacked in front, the cavalry from the

lower end of the valley charged them in the rear, and the infantry

that lay in ambush came rushing down on both sides with terrific cries

and sword in hand to complete their discomfiture. It was now a

slaughter; and although the battle lasted only four hours altogether,

over twenty thousand infidels were killed or wounded. Few

prisoners—not more than two thousand—were taken. The rest of the

enemy, under cover of darkness and from sheer exhaustion on the part

of the victors, escaped through the now open passage at the lower end

of the valley.

When Scanderbeg had entered Croia in triumph, he announced the victory

by letters to Pope Eugenius IV. and several Christian princes; and

while some of the twenty-five captured battle-flags were distributed

among the confederate chiefs, others were suspended in the principal

church of the capital.

Amurath was so alarmed by this defeat—not, perhaps, so much from what

he had to fear on the side of the immediate victors, but from the

encouraging effects it might have in leaguing the Christian princes

against him—that he wrote a letter from Adrianople, offering

Scanderbeg peace on certain conditions. But when these were discussed

in the council at Croia, they were declared unjust and humiliating,

and Scanderbeg was advised to reject every sort of condition and

insist on the complete independence of Albania. The answer to this

letter announced his intention of holding out to the last extremity,

and began with these valiant words: “From our camp near Croia, August

12, 1445. George Castriot, surnamed Scanderbeg, soldier of Jesus

Christ and Prince of the Epirotes, to Othman, Prince of the Turks,

greeting.” A second army under Fizour, and a third and larger one

under Mustapha, were successively defeated, but not without

considerable loss in men and damage to the country. During the inroads

of these fierce barbarians into Albania they perpetrated the most

horrible massacres without regard to age or sex, and heaped the most

brutal outrages upon the inhabitants. The handsomest girls were seized

for the seraglios of the sultan and his wealthy minions, the prettiest

boys were kept to minister to their unnatural lusts, while youths of a

maturer age or less attractive appearance were circumcised, educated

in the Mohammedan religion, and drafted into the Janizaries. Others

who were not butchered on the smoking ruins of their homes were driven

in chains to the slave markets, while many were made eunuchs and set

to guard the harems of their masters in Asia Minor.

Mustapha Pasha, although he had been defeated, was entrusted with

another army, but with a similar result, and even worse; for he

himself was taken prisoner. Twenty-five thousand golden ducats were

paid for his ransom. Scanderbeg now made a _razzia_ on a large scale

into Macedonia and returned laden with an immense booty of every

description. His fame was so solidly established by these victories

that the republic of Venice sent a magnificent embassy to compliment

him and convey to him the news of his appointment as governor-general

of all the Italian possessions along the Adriatic and in the interior,

where the important cities of Scutari and Alessio were situated. His

name was enrolled in the Golden Book at the head of the list of

Venetian nobles.

The revolt of the Janizaries having obliged Amurath to leave his

luxurious retreat at Magnesia and once more resume the management of

public affairs, he determined to conduct in person the war against

Scanderbeg. He soon appeared at the head of a formidable army before

Sfetigrad, which surrendered after a gallant resistance. During the

siege the Turks lost in one of the assaults six thousand men.

Satisfied, apparently, with this single victory, the slothful sultan

retired into Macedonia after leaving a strong garrison in the captured

fortress. Scanderbeg hovered on his flanks and rear, making many

prisoners and taking a large amount of stores and war material; then,

after seeing him well out of the country, he turned towards Sfetigrad

and sat down before it on September 20, 1445, with eighteen thousand

men, among whom were adventurers from almost every country in Europe,

Germans, French, and Italians being the most numerous. For want of

artillery no regular siege could be conducted, and Scanderbeg was

repulsed with heavy loss in his attacks on the place. Hearing that

Amurath was preparing to return, he hastily concentrated his available

troops around Croia, which was provisioned for a long resistance. Some

large, unwieldy pieces of cannon, directed by Frenchmen, added to the

strength of the capital. The sultan was slow in his movements, and did

not appear as soon as was expected. In the meanwhile Scanderbeg was

encouraged by receiving congratulatory letters from Pope Nicholas V.,

which were brought to him by two Franciscans, one of whom was a

bishop. The winter of 1449-50 had been passed by him in the saddle

inspecting every fortress, going into every part of his dominions to

encourage the people and hasten the levy of troops. The coming tempest

was naturally expected to assail the capital; and to make its

neighborhood a howling wilderness, the whole country around Croia was

ravaged by his order, for a distance of from fifteen to eighteen

miles, so completely that not a house or a bridge was left standing,

and not a road passable; every growing and living thing was either

destroyed or removed. The enemy could find no shelter there.

On April 15, 1450, the sultan appeared before the city with an army of

one hundred and sixty thousand fighting men and a host of

camp-followers. Uranocontes commanded inside and repelled numerous

assaults, while Scanderbeg, with a force of five thousand picked

cavalry, hovered about the outskirts of the enemy, inflicting

considerable loss in men and stores, but above all annoying the long

line of communications by which the army drew its daily supplies.

Amurath finally tired of the siege, and, being convinced that the

mountains and valleys of Epirus were not worth his time, his trouble,

or his money while richer conquests awaited him, charged a certain

Yousouf to leave the camp and seek Scanderbeg, to try and induce him

to accept the single condition of an annual tribute of only ten

thousand ducats. After a two days’ search he was found, but instantly

rejected even this almost nominal condition attached to the

independence of his country. Knowing that he could not take Croia by

assault or maintain his army any longer in such a country, the sultan

slowly retreated and died soon afterwards at Adrianople, on February

5, 1451. He was succeeded by his son, Mohammed II., who renewed his

father’s offer, but with no better result.

