CHAPTER XXII.

EXPLANATIONS.

Meantime, what had been going on in the Yorke family at Seaton? Mrs.

Yorke had not feared that there was any serious trouble till she

learned that Dick Rowan had gone away. She was in bed when her young

people returned the night before, and knew only what Clara came to her

door to say:

“We have had a delightful sail, mamma, and are all well. I hope that

you have not been anxious. Mr. Rowan fell overboard, for a diversion,

and, of course, got wet; but Captain Cary got him out, and he is all

right now. Good-night, mamma, for me and the girls, and Carl. We are

all here.”

However late her children might be out, Mrs. Yorke could not close her

motherly eyes till she knew that they were safe under the home-roof

again. Then she turned upon her pillow, and dropped asleep, giving

thanks. She felt a slight uneasiness when Melicent, before breakfast

the next morning, asked her to send Patrick down to enquire for Dick.

“Why, was he hurt? Is he not coming up, this morning?” she asked.

“I presume that he is very well, mamma,” the daughter replied. “But it

would look pleasant to be attentive.”

This was said with an air of reserve, and the young woman evidently

did not wish to say any more. In an equally diplomatic manner, she

announced that Edith had a headache, and was not coming down to

breakfast. Melicent was one of those persons who, when in possession

of a secret, as James Russell Lowell has said, “will not let the cat

out of the bag, but they give its tail a pull to let you know that it

is there.”

Mrs. Yorke said no more. She found this manner annoying. But she

observed at breakfast that Carl ate nothing, and that Clara kept up a

constant stream of talk, that seemed designed to cover some

embarrassment. She noticed, also, that no mention was made of Dick

Rowan or their sail of the day before. When she arose from the table,

and went toward the entry-door, her eldest daughter interposed, with 590

an air of being in the charge of affairs. “I would not disturb Edith

now, mamma.”

“Melicent!” exclaimed her mother haughtily, and waved the young woman

aside.

Edith was lying on her bed, dressed as on the day before, her face

hidden in the pillow. She started when her aunt spoke to her, and

turned a pale and tear-wet face. It did not need this to tell Mrs.

Yorke that her niece’s headache came from the heart.

“My head does ache, Aunt Amy,” Edith said. “But I am distressed about

Dick. He is displeased with me. I do not wish to speak of it to any

one but him.”

“I have sent Patrick down, my dear,” her aunt said; “and you shall

know as soon as he returns.”

Mrs. Yorke and her two daughters sat together, pretending to read and

sew, but all watching the avenue gate for the return of their

messenger. When he had delivered his news, and gone, the mother spoke

with authority.

“Girls, I insist on knowing, at once, the meaning of this!”

“You had better ask Carl, mamma; he is the one to explain,” answered

Melicent. “But I must say that Mr. Rowan has behaved ill. A young man

whom one of our family has promised to marry should at least act like

a gentleman.”

“Send Carl to me,” Mrs. Yorke said, rising. “And, Clara, say to Betsey

that I shall see no one to-day, then go up and tell Edith.”

Carl was pacing one of the garden paths, and, for the first time that

day, his manner showed agitation. He had already heard Patrick’s news,

and his first thought was to echo Melicent’s opinion that one who had

been connected with their family should at least act like a gentleman.

This sudden withdrawal not only gave occasion for gossip, but it was

rude to Edith. That it left him in the position of a culprit, Carl

would not allow himself to care.

“I thought the fellow had more spirit!” he muttered. “But it isn’t in

him to act like anything but a rustic.”

As he said this, an inner voice made answer; not the voice of

conscience, for that acquitted him, but the voice which he expected to

hear from without: “Neither is it in him to speak or sing love to

another man’s promised wife, though silence should break his heart.”

“And what if it broke hers?” asked Carl, as though he had been spoken

to.

He glanced up at the window of Edith’s chamber. The curtain was down,

hanging in close, white folds, shutting her in.

Then came Melicent to call him.

Carl found his mother in a tiny room, where she always took her siesta

in summer, and where she held all her private conferences. It was a

cosy, shady nook, with only a sofa, and table, and chair in it, and

seemed intended as a place for confidential communion. In that room,

with nothing to save him from her steady eyes, Mr. Griffeth had

stammered out his apologies to Mrs. Yorke for misleading her son;

there, her daughters came for advice and admonition; and there she

herself retired when she wished to be alone. It was a place where a

rebel could be brought to submission, or a penitent comforted. It is

almost impossible to be confidential in a large, well-lighted room.

“Have you had any quarrel with Mr. Rowan, Carl?” his mother asked, the

moment he appeared.

“Not an unpleasant word has passed between us, mother,” he answered. 591

She had been standing, but sank back into the sofa as he spoke, and he

closed the door, and came and stood before her, doubting, at first,

what the tone of their interview would be. Her question had been

imperative, and that he could not bear. There are times in the life of

the most dutiful when they feel that there is for them then no

legitimate human authority outside themselves. But he saw that her

face was pale, though the red curtain lowered over the one window

behind her warmed all the light that entered; and her voice was

entreating when she spoke again:

“My son, have you nothing to tell me?”

He sat down on the hassock at her feet, and leaned on her lap; and she

knew all before he had uttered a word.

“My child,” she whispered, leaning toward him, “your happiness is my

dearest wish; but there is honor!”

He took her trembling hands, and met her look firmly. “Yes, mother,

there is honor,” he said. “But listen to me, before you conclude that

it should be mentioned here in the subjunctive sense. You know,

mother, I could not speak of love to a child. I did not wish to. It

was enough for me to see that Edith was surely, though unconsciously,

drawing toward me. If you had a rare plant, with a single bud on it,

would you thank the one who would pluck that bud open before its time

for blooming? And what flower is so delicate and sacred as a young

girl’s heart? Besides, such a thought comes to a man also, when it

comes first, with a feeling of silence. To my mind, it would have been

rude and indelicate to speak hastily. There was time, and, meanwhile,

I guarded myself and her. Of course I saw what Rowan wanted and meant,

and he also understood me; I am sure of that. I never dreamed, though,

that he would succeed. I was not prepared for that passion of pity and

gratitude which Edith has shown for him. When I knew, last year, that

he had proposed, it was all I could do to control my anger. I knew

that he must have seen in her some instinctive recoil at first, and

yet have appealed to her pity. He did not leave her free to choose. I

do not say that he realized that. He is an honest, noble-souled

fellow, and he loves her deeply; but he lacks a certain fineness which

should have told him when urging was proper, and when it was coarsely

selfish. I am willing to admit that it may have been only a mistake on

his part; but people who make mistakes have to suffer by them, and, if

they are not to blame, no one else is. I, too, made a mistake then,

mother, and I have suffered for it. I had a thought of saying to

Edith, ‘Since you are to think of him as a suitor, think of me also,

and choose between us.’ Two motives prevented me. One was pride. I

would not enter into competition with him; and there I was selfish.

But the other was better. I saw that she was incredibly childish, and

looked upon his proposal rather as a request that she should go and

live with him and his mother, as she had lived with them before, than

as a proposal that she should be his wife. I waited till she should

perceive the difference, and this summer I thought that she was

beginning to. The night before he came, I wanted to speak to her. I

could hardly help it. I would have spoken but for him. But no, I

thought. Let her answer him fairly first. I supposed I knew what that 592

answer would be; and when she came down-stairs the next morning to

meet him, I felt sure that it was to refuse him. I stood in the entry

when she passed, and she knew that I was there, but would not look at

me. She was very pale, I saw, and I thought it was for his sake. It

seems it was for her own sake. No matter what I felt when I heard the

words with which they met. I went away, you know; I did not choose to

make a scene. When I came back, I had made up my mind to speak to him

clearly, and as friendly as I could, and ask that he should give her

back her promise, and leave her free to choose again. He would have

done it, mother; I am sure he would. Had he been too loverlike, I

should have made no delay; but, as it was, I thought best to wait till

his visit was over. You could scarcely expect me to be perfectly cool

and reasonable always. Under the circumstances, I think that I have

shown as much fairness as any one has a right to require of me. I

meant to see him last night, after the girls had come home--went to

the sail with that intention. But he made me angry at starting. He

stood there, and sang that ballad from _Le Misanthrope_,

‘_Si le roi m’avoit donné_’

--sang it before _me_, and with such an air of triumph and certainty

as made me feel anything but pitiful toward him for a little while.

Edith was offended, too. I saw her color with resentment. ‘_Ma mie!_’

It was too public a claiming. When we came back--you know what a night

it was, mother.” Carl stopped, his face growing very red. “There are

some things not easy to tell,” he said.

Mrs. Yorke put her arm around him, and drew his head to her bosom.

“Not even to your own mother, dear?” she whispered, with her cheek

resting on his hair. “It was my heart that taught yours to beat,

Carl.”

In that sweet confessional, he went on with his story. “It was such a

scene as gives one that faint swaying of the brain that just shows the

points in our prudent resolutions. The moonlight, the music, the air,

the water, our very motion, were intoxicating. And Edith was there,

and so beautiful!--an Undine, drooping over the boat-side, as though

she might any moment slip into the water, and disappear, if I did not

stay her. I sang what I would have said. I called her, and she turned

to me!”

Carl lifted his head, caught his mother’s hands, and kissed them

joyfully, then stood up before her with an air as triumphant as Dick

Rowan’s own. “The time had come, and she was mine!” he exclaimed.

“Edith belongs to me, mother!”

For the moment, everything else was forgotten; and the mother forgot,

too, till she saw his face cloud over.

“Poor fellow!” said Carl, and knelt on the hassock again. “My heart

aches for him. When he saw Edith look at me, he fainted. It seems

cruel to be so happy at such a cost. I went up to Hester’s, last

night, to see him, but he was not there, and it was too late to go to

the ship. I would have borne any reproach from him. I would have been

patient, and have explained everything to him. I think, mother, that I

could even have made a friend of him. He is generous. But it is too

late now.”

“You must go away at once, Carl,” Mrs. Yorke said presently. “It is

the only proper thing to do. The family are pledged to Mr. Rowan, and,

till all is settled between him and Edith, you must have no intercourse

with her here. My position is one of great delicacy. I cannot even 593

advise Edith.”

