CHAPTER XVII.

THE END.

The admiral telegraphed at once to Sir Simon, informing him of what

had happened. It was no surprise, therefore, when, on the morning of

the funeral, the baronet walked into Clide’s room. The meeting was

affectionate but sad. Clide had no heart to give a joyous welcome to

his old friend. Even Franceline for the time was forgotten. The shock

of the tragic death he had just witnessed had shattered his airy

castles to pieces. He was, as yet, too much under the solemn spell of

that event to turn his mind to the brightness that it might have made

an opening for in the future.

Mrs. de Winton had come up from Wales, and was for taking Clide with

her to a more suitable residence than his dingy lodgings; but he

refused to stir until all was over, and she knew, as did all who knew

Clide, that when he made up his mind to do or not to do a thing, he

was immovable as fate. When the little band who had followed Isabel to

the grave returned, they went by appointment to see the medical man

under whose care she had spent the last months of her life. Mr.

Percival, who, strangely enough, had not been at the funeral, was to

be there to meet them. He was in the room when they entered. Sir Simon

Harness started on perceiving him. “Mr. Plover! I hardly expected to

meet you here.”

“Plover!” echoed Clide and Mr. Simpson.

“The same, at your service,” replied the other with cool effrontery.

Then, turning to Clide, he said:

“Can I see you alone? What we have got to say had better be said

privately.”

Clide made a gesture of assent, and the doctor showed them into an

adjoining room.

The outline of Mr. Prendergast’s confession is already known; it is

only necessary to fill it up with a few details of interest. Isabel

was not his own niece, but the step-niece of his wife by her first

husband, an Italian singer, from whom the girl inherited her gift of

song. She was thrown on the care of Mr. Prendergast when quite a

child. He was a needy adventurer, and determined to make her voice

useful; for this end he cultivated it to the highest degree. But there

was madness in her family. Just as her musical education was complete,

and she was preparing to come out on a provincial stage in Italy, her

mind became deranged, and he was obliged to place her in an obscure

lunatic asylum near Milan. Meanwhile, he travelled as agent to a large

London firm, and saw a great deal of life, chiefly in the West Indies.

On his return he found Isabel recovered and in splendid voice.

Complete change and travelling were advised as the best means of

strengthening her against the danger of a relapse. He took her to

America; then followed her marriage and her flight. Whether the fraud

that she had practised on Clide was entirely a deliberate falsehood,

prompted by that strange cunning which is one of the characteristics

of madness, or whether it was the delusion of a disordered brain, it

signified little now to him; it was certain that she had become fully

alive to the fact that she had grossly deceived her husband, and that

discovery would ruin her. Rather than face it, she fled and threw

herself on her uncle for pity and protection. Then followed the

checkered life: now the glare of the footlights, now the obscurity of

a lunatic asylum. It had been her own passionate desire to go on the

stage—so Mr. Prendergast said—and he had only yielded to it because he

saw there was no other course open to her. Her terror of her husband’s

anger was so great that the idea of being discovered by him threw her

into a state of despair which threatened to unsettle her brain beyond

all chance of recovery. She had caught a glimpse of him from her

window at Dieppe, and insisted on her uncle’s carrying her off that

very night, or else she would commit suicide. The excitement of the

stage soon brought on a return of madness. Prendergast locked her up

and went abroad again on a commission; fell in with Russian Jews on

the borders of China, bought valuable stones from them, and returned

to fulfil the dream of his life: to buy a country place and live “like

a gentleman.” He found Isabel again recovered, and with her voice in

greater power than ever. The offer of a fabulous sum for one season

from a manager who had long had his eye on the beautiful young soprano

tempted her uncle; he accepted an engagement for her at St.

Petersburg. A London milliner who knew her slightly and had business

of her own there accompanied them as a sort of chaperon for Isabel.

Stanton had recognized her at the hotel, and she him. The rest of the

story was already known to Clide. Mr. Prendergast was very emphatic,

however, in declaring that he never intended to keep the poor child on

the stage; this one season was so magnificently paid for that the sum,

added to his own means, would make them both wealthy for the remainder

of their lives.

“And now I have made a clean breast of it; you know everything,” he

said, bringing his narrative to a close.

“No, not everything,” replied Mr. de Winton, fixing a searching look

on him. “You have not explained the motives of your own conduct

throughout. You changed your name twice; you persistently avoided me;

you had recourse to unworthy subterfuges to escape detection.

Admitting that my poor wife was, as you say, too frightened to trust

me or to let me know what she was doing, it was your duty to

communicate with me, and to give me at least the option of providing

for her, instead of compelling her to foster the disease that was

destroying her by adopting the career of an actress. What motive had

you for not doing this? I give you the choice of telling the truth

yourself; if you refuse, I must take other means of finding it out.”

Mr. Prendergast hesitated. There was evidently something yet to be

told which he shrank from avowing; but, as Clide intimated, he must

either confess it of his own accord or be driven to do so.

“You are right,” he said. “I had a motive in avoiding you; in keeping

out of the way, not only of you, but of everybody. You may have heard

of a great speculation started ten years ago in Canada, called the

Ramason Company?”

“I remember hearing of it; it was a disreputable affair. My uncle,

Admiral de Winton, took shares in it and lost heavily by the

transaction.”

“I was the man who started that company, and I ruined many by inducing

them to take shares in it. I was obliged to keep out of the way for

several years, lest I should be seized and made amenable for felony.

About a year ago the one man who swore to bring me to the hulks for it

died. I don’t think there is any one now who would be at the trouble

of prosecuting me; but I am in your power. You can hand me over to the

law, if you choose; vengeance is sweet and it is within your grasp.

Only remember,” he cried, with a sudden change from dogged

indifference to a more appealing tone—“remember that as we judge we

shall be judged; remember that we are standing both of us by a

new-made grave, and that, if I have sinned, I have already eaten the

bitter fruit of my misdoing. I was a poor man, struggling to live;

fighting for the bread I ate. If I had been born to estates and a

fortune, I should have been no worse than others who have done no evil

because they have never been tempted. Think of this, Mr. de Winton,

and for the sake of her who bore your name, and who, in the midst of

her poor mad wanderings, brought no dishonor on it, be merciful!”

There was nothing abject in the way the wretched man thus threw

himself on Clide’s clemency. He did not cringe or whine; he threw down

his arms and appealed to the generosity of his conqueror. Clide was

generous, and a generous nature is easily moved to pardon.

“What mercy is it that you ask of me?” he answered. “The mercy that

you need most it is in no man’s power to give or to withhold. You have

lent yourself for years to a course of cruelty and falsehood—cruelty

to the unhappy child whose friendlessness and terrible misfortune

should have claimed your pity and protecting care; falsehood to me,

whom you well-nigh led into committing a great crime and involuntarily

causing the shame and ruin of another. But I will take no vengeance on

you. Go and ask for mercy where you have most sinned.”

* * * * *

Sir Simon had started without an hour’s delay on receiving the

admiral’s telegram announcing Isabel’s death. If he had waited for the

first post, it would have brought him a line from Ponsonby Anwyll to

say that he was setting off the next day, and hoped to be at the Villa

des Olives nearly as soon as his letter. Roxham would join him at

Marseilles, and thence they would go on together.

So while Simon was rushing to London Ponsonby was rushing out of it;

he presented himself with Lord Roxham at the villa the day after his

host’s departure. Their surprise was very great when they were

informed that Sir Simon was not there, and that M. de la Bourbonais

and his daughter were the only occupants of the house. They asked to

see them, and were very cordially received, but it was quite clear

they were not expected. All the explanation Raymond could give of Sir

Simon’s extraordinary conduct was that he had received a telegram the

day before which obliged him to set out for London immediately; he had

not entered into any explanation, but the intelligence was apparently

rather exciting than painful, for he had gone away in very good

spirits. The travellers looked at each other in perplexity. What were

they to do? To come and install themselves at the villa was

impossible, not so much on account of the host’s absence as because of

Franceline’s presence. Raymond was discussing the same difficulty in

his own mind, and was sorely puzzled as to what he was expected to do.

Lord Roxham came to his assistance:

“The fact is, we have been too precipitate; we ought to have waited

for another letter from Harness. However, it really does not much

matter as far as the journey is concerned. I was on my way to these

parts, and Anwyll is very lucky in getting a month’s leave and the

chance of exploring this pretty place with a cicerone like myself. We

shall have no difficulty, I dare say, in getting some tolerably

comfortable quarters at a hotel in the town. You, count, will perhaps

kindly put us in the way of that. What is the best hotel here?”

Giacomo, the odd man and general out-door factotum, runner-of-errands,

and finder-out-of-everything, was called and despatched to the hotel

with the gentlemen’s luggage and proper instructions about their

requirements. This essential point once settled, all restraint was at

an end. M. de la Bourbonais felt free to allow his courtesy full play

and to offer all the hospitality that he wished to the two Englishmen.

He insisted on their remaining to dinner; they had just half an hour

to refresh themselves before it would be ready. Franceline joined her

father so graciously in urging the request that they yielded a not

unwilling assent.

Raymond had never met with Lord Roxham or Ponsonby since that

memorable dinner at the Court, but he had received letters from both

immediately on Sir Simon’s return and discovery of the ring. These

letters were written in a frank, manly tone that it would have been

difficult to resist if Raymond had been far more deeply incensed

against the writers than he was. Both assured him of their unshaken

esteem and their conviction all along that the mistake—for mistake

they felt certain it was—would sooner or later be cleared up; if they

had given any pain by not sooner expressing this opinion to M. de la

Bourbonais himself, they sincerely regretted and apologized for it.

Raymond had replied graciously to both, and so the old kind feeling

was restored. He retained a grateful recollection, too, of Ponsonby’s

prompt though formal salutation when Mr. Charlton had passed on,

cutting him dead.

The evening passed pleasantly as the party sat chatting away on the

terrace, with the young May moon shining down on the blue waves that

beat against the pebbly beach with a murmurous plash. Franceline had

all sorts of questions to ask about Dullerton after nearly three

months’ absence—a long time at her age. She seemed astonished that

there was nothing remarkable to tell about the place and the people

during that interval, and I am afraid that Sir Ponsonby Anwyll drew on

his imagination now and then, rather than acknowledge the humiliating

fact that he knew nothing concerning the thing he was catechised

about. He talked of probable plans and contemplated movements of the

various persons, as if plans and movements entered into the lives of

the homespun natives of Dullerton at all.

It was late when the two young men took leave, with the promise to

return early next morning for a drive by the sea. Sir Simon had

contrived a wonderful nondescript vehicle, a cross between a

_char-à-banc_ and a wagonette, with an awning supported by iron rods,

so as to obviate the necessity for umbrellas or parasols. Franceline

was to do the honors of this and show them the beauties of the coast.

They were punctual to their appointment, and everybody enjoyed the

drive exceedingly. They dined at the Villa des Olives again that day,

and there was more sitting out on the terrace and endless

conversations.

* * * * *

Clide, meantime, was waking up as from a bad dream. As soon as the

cloud of those few hurried days was dispelled, he seemed suddenly to

cast off the chill of awe that had fallen on him by his wife’s

dying-bed, and clung to him until the grave had closed on her and shut

out that chapter of his life for ever. Then youth vindicated itself,

the elastic spring rebounded, and the future that yesterday was out of

sight began to dawn brightly on him once more. The yearning to see

Franceline, to claim her for his own, asserted itself with a force

that was only the greater for being so long repressed. But now that

all obstacles were removed on his side, it remained to be seen whether

she was still free—free at heart, and willing to be his; it was

possible—nay, did not his better sense add probable—that the seed of

love he had sown in her heart had perished there before this, chilled

by his neglect, crushed to death by his seeming faithlessness and

desertion.

He must know first from Sir Simon how matters stood between her and

Anwyll. Sir Simon told him the truth. He had left Franceline

heart-whole, as far as he knew; but here was the irrepressible

Ponsonby as good as installed under the same roof with her, walking,

riding, making _parties_ by sunrise and conversations by moonlight;

passionately in love with her, and Raymond most anxious for the

success of his suit. Sir Simon had sounded him before he invited

Anwyll to Nice. Was Franceline made of different stuff from every

other woman in every other country that she could remain proof to all

this, and not ignite at the contact of this faithful flame, not yield

to this unyielding perseverance? Sir Simon thought not. Clide thought

differently; but the wish, with him, might too easily engender the

belief.

Strange to say, neither he nor Sir Simon felt the least alarm

concerning Lord Roxham. Yet there could be no doubt as to which would

be pronounced the more dangerous rival of the two by any competent

jury of young ladies. He was far better-looking than Ponsonby Anwyll,

more intelligent and agreeable, and he was the son of a peer to boot.

