This was the mayor's house. He was an old man of seventy-five,

universally respected for his incorruptible honesty and his steady,

reliable character. He had been born in the town, but had left it

while yet a baby in arms, had then returned a grown man and father of

a family, gone into trade, become a successful business man, and seven

years ago retired honorably into private life. Of his sons, one was a

mill-owner near Manchester, one had succeeded to his father's local

business and factory, and one, his youngest, had died at sea, leaving a

little girl, his only child, to the care of its grandparents. The old

man's only daughter was a nun in a Carmelite convent in the South of

France.

No one but the mayor, his wife, and grandchild lived in this cosey

house, and a very happy household it was. The girl had been partly

brought up abroad, and had acquired many graceful foreign traits as a

set-off to her English complexion and somewhat hoidenish manners. She

was the apple of their eye to the old couple, who let her rule them

and the house like a young empress. The mayor was nothing but a great

baby in her hands, and people knew that the surest way to his heart

or his purse was through that saucy little beauty, Philippa Mason.

Strangers passing through the town used to marvel how it was that a

Catholic had been elected mayor; but they were assailed by such a

torrent of eulogies on "the best, most generous, most public-spirited,

most conscientious of our citizens" that they were glad to take all for

granted, and applaud the choice of the freemen of Carthwaite without

further explanation.

One other inmate of the mayor's house will be found worthy of

notice--old Armstrong, or Uncle Jim, as he was mostly called. Verging

upon sixty, he was still tall, slight, and erect in stature; his

manners had some degree of refinement, and he was wont at times to hint

mysteriously at his former connection with the gentlefolk of the land.

Everybody liked him and laughed at him. He was the most good-humored

and the most unlucky of mortals. He spoke loftily of the fortune he

lost in his youth through cards and wine; and every one knew that

when Mr. Mason, twenty years before, had kindly set him up in a small

business of his own, he had not waited six months before he owned

himself a bankrupt. Not a stain was on his character, but everything

he touched seemed doomed. Money oozed through his fingers like water,

while there was no visible cause for it; and the poorer he became, the

merrier he was. At last, he had taken refuge with Mr. Mason, and become

a part of his establishment. No one knew or inquired about his origin;

people were glad enough to let the character of his patron vouch for

the respectability of the harmless, amusing, kind-hearted old oddity.

As these four sat in the study (for so Philippa would have her favorite

room called), they discussed their plans for the ensuing festival week.

"Uncle Jim has been invaluable," said the girl; "he has been my

head-carpenter for the stage in the school, and has made such a grotto

for the crib, and, above all, he has carved two wonderful alms-dishes

for the collection to-morrow morning."

"Thank God! the church is to be opened to-morrow, wife," said the

mayor, seeking his wife's hand. "I may not live to see another

Christmas nor hear another midnight Mass. In our young days, we little

thought we should see such things--when priests would ride forty

miles to a dying bed, booted and spurred, with pistols to fight the

highwaymen. Why, even in town, it was as much as we could do to get to

our duty at Easter every year."

"Grandpapa," said Philippa, "by next summer the spire will be finished,

and we can have the banner of the cross floating there, as of old the

city standard used to fly over the cathedrals."

"Child," answered Mr. Mason, "by next summer your bridal train may set

the bells of the church a-ringing; and if I live to see that, I'll ask

no more of Heaven."

"Nobody knows where to look for the bridegroom yet," said Philippa

saucily.

"Hush!" put in the grandmother. "On the day when God gave his own

Son to the world, and gave to your grandfather and me such a great

blessing--years ago--no one must speak lightly of the gifts he may yet

please to send or no." After a pause, Uncle Jim said hesitatingly:

"The good Lord certainly feeds the sparrows, as the Bible says, and

I suppose that's why Miss Mason, _she_ must feed the robins, just to

follow the path we're told to; but it seems to me, if I'd waited for

Him to feed _me_ one day that I well remember, I'd have gone hungrier

than you ever did, master, in the days of your trouble."

Philippa looked up with an expectant smile; she always anticipated fun

when the old man adopted the mock-serious tone.

"Yes," continued the narrator, pleased to have at least the

encouragement of an indulgent silence extended to him; "and I was

prancing in the best blue broadcloth and the most shining buttons you

ever saw, and had on beautiful new boots that I never paid for ..."

"You rascal!" softly said the mayor.

"And a hat with such a curly brim," continued Jim imperturbably. "Well,

it was in the summer, the only time I really _was_ hungry--I don't mean

the summer, but that _that_ occasion was the only one when I was nigh

starving--and I and two friends, who had helped me to empty my purse,

were at Bath. None of us had any money left; in fact, _they_ never

had of their own, but were of those whose tongue is their fortune;

but hungry we all were, and must have something to eat. 'I have it!'

I cried, for I was not a bad hand at imagination, 'Follow me to the

White Hart;' and on the way I explained my plan. You will hear later

what it was. Now, you will say, Mr. Mayor, that I had better have laid

myself down by a haystack, and slept there on an empty stomach; and

indeed, after a good supper, such as we had to-night, it would be easy

enough for _me_ to say so; but just then it wasn't likely to be my

opinion. So we walked into the hotel, as bold as kings, and ordered a

private room and dinner for three--French soups and oyster patties,

fish and game, and foreign sauces and ale, just as _I_ knew it should

be, and Madeira and champagne, of course. When we had done (and, in the

intervals when the waiter had gone for the next course, we pocketed

as much as our pockets would stand of anything that was solid), we

called for the bill, and the waiter brought it, as pompous as you will,

on a silver salver. I put my hand in my pocket, whereupon one of my

friends, _he_ says: 'Come, come, I'll stand this; it was I who proposed

it and chose the wines.' And he puts his hand in his pocket. 'Bless

me!' cries the other. 'Gentlemen, I protest; it was I who ordered the

dinner, and I request, as a favor, you let me pay; the cost is but a

trifle." And _he_ put his hand in his pocket. The waiter stood grinning

and smirking, and thinking this great fun. "'An idea strikes me,' I

then said. 'Waiter, we'll blindfold you and shut the door, and whoever

you catch first will settle the bill.' At this my friends clapped their

hands, and the waiter, as proud as a peacock at the condescension of

such fine young gentlemen, gives us a napkin to tie over his eyes,

and lets us spin him round two or three times, that he may begin

fair. 'Now!' I cried, and he began feeling about, afraid to upset the

table; but he knew the room well, and went first to a closet beside

the further door. While he made a noise opening it and feeling inside,

I slid to another door, and gently pushed it ajar. In a twinkling we

were all three walking leisurely out of the White Hart, looking like

independent gentlemen, who did the host the great honor of approving of

his cook! That afternoon, we drew lots which should sell his fine suit

to pay travelling expenses, and it fell on me; so good-by to my gay

plumage, says I, and never dropt a tear, but got the money and played

valet to the other two till we got to London, where I made them pay

me what they owed through a lucky stroke at cards. And then we parted

company, nothing loath on my side. So that is how I read the saying,

'The Lord helps them as helps themselves.'"

Every one smiled at the privileged old man, though Philippa held up a

warning forefinger and whispered: "Grandpapa told me once that you were

not half so bad as you make yourself out to be. Why did you not put on

ladies' clothes, and go and beg for a dinner? They could not have said

no to a pretty face, and it would have been better than stealing."

"Hark at that!" said Uncle Jim aloud. "You women are born to fool

us. If I had my life to begin again, I should take advantage of that

suggestion. The truth was, high society ruined me; and here I am, a

destitute waif without a home. It is the first chapter of the Prodigal

Son; but I shall never get into the second."

He looked with comical gravity at Mr. Mason, whose glance of

affectionate amusement perfectly satisfied him in return; and then the

old man, drawing Philippa towards him, said gently to her:

"On your next birthday, as you know, child, you will become entitled

to all my fortune, and with this present will enter, too, into great

responsibilities. Now, to give you an idea of what wealth is, what it

can do, and how grave a trust it is, I will tell you a story too, but

more humbly than good Uncle Jim, because my fault was more reckless,

and because God has been more merciful to me in making it bring forth

real good. Your father and your uncles were all little things then, and

do not remember it, except very dimly; and since that Christmas, forty

years ago, I have never repeated the tale."

And in simple, forcible language the Mayor of Carthwaite told his

grandchild the story of the distress in Weston in the year 18--, the

famine and the wretchedness, the temptations of starving men, and

finally the incident in which Mr. Stamyn and the poor shoemaker had

figured side by side forty years ago. "And your grandmother and I have

prayed for that good man every night without ever missing," added the

old man, "and taught your father to do so; you yourself, child, have

prayed for the kind friend, whose conversion to the true faith was our

greatest wish. But his name and what his kindness was I never told a

soul till now."

Philippa was silent. Uncle Jim hid his face, and sobbed. The old couple

clasped hands by the fireside, and looked into each other's faces, as

they remembered the bare attic where they had shivered and starved, and

been nearly driven to become criminals by the sheer force of hunger.

Nearly two generations had passed, and they were still together,

thanking God that he had put it into the heart of man to relieve his

fellow-man that night, when a life of crime and disgrace had so nearly

begun to drag them down to the level of a "jail-bird." Philippa crept

up to them softly, and kissed them both.

"I understand your life and your charities so much better now," she

said; "and when I have the same responsibility thrust upon me, believe

me, I will do as you have done."

The bells began to chime, and the party bestirred themselves to go over

to the chapel, where the midnight Mass was to be said for the last

time. To-morrow the church was to be opened, and dedicated to "Our Lady

and S. Crispin," and the chapel was to become a school. Uncle Jim was

Philippa's special escort, for the old couple would never separate.

"Did you know that story?" she whispered to him as they crossed the

silent streets.

"Ay, but he told me never to speak of it till he gave me leave. He did

not tell you who the lad was that spied upon him that night; it was

poor Uncle Jim."

Philippa looked aghast.

"Yes," he went on, "and I left Mr. Stamyn some years after, and tried

to live as a gentleman on my earnings; but, as I told you in jest, a

heap of rascals helped me to empty my purse, and it was soon drained

of all. I remembered your grandfather, had taken a fancy to him in

Weston, went back, and found him. He took me in, and was very good to

me, useless as I was. I was always a shiftless fellow, and never could

keep what money I got. So he thought it better just to keep me at home,

and I tried to be useful, and could be, too, when there was no question

of money; and so it has been for nigh a score of years. Here we are at

the chapel. That's one thing I never saw--your religion; but then, Mr.

Mason is the best man I ever saw, and he's a Catholic. Anyways, there's

no other religion I like better."

And Uncle Jim went in and decorously assisted at the service, just as

if it was quite familiar to him and he liked it. I suspect he did, as

far as he understood it. What the Masons believed could not be very far

wrong.

The next morning there was a grand ceremony at the new church, and an

unlimited amount of beef and pudding distributed by tickets among the

poorer inhabitants of Carthwaite. After service, a carriage drove up to

Mr. Mason's door.

A very old gentleman, followed by a much younger one, stepped out, and

inquired for the mayor. They were shown into the study, where all the

Masons--cousins, uncles, etc.--had now assembled. The servant announced

"Mr. Stamyn."

Uncle Jim, recovering the instincts of his youth, suddenly stood up

respectfully before his former master, who, however, did not seem to

have the slightest recollection of him.

Mr. Stamyn went up to Mrs. Mason. "My dear friends," he said, "you both

told me not to forget your name; it was five years ago that I returned

to Weston, and I did not fail to make inquiries, but hardly hoping that

I should find you. They told me you had left, and I was lucky enough to

find a clue to your subsequent career. I need not say how happy I am to

redeem my promise to visit you again; I should certainly have been so,

had I found you still in smoky old Weston, but here doubly."

Every one, especially Philippa, was struck by the old-time courtesy,

precise, formal, yet most cordial, with which Mr. Stamyn spoke;

his young companion glanced admiringly at the girl, instinctively

distinguishing her from the more buxom damsels assembled round the

family hearth--her cousins of Manchester and Carthwaite. Mr. Mason

asked his friend and patron to stay with them, and sit at his board

as the chief Christmas guest; he gladly complied, and said laughingly

that he had expected to be asked. It was not until after the family

meal that Uncle Jim revealed himself to his former master. His awkward

self-consciousness and hurried glances had amused Mr. Stamyn in secret

all the time, though his own perfectly controlled manner had given no

sign of surprise or amusement; but when Jim, mysteriously bending over

Mr. Stamyn's chair, feelingly asked what had become of the boy James,

the old gentleman's eyes began to twinkle with premonitory signal-fire.

