“But reflect on the wrong you do!” replied Cromwell.

“I have considered everything,” responded Sir Thomas.

“Ah! well, then, do as you please.… To-morrow the commission will

assemble in the Tower, and I very much fear, from your obstinacy, that

you will remain there.”

“In that event I will make my preparations to-night,” replied Sir

Thomas.

At that moment Margaret hurriedly entered and announced supper,

Cromwell took advantage of the occasion. He saw with great vexation

the firmness of Sir Thomas, and, having promised the king that he

would make him yield, he supposed the young girl would assist him in

renewing the conference.

“Damsel,” he said, inclining toward her,” I am glad you have come;

for, although you have treated me but ill, I am here to render an

important service to your father. Persuade him, then, to listen to me,

and not consent to separate himself from you, perhaps for ever!”

“My God!” cried Margaret, “my father separate himself from us? What do

you mean? Speak! what do you mean? With how many maledictions, then,

do you come prepared to strike our house?”

“To-morrow Sir Thomas is summoned to appear before the council. Let

him promise to take the oath the king requires, and his life will be

spared!”

“Stop, sir!” cried Sir Thomas. “My children are not in the habit of

judging my conduct nor of designating the path I should follow! Your

pity is of the cruellest, sir! May God grant you a more sincere friend

and a more genuine compassion than that you have offered me to-day!

Go, Margaret; go tell your mother I wait for her.”

To this formal and decided expression of her father’s will Margaret

dared not reply; she left the room, but felt that a fearful calamity

had befallen her, of which she knew not yet the entire extent, and she

descended slowly, pausing on each step of the stairway, wrapped in

painful reflection.

Sir Thomas soon entered the hall with Cromwell, to whom he gave the

first place at table, and who accepted without remorse such cordial

hospitality on the part of a man whom he had resolved to corrupt or

ruin entirely.

* * * * *

When night was far advanced, and Cromwell had departed from the abode

into which he had entered only to bring sorrow and desolation, Sir

Thomas returned to his cabinet, which he loved like an old servant

whom we never regret so much as when it becomes necessary to part with

him. He entered, with anxiety and sadness in his soul, and took his

accustomed seat; he put the light he carried in the same place where

he had placed it for so many years, and from whence it had shone on so

many vigils and so many good actions, and he looked around him.

“To-morrow,” he exclaimed, “to-morrow I shall have to leave this abode

where I have so long tended and seen my father die, where I have

welcomed my first dear wife, where my children have been born!… When

the swallow leaves her nest, she has a hope of returning to it again;

but I, can I indulge in that sweet delusion? Is it not certain that my

ruin is resolved on, and that the king’s indignation means death?

To-morrow, when the day shall have dawned, I must assume a cheerful

countenance, a serene composure, and say to them: ‘Adieu, my cherished

children! I will return very soon.’ I will return very soon! Shall I

be able to utter words that are so foreign to my heart? And

Margaret—Margaret will weep for me all the days of her life. I shall

never behold her young children, nor bless them when for the first

time their eyes are opened to the light of day, and I shall never hear

them try to repeat my name. Alas! why must it be that the king is

annoyed at my breathing the air?—a man, too, confounded among a

million of his subjects! Of what importance to him are the thoughts

that lie hidden in the bottom of my heart? Why, Lord,” he cried,

raising his hands toward heaven, “hast thou not stricken me from his

memory, and why hast thou suffered this prince of the earth to

remember my name? Grant me an asylum where I may be able to finish out

the days thou hast allotted me; the birds of the air find a shelter,

the bears and ferocious beasts of the earth possess their dens, and no

one comes to force them away! However, let thy will be done, and not

mine.”

More remained for a long time leaning on the table. He then arose and

walked the floor to and fro. He moved from place to place in the room;

for he would be there no more, if they should summon and compel him to

cave for ever his modest and beloved abode.

“They are all asleep,” he said. “I have consoled them. They have seen

Cromwell with me, but they have not suspected that he brought the

death-warrant of their father. A few hours of peace still remain for

them, and to-morrow—to-morrow they will weep and feel that I am no

longer with them! My eyes will no more behold my beloved ones; I shall

no more hear their voices. They will seek me, but they will find me no

more on earth.”

Here Sir Thomas was unable longer to contemplate with calmness the

picture his imagination presented of the desolation and abandonment of

his children. Looking around to be assured that he was entirely alone,

he sank into a chair, and, bursting into tears, abandoned himself to

the most bitter grief.

For a long time he remained thus. At length he arose; seeing that the

clock in his cabinet was about to strike the hour of midnight, he

returned to his table.

Taking up an enormous portfolio, he opened all the drawers. He took

out a great number of papers and divers packages of letters; some of

the latter were letters written by Margaret when a child, and he had

preserved them as souvenirs of the progress of her youthful intellect;

others were from the Bishop of Rochester; the greater number concerned

a multitude of persons who had claimed or still sought his counsel and

advice, his good offices, to reconcile their families, terminate their

disputes, save them from dishonor, prevent their ruin by means of his

credit and his money, and still more by the confidence and respect

inspired in all by his virtues.

He untied the letters and threw them into the fire, where they were

immediately consumed; for he knew with whom he had to deal, and how

the most innocent things, the most trivial acts, would be brought up

and construed into crimes against those who had held any intercourse

with him. Those which concerned these persons he destroyed without

regret; but when they had been entirely devoured by the flames, he

turned with sadness to those of Margaret and the Bishop of Rochester,

and could not summon sufficient resolution to cast them into the fire.

He looked at them and turned them over in his hands; they had given

him so much pleasure! Those of his daughter had been dictated by the

tenderest love; the virtues of his friend shone in every page of his,

and proofs of attachment were inscribed upon every line, recalling the

joys, the sorrows, and different events that had occurred during his

entire life!

“Come!” he said with bitterness, “when Margaret shall no longer have a

father, who will then have any use for these letters? Who will

treasure them up? And thou, O my friend! No, we shall not remain

separated; for, O my God! thou hast declared that he who giveth up

that which he loves for thy sake shall find it again; and if man, thy

creature, gives thee an atom, thou wilt return him an entire world.

Have we not received all things from thee? And what thou takest from

us for a moment, is it not to return it to us again in eternity?”

He cast the letters into the fire, but turned away that he might not

see them consumed. He then examined his book of accounts, and saw that

they were correct. Besides, his estate was so small he found but

little difficulty in administering it. After retiring from office he

had divided his lands between his children, and each one of them knew

the lot assigned her.

When he had finished all that, he again began to walk the room, and

went toward the window; the night was intensely dark and the heavens

obscured by a mass of black clouds.

“Well! I have some time yet,” he said, and turned to sit down.

“Everything is arranged; Margaret will send my books. Now I am

prepared to depart. It would seem that I am dead, and they come

already to blot all traces of my existence from this place. Ah! how

harrowing is the thought. My God! my courage fails. Help me, Lord!

Animate by a breath of thy strength the weakness of thy servant; for I

am the work of thy hands! Have mercy on me and succor me; for sorrow

hath fallen upon me and I am utterly cast down!”

As he pronounced these words he thought he heard a sigh; he paused to

listen, but heard nothing more, and came to the conclusion that his

troubled imagination had deceived him. Again, however, he heard a

slight noise; he then arose and proceeded to listen at the door

opening into the library. Opening it very softly, what was his

surprise on seeing Margaret! Her back was turned towards him, and a

lamp burned beside her. He perceived that she had taken a number of

books from the shelves, as she had a pile of them around her, and was

leaning earnestly over the one she was reading. So intently was she

absorbed that she did not hear her father enter. He advanced slowly

until he stood behind her chair, and saw that she was reading a book

of jurisprudence written in Latin according to the general custom of

the times, and which contained detailed reports of all the trials for

high treason; her handkerchief was lying beside her, and it was

saturated with her tears. Sir Thomas turned pale; he was obliged to

rest his hand on the table, which groaned under his weight.

Margaret turned around in alarm.

“My father!” she cried, “here at this hour!” And she ran to him and

folded her arms around him, while her tears began to flow afresh.

“Margaret, what do you here?” he asked as he sank into a chair.

“My father, my father!” She burst into a torrent of tears, and could

say no more.

“I thought you slept,” she added.

“Margaret, you should be in bed!” said Sir Thomas, endeavoring to

control his feelings.

She fell on her knees before him, and, burying her face in her hands,

sobbed aloud; her hair, loosened from its fastening, hung in

dishevelled masses down to her feet.

“Margaret, you are weak!” said More in an altered voice. “Is this the

fruit of the lessons I have given you?”

“Dare you, then, say that I am weak, and reproach me because I weep

for my father?” she replied, raising her head haughtily. “Do you no

longer remember that I have never known a mother’s love, and that,

since the day I left my cradle, you alone have directed all my

movements, that in you alone have been centred all my affections, and

to you have I always confided the most secret thoughts of my heart?

You say that I am weak, when not a word of complaint has escaped my

lips, when I have concealed my tears, weeping in the darkness of

night, and when I have sat at table face to face with your

executioner!”

“Margaret, my Margaret!” cried Sir Thomas; and he bowed his head on

the shoulder of the child he so cherished, and pressed her to his

bosom.

“Have I asked you,” she continued, turning away from him, “what you

would do to escape from these tigers thirsting for blood? Have I

advised you to recoil before them and lick the prints of their feet?

No; I have come in silence to take counsel of the dead, some advice as

to the crimes of the human race, because I have thought you would

conceal your secret in your heart, and I would not be admitted to

share it; that you would tell me what you did not believe, and I would

not receive the truth from you. The truth!” she cried vehemently, and

with a strength only lent her by excitement and suffering. “I know it

now! I know, I feel, I have found out that very soon I shall see you

no more; that I shall be alone upon the earth where I have found such

joy and happiness in existing; that nothing will remain to me, and the

future will be to me without a hope, and darkened for ever!”

“Margaret,” said Sir Thomas, “have compassion on your father!”

She then said no more, and they sat in silence, she with her arms

clasped around his neck. She wept, and the tears continued to course

slowly down her cheeks, whilst the lamp she had brought cast a feeble

glimmer of light throughout the lengthy apartment, and over the rows

of books arranged on the shelves; and thus the hours fled rapidly

toward the fatal moment which she saw advancing with an agony

indescribable.

O wicked and voluptuous prince! raise your head from your bed of down,

draw aside the triple draperies of silk and gold that surround you;

for your crimes keep vigil around your couch, and the justice of God

numbers every tear you have caused to be shed! Far better would it be

for you to sleep on an infected dunghill, in some obscure retreat;

that your limbs, weary with toil and the heat of the mid-day sun,

should tremble beneath the frosts of night, and that your hands were

pure and free from iniquity in the presence of the most high God; for

we cannot believe that man oppresses man without justice being meted

out to him, or that the weak shall remain the prey of the strong. The

day will come when a terrible vengeance shall fall upon the head of

the impious, and he will see arrayed before him all the crimes he has

committed. Then shall he cry aloud: “Why have I ever lived, and why

has my mother ever borne me in her womb?” But light then will no

longer be measured, night will have disappeared, century will no more

follow century, and time shall be no more.

TO BE CONTINUED

[209] _Margarita_, _Anglicè_ Margaret, is the Latin word

for daisy.—TRANSL.

A PROTESTANT BISHOP ON CONFESSION.

BY A CATHOLIC LAYMAN.

Bishop Atkinson, of North Carolina, in a “Charge” to the clergy of his

diocese, took occasion to inveigh against auricular confession. To

this Bishop Gibbons replied. The Protestant prelate now appears in “A

Defence,” the purport of which we propose here to examine. Omitting

any comment on the personal retort, we make our first quotation from

the eighth page of this pamphlet:

“To object to the power of the priest to forgive sins is, according to

this [the Roman Catholic] view, equivalent to objecting to the power

of Christ to forgive sins. Is this to be maintained? Is this true?”

