“To me my Oscar spake--my son-- 344

The dying man, and all but dead:

‘Thou liv’st! For this I thank the gods!

O father!’ thus he said.

“‘Rememberest thou that day we fought

Far westward at the Sith of Mor?’

Caoilte spake: ‘I healed thee then,

Though deep thy wounds and sore:--

“‘No cure there lives for wounds like these.’”

Here ceased the lamentable sound.

Five steps the old man moved apart;

Then dashed him on the ground.

“My Oscar stared upon his wounds;

To fields long past his thoughts took flight:

‘My son, I cried, thou hadst not died

If Fionn had ruled the fight!’

“O Patrick! I have sung thee lays,

Emprize of others, or my own;

Where he was bravest all were brave;

But his, and his alone,

“The gracious ways, the voice that smiled,

The heart so loving and so strong:

The women laughed my harp to hear;

They wept at Oscar’s song!

“All night we watched the dying man:

To staunch his blood we strove in vain:

We heard the demon-loaded wind

Along the mountain strain.

“All night we propped him with our spears:

To staunch his blood we strove in vain:

Till, drenched in falling floods, the moon

Went down beyond the plain.

“Alas! the dawning of that morn,

My Oscar’s last! With barren glare

It flashed along the broken arms,

And the red pools here and there.

“Then saw we pacing from afar, 345

A kingly form, a shape of woe:

King Fionn it was that toward us moved

With measured footsteps slow:

“King Fionn himself; and far behind

Came many warriors more of Fail,[81]

Down-gazing on Baoigne’s clan,

Death-cold, and still, and pale.

“There lay all dumb the men of might;

There, foot to foot, the foemen, strewn

Like seaweed lines on stormy shores,

Or forests overblown!

“Oh! then to hear that cry far borne

On gales new-touched with morning frost

As though he heard it not, the king

Came, striding o’er that host,

“Seeking the bodies of his sons.

So on he strode through fog and mist;

And we to meet him moved; for now

That Fionn it was we wist.

“‘All hail to thee, King Fionn! all hail!’

He answered naught, but onward passed

Until he reached that spot where lay

My Oscar sinking fast.

“‘Late, late thou com’st: yet thou art here.’

Then answered Fionn, ‘Alas the day!

My reign is done since thou art gone,

And all this host is clay.’

“My Oscar gazed upon his face:

He heard the words his grandsire said:

He heard, nor spake: his hand down fell;

And his great spirit fled.

“Then all the warriors, far and near, 346

Save one that wept, and Fionn, my sire,

Three times upraised a cry that rang

O’er all the land of Eire.

“Fionn turned from us his face that hour:

We knew that tears adown it crept:

Never, except for Bran his hound,

The king till then had wept.

He shed no tear above his son;

Tearless he saw his brother die:

He wept to see my Oscar dead,

And the warriors weeping nigh.

“This is the tale of Gahbra’s fight,

Where all the monarchs warred on one;

Where they that wrecked him shared his fate,

And Erin’s day was done.

“On Gahbra’s field the curse came down:

Our voice is changed from that of men:

We sigh by night; we sigh by day:

We learned that lesson then.

Oh! many a prince was laid that day

In narrow cairn and lonely cave:

But all the fair-famed Rath thenceforth

Became my Oscar’s grave.

Patrick, I pray the Lord of Life--

Patrick, do thou his grace implore--

That death may still my heart ere long:

This night my pain is sore.”

[80] The substance of this poem will be found among the

translations of the Irish Ossianic Society.

[81] “Inisfail”--Ireland.

----------

THE PLACE VENDOME AND LA ROQUETTE. 347

THE BEGINNING AND THE END OF THE COMMUNE.

FROM LE CORRESPONDANT.

_Concluded._

When we arrived at La Roquette, as there were no steps by which to

descend from the cart, the national guardsmen, who had not insulted

us, aided the laymen in getting out, but when it came to the turn of

the priests they refused their assistance. They shut us up for more

than an hour and a half in a narrow room which could scarcely hold us.

It was nearly five hours since we left our cells at Mazas. Some aged

priests--pardon these common details concerning the sufferings of all

kinds we underwent--asked to be shown to a retired place. After making

them wait a long time, they placed a repulsive bucket in the middle of

the room. During our whole stay at La Roquette, a hundred soldiers,

ten ecclesiastics, and some national guardsmen had no other--what the

English and Germans call by a modest euphemism “a closet or

privy”--than an article of the same kind, placed in the middle of an

infectious apartment in the third story, and I was suffering from an

inflammation of the bowels, brought on by want of exercise, of

nourishment, and of sleep.

The time passed in this anteroom was not lost. We became acquainted

and we encouraged one another. In the school of misfortune, people

learn to be communicative, and to overlook differences of age and

social rank. Those who did not anticipate any imminent danger were

undeceived. We will add, to show how profoundly hope is graven in

the heart of man, that the strongest pessimists easily yielded to the

influence of the optimists. Not one was wanting in firmness and

patience.

At last the door of the anteroom opened, and a citoyen with red

pantaloons, a red girdle, and red cravat called over the prisoners. It

was Citoyen François, the Director of La Roquette. Those familiar with

the history of Paris know that, at the end of the Empire, the post of

the sapeurs-pompiers of La Villette was taken by assault by a handful

of demagogues, who killed several sapeurs-pompiers. The leaders of the

insurrection were no other than _General_ Eudes, a member of the

Commune, and Citizen François, the warden of La Roquette. The

citizen-director of Mazas had still greater claims on the confidence

of the Commune. It will be seen that the hostages were well guarded.

La Grande-Roquette, so called to distinguish it from La

Petite-Roquette, which is opposite, and where young prisoners are

confined, is the prison of those condemned to death and to the

_travaux forcés_. It is divided into two distinct parts: the eastern

and western buildings. Separated by a spacious interior court, they

are united on the street by a third building, in the lower part of

which is the jailer’s office; and, on the opposite side, by a

sufficiently large chapel, which was, of course, closed and stript of 348

all the exterior emblems they could destroy.

Some of us were confined in the first story of the western building

where the hostages were who came the night before. The second and

third stories were occupied by those sentenced by the court of assize

of the Seine.

The remainder, and I was of the number, were sent to the third story

of the eastern building. The first story was occupied by about forty

Parisian guardsmen, prisoners of the Commune; the second story by a

somewhat larger number of _sergents de ville_, who were found at

Montmartre in the affair of the eighteenth of March. In consequence of

the defection of a part of the line, they fell into the power of the

insurgents. There were also on the same story a dozen artillerymen,

likewise prisoners. The third story, where I was conducted with seven

ecclesiastics and three laymen, was already occupied by a hundred

soldiers, some of whom, on their way through Paris at the time of the

proclamation of the Commune, refused to serve it, and others had been

taken prisoners in the engagements between the insurgents and the

regular army. The following night, three vicars from Belleville and

St. Ambroise were imprisoned with us.

The cells of La Roquette are extremely plain. They are about one mètre

and a few centimètres wide and two and a half metrès long. No chair,

no table: the only article of furniture is an iron bedstead. Neatness

is the least thing to be remarked concerning them. It was very evident

that several generations of criminals had occupied them without

rendering them any more agreeable. This was not all. The first night I

found myself among two kinds of insects whose names are unmentionable.

When in the warm climes of the East, and in the villages of Southern

Spain, I found myself _aux prises_ with these nocturnal enemies, I had

at least the consolation of lighting my taper, of complaining the next

day to the hostess, and of changing my room or the inn. But at La

Roquette none of these things was possible. Having no chair to sit on,

I remained seated on my bed.

I must, however, mention one advantage at La Roquette of which we were

deprived at Mazas: the cellular discipline was not as rigorous. The

prisoners could at certain moments of the day see each other in the

court, or in the passage of the story they occupied. Each window

lights two cells separated by a strong partition, but between the

partition and the grating of the window, common to both cells, is a

space through which the occupants can talk, and even pass a book. I

could thus exchange some pious thoughts and fortifying resolutions

with my neighbor, the Abbé Amodru. During the day we spoke of God, of

death, eternity, of the assistance we could render our companions:

during the night, we regarded with horror the lugubrious fires that

seemed to be devouring the whole city.

The very night of our arrival, a battery of seven large marine pieces

set up at Père-la-Chaise began to discharge shells and petroleum-bombs

on different parts of Paris. As it was only a few mètres from our

prison, it shook our cells and stunned us with the frightful

detonation, and the whir of the projectiles passing above our heads.

This battery did not cease its incendiary work till the following

Saturday, the twenty-seventh of May, at half-past three, the moment

when the regular army gained possession of the cemetery. Some days

before my arrest, Citizen Delescluze declared in a proclamation, 349

little noticed, that the miserable advocates of the government of the

fourth of September, ready in words to defend us against the Prussians

behind the forts, ramparts, and barricades, had given everything up to

them; but the Communists would show themselves faithful to their plan

of defence against the royalists--“after the ramparts, the barricades;

after the barricades, the houses; after the houses, fire and the

mine.” This great criminal should have kept his word.

We were permitted on Wednesday morning to hold communication with one

another. But the director gave the strictest orders that there should

be none whatever between us and the soldiers. When the soldiers were

not in one of the courts of the prison, we were shut up in our cells.

I observed M. l’Abbé Beyle, one of Mgr. Darboy’s vicar-generals, in

one of the windows of the first story of the western building. He

immediately recognized me, and informed me by some intelligible signs

that the hostages would have recreation together in one of the courts,

and that M. Deguerry would be very glad to see me and obtain news of

the parish of the Madeleine.

At noon the wardens ordered us to descend. I was affected at the

thought that I was about to see our archbishop and vicar-generals, my

curé, and some of my friends belonging to the clergy and religious

orders of Paris. I stationed myself before the door through which they

would come out of the western building. The archbishop was the first

to appear. He was hardly recognizable, such frightful ravages had

privations and sufferings wrought on his frail and delicate

constitution. He was immediately surrounded by the priests of the

eastern building. The laymen were not less eager to manifest their

respectful sympathy. While he was addressing me a friendly word, and I

was kissing his hand, M. Deguerry entered the court. I had been for

ten years one of his vicars at the Madeleine. Knowing his great need

of an active life and a certain impressionability of his character, I

expected to find him enfeebled, discouraged, and ill after two months’

confinement in the cell of a prison. Happily, there was nothing of the

kind. His face was fresh and healthy, and his conversation cheerful

and enlivening. In spite of his seventy-four years, he was as erect as

ever. He, as well as the archbishop, had undergone much suffering, but

privations and trials had made no inroads upon his strong

constitution.

With the exception of a quarter of an hour I passed with Mgr. Surat,

Père Olivaint, M. Bayle, M. Petit, the chief secretary of the

archbishop, M. Moléon, the curé of St. Séverin, and some other

_confrères_, I passed the whole time of recreation with M. Deguerry.

He was desirous of news concerning his clergy and parish. The closing

of the Madeleine greatly distressed him, but, when he heard that

nothing had been injured or desecrated, he resumed his serenity. He

said little of the humiliating treatment of Raoul Rigault, and the

_ennui_ and sufferings of his long imprisonment in the cells of Mazas.

