In obscure cares, in constant labor, in hidden devotions, passed the

days, sped the years, and robbed her of her youth. But peace remained,

because she was content to establish her abode in the shadow of a

Christian roof, and in the love of grateful hearts. It is true--though

some of our readers may be permitted to doubt it--that a peace the

sweetest, the most delightful, the most constant, and the most sure

does not depend on what excites and passes so quickly from earth, but

on the true, salutary, and Christian manner in which the soul, wise

and resigned, puts itself in harmony with the exigencies of its

destiny and the will of its God. Valentine felt this early, and from

that time experienced it always. The serene tranquillity of her heart,

humble in its desires and contented in its destiny, was never

overshadowed by a cloud; it stood proof against any shock, even on the

day when, having finished the reading of the Scriptures to the old 232

Genevieve, she heard in the street, quite close to her, a great noise

of carriages, rolling joyously towards the church, from which

resounded the sounds of a _fête_, and, looking out the window to

explain the cause of the tumult, she saw in the first of the

carriages, ornamented with wedding favors, bouquets, and ribbons, two

friends of her childhood: the betrothed of that day, Alfred Maubars

and Rosine Martin. There passed over her face a calm smile, vague and

almost dreaming; then a fixed and disturbed look, for at the bottom of

the page, as she read, were these words: “_It is not good for man to

be alone._”

But almost immediately resounded in her ears the caressing and

infantine voices of childhood, those of two little orphans, her

cherished dependants, who had taken the places of Babet and Manou,

dead full of years, and now quietly reposing in their graves. At the

joyous call Valentine was once more herself, and, with a calm smile,

bending her head as if she recognized her error, she said:

“Yes, indeed, it would be sad to be alone, but those are never so who

know how to love. Dear mamma told me so, and well she knew what she

said. Come, Marie, come Louisette, let me say the _Angelus_ with

you.” The little ones approached, knelt down, and she laid her hands

on their heads, and kissed their browned foreheads. And before she

made the sign of the cross she regarded them earnestly, and with a

joyful, softened, peaceable, and triumphant gaze, even an expression

of indifference and forgetfulness to the carriage that was rolling

towards the church, and she rose at last full of gratitude and love of

benediction and prayer, and lifted her eyes to the clear and blue

heaven that caressed her with its gold-lit rays.

----------

TRUE FAITH.

Faith is no weakly flower,

By sudden blight, or heat, or stormy shower

To perish in an hour.

But rich in hidden worth,

A plant of grace, though striking root in earth,

It boasts a hardy birth.

Still from its native skies

Draws energy which common shocks defies,

And lives where nature dies!

E. CASWALL.

----------

THE PLACE VENDOME AND LA ROQUETTE. 233

THE BEGINNING AND THE END OF THE COMMUNE.

FROM LE CORRESPONDANT.

II.

I shall not pass abruptly from my first account, drawn up at the end

of March, respecting the tragedy of the Place Vendôme, to that written

at the end of May, concerning the invasion of the Madeleine, my

detention at the Préfecture de Police and at Mazas, and the

transcendent crimes of the Commune which I witnessed at La Roquette.

What was the opinion of the few politicians left in Paris respecting

the strange events they witnessed, the accomplices and auxiliaries of

the Commune, and the degree of responsibility the national and

international element would incur in its follies and crimes?

We must render this justice to the victorious insurgents of the

eighteenth of March--that the power of dissimulation was the weakest

of their traits and the least of their cares. If they aimed at

imitating Carnot, Danton, and Robespierre, they made no pretensions of

rivalling Richelieu, Mazarin, and Talleyrand. With a moderate degree

of coolness, curiosity, and discernment, it was easy to gain access to

their larder, and ascertain the ingredients of the viands to be served

up to us each day. They had too slight a dash of moral sense to be

preoccupied with questions of honor and propriety. The absoluteness of

their aims made them completely insensible to delicacy of means and

diffidence as to appearances. Therefore, the politicians who had not

fled before the heroes of the Internationale did not waste their time.

If they were nearly deprived of action, they could, at least, be

observant, communicate the result of their impressions, and acquire a

reasonable conviction respecting the operation of the revolutionary

engine, with its numerous springs and mysterious propelling forces,

not revealed by the press of the Commune, and therefore escaping the

attention of the vulgar.

I have already protested against the weakness, blindness, or

connivance of the republican mayors and deputies of Paris, who,

immediately after the massacres of the Place Vendôme, became

reconciled to the agents of the central committee, disbanded and

dispersed the battalions of the national guard still faithful to the

cause of order, and gave Paris up to an association of adventurers and

outlaws, some of unknown origin, others notorious for their conflicts

with the laws of their own countries, and all for their savage hatred

of every social institution.

Instead of subsequently acknowledging their weakness or error, the

majority of the radical republicans continued their campaign against

the national assembly with a persistence and hypocrisy that cannot be

sufficiently stigmatized. To preserve the republic, they emboldened

and strengthened the Commune, thus sacrificing to their political idol

the peace, prosperity, honor, and existence of their country. The 234

Commune did not conceal its affection for such auxiliaries, but its

caresses were to some of a more serious and compromising nature.

Formerly, the most ultra never dreamed of giving up their patriotism.

It was reserved for the members of the Commune to divest themselves of

this old prejudice of all nations. They vehemently demanded, during

the siege of Paris by the Prussians, the most extreme measures--a

general sortie, “_des battailles torrentielles_,” and fighting to the

last. When conspiracy made them masters of Paris, their violence and

ferocity against the Prussians changed to obsequious devotedness and

civilities of the most amicable nature. Their dishonest protestations

were displayed in the columns of the official journal of the Commune

with a coolness that makes one blush. The delegate of foreign affairs

treated the Prussians, who had just lacerated and humiliated France,

and bombarded its capital, as if they were our most faithful allies,

and were sacrificing themselves heroically for our safety.

The generals of the Commune, who had been imprisoned some weeks before

by the government of the national assembly as Prussian spies and

agents, made no change in their patriotic course. The delegate of war,

General Trochu, recalled at the tribune, “is making a series of

rigorous arrests, the object of which is to assure to the enemy the

freedom the pending negotiations confer on them.”

The politicians and chemists of the Commune proved they had been in a

good school by borrowing two ideas of M. de Bismarck and M. de Moltke,

the very names of which now inspire horror--the system of hostages and

the use of petroleum. To ensure the entire payment of the exorbitant

requisitions on the invaded provinces, and somewhat avenge the limited

enthusiasm manifested by the humiliated and suffering inhabitants, the

Prussians retained the most notable individuals as hostages, and sent

them to the prisons of Germany. Citizens Ferré and Raoul Rigault found

this system too ingenious and convenient not to be adopted. They took

as hostages, and imprisoned them at Mazas and La Roquette, the priests

and laymen who, according to the opinion of these servile imitators,

had been more devoted to social and national interests than to those

of anarchy and demagogism.

Fourteen months ago, a peculiar dictionary was discovered in the

headquarters of the Internationale, in which was a list of such words

as nitro-glycerine and picrate of potassium, and a recipe for

sulphurate of carbon, and the chlorate and prussiate of potassium. At

the end of the recipes were these words, significant of the uses to

which they were to be applied: “To throw from the windows: to be

thrown into the gutters.” If the most formidable of recipes is not to

be found there, it is because the citizens of the Commune had not yet

learned in the school of Prussian engineers the art of destroying

houses and monuments by means of petroleum.

In continuing the account of the horrible deeds of the Commune, I find

consolation as a Frenchman in the thought that the murderers and

incendiaries of Paris denied not only their God, but their country,

and that they were members not only of a criminal, but a foreign

league.

I.

THE CLOSING OF THE MADELEINE.

In following with serious attention the various evolutions of the

Commune, we are struck by the contrast between its beginning and its 235

end. Its first essays were rather grotesque than frightful. The

statesmen most preoccupied about the quicksands on which it threatened

to cast society and the nation did not at first foresee the crimes

that are without a name, which made its end one of the most sinister

pages in human history. The reason is easily understood. Once masters

of Paris, the charlatans and rogues that composed the Commune hoped to

become the rulers of France. They saw themselves already at the head

of a social revolution, and, encouraged by their unexpected success in

the seductive cause of pretended renovation, they set to work in

earnest. Hence the deluge of strange and incoherent decrees that

became a dead letter, and only served to amuse the careless and

frivolous Parisian.

But when the generals of the Commune made an audacious effort to seize

Versailles and open communication with their numerous agents in the

populous centres of the provinces, they were overwhelmed by the army

they thought disorganized or won over to their cause, and all their

plans were overthrown. The attempts to excite an insurrection in the

large cities failed. The Commune could expect nothing more from the

intervention of the departments: its rule was restricted to Paris, and

the days of its power were numbered. Then projects of hatred and

vengeance succeeded those of social renovation. The monkeys of the

Hôtel de Ville gave place to tigers. The prophets and apostles of the

Commune lost their _sang-froid_. The foul Felix Pyat exhausted himself

in atrocious invectives, and the fiendish Delescluze evidently

preferred to blow up Paris rather than give it up to France.

While the emissaries of the radical republicans knowingly deceived

France and all Europe respecting the condition of Paris, and were

circulating their deceitful and imprudent sophisms, dictated by their

admiration for the Commune and their hatred of the national assembly,

what was the language of foreign journals that cared for nothing about

these internal struggles but exactness and impartiality? The

correspondent of the _Times_ was not satisfied with comparing

Paris to an infernal caldron, in which seethed all human passions, but

thus depicted the armed forces of the Commune: “Besides the old and

the young, excited by the phraseology of the first revolution, still

novel to them, all the villains in Paris are under arms. I have never

seen, even in London, so sinister a collection of faces. These men

always seem more or less intoxicated. They have not, perhaps, ceased

to be so since the eighteenth of March.” Such is the spectacle in the

streets and public places: that of the forts and ramparts is of a

still more expressive character: “Man is there only a ferocious

animal, everywhere scenting blood. We hardly recognize him, and no

longer comprehend him.”

The parish service I directed at the Madeleine after the arrest of M.

Deguerry encountered but few difficulties. The Commune only made some

insignificant requisitions in a civil manner. The qualification of

“citizen director of the church of the Madeleine,” given me in the

most solemn manner, enlivened me for an instant in the midst of my

cares and griefs.

The success of the Versailles army, in giving joy to the respectable

people still remaining at Paris, was a source of danger to them. The

Commune concentrated, or rather gave up, its civil and military power

into the hands of the committee of public safety and the central 236

committee. On Wednesday, the seventeenth of May, in going to

administer the last sacraments to the daughter of a concierge in the

Rue de la Victoire, I found the ninth arrondissement hemmed in by the

insurgents, who were making frequent arrests. Thanks to one of the

most ultra journals of the Commune that I pretended to be reading very

attentively, I passed through their inquisitorial ranks unimpeded.

On the eighteenth, which was Ascension day, the church of St.

Augustine was closed, and one of the vicars and the organist were

imprisoned. All the offices of the day were celebrated at the

Madeleine, attended by a numerous and very devout congregation; but,

so far from yielding to any illusion about the fate that awaited me, I

begged Dr. B. de L----, a parishioner of the Madeleine, to enable me

after vespers to see M. Jacquemin, one of the physicians of the prison

of Mazas. There was every reason to believe I should soon require his

kind services. I was already acquainted with M. de Beauvais, the

second physician at Mazas, whose courageous devotedness I was

subsequently to experience, and who had already been so thoughtful as

to give me news of the curé of the Madeleine and of the Archbishop of

Paris. After my interview with Dr. Jacquemin, I felt some

embarrassment about returning to my residence. The Rue de la

Ville-l’Evêque was filled with an armed band of the national guards.

The house of the Sisters of Charity, opposite the Presbytère, was

guarded by two sentinels. The sisters had been expelled, and the

girls’ school confided to some _citoyennes_, who, according to the

unruly tongues of the quarter, had been replaced at the prison of St.

Lazare by the Sisters of Picpus, who were accused of a series of

crimes, each one more extraordinary than the rest. I bought, as on the

previous day, one of the ultra journals of the Commune, and, armed

with this new kind of a safe-conduct, I took a roundabout way to the

Rue la Ville-l’Evêque, in order to avoid the national guards as much

as possible. Once their protection would have been eagerly sought

against a robber or assassin, but since the reign of the Commune

respectable people feared and fled from them as the worst of

evil-doers. And the new military organization will doubtless have to

undergo a radical transformation, for it will be difficult for it to

rise above the moral discredit into which it has fallen.