This last attraction would no doubt constitute a much less dangerous

man a formidable rival in the eyes of most English young ladies. But

Franceline de la Bourbonais was not English, nor endowed with that

fine native faculty which enables a woman to look at a man through the

crystallizing medium of a peerage and discern its magically

beautifying power. Still, considering that she did not love Ponsonby

Anwyll when he presented himself at the Villa des Olives, there is no

denying that Lord Roxham was a rival of whom the young squire of Rydal

might justly have been afraid. Sir Simon had no deeply-laid plot or

counterplot in his mind when he asked him; he did not mean to play him

off against Ponsonby, as he had once played him off against Clide; he

merely thought it would make it pleasanter to have him. It would throw

Franceline more off her guard, too, perhaps. He was roving about the

Pyrenees, and he might just as well come on and spend a little while

with them at Nice.

Clide said very little while Sir Simon ran on about the contents of

Franceline’s letter, and proceeded to expound his views on the

possible state of affairs at the villa since he had left.

“Yes; I see the danger,” he said at length: “Anwyll has had the field

so far to himself with all odds on his side; her father, who could

make her do almost anything short of a sin to please him, is backing

him up. Well, _à la grâce de Dieu_! I will start with you for Nice by

this night’s mail.”

* * * * *

It was an hour after sunrise—the sweetest hour of the day. Franceline

was an early riser, and seldom missed the enjoyment of a short walk by

the sea in the freshness of the early morning. To-day, however, she

was not walking; she was sitting on the beach at the foot of the

garden that sloped down to the water’s edge, sitting with her

milk-white hands in her lap, without book or work, gazing vacantly at

the advancing tide and at the sunlight dancing on the waves. She was

tired; she had slept badly—hardly slept at all, indeed—and she wanted

the fresh sea-breeze to revive her, and the solitude of the silent

beach to help her to come to a decision that she had spent the night

vainly trying to arrive at. After a while she drew a letter from her

pocket, opened it, and spread it on her knee. She had read it so often

already that she might have repeated it word for word by heart; but

she read it again, as if expecting to find some new light in it now.

Things look different sometimes by daylight, just as faces do, and she

had only read this letter by the light of her bedroom candle. But the

sunbeams did not alter one line or modify the force of one word in the

four pages covered with a large, straggling, but bold, legible

handwriting. The letter was from Ponsonby Anwyll, asking her to be his

wife. Her father had put it into her hand last evening when he kissed

her and bade her good-night.

“My child, here is a message that I have been charged with for thee;

thou wilt read it alone and give me thy answer to-morrow.”

He did not add one word as to what he hoped the answer might be, but

the sigh, the close embrace with which he held her to him, told

Franceline plainly enough what his longing desire was. She returned

his embrace in silence and carried the letter to her room. She had

thought over it all night; but the night had brought her no counsel.

She was still hesitating, undecided. Yet she must make up her mind one

way or the other within a very short time—oh! how short a time. Why

could she not yield? Her father desired this marriage ardently, and

there was everything to recommend it. Ponsonby loved her so sincerely,

with such a humble, honest, manly love. It was no light thing to fling

away such a gift as this. A faithful heart is not an offering to be

cast aside as if it were a “common thing with more behind,” to be

picked up at any moment. It was in all probability the turning point

of her life that she was now called upon to decide; if she let the

tide go by, it might never flow towards her again. Franceline would

have made small account of this if she had had only herself to

consider. She was happy as she was, and would gladly have renounced

all hope or chance of changing her present lot; she had no ambition,

and she did not realize the future keenly enough to forecast

probabilities and take precautions against them. She knew her father

was an old man, but she never let her mind dwell on the consequences

of that fact. If he were taken away first, it seemed as if life must

come to an end for her; she did not want to look beyond so remote and

dreaded a possibility. But she knew that he looked beyond it, during

his illness especially he had said things occasionally that showed he

was painfully preoccupied about her future, about what was to become

of her if he went and left her alone in the world with no one to love

her or take care of her. She knew that nothing could sweeten his

remaining years more than to see her happily married; that, in fact,

such an event would, humanly speaking, be very likely to prolong his

life. This it was that kept her trembling on the verge of surrender

and pleaded loudly in favor of Ponsonby’s suit. Why was it so hard to

yield? There was nothing to hinder her now. If she had cared for any

one else.… A bright crimson suffused her cheeks; she covered her face

with her hands with an involuntary movement, as if to hide that blush

of exquisite shame from the roses that were its only witnesses.

But this emotion passed away and sober reflections presented

themselves. The idea, once so firmly rejected as a presumptuous

temptation, that she might convert Ponsonby by marrying him, appealed

to her suddenly with a force altogether new. It would be no doubt a

glorious thing to sacrifice her own personal feelings and wishes for

such an object, and it seemed to Franceline, as she contemplated it

for the first time calmly, that the generosity of the motive must

ensure the reward of the sacrifice. If she could but consult Father

Henwick! But that was impossible. The distance was too great. In those

days railroads were few and far between. It took four days for a

letter to reach Dullerton, and as many for the answer to return; and

it was imperative that she should make up her mind at once. She drew

from her pocket a little book in which she had written down some

striking passages from various authors, and some words of advice that

Father Henwick had given her from time to time. The words that had

sounded so sustaining when uttered spoke to her now with even a more

pointed significance: “Be sure of one thing: so long as we are

sincerely seeking to do what is right God will guide us to it.… The

danger is that sometimes we are all the time hankering after our own

will when we say, and even fancy, that we are seeking the will of

God.” Then later, in answer to some question about the mode of

discerning between these two wills, the writer said: “Things that are

not of our seeking or wishing are mostly of his ordering.… Obedience

and circumstances are our safest guides.” Here Franceline closed the

little book, murmuring to herself: “It is quite certain that this

marriage is not of my seeking—nor of my inclination; if that be a

sign, I am safe in doing God’s will in consenting to it.” Then she

remembered how she had read somewhere that God would send an angel

from heaven rather than let a faithful soul go astray when striving to

do his will. No angel had come to forbid her yielding, and the time

pressed for her decision. Franceline buried her face in her hands, and

for the next few minutes a fierce struggle went on within her. She

trembled from head to foot, her pulses beat fast, a sharp pang shot

through her whole being and seemed to tear it asunder for one moment,

then gradually recoiled upon her will, stimulating it to a firm,

irrevocable impulse. All that she had hitherto known of energy or

courage was as nothing compared to what she was feeling now. She

looked up and pushed back her hair, as if to see a vision more

clearly. A light had gathered in her eye, a high resolve shone upon

her brow. The vision was vanishing, but she saw it still: angels were

beckoning. The spirit of Renunciation pointed with golden palm-branch

to that hour when every sacrifice receives its crown, when every

selfish denial is avenged. She stood by her father’s death-bed; life

was fading away like a dream; the hour of real awakening was at hand.

Conscience spoke out: “Prove thy love,” said the clear, stern voice,

“accept the reality which the kind will of Heaven has appointed for

you, and cast from your heart once and for ever the vain dream that it

has cherished too long. Make your father happy; become the wife of

this good and faithful man who loves you. Go forth, immolate yourself,

and lead him to the light of truth.”

When Franceline rose to her feet, Ponsonby’s cause was won. She folded

his letter, and went in and sat down at once and answered it. Her hand

did not falter; there was no trace of reluctance or hesitation visible

in her countenance. As soon as the letter was finished she went

down-stairs to meet her father, and handed it to him open.

“Am I to read it?”

“Yes, father; it is you who have written it,” she said, kissing him.

Before M. de la Bourbonais could reply, Angélique and the major-domo

came in with the breakfast, and kept fussing in and out of the room

while it lasted; so it was some little time before he was able to go

out on the terrace and read the letter alone.

Franceline did not wait to see its effect upon him. She escaped to her

room, and sat there until he should call for her; but instead of this

Raymond took up his straw hat and went straight out of the house. She

saw him walk with a quick, buoyant step down the garden and disappear

into the road. He was gone with her answer to Ponsonby, guessing

rightly that until he received it the young man would not venture to

return to the villa, and that her father was impatient to make the

lover happy. Franceline saw him go forth bearing the _fiat_ that

decided her destiny, that placed a stranger henceforth between them,

dividing with another the duty and the life that had hitherto been all

his own. Oh! if she had but loved the other as it was in her to love

the man who was to be her husband. A cry that was almost a shriek

escaped from her, and she threw herself upon the ground in a paroxysm

of tears. But this weakness was soon over; she arose and hurried out

of the house, so as to avoid meeting Angélique or any of the servants,

and went down to the beach.

The tide was in; she seated herself in the crevice of a rock—a

favorite seat, where she was sheltered from the sun and surrounded by

the beautiful blue sea on every side. She had taken a book with her,

dutifully opened it where the marker was, and then leaned her head

against the side of the rock and began to dream. How pleasant it would

be if she could drift away in one of those white fishing-boats,

herself and her father, to some “fair isle of the blest” where there

is no marrying or giving in marriage, where no winged angels come with

cruel messages of duty to weak, reluctant hearts! Was that steamer

whose smoke was curling like a dark snake in the pure blue atmosphere

bound for one of these happy isles? Oh! would that she were on it and

making for that haven of rest. She must have sat a long time dreaming

her dreams, for the steamer was a long while out of sight and the

water had risen almost to her feet, when she heard Angélique’s voice

calling her up and down the garden. She did not move. It was Ponsonby

come back with her father, no doubt, to salute her as his bride. Let

him wait; there was time enough. Angélique went on calling for some

minutes, and then ceased. Franceline thought she had given it up, and

was congratulating herself on the reprieve, when she heard the sound

of footsteps falling heavily on the pebbles close behind the rock.

There was no use resisting; she must go to this impatient lover at

once, it seemed. She rose with a weary, resigned sigh, and was

stepping over the ledge of the rock to gain the terrace, when, looking

up, she beheld, not Angélique, but Clide de Winton. Franceline

screamed as if a sword had been driven through her heart, fell

forward, and was caught in Clide’s arms.

“Franceline! my darling! my own!” he murmured, straining her

passionately to him.

She had not fainted; she was only stunned. Rallying in an instant, she

struggled to free herself, and looking at him with a frightened,

bewildered glance, “How is this? What do you mean? Are you free?” she

exclaimed.

“Should I dare to come to you, to speak to you thus, to clasp you to

my heart, if I were not free? O Franceline, Franceline! have you known

me so little all this time?”

Her head drooped upon his shoulder, and she struggled no more; he

gathered her to his heart, and she did not draw away her face from the

warm kisses that he pressed on it.

Angélique’s voice breaking in upon this moment of rapture roused her

to the remembrance of other things: her father’s errand, the letter,

she had written engaging herself as Ponsonby Anwyll’s wife.

“O Clide, Clide!” she cried, putting her hand to her forehead with a

look of agonized distress.

“My darling! what is it?”

But Angélique was down on them now, and began to scold the young girl

for letting her shout herself hoarse calling to her this hour past

without an answer, until she thought Mam’selle must have fallen asleep

and dropped into the sea; that’s what would happen some of these days,

and then her body would be carried off by the tide to the north pole,

and M. le Comte would die of grief, and the only thing for Angélique

to do would be to drown herself. Clide tried to divert the vials of

the old woman’s wrath towards him, and so cut her short in this dismal

horoscopic view of the family history. M. de la Bourbonais, meanwhile,

was hastening to meet them; the sight of his smiling countenance sent

a dagger through Franceline. She embraced Sir Simon, hurriedly, and

then ran to her father.

“You went with that letter?” she whispered.

“Yes, my little one; I went straight off with it.”

“Ha! Then he knows already? You have given it to him?”

“No; unluckily, he was not at home. They had just gone out when I got

to the hotel.”

“O father! thank God! Then give it to me quick!” She flung her arms

round his neck, and kissed him with an energy that nearly sent his

spectacles flying into the Mediterranean.

“Eh, eh? What is the matter? What is this?” said Raymond, rescuing the

precious _lunettes_ and refixing them on his nose.

“Father, I will not marry him. I am engaged to Clide de Winton!”

* * * * *

The sun was not long risen—for the dew was still glistening on the

deep-bladed grass, and the birds were babbling in their nests as they

do in the fresh dawn before men are astir to drown the delicious

concert—when three figures might be seen wending towards the little

gray church, where Father Henwick was awaiting them. They found the

door open and the candles lighted on the altar, although there was not

a soul in the church but themselves.

I dare say you recognize the three at a glance, though it may surprise

you to see Clide de Winton there and at so unwonted an hour.

The church was beautifully arrayed in flowers and evergreens and

banners of every hue. For this is to be Franceline’s wedding-day, and

she has come with her _fiancé_ and her father to ask a blessing on it.