The news of Amurath’s ill-success before Croia made a great noise in

Italy, and even beyond. The kings of Hungary and Aragon, and Philip,

Duke of Burgundy, sent complimentary missions to the Albanian hero,

and presents of money and provisions. King Alphonsus of Aragon, who

was also King of Sicily and Naples, sent him four hundred thousand

bushels of grain. Among other rich presents that he received from this

magnificent monarch was a helmet or casque of the finest Spanish

steel, lined on the inside with Cordovan leather and soft silk, and

covered on the outside with the purest gold artistically chased and

embossed by an Italian jeweller and studded with precious stones.

Scanderbeg was very proud of this really regal headgear, and ranked it

along with his famous sword, a veritable _Excalibur_, the blade of

which was of perfect Damascus workmanship, and the handle a blaze of

Oriental gems set with exquisite skill by a Persian lapidary. This

weapon was a present from Amurath on giving him his first command.

With it he killed at least two thousand Turks in his war of

independence, and it was looked upon by his enemies with a species of

superstitious awe. During one of the informal truces between the Turks

and Christians Sultan Mohammed begged to see the blade of which he had

heard so much. It was sent to him and tried by the best swordsmen of

his army, but not one of them could perform the feats that its owner

had been seen to do with it; and when it was returned, the sultan told

him this and asked the reason. “I sent your highness the sword,” said

Scanderbeg, “but not the limb that wields it!” When he went into

battle, it was always with his right arm bare and his shoulder

perfectly free. He was so tall and strong that a few years later, when

he went over to Italy to assist King Ferdinand, and had occasion to

meet the commander of the enemy’s troops—the famous _condottiére_

Count Piccinino, whose stature, it is true, was small, but still that

of a grown person—he took him by the belt with one hand, and, slowly

raising him up, impressed a courtly kiss upon the forehead and as

gently set him down again. He looked so brave and handsome that even

his foes applauded.

“His haughtie helmet, horrid all with gold,

Both glorious brightnesse and great terrour bredd:

For all the crest a dragon did enfold

With greedie pawes, and over all did spredd

His golden winges; his dreadfull hideous hedd,

Close couchèd on the bever, seemed to throw

From flaming mouth bright sparcles fiery redd,

That suddeine horrour to faint hartes did show;

And scaly tayle was stretcht adowne his back full low.”

—_Spenser._

In May, 1451, Scanderbeg married the Princess Donica, daughter of

Arrianites Thopia, one of the most influential lords of Albania, and

connected on his mother’s side with the imperial family of the

Comneni. He received at this time from King Alphonsus five hundred

arquebusiers, the same number of expert crossbow-men, and a few pieces

of artillery with their cannoniers. We have only space to mention the

events of the next years: how successive armies of Turks were

defeated; how Scanderbeg himself was repulsed with a loss of five

thousand men in an attack on Belgrade; and how, during a lull in the

war, he was invited over to Italy by Pope Pius II. to the assistance

of King Ferdinand, son of his old friend Alphonsus, who was hard

pressed by his rival, John of Anjou. (_Raynald. Annales Eccl. ad an._

1460, num. lx.) He contributed greatly to the victory won at Troja on

Aug. 18, 1462, and for his services was created Duke of San Pietro, in

the kingdom of Naples. He remained in Italy a little over a year.

Recalled to Albania by the appearance of the Turks, he repulsed Sultan

Mohammed from Croia; but his own losses and the new plans of the

enemy, which consisted in sending only small armies under experienced

generals—one of whom, Balaban Badera, was an Albanian renegade—with

orders to avoid battle if possible, but to remain in the country at

all hazards, made him feel that his cause was failing, and that,

unless relieved from the west, he must sooner or later succumb. In

this emergency he went to Rome and appealed to the pope and cardinals

to preach a new crusade. The example of the broken-hearted Pius II.

showed how fruitless it would have been for them to do so. Paul,

indeed, wrote to all the Christian princes, but he got nothing but

fair words in return. The great schism had lamentably diminished the

prestige of the Papacy, and a multitude of heretics more or less

openly preluded that Reformation which would soon divide Christendom

itself into hostile camps. The pope gave him three thousand golden

florins and conferred upon him the insignia of the cap and sword which

is annually blessed by the pontiff on the vigil of Christmas for

presentation to the prince who has deserved best of the church.

Scanderbeg lodged while in Rome in a house which, although rebuilt in

1843, still retains over the door his portrait in fresco and the

laudatory inscription set up soon after his death. The street and an

adjoining little _piazza_ under the Quirinal gardens have long

perpetuated his name as the _Via di Scanderbeg_. He left Rome in

disappointment and sorrow.

“Ah! what though no succor advances,

Nor Christendom’s chivalrous lances

Are stretched in our aid? Be the combat our own!

And we’ll perish or conquer more proudly alone;

For we’ve sworn by our country’s assaulters,

By the virgins they’ve dragged from our altars,

By our massacred patriots, our children in chains,

By our heroes of old, and their blood in our veins,

That, living, we shall be victorious,

Or that, dying, our deaths shall be glorious.”

—_Campbell._

On his way back to Albania he was allowed to recruit in the Venetian

territories a force of thirteen thousand men, which he commanded in

person. His former little army in the field was captained by his

faithful friend Tanusios, and after planning together the two generals

attacked the Turks around Croia on two different points, while a

vigorous sortie was made by the besieged, during which Balaban, the

Turkish commander, was killed. His death and the suddenness and vigor

of the triple attack threw the enemy into confusion, and they were

completely routed. We pass over other battles and victories, by which

Scanderbeg’s resources were finally exhausted. The end had come.

During the winter of 1466-7 he was making a tour of inspection, and

while in the city of Alessio, or Lissa, as it is sometimes called,

where the ambassador of Venice and the confederate chiefs of Albania

had convened to meet him and combine for one last and desperate

effort, he was seized by a fever which proved fatal. After addressing

a solemn and pathetic discourse to his principal officers, he embraced

them one by one, and gave orders to his only son John to cross over to

his Neapolitan fiefs with his mother, and there wait until some

favorable occasion might present itself to return and put himself at

the head of his countrymen as his father had done. He died during the

night of January 17, 1467, after having received the Viaticum and

Extreme Unction, and was buried in the cathedral church of Alessio.

