“CELUI-LA FAIT LE CRIME A QUI LE CRIME SERT.”
Mr. Yorke was at the Seaton House when the Western mail-coach came in
Saturday morning, but Father Rasle was not a passenger. The mail
brought a letter from him to Edith, however, and her uncle took it
home to her immediately. She read aloud to the family his thanks for
their invitation, and his reasons for declining it. He would drive
over in his own buggy, he wrote, and would probably reach Seaton
before ten o’clock in the forenoon. Edith had better come to see him
in the morning, as he would then be more at leisure.
“Why, he must be here now!” Edith exclaimed, and ran up-stairs to
prepare herself for the visit.
If Mrs. Yorke and her daughters felt any sense of relief on learning 745
that they had escaped the danger which would have threatened them had
the priest been their guest, they did not express that feeling. They
were quite ready, in spite of the danger, to repeat the invitation.
Mr. Yorke alone sincerely regretted Father Rasle’s decision. Even
Edith, who knew nothing of the action of the town-meeting, perceived
that the priest’s place was with his own people.
“I have seen the sheriff and Dr. Willis, this morning,” Mr. Yorke
said, after his niece had left the room, “and they both agree in
thinking that Father Rasle will not be molested for coming here to
stay over one Sunday. They are probably right. The great objection is
to his settling here. Besides, he comes so quietly, his being here
will not be widely known. Half of his own people do not know that he
is coming.”
The two gentlemen named by Mr. Yorke were among the few who secretly
condemned the conduct of the town, but did not publicly avow their
sentiments, possibly because they knew that such a proclamation would
harm themselves without doing any good to Catholics. Aside from the
risk of violence to person or property, the physician would be accused
of bartering his principles for an increase of practice, the
politician of intriguing for the Irish vote. That any one could speak
a good word for the church or the Irish from a disinterested motive,
was not for a moment admitted.
The day was overcast, threatening rain; but to Edith Yorke it was as
though spring and sunshine were at the door; for Mother Church, long
exiled, bent once more toward her bereaved children.
“What I do not tell him voluntarily, he will ask,” she said to herself,
thinking of Father Rasle. “He will point out what has been wrong in
me, and reprove me once for all, and have done with it; and the fault
that is not mine, he will lift off my shoulders. It is very heavy!”
she whispered tremulously, and for a little while could say no more.
Edith was not breaking under her burden, but she was bending wearily,
and the constant weight of it had taken away all her elasticity, not
of spirits alone, but of body. While making her last examen of
conscience, she felt too weak to kneel, and sank into an arm-chair
instead, dropping her head back against the cushion, and closing her
eyes. So seen, the change in her face was startlingly evident. Her
manner was always so fresh, and her eyes and teeth lighted up her
smile so brilliantly, whether she spoke or listened, or only looked,
that one could not see that she was pale and thin. But the face that
lay against the chair-back was very pallid, and even the hands
stretched out on the arms of the chair looked sick.
“There are six sins that I am sure of, besides all the doubtful ones,”
she said presently, sitting up. “That takes all my right hand, and the
forefinger of my left hand. And now it is time to go.”
The shortest way to the house where Father Rasle was to stop led
through the wood-path that Edith and Dick had taken when he left her
after his first visit to Seaton. She recollected that walk as she
passed again through the forest, and murmured a tearful “Poor Dick!
where are you now?”
The trees were not, as then, bright with a prodigal splendor of color,
and steeped in mellow sunshine. The gold was tarnished, the reds
looked dark and angry, and the lowering sky seemed to press on the
branches. That silence which, in the glory of autumn, expresses 746
contentment with finished work and wishes fulfilled, seemed now to
mean only suspense or endurance. No leaf came floating trustfully down
to give its earth to earth, and free the imprisoned gold into its
native air; no gray squirrel was discovered gathering its store of
beech-nuts for the coming winter; no bird flitted about to take one
more look at its summer haunts. All was silent and deserted.
“You poor old woods! I know just how to pity you,” Edith said, looking
about. “But cheer up! These are the days in which Nature tells over
the sorrowful mysteries in her long rosary. Your garments are rent
away, and the thorns are on your head; but after all is ended, then
comes the glorious mystery of the spring resurrection. There! now I
have exhorted you, you may exhort me. If you have anything to say,
please to say it!”
And then the woods answered: “Child, I know my rosary all by heart,
for I have said it six thousand times--six thousand times, child, and
yet man will not listen. I tell of resignation and hope, and still his
ears are dull. I tell him that in obedience is wisdom, and in wisdom
contentment, and he does not cease to rebel. That is a sorrowful
mystery over which I grew sad many a time before the cross became the
sign of salvation. My very birds are wiser than the children of men;
my beasts less cruel. Do not blush, little one! It was your ignorance
that spoke, and not presumption. No fairer flower has bloomed in my
shadow than your loving thought. Cheer up! Hearts will find the way
when heads cannot; for when true love is blind, then an angel leads
it.”
“I thank you!” Edith said after having listened. “It is very true, our
teachers have a hard time with us. There is you, Mother Nature, with
your book full of pictures, to catch our eyes; and the church,
speaking our own language, to catch our ears; and conscience, with its
two words only, yes and no, to catch our thoughts, and we fight
against you all. I am very, very blind! Will some good angel lead me?”
She came out into East Street, and stood a moment on the spot where
she and Dick had stood to look at that exquisite bit of meadow. The
violet mist that had hung over it, like a parting soul over its body,
had long since dissolved, and the little incarnate song that had
floated there, yellow-winged and feathered, had been loosed into the
heavenly orchestra. Half-way down the hill, a footpath led off to the
left of the street, passed a few back-doors of houses on High Street,
and ended at the door of the house where Father Rasle was. She knew by
the buggy standing in the yard that he had come. If it had not been
there, the smiling face of the woman who stood in the door would have
told the story.
The woman stepped out to make way, and Edith ran in through the narrow
entry to the square room that was both kitchen and parlor.
“O father, father! A hundred thousand welcomes!” And then, between
grief and gladness, her voice was stopped.
“Dear child!” he said affectionately. “So you needed me very much?”
Several women were in the room. Some of them had arrived before the
priest came, nearly all of them had made their confession, but not one
could persuade herself to go away while she was allowed to remain.
They meant to stay till he should bid them go, and even then wait for
a second telling. To see their beloved pastor, to hear him speak, to 747
repeat over and over their demonstrative welcome, was a happiness
which they would fain prolong.
The host and hostess were in their best attire. They had given up all
other occupation to the supreme one of entertaining their priest.
Their faces shone with a proud delight, their poor house was
scrupulously clean, and, though Father Rasle was known to be
abstemious, they had gone to the extent of their means for his
entertainment.
The priest talked jestingly to the women to cheer them. “What is it
that you cry about? But you need not tell me, for I know. It is
because you have had nothing but hard words and the absence of your
priest to bear. You cry because you were not blown up in the
schoolhouse, or did not have your heads broken in the church. Or
perhaps you were in hopes that I should come, and find you all strung
up to the branches of trees. That is the finest fruit that a tree can
bear--a martyr. The Bread of Life grew on the tree of the cross.
Courage! They have not done with you yet. Make a good communion
to-morrow, and afterward keep yourselves free from sin, and then, when
I come again. I may have the happiness of finding all your bodies hung
to trees, and all your souls in Paradise.
“Now, you two who have not been to confession will confess at once.
Then I want every one of you to go home. I have to talk to that little
girl.”
“That little girl” seated herself in the midst of these poor women,
who smilingly made room for her--they were not jealous of her--and all
turned their faces away from Father Rasle, and sat silently looking
into the fire while the confessions were finished. And at last Edith
found herself free to tell all her story to the priest.
The Catholics of Seaton could not, if they would, have concealed from
their enemies that Father Rasle had come. Their joyful faces would
have betrayed the secret if their lips had remained silent. All who
could do so laid their work aside, and gathered in knots in the lane,
or visited each other’s houses, to talk the matter over. They smiled
and nodded to each other in the street with a significance which every
one understood. Poor souls! to the cruel eyes that watched them their
pathetic and sacred delight was a crime; their silence, treachery.
Toward evening the scattering visitors who had taken their way during
the day to the house under the hill became a steady stream. It looked
as though every Catholic in Seaton was going to confession. It looked,
too, as though every Protestant in Seaton was willing that they
should, for no one molested them, and the town was perfectly quiet.
Those who had been anxious ascribed this quietude to the weather, and
congratulated themselves that the threatening rain prevented any
gathering of their persecutors.
At nine o’clock the crowd around the house where the priest was began
to thin off. The road by which they sought their homes that night was
a _via sacra_; for, newly shriven, and moved to the depths of their
hearts, they carried with them, every one, the memory of an earnest
exhortation to humility and forgiveness, and resignation to the will
of God. At half-past ten only three or four women were left in the
house, and the rain was beginning to fall outside. The confessions
were over, Mrs. Kent had set out a late supper for Father Rasle, since
he would have to fast till noon of the next day, and he was standing 748
to say good-night to the last of his visitors, who even now seemed
unwilling to leave him. While he spoke to them, some one was heard
running toward the house, and the next minute a man burst into the
room, breathless, and bespattered with mud.
“They are coming!” he gasped out. “Run for your life, father!”
In the midst of the outcry that rose from those present, Father Rasle
stood fixed and silent. Perhaps he was startled at the sudden and
unexpected announcement; perhaps his color had changed; but there was
no other sign of excitement. He calmly questioned the man, and learned
that a mob of fifty or more masked men were rapidly approaching the
house.
“And they will kill you, father,” the messenger concluded. “They don’t
put on masks and come at night to break windows. They can do that in
broad daylight. For God’s sake, save yourself!”
“They shall take me where I am,” the priest said firmly. “It is the
will of God. I will not resist, and I have nowhere to fly to.”
