often, under specious pretexts, withdrawn from the allowed limits of
clerical oratory, Ketteler seems to invite a comparison with Dupanloup,
the Bishop of Orleans, who, having fought in the earlier struggle for
freedom of education in France, has lived to take part in a struggle
more vital and less local—that of the whole field of Christian doctrine
in arms against systematized revolution. Occasion naturally moulds the
men it needs; the material of such characters is always present, but in
the church, as in the world, “mute, inglorious Miltons” and “village
Hampdens” die and leave no mark. This explains the rush of talent to
the rescue of every cause seriously imperilled by its successful
adversaries; among others the cause of the church, under whatsoever
persecution it may chance to suffer. This also explains the present
superiority, as a body, of the German episcopate. In the first quarter
of this century the reconstruction of society in France, and the
reorganization of the church on a basis less majestic but more
dignified than that of the _ancien régime_, brought about the same
bristling of great gifts greatly used around the threatened liberties
of the church. In Poland, during the two insurrections which this
century has witnessed, heroes rose up naturally wherever there was a
priest or a bishop; in the late French war, and its sequel, the
Commune, the martyrdoms and Christian stoicism of 1793 were repeated
and nearly surpassed, while the present more tedious, less brilliant
struggle of the church in Germany has called forth men of iron will and
fathomless patience to resist, legally and passively, an active,
goading injustice. In countries where there is no need for it there is
less of this public display of unusual powers; bishops who might be
statesmen remain simply administrators, priests who might be heroes
remain obscure pastors; in literature it is research, learning,
theology which take up their leisure time, not public speaking or
political writing; the silent, healthful life of the church goes on,
without struggle and hindrance, and work is done indeed, but it seldom
becomes known beyond a small local circle. And even this happens only
under the shadow of suppressed hostility to the church, such as there
exists at present in almost every country; for there have been times
when, splendid as the outward position of the church has been, or
seemingly unfettered her organization, there was at the core a
spiritual drowsiness which was far from honorable. Such a period came
before the first French Revolution; another earlier, before the German
Reformation; another later, before Catholic Emancipation in England;
and another before the late Prussian church laws in Germany. There was
either security or sovereignty; no shade of persecution; at most a
polished indifference or a scornful toleration, and hence no revival,
no earnest, quick-pulsing life.
We have omitted to mention one of Bishop Ketteler’s most important
undertakings—that of the theological institute in Mayence, to replace
the education given to the clergy at the local university of Hesse,
Giesen. The grand-duke heartily approved of the plan of restoring to
the episcopal seminary the whole training of the diocesan clergy,
instead of the taking on, as a secondary branch, of a chair of theology
to Giesen; and the bishop was enabled to carry out his plans in this
matter, and to leave behind him a body of priests, zealous, loyal,
whole-hearted, and imbued with his own spirit.
Ketteler was in every sense a great man, and no less a man of his age.
He accepted everything as it legitimately stands, with no hankerings
after the old order of things, no political, or rather romantic,
longings after forced revivals of bygone conditions; but he took his
stand firmly on the principle that the church has her own appointed and
immutable place in every successive system, and ought to stand by her
claim to this place. This is the basis whence every member of her army
should in these days fight her battles, and, taking up the new weapons,
make them his own. Ketteler has shown them the way.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE OLD STONE JUG.
A TALE OF THE NEUTRAL GROUND.
A century ago on the post-road to Boston, and sixteen miles from the
city of New York, stood a tavern called the Old Stone Jug. It was a
one-story building of dark-colored stone, with a single window fronting
upon the highway—a quaint, lozenge-shaped window, of thick, dingy
glass, through which the sun’s rays penetrated with difficulty. The
chimney, battered by two generations of northwest winds, sagged
considerably to the south; a frowning rock rose close behind the house;
and altogether the Old Stone Jug wore a sinister appearance, which
tallied well with the stories told about it. A band of Indians had come
in the night-time and massacred the first family who dwelt here; a
peddler had been seen to enter the doorway and never been heard of
afterwards; a cavern of fathomless depth was said to connect the cellar
with the rock; and certain it is that no one who had made this spot his
home had either remained long or prospered there, except Peter Van
Alstyne—better known in the township of East Chester as Uncle Pete—who
kept the tavern at the opening of the Revolution.
But he did well; the poorer his neighbors became, the more
light-hearted did he grow and the richer, and all because the fox which
prowleth about in the dark was not cunninger than Uncle Pete.
