"These considerations led him to think that the most proper way of

proclaiming the dogma of Papal infallibility would be to condemn

all errors opposed to it; and this was his opinion when he went

to the council. It was, however, merely an opinion, formed, as he

himself felt, without a perfect knowledge of all the circumstances

in the case, and one which, upon fuller information, he might see

cause to change. He was not a partisan. He had in him none of the

stuff out of which partisans are made. He was simply a Catholic

bishop, who had never belonged to a party either in the church or

out of it.

"On the 27th of March, 1869, eight months before the assembling of

the council, he wrote as follows to a distinguished theologian who

was at that time in Rome:

"'I believe _firmly_ the infallibility of the Pope, but incline to

think its formal definition unnecessary and perhaps inexpedient,

not only for the reasons which you allege, but also on account

of the difficulty of fixing the precise limits of doctrinal

decisions. Where they are formal, as in the case of the Immaculate

Conception, there is no difficulty. But are all the declarations

of encyclicals, allocutions, and similar documents to be received

as doctrinal definitions? And what about the decisions of

congregations, confirmed by the Pope?'

"And again, in August, he wrote:

"'While maintaining the high _Roman_ ground of orthodoxy, I caution

much prudence in framing constitutions.'

"In both these letters, Archbishop Spalding seems to take for

granted that a definition will be made; and he simply indicates his

preference for an implicit rather than a formal definition.

"In August, 1869, two months before leaving for the council, he

wrote to Cardinal Barnabo, giving his views on various subjects

which he supposed would be brought before the fathers. One of

these he designates as 'The Infallibility of the Sovereign Pontiff

teaching _ex cathedra_.' 'I have not,' he says, 'the least doubt

of this infallibility, and there are very few bishops who do

doubt of it. The only question which may, perhaps, arise will

relate to the utility, advisability, and necessity of making an

_explicit_ definition in the council. It will have to be considered

whether a definition of this kind would not be likely to excite

controversies now slumbering and almost extinct; whether an

_implicit_ definition--an amplification of that of the Council of

Florence--which would define the dogma without using the word,

would not be more opportune and of greater service to the cause of

the church.

"'Should the fathers deem it expedient to make a formal definition,

its limits should be accurately marked, and, in the accompanying

doctrinal exposition, statement should be made whether and how

far, in the intention of the fathers, this infallibility should be

extended to pontifical letters, allocutions, encyclicals, bulls,

and other documents of this nature.'

"This letter affords sufficient evidence that Archbishop Spalding

had all along contemplated the contingency of an explicit

definition, and that he did not look upon it with any alarm. In

fact, he held that a definition, either implicit or explicit, was

necessary. If he did not, in the beginning, advocate a formal

definition, he was still less in favor of abstaining from the

unmistakable affirmation of the faith of the church on this point."

He expressed his views more fully in a _postulatum_ drawn up after

his arrival in Rome--a document asserting the infallibility of the

Pope in the most unmistakable manner, but suggesting an implicit and

indirect instead of an explicit and direct definition, because such

a course would be likely to command "the approval of almost all the

fathers, and would be confirmed by their quasi-unanimous suffrage."

Soon after this memorial was drawn up, Abp. Spalding was made a member

of the committee of twelve cardinals and fourteen prelates appointed by

the Holy Father to consider all _postulata_ before they were brought

before the council, and he consequently refrained through delicacy from

pressing the consideration of his own scheme; but it was energetically

discussed in various quarters, and Abp. Spalding came to be looked

upon as a leader of the so-called "third party," which was supposed to

hold a position between the opportunists and the non-opportunists in

the council. Meanwhile, it became evident to the archbishop that, to

quote his own language, but two courses lay before the fathers--either

to place themselves openly on the side of the Pope, or on that of the

opposition; and he wrote a letter to Bp. Dupanloup, repudiating the

false construction which had been placed upon his _postulatum_, and

the false inferences drawn from it, and declaring himself emphatically

in favor of the plainest possible definition of the doctrine. "When

the history of the Vatican Council comes to be written," says an

English author, "not many names will be written with more honor than

that of the wise and prudent Archbishop of Baltimore; nor will any

extra-conciliary document be recorded in future generations with deeper

satisfaction or warmer gratitude than the letter in which Mgr. Spalding

vindicated himself and his colleagues from all complicity with Gallican

doctrines and intrigues." In a pastoral address to his flock, written

immediately after the definition, the archbishop made a very clear

statement of the doctrine, and pointed out some of its consequences. He

answered the objection that it was in conflict with civil and political

liberty, which he believed could flourish only under the shadow of the

altar and the cross, and he reminded his people that the same theories

of government upon which the American republic is founded were taught

by the Catholic schoolmen three hundred years before Washington was

born.

We have not attempted, in this brief survey of the character of

the late Archbishop of Baltimore, to sketch the incidents of his

episcopate--and, indeed, they were very few--or even to enumerate

the most important works which occupied his busy brain. Our purpose

has rather been to select from the valuable pages before us a few

indications of those peculiar qualities of mind which made him

pre-eminently a representative of the young and vigorous American

Church, so strong in the faith, so ardent in attachment to the Holy

See, so reverent of Catholic tradition, and withal so quick to adapt

itself to the special wants of a free and growing country. We would

gladly have paused for a little while over the attractive story of

Bp. Spalding's early pastoral peregrinations through the primitive

settlements of Kentucky, his charity, his gentleness, his love for

children, the touching scenes when he visited the orphan asylums, in

which he took such a tender interest, or the beautiful picture of the

great preacher and prelate sitting humbly in the school-room with the

little ones about his knees. All this would draw us too far away from

our proper subject; but we must allow ourselves one extract from the

few scattered passages in which the biographer has told us of his

private life:

"I shall never forget the pleasant journeys which, when quite a

small boy, I had the happiness to make with him. His merry laugh,

that might have been that of a child who had never known a sorrow

or a care, the simple and naïve way he had of listening to the

prattle of children, the whole expression of the countenance

showing a soul at rest and happy in the work which he was doing,

are still present to my mind, like the remembrance of flowers and

sunshine. And I remember, too, with what warmth, and reverence, and

love he was received everywhere, and how his presence was never

connected in my mind with anything morose or severe. Eyes that

seemed to have looked for his coming grew brighter when he had

come; and when he was gone, it was like the ceasing of sweet music

which one would wish to hear always, but which, even when hushed,

keeps playing on in the soul, attuning it to gentler moods and

higher thoughts. He was full of human sympathies and human ways.

The purple of the bishop never hid the man; nor did he, because

he belonged to the supernatural order, cease to be natural. There

was, indeed, a certain elegance and refinement about him which

no one could fail to perceive, the true breeding of a gentleman;

but withal he was as plain as the simplest Kentucky farmer. He

rarely talked about learned things; and when he did, he did not

talk in a learned way. He possessed naturally remarkable powers

of adaptation, which enabled him to feel perfectly at ease in

circumstances and companies the most dissimilar. There was not a

poor negro in his whole diocese with whom he was not willing to

talk about anything that could be of advantage to him. I remember

particularly how kindly he used to speak to the old servants of his

father, who had known him as a child. He had a special sympathy

with this whole race, and I have known him, whilst Archbishop of

Baltimore, to take the trouble to write a long letter to an old

negro in Kentucky who had consulted him concerning his own little

affairs.

"He frequently wrote to children ten or twelve years old, from whom

he had received letters. In company where there were children, he

never failed to devote himself to their amusement, even to the

forgetfulness of the claims of more important persons. When at

home, he usually passed the forenoon in writing, or in receiving

those who called to see him on matters of business. After dinner,

he spent some time in conversation, which he always enjoyed, then

withdrew to his room to say vespers, with matins and lauds for the

following day. In summer, he kept up an old Roman habit of taking

a short repose in the afternoon. He would then walk out, calling

in here and there to visit some school or convent, or to spend a

few moments with some Catholic family. On the street, he would stop

to greet, with a few pleasant words, almost every acquaintance he

chanced to meet. Frequently he would remain to tea at the house

of a friend, after which he returned to his room to write or read

until the hour for retiring for the night arrived. The rule in his

house was, that every one should be in at ten o'clock, when the

door was locked. Apart from this regulation, he never interfered

with the tastes or hours of the priests of his household. In the

cathedral, he had his own confessional, and, when at home, he was

generally found there on Saturday afternoon; and it was his custom

to preach at the late Mass on Sunday."

The Rev. F. Spalding, to whom the task of writing this biography was

committed by the archbishop's literary executor, had the advantage of

a somewhat intimate knowledge of his distinguished uncle, and of free

access to manuscript sources of information. He has done his work ably

and conscientiously, with an accurate judgment of the salient points

in the story, and no slight skill in the arrangement of his abundant

materials. His style is simple and unaffected, and his whole book,

from the first chapter to the last, is thoroughly readable; while, as

a contribution to the ecclesiastical history of the United States, its

value is of course very considerable.

As a biography of an able and successful prelate, whose career was

most honorable and useful--of a man who was virtuous and holy from his

childhood to his grave, and who has left a bright example of loyalty

to God and the holy faith of Christ in a corrupt age--it is of greater

value than any similar work which has hitherto been published in this

country. This great and holy prelate is worthy to be classed among

those noble and illustrious rulers of the church in past ages and the

present whose history is an ornament to ecclesiastical annals. Apart

from his career as a bishop in the administration of the important

churches committed to his care, his share in the successful issue of

the first session of the Vatican Council and in that most auspicious

event, the definition of the infallibility of the Pope, entitles him

to the perpetual remembrance, not only of the American Church, on

which he reflected so much lustre, but of the Catholics of the world.

The history of his pure and holy life, so highly marked by devotion,

integrity, fidelity, and singleness of high purpose, and closing with

a death so beautiful, ought to produce, as we hope it will, a powerful

and stimulating effect upon the studious Catholic youth of our country.

It is a great good fortune to a man whose life is worth writing to

find an affectionate, just, and skilful biographer. In this respect

Abp. Spalding has been more fortunate than those other great ornaments

of the American hierarchy, England and Kenrick; though we hope the

lack may yet be supplied in the case of these two prelates. We have

all along expected that this biography would become very soon one of

the most popular, widely circulated, and useful books which has ever

issued from the American Catholic press; and we feel confident that our

expectation will not be unfulfilled.

FOOTNOTES:

[164] _The Life of the Most Rev. M. J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop

of Baltimore._ By J. L. Spalding, S.T.L. New York: The Catholic

Publication Society. 8vo, p. 468.

TRAVELS WITH A VALETUDINARIAN.

I.

The summer solstice again, and the metropolis an oven! Why should I

remain in it and be baked? There was just one reason that detained

me: I could not make up my mind to what point of the compass to

peregrinate. On my return from last year's ramble, I had determined

to join an Alpine club on my next holiday, and wander in search of

the grand in mountainous districts. It only wants lungs and muscle, I

thought, and I considered myself equal to the undertaking. The smaller

the quantity of luggage the better, was my next reflection. But I was

completely put out of conceit of Alpine climbing on visiting my friend

Mount. I saw Mount six weeks ago, and all my calculations of enjoyment

were upset. Mount was already in training for his journey, as if for

a boat-race; he was eating, drinking, taking exercise, gymnastic and

pedestrian, and sleeping just so many hours, to a minute, on the most

approved system. Then, he had such a collection of what he termed

indispensable companions for his travels--such optical instruments,

theodolites, grappling-irons and sharp-pointed staves, that I was

persuaded that his peace of mind would be endangered in looking after

them, to say nothing of wanting a dromedary to carry them. I, who never

make pleasure a toil, wished my friend an agreeable time of it, and

respectfully declined participating. I am fully aware that I shall be

told by-and-by that I have missed a great deal; and I am equally sure

that I shall uncomplainingly submit to my loss; but if ever I ascend

mountains in quest of the sublime, rather than prepare so laboriously,

I will charter a balloon.

I was still negativing suggestions that thronged upon me from many

estimable friends, and was still far from determining my particular

destination, when I stumbled on an agreeable, middle-aged bachelor

acquaintance, Mr. Stowell.

