A letter to-day from Lizzy who lovingly reminds me of my promise. It

will be for next spring, I think. I took our guests to the village,

the presbytery, the church, the asylum, and the hospital; all of which

are either founded or supported by the liberality of Mme. de T——. A

carriage!…

It was Margaret, dear Kate; not my Margaret of former times,

warmhearted and open, talkative and gay, but Margaret pale, suffering,

and yet finding again a spark of joy as she pressed me in her arms. I

am going to devote myself entirely to her; she must be cured, and if

possible undeceived. Aid me with your prayers!

AUGUST 25.

This dear festival of St. Louis makes me want to write to you. It is

five o’clock; René is sleeping soundly; I have slipped on a

dressing-gown, and now, after a prayer, I come to you, my beloved

Kate, my sister by nature and affection. A balmy breeze reaches me

through the half-open window, the aërial concerts are beginning, the

universal prayer ascends to God. My soul is glad, like nature. After

many hesitations, much feeling my way, and on René’s advice, I

addressed myself to Lord William himself.… It was a very delicate

matter, and my timidity was up in arms; but Margaret’s life was in

question. How I set about it I do not in the least know; my good angel

was with me. The excellent lord thanked me almost with tears; the

melancholy of our friend was too evident to him, and he had tried in

vain to break through the wall of ice that had grown up between them.

All is now at an end; and we have convinced Margaret, who is reviving

again to happiness. I know not what evil tongue had so poisoned the

golden cup of “_the prettiest woman in England_.” The truth is that

Lord William’s brother wanted to marry the young, portionless maiden

of whom I spoke to you, whose views were above this world and fixed on

heaven. Filial piety keeps her where she is, for she attends upon her

grandfather—blind, like Homer and Milton, and like them a poet, says

Lord William, who, being himself enthusiastic about poetry, was a

frequent visitor to his relative, the aged bard, and thus

unconsciously gave rise to the absurd story too easily believed by

Margaret. How she regrets not having sooner sought into the truth of

the matter! I am enchanted at this explanation, and also because my

mother insists that our “dear English” shall not leave us for a month.

We are planning excursions without end. Lord William and René are

inseparable; my sisters dispute as to which shall have Margaret, who

is more ravishingly beautiful than ever. Her fine voice rings

majestically in the chapel; yesterday we went _en masse_ to surprise

Mme. de T—— because it was her _fête_. You cannot imagine the effect

of our choirs. René, Adrien, Edouard, everybody, the English peer too,

sang. Your Georgina played the organ—not without tears of emotion.… My

mother said she was _in heaven_. All day long bouquets and _hommages_

were arriving; these good Bretons are so grateful, so pious! To-morrow

we go to Auray, next week to Solesmes, … a long way, … but I would

willingly go to the world’s end.

Margaret almost worships the babies. Alix scarcely leaves her; Gaston

has his private and his state visits to her. My Picciola is so

intelligent that English has soon become easy to her. I converse with

her in my mother’s tongue; we pray together. Am I not happy, dear

Kate? Everything smiles upon me. Often I meditate upon the benefits

which I have received from an all-merciful Providence, and especially

upon my happiness in my friends. Apropos to this subject, I recollect

a sad but charming remark of Louis Veuillot’s upon departures, those

great sadnesses of life: “There are flowers of friendship that we have

sown, and which spring up, but which we must abandon when their

fragrance is sweetest!”… He goes on to speak of forgetfulness; the

mourning wreath thrown by the oblivious world on the tomb of vanished

friendships, and sorrowfully says, “All the flowers of human life are

perishable!” Is it an illusion of my youth to believe that my

affections are like the flowers of heaven, inaccessible to decay,

strong against storms?… After the love of God, the first and greatest

good, the surest element of even terrestrial happiness, I have

friendship, and I rejoice in it with enchantment; then I have the love

of my good René, so pure and Christian a love, which makes of our two

souls one single being, in an indissoluble union; then reading, with

its varied emotions, study, the faculties of enthusiasm, of

admiration, of comprehension.… Oh! how fair is life. When I speak of

friendship, it is the tender affection of my Kate that is especially

in my mind—a tenderness to which I owe all that I am. Dearest and best

beloved, I sometimes ask myself how it is that you have been to me a

sister so _unique_, and finding no other motive for this choice

affection than your loving charity, I bless God, who has permitted

this to be in his merciful designs, which I cannot sufficiently adore.

When I make my thanksgiving after communion, I am fond of taking a

_general survey_ in my heart, so as to include in it names and

memories, and after speaking to Jesus of all the souls in whom I am

interested, I never fail to ask our rich and mighty Sovereign to

bless, together with me, all who love or have ever loved me.…

God guard you, _carissima_!

AUGUST 29.

News from Ireland: Ellen is in great trouble; her son has a mucous

fever which leaves small hope of his life. Alas! everywhere there is

mourning and death. Poor friend! so Christian and so pious, so

courageous under trials, how she must suffer, in spite of her

fortitude and resignation! Have you often met with people so

sympathetic as this amiable Ellen?—a heart of gold, full of tenderness

and devotion, in so delicate a frame. It seems to me as if the tears

which she drives back by her mother’s bed of suffering (who is still

in great danger, as Margaret has written you word), and by the cradle

of her beautiful little Robert, fall on my heart. Let us pray for her!

René is telling you about our pilgrimage to Auray. What happiness to

be there with these good and dear friends, and with my mother, whose

health is most satisfactory! Why are not you also here, dear Kate? Oh!

I never cease to miss you, although I repeat to myself that nothing is

wanting to my felicity.

Yesterday was the feast of St. Augustine, the great doctor of love.

Would that I could love like him!… M. Bougaud has written the life of

St. Monica, which I am told is very fine. Adrien left the book at

Orleans. I had read the introduction, which is written in an excellent

and elevated style. “It is the poem of the most incomparable love that

ever was.” O Saint Augustine, pillar of the church, defender of the

faith! pray for those who fight; obtain for them that love which

purifies and sanctifies suffering, that holy and perfect love which

alone is the life of the soul! I have a special affection for St.

Augustine. His was so ardent and enthusiastic a nature; his lofty soul

so great, so indomitable, and so athirst for happiness; then, after

his conversion, how courageous was his faith, how apostolic his

eloquence, and, above all, how mighty was his love of God, which, as

it were, consumed him! In all this we behold with admiration the

infinite mercy of the Creator. Do you recollect Ary Scheffer’s lovely

picture of St. Monica and St. Augustine by the sea? One could spend

hours before those already transfigured countenances, studying their

thoughts, which are rendered almost visible by the genius of the

artist.

Read a letter by Mgr. Dupanloup on the death of Cardinal Altieri. We

still live in the times of men like Borromeo and Belzunce; the church

never grows old. Cardinal Altieri was Bishop of Albano. The cholera

broke out in that small town with such violence that a hundred persons

died in a night. Mgr. Altieri assembled his servants and asked if they

were willing to follow him to Albano. He set out, accompanied by one

alone, and his almoner, and taking with him his will, to which he

added a codicil. After three days, spent in heroic acts of charity and

devotedness, he was attacked by the malady, and died in the arms of

two other cardinals, who, happening to be at Albano when the scourge

appeared, had not quitted the post of honor. This death is a great

loss to the church. Mgr. Altieri was Camerlinga of the Roman Church,

the highest dignity after the Pope. Louis Veuillot, in his biography

of Pius IX., says: “There is no name and no character more Roman than

that of Altieri.” The cardinal was only sixty-two years of age. Pius

IX. at once desired to find him a successor. A messenger of the Holy

See was sent to Mgr. Apollini: “It is necessary to set out immediately

for Albano.” “I am ready,” was Mgr. Apollini’s reply. Is it not fine?

What page of Homer equals this page in the history of the church? The

Zouaves are also doing wonders of charity at Albano: making themselves

_Gray Sisters_ for the living, and burying the dead; they are sublime.

May God have pity on poor Italy! Mgr. Dupanloup concludes his letter

by a few words full of sadness and apprehension. O my God! will not

the eloquence of genius, the supplications of thy saints, the

sufferings of thy martyrs, disarm thine anger? By the side of these

solemn scenes yesterday’s paper contained a curious article: the

“miracles” of the Zouave Jacob, of whom you must have heard, dear

Kate. What times we live in! On the one hand we have spiritism,

magnetism, all sorts of communications with demons, and on the other

the wonderful development of noble thoughts, institutions of all kinds

in aid of every form of misfortune, men of the highest genius raising

imperishable monuments to the glory of God and the church! If our time

is one of great errors and many troubles, it is also a time of great

virtues and noble acts of devotion. Margaret told us that when passing

through Périgord she stopped at Cadouin, where the holy _Sudarium_ of

our Lord is offered to the veneration of the faithful. Before this

august relic she prayed with indescribable emotion for our

incomparable Pontiff, who is following in the footsteps of our Saviour

up Mount Calvary. The revolution is about to march against Rome; what

will be the consequence? “_Tu es Petrus._” … With this word one can

understand the peace, serenity, and confidence of Pius IX. Suffer not,

O Lord! that so many wandering and guilty sons shall die fighting

against their own Father!

* * * * *

SEPTEMBER 6.

The sacrifice is consummated: Ellen has witnessed the death of her

baby—her joy and pride. “Her husband comforted and sustained her like

a Christian,” Lizzy writes. The paroxysm of her maternal anguish was

fearful.

A child should never die before its mother; it is against nature, and

is almost more than the heart can endure; the help of God is

necessary; let us pray for her, my Kate. This dear, much-tried,

heartbroken mother thought of me in her sorrow, and sent me a few

lines. You will read them and will weep with me over this page of woe.

I seem still to see that charming group: Ellen coaxing Robert to try

and take his first steps, and he sending us kisses. All these joys,

that golden dawn, those earliest days—who can bring them back to

Ellen? May God console her, and may the sweet angel who strengthened

Jesus at Gethsemani tenderly wipe away her tears! Margaret is as

grieved as I am. Our trip to Solesmes is somewhat delayed; we are

expecting more guests. I have just finished a splendid chasuble, which

I take the liberty of sending to your address, my dearest Kate—in the

first place, that you may admire it, and, secondly, that you may

kindly let Mme. G. know about it, as she will have to complete my

work. Have I mentioned to you a letter from the Bishop of Orleans to

the faithful of his diocese on the festivals of Rome, and the

approaching opening of an œcumenical council? It is splendid; there is

magic in his style.

You do not forget Zoë de L——? Margaret met her in Paris, _poor_, and

looking terribly aged. Through some inexplicable folly, she made an

absurd marriage, and the change of position, her unexpected

disappointment, the trials of heart and mind she has undergone, have

altogether upset her. “It was ten minutes,” Margaret writes, “before I

could recognize her.” Perhaps you could see her, dear Kate, and cheer

her up a little. _La belle Anglaise_ and I want to be of service to

her, and you must be our medium; René is writing to his banker, to

place the necessary sum at your disposal. I will enclose the card on

which Margaret wrote the address of this unfortunate Zoë.

Dearest Kate, pray for Ellen. There is, then, no such thing as perfect

happiness in this world. If it were not for the compassion I feel for

those whose troubles affect me so deeply, I should be too happy. How

kind René is! He is angelic! I cannot note down to you, or I should

have to write volumes, the thousand intimate and charming details

which make my life a paradise.

Hélène rarely writes; when she does, it is as a seraph might. She is

happy; she has entered into the place of repose which she has chosen,

in the _hollow of the rock_, where the dove loves to hide; she has

found her ideal. Gertrude reads on her knees the poetic effusions of

her child.

Dear Kate, may all heaven be with you!

SEPTEMBER 15.

My dear one, excursions are robbing me of all my leisure, but not of

the time to think of you. A pouring rain has interfered with our

projects for to-day, and all the children have fled to _Mme.