Some moments after, a Polish priest, who had given himself up with

indefatigable zeal to the service of the ambulances, notified me that

an order had been signed to close the churches and arrest the priests

still in Paris. I went to see one of my devoted _confrères_, M.

de Bretagne, and consult with him about the means of preserving the

holy eucharist from profanation. The insurgents had already thrown

away or carried off in their cartridge-boxes the sacred elements in

some of the churches. At this very time the church of St.

Philippe-du-Roule was entered by the insurgents, and for want of

priests they arrested two employees who were guarding the church. The

Madeleine of the eighth arrondissement was the only church that was

still open.

Although, after the arrest of M. Deguerry, a part of the valuables of

the church had been carried to a safe place, I employed the first

moments of Friday, the nineteenth, in confiding the remainder to some

women of the working-classes. I only left in the church a few valuable 237

objects and several hundred francs. The agents of the Commune had a

singular longing for money, and when they could not obtain some

bank-bills or gold in their expeditions, the places invaded or the

persons arrested had to suffer for such a financial disappointment.

At half-past three, the sacristy door burst open. A tall young man,

clad _à la_ Robespierre, with a broad red mantle that half-covered him,

advanced at the head of a knot of confederates armed with revolvers,

and exclaimed in a loud tone: “The church of the Madeleine is closed

by order of the committee of public safety.” I was at that moment

supplying the unfortunate people whom the _régime_ of the Commune had

deprived of work and bread. I had on my choir robes in addition to my

ordinary ecclesiastical costume. The inmates of the sacristy were

greatly excited. Some who were waiting to go to confession fled. Only

one, the wife of an old prefect of the empire, bravely remained to

witness this singular spectacle. I approached the judicial agent, and

asked to examine the official decree and see if it was authentic.

While I was reading it, I saw in his hands two other decrees of the

committee of public safety, one prescribing my arrest and the other

the suppression of some newspapers that had not conformed to the

opinions of the Commune. I thought the signature was that of Ranvier,

the mayor of Belleville, one of the most influential members of the

Commune and of the committee of public safety. He was an old bankrupt

wine-dealer, who had several times been amenable to the laws, and,

like all social outlaws, swore an implacable hatred to society. He

acquired great popularity in the clubs, after the fourth of September,

by advocating social war, as in the last months of the empire he had

advocated the claims of absolute liberty! It was by virtue of this

absolute liberty that he had just signed the three decrees, that aimed

so many brutal blows at religious, civil, and political liberty.

“Are you the citizen director of the church of the Madeleine?” added

the delegate, somewhat irritated at the inspection of the warrant,

which seemed to him rather impertinent.

I would willingly have replied like Sganarelle, “Yes and no, according

to your wish,” but unfortunately, instead of living any longer in the

Paris of Molière, we lived in a city of folly and crime.

“You know perfectly well that the curé of the Madeleine was arrested

six weeks ago. It is I who am for the present in his place.” I had not

finished these words before he took the second warrant, and exclaimed

in thundering tones: “By virtue of a decree of the committee of public

safety, the citizen director of the church of the Madeleine is

arrested.” The murderers who escorted him, and who belonged to the

battalion of the _Vengeurs de Flourens_, rushed upon me, holding

their revolvers against my throat and chest, and bestowing on me a

series of names, the most decent of which were “_bandit_, _canaille_,

_crapule_, _assassin_!” One of them, whose stupid ferocity can only

be attributed to drunkenness, cried, while endeavoring to adjust his

arms: “It is you, vile rabble, who cause the patriots of Paris to be

assassinated by the wretches at Versailles: the priests are the

murderers of the people: they should all be shot.” I had received

these miserable men with politeness and a sentiment of resignation.

Their low insults made me flush with indignation and decide to

confront them.

“I am not accustomed to hear such language,” said I to their leader.

“If you continue to treat me in this way, I shall seat myself without 238

another word, and force alone shall tear me from this sanctuary.”

He made a sign to his followers to moderate their civic indignation,

but without being heeded. I now sought to lead them into a discussion,

hoping to appease them and preserve the church from devastation by

making them incapable of justifying their acts and outrages. For two

hours--hours that seemed ages--I was obliged, under the greatest

peril, to defend myself as a man and a priest against these

emissaries, who were as ridiculous as they were odious. I will relate

the principal points in this interchange of observations.

I first asked why I was arrested. At this question the delegate of the

committee of public safety replied by a torrent of accusations and

maledictions against the “miserable quarter of the Madeleine, the most

hostile in Paris to the _régime_ of the Commune.” He was not wholly

wrong in this, for at the last elections the parish of the Madeleine,

which comprises about forty thousand inhabitants, did not give more

than a hundred votes to the candidates of the Commune. In the eighth

arrondissement, where the church is, of about nineteen thousand votes,

only five hundred voted for the Communist members. He added: “You must

therefore expiate your conspirations in favor of the Versailles

assassins.” Here the delegate was no longer right. But it was evident

that I was arrested because I was the “citizen director of the

Madeleine,” and they would make me expiate the sympathy and

concurrence that the parishioners of the Madeleine had the

unpardonable offence to refuse the Commune. To gain more time and thus

calm their fury, I spoke of political affairs. My observations visibly

disconcerted my interlocutors. The epithets, _canaille_, _crapule_,

and assassin, became more and more rare, and their revolvers, at first

so actively and impertinently exercised, were returned by degrees to

their cases.

Another incident that might have been fatal to me served still more to

disconcert them. During the last half of the reign of the Commune, the

affair of the bodies found at St. Laurent, Notre Dame des Victoires,

and Notre Dame de Lorette had an unfortunate effect. Disregarding the

reports of the physicians and what was clearly evident, the

revolutionist papers, the _Journal Officiel_, and the clubs exclaimed

at the scandal. The most abominable crimes were imputed to the clergy,

against whom a diabolical persecution was excited by extravagant

accounts and vile pictures. In vain were these extravagances met by

decisive reasons: the reasons themselves became new subjects of

crimination and invectives which gave me great concern.

The vaults of the Madeleine were at this epoch filled with bodies.

During the siege of Paris by the Prussians, the bodies of several

generals and foreigners of distinction had been deposited there till

they could be carried to their distant family tombs. I had for several

days dwelt on the explanation I could give respecting these bodies so

as to silence these furious madmen, but had found none. The time had

come when I needed it.

“It is in this miserable parish of the Madeleine,” exclaimed the

delegate of the Commune with a smile of contempt and hatred, “that we

shall discover the infamy of the priests. I will bet,” continued he,

turning toward his agent, “that we shall find here more horrible

things than at St. Laurent and Notre Dame des Victoires. Citizens, 239

let us go down into the vaults!”

The ray of light that I had sought for in vain the three previous

weeks all at once beamed into my mind, I found the reason I needed.

Though in the power of the dangerous agents of the committee of public

safety, I blessed God for his protection.

“I have two observations to make to you,” I replied. “The first is

that you will find in the vaults of the Madeleine many more corpses

than in the other churches....”

I can still see the delegate laughing with fiendish satisfaction at

these words till he nearly fell backwards. “I told you, citizens, that

there was more infamy in this church than anywhere else!”

“The second observation, sir, concerns you personally, and from a

motive of charity I think it a duty to draw your attention to it. I

warn you that several of these bodies belong to illustrious families

in Spain, Italy, England, and America, and, if you are rash enough to

disturb them, it is with these foreign powers, and not with me, you

will have to deal.”

In his place I should have endeavored to dissimulate my embarrassment

by doubting this assertion, and requesting to be assured of the fact.

But he was not constrained in the least. He waved his hand with a

triumphant air, and, as if it were I who proposed to violate the

tombs, he exclaimed in the most sonorous manner: “Yes, yes, the

Commune will protect these bodies; they shall be protected!”

After this incredible instance of foolishness and incoherency, we may

stop. I will only beg pardon for mentioning one of the moral

reflections made by one of the emissaries of the Commune at the

commencement of this scene. I had occasion to pronounce the name of

God. “Stop,” said he to me, flourishing his revolver, “if God existed

and should descend here, it is he I would shoot first!”

It was half-past five. My situation became less critical. These men,

at first so ferocious, now treated me with politeness. The most brutal

seemed almost ashamed of having insulted me. I was able to request the

national guards appointed to watch over the Madeleine not to allow

anything to be removed or desecrated. I also begged that the faithful

employees of the church might have the liberty of returning home. The

delegate charged to arrest me could no longer deceive himself. He

became almost affable. I will not mention his name. He sufficiently

dishonored the family from which he sprang by his deeds. A week after,

by a coincidence worthy of note, he directed from the Madeleine the

fight on the Boulevard Malesherbes. More strongly resisted than he had

expected, he found himself with two of his agents hedged in by the

Versailles troops, and sought shelter in the cellar of the church. An

officer of the line shot him with a revolver, fracturing his skull.

This prodigal child had become hardened in sin: unworthy of pardon and

mercy, he had become incapable of repentance.

I arrived at the préfecture de police at a quarter past six,

accompanied by a staff-officer of the Commune. I was as yet but little

preoccupied about my situation, but when told that I was to appear at

once before citizen Ferré, the _préfet de police_, who was

regarded by men of penetration as another Robespierre, I felt that my

case was extremely grave, and that, having but little to hope from

man, I should confide myself to the protection of God.

II. 240

THE PREFECTURE DE POLICE AND MAZAS.

It is no easy matter to describe the singular scene at the préfecture

de police, usually so quiet, so disciplined and solemn. This

establishment had become noisier and more picturesque than a

fair-ground. By way of contrast with the usual proceedings, robbers

and other criminals now issued decrees of arrest and imprisonment, and

they who were arrested and imprisoned were lovers of order and their

duty.

The entrance was guarded by a crowd of national guardsmen, who had

stopped drinking and smoking to laugh at the unfortunate victims of

the hatred of the committee of public safety, who were arriving in

large numbers. I had seen at the Madeleine the delegate who ordered my

arrest give the staff-officer appointed to conduct me a five-franc

piece to pay for the carriage. This honest man found it more suitable

to leave this expense to his prisoner, and keep the five francs

himself. It was a little contribution to the expenses of the war that

I cheerfully paid. Like the misanthrope of Molière, I was almost glad

to see the masters of Paris throw off the mask and add niggardliness

to all kinds of violence. It was pleasant to be able to testify that a

staff-officer of the Commune, the friend of Ferré and Raoul Rigault,

the confidential agent of the committee of public safety, and one of

the great dignitaries of the prefecture de police, committed a theft

at my expense, and with an unceremoniousness that could not be found

among the robbers and pickpockets of the worst quarters of the

barriers.

After waiting three hours, I was summoned before citizen Ferré, the

member of the Commune delegated to the ex-préfecture de police, which

signifies in common language the _préfet de police_. He appeared to be

from twenty-six to thirty years of age. He was no longer the ten-years

student and the burlesque writer for the small journals of the Latin

quarter, who gave himself up to pleasure on those rare festivals when

the proceeds of his pen allowed him to revel at the public balls at

the crossway of the Observatory. He had exchanged his worn clothes for

a more elegant suit, his old pointed hat for a cap with gold spangles.

Carelessly seated in a superb arm-chair in the luxurious office where

Delessert, Maupas, and Pietri had labored, he gave orders to his

subordinates with the solemnity and self-sufficiency of a pasha. I am

mistaken; the great pashas I saw while travelling in the East were

only inferior rulers beside him; he realized with admirable precision

the fantastic idea I had formed of a Chinese mandarin of the first

class.

After making a salutation which he doubtless did not find

proportionate to his dignity, I requested permission in respectful and

sufficiently humble tones to appear as promptly as possible before the

_juge d’instruction_. He interrupted me in a dry and haughty tone: “Be

silent, citizen. You are here to listen to me, and not to talk!”

I had never met with so humiliating a reception. It is true I had

never been in the presence of insolence personified. I immediately

drew from my pocket a number of the _Journal Officiel de la Commune_

which I had been carefully keeping for three days, and which contained

a recent decree by virtue of which all individuals arrested should

appear before the _juge d’instruction_ within twenty-four hours or be 241

restored to liberty.

“I wished at first, sir,” I firmly replied, “to solicit a favor, now I

claim a right. By virtue of the decree of the Commune which I am going

to read to you, I demand the right to appear within twenty-four hours

before a _juge d’instruction_.”

Our arrogant mandarin shrugged his shoulders, and smiled, as if to

say, “Here is a simpleton who still believes in the decrees of the

Commune!”