"I am rejoiced to see you looking so well," I began.

"Appearances are deceptive, my dear Lovejoy," he replied. "But I am

better, thank you. Ah! what a blessing is health."

"It is, indeed."

"And yet how men squander it away; yes, Mr. Lovejoy, squander it just

as they do money; and of the two it is the more precious! It should be

an object of unceasing care--to be husbanded with wise frugality."

"Well, it is, sir, as you instituted the comparison, to be treated like

money in certain respects. There is an old saying that, if we look to

the pence, the pounds will take care of themselves; and in like manner,

if a few simple regulations patent to every one are attended to, health

is to be attained by the bulk of mankind."

"There, sir, excuse me, you are wrong. I have made the subject my

study, and my conclusion is that the matter is much more complex than

the care of pence. Consider its conditions." And the worthy gentleman

told them off on his fingers very deliberately. "There is," said he,

"proper nourishment, temperance, exercise, repose, suitable raiment,

salubrious locality, cleanliness, ventilation. And where is the man

who is mindful of the harmonious working of all these agencies; for the

neglect of one of them is mostly fatal to the rest?"

"Then, there are such a number of complications in the constitution of

health, I think we must withdraw the charge of squandering; for the

mass of men could never be hemmed in by a series of sanitary rules only

partially understood and only partially practicable, though they might

be like children throwing away treasures without a knowledge of their

value. Squandering implies, to my mind, wilful waste."

"No, sir; I maintain that squander is the right word, and I accept your

meaning of it. I say it is every man's duty to study health, and, if

he does, he will find the complications I have spoken of exceedingly

easy of comprehension. But, sir, men will not learn; they will put

themselves to no trouble at all; and they squander their days away,

because they heed not the value of them. Their daily conviction makes

them conscious of that value, but they stifle it--yes, sir, they

squander!"

"I will not argue the question further. I perceive you have given it

more attention than I have."

"I own it, and I am proud of it. And now, if you will add a favor to

the concession you have just made, you will join me, be my _compagnon

de voyage_ out of this furnace, which, we shall both agree, is only

suited to the constitution of a salamander."

"You flatter me by your invitation; but I have not settled in my mind

what direction to take."

"Leave that to me, sir. If you will gratify me by giving me the

pleasure of your company, I would propose to change about from place to

place--now inland scenery, then seaside, different parts of the coast,

a last view of the country rich in autumnal tints, and then home before

Boreas is too rough for us."

"That will do admirably. You speak like one who had well considered his

plans."

"I have, sir; it all comes under the study of health."

"Really, you will make a convert of me."

"All in good time. We will get off first; let us start to-morrow, if

not too soon for you."

"With all my heart. I love promptitude in action. But by land or water?

And whither?"

"We will take the Great Slaughterton Railroad, in the first instance.

That's imperative!"

"My dear sir, there was a fearful accident on that line only

yesterday--a hundred and sixteen persons killed, besides loss of limbs,

dislocations, contusions innumerable!"

"The very thing for us! A nine days' wonder! That line will be

particularly careful for a whole week to come while the public eye

is on it. We shall be quite safe, sir; but the earlier, the better.

To-morrow, then?"

Assent was given, and I was booked for the Great Slaughterton. I was a

little startled at my friend's precipitation, which seemed at variance

with his usual deliberation; but he had given a reason for expedition

on the route he had selected, and, on accompanying him home, I found

that his preparations had been made. He showed me all the latest

contrivances for comfortable travelling, in a variety of valises,

portmanteaus, leather bags, satchels, baths, and a mahogany box which

reminded me of a liquor case or cabinet of choice revolvers.

"You see I am all but ready," he said.

"Indeed you are," I replied. "But I shall overtake you, though I

have not begun to pack; for I travel in a more primitive style. I

leave behind me all I can do without, and trust to civilization to

supply wants that may come upon me. A purse and the least possible

encumbrances are what I look to. You are not, I suppose, going to

burden yourself with that mahogany case, though I perceive it is

labelled."

"My life-preserver, sir!"

"Oh! I thought it might be a strong box for your valuables, and I

was about to suggest your entrusting it to your bankers. We are not,

however, going into any dangerous quarters where firearms...."

"No dangers, sir, while I have the honor to be your guide! It is my

medicine-chest--an indispensable part of my equipment!"

"Ha! You cannot trust country apothecaries; and you, of course,

understand something of physic."

"A person at my time of life, sir, is usually said to be a fool or a

physician. Not that I despise the faculty--we may have to call in their

aid before we return."

"I hope not, Mr. Stowell; and present appearances are not in their

favor, I am happy to say."

"You have not, I see, made health a study."

"You have the advantage of me there," I rejoined, as speedily as I

could relieve myself of the sentiment, fearing another dissertation;

and the occurrence of the topic impressed my mind with some alarm that

our difference of mental organism might compromise our good-fellowship

before we came to the end of our journey. Dwelling for a moment on this

idea, I thought I would venture to insinuate terms of concord; so I

followed up my hasty remark by a suggestion of mutual forbearance while

we were birds of passage.

"It may not be thought out of place," I said, "if I take this early

opportunity of pointing out that our minds do not work in the same

groove; and that we may find it necessary to give and take, as the

saying is, while we shall be together. For my part, I may claim a

little indulgence for some hobby of my own, possibly; and I trust

you will bear in mind how completely I give in to you on all that

appertains to the laws of health."

Mr. Stowell fidgetted about in his chair, and seemed scarcely to take

in the scope of my observation.

"All I would recommend," I added, "is that we should endeavor to 'play

fair'--in our intellectual conflicts, I mean. Let 'Put yourself in his

Place' be a lesson to each of us, and I have no doubt that nothing will

occur to ruffle our temper or lessen our enjoyment."

"Temper, sir!" replied my friend. "I am glad you spoke of it. You will

only find me too much of a lamb. I detest bickerings and disagreements.

No, sir, you will have an easy time of it with me. A little humoring

of some whim of mine might be judicious, not to say friendly; but,

beyond that, you will not find anywhere a less quarrelsome and more

conciliatory being than Benjamin Stowell."

"Then there is every prospect, I rejoice to say for both our sakes, of

a lasting understanding between us."

"As firm and durable as adamant!" exclaimed Mr. Stowell energetically,

emphasizing the remark by a smart blow on the arm of his chair.

II.

We started on the Great Slaughterton Railroad next day, and it duly

consigned us to our destination--a romantically situated town on a fine

table-land. The main street in the town, at its extremity, commanded

an extensive view of a beautiful country, which promised us some

refreshing breezes as they swept over the expansive plains, and many

shady retreats from the fiery sun under the umbrageous arms of lofty

trees that relieved the prospect from monotony. We took lodgings, Mr.

Stowell undertaking to suit our tastes and pockets in this important

matter, and claiming from the landlord several extra indulgences

without additional cost, on the score of infirm health. Our journey

had been very enjoyable, and it had sharpened our appetites; for the

prospect of a repast after a good bath in a capacious washstand, which

seemed to cool the atmosphere of each of our bed-chambers, put us both

in good humor. Everything was well arranged, and, in an incredibly

short space of time, we sat down to an excellent table tempting us with

its burnished silver and its covering of whitest damask. We both, as it

seemed to me, did justice to our meal, and I was a little surprised,

therefore, when my friend exclaimed:

"Very provoking, is it not? Travelling has a most peculiar effect on

me: it creates the semblance of an appetite; but the moment I sit down

to eat, I have no relish for anything."

"Then have I made all this havoc?" I inquired, with something, perhaps,

of a dubious air, pointing to the reduced state of the viands.

"I don't wish to be rude, sir, but I have been envying your enjoyment."

"I was sharp-set, I confess; and I must have been too busy to observe

your inactivity," I replied, feeling sure that Mr. Stowell's incisors

had been no more idle than my own, and wondering what they would go

through when their owner gave them their allotted amount of work on a

more favorable occasion.

"Always a small eater, sir!" remarked my friend, speaking of himself in

a tone of regret.

"Little and often, perhaps?" I asked.

"Not at all, sir; loss of appetite is one of my troubles. Weak

digestion! If you should be afflicted in that way, I possess an

excellent specific, and I have with me one or two valuable treatises on

the stomachic functions."

"But have they not failed in your own case?"

"They have lost some of their efficacy, I allow; but they had a

marvellous effect at first. I take it, all remedies wear themselves

out, so that we need continual change."

"Of diet?"

"Of regimen, sir! You will find it so, if you will make health your

study."

"I won't dispute your conclusions, but I am in the habit of leaving

matters to nature, and she has served me hitherto excellently well."

"Very true; but she wants renovating perpetually. It is fatal to rely

upon her unassisted efforts. The artificial life we lead is too much

for her. Cooks have done for nature, and doctors are called in to

restore her powers."

"But you would not physic a man in health merely because he lives, as

is contended, artificially?"

"Certainly, most certainly! Prevention is better than cure."

"I prefer to wait until a cure is needed."

"Contrary to all sound system when prevention is possible!"

"Your theory will make the fortune of the doctors."

"A noble profession!"

Mr. Stowell now suggested a walk, which had my advocacy, and we sallied

out.

"We will allow ourselves exactly one hour," said my friend, taking out

his watch. "I go on system, as you will see. Now, which way is the

wind? Westerly. Ay, that will do!"

"A very fine evening! We shall be able to proceed down the chief

thoroughfare, and go a little distance on the high-road beyond."

"No, sir, we shall have the wind in our teeth!"

"It is too balmy to hurt us!"

"I am not sure of that. I never face the wind if I can help it. I have

known numberless evils result from a little want of attention to such

an apparently insignificant point."

Accordingly, we took a northerly direction, and we were rewarded with a

sight of some beautiful scenery on that side of the town, so that the

caprices of my friend caused me no disappointment.

We returned to our lodgings after a most delightful stroll of an hour

and a quarter. Mr. Stowell looked at his watch with a dissatisfied air.

"I must be aware of you," he said, "a second time; you have beguiled me

into a transgression. I am not angry, sir, not angry, but I shall feel

the effect of it."

"Pray, what have I done?"

"Sir, you have talked me into at least fifteen minutes' excess beyond

my regular exercise. I shall suffer for it."

"Do not blame me. Say, rather, that the freshness and novelty of the

scenery have led us astray. You are not tired?"

"Not at all. But I ought to be!"

"Then I will prophesy that you will not come to harm."

"Were you not to give in to me in all matters appertaining to health?

Don't contradict me again, I beg. I know my own constitution so

thoroughly. I shall not be able to sleep without an opiate!"

"I am sorry to hear that; but let me suggest your first trying the

effect of the change of air?"

"Really, sir, you are ignorantly striving to undermine the study of my

life. Don't suppose for an instant that any scenery would keep me on

my legs five minutes past my time, or that air has anything to do with

provoking sleep. In primitive times, such might have been the case,

and it may be so even now with juveniles; but too much artificiality

surrounds adults. I shall be obliged to have recourse to my chest,

and I shall give you a treat when I open it for inspection. It _is_ a

_multum in parvo_! Make your mind quite easy that, come what will, I

have almost every remedy, not merely within call, but within reach.

There's consolation for you!"

I bowed my acknowledgment, which I could not find words, I own, to

express.

Presently my friend proposed that we should have half an hour's

reading; and, on his asking me if I had any skill in elocution, I

replied that, having some taste for it, I should be happy to read aloud

to him, if it would afford him any pleasure.

"Well, you won't be offended," he said, "if I ask you to stop, should I

not like your style?"

"Certainly not--the moment I fatigue you," I replied.

"And on no account exceed half an hour. Never mind breaking off in a

fine passage--we can have that another time; but I could not endure

a book more than thirty minutes, not even a newspaper, which, for

diversity of contents, perhaps is the best kind of reading."

I accepted the conditions, and, finding a volume of _Montaigne's

Essays_ on a shelf, I took it down, and raised the question whether

the old Gascon would be to my companion's taste. He replied in the

affirmative, and declared his conviction that the art of essay-writing

was lost, and that no essayist was comparable to Montaigne. So lively

an author he could hear, he continued, with a good deal of enthusiasm,

for the allotted time, with the greatest pleasure and without a yawn.