"He left me a few years after our Weston adventure, and, I very much

fear, went to the devil!" was the answer.

"No, sir; Mr. Stamyn," said Jim, shaking with excitement, "he went to

Mason."

"James," said his master seriously, "you could not possibly have done

better; I congratulate you."

Uncle Jim looked triumphantly at Philippa, who was talking to the young

man, Mr. Stamyn's companion. By her next birthday she was married to

him--he was Mr. Stamyn's great-nephew and heir--but the two old men did

not live to see another Christmas. Mrs. Mason and Uncle Jim remain yet,

and tell the story to the rising generation.

THE SONG OF ROLAND.

CONCLUDED.

The night flies away, and the white dawn appears. Charles, the majestic

emperor, mounts his charger, and casts his eye over the army. "My lords

barons," he says, "behold these dark defiles, these narrow gorges. To

whom do you counsel me to give the command of the rear-guard?"

"To whom?" replies Ganelon. "To whom but to my son-in-law Roland? Is he

not a baron of great valor?"

At these words the emperor looks at him, saying, "You are a very devil!

What deadly rage has entered into you?"

Roland approaches; he has heard the words of Ganelon. "Sire

father-in-law," he says, "what thanks do I not owe you for having asked

for me the command of the rear-guard! Our emperor, be assured, shall

lose nothing; neither steed nor palfrey, cart-horse nor sumpter-mule,

shall be taken, or our swords shall make more than the price."

"I believe it well," rejoins Ganelon.

"Ah! son of an accursed race!" cries Roland, who can no longer contain

his anger, "thou thoughtest that the glove would fall from my hands as

it did from thine." Then, turning to the emperor, he prays him to give

into his hand the bow which he grasps with his own.

The emperor's countenance darkens; he hesitates to place his nephew in

the rear-guard. But the Duke de Naymes says to him, "Give the bow to

Count Roland; the rear-guard belongs to him of right, since none other

could conduct it so well as he."

And the emperor gives Roland the bow, saying, "My fair nephew, know you

what I desire? I would leave with you the half of my army. Take it, I

pray you; it shall be for your safety."

"Nay," cries Roland, "I will have no such thing. God forbid that I

should belie my race! Leave me twenty thousand valiant Frenchmen, and

set out with all the rest. Pass at ease through the defiles, and, while

I am alive, fear no man in the world."

Roland mounts his charger. He is joined by his faithful Oliver, then

Gérer, then Berenger, and the aged Anséis, Gérard of Roussillon, and

the Duke Gaifier. "I, too, will be there," says the Archbishop Turpin,

"for I ought in duty to follow my chief."

"And I also," says Count Gauthier. "Roland is my liege-lord, and I

must not fail him."

The vanguard begins its march.

How lofty are these peaks! What sombre valleys! How black the rocks;

the defiles how profound! The French, in these dark gorges, seem

oppressed with sadness. The sound of their footsteps may be heard full

fifteen leagues away.

When they draw near to their mother-country, within sight of the land

of Gascony, they call to mind their fiefs and their possessions, their

tender children and their noble wives. The tears start into their

eyes--those of Charles most of all; for his heart is heavy at the

thought that he has left Roland among the mountains of Spain.

He hides his face with his mantle. "What ails you, sire?" asks the Duke

Naymes, riding by his side.

"Is there any need to ask?" he answers. "In the grief that I am in, how

can I refrain from groaning? France will be undone by Ganelon. In a

dream this night an angel has made this known to me. He broke my lance

in my hands--he who caused me to give the rear-guard to Roland, leaving

him in this ungentle land. Heavens! were I to lose Roland, I should

never see his like again!"

Charles wept; and a hundred thousand Frenchmen, touched by his tears,

shuddered as they thought upon Roland. Ganelon, the felon, has sold him

for gold and silver, and shining stuffs; for horses, and camels, and

lions.

King Marsilion has sent for all the barons of Spain: dukes, counts, and

viscounts, emirs and sons of the senators. He assembles four thousand

of them in three days.

The drums beat in Saragossa; the image of Mahomet is set on its highest

tower; and there is no pagan who does not feel himself inflamed at the

sight. Then, behold, all the Saracens set forth, riding at double speed

into the depths of these long valleys. By dint of haste, they have come

in sight of the gonfalons of France and of the rear-guard of the twelve

brave peers. By evening they lie in ambush in a wood of fir-trees on

the sides of the rocks. Four hundred thousand men are hidden there,

awaiting the return of the sun. O heavens! what woe! for the French

knew naught of this.

The day appears. Now it is the question in the Saracen army who shall

strike the first blow. The nephew of Marsilion caracoles before his

uncle. "Fair my lord the king," he says, with a joyful countenance, "in

severe and numerous combats I have served you so greatly that I ask as

a reward the honor of conquering Roland."

Twenty others follow in turn to boast before Marsilion. One says: "At

Roncevaux I am going to play the man. If I find Roland, all is over

with him. What shame and sorrow for the French! Their emperor is so old

that he is imbecile. He will not pass another day without weeping."

"Never fear," says another. "Mahomet is stronger than S. Peter! I will

meet Roland at Roncevaux; he cannot escape death. Look at my sword; I

will measure it against his Durandal, and you will then soon hear which

is the longest." "Come, sire," says a third, "come and see all these

Frenchmen slain. We will take Charlemagne, and make a present of him to

you, and will give you the lands of the rest. Before a year is over, we

shall have fixed ourselves in the town of St. Denis."

While they thus excite each other to the combat, they contrive, behind

the fir-wood, to put on their Saracen coats of mail, lace on their

Saragossa helmets, gird on their swords of Viennese steel, seize their

shields and their Valencian lances, surmounted by white, blue, and

scarlet gonfalons. They mount neither mules nor palfreys, but strong

steeds, and ride in close ranks. The sun shines; the gold of their

vestments sparkles and gleams; a thousand clarions begin to sound.

The French listen. "Sire companion," says Oliver, "we may soon have

battle with the Saracens."

"God grant it!" replies Roland. "Let us think of our king. We ought

to know how to suffer for our lord, bear heat and cold, let our skin

be slashed, and risk our heads. Let every one be ready to strike hard

blows. We must take heed to what sort of songs may be sung of us. You

have the right, Christians, and the pagans the wrong. Never shall bad

example be given you by me."

Oliver climbs a tall pine-tree, looks to the right in the wooded

valley, and beholds the Saracen horde approaching. "Comrade," he

cries to Roland, "what a din and tumult is there on the Spanish side!

Heavens! how many white halberds and gleaming helmets! What a rough

meeting for our French! Ganelon knew it--the felon! the traitor!"

"Peace, Oliver," answers Roland. "He is my father-in-law; speak not of

him."

Oliver dismounts. "Lords barons," he says, "I have seen even now so

great a multitude of these pagans that no man here below has ever

beheld the like. We shall have a battle such as there has never been

before. Ask God for courage!" And the French reply: "Woe to him that

flees! To die for you, not one of us all will be found wanting."

"Roland, my comrade," says the prudent Oliver, "these pagans are a

multitude, and we are very few. Heed me, and sound your horn; the

emperor will hear, and will lead back the army."

"Do you take me for a madman?" answers Roland. "Would you have me lose

my honor in sweet France? Let Durandal do its work--strike its heavy

blows, and steep itself in blood to the haft; all these pagans are as

good as dead, I warrant you!"

"Roland, my comrade, sound your _olifant_, that the emperor may hear

and come to your aid."

"Heaven keep me from such cowardice! Count upon Durandal; you will see

how it will slay the pagans."

"Roland, my comrade, sound your _olifant_, that the emperor may hear it

and return."

"Please God, then, no!" replies Roland once more. "No man here below

shall ever say I sounded my horn because of the pagans. Never shall

like reproach be brought against my race!"

"What reproach? What would you have people say? These Saracens cover

the valleys, the mountain, the high-lands, and the plains. I have just

beheld it, this innumerable host; and we are but a feeble company."

"My courage grows at the thought," says Roland. "Neither God nor his

angels will suffer it that by me our France shall lose her renown.

Sire comrade, and my friend, speak no more to me thus. We will stand

our ground. For us will be the blows; our emperor wills it. Among the

soldiers he has confided to us there is not a single coward; he knows

it. Our emperor loves us because we strike well. Strike, then, thou

with thy lance, and I with my good sword Durandal--Charles' gift to me.

If I die, he who gets it shall be able to say, this was a brave man's

sword!"

At this moment, the Archbishop Turpin put spurs to his horse, gained

an eminence, and, calling the French around him, said to them, "Lords

barons, our emperor has left us here, and for him we ought to die well.

Remember that you are Christians. The battle draws on; you see it. The

Saracens are there. Call to mind your sins; cry God's mercy. I will

absolve you for the health of your souls. If you die, you will all be

martyrs, and will find good place in the heights of Paradise!" The

French dismount from their horses, and kneel on the ground, while the

archbishop blesses them on the part of God, and for their penance bids

them strike hard blows. Absolved and rid of their sins, they rise and

remount their horses.

Roland, in his shining armor, is beautiful to behold, mounted on his

good charger, Vaillantif. The golden reins ring in his hand, and on

the top of his lance, which he holds with its point to heaven, floats

a white gonfalon. The brave knight advances with a clear and serene

countenance, followed by his companion, and then by all these noble

French, whose courage he makes strong. He casts his lofty glance upon

the Saracens, and, gently turning his head to those about him, says,

"March, my lords barons, without haste. These pagans are hastening to

their destruction." While he speaks, the two armies approach, and are

about to accost each other.

"No more words," cries Oliver. "You have not deigned to sound your

_olifant_. There is nothing to expect from the emperor; nothing for

which to reproach him. The brave one, he knows not a word of that which

is befalling us; the fault is none of his. Now, my lords barons, hold

firm, and for the love of God, I pray you, let us not fear blows; let

us know how to give and take. Above all, let us not forget the cry of

Charlemagne." Whereupon the French all shouted, _Montjoie!_ Whoso had

heard them would never all his life lose the remembrance of that shout.

Then they advance--heavens! with what boldness. To be brief, the

horsemen have charged. What better could they do?

The pagans do not draw back; the _mêlée_ begins. They provoke each

other by word and gesture. The nephew of Marsilion, with insult in his

mouth, flies upon Roland. Roland with one stroke of his lance lays him

dead at his feet. The king's brother, Falsaron, desires to revenge his

nephew's death; but Oliver forestalls him by planting his lance in his

body. A certain Corsablix, one of these barbarian kings, vomits forth

slanders and bravadoes. Abp. Turpin hearing him, bears down upon him in

full force, and with his lance stretches him dead upon the ground. Each

time that a Saracen falls the French cry, _Montjoie!_--the shout of

Charlemagne.

Defiances and combats succeed each other fast on every side; everywhere

the French are the conquerors; there is not a pagan who is not

overthrown. Roland advances, thrusting with his lance as long as there

remains a fragment of its wood in his hand. But at the fifteenth

stroke the lance breaks; then he draws his good sword Durandal, which

carves and slices the Saracens right valiantly, so that the dead lie

heaped around him. Blood flows in torrents around the spot, and over

his horse and his arms. He perceives in the _mêlée_ his faithful

Oliver breaking with the but-end of his lance the skull of the pagan

Fauseron. "Comrade," cries Roland, "what do you? Of what use is a stick

in such a fight? Iron and steel are what you need. Where is your

Hauteclaire--your sword hafted with crystal and gold?"

"I cannot draw it," said the other. "I have to strike the blows so

thick and fast, they give me too much to do."