“Captain, conduct this citizen to prison,” was his only reply. On

Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of May, at half-past seven in the

evening, I noticed through the bars of my cell my mandarin transformed

into a bloodthirsty tiger, crossing the court of La Roquette and

giving orders for the immediate execution of the Archbishop of Paris,

M. Bonjean, M. Deguerry, and their three companions.

My situation assumed a more gloomy aspect than I had anticipated. I

had been arrested as one of the last hostages, and was at the mercy of

a band of ruffians who were exasperated to madness by the approach of

the Versailles army. I did not lose courage in my misfortunes.

Convinced by the example of the staff-officer who had robbed me of

five francs that I still had one means of alleviating my lot, I

henceforth placed all my confidence in the infinite mercy of God,

without forgetting a generous distribution of pieces of a hundred

sous. I immediately slipped two into the hands of my jailer, who was

profuse in his bows, and gave me an exceptional testimony of his

gratitude, in his way, by shutting me up in the cell that had been

occupied by M. Deguerry. I told him that, lacking everything, I must

absolutely write my friends that evening, and begged him not to send

my letter through the office. As he objected, I told him I needed

money, and, if I were not at once supplied, I should not be able to

acknowledge, as was my practice, the kind services of the good

officials with whom I had to deal. At this, what had been impossible

was instantly effected.

I wrote to the Presbytère of the Madeleine for money and other

effects; then I added what I considered very important, and wished not

to be seen at the office, that they must not speak to any one of my

arrest, or write me a single line, or, especially, take any steps for

my release. To pass unperceived and confounded in the crowd of

prisoners was my only chance of safety. I remained faithful to this

principle to the end.

Having had no food since ten o’clock in the morning, I asked for

something to eat. They told me it was too late, that the dinner was at

five o’clock, and the regulations allowed nothing afterwards. The same

accident occurred several times, and owing to other obstacles I was no

more fortunate about sleeping. I will say, for the edification of

those who wish to get an idea of the _régime_ of the Commune, that at

the end of ten days’ imprisonment I returned home, after having dined

twice and slept two hours and a half. My friends declared that I

looked ten years older; but, knowing the truly French elasticity of my

temperament, I consoled them with the assurance that ten days of

freedom would make me ten years younger, which has proved true.

During the night, prisoners were continually being brought in. Among

them were some members of the national guards of the Commune, who,

through insubordination and drunkenness, became my companions in

captivity. They kept up a terrific noise. Some cried as loud as they 242

could bawl: “Vive la République! Vive la Commune!” Others thought they

were at a club, and, all speaking at once, advocated in discordant

tones the abolition of capital, the death of the priests, the freedom

of woman, and other benefits of social revolution.

Just after midnight, a confederate officer was brought into one of the

neighboring cells who was indebted to too copious libations for the

eloquence of a Demosthenes and the strength of a Hercules. This

patriot thought himself confronting the Prussians, among whom he made

frightful carnage. “Now it is your turn, you bully of a Bismarck! Now

you, William, you rascal! You shall see what a patriot and a

republican can do!” Then he would throw himself on to the door of his

cell, and pound and kick it. This continued till daybreak. The heroic

avenger of the national honor made me forget for a time the singular

insolence of Ferré, and more than once I laughed at his manly

eloquence and glorious feats in battle. I took pleasure in retaining,

in the midst of the extravagances and crimes of the Commune, a bitter

remembrance of the crushing and humiliating proceedings of Prussia.

On Saturday morning I wrote to M. Moiré, the _juge d’instruction_,

asking to be heard in the course of the day. At half-past three I

received a reply. It was an order to Mazas. No illusion was longer

possible. The advocates of legal forms must expect to be shot without

form--a respect for which would doubtless have been a poor consolation

in falling under the bullets of assassins, but it is well to observe

that such judicial modes are unknown among the cannibals themselves.

Among the prisoners who accompanied me were, with other ecclesiastics,

the Abbé Laurent Amodru, the vicar of Notre Dame des Victoires, and

the Abbé de Marsy, the vicar of St. Vincent de Paul. Both came to me

and manifested a sympathy that began to cheer the gloomy perspective

of Mazas. M. de Marsy was full of animation, and his cordial

devotedness was of more benefit to us in a moral than a material

sense. And I became inseparably attached to M. l’Abbé Amodru. He was

my neighbor again at La Roquette, and his encouraging example, even

more than his precious religious ministrations, aided me in enduring

the greatest trials in that fearful abode. I wish to give him a public

testimony of my profound gratitude. We were transported in one of

those cellular vehicles, the very sight of which inspires horror and

disgust, and arrived at Mazas at half-past five. They kept us shut up

nearly two hours in a kind of grated cage, which made me wish for one

of those which contain the wild beasts in the Jardin des Plantes.

Though separated from one another, we were able nevertheless to

exchange some words. “It is an indignity,” exclaimed a young national

guardsman, who had refused to serve the Commune, “to shut us up in

this way as if we were robbers!”

“Cheer up,” replied an old man with a cultivated and sympathetic

voice. “In these days, honest men are placed here, and robbers are

left without.”

Exhausted with fatigue, I could neither sit down, lie down, eat, nor

read. I can understand these rigorous precautions for the disciples of

Cartouche, Troppman, and Dumolard. Would there have been any great

social danger in shutting us up in an apartment where there was a

bench? I learned afterward that the Archbishop of Paris had the same

preliminary ceremony to undergo, which almost reduced him to agony. 243

When my turn came to go to the register’s office, I was very much

exasperated, and not at all disposed to conceal my dissatisfaction;

and I had begun to observe that mildness and patience only served to

aggravate our troubles with the emissaries of the Commune, while a

timely and vigorous protestation obtained some alleviation. The

registrar, in taking a long and minute description, demanded my

name--“The Abbé Lamazou, Vicar of the Madeleine.” I never failed to

articulate this title distinctly. It edified some, irritated others,

and proved to all that by my profession I did not necessarily belong

to the family of those accused of robbery, brigandage, or

assassination, for whom the prison of Mazas was intended.

Having entered the establishment, they pointed toward a door. I

supposed it was my cell. By no means: it was a bath-room. As vagabonds

and criminals are not always models of neatness and health, I

understood the necessity of making them take a bath at their entrance

into prison. I also comprehend that recourse may be had to this easy

means of ascertaining if a dangerous criminal has not concealed in his

clothes some weapon or some document that may compromise him. When the

warden ordered me to undress in order to take a bath, I was for a

moment confounded. The sight of a dirty bath-room and a smoking rag,

that perhaps had just wiped the body of some foul vagrant of the

barriers, quite restored my energy.

“I will not take a bath.”

“The regulations require it: you must submit to them.”

“I tell you once for all, that I will not take a bath, if you shoot

me.”

“Well, in your place I would act the same,” replied the warden in a

most friendly tone. “I am distressed at all that has been going on

here for some time. Only, as the director of the prison is a furious

partisan of the Commune, if he were aware of your resistance, he might

subject you to rigorous treatment. I will close the door for a few

minutes, and you will be reported as having taken your bath.”

I thanked him warmly. Some wardens of the former administration still

remained at Mazas and La Roquette. They not only manifested a cordial

respect for us, but rendered us the most valuable assistance. Of all

the marks of sympathy that I received after my deliverance, none

affected me more than the letters and calls of my old wardens of Mazas

and La Roquette. Among those who came to see me was the warden of the

bath-rooms at Mazas. There were then, among the hordes of the Commune,

who were a disgrace to the human race, some men who honored it by

their conscientiousness, their courage, and their moral dignity.

Although the day was nearly at an end, I was not at the end of my

tribulations. The cell in which I was shut up seemed most

objectionable. It was exceedingly cold, and, as I had been laid up

with an attack of bronchitis, it might bring on inflammation of the

lungs. It was on the ground, and immediately facing the interior

entrance to the main part of the prison. I knew the populace might

take Mazas by force and give a second edition of the days in

September. I should then be one of the first at hand. Finally, and

this was decisive, I had fallen into the hands of a Communist warden,

who, seeing me exhausted, having had no nourishment since morning,

gave no other proof of his solicitude than examining my pockets, my 244

books, and even my portemonnaie.

The next morning I asked to see one of the physicians of the prison.

It was Dr. de Beauvais’s day, whom I had already seen at the

Madeleine. As he was under the surveillance of the agents of the

Commune, I made no sign of recognition. I made known to him the

intolerable treatment I had received, the bad state of my health, and

the physical impossibility of remaining in my cell. I added that I

simply wished to inform him of my situation, but by no means to claim

a favor.

He replied that, in consequence of my state of health, I had a right

to change my cell. He ordered one to be given me in the first story.

The energy of my language had such an effect on the infirmarian and

pharmaceutist of the prison that they hastened to manifest their

sympathy. My new warden was perfect. In spite of the severity of the

discipline, I could, thanks to them, obtain news of M. Deguerry, Mgr.

Darboy, Mgr. Surat, and of M. Bayle, the vicar-general of Paris, who

was in my neighborhood. Hitherto I could only give an idea of their

trials and those of the other hostages of the Commune by relating my

own, only most of them had been incarcerated seven weeks, and I only

four days.

Sunday was, relatively speaking, a comfortable day. I guessed, on

Monday morning, from the general sound of the tocsin, that the

Versailles troops must have entered Paris. The pharmacist and wardens

confirmed the supposition. “Courage,” they said to me, “perhaps in a

few hours, or to-morrow at the latest, you will be free.”

I offered up my thanksgivings to God, and hailed the first dawn of

light on Tuesday as the happy day of my deliverance, and the

deliverance of all my companions in captivity.

III.

LA ROQUETTE--MASSACRE OF THE HOSTAGES--FOUR DAYS OF AGONY.

A brilliant sun lighted the prison of Mazas. We were, then, about to

return to Paris, from which we seemed a thousand leagues distant,

though within its limits; we were to behold once more those who were

dear to us, and endeavor, according to the measure of our strength, to

heal the moral and material wounds made by the most shameful and

odious of _régimes_ that ever burdened a civilized people. I forgot

all my fatigues, all my sadness, all my anguish, in the reawakening of

hope and life. I prayed with the enthusiasm of an exile who had

despaired of ever seeing his country again, and to which he was, by an

unexpected event, about to be restored.

At a quarter before ten, the door of my cell was opened. A warden I

did not know ordered me to collect my effects and go down. My

deliverance, then, was nearer at hand than I had hoped. All my things

were packed in a few minutes. I took all the money out of my purse

except enough to pay for a carriage and give the driver a generous

_pourboire_. I was too happy not to wish to make those around me

happy. In descending I distributed all the money I possessed. They

shut me up in one of the compartments of the prison parlor. After some

minutes, they took me to the director, who asked me if I had any

observations to make. “None,” said I, “unless that I am ignorant why I

am brought here.”

His face, and the faces of the agents who surrounded him, seemed very 245

ferocious, but I knew they had been indebted to the insurrection for

their places at Mazas, and must therefore be dissatisfied to see Paris

restored to France and to itself. In my heart I pardoned all the ill

that had been done me. Nevertheless, one thing astonished me, that I

did not see Mgr. Darboy, M. Deguerry, or Père Olivaint, or any of the

priests who had been transported with me from the préfecture de police

to Mazas. I spied a warden I knew. I asked him where I might expect to

find the curé of the Madeleine. He replied with tears in his eyes: “He

left last evening with the archbishop and several other gentlemen! May

God watch over you!”

I could not describe the impression made on the happiest of men by

this mysterious reply and the frightened appearance of the warden. I

questioned him, but he disappeared in a passage. What had happened to

my companions? What was going to happen to me?... I sought an

explanation to this mystery--but it was beyond my comprehension.

Suddenly a word, a single word, pronounced, I know not by whom, I know

not where, resounded in my ear like a thunderbolt: “La Roquette!”...

To this voice from without, an interior voice instantly replied: “La

Roquette, the prison of those condemned to death!”...

This frightful thunderbolt, which precipitated me into an abyss a

thousand times more fearful than that from which I thought I had

issued, was enough to dismay a nature more strongly tempered than

mine. I was dismayed and broken down, and yet, after the poignant

griefs and enervating perplexities that had overwhelmed me for two

months, I had at least the advantage of knowing my certain fate. My

conscience gave me the consoling testimony that I was a victim of my

fidelity to duty; my courage revived at the thought of the numerous

and illustrious captives who had suffered more than I, and whose

examples I only had to follow to die as a priest and a Frenchman. I

cried with the royal Psalmist: “But I have put my trust in thee, O

Lord: I said: Thou art my God, my lot is in thy hands.” This lifting

of my heart to God sufficed to give me firmness and the serenity of

Christian resignation.