Margaret_, who takes a lively interest in these juveniles. Yesterday

was the birthday of this delightful friend. We busied ourselves in

preparations, whilst, at my request, Lord William drew his somewhat

wondering Margaret away to the park. A solitary little drawing-room

was rapidly transformed; it looked so pretty in the evening, with a

profusion of flowers and lights, wreaths of ivy twining round the

mirrors, and an illumination of the _heroine’s_ initials! She was

greatly touched and delighted; Picciola recited some beautiful verses

written by Edouard, and we presented her with bouquets, carvings, and

paintings. A concert brought the entertainment to a close. Mme. de T——

will not hear of the departure of our dear friends. “Sisters ought not

to leave each other before they are compelled,” she says. Kind,

excellent mother! Yesterday we walked along the coast so often sung by

the poet Brizeux, whom René quotes with so much Breton fire and

fitness. “Look there,” Adrien whispered to me, “at all that pretty

little brood!” Under the shadow of an oak about a hundred paces from

us a dozen children were preparing a _dînette_.[205] How handsome they

looked in their tatters, with their healthy and intelligent faces!

Arthur had a bright thought: he proposed to Picciola, who was carrying

the _cake-basket_, to share theirs among the poor little children. All

the babies joined in the festivity, and bonbons and delicacies were

freely distributed. Margaret sketched this pretty picture in her

album. You see our walks are not without their charm.

On Monday, I visited a pious canoness who lives alone in a sumptuous

residence. I was delighted with the kind and cordial welcome she gave

me, and spent with her three of the most enjoyable hours I ever passed

in my life. Mme. de Saint A—— is fifty-three years of age, though she

appears older; she has been exquisitely beautiful. Now she is better

than that—she is a saint; and next to the deep joys of the Eucharistic

table, I do not think there is any greater enjoyment than to converse

with such as she. The old castle overlooking the ocean has an antique

and lordly aspect, with a certain character as of something religious,

like a cenobite whom death has forgotten, kneeling by the borders of a

lake. The sea in this place forms a sort of inland bay, or quiet lake,

in which the great trees of the park seem to take pleasure in

reflecting themselves. The dwelling has been visited by the dukes of

Brittany, and one wing of the castle still bears their name. We

ascended the steps of the staircase of honor, up which the noble

mail-clad warriors so often rode mounted on their chargers. The room

of Mme. de Saint A—— is entirely white, like the soul of the pious

lady. It opens into the chapel. On each side of the altar several

funeral epitaphs show this temple of prayer to be also the temple of

memories. Mme. de Saint A—— showed us some water-colors worthy of

Redouté, painted by her great-grandmother; and some wood-carving which

excited the liveliest admiration of the gentlemen. It was impossible

to quit this Eden; we admired the grottoes and plantations, and

remained for _déjeuner_. We seemed to be in another world in this

Thebaid of the coast. We kissed the trunk of an immense chestnut whose

protecting boughs had overshadowed many generations, and which has a

higher title to glory from having in ’93 preserved from revolutionary

fury the stone statue of the Madonna which now guards the chapel. I

shall never forget this visit—twenty leagues from our residence—nor

the expression of that saintly face, the look and words which

accompanied the kind pressure of my hand at the moment of departure.

Mme. de Saint A—— has lost all her dear ones by death. God and the

poor still remain to her, a heritage worthy of her heart. Her artistic

and literary tastes are a great resource for her in her solitude,

which is occasionally shared by some friends at a distance, who are

faithful to this “_fragment of the past_,” as she said in showing us

the castle.

One hall, that of “the libraries,” contains treasures. Adrien, who is

an enthusiastic and learned archæologist, eagerly examined its

contents. Several rare manuscripts have passed into his possession; we

came home laden with riches. My share is a beautiful water-color

drawing. Shall we ever see this hermitage again?

Dear Kate, René and Margaret have finished their letters before me.

Adieu and _á Dieu_!

Dreamed of Ireland, her emigrants, her martyrs. Oh! how dear our

sacred island is to me.

SEPTEMBER 20.

Kind, loving, and beloved sister, three letters in your welcome

handwriting are come to me at the same time. Thanks for what you have

done for Zoë; she has written to tell me about it, and of your zealous

endeavors to make her more courageous. I have no more anxiety about

our poor friend since you are in her neighborhood.

René has procured for me _Femmes Savantes et Femmes Studieuses_,[206]

by Mgr. Dupanloup.

It is an excellent book, elevated and at the same time practical, and

quite in accordance with the views of my dear husband. Our studies

together are truly profitable? The good _abbé_ is very alarming just

now. He says that blood will be shed in France, much blood; with other

sinister predictions. May God guard you, dearest Kate!

The village is in mourning: five deaths this week. One is that of the

father of seven children; Margaret is placing six of them with the

Sisters at P——. The rich English lady makes herself almost worshipped

by our Bretons.

Ellen has written to me; she is more calm, but wonders that she can

live.… Her mother, broken down by this last blow, sank three days

after Robert. To force her away from the sad associations of home her

husband is taking her to Scotland, where they will remain until the

spring. I wish they were with us; we would try to comfort them. Ah!

Kate, how I pity mothers.

Finished the full-length portrait of René for our mother. How I have

enjoyed working at it—dear, kind husband! At this moment he is playing

Thalberg’s _Moïse_, and I hasten to join him. I should not be Irish if

I did not love poetry and music.

Love me as I love you, dear sister.

SEPTEMBER 28.

I am in a state of transport, dearest! For eight days past we have

been almost constantly in the carriage, and have seen Solesmes and its

jewels of stone, the handiwork of artists full of faith such as our

times do not find in their successors. Only imagine, dear Kate: I saw

nothing at Solesmes but the church and Sainte Cécile! On coming out I

closed my eyes, the better to recall those visions of beauty before

which death would seem more sweet. Beneath an arched roof on the right

two personages are placing Our Lord in the sepulchre; these are

Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea, the former in a rich Oriental

costume and the latter in a dress of the time of Louis XI., which

looks singular enough at first sight. Sitting before the tomb, St.

Mary Magdalene, bending low, with her head resting on her hands,

abandons herself to grief. It is very beautiful Kate. Of all that I

have seen that looked _living_ in sculpture, nothing ever impressed me

so much. This Magdalene is the jewel of the whole. She seems to live

and breathe; nothing could render the expression of sorrow and of

prayer in her countenance, nor the naturalness of her posture; one

feels as if she might raise her arms, and that her mouth might utter

her lamentation; one _feels_ that her eyes are overflowing with

tears.… Follow me now into the chapel on the left. Here is the

swooning of the Blessed Virgin, in a deep niche over the altar. Again,

our Lady, kneeling in ecstasy, supported by St. Peter and St. John, is

about to receive communion from the hands of her risen Son. In this

mystic idea there is to my mind exquisite poetry. Almost all the

apostles and the holy women are there; the figures in this group are

very numerous, and there are among them heads of an ideal beauty. I

have looked so long at these more than artistic, almost heavenly,

works, that they will long remain in my mind. The entombment of the

Blessed Virgin faces that of Our Lord, and is strikingly effective.

The position of our Lady is admirable, and there is something heavenly

in her countenance, which love transfigures even in death. St. John,

St. James the Less, Dom Bougner, an abbot of Solesmes, who by a pious

anachronism had himself represented in this solemn scene, and another

saint, hold the corners of the shroud. All four are excellently

rendered. St. Peter is leaning over our Lady, and contemplates her

with an indescribable expression of love. This figure is one of the

most attractive of all. Behind are the holy women, whose looks betoken

the deepest grief, and some of the apostles, who are speaking to each

other. All these figures are admirably grouped; not one lessens the

effect of the rest, and the whole scene is of touching grandeur. It

was difficult to tear one’s self away from the contemplation of those

animated and speaking forms.… There are other groups: Jesus in the

midst of the doctors, the Assumption, the Coronation; wonderful works

by men who have remained almost unknown. Why were you not there, dear

Kate? This is always the cry of my heart, which wants you everywhere.

To see Dom Guéranger formed part of our plan. When one has read his

_Sainte Cécile_ and his admirable pages on the _Temporal Power of the

Popes_, it is a happiness to listen to him in his monastic humility.

What a fine head he has!—a countenance so expressive of both intellect

and sanctity, and such vivacity and genius in his look! We were

present at the Benedictine Office, but went first to Sainte-Cécile, a

monastery of Benedictine nuns which Dom Guéranger is building at some

distance from the abbey. It will be splendid: magnificent cloisters,

and in the middle of the great quadrangle one of those marvellous

fountains that we used to admire in the pictures of the cloisters in

Spain.

Benediction, in the abbey church, was very beautiful. At the moment

when the benediction is given a dove descends upon the altar; the

sight is striking when the heart is already predisposed to heavenly

emotions. When, at the conclusion, the monks stood up to chant the _Te

Deum_, that song of the eternal Jerusalem which I never hear without a

thrill of inward joy, I felt an indescribable impression of happiness

and peace. Oh! how sweet it must be to serve God thus, and spend one’s

life in study and in prayer.

Dearest Kate, may God bless you, may he bless us all, and may he

deliver Ireland!

OCTOBER 2.

To-day Sarah B—— takes a lord and master. God grant that she may be

happy; that her heart, so upright, delicate, and loving, may not be

disappointed! She is in communication with Margaret, to whom she has

related the causes of her _almost_ rupture with Mary. Both had

suffered greatly from the loss of that affection which for twenty

years had filled their life; this marriage draws them nearer together.

Mass has been said for her, in this sweet corner of our Brittany, this

oasis. Margaret is about to leave us. What bitterness is linked to

every separation! How often our heart is divided, our life cut in

twain, and our happiness destroyed! We went on Monday to C——, where we

have an aunt, superior of a convent of the Visitation. “Convents do

not change, like the world,” said René, when we came out from the

parlor; “it even seems to me that these ascetic faces do not grow old.

And I know men of forty years of age who appear to be sixty, so much

have passions worn them out. Why is not every Christian house a

monastery? Why do not all men love our good God?”… My aunt was very

affectionate; promises of prayers were mutually exchanged.… I am

prayed for in many sanctuaries, in many retreats, pious homes of

refuge for wounded souls and for timid doves, dwellings where lilies

bloom, and where the Holy of Holies makes his habitation. And

everywhere, on every coast on which a Catholic hand has planted the

Cross of Christ, I am prayed for, in virtue of this great communion of

saints, this dogma so divine and so full of comfort, the sweetest of

all, it seems to me, giving hope for those who do not yet pray for

themselves! Oh! can I wonder that the religious life, to which our

Saviour promised a hundred-fold in this world and paradise in the

next—this life of self-renunciation and of sacrifice—has stolen my

Kate from me? Madame de P——, Lucy’s mother, is seriously ill; and her

son the _abbé_, the _grand-vicaire_, the holy priest, the joy and

consolation of her heart, is with her. All the _Edwards_ have just

left us; Gaston has been ill, and is recovering slowly. His pale,

gentle face so little resembles that of the rosy boy who smiled so

gaily upon us only a few weeks ago, that we are all pained at the

change. I trust God will spare this pretty little angel to dear Lucy;

but were the hosts of heaven to open their ranks to receive this

little brother, who, however, pitying the mother, would think of

pitying the child? Oh! what have I said? In my desire for heaven I was

almost forgetting earth!

_Lady Sensible_, Marguérite, is gravely working in the embrasure of

the window at a set of baby-linen which she will have made entirely

herself. This child will be a remarkable woman; there is something

singularly attractive about her; she talks little, but thinks much,

and her words are full of solidity and good sense. She is charmingly

pretty; last winter, in her little dress of black velvet over a blue

silk skirt, she looked like the daughter of a king.

Dearest, here is your letter, in the white hands of Picciola, and a

letter from Hélène, triumphantly brought to me by Alix! Kind little

angels! who possess the understanding of the heart, and so read mine.

Thanks, dear sister; may our Mother in heaven repay to you all the

love you bear me!

Margaret leaves to-morrow; she is gone to say good-by to her poor

people. What a kind, sweet friend she is! and now the ocean is soon to

separate us.