His death caused a profound sensation throughout Europe. Mohammed

exulted over the loss of one whom he called the sword and buckler of

the Christians, and immediately poured his troops into Albania; but it

was not until the year 1478, when Croia surrendered on conditions

which were afterwards basely violated, that the war ended. Since that

time the infamous Turks have lorded it over the land made glorious in

legendary lore by the son of Achilles, in history by King Pyrrhus, and

in modern times by Scanderbeg. The presence of those barbarous

Asiatics in any part of Europe is one of the foulest stains upon the

moral sense and the politics of Christian governments.

When Alessio was captured the infidels dug up the remains of the great

warrior and divided his bones among the soldiers, to be worn in rich

reliquaries as amulets of courage. His countrymen still sing of him as

their national hero, and the Turks frighten naughty children with his

terrible name.

After Scanderbeg’s death many Albanians emigrated to Italy, either in

the suite of his son or independently. The most remarkable colony was

in Calabria, where as late as 1780 their descendants, numbering about

one hundred thousand, retained the dress, manners, and language of

their ancestors. Another colony, not so numerous, is scattered about

the Abruzzi. The last lineal descendant of the hero was the Marquis of

Sant’Angelo, who was killed at the battle of Pavia by the hand (as

Paulus Jovius says) of Francis I.

Most of the Albanians remained Christians until the middle of the

seventeenth century, when the majority conformed, outwardly at least,

to the Mohammedan religion. The popes have tried hard to keep alive

the Catholic faith among the population, and, under the circumstances,

with considerable success. Pope Clement XI., of the (now) princely

family of Albani which emigrated from Albania in the sixteenth

century, and settled at Urbino, established a purse of four thousand

scudi in 1708 for the support of three students from that country in

the Propaganda College. The Catholics there do not now number more

than ninety thousand. There are two archbishoprics, Antivari united

with Scutari, and Durazzo, and three bishoprics, Alessio, Pulati, and

Sappa. These sees are usually filled by Franciscans, who, with a few

Propagandists (with one of whom, now bishop of Alessio, we have the

honor of being acquainted), are the only missionaries in the country.

We conclude our article with a bibliographical notice of the subject,

because, as Dr. Johnson used to say, a great part of knowledge

consists in knowing _where_ knowledge is to be found.

The original source of information upon which all subsequent writers,

whether with or without acknowledgment, have drawn is a work by Marino

Barlezio, a priest of Scutari, who, besides being a native of the

country about which he wrote, was an almost constant companion of

Scanderbeg and an eye-witness of most of the events which he relates.

He was a scholar and penned very excellent Latin, which greatly adds

to the charm of his narrative. We give the full title: _De Vita et

Moribus ac Rebus præcipuè adversus Turcas gestis Georgii Castrioti

clarissimi Epirotarum Principis, qui propter celeberrima facinora

Scanderbegus, hoc est Alexander Magnus, cognominatus fuit. Libri

xiii._ It is not certain where this curious book was first published.

Some say at Rome as early as 1506, but this is extremely doubtful;

others at Frankfort in 1537 (in folio). A German translation by

Pinicianus was published in 1561 in 4to, with woodcuts; and a French

one, the language of which is quaint and racy, by Jacques de Lavardin,

in 1597. Independent biographies have been written in Latin by an

anonymous author at Rome in 1537 or earlier, in folio; in Italian by

T. M. Monardo, Venice, 1591, and almost immediately translated into

Spanish and Portuguese; in French by Du Poncet (Paris, 1709, in 12mo),

a Jesuit, who took upon himself to refute the calumny of Machiavelli

and Helvetius, that Christian principles and practices can never

develop the qualities of a perfect soldier, a hero. Other French

biographies are those of Chevilly (Paris, 1732, 2 vols. 12mo), and

Camille Paganel (_ibid._ 1855, 1 vol. 8vo), which is the best we have

read. In English there is one by Clement C. Moore, an American (New

York, 1850), and another by Robert Bigsby, an Englishman (London,

1866); while we have also, from the graceful pen of Benjamin Disraeli,

_The Rise of Iskander_, a tale founded on Scanderbeg’s revolt against

the Turks (London, 1833). A _Summarium_ or epitome of his life is

preserved among the MSS. of the Royal Library at Turin; and the Grand

Ducal one at Weimar treasures among its rarities a MS. parchment

called _The Book of Scanderbeg_, composed of three hundred and

twenty-five leaves, each of which is beautifully illustrated with

figures in india-ink representing scenes from civil and military life

in the fifteenth century. It was a present to the Albanian hero from

Ferdinand of Aragon. Two Latin poems have been published about him,

one by a German named Kökert at Lubec, 1643, and the other by a French

Jesuit, Jean de Bussières, at Lyons, 1662, in eight books; finally,

one in Italian, called _La Scanderbeide_, by a lady named Margherita

Sarrocchi, without date or place of publication; but it sometimes

turns up in book-sales at Rome.

Scanderbeg’s large gilt cuirass, damaskeened with designs of Eastern

pattern, is found in the Belvedere collection at Vienna. It is

supposed to have been one of his trophies captured in Anatolia.

[78] It was a common boast of the more ambitious

sultans that they would some day feed their horses at

the tomb of St. Peter.

[79]

The good and brave beget the brave;

… Fierce eagles breed not harmless doves.

The family standard of the Castriots, which Scanderbeg

carried in his battles, was a black, double-headed eagle

on a red field.

THE CHURCH AND LIBERTY.

