XI.—THE CATHOLIC IDEA OF HEAVEN.
The Catholic Church teaches that the road to a blessed hereafter is by
striving to establish the kingdom of heaven upon earth; it is after a
life spent in practical good works that the soul merits to hear the
words, “Well done, good and faithful servant: enter thou into the joy of
thy Lord.” But then do all the soul’s interests cease the moment it has
left this world and entered upon its future life? Is it true that the
only thought of a true Christian is to get well out of this world and
all that belongs to it, and give it no further concern? Is this the
Catholic idea?
Not at all. The Catholic idea is that as our transformation in God is
perfected, so do all the faculties of the soul increase. The soul knows
more, loves more, and does more infinitely in the blessed land than when
upon this earth. The lives of most of us while here are only a little
better than a sleep. The soul’s vision of the divine Essence, and its
participation in the divine Nature, render it, like the angels, “God’s
coadjutor” in the realization of his ideal in the vast universe. So far
from the knowledge of this globe, and the affection towards its
inhabitants or interests in its concerns, being lessened or lost by the
citizens of heaven, the knowledge acquired and the affections formed
during their life upon earth are essentially retained, and are enlarged
and intensified; and on this truth is based the Catholic doctrine of the
communion and invocation of saints. Hence to this knowledge and
affection and constant interest taken by the souls in heaven in the
welfare of this world, and of those from whom they are corporally but
not really separated, and to their power to aid them, is owing the
adoption of angels and saints as patrons by Catholic nations, cities,
villages, towns, and by every individual Catholic. He who is ignorant of
the Catholic doctrine of the communion of saints, and who is not within
the Catholic fold, can have no conception of the intimate and intense,
uninterrupted spiritual intercourse between the soul of a truly devout
Catholic and the angelical and saintly inhabitants of heaven. The church
militant and the church triumphant are substantially one, form one
communion, and their action is inseparable. The Catholic idea, then, is
this: that the power of the soul, on entering into heaven, to aid man
upon earth in the realization of his true destiny is redoubled; and that
this power is most efficaciously employed in our favor by the souls of
the eternally blessed. The retrospective action of the inhabitants of
the other world on the welfare of this world greatly accelerates its
progress, and, compared with their direct action while upon earth, it is
immeasurably greater and free from all alloy.
XII.—FALSE ACCUSATIONS OF MODERN INFIDELS.
The Catholic Church places no gulf between God and humanity, or divorce
between heaven and earth, or antagonism between revelation and reason,
or religion and science; and she repudiates the doctrine which
emphasizes faith at the expense of good works. Hence the accusation of
modern infidels against Christianity, as confining itself exclusively to
man’s happiness hereafter—“a post-mortem happiness”—while ignoring his
actual, present good—“ante-mortem happiness”—may have some show of
reason as against Protestant sects, especially of the Calvinistic sect;
but it is altogether false, and must be set down to defective knowledge,
when made against the Catholic Church.
It is through the faithful reception of the divine action of the
Catholic Church by individuals and society that the highest good
possible for man here and hereafter can be surely attained; and this
needs only clearly to be seen to restore to her true and visible fold
all the descendants of the members separated from the Catholic Church by
the religious revolution of the sixteenth century, who are in good
faith.
And it is the bringing out into a clearer light the divine side of the
church, and to the front those truths which eliminate the errors rife in
our day and their stricter application to present evils, that, by the
instinct of the Holy Spirit, now preoccupies the active intelligent mind
of Catholics throughout the world, especially in countries where the
dangers are most imminent, such as France, Germany, and Italy.
XIII.—PROMISES, FALSE AND TRUE.
There are two controlling forces, explain their origin as we may,
visible in the conflicting movements of human affairs in this world. The
one places man in possession of the Supreme Good, and makes him a
co-worker with his Creator in the realization of the ideal for which God
called this great universe into existence. The other is instigated by
the enemy of God and the human race, seeking by false promises to lead
man astray.
“You shall be as gods, knowing good and evil,” was Satan’s promise to
our first parents. This promise contained what was desirable for man;
God had implanted in the human soul the aspiration for its fulfilment.
But what the enemy promised he had not the power to perform, and the
road that he pointed out as leading to the fulfilment of the promise led
in a wrong direction.
The right answer of our first parents to Satan would have been: “We know
that God has made our souls in his own image and likeness, and that we
shall be made participators of his divine Nature, and thereby deified;
and as our Creator has endowed us with the gift of intelligence, we
shall also gain the knowledge of good and evil—for this is its proper
object. And we know also with certitude that we shall gain these great
rewards by following the paths which God has pointed out to us.” Had
they thus spoken, they would have, in the strength of their innocence
and conscious rectitude, added: “Begone, tempter! Thou art a liar; for
what thou dost promise it is not thine to give; and instead of wishing
our elevation, thou seekest to accomplish our fall and utter ruin!”
As in the beginning, so now, Satan seizes hold of the noblest
aspirations of the soul, and, by deceiving men under the guise of a real
good, leads them quite astray. For what underlies the promises of
Protestantism and its innumerable sects; and rationalism, so-called, and
its different phases; and the secularists, positivists, scientists,
atheists, radicals, materialists, spiritists, revolutionists,
evolutionists, socialists, pessimists, free-religionists, communists,
internationalists, optimists, theists, nihilists, _kulturkämpfer_,
agnostics, intuitionists, transcendentalists, and other sects and
parties too numerous to mention—for their name is legion, and their
confusion of tongues is as great as that of Babel—what underlies their
promises is in one aspect true and in a sense desirable. The right
answer to all their fine promises is this: “You affirm undoubted truths
and you hold out a desirable good; but the way that you point out for
realizing the one and attaining the other is subversive of all truth and
the supreme good, and it will not reach even what you aim at, but end in
entire disappointment and anarchy. Put together the fragmentary truths
affirmed by each of your different religious sects, and you will find
them all contained in Catholicity. Make a list of all the honest demands
for ameliorations and reforms in man’s social, industrial, and political
condition—it will not be a short one—and you will discover that they
have their truth in the spirit, and are justified by the teachings and
the practice, of the Catholic Church.” O sincere seeker after truth! did
you but know it, the path lies open before you to a perennial fountain
of truth, where you can slake to the full that thirst which has so long
tormented your soul. O sincere lover of your fellow-men! there is a
living body which you may see and co-operate with, whose divine action
is realizing a heavenly vision for the whole human race, brighter and
more beautiful than the ideal which so often haunts your lonely dreams!
The divine ideal is a God-given aspiration to your soul, but the way to
realize it is not by building up a tower of Babel.
XIV.—CONCLUSION.
The evolution of Catholicity which is now coming slowly to the light
will gather up all the rich treasures of the past, march in response to
every honest demand of the interests of the actual present, and guide
the genuine aspirations of the race in the sure way to the more perfect
future of its hopes.
This sublime mission is not the self-imposed work of any man or party of
men, but the divinely-imposed task of religion, of the present, visible,
living body of Christ, the church of God. None other has the power to
renew the world, unite together in one band the whole human race, and
direct its energies to enterprises worthy of man’s great destiny.
Marshal MacMahon, Duke de Broglie, or any one else, legitimists,
imperialists, Orleanists, republicans, anti-republicans, these men and
these parties in France may contribute more or less as instruments to
the initiation of the new order of things in Europe, but that is all.
They will betray the cause of God and the interests of humanity, if they
should attempt to turn it to any individual account or to any partisan
triumph, whether called religious or political. The enemies of the
church may place hindrances in her way, but they cannot stop her in
reaching her goal. God alone rules and reigns.
God has spoken his “thus far shalt thou go, and no further” to his
enemies and to all the persecutors of the church of Christ. When God
arises, his enemies will flee and be scattered. Their strength, compared
with that of his children, is as the strength of a rope of sand. Their
power is gained by secrecy, and their influence by threats and deeds of
violence; for their real numbers constitute but a small fraction of the
French, German, Italian, and Spanish or any other people. The present
struggle will render this fact evident to all the world.
Strange destiny that of France, to be the leader of Europe both for good
and for evil! France was the first nation converted to Christianity in
western Europe, and the first to proclaim herself, as a nation, infidel.
France will be the first to recover from her errors and give the initial
blow that will end in the overthrow of the enemies of modern
civilization and Christianity.
The Marshal-President of the Republic of France, the brave soldier, the
man without fear or reproach, is not the man to betray his high trusts
through any personal ambition, or to any party, legitimist, Orleanist,
imperialist, Gambettist, or whatever may be the name which it bears on
its banner.
The mission of the President of France is to keep ambitious men and
partisans at bay, and afford the best elements and the truest interests
of all France a fair expression and the opportunity of forming a stable
and suitable political government. The Catholic Church has been made to
suffer too much and too long from crowned emperors, royal dynasties, and
political factions in France and elsewhere to identify her great cause
with theirs.
France, under the providence of God, is slowly being taught to stand on
her own feet, to assert her true manhood, and to practise
self-government. The political virtues the French people have practised,
and the self-control they have displayed, since the formation of the
republic, have discomfited their enemies, increased the admiration of
their friends, and won the applause of the civilized world. France never
was so really great as she is at this moment.
The purity of the motives of the President of the Republic, the
disinterested love of his country, and his undaunted valor have never
been impeached, nor has his escutcheon ever borne the slightest stain.
His sagacity and prudence have never been at fault. That he has a will
Jules Simon has learned to his cost. Patrick MacMahon, the marshal of
the armies of France and the first President of her Republic, possesses
evidently all the distinguishing qualities of the first
commander-in-chief of the American army and the first President of the
Republic of the United States—George Washington. The French people can
safely trust for one term, and not unlikely for a second, their
liberties, their interests, and their honor to the keeping of such a
man.
France will find in her president a providential man, and his name will
go down to posterity with the title of our own great patriot, the
noblest of all titles—“MacMahon, the Father of his Country.”
The turning point of a new era for Europe and of the renewal of
Catholicity is entrusted by divine Providence to the hands of the eldest
daughter of his church—France! In the answer of France to the present
issue lies the secret of the weal or the woe of the future of Europe.
PHIL REDMOND OF BALLYMACREEDY.
“Whisht!” exclaimed the blind hostler attached to the Derralossory Arms.
“There’s a car rowlin’ along the Bray Road, an’, from the sperrit that’s
in the baste, it’s Luke Finnigan that’s dhrivin’ him. Ay, faix,” he
added with a self-satisfied chuckle, “an’ that’s Luke Finnigan’s note.
I’d know it from this t’ Arklow.”
A wild whoop and a sound of wheels in the direction indicated announced
the approaching vehicle, and, ere the sightless hostler could grope his
way from the snug corner in which he had been ensconced by the roaring
kitchen fire—it was the middle of July—an outside car dashed up to the
principal door of the hotel, stopped with a jerk as if on the edge of a
precipice, and the driver, throwing the reins upon the neck of the
panting horse, cried out as he gaily entered the hostelry:
“Now, thin, Misther Murphy, be nimble wud the liquor. There’s a rale
gintleman goin’ for to stand, an’ I’m as dhry as a cuckoo.”
Upon the vehicle sat a young man whose exquisitely-fitting frock-coat,
faultless linen, diamond studs, soft hat, and square-toed boots bespoke
the American. He was fair, with soft and expressive eyes, and wore a
_Henri Quatre_ beard which admirably became his long and pensive face.
“Yer welkim to the County Wicklow, sir,” cried the hostler, who had
approached the car and was engaged in giving a drink to the jaded
animal. “It’s an illigant place for rocks an’ rivers an’ threes an’
scenery. Sorra a forriner that cums into it but is loath for to lave it.
It takes a hoult av thim.”
“It is a very, _very_ beautiful place,” exclaimed the new-comer
enthusiastically, as he sprang to _terra firma_. “So green, so fresh,
so—but you cannot enjoy it, my poor fellow!” suddenly perceiving the
sightless orbs which were turned toward him.