“Here is hot water. Put on more!” cried one of the women. We’ll scald
them!” And instantly they took the boiling tea-kettle from the fire,
and put cold water to heat.
“Run over to the lane, and rouse the people!” cried another. “They’ll
kill everybody in the town in your defence, father, if you say the
word.”
“My children, I command you to use no violence, and make no
resistance,” the priest said with authority. “If the people rise, it
will be to their own destruction. Pray! It is all that you can do.”
They fell on their knees, weeping loudly as they heard the muffled
tramp of many feet outside. But one said, “The cellar! the cellar!”
and Mr. Kent, catching the priest’s arm, almost forced him toward the
cellar-door. It was a pitiful hiding-place; but Father Rasle had no
time for any thought except that, if there were a chance of escape, it
was his duty to take advantage of it.
Scarcely had he disappeared, before the outer door was thrust open,
and the room was filled with men wearing crape masks. They came in
silently and swiftly, and as swiftly their companions outside
surrounded the house, and stationed themselves at each window to bar
all egress.
It was not in the hearts of these poor people to utter no word of
reproach to the perpetrators of such an outrage, even though the
priest had commanded their silence. Mrs. Kent pointed to one man after
another, calling him by name. “I know you under your mask!” she cried.
“And the Almighty would find you if I didn’t.”
No one replied to her. The only one of the mob who spoke was he who
seemed to be their leader. “Where is the priest?” he asked.
Of course no one told him.
The lower rooms and the attic were searched, and there remained but
one place. The hearts of the Christians died within them as the leader
of the mob took a candle from the table, and went toward the
cellar-door. A girl who was near the door caught up a chair to defend
the passage, but another took it from her, and pulled her down to her
knees. The next moment Father Rasle was led out amid the sobs and
prayers of his children. He was very pale, but perfectly calm, and,
like his divine Master, he uttered not a word. But as the mob
surrounded and led him away, he cast one glance on those who knelt and
stretched their clasped hands toward him, and raised his hand in
silent benediction. That he was being led to death, neither he nor 749
they doubted. And they had no reason to doubt it. What violence, short
of murder, had these men any reason to fear to do in open daylight?
And might they not well believe that even the murderer could escape if
he had only the law against him? This was not true only of Seaton.
Many a Catholic priest in the United States, at that time, owed the
preservation of his life, not to a fear of the law, but to a fear of
Catholic vengeance.
They did not take their victim through the lane which Edith had
followed, but through a shorter one leading to High Street. The family
living in the house at the corner of this street were well-bred
people, and, though Protestants, friends to Father Rasle. He had been
received in that house as a guest; and now, seeing a light in one of
the rooms, the instinct of preservation rose, and forced a cry from
him. “Save me!” he cried out, calling the man by name.
Those nearest immediately silenced him with threats. If he spoke
again, they said, they would kill him on the spot.
His voice had not been heard, and the faint hope faded as quickly as
it had risen.
They avoided the thickly-settled part of the town, and took their way
down one of the back streets leading to the river. Half-way down they
met a man on horseback, carrying a lantern. He held the light up, and
asked whom they had there.
“No one,” they replied, making haste to conceal their prisoner. “We
have no one with us.”
Not till too late did Father Rasle know that he had missed another
chance of escape, and that it was the sheriff who had met them.
The mob, feeling now secure of their prey, could indulge in revilings.
“So they persecuted Jesus of old,” said one, with a laugh.
“Will the Virgin save you?” asked another.
But enough. One does not repeat the talk of those through whose lips
the arch-fiend speaks without disguise. They reviling, and he praying,
disappeared in the darkness and the storm.
Edith Yorke had passed that evening in her own room. It had been her
custom to keep the eve of her communions in retirement, and to-night
she had more than ordinary food for reflection. It was almost eleven
o’clock when she began to prepare herself for bed, but she still heard
her aunt and Clara up downstairs. Mrs. Yorke had not been well, and,
unwilling that her husband should lose his rest, had sent him upstairs
to sleep, and kept Clara with her. Edith was just thinking that she
had a mind to go down and see how her aunt was, when she heard the
small gate of the avenue open, and shut again instantly, as if some
one had run through.
Her window was partly raised. She threw it up, and stepped out on to
the top of the portico. Her heart divined the danger at once. Already
the messenger was half-way up the avenue, and, before she could see
that it was a woman, she heard her panting breath and half-exhausted
voice: “Help! They are killing Father Rasle!”
A faintness as of death swept over Edith. She would have spoken, but
could only sink on her knees and lean over the railing. Mrs. Yorke,
too, had heard the click of the gate, and had opened the sitting-room
window, and Edith heard her voice and Clara’s. To them the woman told
her story.
“Do not speak loudly,” Mrs. Yorke said. “Mr. Yorke and Edith must not 750
know. They can do no good, and would only make trouble. Clara, go and
wake Patrick, and do it quietly. I tell you, my poor woman, my husband
could do nothing, and I shall not allow him to be called.”
Edith grew strong the moment she knew the truth. The woman had left
the house before Father Rasle did, and a rescue might still be
possible. She opened her door noiselessly, stepped out, and closed it
after her; then fled down the back-stairs, out through the back-door,
and down the avenue to the upper gate. Reaching the road, she flew
over it with winged feet. At North Street, instead of going down
toward the centre of the town, she crossed to a lumber-road leading to
the river. The bridge was far below, but one who dared could go over
here on the boom that kept the logs. Edith dared, considering the
peril not worth a thought. When some bugle-toned reveille of the soul
wakes up our slumbering faith, then miracles become possible.
The bank was high on the eastern side, and the descent was by two
immense timbers, or masts, chained together and chained to the shore
at the upper end, and to the boom at the lower. The inclination was
steep, and those who walked through the air on that slippery bridge
stepped warily even by day, timing their steps to the heavy vibrations
of the timber. But Edith ran fleetly down, and sprang on to the
swaying boom ankle-deep in water. Lumber-mills above and below sent
out their long lines of red light through the misty darkness, and the
noise of their saws was like the grinding of teeth. The logs knocked
against each other with a dull thump as the river flowed, and here and
there little spaces of water glistened. To slip into one of those black
holes was death. You miss the boom, and step on a log instead, and,
unless you are a practised log-walker--possibly, too, if you are--the
log rolls, you go under, and there is an end of you. You cannot scream
when you are under water; you cannot rise to the surface, for the logs
keep you down, or close together and crush you, and no one can see
you.
The boom did not reach straight but zigzagged across the river, the
lengths chained together, but not closely, and hidden under water. In
those spaces, the logs, trying to get through, pushed their bobbing
ends up, and tempted the foot. More than once Edith’s foot was in that
trap, but she did not sink till just as she reached the western bank.
Then, as she went down, she caught an overhanging sapling, and drew
herself to land, wet to the waist.
Irish Lane did not reach so far up, by about a quarter of a mile, and
there was no road, the way being pasture and ledge. As Edith reached
the upper end of the lane, some one else came into it from the lower
end, next the bridge, and she heard a woman’s voice lamenting. She did
not stop for lamentation, but ran from house to house, bidding them
come out and save Father Rasle.
They gathered immediately, asking questions all in confusion, knowing
not which way to go, but ready to follow her lead. Had they no rifles
nor pistols? No; why should they have them? An Irishman’s weapon was
his fist and a cudgel, and whatever he could catch by the way.
An Irishman, indeed, usually goes into battle first, and arms himself
afterward.
But the enthusiasm which Edith’s words had kindled the other messenger
soon quenched. It was too late to save him, she said. He had been 751
carried away, they knew not whither. Of course he must be dead long
before that time. And he had bid them farewell, and commanded them to
use no violence--to do nothing but pray.
Edith heard no more. The hand that, in her earnestness, she had laid
on some one’s arm, slipped off, and she dropped to the ground without
a word.
It was more than half-past eleven o’clock, and raining quite hard, and
the wind had begun to rise. Broken and dispirited, the Catholics went
into their houses again, but not to sleep. In one of these houses
Edith opened her eyes, and saw about twenty persons gathered, some
bending over her, others praying, others walking about and wringing
their hands. She got up. “I wish that you would all kneel down, and
say the litany of our Lord Jesus,” she said. “I am going to find
Father Rasle.”
It needed only that something should be proposed for them to do. The
man of the house took his prayer-book, and they all knelt. Others came
in and filled the room, frightened children cowering close to their
elders, and watching the door, as if they expected to see a foe enter.
Edith went slowly out. One of the women had kindly put a shawl over
her shoulders, but she was quite unconscious of the storm. The town
clock was striking twelve, and as she stopped to count its strokes,
the chorus of praying voices reached her through the open door:
“Jesus, King of Glory, have mercy on us!
Jesus, the Sun of Justice, have mercy on us!”
“O Sun of Justice!” she repeated, and lifted her clasped hands.
She went on, but heard again, in a pause of the storm:
“Jesus, most patient, have mercy on us!
Jesus, most obedient, have mercy on us!”
“Ah! yes, patience! It is not for us to invoke justice,” she thought.
“‘Enter not into judgment with thy servant, O Lord! for in thy sight
shall no man living be justified.’”
The road was heavy with mud, and in the darkness she scarcely could
find her way. Only the occasional twinkle of a lighted window told
where it did not lie. She went wearily, for the spirit that had
sustained her while there was hope failed now, and the storm grew
every minute worse. In another lull there came again, more faintly:
“Jesus, the good Shepherd, have mercy on us!
Jesus, the true Light, have mercy on us!”
At that tender petition the tears started forth, and she walked on
weeping. They were indeed as sheep among wolves. The blast almost
swept her off her feet, and in some sudden current snatched the sound
of prayer, and brought it to her once more, clearly as if it had been
cried in her very ears:
“Jesus, the Strength of martyrs, have mercy on us!”