While they talked, Edith had risen, and written two letters, one to

Dick Rowan, the other to Father Rasle. Both were short, the former

only a line.

“You have no right to treat me so,” she wrote. “If you go away without

seeing me, never call yourself my friend again!”

It seemed hard; but she had said to herself: “If he leaves me here

with Carl, I shall not be able to be true to him.”

She dressed herself to go out and post these letters, and had just

come down-stairs, when she met Carl in the entry. She stopped abruptly

at sight of him, and a deep crimson mantled her face as she waited for

him to let her pass.

It was a new blush for Edith, for she knew why she blushed. But the

Spartan spirit he had admired in the child was not dead, and she was

herself the next moment. She bade him a quiet “Good-morning, Carl!”

and was passing on, when he asked to see her in the parlor.

“Certainly!” she said, too proud to shrink.

Carl smiled as he held the door open for her to pass, and closed it

after them. He was pleased with her dignity.

“I have been talking with my mother,” he said, “and she tells me that

I must go away immediately. Do you agree with her?”

Possibly she had seen, and misunderstood his smile, for she chose to

be very high with him. “I do not know why you should go,” she said

coldly.

“Shall I tell you why it seemed to us that I should?” he asked.

Her look changed at the tone of his voice, which seemed reproachful.

Why should she assume with him what was not true? When had he ever

shown himself unworthy of her confidence?

“No, Carl,” she said, “you need not tell me, and you must say nothing

to me that you would not say to a married woman. I trust you, Carl.

You have always been honorable. You are very dear to me, and I trust

you perfectly. It is best that you should go.”

The last words were spoken rather faintly, and she had turned from

him, and opened the door.

“I shall go to Boston,” he said, “and stay there. In a few weeks you

will all come up, and I shall see you.”

She stood in the door now, with her face half turned, and her forehead

resting against the door-frame, so that he saw only her profile. And,

so leaning, as though from faintness, she put her hand back, and held

out her letters to him, and he took them.

“Read them both,” she said, “and mail them for me. And, Carl, I shall

not see you again before you go. And”--she stopped, as though her

voice had failed her.

“I will not ask you to,” he said.

“And, afterward,” she went on, “I shall not see you in Boston. If you

are at home, I shall go to stay with Dick’s mother.”

She did not look round again, but went up-stairs quickly, and shut

herself into her room. It is not for us to intrude in that privacy

wherein a young heart fought its first battle.

No one saw her that day; but the next morning she came out, and went

about her usual employments, much in her usual manner. Whether, like

that Russian empress, she was “too proud to be unhappy,” or she had

been soothed by that trust in God which makes every yoke easy and every 594

burden light, or the elasticity of youth made continued pain seem

impossible, we do not pretend to say. Human motives are not always

easy to be read by human eyes.

Everybody tried to act as though nothing were the matter, and there

was enough for all to do. Many things had to be planned and arranged

in preparation for their leaving Seaton, and Edith had her own

business to attend to. There were the Pattens needing double care

since they were so soon to lose her; and the Catholic school to visit,

that being permitted now; and a great deal of shopping to be done for

her little flock of pensioners.

Within a fortnight came a letter from Carl to his mother, taken up

chiefly with business details. But he wrote: “I called yesterday on

Mrs. Williams to ask for her son. He was not at home, and I have not

seen him yet. He has given up his ship, for this voyage, to Captain

Cary.”

Carl could have added, but did not, that the call had not been a

pleasant one. Mrs. Williams had just seen Captain Cary, and gleaned

from him all that he had thought best to tell, which was, merely, that

there seemed to be a slight misunderstanding between Dick and Edith.

Her suspicions pointed at once to Carl, and she had not scrupled to

express them to him when he came to her house.

“I am sorry not to see Mr. Rowan,” he had said, when he got a chance,

ignoring her accusations and reproaches; and, with that, had taken a

ceremonious leave.

“A pretty mother-in-law for Edith!” was his conclusion.

A few days after came a letter from Mrs. Williams to Edith. It was

what might have been expected from her. Dick had not been to see his

mother; was stopping with a priest, and had refused to see her. What

had Edith and those proud Yorkes done to her son, that he gave up

everything and everybody, and went to hide himself in a Catholic

priest’s house, instead of coming to his own home?

Poor Dick! could he have foreseen that such a letter would be written,

he would have sacrificed himself a good deal in order to prevent it.

Edith dropped the letter at her feet after reading it, and said, not

for the first time since Carl went away, “Oh! that Father Rasle would

come!”

As she said it, and for a moment let slip the leash that held her

hidden feelings, one could see that, however calm she might have been

outwardly, there had been an inward gnawing all the time. A smile and

bright words can mask a good deal. When she dropped them, there was

visible a whiteness about the mouth, shadows under the eyes, and even

a thinning of the cheeks--the work of that short time.

Hearing her aunt’s voice at the chamber-door asking admittance, Edith

caught the letter up again, and her self-control with it.

Mrs. Yorke came in with an air of quiet decision, and took a seat by

her niece. “I saw the outside of your letter, my dear girl, and know

whom it was from,” she said; “and I have no intention of allowing you

to be killed by others, or to kill yourself. I understand and respect

a mother’s feelings, Edith, and I respect the obligation of a promise.

But there are common sense and justice to be taken into account.

Feelings, and, especially, the feelings of a young person who has

scarcely learned to know herself, are not to be weighed and measured, 595

like iron and lumber, and stored away, and left unchanged, till called

for. You know, my dear, that I have a great affection for Mr. Rowan,

and would do him no unkindness nor injustice, do you not?”

“You were very kind to him, aunt,” Edith replied quietly. “I am not

afraid of anything that you will say or do.”

“You need not be,” Mrs. Yorke said. “I will not ask you if you have

learned to think that promise of yours a hasty one; but there are

certain points which I wish to insist upon. They are of general

application. Honor does not require that one should keep a bad

promise. The fault, if fault there be, is in the making, not the

breaking. Also, a woman cannot make a worse promise than one to marry

a man whom she does not love. Many very good and pious people will

tell you that esteem is enough, and that you will grow to love your

husband after a time. That is false. You may learn to endure him, but

it will be after all the bloom is wiped from your feelings, and love

and delicacy both are dead in you. Let no one make you believe that

your feelings are romantic folly. Believe, rather, that your adviser

is coarse, though honest. One other dictum: there is no favor, nor

obligation, nor affection which a man can confer on you, for which

your hand is not too high a price to pay. Give gratitude, affection,

even service, but not yourself. Do not sell your hand for any price:

it should be a free gift. This is all that I can pronounce positively

upon. For the rest, do not act hastily and without advice; for, aside

from the question of your personal good, you might bitterly wrong some

one else. If you have been hasty, it is a pity; but that cannot be

helped now, and should not be too deeply mourned. There must have been

some doubt in Mr. Rowan’s mind that you did not know what you were

promising, for his first word to you was, ‘Are you willing, Edith?’

Your answer was, ‘I am more than willing.’ If you deceived him then,

unconsciously, from a loving and generous feeling, it was pardonable.

But do not deceive him nor yourself again. He deserves from you a

perfect frankness, and he has too fine a nature to take your hand if

it is reluctant.”

“But, Aunt Amy,” Edith said, after a moment’s thought, “if a woman,

out of gratitude, and from an utter impossibility of allowing herself

to give such pain to a friend, should promise never to marry any one

else, would that be right?”

“A man worthy of inspiring such a resolution would not accept the

promise,” was the reply; “and the woman has no right to make it. But

if she should offer to wait till he is reconciled, that might be

soothing to both. Is there anything else you wish to say?”

“Nothing now, thank you, aunt. You are very kind.”

This conversation soothed Edith; but, still, she returned to her

wishing for Father Rasle; not entirely for his own sake, though that

was much, but because her need of confession and communion had become

a great longing.

Her wish was destined to be speedily gratified; for the very next day,

when Mr. Yorke came home to dinner, he brought his niece a letter from

the priest.

She read it immediately, in presence of the family, and her face

brightened. “How delightful!” she exclaimed. “He will say Mass here

next Sunday. He is to come Saturday, that is, the day after to-morrow

He sends his regards to you all. Let no one know that he is coming, he 596

writes, but Miss Churchill, and Mr. and Mrs. Kent, at whose house he

will stop. There will be time enough to notify the people when he has

arrived. How glad they will be! That was a letter worth bringing,

Uncle Charles!”

Looking up with her smile of thanks, she saw his face clouded. “Is

there any trouble?” she asked anxiously.

“If he had come while Carl, and Rowan, and Captain Cary were here, I

should have been better pleased,” Mr. Yorke replied evasively. “He

has, however, the right to come whenever he chooses. Answer his letter

to-day, Edith, and invite him to stop with us.”

“Dear Uncle Charles!” murmured Edith, and glanced enquiringly at her

aunt.

“Tell him, for me, that we should all be very happy to have him as a

guest,” said Mrs. Yorke.

A smiling nod from Melicent and from Clara confirmed this assertion.

“Dear me!” Edith sighed out, wiping her eyes, “I do think that you are

the most beautiful people I ever knew.”

They all laughed at her way of saying it, and the little cloud

disappeared. Mr. Yorke did not think it best to tell them that the

Know-Nothings had called a public meeting for the next evening. There

had been no such meeting for several months, and this might not be of

any consequence.

The invitation was written, and sent, and on Saturday morning the

answer came, only a few hours preceding Father Rasle.

He thanked them for their kindness, but found it necessary to decline

their invitation. He must be where all the Catholics could come to

him, bringing their infants to be baptized, and going to confession

themselves. Besides the distance, he could not think of subjecting

their house to such a visitation, which was likely to continue till

late in the evening. His flock needed every moment of his time.

But, meanwhile, between the letter and its answer, the public meeting

had taken place, and it had been of consequence.

TO BE CONTINUED.

----------

THE NEW “OUTSPOKEN STYLE.”

We looked for dewy flower, and sunny fruit:--

He serves us up the dirt that feeds the root.

AUBREY DE VERE.

