How many other branches of industry, connected directly or indirectly

with mediæval art, could be mentioned in which the influence of Pugin’s

labors can be traced!—the production of encaustic tiles, silk

embroidery, wood-carving, the manufacture of church plate and furniture

of all kinds, even household articles and jewelry. Sir C. Eastlake truly

remarks: “Those establishments which are known in London as

ecclesiastical warehouses owe their existence and their source of profit

to Pugin’s exertions in the cause of rubrical propriety.”[108] He might

have added with equal truth that the many beautiful objects we admire in

them owe their existence to the principles he established by his

writings and to the endless models which his unrivalled facility of

invention placed at the disposal of the public.

Footnote 108:

_History of the Gothic Revival_, p. 153.

If a proof were wanting of the hold that the revival of which Pugin was

the leading spirit was taking on public opinion, it is the fact that a

Parliamentary committee, in drawing up the terms of the competition for

the plans of the new Houses of Parliament, stipulated that the designs

should be Gothic or Elizabethan. It has often been regretted that Pugin

did not take part in this competition, and his reasons for not doing so

have never been quite satisfactorily explained.

Barry, the architect selected for the new buildings, showed his

appreciation of Pugin’s capabilities and his esteem for his talents by

applying to him for designs for all the important interior decorations

and furniture. The beauty of these parts shows how well suited he was

for the task; many consider them the most perfect parts of the edifice,

the exterior, notwithstanding its real merits, having numerous

faults—some of them, it is true, inherent to the style adopted—Tudor or

perpendicular.

Besides the many churches and other religious edifices which Pugin

designed, he devoted considerable attention to domestic architecture;

and among the best specimens he left may be mentioned Bilton Grange,

Adare Manor, and Scarisbrick Hall, Chirk Castle and Alton Towers; the

last two he only restored and altered. But perhaps his happiest effort

in this style was his own house at Ramsgate, which is, in every detail,

a perfect specimen of a mediæval residence, strongly illustrating how

deeply imbued Pugin was with the spirit and traditions of the past. So

thoroughly Gothic were all his feelings and tastes that we firmly

believe it would have been impossible for him to design a building in

any other style.

With Pugin’s death, which occurred in 1854, we shall terminate this

short sketch of one of the most wonderful revivals of the present age.

We have told how Gothic architecture became extinct as a practical art,

how its theory was forgotten and misunderstood for centuries, its very

name kept in remembrance only by a few rare lovers of antiquity. We have

traced the first dawn of a change in public taste, originated by the

serious works of men versed in the history of ancient art, and inspired

by a love of its grand productions.

In what a different position we leave it now! The master spirit that had

breathed a new life into its almost inanimate form has passed away; his

mortal remains are sleeping in the hallowed transept of that beautiful

church at Ramsgate, the designing and decorating of which had been to

him such a labor of love; but, unlike many reformers, he had lived to

see his cherished dreams realized; he had lived to see the mystic

steeple and the high pitched roof once more ascend to heaven from the

crowded cities and the wooded fields of his country; he had lived to see

a long array of distinguished names consecrate their gifts to that one

style he had loved and for which he had labored.

ALONG THE FOOT OF THE PYRENEES.

We followed the old Roman way along the foot of the Pyrenees—a

delightful route, picturesque on one side and fair on the other, and

everywhere abounding in historic and legendary memories. Every age has

left its impress here, as every geological period has left its strata in

the mountains. Many of the cultivated hills are crowned with the ruins

of feudal times. The plains are blooming with a thousand traditions and

marvellous events that have sprung up from the contests with the Moors

in the eighth century. Numerous remains of ancient art are constantly

coming to light from the soil to prove that, during the Roman occupancy

of the land, many wealthy patricians established themselves in this

region, at once attractive to the eye and favorable to health. The

Visigoths also, who once held possession of the country, have left

behind them memorials of their barbarity in the martyrs who are still

honored; and the Huguenots and Revolutionists ruined churches and

cloisters that are still deplored.

At length we came to Martres-Tolosanes—the ancient Callagorris—an

industrious place on the left bank of the Garonne containing about two

thousand inhabitants. Clouds of smoke hover over it by day, and flames

and sparks stream up at night, from the numerous potteries which supply

all the neighboring region with dishes and tiles, and pave all the

by-roads with broken crockery. The streets are narrow, and the begrimed

houses seem inclined to stray off on the road to Spain, as if to breathe

the pure mountain air. There is an interesting old church here that was

consecrated in the year 1309. The baptismal font is an ancient

sarcophagus, set up on four pillars, its sides divided by colonnettes,

between which are holy emblems and other carvings. In one chapel there

is a sculptured retable over the altar, with the shrine of St. Vidian

supported by chained Moors—not covered with precious stones, or a work

of art, like so many of the shrines of Italy, but a mere urn of gilded

wood. On great festivals this is taken down and placed before the

grating of the sanctuary, surrounded by lights and flowers. The bust of

the saint is placed above it, the head shaded by nodding white plumes to

give it a martial character, in view of St. Vidian’s achievements, the

face painted more or less after nature, the shoulders covered with a

gilded mantle of imperial fashion, and the neck adorned with a collar,

or necklace, of blue and white crystal—probably the offering of some

devout peasant. In another chapel, on such days likewise full of flowers

and tapers, is St. Vidian’s ivory comb exposed in a kind of monstrance,

as if the object of particular veneration. It is rudely carved, and the

teeth which used to disentangle the long blond locks of the warrior

after battle are of portentous size and length, and jagged from the

conflict. But those were not days of gentle measures. This comb is of

considerable celebrity in the country, not merely on account of its

original use, but also because of the curious tale that hangs around it.

In the golden ages, when kind Heaven directly intervened in human

affairs more frequently than is thought to be the case now, and did not

suffer sacrilegious deeds to go unpunished, a peasant woman of the

neighboring canton of Cazères, who had come to Martres to attend St.

Vidian’s fair, went into the church to pay her devotions at the shrine,

and, finding it empty, was induced by some diabolical inspiration to

steal the wondrous comb, which was not then kept under glass as now. She

hid it under her scarlet _capulet_, and, rejoining her husband at the

market-place, set out for home. The afternoon was drawing to a close.

Some rays of the declining sun still brightened the gray tower of Mauran

among the mountain oaks, but the evening shadows had begun to gather in

the valley below. Accordingly, they hurried along the road that bordered

the river, the irons on their shoes clattering over the stones and

giving out an occasional spark. The woman’s feet, however, often

faltered, and, contrary to custom, her tongue was mute. But this was no

affliction to her husband, and he pretended not to observe it. At

length, on crossing the boundary that separates Martres from Cazères, he

suddenly found himself alone, and, hearing a cry, looked around. His

wife remained fastened on the line, as if by some invisible influence,

with one foot in the parish of Martres and the other in that of Cazères,

without the power of moving. He hurried back to her assistance, but, in

spite of herculean efforts, he could not move her an inch, more than if

she had been Lot’s wife. Night was now coming on fast. Not a ray of the

sun was left on St. Michael’s tower, and they were only half way home. A

cart from the mountains came by, drawn by three cows, and he begged the

driver’s assistance. The woman seized hold of the cart. The driver

goaded the cows. They were usually gentle and tractable, as becomes the

female nature, but they now set off as if suddenly gone mad, leaving the

poor woman behind, her arms nearly dislocated with her efforts, but her

feet still glued to the ground. Then came along some Spaniards with

their mules covered with gay tassels and bells. New efforts were made to

remove her. She clung desperately to bridle and harness, but the mules

so reared and kicked that she was obliged to give up the attempt.

“Certainly the devil must have a hand in this,” said the husband. The

woman rent the mountains with her cries, and at length was forced to

confess the deed she had done. It was evidently a case in which the

spiritual powers alone could be of any avail, and, as she could no more

go back than forward, her husband sent to Martres to make known the case

and ask the benefit of the clergy. As St. Vidian would have it, they

were all keeping solemn vigil at his shrine, and, taking the torches

that stood around it, they came hastening out with cross and banner, and

as soon as they took possession of the relic the woman had stolen, her

feet recovered their liberty. After this the comb was kept under lock

and key, and, at a later day, was placed in the reliquary where it now

is. Of course so stupendous an event caused a great sensation in the

valley, which had not been so stirred up since the Norman invasion, and

made the comb not only an object of universal curiosity but of increased

veneration. The legend is related to this day. It is pretended that the

women of Cazères are a little spiteful about it, and dress their shining

black hair with much more care than their neighbors at Martres, probably

to show they have no need of the comb of St. Vidian.

St. Vidian figures everywhere in this region. Charming legends, handed

down from father to son for ages, have thrown quite a veil of poetry

over numberless places. They are not very clear as to the precise place

of the saint’s birth, but they are quite positive that he was one of the

_preux_ who served under Charlemagne, and had even a dash of imperial

blood in his veins. In his youth he became a hostage for his father, who

had been taken prisoner by the Basques of Luceria, then idolaters. They

sold the young Frank as a slave. An Englishman bought and adopted him,

and as soon as Vidian was sufficiently inured to the use of arms he

organized a crusade against Luceria, which he pillaged and completely

destroyed. Of course such a feat recommended him to his imperial

kinsman. Charlemagne invited him to his court and created him duke.

About this time the Saracens crossed the Pyrenees and began to ravage

the plain of Toulouse. Vidian joined the imperial hosts who came to the

rescue of the land, and entrenched himself with his followers at

Martres, then called Angonia. He defended the place so bravely against

the enemy that for a while it was supposed saved, but, surprised by an

ambuscade near a fountain where he had gone to stanch his wounds, he was

slain after a stout resistance, and the town taken and devastated. When

it rose from its ruins it took the name of Martres in memory of those

who were martyred in trying to defend it.

It is certain that all this part of France was once overrun by the

Moors. They, and the Normans after them, probably destroyed not only

most of the ancient Christian churches, but the monuments left by the

Romans. History has not recorded all the efforts made to repel them, but

a confused memory of the struggle has been left in the minds of the

people, and, colored by time and the warm southern imagination, these

memories have become a genuine cycle of poetic traditions, not the less

founded on fact because only written with the sword and blood of their

ancestors.