There was something peculiarly sweet and thrilling in the sound of the

bell through the almost empty church, and the voice of the priest

reverberating in the solemn silence, tender and tremulous as a throb

that broke from his inmost heart.

The walk home was silent; only, when they entered the park, M. de la

Bourbonais stood a moment and, looking down on the little cottage

where he and his child had suffered so much and known so many happy

days, he said with an emotion which he made no effort to conceal: “My

children, God has been very good to us; to me especially—for I have

deserved it least. I shall not live long to prove that I am grateful;

but you who are young—you will both of you love him and thank him for

me all your lives.”

Clide’s only answer was a silent pressure of the hand, while

Franceline fell upon her father’s breast and wept a few sweet tears.

* * * * *

Yes, the wedding-day had arrived; the sun shone brightly, everything

was bright, everybody seemed happy. Miss Merrywig sported a splendid

new gown for the occasion—pale blue silk, with rosebuds and

forget-me-nots on a broad, white satin stripe, most appropriate for a

wedding; and _such_ a bargain! She was entreating Lady Anwyll to make

a guess—just one guess—at what it had cost; but Lady Anwyll fought

off, declaring it would only make her envious if she knew, and,

besides, she wanted Miss Merrywig to keep her bargain as fresh as

possible for another episode like the present which would be taking

place soon, she hoped, in the neighborhood. She would not say more; it

was rash to speak of these matters until everything was _quite_

settled; but it had long been suspected by the whole county that that

sweet little Lady Lucy B—— and Ponce were planning some mischief

together. Then followed whisperings and squeezing of hands between the

two old ladies, which were presently interrupted by a loud,

premonitory buzz through the great Gothic hall where the guests were

fast assembling from the adjoining rooms. Sir Simon appeared,

marshalling the twelve pink and white bridemaids into ranks on the

broad landing at the top of the stairs. Down they came gliding as

softly as a sunset cloud, and stood below awaiting the bride.

Everybody whose acquaintance you have made ever so slightly at

Dullerton is present, I think—everybody except Sir Ponsonby Anwyll,

who sent his good wishes and regrets by his mother, explaining that he

had not been able to get home just at present.

And now a murmur, deep and prolonged, runs through the gay crowd. The

bride is coming; stately she steps down the grand oak stairs, leaning

on her father’s arm. To my mind, she is the sweetest, loveliest bride

that ever “the sun shone on.” But then, to be sure, I may be

prejudiced. I wish I could describe her dress to you; but it would be

very much like trying to describe the texture of a moonbeam. I can

only certify that it was white, diaphanous, and fleecy as a cloud, and

that, in some mysterious way, eucharista lilies floated here and there

over the soft, snowy foam. The graceful head, too, bowed modestly

under its golden weight of hair, was crowned by the same lovely

flowers, and a cloud-like veil of gossamer tissue encircled her like a

morning mist.

M. de la Bourbonais looked very happy as he passed through the

sympathetic groups with his clair-de-lune on his arm; there was

subdued joy on his venerable face that smoothed away all painful

traces of his late illness, and almost obliterated the lines of age

and the deeper furrows of care on his thoughtful brow.

As to Clide de Winton, everybody declared that he bore himself

admirably on this most trying occasion, presenting a model of what a

bridegroom ought to be—manly, dignified, and simple; he made a speech

at the wedding breakfast, and it was pronounced capital. I don’t think

the effort proved such a very severe trial to him, either, as he had

once expected, for when Mrs. de Winton, who had expanded like a

sunflower in cordiality that day, asked him with an arch smile whether

he found the ordeal very dreadful, Clide answered frankly that it was

not so trying as he had anticipated, and that, even when the worst was

said, a wedding ceremony, with all its fuss, was not an unmitigated

evil.

THOMISTIC PHILOSOPHY.[104]

There is some evidence of the undue conceit which the present age has

of its learning and culture in the fact that the works of the great

writers of the middle ages indefinitely surpass our best literary

productions in intellectual acumen and in the depth and width of real

philosophical science. St. Thomas commences his _Summa Theologica_ by

telling us that it is to be an elementary work for the use of

beginners in the study of sacred doctrine, according as the apostle

says, _Tam parvulis in Christo, lac vobis potum dedi, non escam_. This

book for junior students, this “milk for babes” of the mediæval times,

is nowadays somewhat strong for the mental digestion of full-grown

men, not excepting those whose minds have been carefully trained under

the tuition of judicious preceptors. It was no doubt the modesty of

the saint which prompted him to speak in this manner of that most

wonderful work. Had he lived in such days as ours, so remarkable for

feebleness of intellect, so conspicuous for contemptuousness, for

self-confidence and self-sufficiency, such language would not have

been possible with him; for he could only have used it in the

bitterest sarcasm, which is utterly foreign to his meek and gentle

character.

Since the days of the Angelic Doctor, it has become necessary to

dispose the minds of those who would drink of this source of science

by previous instruction in the first elements of his philosophy. Of

all the elementary philosophies of the strictly Thomistic school, the

most universally esteemed has been that of Father Goudin, who gave

lectures in the Dominican College of Paris towards the end of the

seventeenth century. The great aim of this faithful professor of

Thomism is to be true to his master in every point, not only in the

higher principles of philosophy, but even in the details of physics.

He wrote at a time when a great revolution was taking place in men’s

minds with regard to science, and he saw with concern that the new

doctrines would prove in their results subversive of all that was

Christian. He therefore set about opposing the doctrinal novelties of

Descartes and his school by an uncompromising reassertion of the

teaching of St. Thomas. In the judgment of posterity Goudin has erred

somewhat, but not so much, certainly, as the school which he opposed;

for the Cartesian doctrines have proved the source of many subsequent

errors, as scepticism, rationalism, pantheism, atheism. The mistakes

of Goudin simply regard some of the details of physical science which,

whether correctly or erroneously explained, tend little to the benefit

of our fellow-beings, although interesting enough to the minds of the

well educated.

We are assured that the strictest Thomists are not bound to adhere to

the details of the physics of their master. The Angelic Doctor, in

matters of this kind (which, we submit, concern little the theologian,

or the metaphysician, or the moralist), adopted the prevailing

opinions of the time. We do not read that he ever showed much

enthusiasm for natural or experimental science, and in this respect he

differed from his friend and quondam preceptor, Albertus Magnus. But

in those fundamental questions of philosophy which are intimately

connected with our moral conduct and with natural or positive

religion, and indeed in all questions where St. Thomas is bound to

think for himself, we do not find that he simply endorses the teaching

of another. When it is objected by knowing people that Aquinas teaches

doctrines which are exploded or puerile—as, for instance, that the

earth is stationary, or that the east is the right hand of the

heavens—it would be well for them to reflect that these are rather the

doctrines of the universally-admired Aristotle than of his Christian

disciple.[105]

Father Gonzales (since created Bishop of Cordova) has given to the

church an excellent manual of Thomistic doctrine. At the outset, he

seeks to determine the sense of the word _philosophy_. This is no easy

matter, as the definitions given by different authors are many and

various. Cousin declares it to be—_reflection completely emancipated

and freed from the trammels of authority, so that reason depends

solely upon itself for the acquisition of truth_. By the subjectivists

of Germany it is defined—_the Ego as it places and offers itself by

thesis and antithesis_. According to Kant, it is _the necessary

science of the laws and causes of spontaneous reason_. Cicero says

that philosophy is _rerum divinarum et humanarum causarumque, quibus

hæ res continentur, scientia_; and this is, perhaps, the popular

notion of the word, so that all scientific studies are included in the

general term of philosophy. Thus we speak of the philosophy of

history, the philosophy of language, the philosophy of manufactures,

of laws, and so forth. A writer of the name of Mr. Robert Hooke tries

to impress upon his readers the vast extent of philosophy in the

following curious dissertation:

“The history of potters, tobacco-pipe makers,

glass-grinders, looking-glass makers or foilers,

spectacle-makers and optic-glass makers, makers of

counterfeit pearl and precious stones, bugle-makers,

lamp-blowers, color-makers, color-grinders, glass-painters,

enamellers, varnishers, color-sellers, painters, limners,

picture-drawers, makers of babies’ heads, of little bowling

stones or marbles, fustian-makers, music-masters, tinsey

makers and taggers; the history of school-masters,

writing-masters, printers, bookbinders, stage-players,

dancing masters and vaulters, apothecaries, chirurgeons,

seamsters, butchers, barbers, laundresses, and cosmetics,

etc., etc. (the true nature of each of which being exactly

determined), will hugely facilitate our inquiries in

philosophy.”

By most scholastics philosophy is defined as a _cognitio certa et

evidens_. These are the words of Goudin, and we observe that they are

adopted by Father Lepidi in the first volume of his new work.

Gonzales, however, demurs to assent to this, for the reason that in

philosophy many questions are discussed of which we have neither

evidence nor certainty. The objection is inserted and responded to in

Father Lepidi’s book, and also in the works of Goudin. The proper and

primary object of philosophy is certain and evident; it treats of

questions that are obscure only secondarily and _consequenter_.

Nevertheless, Gonzales prefers to define philosophy as _cognitio

scientifica et rationalis Dei, mundi et hominis, quo viribus

naturalibus per altiores causas seu principia habetur_. In the latter

words of the definition he is in conformity with the rest of his

school, but in the first part—that is, in the genus of the

definition—he differs from them.

The essence of philosophy being determined, at least in the sense in

which the author is going to treat of it, we are next invited to

decide upon a suitable division. The older scholastics had divided it

into four parts: logic; physics, whose object was _ens mobile_, or all

changeable nature; metaphysics, which treated of being in the

abstract, and all concrete objects which transcend the powers of the

senses; and ethics. Some added a fifth part—namely, mathematics.

Goudin’s definition of philosophy seems capable of embracing this

science also; however, he disposes of it, whether consistently or not

we need not stop to inquire.

Later Christian writers, who have adhered in the main to the doctrines

of the scholastics, have somewhat varied their division. Physics in

its details is excluded from philosophy strictly so called, while in

its more universal relations it is considered as belonging to

metaphysics. Thus the science of the laws of the world is called

cosmology, and the science of the soul, its essence, its faculties,

and its operations, is called psychology. Cosmology and psychology,

together with theodicy or natural theology, are the subdivisions of

_special_ metaphysics, while the science of being is called ontology

or _general_ metaphysics.

However, Gonzales refuses to grant that psychology belongs properly to

metaphysics, because, although the soul of which it treats is beyond

the ken of the senses, yet the operations of the soul depend upon them

and are recognized by them. He determines, therefore, that this

science belongs as much to ethics and to logic as to metaphysics: to

metaphysics, inasmuch as it treats of the essence of the soul; to

logic, as it regards the faculties of cognition; to ethics, as far as

it concerns the moral power. Later on, when Gonzales comes to treat of

psychology _ex professo_, he suggests that it should be either reduced

again to physics or made a distinct and special portion of philosophy.

Such is the unsatisfactory consideration of the question by men

eminent for their science. We see in the newly-issued volume of Father

Lepidi’s philosophy that in his division he leaves out altogether the

words physics and metaphysics, and proposes the following heads:

logic, general ontology, cosmology, anthropology, natural theology,

and ethics. This mode of division seems to us, with all due deference

to Bishop Gonzales and other writers, the most satisfactory. Moreover,

it is explained by Father Lepidi in a most logical manner, based as it

is upon two incontrovertible philosophical maxims. Before we leave

this subject of the division, we will mention that proposed by the

late Canon Sanseverino in his great work, which, unfortunately, was

never completed. He considers philosophy under a twofold aspect,

subjective and objective. _Subjective_ philosophy is divided into four

branches—_logica_, _dynamilogia_, _idealogia_, and _criteriologia_.

_Objective_ philosophy has also four parts—_naturalis theologia_,

_cosmologia_, _anthropologia_, _ethica_. We observe that he is one

with Father Lepidi in discarding the use of those vague terms of which

we have spoken.