Nevertheless, with knightly skill he snatches it from its scabbard, and

holds it up to Roland, the next moment striking with it a pagan, who

falls dead, and cutting also through his gold-enamelled saddle and his

horse to the chine. "I hold you for my brother," cries Roland. "Such

are the blows which our emperor loves so much." And on all sides they

cry, _Montjoie!_

How the fight rages! What blows fall on every side! How many broken

lances covered with blood! How many gonfalons torn to shreds! And, ah!

how many brave Frenchmen there lose their youth! Never more will they

see again their mothers, their wives, or their friends in France, who

wait for them beyond the mountains!

During this time, Charles groans and laments: to what purpose? Can he

succor them by weeping? Woe worth the day that Ganelon did him the

sorry service of journeying to Saragossa! The traitor will pay the

penalty; the scaffold awaits him. But death, meanwhile, spares not our

French. The Saracens fall by thousands, and so, also, do our own; they

fall, and of the best!

In France, at this very hour, arise tremendous storms. The winds are

unchained, the thunder roars, the lightning glares; hail and rain

fall in torrents, and the earth trembles. From S. Michael of Paris to

Sens, from Besançon to the port of Wissant, not a place of shelter

whose walls do not crack. At mid-day there is a black darkness, lit up

only by the fire of the lightnings; there is not a man who does not

tremble; and some say that, with the end of the century, the end of the

world is coming. They are mistaken; it is the great mourning for the

death of Roland.

Marsilion, who until then had kept himself apart, has beheld from afar

the slaughter of his men; he commands the horns and clarions to sound,

and puts in motion the main body of his army.

When the French behold on every side fresh floods of the enemy let

loose upon them, they look to see where is Roland, where is Oliver,

where are the twelve peers? Every one would seek shelter behind them.

The archbishop encourages them all. "For God's sake, barons, fly not!

Better a thousand times die fighting! All is over with us. When this

day closes, not one of us will be left in this world; but paradise, I

promise you, is yours." At these words their ardor rekindles, and again

they raise the cry, _Montjoie!_

But, see there Climorin, the Saracen who at Marsilion's palace embraced

Ganelon and gave him his sword. He is mounted on a horse more swift

than the swallow, and has even now driven his lance into the body of

Angélier de Bordeaux. This is the first Frenchman of mark that has

fallen in the _mêlée_, and quickly has Oliver avenged him; with one

blow of his Hauteclaire the Saracen is struck down, and the demons bear

away his ugly soul. Then this other pagan, Valdabron, strikes to the

heart the noble Duke Sanche, who falls dead from the saddle. What grief

for Roland! He rushes on Valdabron, dealing him a blow which cleaves

his skull, in sight of the terrified pagans. In his turn, Abp. Turpin

rolls in the dust the African Mancuidant, who has just slain Anséis.

Roland overthrows and kills the son of the King of Cappadocia; but

what mischief has not this pagan done us before he died? Gérin and

Gérer, his comrade, Berenger, Austore, and Guy de Saint Antoine, all

died by his hand.

How thin our ranks are growing! The battle is stormy and terrible.

Never saw you such heaps of dead, so many wounds, and so much blood

flowing in streams on the green grass. Our men strike desperate blows.

Four times they sustain the shock, but at the fifth they fall, saving

sixty only, whom may God spare! for dearly they will sell their lives.

When Roland sees this disaster, "Dear comrade," he says to Oliver, "how

many brave hearts lying on the ground! What grievous loss for our sweet

France! Charles, our emperor, why are you not here? Oliver, my brother,

what shall be done, and how shall we give him of our tidings?"

"There is no means," answers Oliver; "it is better to die than

shamefully to flee."

"I will sound my _olifant_," says Roland. "Charles will hear it in the

depths of the defiles, and, be assured, he will return."

"Ah! but what shame! And of your race, my friend, do you then think no

more? When I spoke of this anon, nothing would you do, nor will you

now, at least not by my counsel. Your arms are bleeding; you have not

now the strength to sound it well."

"Sooth, but what hard blows I have been giving! Nevertheless, we have

to do with too strong a force. I will blow my _olifant_, and Charles

will hear."

"Nay, then, by no means shall you do this thing, and by my beard I

swear it. Should I ever see again my noble sister, my dear Aude, never

shall you be in her arms!"

"Wherefore this anger?" Roland asks.

"Comrade," the other answers, "you have lost us! Rashness is not

courage. These French are dead through your imprudence. Had you

believed me, the emperor would have been here, the battle would be

gained, and we should have taken Marsilion, alive or dead. Roland, your

prowess has cost us this mishap. Charles, our great Charles, we never

shall serve more."

The Archbishop Turpin hears the two friends, and runs to them,

exclaiming, "For God's sake, let alone your quarrels! True, there

is no longer time for you to sound your horn; but it is good,

notwithstanding, that the emperor should return. Charles will avenge

us, and these pagans shall not return into their Spain. Our French

will find us here, dead and cut to pieces, but they will put us into

coffins, and with tears and mourning carry us to be laid in the

burial-grounds of our monasteries; at least, we shall not be devoured

by dogs, or wolves, or wild boars."

"It is well spoken," answers Roland; and forthwith he puts the

_olifant_ to his lips, and blows with all the strength of his lungs.

The sound penetrates and prolongs itself in the depths of these

far-reaching valleys. Thirty long leagues away the echo is repeating

itself still!

Charles hears it; the army hears it also. "They are giving battle to

our people," cries the emperor. "Never does Roland sound his _olifant_

but in the heart of a battle."

"A battle, indeed!" says Ganelon. "In another mouth one would have

called it a lie! Know you not Roland? For a single hare he goes horning

a whole day. Come, let us march on. Why should we delay? The lands of

our France are still far away."

But Roland continues to blow his _olifant_. He makes such great efforts

that the blood leaps from his mouth and from the veins of his forehead.

"This horn has a long breath," says the emperor; and the Duke de Naymes

replies, "It is a brave man who blows it; there is battle around him.

By my faith, he who has betrayed him so well seeks to deceive you

likewise. Believe me; march to the succor of your noble nephew. Do you

not hear him? Roland is at bay."

The emperor gives the signal. Before setting out, he causes Ganelon to

be seized, abandoning the traitor to his scullions. Hair by hair they

pull out his moustache and beard, striking him with stick and fist, and

passing a chain round his neck, as they would round that of a bear, and

then, for the extreme of ignominy, setting him on a beast of burden.

On a signal from the emperor, all the French have turned their horses'

heads, and throw themselves eagerly back into the dark defiles and by

the rapid streams. Charles rides on in haste. There is not one who, as

he runs, does not sigh and say to his neighbor, "If we could only find

Roland, and at least see him before he dies! How many blows have we not

struck together!"

Alas! to what purpose are these vain efforts! They are too far off, and

cannot reach him in time.

Yet Roland glances anxiously around him. On the heights, in the plain,

he sees nothing but Frenchmen slain. The noble knight weeps and prays

for them. "Lords barons, may God have you in his grace, and may he

open to your souls the gate of his paradise, making them lie down upon

its holy flowers! Better warriors than you I have never seen; you have

served us so long, you have conquered for us so many lands! O land of

France! my so sweet country, behold, thou art widowed of many brave

hearts! Barons of France, you died by my fault. I have not been able to

save you or guard you; may God be your helper--God, who is always true!

If the sword slay me not, yet shall I die of grief. Oliver, my brother,

let us return to the fight."

Roland appears again in the _mêlée_. As the stag before the hounds, so

do the pagans flee before Roland. Behold, however, Marsilion, coming

forth as a warrior, and overthrowing on his way Gérard de Roussillon

and other brave Frenchmen. "Perdition be your portion," cries Roland,

"for thus striking down my comrades!" And with one back-stroke of

Durandal he cuts off his hand, seizing at the same time the fair hair

of Jurfalen, the king's son. At this sight the Saracens cry out, "Save

us, Mahomet! Avenge us of these accursed ones: they will never give

way. Let us flee! let us flee!" So saying, a hundred thousand of them

took flight, nor is there fear that they will ever return.

But what avails it that Marsilion has fled? His uncle, Marganice,

remains in the field with his black-visaged Ethiopians. He steals

behind Oliver, and strikes him a mortal blow in the middle of the back.

"There is one," he cries, "whose destruction avenges us for all we have

lost!" Oliver, stricken to death, raises his arm, lets fall Hauteclaire

on the head of Marganice, makes the diamonds sparkling on it fly around

in shivers, and splits his head down to the teeth. "Accursed pagan," he

says, "neither to thy wife nor to any lady of thy land shalt thou boast

that thou hast slain me!" Then he calls Roland to his aid.

Roland sees Oliver livid and colorless, with the blood streaming down.

At this sight he feels himself fainting, and swoons upon his horse.

Oliver perceives it not; he has lost so much blood that his eyes fail;

he sees neither things far-off nor near. His arm, which goes on wishing

to strike, raises Hauteclaire, and it is on the helmet of Roland that

the blow falls, cutting it through down to the nasal, but without

touching his head. At this blow, Roland looks at him, and asks gently,

"My comrade, did you purpose to do this? It is I, Roland, your dearest

friend. I know not that you have defied me."

And Oliver answers, "I hear you; it is your voice, but I see you not at

all. If I have struck you, pardon me, my friend!"

"You have done me no hurt, my brother," answers Roland, "and I forgive

you here and before God." At these words they bend towards one another,

and are separated during this tender adieu!

Roland cannot tear himself away from the body of his friend, stretched

lifeless on the earth; he contemplates him, weeps over him, and aloud

reminds him of so many days passed together in perfect friendship.

Oliver being dead, what a burden to him is life!

During this time, without his having perceived it, all our French had

perished, excepting only the archbishop and Gauthier. Wounded, but

still standing, they call to Roland. He hears and joins them. The

pagans cry out, "These are terrible men; let us take heed not to leave

one of them alive." And from all sides they throw themselves upon them.

Gauthier falls; Turpin has his helmet cloven, his hauberk torn, four

wounds in his body, and his horse killed under him. Roland, thinking of

the emperor, again seizes his _olifant_, but he can only draw from it a

feeble and plaintive note.

Charles hears it notwithstanding. "Woe betide us!" he cries. "Roland,

my dear nephew, we come too late! I know it by the sound of his horn.

March! Sound clarions!" And all the clarions of the host sounded

together. The noise reached the ears of the pagans. "Alas!" they say

to each other, "it is Charles returning! It is the great emperor. O

fatal day for us! All our chiefs are in the dust. If Roland lives, the

war will begin again, and our Spain is lost to us. Never will he be

vanquished by any man of flesh and blood. Let us not go near, but from

afar off cast at him our darts." Thereupon they withdraw, and rain upon

him, from a distance, darts and arrows, lances and spears. Roland's

shield is pierced, his hauberk broken and unfastened; his body is

untouched, but Vaillantif, wounded in twenty places, falls dead beneath

his master. This blow given, all the pagans flee at full speed further

into Spain.

Roland, without horse, is unable to follow the fugitives. He goes

to the succor of the archbishop, unlaces his helmet, binds up his

gaping wounds, presses him to his heart, and gently lays him on the

grass. Then he says to him softly, "Shall we leave without prayers our

companions who lie dead around us, and whom we loved so well? I will

fetch their bodies, and bring them before you."

"Go," answers the archbishop, "we are masters of the field; go, and

return again."

Roland leaves him, and advances alone into the field of carnage,

seeking on the mountain, seeking in the valley. He finds them--his

brave comrades and the Duke Sanche, the aged Anséis, and Gérard, and

Berenger. One by one he brings them, laying them at the knees of the

priest, who weeps while he blesses them. But when it comes to the

turn of Oliver; when Roland would carry the body of this dear comrade,

closely pressed against his heart, his face grows pale, his strength

forsakes him, and he falls fainting on the ground.

The archbishop at this sight feels himself seized with a deathlike

grief. There is, in this valley of Roncevaux, a running stream; if

only he could give some water to Roland! He seizes the _olifant_, and

tries, with slow steps, to drag himself tremblingly along. But he is

too feeble to advance. His strength fails, and he falls, with his face

to the earth, in the pangs of death.

Roland revives, and sees the prostrate warrior. With his eyes raised

to heaven, and with joined hands, he makes his confession to God, and

prays him to open to the good soldier of Charlemagne the gate of his

paradise. Then he approaches the bleeding body of the holy prelate,

raises his beautiful white hands, and lays them crosswise on his

breast, bidding him a tender adieu.