So far from retaining any bitterness in his heart, he wished “to

consecrate _the few years he still had to live_ in doing as much

good as possible to those who had been persecuting the clergy and

injuring the cause of religion; in adapting the charities and the

ministry of the times to the exceptional wants of Paris; and in

showing that by abandoning Jesus Christ and his holy teachings,

peoples, as well as individuals, only meet with deceptive illusions 350

and material and moral ruin.”

We quote these words to show that M. Deguerry had no grave fears

respecting his situation. The archbishop and he both knew that the

death of the hostages had been discussed by the Commune, but they were

convinced that these threats would never be executed. What reasons had

they for such an assurance? Had they received an absolute promise?

Were they ignorant of the revolutionary orgies of Paris, and the

brutal hatred of its tyrants? Did they think, having nothing to

reproach themselves for, that no one could conceive the idea of

putting them to death? I was vainly endeavoring to find an explanation

of this assurance when Mgr. Darboy joined us.

If his health was affected and his body enfeebled, his mind was

undoubtedly clear and sagacious. He not only took broad and correct

views of the events and men of the times, but he displayed an

acuteness almost caustic. The consciousness of his ecclesiastical

dignity and his intellectual strength suggested to him many

observations, full of animation and reality, respecting the incredible

humiliations that he had received from Raoul Rigault and other heroes

of the club, or _estaminet_, who thought they were aggrandizing

themselves and acquiring claims on the admiration of posterity by

their absurdity and impertinence. He bitterly deplored the weakening

of the public sense of respect for authority, and thought, without a

reformation in this respect, Paris and the whole of France would never

recover from their misfortunes. To support these observations, Mgr.

Darboy recalled the conclusion of one of his last pastoral letters, in

which he predicted that, if society, persisted in disregarding the

precepts of the Gospel and abandoning the principles of religion and

morality, it would be liable to a terrible overthrow.

I, in my turn, recalled to his recollection that a democratic journal

had not hesitated to condemn this language as bearing the impress of

exaggeration, so desirous was it that Paris should be divested of all

religious belief or practice. He remembered the article spoken of, and

seemed pleased to hear it quoted.

The archbishop knew I had only been arrested the week before, and was

aware that, in consequence of my former functions, I had frequent

intercourse with the political world. After questioning me respecting

the religious condition of Paris and the parish affairs, and inquiring

about Mgr. Buquet, who, notwithstanding his great age and notoriety,

had bravely remained at Paris, rendering quite providential service in

the diocesan administration, of which he was the only member free

after the arrest and incarceration of M. Jourdain at the Conciergerie,

and M. Icard at the Prison de la Santé, Mgr. Darboy added, in a tone

that excluded all personal preoccupation:

“What is thought of the situation and fate of the hostages in the

political world of Paris?”

“Thanks to the confidence inspired by the Commune, honest men,

monseigneur, are daily taking flight. When the committee of public

safety came to prove my mistake in not following in their traces, I

only knew four persons in Paris with whom I could converse, and that

rarely, on the events of the day:--M. L----, the chief secretary of

the Crédit Foncier; M. G----, a former deputy from Seine-et-Marne; the

Count de L----, an old officer; and M. G----, the president of the

Conseil de Fabrique, at St. Eustache, imprisoned for a short time,

though eighty-four years old, because a supply of bread and meat was 351

found at his house which he had the boldness to distribute to the poor

of the Quartier des Halles. If, therefore, you wish to know the

impressions of the political and diplomatic world now at Paris, you

will be nearly reduced to mine, and it is a question if my modest

_régal_ could tempt monseigneur’s appetite.”

“I perceive,” said Mgr. Darboy, smiling, “that the Commune has not had

any time to depress your spirits. I am waiting for an answer to my

question.”

“All persons of honesty and intelligence condemn your arrest,

monseigneur, and that of the other hostages. Only the Prussians and

the Commune are capable of reviving this barbarous custom. I have been

assured that the representatives of several foreign powers have taken

steps to free you from danger, and doubtless the government at

Versailles, in the impossibility of directly intervening, will

consider it a duty to encourage these efforts.”

“I was aware of this,” replied the archbishop with marked

satisfaction. “It was doubtless under this diplomatic pressure that

Protot declared to me that, if the Commune had taken hostages, it was

in obedience to the brutal requirements of the lowest demagogues, and

if they should possibly consider an execution necessary, they would

choose one or two officers of the peace, or _sergents de ville_, and

by no means a member of the clergy. As for the rest, I have entire

confidence in the goodness of God and the testimony of my conscience.”

As Mgr. Darboy ended these words, at about half-past two, the warden,

who guarded us, gave the signal for returning to our cells. His

confidence astonished me, and would have diminished my apprehensions

if, after my transfer to La Roquette, I had not firmly resolved not

to yield to my illusions. And afterwards, in writing an account of

this final interview to an eminent friend of the archbishop and my

curé, I said: “While they seemed to have no fears, I had no hope.”

This was on Wednesday, the twenty-fourth of May. Some time after,

about seven o’clock, I observed, through the bars of my cell, a

strange movement in the large interior court. There was a great

difference between Mazas and La Roquette. At Mazas, the prison

discipline was in sufficient vigor, but at La Roquette there was no

order and no discipline. This prison, placed between the Faubourgs St.

Antoine, Ménilmontant, and Charonne, was at the mercy of all the wild

beasts of these quarters, who knocked around and roared without any

restraint. Some men of sinister appearance went from the office to the

western building where the first hostages were kept, some armed with

revolvers and others carrying mysterious documents. The director of

the prison, with his red girdle and pantaloons, gave, or rather

received, orders with an air that might be regarded as embarrassed or

satisfied, according to one’s idea of his principles. The bad wardens

did not conceal their joy, the good ones disappeared in consternation.

A citoyen of imperious manners and wild aspect, before whom some bowed

and others trembled, proceeded like a man in a fit of madness or

intoxication towards the western building. I had not then sufficient

presence of mind to recognize him, but I was convinced afterwards that

it was Ferré; others, with less probability, declare it was Raoul

Rigault. These two rivals of Robespierre would figure equally well at

the post of infamy.

Most of the windows were closed in the first story of the western part

facing us, where the principal hostages were incarcerated; a few were 352

open, revealing empty cells. At the same time, the windows of the

second and third stories, occupied by those condemned by the court of

assize, were filled with prisoners who were wondering, with a lively

curiosity, at the meaning of the unusual spectacle which had struck

us.

My anxiety became more and more intense, when I saw an officer of the

insurgents half open the door that led from the court to the office,

and say, with a solemn voice: “Are the _hommes de guerre_ ready?”

Without being thoroughly initiated into the military language, I

understood they were about to shoot the whole or a part of us. I threw

myself on my knees to implore God to grant us all strength and

courage. A few minutes past eight, I was stunned by a horrible firing.

Six almost simultaneous discharges of chassepots, succeeded by some

single reports, resounded in the prison court. A deadly silence

succeeded this noise, and revealed to me that only a few steps distant

had been committed one of those monstrous crimes that constitute an

epoch in the history of the human race.

From the prayers for the dying I passed to the prayers for the dead.

Never had I so thoroughly sounded the depths of God’s mercy. I no

longer conjured him, but claimed an indemnification, worthy of him,

for the victims of so base and execrable an outrage. I never could

have survived this excess of man’s iniquity, if I had not felt myself

sustained by an assurance of the eternal goodness and justice of God.

When I rose, the mournful noise of the clarions and drums, and the

dismal rumbling of a cart towards Charonne, seemed to put an end to

this tragedy.

Wednesday night was truly a night of torture for me. Every instant

the outer and inner doors of the prison were opened to bring in, or

carry away, victims. A court martial, or rather banditti under the

guise of judges, held a session in the office. The unfortunate men,

who were suspected of “complicity with the _chouans_ at Versailles,”

or who refused to die for the Commune under the orders of old

criminals, were mercilessly sacrificed. With the sound of drums and

trumpets mingled the noise of the carriages that brought the suspected

to La Roquette, and carried to Père-la-Chaise those who had been shot,

and the bombs _à pétrole_. At the same time the cemetery battery did

not cease its thunder, and the flames that were consuming the

monuments of Paris cast their lurid gleams into our cells. Let the

reader for a moment take my place, and he will feel that no

description could equal so overwhelming a spectacle.

Being on the eastern side of the prison, which has no direct

communication with the western, I was still ignorant on Thursday

morning of the names of the victims of the night before. Two faithful

wardens came at an early hour to announce the fatal news, and give me

nearly the same details of this sad drama. According to them, the

emissaries of the Commune were the only witnesses of the execution: it

was therefore difficult to obtain a precise, and, especially, a

complete account. One of these wardens, who went as near as he could

to the place of execution, received orders to aid the executioners in

placing the bodies upon a cart which was to take them to a corner of

Charonne, at the extremity of Père-la-Chaise. It is to his details,

and those of other wardens, and the prisoners of the western side,

that I owe the following particulars.

An emissary of the préfecture of police presented himself with some 353

armed insurgents in the first story of the western side, uttering

horrible threats: “The royalists are assassinating the republicans: it

is horrible! it must be stopped!” Then taking a list marked with a red

pencil, he cried in a loud voice: “Citoyen Darboy! citoyen Deguerry!

citoyen Bonjean! citoyen Ducoudray! citoyen Clerc! citoyen Allard!”

They were the six victims given up to the jury of frenzied demagogues.

Everybody knows the three first. Père Ducoudray, of the Society of

Jesus, was the superior of an educational establishment in the old Rue

des Postes, and devoted himself to the formation of good Christians

and good Frenchmen; Père Clerc, also a Jesuit, and formerly a naval

officer, was one of the directors of the same establishment; and the

Abbé Allard, an old apostolic missionary, who had been devoting his

time to the service of the ambulances and still wore the armlet and

cross of the international society of Geneva.

Each one replied in a firm and resigned voice: “Present.” I learned

the next day from Mgr. Surat, the first vicar-general of Paris, that

the Jesuit fathers had received two days before some consecrated

hosts, and the Fathers Ducoudray and Clerc were able at this critical

moment to give themselves the Holy Communion. They also gave him two

sacred hosts at the arrival of their murderers, one of which he

offered M. Deguerry, who thus met death with the Christian fortitude

and the boundless trust that the bread of life confers.

In going down, Mgr. Darboy and M. Bonjean, who showed an invincible

firmness to the end, locked arms.

They were all overwhelmed with gross insults on their way to the place

of execution. An obscure corner had been chosen, on the circular

railway that separates the main prison from the outer ramparts. The

victims were able to give one another encouragement and final

absolution and benediction. Some words have been attributed to the

archbishop, the authenticity of which I cannot vouch for: I am not

even sure that he spoke at all. It is very probable that, in the

presence of death, they preserved a religious recollection, replying

only by their silence and forgiveness to the insults of their

murderers. What is beyond doubt, they all displayed an unalterable

calmness and dignity.