Father Gonzales has published his work in three volumes, the first of

which comprises the tractates of Logic and Psychology. In the Logic we

have noticed nothing particular to be mentioned, excepting its

completeness and the exceeding clearness with which the subjects are

treated. The treatise of Psychology, however, has greatly interested

us, and is the best we have seen. It is divided into two parts,

_empiric_ and _rational_. _Psychologia empirica_ treats of the powers

of the soul, and we notice in a few instances a deviation from the

explicit doctrine of Goudin. For instance, those _species_ or

representations of objects which are received in the cognitive senses,

are stated by Gonzales to be immaterial and spiritual, while Goudin

has said that they are material. It might, perhaps, be suggested that

these _species_ may be called _immateriales negative_. This epithet is

allowed by the author to be applied to the _anima_ of brutes; and as

the _species_ we speak of belong to animal life, they must be of the

same nature. Cognition is a vital act, and all vitality is above the

condition of that which is merely material. A very recent writer has

implied that St. Thomas distinguishes immaterial and spiritual

existences. We do not remember to have noticed such a distinction in

his works. Perhaps the writer makes allusion to the doctrine that some

operations of material beings transcend the qualities of

matter—_v.g._, sensitive cognition. Yet these operations are not

called immaterial by St. Thomas, at least not usually. This subject of

cognition is well treated of by Gonzales. In another part of this

treatise he endeavors to prove the necessity of an _intellectus agens_

as distinguished from the _intellectus possibilis_, the passive

intellect, the faculty of understanding.

In the second part of Psychology, the simplicity of the soul, its

spirituality and immateriality, are clearly demonstrated. Its unity

also is stoutly maintained, and the opposite errors, both ancient and

modern, are stated with admirable terseness and pertinence, and then

put aside as wanting in scientific consistency. With the hypothesis of

one soul, all vital operations can be accounted for; with that of more

than one principle of life, various phenomena could not be explained;

therefore the doctrine of one principle is to be admitted.

Appended to the tractate of Psychology is a special chapter on

Ideology. The various systems of Democritus, Plato, Aristotle, Locke,

Leibnitz, Bonald, Malebranche, Gioberti, Kant, Schelling, Fichte, and

Cousin are set aside one after another as insufficient or absurd. Then

we have an exposition of the subject according to the principles of

the Angelic Doctor; and this portion of the work is of unusual

originality, specially interesting and instructive to many readers.

The reality of ideas, as distinct intellectual representations of

objects, it first established in opposition to the doctrines of those

philosophers who maintain that the understanding perceives objects

without the intervention of ideas or the need of an _intellectus

agens_. The doctrine of _impressed_ ideas as distinct from those that

are _expressed_ is insisted upon.

The origin of our ideas is thus explained: There are four kinds of

ideas, _ideæ primariæ abstractionis_, _ideæ pure intelligibiles_,

_ideæ pure spirituales_, and _idea entis_, and this division is

applicable to both impressed and expressed ideas. We must ask pardon

for our attempt to Anglicize the scholastic terms. Now, as to

expressed ideas, all these have their origin from the passive

intellect. The difficulty, therefore, of explaining the origin of

ideas regards only those which we call _ideæ impressæ_, and of these

only we have now to speak.

Ideas of primary abstraction, which refer to corporeal or sensible

objects—as, for instance, a man, a horse, the sun—come from the active

intellect, which draws them out of the _species_ contained in the

imagination. Ideas purely intellectual—as those of substance, cause,

effect, good, evil—have their origin from both the active and the

passive intellect: from the former, because in the ideas of primary

abstraction it discovers other more universal relations, as those of

good, bad, etc.; from the latter, as far as it works out and develops

those germs of higher knowledge imperfectly manifested by the active

intellect. As to purely spiritual ideas—those of God, of the angels,

of our own souls—these have not all the same origin. If the idea of

God is obtained by reasoning from that which is contingent to the

conclusion that a necessary being must exist, such an idea is the

product of the passive intellect, which has worked it out of

impressions previously received. But if the idea of God be conceived

as of the first cause of all things, then it is acquired in the same

way as the ideas of causes in general, and belongs in reality to that

class of ideas which are called purely intellectual. The idea of an

angel is acquired from the analogy of our own soul; hence the _idea

expressa_ of our soul may become the _idea impressa_ of an angel. As

to our own soul, there is no impressed idea of it, but its operations

are sufficient for the acquisition of an expressed idea of it, without

any need of an abstraction of the active intellect. As to the idea of

being, it is an abstraction of the active intellect, but natural and

spontaneous; indeed, it is its first perception, as the expressed idea

of being is the first conception of the passive intellect. And the

reason of this is, that our intellectual faculties are reflections of

the mind of God.

Father Gonzales next proceeds to explain in what sense scholastics

understand the axiom of the Stagirite, _Nihil est in intellectu, quin

prius fuerit in sensu_. All ideas depend upon the senses so far forth

that sensible cognition must always precede that which is

intellectual, and because all intellectual cognition requires an

accompanying exercise of the imagination. Ideas of primary abstraction

depend upon sensible representations directly and immediately; ideas

purely intellectual, remotely and inadequately; ideas purely

spiritual, especially of angels and of our own souls, depend upon the

senses only indirectly and _occasionaliter_. Hence the senses are

never the efficient causes of our intellectual ideas; the most that

can be said is, that they are the material causes of some of them. In

this sense only can we accept the maxim of the great pagan philosopher

without becoming implicated in the sensism of Locke and Condillac.

Gonzales next warns his students not to consider ideas as the object

of intellectual knowledge; an idea is not _id_ QUOD _cognoscitur_, but

_id_ QUO _cognoscitur_. These are the words of St. Thomas, and it is

of the greatest importance to realize the doctrine, if we would avoid

the Charybdis of idealism as well as the Scylla of sensism.

In the second volume we have the tractates of Ontology, Cosmology, and

Natural Theology. In ontology the real distinction of essence and

existence is affirmed and ably advocated, as, indeed, it usually is in

works emanating from the Dominican Order. We have known personally

more than one professor of that order who have differed from Gonzales

and Goudin in this point, and who have taught their doctrines in the

lecture rooms without scruple as the veritable teaching of St. Thomas.

Our province is not to attempt to decide the question, either on its

own independent merits or according to the authority of the Angelic

Doctor. There are difficulties in the subject which seem to increase

on examination. Father Liberatore, in the later editions of his

_Institutiones Philosophicæ_, has passed from the ranks of those who

deny the real distinction to join those who teach it, and he gives

weighty reasons for doing so. We do not just now remember a conversion

so conspicuous in the reverse direction; but we know of one or two

such conversions, which, however, have attracted little notice.

In the treatise of Ontology there is an interesting dissertation on

the principles of æsthetics. We are afraid to attempt a synopsis of

it, as it would not be appreciated. Gonzales’ definition of beauty is

worthy of a disciple of St. Thomas: _Splendor harmonicus veri et

infiniti_.

The doctrine of St. Thomas, according to which he explains the mystery

of the unchanged appearance of the elements of the Eucharist after

consecration, is well sustained. Gonzales argues that substance and

accidents are really distinct in essence, consequently the idea of

their real separation involves no contradiction of terms; and the

Protestant philosopher Leibnitz is quoted in support of this doctrine.

Accordingly, after the words of consecration, when the substance of

bread and wine is converted into the substance of the body and blood

of Christ, all the accidents remain unchanged, both in appearance and

in reality, except that extension subsists of itself after the manner

of a substance. Cartesians, on the contrary, deny that the accidents

of the elements really remain, and consider that the appearances of

bread and wine are only phenomenal. Many modern philosophers who are

scholastic in most points agree with the Cartesians in this; among

others, Father Tongiorgi, S.J. This subject is worthy of the attentive

study of all who believe in the doctrine of transubstantiation.

In the tractate of Cosmology the different systems of pantheism are

explained and disposed of, and the doctrine of the creation of the

world by a Being supreme, independent, and free is demonstrated. Then

follows a discourse upon that interesting subject, the principles of

bodies. Gonzales, as a staunch Thomist, upholds the doctrine of matter

and form, and insists that it is the only system which is capable of

satisfying the mind. Modern philosophers generally reject this system,

and some of them in very contemptuous language. Cudworth, for

instance, calls it _genus quoddam metaphysicæ stultitiæ_. Father

Tongiorgi does not accept this doctrine, and seems to be persuaded

that his arguments in favor of chemical atomism are unanswerable and

destructive of the ancient theory. Gonzales discusses successively the

systems of the atomists and the dynamists, and those go-betweens whom

he calls atomistico-dynamists; and they are successively dismissed as

incomplete or erroneous. Then the old scholastic or Aristotelian

system is clearly and beautifully represented. There are changes going

on in nature which are observed by all. Substances are corrupted and

substances are generated; the corruption of one is the generation of

another. These changes are called substantial mutations. And yet, in

spite of all these changes, something remains ever the same. When wood

is turned into fire, fire into ashes, these into earth, earth into

vegetable or mineral substances, there is always something that

remains unaltered in its essence. What is this thing? It is primary

matter (_materia prima_). What is it that makes the change when wood

becomes fire, or earth, or a stone? It is the new substantial form

which succeeds the one that has departed by corruption. In scholastic

language, the matter has changed its form.

As matter is something not knowable of itself, and could not exist,

even by a miracle, without being actuated or perfected by substantial

forms, it follows that its essence can be but vaguely understood. For

the same reason, a scientific definition of it is not possible. Hence

Aristotle thought it profitable to give a negative definition of it:

_Nec quid, nec quale, nec quantum, nec aliquid eorum per quæ ens

determinatur_. We have known this definition to excite the

irrepressible merriment of several. Some people have the faculty of

being able to laugh at will, even when they understand nothing of the

subject that tickles them; and such a faculty is sometimes of great

convenience. Gonzales defines primary matter as—_realitas

substantialis et incompleta, nullum actum aut formam ex se habens, sed

quæ capacitatem et potentiam habet ad universas formas substantiales_.

He defines substantial form. _Realitas substantialis et incompleta,

materiam primo actuans ac determinans ad constituendam simul cum ipsa

substantiam complete subsistentem._ Matter is the subject of the form;

form is the perfection or actuality of matter. It is worth while to

observe that Father Liberatore is a firm supporter of this theory.

To the principal objections, so cleverly put by Father Tongiorgi,

against the Peripatetic system, Gonzales has always a suitable

rejoinder. After a categoric _respondeo_ to each one severally, he

makes some general reflections upon them all which we will try to do

into English:

“Although no answer were forthcoming to the famous

objections of Tongiorgi, the scholastic system would

continue to hold its own in respect of the first principles

of bodies. Our system regards chiefly bodies which are

simple, and bodies endowed with life. Now, none of the

arguments of the Italian philosopher have any reference to

either of these kinds of bodies. Consequently, they not only

do not overturn the Peripatetic system of matter and form

and of substantial generation, but they do not even touch

the question. The most that can be inferred from his

arguments is, that substantial generation does not take

place in respect of inanimate bodies which are compound.

Now, these compound bodies can be considered merely as

bodies which are imperfect in unity of nature and substance,

and as such they belong to that class of bodies which were

styled by the old scholastics _mixta imperfecta_.”

The rest of the treatise of Ontology is well handled, especially that

which regards the principle and manifestations of life. It is here

that we observed a distinction we have before mentioned. The _anima_

of the brute creation is immaterial _negative_ and _similitudinarie_,

for its operations transcend the conditions of matter; it is material

_positive_, because it exists and acts only in dependence on matter.

The tractate of Theodicy is good, and contains in a short compass all

that is necessary for the course of the young philosopher. As was to

be expected of a Dominican author, the questions which have come to be

regarded as distinctive of the schools of the order—_v.g._, _præmotio

physica_ and predestination _ante prævisa merita_—are taught and

defended with the most able of available arguments.

In the third volume we have first of all a treatise of Ethics, which

is interesting and contains much that is of importance for our own

days. The duty of regulating our conduct according to the law of

reason and of God, by the commands of the church, of our civil rulers,

of society, is well set forth, and the superiority of Christian

morality to all others is proved. We only regret that the treatise is

not longer.

The latter part of the third volume gives an excellent epitome of the

history of philosophy. This history is divided into two periods. The

first starts with the beginnings of philosophy and continues to the

time of Christ, _in quo instaurata sunt omnia_. It is subdivided into

three epochs: the first from the beginning of philosophy to its

introduction into Greece; the second, from that time to the days of

Socrates; the third, from Socrates to Christ. The second period is

from the time of Christ to our days, and has likewise three epochs:

the first, from the early ages of Christianity to the time of

Charlemagne; the second, from Charlemagne to the Renaissance of the

fifteenth century; the third, from thence to our own time. For a

literary student this short history is very valuable. All the systems

of philosophy that can be thought of are sketched in their principal

characters, with a short notice of their originators and champions.

Father Gonzales does not weary his readers with a special refutation

of each particular system; this is unnecessary after having taught his

principles so well in the didactic essays. About fifty systems of the

period before Christ are briefly stated, and above a hundred and fifty

of those which have appeared since. This short history is evidently

the result of very extensive reading.

As a student’s manual, we know of nothing more complete than the

_Philosophia Elementaria_ of Bishop Gonzales. It is an excellent

course, both for the young cleric who is preparing for the study of

the scholastics, and for the secular youth about to take his place in

the world. The style of writing is simple, but by no means devoid of

elegance. Spanish writers who have been trained in the schools of

Melchior Cano have never been at a loss to express their thoughts in a

becoming form.