But Roland in his turn now feels that the hand of death is upon him. He

prays to God for his peers, supplicating him to call them to himself,

and invokes the holy angel Gabriel. Taking in one hand the _olifant_,

and Durandal in the other, he climbs an eminence looking towards Spain,

and there, in the green corn, underneath a tree, he lets himself sink

upon the ground.

Near at hand, behind a marble rock, a Saracen, lying in the midst of

the corpses, his face stained with blood, the better to counterfeit

death, was watching him. He sees him fall, and, suddenly springing up,

he runs to him, trying out, "Conquered! the nephew of Charles! His

sword is mine; I will carry it to Arabia!" He tries to draw it, but

Roland has felt something, opens his eyes, and says, "You are not one

of our people, it seems to me;" and with a blow of his _olifant_ lays

him dead at his feet. "Miscreant," he says, "thou art very bold--some

would say very mad--thus to lay hands on me. However, I have split my

_olifant_; the gold and precious stones are shaken from it by the blow."

Little by little Roland finds that his sight is failing him. He raises

himself on his feet, trying to support himself as best he may; but his

countenance is colorless and livid. On a rock hard by he strikes ten

blows with Durandal. He would fain break it, his valiant sword. What

grief and mourning would it not be to leave it to the pagans! May this

shame be spared to France! But the steel cuts into the rock, and does

not break. Roland strikes anew upon a rock of sardonyx. Not the least

flaw in the steel! He strikes again. The rock flies in pieces, but the

steel resists. "Ah!" he cries, "Holy Mary help me! My Durandal, thou

who didst so brightly gleam in this resplendent sun; thou, so beautiful

and sacred, who wast given to me by Charles at the command of God

himself; thou by whom I have conquered Brittany and Normandy, Maine

and Poitou, Aquitaine and Romagna, Flanders, Bavaria, Germany, Poland,

Constantinople, Saxony, Iceland, and England, long hast thou been in

the hands of a valiant man; shalt thou fall now into a coward's power?

Ah! sacred Durandal, in thy golden guard how many precious relics are

enshrined!--a tooth of S. Peter, the blood of S. Basil, some hair of S.

Denis, a portion of Our Lady's robe--and shall ever any pagan possess

thee? A brave man and a Christian has alone the right to use thee."

Even as he utters these words, death is stealing over him, until it

reaches his heart. He stretches himself at length upon the green grass,

laying under him his sword and his dear _olifant_; then, turning his

face towards the Saracens, that Charles and his men should say, on

finding him thus, that he died victorious, he smites on his breast,

and cries to God for mercy. The memory of many things then comes back

to him--the memory of so many brave fights; of his sweet country; of

the people of his lineage; of Charles, his lord, who nourished him;

and then his thoughts turn also to himself: "My God, our true Father,

who never canst deceive, who didst bring Lazarus back from the dead,

and Daniel from the teeth of the lions, save my soul! Snatch it from

the peril of the sins which I have committed during my life!" And so

saying, with his head supported on his arm, with his right hand he

reaches out his gauntlet towards God. S. Gabriel takes it, and God

sends his angel cherubim and S. Michael, called "_du Péril_." By them

and by Gabriel the soul of the count is borne into paradise.

Charlemagne has returned into this valley of Roncevaux. Not a rood,

not an inch of earth, which is not covered by a corpse. With a loud

voice Charles calls the name of his nephew; he calls the archbishop,

and Gérin, and Berenger, and the Duke Sanche, and Angélier, and all

his peers. To what purpose? There are none to answer. "Wherefore was I

not in this fight?" he cries, tearing his long beard and fainting with

grief; and the whole army laments with him. These weep for their sons,

those for their brothers, their nephews, their friends, their lords.

In the midst of all this mourning, the Duke Naymes, a sagacious man,

approaches the emperor. "Look in front," he says. "See these dusty

roads. It is the pagan horde in flight. To horse! We must be avenged!"

Charles, before setting forth, commands four barons and a thousand

knights to guard the field of battle. "Leave the dead there as they

are," he says. "Keep away the wild beasts, and let no man touch them,

neither squires nor varlets, until the hour, please God, of our

return." Then he bade them sound the charge, and pursued the Saracens.

The sun is low in the heavens; the night is near, and the pagans are

on the point of escaping in the evening shadows; but an angel descends

from heaven. "March," he says to Charles. "Continue marching; the light

shall not fail you."

And the sun stays in the sky. The pagans flee, but the French overtake

and slay them. In the swift-flowing Ebro the fugitives are drowned.

Charles dismounts from his charger, and prostrates himself, giving

thanks to God. When he rises, the sun is set. It is too late to return

to Roncevaux; the army is exhausted with fatigue. Charles, with a

mourning heart, weeps for Roland and his companions until he sinks to

sleep. All his warriors sleep also, lying on the ground; and even the

horses cannot remain standing. Those which want to feed graze as they

lie upon the fresh grass.

In the night, Charles, guarded by his holy angel, who watches by his

side, sees the future in a vision; he sees the rude combat in which

shortly he will need to engage.

During this time, Marsilion, exhausted, mutilated, has managed to reach

Saragossa. The queen utters a cry at the sight of her husband, cursing

the evil gods who have betrayed him. One hope alone remains. The old

Baligant, Emir of Babylon, will not leave them without succor. He

will come to avenge them. Long ago Marsilion sent letters to him; but

Babylon is very far away, and the delay is great.

The emir, on receiving the letters, sends for the governors of his

forty kingdoms; he causes galleys to be equipped and assembled in his

port of Alexandria, and, when the month of May arrives, on the first

day of summer he launches them into the sea.

This fleet of the enemy is immense; and how obedient to the sail, to

the oar, to the helm! At the top of these masts and lofty yards how

many fires are lighted! The waves glitter afar off in the darkness of

the night, and, as they draw near the shores of Spain, the whole of the

coast is illuminated by them. The news soon flies to Saragossa.

Marsilion, in his distress, resigns himself to do homage for Spain to

the Emir Baligant. With his left hand, which alone remains to him, he

presents his glove, saying, "Prince Emir, I place all my possessions in

your hands; defend them, and, avenge me." The emir receives his glove,

and engages to bring him the head of the old Charles; then he throws

himself on his horse, as he cries out to the Saracens, "Come, let us

march; or the French will escape us."

At daybreak Charles sets out for Roncevaux. As they draw near, he says

to those about him, "Slacken your pace somewhat, my lords; I would

go on before alone to seek my nephew. I remember that, on a certain

festival at Aix, he said that, should it be his hap to die in a foreign

land, his body would be found in front of his men and of his peers,

with his face turned towards the land of the enemy, in token that he

died a conqueror--brave heart!" So saying, he advances alone, and

mounts the hill. He recognizes on three blocks of rock the strokes of

Durandal, and on the grass hard by the body of his nephew. "Friend

Roland," he cries out in extreme anguish, as he raises the corpse with

his own hands,-"friend Roland, may God place thy soul among the flowers

of his paradise, in the midst of his glorious saints! Alas! what hast

thou come to do in Spain! Not a day will there be henceforth in which

I shall not weep for thee. Relations still I have, but yet not one

like thee! Roland, my friend, I return to France; and when I shall

be in my palace at Laon, people will come to me from every quarter,

saying, Where is the captain? And I shall make answer, He is dead in

Spain! My nephew is dead, by whom I gained so many lands. And now, who

shall command my armies? Who shall sustain my empire? France, my sweet

country, they who have caused his death have destroyed thee!"

When he had thus given free course to his grief, his barons requested

that the last duties should be performed for their companions. They

collect the dead, and burn sweet perfumes around them; then are they

blessed and incensed, and buried with great pomp, excepting Roland,

Oliver, and Abp. Turpin, whose bodies are laid apart to be carried into

France.

They were preparing for departure when in the distance appeared the

Saracen vanguard. The emperor tears himself away from his grief, turns

his fiery glance upon his people, and cries aloud with his strong and

clear voice, "Barons and Frenchmen, to horse and to arms!"

The army is forthwith put in readiness for the combat. Charles disposes

the order of battle. He forms ten cohorts, giving to each a brave and

skilful chief, and placing himself at the head. By his side Geoffrey of

Anjou bears the oriflamme, and Guinenant the _olifant_.

Charles alights and prostrates himself, with an ardent prayer, before

God, then mounts his horse, seizes his spear and shield, and with a

serene countenance throws himself forward. The clarions sound, but

above the clarions there rings the clear note of the _olifant_. The

soldiers weep as they hear it, thinking upon Roland.

The emir, on his part, has passed his soldiers in review. He also

disposes his army in cohorts, of which there are thirty, as powerful as

they are brave; then calling on Mahomet, and displaying his standard,

he rushes with mad pride to meet the French.

Terrible is the shock. On both sides the blood flows in streams. The

fight and slaughter continue without ceasing until the day closes,

and then, in the twilight, Charles and the emir encounter each other.

They fight so fiercely that soon the girths of their horses break, the

saddles turn round, and both find themselves on the ground. Full of

rage, they draw their swords, and the deadly combat begins anew between

them.

Charles is well-nigh spent. Stunned by a blow which has cloven his

helmet, he staggers, and is on the point of falling; but he hears

passing by his ear the holy voice of the angel Gabriel, who cries

out to him, "Great king, what doest thou?" At this voice, his vigor

returns, and the emir falls beneath the sword of France.

The pagan host flees; our French pursue them into Saragossa; the town

is taken, and King Marsilion dies of despair. The conquerors make war

against the false gods, and with great blows of their battle-axes

break the idols in pieces. They baptize more than a hundred thousand

Saracens, and those who resist they hang or burn, except the Queen

Bramimonde, who is to be taken as a captive into France, Charles

desiring to convert her by gentle means.

Vengeance is satisfied. They put a garrison into the town, and return

to France. In passing through Bordeaux, Charles places upon the altar

of S. Severin his nephew's _olifant_; there pilgrims may see it even

to this day. Then in great barks they traverse the Gironde, and in S.

Romain-de-Blaye they bury the noble Roland, the faithful Oliver, and

the brave archbishop.

Charles will not again halt on his way, nor take any repose, until he

reaches his great city of Aix. Behold him arrived thither. He sends

messengers through all his kingdoms and provinces, commanding the

presence of the peers of his court of justice to take proceedings

against Ganelon.

On entering his palace, he sees coming to him the young and gentle

lady, the fair Aude. "Where," she asks, "is Roland--Roland the Captain,

who promised to take me for his wife?" Charles, upon hearing these

words, feels his deadly grief awaken, and weeps burning tears. "My

sister and dear friend, he of whom you speak is now no more! I will

give you in his place a spouse worthy of you--Louis, my son, who will

inherit all my kingdoms; more I cannot say."

"These are strange words," she answers; "God forbid, and the angels and

saints likewise, that, Roland being dead, Aude should live!" So saying,

she grew pale, and, falling at the feet of Charlemagne, she died. God

show to her his mercy!

The emperor will not believe but that she has fainted: he takes her

hands, lifts her up; but alas, her head falls down upon her shoulder;

her death is only too true. Four countesses are commanded to watch by

her all the night, and to cause her to be nobly buried in a convent of

nuns.

While they are weeping for the fair Aude, and Charlemagne renders to

her the last honors, Ganelon, beaten with rods and laden with chains,

awaits his sentence.

The peers are assembled. Ganelon appears before them, and defends

himself with subtlety. "I am avenged," he says, "but I have betrayed no

one." The judges look at each other, and are inclined to be lenient.

"Sire," they say to the emperor, "let him live; he is a good nobleman.

His death will not restore to you Roland, your nephew, whom we shall

never see more." And Charles exclaims: "You all betray me!"

Upon this, one of them, Thierry, brother to Geoffrey of Anjou, says to

the emperor: "Sire, be not disquieted; I condemn Ganelon. I say that he

is a perjurer and a traitor, and I condemn him to death. If he has any

kin who dares to say that I lie, I have this sword wherewith to answer

him."