His wife was dead, but he had a daughter named Martha, who kept house
for him, and whom he tenderly loved and strove to bring up in his own
principles—namely, to be all things to all men. “For these are critical
times,” he would say, “and who can tell, child, which side will win?”
Martha was just twenty years of age, and, if not what we might call a
handsome girl, had something very attractive about her. She was tall
and graceful and abounding in spirits. She knew everybody for miles
around, and everybody knew her; and if the more knowing ones shook
their heads and looked a little doubtful when they spoke of Van
Alstyne, all agreed that Martha was a fine young woman.
The only member of the household besides herself and parent was a
diminutive negro boy christened “Popgun.” And at the moment our tale
begins Popgun is perched on the topmost limb of a wild-cherry tree hard
by, Martha is in the kitchen making doughnuts, while the publican is
standing in the middle of the road gazing up at the sign-board which
hangs immediately above the entrance—and, considering that he painted
it himself, ’tis not a bad work of art. Here we see King George with a
crown on his head; at the royal feet crouches a lion, and around the
two figures, in big red letters, are the words, “God save the King!”
He was still contemplating the features of his sovereign when a shrill
voice cried down from the sky, “Be ready, sir.” In an instant Uncle
Pete’s face lost its tranquil expression, and putting his hand to his
ear, so as to catch well Popgun’s next warning note, he listened
attentively.
In another minute came the voice again: “‘Lisha Williams, sir, on Dolly
Dumplings.”
“Ho! Then I must be brisk, for the mare travels fast,” muttered Van
Alstyne, hastening toward a ladder which lay a few yards off in
readiness for these occasions. In less time than it takes to relate the
sign-board was turned round, and, lo! in place of King George and the
lion behold now George Washington, holding in his hand a flag whereon
are thirteen stripes and thirteen stars, and circling the picture are
the words, “God save our Liberties.”
“Child, here’s ‘Lisha coming,” shouted Uncle Pete, thrusting his head
into the doorway.
“Elisha! Indeed!” exclaimed Martha, letting drop the cake she was
rolling in her hands. “Oh! how glad I am. Haven’t seen the dear boy for
an age.” Then away she flew to make ready for her lover, or rather for
one of her lovers. And now, while the girl is putting on another gown,
let us speak a few words about the horseman who is approaching.
Elisha Williams was a young man of five-and-twenty, with sandy hair and
blue eyes, and whose father owned a farm half a mile east of the inn.
He and Martha had been friends from childhood, and when at length the
time came for him to think of matrimony there was no lass whom he
desired more for his wife than Martha.
She was a girl after his own heart: not demure and timid and silent as
a tombstone, but brave and full of fun; he had even known her to pursue
and kill a rattlesnake; and she was as fond of a horse as he was
himself.
When news came of the fight at Lexington Elisha openly took the patriot
side, bought Dolly Dumplings of Martha’s father (a mare so given to
kicking and jumping fences that, although of unstained pedigree, Uncle
Pete was fain to part with her), and now he is one of the most daring
troopers in the Continental army, and is known far and wide as The
Flying Scout.
But Elisha was not the only one who courted Martha. He had a rival
named Harry Valentine, son of Doctor Valentine, the most notorious Tory
in East Chester; and this caused Elisha not a little anxiety. For,
although Martha always received him very cordially when he paid her one
of his flying visits, and seemed pleased to hear of his exploits, she
never would listen when he said anything harsh of the Tories.
Elisha’s heart was beating quite as fast as her own when presently he
reined in his foaming steed before the tavern door. Martha was standing
on the threshold, looking, in his eyes, never so bewitching. Between
her fingers she held a lump of sugar for Dolly Dumplings—she seemed to
care only for Dolly; her long, luxuriant brown hair, which flowed loose
down her shoulders, had a spray of wild honeysuckle twined through
it—you might have fancied she had been wandering through the woods, and
that the flowers had got tangled there by accident. Her cheeks were
slightly tinged by the sun; but what of it? They were plump, healthy
cheeks, adorned by two pretty dimples; and Elisha, who loved cherries,
felt his mouth water when he looked on Martha’s lips.
“How is my Martha?” he exclaimed, sliding nimbly off the saddle.
“_Your_ Martha, indeed!” answered the girl, tossing her head; then with
a smile, as he caught both her hands: “Well, I’m alive and well, and—”
“Not at all pleased to see me, eh?” interrupted Elisha.
“Delighted to see you,” she added, a sweet pink blush spreading itself
with the quickness of light over her face.
“Really? Truly? ‘Pon your honor?” cried Elisha, squeezing her hands
tighter.