We have heard many regrets that there was no modern text-book of

philosophy of the school of Goudin. This want is now fully supplied by

Gonzales, and it will be doubly satisfied when the rest of the volumes

of Lepidi’s _Elementa Philosophiæ Christianæ_ have appeared. We do not

say that Goudin will become unnecessary; the serious student will

still continue to consult him. But there can be no doubt that

Gonzales’ work is more adapted to the times. It is also more terse,

more interesting, more suitable to captivate the minds of youthful

students. We hope that what we have said may help to make Bishop

Gonzales more known among us. He has published a remarkable work in

his own mother tongue, _Estudios sobre la Filosofia de Santo Tomas_,

which would be productive of good if it were translated into English.

[104] _Philosophia Elementaria ad usum Academicæ

ac præsertim Ecclesiasticæ Juventutis._ Opera et

studio R. P. Fr. Zephyrini Gonzales, Ordinis

Prædicatorum. Matriti apud Polycarpum Lopez,

Cava-Baja, 19. MDCCCLXVIII.

_Philosophia juxta inconcussa tutissimaque D. Thomæ

Dogmata._ Auctore P. F. Antonio Goudin, Ordinis

Prædicatorum. Editio novissima. Urbevetere: Prælis

speraindeo pompei. 1859.

[105] The writer was talking recently with a clergyman

of the Anglican Establishment, who gave it as his

opinion that the _Summa Theologica_ was not worth

studying, “because it was based on the false decretals

of Isidore.”

THE DEVOUT CHAPEL OF NOTRE DAME DE BÉTHARRAM.

“Tu mihi, Virgo parens, in carmine suggere vires

Audacesque animos et grandibus annue coeptis.”

—_Pierre de la Bastide._

_La dévote chapelle de Notre Dame de Bétharram_, about ten miles from

Lourdes on the way to Pau, has been for eight hundred years the most

renowned sanctuary in Béarn, and, to quote St. Vincent of Paul, “the

second, or at least the third, most frequented in the kingdom.”

Founded by the Crusaders, endowed by kings and nobles, favored by

supernatural graces, the favorite resort of the poor and afflicted,

sung by poets, and its history written by learned men, it has every

claim on the interest of the pious heart.

We left Lourdes one pleasant morning in September in advance of a

large pilgrimage from Marseilles, that we might have an opportunity of

examining the church of Bétharram at our leisure. The railway runs

along the valley of the Gave, leaving at the left the sacred grotto of

Massabielle and the fair church of the Immaculate Conception, which

stand in full view on the further shore. We passed the forest of

Lourdes at the right, and in fifteen minutes came to the little

village of St. Pé—_Sanctus Petrus de Generoso_, as the old chronicles

call it—on a bend of the river, shut in by the mountains. Keeping

along in sight of the clear, green current of the Gave, everywhere the

most wayward, the most picturesque, and most fascinating of rivers, we

came, in ten minutes after leaving the narrow gorge of St. Pé, to the

station of Montaut-Bétharram, where, away to the left, we could see

the cross on the Calvary, and the domes of the white oratories of the

Passion gleaming among the trees on its sides. The _Devout Chapel of

Notre Dame de Bétharram_ is at the foot of the mount, on the further

bank of the Gave, and wholly shut out of sight. A straight road leads

to it from the station, which is about half a mile distant. The bridge

that spans the river with a bold arch is extremely picturesque, the

sides of the arch being completely covered with ivy, which trails to

the very water and lines the steep banks. Nothing could be more

romantic. Trees lean pensively over the limpid stream, and flowers

bloom along the shore. The Gave, as the poet of Bétharram remarks,

after rushing through the broad valley with impetuous haste,

threatening to overflow the meadows with its swelling current,

suddenly slackens its speed as it approaches the chapel of the Virgin,

and flows gently by with a murmur of softest homage. Opposite the

bridge is a long range of monastic-looking buildings with narrow

windows and thick walls, the asylum of meditation and prayer.

Connected therewith is the church, which stands with its side to the

river, facing the west. The front, of Pyrenean marble, is adorned with

white marble statues of the Evangelists with their emblems—two each

side of the mild-eyed Virgin who stands above the open door treading

the serpent beneath her feet.

It being early in the afternoon, we found the church delightfully

quiet. There were only a few persons at prayer, and, having paid our

vows at the altar of Our Lady, we proceeded to examine the building

and recall its varied history. The interior of the church consists of

a nave and two aisles. The latter are literally lined with

confessionals. The clerestory walls are covered with paintings

supported by gigantic caryatides amid a profusion of gilding and

ornament somewhat Spanish in character. The whole effect is imposing,

and there is an impressive air of antiquity and gloom about the

church, though it was rebuilt only two centuries ago. The Madonna, a

modern production, by Renoir, a pupil of Pradier, is over the high

altar in the centre of a reredos, rich with gilding and carving, which

extends to the very arches. At the end of the right aisle is the

chapel of the _Pastoure_, so called from the bas-relief depicting the

legend of the shepherds who discovered the Virgin of Bétharram.

The devotion to _Notre Dame de Bétharram_, so popular all through the

Pyrenees, is supposed to have arisen in the eleventh century—an age of

simple faith, when God loved to manifest the wonders of his grace. The

church is fondly believed by many to have been founded by the

Crusaders, who perhaps gave it its pleasing Oriental name. Gaston IV.,

a prince of the Merovingian race, noted for his devotion to the

Blessed Virgin, then reigned in Béarn. One of the bravest warriors who

went to the rescue of the Holy Sepulchre, he directed the construction

of the war-machines before the walls of Jerusalem, and was one of the

first to commence the assault at the side of Godfrey of Bouillon.

We are chiefly dependent on the ancient traditions of the province for

the early history of Bétharram, as the old church was burned down by

the Huguenots. One of the legends attributes the name of Bétharram to

a miraculous occurrence. A young girl, who was one day gathering

flowers on the banks of the Gave, accidentally fell into the stream

and was carried away by the current. She instinctively cried to the

Virgin for assistance, who instantly appeared, holding out a leafy

branch, by which she was drawn to the shore. The girl gratefully

offered her celestial protectress a _beautiful branch_—or, to use the

language of Béarn, a _beth arram_—of gold.

“‘Youb’ offri dounc ma bère arrame;

Qué l’ab’ dépalisi sùs l’aüta;

Y-mey que hey bot en moun ame

Qu’aci daban bous, Nouste Dame,

Gnaüt _beth arram_ que lusira.”

That is to say, literally:

“I offer you, then, my golden bough,

Which I lay on the altar divine;

Furthermore, in my inmost soul I vow,

In this blest place, O Mother of Grace!

For ever a _beautiful branch_ shall shine.”

La Bastide, the poet-priest of Bétharram in the time of the Fronde, is

the first writer to mention this derivation, which furnishes him with

a comparison to illustrate the mysterious effects of divine grace:

“This name signifies, in the language of the country, a _beau

rameau_—a beautiful branch—planted on the shore of the Gave by the

august Virgin, yielding fruit of a delicious savor that serves for the

nourishment of souls.”[106]

The old legends say a girl of the neighboring village of Lestelle,

named Raymonde, predicted the erection of a church on this spot in

honor of _Nouste Dame_, but her prophecy was scoffed at, even by her

own parents. Not long after, some children, who were amusing

themselves at the foot of the hill of Bétharram while tending their

flocks, saw a bright flame among the sharp rocks on the banks of the

river, in the very place where now stands the high altar of the Devout

Chapel. Like the mysterious bush on Mount Horeb, it burned intensely

without consuming the thicket around. After a moment of stupefaction

the little shepherds timidly approached, and what was their

astonishment to behold in the midst of the flames a beautiful statue

of the Virgin and Child! They fell down before it in pious reverence,

and then hurried away to Lestelle to relate the wonderful event. The

inhabitants ran in crowds to the place, followed by the priest in his

white surplice, who fell on his knees amid the prostrate throng and

bent his face to the ground before the marvellous image.

As the place was rocky and apparently unsuitable for a chapel, the

people proceeded to construct a small niche at the further end of the

bridge, to which the priest carried the statue amid the joyous shouts

of the people. But it was not there that Mary chose to be honored, and

the following day the niche was discovered to be vacant, and the

miraculous Virgin standing on the rocks where she originally appeared.

She was taken back, but, mysteriously returning again and again, the

people of Lestelle concluded to transport her to their village church,

which they did with great pomp, and carefully fastened her in, that

they might ascertain whether she had been moved by human agency or

some higher power. In spite of this precaution, the statue was again

found at dawn on the rocks of Bétharram. Then Raymonde took courage

once more, and declared this was the spot the _Reyne deü Ceü_ had

chosen for her sanctuary. Again the people began to laugh at her

revelations, but she now spoke with authority, and, moved by divine

inspiration, threatened them with a terrible chastisement if they

refused to obey the command. And, as if to give force to her words,

while they stood hesitating a sudden cloud appeared in the sky, from

which fell a torrent of hailstones. The people cried to heaven for

pardon and mercy, and immediately vowed to erect the chapel.

The learned Abbé Menjoulet of Bayonne thinks the church of Bétharram

was built in the eleventh or early in the twelfth century, from the

style of the portions still to be found here and there in the modern

building. It certainly existed long before the ascendancy of the

Huguenot party in Béarn, and had been for ages regarded as the holiest

spot in the land. Pierre de Marca says its remote origin is lost in

obscurity. The distinguished Jesuit, Père Poiré, in his _Triple

Couronne de la Mère de Dieu_, thinks it of a later date, but he had

never visited it in person. His account was derived from a magistrate

of Pau. He says the ancient pilgrims, as soon as they came in sight of

the Devout Chapel, fell on their knees, and completed their pilgrimage

in this way with a lighted torch in their hands. Cures without number

were wrought, the divine anger stayed, and whole armies put to flight

at the intercession of the _Boune Bierge_ of Bétharram. The walls were

hung with the crutches of the paralytic, the chains of liberated

prisoners, and the wax limbs given by those who had been healed, many

of which offerings resisted the flames, and were found after the

destruction of the church by the emissaries of Jeanne d’Albret.

This princess cherished a lively resentment against the Holy See on

account of the alliance of Julius II. with Ferdinand the Catholic,

which she thought led to the conquest of Navarre, to the injury of the

house of Albret. After dissimulating her sentiments for some time, she

threw off the mask and subjected the Catholics of Béarn to a violent

persecution. Montgomery was the agent of her vengeance, and he was

well fitted for the work. It was in 1569 that, on his destructive

round through the country, he came to the sanctuary of Bétharram,

which he laid waste. The miraculous Virgin, however, was saved, and,

after being hidden for some time at Lestelle, was carried to Spain,

where it became an object of veneration under the name of _Nuestra

Señora la Gasconne_.

During this sad time, in which Mary’s altar lay desolate, there were

marked instances of divine manifestation. By night the ruins were

often seen lit up with a wonderful light, as of many torches, and the

sound of angelic music was heard. The crumbling walls preserved their

miraculous virtues, and unhappy mothers came with their sick children

in the night-watches to pray among the ruins, and returned joyfully in

the morning bearing the evidence of their answered petitions with

them.

As soon as it was safe to do so, the inhabitants of Lestelle, in spite

of their poverty, hastened to restore the church of their _Bonne

Vierge_, who, for more than half a century, had preserved them from

the contagion of heresy. Not a person in the place had joined the

Huguenots, and it was the only village in Béarn where Catholic

services had been maintained.

Leonard de Trappes was at this time archbishop of Auch, the

metropolitan see. He was one of the most distinguished prelates of

France, and honored with the confidence of Henry IV. A man of ardent

piety, and solicitous for the spiritual welfare of his flock, he

founded a congregation of missionaries for the wants of his diocese,

and established them at _Notre Dame de Garaison_ under the charge of

Pierre Geoffroy, who devoted his whole fortune to the work. Louis

XIII. having granted permission for rebuilding the church of

Bétharram, Geoffroy resolved to celebrate the event by a grand

pilgrimage to this ancient shrine. He had trained a choir of

mountaineers, whose superb voices greatly added to the solemnities of

Garaison. Taking these men with him, Geoffroy set out with six priests

for Béarn, in those days a fatiguing journey. Every one represented to

him the danger of venturing into a country still in a state of

agitation, but, in spite of some insults and threats on the part of

the Calvinists, he pressed on, joined here and there by a band of

Catholics, who at last numbered several thousand. Among them were the

Baron and Baroness de Miossens from the Château de Coarraze, and many

nobles.