Men are governed more by their sympathies than by reason. Weak

arguments are strong enough when supported by prejudice which is able

to withstand even the most conclusive proofs. We do not pretend to say

that this is wholly wrong. Our feelings are in general sincerer than

our thoughts; spring more truly from our real selves; are less the

product of artificial culture and more of those common principles of

our nature which make the whole world akin. But since in rational

beings the feelings cannot be purely instinctive, it follows that they

are more or less modifiable by the action of the intellect, which in

turn is also subject to their influence. Prejudice, therefore, may be

either intellectual or moral, or the one and the other; the most

obstinate, however, is that which is enrooted in feeling and springs

from sympathies and antipathies; and this is usually the character of

religious prejudice. The tendency to make religion national, which is

a remarkable feature in the history of mankind, together with the fact

that states have always been founded and peoples welded into unity by

a common faith, has as a rule thrown upon the side of religion the

whole force of national prejudice, which, though it does not touch the

deep fountains of immortal life and of the infinite, revealed by

faith, is yet an immense power, more than any other aggressive and

defiant. As the Catholic Church is non-national, it is not surprising

that she should often be brought into conflict with the spirit of

nationalism.

Christ was himself opposed by this spirit; on the one side he was

attacked by the religious nationalism of the Jews, and on the other by

that of the Romans. These enemies surrounded the early church. There

was the internal struggle to free herself from the bonds of Judaism, a

purely national faith; and there was the open battle with the Roman

Empire for the liberty of the soul and her right to exist as a

Catholic and non-national religion. Heresies and schisms have

invariably been successful in proportion as they have been able to

rouse national prejudice against the universal church. To pass over

those of more ancient date, we may safely affirm that but for this

Luther’s quarrel with Tetzel would never have given birth to

Protestantism. The conflicts during the middle ages between popes and

emperors and kings, together with schisms and scandals, had accustomed

the public mind, especially in Germany and England, to look upon the

successor of St. Peter as a foreign potentate; nor was it easy, in the

state of things which then existed, to draw the line between his

spiritual and his temporal authority. He came more and more to be

considered an Italian sovereign who had usurped undue power, and thus

in Germany and England Italians grew to be both hated and despised;

and this more, probably, than kings and parliaments helped on the

cause of Protestantism.

The Catholic faith was made to appear, not as the religion of Christ,

but as popery, a foreign idolatrous superstition, which had by artful

means insinuated itself amongst the various nations of German blood;

and to throw off the yoke of Italian despotism was held to be both

political and religious disenthralment. The specific doctrines of

Luther and the other heresiarchs had merely an incidental influence.

In England, where the separation from the church was more complete

than elsewhere, there was the least doctrinal departure from Catholic

teaching; which is of itself proof how little any desire for a

so-called purer faith had to do with the movement. The appeal to the

Scriptures was popular because it was an appeal from the pope. That

the Reformation was not an intellectual revolt, at least primarily,

there is abundant evidence in the indisputable fact that the most

enlightened and learned people of that age—the Italians—remained firm

in their attachment to the old faith; and even in Germany, which was

comparatively rude and barbarous, the cultivators of the new classical

learning, which had been revived in Italy, were for the most part

repelled by the coarseness and ignorance of the preachers of

Protestantism, who in England found no favor with men like More and

Wolsey, scholars, both of them, and patrons of letters.

As Protestantism did not spring from intellectual convictions, but

from passion and prejudice—national antagonisms, which had been

intensified by ages of conflict and strife, and which became the

potent allies of the ambition and rapacity of kings and princes—it is

but natural that Protestants, continuing the traditions of their

fathers, should still be influenced in their opinions of the Catholic

Church more by their antipathies than by reason, and that these

antipathies should invariably run with the current of national

prejudice. Hence the objections to the church which really influence

men are not religious but social. A Protestant who accepts the Bible

as the word of God, and receives in the literal sense all that is

there narrated, could not with any show of reason make difficulty

about believing the teachings of the church; nor can one who trusts to

himself alone for his creed feel great confidence that those who are

supported by the almost unanimous consent of all Christians for

fifteen hundred years, and of the great majority even down to the

present day, are less certain of salvation than himself. But when he

comes to consider the social influence of the church, he finds it less

difficult to justify his dislike of Catholic institutions; for in this

direction he is upheld most strongly by traditional prejudice. That

the church fosters ignorance and immorality is to his mind axiomatic.

He still thinks that the darkness, the scandals, and crimes of the

middle ages, which he always exaggerates, are to be ascribed to her

and not to the barbarians. The labors of the learned have long since

shown the old Protestant theory, that the church sought to keep the

people in ignorance, to be not only groundless, but the reverse to be

true; and that not less false is the charge that she encouraged

immorality, however corrupt some who have held high ecclesiastical

positions may have been. But as we have quite recently discussed these

questions,[80] we turn to the subject of the relative influence of the

church and of Protestantism upon civil liberty. Discussions of this

kind, though not new, are nevertheless full of actual interest. The

subject of social liberty profoundly influences the practical

controversies of the age, and bids fair to become of still more vital

moment in the future. The adversaries of the Catholic Church never

feel so secure as when they attack her in the name of freedom. She is

supposed to be the fatal foe of all liberty, intellectual, religious,

and social.

For the present we shall put aside the controversies concerning

liberty of thought and discussion, and confine ourselves to the

examination of the relation of the church to social freedom. And it

will be necessary, in order to institute a comparison between her

action and that of Protestantism, to go back to the first ages to

study her early efforts in behalf of human rights.

Those great battles for human liberty were fought, not by

Christianity, but by the Christian Church. The religion of Christ was

from the beginning corporate and organized; and it was through its

organization that it exerted its influence upon individuals and upon

society. To understand, therefore, the true relation of the church to

liberty, we must study her history in the past as well as in the

present. In fact, it is only in the light of the past that the present

can be understood. The clear perception of her spirit and action

during the centuries which preceded the advent of Protestantism will

enable us to see how far and in what respect the politico-religious

revolution of the sixteenth century was favorable to social freedom.

Human society, like the heavenly bodies, is guided by two forces, the

natural tendencies of which are antagonistic, but whose combined

action, when properly harmonized, produces order. Authority and

Liberty are the centripetal and centrifugal forces of the social

world; but, unlike those which govern the motions of the planets, they

are indefinitely modifiable by free human agency. To regulate these

two powers is the eternal political problem, which is never solved

because the factors of the equation are ever varying and consequently

never known. The exaggeration of the principle of authority is

tyranny; of that of liberty, anarchy; and the excess of the one is

followed by a reaction of the other, so that, whichever preponderates,

the resulting evils are substantially the same. Tyranny is anarchical,

and anarchy is tyrannical; and both are equally destructive of

authority and liberty.