Their murderers could not have been numerous, or else their state of

intoxication and fury must have prevented their correctness of aim.

Some of their victims, in fact, received only two shots. When their

bodies were discovered, I had that of M. Deguerry examined by three

physicians--Drs. de Beauvais, Moissenet, and Raynaud. A round ball had

passed through one side of the eye into the skull, where it was

imbedded in the fractured bones. It is preserved at the Madeleine. The

other ball passed through one of the lungs. The physicians thought

that his death must have been instantaneous. At the moment of being

shot, M. Deguerry, with an impulse in accordance with his military

turn, opened his cassock and exposed his chest to the aim of his

murderers; the ball which entered his lung only passed through the

back part of his cassock.

The wardens informed me that, before throwing the bodies into the

cart, they were stripped of a part of their clothes, which were burned

on the place of execution. I can testify to the exactitude of this,

having twice seen the spots covered with the burning clothes. I also

ascertained that the money of the six victims was afterward stolen 354

from their cells, and their books and papers cast into the fire. Some

weeks after a half-burned breviary was seen in one of the closets of

the ante-room of La Roquette. It is thus the Commune respected the

last wishes and testamentary dispositions of its victims.

Those who were shot on Wednesday and the following days, and all the

prisoners whom the committee of public safety reserved for the same

fate, were victims of their devotedness to two noble and grand causes.

They were persecuted through hatred of religion, the abolition of

which the Commune had inscribed in its sacrilegious programme, and

through hatred of the country represented by the French army and the

national assembly at Versailles, who were defending order, liberty,

honor, civilization, and the faith against barbarians.

After the massacre on Wednesday, the hostages could entertain no

further illusion as to their fate. This was only the commencement of a

bloody drama. Everything convinced me it would only end with the last

of the hostages. Then we entered upon a long agony of four days, the

sad changes in which no human tongue could describe. I will confine

myself to enumerating without comment the most remarkable incidents.

On Thursday noon, we were allowed recreation together in the same

court as the day before. Our faces were sadder, but our hearts were as

courageous. The laymen manifested a cordial sympathy for the clergy

and a like serenity. It was evident that all put their confidence in

God--a confidence that is not vain. I conversed twenty minutes with

Père Olivaint. Smitten in his dearest affections, he still had a

gracious smile on his lips. I will not attempt to depict

the expression of his face or repeat his conversation. His face had

something about it truly supernatural, and his words were those of an

angel. At the proposition of Mgr. Surat, M. Bayle, and Père Olivaint,

the priests made a vow, if God would deign to snatch them from the

jaws of death, to celebrate a Mass of thanksgiving in honor of the

Blessed Virgin on the first Saturday of every month for the space of

three years. I noticed among the laymen a face familiar to me. I

inquired his name. It was that of one of the most intelligent and most

courageous commissaires de police. It was he whom the government

appointed in January, 1864, to make me a domiciliary visit and seize

my papers, by way of expiating my support of M. Thiers as a candidate,

and my opposition to the measures that had brought destruction on the

empire and threatened at this very moment to cover Paris with blood

and ruins. By a strange freak of fortune, our struggles in opposite

directions had brought us to the same fate, which neither of us had

hardly anticipated. If I had not been afraid of recalling a delicate

remembrance, I would have assured him of my absolute forgiveness and

of my devoted regards. Towards the end of our recreation, one of the

shells from the battery of Père-la-Chaise broke, with a loud

explosion, a stone in the wall under which we were walking. In

ordinary times we should have shuddered and taken flight, but now it

scarcely excited attention. In separating, we bade one another

farewell till we met again--below, or in heaven: we did not know

which.

In the evening we noticed fresh fires in Paris, and learned that the

insurgents were setting fire to all the monuments of those quarters 355

where they had been repulsed by the army of Versailles. These fires

distressed and exasperated me. Forgetting the danger I was in, I broke

out in bitter complaints before my companions, who could not succeed

in calming me. I was indebted to the heroes of petroleum, picrate, and

glycerine for the only moments of irritation and despondency I felt

during my captivity.

That morning they shot M. Jecker, the celebrated Mexican banker, in

the court of La Roquette, and in the evening a refactory national

guardsman against the outer wall. I comprehended the execution of the

latter, but that of M. Jecker would have seemed to me an atrocious

logogriph, if we had been on earth and not in the realm of demons. At

eight o’clock, a warden notified M. Amodru and myself to descend to be

shot. “_Finitum est_,” “All is finished,” said my kind neighbor to me.

We knelt down by the window common to both cells, and gave each other

absolution. The prisoners who understood the warden’s order regarded

us from their cells with curiosity. The most cynical laughed at the

prayers we were making in view of immediate death. I put on my

sacerdotal garments, wrote my relatives, friends, and _confrères_ a

few farewell lines, and read in my breviary the prayers of the dying.

After half an hour, I learned they had made a mistake, and instead of

exposing M. Amodru and myself to the range of loaded chassepots, two

laymen were to be taken before a court-martial, which amounted to the

same thing, if I except a pretence of trial. I learned later, from an

under-officer and some _sergents de ville_, that the agents of the

Commune announced, more than once, that prisoners were about to be

shot, adding some time after with a malicious smile that they would

lose nothing by waiting, and the ceremony was merely deferred till the

next day.

I passed a part of the night in regarding the fires. The whole horizon

was aflame toward Bercy. The battery at Père-la-Chaise, encouraged by

the progress of the flames, redoubled its violence. The firing of arms

and the booming of the cannon at the same time resounded in the

direction of Montmartre and the Hôtel de Ville. I wondered if I was

awake or under the influence of a horrible nightmare. A complete

exhaustion of physical strength prevented me from fully deciding. I

only mention this strange sensation because my companions in captivity

also experienced it.

On Friday morning, at an early hour, my neighbor and myself received a

visit from one of the subaltern employees of the prison. At first we

felt some confidence in him, and we gave him two or three francs a

day, as much from a wish to do a kind act, as a reward for his

services, which were in a state of project. It did not require

profound sagacity to discover that he was at the bottom only a spy and

an accomplice of the Commune. The equivocal manner in which he

pretended to console us in relating the progress of the Versailles

army, showed he had the highest ideas of our simplicity and candor.

Finding us more depressed and reserved after the catastrophe of

Wednesday, he said to us in that tone, at once bantering and polite,

which the Parisian _voyou_ has at command: “Is it possible you give

credit to the stories in circulation respecting the death of the

Archbishop of Paris and the Curé of the Madeleine? They are simply

absurd. Some of the national guards, who had been drinking too much,

were amusing themselves in discharging their guns against the prison 356

walls: I assure you, no one was shot.”

Then, knowing we were to undergo the same fate in a few hours, he

eagerly proposed to the clergy of our story a lottery which, according

to his delicate calculations, would procure him some profits without

depriving him of the objects of art he was proud of fabricating. For

eight days I was obliged to swallow such humiliations, which revealed

poor human nature in quite a new aspect. The selfish proposition of

this deceitful employee was rejected promptly, but we concluded to

continue our daily gratuity, in gratitude for services he was always

promising, and which were never performed.

When he left our story, he always went directly to the office to give

an account of what he had seen or heard. We had not only to resist

ferocity, but also craftiness and duplicity.

It was in the plans of the Commune that none of the hostages should

escape death. The next Sunday, the first object that struck my eyes at

the office of La Roquette was the list of their names. There was a

horizontal mark against the names of those who were to be shot: when

the execution was accomplished, they added a vertical mark, thus

forming a cross. Every name had a horizontal line before it. If my

memory does not deceive me, they followed the order of the list in the

executions.

About two o’clock, three shells from the battery of Père-la-Chaise hit

the prison roof only a few mètres above our heads, and covered the

court with tiles and fragments of the chimneys. Some of the prisoners

protested against the danger of these projectiles exploding in their

closed cells and had the doors opened; others did not seem to heed the

stunning incident: absorbed in prayer, they were more preoccupied with

eternal than temporal things.

The shells that hit our prison were an indication of the rapid

progress of the French troops, but this progress threw us into the

most perplexing and intolerable of situations. We could only expect

our safety from the Versailles army; we ought, then, in consideration

of the general interests of civilization, and our own interests, to

desire ardently its triumph. But it was no less evident that the

nearer the army approached, the more imminent became our end. Thus the

perspective which was our only hope of safety, inevitably announced at

the same time our destruction. If the illimitable consolations of

religion had not raised us above our misfortunes, we should have been

a prey to the anticipated horrors of everlasting woe. In such cruel

hours we comprehend the words of the God-Man, who, in the garden of

Gethsemani and on Golgotha, drank to the dregs the chalice of all

humiliations, all sorrows, and every kind of anguish, in order to

sanctify them. “My God, my God, why hast thou abandoned me?” should

not be separated from these other words, which exclude all despondency

and presage a wonderful recompense: “Father, into thy hands I commend

my spirit!”

IV.

LA ROQUETTE--INSURRECTION--DELIVERANCE--CONCLUSION.

The close of the day on Friday was exceedingly gloomy. The same events

took place in the interior court of the prison as on Thursday evening.

At the sight of the mysterious agent who held a list in his hand, each

one said to himself: “My name is probably inscribed on that list: may 357

God have mercy on me!” I again heard the fatal interrogation from the

mouth of an insurgent officer: “Are the soldiers at their post?” From

the cells in the building opposite some friendly hands indicated to us

by signs that the number to be shot amounted to twelve, fifteen,

sixteen!... It was hardly a fourth of those immolated to the hatred of

the Commune. Unfortunately, the facts that each one witnessed were

limited, as our horizon was restricted to the four corners of our

cell, or at most to a part of the story we were in: each one,

therefore, could only give some particulars of the changes of fortune

and the victims executed.

On Saturday morning, one of the employees of the library, who

manifested a solicitude beyond all praise, gave me, with tears in his

eyes, the most minute details about the extent of the sad event. At

five o’clock, an emissary of the Commune entered the first story of

the western side, and called out: “Citoyens, attention to the roll:

here, fifteen are wanted!” Among these victims were the Jesuit Fathers

Olivaint, Caubert, and De Bengy; the four principal Fathers of the

Society of Picpus: Abbé Sabattier, the second vicar of Notre Dame de

Lorette: Abbé Seigneret, a young pupil of the Seminary of St. Sulpice;

and Abbé Planchat, a genuine missionary, who displayed all the zeal of

an apostle, not in China or Japan, but among the working-classes of

the Faubourg St. Antoine. About forty gendarmes, soldiers, officers of

the peace, and Parisian guardsmen were also summoned, the most of whom

were imprisoned in the first story of our building to the east. They

were conducted to Belleville, preceded by drums and trumpets, into one

of the courts of the Rue Haxo. All the long way, a furious crowd,

among whom women made themselves conspicuous by a frenzy bordering on

drunkenness, vomited forth threats and imprecations. After shooting

them with chassepots and revolvers, they mutilated their bodies with

kicks and the butt-end of their muskets, and afterwards threw them

pell-mell into a cellar, whence they were taken out three days after

in a state of advanced putrefaction.

