abbey was really founded under the patronage of Charlemagne is proved
by a charter of the year 778, still preserved in the prefecture at
Carcassonne, signed with his own imperial monogram. According to this,
the name of the first abbot was Nimphridius; and the house appears to
have been so well endowed that it held lands and livings and
seigneuries, not only throughout the province, but on the other side
of the Pyrenees. Louis le Débonnaire took it under his special
protection, together with three cells dependent thereon, to wit: St.
Cucufat on the banks of the Aude, St. Pierre on the Clamoux, and La
Palme on the seashore. In fact, favor towards it seemed hereditary in
the Carlovingian race. Louis IX. kept up the tradition, and when in
Palestine wrote to his mother and the sénéchal of Carcassonne,
recommending the abbey of La Grasse to their protection. The kings of
Aragon, too, respected its extensive domains in their realm.
The grateful abbey never forgot its illustrious founder. Every morning
at the conventual Mass the bread and wine were offered by the lord
abbot, or his representative, at the Offertory, for the repose of
Charlemagne’s soul, till authorized to render him the cultus due to a
saint, from which time the twenty-eighth of January was kept in his
honor as a festival of the first class.
It is one of the traditions of this monastery that, when Pope Leo III.
was about to dedicate the church, he received a supernatural warning
that it had been miraculously consecrated, and on approaching the
altar he discovered the marks of the divine hand, which remained
visible till the end of the fourteenth century, when the greater part
of the church was consumed by fire. It was then rebuilt in a style
corresponding to the wealth of the abbey, with numerous chapels, a
choir with rare carvings, and a silver retablo with twelve silver
statues in the niches, all plated with pure gold. The monastic
buildings were surrounded by fortified walls of vast circuit. They
were grouped around an immense cloister, the arcades of which were
supported by marble columns. On the east side were the church,
dormitories, infirmary, and rooms for visitors. At the north were the
abbot’s spacious residence, the granary, bakery, stables, etc. South
and west were the chapterhouse, the large refectory, and houses
appropriated to the aged monks. A hospital, where the poor were fed
and sick strangers received gratuitous care, was further off, near the
principal gate. There was an extensive park, with avenues of
chestnut-trees, watered by the Orbieu, which also turned the
grist-mills, oil-mills, and cloth-mills. The water was also brought
into the abbey. The library now forms part of the public library of
Carcassonne.
The abbey of La Grasse was immediately dependent on the Holy See, in
acknowledgment of which it paid an annual tribute of five gold
florins. And the Bishop of Carcassonne, and the Archbishop of
Narbonne, though the primate, were obliged to recognize its
independence of their jurisdiction before they could obtain admittance
to the abbey. The abbot from the time of Abbot Nicolas Roger, the
uncle of Pope Clement VI., had the right of wearing pontifical
vestments. He held legal jurisdiction over eighty-three towns, besides
which, three other abbeys, three monasteries, twenty-four priories,
and sixty-seven parish churches were dependent on the house of La
Grasse.
This great abbey was suppressed in 1790, after existing over a
thousand years, and before long was transformed into barracks and
manufactories. The church became a melancholy ruin, with its columns
lying among the tall grass, the capitals covered with lichens, bushes
growing in among the crumbling walls, and here and there scattered
mutilated escutcheons of the old lords of the land and the very bones
from their sepulchres.
But the town of La Grasse, that sprang up under the mild sway of the
old abbots, is still queen of the lower Corbières by its population
and historic interest. It is noted for its _blanquette_—a sparkling
white wine, which rivals that of Limoux.
As to the battles in the valley of the Orbieu, it is more certain that
the Saracens, on their way to attack Carcassonne, were met by William,
Duke of Aquitaine, in this valley, where, though defeated, he
performed prodigies of valor, and made the followers of Mahound buy
their victory dearly. They soon withdrew into Spain, carrying with
them rich spoils from Narbonne, among which were seven statues of
silver, long famous in Andalusia, and many marble columns, still to be
seen in the famous mosque of Cordova, on which they forced the vast
number of prisoners they carried with them to labor.
Nor was the abbey of La Grasse the only famous monastery of this
region. There was the Cistercian abbey of Fonfroide, founded in the
twelfth century by Ermengarde, Vicomtesse of Narbonne, to whom Pierre
Roger, the troubadour, gave the mystic name of _Tort n’avez_, and so
well known from the permanent Court of Love she held in her gay
capital. This abbey at one time contained two hundred monks, who were
great agriculturists, and understood drainage and all the improvements
we regard as modern. They brought vast tracts of land under
cultivation, and, by their industry and economy, became wealthy and
powerful. In 1341, this abbey had nineteen thousand two hundred and
thirty-four animals, including sheep, cattle, mules, swine, etc.
Among the celebrated monks of Fonfroide was Peter of Castelnau, whom
the Holy See appointed one of the legates to suppress the heresy of
the Albigenses, and who acquired so melancholy a celebrity by his
conflicts with Count Raymond of Toulouse and his tragical end. Another
member, eminent for his knowledge and piety, of this house was Arnaud
de Novelli, uncle of Pope Benedict XII. He was made cardinal by Pope
Clement V., and sent as one of the legates to England to make peace
between Edward II. and his barons. He died in 1317, and lies buried
under the high altar of the abbey church. Pope Benedict XII. himself
was a monk at Fonfroide, and succeeded his uncle as abbot of the
house. As pope, he is specially celebrated for the part he took among
the theologians of the day in discussing the question of the immediate
state of the righteous after death, and the decretal which he finally
issued in 1355—_Benedictus Dominus in sanctis suis_—in which he
declares that the souls of the justified, on leaving their bodies, are
at once admitted to behold the Divine Essence face to face without
intermediary; that by this vision they are rendered truly happy, and
in enjoyment of everlasting repose; whereas those who die in the state
of mortal sin descend immediately into hell.
The abbey of Fonfroide, after seven hundred years’ existence, was
closed in 1790, but, more fortunate than La Grasse, it is now
inhabited by Bernardins, who seem to have inherited the virtues and
spirit of the early Cistercians.
The tombs of the old vicomtes of Narbonne, who were mostly buried
here, are no longer to be seen. William II., by an act of May 25,
1424, ordered his remains to be taken to Fonfroide, wherever he might
die. He left two thousand livres for his tomb, which was to be of
stone and magnificently adorned, and an annuity of twenty-five livres
as a foundation for a daily Mass for the repose of his soul. He was
killed by the English at the battle of Verneuil, the following August;
his body was fastened to a gibbet, and had to be ransomed before it
could be brought to Fonfroide.
Another noted abbey of the country was that of St. Hilaire, built over
the tomb of its patron saint—not St. Hilary of Arles, who walked all
the way to Rome in the dead of winter, but the first bishop of
Carcassonne, who never walked anywhere, dead or alive—at least, out of
his own diocese. This abbey was built in the good old days of
Charlemagne, who seems to have never missed an opportunity of building
a church or endowing a monastery—if we are to believe all the
traditions of France—and of course endowed this one. However, Roger
I., Count of Carcassonne, enriched it still more. He never went into
battle without invoking St. Hilaire, and to him he ascribed the
success of his arms. In his gratitude, he had the body of the saint
exhumed and placed in a beautiful tomb of sculptured marble, and
promised to furnish the twelve monks—all there were at that time—with
suitable clothing during the remainder of his life, which says very
little in favor of Charlemagne’s endowment. The abbey ultimately
became very prosperous, and, among other possessions, owned the most
of Limoux. It lost its importance, however, in the sixteenth century,
and was finally secularized. In one of the rooms may still be seen the
names of its fifty abbots. The beautiful cloister of the fourteenth
century is well preserved, and the tomb of St. Hilaire, with its
sculptures of the tenth century, representing the legend of St.
Saturnin, still serves as the altar of the church. The abbey stands in
a bend of the Lauquet, that has escaped from the Aude, with its little
village around it, among low hills covered with excellent vineyards.
Here blow alternately the Cers and the Marin, the only two winds known
in the valley of the Aude, shut in as it is between the Montagne Noire
on the north and the Corbières on the south. These winds blow with
alternate violence, like two great guns, the greater part of the year,
and when one dies away the other generally takes up the blast. The
very trees are planted with reference to them. People who would live
according to the Delphic principle of “not too much of anything,”
should not come to the valley of the Aude. The Cers increases in
violence as it approaches the sea, where it seems to put on the very
airs of the great planet Jupiter itself, noted for the violence of its
winds; whereas the Marin waits till it gets away from the sound of
“the jawing wave” before it ventures to come out in its full strength.
However, as people often take pride in displaying their very
infirmities, as if desirous of being noted for something, so the
inhabitants of this valley boast of their winds. They did the same in
the days of Seneca the philosopher, who says that though the Circius,
or Cers, overthrew the very buildings, the people of Gaul still
praised it, and thought they were indebted to it for the salubrity of
their climate. Perhaps they acted on the principle of Augustus Cæsar,
who erected an altar to propitiate the Circius when he was in Gaul, so
much did he dread it.
The canal of Languedoc passes through the valley of the Aude. Of
course the grand idea of uniting the two seas could have originated
with no less a person than Charlemagne himself. Francis the First also
agitated the question. The principle on which canals are constructed
was known in the Middle Ages. That universal genius, Leonardo da
Vinci, was the first to make a practical application of it. In spite
of this, the canal of Languedoc required a century and a half of
profound study on the part of men of talent before it was decided on.
The difficulty of its construction can hardly be realized in these
days. It was not till the time of Louis XIV. the work was undertaken
by M. de Riquet, who brought down waters from the Montagne Noire to
feed the basins in the valley of the Aude. The whole canal was built
in seventeen years, and cost about seventeen millions of livres. He
did not live to see it opened. That satisfaction was reserved for his
sons. The people awaited the day with impatience, and when it was
opened, May 15, 1681, there was one great outburst of joy and
admiration all the way from the Garonne to the Mediterranean. The
intendant of the province, and all the capitouls of Toulouse,
assembled in the morning in the cathedral of that city. The archbishop
officiated. Nor was M. Riquet forgotten amid the thanksgiving. His
sons were present. And at the close of Mass, the archbishop turned and
said: Brethren, let us pray for the repose of the soul of Pierre Paul
de Riquet. Every head bent a few moments in silent prayer for the
benefactor of the country.
A richly carpeted bark, from which floated the national colors, had
been prepared. The Abbot of St. Jernin solemnly blessed the waters of
the canal, and the dignitaries set out amid the applause of the
multitude, followed by two other barks filled with musicians. At
Castelnaudary, Cardinal de Bonzi, with several other prelates and
lords, joined them in a magnificent galley, amid the noise of cannon
and the peal of trumpets, followed by twenty barks full of
merchandise. It was not till May 24 this flotilla arrived at Béziers,
where it was hailed, as all along the way, with salutes and cries of
joy. These demonstrations were warranted by the immense benefit of the
canal to the country, and though now in a great measure superseded by
the railway, it is still of the greatest utility.
Before the Aude reaches Carcassonne, it flows directly through the
pretty, industrious town of Limoux, where the shores are connected by
an old Roman bridge. Four hills enclose the charming valley, on the
sides of which grow the vines that yield the _blanquette_ of Limoux,
which is famous in the wine market. On one of these hills stands a
rural chapel held in great veneration by the people around—that of
_Notre Dame de Marceille_, one of the most frequented places of
pilgrimage in southern France, which has been sung by poets, studied
by archæologists, and sketched by artists. Nothing could be lovelier
than its situation. From the plateau around the chapel you look down
on the Flacian valley, watered by the Aude. To the west are the walls
of Limoux in the midst of its vineyards and manufactories. Further off
are bare cliffs and wooded hills, while on the very edge of the
horizon rise, like an army of giants, the summits of the Pyrenees,
almost always covered with snow or shrouded in mist. What a variety of
temperature and products this landscape embraces—the cold mountain
summit and the heat of the plain, verdant heights and naked rocks, the
frowning hills and joyous valleys, gloomy forests of pines and
frolicsome vines, fresh meadows and fields of golden grain! Through
all this flows the Aude, past old legendary castles now in ruins,
along marvellous grottoes a sibyl might envy, its current spanned by
bridges with their tutelar Madonnas, but not disdaining to turn the
wheels of the petty industries below us, though it has its source amid
impassable gulfs among yonder peaks lost in the clouds.