The country around Martres is full of character and beauty. The Garonne,

fresh from its mountain sources, winds through the verdant plain. To the

south are broad terraces and wooded hills, and behind is the grand

barrier of mountains, their summits all crystal in the morning light,

and at evening all rose and amethyst. No wonder the Romans thought it

rivalled Italy, and established themselves here. On one of the

neighboring plateaus have been found the remains of a magnificent Roman

villa that must have belonged to some wealthy person of luxurious and

cultivated tastes, to judge by the objects brought to light from time to

time. In 1826 a vault was found by a laborer, and excavations were

systematically made which led to the discovery of sumptuous apartments

paved with mosaics and marble, with remains of columns, statues, and

bas-reliefs, and fine bathing-rooms with furnaces and earthen pipes, and

all the accessories of Roman luxury. Among the works of art that have

been found here are about forty busts and medallions of Roman emperors

and empresses from Augustus down; a white marble statue of a reclining

naiad; the beautiful head of another statue called the Venus de Martres;

medallions of Jupiter, Juno, Minerva, Cybele, and Atys; large

bas-reliefs of Serapis, the labors of Hercules, etc., and several

bronzes. These form quite a gallery of ancient art in the museum at

Toulouse, where we saw them in the old cloister of Augustinian friars.

Beneath one of the plateaus is a pretty fountain with a cross near it,

in the midst of gentle undulations of verdure, shaded by a grove. Here

St. Vidian had his encounter with the Moors and was slain. The pebbles

in the spring are said to be still stained with his blood. Every year

his exploits are celebrated here by a mimic battle between the Moors and

Christians, in which nearly all the male population take part. It is

said the brilliant costume of the Saracens is so attractive to the

younger portion that they show a lamentable disposition to enter the

service of the infidel. However, by dint of cautious measures, both

armies are kept about equal. They consist of nearly one hundred and

twenty-five men each, of whom fifty are horsemen. The Moorish cavaliers

wear red and white turbans with silver trimmings; green stomachers

adorned with a yellow crescent; orange coats turned out with red

facings; girdles of scarlet silk; and blue pantaloons of Oriental

amplitude. It will at once be perceived that nothing could be more

gorgeous. The infantry are less pretentious. They content themselves

with the white pantaloons of the French hussar, but make up for this

with bright orange vests a Mameluke might envy. The Christian knights

wear a black pasteboard helmet with a silver cross on the front, a blue

tunic, and a tin cuirass that is quite dazzling in the sun. The

foot-soldiers are dressed in gray, with blue caps, and a silver cross on

their breasts. Both armies are furnished with tall lances, and each has

its standard. That of the Moors is green and orange. On it gleams the

ominous silver crescent. The Christians’ is blue and bears the

redoubtable figure of St. Vidian.

The battle takes place on St. Vidian’s day. The relics of the saint are

exposed in the church. High Mass is celebrated with the utmost pomp.

Even the followers of Islam are so unfaithful to their traditional

intolerance as to attend and present arms at the Elevation of the Host,

in utter disregard of the Prophet. Mass over, the clergy and people go

in procession to the miraculous fount, bearing the shrine and chanting

the hymn of St. Vidian. There they bathe the bust of the saint in memory

of his wounds. These traditional services concluded, the military ardor

of the soldiers begins to assert itself. The two armies draw up on the

neighboring field. Prodigious acoustic performances are made on the drum

of the commune. Military evolutions begin. The banners fly. Red, yellow,

and blue uniforms flash across the green field. The cavaliers show

themselves true paladins. Such curveting and prancing have not been seen

since the days of Charlemagne and Haroun al Raschid; at least, on such

steeds—mostly farm horses the worse for wear. Sometimes the contest

becomes too warm and real. However, their ardor never lasts longer than

is warranted by tradition. The Moorish flag is invariably captured by

the Christians, and the battle-field deserted till the next anniversary

of St. Vidian’s martyrdom.

Vigilantius, the first heresiarch that troubled the peace of Christian

Gaul, was a native of Callagorris. He was of a roving turn and a lover

of novelty. In early life he crossed over into Spain and there became an

inn-keeper. Then we hear of him as a priest at Barcelona. He made the

acquaintance of St. Paulinus (afterwards of Nola) in Spain, who was

induced to give him a letter of recommendation to St. Jerome. Furnished

with this, he went to the Holy Land, but there he took sides with the

enemies of St. Jerome and attacked the monastic life, celibacy of the

clergy, the veneration of relics, the use of candles in the daytime,

etc. St. Jerome, sarcastically referring to his original calling, told

him the faculty of testing wine and that of expounding the Scriptures

were not quite the same, and advised him to acquire the elements of

grammar and the other sciences, and then learn to be silent. His

countrymen do not seem to have been influenced by his example, however,

but have always been remarkable for their confidence in the saints and

veneration for relics.

Five or six miles beyond Martres we came to St. Martory, so named from a

holy monk of the East whose beautiful legend is related by St. Gregory.

One evening this saint, on his way to a neighboring monastery, overtook

a poor leper forced by fatigue and disease to rest by the wayside.

Filled with intense compassion, St. Martyri, as he is otherwise called,

spread his cloak on the ground, placed the leper thereon, and, carefully

wrapping him up, took him on his shoulder and proceeded on his way. The

abbot of the monastery, seeing him coming, cried: “Hasten, my brethren,

to open the gates. Behold Brother Martyri coming, bearing the Lord.”

While they were gone to execute his command the leper descended from the

good monk’s shoulders, and, taking the form under which the Redeemer is

usually represented, he addressed him in these words: “Martyri, thou

hast had pity on me on earth; I will glorify thee in heaven.” And, while

the monk was gazing at him in speechless amazement, he ascended to

heaven. When St. Martyri entered, the abbot asked what he had done with

the person he was carrying. The saint replied: “Oh! had I known who he

was, I would have held him by the feet!” And he related how light he had

seemed on the way. The body of St. Martory is still revered in the

church.

Not long after leaving St. Martory we came in sight of the towers of St.

Gaudens at one end of a broad plateau, once the place of a Roman

encampment. Behind it are the mountains that enclose the beautiful

valleys of Aure and Campan, the Pic du Midi, and the whole of the mighty

chain that binds sea to sea. Below is a vast plain, fertile and smiling,

supposed to be the bed of a lake in which the waters of the Neste once

mingled with those of the Garonne. On the other side are to be seen the

ancient thermal place of Labarthe, overlooked by a feudal tower and a

village that dates from the fourth century, called Valentine, in honor,

it is said, of Valentinian II., who was assassinated in Gaul Narbonnaise

in 392. Here and there in the fields are found remains that attest the

importance of the place under the Romans—fragments of tombs,

bas-reliefs, and antique vases. At one corner of the church of Valentine

is the head of a Roman soldier with his helmet on, and near it a white

marble urn. Inserted in the wall of the church is a marble slab with a

Latin inscription, thought to be of the fourth century, which may be

thus rudely rendered:

“Nymphius, whose limbs are cold and stiff in eternal sleep, reposes

here. His soul is in heaven. It contemplates the stars, while his body

is left to the repose of the tomb. His faith dispelled the darkness that

seemed to envelop it. O Nymphius! the renown of thy virtues raised thee

to the very stars and placed thee in the zenith. Thou art immortal, and

thy glory will be perpetuated in ages to come. The province honors thee

as its father. The entire population made vows for the preservation of

thy life. At the celebration of the games due to thy munificence the

spectators on the gradations of the arena testified their joy by

acclamations. Once thy beloved country, at thy command, assembled its

magistrates and spoke worthily by thy lips. Now our cities, deprived of

thee, are plunged in mourning, and the senators, in consternation, are

incapable of action. They are like the human body that, deprived of its

head, falls lifeless and inert, or a flock without its shepherd that

knows not which way to direct its steps. Serena, thy spouse, abandoned

to grief, erects this monument to thee, and finds in this pious duty a

slight solace for her pain. Thy companion for eight lustres, she only

thought and acted by thee. At thy side life seemed sweet. Now, abandoned

to her sorrow, she sighs for the eternal life, hoping that which she now

possesses may be brief.”

What a tale might be woven out of the epitaph of this old Roman, who

died fourteen hundred years ago in this remote valley—made up of

domestic bliss, political honors, the happiness that virtue alone can

bestow, and an untimely death mourned by the public and, above all, by

the gentle-hearted Serena!

The Romans knew how to choose their sites. Nothing can exceed the charm

of this region, especially in the month of May, when we visited it for

the first time. The fresh valleys, the clear streams, the unexpected

views at every turn, the harmonious outlines of the landscape, are a

perpetual delight to the eye. The fertile plain of Valentine especially

is so lovely that all the mountain-tops seem crowding together to gaze

at and admire it, and they send down their purest streams to preserve

its freshness and beauty.

On the sides of the plateau that overlooks Valentine a young shepherd,

named Gaudentius, led his flocks to pasture in the latter part of the

fifth century. His mother, a holy woman of the name of Quitterie, had

brought him up in the practice of the most fervent piety. The country at

that time was in possession of the Visigoths. Euric had succeeded to the

throne by slaying his brother, Theodoric II. He was a man of great

military genius, who extended his conquests in Gaul from the Loire

beyond the Rhone, and carried war beyond the Pyrenees with so much

success that he conquered most of the Peninsula. Toulouse was thus made

the capital of an immense empire that extended from Provence to

Andalusia. Euric was a fanatical Arian, and, attributing his success to

his fidelity to his principles, he began a violent persecution of the

Catholics, though they constituted a large part of his subjects.

Executioners were frequently his missionaries, and one of these

summarily opened heaven to the young shepherd Gaudentius, who, refusing

to apostatize, gave a last look at his mother, who encouraged him, and

submitted to martyrdom. His remains were carefully transported to the

place of his residence, and, after the downfall of the Visigoths, an

oratory was erected over his grave.

Such miracles were now wrought through the instrumentality of St.

Gaudens that his fame extended all through the country, people came to

live around his tomb, and a village soon sprang up that took his name.

More than a thousand years passed away without diminishing the affluence

at St. Gaudens’ tomb, but in the sixteenth century the town was taken by

Montgomery the Huguenot, the church stripped of its ornaments and

greatly injured, the statues broken, the tombs desecrated, and most of

St. Gaudens’ relics thrown into the flames. But that was a way of

reforming the Huguenots had.

