It is perhaps a more recent focus of thought than any other of

the present day, yet it is none the less powerful for that. The

Bavarian royal family has preserved for two or three generations

the traditions of a modern Medici dynasty; they are the declared

champions of talent, the protectors of innovations of any kind.

As long as there is genius, originality, vitality, in a thing or

idea, no matter what its tendency, good or bad, it is sure of

patronage and help. Intensely national in its leanings, Munich

aspires to make Germany paramount, to impose her ways of thought

upon the world, to mould Europe according to a German standard,

and set up in a new Rome of the north a new ideal that might be

expressed in these words, _Le génie c’est moi_. If Christianity

had not yet appeared, the plan would have been magnificent, and

this Roman Empire of absolute intellect a far grander conception

than Plato’s Republic, but now God has reserved universality as a

mark of his church alone; and the power that would tear this badge

from her to crown itself therewith, in opposition to her, cannot

hope to succeed any better than the great angel of light succeeded

in his gigantic rebellion. Still, notwithstanding this blot upon

the otherwise fair system of intellectual supremacy of which

Munich is the headquarters, the fact of this practical supremacy

remains, and is the more felt and the better tested now since

Prussia has attempted to establish herself in opposition to it.

The story of ancient Greece and Rome is being enacted anew--matter

and mind are face to face; and the military machine which is

called the North German Empire, and which has proved itself so

politically resistless, stands baffled before the more Attic and

refined organization of the capital of thought and art. Impossible

to transplant to the alien atmosphere of iron-bound Berlin the

delicate grace and play of intellect that distinguishes Munich;

impossible to make philosophy accept the trammels of officialism,

or persuade artists to wait the nod of bureaucrats. The intangible

charm of cosmopolitan life belongs to the Bavarian city, the

freemasonry of intellectual activity vivifies it. Napoleon carried

half the marbles of Rome to his palace of the Louvre, and yet he

could not make the Louvre a Vatican, and Belshazzar, though he

robbed the temple of its golden cups and drank from them at his

banquets, could not make himself high-priest of the Hebrew faith.

The world goes to Munich for art, instruction, and artistic models;

Germany goes there for philosophical and scientific theories.

Foreigners would rather leave Berlin and Vienna unvisited than

miss a week at Munich; and a stay among its galleries, libraries,

and museums, is part of the education of every travelled man. It

has its literary, its fashionable, and its diplomatic circles,

and, strangely enough, each of these pronounces it an equally

agreeable resort. The cultivated world filters through it all the

year round, and, like Geneva and Rome, though perhaps in a lesser

degree than either, one might stay there a lifetime and yet see the

whole panorama of intellectual Europe unrolled at intervals before

one’s eyes. Although Munich possesses a learned and important

university, it is not to that alone she owes her supremacy, for

it is a fact worthy of notice that in our days the sovereignty

of thought is more the attribute of an aggregate of independent

thinkers, than the exclusive privilege of certain bodies trained

in the same traditions, and cast in much the same mould. Whether

or no this is an advantage, is a question we need not enter into

here; it is beside our subject. We hope subsequently to be able to

draw a companion picture of that ancient state of things which made

the intellectual centres of the past, both in their growth and in

their influence, so widely different from our own. Certain it is,

however, that that influence was less ephemeral formerly than now.

From Munich we have not far to go to another of the world’s

volcanoes, Paris, the modern enigma. Like a witch’s cauldron,

always seething, never safe, Paris is playing an uninterrupted game

of political conjuring. Unlike other cities whose intellect is

distinct from their politics, Paris cannot help giving a political

tinge to its literary and philosophical creations. Social questions

are violently joined to intellectual problems; and _savants_ or

_beaux-esprits_ will eschew a brother philosopher or wit who wears

alien colors and belongs to another camp. The talent that rides

uppermost in Paris is identified with socialism, and from literary

Bohemianism soon lapses into political outlawry. Victor Hugo is its

apostle, Alfred de Musset its poet. On the one hand, a frantic,

destructive vigor urges it to assert its self-assumed and imperious

sovereignty; on the other, a maudlin, opium-like languor soothes

its sensuality and bids it revel in momentary luxury. Sybarites are

always tyrants; Nero crowned with roses and singing to his lute

while Rome was helplessly burning by his orders, is a fit image of

modern Paris displaying her world-alluring softness while Europe

is in flames through her baneful principles. We speak of Paris

in her zenith; but it is to be feared that the spirit which made

her the rose-entwined firebrand of the world, will not long be

quelled even by her own unparalleled misfortunes. In her deepest

humiliation, when the sympathy of the universe was hers, did she

not find strength enough to turn on her true friends, and, by her

fiendish attempts on law and order, to alienate the shocked and

insulted instincts of a world that had been ready to take up arms

in her defence? It may be said that _that_ Paris was not the real

one; yet it is the one that rules--rules _sourdement_, as the

French so expressively say, when she is herself ruled by an iron

hand, rules through her infidel press, her immoral literature,

her unwholesome poetry, her rotten philosophy, her frivolous and

heedless society. True it is that in Paris, which proudly calls

itself “the capital of the world and the heart of humanity,” there

are circles of quiet literary men--_coteries_ of harmless exiles

from other lands; men whose lives are bounded by the Bibliothèque

Impériale and the Théâtre Français; and men, too, whose one aim is

charity and one ambition, heaven. True, France can boast as many

missionaries as communists, as many martyrs as soldiers, almost as

many religious as unhung miscreants. But how many Montalemberts,

how many Dupanloups, how many Lacordaires, beside the innumerable

spawn of Dumases, George Sands, Balzacs, Michelets, Taines, and

Renans? No doubt in the records of the Almighty there are to be

found in this modern Sodom the ten just men that will save it from

spiritual destruction, but we are speaking of it principally in the

intellectual sense, and surely, from this point of view, where are

its saviors? A centre of intellect it is most undoubtedly and most

unfortunately, but a centre such as a powder magazine might be. The

streams it pours over Europe’s world of thought are lava-streams,

scorching the purer air of principle to make way for the poisonous

gases of self-indulgence. If Paris were sovereign, peace would

be no more, and truth would leave the earth, dismayed. The very

opposite, of Rome, its spirit is one of fever, catching even to

the calmest pulse of a law-abiding and metaphysical northerner--a

spirit that broods over one like the blast of a furnace, and

bewilders like the breath of a coming simoom. We have experienced

it ourselves in days long before the last great judgment that

has crushed the unhappy city; we have marvelled at its obtrusive

activity, so fatiguing to the eye, because, unlike that of London

or New York, it denotes only the frivolous search after empty

pleasure, not the calm plodding after necessary business; we have

wondered at its frothy show, where the greatest display is a sure

sign of the worst depravity; we have longed to be out of its

unwholesome, oppresive spell, that seemed to paralyze the mind and

darken the understanding. To think that this possessed city should

be the pioneer of the nineteenth century, and have more influence

over the moral destinies of the world than Napoleon ever had over

the kingdoms of Europe, or than Bismarck can ever have over the

future of Paris itself! What have we done to deserve it? What has

brought this Egyptian plague upon us, the Nile of the intellect

turned into blood, the fertilizer become poison?

There is a wider difference than the mere width of the Channel

between Paris and Oxford. What calm, scholarly, refined

associations come to our mind when we name the Alma Mater of so

many of England’s greatest men! It is like a refreshing ocean

breeze after the scorching blast of a volcano. We feel at home

here. Gladstone, Pusey, Keble, Newman, were sons of this English

centre of thought--Stanley for a long time was identified with it,

all the intellectual movements of this century sprang from it, and

to represent it in Parliament is accounted the highest political

honor. All schools of thought have started from it; “High Church,”

“Low Church,” and “Broad Church” have all found their headquarters

there, and recruits from these several camps have left it to bring

their various gifts to that other and wider university over which

the Holy Ghost presides everlastingly. If one might use words

that must seem a paradox, Oxford, once made and fashioned by the

church, has in our days herself influenced the church. We mean

that the university has given to the Catholics of England that

unrivalled body of priests who stand alone in Europe for their

indomitable energy, their self-sacrificing earnestness, and their

gentle and truly Christian refinement. Among Protestants, it is

only the strict truth to say that Oxford has created the Church

of England, and vivifies her now even more than state protection,

or the universal adoption extended to her by usage and courtesy

among the educated classes. Most truly has Oxford been called the

Rome of English Protestantism. It is sad for us to think of the

perverted influence of a system essentially Catholic, of traditions

and customs that have lost their meaning while they have kept their

form, and yet it is also a proud thought to dwell upon, that such

as this matchless seat of intellect is, and such as its absolute

identification with English national thought and national character

makes it certain ever to be, it owes it to the church of Alfred, of

Langton, of Scotus--the church of Peter--alone.

We have said that, in modern times, universities as such have

less influence than the aggregate of independent thinkers. This,

however, hardly applies to England, for the mass of enlightened men

in that country forms, practically, the true university. Cambridge,

as a seat of equal learning, yet scarcely of equal brilliancy or

influence, is of course included. The social and intellectual

training of both is the same, the traditions practically so. The

whole body of able men in England belongs to either one or the

other of these universities, and, never unlearning their modes

of thought and unconsciously stamping their impress deeper on

each succeeding work undertaken or effort accomplished, therefore

never cease to belong to them. England is thus one university,

and Oxford is the epitome of educated England. Very national and

jealous of foreign irruption is this vast and compact body; its

members will taste and examine very closely before an alien theory

be admitted among them, but, once admitted, it is adopted with

eagerness, nationalized, and so embodied in a thoroughly English

shape that its origin becomes undistinguishable. The spirit of

Oxford, unlike that of Paris, is the very reverse of cosmopolitan;

there is no versatility in its essence, no straining after effect,

novelty, nor even domination; it does not care to impose itself on

others, and thus it differs ever from the national-minded spirit of

Munich, but it vigorously resents anything being imposed upon it.

Ideas grow slowly, and systems ripen there before they are tried;

a school of thought goes out whole and calm, not upon tentative

excursions, but to certain conquest. Foreigners are more curious to

see Oxford than they are to examine any other English institution;

foreign _savants_ look with pride or longing on the rare gift of

its honorary degrees. Its buildings are the only palaces known in

England, and excel in nobility of architecture every modern public

erection and almost every private residence. It keeps up customs of

hospitality, of generosity, of courtesy, that seem lost amid the

dwarfishness of modern politeness; its grand solemnity of demeanor

and stateliness of etiquette shame our puny and impudent code of

manners; the freedom of later behavior seems by its side a stunted

pollard when compared to the magnificent oak of bygone centuries.

Oxford keeps up the ideal among Englishmen, or rather it is the

ideal personified. It is a standing protest against the levity of

modern and _fast_ life--a city of sanctuary for learning, art,

ecclesiasticism, æsthetics, philosophy, and taste. Those who have

lived all their lives in it as fellow-tutors or professors, love it

to idolatry; those who have gone forth to their several professions

and been knocked about by the vicissitudes of the world, love it

as the Garden of Eden of their lost peace; those who have left it

for the Catholic Church, love it with the most mournful and deepest

of loves, even as Gregory loved the fair-haired heathen boys that

were Angles, but whom he longed to see angels. The greatest mind

in England--John Henry Newman--loves it with this sorrowful love,

which has prevented him from ever seeing it again since he severed

himself from it, and suffered more in this severing than the loss

of friends or the wilful misconception of enemies; and in his room

at Edgbaston, where his retired life is now entirely spent, there

hangs a view of the beautiful English university town, with this

significant motto in illuminated characters beneath: “Son of man,

dost thou think these dry bones shall live?” (Ez. xxxvii. 3).