A paved _rampe_ leads up the hillside to _Notre Dame de Marceille_,
more than six hundred feet long, which the pilgrims ascend on their
knees, praying as they go. Half-way up, they stop to rest beside a
trickling fountain and drink of the water that falls drop by drop. On
the arch above is the inscription in letters of gold:
“_Mille mali species Virgo levavit aqua._”[172]
The present church dates from 1488, but a sanctuary is known to have
existed here as early as 1011. From age to age it has been the object
of ever increasing veneration among the people. It belonged at one
time to the abbey of St. Hilaire, but in 1207 passed into the hands of
the Dominicans of Prouilhe. You enter by a porch, which is supported
by slender columns that give it an air of elegance. On the front is
inscribed:
“Stay, traveller: adore God, invoke Mary.”
And on the sides:
“O Jesus, we have merited thy wrath. Efface from our hearts
every stain of sin, that they may be rendered worthy to
become thy dwelling-place!”
“Spotless Maid, Virgin Mother, on
whom the Almighty lavishes the gifts of
his love, with him, with thee, bring us
by thy prayers to dwell for ever in the
celestial abode.”
Another fountain near the porch bears also its inscription:
_Hic putens fons signatus. Parit unda salutem.
Aeger junge fidem. Sic bibe, sarnus eris._
During the cholera of 1855 more than sixty thousand pilgrims flocked
to this chapel in the space of three weeks. All the priests of the
diocese come here annually to celebrate the mysteries of religion,
especially in the month of September when it is most frequented. Then
the holy hill is covered by the ascending pilgrims, the chapel is
illuminated, the bells are rung, and group after group from different
villages enter to pray and sing their pious hymns, which have a
certain wild flavor that is delightful. Their varied attitudes and
costumes, the rude melody of their voices, the numerous bas-reliefs
and paintings on the walls, the altar of the Virgin hung with
ex-votos, and the robes of the Madonna herself, overloaded with
ornaments of gold and silver which sparkle in the countless tapers,
make up a picture one is never weary of studying.
It was on descending from this consecrated hill we stopped to look
back at the sanctuary whence streamed still the soul-stirring hymns. A
group was gathered about the archway of the fountain. The base was
aflush with the vines. From Limoux came the sound of earthly cares.
Harvests covered the plain. The heavens aglow crowned all. It was here
we took leave of the Valley of the Aude.
[172] By this water the Virgin has cured a thousand ills.
FREE TRANSLATION OF A CHORUS IN THE “HECUBA” OF EURIPIDES.
BY AUBREY DE VERE.
Thou of the ten years’ war!
City of marble palaces—no more
Hard by the mountains art thou throned a Queen,
Beside the sounding shore.
Where is thy crown of olives ever-green?
How is thy regal head with anguish bowed!
Ah! woe is me, enveloped in a cloud
Of leaguering foemen are thy smoking walls,
Blood-stained and desolate thy halls.
In the deep hush of night
Fate fell upon us … in the hour of joy;
In the first flush of our triumphant might,
Glory, and Victory.
The bowl was circling, and the festive floor
With wild flowers sprinkled o’er.
We wove the mazy dance in choral bands,
With eyes responsive and united hands
And thrilling melodies.
My husband on the bed,
Warrior out-worn, was lying; and his breast
Filled with the dewy rest:
For thou, O raven-plumed power,
Wert o’er him waving thy Lethean wings,
Flinging thy poppied odors o’er
His languid breast and eyes;
All grateful rites complete, and pious sacrifice.
But I my ringlets dark
(A young and happy bride)
Was braiding, not unconscious of my charms,
Before the mirror wide:
Now for the first time freed from war’s alarms
To lay me by his side
Whose breast was filled with dreams of peace:—but hush!
A long and piercing cry
Comes ringing thro’ the sky,
A sound of struggling men and clashing arms.
With robe unbound—with hair
Streaming upon the air;
Zoneless as Spartan maid, Pallas, to thee;
O Virgin Deity!
I rush in tearless agony—I bear
The maids’ and matrons’ prayer.
In vain—ah! what availed
Those wild embraces or that mute despair?
Ah! what availed? These eyes, these eyes beheld
The husband slaughtered on the household hearth
In sight of all his gods; but when the wave
With its unheeding rave,
Was bearing me from thee, my place of birth,
As from mine eye down sank high tower and gate,
Ruined and desolate.…
At last my agony
Burst forth into one long and fainting cry—
I fell upon my face—I knew myself a slave.
LETTERS OF A YOUNG IRISHWOMAN TO HER SISTER
(FROM THE FRENCH.)
APRIL 22.
Yesterday was the day which the Lord hath made, the day of happiness
and of rejoicing in God. Rose at half-past three, and was at Ste.
Croix before the time. Kneeling by René, my heart overflowing with
felicity, I enjoyed during those too rapid moments all the delights of
the Christian life. The procession and Benediction were magnificent;
everything that has relation to worship, here possesses a unique and
impressive solemnity. Heard two Masses, and then that of the Paschal
Communion of the men. I love this spectacle—these long files of
communicants, so eloquent a protest against the impieties of the age!
Was present at High Mass. Dear Kate! congratulate your Georgina:
taking all together, I spent nine hours yesterday in church. But my
day was much less sanctified in reality than in appearance; I am so
easily distracted. The music transported and the crowds bewildered me.
Monseigneur officiated pontifically at the High Mass, after which we
had the Papal Benediction. The sermon pleased me much. “When Christ
shall be glorified, you also shall be glorified with him.” It was
sweet and comforting to hear, and I was greatly touched. “The measure
of your sufferings here below is the measure of the happiness which
God has in store for you. Our body will be glorified by the absence of
all suffering; our understanding, by the Beatific Vision; our heart,
by the possession of every possible happiness and felicity; our will,
by the accomplishment of its desires. God will to all eternity do the
will of his saints.” Then the Benediction, the procession chanting
the _Laudate Pueri_ and the _In exitu Israël_, the hymn of
deliverance—what splendor! O festival of Easter! so solemn and so
beautiful, how dear thou art to me.
And so Lent is over, and, to indemnify me for my long fast, here is a
letter from my Kate. I read it on my knees, like a prayer, and
afterwards aloud to the assembled family (except, of course, the
private details). It is settled that we are all to be present when you
take the veil. Kate dearest! my elder sister, my second mother, who
have imparted to me so much of your own soul, the blessed thought of
you follows me at every step.
Mme. de T—— has made splendid presents to all her children. I like
this fraternal custom. We had been secretly preparing the prettiest
surprises imaginable, and in the morning saluted each other as they do
in Poland: “Christ is risen!” René has presented me with two beautiful
volumes, a novelty, a marvel—the _Récit d’une Sœur_, by Mrs. Craven,
_née_ de la Ferronays. Call to your remembrance one of our loveliest
days in Italy, at the Palazzo Borghese, where this family long
remained; we have often spoken of it since. This is such attractive
reading that it costs me a great effort to tear myself from the book.
The weather is glorious; we take long walks through gardens full of
lilacs in blossom. O spring! the renewal, the awakening of nature, how
sweet and fair it is, and with what joy I have hailed its coming! The
children are not to be kept within the house any longer; they are
caged birds prettily fluttering their wings against the bars until
they are free in the fields.[173] Little whisperings are made to Aunt
Georgina to receive into her _coupé_ these darling nightingales.
Excursions are to be the order of the week.
Our poor have largely shared in our Paschal rejoicings. I took
Picciola with me to see Benoni. What a festival it was to her kind
heart! She had laden herself with playthings, cakes, and bonbons, and,
in a spirit of heroic sacrifice, with a pretty cage which she sat
great store by, in which sang two canaries. The joy of the poor family
was surpassed by the sweet child’s delight. I watched her with
admiration as she went to and fro in the lowly abode, warbling with
the _brother of the little Jesus_, as she calls the darling. What a
sunbeam in this dwelling! I wish Madeleine were my daughter. Kate
dearest, pray that my wishes may be realized. I am writing to you in
my room, near the open window. A delicious perfume of lilac fills the
air; I love nothing in the world so much as children and flowers.
Lately I have frequently made Alix play. My sister-in-law Johanna has
had a severe cold, and I have laid claim to her pretty family during
their recreations. Marguerite, the eldest of the little girls, is not
more than eight years old, and is always called Lady Sensible, which
makes her cheeks glow with pleasure. Alix is four; she is fresh as a
rose of May. I love to press my lips against her pure forehead, and
imbue myself with the soft innocence which exhales from this young
soul. With her deep-blue eyes, her thick, fair hair, and her
angel-look, Alix is really charming, and it seems to me that if she
were mine I should have floods of tenderness to shed upon her.
Monseigneur is about to leave for Rome. I shall be presented to him
before his departure. _Au revoir_, dear Kate! May God protect us! When
shall I see Ireland again? When shall I return to the land from whence
my ancestors, those sons of a royal race, were banished? The faith is
worth more than a throne.
APRIL 29.
René has undertaken to give you an account of my presentation, dearest
Kate, so I need not say anything about it. Nothing is spoken of here
but the dead and dying. Mme. de St. M—— has lost her two little girls
in two days; it makes one tremble. I have sent Fanny your letter of
Wednesday; it seemed as if I should profane your holy pages by
transcribing them. Our friends wrote to me yesterday; you ought to
have read their letters before I did. Lady W—— tells me that she shall
treasure like a relic the consolations of Kate. Dearest, you say well
that this world could not be fit for our sweet Mary; but your
aspirations after eternity alarm your earthly Georgina. Live to love
me, to be my guardian angel!
You will not read _Le Récit d’une Sœur_, dear, busy one? This book
contains beauties of the highest order; it is like the expression of
the splendor of the beautiful. How those hearts loved, and how much
they suffered! But love like theirs must give strength to bear such
sufferings. How can I describe to you these incomparable volumes? Your
faithful memory has well recalled to you all the personages; imagine,
then, the mutual outpourings of those great souls, the marriage of
Albert and Alexandrine, so closely followed by so much heart-rending
anguish; that family, so numerous and so united, and which appeared to
have so many titles to happiness, seeing death descend upon their
happy home, gradually destroying and pitilessly mowing down those fair
lives. Albert first of all—the gentle, tender, pious, poetic
Albert—dying on the 29th of June, 1836, after two years of married
life and four years of the most pure and sanctified love; then the
Count de la Ferronays, that noble figure, that grand character, a soul
of antiquity moulded in a Christian heart, who died at Rome on the
17th of January, 1842, and obtained immediately a miraculous
conversion—an endless consolation for those who wept for him; Eugénie,
so saintly, so detached from the world, the most loving and devoted of
sisters, died next, far from all her own people, at Palermo, whose
mild climate had failed to restore strength to that fading flower; a
year after, at Brussels, on the 10th of February, the pure and
beautiful Olga; in 1848, on the 9th of February, Alexandrine, the most
attractive heroine of this narrative, the inconsolable widow, mounting
to such heights in the love of God that she would have refused to live
over again the happiness of her union with Albert—an exceptionally
saintly soul, full of heroic devotion, since she offered her life to
God—who accepted the offering—for that of the Père de Ravignan; and,
lastly, Mme. de la Ferronays, the mother, the wife who had been, as it
were, on the cross for so many years, and always serene, always
generous, dying in the arms of her Pauline on the 14th of November,
1848, the same year as her daughter-in-law. By the side of these souls
who have passed away figure several personages of the time: M. de
Montalembert, the intimate friend of Albert, and the ever-faithful
friend of Alexandrine, whom he called his “sister”; M. Gerbet, the
author of _L’Esquisse de Rome Chrétienne_;[174] Père Lacordaire, Mme.
Swetchine, Père de Ravignan, Confalonieri, the learned M. Rio—all this
related by _a sister_, Mrs. Craven, of whom Mme. —— spoke to us so
much. Remark these two thoughts from St. Augustine: one, the motto,
is, “We never lose those whom we love in him whom we can never lose”;
the other, written by Albert in his journal and several times
underlined: “All which ends is not long.” There is also this other, of
Alexandrine’s: “I do not believe that affections are injurious to
affections. Our soul is made in the image of God, and in her power of
loving she possesses something of the infinite.” What a family!—an
assembly of chosen souls, all of them winning and sympathetic, all
knowing how to love as those souls only know who love God above all
things. I should like to know Mrs. Craven. I pity and admire her: I
pity her for having seen all those die whom she so loved, for having
witnessed the departure of souls so intimately united that they were
as if melted into one alone; I admire her for having had the power of
retracing so many memories at the same time sweet and distressing, and
which at every page must have renewed her grief. Is not Albert’s
offering of his life for the conversion of Alexandrine the most
admirable type of Christian love?
