incident as this. Their murmurs increased, and, coming from a small but
influential portion of the citizens, Savonarola took it into serious
consideration whether he should not give up for the time the prophetic
strain of his sermons, and confine himself to the inculcation of moral
and religious precepts. There is but little doubt that he struggled
earnestly and conscientiously to bring himself to this resolution, and
he has himself left the record of it in his _Compendio di Rivelazione_.
“I deliberated with myself,” he says, “as to suppressing the sermon
on the visions I had prepared for the following Sunday’s cathedral
service, and for the future to abstain from them. God is my witness
that throughout the whole of Saturday and during the entire night I lay
awake; and every other way, every doctrine but that, was taken from me.
At daylight, fatigued and exhausted by my long vigil, while I prayed,
I heard a voice which said to me, ‘Fool, seest thou not that God wills
that thou shalt persevere in thy path?’ And that day, I preached a
terrible sermon.”[124]
It was, doubtless, as he says, “una predica tremenda,” for, persuaded
as he was of his divine mission, he no sooner entered the pulpit than,
with his imagination excited, his senses in febrile agitation from
the effect of vigils and fastings, his subject carried him away into
bursts of denunciatory eloquence that frightened while they charmed his
hearers. In his excitement he again sees the nocturnal visions of his
cell, loses consciousness of his own personality, and confounds the
words there heard with the language of Scripture, for in his sermons he
frequently, in the rush of language, cites as passages from the Bible
the phrases of his own visions. Among these was his famous _Gladius
Domini super terram cito et velociter_.
THE NEW PRIOR.
Meantime, in the interior of his convent, the learning, the simplicity,
the profound piety and purity, and benevolence of Fra Girolamo had won
for him the love and veneration of all his brethren. At the election
of a new superior in 1491, they naturally chose him for their prior.
Savonarola, who had always felt and sought to inculcate the higher
appreciation of the dignity of the church and its ministers, seized
this occasion to protest practically against a ceremony, which to him
seemed not only compromising but degrading. Ever since the reign of
the Medici, it was the custom for every newly elected prior of S. Mark
to render homage and swear fealty to the reigning chief. Savonarola
gave no sign of conforming to it, and from his silence might have been
supposed to be ignorant of it. Some of the older monks reminded him of
it as a formality which they had always considered obligatory. This
view of it was natural enough from the fact that the Medici really
founded the convent and had been its most generous benefactors. The new
prior’s reply was characteristic: “Is it God or Lorenzo de’ Medici who
has named me prior? I acknowledge my election as from God alone, and
to him only will I swear obedience.” This was carried to Lorenzo, who
said: “You see, a stranger comes into my house, and deigns not even to
visit me.”
It must be conceded that, considering his position and personal
character, Lorenzo acted with great moderation, for he evidently
desired to conciliate the prior of the convent and to avoid the scandal
of a quarrel with a religious. More than once he attended Mass at
S. Mark’s and afterwards strolled in its garden. On these occasions
some brother would run to the prior to tell him of the distinguished
personage who was walking alone in the garden. “Did he ask to see me?”
was Savonarola’s answer. “No, but ...”—“Then let him walk there as
long as he pleases.”
The monk judged Lorenzo severely, and acted in consequence, for he knew
all the injury to public morals he had done, and looked upon him not
only as the enemy and destroyer of liberty, but as the most serious
obstacle to any amelioration and christianizing of the people. Failing
in one course, Lorenzo began to send to the convent liberal alms and
rich gifts, but this only increased Savonarola’s contempt for him, and
he even made scornful allusion to it in the pulpit, intimating that
such an attempt only confirmed him in his former resolution. Shortly
afterward were found in the “alms-box” of S. Mark’s a number of pieces
of gold. The prior understood perfectly that they came from Lorenzo,
as in fact they did, and, separating the princely gold from the modest
offerings of the faithful, he sent it to the Buoni Uomini of the city
for distribution among the poor, with the message that “silver and
copper sufficed for the wants of the convent.”
Thus far thwarted at every turn, Lorenzo was not the man to give
up a struggle once entered upon, and he was determined to turn, if
possible, the rising tide of the Dominican’s popularity. The preacher
most admired at that period in Florence had for some time been Padre
Genazzano—the same whose sermons were attended by crowds when Fra
Girolamo could scarce retain a dozen or two of people to listen to
him. Lorenzo requested the former to resume his preaching. He did so,
and his sermon was announced for Ascension Day. All Florence rushed
to hear him. Taking for his text, “Non est vestrum nosse tempora
vel momenta”—“It is not for you to know the times or seasons”—he
imprudently presumed too far upon his princely patronage, and
violently attacking Savonarola by name, qualifying him as a false and
foolish prophet, a sower of discord and scandals among the people,
so revolted his auditory by his intemperate speech and uncharitable
denunciation that, in the short hour of his discourse, he utterly lost
the reputation of long years’ acquisition. On the same day, Savonarola
preached upon the same text, and, so far as the popular judgment was
concerned, remained master of the field. Lorenzo, seeing the total
failure of his scheme, and suffering from the rapid advances of a
malady that was soon to become mortal, fatigued, moreover, with the
struggle against a man whom, in spite of himself, he felt forced to
respect, he left him henceforth to preach unmolested.
SAVONAROLA’S SERMONS,
as printed, give us, on reading them, but a very imperfect idea of
their effect as delivered. Of that tremendous power he wielded in
the pulpit, and concerning which the amplest testimony of both his
friends and enemies entirely agree, the source cannot be traced in
the published copies of his sermons. The earliest of these are those
preached in 1491, on the first Epistle of S. John. It would be a
difficult task to present a general idea of this collection. In form,
they offer no unity of subject nor connection of parts, added to
which, the strong originality and waywardness of Savonarola’s style
and studies make it difficult for a modern reader to bring order out
of this apparent disorder. He always commences with a citation from
Scripture, grouping around it all the ideas theological, moral, and
political which it suggests to his mind, resting these in their turn
upon fresh Biblical texts. The apparent result to him who reads them
to-day is a heterogeneous mass of discordant materials of which the
confusion is hopeless. But these sermons were actually preached by
Savonarola with a very different result. To him everything was clear.
These words before him in manuscript are but the dry bones which he
clothes with the magnetic life of inspiration, and to which he gives
voice in the thunders of his own eloquence. The fire of his imagination
kindles, figures of gigantic power present themselves to his mind,
his gesture is animated, his eyes flame, and, abandoning himself to
his originality, he becomes what he really was—a great and powerful
orator. At times, he appears to fall back into a mass of artificial
ideas without connection, again and again to free himself by force
of natural talent, for, born orator as he was, he needed the arts of
oratory; and it was only when his subject mastered him, and carried
him away, that nature took the place of art, and he was eloquent in
spite of himself. Of his originality and depth of thought some idea may
be gained from the following extract taken from one of his nineteen
sermons upon the first Epistle of S. John, in which he explains at
length the mysteries of the Mass, giving in it religious precepts and
counsels to the people:
“The word we utter proceeds out of our mouths separated and divided
by a succession of syllables, in such manner that, while one part
exists, the other part is already extinct, and, when the whole word
is pronounced, it exists no longer. But the Verb, or the Divine Word,
has no divisions; it is one in its essence, it is diffused throughout
the created world, and lives and endures throughout eternity like
the celestial light which is its companion. Therefore it is the Word
of Life, and one with the Father. We accept, it is true, this Word
in various senses. By ‘life’ we sometimes mean the natural being of
mankind, sometimes we mean by it their occupation. Hence we say, the
life of this man is science, the life of the bird is singing. But
there is but one true life which is in God, for in him all things have
their being. And this is that blessed life which is the object of
man, and in which he may find infinite and eternal happiness. Earthly
life is not only fallacious, but powerless to give us happiness from
its want of unity in itself. If you love riches, you must give up
sensual pleasures; if you are abandoned to these, you must renounce
the acquisition of knowledge; and if you give up the acquisition of
knowledge you cannot obtain offices of responsibility and honor. But
the joys of life eternal are all comprised in the vision of God, which
is supreme felicity.”
DEATH OF LORENZO.
With a mortal disease fastened upon him, Lorenzo the Magnificent
had retired to his villa at Careggi. Hope of his recovery there was
none, for the physicians had exhausted the last resources of their
art. Even the renowned Lazzaro da Ficino had been called from Pavia,
and had administered his wonderful draught of distilled gems without
result. Death approached rapidly, and in this solemn hour Lorenzo’s
mind turned seriously on his religious duties. He seemed entirely
changed. When Holy Communion was to be administered to him, he made a
superhuman effort to rise from his bed, and, supported in the arms of
those around him, to receive it kneeling, but the priest, perceiving
his weakness and his agitation, insisted on his being returned to his
couch. It was impossible to calm him. The past rose up before him in
horrible visions. As he approached his end, his crimes assumed gigantic
proportions, and became every moment more menacing, filling him with
a wild dismay, and depriving him of the peace and comfort he would
otherwise have derived from the consolations of religion. Having lost
all confidence in men,[125] he even doubted the sincerity of his own
confessor. Accustomed to have his slightest wish obeyed, he began to
doubt if that ecclesiastic had acted with entire freedom. His remorse
became harder and harder to bear. “No one ever dared say ‘No’ to me,”
he thought within himself, and this reflection, once a source of
pride, now became his most cruel punishment. Suddenly the image of
Savonarola in its grave severity presented itself to his mind, and he
remembered that he at least had never been influenced either by threats
or flatteries. “He is the only true _frate_ I know,” he exclaimed,
and expressed a desire to make his confession to him. A messenger was
instantly sent to S. Mark’s for Savonarola, who was so astonished at
the strange and unlooked-for summons that it seemed to him incredible.
He gave answer that it appeared to him useless to go to Careggi because
his words would not be well received by Lorenzo. But when he was made
to understand the gravity of Lorenzo’s condition, and the fact that he
had really sent for him, he set off instantly. That day Lorenzo felt
himself rapidly sinking. Summoning his son Piero, he gave him his last
instructions and his dying farewell. He afterwards expressed a wish
to see Pico di Mirandola, who came immediately, and the pleasure of
his society had a soothing effect upon the moribund. Scarcely had Pico
left, when the prior of S. Mark was announced. He advanced respectfully
to the bedside of the dying man. Three sins in particular lay heavy
upon his conscience. These were: the sack of Volterra; the plunder of
the treasure set apart for the dowry of poor Florentine damsels, which
had driven many of them to evil lives; the blood he had shed to revenge
the conspiracy of the Pazzi.
While speaking, Lorenzo’s agitation increased alarmingly. But
Savonarola, in order to calm him, kept repeating, “God is good, God is
merciful.”
“But,” he added, when Lorenzo had finished, “three things are
necessary.”
“What are they, father?” asked Lorenzo.
Savonarola’s countenance became grave, and, reckoning upon his fingers,
he said: “First, you must have a firm and lively faith in the infinite
mercy of God.”
“I have it fully.”
“Second, you must make restitution of all money unjustly acquired, or
charge your son to do it for you.”
At this Lorenzo was sorely grieved and perplexed, but with a great
effort he signified assent by nodding his head.
Savonarola then rose, and, drawing himself up to his full height,
said with solemn countenance and impressive voice, “Lastly, you must
restore to the people of Florence their freedom.” He fastened his eyes
upon those of Lorenzo, awaiting his answer. The dying man, gathering
what little strength was left him, disdainfully shrugged his shoulders
without deigning to utter a single word.
Thus—so runs the story—Savonarola left him, and Lorenzo the
Magnificent, lacerated with remorse, soon afterwards breathed his last
sigh (8th of April, 1492).[126]
The death of Lorenzo seriously affected the public affairs of Tuscany
and of Italy. His personal influence over other princes, his prudence
and ability, had made him in some sort the moderator of Italian
politics. Piero, his son and successor, was in every respect his
opposite. Of handsome and powerful physique, he abandoned himself to
athletic sports and to gallantry. He possessed a certain facility of
improvisation and a pleasing address, but centred his highest ambition
on horsemanship, tournaments, and games of strength and dexterity.