From Oxford we must cross the Atlantic to find our last

intellectual centre in this age. It is the youngest, though not

the least vigorous, and it stands alone on the Western continent,

where it has not inaptly been called--as Edinburgh once was--the

Modern Athens. Boston is also more or less the product of a

university, but here, as elsewhere, the taint is on the fruit of

the tree of knowledge. Infidelity and cynicism make their home

there in the midst of the luxuriant growth of intellect. Pride

of mind has ended in riot of soul, and amid the intoxicating

creations of its own strong vitality, the genius of New England

has spiritually lost its way. But humanly speaking, what a fair

field of intellect is here displayed! It is through Boston that

America is best known to Europe. Longfellow, Emerson, Hawthorne,

Whittier, Holmes, are household words wherever the English language

is spoken; and the dignified history of New England, no less

than her weird and fascinating literature, is as interestingly

familiar to English as to American minds. Boston is New England

crystallized, the representative city of America, the channel of

communication between the Old and the New World, the crucible of

every new theory and the test the successful passing of which

is, as it were, a “degree” in itself. Boston stands forth as the

champion of science against commerce, and the breakwater which

strives to save America from the imputation--thrown on England by

the French--of being “a nation of shopkeepers.” The West, with

its gigantic future roughly mapped out, and its raw material

inconveniently spread over the whole land, looks with uneasy and

half-dismayed contempt at the scholarly capital of New England; the

North, with its sleek prosperity and organized system of elegant

life, steals a look askance, in which envy is but thinly concealed

behind an affectation of patronage. Of the South we cannot speak,

since its naturally true instincts of appreciation and intellectual

discernment have been cruelly and rudely shaken by the great

convulsion whose effects will long remain but too prominent; but

if ever there rises a rival, friendly yet altogether dissimilar,

to the New England Athens, it will be in the gifted South, among

the descendants of the cavaliers, that we shall turn to look for

it. Such a one there should be, for this vast continent, in whose

bosom the whole of Europe would lie like an island, must have more

than one species of intellectual life, and ought to have more

than one acknowledged exponent of it. In the South we should find

the ardor of Paris, the ambition of Munich, and the refinement of

Oxford, mingled and harmonized; and let us trust that in the lands

discovered by Catholic missionaries, and colonized by Catholic

gentlemen, we might at least escape the ban that clings to the

older centres of intellectual life in Europe, the revolutionary and

antichristian tendencies of France, and the unhappy heresies of

England and Germany.

OLD BOOKS.

For out of old fields, as men sayth,

Cometh all this new corn from yere to yere,

And out of old books, in good faith

Cometh all this new lore that men lere.

--_Chaucer._

DANTE’S PURGATORIO.

CANTO THIRD.

(For Cantos I. and II. of this Translation, see CATHOLIC WORLD for

November, 1870, and January, 1872.)

Though round the plain their quick flight scattered them,

Bent for that Hill where reason turns our tread,[198]

My faithful mate close at my garment’s hem

I kept: how _could_ I without him have sped?

Who else had o’er that mountain marshalled me?

He seemed, methought, as inly touched with shame:

O noble conscience, void of stain, to thee

How sharp a morsel is the smallest blame!

Soon as his feet the hurried movement checked

Which every action’s dignity destroys,

My mind, till now restrained and circumspect,

Expanded with new strength, as ’twere of joy’s.

My face I fixed upon that Hill to gaze

Towards highest heaven which springeth from the wave.

The sun behind me redly flamed; its rays

Broke by the shadow which my figure gave.

When I perceived before me that the ground

Was darkened only by myself, in dread

Of being there deserted, I looked round

And fronting me in full, my Comfort said:

“Why this distrust? believ’st thou not that I

Am with thee still, thy leader to the last?

’Tis evening now already where on high

My body lies, which once a shadow cast,

Buried at Naples, from Brundusium brought.

Now, if no shade before me meet thy sight

It need wake no more wonder in thy thought

Than why one heaven checks not another’s light.

Omnipotence to such forms hath assigned

The power of suffering torments--cold and heat--

But _how_, reveals not to created kind.

He is but mad who hopes this incomplete

Reason of ours may track the Infinite way

Which of three persons holds the substance one.

Rest, human race! contented when you say

Simply because: could ye the whole have known

No need had been for Mary to have borne;

And ye have seen in hopeless longing those

Who now to all eternity must mourn

Desire for which they vainly sought repose.

Of Aristotle and of Plato now

I speak, and many others”: he remained

Silent at this, and stood with bended brow

And troubled look: meantime the Hill we gained.

We found the cliff here sloping so steep down

That nimblest legs had there been useless quite.

The wildest way betwixt Turbìa’s town

And Lèrici, the roughest, were a flight

Compared with this, of open, easy stairs.

“Who knows,” my Master said--and stayed his pace--

“Where this Hill slopeth, so that one who wears

No wings may climb it?” Then his earnest face

Directed closely to the ground as if

Making in mind a study of the way.

Meantime I gazed up round about the cliff,

And on the left hand came to my survey

A band of spirits, moving on towards us,

That seemed not moving for they came so slow.

“Lift up thine eyes”--I to the Master thus--

“If of thyself thou art not certain, lo!

Yon souls our footsteps may direct perchance.”

Thereat he looked, then frankly made reply:

“Go we tow’rds _them_--so gently they advance--

And thou, my sweet son! keep thy hope up high.”

That people seemed as far, when we had gone

A thousand steps, I say, or thereabout,

As a good flinger might have cast a stone;

When all at once, like one who goes in doubt

And stops to look, their moderate march they checked

And close to that high bank’s hard masses drew.

“O ye peace-parted! O ye spirits elect!

Ev’n by that peace which waits for each of you

As I believe”--thus Virgil them bespake:

“Inform us where this mountain slopeth so

That its ascent we may essay to make;

_For they mourn Time’s loss most, the most who know_.”

Like lambs that issue from their fold--one--two--

Then three at once (the rest all standing shy,

With eye and nostril to the ground)--then do

Just what the foremost doth, unknowing why,

And crowd upon her back if she but stand,

Quiet and simple creatures, thus the head

I saw move towards us of that happy band,

Modest in face, and of a comely tread.

Soon as their leaders noticed that the light

On my right side lay broken at my feet,

So that my shadow reached the rocky height,

They stopped and drew a little in retreat.

And all the others following, though they knew

Not why they did so, did the very same.

“Without your question I confess to you

That here you see a living human frame:

Hence on the ground the sunlight thus is riven:

Marvel not at it, but believe ye all

Not without virtue by the Most High given

This man hath come to scale your Mountain’s wall.”

My Master thus, and thus that gracious band:

“Turn then and join us, and before us go”:

And while some beckoned us with bended hand

One called--“Whoe’er thou art there journeying so,

Turn! Think--hast ever looked on me before?”

I turned and gazed upon the one who spoke.

Handsome and blond, he looked high-born, but o’er

One brow appeared the severance of a stroke.

When I had humbly answered him that ne’er

Had I beheld him--“Look!” he said, and high

Up on his breast showed me a wound he bare;

Then added smilingly, “Manfred am I,

The Empress Constance’ grandson: in such name

Do I entreat, when back thou shalt have gone,

To my fair daughter hie, of whose womb came

Sicily’s boast and Aragon’s renown,

And tell her this--if aught but truth be said

That after two stabs--each of power to kill--

I gave my soul back weeping ere it fled

To Him who pardoneth of His own free will

My sins were horrible: but large embrace

Infinite Goodness hath whose arms will ope

For every child who turneth back to Grace;

And if Cosenza’s bishop, by the Pope

Clement set on to hound me to the last,

That page of Holy Writ had better read,

My bones had still been sheltered from the blast

Near Benevento, by the bridge’s head,

Under their load of stones: but now without

The realm they lie, by Verde’s river--bare--

For winds and rains to beat and blow about,

Dragged with quench’d candles and with curses there.

Yet not by their poor malediction can

Souls be so lost but that Eternal Love

May be brought back while hope hath life in man.

’Tis true that one who sets himself above

The Holy Church, and dies beneath its ban

(Even though he had repented at the last),

Outside this Mount must unadmitted rove

Thirty times longer than the term had been

Of his presumptuous contumacy past,

Unless good prayers a shorter penance win.

See now what power thou hast to make me glad:

Report of me to my good Constance bear,

How thou saw’st me, and what I’ve told thee add;

For much it profits us what they do there.”

FOOTNOTE:

[198] _Dante_ means the Hill of Purgatory, to the ascent of which

we are turned no less by the right reason that is in us than by

our contrition for an erroneous course, from which we are happily

passing.

ON MUSIC.

Harmony and melody--which have an equal share in the effects

produced by sound--find their original type, it may be, in the

double nature of the universe, and of human destiny considered

socially and individually. Harmony, like the external world and

its moving masses, presents us with various parts, linked together

and arranged so as to subserve one and the same end. Regular and

measured in its movement as the celestial orbs, no deviation is

allowable even in its boldest flight. An almighty will seems to

have bound it to magnificence and grandeur, restricting its freedom

to the latitude of the laws whose expression it is. But melody

is thoroughly moral, and consequently free. It is the heart’s

utterance, and follows and renders its emotions faithfully. When

brilliant, it recalls our joys; when sweet and lingering, it

portrays our rare and delicious intervals of repose. It sighs for

our disquietudes and sways beneath our sorrows, like a friend

who shares them. Would it reproduce the sad and vague yearnings

which by turns agitate and soothe the soul of man?--its songs are

as dreamy as his chimeras. Melody is but one thought at a time,

but--mobile and rapid--it renders all thoughts in succession

and tells the tale of a complete destiny. Harmony, with its

grand effects, seems made to appeal to assembled men; melody, to

transport the memory in solitude. Words may of course be adapted to

a piece of pure harmony; but they are only accessory. When melody

is associated with human speech, they rival one another in charm

and in power. Speech is, indeed, the heart’s expression; but melody

remains its accent.--_Madame Swetchine._

FLEURANGE.

BY MRS. CRAVEN, AUTHOR OF “A SISTER’S STORY.”

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH, WITH PERMISSION.

PART SECOND

THE TRIAL.

XXVIII.

More than twenty-four hours had elapsed. Fleurange was already far

away, and the incidents of the preceding days only seemed like a

succession of troubled dreams. The conversation she heard on the

terrace between the count and his mother, that which she herself

had with the latter, her interview with George at San Miniato, the

mysterious bouquet in the evening, and the sudden reappearance of

Felix the next day--all these remembrances came back, one by one,

but were all effaced by that of the farewell which succeeded them.

Yes, she had bidden him adieu for ever; whereas he smilingly said,

“A rivederla!” and his mother, giving her hand graciously to her

young _protégée_, continued to the last to play her part in this

drama of two characters, which she and Fleurange alone understood.

The young girl also sustained hers without exhibiting any weakness;

but in kissing the princess’ hand she gave to the words “Addio,

principéssa!” an accent the latter fully comprehended the meaning

of. She embraced her in return with involuntary tenderness, and

even with an emotion that might have been considered surprising for

so short an absence. George observed it, and felt more reassured

than ever. Therefore, after Fleurange’s departure, what he felt

was not so much sadness, as the need of some distraction powerful

enough to relieve the insupportable _ennui_ caused by her absence.

As to her, alone with Julian in the coupé of the vetturino, while

Clara, her child, and a young Italian waiting-maid occupied the

interior, she could not give herself up to the thoughts that were

suffocating her. She must still continue the effort of concealment,

and assume a cheerfulness she was far from feeling, which was more

antipathic to her nature than anything else. She was to turn off to

Santa Maria at the small village of Passignano, where they expected

to arrive on the morning of the third day, and she did not intend

announcing to the Steinbergs her intention of accompanying them to

Germany till they stopped at the monastery on their way back from

Perugia. By that time all her plans for the future would be more

definitely arranged. There were some vague intentions floating

in her mind as well as some irresolution, which she scarcely

comprehended herself. She wished for the penetrating eye of her

maternal friend to aid her in deciphering the confused condition

of her mind and soul. Until then she was resolved to remain silent.

Her conversation with Julian dwelt principally on their unexpected

meeting with their unhappy cousin.

“After serious reflection,” said Steinberg, “it seems to me

impossible to do anything without running the risk of injuring the

unfortunate man.”

“It appears he is now leading a respectable life,” said Fleurange.

“Yes; and for that very reason it is important to him that the past

should not be made public. As Count George avails himself of his

services, he must, I suppose, have had good recommendations.”