Since to doubt Christ’s declaration is to call his power in question,

we affirm that this _is_ true and is to be maintained. If the words of

Christ are fallible, it must follow that he who spoke them is also

fallible. “Whose sins ye shall forgive they are forgiven,” and

“Whatsoever ye shall loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven”:

Falsify these statements, and we make God a liar. Of the exercise of

this power St. Paul says to the Corinthians: “If I forgave any, for

your sakes forgave I it, in the _person_ of Christ”; and in condemning

the incestuous Corinthian he judges him “with the power of our Lord

Jesus Christ.” Now, if St. Paul was indeed acting with the power of

our Lord Jesus Christ, and in his _person_, his absolution and

condemnation were identical with Christ’s. If not, his arrogations

were blasphemous and vain. But Bishop Atkinson asserts that “priestly

absolution and the absolution of Christ are two entirely distinct

things,” because the priest cannot have God’s infallible knowledge of

the state of the soul, on which condition forgiveness depends.

Here is a confounding of things wholly different—the power of

absolution, and knowledge infallible. Forgiveness _does_ depend upon

the state of the soul, and, whether it be Christ or one of his

ambassadors pronouncing absolution, the conditions requisite are

absolutely one. Nor Christ nor his priest can pardon the impenitent;

but infallible _knowledge_ of the state of the soul affects in no way

the power of absolution. God reveals to any man his own soul’s

condition, but to no man is given the power of self-absolution. So,

also, he grants the power of absolution apart from the gift of

infallible knowledge. The things are distinct and separate from each

other. The latter of these powers our Lord alone possesses, but he

seems not unfrequently, in the exercise of his ministry, to have

purposely excluded all its influence over the former, to teach us that

the two have no necessary dependence. Thus, he invests St. Peter with

the power of the keys a short time before the fall of that apostle,

and administers to Judas the clean Bread of Angels when he knows him

to be a devil. Could a priest’s want of insight have results more

appalling? But Bishop Atkinson here proposes a method most ingenious

for testing priestly power, a “practical test” to be applied as

follows: “When the power of Christ to forgive sins was doubted, he

wrought a miracle to prove it, and thereby silenced the gainsayers.

When the power of the priest to forgive sins is doubted, as it very

frequently and very seriously is, can he work a miracle to demonstrate

it?”

To demand a miracle in the sacrament of penance as a “practical test”

of sacerdotal power is also to require it in every other sacrament and

sacerdotal function. Has Bishop Atkinson tested by this rule _his_

baptisms, confirmations, communions, and, first of all, his orders? A

“practical test” is of general application. When a child is baptized,

the Episcopal clergyman thus speaks to the sponsors: “Seeing now,

dearly beloved brethren, that this child is regenerate and grafted

into Christ’s church, let us give thanks unto Almighty God for these

benefits.” Here, should his “practical test” be demanded to verify

this statement, could the bishop produce it? Again, at the end of a

marriage he says: “_I_ pronounce you man and wife,” and “Whom God hath

joined together let no man put asunder.” Is the clergyman then God?

Else whence this change from first to third person?

How far, we are asked, in the judgment of a “thorough-going Roman

Catholic”—one who is blind enough to take God at his word, while all

the world smiles at his childish credulity—does the priest’s power of

absolution actually extend? In the ordination service of the

Episcopalian Prayer-Book stands this Catholic formula:

“Receive the Holy Ghost for the office

and work of a priest in the church of God, now committed unto

thee by the imposition of our hands. Whose sins thou dost

forgive, they are forgiven; and whose sins thou dost retain, they

are retained. And be thou a faithful dispenser of the word of God

and of his holy sacraments; in the name of the Father, and of the

Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

* * * * *

Now, the Catholic believes the church means what she affirms; that the

literal declaration is the literal truth, since God himself spake it.

He therefore receives the priest in Christ’s person, believing that

the sins which he remits are remitted. But he knows the conditions

upon which depends his cure when he seeks divine remedies. He knows

that Christ himself cannot pardon the impenitent, and that the humble

priest is not greater than his Master; but, upon the _same conditions_

that the Son of God required, he believes the priest’s decision _must_

be ratified in heaven. He remembers, too, the promises vouchsafed to

those receiving, and the overwhelming curse pronounced on those

rejecting, the messenger of Christ—a judgment more dread than that on

Tyre and Sidon.

Though Bishop Atkinson denounces _auricular_ confession, we are not to

understand that he opposes all confession. Nay, he deems it sometimes

salutary, “sometimes even obligatory, from the ignorance and doubts of

the penitent, from the enormity of his crime, from his consequent

tendency to despair. But it is a _drastic_ medicine, not to be taken

regularly, for thus taken it enfeebles the patient.” Does Bishop

Atkinson really mean to tell us that a state of too great sanctity is

one to be discouraged? that some _bile_ of imperfection is essential

to the health of the moral constitution? and that this the drastic

medicine would too thoroughly remove? If not, what does he mean? Did

he look upon confession as a wicked imposition, we could readily

comprehend his aversion to its practice; but this he denies, directing

his attacks against _auricular confession_, which by the Council of

Trent is thus defined: “A confession of all mortal sins, _however

secret, with all their circumstances_, to a priest, in secret.” Here

the bishop shudders—that secret mortal sins, with their attendant

circumstances, should be matter of confession, and to a _priest_, in

_secret_! To commit them in broad daylight would not be half so

terrible! Confessing them in _secret_ is that which most appalls him.

Such, he gravely tells us, is not the rightful mode. The proper

thing to use is a very mild dilution of this potent, drastic

medicine—something that will soothe and lull the troubled conscience,

not purge it of its guilt. To support his strong assertions, he

appeals to Holy Scripture and to the early fathers. Here we have a

long quotation from a work of Bishop Hopkins. From this we learn that

“the apostles exercised their office of remitting or retaining sins;

for the sins of those _whom they thought fit_ (mark well the

restriction) were remitted in baptism, while the sins of those whom

_they judged unfit_ were retained.” Again: “These inspired men

required repentance towards God and faith towards our Lord Jesus

Christ, and then administered baptism for the remission of sins to

those _whom they judged_ to be truly penitent.” In a word, they acted

always in accordance with _their judgment_. Now, the basis of sound

judgment is a thorough understanding of the cause to be adjudged, and

without this understanding there can be no prudent judgment. Were our

Lord’s apostles gods who could read man’s secret conscience? And if

not, how could they know the matter they were judging, or give a

righteous judgment until they knew the matter? And just here we would

ask, What constitutes matter, if not mortal sins? Not venial sins,

surely; for these no Roman Catholic is called upon to mention.

But why, some one may ask, must particulars be stated in making a

confession? and what is your authority for the secrecy observed? To

this we ask in turn, If a sin be stripped of its aggravating

circumstances, will any man maintain that it is honestly confessed?

and since _God_ does not require us to confess our sins in public,

should his faithful representative demand more of the penitent? Yet it

is to these conditions that the bishop makes objection, and thus his

“drastic medicine” is a talent in a napkin, a useless, dormant power

not intended to be exercised. But what says the Church of England on

this subject of confession? According to the bishop, she has left it

“strictly voluntary”; but in her Visitation of the Sick we find this

rubric: “Here shall the sick man be moved to make a special confession

of his sins, if he feel his conscience troubled with any weighty

matter. After which confession the priest shall absolve him (if he

humbly and heartily desire it) after this sort:

“‘Our Lord Jesus Christ, who hath left power to his church to absolve

all sinners who truly repent and believe in him, of his great mercy

forgive thee thine offences; and by his authority committed to me I

absolve thee from thy sins.’” “Here _shall_ the sick man be moved to

make confession.” Is it left so “_strictly_ voluntary” as the bishop

has declared it? And why now to the sick man does the church propose

confession, when in the time of health she never urged it on him? Is

he now in a condition for this strange and stern requirement? But

Bishop Atkinson would say: “It is only _weighty_ matter he is called

upon to tell.” Are not _secret mortal sins_ the weights that now

oppress him? And why is he exhorted to a _special_ declaration? Is it

not that death is near? But who is he that reckons the number of his

days, and can certify unerringly how long he has to live? The thief in

the night does not warn us of his coming. Behoves it not, therefore,

that we live as dying men, lest, in an hour we think not, the Son of

Man should come? If so, the rubric cited is appropriate to all. Thus,

in his own communion, Bishop Atkinson will find that _special_

confession to a priest is recommended, and that this confession has

all that constitutes _auricular_, except the bond of secrecy which

silences the priest. This is left to his honor or personal discretion,

untrammelled by all vows. But the bishop further tells us he himself

has heard confessions “which, if divulged, would not only have caused

shame and anguish, but very probably have caused

bloodshed—confessions,” he continues, “_which I keep as sacredly as

any Roman Catholic can those made to him_.” This, in our humble

judgment, seems to border on _auricular_.

We come now to the question of doctrinal development—a process, as the

bishop thinks, for hatching any novelty that priestcraft may devise.

To this system he attributes auricular confession, which, according to

his reckoning, was first imposed upon the church by Innocent III. at

the Fourth Lateran Council, in 1215. “And that this,” says he, “to the

extent to which it was then carried, was a novelty in the church, is

apparent from the tenor of the canon itself; for it requires _that it

shall be often read_ publicly in the church, so that none may plead

ignorant of the case.” In the _Book of Common Prayer_, at the

baptismal office, appears the following rubric: “The minister of every

parish _shall often admonish the people_ that they defer not the

baptism of their children,” etc. Here, instructed by Bishop Atkinson,

we learn, to our amazement, that the baptism of infants at a very

tender age was first known in England after the Reformation, when this

rubric was inserted. By his own line of argument we are forced to this

conclusion: Had it not been a novelty, what need of this injunction?

But, returning to our subject, does Bishop Atkinson forget that there

existed heresies _before_ the thirteenth century, and that their

watchword, like his own, was “Purity of Faith”? All remnants of these

sects, of however ancient origin, are in unity with us upon this point

of doctrine. To the Protestants alone belongs the honor of rejecting

it, and hence they stand at variance, not only with the Pope, but with

the rest of Christendom.

With regard to the new dogmas that have lately been defined, as

Moehler well expresses it, our unity of doctrine is in _substance_,

not in _form_. As the Infant in the manger and the Victim on the

cross, identical in _substance_, were yet unlike in _form_, so also

truth, in broader light, assumes more striking aspect. Calculus is but

a _form_ of primary arithmetic. As in the natural order, so in the

order spiritual, development is but the pulse of vigor and vitality.

Even in the life of heaven itself they go “from strength to strength.”

The loftiest branches of the oak were once within the acorn; nor could

they have developed save as they there existed.

Thus, to a grain of mustard-seed our Lord compared the church, and to

the mite of leaven that leavened the whole lump. She is “the pillar

and the ground of truth,” which if once shaken, truth itself must

fall. To her alone is man responsible, since God commissioned her to

teach the world and bring all men to knowledge of his truth. To her

St. Chrysostom and St. Augustine bowed; to her St. Ambrose and St.

Bernard yielded entire submission. Like Bossuet and Fénelon, the

doctors of all ages—whatever their contentions and discussions,

however wide their difference of opinion—have ever looked to Rome, and

sought her final judgment as the decree of God.

Bishop Gibbons, in reply to the “Charge” of Bishop Atkinson, remarked

the contradictory doctrines that prevail in the Anglican communion

with regard to confession; some execrating it as a Romish innovation,

while others, holding tenets identical with ours, preach and practise

its observance as a sacrament of Christ. Bishop Atkinson professes to

discover a parallel to this in the various opinions of the Catholic

theologians with respect to the limits of the Pope’s infallibility.