The most incredulous saw their last hour approaching, and I prepared

myself once more to die. The insurgents stole or burned the things

left in the cells. I placed my watch, papers, and my testamentary

dispositions in the care of the employee at the library, with the

names of the persons to whom he was to transmit them. I earnestly

desired my body might receive a suitable burial, and, not knowing what

means to take that it might be recognized, I communicated my anxiety

to the Abbé Amodru, my neighbor. He had foreseen, and provided for,

the difficulty, and, following his example, I wrote my name in legible

characters upon several small slips of paper, which I put into my

shoes and the different pockets of my habit.

It was the eve of Whit-Sunday. Having no longer the strength to kneel,

I seated myself on my bed, and took sometimes my breviary, and then

_The Following of Christ_ in my hands. I prayed God for courage and a

spirit of sacrifice. In reading the Thirtieth Psalm, I was struck with

these words: “Let me not be confounded, O Lord, for I have called upon

thee!... Thou shalt protect them in thy tabernacle from the

contradiction of tongues. Blessed be the Lord, for he hath shown his

wonderful mercy to me, a fortified city.” But I immediately distrusted

the hopes that so readily pervaded my soul I wished to remain facing

the sad realities of death.

The constantly increasing noise of the firing announced the approach 358

of the contending parties. The barricades of the Château d’Eau had

been valiantly taken by the Versailles troops: the Commune, in session

at the Mairie du Prince Eugène, was obliged to beat a retreat. By a

great effort, the scattered members sucoeeded in gaining the office of

La Roquette, to conduct the labors of the cosmopolitan banditti.

Between the army of deliverance and us were still those men of blood,

whose last ravings were so many decrees of death and incendiarism. It

is said that Ferré sprang like a tiger about to lose his prey, crying

in a hoarse voice: “Make haste! shoot them, the _chouans_! Cut their

throats, the robbers! do not leave one standing! Citoyens and

citoyennes of the faubourgs, come and avenge your sons and your

fathers, basely assassinated!” The unhappy men had no time to lose;

the Versailles troops, on the one hand, were entering the Boulevard du

Prince Eugène; on the other, they surrounded Père-la-Chaise; but, by

an intolerable fatality, the source of our safety was at the same time

that of our destruction.

A few minutes past three, the heavy bolts of our cells flew back with

unaccustomed quickness. I was on my knees, saying, with a voice almost

extinct, the office of the Eve of Whit-Sunday. My neighbor quickly

opened the door of my cell. “Courage,” he said, “it is now our turn;

they are going to take us all down to shoot us!”

“Courage,” I replied, “and may the will of God be done!” I had on my

clerical costume, and advanced into the corridor where priests,

soldiers, and national guards were all mingled together. The priests

and national guards appeared calm and resigned, but the soldiers could

not believe in the fate that awaited them. “What have we done to those

wretches? we fought against the Prussians! we fulfilled our duty! What

are they going to shoot us for? No, it is not possible!” Some uttered

cries of anger, others remained silent and motionless as if they were

in a dream. The priests knelt to fortify themselves by a last

absolution; one of them urged the soldiers to imitate us, and

addressed them some words of encouragement.

A voice with a metallic ring suddenly rose above this confused noise:

“My friends, those ignoble villains have already killed too many; do

not allow yourselves to be murdered; join me; let us resist; let us

fight. Rather than give you up, I will die with you!” It was the voice

of the warden Pinet. This generous son of Lorraine, aghast at so many

crimes, could no longer stifle his indignation. Charged to open our

cells slowly and deliver us two by two to the insurgents, who were

waiting for us below, he had fastened the door of the third story

behind him, rapidly opened our cells to advise us and aid in

organizing a resistance, ready to sacrifice his life in aiding us to

save ours. At first, I could not believe in so much heroism. The Abbé

Amodru spoke in his turn, and joined his protestations to those of

Pinet: “Let us not submit to be shot, my friends, let us defend

ourselves. Have confidence in God; he is for us and with us; he will

save us!”

There was a difference of opinion; some hesitated. To defend

ourselves, objected one, would be madness; we should only incur a more

cruel death. Instead of being simply shot, we shall be slaughtered by

a mob or consumed in the flames. “Let us call up the national guards,”

exclaimed a simple fellow (I had not believed such _naiveté_ possible 359

at La Roquette), “and prove to them that we are honest men, and not

robbers and assassins.” “It is not _our_ lives they wish,” cried a

soldier, whose impartial truthfulness renders it obligatory on me to

repeat his words, and who had as little discernment as moral sense,

“it is only the _curés_ they have a grudge against; let us not expose

our lives in trying to defend theirs!”

I had not yet uttered a word, but followed with an anxiety, easy to

comprehend, the phases of this strange situation. Some of my brethren

asked what there was to fear or to hope for. “The _sergents de ville_

who are below are disposed to defend themselves,” cried the warden

Pinet, whom the hesitation rendered more energetic and more eloquent.

“Do not allow yourselves to be shot by that band of robbers.” I was

already convinced that resistance, the success of which I thought more

than improbable, was nevertheless the most suitable measure to be

taken. From the eighteenth of March I had not ceased to protest

against the silence and giving up of honest men to criminals; and to

show myself to the end faithful to my programme, I emerged from my

apparent inaction. M. Walbert, an old _officier de paix_, and the Abbé

Carré, the Vicar of Belleville, suggested that a hole should be made

in the floor to open communication with the _sergents de ville_

imprisoned on the second story, and they immediately set to work with

boards and iron rods that we wrenched from our beds. I joined them. I,

who in the morning had no longer strength enough to stand, and who had

not yet eaten a mouthful of bread, broke boards in pieces and twisted

off the rods with irresistible facility! In five minutes a large

opening was made between the second and third stories. The _sergents de

ville_ were ready to pay dearly for their lives. The under-officer

Teyssier hoisted himself through the opening to aid Pinet in the

command of the insurrection.

The interior court of the prison was crowded by an abject multitude

come to witness our last sufferings. It is easier to imagine than to

depict the appearance and the threats of this crowd. We put mattresses

against the windows as a protection against bullets. There was a young

man in the crowd who ordered us to come down, and aimed at us with a

coolness that attracted my attention. “See that wretch,” said the

warden Pinet to me, “he is one of the two condemned to death by the

court of assize of the Seine!.”

“The barricade is on fire,” exclaimed some soldiers. “We are stifled!

Help!”

Two enormous barricades had been constructed against the two doors of

the story, with our beds and the flagstones torn up from the floor. I

ran to the barricade on fire, and found myself in a cloud of smoke.

“Do not be alarmed,” said a soldier, whose skill and presence of mind

I admired, “I constructed the barricade, and took care to place only

mattresses in front: bring me some water.” In fifteen minutes the fire

was extinguished. I heard the insurgents, who sometimes threatened to

set fire to our building, to blow it up, or order the batteries of

Père-la-Chaise to fire at it: sometimes they perfidiously cried:

“_Vive la ligne!_ surrender, and we will set you free!” The massacres

of those who trusted to their promises proved how sincere they were.

At that moment, something as unexpected as fortunate took place in the

prison. While we were organizing a desperate resistance, and the

soldiers, more bold than prudent, were crying, “Let us go down to the 360

office, and boldly attack the Commune!” the Communists, frightened at

our resistance and the rapid progress of the French army along the

Boulevard du Prince Eugène, hastily fled from La Roquette in the

direction of Belleville. The rabble, astonished at this sudden

removal, were convinced of the great danger, and fled after them. The

prisoners were restored to liberty, and naturally cried: _Vive la

République! vive la Commune!_

Availing themselves of this confusion, the lay hostages who were to

have been shot with us escaped from La Roquette: almost all succeeded

in crossing the barricades or hiding till the next day in the late

haunts of insurrection. Some of the clergy imitated them; others,

particularly Mgr. Surat, who was dressed as a layman, hesitated. The

wardens, from motives more praiseworthy than prudent, urged them to

fly. This course seemed to me disastrous. The neighborhood of the

prison was in the hands of the insurgents, whose irritation knew no

bounds. I thought it my duty to warn the first vicar-general of Paris,

and said to him through the bars: “Take care; to leave is certain

death; to remain, uncertain!” I ascertained afterwards that I had not

been heard. In going out of the prison, he was murdered in a frightful

manner, with M. Bécourt, the curé of Bonne Nouvelle; M. Houillon, a

missionary of the Missions Etrangères, and a lay prisoner. Some

priests succeeded in concealing themselves in the Faubourg St.

Antoine, and some returned to the prison.

Notwithstanding the departure of the insurgents who were to put us to

death, we were still exposed to sudden attack and every danger while

the prison gates were unfastened. I therefore protested in violent

terms to the two wardens, who, frightened at the terrible consequences

that would result from a return of the insurgents, urged us strongly

to descend and go out. “We will not go out,” I replied; “the

Versailles troops will be here in a few hours: if any misfortune

happens to us by your fault, on you will fall the responsibility.

Fasten all the prison doors, and only open them to the Versaillais.”

They warmly reproached me for an obstinacy they thought must prove

fatal to us, but they faithfully obeyed my orders.

At eleven o’clock at night, the firing, which was not far off, ceased.

The frenzied demagogues without uttered powerless threats against us.

We kept a strict guard, and seriously began to hope. At a quarter

before three, the firing recommenced toward Père-la-Chaise. Every hour

now seemed an age. There was a formidable barricade in the Rue de la

Roquette in front of the prison. Attacked on the side of the Bastille,

it would have opposed a formidable resistance on account of its

steepness, but, owing to the winding and concentric course of the

French army, the insurgents, stormed from the heights occupied by our

troops, left the barricade in disorder, and a battalion of marines

took possession of La Roquette. Our resistance, that at first was only

madness, ended miraculously. It was the great festival of Whit-Sunday.

After four days of the greatest agony that can be imagined, we were,

contrary to all expectation, restored to life and liberty.

While some of the prisoners cried, “Vive l’armee! Vive la France!” the

most of them, affected by want of sleep and the mental torture that no

human tongue could express, persisted in regarding our liberators as

insurgents disguised as marines. Then began a singular negotiation

between the prisoners and the marines, in which the former, more 361

incredulous than St. Thomas, saw nothing but snares, and the latter

with immovable patience submitted to requirements that were almost

puerile. The arms, flags, books, and papers of the battalion were

demanded. The marines consented, but the prisoners, blinded and

confused, were still far from being reassured concerning the identity

of the marines.

Some of my companions and myself, who could not believe a disguise

could be so perfect, were distressed at this prolonged hesitation, far

from flattering to our courageous deliverers. We induced our

companions to allow us to go out, that they might judge from our

reception what course to take themselves. At the sight of the marines

who rush toward us, not to massacre us, but to shake our hands and

rejoice over our deliverance, the confidence of our companions

revived, and they came to receive their share of cordial sympathy.

My surprise was great when I heard General Vinoy’s aide-de-camp

eagerly inquire for Mgr. Darboy and M. Deguerry. “Where are they? How

do they do?” It was four days since they were massacred by the

Commune, and the frightful reality was still unknown at Versailles and

Paris. Knowing the profound affection of the brave General Vinoy for

the Archbishop of Paris, his aide-de-camp begged me to give him some

correct details, which he immediately despatched to the general and to

Versailles.