When they shut me up in one of the grated cages in the vestibule of

Mazas, the warden charged with this painful task secretly pressed my

hand, and informed me that the Archbishop of Paris, the curé of the

Madeleine, and most of the other hostages had gone to La Roquette,

where we were now to be taken. His pressure of my hand and the

consternation of his face were more eloquent than all he could say. It

was a comfort truly providential to find the Abbé Amodru again in the

cage next mine. Our impressions were the same. Thanks to the signs we

agreed upon when we left the préfecture de police, we could give each

other absolution. We must find ourselves in the presence of death to

comprehend the nothingness of all human things; there is then no

longer any difficulty in praying, in repenting, in pardoning our

fellow-men, and in trusting wholly in the mercy of God.

One by one the cages opened and shut with a lugubrious noise, and I

was surrounded with hostages destined for La Roquette. I was surprised

to find several under complete illusion respecting our situation. Some

thought we were about to be restored to liberty, and others did not

seem to comprehend the significance of our being sent to La Roquette. 246

It was not best to enlighten them yet, but I resolved to do so at a

later moment. With almost certain death staring us in the face, I

thought it proper, and especially more Christian, to modify my

attitude. Until now I had taken an energetic stand against the agents

of the Commune, and sometimes expressed my indignation. I now resolved

to speak but little, to pray a great deal, to encourage those of my

companions who should need it, and to arm myself with patience and

meekness toward our persecutors.

The charitable young pharmacist of the prison, who, the night before,

so gladly announced our approaching liberation, was stationed in a

corner of the vestibule to give us a last proof of his sorrowful

sympathy. This was not only a kind but a courageous act at a moment

when a single smile of compassion might be regarded as treason. A week

after, a young man, kneeling by the body of M. Deguerry in the lower

chapel of the Madeleine, stopped me to express his joy and his grief.

It was the pharmacist of Mazas.

An enormous cart, surrounded by armed national guards, awaited us in

the first court. I at once bethought myself of the carts that during

the Reign of Terror conveyed the victims of the committee of public

safety to execution. And we too were to go in the same direction,

toward the Barrière du Trône. Such coincidences could not fail to

strike any one familiar with our revolutionary history. Fifteen

prisoners mounted the cart, among whom I noticed M. Chevriaux, the

principal of the Lycée at Vanves, who bravely wore his ribbon of the

Legion of Honor; Père Bazin; M. Bacues, the director of St. Sulpice;

an honest workman, and some members of the national guards, guilty of

not having sacrificed to the idol of the day. They were mostly

ecclesiastics.

We were told that the reason we had not been sent to La Roquette the

night before with the first hostages dispatched was that a third

vehicle could not be procured. Mgr. Darboy, Mgr. Deguerry, Mgr. Surat,

and M. Bonjean had suffered very much at Mazas: the prolonged severity

of the prison discipline had, in particular, shaken the archbishop’s

health. They had been obliged, only a few hours before his departure

for La Roquette, to apply blisters to him. But they all showed

themselves, by their firmness and patience, superior to their sad

condition.

At the sight of M. Perny and M. Houillon, apostolic missionaries in

China, whom the Commune had stupidly arrested on their way through

Paris, M. Deguerry said to Mgr. Darboy: “Only think of those two

Orientals coming to seek martyrdom in Paris! Is it not curious?” On

the way, they had to encounter the threats and outrages of a rabid

mob. Men _en blouse_, ragged children, and women, or rather furies,

wished to stop and enter the vehicles: “_A bas les chouans et les

calotins!_”--“Stop, we wish to cut them in pieces!”

It was revolting, monstrous, and yet something still more hideous was

reserved for us. We were insulted in our turn, not by the multitude,

but by the national guards who had charge of us. I could understand

the threatening attitude of an over-excited mob, led away by its bad

instincts and the speeches of demagogues, but I had never seen, or

thought it possible, that an armed force could basely insult and

threaten those whom they were officially deputed to escort to a place

of punishment. I had not suspected such a degree of vileness in human

nature, and felt rather humiliated than indignant. “Ah! citizen,” 247

said one of these tigers armed with a _képi_ and a chassepot,

“you reckon on the arrival of the Versailles assassins! Well, this

morning we cut them off at the Porte d’Auteuil with our mitrailleuses:

twenty thousand prisoners are in our hands. The _chouans_ and their

accomplices will have the fate they merit.” An ecclesiastic of the

Faubourg St. Antoine, who had been embittered by his trials, wished to

take up for the Versailles army. I tried to make him comprehend that

reserve and silence were the safest and most suitable course for us.

I asked the national guardsman at my right the quarter he was from. He

replied that he belonged to the battalion of Charonne. It was more and

more manifest that the old suburbs of Paris ruled and kept Paris in

terror. The quarters St. Martin, St. Antoine, and St. Marceau were no

longer rulers of this great city, but the citoyens of Belleville,

Montmartre, La Villette, Ménilmontant, Charonne, and Montrouge, that

is to say, the districts that a few years ago were not a part of

Paris, that had municipalities and material interests distinct from

Paris, and had made a most vigorous resistance to their annexation to

the city. But the head of the second empire conceived a pride in

reigning over a capital containing two millions of inhabitants, and

the thickly settled suburbs were violently annexed to Paris. He wished

to eclipse Babylon and ancient Rome. To make his way through his

capital, innumerable boulevards must be opened, bordered by sumptuous

edifices. To seek the fresh air of the Bois de Boulogne, he must

traverse immense avenues peopled with all the wealthy idlers in the

world, and consequently new legions of workmen were summoned from

every point of the compass, who concentrated themselves like an army

ranged in battle in the annexed zone.

A humble journalist, I had pointed out, as a great social danger, the

tendency of the empire to separate Paris into two parts, one peopled

by the aristocracy and bourgeoisie, and the other by workmen,

outcasts, and the dissatisfied from the entire world. My criticisms

and sad forebodings were recompensed by officious remonstrances,

domiciliary visits, and the seizure of my papers. The course of the

empire had, then, been fatal to France in a political point of view,

since compression had only served to debase its inhabitants and

organize all kinds of social conspirations; fatal in a religious point

of view, for the affairs of Rome alarmed the consciences of Catholics,

and the clergy, so respected in 1848, became the objects of prejudice

and hatred, the bitter fruits of which we were reaping; and fatal in a

military sense, for France was humbled and crushed by a foreign power.

I will declare, for the political honor of the eminent men whose

opposition to the empire I shared, that at the time I thought I was

about to be put to death in prison and render the Supreme Judge a

strict account of my actions, far from regretting a stand that some of

my friends and ecclesiastical superiors had blamed and treated as

“_passion politique_,” everything at Mazas and La Roquette,

everything in Paris and the whole of France, assured me I had not

taken a wrong course; that, on the contrary, I had served the cause of

religion and of my country.

TO BE CONTINUED.

----------

THE DÖLLINGER SCANDAL. 248

FROM THE HISTORISCH-POLITISCHE BLAETTER.

During the course of the year 1857 we published in these pages an

exhaustive article on the philosophy of Baader. Before the article was

sent to press, the editor of Baader’s complete works gave to the

public the author’s correspondence in another volume, the appearance

of which occasioned the most painful surprise among the admirers of

the great thinker. The book showed that, in his later years, Baader’s

mind was out of harmony with the church; and that his tone towards it

had grown to be one of bitterness even. As was wont to be the case in

those happier days, the editors of these pages turned to Dr. Döllinger

for an explanation of the glaring contradictions between the earlier

and later views of Dr. Baader. The result was a postscript to the

article above referred to, written by Dr. Döllinger, and which may be

seen in the fortieth volume of the _Historisch-Politische

Blätter_, p. 178.

In this postscript, Dr. Döllinger pointed out from the correspondence

itself what were the reasons of the change, and showed that Baader’s

animosity against the church rested only on extraneous and accidental

causes, and had nothing to do with his philosophy. “No further

key”--these are Döllinger’s concluding words--“will be needed to

understand how the broad chasm that separates the calm convictions of

the ripe man in his prime from the passionate, almost childlike,

outbursts of mental impotence of the old man in his decline, was

overleaped.”

These lines were written by Dr. Döllinger thirteen years ago, and we

have often read them since. Step by step, he has himself proceeded in

a course towards the church which he so severely censured in the

philosopher of Munich.

The fall of the two men is to a certain extent the same. The

gray-haired church historian, too, is separated by a great chasm from

what he was in his prime--at a great distance from the convictions

that guided him when he was in the zenith of his intellectual power.

His deportment and language betray signs of ungovernable passion,

incompatible with the self-possession of a man who understands his own

mind.

We have a right to seek in his case, also, for a psychological

solution of the change that has left him the very reverse of what he

was. In his case, as in that of Baader, it will be seen that the

reasons have nothing to do with his erudition as a church historian;

that they are of a purely “extraneous and accidental character.” But,

indeed--and this is the great difference between the two--in Baader’s

case, the motives were of a private, domestic nature; in the case of

Döllinger, they are of a public and political nature. To express it in

a word, it is the spirit of the times and of the world that has

carried Döllinger into the fatal gulf. Döllinger’s fall, his breaking

off from all he was in the past, is only a piece of the political

history of Bavaria during the last twenty years. The Council and the

definition of the 18th of July have only hastened the matter; they

have merely given the disease, in its crisis, an acute form; but, 249

without them, the break would still have taken place; for a current of

thought had set in in Döllinger’s mind which would have necessitated

it. When, therefore, we are asked how it happens that a highly learned

and highly respected man, like Döllinger, in the enjoyment of a

completely independent position, could cast himself into a current

running counter to his whole previous life, our answer is very simple;

for, from the very beginning of a certain period in the history of

Bavaria, every true Catholic was called upon to bear his cross with

the church; and it is not given to every one to choose being put in

the background when he needs only to yield in order to reap his share

of the honors of this world.

It was beyond a doubt impossible for Döllinger to add anything to his

reputation for learning. Was he not the head and ornament of the

Catholic school of Munich? And, by the way, it is beyond a doubt that

that school had taught as a body, concerning the _ex cathedrâ_

decisions of the Holy See, neither more nor less than is now required

by the decrees of the Council of the Vatican. Witnesses can be found

for every day and year, from among the students of the Munich

theological faculty, from the Bishop of Mainz down to the humblest

parish priest, to show from their notes and memoranda that Döllinger

himself taught exactly what the Archbishop of Munich requires him now

to subscribe to. Whoever questions the infallibility of the Papal

decisions contradicts the present and past testimony of the church,

and must deny the infallibility of the church itself--such was the

view of the whole Munich school; such was Döllinger’s own view.

If Döllinger’s present views were correct, the immunity of the church

from error could not for a moment be maintained, no matter where it

might be claimed its infallibility resided. Döllinger subordinates the

church to science and the decisions of the church to the final

judgment of the learned, more especially to the final judgment of

historians. Such is his theory, and such, practically, his answer to

his ecclesiastical superiors.

Not without reason, therefore, does the Archbishop of Munich in his

pastoral, dated Palm Sunday, say: “In this manner the church’s divine

commission and all Catholic truth is called in question.” It cannot

for a moment be doubted that a man who speaks as does Döllinger in his

declaration of the 28th of March last, has lost completely the

Catholic idea of the church. The only difference between him and the

Protestants is that, in addition to the Bible, he admits, tradition,

“the unanimous consent of the fathers,” to be a source of religious

truth; and this a Protestant may also do, provided no external

authority be constituted the court of final appeal; and Döllinger in

fact claims that there is no such court, since he subordinates both

Pope and Council alike to what he calls “science.”

In point of fact, however, even if not expressed in precisely those

words, these were Döllinger’s views years ago. We long since foresaw

what was coming, and just as it has come. It was then a matter of no

little surprise to us that his course caused no uneasiness even in

ecclesiastical circles; and that no importance was attached to the

remarkable revelations to which we now call attention, although the

circumstances attending and the persons concerned in them were

calculated to invest them with a character of the highest importance. 250

We have already referred to the revelations in question as throwing

light on the internal history of Bavaria, and on Döllinger’s dangerous

complication with certain tendencies of the late government; but we

must return to the subject, and treat it more particularly. We refer

especially to the academical oration held by Dr. Döllinger on the 13th

of March, 1864, on King Maximilian II.