Let us see upon what grounds he establishes comparison, and how far

the comparison is supported. Papal Infallibility is a dogma of the

church, an article of faith, to be by all accepted under the last

penalty of excommunication. With the Protestant the force of this

dogma is experienced, not, indeed, as to the Pope, but with regard to

Holy Scripture, which, as the word of God, he _must_ hold to be

infallible. Now, the general truth that the Bible is infallible the

Catholic and Protestant both equally maintain. To doubt it would be

heresy. But admitting, as we do, the general proposition, how many

minor differences remain to be adjusted! The Catholic believes that

the church alone is able to interpret Holy Scripture, and that without

her guidance men may wrest God’s very word unto their own destruction;

that the written Word requires some infallible interpreter before we

can rely upon its meaning as infallible, since the Scriptures, though

infallible, inspire not every reader with their own infallibility. But

the common run of Protestants receive their Holy Bible as if it had

been printed and handed down from heaven in the language, form, and

binding with which they are familiar. They forget that, after all, it

is a mere translation and as liable to corruption as any other text in

the hands of a translator. The Pope they think presumptuous; the

printer and translator infallible. But even here believers may hold

diverse opinions with integrity of faith. “How far,” one may ask,

“extends infallibility? Is it only in the spirit, or in the letter

also? ‘Unless a man _hate_ his father and his mother he cannot be my

disciple.’ ‘If ye shall ask _anything_ in my name, I will do it.’ With

what exact restriction are these words to be received? Can errors

typographical, misrenderings, etc., affect in any way the truth of the

infallible? Are all the dates and numbers, in their common

acceptation, infallibly correct? Does inspiration equally pervade the

whole Bible, the Old and New Testaments? How must we understand St.

Paul’s teaching by command and teaching by permission? Was he in each

infallible?” All these questions might arise among sincere believers

holding the general truth that the Scriptures are infallible. As we

have before observed, Papal Infallibility is an established dogma, an

article of faith, and the questions now at issue among Catholic

theologians are precisely of the nature of those among all Protestants

with regard to Holy Scripture. When a definition of a dogma of faith

has been promulgated to the universal church, it is acknowledged as

infallible by all; but the Pope sometimes teaches in a less determined

species, and _then only_ can even the most lax theologians raise the

question how far his teaching binds. Are disputes among the Anglicans

analogous to these? Bishop Atkinson would stickle for his sacerdotal

character; Bishop Whittle, of Virginia, would hoot the very notion. At

Mount Calvary, in Baltimore, a child becomes regenerate in the

sacrament of baptism; at St. Peter’s, five squares distant, no such

change can be effected. At the former Mass is said and the Sacred Host

is worshipped; at the latter the Host is bread, and to worship it is

idolatry. For whether it be bread or the golden calf adored, such

worship is idolatrous. And if the Host be Christ, _not_ to worship is

denial of our Blessed Lord’s Divinity.

Are the Quaker and the Mormon more at variance in faith? But Bishop

Atkinson interrupts us. “I am not the church,” he says, “nor is Bishop

Whittle, nor the pastors of the churches to which you have referred.”

Be it granted; but we ask, then, What _is_ your church’s teaching?

Surely, one of you is wrong, and has the church no voice to decide the

question for us? Can idolatry be taught in her communion with

impunity? For, in Dr. Gramnici’s judgment, this is Mr. Richie’s crime:

the worship of the creature instead of the Creator. It is too true.

All that the Church of England boasts is _latitude_ of doctrine. She

has no power of utterance to define or to condemn. The wranglings of

her children have silenced her for ever. The enormities of Darwin, if

they threatened, could not rouse her; nor, roused, has she the unity

to utter an anathema.

Having noticed many points on which we differ from Bishop Atkinson, in

conclusion we remark one on which we quite agree. This is when,

speaking of St. Bernard, he styles him “the great saint.” But the

question upon which he appeals to this great father is hardly one on

which we hoped to find the bishop laudatory. Having chosen him,

however, to plead his cause against _us_, we needs must think that he

supports his advocate, and holds him orthodox, at least, upon the

point at issue—the Immaculate Conception. Let us hear what St. Bernard

has to offer on this point. “Thou art that chosen Lady,” says he, “in

whom our Lord found repose, and in whom he has deposited all his

treasures without measure. Hence the whole world, O my most holy Lady!

honors thy chaste womb as the temple of God, in which the salvation of

the world began. Thou, O great Mother of God! art the enclosed garden

into which the hand of a sinner never entered to gather its flowers.

Thou art the paradise of God; from thee issued forth the fountain of

living water that irrigates the whole world. The day on which thou

camest into the world can indeed be called a day of salvation, a day

of grace. Thou art fair as the moon; the moon illumines the night with

the light it receives from the sun, and thou enlightenest our darkness

with the splendor of thy virtues. But thou art fairer than the moon;

for in thee there is neither spot nor shadow. Thou art bright as the

sun—I mean as that Sun which created the world. He was chosen amongst

all men, and thou wast chosen amongst all women. O sweet, O great, O

all-amiable Mary! no tongue can pronounce thy name but thou inflamest

it with love.”

A DAY AMONG THE KIOWAS AND COMANCHES.

It was rather cold and frosty in the early January morning as we rode

eastward from Otter Creek to the Kiowa and Comanche reservation, in

the Indian Territory. Toward noon, however, the sun came out,

brilliant and warm. The effect on the transparent covering of the

trees and shrubs was dazzlingly beautiful. Some were encased in a

bright armor, cunningly linked in chains of crescents. I detached a

perfect “ice-plant,” with every curve of the stem, every nerve of the

leaves, taken in ice. The humblest weeds on the prairie sparkled with

frosty diamonds. But as the sun grew warmer they began to bend under

their gorgeous burdens, as if wearied by their splendor, like tired

beauties after a ball.

In the afternoon the weather was as clear and balmy as on a day in

June. Our way lay through the most beautiful part of the Indian

Territory. We skirted the southern slopes of the Wichita Mountains.

These, as if in honor of our coming, exhibited all their jewelry in

its brightest lustre. Down their dark slopes ran shining streams, like

chains of silver adorning their broad breasts. Stones of gray and

yellow and green and purple were heaped together in distracting

profusion, the whole seen through the most surpassingly tender of

violet tints, too delicate to be compared to the filmiest

marriage-morning lace. As we proceeded the country became more and

more diversified. Upland and vale succeeded each other in delightful

variety. Beautiful glens, wooded slopes, bold mountain-crests, filled

the landscape. The day had become warm enough to free the babble of

the scores of pretty little streams that flow into the Cache. We rode

through groves of mesquite and forests of oaks. The long, straight

paths through the oak-woods made one think of the long alleys of

Versailles. We pass along the Main Cache; the scenery is ravishing. To

the right flows the stream. It is thickly wooded; and through the

English effect, produced by the smoke of a prairie fire in the far

distance, it brings back the memory of a railroad glimpse of the line

of Windsor Forest. Occasional circles of oaks in the midst of noble

stretches of upland render more striking the likeness to the park

scenery of old England. To the left are the mountains. They actually

furnish the luxury of rocks, covered with moss and mould as green as

you could see upon Irish ruins. What a joy was the spectacle of so

lovely a region to our eyes, that had been starved for months on

sand-hills and treeless deserts!

We passed hundreds of lovely sites for cottages, in pleasant nooks,

sheltered from all cold winds by wooded slopes that opened towards the

south and bounded semi-circular vales of marvellous fertility. Indeed,

in beauty of scenery and in richness of soil I think this portion of

the Indian Territory may be considered the garden of the western

world.

But, alas! nothing earthly is perfect. The brightest prospect has its

shadow. Over this seeming paradise, where you can see in a day’s

journey the loveliest characteristics of the most favored climes,

malaria spreads its black and baleful wings.

I visited the reservation of the Kiowas and Comanches soon after it

was entered by one of the expeditions that operated against the

hostile bands of these Indians and of the Cheyennes in the winter of

187-. This force had driven in a number of Kiowas and Comanches. It

was a close race between the troops and the Indians. But the latter,

having the great advantage of the start, throwing away all

_impedimenta_, leaving their line of flight marked by abandoned

lodges, lodge-poles, ponies, cooking utensils, etc., had won the race

by a few hours only, and surrendered not a moment too soon. I wanted

to see all I could see of Indians while opportunity offered. I visited

the commanding officer of the adjoining military post, and made known

to him my wishes. He received me with great courtesy and kindness,

placed a vehicle at my disposal, and instructed his interpreter to

accompany me through the Indian camps. The Indians had pitched their

_tepies_ in the timbered bottoms along the streams for several miles

around the fort.

The interpreter was an “old Indian man.” I found him intelligent and

polite. He had evidently been well brought up and fairly educated. His

language was generally good; and when he indulged, occasionally, in a

graphic, frontier mode of expression, it was easy to see that this was

an after-graft, though not the less apt and piquant on that account.

The Indians on the reservation were divided into two great classes,

those under civil and those under military control. The former were

under charge of the agent; the latter under that of the commander of

the fort. These were again subdivided into the incarcerated, the

enrolled, and the paroled (pronounced by the employees of the post and

reservation, _pay-rolled_).

The imprisoned were again subdivided into two classes: the more guilty

and dangerous, who were placed in irons and confined under strict

surveillance in the post guard-house; and the Indians of less note and

guilt, who were in confinement, but not in irons. Of the first the

principal was White Horse, a Kiowa chief, a murderer, ravisher, and as

great a general scoundrel as could be found in any tribe. These really

“bad Indians” did not number more than half a dozen. The Comanches and

Kiowas belonging to the second subdivision were confined within the

walls of an extensive but unfinished stone building, intended for an

ice-house, one hundred and fifty feet by forty. They numbered about a

hundred and twenty.

I told the interpreter I should like to begin by a visit to White

Horse.

“Then,” said he, “we shall have to see the officer of the day; for the

sergeant of the guard has orders to let no one visit White Horse

without special instructions.”

Two old squaws, evidently in great distress, now came up to the

interpreter, and, having shaken hands with him, began to talk to him

with great eagerness.

“You’re in luck,” said the interpreter to me. “These are two of his

mothers who want permission to see him.”

“Two of his mothers!” I exclaimed. “How many mothers has he, for

heaven’s sake?”

“Only one regular one,” he replied, laughing. “The other is his aunt;

but among these Indians the aunts also call themselves mothers.”

Accompanied by the two squaws, we went to seek the officer of the day.

We soon found him. He was a tall, fine-looking, genial, impulsive

Kentuckian, a cavalry officer. He went with us to the guard-house. He

first took the interpreter and myself into the prison-room where White

Horse’s five companions were confined. They looked greatly dispirited.

They all shook hands with us with great warmth. I noticed the

eagerness of the last hand-shaker, who seemed to fear that we might

leave the cell before he had gone through the ceremony with each of

us. Poor wretches! I presume they thought their hour was nearly come,

and, like drowning men, they grasped even at the semblance of straws.

They evidently had some rough idea of “making interest” with the

victor “pale-faces” in a forlorn hope for pardon. They were effusive

in their manifestations of friendship for the officer, who, with his

revolver in his belt and his long cavalry sabre clanking at his heels,

represented Force to them. Force is something Indians understand, and

they respect its emblems. Indeed, most of them have been afforded but

poor opportunities to understand anything else.

The officer then conducted us to a private room, into which he ordered

White Horse to be brought. A clanking of chains was heard along the

corridor, and White Horse, doubly ironed, stood in the door-way. He

entered, not without a certain untutored majesty of gait, maugre his

irons. He put out his manacled hands, and energetically went through

the ceremony of hand-shaking, beginning with the officer of the day,

and giving him an extra shake at the end.

White Horse was a large, powerful Indian. He wore a dark-colored

blanket which covered his entire person. I could discern no

indications of ferocity in his countenance. His face, on the contrary,

had rather what I should call a Chadband cast. His flesh seemed soft,

oily, and “puffy.”

White Horse’s mother and aunt were now permitted to enter. The mother

rushed to her son, threw her arms around him, kissed him on both

cheeks, while the tears rolled down her face; but she uttered not a

word. The aunt kissed him in like manner. White Horse submitted to

their embraces, but made no motion of responding affection. He seemed

a little nervous under their caresses, and probably under our

observation. The mother took hold of his chain, looked at it for a

moment, and then came another paroxysm of silent grief, revealing

itself in tears alone. They sat on a rough wooden bench, White Horse

in the centre, his mother on his right, his aunt on the left, each

holding one of his hands in both of hers. White Horse uttered no

sound; no gesture betrayed any emotion, yet I thought I could detect a

moistening of the eye. This made me feel that I had no business there,

gazing on his grief and that of the poor Indian women. I suppose I

ought to be ashamed to say it; but the truth must be told, and I must

confess that, villain as he was, I could not help feeling for him. Of

course it was a weakness, but I am miserably weak in such matters. I

believe I should have pleaded for mercy towards him, though he showed

little mercy to others. There are few human beings who do not, at some

time in their lives, need mercy shown them; and when they themselves

cry out for it, it must be a great consolation to them to reflect, as

they look back, that they, in their time, have not been deaf to the

cries of others.