The wind went sighing off to right and left, and opened a pathway of
calm before her, in which she walked firmly, wiping her tears away,
and taking courage again.
At the entrance to the lane, near the bridge, she paused and looked
back. All was darkness there, but out of the dakness came faintly,
“Lamb of God--” It was all she heard, and it was all! It meant
patience, humility, immolation, and final triumph.
The cottage where Father Rasle had been was all alight when Edith came
in sight of it, and as she approached the door a man came out and
almost ran against her.
“Where is he?” she asked. 752
“Why, Miss Edith!” exclaimed Patrick Chester.
She only repeated her question.
“He has come back,” Patrick answered, “and Dr. Willis is with him.”
“Will he die?” she whispered.
“No, Miss Edith; but he has been vilely used. He was out two hours in
this storm. He found his way back more dead than alive. He has been
tarred and feathered.”
She cried out in disgust: “The brutes! They were, then, too base for
murder!”
“You may say that,” Patrick answered. “But now come home. You can’t
see him, you know.”
But she would not go till she had heard his voice, and Patrick was
obliged to go back to the entry with her. The entry was filled with
men and women, all listening for any news that might reach them. The
door was ajar into the kitchen, where two or three men were admitted.
The priest was with the doctor in an inner room.
“You had better drink this,” they heard Dr. Willis say; and Father
Rasle’s voice replied: “No, doctor. It is after twelve o’clock, and I
must say Mass to-morrow.”
“But, if you do not take it, you may be very sick,” the doctor
persisted.
“I cannot take it,” Father Rasle said again. “My people must not be
disappointed.”
“Thank God, it is really he!” Edith exclaimed. “Come, Patrick, we will
go home now.”
Mrs. Yorke, fearing to alarm her husband, had put out the lights, and
Edith, seeing the house all dark, took no precaution to conceal
herself in approaching it. The first notice she had, therefore, that
any of the family were awake, was her aunt’s frightened voice calling
from the open window of the sitting-room, “Is it Edith? Has Edith been
out?”
“Yes, but I am safe back, auntie,” she made haste to say; “and
everything is right.”
Clara, Melicent, and Betsey were there. No one in the house slept but
Mr. Yorke and the two Pattens, and, since the worst was probably over,
it was not so much matter now if they waked. So a large fire was
kindled, and Edith’s dripping garments taken off, while Patrick told
his story. Then she also told where she had been, and smiled at their
terror.
“But to cross the river on the logs and boom!” her aunt cried. “Why,
child, your escape is a miracle! If you had fallen in, you would
surely have been drowned.”
“I could not have drowned tonight,” Edith answered. “If I had fallen
in, I should have set the river on fire.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
----------
THE DUTIES OF THE RICH IN CHRISTIAN SOCIETY. 753
NO. II.
POLITICAL DUTIES.
In order to discuss clearly and profitably the various duties of the
rich in Christian society, it is necessary to distinguish and divide
them into distinct classes, and under the classes to separate
particular duties from each other. We shall make our division on the
principle of proceeding from the most general, or those which relate
to society in its most extensive sense, to those which are less
general, relating to society in its more specific and determinate
sense, and finally to those which are the most particular, relating to
separate portions and members of society, to the family and to the
individual.
Society, in the most extensive sense with which we are concerned in
these essays, is political society as organized in our own republic by
federal, state, and municipal constitutions and laws. We venture to
assume that it may be called a Christian society. It is so, however,
in a wider, more general, and less determinate sense than the church,
or than a purely Catholic state. We call it a Christian society, in
this sense, that its fundamental moral principles have been derived
from the Christian law; that its organic life is an outcome from
Christian civilization. It does not, however, exclude from itself
those who are not Christians, provided they conform to its moral
principles and to the laws founded upon them. A Catholic citizen has
duties to a state which is pagan. He has duties to a state which
professes to be Christian, but adopts a schismatical or heretical
perversion of Christianity as the religion of the state. But he has
many more duties, because he stands in a much closer and more
honorable relation to a state which is based on the moral principles
of Christianity, and not identified with any ecclesiastical form which
is hostile to his conscience. All Catholic citizens of our republic
have political duties, modified, multiplied, and intensified by the
extent and quality of the rights which they possess, and the greatness
of the interests which they have at stake in the welfare of the
commonwealth. The wealthy class have in common with their
fellow-citizens all these duties, and additional ones peculiar to
themselves.
The general reasons which prove this last proposition apply with equal
force to all who belong to the wealthy class, even though they do not
profess to be, in any sense of the term, Christians. The first of
these reasons is, that the rich have succeeded in great measure to the
advantages formerly possessed by the class of nobles. Even in those
countries where the noble class still subsists, it is chiefly as a
wealthy and educated class, and by the personal superiority of
individuals belonging to it in the professions of arms and
statesmanship, that it wields actual power. Moreover, the wealthy
_bourgeoisie_ has gained ground upon it and invaded its formerly
exclusive sphere, winning for itself, as in England, for instance, a 754
place in the real aristocracy. In our own country, where hereditary
rank does not exist, it has a clear field. It has no special rights in
the political order, and is not, therefore, strictly and completely
the successor of the noble class in our ancestral British
constitution. Yet, by the very fact of being a wealthy class, it does
possess, and ought to possess, a certain pre-eminence, influence, and
real though indirect power in public affairs. Men of superior
intellectual ability, men of learning and letters, those who fill the
higher professional positions, and office-holders, belong to the same
class; partly because their position in many instances gives them at
least a moderate share of wealth, but chiefly because they have power
by their very position, and are able to influence and direct the
disposition of wealth even when they do not personally possess it. By
this very fact, they have duties to the commonwealth--they are not
mere private persons, but public persons. They are important and
distinguished members of the community, and, as such, have a greater
responsibility to society and the state than others. This will not be
disputed as a general statement. We do not intend to go into a minute
and detailed exposition of all the particulars which it includes and
comprehends. We confine ourselves, for the present, to certain
specific duties of those who are rich in the literal and technical
sense. And what we have to say of them is, that they ought to fulfil
the duties which were annexed to the privileges of the class to which
they succeeded, in so far as they have inherited those privileges.
However grossly feudal barons may have in a multitude of instances
abused their privileges and their powers, the Christian idea of their
state was always that their privileges and powers were entrusted to
them for the common good. Sound political philosophy and common sense
accord with the higher teaching of Christianity. It would be,
therefore, a great change for the worse, a miserable regression in
civilization, if a mere moneyed aristocracy, possessing privileges
without corresponding duties, took the place of an aristocracy of
birth, obliged by its nobility to render the most important services
to the state. A mere _caste_ existing for itself, having no end but
the selfish exaltation and enjoyment of its members, with no purpose
except to live in fine houses, wear fine clothes, drink choice wines,
drive about in sumptuous equipages, and finally get buried in great
pomp under stately monuments, would be the most anti-Christian, the
most despicable, the most odious of constitutions--and would be
_succeeded by Communism_.
The rich have political duties: they are bound to be a bulwark and a
tower of strength to the state, an ornament to the commonwealth not
only bright, but useful; as a quaint epitaph of the seventeenth
century designates a certain eminent citizen, “_of Hartford Town the
Silver Ornament_.” We presuppose in those men of wealth of whom we
speak, as a matter of course, honesty and probity. Swindlers,
gamblers, dishonest speculators, bribe-takers, and the whole set of
vampires swollen with the blood of the state and of individuals, are
excluded. It is those who have inherited or acquired their wealth
honestly who are able to serve the state. It is not necessary to go
more into detail regarding the ways and methods in which they can do
so. We are content merely to indicate their ability and obligation to
do it in general terms, and pass on to other topics.
One of these other topics relates to a duty of Catholic citizens which 755
is properly classed under the head of political duties, but which we
do not consider precisely as a duty to the state as such, but as one
which Catholics owe to themselves, to their own personal rights of
conscience, and to religion. We call it, nevertheless, a political
duty, because it has to be performed by them as citizens, and in the
exercise of their political rights. This is the duty of guarding and
defending their liberty of conscience against any encroachment which
may be attempted by any political party, or any legislation contrary
to the letter or spirit of our fundamental law. This duty, which is
one of all Catholic citizens indiscriminately, devolves especially on
those whose wealth, education, intellectual power, or social and
political position gives them a special opportunity and ability to
fulfil it. Such persons are the natural chiefs and leaders of the
Catholic laity; they are in the front rank; and they are bound to give
the example, encouragement, and direction to the great body which they
need and justly look for.
What can be more base and cowardly than for those who have a higher
place in society than their fellows, and who have ordinarily risen
from the ranks of the poor, laboring class of our Catholic people, to
desert or regard with apathy that sacred cause for which their
ancestors suffered and died, and for the sake of which they have
sought an asylum in this free country, where they have found success
and prosperity? Here they have found that inestimable boon, liberty of
conscience, freedom to profess and practise their religion, and to
provide for their posterity the means of doing the same. They are
bound to use all the power and influence which God has given
them to preserve and perpetuate these rights, and to protect the more
helpless classes of their fellow-Catholics, the poor, the orphans, the
sick, the outcasts of society, in the enjoyment of their religious
rights. This includes a great deal. First and foremost at the present
moment is liberty of education. Besides this, there are the rights of
religious instruction and sacraments for those who are in the army and
navy, in hospitals, asylums, and prisons, and in those institutions
where children are justly or unjustly placed by the civil authority as
vagrants. In short, everywhere, where the state takes hold of the
individual, or exercises a right of control over any lesser
corporation which takes hold of him, in such a way that there is a
chance for tyranny over his conscience, and the violation or
abridgment of his religious rights and liberty in the interest of
sectarianism or secularism, it is the duty of the most eminent
Catholic laymen to become, together with their bishops and priests,
the champions of the oppressed.