“Come inside and let’s have a talk,” said Martha, trying to free
herself from his grasp. But she only half tried; and when presently
they were seated side by side he was still holding fast to her right
wrist.
“What delicious flowers!” observed Martha, looking down at a nosegay
which the youth had stuck in his belt. “Wild-flowers give no such
perfume.”
“These are for you,” said her lover, presenting them to her. “They came
from Van Cortlandt’s garden. I spent last night at the Manor. Van
Cortlandt is a patriot, and is not ashamed to offer a farmer’s son
hospitality.”
“How delicious!” said Martha, bringing the nosegay to her nose.
“Colonel Delancey’s hot-house plants cannot surpass them.”
“Delancey! The Tory! The Cowboy chief! What do you know about his
flowers, Martha?”
“Harry Valentine brought me a magnolia from there a few days ago,”
replied Martha frankly.
The other murmured something to himself, then burst out: “Confound and
hang the Tories!”
Martha was silent a moment, then remarked: “Well, however much you
dislike them, I hope you will not harm Harry Valentine, if he ever
falls into your hands.”
“It being your wish, I will always aim a mile above his precious head,”
returned Elisha.
“You are a good fellow—a real good fellow; just the same as you always
were,” continued Martha tenderly. “Oh! I often think of our old frolics
together, Elisha.”
“Do you, really? Well, Martha, I often think of them too. What happy
days those were!”
“Yes, much happier than these. O Elisha! you can’t think how changed
everything is since this dreadful war began. Not a sloop sails up the
creek now; no carriages pass along the road; no bees, no husking
parties—everybody is gloomy. First this man’s barn is burnt, then that
man’s; and chickens and horses and cattle are stolen. In short, between
the Skinners and the Cowboys poor Westchester County is fast becoming a
desert.”
“Well, for all that it is a glorious war, and will end in freeing us
from England,” said Elisha, thumping his fist upon his knee.
“Ay, to be sure it will. God save our liberties! Hurrah for the
Continental Army!” cried Uncle Pete, waddling into the house. Then, as
he opened a cupboard which contained a number of bottles of rum and
cherry-bounce: “Tell me, ‘Lisha, how you like Dolly Dumplings.”
“Like her? Why, Uncle Pete, she’s just the best animal that ever was
shod. Nothing can catch her—not even the wind.”
“Right, my boy! Colonel Livingstone, who imported her sire from
England, and who sold the mare to me five years ago, declared that she
has in her veins the blood of the Flying Childers, and you know he ran
a mile a minute.”
“Father, Popgun is calling,” said Martha, with a disturbed air.
“Is he?” And Van Alstyne hurried away as fast as possible; but before
you could count ten he was back again.
“Too bad, ‘Lisha,” he said, “that you must quit us so soon—hardly time
to take one drink. But some enemy’s cavalry are in sight and they’re on
a trot.” Then out he went again to fetch Dolly Dumplings.
“Well, dear boy, may the Lord watch over you and keep you safe!” spoke
Martha, in a tone of deeper feeling than she had yet evinced toward her
lover. The latter gazed earnestly in her face a moment, then said:
“Must I bid good-by and depart in uncertainty? O Martha dear! tell me
what I so long to know: will you be my wife?”
Her response was: “Elisha, I love the brave, and the bravest shall win
me.”
“Then, by Heaven, I’ll be a hero!” cried Elisha. These were his last
words; in another moment he was gone. But ere Dolly Dumplings had
galloped fifty paces the sign-board was turned round and King George
came once more in view.
“Who are they, pa—Hessians or real Britishers?” inquired Martha calmly;
for she knew they could not overtake Elisha.
“Hessians, I believe,” replied Van Alstyne.
“Detestable creatures!” exclaimed the girl, withdrawing into the house.
“Don’t say that, child. They’re as good as any soldiers who fight for
the king; and if they halt here they’ll leave more than one guinea
behind them.”
And so they did, for they were a party of very thirsty and hungry men
who shortly arrived; and for the next hour and a half the Old Stone Jug
was as busy as a bee-hive. Many a bottle of spirits was emptied, every
doughnut and pie was devoured; and in consideration of his being a
staunch loyalist they paid Uncle Pete without grumbling, albeit the
score was rather high.
“They’re gone at last—what a blessing!” said Martha, while her father
was counting over the money to make sure it was all good coin.
“Why, how foolish you talk!” said happy Uncle Pete.
“Well, father, I’m in earnest. I don’t dislike real Britishers or
Tories; but these German mercenaries I do detest.”