Though authority and liberty, as applied to human society, are

relative terms, they presuppose the absolute, and therefore have as

their only rational basis the existence of a personal God; and hence

the social order is, in its very constitutive elements, religious. In

view of this fact it is not surprising that the state, which is the

symbol of secular society, should be drawn to usurp the functions of

the church, the symbol of the spiritual order. As a result of this

tendency, pre-christian history shows us a universal subordination of

religion to the temporal government, or, what is practically the same,

the identification of the two powers; since, where both are united,

that which regards man’s present, visible, and urgent wants will

always preponderate.

The direct consequence of this was the destruction of liberty;

indirectly it also undermined authority. The state was absolute, and

under the most favorable circumstances, as in the Græco-Roman

civilization, recognized the rights of the citizen, but not those of

man; and even the citizen had rights only in so far as the state saw

fit to grant them. The logical development of the absorption of all

power by the state may be seen in imperial Rome, in which the ruler

was at once emperor, supreme pontiff, and God.

When the Christian, though willing to obey Cæsar in temporal matters,

reserved to himself a whole world upon which he would permit no human

authority to trespass, he asserted, together with the supremacy of his

spiritual nature, the principle to which modern nations owe their

liberties. It would indeed be difficult to exaggerate the influence of

this assertion of the sovereign rights of the individual conscience.

It contains the principles of all rights and the essential elements of

progress and civilization; it is the necessary preamble to every

declaration of human liberties; the logical justification of all

resistance to tyranny, and of every reaction against brute force and

consecrated wrong. It is the impregnable stronghold of freedom,

without which the sentiment of personal independence which the

barbarians brought with them into European life would have been

powerless to found free institutions. That sentiment was as strong in

the North American Indians; in the Tartar and Turkish hordes which

swept down from the table-lands of Asia upon fairer and more fertile

regions; and yet with them it only subserved the cause of despotism.

It is, indeed, inherent in human nature. To be self-conscious is to

wish to be free and to take delight in the possession of liberty. This

feeling finds a sanctuary in the heart of every boy who roams the

forest, or plunges through the stream, or beholds the eagle cleave the

blue heavens. It was as active in the breasts of the early Greeks and

Romans as in the barbarians who rushed headlong upon a falling empire.

The love of liberty was, in fact, with them a sublime passion, and yet

they were unable to found free institutions because the state,

absorbing the whole man, made itself absolute.

They lacked, moreover, that of which the barbarians were also

deprived—the knowledge of the worth and dignity of human nature. Man,

as man, was not honored; to have any rights did not come of our common

nature, but of the accident of citizenship. Slavery was consecrated as

being not only just but necessary; and the slave was outside the pale

of the law. Woman was degraded and infant life was not held sacred. In

nothing is the contrast between modern and ancient civilizations more

striking than in their manner of regarding human life. With us the

life of the unborn child is under the protection of conscience, of

public opinion, and of the law equally with that of the highest and

noblest. Its value to the state, to society, to the world, is not

considered; we think of it only as a creature of God, endowed by him

with rights which men may not violate. But this doctrine is unknown to

paganism. In Rome the father was free either to bring up his child or

to murder it; even the laws of Romulus grant him this privilege, with

the nominal restriction of obtaining the consent of the nearest of

kin; but under the empire his right to kill his newly-born infant was

fully recognized. The abandonment of children by their parents was a

universal custom, and one of which the Emperor Augustus approved in

the case of the infant of his niece Julia. If child-murder was not a

crime, abortion, of course, was no offence at all, and was universally

practised, especially among the rich. The contempt in which human life

was held is seen also in the public games—in which hundreds of men

were made to butcher one another merely for the amusement of the

spectators—as well as in the power of life and death of the master

over his slave.

It has been maintained quite recently that those who gave their

approval and lent the countenance of their presence to these

inhumanities were not therefore cruel; that, on the contrary, many of

them were kind-hearted and benevolent; but this, if we grant it, makes

our argument all the stronger, since it proves that the system was

more vicious than the men. A social state which does not respect life

is incompatible with liberty. It would be vain to seek for the origin

of our free institutions in any supposed peculiarities of our

barbarous ancestors. Nothing short of a radical revolution of thought

as to what man is could have made civil liberty possible. It was

necessary to re-endow the individual with absolute and inviolable

rights in the presence of the state. Man had to be taught that he is

more than the state; that to be man is godlike, to be a citizen is

human; but this he could not learn so long as he remained helplessly

under the absolute power of the state; nor could he, with the

conviction that the state is the highest and that he exists for it,

make any effort to break the bonds of his servitude. Before this could

be possible he had to be received into a society distinct from, and

independent of, the state; he had to be made fully conscious that he

is a child of God, in whose sight slaves have equal rights with kings.

It was necessary to bring out man’s personal destiny in strong

contrast to the pagan view, which took in only his social mission, and

this narrowly and imperfectly.

This is what the Christian religion did: it created a personal

self-consciousness which made heroes of the commonest natures. The

Roman died for his country; the Christian died for God and for his own

soul’s sake. He was not led to brave death by the majesty of the city,

of the empire, or by the memory of the victories which had borne his

country’s arms in triumph through the world, but by his own individual

faith and duty as a man with a personal and immortal destiny. When the

Christian appealed from emperors and senates and armies, from the

power and force of the whole world, to God, it was the single human

soul asserting itself as something above and beyond this visible

universe. Never before had the eternal and the infinite come so near

to man; never before had he so felt his own immortal strength. He was

lifted up into the heaven of heavens, stood face to face with the

everlasting verities of God, became a dweller in the world that is,

and the garments of space and time fell from his new-born soul. He was

free; strong in the liberty with which Christ had clothed him, he

defied all tyrannies. “As we have not placed our hope,” said Justin to

the Emperor Antoninus, “on things which are seen, we fear not those

who take away our lives; death being, moreover, unavoidable.” The

pagan Roman knew, indeed, how to die; but his death, though full of

grandeur and dignity, was sombre and hopeless; he died as the victim

of fate. To the Christian death came as the messenger of life; he died

as one who is certain of eternity, as one whose soul is free and

belongs to himself and God. This sense of a personal destiny which is

eternal, of infinite responsibility, gave to the individual a strength

and independence of character for which we will seek in vain among the

religions of paganism. It is a feeling wholly distinct from the

barbarian’s dislike of restraint. The love of wild and adventurous

life neither fits men for the enjoyment of liberty nor predisposes

them to grant it to others.