Forthwith Pinabel, the friend of Ganelon, brave, alert, vigorous,

accepts the challenge. At the gates of Aix, in the meadow, the two

champions, well-confessed, well-absolved and blessed, their Mass heard,

and their swords drawn, prepare themselves for the combat. God only

knows how it will end.

Pinabel is vanquished, and all the barons bow before the decision of

God. All say to the emperor, "He ought to die."

Ganelon dies the death of a traitor--he is quartered.

Then the emperor assembles his bishops. "In my house," he says to them,

"a noble captive has learnt so much by sermons and examples that she

desires to believe in God. Let her be baptized; it is the Queen of

Spain." They baptize her, therefore, under the name of Julienne. She

has become a Christian from the depths of her heart.

The day departs; night covers the earth. The emperor sleeps in his

vaulted chamber. The angel known to Charles, S. Gabriel, descends to

his bedside, and says to him on the part of God: "To the city which

the pagans are besieging, Charles, it is needful that thou march. The

Christians cry aloud for thee."

"God!" cries the king, "how painful is my life." And, weeping, he tears

his long white beard.

Here ends the song which Turoldus has sung.

* * * * *

We will conclude, as we began, with the words of the original, giving

the last stanza of the poem (ccxcvi)

"Quant l'emperère ad faite sa justise,

E esclargie est sue grant ire,

En Bramidonie (Bramimonde) ad chrestientet mise,

Passet li jurz, la nuit est ascrie,

Culcez s'est li rei en sa cambre voltice.

Seint Gabriel de part Deu li vint dire,

'Carles, semun les oz de tun empire,

Par force iras en tere de Bire;

Reis Vivien si sucuras en Imphe

A la citet que paien unt asize,

Li chrestien te recleiment e crient.'

Li emperère n'i volsist aler mie:

'Deus!' dist li reis, 'si penuse est ma vie!

Pluret des oilz, sa barbe blanche tiret.'

--Ci falt la geste que Turoldus declinet.

A O I."

VENITE, ADOREMUS.[159]

God an infant--born to-day!

Born to live, to die for me!

Bow, my soul: adoring say,

"Lord, I live, I die, for thee."

Humble then, but fearless, rise:

Seek the manger where he lies.

Tread with awe the solemn ground;

Though a stable, mean and rude,

Wondering angels all around

Throng the seeming solitude:

Swelling anthems, as on high,

Hail a second Trinity.[160]

'Neath the cavern's[161] dim-lit shade

Meekly sleeps a tender form:

God on bed of straw is laid!

Breaths of cattle keep him warm!

King of glory, can it be

Thou art thus for love of me?

Hail, my Jesus, Lord of might--

Here in tiny, helpless hand

Thy creation's infinite

Holding like a grain of sand!

Hail, _my_ Jesus--all my own:

Mine as if but mine alone!

Hail, my Lady, full of grace!

Maiden-Mother, hail to thee!

Poring on the radiant face,

Thine a voiceless ecstasy;

Yet, sweet Mother, let me dare

Join the homage of thy prayer.

Mother of God, O wondrous name!

Bending seraphs own thee Queen.

Mother of God, yet still the same

Mary thou hast ever been:

Still so lowly, though so great;

Mortal, yet immaculate!

Joseph, hail--of gentlest power!

Shadow of the Father[162] thou.

Thine to shield in danger's hour

Whom thy presence comforts now.

Mary trusts to thee her child;

He his Mother undefiled.

Jesus, Mary, Joseph, hail!

Saddest year its Christmas brings.

Comes the faith that cannot fail,

With the shepherds and the kings:

Gold, and myrrh, and incense sweet

Come to worship at your feet.

FOOTNOTES:

[159] This is a second edition of a lyric that appeared in THE CATHOLIC

WORLD four years ago. The alterations are so considerable as to make it

a new poem.

[160] Jesus, Mary, and Joseph are called "The Earthly Trinity."

[161] It was a cavern used for a stable.

[162] See Faber's _Bethlehem_.

THE FUR TRADER.

A TALE OF THE NORTHWEST.

CONCLUDED.

The next morning, at a very early hour, it was apparent that an

assemblage of Indians at the council lodge had been summoned, to

consider the proposal of the missionary. His hopes were encouraged when

he noted that many of the old men and earliest converts were mingling

with the fierce warriors and young men of the vicinity, on their way to

the place of meeting.

After some time, a delegation, with the brave who had borne the message

of the priest to his chief at their head, proceeded with measured and

stately steps from the council lodge to that of the missionary, where

they were received with the silent and ceremonious solemnity so dear to

Indians.

The result of the debate, which they communicated, was, that their foes

should be requested to meet them--under guaranty of the missionary

for their good faith, and the assurance that the injured party would

meet them unarmed, if they also would leave their arms behind--that

the proposed council should be solemnly held. Should its decision be

for peace, all should join in the pursuit and recapture of the maiden;

if otherwise, time should be allowed for the foe to regain their camps

before her people should take the war-path.

The trapper departed immediately to proclaim these decisions in the

nearest camps of the hostile party, and to secure their general

diffusion among those tribes. The missionary soon set out to notify

the residents of other missions, after seeing that the young chief had

despatched runners to summon a full attendance of his own people and

friends.

There is wonderful despatch in the simple machinery set in motion

by the aborigines of our country upon such occasions, executing

their purpose with a speed which proves their ignorance of the wise

"circumlocution offices" of civilization.

Immediate preparations were set on foot at the appointed rendezvous for

entertaining a multitude. Large parties were sent out in quest of game.

The women of the vicinity assembled to prepare the meats, the _camash_,

the _wappato_, and the bitter root, for a great feast.

During the three days succeeding the transactions related above,

multitudes were to be seen gathering from all quarters, and taking

their course to the village where they were to meet, in profound

silence, and with the grave composure befitting an assembly before

which the tremendous issues of life and death were to be discussed.

The trapper came with a large party of the fiercest warriors whom the

wiles of the "Northwester" had deceived. Several priests from scattered

missions, more or less remote, with their converted Indians, arrived.

Numerous savages of both sides advanced in parties by themselves,

caring for nothing but blood and plunder should war be the word, or

feasting and revelry should it be peace. French creoles, half-breeds,

Canadian _voyageurs_, _coureurs des bois_, and free trappers, completed

the list of this wild and miscellaneous assemblage.

Arrangements were made with great precision for the opening of the

council. When the council lodge was in readiness, notice for the

assembling of the various delegates was proclaimed from its roof by an

Indian crier.

The missionaries passed in first, followed by the chiefs, and seated

themselves on a semicircular platform slightly elevated from the

earthen floor at the further end of the lodge, the priests sitting in

the centre, between the two parties, as umpires. Then the elders, the

delegates, and the warriors took their seats upon the floor along each

side of the lodge.

The oldest chief of the injured confederates arose, and proceeded with

calm dignity to explain the relations which the two parties, although

ancient enemies even unto blood, had maintained with each other since

they had been mutually moved by the message of peace, delivered by the

holy Black Gowns, to bury the hatchet and live, as Christian brethren

should, in peace and amity. He showed how faithfully those of his

side, on their part, had kept the compact, depicting in vivid colors

their grief and horror at the perfidy of their brothers, and the cruel

slaughter of their innocent and unsuspecting friends. When he described

the ambush, the sudden attack, the death of the old chief, and the

murder of his followers; the plunder of their goods, the massacre of

the women and children, and the capture of the cherished daughter of

her race, it was fearful to see among the warriors the kindling passion

for revenge flashing from fiery eyes which glared like those of the

tiger thirsting for blood, though their manner remained otherwise cool,

collected, and subdued.

At the close of this harangue, he called upon his brother,[163] the

oldest chief of the opposite party, to reply, and state what he could

in justification of their conduct.

With the same lofty composure, the respondent recapitulated and

confirmed all that had been stated as to the former enmity and the

friendly relations promoted and established between them by the labors

and influence of the Black Gowns.

He then set forth in glowing language the dismay with which his people

and their allies had heard that these their pretended friends were

joining among themselves and with the new American companies--under the

sanction of the missionaries--for their destruction and the possession

of their hunting-grounds. That their good friends of the Northwest

Company had warned them of their impending ruin, and furnished arms

and ammunition, that they might avert the calamity by making the first

attack themselves. That this was their sole motive for the act, and

in self-defence, for self-preservation, they were ready to pursue

the war-path as long as a man was left of their tribes to fight. But

as to the massacre at the encampment, and abduction of the maiden,

he indignantly denied for himself, his people, and their allies, all

knowledge of any such place, or aid in its fulfilment, or of the

instruments by which it had been executed.

Convictions of the crafty fabrications by which the Northwest Company,

through its wily commander, had beguiled them, fastened gradually upon

the minds of both parties, as their history was thus opened.

The missionaries now proceeded to re-establish peace, in which they

were so successful that the calumet was duly passed from one to another

through the whole assembly. Before the close of the council the terms

of a new alliance were fully settled, and all parties pledged to

fidelity in maintaining it, and diligence in seeking the lost maiden.

Muttered threats were breathed against the Northwest Company, and

especially its false commander, and a determination to take his life

vehemently expressed. The missionaries reproved these threats so

sternly that they were accused of befriending him, and the trapper

was again obliged to exert all his influence in quelling the rising

distrust.

Meanwhile, preparations for a grand banquet, after the most approved

and bountiful mode of savage magnificence, had been going on, and the

village was redolent of savory odors from every variety of meat and

vegetables in process of cooking according to the Indian fashions.

The great assemblage regaled themselves plentifully, but with staid

decorum. The mirth, the dancing, and the songs, customary upon such

occasions, were omitted, out of respect for the memory of the departed

chief and the sorrows of his son.

At the close of the feast, the Rosary was recited by the missionaries

and their converts; after which the parties who were to set out in

quest of the maiden were duly organized and equipped with arms and

ammunition, procured for the purpose from the nearest American station.

These were so dispersed as to surround by a long circuit the principal

trading post of the Northwest Company--at which the commander made his

headquarters--and draw towards it by narrowing circles, to intercept

any party which might be sent to convey the object of their search to

some other place should news of their expedition reach the post before

their arrival. A runner accompanied each party to notify the next of

any important incident touching the interests of their expedition.

As they were patiently and gradually converging toward their

destination, one detachment met a party of traders from the Hudson's

Bay Company, who informed them that the "Northwester" whom they sought

was absent.

He had failed to meet them, as he had agreed, to arrange terms of

requital with them for plunder committed upon their territory by his

agents; and had departed a day or two before, with a fleet of canoes

and a large party of _voyageurs_, down the river to an American station

which was commanded by a former partner in his company, with whom he

was on terms of suspicious intimacy, considering their rival interests.

There were a number of women in the canoes, supposed to be the wives of

the _voyageurs_.

This intelligence changed the course of the expedition. The several

bands were notified, and united as speedily as possible, to make their

way to the station indicated.

When they reached its vicinity, they found a great carousal was on foot

there. The boisterous mirth and revelry that prevailed made it easy

to reconnoitre without detection. They soon discovered the quarters

where the women were assembled. It was a large tent or camp, guarded

from intruders by a detachment of _voyageurs_ and their wives. The

Connecticut trapper sauntered carelessly up to one of the sentinels,

and began playing off some rough jokes of the wilderness upon him, in

the mingled jargon of Indian dialects and Canadian _patois_ used among

that class.

He found the fellow sulky and silent; not too well pleased with the

duty assigned him, and impatient to join the revellers. He very kindly

offered--"bein' a man of sobriety and havin' no hankerin' for such

doin's"--to relieve the watcher, and take his place for a time. As he

was a Yankee, who, as the Canadian stranger supposed, might belong to

the station, he did not hesitate to accept the offer.

From this tent, on the west side, a patch of very high grass extended

to a dense clump of bushes at some distance. After the new guardian

had surveyed the premises for some time, with his habitual air of

careless indifference, he caught a glimpse through the door, over

which a buffalo robe had been hung to close it, of the woman who

attended the daughter of the chief. All doubt of the maiden's presence

vanished before that vision. But how to give notice that friends were

near? Pacing slowly back and forth close beside the tent, he uttered

distinctly, in a low voice, the sacred name given the maiden in

baptism, and known to none here but her attendant--"Josephine!" and was

delighted to receive a quick reply, "S. Joseph!" He continued pacing,

and humming carelessly, in her native dialect, a short of chant, as if

for his own amusement, the words of which conveyed a distinct idea of

the grass and the bushes west of the tent, and a hint that she could

creep through the one unobserved, and find friends concealed in the

covert of the other.