We are going to _eternize_ ourselves at Orleans, dear Kate. My
mother-in-law finds the _Rue Jeanne d’Arc_ very agreeable; the
children attend some of the cours.[175] We are not too far from the
capital; all say in chorus, It is good to be here! When I say _all_, I
except the gentlemen, who, in their hearts, prefer the country, but do
not say a word to that effect.
A letter from Margaret, charmed to be at Rome, “that fatherland of
sorrow.” Amid the ruins of the queen of cities she walks with her
immense disappointment. Oh! what trial. No woman better deserves to be
loved. Do you remember Mère Athanase saying of Margaret: “Beautiful as
Eve in Paradise, attractive as Rachel, a musician like Miriam the
sister of Moses, she is also learned as Anna Comnena, and a poetess
like Marie de France”? I answered: “May I be the good Samaritan to
this wounded soul!”
_Duchesse_ is much afflicted; a new frock _quite untakable_, as she
says, is the cause. On Marguerite’s gravely asking, “Is not Thérèse
going out again? what misfortune has happened to her?” Arthur replied:
“Lady Sensible, look well at Thérèse; there is a wrinkle on her
forehead. She has lost … her toilette.” And the giddy boy twirled
Marguerite round and round, who cannot understand, serious little
thing that she is, how any one should be in trouble for so small a
matter. This reminds me of the following verses, copied by Hélène in
her journal:
“Un frais cottage anglais, voilà sa Thébaïde
Et si son front de nacre est marqué d’une ridé,
Ce n’est pas, croyez moi, qu’elle songe à la mort;
Pour craindre quelque chose, elle est trop esprit fort.
Mais c’est que de Paris une robe attendue,
Arrive chiffonnée et de taches perdue.”[176]
A thousand kisses to my Kate.
MAY 3.
O month of graces and of heavenly favors, how I welcome your return!
To-day, my beloved Kate, René and I have piously celebrated the
anniversary of your birth. May God bless you, my very dear one, and
may he bless all that you do! Oh! how many times have I thanked God
that he has granted me to receive the love that Joseph had for
Benjamin. Kate, I am too happy. Ask our Lord that I may not lose the
fragrance of these days of peace and gladness; that I may not be an
unprofitable servant; that I may do good, much good; that I may labor
for the salvation of souls. O souls, souls! You know how, when a
child, I cried when I found that I could not be a missionary. I wanted
to be one of the laborers among the _whitening harvests_. I have kept
my desire, and René shares my aspirations. Adrien, who heard us
yesterday talking together, called out: “Quick, quick! a professor of
Hindostani and Chinese for these two apostles.” My mother-in-law was
very much amused by this sally, and the conversation became general. A
good work has come out of it: there were in the house only four
associates of the Propagation of the Faith, and now there are thirty,
and I am chief of the _dizaines_, or sets of ten, by unanimous vote.
It is not to Asiatic idolaters that I am desirous of preaching the
Gospel, but, wherever my duty shall place me, to those who are
ignorant of it; and by way of a beginning I have this winter been
teaching the catechism to three little children, beggars by
profession. I shall continue the same thing in Brittany. Dearest, can
I do too much for Him who overwhelms me with such magnificent
profusion?
The opening of the month of Mary has been very beautiful; the altar
splendidly lighted; lovely hymns. Noted an enchanting voice of a young
girl, which caused me some distractions.… Kate, where is our dear
oratory in Ireland, and my place close to yours? My country, my
country! Some one has said, Our country is the place where we love.
The true country and fatherland of the Christian is heaven. René
speaks like an angel of the love of heaven, and this, too, makes me
afraid. Oh! how well I understand the saying of Eugénie de Guérin,
‘The heart so longs to immortalize what it loves’—that is to say, the
heart would fain have no separation, but life or death with the object
of its love. Dear Kate, to whom I owe my happiness, may this day be
always blest!
I leave you now, as my mother-in-law sends Picciola to request my
company. “If,” says the gentle little ambassadress, “it is to Madame
Kate that you are writing, tell her especially that I love her with
all my heart; and let me put a kiss upon the page.”
By the side of this sweet, pure kiss I place my tender messages, or
rather _ours_, loving you as we both do.
MAY 6.
The spiritual enjoyments of this fairest of months are infinitely
sweet to me, my sister. I had minutely described your oratory to Lucy
and Hélène, and these two affectionate girls have prepared me a
heartfelt enjoyment. In a small, unoccupied drawing-room I found all
my souvenirs of Ireland, … all … excepting only your dear presence, my
devoted Kate. Tell me how it is that so many hearts agree together in
strewing with flowers the path of your Georgina.
The _Odeurs de Paris_, by Louis Veuillot, is much spoken of. This book
is a sequel to the _Parfum de Rome_—a sort of set-off or contrast
between the unseemliness of Babylon and the beauties of Sion. I wanted
to read it, but Adrien dissuaded me, and René read me the preface,
which contains some remarkable thoughts. The modern Juvenal says of
Paris: “A city without a past, full of minds without memories, of
hearts without tears, of souls without love”; and elsewhere: “To paint
Paris, Rousseau discovered the suitable expression of ‘a desert of
men.’” There is also a touching complaint respecting the continual
confusion and, as it were, overturning of this city, which Gabourd
calls the city of the Sovereign People: “Who will dwell in the
paternal house? Who will find again the roof which sheltered his
earliest years?…” Read the _Souvenirs_ of Mme. Récamier, and
_Marie-Thérèse_, by Nettement. The latter is written with a royalist
and Christian enthusiasm which delighted me. My mother-in-law is
passionately fond of poetry, and has selected me as reader. I am
gradually becoming her pet bird; she is so kind and good in her
continual solicitude for _her youngest daughter_! Master Arthur,
_l’enfant terrible_, confided to Picciola that I was grandmamma’s
_spoiled child_. The fact is that, having my time more free than my
sisters-in-law, who are absorbed by their maternal cares, I can occupy
myself more in anything which may please Mme. de T——, whose innate
refinement knows how to appreciate the smallest attentions. Then,
yesterday my mother-in-law sent me a nice little packet, carefully
sealed; guess what I found in it? A Shakspere and a Lamartine, bound
with my monogram, and a choice little volume by Marie Jenna, a name
which pleases me. This is full of heavenly poetry. There are pieces
which are worth their weight in gold, if gold could pay for this
delicious efflorescence of the poet’s soul. How I love Lamartine when
he says:
“Moi-même, plein des biens dont l’opulence abonde,
Que j’échangerais volontiers
Cet or dont la fortune avec dédain m’inonde
Pour une heure du temps où je n’avais au monde
Que ma vigne et que mon figuier!
Pour ces songes divins qui chantaient en mon âme
Et que nul or ne peut payer!”[177]
Ah! yes; no happiness is worth the happiness of loving and praising
God.
Hélène waited for the month of Mary to reveal her beautiful vocation
to her mother—this choice of heaven which will necessarily be at the
same time the glory and the martyrdom of our hearts. None of the
austerities of her future life will take by surprise the newly-chosen
one; she has prepared herself for everything. It is on the 10th, four
days hence, that she will speak.… Help us with your prayers, my
dearest Kate!…
I am hastening off with René to _Sainte Croix_. A thousand loving
messages.
MAY 9.
The evening of the day before yesterday was a beautiful triumph: the
festival of Joan of Arc had begun. All day long the belfry resounded;
a touching and patriotic as well as Christian idea seemed, as it were,
to call back the past to life; and in the evening a large crowd
followed in the torch-light procession, which was beautiful to see
from the memories which are attached to it. With more than four
centuries between, these souvenirs are still living with an
imperishable life. O pure and fair Joan of Arc! my chosen heroine, how
I love the fidelity of Orleans to thy dear memory! Scarcely had the
cortège reached the cathedral when … but let me transcribe for you the
description of these splendors by a more skilful hand than mine—by the
pencil of an artist, and an artist of genius. This is what was spoken
by Mgr. Mermillod, on the 8th of May, 1863: “Yesterday evening,
gentlemen, under the vaulted roof of your basilica, I followed your
priests and your pontiff, who were proceeding towards the portico. The
interior of your church was in silence and obscurity; one little light
alone was gleaming before the tabernacle, announcing the Master’s
presence. When I reached the threshold, tears filled my eyes, while my
heart beat with an indescribable emotion. I had before me, in an
incomparable scene, a vision of your history, of your heroic
splendors, of your providential destinies. You, gentlemen, were there,
ranged in this place; your children, your wives, your aged men, the
great ones and the lowly ones of your city, were present at this
solemn assembly. Suddenly the clarions sound, bands of inspiriting
music fill the air, drums beat, the artillery thunders, the bells
fling into space their triumphant clangor, and the choir of Levites
raises on high the hymn of victory. The standard of Joan of Arc is
advancing, borne by the magistrates of the city, hailed by all the
united voices of the army and the church. Is not this the most
eloquent address, the most moving panegyric, the living incarnation of
an undying remembrance?… Your cathedral becomes radiant; these grand,
sculptured masses light up with sparkling brightness, pennons,
armorial bearings, and banners glitter like stars. Your bishop
descends the steps, the first magistrate advances, and each gives the
other the kiss of peace: I there beheld an apparition of religion and
our country.
“The pontiff invokes the name of the Lord, the multitude answers;
soldiers, priests, and people bend the knee; the benediction falls
upon these souls.… My gaze mounted from earth towards heaven, and it
seemed as if I could perceive above the towers of your basilica forms
more luminous than earthly fires, the ancient witnesses and workers of
the greatness of your France—Ste. Geneviève, Ste. Clotilde, St. Rémy,
St. Michael, Ste. Catherine, Ste. Margaret, Joan of Arc; your own
saints, St. Aignan and St. Euvertus, blessing you by the hand of their
worthy successor. Clergy and people intoned the psalm of thanksgiving:
‘Praise the Lord, ye peoples: praise him, O ye nations! for God hath
remembered his goodness; he hath confirmed his loving-kindness towards
us. The truth of the Lord endureth for ever. Praise the Lord.’
“I seemed to hear the stones of your cathedral, the ramparts of your
city, your own souls, the saints of heaven, the past, the present, all
your centuries, unite in one immense acclamation, and repeat the song
of gladness: ‘Glory to the Father, who is strength; glory to the Son,
who is sacrifice; glory to the Holy Spirit, who is light; glory to
God, who made worlds for himself, the church for eternity; France for
the church, and Joan of Arc for France!’”
Dear Kate, what can I say to you after this? Who would venture to
speak after Mgr. Mermillod, “write after Châteaubriand, or paint after
Raphael”? Yesterday the town was rejoicing; it was the anniversary of
the deliverance. Was present at the panegyric by M. l’Abbé Freppel,
professor of sacred eloquence at the Sorbonne. He asks for the
canonization of Joan of Arc. His text was a sentence out of the Book
of the Machabees. Divisions: 1. The life of Joan of Arc was marked by
all the virtues which characterize sanctity. 2. She uttered prophecies
and performed miracles. It was very fine and elevated. There was an
imposing assemblage. At half-past twelve we went out and hurried to
the hotel to see the procession pass by. What a _cortège_! All the
parishes, each headed by its banner; the court, the authorities, the
troops, the corporations, and I know not what. It was indeed a day of
excitement. Dearest Kate, in the midst of this _encombrement_[178] I
thought of you. Our drawing-rooms were overflowing with people; from
time to time I went noiselessly away to Hélène, whom a headache
excused from appearing, and we spoke of God and the sweetness of his
service. I am so fond of these conversations. In the evening, Month of
Mary: I would not dispense myself from this for anything in the world.
I am going to read _Sainte Cécile_, by Dom Guéranger. Letter from
Lizzy, who announces a most joyful piece of news: all the M——s are
abjuring Protestantism. “Make haste and sing the hymn of St. Ambrose
and St. Augustine; Ellen consents to say the _Lætatus_; it is Mary who
has obtained this miracle.” When I told you, dear Kate, that one ought
to sing alleluia over her tomb, it was truly a prophetic saying. What
consolation for Fanny and her mother!
I am sending to the post; I wish not to delay your happiness.
MAY 11.