They were still fighting furiously around La Roquette. We were obliged

to wait nearly an hour at the office, where we found, in fearful

disorder, cartridges, cigars, swords, guns, proscription lists,

proclamations, and the decrees of the expiring Commune, never to be

issued.

Accompanied by an escort bearing before us the French flag, we set out

in a body by the heights of the Faubourg St. Antoine, the Jardin des

Plantes, and the quais on the left bank of the river, toward our

homes. At each step we had to struggle against the most poignant

emotions. Here, in the boulevards, were heaps of men and horses who

had been killed, with pools of blood beside piles of cartridges and

broken chassepots. There, trees were broken down and houses shattered

by shells. The few inhabitants we met seemed confounded and in

despair. Further on, we uttered a cry of horror at the sight of the

Hôtel de Ville, the Palais de Justice, the entrance of the Rue du Bac,

the Tuileries, and the palaces of the Conseil d’Etat and of the Légion

d’Honneur in flames or in ashes.

In the Rue des Saintes-Pères, a gentleman and lady whom I knew, but

whose names I could not recall, stopped to ask if I was one of the

Jesuit Fathers, and if I came from La Roquette. They wished news of

Père Caubert. I informed them he was shot on Friday with Père

Olivaint. At this, the gentleman raised his eyes to heaven, while the

lady made an effort to overcome her emotion. “You see before you,”

said he, “Père Caubert’s sister!” It was M. Lauras, one of the

directors of the Orleans Railway, and Madame Lauras, _née_ Caubert.

I accompanied the soldiers, who had participated in my captivity, to

the Palais Bourbon, and after a fraternal grasp of the hand I turned

toward the Madeleine. The Place de la Concorde was upset, and a part

of the Rue Royale burned down with petroleum. I found the Madeleine

standing, and my residence in the Rue de la Ville-l’Evêque, but both

injured by the firing. No one knew of, and what was more strange, no 362

one would believe in, the horrible deaths of Mgr. Darboy and M.

Deguerry. My two _confrères_ at the Madeleine expressed the same

doubt, the same incredulity. When at vespers I was about to ascend the

pulpit to recommend the victims to the prayers of the faithful, they

advised me to defer it, hoping the fatal news would not be confirmed.

I had told it to more than one hundred persons, begging them to

inform, in their turn, the other parishioners of the Madeleine, but

when, in an affecting but cautious and brief manner, I requested the

faithful gathered at the foot of the altar to pray for the pastor of

the diocese and the curé of the parish, basely shot on the

twenty-fourth of May, in the prison of La Roquette, a cry of grief and

horror escaped from every soul; the men and the women rose up in

confusion, as if to protest against it; the gravest and most

reverential for a moment seemed to lose their balance. Among the

confused voices around the pulpit, these words were the most distinct:

“No, no, such a crime is not possible!”

My moral conclusions will be simple and brief. It would be an insult

to the reader to dwell on the great lessons to be drawn from such

sorrowful and overwhelming catastrophes.

First Lesson. Divine Providence never chastised and enlightened a

nation by severer blows. It behooves us therefore to consider the

grave and exceptional malady that is afflicting society, and seek an

efficacious and permanent remedy for it. We are all suffering from the

evil, and we all should be preoccupied about the means of recovery.

Some days after leaving La Roquette, I wished to revisit the places

where I had been imprisoned, in order to retrace, with precision, the

events that took place in the last days of the Commune. I met

there one of the most intelligent and most religious _juges

d’instruction_ on the bench of the Seine. I visited with him the

places of the greatest interest, Mgr. Darboy’s cell, and the spot on

the circular road where the murder of the six principal hostages took

place. The warden took us to Troppmann’s cell. “I supposed, till

within a few days,” said I to the magistrate of the Seine, “that

criminals like Troppmann were of a rare species that required fifty or

sixty years to develop in the lowest grades of society. After the

realities I witnessed at La Roquette, I am convinced they are to be

found by thousands in Paris.” The _juge d’instruction_ replied that

all the magistrates who studied the mysteries of those grades had the

same conviction. It would therefore be simply folly not to consider

the remedy most suitable to counteract such a disorder.

Second Lesson. In the horrible catastrophe that has just revealed so

many material or moral sores, every one is more or less responsible

and culpable. Every one should say his _meâ culpâ_, and seek to become

better. The most guilty are certainly the turbulent working classes,

the demagogues, the International, the secret societies, outlaws, and

governments without morality, but they alone are not guilty. Literary

men who diffuse in their pernicious publications the poison of

scepticism and immorality; artists who are wanting in respect and

decency; the journals of the rich and influential _bourgeoisie_, which

defend the principles of material conservation, while by their attacks

on the Holy See, the clergy, and the church generally, they sap the

very foundations of morality; politicians who brutally proclaim, with

a view to the rewards and the gratification of their cupidity, the 363

primacy of might against right--should disavow and correct their

errors. Pious people and the clergy should redouble their solicitude

and energy in extending and strengthening their influence,

particularly in the most populous districts. There are no other means

of safety.

Third Lesson. The reign of the Commune has revealed a frightful number

of wicked men in society capable of every excess. They have trampled

under foot the very first principles of natural order and social life,

which the Reign of Terror would have feared to disregard. The

executions at La Roquette, without preparation, without discussion or

preliminary trial, were a thousand times more monstrous than the

executions of the Revolutionary tribunal. In 1793, the Dantons and

Robespierres were imitators, more or less imposing, of the Catilines

of ancient Rome: in 1871, we have had Raoul Rigault and Ferré, the

Catilines of the gutter. Ferocious beasts are not reasoned with--they

are muzzled. Society therefore should have a power of legal repression

proportioned to the dangers that threaten it.

But as the material order of things is founded on the moral order, the

great principles of reverence for God, a respect for others and for

ourselves, should be diffused and practised. It has been wished to

establish society with no religious belief, make laws, found

institutions, and keep the people in order, without reference to the

teachings of the Gospel: this is building the social edifice upon

quicksands. How can an economist, a politician, however incredulous,

help understanding that while the mass in the great cities, especially

at Paris, do not find in the faith, in the observance of religious

duties, and in the eternal recompense of a future life, a source of

morality, strength and consolation in view of the inequalities of

fortune and social position, in view of the enjoyments and leisure of

the fortunate ones of this world and of the unforeseen trials and

sufferings that too often beset them, there can be neither security

nor repose?

Jesus Christ and his Gospel are still the salt of the earth and the

light of the world. To withdraw society from this divine and guiding

influence would condemn it to sorrow, crime, and shame.

----------

GOD IS OUR AID. 364

A CHRISTMAS STORY OF ‘67.

In the dim twilight of an October evening, a rich man prepared to

leave the vast treasures accumulated by a fruitless life. Fruitless, I

say, for though his increasing millions ranked him a merchant prince

of the great metropolis, yet the gold had hardened and crusted and

metallized his heart--fusing a subtle poison that destroyed the softer

instincts of his nature. Therefore, instead of bearing upward a

Godward soul on prayerful incense, those last pulses concentrated in

one bitter feeling against the daughter whose faith had won from him

the intense hate of his life. The owner of millions each year

increased his avarice, bowing him low before the god of the nineteenth

century, and inciting the struggle, the sacrifice, the sin, for place

and station and gold, literally proving the poet-king’s cry,[82]

“_Quoniam omnes dii Gentium dæmonia!_” So, while the stormy gusts

swept up the avenue, and the lowering sky increased the night, the old

man gathered his failing strength for the last great effort. “Hold me,

William, support me ere it is too late. Quick! give me the pen, I must

sign while yet my hand has power.” Then they put the pen in his

trembling hand, his stalwart son supporting him, and all the fiercer

passions played upon that cold face, and in those cruel eyes, as he

wrote the signature disinheriting the child of the wife whose fair

face looked in silent reproach from the portrait opposite. And William

Stanfield folded the paper and locked it in the escritoire, and old

Thomas of the iron heart “slept the last sleep.” But this Stanfield,

he of the stern Puritan stock, had not always been thus. First, he

married his wife as a mere boy of twenty--a gentle New England

girl--who had left William to him; William, so staunch in his loyalty

to the heritage left by the _Mayflower_ stock. But Thomas laid his

boyish love to rest within the quiet “God’s-acre” of the village

church, and then wandered to New York to build his fortune. Fate did

not withhold her favors from this sturdy son, who met and conquered

her; for he was determined to succeed, and did!

And strange to say that at this time human softness yet lived amid the

dross and corruption of the world, for Thomas Stanfield was by no

means indifferent to certain influences. So, one bright Christmas

morning, he found himself in New Orleans, and, stranger still to

relate, his partner, Mons. Crécy, persuaded him to listen to the

magnificent service at ---- Church. The music was exquisitely

appealing, thrilling the nobler attributes of man’s better nature; and

so this worldly materialist forgot to speculate or dream of gold for

two long hours, and sat rapt, while his soul absorbed its divine

inspiration. If there is a season when the hardness of humanity

dissolves and merges into its spiritual essence, it is when music

gently lifts it to its higher affinities, and brings it _en

rapport_ with God. And thus the man of gold listened to the soft

soprano, and far beyond the latticed grating caught a glimpse of dark

eyes that haunted him long after the anthem ended. And when Etienne 365

Crécy asked him to dine at the “Grove,” his plantation near the city,

he accepted, scarcely realizing what he did till he found himself

behind a pair of splendid bays, with New Orleans far in the distance.

The balmy, bright-skied South always brought a pleasant Christmas, for

oranges hung golden on the trees that formed the grove leading to the

house, and the sweet breath of the blossoms perfumed the air. This to

the Northerner, accustomed to ice and snow at this season, was a most

enjoyable contrast; and his stroll over the beautiful grounds afforded

real pleasure. Then they rested on the broad piazza, or gallery, as it

is called in Louisiana, and talked of business details, when suddenly

Mons. Crécy discovered that his guest was strangely distrait, for a

clear, soft voice was sounding, to an accompanying harp, and Mr.

Stanfield recognized the same silver tones that had absorbed him

during the morning service. “_Qui tollis peccata mundi, suscipe

deprecationem nostram_,” fell earnest and tender on his ear--it was,

it must be, the same, and he turned to M. Crécy. “It is my daughter

Madelaine,” said the old man; and at dinner he saw the same fawn-eyes

that had first glanced from behind the grating in the old church. And

those shy, sweet eyes found a place in the heart of the cold New

Englander, and in the spring he bore her a bride to his beautiful home

in New York.