“It’s many a day sence I seen it, sir,” responded the man, with a weary
moan in his utterance—“many an’ many a day.”
“Thrue for him,” added the driver, emerging from the hotel and swabbing
his mouth with the back of a bronzed and blistered hand, while bright
beads twinkled like fallen stars in his merry eyes. “He’s dark sence he
was a gossoon! An’ it’s a sight for to see him along wud the horses in
the stable; he’ll go into stalls, an’ the bastes kickin’ thim to
smithereens, but sorra a word they’ll say to him, though they’d be
afther knockin’ sawdust out av any other tin min. He thravels the roads
day an’ night. To be sure it’s all wan to him in regard to his bein’
dark, but he’ll work his way down to Lake Dan below—ay, an’ to the Sivin
Churches, begor.”
“God is good to me, sir,” said the hostler; “an’ whin it plazed him for
to take me eyesight, he gev me sight in me ears an’ hands.”
“Here, my poor fellow.” And the stranger placed a coin in the other’s
horny palm.
“A five-shilling bit! Och, thin, may the saints light ye to glory, an’
may ye never die till they sind for ye! It’s lonely they’ll be till ye
go to thim.”
By this time the car was surrounded by a motley group of tatterdemalions
of all ages, sizes, and sexes, in every stage of decrepitude and every
variety of raggedness.
“Throw a few coppers to an ould widdy, an’ the Lord reward ye!”
exclaimed one.
“Ye’ll never miss a fourpenny bit,” added another.
“A sixpince to an orfin will take a bag o’ coals from undher ye in
purgathory,” chimed in a third.
“Give us the price av an ounce av tay,” droned a fourth.
“More power to the stars an’ sthripes! Three cheers for Ameriky, boys!”
roared a leathern-lunged dwarf, throwing a rabbit-skin cap into the air.
This appeal was responded to with an enthusiasm that brought the fire
into the stranger’s eye. Turning round upon the steps of the
hotel—along, thatched, whitewashed, two-storied building—he made a sign
as if desirous of addressing the assemblage.
“Be jabers! he’s going for to spake.”
“I riz him wud the stars an’ sthripes,” joyously chuckled the dwarf.
“Faix, it’s more nor a speech we want,” wheezed a little old fellow on
crutches.
“The Home-Rulers has stuffed us like turkeys.”
“Ordher! Ordher in the coort!” yelled the dwarf. “Be aisy, Billy McKeon.
Lave off scroogin’ me, Mary Nayle, an’ let the cripples in front.”
A few additional _facetiæ_, and the silence became complete.
The new-comer had removed his hat, and his massive white forehead stood
out from beneath his soft brown, curly hair.
“I thank you for the cheer which you have given for the country of my
birth.” (“That’s half a crown to me, anyhow,” muttered the dwarf.) “I
hope that cheer was an honest one. It was not my intention to bestow ten
cents among you, as I do not encourage mendicants; and once a beggar,
always a beggar.”
This was received with very audible manifestations of dissatisfaction.
“Musha, but ye’ve come far enough for to tell us that,” growled the old
man with the crutches.
“I _have_ come a long way to tell it to you,” retorted the stranger,
“and I’ll tell you more. It is positively sickening to travel through
this beautiful country, on account of _you_ and the like of you. From
Cork to Killarney, from Killarney to Dublin, from Dublin to—”
“Boys, let’s make up a subscription for him,” interrupted a little
fellow whose rags depended for support upon a straw rope—technically
termed a “suggawn”—fastened around his waist.
“Th’ hostler 'll hed it wud five shillin’s,” observed a bystander with a
droll, malicious grin.
“Begorra, we’ll tell the landlord for to put it in the bill.”
“Are ye goin’ for to give us anything?” demanded the dwarf. This query
was backed up by a unanimous murmur of approval.
“I am.”
“Well, that’s raysonible, anyhow.”
“I’m going to give you some sound, wholesome advice,” said the stranger.
A yell of anger, disappointment, dissent, and derision followed this
announcement. Crutches were brandished, sticks flourished, fists shaken,
and general denunciations upon this “nagurly” conduct were indulged in,
in terms as pungent as they were personal.
“You won’t hear me?” he resumed during a lull in the storm.
“Sorra a hear.”
“Well, good-afternoon.” And making them a low bow, he turned into the
house, whither execrations loud, prolonged, and deep rapidly followed
him.
The accommodations at the “Derralossory Arms”—for so the hostelry was
named—were somewhat pretentious. Opening a door with the word
“coffee-room” imprinted thereon in brazen letters, the new-comer found
himself in a long, low-ceilinged apartment. A cracked mirror, the
surface of which was scratched from frame to frame, like an ice rink, by
amorous owners of diamond rings, stood over the mantel-piece, and above
it a smoke-dried card containing the announcement of the meets of the
Wicklow Harriers of the preceding season. Upon a mahogany sideboard
shone a brave array of glassware interspersed with pickle-jars and some
mysterious specimens of the ceramic art. Facing the sideboard was a huge
antiquated sofa whose springs revealed themselves like the ribs of a
half-starved horse, and opposite the sofa an ancient but
uncompromisingly upright pianoforte. But not upon the mirror, sideboard,
sofa, or piano did the eyes of the stranger continue to rest. The window
had been lowered, and a young girl was leaning her arms upon the sash,
gazing out upon the tatterdemalion crowd beneath. Her figure was
_petite_, but of that faultless outline which no amount of drapery can
conceal. A long plait of lustrous brown hair hung down her back. She was
attired in black, and a huge Puritan cambric collar and cuffs adorned
her wrists and neck.
“If her face is as her figure, she must be enchanting,” thought the
new-comer.
“He should have given them _something_,” she murmured half aloud. “Poor
creatures! hoping and fearing is weary, weary work.” And she slowly
faced him.
He gazed at features as regular as the classic model, and whose paleness
almost imparted to them the calm, impassive beauty of marble. She
flushed and was about to withdraw when he blurted forth:
“I—I beg your pardon, but I overheard what you said. I am not so mean as
you think.” And striding to the window and attracting the attention of
the mob, who received him with a yell of derisive defiance, he flung a
handful of silver among them.
A scarlet flush mantled over her face and throat. “I was but speaking to
myself, thinking aloud—and—but nevertheless on the part of those poor
miserable people, I beg to thank you, sir. _I_ am sorely to blame, and
your generosity only rivets the fetters that bind them to beggary.” And
with a low courtesy, old-fashioned but witching grace itself, she swept
from the apartment, leaving the stranger lost in admiration.
“What is that young lady’s name who was here just now?” he asked.
“Her name is Miss O’Byrne—wan av th’ ould anshint O’Byrnes that fought
hard agin’ the Danes an’ Crummle—bad cess to thim, body an’ bones!”
replied the waiter.
“Does she live near this place?”
“Beyant four mile, over be the side o’ Lake Dan. It’s an illigant place,
wid no ind av ruins, an’ a darlin’ ghost that walks whinever sorra is
comin’ to the race; an’ be me song, they’ve supped lashins av it.”
“Is Mr. O’Byrne wealthy?”
“Well, now”—here the waiter scratched a very shock head—“he’s not
rowlin’ in goold, but he’s warm and”—brightening up—“as proud as a
paycock. But there, I’m forgettin’ me message to ye.”
“To _me_? exclaimed the stranger with a start, half hoping it might be
from Miss O’Byrne.
“Yes, sir. There’s two gintlemin cum here in regard o’ the fishin’,
though sorra a haporth they ketch; an’ they cum regular wud rods an’
hooks an’ nets, an’ all soarts av cumbusticles. Wan av them is an
attorney, a gay man, an’ th’ other houlds a situation in the Four Coorts
beyant in Dublin, an’ he’s as nice a mannered man as there’s in the four
walls o’ Wicklow this blessed minit.”
“But the message?” interrupted the stranger.
“That’s it. Yer to dine wud thim—no less. Misther Minchin tould me to
prisint his respects an’ to hope ye’d favor him wud yer company; an’
don’t be hesitatin’, mind ye”—here the waiter winked an indescribable
wink, such as an augur might have indulged in consequent upon a
successful omen; “there’s lovely chickens, an’ the elegantest bacon, wud
a filly av cabbage, an’ a dancing leg o’ lamb.”
“But I don’t know these gentlemen, and—”
“Permit me to introduce myself, sir,” exclaimed a small, elderly man
with a merry eye, a bulbous nose, a very stiff, old-fashioned stock, and
a stiffer rim of shirt-collar which kept his head as erect as though he
was hung up by the chin, entering and bowing very courteously.
“Minchin—Dominick Minchin. Hearing from this shock-headed retainer that
you were a stranger, and having experienced on more occasions than one,
especially during piscatorial excursions, the thrice-accursed loneliness
of an inn, I beg, sir, that you will favor us by coming where glory
waits you and—a bit of dinner.”
This was uttered with a quaint cheeriness that bore everything before
it.
“Really, sir, I am quite impressed by your consideration, and accept
your invitation most gratefully. My name is Philip Redmond.” And he
handed the other his card.
“Redmond is not an American name, sir?”
“No, sir; my father was Irish.”
“Anything to the Redmonds of Ballymacreedy?”
“I am Redmond of Ballymacreedy.”
Mr. Minchin seized him warmly by both hands and shook them repeatedly.
“By Jupiter, sir! this is positively glorious—sublime, sir! I knew your
father well; and when he thought fit to part with his property—”
“His property parted from _him_, Mr. Minchin. It is gone, and I am now
here to try and repurchase it at any cost. However, we’ll talk of that
by and by. I _feel_ that dinner is not very far off, and that you are
only half as anxious about it as I am.”
Mr. O’Hara, Mr. Minchin’s companion, was a tall, handsome, florid-faced
man of about five-and-thirty, with a profusion of sandy hair which stood
out from his head like quills upon the fretful porcupine, and a smile
like sunlight. In five minutes Redmond was as much at home with the two
anglers as if he had known them all his life, and had planned two
excursions with them.
“I’m afraid you’ll have some trouble about getting back this property,”
observed O’Hara. “It’s now in the possession of a man who doesn’t want
money, and who would call you out if you proposed to purchase it.”
“Every man has his price, has he not, Mr. O’Hara?” asked Redmond.
“True; but there are exceptional circumstances connected with this case
which hedge it round with an impenetrable _chevaux de frise_.”
“Of what nature?”
“Family pride, which will never consent to confiscate the old acres.”
“But the lands of Kilnagadd and Derralossory belonged to our family.”
“That may be, Mr. Redmond, but they were part and parcel of other
territory before the Redmonds came north of Vinegar Hill. I know all
about them, as I rented a fishing lodge from one of the tenants, and,
being anxious to purchase it, inquired into the title.”
“I made my dying father a solemn promise that I would get back the old
place. Money is no object, Mr. O’Hara. My father operated both in real
estate and in gold, and died wealthy, so that a few thousands will not
balk me.”
“You can try it,” was the rejoinder, accompanied by a shake of the head.
It was late when they separated, Minchin warbling “The young May moon,”
and insisting upon shaking hands with the “young boss,” as he designated
him, over and over again.