Fortunate in the selection of my author, I opened the volume without

looking for any particular subject--for we both agreed that it was

impossible to alight on a dull place--and commenced reading.

"Capital!" exclaimed my friend, in less than five minutes. "Capital!

What a marvellous digestion that man must have had! You can see

it in the clearness of his ideas! Let's see, he was before Galen,

wasn't he? Go on, don't let me interrupt you; we will settle these

points afterwards. Don't forget what just occurred to me about his

digestion--it's important. You may not think so, ha! ha! but I know.

Don't stop." And he composed himself as if for attentive listening,

with his head thrown back in his chair, and his arms folded across his

broad chest.

I had paused during this slight interruption, but, at the bidding

of my companion, resumed our essay. Mr. Stowell seemed deep in

thought as I occasionally caught sight of him, but, becoming more

and more interested in my author, I glanced at him less frequently.

Mr. Stowell's watch lay on the table before me, probably with a

view of confining the lecture within the stipulated limits. My eye

noted the hour as I progressed. I had been reading exactly twenty

minutes--two-thirds of my prescribed time. I proceeded a few minutes

longer, forgetful of everything but the book, which was enchaining my

attention. A hoarse noise came from my friend's chair on the opposite

side of the table. I was too busy to look up, and the noise grew

louder and thicker. Was it possible? Was that the heavy breathing of

my friend, yielding to the influence of the air and our lively Gascon?

Another volume, not of print, but of sound, and it was an unmistakable

snore! I raised my eyes, and there was my friend fast asleep.

I read on until my time was up, lest the cessation of my voice should

disturb his slumbers. When my half-hour had fairly expired, I satisfied

myself that neither the stoppage of any accustomed sound nor the

raising of an uncommon one had any effect on the sleeper, so securely

was he locked in the arms of Morpheus.

III.

For the next two hours I read to myself, but there was no change in the

attitude of my friend, unless he had become more musical in the double

bass of his nasal intonations. A reflection crossed my mind. Was I not

in a dilemma? Mr. Stowell had fallen to sleep without his opiate! He

would be very testy at finding his theory at fault, and an ignoramus

like myself right! It was dangerous to awake him; and, if I allowed him

to sleep on, he would be angry when he awoke to discover that he was

not in bed.

Twelve o'clock struck. I continued reading. One o'clock struck, two,

three--no change! Four o'clock! Montaigne had deeply interested me,

but at last I was tired and inclined to rest. Should I retire? Was my

freedom of action gone? I did not wish to be thought inconsiderate, but

was I shackled by the companionship of a middle-aged bore? Again I took

refuge in my book. Five o'clock--broad daylight again! Seven hours'

sleep for Mr. Stowell, and not a wink for me! I could put up with it

no longer. I called to him by name, shouted, whistled, walked about,

treading heavily on the floor. To no purpose. I opened the window,

and let in the streaming sun and the refreshing morning breeze. An

extra snort from Mr. Stowell, nothing more! At length I repaired to my

chamber, which adjoined our sitting apartment. I had just undressed,

when my friend was evidently on his legs.

"What a bore!" I overheard him exclaim. "I told him not to read more

than half an hour, and he must have prosed on till dawn. I must be rid

of him!"

"Thank heaven!" was on my lips, when he slammed the door of his chamber

with great violence. Here is a recompense, I thought, for obliging a

friend.

We were late at breakfast. I was taking my seat at the breakfast-table,

when Mr. Stowell savagely accosted me.

"I am a lamb in temper, but I can't stand this, Mr. Lovejoy! I will

thank you to read to yourself another evening. A pretty thing to keep

me up, and then leave me exposed to the chill dews!"

I restrained myself as a man does with right on his side.

"I read at your request," I calmly replied, "and not a moment longer

than you desired. I remained up with you until five, not liking to

disturb you. It is I, sir, who have reason to complain."

"I don't care. I won't have it. If there is one thing I detest, it is

being up all night! Young men can do without sleep; my constitution

requires full seven--"

"Hours' sleep, and, to my positive knowledge, it had it; while I have

not had three."

"A dog sleep, sir--an unnatural sleep, sir--no sleep at all, sir.

I shall feel the want of rest for days to come. Ha! I know why it

was: you thought to deprive me of my opiate! But I understand my

constitution. I will have my opiate in spite of you. You compel me

to have recourse to my chest. I should but for you have made up my

morning's prescription overnight. It must be taken fasting."

Patiently I listened to this tirade, and did not condescend to answer.

Mr. Stowell brought out his medicine-chest, and busied himself for

some time in weighing and pounding. At length he gulped down some kind

of mixture. I occupied myself meanwhile with the morning paper. The

mixture or its preparation had one good effect--it restored my friend's

good humor.

"There, I will not be angry; I never am; I cannot be. I wish you would

let me recommend you a dose. I will mix it directly; I will, indeed. It

will do you a wonderful amount of good."

The offer I politely declined.

"I see," he continued, "you have lost your temper. Now, what can I do

to recover it?" His eye then caught a programme of a morning concert on

the table. "The very thing!" he added. "This very day! We'll go! Let me

persuade you. 'Music hath charms, etc.' Say yes, and oblige me."

Not wishing to appear churlish, I assented, simply pointing out that

the thermometer would range high in a concert-room. My objection was

overruled, and we both sat down to breakfast. I was glad to see my

friend enjoy his meal with what I thought a decided relish, for he had

been very actively employed; and I was on the point of asking whether

his mixture had not produced an excellent appetite, when he amused me

by saying:

"Positively, I never _can_ take a breakfast! Everything very tempting,

though. But then, want of sleep! Ah! I can't get over that."

By this time, I knew better than to contradict my friend, and I

suffered his remarks, therefore, to pass unchallenged. In due time, we

went to the concert. Several songs by distinguished artists were sung,

the chief burden of them being the pleasures of summer, bright, sunny

days, golden dawns, and glorious eves. These appropriate subjects and

the heat of the room made me sigh for some shady retreat under a leafy

canopy, such as had charmed my eye during our saunter of the previous

evening. The concert came to an end.

"Do you know," said my friend, when we found ourselves in the open air,

"I don't much care for music?"

"Not on a hot day, perhaps," I replied.

"No, sir, it is not that; but I have turned the occasion to some

profit."

"I am glad of it."

"Yes, sir; I shall write an article for the _Medico-Chirurgical

Observer_. I am convinced that vocalization injures the larynx. I can

prove it. The demonstration became quite painful at last, but I sat it

out."

"Then we may bless our stars that we are not singers?"

"We may, indeed! A fatal gift."

"I will wait to see you in type," I remarked, in the expectation of

closing a discussion which began to appal me.

On our return, we encountered a strange-looking individual habited in a

very long coat, and wearing a hat with a brim of extraordinary breadth.

Mr. Stowell let this oddity pass, then stopped and looked after him. A

youth approached us as we tarried. Mr. Stowell beckoned to him.

"Pray, who is that gentleman?" he asked the boy.

"Dr. Brambleton, if he be a doctor," said the boy.

"Thank you," said my friend to his informant; then, turning to me, he

added, "A most remarkable man, I am sure!"

"An empiric," I suggested. "I saw his gout specifics, and a column

of his testimonials in to-day's paper." I laughed slightly, then

exclaimed, "Only one more infallible cure for gout!"

Mr. Stowell looked very grave, and the boy, who lingered to hear our

remarks, ran off, cackling a good imitation of "quack, quack" as he

went along.

"That's all prejudice," said Stowell. "He, Dr. B., may be a benefactor

of his race. I say he _may_ be; but I am certain of this--I felt some

singular twinges in my big toe while we were on the Great Slaughterton,

and I have not been entirely free from them since."

"You are not a gouty subject?"

"I can't say what I may come to. I should very much like some talk with

Dr. Brambleton."

"Nonsense, my dear sir."

"I am only curious to hear what he would say. I could tell in a minute

whether he was a pretender."

Mr. Stowell now labored under an itching desire to call in Dr.

Brambleton, and I continued to combat his folly, as I conceived it.

Nothing else for the remainder of the day was talked about except

various human ailments, their propagation, and the means of their

eradication. It was impossible to turn the conversation into any other

channel. I was so worn out at last that my replies became shorter and

less courteous. I grew dogmatic in my turn, and backed my objections

with more force as I plunged into topics out of my depth. Mr. Stowell

was now frantic, and abused my ignorance. I retorted by ridiculing

his credulity. We got so personal in our remarks that it was a relief

when bedtime came; and we retired to our respective chambers in no very

pleasant mood.

That night, a thunder-storm broke over the town. The storm was

succeeded by a sudden fall in the temperature, and the air became as

cold as it is sometimes in the early spring. A sharp easterly wind was

blowing when I arose the following morning. Before I left my chamber, I

heard Mr. Stowell in altercation with our landlord.

"I told you I was in infirm health," said Stowell.

"You did, sir," replied the landlord.

"Then, how could you put me in a room with an easterly aspect?"

"Why did you not choose the other room?"

"Because some people know how to take care of themselves."

At this I opened my door, and rushed into our sitting-room.

"Mr. Stowell," I exclaimed, "I am not accustomed to have ungenerous

reflections cast upon me. The choice was your own; but you have before

expressed a wish to be rid of me, and I reciprocate the sentiment. My

room is at your service; I shall not inflict my society on you any

longer, and I shall seek more genial companionship than I have found in

a confirmed valetudinarian."

Without waiting for an answer, I hurried out of the house, breakfasted

at a hotel, conned the newspaper, and proceeded to the railroad depot,

partly for a walk, and partly to make sure of the time of arrival of

the "up" train. I did not return to my lodgings until just in time to

take away my luggage.

In the sitting-room, I found Mr. Stowell and Dr. Brambleton. Mr.

Stowell was sitting on a chair, with his bare feet on what I took to be

an electric battery, but which resembled a coal-scuttle. He held a wire

in his hands, and on his head he wore a cap encircled, as I supposed,

with magnets.

"Good-day," I said, in a conciliating tone, as I was on the wing, and

my fancy was tickled at the ridiculous appearance of my friend.

"Don't think any more of it," replied Mr. Stowell. "My temper emanated

from gout! My first attack, I assure you."

"A most decided case!" chimed in Dr. Brambleton. "But he bears it like

a Job."

"A speedy recovery!" I answered. "You are in good hands, I hope?"

"Excellent," said Mr. Stowell. "I have the fullest confidence."

"He knows where he is, sir," put in the doctor slyly. "But I will stake

my reputation on a cure."

And wishing the patient and doctor a final adieu, I departed, rejoicing

in my deliverance from both quacks and quacked. I should distinguish

myself in Alpine climbing while under the stimulus imparted by freedom

regained; but experience will make me wary of a travelling companion

until I have tested his congeniality of disposition.

THE CHILD RESTORED.

FROM THE FRENCH OF MARIE JENNA.

So long had wept this mother, so implored,

So pressed against her heart the head adored,

The livid forehead of her dying child,

That to the frozen breast the marble brow,

As by a miracle, returned the glow

Of life and light; and, with a fervent joy,

She thanked the God who gave her back her boy;

But from that hour the infant never smiled!

Three months had passed since then, and still the gloom

That seemed to linger from his unfilled tomb

Remained unbroken; one might almost think

That, when the spirit trembled on the brink

Of death, some pitying angel made a change

To soothe maternal grief. So sad and strange

Was the young, drooping head, the silent mood,

His mother dared not, in her gratitude,

Missing his joyous laugh, his happy voice

And glance, even in embracing him, rejoice.

From open casements song and laughter ring,

From turrets high the chimes their carols fling.

"Listen, my Louis. 'Tis the happy day

When the New Year bids little children play

With their new gifts, all merry for his sake!

What playthings will my little Louis take?

Wilt have this snow-white sheep, with silken string,

That thou canst lead to pasture in the spring?

Not this? Well, then, these paints, these brushes, made

To color paper flowers that will not fade?