To write to my Kate is the condition _sine quâ non_ of my existence. A
beautiful sermon yesterday by M. Baunard, a young and eloquent curate
of _Sainte Croix_, on visits and conversations, “in which the
Christian ought always to have three charming companions—Charity,
Humility, and Piety.” Went to the museum with René and Adrien, the
most learned and agreeable of _ciceroni_. I was captivated by the hall
of zoölogy, and that of botany also.
To-morrow Hélène will have with her mother the conversation which I
dread. René proposed to his niece to select this day, which will
recall to Gertrude (Mme. Adrien) a remarkable favor due to the
protection of Our Lady of Deliverance. Pray for all these hearts which
are about to suffer, dear Kate. We set out for Paris on the 1st of
June; my mother has taken an entire house there. We are going to
breathe the burning atmosphere of the capital, as Paul says, wiping
his forehead; and your Georgina adds: We are going to see Kate. All
the beauties of the much-vaunted Exposition would affect me little if
you were not in Paris, dear sister of my soul. What gladness to
embrace you, to speak to you! This paper irritates me; it answers me
nothing. It is _you, you_ that I need; I thirst for your presence. And
then a new separation, a new rending away—you will take the veil, and
be no more of this world. Kate, I want not to think of it.
Could you to-morrow have several Masses said at _Notre Dame des
Victoires_? Hélène begs that you will; there she is, near my bureau,
leaning her pretty, pensive head against an arm-chair. Ah! we
understand each other so well; I love her so much, and am scarcely
older than she is. I was mistaken as to her age; she is not yet
eighteen, and was like a sister given me by God to console me for
having my Kate no longer; and she also is now to go away.
May all the angels of Paradise be with you, and may they be to-morrow
with Hélène!
MAY 13.
Thanks, dear Kate! The heavenly spirits were almost visible in our
home during the eventful day. Adrien and Gertrude received, with a
profound faith, the confidences of Hélène, and I know not whether to
admire most the heroism of the parents or that of the young virgin.
Her father’s grief is inexpressible; he had formed the brightest
projects for the future of his daughter. She was his especial darling;
… but he is a Christian of the ancient days, and says with Job: “The
Lord gave and the Lord taketh away …” Gertrude is like Mary at the
foot of the cross, mute and immovable, with death in the heart, and
yet happy at the divine choice. Adrien undertakes to prepare his
mother; … it is for _her_ that I fear most.
“This is my Calvary,” said Hélène to me this morning. “To see them
suffer through me! And I cannot hesitate!…” I have read _Sainte
Cécile_, and I made Gertrude read it, who thanked me with a smile that
went to my heart. René is afflicted. “This,” he says, “is the first
bird that leaves the nest, to reenter it no more. There will be from
this time a great void in our _réunions_, a source of distress to my
brother—a subject we shall fear to touch upon. Georgina, you were
saying that we had not a single shadow in our sky!” Alas! I feel only
too keenly how painful it is, but also how happy Hélène will be!
Thanks for having made me understand this, dear Kate. Gertrude, the
wounded eagle, takes refuge with me to speak about her daughter.
Good-by for a short time, _carissima sorella_.
MAY 15.
A splendid benediction yesterday, on account of the Perpetual
Adoration. The sanctuary was enkindled with light. Behind the altar,
_a cathedral_ of lighted tapers—yes, dear, the towers of _Sainte
Croix_ in miniature; all around it pyramids of lights, clusters of
flowers with long, luminous stems, lustres hanging at an infinite
height, the arches and smaller arcades, etc., illuminated. An _O
Salutaris_ and a _Regina Cœli_ were sung that seemed to carry one
away. I stood on the earth, but my heart was in heaven; and near to me
René, absorbed in God, brothers and sisters, Hélène, Thérèse,
Madeleine, and _grandmother_, who was in tears.… How touched I was!
Adrien had spoken.… It was a thunder-clap! And the choir chanted the
glories of the King of Virgins, and all those beloved countenances
beamed with fervor, as we bent our heads beneath the benediction of
the Almighty!…
This morning Mme. de T—— asked for Hélène. Their conversation lasted
two hours. After _déjeuner_[179] my mother said, smiling: “It is
decided we have a Carmelite!” The children opened their eyes in
wonder. Lucie began to sob; Picciola, pale and trembling, kissed the
happy Hélène a hundred and a hundred times over. The sacrifice is, as
it were, accomplished.
Johanna, the dear Creole, is astonished at the promptitude of this
decision. The babies will no more be persuaded to leave the side of
the tall cousin “who did not know that she was so much loved,” she
says. This morning she received a long, beautiful letter from an
intimate friend inviting her to a marriage. It is impossible to
refuse; this will be the last worldly festivity at which that sweet
face, made to delight the angels, will be seen. The word _marriage_
made Mme. de T—— start, and she afterwards said to me: “I had planned
a brilliant earthly alliance for Hélène; how much there is of _human_
and _material_ within us that I should still regret it when a divine
alliance is secured to her! Here, Georgina, read me again the chapter
on abandonment to God.” I read, and, seeing her meditative afterwards,
I opened a book of Ozanam which Lucy lent me. I will give you the
Christian theory of marriage from this great mind, who too soon
disappeared from a world that wondered at his works: “In marriage
there is more than a contract; above all, there is a sacrifice, or
rather two sacrifices: the woman sacrifices that which God has given
her of irreparable, that which causes the solicitude of her mother—her
first beauty, often her health, and that power of loving which women
only once possess; the man on his part sacrifices the liberty of his
youth, the incomparable years which will return no more, the power of
devoting himself for her whom he loves which is only to be found at
the beginning of his life, and the effort of a first love to make
himself a lot both sweet and glorious. That is what a man can do but
once, between the age of twenty and thirty years, a little sooner or a
little later, perhaps never! Therefore is it that I speak of Christian
marriage as a double sacrifice. There are two cups: in one is found
beauty, modesty, and innocence; in the other, love intact,
devotedness, the immortal consecration of the man to her who is weaker
than himself, whom yesterday he knew not, and with whom to-day he
finds himself happy to spend his days; and it is needful that these
cups should be equally full if the union is to be happy and deserving
of the blessing of Heaven.” Is not this an admirable page? While
reading it I thought of Albert and Alexandrine, those two immortal
types of Christian marriage. What a life was theirs, what happiness,
so short but perfect, and which made the poor widow say, “I have
memories of happiness which seem to me as if they could not be
surpassed”!
Good-night, dearest Kate!
MAY 20.
The house is transformed into a convent, dear Kate; so, at least,
Arthur declares, finding in this fact an excellent reason for Hélène’s
being detained in it. Since her departure has been seriously thought
of, every one is wanting to have the enjoyment of her company, and she
is literally torn away first by one and then by another; and if you
could see her lending herself with her bright smile to all the
exactions of this affection, tyrannical as it has become!
We took a long excursion yesterday into the open country, among the
wheat; the rustling of the ears of corn, the charm of the sunny
solitude, the verdure with its soft lights and shadows, all the
renewal of the spring, the beauty of the landscape, which showed in
the far distance the fine towers of the cathedral—all this smiled upon
us; and yet sadly, like an adieu, we shall return, we shall look again
next year upon this same picture, but without Hélène.… Why is she so
engaging, so sympathetic?
Letter from Margaret, who will be at Paris in June. What joy, dear
Kate! It seems to me that our friend is more tranquil; she describes
like a poet her enthusiasm for Italy and for the Pope. At Florence she
met with our poor mistress Annah, who had some trouble to recognize in
this brilliant lady the pale little girl of former times. Annah is
giving English lessons. Lord William, seeing Margaret’s affectionate
demonstrations, proposed to her to secure the independence of the aged
mistress, which he has done, to the great satisfaction of the two
persons interested. I like that, and am convinced that Margaret
deceives herself.
Another happiness, darling Kate: here is your letter, in the joyful
hands of Picciola, who recognizes your handwriting. Five days without
saying a word to you! René sends you quite a volume. Love always your
Georgina.
MAY 26.
Was present at the ordination. What an imposing ceremony! I had never
seen one, and I followed all the details with the greatest interest.
Sixty young men giving themselves to God, devoting themselves to a
life of sacrifice! I prayed for and envied them: how much good will
they not be able to do! What life is so full as that of a holy priest?
That which most moved me was the moment when priests, deacons, and
subdeacons fell prostrate; then the imposition of hands, the Mass said
by all these voices, which must have trembled with emotion and with
happiness, the kiss of peace, the communion, and, lastly, the _Te
Deum_, that heavenly song. Oh! that all these souls to-day consecrated
to the Lord may one day sing the _Sanctus_ and Hosanna before the
throne of the Lamb.
On arriving yesterday at _Sainte Croix_ (the weather was splendid) I
saw myriads of swallows joyously flying about and warbling among the
towers. René began to hum, “Oh! that I had wings, to fly away to God.”
You dear swallows who have made your nests on the roof of the temple
of the Lord, in the bell-turrets, and among the towers; ye swallows,
my sisters, as said the Seraph of Assisi, you who fly so high, have
you seen heaven? You who in sweet warblings sing the praises of the
Eternal, have you touched with your wing the portals of the celestial
Eden? Sing, and cease not, O gentle swallows! who know not what it is
to offend God.
Gertrude has confided to me that for some time past she had divined
Hélène, and, as she treats me entirely as a sister, she has given me
the journal to read which she wrote whilst her daughter was at the
convent. Observe this passage: “My beloved girl is seventeen years old
to-day; her father and I have duly observed this anniversary as a
festival. Poor dear child! What will be thy will for her, my God? One
of these pure creatures, seraphs left upon earth to sanctify it, whose
life is spent beneath thy watchful eye, in the shade of the sanctuary?
… O my God! Once I thought not that it would be possible for me to
live far from her, no more to rest my gaze on her fresh countenance,
so bright and open. Thou hadst, O Lord! united us so closely that it
seemed as if my soul had passed into hers. Sweet angel, return to
spread your white wings over the maternal nest! Oh! I fear lest you
should be the first of all to leave it; but if you leave us for God,
may you be blessed, my well-beloved!”
O ye mothers! who may sound the depths of your sorrows? Happy as
mothers are in their enchanted life of love and innocence, yet they
are also martyrs, and who knows whether the gall in their chalice does
not absorb the honey?
Beloved, in a few days I shall embrace you.
MAY 29.
God be praised, who is about to bring us together again, dear sister
of my soul! It is settled that we are to return on the 1st of July,
once more to salute Orleans. Hélène will at this date enter the
novitiate at ——. The town is beginning to lose its inhabitants. Hélène
and I traverse it in all directions to have another look at its
curiosities: the fine old houses richly and deeply sculptured,
historic dwellings, which remain standing after their inmates have
disappeared. We are shown the house of Joan of Arc, of Francis I., of
Agnes Sorel, of Diana of Poitiers—names with very dissimilar
associations. One more visit to Benoni, a pilgrimage to Our Lady of
Miracles, a halt at my bookseller’s, and my preparations will be
ended.
Wrote to Sister Louise. I like to return to her twice in the year, to
pay her this tribute of the heart with my tenderest affection. What a
fine nature—an ideal! A soul whom the world never touched who had no
sooner finished her education than she gave herself to God,
sacrificing even her last vacations. A nature so poetic, so rich and
pure, that God reserved it for himself, and at the same time so
charming and devoted that she spent herself wholly in affection upon
those around her. Thus have I known and loved her, like an apparition
from another world.
Good-by for the present, dear Kate. René, my so dear and gentle René,
is more happy because of my happiness than I am myself—happiness
moistened with tears, the tears of sacrifice. “What matters it where
one weeps, or wherefore, since tears buy heaven?”
Hélène has given me a share of her heritage—a paralytic old woman
whose succoring angel she has been. Every morning she went to the
lowly room of the poor invalid, whom she dressed, and then with her
patrician hands she made the bed, swept the room, and prepared the
repast. After this she read to her out of some pious book, conversed
with her a few minutes, and on leaving called a little girl of ten
years old, who was charged to keep the poor woman company. I shall
continue Hélène’s work.… In summer it is a neighbor who, for a slight
remuneration, does all that is necessary; but Mariette, the _femme de
chambre_, who is often employed to carry little comforts to the
invalid, said to me with tears: “Nothing replaces mademoiselle, and
the old woman says, ‘Summer is winter to me, for it takes away my
sunshine!’” What praise, Kate, is it not? Can you not understand how
Gertrude may well be proud of the treasure which is about to be taken
from her? Cannot you understand also how much I sympathize with
her?—for my heart is bleeding from the same wound. Be happy, beloved
Kate; we shall meet again where there are no separations to be feared,
in our true fatherland.