In his oration, he happens to speak of the remarkable interest felt by

the deceased monarch in historical research, and reveals to the world

a very strange, “a more secret” motive for the royal interest. The

reader, to understand the full bearing of the history which we give

below entire on Döllinger himself, must bear in mind the peculiar

characteristics of a man who has lived more among his books than among

men. It would be hard for any one to be more subject to external

influences than Döllinger is, and, at the same time, to be less

conscious of their presence or effect. He unconsciously puts forth

to-day, as the result of his own experience, what he happened to hear

expressed yesterday by another. Döllinger is always the product of his

surroundings, and hence his change, as he lost his old friends, one

after another, by death or by alienation, and fell in almost

exclusively with the society of the so-called “Bernfenen.” This

explains also how it came to pass that many younger men, and the

members of the scientific guild--for example, his little

Mephistopheles, Huber--exercised so unwarranted and increasing an

influence over him. Bearing all this in mind, it is impossible to

overestimate the effects and influence of the overtures which King

Maximilian made to Dr. Döllinger. He was completely intoxicated by

them, and his new friends found means to prevent his return to his

sober senses. The impression made on Döllinger in the conference in

question must have been the more lasting, as Döllinger, the

acknowledged head of the Ultramontane party, could not have hoped to

stand any higher in his majesty’s favor than any other of that abused

class. To express the whole matter in a few words, we are convinced

that the careful observer will discover the later as opposed to the

earlier Döllinger in the following account, or in his cradle.

The following extract is from the oration above referred to:

“As I have permitted myself to refer to the deeper thoughts which

guided the king in his government, and especially in his attitude

towards science, I may also recall certain other communications which

I received from his own mouth. An upright, faithful Christian, he

believed in the lasting future of Christianity, and, therefore, could

not conceive that its divisions and the struggle of the different

confessions should continue for ever; that Christians should waste

their powers in mutual injury. The division, he was of opinion, had

had its time, and God had permitted it for some high purpose; and that

time, even where not entirely past, was near its end; and he believed

firmly that in spite of all polemical bitterness, in spite of the

sordid spirit of self which had intruded itself into the controversy,

the day of union for Christian nations would come, and the promise of

one fold and one shepherd be fulfilled. And the great ecclesiastical

bodies of the West being once reconciled and working with more than

redoubled intellectual vigor upon the Græco-Russian church, the latter

would not long resist the powerful magnetic influence of unity. Or, on

the other hand, when once the union of the Catholic and Anatolian 251

churches was effected, the various Protestant sects would be gradually

drawn into the current and meet their brethren.

“Naturally, however, the attention of the king was claimed in the

first instance by whatever could be looked upon as tending in a

proximate or remote degree to the reconciliation of the East, and

particularly of Germany. He saw that the future union could not be a

simple, unaccommodating mechanical coming together of the separated

confessions. Neither did he think for a moment of the absorption of

one church into another. It was necessary, he thought, that both

bodies should first undergo a purgative process, and that each should

acknowledge that it might receive, though, perhaps, in an unequal

degree, some good from the other; that each might help to free the

other from its peculiar defects and one-sidednesses, and supply what

was wanting in each other’s ecclesiastical and religious being; that

each might heal the other’s wounds; and that neither should be

required to surrender anything which its life and history had proved

to be a positive good. Under these conditions, sooner or later, the

process of reconciliation and of union would take place in the heart

of Europe, in Germany.

“Such nearly were the thoughts which the king developed to me in a

long conversation which I had with him, and which I never can forget.

I do not know how far Schelling’s ideas of an all-embracing church of

the future gave form and shape to the royal views. It is a matter of

fact, however, that that thinker had exerted a great influence on the

mind of the king long before his accession to the throne. At the same

time, the king saw that this idea of a future church entertained by

Leibnitz and by Germany’s greatest men was recognized as a necessity,

and confidently hoped for also by his eminent and enlightened kinsman,

King Frederick William the Fourth of Prussia. A German patriot, he saw

in this reunion the salvation of Germany; a Christian, he saw in it a

bulwark for the defence of the Christian faith, now so fiercely

menaced.

“And here he believed his own Bavaria was called to take an active and

initiatory part, and the Bavarian king not only to point out the way

the country was to go, but to guide it in that way. It was not a

matter of mere chance the Frankish race, the numerically predominant

race in Bavaria, was about equally divided between the two

confessions, and that in no country, not even in Prussia, were the

local mixture and inter-relations of Protestants and Catholics so

intimate and extensive as in Bavaria.

“In the second place, as far as the king himself was concerned, he

could and it was his duty to do something to bring Germany a little

nearer to the desired goal. He had been obliged to establish a perfect

equality of rights and of political standing for the professors of

both confessions, to the end that no portion of the people might feel

oppressed, or grow embittered, or think themselves kept in the

background, for with such feelings on the part of any portion of the

nation, all coming together, all understanding, was impossible.

“And here he was of opinion science, and particularly historical

science, was called upon to accomplish much; for religion itself was

history, and only as a historical fact, and in accordance with the

rules of historical criticism, could religion be understood or

appreciated. In his own view, historical science was the kingdom in

which, in the words of the sacred writings, peace and justice would 252

kiss; for only through history, as established by the most thorough

research, could men know their own past and others’ past, their own

and others’ failings; through it only was there any hope of begetting

a conciliatory and pacificatory frame of mind.

“Thus the field of historical science seemed to the king like the

Truce of God in the middle ages, or like a sacred city in which those

elsewhere at variance found themselves at peace together; and, urged

on by the same desires, endeavored to slake their thirst at the same

fountain of truth, and grew into one communion.

“Out of the scientific fraternity of historians would one day proceed,

so he hoped, after the trammels of confessions had been done away

with, a higher union, embracing all historical, all religious truth, a

brotherly reconciliation, such as patriots and Christians alike hoped

and prayed for.”

All this Dr. Döllinger spoke with all the warmth of personal

conviction. Although the whole is evidently a thrust at the idea of a

confession and against the church as an organization, Döllinger does

not append one word of correction in the name of the church. We

cannot, however, help wondering that a critic so acute, a thinker so

profound, as Döllinger should have surrendered himself to such a

politico-religious system. It is easily seen that there are three

separate, and in part contradictory, ideas in the royal programme, and

all three have this in common, that they are totally irreconcilable

with the idea of a divinely instituted and saving church.

In the first place, there is mentioned St. John’s church of love,

Schelling’s church of the future, on which subject Döllinger was

otherwise perfectly innocent. An ideal which contemplative enthusiastic

characters like King William the Fourth might cherish, and which might

also claim a place in the thoughts of the Bavarian king, could

scarcely have much attraction for Döllinger. But it was otherwise with

the second idea which King Maximilian had elaborated, that is, with

the idea of a German national church; and, finally, with the third

idea, that of the absorption of all the confessions into a universal

republic of _savants_, and the church into a world-academy of

science. Here the thread of the supernatural is completely lost,

though, perchance, the king himself was not aware of it; for, is this

not the most utter rationalism?

If, now, we look at Döllinger’s declaration of the 28th of March, we

will find these two ideas standing out in bold relief. The odious

antithesis of Germanism and Romanism may indeed be in harmony with the

reigning political spirit; it certainly is incompatible with the idea

of the Catholic Church. Whoever presumes in the name of nationality to

speak of any member of the church as of the “Roman party,” either

knows not what he is doing or must wish the “German national church”

in schism. From this there is but one step, and that not a hard one

for the pride of intellect or the haughtiness of science, to the

position occupied by Döllinger in his declaration to the archbishop,

in which he places the scientific fraternity of historians as the

highest authority over the church, and makes it the court of final

appeal in matters of faith. And yet the learned gentleman, although he

signs himself only “a Christian,” will have us consider him a

Catholic.

It is impossible to look into the abyss into which this once clear

thinker has fallen without a feeling of terror. Is it not sufficient

to open the eyes of every one that the apostles of German Catholicism 253

and free religion, like a Heribert Rau and an Oswald, have again

called the attention of the public to their already published works as

an “interesting commentary on Dr. Döllinger’s protest”?

It is true that Döllinger has nothing in common with those men in his

views of his relations to God; but then we must remember these

gentlemen are only drawing their own consequences, and Döllinger has

lost all right to find fault with the consequences they draw.

The unwarranted introduction of nationalism into the idea of the

church was doubtless Döllinger’s first step downhill. This gained, the

disturbers of the peace of the church soon possessed themselves of the

whole man. There can be nothing more hostile to the real spirit of

Catholicism than this false principle of nationality; for the end of

the church, in a spiritual point of view, is to smooth away all

national differences, and bring the different nations into one fold.

To wish, at a time like the present, when the fanaticism of

nationality, if we may be allowed the expression, is tending to

alienate still more the peoples of different nations--to wish, we say,

at such a time to destroy the only tie that holds them together, is to

betray the wildest party fanaticism imaginable.

We can understand what the cry for a German national church means in

the mouths of those modern Neros, the liberalists--in the mouth of any

one else, we cannot understand it.

We know very well that Döllinger was very far from desiring a schism

when he spoke at the Linzer Catholic meeting in 1850, upon the subject

of the place of German nationalism in the church. It was somewhat

otherwise in his declarations in the Munich Conference in 1863. There

a turning-point was discoverable.

A short time previously, the at first purely scientific difference

with the “Roman party,” or neo-scholastics, had arisen. Döllinger had

roused the suspicions of these latter; but we feel certain that at

that time there were no grounds for their suspicions. He was, it was

plain, only a little too susceptible to the influences of a certain

kind of liberalism, and extraordinarily anxious to do away with any

suspicion of adhering to the Ultramontane party.

The danger practically and in point of fact began when he became

entangled in Bavarian politics, especially in what concerns the

question of the relations of science to ecclesiastical authority.

“German science” now became the focus in which the more or less

conscious tendencies of Döllinger were concentrated. It is in 1865

that we must place the real turning-point in Döllinger’s career.

About the end of the year 1861, the writer of these lines went to

Frankfort-on-the-Main. He visited Böhmer, and will never forget a

scene he witnessed on the occasion of that visit. The great historian

was sick at the time, fresh in mind, it is true, but in a repining

condition, and almost bitter. Our conversation turned on the condition

of the University of Munich under the _régime_ of the so-called

“Bernjungen.” Böhmer expressed great regret at what was going on in

Munich, but reserved the vials of his wrath for the celebrities of the

month of March previous. Especially, he made Döllinger responsible for

it that so favorable a time had not been used for the founding of a

historical school in the interests of the church. It was well known

that Dr. Döllinger had had many scholars during his long career as a

professor; but he had founded no school. It might be said, even, that

he did not leave a disciple after him. Whilst he expatiated in the 254

endless world of book in a manner hitherto unparalleled, perhaps it

became impossible for him to prepare the living materials which young

men needed, and lost the gift of sociability.

Böhmer became more and more aggravated as he proceeded, till, finally,

his anger culminated in the following anecdote: He said that, when

Döllinger visited Frankfort last, he had had a walk with him through

the city, and Döllinger had spoken to him about his literary plans.

He, Böhmer, remonstrated with him, and inquired why he did not fulfil

his older promises; why he did not continue his unfinished church

history. Whereupon Döllinger, stopping and swinging his cane, said

with a smile: “You see, I can’t do that; for now my researches have

brought me to such a pass that I cannot make the end of my history

tally with the beginning; the continuation of my church history would

be entirely Protestant.” I see Böhmer this moment before me with the

same grim visage which he wore as he closed this story with the words:

“_He--he_ said that!”

Still, in 1860, Döllinger’s great work, _Christianity and the Church

in the time of their Foundation_, appeared. Embracing the results of

the latest research, and written in the most charming manner, this

book touched and strengthened many a Catholic heart, as it did my own.

But Döllinger has made that same beautiful book a sad memorial of his

fall. He had written the book when he was sixty years of age, but

when, in 1868, the second edition of it appeared, it was discovered

that he had omitted some of the principal passages of the first

edition, bearing upon the promises to and the establishment of the

primacy; and what he had not omitted, he had changed in the interests

of liberalism, and all without giving any ground for the alterations,

without a single note even.

Döllinger has a wonderful memory for everything in the world of print,

but very little for what concerns his own person or his own acts. When

he wrote his declaration to the Archbishop of Munich, he seems to have

quite forgotten the intentional “corrections” of his celebrated work.

Otherwise, he would not have referred to the approval which it met

with from the whole of Catholic Germany, and raised the question,

Which text he meant--the true one of 1860, or the altered, not to say

the falsified, one of 1868? Moreover, he, as the inspirer of

_Janus_, recalled, in that last-named book, the little he had left in

the edition of 1868 favorable to the primacy, for the reason that it

“contradicted all opinions of the fathers, and the principles of

exegetical theology.” In other words, _Janus_ has completely and

flatly denied the primacy.