Or, see! this gay, rebounding woollen ball,

That falls and springs from earth, again to fall?

Thou dost not love to play? Thou canst not run?

What shall I give thee, then, my cherished son?

"Tell me thy secret in one little word;

Thy mother fails to guess thy baby need.

Say, wilt thou have this pretty, gilded sword

To make thee a great captain? No, indeed!

Then this thatched cottage, with its drooping eaves,

This open book, with all its pictured leaves?

No! still the little, mournful, waving hand.

_Would_ that thy mother had a fairy wand

To bear thee something that would make thee smile!

Might not these singing birds thy thoughts beguile,

These blooming flowers? Whisper me, tell me, love,

While I embrace thee--I who love thee so--

Louis, what wantest thou? My darling, say!"

He murmured--"Only wings to flee away."

MADAME DE STAËL.

Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baronne de Holstein-Staël, the most

remarkable female writer of our century, was born at Paris on the 22d

April, 1766. At that time her father was very far removed from the high

position he was one day to occupy, being simply a clerk in Thelluson's

bank. Mme. Necker herself undertook the education of her daughter--a

task for which she was singularly unfitted, being cold and stern by

nature, and a pedant to boot.

M. Necker was much more loved by his child, and he understood her

disposition better. He liked to draw her out and make her talk, and

for that purpose he used playfully to tease her: she invariably met

him with that mixture of gaiety and tenderness which characterized

their intercourse. Deeply grateful for his affection, Anne put the

utmost good-will in the execution of his slightest wish. When only ten

years old, she was so struck by the admiration he showed for Gibbon

the historian, that the idea occurred to her to marry him, and thereby

secure to her father the constant presence of one whose conversation

he so much appreciated. Undismayed by Gibbon's repulsive ugliness,

the child actually made the proposal to him herself. What makes the

comical incident more curious is the fact that her mother had been,

when little more than a child, Gibbon's first love. It was said of Anne

Necker that she had always been young, and yet had never been a child.

Her favorite pastime was fashioning doll kings and queens, and making

them act tragedies of which she improvised the various parts. This

innocent amusement was at last forbidden by her Calvinistic mother, but

Anne used to hide herself and carry on her dramatic little games in

secret.

In her mother's _salon_, Anne early made the acquaintance of some of

the clever men of the day--amongst others, Grimm, Marmontel, and the

Abbé Raynal. At the age of nineteen her intellectual faculties had

become developed in the highest degree, but so much to the detriment of

her health as to cause the greatest alarm to her parents. The famous

Dr. Tronchin was called in, and ordered the young invalid to be taken

to the country, where the mind should lie fallow, and the time hitherto

devoted to study be spent in the open air. No prescription could have

been more unwelcome to Mme. Necker, for it involved a relaxation, or

rather a complete abandonment, of the severe _régime_ she had adopted

for her daughter. As it turned out, this was the best thing that could

have happened. Instead of hardening into a learned prodigy, Anne's

moral nature was allowed to put forth its full luxuriance. Her father

came constantly to St. Ouen, and in the charms of his daughter's

society he sought rest from the cares of the ministry. In this pleasant

retreat he and Anne learned, if possible, to love each other better.

M. Necker was not, however, a foolishly fond parent; his tenderness

never obscured his judgment; and Anne declared herself that his eye, so

far from being blinded by affection, was quicker to detect her faults

than her merits. "He unmasked all affectation in me," she writes; "from

living with him, I came to believe that people could see clearly into

my heart."

Anne made her _entrée_ into society at an early age, and immediately

assumed there the position her talents merited. As the daughter of a

powerful minister, and a future heiress, it was supposed she would

marry at once, but it was not so. Mlle. Necker attained the in those

days comparatively mature age of twenty before she gave her hand to the

Baron de Staël-Holstein, ambassador from the court of Sweden.

Immediately after her marriage, the Baronne de Staël was presented at

court. On this occasion she acquired a character for eccentricity by

omitting one of the innumerable court courtesies; but what stamped her

irrevocably as an oddity was that, going a few days later to visit the

Duchesse de Polignac, the young baroness walked into the room without

her head-dress--she had dropped it in the carriage. Those who were

inclined to laugh at her, however, soon desisted, seeing that she was

herself the first to relate her misdemeanors, and to laugh at them.

But a great event was at hand which was to turn the current of Mme.

de Staël's thoughts into other channels: the French Revolution broke

out. The daughter of the minister who was the immediate cause of that

volcanic eruption was not likely to remain a cool spectator of the

national upheaving. Misled by her own enthusiasm for the laws and

constitution of England, and still more by the ephemeral homage paid

to Necker, who had made his cause triumphant in the king's cabinet,

Mme. de Staël honestly believed that the dawn of true political liberty

was at hand; but this short-lived chimera was changed to horror when

she realized the true motives, the aim and object, of the demagogues.

The arrest of Louis XVI. and the queen at Varennes filled her with

regret, the sincerity of which it is impossible to doubt when we read

her account of this event in the _Considérations sur la Révolution

Française_.

Her knowledge of the men who were the prime motors of these momentous

changes enabled her to foresee the terrible catastrophe of the 10th of

August. With great courage and clear-sightedness, Mme. de Staël drew

up a plan of escape for the royal captives. M. Bertrand de Moleville,

one of the king's ministers, gives the details of this scheme, which

its author forwarded with a letter to M. de Montmorin, one of his

colleagues in the ministry. Her idea was to convey the royal family to

the coast of Normandy, whence they were to sail for England. Whether

the plan was practicable or not, was never tested; M. de Montmorin knew

too well that it was utterly useless to place it before the king.

The murder of the king and queen filled the heart of Mme. de Staël

with indignation and dismay. Such was the effect that this crime had

upon her, that for a long time she was quite broken-hearted, all

her faculties were absorbed and, as it were, paralyzed by the deeds

of blood that were being perpetrated around her. When at last she

roused herself to resume her pen, it was on behalf of the unfortunate

Marie-Antoinette; she addressed to the monsters who then ruled France

an article entitled "Défense de la Reine." We can easily imagine what

consummate skill and prudence were necessary at such a moment in

dealing with the tigers she was striving to disarm. But not even at

this crisis would Mme. de Staël descend to flattery; her talent and her

spirit were alike above such arts. While scorning to propitiate them by

insulting the queen, or using any of those invectives against royalty

then in vogue, she tried to merge the sovereign in the woman, the

mother, and the devoted and courageous wife. Strong and deep reverence,

joined to a delicate and ingenuous pity, breathe throughout this noble

appeal.

If Mme. de Staël had written nothing else, this article alone would

have sufficed to ensure her fame.

Shortly after the fall of Robespierre, she published two pamphlets,

one entitled _Reflections on Peace at Home_, the other _Reflections

on Peace_, _addressed to Pitt and to the French_. This latter work

received a tribute of praise from Fox in the House of Commons.

Mme. de Staël took a deep interest in the government formed under

the new constitution of 1795, but in her desire to become acquainted

with the men who were likely to be chosen members of it, she formed

intimacies with some who were unworthy of her; even her literary

reputation suffered from these so-called friendships. The public

rarely discriminates wisely between the character of an author and that

of his or her surroundings.

Just at this time Mme. de Staël became the centre of a circle of

politicians, who used to meet at the Hôtel de Salm under the title of

the Constitutional Club: this society had been formed to counterbalance

the doctrines of the Clichy Club, which were ultra-revolutionary.

Benjamin Constant was one of the principal speakers at the

"Constitutional."

Thibaudeau, in his memoirs, lately published, declares that Mme. de

Staël secretly favored the Directory, and even attributes to her

influence the reappearance on the political stage of one who had long

forfeited the position he formerly held there. "M. de Talleyrand,"

says Thibaudeau, "had just returned from the United States without any

money, when, through the influence of a woman famous for her wit and

her spirit of intrigue, he was introduced into the intimacy of Barras."

But enthusiastic as this famous woman was for glory and talent, she was

far too shrewd to be deceived by the fine talk of the young conqueror,

who came with the spoils of Egypt in his knapsack to dictate to France,

promising to replace the "ignoble Directory by a splendid and solid

government." Her knowledge of human nature enabled her to foresee

with certainty what the result would be when the despot was raised to

power; it would be war to the knife against liberty in every shape and

form, and against all its supporters. One of Bonaparte's panegyrists

has attempted by a base and monstrous calumny to exonerate his petty

persecution of a woman by attributing to her a woman's vindictive spite

as the motive of her resistance to him and his policy. This worthy

servant of his master declares, on the word of the latter, that Mme. de

Staël was in love with Bonaparte, and that his coldness to the _femme

savante_ was the real motive of her opposition. The story is as worthy

of the husband of the loving and divorced Josephine as it is unworthy

of Mme. de Staël. Her real crime in his eyes was her unyielding

integrity of principle, and the preternatural insight of her genius,

which made it impossible for him to dupe her. He verified all her

previsions to the full. No sooner had he seized the reins of power than

he used it to paralyze liberty in every form; most, above all, when it

was handled by talent. Mme. de Staël was imprudent enough to boast of

her prophetic instinct on this score to Joseph Bonaparte, who was her

friend, but who was also the brother of the First Consul. He entreated

her to be more guarded in her words, and soon after warned her that the

conversations of her _salon_ found their echo in the Tuileries. When

she laughed at his friendly information, he tried to convince her by a

more powerful argument. Necker had deposited two millions in the royal

treasury, and this sum should be restored to his daughter if she would

so far condescend to recognize the First Consul as to ask him for it.

Mme. de Staël replied that she would never sue where she had a right to

exact, and instead of conciliating the great man, she urged Benjamin

Constant to pronounce immediately his famous speech denouncing the

covert tyranny of the First Consul, which so roused the wrath of the

latter against him and her that from this time forth Mme. de Staël was

to know no peace. The daring act sealed her doom. Friends, terrified at

her boldness and its consequences, deserted her _salon_. Fouché, the

minister of police, summoned her to his presence, and informed her in

his master's name what she already knew, that no one might brave his

anger with impunity.

A few days after this official interview she went to a _fête_ given

by Gen. Berthier, having accepted the invitation in hopes that some

violent outburst from Bonaparte would give her the opportunity of

taking a woman's vengeance, and sharpening her wit on him. She actually

tells us that she rehearsed an imaginary scene between them, and wrote

down her own answers, polishing them off till they were sharp as steel.

It was time and wit wasted, however; Bonaparte only accosted her with

some vulgar platitude that afforded no opening for pert reprisals. Not

long after this disappointment she met the enemy again, this time by

chance, and fortune served her better. Mme. de Staël was discussing

some political question with great animation when the First Consul came

up to the group of admiring listeners, and said brusquely:

"Madame, I hate women who talk politics."

"So do I, General," replied his adversary, looking him coolly in the

face; "but in a country where men persecute them and cut their heads

off, it is well to know why." On another occasion, when he accosted

her in a gracious mood, she made bold to ask him what woman in France

he was proudest of. "The woman who has most children," was the coarse

rejoinder.

Mme. de Staël made frequent journeys to Coppet, her father's residence.

This was another crime in the eyes of the First Consul, as Necker was

supposed to have been helped by his talented daughter in his work,

_Politics and Finance_--a book which Bonaparte resented furiously as an

attack on his own policy and system of finance.

On Mme. de Staël's return to Paris after the appearance of the work,

she was warned that her personal liberty was in danger. Regnault

de Saint-Jean d'Angély, who was her friend though in Napoleon's

service, got her safe out of Paris, and secured her the hospitality

of a relative of his in the country, where, she tells us, she used

often to sit at her window of a night watching for the arrival of the

_gendarmes_ to seize her. She soon left this kindly shelter for the

home of her friend Mme. Récamier, at Saint Brice. In the security of

this quiet retreat the fugitive fancied herself forgotten by Napoleon,

and decided to settle down at a small country-house about ten leagues

from Paris. Scarcely had she done so when the happy illusion was

dispelled. A commandant of _gendarmerie_ presented himself at her door

with an order signed by the First Consul, bidding her withdraw forty

leagues from the capital within twenty-four hours.