“Bah! bah!” growled Van Alstyne. “Perhaps to-morrow we’ll have a band
of Continentals or some roving Skinners; then perhaps, day after,
‘tother side may visit us again. Why, child, I’m getting rich out of
this war.”
“Take one side or the other,” returned Martha, shaking her head. “I’d
rather be fair and open, even if we made less money.”
“Humph! We’d be in a pretty fix if I did that, child—a pretty fix. Why,
this tavern wouldn’t stand a week, except for my double-faced
sign-board; whereas now George Washington might be entertained here and
depart highly edified, and so might King George. The only
unpleasantness would be if they both happened to come at the same time.
And so, child, you ought not to be finding fault.” Then, after pausing
long enough to take a chew of tobacco: “And besides,” he went on, “’tis
not easy in this world always to see the clear path we ought to follow.
Why, you yourself are in a fix; and I don’t wonder at it, for in this
township I can’t name two honester, jollier more manly fellows than
‘Lisha Williams and Harry Valentine. And if I were a girl with those
two boys for sparks, I believe I’d jump into East Chester Creek, so
that neither of ’em might be disappointed.”
Here Martha’s merry laugh rang through the house; then, taking Elisha’s
bouquet in one hand and Harry’s magnolia in the other, she stretched
forth her arms and stood exactly half-way between the two love-gifts,
and said: “Well, yes, I am in a fix.”
“And a very, very sweet fix,” mumbled Uncle Pete, rolling the quid
about in his capacious mouth. “Many a young woman might envy you.”
“Well, I do wonder how long it will last. I must decide one of these
days.”
“Don’t be in a hurry, child. Wait; have patience. If we are beaten and
forced to remain colonies, marry Harry Valentine; if we secure our
independence, then choose ‘Lisha. For ’twill go hard with the party
that’s beaten; their land will be confiscated.”
“Dear, darling flowers! How delicious you are!” said Martha, bringing
the magnolia and the nosegay together and pressing both to her lips;
and she kept kissing them and smelling them, and smelling and kissing
them, till at length her father said:
“Humph! they’ll soon wilt, if you treat the pretty things that way.”
“Oh! I’ll get fresh ones afore long,” answered Martha. “However, I will
put these in water. They may as well last a few days.”
But a week went by, and then another week, without bringing again
either of her suitors. The weather was delightful, for it was early
June. The summer heat had not yet begun; and if it were not for war,
ruthless war, how fair all nature would have appeared! But although the
meadows were spangled with dandelions and buttercups, the woods scented
with dogwood blossoms, and the air full of the melody of bobolinks and
orioles, the people of East Chester were more depressed than ever. Bob
Reed’s mill had just been burnt by the Cowboys; in revenge the Skinners
had scuttled a Tory sloop anchored in the creek; while some miscreants
had even made an attempt to fire St. Paul’s Church in the village. But,
sad as all this was, nothing caused Martha Van Alstyne so much distress
as the doings at the Old Stone Jug. For two whole nights she was kept
awake and bustling about, attending to the wants of a set of profane
marauders who belonged both to the British and American side. These
villains, sinking all difference of opinion, would occasionally unite
to rob friend as well as foe;[165] and it was to the Old Stone Jug they
carried their plunder, which Uncle Pete would hide in the cavern behind
the house.
“Well, don’t blame me, child,” said Van Alstyne. “Remember how I am
situated. Why, if I had refused to conceal those bags of gold I’d like
enough have been hung forthwith; for among the men who were here last
night and the night before are some of the greatest scoundrels in
America.”
“Well, I am going to choose my husband afore long,” answered
Martha—“either Elisha Williams or Harry Valentine; and then you must
abandon this tavern and come live with me. For if you stay here—”
“O child! I sha’n’t stay after you’re gone. But why marry so soon? Why
not wait a while?—at least, until we see what Burgoyne does with his
army, which is large and well appointed. He may sweep everything before
him; and if he does, then you’ll see your way much clearer, and I’ll be
the first to tell you to wed Harry Valentine.”
Martha shook her head: “I’ll give my hand to the bravest, father, no
matter which side he is on. And it is because they are both so good and
so brave that I hesitate.”
“Well, now, child, if you’re not careful you may cause the death of ’em
both. Ay, ’tis hard to say what wild, foolhardy deed they may not
attempt in order to win you.”
“Do you think so?” exclaimed Martha, pressing her hand over her heart
and turning pale. This thought had not occurred to her before. But it
was too late. She had already told each wooer that the bravest one
should have her.
The girl was inwardly lamenting her folly when a voice from the
cherry-tree cried: “Be ready, sir.” And immediately she and her father
listened with all their ears for the next call.