Fleurange made no reply. She did not venture to say she had often

heard George reproached for his indifference to the position

or reputation of many he employed in his collections, or the

researches in which he was interested. “What have I to do with

their private lives,” he would sometimes say, “in the kind of work

I require of them? If they are intelligent and capable, that is

sufficient. When I have an inscription to be copied, or a passage

in a manuscript to be transcribed, I rather employ a capable rogue

than an honest blockhead.”

Without knowing precisely why, this connection between Felix and

George inspired Fleurange with involuntary terror, and, much as

she wished it, she could not put the latter on his guard without

betraying Felix’s real name and position. In short, the fatal

remembrances connected with the cousin were now changed into a

painful presentiment which added a darker shade to the sadness she

sought to conceal.

After a long silence she resumed: “The Marquis Adelardi seemed to

know the person who was with Felix the evening we met him?”

“Yes; and to have a poor opinion of him.”

“Did you question him afterwards on the subject?”

“I was desirous of doing so, and in the course of that evening at

the princess’ I tried to introduce the subject. But he appeared to

answer with repugnance. I was also cautious in my questions, so I

was able to obtain very little information.”

Julian stopped, but after a moment’s reflection continued:

“The Marquis Adelardi, from what I learned at Bologna, was once

connected with a conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy!”--exclaimed Fleurange with alarm. “The excellent and

agreeable marquis? What are you saying, Julian?”

Julian smiled. “Come, Gabrielle, you need not be so frightened.

I do not mean to imply he is a criminal, but I think that during

one period of his life he was connected with some revolutionary

agitation in Italy, and was brought in contact with more than one

suspicious character, and Felix’s companion was probably one of

them.”

The conversation was not prolonged, and Fleurange remained silent

for a time. Julian’s last words added a new fear to all the painful

impressions--some definite and others vague--which already weighed

on her mind and heart. She pitied Felix, but she was more afraid

of him. She now regarded his strange billet as a bold attempt to

frighten her or excite her interest--an irresistible temptation to

aim at effect, which he yielded to at the risk of being discovered.

George’s connection with this bold and restless spirit filled her

with greater anxiety than ever. It seemed at last as if so many

things at once had never weighed upon her young heart, and that

clouds were gathering on all sides around her.

At Passignano she left her travelling companions, and took a small

vehicle for the monastery. All the dresses and ornaments the

princess had added to her modest wardrobe were left in Barbara’s

care during her supposed short absence, and the only luggage she

brought with her from Florence was a small valise. This was at once

deposited beside the driver, and, as soon as the young girl was

seated, the calèche immediately started off.

The road gradually ascended, but this was only perceptible from

the increasing beauty of the prospect which became more and more

extensive. Afar off lay Lake Thrasimene, gleaming in the sun like

a brilliant sheet of silver; nearer, a small stream, whose name,

after twenty-two centuries, still recalls the memorable battle

that ensanguined its waters, wound through the plain where it was

fought.[199] It is stated in history that, during that famous day,

neither the Romans nor Hannibal’s soldiers noticed the earthquake

which rocked the ground beneath their feet. It might have trembled

anew, and our poor Fleurange would perhaps have been equally

insensible, so greatly absorbed was she in a struggle of another

kind--between her will to do right and the violent inclinations of

her heart.

She was now completely alone for the first time for a long period,

and seemed to have regained her liberty of thought. Freed from

the necessity of struggling against the softening emotions that

would have enfeebled her courage, she could now yield without

restraint to the pleasure of living over the past six months of

her life. She leaned her weary head back, closed her eyes, and

allowed her memory to recall all those dear but vain remembrances.

She saw him once more whom she never expected to behold again; she

listened anew to the voice she would hear no more; she allowed

herself to tell him all she had so often repressed. It was a

prolonged and dangerous dream, followed by a sorrowful awakening.

And it profoundly troubled the peace of her soul, which, with her

firmness, she had preserved only by a constant effort during the

period of trial her youth had just passed through. “And it is

ended!--ended!” she exclaimed, with a cry almost of despair, hiding

her face in her hands. “I shall never behold him again!”

Suddenly she heard the mellow sound of a distant bell which revived

a whole world of past impressions. She hastily raised her head

and looked around. She was passing through a grove of acacias

that shaded the winding road. Beyond were some large pines and a

few rustic dwellings. Passing by one of them, she heard a voice

exclaim, “Evviva la Signorina!”--and further on: “La Madonna vi

accompagna!” Shortly after she passed under a half-ruined arcade

which looked like a vestige of antiquity. The bell was still

ringing, but its sound was more distinct, for they were approaching

the chapel.

“What, so soon!” she cried, clasping her hands. “Have we arrived?”

At the end of the avenue the carriage turned to the left, passed

by the chapel, and at length stopped before a small gate-way of

sculptured stone, surmounted by a statue of our Saviour, at whose

feet the following words in relief were distinctly legible: VENITE

AD ME OMNES QUI LABORATIS ET ONERATI ESTIS, ET EGO REFICIAM VOS.

Fleurange sprang from the carriage and eagerly rang. The gate

opened: a soft expression of surprise and welcome greeted her. She

replied with a smile, but did not stop, for at the farther end of

the cloister she perceived her whom she sought.

It was noon: the children were just being dismissed from school,

and Madre Maddalena stood looking at them as they went out, now

and then saying some kind word. Fleurange, suddenly appearing in

their midst, threw the little procession into disorder. Mother

Maddalena, astonished, looked reprovingly towards the person who

had unexpectedly disturbed the order of the time and place. She

looked again--again hesitated--then at length her arms opened with

an exclamation of joy:

“Fior angela mia!--Dear lamb returned to the fold!”

And the returned wanderer, falling into the arms of her mother,

forgot in a moment all the fatigue, the dangers, the sufferings

she had endured on the way, and all the thorns that had left their

traces on her wounded feet.

XXIX.

The chapel was dim, cool, and filled with the odor of the fresh

flowers on the altar and the incense used at the morning service.

The nun and the young girl knelt for a few moments to offer up

thanks to God as the preliminary obligation of their reunion, and

invoke the Friend above all others who is not only the great _I

am_, but LOVE itself. Fleurange soon rose up at a sign from the

mother, and followed her into a well-known apartment on the ground

floor called the garden parlor.

Like all convent parlors, it had no other furniture but a square

table in the middle of the room, some straw-bottomed chairs

ranged around, a book-case with a large crucifix on the top, and

a statue of the holy Madonna on the other side, at the foot of

which stood a vase full of flowers. What distinguished this parlor

from all others of the kind was the view through the broad arched

window on one side, and on the other through the open garden

door. The beautiful landscape we have already described, bounded

on the distant horizon by the sublime but graceful outline of

the mountains, had in the foreground an abundance of flowers

more carefully cultivated than is usually the case in convent

gardens. At the right, the eye caught a glimpse of the arches of

the cloister, and on the left the dense shade of a small grove of

orange-trees now in bloom, beyond which was an orchard with vines

interlacing the fruit-trees, and a carefully cultivated vegetable

garden--the principal resource of the convent larder. Some doves

were flying between the cloister and the garden, and during the

hours of conventual silence there was no other sound within the

peaceful enclosure but the noise of their cooing. But at recreation

time the cloister, as well as the garden, resounded with the voices

and laughter of the children, and Mother Maddalena’s parlor was not

always as quiet as when she ushered Fleurange into it.

The door was scarcely closed when the nun took the young girl’s

face between her hands, and attentively examined it, as if she

would read the depths of her soul.

Mother Maddalena was about fifty years of age at this time. She

had been uncommonly beautiful in her youth, and there was still

a regularity and nobleness in her time-worn features which were

set off by the white bandeau and guimpe that encircled her face

like a frame to a picture. A long black veil fell in deep folds

nearly to the ground. Her black eyes were uncommonly large and

mild, and had an extraordinary expression sometimes seen in eyes

devoid of any other beauty, and is exclusively peculiar to those

which reflect that mysterious and ineffable joy which Bossuet

calls “_incompatible_,” and says, to be tasted, “il faut qu’elle

soit goûté _seule_.” Such was the look, full of divine joy and

superhuman peace, now fastened on Fleurange, whose limpid eyes

did not avoid the scrutiny, but remained fastened on those of the

Madre. Only her pale face flushed and then grew paler than before.

“Poor child! poor child!” said Mother Maddalena at length after a

long and silent examination. “Alas! how much she has suffered.--But

no evil has tarnished her heart.” With her right hand she made the

sign of the cross on Fleurange’s pure brow, and then pressed her

lips to the same spot, adding, with a smile of satisfaction: “The

Angel Gabriel, to whom I confided her at parting, has restored

her to me, like a faithful guardian whose inspirations have been

obeyed.”

Whether Fleurange now lost her customary self-control, or did not

try to conceal her feelings in Mother Maddalena’s presence, while

the latter stood looking at her silently, she burst into tears.

“Yes, I understand,” said the mother--“a great effort was required

to overcome the natural tendencies of the heart, to act and to

speak without the relief of weeping!--But my poor child succeeded,

and is weary from the exertion--” She continued in a softer tone:

“But it is the weary and heavy laden that have the promise of

finding rest, and it is in this house especially that this rest

awaits those who ask it of him who has promised it, and who alone

can give it!--Come,” continued she in a firmer tone, after allowing

Fleurange to weep some time in silence--“come, my dear Gabrielle,

lift up your heart--the heart so susceptible of pain! Try to rise a

little above your sufferings--sufferings which enfold the germ of

so great a joy!” murmured she to herself, “whereas the joys of the

world contain the germ of so much suffering!--Come, my child, come

with me.”

The last words were uttered in a tone of mild authority. Fleurange

unhesitatingly rose, and followed her across the garden, now

exposed to the ardor of the sun’s says, into the small grove where

the foliage was so dense that it was cool at mid-day. A flight of

steps led to a little oratory in this peaceful solitude, where

the pupils assembled towards sunset for prayers; but now it was

entirely empty.

Mother Maddalena seated herself on a bench in front of the oratory,

and Fleurange took a place near her.

“Now tell me, not only what I already know, but what I am still

ignorant of.”

It was hardly necessary to articulate these words, for Fleurange

had not come with the intention of concealing a single thought.

She therefore began her account, and, at the mother’s request,

went back to the very day she left the monastery with her father.

She gave an account of her travels in Italy, with all her first

impressions: her residence at Paris, and all her sufferings there;

her life in Germany, with all its pleasures: then the ruin of her

family and their separation; and, finally, of Florence--Florence

with all its emotions, its joys, its dangers, its acute pains, and

its fearful temptations.

For the first time in her life she uttered Count George’s

name without hesitating, and related without any reticence or

circumlocution all his name revived--everything! from the wild

dreams that preceded their first interview to the reverie of the

present day from which the convent bell roused her. She related

everything simply, clearly, firmly, and in a tone which, as she

proceeded, revealed more and more clearly to the ear attentively

listening that her rectitude of soul was not changed or its vigor

enfeebled.

Clearness of perception and energy of action were the two germs, as

we have already said, that induced Madre Maddalena to believe, if

sown in the heart and watered by the dews of divine grace, without

which all our perceptions become dim and all strength fails, would

enable this child, in spite of her youth, her beauty, and all the

tendencies of a tender heart and an ardent temperament, to walk

with a firm and sure step in the path of life.

She now saw her hopes realized, and thanked God for it. But she

looked, nevertheless, with inexpressible compassion at Fleurange’s

youthful face. Life was still so long before her, and from the very

beginning the combat had been so arduous! It is true, her courage

had thereby been tempered, but the day of rest was yet so far

off! so many storms might yet rise, so many perils gather around

her! From the safe port that sheltered her own life, she looked

off over the sea of the world, on which floated this frail bark,

praying in her heart to Him who commandeth the ocean and ruleth the

storm to snatch her from the threatening waves and land her safely

on the shore.

“I was not deceived,” said she, when the account was ended.

“No, my child, you have not mistaken the path of duty, but have

courageously followed its leadings. I could not be otherwise than

satisfied with you. Fleurange, I give you my blessing, and God will

bless you also.”

Saying these simple words, she softly laid her hand on the young

girl’s head. This act, and the words accompanying it, increased

the sensation of inexpressible comfort and solace, which was the

natural effect of the complete unburdening of her mind. A divine

peace, as it were, descended upon her, and enveloped her as a

garment.