Joseph Bonaparte and General Tunat had interceded for her, but in

vain. Mme. de Staël, exasperated, refused the privilege of remaining

in France on such conditions, and decided to seek refuge in Germany,

where she could "confront the courtesy of the ancient dynasty with the

impertinence of the new one that was striving to crush France."

Her first resting-place was Weimar, the German Athens of that day.

Here she learned German under such professors as Goethe, Schiller, and

Wieland. In 1804, she visited Berlin, where she met with the kindest

reception from the king and queen; but her stay there was short; she

was summoned hence to her father's death-bed, and arrived too late to

embrace him. This was a fearful blow; she strove to assuage her grief

by collecting his MSS., with a view to publishing them, but her health,

shaken by so many vicissitudes, gave way, and she was obliged to seek

change and rest in Italy. The sight of Rome and of Naples awoke a new

life within her, and restored to her the power of writing, which for a

time she had lost.

But nothing could long console her for her absence from her own

beloved country. The longing to see France at last so far subdued her

proud spirit that she determined to avail herself of the privilege of

approaching within forty leagues of Paris; she returned accordingly,

and settled at Rouen. This was indeed a violation of the permitted

limits, but Fouché shut his eyes to it, and the exile remained

undisturbed at the residence of her friend M. de Castellane, where

she finished _Corinne_, and corrected the proof-sheets. The work

appeared in 1807, and awoke a very trumpet-blast of applause all over

Europe. But fame was a crime in one who had incurred the tyrant's

displeasure, and the author received a peremptory order to quit France.

Broken-hearted and despairing, she returned to Coppet, where she was

accompanied by a few faithful friends, who braved all to share her

solitude. Here she continued to occupy herself with her great work,

_Germany_. Feeling, however, that a more perfect knowledge of the

country was necessary before completing it, she resolved to spend the

winter of 1807 at Vienna. She met with a flattering reception there

from the Prince de Ligne, the Princesse Lubomirska, and most of the

distinguished personages of the court, and returned in the spring to

Coppet.

As soon as her book on Germany was ready for the press, Mme. de

Staël set out for France, and placed herself at the distance

prescribed--forty leagues. She took up her abode at the old castle of

Chaumont, formerly the residence of the Cardinal d'Amboise, Diana of

Poitiers, and Catherine de' Medicis.

While passing a few days with her dear and valiant friend, M. de

Montmorency, the persecuted author received the terrible tidings that

10,000 copies of her new work just issued had been seized by the

minister, although she had taken the precaution of submitting the

proofs for approval to the censorship. This tyrannical measure was

followed by an order to leave France within three days. She begged

for a short delay, hoping, by means of a German passport, to land in

England; but to this request the Duc de Rovigo sent a positive refusal.

Mme. de Staël revenged herself later by placing the duke's letter in

her second edition of _Germany_.

From Fossé she fled to Coppet. Here she found that the prefect of

Geneva had received orders to destroy any proofs or copies of her

work that he could discover. At the same time, he hinted to Mme. de

Staël that she might soften the tyrant by seizing the opportunity to

write an ode on the new-born "King of Rome." "My best wish for his

infant majesty," she replied, "is, that he may have a good nurse."

This impertinence came to Napoleon's ears, and Mme. de Staël expiated

it by a prohibition to move two leagues from Coppet. Her friends were

finally included in her disgrace. M. Schlegel, her son's tutor, was

ordered to resign his position in her family, and M. de Montmorency

was exiled for daring to give her the protection of his presence in

return for the courageous hospitality he had received from her during

the Terror. Mme. Récamier was similarly punished for her boldness in

befriending the woman who defied Bonaparte. Hunted to earth while she

remained on French soil, Mme. de Staël felt that nothing remained to

her but to seek peace and security in flight. But whither should she

fly? Bonaparte's spies were spread like a network over the Continent.

They would vie with each other in setting traps for her. Russia alone

offered some chance of rest; so, one bright spring morning, Mme. de

Staël went out for a drive, and, instead of returning home, posted on

through Switzerland and the Tyrol to Vienna. She quickly discovered

that it was not possible for her to tarry here; the tyrant's tools were

on her track. "March! march!" was still the cry of fate; and, like the

Wandering Jew, she sallied forth once more on her wanderings. Moscow

seemed like a promised land where she might rest awhile; but, scarcely

had she drawn breath amidst the unmelted snows of the northern city,

when the hunter was down upon her. The _Grande Armée_ was advancing

rapidly on the Russian capital. "March! march!" And again the fugitive

was on the road, flying to St. Petersburg. Here at last came a respite.

The emperor and empress received her like a dethroned sovereign; the

nobility followed suit, partly out of admiration for the gifted exile,

partly in hatred to her foe, who was theirs also. She was entertained

at public banquets, and became the lion of the hour. At one of these

magnificent _fêtes_ given in her honor, the toast, "Success to the

Russian arms against France!" was proposed. Mme. de Staël seized her

glass, and, with a sudden inspiration of patriotism, cried out: "No,

not against France! against her oppressor!" The amendment was adopted

with applause. But St. Petersburg was no safe retreat for the baroness

while the French legions were at Moscow. She was advised by friends to

fly, and, once more folding her tent, she carried it to Stockholm. Here

she was allowed to recruit her wearied limbs and more wearied spirit

for some months. She employed the interval of quiet in writing the

recollections called _Ten Years in Exile_. On leaving Sweden she set

sail for England, with a view to publishing her famous _Allemagne_--the

work which had been the immediate cause of her recent persecutions,

having exasperated Bonaparte beyond all powers of endurance. It was

not until the fall of her enemy that Mme. de Staël ventured to return

to France. Her joy, however, at this twofold event was of short

duration. The despot who knew no mercy to the weak was not to be bound

by the chains of honor. He broke his plighted word, fled from Elba,

and landed one morning on the shores of France. It was the signal

for Mme. de Staël to fly from them. Filled with patriotic grief and

personal dismay, she started immediately for Coppet. She had barely

arrived there when a letter followed her with the unexpected order to

return to Paris, "where the emperor considered her presence would be

useful in establishing constitutional ideas." But she, whom threats and

exile had not daunted, was not to be beguiled by flattery. "Tell your

master," she replied to the writer of the singular invitation,--"tell

your master that since he has got on for twelve years without me or the

constitution, he can do without us a little longer, and that at this

moment he hates one about as much as the other."

What wonder if the health of this intrepid woman gave way, in spite of

her indomitable spirit, under this long spell of mental and physical

fatigue, and ceaseless vexation and disappointment. Her declining years

were consumed in intense suffering, borne with the utmost courage and

resignation. She returned finally to France after the Restoration, and

was treated with every mark of esteem by Louis XVIII. He delighted in

her conversation, and gave her a more substantial proof of good-will

by restoring to her the two millions that her father had deposited in

the treasury before his fall. This act of justice bound her by ties of

enduring gratitude to the king and his dynasty.

But she was not spared long to enjoy the honors that now surrounded

her. Sorrow, and the despondency consequent on great bodily exhaustion,

had tempted Mme. de Staël into the deadly habit of using opium, and

when once contracted she had not strength to relinquish it, even after

the cause that made the stimulant a necessity of existence to her had

disappeared. Her friends used every argument and every stratagem to

cure her, but in vain. She fell into a state of lethargy, or rather

into a succession of lethargic slumbers, broken by sudden gleams of

her old brightness. Her patience was very touching, and many evidences

are preserved to show that she drew it from her unshaken faith in

Christianity, however imperfect the form in which she had been reared,

and to which she was outwardly attached. Once, on awaking from her

slumbrous state, she exclaimed to those who surrounded her bed: "It

seems to me that I know now what the passage from life to death is; and

I feel how God in his mercy softens it to us." She expired on the 14th

of July, 1817, the anniversary of the very day on which her father's

false theories and blind self-confidence had put the match to the

powder and kindled that terrific conflagration which enveloped France

in flames. Her remains were deposited at Coppet, in the tomb she had

raised to the memory of the great financier.

Those who were present at the reading of her will, heard for the first

time of her marriage with M. de Rocca. In that document she bade her

children proclaim the fact, as also the birth of a boy by this union. A

relative and intimate friend of Mme. de Staël's gives us an account of

her first meeting with her second husband:

"A young man of good birth excited much interest at Geneva by the

stories current about his bravery, and by the contrast between his age

and his fragile appearance and shattered health; the result of wounds

received in Spain, where he had served in a French hussar regiment.

A few words of sympathy addressed to him by Mme. de Staël produced a

most wonderful effect; his head and heart took fire. 'I will love her

so well,' he vowed, 'that she will end by marrying me!' and he was

right. Their affection for each other was of the deepest and tenderest

kind. She lived in perpetual fear of losing him, owing to his delicate

health; and yet it was he who survived her, but only a year; he died at

Hyères, more from grief than from his infirmities, in his thirty-first

year."

We have said nothing of the person of this singularly gifted woman.

"She was," to quote the words of a contemporary, "graceful in all

her movements; her face, without being handsome, attracted your

attention, and then fixed it; a sort of intellectual beauty radiated

from her countenance, which seemed the reflex of her soul. Genius was

visible in her eyes, which were of a rare splendor; her glance had

a fire and strength that resembled the flash of the lightning, and

was the forerunner of the thunder-roll of her language; her large

and well-proportioned figure gave a kind of energy and weight to her

discourse. To this was added a certain dramatic effect. Though free

from all exaggeration in her dress, she studied what was picturesque

more than what was the fashion. Her arms and hands were beautiful, and

singularly white."

This picture is an attractive one, and paints Mme. de Staël in very

different colors from those generally used by her portrayers. It is

only natural that a woman who had all her life been before the world,

should be variously judged by various people. A celebrated writer of

her own day, who knew the author of _Corinne_ both as an author and a

woman, said that she would not be impartially judged until a century

had gone by. Napoleon raised her to a pedestal of martyrdom by his

unmanly and cruel persecution, and the _éclat_ of her genius hid her

individual faults and errors in a haze of glory. She was hated by

the flatterers who fawned on the tyrant because she dared to defy

him. Some considered her a cold, masculine woman, who had none of the

charm of womanhood about her; while others, dazzled by her talent,

idealized her as a sort of demigod. Distance enables us to estimate

her more justly. She was a woman of unrivalled energy of character,

of incomparably brilliant parts, and endowed with a heart equal in

tenderness to the power of her genius. Her written style gives but a

faint idea of the lustre of her conversation. She was, perhaps, quite

unparalleled in this last sphere. The play of wit, logic, and grace

never flagged for an instant, but kept her hearers spellbound as long

as her voice was heard. Once, at a _soirée_ at Mme. Récamier's, she got

into a discussion with the Archbishop of Sens, as to whether it was an

advantage or a misfortune for a nation to be in debt; the archbishop

took the latter view of the question, and they kept up the ball for

two hours, until the excitement among the guests became so great that

they stood upon chairs in the adjoining _salon_ to enjoy the brilliancy

of the intellectual combat. She was, as her death attests, a devout

believer in Christianity. On one occasion, after listening to some

metaphysicians crossing lances over their pet theories, she remarked:

"The Lord's prayer says more to me than all that."

From the repetition of this divine prayer during her long nights of

sleeplessness she drew patience and resignation. By birth and education

a Protestant, she never allowed her lofty mind to be prejudiced against

Catholics, and often spoke with enthusiasm of the heroic courage of

the martyred priests and bishops of the memorable 2d of September,

1792. _The Imitation of Christ_ was her constant companion and solace

during her long illness. This woman of genius was a devoted mother.

Her literary pursuits did not interfere with her maternal duties:

she superintended the education of her children herself, and often

impressed upon them that, "if they fell away from the path of honor and

duty it would be not alone an irreparable sorrow, but a remorse" to

her, as she would accuse herself of being the cause of it.

She was not happy in her first marriage, which was purely one of

"arrangement." There was no sympathy of taste or ideas between her and

the Baron de Staël; her separation from him was nevertheless a deep

source of pain to her, and she never would have consented to it but for

the ruinous state into which his imprudence and extravagance had thrown

her financial affairs, and which must have led to the utter ruin of his

family if they had been left longer in his hands. When his increasing

years and illness demanded the consolation of her companionship, she

returned to her husband with affectionate alacrity, and devoted herself

to him until his death.