Three years passed, and only the step-son shared their household. Some

trouble attended the marriage, for the parish priest, Father Jean, at

first refused to unite her with such an obstinate heretic. But the

maiden loved this son of the Puritans, so either her gentle influence

or his pertinacious perseverance overcame the scruples of the good

priest, and Thomas Stanfield finally triumphed, giving some vague

promise in reference to the children. He fully intended evading the

fulfilment of the promise, for soon after his marriage he acknowledged

thus much to his wife, who, with tears in her dark eyes, said she

would only pray for God’s grace to change him. So, almost as a curse

it seemed, for three years no child came to bless the marriage. True,

the young wife was very dear to this stern husband, but the element

which had strengthened his forefathers still waxed strong within him,

and the self-asserting dogmatism heired from John Carver’s band

sounded in the stern words that answered his wife when, with quivering

lips, she told him of his little daughter’s advent. He kissed the pale

young mother tenderly and lovingly, but even in that hour he did not

restrain himself from replying, “She belongs to me!” and Madelaine

understood too well what those words implied. So she only whispered,

as her white face grew whiter, “_I will leave her to God._ May

our Holy Mother care for her!”

Then the gentle soul departed with the cross upon her bosom, and those

last words on her lips, and many, many years after Thomas Stanfield

heard repeated in his dreams, “God shall help her.”

And a judgment rested on the rich man’s harvest, for this

warm-hearted, earnest Southern wife was very dear to him. But the

child grew in loveliness, and her impulsive nature felt the need of

more than her cold father accorded. Firm as he had been in reference

to the child, it seemed strange that he evinced so much indifference

to her education, for though she had been baptized in his own church,

and sent to Protestant schools, yet very little care was bestowed

upon her religious instruction. When she grew old enough, she 366

accompanied her father to church, and through the long sermons her

weary little eyes would often close. She went merely from habit,

because her father wished her with him, for there was nothing in the

cold, formal ritual, if that bare service can be called a ritual, to

attract or warm her heart; but it was part of her duty to go; and so

she went. Thus her childhood passed, and so her girlhood opened.

Children rarely exert the reasoning faculties, accepting with

boundless trust what is proposed by their elders. Faith and confidence

are largely developed, therefore a grave record is written of those

intrusted with these young immortals. But when reason waked and the

heart expanded, this warm loving nature asked for more than what was

offered, and her soul felt starved, hungry for the food it found not.

Thomas Stanfield was now devoted to his business, from nine in the

morning, when his _coupé_ drove him to his office, to six in the

evening, when his key opened the massive door of his palace--his whole

soul entered into the fascination, the strife for increasing millions.

And at night, as he sat silent in his high carved chair, the closed

eyes and set features told that the scheming still continued. Was it

strange, then, that the young girl yearned for something more than her

home offered? Well, one September evening, soon after their return

from the country, the servant handed in a card, bearing the simple

inscription, “Kenneth C. Arnaud.” Then Mr. Stanfield, disturbed in the

midst of some speculation, testified by a grunt his welcome to a

distant relative of his wife. “This is Miss Stanfield, my daughter,”

he said, as he seemed to remember that another person occupied the

room. The stranger was a courtly, handsome gentleman, and started as

his eyes rested on the young girl. “How like my cousin Madelaine,” he

said, “as I remember her in my childhood.” For the first time the old

man seemed to realize the resemblance, and turned to examine the fair

girl who was his daughter. “Yes,” he faintly assented, and the

conversation dragged through a half-hour’s duration, when Mr. Arnaud

rose to go. But this was not his last visit, for he passed the winter

in the city; and many evenings found him at Mr. Stanfield’s house,

where Madelaine sang to him the songs he loved best. Then a new life

opened to the young girl, and her heart felt a strange happiness it

had never known before.

The Advent season came--a time of joy and gladness in the churches

that celebrate this season, but scarcely remembered or noticed in

dissenting congregations; and on the first Sunday that Mr. Arnaud

formed one of the family party, he proposed that Madelaine should

accompany him to St. ----’s church, as the music was always attractive

there. Old Mr. Stanfield was half asleep, when the name of this Roman

Catholic church startled him. “Only to listen to the music, papa!” she

laughingly replied to his frown, and she went. The ritual was new to

her, the service a strange mystery, but she patiently watched it all,

listening to the exquisite bursts from the choir. Then sounded the

“Alma” with its sweet cadence, and the heart of the young girl

thrilled within her. She could not explain, but she felt a strange

attraction that drew her against her will to this beautiful ritual.

Then came the lovely benediction, and the devotion of the kneeling

hundreds, the solemn censer’s cloudlike offering, the elevation, and

the echoing bell, at which a hush swept like an angel’s presence over 367

the rapt thousands. It was all a lovely dream to this young

enthusiast, and, closing her eyes, troops of seraphim and cherubim

seemed prolonging the words--

“Tantum ergo Sacramentum

Veneremur cernui.”

She returned to her home filled with a new life, and for the first

time her soul felt its thralls. She was very quiet that night, and

even her father remarked the change. Poor child! she had needed all

that had been denied to her, and the starved spirit was just tasting

of the food immortal. Is it not often thus in life, that a charm, a

mere instinct, leads us to the path for which we have been vainly

striving? Give me thine heart! was the cry of the Holy Mother to the

footsore and weary, to all who sought consolation from that loving

breast; and the listening angels caught the echo of that cry, and bore

it up to the great Pontiff, who sends the Comforter to spread the

white-winged dove on the troubled soul that calls for peace!

The spring came, after the long, cold winter, and Kenneth Arnaud asked

the old man for his gentle daughter. But Mr. Stanfield had always

regarded Madelaine as a mere child, and seemed shocked and angry at

the request. He had forgotten that eighteen years had passed since his

soft-eyed wife had whispered, “I leave her to God”--and now a Catholic

had asked his child in marriage! He did not answer the young man for

several weeks, not till the sweet eyes of his daughter had been dimmed

with many tears, and her childish heart had felt, ay, painfully felt,

the first great sorrow of her life.

“It seems strange that my faith should prove an objection, Mr.

Stanfield, for not very many years have passed since you gave your own

example.”

The old man looked him steadily in the eyes, and replied:

“And the great unhappiness of that union was the education of the

children that were to come. What say you of this?”

“That, your daughter shall determine.”

“You can speak this with safety, Mr. Arnaud, for my daughter has

proved a quick pupil.”

“I can scarcely comprehend you, Mr. Stanfield, and, as a gentleman,

will not understand the accusation implied.”

“I do not accuse you of influencing my daughter, but her bias in favor

of the Romish Church is a subject that cannot afford me happiness.”

The conversation was serious, and very painful to both, and at last

Mr. Stanfield closed the interview with this remark: “As my daughter’s

happiness is concerned, I cannot withhold my consent, but I wish you

to clearly understand that, when she renounces the church of her

forefathers, she also relinquishes all right to her father’s estate.”

A proud smile curled the young man’s lips as he replied, “I feel

privileged to claim her, even though the conditions were far more

capable of inflicting unhappiness.”

And so they were married, and the old man and his son William bowed

before the golden calf, and worshipped it, offering their souls as

homage at its shrine.

For the young wife, one brief year of happiness passed, and yet there

was unrest even then within her soul, for she craved with hungry

longing the new life which she feared to taste, because the ties 368

binding her to her father appealed to her heart, and she dreaded an

anger which she knew would never forgive what he considered so fearful

an error.

But one cold morning in the winter of ‘61, the telegraph bore to New

York tidings of the secession of Louisiana, then the sons of the sunny

South rallied to her standard, and for four long years a bloody war

desolated that section. She, the young wife, had never given her

thoughts to politics, nor did she understand why hate and bitterness

waged with such deadly strife between the two portions of a country

which she so dearly loved; but her husband decided for her, and,

feeling that her life was only a part of his, she followed. And those

were years fraught with agony--years that recorded suffering that aged

more than time had power to accomplish; for over each battlefield

brooded a great host of prayer--prayer born of love intensified, and

of partings which would know only the meeting above; and the race

schooled by those years grew, developed, lived, more than generations

ordinarily experience in a whole lifetime.

Col. Arnaud won a soldier’s reputation, and the autumn of ‘64 found

him, with his fine regiment, encamped a few miles below the

Confederate capital. Madelaine soon followed him to Richmond, bringing

her little family, her boy Kenneth and a baby daughter. The winter was

very trying to this delicate woman, for the city was crowded with

refugees from all parts of the Confederacy; every square inch was

occupied, and therefore comfortable accommodations were impossible to

find. Then the depreciated currency rendered the price of necessities

almost fabulous, so that barely to live required great sacrifice and

control. But the courageous wife and devoted mother gathered her little

ones, and contentedly dwelt in one small room, happy to welcome her

husband whenever his brief furloughs allowed him to spend a day with

her. But the great culmination approached, and the troops that wore

the tattered gray were soon to furl the cross of stars that had

proudly waved over many a gallant fight; and on one cold wintry

morning she heard the newsboys shout “Extra! extra!” and soon Franklin

Street was echoing with news of the fierce battle below Richmond.

Madelaine had not seen her husband for almost four weeks, and her

heart sank as she listened. “I will get a paper,” she said, and,

leaving her nurse with the children, she descended to the street to

purchase one.

Poor young thing--she little realized how literally she had followed

the Scriptures, for she had forsaken all things, and he, her brave

husband, was all she had to cling to; and now--but she was too truly a

woman for control, and she fainted when she read the cruel words that

told of her husband’s fate. A night of horror followed, and the roll

of the ambulance in the early gray of the next morning startled her

from her troubled sleep. They, those of his brigade, in their faded

gray bore him to the small chamber where his young wife waited, and

pale and ghastly she saw him laid upon the bed, where he was soon to

sleep the long pulseless sleep. All that glory could render to sweeten

the pain of dying was offered, for the journals rang with the grand

charge he had led, and his deeds of daring were as household words in

the crowded Confederate capital. But the great edict had gone forth,

and the priest of his church came to offer the last consolations.

“My own true wife,” and he summoned the bowed figure, the frail 369

girl-woman who knelt beside him. The sweet eyes were dim with tears,

and the voice was tremulous with passionate grief. His left arm drew

her to him, for the right was crushed and powerless. “I am about to

ask a brave act from you, my darling; do you think that you can please

me?”

“Ask me anything, Kenneth, only stay with me. Oh! do not leave me

yet,” and burning tears blinded her.

“‘My ways are not thy ways, nor my thoughts thy thoughts’: do you

remember these words, my own wife? And then--only a little while, when

we shall meet where the for evermore will indeed be eternal! But not

of this did I wish to speak, Elaine, but”--and he hesitated--“if my

faith could be taught to my little ones?”

She did not reply at first, but, with one gaze of devoted, earnest

love, she turned, and kneeling by his side, with the weak precious

hand clasped within her own, she repeated: “And receive, O Lord, thy

servant into thy holy church, for which her heart hungers.” And he

answered, “Amen!”

But this was no sudden desire influenced by her devotion to her

husband; for, six years before, when she had listened to the sweet

vesper service, the latent life had wakened, and the slumber had seen

sleep no more, but the message, “Wake to thy salvation!” electrified

her soul, and her whole nature thrilled its amen there; since then she

had been peculiarly situated, and shrank from provoking anger in her

father, as she realized how very stern he could be when he felt

himself aggrieved. But now her heart told her she must no longer

hesitate, the great crisis asked for action, and she felt that all

worldly considerations must be forgotten when her husband, and her own

heart also, called for a decision which shaped her life. So she was

baptized by the holy father beside the bed where her husband lay

dying; and the priest’s voice was very tender as he welcomed this

stricken daughter Christ had given to his fold.