It was a fine spring morning when this grand procession appeared on

the banks of the Gave. The valley resounded with the glad hymns of the

mountaineers of Garaison, in which the vast multitude joined with the

utmost enthusiasm. The hill of Bétharram was literally covered with

people from the neighboring towns, who, when they caught sight of the

immense procession coming to reopen the church of their beloved

Virgin, burst into tears and acclamations of joy. Geoffroy celebrated

Mass in the church, and afterwards preached to five thousand people on

the public square of Lestelle. This was forty-six years after the

destruction of the sanctuary.

The niche of the Virgin was still empty. Mgr. de Trappes resolved to

supply the deficiency, and had a new statue carved out of wood in the

style of the old one, which he took to Bétharram himself. It was in

July, 1616, he set out from Garaison with a numerous escort of

priests. Passing through Lourdes, he stopped at St. Pé, whence he

continued on foot, followed by all the monks, a vast number of priests

from Bigorre and Béarn, all the nobility of the country, and an

innumerable crowd of people with crosses and banners, carrying the new

statue of the Virgin and filling the air with their hymns in her

honor. Among them was Pierre de Marca.

The archbishop set up the votive Madonna over the high altar, and

celebrated Mass in the presence of six thousand persons.[107] He

remained several days at Bétharram, administered the sacrament of

confirmation, received several Huguenots into the fold, and erected an

immense wooden cross on the summit of the mount, as if he had a

foresight of its future consecration to the divine Passion. He always

cherished a delightful recollection of his pilgrimage, and when he

died he bequeathed to the church a silver lamp, with a fund to supply

it with oil to burn continually before the Virgin he had given to

Bétharram.

Pierre de Marca, whom we find here with the Archbishop of Auch, was

the learned author of the _Antiquities of Béarn_. He was made

counsellor of state under Richelieu, and conceived so great a devotion

to _Notre Dame de Bétharram_ that he became the historian of the

chapel. He studied its past traditions, and recorded a vast number of

miracles that occurred here, with the names, dates, and other

particulars, often taken from the lips of the persons themselves, many

of whom belonged to the nobility of Béarn, Guienne, and Languedoc, and

sworn to by reliable witnesses in the presence of the chaplains and

magistrates. He relates that not long after the visit of Mgr. de

Trappes, five villagers of Montaut, while eating their noontide meal

on a little hillock in the valley, struck by a noise, as of a furious

wind, looked towards the Mount of Bétharram, and saw the cross planted

on its summit suddenly wrenched from its place and thrown on the

ground, and then, as if by its own might, rise again to its former

position, crowned with a mysterious light.[108]

This miraculous occurrence merits the more particular attention

because it led to the construction of the famous Calvary, which

continues to attract pilgrims to this day. It happened about the time

Louis XIII. re-established the Catholic religion in Béarn, and was,

says Marca, one of the causes that determined him to go in person to

Pau, from which time he cherished a special affection for Bétharram

and became one of its benefactors.

A month after the facts of the case were established, the town of

Lestelle gave the hill of Bétharram to the church. The bishop of the

diocese now induced Hubert Charpentier to take charge of the Devout

Chapel. He was a licentiate of the Sorbonne, for some time a professor

of philosophy at Bordeaux, then a missionary at _Notre Dame de

Garaison_, where he distinguished himself by his zeal and eloquence in

the pulpit, and afterwards, devoted to charitable works, director of

the city hospital at Bordeaux. He was appointed grand chaplain of

Bétharram in 1621, and had six minor chaplains given him to aid in the

work. The first sight of the holy sanctuary and the mountain above

made a particular impression on his mind. Studying the traditions and

features of the place, he was struck with the miracle of the Cross and

the general resemblance of the neighborhood to the environs of

Jerusalem. The mountain of Bétharram was higher than that of Olives;

the valley at the foot more extensive than that of Josaphat; and the

Gave a more abundant stream than the Cedron. He conceived the idea of

building a succession of oratories along the side of the hill, in

which should be depicted the principal scenes of the Passion, and

crowning the summit with three crosses and a chapel of the Holy

Sepulchre. To every one the project seemed like a divine inspiration,

which he afterwards modestly confessed was the fact. About this time

an abbess of St. Clare related to him that, when she first entered the

convent at Mont-de-Marsan, she found an old nun of eighty years of

age, a native of the vicinity of Bétharram, who was fond of describing

the glories of the miraculous chapel before the rise of heresy in

Béarn, and said the place was called the Holy Land.

Charpentier’s proposition was received with so much enthusiasm that,

on Good Friday, 1623, a Christ on the Cross was solemnly set up,

between the two thieves, on the summit of the mount, and the oratories

of the Passion were at once begun. Louis XIII. built the Chapel of St.

Louis, with two cells and a gallery looking off over the beautiful

valley to the gorge of St. Pé. To ensure the quiet solitude of

Bétharram, he forbade the building of any inn or public-house in the

neighborhood, and at his death bequeathed three thousand livres to the

church.

Marie de Medicis and Anne of Austria also became its benefactors, as

well as Louis XIV., who took pleasure in his youth in reading Marca’s

_Traité des Merveilles opérées en la Chapelle Notre Dame du Calvaire

de Bétharram_. Charpentier himself gave all he possessed. Madame de

Gramont, Madame de Lauzun, and the Countess de Brienne also brought

their offerings. La Bastide writes: “I have seen the great ones of the

earth rivalling each other in the magnificence of their offerings to

this august sanctuary.”

It is time we should speak of the poet of Bétharram—Pierre de La

Bastide, a native of the diocese of Auch, who now became associated

with the labors of Charpentier. His poems are in Latin. He is a

graceful writer, with a pleasing cadence in his lines. His poem on

_Notre Dame de Bétharram_ is at once historic and descriptive. It is

divided into four parts, giving the history of the foundation, a

description of the Calvary and surrounding region, a _résumé_ of the

miracles in the Devout Chapel, and a picture of the life of the

chaplains. The poem is at once brilliant, pleasing, and picturesque,

and of great value to all who would study the history and spirit of

the place.

It was at Bétharram La Bastide translated into Latin verse the French

poem of Arnauld d’Andilly on the life of Christ, which was such an

event in the literary world when it first appeared in 1634. At that

time the graver part of society thought nothing serious could be

expressed in the form of French poetry, and the religious held it in

horror. D’Andilly broke loose from this prejudice, and, as he says in

his preface, “abandoned the illusory praises of profane love to use

the charms of poesy in depicting the life of Christ, in order to

attract pious hearts by placing before their eyes a picture of the

wonderful things wrought for our redemption.”[109]

La Bastide is not the only poet to sing the praises of Our Lady of the

Beautiful Branch. M. Bataille, a few years since, received from the

Archæological Society of Béarn a silver bough for his charming

poetical version of the legend in the Béarnais language, which he hung

up over the altar of the Virgin.

The Calvary of Bétharram became dear to all who loved to retrace the

overwhelming mysteries of the Redemption. The sorrowful way up the

mount’s steep sides seemed to them

“A road where aiding angels came.”

Every station was marked by some memory of God’s special grace. It was

in the dim, shadowy oratory of the Garden of Olives a merchant from

Grenade-sur-Adour was delivered from the adversary of souls. Further

on, where Christ was represented blindfolded, a poor woman recovered

her sight after seven years’ blindness. At the Holy Tomb where lay the

sacred Body embalmed

“In spices from the golden shore,”

the sick obtained renewed life and the grace to give out henceforth

the sweet odor of piety and good works. And so on. The very shadow of

Christ Suffering seemed to have power. Fifteen thousand pilgrims often

came here in a year—a great number for a remote mountain chapel, less

accessible in former days. Marca relates that M. de Gassion, a zealous

Calvinist of Pau, came to Bétharram to behold the superstitions he

supposed practised on the mount, but he was so touched by the devotion

he witnessed that he was impelled to pray at every station, and thank

God he had inspired his ministers with so pious and praiseworthy a

project.

The chaplains established a confraternity of the Holy Cross, composed

of laymen animated with a special love for our crucified Lord, which

became so numerous that Pope Urban VIII. accorded many indulgences to

all who belonged to it. Several of its members retired wholly from

secular pursuits to the solemn gloom of this Mount of the Passion as

to “a holy tower against the world,” that, by self-chastening rod,

vigil, and fast, they might subdue the baser instincts of their nature

and put on Christ and him crucified. What ineffable nights they must

have spent beneath the oaks of Bétharram watching with tearful eyes

the Divine Sufferer in the Garden or treading with bleeding feet the

rough Way of the Cross!

There were many of these hermits’ cells on the shaggy sides of the

mount. First, there was St. Bernard’s cell, built by the Baron de

Poyane, a brave soldier who was governor of Navarrenx under Louis

XIII., who had the holy life of the Abbot of Clairvaux painted on its

walls. A little higher was St. Cyprian’s cell, the favorite retreat of

La Bastide, with a little terrace and stone steps leading down to the

church. Then came the cell of St. Francis de Paul, for persons of rank

who wished to pass a limited time in solitude on the mount. It stood

below the chapel of St. Louis and commanded a lovely view of the plain

of Montaut. Its foundations are still to be seen supporting a pretty

hanging garden. St. Anthony’s cell was encrusted among the sharp rocks

that served as a foundation to the chapel of Louis XIII.—a formidable

cliff, bare in winter, but in summer covered with vines that surpassed

the most beautiful tapestry. On its top was suspended the royal chapel

among the verdant trees. Behind the church was St. Joseph’s hermitage,

for a long time the only dwelling of the chaplains, where also were

lodged the infirm who came for succor to the Virgin of Bétharram. Near

the oratory of the Garden of Olives were the cells of St. Stephen, St.

Anne, and St. Francis. A little above was the votive cell of St. Roch,

built by the citizens of Mont-de-Marsan at the time of a great plague.

Here was a little spring which still supplies the pretty fount of St.

Roch near the entrance of the church. On the summit of the mountain

was a small cell, beside the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, where for

more than two hundred years lived a succession of hermits who, buried

with their Lord, gave themselves up to a life of contemplation. The

last one died in 1857.

Louis XIII., in authorizing the Calvary of Bétharram, wished there

were many others like it in his kingdom, and requested Charpentier to

establish one on Mount Valerian, near Paris. This holy priest, whose

soul was devoured with longing to extend the devotion to the

sufferings of Christ, was struck with the grand idea of setting up the

cross over the splendors of the capital and displaying the emblems of

the Passion in sight of the gay city, as a constant reproach to its

pleasure-loving people. Charpentier tore himself away from his beloved

Bétharram. At Paris he was hospitably welcomed to the house of the

pious Countess de Brienne, who took pleasure in conversing with him on

the things of eternity, and said she had no greater enjoyment than

this holy intercourse.

The devotion to Calvary took root in Paris. Richelieu favored the

work. Cardinal de la Rochefoucauld lent his aid. Louis XIV. authorized

the consecration of the mount; and the Archbishop of Paris approved of

the congregation of the _Prêtres du Calvaire_, similar to that in

Béarn.

As soon as Charpentier arrived at Paris, in 1633, he became the object

of the most flattering attentions on the part of the Port-Royalists,

then under the direction of a priest from Bayonne—the famous Abbé St.

Cyran, a man of an ardent, austere nature, who at that time seemed

devoted to the revival of Christian and ecclesiastical discipline.

Nothing must be inferred against the orthodoxy of Charpentier or La

Bastide on account of their innocent relations with Port Royal. Not

the least suspicion ever rested on their orthodoxy. Charpentier was

occupied in good works rather than controversy. He died on Mount

Valerian, with a reputation for extraordinary sanctity, December 10,

1650, three years before the _Augustinus_ was condemned by the Holy

See. His body was found, without any trace of corruption, in 1802. His

heart, at his own request, was sent to the church of _Notre Dame de

Bétharram_, where it is enclosed in the wall on the epistle side of

the chancel. The place is marked by a tablet of black marble, on which

is the inscription: “_Ici est le cœur de Hubert Charpentier, fondateur

du Calvaire_.”

The most distinguished chaplain of Bétharram in the eighteenth century

was the Abbé Cassiet, for several years connected with the Canadian

mission. It seemed strange in this distant mountain chapel of Béarn to

come upon the traces of an old American missionary, and a natural

curiosity was felt to know something of his history. We cannot forbear

the pleasure of giving it pretty nearly as related by M. l’Abbé Sébie,

the _curé_ of Montaut, from details given by the nephews of M.

Cassiet, now living at an advanced age in that place.