The summer’s morning was bright and balmy, and Redmond, after a yeoman’s
breakfast—consisting of trout fried with bacon, fresh eggs, and tea in
which the cream was pre-eminent—started out into the glorious sunlight
which was irradiating hill and dale, mountain and valley. The
forget-me-nots told their tale to the crystal pools, the graceful ferns
languidly embraced the lichen-covered stones, an occasional cur basking
in the heat and glow opened a lazy eye as Phil passed along the road,
and compromised a bark with a prolonged yawn. The hawthorns threw their
shadows across the path, and the “blossoming furze unprofitably gay”
sent forth that fresh, quaint, and delicious perfume that tells us with
speechless eloquence that we are out in the bright green country and
away from the heat and turmoil and loathsomeness of the over-crowded
human hive. Having promised to join his newly-found friends at Lough
Dan, Phil took the steep and romantic road that leads to the lake direct
from the village of Roundwood. Far away to the left in the summer haze
lay the picturesque village of Annamoe, and farther still the sweet, sad
valley of Glendalough, guarded by the giant Lug na Culliagh, while the
deep-tinted groves of Castle Kevin lent a delicious contrast to the
purple heights of the heather-covered Derrybawn; on his right the grim
gray crags of Luggelaw, and, as he gained the crest of the hill, the
blue waters of Lough Dan lay mirrored beneath him, reflecting the giant
shadows of Carrig-na-Leena. The exquisite loveliness of the scene fell
upon the young American like a dream or a perfume. It was refreshing,
yet almost intoxicating. He thought of the color glories of the Hudson
in the fall, of the blood-reds and orange-yellows and wine hues of the
autumn foliage, and they seared his mental vision when he came to
contemplate the soft, cloudy green, the odor-laden atmosphere, pure yet
filmy as a bridal veil, and the delicious completeness of the _coup
d’œil_, so satisfying, so soothing, and so enravishing. Somehow or other
he associated all this perfection with the fair young girl whose pale
face and mantling blush still haunted his imagination like a sweet
strain of music. These scenes were a suitable setting for her beauty.
She would comprehend them, she would commune with nature in this wild,
secluded spot, so lonely and yet so lovely. As his ideas glided in this
rosy channel, his revery was suddenly disturbed by the sound of wheels,
and close upon him came a basket-phaeton attached to a very diminutive
pony. His heart gave one violent bound—the object of his immediate and
gushing thoughts was the occupant of the vehicle. Would she pass without
noticing him? There had been no introduction. He could expect no
recognition, and yet—
Chance fills up many a gap in life, solves many riddles, and hastens
many _dénoûments_.
The pony, evidently a wilful, over-petted, hand-fed little brute, took
it into its stubborn head that a rest at this particular spot in the
road would admirably suit his inclinations; and as he feared no whip,
and, save a gentle chuck upon the reins and a solemn admonishment from
his fair mistress, his whim could be indulged in with comparative
impunity, he proceeded forthwith to carry his idea into execution, and
stopped with a jerk right opposite where Philip Redmond stood.
“Do go on, Doaty!” exclaimed Miss O’Byrne, shaking the reins. “Do go on,
there’s a pet. You shall have a lump of sugar when we get to stable.”
Doaty shook his head and stolidly gazed at the lake beneath him.
“Permit me to try and persuade him,” said Phil, stepping forward and
lifting his hat, which, by the way, doubled up in his hand, clumsily
concealing his face and utterly destroying his bow.
“Oh! thanks; I seem destined to give you trouble, sir.”
This was a delicate recognition.
“I have to thank you for making me the most popular man in Roundwood,”
retorted Redmond. “I feel like the lord lieutenant. I held quite a
_levée_ this morning.”
“And your courtiers, instead of looking for place, were seeking for
pence.”
“A distinction without much difference.”
“Except in the viceroy,” she laughed.
Doaty was as good as gold—at least so thought one of the party—and
manifested no intention of budging an inch.
“What a tiresome pony!” exclaimed Miss O’Byrne. “I shall have to beat
him.”
“Let me try and get him along.” And Phil, taking hold of the shaggy
mane, lugged the unwilling Doaty along in the direction of the lake.
“This is really too bad, sir,” remonstrated Miss O’Byrne. “I cannot tax
you in this way.”
“It is no tax, I assure you. I have nothing on earth to do but to revel
in the especial sunshine of this moment.”
This was said with ever so slight an emphasis; nevertheless it bore a
scarlet blossom in the rich blush which came whispering all over the
young girl’s charming pallor.
“You—you are a stranger here?”
“I am, and yet I ought not to be.”
“This savors of a riddle.”
“Very easily solved. My fore-fathers hunted these hills and fished that
lake. My father was reckless, extravagant, and new men came into
possession of the old acres. My father emigrated, and made a great deal
of money in New York, and—”
“I have been in New York,” interposed the young lady.
Here was a bridge for thought-travel. Here was a market for the disposal
of mutual mental wares.
“Did you like it?” he asked.
“Like it!” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “Who could dislike it? It is
the most charming city, perhaps excepting Paris, that I have ever lived
in. And how are Fifth Avenue and Broadway, and the ash-boxes?” she added
with a ringing laugh.
Doaty made another stop, and no earthly inducement would stir him until
he so willed it himself. His fair mistress relinquished the idea and the
reins, and, stepping from the vehicle, clambered, with the assistance of
Redmond, to a moss-grown bank, from which she pointed out some objects
of special interest in the scenery.
“That is Billy Doyle’s cottage at Shinnagh, down far in the valley by
the edge of the lake. See the amber thatch glowing in the sunlight, and
the red flag. That flag shows that poor Mr. Fenler is on the lake
fishing.”
“Who is poor Mr. Fenler?” asked Phil.
“He is a man who was a great merchant in Dublin, but who lost all his
property, and his wife and all his children. He saved as much from the
wreck as enabled him to purchase one-half of that cottage—the slated
half—and to support himself. He came here seven years ago, having made a
vow _never_ to leave the valley again.”
“And has he kept it?”
“Religiously. He goes nowhere, and spends his whole time in fishing. Do
you see that golden strand at the head of the lake?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there is a legend about that which you should hear. Any old crone
in the valley will do it ample justice.”
“I should prefer to hear it from a fairy on the hill,” said Redmond
gallantly.
“_Pas des compliments_, although yours was nearly French.”
“You beat me at my own weapons,” laughed Redmond. “But whose palatial
residence is that right over in the cleft between those two hills?”
The fire lighted up in the young girl’s eye, the delicate nostril
expanded, the rich, ripe lips quivered, as she proudly replied: “That is
my home.”
_Her_ home—the nest in which she had been nurtured. What a precious
flower in that gloomy valley! What a world of love and joy and beauty in
that lone and sequestered spot!
“I envy you,” murmured Phil. “The tranquil loveliness of your home is—”
he was going to send the words from his heart to his lips, but luckily
they encountered Prudence upon the road, and altered themselves to suit
that cold, passionless, interfering busybody—“is—just as it ought to be.
_You_ have made no vow to leave this valley?” he added.
“No, but I have often thought it.”
“Such a determination would be a calamity, Miss O’Byrne.”
“How do you know my name?” she quickly demanded.
“I asked the waiter after you had left.”
“Now for an exchange,” she laughed. “Let us trade. What is _your_ name?”
“Philip Redmond, son of Redmond of Ballymacreedy.”
“Why, that is Ballymacreedy,” exclaimed the young girl, pointing to a
fir-covered mountain, upon the side of which, as though perched on a
shelf, stood a gaunt, uncompromising-looking, square-built mansion, all
roof and windows.
Phil Redmond’s feelings, as he gazed on the home which he had never
known save by hearsay, were of a very varied and conflicting nature. He
had pictured it a feudal stronghold towering over an extensive lake such
as America boasts of—a diminutive ocean—a battlemented castle, with keep
and moat and drawbridge, ivy-grown in the interests of the picturesque,
and plate-glassed in the interests of modern sunlight.
“Good heaven!” he exclaimed involuntarily, “how unlike what I conceived
it to be. What a cruel disappointment!”
So rudely were his ideas shattered, and so bitterly the pride of
baronial halls mortified, that the poor fellow’s heart felt quite
crushed. Whether Miss O’Byrne saw this or whether Doaty saw it is not
the question here; but _certes_, that admirable little brute gave a loud
neigh as a trumpet-call to Redmond’s scattered senses, and evinced for
the first moment during the preceding half-hour a desire to proceed upon
his homeward journey.
“Papa does not visit, Mr. Redmond,” said Miss O’Byrne as she grasped the
reins upon resuming her seat in the basket upon wheels, “but I shall ask
him to call upon you, when I may hope for something like a formal
introduction. How half an hour flies upon the wings of _sans
cérémonie_!” And with a delicious inclination of the head, half-saucy,
half-dignified, and wholly _piquante_, she disappeared at a turn of the
road leading into the valley.
“Heigh-ho!” sighed Philip Redmond of Ballymacreedy.
While all this—shall we say nonsense?—was going on upon the hill, Mr.
Minchin and his _fidus Achates_, O’Hara, were busily occupied upon the
lake; and although not a single rise greeted their longing vision, like
true sportsmen they lived in hope.
“That’s a very good style of man,” observed O’Hara.
“Redmond?”
“Yes.”
“The son of an Irish king, sir. By Jupiter! a fine fellow. A noble
fellow!” exclaimed Minchin, whacking the lake with his line in emphasis.
“He’ll go back to New York without as much of his father’s property as
would sod a lark.”
“You are still of opinion that the O’Byrne will not sell?”
“He’d burn the land first,” was the sententious rejoinder.
“Well, sir, the next best thing that Redmond can do is to purchase
Glenasluagh. It adjoins Ballymacreedy, and he will enjoy the right of
fishing the Clohogue—an enjoyment fit for the gods. Yes, by George! fit
for the gods.”
“I never thought of that. Are you sure it’s for sale?”
“A scoundrelly attorney, one of those pitiful miscreants with whom it is
my bane to be officially associated, knowing that I loved the gentle
sport, endeavored to curry favor with me by mentioning this. I listened
to the scoundrel and made inquiries elsewhere—in fact, I own I felt my
way towards the Clohogue myself, but the figure was too high, sir.”
“We must put Redmond on to it at once.”
“There’s our man crossing the bridge. George! how I envy him his
sensations upon beholding this cherished spot, 'where all save the
spirit of man is divine.’” And Minchin glowed again in the summer light.
Redmond instinctively paused upon the quaint old lichen-covered bridge,
in the worn interstices of which dainty little ferns of emerald green
toyed with the pale blue loveliness of the forget-me-not, and gazed
across the sheening waters of the tranquil lake. All was sleeping in
sunlight, even the deep, clear shadows of the purple-covered mountains,
while the melodious hum of glowing insect-life lent its peculiar charm
to the peaceful surroundings.
The boat, by direction of Mr. Minchin, was turned for the bridge, and a
few lazy strokes from the oar of the ragged urchin who acted as waterman
brought it bump against a projecting bowlder which served as a
landing-place.
“The top of the morning to you, Mr. Redmond!” cried Minchin. “You are
just in the nick of time. Nature abhors a vacuum, and we were about to
pass the rosy. This, sir, is a very dry country.” And the cheerful old
biped laughed until the crags of Shinnagh re-echoed his jovial hilarity.
At this moment a cart attached to a donkey appeared upon the bridge, and
two formidable-looking hampers jostled each other for supremacy.
“Jump in, Mr. Redmond. We shall take our pick on that lovely little neck
of land just under the stronghold of the O’Byrnes yonder.”
“Have you room for two friends of mine?” asked Phil.
“Any friend of yours is my friend, sir,” exclaimed Minchin with the
pompous mannerism of the old school.
“Then lend a hand,” to the boat-boy, “to get these hampers on board.”
“What does all this mean?” asked Minchin as the baskets were safely
stowed away.
“A liberty I have taken,” said Philip. “I want you and Mr. O’Hara to
lunch with me to-day, as I dined with you yesterday.”
“O’Hara,” exclaimed Minchin, “what _shall_ we do with this dog? Pitch
him into the lake, hampers and all?”
“I should say not,” laughed the other.
“'My foot is on my native heath,’” cried Redmond; and, taking an oar, a
pull of twenty minutes keel-grated them upon a silvery strand beneath
the shady foliage of a gigantic horse-chestnut tree.
“A lobster-salad, George!” cried Minchin, unloading the basket. “A
chicken-pie, Jupiter! A magmain of salmon! Why, hang it, man! this never
was raised at the Derralossory Arms.”
“How was it done?” asked O’Hara.
“I sent a man into Dublin for it.”
“Ah!” with a long-drawn breath of admiration. “You Americans do things
in the right way.”