The multiplicity of Mme. de Staël's writings earned for her the

_sobriquet_ of "the female Voltaire." She began to write when most

girls of her age are still in pinafores; her early works are like the

flights of a young eagle, betraying the fearless temerity of conscious

power, combined with the inexperience of youth--she plunges into

depths, and soars to heights of metaphysics and philosophy with all

the audacity of untaught genius. _The Influence of the Passions on

the Happiness of Nations and Individuals_ is one of the most striking

of those juvenile feats, and was quickly followed by others in the

same field. Her novels are undoubtedly the first of her claims on

enduring fame. _Delphine_ is supposed to be Mme. de Staël as she was,

and _Corinne_ as she wished to be. They are both masterpieces of the

romantic school prevalent in that day, and they both inaugurated a new

reign in fiction. The closing years of the author's agitated life were

devoted to the compilation of the volumes entitled _Considerations

on the French Revolution_--a work of great magnitude, and which was

intended to embrace the full exposition and justification of her

father's policy and life, and a philosophical analysis of the theories

of all known forms of government, as well as an elaborate history

of the causes and effects of the Revolutionary crisis. The plan was

colossal in scope, and almost infinite in the variety of subjects it

included; but death did not wait for her to finish it. Amongst her

earliest literary productions we must not refuse a passing mention to

her dramatic efforts. She was not twenty when _Sophie_ and _Jane Grey_

earned for her a place amongst the most mature and brilliant writers of

the period. There is no doubt, if she had had leisure to pursue this

vein, Mme. de Staël would have enriched the French language with some

remarkable comedies and tragedies. Her works were collected after her

death by the Baron de Staël, her son, and form a series of eighteen

large volumes.

The interest of the subject has led us into a somewhat lengthy sketch

of the life of this distinguished lady. French annals furnish a study,

almost unique, of women who were models of all womanly virtues, and

yet by their brilliancy, wit, and conversance with public affairs were

fitted to be the advisers of rulers and statesmen. We are very far

from wishing to see the sex drawn out of their proper sphere, but when

by natural and acquired talents they evince a vocation for affairs of

state, we think that governments may wisely accept their counsel, and

that their services are worthy of permanent record.

FATHER SEBASTIAN RALE, S.J.

The rivalries of the French and English for dominion in the

northwestern corner of our republic have deeply impressed themselves

upon the pages of our history. The element of religious controversy was

not the least of the exciting causes which made that frontier the scene

of angry strife. The French carried the Catholic faith wherever they

erected the arms of their kings, and the natives flocked with ardor

and conviction around the standard of the cross. Whatever may have

been the merits of the respective parties in the contest for dominion,

it is now the settled voice of history that the Catholic missionaries

were actuated by motives far above all earthly considerations, and that

their cause was that of no earthly king, but was the sacred cause of

the King of Heaven.

Sebastian Rale was born of a good family in Franche-Comté, in the year

1658. At an early age he entered the Society of Jesus. After passing

through the novitiate, he was engaged in teaching at the College of

Nismes. To fine natural abilities he added great industry, and thus

became an accomplished scholar. A foreign mission was the object of his

holy aspirations; and, after his ordination, he received directions

from his superior to embark for Canada. He sailed from Rochelle on the

23d of July, 1689, and, after a voyage without accidents, arrived at

Quebec on the 13th of October following. As his destination was the

mission among the Abnakis, the Men-of-the-East, he employed his time at

Quebec in studying their language.

It was not long, however, before he was sent on the mission to St.

Francis, an Abnaki village, containing about two hundred inhabitants,

most of whom were Catholics. Among these, the gentlest of the Indian

tribes in the North, his first essays at his favorite vocation were

made by this illustrious missionary.

He had commenced the study of the Abnaki dialect at Quebec; surrounded,

as he now was, by the Abnakis themselves, he prosecuted that study with

great industry. While acquiring their language, he was also engaged in

writing his Abnaki catechism and dictionary. Every day he spent some

time in their wigwams, in order to catch from the lips of the Indians

the idioms of their language; and he often subjected himself to their

merry laugh by uttering some sentence for the proposed catechism in his

broken Abnaki, which, as they rendered in the pure idiom, the patient

student copied in his book. After two years' labor at St. Francis, he

was selected by the superior to succeed the missionary of the Illinois,

who had recently died, because that mission required a father who had

already acquired some one of the Algonquin dialects.

Before setting out for his Illinois missions, he spent three months at

Quebec, studying the Algonquin language. On the 13th of August, 1691,

he launched his little bark canoe, for his long and arduous voyage to

the West. Slowly they moved onward; he and his companions landed night

after night to build their fire and erect their tent, which consisted

of their little canoe turned up, as their only shelter from the storms.

After those long days of labor and fasting, their slender meals were

made upon a vegetable, called by the French _tripe de roche_.[165] His

companions were so exhausted on reaching Michilimackinac that he was

obliged to stop and winter there. Well may the historian remark of

these expeditions of the Catholic missionaries to the West that "all

must feel that their fearless devotedness, their severe labors, their

meek but heroic self-sacrifice, have thrown a peculiar charm over the

early history of a region in which the restless spirit of American

enterprise is going forth to such majestic results."[166]

F. Rale wintered at Michilimackinac with the two missionaries stationed

there, one of them having the care of the Hurons, and the other of

the Ottawas. Here, with the aid of F. Chaumonot's grammar, he learned

sufficient of the Huron tongue--the key to most of those spoken in

Canada--to assist the Huron missionary. Scarcely had the spring

opened, when F. Rale was urging his canoe along the western coast of

Lake Michigan. He passed by the villages of the Mascoutens, Sacs,

Outagamis or Winnebagoes, Foxes, and others, till he came to the bottom

of the lake. Having reached the Illinois partly by river and partly

by portage, he launched his canoe on that river, and glided down its

stream one hundred and fifty miles, till he came to the great town

of the Illinois Indians. This town contained about two thousand five

hundred families, and the rest of the nation were scattered through

eleven other villages. F. Rale was welcomed to their country by the

greatest of Illinois feasts, "the Feast of the Chiefs," at which the

appetite was penanced by feeding on dogs, which were esteemed the

greatest of delicacies among the Indians, and of which a large number

had been served up on this occasion in honor of their distinguished

guest. To every two persons an entire dish was allotted. The father

manifests no great relish for the food he received, but he expresses

the greatest admiration and astonishment at the powerful eloquence and

wild beauty of the oration with which he was regaled on this occasion.

F. Rale devoted himself with zeal to the care of his new flock. His

principal difficulty consisted in overcoming in them the practice of

polygamy. "There would have been," he writes, "less difficulty in

converting the Illinois did the Prayer permit polygamy among them. They

acknowledged that the Prayer was good, and were delighted to have their

wives and children instructed; but when we spoke on the subject to the

braves, we found how hard it was to fix their natural fickleness, and

induce them to take but one wife, and her for life." Again, the father

writes: "When the hour arrives for morning and evening prayers, all

repair to the chapel. Not one, even the great medicine-men--that is to

say, our worst enemies--but sends his children to be instructed, and,

if possible, baptized." The good missionary had the consolation of

baptizing numbers of sick infants before death carried them off, and

there were among the adults many devout Christians, to whom the faith

was dearer than their lives.

After two years thus spent among the Illinois, his superior recalled

F. Rale for other duties about the year 1695. During the return to

Quebec, he instructed fully in the faith, and baptized, a young Indian

girl, whose edifying death afterwards this zealous father esteemed an

ample consolation and recompense for all the trials and hardships of

his life. On arriving at Quebec, he was assigned to the mission in the

heart of the Abnaki country, which F. Bigot had re-established.

But this field, which F. Rale now entered as a minister of the gospel

of peace, had become, during his absence, the scene of war. While he

had been laboring on the distant banks of the Illinois, the Abnakis

had sustained injuries from their English neighbors which provoked

them to take up the hatchet in defence and retaliation. Maj. Waldron,

of Dover, had, in 1675, seized four hundred Indians of their tribe,

and sold them into slavery in the West Indies. Though deeply incensed

at this revolting crime, the Indians remained quiet till 1688, when,

upon a breach of the peace of 1678 on the part of the English, they

could no longer restrain their fury. The war-cry was sounded through

the land, bands of infuriated and injured braves rushed upon the

English frontier, Dover was taken, and Waldron himself fell a captive

into their hands, and suffered a death most shocking, it is true, but

one which all must admit he had deserved as many times over, if that

were possible, as there had been victims of his rapacious inhumanity.

Pemaquid was next taken, and destruction was visited upon the entire

line of frontier settlements. The colonists now proposed a peace,

but the Indians had already suffered too much from the violation of

treaties. They exclaimed: "Nor we, nor our children, nor our children's

children will ever make a peace or truce with a nation that kills us in

their halls."

But the Abnakis, unsupported in the war by the French, were finally

constrained to accept the offer of peace--a peace as deceptive as

former ones had proved.

The following year the great and brave chief Taxus went to Pemaquid,

with some others, to propose an exchange of prisoners: admitted into

the fort for this purpose, they were treacherously fired upon, two of

them were killed, and Taxus killed two of the garrison in cutting his

way through to make his escape.

This being the condition of the country at the time that F. Rale was

sent there by his superior as missionary to the Catholic Abnakis,

it may be easily judged how far that state of things is justly

attributable to what Mather calls "the charms of the French friar."

From what has already been related, it is quite certain that there

existed sufficient causes for war on the part of the Indians without

any influence from F. Rale, had he been there to exert it.

So far from instigating or countenancing acts of cruelty or blood on

the part of his flock, his office and his labors were those of peace

and charity. His mission was to announce the glad tidings of the

Gospel: "Glory to God on high, and peace on earth to men of good-will."

And we have authority, not prejudiced in favor of his cause, for the

assertion that he was not faithless to his sacred duty. Thus Gov.

Lincoln says: "His followers were not only the bravest, but _the most

sparing_, of the fierce race to which they belonged; and though spoil

and havoc were their element, they could sometimes be generous and

forbearing. But when the old man expired by the side of the altar he

had reared, the barbarism he had only in a measure controlled, broke

loose with a ferocity not softened by the dogmas he had taught."[167]

The village of Narrantsouac, on the Kennebec, still called Indian Old

Point, became the residence of F. Rale. Here he found, on his arrival,

a little church and a flock of converted Indians remarkable for their

devotion and sincerity. They entertained a profound attachment to the

Prayer, and great veneration for him who was its minister. Besides

this, they soon learned to love and esteem F. Rale as their best

friend; he was their arbitrator in all disputes, their physician in

sickness, and their consoler in all their distresses. Religion was the

reigning sentiment in this truly Christian community, and the little

chapel, erected by the hands of the neophytes, became at once the

object of their love and the scene of their unalloyed devotion.

As game was scarce, the Abnakis bestowed much care and labor in the

cultivation of their fields. After planting the seed in the spring,

they sallied forth on fishing parties to the sea-shore, accompanied

by F. Rale. In these expeditions, a rustic altar, covered with an

ornamental cloth, was carried along, and the chapel-tent was pitched

every evening for prayer, and struck in the morning after Mass. On

reaching the sea-shore a large bark cabin was erected for the church,

and the wigwams of the Indians were arranged around it. Thus arose,

as by the magic power of religion, a beautiful village on the distant

sea-shore, with its chapel, priest, and flock, and there were heard

the pious chant and fervent prayer, there the mysteries of the faith

were taught to docile hearers, there devout confessions heard, and

there the bread of life distributed. The priest was truly the father

of the faithful. He was also their companion and sympathetic friend.

Hunger, thirst, and fatigue he bore with them, and their sorrows, as

their joys, were common. Yet in this rude and simple mode of life the

faithful Jesuit conformed himself to the strictest rules of his order.