Another sentinel accosted him, in derision, as a "merry singer," when

he complained of this tedious business of watching the women, and

wished the fellow he had relieved would finish his frolic, and come

back.

"He will be in no haste to do that," his companion replied. "Gabriel

is a sad gossip, and too fond of the drinking-cup to quit it without

compulsion."

Our trapper, favoring the impression this man also had received that he

belonged to the station, said he must be released to meet an engagement

at this hour, or break the rules of the post; when Gabriel's daughter

was called to go and summon her father. An interval elapsed which

seemed an age to the trapper, whose wonted coolness almost forsook

him before the truant appeared, highly elated with liquor, and loth to

resume his irksome duty.

The relieved sentinel vanished to meet his "engagement," the result of

which was that the ground in the high grass was speedily filled on both

sides with armed and prostrate Indians, listening for the rustle which

would betray the presence of their coveted prize.

Nor did they wait long; and, when the maiden with her attendant crept

stealthily by them, she was informed that a swift-footed pony was

concealed in the covert of the bushes for her use. Her friends soon had

the satisfaction of seeing them mounted, and flying, with the speed of

the wind, in the direction of their distant home; for the trapper had

found a moment in which to direct her as to the course she was to take,

and the maiden was no stranger to the use of the noble animal, in the

management of which her people are trained from their infancy.

Scarcely were they out of sight over the vast plain before their escape

was discovered. A wild sortie of the revellers ensued.

The commander, with the friend whom he was visiting, and his favorite

clerk, who was always with him, mounted on swift horses, started in

pursuit of the fugitive, while his followers engaged in a bloody combat

with her friends. The "Northwester" was the first to descry her in the

distance, and his horse was gaining rapidly upon her frantic flight,

when she suddenly changed her course toward the river, which here

rushed through a gorge bounded by a precipice on each side. Putting

his horse to its utmost speed, and shouting his entreaties that she

would refrain from fulfilling the intention he too clearly divined,

he plunged madly on, reaching the bank only in time to see the pony

struggling in the wild waters; but the maiden had disappeared from his

sight for ever!

While he was still lamenting, with frenzied exclamations, his own

folly, and the dire calamity in which it had resulted, a pursuing party

of her friends arrived. It was terrific to mark the fierce flash of

eyes that fixed their blazing regard upon him from all sides, as his

savage foes encircled him!

He seemed too completely lost in the tumult of his own grief,

disappointment, and passion to heed their approach, or the imminent

peril in which he stood, as one after another of the band drew up his

rifle and prepared to fire upon him at a word from their leader, when

the tall form of the trapper stalked into the circle, and his ringing

voice gave the command that was instinctively obeyed.

"Down with your rifles, ye bloody-minded sarpints"--suiting a gesture

to the word, that was understood in a twinkling. Then, addressing them

in their own tongue: "Are the red men wolves, that they would drink

the blood of the pale chief without hearing what he has to say? How

will they answer to the holy Black Gown for the deed, or how will they

face the pestilence and famine which will surely follow every life-drop

that flows from the veins of the great medicine-man of the palefaces?"

he added, appealing to the faith of the converted Indians, and to the

superstitions of the unconverted, and whispering a brief sentence in

the ear of the young chief, who had been maddened at the loss of his

sister, but was subdued by the presence and words of the trapper. Then

resuming his own language, he said to himself as if musing--indulging

a habit formed during his long and lonely wanderings--"I'm willin'

to own the chap has many ways that a man of peace and justice like

myself can't approve by any manner of means, for they don't square

with my notions of what's right. But it may be more the misfortune of

the critter than his fault, seein' he comes of them Britishers, whose

blood, I conclude, carries its pesky pizin down from father to son to

the third and fourth generation, as the holy commandments say both

good and evil is carried. But there's two sides to every story, and I

an't agoin' to stand by and see the life of a feller-critter taken, if

he _is_ a son of Satan, without hearin' both. Them Injins an't sich

angils of innocence either as to have the right to cast the first stone

at the wicked. I'm not a prejudiced man, I hope, but 'cordin' to my

notion there an't a truer thing in natur 'cept the Holy Bible--which

I take to be the truest of all--than that they're a tarnal pack, take

'em by and large, and 'ud ruther drink blood than water any day, every

mother's son on' em, savin' and exceptin' always--as lawyer Smith used

to say--the Flat-heads and the Pendorays, who're 'bout the likeliest

folks I've met this side of the univarsal world, and have as nat'ral

a twist towards Gospil light as the sunflower has to the sun. But all

this is neither here nor there"--he said, rousing himself from his

soliloquy, which the natives had heard to a close with quiet gravity,

being accustomed to his manner; and, striding up to the "Northwester,"

who remained sitting motionless on his horse, with his back to his

pursuers and his eyes fixed upon the rushing flood, as if so petrified

by the shocking event he had witnessed as to have eyes or ears for

nothing else--"Are you crazy, or a fool?" exclaimed the trapper in a

low voice as he approached--"to sit here as unconsarned as if you was

in a lady's parlor, with a hundred rifles raised to draw your heart's

blood, and your long account with etarnity all unsettled! What on airth

is the critter thinkin' of! Speak quick! or I wouldn't give the glim

of a lightnin'-bug for all they'll leave of the vital spark in your

carkiss in less'n the twinklin' of its wings; they'll put daylight in

its place, and your scalp'll be danglin' from the belt of the young

chief in less time than it takes to speak the words--a sight I should

greatly mislike, bein' a man of peace, though no great admirator of

your race, any more'n I be of the Injuns."

Suddenly assuming the careless manner natural to him, and turning

towards the maddened throng with the scornful indifference which seldom

forsook him, and was the best weapon he could have opposed to the fury

of his savage foes at this critical juncture, the young man related in

a few words what had happened.

With a sneer of contempt, the Indian appointed to speak for the band

replied: "Did the Great Spirit give his bird wings that she might fly

from the white chief to the home where his falsehood has sent her

father? or is she a fish that she may cleave the waters of that flood

and escape from him? No, no, our daughter lives! When the white chief

says she went over the rock, his words are to deceive; and when he

bewails the fate of the maiden, he is making a false face. He sent the

horse over the rock to blind the eyes of her people. He has a long arm

and a strong voice, and can call his braves from every covert. He knows

where he has hidden our daughter. But we will follow him even unto the

homes of the palefaces, and lie in wait until more moons are counted

than the hairs on his scalp would number, to drink his blood at last.

Our feet will be swift to pursue and our knives to find his heart, even

to the piercing of stone walls!"

"Lord give us patience with their Injin nonsense!" the trapper

ejaculated. Then, speaking in their language: "Will my red brethren

waste time in idle words like prattling women? The white chief will go

with us to the lodge of the holy Black Gown, whose words are truth,

and whose counsels are wise and just. That's as true's you're alive,

Hezekiah," he proceeded, resuming his own tongue; and, as if moved

by an irresistible impulse--"Talk about your Methodist preachers,

your Presbyterers, your Baptists, and all sorts, who deny that these

missionaries hold to Gospel truth! But let 'em obsarve how they follow

out Gospel rules by layin' aside all critter comforts, forsakin'

father and mother, brother and sister, housen and lands, and, comin'

into these howlin' deserts, without scrip or staff, wives or children,

labor with their own hands for a livin', sharin' and puttin' up with

all the poverty and hardships of the shiftless critters they come to

teach--whose souls, I make no dispute, are of as much value for the

next world, and in the sight of their Maker, as if they belonged to

thoroughgoin', giniwine Yankees--though their works don't amount to

much in this, even in the line of their callin' in furs and sich, at

which a Connecticut trapper 'ill beat 'em all hollow any day." Then,

suddenly recollecting himself, he again addressed his wild companions:

"The Big Foot will pledge his own life to his red brothers, against

that of the white chief, that he prove not false in this matter; and

they will let the Black Gown say what his children shall do."

After some consultation the proposal was accepted, and without any

great delay they all departed in the direction of the mission.

When the missionary had examined the matter after their arrival,

he became convinced that the life of the young commander would be

in danger while he remained within reach of his exasperated foes,

and would hardly be safe in his Montreal home from their revengeful

pursuit. He therefore advised him to leave without delay.

The advice was scornfully rejected at first, but soon perceiving that

it would be folly to provoke a fate which flight only could evade, he

joined a party who were leaving for Lake Superior, to proceed thence by

the usual route to Montreal, and was seen no more in those Northwestern

regions.

* * * * *

Many years had elapsed since these events took place. A dark and rainy

night had succeeded a tempestuous autumnal day, and settled down like a

wet mantle over Montreal, wrapping the city in its chilling folds.

The street-lamps with which it was dimly lighted in the early evenings

of yore--when oil furnished an obscure foreshadowing of this era of

gas, that served only to make "darkness visible"--had gone out one

by one, leaving the narrow streets, with their high stone houses

overhanging on either side, in utter gloom.

The twinkling of a lantern borne by an invisible pilgrim might be

seen--like the transient dancing gleam of a will-o'-the-wisp--revealing

occasional glimpses of a tall form by his side clad in the habit of the

Society of Jesus. They were threading the narrow course of old St. Paul

Street, which they followed until they reached a road that turned and

ascended a rising ground to the west, in the direction of a district

where there had formerly been a beaver meadow of considerable extent,

through which flowed a sluggish brook, but which was rapidly assuming

the features now presented by that part of the city lying in the

neighborhood of Beaver Hall Block.

Into this road they turned, and, passing the district mentioned, took a

path to the left, which led them to the base of the hill on the summit

of which the city water-works and reservoir are now situated.

In those days the ascent was by no means easy, and the aged father had

to pause frequently to take breath during the course of it. Having

reached the height, and rested for a brief space, they turned again to

the left into spacious, neglected grounds, surrounding a very large

stone mansion which stood unfinished on the side of the mountain, as

entirely isolated on that lonely height as if in the midst of vast

solitudes, instead of the suburb of a populous and thriving city. So

chilling, gloomy, and repulsive were all the features of the lofty

edifice and its bleak environs, which had been an open common for many

years, that even the reverend father, long accustomed to encounter

such varied forms of desolation as the missionary in savage regions

must continually meet, recoiled unconsciously as he passed the dismal

portal, which no door had ever closed, into the damp atmosphere within.

Here the mouldy walls appeared to give shelter only to a multitude of

owls and bats, whose wings flapped indignantly at the unwonted gleam

of light in their dark dominion, and equally rare intrusion of a guest

upon the silence of their retreat.

The man with the lantern passed on in advance, followed slowly

and cautiously by his venerable companion, over a narrow platform

constructed by laying planks on the timber of the framework, until

they came to a remote corner of the building, in which a small room had

been awkwardly prepared, and arranged in a manner to render it barely

habitable. A more comfortless abode could hardly be imagined. Before

the door of this rude apartment they paused, the guide inserted a key

in the huge lock, the bolt of which yielded slowly as if fearing to

betray its trust, the door creaked harshly on its rusty hinges and gave

admittance to the reverend guest.

Guided by the faint glimmer of a taper--standing on a rough block

beside a bed on which the form of a man tossing in restless agony was

dimly visible, the priest approached the sufferer, addressing some

soothing words to him.

"Ah, reverend father! is it you?" he faintly gasped. "It was kind of

you to come through the storm this dismal night, and, after your long

journey, to seek the lost sheep so utterly unworthy of your care! I

am near the close of a misspent and wasted life! Will the worthless

wreck offered at the eleventh hour in penitence and tears be accepted?