“N’est ce pas réformer, quand on trouve une église

Trop riche, lui ravir ses trésors anciens?”

says the old Plainte de la Guienne of 1577 with a bitterness that is

quite natural. The bullet-holes made in the church are still pointed

out. This is a noteworthy building of the Romanesque style, with round

arches, clustered columns, and carved capitals. Each aisle ends in a

chapel, and a choir is at the apsis. Over the altar is a statue of the

Virgin that, before the Revolution, belonged to the neighboring abbey of

Bonnefont, now completely destroyed. This statue is the production of

Pierre Lucas, the founder of the academy of art at Toulouse. A priory

was formerly attached to the church of St. Gaudens, dependent on the

abbey of St. Sernin at Toulouse, but it has been totally destroyed. The

old cloister of Pyrenean marble, built by Bernard I., Bishop of

Comminges, and of the race of its counts, has also been destroyed. Of

the tombs that once lined the arcades, only one here and there is left,

with its touching mediæval inscription, and perchance some consoling

emblem of religion, such as a cluster of grapes on a vine branch,

recalling the Saviour’s words, “I am the vine and ye are the branches”;

the monogram of Christ; the Alpha and Omega, etc.—symbols of hope graven

on the cold marble tomb. And there is an ancient portal over which used

to hang the horseshoes of Abderahman’s steed, which, according to

tradition, plunged and reared when his master attempted to pillage the

shrine of St. Gaudens, and thus lost its shoes. The horse of Montgomery

seems to have been of a coarser nature, and as insensible as his

ferocious owner to the spiritual influences around the tombs of the

saints.

There is a kind of mournful pleasure in sitting down among the ruins of

such old cloisters, listening to the echoes of past times, and trying to

decipher the pious inscriptions on the tombstones among the rank grass,

and to divine the history of those who lie beneath—once centres of fond

affection, but now forgotten and unknown. Through the rifts in the wall

is seen the peaceful rural valley, with the Pyrenees in the distance,

resplendent in the light; and the contrast between all that is graceful

and sublime in nature, and the desolation of this spot once beautified

by art and hallowed by religion, is exceedingly touching. How peaceful,

how religious, this cloister must have been, where paced the silent,

prayerful monk among the tombs! And there is a sacredness in its present

desolation that appeals to the heart; if the solemnity of the ancient

arches is wanting, there is no lack of beauty in the lovely vistas among

the picturesque mountains and delicious valleys.

St. Gaudens is a place of four or five thousand inhabitants, with old

blackened houses full of industry. The country around is densely

populated, and at certain seasons many go into the neighboring districts

to add to their slender earnings. The young men have a commercial taste,

and all through the Pyrenees you meet peddlers and colporteurs from St.

Gaudens, hawking their small wares with amusing pertinacity. The girls,

too, in harvest-time descend to the neighboring valleys to offer their

services, and there are many popular _rondeaux_ that allude to them.

“Las fillos de Sen Gaoudens nou n’an d’argent,

Las qui nou n’an qu’en bouléren:

Faridoundaino, qu’en bouléren.”

—The girls of St. Gaudens are penniless, and those without money desire

it. Tum-te-tum, yes, desire it.

“Aou pays bach, anem! anem!

Coillé d’argent!

En sega blat et dailla hen,

Faridoundaino, n’en gagnaren.”

—Down to the valleys let us go, go! Money to seek, by reaping grain and

raking hay. Tum-te-tum, we shall gain some.

On the outskirts of St. Gaudens is shown the house where St. Raymond was

born—the celebrated founder of the order of Calatrava, which rendered

such glorious services to Spain, and thereby to all Christendom, in the

struggle with the Moors. It is a humble birthplace for one who gathered

under his banner the haughtiest grandees of Spain. His companion,

Durand, was also a native of St. Gaudens. They both became monks at the

noted abbey of Escale-Dieu, where they inured themselves by austerities

for the mission Providence had in reserve for them. There would seem to

be but little in common with the peaceful pursuits of the Cistercians

and the valiant exploits of the knights of Calatrava, to those who know

nothing of the bracing discipline of monastic life.

Not far from St. Gaudens is the chapel of Notre Dame du Bout-du-Puy—a

place of pilgrimage, enriched with indulgences by Pope Innocent XI. It

is under the continual guardianship of a hermit. This Madonna is

particularly invoked by people in danger of death. Among the _ex votos_

on the wall is the picture of a child carried away by a neighboring

torrent, the mother kneeling on the bank with eyes and arms raised

towards heaven, where Mary appears, commanding the waves to bring back

her child.

We have mentioned the tower of Labarthe. The viscounts of this name were

the lords of the Four Valleys for several centuries, and played an

important _rôle_ in the history of Bigorre. The fifth Vicomte de

Labarthe married the grand-daughter of Eudoxia, the daughter of Emmanuel

Comnenus, Emperor of Constantinople, who died at Rome in the odor of

sanctity, and was buried at the church of the Vatican. Geraud de

Labarthe, Archbishop of Auch, put on the cross and accompanied Richard

the Lion-hearted to the Holy Land as the prefect of his army. One of the

glories of this race is Marshal Paul de Labarthe, Lord of Thermes, who

lived in the sixteenth century and saw six kings succeed each other on

the throne of France. He took part in the siege of Naples, and, made

prisoner by the corsairs, endured a severe captivity for two years. He

afterwards distinguished himself in the Piedmont war and fighting in

Scotland against the English, and was finally created Marshal of France.

He was so noted for his humanity that the Huguenots said he could not

hold his place as governor of Paris because he was “too little inclined

to slaughter.” Some of his descendants still live in Bigorre.

On our way to Bagnères de Bigorre we stopped to visit the abbey of

Escale-Dieu, at the bottom of a deep valley enclosed among the hills.

The name is derived from _Scala Dei_—the ladder of God—a ladder to aid

man in his ascent to heaven! No name could be more appropriate for a

monastery where, as Wordsworth says, paraphrasing the words of St.

Bernard:

“Man more purely lives; less oft doth fall;

More promptly rises; walks with nicer tread;

More safely rests; dies happier; is freed

Earlier from cleansing fires; and gains withal

A brighter crown.”

This abbey is on the banks of the Arros, a river noted for its impetuous

character and sudden overflows. It has its source in the valley of

Oueil, the ancient _Vallis Oculi_—so called from its shape, where it is

said three barons once could breakfast together without leaving their

own domains. Near by is a little hamlet called Mayleu, on the edge of a

torrent, where on stormy nights pale lights are said to wave to and fro

on the current, which the mountaineers say are caused by the soul of an

old miser that agitates the waters—emblem of his restless life, spent in

grasping the goods of others with insatiable avidity. His influence

surely extends all along the Arros.

The valley of Escale-Dieu was given to a community of Cistercian monks

in the twelfth century by Beatrix, Countess of Bigorre, in order, as she

says in her charter, that she “might be accounted as a sister in Christ

by the brethren of Escale-Dieu in their watchings, and fastings, and

prayers, and obtain the redemption of her soul, her husband’s, her

father, Centulle’s, her mother, Amable’s, and other relatives’.” The

Cistercians were famous as agriculturists, and in bestowing on them

large tracts of land the old lords of the middle ages ensured the best

means of bringing the country under cultivation and humanizing the

inhabitants. The monks built a church here under the invocation of SS.

Peter and Paul, which was consecrated October 23, 1142, by the

Archbishop of Auch, in the presence of the Countess Beatrix and her

husband, many abbots and neighboring lords, and an immense crowd of

people. This church became the St. Denis of the counts of Bigorre, who

doubtless thought to rest here in peace till the end of the world; for

the abbey was at that time so remote from the highways of travel that

its solitude was almost unbroken. The Countess Beatrix was one of the

first to be buried here, but her tomb was broken open at the Revolution,

and the remains, spared by centuries, fell into dust at contact with the

air.

The first abbot of Escale-Dieu was a son of the Vicomte de Labarthe, and

his successors, over forty in number, were mostly from the great

families of the country. The house was immediately dependent on the Holy

See, and the Sovereign Pontiff forbade any one to rob, burn, make any

arrest, commit murder, or do any violence on its domains.

One peculiarity about its history is that, contrary to most great

monasteries, no town or village ever sprang up around it. It remained

solitary in its valley, studying “the secret lore of rural things” and

pruning the wings of Contemplation, unconscious that Providence was to

give it a mission in the world seemingly incompatible with the spirit of

the order. The monks became so numerous, however, that two colonies were

sent across the Pyrenees under the charge of St. Raymond and Durand, to

found the abbeys of Yergo and Fitero. In 1147 the town of Calatrava, the

bulwark of Andalusia, was taken by Alfonso, King of Castile, and

entrusted to the care of the Knights Templars, who held it for ten

years. Then the success of the Moors made them fear they would not be

able to defend it any longer, and they resigned the place to the king.

The latter, embarrassed at having it thrown on his hands, offered it to

any one who would undertake its defence. St. Raymond, indignant to see

knights, vowed to the defence of religion, thus abandon the post of

danger, asked the honor of taking their place. The king willingly

consented. St. Raymond went through the provinces preaching a kind of

crusade, and twenty thousand soldiers ranged themselves under the

Cistercian banner. Their success made him conceive the idea of cementing

the union of the knights with his order. The abbot of Escale-Dieu did

not at first approve of the design. “What an idea,” said he, “for

solitaries by profession to convert a monastery into a school of war,

and flatter themselves tumultuous exercises can be combined with the

silence of prayer and the chanting of Psalms!” A chapter of the

Cistercian order was held, but the Kings of France and Castile, and the

Duke of Burgundy, overcame the scruples of the abbot, and the pope

issued a bull authorizing the affiliation of the Knights of Calatrava

with the Cistercian Order as lay brothers. All the houses in Spain were

subjected to the rule of the abbot of Escale-Dieu, who had the right of

visiting and inspecting them till the secularization of the knights.

The most brilliant era in the history of Escale-Dieu is the thirteenth

century. Two saints had sprung from the house (for we must not forget

St. Bertrand of Comminges, one of the most popular saints of the

Pyrenees, whose tomb is still honored in the town called by his name);

it held rule over ten monasteries in Spain; and it was greatly enriched

by the neighboring lords, particularly by the counts of Bigorre, who

made it their burial-place. The Countess Petronilla, so famous for her

five husbands, was a great benefactress of the house. Besides endowing

it during her life, she bequeathed it, at her death, all her gold and

silver vessels and reliquaries, her jewels, rings, and precious stones,

her dresses (probably for vestments), sheets, and blankets. Her first

husband was Gaston, Viscount of Bearn, who took sides with Count Raymond

of Toulouse, but was reconciled to the church before his death. The

second was Nuñez Sancho of Aragon, whom she repudiated under pretext of

consanguinity. The third was Guy de Montfort, son of the great opponent

of the Albigenses, who was killed at the siege of Castelnaudary. The

fourth, Aymar de Rançon, who died about the same time as her second

husband. And finally, Boson de Matas, Lord of Cognac. After these five

chapters she died at the Abbey of Escale-Dieu in great need, it is

thought, of expiatory prayers and good works. Henry III. of England was

captivated by the beauty of her daughter Amate, and three other princes

sought to obtain her hand in marriage; but she married Gaston VII. of

Bearn, and two of her daughters, by the intermediation of Abbot Bernard

of the house of Castelbajac, married princes of Aragon.