“By the nine gods! champagne,” ejaculated Minchin as he extracted the
golden-necked bottles from their wicker cradles. “Heidsieck extra dry. I
am extra dry too. _Per Bacco_, Redmond! you _are_ the son of an Irish
king.”
Where is the mortal who does not enjoy a picnic?—that picnic where the
food is laid upon the grass, and with the green leaves or the sky for a
canopy; where fingers do service for forks, and the wild flowers for
napkins; where the food is ambrosia and the drink nectar. _Ay de mí_, we
have changed all that, and now we must have silver and cutlery and
napery, and servants to wait upon us, and hot dishes _ad nauseam_. We
must don our best and encase our sweltering hands in delicate-hued
gloves, and icy etiquette now reigns where nature’s happy freedom
heretofore presided.
They were busily engaged with the chicken-bones, and Redmond, as host,
was uncorking the second bottle of champagne, when Minchin exclaimed:
“Jupiter Olympus! here’s the O’Byrne and his daughter.”
Now, to be caught, under ordinary circumstances, in a stooping posture,
wrestling with an infrangible wire, almost black in the face, and with
the drumstick of a chicken stuck saltier-wise in your mouth, your hat
anywhere, and your hair in the wildest and most elfin disorder, is
embarrassing enough in all conscience; but, in the condition of feeling
under which our romantic hero labored, to be thus detected was simply
horrible. As Redmond beheld the tall and stately form of a man of about
fifty, with a pair of fierce black eyes beneath still fiercer brows,
advancing towards him, and by his side, gliding with that graceful
undulation which is almost exclusively confined to the women of Spain,
the young girl for whom the portals of his heart had been cast wide
open, his desire to sink beneath the daisies was about the only
sensation left to him.
“We have invaded the land of the O’Byrnes,” said Minchin, rising and
bowing to the _châtelaine_.
“You seem tolerably well armed,” observed the O’Byrne, casting a comical
glance at the champagne bottles.
“Permit me the honor of crossing swords,” cried Minchin.
At this moment Miss O’Byrne interposed by exclaiming: “That gentleman is
Mr. Redmond of Ballymacreedy.”
The O’Byrne took a short, sharp survey of Philip from beneath his shaggy
brows, and, advancing with outstretched hand:
“Mr. Redmond, I am glad to meet one of the old stock. You resemble your
father very strongly.”
“You knew my father, sir?” asked Redmond eagerly.
“Yes.” The monosyllable spoke for itself. It shut down on the subject
like an iron door.
“The old stock are thinning out, like my brown hairs,” laughed Minchin.
“_Apparent rari nantes in gurgite vasto_,” was the rejoinder.
“_Per Bacco!_ you must taste the Falernian. I am Dominick—”
“Minchin,” interposed the O’Byrne, “the best angler in Wicklow. We
disciples of the rod and reel scarcely need a formal introduction.”
Somehow or other, while the O’Byrne and Dominick Minchin were bandying
quaint and courtly compliments, Philip managed to pull himself together
and to engage in conversation with the daughter of the house.
“You perceive, Mr. Redmond, how fate is against our being introduced—so
dead against as to compel me to make you and my father acquainted as if
you and I were old friends.”
“I _do_ feel as if I had known you for ever so long, and that a void—”
“Do look at the trout jumping. What perfect circles they make in the
still water!”
She had interrupted with a woman’s tact. Redmond was unversed in the
subtle distinctions which form the rungs of the ladder of love. Most of
the girls whom he met in society were as so many agreeable
nothings—exquisitely-attired statuettes, whose ideas were bounded by
silk, satin, feathers, and lace. With them he had nothing in common save
the weather and ice-cream; and being imbued with a feeling of aversive
contempt for the whole sex, the revelation of light and love which now
burst upon him revolutionized his whole being and begat an enthusiasm
that forgot impossibilities. A child of nature sounds very well in
poesy, but the article attired in broadcloth is very rapidly put down as
a bore, if not a nuisance.
“I drink with you on one condition,” said the O’Byrne to Minchin, who
presented a bottle at his head.
“Condition me no conditions, chieftain!”
“I shall; and the condition is this: that you, with Mr. Redmond and Mr.
O’Hara”—to whom he had been introduced by Minchin—“will help me to
punish a cooper of claret after a seven o’clock dinner.” O’Hara excused
himself on the plea of being compelled to reach Dublin by the night mail
from Rathdrum. Minchin called a number of the Olympian deities to
witness that so superb an offer should not be lightly considered, and
Redmond thought of his dress and hesitated to say yes, when his whole
soul was in that solitary word.
“I want to have a gossip about New York, and surely you will not refuse
me that boon?” urged Miss O’Byrne, and this decided the question.
“Are you of the true faith, Mr. Redmond?” she asked, as some hours
later, in acting as _cicerone_ through the old castle, she took him to
the private chapel.
“I should be a recreant Redmond if I were not,” was his proud reply.
Coolgreny, the stronghold of the Clan O’Byrne, was as picturesque as a
round tower, an ivied keep, a battlemented outer wall, a dry moat, a
veritable carpet of bright flowers, solemn old yew-trees whose branches
had supplied many a sturdy bow wherewithal to resist the incursions of
the O’Tooles, and a rookery, could make it. As he crossed the drawbridge
and gazed at the oaken door with its rusty iron rivets, at the massive
archway telling an imperishable tale, at the inner quadrangle, its gray
stone lighted up by blood-red geraniums and deeply, darkly, desperately
blue forget-me-nots, and from thence to the high-bred-looking girl by
his side, Philip Redmond felt the old blood in his veins as the old, old
story began to whisper itself to his heart.
They passed into the old banqueting-hall, rich in oaken tracery and
wainscoted up to the ebon-colored ceiling. Portraits of doughty warriors
in the grim panoply of battle-axe and shield, suits of Milan steel, and
buff jerkins of the later periods adorned the walls—formidable O’Brinns
who stood in many a gap, and fought the rocky defiles of Auchavana inch
by inch; who displayed their prowess on many a tented field; who
followed the fortunes of the luckless house of Stuart even after the
unhappy disaster at the Boyne; and who, nobly fighting, fell against the
hated usurpation of the Orange William. Here, too, were soft,
silken-bearded representatives of the house who attached themselves to
the Irish Brigade and covered themselves with glory at Lannes and
Fontenoy.
“Now for the ladies, monsieur!” exclaimed Miss O’Byrne. “I see that you
are lost in admiration of my male ancestors. Prepare now to be enchanted
by the beauty of their wives and daughters.”
“I need no preparation,” said Phil with a low bow. “I see all their
perfections concentrated in their charming descendant.”
“Admirably done!” cried the young lady, with heightened color; “but
'bide a wee.’ Look at that little dame. There is fire for you. She was
Countess of Ovoca in her own right—a Geraldine. She defended this castle
against two attacks of Cromwell’s crop-eared curs, and when it was
intimated to her that the defence jeopardized her husband’s life, she
_naïvely_ replied: 'I could replace my husband, but I could not replace
Coolgreny.’ 'Wasn’t that complimentary to that ill-looking fellow
opposite leaning upon his sword? I _do_ believe that he steps out of
that frame occasionally for the purpose of upbraiding her, poor dear!”
Redmond laughed heartily as he replied that he thought the cavalier was
likely to get the worst of it.
“Here is a Lely—my great, great, great, ever-so-great grandmamma. Isn’t
she lovely? Look at her cool blue pastoral drapery, her bright brown
hair, her matchless eye, and her ivory complexion.”
“I am looking at her,” said Redmond, gazing earnestly at Miss O’Byrne,
“and she is lovely.”
It was as if the portrait had been painted for herself.
“Mr. Redmond, you are incorrigible. I absolutely refuse to act as
_cicerone_. Tyrconnel was madly in love with her.”
“Of course he was; and if he wasn’t he ought to have been,” laughed
Philip. “Pray who is that sparkling brunette, with the color glowing
beneath her swarthy skin, and with the head and hair of Cleopatra?”
“That is Mistress Lettice O’Byrne, who received King James in this very
hall, as, blood-stained and travel-sore, he honored our poor house by
resting here after the disaster of the Boyne. He heard Mass in our
little chapel before he started at daybreak.”
They wandered from portrait to portrait, she chatting gaily,
brilliantly, until they came directly opposite that of a very young man
attired in a gorgeous hussar uniform.
“This is a picture of today,” said Redmond. “Who is he?”
A bright diamond-drop welled into her eyes as she replied:
“It is my only brother. He took service with our kinsman, Field-Marshal
Nugent, in Austria, and fell at Magenta. God be merciful to him!”
“Amen!” And the response was a prayer, so fervently and reverentially
was it uttered.
“Let us go to the chapel and say an _Ave Maria_ for the repose of his
soul.” And, leading through a long, dark passage, and thrusting aside a
scarlet velvet curtain which hung over the entrance, she ushered Redmond
into the church. Pure Gothic, the oaken traceries of its pulpit and
chancel rails were worthy of the hand of Verbruggen, while the altar, of
white marble, was decorated with constellations of the rarest hot-house
flowers and plants.
As they emerged from the chapel the hideous clamor of a gong announced
that dinner would be served in a quarter of an hour, and Redmond was
ushered by his host to an apartment to prepare as best he might for the
all-important ceremony. For after all “the dine” is a very serious piece
of business, and it is only such foolish young fellows as Redmond—who
spoiled his appetite at luncheon—or such delicately-nurtured young
ladies as Miss Eileen O’Byrne, who can afford to turn up their noses at
the mention of the word, and wish with a sigh that the noble institution
yclept eating had never been invented.
When Redmond descended to the drawing-room he was formally presented to
the Rev. Father O’Doherty, the parish priest “of as wild a district as
lies between this and New York,” gaily added his reverence. “I am proud
to meet you, sir; and let me tell you that the Redmonds of Ballymacreedy
have left a name behind them respected, loved, and honored. Have you
come to stop with us?”
“Not—that is, I’m—I’m so enchanted with all that I have seen of Ireland,
and with _all_ whom I have met here”—he sought the eye of his hostess
(it should be mentioned that her mother had died in giving birth to
Eileen)—“that if I do not return to it, it will not be my own fault.”
This was doing pretty well—much better than he could have hoped. It was
very _prononcé_, but Phil liked to be understood. He was straight in
everything, and was perfectly prepared to step into the O’Byrne’s
library and explain himself right away. But he was not to get the
chance. Father O’Doherty took the _châtelaine_ into dinner and presided
at the foot of the table. The dinner was not _à la Russe_, and, although
served with extreme elegance, the guests were allowed the privilege of
seeing what they were about to partake of, and to make a judicious
selection according to palate. The wine was, as Minchin subsequently
remarked, “of the rarest and choicest vintage.” To hear _her_ speak, to
listen to the music of her laugh, to gaze upon her when her looks were
turned in another direction, was rapture to poor Philip, who drank his
wine, eating nothing, being wholly and solely absorbed in the radiance
of her presence. It was rack and torture to him when she arose to leave
the room, and, as he opened the door to permit her egress, the words,
“Do not remain too long over your wine,” rang into his senses like a
peal of sweet bells.
“Push the claret, Mr. Redmond,” exclaimed his host; “you may get richer
but you won’t get softer wine across the Atlantic.”
“_Per Bacco!_ this is bottled velvet,” said Minchin, smacking his
lips—“the odor of the violet, and the gentle tartness of the raspberry.
By the nine gods! a bottle of this makes a man look for his wings to
fly, sir—to fly like a bird.”
After some considerable time, during which Minchin and the O’Byrne had
indulged in a very serious potation of the Château Lafitte, “Are you
here on a pleasure trip, Mr. Redmond?” asked Father O’Doherty.
“Well, my good fortune has made it one of pleasure, but I came
originally on business. I came to endeavor to rescue some of my poor
father’s property,” replied downright Phil.
“What do you mean by _rescue_, Mr. Redmond?” asked the O’Byrne, flushing
darkly red.