Pray for the travellers, beloved Kate, and for your own Georgina.

SEPTEMBER 13.

This autumn set in icy cold; to-day the weather has been mild and the

sun splendid; it was like a resurrection; my spirit revived with

nature. How I miss Margaret! She has had a prosperous journey. “The

aspect of everything is changed.” God be praised!

A kind visit this morning from a neighbor, the Baroness de T——, mother

of three sweet children, whom she brings up herself. This charming

woman is in deep mourning for her brother; riches are no shield from

the unlooked-for strokes of death. In positions where people are in

possession of everything, it must be dreadful suffering to be helpless

to detain here below, at the price of all one’s gold, those who are

carried off by death. We are said to be on the point of a grievous and

terrible crisis; I can easily believe it; it is the general

expectation of minds. Everything suffers; all families are stricken in

those dearest to them, all is trouble and distress. M. V. R. is dead

at Dublin, without confession, without hope, without God! Is there no

angel for these poor wanderers, to make one ray of light shine before

their eyes? Nelly, the mourning Nelly, confides her grief to me: “What

a night of anguish! and what tears I shed! No priest beside this dying

bed; my mother in despair, I on my knees, my eyes dried up with

weeping, doubting if it were a dream or a reality, and wondering

whether so many ardent prayers must be in vain! The only religious

ornament in the room was a little picture I had drawn when a child,

and which my poor uncle had not observed, or else tolerated it on my

account; its subject was the conversion of a sinner. This seemed to me

providential. I could not believe that this life, so troublous, so

agitated, and so sinful, so far from God and from the practice of

religion, could go out without one spark of divine light to illuminate

it, or without some thought of penitence finding entrance, which might

obtain pardon before eternity.… Alas! I have but one hope, and I cling

to that in the fulness of my trouble like one who is shipwrecked to a

fragment of the vessel; it is that, in passing judgment on a soul, God

is mindful of all the prayers that will be offered for it!”

Poor Nelly! how well I understand her. I hope, I hope; who knows what

passes in that supreme moment, in that terrible grappling of death

with life, between divine mercy and the sinner, who may in one instant

make an act of perfect contrition and love?

Would you like to have a page out of Hélène’s journal, the receptacle

of her inmost and most secret confidences, which she left with her

mother, and which René and I read with enthusiasm? “‘Knowest thou the

land where the orange tree blossoms?’ was the vague question of the

melancholy Mignon to all around him; and I, for my part, ask

everywhere, ‘Knowest thou the land whither flows all my love? Knowest

thou the land to which mount my desires? Knowest thou Carmel, the

sacred mountain where I shall possess my God?’ I also could say,

“Knowest thou this beloved home, where I have so often sat with

gladness in my heart? Knowest thou this mother who loves me with so

true a love, this father so fond and tender, these kind, indulgent

brothers, this noble-hearted grandmother, all this charming family who

have made my life so sweet and golden?… O nature! and I am about to

leave all these! I communicated this morning, the Feast of St. Teresa,

the illustrious and seraphic lover of God, the fairest flower of

Carmel, the glory of the church, a soul so strong and lofty in her

perfection that she no longer desired any happiness in this world, and

repeated, ‘Lord, let me suffer or die!’ Edouard Turquety, the sweet

Catholic poet, has written some beautiful verses on this sublime

thought. O great St. Teresa, eagle of love! whose flight reached to

such heights, draw me after you; detach me from earth, gain for me

that I forget for God all which is not God!

“‘Emporte-moi, douce pensée,

Effusion d’un cœur jaloux,

Je suis la veuve délaissée

Emporte-moi vers mon Epoux.’”[207]

Dear Kate, do you not doubly

love our Hélène?

OCTOBER 21.

Do you know the _Meditations on the Way of the Cross_, by the Abbé

Perreyre? I find in this book a comprehension of suffering which can

only belong to a superior mind, and one which has drunk from one of

the bitterest cups of life. There are passages in it which seemed to

thrill me, especially this thought, that “trial breaks souls and

forces them to shed around them floods of love.” I like to pass before

your kind eyes all that I read and admire. René yesterday quoted me a

beautiful thought of Mgr. of Orleans on La Moricière: “A man is a

prism; the rays of God pass through him; it is not he who is

beautiful—it is the rays, it is God; but without him we should not see

them.” Read on Sunday, by the same genius, the postscript to the

letter of M. Rattazzi; it is admirable for its power, expression, and

lofty feeling. The Archbishop of Rennes has written a few lines to

Mgr. Dupanloup full of warmth and energy. It is said that our troops

are going to Rome. God grant that it may be so, for his own glory, for

the safety of Pius IX., and for the honor of our poor France! Oh! must

it be written on the page of our history that the eldest daughter of

the church has forfeited her mission, and that she has failed to say

to the abettors of the revolution, “You strike not my father with your

sacrilegious hand without first passing over my body”? I am indignant

and amazed at beholding the Catholic world remain as if stupefied when

it ought to rise as one man to defend the holy Pontiff. René and his

brothers have all served under the Breton hero in the cause of Pius

IX. Adrien’s two sons are gone to fight under his banner; they set out

of their own accord, after receiving the blessing of their father,

mother, and grandmother. Pray for them, my Kate! Gertrude is on her

Calvary. Our Brittany will be worthily represented at Rome. _Sursum

corda!_ God keep you, my well-beloved!

OCTOBER 31.

Splendid weather! the air full of warm, poetic odors. I have been

rather unwell, but am better again; do not be uneasy about me,

dearest. Good news from every quarter, but sadness at home, for

Gertrude and Adrien are leaving us, having heard that one of their

sons is ill at Rome; so they hasten thither with all speed. I should

like to accompany them, it is so delightful to travel. Mgr. of Orleans

has written to his clergy, requesting prayers for the Pope and the

army of Italy. There is just now a certain movement of religious

enthusiasm in France. Numerous volunteers are enrolling themselves in

the pontifical army, and there are among them those who leave their

children, their young wife, or their betrothed; and the bishop says

that if there are at the present time mothers weeping over a son who

has died a martyr in the holiest of causes, there are those who weep

still more bitterly because they have no son.… Is not this the highest

expression of Christian patriotism? Rome is the fatherland of the

Catholic universe; happy indeed are her defenders!

_Evening._—I have just come in from a long walk, alone, on the sands.

René is gone with his brother as far as Tours, whence he will not

return before to-morrow; my mother had to write, and to pray; the good

_abbé_ had undertaken the charge of all the children; the _grown-up

people_ were variously occupied; I wanted to enliven my solitude, and

have been to visit my poor people, and in the presence of immensity

have lifted up my soul. It was the hour of twilight, which had

therefore a double attraction. I love solitude in the evening; the

soul, disposed by the calm of nature for meditation and prayer, rises

without effort to God. I do not like to shorten these moments, and

willingly prolong them until it is dark. There is always a certain

solemnity which attaches to things that end. If we thought of it well,

how much we should be impressed by the close of a day! How many souls

there are who will not see another! How many sheep have this very day

quitted the green pastures of the Good Shepherd! How many tears have

the angels gathered up! Tears of the mother shed over the coffin of

her first-born, over a son who is fighting, over a youth who is going

astray; tears of sorrow, of repentance, of holy joy, tears of all,

alas! and for every cause. Is there a human eye that knows not tears?

Oh! how many things one day contains. It may be a prodigal child

brought back; an upright life sanctified by sacrifice, a martyrdom, a

consecration to God. It may be an overflowing of evil and impiety,

and, on the other hand, prayer poured out in floods before the altar.

A great church-festival, a first communion, a far-distant island

conquered to the Gospel, a battle gained over the enemies of the

faith—these, these are a day! Oh! the history of a day would be long.…

Whilst the glittering world, returned from its pleasures and

festivities, slumbers beneath its gilded ceilings, the world of

charity has already made the angels smile, the world of poverty has

already suffered, the world of industry is at work, the apostolic

world embarks on the vast ocean or sets foot on unknown shores, the

world of science studies and sounds the deep abyss of learning, the

world of prayer, the truly Catholic world, prays to God, sings his

praises, writes, speaks, teaches, lives for God! Everything revives,

and in this immense concert of humanity, wherein are heard so many

discordant notes, to which so many voices are daily wanting, the

Eternal Ear distinguishes the most imploring notes—the notes of

supplication and repentance. Evening comes, and the day ends; a

useless day for many of God’s creatures, a golden day for some. And

the angels of night spread the shadows over cities and solitudes,

while the angel of justice and the angel of mercy, two white-winged

seraphs, inscribe in the Book of Life the good and evil of this day;

while, in the splendor of eternal light, the heavenly concert

incessantly continues.… Oh! when shall we behold this day?… Pale dawns

of this world, fleeting hours, days without beauty, you are but a

point in a life, and this life has but one day; and this day, what is

it “in the ocean of ages,” what is it in Eternity?

Hélène speaks to me of heaven: “Oh! day of deliverance, cloudless day,

when I shall behold my God, when I shall drink of the torrent of

eternal delights, and mingle my feeble voice with the harmonies of the

heavenly Jerusalem, my soul sighs for thee!…”

Edward and Lucy return to us to-morrow, glad and happy; their mother

is recovered. Good-night, my Kate!

TO BE CONTINUED.

[205] A “little dinner,” in which everything is usually on a

small scale.

[206] “Learned and Studious Women.”

[207] Bear me away, sweet thought,

Fruit of a jealous heart;

From lonely widowhood,

Oh! bear me to my Spouse.

ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

It was the December of 1775. The British colonies in America were

agitated with wild excitement. News had been received of the

unsuccessful attack on Quebec by the Continental troops under

Montgomery and Arnold, and of the fall of the brave Montgomery.

The friends of the colonial cause had set great hopes on the success

of this enterprise, which would give them the command of the St.

Lawrence, and deprive the British of a most important arsenal for

their permanent supply of troops and munitions of war. They were

grieved and desponding over the disastrous result, while the

loyalists, rejoicing at the check thus given to the progress of the

rebellion, looked confidently for its speedy close, the restoration of

the royal governments, and the return of the several provincial

governors who had discreetly abdicated at the first outbreak, and

retired to safer quarters. No doubt their enthusiastic public

demonstrations of joy assisted in fanning to a flame the smouldering

elements of resistance among the colonists, who, exasperated at the

persistently oppressive measures devised and forced upon them by the

mother country, were even beginning to utter whispers of an entire

disruption, and a formal assertion of rights, in a declaration of

independence.

Near a pleasant village in the northern part of New Jersey there

stood—and may be standing yet, for the builders of those days had an

eye to permanency in the solid structures they reared—a farmhouse of

spacious dimensions, built in the favorite gambrel-roofed style then

customary in country dwellings. Mr. Foote, the owner of the mansion,

and of many broad acres around it, was a fine specimen of a country

gentleman after the old English pattern. Bigoted in his attachment to

everything English, he clung tenaciously to all the customs and

traditions which his father, in transplanting them to American soil,

had cultivated with an ardor all the more vehement for the difficulty

of assimilating them to an order of things so entirely different from

that in which they had formerly existed. These traditional treasures

he had bequeathed to his children as a sacred legacy of far more value

than the paltry lands, tenements, and appurtenances they would inherit

from him, and so his son continued religiously to regard them.

Early in life he married a lady from the neighboring village who had

been reared in the same sentiments of devotion to the mother country.

After a few years of happy domestic life in their retired home, she

died, leaving him with a family of five lovely daughters. Some years

later he married a widow from Philadelphia, whose only child by her

former marriage was the wife of a banker in that city, Mr. von

Francke.

Not far from the dwelling of Mr. Foote, and still nearer to the

village, was the residence of Mr. Thorpe, a handsome building

conformed to the fashion of European suburban mansions. He was also an

Englishman in his tastes and habits, but of a less tenacious cast than

his neighbor, whom he often annoyed by assailing some of his cherished

whims and humors. Nevertheless, they lived on terms of the most

cordial intimacy and friendship.