One of the viscounts of Lavedan also became a benefactor to the abbey,

and in his deed of conveyance declares he gives it the soil, the rocks,

the vegetation, the fruit, leaves, all that rises from the land towards

heaven, and all it contains in its depths.

Rising over the valley of Escale-Dieu are the ruins of the old feudal

castle of Mauvezin, like a vulture’s nest on the cliff, overlooking the

whole country. It was once considered impregnable, and was, after that

of Lourdes, the most important fortress in Bigorre. From this castle

went many a valiant knight to the Crusades. One of them, in making his

preparations to go beyond the seas with St. Louis, gave to “God and

Madame St. Mary of Escale-Dieu” fifty sols of Morlaas money[109] from

the rents of the thermal springs of Capvern.

Footnote 109:

A sol Morlaas was worth about 2.4 francs.

In early times the abbey found a kind protector in the castle; but when,

at a later period, it became the stronghold of freebooters, who only

issued forth to pillage the lowlands and fat abbeys, the good monks of

Escale-Dieu had reason to call it a _Mauvais Voisin_—a bad neighbor—a

name that has ever since clung to it.

When the English took possession of the country after the treaty of

Brétigny, the Black Prince established a garrison of soldiers here, who

rendered themselves as famous for their brigandage as for their heroic

exploits. When the Duke of Anjou and Duguesclin went to the Pyrenees in

1374 to root the English out of the land, the castles of Lourdes and

Mauvezin long resisted their stoutest efforts. The latter was besieged

by eight thousand men, but the castle was so strong that it would have

held out a long time, had not the supply of water been cut off by the

capture of the outer cistern. The garrison now suffered all the horrors

of thirst under a burning sun. Froissart says the weather was

excessively warm, and not a drop of rain had fallen for six weeks. There

was no choice but to surrender. Captain Raimounet de l’Epée, the

commander of the fortress, like the true Gascon he was, made the best of

his fate, and offered to yield up the castle on conditions that were the

most advantageous to himself and his soldiers. Unwilling to lose any of

his plunder, he stipulated that they should be allowed to depart in

freedom, taking with them all they and their sumpter-horses could carry.

The duke consented, saying: “Go about your business, every man to his

own country, without entering any fort that holds out against us; for,

if you do, and I get hold of you, I will deliver you up to Josselin [the

executioner], who will shave you without a razor.”

Raimounet had fought well for the English, but he had an eye to the main

chance, and he now showed the nature of his bravery by entering the

service of the Duke of Anjou and continuing, under the _fleurs-de-lis_

of France, the pillaging he had so long practised under the leopards of

England. What he had not seized in the name of St. George he now took in

honor of St. Denis, and thus filled both pockets at once. He died

fighting by the side of the Duke of Anjou under the walls of Naples.

The sixteenth century, so fatal to innumerable churches and monasteries

in France, did not spare the abbey of Escale-Dieu. The Huguenots now

invaded the peaceful valley and proved far worse than the old troopers

of Raimounet de l’Epée. The first band came in 1518 and burned the

stables and the abbot’s residence. In 1567 a more formidable company

appeared that put the monks to flight and took possession of the abbey,

which they made the centre of their operations, issuing suddenly forth

from time to time, like birds of prey, to plunder some church, or

monastery, or well-garnished priest’s house. Blasphemies now resounded

beneath the arches only accustomed to the voice of prayer and psalmody.

All religious emblems were destroyed. The sanctuary angels feared to

tread witnessed their orgies. At length, by the combined efforts of some

of the lords of Bigorre, they were routed from the abbey, but before

leaving they set fire to it and nearly destroyed it. In this destruction

was included the fine old Romanesque church of the twelfth century,

where St. Raymond and St. Bertrand had so often prayed, and the cloister

they had so often paced in silent meditation. It is a poor comfort to

know that the leaders of this sacrilegious deed were taken and executed

at Toulouse. The monks returned to Escale-Dieu, but only to find it in

ruins. In the course of time, however, it was rebuilt, but in an

inferior style, as suited their diminished means, and the house led a

precarious existence till the French Revolution, when it was once more

ravaged, the very tombs violated, and the monks for ever dispersed.

The abbey is now owned by a layman who is more interested in agriculture

than archæology. It contains, however, but little that is ancient. At

the end of a long file of poplars you see the dome and white walls of

the church, a building of the seventeenth century, now a grange. There

is a flower-garden on the site of the ancient cloister, and in the walls

are encrusted a few of the old columns with palm-leaves sculptured on

the capitals, emblem of spiritual victory. And the hallowed name of

Escale-Dieu, which once gave laws to Spanish knights, is now degraded to

a mere post station.

Mauvezin itself became the hold of the Huguenots under Captain de Sus in

1584, and they made the castle more than ever worthy of its name. They

extended their ravages as far as St. Bertrand of Comminges, and the name

of their leader became a terror in the land. Now the castle is in ruins,

which are as melancholy as its history. The square, massive tower that

withstood so many attacks is roofless, windowless, and dismantled.

Beneath is the vaulted dungeon where the prisoner once groaned in

vain—dark and hopeless as the tomb. Over one of the doors of the tower

is an escutcheon on which the arms of Foix are quartered with those of

Bearn, with the inscription _Fébus mé fé_—Phœbus made me; for here lived

for a time the famous Gaston Phœbus of Bearn. The kite and the osprey

inhabit it now. The hoarse notes of birds of prey well suit the place

where once resounded the war-cries of Raimounet de l’Epée and Captain de

Sus.

Two leagues from Mauvezin is Bagnères de Bigorre, one of the most

popular watering-places in the Pyrenees. Here “_Esculapius est sans

barbe et sans rides_” says the poet Lemierre. Long before you arrive you

see the tower of the Jacobins rising into the air light and slender as a

column. It is a clean, attractive town in a circular valley surrounded

by hills cultivated to the very top, or covered with woods whose shady

paths are full of mystery. The valley is watered by several streams, and

cooled by mountain breezes that are delicious in summer. Numerous canals

convey the waters of the Adour through most of the streets of the town,

giving a certain freshness to the air, and a supply of water for

domestic purposes. An old author attributes the foundation of the place

to Venus and Hebe, and says it was here the god Mars came to be healed

when wounded at the siege of Troy. It was, at least, frequented by the

Romans, who gave it the name of _Vicus Aquensis_. Their homages to the

nymphs who guard the springs are still to be seen graven on marble, such

as: _Nymphis pro salute sud, Sever. Seranus_ V. S. L. M.

Like most of the towns of this region, Bagnères was formerly held by the

Visigoths, Saracens, Normans, and English one after the other, but seems

to have been spared by the Huguenots, who perhaps were more afraid of

offending the water-nymphs than the saints. The people, it is said,

propitiated their leaders by sending them occasionally a tribute of

butter and maize. The town, notwithstanding its antiquity, has but few

ancient remains. There is a feudal tower or two that formed part of the

old fortifications, necessary when, as Froissart says, it was so often

worried and beset by the garrison at Mauvezin. The old church of the

Templars is standing, but used for profane purposes.

There are many agreeable promenades around Bagnères. One of these is to

a green hollow among abrupt cliffs, called the _Elysée-Cottin_, from

Madame Cottin, who was very fond of this quiet nook. It was here she is

said to have conceived the noble character of Malek Adhel, which so

delighted us in our youth, and wrote not only _Mathilde_ but some of her

other works. It is a charming retreat with a fountain in the bottom of

the valley, in her time shaded by fine beeches and ash-trees, which have

since been cut down.

The Allée Maintenon is so called in honor of Mme. de Maintenon, who

accompanied the Duc du Maine here for his health. This Allée begins at

the end of the town, and, climbing a steep hill, proceeds along the

plateau of Pouey till it comes to a spot where you can see the whole

plain of Bigorre, and the waters of the Adour dashing down the steep

sides of the mountains. Here, taking the road to Campan, you soon come

to the place where once stood the Capuchin convent of Médoux, founded in

the sixteenth century by Susanne de Grammont, Marchioness of Monpezat.

It was particularly renowned for a miraculous statue of the Virgin,

honored under the name of _Sancta Maria in Melle dulci_, corrupted into

Notre Dame de Médoux. The convent was destroyed during the Revolutionary

period, but the Madonna, so dear to popular piety, was saved and now

adorns the high altar of the church of Asté. The people say it was

miraculously transported through the air and thus saved. It is of white

marble, and a genuine work of art, by an Italian sculptor. It was the

gift of one of the viscounts of Asté, who were generous patrons of the

monastery. The expression and pure outline of the face, the dignity of

the attitude, and the graceful flow of the drapery excite the admiration

of every visitor.

A modern villa now occupies the place of the convent. It is in the midst

of a fine park watered by a stream that comes pouring out of a cool

grotto. Nothing could be more delightfully rural. Not far off is an old

feudal tower, and beyond is Baudeau, the birthplace of Larrey, the

favorite surgeon of Napoleon. The Vicomte de Castelbajac has sung the

beauties of this spot where once stood

“Une chapelle hospitalière

Toujours ouverte au pélerin,

Jamais il n’y frappait en vain;

Et le malheur et la misère,

La pauvre veuve et l’orphelin,

Y trouvaient toujours la prière

Et l’aumône du Capucin.”

“CATHEDRAL WOODS,”

MANCHESTER, MASSACHUSETTS.

Hushed grow our voices as our footsteps fall

These darksome woods’ high fretted roof beneath,

Whose living arches, sprung from living sheath,

Are organ-pipes for winds to play withal.

We leave, without, the meadow’s autumn glare—

Its Tyrian wealth of asters prodigal,

Its pomp of scarlet-robed cardinal,

Its gentian that doth heaven’s livery wear.

So leave we, too, the sparkle of the sea,

And land-locked beach where waves break lazily.

Herein we seem among the hills at rest;

Their balm by breath of salt wind undefiled;

Freshness of streams, and strength of great rocks piled,

Seem by our souls in this calm shade possessed,

Where hemlocks stretch their dusky branches o’er

The scattered rocks, whereto the green moss clings,

Catching the prisoned sunbeam as it flings

A miser’s portion of its golden store,

As if it feared to break the shadow deep,

To mar some vigil these grave giants keep.

Here only mountain incense seeming fills

The lofty arches, by sea-wind unbent,

That rise as if with height still nobler blent:

Some peak, cloud-piercing, 'mid the sunlit hills

Whose glamour holds us fast, whose blossoms lie

The darkness of the broken rocks amid,

Whose written speech in these lithe ferns is hid,

Whose forests whisper in the winds’ low sigh.