Does any one say that there is no need of vigilance or action, because
there is no danger that our rights will be disregarded or infringed?
We think he is in error. “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.”
And as one proof that Catholics in this republic have need to exercise
this vigilance, we will cite an example of the disastrous consequences
which have followed from the neglect of it in another republic.
The Confederation of the Swiss Cantons established and guaranteed in
the most solemn and explicit manner the liberty of religion for
Catholics and Protestants alike. Nevertheless, the liberty of the
Catholic Church has been taken away in the most flagrant manner, even
in the Catholic Cantons, by tyrannical federal and cantonal 756
legislation. Fifty religious establishments were suppressed at one
blow. Since that time,--that is, since 1848--religious houses and
schools have been forcibly suppressed at Ascona, Lugano, Mendrisio,
and Bellinzona, and the diocesan seminaries at Pollegio and Aargau.
Nearly all the Catholic schools in most of the mixed cantons have been
changed into mixed schools, and in Thurgau they have been all
suppressed. No priest can be admitted to the exercise of his functions
who has studied at any Jesuit college. The catechism of the bishop in
whose diocese Aargau is situated, the Bible History of Schuster, and
the Moral Theologies of Gury and Kenrick, have been interdicted by the
civil authority. Prohibitions have been issued against missions,
retreats, the publication of the Jubilee, and the devotions of the
Month of Mary. In Aargau, no youth can embrace the ecclesiastical
state without the leave of the cantonal assembly, before which august
and holy tribunal he must pass two examinations. In the Catholic
canton of Ticino, the cantonal assembly arrogates to itself the right
of changing the destination of religious foundations, fixing and
regulating the election, installation in benefices, and official
functions of beneficiaries, erecting new parishes and abolishing
existing ones. The _placet_ of the civil authority is requisite for
all ecclesiastical decrees of the bishops and the Pope under penalty
of fines varying from five to five thousand francs. In several cantons
civil marriage is obligatory. In short, the Catholics of Switzerland
are in an enslaved and insupportable condition, as is proved by a
memorial of the whole body of the Swiss Episcopate, in which these and
many other particulars are given.[158]
The profession of liberalism affords no guarantee to Catholics against
the most flagrant and cruel oppression. Neither is there any security
in the mere fact that the form of government is democratic or
republican. Everywhere, as well in countries called Catholic as in
those which are not, under republican as well as under monarchical
constitutions, the price of liberty is unceasing vigilance and
activity. Catholics must rely entirely on themselves, and not delegate
the office of protecting them to any party or ruling power. This is
necessary in the United States as well as in Switzerland. We do not
ascribe to the majority of the non-Catholic citizens of our federal
republic or of any state a disposition to abridge our liberty. But it
is not the majority which really governs. Principles, maxims,
arguments, watch-words, measures, are initiated by a few persons.
Majorities are carried along by leaders, orators, writers for the
press, they know not why, how, or toward what end. There is danger,
therefore, though not from the American people, from the masters of
state-craft, but from restless, revolutionary spirits, from violent
sectarian leaders, from ambitious demagogues, from parties which may
start up and be violently impelled by sudden excitements.
The conclusion of all this is, that the _élite_ of the Catholic laity
are bound to understand the sound Catholic principles of public law
and right which are involved in the relation of liberty of conscience
and religion to the sovereignty of the state, under our American
republican institutions. They are bound to instruct those who are
uneducated in their rights and obligations as citizens. They are bound
to set before the public the grounds and reasons of Catholic rights, 757
as based on the natural and divine law, and the American constitution.
And they are bound to exclude unprincipled, ignorant demagogues from
the leadership of the Catholic people by taking it themselves, and in
that position opposing with all their might every political scheme for
giving the state a usurped power over conscience and religion. Those
who are incapable of doing anything else in this direction can at
least aid by their wealth the Catholic press in diffusing true and
just ideas, and advocating Catholic rights.
[158] See _Dublin Review_ for October, 1871.
----------
TRAVELS IN THE AIR.
About ninety years ago, on the memorable 21st of November, 1783, the
Parisian world had a sensation which can never be repeated. On that
day, men for the first time dared to trust themselves in a balloon,
which was to be freed entirely from the earth, and take, as we may
say, its chance as to the time and manner in which it was to return to
it. One can easily imagine the intense excitement and admiration which
must have filled the hearts of the spectators, and the feelings of
triumph, though mingled, it must needs have been, with some
apprehension, on the part of the occupants of the car, the Marquis
d’Arlandes and M. Pilâtre de Rozier, when they for the first time,
trusting themselves to the care of their new machine, invented only a
few months previously, were carried by it into the unknown region of
the clouds. Fortunately, this first free ascent was a success; if it
had not been, who knows how long further experiments in aeronautics
might have been postponed by prohibitory laws or by the fears of men,
both of which would certainly have been quite justifiable? As it was,
this first excursion served as a stimulus to other attempts, and the
number which have been made since then is beyond all estimate. It is
certain, however, that the immense majority of them have been every
way as successful as this first one was, and many, of course, very
much more so. The danger of balloon ascents is really very trifling;
accidents occur hardly once in a hundred times, and very seldom, when
they do occur, involve the loss of life. It is hardly more dangerous
to travel by balloon than by railway or steamer, and certainly very
much more agreeable.
If our reader desires a most convincing proof of this last statement,
we cannot do better than to refer him to a book bearing the title
which stands at the head of this article, and imported by Lippincott &
Co. We must confess to having become somewhat enthusiastic on the
subject of balloons since reading this book, and hardly think any one
else who even looks at it can fail to have something of the same
feeling. By a mere glance at it one is introduced to quite a new
world, and to read it is the next best thing to going up above
the clouds one’s self. It is illustrated by six beautiful
chromo-lithographs, and has a hundred and twenty other illustrations.
Mr. Glaisher, the editor, is a thoroughly scientific man, possessed of 758
remarkable steadiness and coolness, as his name would imply, and as
the accounts of his voyages sufficiently demonstrate. He is one of the
best meteorologists in the world, and it is in the interests of
science that his ascents have been made. But, together with the
accounts of his own excursions, he gives others by three French
gentlemen, also accomplished aeronauts, and whose enthusiasm on the
subject almost equals our own, and practically perhaps surpasses it,
for we find that M. Tissandier seems to have had no objection to
starting from Calais when the wind was blowing straight out toward the
German Ocean. These gentlemen, MM. Flammarion, De Fonvielle, and
Tissandier, just named, often made long journeys, landing at a point
quite remote from that of starting--a thing almost out of the question
for Mr. Glaisher, for, as he pathetically remarks, “whatever part of
England we start from, in one hour we may be over the sea.” His
endeavor rather was, in the short time allotted him, to rush for the
upper regions of the atmosphere, in order that he might there, as well
as on the way up and down, make observations on temperature,
electricity, magnetism, sound, solar radiation, the spectrum, ozone,
direction of wind (for this, as before remarked, his opportunity was
limited), actinic effects of the sun, density of the clouds, etc., and
he consequently went up quite beleaguered with instruments, as the
illustration “Mr. Glaisher in the car” clearly shows. The effects of
great elevation on the human constitution naturally did not escape his
attention, nor that of his companion and aeronaut, Mr. Coxwell; he
says that, on one occasion, “at the height of three miles and a half,
Mr. Coxwell said my face was of a glowing purple, and higher still,
both our faces were blue. Truly a pleasing state of things!”
But three miles and a half was a small elevation for Mr. Glaisher. In
several of his ascents, he rose to the height of about five miles, on
one occasion meeting with dense clouds all the way up. Certainly such
clouds are not common, except in “our old home”; but such a day as
that must have been even an Englishman could hardly have called
“fine.” His third ascent, on September 5, 1862, was the most
interesting of all; in this he rose to the astonishing height of
_seven miles_, or 37,000 feet. Probably our readers have generally
been accustomed to see in their atlases, by the side of the enormous
congeries of mountains which usually forms the frontispiece, a small
picture of a balloon, with “highest point ever reached by man,” or
words to that effect, appended to it, at the elevation of 23,000 feet;
with a reference to the name of Gay-Lussac. But this ascent, made on
September 15, 1804, is entirely insignificant now, compared with this
stupendous one, to a point a mile and a half above the summit of the
Himalaya Mountains, into regions where only one-quarter of the
atmosphere lay above the aeronauts, and where it was rarefied about in
the same proportion. If their faces were blue at four miles, what were
they now?
The account of this ascent is very exciting, and at the same time
places Mr. Glaisher’s qualities as an observer in the most favorable
light. In company with Mr. Coxwell, who was his pilot as usual, he
left Wolverhampton at about one o’clock, and attained the height of
five miles in about fifty minutes. Think of that, compared with the
trouble of ascending an Alpine peak, where, after many hours of most 759
exhausting labor, one can only get three miles above the sea! And Mr.
Glaisher, instead of having to strain every muscle in his body, was
able to sit quiet, and calmly observe the barometer, thermometer, etc.