----------

POPULAR OBJECTIONS TO PAPAL INFALLIBILITY. 597

I have read carefully, my dear Philo, your very welcome letter, and

cordially reciprocate the kind feelings it expresses. It has recalled

our early friendship, which, with me, at least, has never been

forgotten or diminished. I see, from your observations on the recent

definition of the Papal Infallibility by the Council of the Vatican,

that you still think as we both thought in our school-boy days, when

we wondered what sort of people Catholics must be to believe that a

man could be infallible, to take their faith from a man called the

Pope, and to obey and even worship him, as we were told, as God. We

were then in some measure excusable for supposing that they must be

exceedingly stupid and destitute of reason and of every grain of

common sense; for neither of us had then ever seen a Catholic, and

knew nothing of their faith or worship except what our Protestant

masters, who held them to be no better than the heathen, told us; but

are you, my dear Philo, equally excusable for thinking now as you did

then? Have you had no opportunity of correcting the error into which

we were both led?

You say, “The Council, by its decree defining the Pope when teaching

the universal church to be infallible or exempt from error in all

matters pertaining to faith and morals, makes the Pope God, clothes

him with the incommunicable attributes of the Divinity, and

consequently requires us to reverence and worship him as God.” Are you

not a little hasty in this conclusion? You tell me that you believe in

the plenary inspiration and consequent infallible authority of the

Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments; you then, of course, believe

in God and the supernatural order, or that Christian faith is

supernaturally revealed to man, and recorded in a book called the

Bible. But through what medium was the revelation made and recorded?

Certainly through men who spoke or wrote as they were moved by the

Holy Ghost, or what they were taught by our Lord himself, and enabled

by the Spirit to commit truthfully and without error to writing. All

this, you tell me, you believe and hold.

Now, were these inspired penmen, prophets, apostles, and evangelists

each God, or clothed with the incommunicable attributes of the

Divinity? You do not believe it. Why, then, does the declaration of

the Pope’s infallibility declare him to be God? The sacred penmen, you

believe, were infallible in what they wrote, and yet without becoming

God, or ceasing to be men; why may not the Pope, then, be infallible

without being God, or ceasing to be a man like you and me? Do you say

the sacred writers were infallible by the inspiration of the Holy

Ghost, not by nature? Well, do Catholics pretend that the Pope is

infallible by nature, or otherwise than through the supernatural

assistance of the Holy Ghost protecting him from error in teaching the

faith taught by the prophets and apostles? I am not aware that they

do.

Catholics, I am told, make a distinction between divine inspiration

and divine assistance. The prophets and apostles were divinely 598

inspired to reveal truth; the Pope, according to Catholics, is

divinely assisted to teach infallibly the truth revealed through the

prophets and apostles, or as taught to the apostles by our Lord

himself while he was yet with them. Now, if the inspiration which

rendered the prophets and apostles infallible in revealing the truth

which was hitherto hidden did not clothe them with the incommunicable

attributes of God, how can you pretend that the assistance of the

Spirit to teach infallibly what God revealed through them, which is

far less, makes the Pope God, or clothes his nature with the

attributes of God? If more did not do it in their case, how can less

do it in his?

You say, “All men are fallible, and no man can teach infallibly.” All

men are fallible, it is true, in their own nature; but that no man by

supernatural inspiration and assistance can teach infallibly, neither

you nor I believe. We both hold, for instance, that St. Peter was a

man, and yet that he was an infallible teacher of the word of God. We

hold the same of St. Paul, of St. John, of St. Matthew, of St. Mark,

and of St. Luke. Say you they were infallible not by their natural

endowments, but only through the supernatural external assistance of

the Holy Ghost? But Catholics, if I understand them, hold the Pope to

be infallible not by nature or by his own natural powers, but only by

the supernatural assistance of the Holy Ghost. Grant the supernatural

assistance of the Holy Ghost, and there is no more difficulty in

believing the Pope is infallible in his teachings than in believing,

as you and I do, that St. Peter and St. Paul were infallible in

teaching the revelation of God, whether by word or letter.

Do you not, my dear Philo, confound, in the case of the Popes,

infallibility with omniscience, and assume that the Vatican Council,

in declaring the Pope infallible in matters pertaining to faith and

morals, has actually declared him to be omniscient, and therefore God?

This is a mistake: first, because the infallibility declared is not

universal; and, second, because the infallibility declared is

supernatural and by divine assistance and protection. The Pope is

declared to be infallible only when he is teaching the universal

church faith and morals, and in condemning the errors repugnant

thereto, and even then only by supernatural assistance and protection

of the Holy Ghost. The Pope, as a man, is no more infallible than

other men: he is infallible only in exercising his function of

universal doctor, or teacher of the whole church, and, as this is by

the Holy Ghost, the infallibility, like omniscience itself, pertains

to God, not to him as a man, and is attached to his function, not to

his person. If our Lord, who is perfect God as well as perfect man,

has appointed him to the office of universal teacher, and promised him

the assistance and protection of the Spirit, there is no difficulty in

believing him infallible, even if his personal knowledge should turn

out to be no greater than yours or mine. The Pope is simply guided by

the Spirit to the truth already revealed and deposited with the

church, and, for the most part, at least, contained in the Holy

Scriptures, and is simply protected from error in declaring it.

Indeed, my dear Philo, Catholics claim no more for the Pope than our

old Presbyterian parson claimed for himself and for each and every

individual of the regenerate or true people of God. He taught us, as

you well know, that the regenerate soul is guided by the Spirit into 599

all truth, and protected from all error, at least as to essentials.

Some, perhaps most Protestants, go farther than this, and claim to

have an infallible authority for their faith in the Bible interpreted

by private judgment, and therefore claim for private judgment pretty

much the same infallibility that the Council of the Vatican claims for

the Pope. Either, then, all regenerate souls, nay, all men, if

Protestants are right, are each God, or else the declaration of the

Council does not, actually or virtually, declare the Pope to be God,

or anything more or less than a man supernaturally assisted by the

Holy Ghost to perform the duties of the office to which the Council

holds he is supernaturally appointed by Him who has all power in

heaven and earth, and is King of kings and Lord of lords.

You say, “The supposition of an infallible Pope is repugnant to the

rights and activity of the mind.” I do not see it. The human mind can

hardly be said to have any rights in presence of its Creator. If any

right it has, it is the right to be governed by the word of God alone,

and not to be held subject to any human authority or opinions of men.

My mind is outraged when it is subjected to the fallible opinions of

men, and obliged to hold them as truth, when I have no adequate

authority for believing that they are not erroneous. How then its

rights can be denied by its being furnished with an infallible guide

to the truth, to the word of God, its supreme law, instead of the

words of man, is what I do not exactly comprehend, and I do not

believe you can comprehend any better than I. An infallible authority

lessens the activity of the mind in groping after truth, if you will;

but truth being the element of the mind, that for which it was created,

and without which it can neither live nor operate at all, cannot very

well destroy its activity by being possessed. Does the possession of

truth leave no scope for mental activity? If so, what is to constitute

the beatitude of the blest in heaven? Your objection strikes me as

absurd; for the real activity of the mind is in knowing, appropriating,

and using the truth to fulfil the purpose of our existence and to gain

the end for which God has made us.

You say, again, that “an infallible authority destroys man’s free

agency and takes away his moral responsibility.” The intellect, you

are aware, my dear Philo, if prescinded from the will, is not free. I

am not free in regard to pure intellections. I cannot, if I would,

believe that two concretes are five, or only three; and I am obliged

to admit that the three angles of a triangle are equal to two right

angles. I may refuse to turn my attention to one or another class of

subjects, but I see and judge as I must, not as I will or choose. Free

agency and moral responsibility, therefore, attach to the will, not to

the intellect, and are enhanced in proportion to my knowledge or

understanding of the truth. The authority teaching me infallibly the

truth, I am bound by the law of God to accept and obey. So far from

destroying free agency, it manifestly confirms it, and, instead of

taking away moral responsibility, raises it to the highest possible

pitch; for it leaves the mind without the shadow of an excuse for not

believing. You forget, my dear Philo, that infallible authority

presenting infallible truth is not only a command to the will, but the

highest possible reason to the understanding. But at any rate, the

objection is as valid against the infallibility of the Bible, asserted 600

by Protestants, as against the infallibility of the Pope, asserted by

Catholics.

You say, furthermore, “The claim of infallibility for the Pope is

incompatible with civil and religious liberty. If the Pope is

infallible in all questions touching faith and morals, his authority

is supreme, overrides all other powers, and subjects to him our whole

life, religious, moral, domestic, social, and political.” But if so,

what, then, if he is infallible? You forget that this is no more than

Protestants themselves claim for the Bible. Do you admit that any

state, sovereign prince, head of a family, or individual has the

right, in thought, word, or deed, to contradict or go counter to the

law of God as contained in the infallible Bible? Do you not hold that

every one is subject in all things whatsoever to the infallible

authority of the Holy Scriptures? Well, how can the subjection of our

whole life--religious, moral, domestic, social, and political--to the

authority of an infallible book be less incompatible with civil and

religious liberty than its subjection to an infallible Pope? If the

Pope is really infallible, he can enjoin nothing in faith or morals

not enjoined by the law of God. Do you pretend that subjection to the

law of God is incompatible with civil and religious liberty? If so,

you must say with Proudhon, “God is a tyrant, and you must either

abolish God or give up the defence of liberty. Once admit God, and you

must admit the Catholic Church, Pope, and all.” Now, I am not in the

habit, any more than Catholics are, of regarding God and liberty as

antagonistic, the one to the other. I have always been accustomed to

regard liberty not as freedom from all restraint, but as simply

freedom from all unjust restraint, or restraint not imposed by the law

of God, which is the law of right and justice. His law is the basis,

and obedience to it and it alone is the necessary condition, of all

true liberty in any and every department of life. Why, then, should

the assertion of the infallible authority of the Pope to declare the

law of God, which you and I both hold binds all men and nations, be

incompatible with liberty? The law of God is just, and the measure or

standard of justice, and justice is the foundation and guarantee of

liberty. Your objection is not well taken.