Should any bird this inland silence break,

Sure in his song the mountains’ soul would wake.

Hearken! breaks through the silence soft a sound

Faint as the thought of half-forgotten dream.

Not speech so sad is that of mountain stream

That from all loftiest heights doth reckless bound,

Scattering its broken life in shining drift

Of constant dew that mocketh at the sun.

Nor breathes the wind in such low, measured tone

When doth it lightly leafy branches lift—

This wakes and dies in mournful monotone:

The sea’s vast life dashed out against a stone!

Some law this chant seems ever to obey—

Advancing, swells, now sinketh in retreat,

Sad-voiced like life that knoweth but defeat,

Yet still with patient purpose keeps its way.

Joy-burdened silence of the hills, farewell!

And salt sea-wind, thy carven choir reclaim!

Brave sun, set all these dusky trunks aflame!

Lost are our mountains in yon ceaseless swell

That, shoreward rolling, lapsing quietly,

Holds all the strength of the untiring sea.

The land grows little, and we crave the blue

No earthly shade e’er shutteth from the sun,

The barren sands whereon the light waves run

But rest not, bidding evermore adieu,

And evermore returning, bringing gifts

They give and take, and still give o’er again.

We crave the vastness of the salty plain!

As sea-bird on unbreaking billow drifts

Our hearts with that soft plashing throb in time—

Longing, we list our dim cathedral chime.

One well might paint the hemlock solitude,

The quiet shadow that the sunshine breaks;

Even in color give the song that wakes

At windy touch amid the peaceful wood.

Limned all might be, indeed, so cunningly

That one should hear the babble of glad stream,

E’en catch the climbing mountains’ happy gleam;

But—who could paint the murmur of the sea?

Who dream, amid these dark boughs closing o’er,

The song eternal of the broken shore?

JULIETTE: A NORMAN STORY.

I.

Marriage is in one respect not unlike greatness: some are born to it,

some achieve it, some have it thrust upon them. And the last-named some

are apt to find it as unprofitable an acquisition as to Napoleon the

Little it proved to be the nephew of his uncle.

Now, M. de Boisrobert was a born bachelor, and, left to himself, a

bachelor he would have died. But who shall gainsay fate? Upon him gayly

baccalaureating Fate fixed her eagle eye and made up her mind that he

should marry. Not without reason has Fate been made a female. When a

person of that charming but inflexible sex makes up her mind that any

bachelor of her acquaintance shall marry, we know what happens. Married

M. de Boisrobert accordingly was, with what direful consequences to the

poor gentleman the reader shall see.

Up to his forty-fifth year Messire Guillaume Georges de Boisrobert,

Sieur de Boisrobert and Saintange, had lived the happy life of a country

gentleman upon his estates in Normandy, near Evreux, satisfied with

himself and with the world. Indeed, he had every reason to be satisfied,

possessing as he did a fine château, a princely income, an honorable

name, an easy conscience, and the respect of all who knew him. From the

summit of his towers, look which way he would (and his sight was keen,

as so good a sportsman’s should be), he could scarce fix the boundary of

his domains. Farms, meadow-land, and woodland, his broad acres stretched

for many a mile along the blue waters of the Eure; upon his pastures fed

sheep and cattle by the hundred; in his stables neighed scores of

gallant steeds. Yet, strange to say, with all his wealth, envy had no

word for him, nor was he even decried more than it was fitting a rich

and handsome bachelor should be. Certain maiden ladies of uncertain age,

to whose charms he had, perhaps, been ungallantly cold, sometimes,

indeed, made light among themselves of his pretensions to noble birth.

That, truly, was the simple gentleman’s weakness, and he loved to style

himself after the stately fashion written above.

“He De Boisrobert, forsooth!” Mlle. Reiné might say over her tatting (or

is it tattling the ladies call it?). “He was never aught but plain”

(“plain indeed!” Mlle. Gudule would giggle, pointing the _mot_ with her

crochet-needle. Ah! thou thoughtest otherwise, fair Gudule, of his

beauty when the embroidered slippers, and watch-pockets, and what-nots

worked by thy own fair fingers—or thy maid’s—deluged the château and

made largesse for its kitchen!)—“plain Guillaume Robert till his father,

the notary, got an army contract and left him money enough to buy the

wood in which his dismal old château is buried—the stingy old hunks!”

Now, this was not entirely true; and these fair Ariadnes were, to say

the least, uncharitable. But it must be remembered, for the credit of

the sex, that these events took place very long ago—so long ago, indeed,

as the time of that great and glorious monarch, Louis XIV.—“le doyen des

Rois,” as he called himself—whose majesty was like the sun (which orb,

indeed, depicted in the act of illuminating the world, he modestly took

for his device), and whose grandeur was indisputably shown in the fact

that he could eat more for dinner than any man in his kingdom.[110] In

point of fact, no small number of his loving subjects, owing to their

sovereign’s majestic and princely appetite, had rarely anything to eat

at all. But to return to our sheep.

Footnote 110:

Read the monarch’s usual _menu_ in the memoirs of the Princess

Palatine, who seems to look with a certain _naïve_ admiration on the

trencher prowess of her august kinsman: “The king devours with ease at

a single meal four basins of different kinds of soup, a pheasant

whole, a partridge, a dish of salad, two slices of ham, some mutton

with gravy, a plate of pastry, and for dessert (_O dura messorum

ilia!_) a quantity of hard-boiled eggs and fruits of every sort, the

whole washed down with abundance of wines.” Here, at least, he might

justly claim to be _nec pluribus impar_.

M. de Boisrobert was not stingy. On the contrary, his open-handed, and

even profuse, hospitality endeared him to all the men about him, who

had, no doubt, their own private reasons for liking him, as some of the

women had theirs for looking upon him with a different feeling. The

manner of his living was almost lordly; and when he was at home, it was

nothing but junketing and merriment from month’s end to month’s end. An

enthusiastic sportsman himself, his stables and his kennels contained

the best that money could buy; while his huntsmen, his gamekeepers, and

his beaters were a small army in themselves. Being so rich and so

generous, he was naturally looked upon with great respect, and even

liking, through all the country round; and many a man who had little

reverence for aught besides would doff his hat most humbly to the

well-furnished larder of that excellent M. de Boisrobert.

It must be said, however, that in his case—what is unhappily not always

true—this respect was rightly his, for better reasons. Amiable, simple,

and sincere, a scrupulous observer of his word, his charity was greater

than his hospitality, and his piety was as unbounded as his wealth.

Every morning he was first at Mass in the little village church of

Boisrobert, whose excellent _curé_ was his favorite and, it may be said,

his only intimate associate. His best friends, indeed, he counted among

that admirable class, whose sterling and unobtrusive virtues he

thoroughly appreciated. It was strange that so worthy a _penchant_ was

destined to lead him into the great danger of his life. Of the great

folks our friend was a little shy; and as for the small farmers and

_hobereaux_, or “squireens” (to borrow from the familiar speech of

Ireland a word which alone fitly translates it), who made the bulk of

the neighboring landed proprietors, their tastes and habits were little

congenial to his own. So good Father Bernard and he were much together;

and a pleasant sight it was to see the two friends placidly angling,

side by side, for the fish which somehow a French angler seems quite as

well satisfied never to catch; or, in the bright summer evenings,

playing bowls with all the zest of school-boys on the village green. No

more welcome guest than Father Bernard entered the gates of the Château

de Boisrobert; and when the November nights grew chilly, and the logs

were piled high and glowing in the wide Norman hearth (its owner always

quoted Horace at such times, and old Mère Chicon, the housekeeper, knew

as well as any one that _dissolve frigus_ was the Latin for “stir up the

fire and fetch a bottle of Burgundy,” and had had, indeed, many bouts

thereanent with the village schoolmaster, in which that worthy was not

always triumphant), our hero liked nothing better than to engage his

friend in a contest at chess, or _trictrac_, or _piquet_, or, over a jug

of Norman cider or the aforesaid Burgundy, to discuss the movements of

the court, with which he professed to be in constant communication.

That was, as we have said, the honest gentleman’s foible—almost his sole

one; he secretly worshipped rank, and often sighed to think that he, who

might—and, he sometimes added to himself, should—have been a De Rohan

was only a De Boisrobert, barely a gentleman, by virtue of the lands his

money had bought. Yet, if not the rose, he had at least lived near the

rose. The son of a notary himself, he was yet distantly connected with

one of the noblest names in France, as he was by no means slow in making

folks aware.

“My good cousin, De Beaumanoir,” he would say in an off-hand way,

pronouncing the name _tout sec_, like the provincial ladies in the

_Roman Comique_, though to his face he never ventured to address him

otherwise than as M. le Comte—“my good cousin De Beaumanoir writes me

that he is to visit Saint-Aignan at his country-seat, and will have me

to be of the party.”

Or, mysteriously: “The army—but this, you conceive, my friend, is

between ourselves—a secret, mind you, of state—the army moves on

Flanders this week. I have it direct from Beaumanoir.”

It was then, as you may read in Scarron’s sprightly pages, a common

ambition of provincial gentlemen to be thought on familiar terms with

the great folks of the court. Truly, an extraordinary time!

At these _naïve_ confidences the _curé_, who knew his friend’s failing,

but respected his virtues, smiled, if at all, to himself.

But M. de Boisrobert’s reverence for his noble kinsman went further than

talking of him in season and out of season. He gave a more substantial

proof of his regard in making him his sole heir. “The money should go

with the title,” he said; “the family must be kept up.” It seemed to him

a little price to pay for the privilege of being admitted for a month or

two in the year to the rather frigid hospitality of the Hôtel

Beaumanoir, of being nightly snubbed by the bluest blood in France, and

of having down a great man or two for a day in the shooting season, to

convert the Château Boisrobert to his enamored fancy into a new

Versailles. His noble cousin he would gladly have had stay longer; but

the count, after yawning through forty-eight hours of _ennui_,

invariably left. The lands of Boisrobert he wanted; its simple and

placid life he could not stomach. His palate was seasoned to higher

flavors.

Not to put too fine a point on it, M. the Count de Beaumanoir was as

insolent, imperious, and ungrateful a scoundrel as was to be found in a

court where gentry of his pattern were rather a drug. Had it not been

that he enjoyed the confidence and familiarity of a still greater rogue

than himself—no less a one, to wit, than Monsieur, the brother of the

Most Christian King—he would long since have come to grief. He was more

than suspected of a share in the mysterious poisoning of the hapless

Henrietta of Orleans, and it was only the credit of his patron and his

own well-known courage and skill as a swordsman that kept these doubts

from taking form.