Only a few days after, she laid her husband to rest beneath the

poplars at “Holleywood,” where many of his comrades were lying; and

then came the gloomy, stormy March, and the sad April when the snowy

flag was folded, and it was during this season that the widowed mother

was received into her husband’s church.

The war had closed, and we all remember the fearful wreck that

followed when Madelaine Arnaud found herself battling with the grim

wolf whose shadow darkened her door. Her husband’s fortune was all

gone, and the delicate, dependent woman felt that she had but little

to hope for from her father; still she would not believe that he could

entirely forsake her, even though she had become a member of the

church his soul abhorred. So she wrote in her extremity and asked for

advice. Many anxious days and nights passed, and no letter came; a

fortnight intervened, when, one morning, she opened the envelope

handed to her by the postman, and read:

“You have chosen your way in life, and, when you forsook your

father’s faith, he also separated from one who had joined herself

to idols. I enclose all that you may ever claim from me.

“THOMAS STANFIELD.”

She found enclosed the last note written by her mother, only a few

hours before her death, and a silver crucifix, with the name

“Madelaine Crécy, La.,” inscribed on the back or flat side of the

cross.

She was very young to be left so entirely alone, for she was not yet

twenty-five, and two children depended on her for support. What could 370

she do, and how must she act? In her agony, she cried, “Save me, O

Father, for without thine aid I am lost!” Then the crucifix fell from

her letter, and, clasping it, she drew her boy to her, and, kneeling,

prayed: “Lord, thy enemies and mine have risen up against me: I

therefore cast myself at thy feet to implore thy succor.”

The soft eyes of the little one gazed into her own, and, nestling

closer, he asked:

“What makes mamma so sad?”

There are seasons in life when suffering is too great for expression,

when tears refuse relief, and the overcharged heart, paralyzed by

pain, seems incapable of pulsation. Then even speech fails; and the

poor, desolate woman only pressed her child closer, and appealed to

her God for protection.

Thus days passed, and she seemed unable to act, for at the South all

was poverty and desolation, while she dared not anticipate what

awaited her in New York. But the few dollars were growing less, and

her children required food, so she decided to try the great city, and

thither with her faithful nurse she journeyed. Her mother’s note gave

her strength, and she often re-read the faint tracery on the faded

paper.

“For, my darling child” (the note read), “should you ever wander

into the dear fold of your mother’s church, feel always that my

blessing will rest upon you, and though I may not live to guard

you, yet my prayer will be then as it is now for God to be with

you.

“MADELAINE CRECY STANFIELD.”

And though she did feel crushed and desolate on that stormy September

evening which found her in the great city, still a strength came to

her which she had never known, and she felt that God would protect

her. Through the crowd at the depot she wended her way, and thence in

the midst of a pouring rain to a cheap boarding-house, where she

passed the night. The next morning she met an old servant who had

known her as a child, and, with tears streaming from the old eyes, she

took her to a small but respectable house in the town-part of the

city, where she rented two rooms, and commenced her new life. A

touching sight it was to see her in her sad mourning dress, she so

fair and fragile, yet feeling that three depended upon her exertions,

she rose to the emergency, and determined to succeed, or die in the

service. She had brought a letter to a priest of her church, and to

him she applied. He was very kind, and promised to do all that he

could, but at the same time told her that pupils were not easily

obtained, and recommended her to watch the newspapers. And she did

search the journals, devoting herself to answering advertisements,

but, save a few questionable replies, nothing came of this attempt.

Meantime she began to feel the pinchings of want, and ventured to try

sewing, but how was she to obtain work? “Go yourself, my dear young

mistress,” said the good old negress--“go yourself; and may de kind

Lord bless you!” And, shrinking and nervous, she applied to a merchant

down-town. She could scarcely find words for her request, but her pale

face appealed, and she bore away her parcel. Tireless were her

continued efforts, and all through snow and ice she persevered in her

work. “God will help her!” the dying mother had said, and through the

darkness of her life’s storm she tried to comfort herself with this

assurance.

It was very hard to realize that her father accumulated useless 371

thousands and lived in princely style at the other end of the city,

while, only because she believed in her mother’s faith, she must

suffer and toil with her little ones, needing comfort, and often even

bread. Then the old man died, and, ere he died, the scene with which

this story opens shamed his last hours.

But the exposure of three winters told on this delicate woman, and,

when she felt her strength waning, all the horrors of starvation

frightened her; for she knew that there were none to help her. She had

moved still lower down-town, and into a smaller room, and there, with

her faithful nurse, she endured life. But then there came a time when,

though the will is strong to do, the physique fails to support, and

the brave heart, struggling to conquer, feels despair steeling its

vitals, and thus it was with Madelaine. The autumn of 1867 set in

early, and November was cold and cruel to the poor. She, weaker than

she had been, felt her slight unheeded cough increase, and, when

December came, was too ill for any exertion. Bitterly the winter

opened, snow covered the city, the wind keen and merciless swept the

island, and thus the Christmas week found her with the little ones

dependent, and she utterly helpless. The last penny had been expended,

and the children were wailing with hunger.

Kenneth had looked into her own tearful eyes, and whispered, “Darling

mamma, I will pray to Our Lady, and she will ask God to help you.” She

only kissed her brave, trustful child, but had no strength for

utterance. So, when the chill night wrapped the city and darkened the

gloomy chamber, the child picked up his mother’s rosary, and, throwing

it around his throat, held the crucifix in his infant hands, and,

kneeling beside his mother’s low, poor bed, pleaded that the blessed

Virgin would be kind to his dear mamma; and then the sweet child went

to sleep murmuring Our Lady’s name.

The dawn was fast breaking over the city when the child kissed her,

and said, “She has heard my prayer, mamma, for I dreamed that a

beautiful angel like the picture in your prayer-book came to me, and

said, ‘God will help her!’--and does not that mean you, mamma?”

“I hope that our kind Father will help us, my darling; therefore we

must try to deserve his help.”

“Oh! he will help you, mamma, and I will help you, too.”

The day wore away, the last slice had been divided, and there was

literally nothing else in the house. Hunger, starvation, was before

them, and God, only God, could help them.

The snow fell heavily, the wind blew, and even the elements seemed

warring against her, for she had not even fuel to keep off the cold.

Two o’clock chimed from Trinity, and, turning, she missed Kenneth. He

was now eight years old, and often went out alone, but, with an

instinct plainer than words, her heart rose to warn her of danger.

Three, four, five o’clock came, but still the child did not return.

The lamps glared in the dark streets, and the night seemed too cold

for human life--when--crash! a shriek, and a pair of horses dashed

madly down the streets, throwing the occupants of the coach senseless

upon the sidewalk. A crowd soon gathered, and bore the crushed and

suffering man into the gloomy room where the sick woman lay. Her room

opened on the street, and so they laid him on the small bed where the

nurse slept.

“Bring a light,” sounded a gruff voice. 372

“Don’t you see dat de poor chile has no light for herself? Stonishing

de fools dat libs in dese parts!”

A kind voice asked, “Is there no money? Take this and buy a candle.”

The speaker was a shabbily-dressed man, but the whole aspect showed

that he had known better days. He remained with the injured man, and

while they go to find a light I leave them...

The snow was falling in great white feathery flakes, covering the dark

alleys and darker tenements with its soft downy covering, and the

little ragged, barefooted gamins of the great city were shrieking and

screaming with delight; but not to build mimic forts or to join the

army of snow-ballers did our little wanderer pause. “Mamma shall have

some money,” he said, “and I will begin to work for it, so I will go

to the streets where the fine houses are, and there the men will give

me work.” Only eight years old was this little soldier in the grand

army, but his noble face was radiant with the workings of his soul,

which no poverty could injure. His little clothes were patched and

scanty, and his poor little frozen toes came through the holes in his

worn shoes; but the eyes shone with a light that could not be dimmed,

and the firmly-set lips told that he was quite determined to do his

best on that afternoon. At first he shrank from the cutting wind that

swept from the East River, but, with hands in his pockets and cap

pulled down, he ran on till he came to Broadway. Crowded with the

happy crowd of the vast metropolis, the great highway was gay with

bright faces on this eve of the feast of joy. Windows bright with

presents for the favored children of fortune, shops thronged by

smiling mothers eager to gratify their pampered darlings, and

child-infant as he was, the little one paused to look at the pretty

toys; but tears filled the large blue eyes, and he said, “Oh! I can’t

look at these things, for poor mamma is sick and wants food.” At that

moment, a gentleman passed, and the child went up and pulled his warm

overcoat, “Will you give me some work, sir?” But the creature, a

fashionable young fop in tights, shook him off, and passed on. Then

came another, this time a respectable gray-haired worthy, and, running

in front, the same appealing voice asked the same question. But the

successful merchant, hurrying home, was intent upon some new

speculation, and, suddenly disturbed, was not very amiable, as he

replied, “Be off, you little vagabond!”

This time the policeman came up, and taking him by the arm gruffly

ordered him to move on. And thus, on the eve of this blessed festival,

when the great city joyed in each household, there was no grain for

this wee waif, no crumb for the little estray, who was struggling

against the power of the ebb which fate had sent to test his strength

for the hereafter. On, on past the Fifth Avenue Hotel, through Madison

Square, glancing at the glittering icicles or gleaming snow-drifts,

shivering over the frozen pavements, on he travelled, faintly trying

for that which seemed for ever denied to him.

“_I will_ find it for her,” he said, “for the beautiful angel, our

Holy Mother, told me that she should be taken care of. I see her now

far up in the clouds.” And up in the leaden sky, far beyond the pure,

beautiful flakes, he gazed, half-hoping that the Mother of Christ

would smile on him again. And did she not even then hover over the

young boy-warrior? Did she not pray that he, too, might be strengthened 373

in this hard fight which his infant powers essayed? _Adjuvabit eam

Deus_![83] the dying mother had prayed, and his promises would not

fail. At last, far up the avenue, when the cold, shadowy twilight

stole on the great city, he paused before a stately mansion. Curtains

of silk and costly lace draped the windows, and liveried servants were

sitting on the box of the handsome coach awaiting the master’s coming.

Then the heavy door of massive bronze opened, and the master slowly

descended the broad steps.

“Oh! you will help me, won’t you? Please give me some work, for I want

to earn money for my mother!”