What you really object to, my dear Philo, is not, it strikes me, an

infallible, but a fallible Pope claiming to be infallible. But suppose

the Pope to be infallible in the sense defined by the Council, it is

absurd to object to him as dangerous to liberty, civil or religious,

because the Holy Ghost prevents him from declaring anything to be the

law of God which is not so, and because, being assisted by the same

Holy Ghost, he is always able to decide infallibly what that law does

or does not require; and as long as the law as he declares it is

observed, no one can be subjected to an unjust authority, oppressed,

or deprived of any of his rights.

“You concede,” you say, “the supremacy of the law of God, and that all

laws which contravene it, or are not transcripts of it, are violences,

not laws, and are null and void from the beginning; but this is

something very different from subjecting all individuals and the whole

secular order to the authority of an infallible Pope upheld by the

whole hierarchy, and backed by a huge corporation that extends over

the whole world.” But where is the difference, if the Pope, by divine

assistance and protection, is really infallible? The Pope, if

infallible, can be so only from the supernatural appointment and 601

assistance of God as his vicar, and, if infallible, he can declare and

apply only what is the law of God or authorized by the law of God. You

are wrong, then, old friend, in objecting to the infallible authority;

for that is what is needed to establish the divine order in human

affairs, and to make the church really the kingdom of God on earth.

Your objection and your reasoning are misdirected, and should be

directed to prove that Catholics assert infallibility for a Pope who,

in fact, is not infallible, but fallible.

You and all Protestants claim infallible authority for the Bible read

and interpreted by each individual for himself, or, rather, by each

sect for itself. Unless this interpretation is by an infallible

authority, which it confessedly is not, you have in the Bible

practically only a fallible authority, yet claim to have an infallible

authority; and hence you claim and seek to enforce in the name of the

Bible your own very fallible and contradictory opinions or theories.

You are guilty, then, of precisely the offence you charge against

Catholics, that of claiming infallibility for a fallible authority,

and of which it is possible Catholics are not guilty, and, if the Pope

be infallible, not only are not, but cannot be guilty. You have, as I

have said--even conceding, as I do, the Bible in its true meaning to

be infallible--practically no infallible authority. You have no

infallible authority to determine and declare the law of God contained

in the Bible. You have not the law itself, but only your view of it,

which is only a human view, and therefore fallible. To subject men to

a mere human view or to a mere human authority, I need not say, is

intolerable despotism; and hence your Protestantism is incompatible

either with civil or religious liberty, for all men are born equal,

and no man or body of men has, except by divine appointment or

delegation, any dominion over another.

Hence, as you and I both know, there is no solid basis or security for

liberty under Protestantism. If Protestants grow indifferent and do

not attempt to govern in the name of the Bible, there may be license,

anarchy, a moral and political chaos; but if they are in earnest, and

attempt to enforce the authority of the Bible as they understand it,

they only enforce their own view of it, and, consequently, can

establish only a spiritual despotism either in church or state. In

Geneva, Scotland, in every state in Europe that became Protestant, in

Virginia, in Massachusetts, in Connecticut, the dominant sect, you

know, in early times established an odious tyranny, and would tolerate

no opinion hostile to its own. Owing to certain reminiscences of

principles inculcated in pre-Reformation times, and to the growing

indifference of Protestants to their religion at the time our republic

was instituted, and still more to the dissensions among Protestants

themselves, civil and religious liberty were recognized here in the

United States, but it had and has no basis and no guarantee, except in

parchment constitutions, not worth the parchment on which they are

engrossed, and which the people may alter at will; and even now the

Evangelical sects are trying to unite their forces to abolish

religious liberty, without which civil liberty is an empty name. The

founder of Methodism was no friend to civil liberty, and he proved

himself the bitter enemy of religious liberty by creating, or doing

more than any other man to create, the shameful Gordon riots in

England in 1780. Let the Methodists become, as they bid fair to

become, the dominant sect in the country, and able to command a 602

majority of the votes of the American people, and both civil and

spiritual despotism will be fastened on the country, for Methodism has

only a human authority.

The sort of security Protestantism gives to religious liberty may be

seen in the proceedings of the general government against the Mormons.

It does not interfere with their religion: it pretends it only

enforces against them the laws of the Union--laws, by the way, made

expressly against them. All the government needs to suppress any

religion or religious denomination it does not like is to pass laws

prohibiting some of its practices on the plea that they are contrary

to morality or the public good, and then take care to execute them.

Queen Elizabeth held religious liberty sacred, and abhorred the very

thought of persecuting Catholics. She only executed the laws against

them. She enacted a law enjoining an oath of supremacy, and making it

high treason to refuse to take it, and which she knew every Catholic

was obliged in conscience to refuse to take; and then she could hang,

draw, and quarter them, not as Catholics, but as traitors. Her judges

only executed the laws of the realm against them. I have, as you well

know, no sympathy with the Mormons, and I detest their peculiar

doctrines and practices, but the principle on which the government

proceeds against them would justify it, or any sect that could control

it, in suppressing the church, and all Protestant sects even but

itself.

Laws in favor of liberty amount to nothing, for all laws may be

repealed. The Bible is no safeguard. Under it and by its supposed

authority, Catholics have suffered the most cruel persecutions; even

when not deprived of life, they have been deprived of the common

rights of men by Protestant governments led on by Protestant

ministers. Thus the Bible commands the extirpation of idolaters. But

Protestants, by their private judgment, declared Catholics to be

idolaters, and hence in the name of the Bible took from them their

churches, their schools, colleges, and universities, confiscated their

goods, and imprisoned them, exiled them, or cut their throats. The

pretence of legislating only in regard to morality avails nothing for

religious liberty; for morality depends on dogma, and is only the

practical application of the great principles of religion to

individual, domestic, social, and political life. You cannot touch a

moral question without touching a religious question, for religion and

morality are inseparable; your only possible security for liberty is

in having a divinely instituted authority that is infallible in faith

and morals, competent to tell the state as well as individuals how far

it may go, and where it must stop.

You object, finally, my dear Philo, that the assertion of the

infallibility of the Pope is incompatible with the assertion of the

sovereignty of the people and the independence of secular government.

The people and all secular governments, you have conceded, are subject

to the law of God. Neither the people nor secular governments are

independent of the divine law, and have only the authority it gives

them, and the freedom and independence it allows them. How can they

lose any right or authority they have or can have by having the divine

law, under which they hold, infallibly declared and applied? It is

singular, my old schoolfellow, that so acute, subtle, and so able a

lawyer as I know you to be, should have the misfortune, as a

theologian, to object to the very thing you really wish to maintain, 603

and which can alone save you from the evils you seek to avoid. Now,

what it is necessary to know in order to determine the rights and

powers of government, is to know precisely what in relation to

government the law of God--including both the natural law and the

revealed law, which are really only two parts of one and the same

divine law--ordains, what it prescribes, and what it forbids. This

knowledge can only in part be derived through natural reason, because

the law is in part supernatural, and can be known only by faith: it

cannot be derived with certainty from the Scriptures interpreted by

our own fallible judgment or by any human authority: it can be

obtained infallibly from the teaching and decisions of an infallible

Pope, if really infallible. The infallible Pope will give to the

people all the sovereignty they have under the law of God, and

maintain for civil government all the rights and powers, all the

freedom and independence of action, the law of God gives it. What more

do you want? What more dare you assert for civil government or for

popular sovereignty? Would you put the people in the place of God, and

raise the secular order above the spiritual, man above God? Certainly

not, at least not avowedly either to yourself or to others. Then, how

can you pretend the Papal infallibility is incompatible with the

sovereignty of the people and the independence of civil government? Do

you want the line unsettled, and the law of God left undefined, and

remitted, as you remit the Bible, to the private judgment of each

people or each government, to be interpreted by each for itself, and

as it sees proper? But that were to make the divine law practically of

no effect, and to leave each people and each government without any

law but what it chooses to be to itself. It practically emancipates

the secular order from the law of God, and asserts complete civil

absolutism.

The fact is, my dear Philo, you and many others in your own minds

regard liberty and authority as mutually hostile powers. It is the

error of the age, and hence we see the nations alternating between the

mob and the despot, each hostile alike to liberty and authority. Both

liberty and authority are founded in the divine order, and without

recognizing and conforming to that order neither can be maintained. To

restrain liberty by an authority that rests on a human basis alone is

to destroy it; as to restrain authority by liberty not defined by the

law of God, or by popular sovereignty to be defined by popular

sovereignty, is to lose all authority, and to rush into anarchy and

universal license. There is no true liberty and no legitimate

government independent of the divine order; consequently, none without

an infallible authority to present and maintain it. The question is,

Has God, or has he not, established an infallible authority to declare

his law? Yours affectionately,

DAMIAN.

----------

THE FOXVILLES OF FOXVILLE. 604

A TALE OF THE PERIOD.

I.

At a huge country-house, not many years ago, some few days after the

close of the Christmas and New Year’s festivities, the usual family

circle, with one exception, met at the breakfast-table. A man on

horseback had just pulled up at the house-door with the family

letter-bag from the nearest town. The letters and papers were handed

to the head of the family, who glanced over the addresses with the

quick eye of a practised man of business, and placed one of the

letters on an empty plate reserved for the absent member of the party.

“Oh! For Susy!” exclaimed a young lady, who seemed put to her wits’

end to make herself still younger, for she was the elder daughter of

the house, past twenty-six, and disengaged. “I should like to know

whom that’s from! A gentleman’s hand, I declare!” And she eyed the

characters with a searching scrutiny, but they would tell no more

tales.

“Don’t be so curious, Matilda. I shall recommend Susy to keep her

letter a secret,” said an obnoxious brother, by name Augustus, one

year the junior of the first speaker.

“Yes! you would encourage her in every kind of deception, you would!

She is quite artful enough,” answered Matilda. “If I were papa, I would

soon see who sends the letter. What can make Susy late, this morning?

She is invariably so regular.”

“No, child!” said a white-headed old gentleman, Mr. Foxville, the

happy father of Matilda, Augustus, and Susan, his stock of direct

descendants, and all told, “I never meddle with other people’s

business. Susy is a good girl, and she will let me have any news that

may interest me.”