Such was the heir whom our worthy M. de Boisrobert had selected for the

reversion of his vast estates; and his promise once given, the count

determined that it should be kept.

II.

Daybreak of a pleasant morning in October, 1681. In the court-yard and

stables of the Château de Boisrobert, and in the great farm-yard near

by, all is bustle and confusion. Grooms and footmen, herdsmen and

farm-servants, are scurrying to and fro, with lanterns and lighted

torches, through the gray dawn, tumbling over one another in their

haste, shrieking out contradictory orders at the top of their lungs,

clamoring and making all the noise possible, as though they had taken a

contract for the purpose and felt they had but a limited time to fulfil

it. In the farm-yard the heavy Norman horses are being harnessed, with

collars that would be in themselves a load for a horse of our degenerate

days, to the unwieldy Norman carts, already loaded with huge sacks of

wheat and barley; further on, in the barns, a prodigious lowing and

bleating and bellowing tell where Pierrot and Hugues are marshalling

their herds; in the court-yard, saddled and bridled, are stamping and

snorting the steeds which shall bear M. de Boisrobert and his bodyguard

of two armed domestics to the great fair of Moulin-la-Forêt. Himself

booted and spurred for the journey, that gentleman stands upon the

terrace of the château, overlooking these preparations; chiding here,

encouraging there, animating all by word and gesture. M. de Boisrobert

has not been a nobleman long enough to forget that he is a farmer, and

prefers to be his own steward. He finds it saves time and temper as well

as money.

By dint of much exhortation and shrill volubility of expletives in the

curious Norman _patois_ all is at last in readiness, and they are off,

with many tender partings and tearful embraces between Blaise and

Madelon, and much scolding from Mère Chicon the housekeeper, and fervent

adjurations to the _Bon Dieu_ to bring them a good market and a safe

return. The latter prayer may seem superfluous, as the distance is but

thirty miles and they are a stout party. But it is the day of the famous

Mandrin, most redoubtable of robbers, and of the terrible _chauffeurs_

who extort the farmer’s hidden hoard by roasting his feet at his own

fire; so there is some room for trepidation in the bosoms of the simple

peasant-girls whom this animated company soon leave behind.

We have not space to follow the great cavalcade as it goes bellowing and

baaing and shrieking and _sacrréing_ over the white roads between the

hedges and the apple-orchards to the great fair. We cannot even stop

with M. de Boisrobert at the tidy little _auberge_ of the Pomme d’Or for

the welcome _déjeuner_ of _soupe aux croûtes_, to be followed by ham,

and perhaps a _poulet_ with the freshest of eggs and salad, and the most

delicious of cheeses, and a most refreshing draught of cool cider from

the great stone jug. Nor can we do more than glance at the humors of the

fair—much like other fairs, for the matter of that—with its inevitable

jugglers and tumblers and charlatans, swallowing flames as if they were

sausages, and pulling endless yards of ribbon from their mouths, to the

delight of gaping rustics; its gipsies and gingerbread hawkers; its

shrill-voiced peasant women, in high Norman caps, selling eggs and

poultry; its shriller-voiced ballad-singers piping out:

“Si le roi m’avait donné

Paris sa grand’ ville,”

or some other favorite _chanson_ of the time. These joys we must pass

lightly by, to say that, before the afternoon was well over, M. de

Boisrobert had already sold his entire venture at an excellent profit,

and it was rumored about the fair that he would go home richer by 20,000

francs (equal to 80,000 now) than when he came. The interest in the

lucky capitalist increased; it extended even to his horses, and one or

two simple rustics went so far as to push their way, during the

temporary absence of the grooms, into the stables, there to gaze in

open-mouthed admiration upon the steeds that had the honor of bearing—so

history renews itself—M. Cæsar de Boisrobert and his fortune.

The hour for departure drew nigh. As the days were getting short and the

homeward ride was long and lonely, and, as already hinted, far from

safe—few roads in France were safe in those days after nightfall—M. de

Boisrobert commanded an early start. He himself was to ride on ahead,

attended only by his two mounted valets, leaving the wagoners and

herdsmen to follow more leisurely with the carts. The horses were

accordingly brought forth and saddled, and the worthy squire was just

setting foot in stirrup when he was accosted by a _curé_, who, calling

him by name, politely craved leave to ride with him, as their road lay

in the same direction. M. de Boisrobert assented more than gladly, for

not only was company desirable, but a _curé_ the company he most

desired, and which could be accepted, as would not have been the case

with every comer, without suspicion. So they set forth together.

The _curé_ turned out a most agreeable travelling companion, and M. de

Boisrobert secretly felicitated himself on the chance which had thrown

them together. So charmed was he with his new-found friend that, when

the latter pressed upon him the offer of a supper and a bed at the

vicarage, he wavered, until reminded by the sum he had about him of the

wisdom of pushing on. But even while he doubted came a most distressing

mishap. The horse ridden by one of the servants stumbled, fell, and,

before his rider had fairly scrambled to his feet, rolled over stone

dead. There was nothing for it but to mount Blaise behind Constant, and

so get on as best they might. But, lo and behold! scarcely had Constant

drawn rein for the purpose than, with what seemed to the startled

hearers almost a shriek, the beast he bestrode set off at a furious

gallop, which soon left his luckless rider on the ground with a broken

leg. And, strange to say, the poor animal had run but a few yards

further when he too stopped, staggered, and—_pouf!_ before one could say

Jack Robinson, or its equivalent in Norman French, he is as dead as the

very deadest of door-nails or herrings.

Whatever M. de Boisrobert may have thought of this odd coincidence, he

had little leisure to dwell upon it; for the next instant his own steed

was in convulsions, and, barely giving him time to spring from the

saddle, like the others rolled over dead. How account for so singular a

fatality? Had some poisonous weed got into their fodder? had some

venomous reptile stung them in their stalls? or—uneasy doubts crept into

the good gentleman’s mind—had they been foully dealt with by reptiles in

human form who meant to waylay and rob, if not murder, the travellers?

If the latter, it would be indeed most prudent to accept the good

_curé’s_ hospitality. His house was luckily not far off, and the

disabled servant being first made comfortable in a wayside cabin, and

the sound one despatched to the nearest town for a surgeon, M. de

Boisrobert and the _curé_ took their way to the home of the latter.

Night had fallen when they reached it, but enough light still remained

to show that it was a partly-ruined château, dating probably from the

time of the Crusades. One wing had been so far reconstructed as to be

habitable, and the ancient chapel, the _curé_ explained, had also been

put in order to serve as the village church. “My parish,” he added with

a sigh, “is too poor to build a better.” A moat, still filled with green

and stagnant water, surrounded the walls; a few planks served for a

pathway across it, where once had hung the feudal drawbridge; a dark and

snake-like ivy crawled up the crumbling walls; dense woods cast about it

a funereal gloom. Altogether its outward aspect was sombre and

forbidding in the extreme, and M. de Boisrobert could not repress a

shudder or stifle a sinister presentiment as he looked upon his quarters

for the night. Had his host been anybody but a _curé_, he would have

felt like drawing back even then.

A little old man, who filled in the modest household by turns the

comprehensive functions of butler, valet, groom, gardener, waiter, cook,

and general factotum, took their horses in silence, but with a curious

glance at the visitor the latter could not help remarking, and the

_curé_ led the way to the drawing-room. This was a lofty, vaulted

apartment almost bare of furniture, on the walls of which flapped

dismally a few tattered pieces of tapestry, the relics of old-time

grandeur. A faggot or two crackled and sputtered feebly on the gloomy

hearth. Near it, busied apparently over woman’s work of some kind, were

seated an old woman of repulsive aspect and a young girl, the latter of

whom the _curé_ introduced as Juliette, his niece, and, briefly

requesting her to entertain their guest, excused himself to see to the

latter’s entertainment for the night.

And now, as the heroine of this exciting history has at last arrived—a

little tardiness, as you know, messieurs, must be forgiven to her sex—it

seems only becoming that she should have a chapter to herself.

III.

Lovely? Of course she is lovely. What a ridiculous question! Who ever

heard of a heroine who wasn’t lovely, still less a heroine who was also

the niece of a rob—_Peste!_ The cat was almost out of the bag that

time—so nearly out, in fact, that we may as well slip the noose and let

her go at once. Scat! And now, the author’s mind being freed of an

enormous load, he breathes more freely and announces that our luckless

M. de Boisrobert has literally fallen into a den of thieves. For what

purpose otherwise that artful hint about the rustics prying into the

stables, the horses falling dead upon the way, the elaborate setting

forth of the gloom and desolation hanging like a pall over the ruined

château—to what end, do you suppose, was all this expenditure of

literary artifice, except to prepare the reader’s mind for some

blood-curdling and harrowing event? But the _curé_? the _curé_? Why,

simply no _curé_ at all: a wolf in sheep’s clothing, as there were then

but too many in France.[111]

Footnote 111:

It should be said here that the main incident on which this tale is

founded is true, and that this sacrilegious disguise was in those days

frequently assumed by French robbers the better to disarm suspicion.

The fact is in itself a striking testimony to the implicit confidence

which the clergy of France have always inspired, and deserved.

Of this, however, as yet M. de Boisrobert knew nothing. Filled with

vague forebodings of evil he could neither define nor reason down, he

felt but little in the humor for talk, and still less—being, as you

remember, in his tenth lustrum—for flirtation. So, after one or two wise

remarks upon the weather, or the state of the crops, or the latest

opera, or whatever other topics gentlemen-farmers then chose to break

the ice of conversation with a pretty girl, had been answered _more

virgineo_ with shy blushes, or faltering monosyllables, or embarrassed

and embarrassing silence, M. de Boisrobert betook himself to the window

to look out upon the surrounding country. A full moon threw upon every

object a lustre like that of day, and—ha! what is this he sees in the

court-yard? Can that be his host, the _curé_, talking so confidentially

to those exceedingly sinister-looking chaps (one of whom he now

remembers to have had pointed out to him at the fair as a coiner of base

money, the other as a more than suspected thief), and handling those

three exceedingly long and ugly-looking poniards!—ugh! how their keen

edges glitter in the moonlight as the rascals run their dirty thumbs

along to try their temper.