He inherited from his mother all the pride of the house of Orsini, but
from his father none of that simplicity and modesty of manner which
had so powerfully contributed to render him popular. His manners were
rough and displeasing to all: he yielded frequently to transports of
rage, and one day, in the presence of many persons, gave his cousin a
violent blow with his fist. These things were looked upon in Florence
as worse than an open violation of the law, and of themselves sufficed
to create for him a great number of enemies. Not only to his subjects
were his manners displeasing, but from the very commencement of his
reign he so disgusted all the Italian princes that Florence soon lost
the preeminence which Lorenzo had gained for her. He utterly neglected
the public affairs, and was solicitous only to concentrate in himself
all the power of the government. Day by day he successively swept away
even the few remaining semblances of liberty which Lorenzo had taken
great care to leave intact, and to which the people naturally clung
with affection. General dissatisfaction spread rapidly, and swept
into a threatening opposition even many of the strongest partisans
of the Medicean dynasty. A certain uneasy expectation of a change in
public affairs began to manifest itself, a change the more necessary
and desirable as Piero, deserted by citizens of repute, was forced to
surround himself by men either unknown or incapable.
Meantime the multitude pressed around the pulpit of Savonarola, and
looked up to him as the preacher of the anti-Mediceans. The fact that
Lorenzo, at the approach of death, had desired him for a confessor,
gained him many adherents among the admirers of that prince, who
rapidly fell away from Piero on account of his personal faults and
defective administration. The populace, moreover, recollected that
Savonarola, in the sacristy of S. Mark’s, had predicted the approaching
deaths of Lorenzo, of the Pope, and of the King of Naples. One portion
of this prediction had been verified, and the fulfilment of another
seemed close at hand. The vital powers of Pope Innocent VIII. were
rapidly failing him, and he died on the 25th of April, 1492. The death
of the King of Naples, it was known, must soon follow. And now all eyes
were involuntarily turned to the man who had predicted the disasters
which seemed impending over Italy, and whose prophecies seemed so
strangely fulfilled. The universal belief in his prophecies seemed to
confirm Savonarola’s confidence in his own power, and spread his name
throughout the world. He was at once the cause and the victim of his
own visions. His exaltation increased. The time he had foretold seemed
close at hand. He read and re-read the books of prophecy, and preached
with greater fervor. It is but little to be wondered at that in this
frame of mind his visions went on increasing in number.
Toward the end of the same year, while preaching the Advent sermons,
he had a dream which to him appeared like a vision, and which he did
not hesitate to look upon as a divine revelation. He seemed to see
in the heavens a hand holding a sword on which was written: _Gladius
Domini super terram cito et velociter_. He heard many voices, clear and
distinct, promising mercy to the good, but menacing punishments to the
wicked, and crying out that the wrath of God was nigh at hand. Suddenly
the sword points to the earth, the sky is overcast, it rains swords and
arrows, the lightnings flash, the thunders roll, and the whole earth is
given up a prey to war, famine, and pestilence.
The vision ceased with a command to Savonarola to menace the people
with approaching punishments, to inspire them with the fear of God, and
induce them to beseech the Lord to send good pastors to his church, who
would seek and save the souls in danger of being lost. In later years
we find this vision represented in an infinite number of engravings
and medals, and become, as it were, a symbol of Savonarola and of his
doctrine.
TO BE CONTINUED.
DANTE’S PURGATORIO.
CANTO NINTH.
FORTH from the arms of her beloved now,
Whitening the orient steep, the concubine
Of old Tithonus came, her lucent brow
Adorned with gems whose figure formed the sign
Of that cold animal whose tail with dread
Strikes trembling nations; and the night, where we
Now were, had made of her ascending tread
Two of her paces and was making three,
With wings through weariness less fully spread,
When I, in whom the weakness was alive
Of Adam’s nature, sank in slumber’s power
Where sat already on the grass all five.
Near to the dawning and about the hour
When first the little swallow wakes her lays
(Haply remembering her old woes afresh),
And when our mind, relieved of thinking, strays
More of a pilgrim from its cage of flesh
Till to its vision ‘tis almost divine,
Dreaming, I seemed to see in heaven suspended
An eagle that with golden plumes did shine
And with spread wings as he to swoop intended:
And in that place it seemed to be, methought,
Where Ganymede, abandoning his own,
Was up to heaven’s high consistory caught.
Then I considered; haply here alone
His wont to strike is, and he scorns elsewhere
To bear up what he snatches in his feet;
Methought he next wheeled somewhat in the air,
Then struck like lightning, terrible and fleet,
And rapt me up to the empyrean: there
We burned together in so fierce a heat,
And such of that imagined fire the smart,
My dream perforce was by the scorching broke.
Not otherwise Achilles with a start
Rolled his amazed eyes round him, newly woke,
And knowing nothing where he was, when flying
His mother bore him, slumbering on her breast,
From Chiron to the isle of Scyros hieing,
Whence the Greeks, after, forced him with the rest,
Than I too started! so that all repose
Fled from my features; deadly pale and chill
I grew, like one whom fear hath well-nigh froze.
Sole stood my Comforter beside me still;
My face was towards the sea-shore turned; the sun
Was risen already more than two hours high.
“Fear not,” my Lord said, “we have well begun:
Shrink not! but every way enlarge thy strength;
Thou hast arrived at Purgatory! See
Yon cliff that circles it; behold at length
The entrance, parted where it seems to be.”
In the white light that comes before the morn
While slumbering in thee lay thy soul, there came
Over the flowers this valley that adorn
A woman, saying, “Lucia is my name:
This man here sleeping let me take in care;
So shall I speed him forward on his way.”
Sordello, with his gentle comrades there,
Remained: she took thee and, at dawn of day,
Up hither sped, and I behind her straight.
Here she reposed thee; first with her fair eyes
Showing the aperture of yonder gate,
Then vanished and thy sleep in even wise.
As a man, doubting, comforteth his fear
At truth’s discovery, confident once more,
So did I change; and seeing me appear
Without inquietude, my Guide up o’er
The cliff moved on, I following in his rear.
Reader, thou well observ’st to what a height
I lift my matter, therefore wonder not
If with more art I strengthen what I write.
We still approached and now had reached the spot
Where that which first had seemed to me a rent,
Like to a fissure in a wall, my view
Made out a gate, and leading to it went
Three steps, and each was of a different hue;
A guardian sat there keeping the ascent.
As yet he spake not, and as more and more
Mine eyes I opened, on the topmost stair
I saw him sitting, and the look he wore
Was of such brightness that I could not bear.
The rays were so reflected from his face
By a drawn sword that glistened in his hand
That oft I turned to look in empty space:
Then he began: “Speak ye from where ye stand!
What seek ye here? who leads you to this place?
Take heed lest climbing upward from the strand
You come to harm!” My Master answered thus:
“A heavenly lady, of such things aware,
Spake in these words not long ago to us:
‘Go ye up yonder, for the gate is there.’
And may she speed you on your way to good!”
Rejoined that gracious guard. “Up to our flight
Advance you then!” We therefore came and stood
At the first stair, which was of marble white,
So clear and burnished, that therein I could
Behold myself, how I appear to sight.
The second was a rough stone, burnt and black
Beyond the darkest purple; through its length
And crosswise it was traversed by a crack.
The third whose mass is rested on their strength
Appeared to me of porphyry, flaming red,
Or like blood spouting from a vein; thereon
God’s Angel kept with planted feet his tread
Sitting upon the threshold’s gleaming stone,
Which seemed to me of adamant. My Guide
Led me with my good will up that ascent,
Saying, “Beg humbly that the bolt may slide!”
And at those hallowed feet devout I bent.
“In mercy open to me!” I implored,
But first I smote me thrice upon my breast.
He on my forehead with his pointed sword
Traced P. seven times, then spake me this behest:
“Wash thou these wounds when thou hast past the door.”
Ashes or dry heaps dug from gravelly earth
Were of one color with the robe he wore,
From under which two keys he next drew forth.
One was of gold, one silver; first he plied
The white, then used the yellow on the gate,
In such sort as my spirit satisfied;
Then said: “To none is passable the strait
When either of these keys be vainly tried,
And in the wards without response it grate.
One is more precious, one more asketh wise
Counsel and intellect the lock to free,
Because ‘tis this which error’s knot unties.
From Peter’s hand I hold them. He on me
Enjoined this rule, that I should rather err
In opening unto penitents, than be
Slow to unbind, if at my feet they were.”
Then of that pass he pushed the sacred gate,
Saying—“Go in; but be ye warned, before
You enter! who looks back returneth straight.”
And when the hinge-bolts of the holy door,
Which are of strong and sounding metal, rolled
Round in their sockets, the Tarpeian rock,
When robbed of good Metellus and its gold,
Rung not so loud nor yielded such a shock.
At the first thunder, as the portal swung
I looked about, and as I stood intent
Heard _Te Deum laudamus_! clearly sung,
And the gate’s music with the song was blent.
The same impression what I heard gave me
As on the listener’s hearing is begot
When men with organs join their voice, and we
Now hear the words, and now we hear them not.
UNITY.
HE who holds not this unity of the church, does he think that he
holds the faith? He who strives against and resists the church, is he
assured that he is in the church? For the blessed Apostle Paul teaches
this same thing, and manifests the sacrament of unity, thus speaking:
_There is one Body and one Spirit, even as ye are called in one Hope of
your calling; one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism, one God_. This unity
firmly should we hold and maintain, especially we bishops presiding in
the church, in order that we may approve the Episcopate itself to be
one and undivided. Let no one deceive the brotherhood by falsehood;
no one corrupt the truth of our faith by a faithless treachery. The
Episcopate is one; it is a whole, in which each enjoys full possession.
The church is likewise one, though she be spread abroad, and multiplies
with the increase of her progeny; even as the sun has rays many, yet
one light; and the tree boughs many, yet its strength is one, seated
in the deep-lodged root; and as, when many streams flow down from one
source, though a multiplicity of waters seems to be diffused from
the bountifulness of the overflowing abundance, unity is preserved
in the source itself. Part a ray of the sun from its orb, and its
unity forbids this division of light; break a branch from the tree,
once broken it can bud no more; cut the stream from its fountain, the
remnant will be dried up. Thus the church, flooded with the light of
the Lord, puts forth her rays through the whole world, with yet one
light, which is spread upon all places, while its unity of body is not
infringed. She stretches forth her branches over the universal earth
in the riches of plenty, and pours abroad her bountiful and onward
streams; yet is there one Head, one Source, one Mother, abundant in the
results of her fruitfulness.—_S. Cyprian._
THE TROWEL OR THE CROSS;
FROM THE GERMAN OF CONRAD VON BOLANDEN.
“_This is your hour, and the power of darkness._”—S. Luke xxii. 53.
BOLANDEN’S stories have been received with such marked favor, both in
the original and translation, that we have thought a short biographical
sketch of the author would be acceptable to the readers of The Catholic
World.
Joseph Edward Charles Bishoff, better known as Conrad von Bolanden, was
born August 9, 1828, at lower Gailbach, a village of the Palatinate,
formerly belonging to Lorraine.
His father was a wealthy merchant, and, when his son had reached a
suitable age, he placed him under the direction of a private tutor;
but the child gave no indication of talent, and made slow progress in
his studies. He exhibited an equally backward disposition in the Latin
school at Blieskastel, which he attended at the age of eight years.
When his parents afterwards moved to Fischbach in Breisgau, it was his
delight to roam through the forests, and remain many hours among the
ruins of Hohenburg, situated upon the summit of a high mountain. To
his close observation of the beauties of nature at this early age we
are doubtless indebted for the graphic descriptions of natural scenery
which we find in his works.
Having studied Latin for some time with the reverend pastor of Schönau,
he entered, at the age of thirteen years, the Bishop’s Seminary of
Speyer. Here also he was accounted a very dull scholar, for the reason
that the method of instruction was unsuited to him, and because he had
already commenced to write poetry and romances.