“You are quite right; but she has a duty to her mamma,” said Mrs.

Foxville, with a grand matronly air. “Papa allows me to open all his

letters, though he never opens mine: and that’s as it should be. If

Susy does not come down soon, as I am privileged, I will open the

letter. It is a genteel hand, I perceive.

“Well, well,” observed Mr. Foxville, “patience, patience! We can

wait.”

“She is my child, Mr. Foxville,” replied the matron.

“Shall I fetch Susy down?” asked Matilda, with curiosity fermenting

within her.

“Do, my dear,” said Mrs. Foxville, laboring under the same complaint,

but affecting more indifference.

With much nimbleness the sprightly Matilda dashed out of the room,

having first made an attempt to carry off the letter.

“Stop!” cried Augustus, putting his hand on it. “Suppose you bring 605

Susy to the letter, and not the letter to Susy! Fair is fair,” he

added, with something like distrust in the fair letter-carrier.

In a few seconds Matilda and Susy entered the room, the arm of the

elder affectionately wound round the waist of the younger sister.

“Are you not well, Susy?” asked Mr. Foxville kindly.

“Perfectly!” replied Susy, giving her papa his morning kiss.

“There is a letter for you,” said the enviable father.

“Thank you,” answered Susy, and she slipt the letter unopened into a

little dress pocket, coloring and tremulous as she did so.

“I could not wait like you for the news, Susy,” said her mother

frankly, as she watched her daughter closely.

“I would not be so rude as to read letters before others,” answered

Susy.

“Not at all rude!” observed Mrs. Foxville, with one of her grand airs.

“There is nobody here but the family: that makes all the difference. I

would wish to make you sensible of that, my child. Etiquette should

not be pushed too far when we are _en famille_.”

The last words were delivered with a deal of self-importance, as if

she had just solved a new problem of politeness and was vain of her

discovery.

“Of course!” cried Matilda. “Do not hesitate, Susy. I should not. I

could not take matters so coolly. The letter may be from some dear,

dear friend!”

“Take my advice, Susy,” said that horrible Augustus. “Breakfast first,

and dessert afterwards.”

“Dessert indeed! It may be some dreadful intelligence. So none of your

interference, Gussy!” rejoined Matilda.

“Then I would not spoil my appetite; and my recommendation holds

good,” pursued that provoking brother.

“Ay! ay,” said Foxville senior; “your breakfast first, girl.” And this

put an end to the dispute, for the old gentleman saw that Susy was

pained at the discussion.

II.

It was true, as Miss Matilda Foxville had observed, that her sister

Susy was the most regular in that exemplary household whenever there

was a demand on her energies in domestic affairs, or on her good

nature in diffusing happiness and cheerfulness around her. The fact

that she had deviated from her usual course into the exceptional

irregularity referred to, naturally called for comment such as any

strange occurrence would provoke; and the uninitiated as naturally

puzzled themselves with unsatisfactory conjectures. But the plain

truth was this: Susy’s absence was caused by nothing less than a

consciousness that a particular letter would arrive for her that

morning. She imagined that she should betray less concern about the

letter, and keep her nerves more under control, by an apparently

accidental absence of a few minutes from the breakfast-table, than if

she ran the risk of being present at the opening of the post-bag, and

of manifesting her expectation and her too probable excitement at its

realization.

Susy had, as we have seen, only partially succeeded; but, under

shelter of the timely command of her father, she managed to conceal a

great deal of her uneasiness at the expense of a charge of indifference

toward her correspondents--a charge she was disposed to invite rather 606

than disprove.

This little ruse, however, she was unable to carry very much further;

for Matilda, more and more perplexed, and proportionably more curious,

than ever, became, after the morning meal, more endearing in both

manner and speech towards her sister than was customary with one who

generally adopted the language of admonition or complaint. It was very

clear that these famous time-honored weapons for eliciting obedience

and respect would fail in the present instance; and Matilda had not

spent twenty-six years of her valuable existence without acquiring an

amount of knowledge that led her to that certain conclusion. But

wheedling and an implied solicitude for her sister’s welfare were more

insidious and keener instruments to open the confidence-chest of the

unsuspecting Susy.

“I hope you will have good news,” began Matilda when the sisters were

alone. Then she added, as if some sudden idea struck her, “But I

forgot! I will leave you and come again presently, Susy dear; you

would like to read and answer your letter?”

What it was that Miss Matilda professed to have forgotten would puzzle

most men; but it was a phrase habitual to her, and coming from a

person of her experience, it probably conveyed all she intended to

those of her own sex who enjoyed her familiarity. Susy, whether she

understood the form of expression or not, was attracted by her

sister’s winning ways and most unusual condescension, and was quite

prepared to open her heart to her.

“Don’t go, Till,” she said, blushing. “I have something to say to you.”

“To me!” exclaimed the delighted Matilda with well-feigned surprise.

“Pray tell me what it is!”

“It is the letter,” said Susy.

“Oh! that’s quite private,” pursued Matilda, “if I might judge by your

putting it aside unopened.”

“But there is confidence between sisters?”

“Most undoubtedly. Would I not unbosom myself to you?”

“You shall, then, be the first to learn the news, but it must soon be

family property,” said Susy, opening the letter, and reading it as

Matilda looked over her shoulder. “I ought, perhaps, to show it to

papa first,” she added, as a glow diffused itself over her face and

neck.

“Yes; it is indeed matter for papa’s consideration: it is meant for

him. But whom is it from?” said Matilda, in a fever to see the name on

the last page, which Susy had not yet turned to.

“Nathaniel Wodehouse!” said Susy, in trembling accents, as she sank

down on a chair to support herself in her novel situation.

“That trumpery fellow! faugh!” exclaimed Matilda boldly. “I would soon

settle his business. Let me pen you a reply, will you?”

“Matilda! sister Till!” cried Susy in amazement, and recalled to

herself. “How often have I heard you say what a charming, handsome man

he is!”

“I! I!” said Matilda, ascending the gamut in her ejaculations. “I call

him charming and handsome!” Then, with tremendous emphasis inspired by

rage, she added, “Never!”

“Well, then,” followed up her merciless witness, roused by her

sister’s vain denial, “he _is_ charming and handsome! And you

know it.”

III. 607

Mr. Foxville was a retired butcher who had made a fortune, and still

did a little business on ‘Change to keep his hand in, and preserve his

mental faculties from rusting. Besides the newspaper, which many will

contend was his “best public instructor,” he had not many intellectual

resources; and as he allowed himself little recreation, he devoted a

great deal of time to journal-reading and the study of stocks and the

share-list. Here was a fair amount of work for a busy mind; and very

busy was Mr. Foxville in keeping a sharp eye on his investments.

Being fond of a country life, he bought several acres of land when he

gave up business; and he had built himself an unwieldy mansion, and

was erecting smaller houses and cottages at a respectful distance from

his own. This cluster of dwellings he proposed to call Foxville, while

his own big, special habitation he called Foxville House. The name was

not adopted without reflection, and more than one debate between

himself and wife.

Foxville’s patronymic was simply Fox. That did very well for business,

but it was deemed unsuited for higher exigencies. Foxtown was invented

and discussed, but it gave no satisfaction. Was there anything

distinguished in Foxtown? Nothing! Husband and wife were one on that

point.

At length, Mrs. Fox bethought her of a French tutor to her girls, and

that excellent gentleman bore the name of Portville. Monsieur

Portville was a very agreeable man, to ladies especially; and that

circumstance associated something pleasant with his name to the ear of

Mrs. Fox. It was a habit with Mr. Fox, who could not remember names,

to put the cart before the horse in endeavoring to call names to his

recollection, and he always spoke of the Frenchman as Villeport. In

facetious moments he would reduce this again to Vile Port, maintaining

that this was the original name. Although it was by no means a

complimentary cognomen, Mr. Fox had no intention of showing

disrespect, for he had a rough kind of regard for the tutor, and only

vented a poor joke at his expense, deriving his inspiration perhaps

from the remembrance of a compound beverage familiar to Fox in his

younger days in the country which had the honor of his birth. If

Portville was euphonious, why not Foxville? Such was the argument of

Mrs. Fox, and that settled the question.

Mrs. Foxville was the daughter of a grocer, who had so many daughters

that all he could do for them was to make them a home and allow them a

limited portion for their wardrobe--totally insufficient, according to

their unanimous opinion, for their position! Mrs. Foxville was the

oldest, and was the first to enter into wedlock. She would have

scorned an alliance with a butcher, so superior did she think her

father’s calling, though on what grounds she never clearly stated; but

the prosperity of young Fox proved a compensation strong enough to

convert a woman’s uprising negative into a positive affirmative.

The correctness of the lady’s judgment could not be questioned in the

days that lengthened Fox into Foxville. She continued, however, to

regard herself as more than the equal of her husband; and she always

spoke of my house, my family, my children Matilda, Augustus, and Susy,

as if poor Foxville had no concern or partnership in the property. 608

Sometimes he would slip in ‘our’ in place of ‘my,’ and he always spoke

in this manner himself, but both the correction or amendment and the

example had no effect on the ‘singular’ appropriation, which seemed,

it may be supposed, to convey higher origin and standing than if

lowered by a joint ownership.

Miss Matilda Foxville’s characteristics have sufficiently developed

themselves, and Augustus, beyond being a plague to his elder sister,

had no character at all. He was an existence, and little more; still,

he was not without importance as the heir of a goodly estate.

Foxville House never failed to throw open its hospitable portals

during Christmas week, and, not many days before the receipt of Susy’s

letter, a large number of guests had found a warm welcome within them.

Nathaniel Wodehouse was invariably the life of these social

gatherings, and in the estimation of the Misses Foxville evidently he

possessed qualifications for the prominent part he took. He stood high

in favor with Miss Matilda, there is no denying the fact. For him more

than for any other male thing, she chignoned, and painted, and got

herself up in the best style of fashion. She nearly succeeded in

reducing twenty-six to twenty by other than arithmetical rules. But

what, after all, are twenty-six summers? No great span in the life of

a really handsome woman; yet, in Miss Matilda, so unpliable was her

disposition, and so set was her general deportment, that candor must

admit that the six years beyond twenty had produced a perceptible

difference. She made the best of them, however, for Nathaniel

Wodehouse.