I signified a wish to withdraw, and left, accompanied by the officer

and the interpreter. Before we were permitted to depart, however, we

had to shake hands with White Horse and the two squaws. The women

looked at us with an appealing expression, as if, in their poor,

simple minds, they thought it possible that, in some way or other, we

might have an influence on the fate of the son.

We next visited the unfinished building in which the one hundred and

twenty lesser Indian criminals were confined. They were bestowed in a

sufficiently comfortable manner. Common tents were ranged along the

walls, and there were fires burning at proper distances down the

centre of the building. The occupants of the tents were mostly engaged

in gambling with monte cards and in various other ways. Your Indian is

unfortunately “a born gambler.” They quitted their play, however, and

crowded around us, eager to shake hands with us, and uttering the

Indian monosyllabic expression of satisfaction, which sounds as if

written “how.” This hand-shaking took some time, as every Indian

insisted on going through the ceremony. When I supposed I had shaken

my way through the crowd, I was touched on the arm, and, turning, met

a face which was evidently not that of an Indian, though its owner was

garbed in Indian guise. He put out his hand, saying “how” in the usual

way. I said to him in rather “Brummagem” Spanish that he was not an

“Indio.”

He shook his head and replied: “No.”

“Mejicano?” I asked.

“Si,” he replied with a broad grin.

The other Indians crowded around us, laughing and nodding their heads,

ejaculating: “Mejicano! How! how!” and turning towards each other with

gestures of wonder or admiration (exactly as I have seen the chorus do

at the Italian opera). This was no doubt done with a rude idea of

flattering me on my perspicacity. There are worse judges of human

nature than the untutored Indian. I suppose there is very little doubt

that, had I any power over their fate, the compliment would not have

been thrown away on me, or on most men for that matter.

Of course they wanted tobacco, and we gave them what we had about us.

They had a good deal to say to the interpreter. Every one had some

little grievance to complain of or want to be satisfied. At length,

after some more hand-shaking, we escaped from them.

On leaving the prison-house we learned that we should not find the

principal Indians in their camps until later in the day, as they were

then collecting in the commanding officer’s office to talk about

sending a party to find some of the Cheyennes, who, having been driven

from the brakes of the Staked Plains, were supposed to have gone to

southern New Mexico. The interpreter said I should have a good

opportunity to see the “head men” there; we could visit the camps

afterwards. To the office we went, and found there about fifteen or

twenty chiefs, among them Little Crow and Kicking Bird, the head chief

of the Kiowas. If ever there were a good Indian—and there are many

very honest people west of the Mississippi who think that no live

Indian can be good—I think Kicking Bird was a good Indian. During the

recent troubles he never left his reservation, was constant in using

his influence in favor of the whites, and never wavered in his

fidelity to the government.

He was a fine-looking Indian, and had as winning a countenance as I

have looked upon anywhere. The expression of his eyes was remarkably

soft and pleasing. There was a quiet, natural dignity in his manners,

tempered by great natural grace. I was taken by his appearance from

the first, and shook hands with him with pleasure and sincerity, which

was not the case on every occasion of hand-shaking that morning.

Kicking Bird, as nearly as one can judge an Indian’s age (an Indian is

generally as great a chronological difficulty as a negro), was then

about thirty-five years old. He was somewhat above the middle height,

richly but not gaudily dressed. Hanging by a loop from his left breast

were a pair of silver tweezers.

After the “talk” was over and the arrangements for sending out the

party agreed upon, every chief except Kicking Bird had some private

“axe to grind”—something to ask for. As the presentation of these

“private bills” was likely to take much time, we withdrew, mounted our

wagon, and drove to the Kiowa camp.

The camps of the three tribes, Kiowas, Comanches, and Apaches, were

pitched in the fringe of timber that borders Medicine Bluff Creek and

the Main Cache. The day was bright and warm for the season. The

scarlet and white blankets of the Indians, seen here and there among

the trees, gave life and color to the landscape. Crowds of children

gambolled and shouted, and seemed to enjoy themselves intensely. They

had no idea they were the children of a doomed and dying race. There

was no trace among them of the stoicism of the Indian of maturer

years. No crowd of French urchins playing around the Tour Saint

Jacques in the grounds of the Palais Royal, or the gardens of the

Tuileries, was ever more full of gayety and _espièglerie_ than these

little savages. They threw their arms about and “kicked loose legs” as

naturally and with as much _abandon_ as any white children could have

done. Some, more industriously inclined, built little _tepies_, or

lodges; others made tiny camp-fires, playing “war-party”; others, with

miniature bows and arrows, skipped along, shooting at the small birds

that crossed their path. Now an urchin, more bold than the rest, would

hop alongside our wagon and return our “how, how” with compound

interest. Emboldened by his example, others would follow, until we had

a crowd of little red-skins of both sexes about us, hopping, laughing,

and “how-how”-ing. Occasionally they indulged in a general shout of

good-natured merriment, which may very probably have been caused by

some more than usually good joke at our expense.

Our first visit was to Kicking Bird’s lodge. It was quite roomy, being

a _tepie_ of twenty-four poles. In rear of the lodge, and carefully

covered by a paulin, like the carriage of any civilized gentleman,

stood our friend Kicking Bird’s “buggy.”

Kicking Bird had not yet returned from the talk at the post. His wife,

a buxom young squaw, profusely beaded, brightly blanketed,

vermilion-cheeked, but not over-washed, did the honors. She had a

child about ten months old—a lively, stout little red rascal, whose

flesh was as firm as vulcanized rubber. The little wretch was just

beginning to walk. He was _in puris_, of course. He took wonderfully

to us. He would try to walk across the lodge to each of us in turn,

falling at every other step, and getting up again with a loud crow of

determination. Then he would toddle from one to the other, holding by

our boot-tops as we stood in a circle around him, and being jumped as

high as arms would admit of by each in turn, to his intense delight

and the great enjoyment of his mother.

We walked through the camp and watched the squaws tanning

buffalo-hides and preparing antelope-skins. I was very anxious to get

a papoose-board, as a telegram from a medical friend had just informed

me that there was an opportunity of utilizing such a piece of

furniture in the family of a very particular friend. But I could not

beg or buy one, even with the help of my friend the interpreter. We

asked several squaws, but not one of them would sell. I heard

afterwards that an extravagantly high price, backed by the Indian

agent’s influence, failed to procure one. The squaws no doubt consider

it “bad medicine” to sell a papoose-board.

A gaudily-dressed Indian, whose cheeks were streaked with paint of all

the colors of the rainbow, approached us. In my civilized simplicity I

supposed that this glaring individual was some very big chief indeed.

I asked the interpreter what great chief he was.

“Some Indian _plug_,” responded that gentleman; “no chief at all.”

“How comes he to be so extravagantly adorned?”

“They can wear anything they can beg, buy, or steal.”

My mistake reminds me of a similar one made by Indians with regard to

some white visitors. Col. —— visited an Indian camp, accompanied by

some officers and a cavalry escort. The colonel and the officers were

dressed in fatigue uniform, with merely gold enough about them to

indicate their rank to a close observer on close inspection. The

observed of all the Indian observers, however, was a “fancy” Dutch

bugler, with his double yellow stripe and his bars of yellow braid

across his breast. To him the most respectful homage and the greatest

consideration were paid.

As we passed one of the Kiowa lodges, a young man, seemingly about

twenty-five or twenty-eight years old, came out to meet us with

outstretched arms. With the exception of Kicking Bird, he was the most

pleasing Indian I met. He was very fair-skinned for an Indian, bright,

intelligent-looking, with a frankness of manner rare among Indians. He

was presented to me as Big Tree, a paroled Indian.

The interpreter told me that, up to the time Big Tree was taken with

Satanta, the former was an Indian of no note. He was innocent of

crime, and achieved a reputation merely by his accidental associations

with Satanta.

Notwithstanding the lesson I had received, when we met some

gaudily-bedizened Indian I could not refrain from asking who he was.

The interpreter’s answer was invariably: “Only some Indian _plug_.”

We drove to the Comanche camp, and visited the lodge of Quirz-Quip, or

“Antelope-Chewer.” I had met him at the “talk” in the morning. He

recognized me and shook hands in a very friendly manner. Quirz-Quip’s

countenance was not an attractive one. It was at its best then,

however, for he was in high glee at his good fortune in reaching the

reservation, even with the loss of almost everything he had, and the

troops close at his heels. He only got in a few hours ahead of them,

and they had been gaining on him hourly. As his dinner was ready,

Antelope-Chewer invited us in to join him in the repast, and I

accepted the invitation eagerly.

The lodge was a large and comfortable one. No doubt it had been kept

standing on the reservation for the use of the squaws and children

while Antelope-Chewer was on the war-path, and for a pleasant and safe

resting-place for that gentleman when the troops made the war-path too

hot for him. Mats were placed around the lodge. On these we sat

tailor-fashion. Valises, made of buffalo-hide, scraped and painted in

the usual Indian fashion, were placed at intervals around the _tepie_.

The fire was in the centre, in a hole eighteen inches or two feet

deep. The lodge was pleasantly warmed, and there was not the least

smoke. Two young bucks occupied about four yards of the lodge. They

lay stretched at full length on their backs. Each had a bow and arrow,

with which he amused himself by toying. The arrow was in its place,

ready to be sped. Ever and anon they would draw the arrows back to the

head, and then relax the strings again. I felt that the rascals would

have sent the barbs through us with pleasure, if they could only do so

with safety. We were unarmed, it is true; but there were thirteen

companies of cavalry and five of infantry within a mile and a half,

and the chances of ultimate escape were more than doubtful. I should

not wish to meet even my worthy friend Quirz-Quip off the reservation,

if I were unarmed and no help near.

The young men merely nodded to us as we entered, without changing

their positions or intermitting their bow-play. They gave us a

half-careless, half-supercilious smile, and glanced at each other, as

if they should say:

“Buffalo-Heart, my boy! what _does_ the governor mean by bringing

these fellows here?”

They seemed to look upon us as a pair of young scions of the old

French _noblesse_ might have looked upon a republican guard detail

entering their private apartments in their ancestral château.

We shook hands and exchanged grunts with the squaws and children. The

interpreter joked Quirz-Quip about his race with the troops. The

Indian laughed, indulged in several “how-hows” and _buenos_ (the

Comanches use a good many Spanish words), and shook hands with me

again with great seeming cordiality. He was evidently very much elated

by his good fortune in getting to a place of safety, and showed it by

repeated chuckles.

Dinner being ready, we drew closer to the festive fire-hole in which

the viands were cooking. As a not very comely old squaw put forth a

not very clean hand and arm to serve the first course, a young

gentleman who had joined our party made a precipitate retreat. The

young fellow was troubled with a delicate stomach. Another gentleman,

having tasted of the first course, said he found the _tepie_ rather

close and withdrew. There remained of our party, then, only the

interpreter and my unworthy self to do honor to Antelope-Chewer’s

hospitality.

The party assembled around the hospitable stew-pan consisted of the

old squaw who did the honors of the camp-kettle; a younger squaw,

plump and dirty, evidently the latest favorite; Antelope-Chewer and

several little Chewers, ranging from six months to twelve years old;

the aristocratic young bucks (whose food was handed to them by the old

squaw), the interpreter, and the writer. The repast consisted of

stewed buffalo meat served in the vessel in which it was cooked. Each

_convive_ takes his clasp-knife in his right hand, seizes one end of

the piece of meat with the thumb and forefinger of his left, and cuts

off a piece of the required size. It is “bad medicine,” as well as

_mauvais goût_, to take more than you can consume. The manner in which

salt was used struck me as being an improvement on our civilized mode

of using it. It was served dissolved in water in a shallow vessel, and

each guest dipped his piece of meat in the fluid. Of course if this

method were adopted in our hotels or boarding-houses, I should wish to

have my salt and water served in an “individual” salt-vessel.