The balloon was, however, revolving so rapidly that he failed in
taking photographic views. Mr. Coxwell had more exhausting work in the
management of the balloon, and was panting for breath when they were
three miles high. For two miles more, however, Mr. Glaisher “took
observations with comfort.” But, “about 1h. 52m., or later,” he made
his last reading; after this he could not see the divisions of the
instruments, and asked Mr. Coxwell to help read them. They probably
were beginning to think it was time to see about coming down; but in
order to do so, the valve-rope had to be pulled, and it was caught in
the rigging above, owing to the rotatory motion of the balloon. The
thermometer was about ten degrees below zero; Mr. Glaisher was fast
becoming insensible, and Mr. Coxwell’s hands were almost useless from
numbness. Still, something had to be done, for they were rising a
thousand feet every minute; and accordingly, Mr. Coxwell climbed into
the ring of the balloon, and pulled the rope with his teeth. He has
the proud distinction of having been five or six feet higher above the
earth than any other man, for of course they immediately began to
descend. On coming back to the car, he found his companion quite
insensible; after a few minutes, Mr. Glaisher came to himself, as they
sank from that terrible elevation, to which it is probably impossible
for man safely to ascend. But, like a thoroughly scientific man, as he
is, he had observed his sensations to the last. First, his arms and legs
gave out; and his neck became weak, so that his head fell over to
one side; he shook himself, and noticed that he “had power over the
muscles of his back, and considerably so over those of the neck.” This
suddenly left him, however, and the sense of sight immediately
afterward; as for hearing, he could not tell, as there was probably
nothing to hear at that height. He fell back helpless, resting his
shoulder on the edge of the car. The next words he heard were
“temperature” and “observation”; it can hardly be supposed that these
were the first words Mr. Coxwell employed to rouse him, though they
were probably the best. Then “the instruments became dimly visible.”
Immediately on recovering, he says: “I drew up my legs, which had been
extended, and _took a pencil in my hand to begin observations_.” Is
not this characteristic?
Perhaps it may not be clear how it can be proved that the height of
seven miles was attained on this occasion. It is, of course, well
known that the elevation of a balloon is determined, as that of a
mountain-peak usually is, by the barometer; and this method is very
accurate, though, if there be a rapid motion upward or downward, the
barometer may lag a little. Still, it gives the absolute height, and
also the rate of ascent or descent, with sufficient accuracy for all
practical purposes. By this instrument Mr. Glaisher had found that,
just before he became insensible, they were 29,000 feet high, and
ascending at the rate of 1,000 feet a minute; when he recovered after
the lapse of thirteen minutes, they were 26,000 feet high, and
descending 2,000 feet a minute. These data are sufficient to determine
the greatest height attained; but Mr. Coxwell also, on coming down
from the ring, happened to glance at the aneroid barometer, and 760
afterward remembered pretty nearly the direction of its hand; its
reading confirms the conclusion got by the other method. A minimum
thermometer agreed in the same result. They landed safely at about
twenty minutes to three, the whole excursion having taken only a
little over an hour and a half. The illustration called “Mr. Glaisher
insensible at the height of seven miles” is one of the most remarkable
in the book, and most readers will probable turn to it repeatedly. It
represents the supreme and critical moment; Mr. Coxwell is in the
ring, and is just loosening the valve-rope. His hands, his companion
tells us, were black when he came down; and Mr. Glaisher generally
means what he says.
It is not every one who will care to compete with these gentlemen in
making lofty ascents; and it is not probable that they had any merely
ambitious motives in undertaking to soar so high. Mr. Glaisher’s
enthusiasm for and interest in science are perfectly genuine; and his
results, which are of course only hinted at in these popular accounts
which he gives of his excursions, are very valuable. It is not likely
that any one else could have accomplished so much as he did. Still,
though they were not led on by ambition, their achievement on the
occasion just mentioned is one which must discourage others who may
be; for it would be very difficult and dangerous to attempt to do
purposely what they did only as it were accidentally, and which they
would not have done had they known its peril. There are, it is true,
some remarkable effects, such as the blackening of the sky (as well as
of the hands of the aeronauts), which cannot be so well attained at
lower altitudes; but still, substantially the same can be enjoyed at
heights of four or five miles, and really the most beautiful ones are
presented as soon as we rise above the clouds. The effect seems to us,
judging from the illustrations, to be especially magical when the
canopy (or carpet, as it may more properly be called from our new
point of view) is complete, so as to reach to the horizon, and shut
out all view or idea of the earth completely. Many of the pictures
illustrate this well. One would seem to lose all sense of height or of
being in a dangerous position; the quiet sea of clouds beneath can
never seem very distant, owing to the impossibility of judging of the
real dimensions of its rolling waves; and these waves seem, by their
apparent solidity yet softness, almost to invite a fall. And one seems
to be entirely in a new state of existence; the change is more
complete than could be obtained by travelling to the other side of the
globe; and yet it can be realized in the space of five or ten minutes
on any ordinary cloudy day. There above, with the dark-blue sky
overhead, with the glorious bright sun in it lighting up the masses of
white vapor below, far from all the dust, noise, and confusion of the
lower sphere, what an exhilaration must the aeronaut feel, if indeed
his eye is not entirely employed on the divisions of his barometer and
the pages of his note-book! The idea of such a vision is almost enough
to make one’s enthusiasm for ballooning equal that of M. de Fonvielle,
who, however, was willing to put up even with lower elevations; for he
says that in his younger days he “was ready to be shut up in a
sky-rocket, provided that its projectile power were carefully
calculated, and that it were provided with a parachute”! If the
sky-rocket could only be sent above the clouds--but, on the whole, one
would probably be calmer, enjoy the view more thoroughly, and take in 761
its various features better, in the car of our present beautiful and
majestic, though somewhat unmanageable, vehicle.
And yet in all respects the balloon is not unmanageable. Its rise and
fall can be regulated with great exactness; and by means of the pretty
invention of the guide-rope, due to the celebrated English aeronaut,
Mr. Green, its final fall to the earth, if a violent wind is not
blowing, can be made very easy. This rope hangs down three or four
hundred feet below the car, and as it touches the ground, and then
coils up upon it, the weight and the descending power of the balloon
are continually and gradually lessened. And by parting with gas or
ballast, the ascent and descent can always be most carefully adjusted;
so much so, indeed, that one has to be somewhat careful. Once M.
Tissandier, on making a second ascent with no more ascending power at
his disposal, was obliged to regret that he had not gone without his
breakfast; the least little alteration of weight affects the
equilibrium so much that the loss of a chicken-bone which he
thoughtlessly once threw out, he says, “certainly caused us to rise
from twenty to thirty yards.” One can certainly rise or fall without
much difficulty; the only danger is that too much gas may escape after
the ballast is exhausted, or when there is only a small supply on
hand, and that the descent may be too rapid. Mr. Glaisher twice at
least came down so hard as to break nearly all his instruments; but
once this was in a manner intentional, for the wind had been drifting
him out toward the sea, and on discovering through an opening in the
clouds that it was almost directly under him, he had only the
alternative of coming down with a rush or being drowned. On another
occasion, M. de Fonvielle descended with a party in the _Giant_
balloon in a rapid and inevitable manner, owing to the escape of gas;
but records, besides the breaking of the instruments, only that “one
of the travellers had his face covered with blood, another was wounded
by a thermometer, and a third complained of a pain in his leg.” One
curious danger there is, however, about even a quiet descent which is
worth noticing. The last-named gentleman had just made a very
successful excursion without an aeronaut; and, on coming down, his
grapnel had caught in a tree near the edge of a forest. The sequel
shall be in his own words:
“At this moment, I was deceived by an optical illusion which
might have had dangerous results, and I call the attention of my
readers to it in case they may ever be tempted to undertake the
management of an aerostat. Let them never get out of the car till
it is fairly landed upon the soil. Let them be perfectly sure
that no solution of continuity exists between the car and the
earth before they think of stepping out of it, for their eyes,
accustomed to the immense proportions of things above the clouds,
have lost their power of appreciating dimensions. Objects appear
so small on the earth’s surface during a descent that great trees
look like mere blades of grass. At this moment I believed we had
descended upon heath bushes, and we were at the top of the high
trees. I had actually got one leg out of the car, and was
preparing to leap down!”
If a strong wind is blowing, it is not so easy to descend. The
horizontal motion of the balloon is beyond the control of gas or
ballast. MM. de Fonvielle and Tissandier set out once in a high wind;
they came down on a plain, were dragged across it, and over the tops
of some trees, which broke and crashed as they passed; again they
rushed over some ploughed ground, where they were finally rescued by 762
some peasants. What was their velocity during this remarkable trip? On
consulting maps and watches, they found they had come forty-eight
miles from Paris in thirty-five minutes, or the rate of eighty miles
an hour; in the air, however, they probably travelled faster, and in
the last five minutes of “dragging” not so fast.
But “dragging” is not the worst thing that can happen when there is a
high wind. Let aeronauts beware how they attempt to anchor in such
circumstances before coming tolerably near to the ground. The grapnel
was once let out at the height of about sixty yards when they were
skimming along with great velocity, and at first took no hold, but
finally caught in the edge of a small pond. The wind, however, took
revenge on the balloon, which now suddenly refused to obey its impulse:
“I was busily engaged,” says M. Tissandier, “in stowing away the
loose bottles, that might have injured us seriously in case of
bumping, when I heard a sharp cracking sound, and Duruof [their
pilot] immediately cried out, ‘_The balloon has burst!_’ It was
too true; the _Neptune’s_ side was torn open, and transformed
suddenly into a bundle of shreds, flattening down upon the
opposite half. Its appearance was now that of a disc surrounded
with a fringe. We came to the ground immediately. The shock was
awful. Duruof disappeared, I leaped into the hoop, which at that
instant fell upon me, together with the remains of the balloon
and all the contents of the car. All was darkness; I felt myself
rolled along the ground, and wondered if I had lost my sight, or
if we were buried in some hole or cavern. An instant of quiet
ensued, and then the loud voice of Duruof was heard exclaiming:
‘Now come from under there, you fellows!’ We hastened to obey the
voice of the commander, and found that the car had turned over
upon us, and shut us up like mice in a trap!”
What next? They had fallen from a height of about two hundred feet,
and yet were not much bruised: but the very wind that had caused their
disaster helped them out of it; in fact, their balloon was transformed
into a kind of gigantic kite, and let them down pretty easily.