“Oh! madre mia!” she exclaimed, “let me abide here with you--never

leave you again, nor this peaceful asylum!”

Mother Maddalena smiled, and was about to reply when the bell gave

four strokes.

“We will talk about this another time,” said she. “The bell calls

me away now, and I must leave you. We shall see each other again at

the evening hour of recreation. I suppose you have not forgotten

the way to your room. And you still remember the rule, I hope, and

how the day here is divided. The bell rings at the same hours as

before. Nothing is changed here.”

XXX.

It would not be easy for those who have never had this sweet

experience, to realize the effect of being suddenly transported

from the affairs and pleasures of the world, with all its cares and

sorrows, to such an atmosphere as now surrounded Fleurange.

But if every one does not feel the need of pausing thus on the way

through life, we cannot understand the astonishment and ironical

disdain with which some, unwilling to make the trial, speak of

these temporary retreats from the world, so customary in former

times, and somewhat so in ours. Do they find life, then, always

so pleasant and easy to bear? Does joy succeed so surely to joy

in the happy succession of their days? and have these days so

assured a duration that it would be useless to regulate their

course or reflect on their end? Or have these persons such perfect

control over their thoughts that no distraction ever disturbs their

equilibrium, and the need of pausing for reflection and rest is

never felt? We do not know. But what seems indubitable to us is

that, for a great number, this rest is as refreshing as pure water

and a shady spot of repose to the weary and thirsty traveller. And

there is no doubt that our poor heroine belonged to this number.

And this is why, in leaving Madre Maddalena, she returned to the

chapel instead of going up to her room, and there, in the profound

silence of the sanctuary, passed a whole hour in tasting the

sweetness of an unburdened heart, and the sense of divine security

which does not depend solely on the temporary shelter of the body,

but on that deeper feeling of a permanent shelter of the soul which

nothing earthly can affect.

If we consider all the sufferings this young girl had so recently

passed through--if we remember that the enthralling influences of

love had surrounded without tarnishing her, but still not without

lending a disenchantment to every other but the object of her love,

we shall not find it very surprising that in this spot, at this

hour, she should have thought of cutting short her worldly life,

and, without going any further in search of happiness, henceforth

impossible, or a destiny that must ever remain imperfect, of

devoting herself to the highest of all aims--that whose object is

God alone, and the welfare of those whom he loved most while on

earth--children and the poor.

Even at Florence, during the period of so much anguish, the

cloister of Santa Maria appeared like a refuge, and more than once

the idea of never leaving it had occurred to her then, as well as

while listening to Madre Maddalena. But now the idea became more

decided, and took possession of her imagination with an intensity

stronger than ever before. She welcomed it, and gave herself up to

it with a kind of pious intoxication. She tasted beforehand the

bitter pleasure of sacrifice; she accepted with interior transport

the perspective of absolute renunciation of all the joys of life;

and when at length she brought her long meditation to an end, and

prepared to leave the chapel, it seemed to her as if she had just

received a supernatural inspiration.

She would have sought an interview with Mother Maddalena at

once, but she knew it was a time when she was occupied in the

school-room, after which she devoted a whole hour, towards the

close of the day, to the poor who from far and near came to consult

her about their affairs or relate their sorrows. The morning was

given to the distribution of food, medicine, and assistance of all

kinds of material wants, and the evening was consecrated to the

exercise of charity under another form, the recipients of which

were often more numerous than the others.

Fleurange was not unaware of this, and she decided to remain

quietly in her room without attempting to see the superior again

till after supper. But when, at the close of school, she saw

two nuns taking the children to the oratory in the grove of

orange-trees, she went down to join in the prayers that ended

their day. The vine blossoms in the orchard united their sweet and

delicate odor to that of the orange-trees, and, when this little

perfumed grove resounded with the hymns of the children, it seemed

as if all nature united with them in offering heaven the incense of

praise. Prayers over, Fleurange joined the nuns and their pupils,

and for awhile it seemed as if the peaceful days of her childhood

had returned. Then came the silence of the refectory. But when

supper at length was ended, she went in pursuit of Madre Maddalena.

She knew she should not find her in her parlor, but on the terrace

over the cloister which commanded a view of the country around. It

was there she loved to remain in fine weather till the very close

of day.

What Fleurange was so eager to say we know already. To think aloud

was natural to her, and required no effort with Madre Maddalena

especially. Besides, she only wished to resume the conversation

interrupted in the morning, and make known all she had thought, and

felt, and resolved upon during the time she passed in the chapel.

Mother Maddalena stood with her arms folded, and listened this time

without interrupting her. Standing thus motionless in this place,

at this evening hour, the noble outlines of her countenance and the

long folds of her robe clearly defined against the blue mountains

in the distance, and the violet heavens above, she might easily

have been taken for one of the visions of that country which have

been depicted for us and all generations. The illusion would not

have been dispelled by the aspect of her who, seated on the low

wall of the terrace, was talking with her eyes raised, and with an

expression and attitude perfectly adapted to one of those young

saints often represented by the inspired artist before the divine

and majestic form of the Mother of God.

“Well, my dear mother, what do you say?” asked Fleurange, after

waiting a long time, and seeing the Madre looking at her and gently

shaking her head without any other reply.

“Before answering you,” replied she at last, “let me ask this

question: Do you think it allowable to consecrate one’s self to God

in the religious life without a vocation?”

“Assuredly not.”

“And do you know what a vocation is?” said she very slowly.

Fleurange hesitated. “I thought I knew, but you ask in such a way

as to make me feel now I do not.”

“I am going to tell you: a vocation,” said the Madre, as her eyes

lit up with an expression Fleurange had never seen before--“a

vocation to the religious life is to love God more than we love

any creature in the world, however dear; it is to be unable to

give anything or any person on earth a love comparable to that;

to feel the tendency of all our faculties incline us towards him

alone; finally,” pursued she, while her eyes seemed looking beyond

the visible heavens on which they were fastened, “it is the full

persuasion, even in this life, that he is _all_--our all--in the

past, the present, and the future; in this world and in another,

for ever, and to the exclusion of everything besides!--”

Fleurange, accustomed to Madre Maddalena’s habitual simplicity of

language, looked at her with surprise, and was speechless for a

moment, struck by her tone and her unusual expression, no less

than the words she had just uttered. A deep blush suffused the

young girl’s cheeks and mounted to her forehead.

“My dear mother,” said she at length, casting down her eyes,

“doubtless it is not given to all to feel such love for God;

especially to love him thus to the utter exclusion of all else here

below; but,” she continued with emotion, “is not the voluntary

sacrifice of all the affections and joys of the world a holocaust

likewise worthy of being offered him?”

Mother Maddalena’s eyes resumed their usual expression of

mildness: “Yes, assuredly, my poor child. I did not wish to

insinuate a doubt as to that. How could I, in this house, open to

all who suffer, and where among our sisters--and not the least

holy--are several who have brought hearts crushed by the sorrows

of life? But still, that is not the irresistible call of God which

we consider a genuine vocation. And what I wish you to understand,

my dear Gabrielle, is this: if I know you--and who knows you as

well?--you are one of those whom God would have called thus, had

it been his will your life should be consecrated to him in the

cloister. It is not for one like you to vow yourself to him through

discouragement or disgust of the world, or because its happiness

has lost its enchantment. The struggle has been severe, I know,

but on that account would you have it ended? No. Gabrielle, on the

contrary, you must resume your strength to continue the contest.”

Tears came into Fleurange’s eyes, and she bent down her head with

an expression of sadness.

“Oh! my poor child,” resumed the mother, “it would be much easier

for me to tell you to remain and never leave us again! It would

be sweeter for me to preserve you thus from all the sufferings

that yet await you. But believe me, the day will come when you

will rejoice you were not spared these sufferings; and you will

acknowledge that she who is now speaking to you knew you better

than you knew yourself.”

The stars were now beginning to appear in the dim azure of the

heavens, and the last gleams of daylight were fading away. It

was the hour of the Ave Maria. The bell soon announced it, and

they said the familiar prayer together before going down to the

cloister.

XXXI.

After this conversation, Fleurange resolved not to reconsider the

subject, but to renounce for ever the thought she had clung to for

a moment with so much ardor. This submission, the effect of her

simplicity and decision of character, did not prevent her from

feeling it would require a great effort to begin a new life once

more. And life would seem new to her, even in the Old Mansion,

for she was no longer the same. An abyss separated her from the

peaceful, happy days she passed there. But the Old Mansion was now

like a dream that had vanished, and it was to an unknown place she

was to direct her steps. The friends who would welcome her were

certainly dear, and sometimes the thought of seeing them again

made her heart beat with joy; but this feeling was frequently

overpowered by stronger and more recent remembrances, and, in spite

of all her efforts, regret--a continual, poignant regret--made

her indifferent to everything except this great sacrifice, which

would have been a sublime consolation, but which henceforth she was

forbidden to think of.

The days did not pass, however, one by one, without infusing into

her soul the benefit of retirement. It seemed to her as if the past

and the future were suspended.

Recollections and anticipations ceased to preoccupy her, and, as

if in a bark equally remote from these two shores--too far off to

hear a sound from either side--she allowed herself to be rocked

on the waves as on the ocean in serene weather, giving herself up

to the calmness and silence of her present life, with no other

feeling but the infinite peace that surrounded her, and seeing

nothing above her but the ever smiling heavens! Such days cannot

last, but they do not pass away without leaving some trace, were

it only a remembrance full, not of regret, but of encouragement.

The momentary sense of exquisite sweetness soon evaporates; but its

strengthening influences remain, and develop in the soul that has

tasted it once--even for an instant in life!

It was necessary, however, to begin to think of her departure, and

of some pretext to offer the princess which would not appear like

an arrangement. For this she awaited the return of the Steinbergs.

Though it would be painful to reveal to them the real motive of

her decision, she preferred to do it rather than give them also an

imaginary reason.

But a sad, unforeseen event occurred which spared her any

concealment or such an act of frankness. She had been at the

convent about ten days when she was informed that the travellers

had arrived an hour before at a neighboring inn, and her cousin

was waiting in the garden parlor to see her. The sight of Clara’s

charming face always afforded her pleasure, and it was now

increased by the satisfaction of presenting to Madre Maddalena one

of the daughters of Ludwig Dornthal, whose opportune appearance

in her life was regarded by the mother as a striking proof of the

intervention of the glorious archangel whom she had given her as a

protector, and Clara Steinberg’s arrival at the convent had been

anticipated as a _festa_.

But this festival was destined to be saddened. Fleurange was to

learn sad news from the letters awaiting her cousin at Santa Maria.

The young girl’s friend--so faithful and ready to aid her--the

excellent Dr. Leblanc, was no more! He had sunk under the effects

of an accident met with while taking a drive with Professor

Dornthal in the environs of Heidelberg.

When Madre Maddalena appeared, she found the two cousins in tears,

and her sweet smile of welcome was changed into anxious inquiries.

Some moments were necessary for the explanations she asked for, and

it was only after her soothing words and the peace that emanated

from her presence had somewhat calmed Fleurange’s agitation that

she had courage enough to open a letter from Clement containing

the details of the cruel accident that had cost her old friend his

life--the friend to whom her thoughts had so often turned during

her recent perplexities, and who was taken from her in the very

hour of her life when his aid and advice seemed most essential.

Clement wrote: “In returning from a drive to Stift-Neuburg, the

carriage was upset and broken, and they were thrown violently to

the ground. At first my father seemed the more injured of the

two. He was entirely unconscious, and did not recover his senses

for some hours. We are now, however, relieved from nearly all

anxiety concerning him. His friend, whose senses never left him

for a moment, declared from the first he had received some grave,

internal injury from which he could not recover. Nevertheless, he

prescribed all the necessary remedies himself, but at the same

time made all his arrangements with admirable firmness: wrote to

his sister, sent for a priest, and this at a time when we did not

think him in danger. But on the third day his anticipations were

verified--his case grew more serious. His poor sister had just

arrived the day before yesterday, when he died in her arms.--

“Dear cousin,” Clement continued, “I have one request to make

before I close, and this not in my own name, but on the part of

my mother: Return, Gabrielle; if possible, return at once; at

all events come soon. The sacrifice you imposed on yourself is

no longer necessary, and your presence here is indispensable. My

poor father is continually asking for you, and cannot be made to

understand your absence. No wish to convince you, my dear cousin,

would make me think deception excusable. You may believe me, then,

when I repeat that the aid you so generously afforded us is now

superfluous. You can without any scruple return home--your home,

unless, which God forbid! your own choice leads you to prefer

another. Poor Mademoiselle Josephine has but one wish--to see you

again. She says it is the only consolation she looks forward to.