There was no bread. The Indians on the reservation had received no

flour for weeks. We had the Indian substitute for bread—the fat of the

meat cut off in strips, pressed, and served separately, cold. There

are worse substitutes. A cup of coffee (without milk, of course)

concluded the repast. It was by no means bad. It was hot and strong,

though not quite sweet enough, as the ration of sugar issued to the

Indians was insufficient. I enjoyed it, however. It is only justice to

say that Quirz-Quip’s coffee was much better than some I have tasted

in railroad eating-houses and “end of the track” towns.

Dinner being over, we left the lodge to walk through the camp, and

especially to visit and view a bridge made by the Indians themselves

across the Medicine Bluff. It was a structure of mud and logs quite

creditable to Indian ingenuity and industry. It showed that the

lessons of their teacher—the beaver—had not been thrown away upon

them.

We invited Antelope-Chewer to come with us to the fort bakery, and we

would make him a present of a dozen loaves of bread. He consented, but

said he wanted his squaw to go too.

“He wants her to carry back the bread,” said the interpreter.

We agreed, and got into the wagon. Quirz-Quip desired that the plump

and dirty squaw should ride inside with us. To this we would not

submit, and insisted that she should take the seat beside the driver.

Indeed, I felt already an itching sensation all over me—no doubt the

effect of imagination; for the interpreter assured me there was no

danger of anything of the kind, unless I should spend a night in a

lodge. I assured him that such a thing was not at all probable.

Nevertheless, and notwithstanding two or three baths, it was some days

before my epidermis regained its accustomed tranquillity.

We drove to the Apache camp for our young friends who had fled from

Quirz-Quip’s hospitality, and returned by the Comanche chief’s lodge

to pick up the plump and dirty squaw. She had become tired of waiting,

and had gone away, much to her lord’s disgust and our satisfaction.

We drove to the bakery and bought a dozen loaves of bread for

Quirz-Quip. He wished us to drive him back to his camp with the bread.

The interpreter told him we could not do it. Then the modest Comanche

asked us to lend him the wagon to take the bread. The interpreter

shook his head, and assured him that it was impossible.

“Then,” said Quirz-Quip, “how am I to get the bread to camp?”

“If you are too lazy to pack it,” said the interpreter, “you can

leave, and be confounded.”

As we drove away, we saw him, with a rueful countenance, spreading out

his blanket on the floor to receive the coveted bread but hated load.

On our return from the camps we passed by the agency. I asked what

kind of a man the agent was. I was answered that he was “a good sort

of man,” but “he knows nothing about Indians or their ways.”

“He is a Quaker, I suppose.”

“A kind of a _made-up_ Quaker, like a good many of ‘em.”

We stopped at the agency door, and I was introduced to the agent. He

was a gentleman in his manners, and looked to me like an honest man.

There was to be an issue of blankets on the following day. The agent

kindly said he would be glad to have me present, and if I would come

he would send a wagon for me. I accepted at once.

The Indian agent was as good as his word. He sent a carriage for us

about half-past eight next morning. The issue was to take place about

half-past nine. It was nearly half-past eleven, however, before the

Indians began to arrive. Your Indian is invariably unpunctual. You may

set what hour you please, but you cannot make him come until he is

quite ready. By half-past twelve they began coming in considerable

numbers and the issue commenced. The women and children were out in

great force, and were in high good-humor, chatting and laughing in the

gayest manner possible. Each family ranges itself in a semi-circle;

the chief, or male head thereof, stood about the centre of the chord.

Each chief, after receiving the number of blankets to which he was

entitled, tore in two a double blanket of each color; there were only

black and white blankets to be issued that day, no scarlet ones,

greatly to the disappointment of the squaws and children. Beginning at

one end of the semi-circle, the chief threw a piece of each color at

the head of the person for whom it was intended. It was caught with a

shout of glee and many remarks, evidently of a humorous nature,

judging by the laughter with which they were hailed. Sometimes the

dignified chief, with as near an approach to a smile as his dignity

would allow, threw a joke with the blanket at the head of a dependant.

His jokes, like those of all persons in power, were always greeted

with applause. When the blanket was so thrown as to strike the

recipient full in the face, the merriment was uproarious. Our friend

Quirz-Quip was present, of course. He was very busy, getting all he

could, and dividing what he got among his interesting family. He was

harder to please than if he had always been a good Indian and had

never left the reservation to go on the war-path.

The blankets were of very good quality. They were marked with the

letters U. S. I. D. It was found necessary to stamp the blankets to

prevent the Indians from gambling or trading them away to Mexicans in

the summer.

Here and there some wretched squaws stood apart from the general

throng, as if they were Pariahs among their sisters. They seemed

utterly forlorn and miserable. They took no interest in the busy scene

before them. Their faces wore an expression of blank hopelessness. The

world had nothing for them in the present, nothing in the future. They

came to the issue as mere drudges, to carry back the blankets to the

camps. They had each an angular piece cut out of the nostril. This is

the Scarlet Letter of the Comanches.

When the issue was over I visited the Indian hospital and had quite an

interesting chat with the doctor. The Indians were then suffering a

good deal from colds, influenza, etc., brought on by exposure at

night, “making medicine”—_i.e._, performing incantations. As we went

from the hospital to the carpenter’s shop, I met young Satanta, a

paroled prisoner, son of the notorious Satanta who was delivered by

the War Department to the civil authorities in Texas to be tried for

murders and robberies committed by him within the boundaries of that

State. Satanta, Jr., was a bright-eyed young man of twenty. He wore a

long, straight red feather in his hat, and carried in his hand a bow,

from which ever and anon he discharged an arrow as he went, and picked

it up again.

An Indian, who evidently thought he was suffering under a very great

grievance, now met us and talked very earnestly and excitedly to the

interpreter.

“That Indian is smarting under the sense of some great wrong, real or

fancied,” I said.

“Yes,” said the interpreter, smiling; “he has trouble with another

Indian about a greyhound pup. I promised this fellow and another a pup

each (I have the finest greyhounds in the Territory). The other

fellow, while I was away, took both the pups, and won’t give this

fellow his. They are just like children in many things.”

There was little doing in the carpenter’s shop. I was shown some work

done by a young Indian which was fair, for an Indian. There were no

Indians at work, but I was told that Kicking Bird’s son was to begin

his apprenticeship the following week.

Nor was there anything doing at the school. There were hopes of

opening it the following month, with twenty Apaches, twenty Kiowas,

and the same number of Comanches.

The trader at the military post was also the trader for the Indians.

The store was thronged from morning to sunset by Indians of both

sexes. Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, hung around in groups, standing in

the doorways, blocking up the windows, when they were closed, with

their faces against the panes, or their heads and the upper part of

their bodies thrust in when they were open. The majority of the

trader’s store-idlers are women, young girls, and children. They are

by no means backward in begging. The clerks told me it was not wise to

leave anything on the counter even for a moment when the red brethren

and sisters were in the store; they had to be watched as narrowly as

fashionable white kleptomaniacs.

I was rather pleased with the appearance of the Indian agent. He

seemed honest and frank. Of his ignorance or knowledge of Indians and

their ways I can say nothing. “Old Indian men” are apt to think that,

in the way of knowledge of Indians, they have pulled the ladder up

after them.

I thanked the agent for his politeness, and said that, if he did not

think it impertinent, I should like to ask a question or two for my

own information and satisfaction. He replied that he would be very

happy to give me any information in his power.

“Well,” said I, “not to mince matters, you know they say a great many

hard things about Indian agents.”

“Of course I do. When I received this appointment, one of my most

intimate friends wrote to me not to accept it, warning me that, were I

as pure as snow, I should be denounced by everybody as a swindler and

a thief before six months.”

“It is said that for several weeks the Indians on this reservation

have been without bread. Is this true?”

“It is. The freight contractors have failed to deliver the flour. I

cannot issue what I have not. To make up for the lack of flour, I

issue four pounds of beef to each Indian daily.”

“It is charged that the beef is poor. Is this charge true?”

“It is. What can I do? Like a quartermaster or commissary, I can only

issue what I have on hand. If I had not this beef, the Indians would

have nothing to eat. I cannot throw it back on the contractor’s hands,

and wait for a better quality of meat; for while I was waiting the

Indians would starve or leave the reservation to find subsistence

where they could.”

“What is the allowance of coffee and sugar?”

“Four pounds of the former and eight of the latter to one hundred

rations.”

I now took a friendly farewell of the Indian agent, and went away with

a vague impression that it is not the poor, subordinate official who

makes most money out of the Indians, but freighters and “big

contractors,” and perhaps more especially their financial “backers,”

the speculators of the great Eastern cities.

On our way back to the post we met Kicking Bird returning to his camp.

He was mounted on a large cream-colored mule. We stopped, shook hands

with him, and chatted a little. The interpreter joked him about riding

a mule. Kicking Bird laughed, and said that as he was going to live

hereafter like a white man, like a white man he should ride a mule.

It was the last time I saw Kicking Bird. Shortly afterwards he

delivered up to the military authorities a number of the revolted

Indians. Among them was a brother of one of his squaws. In revenge she

poisoned the faithful chief.

Poor Kicking Bird! He had given his gorgeous war-bonnet to a veteran

officer of the army as a token that he had left the war-path for ever.

He proposed to teach his children the white man’s language and the

white man’s peaceful arts. He fell a martyr to his fidelity to the

government.

DE VERE’S “THOMAS À BECKET.”[210]

It is doubtful whether two years ago even the admirers of Aubrey de

Vere looked for anything strikingly new or startling from his pen. His

measure seemed filled. He was known and read as a poet whose melodious

verse was the expression of thoughts lofty as well as tender, of

profound meditations and large aspirations, of purity without fleck,

yet cold almost as it was chaste. This were an enviable fame at any

time, infinitely more so just now, when the ambition of our poets

seems to be that of the prodigal, to waste their divine birthright on

worthless objects, to live riotously, and finally, when all else is

gone, to feed themselves and their readers on the husks of swine.

Suddenly _Alexander the Great_ appeared, and in the author we beheld a

new man. At once his fame took wings, while he, with the unconscious

ease of one who took his place by right, strode beyond the men of

to-day, and entered into that narrower circle of larger minds whose

names are written in brass, whose works live after them and become

part and parcel of the English tongue. One sign of Mr. de Vere’s

undisputed success was significant. It is only such a transcendent

genius as that of Dr. Newman that can overleap the barriers which

prejudice has set around the Catholic name. It is still true, though

less so than formerly, that the grand old name of “Catholic” blazoned

on a literary scutcheon is regarded as a bar sinister by the

non-Catholic press. Yet even this difficulty of caste was overcome by

Mr. de Vere, and his _Alexander the Great_ was hailed by critics of

every class and kind of thought to be a return to the palmy days of

English drama, and a welcome addition to English literature.

Two years have passed, and a new drama is presented to us by the same

author. From Alexander the Great to Thomas à Becket is a long stride

and a trying one. It is a passage from the height of paganism to the

height of Christianity. The hero of the one is the personification of

the pride and the pomp, the glory and shame, the greatness and

essential littleness, of paganism. The hero of the other is one of

those men who throughout the Christian era, even up to our own times,

have been found to stand up in the face of the princes of this world,

and, if need be, pour out their hearts’ blood in confessing Christ and

upholding his kingdom on earth.