Mr. Thorpe married the only child of Mr. Earle, a banker in

Philadelphia, who was the senior partner of Mrs. Foote’s son-in-law.

She was a beautiful and highly accomplished lady. Endowed with rare

ability, discrimination, and firmness, no sophistry could mislead the

nice sense of justice which governed all her decisions. Her father’s

position and financial operations had opened a wide circle of

acquaintance in all the cities of the new world, and his fine social

qualities, combined with the fascinations of his gifted daughter—whose

mother had died when she was too young to realize the loss—attracted

crowds to his hospitable mansion. Great was the surprise in the

fashionable city circle among whom she moved when she chose from the

host of her admirers a plain country gentleman, of unquestionable

merit, it was true, but of very simple, not to say rustic, manners and

retiring habits.

She brought to her secluded home all the refined graces and elegant

embellishments of her former one, and sustained perfectly, in the

midst of her rural associations, the quiet dignity that had always

distinguished her; while she continued to exercise the generous

hospitality to which she had been accustomed in her father’s house.

Some years previous to the beginning of the war of independence, her

father retired from active business, left his affairs in the hands of

his partner, Mr. von Francke, and went to share his daughter’s home,

now adorned with seven fair sons, so tenderly beloved by their

grandfather that he could not bear to be separated from them. New

Jersey was then, as it is still, a thoroughfare between the States of

the Atlantic coast. From the first settlement it had been the most

turbulent of the provinces. Always violently agitated by territorial

and political questions, it was prepared to enter with vehemence into

the merits of those which had arisen between the colonies and the

mother country. In none of them were the exciting topics of the day

discussed more fiercely, _pro_ and _con_, than in this.

During the stirring events of the years immediately preceding and

following the memorable “’76” the house of Mr. Thorpe, much to the

chagrin of his intolerant neighbor, became the rendezvous of many

prominent men, most of them old friends of his father-in-law, of all

shades of political opinion, and of every religious and non-religious

party.

Through the holidays of Christmas and New Year’s the two families

always entertained a multitude of friends, and there was a round of

festivities between them, in which the neighboring villagers

participated. Mr. Foote, who, as might be expected, was a Tory of the

most malignant type, selected his guests from the class who were in

sympathy with him, and accused his more moderate neighbor of treason,

because he, his father-in-law, and his lovely wife tolerated persons

of different views, and acknowledged the force of their objections to

British rule.

Fifty years later it was my good fortune, among the felicitous chances

of a specially favored childhood, to pass the greater portion of three

years under the roof of a house built after the precise pattern of Mr.

Foote’s, though of somewhat smaller dimensions, in a little village on

the south bank of the St. Lawrence. Here his youngest daughter, Anna,

resided, and shared her home with her step-sister, Mrs. von Francke,

from Philadelphia, the widow of Mr. Earle’s partner, who occupied a

suite of rooms set apart for her use, and was always attended by her

waiting-woman, a smiling German matron somewhat advanced in years and

very fond of children.

It was my delight the moment school hours were over and the ceremony

of dinner despatched—for the habits of the stately old English home,

and the late dinners with their successive courses of fish, flesh, and

fowl, were as rigidly preserved through all the changes and chances of

founding a home in the wilderness as they had been under more

favorable circumstances—to mount the stairs with “Auntie Francke,” now

much past eighty, but as sprightly as myself, and while my companions,

the daughters of the house, were indulging in a wild game of romps

outside, draw my little arm-chair—she had a half-dozen of them

provided for the small members of the household—to her side in the

corner of the cheerful wood fireplace, and listen to her stories of

other times.

As I have said, she was then past eighty, but the certainties of a

position which placed her out of the reach of such cares and anxieties

as surround ordinary lives, united with a serene temperament alive to

all tender sympathies, had preserved the youth of her heart to atone

for the ravages of time and adorn the decaying shrine with undying

verdure and sweetness.

After the lapse of more than fifty years, how well do I remember the

graceful attitudes of the erect form, the carefully-adjusted drapery

of her rich, old-time costume, and, above all, the loving gleam of her

mild black eye as it rested upon me at such times! The maternal

instinct of her affectionate heart, never having found its proper

object in offspring of her own, overflowed towards all the young

within her reach, and her room was a perfect museum of winking and

crying dolls, strange puzzles, dissected pictures, flocks of

magnetized ducks and geese, with miniature ponds wherein to exercise

them by aid of a steel pencil—of all wonderful toys, in short, which

she procured on her annual trips to Philadelphia, and was wont to set

as traps to catch the little folk she so dearly loved. Her

waiting-woman was an apt assistant in pursuit of such small game; and

it has often been a wonder to me since how, with their precise,

methodical ways and exquisitely tidy, punctilious habits, they could

endure much less enjoy, the dire confusion and anarchy which resulted

from these captures.

For my own part, I was by nature a quiet, reserved child. Though I

could join tolerably well in a wild frolic, I preferred the

chimney-corner and a story, for which I was a most persistent beggar

when there was any chance of success. From my earliest childhood

stories relating to history, and especially to the history of our own

country, enthralled me beyond all others. This fancy had been fed by

constant association in my own home with grandparents who had borne an

active part in the scenes of the Revolution. They entertained many old

friends whose memories were also stored with incidents and anecdotes

of that period. Thus their interest was kept alive and their

conversation constantly directed to the political and social events of

those days, which opened the mind of their eager young listener,

almost prematurely, to subjects of grave import quite beyond what

would seem natural or appropriate for one of tender years.

What a treasure, then, was “Auntie Francke” to me when I was taken

from my quiet home in the woods, and left a trembling, homesick little

stranger—much less as to size, indeed, than in age—under the

hospitable roof of these dear friends of my mother in former years! On

the score of that friendship I was received there to attend the

village school with the daughters of the family, all older than

myself. Mrs. von Francke’s room became at once my solace and delight,

and even the _Tales of the Arabian Nights_ melted into utter

insipidity before the wondrous sketches she could give of “the times

that tried men’s souls.” For she had entertained daily at her home in

Philadelphia, as familiar friends, General Washington, Pulaski, De

Kalb, Rochambeau, La Fayette, De Grasse—all the foreign worthies, in

short, together with a host of our own countrymen whose names will be

household words as long as our nation exists. Her husband was brought

into constant intercourse with such men by virtue of his occupation,

and his inclination led him to extend to them most freely the

hospitalities of his home.

When my companions would break into my chosen hiding-place in search

of me, and find me the fascinated listener of their aged relative,

they would warn her to beware what yarns she spun for my amusement;

“for,” they said, “she will surely write them down and keep the

record. If you could see what she puts upon her slate in school that

has no relation to the horrors of arithmetic, you would believe she is

to be of the unhappy number who take such notes!”

Whether acting upon the hint or no, I did indeed, when pondering in my

own little nest of a room over what I had heard, jot down from time to

time many scraps in the words of my kind old friend, from portions of

which the following sketch is gathered.

* * * * *

On the 24th of December, 1775, a large assemblage met at the house of

Mr. Thorpe. The guests, many of them former friends and acquaintances

of Mr. Earle, were brought together from different cities of the

Atlantic States, with a sprinkling of the country friends of Mr. and

Mrs. Thorpe. At the same time an equally large party assembled at the

residence of my step-father, Mr. Foote, among them, of course, my

husband and myself. The object of both was to celebrate the festivals

of Christmas and the New Year according to old-time customs. It was

arranged that they should all join in Christmas festivities at Mr.

Foote’s, and open the New Year with Mr. Thorpe.

At that period, when the minds of the country were fermenting over

questions of vital importance, it was not to be hoped that such

leaders of the disaffected as were entertained under Mr. Thorpe’s

friendly roof—with whom it was half-believed that he and his family

were in perfect accord—would mingle very harmoniously with the guests

selected by Mr. Foote for their high-toned loyalty to king and church.

I confess to having watched the social results of intercourse between

such discordant elements with great trepidation. Thanks, however, to

the crystallizing power of courtly etiquette, now lamentably on the

decline, the mutual irritation was suppressed or kept within limits of

strict decorum, and the wonted hilarities of the joyous season were

undisturbed by anything more serious than certain heart-burnings

connected with questions of precedence on the line of march to the

dining-hall. These questions were decided according to the political

preferences of the respective hosts, quite irrespective of rank and

station. Of course the decision rankled none the less fiercely on that

account. I noticed, however, that at the table of Mr. Foote his

neighbor’s guests accepted their allotments, even when placed “below

the salt”—as the most prominent among them were sure to be—with a

graceful nonchalance which, if assumed, was a height of self-control

unattainable by the haughty friends of their host.

It was amusing to see how the “tables were turned” when it became the

part of Mr. Thorpe to play the host. I was placed near my step-father,

and listened carefully to his remarks addressed _sotto-voce_, as the

different courses were brought in and removed, to his particular

friend, the former private secretary of the ex-governor of New Jersey.

“To think,” he exclaimed indignantly, “of that young upstart Carroll,

an acknowledged papist and open promoter of disaffection and

disloyalty, being invited to take precedence of such as you in the

house of a friend of mine!”

“I yield the precedence with pleasure, I assure you,” was the reply.

“This young Carroll is a man of no ordinary mark. Of his political

errors, if errors they must be called, I can only say it is to be

deplored that British rule should have furnished him with the weapons

he wields so powerfully against it. He is likely to prove a weighty

and influential foe in politics and in his profession. I have been

present in court when he was unwinding webs cunningly woven by leaders

of the Maryland bar; and, analyzing them thread by thread, he would

expose their flimsiness with such convincing clearness and simplicity

that the most unlettered juryman could comprehend it as fully as the

learned jurists. He has wonderful command of language, and, with no

attempt at eloquence, astonishing power in swaying the judgments and

feelings of his audience.”

“The more shame for him!” exclaimed Mr. Foote; “when he might exert so

potent an influence for king and country, that he should stoop to

pervert his powers, and become the demagogue of a vile mob, for

purposes of paltry private ambition!”

“That could hardly be his object. The suggestions of private ambition

are all in the opposite direction. He has everything to lose in the

probabilities before him, and but little to gain from the bare

possibility of success in the future for the cause he has embraced.”

“Yes, thank God! there is scarcely the bare possibility of such a

result. With the whole power of Great Britain against them, the rebels

have little to hope for, and the punishment of this nefarious

rebellion will be speedy and sure! Already the first note of triumph

is sounded in the defeat of their troops before Quebec!”

“Perhaps you are right,” his friend replied; “but I have not been a

careless observer of what is passing, and, if I do not greatly mistake

the temper of this people, that disaster will only inspire them with

new energy and determination. I regard the selection of George

Washington to command their forces as a far more threatening token for

British interests than this defeat at Quebec is for theirs. With such

a leader, and the great mass of the people perfectly united through

the length and breadth of this immense country to sustain him—even

admitting that in the oldest settlements they are sparse, and those

settlements widely scattered, and that their chief strength for the

struggle lies in the very weakness and insufficiency of their

resources—I confess I have grave misgivings that the conflict will be

fearful and the victory dearly bought.”

“No doubt they will fight desperately, and will be sure of every

papist in the country to a man! We have been altogether too tolerant

with these seditious subjects of the pope. The rascals have crept in

silently, until the provinces are filled with them. Scarcely a place

of any size, except Boston, can be found that has not a popish

Mass-house in full operation. They are gaining influence rapidly, too,

with the American people. Observe, for instance, the company invited

by our host. Yonder, next to that arch-traitor from Boston, John

Hancock, and the plebeian philosopher, Ben. Franklin, sit a number of

printers, five of whom, from as many different cities, are rank

papists, kindred spirits of the guild, though not very polished. It is

surprising to notice how many of the pope’s emissaries are printers!