“I mean, to purchase it from the man who now holds it.”
“Oh!” And his host tossed off a bumper of the wine. “Do you refer to
Ballymacreedy?”
“I do, and to the lands of Kilnagadd and Derralossory.”
The beetling brows of the Irish chieftain met in a black scowl.
“And suppose this man who holds these lands were unwilling to sell?”
“Oh! every man has his price,” said the unconscious Philip.
The O’Byrne rose, and, stretching himself to his full height, haughtily
exclaimed:
“When I sell one rood of Ballymacreedy, Kilnagadd, and Derralossory, may
I be shattered into fragments like that wine-glass,” casting, as he
spoke, the crystal goblet upon the oaken floor, where it shivered into
ten thousand pieces.
Had a thunderbolt fallen upon the _épergne_, and, splitting roof and
ceiling, descended into their midst, the luckless hero of this narrative
could scarcely have been less scared and astonished. The admonitory
winkings of Minchin, the ankle-rubs of the good priest, had been lost
upon him. He had rushed upon his fate and had impaled himself. Fool that
he was, never to have conjectured that the haughty possessor of the land
of his ancestors was the fiery, fierce old chieftain who now sat
scowling at the ceiling and quaffing goblet after goblet of the rich red
wine! Everything pointed to the fact—the conversation of the previous
evening, the exclamation of Eileen upon the hill overlooking Lough Dan,
the references of Father O’Doherty. He was a senseless idiot, and had
planted the thorn of offence where he would have sown the bright seed of
friendship. Could he apologize? How? Could he explain? He must.
“The fact is—” he commenced, when his host pulled him up:
“A word of advice to you, Mr. Redmond. When you enter a man’s house do
not turn appraiser and play the amateur auctioneer.”
“But-” burst in Phil.
“Pardon me. If you consider that because you have scraped a few
greenbacks together—Heaven knows how; _I_ don’t want to inquire—that you
can come over here to dictate insulting terms to a man with reference to
his own goods and chattels, upon his own hearth, let me tell you, sir,
that—”
“Hear _me_,” exclaimed Father O’Doherty. “I am certain that our young
friend had no intention of giving annoyance when he made those
observations.”
“On the honor of a man,” roared Redmond, who was in a white heat of
mortification, “I meant no offence, and furthermore—”
“Let us drop the subject, sir, and go to the drawing-room for coffee,”
said the O’Byrne, rising.
“But I will _not_ drop the subject until I explain myself.”
“Mr. Redmond, do not press my endurance in my own house.” And the
haughty host motioned to the door.
“Not a word,” whispered Father O’Doherty. “You can make it all right by
and by, and if _you_ fail _I_ will succeed.”
Still, Philip was not satisfied. He was the outraged party. He demanded
redress for a cruel wrong. Was he to remain in the pillory and be pelted
with the mistrust and dislike of the man whom of all others he was most
desirous of conciliating. What would _she_ think of him when her father
came to tell her his version of the affair? Would _he_ not suffer and
stand convicted, however innocent he might be? It was maddening, and
Redmond, following his host, brusquely demanded a few minutes’
conversation.
“'Forbid it, Heaven, the hermit cried!’” exclaimed Minchin, playfully
seizing our hero by the shoulders and twisting him teetotum-fashion,
while the priest engaged the attention of the O’Byrne in another
direction.
“Are you mad, Redmond?” said Minchin in a low tone. “On this subject he
has a craze. Why, in the name of Jupiter Olympus, did you introduce it?”
“Am I to lie under the imputation of being a peddler, an auctioneer, a
blackguard?” asked the other excitedly.
“The thing will be as dead as Queen Anne in five minutes, if you will
only let it cross the Styx.”
“But I did not know that Mr. O’Byrne was the present proprietor of
Ballymacreedy.”
“Then why didn’t you say so?”
“I would not be listened to.”
“It’s easily explained.”
When Redmond entered the drawing-room the host was speaking to his
daughter, and that it was about him he had little doubt from the
expression of surprise, pain, and anger which flitted across her face.
Determined not to be baffled in his purpose this time, he strode across
the apartment, and, confronting the O’Byrne, said:
“If you will kindly permit me a word of explanation—”
“_Do_ take a cup of coffee, Mr. Redmond,” interrupted Miss O’Byrne;
“and—and you will excuse me if I—I wish you good-night.” And courtesying
very low, she turned from him and swept out of the room.
A choking sensation seized our hero. A something in his throat—anger,
mortification, bitter mortification—clutched him and held him fast.
“I’ll be hanged if I’ll stop here any longer!” he said; and so earnest
was his rage that, without waiting to bid his host farewell or to hint
his intention to Minchin, he strode out into the quadrangle, through the
arched entrance, across the drawbridge, and onwards he knew not in what
direction, reckless, hopeless, and hatless.
Why had he met her? His path had been calm and peace. Why had she
treated him in this way? What had he done to _her_? _He_ knew how her
father would vamp up his version of the story. Was ever innocent man so
deeply wronged? He would leave Ireland next day, and place the broad
Atlantic between him and this—ay, this lovely, bewitching girl. Why was
she so captivating? Where did the charm lie?
Thoughts all-conflicting, all-contradictory surged through his brain as
he marched onward. The summer dew failed to soothe his fevered mind; the
soft night-wind sighing across the Shaughnamore mountain did not cool
his burning brow. The gray dawn of glorious day still found him plodding
onwards, and the sun was high above the horizon when he entered the
picturesque little village of Enniskerry. He had left Coolgreny fifteen
Irish miles behind him across the mountains.
When he had succeeded in arousing the inmates of the Powerscourt Arms,
he demanded writing materials and a messenger.
“Is it pin an’ ink at this time o’ day, sir?” demanded the sleepy
handmaiden.
“Yes; here’s half a crown for you. Open your eyes and hurry up.”
He wrote the following note to the O’Byrne, and despatched it by a
ragged gossoon, who started on his errand, up the hill that leads by the
Dargle, like a mountain deer. He also forwarded an order for his luggage
to the landlord of the Derralossory Arms.
SIR: As you would permit me no explanation last night, I _insist_
upon making it now. I did not know that you were the possessor of
the lands of my forefathers until you yourself announced it. In
thanking you for your hospitality I cannot refrain from saying that
I wish I had never enjoyed it, as it has been a source of intense
pleasure and likewise of bitter pain.
I am, sir,
Your obedient servant,
PHILIP REDMOND.
The messenger returned in a few hours with his luggage.
“Did you deliver my letter at Coolgreny?”
“I gev it to wan av the boys, sir.”
“Did you see any of the—family?”
“None o’ them, barrin’ Miss Eileen’s pony that does be dhruv be her in a
sthraw shay, yer honner.”
Happy pony! thought Redmond, as he gazed into the past and beheld Doaty
coming to a standstill despite the musical remonstrances of his
mistress.
“They axed me if your honner’s name was Ridmond, an’ I sed I didn’t
know; an’ I was axed if ye cum wudout a hat, an’ I sed yis. 'That’s
him,’ sez Luke Byrne, the boy. 'A low-sized man,’ sez he. 'No,’ sez I,
'he’s a cupple o’ yards high anyhow’; an’ Luke tould me they wor
draggin’ the lake beyant at Shinnagh for ye, an’ that Miss Eileen was
roarin’ an’ bawlin’ the whole mornin’.”
A thrill went through every fibre in Redmond’s body as this last
announcement fell upon his ear; and although the idea was coarsely
expressed, that the tender girl might be sorrowing for him caused an
unutterable sensation of joy. She could not believe him capable of
insulting _her_ father beneath the same roof which shut the stars from
her; and yet—pshaw! he would shake the whole thing off as a disagreeable
yet delightful dream.
His immediate resolve was to proceed to Dublin, and from thence to
Queenstown and back to his native shores; but second thoughts, always so
sober, so full of judicious counsel, whispered that the long, lonely
days and nights upon the Atlantic would but serve to increase his fever,
and that his best chance lay in the distracting influence of European
travel. Seven o’clock that evening found him on board the mail steamer
for Holyhead; and as he gazed at the soft outlines of the Wicklow hills
receding from his wistful glance, and thought of _her_ in that secluded,
peaceful valley, he would willingly have parted with a moiety of his
existence to be once again in the sunlight of her presence.
* * * * *
While our hero was on the road to Enniskerry Father O’Doherty found an
opportunity for comparing notes with Minchin, and, fully convinced of
the truthfulness of the young American’s statement, proceeded at once to
disabuse the diseased mind of the O’Byrne. This he ultimately succeeded
in doing, but not without a deal of powerful and full-flavored argument.
“I do believe, Father, I took too much wine. Where is Mr. Redmond, until
I make the _amende honorable_?”
“Strolling about the grounds, I believe.”
“Let us go in search of him.”
“You can go, O’Byrne; I want to have a chat with my fair young child,”
said the clergyman, who had witnessed Eileen’s stately courtesy and
exit.
Minchin and O’Byrne strolled out into the summer night, making sure of
finding Redmond on the terrace overlooking the moat.
“We have bail for his appearance,” said Minchin, “as his hat is
decorating the antlers of a lordly stag in the entrance hall.”
The two gentlemen smoked their cigars as they leisurely went in quest of
the missing one, and from terrace they proceeded to garden, from garden
to pleasaunce, and from pleasaunce to gate-house, but no trace of him
could be found. “He is in the stables,” suggested the O’Byrne; and they
returned to the enormous quadrangle in which the houses were quartered,
but none of the helpers had seen him, and the stables were all locked
for the night.
“He is a romantic, hot-headed young dog, and is just taking a cooler. He
will turn up by and by, I warrant me; or mayhap he has hied him to my
lady’s bower.” And Minchin laughed at the conceit.
“Where is Redmond?” asked Father O’Doherty, as they regained the
drawing-room.
“We were going to ask you,” said the O’Byrne. “Where is Eileen?”
“The poor child has a bad headache and has gone to lie down.”
“Come along, Mr. Minchin, and we’ll take our _cruiskeen lawn_. In the
meantime I shall send some of the men to scour the wood in pursuit of
this invisible guest. I needn’t ask you to join us, father?”
“No, sir; a little wine at dinner is my _quantum_.”
As the night rolled over considerable uneasiness was felt about Philip’s
non-appearance; but Minchin’s theory, that he had, in his agitation,
returned to the Derralossory Arms _minus_ his hat, was gladly accepted,
and the O’Byrne insisted upon driving with Minchin into Roundwood in
order to set matters right.
It is scarcely necessary to say that the worthy proprietor of the
hostelry had nothing of Redmond’s but a small nickel-mounted valise,
which he described as set in solid silver.
This increased the anxiety, and as a portion of the lands of Coolgreny
abutted upon the lake in sheer precipices of two and three hundred feet,
fears began to be entertained that poor Philip in his ignorance of the
country might have taken this unfortunate path. There was nothing for it
but to await the advent of daylight, and then to scour the country, and,
if necessary, to drag the lake at this particular place.
The morning brought no Redmond, and as traces of recent footsteps were
very distinct in the neighborhood of the precipice, and the heather
rudely torn away at the edge of the cliff, as though by a despairing
clutch, the idea that he had fallen into the lake grew into a certainty.
A grapnel was got ready, and the melancholy process of dragging rapidly
commenced.
The relief which Redmond’s letter brought produced immediate reaction.
Father O’Doherty at once started with his car to Enniskerry, with a very
courteous note from the O’Byrne and a message from Eileen, but arrived
about an hour after our hero had quitted the village. Later on, when the
good priest had returned with this intelligence, the O’Byrne telegraphed
to the Shelborne Hotel, Dublin, on chance, writing also to that address.
Philip was on board the steamer when the telegram arrived, and in London
when the missive reached Ireland’s capital. Had he received either, he
would have flown back to Coolgreny; but it was not to be.