We may as well say at once that in the new drama we miss many things

which in _Alexander the Great_ won our admiration. We miss the

sustained magic of those lines, almost every one of which is poetry of

the highest order, yet so skilfully adapted that whosoever speaks them

speaks naturally and in keeping with his character. In no place in

_Alexander the Great_ could one say, “Here speaks the poet,” “Here the

rhetorician,” “Here the dramatist.” This much, indeed, is true of

_Thomas à Becket_. We miss, too, the brilliant epigrams, the

proverbial wisdom of the brief sayings thrown so liberally into the

mouths of this character and that. We miss the sharp contact and

contrast of character so perfectly worked out among the different

types of Greeks. There is no place in the later drama for such a

conception as Alexander himself, the slow growth and development under

our eyes of his many-sided character, with his strong resolve, his

dreams, his daring hopes, his insane ambition, his thorough, practical

manner of dealing with things as they pass, his slow-coming doubts,

his wonder at the world, at his own mission in it, and at the unseen

power that rules them both from somewhere. Indeed, we cannot call to

mind a like conception to this in any drama.

The reason for the absence of such features as these is plain. In the

one case the poet was freer to follow the workings of his own

imagination; in the other he is more closely bound down to history, to

facts, to the very words often spoken by his characters. And how

thoroughly he has studied his subject may be seen in the preface to

the drama, which is an admirable, though condensed, history of the

whole struggle between St. Thomas and Henry II. But in compensation

for what we miss we find a robustness, an off-hand freedom betokening

real strength, a truth and naturalness of coloring, a noble manner of

dealing with noble things, a straightforward honesty that winks at no

faults, on whichever side they lie, a boldness and vigor that never

flag from the first line to the last. There is less art than in the

other, but much more of nature’s happy freedom. Moreover, the interest

of the drama is none the less really of to-day because it represents

men who lived and events which occurred seven centuries ago. Has this

century seen no Henries or his like? Who shall say that we have no

Beckets? Are there no men to-day ready to stand up in the face of

princes calling themselves Christian, to risk land and life and all

they have in the cause of Christ, at the same time that they obey

their princes, be they Catholic or non-Catholic, “saving their order”

and “saving God’s honor”?

The whole world makes sad reply. And though in these scientific days

it is not the fashion to dash the brains of God’s priests out in the

sanctuary, a method equally effectual is adopted to quench, if

possible, the spirit within them. They are drained of such means as

belong to their offices by fine upon fine; every effort is made to

compel them, as was the case with St. Thomas, to betray their trust,

to recognize rebellious, apostate, and recreant priests. And at

length, when there is not a penny left, they are either driven into

exile, as was St. Thomas, or cast into prisons where their martyrdom

consists of a thousand petty insults and deprivations, and where, to

take up recent examples, they are regaled on soup which is

scientifically bad. After all, does there not seem something more

magnanimous in the fierce brutality of the Plantagenet and his men?

The whole drama of _Thomas à Becket_ turns on the struggle between the

archbishop and the king, and there is no hesitation on the author’s

part in deciding which side to take in the contest. Mr. de Vere has

certainly the courage of his convictions, and he is bold in their

expression in days when St. Thomas is still regarded by the great

majority of English readers as a mischievous and meddlesome prelate

who courted, if he did not richly deserve, his fate. Let us, with Mr.

de Vere’s permission, picture to ourselves a moment his lost

opportunity of making himself infamously famous. Had he, with his

great gifts and acknowledged place in the ranks of _literati_, only

taken the other side; had he painted St. Thomas according to the

orthodox Protestant reading, how his book would have been devoured,

and what reviews written of it down all the line of the anti-Catholic

army of writers! What comfort Mr. Gladstone would have found in such a

convert in his next tilt with the Rock! Were it not a thing simply

natural in any honorable man to adhere to the side of truth, and,

more, to satisfy himself of the truth where doubts were raised, we

should call it noble in Mr. de Vere thus to spurn the example of so

many gifted writers of his time whose great ambition seems to be to

pander to the vices around them. Indeed, not the least interest

attached to this drama lies in the treatment, by a calm, poetic, yet

deeply philosophic mind, of the momentous struggle which it

portrays—the struggle ever old yet ever new between church and state.

The drama is in five acts. The first opens at Westminster with the

election of Thomas to the primacy, embraces his resignation of the

chancellorship and first rupture with the king, and ends beautifully

and solemnly with his consecration as Archbishop of Canterbury. This

act is very interesting. It plunges at once _in medias res_. Not a

line is wasted, and so natural is the coloring that one lives and

moves among the men of long ago as completely as in Shakspere.

Becket’s friends and foes come and go, and have their say about the

new prelate and his appointment to the “Rome of the North.” Naturally,

the appointment to such a see still filled men’s minds while the

memory of Anselm lived,

“Stretching from exile a lean, threatening arm”

against the first Henry. It is plain from the start that Becket’s

mitre is not to be wreathed with roses. Even were the king a tamer

soul, the new archbishop leaves enemies behind him—time-serving

prelates who hate an honest man, others who envy him his place,

nobles, knights, and rascals who have felt his strong hand while

chancellor. The scene shifts to Normandy and shows us Henry’s court at

Rouen, presided over by his perfidious and vicious queen, Eleanor,

whose bitter tongue ever fans the flames that threaten Becket, whom

she hates. Here we see Henry at his best, when, as he thinks, all is

going well with his scheme.

“Thomas, Archbishop—

That hand which holds the seal, wielding the staff—

The feud of Crown and Church henceforth is past.

… Henceforth I rule!

None shares with me my realms.”

Here we have, too, a thrilling picture of his wrath when this pleasant

scheme is at once knocked to pieces by Becket’s resignation of the

chancellorship. And now the fight begins.

In the second act come up the memorable scenes at Northampton with the

question of the “Royal Customs.” In these trying scenes, where king

and prelate enter the lists against each other, the dramatist has

exhibited a power worthy the occasion, and, to our thinking, they are

the finest in the drama. We can only glance at them and pass on. The

forces are marshalled: on the one side the power of the king with the

bandit nobles—for most of them were little else—and the craven

prelates; on the other Becket, his oath, and his conscience. The scene

between Becket and the bishops, where they strive to break down his

resolution, is admirable, as showing the inner character of the man,

the steadfast churchman, military half, who has not yet quite lost

that outspoken scorn he used so freely while still in and of the

world. His brief replies are full of negative meaning, and, when he

does break forth, the scorn of the king is puny beside his words.

“My lords, have you said all? Then hear me speak.

I might be large to tell you, courtier prelates,

That if the Conqueror’s was an iron hand,

Not less ‘twas just. Oftenest it used aright

Its power usurped. _It decked no idiot brow

With casual mitre: neither lodged in grasp

That, ague-stricken, scarce could hold its bribe,

The sceptres of the shepherds of Christ’s flock._”

And never were there nobler words than these:

“Bishops of England!

For many truths by you this day enforced,

Hear ye in turn but one. The church is God’s:

Lords, were it ours, then might we traffic with it;

At will make large its functions, or contract;

Serve it or sell; worship or crucify.

I say the church is God’s; for he beheld it,

His thought, ere time began; counted its bones,

Which in his book were writ. I say that he

From his own side in water and in blood

Gave birth to it on Calvary, and caught it,

Despite the nails, his bride, in his own arms.

I say that he, a Spirit of clear heat,

Lives in its frame, and cleanses with pure pain

His sacrificial precinct, but consumes

The chaff with other ardors. Lords, I know you.

* * * * *

To-day the heathen rage—I fear them not;

If fall I must, this hand, ere yet I fall,

Stretched from the bosom of a peaceful gown,

Above a troubled king and darkening realm,

Shall send God’s sentence forth. My lords, farewell.”

And surely Becket might have spoken this:

“My king I honor—honoring more my God;

My lords, they lie who brand mine honest fame

With fealty halved. With doubly-linked allegiance

He serves his king who serves him for God’s sake;

But who serves thus must serve his God o’er all.

I served him thus, and serve.”

But we could quote all this magnificent scene.

In the third act Becket escapes to France, visits the exiled pontiff

at Sens, and finally takes refuge at Pontigny. The calm of this holy

and peaceful abode seems to permeate this portion of the drama,

offering a happy relief after the late fierce storms. There he abides,

“musing on war with heart at peace,” and his spirit, without

slackening in its strong purpose, grows insensibly calmer, milder, and

more humble. From this dwelling he is driven forth by order of the

king, only, as the king himself bitterly says, to “stand stronger than

before.” The persecution is turning against the persecutor, who

confesses in words Shakspere might have written:

“I have lit my camp-fires on a frozen flood,

Methinks the ice wears thin.”

But he is a man as full of device as resolution, and at his back are

men still fuller of device. The plot thickens, and at last even Rome

seems to fall from the archbishop, and give him over to the power of

his enemies. Something of the old fierce spirit leaps up, and Rome

itself is not spared, until he is reminded by John of Salisbury, his

tried and faithful friend, of the Pope that

“Who sits there

Sits on God’s tower, and further sees than we.”

Whereupon Becket breaks out into a speech full of beauty and of truth,

which we regret our limited space forbids us to quote. At the end of

it the two cardinals enter to endeavor to find a way for patching up a

peace between the archbishop and the king. It must be borne in mind

that in those days the church was in sore straits: the pope in exile

at Sens; an anti-pope backed by all the power of the German emperor.

As Cardinal Otho truly says:

“A mutinous world uplifts this day its front

Against Christ’s Vicar! Save this France and England,

I know not kingdom sound.”

And here was Becket, the champion of the church, doing, in the eyes of

many, what best he could to drive England also into the enemy’s camp.

All these circumstances render the intellectual and spiritual duel

between the archbishop and the cardinals one of intense interest,

which again confirms what we noted in _Alexander the Great_, that Mr.

de Vere has the true dramatic instinct of bringing together at the

right place and right time opposing elements. It is the clash of

contraries that imparts greatest interest to a drama, and the right

working of the conflict that shows the dramatist’s skill. The contrast

between the plausible, keen, politic, Italian nature, as it would be

called by some, of Cardinal William, and the straight, unbending,

single-minded nature of Becket, who is so rooted in his position that

nothing but death could tear him from it, is perfect. The cardinal

builds up a very strong case in a negative manner against the

archbishop. He hints at mistakes on the latter’s part; he counsels

yielding here and there, or rather puts it to Becket why such and such

might not be instead of such and such. In fact, his Eminence shows

himself a thorough diplomat in cases where the issue was not a duel to

the death. It would be amusing, were it not something of a far higher

order, to see how Becket, with a strong, straight sentence or two,

cuts mercilessly, half scornfully, through the cardinal’s fine-spun

webs one after the other as they appear, scarcely giving them time to

rise. Cardinal William is at length nettled into breaking quite

through the diplomatic ice, and bids the archbishop resign. Becket

refuses to listen to any voice but that which proceeds from the chair

of Peter, and with this the act closes.

The fourth act opens with a beautiful scene between the nun Idonea and

the aged Empress Matilda, whose character, small part as it plays in

the drama, seems to us one of the most finished of all. Henry is back

in England, only to find

“All’s well; and then all’s ill: who wars on Becket

Hath January posting hard on May,

And night at ten o’ the morn.”

On the other hand, Becket, with half-prophetic eye, seems to see the

beginning of the end. After each new struggle, each new humiliation,

he rises greater because humbler, leaving the dross behind him. Here

is his own estimate of himself:

“Once I was unjust.

The Holy Father sees as from a height;

I fight but on the plain: my time is short,

And in it much to expiate. I must act.

(_After a pause._)

I strove for justice, and my mother’s honor;

For these at first. Now know I that God’s truth

Is linked with these as close as body and soul.”

How true is this we all know. It only required a Luther to make of

Henry II. a Henry VIII., and he had not stood so long in doubt as did

the latter. The plot deepens. What an admirable touch it is that shows

him, when the gravest news arrives from England, falling back a moment

on his happier days at hearing of a smart retort given by his old

pupil, the youthful prince! At last the king and Becket are brought

together, and again in this long, historic meeting Mr. de Vere rises

fully and easily to the level of the event. The inner vein of deceit

for which he was marked shows through the monarch’s speech, and once a

lurid burst of passion flashes forth like lightning and as quickly

disappears. This prolonged scene, at the end of which the mask is

almost openly thrown off by the king, ends the act, and is a fitting

preparation for the consummation which is to follow.