Convenient for disseminating error and sedition, you know; make good

fighters, too. Then, on the opposite side of the table, are those

fiery Irishmen, Fitzsimmons, Barry, and Moylan, with a long line of

their fellows—rebels and papists all! Moylan has three brothers, I am

told, of the same stamp. Near to us are French and Germans, of whom I

know nothing but that they too belong to the pope, so it is fair to

suppose they favor the rebellion. Then there is the Maryland

delegation, led by Carroll—a pretty strong showing for his Holiness at

the New Year’s banquet of a private Protestant gentleman! It is too

late to remedy the evil now, but it ought to have been taken in hand

long ago. If it had been dealt with effectually in the beginning, I

greatly doubt whether the colonies would now be in the condition we

deplore.”

“It is not easy to deal with it effectually. The province of

Massachusetts Bay was very vigilant and severe from the start to keep

them out, or to exterminate them when they crept in, but they are

there now in considerable force.”

“Yes, indeed; for I have been credibly informed that they not only

lent their aid in that villanous tea-riot, but that the Puritan ranks

at Lexington and Bunker Hill were largely increased by the pestilent

dogs, who fought like tigers, and could not be made to understand when

they were soundly whipped! Well, well! we shall see what is to come.

It looks dark enough now, and, if matters are to go on as they

threaten, I shall accept the invitation of the home government to

loyal subjects, and remove my family to Nova Scotia.”

Here he struck the key-note of the strain that thrilled my heart with

apprehension. I fell into a painful reverie, which so absorbed me that

I heard no more. I knew well that secret agents had been through the

country describing large and desirable tracts of land in Canada and

Nova Scotia, to be given to all who would withdraw from the sections

in revolt; and proclamations to that effect had also been recently

published.

Should he fulfil his threat, my beloved mother would be removed to a

great distance from me, and the difficulties of travelling in times of

such disturbance were so great that it must be long before I could see

her again, if ever. Then I grieved to think of a separation from my

dear Anna, the youngest and loveliest of the five sisters, many years

my junior, and my special darling. I had been permitted to take her

home with me after the holidays every year, and keep her through the

remainder of the winter. Now I was no longer to enjoy that privilege.

Besides all this, I knew that a strong attachment existed between her

and Charles Thorpe, which had been forming from their childhood with

the full approbation of their parents. What troubles might now be in

store for them also!

Indeed, as I meditated upon the public, social, and domestic aspect of

affairs, I could see nothing cheering or encouraging. Here was this

little rural village, whose inhabitants were entirely divided among

themselves—a type of the national condition: fathers against sons,

wives opposed to their husbands, sons and daughters-in-law against

their fathers-in-law. It seemed to form a present and dismal

realization of the description given by our Lord.

The minds of old and young, and of all classes in society, were so

pervaded with a sense of impending evil as to cast a dark shadow over

the festive season, and cause its gay assemblies to take the character

of political meetings, where matters of fearful import were discussed

with bated breath.

It was well known that Mr. Thorpe, his father-in-law, and their

distinguished guests, with other leaders of the disaffected who were

constantly arriving and departing, held conclaves every night that

extended far into the “wee sma’ hours,” many of which my husband was

summoned to attend, to the intense displeasure of my irascible

step-father, who denounced them all as a pack of infamous traitors,

for whose treasonable practices hanging was the only proper remedy.

Upon the whole, rankling irritation on the one part, and gloomy

forebodings on the other, took the place of the cheerfulness proper to

the season; and when the parties at the two houses dispersed to go

their several ways, the leave-taking was a sad one for all.

Another year passed, and the Christmas of 1776 arrived. What changes

those few months had wrought! Mr. Thorpe and his three oldest sons,

John, Nathan, and Charles, had joined the Continental army early in

the year. The father commanded the regiment of militia in which his

sons served as privates. In one of the first engagements John was

killed. Soon after Mr. Thorpe himself was brought home wounded and

dying. He survived long enough to bequeath the cause to his wife and

her father, and to receive the assurance that their lives and those of

his surviving sons, with all their earthly possessions, should be

devoted to its interests.

Mr. Foote had fulfilled his threat, and removed his family to Nova

Scotia about the time when his life-long friend joined the “rebel”

army. I had a brief and mournful interview with my mother before they

left, and a stormy parting with my surly step-father, who was too much

incensed against my husband and myself, for embracing the cause he so

cordially hated, to be even coolly civil. His indignation was

increased by the suspicion that we had influenced my mother’s

sympathies in the same direction, though she very carefully abstained

from manifesting any such tendency out of respect for his honest

though misguided prejudices.

With him went a multitude of Church-of-England folk who were greatly

regretted in that neighborhood; for they very generally acted from a

sincere conviction of duty, and did not meddle unpleasantly with the

opinions and decisions of their neighbors. A still greater number of

Methodists went from New Jersey and Maryland to Canada and Nova

Scotia, and their departure was the occasion for universal rejoicing

to the friends of the country. The only regret was that they left a

sufficient faction of their brethren to act as spies and informers in

every village and neighborhood, and to bring all who differed from

them in politics into serious trouble. We used to think we defined

their position and character when we said, “They are all hand and

glove with the _Hessians_!”

The Declaration of Independence on the 4th of July in that year had

placed the day high in the calendar of those which mark the most

glorious epochs in the world’s history. Meantime, discouragements had

accumulated along the track of our army, until they culminated in that

dreary autumnal retreat through New Jersey before the British forces

which dispersed the hopes of our people as the winds scatter the

leaves of the season. A little later the British took possession of

Rhode Island. In the despair which followed these disastrous events

society became utterly disorganized; and when Lord Howe and his

brother-commanders of the British land and marine forces issued

proclamations offering full indemnity and protection to all who would

“return to their allegiance,” multitudes, among whom were many who had

been accounted our most steadfast friends, accepted the offer from

alarm, even while their sympathies and best wishes were with the cause

they thus abandoned. Not one Catholic was of their number; they had no

faith in British promises.

Great was the revulsion when our troops rallied to such glorious

purpose at Trenton and Princeton! Those who had fallen away in the

hour of adversity, and found to their sorrow how utterly worthless

were Lord Howe’s paper “protections” to shield them from the vile

outrages of the plundering Hessians, now returned in crowds, offering

themselves and all they possessed to General Washington to further his

efforts. His headquarters were made that winter in a town near the

little village where Mrs. Thorpe resided. Mr. von Francke visited him

frequently at his quarters during the winter as the financial agent of

many friends of the cause in New England and the Southern States. I

improved those occasions to accompany him and visit my dear friend,

Mrs. Thorpe.

She was exerting all her energies, time, and money to prepare clothing

for the soldiers and necessary supplies for the army. The buzz of

spinning-wheels and the clack of domestic looms were heard in her

house from day-dawn until late at night. That house was a workshop of

tailors and shoemakers, and her agents ransacked the country for

leather wherewith to make shoes. Every friend who visited her was

pressed into the service, and during each precious moment the busy

needles were plied and the knitting-needles clicked while we were

visiting and chatting of the past, the present, and the prospects of

the future. Most religiously did she thus fulfil the promise made to

her dying husband, and seemed to find solace for her great sorrow in

occupying herself constantly to aid the struggle for which her beloved

ones had given their lives.

My heart ached for poor Charles, dejected and lonely in his separation

from Anna, and grieving over the stern refusal of her father to permit

any intercourse between them unless he would abandon the rebels and

join the standard of King George. To add to his distress, he had

heard, through a friend of Anna, that her father had determined she

should accept the suit of an influential officer of the government in

Nova Scotia, a very dissolute man, who was captivated by her beauty

upon their first meeting at a dance in the house of the governor.

Charles knew so well her father’s despotic rule over his family that

he feared she might be compelled to comply with his commands.

Deeply as I sympathized with the young people, I could not afford them

the aid they entreated for communicating with each other through my

letters to my mother. The principles of my religion forbade that I

should do any act to encourage disobedience to a father. Yet I could

not regret that the kindness of General Washington made amends for my

refusal, by furnishing better facilities for their purpose than I

could have furnished.

The three following years passed on, marked by fluctuating fortunes

and many hardships for our devoted troops and their dauntless leader.

The surrender of Burgoyne in the autumn of ’77, and the alliance with

France which followed, had awakened bright hopes of a speedy and

successful termination of the conflict, but crushing reverses and

bitter disappointments soon came.

The state of the currency baffled the strongest efforts and exhausted

the resources of wise and able financiers. My husband, who was

accounted extremely clever in affairs connected with the exchequer,

was often driven to his wits’ end to provide for fearful

contingencies, and then to confess his utter inability to meet further

demands.

Mr. Earle placed his large fortune at the disposal of his country, and

died soon after. His daughter gave better treasures when, with Spartan

firmness, she yielded all her noble sons, one after another, for its

defence.

In the terribly hard winter of 1779-80 General Washington again

established his headquarters in New Jersey, in Mrs. Thorpe’s immediate

neighborhood, and I went frequently to visit her when it was necessary

for Mr. von Francke to go on financial missions to that place. Upon

one of these occasions, early in the spring, what was my surprise to

be greeted on the threshold by my beloved Anna, and to find that she

was the happy bride of my desponding young friend of yore, Charles

Thorpe, now a dashing lieutenant and prime favorite with the

commander-in-chief. Their happiness was not unclouded, however; for

they had been married without her father’s knowledge or consent. He

had made every arrangement for her immediate marriage with the man

whom he had chosen and whom she despised, and sent her to Boston to

procure her _trousseau_. Very opportunely, General Washington made a

journey to Boston about that time, with Charles in company as one of

his _aides_. The wedding took place at the house of the friend with

whom she was stopping. Many of Mr. Earle’s distinguished friends were

present, and General Washington gave away the bride.

Her father was so enraged when he heard of it that he forbade her to

enter his house again, or to expect that he would ever own her as his

daughter.

* * * * *

When Mrs. von Francke reached this point in her story, she gave a

bunch of keys and spoke some words in German to her waiting-woman, who

soon brought forth from some hidden recess a small mother-of-pearl

casket, with silver binding and clasps, of exquisite workmanship, and

a package neatly folded and enclosed in an embroidered white linen

case. The casket was first opened, and displayed a superb set of pearl

jewelry, consisting of various ornaments for the coiffure, ear-rings,

necklace, bracelets, brooch, waist-clasp, and buckles for the

slippers. It was presented to Anna by Mr. von Francke when she

departed for Nova Scotia. From the other package, after undoing many

fastenings, designed to shield its contents from any possible contact

with the air and dust, she drew a magnificent white satin dress, made

in the old-time fashion, with an immensely wide skirt—for the

crinoline of those days attained an amplitude far beyond the most

extravagant expansion achieved a few years since by the leaders of

_ton_—and a very long train. Around the lower part of the skirt a

heavy pattern in leaves and flowers was embroidered with pure silver

spangles and bugles[208] drawn on with silver thread; a tiny pair of

white satin shoes which would rival in size the celebrated glass

slippers of the fairy tale, embroidered with material and pattern to

match the dress, with the toes pointed, and the points turned back

until they nearly reached the pearl buckle on the instep; a splendid

white thread-lace over-dress, much in the mode of the modern

_polonaise_; a very long veil of the same material, attached by the

inevitable orange-flowers—these completed the suit, and, with the

pearls, formed the bridal costume fifty years before of Anna Foote,

now Mrs. Charles Thorpe.

After showing me two miniatures, painted on ivory in the most finished

and delicate style, and mounted in elegant gold lockets—the one of

Anna in her bridal dress, and the other of Charles in the full

military costume of that day—the articles were all carefully returned

to their receptacle and Mrs. von Francke resumed her narrative.

* * * * *

During the long visit I paid Mrs. Thorpe at that time—the spring of

1780—the village where the army was quartered, and the town near by,

were the scenes of many parties, balls, and entertainments of every

kind.

The French minister, M. Luzerne, successor of the first minister from

France, M. Gerard, came to pass some weeks at the headquarters of the

commander-in-chief. He was accompanied by many distinguished

foreigners. Among them was Don Juan de Miralles, resident at

Philadelphia, from the Spanish court. He had visited us frequently in

that city with Count Pulaski and MM. Gerard and Luzerne. He was a most

affable and accomplished gentleman and an exemplary Christian.