“Send that little beggar away,” was the irritable rebuff, and the

footman flung him aside, not heeding where he fell. The carriage

rolled away, and no thought was given to the small human bundle,

roughly hurled from the rich man’s path. Then night darkened over the

city, and the stars, God’s eternal sentinels, guarded earth as they

had done eighteen centuries before when they watched the birth of the

incarnate God. And beneath the same shimmering light the boy-warrior

lay, all worsted in the strife, as thousands had sunk before, and all

unconscious of the cruel hearts that still pulsed on. The torn little

cap had fallen off, and the fair golden curls shaded the pale,

childish face, turned upward as if in appeal to the Blessed Mother he

had seen in his dreams. Was she watching still, and did her kind eyes

see the crucifix clutched in the poor cold hands--the crucifix with

the dead Christ, whose birth the morrow would celebrate? But the soft

feathery flakes fell steadily on, covering the sweet face of the

little one. Ah! God of infinite love and goodness, will the great army

with the ranks of sin, and greed, and lust, prosper and thrive and

live, while this young soldier, this infant of purest soul and lion

heart, lies all unheeded, dying, the victim of cruelty and selfish

forgetfulness?

But see--a policeman tramps near, and he comes with stalwart tread,

swinging his burly arms, and clapping his gigantic hands to keep the

fingers from freezing, for verily death seems to breathe out in the

stealthy, deadening cold. Bravely he glances with searching look up

and down the broad avenue, then pauses suddenly by the side of the

obstruction just without the pavement.

“God and his holy saints forsake me, if this same bundle ain’t a

child! Ugh! but it’s an ugly night for this small specimen to be left

here! But come, let’s see, my little man,” and he tried to move him.

“St. Patrick save me! if I ain’t afraid that he’ll never feel again!”

And he dropped the little arm he held, and the crucifix, falling, lay

dark against the glittering snow. The sight of the cross at once

touched the stout Irishman, and this sturdy six-footed son of the

Green Isle, this huge guardian of the great city, gathered the stray

lamb to his bosom tenderly, pityingly, as its own mother, and bore it

to the station-house. And, full of the warm impulse of his race, he

chafed the poor little hands, and lingered by the pallet on which he

lay, till great tears fell from eyes that had not seldom looked

unmoved on the misery of the metropolis. He raised the child’s

crucifix to his lips, and though he hurriedly summoned a physician, he

muttered, “Poor little lamb, if he does come back to life, it will

only keep an angel longer from Our Lady’s home!”

The man returned to his duty, and hours passed before he was relieved,

but ere he returned to his own home, and the young wife waiting him, 374

he went back to the station-house to look after “the pretty young one”

who had died with the cross in his hand; for he fully expected to find

him dead on his return.

“We have had hard work to bring him back, Murphy,” said the doctor, as

the man walked up to the child. “Only five minutes more, and the cold

would have reached the little heart, which was losing all sensation.

We have had a time of it, and he has just fallen asleep. These are

what we found on him. The card was fastened to his worn jacket, and

the crucifix has also a name engraved.” And picking up the card from

the table the policeman read, “Kenneth Arnaud, 312 East ---- Street.”

On the back of the silver cross was the name, “Madelaine Crécy, August

15, 18--.”

“Poor little child! said the policeman. “I’ll take him home, for his

house is near my own.”

So he wrapped the sleeping child in an old blanket, and carried him

through the storm. A light glimmered on the first-floor front room as

he approached the house, and the man stepped in to inquire about his

young charge. As he opened the rickety door, the wailing voice of a

woman smote him with the agonizing pain it expressed. “The gentleman

may remain,” she said, “but for God’s sake find my child. O sir! bring

me back my child!” and her sobs and moans were heart-rending. The

negress rocked to and fro with the little girl, trying to keep her

warm and still her feeble cries for bread, chanting the while in dull

monotone, a habit peculiar to her race, and which at this time

increased the oppressive gloom of the place, not at all relieved by

the flickering tallow-candle, nearly burned out--on the small bed in

the corner the wounded gentleman lay groaning in agony, and

impatiently awaiting a messenger he had summoned--a sad eve truly that

announced the blessed festival!

At this time the policeman tapped with his club, but receiving no

answer, and not caring to wait in the cold, he once more opened the

door. Standing mute on the threshold, for the scene at first deprived

him of speech, then walking to the centre of the room, he asked, “Is

the mother of Kenneth Arnaud here? For I have found a child of that

name, who wore a crucifix on which was engraved ‘Madelaine Crécy.’”

With one wild scream the mother answered, “He is mine!” and, as she

clasped him to her heart, the soft eyes unclosed, and the feeble

little voice whispered, “Darling mamma, I asked them all for work that

I might buy you bread, but--oh! my head hurts, for a wicked man flung

me away from a gentleman who rode in his carriage. But, mamma, don’t

cry, for she--the one with the angels--will care for us. Oh! I have

just seen her, and I waked to find your own eyes where hers had been.

Dear mamma, keep me with you, away from the cruel man, and the ice,

oh! the cold snow!” And his little frame shivered with the

recollection.

“Madelaine Crécy!” the sick man muttered on his couch in the corner.

And the policeman approached. “Yes, sir, that was the name on the

crucifix, and I thought the little fellow was dead when I picked him

up in front of the millionaire’s house on Fifth Avenue.”

“My God! and it was my servant who cast him from me! Will you take a

message to that house, my good man? Do not refuse me, for gold shall

pay you well. I--I am that millionaire, and an avenging God has

crushed me.” With his uninjured arm, he drew out a card from his 375

pocket, and said, “Take this to my residence, and tell my housekeeper

to come to me at once.” Then, placing an eagle, his own valued

pocket-piece, in the policeman’s hands, he prayed him to hasten his

errand.

But the mother’s weak voice also called the kind Irishman. She had

heard nothing of the conversation, for she was absorbed with her

darling, who in broken words had told his little story.

“I have nothing to give you, sir,” she said with tears streaming down

her pale cheeks. “The rosary was my mother’s, and besides this I have

not even food for my children. But I will pray for you, and God will

bless and reward you, sir; he will grant what I cannot give.”

She clasped his rough hand, which her tears fell upon, and he

hurriedly left the room, for his own eyes were very dim.

Many and varied are the phases which the great city presents to these

her guardians, but in his fifteen years’ experience none had touched

him more than this.

He closed the door after him, and the solitary candle burned to its

socket. It was now past midnight, and a long silence ensued, broken

only by the snores of the negress, for the starved infant had cried

itself to sleep. The bruised stranger forgot his own suffering as he

contemplated the surrounding misery, and for some time the stillness

was profound. At last he muttered, “Madelaine Crécy! Madelaine Crécy!

can it be the same! Then God have mercy on my soul!”

“Who calls my mother’s name?” asked the sick woman.

“I, your father’s son, Madelaine Arnaud. I, your brother, who

despoiled you, and sold his life for gold, but,” and his voice

trembled with emotion--“but who will devote that life to you now, if

you will allow it, to atone for the cold selfishness of the past.”

“I should be no daughter of the church which you despise, William

Stanfield, if I bore anger to my father’s son. I teach my little

children to pray, ‘Forgive us, as we forgive those who sin against

us,’ therefore must my heart refuse all malice against God’s

creatures, else would my own prayers avail not.”

He could not answer then, for he, the bigot, the scorner of that

church which he had ridiculed, felt now the beauty of her teaching

when, even in the midst of her sufferings, this desolate woman could

forgive one who knew that he was responsible for so much that might

have been alleviated.

“Elaine!”--ay, it was the first time that she had listened to her old

name since the night when her brave husband had spoken his farewell,

and the sound thrilled her with strange memories--“Elaine, your roof

has sheltered me to-night, and saved from destruction one who claims

as a proof of your forgiveness acceptance of the home which he will

share with yourself and little ones.”

And, ere she answered, the chimes of Trinity heralded the dawn of that

thrice-blessed morning when the angels sang, “Glory to God in the

highest, and on earth peace to men of good-will.” And that message of

the Incarnation brooded with its holy evangel on the troubled hearts

within, as, when the Christmas sun shone over the snow-covered city,

the carriage of the rich merchant bore its precious freight to his

home, and light, and life, and joy succeeded the gloomy night. And

she, when her prayer ascended on that night of shelter and rest,

realized the fulfilment of her mother’s benediction: “Adjuvabit eam

Deus!”

[82] “For all the gods of the Gentiles are devils.”

[83] “God shall help her.”

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CATHOLICITY AND PANTHEISM. 376

NO. XII.

THE COSMOS IN TIME AND SPACE.

The supernatural moment unites created personalities to the infinite.

By the moment of substantial creation the first duality is established

between the infinite and the finite. This duality is brought into

harmony and unity in the Theanthropos, who knits together the finite

and the infinite in the oneness of his single personality. But as the

hypostatic moment united only created natures to the infinite, another

moment was necessary, namely, a medium between the Theanthropos and

substantial creation. This is the _supernatural_, which, by raising

created persons above their natural sphere, enables them to arise, as

it were, to the level of the infinite, and establishes a communication

and intercourse between them. This we have shown in the preceding

article. The question which now remains to be treated of at present is

the following: _Who or what is to be the medium of communicating the

term of the supernatural moment to created personality?_

Although God, in acting outside himself, might have effected

everything immediately by himself, without allowing any play to second

causes, yet, following the law of his wisdom, he exerted immediately

by himself as much power as was required to set second causes in

action, and then allowed them to develop themselves under his

guidance. The law of wisdom is the law of sufficient reason, which

implies that no intelligent agent can, in acting, employ more power

than is absolutely necessary to attain its object; for acting

otherwise would be to let the amount of action not necessary to attain

the object go to waste, and be employed without any possible reason.

Hence the necessity on the part of the infinite to admit secondary

agency in the effectuation of this moment, whenever that was possible,

in order to observe the law of wisdom. Applying this theory to the

external action, we see that the substantial and the hypostatic

moments were effected immediately by God himself, because no secondary

agency could be employed therein; but the supernatural moment was

effected by God through the agency of the Theanthropos, who merited it

by his own acts of infinite value.[84] Hence, as the Theanthropos is

the meritorious cause of the supernatural moment, he is pre-eminently

its mediator, and therefore the medium of communicating it to created

personality. This consequence of Christ being the medium of the

communication of grace, in force of his being its meritorious cause,

is so evident that we know of none who has ever disputed it. The only

question which remains to be solved--a question of the greatest

importance--is this: When the Theanthropos was living on earth, he

would communicate the term of the supernatural moment in the personal

intercourse and intimacy in which he lived with his followers; but as 377

he has withdrawn his visible presence and intercourse from the earth,

how is the term of the supernatural moment to be communicated to human

persons in all time and space?

We answer by laying down the following principle: _This medium must

be such as will preserve the dignity and the prerogatives of the

Theanthropos, as will befit the nature of human personality, as will

fulfil the object which the supernatural term is intended to

attain_.

Because, if the medium which is chosen does not fulfil these

conditions; if it does not maintain the dignity and prerogatives of

the Theanthropos; if it does not befit the nature and constitution of

human personality; if it frustrates the ends of the supernatural

moment instead of attaining them, it is evident that infinite wisdom

could never have chosen it without contradicting itself. The principle

is, therefore, evident. Now, what can this medium be in its nature

which fulfils all these conditions? It can be nothing else than _the

sacramental extension of the Theanthropos in time and space_. In

announcing such a principle, the reader is at once aware that we

require some kind of presence of the Theanthropos in the cosmos

extending to all time and to all space.

But what is meant by sacramental extension, and why should it be so?