But let us get up above the clouds again. That is the place really to
enjoy life. Once there, one hardly thinks about coming down or its
difficulties; the earth is out of sight, and almost out of mind. We
are sailing along, perhaps at a quicker rate than that of an express
train; but the motion is as imperceptible as that immensely more rapid
one of the magnificent planetary projectile on which we are whirling
through space. For the clouds are moving with us, and, though they are
breaking up and changing their forms, we cannot see that they move as
a mass. Occasionally, through a break, we may see the earth, or be
saluted from it, as M. Flammarion once was to his great surprise, by
cries of “A balloon! a balloon!” when he was quite unaware of there
being any hole through which the balloon could be seen. Sounds, by the
way, will go up much better than they will come down; the reason of
this is the lesser density of the air above. Of course we feel no
wind, for the wind is taking us with it: so that even the cold at any
ordinary height and at any season usual for ballooning is not
troublesome. Sometimes, indeed, it is warmer aloft than below; on the
occasion of the eighty-mile-per-hour voyage, just mentioned, the
thermometer was actually at eighty-two degrees at the height of a
little over half a mile, while below it stood at fifty-five. The
balloon is as steady as the Rock of Gibraltar; M. Flammarion assures
us that he once filled a tumbler with water till it was brimming over,
so that not another drop could be added; but not a drop was spilled 763
by the movement of their vehicle, though it was travelling with the
speed of a locomotive, and alternately rising and falling to the
extent of several hundred yards.
His account of a journey from Paris into Prussia, made in a beautiful
moonlight summer night, gives a most delightful idea of this most
agreeable of all modes of travelling. They left Paris about two hours
before sunset, and had a fine afternoon sail. The weather was cloudy,
and rain came on at half-past nine; but what of that? One is quite
superior to rain in a balloon, or, if not, may easily become so. They
throw out a little ballast, and rise above the rain-cloud. The cloud
soon breaks away, finding that it cannot embarrass their movements,
and the country beneath becomes visible. They see a bright light in a
house, and hear the sound of dance music played by an orchestra. It is
a ball. They cross the frontier at Rocroi. The lines of its
fortifications are dimly seen in the moonlight. No examination of
passports or luggage for them. (On another excursion, however, we are
told, when they were sailing along near the ground, two gendarmes rode
up in hot haste, calling out, “_Vos passe-ports, messieurs!_” but were
dismissed with a polite request to step up and verify them,
accompanied by a shower of ballast.) The moon comes out brightly as
they enter Belgium. They sail over the Meuse, and M. Flammarion greets
enthusiastically the home of his youth:
“Beautiful river, I welcome thee! Near thy banks, on the old
mountain which overlooks thy fertile plain, I was born. Little
did I think, whilst playing some childish game within sound of
the murmur of thy ripple, that I should some day cross over thy
stream suspended to this light, aerial globe! Thy peaceful waters
flow towards the Rhine and the North Sea, into which they fall,
and are lost for ever. Thus is it with our own brief existence,
flowing towards the regions of cold and mystery, to vanish some
day in that unknown ocean into which we must all descend.”
Certainly, it is a pity that he takes such a gloomy view of life.
The pilot, M. Godard, rouses him from his reverie.
“See, _mon ami_, how beautiful this is! Do not dream of days gone
by. Are not those the lights of Namur, some six or eight leagues
distant? And see, there is Huy, and beyond it again Liège! Here
we are right over Belgium, and we may cross a corner of Holland,
perhaps, before we enter Prussia!”
The Belgian blast-furnaces soon light up the landscape beneath them,
and the noises of the workshops, mingled with the deep sound of the
river, rise to their ears.
The dawn begins to break. In fact, through the whole night a faint
gleam of twilight has been seen in the north; but now it begins to
take effect on the clouds and air around them. The light increases.
“Although the air above is more or less veiled by light mists, we
can distinguish the country before three o’clock as clearly as at
mid-day. Our course follows the edge of some considerable forests
situated on our right hand. These plains (are they plains?) have
a very different aspect from those on French territory. In place
of the regular patches of fields which lie upon the surface in
parallel lines, the country here is composed of fields of every
size and form, like the various provinces on a colored map; most
of which are surrounded by hedges as they are in England.”
They are wafted along into Prussia. On the right, Luxemburg and Trèves
are visible; on the left, Holland, even to the shore of the North Sea.
“The Rhine flows along with its silver ripple in the distance.... 764
All nature is silent, save from time to time the timid chirping
of some little bird; when, suddenly, a vast golden streak of
light breaks forth from the east, and caresses the highest clouds
of the atmosphere, clothing them in rosy and golden tints.”
The illustration representing this sunrise is magnificent, as the
sight must have been in the highest degree. What could be more
inspiring than to be borne along amid the glorious clouds of morning
toward the rising sun--the cheering influence of whose beams the
balloon itself seems to feel, as, dried and expanded by their heat, it
rises proudly into the sky--with the Rhine glistening before us, and
the green plains and forests of Germany inviting us to continue our
voyage?
They hear the sound of church-bells, and, soon after, that of cannon.
“From minute to minute the voice of this gracious apparatus of
civilization and progress growled among the clouds. It was the
artillery of Mülheim preparing itself for the next war.
“The ancient city of Cologne forms beneath us a regular
semicircle soldered to the left bank of the Rhine. Unless one
examined it attentively, it might be taken for a moderate-sized
snail sticking to the thin branch of a tree.”
Poor M. Flammarion thought he was going to enjoy his sail some time
longer, perhaps all day. But his inexorable aeronaut thought
differently. There was very little ballast and no breakfast; it was
probable that the wind would rise, and that they would come to grief.
His word was law; so the valve-rope was pulled, the French flag run
up, and down they came at Solingen, near Düsseldorf, 330 miles from
Paris, which distance had been accomplished in twelve hours and a
half. The good-natured Germans rushed up to help them; the greatest
difficulty was to prevent them from smoking near the balloon.
This journey is a fair example of what balloon travelling may be in
skilful hands. Of course it has its disadvantages. The principal one
is obvious; that you can only go just where the wind will take you;
but there is an advantage corresponding to this in the quietness and
steadiness of the motion, and it is not at all improbable that, with
the rapid advances which are being made continually in the science of
meteorology, the laws of winds will be ascertained sufficiently to
enable the aeronaut to find one which will carry him in the general
direction in which he wants to go, on most occasions, by choosing a
proper elevation. Certainly this can often be done, as in the case of
M. Tissandier’s trip from Calais over the German Ocean. A lower breeze
brought them back to land. The difficulty remaining is that of
changing our elevation. On the present system, this requires a loss of
gas or ballast, which cannot be kept up indefinitely. An ingenious
plan has been proposed by Gen. Meusnier--to have a double balloon, one
outside the other: the inner one is filled with gas, the space between
the two with air; into the outer one more air is forced by an air-pump
when we wish to descend, and allowed to escape when we wish to rise.
The compressed air is itself heavier than the air surrounding, and the
compressed gas in the inner balloon is also less buoyant than before.
This is applying the principle of the bladder of the fish to
aerostatics. The _Giant_ was constructed on this plan, but it does
not appear that the practicability of using it in this way was ever
tested.
“Still, notwithstanding the great utility and advantages of the balloon
pure and simple, we certainly shall never be able to lay out our 765
course with it with all the accuracy that could be desired, and it is
probable that we shall never be able to bring it down precisely at the
point we wish to reach. To accomplish this, we must have something
that will go against the wind; we must have something which takes hold
on the air; we must, in short, be able to fly. It should be noticed,
however, that a flying machine, when invented, will not necessarily
supersede the balloon; it will have its advantages, and the balloon
will have its own; probably, for mere pleasure travelling, the latter
will always be preferable, or certainly would be except for the
inconveniences attending its landing, especially when the wind is
high.
It may be said, perhaps, as above, “a flying machine, when invented”;
for it really seems as if some practical invention of this kind must
before long be realized. It can hardly be doubted that the bird must
be the model, to some extent, of its construction; and it would seem
to be worth while to take instantaneous photographs of birds in
flight, in order to discover what really are the positions which the
wing successively assumes. The photographs of this kind, of men
walking, which have been taken, told us a great deal which we did not
know before about a movement which seems so very familiar and easy. It
seems probable, with regard to flying, as M. Flammarion intimates,
that the impulse is a very sudden one, at least during a part of the
stroke; so that the thin resisting medium has, as it were, a certain
kind of solidity and firmness.
Various machines for flying have been made, and a tolerable success
attained. One is lately reported in Philadelphia. There seems to be no
impossibility in taking up enough force, at least by the aid of
balloon power, to give a considerable velocity in a calm to our
air-ship; but it may as yet be doubted whether it would be able to
contend against the ordinary velocity which winds have even a short
distance above the surface of the earth. In Mr. Glaisher’s ascents,
the wind was blowing, on the average, four times as fast above as
below. This could generally be avoided by keeping near the ground.
But after all, what aspiring man really longs for is not to have a
flying machine to carry him, but to have his own wings, and some power
strong enough to move them. With the motive powers known at present,
this seems to be beyond our reach; but who knows? Heat and motion are
now understood to be convertible, and perhaps the sun’s rays may yet
be found powerful enough to raise us into the air. But then--look out
for clouds. The sun melted the wings of Icarus; the shade would melt
ours.
Flying may yet be realized; and it is well enough to look forward to
what may be in store in the future; but let us also not undervalue
what we already have. The beauty of the form of the balloon
necessarily implies a certain perfection in it, as the majesty of a
full-rigged line-of-battle ship clearly shows a perfection which no
actual results gained by cheese-box Monitors can ever gainsay. Our
present air-ship is a noble product of human genius, and its resources
are by no means yet exhausted.