Hilda is now with us; it is unnecessary to say she desires your

return, and equally so to tell you _your brothers_ beg and expect

it.--”

Fleurange no longer needed a pretext. She would neither be obliged

to reveal nor conceal anything--everything was arranged for her

by the overruling force of circumstances, and her letter to

the Princess Catherine became all at once easy to write. It was

despatched that very day, and as soon as the sun began to gild the

mountain-tops the next day but one, Madre Maddalena for the second

time saw the child she so truly loved cross the threshold of her

convent home to encounter once more the dangers of the world.

Would she again return?--return like the dove, beaten by the

tempest, who has found no rest for the sole of her foot, to take

refuge once more in this asylum of peace? Or was she gone to

return no more? and would she now find the world smiling, and its

freshness renewed, and her pathway smoothed before her and strewn

with flowers? She did not seek to know. Mother Maddalena, as we

are aware, did not consider such anticipations very important. She

only hoped her feet might be guided by light from on high, and her

courage in pursuing life’s journey unfaltering. She asked no more.

Besides, the ardor of the sun has its dangers as well as the storm,

and the clearness of the soul’s heaven may be obscured in pleasant

as well as in tempestuous weather. Let us, therefore, leave to

God the appointment of every incident of our lives, and be solely

solicitous of fulfilling our course well, without being anxious as

to the way.

“And then--the way is short, however long it may seem, and it leads

to that true life where we shall for ever live together, dear

Gabrielle--where all your poor heart has vainly wished, sought,

and hoped for here below will be given in full measure, pressed

down, and running over; where all it has suffered here will bear no

comparison with the radiant joys of eternal life! God is faithful.

Let us wait. And what is it to wait--to wait thus, with sure faith

in his promises for eternal reunion with God?”

Such were the last words of Mother Maddalena. She gave her blessing

to Fleurange, who knelt to receive it, closed the convent gate

behind her, and ascended to the terrace to follow her as long as

she could with her eyes. Then she went down to the chapel, and

there on her knees tenderly wept and prayed for her. For there

is no affection equal to that of such large hearts expanded and

filled with the love of God. And we shall be convinced of this if

we recall the excessive devotedness of which they are capable--and

they alone--through love for the most unknown of their brethren.

Then we shall see what such hearts are to the objects of their

affection, that they are kindled with a flame which purifies and

tempers all that is noble and worthy of being developed, but prompt

to extinguish and consume all that is frail, frivolous, impure, and

of no permanent value.

XXXIII.

The Princess Catherine, in an elegant morning négligé, was alone

with the Marquis Adelardi in her small salon when a letter was

brought her on a silver salver. She glanced at the address.

“Ah! from Gabrielle,” she exclaimed. “The very letter I was

expecting to-day.”

She opened it and hastily ran over its contents. “Very well done,

very,” she said. “Nothing could be more natural. She hit upon the

very best thing to say. It would be impossible for me to refuse

without cruelty, as George himself would acknowledge. Here,

Adelardi,” continued she, throwing him the letter, “read it. It

must be owned that this Gabrielle is reliable and true to her word.

Moreover, she has a good deal of wit.”

Adelardi attentively read the letter.

“What you have just remarked, princess, is very true, but this time

circumstances have favored you. This letter was not written for the

occasion; it is sincere from beginning to end. This young girl can

keep a secret, but is incapable of prevarication. This is not the

kind of a letter she would have written, if the contents were not

absolutely true.”

“Do you think so?” said the princess. “It is of no consequence,

however, as to that, though it would simplify everything still

more. But in that case--Ah! _ciel!_ let me look at the letter

again.”

She now read it entirely through, instead of merely glancing at the

contents.

“But in that case I have lost my physician--and the only one who

ever understood my case. This, _par exemple!_ is a real misfortune.

If he had had time, at least, to answer my last letter, and tell me

what springs I should go to this year! Whom shall I consult now?

May is nearly gone, and next month I ought to be there. Really, I

am unlucky!”

“What do you expect, princess?” said the marquis in a tone

imperceptibly ironical. “One cannot always have good luck. On the

other hand, you have just had your very wish!”

“I acknowledge it, and, to come back to Gabrielle, I must confess

I have no reason to be otherwise than satisfied with her. Yes, we

have had a lucky escape, Adelardi. But I can hardly forgive her

for the fears she caused me, and the anxiety I still have.--What

of George since yesterday? What humor will he be in for the news I

have for him?--But what are you brooding over, Adelardi? You make

me uneasy with your look of anxiety. I hope you do not think he is

in danger of any new folly?”

“What kind of folly?”

“You know very well--the only one to be dreaded at present. Are we

to have another of the scenes we have already witnessed?--Will he

elude us, and follow her?--Or--how shall I express it?--will he, by

way of diversion, do worse, and go from Scylla into Charybdis? One

never knows what to expect from him.”

“Well, princess, I acknowledge I wish I were sure this young girl,

in sacrificing herself--for you do not imagine, I suppose, that she

is indifferent to George’s attractions--”

“It does not seem very probable,” said the princess; “but I hope

you do not imagine I take into consideration the effect George

would naturally produce when he takes pains to captivate a young

girl of twenty, and especially one in Gabrielle’s position.”

Adelardi made no reply, but his face, already grave, grew still

darker.

“Once more, Adelardi, what is the matter? One would really think

you in love with her yourself.”

“By no means, though I fancy she might, in her turn, easily

captivate anybody. Nevertheless, I have used all my efforts to

withdraw George from the charm I fully saw the danger of before

you. But to return to what I was saying: I wish I felt sure of

never regretting the time when this noble girl’s influence seemed

so formidable.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, princess, I assure you I wish she were here to-day, that the

charm of her presence might retain him every evening in this salon,

from which, without speaking to her, or scarcely looking at her,

he could not tear himself away when she was present. You see how

different it is already, now she is gone; and why? Because these

days, that seem so long, and the evenings so dreary and vacant,

have revived a passion as dangerous to him as play or love. Pardon

me, princess, I know his affection for you and his friendship for

me; but we are both aware he cannot endure _ennui_, and should

not be astonished that Gabrielle’s absence has left a void in his

existence whose effect produces the greatest, the most intolerable

_ennui_ in the world. I feel it myself, and, were it not for the

absorbing interests that preoccupy you, you yourself would endure

with ill grace the sudden disappearance of this ravishing creature,

the very sight of whom--”

“Come, come, Adelardi, be calm, or I shall again say--”

“No, princess, I am not in love with her, you may rest assured; but

as for George, I doubt this moment if it were not better for him to

be, and remain so, whatever might be the result, rather than--”

“Well, do finish; you terrify me to death.”

“Rather than be again seized with this mania for politics--a

passion fatal to him, you know, and which may lead to the greatest

imprudence.”

The princess became thoughtful.

“Yes, I am indeed aware of it. I know it but too well; but since

his return I have found him so much calmer on this subject that it

has not worried me.”

“It was because he was taken up with something else; but, owing

to an encounter which unfortunately coincided with Gabrielle’s

departure, and diverted his attention at the very moment he had

absolute need of distraction, he is now so absorbed and led away

that I truly regret, instead of her indefinite absence, we cannot

announce the immediate return of her who, better than any one

else--perhaps the only one in the world--could really save him from

this new danger.”

“Thank you, my dear friend. That, _par exemple_, is a regret I can

hardly sympathize in.”

“I venture to say, moreover,” said Adelardi, “that, sure of the

future as he believes himself to be, thanks to your admirable

diplomacy, we shall find him much more resigned to this news than

might have been supposed.”

“I really hope so,” replied the princess, smiling, “especially as

another fancy has taken possession of his mind, as to which, I must

confess, I do not feel very anxious at present. ‘_Un’ alla volta

per Carità!_’--We had to rally to the weakest point first; the

enemy was at hand, and that enemy--love! Every means had to be used

to rout him. Now the subject of politics is threatening to engross

him. We will take that in hand later. The only thing that seems to

me of real importance at present is to efface as fully as possible

the remembrance of this beautiful Fleurange, for, among other

discoveries, I find that to be Gabrielle’s real name. To this end

I even welcome politics as an ally to be accepted for a time for

certain reasons, but to be turned upon as an enemy the moment its

services are no longer required.”

At this moment a servant appeared to ask the princess’ wishes

respecting a picture just brought. She left the room a moment, and

returned laughing.

“Guess what picture it was?” said she.

“Probably some new acquisition; some wonderful discovery you have

made in your rounds, like that picture by Cigoli you got thrown

into the bargain the other day when you bought the frame it was in.”

“By no means; this is a modern picture representing Cordelia at the

feet of her father, and the original--”

“Come, princess, are you in earnest? Has George really given you

that picture?”

“Given?” said the princess, her eyes twinkling as she played

with her long necklace of pearls. “No; at least that was not his

intention. But could he refuse to lend a picture that affords me so

much pleasure during the absence of--_Cordelia_? It was the whim

of an invalid suddenly deprived of her nurse! which, with some

persistence on my part, could not be refused! and after giving,

moreover, such a proof of indulgence to him and of condescension

towards her!--”

“Ah! princess, what a consummate diplomatist you are!”

“To be serious,” said she, “do you know I had never noticed this

resemblance at all, having seen the picture only once, then I did

not examine it particularly, and I had never seen Gabrielle? You

know George’s cabinet is a sanctuary I rarely invade, and, besides,

the picture has had a curtain over it the past year.”

“And what inspired you with the idea of looking at it now?”

“He himself by the delightful tale he related to me the other

evening.”

“And where have you hung it now?”

“In my dressing-room, where he never steps his foot,” replied the

princess with a peal of laughter.

Marquis Adelardi, as we are aware, had deplored George’s

infatuation as much as the princess herself, but he now felt

dissatisfied with her and himself, and he soon left her to go in

search of his friend. He felt anxious about him, for he knew he

was tempted by a dangerous curiosity and was unwilling to lose

sight of him. They had made arrangements to meet and dine together

at a kind of casino then popular, and he hoped to retain him the

remainder of the evening. But arriving at the place of rendezvous

he did not find him as he expected. George was gone, but had

left a note which drew from Adelardi an energetic exclamation of

disappointment. The note ran thus: “Once is not a habit. I have

accepted Lasko’s invitation for this evening. Dini will accompany

me. But be easy, I am not going under my own name, and shall not be

known by any one.”

“Lasko!” muttered the marquis, stamping his foot. “That is his

name now! Confound him! why is he not still in the dungeons of

Spielberg--the only place fit for him!”

TO BE CONTINUED.

FOOTNOTE:

[199] This stream is called the Sanguinetto.

“But a brook hath ta’en--

--A name of blood from that day’s sanguine rain,

And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead

Made the earth wet, and turned the unwilling waters red.”

THE PAPACY.

That such a power should live and breathe, doth seem

A thought from which men fain would be relieved,

A grandeur not to be endured, a dream

Darkening the soul, though it be unbelieved.

August conception! far above king, law,

Or popular right; how calmly dost thou draw

Under thine awful shadow mortal pain,

And joy not mortal! Witness of a need

Deep laid in man, and therefore pierced in vain,

As though thou wert no form that thou shouldst bleed!

While such a power there lives in old man’s shape,

Such and so dread, should not his mighty will

And supernatural presence, Godlike, fill

The air we breathe, and leave us no escape?

--_Faber_

THE CATHOLIC CHURCH IN THE UNITED STATES:

A RETROSPECT--CONCLUDED.