It is hard to calculate what a blessing Döllinger might have been the

means of to his contemporaries and to posterity, had he continued to

make the rich treasures of his knowledge accessible to Christendom as

he had done in his work of 1860. The Almighty, who had preserved him

upright during the wars and passions of these later years, would have

decreed him doubtless a rare old age had he remained true to his

resolution not to divide his powers, to live an unprejudiced votary of

science. It was to be otherwise. That book was the last fruit of the

professional activity of the historian. The historian was now to

become the bitter party-man, not to say the future Bavarian senator,

and, as a writer, a mere political pamphleteer. Here his career as a 255

man of science closes.

Late in the fall of 1861 appeared his work, _The Church and the

Churches, etc._ It was a kind of colossal apology for the two

well-known Odeon Lectures of the fifth and ninth of April of the same

year, on the temporal power of the popes. In these lectures Döllinger

has come forward in the _rôle_ of the politician--a _rôle_ which he

was never intended to play on account of his too great credulity.

Expressions had crept into these lectures so little savoring of piety,

so painful to Catholic hearts, that the worst was feared for Döllinger

in ecclesiastical circles. We also feared the consequences. Döllinger

himself was evidently staggered at the unexpected impression of his,

to say the least, unexplained appearance in such a character. The book

which followed, in other respects a wonder of historical information,

was nothing but a powerful effort to shield himself from the

consequences of this step.

The ideas expressed in the royal conversation above referred to are

here recognizable, more particularly in the introduction, as well as

the endeavor to harmonize them with the principles of the church. It

would not be very difficult to allay the doubts which Döllinger has

endeavored to awaken concerning the mediæval church and the Papacy in

his (or his amanuensis’s) letters on the council in the _Allgemeine

Zeitung_, and now in his “declaration,” from his own work of 1861. The

Encyclical, and particularly the doctrine of the Syllabus on the

relations of church and state, may be both explained and defended by

the assistance of the same book. Döllinger then knew very well how to

vindicate the true sense of certain decrees and bulls of the popes

issued while the mediæval relations of the church to the state were yet in

force; he well knew then how to separate what is transient from that

which is eternally true. If, at that time, any one had come to him to

tell him that Napoleon III. intended to take advantage of the Bull

“Cum ex apostolatus officio” against the Protestant princes of Germany

and Prussia, with what shouts of laughter would he not have received

him! Now he himself is guilty of just such an absurdity--and how grave

he is withal!

The question of the relations of science to church authority became

now in Bavaria a practical question, and Döllinger was called upon to

prove the strength of his principles by overt acts. One difference

followed another in that country, and Döllinger was as interested in

them as he could be in matters entirely personal to himself. Like a

general, he felt himself responsible for the result of all those

contests, and never thought of examining closely the claims of those

who crowded around him and offered him their services. In this way it

was that he became the protector of one so unworthy as Pichler against

the archiepiscopal ordinary. At this time, even, he had his passionate

turns, which gave rise to serious misgivings, but which he was sure to

regret himself before any length of time had expired.

At this period the episcopal conference at Fulda resolved to take

steps to revive action in the matter of the establishment of a “free

Catholic university.” Döllinger could see in this nothing but the

proof of a dark conspiracy against German science.

He was unable to see that the anti-ecclesiastical, not to say the

antichrist, spirit which had crept into the universities, was more

than even he would be willing to be accountable for were he the chief 256

pastor of a diocese.

The opinion expressed in an appeal to the Catholic ladies of Germany

on the subject of the higher schools, made him lose his patience

altogether. The outbreak of the Seminary question in Spiers was in his

view another attempt of those infected with the “Roman” spirit against

free German science, and it found him, even if not publicly, on the

side of the decided opponents of the bishop’s rightful claim in the

matter.

Very nearly at the same time, the then Bavarian minister of worship

made a report to the king on the occasion of a vacancy in the

theological faculty of Würzburg, in which he painted the clergy

educated in the German College at Rome in no flattering terms. An

accidental circumstance threw suspicion on Döllinger as the instigator

of it. The pamphlet “for the information of kings,” which appeared in

the beginning of 1866, represented Döllinger, although only under the

general name “of the Munich school,” as the real actor in the minister

of worship’s puppet-play. There was a report that in the Spiers

matter, speaking of the attitude of the bishops, he had said: “They

are attempting to misuse the king’s youth!” How much of this had its

foundation in truth, to what extent the statements of the pamphlet

were based on a change or mistake between the ministry and cabinet,

must remain undecided.

The pamphlet referred to created no small excitement, however; and,

precisely two years before the appearance of the notorious articles on

the Council, was exhaustively replied to in the _Allgemeine

Zeitung_. The style and other accidents would lead to suppose that

the “amanuensis,” since known more of, had here made his _début_. The

reply was not a refutation. It was made up of a series of

counter-complaints, and, with the exception of the attacks on the

Jesuits, the Roman party, and the boys’ seminaries, these articles

contain the kernel of the articles against the Council published two

years later. In spite of all this, however, Döllinger is represented

in these articles as of the same unaltered mind with other members of

the faculty, Haneberg and Reithmayer.

“If there was no ground of suspicion during all these long years, no

reason to believe that these men were hankering after dangerous

novelties, how comes it recently that such suspicions are aroused,

seeing that they have always been of the same mind?” It is now certain

that this unanimity has since ceased; and it is clear that Döllinger’s

monstrous accusation--“not a soul believes it”--must have been

unjustly brought by him against his colleagues. The articles also

quote the words of the Tübingen theologian: “The suspicion has spread

further--Döllinger and Michelis are no longer innocent.” What says the

Tübinger of the drifting of these two men to-day?

On the first of January, 1867, the Hohenlohe ministry took charge of

the ship of state.

It will not be claimed that Döllinger’s influence increased with the

accession of his old friend Prince Hohenlohe to the ministry; it

seemed more probable that the prince would have found the learned

professor a powerful obstacle in his way. The prince had formerly been

considered unexceptionable in his religious views and relations; but

in order to dissipate the bad odor in which he was in the highest

circles, suspected as he was of favoring Prussia, he knew no better

method than to encourage the superstitious fear of the Ultramontanes

and of the Jesuits which for twenty years had reigned within the walls 257

of the royal palace at Munich. This it was which had made Dr.

Döllinger so interesting a subject since he was regenerated from the

infection of Ultramontanism.

Countenanced by such a man, it was thought the discomfiting of the

“clerical party” would be a less dangerous operation than effecting it

by an unasked-for alliance with the party of progress.

This explains how Prince Hohenlohe, at the head of the foreign

department, was determined to serve Döllinger in every way possible

against the “Curia” and all matters related to it.

The infamous articles on the Council appeared in the _Allgemeine

Zeitung_ from the 10th to the 15th March, 1869, under an anonymous

name. Every effort was made to conceal the author, and even to mislead

the public as to who he was. The real author could not conceal himself

as far as we were concerned; but it required a long time to convince

the many, and great was the surprise of all unprejudiced minds at the

discovery.

In the meantime, the preparation of the anonymous _Janus_ was

undertaken, and the circulatory dispatches of Prince Hohenlohe made

their appearance on the 9th of April, 1869, which, of course,

Döllinger could not well subscribe as their author. The council of

ministers, of course, was not consulted in the matter; and the

well-known five questions put by Prince Hohenlohe to the theological

faculties of Munich and Würzburg, concerning the future council, were

not whispered to the minister of foreign affairs by some secret agent.

In the name of the majority of the faculty of Munich, Döllinger was

called upon to answer his own questions. In contradistinction to the

clear and frank separate vote of Professors Schmid and Thalhofer, and

to the incisive opinion of the Würzburger faculty, that exposition was

but the unworthy production of a time-server. It was impossible for

any one to discover the real meaning of the opinion. The only thing

plainly discoverable was the ambiguity by which the author sought to

shield himself from trouble.

The absence of conviction in the whole affair is so evident that we

may well yet remain in doubt concerning the position of Döllinger’s

colleagues; and that in spite of the fact that the libellous articles

of the _Allgemeine Zeitung_ are to be found in the widespread pages of

_Janus_. We have already looked into this department of the literature

of our day; we have done so already. Not only was infallibility

condemned in it; but the primacy, at least since 845, is there made to

appear as an infinite series of deception and forgeries, or, as

_Janus_ expresses it, as a sickly, uncouth, consumptive-engendering

excrescence on the organism of the church. Not only was the future

council condemned before it was held, but the Council of Trent was

turned into “a should-be œcumenical council,” which was arbitrarily

governed by legates, in which the Roman party alone had sway, and

which, in a word, was nothing but an assemblage of fools and

pickpockets. This view of the Council of Trent Döllinger seems to have

forgotten, when he wrote his declaration of the 28th of March of the

present year, in which he refers to the Tridentine article of faith

which he had twice sworn to, and in which he leaves out the essential

part of the oath, namely, the promise to interpret the Holy Scripture

only “in the sense approved by Holy Mother Church.” 258

The foreign office and its zealous co-operator, the learned professor,

now began their campaign against the Council. The reporter of the

Leipzig _Grenzboten_ of the 24th of June, 1870, thus expresses himself

on the subject: “The alarming circulatory dispatches of Prince

Hohenlohe have turned to political account the results obtained by

_Janus_, and introduced them into governmental and diplomatic

circles.” The Bavarian ambassador, a man of no distinction and one who

favored the “Curia,” was recalled and replaced by Count Tauffkirchen,

the most talented diplomatist at that time at the disposal of the

government.

His operations in Rome were very influential; and if the matter

furnished by the events in the Council became immediately the subject

of discussion in the press and in the literature of the day, the

Bavarian Embassy is not entitled in the least to the merit of it. The

rest was accomplished by Döllinger, as is now well known, and by his

intimate young friend Lord Acton.

About the end of the year appeared the pamphlet, _Considerations for

the Bishops of the Council on the Question of Papal Infallibility_.

This time he appeared again anonymously, but without making any extra

effort to conceal himself as the author. A little later, he appeared

under his own name in the official organ of the new Catholic theology,

the _Allgemeine Zeitung_, in the “Declaration in the matter of the

address touching Papal Infallibility,” on the 19th January, 1870. From

this declaration, says the Lepzig correspondent more than once

referred to above, proceeded his agreement with the views of _Janus_.

The publication of his name was no sooner made than the party of

progress took it as a signal to make him their own entirely.

This had already been done in the press; now it was accomplished in

the House.

On the 7th of February, Dr. Völk, a deputy, seized the opportunity

presented by the debates on the “address” to drag Döllinger into the

field against the “patriotic” majority. He read the most objectionable

and most venomous parts of the “Considerations” and “Declaration,” and

imputed these views to the majority of the House as their own

opinions, endeavoring to drive them to declare themselves for

Döllinger and against the Pope and the Council. The “patriotic”

majority had taken care not to embitter the debates by introducing

questions ecclesiastical into them; but now a defence was called for.

The stenographic report describes the scenes, which were closed with

the following words from Deputy Törg:

“I have been on the most intimate terms with the gentleman whom Deputy

Völk so formally parades before the House, for years. I became

acquainted with him shortly after the time of the ‘genuflexion

question’ in Bavaria; and, surely, no one then imagined that a time

would come when Dr. Döllinger would be thus quoted before the whole

House by Dr. Völk. I consider it a terrible misfortune, and accept it

as such; yes, gentlemen, as a personal misfortune. Dr. Döllinger was

an authority for me; he is such no longer; for he has fallen the

victim of blind passion and lost the calmness necessary to the forming

of an opinion; and he is no longer in a condition to formulate a

dogmatic question as a theologian ought to be able to formulate one.”

But that is not what Döllinger wants. He now stands in dread of all 259

conscientious critics, his own fame for critical acumen being entirely

gone.

He makes the definition of Papal infallibility a monstrous bugbear,

and no remonstrance prevails to prevent his making the bugbear more

terrible to himself and others. The worst feature in the whole is his

passion against the temporal power. He sees nothing in his opponents

that is not criminal. They use the infallible Pope to depose the

monarchs who do not suit them, to absolve subjects from their oath of

fealty, to overthrow constitutions, to annihilate every right. Dr.

Döllinger endeavors by the most unqualified denunciation to tell the

new German Empire--elsewhere he always says that the doctrine was

never known in Germany: “I cannot dissemble that this doctrine, in

consequence of which the former German empire perished, in case it

should obtain sway among the Catholic portion of the German nations,

would sow the seeds of an incurable disease in the newly founded

German empire.”

But what now? As we have already pointed out, the matter did not turn

out as those interested wished it would.