M. de Boisrobert turned from the window with a gesture of affright and

despair, and beheld Juliette standing before him, no longer a timid

child but a lovely and courageous woman, one finger upon her lip, the

other pointing to the ill-featured duenna, who had had the good manners

to go to sleep. In a few rapid whispers, and still more eloquent

gestures, she explained the danger and her unalterable resolve to save

him or perish in the attempt. Whether it was her words or her beauty, M.

de Boisrobert felt instantly reassured. Indeed, had he known anything of

the course of such adventures, he must have felt so from the moment he

laid eyes on her. For what other purpose except to save him could he

suppose so lovely a creature was to be found in so vile a den? And let

it here be said for the benefit of scoffers that the present writer is

well aware how often this incident has been used for purposes of

fiction—at least ten thousand times in the English language alone. Yes;

but does not the very frequency of its use prove it to be founded on

fact, that some time or other it was true? Very well; this is the time

it was true. Besides, who has said that Juliette is to succeed in her

noble but rash endeavor? Suppose—now just suppose—she were to fail; in

which of your fictions do you find a stroke of originality like that? If

the historian were revengeful; if he had a mind to distort facts, as

historians in very remote ages are said sometimes to have done—well,

well, we shall see.

In her hurried warning Juliette had made shift to tell M. de Boisrobert

that it was meant to put a sleeping potion in his wine, and afterwards

to enter his chamber and kill him while still under the influence of the

drug.

“Do not for your life refuse to drink,” she added, “but be careful to

eat the apple I shall offer you after it, and which will contain the

antidote to the drug.”

Scarcely had she ended when the pretended _curé_ came in with his

precious comrades, whom he introduced as parishioners. (“A fit flock for

such a shepherd!” thought poor M. de Boisrobert.) Supper was served at

once, and all went as the young girl had foretold. The wine was drunk

and the apple duly presented and eaten with a confidence that must seem

truly sublime under the circumstances, remembering, too, that one of M.

de Boisrobert’s remote ancestors had lost his entire patrimony through

accepting a similar gift from a near female relation. Feigning weariness

and sleep, the traveller begged to be excused and was shown to his room.

No sooner was he alone than he began to examine his means of defence and

offence. The flints, of course, were taken from his pistols and the

bolts removed from the door—they would be poor robbers, totally unworthy

the attention of an enlightened reader, who would neglect such obvious

precautions as these. Somewhat disconsolately M. de Boisrobert looked

under the bed and into the wardrobe, but found no comfort there. Then he

piled all the furniture against the door, drew his sword, said his

prayers, set his teeth, thought of Juliette (O middle-aged and most

forlorn of Romeos!), and awaited the conspirators.

He had not long to wait. Scarcely had he taken position when a stealthy

tread outside, a fumbling at the latch, and probably a strong odor of

garlic penetrating through the keyhole, announced their arrival. The

door was first softly, then strongly, pushed, and then, as the

unlooked-for resistance showed their plot was discovered, a furious

volley of oaths was followed by an onset that made the barricade

tremble. Now should we dearly love to entertain the reader with the

description of a terrific combat _à l’outrance_—also _à la_

Dumas—wherein M. de Boisrobert, calmly awaiting his foes’ approach,

falls upon them with such ferocity that in a twinkling he has one

spitted like a lark, another cloven to the chine, and the third in

headlong flight and bawling lustily for mercy, but pricked sorely in

tender places by the relentless sword. But, alas!—such is the fatal

limitation of your true story—nothing of the sort took place. On the

contrary, our hero was in all probability horribly frightened and

thoroughly glad to see a secret panel suddenly slide back, and a white

hand thrust through the opening, while the sweetest voice he had ever

heard begged him to make haste. To seize that hand—and who shall blame

him if he pressed it to his lips?—to dart through the opening—quick!

quick! good Jean!—to close the panel, is the work of an instant.

Scarcely is it shut when cr-rack! crash! bang! go door and barricade,

and the foiled assassins are heard stamping and swearing furiously about

the deserted room. If you could but have seen their faces and heard—no,

it would not have been edifying to hear their language. But the

fugitives are safe. Need it be said that the foresight of the faithful

Jean (who, of course, follows his young mistress, having, indeed, waited

this long time in the robber’s den only for a chance to be on hand in

this emergency) had provided horses, on which they soon reached Evreux,

where they lodged an information, which, there being no police there to

speak of, led to the prompt arrest of the ruffians.

Placing the lovely Juliette in a convent, M. de Boisrobert returned

home. But it was observed that he hunted less than formerly, that he was

often closeted with Father Bernard and his notary, and that he spent

much time in settling his affairs. Need the result be told? What in the

world is a middle-aged bachelor to do whose life is saved by a lovely

maiden of spotless virtue? For, be it known, the fair Juliette, left an

orphan only a week before, had, by her dying father, a rich farmer of

Brézolles, been consigned to the guardianship of this wicked brother,

whose evil courses he was far from suspecting. All that is as plain as a

pikestaff; as it is that in less than six months after, just long enough

to get the trousseau ready (from the Worth of the day, of course) and to

see the wicked uncle comfortably hanged, the bells of Friar

Lawrence’s—we should say of Father Bernard’s—little church at Boisrobert

rang out a merry answer to the problem last propounded.

When the distant echoes of these wedding chimes reached the ears of M.

le Comte de Beaumanoir at Paris, he was not at all angry, as people

thought he would be. Oh! dear, no. On the contrary, he only smiled,

showing a remarkably fine set of teeth. So that people said he was a

brave man, this poor M. le Comte, and not by any means as black as he

was painted. And, indeed, a great many folks began to commiserate him

and to abuse M. de Boisrobert.

IV.

Well?

Well what?

Why, what came of M. de Beaumanoir showing his teeth?

Oh! that? Nothing—just nothing at all. That’s the trouble, you see, of

telling a true story: one’s imagination is hampered at every step. It

would have been most delightful and exciting to have invented a

frightful tale of the count’s vengeance; how he slew his recalcitrant

kinsman, immured his weeping bride in a dungeon for life, and laid waste

the lands of Boisrobert with fire and sword, etc., etc. But the truth

is, he did nothing of the kind. Indeed, his teeth were speedily drawn,

and he was glad to get away with his worthless life. The false _curé_

confessed before his death that the count had suborned him to kill his

kinsman as he returned from the fair, promising him a sum equal to that

which he would be sure to find on M. de Boisrobert’s person, and even

suggesting the disguise. He little thought that the very scheme he

fondly imagined was to secure him his coveted inheritance was destined

really to lose it to him for ever. So ever come to grief the

machinations of the wicked! This last escapade was a little too much

even for courtly morals, and Monsieur was quietly advised to hint to his

murderous favorite that his health would probably be the better for a

change of air.

And the fatal consequences resulting from this marriage?

Yes, yes, of course; how stupid to forget it! Well, a cynic might say

that for a bachelor to marry at all, especially at forty-five—but never

mind the cynic. Their married life was surely not unhappy? Let us hope

not. Do Romeo and Juliet ever throw teacups at each other over the

breakfast-table because that duck of a spring bonnet is not forthcoming?

In romances certainly not; but in true stories—hem! Let us trust,

however, that peace reigned eternal over the domestic hearthstone at the

Château de Boisrobert. But his marriage had cost its owner an illusion—a

life-long illusion; and that is a painful thing at forty-five.

Disenchantment seems to come harder as one gets older and has anything

left to be disenchanted of. He ceased to believe that rank and birth are

the same as goodness, or even greatness, and it cost him many a pang,

and no doubt a great deal of real though whimsical unhappiness, to be

forced thus suddenly and radically to readjust his scheme of life. But,

in spite of the adventure which gave him a wife, perhaps because of it,

he never lost his faith in _curés_ or in Juliette; and the games of

bowls and of _trictrac_ were all the pleasanter for the sweet face that

thenceforth lit them up, and the romping curly-pates that disturbed them

and in time effaced from their fond father’s memory his lingering regret

for the loss of a noble heir.

TO AUBREY DE VERE.

AFTER READING “POEMS OF PLACES—ITALY,” EDITED BY H. W. LONGFELLOW.

I stood in ancient church, ruined and vast,

Whose crumbling altar of its Lord was bare,

Whose shattered windows let in all the glare

Of noonday heat, and noise of crowds that passed

With careless jest, of malice not assoiled.

Within, fast-fading angels still lent grace

Of art, believing, to the holy place

That cruel hands of its best gift despoiled.

With weary feet I trod the broken floor,

With tearless eyes the maimèd aisles gazed down,

When, lo! afar a waxen taper shone,

Burning a hidden altar clear before:

Here hastened I, here knelt—O poet true!

Thine was the light that shone my sorrow through.

COLONIZATION AND FUTURE EMIGRATION.

God has apparently chosen the United States as the theatre for the

demonstration of the truth that the Catholic Church is the church of the

people. She has always been the church of the people; many of her most

severe persecutions have been caused by the stand she has taken in

behalf of popular rights and individual freedom against the tyranny of

kings and the exactions of nobles. But never before has she been

furnished with so large a field for the manifestation and development of

her popular and democratic character as has been prepared for her here.

It is her destiny, we believe, to save the republic from the ruin to

which the sects and their offspring, the atheists, would lead her. Even

those of our Catholic readers who may not fully share this belief will

admit that, to all seeming, the Catholic Church is destined to play an

important part in the future history of our country—at least that she

has grown in numbers, material wealth, and social influence during the

last thirty years to an almost marvellous degree.

A better or more certain method of accomplishing the work of the church

in the United States could scarcely have been devised than the

congregation of a large share of the Catholic emigration in our great

cities. The Catholic Church in the United States is not “a foreign

church” in any other sense than the Bible, or Shakspere’s plays, or

Homer’s poems are “foreign” books; she is, as they are, and far more

than they are, the common inheritance of all, and she is as much at home

here, and as rightfully at home, as she is or ever was in any other

land. Indeed, the church of God is not and cannot be foreign to any of

God’s creatures. But a large proportion of her children in the United

States at present are either of foreign birth or are the descendants of

foreign-born persons in the first or second generation. These people did

not bring the Catholic Church with them to America: they found her here;

she had always had an existence here since Christopher Columbus planted

the cross upon San Salvador, and since the Jesuit priests sailed up the

St. Lawrence and down the Mississippi rivers. If, however, the

emigration which has poured into this country since 1840 had not

arrived, or had it come from non-Catholic countries, and had the growth

of the church here been dependent wholly, or even chiefly, upon the

natural increase of American Catholic families and upon converts from

Protestantism or heathenism, the church in America to-day would have

been numerically insignificant; which is only the same as to say that,

if emigration had ceased after the first European exodus, the population

of the United States to-day would be equally insignificant.

We may form some idea of what the progress of the church under these

conditions would have been here by remembering what it has been in

England since the cessation of the active persecutions which followed

the Reformation. There are about 1,800,000 Catholics in England to-day.