The inveterate hostility of the Florida Indians to the whites was

further illustrated a few years later, when a vessel bound from

Vera Cruz to Spain struck upon their shores, and the survivors,

three hundred in number, including five Dominican religious,

endeavored to escape through that territory to Mexico. They were

so unrelentingly pursued by the natives, and suffered so many

hardships on the route besides, that only one reached Tampico alive

to tell the story of their fate. Father John Ferrer, however, one

of the Dominicans, and a most holy man, who had predicted this

fate of himself before he had even set sail from Vera Cruz, was

captured by the Indians west of the Rio del Norte. If the remainder

of his prediction held equally good, he must have survived among

them in good health for several years; but nothing was ever heard

of him afterwards. The bearer of these tidings, and the sole

representative of the thousand souls who had set forth from Vera

Cruz a few months before, was the Dominican lay-brother, Mark de

Mena, whose escape, though he had been terribly wounded, and left

to die on the road, was truly marvellous.

Such persistent barbarity needed a check, and Don Tristan de

Luna was sent in 1559 to subdue the country. The expedition

under his command numbered fifteen hundred men in thirteen

vessels: missionaries, as usual, accompanied him. Again they were

Dominicans, six in number. Again, also, storms and shipwrecks on

those difficult shores played their part, and many lives were lost,

among them one of the Dominicans. The aggressive character of the

expedition was doubtless seriously affected by this early mishap,

for but one portion of the survivors settled down at Pensacola

Bay, calling their colony the mission of Santa Cruz, while the

remainder, attended by two of the fathers, accompanied Don Tristan

into “Coosa,” the territory of the Creeks. Don Tristan was kindly

received by these Indians, formed an alliance with them, marched

with them against their enemies, the Natchez tribe, and remained

with them about two years. In this interval, however, the zeal

of the two missionaries was rewarded only by the baptism of a

few dying infants and adults. Don Tristan returned to Pensacola

Bay, where the new governor arrived from Mexico shortly after,

with eight more Dominicans. When the governor beheld how little

had been accomplished, and heard the discouraging accounts of the

missionaries besides, he resolved to abandon Florida, and to take

the whole party back with him to Mexico. Don Tristan, however,

persisted in remaining, and Father Dominic de Salazar, one of those

who had been with him among the Creeks, together with Matthew, a

lay-brother, and a few men besides, shared his solitude. But this

courageous persistence was not destined to be crowned with any

permanent result, for the Viceroy of Mexico despatched a vessel

to the little colony with peremptory orders for all its members

to return. Thus Florida was again left without the succors of a

Christian mission. Father Dominic ended his life of zeal and labor

as Bishop of Manila, in the Philippines.

At last, Pedro Melendez de Aviles, the first naval commander of

his day, received from Philip II., together with the title of

Adelantado of Florida, the command of a fleet of 34 vessels,

conveying 2,646 men. Melendez had also a personal interest in this

expedition, inasmuch as he hoped to recover a son, who, having

been shipwrecked on the Florida coast, might still be alive and

in the hands of the Indians, or have been captured by French

cruisers, France and Spain being then at enmity with one another.

He carried missionaries with him, chiefly Franciscans and Jesuits.

The usual storms and shipwrecks intervened, and one vessel was

captured by French cruisers, so that only a small force came

to anchor off the mouth of the St. John’s River. Here a French

fleet was found already riding, and a fort had been erected on

shore. Melendez pursued the French vessel to sea, was in turn

pursued by them, entered St. Augustine’s River while the French

were wrecked outside, attacked their fort, and put all to the

sword--a proceeding which the usages of war at that time might have

palliated, but could never justify.

St. Augustine, the oldest of our American cities, was now (1565)

founded by Melendez, and detachments were sent out to throw up

forts along the coast. At his solicitation, St. Francis Borgia,

then General of the Society of Jesus, sent three other Jesuits,

one of whom, F. Peter Martinez, the superior, was killed by the

natives, into whose hands he fell in consequence of having been

shipwrecked. Others of the Society were afterwards sent, and the

mission was erected into a vice-province, with F. John Baptist

Segura as superior. It is impossible, in reading Mr. Shea’s

_History of the Missions_, to follow the exact order of events.

Suffice it to say--not to linger upon details at this point--that

many Indian youths were taken to Havana and instructed by Father

John Roger and Brother Villareal, the two companions of Father

Martinez; that the vice-provincial and the other Jesuits sent with

him were stationed at various points within the thus extensive

limits comprehended as Florida; that missions were established

among the Creeks and among another tribe superior to them (and

supposed to have been the Cherokees), all of which were most meagre

in result; that the Pope St. Pius V. addressed a letter (1569) to

the governor of Florida, urging the repression of scandals among

the whites, so that no obstruction should be offered to the work of

conversion among the Indians; and that, finally, the working force

of the Society was most seriously reduced, first, by the loss of

Father Martinez, already mentioned, next by that of Brother Baez,

who died from the effects of the climate, at his station on Amelia

Island, and subsequently by the massacre in Virginia (or possibly

Maryland) of Fathers Segura and Quiros, with four lay-brothers, at

the instigation of a pretended Indian convert who had inveigled

them thither. Father Segura’s party on this occasion included also

several Indian youths who had been educated in Havana, and of

these only one escaped with his life. From him the details of the

martyrdom of his companions were gathered. Thus as early as 1570

was the region bordering on the Chesapeake, which was then called

St. Mary’s Bay, sanctified by the blood of its martyrs.

The loss of so many valuable members in a field so sterile of fruit

forced the Jesuits, in a manner, to abandon it, “to abandon it as

they had abandoned no other, without being driven from it,” remarks

Shea, and in the following year the survivors were recalled to the

more inviting field of Mexico. In 1572, Melendez, who had visited

Spain meanwhile, set out thence to make pursuit for the murderers

of Father Segura and his companions. He captured eight of them,

and these, under the instructions of Father Roger, who accompanied

Melendez, embraced Christianity before their execution and died

in the best dispositions. The apostate “chief of Axican,” who had

promoted the massacre, had escaped to the woods and could not be

taken. Melendez, on his return to Spain, was appointed to command

the great Armada, which Philip was then preparing for the invasion

of England, but he died before its completion. After his death, the

northern limits of Spanish colonization in Florida were gradually

pushed south to the line of St. Mary’s River.

The missions of Florida were now left entirely to the Franciscans,

whose headquarters were at the convent of St. Helena, at St.

Augustine, the venerable walls of which are still standing. Besides

some who arrived in 1573, twelve Franciscans were sent thither

in 1592. The accession of so considerable a number enabled the

father guardian of St. Helena’s to station missionaries at various

points where, from information received, there was a prospect of

some success; and indeed, for the first time in the history of

the missions of Florida, villages of Christian neophytes began to

be formed. For the Yemassees, Father Francis de Pareja, a native

of Mexico, drew up in their language his abridgment of Christian

doctrine, the first work in any of our Indian languages that was

ever issued from the press. The missions made peaceful progress for

two years, when, in 1597, a sudden outbreak of Indian fickleness

and perfidy occurred which spread havoc far and wide among them.

Father Peter de Corpa, whose mission of Tolemato occupied the

present site of the cemetery at St. Augustine, had found himself

obliged to administer a public rebuke to the cacique’s son, who,

from having been a fervent convert, fell at last into most vicious

courses. The latter, filled with resentment, appealed to the

national and religious prejudices of his followers, and, assembling

a body of them, rushed to the chapel of Father Corpa, and slew him

while he was on his knees before the altar.

Thence they repaired to the mission of Father Blas Rodriguez

at Topoqui, and, warning him of his fate, bade him prepare for

death. He entreated that he might be allowed first to say Mass,

and by a strange condescension his murderers quietly awaited the

termination of the holy sacrifice, and then despatched him as he

knelt to make his thanksgiving. Fathers Badajoz and Aunon at Guale

or Amelia Island were the next victims; but the latter, made aware

of their approach and of their designs, had time to say Mass and

communicate his companion. Then followed the massacre of Father

Francis de Velascola, the most distinguished of the missionaries,

at Asao. The assailants met with a repulse at St. Peter’s Isle,

the seat of another mission, against which they had advanced with

a flotilla of forty war-canoes; but before attacking this point

they had fallen upon the mission of Father Francis de Avila at

Ospa. He fled, was captured, grievously wounded, and was condemned

to die. They finally concluded to sell him into a heathen village

as a slave, and here for a whole year he was compelled to perform

the most menial offices. At the end of this time his task-masters,

growing weary of him, resolved to put him to death. He was fastened

to a stake, the fagots were piled around him, and he was offered

his life on condition that he should renounce his God and marry

into their tribe. Spurning the proposal, he looked to receive the

martyr’s crown, but on the demand of an old woman he was released,

and given to her that she might exchange him against her son who

was held a prisoner at St. Augustine. The exchange was effected,

and the father was restored, but so changed in appearance from the

effects of his hardships that he was not recognized by his friends.

The missions were now reduced to a feeble state indeed, and the

governor of Florida applied himself to their restoration, in

conjunction with the Bishop of Cuba, who visited the colony for

the purpose. They began to revive from the year 1601, and in a

few years the increase was very rapid, no less than forty-three

Franciscans being sent thither in the three years 1612, 1613, and

1615, who aided in establishing on the coast and in the interior

as many as twenty convents or residences. During the hundred years

of peace that followed the revival of the missions under the

Franciscans, towns of converts grew up along the Appalachicola,

Flint, and other rivers; and the Appalaches, Creeks, Cherokees,

Atimucas, and Yemassees responded to the cares bestowed upon them.

Pensacola was founded in 1693.

At last, however, the encroachments of the colonists of Carolina

began to grow serious. Under the auspices of the English

government, a body of colonists heterogeneous in character, but

of one mind in their hatred of the Spaniards and their religion,

had been drawn to the shores claimed by the latter as belonging to

Florida. They were composed of immigrants from Old and New England

and the Low Countries, of French Huguenots, Scotch, and others.

Charleston was founded by them in 1680, and they penetrated the

country in various directions. They gained over the Yemassees

from the Spanish; and in conjunction with them plundered and

destroyed the mission of St. Catharine’s, as early as 1684. All the

stations between the Altamaha and Savannah rivers, now a portion of

Georgia, were broken up, and the Indians were killed, or captured

and carried off by hundreds, the survivors taking refuge in the

peninsula.

In 1702, the animosities of the European war of the Spanish

succession extended hither, and war aggravated the hostility of

the English colonists. In that year they made an attack on St.

Augustine, but without capturing its fort, and fell upon the

“Indian converts of the Spanish priests,” on Flint River, killing

or capturing six hundred of them; and all captives of the English

at this time suffered the hard fate of being sold as slaves in

Charleston and other ports. The principal mission of the Appalaches

at St. Mark’s was destroyed, and three Franciscans taken there

were put to a cruel death. This tribe, in fact, was reduced within

four years from seven thousand to four hundred. The Atimucas on

the Appalachicola were invaded, and driven east of the St. John’s

River. In short, ruin and desolation were spread on every side.

In 1730, the Yemassees turned upon their recent allies, the

English, and were joined by the Creeks, Cherokees, and other

tribes. They were defeated, as the Tuscaroras had been the

year before; but while the latter were driven north and united

themselves with the Five Nations, the former were compelled to take

refuge in the peninsula. The treaty of Utrecht, the same year, at

the close of the war of the Spanish succession, while it contracted

the limits of the Spanish possessions in Florida, had also its

effect in lessening the acts of hostility from which they had

suffered. But the missions remained a mere shadow of what they had

formerly been, and Spain was too feeble to guarantee the complete

protection even of those that subsisted. Finally, the cession

of Florida to England by the treaty of Paris in 1763 proved the

death-blow of all of them. Most of the Spanish settlers left, and

the Franciscans departed with them. England restored the country

to Spain twenty years after; but, meanwhile, the Christian Indians

had been expelled from the two towns they occupied under the walls

of St. Augustine, and deprived of the soil they had cultivated and

the church they had erected. They became Seminoles, which in their

language signifies “wanderers.” Under Catholic influence, they had

become a quiet, orderly, industrious race, living side by side with

the Spaniards in peace and comfort. The English drove them back

into barbarism and paganism. Even in their everglades they were

not left in peace, for the government of the United States, which

acquired Florida by purchase in 1821, expelled them from their

wretched patrimony, but at a cost to the country of a thousand

lives and fifteen millions of dollars. Its troops have, ever since

the acquisition of Florida, made use of the ancient convent of St.