Even a captive balloon is not a bad affair, and may be used for
travelling purposes, though it may seem a contradiction to say so. A
“captive” is simply one which is fastened by a rope so that it cannot
ascend above a certain height. If fastened to a fixed object, it
serves only as a means to take people up for a view or to make 766
scientific observations: but if attached to a moving body, it is a
very pleasant vehicle to ride in, or could easily be made so. Our
French aeronauts were once pulled in this way through the streets of a
town, and at another time were towed for some distance at the height
of five hundred feet by a number of their excitable countrymen. But it
must be acknowledged that on the whole a captive is not so pleasant to
ride in as a free balloon. Besides the feeling of exultation
accompanying a free ascent, it also has the advantage of being really
a great deal more comfortable. The captive, being restrained by the
rope, feels the full force of whatever wind there is, and is moreover
apt to be tipped over considerably when the breeze is strong.
Nevertheless, going up in one is a tolerably popular amusement when
the opportunity is offered, though hardly enough so to make it
profitable for the proprietors. This is one of the miserable
difficulties about the pursuit of science, that experiments cost
something, and often it is very troublesome to raise the necessary
funds. Free ascensions have, however, been common enough for a good
deal more to have been accomplished in the way of experiment and
observation than has usually been the case, and Mr. Glaisher’s example
deserves to be generally followed. The balloon itself may do a good
deal towards the investigation of the laws of the atmospheric
currents, the knowledge of which would be so useful for its own
guidance, as well as in answering questions concerning storms and
climate. Mr. Glaisher, on January 12, 1864, met with a warm current of
air from the southwest, more than half a mile in depth; and he
considers that this may, perhaps, be an aerial Gulf Stream, and
increase the warming effect which that celebrated current no doubt
produces on the western and northern coasts of Europe.
But we must not dwell longer on his scientific results, or those of
his friends on the other side of the Channel. In fact, it is time that
we should come down from the clouds, and occupy ourselves with the
affairs of this base and grovelling lower world. We should like to do
it gradually, but, as is the case with the balloon itself, our descent
must needs be accompanied by something of a shock. It is with
difficulty that we can persuade ourselves to quit, even in imagination,
those magnificent regions so near to us and yet practically so far
away; which all of us could see even now in ten minutes if our balloon
was ready--would that it were!--and which, if the art of flying
progresses with due rapidity, we may yet see some time before we die.
----------
THE LEPER OF THE CITY OF AOSTA. 767
BY THE COUNT XAVIER DE MAISTRE.
“_Le Lépreux de la cité d’Aosta_ est une larme, mais une larme qui
coule toujours!”--LAMARTINE.
“Ah! little think the gay, licentious proud
Whom pleasure, power, and affluence surround:--
Ah! little think they, while they dance along,
How many pine!--how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief!--how many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind!”--THOMSON.
The southern part of the city of Aosta is now nearly deserted, and
appears to have been never very thickly peopled. Cultivated fields and
meadows may be seen, hedged in on one side by the ancient bulwarks
which the Romans raised as a wall, and on the other by garden fences.
This solitary spot, however, affords wherewithal to interest the
traveller. Near the gate of the city are the ruins of an old castle,
in which, if popular tradition is to be relied on, Count René de
Chalans, infuriated by jealousy, left his wife, the Princess Marie de
Braganza, to die of hunger, in the fifteenth century. Hence the name
of _Bramafan_, which signifies the _cry of hunger_, given to
this castle by the people around. This tradition, which may be
disputed, gives an interest to the ruins in the eyes of people of
sensibility.
A hundred steps further on is a square tower, built of the marble that
once covered the antique walls beside it. It is called the Hold of
Terror, because it is commonly believed to be haunted. The ancient
dames of Aosta can still remember seeing a tall woman robed in white,
with a lamp in her hand, issue from the tower on dark nights.
About fifteen years ago, this tower was repaired by the order of the
government, and surrounded by an enclosure, for the purpose of lodging
a leper, through fear of contagion if left at large, and at the same
time affording him every comfort his sad condition allowed. The
Hospital of St. Maurice was ordered to supply his wants. It furnished
him with some articles of furniture and the implements for cultivating
a garden. Here he lived for a long time, left completely to himself,
and never seeing any one, except the priest who came from time to time
to administer the consolations of religion, and the man who, every
week, brought him his provisions from the hospital.
During the war in the Alps in the year 1797, a soldier, who was in the
city of Aosta, happened to pass by the leper’s garden. The gate was
ajar, and he had the curiosity to enter. He saw a man in a simple
garb, leaning against a tree, as if lost in profound meditation. At
the sound of the officer’s steps, the recluse, without turning around
or looking up, cried in a sad tone: “Who is there? and what do you
wish?”
“Excuse a stranger,” replied the soldier, “whom the attractive
appearance of your garden has induced to commit an indiscretion, but
who by no means wishes to disturb you.” 768
“Do not come any nearer,” replied the inmate of the tower, motioning
him back with his hand. “Come no nearer: you are in the presence of an
unfortunate being afflicted with leprosy.”
“Whatever may be your misfortune,” replied the traveller, “I shall not
go away. I have never shunned the unfortunate. But, if my presence
annoys you, I am ready to withdraw.”
“You are welcome,” replied the leper, suddenly turning around.
“Remain, if you have the courage after looking at me.”
The officer remained for some time motionless with astonishment at the
frightful aspect of the unfortunate man so completely disfigured by
leprosy.
“I willingly remain,” said he, “if you will accept the visit of a man
led here by chance, but detained by a lively interest.”
“Interest!--I have never excited anything but pity.”
“I should be happy to offer you any consolation.”
“It is a great one to behold a human face and hear the sound of a
human voice, for every one flies from me.”
“Allow me, then, to converse with you awhile and to visit your house.”
“Very willingly, if it can afford you any pleasure.” Saying which, the
leper put on a large felt hat, the flattened brim of which covered his
face. “Go to the south,” added he. “The few flowers I cultivate may
please you. There are some rather rare. I have procured the seeds of
every kind that grow among the Alps, and try to make them grow double
and more beautiful by cultivation.”
“You have flowers which are indeed entirely new to me.”
“Look at this little rose-bush. It is a rose without thorns, which
only grows on the higher Alps, but it is already losing its
peculiarity, and putting forth thorns in proportion to its cultivation
and growth.”
“It should be considered the emblem of ingratitude.”
“If any of these flowers please you, you can take them without any
fear: you will incur no danger by gathering them. I sowed the seed. I
take pleasure in watering them and looking at them, but I never touch
them.”
“Why not?”
“I fear I might infect them, and should no longer dare give them to
any one.”
“For whom do you raise them?”
“The people who bring me food from the hospital are not afraid to
gather them. And sometimes children from the city stop before my
garden-gate. I immediately ascend the tower, for fear of frightening
or infecting them. They look up as they go away, and say with a smile:
‘Good-by, Leper,’ and that gives me a little pleasure.”
“You have succeeded in collecting quite a variety of plants; and you
have vines yonder, and several kinds of fruit-trees.”
“The trees are still young. I set them out myself, as well as that
grape-vine, which I have trained to the top of the old wall, you see:
it is thick enough for me to walk on, and is my favorite resort.--Go
up on these stones. I am the architect of this staircase. Hold on to
the wall.”
“A charming nook! the very place for a hermit to meditate in!”
“It suits me, too. I can see the country around, the laborers in the
fields, and all that is going on in the meadow, and no one can see me.” 769
“It is a delightfully quiet and secluded place. You are in the city,
and yet might fancy yourself in a desert.”
“Forests and cliffs are not the only resorts of the solitary. The
unfortunate are alone everywhere.”
“What succession of events brought you to this retreat? Are you a
native of this country?”
“I was born on the sea-coast in the principality of Oneglia, and have
only lived here fifteen years. As to my history, it is only one long
succession of calamities.”
“Have you always lived alone?”
“I lost my parents in my infancy, and do not remember them. I had one
sister who died two years ago. I never had a friend.”
“Poor man!”
“It was the will of God.”
“What is your name, pray?”
“Ah! my name is a terrible one! I call myself _The Leper_! No one in
the wide world knows the name I derived from my family, or that which
I received on the day of my baptism. I am _The Leper_, and this is the
only title I have to human kindness. May it remain for ever unknown
who I am!”
“Did the sister you lost live with you?”
“She remained five years with me in my present habitation. As
unfortunate as I, she participated in my sorrows, and I endeavored to
alleviate hers.”
“How do you employ yourself in such utter solitude?”
“The details of my lonely life would only be very monotonous to a man
of the world who seeks happiness in the activity of social life.”
“Ah! you little know the world--it has never made me happy. I am often
solitary from choice, and there may be more similarity in our ideas
than you suppose. And yet, I acknowledge, perpetual solitude frightens
me. I can hardly conceive it endurable.”
“‘The cell continually dwelt in groweth sweet,’ says _The Following
of Christ_. I am beginning to realize the truth of these consoling
words. Loneliness is also relieved by labor. A laborious man is never
absolutely unhappy, as I know by experience. During the pleasant
season, the cultivation of my flowers and vegetables is a sufficient
occupation. In the winter I make baskets and mats. I try to make my
clothes. I daily prepare my own food from the supplies brought me from
the hospital, and prayer fills up the vacant hours. Thus the year
passes, and, when gone, it seems short.”
“I should think it would seem a century.”
“Affliction and sorrow make the hours appear long, but the years
always fly with the same rapidity. Besides, there is one enjoyment
left in the lowest depths of misfortune which but few can understand,
and may seem strange to you--that of living and breathing. In warm
weather, I pass whole days motionless on the ramparts, enjoying the
air and the beauties of nature: my thoughts are vague and fluctuating;
sadness dwells in my heart without oppressing it; my eyes wander
around the country, and linger on the rocks that surround us; all
these objects are so imprinted on my memory that they form, as it
were, a part of myself: each site is a friend I greet with pleasure
every day.”
“I have often experienced something of this kind. When trouble
depresses me, and I do not find in the hearts of others what my own
craves, the aspect of nature and inanimate objects consoles me. I
become attached to the very rocks and trees, and it seems to me that 770
all created things are friends whom God has given me.”