In the year 1849, he became a student of the University of Munich, and
applied himself diligently to the study of theology, for he felt within
himself the vocation to become a priest. During this time, he wrote
a _feuilleton_ for the _Volkshalle_, published at Cologne, in which
he describes an incident of the French Revolution. On the 20th day of
August, 1852, he was ordained priest by the Rt. Rev. Bishop Nicholas
von Weiss, in the seminary-church of Speyer, and became assistant
priest of the cathedral. He devoted himself with zeal and enthusiasm
to his new sphere of duty; but, at the end of two years, the bodily
strength of the young assistant was completely exhausted, and he was
made pastor of Kirchheim Bolanden, a small city at the Donnersberg. The
parish numbered 1,303 souls, who were distributed among not less than
40 stations, in the midst of Protestants. Here again was a hard and
fatiguing field of labor, but the experience which he acquired during
his sojourn in Bolanden concerning the nature of Protestantism, was the
foundation of his _Wedding-tour of M. Luther_. In memory of this his
first mission as pastor, he called himself Conrad von Bolanden.
Ten months later, he was made pastor of Boerrstadt. There he wrote,
within three years, _Eberhard of Falkenstein, or the Power of Faith_,
_Franz von Sickingen_, and _Queen Bertha_.
From the year 1859 to 1869, he was pastor of Berghausen, about two
miles from Speyer. Now followed in rapid succession novels and
historical romances, which were at once translated into all the living
languages, and gave the author a more than European fame, since his
writings were printed and read also in America. His social romance,
_The Progressionists_, lately reproduced in this magazine, became very
popular. Workingmen of all classes made up funds to buy the book. Among
the higher class also, and even in the family of a certain prince,
this work created a furor; but it was the cause of great trouble to
the author. A man of exalted rank and power, whose scandalous habits
were known far and wide, imagined that he saw himself depicted in _The
Progressionists_. The wrath of this person was the reason why many,
out of fear of incurring his displeasure, avoided the presence of
Bolanden. His shattered health, as well as the loss of friends, induced
him, in the year 1869, to resign of his own accord his position as
pastor, especially as the compensation he had received for his works
had secured him an independent fortune. He purchased for himself a
comfortable house in Speyer surrounded by a large garden, and there he
now lives, always employed in writing, but in strict retirement.
His method of life is very regular. Every morning at nine o’clock he
appears in his garden, where he occupies himself with his flowers and
fruit-trees, after which he reads the newspapers and letters he has
received. He never writes either in the morning or late at night. He
commences work at two in the afternoon, and ceases at five.
Having no sisters, brothers, or other near relatives, Von Bolanden’s
house is presided over by his aged mother, Eleonore Languet, a
venerable matron, whose motherly love is never exhausted, and whose
devotion is repaid by the respectful and childlike affection of her
distinguished son.
One of the peculiarities of Von Bolanden is his decided aversion
to travelling, and to stopping at hotels. “I feel uneasy when out
of my house.” he often remarks. Like many literary men, he is very
absent-minded; he will look at the clock to ascertain a day or date,
and, during the hottest days of summer, he will approach an empty stove
to light his cigar.
His great merits as a Catholic novelist, and his fearless exposure
of historical falsehoods, as well as his efforts for the religious
enlightenment of the people, have been recognized by Pope Pius IX., who
has made him a Monsignore. This distinction is important, inasmuch as
it implies the approval of Bolanden’s works by the highest authority on
earth.
God grant that the intrepid author may be spared for many years to
uphold the banner of truth, and increase his merits by waging a combat
against the enemies of the Catholic Church.
CHAPTER I.
THE CONSPIRATORS OVERHEARD.
A FARMER stood on the border of a meadow, and, with hands clasped upon
the handle of his axe, looked with disappointment at the appearance of
the grass. He shook his head sadly, and exclaimed aloud: “All labor and
skill are useless if God does not bless the land!”
He pushed his cap from his brow, and the expression of his face became
more discontented than before, when suddenly he raised his head,
listened, and gazed in the direction of the forest. His whole aspect
now changed; his eyes lighted up with joy at the sound of a beautiful
tenor-voice merrily singing:
“If I were only king,
I would be just to all,” etc.
A gentleman on horseback soon became visible, followed at some distance
by a second rider, who was evidently a servant. The gentleman, who was
young and handsome, was dressed in gray; he wore his felt hat jauntily
on one side, thus leaving exposed his good-humored, intelligent
countenance, and his dark and brilliant eyes.
At the first curve of the road, he checked his horse. A thriving
village is seen in the distance, and a palace belonging to the king
crowns the summit of the hill.
“Franz, do you not think the weather unusually pleasant to-day?”
“Yes, your lordship.”
“Do you know the reason why the atmosphere is so pure, Franz?”
“I do not know, your lordship.”
“Well, I will tell you,” said the young gentleman, taking off his
hat, and passing his right hand through his curly hair. “The air
is invigorating and fresh because it is not breathed by the ladies
and gentlemen of the court. I have often observed that, whenever
the caravans from the city come out here, the air becomes damp and
oppressive. Nature seems to shroud its loveliness in a mourning-veil.
Every shrub and flower shrinks, as it were, within itself, in the vain
attempt to shut out the idle babbling of courtiers and the noxious
smell of musk which they use in such quantities. To-day, however,
the country is radiant in beauty; peace dwells everywhere, the most
profound stillness reigns, and the Spirit of God fills the heart,
therefore, Franz, I shall not return yet; you can ride home alone.”
He sprang from his horse.
“Give me my portfolio and my plaid!”
The servant handed him both.
Throwing the plaid over his shoulders, the young count turned in the
direction of the woods, whose tall beech-trees covered the sides
of a small hillock. The road ended in a circle surrounded by young
fir-trees. Benches with comfortable backs invited the traveller to
rest; but the count continued his walk until he reached a certain spot,
when he seated himself upon a large moss-covered stone. Through an
opening in the forest he saw the farmer, whose whole deportment and
walk again expressed care and reflection.
“He also is a thinker,” said the count to himself, “and the subject
of his meditation is doubtless more profitable to mankind than are
those of many who make pretensions to profound learning. As he stands
there, he is the very personification of care! He is evidently devising
some plan by which the waters of the little brook may be led into
his parched meadows. Idle work, my dear fellow! If you should succeed
in turning its fertilizing streams into your land, and if you should
enrich the soil with the sweat of your brow, the terrible military
ordinance will devour the fruits of your labor. If you have sons who
are healthy and strong, they cannot be of assistance to you, for the
army will claim their service. The minister of war is insatiable in his
demands, and it is necessary that he should be so, for we are living in
strange times.”
He continued to gaze musingly upon the scene before him. Gradually his
countenance assumed an earnest and almost solemn expression; his bright
eyes became dreamy, as if communing with spirits of the invisible
world, until, as though yielding to some mysterious impulse, he seized
his pencil, and began to write.
Suddenly a gruff voice was heard. The poet is startled out of his
dreams. Four elegantly dressed gentlemen are seen coming up the road,
and approach the circle.
“Who can escape his fate?” said the young count angrily. “The heavenly
muses are put to flight by hostile spirits; but what do I see?” he
continued, looking through the branches at the group. “Three of
the most powerful men of the kingdom? Three master-masons and the
grandmaster of all the Freemasons within a circumference of three
hundred miles? What can bring these sons of night to this peaceful
spot? I hope they will not remain long enough to poison the fragrant
air with their foul plotting and plans. Truly, their presence has
already effected a change: the sun does not shine as brightly, and it
is becoming cloudy.”
He then sat listening.
“I do not understand you, professor,” said the person with the gruff
voice. “To say the least, it is a very singular fancy of yours to
defend the Jesuits.”
“No fancy at all, Herr Director; it is simply the result of knowledge,”
replied the professor.
“The knowledge acquired in your high-school is certainly wonderful,”
answered the director, with a mocking laugh. “But your effort to defend
the Jesuits surpasses even the bounds of knowledge!”
“If you scorn knowledge when right and truth are in question, you will
surely allow a man of sound judgment to have some respect for that
which is founded on facts,” said the university professor, with great
warmth.
“Oh! you have my permission to say what you choose between these green
walls,” exclaimed the director, pointing with his hand towards the
young fir-trees.
“And you, most worshipful grandmaster—do you also allow the free
expression of opinion?” inquired the professor of a man with a gray
beard, whose eyes and features indicated a disposition of great
craftiness.
“Certainly; we are not in the masonic lodge,” replied the gentleman
addressed. “I am not grandmaster here, but a simple chief-magistrate,
Be careful, however, in your expressions, we might be overheard.”
The professor walked around the circle, and looked in every direction.
“There is no one within hearing distance,” said he, returning.
“This is growing interesting; I must take notes of what will
transpire,” said the invisible count; and he at once commenced to write
down what he heard.
“Our order has determined upon the extermination of the Jesuits—well!
As this resolution has been passed, it no longer admits of debate,”
continued the professor. “I do not speak now as a Freemason, but as a
close observer of matters and things; and what do I see? Attacks on all
sides upon the Jesuits. At Munich, our Masons have clothed themselves
in the garment of Old Catholicity, that they might hurl from the
standpoint of belief their anathemas against the Jesuits. In Darmstadt,
our first Masons even went so far as to appear in the garb of Luther,
that they might condemn the Jesuits from Protestant pulpits also, and
demand their expulsion by actual force. All our newspapers denounce the
Jesuits, and stir up a hatred of them among the people. But, gentlemen,
in my estimation, the newspapers have gone too far; any man of common
sense can convict them of falsehood and calumny. Here is a Bavarian
paper of yesterday, called the _Kemptener Gazette_,” said he, producing
the journal. “Listen to this article, which endeavors to incite the
fears of the credulous.”
And the professor read:
“What are all the calamities which threaten and even destroy the human
race in comparison to the crimes of the Jesuits? For centuries they
have immolated thousands upon the scaffold, and justified their acts
by appealing to an all-loving Deity. Children and their parents, the
young and the old, virgins and matrons, have been sacrificed to their
cruel and insatiable thirst for power. Amid, horrible torments and
unspeakable sufferings, innumerable beings, despairing of the mercy of
God, have been put to death at their command. They have been the means
of introducing treason and parricide into the world; they have artfully
managed to incite with a word one nation against the other; while at
the same time they point with a hypocritical face to the cross, the
symbol of an all-governing love. But what caps the climax is that they
seek to effect the ruin of men, not for _time_, but for _eternity_.
With unheard-of cruelty, they everywhere stifle spiritual freedom in
its very birth. They have secretly murdered kings and emperors who
would not submit to their will. To obtain their end, they destroy the
welfare of nations, and humble the majesty of princes into the very
dust. Like an evil spirit, they have triumphantly placed their yoke
upon enslaved mankind, and they yet strive to carry out their base
designs, as the experience of our own times teaches us—in a word, they
are the enemies with whom the spirit of truth has now to combat.”
“Now, gentlemen, I ask of you,” said the professor, holding up the
paper, “are not these accusations most ridiculous and absurd? A long
chain of the gravest crimes and of the most diabolical designs are
fastened upon the Society of Jesus, and yet not a single one of these
allegations can be proved. They are wicked and stupid fabrications, and
cannot but appear as such to a man of ordinary intelligence.”
“To an intelligent man, perhaps!” answered the director. “But the
article is not written for that class of people, but only for the
ignorant, who are easily duped.”
“And we must remember,” said one of the four Masons, “that the article
fulfils its end; it is even well written; for it will fill the minds of
the common people with hatred and distrust of the Jesuits if they read
such things of them.”
“Perfectly true, Herr Counsellor!” said the director.
“The end, indeed, sanctifies the means, we may say with truth,” replied
the professor. “Let us, however, not forget that the present attack
upon the Jesuits will be recorded in history. A future age will judge
for itself, and I fear it will decide in favor of a society which in
our days is assailed with such senseless fury. Posterity will look upon
the present treatment of the Jesuits as not only contemptible, but
as cowardly and wicked. According to the testimony of centuries, the
Society of Jesus is the most active, the purest, the most influential
and learned order of the Catholic Church. The Jesuits are acknowledged
to be the best teachers, the most prudent instructors of youth, the
most experienced confessors, and the most zealous priests. They are
known as the vanguard of Rome; they are wonderful in mortification and
in obedience, and are always ready to make any sacrifice whatever for
the church. I can prove this by innumerable passages from Protestant
works.”
“It is not necessary, Herr Professor!” interrupted the grandmaster.