O father! how true were the words you uttered when reproving my sinful

course: 'Unless you repent the wrongs you have inflicted, making such

requital as remains within your power, a fearful retribution awaits

you in this world, and eternal despair in the next.' The first part

has been fulfilled--wife, children, family, and friends have fallen

from me one by one, and for long years the victim of his own folly and

iniquity has lingered on desolate and alone--haunted by visions of

retribution and despair. But I have tried to be contrite, and to offer

such contrition as I could gain, in anguish and tears at the foot of

my Redeemer's cross. May I not hope it will be accepted? How I have

longed, reverend father, for your return to Montreal! The first emotion

of joy my heart has known for years was imparted when I heard from

my attendant that you had at length arrived--just in time to hear my

last confession and console my dying hour, if there is indeed comfort

for such a sinner. The blood of that Indian chief--singled first of

all from his followers for death by my command (because he set his

authority against my designs)--and that of his innocent daughter and

her nurse, who perished by my means, have set a burning seal upon my

guilty soul; while the phantom of my injured wife, taken from me while

I was pursuing my unhallowed passion, joins with theirs to reproach

and haunt me. I am lost, lost in the horrors of remorse for the triple

murder, added to an endless list of misdeeds!

"Peace, my son!" the reverend father said tenderly and firmly--"though

your sins are as scarlet, their guilt has not surpassed the bounds of

Infinite mercy! Nor has it reached so far as you suppose. The Indian

maiden lives. A holy nun in an American convent, she has never ceased

her supplications for the salvation of your soul, and for the pardon of

her own weakness and disobedience to her father, in yielding her young

heart's affections to your importunities before she learned, as she did

on the voyage down the river, that you were already married, and sought

only to make her your dishonored dupe.

"She urged her horse over the precipice according to instructions from

the trapper, who told her to fly with all speed in that direction, and

at what point to turn to the river, if pursued and in danger of being

overtaken. He also warned her to make no resistance to the current,

only to avoid being drawn into whirlpools, but to let it carry her

through the gorge to a place where the waters spread into a small lake,

on the shore of which, near the foot of the gorge, she would find a

singular cave opening toward the water, and easily seen, where she

must secrete herself until he should bring her brother to her. In all

this she succeeded by the skill in swimming which seems to be part

of an Indian's nature. When the trapper and her brother sought the

hiding-place--with but faint hope indeed of finding her--so great was

her dread of your power and of her own weakness, that she entreated

them to keep the fact of her escape concealed, and arrange for her

departure with a company of traders belonging to the American stations,

who were intending to leave with their wives and pass the winter in

a distant city of the United States. They therefore left her, first

providing means by which her servant could obtain their food; and after

the return of the party to me, those arrangements were made. Upon her

arrival in that city, and delivery of a letter from me to the superior

of a convent there, she was received into the house, and soon after

entered upon her novitiate as one of its members."

"And now, my son," he continued, "it only remains for you to prepare

for the solemnities of the approaching hour, with deep humility and

contrition. I am sent by my Divine Master to call, 'not the just, but

sinners to repentance.'"

The holy man remained with his dying penitent through the night, and,

while the morning bells of the city were proclaiming the story of our

salvation on the wings of the _Angelus_, the spirit, so long perturbed

with agonizing throes of remorse, but at length reconciled and

refreshed by the healing dews of divine grace, passed to the tribunal

before which it had so dreaded to appear, trusting solely in the merits

of that Redeemer born of a Virgin for us, and who was now to be its

Judge.

He was the first and last occupant of the gloomy mansion that had been

designed for the abode of almost regal magnificence. The phantoms of

horror with which his distorted imagination had filled the vacant

spaces within those extensive walls, and even the surrounding premises,

led him to confine himself entirely to his room. And thus he lived

for years, a prisoner in that dimly lighted and cheerless apartment,

attended only by the faithful servant who provided his food, and

haunted by dark remembrances of the past.

The shadows of those visions still linger around the empty walls, and

pervade the silent precincts, nourishing a firm belief in the minds of

many that they are peopled by unearthly forms, and investing them with

a mysterious influence that keeps all intruders at a distance.

The Canadian driver, as he conveys the stranger in his cab or cariole

to different points of interest about the city, pauses a moment on the

height opposite the frowning mansion, and points it out--standing in

dismal grandeur among the brambles of its neglected grounds--with the

half-whispered explanation, "Yonder is the Haunted House of Montreal."

We questioned the narrator as to the fate of the Big Foot, and learned

that he made profession of the Catholic faith soon after the departure

of the "Northwester" for Montreal; and from that time until his death,

a few years later, attached himself to the service of the missionary

whom he so venerated.

"And the confidential clerk of the fur trader?" we inquired.

Rising to his feet, and drawing his tall form to its full height, our

narrator replied, with a proud self-assertion of which none but a

Scotch Highlander is fully capable, and which no pen can describe--"I

am myself that clerk. His grandfather was chief of the clan to which my

family belonged. When his father came to Canada, mine came with him.

I was but little younger than this oldest son, and we were brought up

together. When he was sent to the Northwest, I was permitted to go with

him, and never left him until the grave closed its inexorable door

between us."

He turned away to hide his emotion, and left us pondering upon the

strange things that happen in this world of ours!

FOOTNOTES:

[163] Indians always address their equals as "brothers."

ARCHBISHOP SPALDING.[164]

The late Archbishop of Baltimore was an admirable type of a class of

Catholics, hitherto containing but a small number of individuals,

though not without considerable influence and importance in the history

of the American Church. Those of our faith who have risen to the

highest distinction in this country, either in the sacred ministry or

in literature, have rarely been what we may call indigenous Catholics.

By birth or by race they have either not been Catholics or not been

Americans. Immigration and conquest are still the main dependence of

the young church of the United States. What sort of fruit its own

will be, when it comes into full bearing, the world has hardly had a

chance to judge. Abp. Spalding may be taken, however, as a specimen.

His ancestors for several generations were American, and, so far as

the record goes, they were never anything but Catholics. They came

from England to America in the early days of the Maryland colony, and

were possibly among the two hundred families brought over by Lord

Baltimore in 1634. They lived for nearly a century and a half in St.

Mary's County, and thence Benedict Spalding, the grandfather of the

Archbishop, moved to Kentucky in 1790. Benedict was the leader of a

little colony of Catholics who left their native state to seek their

fortunes together in the wilds of what was then the far West.

They settled in the valley of the Rolling Fork River, in Central

Kentucky, not far from Bardstown, where another offshoot from the

Maryland church had established itself a few years before. There Martin

John Spalding was born, May 23, 1810.

"Kentucky," says his biographer, "was in that day covered with

dense forests and tangled woods. There was scarcely a place in its

whole territory that might be dignified with the name of village,

and the only roads were the almost untrodden paths of the forest,

on either side of which lines of blazed trees showed the traveller

the route from point to point.

"The forests were filled with a luxuriant undergrowth, thickly

interspersed with cane and briers, which the intertwining wild

pea-vine wove into an almost impenetrable network; so that, in

certain parts, the only way of getting from place to place was

to follow the paths worn by the migrating buffalo and other wild

beasts. The Indian still hunted on the 'Dark and Bloody Ground,' or

prowled about the new settlements, ready to attack them whenever an

opportunity was offered. It has been stated on good authority that,

from 1783 to 1790, fifteen hundred persons were killed or made

captive by the Indians in Kentucky, or in migrating thither.

"In 1794, the Indians appeared on the Rolling Fork, and killed

a Catholic by the name of Buckman. This produced a panic in the

little settlement, which caused many Catholics to move for a time

to Bardstown, where the population was more dense. But Benedict

Spalding remained at home, and the Indians disappeared without

committing further outrage.

"The early emigrants to Kentucky had to endure all the hardships

incident to pioneer life. Even the ordinary comforts were not

to be had in the wilderness in which they had taken up their

abode, and they not unfrequently suffered the want of the most

indispensable necessaries. To obtain salt, they had to go to the

Licks, travelling often many miles through a country infested by

savages. They dwelt in rudely constructed log-cabins, the windows

of which were without glass, whilst the floors were of dirt, or,

in the better sort of dwellings, of rough hewn boards. After the

clothing which they had brought from Virginia and Maryland became

unfit for use, the men, for the most part, wore buckskin and the

women homespun gowns. The furniture of the cabins was of an equally

simple kind. Stools did the office of chairs, the tables were made

of rough boards, whilst wooden vessels served instead of plates and

chinaware. A tin cup was an article of luxury. The chase supplied

abundance of food. All kinds of game abounded, and, when the hunter

had his rifle and a goodly supply of ammunition, he was rich as

a prince. This was the school in which was trained the Kentucky

rifleman, whose aim on the battle-field was certain death. The game

was plainly dressed and served up on wooden platters, and, with

cornbread and hominy, it made a feast which the keen appetite of

honest labor and free-heartedness thought good enough for kings."

Martin was sent to a school kept by a Mr. Merrywether in a log-cabin

near the Rolling Fork, and soon distinguished himself by his

proficiency in mathematics. He learned the whole multiplication table

in a single day when he was eight years old. At the age of eleven,

he entered S. Mary's College, near Lebanon, Kentucky, being one of

the first students enrolled in that institution; and by the time he

was fourteen, he was acting as teacher of mathematics, and was famous

throughout the country as the boy-professor. From S. Mary's he went,

at the age of sixteen, to the theological seminary at Bardstown,

then under the personal direction of Bp. Flaget and his coadjutor,

Bp. David. Francis Patrick Kenrick was one of the professors in this

home of learning and piety, and soon became Mr. Spalding's intimate

friend. F. Reynolds, afterwards Bishop of Charleston, was there, and

the Rev. George Elder, founder of S. Joseph's College, was another of

the little company. Mr. Spalding remained at Bardstown four years,

dividing his time, according to the system pursued in several of our

American seminaries, between the study of theology and the instruction

of boys in the college which formed a part of the institution. He

paid no more attention to his favorite science of mathematics, and

never developed the extraordinary powers in that branch of learning

of which he had given such evidences in boyhood; but his aptitude for

theology was so marked, and his personal character so amiable, that Bp.

Flaget determined to send him to Rome to complete his studies at the

Propaganda. It was a long and rather difficult journey in those days.

He set out in April, 1830, and did not reach Rome until August. On the

way, he visited Washington and Baltimore, and made the acquaintance

of some notable persons, of whom he makes interesting mention in his

letters of travel. He seems to have been strongly impressed by the

Rev. John Hughes, afterward Archbishop of New York, whom he met in

Baltimore; and he writes with patriotic ardor of the venerable Charles

Carroll, of Carrollton, whose "good-will and benediction" it was his

fortune to receive on the eve of departure from his native land. Our

young Kentuckian, as might have been supposed from his ancestry and

education, was an enthusiastic lover of his country. "I am sure,"

he wrote some time afterwards from Rome, "that my attachment to the

institutions of my country has been increased by my absence from it."

Nothing could exceed the warmth of his enthusiasm for the sacred city

and all its religious associations; but he never forgot his home, and,

like most of his countrymen who have been educated under the shadow of

the Vatican, he came back as ardent an American as he went away.

After completing his studies with brilliant success, and sustaining a

public defence of two hundred and fifty-six propositions in theology,

church history, and canon law against the most formidable adversaries

Rome could send to the encounter (a highly interesting description

of which intellectual tilt is given by Bp. England), he returned

to Kentucky with the title of doctor, and was made pastor of the

Cathedral at Bardstown and professor of philosophy in the seminary.

His keen appreciation of the peculiar needs of the American Church is

illustrated by the zeal with which he immediately entered into the

scheme of his associates in the seminary for the establishment of a

Catholic periodical. The _S. Joseph's College Minerva_, to which he

became the principal contributor, was a monthly magazine, which lived

for about a year, and was then succeeded, in 1835, by the weekly

_Catholic Advocate_, of which Dr. Spalding was chief editor, with

Fathers Elder, Deluynes, and Clark for his assistants.

"With Americans, Dr. Spalding used to say, newspaper reading

is a passion which amounts to a national characteristic. In

the Propaganda the American students were proverbial for their

eagerness to get hold of journals, whether religious or secular.

Now, he argued, this craving must be satisfied. If we do not

furnish our people with wholesome food, they will devour that which

is noxious. He believed the American people to be frank, honest,

and open to conviction. Their dislike or hatred of the church

he ascribed to misapprehension or ignorance of her history and

teachings. Hence he believed that if the truth were placed before

them plainly, simply, and fearlessly, it could not fail to make a

favorable impression upon them. He therefore thought that to the

Catholic press in the United States had been given a providential

mission of the greatest importance.