It was expected that Döllinger’s influence would have carried the

greater part of the clergy and intimidated the bishops; thus it was

hoped without much danger would be obtained the object which, although

yet not clearly defined in every particular, embraced, at all events,

the annihilation of Ultramontanism, of the “clerical party,” and of

the Jesuits in Germany. It was hoped to accomplish all this without

the always, as was acknowledged, dangerous assistance of the party of

progress, through the mere weight of Döllinger’s name and influence.

But his name has not accomplished what was hoped it would. The

auxiliaries wished for did not come; the others who were not expected

came in crowds. Scarcely had the national liberals rested from other

arduous tasks than they enlisted under Döllinger’s standard for the

accomplishment of their next and greatest task, the destruction of

the Catholic Church in Germany. We are far from denying that at

first, under the pressure of slanders and denunciations, some

well-intentioned men were carried away. We have hopes for their

return, and do not wish to wound the feelings of any one. But when Dr.

Döllinger surveys the chaos of the “address,” and considers how it

would fare with him could he hear the confessions of all these

“Catholics,” I do believe he would blush at such adherents, for I do

not believe he has quite lost the power of distinguishing moral

turpidity from virtue.

He need not know the state of the consciences of his Munich colleagues

who signed the address, in which they hesitate not to give the lie to

the whole Catholic episcopate; he knows better than anybody how many

of them have a moral right to speak in the name of “Catholic

Christendom.”

Viewing the matter in this light, we have in one way wondered at the

signing of many, in another way we have wondered at the signing of

only a few. And in the face of such phenomena, Dr. Döllinger desires a

church the duty of whose bishops it shall be simply to declare that

which all believers, represented by scientists, will have thought or

believed upon a question of the faith.

It is easy to say what the next thing sought by those who follow

behind Döllinger’s banner is. The police regulations required by the

government against the decrees of the Council are a matter of secondary

importance. And the great storm of an ovation given to Döllinger is 260

meant not so much for Döllinger himself as for its influence on the

king and his government.

The king must a second time be made to serve the cause of German

liberalism. We said it in the beginning: as soon as the little German

Empire is established, the party will want a “German National Church”

for their little empire. We did not think, indeed, that any attempt at

this would be made so soon; for, a year ago, men who knew what they

were talking about assured us that so long as the old king lived he

would not permit the peace of religion to be disturbed; but that it

would be otherwise with those who came after him. But now that the

king has become German Emperor, unanimous reports of the contrary come

to us. “The idea of the establishment of a German National Church is

taking deeper root, to all appearances, in the government circles.” So

a relatively unprejudiced Berlin correspondent lately reported. The

rest of the tale is told by the debates in the chamber of deputies.

The party are anxious to strike the iron while it is hot; not without

reason was the party battle-cry spoken during the war--all our noble

blood were shed in vain did not the stroke which freed us from France

sever the Catholics of Germany from Rome--“War against France and

against--Rome!” Even Dr. Michelis joined in the cry.

If it was very desirable that the Bavarian king should take the

initiative in the matter of the imperial title, it was also very

desirable that the first step for the establishment of the “German

National Church” should proceed from the palace at Munich.

The King of Bavaria was to be to the “new Luther” what Prince

Frederick of Saxony had been to Luther of old; and on that account, he

is promised the surname of the Wise. This is the meaning of the

infamous telegram of the tenth of March from Dresden--“him, the

enlightened thinker who publicly proclaims his dissatisfaction with

the dogma of Papal infallibility!” When the representatives of high

offices in Munich dare to set themselves up publicly as commanders in

the military ecclesiastical society, one need not be surprised at the

progressionist intrusive attempts, rashly sporting with the

monarchical principle itself. Thus only can we understand how any one

could be so bold as to encourage the clergy to fall by insinuating a

provision that no one might fear a material loss. Could the necessary

number of state-church servants have been found, the programme was

that the King of Bavaria should give the “German National Church” its

first ground in the Munich places of worship. We wish to be excused

from describing further the plan which finally would make true the

saying: “They wish to misuse the king’s youth.”

We are not deceived. Should this plan fail, another will be sought to

accomplish what is intended. Döllinger has been in relation with

Prussian diplomats since 1866. However, neither he nor the new German

Empire has the divine promise which the church has; and where the Pope

and the bishops are, there is the church.

Let all Catholics gather more closely yet about the centre of unity.

We can do no better service to the world. God will take care of the

rest.

----------

A GHOST STORY OF THE REVOLUTION. 261

We have not many haunted spots now in our Empire State, or even in

America, and very few genuine goblin stories, such as once upon a

time, told by the fireside, made one afraid to look behind him;

delightful old tales, implicitly believed in by narrator and

listeners, and casting over all a shadow of utter and indefinable

terror! Not that ghosts have ceased to come, but they are things of

course now, and their position with regard to mortals in the flesh is

entirely changed; the territory of spirit-land (at least a part of it)

has been annexed, we may say, to our free and independent thirty-seven

states; a regular intercourse has been opened; and, as the intangible

parties in the compact have frequent and passing invitations to make

earthly visits at certain specified periods, it is no more than civil

in them to wait until they are expected.

Now, in years gone by it was quite otherwise; so far from being

invited, they were universally shunned; man, woman, and child fled at

the slightest indication of their presence; and as for speech, it was

next to impossible for them to put in a single word before the

terror-stricken mortal had speeded away, far beyond all hearing. Not

much seemed the gain to either side by those interviews; occasionally

some rogue was known to disgorge his ill-gotten pelf in consequence of

the midnight apparitions of some phantom things, a warning to him to

mend his ways; or some timid heart perhaps grew faint, and before long

time ceased to beat, under the idea that it had received a

supernatural summons to the unseen world; but generally speaking, the

shock of an intense and overpowering affright was about all that

accrued to the sight-seer from the meeting--a terror so genuine that

he was able to impart it to many a circle of eager listeners for an

incredibly long period after the adventure.

But what attraction has modern America for sprites, spooks, brownies,

fairies, and all that dainty ethereal tribe that may be met in the Old

World? Or what, for the more solemn shadows that haunt dilapidated

galleries, in the tumble-down ruins of ancient transatlantic castles?

What homes have we for “elves and little people,” that dance for

years, yes for centuries, on the same greensward in the Highlands of

Scotland? Alas! in an incredibly short period grass here gives place

to wheatfields, and fairy rings would be disrespectfully ploughed up

and planted. Let any sociable _brownie_ plan a visit to old

friends, she would probably find the whole family, bag and baggage,

moved off to the far West, and only strangers round the hearthstone.

They love things old, and here all is new and cheerful under the

tireless march of improvement. We have no black forest, no

“Castled crag of Drachenfels,”

but the primitive woodland yet clothes the mountain that “frowns o’er

the wide and winding” river.

The nearest approach to a haunted castle is to be seen sometimes in

travelling over the Western States. There, in some lonely inconvenient

spot which no prudent man would have chosen for a homestead, an

unfinished, overgrown, weakly-looking wooden house tells its story, 262

not of greatness gone by, but of greatness planned and never

accomplished--a pitiful comment on the uncertainty of human affairs!

It happens thus: Some settler, sadly miscalculating his resources,

projects a palace in the wilderness on a scale of city splendor; that

is, with parlor, dining-room, kitchen, bedrooms, and the little

elegances of pantries and closets. The sides are enclosed, the roof is

on, and the revenues he counted on as certain are not forthcoming.

Then do papered walls and panelled doors with brass knobs, and visions

of portico and piazza, all float away to the blue clouds; the hapless

dreamer fits up one corner room for the reception of his whole

household until he can find another _location_, and take a new start

in the search after fortune, and so abandons his rickety palace to the

lord of the soil. As the boards blacken in wind and storm, and one end

blows down perhaps in some rough northwester, it gains the name of

being haunted; and to ride past such a skeleton thing by moonlight or

in the dim twilight, with the utter desolation of all around, and the

yawning blackness of cavities which should have been doors and

windows, it requires no great stretch of imagination to picture an

unearthly head peeping out here and there. Very bold yeomen are known

to always whip their horses to a full gallop as they approach and pass

the fearful spot; and as for women and children, under that strange

fascination by which the supernatural repels and yet attracts, they

always gaze intently, and as surely “see something”!

Although goblin visits in our land are just now rather on the decline

(except in a regular business way), there was a time when strange

sights were seen and strange things happened; and, although it may

seem almost incredible, it is a fact well established in history that

it was generally to the Dutch settled here, to that clearheaded,

reasoning nation, so little likely to be deceived on any subject, that

most of these revelations were made.

This certainly ensures for the tales the firm belief of all mankind.

When an imaginative Hibernian or a lively, light-hearted Gaul

announces a vision, it must be taken with some little allowance for

flights of fancy, etc., etc.; but when a phlegmatic, cool-headed

Hollander declares he has seen a _spook_, you may believe as if it was

your own eyes.

For the precise period most prolific in signs, sights, and dreams, we

must go back to the early days of our state, yet not to the

_first_ settlers. _Their_ troubles, so numerous that it is scarcely

possible to number them, had their origin in things tangible; and so

closely did these troubles press daily on all sides, that the thoughts

of the first colonists were entirely engrossed by the things of earth.

To such a point did this downward tendency reach, that they seemed at

times in danger of relapsing into heathendom, as may be seen from the

reports sent back to Amsterdam, and yet extant among colonial papers,

that they possessed neither school-houses nor churches. They did

possess, however, three unfailing sources of annoyances and danger--an

Indian warfare, neighbors on their eastern boundary of unparalleled

audacity, and domestic bickerings in the perpetual strife kept up

between Manhattan and Rensselaerwyck.

What might have happened if the Indians had been treated with common

justice and honesty can be now only conjecture; but their wrongs began

at the beginning. It is a dark spot on the glories of the adventurous 263

little yacht _Half-Moon_ that her very first track through the waters

of the magnificent Cahohatéa (now the Hudson) was marked with their

blood, causelessly and wantonly shed.

Hendrik Hudson and his crew landed, we are told, on the western bank

of the great bay, which was lined with “men, women, and children, by

whom they were kindly received, and presented with tobacco and dried

currants.”[68] A little further on were “very loving people and very

old men, by whom the Europeans were well used.” They brought in their

canoes to the voyagers all sorts of fruit and game, and on one

occasion of a visit made by white men to the shore they broke their

arrows and threw them in the fire to express their pacific intentions.

Yet despite all this, when the vessel had advanced only a few miles,

one of her crew fired and killed an Indian, without the least warning,

for attempting to steal a pillow and some old garments.[69] No

satisfaction was offered to the terrified savages, and they pushed off

for the shore in their canoes, but they vowed a vengeance, and they

kept the vow; so that, when some few years later one ship after

another brought the enterprising individuals who first unpacked their

household utensils and farm tools in the New World, they entered upon

a stormy existence already prepared for them. It was not a glimpse of

wraith or goblin that people feared to encounter in the lonely

by-path, but the stealthy tread and dark visage of some lurking

savage, ever watchful and merciless, ever close at hand when least

expected. How often in the silent night, in how many little hamlets,

in how many solitary huts, women and children listened in speechless

terror to the war-whoop, that fearful yell, and were made to feel

Indian retaliation for the evil doings of fathers and husbands! Small

time had they for ghostly fears. When the savages fled before European

firearms, it was only to return. More than two thousand of them

appeared in their canoes at one time before the little block-house at

Manhattan, because Hendrik von Dyke, with an imprudence and wickedness

perfectly disgraceful in a mynheer, had killed a squaw for stealing

apples in his orchard. His orchard was on the present site of Rector

Street.

But, though the Dutch colonists were generally at fault in provoking

contention, they were also valiant, after some preparation, to meet

it. When Claes Smit was ruthlessly murdered by the natives, some time

about 1642, and they refused either to give up or punish his murderer

because he had fled and could not be found, the colonists consented to

march to battle,

“provided the director himself (Von Kieft) accompanied them

to prevent disorder, also that he furnish, in addition to

powder and ball, provision necessary for the expedition,

such as _bread and butter_, and appoint a steward to

take charge of the same, so that all waste be prevented.

“If any person require anything more than this _bread and

butter_, he to provide himself therewith.”[70]

Finally, however, gunpowder prevailed; and the aborigines retreated to

forests beyond the reach of the _pale-faces_; schoolmasters and

ministers had been sent over from Holland, and the inhabitants of

Manhattan Island, as well as the other little settlements up the

river, began to live a more spiritual life, and to gather around them 264

by degrees all that troop of unearthly beings well-known in the mother

country. Little children were encouraged to be good and expect Santa

Klaus, and bad ones were no longer frightened into propriety with the

threat of being devoured by some hideous Waranancongyn with tomahawk

and scalping-knife.