His hours of rising and retiring, his Office, meditations, and all his

spiritual exercises were as regular as those of his brethren in the

colleges of Europe. In order to avoid interruptions while saying his

Office or performing his other devotions, he would refrain from all

conversation, except in cases of necessity, from evening prayers till

after Mass. His annual retreat was observed at the beginning of Lent

with the same scrupulous exactness. The pension which he was allowed

by the French government he distributed among the more needy of his

spiritual children.

In 1697, F. Rale heard, with solicitude for his flock, that a strange

and unconverted tribe--the Amalingans--were coming to settle near to

Narrantsouac. He feared for the faith and morals of his neophytes

when exposed to the tricks of the medicine-men and the seductive

games and dances of such superstitious neighbors. He was engaged in

the confessional all the evening before Corpus Christi and during the

morning of the festival till near noon. In the meantime, deputies from

the newly arrived Amalingans came, bearing presents, according to the

Indian custom, for the relatives of some Abnakis recently destroyed

by the English. Towards noon the procession of the blessed sacrament

began to move with a degree of magnificence that astonished those

natives of the wilderness. Struck as were the Amalingan deputies with

the solemnity, the earnestness, and the majesty of the scene, they

listened with conviction to the fervent and eloquent words of the

father, who seized upon so favorable an occasion to acquaint them with

the existence and attributes of the Deity, whose worship they then

beheld. How sublime and beautiful must have been the appeal which the

zealous missionary made to those astonished warriors! The deputies

were convinced, but they could not accept the prayer before laying

the words of the Black Gown before the assembled sachems of their

tribe, who were expected to arrive in the autumn. During the summer,

the father sent them a message, reminding them of his words and their

promise. In due time the answer was returned, that they desired to

embrace the Prayer, and they invited the Black Gown chief to come

among them, and bring the wampum of the faith. It happened that

Narrantsouac was then deserted by its inhabitants, who were on one of

their excursions; and F. Rale set out in his canoe for the village of

the Amalingans, who received him with every honor, and welcomed him

with a salute of musketry. Soon a cross was raised in the centre of

the village and a bark chapel was erected. The missionary visited the

cabins and instructed the catechumens. After Mass every day, three

public instructions were given; between these they received private

instructions in their cabins. Four chiefs and two matrons were first

baptized; then followed two bands of twenty each, and finally the

entire tribe publicly received the Prayer and were baptized. A public

assembly was then held, and the missionary received the simple but

touching tokens of their gratitude and love, and then he returned in

his canoe to Narrantsouac, while the Christian Amalingans departed for

the sea-shore. F. Rale found no difficulty afterwards in uniting in one

nation the two tribes that were now members of the one fold of Christ.

In 1698, F. Rale, by the aid of means and skilful labor sent from

Quebec, succeeded in erecting a neat but simple chapel at his village

of Narrantsouac, or Norridgewock. In this their new chapel the Abnaki

Christians assembled to unite with the universal church in the solemn

rites of the Catholic worship. It was there in their own native

wilderness that those Men-of-the-East were contented to worship God

in security and peace. But, strange as it may appear, the New England

settlers, themselves professing Christianity, saw with jealousy and

dislike a Christian temple erected by the Abnakis for Christian

worship, while all the heathen tribes of New England were left free

and uncared for in their horrid superstitions and brutal sacrifices.

This feeling on their part appears the more extraordinary, since at

that time Acadia had been restored to France by the treaty of Ryswick,

in 1697; that the Catholic faith had been professed by the Abnakis for

half a century; and the Jesuit missionaries had been their pastors

during all that period.

The interval of peace now enjoyed seems not to have resulted in

strengthening the friendship nor in conciliating the good-will and

confidence of the Indians. Fresh aggressions were from time to time

committed upon them by their white neighbors. But a blow was struck at

their chosen and beloved pastors which exhibits the true sentiments

entertained on the one side and the grievances endured on the other.

On the 15th of June, 1700, a law was passed, which recited: "Whereas,

divers Jesuit priests and Popish missionaries, by their subtile

insinuations, industriously labor to debauch, seduce, and withdraw

the Indians from their due obedience unto his majesty, and to excite

and stir them up to sedition, rebellion, and open hostility against

his majesty's government," and then proceeded to enact, in reference

to the same priests and missionaries, that "they shall depart from

and out of the same province on or before the 10th day of September,

1700." In case any one of them should be found in the province after

that time, it was provided that he "shall be deemed and accounted an

incendiary and disturber of the public peace and safety, and an enemy

to the Christian religion, and shall be adjudged to suffer perpetual

imprisonment. And if any person, being so sentenced and actually

imprisoned, shall break prison and actually escape, and be afterwards

retaken, he shall be punished with death."[168] Gov. Bellamont, by his

influence, secured in New York also the passage of a law "for hanging

every Popish priest that came voluntarily into the province, which was

occasioned by the great number of French Jesuits who were continually

practising upon our Indians."[169]

Upon the accession of Gov. Dudley to office, in 1692, he solicited a

conference with the Abnakis, and accordingly a conference was held

on an island in Casco Bay. The object of the governor was to secure

the neutrality of the Indians, in case the French and English went

to war. Penhallow and such as follow him contend that the governor

succeeded in his purpose, and secured a promise from the Indians not to

join their allies, the French, in case of war. But treaties had been

imposed upon those unlettered warriors which they never understood,

and, consequently, never entered into. Besides, F. Rale, who had the

advantage over Penhallow of having been present at the conference,

gives quite a different statement of the affair. F. Rale, at the

request of the Indians, accompanied them to the conference. "Thus,"

he relates himself, "I found myself where neither I nor the governor

wished me to be." The governor and the missionary exchanged the usual

civilities, and then the former, stepping back among his people, made

his propositions to the Indians in an address, which he concluded

with an offer to supply their wants, take their furs, and supply them

with merchandise in return "at a moderate price." An English minister

accompanied the governor, whose presence could have had no other object

in view than a tender of his services to the Abnakis in lieu of those

of F. Rale; but the latter supposes that his own presence disconcerted

that portion of the plan. When the Indians retired to consult together,

Gov. Dudley approached F. Rale, and said: "I beg you, sir, not to

induce your Indians to make war upon us." "No, sir, my religion and my

sacred calling require me to give them only counsels of peace," was the

prompt and appropriate reply. The Indians soon returned and gave the

following answer through their orator: "Great chief, you have told us

not to unite with the Frenchman if you declare war against him. Know

that the Frenchman is my brother; we have but the same Prayer, we dwell

in the same cabin--he at one fire, I at the other. If I see you enter

towards the fire where my brother, the Frenchman, is seated, I watch

you from my mat at the other. If I see a tomahawk in your hand, I say,

What will the Englishman do with that hatchet? and I would rise to see.

If he raise it to strike my brother, I grasp mine, and rush upon him.

Could I sit still and see my brother struck? No! no! I love my brother,

the Frenchman, too well not to defend him. I therefore tell thee, great

chief, do no harm to my brother, and I will do none to thee. Remain

quiet on thy mat; I will remain so on mine." "Thus," says F. Rale, "the

conference ended."

Peace was soon interrupted. War broke out between England and France

in 1703, and involved their respective colonies on this continent in

the contest. The Abnakis of Maine joined their French allies, and both

sides felt the ravages of war to a fearful degree. The Indians, who

had long been impatient under the encroaching policy of their white

neighbors, carried on the war with destructive fury. Casco was taken,

the New England villages, forts, and farms were pillaged, and six

hundred of the inhabitants led away captives. As a minister of peace

and mercy, F. Rale endeavored to subdue the wild passions of his

injured and infuriated Indians, as has been seen above by the testimony

of Gov. Lincoln; but the people of New England visited upon him all the

blame for the calamities which their own wrong policy had occasioned.

Among the hostile movements of the English during the war was an

expedition against Norridgewock, the residence of F. Rale. In the

winter of 1705, "when the snow lay four feet deep," and "the country

looked like a frozen field," Col. Hilton led an expedition of two

hundred and seventy men against Norridgewock. The village, all deserted

as it was by its inhabitants, was easily taken. The intended victim,

however, was not there; for the missionary was absent with the tribe,

as it was his habit to accompany them to the sea-shore. But the cabins

and the chapel were there; the torch was applied, and soon one blaze

enveloped the church and the village. When the missionary returned, he

shuddered at the sacrilege he saw, and wept over the calamities of his

people. A bark chapel soon rose from the ashes of the church which had

been destroyed, and in it he dispensed the consolations of religion to

his flock for several years.

During this year, F. Rale had the misfortune to sustain a fall of

such violence as to break his right thigh and left leg, and in this

condition he was compelled to make the painful journey to Quebec for

surgical aid. The fractured parts were so imperfectly cemented together

that he had to submit to the severe operation of having his leg broken

again and reset. During his sufferings, not a groan escaped him; and

the surgeon who attended him has expressed his wonder at such an

exhibition of Christian patience and love of suffering. As soon as his

wounds permitted him to return, he was again at his post in his little

sanctuary in the wilderness, where, amid personal dangers the most

appalling, he continued calmly and without fear the discharge of his

sacred duties.

In the meantime, the English were determined to get rid of him, and the

General Court of Massachusetts, in November, 1720, passed a resolution

for that purpose. John Leighton, Sheriff of York, was commissioned to

arrest him. If not found, he was to demand him of the Indians; upon

their refusal, the Indians themselves were to be taken and carried to

Boston. Every effort was made to induce the Indians to betray their

pastor into the hands of his enemies, or at least to send him away from

the country. They made many attempts to seize him by force or take

him by surprise, and an offer of £1,000 was made for his head. Such

was their horror of Jesuit sorcery! "I should be too happy," says the

object of their hatred, "were I to become their victim, or did God deem

me worthy to be loaded with chains, and shed my blood for the salvation

of my dear Indians." This was said in no spirit of bravado or vain

display; for the sequel will show how firmly, yet how meekly, he laid

down his life for his altar and his flock.

In the midst of the wars that desolated the country, it was his mild

spirit and humane counsels that served to moderate the natural ferocity

of the Indian character. Instead of urging the infliction of cruelty

upon those who had so long sought his life, he endeavored to secure

for his enemies every mildness consistent with the laws of war. "I

exhorted them," says F. Rale, "to maintain the same interest in their

religion as if they were at home; to observe carefully the laws of

war; to practise no cruelty; to kill no one except in the heat of

battle; and to treat the prisoners humanely." His solicitude for peace

during the period of which we have been speaking, at the very moment

that his enemies accused him as an instigator of mischief, and his

kind sentiments towards them, may be seen from the following letter

addressed to the authorities at Boston:

NARRANTSOAK, Nov. 18, 1712.

SIR: The Governor-General of Canada advises me by a letter, which

reached here some days ago, that the last royal vessel, arrived at

Quebec Sept. 30, announces that peace is not yet concluded between

the two crowns of France and England; that, however, it was much

talked of. Such are his words.

Other letters, which I have received, inform me that the Intendant,

just come out in that vessel, says that when on the point of

embarking at Rochelle, a letter was received from M. de Tallard,

assuring them that peace was made, and would be published in the

latter part of October.

Now, this cannot be known in Canada, but you may know it at Boston,

where vessels come at all seasons. If you know anything, I beseech

you to let me know, that I may send instantly to Quebec, over the

ice, to inform the Governor-General, so that he may prevent the

Indians from any act of hostility. I am, sir, perfectly your very

humble and obedient servant,

SEB. RALE, S.J.[170]

At length the tidings of the peace of Utrecht, 30th March, 1713,

arrived, and restored quiet to New France and New England. Gov. Dudley

called the Indians together in conference at Portsmouth in July,

1713, and announced to them that peace had been made, and proposed to

them: "If you are willing, you and we will live in peace." He then

informed them that the French had ceded Placentia and Port Royal to

the English. The Indians, through their orator, replied that they had

taken up the hatchet because their allies, the French, had taken it

up, and they were willing now to cast it away, since the French had

laid it down, and to live in peace. Then the orator added: "But you

say that the Frenchman has given you Placentia and Port Royal, which

is in my neighborhood, with all the land adjacent. He may give you

what he pleases. As for me, I have my land, which the Great Spirit has

given me to live upon. While there shall be one child of my nation upon

it, he will fight to keep it." Penhallow gives a somewhat different

account of this conference; but that of F. Rale is more in keeping with

the previous history of the Indians, and more consonant with their

character. If they acknowledged themselves subjects of Great Britain,

they knew no better in this than in previous similar instances what

they were doing, for they understood not the language attributed to

them.