M. Pierre Cassiet was born at Montaut, in the Landes, in 1727. He made

his preparatory studies at the seminary of Agen, and, feeling a strong

desire to devote himself to the work of foreign missions, entered the

_Séminaire des Missions Etrangères_ at Paris, the superior of which

was also from the diocese of Aire. He was at first destined for the

mission of Cochin China, but a few days before the time fixed for his

departure a missionary intended for Canada falling ill, it was

proposed that the Abbé Cassiet should take his place. He consented and

went to Canada, where he remained nine years, till the country was

ceded to the English by the treaty of Versailles, February, 1763. At

the time of his arrival the see of Quebec was vacant, and the diocese

was governed by M. de Lalanne, likewise a native of Montaut, who,

after sixteen years of useful labor, returned to France and died

superior of the seminary at Dax, about the year 1775, beloved and

honored by every one.[110]

In Canada M. Cassiet had charge of the parish of St. Louis, where the

festivals of the church were celebrated with as much splendor as in

Europe. He was successful in winning the confidence of his

parishioners. He mingled among them, interested himself in their

pursuits, taught the natives the culture of many useful vegetables and

the raising of domestic animals. As there was regular commercial

intercourse with Bordeaux and Bayonne, he was able to procure many

serviceable things from his native land.

When the English took possession of Canada they called together all

the French priests in the country, wishing, they said, to regulate

their relations with the new authorities. Several of them had a

presentiment of evil, among whom was Abbé Cassiet, who buried the

sacred vessels in the ground, packed his trunk, and took a faithful

servant with him. The treaty of Versailles stipulated the maintenance

and protection of the Catholic religion, that the French priests

should receive an annual salary from the English government, and be

allowed to continue the exercise of their ministry under the direction

of the bishop of Quebec. This treaty, according to the French

accounts, was kept with Punic faith, though the English deny, or at

least greatly extenuate, the atrocious _coup de main_ so contrary to

the law of nations, to say nothing of humanity and religion. One

hundred and sixty-six French priests assembled at Quebec, according to

orders. They were surrounded by troops, seized, and put on board a

ship, which was instantly ordered to set sail for Europe. Nothing

could exceed the inhumanity with which these martyr-priests were

treated during the voyage by the brutal and fanatic Englishmen who had

charge of them. Anchoring at Plymouth, England, they kept their

prisoners on board for three months. They did not massacre them, but,

with the most refined barbarism, subjected them to all the tortures of

hunger and thirst. Their rations were reduced to an insufficient

quantity to sustain life, and the distribution of water was delayed

every day, till they were extenuated by the privation. Thirst killed

more than hunger, and, when the ship at last touched at Morlaix in

Brittany, of the one hundred and sixty-six priests who left Canada,

only five remained, and these were barely alive. M. Cassiet was of the

number. He had the sorrow of losing his faithful Canadian on the way,

and was himself so low that he lost his senses and was speechless. He

was taken charge of by a lady at Morlaix, who, for some days, only

sustained his life under horrible sufferings by infusing a few drops

of honey from time to time into his mouth.

His health re-established in a measure, he proceeded to Paris to

report himself at the _Missions Etrangères_, where his condition

excited general sympathy. The government, though too weak to demand

satisfaction from the English, promised him a pension of six hundred

livres a year. Thence he went to Rome, where he was received with the

respect due to his sufferings for the faith.

After his return to Montaut, finding his pension not forthcoming, he

resolved to go to Paris again to claim it. Accordingly he bought one

of the small horses of the Landes for twenty crowns, and proceeded by

short stages to the capital. He put up at the _Missions Etrangères_ as

usual, but was disappointed to find the court at Versailles, as well

as the Abbé de Jarente, who had the portfolio of benefices and

pensions, and formed part of the king’s household. M. Cassiet,

undiscouraged, set out again the next morning on his way for

Versailles. He little suspected the dramatic manner in which he was to

present himself at the palace. Crossing a bridge, his horse,

frightened at meeting a carriage, took the bit between his teeth and

sprang forward like lightning. Our cavalier lost his hat, _calotte_,

whip, and everything not secured to his person. In short, it was a

repetition of the famous race of John Gilpin. In this way he was borne

full tilt up to the palace gates. M. l’Abbé de Jarente, by some

singular coincidence, happened to be there, and at once conceived a

lively interest in the ecclesiastic who arrived at court in so queer a

plight. M. Cassiet, as soon as his natural excitement was somewhat

over, explained the cause of his unclerical appearance, and made known

his object in coming. His pension was assured; and the Abbé de Jarente

was so taken with such a feat of horsemanship that he offered a

hundred crowns for the spirited steed. M. Cassiet, courteous and

generous by nature, at once presented him to the minister, refusing

any return.

Our Abbé was afterwards given a small benefice near Montaut, called

_Las Prabendes_, but he resigned it in favor of a young priest who

subsequently became a Carthusian at Bordeaux. He was then appointed

canon of St. Girons de Hagetmau, but he found the life too calm and

monotonous after so varied a career, and about the year 1772 he

offered his services to the community of the _Prêtres du Calvaire_ at

Bétharram. Here he so distinguished himself by his piety, zeal, and

ability that he was soon appointed superior. The house became very

prosperous under his rule. He put to account the practical knowledge

of agriculture he had gained in Canada, laid out gardens, orchards,

and vineyards on the banks of the Gave, and in the course of a few

years increased the revenues five-fold. At the same time he infused a

missionary spirit among the chaplains, and much of his own zeal in

winning souls to Christ.

About this time the Abbé de Jarente, afterwards Bishop of Orléans,

coming to the Pyrenees to breathe the mountain air and try the mineral

waters, visited the Devout Chapel of Bétharram. He was delighted to

find here the Abbé Cassiet, whom it was impossible to forget. No doubt

the story of the horse came up, and the comical way in which he

presented himself at Versailles. M. de Jarente offered M. Cassiet a

benefice of six thousand livres a year without any obligation of

residence or service. It was declined, though M. Cassiet no longer

received his pension; but he was finally prevailed upon to accept a

small benefice of one hundred and sixty livres a year in the Vicomté

of Orthez. He was glad, he said, to have wherewith to shoe and clothe

himself without being at any expense to his congregation. His brother

presented Bétharram with ten thousand livres, on condition that the

chaplains should give a mission every ten years at Montaut.

The Revolution brought mourning to this peaceful mountain chapel, and

M. Cassiet, after trying in vain to propitiate the authorities, became

for the second time a confessor of the faith and sought refuge in

Spain. Somewhere in Biscay he met the Abbé St. Marc, a young _curé_

from Grenade-sur-l’Adour, also in exile, and persuaded him to go to

the Canadian mission, where he remained several years, but finally

died in 1845, at the age of ninety-one, at Mont-de-Marsan, where his

memory is still honored.

When the Catholic religion was re-established in France, the Abbé

Cassiet returned to his homestead at Montaut, being then too old and

infirm to undertake the restoration of Bétharram. Of the twelve

priests of Calvary in 1793, only two were living, and they were

advanced in years.

M. Cassiet’s last days were quietly spent in his native place. The

bishop of Bayonne allowed him to say Mass in his own apartments, on

account of his infirmities. He died in 1809, aged eighty-two years,

surrounded with the love and veneration of all, and was buried at the

foot of the cross in the public cemetery of Montaut.

The church of _Notre Dame de Bétharram_ was saved from destruction at

the time of the Revolution by the efforts of the mayor of the faithful

town of Lestelle; but he was obliged to abandon the Calvary to its

fury. The oratories were demolished, the statues broken to pieces, the

paintings torn up, and the holy Way of the Cross rendered a _Via

Dolorosa_ indeed. When the sacred image of Christ on the Cross was

overthrown, a swarm of bees issued from the opening in the side, and

one of hornets from that of the impenitent thief. An unhappy

individual who had the audacity to knock off the head of the Virgin at

the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre became from that moment the object of

divine malediction, and some time after was beheaded.

The sacraments of the church were administered at Lestelle during this

sad period by Père Joseph, a Franciscan friar, who sought in anything

but “Franciscan weeds to pass disguised.” His various escapes from

danger have become almost legendary. Wherever there was a person in

danger of death or a child to be baptized, he suddenly made his

appearance, and then as mysteriously disappeared—concealed, no doubt,

by the good people of the village. Nine of the citizens purchased the

hill of Bétharram, and some others the church. They were redeemed by

the ecclesiastical authorities as soon as better days arrived, and a

_Petit Séminaire_ was established in the residence and hospice. Here

was educated Bertrand Lawrence, the restorer of _Notre Dame de

Garaison_, afterwards bishop of Tarbes. The devout chapel was now

reopened for public devotion; the oratories on the mount were hastily

restored and once more frequented, in spite of the rude scenes of the

Passion painted by the Père Joseph.

In 1823 the Duchess of Angoulême, accompanied by the bishop of the

diocese and a numerous procession of clergy, came here to make the Way

of the Cross and pray for a blessing on the royal army under the duke

in Spain. The duchess presented the church with a monstrance of rich

workmanship. Four years after her sister-in-law, the Duchess of Berry,

also came to Bétharram, and was received with the same demonstrations

of joy.

The most noted chaplain of Bétharram in this century was a holy Basque

priest of great austerity—the Abbé Garicoïts, a genuine Cantabrian, to

whom his fellow-priests loved to apply the words of Sidonius

Apollinaris:

“Cantaber ante omnes hiemisque, ætusque, famisque,

Invictus.…”

He founded the _Prêtres du Sacré Cœur_, who continue to serve the

church. He restored the Calvary to its ancient beauty, and repeopled

its cells. While he was superior of the house the sanctuary was

visited by the Abbé de Salinis, a distinguished Béarnais priest, who

had inherited a special devotion to _Notre Dame de Bétharram_. He

afterwards received the pallium, as archbishop of Auch, at her feet,

and thenceforth came here regularly to make his annual retreat. It was

he who sent Alexander Renoir, a Christian artist imbued with the love

and spirit of the middle ages, to design the bas-reliefs that now

adorn the Stations of the Cross. This sculptor spent five years at the

work, after passing whole days on the sacred mount looking down on the

enchanting valley of the Gave and meditating on the scenes he has so

ably depicted in the first eight oratories. His figures are dignified,

the faces full of character, and the draperies graceful. The Saviour

has everywhere the same superhuman expression. In the Garden of Olives

he is supported by an angel whose outspread wings surround him like a

glory. It is evidently by his own will he suffers himself to be

sustained. In the Flagellation his face wears a wonderful expression

of patience; in the Crowning with Thorns, of inexpressible suffering

and divine submission. He stands in all the majesty of innocence and

sorrow before Pilate, whose thoughtful, anxious face as he looks at

him reveals the struggle within. Perhaps the most touching scene is

when Christ meets his Blessed Mother. The Virgin is kneeling with arms

yearningly stretched up towards him, with a look of ineffable

tenderness and pity, and he for an instant seems to forget the weight

of the overwhelming cross in the sense of his filial love. The

Crucifixion is terribly real. The sacred Body visibly palpitates with

suffering; the feet and hands quiver with agony; the face is filled

with a divine woe. Mary, at the foot of the cross, is sustained by a

form of enchanting youth and beauty.

The fourteen oratories of the _Via Crucis_ are of various styles of

architecture, and built, with an artistic eye to effect, on admirable

points of view. Visible at a great distance, they seem to sanctify the

whole valley. Some of them are surmounted with a dome, others with

turrets. The royal chapel of St. Louis, built between two cells, has

three Oriental domes that swell out on the tops of slender,

minaret-like towers and are extremely striking from the railway.

Twenty-eight stone steps—a _Scala Santa_—lead up to the sixth oratory,

that of the _Ecce Homo_. The seventh looks like a castle with its

crenellated towers. The eighth has a hexagonal tower flanked by four

turrets. The ninth is of the Roman style.

The three crosses on the summit of the mount were cast at Paris and

exhibited with success at the _Exposition Universelle_ of 1867. In the

Doric chapel beyond is a fine painting of the Descent from the Cross,

saved from the revolutionists of ’93. It is intensely realistic. The

_Pietà_ of Carrara marble opposite is the work of M. Dumontet, of

Bourges—an _ex voto_ from the Marquis d’Angosse and his wife. Our

Saviour’s form is of marvellous beauty. The fourteenth oratory is of

the Doric style. There is a touching grief in the faces of the

disciples bearing the dead body of Christ to the tomb. Mary stands in

speechless sorrow. Magdalen is a prey to violent grief.

The top of the hill is a long plateau. The Crucifixion is at the east

end, so that the Christ, according to ancient tradition, may face the

west. At the left is the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre, where lies the

holy Abbé Garicoïts, who died on the Festival of the Ascension, 1863.

At the west end of the esplanade, facing the Crucifixion, is the most

imposing of all the chapels—that of the Resurrection. Two fine towers

rise on each side of the gable on which stands the rapt form of our

Saviour ascending to heaven, the work of M. Fabisch, the sculptor who

executed the Virgin in the grotto at Lourdes.