MAY 31.
Our departure is postponed; my mother being unwell, enough so to keep
her bed, and the doctor does not yet know what to say about her. Pray
for us, my sister. René fears inflammation of the lungs. Mme. de T——,
who is very austere with herself, never complains until the last
extremity.
O my sweet Mother in heaven! your beloved month is drawing to its
close, and these lines are the last which I shall trace before the
latest hours of May have fallen into eternity. Oh! I entreat you, you
who are all-powerful with the Heart of your Divine Son, Our Lady of
the Sacred Heart, hear our prayers!
A thousand kisses, dear Kate.
JUNE 3.
A mucous fever has declared itself; the danger is imminent; we are
scarcely alive. Never was mother more adored. She has been delirious;
her wanderings were those of a saint. God, the angels, her dear ones,
both living and dead, pass in turn before her mind; when she recovers
her sense of the reality, she finds the most consoling and heavenly
words wherewith to comfort us. Her room, now haunted by the shadow of
death, is become our universe, and we fraternally share amongst us the
sorrowful sweetness of attending upon this beloved sick one. All our
poor are in prayer; two tapers are continually burning before the
black Virgin. Thanks, beloved! I have read your letter to my mother,
who said to me:
Dear Georgina, I am happy to possess the affection of your good
sister. I feel myself in reality your mother.…” To tell you René’s
distress would be impossible; as for me, I have in the depth of my
heart an unconquerable confidence God will spare her to us!
JUNE 4.
She is as ill as she can be. René proposed to make a vow. Kneeling all
together around this dying bed, with one voice and one heart we have
promised to go to _Notre Dame de la Salette_. Now we wait.… Unite your
vows to ours, we love her so much! Oh! if you could see her, so
weakened, and with only a breath of life, and yet in possession of all
her presence of mind, all her attentive solicitude, thinking of
everything and everybody, pressing me to take a little rest! This
scene reminds me of my mother, her peaceful death, whilst she
commended us to the Father of orphans. Will not God spare her to us?
One cannot lose a mother twice! Picciola has assembled all the babies
for a perpetual Rosary.
Tears choke me; and yet I still have hope. She has received the Holy
Viaticum, and Extreme Unction; it seems as if she were already in
heaven.
JUNE 5.
Always the same hopeless state; extreme weakness, and no life left but
in the look, which beams with love. We are all here, more silent than
shadows, starting at the slightest sound. I did not know that I loved
so strongly this mother worthy of my René. Yesterday evening, seeing
me leaning over her bed, she made a supreme effort to say to me: “You
will comfort him!” O my God, my God! can it be that mourning is about
to darken our youth, and that this first year of marriage should
contain so great a sorrow?
JUNE 7.
Nothing but a breath, … yet I hope still. Something tells me that she
must live.
JUNE 9.
Yes, dearest, she will live; let us thank God. A reaction has taken
place; it is now a resurrection. How happy I am! You would scarcely
recognize René, so greatly is he altered; but he smiles now,
recovering with our beloved sufferer. Your letter of yesterday brought
balm to my heart; and an hour afterwards the good doctor assured us
that all danger was over, though the recovery will be very gradual.
And so this beautiful and glorious Feast of Pentecost finds us all
radiant. My mother has insisted on sending us to the services, but the
others could not refuse to let me remain. “Grandmother and Aunt
Georgina are Ruth and Noemi,” observed Arthur. My mother heard him,
and sighed at the thought of her dear ones dead; and now having
cheered, comforted, and attended to her, I see that she has sunk into
a quiet sleep, and so begin to write to you. My darling Kate, a _Te
Deum_!
They are returned. I went to the door with my finger on my lips, and
now I am alone again.… No, René is by me, light as a sylph, and
together we watch the blessed slumber which will not be the last.
Kate, I am going to pray with my _brother_, who invites me to do so,
and at the same time sends his love to you.
JUNE 11.
What a new and delightful aspect everything has regained! We are now
longing to accomplish our vow. Why are you not here, my sweet one, at
my side, by this beloved invalid, who so touchingly thanks me for
having made my sister love her? You recollect her handsome
countenance, so admirable and harmonious in its lines and contours; it
has become fearfully pale and thin, but what we were dreading was so
terrible that we rejoice without troubling ourselves about anything. I
am writing to you by the side of the reclining chair on which my
mother is at this moment reposing; I do not leave her, but have made
myself her shadow. René is gone to the flower-market; since the
harbingers of summer have made their appearance my room has never been
wanting in decorations and perfumes. Oh! this intimate life together,
the quiet chats in the evenings, the reading, all this richness of
youth and happiness—how fair is earth with all these things!
Picciola enters; my pretty fairy whispers in my ear that she would
very much like to look at grandmamma asleep. She is now kneeling at
her feet, saying her Rosary with the fervor of an angel.
A well-known step, although it makes itself aërial in order not to
disturb this restoring sleep: it is René! He smiles and retires: he
knows that I am writing to Kate. Dear sister of my soul, my better
self, it is to your prayers that we are indebted for this cure! Lucy
is anxious. The pretty baby is cutting his teeth; he cries and
screams, so they are obliged to keep him at a distance from Mme. de
T——‘s rooms; and Lucy is not fond of solitude.
Hélène is impatient to know you. How useful she has made herself to
every one during these sad days! Kate, dearest, may God be our guard.
TO BE CONTINUED.
[173] “_Jusqu’à ce qu’ils aient la clé des champs_”—the
key of the fields.
[174] Sketch of Christian Rome.
[175] Courses of instruction on various subjects.
[176]
“An English cottage is her hermitage;
And if a wrinkle marks her pearly brow,
‘Tis not, believe me, that she thinks on death—
She’s too strong-minded to have fear of aught—
But that, from Paris, an expected dress
Crumpled arrives, and spoiled with grievous stains.”
[177] As for myself, abounding in the good things with which
opulence overflows, how willingly would I exchange this
gold which fortune disdainfully lavishes upon me for one
hour of the time when I had nothing in the world but my
vine and my fig-tree—for those divine dreams which sang
within my soul, and for which no gold can pay.”
[178] The obstructions or impediments attendant upon crowding
together.
[179] _Déjeuner_, late breakfast, is taken about eleven or
twelve o’clock. The early breakfast is simply a cup of
coffee or chocolate.
WAS MILES STANDISH A CATHOLIC?
In the quaint old town of Leyden, somewhere in the year 1619, an
English soldier, who had seen service on the battle-fields of the
Continent, came in contact with a little community of men of his own
country, hard-working, unhappy people, who had left England to enjoy
greater freedom in the practice of their religious ideas than they
could expect at home. But if the people of the United Provinces
harmonized with them in doctrinal standards and principles, their
lives and practice were far from unison with the English refugees, and
these last were planning a settlement beyond the Atlantic.
The soldier did not share their religious views. He did not join the
church at Leyden or swell the number of the worshippers in the church
of the Beguines, which, on the principle of religious liberty as they
understood it, the Dutch had wrested from the Sisters to give to the
strangers. But, how or why no one knows, the hot-tempered,
good-hearted soldier contracted a strong friendship for Robinson, the
pastor of the English flock, and that sturdy upholder of Puritan views
seems to have entertained a warm affection for the soldier.
When the _Mayflower_, after breasting the waves of the Atlantic,
neared at last the shore on which the colony proposed to begin a
settlement in midwinter, daring in the worst season of the year what
many had failed to effect with all the advantages of the balmiest
spring, a compact for civil government was drawn up and signed by the
chief men of the expedition. On the list is the name of Miles
Standish. He landed with them; became their military leader; his
exploits as an Indian fighter are known to all the children in our
schools. He is the type of those who from the beginning of the
seventeenth century have done battle with the red man. He died at
last, at a ripe old age, in the colony he helped to found, but died
without joining the church established by the pilgrims of Plymouth
Rock, though conformity was as a rule required from all.
New England historians and scholars seem puzzled to account for the
fact of his never having joined the church. His life was beyond
reproach. He brought from his experience of camp and garrison no
habits to shock the sober, rigid men with whom his career was cast. It
could not be, they admit, that the Pilgrims found any objection to his
admission. He evidently never sought it. He was no hypocrite to seek
admission as a church-member like Captain Underhill, whose life set
morality at defiance, or like Mayor Gibbons, whose questionable
dealings with pirates show his unworthiness. Contrasted with these
men, Standish stands out as a noble, consistent figure. As Dr. Ellis
remarks: “Of the two captains in the early Indian warfare, and in the
straits of dangerous enterprise, the uncovenanted Standish is to be
preferred.” He is comparing him with Underhill; the comparison will
still hold good in regard to Gibbons or Patrick.
Some years since, the writer threw out in our American _Notes and
Queries_ the suggestion that Miles Standish, the military hero of the
_Mayflower_, of the Pilgrims, and of Plymouth Rock, was a Catholic. A
correspondent, using the initials J. W. T., which seem to denote an
historical scholar of no mean repute in New England, one who has shown
real research and sound judgment, lost all self-command at the
suggestion, and raved in this style: “If Miles Standish was a Roman
Catholic, he was also a hypocrite; till proof of the latter, he must
be considered what the Pilgrims believed him to be—and never before
doubted—a Protestant and an honest man. Miles Standish was not the man
to sail under false colors. He was bold, brave, impetuous, open as the
day, and not double-faced. His memory should have been safe from
insult.”
No distinct assertions are made, and the grave historical scholar
forgot to cite authorities. The language infers that the Pilgrims
believed Standish to be a Protestant, and that he professed to be one.
But there is no evidence at all to sustain this. The late S. G. Drake,
whose acquaintance with the sources of New England history was
certainly very great, expressly says on this point: “I do not remember
ever having seen it stated that he belonged to any church,” and no one
has ever cited an authority that connects him with any Protestant
church. Governor Hutchinson, in his _History of Massachusetts_ (vol.
ii., p. 411), says: “It seems Standish was not of their church at
first, and Mr. Hubbard says he had more of his education in the school
of Mars than in the school of Christ. He acquired, however, the esteem
of the whole colony.” Baylies, in his _History of Plymouth_, says:
“What induced him to connect himself with the Pilgrims does not
appear. He took up his residence among them at Leyden, but never
joined the church” (part ii., p. 21). Palfrey, the author of the
_History of New England_, with all the researches of the present
century, says of Standish: “He was not a member of the Leyden Church,
nor subsequently of that of Plymouth, but appears to have been induced
to join the emigrants by personal good-will, or by love of adventure,
while to them his military knowledge and habits rendered his
companionship of great value” (vol. i., p. 161). Later on in the same
work, Palfrey reiterates the assertion: “Standish was no religious
enthusiast. He never professed to care for, or so much as to
understand, the system of doctrine of his friends, though he paid it
all respect as being theirs. He never was a member of their church”
(vol. ii., p. 407-8). At the laying of the corner-stone of the
Standish monument on Captain’s Hill, Duxbury, Oct. 7, 1872, the Rev.
Dr. Ellis, endeavoring as a clergyman on that day to say all that
could be said, makes him only a sort of “proselyte of the gate,” but
admits distinctly that “he was not a man of ‘professions,’ nor, so far
as we know, of ‘confessions.’ He was never ‘sealed’ or ‘covenanted.’
We are at a loss for the explanation of this fact, considering the
standard and the expectations of his associates.”[180] On the same
occasion, Charles Deane, who certainly did not speak without
examination of his subject, said: “He was not a member of Plymouth
Church, and there are strong suspicions that the doctrine of the
perseverance of the saints had not taken strong hold of him.”[181]
It was not that Standish preferred the platform of Massachusetts Bay.
He went to Boston, but never seemed to harmonize with them or relish
their system of management. He was no adherent of Mrs. Hutchinson,
Roger Williams, or the Baptists; no one ever claimed him as a disciple
of Fox; no treasured Book of Common Prayer or any other proof of
adherence to the Church of England has been preserved to justify
Episcopalians in claiming him.