One of the spots first renowned for ghostly adventures was a pleasant

little valleylike place, on the northern limits of the town, called

Medge Padje (now Maiden Lane), where a clear stream ran between grassy

banks, so gentle and noiseless that it carried the gazer’s heart

back--far back over the ocean to the canals of Faderlandt, and was a

perfect relief from the lashing waves of the great North River.

Hither, on pleasant summer afternoons, many a gude vrow would turn her

steps with her troop of sturdy urchins, and, work in hand, knitting,

knitting, all the way. But they were always careful to return before

dark; for such fearful tales had been told, principally of a tall

woman in white who always vanished in the direction of Golden Hill

(now John Street), that no one cared to make her acquaintance.

Long years after this, when the palisades marking the extent of the

city had been removed as far north as what is now Warren Street, and a

field of barley flourished on the Heerewegh (now Broadway), somewhat

about the present City Hall, we again hear of the same apparition. The

Rev. John Kimball, passing along the little stream rather late at

night, heard steps, and, looking behind him, saw the spectre; of

course he fled. Doubtless she was the bearer of some important message

from the spirit-land which she was anxious to communicate, but, as no

one ever stopped to listen, what it was can now never be known.

Mr. Watson, in his _Annals of New York_, relates a story given by a

military gentleman of his own encounter with an apparition in that

same place. The captain declares, and doubtless believed, that he

bravely attacked it, and discovered only a mischievous mortal in

disguise; but it is hardly probable that any mortal in his senses

would be personating a ghost at midnight on haunted ground, so that

the tale, being rather one-sided evidence, is doubtful.

Another solitary place was Windmill Lane,[71] which led from Broadway

between Cortlandt and Liberty Streets down quite a steep hill, in a

northwest direction, to the river edge, where stood a windmill. There

was a time when this lane was the most northern street in the

settlement; then house after house began to be built around the old

mill, and the city crept up gradually in that direction. Among those

who made their homes there was a French lady, Madame Blonspeaux, who

had crossed the ocean to teach the rising generation all she

knew--French and embroidery. Two paths led to her establishment, one

through the Lane, the other through a wheatfield, where now is St.

Paul’s church, and both were beset with spectres. Alas for the scholar

kept in after the others were dismissed! Lightly did the offended

majesty of madame weigh in the balance compared to what might possibly

beleague the path homeward. There was a legend of a tall Indian who

was always digging about for his bow and arrows, and a little short

Dutchman about a foot high in breeches and cocked hat, who, the moment

he found them, sprang into sight from somewhere and kicked the dirt 265

over them, and the Indian began his search again![72]

But the section of country most famous for spectral manifestations was

the region about the Kaatskill Mountains. Darkly wooded glens, and

lonely streams, and deep ravines offered the most ample facilities for

all kinds of signs and wonders. Indeed, the Dutch settlers that dwelt

in that by-place of existence, on the little cleared spots that here

and there dotted the landscape, were so quiet and orderly, so far

removed from the commotions that agitated the river colonies, no

wonder ethereal beings found their companionship most congenial. These

settlers had removed thither originally from the neighborhood of Fort

Orange, and principally, nay, I may say solely, in disgust at the

general uproar and discomfort which invested everything in proximity

to that fort, under the joint dominion of the Patroon of

Rensselaerwyck (or his agent), who resided there, and Director-General

Petrus Stuyvesant, who fulminated his bulls from the south end of the

Hudson; the contemporary edicts of the rival parties being always

diametrically opposed to each other.

The truth is that, from the moment Director Stuyvesant landed at

Manhattan, appointed there by the States-General of the United

Netherlands, he had carried matters with such a high hand that

everything succumbed before him. The boldest spirits bent to his rule,

and (to continue the metaphor) he walked over them. His word was law

without reason or explanation. He had even been known to shorten a

troublesome state audience by tearing up the documents and dismissing

the deputation.

Thus ruled the governor at Manhattan; but when Brant Arent Van

Slechtenhorst was sent over from Holland as agent for the heir of the

last patroon--Johannes Van Rensselaer, a minor--Petrus Stuyvesant met

his match. Commander Slechtenhorst was in popular estimation “a person

of stubborn and headstrong temper.”[73]

When Stuyvesant directed Carl von Brugge to quarry stone and cut wood

for repairs on Fort Orange, nearly destroyed by a freshet, Brant dared

the deputy to touch stone or stick at his peril, either for

fortification or firewood; for the trees, root and branch, all

belonged to his employer the patroon! He further forbade any of the

inhabitants to aid them with horses, etc., while at the same time he

was building a house himself not a pistol-shot from the fort. The news

being carried to Manhattan, the director sent some soldiers to

demolish the offending house now being built, and arrest the offender.

This was more easily ordered than accomplished, so the soldiers held a

parley with him, and were cautioned, among other bits of good advice,

to take warning by one Jacob Jansen, who had not long before cut two

fir-trees--eight days after he was seized with his plunder on the

river by the patroon’s officer, and duly punished! with the stunning

point to the climax: “Can’t he do so now?” All this being duly

reported to the great director at Manhattan, it was deemed best to

seek supplies beyond the domain of Rensselaerwyck, “stones from the

mountains, rocks, and plains--timber from anywhere within the limits

of New Netherlands--to have a wagon made, and take the horses of Jonas

Bronck, who was in debt to the company,” and whose opinions on the 266

subject were of course of no consequence. As for pulling down the

house recently erected, Herr Van Slechtenhorst pointed to the fact

that Fort Orange stood on the very soil of his employer, and that it

was his intention at some leisure day to annihilate it. So went

matters, until at last, when Stuyvesant ordered a solemn fast, and Van

Slechtenhorst absolved all in his latitude from obedience, human

patience could stand it no longer, and the insulted autocrat rushed to

Albany in the swiftest sailing sloop that could be found; there, as

has been said, to meet his match.

But our business is not with these belligerents, but with those

peacefully disposed burghers, who had grown tired more and more, year

after year, with this turmoil, which seemed now to have reached its

height. Armed soldiers were in their midst (for seven had been sent up

from Manhattan), and when the talk was of razing houses, why, even the

neighboring Indians came crowding in to ask what the _Swannekins_ were

about.

Happily another home opened to them, and very many packed up all their

worldly goods and migrated. This home was the region about the

Kaatskill. One part of the mission of Herr Van Slechtenhorst when sent

over the ocean was “to acquire by purchase the lands around Kaatskill

for the greater security of the colonie, as they were forming

companies to remove thither.”[74]

On the land thus obtained, they had nothing to fear from Indian

opposition, and the kind of domestic life they coveted is pictured in

a lease yet extant in the Van Rensselaer family, dated 1651, wherein

the tenant binds himself to “read a sermon or portion of Scripture

every Sunday and festival to the neighboring Christians, and to sing

hymns before and after prayer, after the custom of the Church of

Holland.” Years in that little nook of creation brought few great

changes; their habitations had come to be grouped together somewhat

town fashion, and were dignified by a name much too long, and

unpronounceable except by a Dutch tongue, but well loved because

traceable to Holland; and there life after life passed away like great

waves in a stream--one disappears and another takes its place.

Such were the mortal inhabitants of the place; but the invisible

portion of the community--their name was Legion! It seemed the very

place of refuge for all sorts of bodiless personages who had been

insulted and expelled from other places; indeed, if a census had been

taken, according to the old wives’ stories, their aggregate numbers

would have made up near half the population of the village.

In one portion of the spot which might truly have been called the

supernatural reservation was a deep ravine, which bore traces of

having once been the bed of a mountain stream. At this period (some

time before the old French war), its sole inhabitants were a morose,

ill-looking woodman and his aged mother, and their dwelling-place was

a miserable hut perched on rocks, and so hidden by gnarled and twisted

trees and a dense undergrowth of shrubs as to be almost invisible to

any but its occupants. Why they established themselves in that

uninviting place, or what were the events of their lives previous to

their appearance there, their unintelligible English failed to

communicate, nor was there aught in the sullen taciturnity of both of

them in the presence of a stranger, or in the loud and fearful 267

bickerings heard ofttimes in their hovel by the passer-by, that

created a desire to fathom the mystery. When the news arrived that

French and English had met, the outcasts in the glen, strange to say

were the only ones in the settlement whose fortunes seemed in any way

to be affected by it. Their disputes were heard louder and more

frequent than ever before, to end, alas! in a tragedy. The man, tired

perhaps of his monotonous existence, and hoping also to better his

fortunes, was desirous of joining the ranks of war, yet, feeling at

the same time the necessity of his support to his old mother, he

strove to wring from her a consent to his departure. It was sought in

vain. The aged woman, to her consciousness of utter helplessness,

added doubtless a natural desire for his safety, and consent was

withheld. Opposition goaded him, and in a moment of passion he struck

her lifeless to the ground.

The miserable parricide fled, and the hut fell in ruins. Time passed

on, the war was ended, and peace restored.

And now, when the tragedy of the glen had grown to be an old story,

only told by a winter evening’s fire, it began to be whispered--and it

fairly petrified the senses of every hearer--that Dark Rob, as he was

called, or his spectre, had returned to his old abode!

No one cared to investigate the matter very closely. A light was

certainly seen flickering in the ruined hovel, and a phantom-like

thing in human shape glided about the spot. No mortal would choose to

remain there alone, so it must be the shade of Dark Rob, on the

theatre of his unnatural crime!

Many an evil deed was related of him in this, his second sojourn in the

hut; but one of the most evil, because passing all comprehension, was

the strange influence he contrived to acquire by ways unknown over a

sturdy farmer named Jansen Van Dorp. How they first met was perfectly

inexplicable; for goblin Rob had never been visible in any of the

ordinary paths of the settlement, and, although Jans was one of the

very few who laughed to scorn the idea of a ghost, he would scarcely

venture in his sober senses to penetrate the dark shadows of the

haunted hovel uninvited. In whatever way it happened, events proved

their close intimacy; his steps were watched, and traced night after

night to the hut, where they held their unholy orgies.

As a matter of course, the worldly affairs of Jans Van Dorp became

disjointed things. His vrow had always borne a close resemblance to

the helpmate of Socrates, and it is not to be supposed that such

doings on the part of her truant spouse added to her sweetness of

temper.

The most irritating part was the sudden taciturn spirit which seemed

to possess the mynheer. Taunts, sneers, questions, reproaches, all

were in vain! This was both new and alarming, because on no previous

occasion had he ever been backward in contributing his share to the

Babel din of their wordy skirmishes. It confirmed, alas! her worst

suspicions, namely, that he was in toils and snares beyond all mortal

power of extrication.

Great light was thrown on the affair by a shrewd neighbor, Effie

Demson, who, having migrated to America from the Highlands of Scotland

(and by some odd chance wandered down to the Kaatskill), was allowed

to be especially versed in hobgoblin ethics. She affirmed that she had

often heard from reliable authority that, whenever a mortal is admitted 268

to the society of spirits, an oath of secrecy is imposed under a

penalty few would care to brave. She cited the cases of several

imprudent individuals who, having violated this compact, suffered

fearful consequences. One was Alice Pearson, of Byrehill, somewhere

about 1588. Having been introduced to the invisible world by a friend,

and joined them in “piping, mirth, and good cheer” (to use her own

words), she was warned that, if she ever related what she had seen,

“she should be martyred.” One day, when she began to speak of these

things, an unseen blow took away her breath and left an ugly mark on

her side; heedless of the warning, Alice continued her revelations

until she was burned as a witch, thus fulfilling her doom.[75] Every

one in the Highlands knew, too, the terrible visitation that had

lighted on one kirk for having pried into secrets merely to publish

them. Every one knew that he was a mere wandering gypsy in the

universe, and would be to the end of time.

Effie generally concluded her oracles with the remnant of an old song,

written about fairies particularly, but equally applicable to any

unearthlies. It was called

“_God a Mercy Will_.

“To be sung or whistled to the tune of _Meadow Brow_ by the

learned; by the unlearned, to the tune of _Fortune_.

“A tell-tale in their companie

They never could endure,

But whoso kept not secrecy

Their deed was punished sure.

It was a just and Christian deed

To pinch such black and blue.”

Etc., etc., etc.

_Poetica Stromata._

As this bore the antique date of 1648, and was written by Corbet,

Bishop of Norwich, it was considered good authority for anything.

This, then, explained the unusual silence of Jans Van Dorp, and it

also half-reconciled his gude vrow to endure her unsatisfied

curiosity. To wonder and to be afflicted night after night by his

truant absence was bad enough, but to have seen him vanish in blue

smoke would have been worse.