* * * * *
It was Sunday forenoon, and a great human wave surged out of the
Madeleine Church, Paris. Instinctively one pauses beneath that noble
portico and gazes across the Place de la Concorde, taking in the
glittering Boulevard and the whole brilliancy of the _coup d’œil_.
Philip Redmond had been amongst the worshippers, and was now on his way
to the Hôtel du Louvre, so different in every respect to the
white-washed, thatch-covered hostelry in the heart of the County
Wicklow, and at the door of which he was introduced to the reader. He
had indulged in a lazy tour, commencing with the quaint old cities of
Belgium, whence he proceeded to Cologne and up the Rhine to Mayence, and
after a wandering of two months found himself in the gay and fascinating
capital of the world. Philip’s wound had been healed; his heart ceased
to throb at the recollection of the “tender light of a day that was
dead”; and if the image of Eileen O’Byrne did come back to him, he felt
inclined to place himself in the pillory of his own thoughts and pelt
himself with ridicule. It was a delightful thing to be heart-whole. He
had played with fire and had passed through the red-hot furnace, badly
burnt, no doubt, but cured at once and for ever. He used to amuse
himself by imagining what the effect of his letter upon the haughty
chieftain might be, and would not _her_ vanity be ruffled by the utter
absence of the mention of her name? He had done his _devoir_ in stating
that the day was one of intense enjoyment; this _she_ could easily
translate by the aid of her own dictionary. Heigh-ho! it was a pity the
dream did not last a little longer, he thought, as he prepared to
descend the steps of the church upon that lovely August forenoon. As he
descended, his foot became entangled in the skirt of a young girl right
in front of him. He turned to apologize—his heart gave one fearful bound
and his brain reeled till he became dizzy. He felt himself grow pale and
cold, but, lifting his hat with a cold salutation, he passed down and
onwards. It was Eileen O’Byrne!
When he reached the hotel—and he felt as if treading on air—he repaired
to his apartment and flung himself into a chair in a whirl of
conflicting emotion. The old wound which he had imagined healed had
broken out afresh beneath the sad, reproachful glance of those lovely
gray Irish eyes. There was but one chance left, and that was to fly. To
be in the same city, country, hemisphere with her would be torture. He
felt as if some great sea should divide them, and then that the joyous
serenity of the last few weeks would be restored to him. He had very
little packing to do, as he had not unpacked, and he at once proceeded
to the _bureau_ to settle his bill. As he was passing along a corridor
in order to reach the _vestiaire_, he became almost rooted to the
ground. A turn in the passage brought him face to face with her whom he
was doing his uttermost to avoid. She was deadly pale, and she passed
him with a scarcely perceptible inclination of the head, cold, glacial,
haughty. There was a cry of anguish in Phil Redmond’s heart, and, acting
upon an unconquerable impulse, he turned after her and almost fiercely
demanded: “What _have_ I done to deserve this?”
The same bright rush of crimson which flashed across her face like a
rosy sunset when first he met her covered her now as she panted forth:
“_You_ seemed to wish it so.”
“_I!_” And Phil Redmond blurted out something with reference to
explanation and unfair treatment in his usual _brusque_ way.
* * * * *
It was chill October, and a huge log burned in the cavernous fire-place
in the banquet-hall at Coolgreny. The claret was upon the ebon-colored
oak table, and round it sat no less a party than that which was
assembled upon the memorable night when Phil Redmond so innocently
brought the wrath of his host upon his devoted head.
“To think,” said Minchin in a state of ecstatic glow, “that we should
meet here under such remarkable circumstances. Ye gods!”
“Yes,” said the O’Byrne, rising, “I wanted the same party exactly, and I
have been fortunate. You all heard me swear that I would never sell a
rood of Ballymacreedy, Kilnagadd, or Derralossory; but”—with a
smile—“that oath does not prevent my giving them away, and, please God,
when you, Father O’Doherty, unite my honest young friend Philip Redmond
to my only child, he shall be restored to the lands of his fathers
through his wife.”
THE BEGINNING OF THE POPE’S TEMPORAL PRINCIPALITY.
The Vicar of Jesus Christ is by virtue of his office, and by divine
right, of necessity in his own person a sovereign. He is exempt from all
subjection to any temporal power, and perfectly free in respect to his
own person and the full exercise of his spiritual supremacy, to which
kings are as much subject as other baptized persons, and nations as
individuals. The right of acquiring property and domain, in a manner
which does not violate any other human right, is inherent in this
personal sovereignty, and carries with it all the rights of eminent
domain, so that whatever is acquired in this way becomes inalienable
except by a voluntary cession. The possession of actual sovereign
dominion over a sufficient territory is evidently the logical and
natural complement of this personal sovereignty, yet is not acquired
except by some legal, human act, similar to that which subjects any
given domain in particular to any other given individual or corporation.
The possession of spiritual sovereignty united with the temporal dignity
and power of a civil monarch is, manifestly, the most dangerous and
liable to abuse of all the attributions which any individual ruler or
dynasty of supreme rulers can be supposed to have received as a stable
and permanent right. The danger is increased in proportion to the
magnitude and duration of the spiritual empire and the political
monarchy united with it. We are obliged, therefore, to believe that
Jesus Christ, as the Sovereign Lord of the world, when he founded such
an institution, provided efficaciously for the protection of Christian
society against this danger and liability to abuse. This he could not do
without exercising a special and supernatural providence over his
earthly vicariate, the Papacy. Yet, according to the analogy of all
other departments of the divine government, this special providence
ought to be reduced to a minimum and made as little miraculous as
possible, by a wise ordering of natural and secondary causes in
reference to the desired effect. In point of fact, we see, from the
history of the Papacy, that God has permitted it to exhibit as much of
the weakness and imperfection of all human things as was consistent with
the fulfilment of the end of its institution. His supernatural
overruling of the natural course of events has been limited to this
result. And the preservation of the Holy See from perversion by human
passions into a merely earthly power, an empire of this world, has been
accomplished in great part by the difficulties and struggles which have
always environed the possession of the greatest of human dignities and
powers—the papal sovereignty.
From Nero to Constantine the Popes were obliged to struggle with the
heathen emperors in order to conquer their liberty at the cost of
martyrdom. From Sylvester to Gregory the Great they were obliged to
struggle with civil and ecclesiastical princes for the recognition and
maintenance of their spiritual supremacy. The temporal and civil domain
necessary for the stable possession and exercise of the personal,
sovereign independence of the Pope as Supreme Pastor of the church was
not given until its necessity became manifest. It came in the natural
course of events, without violence or miracle. Its tenure was precarious
and constantly disputed, and has so remained until the present day. Our
present purpose is to sketch the history of the struggles by which the
first Popes who were kings of Rome secured the dominion of the patrimony
of St. Peter as an inalienable right recognized by the international law
of Christendom.
The temporal domain of the Popes began with the natural and gradual
acquisition of landed property, which in those times carried with it
princely authority over the tenants and inhabitants of estates. Not only
the Popes but the principal bishops in Italy and other countries became
in this way dukes and counts. The sovereign rights of the emperors
lapsed through a long-continued neglect to fulfil the essential duties
of sovereignty, and there was no other royal power in Italy which
succeeded to them in a legitimate manner. The ruling power devolved
naturally upon the local princes. The Roman people turned toward the
Pope as their immediate bishop; just as the people of Ravenna, Milan,
Treves, Cologne, and many other cities did to their own bishop, because
he was the chief of their aristocracy, and also the protector of the
people, and was the only one who was both willing and able to take the
place vacated by their former rulers. The Western Roman Empire ceased to
exist when the Heruli under Odoacer took and sacked Rome, making
themselves masters of Italy. Odoacer was in turn conquered and killed by
the Ostrogoth Theodoric, who was nominally the lieutenant of the Greek
emperor, but in reality conquered Italy for himself. When the empire
revived under the able administration of Justinian, the kingdom of the
Ostrogoths was subdued and overthrown by the great general Belisarius. A
new invasion of Lombards, or Long-beards, from Germany put an end once
more to the imperial dominion in Italy, with the exception of a certain
part called the exarchate, which had its capital at Ravenna. The
authority of the Lombard kings was very limited and precarious, and
under their sway the duchies and marquisates and independent
municipalities of Italy assumed that character of autonomy which made
Italy ever after incapable of anything except a federative unity. The
Lombards were at first Arians, but the conversion of their beautiful and
accomplished queen, Theodolinda, by St. Gregory the Great was the
beginning of a general reconciliation of the whole people to the
Catholic Church, and of the complete extinction of the Arian heresy in
Italy. The Popes never acknowledged the sovereignty of the Lombard kings
over the city and duchy of Rome. The Greek exarch at Ravenna, as the
representative of the emperor, was recognized as having lawful
jurisdiction, and a magistrate delegated by him, called a duke, resided
in Rome. The actual authority of these representatives of the ancient
imperial power and of their master at Constantinople became, however,
continually more and more a restricted and almost nominal formality,
until it was altogether extinguished by the fall of the Greek exarchate.
A few passages from the Italian historian Cantù will show in a clear and
brief manner how the temporal sovereignty of the Popes in Rome resulted
naturally and necessarily out of the new order of things which issued
from the universal disorder and confusion that prevailed:
“At the time of the descent of the Lombards upon Italy the country
lacked a head possessing general authority, and the Roman people, as
well that portion of them who had been subjugated as those who were
still free, had no other eminent personage to whom they could look
except the Pope. He possessed immense domains in Sicily, Calabria,
Apulia, the Campagna, the Sabine territory, Dalmatia, Illyria,
Sardinia, in the Cottian Alps, and even in the Gauls. These domains
being cultivated by farmers, he exercised over them a legal
jurisdiction, appointed officers and gave orders; and, besides, his
revenue enabled him to distribute succors in times of dearth, to
furnish asylum to refugees, and to pay troops. After the conquest
had interrupted the communications between Rome and the exarch of
Ravenna, the Pope remained the _de facto_ head of the city where he
resided; he corresponded directly with the Byzantine court; made war
and peace with the Lombard kings; and, moreover, by putting himself
in an attitude of resistance to their conquests, _he became the
representative of the national party_. The chair of St. Peter
awaited only a pontiff who should feel all the importance and
display all the dignity of his high position. Such a man was Gregory
the Great” (580-603).
“Italy, at this time, had no more stability in its civil
institutions than France. The Lombards had occupied a large part of
it in the first burst of invasion; but the partition which they made
among several dukes, though it served to consolidate their
possession, prevented them from completing their conquest. As the
king was elected from among these different nobles, without any
hereditary right, there was a revolution at every vacancy; moreover,
the dukes obtained continually more considerable privileges by
favoring one or another among the competitors—so much so that those
of Benevento and Spoleto acquired complete independence. The only
thing they all desired was to remain in tranquil enjoyment of
absolute authority in their particular domains, or to make war for
their own personal aggrandizement in power and wealth, and not in
obedience to the king’s command; so that the king could with
difficulty induce them to follow him in any military enterprise
against the Greeks for the purpose of expelling these from Italy, or
against the Franks, who molested them unremittingly, either for the
sake of pillage or at the instigation of the Eastern emperors....
The Greek exarch’s administration extended over the Romagna, the
marshy valleys of Ferrara and Comacchio, over five maritime towns
from Rimini to Ancona, and five other towns between the shore of the
Adriatic and the Apennine slope, over Rome, Venice, and almost all
the cities on the sea-coast. Some cities, for instance Venice, made
themselves independent, while others were constantly menaced and
often invaded by the Lombards. When these latter were involved in
foreign or civil wars, the exarchs would avail themselves of the
chance to repossess the places they had lost, but were always
speedily driven back into narrow limits, without ever enjoying
peace, and subject to the necessity of making every year short
truces, for which they frequently had to pay a tribute of three
hundred livres in gold. When the means failed for paying tribute and
the wages of the soldiers, they ran down to Rome and plundered the
treasury of the church, or pillaged the sanctuary of St. Michael at
Monte Gargano, which was an object of great veneration to the
Lombards....