Can it be wondered at, therefore, that she thought he had some

appreciative taste? He was charming and good-looking most certainly;

and he was very gallant, as he ought to have been, to Miss Foxville.

No one invited him with more _empressement_ than Matilda did to

revisit Foxville House. Susy was shy and reserved; Matilda had

outlived all that, and safely pronounced Nathaniel excellent company:

so did Mrs. Foxville--so did Mr. Foxville. Augustus had no settled

conviction on this head; and Susy was silent.

Even when Matilda spoke to her under sisterly secrecy, and used the

epithets which she subsequently wished to revoke, Susy committed

herself no further than by an exclamation of “Do you think so?”

accompanied by a smile of doubtful acquiescence. When, however,

Matilda, repenting of her admission, boldly denied it, Susy, as we

have seen; held her to it unflinchingly.

It is sometimes good to come after others, and Scripture, politeness,

and good sense forbid our presumptuously taking the best places. Susy

enjoyed in this respect an advantage which nature had given her. She

had all the benefit of being eight years younger than her sister, for

she was at once the youngest, the prettiest, and the most amiable of

the Foxvilles. Nathaniel would have been blind indeed if he had not

made that discovery; and what that discovery led to, the intimated

tenor of his letter has abundantly proved. One result, however, he had

not foreseen, and that was the burning jealousy it excited in the

bosom of Matilda Foxville, although he _was_ prepared to incur her

displeasure.

IV.

Foxville House always was in commotion when Matilda had a hand in it. 609

When she was agitated, her agitation vibrated in every part of that

spacious dwelling; and now she was stung to madness in such a way by

Susy’s taunt that she rushed about like a maniac on fire. It was her

worst policy, but she had lost the rudder of her discretion, and she

cast herself adrift on the surging waves of her own fury.

From one apartment to another she flew in a whirlwind of passion in

search of her mother, whom she would have found very near to Susy’s

room if she had not darted downstairs with headlong precipitation.

Up-stairs she flew again, and at length flounced into the room in

which Mrs. Foxville was eagerly awaiting the issue of the consultation

between her daughters.

“What has happened, Matilda?” asked Mrs. Foxville. “Your look startles

me.”

“You will be startled!” gasped Matilda.

“Calm yourself, my child, and tell at your leisure what is amiss,”

replied the mother, her words being at variance with her feverish

anxiety for the news.

“What do you think, mamma? Nathaniel Wodehouse has had the audacity to

propose to Susy!”

“Nathaniel Wodehouse! Without means! A beggar! I shall put a stop to

that. No genteel poverty for me or either of my girls!”

“I was sure that you would save poor Susy! What is the use of his

gentility with nothing to support it?”

“You always were sensible, Matilda; and no doubt Susy is wise enough

to see the matter in the same light.”

“There you mistake, mamma; Susy is such a weak fool! The silly thing

is over head and ears in love with him. She idolizes him! It is

positively awful--wicked!”

“Oh! that’s it, is it? And without asking my opinion? Deliberate

disobedience! Let me see her this moment. I must talk to her!”

Forthwith the mother and elder daughter sought out the unfortunate

Susy, and joined in giving her one of those ‘talkings to,’ as they

termed them, which only ladies can inflict on one another. Susy let

fall a tear or two, made very short replies, for she could scarcely

squeeze a word in, and bore her rebukes with exemplary patience,

contenting herself with asserting that she would comply with the

request of the letter and lay it before her father.

“Let me catch you showing the letter to your father this day!”

exclaimed Mrs. Foxville indignantly.

“To-morrow will do,” replied Susy. “Papa must see it.”

It was then agreed that Susy should reserve the letter for her

father’s perusal next day, on Mrs. Foxville consenting to take the

blame for delay on her own shoulders; and it was finally stipulated

that both the elder Foxville and Augustus should be kept in the dark

for the next twenty-four hours.

Mrs. Foxville did not, however, consider herself bound by this

contract, though not the least important of the high contracting

parties. In fact, she intended to turn the interval to what she deemed

the best account. Accordingly, she seized the opportunity which Mrs.

Caudle, as depicted by Douglas Jerrold, devoted to curtain lectures,

and plainly gave Mr. Foxville to understand that “she wouldn’t have

it,” meaning the match in question, for she stated she knew that

Wodehouse was as poor as a church mouse. “He was all outside show,”

she said--“all flimsy, with no backbone.” She added that “that 610

wouldn’t do for her girls,” and, having warned her husband at great

length and with great force, she concluded her lecture by observing,

“And now you know your duty to my child, and I shall expect you to

perform it.”

“Our child, my dear--our dear Susy is entitled to the best counsel I

can give her.”

“I knew you would take her part!” cried Mrs. Foxville. “Dear Susy,

indeed! She is a very bad Susy. I would have you, Mr. Foxville,

respect a mother’s feelings!”

“Well, well; yes, yes, to be sure I will,” replied the husband, who

was as valiant as an ox and nearly as strong in muscle, but was now in

dread of a second lecture. “I will, you may depend upon it.”

With this promise on his lips he composed himself to sleep, after

having first noticed its soothing effect--for which he took credit to

himself--on his partner.

The next day, Mr. Foxville had some conversation alone with Susy. A

little kindness soon reassured her, and, like a true-hearted daughter,

she did not attempt to conceal her attachment to Nathaniel from her

father. She opened her mind to him, and promised to abide by his

advice; and on the question of questions--that of fortune--she

professed her belief that Nathaniel Wodehouse would not be found in

the forlorn condition in which her mamma and sister, in spite of her,

had insisted. She acknowledged that she had no proof of this but her

lover’s word, which, she said, Matilda had derided. Her lover’s word!

that was all--sufficient for Susy! But she approved of her father’s

fully satisfying himself on this point, as a duty to his family and to

her.

There are several ways of giving advice. It is a favorite plan with

some to administer it as they would physic, and the more nauseous it

is, the more they seem to like administering it; and they would

quarrel with their best friend for not taking it. Even among the more

considerate, not every one has the modesty not to have his equanimity

disturbed by having his advice asked and then disregarded. Mr.

Foxville was not one of either of these classes. He might allowably be

a little more positive in counselling his own daughter, but

practically he followed in her regard his usual method, heedless of

all the admonitions of his better half. That method was to pile up all

the pros and cons which occurred to him on both sides of a question,

and leave his client very much to his own decision. In effect, this

was to offer no advice at all, but the course of proceedings looked

grave and offended no one, while it enabled him to remain true to his

maxim of never meddling in other people’s business. The only

stumbling-block with Mr. Foxville, in the present instance, was a

suitable position for his daughter, and that he would look into as a

matter of imperative necessity. The rest he would leave to those most

vitally interested, after his usual formal statement of all the

disadvantages, which always came first, and then the advantages of the

case under consideration. Susy was accordingly much comforted by her

father’s good sense and feeling, instead of being cowed and

heart-broken as Mrs. Foxville and Matilda had expected to see her.

“You are a perfect fool!” said Mrs. Foxville to her husband on

observing Susy’s cheerful face after the _tête-à-tête_. “You have

not the nerve to manage my child! I must take her in hand, poor noodle 611

that she is. Ha! she is just like you. There’s a nice pair for you!”

Mr. Foxville attached little importance to these disparaging remarks,

with the like of which he was familiar; but he invariably did things

his own way, and left consequences to take care of themselves. He

responded, therefore, good-humoredly:

“Not too hasty, my dear! I shall see Nathaniel Wodehouse, whether you

approve of it or not. That is all I have to say.”

And Foxville kept his word, for he resolutely refrained from opening

his lips to renew the discussion. Not so Mrs. Foxville. She had a very

great deal to say, but eventually wound up by the following menace:

“Beware how you ruin my child! You shall answer for it. I’ll let you

know whether I am to be nobody in my own house!”

The tremendous ferment which shook the Foxvilles at length began to

act upon Augustus. That young man had his own view of Susy’s conduct.

“I tell you what, Susy,” said he, “Wodehouse is no gentleman. He is a

sneak. Didn’t he get the better of me in an examination before old Dr.

Playfair, and when I challenged him to fight it out, and prove who was

the better man, didn’t he decline? A pretty thing to marry a man like

that. Marry him, Susy, and see what I will do!”

Poor Susy was now regarded by all her family, with the exception of

her father, who remained silent, as a reprobate and outcast. When she

sat down to her meals, she was treated as if she were supported by

charity. At other times she was watched like a criminal. Her fortitude

and good conscience, nevertheless, sustained her under her unmerited

wrongs.

In the meantime, the two gentlemen, Foxville and Wodehouse, conferred

together. Mrs. Foxville at first insisted on being present; but it was

to no purpose. Mr. Foxville’s hardihood gave him the victory. He was

declared to be the most obstinate of men; he bore the imputation and

triumphed.

“What good have you done?” sneered Mrs. Foxville, when the meeting was

over.

“Our Susy and Nathaniel will be man and wife!” replied the

imperturbable Foxville.

“Oh!” was the sole response, in a tone that boded little harmony if

the baffled Mrs. Foxville could have her way.

“Ay, ay,” continued Foxville. “Nat’s the richest man within a dozen

miles of this place. I tell you, I have proof of it. Look, there’s a

_little_ present, as he called it, for you!”

Foxville pulled out of his pocket a magnificent set of jewels in the

neatest of morocco cases, and handed the gift to his wife.

What a transformation on the countenance and in the manner of Mrs.

Foxville! Who could have suggested such a happy idea to Nathaniel as

the magical present which turned out to be such a talisman of power?

That secret was never known but to Susy and Nathaniel, and it cannot

be divulged.

As Mrs. Foxville gazed with rapture on the jewels, her eyes vied in

sparkling with the diamonds.

“Well, I cannot help forgiving him!” exclaimed the pacified lady. “Who

would have thought this of Nathaniel Wodehouse? Twelve months ago I

know he was scarcely worth a penny. But are you quite sure that you

have not been taken in?”