Upon their arrival the gay festivities were kept up with renewed zeal

and brilliancy. But while in full activity they were brought to a sad

and sudden close by the death of this gentleman after an illness of

only two days. Mr. von Francke brought a Spanish priest to attend his

last hours and conduct the funeral solemnities, which were celebrated

in the most imposing and impressive manner. General Washington and his

staff, all the foreign officers and ministers in full costume, walked

as chief mourners. Many members of Congress came to pay this last

tribute of respect to one who had, by his shining virtues and gentle

manners, endeared himself to all who knew him.

When Charleston, S. C., was taken by the British in May, 1780, Nathan

Thorpe was severely wounded. He was carried to the house of a German

Catholic in that city to whom Mr. von Francke had given him letters of

introduction. There he lingered between life and death, as it were,

for many weeks. He was faithfully attended night and day by a disabled

Irish Catholic soldier, who brought an Irish priest to instruct him

and administer the last consoling rites of the church to him in his

extremity. His youth and a robust constitution prevailed, however, and

he recovered. During this interval an attachment had been formed

between him and a lovely daughter of his kind host, to whom he was

married the ensuing autumn. As his health was not sufficiently

reinstated to permit his return to the army, he entered upon the

practice of his profession as a lawyer in Charleston, and finally

achieved brilliant success and a large fortune therein.

In June of that year Knyphausen, with his Hessians, made a destructive

raid through New Jersey, sparing neither friend nor foe; not even

their Methodist cronies and instigators escaped rough treatment and

severe losses, for which they received but slight commiseration from

their fellow-sufferers, whose interests they had done all they could

to injure and betray. Mrs. Thorpe’s property was seriously damaged and

many valuable animals slaughtered by the merciless ruffians.

In July of the same year the French fleet under Count de Grasse

arrived, and was welcomed with great joy by the whole country. The

French troops commanded by Count Rochambeau were transported on these

vessels. Soon after their arrival we became acquainted with that

illustrious commander. I saw him for the first time at the celebration

of Mass in our humble chapel. He was accompanied by Marquis La Fayette

and Count de Grasse. After Mass Mr. von Francke, who had been in

correspondence with them before, introduced me to them, and invited

them to dine with us in our home, which invitation they accepted, and

from that time they never failed to visit us when they were in

Philadelphia.

In August the Continental forces, under General Gates, fought the

bloody battle of Camden, S. C., and were defeated chiefly through the

shameful failure of the militia to do their duty. The Maryland

regiments, however—many of whom were Catholics—under their brave

Catholic commander, Baron de Kalb, fought with unyielding firmness and

desperation, atoning as far as possible for the poltroonery of their

Protestant comrades of Virginia and North Carolina.

When even General Gates fled from the field, the Catholic soldiers

advanced steadily and firmly to fight or die with the glorious De

Kalb, who, when he saw others flying, drew his sword, and, shouting to

his dauntless soldiers of the Maryland and Pennsylvania lines, “Stand

firm, my boys, for I am too old to fly!” fell soon after, covered with

wounds. The whole nation was in mourning when the news of his death

was received. Demonstrations of sorrow were made in every city, and

requiem Masses offered in the Catholic churches for the repose of his

soul. Congress voted that the country should rear a fitting monument

to his memory. It is still cherished by every true American heart, and

will be as long as our people are faithful to themselves and to their

country. He was one of Mr. von Francke’s dearest friends for many

years, and we mourned for him as for a brother.

Through the remainder of that year, and during the spring and summer

of 1781, discouragements in every form, and disasters that would have

utterly dismayed a less determined people, surrounded our hapless

country. The baseless currency became so depreciated as to be almost

worthless. The iniquity of speculators, and the flood of counterfeits

poured upon the colonies by Lord Howe, greatly increased difficulties

sufficient in themselves to overwhelm the nation. Yet the courage and

resolution of the people never faltered, and were fully responded to

and sustained by the firmness of their representatives in the

legislative assemblies of the different States and in Congress.

The heavy clouds began to break and our national prospects to brighten

in the early autumn of 1781. We had so often seen our fairest hopes

suddenly blighted that we hardly dared to accept such promising tokens

as seemed to be given from time to time only to save us from utter

despair. Now, however, we were destined to witness a consummation,

sudden, unlooked-for, and beyond the wildest expectations of the most

sanguine, in the entire defeat and surrender of the British troops

under Cornwallis, on the 19th of October in that year—an event which

virtually closed the war and secured our independence.

Intelligence of this astounding event was conveyed through the whole

country, with the speed of the wind, by special couriers despatched in

every direction. It was said that the fine horses of Methodist

Tories—which had been spared by the British troops when they captured

all that were of any value belonging to our people—performed splendid

exploits of speed in disseminating the glorious news, to the

unutterable indignation of their crestfallen owners!

Our nation, so long accustomed to desolating evils, now burst forth

into frantic demonstrations of joy. Bonfires blazed on every hill.

Public parades, and processions with banners, crowded the streets of

every town. Illuminations and fireworks turned the darkness of night

into noonday splendor. The rural populations, old and young, flocked

to the villages and cities to join in the universal expressions of

jubilant patriotism. Services of thanksgiving were held by

Protestants. High Masses were offered in Catholic churches, and the

_Te Deum_ was chanted there by Catholics marching in procession under

the floating colors of the triumphant “Stars and Stripes.”

The members of Congress, of the Supreme Executive Council, and the

Assembly of Pennsylvania, by special invitation of the French

minister, attended in our church in Philadelphia during the

celebration of divine service and thanksgiving for the capture of Lord

Cornwallis. Our French pastor, Abbé Baudole, delivered an eloquent

address upon the occasion.

New Jersey was more noisy than all the other States in her public

manifestations of triumph. Nor was it unfit that she should be, since

none had suffered so much in furnishing a common battle-ground and

thoroughfare for the conflicting forces. Neither was it strange that

she showed little toleration for the Tories at whose hands she had

received persecutions, injuries, and insults of untold numbers and

magnitude. Here, as elsewhere, the Catholic voice, the first that was

raised in support of the conflict for independence, was also the first

to plead, through both clergy and laity, for toleration and leniency

toward these relentless foes of our country in her darkest hours.

Early in November we entertained a large and joyful party at our

house. At our request General Washington and his lady presided at the

reception of the guests. All the French and German officers with their

attendants, the foreign ministers, and many of our own distinguished

countrymen, military and civic, were present. Charles and Anna Thorpe

were of my household at that time.

A succession of splendid private entertainments and public banquets

was given in Philadelphia.

The joyful excitement was kept up by the nation through the following

winter, and Mr. von Francke was absent frequently as the invited guest

at public festivals which would not excuse him from attendance,

although his health was rapidly declining.

In May, 1782, my rejoicing was quenched for ever by the painful event

which left me a widow. The long-sustained strain and mental anxiety to

which my husband was subjected during all those years of national

embarrassment had so worn upon his frame that, when final success was

assured and the strain no longer required, he sank into a decline, for

the arrest of which all remedies proved unavailing, and survived only

a few weeks. No hero that gave his life on any of those bloody

battle-fields was, more truly than he, a martyr for his country.

Mrs. Thorpe, Charles, and Anna were with me during the distressing

scene and until I had consigned my beloved to his final resting-place.

He had for so many years belonged to the public that it claimed the

right to conduct the ceremonial, outside of the church; and it was

celebrated with most impressive solemnity, both as a religious and

civic rite.

From that time Philadelphia became intolerable to me. I closed my

house and accompanied my kind and gentle friend to the home in New

Jersey which was always open to the afflicted. Here I remained until

Charles removed to St. Lawrence County, N. Y.—then a dense

wilderness—with his family. He had received a grant of lands from the

government, which he exchanged for an extensive territory in that

vicinity.

To that wilderness I came with my dear Anna to share the hardships and

privations inseparable from the attempt to found a home in such a

region. With these trials, wholly new to us, we have also received and

enjoyed many blessings. She is surrounded by a blooming group of sons

and daughters, and blessed with smiling, prattling grandchildren. We

have seen a fine village grow up around us, and our country has been

crowned with unexampled prosperity.

The one sole cloud over Anna’s happiness has been the stern refusal of

my obstinate step-father, who still lives at a very advanced age, to

forgive the daughter he so cruelly banished from his heart and home. I

have often thought that, if the colonies had been subdued, he would

have welcomed her back long ago. She has written many letters to him,

but they are always returned unopened. My own dear mother died the

year following Anna’s marriage. I saw her but once after her removal

to Nova Scotia. The separation from her was one of the greatest trials

of my life. Few indeed who have lived so long have suffered less from

severe afflictions than I, and my heart swells with gratitude daily

when I recall the varied blessings which the beneficent hand of

Providence has poured upon my lengthened pilgrimage.

* * * * *

Some years later, when Mrs. von Francke was past ninety, I was on a

visit to the dear friends of whom I have discoursed in this rambling

sketch, when they received a message from Nova Scotia that the aged

Mr. Foote was dying, and could not leave the world in peace until he

had seen and been reconciled with his long-banished daughter. He

requested that Charles should go with her.

There was bustling and packing in great haste. In a few hours after

the message arrived they were on board a steamer, bound for Quebec,

_en route_ for Nova Scotia. Mr. Foote lived some weeks after their

arrival, and would not allow them to leave him for an hour. They

remained until after the funeral.

Mrs. von Francke survived her step-father but a few months. All the

elder members of the family have long since passed away.

It is many years since I have seen the lovely home of my childhood, or

that other one, on the bank of the dear old St. Lawrence, where I

passed so large a portion of childhood’s happy hours; but the memories

connected with both, and with the dear friends who made those hours so

happy, will never pass away.

[208] Elongated beads.

CONSUELO.

When, from the countless stars

That gem the azure vault above,

One flames and dies

Across our skies,

We mourn so bright a light

Is lost to sight;

And then—one brighter comes in view.

In trackless wastes

Our stars point true,

And, dying,

Ever thus renew.

When, from the countless _homes_

That deck this earth of ours,

One altar fire

Flames but to expire,

We mourn a loved hearth

So lost to earth;

And then—we build a new.

Wandering the world,

Our hearth-fires woo,

And, dying,

Ever thus renew.

SIR THOMAS MORE.

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

XIII.

In the meantime Sir Thomas More had returned to his home at Chelsea.

He felt at first a slight decree of uneasiness on account of the

indiscretions of the Holy Maid of Kent, the evident malice with which

Cromwell had drawn them out, and the eagerness with which he had

interpreted them.

But as he was accustomed to resign into the hands of God the entire

care of his future, and as there appeared to be nothing with which he

could reproach himself in the short and accidental relations he had

had with that woman, he soon recovered his former tranquillity, and

thought no more but of how he might be able to render some new service

to the queen. He knew she had set out for Leicester Abbey, and he had

already found means of writing to the abbot, whom he remembered having

received at the chancelry on some particular business concerning the

rights of the abbey, and the father abbot had appeared, as well as he

could remember, to be an honest and intelligent man.

Feeling satisfied that the queen had, ere that time, received his

communications, he had gone towards evening to take a walk with his

children in the country.

They were all seated on the green slope at Chelsea. The Thames flowed

at their feet; the freshness of the verdure, the perfumed breeze that

arose from the meadow, the balmy sweetness of the air, all united to

render the moment a delicious one.

“See, dear father,” said Margaret, who was sitting at his feet (she

always kept as near him as possible), “see how beautiful the river is!

How it comes with its silver waves to kiss the rich and verdant meadow

which extends so far before us! Look at those flocks of sheep,

following the shepherds to the fold; how docile they are and obedient

to their voices! And those dogs, how active and intelligent! Oh! how I

love the evening, when the horizon yet burns with the red glow of the

sun as he descends to light up other skies.” And Margaret paused to

admire in silence the pure and inspiring beauties of nature by which

she was surrounded, while her eyes sought those of her father, as if

to interrogate him.