The more we study the history of Christian nations, the more profound

is our conviction that without their religion they could never have

won their liberties, which even now without this divine support could

not be maintained. It is to our religion that we are indebted for the

creation of popular free speech. Before Christ gave the divine

commission to the apostles, philosophers had discoursed to their

chosen disciples, and orators had declaimed to citizens, on the

interests of the state; but no one had spoken to the people as moral

beings with duties and responsibilities which lift them into the world

of the infinite and eternal. There were priesthoods, but they were

mute before the people, intent upon hiding from them all knowledge of

their mysteries. Religious eloquence did not exist; it first received

a voice on the shores of the Lake of Genesareth and on the hills of

Judea, in the preaching of Jesus, who remains for ever its highest

exponent, speaking as one who had authority with godlike liberty on

whatever most nearly touches the dearest interests of men; speaking

chiefly to the people, bringing back to their minds the long-forgotten

truths which prove them the royal race of God. The preaching of God’s

word with the liberty of Heaven, which no earthly authority might

lessen, became the great school of the human race; it was the first

popular teaching, and like an electric thrill it ran through the

earth. It belongs exclusively to the religion of Christ. Mahomet, who

sought to borrow it, was able to catch only its feeble echo. This free

Christian public speech is unlike all other oratory; it possesses an

incommunicable characteristic, through which it has exercised the most

beneficent influence upon the destinies of mankind. It is essentially

spiritual, lifts the soul above the flesh, and creates new ideals of

life; inspiring contempt for whatever is low and passing, it begets

enthusiasm for the divine and eternal. It is a voice whose soul-thrill

is love, the boundless love of God and of men, who are the children of

this love, and therefore brothers. This voice cannot be bought, it

cannot be silenced. _Currit verbum_, said St. Paul, and again from his

prison-cell: “But the word of God is not fettered.” On innumerable

lips it is born ever anew; and always and everywhere it is a protest

against the brutality of power, an appeal in the name of God, our

Father in heaven, in behalf of the poor, the oppressed, the

disinherited of humanity. Men may still be tyrants, may still crush

the weak and sacrifice truth and justice to their lustful appetites;

but the voice of God, threatening, commanding, rebuking, shall be

silent nevermore.

Festus will tremble before Paul; at the bidding of Ambrose Theodosius

will repent; and before Hildebrand the brutal Henry will bow his head.

At the sound of this voice all Europe shall rouse itself, shall rush,

impelled by some divine instinct, into the heart of Asia, to strike

the mighty power which threatened to blight the budding hope of the

world. If we would understand the relations of the church to liberty,

we must consider the influence of this free speech, which, without

asking the permission of king or people, impelled by a divine

necessity, made itself heard of the whole earth. Over the door of his

Academy Plato had inscribed: “None but geometers enter here”; over the

portals of the church was written the word of Christ: “Come to me, all

ye who labor and are heavy laden.” “All you,” exclaimed St. Augustine,

“who labor, who dig the earth, who fish in the sea, who carry burdens,

or slowly and painfully construct the barks in which your brothers

will dare the waves—all enter here, and I will explain to you not only

the γνῶθι σεαυτόν of Socrates, but the most hidden of mysteries—the

Trinity.” This new eloquence was as large as the human race; it was

for all, and first of all for the poor and the oppressed. It was not

artistic, in the technical meaning; it did not captivate the senses;

it was not polished. There was no showy marshalling of words and

phrases, no sweet and varied modulation of voice, no graceful and

commanding gesture. Around the altar were gathered the slave, the

beggar, the halt, and the blind—the oppressed and suffering race of

men. If with them were found the rich and high-born, they were there

as brothers—their wealth and noble birth entered not into the church

of Christ. Here there was neither freeman nor slave—all were one. Thus

in every Christian assembly was typed the humanity which was to be

when all men would be brothers and free. To this new race the apostle

of Christ spoke: “My brothers,” he said, or “My children”; and though

all history and all society shrieked out against him, his hearers felt

and knew that his words were God’s truth. The heart is not deceived in

love. “I seek not yours,” he said, “but you; for God is my witness how

I long after you all in the heart of Jesus Christ.… I could wish that

myself were accursed, if only my brethren be saved.” And then, with

the liberty which love alone can inspire, he threatened, rebuked,

implored, laid bare the hidden wounds of the soul, nor feared to

become an enemy for speaking the truth. To the great and rich he spoke

in the plainest and strongest manner, reminding them of their duties,

denouncing their indifference, their cruelty, their injustice; and

then, in words soft as oil, he breathed hope and courage into the

hearts of those who suffer, showing them beyond this short and

delusive life the certain reward of their struggles and sorrows. He

taught them that the soul is the highest, that purity is the best,

that only the clean of heart see God; that man’s chief worth lies in

that which is common to all, derived from God and for him created.

Human life was perishing, wastefully poured through the senses on

every carnal thing. No love of beauty or truth or justice was left.