“Trust old Foxville for that, eh? I have seen how he came by his 612

money. Old Simpson, his uncle, died last March, and left him sole

heir.”

“Simpson his uncle! A good family! My father knew him well.”

Mrs. Foxville’s was not altogether a vain boast: the late Mr. Simpson

had been the best customer at her father’s grocery.

Augustus now joined his parents unexpectedly.

“Gussy, my boy,” cried his father, “Nat is the happy man, after all!

He could buy up all of Foxville if he chose. He wants you to dine with

him at his club to-morrow. Do as you like. I meddle in no man’s

business!”

“Of course I will! He is a better fellow than I took him to be,” said

the sensible Augustus. “And here comes Susy,” he added, seeing his

sister approaching.

“Susy, we congratulate you,” exclaimed the overjoyed father. “The

course of true love runs smoothly a little too soon, eh?”

Susy blushed scarlet.

“Kiss me, my darling girl,” said Mrs. Foxville.

“Bravo!” sang out Augustus.

“But Till must hear the news! Let me fetch Matilda!” And he ran off

with all speed, and soon returned with his sister.

“I told you I had something to show you,” said he, addressing Matilda.

“Look at that picture! We only want Nat to make us thoroughly jolly.

You will make a superb bridesmaid, Till, though I say it!”

“Not I indeed!” replied Matilda, with a grand toss of her head.

“You won’t for Susy?” the terrible Augustus went on. “That’s cruel of

you; but I’ll give you a chance. So don’t despair; it’s often a first

step to matrimony!”

Matilda bit her lip till it nearly bled, but she suffered not a word

to escape her.

“For shame, Gussy!” cried Susy, as she flung herself, half-smiling,

half-crying, on her sister’s neck.

* * * * *

With great adroitness Nathaniel eventually made his peace with

Matilda, though it was rather a truce than a peace; but sufficient

harmony was in a little time restored to Foxville House to make Susy’s

wedding go off with _éclat_.

----------

THE MARTYRS OF ARCUEIL. 613

[The following narrative of the imprisonment and execution of certain

Dominicans, by the Paris Commune, in May of last year, is translated

from an account drawn up in French, under the eyes and, in a measure,

at the dictation of witnesses who shared the captivity of the martyrs,

and survived their fate only by a providential interposition which

seems little less than miraculous. It was written merely to preserve,

in the archives of the order, an authentic record of the circumstances

which it, commemorates; but it glows with examples of Christian

heroism and charity which ought not to be lost to the world at large.

The branch of the Dominicans which gives this company of martyrs to

the church was founded by Father Lacordaire shortly after the passing

of the law of 1850, which, by abridging the exclusive privileges of

the university of Paris, conferred upon the religious orders in France

the right of opening schools and colleges, a right for which

Lacordaire and Montalembert had battled for twenty years. Father

Captier was one of the original company of four novices with whom

Father Lacordaire founded, in 1852, the new order of Teaching

Dominicans.]

In the spring of 1863, eighteen months after the death of Father

Lacordaire, certain religious of the Third (Teaching) Order of

Dominicans, having as their head the Rev. Father Captier, were sent to

establish, in the house formerly belonging to Berthollet, a college

under the name of the Blessed Albertus Magnus. It was a difficult task,

and from the outset was met by the government with an opposition

equally obstinate and hypocritical. In order to prevent the virtual

abrogation of the law of 1850, to which France is now indebted for

such a gallant multitude of faithful instructors, the contest opened

by Father Lacordaire, in 1831, in the matter of the free schools, had

to be commenced anew. Deprived of their religious habit, and harassed

by incessant and discreditable vexations, Father Captier and his

companions nevertheless stood bravely at their post of honor. At last,

after two years of labor and experiment, they were permitted to enjoy

in peace the protection of the law, and to speak freely to their

pupils according to the inspiration of their hearts and their faith.

The establishment at Arcueil, founded in trouble, thenceforward

prospered without interruption, and grew apace under the watchful and

affectionate care of Father Captier. He seemed to know every member of

the community to his inmost heart. He cared for every one with a

religious and at the same time manly tenderness. There was not one to

whom he failed to do good. With the performance of these duties he

combined an active interest in all questions relating to the education

of youth, and opposed with all his might the encroachment of the

system of godless schools which has since been so audaciously imposed

upon Parisian families. Appointed a member of the Commission

d’Enseignement Supérieur, as the most thorough representative of the 614

free schools, he brought to the service of that board the experience

of twenty years, the devout aspirations of his holy community, and the

enthusiasm of a spirit earnest in the cause of enlightenment and holy

liberty. When he returned to his cell, he resumed the cares of a soul

which aimed to be wholly and profoundly immersed in the religious

life. He concerned himself about the progress of all his brethren and

pupils in observing the rules of the community, well knowing that the

best means of doing good to souls is to draw from God the courage and

the light which one needs in order to serve them.

Such was the state of affairs at Arcueil when the war broke out. The

school then contained nearly three hundred pupils. In an establishment

where religion and patriotism were both so warmly cherished, the first

thought of every one was to do his utmost to aid France in her

struggle against the foreigner. The pupils raised a large contribution

for the relief of the victims of the coming campaigns. The religious

gave their persons. Three of them joined the ambulances and passed the

winter on the fields of battle, while the others devoted themselves in

the college premises to taking care of the wounded victims of the

siege of Paris. About fifteen hundred sick and wounded soldiers were

thus treated in the college ambulance; and it was a devotion all the

more meritorious because Arcueil, situated on the French outposts, was

constantly under the fire of the German artillery.

After the siege, the school of Arcueil reopened its doors to pupils,

and in March resumed its classes and its regular life. Then came the

civil war. Placed between Fort Montrouge, Fort Bicêtre, and the

redoubt of Hautes Bruyères, the school found itself within the lines

of the Paris Commune. Instead of abandoning their house, the fathers

resolved to continue their services to the wounded. They displayed on

the front of the building the flag of the Geneva Convention, and, with

the aid of the assistant masters whom the peace had collected around

them, they began to traverse the battlefields on the south of Paris,

gathering up the wounded and burying the dead. Within the college, the

poor soldiers, whether regulars or federals, were tended by the

charitable hands of the Sisters of St. Martha. At first the communists

respected this self-sacrifice. The less violent of them were pleased

to be so well cared for by the Dominicans of Arcueil. Many

requisitions, nevertheless, were made upon the institution, and the

house was ransacked from top to bottom, but nothing was found in it

except the evidence of a charity which no rebuffs could discourage.

The religious continued with unremitting zeal to relieve the wounded

on the field of battle, and awaited patiently the triumph of justice

and liberty. A number of battalions of the National Guard were thus

brought into contact with the school. Several of them showed gratitude

and even a sort of sympathy, but so far as that went everything

depended upon the officers. Thus, the 101st Battalion, commanded by

one Cerisier, a convict “who had been three times sentenced to death,

and believed neither in God nor in man,” far from showing any

good-will, seemed hardly willing to forgive the religious for their

charitable labors in its behalf.

On the 17th of May, several events happened which greatly excited and

alarmed the insurgents. A cartridge factory exploded in the Avenue

Rapp, that is to say, within the _enceinte_ of Paris, and at least

six kilometres from Arcueil. Several posts in the valley of the Bièvre 615

were surprised and overpowered at the point of the bayonet. Finally, a

few paces from the school, the château of the Marquis de Laplace,

occupied by the federals as a barrack, was burned. It was determined

that the communists of Arcueil should be held to an accountability for

these wholly unconnected occurrences, and the federals required

nothing more to justify them in ordering an arrest.

On Friday, the 19th of May, between four and five o’clock in the

afternoon, the school of Arcueil, which then contained twenty wounded

brought in the night before from the field of battle, received a visit

from Citizens Leo Meillet and Lucy Pyat, envoys from the Commune of

Paris, and wearing the red scarf; Thaler, a Prussian, sub-governor of

the Fort of Bicêtre; and Cerisier, commander of the 101st Battalion of

the Paris National Guard. While these gentlemen were entering at the

main door, the 101st and 120th Battalions surrounded the premises,

broke down the enclosure, and forced their way in at every entrance,

leaving sentinels here and there with orders to shoot anybody who

attempted to go out. At the demand of Leo Meillet, Father Captier

presented himself. An order from the Commune was shown him, setting

forth no complaint or legal excuse, but commanding all the members of

the community, from the prior down to the last of the kitchen

servants, to submit themselves to the commands of the delegates. Half

an hour was granted them for the necessary preparations. The bell was

rung to call the household together, and Lucy Pyat, taking this for a

suspicious signal, threatened to shoot the child who had committed

such a crime. One by one, the religious, the assistant teachers, the

sisters, the domestics, and the seven or eight pupils remaining in

the house gathered around Father Captier. When the word was given to

depart, they all fell down upon their knees, and with tears in their

eyes asked his blessing. “My children,” he said to them, “you see what

has happened. No doubt you are going to be questioned; be frank and

sincere, as if you were speaking to your parents. Remember the counsel

they gave you when they trusted you to our care; and whatever happens,

bear in mind that you must be men who can live and can die like

Frenchmen and like Christians. Adieu! May the blessing of the Father,

the Son, and the Holy Ghost descend upon you, and remain with you

always, always!”

Then the fatal journey was arranged. The horses and wagons of the

school were seized, and the vehicles were first filled with the

sisters and female domestics. They were forbidden any communication

with each other by word or gesture, or any signal of farewell, under

penalty of being shot. They were taken first to the Conciergerie and

afterwards to Saint Lazare (the prison for abandoned women), whence

they were released on the Tuesday following by the arrival of the

Versailles troops, before the miscreants of the Commune could execute

the horrid threats of which they were the objects during these four

days. The pupils were also to have been carried off, but, thanks to a

misunderstanding on the part of the federal chiefs, their arrest was

suspended. Later it was proposed to convey them to the Hôtel de Ville,

and even to the barricades, but nothing was done, and they remained

tolerably at ease in a remote part of the house, under the signally

intelligent and devoted care of the young Jacques de La Perrière,

whose conduct in these trying days was above all praise. 616

When all the others were gone, the fathers, the professors, and the

male servants were brought down into the first court, and surrounded

by the men of the 101st and 120th Battalions. The door opened, and the

sad cortège began its march towards the Fort of Bicêtre, situated

three kilometres from the school. They first passed through the

streets of Arcueil. The inhabitants looked on in silence, though their

sympathies were all with the prisoners. “When they passed our door,”

said a poor woman, “and I saw Father Captier and all these messieurs,

who had done us so much good, marching in the midst of the muskets, I

imagined it was Jesus Christ with his disciples going to Jerusalem to

be crucified.” At Gentilly, which they were next obliged to traverse,

the popular feeling was very different, and the most outrageous

language was used towards the prisoners.