More smiled as he regarded her.

“Well, my dear daughter,” he said, “why not speak thy whole thought?”

For he loved to listen to the forcible sentiments she sometimes

expressed, so characteristic of her melancholy and enthusiastic

temperament.

“Why ask that, father?” she replied; “for my thought is sad—sad as all

things that end. The day has gone, never more to return! It is like a

precious pearl that has been unstrung from a necklace where all are

carefully numbered.”

“Thou art right, my daughter, and may be the happiness I have enjoyed

this day in the midst of you will never more return!”

“What sayest thou, my father?” cried Margaret, alarmed. “Nay, wouldst

thou leave us, then, and couldst thou live without thy children?”

“No, my child, no; but observe you not how the days of man are like

the swift shuttle that flies to and fro in the hands of the weaver,

and which he uses to trace, one after another, divers designs?”

“This one pleases me much,” said Margaret, smiling, “and I would like

it to stop here.”

As she said this, she extended her hand toward Roper, who brought her

a large bouquet of daisies[209] he had gathered for her in the fields.

“Here is my name written on my forehead by the hand of Roper,” she

continued; and she placed the pretty white flowers amid the dark

tresses of her lovely hair.

The father admired his beautiful young daughter, in whom, indeed,

youth and beauty were united in all their brilliancy. Her small hands

rested one upon the other; her white robe hung in graceful folds

around, defining her perfectly-moulded form; her eyes, calm and serene

in expression, yet shone with a thousand fires; one could read in

their depths the strength and vigor of this young soul just entering

upon life. Those features so calm and lovely, that union of charms and

perfections, brought joy and happiness to the depths of the devoted

father’s soul. He gazed at her in silence.

“A ray of eternal beauty lights up this beautiful countenance,” he

said to himself. “This flower is born of my blood; it is being of my

being, soul of my soul. Oh! blessed, blessed for ever be this child

whom the Lord hath given to me! Margaret, my daughter,” he said after

a moment’s silence, “tell me, I pray you, what is beauty?”

“Beauty?” replied Margaret, smiling at the unexpected question; and

she raised towards him her eyes, whose lovely expression anticipated

her answer.… “Well, … beauty is an undefinable thing,” she continued.

“We recognize it in everything. Our souls are made to see it, to

admire and love it; but I cannot, I believe, define it. It is there,

and immediately we are enraptured with it. It is a ray of the glory of

God; it is his power which flashes before our eyes, and our hearts are

at once transported. The beautiful animal, full of life, strength, and

agility, whose light and rapid steps seem scarcely to bend the

delicate herbage of the field, his glossy coat permitting you to count

his veins and admire the graceful and elegant proportions of his form;

the plants rich with flowers and weighty with fruits; the birds with

variegated plumage and tints of a thousand colors; the pure, azure

skies of summer, the stars of night—such is beauty, my father; I feel

it, but I cannot describe it to you otherwise.”

“Then, my dear child, what think you of the Being who has drawn all

these things out of nothing, and who, by his powerful word, has given

them everything, and preserves and watches over them all?”

“That he is,” replied Margaret earnestly, “the source and the

veritable plenitude of all beauty; and that if we could see him either

with the eyes of the body or those of the soul, we should be perfectly

happy, since he must be, and is necessarily, the sovereign perfection

of all that delights in this world. And if you speak to me of

eloquence, that moral beauty of soul which subdues and carries

everything before it, I find in it but a new expression of that

Sovereign Intelligence who has placed in our hearts the faculty of

feeling and loving beauty, the strength and elevation of thought,

which an Intelligence superior to our own is charged by it to

communicate to us.”

“Then, my dear child, what think you of the unbeliever?”

“What do I think of him?” said Margaret, intently regarding Sir

Thomas. “I will tell you: I do not think he exists.”

“How say you! that he exists not?”

“No, he does not exist, because he cannot. God has created us free,

but that freedom has bounds. We cannot uncreate or make ourselves

cease to be, and in the same way we cannot destroy our reason beyond a

certain point; we may deny the truth with our lips, but we cannot

prevent our hearts from believing it; we may arrange, assert, relate,

or invent a falsehood, but we cannot convince ourselves that it is

true. The sad science of the atheist compels him to remove God as far

as possible from himself; to call him by a name formed of several

strange syllables which do not represent him under any form to his

mind; then when he has come to drive him beyond the bounds of his

narrow intelligence, he denies his Creator with that tongue, with that

life, and in the name of that reason which he received from him. Such

a man must be a liar, although he would not be willing to walk proudly

in the public ways with the tablet of liar attached to his shoulders.”

More smiled at the strong comparison of Margaret; and as he derived an

extreme pleasure from these philosophical conversations, he continued

thus:

“You believe, then, there are no atheists?”

“No,” replied Margaret, “there is not one in good faith, because the

most ordinary reason is enough to prevent all doubt that the admirable

chain of all being, over whom man is established master and king, has

not been created by itself, and that it is the work of a Sovereign

Intelligence who has foreseen and established all things by a science

of prevision and of power far beyond all that we are able to see, all

that we can feel, and all that we possess.”

“Nevertheless, Margaret, they will tell you that there is a force, a

blind power, who has created all that.”

“Then,” replied Margaret ironically, “I will ask them what they

understand by a ‘blind power’; for power means, it seems to me, that

which _can_; but that which is blind can do, can will naught. Those,

then, who by a happy chance see, wish, and know something, I would ask

to add to the stature of a man the height of one cubit; to organize a

head that understands how to solve mathematical problems, to compose

music, poetry, to learn, remember, and speak. What think you, my

father: would it not be very convenient to have in your cabinet some

of those thinking heads, arranged on a shelf, as are pitchers and

pipkins? Miserable creatures!” she continued, indignantly, “how they

degrade and dishonor mankind! And how do they dispose of their

consciences? Why have they a conscience which commands them to do

right and reproaches them for doing wrong, if it is not that man, born

immortal, must one day render an account of all his deeds, and receive

from God either a reward or punishment? No, it is not in weakness of

the intellect that we must search for the origin of atheism, but in

the corruption of the heart. If, then, the atheist denies God, he

thereby testifies to his justice and power, even as the faithful bear

witness to his goodness and mercy in acknowledging and honoring him.

The one fears him because of the crimes he has committed; the other

hopes in him because of the virtues he practises: behold the sole and

only difference between the two men.”

“Well, my dear daughter,” replied More; “but the greater number of men

who call themselves atheists follow only their own reasoning, as do

you this moment, being almost always most profoundly ignorant of

themselves and of their own nature, and entirely indifferent about the

means of being instructed. Occupied solely with the present life, they

attach themselves to mere sensual enjoyments, and, feeling that it

would be necessary to abandon these in order to deliver their souls

from the yoke of matter, they prefer thus to vegetate in forgetfulness

of themselves and of all their duties.”

“Then, my father, you see that you agree with me on the point from

whence I started out, which was that there are really no atheists,

that the word is false, that it is taken in a false acceptation, and

that it can only be properly defined in this way: ‘_One who in his own

heart is a liar._’”

While Margaret was conversing thus with her father, and the rest of

the family were enjoying the repose of innocence and freedom, a man

silently turned around the foot of the hill and followed slowly the

path leading through the meadow. His face was darkly clouded with

care; envy and malice were hidden in the depths of his heart. He

reflected within himself in what manner he should approach the host

whom he came to visit, and whom he perceived sitting on top of the

hill. Thus in an immortal poem we find the fallen angel thrice making

the circuit of the terrestrial paradise, seeking where he should enter

in order to attack the man favored of God.

“Father, here is some one coming!” cried the youngest of More’s

daughters.

And she ran, followed by the house dog, with which she had been very

busy fixing on its neck a collar of leaves.

“It is a gentleman dressed all in black, who has a beautiful chain

hanging round his neck.”

As she finished speaking Cromwell appeared.

“Ah! it is you, Master Cromwell,” said More, rising graciously. “Let

me welcome you among us. How fares it with you?”

For the more Sir Thomas thought he had to complain of any one, the

more he exerted himself by his kind and polite manner to assure him

that he felt no bitterness in his heart; this was the cause of the

cordial reception he gave Cromwell, whom he would otherwise have

avoided.

“Well, I thank you,” replied Cromwell, casting, as was his custom, a

furtive glance on all around him.

He at once encountered the eyes of Margaret, which were fixed upon him

with an expression of anger and scorn; for she could not endure him,

having learned from the Bishop of Rochester how he had conducted

himself in the hall of convocation, with what impudence he had sat

himself in the midst of the assembly, and the manœuvres he had used to

extort from the bishops an oath which must be followed by such fatal

consequences.

He laughed to himself at the young girl’s displeasure, and made her a

profound salutation. But she did not return it; and passing from the

other side, she went and seated herself near her stepmother, who was

knitting the leg of a stocking—the only employment in which she was

passably skilled.

Cromwell remarked this movement; and if he was indifferent to it, he

at least drew from it an inference as to the feeling of the family

with regard to present affairs.

“Sir Thomas,” he said in a tone tinged with raillery, “I come, on the

part of the king, to announce great news to you; it depends on

yourself whether you find it good or bad. The king, our most gracious

sovereign, is married, and he has espoused my lady Anne Boleyn.”

“The king married!” said Sir Thomas. “The king married!” he repeated.

But he felt that Cromwell, who was aware of his great attachment to

the queen, had only come to enjoy his discomfiture, or to watch him

with some malicious design. He at once put himself on his guard, but

turned visibly pale.

“He is married,” continued Cromwell. “The clergy laughed at him; but,

by my troth, he has in his turn laughed at them! It was necessary that

all this should come to an end. Yesterday his majesty advised the

lords of his Privy Council of the decision he has taken of having the

new queen publicly acknowledged. The communication should be made

to-day in Parliament, and they will proceed immediately after to

receive the oaths of all the members touching the succession to the

throne, the supremacy of the king, and the separation from the Church

of Rome.”

“Cromwell, can it be?” said Sir Thomas More, struck with

consternation. “How rapidly all this has been brought about! And the

queen, where is she?”

“Which one?” replied Cromwell, already affecting the tone of the

court.

“Queen Catherine!” added More with a profound sigh.

“Ah! I understand. More obstinate than ever,” replied Cromwell in a

tone of badinage. “She has retired to Easthampstead. We are occupied

with her case now in council; she will be summoned to Dunstable, where

an ecclesiastical commission will cut short all of her demands. Oh!

all is over so far as she is concerned.”

More felt pierced to the heart, and each new expression of Cromwell

wounded him afresh. He could not doubt but this cruel man had been

sent to take an exact account of his slightest gesture and most

insignificant word; he therefore vainly endeavored to restrain his

feelings, but sorrow and the honest frankness of his nature carried

him beyond the limits of prudence.

“Master Cromwell,” he said with dignity, “I know not why the king has

sent you to me; but I think you know me so well that it would be

useless for me, standing face to face with you, to disguise my

sentiments; I therefore candidly acknowledge that what you have told

me penetrates me with a mortal sorrow. My heart is deeply attached to

Queen Catherine, but I am, by my duty, still more devoted to the king.

It is with the deepest grief that I see those who surround him, far

from telling him the truth, think only of flattering him, that they

may obtain new favors from his hands. And you, who are his adviser, I

exhort and conjure you never to tell him what he _can_ do, but what he

ought to do; because, if the lion knew his strength, who would be able

to subdue him? Until this time, as you know, we have not walked in the

same road, nor have our eyes been turned to the same end; but now that

I have entirely withdrawn from public life, when I can no longer cause

you suspicion, when my sole and only desire is to live in obscurity,

surrounded by my children, occupying myself with naught but the

affairs of my eternal salvation, it seems to me I can disclose to you

my inmost thoughts. I esteem you too highly to fear that you would

abuse my confidence. Use your influence, then, with the king, if there

yet be time, and try to arrest the disasters with which church and

state are threatened!”