The mind was darkened, the heart was paralyzed. The great, strong

human passions that bore the people of Rome in triumph through the

earth were dead; everywhere, in religion, in art, in manners, was the

deadly blight of materialism; a kind of delirium hurried all men into

animal indulgences fatal alike to soul and body. To a race thus glued

to the earth by carnal appetites came the voice of the apostle,

preaching Christ and him crucified; telling of the divine love that

had bowed the heavens and brought down to men God’s own Son to suffer,

to labor, to die for them. He was poor, he was meek and humble, he

fasted, he prayed; he comforted the sorrowful, gave hope to the

despairing; he offered up his life for men. Such as he was those who

believe in him must be. To serve the lusts of the flesh, to be

heartless, to be cruel, to be unjust, is to have no part with him. The

greed of gold and of pleasure had reduced the masses of men to slavery

and beggary; those who would follow God’s Son in the perfect way were

to sell what they had, to give to the poor. The whole race of men was

fallen, sunk in sin; the disciples of Christ were bidden to separate

themselves from a world which had denied God, that, having received

faith, hope, and love through union with him, they might bring to the

dying peoples a new life.

The Christian religion turned the mind’s eye from the contemplation of

beauty of form to the inner life of the soul; from thoughts of power

and success to principles of right and justice. All the forces of

society had been brought together to develop in its highest potency

the passion of patriotism, which, bending to its purpose all the

powers of individual life, had created mighty states, embellished them

with art, crowned them with victory, made them eternal in literature

that cannot die; but on the altar of all this glory man had been

sacrificed. Patriotism had failed, hopelessly failed, to satisfy the

unutterable longings of an immortal race. It was based upon false

principles and perverted instincts. Man’s end is not more fulfilled in

citizenship in a great and prosperous state than in the possession of

vast wealth. The religion of patriotism was a low and material creed

without eternal verities upon which to rest. Power was its divinity,

and it was therefore without mercy; success was its justification, and

it consequently trampled upon right. It is not surprising that such

principles should have created states whose chief business was to prey

upon the human race, and which, when conquest was no longer possible,

were brought to ruin by the viciousness of their essential

constitutions. In fact, patriotism, as understood by the pre-christian

states, was a denial of the principles out of which the common law of

Christendom has grown. It placed the interests of the nation above

those of the race, and thereby justified all inhumanity if only it

tended to the particular good of the state.

In contradiction of this unjust and narrow spirit, the Christian

preacher declared that man’s first duty is to God, as his first aim

should be to seek God’s kingdom by purifying and developing his own

moral nature. He declared that man is more than the state, as God is

more than the world; inspiring in another form those views of the

paramount worth of the individual soul without which there could be no

successful reaction against the slavery and degradation of paganism.

“The world,” said Tertullian, “is the common country and republic of

all men.”

These principles gradually worked their way, through “the foolishness

of preaching,” into the minds and hearts of the masses and became the

leaven of a new society. Let us examine their action more specially.

In the church the brotherhood of the race was from the earliest day

not only taught but recognized as a fact. “There is neither Jew nor

Greek,” said St. Paul, “neither bond nor free, neither male nor

female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” This doctrine is stated

in various places in the New Testament with such emphasis as to leave

no doubt of its true meaning. It is equally certain, however, that the

apostles did not proclaim the emancipation of the slaves. “Let those

who are servants under the yoke,” said the same apostle who declared

that in Christ there was neither bond nor free, “count their masters

worthy of all honor, lest the name of the Lord and his doctrines be

blasphemed.”

It was not the spirit of the Christian faith to encourage visionary

schemes or to awaken wild dreams of liberty; but rather to subdue and

chasten the heart, to make men content to bear worthily the ills of

life by giving to suffering a meaning and a blessing.

The misery of the pagan slave was extreme, but it was also hopeless.

He believed himself the victim of relentless fate, from whose power

death was the only deliverance, and he therefore rushed wildly into

all excess, giving little thought to whether he should live to see the

morrow. Suffering for him was without meaning—a remediless evil, a

blind punishment inflicted by remorseless destiny. For this reason

also his wretchedness excited no pity. Even as late as the time of St.

Ambrose the pagans were accustomed to say: “We care not to give to

people whom the gods must have cursed, since they have left them in

sorrow and want.”

But with the preaching of Christ, and him crucified, came the divine

doctrine of expiatory suffering—of suffering that purifies,

regenerates, ennobles, begets the unselfish temper and the heroic

mood. When the Christian suffered he was but filling up the measure of

the sufferings of Christ. The slave, laboring for his master, was not

seeking to please men; he was “the servant of Christ, doing the will

of God from the heart”; “knowing that whatsoever good any man shall

do, the same shall he receive from the Lord, whether he be bond or

free.” Masters in turn were taught to treat their slaves kindly and

gently, even as brothers; “knowing that the Lord both of them and of

you is in heaven, and with him there is no respect of persons.”

Thus, without attempting to destroy slavery by schemes that must have

been premature, the Christian religion changed its nature by diffusing

correct notions concerning the mutual rights and duties implied in the

relations of master and slave. The slave as a brother in Christ is

separated by a whole world from the slave who is a tool or chattel.

Who can read St. Paul’s Epistle to Philemon, written in behalf of the

fugitive slave Onesimus, without perceiving the radical revolution

which Christianity was destined to make in regard to slavery? “I

beseech thee for my son, Onesimus: … receive him as my own heart; no

longer as a slave, but as a most dear brother. If he hath wronged thee

in anything, or is in thy debt, put it to my account.”

This is after all but the application of the teaching of Christ: I was

hungry, I was thirsty, I was sick, I was a captive, and ye fed me, ye

gave me to drink, ye visited me; for inasmuch as ye have done this for

the least of my brethren, ye have done it for me. In every suffering

and wronged human being there is the Christ to be honored, to be

loved, to be served. Whosoever refuses to take part in this ministry

places himself outside the kingdom of God.