“Red-coats!” shouted Popgun in about three minutes.
“All right,” said Uncle Pete, and off he went to get the ladder. But
quick Martha checked him, saying: “Why, father, the sign-board is all
right for Britishers.”
“Oh! so it is,” ejaculated Uncle Pete; then, with a grin: “The fact is,
child, I’m so used to turning it round and round—first to King George,
then to George Washington, then back again to King George—that I’m
afraid some day I’ll make a mistake, and I’ve half a mind to give you
charge of it.”
“If you do I’ll either nail the sign fast to the house, or else take it
away entirely,” answered Martha.
Her parent was still laughing at this innocent, unbusiness-like speech
when the British dragoons arrived, and at their head was Harry
Valentine.
Harry was a very different looking man from Elisha Williams: not only
was he clad in a brilliant scarlet uniform, but he had more refined
features and courtly manners, which seemed to confirm the view that
Martha’s father held—namely, that the most genteel people were Tories.
And now, while Harry clasped the hand of his sweetheart, the latter
forgot altogether Elisha’s freckled but honest face, his sandy hair and
homespun coat, with naught to distinguish him from an ordinary citizen
save a black cockade and eagle feather in his hat, and she thought to
herself: “Was there ever such a magnificent wig as my Harry’s! ’Tis
powdered to perfection! Dear, darling boy!”
“Ah! there is the magnolia I gave you,” said Harry, smiling, as they
entered the little sitting-room, where Martha passed most of her time
when not engaged in the kitchen.
“How fresh it looks! Yet ’tis a good while since I brought it.”
“An age,” returned Martha, eying him fondly.
“And what pretty flowers those are yonder!” he continued, looking
toward the other end of the mantel-piece.
“None could be prettier,” said Martha in a quiet voice, yet she felt
the blood stealing over her cheeks.
“From Reverend Doctor Coffee’s garden, perhaps?”
“No indeed! They were given me by one whom nobody can come up to—one
who keeps ahead of everybody. Now guess his name!”
“Oh! I know—that Skinner, Elisha Williams,” said Harry with apparent
indifference, but inwardly groaning.
“He is not a Skinner, any more than you are a Cowboy. You are both in
the regular armies,” said Martha; then, laying her hand on Harry’s
shoulder: “And, Harry, I hope, if Elisha is ever your prisoner, that
you will treat him kindly.”
“For your sake he who in your eyes is ahead of all the rest of the
world shall have not a single one of his red hairs injured,” answered
Harry, making a low bow. “But might I venture to ask what valiant
exploit has Elisha performed that you say he is ahead of me, his open,
determined, but honorable rival?”
“O Harry! your dear brains are running away with you,” said Martha.
“You speak hastily. I only meant that Dolly Dumplings is so fleet that
not a trooper in the king’s army can catch Elisha. That is all I
meant.”
“Is that really all?” exclaimed Harry, giving a sigh of relief.
“Yes, upon my word it is.”
“Well, Elisha must look out,” continued the young man, his countenance
beaming once more. “He must not presume too much on the fleetness of
his steed; for a hundred pounds reward has just been offered to whoever
will capture Dolly Dumplings.”
“Indeed! A hundred pounds!” exclaimed Martha. “Well, for all that Dolly
will still continue to show you her heels.”
At this Harry laughed, then said: “Martha, I hope the next time you see
me I’ll have a decoration; we expect stirring events soon.”
“O Harry! pray don’t be rash,” said the girl. “Do, do take care of
yourself.”
“Stop no preaching, dear Martha. I love you too much to heed the
bullets. You remember you said the bravest should possess you; and you
are a treasure worth shedding blood for.”
“Oh! did I say that?” Here she pressed her hand to her brow. “Well,
yes, I believe I did. But I was a fool, for who can be braver than you
and Elisha? Who can doubt the courage of either of you?”
“Well, then, precious Martha, why not decide at once between us? Oh! I
assure you ’tis a great trial for me, this long uncertainty.”
When he had spoken these words Martha turned her eyes upon Elisha’s
nosegay, which, despite the water, was beginning to fade; then from the
flowers her eyes dropped to the floor, while her heart throbbed
violently. Then, looking up, she was on the very point of uttering
something of vast moment, when, lo! a bullet crashed through the
window, whizzed close by her head, and buried itself in the
wainscoting, half blinding her with whitewash and mortar.
Immediately there was a great stir and confusion in the bar-room, where
Harry’s company were drinking and smoking their pipes.