“Another power remained in Italy, as yet imperceptibly growing up,
but destined to be developed during the course of the century and to
cast lasting roots amid the ruins of the others. The Popes had
always shown themselves hostile to the Lombard domination and
desirous of preserving the invaded provinces to the empire. Gregory
the Great had employed for this effect his authority, his eloquence,
his treasure, and his skill in the arts of diplomacy; his successors
followed his example, and whenever they were menaced by the Lombards
they implored without delay the aid of Constantinople. Preserving
toward the emperor the submission which they had constantly
exhibited while Rome was the capital of the world, they asked his
confirmation of their election, paid him a fixed tribute, and kept
at his court an apocrisiarius, who treated with him respecting their
affairs; but their dependence on distant sovereigns and feeble
exarchs, upon whom the people looked with an evil eye, kept on
continually diminishing. Thus the authority of the Popes, who were
at the head of the municipal institutions which had been preserved
in the city, rendered that of the Duke of Rome almost a nullity, and
approached to a species of sovereignty.”[98]
Footnote 98:
Cesar Cantù’s _Univ. Hist._, French translation, vol. vii. p. 418,
vol. viii. p. 214.
Alboin, the first Lombard king, was murdered soon after his conquest by
his own wife, in revenge for the death of her father, Cunimond, chief of
the Gepidæ. He was succeeded by Clefis, who was assassinated after
reigning eighteen months. The Lombard dukes were disposed to do without
a king, and elected no successor to Clefis, until the necessity of
uniting in war against their enemies compelled them to elect Autharis,
the son of Clefis, the prince whose wife was the celebrated Queen
Theodolinda. Autharis died one year after his marriage, and Theodolinda
was requested by the dukes to choose a new spouse and king from among
their number. The choice fell upon Agilulph, Duke of Turin. His son and
successor, Adoloald, was deposed and Ariovald, Duke of Turin, elected in
his place, to whom succeeded Rotharis, Duke of Turin, the second husband
of Gundeberga, widow of Ariovald, and who was followed by his son
Rodoald, the last of the descendants of Theodolinda. The nobles and
people were so much attached to the memory of this pious queen that they
sought for a new king in her family, although it was not Lombard, and
elected her nephew, Aribert of Asti, of the Agilolphingian tribe settled
in Bavaria. At his death the kingdom was divided between his two sons,
from whom it was wrested by Grimoald, Duke of Benevento. His son
Garibald was dispossessed by Perthurit, one of the sons of Aribert.
Cunibert, Luitpert, Ragimpert, and Aribert II. completed the list of the
Agilolphingian kings. Ansprand, a partisan of Luitpert, who had been
dethroned by his rival Ragimpert and imprisoned by Aribert, conquered
Aribert, and after a short reign of three months was succeeded by his
son Luitprand, who reigned thirty-two years (712 to 744) and was the
greatest of the Lombard kings.
With the reign of Luitprand begins the epoch of the decisive events
which resulted in the final severance of all the bonds of political
dependence which united Rome with the Greek Empire, in the establishment
of the formal and legal monarchy of the Popes, and the overthrow of the
Lombard dominion in Italy by Charlemagne.
Luitprand was a sovereign in the strict sense of the word, through his
ability and energy of character even more than by the recognized title
to the royal dignity which was vested in his person. He undertook and
carried out a thorough reformation in the political administration of
his kingdom, re-established order, extirpated the germs of disunion and
civil war, secured the obedience of his subordinate dukes, and preserved
a good intelligence with the Popes and the church. His ultimate aim was
the union of all Italy in one kingdom under his own laws, including all
the remaining Greek possessions and the city and principality of Rome.
The first great step toward the fulfilment of this design must obviously
be the conquest of the Greek exarchate. In this undertaking he had the
sympathy of the Roman aristocracy and people, though not that of the
Popes. The remnant of the old Roman nation existed at this time almost
entirely in the ancient capital and its adjacent territory. The Roman
Empire really perished from no other cause than the general extinction
of the Roman race. As the barbarians swarmed into Italy the best part of
the old Italians took refuge in Rome, where the old spirit, the old
manners and institutions—so to speak, the Roman essence—was concentrated
and preserved to effect a new and peaceful conquest of the world. This
Roman nation desired to have its own autonomy and to be subject neither
to the Roumanians of the east nor the barbarians of the west. They had
no thought of accepting Lombard sovereignty over themselves, yet they
were eager to see the Greek domination in Italy terminated, and
therefore desired Luitprand’s success in the enterprise of overthrowing
the exarchate. For Rome they desired independence. The Popes, however,
would not take any measures for making Rome a sovereign state, until
divine Providence directed the course of events to this end as a natural
and necessary result, without any positive act on their part renouncing
civil allegiance to the empire.
The course of events actually favored most opportunely and remarkably
the designs of Luitprand and the wishes of the Roman people. The
unutterable folly of the Emperor Leo the Isaurian drove him to an attack
on the religion of the Romans and the sacred person of the pontiff. He
ordered the exarch Paul to enforce submission to the heresy of the
Iconoclasts by military power. Pope Gregory II. excommunicated Leo and
exhorted all the Catholic princes and people of Italy to stand firm in
defence of the faith and discipline of the church. They obeyed his voice
so readily and with so much zeal that the absolute and final extinction
of the Greek dominion in Italy was only averted by the mediation of the
Pope himself. As Luitprand and the Lombards, profiting by the general
uprising against the imperial authority, became stronger and advanced
toward a more entire subjugation of Italy, they became more dangerous to
the independence of the Holy See than were the feeble dukes and exarchs
who represented the distant emperor. The king even allied himself with
the exarch for the subjugation of the proud republic which disdained to
be subject to either Greek or Lombard, and besieged the city of Rome.
Pope Gregory II. went to Luitprand’s camp, and the majesty of his
presence, together with the force of the arguments which he addressed to
the noble and Catholic mind of the king, produced such an effect upon
him that he cast himself at the feet of the pontiff, imploring his
benediction and promising peace. In company with the Pope, Luitprand
went to St. Peter’s Church, where he laid upon the tomb of the apostle
his royal mantle, bracelets, coat of mail, dagger, gilded sword, golden
crown, and silver cross as a gift to St. Peter and the church.
Nevertheless, he renewed his attempt to make himself master of Rome ten
years later during the pontificate of Gregory III., and continued during
the pontificate of Zacharias his occasional irruptions into the
exarchate of Ravenna and the duchy of Rome, although in every instance
he yielded to the voice of his conscience and of the Vicar of Christ,
desisting from his purpose as often as he renewed it, and making
restitution of the towns which he had conquered. His successor, Rachis,
undertook anew the enterprise of subjugating the exarchate, but was so
much affected by the remonstrances of the Pope that he abdicated his
dignity and withdrew with his wife and children into a monastery. His
brother and successor, Astolpho, actually achieved the conquest of the
exarchate,[99] and put an end to the Greek dominion in that part of
Italy. Henceforth the Byzantine emperors had no authority in Italy
except in Calabria and Sicily. Astolpho next turned his attention toward
Rome and made a formal demand of allegiance on the senate and people,
supported by a large army. The city was strongly fortified, and all its
people were determined to make a stubborn defence of their independence.
Astolpho would not lend his ear to any negotiation, help was demanded in
vain from the Greek emperor, and in these sore straits Pope Stephen III.
betook himself for aid and succor to Pepin, the King of the Franks.
Footnote 99:
The term exarchate is here used in its restricted sense.
Gregory III. had once before invoked the help of Charles Martel without
any result. Since that time the Frankish nobles had referred to Pope
Zacharias the question of their right to set aside the effete dynasty of
the Merovingians and to substitute in its place the family of Charles
Martel. The Pope had answered that the royal title ought to be given to
the one who actually possessed and exercised the royal authority and
functions. The new Carlovingian dynasty was thus formally established in
France with the sanction and benediction of the Pope. And the time was
now come for these powerful kings, Pepin and Charlemagne, to step
forward as the eldest sons of the church, to secure the temporal
sovereignty of the Pope, and to inaugurate that close relationship which
has ever since existed between the kingdom of France and the Holy See.
Pope Stephen, although old and in extremely feeble health, went to
France, where he was received with a spontaneous and splendid ovation by
all ranks of the people, from the highest to the lowest. The Pope
performed the solemn ceremony of the anointing of the king, the queen,
and the royal princes, and conferred upon Pepin the dignity of patrician
of Rome. A solemn assembly of the magnates of the kingdom was held at
Quiercey, at which the king and nobles bound themselves to place the
Pope in possession of the sovereign dominion of Rome and the exarchate.
Pepin first attempted peaceful negotiations with Astolpho, and, these
being absolutely refused, crossed the Alps with an army, and compelled
him to make a treaty of peace with the Pope, by which he renounced all
claim upon the Roman principality and the exarchate. Astolpho, however,
disavowed and violated his engagements as soon as Pepin had withdrawn
his army. Again (755) Pepin crossed the Alps and suddenly appeared with
an overwhelming force before Pavia. Severer conditions of peace were
this time imposed upon Astolpho—a mulct of one-third of his treasure, a
yearly tribute of 12,000 gold _solidi_, and hostages for the fulfilment
of his promises. French and Lombard commissaries were appointed to visit
the whole territory assigned to the Pope and receive the keys of all the
cities. Pepin made a solemn and festal entry into Rome amidst universal
jubilation, and laid a formal document of investiture of the pontifical
domain, together with the keys of the towns, upon the tomb of St. Peter.
Astolpho died suddenly from an injury received by a fall from his horse,
very soon after these events (756). Rachis came out of his cloister with
the design of regaining the crown which he had resigned. The majority of
the princes favored the election of Didier, Duke of Brescia, who secured
the influence of the Pope and of the envoys of Pepin in his favor by a
solemn promise under oath to execute the treaty made by Astolpho and to
cede some additional territory to the Holy See. He was accordingly
elected King of Lombardy, but failed to fulfil his engagements and
passed the seventeen years of his reign in perpetual efforts to secure
an undivided sovereignty over all Italy. At last, taking advantage of
the death of Pepin and of Pope Stephen III., and of cabals and factions
among the Romans in reference to a new election, he made an open and
violent effort to seize the dominion of Rome and the entire
principality. He was deterred from actually consummating his intention
by an armed entry into the city, where there was no force which could
have prevented it, simply by the threat of excommunication, and withdrew
to Pavia. The end of the Lombard kingdom was now near at hand. Pope
Adrian, the Italian people, Charlemagne, and all except a few adherents
of Didier were in accord on this subject. Charles crossed the Alps with
a large army, evading the troops which guarded the passes by means of a
secret defile, and easily took possession of the whole territory, Pavia
only excepted, which held out for a year under Didier and his gallant
son, Adelchis. Pavia at length surrendered, the Lombard kingdom was
abolished, Didier was confined in a French monastery, where he became a
monk in earnest for the rest of his life, the donation of Pepin to the
Holy See was confirmed, and Charles returned home to prosecute that
brilliant career which made him before the end of the century the
monarch of almost the whole of Europe.
The temporal kingdom of the Pope was now established in a definite and
stable manner, with the universal recognition of Catholic Christendom.
Nevertheless, as a civil institution it was still exposed to the inward
and outward vicissitudes and dangers to which all states are liable from
the very nature of things. It was necessary that some great political
power, distinct from the papal sovereignty, should hold over the See of
St. Peter the ægis of protection. The providence of God, therefore, soon
raised up that power which was consecrated by the name of
“THE HOLY ROMAN EMPIRE.”
During the last year of the eighth century Adrian’s successor, Pope Leo
III., was obliged to implore the aid of Charlemagne to repress the
turbulence of Roman factions. Leo was received by Charlemagne at
Paderborn, in the midst of a brilliant assemblage of nobles and a vast
army, with all possible veneration and honor, and returned to Rome
escorted by princes and prelates and a guard of honor, to await the
promised visit of the king. In December, 799, Charlemagne came to Rome,
a great council was assembled, and all the measures which were necessary
for restoring and confirming order in the pontifical state were adopted.