Since the admirable restoration of the hill new devotion has sprung up

among the people. Pilgrims to the grotto of _Marie Immaculée_, in the

cliff of Massabielle, come to end their pilgrimage by weeping with

_Marie désolée_ on the solemn heights of Bétharram. On great festivals

crowds may be seen coming from all the neighboring villages in festive

array, with a joyful air, singing psalms on the way. They carry their

shoes in their hands, but put them on on their arrival at church. The

women carefully lift their dresses with characteristic eye to economy.

During Holy Week thousands often ascend the mount, group after group,

chanting old Béarnais hymns of the Passion, the men wrapped in their

mountain cloaks, and the women veiled in their long black _capuchons_,

looking like Maries at the Sepulchre.

On the 21st of October, 1870, his Holiness Pius IX. granted the

Calvary of Bétharram all the indulgences attached to the Holy Places

at Jerusalem, as well as special ones to all who visit the devout

chapel. Pope Gregory XVI. also paid his tribute of homage to Our Lady

of Bétharram.

The royal family of France seems to consider devotion to this

venerable shrine as hereditary. In 1843 the Countess of Chambord

presented her wedding-dress and veil to the Virgin of Bétharram; and

the Duchess of Angoulême, in memory of her pilgrimage here in 1823,

sent the communion-veil of her mother, the unfortunate Marie

Antoinette.

The statue of Mary by Renoir, over the high altar of the church,

represents her seated, looking at the divine Child on her knee, who

leans forward to point out the _beth arram_—the beautiful branch—of

gold at her feet. It is a statue full of grace. We were once more

praying at this favored altar when we heard the sound of a chant, and,

going to the door of the church, saw the long procession of six

hundred pilgrims from Marseilles coming with silver crosses glittering

in the sun and gay banners wrought with many a holy device. The

priests wore their surplices and stoles. The pilgrims were evidently

people of very respectable condition, and the utmost order and decorum

prevailed. They were singing the litany of the Virgin, and seemed

impressed with the religious nature of the act they were performing.

As they entered the church the organ, given by Napoleon III. and

Eugénie at their visit in 1859, solemnly joined in their salutation to

Mary, and, after a short exercise of devotion, they began the ascent

of the Calvary. We followed them up the winding path to the top of the

mount, stopping at every turn before the beautiful chapels. Nothing

could be more solemn, more affecting, and at the same time more

fatiguing than climbing this steep, rough Way of the Cross in the hot

sun and amid the dense crowd of pilgrims. We went from one oratory to

another, chanting the _Stabat Mater_, and at each station a _curé_

from Marseilles, with a powerful voice, made a short meditation on the

sufferings of Christ, every word of which could be heard far down the

hill where wound the long train. He identified these sufferings with

the actual crucifixion of the church: “To-day also there are

Pilates—sovereigns of Europe who wash their hands of the woes they

might have prevented. Herod has set a guard at the very door of the

Vatican. Rulers and learned men scoff at the church and give

perfidious counsel to its members; and Christ is again raised on the

cross in the person of his Vicar, whose heart is bleeding for the

iniquities of the world. But faithful disciples rally around him.

Devoted women pray. Yes, a sinner clings to the foot of the

cross—France, the poor Magdalen of nations, wrapped in immeasurable

woe, her head buried in her hands, bewailing her guilt, and destined

to become the invincible heroine of the church!”

Nothing could be more impressive than this long file of pilgrims

slowly winding up the sad way; the chants in the open air, the

mournful plaint of the Virgin, which always goes to the heart, the

stirring appeal of the priest calling on us to mourn over the divine

Sufferer. The woods were odorous, the ground purple with heather,

lovely ferns nodded, and harebells and herb-Robert bloomed by the

wayside, giving out sweet inspirations to those who know how to find

God in everything he has made. Clouds had gathered in the west by the

time we reached the top of this Mount of Sorrows, and the sight of the

immense cross with its pale Christ against the wild, stormy sky was

something never to be forgotten, reminding us of Guido Reni’s

Crucifixion in the church of San Lorenzo-in-Lucina at Rome. No one

could behold it without being startled. It seemed to strike terror

into the soul, and we gathered around it with tearful eyes and, let us

trust, with contrite hearts.

We could hardly give a glance at the superb view unrolled before

us—the immense plain with the beautiful Gave winding through it, the

Pyrenees lost in the clouds, white villages scattered on every side,

and Pau on a distant height.

O sacred hill of Bétharram! which has so often seen the cross

overthrown and set up again in the land; mountain of perfumes, which

so many generations have ascended on their knees with streaming eyes;

predestined land, so beloved of Mary that on the shore of the same

river, in the side of the same range of hills, she has opened two

marvellous sanctuaries, how good it is to pray, to meditate, to hope,

on thy heights!

[106] Others think it one of the numerous names left

in the country by the Moors, the Arabic word _Beit

Haram_ signifying the Sacred Abode. But the old

chroniclers of Béarn, who attribute the foundation of

the church to Gaston IV., believe the name brought

from the Holy Land, the Hebrew words _Beth Aram_

meaning the House of the Most High.

[107] The statue remained in its niche until 1841,

when it was replaced by the more beautiful one of

Renoir. The gilt Virgin of Mgr. de Trappes is still to

be seen on the wall of the left aisle near the chapel

of the _Pastoure_.

[108] Marca enters into a long dissertation to establish

the truth of this wonderful event, which may be thus

summed up: There were five persons to witness it, four

of whom were still alive when he wrote. They were

cultivators of the soil—an innocent occupation that

has often led divine Providence to make choice of

those who pursue it to publish the wonders of his

grace, as when shepherds were chosen to announce the

Nativity. They were natives of Béarn, where the people

are free from any undue credulousness, and where the

Catholic religion had been proscribed for more than

forty years, so that of course they had not been

brought up with the care that would have rendered them

particularly susceptible of religious impressions.

Moreover, they knew a statement of this kind would be

sifted to the bottom by Protestants as well as

Catholics. They could have no interest in the matter,

as Bétharram belonged to Lestelle, with which Montaut

was often at rivalry. The chaplains were absent, and

wholly ignorant of the affair. And these five men were

people of probity, who swore to the truth of their

statements on the Holy Gospels before the magistrates

of Lestelle and Montaut.

[109] Arnauld d’Andilly was the eldest son of the

Antoine Arnauld who, under Henry IV., pleaded for the

University against the Jesuits, and whose twentieth

and youngest child was the second Antoine Arnauld—the

oracle of Jansenism. D’Andilly is looked upon as

belonging to the first generation of Jansenists,

though he had nothing of the austerity and

repulsiveness of that sect. He scarcely broaches

polemics. He celebrates in elegant verse the praises

of the Blessed Virgin and the prerogatives of St.

Peter, and after translating all that is grandest and

sweetest in Christian literature—such as the works of

St. Augustine, St. John Climacus, St. Teresa,

etc.—reposed from his labors by tending the

_espaliers_ of Port Royal, of which the beautiful and

pious Anne of Austria always had the first fruits.

[110] M. de Beyries, a nephew of the Abbé de Lalanne,

and a prominent citizen of Montaut, has many precious

memorials of his uncle.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

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

VIII.

Meanwhile, a great agitation prevailed in the heart of the kingdom, at

the court, and in every mind. The new favor of the new favorite; the

discontent, ever growing but more and more repressed, of the queen’s

partisans; the restless and shifting humor of those who in secret held

fast to the new religious opinions; the uncertainty of events, new

fears, new hopes, seemed to have communicated to the intriguing and

ambitious of every degree a boldness and activity hitherto unknown.

Delivered from the yoke imposed on him for so long a time by a man at

once adroit and yielding, Henry VIII. had at last encountered a vile

and abject creature who would gradually encourage him to display all

the natural ferocity of his character. Already he was no longer able

to separate himself from Cromwell, who, artfully flattering each one

of his passions, constantly said to him: “To please you, to obey

you—that is the sole end toward which all should aim, or they should

fall!”

Every day, in consequence of their determined efforts, new complaints

against the clergy were reported to the House of Commons. The time had

come, they said, to distribute among the truly poor the treasures

accumulated by the priests, and to destroy the abuses they had made of

their power. These accusations, together with calumnies of a blacker

character, emanating from sources always scrupulously concealed, were

artfully disseminated among the people, circulated from mouth to

mouth, and served wonderfully to irritate the stupid and ignorant

masses; while in the House of Lords nothing was left undone to secure

the influence and suffrages of the most influential members of that

body.

Confident of success in all their designs, Henry VIII. and his

favorite decided that it was time to strike the first blow; and while

the attorney-general was in receipt of the order to carry to the

King’s Bench an accusation which included the entire clergy of the

kingdom as having become amenable to the penalties attached to the

_Præmunire_ statutes, a measure and petition were presented to

Parliament to prohibit every bishop from paying dues to the see of

Rome; secondly, that for the future their body should neither

promulgate nor execute any of its laws without the co-operation of the

royal authority; and, finally, that all those laws which had been in

force until that time should be re-examined by a committee whose

members would be named and chosen by the king, in order that he might

abolish them if he deemed expedient.

These measures at first excited universal murmurs of dissatisfaction;

but people were not slow to perceive that such expressions could not

be indulged in without danger, for it was no longer a matter of doubt

that Parliament would yield to the slightest wish of the king. The

fear inspired by this prince, together with his incessant threats and

menaces, secured him the submission of those even whom avarice had not

been able to corrupt.

Henry triumphantly congratulated himself on his success. The

courageous firmness of one single man, however, sufficed to embitter

all his pleasure; for, since the king had openly and boldly announced

his intention of compelling the divorce to be granted, no matter by

what means, More had scrupulously held himself aloof, no longer

appearing at court, except when summoned by the king or when the

duties of his office obliged him to be formally present. This was a

source of deep chagrin and displeasure to Henry VIII., and the cold

and reserved manner of the lord chancellor kept him, when in his

presence, in a state of painful restraint.

“What!” he said to himself, “everything goes according to my wishes,

and yet the silent reproaches of this man alone annoy me unceasingly.

It would be better for him to yield,” he cried in his frenzy, “or I

shall be compelled to force him into submission!”

But when More again appeared before him, he listened to the report of

affairs which he had to submit, no longer knowing what to say to him,

and he dared not even pronounce the name of Anne Boleyn in his

presence. This day, however, he had summoned Cromwell at a very early

hour, and appeared to be in an exceedingly joyful mood; he laughed

aloud, then, suddenly resuming a serious expression, he exclaimed,

slapping the head of a superb greyhound that held his black nose

extended across his knees:

“You will see, Cromwell, what a good effect this will produce on the

people; because it is useless to conceal that More is a man of such

exalted character and brilliant worth that all the eyes of my kingdom

are fixed upon his conduct.”

“Ah!” said Cromwell, whom this very just opinion of the king

displeased mightily,” I do not believe it will be thus when your

majesty has spoken.”

“Yes, yes,” replied the king; “and that is why I congratulate myself

on the expedient which suggested itself last night. How can you

imagine, after he has read in open Parliament the decisions of the

universities in my favor, that the people will believe he does not

favor the divorce? And it is most necessary to counteract by this

means the effect produced by the promulgation of the papal bull.”

“Bah! that bull,” said Cromwell, “is no more than a scrap of waste

paper. The pope forbids any of the clergy from celebrating your

marriage before the queen’s suit is decided. Now, marry Lady Anne

to-morrow!”

“To-morrow!” exclaimed the king.

At that moment the curtain of scarlet silk which hung in heavy folds

before the entrance of the royal apartment was drawn aside, and Sir

Thomas More appeared.

The king paused surprised; his fingers were entwined among the links

of the gold chain suspended around the neck of Cromwell, and he was

familiarly patting the breast of that base-born creature, now seated

close beside him.

“Ah! it is you, Sir Thomas,” said Henry, affecting an air of

unconcern; “you are always most welcome here. I believe this is one of

your friends,” he added, pointing to Cromwell.

More made no reply; he simply inclined his head in response to the

king’s salutation.

“Yes, yes, you understand each other very well,” continued the king,

without appearing to remark that More made no reply. “Is it not so,

Cromwell?”

“I hope so,” replied Cromwell, casting a furtive glance around him.

For he was not able to encounter the penetrating gaze of More, whom he

secretly feared and detested; and from the time he believed that More

could no longer be of use to him he had ceased to overwhelm him with

visits and continual solicitations, as he had formerly been in the

habit of doing.

“Well, good Sir Thomas,” continued Henry, always indulging in

badinage, “what would you have with us?”

“I would speak with your majesty alone for a few moments,” replied

More.