“The Jesuits are no doubt excellent people. The society is a masterly
organization; each member obeys without contradiction the commands of
an experienced general; they form the strongest bulwark of Rome; for
that very reason, they must be suppressed. ‘The Trowel or the Cross!’
that is to be the watchword! The trowel, the symbol of Freemasonry,
must triumph over the cross, the symbol of Christianity. According to
the spirit and plan of our order, all religion must disappear from the
face of the earth. The trowel must reign, the cross be broken. As the
Catholic Church gives the strongest support to religious belief, and
because the Jesuits are the most active propagators of the doctrine of
Christ, it is necessary that the Jesuits should be exterminated.”
“Well, Herr Counsellor, I agree with you,” replied the professor.
“The death-sentence has been pronounced upon the Jesuits, and must
be executed; but, to accomplish such a result, neither brutal force
nor the interference of the government should be used; we should call
knowledge to aid us in gaining the victory. There are perhaps two
hundred Jesuits in the whole German Empire; thus there is one Jesuit
to twenty learned men. Now, I ask you, will it not be disgraceful to
our enlightened age if twenty well-informed doctors cannot render
inefficient the activity of one Jesuit? Will it not be a neverending
cause of shame to German science if it cannot gain the mastery over
such a small number of unarmed and persecuted men? It is humiliating to
my pride to use such means for the extermination of this little band of
enemies. Science must be made to destroy the Society of Jesus, but not
a decree issued in the spirit of the barbarous and tyrannical Nero!”
“Don’t talk to me about your sciences!” said the grandmaster
impatiently. “I am an old, experienced Freemason, and you may believe
what I tell you. Science will not be able to disconcert even one
Jesuit. Do not forget, dear professor, that the Jesuits are proficient
in all the sciences, and that they understand how to fight upon that
ground. We must not skirmish long with such an enemy; we must advance
quickly, and must concentrate all our forces for the great battle. It
must now be decided—the trowel or the cross! If the dominion of the
cross is to cease, the religion of Jesus of Nazareth must disappear; if
the spirit of Freemasonry is to obtain the victory, then the Jesuits
must first be exterminated by every possible means.”
A deep murmur came from behind a large tree in the vicinity. The sound
proceeded from the same farmer, who, having walked around his meadows,
was on his return home, when he heard voices in animated conversation,
and he lost no time in hiding himself behind the tree. There he stood,
tall and broad-shouldered, listening attentively; he would every now
and then clinch his strong fists, and would dart fiery glances at the
assembled group of Freemasons.
“The most natural and efficacious means,” remarked the professor,
“would be a decree of suppression, which could be easily obtained
from the Chamber of Deputies, the majority of whom belong actually or
at least in spirit to our order. But the question is, Will the king
consent to it?”
“Bah! he is a narrow-minded man, who does not govern, but is governed!”
said the grandmaster contemptuously. “Our Masons have excited his fears
to such a pitch in regard to the pretensions of the infallible Pope
that he is ready at any moment to attack Rome.”
“Splendid!” said the count to himself, underlining the words in his
note-book: “A narrow-minded man, who does not govern, but is governed!”
“Our victory is certain!” declared the counsellor. “The time for
a decisive battle could not be more favorable. The majority of
intelligent people and of the working classes are without any
religion. The lower orders must be indoctrinated by our Masons and
apprentices; our newspapers must confuse and alarm them concerning
the claims of the infallible Pope. Besides, the German emperor is
a Freemason, the Crown-Prince of Germany is a Freemason, all the
ministers of our country are Freemasons, and many ministers of other
German countries are Freemasons. In Spain, we are already so powerful
that the Grandmaster, Zorilla, gave the royal crown to a prince of
his own choice. In Rome, for 1800 years the seat of the popes, the
“Grand-Orient” of our order will erect his seat above the chair of
an imprisoned and helpless Pope. As I have already remarked, affairs
are everywhere so propitious to our cause that the trowel will surely
conquer the cross!”
“This is indeed your hour, and the power of darkness!” thought the
count.
“Only hear the villains!” muttered the farmer behind the hedge, “What
pious creatures these Freemasons are!”
“You are mistaken in regard to one point,” replied the professor. “The
Emperor and the Crown-Prince of Germany are undoubtedly Freemasons;
but the real object of our World Union is not known to either of them.
Neither William nor Fritz dreams that after the downfall of the altar
follows that of the throne. The cross is well adapted for the crown of
princes, but not the trowel. Suppose the emperor shall discover the
fundamental law of our order? Do you think that he would espouse the
cause of religion, and war against us?”
“Care has been taken that he shall never know it,” said the
grandmaster. “Do not torment yourself with fears that will never be
realized!”
“If the German emperor could only hear these rascally Freemasons talk!”
thought the indignant farmer within himself. “I must look closely at
these fellows.”
“Well, professor,” inquired the grandmaster, “are you at last convinced
that the Jesuits must be first driven out, and that this can only be
done by force?”
“I am not convinced of your last assertion; but yet I submit, in
obedience to my oath as a Freemason most worshipful grandmaster!”
replied the professor. “I shall endeavor, in my sphere of labor, to be
restlessly active, so that we may attain our great end. I shall do my
best to destroy religious faith in all the young men confided to me,
by appealing always to the light of science. Our universities of the
present day are justly considered to be the most successful mothers of
religious unbelief. To the destruction of altars, to the downfall of
thrones, to the universal fraternization of all nations by means of a
universal republic without a God, without heaven, without hell; for
liberty in our pleasures, for liberty of will, for liberty in life and
death, shall my whole strength be dedicated in submission to the rule
of our order!”
The grandmaster nodded his head approvingly. Suddenly the group were
startled by the appearance of the farmer, who, no longer able to
control his wrath, stepped into the circle. Holding his axe in his
hand, he gazed attentively at the strangers.
“What do you wish, good man?” asked the grandmaster condescendingly.
“I have heard much about the Freemasons, and, as I now have a chance, I
must look at them a little.”
“Well, well, this is fine work!” replied the counsellor, concealing his
perplexity by a loud cough.
“How do you know that we are Freemasons?” asked the director.
“I know it because I have been listening to your confessions,” replied
the farmer.
The confusion now became general.
“What did you hear?” asked the professor.
“I heard enough! But I must tell you this, you Freemasons, your
undertaking will fail, for your motives are wicked,” continued the
farmer, with rising indignation. “You say that you will expel the
Jesuits, and destroy and exterminate them? Slowly, gentlemen; the
people also will have something to say about that. We Catholics know
what the Jesuits are. In the Bavarian Diet, some one said that the
skulls of the Catholics should be beaten in. All right; but I tell you,
Freemasons, that I will break with this my axe the skull of the first
one who dares to come near our parish for the purpose of driving away
our dear, good Jesuit father. Only try it! Do you think,” he exclaimed,
while he shook his clenched fist at them, “that we Catholics intend to
be tormented by vagabonds and good-for-nothing fellows like you who do
not believe in a God, nor in a heaven, nor in a hell? Do you imagine
that we will allow ourselves to be trampled under foot, that we will
permit our religion to be destroyed, our faith undermined, our priests
abused and expelled? Do you think that we are such fools? Commence your
work, and you will see what will happen! We are not African slaves:
we are free Germans; you Freemasons would do well to keep out of the
way. Our fists are stronger than your trowels, and defence, in case of
necessity, is lawful!”
The dignitaries of the most powerful order in the world, observing the
wild looks of the angry man, were silent.
“Do you see the cross upon the steeple of the church there?” asked
the farmer, pointing to the village beyond. “How many such spires are
there not in Germany? And you wish to take down that cross from the
church—the cross upon which the Saviour has died for us—and put on
your dirty mason-trowel? Ha! ha! that’s too ridiculous!”
“Is your pastor a Jesuit, my friend?” inquired the professor, in a
bland tone of voice.
“Yes, indeed; our pastor is a Jesuit; he has been three years with us,
because there is a scarcity of secular priests. And what a pastor he
makes! I can tell you, Freemasons, that our Jesuit father is so good,
so zealous, so full of piety, that all of you put together are not fit
to unloosen his shoes. Yes; you may scowl at me, but it is so! And
then, gentlemen, I have something else to say to you! If you think so
much about freedom, and about the welfare of the people; if all your
ministers are Freemasons; and if you are all-powerful in the chambers,
why do you heap burden after burden upon the shoulders of the people?
Why is it that the taxes are growing heavier every day? Why is it that
the farmers are pressed by the collectors as if they were grapes? Why
does the war-budget constantly increase, so that we are in danger of
being forced to work in the end only for the soldiers? See, Freemasons,
these are our troubles; you can, if you choose, help the oppressed
people; but I warn you to keep your hands away from the Jesuits and
from our religion ... or ...” and he made a threatening gesture, “you
will be sorry. Franz Keller, of Weselheim, from yonder village, has
said it.”
He placed his axe upon his shoulder, and walked away with long,
determined strides, while the Freemasons preserved a deep silence.
The count laughed at their evident discomfiture.
“Another significant proof of the powerful influence of the Jesuits,”
said the grandmaster. “The parish of Weselheim was formerly indifferent
in regard to religious matters; but now they are made fanatical by
having had a Jesuit among them for three years. He must leave!”
continued he angrily. “The clock of his activity has run down.”
“Will the king receive us at his villa?” asked the counsellor.
“On the 14th of this month, at eleven o’clock precisely!” replied the
director.
“It is growing cold, gentlemen, let us return,” remarked the
grandmaster, whereupon they all left the forest.
CHAPTER II.
A JESUIT AS A PASTOR.
IN a meditative mood, the count walked towards the village. The serene
and joyous expression of his handsome face had disappeared, and was
replaced by a grave earnestness.
“A valuable experience!” said he to himself. “So ‘The Trowel or the
Cross!’ is to be the watchword of those who govern! Thrones are to be
broken over the ruins of the altars, so that, in the end, a general
fraternization of mankind may, according to the spirit of Freemasonry,
crown the whole. Fraternization—hem! The real meaning of all this is
that men who are not rich and are not liberals are to become the slaves
of the liberals and the rich. The farmer was right: these Freemasons
are wicked rascals, for they do not believe in God. And this spiritual
rascality is, without doubt, more wicked and dangerous to the state
than open drunkenness. This farmer is a brave fellow; I like him!”
continued the count, laughing. “Healthy in body and spirit, courageous,
sincere, and free! Like a night-bird before the eagle, so also do these
light-hating Freemasons shrink before righteous and honest anger.” He
sauntered through the streets of the village, observed with pleasure
the universal cleanliness that prevailed, and returned politely the
friendly salutations of all who greeted him, after which he entered his
hotel. When he had dined, and while reading the newspaper, his servant
appeared.
“Some men are here, your lordship, who desire to speak with you.”
“Who are they?”
“Good people from the country, your lordship.”
“Send them up!”
Slowly, and bowing respectfully, at least a dozen villagers entered the
room. The count at once recognized the tall form and broad shoulders of
Franz Keller. The men were dressed in their Sunday attire, and their
weather-beaten countenances were full of care and solicitude.
“What can I do for you, my friends?” began the count, who saw their
embarrassment.
“We have come here on business, your lordship,” said the leader of the
little troop. “I am the burgomaster of this place, and these men are
the aldermen.”
“I am greatly rejoiced to make the acquaintance of the principal men of
Weselheim,” replied the young count kindly. “What is the nature of your
business with me?”
“I will tell your lordship. For three years we have had a Jesuit father
as our pastor—a good, pious, and zealous priest. The government
has, for the last four months, endeavored to take him away from us,
because he is a foreigner. He has received no less than three letters
ordering him to leave, but he will not desert his post. He says that
the government did not make him pastor of our church, but the bishop,
and therefore government cannot dismiss him from the care of souls.
But because the Freemasons hate the Jesuits, and because they are
all-powerful with the government, our pastor is to be taken away from
us by force. The whole congregation are indignant at this, for it will
be difficult to find another pastor like him. If the gendarmes come, I
do not pledge myself that they will not be driven out of the village;
we all feel that it would be a sin crying to heaven if we allow a
pious, innocent man to be taken away by gendarmes like a thief. No; we
shall never submit to such treatment! Now, this is our humble request
to your lordship: to-morrow, or after to-morrow, our most gracious
king will arrive at the palace yonder, and, since your lordship is the
friend of his majesty, the entire parish beg of you to speak in our
behalf, so that we may be able to keep our pastor.”