Where, then, is his Protestantism? He certainly avowed himself a
member of no Protestant denomination whatever, and made no professions
of the kind; so that, if he really was a Catholic, there can be no
charge of hypocrisy, for there is not the slightest tittle of evidence
that he ever pretended to be a Protestant. He was an extremely
valuable man to the little community at Plymouth, and rendered
important services. At that time, to have proclaimed himself a
Catholic would have compelled the Pilgrims to exclude him, and exposed
himself to annoyance when visiting other colonies or England. That the
leaders knew him to be a Catholic, too firm in his faith to be shaken,
would explain much that seems now inexplicable to New England writers.
The question, then, comes up, whether there is any direct ground for
supposing the famous Captain of the Pilgrims to be a Catholic. In his
will, he left to his eldest son, Alexander, “all my lands as heir
aparent, by lawfull decent, in Ormistock, Boscouge, Wrightington,
Maudsly, Newburrow, Crawston, and in the Isle of Man, and given to me
as right heir by lawfull decent, but sereptuously detained from me, my
grandfather being a second or younger brother from the house of
Standish of Standish.”[182]
This gives a clue to his family, and another is found in the name of
the town which he planted—Duxbury. Some of the earlier writers of this
century made a fanciful derivation for this. Duxbury, according to
them, was from _Dux_, captain; that Duxbury meant Captain’s town, and
was an allusion to his position in the colony.[183] But turning to
English authorities, we find at once in Lancashire an ancient family
of Standish, of which there are two branches, Standish of Standish
Hall, and Standish of Duxbury. Their arms—three silver plates on a
field azure—meet you on tombs and on the churches erected by them
centuries ago.
When the young king Richard II. rode out to meet Wat Tyler at the head
of his rebels, John Standish was one of the king’s esquires—the very
one who slew Tyler. A Sir John Standish won fame by his prowess at
Agincourt, and the name occurs frequently during the French wars of
Henry V. and Henry VI. When the eighth King Henry sought a divorce
from his faithful wife, Queen Catharine, Henry Standish, a Franciscan,
Bishop of St. Asaph’s (1519-1535), a most learned man, assisted the
unhappy queen throughout the shameful trial. After the change of
religion, the Standish family adhered to the old faith, one of them
writing vigorously in its defence; and down to this day they are
reckoned among the Catholic families of England. Standish Hall, the
seat of the elder branch, is close to Wigan, twenty miles northeast of
Liverpool; and Duxbury Hall, the seat of the younger branch, is only
two miles distant from Standish Hall. There have been frequent
litigations between the two branches, and in one of these, doubtless,
the immediate ancestor of the Plymouth soldier lost the property
alluded to in his will.
The family remained Catholic, and after the fall of James II. was
among his sturdy adherents. The famous Lancashire plot, formed in 1692
with the object of replacing James on the throne of England, was
hatched in Standish Hall.
The wrong of which the gallant soldier of Plymouth complained was one
that he could have had redressed promptly, even if not in accordance
with the rules of justice. Had he appeared as a Protestant claimant
for the broad acres of an old Catholic house, courts and juries would
have bent law and fact to place him in possession. How the feeling
operates we have seen by instances in our own day. The feeling in
favor of the Tichborne claimant in England was deeply imbued with the
desire to place the heritage of an old and well-known Catholic family
in the hands of one who was to all intents and purposes a
Protestant—one whose Catholicity, if he ever had any, had completely
vanished in a brutalizing Australian life. In the claim of Earl
Talbot, a Protestant, to the earldom of Shrewsbury, so long identified
with the Catholic cause, we see what slight evidence, or show of
evidence, satisfied the House of Peers. Had the circumstances been
reversed, a Catholic claiming a Protestant peerage, the doubts of the
tribunal would have required tenfold proof, and the investigation
lasted a generation.
Miles Standish, by his own avowal, belonged to an ancient Catholic
family, which has clung to the faith to this day. He evidently scorned
to change his religion to enable him to recover what he deemed his
just rights. Such seems to be a position that solves all difficulties.
Among the old Catholic families of the British Isles, after the change
of religion was completed, and the line of distinction between
Protestant and Catholic sharply drawn, it became a matter of honor and
pride to adhere, during the evil days of the penal laws and the
butchery of the clergy, to the faith so heroically retained.
Here and there, one who gave the reins to his wild passions, some man
sunk in vice like Mervyn, Lord Audley, or the Duke of Norfolk at the
close of the last century, would conform to the state church, though
every decent Protestant shrank from contact with them; or some
nobleman deprived of his estates, like Lord Baltimore, would renounce
his faith to recover a province like Maryland, wrongfully detained
from him; or, like Lord Dunboyne, give up the faith, even after
teaching it for years as an honored priest, in order to live as seemed
to become his title; or, led by ambition, to rise at court like
Waldegrave; but for one to join a body of dissenters there is on
record scarcely an example.
Descendants of old Catholic families emigrating to America, like the
Dongans, Townleys, and others, fell away; but in the Old World a sense
of honor made them cling to the oppressed faith when to desert it
seemed to imply cowardice or vice. The opening words of Moore’s
_Travels of an Irish Gentleman in Search of Religion_ embody this
feeling.
As a necessary consequence, the conversion of one of the members of an
ancient Catholic house by the Protestant party was a triumph, and the
new-comer was well rewarded. The conversion of one of the Standishes
would have found mention somewhere among the events of the day, and
there would be some trace of office or rank bestowed on the man who at
last conformed. Yet the county annals of Lancashire and the memoirs of
the time chronicle no such defection on the part of Miles Standish,
and it is equally evident that no post was bestowed upon him as a
reward.
That Miles Standish was one who, turning his thoughts to the great
religious questions then rife, fell into doubts as to the solidity of
the claims of the Catholic Church, and with all zeal and fervor
embraced some form of Protestantism, is a theory too wild for
consideration. The whole mass of Pilgrim testimony establishes the
fact that he was one who took no interest in the religious systems of
Protestantism; that he was utterly devoid of any such enthusiasm in
them as would mark a convert from conviction.
From what we know of his origin, the presumption is strong that he was
and always remained a Catholic, and we cannot shield his memory from
insult except by adopting this presumption. Neither a life of vicious
indulgence nor ambitious hopes, and certainly no conviction, led him
to renounce the religion of his family and embrace Protestantism.
Let us, then, gather what is known of the life of this Catholic
soldier of early New England annals.
He was born about 1584, at Duxbury, in Lancashire, England, as is
supposed, from the fact that he preserved the name in the town he
established; but was, as he claims in his will, great-grandson of a
second or younger brother of the house of Standish of Standish. This
is a well-known Catholic house in Lancashire, known as early as the
reign of Edward I., the elder branch of two in that county, the other
being the Standishes of Duxbury. With this last he claims no
connection, although the inference is probable that he was born at
that place. As his just inheritance at Standish was, he asserts,
surreptitiously detained from him, it may be that his father, unjustly
deprived of his patrimony, took refuge at Duxbury under the protection
of the other branch. Both branches were Catholic, John Standish being
a distinguished writer against the Reformation. A Robert Standish
figures in Parliament in 1654; Captain Thomas Standish, of the Duxbury
house, was killed at Manchester fighting bravely for the king. The
Standishes of Duxbury, as their genealogy shows, intermarried with the
old Catholic houses of Howard and Townley. Richard Standish was made a
baronet after the Restoration, in 1676.
The estates to which he asserts his rights lay, as expressed in the
will, in Ormistock, Bouscouge, Wrightington, Maudsley, Newburrow,
Cranston, and in the Isle of Man.
The latest history of Lancashire, by Baines, unfortunately gives no
detailed pedigree of the house of Standish of Standish, that of
Duxbury being given to some extent, though not in the line of descent
of the younger sons. As, however, he does not claim at all to have
belonged to the Duxbury branch, it is useless to look there for him.
Standish Hall, the seat of the branch from which he was descended, “is
a large brick house, irregular in form, to which is attached an
ancient Catholic chapel, still used for that purpose” (Baines, _Hist.
Lancashire_, iii., p. 505). Standish forms a parish in the Hundred of
Leyland. “The extensive and fertile township of Duxbury, at the
northern extremity of the parish of Standish, stands on the banks of
the Yarrow, by which the township and parish is divided from the
parish of Chorley” (_Ib._, p. 517).
Ormistock is evidently Ormskirk, an adjoining parish, in which Baines
mentions that there are two Catholic chapels (iv., p. 244). In the
Buscouge of the Plymouth record we easily recognize Burscough, where
once flourished a famous priory, suppressed by Henry VIII. The
Lancashire historian notes that there was formerly a Catholic chapel
at Burscough Hall (iv., p. 256). Of the next place mentioned in
Standish’s will, Baines says: “Adjoining Wrightington Hall stands a
small Catholic chapel for the use of the family” (iii., p. 481);
Mawdsley or Mawdesley is an extensive flat and fertile township
between Croston and Wrightington (iii., p. 404); Newbury and Croston
are in the same Hundred (iii., 171, 391-5).
He was thus of Catholic stock, and born and brought up amid families
where the old faith is still cherished to this day. Almost every place
mentioned in his will is linked with Catholic life in his time and the
present.
Of his early life not a tradition or trace has been preserved. In that
day the younger men of Catholic families constantly went abroad to
gain an education and to seek service in the Continental armies, many
too to study for the priesthood, and return to England, unawed by the
terrible fate that awaited them if they fell into the hands of the
myrmidons of English law.
That Miles Standish should have sought service abroad is therefore
natural. Ignoring his Catholic origin, New England writers have sought
to explain his military career on the Continent. All seem to assume
that he served in the Low Countries. Baylies, in his _History of
Plymouth_ (part ii., p. 21), says explicitly that “he served as an
officer in the armies of Queen Elizabeth in the Low Countries, when
commanded by her favorite, the Earl of Leicester.”
Captain Wyman, at the laying of the corner-stone in 1872, goes
further: “In early life he was trained to the hardships and trials of
war, having been commissioned at the age of twenty a lieutenant in the
army serving in the Low Countries against the armies of the
Inquisition.” The Rev. G. E. Ellis and Charles Deane on the same
occasion limit themselves to the assertion that he served in the Low
Countries (pp. 21, 24).
Palfrey is less positive, as he was writing history, not pronouncing
eulogies. “The ‘cautionary towns’ of the Netherlands had been
garrisoned by British regiments for thirty years, and Miles Standish
had _probably_ been employed on this service” (_History of New
England_, i., p. 161). “_Probably_ while serving in an English
regiment in the Netherlands he fell in with the company of English
peasants” (ii., pp. 407-8).
There seems to be no really authentic foundation for all this theory.
Standish died in 1656, aged 72, and must have been born, according to
this, in 1584. Leicester was sent to the Low Countries with eleven
thousand men in 1585-7; but we can scarcely believe that this
precocious scion of a Catholic house served as an officer in this
campaign when only one year old, or three at the most.
The assertion that the Catholic soldier was commissioned a lieutenant
at the age of twenty, that is, in 1604, when James was ruining the
Catholic families by extorting all the arrears of fines, and producing
the spirit of exasperation which culminated in the Gunpowder Plot, can
scarcely find any support in sober history. The armies of the
Inquisition which James was fighting in 1604 elude research.
Savage, in his _Genealogical Dictionary_, though on what authority we
know not, says that Standish had been at Leyden some years before
1620. All that is positively known is that he had seen military
service on the Continent, and was living in Leyden with his wife Rose
when the followers of Robinson proposed to emigrate. A strong
friendship, not based on harmony of religious views, existed between
Miles Standish and the pastor of the exiles. Writing subsequently to
Plymouth after receiving tidings of Standish’s first Indian fight,
Robinson says: “Let me be bould to exhorte you seriously to consider
ye dispossition of your Captaine, whom I love, and am persuaded ye
Lord in great mercie and for much good hath sent you him, if you use
him aright. He is a man humble and meek amongst you; and towards all
in ordinarie course.”[184] This strong feeling of personal friendship
was reciprocal. In his will Standish writes: “Further, my will is that
Marrye Robenson, whom I tenderly love for her grandfather’s sacke,
shall have three pounds in som thing to goe forward for her two yeares
after my decease.”
Whether he had served in the Spanish armies or the Dutch, or in
English garrison, he was to all appearance simply a resident of Leyden
when this friendship grew up. It evidently led to the proposal or
offer to accompany those of Robinson’s flock who were to venture to
make the first attempt at colonization in North America.