The fifth act opens with preparations for the return of the archbishop

to England. His heart and those of his friends are filled with the

gloomiest forebodings. Ill-rumors thicken around them. Becket himself,

in a speech of wonderful beauty and pathos, describes the “sinking

strange” at his heart as, standing still on the French coast, he looks

towards England. It is the flesh asserting itself and gaining a

momentary victory over the spirit. He sails at length, and history

tells us how he was received. It was a matter of life or death to his

foes. There was only one end to a contest with a man of his

stamp—either submission on their part or death to him. The drama

hurries on towards the catastrophe. The queen fans the flame. As

Lisieux says:

“Year by year

She urged his highness ‘gainst my lord the primate;

Of late she whets him with more complicate craft:

She knows that all she likes the king dislikes,

And feigns a laughing, new-born zeal for Becket,

To sting the royal spleen.”

The short scene in which the barbed words of the queen draw a contrast

between Becket’s triumph and the king’s humiliation is one of the many

dramatic gems set in this drama. So graphic is the scene as she rises

on the throne, cup in hand, and cries:

“A toast, my lords! The London merchant’s son:

Once England’s primate—henceforth King of England!”

that we scarcely need Leicester to tell us:

“Behold her, Lisieux!

_That smile is baleful as a winter beam

Streaking some cliff wreck-gorged; her hair and eyes

Send forth a glare half sunshine and half lightning._”

At last falls that memorable feast of St. Stephen, and the end comes.

“The man is changed. Seldom he speaks; his smile

Is like that smile upon a dead man’s face,

A mystery of sweetness.”

The saint is already looking beyond this world. Standing at the

window, as we are told he stood, he looks out and beholds the ground

robed in snow. Here is how his poet makes him speak of it:

“How fair, how still, that snowy world! The earth

Lies like a white rose under eyes of God;

May it send up a sweetness!”

What other poet in these days could give us so pure and perfect an

image as that—a flower plucked, surely, from the paradise of poets?

The sweetness is sent up. It rises from the martyr’s blood.

Such is an outline of this drama. The character, of course, on which

the attention fastens chiefly is that of Thomas à Becket, and we think

that in the portrayal of this great character Mr. de Vere is as happy

as in his Alexander. Becket is a very easy man to write about, but a

most difficult one to set living and real before us. In him for a long

time the layman and the clerk struggled for mastery. There is no

possible doubt that up to the time of his elevation to the primacy he

was a man who lived in, and to a very great extent of, the world. He

rejoiced in pomp and pride, in large retinues, in splendid

appointments, in ostentatious display. He was not at all averse to

showing that the arm of the cleric could tilt a lance with the bravest

knight. Yet through all the temptations of such a life as his he

undoubtedly retained his purity of heart, a right sense of his true

vocation, and an honesty of purpose that never swerved. Certain it is

that, in procuring his appointment as primate, Henry thought he had,

if not exactly a tool, a devoted friend and a sensible man, who would

not forget the favors his monarch had showered on him, and would be

troubled by no such nice scruples as vexed his predecessor, Anselm.

Becket had shown himself to be a keen-eyed, resolute, active, honest

minister, with no sordid touch in his nature, with an intense sense of

duty to his king and country. Indeed, had he not been a Catholic

cleric, in days when clerics lawfully assumed many a civil office,

there can be little doubt that he would have been pronounced, even by

Protestant historians, to be one of the best and truest English

chancellors that ever held the seals.

At a day’s notice this man, by the express command and desire of the

king, is sent back to his real duty—the tending of Christ’s fold. He

obeyed against his will, foreseeing already something of the issue.

But the fashion of the world is not brushed off in a day, however

changed may be the heart and conduct. To-day he is the gay and

brilliant chancellor of England, highest in the favor of his king;

to-morrow, primate of England, and appointed to that post, as he knew,

to betray it. The man is not yet a saint—very far from it; and in his

seizing of this character just as the robes of the world were falling

from him and he had donned the livery of heaven; in his awakening to

the new and tremendous responsibility that had fallen upon him; in the

gradual taming of his fiery and impetuous spirit; in the struggle

between personal love for his royal master, pity for the disasters

necessarily brought upon the kingdom by his action, and his clear

conception of duty throughout all; in the slow braying of this spirit

in the mortar of affliction until speck by speck all the dross was

shaken and cast out, and the whole man left clean and pure for the

sacrifice—in all this Mr. de Vere has shown the skill of a great

artist. The obvious temptation for a Catholic in treating such a theme

was to make Becket a saint too soon. Mr. de Vere has not fallen into

this mistake, and the result adds largely to the effect of the drama.

Not till the very last scene do we feel that Becket lives already

above this world, and only awaits his translation. The night before

his death the flesh still urged flight when he knew that death was

coming surely and swiftly. And when the curtain drops for the last

time on that terrible scene of the outraged sanctuary and the murdered

archbishop, then do we surely feel that the spirit of a saint and

martyr has flown to heaven.

The conception of Henry is almost equally good. The following picture

of him will be remembered:

“Your king is sudden:

The tidings of his march and victory reach us

Like runners matched. That slender, sinewy frame,

That ardent eye, that swift, onstriding step,

Yet graceful as a tiger’s, foot descending

Silent but sure on the predestinate spot—

From signs like these looks forth the inward man.

Expect grave news ere long.”

Excellent foils to Becket and to each other are Becket’s two fast

friends, John of Salisbury and Herbert of Bosham. The contrast between

the two is well drawn by themselves:

“JOHN OF SALISBURY. Herbert, you jar me with your ceaseless triumphs,

And hope ‘gainst hope. You are like a gold leaf dropped

From grove immortal of the church triumphant

To mock our church in storm! For manners’ sake,

I pray you, chafe at times. The floods are out!

I say the floods are out! This way and that

They come a-sweeping.

“HERBERT. Wheresoe’er they sweep

The eye of God pursues them and controls:

That which they are to him, that only _are_ they;

The rest is pictured storm.”

A mightier hand than Mr. de Vere’s might own so graphic a picture as

this:

“Go where I might, except among the poor,

‘Twas all one huge conspiracy of error,

Conspiracy, and yet unconscious half;

For, though, beneath, there worked one plastic mind,

The surface seemed fortuitous concurrence,

One man the hook supplying, one the eye,

Here the false maxim, there the fact suborned,

This the mad hope, and that the grudge forgotten.

The lawyer wrote the falsehood in the dust

Of mouldering scrolls; with sighs the court-priest owned it;

The minstrel tossed it gaily from his strings;

The witling lisped it, and the soldier mouthed it.

These lies are thick as dust in March.”

And the “reptile press” had not yet come into being!

There is not a weak line in this drama. It will be welcomed by all

Catholics as a glorious illumination of the history which it pictures.

Our boys should dwell on it in the schools. From no book can they

gather a better idea of one of the most marked epochs in English

history. It will, like _Alexander the Great_, bear reading and

rereading, disclosing each time new beauties of thought and

expression. Many of the speeches set one’s veins a-tingling, so vivid

and real are they. The pictures of churchmen are a study. There is the

prelate courtier, the prelate politician, the false ascetic, the

blasphemous apostate, the timid prelate, who trembles between his

conscience and his king. In striking contrast to these stand out

Becket and his true men, while to and fro among the cleric gowns stalk

the stalwart nobles, half-bandits, most of them, sick in turn of

prelate and king. Mr. de Vere makes masterly use of these many

opposite elements, groups, parts, and rearranges them with the highest

dramatic effect.

The general tendency of English poetry in these days is downwards. It

has gained nothing; it has lost much. It is least strong in its

highest, the dramatic form. Without pretending to be at all dogmatic

in mere literary criticism, we take this last statement to be

indisputable. The failure, however, is not from lack of effort. There

is surely some strange fascination about the drama. It would not be at

all hazardous to say that nine out of every ten men with any literary

pretensions, if they have not actually written dramas, have at least

had the ambition and intention at some time or another to write them.

What may be the precise reason for this general tendency towards that

peculiar form of literature, unless it is that so very few succeed in

it, we do not know, and do not care to inquire just now. The

unattainable, however, always possesses a strong fascination for

aspiring minds; and as the dramatic literature of all countries is

that which, though the least in quantity, has fastened itself most

upon the hearts of the people, it is at least a worthy ambition which

aims at this royal road to fame. The discovery of the North-west

Passage has not been a more fatal lure to mariners than the drama to

literary adventurers. Even men of approved position in other branches

of literature, poets of fame, novelists whose names were household

words, statesmen and philosophers, have failed at this last fortress

that fame seems to hold only for her most favored sons. Here no art

can win an entrance; the sweetest strains cannot charm the locks

asunder, the profoundest thoughts cannot melt them. Nature and nature

only holds the key.

A glance at a few of the writers of the century will reveal how true

is this. Even Byron with his passionate soul, his strangely mixed

nature, his bitterness and sweetness, his loftiness of thought and

expression combined, his marvellous power over words, has written

dramas which as poems are splendid, but as dramas wretched. Shelley

was the only poet of his day who produced a really dramatic work, but

its revolting subject unhappily removes it from clean hands. The

lesser lights of our own day have each in turn attempted a like flight

only to meet with disaster. Who thinks of Browning’s _Strafford_ now?

Who has cast a second glance at Swinburne’s _Chastelard_ or

_Bothwell_? Notwithstanding the “gush” with which it was at first

hailed by some English critics, Tennyson’s _Mary Tudor_ has fallen

flat, both on the stage and off it, and honest men have come to the

conclusion that it rather detracts from than adds to the well-earned

and well-worn fame of the author. The only good purpose it has served

was to bring to light a real drama on the same subject by the father

of the author whose latest work now claims our attention. Of that we

shall have something to say at another time. Even that proverbial

philosopher, Mr. Tupper, was seized with the inspiration in this

centennial year of ours, and we heard something of a drama wherein

George Washington was to figure as the hero, but it faded out of sight

before it had well appeared. Sad to say, our own Longfellow’s _Spanish

Student_, the only drama he ever published, happens to be about the

worst of his productions. Mr. Disraeli even, in his wild youth,

perpetrated a drama which was presented some years since at a second

or third class London theatre, and, we believe, almost ruined the

management. At all events it failed. And Bulwer Lytton’s best known

drama is not one-fiftieth part as good as his poorest novel.

Bold then is the man who would tread this royal road which is strewn

with so many a brave wreck. Rash the man who, with name and fame

established, with the well-won laurels of a lifetime on his brow,

would add a final and a crowning leaf plucked from this garden of

death. Happy the man who, in face of the thousand dangers that beset

his path, goes on his way boldly, grasps and holds the prize that a

thousand of his fellows have missed. Mr. de Vere has won this prize.

His dramas are dramas and nothing else. They are not verses stitched

together without a purpose and a plan. They are not mere description;

they are instinct with _act_. We hope and believe that one who has

accomplished so much and so well in so short a time may, as we do not

doubt he can, do much more. The prizes to be won in this, to Mr. de

Vere, new field are as many as the aspirants; but the winners are few.

As Catholics we are proud of such a poet. As readers and observers we

rejoice in these degenerate days at seeing so resolute a return to

loftier thoughts and purer, to great conceptions, to real English,

which is free at once from the affectation of the archaic and from the

flimsy jingle that tries honest ears, to a right depicting of scenes

and events that have stirred the world.

[210] _St. Thomas of Canterbury._ A Dramatic Poem. By Aubrey

de Vere, author of _Alexander the Great_. London: Henry S.

King & Co. 1876. (For sale by The Catholic Publication

Society.)

THE PRISONER OF CHILLON.

It has been the lot of more than one disreputable character to be

glorified by great poets. From Spenser to Tennyson have the praises of

“Gloriana” been sung, to the no small detriment of truth, and of far

worthier personages than she who, although in some respects a great

queen, was guilty of ferocities almost beyond the capabilities of man,

and of prolonged and calculating cruelties contrary to the very nature

bestowed by God on woman. Again, Satan himself is portrayed in

Milton’s stately poem as a being more magnificent than malignant. He

“hates well” certainly, but his own utter hatefulness, and the base

ingratitude to his Creator of which he is the first example, is

sufficiently veiled to incline one to feel something akin to

admiration or pity for the arch-rebel against God, the crafty seducer

and pitiless destroyer of the souls of men.