"Americans have not time, or will not take the trouble, as a

general thing, to read heavy books of controversy. Comparatively

few Protestants ever enter our churches, and, even when there,

everything seems strange, and the sermon intended for Catholics

most frequently fails to tell upon those who have not faith. And

yet we must reach the non-Catholic mind. 'The charity of Christ

urges us.' Apathy means want of faith, want of hope, want of love.

Besides, the church must act intellectually as well as morally.

If it is her duty to wrestle ever with the corrupt tendencies of

the human heart, to point to heaven when men seek to see only this

earth, to utter the indignant protest of the outraged soul when

they would fain believe themselves only animals, it is not less a

part of her divine mission to combat the intellectual errors of

the world. We observe in the history of the church that periods of

intellectual activity are almost invariably characterized by moral

earnestness and religious zeal. On the other hand, when ignorance

invades even the sanctuary, and priests forget to love knowledge,

the blood of Christ flows sluggishly through the veins of his

spouse, and to the eyes of men she seems to lose something of her

divine comeliness. Indeed, there is an essential connection between

the thoughts of a people and their actions, especially in an age

like ours; and, if we suffer a sectarian and infidel press to

control the intellect of the country, our words will fall dead and

meaningless upon the hearts of our countrymen."

The Catholic press of America was then in its infancy, yet Catholic

controversies were assuming a great importance. The Hughes and

Breckinridge discussion was raging in Philadelphia. Protestantism,

alarmed apparently at the rapid progress of the American Church, was

everywhere assuming an attitude of aggression, and the country was

on the eve of one of those periodical outbursts of anti-Catholic

bigotry which seem fated to disturb every now and then the course of

national politics. Dr. Spalding was fully sensible of the wants of

the day. He wrote frequently to the Propaganda of the condition of

the American Catholic press and his efforts to extend its influence

and direct its attacks. His pen was incessantly busy. Though he was

personally one of the most amiable and peaceful of men, he allowed

no assault upon the faith to pass unnoticed; and his life for some

years was almost an incessant battle. The _Advocate_, the _United

States Catholic Magazine_, the _Catholic Cabinet_, the _Metropolitan_,

were all enriched by his contributions. He was one of the editors

of the _Metropolitan_ for several years, and, after the death of

the _Advocate_, he founded the Louisville _Guardian_, for which he

continued to write until it was suspended in consequence of the

troubles of the civil war. Dr. Spalding well knew that, next to a

newspaper, his countrymen loved a speech. He resolved that this passion

also should be turned to the advantage of the church. Bp. Flaget had

removed his cathedral from Bardstown to Louisville, and Dr. Spalding,

being called thither as vicar-general in 1844, began a series of

popular evening lectures with the co-operation of the Rev. John McGill,

afterward Bishop of Richmond. So great was the interest aroused by

these discourses, and so great the crowd of Protestants who flocked to

hear them, that the Presbyterian, Baptist, and Methodist preachers of

the city united in a "Protestant League," to counteract the influence

of the priests by a series of lectures on the abominations of Popery.

The result, of course, was exactly the reverse of what they expected.

The weekly throng at the cathedral became greater than ever. The

lectures assumed a more distinctly controversial character. The

Catholics were roused to greater ambition. For three years Dr. Spalding

continued his lectures every Sunday evening during the winter months,

composing thus the essays which he afterwards revised and published

under the title of _Evidences of Catholicity_. In a very short time

he was recognized as one of the foremost Catholic apologists of the

day, holding very nearly the same position which Bp. England had

occupied before him, and in which the late Abp. Hughes was so highly

distinguished in Philadelphia and during the earlier part of his career

in New York. Dr. Spalding, however, was less of a polemic than either

of those great men. His comprehension of the popular wants amounted

almost to an instinct, and he felt that the objections to the church

which were then commonest rested rather upon historical and political

than doctrinal prejudices, and that the great work of the Catholic

apologist was to dispel the ignorance of Protestants respecting the

faith of the middle ages, the alliance of church and state, the

influence of the Papacy upon civilization, and the harmony between

Catholicity and republicanism.

"An American, he knew his countrymen, and admired them; a Catholic,

he loved his religion, and was convinced of its truth. That, in

his person, between faith and patriotism there was no conflict,

was manifest. He loved his country all the more because he was a

Catholic, and he was all the sincerer Catholic because no mere

human authority was brought to influence the free offering of

his soul to God's service. He accepted with cheerful courage the

position in which God had placed his church in this young republic,

and he asked for her, not privilege or protection, but justice,

common rights under the common law; and such was his confidence in

God, and in the truth of his cause, that he had no doubt as to the

final issue of the struggle of religion, free and untrammelled,

with the prejudices of a people who, however erroneous and mistaken

their views might be, were still fair-minded and generous. Admiring

much in the past, he still did not think that all was lost because

that past was gone. Let the old, he thought, the feeble, the

impotent complain; those to whom God gives youth and strength must

act; and the church is ever young and ever strong. God is infinite

strength, and of this attribute, as of his others, his spouse

participates. If the latest word of philosophy, both in metaphysics

and natural science, is force; if the old theory of inertia has

been dropped, since the power of analysis has shown that everywhere

there is action, motion, force, let it be so. The church, too, is

strength. She has a force and an energy of her own. Daughter of

heaven, she has brought on earth some of that divine efficacy by

which all things were made. Christ is the strength of God, and from

his cross he poured into the heart of his spouse, together with his

life-blood, his godlike power....

"Without entering into the complex and delicate question of the

proper relations of the church and state, he accepted the actual

position of the church in this country with thankfulness and

without mental reservation. In this matter, he neither blamed

the past nor sought to dictate to the future, but put his hand

to the work which God had placed before him. He saw all that was

to be done, and, without stopping to reflect how little he could

do, he began at once to do what he could. Taking a moderate, and

possibly a just, estimate of his own ability, he considered that

his mission as a writer and public teacher demanded that he should

be useful and practical rather than original or profound. Hence

he neither wrote nor spoke for posterity, but for the generation

in which he lived. His first aim was to remove the prejudices

which false history and a perverted literature had created in the

minds of his countrymen. The influence of the church on society,

on civilization, and on civil liberty was wholly misunderstood;

her services in the cause of learning, of art, and of commerce

were ignored; her undying love for the poor and the oppressed were

forgotten."

During the Know-Nothing excitement, which culminated after his

elevation to the episcopate (he had been consecrated coadjutor to the

Bishop of Louisville in 1848, and succeeded to the see in 1850), Bp.

Spalding's course was remarkable alike for prudence, charity, and

courage. He used all his influence during the riots in Louisville to

restrain the pardonable anger of the Catholic population; and it is

the testimony of one who knew him intimately that during those trying

days, when Catholics were murdered or driven from the city, and houses

were burned, and the mob was threatening to destroy the cathedral,

"he manifested a more than usual peace of mind. He spent the greater

part of his moments of leisure in the sanctuary in prayer, and seemed

through communion with God to grow unconscious of the trouble which

men were seeking to bring upon the church, and which he could not but

feel most keenly." His only great share in the published controversies

of the period was a discussion with the late Prof. Morse as to the

authenticity of an anti-Catholic phrase attributed to Lafayette--a

dispute which attracted a great deal of notice while it lasted,

although, of course, the subject was not of permanent interest. This,

we say, was his only direct share in the polemical literature of that

day; but his collection of _Miscellanea_, which appeared in 1855,

answered all the purposes of a formal discussion without assuming a

controversial tone. The essays and reviews comprised in this book were

written, says the biographer, in "a free, off-hand, straight-forward

style, peculiarly suited to the American taste. They covered the

whole ground of what was then the Catholic controversy in the United

States, and, by facts resting upon unexceptionable testimony, by

arguments which appeal at once to the good sense and fair-mindedness

of the reader, and by the whole spirit and temper in which they are

written, furnish a defence of the church, as against the attacks of

her accusers, the strength of which could not be easily broken." Bp.

Spalding had none of the ambition of a scholar or a man of letters. He

cared nothing for literary reputation. He set no store by the graces

of a polished style. He wrote for present effect, and not for future

fame; and if his essays could be read and discussed while they were

wet from the press, he had no particular desire that they should hold

a place on the library shelves of posterity. Whatever he wrote had an

occasional--we might almost say an evanescent--appearance, because

his sole impulse in writing was some immediate want of the American

church. His pen was powerful, because it was always employed on timely

themes, and he had a wonderfully happy art of suiting his style to

the tastes and capacities of his readers. With all his scholarship

and culture, he spent no great pains upon learned research, simply

because he knew that, under the circumstances in which he was placed,

such pains would be wasted. His books, however, will long survive

the generation for which they were written; and his _History of the

Protestant Reformation_ especially, though it is ostensibly nothing

more than a caustic review of D'Aubigné and other Protestant writers,

is universally esteemed as one of the most valuable works in American

Catholic literature.

If Dr. Spalding's single-hearted devotion to the church was conspicuous

in his literary labors, it was still more remarkable in the other

incidents of his busy career. The story of his life is one long record

of untiring effort to advance the glory of the church and extend

her conquests. The question of education always engrossed a great

deal of his care. Soon after his consecration, he went to Europe to

obtain the services of some teaching brotherhood, and succeeded in

securing a community of Xaverians; and in the pastoral address which,

as promoter of the First Provincial Council of Cincinnati, he was

deputed to write to the clergy and laity of the province (1855), he

spoke with great earnestness of the need of parochial schools; and

time after time he returned to the subject, denouncing the system of

godless education, and urging the faithful to fresh exertions and more

generous expenditure for the religious instruction of their children.

One result of his opposition to the common-school system was a vigorous

controversy with George D. Prentice, of the Louisville _Journal_, in

the course of which the bishop reviewed not only the Catholic position

on the school question, but the whole dispute as to the bearing of

Catholic principles upon the social and political conditions of the

country. The foundation of the American College at Louvain was almost

entirely his work. The American College at Rome found in him a firm

and active friend. In the Second Plenary Council of Baltimore he

proposed the establishment of a Catholic university in this country;

and we certainly can never forget the affectionate interest which

he manifested in the Catholic Publication Society, aiding it by his

advice, his encouragement, and his earnest recommendation to the

bishops and pastors of the country, and writing the first tract which

appeared from its press.

After what we have said of his devotion to the church, and the

enthusiasm with which he bent every energy to her service, it can

hardly be necessary to explain with what dispositions he took his place

in the Vatican Council. Strangely enough, however, his relations with

that venerable assemblage have been somewhat misunderstood, and his

biographer has been at commendable pains to remove all mistake and

obscurity.

"Archbishop Spalding had always believed in the infallibility of

the Pope. This belief was a tradition with the Maryland Catholics,

fostered and rendered stronger by the Jesuit fathers, who for so

many years were their only religious teachers. His fathers had

taken this faith with them to Kentucky. It was the doctrine which

he had received from Flaget and David. Neither the Catholics of

Maryland nor their descendants in Kentucky were tainted with even

a tinge of Gallicanism. Indeed, it may be affirmed that, as far as

we have a tradition in this country, it is thoroughly orthodox. It

is the special pride of the American Church that it has not only

been faithful to the Vicar of Christ, but has ever had for him the

tenderest devotion.

"'Thank God,' wrote Archbishop Spalding to Cardinal Cullen in

1866, just after the close of the Second Plenary Council of

Baltimore--'thank God, we are Roman to the heart.' The confession

of faith of both the Plenary Councils of Baltimore is as full and

complete on this point as it was then possible to make it. When,

after the convocation of the Vatican Council, the question, whether

or not it would be opportune to define the infallibility of the

Pope, first began to be discussed, Archbishop Spalding inclined

to the opinion that a formal definition would be unnecessary and

possibly inexpedient. He thought that Gallicanism was dead, and

that Catholics everywhere believed in the infallibility of the Holy

See. Hence, he argued, there could be no necessity for a formal

definition. He believed, too, that much time would be consumed

in conciliary debate, in case the question of fixing the precise

limits of Papal infallibility should be submitted to the fathers.