His wife Rose, of whom we know only her name, agreed evidently to join
him in the voyage. True wife of a brave man, she was ready to face all
danger and to share all hardships with him. Nothing is recorded from
which to glean whether she was some fair English girl from his own
Lancashire, or some one whom he won on the Continent. Her name, her
faith, and her country are alike unknown. We know that they embarked
together at Delft Haven, and formed part of the memorable body on the
_Mayflower_. Among them Miles Standish was a man of importance. When
the compact for their government in America was drawn up, he signed
it, and the place of his signature shows the esteem in which he was
held and his recognized position among them.
That document is purely a civil one, and contains nothing that could
not be signed by the strictest Catholic.
Reaching in November the poorest, sandy part of the coast, the little
colony had a fearful career of hardship. Standish was one of the
pioneers in exploring the land. After they landed at Plymouth Rock in
December, he saw his companions sink under their hardships and breathe
their last. Though his own rugged health triumphed over everything,
his wife Rose sank beneath the unwonted trials, and died on the 29th
day of January, 1621, leaving him alone in the diminishing body of
settlers, without a tie to bind him to them or the settlement which
they had undertaken. But he was not one to falter or easily give up.
During that winter of terrible suffering so heroically borne he was
one of the six or seven who were untouched by disease, and his care
and devotion to the sick and afflicted are mentioned with gratitude.
When spring at last gladdened them, and they resolutely set about the
labors of building, cultivating, and otherwise preparing for a
permanent residence, Miles Standish had been made the first military
commander of the colony, and, as we may infer from some statements, he
turned his engineering skill to a peaceful channel, laying out the
lines of the new town and surveying the plots taken up by the
settlers. The first military organization of Plymouth dates from
February, 1621. It was not formidable in numbers, but it was necessary
to make it as imposing as possible. Standish felt all this. He threw
up defensive works, a little fort on the hill above the dwellings
mounted with five guns, and prepared to make the Indians respect the
power of the settlers.
As the best linguist, he was sent out to meet the deputations of
Indians who came to observe the new-comers; and he was constantly sent
to explore the country or test the feelings of the natives. It was
doubtless a specimen of Standish’s style of correspondence with them
that we find recorded in Governor Bradford’s reply to arrows hid in a
snake-skin which Canonicus sent to the settlement. The snake-skin
filled with powder and ball was an answer which announced to the
savages that Standish was ready to meet them.
The settlements of Weston’s lawless people near them increased
ill-feeling among the Indians, and apparently gave them a poor opinion
of the courage and power of the Plymouth settlements. Standish in his
excursions soon became aware of this, and felt convinced that a
general conspiracy against the colonists was on foot. An attempt on
his own life at Manomet, now Sandwich, confirmed this belief. A
minister named Lyford, who came over, sought to have him superseded in
office, declaring that he looked like a silly boy. And outside the
little community of Plymouth slighting views prevailed of this
offshoot of a fighting race.
From his slight frame, the Weston people at Wessagusset (now Weymouth)
seem to have given Standish the nickname of Captain Shrimp, and the
Indians had taken up the slighting tone and openly braved him. Feeling
that the danger was imminent, Standish went in March, 1623, to
Wessagusset with eight men, to suppress the plot by striking a blow
that would convince the Indians of his prowess and of the force of the
colony. He found the warrior who had attempted to take his life, and
when the Indian taunted Standish, he with two of his men attacked the
Indian party without firearms, and after a desperate struggle Standish
despatched his antagonist with his own weapon wrested from his hand,
and the whole band was cut off. This encounter established Standish’s
reputation. The Weston colony broke up, and an ascendency was soon
acquired over the Indians.
It was on receipt of the intelligence of this first collision with the
natives that Robinson, after deploring the fact that they had not
converted some Indians before killing any, expressed his affection to
Standish, and urged the leaders of the colony not to molest him, as
though there were some ground, which he did not care to express, why
he anticipated that in some way their military leader might not be
altogether at ease in the place.
But Standish seems to have had no idea of abandoning his associates.
The ship _Anne_, bearing the third body of emigrants, had among the
number a young woman named Barbara, whom he subsequently married, and
thus formed new ties in the land. He is said first to have sought the
hand of Priscilla Mullins, but, having sent Alden to open the matter
for him, found that he had acted unwisely, as the lady bade Alden
speak for himself. Longfellow bases on this incident his “Courtship of
Miles Standish.” He was elected one of the governor’s assistants, and
for nineteen years held that responsible position. De Rasiere leaves
us a pen-picture of the colony assembling by beat of drum at
Standish’s door, “each with his musket or firelock. They had their
cloaks on, and placed themselves in order three abreast, and were led
by a sergeant. Behind came the governor in a long robe; beside him on
the right hand came the preacher with his cloak on, and on the left
hand the captain, with his side-arms and cloak on, and with a small
cane in his hand; and so they march in good order, and each sets his
arms down near him. Thus they are constantly on their guard night and
day.” This military organization was Standish’s work.
But his labors were not confined to organizing the colony for military
purposes, or maintaining peace with Indian neighbors or troublesome
white neighbors. In 1625, he was despatched to England to obtain a
supply of goods, and learn what terms could be made to obtain a
release from the English merchants who had advanced money as partners
in the undertaking. He reached London to find it ravaged by the
plague. He negotiated with some advantage for the colony with the
English partners, and in spite of the disordered condition of affairs
he obtained advances, and brought over some goods for trading, and
other most needful commodities as he knew requisite for their use. He
heard, however, of the death of his old friend Robinson at Leyden, and
was the bearer of that sad intelligence to the colony.
We next find him as a trader. To put the settlement on a better
financial footing, after releasing themselves through his exertions
from the London partners, Standish, with seven other settlers, in
July, 1627, entered into an agreement with the colony to farm its
trade for a term of six years. They assumed the debts of the colony,
and agreed to bring over certain goods annually, in consideration of a
small payment in corn or tobacco from each colonist. They put up a
house on the Kennebec, and made it the centre of a prosperous trade.
In 1630, leaving Plymouth, he crossed to the north side of the harbor,
and took up his residence on a spot still called Captain’s Hill, where
his house has stood till our day, and the spring remains as kerbed
with stone in his time. This place, probably after his birth-place in
England, he called Duxbury, a name it still retains.
We find him reducing Morton; marching to defend the Pokanokets, allies
of Plymouth, against the Narragansetts; going to Boston to maintain
his colony’s rights to the Kennebec trade after a collision there with
a Boston trader; sent in 1635 to recover Penobscot from the French;
commanding the Plymouth quota in the Pequot war; engaged against the
Narragansetts in 1651, against the Mohawks and their allies in New
York; and finally, in 1653, when very old, appointed to command the
troops which Plymouth raised in anticipation of hostilities with the
Dutch of New Netherland.
This was his last public service. He died in his house at Duxbury,
October 3, 1656, leaving several sons, and his widow Barbara. His
descendants at the present time must be many. “Nature endowing him
with valor, quickness of apprehension, and good judgment, had
qualified him for business or war. Of his other peculiarities, nothing
has been recorded except that he was of small stature and of hasty
temper. He had no ambition except to do for his friends whatever from
time to time they thought fit to charge him with—whether it was to
frighten the Narragansett or Massachusetts natives, to forage for
provisions, or to hold a rod over disorderly English neighbors, or to
treat with merchants on the London exchange. In the misery of the
early settlement especially, the reader does not fail to reflect what
relief must have been afforded by reliance on a guardian so vigilant
and manful” (Palfrey).
On the 7th of October, 1872, the Standish Monument Association,
incorporated by the State of Massachusetts, laid the corner-stone of a
monument to this Catholic soldier, a round tower, to be surmounted by
a bronze figure of the first captain of Plymouth colony. The Ancient
and Honorable Artillery Company of Boston were there, Freemasons, Odd
Fellows, Good Templars, military delegations, the governor,
magistrates, Protestant clergymen, and citizens; but there is no
record that any bishop or clergyman of the faith professed by the
Standishes of Standish assisted at the ceremony. The Catholic element
was ignored. It should have been safe from insult.
But it may be asked, how can we claim Miles Standish as a Catholic? He
was of a known Catholic family, then, since, and now Catholic. Though
associated with Robinson’s flock, he never became a member of their
church in Leyden, Plymouth, or Duxbury. His Catholic convictions give
the simplest reason for this, which one of the New England historians
regards as “an anomaly in human nature” (Baylies). If amid all the
temptations from the associations around him he thus persistently
declined to connect himself even nominally with the Protestant Church,
it shows that he still clung to that of his family.
But why should a Catholic thus isolate himself from all the
ministrations of the church, and throw himself into a Protestant
community? Deprived of the heritage he claimed, he had to seek his
fortune elsewhere. In England, the number of Catholics in proportion
to the population was less than in Holland; but he probably found life
more congenial with these countrymen of another faith than with men of
the same faith but of another country. Circumstances, too, control our
paths in life. Catholics count in this country by millions, yet there
is many a Catholic thrown almost entirely into Protestant circles.
But Standish, it may be said, married out of the church, and allowed
his children to be brought up as Protestants. So did Gerard, one of
the founders of Maryland, although there were priests in the colony
and no Protestant minister; so did Matthew Carey; so did Chief-Justice
Taney—yet all are regarded as Catholics, though we regret their
indifference to the salvation of their children. It will not do on
these grounds to deny his Catholicity.
There was not, so far as we know, a single apostate Catholic in the
community at Plymouth, not one who, having tasted the pure Gospel,
known the divinely given faith and the divinely instituted worship,
turned to wallow in the mire of man-made creeds and worship devised by
shallow men. Standish cannot be accused of being in league with known
apostates. Yet even had he been guilty of such a step, we cannot judge
him too harshly, for even in our days one may address a notorious and
scandalous apostate in terms of eloquent welcome, and yet be deemed
Catholic enough to lecture before pre-eminently Catholic bodies, and
address the young graduates of our literary institutions as one fit to
guide their future career.
But, it may be said, he must have lived in utter neglect of his duties
as a Catholic. Who can tell this? Like Le Baron, the French surgeon
wrecked and captured on the coast, he may have clung to the faith to
the end, performed his devotions as he might, and died with the
crucifix over his heart. The opportunities for approaching the
sacraments from time to time were given him, and his position gave him
greater ease in embracing those opportunities. The trading-houses of
Plymouth in Maine stood near similar French posts, where Capuchins and
Recollects were maintained. The report of Mgr. Urban Cerri and the
French colonial documents show that, for the benefit of Catholics in
New England, English-speaking priests were sent to those points and
maintained in Canada on the frontiers. Who can say that Standish, who
was frequently in Maine on colonial matters and for trade, meeting
these priests and speaking French, for his powers as a linguist are
mentioned, did not avail himself of the opportunity of hearing Mass
and approaching the sacraments. It is not likely that when he did he
went with a file of soldiers and a drum-beating, or that he made a
special report to the Plymouth government. It would be a fact of which
evidence would not be heralded.
In his last days, 1651, Father Druillettes visited Boston and Plymouth
with his Plymouth friend Winslow, where he must have met the aged
Standish.
His library, it may be urged, as shown by the inventory, contains no
Catholic works, and several devotional and doctrinal works of the
Puritan school. As his wife was a Protestant, we may well suppose this
part of the family library to have been her reading. Surely, when all
New England authorities concur in admitting “that he never cherished
any strong impressions of their religion,” or took any interest in it,
we may put down Rogers’ _Seaven Treatises_, Wilcock’s works,
Burrough’s _Christian Contentment_, Davenport’s _Apology_, and the
_Comentary on James Ball Catterkesmer_, as her reading and not his;
while we readily recognize the soldier’s taste in Cæser’s
_Comentaryes_, Banft’s _Artillery_, the _History of the World_,
_Turkish History_, _Chronicle of England_, _Ye History of Queen
Elizabeth_, _The State of Europe_, the _Garmon_ (German) _History_,
and Homer’s _Iliad_.
The whole case is now before the reader. Miles Standish has been
always classed as a Protestant, but there is certainly grave doubt on
the point. He never renounced the Catholic faith in which he was
undoubtedly born; and therefore, we Catholics have some claim to his
name and fame. No descendant of his, to the writer’s knowledge, is now
a Catholic, but some have been in our day pupils of Catholic
institutions. These will, we trust, follow up our labors, and bring
from the records of the past more conclusive evidence of the lifelong
Catholicity of Miles Standish.
[180] _Historical Magazine_, April, 1873, p. 251.
[181] _Standish Monument_, Boston, 1873, pp. 21, 25.
[182] _Hist. Mag._, March, 1871, pp. 273, 274.