The Christmas festivities were celebrated with the greatest possible
pomp and splendor, and while Charlemagne was kneeling before the tomb of
the apostles Leo suddenly and unexpectedly approached him and placed on
his head a golden diadem. The people burst forth into the acclamation:
“Life and victory to Charles, the great and pacific Roman emperor!” In
the bull which Leo published on the same day he says: _Quem Carolum
auctore Deo, in defensionem et provectum sanctæ universalis ecclesiæ
Augustum hodie sacravimus_.
In a former article[100] we have sketched an outline of the destinies
and vicissitudes of Rome during the period of the decline of the
Carlovingian dynasty and the rise of the German Empire. We have,
therefore, now presented in a general view the history of the rise and
consolidation of the temporal sovereignty of the Popes between the two
great eras of St. Gregory I. and St. Gregory VII. From that time forward
the political history of the Papacy relates chiefly to the rise and
subsequent decline of the temporal power of the Pope over all
Christendom, until at last, in the disruption of political unity among
European states, the Holy See is once more subject to the same struggle
for independence in its immediate patrimony which preceded the period of
its mediæval power. The confederate union of the European nations under
the moral presidency of the pope and the political primacy of the
emperor was gradually transformed, by the waning of the imperial power
which became restricted to Germany and at last subsided into a mere
royal dominion over Austria, and the diminution of the spiritual power
of the Holy See by the schism in Christendom, into a weaker sort of
alliance, held together by common interests and mutual treaties. So long
as this continued the Pope retained his place among the other sovereigns
as one of the Italian princes, with a personal pre-eminence and a moral
influence derived from his spiritual supremacy over the Catholic
nations, and over the Catholic population in those nations which were
not Catholic. Sound policy and the necessity of preserving an
equilibrium in Europe caused the powerful monarchs of the great states
to protect the independence of the Pope against one another, and to
restore it when it was invaded. The disruption of the last bonds of
European alliance in our own day has left the Holy See and the church
once more a prey to secular tyranny exercised by a new German emperor,
and a new Lombard king, without protection or defence from any political
power. As Rome and Christendom went up together, so they have gone down
together. And if a regeneration or restoration in the actual present or
the future is destined for Europe and the rest of the world, it must be
accomplished in both together; for they are inseparable parts of one
whole. The history of the past is therefore a guide for judging the
present and forecasting the future. The question of the temporal
sovereignty of the Pope in the Roman state is essential and pre-eminent
in the discussion of the principles of a reconstitution of the family of
civilized and Christian nations. The complete independence and liberty
of the Pope as supreme head of the church, and of the church itself, are
intrinsically the most important of all rights and interests; and with
these the temporal sovereignty of the Pope is necessarily connected so
intimately that it becomes indirectly and extrinsically of equal
importance, being, in fact, practically identified with them. We have,
therefore, in our preceding historical sketches prepared the way for
showing how this sovereignty of the Pope over Rome and the whole
territory which he claims as subject to his crown is an indubitable and
inalienable right, which must be restored and secured to him as the
indispensable condition of religious and political order and well-being.
Footnote 100:
“The Iron Age of Christendom,” THE CATHOLIC WORLD, July, 1877.
We shall not attempt to reconcile this proposition with the doctrine of
a divine or natural right of sovereignty inhering in the multitude of
every nation or a majority of them. At the present time this doctrine is
not maintained by sensible and moderate advocates of a constitutional
form of government and of popular franchises. The sovereignty may
lawfully reside in the multitude politically organized, as it does in
our republic, but it is not by virtue of divine or natural right
coalescing from the separate, individual rights of the units who make up
the mass. The right of Mr. Tilden to the Presidential chair was not
asserted on the ground that he received a majority of the popular vote,
which he did receive without question, but on the ground that he
received a majority of the votes of the electors who were really
competent to vote for the appointment of a President, according to the
Constitution. We might make a plausible argument to show that the Roman
people have always consented to the papal sovereignty, except during
intervals of political madness, and actually at the present time would
re-establish it, if they were free to do so. But the right of the Pope
cannot be maintained on a theory, which would reduce it to a popular
concession revocable at any time by the will of his subjects. Some good
Catholics may hold the doctrine of popular sovereignty as above defined,
but they do so inconsistently; for, although it is not directly contrary
to the Catholic faith, it is incompatible with the principles and
practice of the Holy See and the church, and the doctrine of every
authority respected by sound and loyal Catholics who are instructed in
the science of political ethics. In certain circumstances the will of
the people suffices, alone or in concurrence with other causes, to
convey or transfer lawful dominion. We have shown how, in the case of
the papal sovereignty, the Roman people did, voluntarily, withdraw or
refuse allegiance to all other princes and eagerly give it to the Pope.
We have shown, also, how other causes concurred in establishing his
right as a fact, and placing him in actual possession of the
sovereignty, without prejudice to any other really existing legitimate
right. The Pope possessed all the rights belonging to his position as
the chief land-owner and prince among the Roman princes. He possessed
the right, as head of the church, to have no temporal prince placed over
him who could control or hinder the exercise of his spiritual supremacy.
Moreover, he possessed a great many imperfect rights or claims upon the
allegiance of the Roman people arising from the services he had rendered
to the state in preserving, defending, and succoring it in circumstances
when it was near extinction, from his superior ability to govern the
state, and the fitness of things making it expedient, and even
necessary, for the public good that sovereignty should be vested in his
person. The action of Pepin was that of one who defended the Roman
people in the right of their independence against tyrants and
aggressors, and defended the general right of his own and other nations
to the independence and tranquillity of the Roman Church as the centre
of Christendom. The action of Charlemagne was similar, and his overthrow
of the Lombard kingdom was justifiable by the right of conquest, the
consent of the greater part of the people of Italy, and the necessity of
providing for the welfare not only of Italy but of all Europe. His final
act of settlement in the beginning of the year 800 had still greater
force and legitimacy as the act of the king of Europe, in which all the
great estates of his realm concurred, the whole people of Western
Christendom applauding, and the Eastern empire tacitly consenting. The
possession of a temporal principality by the Pope became thus a fact,
which was so connected with natural and divine rights of various kinds
that it became a perpetual and inviolable right. This is the only way in
which sovereign rights can become vested in any kind of lawful possessor
or political person. There is no such thing as a right to civil
sovereignty immediately delegated by God or springing out of the
constitution of nature directly. Scarcely any one can be found, even
among legitimists, who maintains any such origin for sovereign rights.
There is a natural and divine right to good government inherent in the
social and political order. There is a divine right, having a natural
basis, in the Catholic Church to good government, which is specifically
secured by the divine appointment of the form of government, as a
hierarchy subordinated to a supreme head. This right takes precedence of
all others. As those rights which are more particular cede to the more
general, all rights whatever must give way to the universal right of all
Christians and all mankind, that the Vicar of Christ shall be left free
and independent in the possession and exercise of his spiritual
supremacy, and that all men shall have liberty of obeying him as the
vicegerent of God on earth. The Roman people have a right to good
government, the Italian people have a right to national well-being, all
Europe has a right to the advantage of a due political equilibrium and
alliance among nations. All these advantages were secured by the
establishment of the sovereignty of the Pope in Rome. It grew up and
became strengthened, and sustained itself for ages, as an essential part
of the political constitution of Europe. Whatever pretence to right,
legitimacy, stability, or sanction of any kind can be made by any
European institution, the same is applicable to the temporal
principality of the Pope. But, beyond all this, it is necessary to the
spiritual independence of the Holy See, and therefore protected by the
sanction of a higher right and a higher law. It has been given to God
and accepted by his vicegerent, and has thus become sacred, inviolable,
irrevocable. It is like a cathedral, an altar, the sepulchre of a saint.
It is the property of the universal church, of Christendom, and of God.
As such it is under the protection of ecclesiastical, international, and
divine law; it is within the domain of right and of morality, and
therefore appertains to the Catholic religion; is included in the order
which is subject to the spiritual supremacy of the Pope. In this order
he is the supreme judge and lawgiver, infallible in defining and
declaring the law, sovereign in the judgments and decrees by which he
applies it to particular questions and concrete matters. The Pope is
therefore the supreme judge, the Catholic episcopate being associated
with him in the same tribunal, by whom alone the right and the necessity
of the temporal sovereignty of the Holy See can be determined. The
consent of the Catholic people adds moral weight to this determination,
and the political action of states gives it the necessary physical force
for its execution. But there is no appeal from the judgment of the Pope
himself on his own rights as sovereign in the Roman principality, either
to bishops, sovereigns, or people. His own judgment has settled the
right of the Roman question, and it is the duty of all Catholics to
adhere to that judgment. The Pope will not cede his sovereignty, and the
Catholic people will not consent to its cession or to its violent
occupation by any usurper.
The history of the destinies of Rome in the past shows that the recent
calamities of the Holy See do not warrant the expectation that its
temporal sovereignty has passed away to return no more. It has proved
itself to be indestructible amid all the vicissitudes of Europe. When
Rome is shaken and disturbed, the civilized world is thrown into
commotion. As we are writing, the Russian army is crossing the Pruth,
and it cannot be doubted that we have reached one of the most momentous
epochs of history. When our readers are perusing what has been written,
another fold of the scroll of time will have been unrolled, perhaps
thickly written over with records of great events. We have read this
morning the significant utterance of Von Moltke on the necessity of
arming more German troops for the defence of the empire. Some may take
Châteaubriand’s gloomy view of things and think that Europe is hastening
on a funeral march to the tomb. If this be so, then there is no refuge
for the Pope but the catacombs. If atheism, despotism, revolution, and
anarchy are going to hold a wild revel amid the ruins and monuments of a
Christendom which was but is no more, then Rome will be involved in the
common ruin. But “when Rome falls, the world.” However, we do not feel
obliged, as yet, to despair of Europe, Christianity, or civilization. If
there is a resurging movement after a temporary convulsion, Rome will be
the centre of it, and the successor of Pius IX. will reap the advantage
of his long watch by the tomb of St. Peter. We believe in the triumph of
the Catholic Church over infidelity, heresy, schism, revolution, and
despotism; over Judaism, Mohammedanism, and heathenism. The restoration
of the Pope’s temporal kingdom is necessary to this triumph, and
therefore we believe it will be restored. We hope for a pacification of
Europe after the war which has now begun is terminated. Civilized
mankind is tired of war, and the almost bankruptcy which is universally
produced by the enormous military establishments of the nations of
Europe, it would seem, must enforce at length disarmament and bring
about a period of amicable alliance and devotion to the arts of peace,
the study of the welfare of the people as the end of government, the
moral sway of principles which are not only patriotic but Christian and
Catholic. In such a state of things the moral influence of the Holy See
would naturally rise to a higher point than it attained even under the
mediæval system.
As for Rome and Italy, their temporal prosperity, so far from being
sacrificed, would be promoted, by the re-establishment of the pontifical
state and the overthrow of the visionary fabric of Cavour and Mazzini.
We certainly desire to see all just national aspirations of the Italians
satisfied. We are glad that Austrian domination in Italy has ceased. But
all history seems to show that a confederate unity of distinct states is
the only order suited to Italy, and that a monarchical unification is
foreign and hostile to the genius and conditions of the Italian people.
But, whatever may be done by the Italians and the European princes who
will be left masters of the situation and arbiters of national interests
after the conflict now impending, in respect to the rest of Italy, the
domain of the Pope must be restored to him in its integrity and placed
under the protection of the law of nations. This is the indispensable
condition of the restoration of Europe from the condition of decadence
into which it has fallen, and no doubt the providence of God will force
upon the rulers of the world the recognition of this truth in due time
and by the course of events wholly beyond their foresight or control.
ALBA’S DREAM.
BY THE AUTHOR OF “ARE YOU MY WIFE?” “A SALON IN PARIS BEFORE THE WAR,”
ETC.