“I thank you, Herr Burgomaster, and all the parish for the confidence
they place in me,” said the count. “At the same time, I must confess
that it is a long time since I have heard any praise of the Jesuits;
the fashion is now to heap insult upon them, and to accuse them of
every known crime.”
“I ask pardon, your lordship,” said Keller; “only those who do not know
the Jesuits will ever insult them. We know them. Our Jesuit father is a
very pious man; he has no fault—or at least one only.”
“Well, what fault has he?” inquired Count von Scharfenstein.
“He gives away everything to the poor, your honor,” replied the
burgomaster. “He keeps nothing of what we give him; the lay brother who
lives with him carries it away to others. A man must eat and drink well
if he expects to work well.”
“Very true!” said Von Scharfenstein, hardly able to restrain a laugh.
“And because your pastor does not eat and drink well, he therefore does
not work well either.”
“Oh! yes, your honor, oh! yes. I did not mean to say that. What I
wanted to say was that our pastor works very hard, but that he does
not eat enough, and therefore looks pale and thin. We cannot make him
grow fat.” And the burgomaster cast a satisfied glance at his own well
nourished body. “If we give him the very best we have, he will not eat
it, but gives it away, and that provokes us.”
“Console yourselves!” answered Von Scharfenstein. “The poor to whom
your pastor gives the best he has will not be displeased with him for
it. And for the very reason that he is such an incorrigible friend of
the poor, I shall speak to the king in his behalf.”
The interview now came to an end.
“God reward your honor!” said each one of the delegation, as they bowed
and took their departure.
Von Scharfenstein, whose thoughts were generally in the clouds, and who
paid very little attention to the course of things in the world around
him, walked thoughtfully up and down his room. The touching fidelity,
love, and reverence of the villagers for their priest, at a time when
authority was mocked at unless supported by brute force, excited in him
great admiration.
“The hatred of Freemasons for Jesuits is very natural,” said he. “The
grandmaster is right: it will never be possible to plant the banner of
infidelity upon the ruins of the altar as long as the bravest soldiers
of the church militant exist. This forcible expulsion of the society is
a political blunder. The case merits attention; I must take a look at
the theatre of action.”
He put on his overcoat and hat, and went forth into the twilight.
Well-freighted wagons were returning home from the fields. Those who
met saluted one another, or spoke a few words together. Children
carried small bundles upon their heads, grown persons dragged their
burdens after them. It was a scene of animated activity. No swearing
or angry word was heard, but the day’s work ended in the most peaceful
manner. The same thing was repeated every evening during the sojourn of
the count in Weselheim, but, having never felt any interest in rural
life, he was astonished at all that he saw.
In the middle of the road, a heavily-laden wagon came to a stand-still;
the horses refused to proceed, notwithstanding the efforts of the
driver. The count could not but admire the patience of a man who did
not swear at or ill-treat his horses. Several peasants came to offer
assistance. They pushed the wheels, but in vain, for the animals would
not move.
“I do not know what is the matter with the horses to-day,” exclaimed
the driver. “I have not overloaded them.”
“Just a little too much, Jacob!” said a voice.
At once all hats and caps are raised. A tall, thin form now approached.
“May Jesus Christ be praised, your reverence!” was the respectful
salutation of all the men.
“Now and for ever!” answered the good priest. “Well, Prantner, what has
happened?”
“Your reverence, the horses will not stir!”
“Because they want to rest a little,” replied the Jesuit. “We do the
same when we are tired; and it is a heavy, a very heavy load,” said he,
with a glance at the towering height of the wagon.
“I have just told him that the wagon was overloaded,” remarked another
peasant, in a tone of reproach.
“Perhaps—but Prantner knows that his horses are very strong, and
he therefore has great confidence in them,” said the pastor. “They
are splendid creatures,” patting the broad necks of the horses, and
stroking their manes. The horses commenced to snort, to toss their
heads, and to paw the ground. “Ah! see, they like to be complimented,”
he continued cheerfully. “Let us always acknowledge merit, and that
which seems difficult will then become easy. Now, Prantner, go on!”
The priest had hardly stepped back, when the horses proceeded on their
way without further urging.
“Was there ever any one like our pastor?” exclaimed the peasants, in
astonishment. “He understands everything.”
“Where is he going, so late?”
“To Michael the carpenter, who is dying, and who refuses to be
reconciled with his neighbor.”
“Michael has always been very stubborn; may Almighty God grant him a
happy death!” Saying which, the men dispersed.
The count, who had watched the proceedings, also went his way.
“The leading spirit of this parish is evidently the Jesuit, and he
deserves to be,” thought Von Scharfenstein.
The Angelus now rang; at once every head was uncovered; for the silvery
tones of the bell reminded the villagers of the incarnation of the Son
of God. From all the houses resounded the angelic salutation, sometimes
uttered by the clear voices of the children.
“What a pity that those men of the trowel are not here to shake their
empty heads compassionately at the pious usages of an ignorant but
believing people!” said the count. “In my opinion, a people who are
reminded thrice during the day of the incarnation of the Son of God,
and who are admonished to walk in the presence of the Omniscient, are
better than a people who have no faith in either the justice or the
mercy of God.”
Before the windows of a house there stood several persons, principally
women. The count approached out of curiosity, and looked into a
well-lighted room. The table near the wall was covered with a white
cloth. Between two burning candles stood a crucifix and a holy-water
vase. At the bedside of the dying man sat the Jesuit father, making
impressive exhortations. He held the hand of the sick man in his own,
and would frequently bend his head towards him, as though expecting
some reply. At the foot of the bed knelt a young man, who covered his
face with both hands. Two young girls and an aged woman stood near with
sad and depressed countenances.
“What is the matter here?” inquired the count, in a low tone.
“Alas! sir, it is a sad affair!” replied one of the women. “Michael the
carpenter is dying, and the priest cannot give him the last sacraments.”
“Why not?”
“Because Michael has for a long time been at enmity with his neighbor.
For the last eight days, our pastor has come several times a day to
visit him, in order to persuade him to be reconciled; but Michael will
not listen to any advice. It is a pity for any one to be so malicious
and obstinate.”
At this moment, there was a movement in the sick-room. The young man
who knelt at the foot of the bed rose hastily, and left the house.
“At last, at last!” exclaimed a voice, “Michael has again become a
Christian!”
A man was now seen to enter the room; he was the carpenter’s neighbor.
The dying Michael held out his emaciated hand to him, which the
neighbor took, although nearly blinded by tears. The Jesuit said a few
words, and the reconciled enemies again shook hands. The women standing
near the window were loudly sobbing. Von Scharfenstein was also greatly
moved by what he witnessed.
The priest left the house, and hurried to the church.
“He will now bring the holy viaticum,” said a voice.
“Thanks be to God!” said another.
The count returned slowly to the hotel.
“I have until now examined only superficially into the activity of the
Jesuit father, and must confess that he works admirably—light and
darkness combat each other, it cannot be otherwise. The Freemasons are
naturally the sworn enemies of an order which fulfils its mission with
zeal and prudence. The trowel will never attain an ascendency as long
as the cross is defended by such brave soldiers, so well trained to
combat!”
TO BE CONCLUDED IN OUR NEXT NUMBER.
COUNTRY LIFE IN ENGLAND.
BY AN ENGLISH CATHOLIC.
THE “intelligent foreigner,” that convenient critic whom Englishmen are
so fond of using as a mouthpiece for their own often just criticisms,
is supposed to have seen little or nothing of England unless he has
visited the country mansions for which our island is famous. And
this is very true, even if he have been touring in the Lake country,
taking notes in the “Black Country” around Wolverhampton, inspecting
cotton-mills in the North, or admiring the gigantic human engine called
the “City” in London. All these are phases of English life, yet none
is so distinctively English as life in agricultural neighborhoods.
After all, social life is the most visible test of difference of
nationality, and although the uniformity of the XIXth century seems to
have fallen like snow upon the world, covering its hedges and fields,
levelling its hillocks with its valleys, and hiding alike its various
flowers and different weeds, yet here and there some landmarks of the
old social systems still hold their heads above this uninteresting
pall of sameness. The English are traditionally tenacious of their
individuality; gracefully so at home, boastfully, and, at times rather
absurdly so, abroad. But the indomitable “British tourist” is too well
known to claim much attention; his personality is better expressed by
caricature than by sober description.
Country life is often imitated abroad, but the copy is at best but
a sorry caricature, for this institution of social England cannot
be transplanted, as is evident by a very simple reason. It has its
roots in the whole moral, political, and physical system of the
Saxon race; it comes of mediæval and feudal feeling; it is bound up
with the territorial traditions that hitherto have been England’s
bulwarks as much and more than her navy, her insular position, or
her parliamentary institutions. It is worth notice that in France
the beginning of the great Revolution was the centralization of all
social interests in Paris and its court. Landed proprietors envied the
court office-holders; they contrasted their “dull” existence with the
brilliant and meretricious pageantry that framed the lives of their
luckier friends, and, hurrying to join in the profitless triumphs
or even the disgraceful successes of certain courtiers, they became
absentees, spent more than their mortgaged and encumbered lands would
yield, had recourse to money-lenders, lost all hold on the sympathy of
their tenants, and finally incurred the hatred of some and the contempt
of all. The only nobles who, during the Revolution, could count on a
guard of faithful defenders and practical adherents, were those of
Brittany—the rugged country gentlemen whose lives were spent among
the tenantry, and whose knowledge of farming and hunting made them the
daily companions of the class whom they headed. When the storm burst,
the peasants of La Vendée alone were faithful to those who had ever
been faithful to them, while the court favorites were betrayed by the
very servants whose truculence they had mistaken for attachment.
This unfortunate system of neglect never prevailed in England to the
same extent as it did in France, though, during the brilliant reign of
Charles II., some poison of this kind began to creep into the habits of
the landed gentry. Upon the whole, the English lords of the soil have
justly and generously lived _for_ as well as _upon_ their possessions,
and, if we have not had a “Reign of Terror,” this is one of the chief
reasons. The great land-owners of a county (we speak specifically of
the midland counties) divide among them the municipal and political
offices; the Lord-Lieutenant, the High Sheriff, the M. P., the local
magistrates, are all gentlemen and property-holders, and personally
interested in the individual progress of the county. Each manor-house
is a petty court of justice, and offenders of a minor sort, such as
poachers, window-breakers, and the like, are tried and sentenced
with exemplary despatch as well as impartiality by the squires of
the neighborhood. There is generally a yearly agricultural show,
and as almost all the gentlemen are cattle-breeders, or keep studs
for hunting or racing purposes, and all the ladies are more or less
poultry-fanciers, the whole community meets with equally eager pleasure
upon common ground. The yeomanry and militia, which answer to the rural
national guard in other European countries, are formed of well-to-do
young farmers whose pride in their accoutrements or horses is a healthy
token of sound national feeling; the officers are the gentlemen of
the county, the same who sit upon the bench, and who entertain their
military tenants at the annual rent-dinner. As for this gathering, it
has no ominous meaning for the thriving men who attend it; the meeting
is signalized by an unlimited flow of good spirits, of kindly feeling,
and, occasionally, of local and rural wit. True, the speechifying is at
times prolix, and the number of toasts alarmingly great; the smoke of
the farmers’ pipes becomes sometimes rather dense, and the wit turns to
pleasantry which has a slightly “heady” flavor like the wine, no doubt;
but, for all that, there is nothing more reassuring in a political
point of view than such a gathering, and nothing more charming to
an imaginative mind than this unfeigned hospitality and baronial
good-fellowship.
It might be said, speaking broadly, that, “next to a gentleman, there
is nothing like a farmer.”
The farmer has his pride of caste and descent as eminently as any child
of Saxon earls or of Norman barons; his family have often lived on
the same land, under the same roof, and owned the same allegiance to
a long uninterrupted line of noble landlords for centuries back. Of
nothing is he prouder than of this, and when, as is often the case, he
entertains the family of his lord, nothing can be simpler, grander,
and more utterly gentleman-like than his conduct. No straining after
effect, but homely and lavish abundance; no attempt at fine speeches,
but cordial and undisguised rejoicing; respect that is not the contrary
to independence, but the very assertion and expression of it. In one
estate, it happened, perhaps about a hundred or more years ago, that
an Earl of G—— wooed and married the pretty daughter of one of his
chief tenants; both families are living now on the same lands, and,
when the farmer looks towards the chancel of the parish church from his
capacious pew in the nave, he sees the marble monument of his beautiful
ancestress, who was twice the wife of a man distinguished by noble
birth, and generally beloved for his goodness. (After the death of her
first husband, she married his Cousin Tom, the great local sportsman
of his times.) Her portrait, in her countess’ robes and ermine-lined
coronet, hangs conspicuously in the dining-room of the family mansion,
while her two successive husbands are represented not far from her, the
one in the gorgeous court dress of a peer, the other in the familiar
green velvet hunting-coat, with a fox-hound by his side.