Slavery, from the Christian point of view, is but one of the thousand

ills entailed upon the human race by the transgression of Adam; it is

enrooted, not in nature, but in sin; and as Christ died to destroy

sin, his religion must tend to diminish and gradually abolish its

moral results. The freedom of all men in Christ which the great

apostle so boldly proclaims must in time find its counterpart in the

equality of all men before the law. Indeed, the admission of the slave

into the Christian brotherhood logically implied the abolition of

slavery. It so raised the individual by giving him the knowledge of

his true dignity, and so softened the master’s treatment, that the

moral elevation of the whole class was the inevitable result. In this

way the church made the slave worthy to be free, and from this to

liberty there is but a step. “We teach the slaves,” said Origen, “how

they may beget in themselves a noble spirit, and so become free”; and

it need not surprise us, therefore, when Lactantius testifies that

among Christians already in his day the difference between master and

slave was but formal; in spirit both were brothers and fellow-servants

of Christ. Nor is it remarkable that as evidence of this moral

regeneration we should find the slaves among the early martyrs. There

is an example of the sentiments which Christians entertained for their

slaves in the self-reproaches of St. Paulinus in his letter to

Sulpicius Severus: “He has served me,” he wrote; “he has been my

slave. Woe to me, who have suffered that he who has never been a slave

to sin should serve a sinner. Every day he washed my feet, and, had I

permitted it, would have cleansed my sandals; eager to render every

service to the body, that he might gain dominion over the soul. It is

Jesus Christ himself whom I venerate in this youth; for every faithful

soul comes from God, and every one who is humble of heart proceeds

from the very heart of Christ.” Men who felt so lovingly and so deeply

for their fellows could not long consent to hold them in bondage. “We

have known,” wrote Pope Clement to the Corinthians, “many of the

faithful to become bondsmen that they might ransom their brethren.”

Pagan masters, such as Hermes and Chromatius, on the occasion of their

baptism gave freedom to their slaves; and holy women, like St.

Melania, induced their husbands to follow this example. “Every day,”

wrote Salvian in the fifth century, “slaves receive the right of

citizenship and are permitted to carry with them whatever they have

saved in the house of their master.” And we know, upon the authority

of St. Gregory of Nyssa, that these manumissions frequently took place

at Easter and other solemn festivals of the church. After the

conversion of Constantine the influence of the church induced the

civil authority to relax the severity of its legal enactments

concerning slaves. Their manumission, especially from religious

motives, was facilitated and the cruelty of masters was restrained.

The successors of Constantine, particularly Justinian, continued to

act in the same generous spirit, until finally, in the sixth century,

all the harsher pagan laws were abolished, and men who had been slaves

were even admitted to holy orders. This wonderful change in the policy

of the Roman state had been wrought by the pressure of Christian

influences. The voices of the great preachers, St. Chrysostom, St.

Ambrose, St. Augustine, never wearied in pleading the cause of the

slave; the councils of the church placed them under the protection of

the ecclesiastical law; the bishops and priests defended them against

the cruelty of their masters; and when once they were free, the church

clothed their liberty with an inviolable sanctity. In other ways, too,

religious influences were at work to destroy slavery. The universal

custom of the ancient pagan nations, which deprived captives of war of

their freedom, was an unfailing source of supply to the slave markets.

Though the church was unable at once to erase from the battle-flags of

the ancient world the _Væ victis_, she found means to alleviate the

lot of the captive.

We have quoted the words of St. Clement to show that in his day

already Christians not unfrequently took upon themselves voluntary

servitude in order to redeem their brethren. The property of the

church was considered best employed when used for the redemption of

captives. For this purpose the bishops were permitted to sell even the

sacred vessels of the altar. “Since our Redeemer, the Creator of all

things,” wrote Pope St. Gregory, “has vouchsafed in his goodness to

become man, in order to restore to us our first liberty by breaking,

through his divine grace, the bonds of servitude by which we were held

captive, it is a holy deed to give to men, by enfranchisement, their

native freedom; for in the beginning nature made them all free, and

they have been subjected to the yoke of slavery only by the law of

nations.”

A council held at Rome under this great pope (A.D. 595) decreed that

slaves who wished to enter the monastic life should receive their

liberty; and so great was the number of those who availed themselves

of this privilege that the masters on all sides loudly complained of

it as an intolerable abuse. The church of the middle ages went still

further in the warfare for human liberty. Slavery existed among the

Germanic races which overran the Roman Empire and took possession of

its territory; and with them, too, the slave was the property of the

master, who had the right to exchange, to sell, or even to put him to

death.

The struggle which had been but begun amidst the corruptions of

ancient Rome with an effete and dying race was renewed with the wild

and rugged children of the forest. In this great battle for the rights

of man the monks came forward as the leaders. In many convents it was

forbidden to have slaves, and when the wealthy took the monastic habit

they were required to emancipate their slaves.

A council held in England in 816 ordained that at the death of a

bishop all his English slaves should be given their freedom; and at

the Council of Armagh, in 1172, all English slaves in Ireland were

emancipated. The Council of Coblentz, held in 922, declares that he

who sells a Christian into slavery is guilty of murder.

Numerous decrees of ecclesiastical synods condemned the slave-trade,

and with such efficacy that by the end of the tenth century slaves

were no longer sold in the kingdom of the Franks.

In the British Islands this abuse was not eradicated till towards the

close of the twelfth century. In Bohemia it was abolished in the

tenth, and in Sweden in the thirteenth century. The church continued

to buy slaves in order to give them their liberty. The right of asylum

was given to those who fled from the cruelty of their masters. The

historical records of manumission in the middle ages, as preserved in

testamentary acts, almost universally assign religious motives for the

emancipation of slaves.

The efforts of the church in the first centuries of Christianity, and

later too, in behalf of the weak and the oppressed—woman, the child,

and the slave—are intimately connected with the progress of civil

liberty. It is impossible for us, who are the children of two thousand

years of Christian influences, to realize the full significance of her

enthusiastic devotion to the people, poor, suffering, and degraded, in

an age in which no other voice than hers pleaded for them. In order to

do this we should be able to place ourselves in the midst of the old

pagan world, so as to contemplate the abject condition to which the

masses of men had been reduced—a state so pitiable that possibly

nothing short of the appearance of God himself, in poverty and sorrow,

could have inspired the courage even to hope for better things.