It was seven o’clock in the evening when the column arrived at the

fort. The captives were first locked up in a small room where,

insulted in the grossest manner, they were forced to wait their turn

to appear before the governor of the fort, and go through the

formality of registering on the books of the prison. These formalities

lasted a long time, the number was so large. Each man was submitted to

the pretence of an examination, though there was no question of any

crime or misdemeanor, nor any indictment whatever. Then they were

searched, and stripped of everything they carried (even the breviaries

were taken away), and conducted to Casemate No. 10, which faces the

entrance to the fort.[120] It was nearly midnight when Father Captier

and the other religious were placed here. Their companions followed in

small parties, and about two o’clock the door closed upon the last of

them. It was never to open for them again till they went out to their

death.

This first night was very severe. The casemate contained only a few

remnants of damp straw, already spoiled and broken up by some Bavarian

soldiers, and each man had to grope for a clean spot on the bare

floor. When morning came, they sought for some alleviation of their

wretched condition. By dint of earnest representation, they got some

bundles of fresh straw, and after a few days the breviaries were

restored to the religious. Father Captier succeeded in obtaining paper

and pencil, and addressed a communication to the governor of the fort.

He thus secured the liberation of two lads, Emile Delaitre and Paul

Lair, who had been imprisoned with the other servants of the school.

He had more difficulty in obtaining the favor of a serious

examination, for thus far the twenty-five prisoners were absolutely

ignorant of the cause of their arrest. Something, at any rate, was

granted: on Sunday afternoon, Fathers Captier and Cotrault were led

before Citizen Lucy Pyat, who, after a long conversation, informed 617

them that they were to be considered neither as condemned nor accused,

nor even prisoners, but they were merely held as witnesses. He was a

prophet, though he did not know it; for God had chosen them to bear

witness, with their blood, to the glory of his holy name.

It was hoped that the examinations would be resumed on the following

day (Monday), but this was not done. On the contrary, the officers in

command at the fort held no further communication with the prisoners.

It is probable that in thus keeping away they yielded to the wishes of

their men; for, while the officers preserved an appearance of civility

in the presence of the fathers, their subordinates constantly

redoubled their outrages, and took all pains to render them more and

more gross. Drunken and infamous creatures showed themselves every few

minutes before the windows of the casemate, jeering at the prisoners,

loading them with unmentionable epithets, or reading aloud, with

infinite gusto, the most shameless articles from the Communist

newspapers. One day, they saw the sub-governor of the fort, cap in

hand, ushering Father Captier into his prison after some sort of an

examination. This mark of respect so exasperated the federal soldiers

that they raised a great disturbance at the door of the casemate, and

thenceforth the provisions for the prisoners were regularly plundered

or intercepted on the way; for two days the captives were denied even

a cup of water. On Wednesday, the 24th, an execution took place in the

courtyard of the fort, directly under their eyes. It was made the

occasion of redoubled menaces and heartless allusions. The same day,

the Abbé Féron, chaplain of the Hospital of Bicêtre, went in search of

the governor of the fort, and asked to be entrusted with the custody

of the members of the Arcueil community, offering to answer for them

with his life until they could be judged. This generous effort was

unavailing. The Commune had already settled everything. The school was

to be pillaged and burned.[121] As for the prisoners, they belonged to

the 101st Battalion and its commander, who would dispose of them

according to circumstances.

What were the thoughts of the victims during this long week of agony?

Their companions in captivity tell us that a gentle cheerfulness never

ceased to prevail in that wretched dungeon. With the exception of some

of the servants, married men and fathers of families, whose attitude

and manner were somewhat gloomy and dejected, every one pursued his

ordinary way of life--not that they forgot or despised death, but

because they had offered to God the sacrifice of their lives for

France. The religious redoubled their usual devotion, encouraged each

other and exhorted their companions. Every evening they said the

rosary together, adding the usual mementos for their absent brethren.

From time to time, Father Captier, though completely broken down by

fatigue and privation, roused himself to give a pious reading, or to

address the words of life and salvation to those who looked up to him

as their chief. Outside, the federals gathered around to mock at their

prayers. One morning, when the horizon was red with flames in the

direction of Paris, Father Captier was pacing to and fro, saying his

office, and some one cried to him through the window, “Oh, yes! you

had better pray God not to let the torpedoes that the city is full of

explode!” “I am doing it,” answered the good father sadly and quietly;

and then, finishing his breviary, he asked his companions to pray with 618

him.

On Thursday, the 25th, at daybreak, an extraordinary activity was

observed inside the fortress. Guns were removed and spiked, and the

bugles blew the assembly. At one time, the prisoners believed that the

fort had been wholly evacuated, and they had only to wait the arrival

of the Versailles troops to secure’ their liberty.

But this hope was of short duration. A body of armed men appeared at

the door of the casemate in considerable confusion. As they had not

the keys, they forced an entrance with blows from the butt-ends of

their muskets, and ordered the captives to start immediately with the

column, which was retiring into Paris. “You are free,” said they,

“only we must not leave you in the hands of the Versaillists. You must

follow us to the _mairie_ of the Gobelins, and then you will go

to Paris, or wherever you like.”

The march was long and painful. Every instant the prisoners were

threatened with death. The women showed themselves especially furious,

and eager to witness the death of these men who wore a sacred garb.

They moved down towards the gate of Ivry, and on the road a few

rifle-shots from Bicêtre caused a little disturbance, of which Father

Rousselin took advantage to slip away and return to Arcueil. The

others continued their journey towards Paris. Arriving at the

_mairie_ of the Gobelins, in the midst of cries of “death!” from the

crowd maddened at the approach of the regular army, it was in vain

that they reminded their guard of the liberty promised them. They were

told, “The streets are not safe; you will be killed by the people;

remain here.” They were taken into the court of the _mairie_, and

made to sit on the ground, exposed to the falling shells. Here the

federals brought the corpses of their victims, to show “_ces canailles_”

how the Commune served its enemies. At the end of half an hour an

officer appeared, and took them to the _prison disciplinaire_ of the

9th _secteur_, No. 38 Avenue d’Italie. As soon as they entered, the

captives of Arcueil recognized the 101st Battalion and its chief,

Citizen Cerisier, that is, the same who had made their arrest. It was

then ten o’clock in the morning. About half-past two, a man in a red

shirt threw open the door of the hall, and cried out, “Get up,

_soutanes_; they are going to take you to the barricade.” The fathers

went out, and, with the Abbé Grancolas and the others, were conducted

towards the barricade thrown up in front of the _mairie_ of the

Gobelins. There they were offered muskets to fight with. “We are

priests,” said they, “and, besides, we are non-combatants in virtue of

our service in the ambulance. We shall not take arms. All that we can

do is to relieve your wounded and bear away the dead.” “Is this your

fixed purpose?” asked the officer of the Commune. “It is.” Then they

were taken back to the prison, with an escort of federals and women

armed with muskets. Once locked up, they thought of nothing but

preparations for the last journey. They all knelt, made a final

offering of the sacrifice of their lives, confessed, and received

absolution. They were not to have the dying Christian’s last

consolation, the divine viaticum. God did not judge this grace

necessary for them; and, besides, from the prison to heaven the

journey was to be so short!

About half-past four, a new order came from Citizen Cerisier. All the

prisoners filed out into the lane which leads up to the prison, while

the federals of the 101st Battalion loaded their muskets with 619

significant noise. Already every man was at his place. Platoons were

stationed at the corners of all the neighboring streets. It is said

that Citizen Cerisier sat in a carriage on the avenue, with a woman by

his side. This is the manner in which he presided over executions

under the Commune of Paris. Then the word of command was heard: “Go

out into the street, one by one!” Father Captier turned half round

towards his companions, and said, “Come, my friends; it is for the

good God!”

The massacre began at once. Father Cotrault went out first, and fell

mortally wounded. Father Captier was hit by a ball which broke his

leg, and was struck down by another ball at a distance of more than a

hundred metres, near the spot where the insurgents of June, 1848,

massacred General Bréa. Father Bourard, also, after receiving one

wound, was able to go a few steps in the same direction before he fell

under a second discharge. Fathers Delhorme and Chatagneret were shot

down instantly. M. Gauquelin fell with them. M. Voland and five of the

servants (Aimé Gros, Marce, Cheminal, Dintroz, and Cathala) went out

of the lane behind the fathers, and had time to cross the Avenue

d’Italie, but were killed before they could find shelter.

The other prisoners managed to escape.[122] The Abbé Grancolas, barely

touched by a bullet, got into a house, where a woman disguised him in

her husband’s clothes. M. Rézillot was only slightly wounded. MM.

Edouard Bertrand, Gauvin, Delaitre, Brouho, and Duché found shelter in

some of the houses or neighboring caves, and afterwards in the ranks

of the national army. How impenetrable are the designs of God! If he

had permitted our soldiers to arrive only one hour sooner, all the

martyrs of Arcueil would have been saved.

The fury of the assassins was not sated by the massacre. They fell

upon the bodies of the dead, tore off their clothing, pierced them

with bayonets, and with their axes broke their limbs and crushed their

bleeding heads. The soldiers of the 113th Regiment, who passed this

spot in triumph after surmounting the barricades, comprehended the

glorious fate of the martyrs, and, bending over them, took the

rosaries from their girdles, and divided them, bead by bead, as sacred

relics. But after they had gone their way, the work of profanation was

resumed, and for more than fifteen hours the bodies remained exposed

to every imaginable outrage.