Helena, at St. Augustine, as barracks. A remnant of the Indians is

still left, and measures have been recently taken by the Bishop of

St. Augustine, whose see was erected only in 1870, to revive the

faith among them.

As in Florida, so in New Mexico, the missionaries were chiefly

if not entirely Franciscans. We have already referred to the

expedition of Coronado, and to the two missionaries, F. Padillo,

and the lay-brother, his companion, who were left behind at their

own request, and who became the first martyrs of the missions of

New Mexico (1541). Little inducement presented itself for sending

new missionaries in the field, but in 1581 the solicitations of

a pious lay-brother, Augustin Rodriguez, engaged in the Mexican

missions, caused the formation of a party consisting of Fathers

Francis Lopez and John de Santa Maria, and himself, attended by ten

soldiers and six Mexican Indians. After proceeding seven hundred

miles, they found themselves among the tribe of Tehuas, who,

unlike the Indians of the plains, lived in houses and dressed in

cotton mantles. The soldiers now persisted in returning, but their

departure seemed a less serious misfortune since the mission gave

promise of success. So much so, indeed, that F. de Santa Maria was

despatched to Mexico for auxiliaries, but on the third day out was

surprised and killed by roving Indians. In an attack made on the

Tehuas by their enemies not long after, F. Lopez fell by the hand

of the assailants. Brother Rodriguez, left alone, subsequently fell

a victim to his zeal in inveighing against the vices of those for

whose conversion he was laboring; growing weary of his reproaches,

they put him to death. Two other Franciscans in attendance on a

subsequent expedition suffered the fate of martyrs, and thus the

foundations of the New Mexican missions were laid in blood.

In 1597, Juan de Oñate led a colony to the Northern Rio Grande.

Several Franciscans accompanied him, and the first Spanish post

in this region, that of San Gabriel, was established. After a

year, the commander sent a favorable report by the hands of two

fathers and a lay-brother, who were returning to Mexico to solicit

additional missionaries. One of the three, F. Christopher Salazar,

died on the way, and was buried in the wilderness. The missionaries

asked for were sent, five or six at one time, and six at another.

So great was the success subsequently achieved that by the year

1608 eight thousand of the Indians of New Mexico had been baptized,

and many of them were taught to read and write, before the Puritans

set foot in New England (1620).

A report made to the crown in 1626 enumerates twenty-seven

missions that had been established up to that time, six convents

or residences, and four sumptuous churches built. Many of of these

missions and residences, and three of the churches (those at Santa

Fé, Pecos, and Jemez), are recognizable in the account of the

diocese furnished in _Sadliers’ Catholic Almanac_ for 1872. One of

the missions was among the Zuñi, over against whose town of Cibola

Friar Mark had planted his prophetic cross in 1539. The missionary

at this post, F. John Letrado, lost his life in endeavoring to

evangelize a neighboring tribe. F. Martin de Arbide perished in a

like attempt.

Heaven itself seemed to come to the assistance of the missionaries

by a miraculous intervention,[200] for a tribe which none of the

fathers had previously met or visited was found fully instructed

in Christian doctrine.

Some reverses occurred, owing to causes not clearly stated by

Mr. Shea. They were probably due to the persistent hostility of

the pagan portion of the population. In 1680, great devastations

were committed by them, many missionaries were killed, and some

churches destroyed which were never after rebuilt; but a period

of comparative peace succeeded, which was disturbed finally only

by the incursions of the Apaches. A mission was established among

the latter in 1733, but without fruit. Nine years afterwards,

some converts were made among the Moquis and Navojoes. A report

among the United States Executive documents of 1854--and which

corresponds with the statements published by Villaseñor, so long

ago as 1748--bears testimony to the happy moral and industrial

condition of the Christian Indians of New Mexico. The Puebla

Indians, as they are now called, number in the diocese of Santa Fé

12,000.

The history of the missions of Texas need not greatly prolong

our narrative. Shortly after the discovery of the mouth of the

Mississippi by La Salle in 1691, who made no permanent settlement

in Texas, the Spanish authorities sent thither a number of

Franciscans. By them, eight missions were established, which

prospered until a failure occurred in the crops which the Indians

had been taught to raise. The cattle with which the missions had

been stocked died at the same time, and moreover the soldiers, of

whom there was a small guard at each post, had rendered themselves

obnoxious to the natives. In consequence, the missions fell into

decay. Their restoration began in 1717, and by 1746 they embraced

posts among five different tribes. Visits were also made to the

Osages and Missouris, in one of which expeditions a father lost his

life and another was long retained as a prisoner.

The missions subsisted and flourished until 1812, when they were

suppressed by the Spanish government. Even then, the Indians,

though deprived of spiritual succor, remained faithful to the

religious teachings they had received. Father Diaz was sent to them

by the Bishop of Monterey, in 1832, and after laboring for a year

at Nacogdoches, was killed by wandering Indians. Soon after this

the whites began to pour into Texas, and by 1836 grew powerful

enough to declare and to maintain the independence of the state.

The demoralization and dispersion of the Indians followed, as a

natural consequence. Father Timon, afterwards Bishop of Buffalo,

was appointed in 1840 Prefect Apostolic of Texas, and, despatching

thither Father Odin as Vice-Prefect, followed him shortly after.

By an act of justice, of which modern governments rarely afford

so striking an example, the old ecclesiastical property was

restored to the church by the Texan legislature. Father Odin was

made bishop in 1842, and his see became the diocese of Galveston

in 1847, two years after the annexation of Texas to the United

States. The biography of this eminent prelate (who subsequently

became Archbishop of New Orleans), in Clarke’s _Deceased Bishops_,

furnishes much interesting matter regarding the history of the

church in Texas. The report of the diocese for 1871 supplies no

information in regard to the Indian population, if indeed any

Christians are still to be found among them within the limits of

the state. Many relics remain of the churches, aqueducts, and other

public works erected by the Franciscans and their neophytes during

the prosperous period of the missions.

The first expedition to any portion of California, which was

accompanied by missionaries, was that under Vizcaino, in 1596, to

the peninsula, but no permanent footing was made at the time. In

1601, three Carmelite fathers visited that portion now included in

the United States, and made a temporary stay, and no more, at what

are now Santa Barbara, Monterey, and San Francisco. The Jesuits

began their missions south of the Gila in 1642, and gradually

extended them north, until, in 1697, they had entered the limits

of our present territory. The success characteristic of their

missions everywhere--for their failure in Florida was something

abnormal--followed them here. All was proceeding well, when that

extensive conspiracy arose in Europe against the Society which the

history of the age subsequently shows to have been directed quite

as much against the church as against the Jesuits. The King of

Spain, having been drawn into the plot as other sovereigns were,

ordered the Jesuits to be torn in a single day from all their

missions throughout his wide domains. On the 3d of February, 1768,

every Jesuit was carried off from California a prisoner. Accused of

no crime, condemned without a trial, the missionaries were dragged

from amid their neophytes, who in grief and consternation deplored

their loss.

Spain was, however, not yet prepared to cut loose entirely from her

religious traditions, and she sent Franciscans to take the place

of the banished Jesuits. The vessel that landed the latter at San

Blas returned to California with twelve Franciscans, at the head of

whom was Father Junipero Serra, an experienced Indian missionary.

After placing priests at the vacated missions, Father Serra went

on to found others, San Ferdinand, San Bonaventura, and San Diego

being established in 1769, that at Monterey in 1770--at the news

of which foundations all the bells in the city of Mexico were

rung--San Gabriel the same year, St. Anthony of Padua in 1771, San

Luis Obispo in 1772, San Juan Capistrano in 1774, San Francisco in

1776, Santa Clara in 1777. In this interval many more of the sons

of St. Francis came to join in the labors of their brethren, or to

replace those who were worn out with toil. At Monterey, in 1771,

when the feast of Corpus Christi was celebrated with a pomp such as

the wilderness had never before seen, twelve priests joined in the

sacred procession. The Dominicans, moreover, applied for a share in

the work of the missions, and in 1774 were assigned to all those

stations formerly served by the Jesuits, the Franciscans retaining

only those that had been founded by themselves, except San

Ferdinand, which was also given to the Dominicans. As the missions

thus transferred were chiefly in Old California (the peninsula),

their history does not enter within the scope of this narrative.

In 1775, the mission at San Diego was attacked by a large force of

pagan Indians, led on by two apostates of their own race. Father

Louis Jayme, one of the two priests stationed here, was awakened

by the flames, and, supposing the fire to be accidental, came to

the door with his usual salutation, “Love God, my children.” He was

immediately seized, dragged off, pierced with arrows, and hacked to

death by blows with swords made of hardened wood. The other father

happily escaped. When Father Serra heard what had occurred, he

exclaimed, “Thank God, that field is watered,” rebuilt the mission,

after some opposition from the civil authorities, and went on

with his labors in founding others. Father Crespi, the principal

assistant of Father Serra, died in 1782, after a missionary career

of thirty years, of which fourteen had been spent in California.

Father Serra himself expired two years after. Although seventy-one

years of age at the time of his death, his zeal was undiminished

and his faculties were unimpaired. Under his administration,

as Prefect Apostolic of California, ten new missions had been

established, and ten thousand Indians baptized. Yet death found him

busy with plans of still other foundations.

By a Papal Bull of June 16th, 1774, the power of administering

confirmation was granted to the prefect apostolic. This privilege

was of course shared by Father Serra’s successors in the same

office. The first of these was Father Palou, under whom the

following new missions were founded: Santa Barbara in 1786, La

Purisima Concepcion, near San Luis Obispo, in 1787, Santa Cruz near

Branciforte, and Nuestra Señora de Soledad, near Monterey, in 1791.

Father Palou then returned to Mexico, where he became superior

of the convent of San Fernando. He was succeeded as prefect by

Father Lazven, who remained in office until his death in 1803.

In the interval, Father Lazven founded three great missions, San

José, San Miguel, and San Fernando, all in the year 1797. San

Luis, Rey de Francia, was founded in the following year. St. Louis

of France was thus honored in this remote wilderness at a time

when the nation over which he had ruled rejected alike his faith,

his institutions, and his family. The celebrated Father Peyri,

whose portrait is given in Mr. Shea’s _History of the Missions_,

superintended the foundation of this greatest of the Californian

reductions. In front of the church, which is ninety feet in length,

of stone, and rises at one end in a beautiful tower and dome (says

Mr. Shea), “extends a colonnade not without architectural beauty,

and nearly five hundred feet long, while in depth it is almost of

equal proportions.” Three thousand five hundred Indian converts

were soon gathered together, occupying twenty ranches around this

abode of peace and plenty.

Father Mariano Payeras succeeded Father Lazven as prefect, and

founded the mission of Santa Inez in 1804. At this time Spain

became unable, amid the distractions which arose from the French

Revolution--for which she herself had assisted in preparing the

way by the share she took in the persecution of the Jesuits--to

extend the aid which new foundations required, and, therefore, none

were made. The missions already in existence were not affected to

any great extent by the difficulties of the mother country, for

they were self-supporting. In 1817, however, it became possible to

found the mission of San Rafael, and this proved to be the last

foundation under Spanish auspices. Others were projected, but the

power of Spain in the western world was already tottering to its

fall. In 1821, Iturbide’s short-lived empire replaced the authority

of the Spanish crown in Mexico, and two years after, Santa Anna’s

successful revolt changed the empire into a republic. Father

Sanchez was now prefect, and in 1823 established the mission of San

Francisco Solano, the first and last erected under Mexican rule.