Of these not less than 800,000 are Irish, French, German, Spanish, and

Italian emigrants or their children; the remaining 1,000,000 represent

all the converts of English birth, as well as the descendants of the old

Catholic families who always retained the faith. Half a century has

elapsed since the English Catholics were emancipated from the last

remnant of the persecuting and restrictive legislation which had

oppressed them since the days of Elizabeth. During this half-century the

church in England has been free—free in its own government, free in its

work of propagating the faith and of bringing back the English people to

the religion which their fathers had cherished for a thousand years.

Yet, with some advantages that Catholics in the United States did not

and do not yet possess, the growth of the church in England during the

last fifty years has been vastly less than the progress she has made in

this country during the same period. In 1830 there were more Catholics

in England than in the United States; since then the church in both

countries has been equally free, with the advantages at the start on the

side of England. But now the Catholics in the United States outnumber

those in England more than fourfold.

In 1830, according to the most trustworthy estimates, there were 600,000

Catholics in England and 475,000 in the United States; now they number

two millions there and from six to seven millions here. In England

to-day the church has a cardinal, twelve suffragan bishops, and 2,064

priests; in the United States she has a cardinal, 66 archbishops and

bishops, and 5,297 priests. In England, according to the English

_Catholic Directory_ for last year, there were 997 Catholic churches, 7

theological seminaries, 312 ecclesiastical students, 15 colleges, 38

asylums, and 5 hospitals. In the United States, according to the

American _Catholic Directory_ for the same year, there were 5,292

Catholic churches, 34 theological seminaries, 1,217 ecclesiastical

students, 62 colleges, 219 asylums, and 95 hospitals.[112]

Footnote 112:

These figures, as far as they relate to the institutions of the church

in England, are probably not entirely correct. The _Register_ from

which we have quoted contains no tabular statement of these

institutions, and we have been compelled to arrive at the totals by an

enumeration of our own, the accuracy of which has been rendered

doubtful by the confused manner in which the statistics of each

diocese were given. However, our figures cannot be very greatly at

fault.

We have drawn out this comparison for the purpose of accentuating our

former remark that the marvellous growth of the church in the United

States during the last half-century has been mainly due to emigration

from Catholic countries. Had it not been for these accessions, it is

doubtful, in our opinion, whether the church in the United States would

to-day equal in numbers the church in England. But would its growth have

been so great, so pronounced, so commanding to the attention of all

beholders, had this emigration been directed away from the cities and

dispersed throughout the rural and agricultural sections of the country?

A little reflection will, we think, show that this question must be

answered in the negative. It would have availed the church nothing had

these emigrants been placed in their new homes under conditions where

the preservation of their faith in any practical form would have been

almost impossible; where they would have been deprived of the care and

counsel of their spiritual guides and of the sacraments necessary for

salvation; where their children would have remained unbaptized, their

marriages have been degraded to civil contracts, and their souls starved

and enfeebled by the absence of the Bread of Life. Yet that this would

have been the fate of the great majority of them, had they not

congregated in the cities, cannot be doubted, unless, indeed, God had

chosen to work another miracle in their behalf and to create for them a

miraculous supply of priests—a supply so large that every little hamlet

in the far-off wilds of the West and North should have been furnished

with a spiritual director.

Some boast of having even nine millions of Catholics in the republic;

but it can be shown that there are perhaps half as many more Americans

now living who are the children of Catholic parents in the first or

second generation, but who have lost their faith and grown up as

Protestants or without any religion at all, chiefly because their

parents had gone into districts where there were no priests, and where

the exercise of their religion, save as a spiritual meditation, was

impossible.[113] It was only when the Catholic emigrants began to arrive

here in large numbers, and to dwell together by hundreds and thousands

and tens of thousands in the great cities, that it became possible,

humanly, to provide for their religious wants and for their Catholic

education. How nobly they have themselves furnished the material means

for this work the statistics given above show. They have mainly done it

for themselves. In England the Irish Catholics, in their works of

charity and in the erection of their churches, have often been aided by

the contributions of their wealthy English fellow-Catholics; but in

America the foreign-born and the descendants of the foreign-born

Catholics have for the most part built their own churches, their own

convents, seminaries, and schools, and have received but little aid from

their co-religionists of native ancestry. Indeed, in some instances

within our own knowledge it is the latter who have been the

beneficiaries of the former; and many an American Catholic to-day is

indebted to the charity and self-denial of German, French, and Irish

Catholics for the services of the priest who was the means of his

conversion, and for the erection of the church in which he hears Mass.

We repeat that all this was made possible by the congregation of our

Catholic emigrants in the cities, and that the most deplorable

consequences would have followed had not this congregation taken place.

Footnote 113:

A very ingenious statement was published some time ago in one of our

journals, setting forth what was believed to be “the constituent

elements of the population of the United States in 1870.” This

statement may be thus summarized: In 1784 the entire white population

of the United States was 3,172,000 persons; of these 1,141,920 were of

Irish birth, 751,280 were of other Celtic races, 841,800 were of

Anglo-Saxon extraction, and 427,000 were of Dutch and Scandinavian

birth. The total immigration to the United States from 1790 to 1870

was 8,199,000 persons, of whom 3,248,000 came from Ireland, 796,000

from Anglo-Saxon races; and 4,155,000 from all other sources. The

total population in 1870 was 38,500,000; and this vast number was thus

analyzed:

Joint product in 1870 of Irish colonial 14,325,000

elements and subsequent Irish

immigration, including that from Canada

Joint product in 1870 of Anglo-Saxon 4,522,000

colonial elements and subsequent

Anglo-Saxon immigration

Joint product in 1870 of all other 19,653,000

colonial elements and all subsequent

immigration, including the negroes

—————

38,500,000

From these figures was drawn the somewhat startling deduction that the

population of the United States in 1870 was composed of 24,000,000 of

Celtic birth or origin (Irish, Scotch, French, Spanish, and Italian),

and that of these 14,325,000 were of Irish birth or origin, 4,522,000

of Anglo-Saxon birth or origin, and that the remaining 9,978,000 were

of neither Celtic nor Anglo-Saxon extraction. We are not in any way

responsible for the accuracy of these figures; but that they express

at least an approximation to the truth we do not doubt.

It is not, moreover, in spiritual matters only that our emigrants have

been wise in congregating in the cities. One must remember the condition

in which the great majority of them landed here during the years when

emigration was at the flood-tide, and then compare with that their

present state and the future which is before them and their children.

They were desperately, or apostolically, poor, because they came from

lands where it was impossible for them to acquire anything beyond the

means of bare subsistence. They were uneducated, because they had been

the subjects of governments whose studied policy it was to keep them in

ignorance. They had neither the capital nor the knowledge necessary to

render them successful as independent agriculturists. Labor was most

abundant in the cities, and in the cities they remained. What have they

done there? If you seek their monument, look around you! Behold not only

the 57 Catholic churches (12 of them built almost or quite exclusively

by Germans, 1 by Poles, 1 by Italians, 1 by Bohemians, 1 by Frenchmen,

and 30 by Irishmen), the 17 monasteries, the 22 convents, the

magnificent Protectory, the theological seminary, the 3 colleges, the 22

select schools, the 19 asylums, the 4 homes for aged men and women, the

4 hospitals, and the 85 parochial schools of which the city and diocese

of New York alone boast; but the great business houses, the large

manufactories, the numberless smaller though important factories,

stores, and shops belonging to the foreign-born and foreign-descended

population of this metropolis; make a similar examination of what this

class of our citizens have done in Brooklyn, Baltimore, Boston,

Hartford, Portland, Springfield, Cincinnati, Detroit, Milwaukee, St.

Paul, Albany, Buffalo, Newark, Philadelphia, St. Louis, Chicago, San

Francisco, and twoscore more of our large cities; and then compare these

truly magnificent religious, moral, charitable, commercial, and

industrial results with all that the same people could have accomplished

had they been scattered as sheep without shepherds throughout our

Western and Northern wilds, destined to lose their faith, deprived of

the support and strength which common association and common interest

afford, and doomed, most probably, to lives of hopeless poverty and

unremunerative struggle. God has been too good to them, and to the

country in which they have become so important a factor, to permit this,

and what the arrogance of man has so often stigmatized as folly has

proved to be the highest and best wisdom both for eternal and for

temporal ends. The whole number of foreign emigrants who have landed in

the United States during the first 75 years of this century was

9,526,966. We showed in a former article[114] what proportion of these

has remained in the cities; and we have now pointed out some of the

results of this congregation.

Footnote 114:

“The European Exodus,” THE CATHOLIC WORLD, July, 1877.

We must not be understood, however, to convey the idea that a very

considerable proportion of our foreign-born Catholic citizens have not

made homes for themselves in the rural districts of the country, under

conditions which rendered it possible for them to continue the active

exercise of their religion, and that the happiest results have not

followed. In the New England States, in New York, New Jersey, and

Pennsylvania, in Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio, in Wisconsin, Iowa,

Missouri, and Minnesota, the number of Irish and German Catholic

farmers—well-to-do, prosperous, and faithful—is very large. In the New

England States the increase of this class has of late been marked. The

farms throughout this section are generally small; their native

owners, especially when they are young men, find it difficult to

extract from them incomes large enough to supply their desire for the

luxuries of life; they are often anxious to try their fortunes in the

cities or in the West; whenever one of them offers his little estate

for sale the purchaser is most likely a German or Irishman, whose

wants are more modest, and who finds it quite possible to derive from

a farm of twenty or thirty acres a comfortable subsistence for his

family. This change in the proprietorship of the soil in New England

has gone on to an extent much larger than is generally known; and one

would labor under a serious mistake who supposed that the foreign-born

and foreign-descended population of New England was altogether, or

even unduly, congregated in the cities. There are in New England,

according to the last _Catholic Directory_, 539 Catholic priests, 508

churches, 167 chapels and stations, with a Catholic population of

about 890,000 souls; and it is evident from an examination of the list

of the churches that a large proportion of them are in the small towns

and rural districts of these States. It may be unwelcome news to our

Protestant readers, but it is true, that nearly 25 per cent. of the

present population of New England is composed of Roman Catholics. It

may be still more unpleasant for them to learn that nearly 70 per

cent. of the births in that region are those in Roman Catholic

families. New England, indeed, promises to be the first portion of the

country which is likely to become distinctively Roman Catholic. The

immigration into New England is small, but it is mostly composed of

Catholics; the increase of population is very largely Catholic; the

emigration is almost entirely non-Catholic. From this digression from

our main subject we return with the remark that the rural Catholic

population in the Middle and Western States—a population largely

composed of foreign-born citizens and their descendants—constitutes a

most important factor in the material strength of the Catholic body,

and that, as we shall show, the future course of foreign emigration

should, and most probably will, tend mainly to increase this class.