[183] Howe’s _Massachusetts Collections_.
[184] Bradford’s _History_.
VITTORIA COLONNA
Lived in court—
Which rare it is to do—most praised, most loved,
A sample to the youngest, to the more mature
A glass that feated them, and to the graver
A child that guided dotards.
—_Cymbeline._
Twelve miles from Rome, on an almost isolated knoll of the Alban range
of hills, more than thirteen hundred feet above the sea, which
glimmers in the distance beyond the Campagna, rises the picturesque,
mediæval town of Marino. Many quiet Romans spend the _villeggiatura_
there, to enjoy its pure air and the shady promenades and beautiful
views around it; but few foreigners do more than visit, on the way, a
classical spot, a deep and wooded glen at the foot of the hill, where
the representatives of the Latin tribes used to meet for deliberation
on public matters down to the year 340 B.C., and which is noted for
the tragic end of Turnus Herdonius, an influential chief of the
league, who was treacherously accused, condemned, and drowned, at the
request of Tarquin the Proud, in the clear pool of water—called by
Livy _caput aquæ Ferentinæ_—which wells up so innocently from under a
moss-covered rock overspread by an ancient, crooked beech-tree at the
head of the little valley.
We do not intend to sketch the history of Marino or describe its local
monuments, however interesting, but will simply remark that during the
middle ages it passed successively from the Counts of Tusculum to the
Frangipanis, the Orsinis, and, under Pope Martin V., to the Colonnas,
in whose favor it was erected into a dukedom in 1424. The large
baronial palace of the sixteenth century which stands in the middle of
the town is full of curiosities and ancestral portraits of this
powerful family, although the rarer and more interesting ones have
long since been removed to the princely headquarters near the _Santi
Apostoli_, in Rome. The stone-work and towers which still surround
Marino and add so much to its feudal aspect, were raised in the year
1480, and the ruins of the castle, with its battlements and proud
armorial signs upon the walls, are on the most precipitous side of the
town, overlooking the noisy little stream of Aqua Ferentina. It was in
this castle—which, having been made by the Colonnas their principal
stronghold in that part of the Roman States, was then in the pride of
all its freshness and strength of portals, merlons, and
machicolations—that a daughter was born in the year 1490 to Don
Fabrizio Colonna and his wife, the Lady Agnes of Montefeltro. As soon
as possible she was held up at a window to be seen by her father’s
retainers and saluted with the discharge of artillery, peal of
trumpets, and shouts of men-at-arms.
This infant was Vittoria Colonna, who became one of the most
celebrated women of the sixteenth century, and who is even remembered
in Italy to this day for her learning, her poetry, beauty, conjugal
affection, piety, and sorrows; and yet, strange as it may seem,
although hardly singular—for illustrious names of the same period have
fallen into a like obscurity—no date more precise than that of the
year can be assigned to her birth; and certainly one of the benefits
derived by biographers from the reforms which followed the Council of
Trent is the better keeping of baptismal registers, by means of
which—in countries, at least, where the church was not persecuted nor
war made on parochial books—sometimes the very hour, often the day of
the week, always that of the month, of an individual’s birth may be
found.
Vittoria was the eldest, and only female, of six children. Her father
was not only a great nobleman of the States of the Church, but the
possessor of many Neapolitan fiefs; and soon after Charles VIII. of
France, who had attempted the conquest of the kingdom of Naples, began
to experience an evil turn of fortune, Don Fabrizio was detached from
his service by Ferdinand of Spain, who succeeded in driving the French
out of the southern part of Italy. Most of his life was spent in
courts and camps, and but little time was passed in his castles,
whither he went either to enjoy the chase or when called by domestic
concerns, such as this one that gave a daughter to his house. Her
mother was a child of Frederic, Duke of Urbino, head of an illustrious
family which for three centuries had ranked among the lesser
independent princes of Italy. Some of Vittoria’s ancestors of this
line had figured in a conspicuous manner in history, especially as
patrons of letters, and during a certain period the court of Urbino
was the most refined and intellectual of the Italian peninsula. She
felt its influence through her accomplished mother; but her father’s
family was also remarkable for an hereditary genius and aptitude in
every branch of learning; and a long list could be made of men of
erudition, and of writers more or less distinguished, belonging to the
Colonna lineage, at the head of which would stand Ægidius Romanus, or
Giles of Rome, General of the Augustinians, and for his profound
knowledge surnamed _Doctor fundatissimus_, whose work, _De Regimine
Principum_, composed for his pupil, Philip the Fair of France, was the
model in its general subject and didactic form, but without the
immoral maxims, of Macchiavelli’s treatise, _Del Principe_.
According to the custom among the great in that age, Vittoria, while a
mere child, being only four years of age, was affianced to one not
much older than herself. This was Ferdinand Francesco d’Avalos. His
noble family, of Catalan origin, had come over to Italy with the
Spanish invaders in 1442, and risen to considerable importance; Don
Alonzo, son of Inigo, who accompanied Alphonsus I. in his expedition
and died at Naples, having been created Marquis of Pescara, a
fortified town of the Abruzzi at the mouth of a river that empties
itself into the Adriatic. This very honorable betrothal was made at
the suggestion of King Ferdinand, who hoped in this way to attach
Fabrizio more strongly to himself. Except this affair, hardly anything
is known of Vittoria’s early years, nor who were her instructors; but,
judging from subsequent events, she must have been surrounded by
whatever advantages wealth, social influence, and political position
could procure; and the literary ardor which marked the fifteenth
century having passed from colleges and universities into the ranks of
private life, her education was such as to ensure her the highest
mental culture, united with every accomplishment befitting her
station. At the age of five she was transferred to the tutelage of her
future husband’s family and placed in care of her sister-in-law, the
Duchess of Francavila, who was castellan for the king of the fortress
and island of Ischia, at the entrance of the Bay of Naples. This
important charge could only have been entrusted to a woman of superior
talents, and justifies the praises which Vittoria has given in several
sonnets to the “magnanimous Costanza,” as she delights to call her.
The duchess loved study, and cultivated the society of the learned,
being herself well acquainted with Latin, Spanish, and Italian, in
which last language she wrote a work on the misfortunes and trials of
the world—_Degli Infortuni e Travagli del Mondo_. It was in the midst
of enchanting scenery, of the fame of martial deeds, and of an elegant
conversation that Vittoria’s youthful happiness was passed. She grew
up beautiful in person, lovely in mind, and adorned with every grace
of manners. She was tall and of an easy carriage, the blood in her
veins forming over her white skin a delicate cerulean tracery, while
her face was set in a mass of auburn hair which has been sung—such a
color being rare in Italy—by some of the best writers of her day. Of
her personal appearance, those who have mentioned it can never say
enough. That her charms were not the poetical exaggerations of devoted
admirers we know from several sources, and particularly from the very
sober prose of a curious diary[185] kept by a certain Giuliano Casseri
who had occasion to see Vittoria at Naples. She was considered by
all—except, of course, by her own sex—the handsomest woman of the age:
Her ivory forehead, full of bounty brave,
Like a broad table did itself dispread,
For Love his lofty triumphs to engrave,
And write the battles of his great godhead:
All good and honor might therein be read;
For there their dwelling was. And, when she spake
Sweet words, like dropping honey, she did shed;
And ‘twixt the pearls and rubies softly brake
A silver sound that heavenly music seemed to make.
—_Spenser._
After a few years passed in this family, Vittoria returned to Marino
to prepare for her marriage, which took place at Ischia in 1507, with
all the pomp and splendor that the two great families and their
numerous friends could command. The list of marriage gifts and the
names of the personages who witnessed the matrimonial contract are
interesting—apart from the subjects themselves—for the light they
throw upon high society in Italy at a period when it easily surpassed,
in the means of luxurious living and all the amenities of social
intercourse, that of any other country in Europe.
The Avalos family, like that of Colonna and Montefeltro, was famous
for its attention to classical literature and its patronage of learned
men. Tiraboschi, in his _History of Italian Literature_, says of this
young Marquis of Pescara that he was no less a diligent student
himself than a munificent patron of learning in others. Tall,
naturally of romantic ardor, he had moved among men who always
inspired him with a taste for the profession of arms, and he rose to
be one of the greatest captains of his age.
The first three years of their married life were spent very happily
either at Ischia or at Naples. Their affection was mutual and tender.
They had ratified the choice of their parents, and their marriage was
one of those which are said to be made in heaven. In fact, between her
betrothal and final engagement, when the brilliant qualities of her
mind and the exquisite beauty of her features began to be the talk and
admiration of every one, several great offers had been made to her
father in hopes of detaching his daughter from Avalos, and among these
suitors were the Dukes of Savoy and Braganza. But while a malicious
pen has told us that the reason they were not accepted is that one was
too old and the other too far away, the gentle maiden herself assures
us that she remained firm to the first love from the purest sentiment
of devotion:
_A pena arean gli spiriti intiera vita,
Quando il mio cor proscrisse agni altro oggetto._
In 1512, when war broke out with France, the young Marquis of Pescara
was summoned to serve his king, and accompanied his wife’s father, who
was Grand Constable of Naples, her uncle, the renowned Prospero
Colonna, and her five gallant brothers to the scene of action.
Vittoria, meanwhile, remained at Ischia; but before many months had
passed she had cause of grief far heavier than that of separation—her
husband was wounded and a prisoner. It was at the battle of Ravenna
(11th of April, 1512), which has been so tersely described by Macaulay
as one of those tremendous days in which human folly and wickedness
compress the whole devastation of a famine or a plague, that Fabrizio,
who commanded the Spanish vanguard, and Pescara, who was master of the
horse, surrendered their swords. The latter was carried to Milan and
placed in the fortress of Porta Gobbia. When the news was brought to
Ischia, Vittoria and Costanza gave way to their grief, but with a
dignified moderation becoming their lofty ideals of sacrifice and
duty, and without any of that wild emotion so common to the tender
sentiment in the sex.
The illustrious prisoner consoled himself during confinement by
composing for his wife a _Dialogue on Love_. His captivity did not
last long, and he was liberated after paying a heavy ransom. He then
returned to his beloved home, where he was welcomed by all classes as
a veritable hero, and a little of the fast-fading glamour of chivalry
showed itself among the Italians in the attention which was directed
to his scarred face, so much so that one of his fair admirers, the
Duchess of Milan, exclaimed that she too would like to be a man, if
only to receive a wound across the cheek, and see how it would add to
a fine appearance. All this is very ridiculous, but that it had a hold
upon certain minds at this age, and may therefore be noted, is shown
from many other circumstances of the same kind; for instance, the
delight of Francis of Guise in being surnamed _Le Balafré_, from a
severe cut received at the siege of Bologna, in 1545.
When Pescara was again called (in 1513) to join the forces collected
in Lombardy against the French, his wife returned to Ischia, where she
continued a diligent course of reading. Besides studying the classics,
she cultivated Italian poetry, from which her fame, in our day at
least, has chiefly arisen, and in her graceful verses displayed a
charm and musical rhythm not equalled since the strains of Petrarch’s
muse were heard.
Her husband sometimes came to see her, but his visits from the camp
could not be frequent, and most of the time she was left alone in the
midst of the little court at Ischia, consumed by that species of
domestic grief so poignant to a loving heart when the marital union
has not been blessed by issue. Vittoria mentions this particular
sorrow, this absence of maternal joy, in a very touching sonnet (No.
22). Finally, despairing of children of her own, she prevailed upon
her husband in 1515 to adopt as his son and heir his young cousin, the
Marquis del Vasto.
In 1521 we find Vittoria at home. The year before she lost her father,
whom Italians delight to mention as having lived a life full of
grandeur and glory; but more impartial writers dispute the
_intaminatis fulget honoribus_, and assert that his desertion of the
losing for the winning party, when he passed over from Charles to
Ferdinand, was done without principle, and merely to save his
Neapolitan fiefs. He was a great friend of Macchiavelli, and the
well-known contempt and hatred of this political fiend for what he was
pleased to call the barbarous domination of the foreigner probably
influenced him to think that it mattered little whether he served
Frenchman or Spaniard, since neither had a right to or deserved his
services. It was to him that the subtle Florentine addressed his seven
books on the _Art of War_. His wife, the lovely and pious Agnes,
survived him only two years, dying after a pilgrimage to Our Lady of
Loretto. One of Vittoria’s most beautiful sonnets is on her mother.