Passing over other instances of false renown, and undazzled by the

halo of romance cast around the “Prisoner of Chillon” by Lord Byron’s

melodious lines (it would be more plain-spoken than polite to write

this word, as here it ought to be written, _i.e._, without the _n_),

let us examine, by the sober light of history, into the merits of this

more-than-doubtful hero, rendered by his captivity a person of

interest, although there is every proof that the story of his arrest,

in violation of a safe-conduct granted him by the duke of Savoy, is an

invention.[211] Still more, however, does Bonivard owe his celebrity

to Lord Byron, who apparently knew nothing of the “Prisoner” whose

imaginary sufferings he sang, beyond his name, his Protestantism, and

the fact of his imprisonment. The poem opens with a string of

fictions, among which it is amusing to read that Bonivard was loaded

with chains for the religion of his father, and that the said father

had died on the rack, a martyr to a creed he refused to abjure, etc.

But imagination has had the upper hand long enough. Certain of our

contemporaries abroad having recently referred to the “Prisoner of

Chillon” as a martyr for liberty of conscience, it is time to bring

down from his pedestal this Calvinist apostate, pointed to by

Protestants as one of their models of virtue, and who, we readily

allow, turns out to be a fitting companion to similar “models” even

more famous in their annals.

The Bonivards were an old _bourgeois_ family of Chambéry, who from the

thirteenth century had possessed a certain extent of feudal property.

Thus they were subjects of the princes of Savoy, whose worst enemies

were then the Genevese and Swiss. Now, it was under the protection of

these latter that Bonivard, himself a Savoyard, came, in the vain hope

of preserving the rich revenues of his priory of Saint Victor, to

plant his batteries against his native country. At Geneva, he took his

place among the first promoters of the freedom of the future republic,

but no sooner did the Reformation become a movement of importance,

from the standing of some of its leaders, than Bonivard disappears

from the front, and falls into a lower rank; since, although a writer

of some power and possessed of real talents, he was utterly lacking in

energy and dignity of character, as also in firmness and consistency

of purpose. In proof of this, it is enough to observe the continual

applications for money with which he harassed the council of Geneva,

while he was at the same time playing fast and loose between Savoy and

Geneva, in the first place, and afterwards between Geneva and Berne,

according to the advancement of his own interests, self being

apparently the sole object of his worship. This “vain and versatile

beggar”[212] was called by one of the chiefs of the republic, the

“_Stultus_ M. de Sans-Saint-Victor.”

Dr. Chapponnière, a Protestant, says that “Bonivard, exalted by some

as a hero and a martyr for liberty, and by others charged with every

vice, merited neither the excess of honor he received on the one hand,

nor of condemnation on the other.” With regard, however, to this

verdict, which would represent Bonivard as a man of simple mediocrity,

we put the following questions: Was not François de Bonivard a traitor

to his religion, which he abandoned? to his ecclesiastical character,

which he violated? to his country, which he injured to the utmost of

his power? to history, which he falsified? and lastly, to his _wives_,

whom he deceived, and one of whom he abandoned to torture?

The “Prisoner of Chillon” had earned his detention in that fortress by

fifteen years of open revolt against his lawful sovereign; and if, by

reason of his six years of imprisonment he is to be accounted a great

man, it is but just to allow his fourth wife, Catherine de

Courtaronel, to share his greatness. Like him, she apostatized; like

him, she quitted her convent and broke all her vows; like him, she was

driven out of Geneva because of her evil life; like him, she was

allowed to return thither on promising amendment; with him she lived,

for some time unmarried, until the two were compelled by the Genevese

authorities to submit to a marriage ceremony; like him, she was

accused of adultery, and, more unfortunate than he, was made, by the

application of frightful tortures, to avow herself guilty of the crime

(which, however, has not been proved), her husband making no attempt

whatever to save her from the torture. In consequence of the

confessions thus extorted, she was condemned to be drowned; the

sentence being duly executed.

We have here a terrible pendant to the six years of prison, and one

which, this time, can neither be imputed (to quote M. Fazg) to “an

infamous duke of Savoy,” nor yet (to quote Bonivard himself) to “a

rascally pope.”

This brief sketch, notwithstanding its incompleteness as to details,

which would, however, only darkly shade the outline here given, is

sufficient to portray the real Bonivard, the avaricious and

time-serving apostate, stripped of the interesting fiction which

envelopes the Prisoner of Chillon, and to prove his worthiness of a

niche by the side of Cranmer, Luther, Calvin, Beza, John of Leyden,

and the rest of the reforming race.

[211] See, especially, Spon, _Histoire de Genève_, tom. 1.

pp. 203, 204.

[212] See notice in the _Revue Catholique_ for June, 1876,

by M. Leyret, to whom the present paper is largely

indebted. Those who wish for full information on the

subject will find it in the _Notice sur François de

Bonivard, Prieur de St. Victor et sur ses Ecrits, par

M. le Dr. Chapponniere_ (_Mémoires de la Société

d’Histoire et d’Archéologie de Genève_, tome iv.),

also in the _Matériaux Historiques_ and the _Notices

Généalogiques_ of Galiffe (tome iii.), but above all

in the remarkable work by Canon Magnin, now Bishop of

Annecy, on Bonivard and the Chronicles of Geneva

(_Mémoires de l’Académie de Savoie, 2ème Séries_, tome

iii.) who by even his moderation, as well as the

pitiless logic of facts, crushes the pseudo-confessor.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

SANCTA SOPHIA, OR DIRECTIONS FOR THE PRAYER OF

CONTEMPLATION, ETC. Extracted out of more than Forty

Treatises written by the late Ven. Father F. Augustin Baker,

a monk of the English Congregation of the Holy Order of S.

Benedict; and methodically digested by the R. F. Serenus

Cressy, of the same Order and Congregation. Now edited by

the Very Rev. Dom Norbert Sweeny, D.D., of the same Order

and Congregation. London: Burns & Oates. 1876. (For sale by

The Catholic Publication Society.)

Next in importance to the choice of a spiritual director comes, no

doubt, the selection of the kind and quality of spiritual reading

proper for individual souls. Ordinarily they go together, and,

granting the first choice to have been well made, the second should be

left to be determined by it. One advantage, however, a suitable book

presents even when compared with a suitable director. It is always

accessible, a consideration of some importance, when one remembers how

urgently spiritual writers seek to persuade the soul that in case wise

direction can be had at no less cost, she should travel “a thousand

German miles” to find it. It is true that with certain classes of

religious reading, and especially with that class to which the _Sancta

Sophia_ belongs, there is danger that indiscreet readers may mistake

their own needs, and nourish pride on what is proper food for humility

only. Another peculiarity belonging to them is one which we hardly

know whether to class as an advantage or a disadvantage. Put into the

hands of mature readers for whom they have been esteemed suitable on

account of some natural tendency to introversion, and possibly of

converts, to which class, by the way, the author of the _Sancta

Sophia_ himself belonged, we have observed these charts of the more

interior ways of spiritual life to create a temporary difficulty

almost as serious as those they were intended to remove. The clearness

and certainty with which the road is pointed out, and the obstacles to

be surmounted described, fill the mind at first with such a sense of

security as one feels who places himself in charge of an experienced

guide to travel to regions by report well known but as yet unvisited.

The objects of faith assume a new vividness, and the soul, beholding

its own struggles and its own weariness reflected in the page before

it, takes up its line of march with new vigor and readiness to endure

what its predecessors also have endured. But it will be strange if its

enemy do not avail himself of the very weapons used against him to

raise the contrary difficulty, and to suggest that the very accuracy

with which the internal conflict is described shows that nothing has

been really achieved by the spiritual writers except the dissection of

the soul itself, and that, considered as evidence for the existence of

anything beyond its own struggles, their works are simply worthless.

However, to “well-minded souls,” as Father Baker would say, such

temptations against faith are not in reality more dangerous than any

other, and may, with the help of prayer and prudent counsel, be fled

from even while their immediate occasion is retained and put to its

uses. For such souls, once firmly grounded in Catholic faith and with

a natural predisposition for “the internal ways of the Spirit,” we

know no better guide than the _Sancta Sophia_, now so happily

reprinted. No doubt it is not adapted to general reading; the caution

of the Benedictine father, Leander à St. Martino, is as necessary

to-day as when it was prefixed to the earliest editions of the work.

These instructions, he said, “are written precisely, and only for such

souls as by God’s holy grace do effectually and constantly dedicate

themselves to as pure an abstraction from creatures as may with

discretion be practised; … consequently, for such as abstain from all

manner of levity, loss of time, notable and known defects, vain talk,

needless familiarity, and in a word do take as much care as they can

to avoid all venial sins and occasions of them, and all things which

they shall perceive or be warned of, to be impediments to the divine

union of their souls with God.”

Let us hope that even the strict application of this rule would not

too greatly narrow the circle of readers likely to be profited by the

reissue of a volume which those well qualified to judge rate as the

most solid and valuable work on prayer ever written in the English

tongue. A more effectual barrier, perhaps, against indiscriminate

readers, is raised by the style of the work itself than by cautions

such as these. For while the quaint, sweet sobriety of its manner most

happily matches the gravity of its matter, it is marked by an utter

absence of all things likely to gratify curiosity simply, and makes no

effort to do more than guide souls called to contemplative prayer

along the secure road of abnegation and self-denial. Certain blemishes

which pertained to the work in its original state are sufficiently

guarded against in this edition by notes; and in its present form the

_Sancta Sophia_ is undoubtedly better fitted than before both to the

needs of the contemplative orders for whom it was originally written,

and to those of devout souls living in the world.

MITCHELL’S GEOGRAPHICAL TEXT-BOOKS. Philadelphia: Published

by J. H. Butler & Co.

One of the best proofs of the excellence of these text-books is the

continual popularity which they have enjoyed, in spite of the

publication of so many competing works by other authors. Of course

they have been kept up to the times by additions, and improvements

corresponding to the increase of geographical knowledge.

The series consists of eight books, two being occupied with ancient

geography, and is progressive, so as to suit every age and capacity.

For Catholic schools it is, so far as we can see, not open to any

objection, and as good as any set of books not expressly written for

them can be.

We are particularly pleased with Prof. Brocklesby’s _Physical

Geography_, which forms part of the series. It is full of information

for grown persons as well as for the young, is profusely and finely

illustrated, as is the rest of the series, and will be found to be a

most readable and instructive book.

The maps and charts are throughout the series executed with that

clearness and beauty which have always characterized Mitchell’s

atlases.

THE LIFE, LETTERS, AND TABLE-TALK OF BENJAMIN ROBERT HAYDON.

MEN AND MANNERS IN AMERICA ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO. New York.

Scribner, Armstrong & Co. 1876.

These two volumes are the first instalments of the “Sans-Souci

Series,” intended as a companion to the “Bric-à-Brac Series.” The life

of Haydon the artist is full of painful interest. The present volume

is a condensation by Mr. R. H. Stoddard of the larger Engglish life.

_Men and Manners in America One Hundred Years Ago_, edited by H. G.

Scudder, tells pleasantly enough how men and women lived and moved and

had their being in this country a century ago.

Transcriber’s Note:

Obvious printing errors, such as upside down or backwards letters and

accent marks, mismatched open and closed quote marks, duplicate words,

and incorrect spacing between words, were corrected. Unprinted letters

and final stops were added. Alternate and obsolete spellings were left

unchanged.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like

this_.

Footnotes in the text were numbered in order and moved to the end of

the article in which the anchor occurs. Footnote anchors in tables

were changed to letters. Many table footnotes have multiple anchors.

Added missing footnote anchor to [190].

Noted, but left unchanged: Some listings in the Contents are not in

alphabetical order.

Spaces were used instead of decimal points to separate dollars from

cents and pounds from shillings in “Labor in Europe and America.”

Hyphens occasionally used inconsistently, e.g. text contains both

churchyard and church-yard. ‘Home Rule’ when used as a noun has no

hyphen; otherwise, it appears as Home-Rule or Home-Ruler.