It may be judged how welcome peace must have been to F. Rale from the

alacrity with which he availed himself of it to attend to the religious

interests of his people. To rebuild his church was the first object

of his solicitude. As Boston was so much nearer than Quebec, the

chiefs sent deputies to the former place, in order to procure workmen

for rebuilding the church, for whose services they offered to pay

liberally. The governor gave them a most friendly reception, and, to

their astonishment, offered to rebuild their church at his own expense,

"since the French governor had abandoned them." Their astonishment,

however, was soon changed into indignation when they heard the

condition annexed to this apparently generous offer, which was that

they should dismiss their own pastor, and receive in his place an

English minister. "When you first came here," replied the indignant

deputies by their orator, "you saw me a long time before the French

governors, but neither your predecessors nor your ministers ever spoke

to me of Prayer or of the Great Spirit. They saw my furs, my beaver and

moose skins, and of these alone they thought; these alone they sought,

and so eagerly that I have not been able to supply them enough. When I

had much, they were my friends; but only then. One day my canoe missed

the route; I lost my way, and wandered a long time at random, until at

last I landed near Quebec, in a great village of the Algonquins,[171]

where the Black Gowns were teaching. Scarcely had I arrived, when one

of them came to see me. I was loaded with furs, but the Black Gown of

France disdained to look at them. He spoke to me of the Great Spirit,

of heaven, of hell, of the Prayer, which is the only way to reach

heaven. I heard him with joy, and was so pleased with his words that

I remained in the village to hear him. At last the Prayer pleased me,

and I asked to be instructed. I solicited baptism, and received it.

Then I returned to the lodges of my tribe, and related all that had

happened. All envied my happiness, and wished to partake of it. They,

too, went to the Black Gown to be baptized. Thus have the French acted.

Had you spoken to me of the Prayer as soon as we met, I should now be

so unhappy as to pray like you; for I could not have told whether your

Prayer was good or bad. Now I hold to the Prayer of the French; I agree

to it; I shall be faithful to it, even until the earth is burnt and

destroyed. Keep your men, your gold, and your minister. I will go to

my French father."

The required aid was obtained from the French governor; workmen were

sent from Quebec, and the church was built soon after the peace. "It

possesses a beauty," says the missionary, "which would cause it to

be admired even in Europe, and nothing has been spared to adorn it."

Subsequently two little chapels were erected, about three hundred paces

from the chapel, by workmen obtained probably from Boston; and these

chapels are probably what Hutchinson in 1724 alludes to as having been

"built a few years before by carpenters from New England." One of

them was dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, the other to their guardian

angel. There, in his new church and chapels, with the aid of rich

vestments and sacred vessels given by some of his friends, and with the

seraphic music of forty innocent Indian boys, all dressed in cassocks

and surplices, F. Rale conducted the solemn offices of the church

in the wilderness with a splendor and beauty not unworthy of more

favored lands. The processions on Corpus Christi were quite unique and

beautiful. On these occasions the church and chapels were ornamented

with the trinkets and fine work of the squaws, and burning tapers

made by the Indians from the wax berries growing on their own native

shores, and were thronged with ardent and sincere worshippers--the

simple children of the forest gathering around the Holy of Holies, and

presenting a scene in which angels themselves might love to mingle.

The following account of F. Rale's daily life cannot but prove

interesting: "He rose at four, and, after meditation, said Mass at

daybreak, which all the Indians heard, and during it chanted their

prayers aloud; at its close he generally, on week-days, made a short

exhortation, to inspire them with good thoughts, then dismissing them

to the labors of the day. He then began to catechise the children

and the young; the aged, too, were there, all answering with the

docility of children. Then, after a slight meal, he sat in his chamber

to despatch the various matters laid before him--their plans, their

troubles, domestic disquiets, or intended marriages--in a word, to

direct them all. Towards noon he would go to work in his garden, and

then split his wood to cook his little mess of hominy; for this may be

said to have been his only food. Wine he never tasted, even when among

the French.

"After this frugal repast, he visited the sick, and went to particular

cabins to give instruction where it was more needed; and if a public

council or feast was to take place, he must be present; for they never

proceeded to the one without first hearing his advice, nor to the other

without his blessing on the food, which was ready to be placed on the

bark plates, which each one brought, and with which he immediately

retired to his cabin.

"The evening was left him to say his Breviary and give some time to

prayer and reading; but this was so often intrenched upon that at last

he made it a rule never to speak from before evening prayer till after

Mass on the following day, unless he was called to a sick-bed."[172]

In the course of a few years, the free spirit of the Indians began

to grow impatient under the encroachments of the whites. Not only

their hunting-grounds, but even their fields for cultivation, were

circumscribed. A conference with Gov. Shute was held at Georgetown in

August, 1717, but it was evident that redress for the Indians formed no

part of the governor's designs. He refused to treat with them otherwise

than as subjects; he would not acknowledge their natural liberty nor

their hereditary title to their hunting-grounds; nor would he fix a

boundary beyond which the encroachments of the white men should not

extend. They were told, however, that the English wished them to become

of one religion with themselves; an English Bible was given to them,

and the governor told them that the Rev. Mr. Baxter, who accompanied

him, would become their teacher and pastor. Thus it seems that the

governor with one hand presented them a Bible, and with the other

grasped their lands. When a letter from F. Rale, pleading in behalf

of his children, was handed to the governor, he treated it with great

contempt. "He let them know," says Hutchinson, "that he highly resented

the insolence of the Jesuit."[173] Another mock treaty was now entered

into by the aid of interpreters. F. Rale always protested against it as

fraudulent, and announced to the New Englanders that the Norridgewocks

did not recognize it. He never ceased his paternal efforts in behalf of

his Indians, and repeatedly addressed letters to the governor and other

leading men of New England, demanding justice for them.[174]

Having tried every means of gaining over the Indians to their cause

in vain, the New Englanders next attacked them in the point which

seemed to attach them more than any other to the French; this was their

religion. The Rev. Mr. Baxter, a minister of ability and education,

as well as of an ardent zeal against Popery, undertook to evangelize

the Abnakis. "Thus," says Bancroft, "Calvin and Loyola met in the

woods of Maine." The Protestant minister established at Georgetown a

school, which was supported by the government, and, by means of every

attraction and inducement which he could present to them, endeavored

first to gain the children. But their hearts had already been too

deeply impressed with religion by the Catholic missionaries to

receive the Prayer from any person other than the Black Gown. He then

endeavored, but with the same result, to gain his point by addresses

and harangues to the parents, the chiefs, and braves of the tribe. "He

next assailed the religion of the Indians. He put various questions

concerning their faith, and, as they answered, he turned into ridicule

the sacraments, purgatory, the invocation of saints, beads, Masses,

images, and the other parts of the Catholic creed and ritual."[175]

F. Rale saw at once that he must meet the danger thus threatened to the

faith of his flock. He addressed a respectful letter to Mr. Baxter,

covering an essay of one hundred pages, in which he undertook to defend

and prove, "by Scripture, by tradition, and by theological arguments,"

those tenets and practices of the Catholic Church which the minister

had endeavored to ridicule. In the letter enclosing the essay he

remarked that the Indians knew how to believe, but not how to dispute,

and the missionary felt it to be his duty to take up the controversy in

behalf of his neophytes. Mr. Baxter's reply treated F. Rale's arguments

as puerile and ridiculous. Finding, however, that his mission was a

fruitless one, Mr. Baxter returned to Boston. The correspondence did

not cease here; but, after Mr. Baxter's return to Boston, the letters

turned upon the purity of their Latinity, rather than the theology of

the respective controversialists. F. Rale remained at his post, the

faithful guardian of his flock.

The grievances of which the Indians had been long complaining still

remained unredressed. In 1719 another conference was held, but with

no better result than the previous one at Georgetown. Fresh causes

of resentment were added. Some Indians entered an English house to

trade, when suddenly they found themselves surrounded by a force ten

times stronger than their own. When about to cut their way through,

their arms were arrested by a request on the part of the English for a

parley, and they were told that the English only wished to invite some

of their number to visit the governor at Boston. Four chiefs consented

to go, and, when they arrived, they were detained as hostages, to

secure the payment of a large ransom demanded by the English for

damages sustained by them from depredations committed by the tribe.

The prisoners appealed to their countrymen for relief, and the ransom

was accordingly paid; but even then the English refused to release

them. A conference was invited by the governor, but this was done

merely to prevent an immediate rupture. At the designated time, July,

1721, the chiefs, accompanied by F. Rale; La Chasse, the superior of

the missions; Croisel, and the young Castine, repaired to Georgetown,

but the governor did not meet them there. La Chasse then drew up a

letter in Indian, French, and English, setting forth the claims of the

Indians, and sent it to Gov. Shute. No notice was ever taken of it.

In December, 1721, the English seized the young Castine, son of the

Baron de Castine by an Indian wife, and a great favorite with the

Abnakis. "The ungenerous and unjust arrest of this young man," says Dr.

Francis, "incensed to the highest degree the countrymen of his mother,

among whom he had always lived."

Still, the Indians refrained from retaliation. Another act of

aggression soon followed; a detachment of two hundred and thirty men,

towards the end of 1721, or early in 1722, were sent to seize the

Catholic missionary. As this party entered the Kennebec, two young

braves, hunting near the shore, saw them, and, after following them for

some distance unobserved, struck into the woods and gave the alarm at

Norridgewock, which was then nearly deserted. Scarcely had F. Rale time

to consume the consecrated host on the altar to save it from sacrilege,

and secure the sacred vessels. He fled precipitately to the woods,

impeded as he was by the painful condition of the wounds received

in the severe fall he had received as related above. The English

arrived in the evening, and, having waited till morning, pursued him

to the woods. They carefully scoured every place, and at one time

came within eight steps of their intended victim, and yet passed away

without seeing him, though only half concealed behind a small tree.

The pursuers then returned disappointed to Norridgewock, where they

pillaged the house of God and the missionary's residence, and then

retired, carrying away with them everything belonging to F. Rale--his

desk, papers, inkstand, and the Abnaki _Dictionary_, which he had

commenced at St. Francis in 1691. He suffered the extremes of hunger

while thus in the woods, flying from the pursuit of his enemies; yet

his courage and resolution remained firm and cheerful. So great were

the dangers that threatened him at every moment that his affectionate

neophytes, and even his superior, advised him to retire for the present

to Quebec. He always answered: "God has committed this flock to my

care, and I will share its lot, being too happy, if permitted, to

sacrifice my life for it." In a letter to his nephew he asks: "What

will become of the flock, if it be deprived of its shepherd? I do not

in the least fear the threats of those who hate me without cause. 'I

count not my life dear unto myself, so that I may finish my course with

joy,' and the ministry I have received of the Lord Jesus."

While thus the object of deadly pursuit on the part of the English

colonists, F. Rale enjoyed the purest consolation in the love and

affection of his devoted flock. On one occasion, while he was

accompanying them on a hunting party, they suddenly perceived that he

was missing, and the report was started that the English had broken

into his cabin and carried him off. Their grief was only equalled by

their fury, and at once the braves began to prepare for an effort to

rescue their pastor at the hazard of their lives. Two of their number,

however, afterwards went to his cabin, and there they found him,

writing the life of a saint in their own language. Transported with

joy, they exclaimed: "We were told that the English had carried you

off, and our warriors were going to attack the fort, where we thought

they had doubtlessly imprisoned you!" "You see, my children," replied

the father, "that your fears were unfounded; but your affectionate care

of me fills my heart with joy; it shows you love the Prayer." But as

some of the warriors were starting, he added: "Set out, immediately

after Mass, to overtake the others, and undeceive them."