The farmers of the midland counties are often land-owners on their own
account, and, far from being indifferent or adverse to sport, they are
its chief encouragers. Fox-hunting is an instinct with them—another
likeness they bear to their landlords. You never hear a complaint of
fields ridden over, or crops injured; the owner will gallop over his
own furrows, or break through his own fences, utterly reckless of
anything but the pursuit of the fox. Meanness is a thing unknown to
them, and yet you will hardly meet many who are extravagant. There is
a broadness of character, an incapacity for doing or thinking anything
petty, a love of Old-World customs and hereditary modes of thought,
that seem to keep them out of the selfish narrowness born of modern
commerce, and, while it makes them less sharp, less peculating, makes
them also incomparably more lovable.
Surrounded by such people, of whom they are the pets and the pride, the
children of the landlords cannot fail to grow up healthy in mind and
body, full of fun and frankness, loving country sports and pastimes,
learning early how to manage land and crops, entering heartily into
the feelings and wishes of those they will one day be called upon to
rule, noting the idiosyncrasies and carefully handling the prejudices
of their early comrades and future co-laborers. A bond of union,
friendship, and help is thus formed which grows stronger every year,
and stronger still with each succeeding generation. The old men and
women, whose place is by the capacious hearth, seem to live just long
enough to tell their master’s grandchildren how they danced at his
“coming of age” fifty years ago, while their own little grandchildren
laugh as they think that, in a few years more, there will be another
“coming of age,” and that they, too, will dance at the old hall, and
taste the wonderful ale their father told them of when they passed the
ghostly stairs leading down to the great cellar.
Then come the weddings of the daughters of the house, and, as they have
been familiarly known in the village nearest their home by all the
poorer cottage tenants and the Sunday-school children, the young brides
find the whole population personally enthusiastic over each detail of
the ceremony. Young men and girls have seen the ladies of the “house”
bringing cordials and delicacies to their poor dying parents, and
strewing costly flowers over their plain coffins in the churchyard; and
they remember this as the same fair girl whom they saw minister to them
in their sorrow, takes upon herself another and a lifelong ministry
with the hopeful trust of youth and the holy certainty of love. Again,
as the bride comes forth, the children remember the feasts in the
grounds, the armful of buns and cakes thrown into their pinafores at
leaving, the delightful romps on the lawn, the adventurous row round
the pond which their imagination magnified into a stormy sea—all the
pleasures, out-doors and indoors, which were associated with the sight
and presence of that slender, white-robed, and white-crowned figure.
Thus, while there are class distinctions in rural England, there are
no class _divisions_, and servants and masters, landlords and tenants,
form, as it were, one clan with common interests and reciprocal
sympathies.
Then, life in the country is so much more individual than in town. All
tastes are there easily gratified; books and magazines are constantly
pouring down from London; guests, not compulsory, as is the genus
“morning caller” in town, who lounges in utterly exhausted, and asks
languidly whether “Lady So-and-so’s ball last night was not perfectly
delightful?” while his general air of boredom proclaims that he is
surfeited with all mundane _delights_—guests not such as this inane
specimen of humanity, but chosen friends, gay, witty, brilliant, are
at hand at the shortest notice for those whose life is cut out for
society; morning rambles for the solitary; moonlight effects for the
romantic; hours of leisure for the studious; a wide field of usefulness
for the charitable; a matchless opportunity for indulging in the
woman-gossip, without which that essentially English institution,
five o’clock tea, would be “flat, stale, and unprofitable”; and last,
not least, the best chances for marriage that any sort of social
intercourse can afford.
The only drawback to this state of things is that it sometimes becomes
a little too artificial. Even rusticity may be aped, and, indeed,
this is the tendency of the day, as it was the tendency in former
days also, when shepherdesses were represented by ladies of fashion
in silk skirts, beribboned crooks, and high-heeled shoes. But this
pseudo-rusticity spoils the real, tangible pleasures of life in the
country. Studied simplicity is worse than studied art. Young ladies
“got up” like Dresden china are not peasants, and have neither the
charms nor the merits of peasants. They are probably _blasées_, and so
miss the freshness symbolized by their costume; and they are incapable
of work, and so miss the usefulness also distantly suggested by their
dress. In one expressive word, they are a _sham_.
There are many houses, however, where healthful pleasure is dominant,
and no fine-ladyism finds favor—houses where the chapel is not far
from the drawing-room, and where masters and servants, guests and
hosts, meet silently to greet their Maker before they enjoy his gifts
for the day. Then comes the ten o’clock gathering round the breakfast
table—a picture in itself, with bright flame-colored flowers amid
the delicate white glass and china, and pretty faces joyously eager
for the day’s programme of amusements. Perhaps there are ruins to be
seen—a great resource in country visiting—at all events, there is a
church. The churches are certainly one of the proudest inheritances
of the old land, and the way in which they have been preserved speaks
well for the naturally reverential turn of the Saxon mind. In every
county, some distinctive feature is visible; in Kent, hardly anything
is used in churches but flint, and the bells are generally hung in a
square massive tower instead of a steeple. In the midland counties,
on the contrary, steeples are a great feature; there is one at a
little village called Ketton, which is peculiarly fine, though it
certainly looks too heavy for the church it crowns. Wicliffe’s church,
at Lutterworth, is a standard sight for the guests of a large old
family mansion near by; you are shown the pulpit said to be Wicliffe’s
own, and, in one of the aisles, his tomb, with a long Latin epitaph
sufficiently bombastic and untruthful, as it states that, despite of
monks and bishops, he instructed the populace in plain Gospel truth,
and was the first to translate the Bible into the vernacular! But
Lutterworth church has for us of the old faith a more interesting
memorial of the “good old days.” This consists in a very primitive
fresco representing the resurrection of the dead. The colors are not
much varied, and the draperies are quaintly angular; yet this early
effort of art is far more simply and honestly Christian than many of
those skilful productions of later periods, when the painter thought
more of the fame his execution of a subject might bring him than of
the solemn truth contained in the subject itself. Here we see Our Lord
seated on some very solid-looking clouds, while below, on the right
side, the angels are helping the good out of their sepulchres, and,
on the left, the devils doing the same service to the wicked. Some
of the tombs are open, as if burst asunder by an explosion, and the
skeletons stand bolt upright; some are half closed, and their occupants
creeping quietly out; while in others the disjointed bones are seen,
not yet rebuilt into human shape, or a skeleton is detected half
clothed with flesh, and some bones still protruding in their original
bareness. Much the same scene is portrayed on the left side, but the
expressions even in the skeletons are very different; the attitudes
are distorted, and the impish figures of the demons prominently drawn.
If there is a lack of harmony and beauty in the whole composition, it
is quite compensated for by the evident earnestness of the artist,
the gravity of the angels’ demeanor, and the reverent intention which
animates the grotesque _ensemble_. As an archæological memorial, it is
invaluable, as very few such specimens of Catholic art of so early a
date (certainly no later than the XIIIth century) are in existence in
England.
Some of the country churches are beautifully restored according to old
Catholic models, and, with the restoration of the ancient worship,
might again become what they were at the time they were christened
by those suggestive names, All Hallows’, S. Mary’s, S. Chad’s.
Others, however are terribly neglected, though this is a fault fast
disappearing, together with the fox-hunting, easy-going parsons of the
Georgian era, and all other laxities of an unusually stagnant age. The
music in these country churches is not always equal to the imposing
exterior, a harmonium in the choir being sometimes all there is
wherewith to guide and sustain the voices. Still, this is a step in the
right direction, as formerly the utmost a village church could boast
of was an orchestra composed of the local shoemaker with a dilapidated
fiddle and the smith with a bass-viol out of tune. Any self-elected,
occasional amateur with a strong or a thrilling voice would be, of
course, a welcome addition, but the instrumental groundwork might be
always depended upon. Most churches near family seats have remarkable
monuments, some of the ancient Elizabethan style, with rows of decorous
sons and daughters praying in bas-relief at the feet of their dead
parents, their quaint costume, heavy-folded robes, and immense ruffles
seeming marvellously to suit the immobility of the material in which
they are sculptured; some, again, dating back to the times of the
Crusaders, but many, unfortunately, of the pseudo-Grecian Renaissance,
which to a Catholic mind seem both irreverent and absurd. Fancy a Cupid
with eyes bandaged and torch inverted as an emblem of that sacred grief
for the dead which is inseparably mingled with the steadfast hope of
the Christian for the day of resurrection! Or again, as we once heard
a sarcastic friend aptly express it, a woman crying over a tea-urn!
Really, some of these monuments are no better than that, and deserve
no other description. How much more dignified are those ancient Gothic
tombs where the quiet, stately figures of a knight and his wife, a
bishop, a magistrate, lie as on a bed, in the sleep of expectation,
not in a ridiculous simulation of life, nor symbolized by some vulgar
heathen myth.
A visit to the parish church is an ordinary recreation on the first
morning of a guest’s stay at a country-house, after which there will
very likely be croquet, that eminently modern and English contrivance
which is pretty enough if one could only make up one’s mind to consider
men and women nothing more than grown-up children. A great deal of care
is often expended on the croquet lawn, and ladies are even careful
in the choice of a croquet costume. A lounge through the grounds,
admiring the host’s specimen trees—the Wellingtonia is generally the
chief attraction—and sauntering through the hot-houses, occupies the
time till luncheon. Most Englishmen have a passion for rare trees and
shrubs, and often carry home from distant countries seeds and cones
for their grounds at home. We have seen a lovely Ravenna pine, grown
from a cone picked up in the celebrated forest of Ravenna; every other
shrub of its kind perished from the effects of the climate, while
this solitary one throve well, and filled a considerable space in the
garden. The copperbeech is a very favorite specimen tree in England,
and looks beautiful among the shaded greens of limes, foreign oaks,
and fir-trees. It is generally the ladies of a household to whose
share fall the hot-houses and the flower-garden, but in one place
in Cheshire, where the visitor is unfailingly taken through miles
of glass, the whole thing is under the special supervision of the
master of the house. Lord E—— of T—— is an old man, and not very
active, on account of his impaired health; but, being passionately
fond of horticulture, he spends half his day in his hot-houses. The
orchid-houses, particularly, are a perfect marvel; there are eighteen
or twenty species of these lovely flowers in bloom at all times of the
year, and the conservatory into which some of these glass passages lead
is a palace of camellias, azalias, and other rare and delicate flowers.
The garden and grounds are mostly a wilderness of rhododendrons,
of which magnificent, far-spreading bushes cover even the islets
of the artificial lakes. But the most beautiful of Lord E——’s
floral possessions is the fernery, where seven or eight New Zealand
arborescent ferns spread their palmlike branches overhead, hiding the
glass roof above them, and suggesting the earthly paradise to the least
impressionable mind. The ground at their base is covered with rock-work
overgrown with mosses and ferns of various sorts, and water trickles
hiddenly in the tangle, its very sound denoting coolness and repose.
In the autumn and winter, the men of the party disappear after
breakfast, and return, tired with sport or laden with game, about
five o’clock; but in summer, during the brief interval between the
London season and the 1st of September, the pleasures of the ladies
are shared with their knights. A picnic is often the most amusing
resource for a day, and it would be needless to describe it; but what
is not so common an occurrence in the country is a breakfast, that is,
a two o’clock reception in the open air, and a magnificent spread of
cold _chefs-d’œuvre_ of the culinary art. Let us suppose the _locale_
to be this: a pretty piece of water running here and there into
creeks fringed with bulrushes and water-lilies, and a queer little
erection of no classifiable style of architecture, neither pavilion
nor villa, but very convenient and even sufficiently picturesque.