Cromwell felt confounded; come as a master, a triumphant enemy, he

endeavored, but was unable, to recover himself in the presence of the

calm and magnanimous virtue of a great man who seemed to place with

confidence his destiny in his hands, and to esteem him sufficiently to

exhort him still to fulfil his duty to his king and country. He

experienced a momentary inspiration of good; but corrupt souls stifle

such inspirations with the same facility that they are followed by the

pure in heart. An instant’s reflection sufficed for him to recover his

accustomed arrogance.

“That is an easy thing for you to say,” he replied, “having now, as

you have just remarked, retired from public life. But for me it is

very different; every day convinces me how dangerous it would be to

resist the king, and I confess that I am by no means tired of life,

and do not desire to lose my head on the scaffold, nor to die in

poverty like that poor cardinal of defunct memory. That is why I must

continue to act as I have done in Parliament, and I advise you to do

the same; for, hearken, Sir Thomas: I have not come here of my own

accord, but on the part of the king, to announce to you his

intentions, and at the same time say to you that he has learned with

great indignation of the correspondence you have kept up with that nun

called the Holy Maid of Kent; that, notwithstanding, he will exercise

toward you the utmost clemency, that he will strike your name from the

bill of high treason which is entered against her, if he has reason

hereafter to be satisfied with your conduct, and if you will publicly

abjure the prejudices you have until this time manifested against

Queen Anne, his spouse.”

“What say you, Master Cromwell?” cried Sir Thomas More. “I am

implicated in the proceedings they have instituted against that

woman?”

And the unhappy father looked round upon his children, who had

gathered around him, and whom terror and alarm had rendered

motionless.

“Master Cromwell,” he continued after a moment’s silence, “your visit

is a cruel one; my children, at least, were not guilty, if any one

else here is.” And his eyes rested on Margaret, who stood pale and

trembling with horror and surprise.

But Cromwell knew very well what he had come to do; it was part of his

design that the grief and solicitations of More’s children should

break down his resolution, and induce him to yield to all they wished

to demand of him.

“Margaret! my beloved child,” said More, especially concerned for her,

“grieve not. I fully hope to prove, as clearly as the light of day,

that I have nothing with which to reproach myself toward my king, and

that I am an entire stranger to the follies of that woman. Listen,

Master Cromwell,” he continued, turning towards him, without

manifesting the least emotion, “I pray you say to the king, my

sovereign, that nothing could afflict me more than to know I had

incurred his displeasure. Nevertheless, I hope to prove that he is

mistaken with regard to the acquaintance I have had with that woman. I

have seen her but once, in the Sion Convent, in a chapel, and then

because the fathers urged me to converse with her a few moments, and

tell them what I thought of her virtue. She appeared to me simple and

true in her conversation. The replies she made to the few questions I

addressed her seemed to proceed from an humble heart and a pious soul.

Since that day 1 have not seen her. This winter some one spoke to me

about her, and told me she had made some predictions about the king,

and asked me if I wanted to hear them. To which I replied—and I

remember it perfectly—that I wanted to hear nothing about it, and, if

it was true she had anything to reveal to the king, it seemed to me at

least entirely superfluous for any other man to inquire into it. This

is the whole truth, and I beg you, Master Cromwell, to say to the king

I hope to prove it in the most undeniable manner.”

“This woman is only an instrument,” replied Cromwell, affecting not to

reply to what Sir Thomas had said; “they have only used her and her

pretended revelations in order to cause the conduct of the king to be

censured by his people. I very much fear they will be severely

punished—those, at least, who have employed her for that purpose.”

“I know not what will come of it,” replied Sir Thomas in a cold and

quiet manner. “If it is true that there is a criminal impostor

disguised under the appearance of virtue, they would do well to expose

and punish her rigorously.”

And there the conversation ended. However much Cromwell desired that

it should be prolonged, he neither knew how to renew nor to continue

it. He concluded, therefore, to affect a degree of zeal and

friendship, and summoned all his hypocrisy to his assistance.

“Dear Sir Thomas,” he said, “as you said but now, we have not always

been of the same way of thinking. Some day I may change my opinions;

but at this time I cannot begin to tell you how much anxiety I feel on

account of the king’s anger in your regard. It appears that they have

excited him most terribly against you. You must have some secret enemy

who is using these means for the purpose of lessening you in his

estimation and making you lose his favor.”

More listened, thinking if indeed it could be Cromwell who spoke in

this manner.

“Verily,” he answered, “I must fain think as you do, for I have naught

on my conscience touching that woman; and would to God I was in his

sight as free from sin as I feel myself free from any thought of wrong

or any transgression against our sovereign lord and king!”

“Sir Thomas, you have let your attachment to Queen Catherine show too

plainly, and it is right well known that you are against the spiritual

supremacy of the king.”

More made no reply. Tears arose in his eyes. He looked at Margaret.

The young girl held one of her stepmother’s long iron

knitting-needles, and seemed mechanically trying to sharpen the point

with the end of her finger, which she turned rapidly around it. If

Margaret had held a poignard, it was evident that she would have

wished to plunge it into the heart of the traitor who stood before

her. She said nothing, but her flashing eyes followed every movement

he made. The others sat motionless, and Cromwell felt oppressed by the

attention of all these souls weighing upon his own. He no longer knew

what to say; he looked around, he hesitated, he tried to resume the

conversation, and again broke down.

Sir Thomas, always kind, always considerate, wished to relieve him

from this painfully embarrassing situation.

“Master Cromwell,” he said, “I see that you find it somewhat painful

to tell me all you have learned that would be disagreeable to me;

therefore let us retire from here. If it please you to sup with us, we

will return to the house.”

“I do not think Master Cromwell is hungry,” said Margaret, changing

color. “He is one of those men who subsist on evil as well as bread;

it is a stronger and more bitter nourishment, the savor of which

agrees better with their ferocious natures.”

“You are charming, charming, damsel!” replied Cromwell, turning toward

her with that trifling manner, coarse and familiar, which he

considered suitable to adopt in his intercourse with women farthest

above himself.

“Margaret does not like compliments,” replied Sir Thomas More, who

endeavored to repair, without seeming to have noticed them, the

expressions of anger and scorn Margaret had permitted to escape her.

“She is very sensitive,” he added.

“And very frank, it seems to me,” answered Cromwell quickly, in a tone

insolent and easy.

“A little too much so, perhaps,” replied Sir Thomas gently; “but that

is better than to be deceitful.”

“Are all these fields yours?” asked Cromwell.

“No, indeed, sir. I own very little land around my dwelling; besides,

I gave a portion of it to Margaret, my daughter, when she became

affianced to young Roper.”

Saying this, Sir Thomas turned and walked with Cromwell and his family

towards the house. On their arrival Sir Thomas conducted Cromwell into

his private cabinet.

“Listen, sir,” he said, after he had closed the door: “I would not

wish to conceal from you that you have deeply wounded me by declaring

in presence of my children that I had been accused of high treason. I

have not been chief-justice so long without learning that this is the

weight they will let fall on my head, and I know perfectly well that

this accusation of high treason is like a glove, which they can make

to fit any hand. As to what I think about the supremacy of the king,

that I shall reveal to no man living. But, at least, be so good as to

tell me how this action against me began, and who are my accomplices.”

“The nun,” replied Cromwell (perfectly well instructed in the

particulars of an affair he had invented and intended to direct)—“the

nun is accused of high treason toward the king. Her accomplices are

Master Richard, Dr. Baking, Richard Risby, Biering, Gold, Lawrence

Thwaites, John Adisson, and Thomas Abel. As to yourself and the Bishop

of Rochester, you are accused of connivance; but, after what you have

told me, I doubt not you will be able to prove your innocence easily,

and your name will be stricken out at the commencement of the

prosecution.”

“The Bishop of Rochester!” exclaimed Sir Thomas, his hands resting on

the table, and entirely absorbed in reflection. He recalled the night

when Fisher, seated in the same chair now occupied by Cromwell, had

implored him not to accept the seal of state, and, upon his refusing

to take his advice, prayed God never to permit them to be separated,

but that their lives might terminate in the same manner and at the

same moment. Lost in the recollection of his tender friendship, More

forgot the frightful character of Cromwell, which no one, however,

better understood than himself. He took him affectionately by the

hand.

“Dear Cromwell,” he exclaimed, “how is this? The Bishop of Rochester?

Ah! I implore you have his name removed. Let them be revenged on me,

but not on him. Mercy for my friend!”

Sir Thomas was on the point of telling Cromwell that he had heard them

both accused on that fatal night at Westminster; but on reflection he

forebore, supposing him to be entirely ignorant of their presence in

the church.

“Alas!” continued Sir Thomas, “if I have offended the king, let them

punish me; but Rochester, what has he done? Devoid of ambition,

occupied entirely with the duties of his bishopric, devoted to the

king, at whose birth he attended, loved, esteemed by him, how can they

suspect him of wishing to injure his beloved sovereign? Master

Cromwell, I beseech you intercede for him!”

That prayer was very well understood by Cromwell, but he feigned not

to hear it. He had not come to sympathize with, but rather to enjoy

the sufferings of a just man, one whom he still feared, although he

had entirely supplanted him.

“Sir Thomas,” he replied, “I cannot see why you supplicate me in

behalf of the Bishop of Rochester, as though I were able to do

anything in the matter. Justice is there, to be rendered to him, and

to you also, if you prove that you are entirely innocent of this

charge.”

“In sooth,” said Sir Thomas, “I swear to you that I know nothing about

it. I have never considered it of sufficient importance to investigate

the character and veracity of that woman. I believe, and am very well

convinced, that being the creatures and the children of God, in whom

we exist and from whom we have received all things, he will sometimes,

in his goodness, manifest his will to us by some extraordinary means

and supernatural ways, and also that he can change or interrupt in a

moment events of which he has himself marked out the course; but, at

the same time, I believe that this truth can be abused either by

weakness of the mind, by error, or by folly. That woman, then, is

perhaps guilty of no other crime than of having mistaken dreams for

revelations; and if it is thus, I find that the more importance we

give to trivial things, the more dangerous we make them, if in the

beginning they were the cause of any inconvenience.”

“That is true,” said Cromwell; “but the king is very much wroth, and

intends that this woman and all those who have believed in her shall

be punished.”

“That alters the case,” replied Sir Thomas; and he paused

thoughtfully.

“However,” said Cromwell, “there is a very sure way of conciliating

his majesty, which is by praying my lady Anne to be your intercessor.

If you wish it, I will request her, in your name, to intercede with

the king for the Bishop of Rochester.”

“Ah!” said Sir Thomas.

He felt as though Cromwell had thrust a dagger into his heart. He

bowed his head and was unable to utter a word. To save his friend by

condescending to a base action—he had not courage to accept the

condition.

“That is an assured way,” said Cromwell (and the vile wretch

secretly applauded himself on the astute and skilful means he

employed)—“infallible; a word from her will suffice.”

“No,” cried More, “no! The honor of my friend is as dear as my own. He

would not will it.”

“He would not will it!” replied Cromwell, in an ironical tone. “What!

would you, then, consider yourselves dishonored because she had

interceded for him?”

“Ah! Cromwell,” cried Sir Thomas, regretting what he had said, “I

implore you do not betray my situation!”

“I am far from betraying you, sir, since I offer you a very sure and

very simple means of removing all that is dangerous in that situation.

I can promise you that if you satisfy the king on this point, and if

you testify that you accept and recognize him without any repugnance

as supreme head of the church, not only will he pardon your fault, but

he will overwhelm you with new favors.”

On hearing this proposal Sir Thomas looked steadily at him.

“Sir,” he said, “I thank you. I now understand what they ask of me,

and why they have placed my name and that of my friend on the list of

the accused, which, in reality, would not be able to reach or injure

us. Now I have no longer any doubt. When will the trial begin?”

“What do you say?” interrupted Cromwell. “What! you refuse?”

“I refuse nothing,” said Sir Thomas modestly; “I only ask when the

trial will take place, and when I must present myself at the bar.”