Echandia, the governor sent out by the Mexican authorities,

arrived in California in 1824. Then began the robbery and

destruction of the missions, the first step in which was the

substitution of government agents in the temporal rule of the

missions for that of the fathers, who had always exercised this

authority to the great advantage of the Indians, and without

drawing thence any profit for themselves, since they were both

by habit of life and by religious vow poor men. Father Peyri was

driven from his mission of San Luis Rey which he had founded

more than thirty years before, and had directed ever since with

admirable skill; nor could the tears and entreaties of his

neophytes move the stony-hearted governor to retain him. At

this populous mission, many of the Indians had been taught the

trades, and were blacksmiths, carpenters, and mechanics in various

departments; they also owned sixty thousand head of cattle, and

raised thirteen thousand bushels of grain yearly. At San Luis

Obispo, Father Martinez had in like manner formed his flock to

industry; they wove and dyed ordinary cloth and fine cotton

fabrics, and could have always maintained a state of prosperity

and happiness had their possessions and their beloved director

been left to them, but the former were wrecked, and the latter was

brutally expelled.

Five other fathers were driven from their missions, and a regular

system of robbery commenced: ranch after ranch was taken, cattle

were swept off, and the minds of the Indians were endeavored to

be poisoned against the missionaries by Echandia, through wilful

representations, so that in one case they attempted to take the

life of a priest. Other missionaries, after having spent thirty

or forty years in civilizing the Indians, and raising them to a

state of comfort and plenty, found themselves obliged, by the

ill-treatment they suffered, to leave the country. The prefect,

Father Sanchez, was the special object of this persecution on the

part of Echandia, and died of grief in 1831, consoled only by

the momentary peace which reigned at the time under Echandia’s

successor, Don Manuel Victoria, who during the few months he was in

office restored the missions so far as he was able; but after his

removal the pillage progressed as before.

Father Francisco Garcia Diego was appointed prefect in 1832, and

arrived in California in January of the following year, taking

up his residence at Santa Clara. The number of missionaries was

now so reduced that Father Garcia found it necessary to take with

him ten fathers to recruit their ranks. The new prefect did what

he could to ward off the ruin which threatened the missions, but

they were doomed, and the decree of secularization passed by the

Mexican Congress in 1834 and enforced in 1837 only completed their

destruction. Thus, this wretched republic, which is and always

has been unable amidst the contentions of its rival chiefs, with

their ever recurring _pronunciamentos_, to preserve domestic peace,

and which has suffered the great public works erected in Mexico

by the crown to fall into decay, carried spiritual and temporal

ruin to the fair regions which had been consecrated to religion

and peace, to industry and innocence, and overthrew the noblest

monuments which the zeal and the faith of Spain had bequeathed to

her colonies.

Father Garcia’s heart was wrung with anguish at the spectacle

of desolation which surrounded him, and to which, with all his

efforts, he was able to interpose only a feeble barrier. He

repaired to Mexico to intercede with the government in behalf of

his oppressed and helpless people. Through his influence the law

of secularization was repealed, and an act passed restoring the

property of the missions. But the reparation came too late; the

plunderers were in full possession of their ill-gotten property,

and no power could wrest it from them. Meanwhile, a severe illness

at the capital, and the affairs of his order in Zacatecas,

retained him in Mexico, where, in 1840, he received notice of his

appointment to the bishopric of the Californias. He was consecrated

in the same year, but was unable to take possession of his diocese

until December, 1841.

On arriving at San Diego, he found the mission and the church in

ruins. At San Gabriel, where extensive vineyards had been in full

bearing, and to protect which the father was in negotiation with an

American house for iron fences, even the vines were pulled up. This

mission had loaded ships with its products, which were despatched

regularly to San Blas and Lima. Amid its ruins, a traveller (Duflot

de Mofras) describes in 1842 seeing the missionary Father Estenega

seated in a field before a large table, with his sleeves rolled up

kneading clay and teaching his Indians to make bricks. San Luis

Obispo was in the same condition, and Father Abella, the oldest

missionary in the country, whom La Perouse had seen here in 1787,

still survived in 1842. His only bed was a hide, his only food

dried beef, and he divided among his poor and plundered Indians

the alms he received. At San José, Father Gonzalez, prefect of the

northern missions, subsisted on the scanty rations furnished him by

the officials. La Soledad, from having been an earthly paradise,

was now a wilderness of ruin and desolation. Its missionary,

Father Serra, of whom an American says “it was a happiness indeed

to have known him,” had died of hunger and wretchedness in 1838

on the spot where thousands had enjoyed his hospitality. He

expired in the arms of the Indians whom he had spent thirty years

in instructing and protecting, falling at the foot of the altar

just as he had begun Mass. At San Francisco Solano, everything

had been destroyed, and the materials of the mission-house and

chapel sacrilegiously used in building the palace of Don Mariano

Vallejo. Santa Barbara still possessed its missions, the residence

of the devoted prefect of the southern missions, Father Narcisso

Duran, and at San Fernando, Santa Clara, and Santa Inez (where

Bishop Garcia afterwards erected a seminary) the missionaries had

succeeded in saving much. Everywhere else, ruin and desolation had

overtaken the missions.

The Indian population of the missions was reduced from 30,650 to

4,450, their cattle dwindled from 424,000 to 28,000, and their

other stock in proportion, for they had owned 62,500 horses and

321,500 sheep besides. They had raised annually 122,500 bushels of

wheat and corn.

Their agriculture was now destroyed, and they themselves were

mostly scattered and demoralized. “Bishop Garcia Diego y Moreno,”

says Mr. Clarke in his _Lives of Deceased Bishops_, “stood in the

midst of desolation, and but for his apostolic zeal and robust

courage would have despaired.” He saved what he could of the

missions, and rescued many souls from crime and barbarism; he made

long, difficult journeys throughout his devastated diocese, and

addressed the most moving appeals to the Mexican government. At

last, after wearing himself out with labors that were far from

fruitless, and which certainly stayed for a time the progress of

disintegration, he retired to Santa Barbara to die, and there

peacefully gave up his soul to God, April 13, 1846.

Thirteen missionaries still survived amidst the relics of the great

works of charity and beneficence they had created or sustained,

when in 1848 the soil of Upper California changed owners, and

became attached to the domains of the United States. A new

population overran the land, and the Indians of the missions have

entirely disappeared. What is worse, they have been driven by the

hostility of the Americans to the mountains, and provoked into acts

of reprisal, the result of which will be that at no distant day the

career of plunder and outrage of which they have been the victims,

will be crowned by their total extermination.

We shall give in a note an account collated from Mr. Shea’s

_History of the Catholic Missions in the United States_, of

the manner of living followed in the mission establishments of

California, by the Indians, under the direction of the fathers.

In the history of the missions of Maryland we are presented with a

remarkable example of the influence of pure bigotry in arresting

the most beneficent ministrations of religion towards both the

white and Indian races. Under the mild and paternal administration

of Lord Baltimore, the settlement, made so auspiciously on the

feast of the Annunciation, March 25, 1634, soon attached to it

the native tribes; for they were fairly dealt with, and were paid

for whatever lands were required of them. Father Andrew White, an

English Jesuit, and a confessor of the faith--for he had suffered

exile abroad and imprisonment at home on account of it--was the

spiritual director of the mission. Although fifty-five years of

age, he had no sooner landed than he applied himself to the study

of the Indian tongue. He and his companions then established

themselves at the more advanced posts, prepared catechisms, etc.,

in the Indian language, and made good progress in the conversion of

the natives, the principal chief and his family being the first to

demand baptism.

In 1644, Claiborne, the persecuting agent of the persecuting

colony of Virginia, swooped down upon the peaceful settlements

of Maryland, and among other outrages carried off the Jesuits

as prisoners to England. Father White was never able to return,

but Father Fisher and others did after three years, and resumed

the work of the missions. The rise of the Puritan party in 1652

after the usurpation of Cromwell, and the subsequent accession to

power of the Anglicans, who in 1692 made their religion the state

church, effectually extinguished the Indian missions. What became

of the poor Indians, we know not; but, judging from what this class

of religionists have done elsewhere, their fate must have been

first to be robbed, then demoralized, and finally to be exiled or

exterminated.

Thenceforward, not only were the Catholics who had planted the

colony and who had invited thither the persecuted of other colonies

to share with themselves in all the privileges of government

and of perfect freedom of religion--not only were the Catholics

deprived of all share in the administration of public affairs, but

their religion was proscribed and their priests were hunted down.

Grasping and domineering as the Puritans have shown themselves to

be everywhere, never did they or their Anglican abettors display

a blacker ingratitude than in their transactions on the soil of

Maryland, where those who bestowed upon them an exceptional

religious liberty were excluded from all share in its benefits.

The faith, though persecuted, was kept alive among the whites by

the Maryland Jesuits, who continued to adhere to their flocks.

Nor did the suppression of their Society in 1773 dissolve this

bond, for by an association among themselves they retained their

missions; and as their property was not confiscated here as was

everywhere done in Europe, they retained that also. In 1805,

Bishop Carroll, himself an ex-Jesuit, obtained from the superior

in Russia, where the Society still subsisted, the privilege of

affiliation with it for the late members of the order in Maryland.

The bishop then confirmed them in the possession of their missions,

and thus the Society resumed its footing in Maryland nine years

before it had been restored all over the world by Pius VII. Among

the young men who joined it in 1806 was the now venerable Father

McElroy, who, in his ninetieth year, retains the zeal and energy

of younger days. The Jesuit province of Missouri was, as before

stated, an offshoot from that of Maryland, and some fathers of

the western province are still living who made their novitiate

in Maryland. Bishop Vandevelde, of Chicago, and subsequently of

Natchez, where he died in 1855, was one of these. The present Vicar

Apostolic of Kansas, a Jesuit from Missouri, perpetuates amidst his

Indians the traditions of the mother province.

The old Catholic families of Maryland, sustained and encouraged

by their pastors, and preserving the faith amidst obloquy and

disfranchisement, have contributed their full share to the

distinguished laity of their country, to the ranks of the religious

of various orders, male and female, the secular clergy, and the

episcopate. Their honorable record is too full to admit of a

reference to individuals, were this even the place for it; but we

might recall, among prelates, the names of Archbishops Carroll

and Neale of Baltimore, and Bishops Fenwick of Boston, Fenwick

of Cincinnati, and Miles of Nashville. Archbishop Eccleston of

Baltimore, although a Marylander by birth, was of Protestant

family, and was himself a convert. Bishop Chanche of Natchez was

also a Marylander, but the child of refugees from San Domingo. The

sees of Wheeling, Natchez, Chicago, and North Carolina are filled

by sons of Maryland, the descendants of a later immigration. Even

in colonizing other states, the faithful children of Maryland

formed a nucleus of Catholicity, as in Kentucky, wherever they

went. By a happy dispensation, this colony, grown into a diocese,

and governed by a scion of one of these old families, the late

eminent and beloved Spalding--gave him back to the archiepiscopal

chair of his ancestral state.

In later, as in former times, Maryland has been the “land of the

sanctuary” for the oppressed of other lands, and the trials and

triumphs in which her own children have borne part have been

shared by the strangers who have taken refuge within her borders.

When, in 1770, a solitary Jesuit from Whitemarsh in Lower Maryland

visited Baltimore, then an insignificant settlement, and so

poorly provided as to Catholic worship that the priest brought

his own altar-furniture, and had to say Mass in a private house,

a large part of the flock in attendance was composed of Acadians

who had been cruelly transported from their homes by the British

government. Still later, the French Revolution threw upon her

shores those devoted clergymen whose virtues and whose labors

have shed so much honor on the church of their adopted country.

The institutions of religion and of learning which they founded

in Maryland have educated for civil life or for the church men

who have attained the highest eminence in one or the other. The

founders of or the preceptors in these institutions have filled

sees in various portions of the country--Dubois at New York,

David at Bardstown, Flaget at Louisville, Dubourg at New Orleans,

Maréchal at Baltimore, and Bruté at Vincennes, all now deceased,

besides the present Bishop of St. Augustine, among living prelates.

St. Mary’s Seminary at Baltimore has seen advanced to the mitre,

from among her Levites, Bishops Reynolds of Charleston, O’Reilly

of Hartford, and Portier of Mobile; while Mount St. Mary’s, the

“mother of bishops,” has given to the American hierarchy from among

hers, Archbishop Hughes of New York, Bishops Quarter of Chicago,

Gartland of Savannah, Carrell of Covington, Young of Erie, and the

living archbishops of New York and Cincinnati--probably others.