Clematis and honeysuckle climb over its walls, and to the front is a
rather irregular lawn which is partly carpeted for the occasion. In
England, we are never quite sure of not getting our feet damp, and
the flimsy summer toilets appropriate to this social festivity would
be but a slender protection against wet weather. All the county, far
and near, is asked—brides just returned from their honeymoon trip;
old stay-at-home fogies, childlike in the pleasure they exhibit on
this novel occasion; merry young people bent on enjoying themselves to
the utmost. One old lady has confidentially informed her best friend
about a wonderful new bonnet she has bought on purpose, and which
turns out to be something “fearfully and wonderfully made.” It is
curious to see the many different kinds of vehicles that draw up at
the door of “Fort Henry.” Old chaises driven by the most ancient (and
delightfully tyrannical) of family coachmen; queer little low cars,
called by the complacent owner “Norwegian cars,” drawn by a diminutive
pony resembling a Shetland; hired flies from the country town; open
barouches of unimpeachable make, but painfully, suggestive of the
“shop”; two-wheeled dog-carts, the prettiest carriage for the country,
driven by young unmarried land-owners whose arrival causes a stir among
the “merry maidens,” as Sir Gawain called his pretty companions in
Tennyson’s _Holy Grail_; lastly, a large “brake,” or capacious car,
filled with cross-seats, on which a whole party from some neighboring
mansion is comfortably and amicably packed; for not only are neighbors,
friends, and acquaintances asked, but any visitors they may happen to
have staying with them. When all are gathered, the luncheon begins;
and certainly the table is a masterpiece of floral decoration. The
cook, too, has surpassed himself, and the rarest wines and fruits are
lavishly added to the more substantial hospitality. The ladies’ dresses
are a _parterre_ in themselves; the prettiest things that taste can
dictate are worn for this _fête_, and the beautiful peacocks that range
the banks of the lake must find themselves rivalled for once in their
own domain. How different is this from a London “breakfast”! Here we
have no simulated _ennui_, no cadaverous looks resulting from sleepless
nights and constant dissipation, no hurry to get away, no empty forms
of hypocritical civility. It is almost a family gathering. After
luncheon, the boats are ready. Large and small—the largest manned by
four stalwart “keepers,” hereditary retainers of the family—these
boats are quickly filled; and, while the “state barge” (so to speak)
solemnly carries the elders of the party around the pretty lake, the
smaller skiffs, rowed by amateur oarsmen, and filled with a laughing
freight of girls, go off to try the famous echo, or to sing glees
near the old bridge at the lower end. This is not all the music,
however; a band is stationed in a boat that follows the grand barge,
or sometimes stops to let the guests hear the echo of a few loud notes
sounded on the horn. The effect of the music, the echo, the gaily
ringing laughter of the younger guests as they row swiftly from place
to place, is like a reminiscence of the days of Paul Veronese and his
pleasure-loving Venetian companions. At one end of the lake there is
an old horse-chestnut, whose branches stretch far out over the water,
and then droop into it, forming a green vault over a shady little nook.
It is difficult to steer a boat well in; therefore no boat passes by
without trying. At the other end, the water is choked with weeds and
tall bulrushes, and the plantation slopes to the brink, with beautiful
sunset lights playing on its Scotch firs, and bringing out the blue
green of their foliage in peculiar contrast with their dinted, reddish
stems; now and then a peacock’s harsh cry is heard, or the water-fowl
take a swift, low rush over the surface of the water, while the swans
move about as undisturbedly as if the scene were to them an everyday
occurrence. Presently the sun sets; the boats unload, and the carriages
begin to get ready again. A few stragglers, probably the host’s own
visitors, who have not far to go home, take a stroll up to the graceful
bark temple raised on the hillock opposite the lake; the view is
pretty from there, and the whole thing looks like an animated English
water-color.
But this is not all the pleasure that a country visit affords: a
great resource lies in _tableaux vivans_. Very little trouble is
necessary; in some houses, a small stage is kept in readiness, or can
be extemporized in an hour, just when the performance is agreed upon.
Pictures and poems are laid under contribution; sometimes a particular
garment evidently suggests such and such a use, and a suitable
tableau is got up to exhibit it; and some costumes are so very easy
of arrangement that they are naturally chosen. The “Huguenot Lover,”
by Millais, is a very favorite scene, so is “Titian’s Daughter”; and
there are “Faith, Hope, and Charity,” or other allegorical figures,
always at hand to fill up any gap in the inventive genius of the
performers. But the best series we can think of is one—not a little
ambitious—representing dramatically the story embodied in Tennyson’s
song, “Home they brought her Warrior dead.” How often we have listened
to those words, so mournfully sung! The first tableau is very rich in
details; the year-old bride, in the gorgeous white and gold embroidered
robe which she had donned to meet her husband, sits tearless and pale
in the centre, her dark hair escaping from the jewelled fillet, her
white hands hard pressed together. The body of her husband lies at
her feet covered with a dark cloak, his pallid face just revealed,
and the four men who have borne him in stand in sorrowful silence
in the background, while the attendant maidens press round their
mistress, each dressed in some graceful, flowing costume. Any amount of
ornamentation, such as tapestry, vases, porcelain, jewellery, would be
in keeping with the tableau and enhance its beauty. The second scene
(the curtain being dropped for a moment) is the same, with the addition
of a hoary old nurse placing her child in the widowed mother’s arms,
while the bereaved one herself turns on the babe a look of passionate
and agonized yearning. The child is not a very easy part of the tableau
to manage, and it might, strictly speaking, be left out; still, the
story is more completely told thus, and its representation considerably
improved.
These are only a few of the numerous and variable pleasures to be
enjoyed by a large gathering of friends: the winter brings others
peculiar to itself.
A _meet_ is a very pretty sight, but never more so than when it takes
place in front of an old manor where the hunting-breakfast is going on.
This carries one back to the days of our grandfathers, and gives to the
sport of fox-hunting a certain traditional air of poetry. The servants,
whose livery is almost a costume in itself, carry trays of substantial
refreshments and foaming tankards of old ale among the farmers and
professional sportsmen, while the friends and county neighbors of
the host circulate through the house, lighting up our XIXth century
dead-level of dress by their scarlet, or, to speak more technically,
their pink coats. This word is used to denote the color the coat
_ought_ to have after a good sporting season; for it is as inglorious
in a true sportsmen to wear a new and undiscolored garment as it would
be for a soldier to bear an unharmed standard or unbroken weapon out of
the battle. In many counties, the full dress for dinner of those who
are known as sportsmen is a scarlet coat, the rest of the dress being
the ordinary costume of our day; and very gratifying it is to see the
old custom kept up by the gentlemen of the midland counties, where
fox-hunting is in its glory. At the meet, not a few ladies appear, some
on horseback, devoted followers of their brothers and husbands in the
chase, some in carriages, with their little children prettily dressed
in red, or otherwise suggestively clad. The host’s wife or daughters
come out among the hounds, perhaps in the graceful riding-habit, or
more often in jaunty little cloth suits, with red feathers coquettishly
peeping out of a sealskin cap. The hounds are all collected in front of
the hall-steps, and answer whenever called by name by the huntsmen. At
last the cavalcade is off, and winds past the margin of the park and
grounds, till the sound of the horn and the crack of the whip die away
in the distance, to be heard again a few hours later, when the whole
field, after making a circuit of, say, ten miles, returns to some cover
near the house, where the unhappy fox is caught at last. Boys follow
the hounds as soon as they can ride, and, indeed, sometimes perform
feats that make them heroes in a small way in the eyes of their
companions. A few years ago, the youngest son of the chief land-owner
of the Cotswold Hills in Gloucestershire, distinguished himself in this
way, and, upon a tiny gray pony, Asperne by name, kept so close to the
huntsmen that he was always first in at the death, and many a time was
the first to break a gap through a hedge or a stone wall, through which
the whole field would follow him. He often brought home “the brush” (a
fox’s tail), and the sportsmen from the opposite side of the county
used to ride ten or twelve miles to the next meet to see the wonderful
boy whose exploits and reckless daring were in every one’s mouth.
The early autumn, before the fox-hunting has regularly begun, brings
its own pleasures with it, one of which is a nutting expedition.
This generally involves a tea-picnic—a far more amusing affair than
the conventional mid-day meal known by that name, and devoted to the
consumption of sandwiches, cold meat, salad, and soda-water. This
tea-picnic has often occupied a pleasant afternoon within our own
recollection, especially when a very informal party of young foreign
guests was gathered at E—— House. There was a representative of
Germany, a young man high in office at the former Hanoverian court,
who bore a remarkable likeness to Prince Albert, and to whom the queen
even spoke of this, to her, touching fact. Very fresh and childlike was
this young Prince S——, and very different from certain of his English
contemporaries, who, at eighteen, declare that life is a _bore_, and
amusement a sham. These are the men who discredit our century, and
belie nature herself. They affect to have no faith in woman and no
hope in religion. We have known one of these when he first began to
go into society. He was fresh and charming, said the most innocent,
boyish things in a fearless, truthful way that was especially winning.
He excelled in all social pursuits, and rejoiced in all healthy
amusements. Add to this that he was uncommonly good-looking, with dark
hair and eyes such as are not often met with in England, and was an
only son, heir to a fine Northern property, part of the family house
dating as far back as the XIIth century. We met him two seasons later,
and he was hardly recognizable. The same handsome features, but with a
wearied, listless air marring them; in his voice no animation, in his
manner not a trace of that early frankness that was his greatest charm.
He used to seem like a girl of seventeen; now he was, morally speaking,
a misanthrope of five and thirty! He owned himself that all amusements,
even dancing (which was a special accomplishment of his), _bored_ him,
and that there was nothing but pigeon-shooting that excited him! Even
during the famous matches at Hurlingham (a villa near London where
the pigeon-shooting is done, and which has become of late one of the
most _recherché_ haunts of fashionable idlers, and a field for the
display of the loveliest toilets), this young victim of _ennui_ hardly
vouchsafed to seem interested; yet beneath all this was a soul worthy
of great things; a will that, guided aright, might achieve much good to
society or even to the country; and a personality eminently fitted for
moral and intellectual success. And this energy was being thus wasted
by day, while, according to his own confession, billiards occupied the
greater part of his nights! Poor England, indeed, when her manliness is
thus thrown away! Who would not look back with pride and regret to the
days of the “good old English gentleman,” with his boisterous and rough
pursuits, his fox-hunting and his farming, but, withal, his healthful
vitality and his active usefulness?
Besides the young German, so pleasant a contrast to the _blasé_ youth
of London drawing-rooms, there was round the gypsy kettle in the woods
of E—— a Spaniard as good-natured as he was stately; and, strange to
say, here was another royal likeness! Many might have mistaken him for
the Prince of Wales. Other Spaniards, too, there were, more lively and
not less good-natured, one with a smile that was irresistibly comic,
the other with the profile of a S. Ignatius, and principles and habits
that well suited his appearance. The English girls of the party were
well matched with their companions, and looked very picturesque as they
toasted immense slices of bread at the end of forked sticks at least
a yard and a half long! The tawny golden hair of one, the willow-like
figure and gravely childish glee of another, the restless activity
of a third, as they all joined in the search for dry fire-wood, made
a pretty subject for an artist; and, in the midst of the bustle, the
father, enjoying the young people’s fun, gave a touch of pathos that
much enhanced the beauty of the rustic scene.
A drive home through the tall bracken, and along the grassy roads of
the numerous plantations, perhaps a rapid visit to deserted “Fort
Henry,” and a row to the Echo, sufficed to fill up the evening, and a
project for paying a visit to an old Quaker tenant on the morrow would
perhaps be discussed during dinner.
It is no wonder that foreigners grow enthusiastic over this side of
English life; the pity is that so many rush to England and leave it
again before they have a chance of seeing a family gathering in the
country; those who have not seen it know little more of English society
than we do of the fruits of the West Indies after we have tasted them
in the shape of candied peel and preserved jellies. Drawing-room life
is the same in Paris, St. Petersburg, or New York; individualism
thrives only in the country, and it is there the character of a nation
should be studied.
MADAME AGNES.
FROM THE FRENCH OF CHARLES DUBOIS.
CHAPTER XI.
EUGENIE.
A WEEK after, Louis came to see us for the first time.