“You encourage me to explain, in my turn, what passes within me. I
have a genuine affection for the objects that are, so to speak, my
daily companions, and every night, before going to my tower, I come
here to take leave of the glaciers of Ruitorts, the dense woods of
Mont St. Bernard, and the fantastic peaks that overlook the valley of
the Rhine. Though the power of God is as evident in the creation of an
ant as in that of the whole universe, the grand spectacle of yonder
mountains fills me with greater awe. I cannot look at those lofty
elevations, covered with eternal glaciers, without being filled with
solemn wonder. But in the vast landscape spread out before me, I have
favorite views to which I turn with special pleasure. Among these is
the hermitage you see yonder on the top of Mount Charvensod. Alone in
the woods, near a deserted pasture, it catches the last rays of the
setting sun. Though I have never been there, I feel a peculiar
pleasure in looking at it. When the daylight is fading away, seated in
my garden, I turn my eyes toward that lonely hermitage, to seek rest
for my imagination. I have learned to look upon it as a kind of
property. It seems as if I had some confused reminiscence of once
living there in happier days which I cannot fully recall. I love
especially to gaze at the distant mountains, which look like a cloud
on the horizon. Distance, like the future, inspires me with hope. My
overburdened heart imagines there may be a far-off land where, at some
future time, I may at length taste the happiness for which I sigh, and
which a secret instinct is constantly assuring me is possible.”
“With such an ardent soul as yours, you must have passed through many
struggles in resigning yourself to your lot, instead of yielding to
despair.”
“I should deceive you in allowing you to think I have always been
resigned to my lot. I have not attained that self-abnegation to which
some anchorites have arrived. The entire sacrifice of all human
affection has not yet been accomplished. My life has been one
continual combat, and the powerful influences of religion itself are
not always able to repress the flights of my imagination. It often
draws me, in spite of myself, into a whirlpool of vain desires, which
tend toward a world I have no knowledge of, but strange visions of
which are ever present to torment me.”
“If you could read my soul and learn my opinion of the world, all your
desires and your regrets would instantly vanish.”
“Books have vainly taught me the perversity of mankind, and the
misfortunes inseparable from humanity: my heart refuses to believe
them. I am continually representing to myself circles of sincere and
virtuous friends; suitable marriages full of the happiness resulting
from health, youth, and fortune. I imagine them wandering together
through groves greener and fresher than the trees above me, with a sun
more dazzling than that which brightens my world, and their lot seems
worthy of envy in proportion to the misery of mine. At the beginning
of spring, when the wind from Piedmont blows through our valley, I
feel its vivifying warmth penetrating me, and a thrill passes over me
in spite of myself. I have an inexplicable desire, and a confused
notion of a boundless happiness that I am capable of enjoying, but
which is denied me. Then I fly from my cell, and wander in the fields,
that I may breathe more freely. I avoid the very sight of the men whom 771
my heart longs to embrace, and from the top of the hill, concealed
among the bushes like a wild beast, I gaze towards the city of Aosta.
With envious eyes I see afar off its happy inhabitants, to whom I am
scarcely known. I stretch forth my hands towards them, and, with
groans, ask for my share of happiness. In my agony--shall I
acknowledge it?--I have sometimes thrown my arms around the trees of
the forest, imploring Almighty God to infuse life into them that I may
have a friend! But the trees make no response, their coldness repels
me, they have nothing in common with my throbbing heart, which is
aflame. Overcome by fatigue, weary of life, I drag myself back again
to my asylum, I lay my torments before God, and prayer restores
somewhat of calmness to my soul.”
“So, poor, unfortunate man, you suffer at once all the ills of soul
and body?”
“The latter are not the most severe!”
“Then you are sometimes freed from them?”
“Every month they increase and diminish with the moon. I generally
suffer most at its first appearance. My disease then abates and seems
to change its symptoms: my skin grows dry and white, and I feel nearly
well. But my malady would be endurable but for the terrible
wakefulness it produces.”
“What! does even sleep abandon you?”
“Ah! sir, the sleepless, sleepless nights! You have no idea how long
and sad they are when I cannot get a moment’s sleep, and my mind
dwells on my frightful situation--with no hope for the future. No! no
one could realize it. My restlessness increases as the night advances,
and, when nearly at an end, my nervousness is almost unendurable: my
mind is confused. I experience an extraordinary sensation that never
comes over me but at such sad moments. Sometimes it seems as if an
irresistible power was drawing me down into a bottomless gulf:
sometimes I see black clouds before my eyes, but while I am examining
them they cross each other with the quickness of lightning, they grow
larger as they approach, and then look like mountains ready to
overwhelm me with their weight. At other times, I behold clouds
issuing from the earth beneath me like swelling waves, which rise one
above the other and threaten to engulf me; and, when I wish to rise in
order to throw off these sensations, I feel chained down by some
invisible force that renders me powerless. You will perhaps think
these are dreams; but you are mistaken. I am really awake. I see all
this again and again, and with a sensation of horror that surpasses
all my other sufferings.”
“It is possible you are feverish during these long, sleepless nights,
and this, perhaps, causes a kind of delirium.”
“You think this may be the result of fever? Ah! I wish it might be
true. Until now I have feared these visions were symptoms of madness,
and I acknowledge this greatly worried me. Would to God they were the
effects of fever!”
“Your case inspires me with a lively interest. I acknowledge that I
had never imagined anything like your situation. I suppose, however,
it was less sad when your sister was living.”
“God alone knows what a loss her death was to me. But are you not
afraid to come so near me? Sit down there on that rock, and I will
conceal myself beneath the vines, so we can talk without seeing each 772
other.”
“Why so? No, you shall not leave me. Come nearer.” In saying these
words the traveller involuntarily put out his hand to take the
Leper’s, but the latter hastily withdrew his.
“Imprudent man! You were going to take hold of my hand!”
“Well, I would have pressed it heartily.”
“It would have been the first time such a happiness was granted me: my
hand was never pressed by any one.”
“What! Have you never formed any ties, except the sister of whom you
have spoken--never been loved by any of your own condition?”
“Happily for the human race, there is not another in my condition on
the earth.”
“You make me shudder.”
“Pardon me, compassionate stranger! You know the unhappy love to speak
of their misfortunes.”
“Go on, go on: you interest me. You said your sister lived with you,
and aided you in bearing your sufferings.”
“She was the only tie that bound me to the rest of mankind! It pleased
God to break it, and thus leave me isolated and alone in the midst of
the world. Her soul was ripe for the heaven where she now is, and her
example sustained me under the discouragement which has often
overwhelmed me since her death. But we did not live in that delightful
intimacy which I so often imagine, and which should bind together the
unfortunate. The nature of our disease deprived us of this
consolation. When we came together to pray, we avoided looking at one
another, for fear the sad spectacle might disturb our meditations: our
souls alone were united before God. After prayer, my sister generally
retired to her cell or beneath the nut-trees at the end of the garden,
and we lived almost constantly apart.”
“But why did you impose so cruel a restraint upon yourselves?”
“When my sister was attacked with the contagious disease to which all
our family were victims, and came to share my asylum, we had never
seen one another. Her fright was extreme when she beheld me for the
first time. The fear of afflicting her, and still more of increasing
her malady by approaching her, made me resolve on this sad kind of a
life. The leprosy had only attacked her breast, and I had still some
hopes of her being cured. You see the remains of a neglected trellis:
it was then covered with a hop-vine that I trained with care, and
divided the garden into two parts. On each side of this, I made a
little path where we could walk and converse together without seeing
or coming too near each other.”
“It would almost seem as if heaven wished to embitter the sad
pleasures it still left you.”
“But at least I was not then alone. My sister’s presence gave some
cheerfulness to my asylum. I could hear the sounds of her steps. When
I returned, at dawn, to pray beneath these trees, the door of the
tower would softly open, and my sister’s voice would imperceptibly
mingle with mine. In the evening, when I watered my garden, she
sometimes walked here at sunset, in the same place where we now are,
and I could see her shadow pass and repass over my flowers. Even when
I did not see her, there were everywhere traces of her presence.
Sometimes it was only a withered flower in the path, or some branch of
a shrub she had dropped, but now I am alone, there is neither movement 773
nor life around me, and the path that led to her favorite grove is
already overgrown with grass. Without appearing to observe me, she was
constantly studying what could afford me pleasure. When I returned to
my chamber, I was sometimes surprised to find vases of fresh flowers,
or some fine fruit she had taken care of herself. I did not dare
render her similar services, and had even begged her never to enter my
chamber, but who can place a limit to a sister’s affection? One
incident alone will give you an idea of her love for me. I was
walking rapidly up and down my cell one night, tormented with
fearful sufferings. In the middle of the night, as I was sitting
down a moment to rest, I heard a slight noise at the door. I
approached--listened--imagine my astonishment! it was my sister who
was praying on the outside of my door. She had heard my groans. She
was afraid of annoying me, but wished to be at hand if I needed any
assistance. I heard her repeating the _Miserere_ in a low tone. I
knelt down by the door, and, without interrupting her, mentally
followed her words. My eyes were full of tears: who would not have
been touched by so much affection? When her prayer was ended, I said
in a low tone: ‘Good-night, sister, good-night: go to bed, I feel a
little better. May God bless and reward you for your piety!’ She
retired in silence, and her prayer was surely answered, for I at last
enjoyed several hours of quiet sleep.”
“How sad must have been the first days after your beloved sister’s
death!”
“I remained for a long time in a kind of stupor that deprived me of
the faculty of realizing the extent of my misfortune. When at length I
came to myself, and was able to comprehend my situation, my reason
almost left me. It was a season doubly sad for me, for it recalls the
greatest of my misfortunes, and the crime that came near resulting
from it.”
“Crime! I cannot believe you capable of one.”