“Well,” inquired Victor, “do you like your new manner of life?”
“Yes and no, my dear friend,” replied Louis. “Yes, because I feel that
the new life on which I have entered is good for me. It is just what I
needed, I must confess—for I think aloud here. It is such a relief to
speak to some one who understands, who loves you, and is always ready
to excuse and pardon you! But I forewarn you I need, and shall need,
great indulgence, though nothing ought to seem too hard to one who was
on the high-road to destruction, soul and body, and would at this very
instant be lost, had not God, in his mercy, sent you to my aid. This
benefit has filled me, I assure you, with so much gratitude from the
first that, in view of my past life and the divine goodness, I feel I
ought to be a saint in order to expiate so many transgressions—I ought
to prove my sincerity by some heroic sacrifice for God.”
“Oh! oh! that is somewhat ambitious.”
“I suppose it is absurd. Not that it is necessarily absurd to aspire to
heroism, but the means should be taken into consideration. Now, mine
are fearfully, pitifully inadequate. I am cowardly, fickle, and a lover
of my ease.”
“Come, come! do not calumniate yourself. We must neither judge
ourselves with too much leniency nor with too much severity. We must
see ourselves as we are. This is difficult, but it is essential.”
“Well, my kind friend, that is exactly the way I regard myself.”
“I doubt it.”
“You shall judge for yourself. My duties oblige me to remain night and
day at St. M——. Alas! this very necessity I find harder than I can
express. There is not a day in which I do not find myself regretting
the city three or four times. This is very wrong, when the city has
been so pernicious to me....”
“Come, you exaggerate things. You were born and brought up in the city,
and have always lived here till now. I see nothing astonishing at your
finding it disagreeable at first to live in the country.”
“What a lenient judge! We shall see if you are as much so after the
other acknowledgments I have to make. There are times when work seems
insupportable. To rise at six o’clock and superintend workmen and
machinery the live-long day irritates and fatigues me to such a degree
that I am sometimes tempted to give it all up.”
“You have not yet yielded to the temptation?”
“No, indeed; that would be too despicable.”
“Since you yourself regard such a step as it deserves, pursue your
occupation without being concerned about a slight disinclination for
work. Even people who have always been accustomed to labor have such
temptations. I assure you, in a year there will be no question of all
this. You will have acquired a love for your business, and, active as
you are, you will not be able to do without it.”
“You think me at the end of my confession. The worst is to come. Mr.
Smithson is polite and sincere, but reserved and ceremonious, like all
Englishmen. He keeps me at a distance, and appears as if my errors
and loss of property, which of course he is aware of, gave him some
superiority over me. I think he does wrong to make me feel this.”
“Ah! this is more serious, my dear friend. Like all people in a wrong
position, you are inclined to be unduly sensitive. Watch over yourself.
Endeavor to be guided by reason. I do not wish you to submit to too
much haughtiness, but do not attribute to people airs, and especially
intentions, they are not guilty of.”
“You are a thousand times right. I appreciate your advice, and promise
to follow it. It would, indeed, be foolish to make myself needlessly
unhappy. St. M——, as you know, is a lovely place. The river on which
the mill stands has many charming views. During my leisure hours, I can
draw and paint at my ease. I have a great deal to do, and my work is
frequently burdensome, but I shall become accustomed to it, for it is
a source of real interest. By an excess of good luck, I have lodgings
that suit me in apartments near Mr. Smithson’s house. There I can read,
meditate, and pray at my leisure. One thing only is wanting—a little
society in the evening; but that will come, perhaps. I am invited
to dine at Mr. Smithson’s next Thursday. I hope that will be the
commencement of closer intercourse with the family. Hitherto, I repeat,
they have kept me at a distance. I have exchanged a few words with
Mme. Smithson, who appears very affable, but I have only had a glimpse
of the daughter—Eugénie, I believe her name is. As far as I could
judge, she is tall, fine-looking, even dignified in her appearance,
with something haughty in her air. I frankly confess it will be a treat
to meet these three people. I have always had a fancy for studying
different characters, and shall enjoy it particularly now, I am so
unoccupied in the evening.”
“And your workmen—what do you make of them?”
“I am constantly observing them, and assure you they are as interesting
to study as any one else. What a source of reflection! We have, you
must know, workmen of every grade, good and bad—yes, fearfully bad.
There are four hundred and fifty people—men, women, and children—who
represent every phase of humanity.”
“To study mankind, my dear friend, to confine one’s self to that, is an
amusement suitable for a philosopher. But a Christian has higher views:
he studies human nature in order to be useful.”
“That idea has occurred to me. I have even formed a series of fine
projects; but I am so poor a Christian, and so inexperienced!”
“No false modesty! Excuse my bluntness; but false modesty is the shield
of the indolent, or their couch, whichever you please. Have you any
desire to benefit the people among whom you live?”
“Yes, certainly, if I can.”
“You can. You only need zeal and prudence; the one ought always to
guide the other. Come, what plans have occurred to you?”
“I should like to found an evening-school, and take charge of it. Those
who are the best instructed might serve as monitors.”
“Perfect! That would be a means of keeping the young men, and even
those of riper years, from idleness and the wine-shops, and afford you
an opportunity of giving them good advice. What else?”
“I should also like to establish a fund of mutual aid.”
“Excellent!... Reflect on these two projects till Sunday. I will do
the same. Consult Mr. Smithson also about them, and come and dine with
us in a week. We will talk it over, and you can tell me how you like
the family you are about to become acquainted with. I hope you will be
pleased with them.”
“I hope so too, but have my fears. If they were all like Mme.
Smithson, everything would be propitious. I took a fancy to her from
the first. But Mr. Smithson is frigid, and his daughter seems equally
unapproachable. It is singular, but I had met her once or twice before
I entered her father’s employ. I thought her beautiful and intelligent,
and heard her very highly spoken of. But really, I begin to believe
that she, like many others, is brilliant rather than solid.”
“Come, come! no rash judgments!”
“What can I say? I was deceived in her. I thought her an uncommon
woman—one capable of comprehending all the delicacy of my position,
and of coming to my assistance. She ought to realize that I am out of
my element there. You must confess that Mlle. Smithson’s coolness does
not tend to console me.”
“Why, my dear friend, you are very exacting!... Would you expect as
much from every one?”
“No; but this young lady occupies an important place in the house,
without trying, I confess, to take advantage of it.”
“And an important place in your thoughts ...,” said Victor, with the
friendly, significant smile so natural to him.
Louis blushed.
“I am inclined to think your opinion of her will be less severe in a
week. I, too, have heard her highly spoken of.”
These words seemed to afford Louis great satisfaction. Victor did not
continue the subject.
If you have carefully followed the conversation I have just related,
you must see that Louis, though unaware of his sister’s hopes, already
thought more of Mlle. Eugénie than he confessed or even acknowledged
to himself. I think I shall only anticipate your wishes in making you
acquainted at once with that young lady, who is to fill an important
_rôle_ in my story. And this cannot be done better than in her own home.
Eugénie is in her chamber. It is the morning of the day Louis and some
other acquaintances are to dine with her father. She is engaged in
completing her toilet. A more charming room cannot be imagined. It is
furnished in exquisite style. Nothing is lacking. The pictures are all
rare, and arranged with artistic taste. The book-case contains, not
so many books, but solid works that will bear reading over and over
again. What, above all, completes the charm of this young girl’s bower
is the view to be seen from the two windows, which are like frames to a
picture. They afford a glimpse of a terrestrial paradise through which
flow the limpid waters of a deep stream. A breeze, playing through the
poplars that stand on its banks, softly rustles the leaves. Directly
across, on the opposite shore, is a broad meadow, bright with flowers,
with here and there clumps of trees. As far as the eye can reach are
objects on every side to satisfy the soul, and excite it to reverie:
a windmill with its long wings of white canvas swaying in the air; a
villa with its gardens; a little hamlet, and, overlooking it, a church,
the slated belfry of which is glistening in the sun.
The world is full of material souls whom it would be a kind of
profanation to introduce into a place so attractive. They would be
unable to appreciate the charm. What is nature, however beautiful, to
a man eaten up with avarice and ambition?—to a woman who only dreams
of pleasure?... To such degenerate souls, nature is a sealed book—a
divine picture before a sightless eye.
But to this number Eugénie did not belong. The daughter of a Catholic
mother and a Protestant father, she had been educated in one of the
best schools in Paris. Shall I call her pious? No; that would be
exaggerating. Eugénie did not lack faith. Her religious instincts were
well developed, but checked by her father’s coldness and her mother’s
frivolity. She was by no means insensible to all the beautiful and true
in religion. They filled her with admiration. She always fulfilled
the obligations rigorously imposed by the church, but avoided going
any farther through indifference as well as calculation. She had a
horror of what she called petty religion and little practices of piety.
Poor girl! she, too, closed her eyes in this respect to the light.
The practices she disdained—frequent prayers, the raising of the
soul to God, visits to the church, and assiduous frequentation of the
sacraments—are they not what truly constitute religion, such as it
ought to be, in order to be the companion, friend, and guide of the
whole life?... This is what Eugénie did not comprehend, or rather, what
she did not wish to comprehend. In short, she was religious in her own
way—half-way religious—quite so in theory, but in reality much less
so than she should have been.
The somewhat indirect influence her parents exercised over her in
a religious point of view also affected her in other ways. Eugénie
possessed two natures: she was cold like her father, and kind like
her mother, but without displaying it. Let us also add another
characteristic by way of completing her portrait—she was romantic.
In everything, she had a repugnance to what she called commonplace.
An object, an individual, or an action, to please her, must have a
peculiar stamp, an original turn, which she wished might be more
frequently met with. She only liked what was out of the common course,
according to the elevated standard of a certain ideal she had formed in
her own mind.
Eugénie’s exterior, her distinguished manners, her fluency in
conversation, and the tone of her calm, well-modulated voice, all
inspired a respect bordering on admiration. She was beautiful without
being bewitching. She was kind, but in so inexpressive a way as to
inspire at first fear rather than confidence. As has been said, she
possessed a character not easily read, and, though only twenty-one
years old, she passed for what is called, and with reason, a person of
ability. Her father and mother doted on her: she was their only child.
Yet there was a difference in their affection. Mr. Smithson tenderly
loved her as a daughter: Mme. Smithson loved her with a shade of fear,
as we love a companion or friend whose superiority we feel.
Her toilet otherwise completed, Eugénie rang for her waiting-maid
to arrange her hair. Fanny did not keep her waiting. There was a
striking contrast between mistress and maid. Fanny was towards forty
years of age. She was of ordinary height, neat in person, but plain
and unattractive in appearance. She had a bad complexion, large eyes
hidden under thick lashes, a wide mouth, and a large fleshy nose, which
made up one of those vulgar faces that are never observed except to
laugh at. She was beloved by no one except her employers. This was not
strange. She had an observing eye and a keen, sarcastic tongue. Her
nature was soured, rather than instinctively bad. She was selfish and
bitter—a good deal so. This selfishness and bitterness sprang from
two causes which she would by no means have acknowledged. She was no
longer young, she knew she was homely, and she had no hope of being
married. Such a hope she had once, and a few days of happiness was the
result. Fanny would have been so glad to be, in her turn, mistress over
her own house! But her dream had vanished, and under circumstances not
calculated to sweeten her temper.
For some years, Fanny was a servant at Mme. Smithson’s sister’s. That
lady was in the commercial line at Paris. There Fanny made the conquest
of a smart young man from the country employed by her mistress as
head clerk. He was an excellent person, but, like many others, wished
to reconcile his affections with his interests. He said to himself
that, by waiting awhile, he might, some fine day, find a wife richer,
prettier, and younger than Fanny. As he was bound to her by no actual
promise, he finally obtained another situation, and disappeared without
any warning. The poor girl regarded such conduct as infamous. She felt
that all hope of ever marrying was now lost, and the disappointment
made her ill. Unbeknown to her, her mistress had followed all the
scenes of this little domestic drama. She nursed Fanny with a care
that was quite motherly. When the girl recovered, she expressed her
gratitude, but begged permission to go away. The house had too many
cruel associations. Her mistress willingly consented, and Fanny entered
Mme. Smithson’s service. When the latter left Paris, Fanny accompanied
her to St. M——, and had now been in the family several years.